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fandomweekly2019-10-07 02:49 am
luminouswater) wrote in fandomweekly2019-10-07 02:49 am
Entry tags:
[#026] Wonders Will Never Cease (Good Omens)
Theme Prompt: #026- Miracle
Title: Wonders Will Never Cease
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating/Warnings: Gen / Spoilers for series finale
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Crowley wishes Aziraphale would just agree with him for once
Crowley never paced. Stalked, yes. Slithered, obviously. Glided snake hipped down the street as if he owned it, absolutely.
But paced? No never. Not for anyone.
Except for right now.
Because right now he was waiting for Aziraphale to return and when he did, he’d have to tell the angel about the idea that had been pounding in his brain for the last few hours. It was an audacious plan, even by Crowley’s standards, but what other choice did they have? He couldn’t begin to imagine what hell had in store for him. Suffice to say his original fall from grace would seem like a fun trip down a water slide compared to what was coming next.
As for what Heaven would do to Aziraphale, well, it would be considerably worse than the usual strongly-worded memo.
Aziraphale had insisted that he needed to go and get food. How anyone could think about food at any time was beyond Crowley, but especially at a time like this. Mind you, the angel was hardly known for telling Crowley his innermost feelings. Most likely he wanted time away from the demon to compose himself.
There was a greater chance of them both being forgiven than there was of the angel opening up to him. Sure, he’d briefly held Crowley’s hand on the bus earlier that night, but emotions were running high. They’d just averted the apocalypse, after all.
But now that moment of softness was gone. Crowley gave a low growl, pausing his circuit of the room to lean on the desk, gripping the edge. For a brief moment he wished he’d gone for a less minimalist look for the apartment. A desk full of stuff he could sweep dramatically onto the floor would be just the ticket right now.
He’d seen the angel perform miracles of all shapes and sizes. Aziraphale could walk back in at that moment and turn all the furniture to feathers, and Crowley wouldn’t bat an eyelid (though he would say some very choice words.) But the day he responded to anything Crowley said with something other than a blustered protest? Now that Crowley would call a miracle.
Thinking too hard about their relationship normally ended in one of two things: A foul mood, or copious amounts of alcohol. Usually both. Crowley was saved from either by the reappearance of the angel himself, who gave Crowley a sheepish look as he placed a takeaway coffee cup on the pristine table.
“Black coffee.”
He said almost apologetically.
“No point being thirsty on the job.”
“I’ve got coffee in the house, angel.”
Crowley retorted, but took a swig anyway.
“This prophecy, then.”
Aziraphale perched straight-backed on the leather sofa and retrieved the ancient piece of paper from his pocket.
“What do you think it means? Choose your faces wisely?”
Crowley sprawled on the sofa beside the angel.
“Been giving that some thought. Angels and demons can change their appearance. We can look however we want.”
“I know that, Crowley.”
The angel said sharply.
“So … what if we did that? Swapped appearances? We both know they’re not going to leave us alone. They could come for us at any time. ”
“You must be joking.”
Crowley groaned and sank back against the sofa.
“Angel, just once, could you not protest every damn thing I say? Is it just a habit or what? Because it’s bloody irritating.”
“I just don’t see how it would help.” Aziraphale said primly. “Taking my appearance and being tortured by …..” he paused and raised his eyes heavenward “…. will hurt you just as much as letting those degenerates downstairs take you, so why go to the effort?”
Crowley sighed and snatched the prophecy out of the angel’s hand, brandishing it at him.
“Look, I don’t know how these things work. Closest I ever got to witchcraft was dressing up as Morticia one Halloween. But the prophecies in that book tend to come true and for some reason we’ve been left, post-apocalypse-not-now, with this one. For the love of everything, Aziraphale, can we just try it? Can we not have a millennia-long disagreement over this? Because if those bastards upstairs get their hands on you before we swap, I ….”
He stood up with far more force than was necessary, sending both sofa and angel back several inches.
“I want you alive. That’s it.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “I don’t care how some ancient witch came up with this hare-brained plan. I don’t care if swapping our appearances feels like being dropped into boiling sulphur. I. Just. Want. You. Alive.”
With a hiss of annoyance, Crowley stalked into his kitchen and busied himself making more drinks. Of course Aziraphale wouldn’t agree. When had he ever agreed with Crowley without a fight first? He was so engrossed in muttering under his breath that it took him a moment to register the unmistakable sensation of eyes watching him. He turned, ready to strike. No demons, though. Only an embarrassed looking angel.
“How do we begin? The switch, I mean, how do we begin the switch?”
Crowley stared at him.
“I want you alive, too.” he added after several moments of silence, his voice barely audible.
Crowley couldn’t repress a wicked little smile. Oh, all manner of trouble was about to rain down on them, and they both knew it. But heaven … hell …. someone just give him this moment.
“Did you just … agree with something I suggested without fighting me for a century first?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“Really Crowley, they could be on their way right now and all you can do is make sarcastic remarks.”
Crowley took a step closer to the angel and handed him a cup.
“Shut up and drink your tea, angel. Let me enjoy the fact that miracles do still happen.”-
Title: Wonders Will Never Cease
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating/Warnings: Gen / Spoilers for series finale
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Crowley wishes Aziraphale would just agree with him for once
Crowley never paced. Stalked, yes. Slithered, obviously. Glided snake hipped down the street as if he owned it, absolutely.
But paced? No never. Not for anyone.
Except for right now.
Because right now he was waiting for Aziraphale to return and when he did, he’d have to tell the angel about the idea that had been pounding in his brain for the last few hours. It was an audacious plan, even by Crowley’s standards, but what other choice did they have? He couldn’t begin to imagine what hell had in store for him. Suffice to say his original fall from grace would seem like a fun trip down a water slide compared to what was coming next.
As for what Heaven would do to Aziraphale, well, it would be considerably worse than the usual strongly-worded memo.
Aziraphale had insisted that he needed to go and get food. How anyone could think about food at any time was beyond Crowley, but especially at a time like this. Mind you, the angel was hardly known for telling Crowley his innermost feelings. Most likely he wanted time away from the demon to compose himself.
There was a greater chance of them both being forgiven than there was of the angel opening up to him. Sure, he’d briefly held Crowley’s hand on the bus earlier that night, but emotions were running high. They’d just averted the apocalypse, after all.
But now that moment of softness was gone. Crowley gave a low growl, pausing his circuit of the room to lean on the desk, gripping the edge. For a brief moment he wished he’d gone for a less minimalist look for the apartment. A desk full of stuff he could sweep dramatically onto the floor would be just the ticket right now.
He’d seen the angel perform miracles of all shapes and sizes. Aziraphale could walk back in at that moment and turn all the furniture to feathers, and Crowley wouldn’t bat an eyelid (though he would say some very choice words.) But the day he responded to anything Crowley said with something other than a blustered protest? Now that Crowley would call a miracle.
Thinking too hard about their relationship normally ended in one of two things: A foul mood, or copious amounts of alcohol. Usually both. Crowley was saved from either by the reappearance of the angel himself, who gave Crowley a sheepish look as he placed a takeaway coffee cup on the pristine table.
“Black coffee.”
He said almost apologetically.
“No point being thirsty on the job.”
“I’ve got coffee in the house, angel.”
Crowley retorted, but took a swig anyway.
“This prophecy, then.”
Aziraphale perched straight-backed on the leather sofa and retrieved the ancient piece of paper from his pocket.
“What do you think it means? Choose your faces wisely?”
Crowley sprawled on the sofa beside the angel.
“Been giving that some thought. Angels and demons can change their appearance. We can look however we want.”
“I know that, Crowley.”
The angel said sharply.
“So … what if we did that? Swapped appearances? We both know they’re not going to leave us alone. They could come for us at any time. ”
“You must be joking.”
Crowley groaned and sank back against the sofa.
“Angel, just once, could you not protest every damn thing I say? Is it just a habit or what? Because it’s bloody irritating.”
“I just don’t see how it would help.” Aziraphale said primly. “Taking my appearance and being tortured by …..” he paused and raised his eyes heavenward “…. will hurt you just as much as letting those degenerates downstairs take you, so why go to the effort?”
Crowley sighed and snatched the prophecy out of the angel’s hand, brandishing it at him.
“Look, I don’t know how these things work. Closest I ever got to witchcraft was dressing up as Morticia one Halloween. But the prophecies in that book tend to come true and for some reason we’ve been left, post-apocalypse-not-now, with this one. For the love of everything, Aziraphale, can we just try it? Can we not have a millennia-long disagreement over this? Because if those bastards upstairs get their hands on you before we swap, I ….”
He stood up with far more force than was necessary, sending both sofa and angel back several inches.
“I want you alive. That’s it.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “I don’t care how some ancient witch came up with this hare-brained plan. I don’t care if swapping our appearances feels like being dropped into boiling sulphur. I. Just. Want. You. Alive.”
With a hiss of annoyance, Crowley stalked into his kitchen and busied himself making more drinks. Of course Aziraphale wouldn’t agree. When had he ever agreed with Crowley without a fight first? He was so engrossed in muttering under his breath that it took him a moment to register the unmistakable sensation of eyes watching him. He turned, ready to strike. No demons, though. Only an embarrassed looking angel.
“How do we begin? The switch, I mean, how do we begin the switch?”
Crowley stared at him.
“I want you alive, too.” he added after several moments of silence, his voice barely audible.
Crowley couldn’t repress a wicked little smile. Oh, all manner of trouble was about to rain down on them, and they both knew it. But heaven … hell …. someone just give him this moment.
“Did you just … agree with something I suggested without fighting me for a century first?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“Really Crowley, they could be on their way right now and all you can do is make sarcastic remarks.”
Crowley took a step closer to the angel and handed him a cup.
“Shut up and drink your tea, angel. Let me enjoy the fact that miracles do still happen.”-
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