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“Aziraphale.”
“Yes dear.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley over the top of his book, brows raised above the rims of his spectacles, shining in the firelight. Across the way on the sofa, Crowley was sprawled in his usually boneless fashion, phone clutched in one hand, thumb seeming to be paused mid-scroll.
“What a silly question! Why should you ever be a worm?”
“No, I mean— well, not, not literally, just… idk, nevermind, just a dumb internet thing.”
How exactly Crowley managed to articulate the words “I don’t know” and manage to have them sound like an aural representation of “idk,” Aziraphale would never know.
“Are you on the twitter again? Such a nasty place.”
“Nah… nevermind, angel, what do you want for dinner?”
*
One golden afternoon not so long later, Crowley looked up, sweating, from his work in the garden. It was early in the season yet, and they were getting the vegetable beds ready for planting. Aziraphale had been quite prepared to do it with a flick of the fingers, but Crowley had insisted on doing it the long way— the way the humans did, by hand, with earth lodging itself beneath the fingernails and grinding itself into the skin. Aziraphale had, truth be told, drifted off towards one of the low walls that bordered the sprawling kitchen garden behind their cottage, and was currently pretending to busy himself with some small weeds that had worked their way through the stones.
“Aziraphale.”
“Yes dear?”
Aziraphale looked around, prepared to flush at having been caught in his idleness, but the blood in his cheeks diverted itself to be entirely in pleasure at the sight of Crowley, leaning on his spade in the sunshine, eyes just peering from beneath the brim of the ridiculous straw hat he’d insisted on donning.
“Would you still love me if I didn’t want to do this anymore?”
“What a thing to ask!” Aziraphale moved away from the wall, towards the bed of overturned earth in which Crowley stood. “We’re only doing this because you wanted to.”
“But would you still love me if I changed my mind?”
“Of course I would, you silly serpent. I can have this all done in a jiffy if you—” Aziraphale was cut off by Crowley snatching his lifting wrist in the process of summoning a miracle, then by Crowley’s lips pressing against his, the brim of the hat bending ludicrously against Aziraphale’s forehead.
“Not a chance, angel.” Crowley murmured a moment later, grinning at Aziraphale from close range, “gotta do it by hand for them to taste right.”
“Whatever you say, my dear.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a swift peck. “Shall we go down the cliffs for a swim when you’ve finished?”
“Ohhhh, yes! But leave those weeds alone, would you?” Crowley called, and Aziraphale paused in his retreat to the wall, “they’ve earned the right to be there.”
*
They were in the Bentley, racing precariously along a country lane full of walls and rabbits and other cars that all seemed to miraculously get out of the way of Crowley’s habitually manic driving habits. As was his wont, Aziraphale was pressing his feet hard into the floor and clutching whatever surfaces were convenient with his hands, which on this occasion, included Crowley’s leg.
“Aziraphale.”
“Yes dear,” Aziraphale gritted, working very hard to keep his eyes fixed firmly ahead, not quite convinced that it wasn’t his own terror that was saving them (and everyone and everything else around them).
“Would you still love me if I drove like an old lady?”
“What?”
All at once the Bentley was rolling along sedately, something light and classical drifting from its speakers. A bird swooped past the windscreen, and a bunny hopped along the side of the lane merrily. The driver of an oncoming car lifted a hand in greeting as they passed each other, smiling indulgently. Aziraphale exhaled explosively.
“Of course I would! Can’t deny it might be a relief sometimes… but…” In the sudden calm, no matter how peaceful the journey now seemed, there was something unsettling about it. Something that made Aziraphale wonder why. He turned his eyes from the road to Crowley, whose were still staring straight ahead. “It doesn’t matter how you drive us places, my dear. It only matters that you do.”
His hand squeezed Crowley’s leg, and as if taking it as a signal, the Bentley surged ahead at its usual frenetic pace.
*
It was a dark, dark night the next time Crowley asked. They were lying on a blanket at the top of the white chalk cliffs, looking up at the distant stars. Summer’s heat had faded hours before, but with his side pressed against Crowley’s, Aziraphale was always warm. He could listen to Crowley for hours, talking about the stars, pointing out the constellations he’d helped nudge into place, and the bits that were all his own creation.
“Aziraphale.”
“Yes dear?” Aziraphale yawned the words, snuggling into Crowley’s shoulder.
“Would you still love me if I wasn’t a demon anymore?”
Aziraphale, oblivious as he could sometimes be, had begun to notice a pattern.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You know, if I couldn’t…” Rather than finishing the sentence, Crowley gestured across the expanse of night. As if from his fingertips bloomed a view of the cosmos beyond the sight of humans, beyond the ordinary eyes of their corporations; revealing the swirling gases and clouds and colours that populated the distant void, crowding amongst the stars.
“Oh,” Aziraphale stared breathless at the glory above, his mind’s eye flashing back at once to that time, uncountable ages past, when he’d come upon an angel with a floppy curl and crank handle, getting ready to set it all in motion. But he was distracted from the memory by the discomfit of the same angel beside him, something sad and uncertain radiating off him in waves. At once Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, rolling up onto his chest, banishing the celestial spectacle with a wave of his hand. “Of course I would,” he replied, half a threat; “you could be… a demon, an angel, or the least ethereal being in all of Creation. I’d love you just the same.”
Whatever happened next was only for the twinkling far-away motes to know, and keep their secrets.
*
The market was busy that autumn afternoon. Aziraphale and Crowley had become well known figures in the village, pottering (or at least, Aziraphale pottered, and Crowley sloped along behind him enjoying watching his angel enjoy himself) about the shops, strolling through the park where a suspiciously familiar looking pair of swans had made their home, and generally occupying the niche of ‘odd but endearing couple who live outside the village, and we’ve adopted them.’ Market days were always interesting, and the changing of the seasons made them especially so. Aziraphale loved the buzz of it all, chatting with the vendors and artisans, and packing his net bag to bursting with things they certainly didn’t need.
But there were some days when the market seemed to chafe at Crowley. Despite having made his home in London for quite a few human lifetimes, there was something about the noise and bustle and press of people at the market that did something to him occasionally, something that Aziraphale had never quite been able to understand. He was in full flow with a honey vendor about a new type of hive that made harvesting ever so much easier when the waves of unease began to strike him.
“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said politely, and turned to find Crowley at the corner of the pop-up tent that was this particular stall, hands in his pockets, dark glasses disguising to everyone but Aziraphale the vacant stare in his eyes.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was a hoarse whisper this time.
“Yes dear.”
“Would you still love me if I just wanted to go home.”
“Of course I would.”
Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm, put him in the passenger seat of the Bentley, and drove them home.
*
Winter gripped the Downs with unusual fervour, the banks of snow lying against the cottage walls and the frosty sparkles on its window thoroughly justifying the roaring fire within. Aziraphale lay stretched on the sofa, and Crowley lay stretched on top of him, one leg between Aziraphale’s and the other threatening to slip off the edge of the cushion, arms threaded beneath Aziraphale’s to wrap around his back, the Crowley’s face pressed firmly into Aziraphale’s chest. They’d been lying like that for some time, Crowley only mumbling or squirming occasionally, while Aziraphale read, one hand holding the book up and off to the side a little, the other stroking Crowley’s hair, departing only to turn pages. As cosy scenes went, Aziraphale couldn’t have been more delighted with it. He’d just thought that Crowley might actually have fallen asleep, when,
“Azrrphle.”
It came out a bit muddled, what with Crowley’s face being smushed against Aziraphale’s chest.
“Yes dear?”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Aziraphale laid aside his book.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale ran his fingers through the scarlet hair one more time, before his second hand joined the first, gently coaxing, encouraging Crowley to look up at him. His eyes were more molten than gold in the firelight, and Aziraphale thought his heart might burst. “I would love you if you were the tiniest, wriggliest little earthworm She ever Made. I would collect for you the choicest morsels to eat, the softest, dampest earth to crawl through, and shade you from the sun. I would give you a garden full of wonders. I make a pocket for you on my breast. I would learn all there is to know of worms and make it the devotion of my Eternity to care for you. My darling, I love you always, forever, no matter what. And I will remind you as often as it takes for you to believe.”
Crowley scrubbed the tears from his cheek onto the lapel of Aziraphale’s dressing gown.
“What if I was a slow worn, though.”
“Well now, I have to draw the line somewhere.”