Falling Heavenward: A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale Fanfic

Games in Egypt

Egypt, 1600 BCE

The demon Crawly was really enjoying Egypt. He loved the sunshine, the parties, the perfume, the food, the alcohol, the music, the hunting, the constant aura of temptation in the air. He loved the currying of favour, the chasing of status, and constant betrayals among officials and nobles. He loved the jealousy of wives and concubines, the resentment between rich and poor. He even loved the crocodiles.

His second favourite thing was the clothes. He had been around humans long enough to realise that half-nakedness could be more provocative than going entirely nude, and a short, clinging translucent linen skirt that might as well be nothing at all for all it concealed was one of the most powerful weapons in his arsenal of temptation. Top it off with with enough obsidian and precious red glass in snake motifs, and it was highly satisfying to his—well, soul.

His very favourite thing was the custom of nose-kissing as a friendly greeting. Such an innocent thing, rubbing noses. But tilt your head just right, look through your lashes with the right burning intensity, and the person you were greeting couldn't help but notice that your breath was mingling. Couldn't help thinking about whether, if they moved their mouths just a little forward, your lips would meet. Crawly was an expert at wordlessly implying that if anything like that would happen, he would deepen the kiss and throw all restraint to the wind, no matter who was watching.

Aziraphale fluttered and pulled away from the greeting hastily, and looked everywhere else but at Crawly, and then if he couldn't resist it, sidelong back at him, and all the practice at seductive nose rubbing seemed worth it. Crawly let a smile play on his lips and didn't push it. He was learning patience. All the time in the world.

What Crawly didn't really like was the boats. Too close to too much cold wetness. But he needed at least one luxury vessel in order to pass as the kind of human he tried to be.

The more their unspoken Arrangement came into play, the more antsy Aziraphale became about clandestine meetings, and it was beginning to strain Crawly's ingenuity to think of believable ways to run into each other. Entertaining a collector of manuscripts on his boat in order to tempt him into selling a few rare scrolls was as good a reason as any, even if Crawly could do without the audience of musicians and oarsmen.

He didn't, on reflection, even mind all that much that they had lost the easy open companionship of Kukkutarma. Aziraphale's caution and the need for multitudes of covert plans and little evasions made Crawly feel like a guilty secret, and Crawly liked guilty secrets. By the nature of them, they tended to be cherished close to the self, draining a little virtue out every heartbeat. Besides, he had confidence that he would regain Aziraphale's willingness to share a house, when... Well. He didn't really dare form that thought any more solidly in the fluffy but disconcertingly sharp presence of the angel. Those thoughts were for when he was alone.

He had time. At least four thousand years, give or take.

"You could sell me some," he said, letting an aggrieved tone into his voice. "To maintain your cover as a manuscript dealer, at least."

"Hush." Aziraphale gave an agitated look around, but the slaves were discreetly apart from them. "I have a responsibility to preserve them. They are precious, magical texts—"

Crawly snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Well, the humans believe they are magical. I don't trust you to look after them properly. I mean, look at your garden."

"It's not my fault. I pay my gardeners enough to maintain it."

Aziraphale sighed, taking a seat by the precious inlaid board game of twenty squares. Crawly had spent a great deal on it, remembering nights playing it in Babylon and Kukkatarma. Crawly had never yet convinced the angel to gamble on it, but he would some day. The board was a lovely thing, but the memories of togetherness were what he wanted to provoke.