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Did you do this? Or, worse, did I? The question remains unanswered and, for all the time in the universe, Aziraphale doesn’t want it to be.
He is content.
London showers are a staple of British weather and it is during these showers that two unlikely, and yet entirely likely, lovers find themselves sitting in relative silence with only the others’ company to fill their beings with a feeling beyond comparison. A recreation of Eden on Earth.
For you see, Aziraphale is an angel, and his other half, his lover, his partner, whatever word you wish to call him, Crowley is a demon. However neither of these titles hold much meaning and are almost entirely for show – after all they are their own people and the connotations often attributed to angels and demons are complete poppycock. There is no inherent quality reserved for either when personalities were taken into account – there are plenty of angels that can be as cruel as demons and there are plenty of demons with the capacity to love just as angels are supposed to do. Aziraphale and Crowley had chosen to be on their own side once upon a time and words can no longer, will no longer, define them – their beings have broken apart from Her plans it seems - and now they find themselves content within the good favour of the other.
Cohabitation between two such beings however, despite the logistical element of their differences (or lack thereof as it may seem to be), is believed to be improbable as, physically, they do still hold their differences.
Improbable does not equate to impossible though.
And hence we arrive back at the London showers. An Eden on Earth, recreating the meeting of Aziraphale and Crowley. The droplets pelleted down upon the roof of the old bookshop, pitter patter, pitter patter, setting the ambiance of a day best spent relaxing indoors (a most decadent indulgence in the sin of Sloth) and even though there was no reason nor rhyme to it, Aziraphale’s wings were unsheathed and curled around both him and his Crowley, a small sentiment to the years, years, years, ago. Petrichor surrounded the London city streets with damp, cold, sweet, all at once and it seeped into the walls of the bookshop, threatening to infect the books but with a little miracle there was no real worry. The smell lingered in the air perfecting the day.
Crowley had draped himself all over Aziraphale’s lap, glasses off so his golden eyes could watch his golden love in all his glory, arms wrapped tight and comfortable around his love’s waist, on the verge of dozing off as he let Aziraphale read whatever book he was currently invested in and watching intently when his angel’s lips would move to form the words along with the page. There was no voice coming from him, just the slightest of movements hinting at letters and sounds, but Crowley could imagine Aziraphale’s voice in his mind and that was more than enough to accompany the scattering of rain outside.
Never in their 6000 years had they ever imagined there would come a day in which the two of them would find solace in the other’ arms, lazily living together without cares of what Heaven or Hell would think (that’s a lie. Crowley had often imagined the scenario, yearned for it to happen one day, wished to be held affectionately in his angel’s arms uninhibited – not that he’d ever admit that out loud, and not that Aziraphale would admit to having had the same thoughts more than once).
It was disgustingly hedonistic and they both loved it.
So, as Crowley lay there, watching and holding and content, Aziraphale sat there, reading and being held and content and they had long since come to a particular conclusion from their time spent together and only together.
Once upon a time, had they been asked were home was, one would have looked down to the Earth he stood upon and the other would have looked up to the stars he had hung in the sky, because in their experiences: familiarity breeds fondness. And over the millennia they had know each other they had grown their familiarity from a sapling to a tree that occupied their minds with knowledge of the other that would never be forgotten and with that familiarity they had grown fond of each other. Fondness is just another word for love though and so if they were to be asked now where home is: Aziraphale would look to Crowley and Crowley would look to Aziraphale, without faltering.
They had fallen together into one another’s lives – Crowley all at once and all too quickly, running headfirst from his torture of fire and brimstone into the calm warmth of his angel’s arms, and Aziraphale slow and steady and fearful, his actions taking charge and shouting his delight with the demon’s very appearances against his will, right up to the day he had confessed to his dear Crowley. A dance in which the music played too loud, where non-existent gazes watched their every move, and all they had to do was move to the music without a care in the world and, all of a sudden, they could finally do so.
In the sleepy confines of the bookshop, the two lovers could find a piece of quiet whenever they wanted, away from prying eyes and ears, and it was as if time had stopped moving for the two of them to be themselves.
Soft spoken words broke the silence as Aziraphale looked away from his book and into Crowley’s eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Hmm?”
“For loving me.”
“Then, thank you too.”
“For what?”
“For loving me back.”
And the smiles they shared, one close lipped and small with the gleam in his eyes full of pure adoration and the other a toothy and wide grin with a wrinkle of his nose and eyes, let them know they needed not to say any more for the other understood completely. They freed one hand each from their previous resting places, intertwined their fingers, and returned to the pleasant quiet they had grown to love when in each other’s company.