Archive of Our Own

St James’s Park, London, 30th April 1862

Aziraphale had never been very good at wrath. He had always supposed, when he thought about it, that it was part of what made him not a terribly effective angel. He was too soft, always had been, an almost unconscious decision, but a sincere one, made long ago when the world was very young.

It was mostly that he did not want to be that kind of person. That, and the fact that he seemed to be made in such a way that did not allow him to grasp his true opinion on anything until he had sat with his feelings for a while. Anger, if it came at all, crept up upon him slowly, and even then it was more likely to manifest itself as sadness, or weary resignation than anything more fiery.

Tetchiness was a much more accessible emotion, a sense of mild vexation that occupied him when events failed to work out as he felt they should. Actual crossness was rare, and reserved for obvious, quotidian encumbrances.

But today… Today Aziraphale was affected by every brand of negative emotion. He hadn’t had to wait at all to parse out his first reaction to Crowley’s request for Holy Water. Anger, there was anger, yes, at being asked to supply his friend with the means of his destruction. Crossness was what he projected as he stormed away from where Crowley had been standing, impatiently brushing past the branches of a small shrub wreathed in new leaves that otherwise he would have noticed, and found charming. Running through and alongside his anger was a counterpoint of sadness, too, a devastation that swept over him at the thought of Crowley being so distressed that he might consider taking his own life.

Aziraphale, hurrying down Regent Street, found he did not like himself very much. He had never been the smiting type, and the burst of rage he had given into did not sit well with him at all. Tears threatened then, his throat tightening with their imminency, and there was a terrible, hollow ache of sadness in his chest. It was with some relief that he gained the safety of his bookshop fastness, closed the door, locking it, then hastening to draw down every blind so that he could think in peace.

Tea was a necessity. Aziraphale went through the familiar actions of making it in the usual way: setting the kettle on his tiny stove, warming the broad bellied pot, heaping in the required number of spoonfuls, pouring boiling water, then leaving it to steep. The warmth of the cup in his two hands was a small comfort, but nothing soothed the turmoil of his thoughts, the ache in his chest where his human heart still, surprisingly, went about its business. He felt numb, beyond the capacity of soothing himself, and drank automatically, trying to work out how he felt and what he was to do, now that he was alone in the world.

He gazed about his bookshop. So many memories lingered here. So many of them, from the beginning of his time there, had involved his only friend. Crowley bounding in with flowers to recount a barely credible tale of the clever way he had outwitted an Archangel to keep his friend on Earth. The demon had been sleek and pleased and ridiculously handsome. The Crowley of twenty years before, newly returned from a long sea voyage, stretched out on the recently purchased Chesterfield, holding forth on giant tortoises, loons and penguins, his face bright with wonder.

A tear coursed down the angel’s cheek, and he felt a wounded noise climb up his throat, muffling it with the back of the hand he pressed against his open mouth lest he let the lament he could feel forming loose into the air.

Was this what it had been all the while, then? A long-game temptation on the demon’s part, with the aim of getting what he really wanted? Aziraphale had dared to think that he was cared for. He felt so foolish, so confused.

The two of them had seemed much closer since their lunch in Paris during the darkest days of the Revolution. Crowley had visited often after that, once the bookshop was up and running. They had sat together drinking claret, Crowley laughing as Aziraphale recounted the story of the criminal couple he had unwittingly assisted. He had been so embarrassed at being taken-in by confidence tricksters, but there had been no harm done, not really. And he had been happy about it, in a way, happy to be providing Crowley with some amusement, happy to be teased on the subject of his gullibility. Happy, in fact, just to hear that note of fondness in Crowley’s voice. Had he been mistaken, then, about all of it?

Two trains of thought warred in the angel’s mind, neither of them giving him a speck of comfort. One, and the most distressing, was that Crowley meant to harm himself. The other was that he had been taken for a fool for years. That Crowley had been working his way into Aziraphale’s confidence, only tolerating his company while he planned how he might persuade the angel to commit treason. He could not settle on either as the truth of the situation, so he did what came naturally to him after years of dealing with all manner of unpleasantness. He decided not to think about it any more.

There was always work to be done in the shop. Aziraphale glanced across at a pile of boxes stacked just inside the back door. New books to shelve. He could get on with that and put off consideration of the terrible abyss that was the prospect of his life from then on in to some vague date in the future that he would be able to postpone almost indefinitely.

That would be, without doubt, the very best thing he could do.

Producing a large, monogrammed handkerchief from the recesses of his pocket, the angel fastidiously wiped at his wet face, blew his nose, then stood. He removed his outdoor coat and hung it up with careful movements, then replaced it with the cotton duster jacket he wore when working with his books, fetching a knife to open the cases delivered from the publisher that morning. Some shelving-up would be just the ticket to soothe the awful turmoil in his head.

Lady Audley’s Secret was a sensational novel of scandalous repute. Naturally, Aziraphale had read it in one sitting as soon as it came out. He had sat up, breathless, deep into the night, eagerly turning pages, desperate to see what happened in the end. Now, as he slotted pristine copies of the work on the more accessible shelves to the front of the shop, details of the plot kept coming back to him as deeply unpleasant reminders of where he found himself. The theme of betrayal, had, at the time, seemed terribly exciting. Now as he considered it again, he just felt slightly sick.

Aziraphale bent to place the last of the books he was lifting from the open box by his feet alongside its brethren on the bottom shelf, then straightened up, noting the complaint of muscles in his lower back. Some days Aziraphale felt conspicuously aware of all the years his corporation had endured, and today, he felt particularly leaden, weighted to the Earth with awful resignation. The problem was that everything he looked at, every action that he took, however minor, just brought him back to thoughts of his demon friend and what had transpired that morning. Perhaps he could no longer put off the consideration of what he should do about his predicament.

Well, what he should do, was obvious. He should sever all ties with his erstwhile demon friend, put the whole ridiculous fact of the Arrangement behind him, and resolve henceforth to be a better angel.

What he was actually going to do was less clear, however, given that he could not shift the expression on Crowley’s face from his mind, the hint of desperation in his voice, the bitter sting the phrase ‘I don’t need you’ had occasioned within his breast. Far from being able to put away the issue as easily as he had shelved the new consignment of books, while he had laboured, he had thought of little else.

Aziraphale sat heavily at his desk and drew the current volume of his diary to him, opening it at a blank page near the back. He did not dare read any of the recent entries, having become aware, just recently, that he wrote in the wretched thing much more frequently when he and Crowley had been spending time together. All the glowing, hopeful words recounting his friend’s cleverness, the witty comments that he made, would only mock him from the page were he to read them over. What he wished to do, in order to corral his scattered thoughts, was make two lists of Crowley’s various actions with regard to himself over the years so he might be able to determine how to think of them. Approaching the problem in any other way merely led to confusion—there were far too many variables to think about at once. The prospect of it daunted him, and made his head swim, made it ache.

He began. Taking a ruler and his pen, he divided the page into two neat columns. He hesitated then, pen freshly dipped in ink, wavering over the paper in front of him. It was so difficult, deciding what to put in the column he had designated in favour of Crowley’s innate goodness, and what in the one that was meant for whatever the opposite of that might be—his secret wickedness, Aziraphale supposed.

Did Crowley rescue him—on more than one occasion—even carrying out an elaborate ploy, to ensure that Aziraphale remained on Earth, because he really cared for his friend? Or was it that he had recognised Aziraphale for what he truly was, a gullible idiot, an easy mark who could be softened-up sufficiently to do his bidding in the end. And what of the socialising? The meetings for drinks, the times they had dined together, the plays and concerts—what were they—favours, or bribes?

Then there were his own feelings to take into consideration. Why, exactly, was he so hurt? The bitter timbre of I don’t need you echoed darkly in his remembrance once more. it had stung, just as Crowley must have known it would. Wasn’t this what might be expected of one of the Fallen? But this was Crowley, not just any demon. He had never been, well, like anyone else Aziraphale had ever known. And, reluctant as he might have been to admit it—for it was dangerous, for both of them—he cared for Crowley, cared for him more than any thing or person in this world or any other. He must do, mustn’t he, the angel thought to himself, otherwise the thought of Crowley choosing to end his life would not distress him so.

They didn’t talk about what there was between them, they never had, but Crowley was a constant. The prospect of a life without the possibility of Crowley was terrifying. Aziraphale was used to solitude, he chose it, more often than not. But loneliness was quite another thing. Loneliness was knowing that he might never have his friendly enemy talk with him again.

The angel’s pen, so long inactive, dripped its drop of ink onto the pristine paper before him, bleeding into its fibres until the stain spread out into a blot, black upon white, stark, as choices were wont to be. Aziraphale felt another sob rise up from the very centre of him.

He had not realised till that moment quite what it was to have a human heart.

Aziraphale was good at working out conundrums, enjoyed the puzzles he came across in the daily papers that he read, but he seemed incapable of disentangling this. The thoughts swirled in his head, a messy ball of lines of argument hopelessly knotted together. And there was no sword in the world that might cut through them, especially not the one that had once belonged to him, long gone now. The memory of that day, the rain and Crowley’s kindness threatened to undo him entirely.

The angel laid down his pen with a trembling hand, rose unsteadily from his seat and went to fetch a bottle of the good burgundy he had invested in once all that unpleasantness in France had settled down. A few swift turns of his corkscrew saw it open, and he wasted no time on allowing it to breathe before pouring himself a glass and downing most of it in a couple of uncharacteristically large gulps. By the third glass the urge to weep had settled into a low threnody of misery. He took his customary place opposite the conspicuously empty sofa, and set himself to brooding.

The fourth bottle of wine was finished, lying empty by his feet, and now, somehow, Aziraphale had a glass of cognac in his hand. Good for the nerves, he had read that somewhere, and opted for it when the wine had proved ineffectual at stopping the tremor in his hands. The open bottle on the table next to his chair was already half gone, goodness knew how that had happened. What he could see from where he was slumped in his usual seat—the spines of books, ornaments, all the messy accoutrements of his life—were pleasantly blurred. The booze had taken the edge off and made everything seem softer and more manageable. The insistent noise of his thoughts had dampened down into a mere hissing at the back of his skull, numbed to a level that he could cope with, at least for the moment. 

Aziraphale tried to look back over what had happened with little success. There was no grasping it, only the knowledge that he had been wronged. No, he had wronged Crowley, grievously. Fraternising, he’d called it fraternising. He was a terrible person and deserved everything he got.

Crowley, was the problem. He smiled, foolishly. Lovely Crowley, what a sweet person his friend was. He invariably listened when Aziraphale felt like talking, and always had something comforting to say. Even if his language was terrible and he had a tendency to be awfully caustic, he was invariably there and supportive, and gruff and kind. And, oh Lord, he appeared to be weeping again.

There had to be something… He sniffled mournfully, then poured another measure of the good French brandy, took a gulp, then a second, then rested his cheek on the hand not holding his glass and let himself drift a little.

Crowley, that was the thing. Really couldn’t fathom how they had got here. Him on his own, and Crowley, out there somewhere looking for… for…

Oh dear. Aziraphale put down his glass and sat up straight, or as straight as he was currently capable of being. He had to talk to Crowley. The demon could be out there now, searching for the stuff, the stuff he really mustn’t get hold of. He could just talk to Crowley, couldn’t he? Make him see sense and then everything would be quite alright again. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

The truth was that Aziraphale had thought of it, not long after he had reached his home, then immediately dismissed the idea. Crowley wouldn’t want to hear anything he had to say, he had reasoned. And he hadn’t been sure he would be able to say anything without becoming disgracefully emotional, which he was certain would only serve to irritate his friend even further. But Aziraphale was far too drunk, at this point, to remember any of that, and in his current state of intoxication the idea came to him with the force of novel brilliance that quite bowled him over.

Aziraphale stood up, wobbled, flailed, grabbed hold of the arm of his chair and steadied himself.

“‘M perfectly alright,” he said to himself, resolutely. “This is, is fine,” he pronounced, sending a message to his disobedient limbs to ‘buck-up’, or else.

“I shall say,” he continued, with wholehearted, if misplaced confidence, raising the hand that wasn’t gripping on to the upholstery, for emphasis, “I shall say that it was a stupid idea…’Cause it was. How could he…?”

Aziraphale let go of the chair along with the argument he was having with an imaginary Crowley, and started unsteadily towards the stand where he had hung up his coat earlier. His hat was missing he noticed, vaguely, as he took off his duster jacket, dropping it carelessly on the floor, then unhooking his much-loved linen coat. He struggled into this garment, twisting round in a full circle looking for the second armhole which inexplicably appeared to be absent without leave.

“There you are,” he said when he finally located it, huffing as he struggled to work his arm into the tube of fabric, then settling the coat haphazardly on his shoulders. He made a stab at buttoning it with clumsy fingers, then gave up. “Bugger the hat, don’ need it anyway,” he said then staggered, dizzily over to the double doors, lurching through them and out into the fresher air of the quiet street.

The sky was grey with pre-dawn light. Aziraphale, who had been expecting it to be daytime still, squinted up at it, resentfully, confused as to whether it was morning, or evening time, having failed to notice just how many hours had elapsed since he had started drinking. He set off, purposefully, then, after a few strides, looked up at a shop sign, turned around and retraced his steps.

“Mayfair,” he muttered, “’s this way. Goin’ to give that, that fiend a piece of m’mind. How could he ask me for…? Have a mind to, to ask him for, for…” His face brightened. All at once he knew exactly what he was going to say.

Crowley was bored, and angry, and very, very drunk.

He wasn’t upset. Not at all. Demons didn’t get upset. What he was, was furious, and rightfully so. Not disappointed. Not hurt. His prejudices had been confirmed, that was all. And he was happy, yes, happy, to know that what he had suspected all along was true.

All angels were bastards. All of them. Even the sweet, sharp, kind, fluffy, ridiculous ones.

Especially them. They were the very worst.

Unkind, that was what it was. Angels were meant to be kind, but they weren’t. More demonic than Hell, that sort of thing, encouraging confidence and then being a cold-hearted so and so.

Well, Crowley wouldn’t be interested in knowing that particular one any more, that was for sure.

“Fraternisssssing,” he muttered out loud, and rolled off his throne to go and get another bottle.

After the scene Aziraphale had made at the park—and it was entirely the angel’s fault, all Crowley had done was make a simple request, there had been no need for all the drama—Crowley had taken a long walk, stirring up trouble as he went. He had left in his wake various instances of his own particular brand of mischief: shopkeepers irate over spoiled goods, men squaring up to each other in pubs over the puddles of spilled drinks, wailing babies between arguing couples and plenty of people who had unwittingly walked into the piles of horse dung and worse effluent that strewed the streets, ruining the lovely polish on their shoes.

With a face like thunder, Crowley had made his way to Drury Lane and ducked into the doors of the ‘Old Mo’, currently running its popular matinée performance.

Crowley loved the Music Hall, loved its vulgarity, the broadness of its humour, the good natured heckling of the crowd and the chance to just sit in the dark and have a few hours to himself. Sometimes, it was true, he did get chatting to nameless humans at the bar, passed a few remarks about the show and had a bit of a laugh. But he didn’t have anyone that he might have considered a friend, not really. There was nobody other than Aziraphale in Crowley’s life that he fraternised with regularly. That had been a lie, and a spiteful one, at that, one he knew by instinct would hurt the angel’s feelings most, just as his own had been hurt so grievously. 

The truth was that Crowley had given up on human friendship long ago. Their lives were just too short for that to be a practical consideration. For all that he was a demon, Crowley was aware that when he did become attached, it was something that he could not help but take seriously. There was only one being in all the universe he felt like that about. The one who had just let him down, belittled their connection, and betrayed him.

Crowley fidgeted in his seat. The songs and the jokes were just the same, but he couldn’t settle. The Middlesex, affectionately known as ‘Old Mo’ was the best one of its kind, in his opinion. This afternoon, though, the wisecracking seemed quite stale, the songs flat, and dull. It was only after an hour or so that Crowley realised why this was. He was used to watching, and memorising jokes and catch-phrases in order to relay them to Aziraphale when they next met. There was nothing quite as funny as telling the angel a risqué joke, then sitting back and observing as Aziraphale went through the methodical process of working out the sense of it. Then there would be the utter joy of being on the receiving end of his friend, pink cheeked and merry eyed, giving him a telling-off for his low humour and irreverence. Now all of that was gone, vanished after the exchange of just two words hastily scratched on to a piece of paper.

With a pang, Crowley realised that maybe the request might have been better received had he explained more fully. What was it the angel said? Something about a suicide pill. Which was stupid, ridiculous, but still, perhaps he could have put it better, or asked when they were more relaxed together, instead of springing it on Aziraphale after not having seen him for a while.

Being in the wrong never sat well with Crowley. And he was far, far too sober for having thoughts like this. Rising from his seat, he took pleasure in hissing nastily as he disturbed all the people in the row where he had been sitting, knocking into their legs as he barged past on his way out of the theatre. He had then stomped off down Drury Lane to his favourite purveyor of fine liquors, before returning, laden with various varieties of drink, to his current lodgings on Grosvenor Square.

Now, several bottles in, Crowley returned to his ostentatious throne with the best Highland malt he had been able to procure, intent on seeking oblivion with it, then sleeping for a while. A few years’ kip would take the edge off, he reasoned to himself. And then the pain and anger of losing his… his… That infuriating idiot he found he really couldn’t do without might have receded into something much more manageable than what he was currently experiencing.

Wiping at his eyes (which had curiously begun leaking, a few drinks ago), Crowley pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and filled his glass to the brim.

It was at that point that a smart staccato rapping started up from the direction of his hallway.

“What the ever-loving fuck?” the demon snarled, rising inelegantly from his almost prone position to walk none too steadily to his door. He pulled it open, taking a breath in order to shout at whatever utter wanker had dared disturb his drinking at this early hour of the morning, then let it out all at once in an enormous exhale of surprise. There, in the doorway, stood Aziraphale, pink cheeked and dark eyed. And swaying gently, like a sturdy sapling in a lively breeze.

“Crowley,” he began, pompously, “You need to talk to me… Um,” he frowned, and looked down at his shoes. “That’s not what I…,” he told them, clearly confused. “Ah, where was I? Oh yes, that’s it!” he looked up again, triumphant, “I need to talk to you, was what I meant.”

Crowley, mouth open, simply stared at the vision in front of him. Aziraphale’s coat was buttoned up the wrong way, giving him an uncharacteristically ramshackle appearance. His eyes were suspiciously bright, and there were dark circles beneath each one. His expression was one of someone who was terribly apprehensive, but had drunk enough to be belligerent about it. Crowley found that there was kinship in his heart for just that mood, and prepared to welcome the angel in so that they might be belligerent together.

“You,” said Crowley.

“Me,” said Aziraphale, and hiccupped, raising his hand to his mouth and flushing at this failure of good manners. “Beg pardon,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.

Crowley softened further.

“Y’better come in,” he slurred, and moved back to let Aziraphale walk past him.

“What was your little plan, then?”

Unwisely, Crowley had poured Aziraphale a whisky so that the angel might join him in his drinking session. Neither of them was in any fit state to be having this conversation. But it appeared that they would be having it, nonetheless.

Now that they had got into it, Aziraphale, although rather pale and pinched looking, was managing to give a decent facsimile of his usual self-righteous demeanour, albeit a rather intoxicated version of the same. Crowley had already insisted, several times, that he was not harbouring any self-destructive tendencies:

Come on, Aziraphale, it’s me you’re talking to. I love my life—why would I want to end it? I’m not some, some  swooning maiden on a fainting couch, I’m a demon, for badness sake, I’ve been through far worse than the humans can throw at me—it’s ‘cause I  like it here so much that I asked you in the first place.

This little declaration had only resulted in a devastating expression of compassion appearing across the angel’s face, his drink-sodden eyes becoming impossibly sad and watering distressingly, filled with what an uncomfortable Crowley had suspected were latent tears. In order to stave off anything that might resemble pity—Crowley couldn’t bear to be in the receiving end of that—he had begun babbling about his actual intentions with regard to the future use of the substance he had hoped to obtain as a weapon of, not exactly mass, more rather specific, destruction. It would have been fair to say, at that point, that his line of reasoning was not going down terribly well with his ethereal companion.

“Jus’,” explained Crowley, with very little verbal finesse. “Jus’ chuck it at anyone who comes for me, an’, an’ run, while they do the ol’ melty thing,” he finished up, lamely.

Aziraphale performed a full body shudder in response to this, then frowned, deeply, considering the plan Crowley had just outlined.

“But,” the angel said, at last. “But that makes… makes no sense at all! It would merely serve to make you a marked man, Crowley! That…” He waved a hand about. “That’d give the other demons the thing, watchyoumacallit…Hmmmm…” His eyes went distant for a moment, then he snapped back into what little focus he was currently able to achieve. “Ah, yes, carte blanche, to hunt you down once you’d killed one of them. My dear fellow, you wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“Oh, well… Thank you very much for the vote of confidence, Azir… angel,” sniped Crowley, scowling as he took another swig of whisky. Aziraphale sniffed the sniff of someone who wished the listener to know exactly how deeply unimpressed they were.

“You’re just cross ‘cause you know I’m right,” the angel said decisively, holding out his glass for a top-up. Crowley leaned across from his seat on the leather sofa and obliged.

“‘nk you, dear,” said Aziraphale, and took another hearty gulp.

“’S better… better ’n’ the alternative anyway. An’, an’ it’s a big universe up there,” observed Crowley, sagely. He pointed upwards with a wavering hand, index finger raised above the rim of his glass. 

Aziraphale dutifully studied the ceiling.

“Plenty places to squir, squee, squirrel m’self away,” Crowley managed, finally. “An’ as you keep pointing out, I’m a, a wily serpent. Can do anything I put my mind to. Anything. Original tempter, me, author of modesty, an’ that.”

Aziraphale snorted inelegantly into his glass at this last remark, obviously recalling the original conversation.

“Don’t you bring Ingersoll into this,” he said, giving Crowley a look that was part exasperation, part something almost like a plea.

Crowley, ignored him, determined to dig his heels in. They sat in silence for a while, each stewing, if not in their own juice, then in a very fine thirty year old single malt.

Then, as if sensing that he wasn’t going to get any further with his original line of argument, Aziraphale changed tack. He looked across at Crowley, narrowing his eyes in a manner that the demon knew from long experience indicated that Aziraphale believed he was about to be extremely cunning. Crowley, for his part, wasn’t sure if this development served to make him more irritated, or embarrassingly fond. Bless it, but he was weak for this infuriating creature.

“What if,” the angel began, leaning forward in the upright bentwood chair he had summoned over from the bookshop on his arrival, and placed in front of Crowley where he was sprawled across his leather sofa. “What if I required protection?” he finished up, sitting back in his chair again with the complacent look of an angel who had just put his opponent in check.

Crowley couldn’t resist this opening (he rarely ever could, if truth be told).

“I’d say, ask your barber for something for the weekend,” snorted Crowley, consumed by the brilliance of his own repartee.

The joke sailed over Aziraphale’s head and met an ignominious end on the wall behind him. The angel merely gazed silently at Crowley, a look of deep puzzlement etching frown lines on his sozzled, pretty face.

“I was asking you,” he said, enunciating his words carefully, “if you might see your way to procuring me some Fell-hire.”

There was a pause, while Crowley bent his inebriated brain to the vexed question of what the fuck it was Aziraphale was on about. “No,” said the angel, frowning again, “that wasn’t what I meant at all.”

Then his face cleared. “Hellfire, that’s what I was speaking of. You could get that for me, for, for protection. ‘Case I get caught tempting for you.”

“Fuck no!” said Crowley, without having to think about it, “I’m not giving you that. ’S dangerous.”

“Ha!” said Aziraphale, obnoxiously smug, “That’s the kettle calling the, the, ah, kettle black.”

“You mean the pot,” said Crowley.

“Pot?” said Aziraphale, bewildered at this swerve away from what he had been sure was the triumphant conclusion to his reasoning. “What pot?”

“It’s the pot calling the kettle black. Oh bollocks, you’ve got me at it now. It doesn’ matter. Point is, I’m not getting you any.”

“Ha,” said Aziraphale again, “I rest my case.”

“It’s not the same!” protested Crowley.

“Is,” said Aziraphale, mutinously.

“It’s much more unstable, has a mind of its own, that stuff, you don’ know what you’re talking about it could, could…”

“What? Destroy me? Burn me to a crisp? Kill me utterly?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? Why does it bother you?” and suddenly Aziraphale’s face was a mask of misery, his voice thickening with what Crowley suspected very much were tears. “It’s not like we’re friends. You already told me what you think—you don’t need me—what do you care if I live or die?”

They were both very drunk, and in some part of his mind, Crowley knew this, knew that they were being more emotional with each other than they had ever allowed themselves to be before. Had he been sober, he would never have even considered saying what he did next, opening his heart and letting his true feelings bleed out into the diffuse light of his uncomfortable dwelling place. Even drunk, there was a tiny voice in his head warning him that he was likely to regret it. Suppressing that small internal saboteur, he let the vital word fall from his lips.

“Do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do need you.”

There was a very heavy silence. Aziraphale stared, mouth in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

“I lied, okay?” said Crowley, desperately, “I do need you. I love you angel! And you’re not having any bloody Hellfire!”

There was no time to draw breath, or allow regret to set-in before the angel was shaking his head with evident frustration.

“No, no, that’s not right,” said Aziraphale, hotly, “It’s me that loves you, you idiot. That’s why I refuse to give you a single drop of Holy Water!”

They stared at each other, each of them seemingly lost in the same confusion.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, simply, becoming very still on his chair, gazing at Crowley, shock writ large upon his face.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were wet, and Crowley found his own were in a similar condition.

“Do…? Do you mean it, angel. You really…?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, quiet now and sounding much more sober, “I do mean it, very much. Oh, my dear. My dear, dear, Crowley.”

Crowley launched, or tried to launch himself from the sofa towards his angel companion who now was smiling shyly through his tears. With all the elegance of a new born giraffe, he tripped over his own feet on the way up, and then he was falling, the black and red Persian rug on the floor in front of his sofa rising to meet him with a horrible inevitability.

Anticipating a humiliating face-plant, Crowley closed his eyes, only to find his progression halted suddenly. Warm hands took hold of him, bore him up and held him firmly. Opening his eyes, he found himself face to face with Aziraphale, who had wrapped both arms about his body, bracing his hands against the demon’s back to keep him steady. The angel’s eyes were deep blue and overwhelming, filled with love and tenderness, all of it directed straight at the very core of Crowley. 

Without thinking too much about it, and because they were right there tempting him, plump and pink and slightly parted, Crowley crushed his lips to Aziraphale’s in an open mouthed kiss suffused with longing.

There was a moment of pure emotional vertigo, where it seemed as if Aziraphale was cast in stone, his mouth motionless against Crowley’s. Just as the screaming was about to start in Crowley’s head, Aziraphale gathered him more closely to his chest and started kissing back. It was unpractised, messy and uncoordinated but at the same time also warm and lush and wonderful. The angel’s mouth was soft and yielding, he tasted of tears, and whisky, and hope.

After some indeterminable time, they broke apart with one last tender cling of lip to lip. Aziraphale was still essentially holding Crowley upright, which was lucky, because he felt as if his knees had turned to some kind of semi-liquid state. Somehow, he found his feet, and brought his own arms up and round the padded width of Aziraphale’s shoulders. His partner’s expression was beatific, eyes as soft as Crowley had ever seen them. The angel’s breath hitched in a ragged sigh, and leaning forward, he brought their two foreheads together. They swayed together for a while, drunk on each other’s nearness as well as the prodigious quantities of alcohol each had consumed. Crowley, besotted, refused to think beyond the present moment as they held each other in a perfectly contented, intoxicated haze.

It was bliss.

“My dear,” Aziraphale broke the silence, “I do believe we ought to sober up.”

“Do we have to? Like it here, ’s’nice.”

Aziraphale gave him an affectionate squeeze.

“I really think we should, and we should talk.”

Crowley gave a long groan. He was a demon who knew his limits. Drunk was good, he could do drunk. Talking? Not so much.

“It will be alright,” said Aziraphale, gently, “Do you trust me.?”

Crowley groaned again, dramatically. Aziraphale tutted.

“Yes, yes—‘course I do,” admitted Crowley with an alcoholic sigh. “Right angel,” he drawled, “ let’s do that thing.”

They clung together, shuddering through the unpleasant process of eliminating the alcohol from their corporations. It felt so good to be held, and at the same time to have his angel safe in his arms. Aziraphale felt solid and real against his torso, the padded warmth of his barrel chest and full stomach pressing against him in a way that made Crowley feel as if he had come home. Still Aziraphale held him, rubbing his back and murmuring endearments as if Crowley was somebody dear and precious to him. He buried his face in the angel’s neck, inhaled his delicious scent and found himself thinking that here was a sanctuary he might never want to leave.

Crowley opened his eyes and raised his head to see Aziraphale’s tired face right in front of his own. Aziraphale smiled at once, and it was a small, sweet, private thing just for the two of them, full of love and the promise of good things to come. Crowley could not help but respond to it it with an honest smile of his own.

“Tell me again, angel,” he said, not thinking too hard about why he so urgently needed to hear the words now that his mind was clear. “Kiss me again,” he added, greedy for everything, suddenly.

“Which should I begin with?” The angel’s voice was sweet, hesitant, a little amused.

“Tell me,” said Crowley, “I’d like to hear it again, if you… If you still want…”

“I still want,” the voice was stronger now, more sure. “Of course I do.”

Aziraphale pulled back, gripped Crowley by his shoulders and, maintaining eye contact, a resolute look on his face, spoke very clearly, enunciating his words in those cultured tones Crowley had grown to love over centuries.

“I do love you, Crowley, so very much. I, I… I couldn’t bear it if, if…” His voice veered off into something higher pitched, almost strangulated, and his face contorted miserably. Crowley pulled Aziraphale to him, holding him as close as he could, smoothing a hand down the angel’s spine as he spoke directly into his ear.

“It was so I could say goodbye, that’s why I wanted it.”

Aziraphale sobbed, and shook in his arms, clearly not understanding.

“No, love, you don’t get it. It was to buy me enough time to get to you, tell you what had happened so you wouldn’t think I’d just gone off and left you. So I could get the chance to say goodbye,” he repeated, gruffly.

Crowley swallowed, and closed his eyes, holding the weeping angel closer.

“I wanted to be able to see you one last time, just in case they didn’t let me come back up again. Wanted a picture, in my head, so that I would remember you—okay? Do you see?”

“Oh Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale’s voice was wavering and small. Crowley felt the tears and held him through it, making what he hoped were comforting noises as the angel wept. 

Aziraphale drew back, and although his eyes were watery, and a little pink around the edges, they were filled with an adoration that was almost shy. Then the angel smiled at him, a smile something like the first dawning that they had both seen long ago in Eden, and Crowley felt magnificent to be the cause of it.

The angel’s face wore an expression that, he realised, he had caught the tail-end of many times before, not previously daring to to believe it meant anything specific to him. Now he was in receipt of the full force of Aziraphale’s delight, of his love, and he could see, without needing to be told, just what the angel held in his heart for him.

It was a lot—almost, but not quite—too much. So he did what he guessed Aziraphale was urging him to do with those suggestive eyes of his, and inclined his head to capture the angel’s lips with his own once more, surer, now, of his welcome. This time Aziraphale made a more obvious sound of pleasure as their mouths opened to each other. Something, Crowley reckoned, even more appreciative than those noises previously reserved for crème brûlée or raspberry parfait. Crowley, though quite lost to his own sensations of pleasure, found the time to feel a little smug at this accomplishment.

Kissing, as it turned out, was quite addictive. Aziraphale was so responsive, bringing a soft, broad hand to smooth up the length of Crowley’s neck and slide his fingers into Crowley’s hair. Crowley, for his part, wrapped a sinewy arm about Aziraphale’s substantial waist, splaying the fingers of his other hand along the soft line of the angel’s jaw.

Whether it was the residual effects of the alcohol or just mutual inclination, they ended up falling full length on the leather sofa, Crowley sprawled across the breadth of the angel’s chest, their legs tangled together. They continued to kiss, quite desperate for one another, kissing and kissing as if they might never stop.

“Darling. My Crowley, I love you so much,” breathed Aziraphale, once he had possession of his mouth to speak, looking up at him, dazedly as Crowley worked to untie the silk cravat at his neck. Crowley met that gaze with a loving one of his own, then bent once more to kiss the secret place he had exposed, feeling the race of his angel’s hot pulse beneath the tender skin.

“This alright?” he murmured, undoing buttons between kisses.

“Yes, oh yes.” Aziraphale was breathless now.

“Mmmm. Angel, my angel. Love you too, sweetheart. Come here.”

“I am here. My love, my own, my dearest boy.”

“Come here-er. That’s it. Now, where were we?”

“Here,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him again.

“We shall have to be careful,” observed Aziraphale. Crowley, his ear pressed to the angel’s chest, and feeling the vibrations of his voice, merely responded by kissing the soft skin of his partner’s breast, letting out a lazy ‘Mmmmhmmm’.

Skin was really lovely, as it turned out. Aziraphale’s was, at any rate. Soft, smooth and warm. The angel’s generous body was a delight, so much to hold and revel in, and all of it eliciting the most satisfying noises from his sensitive, responsive love.

They were curled up together under a blanket that Crowley had brought into being, ostensibly to keep Aziraphale warm. In reality, it was the thought of cuddling close with his angel beneath it that had been the main attraction. Aziraphale had been just as keen, so thankfully, there had been no need for any awkward conversation on the matter. Now they lay quietly together, Crowley wrapped, like the snake he was, around Aziraphale’s plush curves in just the manner that he had so often fantasised about.

The sex (lovemaking, Aziraphale had insisted, to Crowley’s secret delight), had been clumsy, and ridiculous and very, very human. They had laughed their way through the mechanics of it, learning as they went, until the overwhelming pleasure had rendered them both beyond speech or laughter, breathlessly blended together, transported in bliss.

Even better, to Crowley’s way of thinking, was the intimacy they now shared. Aziraphale’s gentle fingers played in the short hairs at his nape, giving him goose pimples, while his other arm was wrapped firmly about Crowley, a warm hand against his back, cradling him close as if he were something to be cherished. It was all done so naturally, as if Aziraphale had waited years to have this outlet for his particular affections.

Crowley felt drowsy, replete, contented, his guard, for once, entirely relaxed.

“Mmmmmh, yeah,” he repeated, then what Aziraphale had said percolated through his rational mind, and he raised his head to meet the angel’s eyes.

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, “ said Aziraphale, stroking the skin at the base of Crowley’s spine in a most distracting manner, “I am very conscious of the fact that what we are currently doing would be frowned on, at best, by our respective superiors.”

“Sleeping with the enemy,” said Crowley, with a grin. “Fraternising, even—is that what you mean?”

“Oh dear, that was most unkind of me. Crowley, I am so very sorry.”

“Nah, angel, I’m only teasing. I understand.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, his eyes dark and serious in the shadowy room, “I should like to explain, if you’d allow me.” Crowley inclined his head, listening, so Aziraphale continued. 

“We were briefed about it extensively, just before I was sent down on my first assignment after the Garden. They ran refresher courses regularly at first, when we were all new to the job. And it was what we all became used to calling it, back in the day, because it was drummed into us so thoroughly—no fraternising—with demons, particularly…”

Crowley snorted, and kissed the angel’s chest again, eliciting a happy giggle from his companion.

“… but it applied to the humans too,” said Aziraphale, blushing prettily “—no contact other than that which is necessary to expedite assignments—that is how they put it in the manual. I used the term without thinking. I know that’s no excuse—I should have thought—but I was so taken aback. Please forgive me, dearest.”

“It’s really alright, angel.” Crowley gentled his voice, knowing that his anxious angel would need to hear his forgiveness. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I really didn’t. Your friendship has always been so important to me, even if I couldn’t admit it out loud. That brings me back to my original point. We must be careful Crowley, if we are to… Oh, perhaps I am presuming far too much…?”

“You’re not, Aziraphale. I… yeah, I’d like to keep on doing this, if you would. And yeah, we’ll have to…”

He sat up and looked down at Aziraphale. 

“We’ll have to prepare ourselves, you’re right,” he said, more animated, suddenly. “You can get me Holy Water then! For security, insurance—yeah?” He pouted slightly, making his eyes, that Aziraphale had already complimented several times, as wide and guileless as he was able. Aziraphale’s expression changed from one of the fondest admiration to that petulant look that Crowley had always particularly enjoyed.

“What? No!” he said, crossly. “Don’t you try and get round me that way. I know you, you old serpent. Just because we’ve…”

Aziraphale looked vexed, and flushed and more than a little mortified, and Crowley brimmed with love for him. Emboldened, the demon pressed home his advantage.

“We’ve what, angel?”

“You know,” said Aziraphale, blushing more deeply.

“Oh yeah, I know, alright,” said Crowley, with a leer. “I was right here when you did that thing…”

“Stop it, you wicked tease,” Aziraphale interrupted, amusingly flustered. “Now… now look, Crowley. I need to keep you safe, it’s important to me.”

“And I you. You know that,” said Crowley, interrupting in his turn. “Got you out of trouble in France that time, didn’t I?”

“You did, my darling hero,” Aziraphale’s voice was soft again, and he looked at Crowley with those doe eyes that he never had been able to resist. “So,” he continued, “what I am suggesting is that we might try to face any potential threat together.

“Together,” said Crowley, “I like the sound of that.”

“Would you promise me, demon of my heart,” wheedled Aziraphale, “that if there is any threat, you will come to me immediately?”

“I will, if you promise to do the same.”

“I shall, I promise. I think we have a gentleman’s agreement. I believe the human custom is to shake on it, when one concludes such things, but from you, my love, I would much prefer a kiss.”

“It won’t be easy,” warned Crowley, “ having a clandestine, uh, thing.”

“Affair,” intoned Aziraphale, giving the word a delicious resonance that indicated he was in no way displeased at the prospect. “A clandestine arrangement, but one, I suspect, that would not garner us any more displeasure from our respective sides than the existing situation, truth be told.”

“Good point,” said Crowley, “ and it’ll be worth it.”

“Worth it, yes, so very much. I’ve loved you for so long, my dear, and it’s such a relief to be able to tell you of it, truly.”

The angel’s smile rivalled the rising sun which at that moment was sending golden light slanting in through the east-facing window of Crowley’s living room. A new day, and what seemed for both of them to be a new beginning also.

“Breakfast, angel?” said Crowley, knowing the best way to Aziraphale’s heart, as if he hadn’t got there already.

“A wonderful idea, my sweet. But first, I believe that you owe me a kiss, to conclude our most recent agreement.”

“I believe I do,” said Crowley. So he took his angel in his arms to deliver on his promise.

And they sealed their new Arrangement, with a kiss.