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The ride home is quiet. Not necessarily by choice, but more of a mutual understanding that perhaps, just this once, silence is preferred. Though Aziraphale would not object if his driver was inspired to play some music.
The angel sits in the passenger seat, an ancient statue cradling some strange possession tight to his chest. Occasionally, he sees Crowley quite obviously glancing over at him--or perhaps at the briefcase swaddled in his arms. He doesn’t see reason to raise verbal question, though it does, to some extent, bring a bit of warmth into his cheeks.
It smells rather unpleasantly of smoke, a thing that occurs to Aziraphale after their fourth turn. It would take little more than a thought--and a snap, if it were Crowley’s taste for flair--to rid the vehicle of the fumes. But, for some odd reason, neither of them have bothered to, or even felt the urge to, indulge in such a simple miracle. Aziraphale considers it a little more, and then arrives at a conclusion: sometimes, even something so trivial as a smell might be worth keeping around if it possesses meaning.
And for Aziraphale, surely, Crowley’s performance tonight carried more meaning than what he could make meaning of.
Weekday traffic on London nights typically quieted down sometime before supper, a day’s milestone that has long passed already. Of course, these days, the streets were all but deserted for fear of Germany’s skyborne retribution (one of the few kinds of retribution the pair could fully ward off). So nothing outside disturbed the peace in the car-- my Bentley, as Crowley has so affectionately referred to it (her) a few times before. Aziraphale stared ahead, still a little dazed and not at all that focused on the dark streets ahead of him. Really, if he was in a sharper place mentally, he is sure he would have chastised Crowley a number of times already for exhibiting his way of driving in a city with, for once, no light.
But he is in no real state of mind to say anything. What’s funny is that the bomb had very little to do with it. That sort of thing was synonymous with the potentially eternal life he leads. No, it was the reality of the precious cargo sat in his lap that has become the source of his shock-induced stillness. And by extension, Aziraphale supposes the demon on his right, too, plays a large part of influence.
He always has.
At the church’s ruins, Crowley had ushered Aziraphale into the car, mumbling things that were nearly incoherent-- “Right, then, haven’t got all night” and the like. His normal chatter, the words with an adopted tone that makes Aziraphale think of a phrase humans have used for a couple centuries now: sweet nothings. It made little sense to him, but when he hears that subtle nuance in Crowley’s voice, the mere suggestion of a deep-hidden affection, Aziraphale could speculate just fine.
Aziraphale would have replied, if but with a smile. But then Crowley had touched him. It was just a hand, gently resting on the small of his back, pushing him ever so slightly under the bend of the Bentley’s door frame. He couldn’t begin to explain why, out of the hundreds upon hundreds of times they have touched each other, that this time would be so different that it rendered his tongue numb. Or why it felt like Crowley’s hand brought a torch to the twisted kindle of Aziraphale’s nerves, that it would be capable of igniting his body and startle him into submission. Or why on earth or Heaven or Hell Aziraphale had shuddered at the contact, then experienced an explicit sense of yearning when Crowley stepped away and closed the door.
What he does know is that it has taken him approximately four minutes and thirty-four seconds to finally thaw out again. He shifts and his center of gravity follows suit, falling from his shoulders and upper spine to his forearms and hips. He blinks a few times before moving, just enough to see the sharp angles of Crowley’s profile. “Do you suppose,” Aziraphale says, “they will bomb all of London tonight?”
It’s like he has just startled a young cat. Crowley transforms in a blink of an eye, sucking in the most alarmed breath Aziraphale has ever heard and stiffening so fast he is afraid that the demon might have given himself whiplash. The Bentley swerves and Crowley quickly rights it with a small, almost indignant sound. Then he shoots Aziraphale a look, hard enough that the angel can feel it burning into his cheeks, even from behind the dark glasses.
“Are--y-you can’t--just--” Crowley struggles for a long stretch of time, stuttering as fast as his gaze flits between the windshield and the angel’s face. Finally, he inhales, long and slow, and says, “It’s just a war, angel, they’re not going to wipe each other off the face of the planet. Call it business.”
“Well, yes, but they’ve gotten awfully close before.”
“Just human nature. Besides, they’ll only decimate the East End, remember?” There’s hardly a beat before Crowley reverses the hard inquiries. “Now, won’t you give me the pleasure of reminding me why you were part of that fiasco?”
Now Aziraphale knows the heat in his face is not just Crowley’s stare. He quickly looks away. “Oh, I--well. You know,” he says, weaving around the answer. “You were there, weren’t you?”
“Mmm. Remind me,” repeats the demon.
“And why should I?”
Crowley waves a vague hand around the space between them. “Remind me why I came, make me feel a little--I don’t know, rewarded, for doing the chicken dance in front of a load of Nazis. Come on, angel, pay up.”
Crowley has undoubtedly done Aziraphale one of the greatest favors he has had the privilege of enjoying. And Aziraphale supposes he hasn’t done an equally great job of thanking him for it yet. So he gives a heavy sigh and says, “If you must know, I was--ah, attempting, shall you say, to do London a little Good. Root out some Nazi spies. And the such.”
Either the darkness is playing tricks on his eyes, or Crowley really is smirking. “Bloody poor job of it, I’ll tell you.”
Flustered, Aziraphale sputters and straightens off the seat to try and catch Crowley’s eye. “Well, excuse me, I would have done a brilliant job if you hadn’t interrupted.”
“Interrupted!” Crowley exclaims. “I’ll tell you what you’d have done. You’d have discorporated on the spot, right after three bullets to the head. And boom, splat, London is none the safer. Said it yourself--saved you a ton of paperwork, didn’t I? That’s what I’ve done.”
The temperature of Aziraphale’s face has steadily risen within the last five seconds, and it is now at an all-time high. Though he will never tire of Crowley’s unexpected rescues through the years, the shame he has to temporarily repay with--to Crowley’s occasional sadistic delight--is becoming more than he can bear at times. “Well, you don’t have to go and make me feel so bad for it,” mutteres Aziraphale, only half joking.
Crowley doesn’t speak for a long moment. Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, but he’s just about to go and assure the demon that he isn’t all that hurt when there is a sudden warmth hugging his thigh. His breath hitches in his throat and he looks down; there is just enough moonlight to see the veins of Crowley’s hand, rigid and stark, defined by the long shadows that disappear under the fingers absently smoothing over Aziraphale’s leg.
Aziraphale stares at it, probably for too long, before tentatively turning his head to gape at Crowley’s face. The demon’s eyes are fixed on the road once again, but the tenseness in his jaw gives him away. He speaks, softly, before the angel can: “I just--didn’t want you to be inconvenienced.” He can see Crowley’s golden gaze move back over to him, just behind the safety of his glasses. “You always do good, Aziraphale.”
Suddenly, Aziraphale realizes it’s all too much to try and handle Crowley’s eyes and hand simultaneously. And since he’ll be hard-pressed to escape the latter anytime soon, he ducks his head and pretends that he is rubbing some soot off of his face. He relocates his trembling breath while his arm hides him from the demon’s eyes. “Thank--thank you, Crowley.”
Crowley grunts affirmation, and then as if it is by the Ineffable Plan he is required to never end on a sweet note, he says, “But I do think it was a mistake on your part to trust that woman. What was her name? Grace--no, Glinda--”
“Fraulein Greta Kleinschmidt,” Aziraphale grumbles. “Yes, yes, I know. I know. Foolish, I was. I know.”
He loses his voice again when Crowley squeezes his thigh. Hard. He almost squeaks, and maybe he does, but thankfully the demon’s speaking covers any sort of noise he might’ve made. “It’s alright. Even angels make mistakes, now, don’t they?”
Aziraphale's breath rattles in his lungs. “I haven't the slightest notion of what you'd be implying. We are incapable of mistakes. All that we do is to honor the Almighty's plan.”
An idea he wholly disbelieves, and an idea that he would not even try to convince Crowley to be the truth. But it accomplishes the intended task, which is to get Crowley to say, “You've fraternized with me, haven't you? What, you think good old Gabriel would help us make friendship bracelets? Invite the Seven Archangels on our lunch dates every few years?”
Somehow the one thing Aziraphale pulled from that answer was from the last sentence. “Dates?” he echoes. Dumbly.
Crowley gestures widely around his window of space again, as if it was the last thing on his mind. He removed his hand from Aziraphale's leg to do that, though, which the angel considers a genuine stroke of misfortune. “I’m saying that maybe--maybe this whole Plan thing, side thing, all that. Maybe it's just rubbish, at the end of the day. And maybe there isn't such a huge difference between you and I, eh?”
Normally, Aziraphale would have answered, swiftly and assertively, with no . And up until this point, he has done that, just as reliably as Crowley begging that question. But tonight is different, somehow, because Aziraphale finds himself seriously considering the debate. Despite the Germans' opinions, he is not so gullible to believe his own guise--the one where he is fully invulnerable against Crowley's appeal--is who he really is. Nor does he believe he is capable of summoning said guise entirely through utilizing his own will and values. Still, he had been compliant and even glad to repress whatever true feelings he may have behind that version of himself. After all, toying with an alternative involving a demon never resulted in any Good. It simply wasn't in the name.
And yet. It's true that a friendship, or any relationship with a positive connotation, between an angel and a demon was completely unheard of, and that was without exception. The truth that Aziraphale is beginning to doubt is the reason why, exactly, that standard was forged in the first place. If demons are just misguided angels, and the sole purpose of angels are to guide as many souls as possible to the Almighty, then what clause was there that excluded the likes of Crowley?
As far as Aziraphale is concerned, there isn't one. Especially when it was a certain demon that helped him skirt the edges of discorporation, recover his beautiful books, and is currently back to thumbing Aziraphale's knee in a black 1926 Bentley while his fellow angels haven't so much as said good morning in a millennia.
All of this Aziraphale reviews in a few rapid moments. Crowley most likely isn't expecting an answer, and some time after Aziraphale still hasn't said anything, he announces, “Right, here we are,” as they pull up to a halting stop.
The angel glances out the window, right at the glass door of his bookshop. But rather than move to leave or say goodbye, Aziraphale stays right where he is. Still pondering. Still listening to the heartbeat pounding in his head. Even when Crowley says, “ Ahh --you alright? Still a little shaken?”
“There isn't,” Aziraphale says quietly.
“Wha'?”
Aziraphale looks at him, a tad wide-eyed. “Sorry, I--that is, there isn't a, um, difference.” When Crowley still stares at him with the same puzzled expression, he gently explains, “Between, ah, you and me, Crowley?”
Crowley frowns, and then says, “Oh! Oh, yes. Well. Surprised you agree, actually.” He hesitates, and then quite hurriedly stumbles over his next words, “Would you, perhaps, like to spend the night at my place? It's rather dark, isn't it? And I'm sure--”
“Best not,” Aziraphale says, before he can disgrace his kind with another mistake. Crowley's restrained but immediate disappointment grips him by the throat, though, and he clenches his teeth against the words that instantly surge forward. He can feel them coming out, strangled by Crowley's expression. He's on the verge of saying them, is so tempted because it's so easy , but he's already gotten into enough trouble tonight and Heaven forbid head office got word and--
“Because you shouldn't risk anymore driving tonight,” blurts the angel. He claps his hand over his mouth, only minutely appalled.
He can feel Crowley squinting at him. “What do you mean, I can drive just fi--”
“Sleep in the shop tonight,” Aziraphale says, and both demon and angel are startled by his directness. It was supposed to be a question. But Crowley's already shrugging and gathering his hat off the dashboard.
“You're serious?”
“I am,” says Aziraphale, because now he's been effectively rendered helpless thanks to his own tongue and good-for-nothing nearly-human emotions. There is certainly no turning back now.
“Well. If you insist, angel.”
Crowley leaves the car and closes the door, and for a brief period of time Aziraphale is alone. Alone to raise his hand to his mouth, stick the curve of his thumb between his lips, and groan as loud as he dares because now there is a demon coming around the hood to lead him into his own damned home.
Indeed, Crowley opens the passenger door and extends his hand like the hellishly excellent chauffeur he is. Aziraphale almost doesn't take it, but after deciding that that thought sounds an awful lot like Gabriel, practically thrusts his hand into Crowley's and allows him to pull him up. As he finds his balance on his feet, Crowley offers, “I’ll take the case, if you’d like.”
Though Aziraphale has absolutely no reason to believe the briefcase would be any less safe with the demon, his grip tightens around the handle and he politely declines. “I think I’ll keep this with me, thank you. I thought I’d already lost it one too many times for me tonight.”
There’s a trace of a smile on Crowley’s lips. “You won’t have to worry about that.”
“As I am aware.”
The small talk dies then, leaving Aziraphale’s focus to realign on the fact that their hands have yet to part. He would have initiated a casual break, if not more for the demon’s sake, but something kills that idea. Crowley makes no move, either--in fact, he just clears his throat and motions with his other hand for Aziraphale to take the lead.
So Aziraphale makes up his mind and walks forward, trying to combat his blush when Crowley’s fingers slip between his as he falls in stride beside the angel. Unwilling to lose that kind of comforting touch, Aziraphale briefly rests the case on the ground to open the door and let Crowley into the store. He scoops it back up a moment after and steps in behind his friend.
He’s about to summon the lights in the building when the remembrance of the situation brings him pause. “I suppose,” Aziraphale says, “it’d be best to keep it dark, under the circumstances. Would you agree?”
“Mmm. I do.” Crowley gives Aziraphale’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Wouldn’t want the shop to burn down on us, would we?”
“God forbid,” breathes the angel.
They meander in the center of the shop’s entrance for a period of time that becomes all too awkward when Aziraphale notes, with alarm, the perspiration beginning to collect in the palm clasped against Crowley’s. He glances at their hands and then up at the demon’s face, hoping his embarrassment is not as obvious as it feels. “Ah, can I get you anything to drink? I have tea, coffee, cocoa--”
“Holy water?”
Aziraphale glares at him, but there is no real annoyance. He simply sighs at the joke, ignoring its clear request, and says, “Tea it is, then. I’ll be back in a pinch.”
“Alcohol, then.”
“None of that tonight. Tea, or I’ll send you away.”
“Tea would be absolutely terrific.”
When Crowley releases him and allows him to go without following, Aziraphale feels a dull sense of relief. A part of him was concerned that he would have tried to come with him, and then it would’ve been impossible to hide just how much he’s beginning to tremble.
He winds around the bookshelves to his desk in the back and sets the briefcase carefully on the surface. Then, he navigates by muscle memory and touch alone to locate the box of chamomile tea packets in the cabinet above the kettle. He must be truly out of it, because the next thing Aziraphale knows, he is leaning on his hands over his desk, swaying without memory of heating the water. He can hear himself breathing, and hard--he should have just come home alone.
He takes a shaky seat in the office chair and massages his temples with his fingers. “No one will find out,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself, “that you have kept a demon in your house. It’s just one night. The Almighty wouldn’t so much mind that, would She?”
The logic that had seemed so thoroughly convincing in the car has lost its prominence, and now all Aziraphale feels is a strong cocktail of anxiety, regret, and something like anticipation. Anticipation for what? Certainly, this could bring about a number of things upon him, punishment being the number one contender. But at the same time…
“Aziraphale!”
Crowley’s voice from the front freezes Aziraphale in his chair. As if on a screw, his head smoothly snaps to the side to heed the demon’s shout. “Yes, Crowley?” he calls. His voice sounds awfully fragile.
“I’m quite lonely up here, angel.”
“Terribly sorry, I--I must monitor the kettle. I’ll return in a jiffy!”
When Crowley doesn’t answer back, Aziraphale settles down in the seat again. He presses two fingers underneath his jaw, feeling his pulse. It’s much too fast. He turns and fixates on the softly steaming kettle, trying to find something to anchor himself to before his composure withers away.
And then whatever calm he has scraped up is gone, dead, the second that a voice five feet from his back remarks, “Must be a bloody interesting pot.”
Aziraphale is on his feet before he even registers the sound as Crowley . “What are you doing back here?” he demands.
Crowley steps back, hands held up defensively. “I told you, I got lonely. What, got some more Nazis stashed away somewhere? Something you wouldn’t want even the worst of the worst to see?”
“No, I…” Aziraphale slowly relaxes. “I’m sorry. You startled me, is all. You can, um, have a seat. The water is almost done.”
Crowley is moving towards the couch beside the desk even before Aziraphale invites him to sit. “Thanks,” is all he says, as he deposits himself on the cushion, legs and arms splayed out as always. Aziraphale’s eyes wander on their own, executing a quick scan of the demon’s body, before he regains control and turns without a word. He’s sure Crowley hadn’t seen.
A thought produces two china mugs beside the kettle. It also brings the kettle to a whistle, because Aziraphale can’t stand another moment without something to occupy his attention and hands that isn’t Crowley. He hastily pours the water into the mugs and drops a packet into each; when he’s spilled at least three times and knocked a second box of tea onto the floor, Crowley hesitantly asks, “Are you alright?”
“Yes! Yes. Quite. Just a little burnt.” To verify this, Aziraphale raises a perfectly healthy hand, shakes it a few times, and lies unconvincingly, “Ouch. It, um, stings very bad.”
“Oh, no need to complain. I’ve remedied my fair share of that,” Crowley says, extending his hand, clearly offering to miracle something nonexistent away.
Aziraphale stares at him, utterly dumbfounded. Never before has he faced so many obvious and consecutive tests from the Almighty; never before has he been so flattered by Hell’s temptations; never before has he been so vulnerable to what he imagines humans face on an hourly basis. Before him, quite literally, is a demon, a seducter, a threat-- everything Aziraphale has spent centuries resisting. He would rather not disrupt that streak now, and he doesn’t. He does, though, continue the simultaneous streak of rousing the emotional distress he suffers each and every time he must refuse.
“I suppose it isn't so bad. It feels better already,” says Aziraphale, tone strained and low. “But thank you. Again.”
Crowley’s teeth gleam as he smiles. “A regular trooper.”
And that’s when Aziraphale gets it. This is not the Almighty’s doing. This is him being wrapped around Crowley’s finger, a five-thousand-and-forty-one year process that has him bound tight. And he’s ill-suited to undo the knot.
He can’t help but smile back.
He turns and gingerly pinches the handles of the mugs between his fingers, just as carefully as he turns to hand one to Crowley. The demon takes it and immediately raises it to his mouth.
Aziraphale reaches out with a warning on his tongue, but before he can even say it, Crowley has tipped the mug back, chugging the contents. The angel stills in his confusion and, possibly, awe. With his arm still halfway extended and his brows creased with concern, he watches Crowley’s throat move up and down, up and down, up and down until he slams the empty mug on the armrest, sighs heavily, and wipes his mouth.
“Damn good chamomile,” he says.
It takes five seconds for Aziraphale to remember how to speak. “So you--you did, understand, then, that it was tea.”
“I did.”
“And that it was practically boiling, Crowley?”
“I can’t see how that’s a problem.”
Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly. A smirk lifts Crowley’s features, and he removes his sunglasses, then folds and neatly hooks them over his shirt collar. Golden snake-slit eyes glitter at the angel’s shock. “Oh, you know demons are good with heat,” Crowley muses. “Like I said.”
His tongue swipes over his lips, cleaning up the residual tea, and all at once Aziraphale is struggling to breathe. He just nods, swallowing faintly, and quickly begins on his own cup. He isn’t nearly as resistant to heat as Crowley apparently is, but he would rather force the drink down than explain why he looks like a babbling fish out of water.
Crowley stretches, briefly looks around the space, and pats the couch beside him in the same movement. “Sit with me, angel,” he says more than asks. And Aziraphale, scarcely one to question simple orders, sits down on the exact place Crowley has indicated.
It feels like he is sitting on a concrete slab, but that just might be the stiffness in his bones. Crowley must notice, for he turns to face the angel and notes, “You look tense.”
Aziraphale looks at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “Must be the shock,” he suggests faintly.
“Of the bomb?”
Aziraphale gives a halfhearted shrug, mostly because he can’t muster the confidence for more. “What else could it be?”
Crowley’s eyes are too bright, too vibrant for this kind of darkness. They are magnets, pulling at Aziraphale’s face until he has turned all the way, his window of vision framing those two globes of fire. Like suns, Aziraphale thinks. As though Crowley has absorbed all the infernal fires of Hell rather than burn in it and turned it into something Good--warmth, comfort, life, love. His own personal stars, so that he might be able to see something when he could no longer find the night sky from so far below.
"There is something, isn't there?"
“Not at all."
“You’re lying,” says Crowley.
Aziraphale takes a second careful sip of his tea. He’s forgotten it; it’s gotten cooler. He takes his time reaching over and putting it down on the small table beside the couch’s armrest. As he settles back, he retorts, “I don’t lie, Crowley.”
“And you’ve done it again.”
“And what, pray tell, makes you say that?”
Crowley tilts his head. His face is thoughtful but shrewd, tender but direct. Thin lips, pursed ever so slightly in an expression of interest. Aziraphale watches them as they move. “Well, I know you, angel. Better than anyone else.”
“You must not know many people,” Aziraphale deflects.
Crowley raises a brow. “Maybe not. It’s been a couple centuries since I had tea with someone.”
The memory springs to Aziraphale’s mind, fresh and vivid. Japan, 1785. “Osaka,” murmurs Aziraphale.
Crowley nods once, slowly. “You were in silk. Green, if I recall. Very elegant.”
It’s as though Aziraphale cannot breathe. Except he is, because it is very clear that he is. He quickly wrings his hands, massaging his fingers, trying to soothe the shaking. “You were wearing purple, weren’t you?” he says, gaze raised to the ceiling for a moment to remember. “And you--you had a bun.”
Crowley grins. “You liked it?”
Even when Aziraphale looks away, Crowley’s eyes burn straight into him, exposing every butterfly in his stomach. “I did,” he admits softly.
“Maybe I should bring it back. I define the styles, you know. They call me the Fadicator back at headquarters. Play on words--you get it, don’t you? One of my proudest achievements, it is.”
“Oh, my dear Crowley,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself, “I know.”
The conversation ebbs away, but it is not uncomfortable this time. Though Aziraphale finds himself thinking that there should not be so much space between them, and that Crowley looks very inviting all of a sudden. So, to mask his new wants, Aziraphale moves under the pretense of getting his tea off the table. When he sits back down, he is much closer, enough that their knees knock and, when the couch sinks under the angel’s weight, the sides of their bodies press together. “Excuse me,” Aziraphale apologizes--except he does not move away. Neither does Crowley.
“It’s alright,” says the demon. He seems to have fallen quiet.
Aziraphale drinks as silently as he can, pretending that when he swallows, it isn’t a challenge to force it down. He puts the mug down on his lap; Crowley says, “I’ll take that for you.”
Once again, he no longer provides the choice to decline. So Aziraphale lets him reach over, pull the cup from his grasp, and set it on the ground at his feet. When Crowley straightens back up, his body is still turned towards the angel, and all at once, time stops moving.
It’s so pronounced that Aziraphale almost asks Crowley if it was his doing, but he suspects that it would be improper to say that now. Anyway, the subject of Crowley’s face is more intriguing, and Aziraphale loses himself in studying it. It isn’t hard, after all, when it’s hardly a few inches away. Only problem is, it’s very dark, but Aziraphale has spent so much time looking at it that he can imagine the parts he cannot see. Sharp cheekbones, curved nose, narrow chin that juts out ever so slightly. And the eyes, of course, the eyes. But he can see those just fine. They’re fixed on him.
“Crowley,” says Aziraphale.
The eyes blink, his eyelashes flutter. “Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale swallows the knife lodged in his throat. It would be so easy, so gratifying to move just a little closer. After all, he deserves it after all this time denying himself, doesn't he? He's already moving his hands enough to make Crowley notice; within the next few seconds, the demon has covered Aziraphale's hands with his own and grips them tightly. That same passion blazes in Crowley's eyes, beckoning Aziraphale closer, closer, closer .
And Aziraphale listens, right up until he can feel Crowley's breath against his mouth. He can feel that, and the pulse thundering in his otherwise immobile body, and nothing else. The quiet is heavier than the pounding in his ears. Crowley is squeezing their hands. Licking his lips. Breathing ever so slightly.
Aziraphale can tell his own mouth is just barely parted, preparing to indulge in a moment forbidden to him. But right before he has decided to cast his misgivings to Hell, Crowley's fingers press so hard into his palms that the angel gives a sharp sound and flinches with his entire body. He feels his foot kick out and then there is a crude, high-pitched sound as the china mug takes flight and crashes back on the floor.
The spell shatters, just like the porcelain, and Aziraphale is on his feet before the last shard has hit the ground. Crowley beats him to the miracle, though: there's a shift in the atmosphere and a snap, and a beat later, there's a mug sitting in the cusp of Aziraphale's hands.
“Sorry,” Aziraphale all but shouts. He can’t hear himself over the ringing in his ears.
Crowley shakes his head. The ethereal expression is gone, replaced with something dreadfully boring. Normal. “That was my fault, actually,” he says. “I think I might’ve--” he falters, and a shadow of embarrassment darkens his face-- “ah, forgotten myself.”
Aziraphale remains on his feet, staring down at the demon. As if standing will help him think of what to say faster. Crowley holds his eyes, waiting for the exact same thing.
If it were up to the angel, he would lower himself onto Crowley’s lap and finish what they had started. But he can hear the Almighty whispering to him, Her voice a tender but insistent warning. She does not often intervene, but when She does, it is always wise to listen. Her words could not be clearer: Not now, Aziraphale. Resist, Aziraphale.
It is a struggle, and Aziraphale almost howls in frustration, but somehow he is able to politely fold his hands over his waist and say, “I think it would be wise if we turned in for the night, don’t you?”
For an instant, hurt flashes through Crowley’s eyes. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, looking all at once very small and confused, and it’s all Aziraphale can do to not grab him by the face and kiss him. He tightens the grip on his fingers until he winces.
“Right, yes, very wise,” agrees Crowley at last. “Where do you want me?”
With me, right here, cries Aziraphale, but not really. His words couldn’t possibly be more different: “You’re welcome to the couch. And, ah, you can--you can leave, too, if you must.”
“I wouldn’t do that. The couch is fine.”
“Positive?”
“I am.” Crowley pauses. “Be better if you stayed here, of course.”
“Perhaps I will,” Aziraphale says over the clamor of protests in his head. He does not often see Crowley. Even less often are they alone. He would never damn the Almighty, but he refuses to deny himself this one last thing. So damn the ones who say he should not.
He finds the same seat again, nestled against Crowley’s body. This time, the demon reaches around his head and drapes his arm over Aziraphale’s neck, like a large, friendly snake. Aziraphale allows it, even when Crowley tugs at him, coaxing the angel’s head onto his shoulder. It may stop Aziraphale’s heart; it may turn every blood cell to ice; it may make him gasp quietly. But it’s worth the warmth that spreads through him, thawing his veins and easing the tension and pulling at his eyelids until they shut.
As soon as Aziraphale has closed his eyes, his entire body sags onto Crowley as if by command, and the little sound the demon makes brings such joy that Aziraphale nearly laughs. He doesn’t, though, because to break this new spell would be worthy of immediate discorporation. Rather, he enjoys it in silence when Crowley returns the gesture and settles some of his weight on top of Aziraphale’s head. There’s a faint snap, and then the heat of a flannel blanket envelops them in one unbreakable position. Under the blanket, something lifts Aziraphale’s hand and places it on Crowley’s thigh, where it remains beneath another palm. The angel sees no reason to change that.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, without opening his eyes.
“What is it, angel?”
“We’ve never done this, have we?”
Crowley takes a moment to consider. “No, I don’t think we have.”
Aziraphale nods as much as he can without displacing Crowley’s head. “Not even after five thousand years,” he mumbles. “Didn’t think the Almighty would let it happen.”
“Yes, well.” Crowley’s fingers massage Aziraphale’s arm. “We’ve gotten away with much worse.”
“You mean like--”
Crowley hushes him with a chuckle. “Don’t talk. You’ll ruin it.”
“Hardly,” huffs Aziraphale, but he quiets nevertheless. Until, one last time, he asks, “Crowley?”
After a long sigh, Crowley says, “ Yes, Aziraphale.”
“I quite like this.”
Silence. And then: “I do too, angel.”
Maybe he says something else. Aziraphale doesn’t hear it.
He has fallen asleep, has entered another world, watching a black-winged man tempt a figure in white for the first time.
END