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temptationaccomplishedSPOILERS FOR GOOD OMENS
The idea behind this is letters never sent, letters squirreled away under a mattress or in a suitcase or some other terribly convenient location like between the pages of a book, or within the pages of a diary themselves, never expecting the light of day. Prayers. Cries in the night. The lonely words of one to the only other who ever understood.
I'm out of miracles...where are you? Why aren't you finding me?
[Some are screened until relevant]
Daydream - The angel and the demon on my shoulder
Date: 2019-09-04 04:28 am (UTC)He put down the book on Sundering and rubbed his eyes. Aziraphale's eyes were not tired--they did not tire--but it seemed like the thing to do when one was unable to focus anymore on their reading. He glanced out the window, pitch black as it was outside, and imagined something warmer. Late summer, perhaps. Midafternoon. The time of day he had heard was wonderful for naps. He imagined sitting on an idyllic bench window-seat, the sun through the glass warming the back of his neck. It would be cozy, comfortable, looking out at the rows of books, the tables, the students studying… Aziraphale would not be alone, of course. Not for long, because--
He swaggers in, all long legs and lean body and swaying hips that seem to have forgotten that humans have bones and whatnot to keep that kind of thing in check. How proud he looks: that toothy, dangerous, clever grin aimed at Aziraphale, that reddish hair catching the sunlight like fire, and those deep black glasses hiding his eyes.
Crowley…
(Would he look like he did when Aziraphale last saw him, or should he look as he did before, in ages past? So very many looks to appreciate. So many looks Aziraphale had appreciated, though not nearly well enough at the time. Maybe longer hair. Softly wavy and ending before his shoulders. That had been a rather fetching look.)
From his cloaks (black and red as the Ka uniform, because it suits him, and it's obviously his fault that Aziraphale was assigned this house anyway) Crowley produces a napkin, sly as can be, wrapped up around something. He checks around, ever suspicious, as he slides into a sprawl against one side of the window-seat, and then hands over his ill-gotten goods. Accepting it, Aziraphale peeks up at him, out of the corner of his eye and from under lashes, and then down at the gift. Slowly he unwraps the napkin like a precious parcel in his lap.
Cookies from the kitchen. Freshly baked.
"You wily old serpent," Aziraphale whispers, scolding primly with a smile. "And how did you get these?"
A shrug. Crowley sits up, putting them impossibly close. A long leg slithers its way behind Aziraphale's back, between him and the window, stretched out like a snake sunning itself. The other foot drops to the floor, the toe of a boot just nudging Aziraphale's shoe. The window-seat can't quite contain them both now--because this is Aziraphale's imagination and he wants it so--but it just means there is little space between them.
"The kitchen-staff love me." The answer is a purr. From behind the sunglasses, golden eyes gaze out onto the campus outside, flicking up to the angel as if waiting for a reply.
He purses his lips and does not even make an effort to hand the cookies back. "Well, I can't accept them. You know there's no eating in the library."
"Nobody's going to notice." There's a hiss on the last syllable. It tickles Aziraphale's ear.
"They are still warm. It would be terrible to let them go to waste." They both share a glance and a smile as he begins to eat the cookies piece by delectable piece. Crowley is watching him, a satisfied but rapt grin on his face. He scoots closer.
"Good?"
He is really very close, nose to nose, nearly. The light from the windows brightens the back of the glasses and illuminates it enough to betray Crowley's full yellow-eyed expression. Gone entirely are the whites of his eyes. Slitted pupils stretch top to bottom the full height of his eye. Aziraphale forgets to eat the next bite of cookie in his hand, but he licks his lower lip. It tastes like sugar. Crowley takes a breath and lets it out slowly, a soft hiss of air from behind his teeth, the tip of his tongue just barely visible. Perhaps he looks like a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Perhaps like a dog waiting for his master's command.
There's a shimmer in the air, the sense of something Divine and dreadful.
Someone clears his throat and Aziraphale turns away from Crowley with a start, shocked to find they have a celestial visitor.
"I'm just here to thank you. You've made it really very easy," Gabriel says, hands clasped and expression smug. Tall and broad shouldered and chiseled; he's dressed as he has been for years now--sensible and moderate gray woolen coat, gray slacks. Out of place, apart from the world, not one of the students--not one of the Sundered, not one of the humans. Not one of Us. "We couldn't do it without you, Aziraphale. Removing the Opposition from the equation? Excellent move."
"Angel, don't listen to him. He's just trying to rile you up--"
"I'm the one trying to rile him--?" (Would Crowley rise to that bait? He probably would--)
But what if Aziraphale has endangered Earth by bringing Crowley here? What if trying to protect Crowley has left Earth undefended from the war that Heaven and Hell want to rain down upon humanity? Adam's powers are waning. What if Gabriel is right and Aziraphale has inadvertently helped Heaven and Hell re-start their war?
Oh, but the alternative-- He couldn't he leave Crowley behind, to face them alone--
"It's a Catch 22, Angel," Crowley continues, maybe to alleviate him of some guilt, as always--and then, as if Aziraphale hasn't read that book himself (Crowley has, of course, seen the film only), he offers the explanation: "Damned if you do--"
And Gabriel, who probably has no actual knowledge of either the book or film, or the concept itself (but, again, this is all in Aziraphale's mind anyway), finishes with a pleased smirk, "...Damned if you don't."
He has to go home. Aziraphale has to go home right now.
"But then, hasn't that always been your problem?" Gabriel says like a snide little devil on his shoulder. "Duty versus desire?"
"You're wrong," Aziraphale insists, rising and all but stamping his foot. He says it, not because Gabriel is wrong (duty and desire have been, actually, rather incompatible in the past), but because Gabriel himself is wrong. Heaven is wrong and so Aziraphale's duty as it has been laid out for him is inherently wrong and he's not going to sit here and listen to himself be bad-mouthed when Gabriel is the one doing the wrong thing.
But he has a duty to Earth, to humanity. And to Crowley.
...To not be selfish.
He looks back to Crowley for support and Crowley is gone.
Gabriel is gone.
The sun is setting on the garden outside and he cannot hear the Almighty. But he can hear his own words echoing back to him from millennia ago:
Don't let the sun go down on you here.