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The man looks out of place walking through the muddy fields, his neat beige suit standing out against the dark earth. He keeps a brisk pace, his lips tightly sealed, his old-fashioned hat slightly askew. He fixes it with one hand.
Bowtie, waistcoat, inexplicably shiny loafers; a lost salesman wandering through the Great Plains' corpse. Selling what?
"Not selling", he'd say. No, nothing this vulgar. Gifting, offering, maybe. An emissary on a holy mission.
Human paths, human rules do not bind him; in a blink, a whisper, he could reach his destination, open his metaphorical briefcase and start his eons-old speech.
And yet the man - no, the creature, man-shaped, yes, but creature nonetheless - lingers, stumbles, caught up in the imperfect beauty of a bruised-up sky, bleeding purple on his light suit.
He's seen thousands of sunsets ; he'll see a million more.
He stops, and watches the inflamed eye of the sun wobble over the horizon, blood-red, sobbing its last tears of daylight.
When the first star blinks and twinkles, he shudders.
It's night when the campfire's light reaches him. He stops a few steps short of the red halo; he watches the people walk, run, dance, their dark silhouettes standing out against the fire like shadow-figures on a cave wall.
They're young. Children, almost. Eyes wide, pupils blown out, skinny, debauched, out of breath. They talk of the road, of poems, of how tomorrow they'll reach ‘Frisco and its jazz clubs, its blue streets, its hazy nights. They'd run to the edge of the world if they could, but they've only got America, so they drive and drive and drive and forget everything else.
He can't bring himself to step forwards.
But then, like a miracle, a hiss of a laugh rings through the night, a few feet to his left, in the shadows.
Aziraphale breathes again.
He's here.
Of course he's here.
Lounging on the hood of a broken-down car, he revels in the retained warmth of the sun-boiled metal. Serpentine, angular, shrink-wrapped in his worn-down black jeans, he feels like a part of the landscape itself, a creature birthed by the red desert.
In the bushes, something rattles.
Aziraphale's human heart picks up its pace. He sucks in a breath. Takes a few steps.
The car's paint flakes off under his hand, once blindingly white.
“I trust this is your doing?
A flash of yellow through the darkness, a pointy grin ; long hair like stray flames from the campfire.
“Angel. Fancy seeing you here. How long has it been?”
“Since the Blitz, I believe.”
The demon nods.
“Ah. Good times. Almost shot you. Worked out in the end, though. And no” — he lets his head fall back in a sigh, exposing the muscles and tendons of his throat — “this isn't me. I'm just... following the current.”
Crowley raises his eyebrows, cocks his head to the side, wordlessly inviting the enemy to settle down next to him. Aziraphale obliges.
He sits at the very edge of the hood, his feet resting against the banged-up grill, his back straight. Thoughtlessly, his hand slides over the car's ornament, some sort of winged statue now knocked askew. His perfectly manicured fingers follow the destitute figure's curves, picking at the rust, searching for its lost luster.
Next to him, Crowley shudders.
“Didn't know you crossed the pond,” the demon drawls out. “Thought you were still home.”
“Home ?”
“Y’know. London. Bookshop. All that.”
“I have an assignment. Wouldn't have come otherwise.”
The angel brings his hands back onto his lap, wringing his fingers. Crowley tries to meet his gaze.
“You could have just asked me to do it,” he says, voice soft and quiet.
Aziraphale presses his lips together, silent. Crowley doesn't push him; he keeps the momentum of the conversation going, his face settling in an air of false nonchalance.
‘What's that assignment all about, then? And what's it got to do with” — he gestures vaguely to the wavering silhouettes some distance away — “them? Whaddya want from these kids, angel?”
“I'm bringing them back, of course.”
“Bringing them where?”
“Onto the right path. Heaven.”
Crowley eyes him curiously. His yellow irises twinkle under the starlight, twin candles piercing the darkness.
“So your lot thinks what they're doing is wrong.”
The angel scoffs.
“Evidently.”
Over near the campfire, the wood cracks, pops, bangs like a gun, its embers the profound red of a wine shared years ago.
“Seems to me like they're just living.”
“Not how they're supposed to.”
“Supposed to ?”
“Oh, Crowley, stop being so difficult.”
Aziraphale lets out a weary sigh, his expression drawn.
“They're free. Or at least they're trying to be,” the demon argues. “That ought to be kind of honorable, at least. Isn't fighting for freedom on your lot's bullet point list of "stuff that'll definitely get you into heaven?””
“There's not a... list, per se.”
“But if there was — “
“You don't understand.”
Crowley tenses.
“I think I understand a whole lot better than you do,” he lets out, voice tight, sour.
“They live on borrowed time, Crowley. And they're wasting it.”
“Are they ? Look at them. Dancing, drinking, eating, loving each other. Doesn't look like wasting time to me.”
“That's not what I mean,” Aziraphale cries out, a desperate frustration bubbling up within him. “All this...it's an illusion. One day, reality will catch up with them and their damaged bodies, and where will they go then, Crowley, when they realize they're out of tune, and can't sing with the choir? Where will they go?”
“They don't have to. Sing, I mean. Or is that your idea of heavenly bliss, up there? Celestial harmonies?”
Crowley peels himself off of the hood of the wrecked car, his body a wiry, stringless puppet.
“I've always liked dancing better, anyways.”
His feet hit the ground, he takes a few steps, hips swaying, and turns around, teeth biting down on the fire's gleam.
An out-of-tune guitar twangs through the darkness, backed up by the rhythm of voices, bodies, uproarious laughter.
Aziraphale swallows, his mouth as dried out as the desert around them. Within his soul, something burns, burns, burns.
He's known since the blitz, since the books, since the blazing church and the deep dark red of a late night glass of wine.
The serpent he loves grabs his hand, yanks him off the forgotten wreck he lingers on, and pulls him into the dance.
He
Turns, stumbles around
An
Arm, snakes up his back
He
Walks, runs, flies, plummets back to earth and into twin pools of shimmering gold.
He feels it, sweet
The
warmth of his chest
Fog of his breath
Smell of his hair
Firesmoke.
Rythm
Music
Skin to skin
Muscles pulling, pushing, tightening, breathing.
Face flushed, lips parted. Pupils blown out.
Star-shaped.
He's never been so present.
So worldly.
So human.
The guitar fades out -
The song ends.
Aziraphale stumbles back, breathless, his heart a trapped bird hammering against the bars of his ribcage.
“No, I — I wasn't — I didn't — “
Crowley does not let go of his hand.
“We don't have to stop,” he pleads, eyes wide, breath ragged. “They'll play another song. All night, if I ask. Angel — “
“Angels don't dance, Crowley,” he chokes out, unable to hide the way his voice wavers.
“Don't you?”
A beat.
“I'm afraid not.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, chewing on the lie. On the words left unsaid.
I can dance.
But not with you.
He squeezes the demon's hand, offering him a bittersweet smile.
“You're too fast, anyways.”
Crowley blinks. Nods. His lips are pinched in a tight line, his eyes averted, looking up.
“Right. Yep. Okay.”
Overhead, the stars shine like memories.
“I should leave,” Aziraphale blurts out.
“And your assignment?”
The angel breathes in, and turns away, watching the horizon. It's still scarred with purple streaks.
The fire behind him warms his back, draws his shadow into a waltz. He winces, looks away, turns his sour expression into a polite smile.
“Maybe you can do that one for me, like you offered earlier. I'll pick up your next temptation, just give me a call at the bookshop.”
Crowley squeaks out a low strangled noise; the angel takes it as an agreement.
“Well…”
He doesn't turn around.
“...See you, then.”
He grabs his hat, walks away, unsteady.
If he sneaked a glance behind him, he'd see a dark silhouette waiting by the bonfire, eyes like sparks, hair like flames.
An extended hand offering warmth, ever so human.
Burn,
burn,
burn.
Aziraphale bows his head,
and disappears into the primordial darkness of the night.