Falling Heavenward: A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale Fanfic

Dates

London, Present Day

Crowley was quite pleased with his choice of bar. It was one of his favourite hang outs. It served over three hundred purely organic and biodynamic wines of indifferent quality and absurdly high price. They tended to come from little boutique vineyards of high pretension and low yield, one of his favourite inventions to help encourage in humans a sense of pride and vainglory while spending money indulging in vice. Was he supposed to care about that kind of point scoring any more? Still, it was a bad job executed with style, and as he glanced at the price list on his phone, he felt a little warm glow of craftsmanship.

The wine bar also had a selection of tiny raw vegan cakes to ply Aziraphale with, in case the angel was still a little acidic from the night before. Crowley suspected the judicious application of sugar might be helpful. Date "no sugar" sugar, at that, because old things cycled back into favour, and humans were ever self delusional. Aziraphale had adored dates, at least of the edible kind, for thousands of years.

All of this was rationalisation. The real reason he had chosen the bar was that he associated it with evil deeds, and therefore being a not-Aziraphale place, and Crowley no longer wanted not-Aziraphale places in the new world. He was planning on systematically eliminating them all by dragging the angel to all of them, and it was easier to start with the ones he'd find least shocking.

Six o'clock. Two hours to go. He wished Aziraphale believed in mobile phones so he could text him to make sure their date was still on despite the quarrel. No, that would be humiliating.

Crowley switched on the TV, but couldn't convince himself he was watching it. No strange events, no casters or actors suddenly talking to him. Boring. Had he really saved—or helped to save—the world just to be left at loose ends and bored? He had always specialised in sloth as his particular vice. He didn't usually need to concentrate on relaxing.

Why the hand, and then the swift rejection of the kiss? What had he missed? When had the rules of the game changed?

Crowley switched the TV off and set music blasting on his sleek sound system. Carl Orff. That seemed to suit his mood. He flung himself on a throne, drink in hand, and let the Carmina Burana swell up and over him, the choir raging against Fate.

Fate is against me in health and virtue,
driven on and weighted down,
always enslaved.

Crowley toyed with the chains around his neck then caught himself. Oh, now he was being melodramatic. Probably even a Freddie Mercury solo album would have been less self indulgent than O Fortuna. He would die of shame if the angel saw him posing brooding in a throne to a soundtrack of swelling choirs. The mixture of affectionate amusement and pity would completely discorporate him.

He checked his beloved watch, which had survived a flaming car quite as well as it was supposed to survive deep sea diving. Seven o'clock. Good enough. He left the flat.

Aziraphale was dressed, smiling amiably and smelling of tasteful chypre cologne over his general scent of sunshine and clean air and incense. He didn't mention that Crowley was almost an hour early, and didn't pretend to be immersed in his books and to have forgotten all about their plans, so Crowley was clearly not being punished too badly for his lack of discretion.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale's clothes and forbore to comment. Anyway, in this kind of a bar, ill defined vintage eccentricity would fit right in, as long as it also looked expensive.

He pulled the Bentley into a No Parking space on principle, and willed a space in the traffic to appear to cross the road to the bar. He stepped forward onto the road and nearly tripped at a sudden pressure just above his back waistband.