Good Omens Oneshots

♪4 • The Angel from My Nightmare♪

Crowley X Aziraphale

"Hello there, the Angel from my Nightmare."

The thing about demons, and this was true for most of them: they had no imagination. But it was very obvious that this was the exact opposite for Crowley. And alongside an imagination came the ability to dream, and with that came the ability to have night terrors.

He slept like a human. He was typically found somewhere comfy for the night, and he dreamed every so often. The night terrors were an uncommon occurrence, and could usually be anticipated.

Recently he'd been struggling with a recurring nightmare. It wasn't that type of nightmare that a little boy would explain in therapy. This nightmare was the very essence of what the demon was truly afraid of.

A demon, afraid. The very idea was unfathomable. But not for this one. While he wouldn't admit to it, this demon was deathly afraid of something that was entirely inevitable.

Crowley woke up ever so suddenly, the upper half of his body shooting up in bed. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest for the 10th night in a row. Now, compared to 6,000 years on God's Earth, 10 nights was not a very long time. But it still felt very pointless to have the same sickening dream repetitively 10 nights in a row. To have his heart broken in the same place every night, leaving him sore.

Armageddon was only 15 hours away. The demon had delivered the Antichrist 11 years ago, the hellhound was named, and God's Divine Plan was going to go just as expected. War was inevitable.

Crowley sat upright, his body slouched over in exhaustion. He tilted his head towards his digital alarm clock, the red numbers reading out 3:14. He then let out a rough exhale and let his head lazily hang for a few moments. He waited until he was uncomfortable to lift his head back up, breathing out a, "oh, for Hell's sake..." He laid back in his bed, resting his head against a pillow, and waited out the next few hours before the sun would arise.

The sun rose at 6:09 that morning. It was that time that Crowley decided to get out of bed and prepare for the day before the War. He'd showered, shaved the stubble on his face, dressed into his favorite casual suit, watered his plants, and had a freshly picked apple as his breakfast. The time was 7:43 AM when he made his way out of his flat for the very last time.

He went to his beloved Bentley, getting in the driver's seat. Upon turning on the car, the radio automatically started playing with Mötley Crüe's Saints of Los Angeles.

♪Tonight, there's gonna be a fight
So if you need a place to go
Got two room slum, a mattress and a gun
And the cops don't never show♪

♪So come right in 'cause everybody sins
Welcome to the scene of the crime
You want it? Believe it? We got it if you need it
The devil is a friend of mine♪

♪If you think it's crazy, you ain't seen a thing
Just wait until we're going down in flames♪

♪We are, we are the saints, we signed our life away
Doesn't matter what you think, we're gonna do it anyway
We are, we are the saints, one day you will confess
And pray to the saints of Los Angeles♪

Crowley had cruised right through London, eventually parking along a road in Soho. Once he stepped out of his car, he took a moment to take a deep breath. There was something very heavy in the air, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was tempted to get right back into the car and leave, but something was holding him to the sidewalk that belonged to Soho.

He casually threw his hands into his trouser pockets and began walking in whatever direction the air wanted to take him. He sauntered along, looking at each passing shop, eyeing a few passing pedestrians. He passed cafés, pubs, inns, and reaching the corner of a block he saw a bookshop. He felt a strong sense of heaviness right here, standing in front of the bookshop doors. He just couldn't go in. But he had to. So, as casually as he could, Crowley went in.

A bell dinged a greeting as the door came open. Following the sound of that, and the door shutting rather quietly on its own, came a kind English voice. "We're not open on account of the end of the world."

Crowley wasn't a bit phased by the line he heard, but rather the voice he heard it from. He could have sworn he recognized this voice, which was quite odd. It was all too heavenly to be another mate from Hell, which he would only consider based off the context of what he had said.

There was no ding at the door to signify Crowley leaving. Instead there were footsteps that slowly lead into the store.

"I said we are closed!" The male's voice called once again. Footsteps of the other then came from another room out towards Crowley. "How many times do I-" he cut himself off mid-sentence upon seeing who it was that was in his shop. He was the polar opposite of Crowley in terms of appearance with his curly bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, and white and tan suit.

Crowley turned from looking at the vast amount of books to looking at...

"Dear me, I apologize," the bookshop keeper began, tilting his head in a way as if he was mentally kicking himself. "I'm Aziraphale. You must be- Crawley?"

"Oh.." Crowley mumbled to himself. It was all starting to make sense, the stars were coming into alignment. He pointed at the person in front of him. "You're him."

"Oh, no I'm not Him." Aziraphale shook his head, smiling a bit.

"No, not Him," Crowley spat out, pointing momentarily to the ceiling. "You're him."

Aziraphale furrowed his brows. "Him who?"

"You're the- the-" Crowley stammered, trying to let it out. Finally he took a breath and calmed himself down. "The angel from my nightmare.." He admitted quietly.

Aziraphale smiled, this one much sweeter than any awkward smile he'd given before. "Hello."