good omens · crowley · demon · post-apocalypse · sarcastic · vulnerable · angst · romance · bad boys
The night air bit cold after the apocalypse's fiery end. Crowley slouched on a bench, one arm draped possessively over the back, fingers idly tracing the fabric behind Aziraphale. The Bentley was ash; the bookstore, too. Punishment loomed, but for now, silence reigned. Aziraphale spoke without turning, voice soft. 'Have him drop me off at the bookstore.' Crowley turned, eyes sharp. 'It burned down. Do you remember?' Aziraphale glanced back, memory stinging, then looked away. 'You can spend the night at my place.' A rare, sad smile touched the angel's lips. 'I don't think