Nice: A Good Omens Fanfic

Some nice cheese

"So this is where you live." Aziraphale's voice was genial, and he was smiling as he took in the fashionably stark grey of the Mayfair flat, but was an odd expression in his pale blue eyes. Judging, and almost pitying, as if Crowley had come up short in understandable and expected ways. "Charming."

"Shut up," Crowley said. "We can't all live in a mouldering fire haz--" His brain caught up with his mouth, which opened and closed soundlessly for a bit. "Um. Sorry. Um, want something to drink? I think we both deserve champagne after saving the world."

He went into his spotless kitchen and pulled some Krug from his wine rack. And caviar, he had promised Aziraphale caviar. He shoved some in a bowl, hesitated for a moment, and decided to slosh some of the champagne into some grated cheese and stuff in a caquelon. Absolutely because Aziraphale would be peckish after a long day, and not to give himself something to do to delay going back into the main room.

Fondue had been one of Crowley's favourite bits of the 1970s. Amazing what temptations humans could get up to all by themselves while feeding each other alcohol spiked cheese or chocolate. For a moment a vision passed before his eyes, of Aziraphale leaning forward obediently, lips parted, waiting for a forkful to be fed to him. Crowley clamped down on the thought, hissing to himself, and grabbed some french bread. He was glad he'd thought to buy bread a few days ago, or perhaps weeks. Or months. He wasn't sure. That's what he owned a bread safe for, to keep bread perfectly fresh.

He picked up the fondue and caviar, and headed back out.

Aziraphale had figured out the sound system somehow, and music was pouring out of it, something with trickling luscious harps and soaring violins. Of course. Angels and their music. How cliche.

Crowley's particular angel was standing, staring at the eagle plinth. He turned, and his expression was almost terrifyingly gentle. "Oh, my dear. Is this really...?"

"Couldn't resist some blasphemy, keeping part of a church in here. Besides, the place was bombed out, they wouldn't miss it." Crowley avoided Aziraphale's eyes, despite a suspicion that they had tears in them. Bloody sentimental angel. "Grub's up." He dropped the caquelon and bread on the coffee table, and turned back for the champagne.

"Aren't we going to eat in the dining room?"

Crowley blanched, thinking of the throne. Would he sit in it? Would Aziraphale? Would they both sit on ordinary chairs and pretend it wasn't there? Why did he have multiple chairs anyway? It's not as if he ever brought anyone back to the flat. Until now. "No. Um. No. You wouldn't like it."

Aziraphale hummed, but conceded. "Full of Satanic ritual torture implements, I expect." He dropped onto the couch. "This looks scrumptious."

"Thought we could do with some carbs for energy," Crowley said, as if it actually made any difference to their mortal forms. "Get our brains stimulated so we know what to do when the reports go back."

"That's all right," Aziraphale said serenely, taking a sip of champagne. "I worked it out while you were asleep. Ooh, the bubbles are tickling my nose."

"Y-you have? What?"

"I told you I was quite intelligent. We'll talk about it after supper, my dearest."

Crowley dipped some bread into fondue, hoping to speed things up, and had bitten into it before he registered the final syllable. He nearly choked. That--that was new.

"Are you all right, Crowley? The cheese is quite hot." Aziraphale speared some bread.

"Fine," he spluttered, crumbs flying around his immaculate dining room.

"Too familiar?" Aziraphale produced a napkin from somewhere and dabbed at Crowley's mouth. Crowley wasn't aware he even owned napkins, let alone duck egg blue ones. They weren't his aesthetic. He felt a bit like Warlock, except that hopefully Warlock had less of a problem with his bones turning to liquid fire when Crowley cleaned his face.

"No, not at all." Crowley decided not to pretend he didn't know what Aziraphale was talking about for once. "Just unexpected."

"Well." Aziraphale was looking studiously away from him, the napkin put away. The angel sipped his champagne. "You said, earlier today, that you stayed on Earth because you lost your best friend."

"Yeah. Um. Only he came back."

Aziraphale sloshed the champagne around in his flute, watching the bubbles in the golden liquid. "And I suppose I am not being presumptuous in assuming you meant me."

"You have plenty of friends, angel. Bibliophiles and do-gooders and all sorts. I have acquaintances, targets and you. Of course I bloody meant you." Crowley didn't know where to look. He looked at Aziraphale's champagne. He wished he was drunk already. The music was too beautiful, it was making him maudlin. He almost missed Queen's Greatest Hits.

"After all, I suppose you were intending on abandoning everyone else to die on Earth or in the celestial war," Aziraphale said, a trifle censoriously.

"I'm a demon. What do you expect?"

"But not me."

"No. I'm on our side. Always have been, really, since you gave away that flaming sword." The words were at the same time hard to get out, and tumbling over each other.

Aziraphale abruptly drained his glass. No savouring of taste, no giggles over bubbles. Crowley did the same. "So, under the circumstances, I thought it might be... appropriate... to express that you are more dear to me than any others." The angel put the champagne flute down rather less gracefully than usual, the rim clattering on the table. "I'm sorry that I have been a little slow about admitting to it. It's just that, well... I know you of old, serpent. I know when you are trying to tempt me away from my loyalty to Heaven. As I said, I am quite intelligent."

Crowley's blood, which had been warm and golden as melting honey, froze in his veins, hurting him. "You thought I wanted to add another fallen angel to the ranks. I suppose I would get one hell of a commendation."

"I apologise. I am also, as you said, stupid." They stared at the fondue together, at the flickering flame of the candle. Tiny, bright, and a reminder of hellfire.

"It was never about that." Crowley took a deep breath. "I wanted you to be loyal to me."

"Yes, well. And here we are. I don't think Heaven considers me particularly loyal right now."

"Here we are." And where were they? Crowley thought wildly. Sitting side by side in the flat, not looking at each other, not touching, eating fondue of all things, he must be insane, while Heaven and Hell discussed their fate. He supposed they were officially best--dearest--friends now, after all these thousands of years. And what did that mean?

Crowley was more dear to Aziraphale than anyone else. It was more than he had ever really hoped he would hear aloud. His heart felt like it was bursting and my wings are going to break out of his back at any moment. Surely that was enough, more than enough, more than any demon ever had a right to expect from an angel in a state of Grace.

He felt oddly like dissolving into very human and very uncool tears, as the music swelled around him.

"And I have no intention of leaving here any time soon," Aziraphale said briskly. "Look." He held out the burned scrap of the witches' prophecies. "It looks like I will soon be facing hellfire. Now, about the rest..."

Crowley listened and, despite his tumbling emotions, began to smile like a snake.

It was only later, when he had left Aziraphale in the living room with a miraculously produced book, and was tossing and turning in his bed, trying to fall asleep and not frantically imagine an angel calling him 'dearest' and having a hand on his thigh in all kinds of different situations and stages of undress, that he realised something that had been nagging at the edge of his consciousness ever since he heard the music Aziraphale had chosen. He knew what it was.

Nino Rota. The love theme from Romeo and Juliet.

Oh--

--Hell.

Notes:

1) A short update. But I hope it is worth it.