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1941
The world is burning.
And it is, rather literally in fact. It’s hard not to burn when air raid sirens blare in the ears of your inhabitants and the city is half-rubble. Bombs catapult and somersault into the heart of civilization and scream in glee as they eradicate it. In an instant, it’s gone and there’s nothing, nothing.
There is a church. Well. Was.
There is a stone eagle, wings spread. Somehow, it wasn’t destroyed, but everything around it is hardly recognizable as anything but ash and char, licks of flame. The air tastes like radiation, but no one really knows what radiation tastes like.
His ears are ringing.
“Lift home?”
It shouldn’t have mattered. It really shouldn’t have. But it clearly did, it had mattered to him. It mattered enough that his feet were aflame, that his hand lingered as he held the bag out, that his sunglasses seemed importantly oversized to hide whatever his face was trying not to say. This mattered to the demon.
The world is burning.
And it is, metaphorically. It is for an angel. An angel who has known it was wrong, who tucked it away. An angel who ignored it so well he forgot it was there at all, who’s second-best skill is losing things that are important.
His greatest skill is clear if you have been paying attention.
It’s giving things away.
And it’s also his greatest fault, for he tends to give things without a thought for the consequences, without knowing what it will do or the ripple effect it will carry as it spreads, spreads. And it will.
The angel has given something away that he shouldn’t have, to someone he shouldn’t have. He really, truly shouldn’t have, but he has and it’s too late, far too late. For him or anyone else. But mostly for him.
Do you know what it is?
Give and take. Take and give. Books for a heart, soul for a question, affection for an answer on a wall.
A lift home to where? Home is where the heart is, and you have it.
Don’t tell him, angel. This is not okay.
But just for tonight, for an hour or two, maybe it’s okay to imagine if it was.
~
“Lift home?”
Aziraphale takes a moment to register the words. They feel so distant, foreign, out of place in the jumble of his head, that he hesitates far too long to answer. He’s having a Moment, give him some breathing room. Not every day you don’t quite thwart and then barely thwart Nazis while being rescued by a hopscotching demon. Seriously, give him a sec.
“W-Why…yes. That would be lovely.” The words are there, and they’re not even close to enough, but at least they’re out.
Crowley has a car now, which is new to Aziraphale only in the sense that he’s seen it at a distance. Aziraphale is wearing the same coat he has been since the turn of the century, Crowley looks like he’ll still be fashionable in a few decades, and it all rather fits, doesn’t it? And there are still air raid sirens, still smoke and debris and flames, but now they’re driving along the streets as though London is fine, and this is normal and it’s fine.
It’s not.
There are lights blinking in the distance, London a cacophony of chaos. Just another life in the Blitz, all so far away.
“Crowley.”
The demon’s eyes are on the road. “Mmm?” is his reply, as though he’s not really hearing or perhaps forgot the angel was there.
“You shouldn’t be driving.”
“The bombs won’t hit us, angel. Raid’s nearly over, anyway.”
“That is not what I mean, dear.” Aziraphale chances a glance to Crowley’s face and sees how firmly his jaw is set, focused on staying so. “Your feet…”
“’S not so bad,” Crowley says, and it’s so obviously a lie Aziraphale can feel the burn of his toes vicariously.
Crowley knows where the bookshop is. Aziraphale doesn’t ask how because he has a suspicion the demon’s been keeping tabs on him in the same way the angel has vice versa – obsessively and carefully, and don’t let the other find out. How one moment and a piece of paper and a question had come to define roughly eighty years of tense and awkward avoidance was beyond his understanding, even as he desperately tried.
It is still tense. Awkward. But at least we’re talking again, so that’s something.
The car stops. Crowley doesn’t turn off the ignition; he clearly has no intention of staying. A park and ride, a drop-off, a lift home then he’s off to his demonic business. That’s what he wants Aziraphale to think, but the angel is too clever, and he knows that. He knows this demon. They’ve had plenty of time to know, to know more, yet the other never seems to realize just how much they know until there’s something they don’t.
Aziraphale places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, you’re not going anywhere on those feet. I know they hurt. Come inside.”
“No thanks.”
It really wasn’t a question. He can’t say no to this, and there’s no way to slither out of it. And Aziraphale knows, anyway. He knows Crowley doesn’t want to say no even as the word leaves his mouth. He said it, no taking it back, a grimace. Hardly matters, because it wasn’t a question.
It takes Crowley six seconds to realize this. That it was, in fact, an order. “Ugh, fine. Demanding angel, aren’t you?” The rumble of the engine dies and the keys are in his pocket, but he doesn’t move, like he’s bracing himself.
“Yes. Now, wait there,” Aziraphale says, and for once, Crowley obeys in silence. Aziraphale gets out, closing the door gently because he gets the sense that if he does anything to hurt it, Crowley will be more than a little bitter. Instinctual things, you must understand. Aziraphale moves to the other side, by Crowley’s door.
And, let’s be honest, the angel is not thinking this through, not even a little. He’s high on emotions and realizations that he’ll need a couple of decades to process, and then probably a few more for good measure. No promises right now, nothing concrete. Nothing words can do any good to explain when Aziraphale’s brain isn’t actual language, purely fumes and passions. So, he acts on this, and there’s really no way to clarify how little he thought it through at all until there’s no more time to.
“What the Heaven are you-”
Aziraphale opens the driver door and picks Crowley up, straight out of the seat like a damsel in a black-and-white. Crowley is stiff and his mouth opens and closes like a fish, yet no words ever seem to make their way out. If Aziraphale was to guess, it probably couldn’t be anything short of the disbelief running through his own head at immeasurable kilometers an hour.
“S-Sorry. I hope this is okay,” Aziraphale mumbles. Crowley gives a limp nod.
The world is burning, if you recall. Crowley’s feet are dangling from loose knees, and Aziraphale carries him carefully to his untouched bookshop. The door opens for him, almost before Aziraphale has to ask. Crowley doesn’t know there wasn’t a black sofa in the back before fifteen seconds ago, and it shall remain that way, and don’t mind that it’s the perfect length for Crowley’s lanky existence with a pillow readily propped for his neck.
Little things. This is okay, right?
There are a few words exchanged, all stilted and barely recognizable as legitimate conversation. A sham of talking, really, an embarrassment to Aziraphale’s vast vocabulary, but it’ll simply have to do because he won’t be coherent for at least a 48-hour cycle or a half dozen bottles of red.
Aziraphale snaps the bag of books inside and there’s a soft clang of the car’s door closing and locks churning. The angel closes the front door manually, taking a deep breath to steady himself, and leaves the bag by the counter to be shelved later.
This is fine.
And the sofa really is just right for Crowley. He seems to be very slowly registering what is happening, taking it in. When Aziraphale turns back and approaches, Crowley takes the opportunity to speak. “Well. I’ll just hang out here for a little bit, then. Leave in the morning, I promise.”
Aziraphale frowns and wordlessly miracles Crowley’s shoes and socks off; the demon hisses in pain at the sudden exposure to his feet.
Yeah, this demon isn’t going anywhere, not in the morning and not soon.
Crowley seems more annoyed by the look on Aziraphale’s face than anything, but it’s likely a misdirection of the fact that his feet don’t really look like feet at this point and there’s no way that’s “not so bad.” The flesh is dripping – Aziraphale didn’t know that was possible – and every inch of his heels are scalded and irritated, already infected and sizzling with a heat both internal and external – and infernal. It’s red and flaking. There might be flecks of bone, but the whole mess of charred black fringe over maroon pitfalls is distractingly complex.
This won’t be easy. When is it ever, with Crowley?
“It…might take some time to heal,” Aziraphale ventures, kneeling beside the couch to inspect the injuries. “I’m afraid holy wounds can’t be miracled away.”
“No shit,” Crowley drawls, folding his arms. “I’ll just leave them alone and they’ll heal. They always do.” He really looks like he desperately needs to scream, or at least cry, but that classic demonic pride won’t let him show any weakness. Not even to Aziraphale.
But he already did, didn’t he?
Aziraphale knows.
The reason Crowley has these wounds. Didn’t want to see him embarrassed – sure. We can pretend that’s why. We can pretend Crowley didn’t spend hours calculating, keeping track, showing up with perfect timing to swoop in like a knight in shining armor. Aziraphale doesn’t know this for certain, but he knows his demon well enough.
His demon.
Oh, Lord. He really must stop this. He’s a wreck, all for some books. But they’re so much more than that, so much more. So much that an epiphany is almost too soft of a word for the clashing of cymbals that drowned him in that moment, and still deafen everything around him.
Words. Right. Talking. Do that, Aziraphale.
“Relax,” Aziraphale commands softly as he kneels beside the sofa. “I’m going to take care of this as best I can, but I can’t promise it won’t be painful.”
“Shut up, it’s not that big a deal. I’ll sleep it off.” Crowley leans back stiffly into the cushions as though to demonstrate this.
Aziraphale almost laughs. “Of course, dear.”
The process is not pretty. He didn’t expect it to be, but he really didn’t know it would be this bad.
If Crowley was human, it would’ve been different. For one, a hospital would be involved. Penicillin is new and fancy, skin grafts are increasingly frequented, and infections are common as freckles. It is a whole mess Aziraphale doesn’t keep track of. Medicine is constantly changing, and the human methods of healing are not consistent nor particularly effective.
That said, Pestilence retired only a handful of years prior as a result of human advancements, and suddenly Aziraphale wishes he had studied more than a handful of ancient medical texts from scholars who subscribed to the four humors. Bleeding is not going to help, just as it never has.
Humans, absurd creatures. He loves them for it, most of the time.
Crowley offers no words of complaint as Aziraphale does what he can. He can’t use miracles to heal the wound, but he can rid it of infection and decrease the pain significantly. Crowley lets out a sigh of relief as his feet go numb and his body shudders, bowing into the couch involuntarily. He’s been on edge, trying not to let it show, but the sensation is more than he can handle, and he halfheartedly tosses his hat aside to burrow himself into the pillow. Finally seems to resign himself to being taken care of.
Aziraphale wonders if he ever has before.
Been taken care of.
Half an hour later, the wounds are cleaned and wrapped in a third set of bandages. Crowley will heal more quickly than a human would, thank God, but it will still take days or even weeks before Aziraphale won’t need to miracle the pain away. The soiled pile of white wraps is magicked into obscurity, but the angel doesn’t notice until he sits back that Crowley is staring at him and probably has been for quite a while.
“How does it feel?” the angel ventures.
“Mmm.” Crowley looks up and rubs his eyes, sending his sunglasses askew. “Better.”
Aziraphale smiles gently as he stands up. “Good. You shouldn’t walk on them for at least a few days, okay?”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Satan, I’m not staying here for days, angel. Far too restless for that.”
Aziraphale sees through this. “It doesn’t bother me at all if you stay, Crowley. I’ll be here if you need anything, so don’t be afraid to ask.”
Crowley makes an unreadable expression, then sighs as though Aziraphale has asked him to do something unbearably agonizing. “Ugh, fine. Whatever. I won’t, but…” He physically struggles for a moment and Aziraphale worries his feet are bothering him until he finally adds, “…Thanks. For the, well. Thanks. Nice of you, and all that.”
Aziraphale nearly beams at him, nearly lets his instincts take over to rip the shades away and look at Crowley’s eyes and let him see, let him know what he knows.
But. He still needs a few decades to process this, as aforementioned.
“Shut up,” Aziraphale quotes affectionately – more so than was strictly intended – and that does it for Crowley, who doesn’t utter another word.
Aziraphale moves quietly, ensuring with one last miracle for the night that not a sound, not the wails of sirens from outside or the gentle creak of the floorboard, will disrupt the resting demon. Heaven and Hell alike don’t know the demon deserves it, but Aziraphale does.
The angel retrieves the brown leather bag, and, for a moment, he simply holds it, staring.
“Little demonic miracle of my own…” Aziraphale murmurs. There are too many emotions in that moment, in those words. How Crowley knew about the books, for one. How Crowley knew Aziraphale valued them, how treasured they were. How Crowley went out of his way to keep them secured even as his feet melted under him.
How Aziraphale had completely and utterly forgotten about the books because keeping Crowley safe was infinitely more important.
It seems nearly a shame to take the books out of the bag at all, like it should remain as a memento of the moment forever, a reminder of what had happened. But he does, slowly, stacking them on the counter beside the bag. Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton, indeed.
Ah, come to think of it, he hadn’t brought these books to the church in a bag, had he? He’d wrapped them with a simple rope pulley. Crowley had miracled in a bag for him.
Well.
He places the bag carefully on one of the spiraled book tables and decides he’ll never use it.
The first-edition books of prophecy find their way back, very carefully, to the shelves where they live, surrounded by hundreds of equally worn and equally loved dust jackets and yellowed pages. The bookshop has never been so quiet, and he knows it’s from his own miracle, but it is utterly unnerving nonetheless to hear Crowley’s even breathing from the other room.
Aziraphale stifles a laugh, quite suddenly. He hadn’t known Crowley snored. Now he does and he sears the knowledge into his brain, almost subconsciously. It’s always been this way, tucking away every touch of information, every memory of the demon, to ensure not a detail is lost to time as so much else is.
Aziraphale glances back to where Crowley is sleeping and takes a deep breath. He needs air.
He steps out in front of the bookshop. He knows London is in disarray tonight, that lives have been lost and homes destroyed. It will be years before this all ends, but it will. Aziraphale is sure it will because it always does. Humans love War, but they can only stand her for so long. She comes in phases.
He lets himself think.
For the first time in centuries and centuries, he lets himself think about what he feels. And not just the daily sort of emotions, the ups and downs of spilling tea on his vest and finding a lovely hardback and losing his favorite mug and discovering a new café. These are the temporary, the wistful and distrustful. What he needs to feel is what is long-lasting and eternal.
It has been there, perhaps since the Beginning. Something like fondness, something like care, something like love; something like that. Something embedded deep and untorn by centuries and millennia. It’s less that he never knew it was there, but he so desperately did not want it to be. He thought it might go away if he pretended it wasn’t, that these thoughts never truly crossed his mind or took root.
His greatest talent is giving things away to the wrong people.
“Damn it,” he curses, because he really has done it again, and it’s perhaps the worst one yet. For the heart God gave him, the one She crafted with nimble fingers and a gentle weave, that She placed in his chest where it was meant to stay – he gave it so recklessly, so carelessly, so stupidly, so daftly – to a demon.
His breathing has become rapid, so he focuses on slowing it. Enjoying the sensation of lifting lungs, of vital organ functionality, of oxygen to the brain.
He hopes that the demon might not notice what is now his – what has been his all along, really. He hopes Crowley doesn’t know that the bag of books was a trade, not a gift; that he did, in fact, receive something in return worth just as much as his sacrifice.
Would the demon take care of it?
He probably would. He absolutely would. Aziraphale knows this. But Hell would not take care of Crowley.
There is one way to love Crowley, Aziraphale decides. There is one way to keep him safe, to keep him alive and well and…here.
Distance.
Distance, that none may know, none may suspect, and none may cause harm to his demon. Because of all of the things that could happen, he can think of nothing worse. The idea nearly kills him.
Aziraphale goes inside. He walks softly and carries a big secret, and Crowley can’t know. It’s for him, it’s for his own good, it’s for his safety. Maybe he won’t understand, and maybe it will hurt. But Aziraphale is a deeply selfish angel, and he’s willing.
He’s willing to hurt Crowley himself to keep Hell from doing it in their way.
He takes Crowley’s sunglasses off gently as invisible music swells in his ears. Crowley is fast asleep, dead to the world, and he looks more peaceful than Aziraphale has ever seen him.
He hopes the demon feels safe here.
Crowley’s feet were aflame.
Aziraphale’s world is burning.
1967
He’s certain it’s the hardest thing he’ll ever do.
And he trusts Crowley, he does. Much more than he should, in fact, but that’s a discussion for later.
Still…he lives in Soho. He hears things. And some things he’s heard have pushed him to the edge of a decision that he never, ever wanted to make.
He’s probably always known he’d make it. From the moment Crowley met him in St. James’ Park, in that absurd top hat. Ever since Crowley handed him a tiny slip of paper with two words and nine letters, he’s known he would make this choice. He just never wanted to and hoped it wouldn’t be now, wouldn’t be soon, wouldn’t be ever.
He’s probably the first angel who refused to give holy water to a demon. What angel wouldn’t jump at the chance to take advantage of their adversary by introducing one of the few things that ensure a demon will never see Hell again?
What would Heaven think?
All the same things they already do, he supposes.
For once, the threat of Heaven and Hell are not what scares him. They are not the ones with influence over this situation, and how this thermos may find itself should it one day be cracked. No, that fear goes to the one who accepts it. Yet the responsibility is on the one who gives it.
He’s never been afraid of Crowley before.
Well, maybe not never, never. There were exactly thirteen seconds in which he feared the demon, when they first met and he didn’t know him. By all accounts, this fear should have existed for much, much longer. But it didn’t. He’s never feared Crowley since, not for himself.
Until now, because he fears one thing about Crowley.
That a demon, a demon like him, in a moment of desperation, might make a rash decision. Or even a calculated one, at that. But Crowley may very well make a decision, the worst one he could, and Aziraphale would break.
He is handing the demon a loaded gun and praying to God above that he does not point it to his own head.
He trusts Crowley.
Take a deep breath.
He must trust him through this, too.
He balances his options, as he has been for days now. He knows Crowley is setting up a caper to rob a church of holy water. The dangers are immeasurable, in too many ways to list. If he does this, the burns on his feet may very well be the least of his problems.
It’s been one hundred and five years since a little piece of paper burned in a river. That’s a very long time to wait to fulfill a request.
And it is. It is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, but he does it. Damn it all, he does it, and it aches. He can hardly find the words to say why there’s a tartan thermos of holy water in the demon’s possession now, but he can sense Crowley’s confusion even behind his absurd shades.
“Should I say ‘thank you’?”
“…Best not.”
He is grateful Crowley asks, so he can say in fewer words that a thanks for this would hurt perhaps just as much as the act itself. It is not something Crowley should thank him for. He ought to condemn him for it, to scorn him for it, to hate him for it just as Aziraphale does himself.
In slightly more than two words, he is offered a lift home.
His ears are ringing again.
The angel refuses, for he has given something away that he shouldn’t have, to someone he shouldn’t have. He really, truly shouldn’t have, but he has and it’s too late, far too late. For him or anyone else.
But mostly for him.
Give and take. Take and give. Books for a heart, thermos for a heart, everything to cater a heart.
His strongest skill serves him well, yet again.
Yet, as he looks at Crowley, really, really looks at him, he sees something. He sees doubt, understanding. He sees that there is something about his demon that, for once, he does not, in fact, know. He does not know that expression, he does not know what is hidden by the sunglasses. What expression his eyes are making – it is a mask, a crack, a barrier that has been shattered.
It was one Crowley made, yet so simply, Aziraphale broke it, and didn’t see it until the deed was done.
This is not okay.
This is not-
It’s not-
He can’t-
We can’t.
They cannot do this.
It’s not okay. It never has been, and it never will be.
He says the one thing he can think of that will hurt enough. Hurting Crowley – it’s all he’s good for nowadays. It’s a twist of the knife to say, but he knows what it will do. It will increase the distance, it will broaden that distance, it will deepen it.
And maybe Crowley will forget what it is that he has just realized about himself. Maybe they can both forget.
Keep the distance.
God, it hurts to, but if it’s for Crowley, he’ll survive anything at all. Even this.
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
For just a moment, he thinks he’s made a mistake. Crowley’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. He hasn’t processed the words yet, but Aziraphale knows how they will cut and sting.
He leaves.
It’s a good call. Heaven knows – well, they don’t, strictly speaking – that they both need space. They both need to breathe for a while and maybe it will all work out.
He’s hardly ten paces away when he hears a car door open behind him. “Wait, Aziraphale.”
Against his better judgement, he does, his feet rooted.
“I’m saying it anyway,” Crowley says, walking forward as he speaks until he’s directly behind the angel. “Thank you. This…it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Aziraphale shakes his head, just slightly. “You know it does.” He finally turns to face Crowley – a mistake, he discovers immediately, because even behind the sunglasses, his face says it all.
The demon’s heart is breaking.
“I’m sorry, angel. I am.”
Don’t say that.
“I’m sorry for, well. All of it.”
No, it’s me, it’s me. You’ve done nothing wrong! You’re perfect.
“I understand that you don’t want to be around me, and I’ll respect that. This doesn’t need to change anything.”
You’re wrong. God, you’re so wrong.
Aziraphale is so choked, he can hardly swallow around the lump in his throat. This is the result he wanted, isn’t it? Distance. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to destroy him.
“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. It’s hardly words, barely audible, but Crowley hears them. Whatever they mean to him, it’s not what they intend.
It’s not okay, angel. Neither is this.
Aziraphale turns and he walks away. Crowley doesn’t follow.
He’s working at a pace just above casual and just below simply running away. He can feel everything in him squeezing and clenching up, his throat tight, and he is barely back to his bookshop before he is hit with something he should have known all along. Something he ought to have known as soon as he made this decision, as soon as protecting Crowley became hurting him in this way, as soon as he had chosen the pain that he might inflict to be lesser than what Hell would do.
He realizes, and he should have known.
He didn’t.
He didn’t know that this would hurt himself so, so much more.
The moon is dangling low by the time Aziraphale rouses himself from the floor to stand. He brushes himself off, adjusts his bowtie, pushes his fluffy bangs off his forehead. Deep breaths. He’s going to be fine.
This might not be okay, but he is, he is.
He was the first to lie and may very well be the last.
He hangs up his coat. With characteristic self-destruction, he tips this off with the usual habit – and it is a habit by now – of letting his eyes linger on the soft, black hat on the antique coat rack. A thick but not quite wide brim, a band of satin ribbon on the crown, a slight concave on the peak.
He always meant to ask if Crowley had left it behind on purpose. But then, Crowley might ask for it back, and Aziraphale is a selfish angel to his core.
He brushes a finger along the soft brim, imagines it’s on Crowley’s head, and tears his hand away.
Books. Yes, books. It’s a lovely night, perfect for some light reading. A revisiting of some European classics, perhaps? Dickens, Joyce, Wilde, Dumas, Austen.
He sits for three days, on one page, never reading a word.
Somewhere, a demon is holding a thermos, and it’s burning.
2008
Aziraphale does not expect Crowley to be the first to reach out, not after that. But he is, and it’s as late at night as one would expect. Then again, it’s not like he didn’t entirely anticipate it, not with Armageddon on the horizon. And suddenly they’re out of time.
But you know this story.
You know how the world was burning.
Fill in the blanks, of a drunken night and a conversation in a gazebo and an altercation in the street and a heartbreak at the bar, and Goddammit, it hurt more than he ever meant it to, more than he ever expected it to. Crowley wouldn’t forget, couldn’t forget, and now it was too late, as it had always been.
And then it wasn’t.
You know this story.
Let’s pick up at the ending and see what came after.
2019
There is a lot to take in.
The world is not, in fact, burning. This, in and of itself, is…something.
After dining at the Ritz, Crowley drops Aziraphale off at the bookshop but doesn’t come in at the invitation.
“I need sleep,” Crowley says, even though they don’t, strictly speaking, ever need sleep. “I’ll call you in a week, okay? Please don’t wake me up.”
And he actually has said “please,” so Aziraphale says goodnight and watches the Bentley disappear down the street until there is nothing to see.
Aziraphale is tired. Really tired. Not the I-need-to-sleep-for-an-eternity-but-I’ll-settle-for-a-week sort, more the I’ve-just-said-and-done-a-lot-of-things-very-out-of-my-norm-and-I-need-to-process-them sort of tired. Where to begin?
Okay, well. Trying to stop Armageddon. That was something’s he’s had eleven years to swallow and it suited him fine. That wasn’t what his brain snagged on. No, it was that he’d done so side by side with Crowley. It still felt reckless, endangering. After all he’d done to push Crowley away, to protect him from the wraths of Hell, he’d done the worst thing he could and agreed.
But it worked.
And it was just…a lot. He summoned forth a painful memory of a conversation in a gazebo. Heavenly Mother Above, it hurt him to say what he had, but it was worse to hear Crowley’s reply.
Crowley had asked him to run away to the stars.
And he’d nearly done it. He was so close. But even that was a temporary solution – Hell would find them eventually, somehow.
In the end, Hell had, regardless, but Aziraphale had been able to protect Crowley from them. More than that, Crowley had protected Aziraphale from Heaven. He had never expected…had never thought of it until this moment, but something is taking shape.
His front step is not the place to be having these thoughts.
He forces his stiff joints to turn his body toward the building and enter a place that feels foreign and dark. His bookshop is the same as it has always been, revived after a fire, but he remembers the feeling he’d been left with before. Of feeling out of place, and it surges back. He makes some tea, sits by his desk, and he thinks.
Tries to think.
It slips away, the thoughts…
For the first time in six millennia, he falls asleep.
“Let’s leave together,” Aziraphale says softly, urgently. “We can take to the stars, you and me. What’s that one you always mention? Alpha Centauri. We can go there, together!”
Crowley shakes his head, looking insulted, revolted. “I’d never go there with you. I don’t even like you.”
“You do!” Aziraphale insists, but it’s a lie. They know it’s a lie.
“It’s over,” Crowley says with a sneer. He leaves, and Aziraphale can summon no witty comment to toss back to him. Crowley was always better with those. Instead, he’s left scathed, his heart aching, and he collapses to the ground and falls through it.
There’s a car.
“After everything you said?” Aziraphale looks down at the jar, an eternal match aflame within. Hellfire.
Crowley nods painfully.
“Should I thank you?”
Crowley shakes his head now. “No. I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Shall we go somewhere?” Aziraphale offers tentatively. It’s too delicate. “Anywhere you want to go.”
Crowley looks at Aziraphale. He’s not wearing sunglasses, but the world is dark. Oh, the shades are on his own face. “You go too fast for me, Aziraphale.”
Crowley leaves him again.
Aziraphale opens the jar of Hellfire and he feels the heat on his feet.
It must be cursed ground for it to hurt so, but somehow the pain is distant because he’s handing Crowley a bag. And it’s heavy, it’s dripping with symbolism. Crowley doesn’t need to read into it.
“Little heavenly miracle of my own,” Aziraphale comments, drawing his hand away to step past. “Walk home?” He misses the expression Crowley makes.
“No, I’ll go myself,” Crowley replies, and this is wrong. That’s wrong. That’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to take care of me, just like I did for you. I never asked you to, but I know you. You always take care of me, Crowley, you always protect me, you’ve always-
Oh.
He wakes up, which is new. His tea is cold.
It’s afternoon, lazy light illuminating the dust in the room. Aziraphale shakes himself slightly, stiffness in his joints and pain in his back from leaning over his desk for at least a night, if not longer.
What is this sense of loss?
He remembers his dream. He’s never dreamed before, but he’s well-read enough to know what it is, nonetheless. He’s read books on dreams, on hidden and secret meanings. How the human subconscious creates images imbued with secrets, fears, and worries under the veil of absurdity. It’s a coping mechanism, according to some scholars. Aziraphale never really believed any of it. The scientific explanation was simple enough, but he didn’t see why the images of the unconscious would mean anything other than an overactive imagination.
He still doesn’t quite get it, but he knows he wants to tell Crowley about it. Surely the harbinger of imagination would know.
But Crowley is still asleep, and he said he’d call.
So, Aziraphale waits. It’s the least he can do, when Crowley has been waiting for him. Aziraphale is not willing to admit what either of them has been waiting for.
Something is taking shape.
He lasts until the evening and calls a cab to Crowley’s flat. He won’t wake him up, but this gnawing at his chest – he just needs to be sure Crowley’s okay and then he’ll go.
In the entirety of Crowley’s time there, he never invited Aziraphale over until the bookshop was burned down. Still, Crowley did say, even when the bookshop reappeared, that Aziraphale was welcome anytime.
The flat seems to remember him, for the door unlocks as he turns the handle. It’s all marble and slate, charcoal greys and a slew of shivering plants to an adjacent room. He tried not to stare before for fear of being rude, but with Crowley nowhere to be seen, Aziraphale carefully steps inside and lets his eyes rove over the space.
It’s barren, but clean. It feels like an apartment no one lives in, everything meticulous for display and not for use. Aziraphale knows that beyond this “living” room, there’s a small kitchen Crowley has presumably never been in and a couple other rooms.
He assumes one must be a bedroom.
It feels wrong – indecent, even – but Aziraphale sneaks through the flat until he finds it down the end of a long hallway. He can sense Crowley in there. Gingerly, he presses his ear to the frame, feeling every moment more like a creep; he can hear Crowley’s low breathing, but otherwise, it’s quiet.
He remembers that Crowley snores and swiftly steps away from the door.
Heart beating too fast, but entirely unsure of what he’s afraid of – having broken Crowley’s trust by showing up here? That can’t be it – he leaves the flat in haste. He’s softly pulling the front door closed, turning the handle to allow the locks back into place, when a hand rips it open so suddenly that Aziraphale stumbles forward.
“Oh!” A second hand catches his shoulder as his balance is lost under him. He looks up quickly to see Crowley leaning against the doorframe, fingers lingering on the edge of the door and the other on Aziraphale’s upper arm, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Running off somewhere, angel?”
“Ah. Um.” Aziraphale straightens his posture and fumbles for a moment. “I was simply worried. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“You’re never a bother, angel,” Crowley says with uncharacteristic honesty. He finally moves his hands and tosses his arms nonchalantly in a “my house is yours” manner. Aziraphale comes back in tentatively.
Crowley is already moving through the room, tossing himself over the sofa that hadn’t been there before Armageddon’s thwarting. Something about each other’s company warrants miracled sofas, it seems.
“Not able to sleep?” Aziraphale asks as he sits on the opposite end.
“Nope. Been up all night,” Crowley replies. He waves his hand in the air as he speaks. “Bloody annoying as all Hell, but whatever.”
“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I had no intent to sleep last night, but I did. I fell asleep right at my desk.”
“Really? You don’t even nap.”
“Indeed! I’m still rather discombobulated,” Aziraphale admits. He clenches and unclenches his hands, wishing he had something to fumble with instead of the hem of his waistcoat. “I even had a dream. I suppose it’s why I’m here, actually. I hoped maybe you could help me understand it.”
Crowley leans forward, intrigued. “What’d you dream?”
“Well.” Aziraphale suddenly realizes how strange it will be to try and tell this dream to Crowley when he features so heavily in it. “I dreamed about…us.”
Crowley sputters and looks away, seeming to remember his lack of sunglasses as he suddenly miracles them into existence and shoves them roughly onto his face. His teasing tone returns, but it’s not strong. “Nothing too compromising, I hope.”
Aziraphale blinks. “Whatever do you mean?”
Crowley stutters for a second. “In your dream, did we, uh…”
Aziraphale shakes his head in confusion. “We were talking.”
Crowley seems to relax. “Ah. Yes. Of course. What else would we be doing in a dream?”
Aziraphale considers this but doesn’t come up with anything and barrels onward. “I dreamed about when we talked, in that gazebo a couple of days ago. Then when we met in the 60s, and after the Blitz. But everything was a little bit…strange.”
“Often is, in dreams,” Crowley interjects. “Nature of imagination is to make things up as it goes along.”
Aziraphale bites his lip. This is harder than he thought. “The dream was, well, I suppose a bit of a nightmare in the end.”
“Mmm, giant spiders? Falling for eternity, murderers around every corner?”
“No, I mean – well. Emotionally.” And he realizes suddenly just how much it had been. To see through Crowley’s eyes, in a twisted way, to understand how it felt to be the one turned and rejected repeatedly.
Ah.
He understands what the dream meant.
“I see.” Crowley snaps and a bottle appears in his hand, two wine glasses in the other. “Relax. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
The angel accepts the filled glass a moment later and lets the alcohol slip cold down his throat. It wakes him up and he takes a deep breath. What is culminating here in his head has been on the verge of admittance for ages, but to put it into words will change everything.
It’s like the holy water. Maybe he’s always known he’d make this choice, but he never thought he actually could.
This is okay, angel.
It’s okay.
Go.
“Crowley.”
“Yeah?”
He swallows and puts his untouched glass down. “How badly did I hurt you?”
Crowley freezes in pouring his drink, remembering just in time to tip the bottle back up and he sets it down gently on the stone floor with a too-loud clink. His mouth is set, but he looks to Aziraphale and makes it clear that he’s waiting for him to elaborate.
“All those things I said. When I gave you the thermos? And when we talked before, and you asked me to…run away with you.” Aziraphale finally manages eye contact with Crowley’s sunglasses. “I hurt you, then.”
It’s not a question this time. Crowley still doesn’t respond, but he downs half his glass without rising for breath.
“I’m sorry, Crowley. I never meant to, well…I wanted to protect you, and I thought that was the best way.”
“By twisting the knife?” Crowley finally finds the words, and they’re searing. “Yes, Aziraphale. It hurt. It hurt like Hell, okay?” Aziraphale winces and Crowley lowers his voice. “Listen, I’m not mad at you, alright? I can’t be mad at you. I never expected you to want, well. You made that clear. Anyway. It’s in the past, so don’t worry about it.” He leans into the cushions, body decidedly turned away, and the rest of his drink is gone just as fast. He doesn’t move to refill it.
Aziraphale feels his soul plummet. Regret swells in his throat and eyes, and he is suddenly aflame with rage – at himself. “Well, I wish you were!”
Crowley turns his neck only slightly. “Were what?”
“Mad at me.” Aziraphale softens again. The idea that has been taking shape is fully formed in his mind; it’s bursting to release. He knows, he finally knows, and he reaches a hand forward to grasp Crowley’s in a moment of epiphany. “I’d deserve it, you know. We’ve both been trying to protect each other all along, haven’t we? In our own, conflicting ways. But I was wrong, I was so wrong, Crowley. I never should have.”
Crowley looks like he did for a moment in the gazebo. Pained, struggling, trying not to crack. “I don’t understand you, angel. Never should have…tried to protect me?”
“Heavens, no! Not that!” Aziraphale speaks quickly, desperate to cover his blunder, for Crowley to understand what has changed. “I never should have pushed you away, when I wanted to keep you close.”
Crowley makes at least nine different expressions over two seconds. “You- you-”
Aziraphale nods feverishly as emotions course through him, and he lets them. His heart is guiding, not his head – his heart always seems to hurt the most when his head decides. “You tried to protect me, Crowley. I can see that now. You wanted to stay by my side this whole time, but I kept you at arm’s length. I thought that was what was best for us. The best way to keep Hell from hurting you.”
Crowley is unmoving, his hand tightening over Aziraphale’s like he’s afraid he’ll lose his grasp on the world if he lets go. “You…I thought…” He swallows painfully as his voice grows hoarse. “I’m a demon. You’re an angel. I knew you wouldn’t want to be around me, but I hoped if I was nearby, I might be able to keep Heaven from…”
“And I should have! I should have let you, Crowley, my dear. My dearest.” Aziraphale’s heart pulls him forward and he accepts the familiar ache. Tears come in hot, fast, but he smiles through them. “I’ve always wanted to be by your side. But I thought I’d only put you in danger if I was.”
“Me, in danger?” Crowley looks as incredulous as one can when they’ve been handed the moon. “What about you? You endanger yourself constantly. Do you never think about that at all, about how bloody hard you are to keep alive? Er, undiscorporated?”
Aziraphale lets out a soft laugh and rubs uselessly at his tears. Crowley sets aside his empty glass and reaches forward as though to thumb them away but hesitates as doubt crosses his face.
Aziraphale loosens the tightness in his countenance, the stressed muscles that curl inward with tears. “Please.”
Crowley lets his hand find Aziraphale’s temple, and he wipes away the tears gently, fingers softer than expected and face hesitant with uncertainty, unsure of whether to believe. “Aziraphale, do you…”
He knows what his demon is asking. Nonetheless, he answers differently. “I do, I have it. I kept your hat on my coat rack since the Blitz. I’m sorry I didn’t return it.”
Crowley lets out a laugh suddenly, and it’s beautiful, it’s real – it’s alive with mirth and newfound pleasure in the world. With no regard for how substantial the movement is, he draws his hand away to toss his sunglasses aside and his smile breaks him open. “Angel, keep the damn hat. I don’t need it. Too outdated by now, anyway.”
And they’re laughing together, they’re smiling. Wine is forgotten, worries are forgotten, rules and barriers are nonexistent. Decades – nay, centuries; millennia, even – have been spent on this dance, this delicate balancing of affections and secrets. An angel and a demon, hereditary enemies; of the legion and the host, opposing sides and opposing colors. Never meant to mix, never meant to exist as one. Never meant to find in each other the love they lacked.
Neither has let go of the other’s hand.
Heart for a heart.
Crowley leans in, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s as he wipes away the last of the angel’s tears. His smile is dorky and adorable, childlike in its pure, unbridled joy.
Aziraphale is done waiting. “May I kiss you, my serpent?”
Crowley’s tongue visibly malfunctions for a moment. “Hell, angel. I mean, yes. God – Satan – whatever, yes!”
Aziraphale feels as though he may cry again, but he won’t.
It is fittingly human. The way they feel, the way they ache, the way the moment makes them believe for the first time that soulmates just might exist. At the very least, for them, it’s true.
Aziraphale closes his eyes and remembers the taste of radiation in the air, the weight of a bag in his hand, the burden of a knowledge he must hide. It evaporates as new sensations envelop him, new tastes and new weights. The burden is still heavy, but he doesn’t carry it alone.
Is this okay?
The question is no longer there.
And the world is no longer burning.