Chapter Text
The streets of town were paved with stars...
‘Well...‘
The two sat comfortably facing each other, on the cushions of the arm-chairs inside Aziraphale’s bookshop. The lights of the Soho streets shimmered on the rainy paving stones and roads outside, casting a cold scatter of electric stars over the concrete, while inside, the softer light that washed over the many shelves holding the endless spines of old, paper treasures offered warmth and comfort.
It was such a romantic affair...
‘Maybe... I should be going,‘ though Crowley’s words were slowed, both by the drink and by his reluctance.
‘Oh,‘ Aziraphale’s kind voice held a delicate note of disappointment, ‘must... you go?‘ He hadn't realised the night had passed so quickly. ‘It... it's raining,‘ Aziraphale added. ‘You’ll get wet.‘ A gentle protest.
And as we kissed and said goodnight...
Crowley lifted a brow, his thin, rose-coloured lips twisted in a small smile.
‘Lucky I parked the Bentley so close, then.‘
A nightingale sang in Berkeley square.
The crooning song pulled to a stop on the old record player, and Aziraphale felt… empty.
Crowley came to stand and Aziraphale found himself standing, in turn.
‘Crowley?‘
‘Hm?‘ A small hum of a response before he turned, his brow lifted in question behind the dark, round glasses he was wearing… and always wears. Then there was concern: he noted that Aziraphale’s features were tensed, as the angel struggled to find words. ‘What is it, angel?‘
‘Crowley, I...‘ Aziraphale’s corporeal heart slammed at his chest... a strange, but not unfamiliar or unpleasant sensation. ‘You…‘ he sighed. ‘Nothing,‘ he finally gave in. ‘Get back… safely.‘
The memory of that night… was what finally motivated Aziraphale, after six thousand years, and a week, to find a ring. He had come so close to his confession. This time, it wouldn’t be wasted.
*
The end of the end of the world, as it has turned out, might only be the beginning of many happy days for Aziraphale. In the words of one of his favorite writers, Sir Oscar Wilde, he now lives ‘entirely for pleasure’, and deep in the comforting words of his books; relieved and satisfied by the quiet of the shop and the feeling of the pages in his hands.
Some quiet, he has felt for the past few days, would do him good, - not only to keep his head down after the diversions himself and Crowley had partaken in, but also for the sake of his rejuvenation and sanity: the events of Armageddon had left him quite worn.
Nevertheless, his decision has been made. He can’t wait any longer to speak the truth.
It should have been an easy thing for him to grasp, but it has taken him six thousand years to understand. After so long, it should have seemed obvious. Perhaps it was… but how could he have acted on such a fact, beyond their arrangement? Circumstance and duty had left a chasm over which they could not reach… until now.
Now, because of their cleverness, (Aziraphale is unkeen on the word: 'deceit'), they have been set free. Furthermore, the time once dedicated to Aziraphale’s occupation as an angel has now been dedicated entirely, Aziraphale has realised, to only Crowley, and how Aziraphale might bring him joy, the next time he sees him.
There is simply a void in Crowley’s absence which the most beautiful of books, the most delightful of treats and even all the pleasures of the world itself… cannot fill.
He checks his watch, an ache in his chest he doesn't want to acknowledge, and a nervousness that makes him jitter. He's unsure. He fears not having the courage, even after so many years.
Could he have somehow misunderstood or misjudged? What if Crowley mocks him? Aziraphale doesn't think he'd be able to withstand such a thing. What if he never wanted to be bound to him in such a way? What if he never wanted any kind of intimacy with an angel to begin with? Especially an angel who is soft and naive... for separating himself from Crowley for so long?
His cheeks are hot with the knowledge of the precious silver band that lies heavy in his pocket, close to his heart.
He has spent far too long at his wardrobe, searching for the perfect thing to wear. He’s stared for far too long in the mirror... And despite all his efforts and standards, he is still terrified.
He doesn't know what to do, if not to simply be true to himself, now that he can be, without restriction.
He loves Crowley. Why should a virtue like love be so painful ?
Love was supposed to only be a thing for mortals... Something... That... That is unheard of for an angel, who is meant to save his or her love only for the almighty. Certainly not for a demon…
Oh Lord ...
Aziraphale has found himself pacing, and wandering aimlessly now. His love, he has decided, has only been a brand of pain in his heart, not because it is forbidden, but because it has remained unknown and unspoken.
What if he has waited too long? Because he has! He’s waited far too long!
What if…? What if? What if ?!
Could Crowley be in love with another?! Surely being so handsome, so clever and wonderful and filled with wit... He could have seduced anyone.
A million doubts and only one truth within it all.
Heaven and Earth! Where is he? He’s already twenty minutes late! But then, Crowley is known both to be fashionably late and to appear unexpectedly.
He realises with some horror that he is forgetting what he had rehearsed to himself: what he was supposed to say! To... To...
"Crowley..." He's sat in front of his mirror again, cheeks flushed and his corporeal pulse is throbbing.
"I..." He's forgetting again! He rehearsed it a hundred times! How can he not remember? Crowley will arrive at any moment! "There's something I have to say… something I must say..."
At least, he thinks that's how he... That's how it was supposed to begin?
‘What is it you want to say, Aziraphale?‘
He turns in his chair and sure enough: there stands Crowley in his usual tall, dark and handsome gear, a shopping bag slung over his arm and on the crease of his elbow as he regards Aziraphale with a smirk.
Where did he come from?! Aziraphale didn’t hear a thing! Though Crowley was always talented at being unnoticed when he wants to be.
‘Crowley!‘ Aziraphale stands from the chair and realises instantly how hard it is to speak.
His lips work uselessly as he steps nearer. Finally he’s only a couple of feet away. The small ring somehow feels even heavier in his pocket.
‘Well... I…‘
No. Aziraphale can’t just stand there like a gormless simpleton! He simply cannot stay silent any longer.
‘Crowley… I love you!‘ he blurts, his cobalt eyes so full of earnestness. ‘I’m in love, with you! Utterly. A-and..!‘
It’s going wrong. He’s too rushed, too flustered. His cheeks have fallen into a shade of red and his fingertips are straying too early to the pocket that holds the ring.
Until Crowley’s long fingers find his own. He holds his hands.
‘Aziraphale…‘ his voice is soft and Aziraphale’s heart leaps, painfully.
He tries to search the eyes under those dark glasses but he sees little.
‘Take a deep breath,‘ Crowley soothes. ‘Why not tell me the rest of what you have to say… over a nice lunch with me?‘ He lifts the bag on his arm.
‘Oh…‘ Aziraphale tries not to sound disappointed.
Did Crowley not hear? Did he not understand? Aziraphale has finally confessed that he is in love with him and he wants to... eat lunch? He tries not to leap to conclusions. Maybe it’s no revelation for Crowley. In fact… it likely isn’t. But he didn’t say he loved Aziraphale in turn…
He didn’t even call him ‘Angel’.
It doesn’t matter. Crowley is already unloading sushi on the table. A sleek, burgundy bottle is produced and placed there, too.
‘Nothing beats a 1970s Tuscany red, no?‘ He smirks again and Aziraphale can’t help but adore his smile… in spite of his nerves. ‘Oh! and a treat. Of course.‘
The final item is produced from his bag: a deliciously sweet-looking choux pastry.
Crowley smiles again, but this time it is different. Aziraphale frowns. His stomach twists and he feels unsettled.
‘For you, Aziraphale,‘ Crowley finishes, drawing out Aziraphale’s chair for him.
Aziraphale comes to the chair… and then he realises why it is that he feels unsettled: Crowley’s usual smile has transformed into a smile reminiscent of the expression of a fox in a henhouse.
‘Crowley… I…‘
Aziraphale is stumped. He hardly knows what to say. He only knows that… something is off . It’s as if everything in the room has been replaced… with an exact replica and he hasn’t noticed it, until this moment.
‘That sounds… wonderful,‘ Aziraphale finally answers.
He sits down, somewhat giving in. He supposes he could still present the ring, just later, or after the lunch?
‘Wonderful,‘ Crowley repeats. He gestures to the table. ‘Eat! drink!‘
Aziraphale beams gently, beginning to pile his plate while Crowley pours them two slender glasses of the wine.
‘Ought I to consider this to be yet another temptation?
Crowley leans back in his own chair, his long legs are crossed and the curve of his lips is lopsided as he regards Aziraphale.
‘Oh, I think by now I’m somewhat past the whole... temptation thing.‘
Aziraphale scoffs quietly. Surely he can’t be… could never be. It’s in his nature, isn’t it?
‘Besides, I have you right where I want you with little to no effort, at all.‘
At this statement, Crowley looks far too pleased with himself and Aziraphale shifts a little in his chair. His food is waiting to be eaten.
‘Come now,‘ Aziraphale scolds. ‘No need to gloat…‘
He observes Crowley carefully. Everything seems in order… So why does he feel so strange? He finds his glass, lifting it to the air.
‘To the world?‘
Like that day… in the Ritz. It had to be one of the best days in their six thousand years.
‘The world,‘ Crowley agrees.
But as Aziraphale lifts the rim of the glass to his lips, he realises Crowley hasn’t lifted his glass at all. Aziraphale falters completely, his expression melting into a troubled confusion as he doesn’t drink it. He brings the glass away, placing it back on the table with a furrowed brow.
‘…Crowley?‘
What’s happening?! What’s wrong?
The figure: Crowley, Aziraphale had thought … rises from the chair. He sees his eyes behind the round shades and they glow… but not in yellow.
A piercing violet gaze meets Aziraphale’s own.
That’s when it hits him: harder than the forces of hell beating him over the head when he himself was disguised as Crowley. He could never have imagined that anyone else would have such an idea, especially not the Archangel Gabriel.
Aziraphale jumps, about to stand and sprint from the chair when with a wave of Gabriel’s hand, he’s flung back down into it and bound in place with the type of cord that angels have little to no hope of escaping from.
An instinctual panic floods over him. He twists and struggles, testing the strength of the cords, but he’s caught. Most definitely stuck.
Thus follows one of the rare occurrences when Aziraphale, despite his very nature compelling him not to utter any profanities, nearly swears aloud, and does curse incredibly loudly in his own thoughts:
FUCK!
After his initial panic has subsided, it is swiftly replaced both with horror, loathing and the sensation that comes with having far too many questions and knowing none of them will be answered.
The dark glasses are placed on the table as Gabriel leans down to sneer at him.
Watching his heart’s features sneer at him and knowing it isn’t Crowley, is similar, Aziraphale thinks, only to the feeling of a large spider crawling up his spine, all the way to the back of his neck while he is lowered into ice-water, tied to an anchor. Not that… he’s felt all of those things before.
‘Gabriel!‘
He glares up at the archangel, who uses Crowley’s face to look at him with an expression that the real Crowley could never mimic.
‘Good afternoon, Aziraphale.‘
The way he says it! Like it’s so casual!! Aziraphale only continues to scowl at him.
‘Let me go, this instant!‘
Gabriel only scoffs and Aziraphale remembers what he had said: that he confessed his love, not to Crowley… but to…
Oh dear God … no!
‘Poor, stupid Aziraphale. Falling for your own trick.‘
Aziraphale’s brows lift. How?! How could he-?
‘That’s right,‘ Gabriel confirms, smugly, ‘I know about your little swap.‘ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Bravo.‘ His voice is dripping with sarcasm. ‘Your performance in hell was especially stirring, so I’m told…‘ He rolls his eyes. ‘But Aziraphale…‘ he leans forward, searching his face.
His hand… Crowley’s hand… comes to take his chin. Aziraphale tries to move his face from Gabriel’s grip.
‘Haven’t you had enough fun? Haven’t you missed me? And your home? In Heaven?‘
His face is tilted up, though he strives not to look at him.
‘That is not my home!‘ He twists his face away and Gabriel lowers his hand. ‘What have you done?! what was in the wine?!‘
Thank goodness he didn’t drink it! It must have been poisoned!
‘Oh please, Aziraphale. The fucking Archangel Gabriel doesn’t go around poisoning people.‘
‘Though evidently he doesn’t mind burning them,‘ Aziraphale quips back.
‘That’s different. You know that. Besides, what was in the drink was only to make you a little more docile, don’t be so dramatic…‘
Aziraphale shudders. He still struggles, despite knowing it isn’t any use. Gabriel steps back as he starts to shift, resuming his original form with a murmur of satisfaction:
‘That’s better. I don’t know how you can even stand to imitate such a disgusting form…‘
Aziraphale draws in a shaking breath. This is hardly how he expected this day to go.
‘Where’s Crowley?!‘
Gabriel makes a dark sound of amusement.
‘Expecting him to rescue you?‘
‘Where IS he?!‘ Aziraphale persists, only growing more and more frightened...