Aziraphale Swallowed. “Oh Dear.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Oh dear.”

It followed that Asmodeus would have given him the largest room; he would have been the more difficult of the two to keep and a larger enclosure would be more suitable for keeping him quiet and occupied during those times when he would have to be locked away or separated from Crowley.

Aziraphale felt the pace of his breathing speed up along with his heartbeat. A flat metallic taste went through his mouth but he moved deliberately across the room and if one were watching, no one would have known the intense fear that jolted through Aziraphale’s body at that moment.

He closed the door, ostensibly to change, but in reality to sit down for a moment upon the pristine white leather chair at the desk and breathe very hard, clutching at the edge of the desk so that the edges of unfinished wood underneath the desk bit into his hands.

“Oh dear, oh goodness gracious…”

The words ran out as he realized he had nothing more to say.

It was not as if he didn’t know that the trap was around him, but it was a different thing to feel the edges of the teeth closing around him, slow and persistent.

“Damn,” he said softly to himself, realizing that the Prince of Hell had been on his own offensive with that regular evening book reading together, changing tactics to better meet what Aziraphale might himself be interested in and he had walked right into that – no, thrown himself into that with nary a second thought.

No, this would not do, and he took a moment to have a Moment, angry at himself for being played so easily, angry at Crowley for not telling him anything, and even more angry at Asmodeus for putting him in this ridiculous situation. But the anger passed like a hot wave and he spent a minute breathing heavily, hands clenched, before he stood up with deliberation to deal with the clothes. Time was an issue here and he did not want to upset the Prince of Hell.

So what would Asmodeus want him to wear? With an aggrieved sigh Aziraphale walked over toward the bed. This suit was quite handsome and more than sufficient to go to almost any event in, even the opera, but...oh.

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt the sound drop out of his mouth like a stone into water, sinking down and perhaps it went down so far as to bop Satan upon his forehead.

There, spread out upon the bed, was a beautiful glittering mass of silk and crystal and yes, this had to be an evening gown.

Eden 2.0, or the Trials and Tribulations of A. J. Crowley, Game Programmer and Absolute Disaster

Chapter 1: First-Time User Experience

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // human AU, game development AU // rated T // chapter 1/?

Crowley – just Crowley – is a programmer at a video games studio, coasting from project to project with a bare minimum of emotional investment. He gets a good paycheck, his coworkers leave him alone, and, well, the misgendering really doesn’t bother him that much. So what if he’s tired and constantly on the verge of changing his job on a whim– he’s fine. Really. But then along comes Aziraphale, fantasy author, consulting writer and, worst of all, a kind-hearted bastard who still sees the good in people. So maybe there is a point to it all. And maybe it’s enough to change one person’s life.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

Crowley glares at the coffee machine.

The coffee machine, clearly not considering him a worthy opponent, does not glare back, no matter the intensity of Crowley’s gaze.

It’s been a long week. Every week in the lead up to the release date is usually a long one, gah, not to mention the background talks of a brand new project. No rest for the wicked, as is the industry way. It’s this time of the year when Crowley spends his free time idly browsing LinkedIn and various tech job boards.

Not that he’s really planning on changing his job. The devil you know, right? Far less effort than endless job interviews and email chains.

So, it’s been a long week. And the coffee machine is broken. Of course, it’s already been replaced with a new one, but then thing is – the thing is, the new one is just as broken. Crowley wants to scream. He doesn’t. Instead, he bangs his hand against the top of the stupid machine and promptly winces in pain.

“Oh!” A voice from somewhere behind Crowley interrupts his miserable train of thought. “Are you okay, dear girl?”

Crowley flinches at the word, but he says nothing about it. He turns around and there’s a tight smile on his face. “I’m fine,” he grumbles. “Just–” He waves a hand at the machine. “New coffee machine. Broken piece of junk.”

“Let me?”

With a shrug, Crowley steps out of the way. “Be my guest.”

While the stranger approaches the counter, Crowley leans against a nearby counter and takes a look at him. He has blond hair, white almost, though it looks natural, unlike Crowley’s signature red. His clothes are something else – vintage, beige and brown and blue; and, most peculiar of all, he’s wearing a bloody bowtie. He looks horribly out of place against the white-grey walls of a modern game development office.

“And… all done! I believe your coffee machine is actually in a tip-top condition!”

“Tip-top… what?”

Crowley circles around the stranger and looks over his shoulder at the culprit. The coffee machine continues to be suspiciously quiet and so his gaze bounces between it and the man standing at his side. Perhaps sensing his disbelief, the stranger picks up one of the cups and places it underneath the muzzle. He smiles at Crowley and gestures for him to do the rest. Fine. One eyebrow raised, Crowley slowly reaches out and presses a few buttons on the touchscreen at the front of the machine. It whirrs and clanks and bonks and at last dark liquid pours out and into the cup.

Crowley exhales in relief.

“Consider me impressed,” he drawls. “You are a real miracle worker.”

“Oh, hardly.” The stranger waves off the compliment, though his cheeks appear to take on a distinct shade of pink. He takes a step back, putting some more distance between the two of them. “I worked at an office with this type of machine. They can be rather fiddly, so it’s no wonder you were struggling with it.”

“Well, either way.” Crowley picks up the cup, downs the coffee like a shot and immediately places it under the muzzle for a refill. The stranger gapes at him wordlessly. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“No need, truly.”

Crowley hums. “You new around here? Or are you remote? Dropped by to finally see our glorious office, did you?”

“Ah.” The stranger folds his hands on his round stomach and smiles politely. “The former. I quite enjoy these face-to-face interactions, far too much to give up on office work entirely.”

“Lucky if you got to choose,” Crowley mutters, mostly to himself. “I’m Crowley,” he adds, offering his hand for a handshake.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s hand is enveloped by one much thicker and warmer than his. “I’m a new writer. Well, consulting writer.”

Now that rings some bells. “So you’re that author everyone’s been raving about.”

“Dear me. In a good way, I hope?”

Crowley lets go of his hand and shrugs. “Mate, I don’t know. I don’t read and I’m certainly not consulted on these decisions.” Seeing a brief flash of hurt on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley sighs and continues, “But, you’re here. So you must be good.”

It works. Aziraphale’s face lights up in an instant, like a bulb with a far too high wattage. Crowley’s glad he’s wearing sunglasses. “Thank you, dear. Now, tell me, what do you do? Oh, I know! You must be one of the lovely women making art! You look like an artist.”

Two strikes, there. Women, immediately followed up by, so you must be making art. Bloody hell. At least he didn’t guess at QA. Or, worse, that he’s a producer.

With a blank look on his face, Crowley responds, “I’m a programmer.”

“You must excuse me, dear,” Aziraphale says, looking as though he does feel bad. “I didn’t mean to make assumptions. Lord knows I’ve heard enough of those myself.”

Crowley looks him up and down, making a rather clear point of it.

“Oh, yes, I know, but there really is–”

“There you are, Aziraphale, buddy, my man!”

The booming voice that interrupts them belongs to Gabriel – the creative director. Crowley sighs, already planning a strategic exit – you never want to get accosted by Gabriel, not under any circumstances. Thankfully, he’s always been the type of creative director who mostly stays hands off, letting the individual teams do their thing as they please, but, well. He’s also very talkative, irritating and horribly American.

There’s also the other matter – namely, that the new project is entirely Gabriel’s idea. Which means Aziraphale is going to be spending a lot of time chatting with the guy. Oof.

“It is so good to finally meet you in person–” Gabriel continues and Crowley takes this opportunity to slink out of the kitchen before he’s spotted.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He does make sure to catch Aziraphale’s eye, though, and mouths a silent good luck at him. Then he’s gone.

Back to the grind it is. Maybe it’s about time that Crowley called in a favour from that guy at EA. See if he can wriggle his way in there before the new project properly kicks off.

He won’t. But it’s still nice to daydream.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

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imaboringtwat

1 month ago

david tennant is hot i'm not retracting this thought

Nest at the End of the World

Aziraphale ♡ Crowley • 25k • Rated.T

Aziraphale hears it all. The flood of love. The joy. The unbearable hope.

“I thought you’d want to meet her.” Crowley adds, quieter now. “Her name is Julie.”

A pause. The French accent is soft but unmistakable, deliberate.

Aziraphale frowns. Crowley knows he’s not exactly enamored with all things French… except, perhaps, their pastries.

“You gave her a French name?”

Crowley swallows. The movement is small, but Aziraphale sees it. He did it on purpose.

“We live in France now,” Crowley says. “On an estate. In Brittany.”

His gaze drops to the baby again, and something in him softens, melts—as if her very presence rewrites him, makes him new. That baby has changed him. And Aziraphale—aching, unsure—wonders if he’ll ever be allowed to know this version of Crowley.

Crowley’s voice is quiet. Almost hesitant. A hope dressed in humility.

“We wouldn’t mind moving back to London… if you’d like to see us more.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer at first. His lips part—then close again. The baby stirs softly in Crowley’s arms, a tiny sigh escaping her, as if she feels the tension coiled around her fathers’ heart.

Aziraphale’s eyes flick to her, and something inside him shatters. She is real. She is theirs. And she is… beautiful.

His breath catches. He wants to step forward. He wants to touch her. He wants to know her. But instead—he steps back.

“I…” His voice breaks, and he quickly swallows, collecting himself. “I can’t. I won't. This can’t end well, Crowley, it never does.”

He doesn’t want to be cruel, but he needs to be real.

-Chap.11 - Dust and Silences-