Falling Heavenward: A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale Fanfic

Asmodeus

London, Present Day

"Home, sweet home." Crowley pulled the Bentley over. He looked across at Aziraphale, stuffy and somewhat muddled looking again, and clamped down on his own greediness. It was too early to invite himself in, pull out the booze, pretend he was back in a world that made sense. Too early even to insist on seeing the angel tomorrow, for fear of terrifying him away.

Instead, he could do this:

He leaned over and brushed his lips against Aziraphale's cheek in a dry, chaste kiss, feeling the finely shaved skin, smelling for a moment the expensively tasteful cologne that overlaid the familiar golden scent that was was Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale always spent a lot on barbers and manicurists. This scent was a tribute to the barber's taste, and understanding of Aziraphale: bright sunshiny pineapple notes with an undercurrent of solid, elegant leather and woods, a touch of smokiness like an old gentleman's club. More than a touch. A good choice for Aziraphale, conservative but fruity in more ways than one.

"Thanks for a lovely evening. Keep in touch," Crowley said lightly, happily watching the angel turn lightly pink.

"Of course," Aziraphale said cordially, as if he meant it, and went into the bookshop. Maybe he did mean it. He had obviously liked the roses, and had held Crowley's hand for quite a while before removing it to cover a cough and replacing it on his own seat rest. And then there had been that moment when he first saw Crowley...

Crowley sat still for a moment, testing the air, and the remnants of Aziraphale's cologne. The scent was familiar, and it nagged at the edge of his consciousness. Not a fragrance Aziraphale had worn before, but one that had been useful in Crowley's own work, because of its reputation as a hell of a boxer dropper. That was right, Aventus Creed. Some batches were quite smoky.

But this smoky?

Possibly not, unless the cologne had not come from a barber, but from a demon who had deliberately tossed a bit of the signature of Hell into it. Marking his property like a tomcat.

Crowley said every unangelic curse he could think of, and sped the Bentley back to his flat.

Not that he had anything to do there. He flung himself on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he would talk to a florist, because with roses you could kind of just shove everything into a bunch and it would still look romantic, but beyond that flower arranging wasn't really something Crowley had gone in for in his long life. He could hunt down and slay a demon. That would be a suitably seraphic act. Mind you, if Aziraphale found out...

Could pop up to Heaven just for the novelty and see how what was left of his choir were making out. No. He didn't really miss them and they might notice his lack of memories. Even worse, it might provoke Botis' memories, and Crowley couldn't afford to risk that.

He could put loud music on and try and drain out the screaming in his head.

He could sleep. He snapped his clothes away and went to bed.

Sleep was a habit. He didn't really need it. But it was a habit so ingrained that when he was tired, when his brain was chaotic, it called to him. Snuggle up, warm and comfortable, calling back memories of curling a serpentine body in the sun. Let his mind drift.

And then there was the precious moments just before sleep pulled him under, when memories and fantasies and desires jumbled up together and drifted across his mind. Different from fantasies feverishly summoned up and used for a purpose to relieve this corporeal body, which had become more and more necessary, even if infrequent in human terms, as experimenting with humans lost its freshness. No, the moments before sleep were overlapping and jumbled and sheer sweet emotion.