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"Tears of amber..."
"Mmnk?" Crowley blinked his eyes open and stretched. His toes brushed against something warm and soft.
"Oh, I'm sorry my dear, were you asleep? I didn't mean to wake you."
"Nah... 's okay." He took off his glasses and rubbed his face, sleep still heavy on his eyelids. As he lifted his head, he noticed that Aziraphale was sitting at the other end of the sofa.
"'Zira, you ok?"
Aziraphale always knew when he dozed off - and he wasn't looking at him. Crowley's eyes followed the line of the transfixed stare and landed on a little table cluttered with bottles.
The light of the ornate floor lamp fell on one of them, its content glowing in the half-dark.
Sherry, Crowley noted absentmindedly and was struck with a sense of warm Andalusian sun, wistful melodies and voices sounding like blood.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at Aziraphale again. The angel was sitting uncommonly slumped, elbows on his knees and chin cradled in his palms, soft fingers curled against his lips.
He had been more relaxed lately, ever since after the Ritz. Ever since 'to the world'. But this was not relaxation.
Crowley drew himself up, nestled against the arm rest, realizing just now that his toes had been pressed against Aziraphale's thigh. The sudden lack of contact made the angel blink. He finally turned his head to look at him.
"Are you alright?" Crowley asked again.
"I, yes, ah –" Aziraphale seemed to shake himself. "Everything fine."
Crowley looked at him, tilting his head a little in invitation.
Straightening up, Aziraphale sighed. "I am. Just… remembering."
Crowley glanced at the bottles, feeling Aziraphale's piercing gaze on him. He raised an eyebrow at the angel.
Aziraphale sunk back into the sofa, his shoulders a tense line.
"There was that night. Somewhen mid-19th century. We drank sherry…"
Crowley frowned. He remembered sherry. He remembered Sevilla, and a few years after that – Ah, of course.
"It had been a rather lovely evening," Aziraphale continued, a slight smile on his lips. "We went to dine somewhere, I don't remember where, and came back here for drinks –"
They had done that often, under the pretence of the Arrangement.
"You were in a good mood – until I brought out the sherry." Aziraphale halted and glanced at Crowley who had been watching him. He gave the angel a nod, an encouragement to continue. Aziraphale grimaced and Crowley was struck with the urge to smoothen those hard lines around his mouth. Chase them away with his fingertips.
He didn't move.
"I'll always remember you sitting there, looking at the glass of sherry in your hand. I'd never seen that look in your eyes before." Aziraphale swallowed.
"I've always thought of your eyes as amber. Ever since the Ark. Then, that night, I thought of the Heliades - crying tears of amber for someone who died attempting to drive across the sky..."
Aziraphale looked up at him, somewhat lost.
"Did I ask you what was wrong, that night? I've always wanted to, but I'm not sure I did…"
Crowley frowned, tried to recall. He remembered the night, oh yes, and definitely the day that followed.
"I'm not sure," he said at last.
"I've always wanted to," Aziraphale repeated and his voice sounded a little lost. A little defeated. "But I don't remember if I did. We were rather drunk at the time…"
Crowley smiled at that.
"And then, the day after –"
The smile slipped off his face. Yes, the day after.
"You asked me for holy water and I was so angry." Aziraphale pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "I came to look for you. A few hours after St. James. But your place was empty – that's when I understood it wasn't anger at you."
"What were you angry about?" He did his best to keep his voice calm, watching closely as Aziraphale clenched his jaws.
The angel took a deep breath then looked at him, his eyes wide and unguarded. "The reality that I might lose you." He swallowed once more. "I had never really thought about it – hadn't realized. But then you asked me for holy water and I thought of tears of amber – and suddenly I knew that there could be a reality where I lose you…" His voice broke off.
"Aziraphale…"
Aziraphale reached out an arm, half raised, somewhat limp, and Crowley pulled himself upright, scrambled across the sofa. The soft arms became firm as they drew him in, tightening around his waist, pulling him close. He pressed his face into the soft crook of his neck, breathed him in, the sharp scent of radiance and steel.
"You won't lose me."
"No. Not anymore, I won't."
There was an edge to the trembling words and he smiled against smooth skin.
"If you don't mind me asking…"
"Mm?"
"If you remember. And don't mind sharing –" The angel's voice was regaining some of its usual candour.
"Out with it."
"What was on your mind that night?"
He sighed, shuffled a bit to get more comfortable. Aziraphale tightened his hold with one arm, the other coming up. He closed his eyes, felt a content smile settling in the corners of his mouth as the angel's fingers grazed his cheekbone on their way to his hair.
"The sherry… I remembered Spain, a few years before. Sevilla. I took you to a café cantante…"
Aziraphale nodded against him, fingers idly playing with his hair.
"You were so bright there. So alive. That's when I knew I had to find a way to keep this. Us. Needed something to use against them, just in case…" He waved vaguely, knowing that Aziraphale would understand.
The angel sighed.
"We were both idiots." Crowley snorted.
"Good thing we smartened up."
"Smart? Us? That's optimistic." He couldn't help but grin, nuzzling the lush velvet waistcoat.
"Oh, I don't know." Aziraphale murmured a lingering kiss into his hair. "We did figure it out in the end."