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Rule #287 of being an angel: physical contact between angels is discouraged in all circumstances.
All circumstances – that included their time in Heaven, even at the gathering that occurred before the Creation where harps were being played softly and stirringly in the background and Aziraphale was wearing his best robes (and what was the point of it all if no one was going to dance?). It included the quiet moments they had shared in the cold silence of Heaven as everyone else rushed about; there was something in their companionship that generated its own warmth, despite it all.
It included the first days after the Creation. Raphael had laid down stars like a carpet, he had arranged solar systems, painted silver galaxies. He had choreographed their dance for all the millennia to come. He had still seen nothing like Aziraphale standing at the Eastern gate, bathed in the golden light of the young Sun, watching the Garden with fire in his hair.
He had fallen to Hell not long after that.
He landed in an empty room, and it occurred to him briefly that if he did not open his eyes, there was very little to separate his new lodgings from Heaven. The stone floor was cold beneath his cheek. The silence sent a shiver down his spine.
He was left there for quite some time, lying hopelessly on the floor under the tattered remains of his shining white robes. His wings had burnt themselves out in the air, but invisible tendrils of fire were still scratching along his back. The occasional shot of pain would wrangle a cry from his throat, and he would arch his back to try and escape it, but there was nothing he could do.
Still, the time alone was good for him. The tears that had been ripped from his eyes as he fell soon dried. He was never the type to cry from shock or sadness, but if he had been, the time he had in solitude was more than long enough for his wails to subside and his breathing to soften. And although the ache in his shoulder blades was persistent and warm, it had fallen to background noise (he would later find that it would never leave him).
There was a deep, resonant thud somewhere within him as his soul finally grounded itself in Hell.
Eventually, Beelzebub turned up, bringing with them a smoke of flies that hissed venom into the air. The newly created door was already traced with patterns of mould and made a terrible yawning sound as it opened; beyond it, Raphael could hear the chatter of a thousand voices. They flowed past in the corridor like a raging river.
Beelzebub’s shoes scuffed to a stop in front of his face, and they extended a hand. Hmm. Physical contact.
“Get up,” their voice buzzed inside Raphael’s head. “Crawley.”
With great effort, Raphael reached up. The first brush of his fingers against Beelzebub’s hand was a shock; he flinched, but he hung on, pulling himself to his feet. Though all his bones were crying out in protest, he was glad to realise he could stand.
A question – he hadn’t learned, obviously – rose straight to his lips.
“Crawley?” His voice was cracked, and the question was followed by a quiet cough. Beelzebub regarded him with pursed lips. A dimple showed up on their right cheek.
“You’re not an angel anymore, Crawley.” He grimaced; it hurt to hear. He had known it, but the words bore it deep down into reality. The name rang piercing between his ears and didn’t quite find somewhere to settle, but his name wasn’t important for the moment. “I don’t have much time. I won’t patronise you. You know what a demon does?”
Crawley couldn’t bring himself to respond, but he did. He had always spent perhaps a little more time than he should have taking an interest in everything below Heaven.
“I hear you’ve been spending time on Earth?”
“Yes. I’ve been in the Garden.”
“Then it seems to me you’ll do well back up there. Go up, tempt the humans. Tempt the angels. Do what you can to bring more demons down here. No rules.”
Crawley’s pain was almost forgotten now. The words ‘no rules’ made something else flare up instead. His blackened wings, his ashy hands, his grim surroundings – it all felt like he was in a performance. The role could easily overtake him. He asked another question.
“I can do anything?”
“Anything. You might find you’ve some abilities you didn’t have before, just some tools for the job. You’ll work it out. There are other things, too.” Beelzebub’s eyes twinkled with dark mirth. “Nice eyezzz.” With a final cursory nod, they turned to the door, leaving Crawley alone in the room with only the company of the dripping of a leak that had sprung in the corner.
Crawley put a hand over his eyes as though he could feel the difference with his fingers, his heart sinking. He could hide his wings, but his eyes would always look back at him when he saw his reflection. And Beelzebub had said – had said-
Tempt the angels.
The words came back to him and he let his hand drop. His eyes may remind him of his falling, but there was an angel who could bring him back to the times he walked pavements of stars and hung planets on their orbits. He would not – could not – hate Crawley for what he had become.
---
It hadn’t been difficult to find the perfect flower amongst all those in the Garden. He came across it after about half and hour of searching; a voluptuous white rose blossom with the sweetest scent. He plucked it from its bush, and it filled his hands beautifully when he cupped them.
Crawley had given himself a couple of days to acclimatise, and he had been left alone the whole time. No Gabriel coming to reprimand him in his grief. No Michael to turn her nose up and reel off a list of tasks to complete.
No Aziraphale to fill the space with softness.
Now he was wearing the proper black robes and his ruined wings were tucked neatly out of sight. He had seen his eyes by chance soon after leaving the room where he landed; their orange glow stared at him from a puddle in the dark of the cavernous corridors of Hell, scaring him for a moment. But now he had dusted himself off, tidied himself up, and was feeling steadier on his feet.
Temptation would be worth it to feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin on his own – he had been so cold since falling.
He was glad that the principality was not standing at the Eastern gate for the time being; there was something embarrassing, almost, about the idea of being seen moving around in the Garden right now, dressed in the Other Side’s uniform. But if he could own it – present himself to Aziraphale with intention – he felt it would be easier. So, in his imagination, Crawley blew the dust off a demonic mask and placed it over his face with a deep breath. He needed the role, otherwise he knew he would still find himself adhering to Heaven’s rules; it was time to do what he wanted, for once.
Aziraphale was scheduled to take his place at the gate quite soon. He would be here already, somewhere in the Garden.
And Crawley knew exactly where – they had met there many times, keeping a safe distance in a tiny stone courtyard while making light conversation. Their meetings were never truly accidental, at least on Crawley’s part.
He made his way towards the little corner by the Eastern gate. It was already visible through the foliage from where he started; crafted from fine white stone, its partial canopy shone where the Sun touched it, like the blazing white of Aziraphale’s hair. Crawley was delighted to see the figure of Aziraphale himself standing amongst the stone pillars; he liked to believe that Aziraphale came to the courtyard to see him, and if that was true, it was sweet to see him doing the same even now, as though he had faith that things would return to normal.
Breathing out quietly, he twirled the stem of the rose in his fingers and stepped onto the stone.
“Aziraphale.”
The angel turned quickly, his fingers intertwined as though he had been twiddling his thumbs anxiously. His brows were raised in an expression that was at once hopeful and sorrowful; things could never be the same, though he so wanted them to.
“Raphael,” he breathed.
Crawley was trying his best to maintain a cool demeanour, but he could feel the prickle of redness at his cheeks at the sound of his old name. He blinked once or twice and cleared his throat.
“It’s Crawley now.” He held out the flower he had chosen, making sure to brush his fingers against Aziraphale’s when he took it, and managed a small smile – a little quirk of his lips. “I’m here to tempt you.”
Aziraphale did not smile with him – instead, he looked him up and down, taking in his charcoal robes and burning eyes.
“I- I-” he stammered, and softly, almost undetectable, took a small step backwards. Crawley noticed, though, and his heart went to his stomach; if nothing else, he needed his best friend back on his side. And then – and then, he needed him to realise that Rule #287 no longer applied (there were, of course, rules about consorting with demons, but nothing Crawley had to worry about anymore).
In the moment, a wonderful boldness possessed him – that demonic role he was playing – and took a step forwards to bridge the gap between them. Aziraphale stood stock still, looking up at his eyes. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“Aziraphale,” Crawley repeated, keeping his voice soft. “I would never hurt you.” He raised a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek and – ever so lightly – brushed it. He heard the angel’s breath catch. “You are a brilliant, brilliant angel. It’s been an honour to know you in the time we’ve had. And I don’t want it to end.”
“This is some sort of trick,” Aziraphale got out as he looked up at Crawley. “You can’t be the same. You’re a demon.” The word ‘demon’ was more of a squeak than a word.
“I won’t be delivering your soul to Hell, Aziraphale. God – well, whoever – knows that Heaven needs someone like you.” The tension fell just slightly and the two gazed at each other in silence for a moment, their synchronised breathing shaky. “I’m here because – well, I’m free now. I can steal a little more time with you. I can do this.”
He stroked Aziraphale’s cheek again, a little firmer this time, and with a little less surprise from Aziraphale.
“Goodness,” said Aziraphale, reddening. Then he seemed to gather himself, standing up a little straighter. “Well, I can’t.”
Crawley let his arm drop, and when he reached out for Aziraphale’s hand, there was resistance; Aziraphale pulled his hand away.
Crawley held his hands up in defeat.
“Of course,” he said quietly, feeling hurt, but resolute. He just didn’t want to scare Aziraphale off. “But won’t you come and sit with me for a while? You’ve still got some time before your watch.” He tilted his head towards the white stone balustrade edging the courtyard, and with an uncertain sideways glance, Aziraphale gave an infinitesimal little nod.
And that was how an angel and a once-angel found themselves sitting together well into the evening, as the Sun sank low in the sky and turned the world to soft amber. Their conversation was deeper, freer than any they had allowed themselves in Heaven, and as they spoke, Crawley was fiercely aware of the gentle touch of their thighs on the cool stone wall. It was the most sustained, sweet touch that either had ever experienced, and though it was small, it seemed to Crawley that he was back amongst the stars, surrounded by shining joy and love. He wasn’t going to rush things.
They had plenty of time to get closer, after all.