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I know I stand in line
until you think you have the time
to spend an evening with me
“Really, Crowley, it hasn't been that long,” Aziraphale scolded gently, hefting another stack of books. “I know you're a demon, but surely even you remember that patience is a virtue?”
“Sure, but I'm pretty certain that it would take an actual manifestation of Patience to be able to wait weeks for you to have a day off from the bookshop -- the one you own, by the way,” Crowley argued, groaning. He leaned further back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs like a schoolboy during a particularly boring math lesson. “You don't even sell your books! Why do you need to do inventory every single blessed year?”
“I do, on occasion, sell my books,” Aziraphale protested. “And many of my collection are very old and very rare. I like to make sure that no irreparable damage has occurred because of time or humidity or what have you. Besides, what's three weeks in the life of an immortal being, hmm? Or are you telling me you're jealous of a couple hundred inanimate objects?”
“Just forget it,” Crowley huffed. “You're done now, aren't you?”
“Yes, I'm quite finished. Now, what was it you wanted me to do?”
“It's a surprise.”
And if we go someplace to dance
I know that there's a chance
you won't be leaving with me
Aziraphale eyed the room warily. He had never been terribly fond of this kind of establishment, one that existed purely for drunken tomfoolery in the form of awkward, spontaneous dancing. The closest he had ever found to be enjoyable was the gentlemen's club where he'd learned the gavotte.
Ah, those were the days.
The dancing he saw here was most definitely not the gavotte. He felt horribly out of place here; no one in the entire building looked to be over the age of twenty-five, while he looked to be old enough to be the slightly-overweight, painfully out of touch father of any one of them. Even Crowley, who would never admit to any sign of aging, looked to belong in this setting.
Having immediately downed three shots of an unnaturally bright blue alcoholic substance, the demon had crept further and further onto the dance floor. By the time Aziraphale had received whatever frozen fruity drink he'd vaguely pointed to, Crowley had begun gyrating his hips, raising his arms above his head and grinning along with the rest of the scantily-clad, hip (were humans still saying hip? Aziraphale never could tell what phrases were popular anymore) youngsters. The demon himself, as if it was his goal to glue Aziraphale's gaze to him, was wearing a cropped leather jacket over a silvery grey tank-top, along with positively sinfully tight black jeans.
“Come on, angel!” The shout snapped Aziraphale from his thoughts. Crowley held out a grand to him, smirking slyly.
“Oh, no, no,” Aziraphale protested with a shake of his head, a touch of fear and discomfort flitting across his face.
“But-” Before Crowley could finish whatever whined protest he was going to give, an attractive woman began to move her hips against his body while placing her hands on his shoulders. Shooting the angel an apologetic glance, Crowley began to dance with the woman, their bodies rocking to the music.
And Aziraphale didn't care. He didn't care that that woman had her hands on Crowley. He didn't care that the woman had more exposed skin than even his underclothing would show. He didn't care that the demon was smiling at her. He didn't care that it hurt.
Damn it all.
Aziraphale abandoned his drink and gently inserted (he definitely didn't push the woman. No. Definitely not.) himself between the dancing couple and took Crowley’s hand. “You are positively evil, Anthony Crowley.”
“And you're adorably predictable. It took, what, one full minute before you couldn't stand it anymore?”
“I simply cannot allow you to tempt an innocent young woman,” Aziraphale replied, hoping that the flashing multicolor lights hid the redness of his cheeks.
“Right, sure. Come on, angel, move your hips!” Crowley gently pressed against him to demonstrate. He was surprised by the intensity of the discomfort on Aziraphale's face. “Hey, you good?”
“I must admit, I didn't quite think this through. I don't particularly want to dance, not…” Aziraphale glanced around. “Not here, in front of people. You can dance with whomever you'd like, but I'll be over by the bar.”
After about two minutes of trying to enjoy himself by dancing with strangers, Crowley gave up. He walked to the bar and threw an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. “Let's blow this joint.”
“Pardon?”
“Let's go somewhere else, angel. It's no fun if you're not having fun.”
“I'm sorry, my dear…” Despite the clear remorse in his voice, the relief in the angel's chocolate-colored eyes was enough to let Crowley know that he'd made the right decision.
And afterwards we drop
into a quiet little place
and have a drink or two
“I think you're right, angel. This is much more our scene,” Crowley grinned, raising his full glass.
“Just as long as you don't spill on my furniture again. That sofa is still stained, despite angelic intervention.” Aziraphale, for all his badgering, was having a great time. He had been able to spend nearly the entire day with his best friend, and now, in the quiet comfort of the bookshop's back room, they could drink without worrying about humans seeing their glasses miraculously refill themselves.
“Oh, stains are like scars,” Crowley scoffed, taking a swig of his drink. He'd removed his sunglasses, and was currently using his intense serpentine glare to remind his cup to be full if it knew what was good for it. “They just remind you of past fun.”
“Scars remind you of fun?” Aziraphale asked incredulously, finishing his drink.
“Of course! They're all from you, stupid. No human can hurt me.”
“I see,” Aziraphale smiled, feeling a bit flattered by the sentiment.
And then I go and spoil it all
by saying something stupid
like:"I love you"
Unfortunately, one of the side effects (and, indeed, often the desired effect) of drinking is that, at some point, you become drunk. For an angel and a demon that had been drinking for the past six millenia, this point is at a much higher level of alcohol that any human could withstand, but that point was easy to achieve if one could simply will the drink into being.
“So, ducks,” Crowley began, smiling dopily at the angel. “They're all, like, quack quack, right? So, why don't… Why don't they just… not quack?”
“But then what would quack?” Aziraphale asked, nearly knocking over a lamp with a gesture of his arm. “Something has to quack! It's part of… part of something. The Plan.”
“So God's just up there, sitting in Her chair all like ‘Oi, you lot, let's get this chicken nugget a kazoo!’” Crowley laughed, very pleased with his falsetto impression.
“I like ducks,” Aziraphale nodded, smiling at the thought.
“Ducks are stupid,” Crowley insisted. “They just… waddle around, eating bread.”
“God loves all creatures, and I love all creatures… So that's why I love you,” Aziraphale concluded.
I can see it in your eyes
you still despise the same old lines
you heard the night before
Somehow, through the drunken haze, Aziraphale could recognize the hurt on his friend's face and understood that, somehow, he'd messed up. Badly.
“Don't say it if you don't mean it,” Crowley hissed quietly, the shock having immediately sobered him up.
“What? But…” Confusion setting in, Aziraphale tried to sober up, but Crowley's temper had already gotten the best of him by the time he managed to expunge the alcohol.
“You angels, thinking you must proclaim your love for everything! Well, you know what, Aziraphale, I know you don't love me. No, don't give me those eyes, angel, it's not going to work. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting to hear those words from you? And you give them to me in some drunken, hippy-dippy shit about God? Well, you know what? She kicked me out!”
Aziraphale stood, reaching out a hand towards his friend. “Crowley, I didn't mean -”
“I know. Look, I'll see you later.” Before Aziraphale could protest, the demon had gone.
“Damn,” Aziraphale breathed, sinking down to the floor.
And though it's just a line to you
for me it's true
and never seemed so right before
He'd told Crowley that he loved him.
And, worse, Aziraphale wasn't sure exactly what he'd said to upset the demon so badly.
It wasn't that he didn't love Crowley. No, that certainly wasn't it. In fact, the events of the night had only confirmed the feelings. Angels shouldn't feel envy, but this angel couldn't go two minutes without preventing someone else from getting close to Crowley. Angels shouldn't feel pride, and yet this angel glowed with it when he learned Crowley treasured the scars of their adventures.
Angels shouldn't feel… this. Crowley had been correct; angels often proclaimed love for all things (barring demons, of course), but that love was not this. This was Love. This Love filled Aziraphale from the tallest blond curl to the tips of his toes with warmth. This Love was exciting, frightening, real.
But, somehow, Aziraphale had managed to mess everything up. Crowley didn't believe him, didn't want to take the time to believe him, that this goes deeper than a fleeting feeling of joy.
Aziraphale just had to figure out how to Crowley to believe that these accidentally truthful words were aimed only at him.
I practice everyday
to find some clever lines to say
to make the meaning come true
Two days passed, and no sign of Crowley. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, this was a blessing in disguise, as he still could not untangle his tongue enough to say what he felt.
Finally, the angel pulled out a stack of blank paper from thin air. In writing, he could get it wrong as many times as he needed to before the right words finally decided to make themselves known.
My Dearest Crowley
I really do love you
I never meant
I only wanted
Please forgive me
How could hundreds of authors come up with the perfect flowery words to express this burning, this sadness mixed with joy mixed with need? Aziraphale had read so many confessions of love, and yet could not manage to write even one when the feeling arose.
Angels had invented the concept! He should be able to draw upon his own angelic powers, and yet he found himself powerless against the emotions welling inside him.
Flipping the wooden sign from Open to Closed, Aziraphale gathered all of the books he had on romance and locked himself in the back room, determined to find those elusive words.
But then I think I'll wait
until the evening gets late
and I'm alone with you
Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he'd spent reading by the time Crowley sauntered into his shop (completely ignoring such things as locks), but he was still worried that he wasn't ready.
“I know your phone is working, so maybe you should try answering it at some point.”
“I'm sorry, dear boy. I've been busy with… research.”
“Whatever. Come on, angel, we're going out tonight.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale to his feet, steadying the blond when he stumbled forward. “Don't tell me you've been sitting on your ass in here for the past two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale asked, surprise and guilt simultaneously playing on his face.
“I'm impressed. Usually it takes a whole day of tempting for you to be this slothful,” Crowley teased, his voice laced with something akin to affection, but Aziraphale knew that couldn't possibly be right.
“It's not sloth if one has a purpose,” Aziraphale protested haughtily, his cheeks coloring.
“Yeah, and what purpose would that be?”
“I… Where is it that we're going?” Aziraphale asked, straightening his coat as he changed the subject.
Smooth, angel, Crowley though, raising an eyebrow, but he chose not to remark on it. “I believe you still owe me a picnic.”
“Oh, that sounds absolutely lovely,” Aziraphale exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “I'll bring the basket.”
“Yeah, all right. I've got a blanket in the car, so let's get going.”
“Of course.” Adjusting his hold on the over-large picnic basket that had been surprised to find itself on the arm of an angel, Aziraphale followed the demon out to the car.
The time is right your perfume fills my head
the stars get red
and oh, the night's so blue
After an exhilarating car ride, during which they managed not to hit anyone or crash into any inanimate objects, the pair arrived in the park.
Aziraphale took in the scene as they walked, close enough to spark the urge to touch Crowley’s fingers, but he refrained. The park was dark, lit only by the occasional streetlamp. He could have easily illuminated their surroundings with a snap of his fingers, but he preferred it this way. It seemed to him that there were only the two of them in the whole world for this moment.
Crowley laid out the cushioned blanket on the grass that suddenly ceased to be damp from the dew. In front of them, a lake reflected the brilliant stars and the sliver of moon that had remained before it next became new. The occasional firefly lit up, flitting around the flowers and darting across the lake to meet with the other fireflies to begin the midnight dance.
Aziraphale sat next to Crowley, placing the picnic basket in front of them. In all honesty, he hadn't bothered to fill it, as he knew that each of them could simply will whatever they desire into being. He just enjoyed the aesthetic.
He was only slightly surprised when the demon leaned against his shoulder. “Are you chilly, dear?”
“Not too much,” Crowley answered softly, closing his eyes. “I haven't been cold-blooded for years, remember?”
“I know, but you still get cold. Would you like my coat?” Aziraphale offered, moving to unbutton it.
“Just smite me if you're gonna torture me,” Crowley smirked, giving the old-fashioned waistcoat a very pointed look. “Nah, just sit closer, will you? You're warm.”
“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale scooted closer, loosely draping an arm behind the demon. He took a deep breath of contentment. Everything smelled so good, from the crisp night air, the earthy smell of freshly-mowed grass, to the smell that was his favorite of them all. Crowley smelt of apples and that deeply satisfying wave of scented air from when one opened a dryer after washing a load of laundry. He smelled like long nights, like the smallest hint of a campfire, and like chocolate. He smelled like earth. Somehow these scents combined into a beautiful cacophony of satisfaction, of safety, and Aziraphale drank it in like he needed it to survive.
Maybe he did.
And then I go and spoil it all
by saying something stupid
like: "I love you"
The pair sat in silence for a good long while, the quiet rich and heavy with sentiments that were caught on the tip of the tongue and could not quite manage to escape the lips.
“Angel, I-”
“Crowley, I-” Both attempts to break the silence counteracted each other, and the silence threatened to steal away their voices once again, until Aziraphale's tongue managed to shake it off.
“Crowley, I'm sorry about what happened last time. I know things were said carelessly and thoughtlessly, and that's not at all how I wanted that conversation to go. However, I would like to insist that you give me another chance to get it right.”
“Fine, angel,” Crowley sighed. “I get it, though. You're an angel, of course you love me as one of Her creations. I must've just overreacted or someth-”
“Shut up!” Aziraphale interrupted, voice breaking as though he would cry. “Just stop talking, won't you, dear? You never give me the chance to explain myself before you go jumping to conclusions!”
Struck dumb by the sudden waves of emotion he could feel radiate from the angel, Crowley simply nodded once, prompting him to keep going.
“It's not that kind of love, Crowley. Yes, I love the birds and the trees and the humans, but I don't Love them, you understand? I mourn the loss if one were to die, but I don't find myself incapable of thinking about that probability without intense emotional pain. I don't risk my job, my life, to protect them. I don't wake up in the morning thinking about going to see them. I don't just love you, Crowley, Tempter of Eve. I Love you. “
The time is right your perfume fills my head
the stars get red
and oh, the night's so blue
Crowley sat motionless, staring across the lake at the trees that line the horizon. He wasn't even breathing, a perk of being an immortal being. He needed all of his conscious mind to try to process the rush of words the angel had just thrown at him.
By the time he'd figured out all the blessed capitalization, he noticed that he was suddenly straddling the angel's lap, one mouth aggressively pressed to the other.
And then I go and spoil it all
by saying something stupid
like: "I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"