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There are hours when there seems to be no past or future/ Only a present moment of pointed light/ When you want to burn.
Aziraphale’s dreamed of this moment dozens of ways. He’s had the time to. Seventy-nine years, each one of them longer than the one before, shorter than the one to follow. Nearly a century. How long, how long. Seventy-nine years is nothing to the two of them, older than stars, so why does it feel so long? Aziraphale knows why. He’s just a clockwork angel going through the motions now, bobbing out of his little bookshop at the proper time to call the hour, but no one’s listening, not anymore.
Crowley’d known how he’d felt, had known since - oh, that time in Dorset, that one balcony they’d both stepped out from the crush of the ball onto - Crowley taking a turn or two on the floor, here and there to satisfy his own fancy, Aziraphale, always, looking on the scene, indulgently, as a good angel should. And they’d stepped out at the same time, more or less, Crowley to look at the stars, and Aziraphale to try to ease some of that weight in his chest, that crushing feeling of loneliness he got, sometimes, in a crowd of humans, the feeling he shouldn’t, strictly speaking, have, being an angel, and being, presumably, above such things. They’d run into each other out there, and Crowley’d said, “Aziraphale!” with such delight and warmth as he rarely showed, that Aziraphale, who should’ve gone inside, who shouldn’t have been out here, alone, with a demon, their hands almost touching on the stone railing, had stayed. And it was cold, January, the air crisp and clear, the stars so visible out here in the country, and Crowley had thrown his head back and looked up at them, and said something like, “You ever think about getting out of London, angel-” and Aziraphale, heart pounding in - what, he didn’t know, fear, maybe, if Crowley was no longer in London, or maybe it was something else, something that happened as he looked at the long line of Crowley’s throat, rising out of his cravat - so he’d said something sharp, like, “Of course not,” and Crowley’d raised his eyebrows and made a little face but said nothing. He’d raised his champagne glass and Aziraphale found himself holding one, as well. “Cheers,” he’d said, and Aziraphale’d swallowed, and clinked their glasses together. “To sticking around London,” Crowley’d said, and Aziraphale’d swallowed again, champagne going down like a glass full of falling stars.1
Aziraphale could hear the noise of the party like a low dull roar behind him, something he and Crowley weren’t a part of, not really. Oh, they watched, and they interfered, and they ate and they drank, but they were never a part of it, not really. They didn’t, for example, want, or love, weren’t born, didn’t die. They were just - there, on the outside, always. The air on the balcony was crisp and clear, their breath puffing out in little clouds, and Crowley had shivered, uncharacteristically, and Aziraphale, caught totally off guard, had said, “My dear-” more of a murmur, really, and he had in one fell swoop given himself utterly, entirely, away, and Crowley had caught it, because Crowley had stared at him, his mouth open, a little lopsided, shocked. “Angel,” he’d said, and then his throat had worked, and nothing else. A term of endearment. A reminder. Crowley’s eyes so wide in the dark Aziraphale could see them around his little glasses, two big glowing moons. And Aziraphale had started to - to stiffen up, to retreat, to hastily rebuild the wall, had said, “I should - Oh, look, there’s Lord Auberly, wouldn’t you know, I’ve been trying to get his collection for years - excuse me-” and Crowley was making some similar excuse, and slithering off in the opposite direction, some crisis between the two of them narrowly averted, and then Aziraphale hadn’t seen him until Edinburgh, his hand on Crowley’s waist, holding him tight, oh, he’d said in a silent prayer, and it was, in fact, a prayer, if this is all I can have, this will be enough. And apparently She had been listening, when he’d least expected her to, because then She’d taken Crowley down into Hell as punishment. As a sign that She was always listening, and that there were some things that weren’t allowed. And then Crowley’d come back, and he’d asked Aziraphale, because he knew, now, how Aziraphale felt, for the one thing Aziraphale couldn’t give Crowley. Crowley was a demon, after all, and demons took advantage. And they had fought, and Aziraphale had stormed off, and gone back to his bookshop, alone, and waited for Crowley to come slinking back.
It had taken less than an hour for Aziraphale to imagine the moment of Crowley’s return. Crowley coming back to him. It had taken less than an hour for Aziraphale to begin to imagine, but decades to perfect it. It was something he worried at, like a sore tooth, something he brought out in private and picked at, and wasn’t he always in private, now? Even among the humans, when he was doing Good Deeds, or out at dinner, or at his club, or at a human friend’s, he was still always alone. So he imagined it dozens of ways, becoming increasingly illogical and far-fetched as the years went on. Everywhere he went in London, he imagined hundreds of places they might run into each other. The opera. The newest play,2 or a social club, or the British Museum, or on top of an omnibus, because, he knew, they both liked to sit on top. Aziraphale rode it at least twice a week. Every time he got on, Aziraphale thought, climbing to the top, looking at his feet to delay the moment of disappointment, he thought, perhaps he’d see, in the back of the ‘bus, a dark figure, fashionably dressed, looking down his long nose onto the streets below, not looking at Aziraphale. And how would it be to see him again, after all that time? His heart in his throat, Aziraphale would step forward one, two seats, his gloved hand on the backs. They would be alone, of course. Something would give him away - an intake of breath, a footstep. Crowley would look up, suddenly, and he would make that face he’d made on the balcony, when Aziraphale had given himself away, eyes wide, mouth a little open. “Aziraphale,” he’d say. He might nod at the seat beside him. Once, Aziraphale imagined, he’d take his hand, their gloves pressed together. They might not even talk. They didn’t always need too. They’d sit there in silence, together, and then a stop would come up, and Crowley would stir, and say, “this is mine” - almost regretfully, and Aziraphale might say, “Dinner plans tonight, my dear?” And they’d be back to normal, just like that.
Of course, when Aziraphale got on, twice a week, and Crowley was, inevitably, not there, then there was, of course, the entire ride to his destination, or sometimes the loop once, twice, all day, to imagine Crowley mounting the steps, imagine Crowley swinging himself up, lanky and easy, a thing to draw the eye, imagine Crowley looking up, freezing at the sight of Aziraphale. The time to imagine Aziraphale’s nervous smile. His twisting hands. Crowley walking towards him, slow. “Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale might say. “It’s been a long time.”3 Once, twice, Crowley turned right around and got off again, and Aziraphale had to chase him down off the ‘bus, down the street, which, even as he imagined it, Aziraphale knew he would never do, imagined a shouting match in the middle of the street, crying out, “Don’t you know what you mean to me?” And Crowley would say, eyes blazing, “No. Tell me,” and Aziraphale would say, “let me show you, instead-”4
He didn’t even know where Crowley was, couldn’t feel Crowley the way Crowley seemed to be able to feel him, didn’t know if Crowley was in London or America or Russia or the Samoan Islands. So he imaged them meeting at the Paris Exhibition, even went there three years running, shut down the shop and everything, sure Crowley would be there, in that crush of people and inventions and spectacles and sights and sin. Crowley was never there, at least, not that Aziraphale could see, although he swore, once or twice, he’d felt something itching between his wings, like he was being watched, but whenever he turned around, there was never anybody there. Or, well, there were a lot of people there, but they were people, they weren’t who he wanted to see.5
He’d imagined opening the Times and seeing, in the Classifieds, Angel - I have lost all hope. Regret terribly. Always yours, C. He imagined them at Lord Wooster’s hunting party, and hadn’t that one been a mistake to go to, of course Crowley wouldn’t have been there, he hated hunting, hated horses, hated boring house parties, and it had been an absolute bore, Crowley hadn’t stepped out of the woods behind a tree at all like the Black Knight, hadn’t said, “Why did you get so angry?” And then Aziraphale, of course, hadn’t said, “Because I can’t imagine living without you.” Which is what he was doing now. He imagined walking down the street and hearing, “Angel! Angel!” And Crowley would run up to him and say, a little breathless, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” and Aziraphale would say, sternly, “You shouldn’t have, no,” and Crowley would offer Aziraphale his arm and they’d go off to dinner. He’d imagined Crowley sending dozens of letters, every time the post came, morning and night, letters that started, Dear Aziraphale, or Angel, or A. -
Once, Aziraphale imagined, he would be out flying - oh, he did it once a decade or so, he knew Crowley wouldn’t believe it, but sometimes it got too much, sometimes Aziraphale had to, had to feel free - and so he’d go up onto the roof of the shop and take off and fly, oh, for hours, and he’d imagined, of course he’d imagined, that he would see another speck, dark and large, would fly towards it, even as it was flying towards him, that they would meet, Crowley’s hair windswept - and alright, it’s a fantasy, so sometimes Crowley had long hair, and sometimes had dark robes, and once, just once, his hair was curling and flopping and his eyes were so, so dark, and his robes were white, and that constant frown was gone from his face, that tension from his jaw, and Aziraphale would capture his hands, and say, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” They would fly together. Sometimes, Crowley would say, “Let’s go all the way up, as far as we can,” and they would. Even up in the clouds he was haunted by Crowley. Is this how it’s going to be, from now on? He’d thought.
But most often, Aziraphale imagined, Crowley would come into the bookshop, would saunter in, wearing a neat black dinner jacket or a three-piece suit with a straw hat or a little beaded short dress, 6 a long dark streak slinking into the bookshop, flowers or chocolate or wine or tickets to something or, more frequently, as the years stretched on, nothing, empty-handed, just himself. Once in the shop, Crowley would pretend it had never happened, or he would tell Aziraphale to forget all about it, or they’d get drunk, or he’d do the dance. “It wasn’t fair of me,” he’d said, once, kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet, Aziraphale’s heart high in his throat, teacup or glass of cognac forgotten in his hand, sometimes even dropped to spill on the carpet below as Crowley looked up at him, eyes big and yellow and earnest, “I didn’t know what I was asking. Forgive me.” 7And Aziraphale always does.
And once - just once, but it went on a very, very long time - Aziraphale permitted himself to imagine Crowley kissing him, hands tangled in his hair like he’d seen once in Venice in a little back street, two humans so full of love Aziraphale could feel that it was spilling out of them, had to be communicated through touch. A thing humans did. He’d been so strangely affected by it, so out of sorts, that he’d gone to find Crowley, who had been on some infernal job or another as a gondolier, and he’d goaded Crowley into doing something ridiculous, and they’d gotten so drunk they’d lost Crowley’s entire boatload of tomatoes, love-apples, and had to get them back again, and Aziraphale had very nearly not thought about those humans at all. So he allowed himself, just once, to imagine that for them, to imagine Crowley kissing him, backing him up into the shelves, hands in his hair, Aziraphale’s hands on his waist, like Edinburgh but oh so much better, and it wasn’t enough, after all, it was never enough, Aziraphale was an awful angel, greedy, grasping, it was never enough, he wanted more, more -
Or Crowley might come on New year’s, or Christmas, or Midsummer’s Eve, which he knew Aziraphale loved, or All Hallow’s Eve, which Aziraphale knew Crowley loved. And then the wars had started, and Aziraphale had thought he might come then, because he knew Crowley, knew Crowley would be miserable and agitated and itchy with all of this pain and suffering he could feel, that it would be choking him, and oh, Lord, Aziraphale was a bad angel, because he almost was happy about the war, because in every war they’d ever been around for Crowley had sought him out, the demon a low sinking pit of despair, and Aziraphale had always distracted him, as if Aziraphale could bring him up, did, in fact, bring him up, out of the darkness. How many long dark blacked-out nights had Aziraphale sat, alone and waiting? The entire world was at war, it seemed, and Aziraphale sat, and thought of the Great War, how it had, eventually, been just him and Crowley, except Crowley hadn’t been Crowley, then, of course, had been younger, and brighter, his white robes stained with soot and ichor and he had seen Aziraphale, and his sword coming towards him, and he had been, for one brief, horrid moment, afraid, and it was, Aziraphale would do anything to take that fear away from him. I would never hurt you, he wanted to say to Crowley. Not ever. See? I won’t even let you hurt yourself.
But Crowley didn’t come, and he didn’t write, or telegraph, or call, the stubborn thing, and Aziraphale didn’t either.
And then enough time had gone by that Aziraphale had given up hope, and he’d thought maybe it would end like before, maybe it would be the end of days before he’d see Crowley again, and then he’d get his holy water after all, wouldn’t he - ? And Aziraphale had given up hope, a hopeless angel, a terrible thing. And he’d put his chin up, stiff upper lip, and carried on anyway. A good angel. And he’d been in that church, dim and cold, the very last place he’d ever expected Crowley to be, and here he is. Burning for Aziraphale. Look at what I will do for you, he seems to say to Aziraphale, as he swells to fill the church, dark red-and-yellow, Fallen angel, defying the very laws of the universe, as he burns. I’m here. And Aziraphale’s heart lifting and lightening in his chest, oh, as light as light. Here he is. It’s time. And he’s thought about this very moment for seventy-nine years, nearly a century, an eye-blink for them, really, but it’s not until he sees Crowley, a dark, flapping bird hopping down the aisle of a church, that he realizes just how much-. Oh, he thought he’d known before. But it’s when he sees Crowley that he really knows. Oh, Lord. Aziraphale should be praying, Dear Lord, help me to be strong. Help me to be worthy. Rid me of this desire. But all he can think, Lord help him, is, There you are, my love. I’ve missed you.
≠≠
1. The angels had looked like stars when they’d Fallen, long streaks of light, each a different color, each somehow, horrifyingly, recognizable. Even the angels Aziraphale hadn’t known, the ones he hadn’t talked to. What would mine look like, he’d wondered. Crowley’s, not black or red or gold but a pinky-blue streak, something unexpectedly soft, and never seen again in him. back
2. And if Aziraphale had started going to plays that weren’t his style, well, it was only to really understand what the humans were up to these days. back
3. And once, if the omnibus lurches in Aziraphale’s imagination, and Crowley stumbles into his lap, his hands on Crowley’s waist like before, steadying him, Crowley warm and solid in his hands - back
4. Once, the shouting contest ends with Crowley taking his his hand, eyes cast down. Aziraphale rides the omnibus a lot in those days. There’s not much else to do. back
5. Once, there was a completely ridiculous fantasy of a hot air balloon; they were thrown together, perhaps, Crowley came to the rescue -but, no, that was absurd. He didn’t allow himself to think of Crowley for three months afterwards. It was the grayest and bleakest winter he could remember. back
6. Just because Aziraphale didn’t adjust his own clothing to the current times didn’t mean he didn’t pay attention to what was fashionable. back
7. And on some nights, with the cognac, and the music low, Aziraphale’s book spread forgotten across his lap, dreaming - Crowley would take his hand, raise it slowly to his mouth, looking over his glasses, would brush his lips over Aziraphale’s knuckles - back