Good Omens (One-Shots)

First Time for Everything pt2

Sort of requested by a comment chain from the-writers-page
and BlueMeanieAt221B
Sorry for this really bad sequel. I tried. Sequels aren't my thing, clearly.

Also, every single part of this is not canon—including the story-inside-a-story. :)
Err yeah. Have fun...?

~~
Matching: Aziraphale x Crowley
Song: None
Written: June 17, June 28
~~

Crowley awoke with a kink in his neck, bloody mortal body, he thought with a scrunched nose. He pushed himself up, a hand on his breathing pillow and—wait. A breathing pillow?

Crowley glanced down and nearly fainted. He looked around the room, noticing all the wine bottles. What happened last night? They clearly didn't... do anything.. thank goodness.

But how did he get so drunk he couldn't remember anything? That hasn't happened since.. oh the Mistake of 89, the pair call it.

Not 89 as in '1989', oh no. Think about 1900 years earlier. The literal year 89.

A dreadful experienced, really.

On the Summer Solstice of 89 AD, Aziraphale managed to get himself in a bit of trouble (as usual), and Crowley came to help (as usual). Everything went well, Crowley helped Aziraphale, everything went regularly. Well, except for the account of someone seeing them with their wings wide open.

Terrible mistake.

Anyways, the man disappeared and Aziraphale convinced Crowley to let him go, saying that he was in shock and would think it only as imagination.

How wrong he was.

If the pitchforks and torches weren't enough to set Crowley on edge, the anger and hate in the shouts and yells certainly were.

They burnt it down, the angel's house. Crowley almost lost it and killed all those people if it hadn't been for an angelic whisper in his ear. A whisper of hope.

Save him.

He'd do anything to save him, so instead of going after the pitchforkers, he raced inside the flaming inferno of a house, finding Aziraphale shockingly asleep, a book clutched to his chest. How could he sleep at a time like this?! Divine beings don't even need to sleep!

That encounter, seeing Aziraphale's mortal body almost burnt to crisp (if he hadn't cursed—*cough* *cough* miracled—it away), it wounded him. So he spent the night, the next week, the next year, all just drinking. He could've sobered himself but what was the point? Sure, Aziraphale was okay but even now, over 1800 years later, Crowley could still picture the burnt flesh of the angel in his mind. He just wanted to forget.

     A light snore startled him from his thoughts, he realized with a start that it was considerably lighter than it had been when he first woke up. How long had he been reliving the past?

     He attempted to get up from laying half on his angel—his? His angel? Where had that come from?

     He froze when he felt Aziraphale shift beneath him, he slowly laid back down, trying not to waken the angel in fear that he would accuse him of sinning.

     That's the thing. When had Crowley actively cared what Aziraphale had thought of him?

     That's when it came back to him.