Good Omens Fics

The Smell of Smoke, It Burns My Lungs

The bookshop was tranquil, an oasis of old paper and soft leather amidst the chaos of the modern world. Aziraphale settled into his favorite armchair, a steaming cup of tea resting on the small table beside him. The flickering candle on the edge of the table cast a warm, inviting glow, illuminating the pages of his latest literary escape. He sighed contentedly, losing himself in the comforting prose of his well-loved tome.

But outside, the world had other plans. Crowley leaned against the brick wall of the shop, taking a contemplative drag from his cigarette. The night was clear, stars twinkling mischievously overhead. Yet there was a twinge of anxiety coiled in his chest, an unwelcome sensation whose origins had long since been buried under layers of bravado and charm. He always toyed with danger, dared the universe to blink first, but tonight felt different.

As the moments passed, the scent of smoke wafted through the open window, curling into the night air. It took Crowley by surprise, jarring him from his thoughts. The flicker of light coming from inside intensified—the candle. The very catalyst that had always represented warmth now ignited a full-blown turmoil in his soul.

It was almost instantaneous. The rhythmic beat of his heart accelerated, the world around him shifting, warping as an all-too-familiar panic began to creep in. The scent morphed from comforting to suffocating, filling his lungs with smoke and fear. The flickering flame, once a gentle beacon, now loomed ominously—an embodiment of everything he had ever feared: loss, destruction, and the ever-looming specter of pain.

"Crowley?" A soft voice pulled him from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. Aziraphale, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, had stepped outside, the warm light from the candle spilling out into the crisp night air like an embrace. "Is everything all right?"

Crowley, caught off guard, chuckled awkwardly, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Of course, angel. What could possibly be wrong?" His words came out smooth, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him as he flicked the cigarette away. He was always fine. "Just admiring the stars, you know?"

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, concern etched on his delicate features. "You don't look fine, dear."

With every passing moment, the world spun more chaotically, the shadows of the night dancing cruelly across Crowley's mind. "I'm fine!" he insisted, but the underlying panic leaked through, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale stepped closer, his voice calm. He had seen this before; he knew the signs. "Please. Whatever you're feeling right now, you can talk to me."

"No," Crowley snapped, frustration bubbling within him. "I said I'm fine. You're so melodramatic sometimes." He tried to wave it away, but panic clung to him like a thick fog, pulling him under.

The angel's expression softened, and Crowley shielded his gaze from the concern etched into Aziraphale's face. "You're not fine," he murmured, stepping closer. "You smell the smoke, and it's, it's—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's triggering something, isn't it?"

The admission hung in the air like a fragile thread, and Crowley's facade began to crack under the weight of the truth. He turned abruptly, fingers gripping the edge of the shop's wall, desperately seeking grounding. "It's nothing," he bit out, but his voice quaked, revealing the storm beneath.

Aziraphale could see through the bravado. "Crowley, I promise you, the bookshop is safe. The candle is just a candle; it won't do any harm. Please believe me."

With a slow turn, Crowley finally locked eyes with the angel, and in that moment, Aziraphale saw the fear spiraling within the depths of his companion's gaze. "I can't... I can't breathe," Crowley managed, his voice a whisper.

Aziraphale figured it was best to skip over the fact that they technically didn't need to breathe and help his "friend".

"Just focus on my voice," Aziraphale urged, step by step closing the distance. "Breathe with me." He demonstrated, taking a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "In... and out."

It felt impossible, but Crowley mirrored him, desperately trying to reign in the invading panic. In... out... his breath gradually synced with Aziraphale's. The delicate candlelight flickered a little more, and together they stood in the night, a soft bubble of tranquility slowly creeping in.

"Good," Aziraphale praised, his tone soft but steady, never breaking eye contact. "You're doing brilliantly. You're safe here. We're safe." He gestured to the bookshop, "Look around. There's nothing that can hurt us. I'll protect you, I promise."

With every inhale, the oppressive weight on Crowley's chest lightened, and the chaos began to retreat just slightly. "Why do you care so much?" he rasped, momentarily vulnerable, words slipping out before he could stop himself.

"Because you matter to me," Aziraphale replied earnestly, a warmth glowing in his eyes. "Just as much as this bookshop, this world... Just as much as everything we've fought for. I won't watch you suffer alone."

Crowley swallowed hard, the touch of vulnerability unnerving him. It was foreign, unbelievable, almost sweet. "And I won't let you suffer, either. That's why I don't like—"

"I know," Aziraphale interjected, stepping closer still until there was mere inches between them. "But you don't need to mask your feelings for my sake. You can be you, all of you." His gaze softened as he gently reached out, resting a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "You're allowed to feel afraid."

As the last remnants of tension ebbed away, the reassurance of Aziraphale's presence settled over Crowley like a warm blanket. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his bravado waning and the admission laying heavy on his tongue. "I don't mean to be so dramatic. The flame...it just brings back memories—bad ones."

"It's okay to feel that way," Aziraphale said gently. "The past doesn't define you. You don't have to carry that burden alone." There was a deep understanding in his eyes, and it pulled Crowley in, reminding him of the tether binding them through time, trials, and tribulations.

Crowley let out a shuddering breath, a reluctant acceptance dawning within him. "It's difficult to shake, you know? The smell of smoke... I—I lose all sense of control."

"I know," Aziraphale murmured, squeezing the shoulder beneath his hand. "But you're not alone, and you have me. Whenever you feel that way, just remember—this is our space, our sanctuary. You always have a way back."

For the first time in what felt like ages, Crowley allowed himself to lean into the comfort of Aziraphale's presence. It was disarming and safe. "I'll try to remember that," he finally admitted, a crack of warmth seeping through the otherwise suffocating shadows of doubt and fear.

The candle continued to flicker on the table, casting a soft glow around them. The world outside seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the two of them—bound by understanding, compassion, and an unbreakable bond.

"I'll take care of the candle," Aziraphale said quietly, breaking the silence. He picked it up gently and moved it a safe distance across the table. "All the flames are under control."

Crowley let out an airy laugh, his heart finally easing. "You're incorrigible, you know that? Acting like it's a matter of life and death."

"Whatever it takes," Aziraphale replied with a small smile, his eyes sparkling like the stars overhead.

Together, they settled back into the night, the tension dissipating like the smoke of a nonexistent candle, their bond fortified in the embrace of understanding and true comfort.