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

Knock Knock, Get The Door, It's Religion

A/N: Follows on the heels of You Could Make a Religion Out of This.

For those not familiar, in Pratchett's writing there tends to be this thing about creating deities through worship rather than the other way around, which I in no way intended to use for this setting but wrote itself in anyway. But I also rather like the idea of the Almighty saying "fine, you want to worship each other? Enjoy the side effects". Though for all we know, this is just part of the plan too.

Verse is taken from Oscar Wilde's Silentium Amoris because what better form of worship than love poetry recited subconsciously for and to the object of your devotion?

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Summary: The act of worship changes that being worshipped. Or if you prefer, divine retribution isn't always lightning bolts, and the Almighty has a sense of humor.

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Contrary to popular belief, it is not necessary for angels to go around worshipping the Almighty. Worship is the reserve of humans, and they're better at it anyway.

Let us set another scene: Crowley, draped over and around the back of a high-backed chair that contains Aziraphale, quietly reading a book laid out on the table in front of him. Crowley is half-heartedly peering over his shoulder, less interested in the book than in what Aziraphale is doing, and Aziraphale is tuning him out with the practiced ease of millennia.

This is not to say that Aziraphale is ignoring Crowley. He has simply set Crowley on the metaphorical backburner of his mind and is paying his attention to his book. Aziraphale is otherwise hyper-aware of Crowley's presence, of his every move and breath and even the most minute changes in his position.

In fact, Aziraphale has been worryingly hyper-aware of Crowley ever since Crowley had, to use his words, 'converted to Aziraphism', even when he's not around. It feels like something Aziraphale should be concerned with: as of right now, so soon after the averted Armageddon, so soon after a time when there was a very real chance there would be no Crowley to be aware of, he counts it as a relief. Besides, he's been trying to keep Crowley closer to hand lately anyway.

If it persists he'll look into it, but for the moment he'll just enjoy this- this awareness of Crowley that he hasn't ever experienced before.

"Don't turn the page yet, I hadn't got to the end," Crowley whines, when Aziraphale attempts to do just so. "Hold on a minute."

Aziraphale sighs, and waits, while Crowley leans more over the back of the chair, not coincidentally drawing himself nearer to Aziraphale, near enough that his chin is nearly resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. After a long moment, he says, "All right, you can turn over now," and then shifts just enough to press a kiss to the shoulder below him while Aziraphale does so. The act, so tiny and insignificant in itself, sends a something through Aziraphale that he isn't quite sure how to define.

"What is all this, anyway?" Crowley asks, almost confirming Aziraphale's suspicions about his interest in the subject matter. If he isn't aware after this many pages, he hasn't been paying attention.

"It's poetry, my dear," Aziraphale says, and something rustles through Crowley at that, the barest flicker of a something that Aziraphale can't define. "Oscar Wilde. I've begun rebuilding my collection. Not the same as my first editions, of course, but..."

He trails off, not sure how to finish his sentence, and starts reading aloud instead, the poem a gentle murmur that has Crowley leaning closer just to hear him.

As oftentimes the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of t-

Crowley cuts him off at that: a breathless, slightly panicked, "Asssiraphale-"

-and now he has all of Aziraphale's undivided attention, because there is something worrying in that tone. Something is wrong.

"Dear boy-"

Crowley cuts him off again, this time shifting to butt his head against the side of Aziraphale's face, just enough to startle him to silence, and then nuzzles him in an almost-apology at doing so and sending another jolt of that undefinable something through Aziraphale when he does. He can't possibly be comfortable, twisting around the chair the way he's doing, but Aziraphale suspects that isn't what's causing the confused discomfort radiating off of him right this moment.

"I feel weird," Crowley admits, after this display. "Odd. Off. Something's going on inside me that isn't sss'possed to and I'm not sssure how I feel about it."

"Are you sick?" Aziraphale reaches up to feel Crowley's forehead, and Crowley leans into his touch like a moth who's found the holy grail of porchlights. "You aren't feverish."

"M'not sick," he insists. "It doesn't feel bad. It almost feels good. But it also feels weird. Like the first time you eat food in a new body and you aren't used to the tastebuds yet."

Aziraphale purses his lips in thought at that, and a theory comes to mind. He changes his touch, stroking Crowley's hair back from his face, and watches his entire expression shudder and change as he does.

"Is this- this feeling related to me at all?" He stills his hand and leans in enough to press a soft kiss to Crowley's forehead, and Crowley melts against him, humming a content affirmative. "Hmm."

"'Ssiraphale?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, my dear, but I think I may have... converted."

"To what?"

"To you."

Crowley stills against him at that, and for a long moment Aziraphale wonders if he's gone to sleep, and is about to wake him up and give him a proper talking to about not falling asleep to avoid conversations when Crowley moves, somehow managing to shift around the chair enough to cup Aziraphale's face and surge forward into a kiss faster than Aziraphale can follow: he doesn't quite have time to process that, though, before a wave of that undefinable something rocks through him, overpowering and dizzying and rapturous.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against Aziraphale's and just breathes. His sunglasses are askew; Aziraphale can see his eyes are closed, a lazy smile tugging at his lips that Aziraphale, unknowingly, mirrors.

"My dear?" Aziraphale murmurs, and that smile widens and Crowley's hands shift so he's cradling Aziraphale's face.

"Mm. I think I like this feeling after all."