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Passing through the dark like silent ships at night,
Drifting on the waves to find a beacon,
A peaceful harbour.
Here you are again just like so many times before
To share with me the stories of our lives.
- Eventide, Kamelot
‿ 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ‿
Three things, according to Aziraphale’s observational skills, have been happening with an increased frequency lately.
First, it’s been raining a lot.
In and of itself, it isn’t something a regular Londoner would pick up on (which he isn’t by definition but for the sake of appearances identifies himself as such), were his attention not drawn by the suddenness of it. His angelic senses going all tingly.
One moment he’s looking out his window, marvelling at the blueness of the skies and the buoyant colours of the commotion that all but invite him to take a stroll or enjoy a nice cup of cocoa at the cafe across the street. But as soon as he’s changed out of his home wear and slipped out of the door, making sure to stay unnoticed by any potential customers as he manoeuvres among them, the weather starts getting worse. The wind lunges at him in a swirl. Out of nowhere clouds swoop in, growing darker and heavier with every passing second. Until, as if having been starved for warmth, they swallow the last traces of sunshine.
A flash of silver from above gives Aziraphale his last warning before a peal of thunder rolls across the street with a force so overpowering, it almost feels like the ground would rupture under his feet.
Sometimes he gets as far as two blocks from the bookshop before he’s inevitably caught in a downpour, taking in the scuffle around him. People rush to find shelter inside the nearest establishment or under its awning, their hubbub muffled by the pelting of the rain.
Aziraphale doesn’t mind getting wet as much as most humans do. Or as much as he claims to under certain conditions. Despite his disinclination of resorting to his angelic powers lately, technically he can perform a quick blessing to make himself dry at any given moment, should he choose to.
Therefore, sooner or later he finds himself held up in the middle of an almost deserted street, drenched to the tips of his toes, scanning the haze for the tell-tale gleam in the distance. The headlights of the Bentley that slice through it like a beacon of hope.
This brings him to the second thing, Crowley . Who manages to always manifest himself at the aforementioned scene.
The first handful of times Aziraphale’s plans have been curtailed by the inclement weather, he’s accredited the demon’s presence to chance. But even someone as gullible as some might consider him to be would start to harbour suspicions eventually. Which he does a great deal, intrigued by how the two events correlate in the first place. So much so that Aziraphale might’ve deliberately placed himself in the situation (once or twice, not that he’s counting), blaming it on his inquisitive nature and penchant for mystery.
The Bentley veers towards the curb and comes to an abrupt halt, sending splashes of muddy water all over Aziraphale’s attire. The door of the car swings open to reveal a sight so familiar Aziraphale could draw it from memory if he ever needed to.
“Crowley,” he says avidly, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”
This time around his declaration’s met with a stiff silence Aziraphale can’t quite define. As if the two of them haven’t been following the same scenario where the lines have been rehearsed to the point of there being little to read between them.
“Get in, angel,” Crowley prompts at last, barely audible over the torrential rain.
Dismissing a hint of gloominess in his voice Aziraphale must’ve imagined, he climbs inside, water dripping all over the upholstery. He folds his hands in his lap as he side-eyes the demon for a reaction. There’s been a time when Crowley would’ve given him an earful for even thinking of getting in the car in such an unseemly condition.
When Aziraphale doesn’t get as much as a grunt, he still wipes his hands on the lapels of his coat, wondering when has it ceased being so. Neither of his efforts helps in the slightest.
“When did you stop fretting over the car?” He manages to ask before the Bentley swerves onto the road. The lurch gives Aziraphale’s insides a jolt he hasn’t yet gotten used to, and he grabs onto the handle for purchase.
“Ngk,” he hears Crowley say off-hand. “When did you stop being obsessed with your clothes?”
Aziraphale is too preoccupied with holding on to his corporation as it keeps being thrown to and fro to even think of a response.
By the time they reach their destination, the downpour tends to dwindle to a drizzle. The gentle tap-tap on the windshield that one could easily tune out. Were Aziraphale to look up, he’d spot a break in the clouds where the sun peeks out with caution as if at any moment it might get scolded for disobedience and forced back to its hiding place.
When the two of them step outside, he notices what’s left of the crowd dispersing, picking up where they’ve left off. Albeit in a hurry, lest it starts pouring again.
The air’s suffused with mysterious notes of petrichor he’s rather fond of, and Aziraphale allows himself a moment of breathing it in before following Crowley into the bookshop.
This concludes with the third and last thing, the consumption of alcohol which, without fail, leads to some questionable results.
Once they’re safely inside, Crowley pulls his shades off, forcing them into their assigned (against Aziraphale’s numerous protests) place on the horse’s statue. Eyes bright and unguarded, he turns towards Aziraphale with a “Half a miracle?” mouthed more than said, as if anyone might be listening in. “The usual?”
Half a miracle’s something they came up with after the stunt they’d pulled off with their respective head offices a couple of years ago.
Cut off from both, neither of them knew for certain whether either Heaven or Hell kept an eye on them, to begin with. All things considered, Aziraphale reasoned it would be safer to keep a low profile at least until both sides moved on to other affairs. The agreement was sealed with a handshake and included, if it could be helped, abstaining from using their powers.
When later the same night an occasion arose that deemed either angelic or demonic intervention unavoidable, the idea first crossed Aziraphale’s mind.
The two of them were celebrating their newfound freedom by indulging in alcohol inside the bookshop. Amounts so obscene that he has difficulty recalling what transpired after the following sequence. But he’s digressing.
Half a case of wine in, it occurred to Aziraphale that at some point they’d need to sober up with no means to do so. In no uncertain terms, he relayed that conclusion to his companion who by then was so drunk he’d managed to lose half of his clothes somewhere.
“’s awful…a hangover,” Crowley slurred, picking up a bottle as if Aziraphale hadn’t just said what he had said.
“D’you think either of ‘em would notice if we—” Aziraphale made a vague gesture with his hand that by the lost look on Crowley’s face hadn’t translated as well as intended, “—y’know… Perform one teeny-weeny miracle together?”
That most of his dubious conclusions sprung from his inebriated brain would certainly profit from a closer inspection with a clear head. That Crowley approved of the conclusions in question, perhaps less so . But when Aziraphale comes to his full senses, he tends to forget that it used to bother him in the first place. It’s a vicious circle, really.
Upon having communicated said idea, he watched Crowley attempt to fill his glass, succeeding only in spilling wine all over his barely-covered upper body. “Like… Half a miracle each?” The demon restated while glaring at the useless vessel.
“Something like that… I s’pose, yes.”
Impressed with his ability to find solutions in grave situations, Crowley tore his eyes from the empty glass in his hand to give him a lopsided smile. “It could actually work, angel.”
That minor inconvenience sorted out, there was no reason to stop their celebrations back then. As there was no reason to deny themselves a bottle of good liquor once in a while thereafter. Or any whims of a fickle mind, come to think of it. They figured that as long as neither of them used their powers on their own, their respective head offices would never get wind of what they were up to.
Not that they’ve been up to anything.
“I’m begging you,” Aziraphale tells Crowley presently as he takes a step towards him, his hand already extended for the taking. “You know how I loathe getting wet.”
Like they’ve done hundreds of times by now, Crowley slides his hand inside Aziraphale’s slightly damp one. “Why don’t you ever seek cover then” – he shrugs – “I don’t know, somewhere ?” With their eyes locked, both of them curl their fingers around each other.
Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that there’s likely no need for such an intense handhold, or any physical contact whatsoever. But since that first night, it’s become a ritual Crowley hasn’t yet objected to. And Aziraphale, old-fashioned as he is, finds himself eager to uphold an established tradition. The warmth of Crowley’s skin feels nice to the touch, his palm tingling ever so delightfully when their powers, summoned from opposite sides, meet in the middle.
With barely half a breath spent, they take care of Aziraphale’s appearance, the mess he’s left in the car and muddy footprints across the flooring.
Their hands linger for just a spell longer as Aziraphale offers Crowley a grateful smile. “What would be the point?” he says before reluctantly withdrawing.
He glances out the window where the rain seems to have picked up again, heavy drops pummelling the glass and cascading down in meandering rivulets. It’s grown so dark he can barely see past the other side of the street where pale lights are trapped inside sequestered buildings. Their usually bustling corner looks wiped out and properly abandoned now, with even the most adventurous Londoners doubtful of the rain ever letting up.
Since Crowley loathes getting wet more than anyone Aziraphale has ever met, they’re once again stranded inside until the weather clears. Even if it wasn’t the case, the truth is that the thought of letting Crowley drive in such hazardous conditions makes him uneasy. Another truth (that Aziraphale is less conscious of and even less prepared to deal with) is that he’s only fully at peace when the demon’s around.
Without further ado, he sets to go fetch them a bottle of something special from the cellar, doffing his coat on the way. “What are you in the mood for today, my dear?” He asks as he hangs it on the rack. “How about a nice bottle of 1945 Romanee Conti?”
Where he’s spreading his limbs in his favourite armchair, Crowley’s raised eyebrows betray his surprise. “There aren’t any, angel. We finished them all off, remember?”
“There were exactly three bottles left, actually,” Aziraphale points out with a poorly concealed air of smugness. “I’ve tracked them all down over the years.”
“The ones from—?” Failing to summarise his recollections, he lets Aziraphale fill in the blanks.
Aziraphale, on his part, only offers a nod of admission before disappearing behind the corner with a spring to his walk. They might end up ill-matched, their memories, and he’s rather used to keeping his cards close to his heart. How would one put in a nutshell one of the best and worst times of one’s life anyway? With the candlelit dinner after the magic show fiasco after they’d restored the bottles to their previous state to drain them all afterwards? Or the incident with his head getting nearly blown off, along with the cover they’d been carefully maintaining for centuries? Or the photo he’s kept in one of Jane Austen’s books ever since for no particular reason?
Traipsing down the stairs, he realises that after thousands of years of hiding their relationship from Heaven and Hell, it can’t exactly sink in that they don’t need to try that hard anymore. They don’t need to put up a facade for the sake of anyone who might or might not be spying. Their routine of clandestine meetings and the fear of getting caught are so ingrained in the very molecules of his being, that to change his way of thinking resembles a flavour he has yet to familiarise himself with.
They could be anything now, he imagines.
At last, they can be them .
Only, what are they, to begin with?
When Aziraphale takes the seat opposite Crowley, who follows his every move with an unblinking stare, he doesn’t feel as elated as he did moments ago. They can become what he’s never dared to hope, were he not at a loss for what that encompasses. He uncorks the bottle and absent-mindedly tops off their glasses, proceeding to sample the wine under Crowley’s watchful gaze.
By the end of his first drink, he decides that he isn’t inebriated enough to find any answers.
As a result, one bottle turns into two, then three, and he lets himself be distracted by some point about zombies Crowley starts making after they reminisce about the events from over seventy years ago. Aziraphale lacks conviction that the whole thing makes sense to the demon himself, but he keeps washing down his wine and paying attention. Watching the embers in Crowley’s eyes catch fire as he goes on a tangent about something he feels passionate about is why Aziraphale loves their conversations. How that deep-rooted guardedness of his gives way to an almost tenacity that, in turn, envelops Aziraphale like a cocoon of soothing warmth. A welcome side-effect of Crowley’s company, if you ask him.
A smile breaks on Aziraphale’s face, and he does nothing to quell it.
At once, Crowley interrupts himself mid-sentence to threaten him with a spurious glare. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong, angel!”
Aziraphale feels the corners of his mouth stretch even further. “Why would I,” he says in mock defence to observe Crowley’s face go through a myriad of emotions like he knew it would. “Go on now, my dear boy.”
“Nah,” the demon says brusquely, throwing back the rest of his drink to hide his own smile. Then swirls it in his mouth with a relish. “You refuse to argue with me.”
Silence settles over them then, broken only by the rhythmic drum of the rain and the wind begging to be let in as the two of them lose themselves in their thoughts for a while. Every so often Aziraphale steals glances at Crowley who, devoid of his shades and somehow his jacket already, has draped himself over his armchair like he’s at home.
Exactly where he belongs.
It hits Aziraphale like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. The ease with which Crowley fits in the incongruent setting of the bookshop, and in Aziraphale’s life. And upon thinking back to all the times he failed to notice it, he finally recognises what it is that he once couldn’t even presume to want.
For six thousand years they have been drifting through existence, carving up fleeting moments for themselves here and there, only to have to give them up in the long run. Cut off from Heaven and Hell and the responsibilities bound to it, they don’t have to let go now.
For the rest of eternity, or however long they have yet to prevail, they don’t need to say goodbye.
That’s how, tipsy beyond respectable, Aziraphale determines that Crowley should move in with him.
On the surface, it might seem like an impulse sparked by a fit of cursory blissfulness and further exacerbated by alcohol. But in retrospect, it’s like all pieces falling into place.
Then and there Aziraphale almost opens his mouth to ask him point-blank but changes his mind in the nick of time to avoid potential embarrassment. What if Crowley says no? Would there ever be going back from that? His armchair protests with a groan when he leans across the table, thinking the demon might profit from learning Aziraphale’s arguments first to recognise the convenience of sharing close quarters. Because that’s what it should boil down to for two sentient creatures, being practical .
Selfish in the most extensive sense of the word, a little voice at the back of his mind tells him, but he chooses to ignore it.
Aziraphale helps himself to a generous mouthful of wine to work up the courage before setting his glass back on the table between them. With nothing else to occupy his hands, his fingers turn to the ring on his pinky as if of their own accord, and he wills them to resist. Staves off the doubts that start surfacing the longer he dithers.
“It must be gruelling,” he speaks up with a feigned air of nonchalance, “driving all the way from your flat to the bookshop and back all the time.”
Crowley’s eyes snap up to his from some mysterious spot on the floor he’s been studying. He lifts his chin from the hand it’s been resting on. “What d’you mean?”
“Just that you virtually spend every day here—” Aziraphale informs him, his gaze darting to the glass which he promptly picks up to prevent himself from fidgeting with his darn piece of jewellery.
After he downs the dregs of wine in it, he busies himself with refilling it, availing himself of the holdup to formulate his next bullet-proof point. Like paying the rent with no sensible income. How does Crowley take care of it again? The prices in the centre of London must be exorbitant in this economy. One way or another, Aziraphale still refuses to overwhelm Crowley by springing the idea on him, thus putting him on the spot and pressuring him into a decision. He rather prefers the demon to reach the conclusion on his own, since that’s how it usually plays out between them. Successfully, he’s pleased to emphasise to no one in particular.
Aziraphale hasn’t yet decided how to proceed, when he spots a movement out of the corner of his eye, followed by a terse, “Right.” He twists in his seat in time to catch the demon knocking off their empty bottles in his struggle to get to his feet.
“What are you up to?” Aziraphale queries, blinking to clear his vision.
“Stuff.” One of his hands flails in the general direction of the outside. “Need to—”
The sudden change of plans throws Aziraphale off balance, making him momentarily lose his train of thought. “Crowley—” he insists but is cut off by the grating jangle of a bottle Crowley trips over, propelling it across the floor until it smashes into a wall.
When his ears stop ringing, Crowley, having already pried his glasses off of the statue, is slithering towards the front door on unsteady legs. “I’ll get out of your hair then,” he says as he throws it open.
An eruption of noise, the cold and a sense of hollowness force their way in, bursting their peaceful bubble of existence. Aziraphale finds himself watching the events unfold before him as if in a trance. In the time it takes for him to find his faculties, the demon’s already stepped right into the downpour.
“Crowley, you idiot, where are you going? You’ll get soaked!” He cries. But his words get smothered by the upsurge of the deafening rain, his own numbness and Crowley’s rapidly vanishing silhouette. Even softer Aziraphale adds, “You hate getting soaked.”
His hands dig into the armrest when something inside his chest clenches, robbing him of air he’s never needed to begin with. But now he suddenly can’t catch his breath. Why does it so terribly resemble a final goodbye, a variety of which he’s endured over the millennia?
Not losing another second to speculations, Aziraphale picks himself up and rushes after him.
Having to let a string of vehicles pass before he can cross the roadway, he manages to only catch up to Crowley just as he’s about to crawl into the Bentley. But then, with his back still turned, the demon stills. Sensing Aziraphale’s proximity, he twists his neck to provide him with a look that conveys more than should be feasible with a pair of shades concealing his intentions. Or maybe Aziraphale projects his state of mind as he comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, a safe distance away to resist the temptation of doing something he would come to regret. Like running his hand across the arm draped over the car door until he—
“Come back inside, Crowley—” he pleads, past caring that he sounds desperate. “Whatever it is, we can very well work it out. Together .”
While he watches Crowley visibly waver, Aziraphale registers that it’s gotten colder as it starts nearing nightfall. The dress shirt he has on sticks to his skin in freezing wet patches, sending shivers down to his bones. As averse as he is to spend a second longer than necessary in such a state, he’ll stand under the pouring rain for all of eternity if that’s what Crowley desires.
But an explanation he hopes for never comes. In its lieu, unspoken truths hang over them like a leaden cloud that swells under its weight, never quite reaching the brink of a discharge.
“Talk to me,” Aziraphale says in a voice he barely hears himself.
It doesn’t provide a magical solution, but it makes Crowley finally turn to confront him. “What would be the point?” He parrots Aziraphale’s line from before.
Above them the skies split with flashes of lightning, illuminating the grey facades of the buildings, the flooded streets and the outline of buckling trees. Another peal of thunder shakes the air. The water cascades along Crowley’s flaming-red hair, the sides of his face, burrowing itself in the creases of the thin shirt he’s clad in, with the rest of his clothes discarded over the bookshop. There’s a glimmer of something akin to hope to the curve of his parted lips, its honesty yet screened by the shades, as if he expects Aziraphale to give him some sort of a purpose.
The crease between his eyebrows grows deeper the longer it takes Aziraphale to puzzle out what it is that Crowley needs him to say. That ephemeral hope fades as his mouth thins into a sulky line. It dies for good when Crowley points one finger upwards, saying, “It isn’t my doing this time.”
Aziraphale’s hands are balled into fists at his sides. “What is?”
“The rain,” Crowley explains, tipping his head up as if welcoming its pelting like a punishment. “You won’t ever get under a canopy, will you?”
The question brings Aziraphale up short.
Millions of thoughts fight each other inside his brain, and at some point, he has to admit to feeling utterly lost. Colder than any angel should be capable of feeling, and hurting in places that shouldn’t be existing, but also failing at finding the answers Crowley wants him to provide.
“You aren’t making any sense, Crowley,” he says then, inching closer. His hands suddenly burn with the need to communicate the only way he still remembers how, and it takes all of his will to keep them in check.
Still looking upwards, Crowley shifts his weight against the car door until he’s fully leaning against it, and expels a laugh so wretched Aziraphale could live without ever hearing again. “Do you know how hard it is to manipulate the weather?” The demon pulls his shades off in one swift motion to catch Aziraphale’s eye as he asks that. Only the mightiest of archangels can summon enough power to do so, as Crowley must clearly recall, but he refuses to continue until Aziraphale shakes his head. “Humans fall in love in the rain all the time, angel. They get under a canopy… Look into each other’s eyes and… Well, realise they were made for each other. But—”
“Sounds highly unlikely,” Aziraphale cuts him off. It comes out somewhat irritated.
Does Crowley honestly expect him to listen to his drivel about mortals falling in love after storming outside the very moment Aziraphale figured out he can’t bear even a thought of not having him around? Does he genuinely believe Aziraphale would slip back to their old ways of idle chatter like the implication of Crowley moving in with him has never been set up in the first place?
A gust of wind slams into him, accompanied by a shaking of eaves above his head that protest the shear with an arduous rattle. Somewhere in the murk of the alleyways tree trunks respond with a wail. The rainfall keeps striking him, incessant and rough, the impact of which reverberates throughout Aziraphale’s corporation. Defeated by the circumstances, he feels powerless to protect himself.
Unaware of his inner conflict, Crowley makes a sound so broken it snaps Aziraphale right out of it. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, eyes downcast. “I’m a demon. Unlovable by definition.”
As Aziraphale combs his fingers through his dripping wet hair, folding under the weight of his shortcomings, he can’t help reflecting on their earlier conversation in the bookshop. He wonders why Crowley always misinterprets everything he says. Why figuring him out has always been like stumbling through the darkness, with nothing to guide him but faith. “What does that have to—” he starts. Then, so unlike himself, promptly stumbles over his tongue.
It finally dawns on him, all at once. Like a light that carries an elucidation about everything that’s taken place in the span of the last few weeks. The fickle nature of the weather, Crowley’s involvement in the phenomenon, and the ridiculous assumption someone’s planted into his demon’s ingenuous head.
All of it.
Covering the distance of another two strides between them until they’re almost touching, Aziraphale revels in the sharp intake of breath that bursts out of Crowley’s chest. It stirs an unfamiliar visceral sensation in Aziraphale’s belly that requires further studying at some point. For now, he pushes it to the back of his mind to deal with one unfortunate demon who looks like he’s about to spontaneously discorporate.
Lest he loses what little courage he’s mustered, Aziraphale cups his hand in both of his, wet and freezing, and yet still the most precious thing he’s ever held, and presses it to his chest. “Were you trying to make me fall in love with you?” He asks.
Crowley averts his gaze but otherwise doesn’t resist. “Ngk.”
“It was never going to work,” he tells his demon softly, waiting for the punchline to hit home.
Aziraphale can pinpoint the exact instant it does when Crowley’s feeble facade crumples, and the hand in his grip ever so slightly draws back. He tightens his hold, fighting a smile Crowley would be able to glean were he not studying the deluge beneath their feet. But lest he breaks the proverbial heart he intends to cherish forever, Aziraphale unfolds his wings for all of Heaven to rail against and for all of Hell to cower before. One of them spreads over Crowley in a sort of celestial canopy to shield him from both sides and ruthless elements of the mortal coil.
And before his demon succeeds in collecting himself enough to comprehend what Aziraphale has in mind, he clarifies, “Because I’ve been loving you for over six thousand years, you epic idiot.”
According to Aziraphale’s experience, there’s no such thing as design. If there’s one truth he’s uncovered during his time on Earth, it’s that even the most certain events are open to chance and external factors. But when Crowley drags his gaze up to meet his, raw and full of longing, some peculiar realisation washes over Aziraphale in warm soothing waves (that he, obviously, would never acknowledge to Crowley).
His demon might’ve been on to something, after all.
Because, right then and there, Aziraphale rather fancies they’ve been made for each other .
‿ 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ‿
~The End.~