Work Text:
Six thousand years.
A thousand touches, hidden in plain sight. Hands brushed in passing. Shoulders pressed together as they watched one of Shakespeare’s plays, passed through crowded streets side by side, watched as the humans around them grew and thrived and hurt and healed.
A thousand ways to say “I love you,” hidden in words disguised as something else. “There must be something I can do for you.” “Hello, Aziraphale!” “Mind how you go.” “Angel.”
There’s always been too many eyes watching from all sides, waiting for a sign of weakness, a wedge to drive between them, leverage. The fear of falling, of failing – of watching the other hurt.
But at long last, the eyes have gone. And now, there is only them. No one follows as they build a life together in a small cottage by the sea, with a garden out back and a little library… though it’s bigger on the inside, of course. Big enough to hold a bookshop worth of books.
The fleeting touches fade, giving way to lingering caresses of cheeks and hands, gazing deeply into each others eyes, lying in each other’s arms on a soft tartan blanket as they watch the stars that an angel whose name has been long forgotten created and a demon that came after will never tire of seeing.
And the angel… the angel knows, this is heaven. What it was supposed to be, at least. Loved, cared for, without having to be afraid. And the demon, well. Somehow he has finally climbed out of hell, for how can this be hell if he knows he’s safe and wanted, that all of him is seen and accepted, exactly how he is?
“Take a walk with me, Angel,” the demon asks. The angel beams, smiling brightly enough to eclipse the sun, and takes an offered arm. Together they stroll around the village, taking in the air. The humans that see them smile to themselves, thinking… life goals. To still be in love like that, hanging on your partner’s every word well into your fifties! If only they knew.
“Do it again,” the angel asks on occasion, cheeks blushing sweetly, and how could the demon resist leaning down to press their lips together, feeling the angel melt against him, warm and real and overflowing with love. His heart flutters in his chest every time just as if it were the first, no matter how many times they have kissed since.
Together they sit in the garden and watch the sun go down, sipping on wine that is older than the village, whose distillation processes are long since lost, and yet they can both remember the name of the man who had owned the vineyard the grapes had come from. There are sliced tomatoes from the garden that the angel devours with particular relish, claiming that he can taste the difference from those bought from the shop, and the demon scoffs and scowls and demurs, and deep inside he wriggles with pride at the angel’s words.
Six thousand years they have waited. Longed for each other. And now, they hold hands, and dream of the next six thousand, side by side, as they have always been but more.
Every morning finds them with coffee for one, tea for the other, sitting on the back porch watching the apple tree planted at the centre of their garden. And every day ends with the demon sleeping peacefully as he’s never done, without dreams or nightmares to disturb his rest, wrapped tightly around the angel who sits up through the night, still a guardian after all these years as he was the first day he set foot on this world. A soft light shines, and the soft rustle of pages fills the space between the demon’s gentle snores. Occasionally the angel’s hand drops to run softly through the sleeping demon’s hair.
“It was a nice day, my dear,” he says quietly before turning back to his book.
They were all nice.