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2016. Victoria, London.
Crowley didn’t stay to watch. Not usually. It wasn’t part of a demon’s job description to watch the moment a human became nothing but a body. Some of the demons liked to watch, would feast on the misery and return to hell red-cheeked and swollen-bellied.
On that day, though, Crowley had stayed. He had watched. He had paced back to a safe distance and witnessed his work. Penance. Punishment. Masochism. Many years later he would tell Aziraphale it was taking responsibility for his actions, something to remind him of what he was. In case he ever forgot.
His feet slapped against the wet pavement as he slunk to the coffee shop, shoulders hunched and eyes trained on the slick stone, a mirror of the grey sky above. Aziraphale would be waiting for him, of course, as was customary, tongue primed to tut as soon as he was within earshot. Small comforts, at least, in the familiarity of their coffee mornings. Not that either of them drank coffee. But even so, that was what you called it, wasn’t it? Grabbing a coffee. Something to do with a friend. Or a mortal enemy. Or a secret lover.
“Sorry,” he said, attempting a smile as he swung into the chair opposite the angel, who looked up from the crossword and unleashed a series of tuts, right on cue. You never let me down, do you, angel?
“Yes, well, I was starting to get worried you might actually be on time. I didn’t think hell was due to freeze over for another couple of decades.” Aziraphale paused then, folding the newspaper in half and bracing his elbows on the edge of the table. He leaned closer, reached out a hand and let a fingertip graze the dark crescent of skin peeking out from under the demon’s glasses. A second of contact, less, perhaps, and then the angel pulled his hand back, folded both arms across his chest as if he didn’t trust them to be left alone to their own devices. “Are you all right? You’re…sitting up very straight.”
Crowley sighed, hands lost in his hair as he turned to nod towards the service desk. “Tea, please. Your turn, isn’t it?”
“I rather think last time was my turn, wasn’t it? And the time before, and…”
“Angel, please.”
Aziraphale dropped his voice, fixed Crowley with a look that felt, to the demon, as though it turned his skin transparent, until the pulse of his blood, the racing beat, beat, beat of his heart was suddenly bared for all the world to see. “Where were you before you came here? What did they-”
“Don’t, angel. Not today.”
The scrape of chair legs against wood, neat footsteps fading into the background buzz as Aziraphale retreated, left Crowley alone with his thoughts. He had always respected Crowley’s need to sink into himself on those days, the worst days, the days before his quota was due. They never referred to it as anything else. Mischief and quotas. Abstract words, really. Could have been anything. A prank and a coffee date. Or a madman and ten souls.
Aziraphale was right that he had been the one tasked with ordering their drinks on the last two occasions. And the two before that. It was down to the simple reason that there were few things Crowley enjoyed more than getting to watch the angel walk away from him, content in the knowledge he would walk right back a moment later, drinks in hand, a smile on his face. It felt safe. Pedestrian. Gloriously, unimaginably mundane.
That day, though, the demon didn’t turn his head to train his eyes on the angel’s body as he left. He stared down at the table, vision unfocused, tugging his mind back to the present if it tried to wander too far, if it tried to claw its way back an hour in the past, to the moment when a fleck of red had strained the ground by his feet and he had stood there, and watched, and let it happen. And then it was over, and he had walked away.
“Peppermint,” Aziraphale announced, depositing a white mug in front of him, where a pyramid-shaped teabag bobbed in liquid that was exactly four minutes away from becoming tea. He took his seat opposite the demon, wrapped both hands around a cup that was more bucket than mug, raised it to his lips and sighed happily as he took a sip, lip curling over a stray marshmallow that he swallowed with a simple little smile. “Lovely.”
Look at you. Look at me. You left the shop this morning and walked to the corner shop to buy that newspaper, and then you walked through the park, fed the ducks, and came here to meet me. I watched ten people die. I stepped over their blood before it had even dried. That was my morning. Never lose yourself to me, angel, it would rot you from the inside out.