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gilascaveTitle: Who Will Catch Me Should I Fall?
Author: james
Rating: PG
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Word Count: 2,000
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Notes: for hc-bingo, square "fallen angel" Beta by thedeadcat!
Summary: Aziraphale knows that it only takes one step to begin to fall.
The words are on the tip of his tongue although, as an angel, he only really needs to think them clearly and with intent for his words to be heard.
Forgive me, Father.
He is not completely certain he can call them sins, cannot bring himself to do so, though he knows, deep in his heart, they must be else he would know that they were not. Doubt in himself is a sin, for he is an angel, made by God, and thus he ought to know himself.
That's what Aziraphale tells himself every time he doesn't think the words.
~~~
Aziraphale sat in the rear office of his bookshop, tending to accounts which needed absolutely no attention whatsoever. With the Apocalypse averted, everyone seemed to be just a bit too busy -- humans, angels, and demons alike -- to provide the sort of distraction that lead to numbers not being placed in the columns exactly as they should go.
Not that Aziraphale ever made errors with his accounting, but when there were explosions outside (as from the Blitz), or the obnoxious honking of too much traffic, or just the almost-constant tickle of someone doing something wrong... Aziraphale had, for decades, had to concentrate a bit in order to do his bookkeeping so that it came out right the first time.
The tickle was still there, running across the surface of his skin and brushing at the edges of his thoughts. Mankind hadn't changed, really; there was a man committing adultery in the building next door, five storeys up and two doors down. There was a young woman on the street outside thinking of murder, but Aziraphale could tell it was of the mild sort (boyfriend trouble) and not a genuine heart's ache for killing.
The traffic hadn't lessened, either, but there was a buzz which was gone, as if the topmost layer of road rage had been peeled away and everyone was enjoying the ease of pressure, even if they didn't consciously notice it was gone. Or, indeed, had been there in the first place.
Even Radio 1 was playing a decent sort of selection nowadays, as much as modern dance music could be called decent. Aziraphale paused in his contemplation and allowed that every kind of music was inherently good, at least in the minutest sense, or possibly in potential. It was difficult, even for an angel of God, to say that every song one Radio 1 was an uplifting ode that expressed love, joy, and good things that an angel could rejoice in the existence of. He felt obligated to give them the benefit of the doubt, however, for perhaps only that the musicians and music-lovers were trying, and were just not quite on a more Righteous Path.
Aziraphale was satisfied to leave it at that, and kept his own radio tuned to Radio 3.
Since the forces of Good versus Evil had sort of...petered away following the bust of the planned Apocalypse, Aziraphale had noticed an overall easing of tensions everywhere. Angels had been recalled for holiday and for reassignments; demons had also vanished, possibly for the same reasons. Humans in general seemed to be, well, less troublesome. Even the alley cats, which normally kept Aziraphale awake at all hours with their howling and knocking over of trash bins, seemed to have all been captured and fixed.
If he hadn't known better, Aziraphale would have said the world had turned for the better and that things were improving. He hadn't been formed out of the ether just yesterday, though, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before Evil got its hand in the mix again and started stirring.
Crowley had said the very same thing, only about Good, and in a decidedly more grumpy tone, the last time they'd met for lunch.
They had an appointment for lunch again tomorrow, and once a week was ever so much more often than the once a century or more he'd grown used to. He felt guilt at the thought of lunch again so soon. He looked down at his books, opened to an almost-new leaf of columns in bookkeeping green. A few numbers were written in at the top with fine, black ink in impressively neat penmanship -- if angels ever took pride in such things, which they did not. Nothing so pressing in this work that meant he should beg off from taking time away.
Aziraphale lowered his head, studying the numbers closely, and tried desperately not to think.
Father, I have sinned.
He'd been summoned home. Right after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, he had received his summons. Carefully worded invitation, of course, but an order nonetheless. Return to Heaven, you've earned the time away from Earth. Your old spot in the Choir is waiting for you.
He'd sent a reply that he needed to wrap up a few things, wouldn't do to leave such matters half-done, no matter how trivial they may seem in the presence of the Heavenly Host's normal duties. God is in the details, he'd said, and he wanted to make sure everything was tidy and prepared for him to leave it.
The next day he'd gone to lunch with Crowley and enjoyed himself. He'd made the demon laugh at things other than Aziraphale's own angelic nature -- which Crowley laughed at often enough, but Aziraphale was used to that and, besides, he could hardly find offense at something a demon found absurd.
He continued to stay on Earth, tending to his bookshop and the accounts which hardly needed anything at all, and accepting invitations to lunch because -- and he barely let himself think this at all -- because he wanted to. He wanted to sit at a cafe table with a demon, discussing any manner of idiotic new cinema or the evolution of water fowl or how much lemon juice should be used in making fresh ricotta cheese.
The sound of Crowley's snide remarks could not possibly be more appealing to him than the joyous harmonies of the angelic choir, or the cherubs, or even the more majestic Voice of the Archangels, when that lot could be bothered to gather and sing. Important duties, most of the time, but Aziraphale had heard rumours that the Archangels were at holiday as well and had taken up some of the most primordial hymns once more in their leisure.
Aziraphale's fingers itched to slam the book closed, leave it all there on the desk and take himself to Heaven. Submit himself to his Father's judgment and resume his proper place and duty.
His hands shook and he remained seated. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached out and picked up the phone. Dialed a number he knew by heart and waited.
"What do you want?" came the coarse growl, and Aziraphale sighed, without meaning to. Felt his shoulders relax and -- dear Father, forgive him.
"I have come across a book I thought you might be interested in," Aziraphale said, keeping his voice calm and measured. As if he hadn't found the book years ago, keeping it hidden away, waiting for the chance to give it to someone who would appreciate it.
"Oh?" Crowley sounded interested, then there was a soft pop of displaced air and the demon was standing before him.
Aziraphale set the phone back in its cradle, and held out the book. Crowley beamed as he took it and Aziraphale's heart -- leapt.
Forgive me, Father, for I sin. And I cannot help myself, for I love him.
Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly, knowing Crowley was eagerly flipping through pages of a rare first print edition of the Malleus Maleficarum -- one of the books Crowley himself had helped inspire but had failed to keep a copy of. A useful book when taken as a warning, a lesson from history, though certainly that was not why Crowley was grinning gleefully over it, now. The honest delight on his face was why Aziraphale felt no guilt and what made him whisper, again:
I cannot come Home again.
For he knew there was no place in Heaven for such as he: angels who fell, if not to Below then certainly to the confines of Earth. One step would lead to another, and Aziraphale wondered if, someday, he would find himself at Crowley's side, laughing over the illustrations of the witches tied to the stake.
His stomach turned, and he hoped not. But one step away was all it took, was it not? One step from Heaven led to a lifetime of Perdition.
"I have something for you, too," Crowley suddenly said, and he was holding out his hand. Aziraphale cleared his distress from his face. He had made his choice, and he would make of it what he could. He had, in fact, made it some time ago and was nly now admitting it to himself. Crowley could not ever compare to the majesty of Heaven, but Aziraphale could not deny that the joy Crowley brought him was more precious to him than all the songs he could sing.
He held out his hand and Crowley dropped a small coin onto his palm. Aziraphale looked at it, then blinked. There was a tower on one side and a shepherd's staff and bag on the other. King David's coin, he realised, and he looked at Crowley in astonishment. "You carried this without it burning your hand?" he teased.
Crowley sniffed at him. "Wrapped it in a handkerchief. Whatever." He waved a hand dismissively, but Aziraphale saw the pleased gleam in the demon's eye. Crowley returned to his study of the book, and Aziraphale looked down at the coin once more. It was real, he could tell by the feel of it, as well as from knowing Crowley, who would never stoop so low as to present him with a fake coin. The demon was many things, but cheap and inauthentic was never among them.
"So I was thinking, angel," Crowley said casually, and his words almost distracted Aziraphale from wondering if God had even heard him, or if he'd already stopped listening to his lost, stupid lamb a long time ago. Did He hear the prayers of the fallen, or was it simply that the fallen didn't bother talking to Him anymore?
"Yes, Crowley?" he asked.
Crowley didn't look up from his book, but he appeared tense as he said, "Things are pretty slow just now. I imagine you've noticed. I thought... I was thinking of taking a holiday. Someplace warm, but not too warm. Someplace with beaches and not many tourists." He glanced up at Aziraphale, and the invitation was clear.
And shocking. Aziraphale stared at him, wondering if Crowley knew -- then chided himself. Of course he knew, he knew as well as Aziraphale what was going on, what had been going on between them for so long. Neither had said a word out loud, but neither could exactly deny any of it. Especially now.
Aziraphale nodded. In for a penny, he told himself. In for eternity. "Where were you thinking of going?"
Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale's telephone rang. He stared at it in surprise for a moment, then scrambled to pick it up as it rang a second time.
"Hello?"
Congratulations, you're our lucky winner! This is Rafe Morales with Radio 1, and you're our latest winner!"
Aziraphale blinked. "I'm what?"
"Today is your lucky day, because today is our Grand Prize giveaway!" the voice continued. "You've won two all-expense paid tickets to the South of Greece!"
Aziraphale glared at Crowley, who looked shocked.
Surprised. Aziraphale looked at the phone, then carefully asked, "Could you repeat that, please?"
And that was how, one week later, he stepped off a plane with Crowley at his side, luggage in hand -- not because they needed it, but because Crowley insisted on packing regardless, and pointed out they would need something to bring back souvenirs in.
As he stepped into the sun, Aziraphale looked up. The sky was mostly clear with just a few wisps of clouds high overhead. He tilted his head and could hear the cry of birds in the distance. They sounded, quite strangely, like the low, thundering tones of the ancient, primordial hymns.
Author: james
Rating: PG
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Word Count: 2,000
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Notes: for hc-bingo, square "fallen angel" Beta by thedeadcat!
Summary: Aziraphale knows that it only takes one step to begin to fall.
The words are on the tip of his tongue although, as an angel, he only really needs to think them clearly and with intent for his words to be heard.
Forgive me, Father.
He is not completely certain he can call them sins, cannot bring himself to do so, though he knows, deep in his heart, they must be else he would know that they were not. Doubt in himself is a sin, for he is an angel, made by God, and thus he ought to know himself.
That's what Aziraphale tells himself every time he doesn't think the words.
~~~
Aziraphale sat in the rear office of his bookshop, tending to accounts which needed absolutely no attention whatsoever. With the Apocalypse averted, everyone seemed to be just a bit too busy -- humans, angels, and demons alike -- to provide the sort of distraction that lead to numbers not being placed in the columns exactly as they should go.
Not that Aziraphale ever made errors with his accounting, but when there were explosions outside (as from the Blitz), or the obnoxious honking of too much traffic, or just the almost-constant tickle of someone doing something wrong... Aziraphale had, for decades, had to concentrate a bit in order to do his bookkeeping so that it came out right the first time.
The tickle was still there, running across the surface of his skin and brushing at the edges of his thoughts. Mankind hadn't changed, really; there was a man committing adultery in the building next door, five storeys up and two doors down. There was a young woman on the street outside thinking of murder, but Aziraphale could tell it was of the mild sort (boyfriend trouble) and not a genuine heart's ache for killing.
The traffic hadn't lessened, either, but there was a buzz which was gone, as if the topmost layer of road rage had been peeled away and everyone was enjoying the ease of pressure, even if they didn't consciously notice it was gone. Or, indeed, had been there in the first place.
Even Radio 1 was playing a decent sort of selection nowadays, as much as modern dance music could be called decent. Aziraphale paused in his contemplation and allowed that every kind of music was inherently good, at least in the minutest sense, or possibly in potential. It was difficult, even for an angel of God, to say that every song one Radio 1 was an uplifting ode that expressed love, joy, and good things that an angel could rejoice in the existence of. He felt obligated to give them the benefit of the doubt, however, for perhaps only that the musicians and music-lovers were trying, and were just not quite on a more Righteous Path.
Aziraphale was satisfied to leave it at that, and kept his own radio tuned to Radio 3.
Since the forces of Good versus Evil had sort of...petered away following the bust of the planned Apocalypse, Aziraphale had noticed an overall easing of tensions everywhere. Angels had been recalled for holiday and for reassignments; demons had also vanished, possibly for the same reasons. Humans in general seemed to be, well, less troublesome. Even the alley cats, which normally kept Aziraphale awake at all hours with their howling and knocking over of trash bins, seemed to have all been captured and fixed.
If he hadn't known better, Aziraphale would have said the world had turned for the better and that things were improving. He hadn't been formed out of the ether just yesterday, though, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before Evil got its hand in the mix again and started stirring.
Crowley had said the very same thing, only about Good, and in a decidedly more grumpy tone, the last time they'd met for lunch.
They had an appointment for lunch again tomorrow, and once a week was ever so much more often than the once a century or more he'd grown used to. He felt guilt at the thought of lunch again so soon. He looked down at his books, opened to an almost-new leaf of columns in bookkeeping green. A few numbers were written in at the top with fine, black ink in impressively neat penmanship -- if angels ever took pride in such things, which they did not. Nothing so pressing in this work that meant he should beg off from taking time away.
Aziraphale lowered his head, studying the numbers closely, and tried desperately not to think.
Father, I have sinned.
He'd been summoned home. Right after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, he had received his summons. Carefully worded invitation, of course, but an order nonetheless. Return to Heaven, you've earned the time away from Earth. Your old spot in the Choir is waiting for you.
He'd sent a reply that he needed to wrap up a few things, wouldn't do to leave such matters half-done, no matter how trivial they may seem in the presence of the Heavenly Host's normal duties. God is in the details, he'd said, and he wanted to make sure everything was tidy and prepared for him to leave it.
The next day he'd gone to lunch with Crowley and enjoyed himself. He'd made the demon laugh at things other than Aziraphale's own angelic nature -- which Crowley laughed at often enough, but Aziraphale was used to that and, besides, he could hardly find offense at something a demon found absurd.
He continued to stay on Earth, tending to his bookshop and the accounts which hardly needed anything at all, and accepting invitations to lunch because -- and he barely let himself think this at all -- because he wanted to. He wanted to sit at a cafe table with a demon, discussing any manner of idiotic new cinema or the evolution of water fowl or how much lemon juice should be used in making fresh ricotta cheese.
The sound of Crowley's snide remarks could not possibly be more appealing to him than the joyous harmonies of the angelic choir, or the cherubs, or even the more majestic Voice of the Archangels, when that lot could be bothered to gather and sing. Important duties, most of the time, but Aziraphale had heard rumours that the Archangels were at holiday as well and had taken up some of the most primordial hymns once more in their leisure.
Aziraphale's fingers itched to slam the book closed, leave it all there on the desk and take himself to Heaven. Submit himself to his Father's judgment and resume his proper place and duty.
His hands shook and he remained seated. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached out and picked up the phone. Dialed a number he knew by heart and waited.
"What do you want?" came the coarse growl, and Aziraphale sighed, without meaning to. Felt his shoulders relax and -- dear Father, forgive him.
"I have come across a book I thought you might be interested in," Aziraphale said, keeping his voice calm and measured. As if he hadn't found the book years ago, keeping it hidden away, waiting for the chance to give it to someone who would appreciate it.
"Oh?" Crowley sounded interested, then there was a soft pop of displaced air and the demon was standing before him.
Aziraphale set the phone back in its cradle, and held out the book. Crowley beamed as he took it and Aziraphale's heart -- leapt.
Forgive me, Father, for I sin. And I cannot help myself, for I love him.
Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly, knowing Crowley was eagerly flipping through pages of a rare first print edition of the Malleus Maleficarum -- one of the books Crowley himself had helped inspire but had failed to keep a copy of. A useful book when taken as a warning, a lesson from history, though certainly that was not why Crowley was grinning gleefully over it, now. The honest delight on his face was why Aziraphale felt no guilt and what made him whisper, again:
I cannot come Home again.
For he knew there was no place in Heaven for such as he: angels who fell, if not to Below then certainly to the confines of Earth. One step would lead to another, and Aziraphale wondered if, someday, he would find himself at Crowley's side, laughing over the illustrations of the witches tied to the stake.
His stomach turned, and he hoped not. But one step away was all it took, was it not? One step from Heaven led to a lifetime of Perdition.
"I have something for you, too," Crowley suddenly said, and he was holding out his hand. Aziraphale cleared his distress from his face. He had made his choice, and he would make of it what he could. He had, in fact, made it some time ago and was nly now admitting it to himself. Crowley could not ever compare to the majesty of Heaven, but Aziraphale could not deny that the joy Crowley brought him was more precious to him than all the songs he could sing.
He held out his hand and Crowley dropped a small coin onto his palm. Aziraphale looked at it, then blinked. There was a tower on one side and a shepherd's staff and bag on the other. King David's coin, he realised, and he looked at Crowley in astonishment. "You carried this without it burning your hand?" he teased.
Crowley sniffed at him. "Wrapped it in a handkerchief. Whatever." He waved a hand dismissively, but Aziraphale saw the pleased gleam in the demon's eye. Crowley returned to his study of the book, and Aziraphale looked down at the coin once more. It was real, he could tell by the feel of it, as well as from knowing Crowley, who would never stoop so low as to present him with a fake coin. The demon was many things, but cheap and inauthentic was never among them.
"So I was thinking, angel," Crowley said casually, and his words almost distracted Aziraphale from wondering if God had even heard him, or if he'd already stopped listening to his lost, stupid lamb a long time ago. Did He hear the prayers of the fallen, or was it simply that the fallen didn't bother talking to Him anymore?
"Yes, Crowley?" he asked.
Crowley didn't look up from his book, but he appeared tense as he said, "Things are pretty slow just now. I imagine you've noticed. I thought... I was thinking of taking a holiday. Someplace warm, but not too warm. Someplace with beaches and not many tourists." He glanced up at Aziraphale, and the invitation was clear.
And shocking. Aziraphale stared at him, wondering if Crowley knew -- then chided himself. Of course he knew, he knew as well as Aziraphale what was going on, what had been going on between them for so long. Neither had said a word out loud, but neither could exactly deny any of it. Especially now.
Aziraphale nodded. In for a penny, he told himself. In for eternity. "Where were you thinking of going?"
Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale's telephone rang. He stared at it in surprise for a moment, then scrambled to pick it up as it rang a second time.
"Hello?"
Congratulations, you're our lucky winner! This is Rafe Morales with Radio 1, and you're our latest winner!"
Aziraphale blinked. "I'm what?"
"Today is your lucky day, because today is our Grand Prize giveaway!" the voice continued. "You've won two all-expense paid tickets to the South of Greece!"
Aziraphale glared at Crowley, who looked shocked.
Surprised. Aziraphale looked at the phone, then carefully asked, "Could you repeat that, please?"
And that was how, one week later, he stepped off a plane with Crowley at his side, luggage in hand -- not because they needed it, but because Crowley insisted on packing regardless, and pointed out they would need something to bring back souvenirs in.
As he stepped into the sun, Aziraphale looked up. The sky was mostly clear with just a few wisps of clouds high overhead. He tilted his head and could hear the cry of birds in the distance. They sounded, quite strangely, like the low, thundering tones of the ancient, primordial hymns.