Title: Summer in the City
Author: viridian_magpie
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Summary: The 11th century AD: Madrid is a town full of sin, of heat, of angels and of demons. C/A. (very small mention of het).***
- In Madrid, in the year of our Lord 1087, lived a young man named Isidor. -
Raucous laughter, a roar from the crowd of patrons, drunken singing, wine, wine, wine, and women. Lots of pretty girls with broad bosoms and well-rounded curves and full lips. Pinch the beauty serving the roast beef and hear her squeal. It's every carnal creature's dream and he revels in it. More souls for his side, tough that's not the important bit. Ah no, it's the sheer sinful pleasure he derives from drinking good wine and eating good food and, if she is willing, bedding a good girl as dessert. He'll devour her body even as he leads her soul into eternal damnation. Humans, they were so easily Tempted. Tainted. Damned.
More laughter, he joins in, though these beings cannot even guess why he is laughing. Neither can he.
- He was a farmhand and was well-known for his dutifulness but also for his piety and charity. -
Six weeks, such a short time for a being such as him, such a long time when waiting for something to happen, for someone to come.
No letter, no message, not a single fucking word. They used to meet at least once a week before.
Bastard just did it so he could try to convert him, didn't he? And when he saw he couldn't, because Crowley liked being a demon, that son of a Babylonian whore left, cut of all contact.
Well, he didn't leave, not entirely. He is still in Madrid, somewhere. Doing Good, Thwarting Evil, Saving souls. Crowley snarls out loud, frightening a cat. He watches it scurry away.
“Yesss, run, you ssstinking fleabag,” he growls. Would that it was the angel, he'd run after it and give it a good kicking.
- But the other farmhands were envious and said to their baron that Isidor did nothing but pray all day and that he neglected his duties while they did all the work. -A cool breeze caresses his bare arms and upper body as he strides towards the little shack on the outskirts of Madrid. It's evening finally. After a long, hot day the light is fading at last. The sun sinks slowly below the horizon, turning the world blood red, and then it's gone.
A few more steps and he stands before the hut. It's empty and the door is locked but when has that ever stopped him? A smirk is tugging his lips transforming him into the very image of demonic predator. He lets himself in and takes a quick look around. The room looks different from when he's last seen it. Less tidy for one thing. Various knick-knack dropped haphazardly here and there as if the owner could not be bothered to put them into their correct place or even simply shove them under the bed. Or Miracle them away.
He picks his way through the mess, locating the only chair. It's lying on the floor, hidden behind the table. He rights it and sits down. Then he waits.
- The baron went to investigate and, indeed, he saw Isidor kneeling and praying. -
About an hour has passed when the door finally opens and Aziraphale walks in. “Walks” is not quite the right word; he shuffles through the door, moving like an old human plagued by arthritis and rheumatism and various other afflictions of the old.
It seems he is as shortsighted as many of them, too, for it isn't until Crowley loudly clears his throat that the angel notices him. He turns towards the demon and winces.
Crowley would like to wince, as well. Haggard face, dark circles underneath his eyes, dirty hair, sunburnt skin. Aziraphale looks truly dreadful.
“What happened to you?”
It is as much an exclamation of shock as a question. What could the angel have done to look like this?
“Well?” Crowley has never claimed to be patient. Anyway, he has a right to know, he tells himself. Obviously, whatever is responsible for Aziraphale's current state is the reason for that 7-week disappearance act, as well.
The angel opens his mouth, then closes it. He limps towards the bed and lets himself drop onto it, closing his eyes.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, lips barely moving. They look cracked, Crowley absently notes.
“Nothing?” His fingers start tap dancing on the table.
“Mhm.”
A long silence follows during which the demon glowers at this counterpart. If it were anyone other than Aziraphale on the receiving end of that glare, they'd long be cowering and whimpering in front of him. As it is, Airaphale isn't affected at all. He begins to snore softly.
That's a first. Up until now Crowley has never seen the angel sleep. He never thought he would. Doze perhaps, that he could imagine, but slumber so deeply as to start emitting such noises?
There is definitely something fishy going on.
The demon has a brief debate with himself. On one hand, the angel looks kind of … nice like this. On the other, he really wants to know what this is all about.
As with the apple, curiosity wins out.
He leans over the short distance to the bed and shakes the angel's shoulder.
“Aziraphale?”
“Hngk.”
“Aziraphale. Wake up.”
Eyes flicker open, staring blankly.
“Wha?”
“Aziraphale.” Third time's the charm, right? “Tell me, what happened.”
It's a command and it's followed by pleas and gentle coaxing and angry snarls and pouting till finally the angel relents and begins his tale. It's an assignment, he states, the specifics saying that he must not use his angelic powers as that would defeat the purpose. Not that he could, he amends with a deprecating smile. He is so tired.
- However, it was not the other farmhands, who ploughed all the fields, but an angel with two white oxen. -
Aziraphale's eyes are shut tight again. He looks so weary, lying on his stomach like that. It's no wonder, Crowley thinks. But what to do about it? He ponders the problem for a while, then grins. A demon such as him is nothing if not creative.
Moments later the angel squeaks and tries to get up quickly. Crowley won't let him, sitting on him.
“Just relax,” he murmurs as his hands dance over now naked flesh, “and let me do the rest.”
He kneads the shoulder muscles which are stiff and hard. Aziraphale grunts, then groans and hisses as Crowley's fingers work on a particularly tight knot.
The sounds these skilful hands elicit from the divine being are quite … carnal, the demon muses and a dark chuckle escapes. Lips join fingers prompting the angel to moan helplessly.
He works on the arms next, massaging slowly, sinfully. He Tempts, but does not Taint, never Damns. Not this creature.
A shift and he's working lower down now, rubbing the angel's calves, kissing the hollow of the knee. The other whimpers, twitching. Aziraphale is ticklish. It's a source of delight for Crowley usually but this time he will not torture him. It's not fun if his Enemy/Friend/Lover can't retaliate. In fact,…
A hand is slipped underneath the naked body, pushing upward till the angel's butt is raised. He changes his grip and strokes.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale rasps. His voice his deep at first but quickly the pitch changes and the “Please” that follows his name is high and laced with want.
He speeds up the motions of his hand while nibbling on the soft flesh of the angel's thigh. Pants echo through the shack till they end abruptly with a wordless shout. Aziraphale's body slumps down. Crowley waves his hand almost lazily and they're both lying on clean linen sheets.
“Rest,” he whispers, planting a final kiss on his lover's brow. Aziraphale is already asleep.
***