[fic] Redemption [Good Omens][for nytelover]
written for a (filled) request made by: nytelover
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing/characters: Crowley, Aziraphale
Warnings/notes: ... no?
Disclaimer: The wondrous world of Good Omens was created by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
**********
It was, of course, all Aziraphale's fault. Crowley might be one of the bad guys, but it wasn't like he was *responsible*. Crowley didn't do responsible; it didn't fit in with the image he wanted people to have from him, which involved adjectives like cool, exciting, dangerous and, naturally, 'disapproved of by my parents'. Crowley was very proud of that last one, and blissfully ignored all of Aziraphale's muttering about how unpleasant the angel found Crowley's determination to bring out the worst in today's youth.
Typically, the first thing Aziraphale said after It happened was: "Oh dear."
Crowley wanted to hit him, but settled for a smoldering look, forgetting that, since he was wearing his sunglasses, Aziraphale couldn't possibly see him, let alone be suitably impressed and/or cowed and/or convinced of the seriousness of the whole situation.
"I'm so screwed." Crowley didn't need any convincing; he already *knew*. He couldn't claim he'd seen It coming, which might be for the best, he decided after a bit of reflection. Part of him had always been aware of the fact that his relatively carefree existence couldn't last forever, naturally, only Crowley had never paid much attention to those parts of himself that weren't absolutely necessary to run his life. He'd thought that might help keep him sane, and firmly on the wrong side.
Aziraphale gave him his own version of Crowley's death-glare. All in all, it might have scared off a near-sighted poodle. Crowley would describe it as 'mildly disapproving, with the emphasis on mild, and a promise of a nice cup of tea and cookies in the near-future'.
"You just saved several hundreds' of people's lives," Aziraphale said. Crowley's urge to hit him rose, only held in check by the crazy notion that, really, Aziraphale was the only witness, wasn't he? If Crowley could make sure the angel'd keep his mouth shut about this whole incident, then maybe ... well, maybe he'd get another few weeks before all Hell broke loose. "That's a good thing."
"That's a very good thing," Crowley agreed. When had he become this stupid? Sure, he'd helped out Aziraphale a bit before, sabotaged a few banks so that the funds for some weapons-purchases arrived just a few tiny seconds too late, even crashed an airplane with a guy in it who'd have been of the worst presidents the USA would ever have voted into the office, but ... but it had always been small stuff. It had always been sort-of bad stuff; things he could as well have done for evil. There'd been other people on that plane as well, people who'd lost all of their luggage thanks to Crowley. Granted, none of them had actually *died*, only ... they'd been very inconvenienced. Several of them had sued their travel-agencies.
"I would have done it myself," Aziraphale said.
"Yes." Crowley knew. Aziraphale could be absent-minded, but not to the point where he'd let an opportunity to do Good pass him by. Crowley'd seen the way the angel's eyes had widened slightly, had known at that moment that Aziraphale was going to do something and somehow, it had seemed like the most logical thing in the world to do it himself. Like putting up an umbrella when it began to rain, or offering Aziraphale a breath-mint after dinner, even if neither of them needed them.
Aziraphale seemed to struggle with something. "You didn't have to ... do that." He didn't say: commit suicide, but Crowley could see that Aziraphale was beginning to see the dawn of what might well turn out to be Crowley's last morning on Earth. It was strangely comforting to notice how Aziraphale's calm and controlled composure was beginning to show a few cracks.
"No." Crowley sighed. Only yesterday, he'd been feeling bored, wrecking his mind for something interesting to do. Now, there seemed to be dozens, hundreds of things he'd still wanted to do, before The End.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, again.
x
Three weeks later, Crowley was still alive, more or less, and heartily unhappy about it. For some reason that They hadn't chosen to reveal to him, Hell was reluctant tosend another agent to Earth. They wanted to keep Crowley there, even if They were also Very Displeased with him at the moment.
And so, following the shining examples of the Catholic Church and some of the more liberal governments, They'd decided on a punishment in the shape of work. A month's work in exchange for *not* being condemned to an eternity of agony. It had seemed too good to be true. Crowley still hadn't hesitated in making his choice though.
Presently, he decided he'd been had. He'd have gladly been spared the past three weeks in exchange for *two* eternities of agony. Eternity couldn't possibly last as long as a week of going from door to door, carrying a bag of folders that felt like it weighed a ton, and had been designed with ultimate discomfort for its bearer in mind, and ringing on doorbells, waiting for some kind, innocent soul to open up.
Crowley sighed and longed for boring afternoons, spent coming up with new subject-lines for spam that would annoy the 80% of humanity that lacked a sense of humor. Then, the taste of defeat fresh in his mouth, he rang the doorbell, wishing he'd had someone to pray to.
"Yes?" Amazing. This neighborhood had looked perfect for Crowley's purpose, which was to meet with as few people as possible. None of the houses could be worth less than half a million, and all of them were new, designed by someone who had obviously never heard of classical architecture, or taste. He'd been positive that nobody who lived here could possibly be naive enough to open the door for a complete stranger wearing a bag. He'd been wrong.
"Rejoice!" Crowley caroled, despising himself nearly as much as he despised the idiot who ware currently staring at him like Crowley was a soap-show on TV; very vaguely, there was the suggestion of awareness that there were numerous more enjoyable things than to keep watching, but it was firmly suppressed by a laziness that was just so typical of the human race. "For I bring you joyful news!"
Crowley put his foot between the door just in time to get a new bruise, to prove that he'd really, honestly tried his best, but, well, those humans, eh? Faster than a demon behind the wheel of a limousine, when it came to avoiding being confronted with people who reminded them that showing some concern for their immortal soul wouldn't hurt. He left the house limping, but satisfied that he'd made a clean get-away.
x
"You did what?" Aziraphale asked, sounding properly horrified, if not quite as sympathetic as Crowley had hoped for him to be. He'd have to remember the past four weeks for the rest of his life; that, Crowley decided, went well past 'sadistic' and headed straight into the place of 'unspeakably awful horrors'.
"Hey, you should be glad! If anyone I talked to actually converted, it'll be another soul won for your side, right?" Crowley sipped his espresso. It tasted wonderful.
"My dear," Aziraphale said, speaking very clearly and slowly, "you can't honestly believe that shoving propaganda at unsuspecting people and putting your foot between their door so that you can go on talking to them is going to convert them, can you?"
"Why not?" Crowley shrugged. "It works with elections."
"Religion," Aziraphale told him, in a voice that Crowley would label as 'huffy', "is not comparable to an election."
"If you say so." Crowley tried his cherry-pie next.
"I do," Aziraphale assured him.
Crowley nodded, his mouth full of cherry-pie. That, too, tasted wonderful.
(Tomorrow, Crowley resolved, he'd go out and do evil.)
~the end~
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing/characters: Crowley, Aziraphale
Warnings/notes: ... no?
Disclaimer: The wondrous world of Good Omens was created by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
**********
It was, of course, all Aziraphale's fault. Crowley might be one of the bad guys, but it wasn't like he was *responsible*. Crowley didn't do responsible; it didn't fit in with the image he wanted people to have from him, which involved adjectives like cool, exciting, dangerous and, naturally, 'disapproved of by my parents'. Crowley was very proud of that last one, and blissfully ignored all of Aziraphale's muttering about how unpleasant the angel found Crowley's determination to bring out the worst in today's youth.
Typically, the first thing Aziraphale said after It happened was: "Oh dear."
Crowley wanted to hit him, but settled for a smoldering look, forgetting that, since he was wearing his sunglasses, Aziraphale couldn't possibly see him, let alone be suitably impressed and/or cowed and/or convinced of the seriousness of the whole situation.
"I'm so screwed." Crowley didn't need any convincing; he already *knew*. He couldn't claim he'd seen It coming, which might be for the best, he decided after a bit of reflection. Part of him had always been aware of the fact that his relatively carefree existence couldn't last forever, naturally, only Crowley had never paid much attention to those parts of himself that weren't absolutely necessary to run his life. He'd thought that might help keep him sane, and firmly on the wrong side.
Aziraphale gave him his own version of Crowley's death-glare. All in all, it might have scared off a near-sighted poodle. Crowley would describe it as 'mildly disapproving, with the emphasis on mild, and a promise of a nice cup of tea and cookies in the near-future'.
"You just saved several hundreds' of people's lives," Aziraphale said. Crowley's urge to hit him rose, only held in check by the crazy notion that, really, Aziraphale was the only witness, wasn't he? If Crowley could make sure the angel'd keep his mouth shut about this whole incident, then maybe ... well, maybe he'd get another few weeks before all Hell broke loose. "That's a good thing."
"That's a very good thing," Crowley agreed. When had he become this stupid? Sure, he'd helped out Aziraphale a bit before, sabotaged a few banks so that the funds for some weapons-purchases arrived just a few tiny seconds too late, even crashed an airplane with a guy in it who'd have been of the worst presidents the USA would ever have voted into the office, but ... but it had always been small stuff. It had always been sort-of bad stuff; things he could as well have done for evil. There'd been other people on that plane as well, people who'd lost all of their luggage thanks to Crowley. Granted, none of them had actually *died*, only ... they'd been very inconvenienced. Several of them had sued their travel-agencies.
"I would have done it myself," Aziraphale said.
"Yes." Crowley knew. Aziraphale could be absent-minded, but not to the point where he'd let an opportunity to do Good pass him by. Crowley'd seen the way the angel's eyes had widened slightly, had known at that moment that Aziraphale was going to do something and somehow, it had seemed like the most logical thing in the world to do it himself. Like putting up an umbrella when it began to rain, or offering Aziraphale a breath-mint after dinner, even if neither of them needed them.
Aziraphale seemed to struggle with something. "You didn't have to ... do that." He didn't say: commit suicide, but Crowley could see that Aziraphale was beginning to see the dawn of what might well turn out to be Crowley's last morning on Earth. It was strangely comforting to notice how Aziraphale's calm and controlled composure was beginning to show a few cracks.
"No." Crowley sighed. Only yesterday, he'd been feeling bored, wrecking his mind for something interesting to do. Now, there seemed to be dozens, hundreds of things he'd still wanted to do, before The End.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, again.
x
Three weeks later, Crowley was still alive, more or less, and heartily unhappy about it. For some reason that They hadn't chosen to reveal to him, Hell was reluctant tosend another agent to Earth. They wanted to keep Crowley there, even if They were also Very Displeased with him at the moment.
And so, following the shining examples of the Catholic Church and some of the more liberal governments, They'd decided on a punishment in the shape of work. A month's work in exchange for *not* being condemned to an eternity of agony. It had seemed too good to be true. Crowley still hadn't hesitated in making his choice though.
Presently, he decided he'd been had. He'd have gladly been spared the past three weeks in exchange for *two* eternities of agony. Eternity couldn't possibly last as long as a week of going from door to door, carrying a bag of folders that felt like it weighed a ton, and had been designed with ultimate discomfort for its bearer in mind, and ringing on doorbells, waiting for some kind, innocent soul to open up.
Crowley sighed and longed for boring afternoons, spent coming up with new subject-lines for spam that would annoy the 80% of humanity that lacked a sense of humor. Then, the taste of defeat fresh in his mouth, he rang the doorbell, wishing he'd had someone to pray to.
"Yes?" Amazing. This neighborhood had looked perfect for Crowley's purpose, which was to meet with as few people as possible. None of the houses could be worth less than half a million, and all of them were new, designed by someone who had obviously never heard of classical architecture, or taste. He'd been positive that nobody who lived here could possibly be naive enough to open the door for a complete stranger wearing a bag. He'd been wrong.
"Rejoice!" Crowley caroled, despising himself nearly as much as he despised the idiot who ware currently staring at him like Crowley was a soap-show on TV; very vaguely, there was the suggestion of awareness that there were numerous more enjoyable things than to keep watching, but it was firmly suppressed by a laziness that was just so typical of the human race. "For I bring you joyful news!"
Crowley put his foot between the door just in time to get a new bruise, to prove that he'd really, honestly tried his best, but, well, those humans, eh? Faster than a demon behind the wheel of a limousine, when it came to avoiding being confronted with people who reminded them that showing some concern for their immortal soul wouldn't hurt. He left the house limping, but satisfied that he'd made a clean get-away.
x
"You did what?" Aziraphale asked, sounding properly horrified, if not quite as sympathetic as Crowley had hoped for him to be. He'd have to remember the past four weeks for the rest of his life; that, Crowley decided, went well past 'sadistic' and headed straight into the place of 'unspeakably awful horrors'.
"Hey, you should be glad! If anyone I talked to actually converted, it'll be another soul won for your side, right?" Crowley sipped his espresso. It tasted wonderful.
"My dear," Aziraphale said, speaking very clearly and slowly, "you can't honestly believe that shoving propaganda at unsuspecting people and putting your foot between their door so that you can go on talking to them is going to convert them, can you?"
"Why not?" Crowley shrugged. "It works with elections."
"Religion," Aziraphale told him, in a voice that Crowley would label as 'huffy', "is not comparable to an election."
"If you say so." Crowley tried his cherry-pie next.
"I do," Aziraphale assured him.
Crowley nodded, his mouth full of cherry-pie. That, too, tasted wonderful.
(Tomorrow, Crowley resolved, he'd go out and do evil.)
~the end~