Good Omens Crowley and Aziraphale shorts--Ineffable Husbands PWPs and fluff

In Touch

Note: Book canon

The first time Aziraphale held Crowley's hand, he had been expecting to die. Not just discorporate, but end it all. He expected Crowley to die with him, and what was more, had asked him to remain and die for the humans. He felt surprisingly calm about it. Not happy, quite; he enjoyed his life and would rather like it to continue. He also felt sorry that Crowley was going to die, although at this stage dying was probably better than whatever the poor dear had coming to him now his betrayal was known by Hell.

Still, it wasn't so bad. They had played their best shot and lost, and there was comfort in having done it together. At the end of everything, they were side-by-side, just as they had been at the beginning of this world. Crowley looked so small and vulnerable somehow, but also--free. Aziraphale reached out in affection and the offer of reassurance, and Crowley took his hand, and Aziraphale felt something that was broken when Shadwell stepped between them and their hands fell apart.

Against all likelihood, they lived. Aziraphale was oddly aware of a kind of afterimage of the touch of palm to palm, cool silky dry fingers like snakeskin interweaved with his own fingers. Odd. But there had been a lot of power in the air that night.

*  *  *

The "borrowed" Jeep drew up quite illegally outside Claridge's, where Aziraphale was going to stay until he got his bookshop sorted out. His stomach plummeted with grief at the thought. Still, no sense worrying Crowley, who had suffered his own losses, and at least they were there to lose things. Aziraphale made rather a job of getting out, undoing his seatbelt--he had no idea if American Army Jeeps usually had seatbelts, but seatbelts were proper--and straightening his jumper.

"Well, good night, then," he said, smiling kindly at Crowley, reassuring him about--he wasn't sure what.

Crowley reached across and took his hand, gripping it tightly. "We'll be in touch, yeah?" The demon was staring straight ahead, and Aziraphale couldn't tell what expressions his eyes had from what little he could see around the sides of his glasses.

"Of course," Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. "Usual place? One o'clock?"

"Yeah. Good, fine, right."

Aziraphale stared down, in the darkness, at their hands, his angelic vision making out his own soft fat hand encased in long pale fingers. "Adam said we'd be all right," he said gently. "I think that young man can be trusted."

"If you can't trust the Antichrist, who can you trust?" Crowley laughed a little hysterically.

"I trust you." Had he ever said it before? Had he ever even admitted it to himself?

"You always did have bad judgment. I'm a demon who can't even be trusted by his own side." Definitely something erratic and jerky about his voice.

"I trust you," Aziraphale repeated, giving his hand a firm squeeze. "Try to rest. I might try it myself, for once. It's been a difficult day."

"No kidding. Well, let me know how it turns out."

"Good night."

Aziraphale opened his door, and waited patiently for Crowley to release his hand so he could get out of the Jeep. Eventually, Crowley made a fitful movement of his shoulders, if he had just realised they were still holding hands, and released his grip.

"Ciao."

There was something very lonely looking in the dark-clad, slender figure, something both very young and very ancient all at once. Aziraphale felt an odd tugging at his heart at the sight. He almost stepped back into the Jeep and asked if he could stay at Crowley's flat until he got himself sorted out. But that wasn't the kind of thing they did. They never had been friends like that.