Chapter Text
They’d reached the pond Crowley liked to swim in on those days when sleep eluded them. Several large rocks lined the edge of the water; Aziraphale chose one big enough for two to sit down.
Crowley didn’t have to be asked to join him. Once settled, they drew their lower lip beneath their teeth, searching for the right words. “How have you been holding up? With the, you know…” They pointed to the grey sky above.
Aziraphale glanced and understood. His exhaustion finally showed through. “It’s certainly colder here, isn’t it? You still enjoying that?”
The demon shrugged. “Warming up is always nice. Nicer when there’s someone to warm up with,” they led shamelessly, coating it with a smirk like a joke.
If this world were different, I wonder, would you hold me through the snowstorms? Let me be the one to spin stories this time, until you could keep your head up no more?
Crowley dragged their telltale eyes away from making poems of Aziraphale’s arms encircling them on long, frigid nights. They said, “It’s hard on people but that’s… er… well, that’s part of what’s making it easy to do my job, frankly. Always a breeze to encourage a bit of unrest when they’re hungry.”
“You mean dying.”
“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, a little quieter than before.
There’d been a dust fog over the planet for a year. Not that the rest of the world knew it but a volcano in Iceland took the blame. Sulphur and bismuth and ash had spewed into the sky like a pale grey veil, and turned the sun to moon. The cold countries grew ever colder but Crowley had mead. And they had needed it. A lot of it. They’d been quite proud of themself: at the taste of the eruption, they’d only fallen into breath-stealing tear-streaked panic for a few weeks, fearing Hell was literally coming to earth and they’d missed a memo.
It was an absolute garbage time to be alive. One of the worst. For humans and for Crowley and Aziraphale. Neither would admit it, but they were both in a bad mood about the whole ordeal. The sun had turned blue in colour; rain fell red; the snow yellowed. No one had shadows even at midday, and the wine never tasted good. Famine had giddily spread his touch far and wide, running around Ireland and Scandinavia, Mesopotamia and China, summering in the Mediterranean.
But that reminded Crowley...
“Listen, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news—don’t give me that look—anyway, word Downstairs is that… They’re saying Pestilence is gearing up for a big run.” Even speaking the Horseperson’s name aloud sent a chill down the demon’s spine.
“They are?”
“You don’t want to get caught up in whatever they’re doing. Bound to be my crowd on their tail, sniping souls for the Unholy One.” Crowley dug their fingers into their rusted hair. “Didn’t hear it from me, okay? Jussst…”
They snatched up Aziraphale’s warm hand, careful of the mead horn in the other, and hesitated.
It’s not the same here, is it? If I kiss you here, you won’t see it as a devotion. Please don’t think of when I was a wine-drunk fool, alone in a cruel city and looking for softness. I’d dashed myself against so many sharp rocks, I didn’t know I’d bleed out my love on your shores.
Let me venture this instead.
Crowley bent to Aziraphale’s hand and settled a kiss across his knuckles, quick and branding. They pressed their forehead there briefly, taking back the heat of it so no one would know. “Stay out of Egypt for a few decades, yeah?”
The astonished look on the angel’s face fell away. “Again?”
Crowley took the mead for another sip. “Might want to go on holiday from the whole Empire, if you can.”
Aziraphale sighed as only those who had seen every era of humanity dragged about by the Horsepersons could sigh: fuming with the helplessness of it all but resigned to their role in the so-called Great Plan. “Where’s War been at?”
“She’s riding with the Huns, it seems. And Death is… Everywhere.”
“It feels like the end times,” Aziraphale said with a shudder.
“Can’t be as bad as all that…” The sentiment was half-hearted, but they were trying. For their angel’s safety, they’d try a lot of things.
And the end was coming. The forces of Hell were eager for that. The Final Judgement. Doomsday. Aziraphale might not believe it—might assume the Big One was truly at hand any decade now—but when it came time, Crowley knew they would tell him. Even if Aziraphale doubted. Even if Crowley wasn’t sure Aziraphale would tell a demon like them if the tables were turned.
The Antichrist would be the key. And when Crowley heard about their Dark Lord’s child, they’d need to have a plan. A way out. For the both of them.
An angel and a demon sat by the pond for a long time. Not talking much. Passing the horn between them, enjoying the damselflies skimming the surface of the green water, the call of crows and sparrows. Breathing in each other’s presence.
But all good times come to an end.
“It’s been lovely catching up,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley heard the farewell in his voice. “So soon?” The sun—what little counted as the sun those days—was setting. “I have more mead, if you like. Back at camp.”
They watched the bob of Aziraphale’s nerve-choked throat. His eyes darted to the shaded edges of the lake. Only shadows there.
“It’s already later than I expected.” An apology, soft and lonely.
“Stay for dinner,” Crowley tried lightly. “Stay the night. You can take my tent. I’ll... sleep by the camp’s fire.”
Won’t get too close, the demon thought, even as they inched instinctively closer to the angel. Won’t tempt you into anything else if you’ll just accept this small one: let me see your eyes in the red morning light. I’ll fix you tea in those ridiculous cups of yours. I’ll clasp your cape to your shoulders for your journey.
Stay...
“No. Thank you. I’m expected back at the Table. Reporting in on that dastardly Black Knight.” A glance skyward and Crowley knew what he was anxious to avoid. Nothing about the downturn of Aziraphale’s head or the held back hands said he wanted to go.
Leaving was hard on him, too, then.
It was impossible to avoid disappointment, but they supposed it was easy not to show it. Crowley could pen a manuscript devoted to the study of tucking away their emotions, particularly ones of the heart, particularly from the object of said heart’s affection. But then, they didn’t see the brushstrokes they carried, in smudges of minium, chalk, and woad.
Someone had gone and burnished Crowley in gold.
That’s the problem with writing of love: each author thinks they work alone. For around the angel, Crowley’s blackscript secrets jumped from their vellum cage, illuminated by Aziraphale’s fluttering hands.
They pushed away that too-bright light from their amber eyes, crawling back to friendly banter, somewhere safer because Aziraphale needed it. Because they did too.
“Oh, reporting to humans are you? Going to tell the king’s men you fed me porridge and I poured you beer that tasted awful so we went for the mead instead?”
“And took a lovely walk. However did I escape with my life!” His eyes brightened on Crowley. “Turns out they were quite a wily old serpent after all.”
The angel worried his hands together, like he wanted to reach out.
You can touch me. I won’t burn you.
Feeling a sudden urgency, they said, “I should cut a lock from my hair as a token. A promise we’ll meet again. Would you be able to keep such a favour or would you…” Crowley trailed off as Aziraphale didn’t move to answer.
They could not ask, Would you have to bury me in a scooped out bit of earth, much as I have entombed these words in my empty stomach? There’s no room for anything else but you down there.
Neither touched the other, though. They simply looked. Gazed, grey-sky into gold. So much between them, lingering, drinking in the sight through the light buzz of the mead. Memorising the moment.
They might not get another.
Aziraphale stood, eyes and smile tight. “Be well, dear.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Crowley watched him go, wondering why he didn’t just miracle himself to manifest where he needed. Does he want me to watch him leave? Is he thinking about staying?
Does he know those tights draw the eye to the curve of his calves?
Before Crowley could think any further about his fashion choices, Aziraphale turned back.
He took several steps forward and spoke. “I’m… I’m meant to be up in Camlann, too.”
Crowley blinked. They stepped closer. What the angel was saying, it was almost an invitation. A promise. The future.
“May we meet again, Black Knight.” Aziraphale bowed with a flourish.
Crowley smirked and closed the remaining distance to clasp the angel’s outstretched hand. They pressed another kiss there, to his right hand, to his golden signet ring.
Now and for always, I am yours.
Aziraphale’s breath caught in a gasp, as though he had heard. Crowley glanced up but barely lifted their lips, smiling as they then ducked their head.
They stood, letting the angel go. Aziraphale stared, a worryingly tender expression.
Crowley gulped. “Nn-uh-well… Safe travels and all that. See you in Camlann, yeah? Sir Aziraphale.” They turned on the ball of their foot and gave a flick of their wrist for a wave. “Ta-ra!”
They sauntered off, heat rising straight to their cheeks and creeping to their ears. It was everything they could do not to grin like the lovestruck pup they were.
What is wrong with me…
A shing sounded beneath the cedar trees as Aziraphale popped off to wherever he’d made camp.
In their tent, Crowley collapsed again onto the bench but didn’t sleep. No. It was time to make a plan.
- END -