Chapter Text
Olsztyn, Poland, 1529
The letter arrived in the late afternoon.
Crowley had spent the day in the back room of the shop, going through the notes that Nicolaus had left him to check over. He was certain the Venus calculations were a little off, but no matter how many times he recalculated, his scrawled handwriting all over Nicolaus's good paper, he couldn't seem to get them to line up right. Possibly they were missing something, or Nicolaus's observations might be off. Crowley would have to go back up to the house that night and discuss it with him.
Sighing at the thought of another sleepless night, Crowley was just bundling the papers back into vaguely stacklike piles when there came a knock at the shop door. That was bothersome. He had been so very ready to go out and buy himself some wine. He was also in his shirtsleeves, which bothered him a little - A. Crowski and Co. was a respectable printing shop - so Crowley reached for his doublet on his way out.
But the young man waiting in the shop, cap in hand, looking around with slight nervousness and clear curiosity at the press, the reams of paper, the boxes of lead type, was no customer. Crowley knew him; he was one of the servants in Nicolaus' household. Mirel? No, Mirek.
"Can I help you?" asked Crowley.
"Yes! Erm," Mirek stuttered, fiddling with the sleeves of his pale doublet. "You are Master Anton Crowski?"
"Indeed I am."
"In that case there's a letter for you. It was addressed to my master's house, but it's in - English, I think? - anyway, Master Copernicus told me to bring it along to you."
"Needn't have bothered. I'm coming up tonight anyway." Crowley stopped, seeing Mirek's crestfallen look. Poor lad just wanted to be useful. "Not that you haven't been very helpful, bringing me the letter," he added hastily. "In fact, I'm very glad you did. It might be urgent."
Though this was a rather stupid thing to say, considering that the letter had already had to travel weeks from England, Mirek's face lit up at once and Crowley have him a reaussuring punch to the shoulder.
Crowley supposed it was not quite a lie. He could hardly stop his hands from shaking as Mirek handed him the letter. From England. From England. He thought his heart might stop altogether when he saw the writing on the envelope, neat looping penmanship tracing the letters Antony J. Crowley.
Aziraphale.
It had been nearly a year since Crowley had last written to him, without reply. True, they both led busy lives, and postage was woefully slow, but all the same - months and months with no word had left Crowley thinking he might never hear from Aziraphale again. He might have been dead - the sweating sickness had returned to England in full force last year. (God, that idea had kept Crowley awake for so many nights, and each night he had made up his mind to go back to England at once, only to remember in the morning all the million reasons why he couldn't.)
Or the Archbishop might have found out about their correspondance and put a stop to it. Or Aziraphale might have forgotten him-
He waited until Mirek had left before dropping, suddenly breathless, onto a nearby workbench and pulling open the letter with trembling fingers.
My dearest Antony,
I do hope this reaches you. In your last letter you said you were considering starting a business of your own, but as I do not know if you have changed your address I sent this to Master Copernicus as usual.
I must apologize to you for not writing for so long. I'm afraid I was so very occupied with the epidemic last year that I simply could not. Of course I am deeply grateful that you were far away from it all. But all the same - and this is selfish, I know - I wish you had been here with me. Simply to be with me. You once said we could weather anything, if only we were together.
I have tried my hand at raising ducks this spring. I have asked Maggie - you remember Maggie, from the Gainsfords? - to help me, as she has such a way with animals. Maggie has become a dear friend to me lately, I am happy to say. It may or may not have anything to do with my facilitating a friendship between her and one of Queen Katherine's servants. A Moorish woman by the name of Nina. I think you would like Nina. She is awfully sharp and I should not like her for an enemy. The pair of them are thinking of leaving service and setting up their own shop.
Young Adam has started walking! I can scarcely believe it, but it is so. He toddles back and forth between me and Prior Howard, and he has the curliest hair you ever saw. He talks a great deal now and almost since his first word he has been demanding a dog of his very own. Sir Thomas says he can have one when he turns eleven, which is oddly specific but then Sir Thomas is like that, and it is hardly my place, as mere unofficial godfather, to criticize his parenting.
Nan is engaged to be married to one Lord Zouche. We meet every week and more often than not we talk about you. Nan does not say it often, because she fears upsetting me, but she misses you a great deal. She told me yesterday that if only you were here she would not fear for her future childrens' education, or her garden. As it is she is very concerned about their fortunes, as the world grows increasing unpredictable and dangerous. As far as the garden is concerned the frequent rains risk drowning the lettuce, which would certainly be a tragic turn of events.
As for my garden - perhaps I ought to say our garden - it is doing far better than it ever did before you came. The climbing rose is actually climbing now, in defiance of all reason and every one of my expectations, and it has you to thank for that.
I will never stop thinking of it as our garden.
I hope you have been successful in your business endeavors. What am I saying? Of course you have been. You are clever enough to do anything you set your mind to. I wish I could see you. Free, doing what you enjoy, charting the stars and printing heretical pamphlets and all that. I only wish you were free to come home.
Some days, my love, I think I should release you from your promise. I would give anything to have you beside me again but perhaps Anne Boleyn will never become Queen, and perhaps you will never be free to return to me. Am I to bind you to me for the rest of your life? You are not as old as me; you have plenty of time ahead of you in which to build a new home for yourself. Your life has been dictated by others far too often. I do not wish to become another in the list of people who have chained you.
But I am a selfish creature, and I miss you most terribly. I cannot believe we only knew each other for a few shorts weeks, and now it has been nearly two years since we parted. It feels as if time has not passed at all. I still expect to see you everywhere. When I look up at the night sky I can almost feel you beside me, gazing at the stars. When I walk in the Lambeth gardens I vow I can hear your voice, telling off the poor pampered roses. Every day I pray to God to bring you back to me. How terribly ironic that I should hope for my enemy - and God's - to ascend the throne as Queen, but I do hope for it, if only it could bring you back. It has become my dearest wish.
I am sorry, again, for my prolonged silence. I know how you worry. I hope you will not be too angry with me, and I beg you to write and tell me how you are. I pray for your happiness every moment. My Antony.
Yours forever,
Aziraphale Fell
Crowley leaned back against the press, heedless of the metal poking uncomfortably under his shoulder, and felt tears rising in his throat. The shop was so silent around him, and when he shut his eyes he could almost imagine that he was back, back in England-
England was no longer his home. It was simply a place he had once lived. But Aziraphale - Aziraphale was home. It still made his head spin, even after all this time: Aziraphale wanted him. Aziraphale missed him. Aziraphale loved him. It set off a refrain in his mind, a song in his heart.
You are loved.
You are wanted.
You are needed.
You are loved.
You are not alone. You are one of two. You belong to an "us".
That was why, when he first bought the shop, he had used the time when he should have been celebrating to drink himself into a stupor. That was why with every success, every new customer, every step forward, every friend he made, Crowley felt his heart break a little more. Each happy occasion slammed a nail into life he had built here, cementing him here, trying to make this his home. Crowley loved the shop. He loved having his own things, his own honest money, even if he didn't have as much to spend on clothes as he once had. He loved his garden out back, and he loved going over Nicolaus's notes and debating with the astronomer on matters theological and secular alike.
It was a cruel choice. Aziraphale or Poland? Aziraphale or the shop? Aziraphale or freedom?
But, Crowley thought, staring up at the beamed ceiling, perhaps it was not hopeless. They could weather anything together, wasn't that right? If Anne Boleyn became Queen, Crowley would have his pardon, and the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Perhaps A. Crowski and Co. could use a London branch. Perhaps - perhaps - perhaps.
And then again, perhaps he would never go back. Perhaps he would never see Aziraphale again. Perhaps the world would never be whole again.
Crowley took the letter with him that evening, tucked safely in his doublet, over his heart. His thoughts strayed back to it again and again, all throughout supper. Even when he sat with Nicolaus in the big oak-paneled solar and sipped fine Rhenish, he could not concentrate on the notes he had been supposed to go over. The astronomer, who had observed his distraction throughout the evening, succumbed at last to his curiosity.
"You have something on your mind, my friend?"
Crowley sighed, swirling the wine in his glass and thinking of Aziraphale.
"Does it have anything to do with the letter? The one from England?" Copernicus leaned forward. "I know you are from England originally. Is it from a relative?"
"A... friend."
"Ohhhh. A mistress, is it? Or perhaps a wife?"
Crowley flushed inspite of himself, annoyed as ever at the man's cleverness.
"Something like that," he admitted. But was it? What would they be, if ever Crowley went back to England? What could they be? Friends? Lovers? In Crowley's dreams they lived together, in a cottage in the country or a shop in town, and Aziraphale ran a bookshop (or something similarly proper) and they shared a bed and spent every moment together. But that was not what it would be, even if he did return - Aziraphale would not leave the Church. Crowley, even pardoned, could not live openly in his house. It would be secretive, imperfect.
But it would be real. Oh, it would be real, and beautiful in its imperfection.
"It is not bad news, I trust?" Nicolaus' polite inquiry pulled Crowley from his reverie yet again.
"No, no. Erm. Simply continued correspondance."
There was silence for a few minutes, and then Nicolaus spoke up again.
"Will you be returning to England?"
"Perhaps. If... it is safe for me to do so. Someday. I don't know."
The great astronomer shook his head, grinning. "Antony Crowley, in love?"
Crowley laughed at that, as he was expected to, but in his heart he knew it to be true. He loved, unlikely and strange though it was. He loved, and was loved.
And that was all he could truly hope for. Even if his dream never came true, even if he never saw Aziraphale again (never kissed him again, never ate with him again, never lurked in the back row during his sermons) he would always have that, and it would always be a beautiful thing.
And if such a love as theirs could come to be, surely that meant there was hope for this mad, cruel world. Surely it spoke of a better future. Surely it was a good omen.