nny | (no subject)

This is just a short Good Omens canon-based fic, for

copinggoggles, written by the somewhat dubious method of putting on Handel's Water Music and waiting for inspiration to strike. Also prompted by my discovery of quite how much cheese I could fit into the pocket of my tweed jacket.

Crowley/Aziraphale, PG-13 at most.

Huge thanks to

indy_go and

tea_and_snark for wonderful beta reading, and any remaining errors are mine. The snippet in italics is quoted from Good Omens, and belongs to Pterry and Gneil. I only wish I could write that well. *g*

Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale.

'Come on,' he said. 'I'll drive us back to London.'

He took a jeep. No one stopped them.

There was a lurch, and something of a shudder, and Crowley thumped his hands against the steering wheel, muttering some very uncharitable things about Americans in general and the American military in particular. Aziraphale murmured something sympathetic, but he couldn't bring himself to be unduly upset- it was rather too nice a day to take on, so. Besides, it wasn't as if they were stranded by the side of a busy motorway, with the heat and dust and miserable noise of far too many people rushing off to various places far too fast. On the contrary, the field they'd coasted to a halt beside was really rather lovely, with a number of trees and a small brook running across one corner.

Ignoring the demon's muttered imprecations, the angel unfolded himself from the car, sighing softly in relief. Practical it might very well be, but the jeep really wasn't a patch on the Bentley for comfort. He wandered over to the fence and leaned on it for a while, beaming genially at the world in general, before clambering up to sit astride the stile and watch the wind make waves in the grass. He wondered, vaguely, quite why such a lovely field wasn't more trampled and threadbare, why it wasn't being used to house sheep or horses or something of the sort, but he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and simply enjoyed the sunlight on his face and Handel's Water Music playing softly in the car.

"I must say, this is rather an improvement on the be-bop you usually choose to inflict on me. You couldn't turn it up a little, could you?" Crowley, who was by now firmly entrenched behind the upraised bonnet, didn't reply. After a moment the angel, looking about himself furtively, waved a hand. There was a sudden blast of music from the car, swiftly followed by a clang from under the bonnet and a curse that made Aziraphale's ears go pink. "Really, my dear," he said reprovingly, a little too quietly to be heard by the demon who had emerged from under the bonnet of the car with a streak of oil across his cheek, rubbing his head and scowling. The angel quickly waved his hand again and the music lowered in volume slightly.

"I don't see what the hurry is, in any case," he added a little more loudly. "It's rather a lovely day, and a beautiful view. You should take advantage while you have the- oh! Marvellous!"

*

Rather as Crowley assumed every vehicle he travelled in to possess a cassette player, the angel, too, had certain expectations. The demon grimaced slightly as, searching the boot for some kind of tool kit or instruction manual, he came across a tartan travel-rug and a thermos filled with slightly milky tea.

"Aziraphale, you really-" he paused, looking at where the angel had been sitting. A moment of panic, that of course he would never admit to, and then he spotted him. Across the field. Halfway up a tree. He snorted incredulously, and took a moment to collect himself before vaulting over the fence, rug conveniently taking care of splinters, and sauntered over.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Given up, have we?" The angel, red-faced and rather short of breath, tweed jacket flapping merrily in the wind, dropped down beside him.

"Just decided to take your advice and stopped to admire the view. Very dignified." He raised an eyebrow and smirked, and Aziraphale flushed slightly.

"Oh do be quiet. There was no one to see."

Crowley bristled slightly at being referred to as 'no one', but Aziraphale seemed completely oblivious, merely tugging the travel-rug from his hand and carefully laying it out under the tree before settling himself comfortably. As Crowley watched in astonishment, he produced a number of small apples from one bulging pocket- that would explain the sudden athletics- and extracted a block of cheese and rather blunt penknife from the other. Crowley shook his head, slightly, dropping down beside the angel.

"Never cease to amaze me, you do."

"I merely believe in being prepared," the angel retorted, a little smugly. He carefully sliced some apple and cheese, munching happily before taking the thermos from Crowley and pouring himself a cup. The demon grinned to himself at the slightly shocked silence that followed. "Crowley…"

"Look, if I'm going to be stuck here, I'm going to enjoy myself." He watched as the angel took a careful sip and hummed appreciatively to himself. It was rather a nice vintage, and cooled to perfection of course. "Unless you'd rather I changed it back…"

"Well I suppose there's no helping it now."

Crowley sniggered quietly to himself at the angel's hurried reply and lay back, hands behind his head, watching the leaves dance in front of the sun.

*

"Do you reckon we'll get in trouble?"

Aziraphael opened his eyes, squinting into the sunlight. "I'm sorry?"

"For the thwarting. What do you think?"

Blast the demon for bringing this up just when he was relaxing. "I don't know. I rather think they'll be inclined to sweep it all under the carpet, what with being got the better of by an eleven year old boy, and everything."

"Hmm." The demon sounded dubious.

"Then again… I suppose we did rather go against orders. Not to mention the working together thing, which I don't imagine is going to go down particularly well." He chewed on his lip, worried. "You don't suppose we shouldn't have…"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to do evil."

Aziraphale frowned slightly to himself, gazing thoughtfully at the leaves. Where had he heard that… suddenly, he laughed. "Dear me, we've known each other an awfully long time, haven't we?" He rather expected something sarcastic, something about it being entirely too long, but there was just an uneasy pause before Crowley agreed. There was something odd about his voice. Aziraphale raised his head and looked over at him, but the demon was staring up at the leaves, eyes unreadable as ever behind dark glasses.

"Well I supposed we shall have to deal with it should it happen." He settled his head back on the grass, closing his eyes and enjoying the sunlight, smiling slightly as a breeze played over his face. "And in the mean time we shall have to take advantage of the time we do have, I suppose."

A sudden shadow fell across his face.

"I suppose."

And he started at the first dry, careful brush of lips against his. And then he moved his head slightly, and his nose got rather squashed against Crowley's, and the sound of the demon's husky laughter against his lips made his stomach twist in a way he didn't think he'd ever felt before. He'd thought there weren't really any more new feelings to experience after so long in this body, in this place, but that was before Crowley's thumb ran gently across his lower lip, opening his mouth very slightly, and leaned closer again. That was before the slightest flicker of a forked tongue whispering across his lip, sliding into his mouth. It was before he moved his own tongue against it, and the demon made a noise that he rather thought he wouldn't rest until he heard again.

And the tape never quite got around to changing to Handel's "We are the Champions."

And they wouldn't have noticed if it had.