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[495 BC]
The sea was blinding, its rippling waves tipped with frothy white and sun beams sparking off it like glittering jewels. Aziraphale didn’t turn his face away, simply soaking in the sun for a moment and letting himself think.
It wasn’t often he let himself think, not about things like this. Aziraphale had developed Opinions over the centuries, but about minor things. No one thought about scrolls and writing, and the way that ink smelled. Not seriously. He quite liked those things, and they were very simple things to have Opinions on, and thus weren’t to be scrutinized too much.
But this…
Beside him, on the flat rock that had been baking in the sun, stretched the black-clad demon. He was quiet, a rarity—at least Aziraphale thought it was, he hadn’t had a chance to really get to know him, had he? He’d clearly been forming Opinions all on his own, without any input from himself at all.
He didn’t quite know how to feel about that, at present. A larger question hung in the air between them and distracted him from that thought almost as soon as it arrived. Crowley had already assured him that he wasn’t going to take him to Hell, that he wouldn’t like it very much. But Crowley, being on his own side, had admitted as well that it was a lonely place to be.
Why, then, had he chosen to do it?
Why be lonely when one could be with your own kind?
He bit his lip and glanced sidelong, taking in the demon’s sharp profile.
Even without the glasses, he looked imposing and standoffish. But Crowley was soft, in ways that were surprising even now. The goats. The children. Keeping everyone, including Aziraphale, safe from the consequences of the wager between God and Lucifer.
Maybe that’s what going one’s own way meant? Doing the right thing, or doing what you feel is right. It certainly hadn’t felt wrong, not when he saw the family reunited. Going one’s own way, being on your own side.
Just yourself.
Crowley was right. It did seem lonely.
But if they happened to be going the same way together, perhaps…
These thoughts swirled around in him, feeling too big for his corporeal form. They seemed to dwarf his true form, too, their weight and measure stretching past him in the scheme of things. It was overwhelming, confronting these things alone.
But he wasn’t alone right now, was he?
“Can I hold your hand?” Aziraphale blurted.
“What?” Crowley said, startled. He looked over the dark lenses at the angel, as though checking to see that the angel beside him hadn’t lost his mind.
Maybe he had.
“Humans do it, when they want comfort,” Aziraphale said. “And. Well. I should very much like some comfort right now, after this ordeal, and I don’t doubt you might, as well.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Hardly,” Aziraphale said, sniffing primly as he felt indignation spark in his chest. “I—”
He was cut short by the warmth of Crowley’s hand, breaching the space between them, sliding against Aziraphale’s own. The long fingers of the demon entwined with his own, the indignation losing its spark and sinking to his stomach, fluttering there like butterflies’ wings. The roasted oxen he’d gorged himself on threatened to come back up, and Aziraphale somehow felt both better and worse for the whole experience.
Crowley’s hand was warm, gentle, and squeezed in response to Aziraphale tightening his grip just a bit, their thumbs overlapping one another.
It was…nice.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said.
“Shh,” Crowley said. “Not so loud.”
The angel turned his gaze to the sea, the demon’s hand clasped in his own. For now, it would be enough.
“Can I hold your hand?” Crowley said, softly, as they swayed together on the bus back to London. It was dark, the street lights on the M25 passing by and illuminating the bus’s other passengers very briefly. They’d miracled the lights in the bus out to cover their retreat, but who knew when their respective former sides would reconvene to start again. It made for a quiet trip, the other passengers almost dozing.
“What?” Aziraphale said, fair to nodding off himself.
“Your hand, angel,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale seemed to process it for a moment, then the plump fingers of the angel slid between his own longer ones, and Crowley clasped his hand. They didn't speak; their thoughts their own as they made their way back to the city they both loved enough to defy the universe and everyone in it to keep.
It was enough, he thought.
“Better?” Aziraphale murmured after a moment.
Crowley made a noise of agreement, his thumb stroking the angel’s as he looked out the window, yellow eyes seeming almost normal in the passing arc sodium flickers.