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It had been several weeks since the supposed end of the world and Crowley was busy humming something out of tune to himself that might vaguely be recognized as one of the many songs by the band Queen. He swayed his hips haphazardly with a playful smirk resting on his lips as he roamed the back rooms of Aziraphale's shop in the strange swagger he always seemed to possess. Reaching a hand out, he gently ran his fingers along the well cared for spines of his counterpart's most prized possessions, careful not to harm any of the books lest he wanted an earful, and possibly a smiting, from a very angry ethereal being. Sure, he teased Aziraphale from time to time, it was all apart of the strange dance of sorts they had, part gavotte and part awful yet intriguing emulation of disco, but he would never purposely upset his angel; doing so would hurt him far more than it would hurt Aziraphale, of that he was absolutely certain.
The feeling of worn leather and cloth beneath his fingertips, Crowley discovered, was oddly relaxing, despite the constant thought in the back of his head of what would happen should he accidentally ruin any of the old tomes as he browsed. While the blonde haired creature looked calm tempered, he held a secret fury that only the holiest of fires could rival and having seen Aziraphale's rage up close and personal on more than one occasion, Crowley was not in any way tempted to anger the other. He never truly was, if he thought about it hard enough and honestly enough, which he rarely ever did. Even with the threat of discorperation should Aziraphale find any of the books with even a slightly torn page or crumpled cover, the idea of his constant counterpart being upset with him was far more terrifying to the rather piss poor excuse for a demon.
The book store was already closed for the day, and had been for several hours now, a kindly written note explaining that the owner was out and would not be returning for the rest of the evening hanging in the window. Aziriphale was busy getting ready upstairs, taking his sweet time and moving slower than molasses in winter, or so Crowley was convinced. He could have just waved his hand and been dressed for their dinner reservation in an instant, but that would take away half the fun of going out to eat in the first place; the act of getting all dressed up for it. Instead, he was taking his time, leaving Crowley to pace about the shop as he waited for the other to finally be done getting dressed. The demon let out a mildly exasperated sigh, wondering what was taking his angel so long. Aziraphale was just lucky Crowley loved him, not that he had told him that, or had any plans on telling him any time soon, because the red haired being wouldn't wait this long for anyone else.
The demon continued his pacing as if determined to wear gaping trenches in the floorboards before something caught his eye and made him saunter across the room with intent in his hidden gaze. Lowering his glasses for a moment and staring over the top, his golden eyes flashed with interest as he eyed his conquest. Crowley closed the space between him and the mildly rickety looking shelf and gently pried a book away from the others that had been leaning on it. Despite the precarious look of the shelf, knowing Aziraphale, there were so many miracles in place that the shelf would not even dare to so much as shake slightly if someone walked too heavily towards it.
After carefully removing the object from it prison and making sure none of the other books fell, he slowly pulled it towards himself as if any wrong movements would turn it to dust. Crowley was almost certain that it would, knowing how old it was. Taking the older tome into his hands, he gently flipped it over, looking at the thick leather cover with its delicate gold inlays, scrollwork, and amazing shapes and vines. If he looked close enough, he was almost certain he saw small serpents as well, weaving alongside the intricate adornments of the book in his hands in swirling motions that looked vaguely like the tattoo of sorts that curled itself beside the demon's ear. If he had noticed, he didn't pay it much mind, brushing it off as just a coincidence because there is no way the angel would have purposely had snakes placed on such a book so long ago when they were barely even friends, he was sure of it.
While the object in his grasp looked very well cared for, Crowley knew that it was one of the older written works in Aziraphale's collection, not including the ones that were so old they were still written on scrolls, or the odd clay tablet Crowley was sure he had seen from time to time. There was also something he could sense while holding it, something old but he supposed, the closest thing to love he could sense these days. It was a blessing, one only his angel could, or ever would, bestow. With such a feeling reverberating through every inch of skin that touched the book's cover, he dared to think he might as well call the creation a grimoire; it was magical enough to be seen as such. The blessing sent a tingling sensation climbing up his arms, a strange feeling but not at all unpleasant. As he gazed down at the book, Crowley was unaware of the fact that had anyone else attempted to even touch Aziraphale's most sacred of artifacts, let alone cradle it in their hands much like he was right now, it would have felt as if they were being continuously stung by a horde of angry hornets.
Crowley had seen the angel carrying the book throughout history, always clutched tightly to his chest and never far enough away so as to let anyone try to read it or even breath in its general direction. This was partly so as to avoid anyone getting hurt by the blessing, not that the demon knew that, and partly because this book was more important to Aziraphale than any of the others in his collection, even the books of prophecy he was so proud of. While he felt no temptation to anger Aziraphale, or even to mildly annoy or upset him, it was all too easy to glance around quickly before opening the cover to see just what sort of book his partner had been trying to hide for so long. He chuckled briefly to himself as he imagined that it was ancient pornography that the angel was too embarrassed to tell anyone about but enjoyed too much to part with.
That ridiculous train of thought derailed as soon as he opened to the first page where very delicately was written:
A collection of poems by one Principality Aziraphale, angel of the eastern gate, kept throughout time and rewritten here to be kept for mine eyes only.
Crowley couldn't help but smile at that, his once playful smirk turning more into the soft smile of an old lover remembering fondly their love when they were just children. He had always known Aziraphale collected books and loved the stories of humans, but he had no idea that the angel had ever attempted to write anything himself. He wasn't sure how "good" they would be, seeing as most Angels, and demons especially, tended to leave any sort of imagination to the humans. Crowley was one of the few exceptions to that rule, much as Aziraphale was an exception to the rule that angels didn't, and couldn't, dance.
Even if Aziraphale couldn't write poetry to save his life, the red haired demon was sure he'd love each and every poem anyway. He often did love most anything Aziraphale did or created, had since almost the beginning, it was practically a requirement with how long he had been pining for the other with only his actions to show just how much he cared. A soft sigh escaped past his unusually pink lips as he brushed his hand lightly over the writing with gentle admiration, remarking that the script didn't look nearly as old as the book itself. It was possible Aziraphale had gotten the book many decades, maybe even several centuries before he started to write in it but Crowley wasn't sure why. However, he did want to try to figure it out and so opened to the next page.
What Crowley couldn't tell based on the book or the first page itself, was that Aziraphale had been writing poems for far longer than any modern languages, some having been roughly translated or just rewritten over the years. The book wasn't always in any particular order really, the poems mostly just being written in either as he wrote them, as he found lost poems he had written, lost, then found again, or as he eventually got around to translating them. He did, however, have a strange method of sorting them that was like a hidden map one wouldn't even know they were following until they reached the very end. Even so, each poem was written rather carefully in an elegant script. Crowley assumed it was to avoid ruining the book, what didn't cross his mind was that, perhaps, each poem was written so carefully because it was the poems, not necessarily the book, that Aziraphale cherished above all else other than the demon who now held his work so lovingly in his hands.
He browsed through the book at first without actually reading anything, noticing how Aziraphale's penmanship had changed only slightly in what seemed to be a rather long stretch of time, which just reminded Crowley of how stubborn in his ways his angel was. Some might have found this fact annoying, or make them think Aziraphale wasn't with the times, but Crowley just found it rather endearing. Just like the demon moved too quickly, kept momentos of times past, and always tried to keep up with the latest trends and fashions, Aziraphale seemed to do everything in his power to keep things dear to him close, damned be to those who tried to tell him it was idiotic. He smiled at the thought, going back to the first page and reading the poem there.
Where to begin,
Perhaps where it all started,
But how can I even begin
to form the words,
When the plan is so vast,
So unexplainable,
So…
Ineffable.
We were here,
Here since the beginning,
But even with centuries having passed,
I still don't know what words to use,
And perhaps,
I never will,
So maybe I should just cease
My tired trying.
Humans are always
coming up with things,
With new words and new tools
And new ways to describe
The oldest things on earth,
Just maybe not how to describe
That which is older
Than even the earth itself.
There is nothing
To be had,
Nor a thing to be said,
About a simple act
of kindness,
Even one for a demon,
When I am simply a being
Made of love.
That is all that I am,
I radiate love and know only
Its sweet embrace,
So of course I would find such horror
In trying to discover a way to describe
Such a damned and holy
Path we began to tread
At the very beginning.
Perhaps,
What is here need not be described,
For there is nothing unusual,
Nothing that cannot be explained,
By the infinitely clever humans
About two enemies,
Who do not make decent enemies
At all.
The first poem didn't really answer any of his questions, in fact, Crowley only had more now. He raised a brow and took off his glasses, tucking them into the neckline of his shirt as he sat down in one of the well worn chairs to get more comfortable, almost having forgotten he was trying not to get caught reading such a book or even reading in general. After glancing at the doorway and listening carefully, the fiery haired demon tilted his head towards the ceiling, trying to make sure Aziraphale wasn't making his way down the stairs. When he heard nothing, he turned the page, eager to read more. From what he could tell, Aziraphale wasn't half bad at writing. Sure, he was no Edgar Allen Poe, no Shakespeare, but Crowley had liked it well enough, even if he didn't understand what all Aziraphale had meant in his poem.
Turning the page carefully, still half convinced the book would turn to dust, Crowley began to read with an eagerness only matched by Aziraphale when he came across a particular book he had been looking for that had eluded him for a very long time. He would normally just skim something like this, feeling like the very universe itself would betray his secret that he did actually read from time to time and enjoyed doing so, but he felt as if skimming this particular book would disappoint him more than opening a neatly wrapped box only to find it empty, or when he wished to take a nap and his very being just refused to slow down enough to actually fall into anything even closely resembling sleep.
He read through many poems, noticing, almost by accident, that the first few had a tone of what felt like Aziraphale distancing himself from even the words on the page, denial of something Crowley couldn't quite place. Never in his many years of shadowing his angel had he seen so much denial from the other, even on the wall he admitted almost immediately to giving away his sword to the very first humans. Eventually, the tone changed and it caught his eye as he honed in on it, eating up the words so quickly he had to reread some of the poems several times.
I begged you once,
My Lord, its true,
But never was I shown kindness,
Not an ounce from you.
You refused
To let me forget,
Now I am just rotted kindling
For your fire you aim to set.
I screamed, my Lord,
I cried and I prayed,
Yet you did me no kindness,
As in my sin I lay.
Was I not loyal?
Was I not true?
What but the sword,
Did I ever take from you?
To forget is all I ever asked,
But in some way you let me fall,
With no higher grace or love,
To heal me and erase it all.
I've known the demons,
Have no memory of on high,
So why let me remember,
Or would you rather watch your angel cry?
Have you no mercy,
Not any love in what you are,
I am suffering, Lord,
That's all I've done, thus far.
I want to remain in heaven,
But my mind causes me such pain,
I just want it to be gone, my Lord,
And never feel this all again.
~
I have done
Everything you've asked of me,
I've done my part,
Fulfilled our arrangement,
All the while carefully walking what was left
Of the line that separated us
By sides.
I allowed myself to think of you
As friend,
And not fiend,
To care for you,
To long for you,
Only to have you spit in my face,
Asking me for that which would destroy you,
Melt you away to nothing,
Leaving only me as any proof
That we were ever friends at all.
Can I even call you a friend,
When you care so little for me?
Would a friend dare ask me
To strangle my own heart?
Would a friend think nothing
Of the pain I would feel if I was left
Alone?
Do you not realize that letting you
Destroy yourself,
Would just as surely burn me away to nothing?
Knowing You were gone would send hellfire
Racing through my body,
Leaving behind only the bitter taste
Of the lie that
I do not need you.
Oh how I have wished that
I do not need you,
But screaming this lie
Into the void,
At the Lord themself,
Can only fuel my rage
At what you have done to me.
If you ever had compassion,
Foul serpent,
It washed away long ago,
With the bones of the sinners you loved
So much more than me.
Even though he had no need to breath, his breath caught in his throat in a strange gurgling gasp that almost made him choke on his own windpipe; what an embarrassing thing to explain to head office should that have been how he discorporated. Crowley was certain now, certain Aziraphale had written about him in the poems he had been reading. He composed himself as best he could, which wasn't very well at all, knowing now that Aziraphale held no ill will for him, but back then, is that truly how the angel, how his angel, had felt? Crowley only ever wanted the holy water to protect himself, to stop any demons should they come after them. Clearing his throat, he forced back thoughts that would only poison how he read the poems to come, and he didn't want anything like that affecting how he read the words Aziraphale had written. Never had it occurred to him, not fully, what the other had been thinking when he threw away that piece of paper on which Crowley had written the request that had left them both so lonely for so many years.
Crowley paused for a moment, staring down at the poem that seemed more like a letter filled with rage and pure raw grief than poetry. No matter how long he stared, however, what he would never be able to see, and could only slightly feel, was the sheer amount of blessings and miracles on this page alone. Before Aziraphale had changed the way the paper under Crowley's finger tips looked, his writing had scratched and tore through the page to the one beneath it, that had also since been fixed. Beautiful script that now lay before the demon had once been rushed and messy chicken scratch, Aziraphale half blinded from his own despair and anger as he wrote. The poem had been stained with tears, ink running down in thick black ropes as the author shook and wrote from pure emotion directly into the book, something he had never done before, or since, without so much the time as to take off his hat and coat from his brief and enraged visit to the park.
The book was almost too personal to read now, feeling somewhat like a diary that Crowley's companion had kept throughout time, but the fact that the poem felt like it had been speaking directly to him, as if Aziraphale had intended for him to read all of this some day, made him decide against just putting the poetic grimoire back where he had found it before a certain ethereal being noticed anything out of the ordinary. Maybe, by reading the words that had been written there, Crowley could finally figure out what exactly his angel had always been thinking about when he refused to voice what plagued his mind. Flipping through the pages, reading so quickly most poems felt like a blur, the red haired demon read in an unblinking state. Should anyone have seen him, if it hadn't been for the minor movement to turn the pages and the rapid back and forth of his eyes, they might have suspected that he was a statue and not an actual being at all.
Please,
Remove my traitorous heart
From my chest,
Let me burn it to nothing and
Watch the ashes fly away.
This pain is worse
Than I am sure falling
Ever felt to any demon who
Plummeted through the air
And dirt and crust.
My heart betrays me,
My mouth says not what
I wish of it,
Sharing ridiculous banter
And not what is expected of me.
I am begging,
Sweet creator,
To smite down my wicked heart
Before it dare betray me
Once more.
How dare I,
An angel, a Principality,
Stare longingly,
Wishing for friendship,
From one who has fallen?
Please,
Let not my plees fall upon deaf ears,
I simply wish to do as all good angels should,
And hate he who is meant to be
My eternal enemy.
~
I am sure of it now,
More than I've ever been,
this is how I fall,
For all I think of is sin.
I've tempted the tempter,
Shared sweet airy laughter,
Forgotten my place,
And all that comes after.
So smite me, I beg you,
Just let me fall,
I fear I already have,
Since the time on the wall.
If I cannot fall,
I know another way,
To wash away these memories,
Of each blessed and wretched day .
Please let me forget,
Let my mind go blank,
I know you have the power
From when you watched as angles sank.
It would surely hurt less,
To just hate him as I'd aught,
If we were never friends,
If we only ever fought.
I will be good,
I swear it, its true,
So spare me, my Lord,
Its all I'll ask of you.
Please, wipe my mind clean,
Spare me from pain,
I just want to forget,
To never yearn for him again.
I know not why
I cannot hate,
So please, destroy my mind,
Along with this wretched fate.
~
I love the earth,
And the history it holds,
From the mortals birth,
To the future, untold,
But to be here is pain,
It is torture and love,
But I have more here to gain,
Than ever above.
If only I was able,
To avoid my other half,
Not lament and cradle
My old and broken path,
I have begged for decades,
For you to wash my memories clean,
But they have yet to fade,
So I fear its just a dream.
Please is all I've ever said,
And I'll say it all again,
I beg for all I see to be red,
Not to see him as friend,
If you let me feel such rage,
Not an inkling nor ounce of love,
I'll return to the cage
That we all call, above.
As he read, more and more poems stuck out to him, making his human form really test the fact that he didn't need air as he went nearly half an hour before he remembered to draw air into his lungs that ached, more from the lack of oxygen thanks to habit than because of any sort of need. Begging, that's what he saw there, despair and begging and… he dared not say the thoughts that now plagued him out loud. Crowley tried to make his mind go blank, to not think so hard because it would hurt too much to continue if he did, so he kept reading and tried not to let the emotions from the pages flow into him. The poems were arranged in a theme of sorts, he could feel it somehow, even though Crowley was not yet able to tell exactly what said theme was. Luckily for him, his angel wasn't near ready to leave for their dinner reservation, seeing as the demon was unaware of anything that wasn't the poetic grimoire that took up space in his lap and over which he hunched, eating up the words quicker than even he thought himself capable.
What ever have I done,
To deserve such thorough torture?
To have my being picked apart,
By divine and cold disorder?
Never have I asked to be
One half of a broken whole,
Never have I asked to guard over
Another lost and shattered soul.
I do not want to live in this hell,
That belongs to me alone,
Nor keep the cold reminder
That still burns me to the bone.
I am meant to hate
And fight and render soul from flesh,
To guard the garden from all harm,
With flaming sword to thresh.
How often must I cry out,
before God finally hears my pleas,
I hate my own emotions,
What have you done to me?
Why must I feel such ways,
That makes my heart skip frantic beats?
Why do you make me burn
With some sort of hellish heat?
Begone, foul and beloved beast,
From my mind's own tear stained eye,
I beg that you slither away and let
These horrid feelings die.
Nothing brings me joy,
Not the things I know had aught,
Even miracles can't numb this pain,
Nor stop such dreaded rot.
I can only bare to smile,
When I hear your wretched voice,
My heart has fallen fully,
But never did I have a choice.
I am meant to hate,
For you have fallen from on high,
I cannot bare to call you friend,
Nor bare to watch you die.
I should not care for you
For you are a hellish fiend,
Yet I still wish to tempt your heart
And hope one day you'll be redeemed.
~
I have screamed out so many times
I fear my throat will bleed,
there are only so many days
In the week, the year, the century,
I can put a smile on my face
To greet the beast I was designed to hate.
I was meant to be a soldier,
Divine and holy,
Yet I fear my sin runs deeper
Than almost any demon's,
And yet God has not the kindness
To just let me fall.
I am a tattered angel,
My wings still white but that gives me
No reprieve from my aching heart
That I wish he would just rip from
My chest and save
These feelings the effort.
~
It hurts,
It hurts and it burns,
My heart doth ache,
My soul doth yearn,
But there be no hope,
Not in this place,
I remain in heaven,
Yet fallen from grace,
I cannot wash
Away this sin,
That devours me whole
From without and within.
~
There came a flood upon the land,
Taking beast And field and man,
And while a few were saved
From crashing waves
And rising tides,
The many perished
With naught but sin of mind to hide.
Forgiveness stowed away in ark of wood,
With the ones once labeled good,
As the rest were drowned where had been air,
With gaping sockets left to stare,
those who still had will to breathe,
Hid themselves from holy anger
While the wretched sinners seethed.
It is not my job to question why,
But as fish do pick at rotting eyes,
Questions cloud my every thought,
As you flew and screamed and rought,
for the children who were left to drown,
left to their aimless damnation,
With no reason for why the rains came down.
They had not a single ounce of hope,
As water strangled like a rope,
Could not say it with my own tongue,
As the floods killed old and spry and young,
I had to ignore your desperate pleas,
And my own frantic and lonely heart
As our creator rose the seas.
You screamed and I heard every word,
as the rain made ghastly vision blurred,
Bodies drifted into the night,
Their final sins were hid from sight,
But I stayed and watched them go,
Away from the prying eyes of heaven,
with more sadness than It could ever know.
A serpent the one to feel such pain,
Wonder why they sent the rain,
To wash clean these sinner's hands,
To bring floods upon the lands,
I watched you rise there and lament,
With such pain filled and holy words,
That were not from heaven sent.
Had I been able to help you grieve,
Not give no answers, no reprieve,
Not taken word as truth and good,
Not done as every angel should,
I would not have let those children drown,
But I feel like a sin, the sin that made
The rains come down.
Clutching at the space above where his strangely human heart lay beneath his skin, Crowley let out a strangled cry that burned his throat from the intensity. Tears stung at his eyes that were fully golden now from edge to edge as he remembered one of the first times he witnessed heaven going against its mortal creations since Eden, and remembered pain in it purest form. The demon had once said casting Adam and Eve from the garden was an overreaction, but this, this had been blind fury cast on everyone, deserving and innocent alike. All had been left to suffer and he had long since attempted to forget the cries of the children and adults and creatures great and small who tried and failed to escape the rapidly rising waters sent by God themself, but he still heard them when everything else was silent, even after all these years.
The demon had always thought Aziraphale had left as soon as the rains started, unable to face the truth of what was sure to happen to those who had no hope to live long enough to see the rainbow God had promised to the survivors. Crowley had seen it, but it hadn't felt like a promise, more like candy coated arsenic that killed those who saw it almost as surely as those who never would. It had been beautiful, it had been awful, and Crowley wondered if whether that too, had been something the angel witnessed. He couldn't help but wonder, did Aziraphale hear him as he pleaded with the almighty before his pleas turned to screams, something the angel himself had done many times, according to the poems? Had he heard as Crowley begged them not to kill the children who still had the ability to be good, who deserved all of the beauty that would ever grace the sky and earth alike?
He closed his eyes for a moment, flashes of memories playing behind his closed lids of when he tried to save as many of the young ones as he could. He had tried, but just as the humans own attempts to save themselves, his good intentions ended in failure, leaving nothing but empty eyes and bloated bodies behind as any proof that he had been there at all. When the rains had gotten worse, the demon attempted to fly the children away from danger, but even the smallest felt far too heavy in his grasp and all he could do was hold them above the water until he couldn't anymore. When Crowley finally left, the floods had already wiped out everything, and it made his devilish heart bleed. So many had died in the wretched days when the flood waters rose, and even if those who were grown had long since lost any hope of redemption, the children, they surely did not deserve lungfuls of tainted water when they should have been given long lives full of the ability to learn to be good.
With eyes opened once again, the demon tried to push away those long secluded feelings, along with any thoughts that reminded him how much the floods resembled the great fall. Even those who had not deserved their damnation were thrown to the dogs that picked what was left of their holiness from their blood stained teeth, dragging their broken souls down through the water and sin and evil deeds. Those who fell had lived, if what they had become could even be described as living things, but they and the humans endured similar suffering, their sins being burned into their beings instead of washed away by swift moving waters, but all facing damnation just the same. Screams of falling angels reverberated in his mind alongside the screams of frightened humans, all of which whose final prayers fell on deaf and holy ears.
Crowley was never supposed to care for humans, he was supposed to applaud their downfall, to taint the souls of as many of the foolish mortals as possible. Instead, he had risen from the flood waters and cried out in a holy anger he had not felt since before he fell from grace, eyes wet from tears and throat burning from screaming once he finally realized God would never listen to the prayers of a demon, and now he knew, would not even listen to the prayers of an angel. They never had, he should have known this, should have remembered from when he felt the stars he had once loved so much ripped from his skin as God, they whom he had loved more than anything, ignored his prayers, his begging for forgiveness, for answers, and let him plummet into fire and hatred and sulphur without so much kindness as to watch their creation plummet from heaven.
Reading over the last poem again, even if it made his heart feel like it burned as hot as the fires that had cradled his broken and starless body once his long fall had finally ended, he couldn't help but wonder for how long Aziraphale had watched him. Had the Angel seen as he lay the lifeless body of the final child he was unable to save at rest, wiping tears from his eyes as he took off on wings he had barely used since their meeting, flying as far away from the destruction as they could carry him once his throat was raw and his voice hoarse? If he had watched him, had seen him trying and failing to save the children of the sinners, why hadn't the angel done something? Together, surely they could have saved them all.
The demon shook his head, stray tears staining his cheeks where once glowing constellations played and throat burning at the memory of his useless screaming, with the new knowledge that the blonde haired creature he cared for so much knew similar pain plaguing his thoughts. He couldn't be mad at his angel for what had taken place back then, he refused to be mad at him. Aziraphale had not sent the rain, and had he tried to save the children Crowley knew still held the capacity for goodness, he was sure his angel would have fallen. The red haired demon had been wrong before. He would have been able to withstand Aziraphale's anger, his hatred, but if he ever had to witness his longtime companion falling with no one to hear his pleas but whistling wind and his own screams, it would hurt just as much, if not more, than his inability to save the young ones who had gathered about his robes with wet eyes as water lapped at their knees and drowned their hope long before it drowned them.
Even when past his own pain, eyes dry now and his miracle of sorts used to keep the book stain free, Aziraphale's suffering hurt him far worse than he thought anything would ever be able to. He never knew such grief other than his own, never having realized his angel suffered silently alone. It was no small wonder that Aziraphale didn't hate him after all these years when obviously, he had been a great source of pain, of regret, of pity. Now, the anger the other had felt, the rage of when Crowley had asked for holy water, made so much more sense. If Aziraphale hurt so badly he wanted to fall, or to even just forget, why wouldn't he think the demon hurt badly enough to wish to destroy himself when he very nearly had the day he clutched drowning children to his chest and yelled at God with such vengeance and rage? All of the poems he had read so far weighed down on him with the weight of his conscience that he thought had burned away after the war when he was cast from heaven for asking too many questions. He had hurt the other, had made his sweet and beloved angel suffer through such torture he would rather fall. Crowley would never have forgiven himself if God had listened to Aziraphale, if it had somehow been his fault that divinity was stripped from his counterpart much as his stars were stripped from him.
Crowley willed his heart and body to calm itself. Aziraphale hadn't fallen, not even after all they had done, so he doubted the Almighty would throw his angel from heaven now. He just hoped the other didn't still hurt, that he no longer tortured Aziraphale with his friendship and presence. Nightmares still plagued the demon, but he would gladly endure them all and take Aziraphale's as his own if it meant the blonde haired angel need not writhe in his own emotions like he had. Taking a deep breath, he turned the page, not nearly as eager as before but still determined to read and learn as much as he could. He would do anything for his angel, and if reading this poetic grimoire helped him learn what to do, he would do it, even if the words hurt just as badly as his fall.
Had I never met you,
perhaps I would have been content,
Even if I never would have been happy,
But I would have been able to do
Everything that was asked of me.
Instead,
I am taking the long way down,
An angel falling not from heaven,
But for a demon,
Hand in hand and closer to heaven
Than one lone angel
Can ever hope to be.
And yet,
I would never change this,
Not for the world,
Because,
Dear serpent,
I would gladly fall
A thousand times,
If you were there to catch me.
~
A wiley old serpent,
One I know I am meant to hate but how can I, Dear?
How can I hate those golden eyes when
With every breath I take,
I wish to stare into them
And let myself wrap you in an embrace
That only a snake can return?
Forever is all I ask for,
My darling,
An eternity to hold you in my arms,
To whisper sweet nothings
As if the world were but a stage,
And we were the actors in a great tragic romance
Where the play never ends
And heaven and hell are but a nightmare
That disappears when the lights are at their brightest.
~
All I think I'd quite like,
All I think I might need,
Is a light in my life,
Is a raft on my seas,
A break in the waves,
A light at the shore,
Or a poor soul to save,
Or something much more.
Your hand in mine,
Your head on my shoulder,
Our lives filled with wine,
Our hearts with something much older,
With laughs on our tongues,
With our fingers entwined,
We can love like the young,
We can, oh demon of mine.
From the garden of old,
From the beginning of days,
To words that are bold,
To hips that do sway,
Your eyes shining brightly,
Your glasses in place,
Please don't say it lightly,
Please don't leave me for space.
We fell in love with the world,
We saved it, time and again,
Like it wasn't unfurled,
Like there would be no end,
How could you never see clearly,
How could I let you go?
I love you more dearly,
Than you'll ever know.
~
You are always traveling at a pace so fast,
I can barely hope to keep up my dear.
Instead, I simply watch you from afar,
Gazing lovingly at you and holding you close to my heart In any way that I can,
for we live in a world
That wishes to keep us apart,
That wishes to make us drift away
From one another
by miles and eons and thoughts.
It doesn't hurt so much anymore,
My love.
Where once watching you from afar felt like
God themself thrusting my sword
Through my chest,
Now it feels like coming home
After a very long day.
I feel like I have always Loved you,
Since a time before
I knew What that even meant.
I am happy,
Happier than I have been since,
Well,
since even before the beginning
I suppose.
This is all your doing, my dear,
For you have let me shadow you,
Let me feel what love truly is
When heaven was never able
To show me.
I cannot ask you to slow down,
To let me walk stride for stride at your side
At a pace I am able to keep,
To do so would be to kill a part of you,
But neither can I pick up my own speed,
For you just go too fast for me,
And all I can do is hope that one day,
I will finally catch up,
And we can walk hand in hand,
On our side, with no fear of damnation.
~
At the dawn of time,
In the first of days,
An angel and demon,
Met and learned of other ways,
Of doing good,
Of doing worse,
Of leaving blessings
Or a curse,
Of rain,
The very first to fall,
Of apples
That brought knowledge
For them all.
A single wing,
I lifted high,
As storm clouds formed,
And rain was nigh.
I did not know,
Not then at least,
Why you stayed
And talked to me.
You said that I ,
Could do no bad,
Would you still love me
If I had?
It has been millennia
Since we first met,
But how shall I return,
years and years of debt?
You've saved me
Then and now my Love,
From all below
And all above,
And what for that
Do I have to show,
It is us my dear,
you must know,
I would trade
It all for you,
You and the world,
My love, its true.
So take my hand,
As worlds collide,
An angel and a demon,
In love and side by side.
Just as the earlier poems had reverberated pain through his very core, these last few made him feel washed over by waves of, well, he supposed, it was waves of love. Crowley couldn't sense love, not anymore, but this, this pure caring nature that oozed from the tome in his hands like words and ink had come alive, was strong enough that even a demon such as himself could feel it, albeit he had no knowledge of what it was he could sense, only that it made him feel calmer than he had in a long while. Still, he now knew his angel loved him, new tears stinging his eyes as he clutched the book tighter than he meant to before he remembered he was holding it and loosened his grip.
There weren't any poems left, so with a soft smile playing across his lips despite the nervousness he felt thanks to his new awareness that his angel loved him back, Crowley stood to return the book to its rightful place. He had no idea how to bring this up to Aziraphale, to do so would be to admit that he had read the book in the first place, and plans of action started to race through his mind quicker than his bentley raced past wary pedestrians. As he started to walk, poetry book held carefully in the crook of his arm, something slipped from between the final page and the back cover. That was odd, to say the least, seeing as he didn't even realize there was something hiding in the back of the book of poems he had just finished reading. The demon turned to look at the envelope that had fallen to the floor, cocking his head to the side in confusion as he stared at the letter that was far newer than the book and all of what was held inside it.
Crowley quickly returned the old tome to its home on the shelf before walking towards the letter at a brisk pace that lacked his usual swagger, picking up the envelope from the floor. Once it was in his grasp, he returned to the chair he had been sitting in so long there was a demon shaped dent in cushions. Sitting back down into the notch he fit perfectly in, the red haired being carefully tearing the letter open with all of the precision Aziraphale used to write all but one of his poems. He set the now empty envelope down beside him, slowly unfolding the paper even though he had no need to be so gentle. Unlike the book, the letter was very new, written on plain printer paper with the same elegant script used for the poems, the ink a lovely shade of blue whereas the poetry had been written all in black.
To my dearest;
Should you find this letter, my love, I want you to know I do not hate you, that I love you with everything that I am. I have never been able to hate you, I do not think God created me with that ability. I love you so much that it hurts, but oh what an amazing sort of pain it is, one I would endure every moment for eternity so long as I can always be by your side. I am a coward, dear boy, and I have been for a very long time I am afraid. Only such a poor excuse of an angel such as myself would feel such love pouring from you like tidal waves and say nothing. I have been afraid for too long, far too long, but I am determined to brave the rest of forever with you, if you would have me. I have hope that my taking so long to get dressed will make you bored enough to seek out my writing, for I have not the spine nor the courage to tell you how I feel. Perhaps, you know it fully now, know that it isn't a ruse or a lie or some sort of horrid joke. If you do not read this, I suppose it'll just be an excuse for me to pretend this never happened, for me to go on acting like I am not in love with you so much it makes my body ache and my heart scream out far louder than I have ever been able. Please, just know that I have always loved you, even before I realized just how fully on the day you rescued me two fold, first my body, then my soul when you handed me books you protected from evil and bomb alike. I am done lying, to myself, to you, to the world. You are my everything dearest, and that is the truest thing I have ever known.
Yours until the very end;
Aziraphale
Crowley did not realize the sheer love he radiated as he read the letter, but Aziraphale could sense it, and knew that his beloved serpent had read his words. The angel took in a shaky breath, looking in the mirror and noting how flushed he looked and how overheated his face felt as if his body was determined to go up in flames either because of nerves or because of, well, because of love. Taking a moment to make sure the demon was finished reading, he straightened his coat and quietly head down the stairs so as not to alert the other and scare him off. Aziraphale smiled to himself, appearing in the doorway fully dressed, although he had been dressed for several hours now. "Hello, wiley old serpent" he said with quiet words laced with adoration, his voice still somehow loud enough to make Crowley practically jump from his seat despite being spoken so softly, "I see that you have found my book".
A sound that could only be described as pure apprehension escaped past Crowley's lips. Even with the letter as proof that Aziraphale had wanted him to read the book, had intended for him to read it, the demon still felt as if he had been caught red handed doing something he was not supposed to do. He got up from the seat, straightening his coat and going to put his glasses back on as if doing so could hide the many emotions that ran through his mind that he was almost certain could be seen in his eyes. Before he could however, Aziraphale utilized a trick he hardly ever used, appearing in front of Crowley and placing a hand over his demon's own and lowering it before he could place his glasses on his face.
"Please don't cover your eyes, dear boy" the angel pleaded softly, a gentle smile gracing his lips, "I love them, they are one of my favorite parts about you. Well, one of many, anyway". Crowley swallowed and nodded, pupils dilating as he gazed at the other, trying to find the words he wished to speak and realizing that he was grasping at straws, unable to form sentences. Shaking his head slightly, Crowley felt just so overwhelmed by it all, not that he minded. Who knew that reading a book would change his life so surely? Crowley definitely hadn't, although Aziraphale certainly had, or at least, had hoped. What had the demon done to deserve such a kind, caring, absolute bastard of an angel? He smiled, no longer attempting to place his glasses on their usual perch upon his face, and also finding that he had no reason to want to.
They stood like that for several minutes, or what could have been several hours, neither the occult nor the ethereal being in the room knew for sure which it was, Aziraphale's hand still on Crowley's with no intention of moving it. Mere inches separated them, yet neither went to close the space. After what felt like a never ending amount of time, the angel sighed and said "well, Crowley, won't you say something? I… I know you love me too, I can sense it, you know, but oh, please just say something, my dear. There must be something you have to say about-"
Aziraphale was cut off so surely by the sound of sunglasses clattering to the floor, hands gripping the collar of his jacket tighter than they ought to have, and lips pressed against his own, telling more about love than any words ever could. They stood like that, perhaps for minutes, perhaps for hours, kissing and holding one another so tight it was as if they wished to become one being. No matter how much time had passed, one thing was for certain, that even as their reservation time came and went, the only thing they cared about was one another. After all, there were so many other reservations they could make when they had all of eternity laid out before them.
Neither heaven nor hell saw what happened in that old bookshop, but I did. After all, I do not play dice with the universe, I play an ineffable game of my own devising, and as always, everything ends up just as it should, just as I always planned it to. So if you ever find yourself in Soho, walking past a bookshop that feels as if it radiates love, just know that it does, because that is how I always knew it was meant to be.