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Someone was always watching.
Well, they weren’t always watching. But they always might be, which made it worse.
“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale?”
“Why do you consume gross matter?”
“Not even a body, you pathetic excuse for an angel.”
Sometimes you could get away with things, for a little while. But sooner or later, you would always be called to account.
Aziraphale used to think bitterly, sometimes, that it was easier for Crowley. Being a demon gave him rather a lot of freedom to indulge. Be-bop and fast cars, money and loose women. No one was scolding him about sushi.
But then he remembered Edinburgh, and his envy dissolved in a wash of pain. There were, after all, indulgences Crowley couldn’t afford. Some things were simply un-demonic. Crowley’s kindness, his outrage at injustice, his — his goodness. None of it had ever been allowed.
But now — well, all that was over, wasn’t it? They had their freedom, didn’t they? Earth was beyond the reach of their old employers. They’d be left alone now, for good. And they’d figure out what to do with themselves. Wouldn’t they?
That first day, afterward, Aziraphale said, “You can stay at my shop, if you like.”
A little smile flashed across Crowley’s face. But then he said, “Not much room, is there? All your books, and your furniture, and your records. I mean, I can hardly play the Velvet Underground while you restore Elizabethan folios, can I?”
They shared a brief, awkward vision.
“No,” said Aziraphale.
“No,” agreed Crowley.
“But you can’t — I mean, we — I won’t leave you on your own,” insisted Aziraphale.
Crowley caught his hand suddenly, and squeezed it, and then dropped it in confusion. He cleared his throat. “Well. We’re retired now, I suppose. Couple of old codgers. Why don’t we find ourselves a seaside cottage?”
So that’s what they did.
The estate agent mistook them for a couple, of course. But between them, they were able to convince her of the truth, or at least some approximation of it.
“No, no, we’re just old friends,” Crowley said. “He worked for a competing firm, but I always got along better with him than I did with the boss. You know how it is. Meeting up on the road, bidding for the same contracts, hashing it out over drinks afterwards. Almost a team, in a strange sort of way. And then we retired.”
“We’re both a bit at loose ends, now,” Aziraphale confided.
Crowley nodded. “Funny, how you complain about the job for six thou-” — here, Aziraphale had nudged him under the table — “for your whole life, and then you don’t know who you are without it.”
“So, we thought,” concluded Aziraphale brightly, “why not go in together on a place? Rather like those American ladies, you know.”
“He means ‘The Golden Girls,’” explained Crowley.
“Cheesecake and high jinks,” murmured Aziraphale, “and that delightful young Miss White tap-dancing.”
The estate agent yielded under this onslaught — and more to the point, under the ruinous amount of money they were prepared to spend. In short order, they took possession of a cottage in a quiet beauty spot, about two miles from the market town. Four bedrooms, two baths, enclosed terraced gardens with a greenhouse, two lounges, custom-fitted kitchen, exposed beam ceilings, and working fireplaces.
It was the perfect place. Plenty of space for two lives to run comfortably parallel during the days, intersecting to drink a companionable cup of tea in the mornings and share a bottle of wine on the sofa at night. Plenty of space to simply do what you liked, without anyone challenging you at all.
Aziraphale had taken up sketching again, and long walks ending at the bakery in town that did the most delightful pastries. Crowley had waged a campaign of shock and awe on the terraced gardens, and quartered his houseplants in the ground-floor lounge under strict orders not to take any liberties.
And then, one spring day, he brought home the guitar.
Aziraphale was halfway down the stairs when the front door swung wide, and Crowley came sauntering through. His shoulders were thrown back, his chin lifted high. But his cheeks were flushed in a way that was more than the sun and wind could explain.
“Crowley!” The familiar thrill of seeing his face swept over Aziraphale, even though they had been separated no more than a day. Then he noticed that Crowley was carrying something: a guitar case in one hand, and a stand in the other. He very nearly asked, “What have you got there?” But one look at the blaze in Crowley’s eyes and the brittle set of his mouth, and he decided to hold his tongue. Don’t ask foolish questions, Aziraphale. You can see perfectly well what he’s got.
Aziraphale went back upstairs after him, stood on the landing, watched him set up the stand and settle the instrument on it. Crowley kept darting glances at him through the open door of the spare room, as though daring Aziraphale to demand an explanation for his behaviour.
Aziraphale, not entering his room, said, “That’s a lovely guitar, my dear. From Mr Redferne’s shop?”
“Nnn. No. Went up to London.”
“Well worth the trip, I’d say. That’s a vintage Martin D-28, isn’t it?”
Crowley blinked, one elegant hand running down the neck of the instrument. “Nineteen sixty-seven. Didn’t think you played.”
“I don’t.” Aziraphale caught himself looking curiously at his own fingers, and turned the movement into a tug on the hem of his cardigan instead. “But one does like to remain au courant with the arts.”
Crowley appeared to have a number of questions about this statement, but all he said was “Au courant?”
“Indeed. Shall I put on some tea?”
“Tea?”
“Tea,” confirmed Aziraphale.
“Uh, yes. I’ll be right down.”
As Aziraphale turned and began to descend the stairs, he didn’t hear the door close. Instead, he heard the soft glissando of a strum across the open strings, and smiled.
In those first months, Crowley waited for Aziraphale to set out on his daily walk into town before going upstairs to play. If the wind was right, as Aziraphale came round the bend on the ridge above their cottage, he could hear distant bits of music floating from the upstairs window. On those days, he’d sit and rest on the low stone wall that flanked the path, letting the breeze ruffle his hair and trying to piece together the musical phrases. They were simple at first. But if he sat long enough and the wind didn’t change, Crowley would begin to elaborate, weaving echoes and answers around the line of the melody.
Then the breeze would change direction, and the notes would fade away. Aziraphale always waited until he couldn’t hear even the faintest edge of song, not even when he held his breath. Only then would he rise, and walk on towards the town, and give Crowley an hour or two to play in private. By the time he returned home, there was never any more music. Crowley would be out in the garden, puttering with shovel or trowel, augmenting his flower beds or whatever it was he did.
Aziraphale never asked Crowley what he had been playing on those days. It’s not as if I would recognize the title, even if he told me. Be-bop, no doubt. Amazing, how it turns to beauty under his fingers.
Anyhow. I oughtn’t to eavesdrop.
As summer wore on, in the half-dreaming light of the long, late evenings, Aziraphale let his mind wander. It wandered, always, to the same places. Red curls in the desert breeze. An elegant, pale neck set off by dark fabric. Mellow golden eyes that deepened when Aziraphale poured him another glass of wine.
The soft stillness of fingers laced with his, holding hands as they had begun to do now most evenings after dinner, without discussing it.
The wine and conversation had always flowed freely; the first time Crowley took his hand in the middle of a debate, saying “But listen, angel,” it had seemed like a mere gesture of emphasis. And then, Crowley hadn’t let go.
The next night, Crowley had slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s as soon as the wine was poured, while he insisted “The humans don’t actually like frozen yoghurt, angel, even if they do open shops to sell it.” It had happened so easily, just as though it were something they did.
So it was what they did, now. Crowley never remarked upon it, so Aziraphale didn’t, either. He thought of coaxing a songbird to eat from his hand — sitting quietly, watching the bright-eyed little creature come closer day by day, knowing that the slightest motion would send it winging away in terror.
At the end of those first few evenings, Crowley had let his hand go as casually as he had taken it, saying “Well, I’m off to bed. Good night, angel.”
But then one night, they’d been laughing over the memory of oysters in Rome, of afternoons at the Globe, of the sun-drenched week in Monte Carlo they’d spent happily thwarting each other. Eventually, their reminiscences had faded into a comfortable silence, and Aziraphale knew the evening was drawing to a close. He prepared to politely excuse himself.
But then, Crowley had lifted their entwined hands, and with the barest brush of his lips against Aziraphale’s trembling knuckles, murmured, “Good night, angel.” And then he’d slipped away, up the darkened stairs, and left Aziraphale alone in the sunset that streamed through the sitting-room windows.
And then, the music had drifted gently down to him. The melody Crowley played that night was a comfortable, sweet, soft ache. It was a yearning so familiar that it settled almost kindly behind Aziraphale’s breastbone. He sat, and listened, and did not follow Crowley upstairs. It was enough to know that the door was open. That Crowley didn’t mind if Aziraphale heard him. That he trusted in Aziraphale’s quiet, in the quiet of this new place, where no one was watching.
The year wore on, and the light began to recede. There was a new chill in the air, sharpening day by day. One night after dinner, during a companionable pause in their conversation, a sudden draught swirled out from the picture window, and Aziraphale shivered. Some instinct to seek warmth spoke to him, and he obeyed it. Wordlessly, he nestled close to Crowley’s side where their hands were joined, and laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder.
Crowley drew in a startled breath. And then he let it out in a sigh, and rested his cheek against Aziraphale’s head, and wrapped his other palm warm over the back of Aziraphale’s hand.
Later that evening, in the lamplight, Crowley brought Aziraphale’s fingers to his lips, but he didn’t bid Aziraphale good night. Instead, he carefully kissed each knuckle, one by one, and then turned his face to press a kiss into the top of Aziraphale’s head as he set Aziraphale’s hand back in his lap. He didn’t say anything at all. But when Aziraphale picked up his hand again, brought Crowley’s fingertips to his own lips, Crowley exhaled, long and shuddering.
Crowley eventually let go of his hand, only to slip his arm around Aziraphale’s waist; Aziraphale snuggled closer into the crook of his shoulder. In the end, Crowley leaned against the corner of the high wingback, wrapped both his arms around Aziraphale, and sighed again. With one ear on his chest, Aziraphale listened to the gradual ritardando of his heartbeat; the legato of his breath; and eventually, the vibrato of his gentle snoring.
In the morning, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, just as though it were something they did, and whispered, “I’ll go and put on some tea, darling.”
Crowley shifted, mumbled “Wstfgl.” As Aziraphale slipped into the kitchen, he saw Crowley open his eyes and press his fingers to his own cheek, where Aziraphale’s lips had touched him.
They sat at the breakfast table and drank their tea, side by side, in an uncertain, gathering silence. After breakfast, Aziraphale said, “It’s a lovely morning. I think I’ll go for a walk. Will you join me?”
“Think I’ll stay here,” said Crowley. “I’ll wash up. See you in a bit.” He picked up their mugs and went into the kitchen, leaving Aziraphale with nothing to do but put on his shoes and go.
When he got to the ridge, Aziraphale paused, but there was only the rustle of leaves in the wind, and the lonely calls of geese on the wing, flying before the approaching winter. He walked on, following the long loop that would give Crowley two full hours to himself.
He’d presumed too far, of course. Crowley’s silence had told him all he needed to know. After all, one year of this new freedom — it was nothing, was it? They’d been under watch for six thousand years. Their lives had never been their own. It was no surprise that Crowley wanted to keep his independence. He liked to have Aziraphale around the place, of course, but not — not like that. Not kissing him good morning, as though one had any right. Not calling him darling, as though one had any sort of claim upon him.
It was decided, then. From now on, after dinner, he would squeeze Crowley’s hand once, and say “Good night,” and then go to his own room. That way, Crowley needn’t ask to have his evenings to himself again, or feel any obligation to continue engaging Aziraphale in this — this self-indulgence.
As he came back, striding up the path to their door, spurred by his new certainty, he saw a figure in the garden, tall and gangly. Red hair glowed against the grey stone of the cottage’s east wall, as the figure leaned down. But Crowley wasn’t digging, nor raking, nor clearing out the spent summer vines. He was perched on a tall stool — the one from his gardening bench; he must have dragged it out from the greenhouse — and his head was bent over the guitar in his lap, thoughtfully tuning it, notes ringing out again and again, bending until they came into focus.
Aziraphale paused, uncertain. Had he walked too quickly? Should he go back out?
But Crowley looked up, and caught his eye, and began to play.
It was a delicate melody, three steps up and then an octave leap. A quivering inversion; a tense tritone, an aching-sweet resolution. Bach, perhaps; a variation of the Bourée, in G major instead of E minor?
But then Crowley began to sing. His voice was thin, but strengthening. Aziraphale came to him, pulled forward with a shiver by the words.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take these broken wings and learn to fly;
All your life,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Aziraphale dropped to his knees on the patch of damp earth in front of Crowley, with no thought but to sit and listen. Crowley smiled down at him as he sang, his uncovered eyes shining suspiciously bright.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free.
A sudden rush of wind threw a swirl of dry leaves around them. One caught in Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale rose to his feet, leaning forward to brush the brittle leaf away, his nose almost touching Crowley’s as he reached out.
“You were only waiting for this moment to arise,” repeated Crowley softly. Then he closed the little distance between them, and met Aziraphale’s lips with his own, and the last notes faded into a melody that only the two of them could hear.
“Come inside and warm up,” suggested Aziraphale, eventually.
“Tea?” murmured Crowley.
“If you like.” Aziraphale tucked a lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “I was thinking, perhaps, we could light a fire, and keep each other warm on the sofa.”
But they put the guitar away properly first, trading giddy kisses and laughter until they were settled downstairs, close in each other’s arms. There was a crackling fire, and two glasses of brandy, and the sweet taste of Crowley’s mouth, and a lazy, leisurely afternoon.
“Thought I might sign up for that French cookery class. The one on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I know I’ve never been much for food — wasn’t sure what you’d say —”
“Darling, it’s a wonderful idea. There’s an open figure session at the art gallery on Tuesdays; we can drive into town together. And on Wednesdays, there’s a ballroom dancing class at the village hall. I don’t know if you’d have any interest — it’s quite all right if you’d rather not — the flyer said no partner needed — I’m afraid I’ll be terribly clumsy —”
“Angel, I would adore to stumble awkwardly around the village hall with you. Let’s go and be clumsy together. Got nothing to prove to anyone, have we? Not anymore.”
“Mm. It feels so right, being in your arms.”
“Mmhmm.” There was a long, wonderful lull in the conversation. “You do realise, our estate agent is going to be insufferable.”
“Well. Perhaps she can be forgiven. She did find us the perfect place, after all.”
There was plenty of space here. Space to do what you liked, without asking permission, without having to explain. Space to try being someone else for a while, someone you had never been allowed to be.
Space for two lives to flow around one another. Space for two melodies to meet in counterpoint, a joyful harmony floating together on the wind between sky and sea.
And space to be alone, together, with no one else watching at all.