There Will Come a Day: A Good Omens Fanfic

The world moves on

"I don't see how this can possibly qualify as work," Aziraphale said a bit pettishly. The glare from the swimming pool was making his head hurt and he, at least, didn't have dark glasses.

"You'd be surprised how much of my work consists of lounging around half dressed with drinks, angel." Crowley was stretched across his lounge chair, a drink cradled in his hand, looking as blissful as if he was in his old body, sunning himself on a rock.

"I very much doubt I would be surprised at all. My work, however, tends to be more active."

"Usually better drinks, though," said Crowley, ignoring him. "Last time I'm letting you choose the ship." Crowley glared at the orange juice in his hand as if hostility alone could turn it alcoholic. His expression eased a bit after he sipped it, suggesting it had worked. It made Aziraphale wish he could justify doing the same to his own drink. Perhaps, if he took his headache into account, it could be justified as medicinal. "I hate Americans."

"I didn't book our passage," Aziraphale snapped. The strain of the last few days was getting to him, and he had expected—he didn't know what he had expected. Not sitting around by a swimming pool while they talked about nothing in particular and a million questions and desires bombarded him and he was guiltily aware that he was disobeying a direct order and not even currently getting any signs of affection out of it. Besides, it wasn't fair that Crowley had a proper drink and he didn't. Aziraphale made a face as sour as his lemon and grenadine. "I would have booked two suites."

"And ruined another innocent family's long planned trip to the Continent? I always knew you were heartless, baby."

"Stop calling me that," said Aziraphale, despite the way it made warmth prickle at his cheeks. Perhaps he shouldn't have wished for signs of affection.

Crowley gave him a lazy smile, and dipped his tongue into his juice, or what had been juice. It was clearly a human shaped tongue this time, but that didn't help matters much. Aziraphale quickly looked away. "You're cute when you're in a snit."

"Cute? I thought you just said you hated Americans, my dear fellow." He could feel heat crawl down his chest, and of course this swimming costume had no decent high collar to hide it.

And that was another thing. Crowley had produced the costumes from his trunk rather than from the ether, as if it had been planned, and they were terribly modern. Extravagantly expensive, the softest ribbed wool. Aziraphale's was blue, "to match your eyes" Crowley had said with elaborate casualness while staring very hard at a point two feet over Aziraphale's shoulders. Crowley's, on the other hand, was black with red edging, and it was cut away around the arms far more than the last time Aziraphale had paid much attention to bathing humans. For freedom of movement, he supposed, but it also exposed slim shoulders and surprisingly well muscled arms under the pale skin. There was a faint dusting of hair visible under the scooped neck, and the sides of pectoral muscles exposed by those ridiculous cut away sleeves. His rubber belt cinched the vest tightly around his waist, and there were long stretches of leg between the shorts and whatever Crowley's rubber swimming shoes were covering in terms of human or snake skin.

Aziraphale kept his eyes resolutely on the other side of the pool. Miss Maisie was splashing playfully with one of her young men, and she looked extremely happy, hair hidden under a cap, her plain face lit up with a glow. He would have to ask her about it later.

"Americans have their points," Crowley allowed. "A way with words. Some charming expressions. So which of us bought the ticket?"

"I think it was just kind of... there... when we reached the port, and they seemed to be expecting us," Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley snorted with laughter.