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***Crowley***
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
The words burn.
Aziraphale talked about going on a picnic. Dining at the Ritz. He sees something in their future, Crowley just doesn't know what or how far away that future is.
A little bit of hope can be a good thing. Or it can be the thing that drives you to madness.
Fourteen years is not a long time for an immortal being.
But when you've become accustomed to talking to or hearing from the object of your pathetic and useless love at least once a week for the past 105 years, and knowing that he was there, just a short walk or a letter or a telephone call away, and then he just rips himself out of your life and disappears, for 14 years, well, that fucking hurts.
And then he shows up, out of nowhere, drops off some holy water, tells me I'm going too fast and fucking vanishes again, thought Crowley.
Bookshop shut up tight. Someone's taking care of it, because Crowley sees lights on occasionally. The first time he saw them, years ago, he screeched the Bentley to a halt. Approached the door cautiously, let himself in, his key still worked and the wards still allowed him to pass the threshold.
“Aziraphale?” he called, softly. But he already knew. He hadn't sensed the angel's aura in years. The shop was free of dust and smelled of furniture polish. He must have hired someone to keep it tidy.
The letter he'd sent in 1953 was nowhere to be found, likely tossed out by the cleaner.
After that visit, Crowley had drunk himself catatonic and passed out for a week.
He remembered, fondly, the times in the past when he could easily sleep for years. It was like hibernating – no thoughts, no dreams, no feelings. Just blankness. Numb.
For whatever reason, even this comfort was denied him now. He could sleep, but only for a few days at a time. And every time he awakened, he had a brief moment when he thought Aziraphale was still right up the road in his bookshop, and he could call him or write to him, or check the post for a letter, or maybe that would be the day the angel would allow him to visit.
And then reality crashed in, loudly and messily insisting upon itself.
Aziraphale was gone.
And he had promised, not forever, and he had brought Crowley the holy water, and he had talked about picnics. The hope was cruel. The hope was razor-sharp claws tearing his heart into pieces.
He didn't want to hope. He wanted to be numb.
Seeing Aziraphale again, in his car, so close. He'd been right there and he trusted Crowley enough to hand over that precious container (that matched the tartan of his tie, which was just salt in the wound, really) and to know that Crowley wouldn't misuse it, even though he had to see that Crowley was dying inside, was aching for an end to the pain.
And Crowley couldn't say that he hadn't thought about it, when the nights grew longer and sleep came with less and less frequency, and the heartbreak was a constant, grinding torment and everything, everything reminded him of Aziraphale.
But the hope. He'd been promised.
First, he'd been promised “not forever.” And that kept him going for 14 years. And now, he'd been assured of a picnic and the Ritz. Was that enough for another 14 years? For another 50? A century?
So Crowley clung tightly to these three promises.
And he found a way to survive. He grew plants, he went to art galleries, he read some (although this reminded him too much, and he couldn't do it often), he went to the pub, he occasionally talked to people (when the loneliness threatened to destroy the hope), he drove aimlessly in the Bentley. Sometimes he wrote letters, and then he ripped them up and set them on fire.
And of course, he drank and he slept, as much as he could, because he was, after all, a demon, and he needed his vices.
And then, one day, Crowley had no idea what month, although he thought maybe the year was 1968, his telephone rang.
He was drinking tea and thinking about going down to the pub, or for a drive, and the phone rang. Only one person had his number.
He let it ring, twice. Three times. Four times. And then it hit him, what was happening, and the dreadful hope unfurled its wings, and he picked up the phone. He didn't say hello, he didn't say anything. Just held the receiver to his ear.
“Crowley? Are you there?”
“What's the date?” he asked Aziraphale.
“Oh, it's, um, June 8.”
“What year?”
“1968.”
And he loved that Aziraphale didn't sound surprised that he was asking. The angel just gave him what he needed without judgment.
“OK, thanks,” he said, and was quiet again.
“Would you … would you meet me?” Aziraphale asked.
“As in, meet, meet you, like in person?”
“Yes.”
“When and where?”
“Berkeley Square, tomorrow. Would noon be all right with you?”
“Angel, any time is fine with me. I'll be there.” And he hung up.
***Aziraphale***
Seeing Crowley, in his car, looking so sad and trying so very hard not to - it took everything Aziraphale had in him to hand him that container, in which resided something that could destroy the one person the angel couldn't live without.
Over the last 14 years, Aziraphale had moved from town to town, never staying in any one place, praying that the craving, the yearning that he felt for this demon would fade with distance and time.
After all, these intense feelings were likely a byproduct of Crowley's natural tempting powers, which were strongest in his physical presence, but also bled through in his letters and his phone calls.
Eliminate those, the feelings fade.
The voice in his head, which kept escaping its box no matter how many padlocks Aziraphale placed, told him, You know, you've known, since at least 1941, that this is not simple lust or temptation.
I know, Aziraphale told the voice, irritably. I know that I love him. I am a being of love. That's my literal job, to love.
Wow, said the voice. You are being deliberately obtuse. This is not simple spiritual, angelic love for God and flowers and puppies and babies and all of humanity. This is intense, sharp, passionate, mental, physical, emotional love that you only feel and have only ever felt in the presence of one being in the whole of the universe.
I've fallen in love with him, admitted Aziraphale, not for the first time. Over and over again, every day, I fall in love with him.
And you know, beyond a doubt, that he has fallen in love with you, said the voice.
The idea, that such love involves falling, is terrifying. Aziraphale fears Falling, of course, but Crowley ... Crowley has no place left to Fall.
Nonetheless, Aziraphale knows, the voice is right. Obviously, the voice is himself, the most logical, rational, intelligent part of himself.
And so, he did what he should have done a long time ago. He opened the box, threw away the padlocks, and allowed the voice to return to him, to become a part of him again, instead of a separate entity that needed to be suppressed.
Aziraphale was fiercely intelligent. He put this intelligence to work for him now, examining all sides of the issue as if it were a complicated puzzle.
He began by identifying the big picture: We can't be together, in the way we both long to be, but we also can't be apart. Being apart is too painful - it is shredding my heart, and I saw, in Crowley's face, that it is doing the same to him.
So, how can we be together and not be together at the same time?
And the answer came to him, the only possible solution.
“We need rules,” he said, as soon as Crowley had taken a seat on the bench next to him.
Crowley raised one eyebrow, but otherwise didn't comment.
“The thing is. The thing. Is that I don't want to not be around you anymore,” said Aziraphale, gracelessly, using double negatives and stammering as if he'd never learned how to properly talk.
“Angel,” said Crowley. “Take a deep breath. That's good. Blow it out. All right. Now, start over and try making sense.”
“I want us to be able to be together. I mean, together as in physically. I mean, no! Not physically, but …”
“I think what you're trying to say is that you've missed me,” said Crowley, looking amused. “And you want us to be able to see each other, in person.”
“Oh, Crowley,” breathed Aziraphale. “That's exactly right.”
“And for that to happen without endangering us both, we need rules,” continued Crowley.
Aziraphale nodded. He was so relieved. Crowley understood. And he wasn't angry, and he wasn't bitter about the last 15 years, and he was just being … Crowley. The one, consistent force in his life that he knew would always be there. Other than God, of course, he reminded himself. But that's not ... we're not here for that.
"I don't want to be away from you again," Aziraphale said, simply. "And I want both of us to be safe."
“Agreed, on both points,” said Crowley.
*********
And so it was that they settled on three Rules – edicts that would govern their interactions from this point forward.
Rule one. No touching.
They created a dark, cold space - a little longer than an arm - placed it between them and vowed never to cross it. They already knew, if they ever were to start touching in any romantic way, they would never stop. And they had learned (through much experience over many years) that any touching, no matter how seemingly innocent, ignited a fire between them that could not be ignored and would rapidly burn out of control.
Rule two. No talking about kissing or sex, no innuendo related to kissing or sex, and no mentions of any of their previous 'almost' kisses.
To talk about it, even if not referring to themselves, was to think about it, to think about it was to tempt, and they had both established that neither one of them could avoid temptation from the other.
Rule three. No puppy-dog eyes from Aziraphale. “This one is non-negotiable,” said Crowley.
“What are puppy-dog eyes?” asked the angel.
“There are two versions,” explained Crowley. “One is when you look at me all wide-eyed and then you pout or bite your lip. That one usually happens when you want me to do something for you. The second is when you gaze at me adoringly, with your lips slightly parted and you start breathing heavy. That one happens when I've done something for you that you like.”
“Well, how am I supposed to look at you when you're ni ... I mean, when you do something I like?”
“Like a normal person, like someone would just look at anyone who brought them a box of chocolates or suggested going to dinner!” said Crowley. “As opposed to looking at someone like they're a steak and you're starving to death.”
Aziraphale tried to slip in a fourth rule – that being, “Crowley will stop doing that snake thing with his hips.”
But Crowley protested on the grounds of “That's just the way I walk, angel!”
These rules became law, and the law had been in place since then.
Over the years, they put the law into practice daily. When one of them inevitably slipped up, the other would simply say, “Number 3, angel” or “Rule 2, Crowley” and they would stop, no matter how difficult it was, because what they had was precious and worth saving.
Over time, incidents of rule-breaking became fewer and fewer.
The Rules were the sacrifice they made, because they understood, as star-crossed lovers throughout time had all learned, that to be together, they had to be apart.
In order to have anything at all of each other, they had to give up I want you, they had to let go of dance with me, they had to surrender kiss me, they had to renounce hold me, embrace me, let's wake up next to each other every morning.
And most of all, they had to realize that they could never, ever have I'm in love with you.
It had never been said, except in a dream, and they'd skirted and swerved and danced around it for 6,000 years. It wasn't a part of the Rules, sure, but it was what tied all of the Rules together. It was the unspoken foundation of the Rules, and to give voice to it was to risk destruction of everything they'd worked for.
When he returned home after making the agreement, (which was sealed without a handshake, because even that could be dangerous) Aziraphale sat on the edge of his bed and let the tears flow, without trying to stop them.
He curled up in the blanket that smelled of Crowley, and he allowed himself to grieve the loss of something he'd never had and would likely never have.
At the same time, in a flat just a few miles away, Crowley curled up in his bedroom and cried. He cried for the loss of possibility, for the loss of that never-spoken I love you.
And he wished, with a bitter regret, that he'd said it outside of a dream, just once.