Chapter Text
As they danced, Aziraphale internally found himself searching for a word that could describe the situation he was caught in.
‘Romantic,’ perhaps?
Yes, there was something decidedly romantic about it!
Not romantic in, well - a romantic sense, of course, as that would be quite improper indeed, but simply in the shared, idealistic delight of it all. How connected two beings could be, not only by physical closeness, but something exceedingly profound that Aziraphale could not yet name. He was certain he never would be able to name it.
God would never have planned for this, yet it felt as if… as if they were fated, as if they were meant to work together, meant to be one force instead of two.
He had already struggled to define his relationship to Crowley for centuries.
They were not human, which did not help the fact they were limited to the confines of human language, but in the many years he’d lived, with the many languages he’d seen develop after the notorious Babel incident, there weren’t any words which could describe the strange connection they shared.
Assigned enemies. Associates by, well - association. Friends.
Friends. But then Crowley would do something as simple as smile at him, and the word would suddenly feel misplaced.
Their relationship ran to unknown depths.
‘Two sides of the same coin,’ the angel thought, ‘I am a part of you.’
Are you a part of me?
Aziraphale wouldn’t dare ask. Not out of cowardice, necessarily, but because it was simply not something they did. They didn’t talk about what they were to each other.
They did not dance either, yet here they were, stuck in this strange dream that seemed to enchant them both. But Aziraphale knew all too well that dreams were only fleeting. Just how seasons pass, just as grass withers, the music would eventually stop and this moment would come to a close.
The ticking of the clock was no longer a background noise that intended to soothe his nerves. It was a countdown of the passing time. Time that should’ve been used to discuss Crowley’s whereabouts.
Aziraphale forced himself to gather his courage and asked about the matter at hand; “Well?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Well, what?”
Aziraphale let out a long-awaited huff. “Well, wouldn’t now be the perfect time to talk? Is that not why you asked me to dance?”
“...Yes.” Crowley said belatedly. He sighed, and his breath pleasantly ghosted over Aziraphale’s ear. “Yes, let’s talk.”
“Yes. I rather was hoping we would, my dear.”
“Wee Morag. Remember her?”
Nothing could have prepared Aziraphale for the surging guilt that reawakened within his heart upon hearing her name. Then, he felt slightly offended that Crowley could even begin to entertain the notion that he could forget her.
He remembered everything, and there had been many times where he wished he didn’t.
The coldness of the night, the melancholy gloom that emitted from the graveyard as they navigated the dark. The death he’d been surrounded with. The pale, haunted face of Elspeth. The pale, lifeless face of Wee Morag.
“Of course I remember her.” His voice was quiet, nearly nonexistent when he spoke.
"Right,” Crowley said, who didn’t seem to pick up on Aziraphale’s anguish. “Good. Yes, that’s good. In case you were wondering if one gets ‘condemned to burn for-ever!’ when assisting in digging up dead bodies, she wasn’t in Hell. I checked. So, I’m assuming she must be with you lot.”
“You mean to say she’s in Heaven?”
“Must be.”
Aziraphale took a moment to process this, and a relieved sigh eagerly escaped him. The remaining tension in his muscles began to melt away. “Oh, I am ever so glad.” he said with a genuine smile, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, the poor thing. Oh, and poor, poor Elspeth. Ah, speaking of whom-"
"Haven’t seen her either.” Crowley was quick to chime in, “So, either farm life is continuing to treat her well after all these years, or, she is a wee angel, provoking Heaven with tales of bodysnatchin’ as we speak. What a lovely lass, that was.”
“What about you?” asked Aziraphale.
Crowley paused. “Wouldn’t describe myself as lovely.” he said, a hint of confusion colouring his tone, “nor a lass, for that matter. But I am not opposed to-”
“No. I meant to ask, how have the years been treating you?” Aziraphale corrected. “I haven't seen you since..."
“Since I got swallowed back down into the pits of hell? Yes, it has been a while.” Crowley said. And there it was again. This… unusual casualness. Feigned, Aziraphale now was sure.
Something tightened inside of his chest. Something deeply unpleasant. "Thirty-four years. It has been thirty-four years."
Inquisitively, Crowley tilted his head to the side. The movement seemed stiff. Forced. “We've been apart for longer than that. Why would this be different?”
Aziraphale detected a bitterness to Crowley’s tone, yet not to his face, which remained as fixed as a statue, an unperturbed mask, set in place to cover something fragile beneath.
“I always had a reason to believe you’d return,” Aziraphale pointed out, sharply. “I believe I was not granted the same privilege last time.”
‘I missed you,’ he wanted to say. ‘I missed you and I feared I would have to miss you forevermore.’
Crowley frowned. “If I had known Hell would open the ground beneath my feet, I simply would have stood somewhere else.”
"I think they would have gotten you no matter where you stood." Aziraphale said. "But that aside! Please, do tell me what happened. They didn’t… punish you, did they?”
Without any indication of a warning, Crowley came to a clumsy halt, as if he had entirely forgotten the rhythm they’d fallen into.
Aziraphale was only half a step away from crashing right into him. Hastily, he pulled away, his arms falling back to his side as he stepped back in surprise.
Crowley, too, withdrew himself. “Don’t be ridiculous, angel.” His voice sounded oddly snake-like, as if his tongue had suddenly been split into two. He cleared his throat, composed himself, and said; “Trust me, cakes and ale, down there. I had to steer the narrative in my favour a bit, certainly, but it turned out all-right, didn’t it?”
Did it?
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, both with suspicion and annoyance. "I suspect it mustn’t have been easy to convince them, considering the many years it took."
"Time isn't really of essence down in the bottomless pit," Crowley said lazily, "but I'll make sure to send you a postcard next time, if that eases your mind."
"I don't want there to be a next time, and I don't want a bloody postcard!" Aziraphale exclaimed. The words had left his mouth before he could stop them. His fingers twitched, as if to ask for permission to clench into fists, which he righteously and firmly denied. He took a deep breath. And another.
He did not wish to complicate matters further, and he certainly did not wish to argue with Crowley. "Do excuse my language, my dear - I’m afraid I forgot myself. I am not mad at you. My point stands firm, however. I need to know if you’re still out there.”
“I apologise.” said Crowley. He said it like he meant it.
“...Oh,” said Aziraphale, who had expected an answer closer to; "Well, that's what the postcard would be for, wouldn’t it? To inform you of my wellbeing?” rather than an apology.
“You are forgiven.”
Aziraphale didn’t even have to think about it. Crowley was so easy to forgive. He wondered if Crowley knew he would forgive him for anything.
While it was true that Aziraphale was forgiving by nature - perhaps more than he should be - Crowley was his greatest weakness, his ultimate undoing.
“I would have reached out if I was able.” Crowley admitted in a hushed voice.
“You weren’t able?” Aziraphale asked. “They kept a close eye on you all that time?”
The song came to an end, leaving the room in an eerie silence. Crowley did not elaborate further.
“You were right.” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands together in front of him. “I did like it. The dancing, I mean. Tremendously so. It was… well, it was magical.” He made a gesture with his hands to emphasise the last word.
“Of course I was right.” Crowley said smoothly. “I know you, Dr. McFell.”
“If you must know, ‘McFell’ was a nom de plume for Edinburgh. A desperate, impromptu attempt at blending in." replied Aziraphale.
A small, affectionate smile touched Crowley’s lips. "I know that, too. You didn’t fool anyone. Stuck out like a sore thumb, you.”
When the music returned, the band was playing something more upbeat, something that only reminded Aziraphale of how exhausted he was. He craved the unique calmth only his bookshop could bring him.
He felt as if he was slowly waking up from a dream that still called for his attention. Should he bask in this dream, this dream of ballrooms and chandeliers? Of being with Crowley?
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It is getting late. I’m afraid I must go. I trust we will meet again?”
“You’re leaving?” Crowley stammered. He sounded small. “Already?”
“It has been… an awfully eventful evening.” Aziraphale stated. “One that I did not anticipate being this eventful. That is to say-”
“You are exhausted.” Crowley concluded for him.
“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, relieved he did not have to explain himself further. “Positively so.”
“Allow me to walk you home. I brought an umbrella." Crowley said.
Aziraphale turned to the rows of windows that framed the garden as a series of live portraits, searching for any indication of grey weather. Flowers didn't recoil at the sudden touch of raindrops. The rhythmic sound of downpour was not to be heard. The sky was clear, its colours a delightful picture of a sun about to bid her farewell.
There was not a single cloud in sight.
“The weather looks quite sensible to me," he said, dubiously. "What is the umbrella for?"
Crowley, who now actually made the effort to look outside, let out a low, displeased noise. “Oh. Uh - right. Probably should’ve done this in advance.” He snapped his fingers. Rubbed his hands. Snapped his fingers once more. Nothing happened. "This shouldn't take long. Give me a moment."
The moment that followed remained uneventful. So were the moments that were to pass after.
Crowley glared at the sky as if it had personally attacked him. “Agh!” he yelled, snapping his fingers again. And again, before tensed them all into claws. "Indolent bastards!”
"Who on earth are you shouting at?" asked Aziraphale, who was feeling rather lost.
"The clouds.” Crowley answered through gritted teeth.
Azirphale spoke carefully; “There are no clouds, my dear fellow,” he much regretted to inform him.
“Exactly,” Crowley said. “They never do show up on time.”
Aziraphale didn’t think it wise to disagree.
As Crowley continued to berate the sky, uttering a wide variety of threats as creative as they were terrifying, Aziraphale felt his affection for the demon grow, affection that ultimately seized a hold of his chest. “You are being foolish.” he doted. “Utterly foolish.”
“No,” Crowley insisted with a grimace. “They will come. I am not giving them any other choice here.”
Aziraphale almost laughed, but this time, the loud snap of Crowley’s fingers caused the world to turn dark, the last traces of sunlight disappearing behind dark clouds resembling smoke ascending factory chimneys; grey, thick, and heavy, as if it craved to pollute the world rather than to nourish it. However, unlike smoke, it didn't fade into the sky.
It stayed. And it spread.
This was the kind of sky you’d envision when thinking of Armageddon, with all-consuming clouds that looked like they could fire down raindrops as vicious as bullets - or alternatively; fish.
Hence, when the rain began to fall in abundance, Aziraphale found himself surprised by how gentle it appeared, how softly it tapped against the glass before coursing down, merging with other drops.
“There we are!” Crowley cheered happily. “Right as rain, right as rain!”
“What exactly is the meaning of this?”
"There wouldn't happen to be a rule against having kind strangers accompanying you back to your bookshop, by any chance? Not when it is raining, surely?"
"I don't suppose there would be." replied Aziraphale. "Unless said stranger happens to be a demon."
Crowley spread his arms, as if to announce his own presence. “Then you’re in luck! I am but a humble human stranger, eager to fulfil his humble, human civic duties - whatever those may include.”
Aziraphale supposed a lovely walk in the rain would diffuse the tension between them before they said their goodbyes. How long would he have to wait to see Crowley again after this? “In that case,” he said,” it would be ill-mannered of me to decline such a generous offer.”
Back on the ground floor, they stopped in the entrance hall.
Crowley hummed to himself as he brushed his fingers over a selection of umbrellas, seemingly picking one sheerly by visual preference. Not by familiarity.
Aziraphale eyed the chosen umbrella with suspicion. “Are you quite certain that it’s yours?” he asked, knowing very well that it wasn’t.
"Ah. Yeah, sure." Crowley replied without putting much effort into making himself sound convincing. “Definitely mine. Yes. We go way back, this old thing and me.”
"Surely the poor attendee will be wondering where their umbrella has gone by the end of the evening.” Aziraphale glared at the demon to show his disapproval - an assertion that might've held any substantial weight if he hadn't been so quick to interlock their arms together soon thereafter.
"I have done a lot worse than pinching umbrellas, angel." Crowley mused as they stepped out into the rain. "Besides, if this person truly cared for it, they wouldn't have left it unsupervised. And suppose that they did - care for it, that is, then they can consider this a valuable lesson to keep their possessions closer for the foreseeable future. Might've done them a favour, really."
“Nonsense.” said Aziraphale matter-of-factly. “I refuse to be an accomplice to a crime. You shall return it when we’re done.”
“No,” Crowley tried.
It was in vain.
“Most certainly you will.” The nonchalance in Aziraphale’s voice carried an unspoken warning; one that Crowley better heed if he wishes to keep the peace between them.
Crowley looked as if he was trying his hardest to get the cogs in his own head to turn. He appeared utterly disoriented, not able to find the words to protest - or any words, for that matter.
“Very well,” said Aziraphale, who did little to hide the triumph in his voice.
He liked how the both of them knew how to convince each other at the right times.
Crowley convinced Aziraphale to dance with him. Aziraphale convinced Crowley not to partake in the act of theft.
It seemed like a fair bargain.
Across the street, a lone lamplighter positioned his ladder against an unlit street lamp and climbed up to light it in one, easy motion. The pavement’s bricks beneath, coated in rain, glistened in its new glow.
It reminded Aziraphale of a time long ago, a time where he watched Crowley create a nebula.
Besides the occasional passerby, the distant rumbling of train tracks, and the plummeting rain above their heads, the city was quiet, as if it were preparing itself to go to sleep.
Then, a carriage passed by, and the musical trotting of the horseshoes over the brick road filled Aziraphale with the urge to sweep Crowley into another dance. But he kept himself proper, relishing the closeness between them. It must’ve looked intimate to an outsider, two people huddled together beneath an umbrella, their arms intertwined.
With his free hand, he reached out past the shield the umbrella provided to feel the rain, gathering drops together inside his palm. He wasn’t sure what made him reach for it. Perhaps he wanted to know what it felt like to touch a storm of unnatural origin.
It did indeed feel different, his senses overloading with something he’d never felt before. It had been conjured with emotion, a multitude of feelings Aziraphale couldn't place. Though, beneath it all, he could sense a quiet, sweet yearning for something.
Crowley, knowingly or not, had put a part of himself into it. And it was beautiful.
“I like the rain.” the angel noted. Softly, as to himself. The water pooled up in his palm until he let it slip through his fingers. It gave the same enchanting spark to his skin as performing miracles did.
He did not like the rain when it soaked him to the bone, and weighed down his clothes, leaving it drooping and cold around his body.
He liked the rain when Crowley created it.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, “Why did you insist on walking me home?”
“Ngk,” Crowley said, and stammered out further unintelligible, meaningless noises. When he finally did manage to utter proper words, it was coloured by uncertainty. “Erm, you know. Rain. Wet.”
“Rain which you caused, if I recall correctly.”
“Well, ah- I needed an excuse. I thought it would be a nice way to extend my… apology, as it were.”
Their pace slowed down as they approached the book shop, as if the both of them wished to stay side by side just a little longer.
Above them, the black cloth stretched between thin, metal ribs trembled slightly. Was it because Crowley’s hands were trembling?
Aziraphale was about to look down to check, but Crowley’s arm snaked out of Aziraphale’s before he could catch a glimpse of the demon’s gloved hand.
And it was only then that he realised they had come to a stop. There they stood, sheltered by the door’s canopy, supported by the two pillars that framed the bookshop’s entrance.
‘A.Z. FELL AND Co,’ it proudly announced in golden serif lettering.
Home.
Neither of them spoke a word. Aziraphale figured neither of them seemed to know how to say good-bye.
“Perhaps I can stop by more often. Here at the bookshop.” Crowley said at last. “To look at books.” he added, sounding rather pained, as if the concept alone was most agonising.
“You don’t read.” the angel said - not because he believed this to be true, but Crowley had always been so adamant about it.
“I didn’t say anything about reading.” Crowley replied. “I just said I would look at them.”
Once again Aziraphale was struck by this besotted feeling, this adoration. Fond, he thought, Fondness is the word I find when I search for you.
Such a silly notion. And such a silly thing, for an angel to fall victim to his own vessel’s heart.
“Look at them whenever you wish to, my dear boy. As long as you aren’t being followed, of course.” Aziraphale said. “And I do hope you know I will never agree to dance again. I made an exception this time. Don’t expect it to be erm - habitual.”
“Awfully unfortunate.” Crowley said, a vague Scottish accent layering the hum of his voice. “You did so well.”
When Aziraphale didn’t respond, Crowley said, “Good night, angel." and was about to reach for the umbrella, but Aziraphale, overtaken by a sudden fear, grabbed his wrist.
“Wait.”
And Crowley looked as if he’d been struck.
“I would have reached out if I was able.”
“You weren’t able? They kept a close eye on you all that time?”
“They hurt you.” Without thinking, Aziraphale had spilled out the words he'd been dreading, the words he'd been pushing away in his mind until he could no longer see them. The words he hadn’t allowed himself to believe until now.
“It’s Hell. ” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth. “What, did you think they'd treat me to cigars? Ice cream? A royal box at the opera house? Of course they hurt me.”
The air suddenly felt unfit for human life. Or Aziraphale’s life, for that matter. “But," he breathed out, still desperately clinging on to the last pieces of deniability. "You… you told me that they didn’t.”
“I lied." Crowley said as if it was the only reasonable explanation - which it very much was. He tried to tug himself free - though the movement seemed unsure of itself.
Aziraphale knew he ought to remove his hand from Crowley’s wrist but maintained his grip, as if he believed Crowley would once more be swallowed down by the ground if Aziraphale didn’t hold onto him.
Besides, if he let Crowley go now, the poor fellow would scatter off into the rain without the umbrella they had borrowed.
“I apologise.” Aziraphale said, speaking the two words with the heaviness of a thousand more. “I am so terribly sorry, my dear. I am sorry I didn’t realise, and-”
“It’s alright, angel.” Crowley said, and he said it very cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, as if Aziraphale was the one in need of soothing, and not Crowley himself.
Aziraphale took in a sharp breath. “It is not alright."
Crowley turned his head away. “Don’t pity me, angel.”
To restore a severely damaged book was to, essentially, take it apart.
Aziraphale had been in the business of preserving written works long before he opened this bookshop. He'd picked up the craft centuries ago and had stuck with it. While he could easily revive a book back to its original state by a snap of the finger, the blink of an eye, he loved the craft of breathing life into books through the means of earnest expertise. There was something about stitching the pages back together that soothed him.
But some books' pages crumbled to dust at a mere touch. Aziraphale feared Crowley would be much alike.
Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to make it all better. So, instead, he very slowly, and carefully pulled Crowley into an embrace. To his relief, Crowley let him do it. Aziraphale caught him, steadied him, making sure he wouldn’t topple over. Rubbed circles along his back, and then moved to caress his head, fingers sliding through red curls. "My dear," he began, and only then realised too late that there was nothing else he could say. Nothing that could fix whatever had happened.
“Just… come inside. Allow me to make you some tea.”
“I’m fine.” Crowley insisted, though just like the rest of him, his voice trembled.
Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to hold his face, show him the tenderness of touch.
He thought about all the books he’d revived, previously uncared for, treated with unkind hands. He thought about all the different ages, sizes, and bindings. He had fixed up books that had been substituted for ashtrays, had fixed ones that had been burned until the pages crumbled, or survived shipwrecks. Additionally, he had revived books that had been loved to the end, throughout generations, perhaps, having folded edges, accidental coffee stains, and worn, cloth-bound covers.
Crowley seemed to fall apart right in his arms. Aziraphale couldn't miracle him back together. Could not mend him. He’d heal Crowley as easily as he healed broken bones, if only he could.
Aziraphale took a step back. He did so gently, making sure Crowley could stand on his own.
He remained to present himself as a calm force for Crowley's sake, but on the inside he burned, with fury, with affection, with all the feelings he'd long suppressed. He burned much like hellfire, much like the sword he once was given. Only his skin held him together.
There was something about Crowley that made him feel homesick. Aziraphale had never been homesick for something that stood right in front of him.
In desperation, he pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, bestowing a gentle kiss bordering on the hairline. He wasn’t sure why he did it - perhaps he knew it was all he could offer.
Crowley tensed, and inhaled sharply. “Angel.” he said, as if it were a question.
Aziraphale, who did not understand what Crowley was asking, tensed up as well. He urged his mind to cooperate, to make sense of the situation, but the longing that tugged at his heart was too much to bear, and overshadowed any clear thoughts he might've had.
The warmth between them remained vaguely aglow, like how firewood does after it has turned to black. At first, Crowley did not move away, almost as if he wished to get burned.
"Crowley," Aziraphale tried, gently, and reached out to touch him again, and suddenly, Crowley stepped back as if Aziraphale’s hand had been doused in holy water. No longer sheltered by the door canopy, rain engulfed him.
"Just come inside with me," Aziraphale urged. “It’ll be warm, and-”
-“No.” Crowley took another step back, shaking his head. “I should go.”
Aziraphale was about to protest, but how many boundaries had he already crossed? “Will we see each other again?” he asked instead, sounding so pathetically hopeful, fragile in a way that made him sound like he was pleading.
“Of course.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a weak attempt at a grin. "I still have to come look at those books, don't I?"
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
There was no hesitation behind it.
So Aziraphale watched him go. Watched Crowley’s form blend in with London’s shadows. He continued to stare at the place where the demon had ultimately vanished from sight until Aziraphale noticed his own heartbeat had gone, too.
All he was left with was the rain.