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1452 – Lyon, France
Crowley's assignment was simple, and frankly he didn't expect it to take him more than a couple of minutes. The target – a wealthy merchant named Marcel DuBois - was already well on his way to being fully corrupted, and Crowley figured that the amount of temptation required to push him over the edge was so minimal as to be practically non-existent. The sooner the better, too, because this was a grand ball in a majestic chateau, and there was much wine to be consumed and luscious artwork and fashions and gardens on display to admire. Not to mention, he sensed that the angel was close by. Perhaps even at this very party.
Crowley, never one to blend in, made a rather showy entrance into the main hall. He was dressed in a finely tailored doublet and hose, made of rich, deep burgundy silk adorned with intricate black embroidery. The fitted hose accentuated his long legs, and, paired with polished black leather knee-high boots, made him look positively sinful. His trademark dark glasses hid the intensity of his stare.
Many heads turned upon his arrival, both male and female. The Original Tempter barely noticed. He had honed in on his target, eager to complete his job so he could enjoy himself to the fullest.
As he approached the merchant, he noticed that Marcel was deep in conversation with another gentleman. Crowley heard Marcel say, “Yes, that's true. I've found myself rather longing for a simpler life, one that is far removed from the corruption of the material world.”
The gentleman, whose back was to Crowley, nodded his agreement, and spoke softly to the merchant, seemingly reassuring him, reaching out and placing a friendly hand upon his shoulder.
Crowley couldn't let this stand.
“But monsieur,” he interrupted, gracefully. “I know you have bigger dreams. There's always time, later, to retire to the countryside to enjoy life's … simpler pleasures. You are young. Conquer now, then rest.”
The persuasive gentleman with whom he'd been conversing turned towards Crowley, sighing, not looking at all surprised to see him.
Aziraphale made eye contact with Crowley, then turned back to Marcel and said, “Well, that is certainly a lot to think about! We'll give you some time! To think. Please excuse us!”
The angel glanced about the large ballroom, and then gestured with a nod, leading Crowley into a quiet corner, wherein resided a cozy seating area containing a settee and some comfortable chairs.
Aziraphale began fussing with one of the chairs while Crowley sprawled out nearby, wineglass dangling carelessly from his hand.
While Aziraphale tried to make himself comfortable, Crowley took a moment to fully admire him. As expected, the angel was dressed flawlessly for the occasion, wearing a rich, sky-blue doublet that brought out the color of his expressive eyes, a pristine white silk shirt, perfectly fitted hose and black leather shoes.
Crowley quickly averted his gaze as the angel settled into the chair, not wanting to get caught staring.
It had been about four centuries since he was last in the angel's presence. They had been forced to distance themselves after subverting, together, a crisis that could have thrown Heaven, Hell and humanity into chaos. It had been the first time they'd really worked together, purposefully, and Crowley had gained even more respect for the angel, who appeared soft and delicate on the surface, but deep down was all bright, cutting steel when it came to what he believed in.
He didn't like to think about how much he'd missed him. 400 years shouldn't seem like a long time to an immortal being.
Pulling himself back into the present moment, he grinned at the angel, who responded by rolling his eyes.
“I sensed when you came in. Although I believe half of France could sense when you came in. You aren't exactly subtle," said Aziraphale. “Let me guess. You're here to tempt Marcel DuBois.”
“Right you are,” drawled Crowley, taking a long drink of his wine. “And apparently being thwarted. Quite expertly, I must say. Excellent work.”
Aziraphale blushed, turning his head and attempting to hide his smile.
“Oh I don't know,” the angel said. “You made some strong points, there. I could feel him swaying.”
“You think?” asked Crowley, surprised by the compliment. “I felt like you had it pretty much all wrapped up.”
Aziraphale chuckled and glanced sidelong at Crowley, causing the demon to catch his breath.
“It seems we're at an impasse,” said the angel. “As long as we're both here, we're just going to cancel each other out.”
“Hmmm,” pondered Crowley. “Maybe it's time for that arrangement we talked about … when was it?” he pretended to try to calculate how long it had been since their last meeting.
“Somewhere around 1020,” filled in Aziraphale promptly. “I mean … not that I've been counting. Or paying attention, really. I just think that's when it was.”
Crowley loved it when the angel became flustered, even if he didn't fully understand the cause of it.
“That sounds about right,” he said. “So … since Monsieur DuBois can be left to his own devices, I guess my job here is done.”
Aziraphale's face fell. It was almost as if he was … disappointed?
“We could … stay,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, it's a nice party. We could just … enjoy it.”
Crowley tried to keep a neutral expression. Aziraphale was just being polite and kind because he was an angel – that was his actual job description. There was no need to read anything into it. Yet still, the promise of an entire night, at a gorgeous, lavish ball, in the presence of this joyful, bright, amazing angel … it was too much to pass up.
Crowley stood from the sofa, and, trying not to overthink it, extended his arm to the angel.
He was delighted when Aziraphale rested his hand in the crook of Crowley's elbow and allowed himself to be led from the seating alcove.
Swiping a bottle of red wine from a nearby table, Crowley led them outside into the garden, where they could listen to the music from the orchestra and still enjoy the night breeze and the stars overhead.
“So, what have you been up to?” he asked as they strolled, still arm in arm.
Aziraphale regaled him with stories of the past few centuries – his travels, the books he'd discovered, the artwork he'd admired, the different philosophies he'd studied … he kept up a steady stream of talk in between taking swigs of the bottle of wine that Crowley offered.
At some point, after taking a sip, he said, “Oh, Crowley. You've just let me run on and on. Why didn't you stop me?”
Crowley chuckled. “Angel, why would I stop you? I asked what you'd been up to. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know everything.”
“Oh yes, but I really didn't mean to prattle on for so long.” Aziraphale sounded dismayed, as if he were actually worried about what Crowley was thinking or feeling. “It's just so nice to see you again … er … I mean. To. Well. Oh, I don't know what I'm saying. This wine is very strong.”
“It's nice to see you again, too, angel,” said Crowley softly. “It's good to be able to … you know … talk to someone who really knows who you are, instead of having to pretend all the time.”
Aziraphale stopped short, removing his arm from Crowley's and turning to face him, his eyes wide and bright in the moonlight.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Someone who knows you. It's so odd. To be able to talk about things I've seen and done 200, 300 years ago, and you don't think twice about it. Because you were there too! I mean, not in the exact same place, maybe, but in the same time.”
“I guess when you're the only immortal beings who spend a significant amount of time on the same planet, you're bound to feel a … connection,” said Crowley.
“Oh, well, I mean I guess that's part of it, yes,” said Aziraphale. “But I can't imagine I would feel that way about anyone else if they were in the same position. Like … like Gabriel. Or Beelzebub.” He shuddered. “I think I'd try to stay on the opposite side of the planet from them!”
As they laughed, the orchestra struck up a new song.
Aziraphale gasped. “Douce Dame Jolie!” he said, smiling. “Oh, this one is haunting. It's going to get stuck in my head for the rest of the night.”
He began to hum along with the melody.
Crowley found himself listening to the lyrics and translating a stanza, under his breath, “But your sweet mastery
Masters
My heart so harshly
That it torments
And binds it
So much in love …”
He stopped when he noticed Aziraphale staring at him.
“I didn't know you knew this song,” the angel said.
“Of course,” replied Crowley. “It's a song about torment. Why wouldn't I know it?”
“It is not! It's about love!” protested Aziraphale.
“Aren't they kind of the same thing?” asked Crowley. “Unrequited love, specifically. That's probably the worst torment ever invented. I'm pretty sure that's one of ours.”
“I suppose I could see that,” said Aziraphale. “To find yourself … desperately and completely in love with someone who won't return your love … oh, that is a form of torture.”
“Or someone who can't return your love,” said Crowley.
“That's even worse,” agreed Aziraphale, frowning.
There was a long pause, while they continued to listen to the song. Aziraphale had what appeared to be a sad smile on his lovely face.
Crowley tried not to pay attention to the fact that his heart rate and breathing had quickened over the past few minutes of their conversation. He tried very hard not to notice the sensation in his stomach, a fluttering that was quite pleasant yet also frightening in its intensity. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to ignore these feelings, which seemed to occur every time he was around this particular angel, and no other time.
He also attempted, using all the willpower at his command, to keep his distance, and not to gaze too deeply into Aziraphale's eyes, or to focus on his lush, perfectly shaped lips, or the way his hips moved as he swayed in place to the music.
It was so difficult … because all he wanted to do, he had to admit to himself, right now, while he was half-drunk under the stars in this French garden surrounded by music and the smell of flowers and the overwhelming scent of Aziraphale himself – freshly baked bread, old books, a gentle breeze, a touch of rain, lavender and vanilla – was to take the beautiful angel in his arms, dance with him in the light of a crescent moon, and then kiss him softly, feeling their bodies pressed together until there was no space between them.
It was at this moment that Crowley fully realized three things – the three things that would define his existence from this point forward.
One, Aziraphale was an angel – a Principality of Heaven, the guardian of the Eastern Gate, a being made out of and for love, and, by creation, his worst enemy – an enemy that was sworn and bound by God's will to destroy him.
Two, He - a demon - a fallen and lost being that was meant to spread destruction, chaos and hate, was completely and irrevocably in love with this angel, despite the supposed fact that demons couldn't feel love.
Three, if Heaven or Hell were to discover his feelings, he and Aziraphale both would be in the most danger either of them had ever faced. And if Aziraphale were to somehow sense this, he would likely never talk to the demon again.
These realizations rocked him to the core of his being. He wasn't able to think, to speak, to move. All he could do was feel and react.
“Crowley? Crowley?! What happened?”
As if from a very great distance, he could hear Aziraphale's frantic voice calling to him. He was only half aware of stumbling, trying very hard to just breathe.
He dimly noticed the feel of a hand on his shoulder, and an arm around his waist.
The angel was trying to help him catch his balance, and in the process, had pressed himself up against Crowley, supporting him with his deceptive strength.
Summoning all of the willpower he had at his command, Crowley gently pushed Aziraphale away, feeling his heart shatter as he tried to ignore the confused and dismayed look on the angel's face. He knew, if he allowed the angel to touch him any longer, he would lose control and do something from which he'd likely never recover - something that would cause Aziraphale to recoil in horror.
“Angel,” he gasped. “It's OK. I'm all right. It was just a moment of … just a moment. I'll be fine.”
It took everything he had within him to offer a reassuring smile to the angel who stood a maddeningly short distance away from him – if he reached out, he could touch his arm, his face, he could pull him closer, close enough to ...
He took two steps back.
“I think I'm just tired,” he said, not allowing the smile to slip from his face. “I know, we don't really need to sleep, but tempting takes a lot out of a demon.”
Still looking worried, Aziraphale nodded. “Do you need me to help you? Back to where you're staying?”
“No!” responded Crowley, too quickly, feeling a twinge of guilt as the angel flinched away from his sharp tone.
“No, angel,” he said, more gently. “I've got it.”
“Listen,” he continued, still trying to pull himself together. “I heard about a fantastic new tavern that just opened up nearby. Would you … would you like to dine with me, tomorrow?”
He was relieved when Aziraphale smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Oh, Crowley, I'd love that!”
It would be a lot easier if the angel didn't always sound so … joyful and enthusiastic, like he just couldn't wait to be in your presence again. But if he didn't sound like that, he wouldn't be Aziraphale.
“OK, I'll meet you there at noon,” he said, giving him the address.
And then he walked away from the mansion without looking back. He took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he could do this. He wasn't going to deny himself the pleasure of being around the angel – his best, and only, friend.
He should. He should stay away from him forever. It's what would be best for the angel.
But the thought of spending the rest of eternity without ever seeing Aziraphale's soft, golden, gorgeous face, without hearing his melodious voice, without watching him enjoy all of the pleasures of this world … it was too much to bear.
And so, he was going to control himself, and be a friend. That's all. He would never, ever do anything to risk Aziraphale's life or his companionship. Even if it meant lying to himself and to the angel for the rest of eternity.
He could do that.
He had to.