niftywithaN (niftywithan) wrote,

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GO Fic: 50 Accounts of Hisses and Halos [#26-50]

As promised, here is the second half of 50 Accounts! On another note, I really need to start finding things to post about. My life must be really boring.

Anyhoodle, please enjoy! And if you're curious, #1-25 can be found here.

- - -

#26 – Goodbye

"We can't stop it this time, can we?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

Crowley couldn't answer. He stared at the destruction unfolding before him and found no words. A gentle hand took his and squeezed.

"It was wonderful knowing you, my friend," Aziraphale said. Crowley wrenched his gaze from the devastation that marked the beginning of the end of the world and studied the angel's pale face, knowing very well this could be the last time he ever saw it.

He couldn't let it affect him. This was supposed to happen, and he wasn't supposed to be so distressed.

So Crowley forced a smile and squeezed Aziraphale's hand back.

"Goodbye, angel," he said. "Until we meet again."

#27 – Hide

Crowley couldn't see straight. He stumbled along the darkened streets like a drunk, clutching the gaping, burning wound in his stomach with one hand and keeping the other out to the side, ready to catch the wall if need be.

He couldn't stay in his flat. They would look there first. But he also couldn't run anymore; his wounds had seen to that.

But then, up ahead, he saw – or rather, sensed – his destination, his haven, and relief swelled in his chest: the lights were still on.

Crowley staggered through the door of the shop and was wonderfully, surprisingly, greeted with warm arms, apparently already waiting for him.

"Angel…" he breathed, smiling weakly up into those worried, pale eyes. Before he could even ask to stay, he was bustled into the back room and up the stairs and into a bedroom and onto a soft, tartan bedspread. Aziraphale hurried off to get medical supplies and Crowley sighed, despite still being in excruciating pain. He turned his head to stare at the crucifix on the bedside table and smiled feebly.

Where better to hide from the wrath of Hell than in the home of an angel?

#28 – Fortune

"What does yours say?"

"'You will give someone great happiness.'"

Crowley snickered and Aziraphale made a face at him.


"Nothing," Crowley chuckled. "It's just that a few years ago I started the tradition of saying 'in bed' after every fortune you get. It makes the whole fortune cookie thing much more amusing."

"In bed?" Aziraphale said quietly. It took only a moment for it to register, after which he flushed deeply and took a nervous sip of tea.

"So," Crowley said, leaning across the table with a serpentine grin. "Want to make your fortune come true?"

Steaming hot tea hitting him in the face was his answer.

#29 – Safe

Crowley's houseplants were locked in a serious, silent battle.

The kind blond man was visiting again, the one who gave them loving pats and soothing words and tried to convince them that their master wasn't all bad. The plants were fighting for his attention at the moment, even though he was halfway across the room speaking with the bane of their existence. But, being an angel, he sensed their desperation soon enough.

As soon as he excused himself and started to walk over the houseplants stopped begging for attention and instead began vying for his love, each trying to look more pathetic than the next.

"Hello, my dears," the kind man said softly, running gentle fingers over the plants' leaves. If they had possessed voices they would have cooed.

When the man's hand came to rest on the plant furthest from the sunlight (it was being punished), he paused.



"Would you mind very much if I took one of your plants home? My flat is rather bare, I'm afraid."

"I guess not. Just don't baby it too much. It's not used to it."

The punished plant couldn't believe its luck. If it had possessed a tongue it would have stuck it out at the others as it was carried away from the tyrant's abode, snuggling happily up to its gentle new owner, feeling safe at last.

#30 – Ghost

Aziraphale watched the world pass by from the comfort of his bookshop, content to sit back and let the mortals live. He would help a couple of the do-gooders in doing good if the need came up, maybe thwart a couple of Crowley's more dangerous wiles, but mostly he liked to watch.

He was unlike Crowley in that he didn't feel the need to be ostentatious. He didn't need to be noticed. He was free to wander or stay as he liked, always watching, seldom interfering. As long as the world was in balance, he could remain unseen, unobtrusive. As inconspicuous as a spirit among humans.

Which was exactly what he was.

#31 – Book

It was so rare, and in such good condition. A first edition, signed by the author, no less. The pages crackled just the right amount and it had that wonderful old book smell that belongs in every antique bookstore.

It was perfect.

Aziraphale flipped through the pages carefully, reverently, still not quite able to believe that he was touching it. He could almost sense the book's entire history, whose hands had touched it ten years before his, one hundred years, two hundred…

"Shall I leave the two of you alone?" a voice drawled, pulling him from his musings. Aziraphale was about to glare at the demon and tell him to bugger off when he remembered that it was Crowley who had given him the book in the first place. The scowl that had been forming was swiftly replaced with a smile, so genuine and bright that it made Crowley slightly uncomfortable.

"Thank you so much for this, Crowley," Aziraphale said. Crowley flushed and was about to reply when the angel abruptly added, "But yes, I think it would be best for you to leave for a bit. This book and I need to get properly acquainted."

#32 – Eye

Crowley didn't like the way the woman was ogling his angel. She was leaning over the counter in a way that enhanced her ample bosom and playing with a strand of her white-blonde hair flirtatiously, all the while batting heavy lashes and chomping her gum.

It made Crowley sick.

He stood in the shadows, pretending to sift through the collection of dusty books, but he was actually just glaring at the woman through his dark shades, watching her every move.

Aziraphale, for his part, seemed completely oblivious to the woman's flirtation. He was too busy appearing to be busy to really look at her, and was instead just replying to her inane comments about the weather with his usual politeness. The woman was taking it for interest, and just as she was about to reach across the counter to amiably touch the angel's well-manicured hand, Crowley leapt forward and tugged her away by the wrist.

"Hey! What's the big idea?" she snapped, whirling to face him in a huff. Crowley did his best to look as menacing as he could (which was pretty damn menacing) and slid his sunglasses down his nose, revealing inhuman golden eyes to the woman.

"I think it's time for you to leave," he hissed. The woman blinked, gulped, and nodded. As soon as Crowley let go of her wrist she sprinted for the exit.

Aziraphale looked at him disapprovingly.

"Now, really, my dear," he said.

Crowley just grinned.

#33 – Never

The flaming sword plunged through the chest of the demon all too easily, igniting a raging inferno in the cursed flesh and staining the once-prim black suit scarlet. The blade slid out just as easily as it had gone in and the writhing began, the hands crimped in pain, the mouth wide in a soundless shriek of utter agony. It wouldn't be long until all life ebbed from the demon…

Aziraphale lurched to wakefulness with a strangled cry, the dream still vivid in his mind. He could feel the blood on his hands, the warm sword by his side, the life flowing steadily out of the demon before him –

It would not happen, he told himself desperately. It would not happen. It would not happen.

He would not let it.

#34 – Sing

Aziraphale made Crowley go to church with him once. The demon had, understandably, refused to do anything vaguely church-like whilst being there, but he had accompanied the angel nonetheless.

About halfway through the service Crowley noticed that although Aziraphale was paying close attention to the sermon, he never sang.

"Isn't it rude to not sing when sung to?" he muttered into the angel's ear. Aziraphale flushed slightly.

"I can't sing," he said. Crowley frowned.

"Nonsense. I've heard you sing before. You have a nice voice," he said.

"That's not the reason," Aziraphale said.

"Oh? Then what is it?"

Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes to the heavens, then joined in the hymn and promptly began to emit a glowing, ethereal aura. Crowley blinked in surprise and cocked an eyebrow.


"Seriously," Aziraphale said, cutting off both singing and glowing. "I can't help it, and it's rather embarrassing."

"I don't know. I kind of like it."

"It's ostentatious, Crowley."

"Hence why I like it."

Aziraphale sighed. "Of course."

#35 – Wash

"AH! For goodness sake, Crowley!"


"That's cold!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The water, you dolt."

"Sorry. My aim is pretty bad."

"Crowley, the Bentley is ten meters to my left. Your aim can't possibly be that bad."

"Oh, but it is. Just watch."


(What followed was one of the most epic water fights ever to be had between an angel and a demon. Needless to say, the Bentley never did get properly washed.)

#36 – Stop

The demon had the angel pinned to a wall, trapped in the dark shadows and rain of the ancient Roman alleyway.

"Let me go," the angel said firmly, aura shining like a threat.

"Relax," the demon said. "I'm not hurting you."

"Then why won't you release me?"

The demon tsked.

"So anxious to leave, angel? I just got you here. And I can't let you wander around this dangerous city wounded."

The angel frowned.

"I'm not –" He broke off with a small cry as sharp claws dug into his side. The demon grinned toothily.

"You were saying?"

"Wretch," the angel grimaced, glaring with such ferocity that even the demon was impressed. He removed his claws from the angel's wound and licked them clean. His golden eyes stayed fixed on his adversary, and he could sense the holy aura starting to fade as the angel weakened. With a grin he leaned down and ran his forked tongue along the angel's wound, relishing the way his victim writhed.

"Stop," the angel groaned, struggling against the demon's iron grip. The demon chuckled lightly and stepped away.

"As you wish, angel."

The angel, shocked at being released so easily, slumped against the wall and stared at the demon with disbelieving pale eyes.

"You're… you stopped."

"You told me to."

"But that doesn't make sense."

The demon laughed again, a surprisingly soft sound.

"Only to you," he said. He gestured toward the angel's bleeding side. "Get that taken care of. And stay out of my city."

"It's not your city, snake!" the angel growled, starting to get dizzy from blood loss. The demon shrugged and turned away.

"We'll see, angel. I'll be in touch."

#37 – Time

Crowley learned long ago that times change quickly.

Live bands turn to records, which turn to eight-tracks, which turn to cassette tapes, which turn to CDs, which turn to mp3 players.

Horse drawn carriages turn to automobiles, which - apparently - turn into everything under the sun, from Hummers to Bentleys.

One year it takes months for humans to cross the sea, the next, mere hours.

But there is one thing Crowley knows will never change, no matter how much time may pass.

The phone is picked up after five rings.


"Hey, angel."

"Crowley! Back in town, are we?"

"For now. Dinner at the Ritz tonight?"

"Of course."

#38 – Sudden

Crowley was in a panic.

He had just been settling down for the night when he felt the connection he had with a certain angel suddenly snap, flicker, and die.

He was unable to move, think, or speak for a good long minute before he leapt to his feet, grabbed the car keys and sprinted down to his Bentley, taking four stairs at a time. He left a wake of terror behind him on his way to Soho but took no pleasure in it. His mind was too preoccupied with denial of what his demonic senses were telling him.

Aziraphale could not be dead. He could not.

Crowley wouldn't accept it.

Because if what Crowley sensed was true, then it meant Aziraphale had not merely been discorporated, but officially killed. Executed. Destroyed. It would mean the angel was really, truly gone.

And Crowley could not allow that.

He pulled up to the bookshop in Soho with his heart beating in his throat and his insides in a twist. He still couldn't sense the angel. It was terrifying.

The shop was dark. Crowley entered, filled with apprehension. The bell on the door jingled loudly in the silence. Crowley removed his shades to see better in the darkness and golden eyes widened when he caught sight of dark liquid spreading slowly over the floor. He followed it to the source and froze.

Aziraphale was sprawled out on the ground behind a bookshelf, pale eyes wide and sightless, glasses crooked, and completely motionless. Even his chest failed to rise and fall with breath. The liquid was coming from a broken mug near the angel's right hand, which had obviously been dropped when Aziraphale collapsed. It smelled like tea.

Crowley couldn't stand it. It couldn't be true.

He fell to his knees beside Aziraphale and grabbed the angel by the shoulders, yelling his name and shaking him until – shockingly – the angel blinked, gasped in a deep breath, and coughed.

And Crowley uttered one of the most blasphemous things a demon could ever utter, while cradling Aziraphale to his chest.

"Thank God," he murmured into the weak - but breathing - angel's hair. "Thank God thank God thank God…"

#39 – King

Crowley surveyed his kingdom with pride. Each of his subjects was perfect, standing tall and beautiful in the summer sunlight. Not one tiny feature out of place.


"You!" Crowley yelled, leveling a finger at one of his subjects. Said subject seemed to cower from his rage. "You have a wilting leaf. This is unacceptable! I cannot have this in my kingdom!"

The next few moments were filled with terror and pain and fire, and ended in an empty pot and much trembling from the other subjects. Crowley smiled and surveyed his kingdom yet again.

Each of his subjects was perfect.

#40 – History

Through the screaming crowds, beyond the mob of bloodthirsty Roman soldiers, slightly aside from the chaos that was Calvary, Crowley saw him. At first glance he thought he was crying, but then he realized the expression upon the angel's face was exquisitely stoic, beautiful in its complete lack of emotion.

After all, this was supposed to happen.

It had been written.

Crowley found he could not take his eyes off the angel. His serenity was just such a divergence from the pandemonium all around. It was captivating. And as much as Crowley knew he was supposed to be witnessing the death before him, he could not tear his gaze away from the angel.

In fact, he looked away only once, when the sky grew dark and the ground shook and the crowds panicked and fled. But he looked away only for a moment, and when his gaze returned to the angel, he realized the other had not once wavered in his tranquility.

A single tear coursed down the angel's cheek and his eyes closed briefly, but then he was gone and Crowley was left alone in the terrified mob, with only the memory of that peaceful face.

#41 – Power

It was easy for Crowley to forget Aziraphale's true power when all he usually saw was a poofy, middle-aged blond man dressed in tweed.

Contrary to popular belief, Aziraphale knew this.

So when Crowley burst into the back room only to be overwhelmed by the surge of ethereal power radiating from the beautiful, shining, white-winged being before him, the satisfied grin upon the angel's stunning countenance was not just in his imagination.

#42 – Bother

He could see the angel's patience was wearing thin. He saw the flicker of annoyance in those pale eyes, the twitch of an eyebrow, the slightly violent flipping of a page. Crowley grinned and sang louder. It was working.

"But I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more…"

Twitch. Glare. Flip.

"Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles…"

A flash of movement, and a hand was suddenly clamped over Crowley's mouth.

"All right," Aziraphale said. "I give. We'll go out."

#43 – God

Aziraphale was uncomfortable. Even though he was wearing the customary flowing white robes and his fiery sword had returned to his side, he still felt like he was stark naked.

Which was normal, he guessed, considering he was kneeling before the Almighty and Omniscient God.

/Aziraphale. You know why you have been called here./

"Yes, Lord."

/Is there anything you would like to report concerning your time spent on Earth?/

"Nothing in particular, Lord."

/What of the demon, Crawly?/

Aziraphale felt his heart leap into his throat.

/Have you overcome him yet?/

"Not yet, Lord. He is quite powerful."

/I see./ A lofty pause. /You are sure you have nothing to tell me, Aziraphale?/

Aziraphale considered it. He thought about telling God that he was currently late for a dinner with Crowley, about the Arrangement, about how the two had become close friends and thus the angel would never "overcome" the demon. He thought that maybe God would be understanding and forgive him; He had, after all, been known to do that from time to time. In fact, He probably knew all about it already and was just waiting for Aziraphale to tell Him. Maybe this was a test.

But then Aziraphale realized he had been quiet for a while, and he said the first thing to come to mind:

"No, Lord. Nothing."

And – rather surprisingly – God let him go.

#44 – Wall

The crash was audible for six blocks all around, at least. Aziraphale almost jumped out of his chair when he heard it and was running to the door before he even really comprehended what had happened.

A couple of blocks down from the shop, a crowd was forming around what appeared to be the source of the racket. Smoke billowed up from something in the middle of the crowd, and Aziraphale could see a distinct shiny blackness between the milling passers-by. His eyes widened and his heart clenched as he sprinted toward the wreckage.

"Crowley!" he shouted as he approached, shoving people out of the way in a very non-angelic manner. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw a black-clad figure stumbling away from the wreck, dark glasses crooked and one hand held to his head. The demon looked up at Aziraphale and blinked – a rare occurrence.

"'Ziraphale?" he mumbled, staggering in the angel's direction.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked, catching Crowley before he could fall. Crowley just blinked at him again.

"Yeah," he said. He looked back at the ruined Bentley, then at the building he had crashed into, then back up at Aziraphale, clearly baffled. "The hell'd that wall come from?"

#45 – Naked

A familiar knock sounded on the door of Crowley's flat, and he called for the angel to enter.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, my dear, but – why are you naked?" Aziraphale stopped in the doorway, hand still clutching the doorknob and eyes wide.

Crowley just continued to dry his hair with a towel, totally unfazed by Aziraphale's reaction.

"I just got out of the shower. You were saying?"

"I – I forgot," Aziraphale said, looking away with a light flush on his cheeks. Crowley grinned.

"Pervert," he said triumphantly, but the word was almost completely muffled by his pants hitting him in the face.

#46 – Drive

Mr. Arnold Jones was on his way home from a long, hard day at work. Or at least that's what he told himself. He had actually spent the entire day shagging his secretary, who was both much younger and much more flexible than dear old Mrs. Jones. Mr. Jones felt this was fair. After all, he had been faithful to Mrs. Jones for 12 of the 28 years they had been married. He had lasted as long as he could.

Mr. Jones stepped into the street while checking his watch, sighing heavily when he realized he was late for dinner. He didn't see the black Bentley hurtling his way until it hit him, and after that he didn't see much at all.

Crowley cussed when the middle-aged businessman tumbled over his hood but barely let his speed drop below 90. He ran the windshield wipers to clean off the blood and sped on; he couldn't afford to stop.

He was already late for dinner.

#47 – Harm

"What's the harm?"

It was Crowley's catchphrase. It never failed to push a human over the edge. Crowley had used it countless times with much success, due to his victims rarely being able to find a suitable answer.

Because really… what was the harm?

But now, watching his best friend sob in agony and despair as gleaming white wings turned dark and an angelic glow began to fade, Crowley felt he had finally found the answer.

#48 – Precious

Angels were like cats. Feathery, divine, poofy cats.

Crowley had been surprised at first by how sensitive an angel's wings were, but now he found it sickeningly adorable that, without fail, every time he even so much as patted Aziraphale's wings the angel would melt in his hands.

Over the years, Crowley had become quite good at massaging the angel's soft wings. He didn't mind, really. The feathers were silky and smelled (forgive the pun) heavenly, making the experience almost as enjoyable for Crowley as it was for Aziraphale.

Crowley stroked a skilled hand over the tender skin near the base of Aziraphale's wing and smiled when he felt the angel shudder at the touch. He leaned down near Aziraphale's ear, burying his hands into the fluffy feathers and eliciting a low moan from his companion.

"It's cute, you know. If you were a cat, you'd be purring."

"Shut-up, Crowley."

#49 – Hunger

"You know you want to."

"Crowley, don't tempt me."

"It can't hurt anything."

"Yes, but –"

"You've never even tried it before. You might like it."

"Have you tried it?"

"Of course I have! I love it."


"Come on, angel. Just do it with me."

"Oh… Fine."

Crowley smiled triumphantly and shoved the jello shot into his associate's hand before downing his own. Aziraphale watched him with distaste before daintily draining his. His eyes widened. It was… good.

"Mm," Crowley groaned appreciatively, reclining back against the bar. "Alcohol in solid form. What will humans think of next?"

#50 – Believe

The Apocalypse was over. Heaven had won, and the denizens of Hell had been almost completely wiped out.

Somewhere on the battlefield an angel was crying, pale hands stained with blood in a futile attempt to save the life of the demon he was crouched over.

"A-angel?" Crowley rasped, reaching out blindly. "You there?" Aziraphale grasped the demon's hand and tugged it to his chest.

"I'm here, Crowley. It's all right."

"Am I… is this it?"

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale said quietly, his voice trembling something terrible. It broke his heart to see those golden eyes wide and sightless, their usual sharpness replaced by pain and fear.

"So… what happens now?" Crowley asked softly after a moment of silence. Aziraphale shook his head.

"I don't know."

"Maybe I'll go to Heaven," Crowley said. It was getting harder for him to breathe. The pain was becoming unbearable, and every word was a struggle. "That would be nice… right?"

"Yeah," Aziraphale said. "Yeah, maybe I'll see you there."

And when the life finally passed out of the demon, the angel cradled the broken body in his arms and desperately tried to believe that that was true.

- - -

I apologize for ending on such a sad note! That's just the way the drabbles fell. Comments are, as always, much loved and treasured.

Thanks, guys!

Tags: fanfic, good omens
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