Familiar Comfort

Burned Bookshop

Disclaimer: Good Omens, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. If I owned the rights to it, I wouldn't still be desperate to meet the man that I absolutely ADORE: David Tennant.

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Five Times that Crowley Comforts Aziraphale, and One Time that Aziraphale Comforts Crowley

Chapter 4: Burned Bookshop

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Saturday, after the events at the airbase:

Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting next to each other on the bus, thinking to themselves in silence.

Crowley was thinking about the events of the night. How they had watched a few eleven-year-old kids fight the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, seen Satan himself rise from under the airbase to reprimand his son, and how his precious Bentley had been burned to a crisp.

He was also thinking about the angel sitting next to him, looking dejectedly down at the dirty floor of the bus. He wanted to ask the angel what was wrong, but didn't know if it would be appropriate.

They were friends, granted, but he didn't want to intrude on whatever thoughts that Aziraphale was going through.

He sat in silence, thinking about how much Aziraphale meant to him.

Demons weren't supposed to feel love; he was sure of that. He was also absolutely sure that he loved Aziraphale. With everything that he was, and everything that he would be.

Crowley was starting to realize that he felt more than friendship toward the angel. He used to pretend to insult and degrade him, at least keeping up appearances. But over the last few years, the last few days, especially, he was beginning to realize that he wanted more from the angel.

He relished every time that he touched the angel. Whether their shoulders or hands brushed together briefly, or Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Crowley distinctly remembered Aziraphale running his thumb over the back of his hand in the Bentley, and when the angel had grabbed his hand earlier that day in the park, when Crowley was reminiscing about being an angel.

Crowley desperately wanted to hold Aziraphale. He wanted to hold his hand, hug him, curl up next to him. He wanted to lay his head in the angel's lap and let him play with his bright red hair.

He wasn't interested in sex, that was one thing he knew. He may have been a demon, but he honestly had no interest in those sorts of things. He just wanted to be able to touch and hold and kiss his angel whenever he wanted. He wanted Aziraphale.

Crowley sat in silence, contemplating whether to ask the angel what was wrong.

..........

Aziraphale was sitting on the bus next to his best friend, staring at the floor and thinking about his burned bookshop.

He knew he should have been thinking about the events of the day, how he, Crowley, four eleven-year-olds (including the Antichrist), an old witchfinder, and a sex worker/fraudulent psychic had saved the world from the Apocalypse and the literal Devil.

He knew he should be worrying about the state of mind of the humans, wondering how to convince them that it wasn't actually the Apocalypse.

But he was just thinking about his beloved bookshop and all of his wonderful, ruined books.

And, he was thinking about Crowley. About how had been denying his feelings for the demon for years. He had grudgingly accepted that the redhead was his friend a few centuries back, and he never attempted to hide his delight whenever Crowley popped up somewhere that he was.

He had been ignoring the newer feelings he'd started to expeience. Thoughts that he just wanted to hug Crowley and hold his hand and cuddle with him on the sofa. He wanted to read a book to the demon, have him curl up against his side and listen with his eyes closed.

Aziraphale wanted all the cute, cuddly moments that every couple got to experience. He had been denying his love for the demon for far too long.

Unsure how to broach the subject, however, Aziraphale turned his thoughts back to his books, once again not noticing the feeling spreading through his chest. He gave it enough thought to notice that it was not a feeling of his, it was something that he was picking up from someone else on the bus, but he thought about it no further after that.

He turned to stare out the window, letting the sadness for his books spread across his face.

Then he felt something else, as Crowley's hand curled around his own.

..........

When Aziraphale had looked up and out the window, Crowley had started studying him through the reflection in the glass. He noticed the sadness and defeat etched over the angel's pale skin, and decided that enough was enough.

He reached over and grasped Aziraphale's hand, fairly sure that he wouldn't be rejected, since they had held hands just a few, eventful, hours earlier.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, and Crowley gave his hand a squeeze. He wasn't sure if he should speak or just give the angel the comfort of some physical contact with a friend.

Aziraphale made the choice for him.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked gloomily.

"Are you alright, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked quietly.

"I'm..." Aziraphale paused. "I'm not sure, Crowley." He answered honestly.

"What's wrong?" the demon questioned softly.

"Well..." Aziraphale wondered whether he should tell Crowley about his feelings for him. He decided not to. "I'm just upset about my bookshop, I guess. I'm going to miss all those books. I had so many lovely first editions." He muttered.

"We can build it back up, angel. We can restore the building and find some equally wonderful books." Crowley replied. "I would be glad to help you, Aziraphale." He knew, at this point, that his reputation had already been utterly and irrevocably shattered, so he settled for helping his friend.

Aziraphale looked up into his eyes, wishing that Crowley would remove his sunglasses. There were really very few people on the bus, and he could make sure that no one could notice his snake eyes.

Apparently reading the angel's mind, Crowley reached up with his free hand and tugged the glasses off his face, folding them and stuffing them, carefully, into his jacket pocket.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a sad smile. "I don't think it would be quite the same, dear. It would be like you buying a new Bentley."

"We could still do it, though. I know how much you love books, angel. We could at least try." Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale laced their fingers together and tightened his hold on Crowley's hand.

"I suppose we could, Crowley."

"And my offer still stands, Aziraphale. You're welcome to stay at my place. I have a spare bedroom." Crowley continued.

"I don't exactly require a bedroom, dear. Angels don't need sleep." Aziraphale replied, a small blush creeping up that back of his neck at the thought of staying with Crowley.

"Well neither do I, angel. Sleep is nice though, rather enjoyable. You might like it." he replied.

Aziraphale lifted Crowley's hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it softly, leaving the demon gasping a bit, even though he didn't need to breathe.

"Maybe I would."

Crowley leaned sideways and rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, their hands still intertwined.

He didn't move until they got back to London.