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In Fathomless Blue, He Falls
To love you is to desire that which is holy. To whisper the words of a psalm against bloodied lips, to sing the verses of a hymn in the tongue of angels, even when the mere utterance of such scripture destroys the very fabric of me. If I should die by the poison of Grace, by the forbidden act of loving you, then think fondly of me. For I shall have fled existence the same way a black hole consumes galaxies. Softly, then all at once.
***
It is in the neon gloom that solace finds him, a jumble of crooked angles sprawled across a booth in the murky periphery of the bar. The shadows cling to him like an oil slick, adorn his slim frame in velvet silks of cosmos black, pierced only by the blood-red crop of his hair.
Crowley does not know why he is here. No. Perhaps that is a bad choice of phrasing for a demon. He exists to stir up trouble, knows which strings to pull and which temptations to whisper. What he doesn’t know is why he is sitting in some dingy Soho nightclub as the nocturnal swell of patrons clamour about him in their psychedelic droves, leaking ashen billows into air already thick with brume.
Maybe it had been the rumours, the ones surfacing on every tabloid headline in recent days; humanity’s grand ambition to walk on the moon. Or it may have been nothing more than the midnight stillness, the silence that grates at the edge of day, gnawing at the bones of all lonely things cast unto this world.
Lonely things like Crowley.
He had walked aimlessly for a time, drifting through lamplit streets like some whiplash spectre, tethered to the gravity of his boredom. He had prowled neon alleyways (a fine job of lurking, he might add), trod through the damp musk of cobbled paths, owl-eyed lenses reflecting the city’s garish illuminations even as the autumn rains had begun to fall. And then, he had simply stopped, passing through a set of doors as though he belonged, and sat down, and watched, and waited.
For what, exactly, Crowley is hopelessly unsure.
Up on the stage, a stirring of movement catches his eye, and he turns toward it, a curious frown stretching the blush from his lips. A woman is standing in the veil of smoke, teasing feather-light kisses to the crowd as they surge forward in interest, applauding as the gleam of a microphone stand is set before her.
Perhaps, this is what drew him here, Crowley thinks. He had often found familiarity in music, the melodies reminiscent of a time Before. When his wings had shimmered ivory and gold, and choirs of pitch-perfect Seraphim rang throughout the halls of Heaven.
Maybe it is what he needs. To be reminded. To forget.
A sharp puff of breath echoes across the room as the singer presses the microphone to her lips, and there is a surreal, lingering moment of weightlessness before the first words wrench from her in a panting rasp.
Crowley almost jolts from his seat, the sound rocketing through his body, entwined with the delicate thrum of bass, the subtle notes of piano keys that send a cacophony of vibrations rolling across his skin.
He had heard the tale of Orpheus whilst posing as a merchant in ancient Greece; the lover and his music so divine, even the god of the Underworld had become entranced by its beauty.
Perhaps, it is happening again, Crowley supposes. A looping tale of mortals captivating the minds of demons.
His hands reach out, slipping across polished wood, claw-like fingers ensnaring a bandy flask he tips to his lips. There is a loud gulp, a wince; the alcohol burning as it slithers into the hungry void of him, and suddenly, Crowley is alive, opioid numb and cocaine high all at once. The music is intoxicating, a slow-brewed moonshine of sultry tones that drip like honey and, as the smoke clears, he catches a glimpse of the singer’s face.
Her head is thrown back in a salacious manner, eyes screwed tightly shut, lost to the same moment of musical euphoria. Crowley studies them intently, watches as the pinched slits drift open with flash-bang flutters, revealing a pair of cerulean irises that seem to glow in the misty haze.
They are a devastating blue and, for a moment, Crowley stares into the fires of burning sulphur that had consumed him so long ago. He can almost visualise the heat of it, the pain, the overwhelming feeling of loss, and, beneath it all, the ghost-limb ache of something recognisable.
They are the eyes of his angel, worn by a complete stranger.
It has been two years since Crowley last saw Aziraphale. Two years since the world had become nothing more than a jumble of TV static, an endless din of white noise and looping pictures. He would often wander past A.Z. Fell and Co., hoping to catch a glimpse of him. A tuft of cotton-blond hair poking behind an armchair, or the angel’s favourite mug left forgotten on the countertop, filled with cocoa and a dollop of cream. Just as he liked it.
But the bookshop had been uncharacteristically haunted. No sign of its bumbling owner rooting between the shelves. No warm glow cast from table lamps or candlelight. Not even the occasional customer wandering in by foolishness or mistake. Forgotten. Nothing but an empty space. A blown-out crater where once there was something.
Perhaps, as Crowley has come to accept, Aziraphale wants to be left alone. And yet, he still returns like a loyal hound frequenting his master’s grave, with the same foolish persistence that once drove Icarus into the sea. He is too afraid to stop. Terrified that whatever magic the angel has used to remain hidden might mean that Crowley will eventually forget him, too.
With a quiet sniffle, the demon throws back the last of his brandy, watching as the lights dip low, accentuating the imposter’s fathomless gaze. He remembers when Aziraphale had last regarded him with those eyes, really looked at him, probably for the first time since their ill-fated argument on the banks of St. James nearly a century ago. He had worn that unbearable, too-soft expression of his, the one that said: ‘I’m scared. For you. For us.’ And under all the turmoil and confusion, the heartfelt reasoning: ‘Because I care.’
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
And that, that, had nearly destroyed him.
He had remained there for a time, perhaps a part of him still did. Stranded in the Bentley, clutching the thermos to his chest, sucking in fruitless breaths as though the angel had taken all the air with him.
It was not the words that hurt. Crowley is patient. He can wait. It is a serpent’s nature to move carefully, to coil in sheltered places and bide one’s strike. And yet, there was that look. The one that tore at the very seams of him, made him ache so terribly he thought he may be dying.
Drowning. Falling. Tumbling headfirst into the grave.
Annihilation; the unspoken penalty of his blasphemy should Hell ever find out. One wrong step, a brush too close, too bold, and it will all be over. But Aziraphale is missing! And there are nights when Crowley reaches the end of his tether and yowls his name up and down the streets of London, until his voice grows ragged and brittle with the pain…
Crowley does not know when it happened. When friendly acquaintanceship had blossomed into more. When want to be around the angel had turned to need, though Crowley still admits to having plenty of the former.
He does want Aziraphale. Desires him the way a moth yearns to court the moon. To taste the nectar of him, indulge in the feeling of his tulip mouth moulded to his. To tangle their limbs in configurations of obsidian scales and dove-bright feathers, until there is no distinction, only the intertwining, star-knit paths of their orbit. A sin born of gentleness, whispered in the glory of Her name! Beautiful. Sacred. Forbidden.
A silly, impossible dream.
Crowley blinks, distracted by the prickle of tears sliding down his nose. It takes him a moment to realise the band is no longer playing, the exits already awash in a sea of tie-dye, of bodies packed too close in their bid to retire home for the evening.
He wipes his face and, with niggling intuition, registers the pair of radiant blue eyes watching him. The singer is perched on the opposite edge of the crescent booth, her head tilted wistfully to one side.
“Enjoy the show, honey?” she coos, raking the tip of an elegantly manicured nail across the table. Crowley shivers at the sound of it, and briefly considers getting up and leaving. He is most certainly not in the mood to entertain idle chit-chat, and yet, he suddenly finds himself too exhausted to move, pinned by the gentle familiarity of her.
He nods.
The singer’s lips quirk in a satisfied smile. She appraises him briefly, flint-sharp gaze darting to his face. “A little dark for glasses, don’t you think? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re a man with something to hide.” She barks a laugh, though it is not unkind.
Crowley opens his mouth. He doesn’t know whether he should fumble up an excuse or rage against her insight, but before he can make a decision, the woman raises a hand between them. “Course, I don’t need to see your eyes to tell me what I already know. There’s… a sadness in you.”
Crowley tenses, body jarred by a humourless snort, a flash of too many teeth. In any other situation, it may have seemed remotely menacing, but he is too brittle from his ruminations to offer even a token threat.
The singer does not falter. She presses onward, deft as a battlefield medic rooting for the bullet lodged in an artery. The swift pull to break him. “There a lady on your mind, sweetheart?”
“No.” Crowley shakes his head, then hesitates. He clears his throat. “Not exactly…”
Across from him, the angel-eyed imposter purses her lips in a soft, knowing frown, though it is evidently born of understanding rather than ridicule.
“Well,” she says, voice quieting as she leans forward, gripping Crowley’s hand. “The world’s a funny place. Not thirty years ago we were slaughtering each other in the trenches, and now”—she gestures toward a newspaper abandoned on a nearby table, its front-page swollen with a gaudy illustration of Houston’s newest rocket—“we’re dreaming of touching the moon. Perhaps, the two endeavours aren’t so different.”
She winks, rising from her seat, but not before casting a soft, hopeful expression behind her shoulder.
“The way I see it, everything is impossible before we actually do it.”
Crowley quirks an eyebrow, watching her leave, and his attention drifts to a small, fog-stained window, catching a sliver of cloudless pitch beyond the rooftops. The moon hangs brilliantly between them and Crowley finds a smile teasing at his lips despite himself.
Maybe, just maybe, there is hope for a demon and an angel yet.
A few miles away, as if in answer, life stirs for the first time in two years as the bookshop’s lights turn on. The flicker of candle glow nips at the darkness of Soho dawn, and, within the star-speckled pitch of Crowley’s night-black soul, the sun breaks.