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He can feel a slight shift in his fabricated blood stream, can feel the miracled blood turn icy in veins that do not technically or theoretically exist. Breath he did not need, trapped in a throat that was more familiar with wines and cheeses than caught air. Crowley was waving cheerily at him, and Aziraphale had never been so nervous in the thousands of years he spent on earth than in that very moment. “But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon, Crowley.” He spoke rather loudly, trying desperately to shoot a pointed look at Crowley to make himself scarce. Sandalphon’s words echoing in his mind, bouncing around infinite tendrils and placebo neurons that fired with heat and electricity that it did not require. “I can't imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to.” And Crowley was why . Because Crowley was here and so was Aziraphale.
Their eyes met for a moment, and he watched as Crowley’s smile faded, eyebrows furrowed down as he held up the neatly wrapped package, ‘Chocolates.’ He mouthed, pointing at it as if there were not two other angels in the room, and this was nothing more than a nightly game of charades spent in firelight and vintage wine. As if the chocolates and promised company would be enough now to make Aziraphale smile. And he almost did.
“I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are.” Gabriel says with a roll of his eyes, his mouth twitching down as he fiddles with the cuff links of his jacket, “Michael, perhaps.” He suggests, waving his hand as if attempting to dismiss a fly from his immediate presence. From where his gaze aligns to Crowley’s, and Aziraphale has to hold back a laugh, he sees a look of horrified disgust crossing Crowley’s beautiful features. He sees the snake on his cheek slither down his neck as if it could avoid the very thought of Michael anywhere near them. ‘Michael’s a wanker!’ He can see Crowley mouth, hands flying in the air as he argues with himself and Aziraphale pulls his gaze away, focusing on Gabriel and Sandalphon as he struggles to come up with some believable excuse. It would not be ideal for them to question why his full attention is not trained on them. Sandalphon is nosy enough to begin with and Gabriel does not take kindly to any form of attention not being directed his way, especially when he designs it so.
He blinks rapidly, almost as if trying to convey a message in the action, or to at least make the demon invisible for a moment. But it does not do any good, the demon is still very much visible to the mere naked eye. “Crowley's been down here just as long as I have.” Aziraphale begins, speaking loudly to try and get Crowley’s attention, to express the importance of not being seen by either party. His hands wave wildly in front of him and Gabriel almost looks taken aback at the flutter of limbs that he stares at him with something akin to fright and confusion. “And he's wily, and cunning and brilliant and oh…” He trails off, teeth biting into the soft flesh of fabricated lips as he watches Crowley begin to pace in front of the doorway, his leg movements erratic and somehow endearing. There’s a flash of something in the deep purple of Gabriel’s eyes that has Aziraphale’s words halting in his tracks. There is a sense of danger as Gabriel studies him for a moment, and if Aziraphale allowed himself to sweat, he fears his pristine clothes would be drenched with perspiration. His words resounding in his head; into his very being, and if he wasn’t careful, it may lead Gabriel to believe his halo were only in place to hide some obsession with the demon. And Gabriel and Sandalphon need not know just how intimate he and Crowley actually were.
“It almost sounds like you like him.” Gabriel says, voice dangerously calm, his eyes furrowed as his gaze bores into Aziraphale’s form, almost seeming to pass through him, all parts of himself on display for the archangel to observe and pick apart. To study the terrain like a hunter would, and Aziraphale knows he’s the prey as he struggles to remain hidden so that Gabriel won’t shoot him down. He finds he now understands the term of souls being barred before someone, to have secrets that they did not even yet realize dwell deep inside and then brought to a light that was never known to exist. It’s, quite frankly, the worst feeling Aziraphale has ever experienced. Gabriel’s words hit too close to home, and it takes all of Aziraphale’s practiced pose and dignified gentlemen persona to throw him off his scent.
He much more than likes Crowley, Aziraphale knows this. Knows it in the way that he is looking forward to the chocolates that Crowley brought him. Knows it in the way he has a special bottle of wine at the ready to pair with the sweet treats they will indulge in this evening together. Knows it in the way they sit close to each other when alone in the comforts of either one’s home. Knows it in the brush of hands and knees knocking together as they lounge on the couch. Knows it in the way that Crowley removes his glasses when with him, and the way the liquid gold of his eyes shines brighter than the stardust he used to weave. Knows it in the way Crowley’s lips press against his cheek, his lips, when they bid goodnight, a promise of tomorrow hanging between them like the gardens of Babylon. So sweet and sincere; a promise that Crowley always keeps for him, and one Aziraphale never wants to be broken.
Aziraphale struggles to regain his composure, lest he spiral down the rabbit hole that always appears beneath him where thoughts of Crowley are often concerned. “I Lo…” He begins, eyes dilating as he makes eye contact with Crowley once more. He often wonders what goes through his brilliant mind in times like this. When their secret is so close to being exposed to both Heaven and Hell. He regains his composure, now is not the time , he reminds himself. He has a job to do. A secret to keep, “I loathe him.” He corrects himself, ignores the way he notices Crowley’s face drop, he hopes that he knows, he understands, that he doesn’t loathe him. Could never loathe him. Maybe for only a moment, if he forgoes common courtesy and performs some social misstep. Even then, he finds himself rather annoyingly charmed by the demon's antics and attempts of mischief than he does anything else. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent.” he trailed off, wondering if the way his illusory heart assaulted the chest cavity he crafted, or the way his artificial rib cage seemed to crack and calcify at the same time, would be as obvious to the two other angels as it felt to him. Crowley met his eyes once more, and it is like a swift healing balm over quickly spreading wounds. He feels better. He feels alleviated. For now.
Sandalphons eyes narrowed, his nose twitching, the minuscule movement of his head, as if to look over his shoulder and- “Which he isn't!” Aziraphale shouted, Sandalphon’s gaze reverting back to him at his outburst with a raised eyebrow, “Because he's a demon and I cannot respect a demon.” A pause, “Or like one.” he added in, returning his gaze back to Gabriel, as if to drive home the reason for his rambling. Rambling, that Crowley, often between giggles and sips of wine and loose lips, said was one of his favorite things about him. One of his favorite sounds in the universe, he confessed. He has heard the stars sing into existence and yet, Aziraphale’s laughter is his favorite sound.
It must have been enough to placate the archangel because he smiles, wide and toothy as he claps his hands together, “That's the attitude I like to hear!” He says, stepping forward, a little too close for what would be considered appropriate by human standards. He can feel the way his own wings ruffle up, and he resists the urge of taking a step back. Gabriel places a hand on his shoulder, his weight almost monumental along with the almost death grip he uses to grasp spurious limb with. “You'll be an asset back at head office, I can tell you that.” he says, his voice even and Aziraphale is still unnerved at the mere proximity of Gabriel, still so close in his personal space. The only one who he ever truly allows being this close to him is the demon who has now vanished from the doorway. It feels wrong and every neuron, every cell, in his body is screaming at him to step away, to retreat.
The medal is back in Gabriel's hand in the time it takes for him to blink, a fictitious movement that has ingrained itself into his very identity of being amongst the humans for 6,000 years. He’s not even conscious of him doing it anymore, long past the adjustment period it took to learn to close his eyes, opening them back up in the correct amount of time. Not too short to be off-putting and not too long that it reminds someone of the family patriarch who had eaten too much of his supper and was now struggling to stay awake.
Gabriel placed the medal around his neck, the weight of the celestial gold is heavy and cold against the illusory location of his sternum, where the imagined muscles of his pectoralis major and layers of dermis form his chest. Aziraphale can feel the way it hangs off his clavicles, feels the frigid metal even through the layers of clothing he has donned.
“So…” Aziraphale ventured, not sure how to begin, how to start; heavens, he doesn’t even have a middle, much less an ending. How long did he even have left on earth? How much time did he have left with Crowley ? The cynical part of his mind taunted him. So he swallows down the lump that had manifested in his manufactured esophagus. “We're going straight back, now?” He asked, eyes trailing around the still barren bookshelf, the books stacked and sorted and scattered throughout the floor. The ghost of the memory of Crowley offering, no, promising , to help him stock and organize, whispers cruelty in his ear. The grin on his face as he made note of the varying different ways to sort the books, declaring that he knew of the best, most chaotic choice; tied between sorting chronologically by the book’s publication date and by the section of the world that the contents would be associated with. They had made plans, but Gabriel and Sandalphon could never know that. Never know how he cherished and looked forward to today. To Friday afternoon and the exquisite supper that Crowley had promised him after he opened the doors to the public. “Before the grand opening?” he found himself saying, could feel the disruption of the forged chemicals in his body changing their signaling pathways, nausea overtaking him in ways that he hadn’t felt since the time he spent on Noah’s Arc. Crowley had called it sea sickness , and although he had laughed at the first bile expelled from his synthesized stomach, he had stayed close to him, a hand on his back and he felt his face drain of their rosy composed hue.
“Well, soon” Gabriel replied, brushing imaginary dirt from his suit, as if he’d allowed the garment to be defiled with anatomical organic matter in the first place. “We're just going to stroll down to Cork Street to see my tailor.” he concluded, a wave of his hand as he turned his back to Aziraphale, “You may finish what loose ends you may have and be prepared to leave upon our return.” he did not wait for Aziraphale to reply, and Aziraphale was not sure whether he would be able to if it had been expected of him. The hollow feeling of his chest becoming more prominent now than it ever had been before. “Come along, Sandalphon.” Gabriel spoke, halfway out the door as Sandalphon’s gaze lingered on the empty shelves, the small sitting area by the fireplace, and for a moment, Aziraphale was truly nervous if the other angel could somehow sense that Crowley had been in that very chair just last evening. His nose twitched obscenely once more before trailing after Gabriel’s coattails.
Once both angels were gone, Aziraphale let out a deep exhale, a breath he had no memory of holding, no real reason to do so, and yet, he had. Had held a bated breath and somehow felt heavier with it expelled. He does not quite know how long he has until they return, but he assumes he has at least half an hour. Ten minutes to Cork street, waiting, and then ten minutes to return, that is, if Aziraphale was lucky.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself just a small, simple moment to himself. To bask in the glow of the sun filtering through the glass of the windows. Thirty minutes is not enough time to sort his affairs. But it’s enough to compose a letter. A last love letter for Crowley to read. Parted from him for an unknown length of time. Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’ll ever return to Earth. Return to Crowley. He’s not even sure where Crowley has gone to.
He composes his letter. Attempts to keep it professional. But that plan fails two lines into it. He miracles the words from the paper and back into the inkwell. And he starts over.
My Dearest Crowley , He writes. The same opening he had used prior. Crowley will always be his dear, be his dearest demon, dearest friend, dearest lover.
He hesitates, this is where he went wrong last time. His original letter was too clinical; too detached. He’s known Crowley for 6,000 years. Has been his friend. And he’s loved him and been loved in return for the same stretch of time. He owes Crowley so much more than what he’s able to compose in a simple Royal. There is too much to say and too much to convey, then what can be explained in a simple 508 mm by 635 mm paper. It’s why it’s called a Royal, the largest type of paper that Aziraphale could get his hands on. He loved the feel of it, and besides, he should at least use his good paper given the current circumstances. But right now, it was being a royal pain in his wings.
He takes a steadying breath, and continues.
My Dearest Crowley,
Words don’t come as easily to me as they do you. As you saw earlier, I had a few unexpected guests that appeared with just as unexpected news. I’m to return back to headquarters. I tried to protest, to state a claim upon others being no match for you. However, it was to no avail. I truly am sorry, my dear, that we will not have the supper you planned, or that we will be unable to organize my books together. Gabriel’s words are final, and I have no other avenue to venture down in the hopes of being able to stay.
I wish I could speak to you in person, to hold your hands in mine as I tell you the news. I was not sure where you had gone and had hoped you would return once they left. Although, it may have not been safe in doing so.
I will try with all my might to return to Earth. To return to you. My heart is forever yours, Crowley.
Love,
Aziraphale
He stepped back, examining the curves of his words as he reread the note. It was not the elegant goodbye he had hoped it would be, nothing would come close to what verbal declarations Aziraphale could weave if he were face to face with Crowley. The missive would have to make do for now, until he could make do upon his promise and return to Crowley. He folded it neatly, his heart gone silent as he pressed the creases inward. And, in the back of his mind, Aziraphale realized that by leaving Earth, the bookshop, and most importantly, Crowley , he was essentially leaving his heart behind. He slid the message into an envelope, reaching over to grab the wax sealer and stamp. His hands shaking as the wax dripped onto the seam, the firm press of the stamp down as he struggled to remember how to breathe, not that he needed air in non-functioning lungs to begin with, but the familiar action calmed and grounded him. He turned it over, the wax sealed and hardened with a touch of a miracle. He dipped the pen into the ink once more and wrote on the body of the envelope.
For Crowley
In large swooping, sloping, cursive letters that all but screamed back at him. To not leave, to stay on earth. To stay with Crowley. He took a steadying breath, and for a moment, he feared he may begin to weep. With a wave of his hand the envelope vanished, miracling into existence once more on Crowley’s desk for him to find upon his return to his own home later that evening.
No sooner had he done that, the bell rang over his door, and for a moment, a pure, hopeful moment, he hoped it was Crowley sauntering through, chocolates in hand, and he had imagined the whole ordeal. But no, luck nor favor seemed to be on his side that day, as Gabriel and Sandalphon strode in.
Aziraphale was quick to straighten himself, swallowing down the thick lump that had formed in his throat, he spoke, “Are we going back now?” Aziraphale asked, looking between the two angels, hands wringing together he feared he may rip them asunder from his fabricated vessel.
“Unfortunately,” Gabriel began, his eyes gazing around with something that Aziraphale would akin to paranoia, had Gabriel been human. His gaze hardening as he scrutinized the streets visible through the wide windows, eyes searching for something that Aziraphale could not see. “You are to remain on Earth for the time being.” he said, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face for the first time since the two entered his shop. It was almost too good to be true, but he could feel the way his began to glow with excitement and happiness. He had to reign it in.
“So, I'm… not going anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, just to make sure. His heart beginning to beat softly once more as Gabriel walked towards a barren bookshelf. He had almost begun to miss the familiar thump of the organ in his constructed chest, the act itself providing comfort like one might find the rain from inside.
“Change of plans.” Gabriel replied, hand traveling along the wood as he continued to examine their surroundings. “We need you here. In your bookshop. Battling evil.” He finished, punctuating his sentences with hard jabs at the air as if he were in combat with some invisible force. And with the way he was acting he may very well have been.
Sandalphon smiled, seemingly unperturbed by Gabriel’s strange behavior as he leaned in, pushing a closed fist against his arm, and Aziraphale bit back the urge to tell him it was far from gentle. Crowley was always gentle, and Aziraphale lived for it, breathed for it, but instead, he bit down on his lip, doing nothing but leaving an indentation of his veneers along the pink flesh. “Carry on battling.” Sandalophon said.
“Keep the medal.” Gabriel added, spinning in place and Aziraphale was wondering if perhaps Gabriel had a fabricated human system as well. Crowley often did confusing actions like that when completely inebriated, though Aziraphale found them amusing and enchanting, whereas Gabriel’s actions made Aziraphale concerned for the man’s physical wellbeing. Well, as far as physical wellbeing goes for an angel. Perhaps his metaphysical wellbeing.
“But I don't understand…” Aziraphale began, blinking with a shake of his head to try and gather his thoughts. He opened them, expecting to still have company but found himself entirely alone in his bookshop.
Not a moment later the doors were opening again and a familiar head of flaming red hair peaked around the corner, their eyes meeting as twin grins spread across their faces. “Angel!” Crowley all but shouted, scrambling through the small opening in the door and bounding across the floor towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale could feel the way his heart swelled upon the very moment he recognized the scarlet waves. His arms were around Crowley before he’s able to blink; and for once, he realizes, he doesn’t wish to close his eyes again lest Crowley disappear from his view when he opens them once more. He inhales, his nose buried deep in the crook of his neck, the snake traveling down and transferring to him, wrapping itself in the flesh of Aziraphale’s cheek as if embracing him as well. Aziraphale smiles, Crowley smells of red wine, of freshly turned topsoil, of petrichor. And most importantly, Crowley smells of home. He presses his lips to the exposed flesh, can feel the way Crowley’s breath hitches as he shudders against him.
“You’re back.” Azirapahle speaks, voice breaking as he finally allows himself to part from Crowley, only to rest his forehead against the demons. He wants to say more, to tell Crowley how happy he is to see him, to envelop him into his very being and never part from him again.
“Of course I’m back.” Crowley’s voice is soft, a hand coming up to rest against Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel can’t help but lean into the touch. “I couldn’t let them take you away from me.” He confessed, fingers playing idly with the loose curls that hang low on his face. Aziraphale tilts his head just slightly, blue eyes searching Crowley’s face for explanation. It’s a moment, a beat, eternity stretched before them in the span of only a few seconds, before it all clicks into place and Aziraphale lets out a laugh.
“I should have known you had something to do with that, you wily demon.” Aziraphale responded, playfully jabbing a finger in Crowley’s chest, a smile on his face.
“I believe you also used the words cunning and brilliant.” Crowley quips back, a devilish grin on his face that always made Aziraphale weak in his knees. “It almost sounded as if you may even like me.” He leaned in, smile growing wider and Aziraphale held his gaze with confidence. “Do you like me , Angel?” he asked, eyebrows wagging as he surveyed his face over the rim of his glasses. Golden gaze drowning him in all the best possible ways.
“I believe that I more than like you, my dear.” Aziraphale said, leaning in, his hands on Crowley’s waist and pulling him closer. The demon let out a small squawk in surprise as Aziraphale continued, “I quite believe I may even love you.” he finished, finally closing the distance between them once more as he slotted his lips against Crowley’s for the first time that day. The demon’s lips split into a smile against his before slowly returning his affections.
When they pulled apart, Crowley couldn’t help but respond, lips brushing against the exposed flesh of Aziraphale’s check, “I quite believe I may love you, too.” He replied, moving his lips to the soft skin of Aziraphale’s neck. “Most ardently.” He whispered, inhaling the familiar scent of cherry wood smoke and wispy lavender that seemed to always permeate from the Angel’s clothes. And the demon smiled once more as Aziraphale laughed against him, finding his lips once more and sharing another kiss.
And another.
And another.
Until afternoon turned to dusk, when the two retreated to the couch, chocolate and wine between them and Aziraphale laid sprawled about, his head on Crowley’s lap as familiar fingers carded through angel soft hair. After Crowley regaled his tale of covert espionage under Gabriel’s nose and the laughter that spilled between them.
And as Aziraphale looked up at him; eyes shining brighter than the stars Crowley created, he leaned down, bowing low as if in prayer and laying worship to the altar of Aziraphale’s lips.