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Soho – 1941 AD
The night had gone on much longer than either demon or angel had meant for it to. Somewhere in the bookshop proper, the clock tolled four times, and then five more afterward. Through the dusty window, the stars in the sky were beginning to fade out, one by one, though dawn was still some time away yet. Slowly, the world around them began to stir; lights winked on in windows, cars began trundling through the streets, and several people hobbled out of buildings and onto the sidewalks.
Aziraphale blinked dully at the arrangement of bottles on the table. Most were empty now, and it occurred to him through a fog of warm content that they’d been drinking for several hours and drained an entire case of Chateauneuf du Pape. That realization probably should have bothered him more than it did, considering how much each case had cost.
Ah well. Better to share it with good company.
Wait.
Wait one second.
The thought startled Aziraphale out of his daze and back to the present moment. He sat up and scanned blearily around the room until he found the familiar, lanky form of Crowley. An affectionate pang twisted the angel’s stomach into knots upon laying eyes on him. The demon was currently examining an old radio set that Aziraphale had tucked away some decades ago. At some point in the night, Crowley had removed his hat and jacket, loosened the red tie a little bit, and undone two of his shirt buttons. As he prodded the radio’s innards, his dark glasses slid down his nose, revealing soft glimmers of hazy gold.
Aziraphale’s heart thumped heavily in his chest, egged on by several bottles of wine.
To think that, just yesterday morning, it had been nearly eighty years since they last met. Since they argued over holy water and went their separate ways, to be precise. How much the world had changed since then, the angel mused. Nations had risen and fallen, new technologies came into being and were replaced in turn, wars grew bigger and bloodier, cities grew busier and noisier, and among it all, humanity moved so quickly that decades flew by like minutes. Because of all this, Aziraphale had gotten somewhat overwhelmed by modern living and bored in between assignments (especially with no Crowley around, not that he’d ever tell him that), so, fueled by endless stories of spies and wartime intrigue in the papers, he decided to go undercover to bust a ring of Nazi thieves. And promptly got himself into trouble. Amazing how different pithy news pieces could be from reality.
In a matter of hours – minutes – maybe even seconds – everything had changed. Crowley had shown up in the church (a church, of all places!), had redirected a bomb to save him, had saved his books. Saved the books not because Aziraphale had asked him to, or because Crowley owed him a favor, but because he had known they were important. Known they were important to Aziraphale. And done it. Because of that.
Just like that, centuries of ignored feelings and downplayed interactions bloomed within the angel’s heart, and he couldn’t look away. Crowley’s eyes had positively glowed in the dim firelight, slit pupils surrounded by wonderful shades of gold and yellow and orangey-red. His navy suit fit him perfectly, helped cast him in sharp angles and enticing shadows, all capped off by his rakish fedora. His hand had been so wonderfully warm when their fingers brushed briefly, too briefly, as the demon handed him his books. When Crowley had offered him a lift home, the gentleness in his voice had nearly bowled Aziraphale over. It had taken him nearly half a minute to come to his senses and follow Crowley to the Bentley.
How could it be that such an epiphany could come to an angel when he stood in a defiled church during a nighttime bombing raid?
Love was certainly not an unfamiliar concept to Aziraphale. Angels were supposed to love everything created by the Almighty; the Earth, mankind, the creatures, the plants, the sea, the sky, the stars, and everything in between. Though this love was more out of duty than anything else, he supposed. Like a parent’s love for their child, it was meant to help them protect and nurture life. He could also sense love if the sentiment was strong or near enough. People’s love for their homes, their pets, their families, their material possessions, their work, so many different forms of love could be found if he so wished to seek it out. That, though, was to help with miracles. To figure out what was needed to guide a soul back toward the Almighty’s light.
Romantic love, on the other hand, was an entirely alien concept to most angels. It was a human concept, a human creation, to love someone more than anything else in the entire world, to love enough to upend every single thing one had ever known in their life. A form of love both selfish and selfless, pure and sinful, enlightening and maddening, fulfilling and heartbreaking. A perfect paradoxical dichotomy, like humanity itself.
A thousand different authors had used millions of different words to describe how it felt to be in love. Shakespeare had written of summer days and beauty, of sentiment that transcended time itself, of wanting somebody so much one would rather die than live without; Whitman spoke of yearning, of belonging so intensely to someone it was like their very atoms intermingled; Austen wove longing and chastity into sagas of character, of wanting to be better, to be worthy of affection; and Byron’s words were tinged with a love so powerful it seemed to leap out of meter and verse to canter in the world around it. Aziraphale had read them all and more, and believed he had a pretty good grasp on the concept of romantic love.
But it was there, in a bombed-out church, clutching a satchel of books that had been rescued for him, watching the sway of a demon’s hips and shoulders as he sauntered away, that the angel’s knowledge transcended from purely academic into something unknown and terrifying. When all those feelings and thoughts and wishes and memories clicked into a place he hadn’t even known existed.
It was there that he first thought the words I love you.
I am in love with you.
And you, Crowley…
At least some part of you…
Part of you must feel the same if you saved my books like this. When you didn’t have to. When you didn’t need to.
Aziraphale had nearly fallen to his knees with the realization. He clung to his books so tightly and felt like the world had stopped spinning. Or he was drowning. Possibly both.
I love you, Crowley. I’m in love with you. Maybe I always have been.
The thought danced in his head, sang in his heart, filled him with a warmth he had never felt in his entire existence, not even from the Almighty Herself. For the rest of the night, Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away from Crowley’s face, reveling in the feeling of being so utterly and helplessly in love. When Crowley mentioned a job he needed to do, Aziraphale hadn’t protested and came with him. When the job went sideways, he didn’t hesitate to volunteer his assistance. Had risked discorporation. Had shown Crowley just how much he trusted him, and, in return, seen just how much Crowley trusted him. They’d protected each other. Like they always had, per their Arrangement.
But now everything appeared in a whole new context. Like when the sun had risen for the first time and lit up all the hidden colors in the Garden of Eden.
“There we go!”
Aziraphale refocused on Crowley, having once again been startled out of his thoughts. The demon was dusting off his hands and grinning widely. The radio now glowed with life, and music played, albeit tinnily, from its dusty speakers.
“I don’t…see why we couldn’t just bring my phonograph down here,” said Aziraphale. “Clara over at the record shop, lovely woman really, she’s given me some rather lovely-”
“All your music is a century out of date at minimum, angel. Thought I’d at least try to bring you into the twentieth century.”
Crowley stretched languidly and turned back to Aziraphale. The movement brought the material of the demon’s shirt taut against his skin and threatened to untuck it from his trousers. Aziraphale swallowed, averted his gaze, and drained his wineglass. The newness of these feelings was too much, overwhelming; it made everything so much more…more than usual. Like Crowley was an entirely different person, a person the angel kept coming back to and getting stuck on, caught up in, enticed by, tempted by all those angles and pale skin and red hair and golden eyes and wit and kindness and…
Oh no.
Aziraphale emptied the last bottle into his glass and stood. His legs wobbled and his head spun slightly; clearly, he’d drunk much, much more than he’d intended to. More than Crowley, certainly, considering the demon still seemed coherent. The angel considered this for a second, chuckled, and took a hearty swig of wine.
A voice on the radio began to softly croon, backed by gentle strings and trumpets.
Do I want to be with you
As the years come and go?
Only forever
If you care to know
Would I grant all your wishes
And be proud of the task
Only forever
If someone should ask…
Ah, a love song then. And how it pined. The song pined like the poets had pined, like the authors had pined, like how Aziraphale himself was currently pining. He swayed on the spot and shut his eyes, drinking in the lyrics.
“Good ol’ Bing. He’ll be one of ours when he goes, you know.” Aziraphale lazily opened his eyes. Crowley was looking at him, and raised an eyebrow as soon as their eyes met. “Trying to dance there, angel?”
“You know angels don’t dance,” he lied automatically. “I think…I think…what I think…sounds rather nice, doesn’t it?” He stumbled toward Crowley and tripped on the carpet.
“Woah, easy!” Crowley’s hands shot out and caught him by the elbows. Wine splashed out of the glass and stained Aziraphale’s sleeve dark red, though he didn’t particularly notice or care. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by the warmth of Crowley’s fingers on his upper arms, the fingers he’d last felt cupped in both hands at the magic shop, so strong despite how slender they were…Then he realized they were quite close together. Perhaps an imperial foot away. Or less.
Aziraphale’s heart somersaulted in his chest. He forced his gaze up to meet Crowley’s and realized the demon was still talking at him.
“…Anyway, you dance, don’t you?” He grinned. “At least, you do one particular dance that I know of…”
The angel had to think very hard for a few moments before the thought finally managed to travel up a river of alcohol and find harbor in his brain. His brow furrowed.
“But, but, but I haven’t even done anything!”
Crowley snorted. “I nearly blew your blessed head off tonight, angel! Plus I don’t think Mrs. H will ever let me anywhere near the theater again. So…”
“But you didn’t blow my head off!”
“But I could have.”
“But you didn’t!”
Crowley pulled off his glasses and fixed Aziraphale with a stern gaze that was only slightly tempered by alcohol. One dark brow arched up toward his hairline.
Damn.
Damn those eyes.
Damn those eyes and what they did to him.
“Fine.”
Aziraphale finished his glass off in a few quick gulps and did his best to place the wineglass on the bar next to the radio. Judging by the tingling smash that followed shortly afterward, he hadn’t quite managed it. He stepped away from Crowley, straightened his waistcoat, adjusted his bowtie, and took a deep breath. Then he held out a hand and begrudgingly started.
“You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were – oof!”
As he dipped down for the final bow in the apology dance, Aziraphale’s foot slipped, and he faceplanted right into the carpet. His brain very helpfully offered to catch him several seconds after the fact. He rolled onto his back and snickered.
“I, ah, I rather mucked that up, didn’t I?”
Crowley appeared overhead and grinned. “I think you’ve had rather too much to drink there, Mr. Fell.” He held out a hand. Aziraphale took it gratefully and let the demon pull him to his feet. The angel wavered, laughed again, and grabbed Crowley’s waist with his free hand to steady himself.
“Nonsense, my dear Mr. Crowley! I’ll have you know…I’ll have you know…I’m quite happily drunk, thank you very much.”
He realized then that the space between himself and Crowley was now nearly non-existent. Crowley had not let go of his hand, or maybe Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his, their chests were nearly flush, he could feel the sharp bone of Crowley’s hip beneath his palm, and if he looked up, their noses would touch. A blush that could not be entirely blamed on wine spread over Aziraphale’s face, and he quickly glanced over at the opposing wall.
Ah, wasn’t that sink just fascinating? Yes, quite.
Crowley let out a thoughtful hum. “Well…while you’re here…” Aziraphale looked back in time to see the demon pull their linked hands out to the side. His other hand moved to rest on Aziraphale’s lower back. “…perhaps now’s the time for an angel to learn how to dance, hmm?”
Aziraphale sat in stunned silence for several seconds. His heart galloped into his throat like a freight train about to derail. He fervently hoped Crowley didn’t notice the shake in his hands or the sweat beading on his brow. Or if he did, he’d blame both on the alcohol.
The song on the radio faded out into a new, purely orchestral piece. The music filled the entire room and closed out the rest of the world. All that existed in that moment of space-time were an angel, a demon, and the gentle murmur of a brass band.
Terrifying. Titillating.
Both?
Both.
“I suppose…” He swallowed. His fingers flexed on Crowley’s hip. “Shall…shall I let you…let you lead, then?”
Crowley smirked at him. The crinkle of his eyes, the slight gleam of teeth, the dimpling of his cheeks, Heavens above, how did humans ever cope with romantic love? Aziraphale was certain he was going to explode. Or do something monumentally stupid. Part of him wondered if he should stop now, say he was too drunk to continue, insist he couldn’t dance and this was a ridiculous idea. Get his wild heart under some semblance of control.
But when they locked eyes, Aziraphale’s mouth suddenly felt very dry, and none of the words came to him.
“Just step when I do, angel. Easy.”
Those. Damn. Eyes.
Aziraphale nodded. Crowley straightened a little bit and shifted his feet.
When Crowley stepped, Aziraphale followed. He stumbled, hampered by drink, but Crowley kept him upright. The angel’s heart beat so loud and so fast he was certain the demon could see it pounding in his throat and chest. Crowley stepped again, and Aziraphale followed again. Bit by bit, they whirled around the room, surrounded by music, warmed by alcohol. One stepped, one followed, one stepped, one followed. The more they moved, the easier it became, until they were like the elegantly carved figures in a music box. Like two halves of the same soul. Perfectly in sync.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what else he wanted to say. Or could say.
“Either you’re a natural or you were lying.” Crowley’s hand gripped his waist tightly so they could make a quicker series of turns. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if his head was spinning because of the turning, the wine, or because the move had pushed them so close together he was certain Crowley could now feel just how hard the angel’s heart beat for him. “Angels may not dance, but you certainly seem to.”
“I, uh, I, I might have, well, I may have picked up a dance or two back in the 1880s,” he admitted. “But, but, but, I, uh, I rather think, I think this has, that this has, that this has more to do with you, Crowley.” Oh Lord, he was stuttering now. Oh no.
“Ha! I knew it.” Crowley shook his head. “You continue to astonish me.” He beamed down at him, golden eyes aglow with pride.
Oh good Lord above, Aziraphale could barely think now, and it had very little to do with being drunk. He stumbled again, and when Crowley pulled him back up, the angel’s nose bumped into the knot of the demon’s tie, very close to the divot between his collarbones and a slight curl of dark chest hair. His fingers wrapped tightly over Crowley’s hip and back like the demon was a lifeline. Every inch of his body trembled, every hair stood on end, every nerve was alive and sparking with energy, every bit of skin flushed with excitement. All that mattered in the entire world – the entire universe – was him and Crowley, dancing together in Aziraphale’s old bookshop.
He tripped again and nearly took Crowley down with him. The demon had to flail out the arm on Aziraphale’s back to catch them on the table before they hit the ground. Several wine bottles, jostled by the movement, rolled off the tabletop and onto the floor below.
“See?” Aziraphale mumbled. “I’m certainly no Fred. Or Ginger, for that matter.”
Crowley gently pushed Aziraphale away and gestured for him to spin. As he did so, the angel imagined the tails of his coat (if he’d worn it) fanning out behind him like the flowing silk of a dancer’s dress. The room swirled around him in a collage of yellow and brown and red, then they were back together, chest to chest.
“I didn’t know you went to the cinema, angel.” Crowley’s eyes crinkled when Aziraphale let out an indignant huff. “Let alone seen anything from this decade.”
“I do enjoy some parts of modern life, Crowley.” He watched as Crowley spun away from him, arms held out wide. He could have easily been a dancer, Aziraphale thought, there was just so much grace in every serpentine movement of his hips, so much confidence in every step and turn, he bent and stretched and twisted in ways that humans could never hope to…
The angel cleared his throat and restarted his train of thought. “I, ah, it was before the war. This current war, I mean, not…um, I had to pass some time before an estate auction, and you weren’t…well. I figured it couldn’t hurt.” Some of the wine had ebbed from his system, though he was no less breathy or flushed. “Such a lovely pair, really. Very graceful. Wonderful dancers. Though I’m not entirely sure I saw the appeal of…well, of all the…romance…bits.” He swallowed heavily. “The kiss, I mean.”
That was absolutely a lie, and Aziraphale knew it, and he was sure Crowley knew it, too. Kissing on the mouth was certainly a modern idea, and didn’t figure much into the literature he’d surrounded himself with over the years, but it wasn’t too unappealing, really. He remembered especially that day when he sat in the freezing theater, entranced by the silver screen, by humanity and its ever-evolving methods of telling stories. He remembered how Fred and Ginger had danced together; stepping at the same time while keeping their eyes locked together, twirling together like a record on a turntable, leaping as one from place to place, the way her arm fanned out, the firm grip of his hand on her back as he lifted her up. He remembered how the film itself had slowed down, as if it too was in complete awe. And he remembered the kiss. Oh, the kiss! How they bent together like saplings in the wind during their embrace. How the audience had gasped and tittered with delight. How his heart had leaped into his throat. How his entire body had suddenly radiated heat despite the chill around him. How his hands had worried the brim of his hat until it had little crescent moon marks in the material. How his mind had, completely unbidden, gone back to that day in St. James’s Park in 1862. How he suddenly missed Crowley’s company terribly, though at the time, he couldn’t say why.
Humans often expressed their love through physical touch. Through handshakes, hugs, kisses, even intercourse. That much Aziraphale had always known. But he’d never thought of…indulging in that himself. Angels were distant, barely interacting with each other, and Aziraphale had been no exception.
Until Crowley came along, so long ago now.
The music changed again. A new voice sang now, a woman’s this time. Aziraphale couldn’t focus enough to parse out the lyrics. His pulse beat too loudly in his ears.
“Never kissed anyone yourself, then?” Crowley’s tone was teasing, but his face was anything but.
“Of course not!” Aziraphale bit his lip and focused on following Crowley’s steps. “I, uh, I never had, well, there wasn’t ever any reason to. Humans don’t…they don’t live long enough to get attached…in that way. You know.”
Was he overthinking, or did Crowley look relieved when he said that?
“Yeah, I know.” The demon leaned into him, and Aziraphale leaned back. Oh Lord was he about to – they’d only just met back up! – but the discussion seemed to be – oh wait, he was dipping him. Embarrassment curled in his gut. “But…if you had a reason to…would you?”
Oh dear Lord.
“I-I-It would h-h-have to be a very, a very good reason, but…perhaps? If, uh, if the right person…if there was…the right person.”
Crowley pulled him back upright. They were once again chest to chest. His hand was now on Aziraphale’s upper back. The tips of Aziraphale’s fingers brushed against Crowley’s belt.
The demon raised his eyebrows. “Anyone in particular?”
Oh no, he had to cut these thoughts short right now, had to try not to think about that, they were just friends, they’d only just reconnected after nearly a century, everything was new and unsafe and they had only just escaped Hell’s minions a few hours ago and no nope no don’t look at Crowley’s face right now and anyway he had zero experience in that particular area and would likely be a completely unappealing mess especially to the Original Tempter himself who had likely kissed more people than anyone else in the entire world and was the room always this hot before?
“Hey, it’s all right, angel.” Crowley halted their dance. He let Aziraphale’s hand go in favor of cradling the angel’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Aziraphale only half heard him. His pulse thundered in his head, his mouth, his throat, his hands, his stomach, his legs. Even the bits of him he didn’t think could tremble were shaking. His freed hand joined the other at Crowley’s waist. The demon’s yellow eyes bore into him, and the hand on his face ensured he couldn’t look away. He wondered if Crowley could feel how hot his skin was. If he knew why his skin was so flushed.
The demon’s brows furrowed. “Angel? You all right?”
His eyes flicked down to Crowley’s mouth. My, but he did have such wonderfully pink lips…
“Aziraphale?”
How was it that Aziraphale was more scared now than he had been when he had a rifle pointed at his head mere hours ago?
“Forget I said anything. It’s…it’s not important.” As he spoke, Crowley’s tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Time stopped right then and there. A decision, a path, a branch lay before the angel. There was the familiar path, the safe one, the well-worn one, the path they’d taken for thousands of years now: pull back, play safe, keep distance, deny, deny, deny. The other was newer, wilder, fiery, passionate, full of emotions and carelessness and peril and intrigue and forbidden love – everything worthy of a good book.
To Hell with it.
What was one more risk on a night where so many had already been taken?
…How could he know we two were so in love
The whole darn world seemed upside down
The streets of town were paved in stars
It was such a romantic affair…
Bolstered by the music, Aziraphale shut his eyes, screwed up his courage, and closed the last remaining distance between them. His lips pressed gently against Crowley’s. The demon went completely rigid under his hands. The radio played on in the background.
…And as we kissed and said goodnight
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
Our homeward step was just as light
As the tap-dancing feet of Astaire
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…
Aziraphale held the kiss for a moment that stretched into infinity, marveling at how soft Crowley’s lips were on his own. Then he pulled away and batted his eyes open. The demon gawped back at him.
“There. Now I have.” He sounded much, much more confident than he felt. “Kissed someone. I mean. So you can…well, there we go.”
Crowley didn’t reply for a good minute or so. His throat bobbed. The demon’s normally slit pupils had blown into wide ovals encircled in thin yellow strips. He panted for breath, like he’d just run a marathon or two, lips parted ever so slightly. Then the corners of his mouth quirked up slightly.
“You call that a kiss, angel? We can do better than that.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “I beg your-”
Crowley’s mouth then crashed down on his own. Both hands cradled the angel’s head, pinkies resting against his pounding jugular, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. Aziraphale froze in complete shock. This was much rougher than anything he’d ever seen in films or read in books. The demon’s lips nipped and tugged at his own, backed by a hint of teeth, that tongue he’d glimpsed earlier flicked the crease of the angel’s mouth, wine-soaked breath steamed the air between them.
Oh Lord, oh dear God, if this was love, Aziraphale would surely die on the spot.
A new song started on the radio, dreamy and mystical, a chorus of voices he couldn’t pin down. It was too much, everything was too much…
He shut his eyes and let himself be swept away. One hand moved up to Crowley’s back while the other arm wrapped fully around his waist. His own lips caught the demon’s and pulled in turn. Crowley made a noise deep in his throat that sounded like a hybrid between a growl and a moan. One of his hands slid down Aziraphale’s back and pulled him in tight. The angel’s knees nearly buckled.
Throughout his many centuries of existence, Aziraphale had allowed himself to indulge more and more in Earthly pleasures. Once, so long ago now, he had gagged at the mere thought of food, of alcohol, and everything else that separated humanity from angels. Still, he had dared to try, and found so much joy in such small actions. Now he couldn’t imagine life without wine and restaurants and books and music and parks and snuff and, and, and…
And now this.
Aziraphale’s back hit the wood of the bar. He was grateful for its presence. Whether it was due to the wine, or kissing, or love, or some combination of the three, his knees were seriously threatening to give out for good. He moved his hand up from Crowley’s back to his neck, fingers brushing against the fine hairs on his nape. The demon’s skin was fiery hot beneath his fingertips, and he felt a brief shudder pass through him on contact. Once again, his tongue flicked at the angel’s lips, but this time, Aziraphale let them part. In return, Crowley’s fingers threaded in his hair and tightened.
If his heart beat any faster, Aziraphale was certain it would rip itself in half.
A car horn suddenly blasted somewhere in the distance, followed by the yellow flash of headlights through a window in the bookshop. Somewhere in the angel’s hazy mind an alarm sounded, cutting through the little bubble of time like a gunshot. The memory of the preceding night chased after it, running through his head in a quick succession of images: the church, the smashed liquor bottles, the magic show, the flash of a camera in the audience, the demon Furfur holding a photo of them together, threatening to take Crowley back to Hell –
Oh good Lord above what were they thinking?
What was he thinking?!
This was so incredibly dangerous. It had always been dangerous for them to even work together – hadn’t tonight been proof enough of that? – but friendship? More than friendship? God Almighty, what would Hell do to Crowley if they caught them like this? What would Heaven do?
Utterly and completely destroy him. That’s what they would do.
Was that not why they had done their best to keep their distance over these long millennia?
More thoughts stampeded wildly through Aziraphale’s head, snatches of illicit meetings and arguments, snippets of literature and poems and plays, all howling and screaming the same message over and over and over again:
You are an angel. He is a demon.
You are enemies.
This is forbidden for a reason.
This will get him killed.
And then where will you be, when you have nothing?
The music choked out in a buzz of static. Crowley started and pulled away from him. The demon’s pupils were still dilated, his breath still rushed in and out of his mouth, his lips were now red and swollen. Aziraphale stared back at him, painfully aware of what he had to do next. He shut his eyes and let the memory of what had passed between them wash over him for a moment, savoring every second. He would have to retreat for safer territory. For both their sakes.
I must be cruel only to be kind.
“Well! Um, well, I, uh, that was, well, it was a jolly good demonstration.” Aziraphale broke eye contact and stepped out of Crowley’s arms. He linked his hands behind his back and straightened up. “I suppose, I, uh, I think, well, I, I’ve got some, um, business…to…attend to. You know how it is. Heaven and its paperwork!” The laugh that came out of the angel’s mouth was stilted and incredibly fake.
Aziraphale could feel Crowley staring at him. He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
It’s better this way. It’s safer this way.
But he knew the disappointment in Crowley’s face perfectly matched his own.
Like two halves of the same soul.
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” When Aziraphale finally brought himself to look back at Crowley, the demon had put his glasses back on. With a snap of his fingers, he was back in his jacket, overcoat, and had tidied himself up. “I’ll…just be off, then. Temptations to perform and…yeah.”
“Of course.” The angel’s fingers clenched so tightly together he could feel his pinky ring cutting into the side of his other hand. “I. Well. I don’t suppose you…you need me to do anything else? While you’re here?”
Mentally he kicked himself. The first step in keeping a healthy distance between them was not, in fact, to offer more chances to meet up and be together.
“Nngh, no, I, uh, don’t think so, no. But…I’ll keep you posted.”
He stared at Crowley, trying to school his face into anything besides unbridled longing. In general, this experience had left him feeling wholly unangelic. More like a lost lamb in the middle of the woods. Or perhaps like Juliet sighing on her balcony.
Very human, these emotions. So very human.
“I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat again. The vibration thrummed across his tender lips. “I…Crowley…I, I hope you know that…I did miss you. These past few…” He waved his hand in the air. “It…it was…quite good to…to see you again. And…I-I am sorry. For…what happened. Before.”
He wondered if Crowley could hear the unspoken words there, hidden in the quaver of the angel’s voice, in the shaking of his hands.
I love you so very much.
Crowley averted his gaze and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Somewhere outside the bookshop, a bird sang its morning reveille. Another car honked. The gentle murmur of pedestrian life was slowly building in the background.
Aziraphale wished his heart would behave itself and stop its pounding already. Especially when each beat made it feel heavier and tighter.
“Yeah. It was. Good, I mean. And…” Crowley trailed off. He looked back over at Aziraphale and, after a long moment, held out a hand. “Perhaps I’ll…see you around?” He popped the last p in ‘perhaps’ and raised his eyebrows a little bit.
The angel stepped forward, willing his legs to behave for just a little while longer. He held a hand forward, grasped Crowley’s, and gave a very limp and trembly handshake, allowing himself a moment to revel in the feeling of skin on skin. Then he stepped away again, both missing the contact and grateful for its absence.
“I’ll…see you, then.”
Crowley nodded curtly. Then he spun on his heel and darted out the door. The moment he vanished from sight, Aziraphale’s legs finally gave out. He collapsed against the bar and covered his mouth with both hands. The tips of his index fingers shook, his thumbs shook, his poor knees shook, every breath shook. His heart strummed on, beating in his ears, his brain, his very soul, humming along to the melody of an unknown song. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the jingle of the bookshop door opening and closing, followed by the roar of the Bentley’s engine. He listened to it until the sound faded into the background noise of Soho waking up.
Above him, the radio let out a grumble and restarted its interrupted song.
…But that was long ago
And now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song
And beside a garden wall
When stars were bright
You are in my arms
The nightingale told his fairy tale
A paradise where roses bloom…
No mercy, then.
Aziraphale brought his knees up to his chest and stared out the window. Dawn was now starting to break over the Eastern horizon.
…Though I dream in vain
In my heart it always will remain
My stardust melody
The memory of love’s refrain
The lines repeated endlessly, winding around the room and around the angel’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus. He was an angel, he was here on behalf of the Almighty, he was good, Crowley was evil, they were enemies, he was supposed to thwart him, this was how it was supposed to be.
This was the right choice. This was what he had to do.
But Lord, Aziraphale had never felt more alone in all his existence.