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Some of the biggest fires start with a tiny spark that is left to smoulder.
Ask any firefighter. One of the biggest dangers in any home are tiny faults - a broken cable, a spark, the isolation slowly smouldering ... the faint smell of smoke explained away as coming from the outside, coming from the kitchen …. or even edited out by our noses.
Until it is too late and the whole building is going up in flames. And in old buildings, with all the old dry wood, there is nothing anyone can do about it, until it dies.
Buildings are, after all, mortal.
When Eve ate the Apple, the angel Aziraphale and the demon then known as Crawley were already old by what became human standards.
None of them questioned Crawley’s instinct to edge closer to the angel to seek shelter nor Aziraphale’s instinct to protect the demon.
If they thought about it at all, they’d have pointed to their natures as demon and angel. Crawley, the opportunist. Aziraphale the angel who could not help but - well - help another creature.
Of course had those been Beelzebub and Gabriel on the battlement, the interaction would have been much different. For starters, Gabriel was not the type to give away his sword.
On the wall of paradise, the first ember was sparked
And with each interaction, they were drawn to each other more closely.
Crowley, being a demon and thus possessing a closer affinity to fire, had noticed the fire smouldering inside himself first.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, tended to ignore problems hoping they’d go away. Just as the French revolution had not momentarily stopped to let the angel enjoy his crêpes in peace, the smouldering fire did not extinguish when Aziraphale tried to quell it by ignoring it.
They kept colliding, sparks flying. And then Crowley entered a Church for Aziraphale.
In return, decades later, Aziraphale gave him holy water.
Why did he care if a demon was extinguished or not? Every time the question nagged at Aziraphale, he went hunting for rare books until the question went away.
And then the Apocalypse loomed. And they had to work closely together.
Aziraphale thought Crowley looked quite fetching in the Mary Poppins costume. Crowley of course said he found Aziraphale quite ridiculous in the officious rural buffoon get-up but secretly thought the angel was absolutely adorable with a stalk of straw between his lips.
Of course, it turned out to be the wrong boy.
The Apocalypse was forthcoming and Aziraphale had to break it to the demon that there was no way for them to be a third side in the war. It was simply not possible. If he fought on the side of Heaven, maybe, just maybe, he could capture Crowley alive and beg for diving mercy. If they were both destroyed by heavenly and fiendish forces as traitors …. well.
In their eternal lives, both had experienced much. The fall. Being thrown in Hell, in Crowley’s case, and learning about evil in Aziraphale’s. It had been a shock for both of them but potentially more for Crowley who literally leapt at the chance of getting out of there and stirring trouble in paradise.
The fall had been bad. Really bad. But being abandoned by Aziraphale, or abandoning Crowley as it is, and then Aziraphale’s discorporation - that somehow felt even worse. Like being burnt alive, if a demon could burn. Burnt alive by love lost.
But the boy. Oh the boy. How fortunate that neither heaven nor hell had touched him.
Aziraphale and Crowley side by side, their own side. The demon had been right. They were on their side. And their side only. 6000 years of self-deception burnt away by the averted apocalypse.
Aziraphale liked to think that it was God herself that had given them the hint in the fortune cookie. God whose ineffable game could be cruel but who was fundamentally good.
Just like Crowley.
After 6000 years, Aziraphale finally followed Crowley home. It seemed silly, really, that he had never been there. After all, they hung out in Aziraphale’s bookshop all the time, and that was practically his home.
Still, entering Crowley’s space felt … intimate.
Aziraphale looked around. “Very ... “ he grasped for the word “... very modern design here. You always had an affinity for the trends of mortals.”
“Not in the 14th century.” Crowley shuddered. “Oh the 14th century.”
“Let’s not talk about that now.”
Aziraphale swiped a finger over Crowley’s table, much to the amusement of the demon. Dust was something that accumulated on the angel’s books, but dust was too afraid of Crowley to settle here.
“Whiskey?” he offered. “I got a bottle from Jameson’s distillery back when they operated in Dublin. Real vintage that is.”
“Oh … that sounds lovely.”
It was odd, how after all those millenia, it seemed hard to find the right words. But then again, did they need words now?
The apocalypse was averted. Their punishment was averted by clever planning (or a hint from God). They had reaffirmed their friendship and commitment over dinner.
There was nothing to say, really. Other than commenting on the quality of the Whiskey. And then they sat together in silent contemplation. The ember that had sparked on the walls of paradise had finally sparked a proper fire. Not a flame of hell. No, a comforting fire, like an old fireplace. Live giving. Invoking warmth and safety and all they had always associated with one another.
Angels and demons did not need to sleep. Yet they did like to relax sometime and both Aziraphale and Crowley had come to appreciate the occasional shut eye.
It was so much more relaxing next to your best friend, your partner, your everything.