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The greatest tragedies are written at night. They’re born out of darkness, out of the murky depths of the human mind. They are stories of terror and heartbreak, of pain and loneliness. Has anything good ever happened between dusk and dawn? At the height of the witching hour, in the very dead of night? When the light goes out, there are shadows everywhere. A moment of distraction, and they swallow you whole, not leaving a single bone behind.
Crowley is a creature of the dark; he knows this better than anyone.
His overactive mind keeps him awake at night. So does the longing, this insidious little parasite that refuses to die, no matter how many times he tries to crush it under the heel of his shoe. No, it consumes him in the quiet hours of the dark, taking advantage of his weakened state. Crowley lets it happen; he’s too tired to fight back. This is a mess of his own doing, a self-created inferno. He might as well burn with it.
–
Florentia, Ancient Rome, 36 AD
They’re the last ones to leave the thermae. It was Aziraphale’s idea to nip down to the public bath after dinner, to wash away the sweat of the day before returning to their respective lodgings for the night. Just a quick dip in the pool, he had said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, bread crumbs still around his mouth. And who was Crowley to say no to that?
It’s past midnight, and the town is still and silent, the buildings wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness. The moon hangs high in the sky, partially obscured by a veil of clouds. Their sandals slap against the flagstones as they make their way through the maze of deserted alleys, terracotta-coloured walls surrounding them on all sides. Crowley wouldn’t mind getting lost in a place like this. He can already imagine it: a couple of wrong turns, a few stolen moments alone with Aziraphale. It would be a cheap trick, but he is not above such things. He is a demon, after all.
Crowley bites back a content sigh. The day has been incredible. In the afternoon, they went out to see a play, a veritable Roman tragedy. Aziraphale enjoyed it immensely, his eyes twinkling every time a new character was introduced, his applause at the end loud and rapturous. Crowley spent more time watching him out of the corner of his eye than following the play. He couldn’t help it; Aziraphale is meant to be looked at when he is indulging in the pleasures of the world. Crowley was simply doing what had to be done.
Afterwards, they had dinner at the home of a mutual acquaintance. And then, yes, a brief visit to the nearest public bath, the two of them soaking themselves in a mostly empty pool, happy to escape the sweltering heat for a while. At this point, Crowley was struggling to keep his cool facade intact. He could have melted right then and there, happiness blooming in his chest, seeping through his bones. It’s the simple things. It’s always the simple things.
And now, this: a late night walk in the moonlight, the two of them wide awake as the rest of the town sleeps around them.
“She was in a dreadful situation, really, that woman,” Aziraphale is saying, his voice low but clear in the quiet night. He’s talking about the play; the main character, Laelia, had fallen deeply in love with her husband’s brother while her husband was away in a war, his chances of returning home slim, practically nonexistent. It had, of course, ended in death. “She didn’t know if she would see her husband again. She knew what she felt was wrong, but she simply couldn’t stop herself from loving Cassius.”
“Love.” Crowley makes a face. “I don’t see the point in pursuing it. They say love is what makes life worth living, but it also makes people miserable. They write tragedies about it, angel. Doesn’t make any sense at all, if you ask me.”
“But you do, of course, know forbidden love better than anyone,” Aziraphale says. “It’s an excellent way to tempt people, if I’m not mistaken.”
Crowley keeps his eyes on the street ahead of them. Yes, he knows all about forbidden love. He knows it like the back of his hand. It’s a language he has always spoken. It’s a secret he has always carried in his heart. Forbidden love is not an abstract concept to him; it’s a terrifying reality, something he has to live with every single day.
“Sure,” he says, careful to keep his voice light, conversational. “You do, too. It’s love, after all. Your area of expertise.”
“Well.” Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, hesitant. “In a general sense, yes. But we’re really only responsible for the feeling itself. We don’t necessarily have a say in what people choose to do with it.”
He glances around before leaning closer and lowering his voice.
“I do understand her, to be quite honest.” There’s an odd urgency in Aziraphale’s hushed voice; Crowley’s face heats up in response, his heart stumbling in his chest. “The conflict between the heart and the mind. It’s—I sympathise, that’s all. I—”
Something cool and wet lands on Crowley’s head. Another raindrop splashes on the ground somewhere near him. A moment later, the sky splits open above them, the rain coming down in sheets, its roar almost deafening in the silence of the night.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, a slight edge of annoyance in his voice. He puts his hand on Crowley’s elbow and pulls him along, looking around frantically. It’s no use; they’re soaked from head to toe within seconds, water dripping from the ends of their hair and running down their faces, plastering their clothes to their bodies.
Crowley lets out a string of curses under his breath. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s getting wet like this, without having a say in the matter.
“Here.” Aziraphale drags him into a narrow alleyway, the surrounding houses just close enough to shelter them from the rain. Crowley leans back against the wall of the nearest house, out of breath, his heart still pounding against his ribs.
“Isn’t that terrific,” he says, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “My hair was just starting to dry.”
“Hush,” Aziraphale says. “People are sleeping. You’ll wake everyone.”
Crowley pauses. Aziraphale’s hand is still on his elbow. He’s always doing that, patting Crowley on the arm, nudging his side, squeezing his knee. Crowley is never more aware of his own body than when Aziraphale is touching him, the harsh outline of himself a physical barrier, a natural frontier between two separate worlds. Crowley wants to cross that line; he wants to lean into Aziraphale’s touch, melt into him, blend into him—
Aziraphale pulls his hand away. Crowley shifts his shoulders, makes a conscious effort to relax. It’s a futile attempt. There is a growing restlessness in him, a jittery sense of urgency, vague and sharp all at once. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to take a leap. But there is only darkness around him, an ocean of nothingness. It makes him even more tense than he already is.
“Oh, this is terribly unfortunate,” Aziraphale laments, glancing down at himself. “I am completely drenched.”
“You’re an angel,” Crowley hisses. “Just miracle yourself dry.”
Aziraphale tuts. “I wouldn’t dream of it, dear boy. This tunic was quite expensive, I’ll have to let you know, and you know exactly how I feel about—”
Crowley makes the mistake of looking down at Aziraphale’s body. He’s dressed in all white, of course; the fabric of his tunic clings to his skin, highlighting every dip and curve, leaving little to the imagination. Crowley turns his head away a little too quickly, cheeks burning like fire. Sometimes, being able to see in the dark is a blessing. Tonight, it is a curse.
“Fine,” he says. Yes, this is good—a meaningless conversation, a bit of bickering, the same old song and dance. “But don’t complain about something you’re not willing to change.”
Crowley glances down at his own tunic, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The tunic dries within seconds. His feet are no longer wet. A snap of his fingers, and his hair stops dripping too, the thick strands soft to the touch. This is better. Still, it doesn’t make him feel any less uneasy about this situation.
For a moment, they just stand there in silence, listening to the rain. They’re pressed close together, their shoulders and arms touching, their knuckles brushing against each other in the space between their bodies. It’s only because they’re trying to stay out of the rain, Crowley tries to tell himself. Don’t read into it. It doesn’t mean anything. But his mind is tumbling backwards, replaying Aziraphale’s words over and over again, and he can’t let go, he can’t let go—
“What was it you were saying about understanding forbidden love?” he asks Aziraphale, voice small and pathetic, barely audible over the roar of the rain.
Crowley doesn’t know what possesses him to say it. He knows he shouldn’t go there. He knows he shouldn’t play with fire, knows he should pull his hand away before getting burned. But the world is pitch-black around him, and Aziraphale is so close. It’s well past midnight, and Crowley is weaker than he’d ever like to admit, the parasite eating him from the inside out, sucking away his self-control.
“Oh?” Aziraphale’s eyes flick to him, then away again. “Yes, I—”
“I understand forbidden love.” Crowley tries to swallow; his throat is dry like a desert. “You understand forbidden love. We both—”
Aziraphale’s voice is so quiet that Crowley almost misses the words. “No one will ever be able to understand it the way we do.”
Crowley is completely still. He does not breathe. He does not blink. His heart is, as always, a traitor, pounding hard in his chest, so loud that he’s sure Aziraphale can hear it too.
“No one,” he agrees, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aziraphale shifts closer to him, their bodies pressing together, slotting into place without any effort at all. He puts his hand on Crowley’s shoulder; Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s hips, his long fingers tangling in the wet fabric of his tunic. Crowley feels like he’s about to burst out of his own skin. His brain has stopped working, every cell in his body alive with sensation. Even time seems to be holding its breath, waiting and waiting.
Aziraphale’s eyes are downcast, half-lidded. His breath brushes against Crowley’s lips. And then—
—and then he cups Crowley’s cheek with his hand and kisses him, mouth warm and solid and firm against Crowley’s, as real as the wall against his back.
There is no more tension in Crowley’s body. He is liquid warmth, boneless with some unnamed emotion, something deep and profound and powerful. He is only vaguely aware of his limbs, the placement of his hands on Aziraphale’s body. Yes, he has a rain-soaked angel in his arms, the wetness seeping into his own tunic, sticking their chests together. And Crowley is kissing him back, his head tilted, eyes closed, lips parted—
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, sighing this against Crowley’s mouth, and—and Crowley’s life begins and ends with that oh, that soft exhale of breath, the trembling emotion behind it. He drinks that sigh from Aziraphale’s lips, wanting to carry it with him forever. It’ll be a treasured keepsake, a rare butterfly in a collector’s box. He will touch it with reverent hands and remember, always remember.
It’s over way too soon. Their lips separate, and Crowley is transported back to reality. It feels like a slap in the face.
“We can’t.” Crowley turns his head away, embarrassed by the crack in his voice. His chest aches and burns. Two short words, and he has broken his own heart, damaged it beyond repair.
“No,” Aziraphale says, oddly distant, his breathing still laboured. He lets go of Crowley. Closes his eyes for a moment, as if to collect himself, and opens them again. “We—we shouldn’t.”
It’s the right thing to say. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Crowley is a demon on a mission, and Aziraphale is The Enemy. They’re already toeing the line of what is and isn’t acceptable, dining and spending time together. Anything beyond that is unthinkable. Crowley knows this. He is like that woman in the play, not allowed to get what he wants. But he is not a mortal, and his life will not end in death; it’ll be worse, much worse, this prison of longing, a life sentence with no way out.
Aziraphale swallows. Crowley’s ears are buzzing. It may or may not have stopped raining. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“We should forget about it,” Aziraphale says. “Go back to how things were before—before. Can you do that?”
Crowley stares into nothingness, still avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. He doesn’t know how many more blows his heart can take.
“I—yeah,” he says, a filthy liar, knowing that he will never be able to look at Aziraphale again without thinking about this: the bloom of his kiss-swollen mouth, the flicker of something in his eyes, the smell of rain on his skin. “Can you?”
“Yes.” It comes out quickly, like Aziraphale had been expecting that question. Aziraphale clears his throat, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Best not to dwell on it. We have enough on our plate as it is. I—”
“Right.” Suddenly, Crowley can’t stand it. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He needs to get away from this place, leave everything behind. He pushes himself off the wall and steps around Aziraphale, careful not to touch him.
“Let’s go,” he says. “It’s not raining anymore. Let’s just—let’s just go.”
Aziraphale follows him without saying a word. Crowley walks without stopping, without even glancing in Aziraphale’s direction. The town is darker and quieter than ever, the flagstoned streets and alleys slippery with rain. It’s still warm out, the air humid and heavy. Crowley feels like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. He can’t believe they left the public bath less than an hour ago, before – before. There’s always a before and an after, and this is the after. Nothing will ever change that.
Yes, there is no way he will ever be able to go back to how things were before. But there are no options. Crowley has to. It is the tragedy of his life.
–
The morning is hot and sunny, almost like a fever dream. Crowley’s room is filled with light, the brightness burning his eyes. He crawls out of bed with a groan, pulls on a fresh tunic. Outside, the sky is a stretch of vibrant blues and hazy whites. Was last night a figment of his imagination? It’s impossible to even think about darkness when he’s being surrounded by so much light. But it must be out there somewhere, lurking in the shadow-filled corners of the world, waiting for its turn. That’s how it has always been, since the beginning of time.
Aziraphale is waiting for him on the street. He stands near the entrance of the building, smiling benevolently at a group of children running down the street. It’s all very angelic. Crowley makes his way closer, feeling more like a snake than the man-shaped creature he is supposed to be.
“Good morning,” Aziraphale says. He looks completely normal, and it feels like a betrayal, a dagger to the heart.
Crowley averts his eyes. “Morning.”
“Slept well?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, not even pausing to think. “Fancy something for breakfast?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a small bakery not far from here—they have a fantastic selection of breads both sweet and savoury, and I do love the smell every time I pass by…”
They set off towards the marketplace, dodging street vendors and groups of chattering women as they go, the crowd swallowing them whole. Crowley can’t believe it. Everything truly is just as it has always been. The sun on his face, the mundane conversation. The warmth of Aziraphale’s presence next to him, the familiar cadence of his voice. They are really doing this. Crowley knew it would happen, of course, but he had hoped. He had hoped like a fool, and it had been a mistake, a set-up for disappointment.
“Careful,” Aziraphale says, pulling him out of the way of an approaching carriage. Crowley can’t help it; his eyes land on Aziraphale’s lips, and his heart jerks violently in his chest. It’s way too much way too soon, but what can he do? Crowley can’t tear his gaze away from Aziraphale’s mouth, can’t even close his eyes. For a moment, that mouth had been his. For a moment, Crowley had had everything he wanted, the impossible dream within reach, so close—
—and now there is just emptiness. If Crowley concentrates hard enough, he can still feel the warm press of Aziraphale’s mouth against his own. But it’s only a memory, and a memory is no better than a dream, especially if it can’t be recreated. No, this is worse, much worse, because every moment is taking him farther away from Aziraphale’s kiss, and there is no way to turn back time.
Crowley suppresses a sigh. It’s been less than a day since—since, and he is already a wreck, the absence of Aziraphale’s mouth like a flesh wound, raw and painful. But it has to get easier at some point, hasn’t it? That’s what happens to humans: they forget, they move on. But Crowley is not human. He can’t forget, and therefore, he can’t move on. He’s a prisoner of his broken heart, and there is no freedom in sight.
–
A week later, they part ways, Aziraphale heading to Tarraco for a set of miracles while Crowley makes his way to the remote island of Phiniki for a routine temptation. It’s a true blessing. Crowley is exhausted; he hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s tired of this, tired of Aziraphale’s constant presence, tired of tiptoeing around the shattered remains of his own heart. He needs space. He needs time. He needs to be alone for a while, away from everyone and everything.
Out of sight, out of mind. Isn’t that what they always say? Crowley likes to think there is some truth to the phrase. And for a while, it works. There are so many things to see and so many things to do that he simply doesn’t have time to dwell on the past. It feels like a weight lifting off his shoulders. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he can move on. Maybe he can take this mindset with him and—not suffer. It’s the only thing he wants, all he ever asks for.
There is only one small hiccup in this plan: a day is always followed by a night. Sooner or later, the darkness will settle in, heavy and silent and ominous. Crowley chooses to ignore it. Once an optimist, always an optimist.
–
Four and a half months later, they reunite in Rome. Crowley takes one look at Aziraphale’s face, and it all comes back to him like a vicious kick to the stomach.
He aches and suffers.
–
Ravenna, Ancient Rome, 400 years later
“I think I should go,” Crowley says as the last light drains from the autumn sky, leaving them with nothing but a vast expanse of pitch-black emptiness.
Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow at him. “So soon? Are you done with whatever it is you came here for?”
Crowley turns his head away from the window and lets his gaze sweep over the large, high-ceilinged room. Yes, it’s dark outside, but the light here is soft and warm. They’re standing in front of a table filled with food, the plates loaded with cheese and bread and fruit, the goblets brimming with liquor. There are people all around them, members of the Roman elite; they’re mingling in small groups of threes and fours, their heads close together, tongues loosened by wine and camaraderie. As much as Crowley hates to admit it, he’s safer in here, at this godforsaken dinner party, than he’d be out there, all alone with his thoughts. He doesn’t dread the dark like he used to, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. It never hurts to be too careful.
“More or less,” he says, not wanting to go into detail. He has spent the better part of the evening trying to tempt various high-ranking military officials, a task that has proven much easier than he had anticipated. In fact, Crowley hasn’t done anything at all, aside from listening to the conversations going on around him. He is, to put it mildly, horrified. These people are proud of the atrocities they have committed against other humans. They don’t need to be tempted; they are rotten to the core, a fact that has nothing to do with Crowley or his lot. No, it’s all their own doing, which makes it all the more terrifying.
“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Well, I was planning on staying a little longer.” Then, more quietly, “Please don’t leave me alone.”
Crowley has to stop himself from making a face. He doesn’t want to think about what goes on behind the closed doors at the other end of the room. Something unsavoury, something he doesn’t want to get involved in.
He heaves a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not getting out of bed tomorrow.”
Aziraphale reaches out a hand, as if to touch him, but decides against it, turning towards the table instead.
“Fancy something to eat? You look like you could use a bite or two.”
“I’m not hungry,” Crowley snaps.
Aziraphale huffs out a breath. “I understand you don’t like this party, but I don’t think starving yourself is the right way to go about it.”
He picks up a goblet of wine, the liquid dark red and inviting.
“Did you—”
“No,” Crowley says. “Don’t feel like drinking.”
Aziraphale brings the goblet to his lips and takes a gulp. Crowley doesn’t even have to ask if he likes it; the brilliant smile that appears on Aziraphale’s face tells him more than words ever could.
“Oh, you have to try this wine, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He takes another long sip from his drink, his eyes falling shut as he savours the taste. Crowley stares at him like a fool, taking in everything: the bob of his Adam’s apple, the flutter of his eyelashes, the satisfied quirk of his mouth. When Aziraphale lowers the goblet, his lips are stained a deep red, the colour stark against his skin, almost obscene.
Crowley’s throat feels tight. He tries to turn away, but he can’t, not when Aziraphale is right there, soft-eyed and wine-mouthed, a truly precious sight. Once again, he finds himself on the slippery slope of longing, and there is no way to stop the momentum. His heart is a force to be reckoned with; it has a gravity of its own. All he can do is brace for the inevitable impact.
A spark of frustration flares up inside Crowley. He’s been so good these last few centuries, keeping himself busy with all sorts of things, keeping himself distracted. He can look at Aziraphale’s face and not think about it. Sure, the thought is always there in the back of his mind, but he has learned not to engage with it. And now—
And now, none of it matters. Crowley takes one look at Aziraphale’s blood-red lips, and a jolt of something shoots through his body, powerful enough to make his knees weak. He wants to drink the wine from Aziraphale’s lips. He wants to lick his way into Aziraphale’s mouth, gulp down every sigh and moan and whimper. He wants it all, the warmth and the closeness and the rush of emotion, overwhelming and all-consuming and endlessly exhilarating—
“Look,” Crowley says, hissing this under his breath. “Are you saying you’re not done with whatever it is you came here for? Or is it about the food? I can buy you food, I can even cook—”
“There’s no need for it, dear boy.” Aziraphale lets out an exasperated sigh and empties the goblet in a single gulp. “I’m all done, I’m all done.”
“Good.” Crowley’s already making his way towards the door. He can’t get out of this place fast enough.
Outside, the night awaits him like an unwanted guest.
–
Bavarian Forest, Francia, 800 years later
Crowley had not meant to get hurt.
It’s what happens sometimes, in his line of work. You have to deal with terrible people, the worst of the worst. It’s all about forging connections, he was told once. Spend time with them, Crowley, and find out who they associate themselves with. Bad behaviour breeds more bad behaviour. Learn to use it to your advantage. Crowley had to admit it was a surprisingly good idea from his lot, although he wasn’t looking forward to putting it into practice.
He’d found himself in the lair of an infamous military commander. Dangerous man, notorious for all the crimes and murders he has committed. He had a twisted smile on his face and a savage gleam in his eye. And the way he talked, the things he said—
It made Crowley wish he had never fallen in the first place.
There were women and children there too, wide-eyed and pale-faced. Prisoners of war, their ankles and wrists chained, heads lowered in defeat. The only reason Crowley ignored them was because he didn’t want to draw attention to them. He chose his words carefully, nodded in all the right places, smiled like a snake. It went well, until it didn’t.
One wrong move, a single badly worded question, and the commander’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. Seething with rage, he rose from his chair, grabbed Crowley by the hair, and shoved him face-first against a wooden pillar. He rubbed Crowley’s face against it, rough and ruthless, and Crowley felt splinters piercing his skin and tasted blood in his mouth. The women screamed, the children wailed. Be quiet, he wanted to tell them. Keep your mouths shut, or he will come for you next.
Crowley got out of it by arranging a commotion. There was a loud crack, and the commander’s head whipped around, his grip loosening just enough for Crowley to jerk his head back. Seconds later, one of the pillars collapsed, bringing part of the roof down with it. There was dirt and dust and debris everywhere, yells and screams and cries, people crawling and limping and running in all directions. Crowley was able to escape in the chaos, and so were the prisoners. He rushed to a nearby village, wondering how he’d explain this to his lot. He would have to come up with something later. But first, he needed help.
That’s how Aziraphale found him: battered and bruised, his face covered with blood.
“Good heavens!” the elderly woman he was with said, eyes wide with horror. “What have they done to you? Follow me, good sir, and I’ll tend to your wounds—”
Aziraphale laid a calming hand on her arm. “Leave it to me, dear lady. You have enough on your plate as it is. Those poor children need your help.”
And that’s how they ended up in the dining room of a nearby inn, Crowley seated on a stool, Aziraphale hovering over him with a damp washcloth.
Crowley tries to sit still. Aziraphale has cupped the side of his neck with one hand. He brings the washcloth closer to Crowley’s face, wipes crusted blood from his cheek. Crowley turns away with a wince, and Aziraphale tuts at him, standing up to his full length.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m trying not to,” Crowley says, hissing this through clenched teeth. He blinks away the tears in his eyes, sucks in a lungful of stale air. There’s a whirlwind of activity around them: volunteers cleaning and stitching wounds, children climbing on chairs, women speaking to each other in urgent whispers. No one seems bothered by Crowley’s presence. Perhaps he is seen as yet another victim, someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; perhaps they don’t even notice he’s there. Either way, he’s more than happy to be ignored.
Aziraphale leans over him, lowers his voice.
“I know it hurts,” he says.
“Like hell,” Crowley says, growling. He feels like a petulant child.
Aziraphale heaves a sigh. “Let’s get this done with, shall we?”
It’s all just for show, of course. As soon as they get out of here, Crowley will snap his fingers, and his injuries will disappear. The pain, however, is real. Crowley’s face is sore; every movement, every word hurts. He can’t wait to leave this place. A few more miracles and temptations, and this will all be over.
Frowning, Crowley turns his head back towards Aziraphale. He squeezes his eyes shut, holds his breath. A moment later, something cool and soft brushes against his jaw. It stings and burns like poison. Crowley bites his tongue and says nothing.
“Good,” Aziraphale says in a low voice, dabbing his face with the washcloth. “You’re doing well, my dear.”
It’s a comfort, having Aziraphale there with him. His voice is a balm for Crowley’s soul. The sight of his face calms him. Crowley cracks open an eye and takes it all in. There are a lot of things he’d like to say, the words heavy on his tongue, ready to tumble out. Crowley swallows them down and says nothing at all.
Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s chin with his hand, the touch soft, feather-light. He turns his head from side to side, examining him closely.
“You have a rather nasty cut on your lip,” Aziraphale says.
“I know. I can feel it.”
“Let me take care of it.”
Aziraphale picks up a clean cloth. Crowley closes his eyes again, grits his teeth together. A hand cups his face, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth. Then, a touch of linen against his lip, gentle but insisting. Crowley’s lips part on their own accord. There’s a flicker in the back of his mind, a memory sparking to life and disappearing in a fraction of a second. Slow down, he wants to say. I can’t keep up.
There is something oddly intimate about the way Aziraphale holds his face. When was the last time he touched him like this? Something cold and heavy sinks to the pit of Crowley’s stomach. He wants to dismiss the idea with a furious shake of his head. It’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all. This is the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb, a damp washcloth. They’re surrounded by people and chaos and noise. He’s hundreds of years, hundreds of miles away from Aziraphale’s mouth. And yet, and yet, and yet—
Maybe this is the closest he will ever come to recreating that moment. Crowley tries to convince himself it’s enough. It has to be.
It is not enough.
–
London, the Kingdom of England, 1300 years later
In the late fourteenth century, Crowley decides to take a nap. He gets undressed, crawls under the covers of his bed, and rolls over to his side. He’s planning to sleep for a while. It’ll be a nice break from everything that’s been going on. There’s too much misery in the world these days, too much human suffering. Crowley finds himself wishing he could do something about it. But he can’t, not as much as he’d like. All he can do is run away.
Crowley sleeps the sleep of the dead.
When he wakes up, the fireplace is lit, bathing the room in a faint glow. A tall figure stands by the window, facing away from him. Crowley shifts in his bed, unsure of what to do. The figure turns around, and Crowley catches the sight of a familiar face, a halo of pale curls. Relieved, he sinks back into the mattress, the tension leaving his body as quickly as it had come.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “You’re awake.”
“Barely.” Crowley coughs. His voice is like gravel in his throat, rough and thick and painful. “What year is it?”
“1395.”
“Which means I’ve been asleep for—”
“Twenty-eight years.”
Crowley rubs his eyes with his fingers. He could have used a few more decades of sleep. A century, even.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Someone has to clean up the place. You don’t know how much dust—”
“It’s not a problem. I can miracle it away. Only takes a second or two.”
“Well.” Aziraphale huffs out a breath. He seems at a loss for words. “ I—I didn’t have anything else to do.”
It’s not until then that it dawns on Crowley that Aziraphale is probably lonely. He has a wide circle of acquaintances, but he doesn’t have any friends, and neither has Crowley. It’s the number one rule of being an immortal being: do not make friends with humans. They only have each other to turn to, to depend on. How many times has Aziraphale had to dine alone? How many hours has he spent here, waiting for Crowley to wake up? A prickle of guilt creeps up Crowley’s spine. He wants to apologise, even though he knows he has done nothing wrong.
“You could have just woken me up,” he says instead, voice softer now. “If you wanted to, I don’t know, talk.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale runs his tongue over his lower lip. “I tried, once. You didn’t even stir.”
“What did you do? Shook my shoulder? Whispered something in my ear?”
“Well—”
“You need to do a little more than that to wake me up, angel,” Crowley drawls. “Couldn’t think of anything else that might work?”
Aziraphale looks away from him, a hint of colour rising to his cheeks.
“Er, no. Nothing at all.”
“Well, I’m awake now.” Crowley sits up, blinking. “What time is it? Fancy something for, er, lunch? Dinner?”
Aziraphale’s shoulders drop, just a bit. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Dinner sounds lovely.”
Something blooms in Crowley’s chest, like a flower reaching for the sun. He withholds a sigh. Nearly three decades of sleep, and the heart still remembers. Of course it does.
–
London, Great Britain, 1700 years later
Crowley pushes the door open with his elbow and steps into the bookshop. He is balancing a dangerously tall stack of books in his arms. It’s impossible to see where he’s going; he really needs to watch his step, make sure he doesn’t trip over any of the boxes lying on the floor. No, he’s not worried about himself. He’s worried about the books, Aziraphale’s treasured companions. If something happened to them, Aziraphale would never let him hear the end of it.
The room is dark, despite the late afternoon sunshine streaming in through the front windows. Dark mahogany shelves line the walls, many of them already filled with books. A tall wooden counter stands in the back corner of the shop, hidden in the shadows. A week or two, and the bookshop will be open for business, welcoming customers from all over the city. Crowley looks forward to it; he can’t imagine Aziraphale as a reputable bookseller. No, these are his precious books, and he’ll fight tooth and nail to keep them in his possession, even if it means he has to chase people out of his shop.
Crowley glances around desperately, trying to ignore the burning ache in his arms. Every surface is stacked with books. Huffing with exertion, he walks to the back room, which is, if possible, even more cluttered, crammed full of furniture and boxes and books. Aziraphale is making tea in the kitchenette, facing away from Crowley. Crowley makes his way straight to the desk, turns his back to Aziraphale, and sets the books down with a loud thump.
“Don’t tell me you have even more books hidden away in your old flat,” he says, panting.
“Ah,” Aziraphale says behind him. “About that. I think the Encyclopaedia Britannicas are still in the attic, all three editions.”
Crowley scatters the books across the desk, gritting his teeth together. “You can’t be serious. I’ve been doing this for days—”
“You agreed to help.”
“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into,” Crowley mutters. “I mean, we could make it easy, angel. A miracle or two, and—”
“Someone might see us.”
“Oh, come now. When have I ever been anything but careful?”
“Humans are more perceptive than you think.”
“I know exactly how perceptive they can be.”
“It wouldn’t be good for business if—”
“Oh, yeah, like you even care—”
They turn around at the exact same time, and suddenly, they’re face to face with each other, trapped in the space between the desk and the kitchenette counter. The tea sloshes against the sides of Aziraphale’s cup, almost spilling out and staining Crowley’s waistcoat. Crowley doesn’t care. They hold their breaths, their eyes glued to each other’s faces. Crowley’s gaze drifts down to Aziraphale’s mouth, and his heart stumbles in his chest. The old-book scent of Aziraphale’s clothing tickles his nose. The closeness of Aziraphale’s lips makes his head spin. Their faces are only inches apart. It would be so, so easy to just—
“Er.” Aziraphale’s eyes flutter down to Crowley’s lips, then to the floor. He takes a step to the side, moving away from him. “Let me—”
“No, no.” Crowley’s face is unbearably hot; he must be beet-red, a tell-tale sign of his embarrassment, and something worse, something much, much worse. Here he is, an open book, his secrets spelled out in capital letters. “I was just about to leave. More books, eh? ‘S all right, no problem, I’ll be just a minute—”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley doesn’t listen. He spins around on his heels and walks out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster, not looking back. His cheeks are still burning; he wouldn’t be surprised if there was sweat on his brow. Why is he still not over it? It has been seventeen hundred years. It has been seventeen hundred goddamned years, and Crowley is still moping around like a teenager, torturing himself over something he can never have. It makes him want to pull his hair out in frustration.
He makes his way out of the shop, grateful for the fresh air on his face. The sunlight is harsh on his eyes, unyielding. It reminds him of Aziraphale. Aziraphale is hard around the edges. He has thick skin. He’s unflappable, a master of cool nonchalance. Aziraphale doesn’t think about things that happened seventeen hundred years ago. He has tucked the memory away in the farthest corner of his mind and left it there to rot. But—
—but then Crowley remembers the way Aziraphale’s gaze flickered down to his mouth, the way something shifted in his eyes. It awakened something in him. Maybe Aziraphale does think about it. Maybe he remembers. Crowley wants it to be true. He wants it desperately. It makes no sense, but Crowley can’t be rational about this. He can’t silence his heart, can’t detach it from the rest of his body. It’s his fatal flaw.
–
London, the United Kingdom, 1900 years later
Aziraphale joins the applause as the man in front of them bows his head and leaves the stage, disappearing into the crowd.
“How lovely,” he says. “The wording was really quite remarkable. I especially liked the metaphors. He had a lot of good ideas, didn’t he?”
“Right.” Crowley blinks, runs a hand through his hair. He zoned out halfway through the performance, bored by the monotony of the guy’s voice.
Aziraphale lets out a small hmph, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. Crowley looks away, distracted by the murmur of voices around them. At the table next to them, a man and a woman are sharing a cigarette, their heads pressed close together. A cloud of smoke wafts past Crowley, curling around him like a vaguely menacing ghost. He wrinkles his nose and turns back to the empty stage, trying to shake the drowsiness from his mind.
They’re at a – Crowley is not even sure what this is. A spoken word event? An open mic night? It had been Aziraphale’s idea, of course; he’s been keeping them busy with all sorts of activities lately, the horrors of the war still fresh on their minds. The nice young chap at the bakery down the street invited us to an event, he had said. We should go. Crowley had agreed, not because he wanted to go, but because Aziraphale had asked him. How could he say no to him? What Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale gets. That’s how it has always been and will always be.
Crowley spreads his legs, tries to make himself more comfortable. He feels terribly out of place here, in this dimly lit pub not far from Aziraphale’s bookshop. The audience consists mostly of students, artists, and actors, people with an intriguing sense of style and an appreciation for performance art. The atmosphere is intimate and supportive. People are really opening up on stage, speaking from the heart, sharing secrets that would not be met with the same kindness in other parts of the city. It’s beautiful, in a way. Crowley might not fully understand it, but he does appreciate it, the camaraderie between these strangers, the respect they have for each other.
A young woman makes her way up to the stage. She has short black hair and a number of piercings in both ears. She’s wearing a black vest over a white collared shirt and straight black trousers. The crowd goes quiet again, all eyes fixed on her.
“This is for someone I met a few years ago,” she says into the microphone, voice soft and low and melodious. “She took me down the stairs, and, well. I was introduced to a world I had no idea existed. She kissed me, and I haven’t been the same since.”
There’s a strange prickling on the back of Crowley’s neck. He sits up a little straighter, his eyes not leaving her face.
The woman is quiet for a moment, swaying slightly on her feet, her eyes downcast. She’s lost in a memory, Crowley realises, reliving whatever happened that day. Then, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts speaking.
“Your mouth is a conceiver of life and a bringer of death,” she says, the words quiet but clear, flowing out of her like a stream of consciousness. “I was born out of ephemeral tenderness / and laid to rest in the emptiness of my existence / all in the span of a single night.”
Crowley has stopped breathing. The prickling crawls down his spine, down the backs of his thighs. He doesn’t care. He stares at the woman on the stage, transfixed, waiting and dreading, waiting and dreading.
She goes on, lost in her own world, oblivious to his distress. “And in the nothingness, I claw into my chest / feeling my way around the memory of your mouth / welcoming the ghost of your kiss and the ramshackled remains of my heart, too.”
Crowley swallows, his eyes falling shut. He tries not to think about the brush of lips against his own. He tries not to think about the hand on his face. He tries not to think about the oh. But you can’t tell the mind not to remember. It all comes back to him within seconds, the euphoria and the pain and the longing, always the longing—
“For this gentle carnage is better than nothing / I tell myself / in the sharp-edged tongue of a self-sabotaging liar.”
It seems to go on forever. Every word is a stab to the chest, and Crowley can’t do anything to stop the violence. He’s frozen in his seat, acutely aware of every single thing that comes out of her mouth, his mind conjuring up memories of midsummer heat and pouring rain and ever-present darkness. This woman can’t be a day over twenty-five, but she knows. She knows what Crowley knows, and Crowley’s heart is heavier than it has been in decades, coated in pain and loss and sorrow.
“And perhaps you have nurtured your mouth into full bloom elsewhere, in a garden of space and time,” the girl says, eyes half-lidded, lips almost touching the microphone. “But please know that every night I lie in my bed / withered and forgotten / destroyed by the absence of your mouth / and tethered back to life by the pain and the echo of your kiss.”
She falls silent, lowering her head and murmuring a quiet thank you into the microphone. There’s a burst of applause, the sound jarring in its sudden intensity. Crowley is too stunned to move. The room feels uncomfortably small, the walls closing in on him. The air is stuffy and too warm. How did he not notice it before? Now it’s all he can think about.
Beside him, Aziraphale sits statue-still in his chair, his hands carefully folded in his lap. He seems to be staring off into the distance, distracted by something. Crowley glances at him out of the corner of his eye, studying his profile. He can’t stand it. He can’t stand Aziraphale’s face, can’t stand the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, the shadows on his cheeks, the way he parts his lips—
“Oh!” Aziraphale says suddenly, as if waking from a trance. He raises his hands and claps once, twice, the action robotic, stiff. “That was – that was lovely. Very eloquent. They’re good with their words, these young ones, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, voice tight, a pathetic little thing. “They are.”
Everything is happening too fast. There are conversations going on all around Crowley, glasses clinking against tables, chairs scraping against the floor. He can see Aziraphale blessing the woman as she makes her way back to her friends, his eyes lingering on her a little longer than necessary. A nervous-looking man is already climbing the steps to the stage, a sheen of sweat visible on his brow. A surge of panic rushes through Crowley. He springs up from his seat, swaying a little as he turns to look at Aziraphale.
“I’m going to buy sssomething to drink,” he says. “You want anything?”
“What?” Aziraphale doesn’t so much as glance at him. “No, no, thank you dear, I’m good.”
Crowley makes his way to the counter. Somewhere near him, the front door opens and closes, a breath of cool air drifting in. For a moment, he thinks about just walking out, but he’s not that much of a coward. Sighing, he turns to the bartender in front of him and opens his mouth.
“Give me your strongest drink.”
The bartender shoots him a look. “I need you to be a little more specific than that.”
Crowley stares back at him, eyes unblinking behind his glasses. Then, he shoves his hand into his pocket. Produces a twenty-pound note, slides it across the counter.
“Surprise me.”
The bartender picks up the note and turns away, reaching for an empty glass, pulling out a bottle of alcohol. A moment later, he sets the drink down in front of him, lips pursed in obvious disapproval.
“Thanks.”
Crowley takes a long sip of his drink. Yes, this is exactly what he had in mind. The liquor burns its way down his throat, grounding and numbing all at once. Forget about it. Pretend nothing happened. Try not to feel anything. How many times does he have to repeat it? A thousand? A million? And yet, the outcome is always the same.
Crowley heaves a sigh, heads back to the table. The show must go on. The show must go on, except that he’s sick and tired of this performance, this meaningless pantomime. But how he feels about it doesn’t matter. It never, ever does.
–
It has been almost two thousand years since—since. He thinks about it every time Freddie Mercury sings about red lips and breaths taken away. He thinks about it every time Sam and Diane kiss on TV. He thinks about it every time Aziraphale dabs his mouth with a napkin after a meal. He thinks about it in the silence of the night, curled up under the covers of his bed, unable to sleep.
Whoever said time heals all wounds is a liar. Time only makes it worse. Time is an infection in the wound and there is no cure for it.
–
Tadfield, the United Kingdom, 2000 years later
When the world almost ends, Crowley doesn’t think about all the things he never got to do. He thinks about all the things he only did once, things he would have liked to do again. He thinks about missed opportunities and unspoken words. Soon, he will leave this world and take his regret with him. That’s how it was always supposed to go.
The world doesn’t end.
–
They don’t talk for the first half of the drive back to London. Crowley is too tired and too restless to think, let alone carry a conversation. It’s a bizarre combination, this bone-deep exhaustion coupled with a vague feeling of anxious discontent. If he wasn’t gripping the steering wheel as hard as he is, his hands would probably be shaking.
The night is a pitch-black void here, in the middle of nowhere: no light pollution, no stars, just a thick blanket of clouds hanging low in the sky. Dawn is still a couple of hours away, so close and yet so far.
“Well,” Aziraphale says eventually, breaking the silence. “That was—something.”
Crowley only hums in response.
“For a moment, I really thought it was over,” Aziraphale says. “Now I understand what humans mean when they say they see their life flash before their eyes before they, er, die.”
“That happen to you?” Crowley’s voice is a little hoarse, a little rough.
“Well—yes.”
“And what did you see?”
“All sorts of things.” Aziraphale clears his throat, his eyes never leaving the road in front of them. “Many happy moments, and, er, some regrets. And—”
“Regrets,” Crowley says, spitting the word out as if it were bitter on his tongue. “Right.”
Aziraphale’s reply is soft and gentle, barely audible over the hum of the engine. “I think we all have regrets.”
Crowley slides a little lower in the driver’s seat. Why is he still so goddamn miserable? He has narrowly escaped the End of the World. He should be delirious with relief, singing songs of praise to anyone who will listen. Sure, he is pleased to still be here, but he’s also tense and distressed and heartbroken. The world almost ended, and yet nothing has changed. It’s post-Armageddon, and he’s still avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes, still hiding his feelings from him. This is not a life. This is his personal Hell, and he hates every moment of it.
He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, I know that. I have a few regrets myself. And I—I—”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.
“What?” Crowley tries to laugh again; it sounds more like a wet sob. He’s getting himself worked up, he knows, but it feels good, cathartic, to let it all out, everything he’s been bottling up for so long. “Look, I have a lot of regrets, angel. Not that you’d know anything about them. No, really, you don’t have the faintest–”
Crowley’s words die in his throat when Aziraphale puts his hand on his knee.
“Crowley,” he says, again. “Stop this car.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“Stop the car, please.”
Begrudgingly, Crowley pulls over on the hard shoulder and kills the engine. Silence. Neither of them dares to move. Crowley can feel the heat of Aziraphale’s palm through the fabric of his trousers. His heart is a violent thing in his chest, pounding against his ribs, trying to force its way out of him.
Aziraphale pulls away his hand. Crowley shifts his leg, lets out a shallow breath.
“It’s quite terrifying,” Aziraphale says, speaking slowly and deliberately, “to spend a long time convincing yourself you’re doing the right thing, only to realise it wasn’t the right thing to do at all.”
Crowley glances at him. “What’s this about? You questioning your beliefs, everything your people told you?”
Aziraphale closes his eyes as if the thought pains him. “That’s a completely different thing.”
Crowley drops his gaze to his lap. “Oh.”
Neither of them says anything for a while. Aziraphale sits completely still in his seat, his head tipped back just slightly. Crowley stares down at his hands, his mind whirring like a broken record. A truck roars past in the opposite lane, obscenely loud in the silence of the night.
Eventually, Aziraphale shifts in his seat, clears his throat.
“I learned something today.”
“What?”
Aziraphale glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “We are very much like humans, you and me.”
“Speak for yourself,” Crowley mutters.
Aziraphale ignores this. “When I—you—when one finds oneself in a life-threatening situation, one tends to operate on emotions rather than logic. The heart overrules the mind. Do you agree?”
Crowley swallows, turns his head away from Aziraphale.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice small. “I do.”
Aziraphale nods, as if he’d already known this. “That’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? Feelings. The matters of the heart.”
Crowley doesn’t dare to speak. He doesn’t dare to breathe. His cool facade is long gone; he must have left it in the burning bookshop. He feels terribly naked without it, defenseless and vulnerable, his soul exposed for Aziraphale to see.
Aziraphale closes his eyes again, sucks in a deep breath.
“I spend a lot of time living in the past,” he says.
Crowley barks out a hollow laugh. “Do you think you’re the only one, angel?”
“Well, we don’t exactly talk—”
“Well, I do,” Crowley says. “Every damn day of my life. Sometimes I feel like it’s all I ever think about. That moment, that memory. That—that night.”
Aziraphale is silent for a moment, his mouth twisting unhappily. “But it’s pointless, living in the past. Doesn’t exactly contribute to one’s well-being in the present, does it?”
“No,” Crowley says. “It really doesn’t.”
Aziraphale nods. He brushes invisible lint off his trousers. Crowley breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, trying to calm his erratic heart. A car whooshes past them, a flash of light in the darkness.
Eventually, Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak. “We are here.”
“After an averted Apocalypse,” Crowley says.
“I don’t want to go back to how things were before.”
“Me neither.”
Aziraphale turns to look at him.
“That means we have to do something about it.”
Crowley feels physically sick. His mind is empty. His insides have turned to ice. He turns his head, drinks in the sight of Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale’s eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted. Crowley has memorised every inch of that mouth: the delicate curve of Aziraphale’s Cupid’s bow, the sweep of his lower lip, the pale pink of his tongue. Even here, in the near darkness, he’s mesmerised by it, the spell finally broken, the walls torn down.
This is it, the true beginning and end of the world. The leap into the unknown. Crowley’s body takes the lead; it always knows what to do, this human-shaped shell of him. He leans across the seat, puts a trembling hand on Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale turns his face into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering just slightly. Crowley closes his eyes and brushes the tips of their noses together. Two thousand years of distance, bridged in a matter of seconds. He is close, so close, close enough to feel Aziraphale’s breath against his mouth. It’s an invitation; it draws him in, closer and closer and closer—
He tilts his head and kisses Aziraphale, slow and deep and open-mouthed, and it’s a thousand times better than he remembered, this welcoming warmth, the utter softness of it all. It feels like being brought back to life. Crowley can’t help it; he moans into Aziraphale’s mouth, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions, something he can’t even begin to untangle. Aziraphale slides a hand into his hair. His tongue finds Crowley’s, silky and slick and solid. Here he is, offering himself to Crowley. After all this time, after everything they’ve been through. It’s nothing short of a miracle.
Crowley pours two thousand years of longing into the kiss and doesn’t spill a single drop.
He doesn’t know what is happening. He is only vaguely aware that Aziraphale is not kissing him anymore. Aziraphale runs his fingers across Crowley’s scalp. He brings their foreheads together, his breath harsh against Crowley’s mouth. It’s awkward like this, the two of them perched on the edges of their seats, but Crowley doesn’t care. He’ll rearrange his bones if he has to, sculpt his body into a new shape. He’ll stay like this forever if Aziraphale wants him to, their bodies always touching, mouths never far apart.
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, murmuring this against his lips. “I never thought—I never.”
“Two thousand years,” Crowley says. “Two thousand blasted years. It was torture, angel. In more ways than one.”
“Kiss me again,” Aziraphale says in that low voice of his, and Crowley does. He kisses Aziraphale because he wants to. He kisses him because he can, because there is nothing to stop him. He invites himself into the tender heat of Aziraphale’s mouth and makes it his home. Aziraphale welcomes him. He asks him to stay, and Crowley does.
There is a strange lightness in Crowley’s body. It is night, and he is kissing Aziraphale. It is night, and he’s brimming with light, a supernova in the early morning sky. The monster inside him is gone, chased away by the touch of Aziraphale’s lips. This is how it’s supposed to feel like, the after. Suddenly, there is beauty in everything, even in darkness. A few more moments like this, and Crowley might even grow fond of it.
Eventually, they pull apart, panting softly against each other’s mouths. Crowley clears his throat and adjusts the sunglasses on his nose.
“I think we should, uh—”
“Go home,” Aziraphale says. His voice is impossibly soft.
Crowley swallows and nods. “Go home.”
“Are you, er, well enough to drive?”
Crowley doesn’t think he is. He is profoundly distracted by everything that has happened today. He is acutely aware of every single inch of Aziraphale’s body. He can still feel Aziraphale’s lips against his own. How do you go back to normal after something as life-changing as this? Is any of this even real? Crowley’s thoughts are scattering; he might never find out the truth.
Aziraphale seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. He takes Crowley’s left hand and presses a kiss on the back of his palm, letting his mouth linger there. Crowley knows exactly what it means. I am here, and I’m not going anywhere. Not now and not ever.
“No,” Crowley says, almost hissing this. “I’m not well enough to drive, and you’re not exactly helping.”
Aziraphale lets go of his hand. There’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Fair enough,” he says. “We can stay here if you’d like. Take all the time you need.”
Crowley sits back in his seat, lets out a shaky exhale. He doesn’t know how to even begin to process what is happening. It’s all too good to be true, too much perfection for someone like him. There is only one way to make sure this is not a dream. Crowley turns back to Aziraphale, reaches out a hand. Touches Aziraphale’s cheek, skims his fingers along his jaw.
“One more time,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Just—one more time, and I’ll drive us home.”
Aziraphale smiles, a burst of light in the middle of the night. He cups Crowley’s face with both hands and kisses him, the touch of his lips firm and feather-light all at once. Crowley relaxes against him, weightless with relief. Yes, he’ll take Aziraphale home, and it’ll be the true beginning of their after, a prelude to the rest of their lives. But first, he’ll lose himself in this kiss and hold nothing back.
–
The greatest tragedies are written at night. So are the greatest love stories.