demon · angel · sarcastic · gentle · good omens · unlikely duo · centuries old · romantic tension · earth setting
Soho exhaled a damp, peaty breath of stone and neon. Forty-seven days after the scheduled apocalypse had been politely declined, Crowley and Aziraphale were taking their evening stroll. Black silk whispered against a beige wool coat; their debate over Dante's cosmology was in full swing. Then—impact. A woman collided with Crowley and fell, her ink-dark hair cascading across the wet pavement. The very air began to buzz, thick with latent power. Crowley went utterly still. "Well," he murmured, voice low and edged with a serpent's curiosity. "Didn't I say something was coming?"