Good Omens: The Bachelor Party (Aziraphale x Crowley)

Chapter Eight: Consequences

Aziraphale blinked as streams of light sliced through the haphazard blinds covering the windows. The massive doom glass window above them illuminated a few of the antique wooden bookshelves that had been there since he'd opened the bookshop in 1800. But in all the years the angel had owned the shop, he'd never seen it in such a state of distress.

He pulled at a massive tartan comforter surrounding him and shivered from the bare wood against his back. Aziraphale eased up to a sitting position, glancing around him, and assessed the damages.

His desk now leaned to one side, while his couch had completely broken in two. At the time, he hadn't cared, but he groaned at the sight. His eyes trailed around the room. Books littered the floor all about them. If he hadn't known any better, Aziraphale would've guessed they had conjured a sea of literature to crash through the fragile doors of the bookshop. It seemed to swirl around them before cascading up the staircase to the bedroom.

One of the more massive bookshelves had been knocked over, scattering scrolls and leather-bound novels across a desk. Wine bottles glittered in the slivers of light pouring in from the afternoon sun.

Yet, none of that worried Aziraphale as much as the pounding headache that drummed out from inside his skull. His muscles protested any movement, especially his back and thighs. He had never awoken in such a bizarre state in the last millennia, at least. And the small part of his mind that could still process rational thought remembered that he had miracled himself well and sober before falling asleep next to–

"Crowley?"

A thin form shifted underneath the blanket next to him. Crowley's head poked out from underneath the monstrous comforter, and he blinked blearily in the light. He yawned, almost unhinging his jaw, then flicked his tongue in the air. His gaze shifted to Aziraphale, and he snuggled closer, nuzzling against his side before wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Angel, I–Ouch–What the Hell?" Crowley winced, then he glanced behind him. "I'm sore? Must have forgotten to miracle that away last night." He snapped his fingers, then paused. His slitted snake-eyes widened, and he flung himself up with a hiss of pain. He snapped again, and again. "I can't," his eyes curtained with golden terror. "Angel, I can't miracle it away!" He glanced at the piles of books around him and snapped his fingers again. "I can't, I can't. Angel! I can't," he snarled, then twisted his body around and knelt by Aziraphale. His arms fanned out to his sides like the hood of a very irritated and alarmed cobra. "Something's wrong. Can you?"

Aziraphale wet his dry lips, then tried to miracle away his aches. Nothing happened. He tried to ease his headache and still nothing. The angel spied the strewn books and snapped his fingers. Again, no noticeable result. "Well, my dear, something is definitely wrong."

"You too?" Crowley snapped his head around; his eyes darted, seeking out every shadowed corner.

Aziraphale placed a hand on his arm, and Crowley flinched as though his terror level neared an all-time high. "My dear, we are together still. We will figure this out. But, first, you need to calm down. Remember to breath."

The demon hissed, more in general than at the angel, but he did let out a deep, ragged breath. His arms lowered a fraction. However, he refused to let his gaze slip from the room around them.

Aziraphale did have to admit that it was rather disconcerting to be without their powers. It had only happened to them a handful of times, but never at the same time. His eyes widened. "Oh, dear." He bit his lip, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

"What?" Crowley flicked his gaze at him. "What is it?"

"At a guess, I'd say this is the work of Heaven and Hell working together."