Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Rating: Soft R/Hard PG-13
Summary: Crowley has something to get off his chest. The results are not what Aziraphale had in mind.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife.
Note: This is me indulging my rampant hurt/comfort kink and trying to kick-start my writing brain in time for NaNoWriMo. Enjoy!
“Is there anything you need to talk about, my dear?”
“No. Why d'you ask?”
“Call it intuition.” Crowley had been acting sullen and withdrawn all evening--speaking in monosyllables, picking at his food, not even protesting when Aziraphale had stolen his potatoes.
“Bollocks to your intuition,” he muttered.
Aziraphale smiled indulgently. “Now you're just being immature.”
“Oh, fine, since I know you won't leave me alone about it,” Crowley spat bitterly. “But not here.”
“And you're picking up the bill.”
Aziraphale accompanied Crowley back to his flat--politely refraining from making any remarks about his driving, since the demon was clearly under duress--and made himself comfortable on the sleek, modern sofa while Crowley made coffee. Clearly, he was only stalling for time; the espresso machine would have produced the beverages, put cream and sugar in them, and served biscuits on little gilt-edged china plates, all within the space of two seconds, if Crowley had wanted it to.
“Well?” Aziraphale coaxed, after Crowley had sat down and placed his cup of coffee on the end table (where it would remain untouched for the rest of the night).
“Right. Okay.” Crowley took a deep breath. “So there was this car, right?”
“I am familiar with cars, yes.”
“Please don't make this any harder than it has to be.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“So I thought I'd give it a flat tyre. Just give this bloke a minor inconvenience, make him late to wherever he was headed. Maybe he'd yell at his wife later on. All in a day's work, you know?” Another deep breath. “Then...well, the tyre blew out, and the car swerved into the other lane, and it crashed--”
“--into a school bus.”
Aziraphale stared blankly.
“With children in it,” Crowley added.
“Er. Yes. I assumed as much.” He tentatively placed a hand on Crowley's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”
“You should be,” Crowley hissed. “It's your fault I have a fucking conscience.”
Aziraphale laughed mirthlessly. “I'm glad you think so highly of my abilities.”
“Just shut up, will you?” Crowley buried his face in his hands. “Why can't I just be sociopathic like all the other demons?”
The change in his breathing and the tremor in his shoulders were almost undetectable. Anyone who didn't truly know him--which included everyone in the world excepting Aziraphale, probably--wouldn't have noticed.
Crowley lifted his head. “What the fuck are you staring at, angel?”
“I've never seen you cry before,” Aziraphale replied softly.
Crowley took his sunglasses off and flung them to one side, as if admitting defeat. “Yeah, well, neither has anyone else.” He pulled a black silk handkerchief out of his pocket. “And that includes me.”
“You mean you've never--?”
“Yeah, yeah, let's not make a big deal out of this.” Crowley waved the handkerchief irritably and went back to scrubbing at his face with it.
“What does it feel like?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I just want to know, that's all.”
Crowley sniffed. “Bloody awful, if you want to know the truth. I can't even breathe properly. Why do people do this, anyway?”
“Catharsis. So I've been told.” Aziraphale shrugged. “And because they can't help it, I suppose.”
“That figures.” Crowley gave up on the handkerchief; the tears just kept replenishing themselves, anyway. “If Below ever finds out about this, I'll get no respect from anyone ever again.”
“I wasn't aware they respected you to begin with.”
“Point.” Crowley's face twitched into something approaching a smile, then suddenly crumpled.
Aziraphale tsked softly and opened his arms. The demon slumped into them, sobbing. “Shhh,” Aziraphale whispered.
“Stop--making those noises,” Crowley choked. “You're only making it worse.”
“It has to get worse before it can get better, love.”
“Yeah, well--” Crowley lifted his damp face from the angel's shoulder. “What did you just call me?”
No point in trying to deny it. “You heard me.”
“Are we talking standard angelic love-for-all-of-creation here, or--?”
Aziraphale kissed him.
Crowley froze stiff in shock for only a moment--and Aziraphale didn't blame him for that, he'd even surprised himself--before relaxing into the kiss and slipping that lovely serpentine tongue between Aziraphale's lips. The angel enjoyed it for all of five seconds before his better judgement kicked in.
“That is not,” he said, panting, “what I meant to do.”
Crowley grinned--and he still had tears on his cheeks, and damn it, that should not have been as attractive as it was. “So what? Don't stop now, angel, I was just beginning to feel better.”
“No. No. I refuse to let you manipulate me into--”
“I don't recall there being any physical contact that you didn't initiate. Who, exactly, is manipulating whom?”
“I was only being sympathetic! You're trying to take advantage of me!” Aziraphale became aware that he was blushing violently, which probably was not helping his case.
“Don't try to tell me you didn't want it, angel.” Crowley's voice was still ragged, but in a different way. “I may not have your emotional intuition, but I know desire when I see it.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Aziraphale said. Lying was against his nature, but he could certainly think of worse things.
“Fair's fair. I confessed to you. I gave you my remorse. Now I get--”
“Compassion,” Aziraphale said flatly. “I don't owe you anything else.”
“Maybe not.” Crowley reached up to stroke the side of Aziraphale's neck. “What do you owe yourself?”
Aziraphale squirmed away from his touch. “I wish you wouldn't ask such difficult questions.”
Crowley persisted, threading his fingers through Aziraphale's hair just above his collar. “You love me,” he said, just above a whisper.
Aziraphale closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to avoid Crowley's intense gaze. “I shouldn't.”
“You do.” Crowley's hand slid down to the space between his shoulder blades, rubbing the tension out of it. “It's not unrequited, if that helps.”
“It doesn't.” How had he allowed his control to slip so far?
“Angel, look at me.” Aziraphale opened his eyes. “If you can tell me--honestly, mind you--that you don't want this, you can leave right now, and we'll never speak of this again.”
He could have said it. It wouldn't have been entirely false; he was scared, after all, and you didn't just throw away six thousand years of celibacy on a whim.
But that would have meant ignoring the unfamiliar, aching warmth that was steadily building in the pit of his stomach. It would have meant ignoring the look Crowley was giving him that seemed to contain so many things at once--heat, hunger, a plea, a promise.
It would have meant wondering, for infinite years to come, what could have been.
“I--don't exactly know what to do,” Aziraphale said helplessly. “In terms of--you know. Things.”
Crowley leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “You don't have to,” he said, smiling. “You've got me.”
Things progressed fairly quickly from that point. Crowley was unexpectedly tender, all light kisses and gentle caresses and whispered reassurances, until Aziraphale flung his arms around him and begged for more, harder, faster, more, which the demon willingly granted him. It ended with a wanton moan and a desperate sob--Aziraphale wasn't even sure which was whose--and a pair of sharp incisors sunk deeply into his shoulder.
Crowley licked a drop of blood from the angel's skin. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Got a bit carried away.”
“I think it's safe to say we both did.” He smiled and absently played with Crowley's hair.
“Do you regret it?”
“What's done is done. No use dwelling on things. That goes for you, too.”
“What do you--oh. Back on that subject, are we?”
“Only for the moment.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley on the cheek and tried to smooth out the furrow between his eyebrows. “It was an accident. You were sorry. Let it go.”
“Since when are you so quick to forgive?”
“Forgiveness would imply that I'd held some sort of grudge against you in the first place.”
“How annoyingly angelic of you.”
“Would you have me any other way?”
Crowley smiled--an unusual smile for him, warm and guileless, though not without a hint of fang. “Never.”