There Will Come a Day: A Good Omens Fanfic

There will come a day

Aziraphale, still feeling a little shell-shocked, let Crowley bundle him through the rain, through the door of the Quarry's Arms, and into a chair. He sat there, hearing Crowley arrange for a room with a lit fire to dry off and change in, somehow finding banter about the weather, and arrange to come down for a hot meal and drinks afterward. All perfectly innocent sounding.

"The bath is down the hallway," the patron explained helpfully.

Crowley looked down at his own dripping form, ruefully. "Thanks, it might come in handy. Truly infernal weather, coming out of nowhere like that. Coming, da—dear old thing?" He corrected it to something passably friendly just in time, but Aziraphale fancied they were given a suspicious look anyway.

"i'll get you some towels while I have the fire in your room lit," said the patron, whose suspicions clearly couldn't hold up against the bank note Crowley had just pressed into his hand. "Annie, some whiskey to warm the gentlemen up. Take a seat by the fire."

It was rather cheap and nasty whiskey, and Aziraphale felt justified in improving it just a little, given it was a celebratory occasion of kinds and he didn't want his throat... burned... oh dear. He felt a little panicky about the specifics of angel-demon interaction. It's not as though Crowley's form was any more than passably human in the first place. He hoped not too much sulphur was involved. He glanced up and saw that Crowley looked thoroughly terrified out of his mind, which was oddly comforting.

They sat in painful silence, no chance to trade ridiculous pet names in public like this. Aziraphale felt utterly exposed, and hoped desperately that when Michael said she would keep an eye on him, she didn't mean that particularly literally.

"Right," said Crowley, when they were told their room was ready. He tossed back the rest of his drink. "Let's go warm up." Aziraphale's cheeks immediately warmed at the thought, if nothing else did.

They stood awkwardly facing each other inside the closed door, and Crowley said, "Right," again, and actually it was ridiculous, so Aziraphale grasped his shoulders and pulled him into a kiss, tender and hungry and promising.

"Right," Crowley said a third time, in a completely different tone of voice, and put his arms around Aziraphale's solid hips. "Oh, angel. You're absolutely sure this time?"

"More than anything. I want you more than anything." He ran his hands down Crowley's back and hesitated. "I don't suppose you, ah—"

"Not as much as you'd expect," said Crowley, which was evasive, Aziraphale thought. It could have meant anything from not even once to untold thousands of encounters. "Wait, I think I had better lock the door. It makes you all upset when I send people, and I can't speak for my self control."

He turned to lock it, and Aziraphale suddenly realised a way out of the awkwardness, a way to get exactly what he wanted, and show how he felt, as well. After all, Crowley might be more experienced, but Aziraphale was far better read. He wrapped his arms around Crowley from behind, and nuzzled his neck, still wet from the rain despite the towels.

"That feels unbearably good," said Crowley, and tried to swivel back into a kissing position. Aziraphale held him firm. How slender he was, deceptively fragile looking and feeling in the damp clothes. Aziraphale distractedly dried them with a thought. That was better.

"Hold still," he breathed against Crowley's ear, and slid his hands up from the waist band under shirt and vest. Definitely a point to separate underpinnings, he thought, feeling the stomach suck in under his touch as he caressed bare skin. He slid one hand down and palmed Crowley, spreading his fingers.