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Stay with me.
They stood on the wall surrounding paradise, sharing the storm and each other’s conversation, and the entreaty echoed unspoken among the drops of the first rain. Keep me company. Don’t leave me alone in this strange new world.
They stayed, at least until the clouds parted.
~ ~ ~
The world was going to drown, and there was nothing to do but stand staring at each other in the shadow of a not-yet-afloat Ark.
Stay with me, Aziraphale didn’t ask. It wouldn’t have been fair. He may have been charged with bearing witness, but Crawly could go to Hell until the worst was over. He should go to Hell. It would be safer there.
I don’t want to bear this alone, Aziraphale didn’t say.
But Crawly stayed anyway, and they huddled on the vessel while the world around them ended.
~ ~ ~
Crowley hated the taste, texture, smell, and overall concept of eating oysters. They were also the best thing to happen to him this century.
Stay with me, he asked with his eyes, when both plates were undeniably empty. Do we have to end the meal yet?
His eyes were concealed by dark lenses. No matter how eloquent, there was no conceivable way Aziraphale could have seen or read the request within them.
Yet the angel ordered another serving, and he ate it very slowly indeed.
~ ~ ~
A drink in a bar, an night in a bookshop, a walk in a park.
Stay with me, the words floated about them through the millennia: circling, hovering, vibrating in silence. Never spoken, often heard.
Stay with me.
~ ~ ~
“We could run away together,” Crowley begged, aloud, the appeal hanging desperate and raw in the air. Cards on the table, as never before. What was left to lose? Run away with me.
But Aziraphale shook his head, and turned away.
Stay with me, he bit back the return plea, as Crowley left for the stars.
~ ~ ~
“You could stay here, you know,” Aziraphale said, as they shared a drink after the Ritz and the clock ticked towards midnight. “You don’t have to leave. Not if you don’t want.”
“I want to stay,” Crowley admitted. “With you.”
“Me, too.”
There was no surprise for either of them in the words. Yet there was a joy, in speaking them aloud… and a greater joy in following through.
So they stayed, and in Berkeley Square, a nightingale continued to sing.