31 Days of Kisses: A Good Omen Advent Calendar

Hate How Much I Love You

Summary:

Five times Movie Script!Crowley tried to confess his feelings to Aziraphale, and one time Aziraphale actually seemed to understand.

Notes:

The only way I can process Movie Script!Crowley is that the hopelessness of his love has caused him to become bitter and want to run away to Alpha Centuari to escape it.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

Thanks to my wonderful beta Deamonia.

*  *  * 

"Aziraphale, my annoying angel," Crowley said while idly helping reassemble an ancient terracotta phallus, "I've grown accustomed to your face."

"Well, I should hope so," Aziraphale said mildly. He carefully fitted a piece in place. "It's been six millennia. If you didn't recognise me by now, I'd be worried about you."

"That–that's not what I meant, you idiot."

Aziraphale shrugged. "Quite realistically sculpted, isn't it? But not actually a face."

"I hate you," muttered Crowley. He hated feeling at a disadvantage to the angel, and he felt that was exactly where he was.

"That's nice. How about a game of draughts?"

Crowley cheated, but now he knew that Aziraphale knew he cheated and just indulged him, which was somehow the worst thing in the world. Trust an angel to suck all of the fun out of something.

He still played with him every week, regardless.

* * *

Crowley tried again a few years later, as they stared at a new acquisition of the pornography the humans passed off as Religiously Inspired Old Masters. "Aziraphale."

"Yes?"

"Doesn't this inspire anything in you?"

"Rather heavy use of pink skin tone, perhaps. I'm afraid that if I miracle the dirt off it will be quite blinding."

"I mean, inspire anything regarding us. You and me," Crowley added, hinting broadly. It was always his only hope of getting through to Aziraphale.

"I think that's supposed to be Michael vanquishing you, not me."

"When did I ever have anything to do with Michael?"

"Besides, I used to wear rather more clothes in those days. Artists will be artists." Aziraphale sighed. "I suppose it is vaguely reminiscent of that time in the sixth century you got all worked up when we wrestled and I cast you down the mountain."

Crowley turned bright red "We don't talk about that. We don't ever talk about that."

"My dear demon, nothing to be embarrassed about. Seemed quite the kindest thing to do, lending you a hand in your moment of hard fate, as it were."

Aziraphale smiled, as soft and pink and sweet as a stick of candy floss, and Crowley reflected that he had never encountered anything as terrifying and implacable as Aziraphale when he donned his air of innocent stupidity. Considering Crowley had gone up against Satan himself, that was saying something.

"I really do hate you," Crowley snarled. "I have no idea why I spend so much time with you when there's much more interesting things to do. And people."

"Because you're the best friend I've ever had," Aziraphale said, and Crowley was reminded that no one could devastate just like a smiting angel. He scowled and flounced – no, he was a demon, demons didn't flounce, he stalked – back to his nightclub, and threw some patrons out for the Hell of it.