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It is raining in Persepolis. It’s a gentle rain, misting down over the Apadana, and Crawly thinks Aziraphale might be crying.
He can’t tell. The angel’s turned away from him, his face hidden in the shadows of the small ornamental garden they’re tucked away in: their own little slice of paradise, shielded from most of the rain by tall poplars. The gardens are Crawly’s second-favorite thing about Persepolis; his favorite being, of course, the angel across from him, who might be crying.
“The whole thing?” Crawly asks, because maybe he just heard wrong. Maybe he’s seeing wrong. Stupid snake ears, snake eyes. He can taste Aziraphale’s sorrow in the air amongst the petrichor and the jasmine.
When Aziraphale does speak, his voice is surprisingly steady, and he turns to look at Crawly with an expression so composed Crawly immediately knows it as a lie. “Yes. Heaven says the empire has grown too — vast. They did burn Athens, you know.”
“Revenge is petty,” says Crawly, deliberately not mentioning that he’s planned a few perfectly good revenges in his time, one as recently as last week.
“Heavenly retribution,” Aziraphale corrects, but he can tell the angel’s heart isn’t in it.
Crawly magnanimously resists the urge to roll his eyes. Heaven’s just as petty as hell, really. It shouldn’t be surprising.
Instead he reaches out to tap the side of Aziraphale’s silver drinking bowl, refilling his wine. He does the same to his own a second later, staring down into it. They’ve been drinking in the private garden for hours - ever since he’d found Aziraphale leaving the Apadana with his eyes far too bright - but Aziraphale has just now reached the point of drunken softness where he’s revealed to Crawly what has him so upset.
It’s stupid. It happens to every single human attempt at some sort of empire: either Heaven or Hell gets a wild bee up their ass, and catastrophe strikes. But this is the first time he’s seen Aziraphale so … open about it. Something has changed, this time. The angel is carefully - gently - secretly - mourning.
They’re in a four-square garden, seated on a bench together facing one of the carefully-kept flower beds. Behind them, water runs along the channels in the stone that feed each private garden separately. There’s a statue of a bull in one corner, rough-hewn but charming. Crawly shifts himself along the bench until he’s pressing up to Aziraphale’s side, very tentatively, barely touching — hoping the angel will take the comfort for once.
To his surprise, Aziraphale leans back into him. They touch so rarely - only in moments so profound that they forget their respective sides - and it feels like all Crawly’s bared skin is being lit. Aziraphale is warmth and sunlight - all things a snake craves - even when he’s crying. For a moment Crawly feels like crying. Everywhere he’s pressed into Aziraphale is exquisite. Rare delicacy, this.
“All of the scrolls,” Aziraphale whispers eventually. “All of those skins, the Avesta and Zend they keep there, all of that knowledge. Why does it always have to be fire?”
There are a lot of answers Crawly could give to this, but he takes pity on Aziraphale, lulled into a good mood by the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin pressed against his. “Both sides enjoy a good bonfire, angel.”
He’s shocked into stillness when Aziraphale releases a deep breath and tips his head, very slightly, until it’s resting against Crawly’s shoulder.
This is more angel touching him than he’s ever had before. He wonders whether Aziraphale can hear his stupid corporation’s heart, racing and pounding underneath his skin. It’s certainly no secret how Crawly feels about the angel, but that doesn’t mean they — talk about it. Ever.
Emboldened and curious and nervous, stupid demon heart in his throat, Crawly lifts his arm and settles it around Aziraphale’s shoulders. The angel shifts, doing something that can’t be called anything other than snuggling, and Crawly is going to die, right here on a stone bench in Persepolis, days before what will probably be the downfall of the Persian Empire.
“I’ve got you,” he says, softly. Demons aren’t soft. He really is going to die here.
“I just — need a moment.” Aziraphale’s voice is tight and Crawly thinks the angel might be crying again. He’s already offered wine, dates, flatbread; what else can he do? Crawly tries rubbing his hand gently over Aziraphale’s bare shoulder, hoping that perhaps physical comfort can do what all his other distracting offerings have not.
He’s scared to try anything else. Scared that the angel will break contact, shift away, rebuff him yet again. This moment is a sparkling jewel, the best thing Crawly has had in this entire stupid century. He would gnaw off his own leg to keep Aziraphale here. Both of them. Fuck it. Slither like a snake for eternity, if it meant Aziraphale’s cheek pressed into his skin.
“I’m not questioning,” Aziraphale says, although as it’s into a demon’s shoulder, Crawly isn’t sure She’s really listening. “Her plan is ineffable, and I understand. But I don’t think…” Crawly can feel Aziraphale swallow, against his arm. “I don’t think She would begrudge me a few minutes to feel sorrow,” he whispers, like it’s blasphemy. “For the humans, that is. Out of love.”
Crawly keeps moving his fingers. These are all things he’s seen humans do to comfort each other. There isn’t a lot of comforting in Hell. He isn’t really sure what else he has to offer. All he knows is that his chest feels like expanding until it cracks open and swallows Aziraphale inside, where he’ll be safe.
Eventually Aziraphale gathers himself and sits up, away from Crawly, except that he does it so gently and carefully Crawly can’t help himself. Aziraphale reaches for Crawly’s hands, holds them in his own, and Crawly can’t breathe. He’s fairly sure his entire demonic being is projecting hey angel I am in love with your stupid face so loudly he’ll be lucky if Satan himself doesn’t pick up on it.
The rain continues to fall around them, a soft shhhhh against the leaves of the poplars. Occasionally a drop gets through, like a reminder that the outside world exists.
Then Aziraphale cups Crawly’s cheek in one soft, warm, palm, and everything about the moment changes.
Well — not everything. He’s still so in love with Aziraphale it’s written across his forehead, but he makes the mistake of glancing down at Aziraphale’s mouth - briefly - so briefly - and remembers something else humans do sometimes. For comfort. Out of love.
He won’t, though. He can’t. It isn’t his place. He’s just a demon, who happens to be here. And as special as it is to be offered this from Aziraphale - to have heard the angel be so vulnerable - that doesn’t change anything. They’re still on opposite sides. Aziraphale would never forgive him.
Yet Crawly can’t keep his stupid snake eyes from wandering all over Aziraphale’s face. Rosy cheeks, pert nose, cloud-fluff hair: that’s his angel. That’s the one. Mouth open the smallest bit, as if in awe. As if waiting.
“Crawly,” his angel whispers. “Why are you so kind to me?”
There are a thousand things Crawly could say in another thousand ways, but the truth has always been simple. “Cause it’s you, angel.”
Both of his hands are still clutching at Aziraphale’s — the one that isn’t pressed to Crawly’s face like the kindest and warmest branding iron. He could interlock their fingers. He should, yes, always. No. His hands jerk in some kind of stupid spasm that probably reveals his long, embarrassing, horrible history of loving Aziraphale more than the air his corporation needs.
He won’t. He can’t. But Aziraphale does.
It’s a simple kiss, all things considered, plain and humble compared to some of the things Crawly’s seen humans attempt with tongue and teeth. And yet it floors him — wipes him bare. Crawly’s chest empties of anything that isn’t Aziraphale, angel, over and over again, like the worship hymns he can no longer remember singing.
It’s simple, but not short, and not soft; Aziraphale seems to want to impress his mouth into Crawly, to leave an indentation, like a sculptor carving wood. Apparently he isn’t aware of the fingerprints he’s already left on Crawly’s spine, in what’s left of his poor tatterdemalion soul.
Aziraphale pulls back and Crawly, stupid besotted demon that he is, chases his mouth for just an inch, follows him with a second kiss that he hopes says everything he’s too scared to say otherwise. Aziraphale gasps into that one and gosh, that’s good, mouths moving together in a new kind of conversation.
Crawly doesn’t try anything Aziraphale hadn’t, not wanting to overstep. Truth be told, he could take this memory of Aziraphale’s lips, of his angel pressed to his side, straight to his own demonic grave and die happier than he’d ever been in Heaven.
Aziraphale is looking at him. He can’t stop looking back.
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says. That’s a new one, and the shock of it hasn’t yet sunk in when the angel continues. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” It comes out sharper than intended, but Crawly doesn’t - he doesn’t want - there’s nothing to regret about this, these secret stolen moments hidden in a garden. According to Heaven’s plans it’ll all have burnt to ash a week from now, hiding any trace of… anything. If Aziraphale regrets this, he’ll… something.
Aziraphale laughs, and traces his thumb across Crawly’s face, apparently for the sheer joy of it. “I’m not sorry for that,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for what has to follow it.”
Before Crawly can say anything, his angel stands.
He’s bereft, alone, cold and torn-open — but he’s also been given a gift. Aziraphale’s fingers linger on his cheek as long as possible. “Don’t follow me, my dearest,” the angel whispers. As if anyone could overhear them. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
Crawly nods. He isn’t really sure what else to do. The memory of Aziraphale’s mouth on his own tastes like honey and balm. His skin is still tingling with the aftermath of angel. If anyone from Hell sees him here, he’s a goner. It’s the first time since he Fell that Crawly thinks maybe it’ll be worth it.
His fingers have come up to touch his own mouth as if they don’t even believe it happened. Maybe he doesn’t. These four-square gardens in Persepolis are private, intimate; maybe he imagined it, a rush of creative longing escaping the gaping wound in his chest. He’s always had too much imagination for a demon (let alone an angel); but — nothing he’s ever done could compare to the feeling of grace Aziraphale has left on his lips.
Crawly finds he doesn’t even care if this is the last and only time it happens (although it won’t be, it won’t be by far, but he doesn’t know that). His corporation burns with Aziraphale’s name, and when he eventually leaves their small garden hours later, he can still feel the angel’s skin down into his bones.
It is raining in Persepolis - the last few days of its power; the end of an empire, the loss of a history, the changing of the guard - but this time, Crawly leaves the garden happy.