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The first time Aziraphale held Crowley's hand, he had been expecting to die. Not just discorporate, but end it all. He expected Crowley to die with him, and what was more, had asked him to remain and die for the humans. He felt surprisingly calm about it. Not happy, quite; he enjoyed his life and would rather like it to continue. He also felt sorry that Crowley was going to die, although at this stage dying was probably better than whatever the poor dear had coming to him now his betrayal was known by Hell.
Still, it wasn't so bad. They had played their best shot and lost, and there was comfort in having done it together. At the end of everything, they were side-by-side, just as they had been at the beginning of this world. Crowley looked so small and vulnerable somehow, but also--free. Aziraphale reached out in affection and the offer of reassurance, and Crowley took his hand, and Aziraphale felt something that was broken when Shadwell stepped between them and their hands fell apart.
Against all likelihood, they lived. Aziraphale was oddly aware of a kind of afterimage of the touch of palm to palm, cool silky dry fingers like snakeskin interweaved with his own fingers. Odd. But there had been a lot of power in the air that night.
The "borrowed" Jeep drew up quite illegally outside Claridge's, where Aziraphale was going to stay until he got his bookshop sorted out. His stomach plummeted with grief at the thought. Still, no sense worrying Crowley, who had suffered his own losses, and at least they were there to lose things. Aziraphale made rather a job of getting out, undoing his seatbelt--he had no idea if American Army Jeeps usually had seatbelts, but seatbelts were proper--and straightening his jumper.
"Well, good night, then," he said, smiling kindly at Crowley, reassuring him about--he wasn't sure what.
Crowley reached across and took his hand, gripping it tightly. "We'll be in touch, yeah?" The demon was staring straight ahead, and Aziraphale couldn't tell what expression his eyes had from what little he could see around the sides of his glasses.
"Of course," Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. "Usual place? One o'clock?"
"Yeah. Good, fine, right."
Aziraphale stared down, in the darkness, at their hands, his angelic vision making out his own soft fat hand encased in long pale fingers. "Adam said we'd be all right," he said gently. "I think that young man can be trusted."
"If you can't trust the Antichrist, who can you trust?" Crowley laughed a little hysterically.
"I trust you." Had he ever said it before? Had he ever even admitted it to himself?
"You always did have bad judgment. I'm a demon who can't even be trusted by his own side." Definitely something erratic and jerky about his voice.
"I trust you," Aziraphale repeated, giving his hand a firm squeeze. "Try to rest. I might try it myself, for once. It's been a difficult day."
"No kidding. Well, let me know how it turns out."
"Good night."
Aziraphale opened his door, and waited patiently for Crowley to release his hand so he could get out of the Jeep. Eventually, Crowley made a fitful movement of his shoulders, if he had just realised they were still holding hands, and released his grip.
"Ciao."
There was something very lonely looking in the dark-clad, slender figure, something both very young and very ancient all at once. Aziraphale felt an odd tugging at his heart at the sight. He almost stepped back into the Jeep and asked if he could stay at Crowley's flat until he got himself sorted out. But that wasn't the kind of thing they did. They never had been friends like that.
Yet.
Aziraphale felt a sudden flood of longing that almost shook his knees. For the first time it occurred to him that there was no reason left why they shouldn't be real friends now, with no subterfuge. Heaven and Hell knew they were accomplices, and the world hadn't ended. In a way, they were free. Assuming Crowley felt the same way and actually wanted to be his friend.
"Good night," Aziraphale said again. "My very dear boy."
He didn't look back as he walked into the hotel.
Aziraphale felt as if something was pulling at the edge of his memory as they left St James' Park, despite his elation at the restoration of their property and their apparent escape from retribution. It bothered him for all the short walk to the Ritz. He was not particularly forgetful, despite having thousands of years of memory to retain, and he was sure that whatever he had lost was important.
He automatically headed up to the pedestrian lights, but Crowley grabbed his hand.
"Heaven's not going to censure you for crossing at the wrong place, angel. Live a little," he growled as he steered Aziraphale through the crawling black cabs.
"You're not going to be sent a commendation for not using the lights, either," Aziraphale pointed out, as they headed inside. He felt oddly out of breath, although Crowley wasn't moving particularly quickly. Perhaps it was the tightness of Crowley's grip, which seemed uncalled for, surprisingly hard fingertips digging into the back of his hand. Aziraphale wriggled his own fingers a little, slightly uncomfortable, and Crowley's hand whipped back from his.
Aziraphale wondered if he imagined that Crowley looked a little pink along the cheekbones. He was a little relieved that the demon seemed relaxed over lunch, although he ordered the Beef Wellington and then picked miserably at the truffles. Aziraphale thought of reproving him for ordering something because it was the kind of expensive thing a human would order rather than because he actually liked it, and decided against it. After all, they'd both been under somewhat of a strain. The champagne was excellent and free-flowing, and they relaxed and took their time, talking about everything but the end of the world.
Afterwards, feeling replete and happy, they left together, side by side.
They paused at the corner of Arlington Street. "Drive you back?" Crowley offered.
Aziraphale blinked. "That's hardly necessary, is it? It's only five minutes or so more walk to the shop than back in the other direction to the Bentley. I don't know why you insist on driving such short distances in the first place."
"Got to give the old girl her outing," Crowley said, the afternoon sun glinting off his glasses. "Well. Mind how you go. Don't go stepping out into traffic like the tipsy old lush you are."
"I am nothing of the sort!" Aziraphale said indignantly.
Crowley grinned at him with sharp teeth, hands shoved in his suit pocket. "if you say so. Hey, angel?"
"Yes?" Aziraphale looked at him expectantly, although he couldn't have said what precisely, he was expecting.
All of a sudden Crowley's shoulders slumped and his grin faded. "We'll be in touch, shall we?"
There was no reason to, Aziraphale thought. The crisis was averted, the Arrangement seemed somewhat pointless now. It would be more sensible of them both, angel and demon, to go their separate ways. They had never been enemies, for all they were the Enemy, and now they were--dining partners? The foundation of their friendship, acquaintanceship, whatever it was, felt like it was shaking under his feet.
He could still feel a vague impression of those fingertips on the back of his hand.
"Of course I will. You, too," Aziraphale said, with warmth, and a strange feeling of urgency.
Crowley's grin returned. "Yeah. See you soon." He gave a half-wave and headed off.
Aziraphale watched Crowley for a moment, the lithe sway of his thin body, then shook himself, and headed back down Piccadilly. He had new treasures to gloat over.
Crowley turned up at the bookshop the very next afternoon, to Aziraphale's mild surprise.
"Get rid of that dingy jumper and dress up sharp, angel. Got tickets for tonight," he said, leaning against a round table full of books, yellow eyes glinting over the top of tilted glasses. "Rachmaninov. I'm taking you out for sushi first. I thought I'd remind you of what you would have missed out on if things had gone belly-up."
Aziraphale beamed at him over his own spectacles. "That's really very kind of you."
Crowley gave a dismissive wave. "No problem."
Aziraphale dressed with rather more care than usual, although he was sure it wouldn't come up to Crowley's standards of sharpness for a smart restaurant. Sharp, after all, was not a quality Aziraphale usually pursued in either clothing or general appearance, and looking at himself in the mirror, jacket stretched across the generous stomach, suit inclined towards comfort rather than fashion, tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his nose, he considered for a moment miracling up something more fashionable. And perhaps a magazine to know what the current fashion was. Then he shrugged, choosing a nice silk tie and some gold cufflinks he had valued for nearly a century. It might be a new world, but there seemed no point in changing the sartorial habits of decades.
When he came down, he half expected a sarcastic remark. Instead Crowley nodded briskly, as if well-pleased with Aziraphale's appearance, and trickled out to the waiting Bentley.
The meal was excellent, even if the clientele of executives and their partners was not really Aziraphale's choice of company. He had no quarrel with the company across from him, even if Crowley mortified the chef by adding huge chopsticks-full of wasabi to his sushi. Aziraphale, for his part, adored sushi. The clean tastes, the crisp koshu, the sensual pleasure of the morsels in his fingers, the quiet atmosphere--it was all immensely pleasing to him. Crowley was in a benign mood, and Aziraphale had the oddly charming feeling he was being taken on a treat.
He had moved onto the sea urchin and was thinking about calling for maki when Crowley finally said, "What are you planning to do now?"
"Rachmaninov, I thought you said." He popped the sushi in his mouth.
"That's not what I meant. I meant," Crowley said, waving an expressive hand and sending a piece of ginger flying from his chopsticks, "now. In general."
Aziraphale had been thinking it over. "Going on the same as usual, I suppose. I have quite a lot to learn about collectible children's books--I think I have had enough of prophecies and Bibles, for the moment--and I still have my work to do, whether or not it's in an official capacity."
"Messin' people about, you mean," Crowley said bitterly.
"I was thinking more of improving their lives in general."
It was hard to tell with his glasses, but Crowley seemed to be staring into the middle distance. Aziraphale felt a stab of compassion. Crowley's main interest apart from his car was humans, and in particular spreading mischief and havoc among them. If he no longer felt he should work for Hell's benefit, then that would leave a huge gap in his life that he would struggle to fill.
No wonder the demon seemed anxious to spend time with him. There wasn't really any other reason. Aziraphale felt a cold metallic weight settle somewhere in his pelvis.
"You could try a career," he suggested. "Interior decorator."
"Gardener. Or florist."
"My dear, your employers would never approve of your language. Historian?"
"I don't think my accurate memory would be valued. Banker?"
"Still determined to do evil? You could chauffeur people about in the Bentley. That would be evil enough."
"Perish the thought. I hate people in my car," Crowley said, and Aziraphale poignantly remembered the odd offer to walk him all the way back to St James' Park in order to drive him to Soho. "What about male model? I have the cheekbones--and the eyes," he added, pushing down his glasses down to flutter surprisingly long lashes over golden eyes with slitted pupils.
They laughed, and Aziraphale's heart felt light in his chest.
When they called for the bill, they both reached for it. Crowley shook his head and clasped Aziraphale's hand in one of his, abstracting the bill with the other. "My treat. Don't glare at me like that, I really will pay, not just give them the impression that I did. As I'm on a date with an angel," he added, with a note in his voice that did strange things to Aziraphale's heart, so that it felt less light and more fluttering. Ridiculous.
And what did he mean by 'date', in any case? And why was his hand still holding Aziraphale's?
There were fairly obvious possible reasons, but they seemed too dangerous to speculate about, so terribly important not to get wrong, and not all that likely, really. Not likely enough to cause the surge of longing from two nights before to rise in his throat again. Crowley merely enjoyed making people unsettled, and they were already getting odd looks. Especially, Aziraphale thought, as Crowley's body looked so much younger and dressed so much more stylishly than his own.
Nobody would suspect Crowley of paying the bill, he thought uncomfortably.
Aziraphale was sure it was just one of Crowley's random moments of mischief when the waiter arrived and Crowley repeated "I'll get this, angel," as he finally let go of Aziraphale's hand. Best not to think about it too much.
Aziraphale was acutely conscious of how closely Crowley was sitting beside him in the box, arms and thighs lined up, glasses folded away in the darkness. There was no reason to sit side by side, in fact. They were seated in one of the higher boxes, and Aziraphale assumed it was for the sake of privacy, as the other two seats were empty.
He might have wished they were front stalls facing the stage without a rail, with and more comfortable seats. Still, Crowley had chosen for them to be alone, and it was not this time, to exchange notes. Good music was perhaps better listened to with eyes closed, in any case.
Somehow, closing his eyes made him even more conscious of the human-shaped body next to him. As the music floated around him, he could hear the softly rasping breath. Did Crowley always breathe so loudly? Aziraphale fancied he could hear the beating of his heart as well, slightly out of beat to his own. He understood Crowley better, the thought, than he did any earthly being or angel, but that didn't mean, in the end, he understood him at all.
Ah, Vocalise. The soprano's voice lifted and fell in wordless drifts, the inexpressible beauty working itself around Aziraphale's soul. No truly great composers in Heaven, Crowley had warned, and it was true enough that none of the choirs had anything to compare to human genius.
Right now, that felt like it would be a blessing. The music was too lovely, too exquisite, and Aziraphale felt like he was floating around in his own longing. It hurt. The unfocused yearning, the reaching for something just out of grasp, something untouchable.
He put his hand on the armrest, and Crowley's hand immediately moved to cover it, his palm cool and smooth.
Aziraphale sat for a moment, as the music swirled and ached, and then turned his own hand over and linked their fingers together. There was a half-caught breath beside him, as if out of panic, and Aziraphale's thumb moved automatically, stroking soothingly as Crowley gradually relaxed back into his seat.
There was no way to pretend this wasn't happening out of choice. This wasn't being sensible, realising there was no reason to be hostile and difficult just because they were technically enemies. This wasn't even just two friends at a concert. Even when they had encountered each other in times and places in which physical affection was openly expressed between friendly men, they had avoided touching too much, out of instinct and maintaining plausibility that they were enemies.
Now, this delicate touch was setting his nerves ablaze and his bones to melting, and it was no use denying it, his heart was seized with love and wanting. There was no way to tell if he had fallen in love here and now, under the influence of relief about the end of the world and loneliness and odd tenderness for this bristling, nervous creature of darkness by his side, all brought together by this intoxicating, heart breaking music. Perhaps it was just that. Or perhaps he had loved for hundreds or thousands of years, had buried it beyond thinking, and his hand held a few times was enough to bring it to the surface.
Aziraphale wasn't sure it mattered which.
Aziraphale sat, eyes closed, wafting on the music and the breathing next to him, caressing the back of a demon's hand, until the audience rustling heralded the interval, and Crowley released his hand to replace his dark glasses.
They had champagne and didn't talk much at the interval. Aziraphale couldn't see the direction of Crowley's gaze beneath the glasses, but his skin was prickling as if he was being watched intently.
The lights hadn't even dimmed again when Aziraphale felt a hand groping for his. He reached out to meet it, and they sat, staring at the orchestra. Aziraphale was acutely aware that the angle of the box meant he was looking away from Crowley, and that the demon had full view of him.
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Wonderful, just the kind of emotional rollercoaster Aziraphale distinctly didn't want right now. The opening stirred up his already ruffled nerves, and he wanted to flee the drama like a coward.
Drama. They were just harmlessly holding hands, for the sake of everything in existence. He was the one being foolishly dramatic, and he was ashamed of himself. Keep in touch, we'll be in touch... This ridiculous small touch had somehow become the centre of the universe, and it was unreasonable.
By the time Variation 18 was enveloping Aziraphale in lyrical tenderness everything about him ached, and the desire to flee was even stronger. Only that would mean pulling his hand from Crowley's, and he felt incapable of doing so. He had survived on this Earth for six thousand years, he had defied Satan himself, or what he expected to be Satan, had betrayed Heaven, and he had never felt as weak as this simple touch made him feel.
As the music swelled, he felt his hand lifted. He kept his head poised as if looking at the orchestra, even though his eyes were closed, and concentrated on the movement, and then the almost undetectable brush of lips across the back of his hand. Then their hands were gently returned to lie on the armrest of Aziraphale's chair together, still linked.
Crowley. What the Hell was he playing at?
By the time the last notes of the final variation had dwindled into silence and the hall was filled with applause, their hands parting, Aziraphale was feeling dizzy. He risked a glance to his right. Crowley wasn't applauding, he never did, and in the dimness there was a faint smile on his lips that made Aziraphale feel a sudden flash of anger. At it Crowley's mouth softened into sudden vulnerability, and s stab of fear of loss went through Aziraphale. He was the one to reach for Crowley's hand this time, and the smile returned, firmer this time, as Crowley glanced away, his grip tightening.
Crowley was terrified. The thought struck Aziraphale like a blow, followed by a rush of tenderness like the endorphins following pain. The brave, wonderful boy. He cradled Crowley's hand gently, as if he was holding a delicate snake instead of a serpentine demon, and prepared to listen to the rest of the concert.
"Come back for a nightcap?" Crowley asked casually enough, as Aziraphale slid into the Bentley.
"I think I'd like that very much, my dear," Aziraphale said slowly. Crowley's head jerked towards him quickly. He didn't say anything, and before long the nightmare speed in the dark made speech impossible.
Crowley reached for his hand in the lift. Aziraphale stood silently beside him. They had always talked easily and fluently, even when they bickered. This waiting silence was new, and did nothing to stop the emotions battering at Aziraphale's brain.
When they stepped inside the flat, he couldn't bear it anymore. He took off Crowley's glasses and placed them on a side table, then reached out for both of Crowley's hands. He lifted them to meet, stepping closer so their hands were pressed together between his broad chest and Crowley's thin one.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Crowley asked, which was, Aziraphale felt, a little unfair, since Crowley was the one who apparently couldn't stop holding his hand.
"Keeping in touch."
"Oh," Crowley said, and "Oh," again. His eyes were pure gold, pupils dilated. "Um, yeah. Good. Make sure you keep it up, because you are not bloody disappearing on me again."
"Crowley."
"I was so angry with you for leaving me that if you were just disincorporated I was going to go into Heaven and kill you myself."
"Crowley, dear."
"I was going to save the world for you first," the demon added a bit apologetically.
"Before killing me?"
"I drove through hellfire for you."
"Thank you, Crowley."
"Thank you? That's what you have to say? You--you--"
Aziraphale raised his hands and kissed them. Kissed across the back of each hand, kissing between each knuckle, slowly and carefully.
"You bloody angel," and as Aziraphale looked up from their hands Crowley snaked his head in with inhuman dexterity to kiss his mouth.
"Oh," Aziraphale mumbled against his lips, and Crowley took advantage of the parted lips to press the kiss deeper, their hands parting so Crowley could cradle the side of his face and coax his mouth open, slide his tongue in, kiss him as voraciously as if he was starving. Aziraphale put his arms around him and held on for dear life.
"You're in love with me," Aziraphale said at last. "It--it honestly hadn't occurred to me."
"That's because you are a stupid bloody angel who doesn't notice anything unless it's in a book or a bottle," snapped Crowley. "Don't leave me again. Stay with me."
"All right."
"You mean it?" Crowley stared piercingly at him, hands still holding the side of his face. "Give me your holy vow."
"I mean it. I love you." The stare became suspicious. "I'm in love with you," Aziraphale clarified. "My marvellous, strange dear."
"Angel. My angel."
When their mouths parted, Aziraphale said, "Thank you for reminding me what I would have lost if Heaven had won."
"Any time you think you're going to forget, just--"
Aziraphale was already kissing him again. "I expect constant reminders," he said at last.
"Bastard," said Crowley, and Aziraphale would have bet his entire book collection that a demon had never looked quite so happy before.
He was certain an angel hadn't.