Aziraphale furnished him with what was a somewhat lovely single malt Scotch, which Crowley wasted by swallowing down until it burned his throat. "Dagon. You have Dagon in your shop. Aziraphale, my oldest and best enemy, I go away for just a few decades, and you summon my line manager? You-you-" Aziraphale looked a little guilty. ***** Crowley finds out that perhaps napping for a century isn't completely without consequences. One of the consequences is apparently finding himself courting an angel who is incomprehensibly attached to the Lord of the Files and Master of Torments. Love is a worse torment than even Dagon could dream up. NOTES: The first three chapters of this were posted in some form or other in my Good Omens shorts book, but it's getting long enough to need its own book. If you're looking for new content, jump to chapter 4.

Thea Cassidy has been carving out a quiet career as a military archeologist, far from the scandals of her past. It provides a cover for her true role as one of the Eyes of the Empress, a secret police organisation working for the Human Empress. After her latest memory wipe of a mission, Thea expects to resume her official identity for a while. Instead, she finds herself promoted to Captain of an ancient colonial transport ship and given an ill-defined mission. It's her last chance to prove herself, and the consequences for failure are high. Thea is used to lying, to deceiving, to creating and betraying trust. She's not prepared for her strange sense of affinity with her bridge crew, or the resurfacing of memories that are supposed to be forever deleted. If she can't figure out what's going on in time, the consequences will be far worse than her own death. She'll lose everything she has come to care about.

8 oneshots for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019. All Crowley/Aziraphale, all the angel and demon boy in love, you know the drill. Day 1: Music Day 2: Rain/Storm/Downpour Day 3: Falling

That was no way to think, just because a stupid ex-nun misinterpreted a blamelessly hostile situation. That way lay madness. That way lay an angel with disapprovingly pursed lips and pitying pale eyes and "My dear boy, I'm so *very* sorry, but..." and Armageddon would come as a relief after that, really.

"Aziraphale debated internally a bit, but curling his arm up around Crowley's shoulder really was more comfortable. He knew he was being silly. He knew a dance was nothing and if it made Crowley happy after his feelings had apparently been hurt it wasn't much to ask, but-it was the demon. He had the literally infernal talent to make even the simplest, least dubious things feel like a temptation. Aziraphale knew it was Crowley's nature, and not strictly saying his fault, but it did sometimes make things feel *complicated*." Biarritz, South of France, 1921. Aziraphale stumbles on Crowley apparently working the hotels and casinos as a gigolo. At least, that's where it begins.

Aziraphale would forgive him, of course. He always did. That had always been the Hell of it. It had been stupid to think things would be any different this time. It was a game they had been playing a long, long time, and he was all kinds of fool and idiot if he was going to suddenly start taking it seriously, even if only a few days ago he had thought Aziraphale was dead. Our side. It would be nice, really nice, if there was an *our side.* To be honest with himself, there was nothing in all the universe he wanted more. "I'll pick you up at eight," he repeated to the closed door, and headed back to the flat to take it out on the plants.

"Oh. Yeah." Crowley shuffled his feet, looking surprisingly boyish. "Come to New York with me tomorrow?" Aziraphale blinked. "Why?" "To see how Warlock is doing," Crowley said, as if that was obvious. "Warlock?" He blinked again, and Crowley looked annoyed. Unfortunately what came out of his mouth was, "You were the one who suggested killing the boy." "It wasn't personal." Crowley took off his dark glasses, apparently the better to glare at him. "He's still our kid." "B-but, Crowley, he's not our kid," Aziraphale said helplessly, wondering if Crowley was going insane or if he was. "You're a terrible father for an angel," Crowley said, accusingly. "I'm a demon, and I make a far better mother." --- Aziraphale is almost certain that Crowley is only being perverse. But demons are unaccountable creatures, and Aziraphale finds himself flying to New York with him anyway.

Good Omens. Crowley and Aziraphale pose as husbands for a house party, because Aziraphale is bad at saying no (to anyone but Crowley and anyone trying to buy books). Crowley thinks this is a good chance to prove himself the perfect potential demon husband to a fussy angel. But things get complicated fast. Really complicated. A lot of pining, a lot of shopping and restaurants and party games, some near misses, but no sex until chapter 24 (and all of 25).

Crowley finds his secret conviction that the world was designed for his personal entertainment severely tested by the bloody boring fourteenth century. But what is he a demon for, if not to spice things up a bit? It's irrelevant that a certain angel is taking his orders seriously for once and embarking on a life of self-denial and doing good. That isn't the reason Crowley is bored, at all. And he certainly isn't acting up to get Aziraphale's attention because he's desperately in love or anything.