Good Omens: Ineffable Prompts

Day Three: Bad Apple

Crowley paced around the bookshop, eyeing the many volumes. In the last hour, he had spotted three new first editions, four print-error editions, and one book that looked like it had been hand-stitched together with thick cords of leather, or what he hoped was leather. All in all, it was the usual Sunday afternoon. Every so often, Aziraphale would acquire a new volume or group of texts that happened to turn up at some fancy auction, in which, he would drag Crowley along on occasion.

He complained each time, but he was a demon after all. A sly smile painted his features as he remembered the near beaming radiance Aziraphale had shown during his latest acquisition.

"Dear?" Aziraphale called. "Would you be so kind and bring me that new copy of Kafka's novel? I think I left it on the desk."

Crowley rolled his eyes, just for good measure, and ambled over to the desk. He spied the book sitting on the corner and plucked it up from its misplaced spot. "Yeah, I've got it here." He slid his mobile from his back pocket and glanced at the time. Five, they had an hour before their dinner reservation.

Aziraphale stood on top of a small step ladder. He had a few tomes in the crook of his arm and seemed to be making space for his newest addition. "Hand it here. It needs to go next to the others."

"How many copies of the blasted book do you have, angel?" Crowley already knew the answer, of course: one signed, three first editions, and many others in various translations. But, he still enjoyed getting under the angel's skin about his book obsession, and, of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that it made him smile to see Aziraphale so flustered.

The angel huffed out a breath and snatched the copy of The Metamorphosis from his hand. "I'll have you know," he turned, stretching up to place the book on the top shelf, but Crowley didn't hear the rest of his words.

His golden eyes had fixed on a point on Aziraphale's back. The angel's shirt had come untucked from the shelving of books, and at his waistline, or just slightly below it, was a mark along his skin. Crowley stared at the spot as his shoulder's tightened. "Angel? What's that?"

Aziraphale hummed absently and shelved the book. "What's what, my dear?"

Crowley swallowed before speaking. "There's a mark, on your back. Is...is that a tattoo?"

Aziraphale spun, almost knocking books off the shelf and plastered his back against the wall of novels behind him. "What? What are you talking about? Why would I ever? I mean, really, dear, you must be mistaken–"

"Angel."

"Y-yes?"

"You have a tattoo."

"I, well, um." Aziraphale set the books on top of the bookshelf and eased down the stepladder. "If you must know, it was years ago, and it was on a whim, and it seemed very funny at the time, and I knew I could just miracle it away if I wanted. But," he paused, taking a breath. "It seems as though I'd forgotten about it...until now."

Crowley's lips spread into a wide grin. "Can I see it?"

The angel flushed all the way down to his neck, and he stammered, "I, um, well, why would you even want to, I mean, it's nothing that...oh, alright. But, the moment you laugh, I'm miracling it away for good." He turned and lowered the rim of his trousers, revealing the place just above his left buttock. "You'd better not laugh."

Crowley blinked at the ink that had colored his skin. He wanted to laugh, but not for the reasons Aziraphale thought. It wasn't because he thought it was funny, more it was beautifully poetic, not that he'd ever admitted it to the angel's face. Instead, he settled for something more to his own style.

"And they call me the tempting old snake. Angel, I think I'd lose my job if anyone else saw this."

The tattoo was of a bright red fruit, about the same shade as his cheeks, with a wisp of black lettering through the middle that read, Bad Apple.

Crowley couldn't help it. He raised his fingers, gliding them along the cursive letters.

Aziraphale yelped and turned around again. "I didn't say you could touch it."

"Oh? So, then, you don't want me to see?"

Aziraphale started to re-tuck his shirt. "See what?"

"If it tastes just as sweet as the real thing." Crowley stepped closer, forcing the angel to press against the bookshelf once more.

Aziraphale bit his lip, nearly driving Crowley over the edge right there. "I didn't think to ask if you wanted a taste. Perhaps that was bad manners of me."

"Very, very bad, my angel. Even if I think I can guess which of the two is sweeter."