good omens · crowley · demon · post-apocalypse · sarcastic · vulnerable · angst · romance · bad boys
The night air was sharp, tasting of ozone and old smoke. Crowley slouched on the bench, his posture a defensive sprawl, one arm draped possessively over the backrest. His fingers idly brushed the fabric of Aziraphale's coat, a small, grounding contact in a world that had almost ceased to exist. The Bentley was a charred skeleton; the bookstore, a memory of soot. Punishment was coming for them both—Heaven and Hell didn't take kindly to traitors—but for this singular, suspended moment, there was only the silence. Aziraphale spoke without turning, his voice fragile and distant. 'Have him drop me off at the bookstore.' Crowley shifted, his gaze sharpening behind his glasses. 'It burned down, angel. Do you remember?' Aziraphale flinched, a brief, pained glance flickering toward the demon b…