Chapter Text
Chapter One
We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.
-Luciano de Crescenzo
The last day of February 1951 was a gray one. Whickber Street lay quiet and empty under a blanket of fog and thick coal smoke. Few people walked along the row of storefronts, and those who were unfortunate enough to be outside moved quickly to get out of the cold. They shuffled and sniffed their way inside, their faces hidden in their overcoats, gloves, and scarves. The gloom was so oppressive that it was hard to imagine the street ever being lively, full of open windows and cheerful chatter. It seemed like the residents of Whickber Street had not seen the sun in a long time. However, this was more true for one inhabitant than for all others.
Aziraphale lay in bed on the edge of sleep and rumination. His hair grew long, falling in soft ringlets over his ears and brushing against his eyelids. His beard was full and tangled from neglect. This was an Aziraphale Earth had never seen. Would never see, if he had his druthers; this sad, sorry shell of a celestial was an Aziraphale so exhausted that he could actually sleep.
In short, the angel was unwell.
Aziraphale heard the door chime downstairs. He did not even bother opening his eyes. He knew exactly who it was by the thunder of shoes on the stairs. Not even the crash of the bedroom door swinging into the wall encouraged him to look upon the world that–of late–held no interest. Only when Crowley had hoisted him upright by the front of his striped nightgown did Aziraphale blink his eyes open. Crowley stared seethingly into his face.
“What the heaven do you think you’re doing?” he hissed through gritted teeth, “You scared the living daylights out of me, you bastard!” Crowley shook Aziraphale roughly by the front of his pajamas. “No phone call, no note? What were you thinking?”
“Oh, hullo, Aziraphale, my old friend. Glad to see you’re alright, after all. I’m doing rather well myself, thank you for inquiring,” Aziraphale sassed back, although his voice came out as a dull mumble instead of his more typical bright quippiness. Crowley growled and released Aziraphale. He fell back onto his pillows with a muffled thump. Crowley tore a newspaper page from the inside of his jacket and flung it at Aziraphale. Aziraphale already knew the headline:
Beloved bookseller A.Z. Fell, a long-time member of the Whickber Street community, was found dead at age fifty-one at his residence above his bookshop—no suspicion of foul play.
“You dodge me for weeks—WEEKS, Angel! I think to myself, ‘Fine! He’s too busy to talk to me. I’ll just wait to pop ‘round ‘til he isn’t.’ But then, I’m down at the pub, tempting sinners to drink, when some human asks me how I’m holding up.” Crowley paced around the foot of Aziraphale’s bed, his arms wildly gesticulating as he unleashed his panic. He opened the single button on his black flannel suit and loosened his red necktie. He continued.
“I ask him, ‘What d’you mean?’ and he shows me the morning newspaper. ‘Weren’t you friends?’ he asks. I could’ve turned him into a cockroach—don’t look at me like that. I didn’t,” he said as Aziraphale temporarily lifted his head from the pillow. “But I thought you’d been…agh, I don’t know…I thought Heaven might’ve learned…oh, for Satan’s sake, Angel. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Aziraphale sighed. He moved onto his side, facing Crowley, and pulled the quilted comforter up to his shoulder. “There’s no need to get hysterical, Crowley. This isn’t the first time one of us has faked our deaths. You and I both know it’s easier than erasing people’s memories. I was due for another one, so I miracled myself a death certificate for the record office and submitted an obituary to the paper.”
“Oh, well, naturally!” Crowley snarked. “What’s more rational than deciding to die one morning? What’d you do? Sit down with a plate of sausage and say to yourself, ‘Aziraphale, old bean, I’ve got a wild hair. Why don’t you kill yourself?’”
Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Come now, you’re being silly,” he protested, brushing a blonde curl behind his ear and snuggling deeper into bed. Aziraphale could not tell which was greater: his annoyance at being disturbed, his guilt for frightening Crowley, or his shameful awareness that Crowley’s words were driving close to home. “Falsifying a human death for myself is hardly comparable to suicide. Anyway, you’ve disappeared for years at a time with no notice at all.”
“Well, that’s different. I’m the impulsive one, not you.” Crowley paused mid-step at Aziraphale’s side. He took Aziraphale in completely, as if he was only now noticing how changed Aziraphale seemed. Slowly, Crowley lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. He tilted his head, eyes flitting over the unruly hair, the oily skin, the dim expression. “Y’alright, Angel?”
“Tickety-boo,” Aziraphale muttered. He avoided looking into Crowley’s face. “I’m just…tired. That’s all.” He turned away from Crowley, his knees curling toward his chest. He wanted to be small, unassuming. He wanted Crowley to look away. He wanted Crowley to leave him alone to sleep, cry, and wait out the storm.
But more than that—more than he cared to admit—Aziraphale wanted Crowley to stay.
Crowley stared at the curve of Aziraphale’s back. He knit his brows together, calculating the variables that had seemed unrelated before. Over the past year, Aziraphale had grown distant. The weekly lunches they had developed as a habit over the decade stretched into biweekly appointments, then monthly, until they stopped altogether. Crowley tried to remember the last time he saw Aziraphale smile with his teeth. He recalled how peculiar it struck him in their last meeting when Aziraphale did not smell like cologne, vanilla, tobacco, and dust. Aziraphale had smelled like…well, like nothing at all.
Crowley stretched out a hand to put on Aziraphale’s side. He thought better of it and placed it on the bed instead. He took off his sunglasses and hung them over his knee. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “So what’s the plan then? Sleep for a decade or two? Or until Gabriel gets a bee in his bonnet and calls you back to work?”
“I suppose.”
“Mm. Right. Right.” Crowley leaned into the hand resting on the bed, moving closer to Aziraphale. “Y’ve never been much of a sleeper, though. What if you wake up early?” He peered over the line of Aziraphale’s side, trying to get a look at his face.
Aziraphale sighed. He flipped onto his back to regard Crowley. “Look, Crowley. I am truly sorry I gave you a fright. I should have warned you. And I do appreciate you coming to check on me. But there’s no need to fuss over how I will manage my hiatus. I have plenty of books to read, records to play, and I’ve stocked up on cocoa and tea. I’ve even laid a little miracle over the shop so it doesn’t get repossessed by the city.” In fact, Aziraphale had ensured that if anyone even looked at the shop with avarice, they would suddenly find themselves with a debilitating migraine that would take the building completely off their mind.
“What about food? You could be stuck a long time without a decent meal,” Crowley contested.
“Angels don’t need to eat, Crowley. Besides, I haven’t been all that peckish lately.”
The worry creeping stealthily into the pit of Crowley’s stomach now ran into it full tilt and began an assault. Aziraphale might be able to explain away a period of isolation, a sudden change in sleeping habits, or even a change in appearance. But not wanting to eat was the final nail in the proverbial coffin.
“Oh, c’mon, Angel! You’re telling me that you are not at all concerned about missing dinners at the Ritz for years? No afternoon teas at charming local patisseries?” Crowley injected as much sarcasm as he could into the question, hoping to disguise his anxiety.
“I’m sure I’ll find ways to cope,” Aziraphale retorted flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind, Crowley, I really am quite fagged out…”
Crowley arched his brows, seeing a double meaning Aziraphale likely did not, “Well, I mean…”
“And I should like to get back to sleeping, so toodle-pip. Lovely to see you. I shall call on you when I wake up.” Aziraphale shut his eyes, waited a few moments, then began to fake snore rather unconvincingly.
Crowley’s face pinched in disapproval. The most childish angel on earth, he thought. But two could play at that game. “Right, well. G’night, Angel,” he said brightly. He stood up, walked around to the opposite side of the bed, and sat back down. He took off his jacket, set his dark glasses on a nearby bookshelf, and yawned dramatically. Then he stretched himself out on the mattress, crossing his feet and laying his hands on his chest.
Aziraphale stopped ‘snoring.’ He turned his head over his shoulder to stare at the reclining demon beside him. “Crowley,” he said. “What are you doing?”
Crowley wiggled his shoulders against the mattress. “Ahh. Basic common sense, Angel. With you out of the way for a while, I won’t have much thwarting to do. Figure I could use a little shut-eye, too.”
Aziraphale bolted upright. “But you–!” He blew an errant curl out of his face and nudged Crowley with his hand. “But you can’t stay here! Why don’t you go back to your flat? I’m sure you have a perfectly acceptable bed there.”
“Oh noooo. The heater’s broken. Wouldn’t be comfortable. I’d wake up every two years frozen stiff. That’s no way to rest.”
Aziraphale’s eyes drifted from Crowley’s intentionally neutral expression, down the long line of his fully dressed body, to the horror of Crowley’s shoes on the bed. “You didn’t even take off…” he whispered. He dropped his fists to either side. “Cr–Crowley! No! What if an angel comes around? This is an official embassy, after all.”
“Oh, do they have a habit of appearing in your bedroom?” Crowley asked. The flat, unamused line of Aziraphale’s lips pressed together was the only response. “I didn’t think so. Ugh, wouldn’t that be terrible? Wake up to Michael standing over you?” He shuddered.
“I’m serious! What if either one of our sides decides to check in?” Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale whined frustratedly. He gave Crowley another limp push with his hand. “Please, won’t you go? I just want to be alone.” He felt a lump begin to form in his throat.
Aziraphale knew it was not particularly angelic to be melancholy. He was supposed to be endlessly positive, always looking forward to the glory of the Kingdom of Heaven triumphing over evil. He was supposed to be detached from humanity, despite living among them for millennia. He was not supposed to be increasingly anxious about the End Times approaching quicker than ever before. He was not supposed to have experienced devastation at the loss of life in the last human war. He was not supposed to suffer from the moral injuries he constantly nursed in reconciling what Heaven wanted with what he believed God wanted.
And he was certainly not supposed to be depressed about loving his demon rival more than he could express. If there was anything Aziraphale was not supposed to have done, it was falling for the Serpent of Eden. He should not be miserable because he had spent the last ten years dropping hints that he was ready to risk it all, if only Crowley felt the same. Since that magical night in 1941, Aziraphale had repeatedly tested the waters to see if Crowley could possibly want what Aziraphale wanted. Every time he seemed to get close, Crowley would pull back. It was a game they played over and over again, and Aziraphale was tired of losing.
The weight of the expectations he was not meeting, and his desires that continually went unmet, were all just a little too much.
“Please,” Aziraphale repeated. “I need to be alone.”
Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale. The angel sat with his knees drawn up to his chest under the blankets. His cheeks were pink, and tears brimmed in his eyes. Crowley shook his head. “Y’can’t get rid of me that easy, Angel,” he said softly. “I know you.”
“Ha. Know thy enemy…” Aziraphale scoffed wetly.
“C’mon. We’re not enemies, Angel. I mean, technically, yes, but not really. You’re my oldest friend. Do you honestly think I don’t know when you’re not right?” Crowley watched a tear roll past Aziraphale’s nose and into his beard. “When you’re in trouble, you can always count on me to be there, just like I count on you. Something’s wrong, and I’m not going to let you face whatever it is alone.”
Aziraphale took a shaky breath and wiped his cheek with his wrist. “I don’t think you can help this time, Crowley.”
“Maybe not. But I’m sure as hell gonna try.” Crowley turned onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. “Now, do you really want to try and sleep for a while?”
Aziraphale sniffed, then nodded. “I think so.” Crowley patted the bed, and Aziraphale lay back down. He pointed at Crowley’s shoes. “Do take those off, Crowley. You’ll get dirt on the sheets.” Crowley snapped, and the shoes stood under a nearby chair. His street clothes sat folded on the seat. Crowley smoothed the front of a button-down cotton pajama shirt with his palm.
“Better?” Crowley asked? Aziraphale nodded again, then pushed his hand under the blankets and lifted them a little, indicating that Crowley should join him under the covers. “Hm? Oh, sure.” Crowley found his way into the embrace of the bedding, pre-warmed by Aziraphale’s body heat. It touched something profound in him—a primal comfort he had not known he would need to experience. He yawned, in earnest this time. “How long d’you think you’ll actually sleep for?”
“Not very long by your standards, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale chided himself for his desperate want to cuddle closer. Instead, he rearranged his body to keep a respectful distance between them. Crowley liked his space. He had made that abundantly clear. “I don’t think I’ve ever managed than a few days.”
“Then I’ll see you in a few days. Wake me up when you do, hey?” Crowley blinked slowly at Aziraphale, then shut his eyes. “Sleep well, Angel.” In a matter of seconds, his breathing grew even and his eyelids began to flutter. Aziraphale’s fingers betrayed him, reaching out to touch the collar of Crowley’s pajamas, grazing over the skin of his collarbone, then retreating to hide in the safety underneath Aziraphale’s pillow.
“Good night, Crowley.” Aziraphale closed his eyes. After a while, the only thing to stir in the room was a breeze. It lifted the edges of the newspaper page bearing the news of Aziraphale’s demise. It flitted through the air like a wil’o’the’wisp, dancing above the heads of the slumbering immortals. If anyone had been watching, they would have been confused as to how there could have been a draft: the windows were closed against the cold, late-winter-early-spring weather. Yet somehow, it managed to fly through the room and up the chimney flue, sending the newspaper ever higher until it disappeared in the fog.