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They are sitting on the couch of Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley is watching the angel as he hums in tune with the radio playing in the background- an Art Deco Zenith model 5R317, The World´s Fair Special.
Crowley had found it smashed on the corner of a street in London, one day in 1940. For no specific reason- and totally not because it reminded him of Aziraphale affinity to music- the demon had brought it to him. The latter had been completely enamored with it the second his eyes had laid on it. He had immediatly repaired the broken parts with a snap of his fingers and the radio had repaid the favour ever since, easing the atmosphere every time they reunited for a drink or two.
Today is another of those nights spent together drinking and casually talking. Nights that have significantly increased in number as of late, all thanks to the Armageddon that didn't happen.
Aziraphale likes the new rhythm of his life- and he's pretty sure Crowley does too. Everything seems lighter and easier. Now there is no need for him to write useless reports; no time is wasted in front of a mirror, practicing lies on his tongue or trying to appear more angelic- whatever that meant; no more guilt and fear eating his conscience away. Now he can breathe better and smile brighter. He can do things as he pleases without worrying about consequences. Now he can spend time with Crowley- actually spending time and not just stealing moments here and there, from time to time.
That is the best part of it all. Crowley and their renewed relationship is the best part of it all. Inspecting with eager eyes the form of the demon's sitting next to him, Aziraphale feels the familiar sensation of fingers itching with the desire to touch. They're both looking at each other.
Aziraphale can recollect effortlessly every occasion their skin had brushed- and so does Crowley. Instants permanently branded with fire in his mind and skin- indelible. Always there, never fading. Awaiting sparks of insecurity to assail him and drown him in his own pleasure.
They had never been thoughtless with their gestures. Never casual. Never too close- but never too far away either. And when they were close, their fingers had never been left to roam freely. Always forced to stay still. Sometimes, though, they failed to do so.
Humans relied on touch. To them it came as easily as breathing, instilled in their very core. To touch was to feel, to feel was to live.
To Crowley and him, however, it has always felt more like a death sentence.
Aziraphale's gaze lingers on the sharp line of Crowley's chin, and he marvels at his flawless and pale skin. He has an half-emptied bottle grabbed lazily by its neck in his hand. He holds it and offers it to Aziraphale, who takes it without speaking.
Their fingers brush as the bottle is passed- Aziraphale feels a hole being carved in his chest when their eyes lock and don't look away. Silence is quick to follow, and Aziraphale loathes it so much that he has the physical need to fill it. He opens his mouth to say whatever thing he can think of- but then Crowley happens. He leans on him and puts a blond curl behind his ear. And Crowley happens as he always does, putting away all of his anxieties.
After that, several things leave Aziraphale breathless at once. His heart hammers in his chest, he feels his cheeks flushing madly, the urge to cry paralyzes him, hysterical giggles start to build up in his throat. Something so simple yet so unspeakable of. It feels almost prohibited to live it. And quite certainly it is, if Aziraphale actually thinks about it.
Oh, how cleansing would it be, to be able to trace interwined paths down his cheek. Would his flesh be soft as it seems? Would he sigh grateful for the pleasurable caress? Would he open his eyes and set them on his? Would he be able to vanish every of the angel's fears?
For she said, “If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.”
The first time they touch, the night sky is hovering above them. To their eyes it's an endless expanse of black, and Aziraphale feels small and fragile in comparison. The silence between them is only filled with breaths.
They are lying down on the rather damp ground, watching the sky and counting the stars- Crowley's stars, Aziraphale thinks absent-mindedly, and he feels tired, failure burning wicked in his bones.
He can feel the warmth radiating from Crowley's body, beside him, and he's glad the demon is there. His presence soothes his pains, his mind. Aziraphale turns to look at him. It's dark, but he can still make out his silhouette in the murkiness.
Crowley has his long hair sprawled carelessly all over in the dirt, his eyes are lost in the creases of the night, full with thoughts, a frown mars his features, his nose is sharp, and Aziraphale has to suppress the need to trace his countenance with his fingers. He inhales, moving tentatively closer, so that he can lose himself in the scent of Crowley's skin that always smells of ashes and grass and home - but Aziraphale can only smell wetness.Water, he thinks, and his stomach drops at the thought.
He closes his eyes as he tries to quench down the sudden nausea that overtakes him, but he can't gulp down the images that resurface- the cries of people as they are swallowed under the water, the sick sensation of enormous raindrops hitting you, the constant feeling of dampness, the cold that haunts you perpetually, and water, water everywhere, everywhere, everywhere so that you can't even breathe without ingesting it, water that wrecks everything and everyone apart... the chilling sight of wet corpses rotting, lying still under the sun- he feels like suffocating.
He thinks of a rainbow and tears are already pooling down in his eyes and streaming down his face.
"And rain fell upon the earth forty days and forty nights," he hears himself say with a broken voice, broken heart, trembling hands outstretched in front of him, as if trying to capture something. He buries his face in them as he sits on his knees, head touching the ground as if in the middle of a prayer.
Aziraphale doesn't hear Crowley choke on a breath, nor does he see him abruptly getting up in a sitting position to face him. All he can hear in his eardrums are screams full of pleadings and fears.
"Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered," he keeps filling his mouth with sounds that form sentences and speeches. Using his voice to utter holy words that burn his tongue and his throat with their brutality. "All flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man."
Only merciless truth coming out of his mouth.
Crowley feels dazed and overwhelmed. He listens and wonders and watches as words roll out from the angel, with a voice that's not his own. He doesn't understand and his head starts spinning as memories come to the surface- water and shouts and cold- and that is more than he can bear.
He has to stop it. He forces his body still, grinding his teeth.
"Angel, what-"
"All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven-"
And Crowley must have gone mad, because he has to suppress the urge to laugh, and then he has to contain his rage, and he is much too tired to deal with the way he feels a hole digged through his chest.
No more, no more of this, no more of this, he gulps down both saliva and the plea on the tip of his tongue. His hands start scraping the soil- he feels it sticking in his fingers, under his nails- and odor of humus invades his nostrils. It's still wet. His throat constricts. "Angel stop," a panting breath, "stop. Whatever this is-"
" - and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark."
"...Aziraphale. Cut it. Now." Crowley growls and wills the tears away, because no more water, no more water please.
But the only response he receive is a strangled gasp, an attempt to catch a breath. Horrible, horrible sound of death that falls flat in the air that is still humid and moist.
No more water.
"...and Noah only remained alive... and they... and they... they that were with him...," Aziraphale looks up from his hands, his eyes looking for anything, anything really, and they find Crowley. And he sees. The pale skin, jaw and fists clenched, his golden eyes shining dangerously in the dark. Aziraphale for a moment only desires to be swallowed whole by them, but then he sees, and he sees him faint under his pretenses, "they that were with him... us that were with-"
His voice breaks into a yelp before he manages to finish the sentence, and the sound emitted by the angel- such a sweet, good angel - gives vertigo to Crowley, and suddenly there is no land to support him.
And Crowley cannot handle it anymore, so he does the first thing he can manage to stop that sound, to stop the spinning of his head, to stop their haunting nightmares that are not only nightmares but are reality- brutal, merciless reality-, so he grabs him by the shoulders and squeeze hard.
Aziraphale sucks his breath and hushes- and like that peace settles.
Aziraphale knows they aren't supposed to do this- looking at each other like that. It makes everything that has remained unsaid hung between them, plain in sight for whoever is observant enough to notice. And that is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. But-
The second time it happens, Aziraphale is singing among the rubble of a burned down city. Constantinople is dead.
He remembers a time when angels were created by the Almighty to praise Her and Her creation with their singing. Before the Fall, Heaven had been filled with angelic choruses. Aziraphale can still remember the way love poured from their voices and the chants they intoned.
To love. Aziraphale's memory of the time his duty consisted only in singing his love is vivid and still pounding inside him. There was no pleasure greater than that.
But then Lucifer had produced a spark- the spark of doubt- which had ended in a fire that had burned everything down. Heaven had been ripped in two, and angels had Fallen. For the first time since their creation, their music had stopped to sound. Aziraphale is not sure if it has ever started again, if someone has dared to cease the silence, there in Heaven. He doesn't think so.
Now, however, he is on Earth. He is wandering around a dead city. His voice is hoarse and his throat is sore. It's been millennia since he last has sung, but he has been singing for the last thirteen hours- and still he can't stop. To stop would bring quietness and he's kind of afraid of it. After all, Aziraphale knows silence- he has lived in it for five thousand years. In Heaven everytime he is summoned, in the place he stays in when he settles for sometime somewhere, in the solitary steps he walks everytime he's travelling from one place to another.
Surely, the Earth never really stops from emitting sound. Aziraphale knows. Make it be the gravel beneath his feet, a page while leafing through a book, the hooting of an owl in the dark of the night. Yes, the Earth is always full of little unexpected noises, but deep inside Aziraphale also knows that all of them feel like sheer consolation in the place of those celestial hymns. The silence followed by their discontinuance remains not fillable by anything- almost anything. Aziraphale knows this as well.
So he can't stop. Because Aziraphale knows how dreadful silence can be. If he stops, it would swallow down everything in this already washed out city- and Aziraphale with it.
Constantinople is dead, and so are the corpses lying all around him. And thus, he sings.
Cétemain, cain cucht,
rée rosaír rann;
canait luin laíd láin
día laí gaí n-gann.
[May-time, beautifully formed,
time moves forward in its division;
the blackbird clearly sings his songs
praise of day's scarce spear.]
He's walking through the wreckage of this once lively city and singing something that is nothing more than a requiem. He looks at the destruction that surrounds him and feels like in a trance. Everytime something like this happens he hopes to never have to go through another tragedy anymore. But of course he's always wrong. The siege of Constantinople, 1453- just another moment of a history made of moments... he wishes it could be this simple to him.
Gairid cuí chrúaid den;
is fo-chen sam saír:
suidid síne serb
i m-bi cerb caill chraíb.
[The rough-colored cuckoo calls;
to welcome summer’s arrival:
settled is a bitter age
in entering a silver forest of trees.]
Lengait fainnle fúas;
imm-a-soí crúas cíuil--
[The swallow freely leaps;
c ircling a gentle song--]
"Angel...?"
Aziraphale's voice dies in his mouth- Crowley is in front of him. He has a strange expression painted on his feature. His eyes look hollow, just like they did in another occasion Aziraphale remembers too well.
And just as everytime they have met after that night, he can't help himself but think about strong hands pressing on his shoulders. He closes his eyes and he's thousands of years back in time. He thinks again of the desolation everywhere around him and he feels like nothing much has changed from then.
Will things ever change?
He doubts.
Aziraphale takes a breath and opens his eyes again.
Crowley is closer now- just a meter from him- but he's still watching him and his gaze pins him to his spot. Now that he has stopped singing, silence reigns. Suddenly he feels worn out, his legs shaking out of fatigue and vertigo claiming him- when was the last time he had eaten...? Not knowing the answer, he just lowers himself to the ground to a sitting position. He takes is head in his hands.
Crowley doesn't say another word, he just imitates Aziraphale as he sits near him, on his left side. Unnerved, the angel takes the chance to clean his face with his hands from the sweat he hadn't known was there a moment prior. Looking down to them he notices they are filthy. There is soil under his fingernails, some dry blood stains all over his palms and fingers. It's not his.
He feels nauseated as he tries to get rid of it, rubbing clumsily on his clothes. When the blood doesn't seem interested in being scrubbed away, he just closes and opens his hands repeatedly- why can't you just disappear?-, gasping for air that doesn't come. He almost panicks.
It's alright, he reminds himself, you don't need to breathe. It's just blood. Just blood- Crowley seems to read his mind, and with a snap of his fingers the grime vanishes. Aziraphale has to close his eyes yet another time in order not to melt into tears.
He counts up to ten and then he opens them when air effectively enters his lungs. His mind is still blank, but after a moment he starts to actually take in the place he is in. They are in a plaza. They are in a plaza filled by- he stops there. No need for unwanted details. He shuts down the world once more- just to breathe, just to be able to live with it. The only way he can live with it. Silence remains the main character of the scene. No need for unwanted details.
Hundreds of years later, Crowley would replay the memory in his head and compare Aziraphale and the way he had acted to the one of a comatose person just awakened. The pale complexion, the eyes wide and pupils looking around confused, the careful movements of someone who has to relearn to use every single one of his atrophied muscles... but right now he is silent as he waits for something to happen.
When Aziraphale's gaze ultimately stops on Crowley, the demon feels uneasy under the frailty in it. Aziraphale just sighs, exhausted, sensing his discomfort. He opens his mouth to speak. No sounds come out.
Crowley's heart sinks when something shifts in the angel's expression and his jaw snaps shut. Aziraphale's features contort for a moment, but then he seems to be at peace one more- as much at peace as he can manage in those circumstances. He puts on a wonky smile for Crowley- and it devastates the demon the way Aziraphale's vulnerability shows plainly on his face. As if hope is lost forever. And it's so wrong. An hopeless angel is so wrong wrong wrong.
Crowley has to say something. Anything.
"Charming ballad the one you were singing earlier."
He instantly knows it's the right thing to say, when Aziraphale marginally relaxes his tensed shoulders.
The angel smiles again, more genuinely this time.
He sits straighter and closes his eyes.
Lengait fainnle fúas;
imm-a-soí crúas cíuil cróich
for-beir mes máeth méth;
intí síd loth loíth.
[T he swallow freely leaps;
circling a gentle song t he hill
crops growing soft and rich;
t he stammering marsh announces .]
His warm voice fills the silence once more, and Crowley is completely mesmerised as he listens- only faintly he questions his inability to converse but not to sing. His Adam's apple going up and down, his mouth moving and perfectly pronouncing every single word, the slight reddening of his cheeks- as if he were embarrassed of being at the centre of attention. So pure.
When Aziraphale finishes he looks expectantly towards Crowley, who forces himself to just roll his eyes.
Behave, he thinks.
"Don't get too cocky now, only because you a have pretty voice, angel." His words are not even completely out of his mouth that Aziraphale is already as red as he can be.
Pretty voice?, he mouths. At first he seems flattered... then he keeps seeming flattered even as he pretends to be upset and livid. The pretense makes Crowley laugh and Aziraphale turns his head to the right- apparently scoffing, but really just trying to hide the way Crowley's laugh warms his very core.
Ah, that... he thinks, almost drunk from the elation of hearing such a heartening sound.
That is exactly the only tune Aziraphale can hear and think of it as something different from a mere replacement of angelic chants. It's so wholesome that he almost tears up.
I could die to hear it again.
The thought comes strong- unattended. It slaps Aziraphale with its brutal honesty and leaves him vertiginous. And he is suddenly squirming and nervous and spluttering and- as always when he feels like this- Aziraphale raises his hand to fix his unfixable vest sullied by blood and dirt and sweat... and he brushes Crowley's clothed knees with his knuckles.
They both jolt, taken by surprise. Aziraphale's throat emits a choked noise and he grips at it. A lump already formed. He thinks of strong hands on his shoulders to ground him and it's like it's happening all over again- only the air is not humid and the earth isn't soaked in water. Smell of fire is everywhere, the ground is only watered by blood. There are not screams ringing in their ears. They have heard so many of them that they had to just treat them as background noise or become mad as an alternative.
But Crowley is still there with him. He's always there with him- his only constant, the only voice that can fill the silence that has fallen over Aziraphale's spirit. Crowley is still there and Aziraphale is tired. There has been so much pain in these past few days, so much pain. And maybe he can still be selfish and a good angel at the same time. Maybe he can have that much, can't he? He has sung for them after all. For all those poor souls. He had tried his best- for them, for himself, for Her. He could allow himself to be selfish just this once, right? He wants-needs- to believe so.
Yes yes yes.
He doesn't even wait enough to reconsider- to ponder attentively all the pros and cons- that Aziraphale raises his hand again and just cups Crowley's right cheek.
The skin feels shockingly soft against his fingertips. He slides a thumb over it. Crowley is dead still under his touch and his gaze, but his eyes are the liveliest thing he has ever seen- pools of boiling lava.
He's pretty when he's taken aback, Aziraphale thinks and then beams, when Crowley finally leans into the touch.
He's brighter than the sun when he smiles, Crowley muses.
Labraid tragna trén;
canaid ess n-ard n-úag
fáilti do t hoinn té;
táinic lúachra lúad.
[ The corncrake speaks strongly;
a young, high waterfall sings
welcome to the warm wave;
discussion of rushes has come .]
And they don't dare to move as Aziraphale starts singing again.
-but they are free now. No more Heaven nor Hell. Not any other Side than theirs. Just them- them and an incredible force always attracting them closer. In someway they have always gravitated around each other- were always attracted closer, always bound to be at a palm distance.
Is it Aziraphale fault if he just can't cut Crowley out of his life? The same Crowley that is now looking at him like that- with those golden eyes-, the same Crowley that always takes his breath away in someway or another?
In the background the Zenith starts to play a different song and Crowley's visage slowly opens up with a grin.
The fourth time they are in France. It's the spring of 1927 when they meet in Giverny. The air is chilly, but the sun already kisses their features and blesses them with its warmth.
"Thought you'd try to avoid France, angel, after your last time here," Crowley enters Aziraphale's field of vision with his arms spread wide open, a walking stick in hand, and a smirk that is nothing less than a greeting.
The angel's face lits up as he beams at Crowley who- Aziraphale thinks- is as breathtakingly beautiful as always. When he stops before him, the demon bents slightly, leaning elegantly on the silver handle of the walking stick. His red hair shines under the golden rays of the sun, partially covered by a fedora; he's loose in his movements as if his joints have been well oiled recently, and he wears his mocking grin as tightly as the trousers of his black suit.
A truly splendid afternoon, indeed.
"Oh Crowley, dear...! What a lovely pleasure to encounter with you again," Aziraphale straightens his posture and smooths out nonexistent crinkles in his outfit to walk enthusiastically towards Crowley.
"Well, couldn't possibly refuse a direct invitation from an angel, could I?," he says, averting his eyes- quite proudly- from the pink of the other's flushed cheeks to the pink of the house in front of him. He scratches the back of his head. "So, Monet's house, huh?"
"Precisely," blush fading, the smile Aziraphale offers is shy, but there are more layers in it that Crowley can understand. He pauses for a moment, trying to figure it out. He appears almost nostalgic. His tone has a certain degree of fondness that nearly makes the demon jealous- nearly. There's a quiet moment before the silence is broken. "Our dear Claude left us last December..."
"Yeah, I heard of that," is the only response he gets, because there is something. Something in the way Aziraphale's shoulders are slightly hunched when they're normally straight as a line, something in his hands that cannot seem to stop fidgeting today, something in the side glances he gives Crowley...
Crowley has seen the look on Aziraphale's face and after so many years of acquaintance, he knows him well enough to understand that he has to let him take his time. To do or say whatever he needs to. So he does and Aziraphale doesn't disappoint him.
"It may surprise you, but we- me and Claude- were quite close." Crowley isn't surprised. He knows that Aziraphale is a lover of all forms of art, after all, and the thought of him befriending an artist it's not particularly strange or unexpected. "I met him in Amsterdam, I can remember how hot it was- was it June? In any case, I was there to perform a couple of miracles."
Still talking, Aziraphale starts to walk towards an iron fence gate. He snaps it open without even thinking about it, just how humans would blow their noses if they got a cold. Crowley just follows him and enters when Aziraphale signals him to. After you, his eyes say, and warmth spreads all over his chest. Crowley indulges him.
"Once I completed my tasks, I realised I felt a little peckish, so I decided to try one of those Appeltaarts people always talk about... absolutely scrumptious, dear, I have to say!" Crowley rolls his eyes in amusement. Figures, he thinks fondly, somehow food is always involved when it's about him. "And then I walked out the bakery and spotted him. He was sitting on a bench near the square in front of the Rijksmuseum. He had a sketchbook in his hands and such a peculiar aura around him that I could not help myself but think 'This man has something remarkable in him!' So I went and complimented him... such a humorous, brilliant man he were! We got along so well that we kept in touch ever since."
They are still close to the entrance. Aziraphale is looking up, to the sky, but Crowley takes the chance to explore the place with his eyes and tries- at the same time- to understand the reason why Aziraphale is telling him all of this.
In the end he decides to just let the angel speak and focus on the place they are currently in. Now he can see better what he had previously disregarded. There are a lot of plants, there are trees and flowerbeds, all attacking the demon's vision with their joyful brightness and colours. It is a very pretty and well maintained garden, he has to be honest. It impresses him and leaves him pleased. 'Claude' surely had good taste.
It is then that Crowley notices that Aziraphale has stopped talking. He turns to look at him and he is unprepared for the pained, dreamy expression he sports. Crowley stops his thoughts dead on their tracks. He takes in carefully everything that surrounds them... and suddenly Crowley knows the reason of the invitation. A punch would have been less painful.
Just how important has been this human to Aziraphale...? It's a goodbye, Crowley thinks blankly. He didn't want to see me. It's goodbye and he couldn't do it alone.
As this thought crosses his mind, he tries to push back down the jealousy that has started to serpent at the pit of his stomach- not really successfully. He looks again at the garden and the air seems to be heavier. For a moment he feels like the titan Atlas, forced by Zeus to support the weight of the entire sky. He's been punished, abandoned, set aside.
He used to think that he was Aziraphale's only confidant, the only one to really know and understand him- the angel is Crowley's after all. But of course he is not. What a silly demon he is- he can almost hear Aziraphale's voice saying it. Sometimes they would go even decades without seeing one another, and Aziraphale obviously needed contact with someone. Someone to talk to. Someone to cherish. Someone that is not Crowley, apparently.
Something dark starts to build up in him, like acid and bile and hatred- not towards the angel, never towards the angel. Just a burning rage, more similar to pain than anger. Similar to a feeling he wishes he could forget.
You're not falling. Don't think about the sulphur. Never think about the sulphur. Just breathe and go away. Breathe and go away. You need to breathe and go away. You need to... go away.
He has to leave. He has to leave or something bad is going to happen to the angel and Aziraphale doesn't need to be hurt. Even if he hurts Crowley, he doesn't need to, he doesn't deserve to. He's the good and Crowley is the bad and so he has to leave.
And he has already turned halfway towards the gate when his gaze lands on him. Aziraphale, who previously had been looking at the sky, is now watching Crowley with such an intensity that- the demon's furious flames are instantly put out by the ocean of love that is concealed in Aziraphale's eyes.
Aziraphale is smiling sheepishly, an apology hidden in the creases of his furrowed brows. He's beautiful, blonde curls in disarray as always and skin kissed by the sun.
"Thank you, Crowley. For accepting to come here. Without you... this wouldn't have been possible. And this beautiful garden really deserves better than silly tears." A shaky smile, another peck to the sky and then he resumes walking, arms linked behind his back. "Honestly, could he see me, he would chastise me!"
"Would he?," Crowley manages to say, not looking at him. His throat feels annoyingly tight.
"Oh absolutely! He was a man who loved laughter. Now, now... I hope I didn't spoil our afternoon... shall we change the topic of this conversation? You see, I was hoping you could enlighten me about all this wonderful greeneries. I understand that you are quite an expert of this field, right dear?"
*
An hour later finds them sitting on a small bridge, passing over a pond filled with waterlilies, their legs dangling in the air and arms rested on the safety bar. They are just a few centimetres apart.
"I deem this to be my favourite part of this garden. Just look at those waterlilies, just lovely," Aziraphale says contentedly.
"Impressive," Crowley shrugs. "This whole place I mean."
"I totally agree with you, my dear." Aziraphale shifts in his place to face the demon. The latter can feel his heart start speeding in his chest, and gulps down a breath. He pretends to be unabashed and untouched by that soft smile on that soft face of that soft angel- soft.
Aziraphale continues to speak.
"It brings me back to other times, when everything was easier and most of the things unnamed."
The sentence takes a while to be understood by Crowley, and when he gets what Aziraphale means, his mouth hangs open.
"Are you really comparing Eden to this skimpy garden in a village with barely a few hundred inhabitants...?," Crowley deadpans.
"W-well... I... I may-," his stuttering is interrupted by a thunderous laugh. Surprised, Aziraphale blinks and stares at the demon bent with laughter. He's pretty sure he can see some tears of mirth sliding down his cheeks and he almost- he forces himself still and flustered waits for the other to finish laughing.
"Good Lor- fucking Hell, angel-" he tries to catch his breath, "if there is something that didn't change in six thousand years is that ridiculous innocence of yours- too good to be an angel, seriously."
Aziraphale blushes so much that Crowley's heart skips a beat. The demon covers it with a grin.
"I'm- I'm not innocent, Crowley!"
The other doesn't bother to reply, instead he returns his attention to the quiet pond and the waterlilies. He feels that he could stay in this place forever and never be tired of it, never be tired of teasing Aziraphale, never be tired of studying every last bit of his expressions, never be tired of doing anything else besides observing and talking with him. His heart swells almost painfully with need.
Then he hears Aziraphale mumble something about Crowley and the fact that he hasn't changed at all in all those years, and a question assails the demon.
It takes every ounce of will in him to formulate it out loud.
"Do you miss it?"
Eden, Aziraphale instantly knows.
And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
The angel ponders attentively his answer. He closes his eyes and inhales. He tries to imagine the Garden in his every particular- leafy and fruity trees, flowers of all species and colours, earthy soil, the smell of plants, the buzzing of bees- and for an entire second he misses it with his whole essence, as if he were missing his head or an arm. But then he thinks of Babylon, Athens, Rome; he thinks of Leonardo da Vinci, William Shakespeare, his dear friend Claude; he thinks of time spent drinking expensive wine and eating crepes and feeding ducks... and Crowley.
He thinks of his Crowley in hundreds of different angles and clothes and scenarios and he feels no remorse, no regret. Nothing besides gratitude for all those chanches he was given.
"I believe this world to be... much more... appealing than that garden," Aziraphale simply says. He extends his hand in front of him, watching his golden ring and feeling better, lighter than he has ever felt in years.This feels more like home that Heaven ever did, he thinks. He feels strong in his new discovery.
And while he's focused on his musings, Crowley falls in love with the angel once more. He watches the long, tapered fingers with caution- the same way one would watch fascinated a lion ready to jump on his game- and wishes only to have them on his own. On his cheek, on his hair, on his shoulder, on his chest. Everywhere. He wants those fingers everywhere on his skin. He wants them to leave never-fading prints on it, just to admire them for hours in front of a mirror. He wants them to nurse his neglected, fragile heart. He wants them as if they were a protective spell for the unholy temple that is his body. In that moment Crowley knows, he knows that that is the only way he can ever feel redeemed.
So, without thinking- there is always too much thinking between the two of them- he lifts his own hand up from the wooden plank of the bridge, he stretches it and he takes Aziraphale's in his.
There is a moment of silence, in which Crowley doesn't dare to look at the angel's face, because he knows that if he does and sees just one spark of hesitation or disgust, he will never be whole again. In this moment there is no sound, no living being dares to breathe, the Earth stops spinning...
And then Aziraphale squeezes back.
He maketh peace in thy borders, and filleth thee with the finest of the wheat .
The Universe sighs in unison.
It doesn't pass a second that Aziraphale recognises the song.
Stars shining bright above you,
night breezes seem to whisper "I love you",
birds singing in a sycamore tree-
"-dream a little dream of me," Crowley tentatively says over the music. Aziraphale smiles, blushing shyly.
"Say nighty night and kiss me," Aziraphale continues as Crowley offers him his hand. "Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me."
It's their song. The first one they had ever listened with the Zenith. In 1940 they had nothing to call theirs. They had their Arrangement, sure, but that was only a sad reminder of their opposite nature. But that. That had felt special and new and great- and it still does. Having something like this. A 'their'.
Honestly speaking, it also had felt terrifying and dangerous and precarious just as the four previous times they had touched. However, they couldn't help but dwell on it anyway. In someway they had always found something to steal from the hands of those who had restrained them.
That was then. But now- now they have their side. They have their moments- not so unspeakable as they were before. They have their time, not just borrowed one.
Crowley had rolled his eyes that night, when Aziraphale's had shone with happiness after listening to the song for the first time. Nat King Cole the first one to honour one of their special moments with his voice. Now Crowley's eyes are serious and awaiting, as he offers his hand.
While I'm alone and blue as can be
dr eam a little dream of me.
And Aziraphale takes it.
It's warm and comforting. And it's with a relieved sigh that they both realize that their hands don't speak anymore the language of terror and secrecy, when clasped together. Aziraphale feels like a boulder has been taken off of his chest.
We're free.
They get up from the couch and head towards the centre of the room. Crowley puts his right hand on Aziraphale's back and with the left he takes Aziraphale's right hand. Aziraphale puts the other on Crowley's shoulder.
Next, they start dancing. They dance and chatter quietly till the song finishes and another comes up right after. Then another one. And another one. And so on, until they completely forget about the music and the time- because the sun is setting right now, and they still haven't let go of each other.
Then, even when the words have finally dried out of their mouths, they still don't let go. Aziraphale's head is resting on Crowley. Crowley's arms are tight around Aziraphale. But not in a painful kind of way. More in a thank-you-to-be-still-here-with-me kind of way.
They are together. They're happy.
Crowley feels fulfilled. Aziraphale can't suppress the smile that has taken over his face.
And thus, they keep dancing.
Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.