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Crowley stared at the glass case containing one of Gutenberg’s original Bibles. He grunted. “Huh. I never get any credit for these things.”
“Hm? What things?” Aziraphale came over to have a look. “Ah, yes. The printing press. Wonderful invention.” He frowned. “Are you saying that you had something to do with it?”
“Did a little miracle to talk people into lending him money.”
“Good Heavens. Must I truly thank Hell for printed books?”
“Nah, not really. When I suggested it, all I got was blank looks. I said, listen—this thing will make the masses want to learn how to read. And it will allow anyone to spew their opinions all over the place, so it’s going to cause no end of trouble. But nobody Down There has any imagination, and I didn’t even get a commendation.”
“How remiss of them.”
Crowley shrugged. “I mean, the idea was in the air already anyway—if Gutenberg hadn’t done it, someone else would have soon enough. But I did speed things along a bit.”
“Well, you have my utmost gratitude.”
Crowley smiled. “Thanks.”
They continued on their way through this special exhibit on The History of the Book, which Aziraphale had talked him into attending, because that was the sort of thing he did, and the sort of thing that Crowley did was to try spending as much time as possible with his best and only friend.
He didn’t mind. It was a rainy, blustery autumn afternoon, and being inside, with an angel for company, beat pretty much anything else he might be doing.
They strolled together companionably from room to room. Crowley enjoyed watching the expressions flicker across his friend’s face—curiosity, delight, and admiration. Aziraphale sighed with pleasure at the early handwritten and beautifully illustrated manuscripts, and he thoroughly enjoyed looking over the many early printing examples of the Incunabula section. Later centuries were well represented, and he was especially pleased by those from the late 1890s through the 1930s. He oohed and aahed over case after case of book covers and interior illustrations. Crowley looked at the placards describing the Arts and Crafts, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco movements, and even read a bit about them.
“You own better examples, if you ask me,” he said as he glanced over a case of books from the Kelmscott Press. “I don’t think you’ve even opened some of them.”
“Of course not. They are kept in pristine condition. Naturally, I also own reading copies of the same titles.”
“Yeah, you take good care of things, Angel.” Crowley had a few special collectibles of his own—a couple of statues, a lectern from a church, a drawing by da Vinci—but most of the material objects he’d ever owned during his Earthly tenure had long since turned to dust.
“I suppose it’s a bit silly, really,” Aziraphale said. “To keep hold of as many things as I have. It’s enjoyable.” He sighed. “But of course, nothing lasts, so my collecting hobby does seem somewhat self-indulgent.”
“Don’t say that.” Crowley didn’t care for the idea. “You have things that are thousands of years old. They have lasted, because you cared for them.”
“True. However, even those lovely, wonderful human creations will be gone someday. It’s inevitable, I’m afraid. At some point, despite our best efforts, nothing of Earth will remain at all, and none of this will exist, nor even be remembered. It will be simply another cold, empty rock floating forever through space.”
Crowley frowned. “Don’t go all melancholy. You can’t know that. It’s ineffable, remember? You’re ruining your happy mood. And mine.”
“Sorry. But…well, don’t we all have to contemplate our future at some point?”
“No, we don’t.” Crowley didn’t want to contemplate anything except living in the moment, and at this particular moment, that meant adoring his best friend who should not go all solemn on him without so much as a warning. “I’m an optimist. Always looking to stay content, and that means not dwelling on things that don’t last.”
They stopped, appropriately enough, in front of a case displaying the Kelmscott Press edition of More’s Utopia. “I suppose that’s what you would like,” Aziraphale said as he studied the book. “Some sort of perfect world to live in? Perhaps even the Earth going on and on without end.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that.” Of course, Crowley knew there was no such thing as perfection. How could there be? Even Heaven had come up short in that department. “At least, I wouldn’t mind being here, on this far from perfect Earth, for eternity.”
“Hm. Pity it can’t truly exist. Perhaps it is ineffable, but I doubt that anything can be held onto forever.”
“Why not?” Crowley felt a pang somewhere in that part of his soul where loving someone forever dwelled. And then he had a sudden image of a bookshop in flames. Even his optimistic nature had been unable to cope with that loss. Time, and restitution, had gone a long way towards making him feel whole again. But now, Aziraphale’s words brought that despair to the surface again. Even though he knew that personal loss wasn’t what his friend had meant—that he had been speaking on a grander scale—Crowley still hated the idea of losing everything he cared about. “Why can’t we have our own private utopia somewhere? Forever?”
Aziraphale looked up, and studied Crowley’s face. “Oh, dear. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”
He nodded. “I need things to last.”
“I am so sorry.”
“It’s just me, Angel. Don’t worry.”
Aziraphale sighed. “There’s just one more room. Let’s have a quick look through it, and then we can go. All right?”
The last room of the exhibit had contemporary books, with a section about modern types of digital readers. Aziraphale’s loud, disparaging comments upon these abominations drew the attention of a security guard, and they had to depart in some haste.
*
Crowley looked at the rain dribbling down the bookshop windows as the skies darkened into early evening. He touched the familiar, worn wood of Aziraphale’s desk, and ran his fingers along its sturdy, solid edges.
A pleasant aroma wafted over towards him, of garlic and ginger. The bookshop had been permanently closed after the thwarting of Armageddon, after their “retirement”. Aziraphale had taken up serious baking and cooking, and he was hard at work fixing dinner in the new kitchen he’d had installed.
“Are you making that Thai chicken dish I like?” he called over.
“Yes, the red curry, with jasmine rice. And I thought we could have the Gewürztraminer.”
“Sounds good.” The more Aziraphale had taken to cooking meals, the more Crowley had taken to eating them. They were nearly always excellent, and he liked seeing the joy on his friend’s face when he complimented the food.
It meant they ate in the bookshop more often than restaurants these days, and he liked that better—they had more privacy, and there was no pressure to leave after finishing a meal.
“Dinner is nearly ready, my dear.”
“Oh, right. I’ll get the table set.” It was a habit now, that Crowley put the tableware out, and poured the wine for these get-togethers. He went to the buffet and collected two plates and bowls. “Do we need forks, or just soup spoons?”
“Both, please. I made that custard cake you like for afters.”
“Got it.” Crowley set the table, and then retrieved the wine, and filled their glasses. He went to help bring out the food. “Smells great.”
“Can you take the rice bowl—thanks.”
They were soon settled in at the small dining table. Crowley ate with enthusiasm, and in between bites of the spicy curry, he enjoyed watching the looks of pleasure on Aziraphale’s face as he sighed, and closed his eyes, and smiled at nearly every taste.
“Mmmm. I do believe this may be my best curry to date. There is a new Asian grocery just a few blocks away, and they have very fresh ingredients.”
“It’s amazing.” Crowley even helped himself to a second serving. “Nice wine choice, too.”
“Yes, quite a good pairing.”
As they ate, the evening drew on, and the skies darkened, and the glaring lights of Soho shone through the windows. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and all of the shades rolled down, blocking out the city beyond. “That’s better.”
“Yup.” Crowley felt contained within their own world here, one which they had carved out for themselves. A peaceful place, without intrusions from anyone or anything, with all they ever needed.
He needed this to last.
How many meals had they shared during their time here on Earth? And how many more evenings like this stretched out on their forward path?
And where did it lead? How long, and how far, would it carry them?
He wasn’t the melancholy type. Crowley had always wanted to believe in the best of all possible worlds. He had always tried to make the best of this one, at least, in as many ways as he could—with the help of the one person who knew him fully, and who understood him.
He did not care to dwell on the reality of an ending to all things on this Earthly home, though he knew the Universe was vast, and contained countless other planets brimming with life. He liked it here. This was where he felt comfortable, among familiar things.
Why had Aziraphale gone and said what he’d said at that damned exhibit? Nothing lasts… the Earth won’t last. Was it pointless, then, to become attached to things, to collect books, even…was there no sense in trying to hold onto what you loved?
And why couldn’t he just let these thoughts go? It was just a casual remark, a simple observation on the nature of time passing. Things would change, that was all Aziraphale meant by it. And maybe he was merely admitting to his own acquisitive nature—and how silly it must seem, in the face of eternity, for an immortal angel to covet material goods at all.
Yet he did.
Crowley gazed around at the bookcases, crammed with treasures from every age of printing, and earlier still, with illuminated manuscripts, and papyrus, with ancient scrolls and tablets.
“You love books,” he blurted out.
Aziraphale blinked. “Of course I do.”
“But they’re all going to turn to dust someday.”
“Yes, they will.” Aziraphale stopped eating. “Oh, dear. Are you still thinking over what I said this afternoon?”
Crowley nodded. “I don’t want to. Can’t seem to help it.”
“I only meant to chastise myself for being obsessed with material things, and I’m afraid that I got carried away. I truly did not mean to upset you.” He reached to touch Crowley’s arm. “But clearly, you are disturbed. Can you tell me why?”
“I don’t know.” Crowley felt the warmth in that touch, and swallowed. Then he looked around the bookshop again. He saw a sheltered space which had been his one haven against the rigors of Hell. He saw a thousand thousand things that were meaningless in themselves—they only lived because an angel he knew cared for them. He saw the place where he knew he was always welcome, where the light showing him the way home would never go out.
He needed that light to last.
“I don’t have these kinds of thoughts,” he said as he pushed his empty bowl away.
Aziraphale smiled softly. “At some point, everyone has those thoughts, my dear.” He pressed Crowley’s arm. “Things do come to an end. Worlds come to their endings. Hopefully, for this one, not for a long, long time. But there is something which does last, and it will endure for you and I.”
Crowley felt a shiver. He knew. Everything around him could crumble into dust, but there would always be love, so long as he walked the paths of this endless universe, so long as an angel walked beside him, there would be a reason to keep going, on and on, and ever, forever on.
He touched the table top, and played his fingertips over its sturdy, solid wood. “It burned, Angel.” He gazed around the room. “Everything in here burned up, and turned to ashes. A perfect world, gone. My personal utopia, up in flames—and it was only ever that because you were here.” He swallowed as his voice caught on remembered pain. “And you were gone. Not anywhere on Earth. And when you said what you said today…about how nothing lasts, about perfect worlds not existing, about everything going away someday…I just…I just saw it all again. Taking what I loved away.”
His throat had gone dry, as if breathing in smoke, and he rasped out the last words. He reached for his glass. “Sorry.” He tried to drink, and nearly choked on the wine.
“Stop.” Aziraphale took hold of the glass. “Sh. Take it easy. I’ll get you some water.”
He rose and went to the sink. Crowley just sat there, waiting, as his heart ached from too much sorrow—not for the past alone, when he had grieved for his lost Angel, but for all the long years ahead which would, inevitably, turn into the past, too—and be gone forever.
A glass of water was pushed into his hands. “Drink. I’m going to make some herbal tea.” Aziraphale was off again.
Crowley sipped the water, ever so slowly, until he felt a little better. Then he put down the glass, got up, and went into the kitchen. Aziraphale had his back to him, and was pouring from the kettle into the teapot. Crowley waited until the kettle was set down, and then he stepped closer, and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, and leaned against his strong back. “Thanks, Angel.”
“Anytime, my dear.”
He felt strong hands clasping his own as they stood there, quietly, swaying ever so slightly in the gentlest of rocking motions, as if cradled together.
“I love you,” Crowley whispered. He closed his eyes. The scent of lemon ginger tea wafted through the room. The scent of apple blossoms mingled with it, one which he knew better than any other, one which always spoke to him of an angel.
“I love you, too,” Aziraphale said softly. “I will do so for all the time that exists—and when time comes to a stop, I will love you still.”
The light will shine forever… Crowley felt a lightening of a burden inside his soul, of that weight of an eternity of loss which he had pushed out of conscious awareness, and which had bound him nonetheless—but no more. He felt it rise, he felt his soul fly free, into the boundless realm where the one thing which truly mattered could never turn to dust.
He opened his eyes, and lifted his head. He loosened the hold, and took Aziraphale’s shoulders, and carefully turned him around, and when they faced each other, when he saw the light in his Angel’s eyes, he smiled, and he touched the face he knew so well, and he let out a deep breath, and he looked into those eyes—and if anyone tried to tell him there was no such thing as utopia, he knew in that instant that it was a lie, because he could see a perfect world before him, gazing into him, and loving him beyond forever.
He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead lightly, and then his left cheek, and then his right. He ran his fingertips along those angelic lips, and as he touched them, he felt a light, quivering response, and heard a little sigh, and as Aziraphale’s eyes closed, Crowley felt a trembling anticipation along his spine, and then he slid his hands around the back of Aziraphale’s head, soft hair through his fingers, and he drew him closer still, and took a deep breath, and then he kissed the angel he loved.
When their lips touched, the light that never goes out banished the darkness, and when they kissed, the love of two friends merged, and expanded, and seemed to surround them with a private illumination, and they were bound together in a perfect world. Crowley felt enraptured. This would last, and as he caressed Aziraphale’s lips, and as he was given loving, affectionate touches in return, he knew that this was where he would live forever—where they would dwell throughout the years—within this joy, within this knowing, within this eternal brightness.
And when they parted, the light filled him still.
He pulled Aziraphale into a tight embrace. “ It’s all right now, Angel. I’m good now.”
“As am I, my dear.”
They stayed there for a little while, until Aziraphale remembered the tea.
“I believe it’s steeped quite long enough,” he said as their hold loosened. “Shall we have it on the sofa?”
“Sounds fine.”
Soon they were sitting cozily on the sofa, sipping very strong cups of lemon-ginger tea.
“You know,” Aziraphale said, “I had no idea, when I asked you to come with me to the book exhibit, that it would somehow lead us to this lovely point in our lives.”
“Yeah, neither did I.” Crowley liked the feel of the way they sat together, shoulders touching, thighs pressed close. “Not really my thing, staring at a lot of old books.” He smiled as he gazed around the room. “Get enough of that in our own home.”
“Ah, so this is our home then, is it?” Aziraphale smiled back. “No more pretending that you prefer living in your flat, even though you spend almost all of your time here?”
“Saw through that, did you?” Well, it was true. He did spend every hour he possibly could here, or wherever his friend chose to go, and the flat was merely a place to sleep in. “I suppose you’re going to give all of my houseplants names, aren’t you?”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “They don’t already have names? For shame.”
“Right. And you’ll probably want me to play Mozart for them, instead of yelling.”
“Naturally.”
“You know, I’ve only ever been in that one room upstairs with that little bed in it. Aren’t there other, larger rooms? One that my much bigger bed will fit in?”
“Yes, there are several up there, at the other end of the hall.”
“Good.” Crowley set his cup down. “Because my bed has room enough for two people.” He knew Aziraphale didn’t sleep that often, but perhaps that could change. “It would be… nice …to have company…in the night.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale finished his tea and put the cup aside. He shifted a bit, turning into Crowley more. “That sounds delightful.” He pressed a hand against Crowley’s chest. “If I don’t feel like sleeping, I can always read one of my old books.”
“Uh huh. Sure. Be that way.” Crowley smiled as he put his hand on Aziraphale’s chest. “Whatever you do, I’ll be there beside you. That’s all that matters.” He paused. “Fast asleep, mind. Probably dreaming about yelling at my plants or something.”
“Hush. You’re being silly.”
“I know.”
“And I would like you to be just a little more serious at this particular moment, if you don’t mind.”
“Why?”
Aziraphale leaned in even closer. “Because I wish to kiss you again.”
“You can’t kiss me when I’m being silly?”
“Of course I can.”
“Good.” Crowley kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “How’s that?”
“Perfectly ridiculous, my dear.”
“Well, so long as it’s perfect, that’s all right.”
And it was. Then Aziraphale smiled softly, and stopped any more nonsense by kissing him on the lips, and Crowley gave that touch all the seriousness it deserved…as well as the next one, and all the ones that came after, forever more.
