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“Fuck off.”
Crowley stared the man down, towering over him with ease, heeled boots lending her already formidable height an unneeded but appreciated boost. She smiled saccharine sweet, letting her sunglasses slip slightly down the bridge of her nose, baring a hint of venomous eyes, golden and dangerous, promising violence. He sneered but sweat was gathering on his brow, pudgy form trembling as he backed up; a cornered prey.
Crowley could practically taste the fear. But the thing about this particular brand of cornered prey was that they got cocky. Ran their mouth for the last laugh, even as they tripped over their own two feet.
“Alright, alright, whatever. ‘S not my fault she’s dressed like that.” He gestured behind Crowley where Aziraphale stood, prim and proper. The offending outfit in question was a yellow ochre linen skirt – in tartan because Aziraphale was nothing if not consistent – with a yellow single-buttoned waistcoat. Underneath was a loose-fitting white cotton shirt embroidered with dotted gold stars, french cuff sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She adorned a tartan neckerchief in a simple high tie, the whole thing bought together with blue jade jewellery and a hat that was slipping off her head, hair mussed. It was comparatively short for the decade’s standards but was longer than anything Aziraphale had done in the past century, reminding Crowley of Rome of all things.
In short, Aziraphale looked lovely – an understatement – and like she couldn’t hurt a fly. Only one of those things were true.
Crowley growled, taking a step forward to tear the guy a new one, enacting true on the earlier promise of violence, but Aziraphale cleared her throat, straightening her cloche hat from where it had gotten skewed in the first encounter, movements all grace and kindness. Her smile was softer but her eyes flashed sternly, wrinkles deepening. “There is a lot you could learn from this, young man. I suggest you start by rethinking your priorities. For one, this is hardly an appropriate use of your time when you could be doing so much more. I, of course, don’t know what exactly your talent is but there are several options, aren’t there?”
She turned to Crowley, giving her a pointed look. Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I suppose.” Then, because she was still the Serpent of Eden and the Serpent of Eden was a demon, she said, “Lots of desires out there, pick a better one.”
Aziraphale glared at her and Crowley grinned crookedly, just a touch of genuineness that went unobserved by the man. He’d been staring confusedly between the two for the last minute, unsure of how to take the tonal shift, inching farther and farther towards the alley wall. Crowley took in stock because she hadn’t had the chance to do so earlier, all her senses focused on Aziraphale In Danger and not what the danger looked like – it was mostly humans anyway. The danger was a man of small stature, pudgy form as noted earlier, hideous moustache and frankly appalling green blazer, all topped with a head losing hair at an age too young. All in all a terrible combination. A drunk one at that.
“There you have it. Now, you’re going to go home and think long and hard about your wrongdoings. Isn’t that right,” Aziraphale said, steamrolling entirely over what should’ve been a question, voice slightly amplified.
Green Blazer – a well-thought-out nickname in Crowley’s opinion – nodded, swaying, and she wondered how long he’d make it through the streets of New York before he’d burst into tears. Angelic Compulsion always left humans with a sick feeling in their stomachs despite the etherealness of the whole ordeal. Crowley had never experienced it but she’d seen it happen enough times over the years in varying degrees from different angels, all of which resulted from either passing out due to exhaustion or just getting headaches. Overuse of power, which Aziraphale tended to avoid because she knew how much humans could and couldn’t handle, unlike Gabriel or any other archangels. Though it seemed like she’d forgotten to hold back all of It this time.
Well deserved, Crowley thought.
“Off you go,” she said, then pulled a snake head for good measure – dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, as Aziraphale would say. Green Blazer scrambled back, crotch section dampening as he stumbled out of the alley into New York’s nightlife, omened to have his car towed away. Drunk driving was a rather nasty habit anyway.
Aziraphale frowned, but Crowley could see the smile fighting to overtake it. “That was uncalled for. Really, Crowley, could you do anything in moderation?”
“I’m not the one who went all Compulsive on him,” she pointed out.
“That wasn’t-”
“He looked like his head was about to roll off his neck.”
Aziraphale huffed. “Hardly Angelic.”
Crowley grinned like the cat that got the cream, the argument won. “Whatever you say, angel.”
“Well,” Aziraphale started, turning and walking out of the alley, leaving Crowley scrambling to catch up. “Didn’t expect to see you in America now of all times. Thought we’d agreed to stay away.”
“Consider it a rescue mission,” she said, matching her longer strides for Aziraphale’s shorter ones, hoping against hoping that they weren’t about to go their separate ways again. Maybe she could bring up dinner; the hour didn’t matter in this city.
They hadn’t seen each other since the incident with Furfur, deciding to keep things on the down low for a while. It was the right choice – it was always the right choice – but Crowley had missed Aziraphale. She’d missed her for a century, so a couple of decades should’ve been nothing, but it had only served to amplify the desperate pang in her chest that threatened to overtake her even now.
Crowley hadn’t been in America since the flash bang that was the sinful twenties, and it had changed exponentially in the past forty years. For one, she could walk around in all-black, tight leather pants and a bandeau top with flaps, exposing her collarbones; however, her leather double rider jacket covered everything up, the inside lined with red silk that would’ve had anybody sweating in the current weather if they weren’t cold-blooded. Chrome buttons contrasted against the golden-buckle calfskin belt that seamlessly pulled the top and pants together. Coin flap pockets, waist buckle, and asymmetrical zipper manifested without thought, which most of her clothes tended to do; be what looked best even if she hadn’t specified it when miracling them in. Her hair was another matter though. She’d opted for it to go longer, and unlike the clothes, she’d curled it to Hell the human way. Hairspray was becoming a bit of a fan favourite.
“Rescue accomplished, then,” Aziraphale said snidely. “Though I assure you, there was no need for it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You got jumped, Aziraphale. He was trying to drag you home.”
“He was robbing me!” Aziraphale spluttered in protest, click-clacking heels coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Despite the hour, people walked past them, heading to the theatre down the street, the sign flashing brightly, advertising whatever new hit had taken over. The smell of exhaust fume drifted around them as cars sped past, sleek and colourful, and Crowley privately thought of her Bentley parked nearby. If not dinner, then a drive home. She could be very convincing, especially with what scuffle they’d just gotten out of.
“He could’ve been,” Crowley mused, sidestepping a stray flyer handout, redirecting them towards the other end of the street. “But he commented on your corporation.”
“And?” Aziraphale looked endearingly perplexed. Though not enough for Crowley to soften her voice, an incorrigible tease.
“Angel, please, you’re not dense. Put two and two together.”
“I thought he knew quality when he saw it!” Aziraphale said, straightening her waistcoat. “This wasn’t cheap to procure. It is exceptionally difficult to find a good tailor here.”
Crowley laughed, letting that restrained softness from earlier seep through her voice, far too fond. “Chose the worst decade to come to America for tailoring.”
“Hm, yes. They’re making quite the strides, aren’t they?” Aziraphale gestured around them, and if Crowley ignored the heavy scent of cigarette smoke, she was inclined to agree. Not to say she wasn’t one to partake in an occasional smoke but really, it was getting ridiculous.
“Quite,” she said. Pause. “Have you eaten yet?”
Aziraphale pursed her painted lips, and Crowley could practically see the gears turning in her head, the excuses springing forth. She resisted the urge to grab a hold of her arm and tug her along like carefree lovers. Instead, she started walking towards where she’d left the Bentley, glaring at the lack of pockets that she could stuff her twitching hands into. “C’mon, angel. I know a restaurant that does a mean burger. You’ll love it.”
She could hear Aziraphale hesitate behind her before her footsteps picked up. “Oh, alright. One meal, Crowley. We really shouldn’t be seen together.”
“Of course,” she promised.
Demons didn't really keep promises.
Crowley wasn’t like most demons, she tended to keep the big ones, The Arrangement, but the smaller ones, Keep Away, were up for discussion. Besides, Aziraphale had specified one meal, so really, it was her fault that Crowley had convinced – tempted – her to go for another few drinks as well. It was a bar restaurant, after all, beginning the night (they were far into the night but Crowley played hard and loose with her definitions) with a good red was expected.
The burger was just the right amount of indulgence, and Aziraphale was stealing the uneaten fries from Crowley’s plate between bouts of conversation. She’d relaxed a bit when they’d taken their seats, looking over the menu with barely concealed interest which appeared in full force as Crowley ordered them a bottle of Merlot, but her shoulders were still tensed. Crowley was sure it had nothing to do with the pink dusting Aziraphale’s cheeks.
The restaurant was busy, which didn’t alienate the atmosphere, rather it made it easier to exist in their own bubble – Crowley breaking the laws of what constituted as sitting and Aziraphale chattering away about a poet she’d recently met. Crowley raised her glass to her lips, hiding a smile as Aziraphale sighed happily into her own glass. Always an enjoyer of food despite whatever was worrying her mind.
“Good?” Crowley asked, absentmindedly swiping away the red mark left behind on the rim.
“Excellent, dear,” Aziraphale replied. “Napkin?”
Crowley accepted it with a hum, pleased. She already knew the answer to the question because Aziraphale had positively lit up with every bite and every sip, but it was nice to ask. Nice to know. Nice to hear the angel call her dear.
“How about some dessert?” Crowley started to gesture the waiter over, hoping this would be the thing to get Aziraphale to relax, but she paused at Aziraphale’s hesitant expression. “What is it?”
“It’s getting quite late-”
“Angel, you never forego dessert. So, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She waved the concern off. “I have…work to do. I’m here on an assignment, similar to yours. I’ve taken up enough of your time, as it is.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about an assignment?”
Aziraphale’s eyes flashed with panic and if it wasn’t weird before, it was certainly weird now. Her mouth pinched together, eyes darting around the restaurant like a deer caught in headlights trying to ignore the light beams. But because Aziraphale was polite, first and foremost, she couldn’t just buck away into the forest.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, pointing an accusatory fry at her. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Why else would you be in America if not because of Hell?” Aziraphale deflected and usually Crowley would accept that answer because it was true enough but the angel still refused to meet her eyes.
“Come off it, you said it was similar to yours. You know something.”
Aziraphale bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth, before finally speaking. Crowley watched the flustered display with rapt attention.
“If you must know, I haven’t been spying on you. You’re not subtle dear, the grapevine has extended to me and I hear things.”
“Ah,” Crowley said, not missing the emphasis on grapevine. “Radical Women.”
Hell had taken a surprising interest in America’s second feminist movement after some renounced Christianity because it wasn’t lining up. People were flocking away and Hell was having a field day with the new demographic. So Crowley was shipped off to spread some mischief, spread the agenda – curate, tempt, and be a demon.
Which she was doing through New York Radical Women. And if Aziraphale was also a part of Radical Women and doing the opposite of Crowley – advise, preach, and be an angel – then they’d been cancelling each other out. No wonder it’d been taking a bit more tempting than usual.
“Radical Women,” Aziraphale repeated. “They’re doing quite a good thing you see. I couldn’t let you run amok with this one. And you kept disappearing whenever I tried to contact you about it.”
“Hnng, yeah. I’ve been busy.”
“Quite.”
Crowley tried not to squirm under her knowing gaze. “But what does this have to do with no dessert?”
For a second it seemed as if Aziraphale was going to avoid the question again but she simply raised her eyes Heaven-ward then back down to Crowley. “I have a meeting tomorrow.”
“With them?” Crowley frowned. She was sure she would’ve noticed if Aziraphale had been at any of Radical Women’s meetings. Crowley could most certainly detect her in a full room. “There’s no meeting scheduled, I would know. I’ve been messing with their minutes.”
“Not Radical Women,” Aziraphale clarified, looking sheepishly into the last dredges of her wine like that would miracle up the words. “Heaven.”
Oh fuck. No wonder she’d been jumpy throughout dinner. No wonder she kept glancing nervously at the windows like Gabriel would come bearing down the wrath of Heaven. No wonder she declined dessert. Heaven was very bureaucratic. Heaven was a well-oiled machine that had too many gears to keep track of, enough gears for an angel and a demon meeting to go unnoticed. But sometimes something would get stuck, one of those gears would stop, and Heaven would come to investigate. Re-oil. And because Heaven was very bureaucratic, they’d make a deal out of it. Deals usually involved corporate meetings in Above that Aziraphale would not outwardly express hatred for but would need good cups of tea, a reread through her favourite books, and a delectable pastry to help recover from.
Meetings were commonplace in the early days when humanity was still stumbling around and Aziraphale wouldn’t deign to spend as much time with her as she had today. At some point in the last six thousand years, they’d gotten infrequent, a distant memory. Aziraphale visited Heaven well enough but they tended to leave the both of them mostly alone – apart from that the time when Gabriel and Sandalphalon descended upon the bookshop during its opening.
Crowley mirrored Aziraphale’s pursed lips, letting the suppressed tipsiness from earlier flow through her – always easier not to be sober – then snapped her fingers. A waiter appeared with a packed dessert and their bill. She paid as Aziraphale watched on, bemused, fingers nervously twisting the tablecloth. Then, Crowley grabbed the half-empty bottle, nails clacking against the glass, scrapped her chair back and stood up. “Well, let me walk you back at least.”
“We really shouldn’t. I have work to do,” Aziraphale repeated.
“It can wait. You’ve got cake to eat and wine to drink.”
Aziraphale glanced at a point behind Crowley, and she resisted the urge to turn around and look as well.
“It’s important,” she pointed out but Crowley could hear the waver in her voice. They’d been doing this song and dance for centuries. This one was still a bit of a wager. “But you’re right, it can wait.”
A wager won.
“Up you get then,” Crowley said, suppressing a smile. “Places to be, meetings to avoid.”
“Absolutely not.”
She pouted. “Worth a shot.”
The Algonquin Hotel was a stone’s throw from Times Square, meaning they took the long way round to get in, the walk miraculously shortening despite the distance. Aziraphale greeted the doorman with a smile and Crowley glared him down in turn, making it very evident despite her glasses. They passed by the reception where a woman stopped them in their tracks. Crowley noted the uniform and relaxed – she had far too much pent-up energy.
“Ah! Ms. Fell! I was just about to clock out – I’m glad I caught you beforehand. Something came for you, I’ve sent it up to your room. The men that delivered it were rather insistent on waiting for you inside but I know you don’t like drop-in visitors.” At this, she glanced at Crowley and looked away quickly. Then, whispered: “And well…hotel policy.”
Aziraphale barely suppressed her flinch, schooling her features appropriately. “Thank you, Charlotte. Get home safe, dear.”
Crowley was instantly on high alert, tongue snaking out and checking for angelic presence. The lobby tasted human enough but she didn’t relax. Aziraphale was similarly tense – again – but she still ushered Crowley into the lift which she decided to take as a good sign. Surely if someone from Above had visited then Crowley wouldn’t be stepping further into the hotel. Still, she watched the lift number tick up with anticipation – whether it was paranoia or something else entirely was yet to be decided.
“What was that?” she finally asked, breaking the silence and ignoring the bellboy in the corner.
Aziraphale shot an apologetic glance towards the boy which went unappreciated. Crowley rolled her eyes, which also went unappreciated. “Nothing you should be concerned with, Crowley. Some…business, that’s all.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Business? Well, it can’t be Heaven-related or else I wouldn’t be standing here. It can’t be something mundane or else you’d tell me. Then that leaves…Oh! Aziraphale, were they prostitutes?” she cackled. “No drop-in visitors? Do you lead them in? Is that why dear Charlotte was eyeing me up?”
“Crowley!” Aziraphlae exclaimed, scandalised, embarrassment colouring her cheeks. Crowley only grinned in response. “No! Goodness gracious, nothing of that sort. Stop looking at me like that! It’s for the assignment, not for a fiend like you to know.”
“If you say so, angel,” she teased.
“I do!”
The lift came to a stop and Aziraphale almost tripped in her haste to exit. Crowley’s free arm snaked out, steadying her balance, fingers grazing her waist before pulling back. She cleared her throat and handed the bellboy a manifested bill. “Keep it quiet, would you?”
He tilted his head, accepting it, and Crowley stepped out after Aziraphale who had recovered from the brief stint, looking no worse for wear. Crowley, on the other hand, felt off-kilter.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Ngk. Don’t worry about it.” Pause. “Where’s the room, then?”
“Right, just this way.”
The hallway was empty but Crowley doubted most were asleep behind the closed doors. She doubted half of them were even in. The carpeted floor muffled their heels and both of them kept quiet, assimilating to the atmosphere. Aziraphale stopped in front of a door near the end of the hall, her back to Crowley.
After an exact minute of silence, Crowley cleared her throat. “Well?”
“The keys-” Aziraphale dug into her purse – blue jade to match the jewellery – which definitely hadn’t existed a mere second ago for a key that she definitely didn’t need to open the door. Crowley watched on, suddenly nervous. She tried to shake it off to no avail and turned all the hung do not disturb signs around for something to do.
Aziraphale, ever so slowly, twisted the key and swung the door open. “There we go.”
Crowley followed her inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.
“Appropriate misuse of Heaven’s funds,” she commented, stepping into the room and trying hard not to think about how – even if this wasn’t the second floor of the bookshop – this was the first time she’d seen the angel’s bedroom. A place of living. A sacred line being crossed. Heaven on their heels and the demon visited the angel’s hotel room with the secrecy of committing an illicit affair.
This was far from an illicit affair though. Those occurred in shitty motels that were paid for with cash withdrawn in advance. This was the Algonquin. Always the best for Aziraphale. Strangely, the room reminded Crowley of the bookshop; the walls were the very same shade of yellow, every viable surface was stacked with books, from the bed to the dressing table, and the scent was distinctly Aziraphale; old books and burning incense. The room basked in warm light, softening the edges, and she toyed with the idea of discarding her sunglasses for the moment, though she thought better of it as she watched Aziraphale putter around the room. It would be far too overwhelming to have her every emotion visible at a moment like this.
Whatever this was.
“I’m here on official business, it’s very appropriate,” Aziraphale huffed, snapping Crowley out of her thoughts. She disappeared into a side room and, this time more cheerfully, called out, “You can’t stay long, dear. But I think we can finish the bottle.”
Crowley reached into the occult plane, pulling the Merlot out. She wandered over to a small table set by the curtained window, tossing the two books – an anthology and an autobiography – onto the untouched bed, where a brown-paper wrapped package sat, approximately the size of a small jewellery box. Ah, the delivery. She picked it up and settled into one of the chairs by the table, putting the Merlot and cake box down to poke at the package.
Something had changed in the decades they’d kept away. Something had changed back in 1941 and it had carried over in the way Aziraphale gave in, in the way she used her terms of endearment with Crowley more freely, in the way, despite a meeting with Heaven looming over her head, she wanted to spend a few more hours together.
Hours that meant nothing and everything because they only saw each other after decades upon decades had passed. Never in this proximity. Never in booked rooms or late dinners while sitting across from each other. It was always a chair apart, a person-sized length on a bench in between, a note tossed aside in anger.
Maybe Crowley shouldn’t bring up the idea of a caper she’d been toying with.
Or maybe she should. Maybe she should bring them back into the familiar territory of teasing remarks that landed a bit too close to home, of arguments they separated from and ignored when meeting again, of thwarting wiles and disrupting plans. It would be them. Them, over six thousand years of push and pull and push and pull. She knew now how much she could push before Aziraphale pulled away, leaving both of them angry (Aziraphale) and prideful (Crowley) to reach out for over a century. She hadn’t realised there were limits to it, but she knew now. She knew and she could reel it all back in, even if she was shrugging her jacket off and even if she was still turning the package between her palms. Even if she was settling in for the long haul, for a stern talking to, for the memory of steady hands grazing cloth.
Because something had changed, or rather, Aziraphale had changed. And she was making it difficult to continue like Before. Because now there was a Before; Before 1941. After 1941. After being the closest they’d been to getting caught and risking it all for…what? A bottle of wine? Cake? Company?
She set the package down. At the same time, Aziraphale reappeared from the side room – presumably a kitchenette – with two wine glasses and a single fork. Her eyes widened slightly as they raked over Crowley’s bare arms, several almost imperceptible microexpressions crossing over her face which Crowley caught nonetheless, before landing on the package set next to the cake box.
“I didn’t peek if that’s what you’re wondering,” Crowley said in a rush, not quite regretting her decision to remove her jacket but suddenly hyper-aware of her limbs. She didn’t un-sprawl but she did rearrange herself to face the empty chair instead of Aziraphale.
Which in hindsight was a terrible idea. Aziraphale sat down across from her, picking up the package with an indecipherable expression, brow furrowed, before depositing it carefully on top of a stack of books. She turned back to Crowley with a smile fixated on her face and placed the glasses down.
“There we go,” she said.
Crowley set herself to pour them each a glass, then she unpacked the cake box with a flourish, presenting it to Aziraphale.
“Miraculously not mush,” Crowley said. “Or else we’d have to go back and get another one.”
Aziraphale laughed, face scrunching up in delight and Crowley drank it in. “Oh, I’m sure I’d survive.”
“Just you, angel? What if I have strict standards for presentation?”
“Then you’ll have to face the wall while I eat. I did only bring one fork.”
“What a shame. I’ll be missing out terribly.” Crowley took a pointed sip of wine. Then another as Aziraphale waved her off.
“What is it?”
Crowley grinned, recalling the note for dessert she’d made when they were looking over the menu. “Oh, go on, take a bite. See for yourself.”
Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice. She delicately broke off a piece of the cake, gathering frosting and cake layers, and took her first bite. Crowley watched as her face lit up, savouring the flavours, a pleased hum reverberating through the room. She melted into her seat, shoulders sagging, posture loosening, and Crowley mentally patted herself on the back for the correct hypothesis; Aziraphale looked properly at ease for the first time since Crowley had come across her in the alley.
“This is delightful. Oh, Crowley, you have to try it,” the angel murmured and Crowley tipped her head back to stare at a very (un)interesting point on the ceiling before facing Aziraphale again who had her arm stretched out, fork balancing a delicate bite of cake, the intent so obvious that it was some sort of autopilot that had Crowley leaning her body forward, lips parting and taking in the forkful. It wasn’t until she tasted the sweet frosting that her brain caught up with her body and she realised how much closer they were to each other, breathes intermingling. Not a chair apart, or a person-sized length on a bench in between, or a note tossed aside in anger. Just a small table that they’d already crossed. From here she could count every eyelash, every wrinkle that came from stress rather than time, every twitch of Aziraphale’s eyes as they flitted between Crowley’s own shaded ones and someplace lower, near the fork.
I should pull back, Crowley thought. She should pull back because she was the one with the fork in her mouth that Aziraphale was holding. Aziraphale wouldn’t pull back because that would be rude so Crowley had to pull back.
Pull back.
Crowley swallowed the cake down and pushed herself away because that was what she did. Push and pull. Six thousand years of pushing and pulling.
God, did it ever end?
Aziraphale was frozen in place, staring down at the now-empty fork like it had personally betrayed her, like it wasn’t both her and Crowley that had leaned forward so casually. Like it wasn’t her who’d only brought out one fork.
Crowley took a sip of her wine. Aziraphale set the fork down and mirrored Crowley’s movements. They both didn’t speak about it.
It’s what they did.
The cake was long gone by the time they got well and truly drunk.
They’d moved past the incident, carrying colourful conversation that had devolved into giggles and incomprehensible noises as Crowley tried and failed spectacularly to assemble a coherent sentence that made sense. Aziraphale had not stopped chuckling and it was becoming really distracting.
“Okay shut up- shut! See, look- see here,” Crowley said then shut herself up.
Aziraphale looked on, amused. “Yes?”
“The point is that- the point is that it’s stupid! It’s stupid that…hnng.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale giggled.
Crowley groaned, pushing herself off the chair to pace. She’d discarded her glasses at some point so Aziraphale watched as her eyes roamed wildly across the room. “Wait, I’m getting it. I’m getting there- so. The point is that it’s stupid because you knew me! You knew me and Arthur didn’t give two blasted shits!”
“Well, I hadn’t exactly told him that his White Knight of the Round Table was, ah. Frat-” Aziraphale pattered off, trying to sound out the word. “Fraternising, if I may, with the Black Knight.”
Crowley gasped, clutching her chest in faux hurt. “You didn’t?”
Aziraphale looked at her sheepishly, smiling softly nonetheless. “Never came up, as it was. Quite busy, that man.”
“I bloody hope he was busy! King!” She switched tracks, coming to a stop by the bed. “I should’ve tried becoming king. It would suit me. Imagine how many points I could rack up with Hell with that type of influence?”
“Weren’t you influencing kings already?” Aziraphale asked, eyebrows raised. “I remember I heard about several advisors throughout the centuries being the reason for several kingdom downfalls. All with striking red hair.”
Crowley chuckled, resuming her pacing. “Ah, reputation days. Nothing seems to stick anymore.”
“Well, those Nazis certainly knew who you were,” Aziraphale pointed out.
“And that was twenty years ago! Keep up, angel! Times are changing! Nobody remembers anybody anymore if you aren’t king or politician or someone as equally as fucked up.”
“Artist?”
“How many artists have ended in Heaven? You can count ‘em on one finger. Too many in Hell, which goes under ‘equally as fucked up,’” Crowley said.
Some distant part of her brain was tugging at her synapses, a fleeting reminder that she’d been here too long and at this rate, the sun was going to climb up the sky before she left to give Aziraphale time to prepare. Prepare for-
For-
“Shit!” she yelped as her ankle twisted – damned heels – and she tipped forward into an unassuming Aziraphale who dropped her glass in order to catch Crowley. She had no control over her limbs anymore, everything unconnected as alcohol settled like a thick fog over her brain, muffling any commands to move.
Aziraphale arms caught her around the waist as she managed to move one of her arms to grab a hold of the back of the chair, wine splashing against the wall. Her other hand clutched the edge of the table and Aziraphale stilled under her. She looked down to find Aziraphale looking up, pupils blown wide. The room was silent again except for their breathing as they recovered, Crowley’s traitorous heart pitter-pattering away. Aziraphale was doing it again, looking at her eyes – sclera’s completely yellow – then somewhere lower, past her nose, past the metaphorical fork. Or, well, around the metaphorical fork.
Crowley leaned down, the movement minuscule but the way Aziraphale was still holding onto her, she surely felt the shift. Aziraphale didn’t rise, an impossible task, but she didn’t turn away which Crowley took as a good sign. Her cheeks were flushed that pretty pink from dinner and Crowley knew she was also probably red, ears warm. She felt Aziraphale’s fingers dig into her waist and it took everything in her to not collapse on top of her, let herself be enveloped, curl fingers into hair and inhale the scent of books and burning incense. Something was happening, something was changing as Crowley leaned in closer, Aziraphale tracking her lips – there was no denying it anymore – and Aziraphale still didn’t turn away.
A shrill noise rang through the room and they broke apart instantaneously, Crowley pulling away and Aziraphale pushing her away. Crowley cursed every damned and blessed thing in existence, turning away to let the angel deal with whatever in Hell that was. She willed herself to calm down, scolding her body, as Aziraphale rose from the chair, practically leaping across the room to shut the sound off. Crowley turned to see the ruckus and found Aziraphale clutching an alarm clock, staring at the time despondently.
They stood there in silence, Crowley unwilling to break it, even if that moment had passed. Aziraphale spoke first.
“I was going to settle down and read. The alarm was set in case I lost track of time.”
“Oh,” Crowley said, ever so eloquent.
“I didn’t want the time sneaking up on me. I didn’t want to go Up without being prepared.”
“Oh,” she repeated, gaze travelling from the clock to Aziraphale.
“I- Crowley, dear, I’m so sorry, but you must leave. They might come here to escort me up and I can’t have you here.”
“Right,” she said, already sobered up at the mention of Above. She grabbed her jacket, miracled clean the wine stain from where it had splashed, and slipped her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, shielding her eyes from Aziraphale’s scrutinous gaze. Gone was the softness that had permeated the night (morning?), replaced by a sharpness that made Crowley’s head pound. She was going to be sick and whether that was from the alcohol or the almost ki-
They almost-
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Aziraphale-” she tried but the angel shook her head, tense again – always so bloody tense – sensing what Crowley was about to say.
“No time, off you pop.” She looked apologetic but Crowley still felt sick to the stomach. Though she knew Aziraphale would shut her down if she spoke again; the attempt would be futile.
She pursed her lips and walked towards the door, head reeling. She twisted the door handle and wondered what on Earth had just happened.
“Good luck, angel,” she called out, turning around for one last look at Aziraphale’s tight smile before shutting the door behind her.
Crowley made it halfway to the Bentley before she threw up.
They didn’t see each other again until 1967, Soho.
Aziraphale handed Crowley a thermos of Holy Water. He looked at it, dumbstruck, barely registering Aziraphale’s words, replies coming through automatically. He was starting to wonder if all of their meetings were going to be like this; changed. Off-script. Catch him off-guard.
Then, “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”
Crowley tried not to blanch at the words, at the memory of just a few years prior. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”
They needed to talk. They hadn’t gotten a chance to talk because they never bloody talked. Say yes, he thought. Say the bookshop. Or a street a minute away. Anywhere, any place, just agree. Please.
“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, dashing any lasting hopes with a hammer. Crowley flinched with the implications, unable to stop himself, too stunned to say anything as Aziraphale exited the Bentley, leaving him to stare at the thermos with growing frustration. He clutched the steering wheel.
Too fast.
Six thousand years of push and pull and pull and push. Six thousand blasted years, one night in a church to change it, and another in a hotel room to bring it all crumbling down again, the dust kicked up but no one there to watch it settle, to take accountability.
Because this was what they did. They never talked. It was always a chair apart, a person-sized length on a bench in between, a thermos handed over against better judgment, a phrase spoken that ricocheted through his head. Smoothing over arguments and uncomfortable topics the next time they met like it had never occurred.
This was far from an argument though. This was the possibility of something that Aziraphale had decided to brush past, but not before making his final statement. Not before leaving Crowley to grope with the fact that nothing was happening, nothing had happened because they were both cowards
Too fast.
Fuck.