Chapter Text
For the first few weeks after the Apocalypse failed, they simply reveled in being normal. Going for walks. Eating dinner. Talking about nothing and everything.
Not that they spent every day together. Aziraphale took three days to re-catalog every book in his shop, or at least that’s what he claimed; Crowley couldn’t discern any organizational strategy, just piles of dusty books moved from one table to the next.
Crowley had taken some time for himself, too. A long drive, an even longer nap. Nearly a full week, sprawled in bed with the softest sheets and duvet humanity could devise.
No dreams of Aziraphale, though, not a single one in seventy-eight years. It wasn’t so unusual – he’d gone the odd century without them, over the millennia – but he did miss it. And it was strange, that the final dream had been the one where he’d somehow come on too strong and frightened Aziraphale off.
Well. He wasn’t one to psychoanalyze. They’d come back when they came back.
Tonight, though, the very real Aziraphale was in his kitchen. Crowley had wowed him with a gourmet meal containing a dozen of his favorite dishes; further wowed him by somehow setting the sticky toffee pudding on fire; and confessed to having had the actual dinner courses delivered from several high-end Mayfair restaurants, all while Aziraphale laughed so hard his eyes filled with tears.
Then he’d looked up and smiled, eyes that were more than a little warm meeting Crowley’s from across the room and--
Well, Crowley could only consider the night a raging success.
At last they stood on the balcony, sipping wine, and gazing out across the city – the world – that hadn’t been destroyed. At least, Aziraphale was looking at the world; Crowley’s eyes remained much closer to home, and he wasn’t sure his glasses could hide that.
“I uh…” Crowley cleared his throat. “I have…stuff…to say.” Brilliant.
“As do I.”
Crowley’s heart leapt – then crashed into his stomach at the worried look on Aziraphale’s face – then rose again as he remembered that Aziraphale always looked that way when he had something big to discuss, good or bad – then dropped to his feet when he recalled how rarely Aziraphale had something good to share.
Twenty seconds in and he already had vertigo. This was going to go great.
“Ah. Good. Um. Ngk. So. Uh. Should – should I go first? Or…euh…”
“I believe I should begin. Though I…I don’t know quite how…”
“Oh. Um. Yeah.” Crowley carefully set his glass of wine on the metal railing, which might have been too thin to support it, but the glass wouldn’t dare wobble. He thought about reaching for Aziraphale’s hand, but decided against it when he saw how the fingers nervously twisted against each other. Better not to intrude. He stepped back, shuffling his feet, trying to give the angel his space. “Would it…hngh…would it help if I said…I think I know what you’re going to say?”
“No.” A quick flash of blue eyes, pained and lost. “No, I – I don’t think it’s what you expect at all.”
Crowley sucked in a breath and nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. Right. Of course not.
Every instinct screamed for him to run, get away, wait for…whatever it was to blow over. If he ducked into the bedroom, Aziraphale wouldn’t dare follow, even if he slept for a month.
But he couldn’t run away, not from Aziraphale, not anymore. If they were going to make this – make Our Side work – well, they were going to have to communicate.
He’d much rather face off against Satan again.
As for what Aziraphale was probably going to say – he’d rather face the whole of Armageddon…
No. Our Side. They could do this. Just take the hit and find a way forward.
“Alright. Go ahead.”
“I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I suppose…well, it started five thousand years ago when I – I had something I very much needed to say, and I somehow – entirely by accident mind, though, really, the intrusion is, is simply unforgivable—” he gasped a little over the word. “I somehow touched your mind while you slept and…and pulled you into my thoughts…”
Aziraphale had been right about one thing. What followed was, to put it mildly, not what he expected at all.
--
Aziraphale laid out all the facts as quickly as he could, trying to explain what he thought had happened. He glanced at Crowley a few times – the demon’s jaw was completely slack, a look of complete dumbfounderment.
Good lord. Shocked into silence, not even one of his trademark subvocal grunts. Aziraphale couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened.
“So, well. As near as I can discern…” He tugged on his waistcoat so hard he thought it would tear. “The, er, the first few…encounters…required us to be quite close, and – and, ah, desiring the same thing of each other.” Was it hot out here on the balcony? Oh dear. “But, ah, eventually, as you…you…” Just say it. “…you fell in love with…with that version of me, I was able to – to pull you in, I think, whenever I…wished to, er, to see you, regardless of the…the reason for…for my…yes.”
He stumbled to a halt. For an eternity, the silence hung over them, so complete even the street below seemed to disappear.
“You wot?” Crowley finally demanded.
“Oh, ah, please don’t make me repeat all that.”
Crowley’s head bobbled, nodding and shaking at the same time, his jaw so tight Aziraphale worried his teeth would crack. Then the demon sprang into motion, crossing nearly to the sliding door back into the kitchen before spinning around again. “You saw – you saw all of my dreams of you?”
“I believe so. Or rather, you – you saw mine. We could, er, compare, if you wish.” Oh, no, the idea of dissecting every one of his – his foolish fantasies…
“Ngk.” Crowley reeled. “No. Just.” His fingers ran through his hair, creating a mess of red spikes. “All of them? Even the – the one on the Greek island…”
“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, feeling sick. “Yes, I’d been, ah, doing a tour of the Aegean and…well…there was this lovely beach, and I couldn’t stop imagining…” A rather vivid memory of a hot sun on pebbled beach, long arms and limbs twined all around him, as Crowley licked the saltwater and sweat from his collarbone… He swallowed. “I – I – I’m terribly sorry if I caused you any, um, discomfort.”
“Ha!” Though there wasn’t much humor behind the laugh, just incredulity. “Don’t think I’d call that uncomfortable.” He ran his hands down his face, pulling at the skin of his cheeks. “What about…what about…”
Aziraphale could see his eyes going wide with panic, even behind the black sunglasses. “Please, don’t…”
“And all the – the things I said! In Rome…Venice…Munich…New York…Vienna…Edinburgh.” He seemed to lose his balance for a second. “Edinburgh!”
Ah yes. Sitting on the cliffs at the edge of the city, Crowley’s head in his lap, composing poetry for each other. Crowley’s had been quite marvelously romantic, and Aziraphale had rewarded him with a kiss each time.
“I…I don’t know how I…”
“Paris. The Bastille!” No teasing smile this time, Crowley looked as mortified as Aziraphale felt. “The whole bloody month—”
Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “I – I didn’t mean – I’m so—”
“No wonder you hate me!”
What?
Slowly, Aziraphale lowered his fingers, peeking at Crowley’s stricken face. “Why…why would I…?”
But Crowley shook his head. “I always told myself I’d – I’d give you space. Let you…decide for yourself…what you wanted, but.” He turned away. “There I was, the whole time, forcing my thoughts on you.”
“No…” he tugged his coat straight. “That wasn’t – I’m the one who dragged you…” Perhaps he hadn’t been clear after all. Aziraphale glanced out over the city, took a breath, and tried again. “I’ve…I’ve thought it through quite…quite thoroughly. I can remember them all. And…and every fantasy came from something I’d been thinking, I’d experienced. Something I desired.” He closed his eyes, feeling a tear run down his face. How undignified. “You’ll, ah, you’ll see it too. Once you know…know what to look for. The – the moments of connection are…fairly obvious.”
“But you said…” The sound of footsteps as Crowley paced. “You said your – your – your…whatever you want to call it, everything went off as soon as I arrived!”
“Well…I suppose but…it wasn’t…everything was perfectly in line with…with…what I wanted.”
Another interminable silence. He waited for Crowley to walk away. Surely any second…
“Yeah. Me too.”
He glanced to the side and – oh, dear. Crowley hadn’t been pacing, he’d been walking closer. “What…what do you mean?”
“Just.” He looked down at his feet. “Y’know. The things I said. I…I do wish…I could…in real life.” Shook his head. “Been trying to for days.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale thought about the things Crowley said in the dreams. “Oh.” Another pull on his waistcoat, straighten the tie, try to think. “I assumed you…you only…that your feelings were…were for that…that version of myself.”
“Isn’t…” Crowley rocked where he stood, hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that…are you…is ‘dream you’ different from ‘real you’?”
“Well.” He’d run out of articles of clothing to adjust. Perhaps Aziraphale should start wearing a watch? “I suppose…I’m more…more bold than I would be in reality. More certain of myself. More open. But…no, that’s…not fundamentally different, no.” He tugged at his sleeves, just in case they were somehow wrong. “I think...I’m just...more how I...I wish I could be.”
“Nh.” One more sway, and Crowley stepped forward, almost close enough for their toes to touch. “I always…know what to say. In the dreams. But. Um.” He glanced up, and Aziraphale saw a flash of golden eyes above black lenses. “I did…write all that poetry… weeks before the dream.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale tapped his fingers against his legs. “Wait.” He looked up, indignation replacing embarrassment. “You said you were – were making it up as you went! You lied to me!”
“It was a dream! I thought I was!” He scowled, but somehow that made Aziraphale feel worlds better. “You can’t just – just pop a sonnet off the top of your head!”
“I certainly did!”
“You certainly tried.”
“Well! See if I compose any verses for you again!” But, strangely, for the first time since the conversation started, Aziraphale felt ready to smile.
He took a deep breath. One thing he had to know for sure.
“Crowley…If you only thought you were composing those…well, did you perhaps…only think you wanted to…go along.”
“No.” Another step closer.
“How can you be sure?”
“Well…” Crowley rolled out the word, tipping his head back. “How many times did you think about teaching me that bloody dance?”
“Quite a few,” Aziraphale confessed.
“Mnh. Well. I wanted to know where you were…I wanted to know you were…you know…alright. So I let you teach me but…I never wanted to try again. And I didn’t.” He looked down again, watching his toe move across the ground. “And, um, did you ever dream of me teaching you to disco?”
“Certainly not!”
“So, I wasn’t influencing you either.” His fingers emerged from his pockets, dangling close to Aziraphale’s. “But um. The…Bastille. I always woke up right when it, ah, when it was getting… interesting.” He ducked his chin but looked up. “I… did want to know how the dream ended.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale’s face burned. “It…quite…quite well, thank you for inquiring.”
“Grrrgh!” Crowley spun away suddenly, raking his hands through his hair. “Why is this so hard? I’ve already – we’ve already—” He glanced back. “Look, Aziraphale. Yes. Everything we did…I’d like to say, and, and do…or at least try, right? I just…”
“I…also…don’t know…quite how to proceed.” But he forced himself to look up, to meet Crowley’s gaze across the landing, to acknowledge that endless array of emotions neither of them could quite put into words and - at last, at last, he smiled. “I…would very much like to, though. With you.”
Crowley turned a rather brilliant shade of red, turned away - but when he turned back, the glasses were clutched in his hand. And the softness in his eyes made Azirapahle’s heart turn over in his chest. “Pity we can’t just…continue this in a dream.”
“Can’t we?” With his eyes bared to the world, the look of shock was raw, exaggerated, and in Aziraphale’s opinion quite satisfactory. “I…believe I’ve taught myself to control it now. Which also means…I could start one. On command, as it were.”
“Oh?” Crowley crossed quickly to where his wine glass still sat on the railing, drained it in one gulp. “That’s um…”
“Not the Bastille, of course,” Aziraphale rushed. “I think that’s…something…perhaps not. But…I have an idea where we can...start.”
“Nkh. Nfrd.” Crowley tried to gesture with the wineglass and launched it off the balcony entirely. “Akgh.”
“Is…is that a yes?”
“Mmh.” He took a breath, grabbing the railing for support. “How…would it work? Will I know it’s a dream?”
“Most likely not. I’ve taught myself to...to be more lucid, more aware, and I could teach you. It will take some time, but...even so, I don’t know if I’ll be able to, um, maintain perspective when I’m, ah, in the thick of it. But I can… stick to fantasies where…where we simply talk and…and enjoy each other’s company. Nothing…physical. At least.” He placed his hand on the railing, next to Crowley’s. “At least until we’re sure of our…our sense of control.”
“Nh. Sounds good. And.” He cleared his throat, glancing nervously. “I think…I want to try…things…in reality, first.”
“I…yes. As well.” Aziraphale wanted to move his hand those last few centimeters. Wanted that more than anything. “When shall we…?”
“Tonight?” Crowley caught his gaze, held it, and Aziraphale drank in the mix of fear and hope, knowing his own eyes looked the same. “I’d like…before I lose my nerve. Yeah.”
“I would…” he swallowed, reached his fingers ever so slightly closer. Almost. “Yes. I as well.”
--
Aziraphale walked down the wooded path; just ahead stood the tiny stone cottage, unchanged since he’d first seen it, nestled in a perfect glade over eleven hundred years ago. Golden sunbeams landed on the grass, the flowers, reflected up from the pond in the back. When the wind came from the south, it carried the sharp tang of sea salt.
At the corner of the cottage, Crowley looked up from the blackberry bush, and his eyes gleamed, for all the world like captured sunbeams. “Angel! Look, they’re perfectly ripe.” He turned, scoop of his tunic filled with the tiny fruits, almost to the point of spilling out.
“Sounds like we got here just in time.” Aziraphale came closer, and all of his worries, his anxieties, everything that had held him back melted away. Why had he ever doubted himself? This was Crowley, his Crowley, his dearest friend, his heart, his soul.
“You mean you got here in time, I’ve been waiting for ages.” Crowley’s fingers - stained purple-black from the berry juice - plucked out one, a cluster of little bumps tipped by tiny hairs. “Here, saved it for you.”
Aziraphale parted his lips, accepting the offering - tasting the tart, almost gritty berry, feeling the rush of juice pour across his tongue and hit the back of his throat - so much more real than any fantasy. Crowley’s thumb caught a bit of juice at the corner of Aziraphale’s lips, wiped it clear.
“Darling, that’s mine!” Catching Crowley’s hand, he drew it back, kissing the droplet off the pad of his thumb, letting Crowley cup his palm around the curve of Azirpahale’s cheek. Warm, slightly rough with callouses Aziraphale would never have expected. “I do believe I missed you.”
“Hmmm. Me, too.” Crowley leaned close, brushed his lips across Aziraphale’s cheekbone in a slow, lingering kiss. “Dunno where you were but...don’t go away again.”
“I won’t.” Aziraphale turned his head until his nose brushed along the length of Crowley’s, felt the little shivers up his spine. “I’ll never leave you again.”
He wanted to kiss Crowley, so very badly. Let the blackberries tumble down to be crushed under their feet as he pushed his demon back against the wall--
No, he’d promised. Nothing physical. They would do that in reality, and it would be so much better than he could imagine.
So, instead, Aziraphale tugged on the hem of Crowley’s tunic. “Come on, let’s get these inside. I think we’re going to have a lovely pie for dinner, and then perhaps a nice walk to the shore. I can’t remember the last time we went down.”
Crowley caught his hand, and together they walked into their home, their little cottage in the South Downs, their shared dream that, one day soon, they would make a reality.