Disclaimer: I (quite sadly…) do not own Aziraphale or Crowley… Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaimen are their respectful owners…whom I might add should be read by all.
This story may catch an R rating later, I haven't decided. This is my first fic ever…so please be kind.My Angel, My Muse
beginning, neither of them had really liked their day jobs.
Aziraphale, giving away the flaming sword. Crowley throwing open the pearly gates and taking the elevator. Apparently to fall was cliché.
Aziraphale was what angels should have been like. Crowley thought as he paged through "People" magazine looking for ideas. Brittany Spears and Justin Timberlake had been his idea, only they'd enjoyed it. So now he was looking for something new. Angels are all the same. Self righteous, single-minded, inhumanly gorgeous, and none of them ever thought anything but what God told them to. Aziraphale was different. Crowley had noticed it almost right off. Aziraphale had a mind of his own, and had been punished for it several times over. Punished for doing what he thought was right, what truly was good for all of humanity. Pheh. "If there is one thing that I don't miss about heaven..."
Crowley shook his head and tossed the magazine, missing a fern by a few inches. "I'll get you next time then." Crowley fell backwards onto his couch and realized that he hated the way that the leather felt. It wasn't comfortable, the way it pulled at his skin, and it was ugly. The only time he ever appreciated the couch was when Aziraphale had been sitting on it the one time he had been to Crowley's flat. The colors and feelings you got from each were so different that one brought the other out. The black leather, the white angel.
Crowley sat up, kicking an almost dead houseplant off of the end table. He couldn't even remember what that one was supposed to have been. He laughed to himself. The angel would have scolded him for torturing the greenlings so.
If only the angel realized that sometimes Crowley did the things he did for the angels attention. Crowley liked that Aziraphale knew what his favorite meal consisted of, and he liked hearing him scold him over dinner about the ducks at the park, or the blinking green lights, or Heraldo Rivera. Other than that, Crowley really didn't know what to talk to the angel about. He was afraid to talk to the angel about much else. Afraid. Crowley was so sure of his current position in the ever-running river of things above and below. He was sure he was a bad demon. He was sure he took pleasure from making everyday life miserable for all of humanity. He was sure he was damn good at it. He was made for it.
He was sure of all of that until he sat across or next to, or was in the presence of Aziraphale. Crowley wrinkled his nose in embarrassment. When the angel looked at him he couldn't find hate, anger, or any of the other stereotypical things angels exuded in lethal doses. Maybe, it would have been easier if there were...Crowley could have done the stereotypical demon things then. Case closed. Only...the angel talked to him because the angel WANTED to. The angel, Aziraphale, enjoyed Crowley's presence.
Crowley hissed at himself. Why was he even thinking about all of this? The voice of God, Metatron had come down and scolded the angel again last night, in Crowley's presence. Well, Crowley had been under the table praying, er scratch that...hoping in the most evil way possible that the Metatron wouldn't notice there were two plates on the table. The angel didn't need any more trouble. God made it clear a long time ago, that Aziraphale's punishment for not doing as he was told, was to be on earth, as a permanent operative forever. The angel never said it, but he was doing his best to pretend to be miserable.
Crowley smiled, rather like a snake and rolled off of the couch and into a sitting position on the floor. Aziraphale was lying. Maybe not vocally, or even intentionally, but his actions were deceptive. God thought leaving the angel on earth would be the perfect punishment. Crowley laughed out loud, Aziraphale thought so too.