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There’s a clunk and a whir and the diminuendo of a low hum as the electricity dies in the famous London department store. The loss of power is unusual – back-up generators all around London spring to life to keep the more important parts of the capital city functioning. Yet, the spark of life fails to ignite in the generator that serves Harrods. Perhaps it’s some divine intervention from a God who wants to create opportunities, because it leaves an angel and a demon – who had just enjoyed a rather lovely cream tea on the fourth floor tea room – trapped in the well decorated elevator, headed down.
“Well shit,” Crowley says.
“Language,” Aziraphale replies. He is standing upright, politely, hands clasped in front of him. The ideal figure to share a lift with.
Crowley, by contrast, is slouched against the wall. One leg bent up behind him to rest his foot on the wall. His arms are crossed which, combined with the sunglasses, gives him a closed off and bored appearance. What the sunglasses hide is the twinkle in his yellow snake eyes – a spark that is ignited only when he has completed some piece of particularly fun demonic activity; or when he’s just spent an evening watching his favourite angel enjoy scones and tea.
Since the Not-Apocalypse, Crowley had relaxed somewhat on the demonic activities. Sure, it was still fun to cause mischief every now and again but since the debacle with the M25, he’d found keeping the demonic activity to a minimum to be a much more pleasurable way to live. So, when Aziraphale says “Is this your doing, Crowley?” Crowley isn’t lying when he denies all knowledge of the power cut.
He’s happy. These past few weeks, he suspects he’s been as happy as he’s ever been in the 6000 years he’s spent on Earth. The apocalypse has been averted. Heaven is no longer peering down at Aziraphale’s actions and the angel is much more relaxed and open. Hell is no longer peering up at Crowley and it’s like a 6000 year pressure has been relieved. He’s happy because he’s spent more evenings with Aziraphale in the last month than he had in the past six millennia. He’s happy because he’s finally worked up the nerve to define the relationship between himself and the angel. He’s happy because they are now trapped in a lift together and he can’t put it off any longer.
He’s not entirely sure if he should be happy about the last one. His procrastinator nature should be screaming at him to start up a very uneventful game of ‘I Spy’ or similar. Instead, he’s focused. He’s got the words formed in his brain and they’re on the tip of his tongue. All he needs to do is open his mouth and spit them out.
He’s tried before of course. Not just in rehearsing the scenario in his daydreams – he’s actually got as far as “Angel, I’ve been thinking-”. And every single time something happens. He loses his nerve, he gets distracted. He’s started too quietly and Aziraphale has just continued talking without hearing him. One fateful time, while they were picnicking in St James’ park, a particularly hateful pigeon had chosen that moment to do its business right on Crowley’s shoulder. He had snapped his fingers, hard, and sent the pigeon flying in circles in its own personal tornado, which Crowley had enjoyed watching immensely until Aziraphale simply said “that’s quite enough my dear” in that quiet way of his. Crowley, ever subservient to the desires of his angel, had released the pigeon, which flew off looking rather more dazed than it had before.
“Pigeons.” Crowley says, out loud.
“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale asks. He has moved from his position in the centre of the lift and is peering intently at the buttons next to the door.
“I said: “Pigeons”,” Crowley responds. “What are you doing, angel?”
“I’m sure there’s supposed to be a way to call for help on one of these buttons in these contraptions.”
Crowley blinks and in the crook of his arm he snaps his fingers quietly. Any button labelled ‘Help’ on the panel had now ceased to exist. Crowley might not have caused the power cut, but he’s damn sure if he isn’t going to take advantage of the situation now that it’s arisen. “No pigeons in metal boxes.”
Aziraphale straightens up and sighs. “I’m afraid I shall have to have a sharp word with the manager of this establishment. It does rather seem to be against health and safety precautions to not have a way of contacting the outside world. Why do you keep talking about pigeons, my dear boy?”
Crowley shifts his weight guiltily from one foot to the other. He resolves to leave a large tip the next time they come here, by way of apology. He’s been on the end of Aziraphale’s sharp tongue before and he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Well. Maybe on Gabriel but…
“Remember the pigeon that shit on my shoulder?”
“ Language. And yes, I do. You sent the poor thing flying off with a very sore head. Took a minor miracle to make sure it got to roost safely!”
“It shit on my jacket , angel. It’s lucky I didn’t pluck it and cook it right there and then!”
“Crowley if you insist on cursing in every sentence then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m a demon, angel. We swear. Besides, I can’t go anywhere, we’re stuck in this lift, remember?”
“Ah, yes. Good point. About the lift, mean. You can still watch your language.”
Crowley growls slightly under his breath and then steels himself. “Anyway. Aziraphale. Angel. I’ve been thinking-”
Aziraphale cuts him off, slightly too loudly, “Perhaps, after all this is sorted, we could go on the hunt for a proper supper. Something more substantial than scones. There’s a fabulous new restaurant opened up in the west end-”
Crowley shakes his head and interrupts in return. “No, angel. Listen to me. I’ve been thinking. ” He pauses to gather his thoughts and he’s once again interrupted by the angel.
“Of course, we could always go back to the bookshop and I could miracle us up something tasty. A hearty something or other to round the day off, perhaps some sort of meat pie and ma-UNF!”
“Will you stop talking about food , angel!” Crowley has darted, like the snake he once was, across the lift and pressed a hand over the angel’s mouth. The blue eyes widen as Crowley hisses: “ Lisssten to me,” and he pauses once again to gather his thoughts. He’s never reached this point before. In his fantasies, his internal rehearsals, he’s always been smooth, suave. He would be lounging against something, peering at the angel through the dark lenses of his glasses, and he would say something cool like ‘Really, after six thousand years together, it only makes sense that we take this… further…”
He’s never got this far in reality before. And never once in his daydreams has he got one hand over Aziraphale’s mouth, the other pressed into those soft curls. They’re as soft as they look and Crowley’s brain is going into overdrive – he imagines grabbing hold of those curls and bringing his thin lips to meet the angel’s plump ones. He imagines all but wrapping himself around Aziraphale’s body, pressing himself as close as he can-
No. Thinking. He’s supposed to be thinking, talking right now. What was it? Oh yes.
“Angel, the thing is, I’ve been thinking, it’s really. Well. Six thousand years. Together. Or adjacent. And we nearly ran away to Alpha Centauri. Except we didn’t because of Armageddon but we could have. So, it’s not a huge step really. And there’s no pigeons in this metal box. But Armageddon. We stopped it, didn’t we? Because we love humanity. I love humanity. But not really. Well, I am fond of them, but it turns out really that it’s not them I’m in love with. It’s pigeons. No! Sorry. Not pigeons. You. That’s it. You, not humanity. Or pigeons.”
It’s a garbled mess of a speech and Crowley hates himself with every word that seems to force its way out of his mouth. Shut up, shut up, shut UP, he’s screaming at himself.
Aziraphale’s eyes have relaxed again now. They’re forming those familiar crinkles in the corners that often accompany a smile. Crowley could melt under those smiles. His brain is a whirling mess of self-loathing and angel smiles of yore, when Aziraphale’s hand comes up and gently nudges Crowley’s away from his mouth.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale looks straight into Crowley’s own eyes, a feat that should be impossible given the dim light and the sunglasses. “My dear boy. I love you too.”