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Aziraphale is feeling loose and something else - what is it? Whatever it is, it gives him a sort of manic high and he finds he can not stop talking. And it isn’t the alcohol doing it; drinking usually makes him a bit more sedate. And drinking usually makes Crowley talkative, letting loose the frivolous musings that he has stored up during his taciturn sobriety. Although they’ve both had plenty of champagne at lunch, their usual roles are reversed. Crowley is unusually quiet as they make their way back to the bookshop, walking through Piccadilly Circus.
“It will be very interesting to see the changes Adam made to the bookshop”, Aziraphale continues, stumbling a little and almost walking straight into a lamppost. He is getting a little repetitive. He has already quizzed Crowley extensively on the state of the restored bookshop. “Do you think the differences were intentional or do you think he just sort of got things a little off?”
“Hhm,” Crowley replied.
Aziraphale continues. “You said there were beanbag chairs in the stacks. It seems such chairs would be popular with youth, something Adam might like. Do you think this means he means to visit the shop in the future?”
There is a part of Aziraphale that wants to shut himself up. But he can’t stop himself from rambling, because he is bubbling up with joy. He feels free. Oh, that’s it. The feeling he could not pinpoint. Has he ever felt free before? He has no allegiances anymore. Both he and Crowley have no allegiances anymore. Aziraphale doesn’t have to report to Heaven. He won’t have any more assignments. He could do anything. It’s a little overwhelming really. And Crowley… Aziraphale doesn’t have to worry anymore that Crowley will be pulled down to Hell or somesuch, like that time in Edinburgh. They can see each other as much as they want.
“Oh, I have already asked you all this,” he continues and glances over at Crowley. He finds Crowley looking back. He has been watching him. Just like he was during lunch. Crowley doesn’t say a word in response. He just shrugs, as if to say, ‘it doesn’t matter; go on. Repeat yourself all you want.’
Reassured, Aziraphale continues. He feels an inner surety. His demon is genuinely enjoying this, enjoying him. He starts talking again, still repeating himself. He returns to recounting his time in hell. Oh, but he forgot that he had not previously told Crowley about how the demons in the gallery had shrieked and cowered when he splashed holy water at the glass they were watching through. He weaves the details into his retelling.
After a few minutes, there is a lull and he suddenly realizes this isn’t what he wants. It’s not really that he wants to stop himself from talking. He wants Crowley to talk. He wants to give him the space to talk. He forces himself to stay quiet. A few minutes pass. The quiet should be comfortable but Aziraphale still feels this manic energy bubbling up inside him. Crowley is comfortable. He looks content. At peace. He is still gazing at Aziraphale, occasionally looking up to watch his path along the sidewalk. Perhaps, he, too, is feeling the joy and possibility of their newfound freedom. “You’re very quiet this evening,” Aziraphale comments.
“I’m not good at talking,” Crowley answers.
“Oh, but you are! You’re wonderf- a wonderful conversationalist.”
Crowley is beaming. He seems charged up by Aziraphale’s comment. He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he says lightly. “I -” and he trails off for a moment. “I can converse. I just can’t talk, talk about…about things.”
Aziraphale squints at him and stops for a moment, looking at Crowley questioningly. He does not know what that means.
“I don’t understand the difference, Crowley.” He then continues on, deciding to let the silence sit. He has found that people like to fill silences.
“Gah. Hhm,” Crowley grumbles. Aziraphale can see that he is trying to formulate a response. After a moment, his shoulders slump, “I just don’t feel like saying anything. I like listening to you, Angel.” Aziraphale thinks that isn’t an answer at all.
It dawns on Aziraphale. Maybe Crowley is having a conversation inside his own head. Or practising a conversation he wants to have. Is that what all the gazing about? What “things” does he want to talk to Aziraphale about. And has he been listening to Aziraphale at all?
Aziraphale starts up his chatter again. “Oh, we’re almost at the bookshop. I was thinking. After all that champagne, maybe it's time for cocktails. I recently got a new bar set. I can muddle some basil and mix it into some gimlets in the new cocktail shaker. The herb does add a surprising character to the drink. You’ll like it.” They find themselves on Whickber Street, making their way down the last block before their destination. “And you know what's interesting? The bar set came with a mallet for crushing ice. It seems a bit much, doesn't it? Pretentious, maybe. Seems a lot of effort to crush ice that way. There are perfectly good options that don’t include physical exertion…” As he reaches the door to the bookshop, he fumbles for his keys. “Do you even need crushed ice for a gimlet?” Crowley interjects, just as Aziraphale startles slightly. “Oh dear, I do hope the cocktail shaker is still there. Or a new one is there in its place at least. And the gin and limes…”
Aziraphale leans into the door and, with nervous anticipation, opens it. He gingerly takes a few steps into the room, not knowing exactly what to expect. But it feels the same. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. There is the wonderful old book smell. And, surprisingly, the feeling of hundreds of years of familiarity, imbuing the space as if it, too, were a scent. But it’s not - Aziraphale senses it, not with his nose, but with his being, as if he is reconnecting with a part of himself he left behind. He didn’t expect it to feel the same. “I thought it would feel fake,” he says to Crowley. Aziraphale hurries off to the backroom, abandoning his previous designs on inspecting the place. He suddenly doesn’t care. Any differences due to Adam’s resetting of the place are of no consequence after all. It still feels like home.
Crowley smirks, removes his sunglasses, and looks around for somewhere to place them. His eyes settle on a small statue of a horse. He doesn’t remember if he’s seen that before and wonders if it’s new. He places his glasses on it.
“All the accoutrements are accounted for!” exclaims Aziraphale giddily as he steps back into the main room. He summons Crowley with a wave and begins to turn away, expecting him to follow.
“Angel,” Crowley says. “This horse. Is this new? Something Adam added?”
Aziraphale turns. He follows Crowley’s hand with his eyes as it gestures toward the small table top statue. He squints at the horse for a moment. “Crowley?” he replies, with a bit of incredulity. “That’s been there for decades.”
_____
The walk back has sobered them up a bit. But they’ve made their gimlets double strength. Soon they are delightfully sloshed. But not too sloshed. Aziraphale notices that, still, Crowley is not talking as much as usual. Aziraphale is no longer feeling anxious about that though and he continues on, yapping about this and that, content with Crowley’s quiet attention.
After an hour and another round of gimlets, Aziraphale seems to run out of steam and they sit in companionable silence for quite some time. Aziraphale is serenely following the leftover bits of lime pulp and flecks of basil as they swirl around in a thin layer of liquid at the bottom of his glass. Meanwhile, Crowley is contentedly staring at Aziraphale. Although that is not typically an unusual occurrence, he usually only stares at him when he is eating or speaking. There is an intensity to Crowley that Aziraphale suddenly seems to notice. He snaps his head up and realizes he hasn’t really looked directly at him since they came inside and he took his sunglasses off. Aziraphale looks right into Crowley’s eyes. “Oh.” he says.
“Oh what?” says Crowley, suddenly feeling the need to look away.
“Did you have something to say, Crowley? You said before you didn’t want to talk but I think, maybe you do. And now you don’t have me to listen to anymore…I would hate it if the evening ended and I didn’t get to hear from you.” Aziraphale waited a moment.
Crowley sat up straighter, seemed to be weighing his words, then only said, “I don’t know.”
“You could tell me about the hellfire again. You didn’t give too many details. I would have loved to see their faces when they saw me in the middle of the flame.”
Crowley starts. He is careful with his words, so careful that no fully formed ones actually leave his mouth. Aziraphale realizes that he isn’t going to tell stories about his trip to Heaven.
Crowley exhales. “I don’t want to,” he says, “Talk, that is. It’s not because I think I’ll mess up; it’s just that it’s not necessary, is it?” Crowley nods to himself. He seems like he has made a decision. He no longer feels the need to prevaricate. He leans forward in his seat, fixes Aziraphale with his eyes and smiles.
Crowley stands up, ambles over, and clambers onto Aziraphale’s lap. It’s not frantic. It’s as if they do this all the time - but they don’t.
Aziraphale is startled and freezes.
“I’m not good at speaking about it, about anything. I told you, Angel. But this is fine. This is OK.” It is not a question but the statement is an opportunity for Aziraphale to object to “this”, to object to letting a demon settle into his lap. Aziraphale does not object.
And Crowley stays in his lap, his knees straddling Aziraphale’s thighs. Calm. Hands solid on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Just looking at him. If it wasn’t for the breaths that come just a bit more noisily and quickly than is typical, one would think this was any other conversation between them, with Crowley listening while perched on top of a chair instead of perched on top of Aziraphale.
After a moment that feels to Aziraphale like several minutes but is really just a few seconds, Crowley finally talks. “When you fall, when I fell, when all demons fall, She takes it from you. Rips it from you. The Love that formed you, that you always knew. That seemed to be the center of everything. Her grace. It’s worse than any torture in hell. We are left with a hole. It is a raw, open wound that throbs and never heals. You are cursed to feel Her absence forever.”
Aziraphle listens. This is what he wants. Just to learn something about Crowley’s inner life, inner thoughts. Aziraphale is scared to speak himself, scared to throw Crowley off with a reply. It’s quiet for a while and he starts to think that’s all Crowley will say. Then,
“It explains some things about demons. We all have to choose our own way to deal with the hole.”
Crowley is quiet again; closes his eyes; sighs. His hands move down to Aziraphale’s chest now, palms laying flat. He’s basking, basking in Aziraphale.
And isn't that what Crowley always does, to some small degree, when he watches Aziraphale eat? Bask. But this is more, orders of magnitude more. Aziraphale typically would pretend not to notice when Crowley would sit at a meal not eating, his gaze resting on him. He wouldn't let himself dwell on it. But he realizes now what this is from Crowley, what it always was: adoration. It feels good, like sunshine.
Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s coming next. Is that the end of what Crowley has to say? What does it mean?
Crowley goes on basking for a time, and eventually he gets a little less still. His eyes are open again. He rubs his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, tilts his head, smiles lightly, almost like a smirk.
“That's why I’m here, Aziraphale” and he means in his lap. “I didn’t realize for a long time why I always needed to be near you. You fill my hole.”
Azirapahale startles slightly. He has trouble processing for a moment. This is Crowley being earnest and vulnerable. He should not laugh. For a beat, he succeeds. Not for long.
“Metaphorically, you mean.” he giggles.
Crowley squints at him, puzzled.
Aziraphale clarifies, “I am not filling your hole physically...” He smirks and wiggles, the same way as he always does when he makes a clever quip that he is particularly proud of. Crowley's breath catches and he makes a little huffing sound with his nose. His countenance flares as if it’s a stoked ember - there is no mirth, just smolder. He rolls his hips once, then freezes.
Aziraphale‘s laughter stops. His eyes widen. He feels Crowley’s hardening length against his belly. A spark of something foreign seems to travel through Aziraphale’s blood vessels, filling him with an unfamiliar heat. He grabs Crowley's hips hard, keeping him still.
Aziraphale doesn’t want this to go any further until he tells Crowley. He suddenly needs to tell Crowley. “It’s blasphemy”, he says. Crowley’s face droops, reflecting fear of what that sentence means. He pulls away slightly.
Aziraphale continues, realizing he needs to clarify, "It's blasphemy, what I feel. I love you more than anything in existence. I love you more than I love Her.”/p>
Crowley deflates with relief.
Aziraphale grabs his face. “You're right,” he says, “This is OK. It's more than OK. It couldn't possibly be any more OK.” He slides his hands down and around Crowley’s lower back and pulls him forward.
Crowley smiles and wraps Aziraphale in a hug. “Angel,” he sighs.
“You can ‘be near me’ anytime you want, Crowley.” Aziraphale leans in to kiss him, but not before quipping, “Let me fill your hole.”