Chapter Text
Chapter One: 1941 – 1945
March something something, I don't know what day it is, 1941
Dear Aziraphale,
Clever angel, devising a cipher to protect our little missives. Even though it makes letter-reading and writing take so much longer.
You know there is this invention, been around for a bit now, called a telephone? But I know how you feel about so-called “newfangled” technology, so for now, letters it is.
Not that I mind; I don't have a lot to do lately. What with the blackouts and rationing and bombing raids, the humans are managing to keep things relatively chaotic up here. Of course I'm taking all of the credit for it, so Hell is off my back for a bit.
I got so bored yesterday that I found myself in the local pub attempting to drown my sorrows. Met a bloke by the name of Cedric Morris, claims to be an artist and horticulturist, which is a complicated word for someone who grows plants. He was a bit offended when I asked him how that makes him any different from a gardener. But hey, causing offense is sorta my job, so pat me on the back.
Anyway, he's invited me to some place called Benton End to see for myself. Guess it's off to the country for me. I hope they don't try to make me ride a horse.
Yours,
C.
April 14, 1941
Dear Crowley:
Imagine my surprise when I answered a knock at my door this morning to find two gentlemen from the GPO, saying they were there to install a telephone in my shop. Naturally, I attempted to send them away, but they said the service was already paid in full and that they'd been threatened by the purchaser with, let's see if I can remember it verbatim, “A curse upon our families unto the 7th generation” should they not complete their task.
Really, Crowley, how dramatic. They were utterly terrified, so I allowed them to install the infernal and entirely unnecessary device and sent them on their way with freshly-baked chocolate biscuits.
I can see how Hell is pleased with you right now. Of course, I've been organizing food and clothing drives and participating in voluntary aid detachments, bringing a bit of light and order into the chaos and darkness. Which means we are, once again, canceling each other out. But no mind, I'm enjoying seeing my humans pull together to help each other – sometimes it takes a bit of upheaval for people to overcome their differences.
I must admit, the vice of envy got the better of me upon reading about your plans for visiting Benton End. I am looking forward to a full recap of the event.
Yours,
A.
May 9, 1941
Dearest Aziraphale,
You know I'm not much for prose, but you wanted a description, so here it is.
I was greeted by Morris and his partner, Arthur, and taken on a tour of the gardens.
It was immediately obvious that Morris has a knack for making art out of botanicals, and the result was amazing. There were flowers in every conceivable hue and a pond that seemed like it was plucked right out of a Monet. Little wooden bridge over it, hovering dragonflies, the whole wild, romantic thing.
Morris blathered on about every flower and shrub like they were his own personal muses.
Before I left, he presented me with some cuttings and asked me to try my hand at it. A demon, growing something instead of destroying it. Imagine.
You might think it ridiculous, and it probably is, but I've already potted them. I guess we'll see how it goes.
Of course, I had to do something to justify my time there, so I tempted one of his most promising artists-in-residence to run off with the cook. Ah, don't look like that, angel, they were already mad for each other – lovelorn, sidelong glances, making excuses to be in each other's presence, finding little reasons to touch. I just nudged them along a bit.
Worst thing is Morris'll have to make his own meals until he hires someone else.
I think you would have really liked the gardens. I take that back, I know you would have.
Yours,
C.
January 1, 1942
Dear Crowley,
It was actually quite lovely to talk to you on the telephone last night. It almost felt like we really were celebrating the new year together.
I especially enjoyed the game you came up with – two truths and a lie – although I still don't believe that you actually wrote a best-selling Victorian romance novel under a pseudonym. And the fact that you won't tell me the name of it makes me think it doesn't exist. Will you at least tell me the plot?
So you may have convinced me that telephones are not inherently bad or frivolous. Indeed, hearing your voice was rather nice.
I'd still rather stick to letters for most of our communication, if that's all right with you. Using the cipher makes it feel safer for both of us.
How are your plants coming along?
Happy New Year, Crowley.
Yours,
A.
January 17, 1942
Dearest Aziraphale,
Of course, angel. Whatever makes you the most comfortable. As long as I get to keep bothering you, it doesn't matter to me what form it takes.
The romance novel was absolutely the truth, and some day I will prove it to you and then you will owe me for doubting my integrity. I'm afraid that the little apology dance simply won't suffice for a suspicion of this magnitude. You have wounded me, Aziraphale, and you're going to have to kiss it all better.
As for the plot, eh, what's to tell? It was a romance. I was mostly drunk when I wrote it and I can't believe someone actually published it. No accounting for taste, huh?
Coincidentally, I was also drunk when I told you about it, and so therefore I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
It's not my fault if all of your truths involved libraries, religious artifacts and safeguarding rare manuscripts instead of something sexy like a romance novel.
The plants are growing green and hardy. I've found that talking to them is helpful, so every morning I give them a rousing inspirational speech.
Yours,
C.
April 24, 1942
My dear Crowley,
As always, celebrating Shakespeare's birthday with you was a wonderful experience. It's better when we can commemorate the occasion in person, but reading to you over the phone was almost as nice.
I am leaving town tomorrow for St. Albans, where I will be volunteering at an evacuation hostel. There are so many children who have been separated from parents and are in need of a guardian angel. For the next few months, you can write to me care of the general post there.
Love,
A.
Some day in October, dunno which, 1942
My angel,
Yes, I take full credit for both the military bat bomb and the pigeon-guided missiles. Don't fret, I warded the animals well. The only things that exploded were unoccupied military buildings, which just so happened to contain a lot of incendiaries. They were lovely conflagrations, though, and created a lot of general mayhem, so Hell was pleased.
I'm glad you're back in London. The city needs you just as badly as St. Albans. Plus I enjoy being able to sense your aura nearby. It's not as good as being with you, but it is very soothing.
Speaking of which, maybe I could pop round the shop some day? It's been more than a year since the magic-act-almost-gone-fatally-wrong. Furfur's probably gotten himself in a lot more trouble since then and therefore likely won't bother us.
Your demon,
Crowley
October 30, 1942
My dearest,
Thank you for protecting the animals. That was very kind of you. Yes, I said it and I stand by it.
Crowley, I would love to see you in person. I miss you terribly. I miss your smile, and your fierce, amber eyes and the way you smell, the way you move, the way the air feels electric when you're in the room. I miss the way you look at me and grin when I do something silly, and how it feels when you hold my hands when I'm sad or afraid.
But it is simply too dangerous. We have garnered a lot of unwanted attention from our respective agencies over the years, you and I, and we know that they are actively looking for proof of us working together.
My dear, Hell would destroy you.
I refuse to put you in danger.
Love,
A.
November 14, 1942
All right, angel. I won't push it. For now.
But what do I smell like, exactly? I'm intrigued. I thought, for an angel, to you I must smell of sulfur and, I dunno, rotten fish or something, which is exactly what Hell smells like on its best day.
Honestly, as a demon, to me most angels smell sickly sweet, like cotton candy at a carnival. Something that makes your teeth ache and creates that kind of low-level nausea that goes along with a hangover.
But you. You smell like new-cut grass and fresh-baked bread, spring rain, lavender, and that scent that a new book gives off when you crack it open for the first time.
And because I know you, Aziraphale, I know you're thinking, 'I must not be as pure and holy as other angels, then, if I smell good to a demon.'
So keep this in mind – Hastur told me once that, to him, you smelled like a perfume counter exploded and that it made him want to hurl.
So apparently, it's not pleasant for all demons. Just me.
Love,
C.
November 27, 1942
My dear Crowley,
I must admit, I was rather impressed by your act of reading my mind from a distance.
Also, I am happy that my scent is pleasant for you, and just as glad that it is distinctly unpleasant for Hastur, and by extrapolation, likely all other demons as well. I have no interest in creating comfort and contentment for any demon other than yourself.
As for your smell, I found that blanket that you liked to snuggle with occasionally (I can hear you now saying, demons don't snuggle! But what else do you call wrapping up tightly and cosily?), and I used it as a reference to help me be as specific as possible.
You, Crowley, smell like skin-warmed leather, a crackling bonfire, cinnamon and cloves and the scent of autumn leaves crushed underfoot while walking in the woods in the fall.
Now, I am going to make myself a cup of hot cocoa and snuggle under your blanket while reading my new book.
Love,
A.
July 8, 1943
My dearest Crowley,
Food rationing must have been created by your lot. I've had to resort to using powdered eggs and vegetable oil in my baking, and my sponge cakes simply aren't the same.
Yes, I recognize that I could miracle myself some real eggs and butter, but it doesn't seem right with all of my humans having to stand in food lines for hours.
Fortunately, myself and several of my shopkeeper neighbors have pooled together our resources and we have quite a feast at least once per week. They said the cake was delightful, but I'm sure they were just being polite.
I was so tickled to hear about your little Victory Garden, Crowley! The herbs you sent me will be used in my next feast dish. I wish I could send you a taste, but I don't think herb-crusted chicken with lemon sauce would travel well through the post. Plus I know you don't enjoy eating as much as I do, anyway.
Speaking of, I was visited by Archangel Gabriel last week. He was just checking in, he said, although he admitted that my reports have been top-notch as usual.
He, of course, had much to say about my gluttony, and accused me of going soft while poking me in the belly. I don't even know why I'm telling you this except that it was upsetting and I know that you would comfort me, if you were here. You would do that thing where you kneel in front of my chair, and take my hands, and tell me that Gabriel is a priggish, sanctimonious, hypocritical prat whose opinion should mean less than nothing to me.
It is soothing just to picture it.
All my love,
A.
July 30, 1943
Dearest angel,
I had nothing to do with food rationing, but let's keep that between ourselves because I did take credit for it in one of my reports.
You think you have it bad with your lack of eggs and butter, I've had to resort to the black market for any halfway decent whiskey, and when I can't find that, it's my downstairs neighbor's home brew or nothing. His swill starts to taste pretty good after the first six or so pints.
Glad you liked the herbs. I'll send you more as they grow. I give them motivational and encouraging talks daily, so they are quite prolific.
Listen, Aziraphale. You know exactly what I think about Gabriel, obviously, although you know I would have used a few more swear words when describing him.
But let me tell you something you might not know. I think every part of you is perfect just the way it is.
You are soft where you should be soft, and firm where you should be firm and Gabriel is an idiot.
I can't really think about your body without wanting to hug you and, then, you know, other things that we probably shouldn't discuss, so I'm going to just leave it at that and hope that my message comes through loud and clear.
Love,
C.
January 1, 1944
My dear, sweet Crowley,
I am still quite a bit drunk after our phone call. I didn't want to hang up, but I'm still so afraid, all the time, of being overheard, of being discovered. It's exhausting.
Your letters. They have been supporting and soothing me. I hope that mine have been such for you.
I don't know what to say right now. You know how I get when I've had too much to drink, and the butcher's home brew is especially potent. I'm not sure what exactly he puts in it but my head is spinning. Or maybe the room is spinning. Not gonna sober up yet, though.
I'm so tired of war, Crowley. I know, I'm so selfish, people are dying, and being tortured, and all I can think about is my little comforts. I'm a terrible angel. I'm tired of not being able to see you.
I'm heading out of the city again tomorrow, this time to Bury St Edmunds. There's still so much work to be done, and you know that helping others helps me escape my blues.
You can send mail to the general post again. I'll probably be there for a few months.
Do you remember that time, in Egypt, where we lay on the roof of that tavern, and you pointed out all of the different constellations and told me stories about the stars all night?
Maybe, the next time we talk on the phone, we can both lay down somewhere, and you can do that again.
We can't be in the same place, but we can still share the same stars.
Your angel,
A.
January 20, 1944
My Aziraphale,
I hate to hear you so down. Well, not hear, but read. Oh whatever. I could tell you were feeling melancholy when you last wrote.
You are a wonderful angel. You love this planet and these humans more than any other angel in existence. I see that love every time you are around them. They are damn lucky to have you guarding them, not only their bodies, but their souls.
I certainly remember that time in Egypt, mostly because you kept your mouth shut and let me talk for a change. Did that get at least a small smile?
But seriously, I will share the stars with you any time you want, angel.
Any time.
Love,
C.
December 15, 1944
Happy Christmas, my angel. Sending this early so you'll get it in time.
I know I don't need to tell you that Jesus wasn't actually born in the middle of winter, and that this date was chosen to coincide with the winter solstice in an effort to convert all of the pagans. But oh, look what I just did. I told you anyway. I'm sure you'll forgive me for being pedantic. You are awfully good at forgiveness.
Some seriously fucked up stuff has happened among the humans this year, and the vast majority of it had nothing to do with me or Hell. More and more, I'm starting to think both systems are completely redundant and unnecessary.
Want to watch the stars with me again on New Year's Eve? It won't be as eventful as the Perseid shower back in August, but still worth it.
Love,
C.
December 25, 1944
Happy December the 25th, my cynical demon. Yes, I know. I was there for his birth, if you recall.
I am going to hire a messenger to deliver this to make sure it gets to you on time. And yes, I'm going to tip him extraordinarily well because that's what I do.
I agree that Hell is completely unnecessary. I suppose we can agree to disagree on the usefulness of Heaven.
I would love to ring in the new year watching the stars with you. I'll lay on your snuggle blanket on the roof and call you when I'm situated.
Yes, I am going to continue calling it your snuggle blanket forever and ever and there's nothing you can do about it.
Love,
A.
May 8, 1945 – VE Day
Aziraphale sat on the patio of a pub just across the street from the St. Paul Cathedral, watching the crowds and marveling at how many people were turning out to offer praise and thanksgiving for the end of the war in Europe.
He was enjoying a glass of red wine and basking in the love that permeated the revelry. He was transfixed by the joy of so many humans celebrating at once, to the point that he didn't notice the familiar aura until it was practically on top of him.
Therefore, when Crowley eased himself into the other seat at the table, he was startled. And then he was very excited. And then he was extremely anxious. All of those emotions practically at once combined to render him speechless, mouth slightly open, wide-eyed, breathing fast.
“Angel, don't look so shocked,” Crowley said. “Although, if anyone important is watching, I guess keep doing what you're doing, because you look like I just proposed that we sacrifice puppies and kittens on the steps of the cathedral.”
Aziraphale pulled himself together as best he could.
“There you go,” said Crowley, approvingly. “Now you look like you're just irritated to see me.”
“Do you actually think anyone is watching?” whispered Aziraphale.
“No, I don't,” responded Crowley, leaning forward with an exaggerated whisper that served to mock Aziraphale's paranoia. “I think everyone is very busy letting loose and enjoying themselves after years of restrictions. If there are any demons present, which I don't sense, then they are drunk off their asses and most assuredly not paying any attention to us.”
“I suppose you're here for the 'letting loose' part,” said Aziraphale, motioning to a server to bring a glass for Crowley.
“I suppose you're here for the ...” he gestured lazily towards the cathedral, “whatever that is.”
“Prayers of gratitude?”
“Sure, that,” said Crowley. “Gratitude for a world war that caused 85 million deaths, with the majority of civilian deaths being those of Her chosen people. If that's what Her love is like, I'm glad to be free of it.”
Aziraphale felt that familiar combination of sadness, irritation and confusion when he was met with one of Crowley's statements that questioned everything he had ever believed. He sat quietly, sipping his wine.
“Angel?” said Crowley. “You're not going to tell me it's part of Her ineffable plan? Are you feeling all right?”
“I don't know,” he replied honestly. “On one hand, I have no idea how such atrocities could be allowed to happen. On the other, though, I know that She gave them free will, and if She interfered with that, well, then it wouldn't be free will anymore, would it?”
Crowley smiled – it wasn't his usual caustic, mocking smile, but one that was gentle, and even kind, not that Aziraphale would say that aloud to his face. In a letter was one thing …
“It's good to see you, Aziraphale,” said Crowley.
“It's so good to see you, Crowley,” breathed Aziraphale. “You really don't sense any demons?”
Crowley took a moment, in which he appeared to be concentrating very hard. Finally, he said, “Nope, not anywhere in the city, which is about as far as my range reaches. What about angels?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, they aren't here.”
Crowley grinned, and this time it was not a sweet, gentle smile, but a wicked and mischievous one.
“Well, then,” he said. “I guess we're alone now. Whatever shall we get up to?”
Aziraphale found his breath quickening and he could feel the flush rising in his cheeks. Oh stop it, he warned himself.
Crowley drained his glass and stood.
“Come on, angel,” he said. “Let me show you something.”
Aziraphale hesitated only a second before following Crowley to his car, and allowing himself to be ushered into the passenger seat. Some angel you are, he thought. All those promises you made to yourself go completely out the window when he smiles at you.
Crowley drove at a relatively sedate pace. The radio was off, and everything was quiet. Aziraphale was in awe of how comfortable he felt just being silent in Crowley's presence. Every so often Crowley would glance over at him, as if to check his mood and demeanor. Aziraphale would grin at him in a sidelong glance and press his lips together, trying not to laugh.
They pulled up next to a wide-open expanse of trees and grass, and Crowley cut off the engine. He reached into the backseat and removed some unidentifiable items, then motioned for Aziraphale to get out of the car.
The sun was starting its downward journey towards the horizon, and they had just enough light to see the small but well-maintained dirt path through the trees. At the end of the path, Aziraphale found himself in a round clearing with low grass and clutches of small, fragrant flowers, at this point lit only by moon- and star-light.
What Crowley had been carrying became clear as he lifted his arms and shook out a large, cream-colored blanket, settling it onto the grass.
He sat cross-legged upon the blanket and patted a spot next to him.
Aziraphale sat, and the blanket was cosy and warm beneath him.
Crowley then reclined onto his back and removed his dark glasses, resting his head in one arm while the other arm reached out invitingly beside him.
They still had not said a word since entering the car. Aziraphale felt like he was under a gentle, magical spell as he eased himself back, resting his head on Crowley's outstretched arm, which curled to rest on his shoulder.
When he looked up, he gasped. Out here, away from the lights of the city, the sky was as black as ink, and the stars stood out in clear, sharp relief. There were so many.
He found himself catching his breath and, for a moment, desperately trying not to cry.
Crowley's hand gently stroked his shoulder, and he whispered, “Angel. I love that you love this as much as I do. I thought it would affect you this way. It does the same thing to me, every fucking time.”
“I think,” said Aziraphale softly, “it's the stars, assuredly, but it's also just … you … seeing them like this, with you.”
He started to worry that he'd said too much, or gone too far with sentimentality and ruined the moment, but Crowley responded, “Every time I've come out here, I've imagined you with me, just like this. I almost feel like I'm dreaming right now.”
They were both quiet for a while.
“That one, there, the one shaped like the letter W – that's Cassiopeia,” whispered Crowley. “The legend goes that Poseidon punished her for her vanity and chained her to a throne in the stars. But I think she was just proud of her beautiful daughter. I like to picture it as a crown, instead.”
He pointed at another set of stars, and said, “That one is Draco, the dragon. He guarded Hera's golden apples. Heracles killed him as one of his twelve labors, and Hera honored him by granting him a place in the sky.”
“And that one,” said Aziraphale, pointing, “is Lyra, which represents the story of Orpheus and his harp. That was such a sad story, not being able to look behind to make sure his Eurydice was following him from the Underworld. What a terrible temptation.”
There was a pause while Aziraphale had just enough time to reflect on what he'd said.
“Oh, I mean, not terrible, exactly...”
“Angel, don't worry,” said Crowley, sounding amused. “That wasn't one of mine. I would never be that cruel.”
“You wouldn't,” agreed Aziraphale.
They were quiet for a long time, simply resting in each other's company, watching the stars.
Aziraphale felt Crowley's arm stiffen underneath him; at the same time, his senses moved to alertness with the warning of nearby angelic energy.
They both sat up.
“We need to go,” said Crowley. Aziraphale nodded.
The ride back to the city was also quiet, but not calm, both of them anxious and fidgety.
Crowley pulled the Bentley into a suddenly-free parking space in front of the bookshop. He turned to Aziraphale, fangs slightly bared, brow furrowed.
“Fuck all of them, every ssssingle one of them,” he hissed.
“It's going to be OK, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “We'll figure it out.”
“How?” said Crowley, his composure starting to crack.
Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, Aziraphale reached out with one hand, and cradled Crowley's cheek, reveling in the softness and warmth against his palm, as Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the caress.
“I don't know yet,” he breathed. “But this … you and I … this can't be an accident. Of all the angels and all the demons that could have been chosen to work here on Earth, it was us, Crowley, from the very beginning.”
Crowley nodded, working very hard to slow his breathing.
Aziraphale removed his hand, and left the car, closing the door gently behind him.
He watched, as the Bentley drove off, and then squared his shoulders, lifted his head and entered his shop, prepared for whatever would come his way.