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Aziraphale seeks out Crowley once, in that trickle of years dammed up between the park where he could not save Crowley and the church where Crowley saved him. Not on the island though, which Crowley left. Aziraphale, very carefully, does not think about what else Crowley left.
The optimism and fear that mark the turn of the century seep down into the very foundations of London, thicker than the smog, and Aziraphale cannot be to blame if they scour out his own lungs, send him to Crowley’s flat, which is, of course, empty. Aziraphale knows this.
At one of the boundaries of his being there is a small space, carved out in the same precision that filled in the wall of Eden. Almost negligible, but it is familiar and worn and has served them well in locating each other when necessary; it is the reach of two existences, the electrical current across synapses. He reaches out now. There is no breath here, but he holds it nonetheless – a faint acknowledgement, and Aziraphale withdraws. He could push, travel through that expanse, up through the gaps between cells, grasp at the knowledge of Crowley. Crowley has done this before. Indeed, Crowley has not hesitated to use this knowledge to position himself at exactly the right moment when Aziraphale would need him. But this is not a distance that Aziraphale can cross.
Aziraphale is a being of love, and yet, and yet. There is no acrid imprint, no trace of any of the things ascribed to Hell and all its citizens, here at this juncture between them which they have built together. Just that reassuring flicker of light and warmth: hello, yes, I am here still, isn’t that a funny old thing? This is also something that Aziraphale carefully does not think about.
Crowley lets him know where he can be found the ordinary, human way: the letter is pushed through the letterbox a few months later. Months are meaningless to celestial and infernal beings alike, but impatience is one of those traits that creeps in with corporeality. It is a compromise of sorts, when perhaps Crowley would have preferred to not be found yet. Crowley is further away than he has been for quite some time, almost on the other side of the continent. Still, there is nothing for it.
Aziraphale does not take the ordinary, human way.
There is a river here, pouring itself out into the sea. It is a gentle sea, landlocked, but the river keeps pouring. Where will the water go? The sea will keep swallowing it up. It is summer and there is a table between them.
“Tea?” Crowley leans over the samovar, diluting dark tea with boiling water. He sets it down by the glass bowl of cherries at Aziraphale’s elbow.
“Oh, thank you. How long has it been since we’ve had this? I remember Tolstoy, of course, but before that? It’s simply not the same, when you add milk to tea. And do you remember the pelmeni, wonderful, really, such a marvellous dish, why, I haven’t had them in years.” Aziraphale keeps talking, otherwise Crowley will ask, and why are you here, and Aziraphale will have to tell him that he does not know, only he wanted to see him, even though he cannot give Crowley what he asked for.
All the windows of the attic flat are open. Students and workers jostle together down on the streets below. It washes over them, louder than the sea.
“Are you, what was it – fomenting discontent – here, then? Something to get a commendation for?” Aziraphale asks.
“This is all them. I’m just here to listen. Learn, even.” Aziraphale pointedly looks down at the stack of pamphlets tucked under the tablecloth.
“So I help them a little. You know even humans get tired of the order of things. And they can be very efficient, when they see what they don't have when others do. Is it such a surprise, given everything we’ve seen?”
“This is a little different to the French Revolution, Crowley. For one, it hasn’t started yet. I can’t help but infer that your presence might provide some encouragement.”
“Angel, imagine a classless society.”
“But a permanent revolution, my dear? And how will it end? Think of what could be lost.”
“They’re saying that we – that they can’t wait for the bourgeoisie to learn how to stop being passive. That only with self-emancipation will the proletariat gain freedom, that every individual could have what they need, because it’s there, it exists, it just needs to be equal. They’re saying that the workers’ revolution is not just here, but everywhere. That it’s our duty to bring this to those who do not have the power to do it themselves.” Crowley says bourgeoisie and proletariat, but there is dirt under his nails and he is not looking at Aziraphale, and they both do not call things by their rightful name. For example: angel and demon; all the children that were not on the ark.
“Which side do you think Heaven will come down on? And Hell?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley looks away. “I have some of that dessert wine that you’re so fond of.”
They do not turn on the lamps in the dusk. The samovar runs dry, the bowls are picked clean, the wine bottle rolls under the table. Crowley’s chair is empty.
Crowley is putting on his coat. “Well, I’m off, then. There’s a workers’ meeting at the dock, promised Lev I’d be there.”
He does not ask Aziraphale to accompany him. He does not ask Aziraphale to leave, either.
Aziraphale, as a rule, does not sleep. But Crowley’s flat is empty, and somewhere Crowley is listening to a human argue that the order of things can be changed, that you can question until you build the power structure that works for everyone without waiting for those above you to become enlightened.
Aziraphale shuts his eyes. Only for a moment, he tells himself. Then he can decide if he will take himself away, or if he will wait for Crowley to return, so that they can continue not talking.
***
There is a pine forest. It can be contained on the head of a pin, and it is larger than the universe, all at once. It is the forest that borders, that bordered, that will border the north of the Garden, the trees flush against each other so that even the light cannot enter.
A voice is speaking, “… the firebird was in a cage, oh yes, a cage of gold. Two gold cages hung in the garden, in one a firebird but in the guise of a crow. And in the oak tree there is a box, and inside the box lies an egg, and inside the egg is a needle, and in the eye of the needle is the heart, so it is told.”
A figure stands in a clearing that should not exist between the pines. There is a pestle in her left hand and a mortar in her right.
Two cages hang from the branches. She brings the pestle and mortar together, and there is only one cage. “You can only try once,” she says. “Catch the firebird to know its heart. Do not let go, whatever you are shown.”
Then she is gone, and it is just Aziraphale and a crow in a gold cage.
He holds the crow close when it strikes his arms, and it’s not a crow, it’s a firebird, the plumes of its tail burning his skin, and it’s not a firebird, it’s a snake, fangs sinking into the meat of his palm, and it’s not a snake, it’s Crowley, Crowley’s human body thrashing beneath him, and Aziraphale –
Aziraphale lets go.
***
Crowley is back at the table, refilling the samovar with water. There are apples in a bowl. “Fallen asleep, Angel? I thought that was beneath you.” The salt has settled into the corners of his smile. It is not a particularly nice smile.
Aziraphale does not reply; instead he tells himself his heart is not attempting to beat its way out of his chest. When he can bear the thought of standing, he takes himself away.
***
Crowley shows up, nonetheless. Again, and again, and again.
***
On a bus that should have been going to Oxford Aziraphale does not do what he should. Instead, he sits down next to Crowley.
There are no other passengers, and the dark country roads are empty. The bus does not stop until they are on the corner of Crowley’s flat. They haven’t spoken since they left the bench in Tadfield.
Crowley waves at the bus driver as they get off.
“He won’t get in trouble, will he?” Aziraphale asks. He can see that the bus driver has a retired mother and three cats at home waiting for him.
“Turns out no one wanted to ride this service tonight,” Crowley replies. “You know how it is, dwindling rural population and all that. He’ll win fifty quid tomorrow on a scratch-card, so should be all fine, really. Don’t,” Crowley turns away to open the door to his building, “say anything. With everything going on, it should be hard to tell what’s my doing and what we can thank Adam for.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”
Crowley takes off his sunglasses in the lift and rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes. Aziraphale can see the red marks around them. “When I left the flat… well, I haven’t been back since Hastur and Ligur broke in. There’s probably still holy water all over the floor. And Ligur.”
“Shall I go in first, my dear?”
“It’s fine,” Crowley is by the door, putting in a key, even though he could miracle it open. “I just wanted to warn you.”
Aziraphale has been in Crowley’s flat before. Not very often, but nonetheless he can immediately tell that it looks mostly the same, before whatever Hastur and Ligur did to it, only a little better. There’s no other way to describe it. The furniture looks a little newer, the paint a little more elegant, the plants a little more vibrant. There’s even a thin vine, which was most assuredly not there before, because all along its stem are small purple and white flowers, each opening like a jewelled crown.
“Huh,” Crowley says, running his hand along the vine. And Crowley cannot see it, but Aziraphale can, how the plants turn towards him, move their leaves to better show themselves off, welcoming Crowley home. “Thinks he has a sense of humour, I see.”
“What ever do you mean?”
“Never mind, it’s really not funny.” Crowley traces one of the flowers with a finger. “We’ll see about payback.” He doesn’t vanish the plant away.
Crowley’s shelves have always been sparse, but on the middle shelf in his living room is a small lacquer box. Its rich colours stand out against the concrete wall. Aziraphale picks it up. A winter scene of a birch forest is painted on the lid, and four horses are hidden between the trees.
“I didn’t know you had one of these. Beautiful things, aren’t they? Oh, I do miss the honey cake and the samovar. There’s nothing quite like Russian tea culture, you know.”
Crowley takes the box, opens it up. “How did he even know about this? Thought I had left it in, well.” He looks at Aziraphale. “You remember. Had to get out pretty quickly, after the arrests. Nothing really worth sticking around for, and Siberia was such a bore. Definitely one of Heaven’s projects.”
Aziraphale does remember. He remembers Crowley and the order of things, and how he did not ask Aziraphale to accompany him to listen to the workers and students planning a revolution.
“About the prophecy,” he says.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley sets the box back on the shelf. “I’m tired. Right now, I want to get into my bed like a human and do this wonderful thing called sleeping. We can figure it out in the morning.”
“You know what they can do. What they will do. Neither of us is safe.”
“It can wait. It’s the first night of the rest of the world, after all.” There’s something sharp in his smile; traces of salt, maybe.
Crowley brews a pot of tea, brings it out with a plate of biscuits that Aziraphale is certain were not in the kitchen cupboard two minutes ago.
“No books, I’m afraid. There’s the telly, though, and you can’t convince me that you don’t know how to use it, I’ve seen you. I would still recommend that you try sleeping.”
“Here?” Aziraphale looks at the couch.
“You could make it into a bed very easily. Or, there’s. You know.” Crowley waits, does not close the distance.
Aziraphale wants to say, what about my side? He has never been without that side. He has never had a choice.
“Well, you know what I think,” Crowley says after a while. “I’m off.” The sound of the door closing is sharp, decisive. There is no other noise, not even of a body climbing into bed or the rustle of a duvet.
Aziraphale sits down on the couch and closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Then he can decide whether he will wait for Crowley to wake up or take himself away; of course, there is nowhere to take himself away to, only away, in the most literal sense. Oh, but he is so very tired, and here is the nub of the matter: corporeality, an invasive species creeping in.
***
The firebird was in a cage and a river poured itself into the sea.
“Are you a witch?” Aziraphale asks.
“Yes,” Baba Yaga says. “And no. I have many faces. Some more familiar to you than this one, Angel of the Eastern Gate.” When she smiles, the light catches on her iron teeth. Relentless teeth, teeth which will grind all matter into dust: celestial, infernal, human, and sow it into fallow fields for a new crop. “But this is the one I am giving you. I warned you, you will only have one chance. I am the mother of witches and still you did not heed me.”
“Only, since you are a witch, can you help with a prophecy? You see, we will both be punished, even though it’s not wrong, what we did, The Plan is – is – ineffable, after all, I never questioned that.”
“You are not listening, Aziraphale,” Baba Yaga brings her mortar and pestle together, and the golden cage is hanging from a tree branch. “Though I can see that you are looking. That is to be admired. The will of an angel and a demon, and a human boy. You surprised them, when they were certain in their conviction. And, here are two hearts, after all, so maybe you have earned one more chance. This will certainly be your last. Do not let go, and you will have your answer.”
“But we don’t have time, Heaven and Hell will be coming for us. Look, can’t you please help?”
“A heart is in an egg inside a box,” Baba Yaga says.
“Yes, yes, and there’s a needle in there somewhere too,” Aziraphale replies, but the clearing is empty. There is only the silent judgement of pines.
Once more he unlatches the cage. Once more the crow strikes his arms, and the firebird burns his skin, and the snake bites at his palms, and Crowley thrashes against him, head smashing into Aziraphale’s nose, metal sliding down his throat, and he holds tighter, and it’s not Crowley in his human form, it’s Crowley as a demon, talons gouging his thighs, and it’s not Crowley as a demon, it’s Crowley and light, celestial light from a thousand eyes all slicing into Aziraphale, down to the quick, and he cannot look away, so he sees the transformation, and for a moment it’s his own form staring up at him, and finally, finally, it is Crowley, trembling and clutching at him. He winds his arms tighter.
***
Aziraphale looks down at the lacquered box. It is a very beautiful box, for all that it looks empty. He should take himself away. Aziraphale very nearly does, because expectation, even your own, is a heavy weight to bear for a human body.
He is standing at the door to Crowley’s bedroom door. Aziraphale is knocking, splintering the silence, the held breath. How much water can the sea swallow?
“Angel, I know you can sleep. I think now would be a good time to practice. Whatever it is, we can plan in the morning.” Crowley is still wearing the same clothes. They are rumpled like his hair, and when Aziraphale looks down Crowley is only wearing one sock, and yet, and yet.
“Do you need me to drop you somewhere?” Crowley asks, even now, even without his Bentley. He is not wearing his sunglasses, and his eyes are very yellow, no white at all.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I would know your heart.”
Crowley moves away from the doorway, his mouth opening to say, perhaps – You cannot ask this of me, how can you not know, it cannot be told – all of the unspoken things of their association, and so Aziraphale puts his hands on Crowley’s dear, yes, beloved, face, and it is not forgiveness, not quite, or elsewise forgiveness for them both, and he says, “If you would still know mine.”
They come together, these two very simple bodies through which the light does not pass through: foreheads, mouths, chests, arms and legs. It burns, not with divinity or the profane, just the collision of the two of them. They come to that familiar self-made space, where once they reached out, and it is expanding across their beings, a siege and surrender all at once, they are shuddering out of their bones, out of their very bodies. They are at the juncture and it burns everything away, remakes them in their true natures, not quite celestial or infernal, just Aziraphale and Crowley.
***
An egg hatches, a box is unlocked, a heart is known.