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14 May, 1864
Angel,
This is the last letter I’ll write to you. Fifty years is a long time to keep this charade up, though Lord knows I’m no stranger to waiting.
This century is a wash, I think. The romantics are well and truly having a field day, and it’s doing nothing for my nerves (that sentence alone… God, who am I?) Especially that Jane Austen broad, and sodding Fitzwilliam Darcy. “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” Well. You understand why that might vex me, if you’ve read the past hundred-odd letters I’ve written. (You haven’t, of course.)
Do you know, I rather think Miss Austen gleaned quite a bit more from our brief meeting than she let on. I was only meant to nudge her into writing, not for her to use my pathetic ramblings about you to her advantage.
I can’t help talking about you to strangers, though. Not that I enjoy sharing you. You are not mine, I know that, but I’m selfish, angel. Sometimes I think God made me love you as punishment. It’s a cruel joke, to hold a candle for someone for this long until it ignites into something destructive. So cruel I can only imagine it must be reserved for those like me, the damned, made to suffer eternally. Unrequited love burns just as painfully as brimstone.
That’s not to say I regret it. I’m happy to watch you read, or drink your tea, or stroll through the park with you. More than happy to, in fact. I’m finding that I prefer to do all of those things to almost anything else, which is dangerous enough. If given the option, I’d follow you here all over again, and again, until my last day, should it ever come.
I love you, angel, but I need time. My only hope is that you’ll still be here when I wake. I have faith that you will be. You are, perhaps, the only thing I’ve ever truly had faith in. Isn’t that something?
Yours, always.
Aziraphale sits, fingers clutched as tight around the papers in his hand as he can without damaging them. The shattered teacup by his feet goes ignored. He doesn't even feel it when tea starts to seep into his loafers.
He’s sure he’s right. Crowley went to sleep on May 15, 1864, two years almost to the day after they'd quarreled over holy water. He hadn’t seen Crowley at all since that awful afternoon, until he showed up at Aziraphale’s bookshop announcing his intention, with no explanation apart from: “I’m bloody exhausted, Aziraphale. Wake me if anything interesting happens.”
Still, the letters aren’t signed. He can’t be sure, not really. He skims over the last one again, heart in his throat, to confirm his theory. There’s the language, for one — decidedly too casual and modern for any human to have written in that century. There’s also the reference to Jane Austen. It’s very unlikely a human could have lived long enough to meet and inspire Miss Austen in her prime, and live to at least 1864, if not longer. He first took “waking up” as a metaphor for death and the afterlife, but in hindsight it could easily be referencing a rather long nap.
There’s also the talk about being damned. Humans can be awfully dramatic and self deprecating, but this is too specific. Too familiar to how he’s heard Crowley talk about himself before.
Angel. The word appears in every letter, as the only manner of greeting, the only way he ever addresses the mysterious person. It twists in his chest to read it, to imagine Crowley calling anyone else by that name. He swallows, and admonishes himself for being so selfish. It’s unfair of him to assume Crowley never felt that way about anyone, demon or not, that he might never use that term the way humans do. He practically invented it as a term of endearment, after all.
He tries to recall who Crowley could have been hanging around with then, who could have bewitched him like this. But of course, he comes up blank. Crowley moved to London in the nineteenth century, and despite the threat of discovery looming over them both, they saw rather a lot of each other. Still, Crowley never spoke of anyone else to him, not in any specific terms. "I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel," those were the words he had said during the disastrous holy water row. It had felt like a lie at the time, and yet -
“What’s happened here?”
Aziraphale gasps and startles, dropping the letters. They float through the air like a flurry of snow and reveal Crowley holding a bottle of wine and wheel of cheese, grinning easily down at him. Aziraphale saves the letters from hitting the tea soaked floor, safely relocating them to his desk with a thought.
“Angel? You alright?”
The twisting sensation returns. He takes a deep breath and stands, repairing the teacup with a snap of his fingers.
“Fine, fine, I was just — reading.“
Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Must’ve been something good. You sound like you’ve just run a mile.”
Aziraphale laughs, perhaps a bit too loudly, and Crowley’s amused smile turns suspicious.
“Right, me, running, could you imagine?” Aziraphale says breathlessly. Crowley steps forward, looking concerned. He shifts a bit, but the letters are still in Crowley’s eyeline should he —
“What are those?”
His voice changes, icy and distant where it was pleasant and calm. Aziraphale looks up. Crowley is very still, apart from the way he visibly swallows. He’s wearing his glasses, of course, but Aziraphale can tell his gaze is directed at the letters to his left. Aziraphale carefully takes the wine and cheese, which are slowly slipping from Crowley’s fingers. Crowley doesn’t even notice, drifts past Aziraphale like a ghost, touching the letters delicately when he reaches the desk.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly when Crowley remains silent, does nothing more than touch them. Crowley stiffens again, and he can feel the way the air changes in the shop. “I fear I — well, I read them before knowing what they were, I didn’t mean to-to intrude, really, I —“
“You — read all of them?” Crowley interrupts. His voice is carefully blank, emotionless.
“Yes,” Aziraphale admits, feeling wretched. “I’m truly sorry, Crowley, you must be so angry with me, violating your privacy like that — “
“You’re sorry?” Crowley asks, finally turning to face Aziraphale. His mouth is parted; he licks his lips, and his fingers are trembling minutely. He seems nervous, of all things.
“I — well, yes,” Aziraphale says. He just barely resists the urge to take Crowley’s hands to make them stop shaking. “These letters are so… well, they’re beautiful, Crowley, and-and intimate. I shouldn’t have, I didn’t realize, you see, that they were yours — “
“Angel,” Crowley says loudly, interrupting his rambling. “It’s fine, there’s — you don’t need to apologize.”
“Oh, well… alright then.”
A minute passes in silence, then two. Crowley examines the letters, fingers tracing his own lettering cautiously. Aziraphale wishes he could see his eyes. Even so, he can feel the emotions swirling around him, changing and dissipating before Aziraphale can put a name to any of them, like Crowley is forcibly suppressing each one.
“I thought they were lost in the fire,” Crowley mutters, so softly Aziraphale has to strain a bit to hear him.
“Adam was quite thorough, I suppose,” Aziraphale says. Crowley doesn’t reply, eyes locked on the curling papers in his hands.
“Did you… “ Aziraphale starts, clears his throat. “Did you ever send them?”
Crowley snaps his head up, eyebrows furrowed together. “What?”
“This person, they — well they clearly meant a lot to you, to inspire such lovely sentiments,” Aziraphale continues. His heart beats hard in his chest, every thump warning him against going down this path, telling him to stop, to rewind. His traitorous mouth ignores it. “Did you ever tell them?”
Crowley gapes, staring at Aziraphale like he’s never quite seen him before. His expression reminds him too much of that terrible day in the pub, the would-be last day of the world, when Crowley had stared at his non-corporeal form in wonder, looking positively heartbroken as he mourned his best friend. Aziraphale shifts awkwardly but returns Crowley’s gaze steadily.
“Are you joking?” Crowley says weakly.
“No,” Aziraphale returns, bristling. “No, I’m not, but you’re right, I’m prying again, I apologize — “
“Aziraphale, please, it’s not funny,” Crowley pleads.
“What’s not funny? You’re not making sense, my dear.”
“I’m not making —? For God’s — Aziraphale, you can’t think — you must know — “
Crowley looks mad. He hasn’t actually touched his hair, but it somehow manages to look just as frazzled and harried as if he had been tugging at it.
“Know what?” Aziraphale asks, voice pitched high in frustration.
Crowley laughs then. He laughs, and then he catches sight of Aziraphale’s bewilderment and laughs harder. Aziraphale crosses his arms, face prickling with embarrassment.
“I don’t see what’s so funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale says tersely.
Crowley finally calms down; he removes his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes. They’re soft and open, looking fondly down at him, and Aziraphale’s breath catches.
“Yes, Aziraphale,” Crowley says quietly. “I did send them. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Well… a postman didn’t exactly deliver them, I mean,” Crowley continues. A blush creeps into his cheeks, barely discernible in the low light of the bookshop. “Rather… they sort of just… appeared, where they were meant to go.”
“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “One of your demonic miracles.”
“Right.”
There’s a warm sort of smile on Crowley’s face, as if they’re in on the same private joke. Aziraphale doesn’t understand it, but he enjoys the way it brightens his face too much to mention it.
“Strange that all these years later, they should end up in my bookshop,” Aziraphale muses.
The smile melts from Crowley's mouth, transformed into an incredulous gape. “Oh for Heaven’s sake.”
And then Crowley is right there, cupping his face in his hands and looking at him, and — oh. Understanding washes over him, warm and sweet, and it’s overwhelming. Crowley is careful, holding him so gently, radiating something that feels a lot like love, just watching and waiting. Aziraphale stares back, at a loss for words. Crowley’s gaze flickers to his mouth, then tracks back up to his eyes. Aziraphale inhales sharply, and Crowley slowly releases his face to grab one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his. He lifts their joined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips gently to Aziraphale’s knuckles.
“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs, fingers tightening in Crowley’s grip.
“Yeah. Oh,” Crowley replies, kindly exasperated. “Honestly, as intelligent as you are, sometimes I do wonder.”
Aziraphale huffs a little laugh. Crowley kisses his hand again, more confident now that Aziraphale hasn’t pushed him away.
“They’re yours, angel, how could you even — and have you ever heard me call anyone else ‘angel’? Not to mention the bloody thousand other times I’ve made a fool of myself for you, for someone’s sake, Aziraphale — “
Aziraphale lets him babble, doesn’t rise to the jab, still feeling a bit like he’s been knocked over with a bat. He thinks about the letters, pictures them with their new context, feeling lightheaded and jubilant. Crowley’s hands are so warm in his.
“Crowley,” he manages, voice strangled.
Crowley softens, lowers their joined hands, keeping them entwined between them. Aziraphale carefully touches Crowley’s cheek with his free hand, thumb brushing under his eye. Crowley’s eyes close momentarily, and the cagey, nervous look returns when he opens them again.
“Seeing as I never got a response, I thought — I mean, I’m sorry if I’m being — er, presumptuous,” Crowley says, avoiding his eyes.
“No, no, don’t do that,” Aziraphale says. He leans up to kiss Crowley’s cheek, feeling him shudder under his lips. “I’m sorry, for the extraordinarily late reply but… I love you, Crowley. Never doubt that.”
Crowley exhales, entire body going slack. His forehead presses against Aziraphale’s. He’s not sure how long they stay that way, only that when he opens his eyes again, the sun is setting. And when Aziraphale closes the distance to press his lips to Crowley’s, he loses sense of time entirely.