Title: Seafoam and Stardust
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley & Mycroft/Lestrade
Fandom: Good Omens & Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Note: I have no idea where this came from. I heard Seafoam and Stardust in my head, it turned into a prompt, and this happened. Blame the quarantine...
Summary: A bittersweet little take on the Afterlife. After a long and happy retirement, this is what awaits our boys. Major character death only in so far as they both are dead and this is Heaven. A cross over with Good Omens, because the characters were too good not to use.***
The sunset was gorgeous; white clouds tinted orange and apricot and rose gold and pink by the westering sun, fading to that pale shade of blue you only get in summer, a hint of aquamarine in the blend between ozone and sunlight. Seafoam caressed the bare toes of his long boney feet, feet he had never considered attractive until… Momentary pain flickered in his breast, then dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. The water was tepid, comfortably warm on feet that had never had good circulation. One of his many physical failings, although… he felt different, somehow. Gone was the shortness of breath that advancing age had brought with it. His joints had lost their stiffness...
Mycroft stared out to sea for a while, lost. Why was he here? He could not remember arriving on the coast, although he must have done so. He could not remember the processes involved; the packing, the car journey, the hotel… He knew his memory failed him more and more with the passing years, but this... Bewildered, he watched the sunset, wondering why nobody else was on the beach. Surely in this weather there would be too many people, accompanied by children of varying sizes and a variety of annoying family pets. Nobody else marred this picture-perfect scene. Curiosity warred with bewilderment.
Eventually, even if for the fact that he had nothing else to do and the sun was going down, albeit slowly, he put one foot in front of the other and walked along the beach, splashing gently in the margins of water and sand. He was suddenly aware of his own clothes; his favoured summer linen, trousers rolled to the knee, as he had done on their honeymoon… Pain flickered again; the pain of loss, of isolation. Mycroft paused, wondering why it did not wrack him with soul shredding grief as he absolutely knew it had done for the last three years. Blinking, he looked around him, wondering again where he was and how he had got there. His loafers dangled rather uselessly from one hand. He was wearing his favourite baggy white linen shirt with its grandad collar, open at the neck to show off a few straggly ginger chest hairs, sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows, revealing his pale freckled forearms to the elements. He could hardly believe those arms had once held a lover…
“Darlin’?” The familiar voice was a shock. He turned his head, thinning auburn hair caught by the breeze, tossing it into disarray. Then Mycroft saw him, emerging from the line of high wind-swept sand dunes at an easy saunter, looking for all the world as though he belonged there, as though this was just a normal day. Gregory, the love of his life, and dead these past three interminable years…
“How…?” For once, he was lost for words. Did he really remember the last three painful isolated years, the soul-crushing loneliness, the emasculation of loss? Or had it simply been a bad nightmare? Unable to parse the feelings, he simply stood there, watching as Gregory drew steadily closer. His lover’s face split into that familiar delighted grin. He was younger, fresher, no longer beset by stiffness in his limbs, nor with as much silver in his hair. He was still pepper and salt grey, as he had been when they first met, although those dark eyes had not dimmed with age.
“God, you’re beautiful,” said the voice that he had almost forgotten the sound of. “Well, I hadn’t exactly forgotten what you looked like, just...it’s like being reminded, you know? LIke waking up from a sleep, realising you’re there… You...alright, Gorgeous? Missed you.” Gregory paused, a little uncertain. “This...this is where you want to be, isn’t it?”
“I...where am I? I don’t understand.”
“The afterlife, Darlin’. You’re here at last, and I’ve waited so long…”
“I’m dead?” Oddly, it did not come as much of a shock. Mycroft processed this. His last memory was hazy...sirens, lights, brightness...not much more. Confusion, voices… meaningless in the void...darkness… He struggled to catch snatches of memory, elusive as a dream. Feeling odd, that morning...legs giving out...unable to grasp with his right hand, or smile...or...oh. Yes. That was it. “I’m dead,” he said, and this time it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, you are,” Greg was saying. “Look at you, more gorgeous than ever. Come here, love. We have all the time in the world now.” He was drawn into a familiar hug, strong arms—arms that were stronger than he remembered—wrapped around him gently, firmly, protectively. He melted into the embrace, into the warm remembered feeling of being held. He took a shaky breath, almost overloaded with emotion.
"What was it in the end, darlin', heart attack?" They were walking up off the beach, away from the surf, into the gathering darkness that wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Overhead the sky was dotted with stars, no light pollution from any earthly city to mar their brilliance. They shimmered, as if stardust was falling from them.
"As if you didn't know, it was a stroke,” Mycroft replied, “and I long ago had a DNR clause put into my records."
"DNR?"
"Do not resuscitate. I couldn't bear to live impaired, after all. Moreover, living without you was bad enough, living without you and with faculties impaired was unthinkable."
Greg smiled, soft. "Sorry you had to, live without me, I mean. How long was it? Time moves differently now."
"Three intolerably long, boring, not to mention painful years."
"Well, you're here now.” The arms gave him a reassuring squeeze. “The eternal holiday…"
"Can we hold each other again?" Mycroft suddenly seemed on the verge of tears. "I missed your arms the most."
"Aw, Gorgeous, of course." Arms wrapped him in a tight embrace, cuddling him close, and he smelled the familiar scents of soap, tobacco, and something uniquely Greg… Relief coursed through him, washing anxiety away, and he snuggled without reservation into the embrace. Greg turned him and they began, still close, to walk up a slight incline through the dunes. The path opened up before them and a cottage appeared in view, roses and wisteria dripping their heavy blooms around the door, the air burgeoning with their comforting scent. Stone warmed by the westering summer sun, the mellow walls glowed soft gold. Oak and ash and beech formed a backdrop, rowan and willow flanking messy lawns, grass falling over the edge of a burbling stream. A canopied rocking seat stood in front of the cottage, facing the gateway.
"The nights I've sat here, waiting for you. Imagining you walking through that gate, taking me in your arms..."
“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner.”
“Ah, no, love. Each to his own time. You come when it’s right, not before. Besides, you’re here now.”
“I wish I’d known.”
“What, about this?” Greg laughed. “Why do you think we don’t find out? People would want to get here too fast. No, time in life is needed, for the soul to learn, and grow, and walk its path.”
“How long can we stay?”
“Long as we want.”
“Oh, good evening.” They both looked up at the newcomer standing by their gate, hardly anyone’s vision of an angel, but an angel nevertheless. Floating on eye level, many eyes looked at them from between many wings, an odd combination, which, as they watched, morphed into the vision of a slightly pudgy man with a mass of blond curls and blue eyes and a suit… A suit? “Ah, this is better. More familiar to you, yes?” He had retained one pair of soft white wings, in keeping with the image.
“Mycroft, I’d love you to meet Aziraphale,” Greg said. “He’s kind of an unofficial guide here.”
“Where is here, exactly?”
“What amounts to Heaven, these days,” the angel explained. “Although we recently amalgamated with Hell. It’s a far more efficient practice, more suited to modern...living. We tried job exchanges, sabbaticals, that kind of thing, and then decided it would be best and more efficient use of our time and resources to...join forces, as it were. To come to some sort of middle ground...”
“I see,” Mycroft said, trying to assimilate this new piece of information. It made an odd kind of sense, when one considered it. He was about to speak when another voice reached their ears.
“Angel? Ah, there you are…” In contrast to the Angel, the newcomer loping down the path toward them was altogether darker, more...slithery, and Mycroft recognised his own brand of menacing glower… “Oh, a newby. Welcome, traveller…” the stranger began.
“Crowley, we’ve been through all that,” Aziraphale told the...demon? Mycroft wondered. Lean frame dressed all in Gothic black and with that shock of flame red hair...Demon, or my name is not Mycroft Holmes.
“Oh, have you?” Crowley drawled, bored. “Well, welcome anyway. Hope it’s what you envisioned.” He draped himself around the angel’s shoulders, and kissed his cheek. Aziraphale flushed pink.
“I was j.j.just filling them in on our...job share,” Aziraphale said, smiling bashfully..
The demon nodded. “Well, most humans these days are inconsiderate in the extreme,” he drawled. “Seem to be a balance between good and evil to such an extent it’s getting harder to decide where they should go after they die, so, in the spirit of streamlining bureaucracy, whatever that means," he said, making air quotes with his long narrow fingers, "welcome to...whatever this is now, Alexander Aubrey Mycroft Holmes.”
“Come along now, you’ll want to get settled,” Aziraphale was back to his solicitousness, ushering them along. “Crowley, dear, go put the kettle on. I think this one might need a restorative cuppa.”
“Keep calm and drink tea, is it?” Crowley said, fondly, and blinked out of existence with a wink.
“You mustn’t mind Crowley,” Aziraphale added. “Terrible lack of manners sometimes. I am trying to teach him, but…old dog, new tricks? Most of his...colleagues are the same. It’s the way they were brought up I imagine…No customer service values…” He wandered off in the direction of the cottage, muttering to himself, wings a flutter. He reminded Mycroft strongly of a Regency heroine, nonplussed at the wayward ways of the world and its darker denizens.
The cottage was comfortable and cozy, but with enough room to feel more like his parents’ house. Inside there were oak beams, high enough not to knock your head on, and real fires, with comfortable chairs and piles of books and everything he might need, including his favourite suits in the wardrobe, and even his favourite umbrella in the hallway. "It’s all here, whatever you wish for,” Aziraphale was saying. “Of course, the umbrella doesn’t do everything it used to,” he commented with the barest hint of disapproval, “but it is still fit for its original purpose. Not that you’ll need it. It doesn’t rain much here and when it does it’s more of a polite Regency drizzle instead of a sullen Dickensian downpour.”
"Oh, I dunno,” Crowley said, “Satan does like his little jokes from time to time. We had a corker of a storm last year...Spent two weeks repairing the fjords. Still, keeps things from getting boring, after all…”
"Right, well, we’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale said, somewhat hastily, and nudged Crowley, who nodded, having made the cottage’s occupants a pot of tea and somehow baked some fresh scones in the time it took to blink, but miracles here weren’t just an angel’s province. With a rakish grin from the demon, and a small wave from the angel, they both winked out of existence.
In the silence that followed, punctuated solely by the crackling of the wood in the fireplace, Mycroft regarded Greg with a wary look.
“You have no idea how glad I am you made it,” Greg said, stepping close to fill the gap.
“You have no idea how relieved I am too,” Mycroft said. “I keep thinking this is a dream. I shall wake up to pain and loss and…”
“Woah, no you won’t. You’re done with life, Mycroft Holmes. It carries on without you now. Let it. No haunting people for you…”
“I wish...I wish I could drop in on Anthea from time to time…”
“Nothing wrong in a little observation, but now you’re here, and you’re mine, and I am never letting you go again. Hear me?”
“I hear you, Husband.”
Greg grinned, and grabbed him for a hug, and Mycroft found he had never been so happy in his life. Worldly cares had disappeared. This was a new stage in his...whatever it was...existence, perhaps. For now, Alexander Aubry Mycroft Holmes was more than content with seafoam and stardust.
***