Familiar Comfort

Holy Water

Disclaimer: Good Omens, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. If I owned the rights to it, I wouldn't still be desperate to meet the man that I absolutely ADORE: David Tennant.

A/N: Since I have been involved in fanfiction for the better part of four years, it is rare for me to find something new, or a writing style that I haven't seen before. But I just discovered these 5+1 fics and I absolutely adore them. This is my first take on one! Review if you like it!

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Five Times that Crowley Comforts Aziraphale, and One Time that Aziraphale Comforts Crowley

Chapter 1: Holy Water

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London, 1960s:

Crowley was, not that he would admit it, a bit put off by Aziraphale's recent actions. During the previous time that they met, the angel had blatantly refused to give him any holy water, no matter how much the demon griped and groaned.

Crowley remembered the way that Aziraphale had looked at him, saying "It would destroy you" with just the hint of emotional turmoil at the end. As if it would hurt him if the demon was gone from the Earth.

He also remembered, after he had explained that he wanted it for insurance and not suicide, how Aziraphale had whimpered, "I'm not an idiot, Crowley."

He remembered how he had bitten back at the angel, insulting him. And how his best friend had yelled back.

And he hadn't seen Aziraphale since.

Until tonight, when the angel had miracle himself into the Bentley and given Crowley a thermos of holy water, telling him to make sure the lid was tight.

And then he had climbed out of the car, muttering "You go too fast for me, Crowley," a sad look on his face.

Did the angel really think that he wanted to kill himself?

Crowley had been lounging on the hardly used couch in his den, mulling over the events of the last few decades.

He hadn't meant to worry the angel, if that was what he had done. He just wanted to have some insurance in case he ever did anything against Hell worth being destroyed over. He had no intention of letting the likes of Hastur or Ligur kill him if he could help it.

Deciding that his friend's peace of mind was worth more than his reputation (as long as no one saw or heard anything), Crowley got up from his position on the couch and made his way out of his flat. He slid in the driver's seat of his beloved Bentley, careening away toward Aziraphale's beloved bookshop.

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Aziraphale, being an angel, had no qualms about being worried about his friend, despite said friend being a demon.

Sure, angels and demons were supposed to be on opposite sides. Sure, he had explained, none too gently, to Crowley on multiple occasions that they were not, in fact, friends.

But he was willing to admit to himself that he felt some sort of... endearment toward the demon, and he sincerely didn't want him to be destroyed by his own hand.

He vividly remembered the first time that Crowley had asked him for holy water. They had been standing by the river in St. James's Park, and the demon had handed a slip of paper. When Aziraphale opened the folded paper and read the words "holy water" in Crowley's thin, spidery writing, he felt his heart take a nosedive, landing somewhere around his navel.

He had immediately looked up at his friend (a term he only used when thinking to himself), knowing that there was a look of pain and worry etched onto his face. He remembered explaining to Crowley that it was absolutely out of the question.