Work Text:
Soho, 1967
Azra stared at the little television from the back corner of the bar, stood beside Crowley at the edge of the gathered crowd. Silence had fallen as a newscaster read out the result, a faint grimace passing over his face.
The act had passed.
The silence lingered, soft and stunned, for a moment longer.
Then the sounds began, filling the bar, cries of relief and joy, hope and fear, as the occupants of the underground gay bar that Azra and Crowley now sat in began to celebrate. Azra reached out, letting out a quiet breath, clutching at Crowley’s hand almost desperately.
“They did it,” he breathed. “After all this time…”
“They’ve still got a ways to go,” Crowley murmured, shifting closer to Azra, the star-bright heat of him pressed against the demon’s side. “They won’t give up on hundreds of years of hate quite so easily. There’ll be backlash.”
“I know,” Azra said. “It’s always the same story, isn’t it? One step forwards, two steps back.”
“On Earth as it is in Heaven,” Crowley said. “And probably Hell, too, though I’ll admit I’m guessing on that one.”
Azra huffed out a quiet laugh. “You aren’t wrong.”
The humans around them hadn’t stopped their celebrations yet, though they didn’t dare to spill out onto the streets with them. Azra looked around at them, at these people who, in their own, odd ways, felt so very familiar.
At Crowley, standing beside him, gripping his hand, so warm, so gentle, even after so very, very long.
“Crowley,” he said, his voice catching on the growing lump in his throat as he forced his eyes to focus through the building tears on the angel beside him, the long, lithe limbs, the artist’s hands, the flame-red hair and the molten, golden eyes and the way his entire expression softened as those eyes met Azra’s.
“I know, bunny,” Crowley said, his free hand coming up to cup Azra’s cheek, to wipe away the tears that were beginning to fall. “I know.”
“It– oh, I wish– I–” The frustration rose in Azra like a wave, the sheer unfairness of it all, and he could have screamed from it.
“Just for a moment,” Crowley murmured. “They aren’t here, bunny. It’s just us, yeah? We can be human, too, just for a moment. If we want.”
“Why did I ever teach you how to tempt?” Azra whispered back, his own hand coming up to cup Crowley’s face, to tangle in his hair. “You’re the hardest thing I’ve ever had to resist.”
“Then don’t,” Crowley breathed, inching closer, slowly, slowly. “Just for now, just for a second. No one’s watching, bunny. It’s just us.”
“Crowley,” Azra said again, his voice a broken sob.
And then they were kissing, still so achingly, endlessly soft and gentle, even despite the desperation Azra felt thrumming under his skin, the clench of Crowley’s hand in his hair, the way the other slipped around Azra’s waist, dragging him closer, holding him tight, like Crowley never meant to let him go. Azra melted into it, a quiet noise escaping his throat despite his best efforts as he pulled Crowley closer in turn, kissed him harder, as though by doing so he could somehow protect the angel from Heaven and Hell and the idiotic humans and even God Herself.
Crowley tasted of tears and cheap whiskey and sunlight and stars, and there, together, surrounded by the scent of hope, Azra almost let himself forget. Almost let himself believe, just for a moment, that they really were human, that Heaven and Hell weren’t hovering over their shoulders, that this day was a victory that they could share in.
That they were free.
Almost.
After an eternity together, but never, ever long enough, Azra broke the kiss, drawing back with a faint gasp. Selfish demon that he was, unable to bear the distance, not just yet, Azra pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh wave of tears.
“Azra, I–” Crowley began.
“Shh,” Azra said, forcing his eyes open to see that Crowley had closed his. “Crowley, don’t…”
“We could,” Crowley breathed. “I– we’ll take the Bentley. No miracles. We can go anywhere, do anything we want.”
“I can’t have you risking your life,” Azra said, panic nearly choking him at the thought, and he took a half a step back, his hands falling from Crowley’s face. “Not for me.”
Crowley reached for Azra’s hands with his, those mesmerising gold eyes opening once more. “Bunny…”
Azra closed his own eyes, unable to bear Crowley’s gaze, not right now, not with how raw he felt, how utterly flayed open. “Crowley… you know… my dear, if it is ever safe, I promise you, I– if there’s ever a chance for us…”
“We could make a chance,” Crowley said. “Let’s run off. Anywhere you wanna go.”
Azra forced himself to open his eyes, to look at Crowley as he pulled his hands free. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
And then, before he could change his mind, before he could give in to the look on Crowley’s face, before he could bend to his own, selfish, terrible wants, Azra turned and left, heading for the bookshop, for solitude. He couldn’t risk Crowley’s life. Couldn’t risk him Falling. Couldn’t risk bringing Heaven’s wrath upon the one angel left who was worthy of the title, dragging him down to Azra’s level.
As Azra stepped inside the shop, the door locking behind him without so much as a thought, he sank to the floor in the centre of the atrium, a desperate sort of gasp wrenching its way out of him.
Please, he begged, pleaded, prayed, for the first time since his Fall. Please, keep him safe. Whatever else You want, whatever else happens in Your Plan, I don’t care, just– please, protect Crowley. He’s the best thing You ever made, you must know that. I can’t let him be hurt. Please, Lord, please, please, let him be safe.
Of course, nothing happened. No Heavenly chimes. No faint whisper of a miracle. No sign of Her whatsoever, not on Earth, not in Hell, not even in Heaven. Azra was, as he always was, completely and utterly alone.
Alone, but for the one thing in all of Creation that he could never, ever have.
Azra crumpled to the ground, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.