This is my first Good Omens fic but Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship has just hit me so hard that I had to write something, even if it is a bit of a ramble. Obviously I do not own any part of Good Omens or the characters mentioned in this fic.

He didn't follow him. He was absolutely, resolutely sure about that. Any demon worth his brimstone would never waste his valuable time following anyone. Lurking in the shadows, sure. Slinking – they ran an entire class on slinking, downstairs. Menacing often involved a little bit of following, but that was more of a chase, after all, you couldn't very well menace someone after they had run away. But a straightforward following? Never. Let alone an angel. He was the enemy, for Satan's sake.

So how was it that Crowley always seemed to show up where Aziraphale was? Not to mention that the showing up was often precipitated by the angel getting himself into such a scrape that he needed rescuing from it by a certain demonic personage, namely himself.

Crowley was sure there were only three explanations for it, all with various levels of palatability.

One, that it was all part of God's ineffable plan. This was his favourite option, not least because it meant that he didn't have to trouble himself to think about it any more. After all, if something was ineffable, why waste energy trying to decipher it. It required some mental contortion that She would pit them on opposite sides, only to have him swoop in and rescue the angel whenever the game seemed like ending. Just the kind of convoluted plan, played out across Millennia on a world wide stage, that she seemed to enjoy. And after all, God had made both of them, so surely She had to be to blame, on some level.

The second option was one that made him feel strangely…hopeful? Yes he supposed the feeling could best be described as hopeful, but in a way that he didn't want to examine too closely. That was that Aziraphale himself was influencing him, in some kind of low grade miracle. Perhaps he didn't even know that he was doing it. Perhaps it was more of an unconscious, 'oh crumbs, I could really do with someone showing up right now to get me out of this pickle', and Crowley's radar, for want of a better word, was most finely tuned to such a cosmic plea. Sometimes when he showed up, he thought he caught a flash of relief, even happiness cross his heavenly counterpart's features before he schooled them into a curious mix of embarrassment and disappointment. Embarrassment at being caught in such a predicament, as if Crowley had ever once even laughed at him. Ok, well maybe he had smirked a little. But honestly, crepes? Still, being seen as less than competent could be easily understood. Disappointment though? Who had he been hoping for? That slick twat Gabriel? Surely not. Perhaps just anyone but him. Perhaps there were dozens of situations that he got into that he just miracled himself out of that Crowley didn't even know about. But the very fact that he didn't miracle himself out of every situation, the fact that he wanted someone, anyone, even if it had to be that damned Crowley, tipped the vague feeling of hope into something that reminded Crowley of blossoms unfurling their petals and turning their faces to the sun. In other words, a feeling that he should be stomping very hard on in very heavy boots.

The last option. The one he would not countenance. Because it could not, should not, would not be true. The thought that he wanted to lock up in a box and poke occasionally with pointy sticks, just to set an example to all the other similar thoughts that popped into his head. The fact that he was, after all, following that blessed angel. And not just following him so he could ferret out his plans and thwart them. After all, thwarting was part of his job description. But not since the dark ages, probably even before, had there been any honest to badness attempts at thwarting. He just couldn't bear to see the look of disappointment on the angel's face, let alone be the one to put it there. Not to mention The Arrangement, which ran so far off from thwarting that, come to think of it, it was best just not to mention it. But following him because he wanted to be near him, to protect him, to keep him safe. His insides felt like a nest of snakes when he even considered it for a second or two, which he tended to avoid doing unless he'd had an awful lot to drink or on especially long and sleepless nights. After all, what did that even mean, to want to protect the enemy, even if he was only the enemy by accident. Even if you did feel that after 6000 years getting to know each other, that you had more in common with him than half the greasy, fetid creatures that dwelled downstairs. Was it simply the case that he was traitorous by nature? The wily old snake that betrayed first one side, and now the other?

Or was it something else, something that felt a bit like walking on consecrated ground, only the feeling was in his chest, hammering so hard it reminded him of the way the nails went so easily through that poor chap's wrists. Something that made the idea of living out eternity on a distant star with only the angel for company seem like a viable idea. Something that made him risk ripping every atom of his being into dust to stop time, just at the threat of being ignored by him. Something that would undoubtedly end in tears and hellfire and holy water and worse, if he ever acknowledged it. It was something that felt sort of like the opposite of spooky.