Work Text:
February, 1941
**Aziraphale**
Aziraphale stood amid the wreckage of a church that had been razed to the ground by a demonic miracle, clutching a bag of precious, rare books that had been restored to him in the exact same way.
Crowley not only saved him from discorporation, but had thought to rescue his books. Crowley didn't care about the books, at all, thought Aziraphale. He saved them because I care about them. Because they are important to me. I didn't even have to ask him – he just did it.
Because he loves you, idiot, whispered an interior voice that he'd locked up a long time ago.
Demons don't love. They can't love, he told the voice - an automatic response he'd told himself so many times that it had become rote - and you're supposed to be in a box, in the back of my head, secured with about 20 very strong padlocks - the keys to which I purposely misplaced.
This demon loves. He loves you. He's shown it in about a million different ways over thousands and thousands of years. Nobody does the things he's done without being completely, head-over-heels in love.
And what's more, continued the voice, you are in love with him.
Aziraphale's internal battle was interrupted when he heard his name called from the parking area in front of the church, or what used to be the church and was now a smoking pile of rubble.
“You coming or what, angel?” Crowley said, a bit impatiently, pain edging his voice.
Oh, his poor feet, thought Aziraphale, hurrying to catch up with him. They must be in a dreadful state. I can't think about all of this right now. Push it down. Focus.
“There she is,” said Crowley, gesturing grandly at a large, dark, shiny, metal object in the lot. “My baby.”
“It's a car, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.
“Not just any car,” he started to pontificate about some reason why this particular vehicle was so special and something about horsepower and Aziraphale wasn't listening.
“Crowley, you are about to fall over. Now do sit down and let me do something about your feet.”
“Nuh, angel,” he groaned, waving Aziraphale away. “They're fine. Leave 'em be.”
Aziraphale grasped Crowley's arm and led him gently to the open door of the driver's side of the car, helping him to ease into the seat sideways, so that his feet were outside of the vehicle.
Aziraphale knelt down and reached for one of Crowley's boots.
He could see the realization of what was about to happen hit Crowley, who immediately began trying to pull his legs into the car, but Aziraphale was faster.
“Oh, no, you don't,” he admonished, and held tight to Crowley's ankle with one hand, while quickly removing his shoe and sock with the other.
A small part of his brain that wasn't directly involved in this activity was noting, in surprise, how calm and sensible he was behaving while holding the bare foot of the demon with whom he was passionately in love, and who was, oh by the way, possibly also in love with him.
not possibly, said the voice. definitely.
Oh do shut up, he thought, irrationally, since he was in fact talking only to himself.
Now that one foot had been exposed, Crowley submitted quietly to allowing his other boot and sock to be gently removed and placed aside.
Aziraphale winced in sympathy upon examining the soles of Crowley's feet. They were blistering and slightly oozing, already starting to swell.
The angel gently spread his hands, hovering them above the ravaged skin, feeling the warmth of healing magic flowing from him. As he worked, he kept his eyes carefully downcast.
Crowley couldn't seem to help moaning in relief as his skin started to knit together.
“Angel,” he sighed. “That feels excellent.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence.
Crowley broke it. “S' a little awkward, I know,” he said.
Aziraphale thought about denying it and feigning ignorance, but what was the point?
“We've gone for so long communicating only in letters,” he said, hesitantly, “and then we're suddenly … face-to-face …”
“Especially when said letters were full of … suggestions … and um ...” started Crowley.
“Flirting?” interjected Aziraphale.
“Er, yes, that.”
Aziraphale had completed his healing, and re-covered Crowley's feet. Still kneeling, he finally met Crowley's eyes, which, fortunately, were concealed by his dark glasses.
“Much easier to flirt in a letter,” the angel said, “when there's no real opportunity to act on it due to physical distance. Being in person … makes it more real. More … possible.”
He heard Crowley's sudden intake of breath.
That, he thought with satisfaction. That's why he enjoys teasing me so much. It's quite a powerful feeling, to know that you can cause such an intense reaction in a person with nothing but a few words. He'd noticed, in the past, that he could create these responses in Crowley, but never understood why.
He found himself smiling inwardly, then just as quickly chastised himself.
You shouldn't be encouraging this. This is real, and this is dangerous.
Standing, Aziraphale brushed off the knees of his pants and cleared his throat, no longer looking at Crowley.
You can't follow this where it may lead, Aziraphale told himself. Crowley has shown that he would do anything for you, even risk eternal torment or destruction, even take on Hell itself and try to destroy other demons with holy water. It is your responsibility to keep this from going any further.
“Um, c'mon, get in,” said Crowley, gesturing towards the passenger side. “I've got a bit of an errand to run, and then I'll drop you home.”
Aziraphale nodded, and moved into the passenger seat, bracing himself for what he was sure would be an interesting ride.
Later that evening
**Crowley**
Crowley was drunk. Not staggeringly so. Just enough of a buzz to numb all of the aching hunger that he was feeling being in Aziraphale's presence.
He had promised himself. Distance. Nothing in person. The letters – those were wonderful. Allowed him to have some of the benefits of being with the angel, without as much of the temptation.
Unfortunately, they didn't need to be in close physical proximity to be flirtatious. It just seemed to happen.
And tonight. Tonight, Aziraphale had placed his entire angelic life in Crowley's hands, for the sole purpose of rescuing Crowley, of keeping him safe from Hell.
Not only that, but then he'd actually managed to nick the photograph right from under the watchful eyes of Furfur, while a miracle blocker was in place. Now that. Was insanely hot.
And so here Crowley was. Back in the bookshop, and the longing he felt for the angel was, if possible, even stronger than it had been the last time he'd seen him, slightly less than a century ago.
So. Alcohol. Enough to numb, not enough to get reckless. It was a delicate balance.
They'd just finished dinner, and had moved to the sofa with their glasses of wine. The radio was playing softly in the background and they were both very careful to sit on opposite sides of the couch. Crowley was lounging against the armrest, legs splayed out comfortably in front of him; Aziraphale sat upright and proper while still managing to look completely at ease.
“So, angel,” said Crowley, “I do believe my last letter contained a warning. A warning that you ignored, which necessitated me exploding a church in order to ...”
“Yes, I'm aware,” said Aziraphale, calmly sipping from his wineglass. “You don't think the magic act was acceptable recompense?”
“You mean the magic act where you made me shoot an actual gun at your head?” said Crowley. “Plus, if I hadn't had to rescue you, I wouldn't have had to divert that bomb, and my bottles would have remained intact, negating the need for the magic act in the first place.”
“That is highly convoluted logic,” retorted Aziraphale. “The bottles broke due to your reckless driving, not because of the bomb.”
“How d'you know? Did you see them before I started driving?”
“Well, no, but …”
“Then your claim is speculative at best, and slander at worst.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, which Crowley recognized as his attempt to keep from smiling.
“So I presume you expect an apology?” asked Aziraphale, raising one eyebrow.
Crowley nodded.
“And I don't suppose a simple 'I'm sorry' will suffice?”
Crowley shook his head.
Aziraphale sighed, and stood, adjusting his waistcoat and bow tie.
He moved directly in front of Crowley, nudging his legs out of the way with a foot.
“You were right.
You were right.
I was wrong.
You
Were
Right.”
He ended with the little bow, defiant eye contact, directly in front of Crowley.
“Very nice,” said Crowley, clearing his throat.
Aziraphale returned to his seat on the couch, but this time closer – easily within arm's reach. Crowley found it disturbing that those few inches were all it took to make his mouth run dry and his heart race.
“Should we … um. Should we talk?” said Crowley, who hated these kinds of Talks with a capital T, but his mouth was opening and speaking before he could stop it. “About the letters? And … things?”
Aziraphale pondered this for what seemed like the longest moment of Crowley's life to date, and then shook his head.
“It was just teasing, like we always do,” said the angel. “It was fun. Nothing else to talk about, really.”
Crowley didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
For one thing, no matter how many times they'd teased and flirted in the past, Aziraphale had never, not once, insinuated that he would like for Crowley to push him up against a bookshelf and have his way with him, like he did in one of his more recent letters. After receiving that one, it had taken every ounce of Crowley's self-control and willpower not to race to the bookshop and take Aziraphale up on his drunken offer.
The only thing that had stopped him was picturing Hastur talking about what he would do to the angel if he ever caught the two of them working together, in any way.
That hadn't stopped him tonight, but maybe it should have. He would definitely rather Aziraphale be discorporated and sent back to Heaven than have to face what Hell would do to the angel. But he couldn't stop himself. He could rarely stop himself when it came to Aziraphale.
Besides, blowing up a church had to count for something with his bosses, right?
On the other hand, though, what good would it do if they had a Talk and Aziraphale actually admitted to having romantic feelings for him? It's not something they could do anything about. After tonight, in the face of what had to be complete embarrassment for Furfur once he returned to Hell and realized he didn't have the photograph, there was just one more demon who would be out for both him and Aziraphale, waiting for them to make a wrong move.
But … maybe …
“OK, no big talk,” said Crowley, noticing the same combination of feelings play across Aziraphale's face as he had just experienced – regret and relief simultaneously. “But I think it would be all right, at this particular moment, for us to … you know. Have a little something. Just for us.”
“What did you have in mind?” Aziraphale asked, cautiously.
Crowley stood, moved in front of Aziraphale, and extended his hand.
“Would you dance with me, angel?”
“I don't dance,” Aziraphale said, but it sounded like an automatic response.
“I know you don't, usually, unless you're having to apologize to me. But I would like to dance with you.”
Aziraphale hesitated only a second before he placed his hand in Crowley's, and allowed himself to be gently pulled from the couch, his eyes never leaving Crowley's face.
“Wait,” he said. “Before we start...” and he reached up and slid Crowley's glasses off, tossing them aside onto a nearby table. “That's better.”
Crowley found himself having to take a very deep breath and avert his gaze for a second, to regain control.
“So what do I …?” started Aziraphale.
“Like this,” said Crowley. “You hold my hand with your right, and you put your left, here, on my shoulder.” He helped Aziraphale position himself.
“Then I put my other hand, here,” and he placed his left hand around Aziraphale's waist and, very gently, pulled him close, looking down into his eyes from his slight height advantage.
When Aziraphale's breath hitched at the physical contact, Crowley thought he might actually faint from the dizzy rush of passion that swept through his body.
Fuck, he thought, we are both fully clothed and barely touching, and all he has to do is fucking breathe and you come apart. Why are you torturing yourself?
Because I want this. This one moment. Before we have to be apart again, for who knows how long, I want a romantic moment with my beautiful, brave, smart, selfless, silly, amazing angel.
Just this one thing, please. And then I can let him go. Please, he prayed to a God he knew was no longer listening.
A new song started on the radio.
“Then you just follow my lead,” he whispered, not trusting his voice.
Crowley began to move, guiding Aziraphale through the steps, their eyes locked together. As the song played, Aziraphale twined his fingers through Crowley's, and the hand on his shoulder moved to his neck, causing them to inch closer together.
That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dancing at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
Aziraphale was following quite well. At one point, he glanced down at his feet; Crowley took his hand off of the angel's waist and placed it under his chin, tilting his head back up.
“Don't look down,” he said, softly. “You'll start overthinking it. You're doing beautifully, just keep your eyes on me.”
The moon that lingered over London Town
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love
The whole darn world seemed upside down
They continued to move through the dance, slowly, swaying together, eyes never leaving each other's.
Then they stopped, as if in agreement, but didn't break apart. They simply stood, pressed lightly together, hands intertwined, Crowley's arm wrapped around Aziraphale's waist, the angel's arm around his neck.
Both of them were breathing deeply, even though the dance had not been a strenuous one.
Aziraphale's lips were slightly parted.
Crowley was burning. His desire and love for this angel were overpowering – he could think about nothing, feel nothing, other than Aziraphale in his arms where he belonged.
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
I know 'cause I was there
That night in Berkeley Square
The song faded, and Crowley did one of the most difficult and painful things he had ever done in his millions of years of existence.
He let go of Aziraphale, and stepped back.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“It was my pleasure,” Aziraphale said, sounding rather breathless. His tie was slightly crooked, his waistcoat rumpled where he had been pressed up against Crowley. His eyes were shining and his chest was rising and falling as he fought to slow his breathing.
And Crowley knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he took one step, if he pushed it even the slightest bit, the angel would meet him in the middle, they would kiss, and touch, and melt together like they had in the Dreaming. He would never be able to leave.
So he did the second-hardest and most painful thing he'd ever done, which was to say, “Good night, angel”, and walk out the door.