Chapter Text
Midnight has come and gone and the air between them is too heavy to pretend that things are the same they have been for millennia.
Somehow, impossibly, every word between them feels more significant on this night, the smiles between them heavier, the closeness more palpable. Candlelight paints the bookshop in muted colors. Every note from the record player fills the room with warmth. Time falls away.
Time falls away but Aziraphale knows that Crowley knows that they are long past the point where he should leave for the night. It is the dance they’ve been practicing for six thousand years. Tonight, neither of them seems to be able to remember the steps.
Aziraphale knows why and in a way, he has for thousands of years.
He has known for thousands of years and yet, it has never been clearer than tonight, with his life in Crowley’s hands, an eye for an eye, a bullet for an angel, when Crowley’s trembling body and the terror on his face were louder than any words have ever been. Trust me.
And he did.
He did, and now something has shifted, something in Aziraphale’s glances more dangerously unguarded, something in Crowley’s words more careless, something about the closeness between them too honest.
The evening goes on for too long, and so when Crowley breaks open the space between them with a heavy inhale, finally remembering the next step in this age-old dance, insisting he really should leave now –
He lingers instead.
His hand on the door handle, he lingers. And Aziraphale knows how dangerous that is. He is standing right behind Crowley and he curses himself for walking with him as if they were connected by a thread, because now their bodies are too close and why doesn’t he leave he needs to leave I never want him to leave –
Crowley lingers.
Aziraphale inhales and for the first in a long time, he feels like he is running out of air. He sees Crowley press his lips together, sees him drop his hand from the door handle, and when he turns to face Aziraphale, he is too close. Too close, so close, the two of them breathing the same air like humans do. Aziraphale’s eyes fix on Crowley’s hand - he is curling it around nothing at all, open, shut, restless, unsure. He exhales. Aziraphale knows he needs to speak, now.
“Crowley-“
Crowley doesn’t interrupt him but Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat before he can decide how to end his sentence. The silence is heavy. One second, two seconds. And then Crowley speaks, slowly, barely above a whisper, his voice hoarse. He stumbles through the words.
“You know, angel. What this is. Whatever we call it. Humans call it. Me and you, we both know.”
There it is, the crossing of that unspoken line, the breaking of a rule written down eons ago. Fire burns down Aziraphale’s spine. Six thousand years’ worth of words unsaid in his throat. It would be easier if he could pretend that he didn’t know exactly what Crowley meant. It would be easier if he believed that Crowley was lying.
He’s a demon. He lies.
Being honest, Aziraphale thinks, is the worst virtue I ever taught him.
“Please.”
It is the only word Aziraphale seems to remember, pathetic in its humanity. It means, don’t make me do this. It means, not yet, not ever, not as long as we are here with heaven above us.
And then Crowley moves his hand, up, reaches out, finds Aziraphale’s chest, the spot right over his heart, and lingers.
There is no pressure behind it, no question asked, not yet. It is a promise, a reminder. Crowley has not looked Aziraphale in the eye in a long time. He is giving him time, Aziraphale knows that, but another six millennia could never be enough. Crowley’s fingers tremble ever so slightly, finding hold in Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and Aziraphale lets him, lets him because Crowley would never admit out loud that even he needs something, someone, to hold on to.
From very far away, the music from the record player fills the air above them.
“You hear that?”
Crowley’s voice really is a whisper now. He searches for Aziraphale’s gaze, finds it, and the world burns again.
“Nightingales.”
Aziraphale can’t breathe. He knows, deep down, that humanity was right to write poem after poem about these moments. The moment before the match catches fire. Icarus in the space between flying and falling.
Crowley’s hand on his chest. Their faces close, closer. Aziraphale feels himself move forward almost imperceptibly, without knowing when he decided to. He almost laughs because he knows Crowley saw. He knows that this shift has told Crowley everything that Aziraphale will never tell him out loud.
Then again, he has probably known all along.
Still, Crowley does not push, does not pull, does not demand. Aziraphale only sees him exhale, shakily.
This is the longing that breaks humans down, never to be put back together. The thought terrifies Aziraphale.
And so he pulls back. Crowley’s hand falls away, leaves the space above his heart. There it is again, that safe distance between them, that terrible, unbearable, safe distance. Aziraphale tries to find the right words, any words.
“You-“
You go too fast for me is what he wants to say.
You make me understand what humans call desire is what he means.
But the moment is gone. Its remnants hang heavy in the air. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, looks up, anywhere but Crowley’s eyes, wipes his trembling hands on his trousers. He takes a step back.
And Crowley understands. He turns his head away, slowly, lips pressed together, resigned, nodding once, twice.
“Good night.”
There is no anger in Crowley’s voice. Anger would have been easy, familiar. There is no anger, no cold disappointment, but there is a note of finality in it.
The unspoken question will not be asked again.