My second fanfiction about Good Omens. Yah! I think I'm getting the hang of this. This is slash, so far only one-sided though. A lot of fanfiction seem to show how Aziraphale comes to love Crowley, but not how Crowley comes to love Aziraphale. I'm pretty sure Crowley had been in love with Aziraphale longer, so I decided to write this little story about it. Yes, it's a drabble. One of these days I'll write a longer story but for now this is all. Please review!

Unfortunately Good Omens doesn't belong to me, nor does these characters. They belong to the great minds of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.

Acceptance

Crowley had gone through some stages the last few millenniums.

First he was in deep denial. He would see him, with the blond curls and soft smooth body, and assure himself that he just hasn't been out much. That whenever his heart quickens when the man calls him "my dear," he would tell himself that he was a demon and demons starve for affection, whether they would admit it or not. Instead he would go for centuries without seeing the angel. Instead he would meet other pretty men, young and naïve, flushed and warm skin that he would wrap himself around in content. That went on for a few more centuries, taking residence in humans' beds, unable to gather enough strength to find another place. It wasn't until the end of the Renaissance period that he realized all his lovers had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a gentle demeanor. The stage promptly ended when he saw the angel conversing with an English lord, calling him "my dear." Jealousy instantly welled up.

His next stage was anger. It was around this time that he was determined to fall the angel through sloth, gluttony, pride, and perhaps lust. He had prodded Oscar Wilde into pursuing the angel, going so far as getting the angel half-undressed until he put on the brakes. He tried to arrange several times for the angel to be violently discorporated. It got to a point where the angel became suspicious of Crowley, avoiding him for a while and causing Crowley's melancholy to strengthen.

The last stage was acceptance. The Victorian era was drawing to a close. One evening Crowley was in London, strolling through a cemetery. The night was warm and cloudy, the moon shimmering behind its covers. Nearing the back of the cemetery, Crowley froze when he saw the figure. He attempted to leave but his presence was already detected.

"Crowley," the figure murmured.

Crowley sighed the angel's name.

Wearing a Victorian suit with a thick cloak draped over his shoulders, blonde curls, flowing freely to his shoulders, a smile that made Crowley's insides melt; he said, "My dear, come join me."

And Crowley did. Drawing up by hi side, the demon peered at the grave. "Never heard of him."

"Well yes, he was a struggling artist."

"Mad poet?" Crowley supplied.

The angel smiled softly.

"He shared your bed, didn't he?"

"He was special."

So I'm not, Crowley thought silently.

"I usually don't get close to people," the angel continued. "Especially humans, but he drew me to him." Crowley could feel the angel's eyes on him. "Crowley, are you all right?"

"Yes."

"You're just so silent."

"I'm mourning with you."

"Ah."

They fell into silence. The angel closed his eyes, one single tear drifting down the side of his face. In his hand he materialized a bouquet of flowers and placed it on the dewy ground.

Crowley said, "Let's go to a pub and drown our sorrows."

"We haven't done that in quite a while."

"It's on me. Besides, I have a few more theories about this cosmic game of chess."

The angel laughed.

They walked through the streets of London, side by side, follies that take joy in each other's company. The angel's hand followed up to Crowley's shoulder and squeezed. Crowley couldn't help but smile. Acceptance was the best stage of all.