LOVE CALLS YOU BY YOUR NAME
a Good Omens fanfic by quantum witch © 2006

Rating: R, slash (Crowley/Aziraphale)
Summary: Post-Non-Apocalyptic Epiphanies beget drunken confessions beget holy bouts of Name-Calling beget Revelation, but not the End of All Things.
Disclaimer: GO is Neil's and Terry's, but it still seems to hang about drunk in my brain.
Warnings: Total schmoop. And a rather poor attempt at semi-Hebraic language as spoken by a non-human tongue.
Notes: Bless Vulgarweedfor a beta well done; it's hard to see your own mistakes when you write something so quickly. And thanks to her also for the title, as the inspiration well ran dry after the four hour writing binge was done. ETA: And spank me 'til my bottom turns purple for forgetting to thank Halobender's inner-Crowley for helping me past the simplest of plot points. Licks and love.
Artist Note: Cover illustration is my own work, titled "Touch".

Archived: www. library. good-omens. com
(note: you must delete spaces when you copy/paste address)

"You thought that it could never happen to all the people that you became,
your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.
But here, right here, between the birthmark and the stain,
between the ocean and your open vein, between the snowman and the rain,
once again, once again, love calls you by your name."
Leonard Cohen

It was the riskiest thing he'd ever thought to do. Even compared to defying his superiors, to trapping Hastur in an ansaphone, to rushing toward the Apocalypse with his suicidal sense of optimism. And even compared to taking up a tyre iron against a Certain Someone. Nothing else he'd ever thought of doing would be as hard as this. And he was going to do it, only two days after the Armageddon That Wasn't.

Yes, he was going to do it. And he didn't even fully comprehend why. Yet. Thinking too deeply about his reasons tended to hurt his brain, so he just didn't bother. Somehow or other, it would manage to work itself out.

Right?

Well, as it involved the angel, of course it would. He just had to be brave for a few more minutes and then things would... Again, he wasn't entirely sure.

Best to stop thinking altogether and just do it.

Right.

He stepped out of the Bentley and into the bookshop, then paused. Was he making a horrible mistake? Hah. When hadn't he? And yet the universe always looked after Anthony J. Crowley, for some inexplicable reason. A wise demon didn't look a flaming-eyed gift horse in the mouth. Or any other creature either, since he wasn't fond of horses anyway.

The angel looked up from the dusty tome he was carefully repairing, and smiled his usual comfortable smile. "Crowley, I was hoping you'd stop by. They have a new dish on the menu at the Ritz I thought you'd like to try sometime, and was just thinking –"

"Er," Crowley interrupted him hesitantly. "Actually, mind if we stay in tonight? I have, uh, something to tell you."

From the way the demon was fidgeting, hands in his pockets and biting his lip, the angel couldn't have refused. He gently set the volume aside, stood up and went to the tiny kitchen area, knowing that Crowley would follow. Sure enough, while Aziraphale washed his hands of glue and crumbly bits of parchment, he heard Crowley rummaging in the well-stocked liquor cabinet behind him. When he turned around, the small table in the center of the room was so covered with bottles and glasses that it became apparent this was quite a large 'something' the demon needed to divulge.

Brows drawn, the angel took a seat opposite his friend and filled a glass. Crowley was already well into his third refill by now. Aziraphale downed the wine more swiftly than he would have liked, completely failing to savour it or delight in the bouquet, so as to show willing to keep up with the demon's rapidly advancing inebriation.

After four bottles of good wine, two harder liquors, and just opening a fine old whiskey, Aziraphale said, "Sooo… whass this big ol' somethin' that becomes fassil- fasc- easier to tell me by staying in and drinking so much?" He vaguely realised, for the millionth time, just how very poor his syntax, diction and grammar became under the influence, but couldn't be buggered to care. "You in trouble, m'dear? They sendin' the hell hounds after you?"

"Nah, nothin' so ssssimple as that. Could throw a treat at 'em, slow 'em down. Marrow bone or somethin'. Prob'ly m'own leg, hah," Crowley waved his hand and nearly followed its momentum, then had to grab onto the table for what minor support it could provide. Thankfully the weight of the angel leaning on the other side made a good anchor. Thankfully also, he missed the look of utter horror and disgust on the same weighty angel's face at his words. "Nooo never ssso simple… No, this is all… becaussse of you."

"Wha's because of me?" Aziraphale frowned, twisting his lips. "I didn' get you drink, er, drunk. You got yourself drunk."

"Not talkin' 'bout being drunk. Was necsssessary for me to… to tell you what I… what I… can't say the wordsss otherwisssse…" Crowley stopped and swallowed hard, then ran his hands roughly over his face, knocking his sunglasses off. They landed with a clatter on the table, admidst the bottles, startling them both into looking at one another straight on.

Aziraphale saw that Crowley's eyes were bleary. But they were also worried and nervous, with the strangest glimpse of pleading hope just barely discernable. The cool reptilian nature did not diminish their sudden eloquence.

The angel forced himself a bit more sober. Crowley might not wish to face whatever he had to say without the crutch of distilled spirits, but Aziraphale felt that he personally might be better off quasi-coherent. He sighed. "Please, could you just tell me?" His hand crept across the table, between bottles and over sunglasses, to pat Crowley's hand. Then to squeeze it. Which seemed to make the demon even more nervous.

Crowley grabbed the nearest bottle with his free hand, not bothering to wrest the other from the angel's soft grip, and gulped burning liquid until Aziraphale thought he might drown. Finally draining the bottle (particularly potent rum) Crowley gasped, eyes watering, dropped the bottle on the floor and turned a wobbly gaze back to his friend.

"M'gonna tellya summ'in, ainzzzhul... tellya summ'nawannada tellya for for foreverago..." He blinked and licked his lips, wondering why they wouldn't work properly. "M'gonna tell ya... m'Real Name... m'gonna-"

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathed so softly that he was sure the demon hadn't heard. His grip grew tighter on Crowley's limp and heated hand. This was indeed very important. His human heart began to pound like a rather amateur garage band percussionist.

"Down B'low... no one ussses Real Namesss... sss'too dang'rousss... can hurt ta... ta hear it when they... when... can be usssed against ya..."

"Yes, our True Names are precious," Aziraphale whispered, fingertips caressing the demon's palm tenderly, encouraging him.

"Sssso when ya Fall... ya change it... leave it b'hind like ya... left Heaven... ya know?"

"Yes, I can imagine."

"But sometimesss... ya still hafta use it... ya gotta ssssign it sometimes... bind ya to something ssspecial," Crowley panted with the effort of telling his story, while fighting off the demonic instincts screaming at him to shut up about such a personal thing. "Hadda sign it when they gav'me the Antichrissst... an' I buggered that up good... ssstill gonna hafta pay for that one… someday… maybe." He gave a short barking laugh that was so far removed from real humour that it could have made Joey Grimaldi slit his wrists (not necessarily a bad thing).

"Oh Crowley, I really don't think you-"

"But if I tell you," the demon interrupted, looking straight into Aziraphale's eyes, that look of pleading and hope more apparent now, "if you ssssay it... you can... bind me… here…to you… maybe... sssave me..." Then the golden eyes closed tight and his head dropped forward, landing on the cushion of their joined hands and scattering nearby bottles onto the floor.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said. He began to understand the full ramifications of what Crowley was suggesting, possibly better than the demon himself understood, especially in his current condition. And the pounding of his heart went to Broadway and joined the cast of Stomp.

He was long familiar with the need to disguise his name from mortals, who wouldn't understand or be able to cope with saying his True Name aloud, with all its power and connotations. Fortunately most of them also didn't possess the ability to pronounce it well enough to harm themselves. But he still employed variations, for simplicity's sake - Ezra Fell being the best of the lot, and A. Ziraphale being the laziest of efforts and therefore most frequently used. His True Name was actually Izrafael * but years of being around humans had flattened the consonants and slurred the vowels so that it wasn't nearly the same. Crowley knew his Name, he was certain of that. Regardless, Aziraphale was still an angel and therefore didn't need to hide his True Name from others of his kind. And not even from a demon. He was a Principality, more powerful than most of those Below. He could not be harmed by his Name. It already belonged to God, as did he.

But the awful harshness of the Fallen, how they'd been cast away and fled from the Light and everything it represented. How they'd renounced everything, even their True Names, which must then be hidden away if only because reminding themselves of it caused such pain and resentment. The pain of being so far away from God... Aziraphale could only begin to imagine how empty and lonely, how very awful it was.

Yet Crowley... wasn't as far from the Light as he pretended.

The demon raised his head just an inch, enough to bring his mouth away from the table so he could speak. "C'n I... tell ya m'Name, Aziraphale...? Can I... trust you?"

"My dear boy," Aziraphale said softly, brushing the dark silky hair away from the flushed face before him. "Do you even have to ask such a question?"

Crowley made a sort of sniffling noise, rubbed his eyes again, and shook his head. "No, jus'... jus' checkin'..."

"Though perhaps... I should ask you a question, if you're capable of answering," Aziraphale said. "Why on earth are you telling me this? Why now?"

Crowley's face got a sort of twisted look, as he tried to unscrew the words from his brain and force them out of his mouth. "S'no more Apopa- Apolac- End of the World. Prob'ly. Hope so. 'Nless it starts again. Don'trust 'em not to someday. An' an' an' then we're both gonna be in shhhtrouble. Gotsum people mad at us, eh? Well, if I tellya m'Name and you... you have it... then... they can't take us away fr'm... fr'm each other..."

Aziraphale felt a sudden leap inside his chest, and realised that Stomp had changed over to Riverdance without warning. "Oh, my dearest… Crowley..."

"Ssss'not Crowley. Um... m'Namessss..." He hissed, paused, took a huge bolstering breath and tried again. "Name issss... Gaaaadrrrrree'eelll..."

Aziraphale nodded. He actually knew the Name. A very few humans knew it as well, but it was scarce knowledge, usually conveniently lost through mistranslations and omissions to key volumes. Curious, that. Almost ineffable. When it was mentioned at all it was often misspelled, thus losing even more potency. But when it was documented, it was referred to as the name of the angel who had tempted Eve. The Fallen angel, that is.**

Carefully, pulse tapping a calmer rhythm now, Aziraphale said, "Crowley, I am deeply honoured by your trust. And I would never abuse that trust, of course. But... is there... something else that you want of me, having told me your Name?"

Slowly, as though coming out of a trance, Crowley raised his serpentine eyes to the soft, caring ones of his friend. His friend, a real one. The only one, ever. He'd had to numb himself to near-comatose with booze just to get out the words he'd already slurred. All he could do was make a vague and shuddering nod.

"You want me to... to speak it? In... our own language?" Aziraphale said gently, knowing that if this was true, it was a tremendous leap of faith on the demon's part. And neither of them knew what sort of reaction it would cause. At worst it would hurt Crowley, and of course Aziraphale would instantly stop and make profuse apologies. At best... well, actually he wasn't entirely sure what would happen.

The dark head bobbed once more, and the yellow eyes squeezed shut again.

Trembling a bit, as nervous as the demon was, Aziraphale took a gentle breath that stirred the unseen aether around them. And when he exhaled he said:

╪ Gadre'el ╪

He pronounced with a soft trilling of the consonants, a wispy breathiness of the nearly invisible vowels, and further qualities that could never be reproduced by human throats. Said in its original language, by the mouth of an angel, the Name itself became a power.

It flowed over and into Crowley, past his human ears and into his very essence. With a violent shudder, Crowley moaned, eyes rolling back into his head, arms outstretched as though he was being pinioned to a rack.

Aziraphale stopped instantly, and stood up in alarm. "Crowley? Are you all right?"

A shuddering whisper was all the demon could manage, as his head swam. But he said, "Yesss... more..."

Hesitantly, Aziraphale walked around the table and stood behind Crowley, ready to catch him if he fell off the chair. He took another gentle breath, and spoke again:

╪ Ghaadhrrieel ╪

And Crowley's wings erupted with a rush of air, spread to their maximum length, taking up the entire room with their blue-black shimmering beauty. He was almost entirely undone, gasping and groaning, writhing under the sound of Aziraphale's voice. He felt the Word burning inside him, the Name ensnaring his ancient angelic core and wrenching it free of the Darkness, which had only been Somewhat Dimness but no less scary and powerful. The shining center of his Being trembled, begging for more, calling out without words, without sound, to the angel next to him.

Aziraphale knew now what had to be done. He knelt beside his dear friend, who was seized with such tremors that it seemed his very frame would break apart. Stroking the shining wings, kissing the damp forehead, then putting his lips very near the demon's ear, he inhaled once more, and blew the soft breath directly into Crowley's soul:

╪ Gkhaaaadthrrrrriiiieeeeelll ╪

Crowley gasped in pain and ecstasy, his body arching upward as his spirit lurched against its fleshy prison. Wings beating weakly, he groaned piteously as Aziraphale stroked his sweating forehead, whispering words of less power, trying to soothe the torment. With a gesture, the angel moved his friend to the dingy sofa, which became three times as wide as normal, laid him down and sat beside, continuing to comfort.

"There, there. I know it's difficult. Shall I stop? What do you wish me to do?"

Crowley gingerly opened his eyes a slit, but he was unable to see clearly. "Az... Aziraphale... I'm goin' blind... s'all blurry, misty..."

"It's tears, dear."

Disbelieving, Crowley raised an unsteady hand to his face, found it was wet and warm. "Huh," he said softly. "S'never been like that before... they always... usually burn... hurts..."

Not liking to think of someone causing his friend to cry at all, let alone tears of acid pain, Aziraphale flicked his thumb gently along Crowley's cheek and wiped them away. "These are pure tears. Healing tears." With a pause of realisation, he said, "Angel tears."

"So... so, what then? I'm crying out... what's left of the angel in me?" Crowley sounded uncertain.

"No... no, I think the angel within is crying from happiness," Aziraphale said very softly, kneeling beside Crowley again, his face only inches away. "…Don't you think so?"

And it was true. It was disgustingly, sappily, angelically true. The hidden angel inside him, half-buried but never quite dead and gone, was sobbing with joy, reaching out to the other angel in the room. The one who had spoken his Name and brought him forth from the Still Slightly Scary Dimness.

Crowley reached up, touched Aziraphale's ancient, familiar, slightly pudgy face, and thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen since Heaven itself, and infinitely more interesting. He pushed up the last inch and their lips met like the oldest of friends, softly, comfortably, naturally.

Aziraphale melted into the kiss just as much as Crowley did, and when he found his hands unhurriedly removing neckties, popping open buttons, sliding beneath clothing to find warm, smooth, delightful, somehow familiar skin, he didn't even question it. Just because it had never happened before didn't mean it wasn't the exact, perfect, right thing to do. The kisses were slow and gentle and thorough, and only broke apart long enough for a Name to be spoken again, and to feel Crowley tremble with need beneath him.

And now he truly was beneath Aziraphale. They were naked in their human bodies, one trim and fit and handsome, one softer about the middle but not at all unpleasant, and Crowley was still crying wordlessly. There was no language possible for what he was feeling now. So he let Aziraphale lead the way.

Both ethereal and human bodies clung together, sweating and stroking, sliding and grasping. Mouths whispered Sacred Words that echoed in the chambers of their very Beings. Tongues described odd patterns on flesh, spelling Names upon each other, branding them, binding together something that was already bound but in an infinitely more intimate way. And when their bodies came together, entering and welcoming, rocking and grinding, they shook the Heavenly Spheres with voices that rang out as One at the pinnacle of earthly pleasure. Wings thrashed wildly, pushing to get closer, to soar higher still, as the apogee threatened to rip them free of that mortal flesh and send them flying in a very real way.

Both were nearly catatonic while they gradually regained control of themselves. Eventually, two sets of reasonably human eyes opened and regarded one another with fresh insight. This was followed by very human blushing. As they arranged their bodies more comfortably side by side on the now-sanctified sofa, slowly adjusting to the newness of the experience, and contemplating the profundity of Name calling during sex... they both began to smile.

Utterly sober now, Crowley whispered, "Wow... uh... that was..."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," Aziraphale said with a tired smile. "Never did that before, you know, but it was... yes. Wow, as you say."

"Not ever? Really?" Crowley inquired, looking both awed and flattered. "Um... Lust. It's not going to make you Fall now, is it?"

Aziraphale chuckled knowingly. "My dear, how can an honest expression of love cause an angel to Fall? Cite me an example."

Opening and closing his stunned mouth, Crowley blushed again.

"Exactly. Now... what shall we do about your condition?"

"My what?" Crowley said blankly.

"It seems that you've got something in your eyes."

"Probably dust. This place is horrid, you know, and what with all the crying I've been doing..."

"And your wings."

Crowley blinked. He lifted a wing and coughed in alarm. Then he sat upright and flapped them in disbelief. They had lightened, losing darkness as his soul had done. The old glossy raven-black was gone, reduced to blue. He was no longer a flash bastard that even other demons envied and reviled. He looked at Aziraphale with shock and dismay clear on his face.

The angel grinned, aware of the rather transparent thoughts. "Just take a moment to get used to them. Shake them out a bit. Better yet, get a mirror, would you?"

Whimpering at the thought of having lost his looks, Crowley snapped his fingers, conjured a full length mirror and stood up.

Oh.

He was still beautiful in all the best human ways. But his wings weren't a mere blue. They were shimmering sapphires, shot through with soft turquoises and heavenly teals. Here and there, the light caught something darker, a shining indigo as deep as the ocean and as gleaming as amethyst. He was lovelier than any peacock. And ten times sexier.

Though he might have to adjust his wardrobe to reflect the change. Ah well.

Stepping closer to the mirror, he saw the eyes were still amber. Golden really. A rich, warm, gold that looked like sunlight shining through a clear pot of honey. And his pupils. Round. Both honey-gold orbs were welling with fresh tears of disbelief, happiness, and a strange sense of regret at losing his snakey eyes. They had been so uniquely his for millennia. And yet... these were also quite uniquely his. Gold.

Silver eyes looked up at him, brimming with love, and it didn't scare him anymore. It didn't hurt to think about it. And he had thought about it, many countless times, for nearly as long as he'd known Aziraphale. His friend had been the only thing of Heaven he could touch, and those touches had become increasingly frequent over the years, though still chaste for fear of harming the angel, making him Fall.

But now. Oh... now. He could touch, taste, and fulfill every desire they both may have. And it was all right. He wrapped his miraculous wings around himself, and thought how beautiful it would look with Aziraphale's gleaming-beyond-white feathers intermingled...

Aziraphale lay waiting on the sofa, smiling and patient, but only for so long. When Crowley continued to stare into the mirror, fascinated by his new/old eyes, Aziraphale reached over and wrapped an insistant arm around his slim waist and pulled him back down. "Crowley," he said with gentle chastisement, "Vanity is a Sin. Do you really want to saunter back Downward so quickly?"

Crowley grinned at the angel's lack of subtlety. "Aziraphale, if you wanted another shag, all you had to do was say so." Losing themselves briefly in another kiss that touched levels unseen, Crowley whispered into Aziraphale's mouth. "What am I now? Am I an angel again?" He didn't know yet if he was Redeemed. Didn't know if such a thing was possible, unless one went before Him and was granted Forgiveness, but something had clearly happened. There wasn't much of Hell left inside Crowley. And yet there was still a fun sense of wickedness, and that had been there since before he Fell.

"I don't know," Aziraphale said between kisses and exploring fingers and gasps of pleasure, "but I do know one thing..."

"Hmm?" Crowley murmured, mouth full of all sorts of delicious fleshy bits that he could easily suck on for eternity.

"Ah, yes... You are mine, dear" Aziraphale breathed heavily as he was embraced and filled and loved. "And... I am yours. Oh yes..."

And the rest would sort itself out.

Elsewhere, there was a beautiful, ineffable Smile.

* Izrafael ( לעפױרע ) - Which at least Islamic texts had gotten mostly correct. It translates very basically to "God's helping healer", which proves what a goodie two-shoes Aziraphale was destined to become.

** Gadre'el ( לע'ערדג ) is found only in rare volumes on angelology, and is spelled either this way or as Gadriel (which probably causes confusion between him and a certain archangel that even Aziraphale doesn't especially like). The meaning is something like "Fortunate friend of God", which proves that Crowley was right all along about the universe taking care of him.

A/N: I'm not making up the footnotes. Those are fairly accurate translations, and the name of the fallen angel is found in well-researched angelology books.

(Also, sorry the Hebrew lettering won't stay in the proper format, which is left to right. Every time I save, it reverts to right-left.)