Nice: A Good Omens Fanfic

Not Quite Satisfactory

"I feel," Aziraphale, "that despite my best influences, Warlock is growing up to be a tad disrespectful."

Crowley grinned at him, slouching against the pub wall where he was pretending to take a smoking break. He had carefully chosen a position just inside the No Smoking boundary, although the smoke curling between his lips had nothing to do with the (unlit) cigarette between his hands. The smoke had a more sulphurous scent to it.

Aziraphale, with a disapproving glare, had set himself up just outside the line, and was reluctantly pretending to smoke himself. He hadn't been able to argue that this was not a convenient setup for an accidental chat. Smokers crowded in sad huddled groups outside this even in horrible weather like this. Crowley guessed Aziraphale was still worried that they were tempting people into smoking. Which was precisely why he had chosen it as a rendevous, not so much for the temptation as to be annoying. Annoying Aziraphale had become a habit.

"Disrepectful, rebellious–that's my influence," Crowley said, proudly. "Or that he takes after his Dad. Rebelling is what fallen angels do. Only to be expected."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, unhappily. He blew out a puff of smoke that smelled of incense and roses, and it formed, just for a moment, a heart. Crowley sent a more serpentine swirl out to coil around it before both vanished. "I suppose you of all people would know that. But my influence should be cancelling that out a little."

"Don't worry about it," Crowley said, although he was worried himself. Warlock, currently seven years old, had been taken on a holiday to Washington, and had whinged quite a lot rather than doing anything about it. What age was he supposed to show his powers? "Look, kidhasn't killed anyone yet. We're doing fine. He's rather..." His face scrunched up with embarrassment at the word. "Sweet. In a sulky way."

"I think he's a little obnoxious," Aziraphale confided.

"Well, you like obnoxiousness in people, don't you? Or is it just me?" He leered despite himself. Aziraphale spluttered, a delicate flush rising up from his neck, and Crowley laughed, suddenly feeling quite happy for no clear reason. "Come inside in the warm and have a drink."

"I'm not sure we should be spending time together so openly. What if we're recognised?"

Crowley shrugged. He was pretty sure he, at least, wasn't recognisable as Nanny, at least not in these trousers. "All right, then, suit yourself." He leaned back on the cold stone wall and glared at the black frost on the road. There was a roaring fire inside, he knew. He still made no attempt to leave the angel. "I hate the cold," he muttered.

"Of course you do, you old snake," Aziraphale said, genially. "Here." He pulled off a pristine glove, and curled his fingers loosely around Crowley's wrist.

The feeling was extraordinary. It prickled, like consecrated ground, and then the pain eased and warmth flooded up his arm, suffused him, surrounded him in a rosy glow. As the pins and needles faded, he noticed vaguely how very soft Aziraphale's skin was.

When Aziraphale withdrew his hand, Crowley felt bereft, and slightly dizzy, but still warm. His breath–he decided that, actually, it might be for the best to consider breathing optional for a while, to minimise how much of a fool he felt. "Thankssss." His voice hissed more than he meant it to. Something about feeling like he had more joints in his knees than usual for his humanoid form. Angelic influence smashing against demonic, he supposed. "Are you sure that was wise? You're already getting censured for over-miracling without being a hot water borrle for a demon."

"Oh, dear, I really didn't think that through, did I?" Aziraphale looked distressed.

"The thought was apprecsssiated." Maybe he would hiss less if he breathed more, after all. Why was this suddenly so complicated?