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"Pass the wine, will you, Aziraphale?" Raphael whined, eyes swirling with stardust. Palm open and needy, long fingers wiggling.
"Azirafell," the demon corrected him, half-hearted.
It was a regular occurrence, after all, so he never let it bother him. Especially when he knew Raphael never meant it the way other angels did. A reminder of his changed nature, the memory of another angel, long since Fallen, but no less forgotten. Not when his mere name could be used to punish the demon.
"What I said," Raphael insisted, a horrible lie. Shamelessly wiggled his fingers again.
Azirafell tried not to let his amusement show. Terrible thing that, letting the warmth that filled his chest, at the sight of that ridiculous creature, shine through. He shook his head instead, even as he retrieved the last bottle of wine he had stashed during the 14th century. Passed it over, careful to avoid those grace-tipped fingers.
"Careful, angel," still whispered, as Raphael struggled up.
He hadn't meant for the soft edges of his words to bleed through. His hands tightening into fists, choking the need to reach out and steady the angel. It was just one of those things, he lied to himself, was very good at that part. Yet another way an angel could burn through a wretched soul.
Raphael, at least, didn't appear to have heard him. Too engrossed in making sure his wine glass wouldn't spill over his white leather pants, and failing miserably. And Azirafell wasn't staring, had had plenty of experience not staring.
"Why did you invite me over?" he asked instead, gaze carefully avoiding the way golden freckles twitched into a grimace. Raphael's blazing eyes turning to the dot of red on his thigh, daring it to remain that colour for much longer. A few seconds and the blot shivered, terrified of pain it couldn't even experience, and faded out of existence.
When the angel's gaze finally rested on him, Azirafell knew it would appear as if he had always been lost in thought, focused on the books, surrounding them from all sides.
Azirafell really was very good at this. He had to be, having spent an eternity around an angel, as tempting as the one before him.
"Can't an angel ask their friend to visit them at their place of business?" that ridiculously cheeky creature asked, winking at him.
Azirafell laughed. He laughed, if only to stop himself from growling. A deep and primal sound, not one suitable for the presence of an angel. Even one currently sprawled every which way on the sofa before him.
"Angels don't have friends," Azirafell pointed out, a hint of a challenge. "And they certainly don't have places of business."
Raphael also laughed. A church choir, but one that surprisingly did not sting. His thighs falling open, as he leant back. Azirafell carefully appeared to stare at the Jane Austen, tucked in the literature section. Far too small for the size of the library, but he knew what the angel specialised in.
"That's where you are wrong." Raphael spread his arms, the wine in his glass miraculously unspilled, as he gestured around himself. "Obviously have a business, don't I?"
"Business would suggest you make money out of this, angel," Azirafell said, unable not to be gentle about it. "Not that you let humans borrow books and then make it so they think they have always owned them."
"Knowledge-"
"Should never be denied to those less fortunate," the demon parroted back, a phrase he had heard ever since humans had invented writing.
From the way Raphael tipped his head back, long throat on display, it was unclear how the angel had taken his words. Except, Azirafell could imagine those eyes of sunlight rolling, that rose-petal-dusted mouth quirking in a smile.
It was getting late. He needed to-
"You are my friend," Raphael said, a wish more than actual words. When he raised himself to look at the demon, there was something severe and powerful, lurking at the corners of his eyes. "You have always been my friend. Since the first moment I met you."
Azirafell knew that the angel was drunk, they both were. A weekly tradition, now, for them to gather in this little library, tucked in one of London's worst neighbourhoods. Sharing intel about the Antichrist, a cursory prelude, before moving on to wine and nibbles Raphael had procured for them. For Azirafell, mostly.
And yet, those words hurt. Stung like something holy on a wound. They had never spoken about the first time they had met, back when they had both been angels. About Raphael shielding him with his wing, poisoning him with his doubts. Leading him to-
Come to think of it, they had never spoken about Azirafell's Fall, and something itched, scalded, where the demon's intact halo had once been.
Worst of all, Raphael didn't appear to notice. No, the angel continued to smile at him, gently sharp, one eyebrow raised as if daring him to object. Daring him to deny that they were friends. To deny that they were here, not as hereditary enemies, sharing information that would help them save the world. But as creatures that enjoyed each other's company, had sought it, for millennia now.
Regrettably, Azirafell was very good at denial.
He raised himself, his black eyes flickering in the dark, blinking, multiplying, until they littered half of his face. His mouth opening, widening, to fit the fangs lengthening on either side of his sharp teeth. And there was venom, dripping sickly on the floor, a sizzling sound as it burnt through the carpet. A single thought and it was gone, a necessary part of his anatomy, banished into the ether as not to harm the angel before him.
Raphael shifted into the cushion, finally showing the appropriate level of apprehension at the situation. At his friend turning into something giant and monstrous, right before him. Eyes wide and full of glittering horror as Azirafell's body lengthened, plumped at the abdomen, thinned everywhere else. His multiple legs, previously tucked against his chest, wiggling free. Spindly and vile and Azirafell knew what he looked like. He knew what he was.
It was time for Raphael to remember, too.
The demon hooked two legs on either side of that lithe body, still splayed onto the sofa. Another one right where the angel's head had been, moments ago. Heaved himself up, until he was hovering over Raphael, poisonous breath scalding that pale skin.
But Raphael had yet to meet his gaze, eyes fixated, instead, on the place where Azirafell's thorax bled into his abdomen. On the bulk of him, monstrous and daunting, and the itch beneath the demon's skin was almost unbearable now.
"Have you forgotten, little angel?" he drawled, one leg coming to prod against a sharp jaw, forcing the angel's head up until those eyes of gold were finally upon him. "What I am?"
He had expected revulsion, had even hoped for it, in those corners of himself, self-despising but truthful. His 'friend' finally forced to see what he was, understand that this, this shared camaraderie, thrust upon them, was nothing more than an illusion. One that would fall apart the moment Azirafell let even a drop of his true essence bleed through.
He hadn't expected Raphael to gasp, a heaving, wondrous sound. Eyes bright like a meteor shower, as he gazed at the monster that the demon was.
Whispered, "Look at you, you are gorgeous."
Azirafell twitched backwards, as if struck by those words. His numerous eyes blinking, before he was forcing them to disappear, merge into a number he could actually control.
He wasn't going to cry in front of the angel.
Even when said angel continued to smile at him, light-tipped hand hovering in the space between them.
"May I?" Raphael asked, breathless and so reverent it almost sounded blasphemous.
The angel's fingers were shaking, and all at once Azirafell realised they had never touched before. They had never been this close before, had never shared the same air, the same light shining upon them. Not after that first time, millennia ago. The realisation, cruel and unyielding. The burning need to never part from that gorgeous creature before him, hot on its heels.
He nodded. A rare occurrence, all things considered, allowing himself what he wanted. Raphael, silly, ridiculous creature that he was, most of the time, seemed to realise it too. Hurried to shift closer, an arm coming to curl around the leg at his side. A comforting touch, eagerly laid on what Azirafell had meant to be a threat.
"Your hair always looks so soft," the angel whispered, his fingers burrowing in Azirafell's curls. Startlingly white and made of spun silk, they resembled normal hair just as closely as to be upsetting. Something uncanny about the way they swallowed the light, the little scurrying feet one might spot if one looked too closely. And yet, Raphael let his fingers sink into them, sharp nails scratching at the cobwebbed scalp in a way that would have made Azirafell purr, if it wouldn't have been utterly humiliating.
The demon's body swayed closer, seeking warm and soft, and that inviting spread of limbs he had not stared at ever since time had been invented. The noises slithering around his fangs, embarrassing and needy, not befitting of a demon of his station. It only seemed to delight Raphael. A smile shining upon the wretchedness of the demon's soul, as that holy creature touched him with abandon.
"Always wondered what they'd feel like," Raphael murmured, half-dazed, as his fingers ran over Azirafell's leg. The same one caging him, the one that had meant to scare him and the demon's whole body shivered, suddenly weak.
"Angel," he whimpered, couldn't stop himself.
Raphael smiled up at him, teeth digging into the corner of his mouth. Effortlessly charming and so tempting, far more tempting than any angel had the right to be.
"I will stop, if you ask me to," the devious thing murmured, one hand inching to the centre of Azirafell's sternum. "Do you want me to, 'Zira?"
It felt like a trap, that question. Coming from anyone else, Azirafell would have treated it as such, too. Would have let the venom in his veins seep through, would have tightened his legs, the claws on their tips itching for vengeance.
But not when it came to Raphael, not when it concerned the actions of an angel, too pure for the thoughts, burning Azirafell whole.
"Don't," he said, not as embarrassed by the eagerness in his voice as perhaps he should have been. Lowered himself, as to give the angel the opportunity to run reverent fingers over his abdomen. An opportunity Raphael seized gleefully, his excitement almost bordering that of a child.
Azirafell shouldn't- He should stop this, he knew, should withdraw, should leave.
"I always envied you, you know," Raphael said, almost to himself. "My true form, it's the same. Made in Her image, I'm sure you remember. But demons, I always thought, now demons got to have fun with it. Why else would you be a giant spider?"
Azirafell chose not to answer. This corporation, the monikers that came with it, none of it had been a choice. Nothing but a punishment, for a crime he hadn't even committed, not really.
Was doubt a crime?
He wore them proudly still. The Great Spider, the Father of Puppets. The trickster demon, the greatest machinator. He accepted those titles, pinned them proudly to his thorax and pretended he did not feel the way they dug their claws into his skin.
For all the time they had spent together, Raphael didn't know. How could he, Azirafell had never shared any of it. The angel wasn't even aware why he had Fallen, didn't even know that he-
"You are so soft," the angel whispered, pressing a palm against the underside of Azirafell's abdomen. "How can you be so soft?"
His hands exploring the demon's body, as if the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. And Azirafell knew it couldn't be so, had been there when Raphael had created the universe, had held his scroll for him, had listened to his doubts and-
The demon flinched back, an innate reaction to memories he had thought he had buried deep beneath millennia of denial. Raphael's response was immediate.
"Sorry- Didn't mean to-" the angel stammered, snatching his hand back as if engulfed by Hellfire. "Did I say something wrong?"
And the worry on those sharp features, liquid fear, poisonous citrine- Oh, but it hurt even more than the memories. Azirafell shook his head. Allowed one of his legs to slide from where it was resting against the sofa. Traced the frown on that divine face instead, and Raphael was pressing into the caress. An eagerness to the flutter of his chest, not fit for the wretchedness of a demon's touch.
He looked peaceful, beautiful. Always so beautiful.
"It's fine, angel," Azirafell lied and hoped that the angel would be distracted enough not to notice. "Ticklish is all."
The angel's mouth fell open around a sigh. So close, and when had Azirafell leant so close again, his breath tickled the demon's cheek. His mouth. His lips.
Golden eyes opened slowly, hazy with wine and something else, something Azirafell had been so very good at ignoring.
So far.
"You could," the angel whispered, as if having read his mind. His lips parted, deviously teasing tongue running over them slowly. "If you wanted to, you could."
Azirafell shook his head. Somewhere, very deep and very shameful, he had always known that he could. That had never been the problem.
"You could trick me," Raphael insisted, palms running over his thighs, the only sign he was just as nervous as the demon. "Tempt me. You are a demon, it's what you do."
"Angels can't be tempted," Azirafell said, words he had used to tease Raphael so many times before, fashioned into a shield.
The angel’s smirk was wide and playful. It also, almost, reached his eyes. But he made no attempt to touch the demon again, his movements suddenly jagged and slow as he leant back. Leant way.
The distance between them scalding like frost.
"I would say yes. If you asked," the angel said. It wasn't a temptation. Nor was it an innocent gesture that Azirafell could prism through his numerous eyes until it lost all meaning.
Simply the truth. Perhaps, it was why it hurt so much.
Azirafell smiled too. It was all he was allowed to do.
"I know."
He had never been the hopeful sort, never the optimist. It didn't work that way, not when everything good and gracious had been ripped away from him, so very long ago. But the poisonous doubt in those golden eyes hurt enough for him to forget that vital perk of his character.
"I will," he whispered, the only vow he had ever allowed himself to make. "One day, I will ask."