One-Shots - Good Omens | Ineffable Husbands

No Room for Love on the Battlefield

TW: Guns, gunshots, gunshot wounds

Something happens in the end but I really don't want to spoil it so I'll put a bold * where it begins and ends. If you have triggers, check at the bottom of the chapter for what the * means.

Eight months. It had been eight months since the war started. Eight months of pure terror. Eight months of fighting. Eight months of death.

Eight months since Aziraphale had laid eyes on Crowley.

No, this wasn't the war that Heaven and Hell had originally planned for. This war wasn't tied to the apocalypse in any way, shape, or form. If Aziraphale had known that there was a war about to break out he would have tried to stop it.

But no one could have predicted this. Not Aziraphale, not Agnes Nutter, not even The Almighty saw it coming.

One moment Aziraphale was having lunch with Crowley and the next he was staggering around Heaven alongside many other clueless angels. Michael had rounded them all up and explained that they were in a state of emergency for one of their own had been killed.

Earlier that morning, Beelzebub had stormed into Heaven and shot Gabriel in the head. No warning. No explanation. No nothing. Beelzebub had managed to escape before any of the angels could punish them.

Michael had said that every angel had been summoned to Heaven for there was to be a war. Angels were assigned jobs and ranks. They all got weapons and uniforms. Aziraphale, per usual, had protested. There must have been a reasonable explanation for the events that had occurred, but it didn't matter. Everyone had to fight- it was an order. Aziraphale didn't defy orders.

Fast forward eight months and Aziraphale could be seen trekking through some unnamed desert in the middle of God-knows-where (although Aziraphale was convinced that She didn't even know where they were).

Aziraphale dragged his feet through the dirt, the hot sun beating down onto his back. He could feel the sweat dripping from underneath his thick jacket. All of the angels had been issued with identical uniforms and it was one of the things that bothered Aziraphale the most.

The thick, grey jackets. The long, itchy pants. He missed being able to dress how he pleased. In fact, Aziraphale missed a lot of things. He missed his tartan bow tie, he missed soy sauce and reading and rainy days. He missed dining at the Ritz and going for long walks through the city of London. He missed getting to open a bottle of wine with Crowley after the bookshop closed.

Crowley.

Aziraphale missed Crowley most of all. He hadn't had any contact with the demon since the day they were both whisked away to their respective battle stations. Aziraphale wanted to see Crowley desperately. He would do anything to just know that his best friend was alive.

Was best friend even the right word? Surely they were more than that. They went out to dinner together, they called each other pet names and they even saved the world together.

But none of that would matter if Aziraphale never got to see Crowley again.

Aziraphale was trying so hard to remember Crowley. He remembered that Crowley loved his car. He liked the band Queen and he yells at houseplants. His eyes were bright yellow and his hair was a deep red. No matter how many times Aziraphale repeated these things, though, he found himself forgetting little things. What did Crowley's voice sound like? What about his laugh? What was that smirk he would always pull when you did something he approved of? What did he look like when he was sad? Aziraphale knew he could never forget Crowley but he found himself being horrified at the thought of losing the wonderful memories he had of the demon.