Work Text:
or you’ll be left in the dust, unless I stuck by ya
1.
– Heaven, the beginning of Time
It had all started with the Great Fall. At least, that was what was apparently happening in Aziraphale’s opinion. He had just woken up from his well-deserved sleep when he was greeted with the fact that some rebel angels had apparently gone against the Almighty and wanted to dethrone him, which caused him to grab the nearest holy sword ready to fight a battle. Not that he necessarily used that, though – he found horrible to fight against some of his pairs, nevermind slaughtering them with a bloody holy sword that Uriel had thrown at him.
Heaven had always been the most peaceful place of all, with all the soft clouds and the sun shining on them – God was just waiting for the right time to give life to his new creation, something called man. And then it hurt so much to see Lucifer, whose face was always bright and joyful, rebel against the Almighty, wanting to be directly over him and take dominion on all kingdoms on the world yet to come. It hurt, because he was always smiling. It hurt because he used to make Venus shimmer with all of his light. It hurt because he was Aziraphale’s friend.
He didn’t want this, he didn’t want a civil war, also because he couldn’t even imagine what possible reaction the Almighty could have – sure it didn’t mean anything good. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and all of the Cherubims and Seraphims were unrecognisable, flames burning in their eyes as they wielded their respective weapons. Why couldn’t there just be peace? Aziraphale was sure this could ruin everything, the order in their world, their happiness, their–
“Fear them not, my angel,” said the Lord, a deep voice from up above. Aziraphale looked around himself, everyone was still fighting and probably he was the only one who could hear his voice. “Those are rebels and want to destroy our peace.”
“But, Lord, what if it all goes wrong?” Aziraphale asked nervously.
“It won’t. Have faith in me.”
And with that, he was back in the battle, although his little conversation with the Almighty did very little to his poor nerves and to his self-confidence. It hurt to wound his previous friends, to see them fall beneath the clouds, and just as he wasn’t sure he could handle any more, one particularly angry angel, with weird yellow eyes, ran up to him with a shriek, wanting to attack him. Aziraphale was startled, but nevertheless he fought him, not even thinking he would still be able to throw his holy sword at an opponent – he wasn’t supposed to, anyway. Just as their two swords collided, Aziraphale found himself against the opponent angel, their souls pressed up together in an attempt to win over the other, and the angel saw something weird in the yellow eyes of his opponent. He looked desperate, his strawberry blonde hair waving in the wind just as the sky above and around then turned grey; in fact, Aziraphale swore that there were tears in this angel’s eyes, as if he didn’t want all of this either.
He tried to say something, to speak kind words to his opponent, but just as he opened his mouth, he saw Michael deliver a lethal hit in Lucifer’s abdomen with his holy sword. At that moment, all of the light Lucifer was exuding just dissipated and a wild cry erupted through Heaven.
He was the chosen one, the most rebellious of them all, and deserved the worst punishment. At that moment, he saw Lucifer’s body change, his ethereal soul cracking beneath his eyes as his heels turned to hoofs, his halo split in two and turned to a pair of dark horns and his mighty wings tinted black. He had completely turned into an occult being, something that took breath and words out of Aziraphale.
At that moment, with a rumble of thunder, a wide gash opened among the clouds, just under Lucifer’s black hoofs, their bright sky immediately turning dark and grey as Aziraphale had never seen – it never rained, up in Heaven. With a roar and his body still in mutation, Lucifer was gone in a moment, falling down into whatever was underneath them all, provoking a loud burst of noise the moment he landed on Earth, as if another thunder had shaken up all of their souls and their beings deep down.
In the same moment, Aziraphale dared to look around him, noticing all of the rebel angels and recognising all of his friends: the same type of gash opened then under their feet, screams of horror resonating through his ribcage as the sight of their falling and eternal loss filled his eyes. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t believe that in such a peaceful reign such a vengeful punishment could be carried out – he wanted to know there could be peace again, and this just seemed to mess up everything.
His gaze then landed on the rebel angel he was fighting against, his yellow eyes now shimmering with tears, his whole being just squashed by desperate sobs. He didn’t want this either. He bloody didn’t want this either.
“No,” Aziraphale exclaimed as the gash opened up underneath him, carefully leaving the clouds under himself as the Lord wanted. “No, no, no!” He screeched as the rebel angel just slid down, throwing himself to catch him and just holding his hand by the skin of his teeth, over the edge of the cloud.
“I...” the rebel angel muttered, just as his pupils started to sharpen more and more. “I didn’t want this.”
“I know, I know,” Aziraphale tried to reassure him, even if his hand was starting to burn.
“Don’t let me go. Please,” the rebel angel begged, as his long hair turned the same colour of the raging fire on his holy sword.
“I won’t,” Aziraphale promised, even though his hand was slipping more and more.
“I don’t want to go,” the rebel angel hissed, as his wings turned black.
But then Aziraphale jolted back right at that moment, his hand fizzing as if a bolt of lightning had just hit it. When he realised, it was too late.
“No, no!” he screamed, leaning over the edge of the cloud again. The rebel angel was nowhere to be seen and underneath them a big hole had been formed on the Earth, down to the pits of his burning core. Deep black smoke was erupting from that hole and at that moment all of the gashes suddenly closed, letting white clouds tarnish his sight. Aziraphale sat back, panting and feeling broken, as if his whole being was torn in two, not having accomplished a single thing and even failing when asked to save an actual ethereal life.
“I guess they won’t hear from us anymore,” he heard Uriel’s soft voice behind his back.
He couldn’t even stop the tears, staining his white robe. Someone approached him and Gabriel’s strong hand was on his shoulder. It weighed as if someone had built a whole house on his back.
“It’s what they deserved. Am I right, Aziraphale?” he said, shaking him playfully. Then he saw his hand, whose shades of red made it look as if it had been actually burned.
“Ugh, better not get in touch with them. Literally,” he commented with disgust. “They don’t belong to Heaven anymore.”
2.
– Rheims, 1334
Aziraphale thought he could get some fun, every once in a while. Rheims was a beautiful city, the cathedral looked flourishing (he had always been captivated by the buildings, especially the gothic ones – how he loved Rouen, God only knows) and parties were often opportunities to meet up, listen to some music and eat some good food. Three things he couldn’t absolutely resist to and which Gabriel would have seriously reprimanded him for.
He was safer now, at least. As long as he did his blessings and no useless miracles (Gabriel had been weirdly patient about that), he could enjoy his time on Earth happily. If only he weren’t forced to meet up with that Crowley fiend every time... but he shouldn’t have thought about it. He couldn’t let this ruin his day, just as he approached the castle. It was still a peaceful time and the angel hoped it could last for some years.
As soon as he entered the castle, Aziraphale was ushered by a servant to the main dance hall: he could hear the soft music, played by a small orchestra in a corner of the wide room, and he could see long tables filled with the most glorious dishes he had ever seen – only the Garden of Eden could have compared, he thought before biting his tongue and silently cursing himself. Thankfully he only had to bless a couple of children that same day, also because someone worthier like Uriel or Salandriel was requested at the coronation of a king or an emperor – he sometimes felt a bit put down by that, but at least he could spend more time on Earth, among the mere humans, just to observe them. He found them... fascinating. And they cooked magnificently, so why complain?
The main dance hall was as wide as a whole town square and it was filled with colour, all coming from the bright dresses on the ladies’ clothes; he had found many similarities between the popular dances both among noble people and peasants, and found it endearing, to say the least – such different classes, united by the spirit of music and dance moves. Humans were really spellbinding.
Cheerfully, he grabbed a cup of red wine and tasted a bit of everything, ending up falling in love with a particularly meaty and savoury dish and completing his dinner with a bunch of red grapes. Perfect.
He leant against the long table, observing the dancers swirl around the room with their colourful dresses, and swayed a bit to the melody of the music without even realising, popping a grape just as the people laughed and clapped their hands to keep up with the rhythm, always increasing speed. That made him smile in the end and he clapped cheerfully too. He couldn’t dance, he knew it, but he deeply loved this atmosphere and he was sure that no one could–
“Good evening, Aziraphale.”
Holy cow. That voice.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, turning towards the demon who looked like he had appeared from nowhere. “What are you doing here?” he asked, hastily walking a step away from him, as Crowley was weirdly keeping close to his body, as if to hide from the crowd.
“Enjoying the party. I could ask you the same thing, angel,” he snickered, grabbing a grape from Aziraphale’s bunch and popping it in his mouth. The angel looked at him indignantly, setting his grapes on the table and brushing his hands together. He couldn’t and he didn’t want to touch him, that squiggly, disgusting, yellow-eyed creature. He could get burned if he did.
Crowley was wearing, apart from a wide smug grin, a very similar outfit to his own: a bright red long shirt with a purplish red pair of britches underneath, all topped by a heavy, deep red mantle with golden details of snakes on its borders. He couldn’t deny he was stylish, though, with his little pair of dark glasses and his auburn bob cut. Also, he immediately caught himself staring, may he be damned.
“I was just strolling around for a couple of lame temptations, and I couldn’t not enjoy a party. The owner of this place always gives the best ones,” the demon admitted, looking around himself and tapping his foot to the rhythm of another song.
“What a coincidence,” Aziraphale replied sarcastically, although he knew he couldn’t be actually sarcastic.
“Care for a dance?” Crowley asked nonchalantly, as if he was talking about the weather. That made Aziraphale turn violently, shocked by such an outrageous question.
“What?! With you?”
“You see anybody else who would want to?”
“Anyone could. Certainly not me, you foul fiend.”
He walked away from the main hall pretty fast, running up the stairs. How could he possibly think...? He still remembered his approach at the Garden of Eden, and how his pointy teeth had shone through the sky as he had smiled at him. He still remembered the shock in his voice when Aziraphale had told him about how the Lord had wanted to drown the whole of humanity, kids included. He remembered their closeness, and how many times they had lent each other a hand for some smudges of blessings or temptations they were supposed to do (without denying the whole feeling of spiciness in his humane body as soon as the angel committed some bad actions). He still remembered his bright yellow, desperate eyes, begging him not to let him fall from the clouds of Heaven.
The angel gripped on his chest, his feeling enhanced by the pain in his human body – is that what humans felt all the time? Is that what caused the feeling of not being remembered at all, such a pang in his core? Aziraphale felt like crying, running into an empty room just above the main dance hall. And when he heard quick steps following him, he felt his stomach turn upside down.
“Aziraphale, listen...” Crowley’s voice behind his back sounded softer than usual, but he wouldn’t let him tempt him. He couldn’t be melted once more.
“What?” the angel tried to answer, not wanting to reveal the shaking in his voice.
“If I said something that messed your guts, I’m sorry.”
Aziraphale didn’t answer, just as a small tear ran down his cheek. He had never heard him say those words before, too busy sending him naughty snarls and hisses.
“I just... like hanging out with you.” Crowley continued. The angel turned around and the demon was looking down, like a child who had just been reproached.
“You... you do?”
“I really can’t not, I guess.”
“... That’s not even a correct sentence.” Aziraphale giggled, feeling as if a small weight had been lifted from his human chest.
“Do I look like I care, angel?”
At the umpteenth snarl from the demon, Aziraphale couldn’t help but burst into giggles, which turned from shy to almost hysterical, causing Crowley himself to laugh. He felt his head spinning and absentmindedly rubbed his eyes, not wanting the demon to notice he had been crying. That was enough, he could say. He thought he could cope with him another couple of hundreds of years, probably. If he didn’t strangle him first, that was.
“I was serious about the dance, though,” Crowley admitted, after he caught his breath back, his hands on his hips and his mantle swaying smoothly.
“Oh, c’mon. You know it, I can’t dance,” Aziraphale answered shyly. But at that moment, his ears perked up: he could still hear the faint music from the main dancing hall underneath them, a slow ballad about a love story that rang so bright through the room, as if the small orchestra had been just right there, playing for the two of them only.
“I can... I can show you how, if you want,” Crowley mumbled, turning as well when he heard the soft voice of a woman, starting to sing in French.
Douce dame jolie,
pour Dieu ne penses mie
que nulle ait signourie
seur moy fors vous seulement...
Crowley approached him and Aziraphale felt his human muscles tense up. He was close again, so incredibly close, and with long bony hands he grabbed the angel’s wrist, holding it up in mid-air; he started walking around him, his steps so soft that they couldn’t even be heard, twisting around his body while following the melody, his left hand behind his back and his right hand coming up as well, grazing his lifted palm. Aziraphale felt a zing going through his fingers as they brushed against each other, the yellow eyes of the demon keeping still on his figure as he did a little jump, smiling triumphantly when he managed to do that without slipping off the rhythm.
Aziraphale was pretty sure his fingers would be burned, someday, as they were surely burned now; weirdly, though, they didn’t hurt as he found himself pressing his hand against Crowley, mirroring his steps elegantly after he had received a couple of explanatory turns by the demon. His fingers were long, bony, almost skeletal, and his yellow eyes never left his own, as they danced like they were the only ones left on Earth.
Et quant ma maladie,
garie,
ne sera nullement
ans vous, douce anemie,
qui lie
estes de mon tourment,
A jointes mains deprie
vo cuer, puis qu'il m'oublie,
que temprement m'ocie,
car trop langui longuement...*
3.
– Rome, 1592
Aziraphale couldn’t stop crying. He had failed, for the umpteenth time. He could feel his human body shaking with sobs, the pain in his chest getting bigger and stronger with each gulp. He really hoped no one could see him, in a corner of the street, holding onto his chest, just turning his back to the body on the hard sidewalk.
Suicides weren’t really his thing. Usually Gabriel and Uriel would send him to do some blessings or anything of sort – relatively simple tasks, something he could get be over within a matter of a day, taking his time to enjoy everything else around him in the meantime. And usually they were someone else’s duty, someone more powerful than him, a humble principality, was usually assigned to stop those who wanted to take their own life. Michael was amazing at that, he recalled: once he had gone bragging about how he had dissipated all of the poison in a human’s veins in just two hours. Attempting to take their own life was the worst thing any human could do to themselves and to the Almighty, of course: the Lord gave life to all of them, so attempting to kill themselves meant refusing that kind of gift from God, and that was beyond unacceptable, outrageous even.
He had been assigned this just because everyone else was busy at the moment; he had planned everything, had checked on the young lad constantly, and yet had seen him slip from his fingers, the moment he fell from a window in his humble house. He was tired of seeing people falling, he was tired of feeling useless because too many people have suffered, because sometimes the love in the world was too much that he was feeling suffocated by it, leading to horrible consequences.
Aziraphale couldn’t stop crying, sat on the Pincian Hill, on a small bench; it was a warm night in Rome and the angel didn’t even notice when a cold presence appeared next to him.
“Aziraphale?”
He pulled his head up, sniffing through his nose and making an obnoxious gesture of wiping his tears when he saw Crowley, hovering above him.
“Great, just what I needed,” he mumbled. “What do you want, demon? Are you following me?”
“I was just... passing by, tempting some priests,” the demon admitted, a bit startled by the angel’s tone. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m perfectly...” Aziraphale looked up, his tears dangerously threatening to come back. “Perfectly fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Crowley asked, his voice weirdly gentle as he sat down.
“No. It would be none of your business anyway,” the angel hissed sharply, but didn’t move from his spot on the bench.
“Okay.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, Aziraphale wiping up his last tears with a small embroidered handkerchief he kept in his pocket. He looked over to the demon, who was now sprawled on the bench more than he was sat, as usual, caressing his weird little auburn beard thoughtfully – that was new, the angel thought. He didn’t look bad, he just needed to get used to that new look. He hadn’t kept his hair long in so long, since Noah, he recalled. Not that he would be able to reassure him in any way, or... whatever.
“Miracle gone wrong?” Crowley asked, his gaze lost in the summer night sky.
Aziraphale sighed, supposing there would be no way out of this, as for now. Better as well tell him and get this over with.
“Something like that,” he admitted, fiddling with his hands.
“Miracles can’t go wrong, can they?” Crowley commented again. “Unless you’re a proper twat.”
“Crowley...”
“Uriel looks like a twat,” he added. “Saw him, a couple of decades ago. I bet he delivered more babies than he could afford, just to show he can pop up more blessed beings than all of you.”
Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh at that and wanted to explain that throwing shade at others wouldn’t enhance the quality of the actions the others did, but he kept quiet. He felt the tiniest bit glad that, despite everything, that would be the only support that would come to him, from anyone.
“I had to prevent a suicide,” Aziraphale just said, after a moment. Crowley stayed quiet, but the angel felt his gaze on him, even through the small sunglasses he always kept. “This young man... he had no reason to do it. He had had a tough childhood, that I remember, but then...”
Aziraphale interrupted himself again, staring at the horizon in front of him, at the beautiful skyline of Rome that they both could see from there.
“He was beautiful, fresh, young. He was in his prime, really. He had found a job, posing as a model for a rather infamous painter... Caravaggio, I think he may be called.”
Crowley let out a snort, and Aziraphale noticed it.
“Do you know him?”
“Sort of,” the demon just answered. “Go on.”
“He was generally very generous and kind. But he had very little money, and he told me that he never really managed to get over his mother’s death.”
Crowley stayed quiet, just nodding slightly.
“And he...” Aziraphale could feel the tears prickling again. “He slipped from my fingers. Like nothing. He was... he was just a child...”
A tear fell from the angel’s right cheek, landing on the dusty ground underneath their feet. Crowley just sighed, and just as Aziraphale promised himself he wouldn’t start crying again, he felt an arm drape over his shoulder, causing him to look directly into the demon’s eyes. He was stunned by that contact, wanted to get away as soon as possible, but his grip seemed firm and their closeness felt weirdly reassuring. It was the closest thing to a hug that he could get, and he was getting it from none other than a demon, his sworn enemy.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Crowley had never sounded so sincere, and that made Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat. “Maybe... next time you can, I don’t know, make him land on Heaven?”
Aziraphale gasped. “That’s a sin, Crowley, you do know it well,” he snapped, biting his tongue immediately afterwards. “And then... it wouldn’t be easy, with paperwork. Gabriel would reprimand me even more than usual.”
“If you’re that worried about Gabriel, then you wouldn’t even be speaking to me right, now, angel mine.”
Aziraphale stayed quiet again, gazing at the skyline with a demon’s arm draped over his shoulder, feeling less heavy than he did before; a flower had grown on the dusty ground, just between his feet where the tear had fallen, and he was thankful it was pretty dark so that no one could see how much he was blushing.
4.
– Paris, 1854
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques... c’mon, you’ve got to keep up with me, angel!”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly, ever wondering how he got into this situation. It was one of their usually fine nights – going out for a nice dinner (they had recently tried a new restaurant where a fine American chef had suggested they should try his newest dish, the homard à l’américaine**), drink a bit and then going back to London, just to have some fun. London apparently had to wait, since everyone knew that Crowley was a deep lover of expensive French wine. After Napoleon had been elected, everything in France appeared to be a bit more stable, at least more stable than during the Terror. Aziraphale was a bit upset about not being able to dress fancy like once, but he got used to the new fashion pretty quickly.
The city was pulsing with young bohémiens, poets that proclaimed themselves as “cursed”, street musicians and stray cats and in that chaos, the angel didn’t feel weird at all. Sure, going straight from la Mairie down to the banlieues always moved something inside of him as he could see the difference between the lifestyles and the poverty of people, but there was very little he could do. And now he couldn’t think about it too much, not with a happy singing demon in his arms.
Crowley had, in fact, sprawled ungracefully onto the angel’s body, wrapping an arm around his shoulders still with his bottle of wine, that he kept swinging and rolling – he was pretty heavy to carry, and Aziraphale had to make sure of that as much as he liked getting drunk with him, but at least he was a very happy drunk, who kept laughing and singing and making a mess out of everything. Sure, he was a bit loud considering the time: the streets were pretty deserted, except for a few... streetwalkers dressed in clothes that left really little to the imagination. He probably should have stopped them too so that they wouldn’t get on the way to perdition, but Crowley was now blabbering about how good lobsters tasted and how much he loved France.
“Jesus Christ, I love this country!” he stopped shouting for a second, his body swinging as if a wave of nausea was about to hit him and consequently causing Aziraphale to stop worryingly. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.”
The demon took a deep breath, his hand gripping tight on Aziraphale’s coat, and the angel was ready to miracle the both of them straight back to London and in Crowley’s bed, if necessary. But then Crowley just wiggled his body and drank one more swig of his bottle, giggling.
“Are you sure... you’re feeling okay?” Aziraphale panted, thinking he really needed to do some exercise and maybe taking long strolls along the Seine would really regenerate his soul.
“Perfectly!” Crowley squealed, his voice so high-pitched that the angel could barely stand it, but made him giggle nonetheless. “It’s all... how do you sweet wings say?” he slurred, taking a sip of his wine thoughtfully. “It’s all... tickety-boo!” he then came up with a sing-song voice, swaying along and throwing himself even more on Aziraphale’s body.
The angel’s patience may have seemed infinite, but it had a real limit and that was risking to be awfully crossed very soon. They still had to walk before they could reach any sort of repair for the night that didn’t consist in a basic brothel (he still had standards), and this would be a long, very long night; as long as he could enjoy Crowley’s little squeals and giggles and the grips on his coat, and even if he knew he could sober up quite easily, they both needed to get some rest.
“Are we... there yet?” the slurring demon asked, precariously leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“Almost,” huffed the angel, trying to adjust his body so that they both could be more balanced – also wanting to be a bit less close to Crowley, because the both of them knew that the more they were close, the more they were risking their respective lives. And Aziraphale certainly didn’t want that.
“Y’know what, Ass-iraphale?” Crowley suddenly exclaimed, lifting himself from the angel’s body and trying to stand in front of him, blocking his path.
Aziraphale threw a long sigh, feeling definitely lighter now, but still holding onto Crowley’s middle, since he wasn’t exactly stable.
“That’s not my name, and you know it,” Aziraphale said softly, patiently, and as he went to look into the demon’s eyes covered by sunglasses, he found himself in front of a wide toothy grin.
“You’re my main dude. Like, y’know,” Crowley stumbled as the angel started to blush. “You’re like... so pretty. Fuck me. With your stupid soft hair and your stupid apple cheeks and your blue-grey eyes,” he mumbled, squeezing the angel’s face with his free hand. “And fuck everything else,” he exclaimed dramatically, swinging his bottle of wine, almost dragging Aziraphale down with him if only the angel’s reflexes hadn’t been so sharp and swift.
In fact, before he could land face first on the dusty sidewalk, Aziraphale instantly wrapped his arms around Crowley’s lanky, skinny body, holding him still for just a moment. His heart was beating fast – that was just pure nonsense, right? He was just drunk, he couldn’t mean those things, and what if someone up there heard them?! They would definitely receive some paperwork, or they’d be disembodied, or separated forever, or even worse! God knows what they could do to Crowley down there; he had to come up with something, he had to think, he must! Until... until Crowley nuzzled more into his grasp, burying his face lazily into Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, almost trying to climb on him before realising that his feet were too slippery and he definitely couldn’t get a whole lanky leg around the angel’s waist.
They had been close before, Crowley had casually fallen asleep on his shoulder during their casual trips (even though they didn’t need to, they still liked to use human carriages and the always new transportations human could come up with) and Aziraphale must have surely leant on him while reading – he was quite comfortable, he had found out. And still, Aziraphale found it so weird that someone so cold and so lanky and so uninterested could be instead interested in him, of all beings of the earthly and unearthly world, someone that trusted him so much for him not to get burned anymore whenever they got in touch with each other, that could hold him so tightly and then let go of him so suddenly.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, the tip of his nose just grazing Crowley’s wavy red locks, just appreciating the quietness of the demon in his arms, except for a few drunk, unconscious hiccups. He let his smell fill his nostrils, and remained confused when he could clearly sense a fruity scent, just as if Crowley had bathed in apple juice, strong yet sweet, definitely gluttonous. It was weird, because Crowley’s smell was usually filled with spices, making him wince as the strong flavour of cinnamon often made his eyes wa–
“Oh.”
He didn’t even feel Crowley slipping from his fingers and landing on his back against the hard stone of the sidewalk, a vague thump ringing through his ears followed by a soft snore that he was too busy to care about, too focused on the pounding beating of his own human heart.
5.
– London, 1957
There were certain days that Aziraphale could perfectly describe as “gifts from God”, quite literally: everything was green in Regent’s park, birds were singing, children were playing and a faint spring sun seemed to keep shining over the whole city. Days like these were amongst his favourite and were the perfect occasion for a small picnic outside, where he could just lay down and read his book, maybe with a slice of apple pie bought by the bakery down the road run by that lovely old lady who always told him about the weather and weirdly squeezed his cheeks.
Today it was one of those days, and the old lady had even kept for him a small bowl full of fresh strawberries, that she said came directly from her garden; leaning against a tree, he lazily went through the yellow pages of an old copy of Keats’ Hyperion, popping a strawberry in his mouth every once in a while and enjoying the cool, gentle breeze in the shadow. He was so distracted by the words (which drove him to the edge of tears every time, he had to admit) that he didn’t even notice a squiggly presence running silently down the tree, until it wrapped around his shoulders and preventing him from reading.
He sighed deeply when he saw a scaly, thick black skin crowding around his neck like a comfortable scarf in winter: the long black snake was keeping its head high, almost as if he didn’t want to look at the angel. Nonetheless, Aziraphale smiled at that, used to it by now.
“My dear, I’m reading,” he warned it, but the snake just hissed quietly, his forked tongue just feeling the breeze. He knew Crowley would ignore him. “How was the hunt?” he joked, in the end.
The snake just rolled his yellow, pointy eyes ever so slightly; Aziraphale knew that Crowley would never hunt anymore, especially after he had tried tasting whatever may have included mice and a few pigeons. His excuse was always that London’s pigeons were contaminated by pollution, and Aziraphale never used to question him, even if he knew he was doing it for another reason.
They both remained quiet for a moment, until the snake gently pressed his narrow head against Aziraphale’s temple, demanding attention.
“Is this your way of telling me you want to talk to me?” the angel asked quietly, patting gently on his long body. The snake hissed petulantly, rolling his narrow eyes again – he always contradicted himself, but that was just how Crowley was. He had been feeling off the last few days, and Aziraphale still couldn’t get his head around it; Crowley knew more than well that he was always there to listen to him, despite his reluctance, but weirdly enough the demon wouldn’t talk to him, instead letting himself be taken out and distracted by his fellow angel. Aziraphale, for his part, only hoped that at least Crowley would feel a bit less distressed, also because he knew that putting too much pressure on him would lead to no good.
It was weird how turning back into his wily serpent-self was awfully relaxing for the demon; Aziraphale still had to understand it too, but that he couldn’t question. Especially now, since Crowley was pressing his head again against him, now on his cheek, more insistently, like a really affectionate cat – if he had been able to transform into a cat, he would have probably behaved the same way, just with some more purrs added. Aziraphale wasn’t certainly one to complain, and he was about to answer when he saw a kid staring at him from afar: it only took a moment for the boy to run back to his mum and for Aziraphale to realise that a man with a big thick snake around his neck would probably look very bizarre.
“My dear, I think you should switch back to human,” he said, his voice barely a soft whisper. “Children are watching.”
The snake looked at him and then turned its head to where the angel was nodding, hissing quietly before he slid down Aziraphale’s body, crawling up just next to him and slowly returning back to his human form, with clothes and all. Aziraphale smiled at the sight, and smiled at his hairstyle, with that weird floppy auburn quiff that fell right on his forehead – he had been listening to Elvis a lot, and he really liked his style.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said politely, feeling a bit lighter but at the same time a bit emptier. “Want to tell me what’s wrong, then?”
Crowley had his legs crossed and he quickly checked the surroundings before he put on his pair of sunglasses, to hide his narrow yellow eyes. He was still silent, quietly refusing the strawberry Aziraphale was offering him, before he looked at him for a moment and sighed.
“Let’s go home,” he suggested, his voice strangely deep.
Aziraphale bit his lip at that, but now the fact that his reading session had been interrupted just for them to go home again didn’t bother him so much; he was more concerned about Crowley, still wondering what could be going through his mind.
“Would you... like to stay the night?” the angel asked, then. It always felt weird, despite the countless times they had slept together in the same household. Crowley gave him a hint of a smile, before standing up and tidying up the quilt and the fruit bowl up in a basket with a click of his fingers. Aziraphale was just about to tell him that someone would see them, but he didn’t seem to mind that either.
Their walk home was pretty silent, except made for some small talking by Aziraphale about his book, and when they got to the angel’s flat just above his bookshop, the master of the house settled into the kitchen, to put his picnic kit back to its place and prepare some tea. He was just about to take a quick check on how much wine he’d still have in his fridge (and he could always miracle some, just in case, for once no one would mind), when he felt a small tug on the back of his vest. He didn’t make it in time to answer, because Crowley was on him in a moment, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind just as he had done a few moments before with his snake-like body, grasping onto him as he would do with a life vest or anything of sort that would prevent him from drowning into an abyss.
Aziraphale didn’t even notice that the metal box of tea leaves had fallen from his hands and sooner or later he’d have to scoop everything up with a broom, or maybe miracle it so that all the tea wouldn’t be wasted, but he was so focused on Crowley’s body heat that his human heart nearly missed a beat. He was there, the Crowley he was so deeply fond of, so strong yet so fragile, and in his grasp he still felt the desperation, the same despair he had seen in his eyes when he had fallen from Heaven.
“Do you ever think they’re watching us?” Crowley asked, nudging his pointy nose against Aziraphale’s hair, his voice so soft like the angel had never heard.
“They?”
“Our... our sides.”
Aziraphale stayed quiet at that. Of course he had thought about it, he could have said he had been thinking about it since he had known the demon, every hour and every second they spent together on Earth; he had been thinking about it since he had seen Crowley laugh with his toothy smile for the first time, every time they got drunk together or fed the ducks at the park. He had been thinking about it since his hands had been able to touch the demon, hold his hand and feel his skin, in whatever form he decided he’d turn into. And that destroyed him every day.
Everybody knew that once you’re damned in hell and you’re damned by hell itself, there’s no going back, and the punishments were pretty much definitive for everyone. Aziraphale knew what Crowley risked every day, and sometimes he was so afraid that his breath almost went missing.
“I... I don’t know,” the angel found himself speechless. “I... I really hope not.”
“Why?”
Aziraphale smiled, caressing one of Crowley’s arms.
“Because if they did, they’d see how fantastic you are.”
Crowley lifted his head just enough to look straight into the angel’s grey-blue eyes, narrowing his own as a quiet hiss came from his body. He didn’t want to fight, and Aziraphale was doing it just to tease him.
“Sssshut up,” he couldn’t help but saying, swatting on Aziraphale’s arm and making him giggle, before wrapping his arms around him again. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never.”
+1.
– London, nowadays
“Make yourself at home, angel.”
It was weird, stepping into that house again after everything that had happened. Aziraphale still remembered how excited Crowley had been when he had managed to buy it – still illegally, since the demon had signed the contract and tricked the ex-owner into believing the whole rent had been transferred into his bank account, the angel had severely reprimanded him for that. Now, the whole time he spent saying that he was bored, he used just to decorate that apartment, with high grey-black walls and wide windows, filling the rooms with tiny and not so tiny souvenirs from his adventures. In the hallway stood a statue of an angel with wide open wings and Aziraphale blushed when he saw that, remembering about that church in 1941 he had been in too – the books had a different smell, after Crowley had saved them for him.
Everything felt different, he guessed they were supposed to be a thing now, detached from their counterparts but still keeping their own beings as an angel and a demon – Aziraphale could feel it, in the love that filled his lungs as he entered the house, the same love that Crowley had put into decorating it, with his memories and their ups and downs. The spot where that feeling of love was most intense, though, was where Crowley’s houseplants were, a bit scattered around the house but mostly in the lounge, next to a small balcony, just so that they could get the perfect light. As they entered the room, Crowley slammed the door, and the majesty palm he kept in the corner started shaking; Aziraphale well knew how Crowley treated his plants and how he liked to play the role of the Almighty in his own little world, and it always broke his heart to see them so frightened – they were always earthly beings, after all.
He turned slightly when Crowley tapped his shoulder to get his attention: he looked tired, exhausted, with his bright yellow eyes almost glistening into the dimly lit room, his pupils as thin as needles. He was silently asking for his coat, and Aziraphale gave it to him with a polite, thankful smile. As Crowley went to hang their coats, the high plant in the corner was still shaking and the angel just sort of naturally gravitated towards it, gently caressing the thin leaves as to reassure it.
“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered softly. “It’s okay, Arthur dear. You look gorgeous today.”
He smiled, thinking about the name – he had named all of them, and he fervidly remembered every single one, always asking Crowley to tell him if he adopted a new one (although he preferred to say he “bought” a new one) so that he could give it a new name, but Crowley never did. This one was named after Arthur Conan Doyle, he recalled. As soon as he touched the tender leaves, the plant stopped shaking, returning to still, the feeling of love ringing in the angel’s chest.
There were other ones: Oscar (which reminded him of their dear friend Oscar Wilde), William (either after William Butler Yeats or Shakespeare), Charlotte, Emily and Anne (it was a moth orchid, with its three flowers, that had been named after the Brontë sisters), and so many others, big or small, that now he couldn’t even remember as exhaustion started taking possession of his human, fleshy container. But his favourite was a peace lily, settled in a wide vase just next to a snake plant, that he just called Lily – not his favourite choice of name, as he had wanted to call it Virginia or Agatha, but he had decided to settle on that one just because during one drunk night he had asked Crowley what type of plant that was and he just told him not to care about “that skinny ass peace lily, I’m not peaceful so why should it?”; just as Aziraphale had pronounced the name “peace lily”, a couple of new baby leaves had sprouted from the plant. He had really hoped Crowley wouldn’t be too mad about it.
“Good evening, Lily,” he greeted softly, sitting down on the floor next to the big pot, just in front of the balcony. He smiled when the plant almost seemed to answer him, making a small white flower blossom among the leaves. “You are flourishing. Is Crowley treating you well?”
“Of course I am.”
A hiss came from behind him, and Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands, coming to sit down next to him. It made him smile nonetheless, that he still wanted to drink after everything that happened and after he looked so worn out.
“And they’d better be fucking grateful for it,” Crowley snapped again, pouring a glass that he gave Aziraphale.
“You’re too tough with them,” the angel said, not even noticing that his voice was softer than he had intended.
“And you spoil them with your shitty names, is what you do.”
“They seem to like it,” Aziraphale commented, caressing the newly bloomed flower among Lily’s leaves.
Crowley suspiciously leaned over the angel’s body, checking what had just happened. There we go again, Aziraphale thought, rolling his eyes as he could already see the demon going to throw one of the smallest pots off the balcony just to intimidate the other plants. Instead, he was surprised to see that Crowley was humming thoughtfully, still in his place on the floor next to him, taking a sip of his wine.
“I suppose that doesn’t look so bad now.”
Aziraphale smiled at him yet again, sipping at his own glass silently. It was incredible, after everything that had happened in the last few hours – just like when they delivered the Four Horsemen’s gifts back, and they were sitting so close, yet so far. They were still drinking, and it wasn’t that cheap red wine that Crowley happened to like every now and then, but it was the fancy Moët that Aziraphale deeply loved from all the times they had gone dine at the Ritz. It was incredible that Crowley was still sitting next to him, just when he had thought he could have lost him forever; he probably couldn’t have coped on this Earth without someone just like him and, if he had, surely his life had been more empty, just as if a piece of his ethereal soul could be missing.
Aziraphale found himself staring at the pointy features on Crowley’s face, how his yellow eyes were shining now that he was looking directly into the moonlight, his posture incredibly crooked as he leant back on one arm and with the other he sipped quietly on his wine.
“We could have gone on the moon, y’know.”
“Really? And miss all of this?”
“It has a nice view, at least.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help it. After his last gulp of wine, he just leant in and closed the gap between their mouths, a bit clumsily, grabbing on his jacket afterwards as if he was afraid Crowley would escape in any moment. He heard him muffle something against his lips, an unexpected ‘hmpf!’, and then a noise that just seemed like the one of a vase being knocked out. His lips were thin, cold, and he could feel the demon’s cheeks quickly warm up at that contact.
Good Lord up above only knew how much he had wanted to do it, for how long he had been so insecure of doing it, and it felt amazing. He was just about to tell himself that it couldn’t get better, when Crowley kissed him back, keeping a hand on his cheek. He tasted sweet from the wine, and that’s when the angel slowly pulled away, placing one of his hands on Crowley’s middle, under his jacket, just below his ribs. The feeling of love that had been enveloping the whole apartment was now pulsating throughout his fleshy, human body and he was feeling so overwhelmed that he could have screamed into the void.
As he opened his eyes, Aziraphale saw that Crowley’s face was completely red, his breath shallow as if he had just run a marathon and his black wings had completely sprung out, effectively knocking up a small terrarium with three cacti inside, Athos, Porthos and Aramis – he was sure he could find a better name inspired by three authors, one day.
Crowley couldn’t speak, he looked too flustered to even draw a breath.
“Oh, they fell down. What a vengeful god you are,” Aziraphale joked, with a small giggle, his hand still on Crowley’s ribs.
“Yes. They deserve it,” Crowley panted, covering his eyes.
“I thought you could be more benign, though.”
“Shut it, angel.”