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Title: South Downs
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Genre: Fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After the Apoca-false-alarm, Aziraphale and Crowley retire to a small village in the South Downs. This is how it happened.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for my Wild Card, which I chose to fill with 'Curtainfic'.
‘Taking time off’ after the Apoca-oops-we’ll-come-back-later had become an excuse for lazy, rambling walks through the countryside. Dinners at the Ritz had grown more extravagant, and now that they didn’t have to meet in secret, the ducks of Hyde Park lost out on one of their weekly loaves of bread. Somewhere along the way, there had come the realisation that – through the powers of Adam – Heaven and Hell were quite content to just…forget them. Let them get on with it, much as they had for the last six thousand years (give or take an awkward decade or two).
It was, simply put, nice. To talk to Crowley as the friend he’d become rather than the Great Adversary. They’d smoothed ruffled feathers, as it were.
“Nice place, this,” Crowley said. They were basking in the pub garden at The Ram Inn in the tiny village of Firle. Crowley was, possibly, taking the phrase ‘basking’ a little too seriously – his eyes were closed and his head tilted back and, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was talking, he almost looked asleep.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Very peaceful.”
In all honesty, it reminded him a little of Lower Tadfield, but without the preternatural protection of the Antichrist to guard it from all ills. It wasn’t anything like London. Maybe it was the sunlight, maybe it was the mostly empty bottle of wine, or maybe it was the way that Crowley’s eyes glinted gold from under his eyelashes, but Aziraphale thought he could stay there forever.
…
“Come on, Angel. Move it.”
Aziraphale huffed. “Maybe if you told me why we’re here…”
Crowley shot him a grin that wasn’t entirely made up of fangs, and he slipped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “Ever seen Escape to the Country?” he asked.
“No,” Aziraphale told him. It sounded like one of those TV things that Crowley had had a hand in so many of – though if it was, the title was refreshingly obvious – and judging by the faint curl of the demon’s lip, he’d guessed right.
“All in the name,” he said. “Relocation show – all about moving house and showing people how much more wonderful life will be if they move outside of the city to a house they can’t afford and increase their carbon footprint.”
Aziraphale hummed. It certainly sounded like one of Crowley’s. “I think you’ve mentioned it,” he said.
Crowley’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on his hip, and Aziraphale let himself be steered by the offending hand – not that offensive, really, as Crowley was pleasantly cool to the touch in the summer heat – up to a little stone cottage on the edge of the village. It looked…cosy. Warm. It was set in a large, flourishing garden and had a rose climbing up around the front door. Someone had screwed a ‘For Sale’ onto the garden wall, and there was a young woman – blonde; pregnant, although she didn’t know it yet – waiting for them.
He watched as Crowley shook her hand, smiled his serpent smile, and introduced him as his ‘partner’. The thought that he should object did occur to him, briefly, in the split second between that introduction and the moment Crowley took his hand in his own and laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it was.
…
There was an apple tree in the back garden, still flowering. There was a greenhouse full of strawberries and grape vines and the fence was lined with an alternating row of plum and pear trees and the whole place was spectacular, but it was the apple that had caught Aziraphale’s eye. He could picture Crowley in it, his dark coils draped around the branches.
The cottage had been exactly as cosy on the inside as it had looked from the outside. It had been – by Crowley’s standards, certainly – almost offensively twee as the previous resident had clearly had an abiding love for lace curtains. It was, in all respects, the perfect place for two gentlemen to retire to and live out the rest of their days in…if those gentlemen in question happened to be lovers, rather than an angel and a demon.
Aziraphale had a feeling that no amount of prayer would be able to help him, so instead he stood in the garden and waited. For an epiphany or for Crowley to tell him it was a joke, he wasn’t sure which.
“Angel?”
And he’d been so sure the epiphany would come first.
“What do you think?” Crowley asked. He rested his hand lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, just above where the wing joint was hidden between astral planes. It was a strangely intimate gesture; one that Crowley was clearly nervous about, if the flickering of his forked tongue was anything to go by.
This close, Aziraphale could sense his grace. Or, at least, the remains of it – it was tattered and twisted and darker than any angel’s – and through it he could sense Crowley’s uncertainty as clearly as if it was his own. He could sense his fear. His desire.
Ah. There was his epiphany.
“It’ll take some work,” Aziraphale said, thinking of lace curtains and ineffability. “But I think we could do it.”
Crowley shivered. He bowed his head, and in the split second before he rested it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel saw his eyes close in something very close to bliss. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Genre: Fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After the Apoca-false-alarm, Aziraphale and Crowley retire to a small village in the South Downs. This is how it happened.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for my Wild Card, which I chose to fill with 'Curtainfic'.
‘Taking time off’ after the Apoca-oops-we’ll-come-back-later had become an excuse for lazy, rambling walks through the countryside. Dinners at the Ritz had grown more extravagant, and now that they didn’t have to meet in secret, the ducks of Hyde Park lost out on one of their weekly loaves of bread. Somewhere along the way, there had come the realisation that – through the powers of Adam – Heaven and Hell were quite content to just…forget them. Let them get on with it, much as they had for the last six thousand years (give or take an awkward decade or two).
It was, simply put, nice. To talk to Crowley as the friend he’d become rather than the Great Adversary. They’d smoothed ruffled feathers, as it were.
“Nice place, this,” Crowley said. They were basking in the pub garden at The Ram Inn in the tiny village of Firle. Crowley was, possibly, taking the phrase ‘basking’ a little too seriously – his eyes were closed and his head tilted back and, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was talking, he almost looked asleep.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Very peaceful.”
In all honesty, it reminded him a little of Lower Tadfield, but without the preternatural protection of the Antichrist to guard it from all ills. It wasn’t anything like London. Maybe it was the sunlight, maybe it was the mostly empty bottle of wine, or maybe it was the way that Crowley’s eyes glinted gold from under his eyelashes, but Aziraphale thought he could stay there forever.
…
“Come on, Angel. Move it.”
Aziraphale huffed. “Maybe if you told me why we’re here…”
Crowley shot him a grin that wasn’t entirely made up of fangs, and he slipped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “Ever seen Escape to the Country?” he asked.
“No,” Aziraphale told him. It sounded like one of those TV things that Crowley had had a hand in so many of – though if it was, the title was refreshingly obvious – and judging by the faint curl of the demon’s lip, he’d guessed right.
“All in the name,” he said. “Relocation show – all about moving house and showing people how much more wonderful life will be if they move outside of the city to a house they can’t afford and increase their carbon footprint.”
Aziraphale hummed. It certainly sounded like one of Crowley’s. “I think you’ve mentioned it,” he said.
Crowley’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on his hip, and Aziraphale let himself be steered by the offending hand – not that offensive, really, as Crowley was pleasantly cool to the touch in the summer heat – up to a little stone cottage on the edge of the village. It looked…cosy. Warm. It was set in a large, flourishing garden and had a rose climbing up around the front door. Someone had screwed a ‘For Sale’ onto the garden wall, and there was a young woman – blonde; pregnant, although she didn’t know it yet – waiting for them.
He watched as Crowley shook her hand, smiled his serpent smile, and introduced him as his ‘partner’. The thought that he should object did occur to him, briefly, in the split second between that introduction and the moment Crowley took his hand in his own and laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it was.
…
There was an apple tree in the back garden, still flowering. There was a greenhouse full of strawberries and grape vines and the fence was lined with an alternating row of plum and pear trees and the whole place was spectacular, but it was the apple that had caught Aziraphale’s eye. He could picture Crowley in it, his dark coils draped around the branches.
The cottage had been exactly as cosy on the inside as it had looked from the outside. It had been – by Crowley’s standards, certainly – almost offensively twee as the previous resident had clearly had an abiding love for lace curtains. It was, in all respects, the perfect place for two gentlemen to retire to and live out the rest of their days in…if those gentlemen in question happened to be lovers, rather than an angel and a demon.
Aziraphale had a feeling that no amount of prayer would be able to help him, so instead he stood in the garden and waited. For an epiphany or for Crowley to tell him it was a joke, he wasn’t sure which.
“Angel?”
And he’d been so sure the epiphany would come first.
“What do you think?” Crowley asked. He rested his hand lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, just above where the wing joint was hidden between astral planes. It was a strangely intimate gesture; one that Crowley was clearly nervous about, if the flickering of his forked tongue was anything to go by.
This close, Aziraphale could sense his grace. Or, at least, the remains of it – it was tattered and twisted and darker than any angel’s – and through it he could sense Crowley’s uncertainty as clearly as if it was his own. He could sense his fear. His desire.
Ah. There was his epiphany.
“It’ll take some work,” Aziraphale said, thinking of lace curtains and ineffability. “But I think we could do it.”
Crowley shivered. He bowed his head, and in the split second before he rested it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel saw his eyes close in something very close to bliss. “Thank you,” he whispered.
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Date: 2014-05-23 10:25 am (UTC)From:no subject
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