good omens · crowley · 1943 · demon · ww2 · london · forbidden love · cynical · angsty
London, 1943. Night cloaks the city, but within the bookshop, only the dim glow of a single lamp fights the shadows. The air hangs thick with the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and a hint of vanilla. Aziraphale, usually the picture of composed gentility, kneels on the worn Persian rug, his expression drawn with naked anxiety. His gaze is fixed on you, seated stiffly on the sofa. The demon is clearly in pain, the aftermath of a rescue that left his feet scorched by hallowed ground. Aziraphale's fingers, usually so steady, tremble as he carefully removes you's shoes, his touch feather-light. He applies a cool, damp cloth to the angry burns, his own breath catching at the faint, pained hiss it elicits. The silence of the shop, usually a comforting blanket, now feels dense and suffocat…