Authors Notes: This was a sort of, I'm not going to say epiphany because that brings up connotations of brilliance, which I'm not sure I should be claiming just in case the general universe decides to remark. An invasion of my mind by random creative thought I'm going to say. Excuse me if the characters are not acting like themselves, I haven't read Good omens in a while so I did what all great authors do to fill in gaps; lie through their teeth. Please do comment, constructive criticism (and general praise of magnificence) is always appreciated.

Your, half jokingly, but mostly mine

Witchfang

Seven days, A kind of creation

On the first day Crowley is sitting in his apartment kitchen, an impeccably clean and completely unused white space. His hand rests on the equally idle table where someone has placed a note. It's written in the old language and he's read it four times now but still can't believe it. He glares at it in the hopes that will all be some sort of drink induced hallucination or a bad dream of sorts. Demons don't dream, but maybe humanity is rubbing off on him. Otherwise how else would he be this close to tears? And over what? He picks up the note again, this time angrily and reads again.

Dear Crowley.

I'm sorry to have left without saying good bye. I've realised there are things on earth that I can't simply sit by and abide any longer. I've gone to, well, I've gone back.

It's been a pleasure being your friend.

P.S: Please remember to feed the books.

Aziraphale

On the second day Crowley is hurt but doing his darn- doing his Damn best not to feel it. He knows they were on opposing sides and he knows that they had obviously differing loyalties but you see the point is, the point is, HE DESERVED MORE THAN A BLOODY NOTE. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel of his Bentley when he realised he had melted through the rubber and was now holding slightly drippy metal. The weather outside is sunny and warm and Crowley mutters something under his breath as he passes. Two minutes later weathermen are astounded at the sudden gale force winds and rain that no one managed to predict.

Crowley is still not satisfied.

On the third day Crowley is fed up with drinking in bars and going home with men who dress like librarians. All he gets is the morose absence of a hangover, which would at least dull the memory somewhat, and the cloying aftertaste of liquor and dust. He doesn't wasn't to admit it. He doesn't want to think about any of it.

On the fourth day Crowley wonders down to the book shop. The door is locked, but that's never been a problem before. It opens and the sound of the bell makes his fists clench and his heart turn just a little bit. Everything inside is a shambles but to the trained eye it's an organised shambles. You can tell where someone has tried to ineffectually stack what has inevitably become a mountain of books. Bundles of yellowing papers have eaten their paperclips and somehow escaped their bonds, choosing to spiral in corners and plaster themselves to the walls. Despite himself, he goes further, into the little back room that he could probably map out from memory. There's the desk, leaning to one side and stained with tea circles, covered in a layer of dust. The two chairs, only two, are seated on either side. Tucked into a corner is a bed and a tiny kitchenette. There's a door too, which assumingly leads to a bathroom. That day he goes back to his apartment and makes the quickest most efficient real estate sale in the history of man.

On the fifth day Crowley moves into the book store.

On the sixth day months have passed and Crowley is despite himself learning to enjoy the quiet. He thinks the books are tricking him. Because whenever he looks at them they always seem so perfectly innocent, as if they didn't contain explosive ideas and radical ideals and in some cases entire worlds. The fact that their so naturally so deceptive is kind of endearing. He's naturally suspicious of anything well meaning, which is why he's so surprised when he gets visitors. The people around seem to naturally gravitate inward shop, usually just to chat, he is attractive and charming, sometimes to flirt even. It's been long enough now they've given up pretending on being interested in the books themselves. Crowley is a little saddened, but also a little glad that he's become their sole listener. The bell rings, somehow he can't force himself to take it down, and he looks up with a smile. A smile that drops when he sees the person, peraonage walking through his, their book store.

He's not sure what to say or to do, especially now that he's caught being sentimental and practically human.

He looks up into the most dazzling, most frustrating eyes he's ever had the pleasure of glaring into.

"Hello Crowley."

On the seventh day they've come to a… an understanding of sorts. Crowley doesn't leave the books shop because by now it is his bookshop, no matter what the angel says. He can take the books if he wants, Crowley says, he will do fine without them. What's scary is that Aziraphale agrees, he probably would. And Aziraphale stays because well, he has no where else to go and no where else he'd rather be, than suffering under one of the demons insufferable moods. That, and he has a sneaking suspicion that even though Crowley hasn't once showed him that he was glad to have the angel back, if he tried to leave again he'd probably be nailed to the floor without effort or remorse. Still there are things that need to be said. Aziraphale rubs his shoulder absently, and has a slightly guilty, slightly hurt expression on his face.

Crowley is trying to hide it, but you can see if you look the serpent is worried about him.

"What's wrong?"

"I fell." Azirphale says, more nonchalant than Crowley'd ever seen him. Crowley's eyebrows creased. He knows that Aziraphale is divine and therefore it is almost impossible for him to be clumsy without trying. He tilts his head to one side. Suddenly the words hit him like a bric- like a hard square things used to build houses.

"You…"

Aziraphale nods. He looks up and there's so many words in the look and all of them are on the lines of "for you." Crowley bites down hard on the next words that are trying to fight their way out of his mouth because if he says those three words now he knows he'll ruin an otherwise perfect moment. So instead he grapples Aziraphale to the hard dusty ground of the book store and presses his mouth firmly against the others', as if trying to seal them together through touch. He pulls back and glare/smirks like he'd known all along.

"So I'm assuming you missed me?' Aziraphale said trying to make light of the fact that he was drowning in pre 19th century medicinal records form North America, with a very hot Crowley pinning him down.

"You…" words to Crowley at this moment were like stars to a mountaineer. They were there, and if you extended your hand it seemed like you were almost close enough to touch, while also being completely out of reach.

Aziraphale nodded, and then looked unsure. "I don't really know how…"

"I'll teach you." Crowley said and leant down to press a kiss to the angel's forehead.

And on this day, the seventh day, the pair rested.