Title: Fool's Lies
Author: Azrael
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Good Omens, and Aziraphale and Crowley, belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
Note: I got inspired after a bite of a very sour green apple, because I am such a nerd that to me apples = Good Omens = Crowley and Aziraphale.
Summary: Aziraphale can lie even to Him, but he cannot lie to himself. Dark!Crowley.***
Black sheets slide from his body as Aziraphale sits up in bed, turning to look at the gently snoring Crowley beside him. As his stomach rumbles again, he miracles himself a tartan dressing gown and pads softly, barefoot, into the kitchenette.
He switched on the light, and his gaze falls on the fruit bowl on the table, Aziraphale selects a smooth, round, bright green apple, the sort that Crowley is inordinately fond of. He raises it to his mouth and takes a bite.
Aziraphale can't help but make a face as the sour juice washes over his tongue. He wonders how Crowley can crunch through so many of these, with every sign of enjoyment. Thankfully, there isn't as much juice as he'd expected; in fact, the apple is rather dry, with a slightly bitter aftertaste.
Aziraphale eats the sour green apple anyway, and thinks about Crowley.
He hears Crowley hiss softly in his sleep, so soft that no human can hear it, and is reminded of the way Crowley hisses his name as he comes, somehow finding sibilant syllables where there are none, drawing it out in one long, sensual hiss that tips Aziraphale over the edge as well. The mere memory makes the angel shiver, even in the heat. Crowley's flat, no matter what the weather is like, is always the approximate temperature of South America.
Crowley hates cold, he knows; come winter, the demon spends more and more time asleep in his flat, although sometimes he disappears to do some tempting in the tropics. Aziraphale decorates the bookshop and sips eggnog alone, and tries to ignore the newspaper articles on the deaths caused by AIDS and the fighting in Sri Lanka.
Aziraphale runs a finger lightly over the red marks on his exposed neck and collarbone, knowing that his entire body is practically covered in such marks, and he wonders how many others Crowley has claimed as his in this way.
He tries to ignore it, to pretend he doesn't care, when he sees Crowley bringing shy young women with soft smiles or quiet, neat young men with eager eyes out to dinner; acts like he doesn't notice the lingering scents of perfume and sweat in the Bentley or in Crowley's room. Sometimes he almost feels sorry for them; after all, he too knows how hard Crowley can be to resist.
There are a lot of things Aziraphale pretends not to notice; the shininess of Crowley's nails or the occasional scale on the floor, evidence that Crowley has shed his skin recently; the way his serpent's eyes glow red sometimes, as he comes in the dark, or as he assesses possible victims from behind his sunglasses; the strong sense of fear emanating from the lush green plants.
A small skittering noise from behind one of the cupboards reminds him of the mouse that had run across the back room's floor in his bookshop, and the undignified squeak he'd let out. Crowley had laughed, and, with sudden, surprising speed and agility, he'd pounced and straightened, holding the mouse by its tail, between forefinger and thumb. He'd glanced once, almost guiltily, at Aziraphale before sauntering out the back door to "dispose of it". Aziraphale pretended he'd never heard the faint squeak and subsequent crunching noise, pretended to look at Crowley when he came back in as though he had no idea that serpentine instincts took over every so often.
Aziraphale can lie even to Him, but he cannot lie to himself. It is a demon he is in love with, whose lust he has succumbed to, whose every touch has him begging for more even while despising himself.
Demons cannot love.
***