Four GO Drabbles
Four Good Omens Drabbles, written for 
fadagaski, get well soon honey <3
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but in times like these it's important that we share? <3
Rating: I managed a G \o/
Warnings and spoilers: None. Life sucks, let's have something safe.
Summary: Literally just four drabbles, haven't written those in *years*. Saccharine to the marrow. Here is a safe space from grief, for 400 words <3
Note: I have like four regular readers so I really ought to show more appreciation for them, huh ;) I hope you're doing well honey, and everyone else who finds this (I owe some of you emails and comments, I know, I'm crap), take care!
It's warm, pressed between the bookshop's saggy old couch and Crowley, whose bones splayed heavy in sleep are much more densely blanketing than a duvet. It's warm in the shop, insulated by large quantities of soft old paper, those shelves and shelves of friendly spines. It's a warm spring, Easter came mellow, bright, even Soho's weeds are sharp green with waking sap.
Aziraphale turns a page and continues reading over the top of Crowley's sleeping head. The curved white wings he's cocooning him in aren't for warmth's sake. Guardianship comes naturally to angels, and Crowley deserves the protection of wings.
*
Aziraphale likes the traditional holidays, Christmas and Easter, humans have always had midwinter and spring festivals. The feast of St Valentine is rather more modern but he finds it charming, and now that he and Crowley - well, now that Crowley will sometimes let Aziraphale hold his hand like that, they can take part, together.
"But I thought you would like them," he says, a little nervous. "You have all those plants."
Crowley doesn't blink. He clears his throat. He clears his throat some more.
He clears his throat some more.
He says, voice strangling high above the roses, "Thanks?"
*
Crowley says, casually, "Do you ever think about gender?"
Aziraphale looks at him over his book, curious open gaze. The angel's presented the way human males do since they started differentiating from females, not always well - he's worn some clothing like he's aware of every stitch of it on his body, moving awkwardly inside it - but he's never argued with it. Crowley thinks about it all the time. How he's presenting today, what he wants to wear, look like, be.
"Think about it?" Aziraphale says.
Well. As long as he’s happy in his skin, Crowley's happy for him.
*
Aziraphale keeps a commonplace book, never one to discard a habit once acquired. It's now many volumes long, with an index kept 'according to the ingenious Mr Locke's method', inscribed in Aziraphale's perfect handwriting. Mr Locke's method is deranged but Aziraphale likes things neat, and at least it makes Crowley's surreptitious search for what Aziraphale felt like filing under 'love' relatively easy.
Odd. Tucked in the pages between lines from Shakespeare and Wilde he's kept - scrap. Theatre tickets, restaurant receipts, what does an angel need receipts for?
Then he remembers that meal, and his hand stills on the paper.
fadagaski, get well soon honey <3
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but in times like these it's important that we share? <3
Rating: I managed a G \o/
Warnings and spoilers: None. Life sucks, let's have something safe.
Summary: Literally just four drabbles, haven't written those in *years*. Saccharine to the marrow. Here is a safe space from grief, for 400 words <3
Note: I have like four regular readers so I really ought to show more appreciation for them, huh ;) I hope you're doing well honey, and everyone else who finds this (I owe some of you emails and comments, I know, I'm crap), take care!
It's warm, pressed between the bookshop's saggy old couch and Crowley, whose bones splayed heavy in sleep are much more densely blanketing than a duvet. It's warm in the shop, insulated by large quantities of soft old paper, those shelves and shelves of friendly spines. It's a warm spring, Easter came mellow, bright, even Soho's weeds are sharp green with waking sap.
Aziraphale turns a page and continues reading over the top of Crowley's sleeping head. The curved white wings he's cocooning him in aren't for warmth's sake. Guardianship comes naturally to angels, and Crowley deserves the protection of wings.
*
Aziraphale likes the traditional holidays, Christmas and Easter, humans have always had midwinter and spring festivals. The feast of St Valentine is rather more modern but he finds it charming, and now that he and Crowley - well, now that Crowley will sometimes let Aziraphale hold his hand like that, they can take part, together.
"But I thought you would like them," he says, a little nervous. "You have all those plants."
Crowley doesn't blink. He clears his throat. He clears his throat some more.
He clears his throat some more.
He says, voice strangling high above the roses, "Thanks?"
*
Crowley says, casually, "Do you ever think about gender?"
Aziraphale looks at him over his book, curious open gaze. The angel's presented the way human males do since they started differentiating from females, not always well - he's worn some clothing like he's aware of every stitch of it on his body, moving awkwardly inside it - but he's never argued with it. Crowley thinks about it all the time. How he's presenting today, what he wants to wear, look like, be.
"Think about it?" Aziraphale says.
Well. As long as he’s happy in his skin, Crowley's happy for him.
*
Aziraphale keeps a commonplace book, never one to discard a habit once acquired. It's now many volumes long, with an index kept 'according to the ingenious Mr Locke's method', inscribed in Aziraphale's perfect handwriting. Mr Locke's method is deranged but Aziraphale likes things neat, and at least it makes Crowley's surreptitious search for what Aziraphale felt like filing under 'love' relatively easy.
Odd. Tucked in the pages between lines from Shakespeare and Wilde he's kept - scrap. Theatre tickets, restaurant receipts, what does an angel need receipts for?
Then he remembers that meal, and his hand stills on the paper.