Good Omens: New Day
New Day by Louise Lux
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Aziraphale/Other Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters
Author’s note: Written for contrelamontre 'This is not the worst moment of my life' 75 minute challenge. Again written in slightly over. Am bad. This was inspired by the sexy priests.
This was not the worst moment of his life-- he wouldn't let it be. The clatter of the market mixed with the clanging of the church bells, blaring tunelessly like a tone-deaf singer. They seemed heartless and spiteful now where only days ago they had promised joy.
Aziraphale stood in the middle of the street letting the traffic flow round him like a river; callow, shouting youths on vespas, pretty girls with dark eyes, men and women weighed down with bags of shopping or with nothing more than a cigarette, buses, blaring cars, the high piping of scooter horns as they swerved round him, all shrieking their discordant song into the smoky air.
He had never wondered what it would be like to die. There was a truck coming-- he faced it square on, staring at the driver, who couldn't see him, then let it swish by. Dying wouldn't help, he'd only have to come back, and then he'd have to remember. On the pavement a couple swept by; two young priests on their way to the church. He gazed after them, and one of them seemed to look his way and smile, his face pale and luminous against the dingy surroundings. They hurried together, their robes swinging around their feet and their white collars standing out so clearly. The black doors of the church swallowed them up, and he wondered if he could feel any worse.
Crowley found him later that day, sitting in a small café that had faded green paint and heavy, uncomfortable wrought iron chairs and tables.
'I could have told you what would happen,' Crowley said, dropping casually into the chair opposite and waving his hand at the waiter. Aziraphale nodded, not lifting his gaze from the grubby table. He didn't want to hear what Crowley thought, and wondered vaguely how Crowley always managed to track him down. He studied his glass of foul-tasting wine, stubbornly keeping his gaze turned down. But from under his lashes he could see Crowley's fingers gripping the stem of his glass, stroking it nervously.
'Ugh,' Crowley said, sipping his drink, 'that's nasty. Why are you drinking it?'
'I'm not.'
There was a long pause, during which Crowley didn't move at all. Then he leaned forward.
'You've made a bloody mess of things, Aziraphale,' he hissed. 'You know the rules; don't feed the humans.' He laughed unpleasantly at his own joke, then fell silent. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to say anything.
'Look, why don't we go away somewhere,' Crowley was now saying, with a bright, false cheerfulness. 'What about Brazil? I haven't been there for centuries. We could go to the ruins... ' He tailed off, and Aziraphale had a pang of guilt. Crowley was trying to be nice. Something inside him broke.
'I can't bear it Crowley,' he blurted, not meaning to tell the truth. He just couldn't seem to stop it coming out. 'I've ruined his life. It's awful. I'm awful!'
'Stop it,' Crowley hissed, gripping him by the wrists. The violence of his grip shook Aziraphale, making his teeth judder together. It was shocking. The tears that threatened to come didn't. Crowley was staring at him, as angry as he'd ever seen him.
'You bloody-- fool, Aziraphale! What did you expect if you choose to go mooning around after doe-eyed priests? I mean,' he was hissing almost incoherently now, 'just what did you expect? That he'd declare his undying love and you'd live happily ever after and have babies?'
'No, Crowley,' Aziraphale cried, confused and miserable, 'it wasn't like that, it wasn't.' Maybe the more he said it the more it would become the truth. The words had seemed true enough once, but now he wasn't sure. He went cold all over. He didn't know. 'We were friends-- good friends, I thought,' he cried again. 'That's what I thought,' he whispered.
'Oh really? Is that what Father Benicio thought too? Because he seemed to think otherwise when I saw him last.'
'You saw him? Where? Why?'
'Oh,' Crowley released his grip on Aziraphale's hands and sat back, a little too casually, he waved a hand carelessly, 'just around, you know. He was throwing away his dog collars.'
'Crowley, no-- '
'He's packing and leaving. He doesn’t remember you now. He'll be okay. And so will you.'
'Oh, Crowley,' Aziraphale whispered feeling more miserable than he could ever remember. 'What have I done?' He buried his face in his hands. He thought he might be sick.
Suddenly Crowley was round his side of the table, pulling at his wrists, gently this time. Aziraphale looked up and saw that he'd taken his sunglasses off. Yellow eyes looked into his from a short distance.
'Listen to me, Aziraphale. You made a mistake. It's easily done, you weren't to know, although by this stage in the game I'd have thought you'd have learnt. Anyway, that doesn't matter. What matters is that you'll be alright, and that he's forgotten he ever knew you. He'll be happy.'
'But he left the church because of me, Crowley!'
'So what? Bugger the church. Blame them, but don't blame yourself.' Crowley stared at him hard for a moment, then let go, moving back and dropping his gaze to the table top. He studied it as though the peeling paint was completely fascinating. 'Did you love him?' he asked eventually, picking imaginary lint of his suit.
Crowley never had lint on his suit, Aziraphale knew that. 'I love everybody,' he said eventually.
'Yeah, yeah, party line,' Crowley shrugged with great nonchalance. 'But some people you love more than others.' He paused. 'You can tell me. I know what it's like,' he finished, quietly.
Aziraphale thought about what to say. Talking and laughing and feeling happy with someone, knowing each other. That was one sort of love. He thought of Father Benicio and how they'd spent so much time talking. Some people were easier to love than others.
'Well?' Crowley prompted, leaning forward. Aziraphale realised that he hadn't seen Crowley for a long time, not since he began visiting the little church so often. It was good to see him, even though he seemed to be behaving a little strangely, not quite like himself.
'Maybe a little more than I should've done,' Aziraphale said slowly. There was an empty sensation in his chest, and he wanted to rub at it, but he didn't think that it would make it go away.
'It's easily done,' Crowley said in an odd, gentle voice that Aziraphale couldn't remember hearing before.
'Is it?'
'Yes.'
Crowley was looking at him intently and Aziraphale felt like he was being told a secret, if only he could decode it, then he was startled and pleased to feel a quick squeeze on his hand. A question occurred to him.
'Where have you been all this time, while I was-- ' he trailed off, unable to describe adequately what it was he'd been doing.
'While you were falling in love with a pretty face, you mean?'
Aziraphale's face went hot at Crowley's tone, and a flush of shame seemed to heat his entire body from the toes upwards. Crowley's smile faltered a little. He hooked his hand under Aziraphale's elbow.
'I was being your guardian angel, of course', he said, pulling Aziraphale up from his seat and through the café doors, and then out into the day.
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Aziraphale/Other Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters
Author’s note: Written for contrelamontre 'This is not the worst moment of my life' 75 minute challenge. Again written in slightly over. Am bad. This was inspired by the sexy priests.
This was not the worst moment of his life-- he wouldn't let it be. The clatter of the market mixed with the clanging of the church bells, blaring tunelessly like a tone-deaf singer. They seemed heartless and spiteful now where only days ago they had promised joy.
Aziraphale stood in the middle of the street letting the traffic flow round him like a river; callow, shouting youths on vespas, pretty girls with dark eyes, men and women weighed down with bags of shopping or with nothing more than a cigarette, buses, blaring cars, the high piping of scooter horns as they swerved round him, all shrieking their discordant song into the smoky air.
He had never wondered what it would be like to die. There was a truck coming-- he faced it square on, staring at the driver, who couldn't see him, then let it swish by. Dying wouldn't help, he'd only have to come back, and then he'd have to remember. On the pavement a couple swept by; two young priests on their way to the church. He gazed after them, and one of them seemed to look his way and smile, his face pale and luminous against the dingy surroundings. They hurried together, their robes swinging around their feet and their white collars standing out so clearly. The black doors of the church swallowed them up, and he wondered if he could feel any worse.
Crowley found him later that day, sitting in a small café that had faded green paint and heavy, uncomfortable wrought iron chairs and tables.
'I could have told you what would happen,' Crowley said, dropping casually into the chair opposite and waving his hand at the waiter. Aziraphale nodded, not lifting his gaze from the grubby table. He didn't want to hear what Crowley thought, and wondered vaguely how Crowley always managed to track him down. He studied his glass of foul-tasting wine, stubbornly keeping his gaze turned down. But from under his lashes he could see Crowley's fingers gripping the stem of his glass, stroking it nervously.
'Ugh,' Crowley said, sipping his drink, 'that's nasty. Why are you drinking it?'
'I'm not.'
There was a long pause, during which Crowley didn't move at all. Then he leaned forward.
'You've made a bloody mess of things, Aziraphale,' he hissed. 'You know the rules; don't feed the humans.' He laughed unpleasantly at his own joke, then fell silent. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to say anything.
'Look, why don't we go away somewhere,' Crowley was now saying, with a bright, false cheerfulness. 'What about Brazil? I haven't been there for centuries. We could go to the ruins... ' He tailed off, and Aziraphale had a pang of guilt. Crowley was trying to be nice. Something inside him broke.
'I can't bear it Crowley,' he blurted, not meaning to tell the truth. He just couldn't seem to stop it coming out. 'I've ruined his life. It's awful. I'm awful!'
'Stop it,' Crowley hissed, gripping him by the wrists. The violence of his grip shook Aziraphale, making his teeth judder together. It was shocking. The tears that threatened to come didn't. Crowley was staring at him, as angry as he'd ever seen him.
'You bloody-- fool, Aziraphale! What did you expect if you choose to go mooning around after doe-eyed priests? I mean,' he was hissing almost incoherently now, 'just what did you expect? That he'd declare his undying love and you'd live happily ever after and have babies?'
'No, Crowley,' Aziraphale cried, confused and miserable, 'it wasn't like that, it wasn't.' Maybe the more he said it the more it would become the truth. The words had seemed true enough once, but now he wasn't sure. He went cold all over. He didn't know. 'We were friends-- good friends, I thought,' he cried again. 'That's what I thought,' he whispered.
'Oh really? Is that what Father Benicio thought too? Because he seemed to think otherwise when I saw him last.'
'You saw him? Where? Why?'
'Oh,' Crowley released his grip on Aziraphale's hands and sat back, a little too casually, he waved a hand carelessly, 'just around, you know. He was throwing away his dog collars.'
'Crowley, no-- '
'He's packing and leaving. He doesn’t remember you now. He'll be okay. And so will you.'
'Oh, Crowley,' Aziraphale whispered feeling more miserable than he could ever remember. 'What have I done?' He buried his face in his hands. He thought he might be sick.
Suddenly Crowley was round his side of the table, pulling at his wrists, gently this time. Aziraphale looked up and saw that he'd taken his sunglasses off. Yellow eyes looked into his from a short distance.
'Listen to me, Aziraphale. You made a mistake. It's easily done, you weren't to know, although by this stage in the game I'd have thought you'd have learnt. Anyway, that doesn't matter. What matters is that you'll be alright, and that he's forgotten he ever knew you. He'll be happy.'
'But he left the church because of me, Crowley!'
'So what? Bugger the church. Blame them, but don't blame yourself.' Crowley stared at him hard for a moment, then let go, moving back and dropping his gaze to the table top. He studied it as though the peeling paint was completely fascinating. 'Did you love him?' he asked eventually, picking imaginary lint of his suit.
Crowley never had lint on his suit, Aziraphale knew that. 'I love everybody,' he said eventually.
'Yeah, yeah, party line,' Crowley shrugged with great nonchalance. 'But some people you love more than others.' He paused. 'You can tell me. I know what it's like,' he finished, quietly.
Aziraphale thought about what to say. Talking and laughing and feeling happy with someone, knowing each other. That was one sort of love. He thought of Father Benicio and how they'd spent so much time talking. Some people were easier to love than others.
'Well?' Crowley prompted, leaning forward. Aziraphale realised that he hadn't seen Crowley for a long time, not since he began visiting the little church so often. It was good to see him, even though he seemed to be behaving a little strangely, not quite like himself.
'Maybe a little more than I should've done,' Aziraphale said slowly. There was an empty sensation in his chest, and he wanted to rub at it, but he didn't think that it would make it go away.
'It's easily done,' Crowley said in an odd, gentle voice that Aziraphale couldn't remember hearing before.
'Is it?'
'Yes.'
Crowley was looking at him intently and Aziraphale felt like he was being told a secret, if only he could decode it, then he was startled and pleased to feel a quick squeeze on his hand. A question occurred to him.
'Where have you been all this time, while I was-- ' he trailed off, unable to describe adequately what it was he'd been doing.
'While you were falling in love with a pretty face, you mean?'
Aziraphale's face went hot at Crowley's tone, and a flush of shame seemed to heat his entire body from the toes upwards. Crowley's smile faltered a little. He hooked his hand under Aziraphale's elbow.
'I was being your guardian angel, of course', he said, pulling Aziraphale up from his seat and through the café doors, and then out into the day.