Falling Heavenward: A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale Fanfic

Hand-holding in Babylon

London Present Day, after the Last Day

Aziraphale leaned in close across the table as he told Crowley about a performance of Britta Byström's Picnic at Hanging Rock he was planning to attend.

"It's like she says herself, a dream within a dream," he said, pale blue-green eyes shining like round stars. "It feels like—like—well, not like heaven. Like disappearing. I'd give you a copy, but I don't trust you not to play it in your car and make it be about girls with generous posteriors. But my dear, you really should hear it."

He leaned forward even closer, his hand on the table between them. Crowley eyed it warily.

"I could always download it if you really want me to listen," he said. He had had an excellent meal, he had even more excellent wine, the world wasn't going to end and he wasn't going to take a bath in holy water any time soon, it seemed, so he was willing enough to indulge the angel's odd passions. Besides, he quite liked music. It was something they had in common. One of the pleasures of the world.

He just wasn't sure about the hand on the table, and why it had been positioned like that.

"But it must be experienced live. Do you have any plans Friday night?" asked Aziraphale, for whom, like for Crowley, booked out seats were something that happened to someone else.

Crowley looked even more closely at the hand. It was just lying there on the table, expectant. If a hand could be expectant. He was probably imagining it. It was a nice hand, though, beautifully and expensively looked after, and Crowley could smell the rose scent of Aziraphale's hand cream if he paid attention. "Angel, I don't have any plans at all any more."

Aziraphale said, "No, no, I suppose not." He looked a little anxious, and the hand twitched a little as if he was going to think better and draw back. That suddenly felt like the worst possibility in the world.

So Crowley reached out and covered Aziraphale's hand with his own.

"Well." Aziraphale seemed to lose track of what he was saying for a moment, the faintest of pink staining the apples of his cheeks. "Well, then I insist you come with me. And," he added, clearly gaining confidence, "I insist you read the book first."

"I don't think I'll have time to read anything. Busy." Crowley let his fingers coil over the back of Aziraphale's hand. His skin was warm, and incredibly soft. It possibly justified all the attention lavished on it by Aziraphale's manicurist.

"You just said you had no plans," Aziraphale said firmly. His thumb curled around Crowley's, almost possessively. "It's nice and short, in any case. And you'll understand the tone poem better."

"A tone poem? Angel, are you trying to bore me to discorporation?" Crowley tried not to stare at their hands. It was fine. Just because Aziraphale had rarely been the one to initiate touch in sixty centuries. And, after all, he hadn't really initiated it this time, had he? He had just rested a hand on the table, and Crowley had assumed. Still, there was the thumb to consider.

"It's beautiful and you will love it. Nice and dramatic and creepy. You approve of creepy."

"Is there a film instead?"

"Well, actually there is." Aziraphale carried on, making plans, and Crowley let the world spin. They were just sitting in a restaurant together, holding hands. They'd gone to concerts before, and bickered for hours about the performances, without it being anything like the human concept of a date. It wasn't as if he hadn't suggested much, much more interesting activities to Aziraphale over the millennia than mere hand holding, and been knocked back each time. It was just that it had always been him doing the pushing before, and now...