Disclaimer: I am neither Neil Gaiman, nor Terry Pratchett. Good Omens is not mine, and I am only borrowing the characters.

Author's Note: This is my first actual finished GO fic, so it is understandable if I've got the characterizations a bit off. (It's not like with Harry Potter, where I'm so comfortable in the character of Sirius Black that I cheerfully mutilate his psyche whenever and however I feel like it, without real thought.) Constructive criticism would be appreciated!

Warnings: Slash. 'S about it.

—o—

He didn't remember who had suggested it; either would be plausible. He didn't know which one had protested so vehemently; either would be probable. Neither had actually gone to such a thing before, not simply for the sake of going, which was strange if one thought about, since they'd been on the planet as long as it had been a planet. Certainly they'd been around when the things were invented, each crediting the other with the initial idea, and had probably had any number of opportunities.

Somehow they'd passed them up.

&

They haven't been at the fair more than two minutes when Aziraphale notices the way Crowley is looking at everyone they pass, golden snake eyes behind dark glasses — he doesn't know how or why he can see through them — dismissing most and lingering on those humans who could pass for attractive with the demon. There aren't many, so it's several minutes more before Aziraphale thinks it necessary to demand what on Earth Crowley thinks he's doing.

The answer, that he's looking for someone to flirt with — he says seduce but Aziraphale ignores it as demonly exaggeration — is met with a startled stare and a stern frown. Still, curious, he can't help asking why.

It is a mortal weakness of his, curiosity.

Crowley says so, as he explains that flirting — seduction — is what one does at these things. He's met with forbidding silence, forced to demand what it is that he has said this time; what didn't the angel like?

Aziraphale only looks at him, long and cool and serious, and he knows he has lost.

He stops looking.

&

Whether this was his idea or not, Crowley decides right away that he is in charge of their evening, and for the moment, Aziraphale is content to let him order them about. Crowley is just a little bit more subtle at pretending to be human, after all.

It is past suppertime and the air is filled with delicious, enticing scents of foods they have never tried, that they could never get anywhere else. Crowley says they can't try any of these fascinating new treats until after they've gone on the rides, or else their bodies will end up puking on each other, so they head first to the rides. Aziraphale buys their tickets, because if he doesn't Crowley won't bother with them.

It seems all the rides here — like at most fairs, Crowley remarks, as if he really knows — are of the twirl-and-hurl variety. Crowley picks the one that looks the most nauseating, and Aziraphale pretends that the thought of riding in it with the demon doesn't give him goose bumps. Not because he likes the idea of his body retching in public — but because he is looking at how small the spinning buckets are at the ends of those long, twirling metal arms. He wonders if he can really put himself in one of those with the demon.

Then Crowley drapes a long arm casually about his shoulders and leans to whisper something taunting in his ear, and Aziraphale agrees, again, but only because he craves more of that touches that wishes it were as innocent as he is supposed to be. He wants more of that look in Crowley's eyes, just barely visible peering over the tops of his glasses. He wants the chance to go on pretending, just for a moment, that they are other than they're made.

So he laughs just as loudly and joyously as the humans, the whole time the tilting and whirling ride is throwing his body against his companion's, cool and unsmiling in the warm night; implacable and composed even in this moment when it would be so easy to give in.

Aziraphale pretends not to notice.

In the back of his mind, he is thinking of eternity.

And the soul Crowley probably doesn't have.

&

Aziraphale wonders aloud what the world of the "carnies" must be like, and then listens in gentle fascination as Crowley describes time lived on the road, full of new towns and new people, setting up and taking down and impatient waiting taking all the time during the off season; of this strange wonderful land of bright lights and jumbled noises, replayed most nights until the rest of the world seems flat. The angel declares that apart from the disorder, and the complete lack of rare first editions, he might enjoy such a life.

Crowley's expression of pure horror can only be met with laughter; so the next few minutes are spent in such disgruntled silence that Aziraphale is practically forced to let him stall three queues at once, simply to bask in the frustration. Then for good measure he lets them jump to the front of the line.

Crowley forces them to get corndogs, though Aziraphale would have preferred something with less innuendo to it — and with good reason, for Crowley wastes no time proving that his tongue can do some truly obscene things when he puts his mind to it. Blushing wildly, Aziraphale focuses on eating his own corndog with shaking hands, and not looking at Crowley again.

He misses the heat in the demon's eyes, watching the angel wrap his lips around the warm end of the snack, and the way that pale hand shakes, too.

&

The candyfloss was a bad idea, and they both realize it when they're standing by the rails surrounding one of the rides, and Crowley is so fascinated by the spun sugar turning Aziraphale's mouth purple, he forgets to tempt a teenager thinking of queue-cutting. And then a toddler, wondering what would happen if he slipped away from his mother. And then, worse, a pair of girls considering what harm it would do if they slipped away from their friends for a swift, snog-filled smoke behind the bathrooms.

When Aziraphale asks what the matter is, with a little frown between his fair brows, Crowley wheezes wordlessly, and silently curses himself for inventing sin on a stick.

He knows the flavor of candyfloss, the feel of it, knows even how it would taste off Aziraphale's tongue.

His breath escapes him in a long, unguarded hiss.

&

It is Crowley that latches their hands together, gripping desperately, but Aziraphale who actually pulls them away into the dark. He needs them properly, discreetly, safely distanced from the crowded fairgrounds before he lets himself consider what it is he's after — what he wants.

Their mouths meet almost immediately, while they are still walking, hurrying away from the crowd and the headlong rush of heedless joy that is humanity. It is a good thing they do not need to breathe, for neither is really willing to stop the frantic, hurried tangling of lips and tongues — and Crowley probably wouldn't let them stop, even if they did need to breathe. There is an urgency in his kiss that says he doesn't care about anything but the ways and the places they are touching.

The lights from the rides and the vendors are still there, out the corners of their eyes, flashing bright and brilliant and steady; so are the smells, thick and oversweet, smooth against the nose and sharp against the half-empty stomach; and then there is the sound of fun, coming through the dark to assail their ears and remind them of the swiftness of forever.

For a moment, Aziraphale is flustered, unsure what to do with his hands, with any part of himself but his tongue and his lips, but in a sinful flash he remembers; the next instant he is making an effort as if his life depends on it. Maybe it does. He gasps a name in the dark, hears a sibilant laugh in response. The next thing he knows, he is watching in mildly bemused silence as his mortal enemy sinks to his knees on the damp grass — then his hands are in Crowley's hair and his gasp of surprise is in the air, mingling with the carnival noises, still drifting toward them.

And this was a miracle.