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It was dark. Not that it mattered to Crowley who could see perfectly well even in pitch blackness. His pocket watch told him it was getting on midnight. Ahead, he could see the white figure of Aziraphale standing in the cemetery, in front of a freshly dug grave, back facing him.
“Hello, Aziraphale.” He said softly, coming up next to him. The angel slowly turned to face him, and over his shoulder, Crowley saw just who’s grave he was standing in front of.
He had read the news of Oscar Wilde’s death in the paper, immediately crossed the channel to France, because he just knew he would find Aziraphale here. As soon as he secured a room in a Parisian hotel, he immediately began walking the streets before turning to the Cimetiere de Bagneux outside the city, and there he was.
“Crowley.” He said, sadness filling his voice. “Why’re you here?”
The demon didn’t reply to that. He waited a moment to ask, “Why did you wait til night to come?”
“Oh.” Aziraphale looked around, looking like someone coming out of a dream. “Is it nighttime already?”
“Have you been here all day?” Crowley risked a touch to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re bloody freezing.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “I didn’t know…”
“Why don’t we go back to my hotel? We can have a glass of wine? Toast the man properly?” Crowley looked down, and saw two roses laying on the earth. One white and one red. He just knew who had brought the white.
“I’m afraid I won’t be good company right now.” Aziraphale answered sadly.
“Like I was during the Spanish Inquisition?” Crowley asked quietly, practically in his ear. “Come on.” He put his hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back and gently led him out of the cemetery.
The walk back to Crowley’s hotel room was silent, the pair of celestial beings making no noise as they moved through the quiet streets. Crowley led him inside the affluent suite had booked himself. “You can put your jacket wherever.” He said conversationally as he opened a bottle of very good wine, and poured out two generous glasses. He looked over to see Aziraphale standing in the middle of the room, stock still, staring at the floor.
He sighed, made his way over to him, and gently removed his jacket. “Let me take this then?” He draped it over a chair. “Sit down.” He pointed to a sofa and Aziraphale obediently sat.
Crowley handed him a glass and sat down next to him. “To Oscar.” He said solemnly and held up his glass.
“To Oscar.” Aziraphale echoed, voice trembling and took a sip. They fell silent for a long time, Crowley watching-not-watching the angel steadily drain his glass, and he refilled it for him. He wanted so badly to reach over and put his hand on his. For this was grief, even if Aziraphale didn’t quite know it himself.
Oh, he understood grief all right. He had grieved for millennia after he fell. He had grieved for all the victims of the Spanish inquisition and taken a seven day drinking binge. He had grieved for the children who died in the flood. He had grieved for that gentle, bright young man who had merely wanted people to be kind to one another.
Did demons grieve? Did angels? Crowley wondered. They weren't supposed to, anyway. They were both supposed to be “above it all”, but Aziraphale was sitting next to him, his grief almost screaming out.
There were so many questions Crowley wanted to ask him. Did he love him? Did he sleep with him? Those were the top two, really, and he firmly tamped down a tiny flare of jealousy in his gut. That wasn’t his concern right now. His concern was the utterly heartbroken angel who he’s known for almost six thousand years by his side.
Finally after his third or so bottle, Aziraphale looked at him. “Was this…your work?” His voice was a low, desperate whisper.
“The trial and imprisonment?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded.
“Was it, Crowley?” his blue eyes were full and he blinked.
“Nah.” Crowley finished his glass. His first glass. He was decidedly keeping his wits about him, but letting Aziraphale drink as much as he wanted. “None of this was our work. Humans…humans have always been good at punishing those who are different.”
"And you won't take credit for it? Right?"
For a split second, Crowley thought about the commendation he would get from Below about it. A famous, world beloved human being subjected to a humiliating trial, harsh and cruel prison sentence, then finally a sad and lonely exile and early death that would set in place fear for other homosexuals that would last for decades? Heaven, this would get him a promotion even. But he looked at Aziraphale's crumpled face and he immediately shook his head. "No, Aziraphale. I wouldn't."
“But why?” the angel asked, his voice cracked on the last syllable. “Why would humans just…god…why?” tears slipped from his eyes, down his cheeks. He put the wine glass down on a side table that hadn’t been there until that precise moment, and buried his face in his hands.
Crowley shook his head and rubbed slow, comforting circles on his back. “I dunno, angel.” He said softly. “I really don’t. Honestly, I’ve often thought about telling head office to just give up. Pack it all in, because humans really do have this evil thing worked out just fine for themselves. They’ve been murdering each other for different reasons for centuries. Since practically the beginning. You know that better than anyone else.”
Aziraphale didn’t reply to that, he merely bent forward, sobs wracking through his body. Crowley remained silent, just a solid, comforting presence at his side. His hand trailed slowly up and down the angel's bent spine.
“I barely knew him.” He finally said, looking up from behind his hands. Crowley miracled a handkerchief and handed it to him, who took it, and mopped his face. “I greatly admired his work, saw a few of his plays, and spoke to him a few times. This just…the man loved so much and so hard and it cost him his life.” He looked at Crowley. “He died because he loved.”
“I know.”
“That isn’t right. What’s wrong with love?” His voice was decidedly getting slurred now.
Crowley looked long at him. “Nothing at all, angel.” He reached up and brushed a wisp of hair away from Aziraphale’s eye. “Nothing at all.” He repeated in a whisper.
They spent the rest of the night like that. The angel drinking solidly while the demon comforted him. Eventually, Aziraphale fell asleep, passed out more like, body pressed against Crowley, his head on his shoulder.
Crowley for his part, wrapped an arm around the angel’s back, holding him close. And he knew what he had known for the better part of six millennia. That he was desperately in love with him. Had been since Eden. And that demons, like humans had a way of punishing those who loved “incorrect” people.
Love can’t be wrong. He thought in the wee hours of the morning, as he soothed Aziraphale back into sleep when he stirred next to him.
Not when it felt like coming home.
He closed his eyes then, soaking in the fact that this is the closest they had ever been, and would likely ever be.
When Crowley woke up, Aziraphale was gone. But all of the alcohol in the room was replaced and there was a note in the angel's handwriting on the sofa.
"Thank you"
"You're welcome, angel." Crowley said to the empty room.