You Could Make A Religion Out Of This, and other shorts

You Could Make A Religion Out Of This (please don't)

A/N: I wanted to move all my microfics and shorts over from Ao3 but I don't feel like going through the new story creation process for every single one of them, so I'm just gonna toss them into a compilation. That's what all the cool kids are doing, if my feed is anything to go by.

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Summary: The Almighty sits on high, distant and unreadable. Satan never gave a damn for any of them. But Aziraphale, ah, Aziraphale.

OR, Crowley finds religion and it's his best friend.

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It is a very cosy moment, this. Let us set the scene: Aziraphale is almost-but-not-quite lounging comfortably on a soft, plush couch. Beside him, Crowley sprawls out, taking up the whole thing with his long legs. He has his head pillowed on Aziraphale's middle, one arm draped loosely over his waist. Aziraphale, in turn, has one hand up, stroking featherlight touches oh-so-gently along Crowley's temple, through his hair, down his neck, along his back.

So comfortable.

It has been silent for some time- comfortably so, of course- and it is Crowley who breaks this silence.

"Let me worship at the temple of you," he murmurs, circling Aziraphale's hip with his thumb. "Let your name be a prayer upon my lips."

"I'm not familiar with that one," Aziraphale says, pausing the path of his hand as it traces along Crowley's arm.

"Got it off the internet," Crowley says, as dismissively as he can manage. "Fanfiction."

"Ah, yes. It's good stuff."

"Mm."

They fall silent again, a bit less comfortable than before. This time, it is Aziraphale who breaks it.

"Mind you, you tried that once, and it didn't go well."

"You mean that whole Church of Aziraphale thing?" Crowley shrugs, manages to convey with one boney shoulder how unimportant he considers the matter. "That was just a lark, really. Thought it would be funny. And it was!"

Aziraphale is stiffening now, unfolding from his relaxed, comfortable posture, and suddenly the moment is gone. Let us paint the scene again: Aziraphale, sitting upright, hand still and resting tense on Crowley's arm, Crowley, trying to salvage their comfort by sprawling across Aziraphale's lap, twisting to look up at him.

"Oh come on now! It's not like it caused any harm or anything. It was just a bit of fun, lasted all of a week. It was fine."

"You started a religion around me!" Aziraphale says, half-wails, and Crowley almost seems to deflate under the weight of his anguish. This is something truly upsetting to him, a hurt that Crowley believed- mistakenly, it would seem- was buried in the past.

"What's even so bad about it? So half a dozen people chanted Glory, Aziraphale for a week. I don't see what the big deal is."

"I don't want to be worshipped," Aziraphale says, as though the very idea is to him as abhorrent as rebellion, as hellfire, as a striped top with check bottoms. "Even for a lark. When people worship you you have to take care of them."

"Where have you been for the past six thousand years?"

Aziraphale deflates a little as well, and adds a meek, "At least, that's what I've always felt."

"Well see-" Crowley shifts, now, turning fully so that he's not entirely in Aziraphale's lap, but damn close to it; he loops his arm around Aziraphale's waist and with the other traces up his side. Aziraphale's hand finds his hip almost magnetically in this new position, his thumb brushes ever-so-much against a thin, exposed strip of skin. "-that's the thing, innit? That's why you deserve to be worshipped. Nice change, don't you think, having the person you're worshipping actually care about you? 'Stead of using you as some- some tool in some ineffable plan."

"All the same," Aziraphale says, firmly, leaving no room for argument. "All the same, I should not like the responsibility. Encouraging people to do good, canceling out your influence, that's all enough responsibility for me. It's hard to take care of people when they start amassing, you know."

"Mm." Crowley must concede that this is true: taking care of a few people is probably easy enough; taking care of a whole population requires more attention and work than one angel could reasonably be expected to put in. (Not to mention time that, in Crowley's opinion, would be better spent paying attention to Crowley.)

Crowley shifts again, trying to coax Aziraphale into relaxing once more, and pillows his head against his middle, nuzzling a little until he's made himself comfortable.

"All the same," Crowley echoes, "I think you can manage enough attention to take care of one worshipper. It's not like I need much looking after, after all."

There is a long, tense moment, one that stretches out into eternity (and Crowley knows eternity): and then Aziraphale shifts, letting the tension out of his edges, and his free hand comes to rest on Crowley's head, stroking his hair oh-so-gently. Crowley sighs contently and leans into the touch, tries to coil even more into Aziraphale's lap than he already has.

"You need so much looking after," he corrects. "I suppose someone's got to take on the job."

"Right," Crowley mumbles, muffled in Aziraphale's middle. He's starting to doze, sleep stealing over him now the tension has gone and comfort has once more been restored. "Sssave everyone else the trouble, that'ss right."

Aziraphale's expression is soft, here: radiant, affectionate, and even as he looks down at Crowley dozing in his lap it softens even more and he murmurs, low enough to not wake the sleeping demon, "I wouldn't trust anyone else with you anyway."