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The first day they met, summer was still clinging to the September air.
That day, Aziraphale had just moved from London to a small town named Tadfield. For the first time of her young life, she found herself surrounded by Unknown Things. She tried a bit desperately to hold onto the only familiar figure she saw around her. It happened to belong to her towering mother.
"It's alright, my angel. Ms Duciel will help you meet new people, okay?" Aziraphale's arms were gently pushed open, and through the blur of tears, she could see a tense smile surrounded by soft white curls. "Go on. You're a big girl now. You have to act like one. No tears."
She was starting to wonder why grown-ups did not have the right to cry when she felt a calming hand on her shoulder. The hand was attached to a lady whose dress was made of a million colours.
"Hello dearie, I'm Ms Duciel. You're Aziraphale, is that right?" Aziraphale nodded, her hand wiping the incriminating evidence showing that she was not quite that grown up yet. "Wonderful. I will be your teacher this year. You must be a little bit intimidated, but I will find a few of your classmates and introduce you, if you want. They will talk to you, and you can get to know them. Okay?"
Aziraphale nodded again. She looked back and saw that her mom had left. She swallowed down the tears that threatened to flood the corner of her eyes once again. Mom had said that she should not. Ms Duciel pushed her towards a small group of children. One of them had a strict plait reaching the top of her head and looked like she just swallowed a lemon whole. Her whole demeanour made it seem like she was the leader of the group composed of herself, a kid that looked soft and strict at the same time, and a boy whose head was way too big.
"Hello there," Ms Duciel started, "Aziraphale here is new in town. Aziraphale, this is Michael [lemon eater], Uriel [soft and strict] and Sandalphon [big head]. I'll let you introduce yourselves, okay?"
They all agreed and already Ms Duciel was back in the middle of the schoolyard, animatedly talking with a frumpy looking man. Aziraphale looked back at the three kids. They did not introduce themselves. They did not, in fact, introduce anything at all. Hand on the risen handle of her wheeled backpack, Michael looked up and down at Aziraphale, detailing her large trousers, her cream t-shirt and her used tartan jumper. The sour look deepened. She took a breath. "Let's go," she said, walking past Aziraphale without a single word for her. Uriel and Sandalphon hurried behind her just as silently, purposefully looking another way. When a wheel squashed Aziraphale's foot, it took everything she had not to start crying again.
She didn't want to stay there, in the middle of the schoolyard. There was nothing fun, and also, she didn't want Ms Duciel to see that she had failed to make friends already. She walked towards the railings and sat there, looking at all the unfamiliar faces lighting up when they found a friend among the flock of schoolchildren running about.
"Oi! You!"
She turned around to see a redhead girl looking intently at her. She had a flaming mane of loose curls falling upon a simple white dress and eyes whose pupils were just black dots frozen in amber. Just like in the film with the dinosaurs, Aziraphale thought. On her temple was the most peculiar birth mark, not round but much more sinuous. She was holding a handful of crayons in one hand and a notebook hanging upside down in the other, evidently struggling to keep it in the position she wanted to have it. Aziraphale opened her eyes wide, too shy to know what answer to bring to the girl's apostrophe.
"Yes, you! Can you help me with the notebook please?" Before she had a chance to answer, she palmed the thing off to Aziraphale who was growing ever more clueless by the minute.
"What do I -"
"Just hold it like that. Bit higher? Perfect."
So Aziraphale held the notebook while the girl with the eyes that were like black dots captured in amber just like in the film with the dinosaurs used one crayon after the other, no doubt painting a whole fresco on the page Aziraphale was unable to see. What the was able to see, though, was the frown of focus on her freckled face. That drawing must be really important, she thought. After a while, the girl stilled, looking contemplatively at her work.
"Ehm - are you done?" Aziraphale asked, her voice, this traitor, baring her uncertainty for everyone to hear.
The amber eyes snapped up at Aziraphale, almost surprised that she was still there holding the notebook. "Ah, right," the girl said, "forgot the light." She looked for her yellow crayon and added a few strokes to her still undiscovered work of art. "There. Thank you. What a beauty!"
Aziraphale lit up at the compliment. She then realized that the dots-in-amber eyes were looking at the notebook and not at herself, and her cheeks became red without any crayon being involved.
"I'm Aziraphale," she said for lack of anything more insightful.
"Oh! Raphaelle," the girl answered. "Want to be friends?"
Aziraphale beamed, for good this time. When the heat became too much, Raphaelle used her notebook to make a bit of shadow for the both of them, and beneath a fresco full of stars and galaxies, with a yellow sun in its corner, they smiled at each other.
_________________________________________
A few Septembers had passed, none quite as warm as the first. The two girls had never really left each other's side since that very first day. They had kept orbiting each other, unavoidably, as if their friendship could be found written in the laws of physics, and their names had blurred in the process into Raphaelle-and-Aziraphale on the tongue of their teachers and classmates.
Their parents, however, had not been so happy about it. Aziraphale's mother found Raphaelle crass and ill raised. She was afraid that her strong character would stain Aziraphale's pristine one. Sending her to a public school had seemed like a good idea until her husband decided against it from the seemingly infinite work trip he simply had to attend, hundreds of miles away. Raphaelle's dad was well and truly present, and he resented the superiority that Aziraphale's mother exuded in everything she did and said. You can't trust people that want to make you believe they've never farted once in their lives, he had sneered at Raphaelle one evening, and your friend will end up just like that.
(Aziraphale had admitted to it, though. She seemed to fart no less and no more than a normal person. The confidence had somewhat reassured Raphaelle about this whole thing.)
In the end, there was no way to pry them apart from each other, so their parents just fell in a reluctant distance, half pretending that they did not know the stain one girl could leave on the other's character had already stuck for so long that their whole life was nothing but a vibrant painting containing both colours, always side by side.
That day, the colours in question were being spread by the girls on a piece of paper. Their french teacher had asked for a poem to be composed, about time and friendship. Raphaelle, quick witted as she was, had thrown ideas around that Aziraphale had considered and patiently assembled until the result had felt perfect. Now, waiting for the rest of their classmates, they had decided to draw a flower behind the poem and to cut the paper around its shape. The whole thing was unique and weird in the most endearing way, just like the pair of them.
"Good job, girls," their teacher smiled after reading it, her voice interrupted by the bell, "très beau poème. You can keep it, see you next time."
"You can take it," Raphaelle told Aziraphale, her slender hand sliding the cut out flower towards her side of the table.
"No, it's okay, keep it. My bag is already closed."
"Oh," Raphaelle smirked, deliberately zipping her own backpack, "mine too."
Aziraphale sighed. She looked pointedly at her friend. There was a laugh bubbling up with the sheer enthusiasm of the air trapped in sparkling water but she tried her best to keep her face straight. She quirked an eyebrow and her mouth pinched with this endearing rightfulness that looked just like her mother's while feeling nothing like it. "Well, you will have to take it if I'm already gone."
Suddenly, she was but a blur of white skirts and dandelion hair as she took off, traces of her giggles following her through the door, leaving Raphaelle with their echo and the blasted flower poem. A smile flourished on her freckled face as she admitted that this battle was lost.
But the war was not.
_________________________________________
It started small.
After a long day at school, Aziraphale dragged her feet home with the same slight apprehension that seemed to cling to her belly when she was anywhere near the big white mansion her family lived in. She pushed the heavy door, passed through her mother's office to give her the most unnoticeable peck on the cheek she could manage, and rushed upstairs through a way paved with pristine rooms whose surfaces were basically all empty.
She closed the door and exhaled the tension. This afternoon was a calm one, then, with no passive aggressive remarks or encouragements to do better that felt like punishments for not being perfect. There, in her room, she could allow herself a bit of colour, a few books lying around and hushed music that made her want to dance to it. She could undo her plait and secretly be truer to herself while she worked on her homework, or while she made her mother think she did. She sat at her desk, unzipped her backpack and froze.
There, between two notebooks, one colourful petal peeking out, was the poem flower. Aziraphale chuckled her surprise. Oh, it was on.
It was two days later that she got her revenge. Raphaelle had her own conception of the matter of time, as she liked to call it. Aziraphale just called it being chronically late.
When their teacher handed papers over to read, Aziraphale took an extra one that she disposed on Raphaelle's side of their shared desk. She paused, an idea bubbling to the surface of her conscience, and reached into her bag just before a knock made itself heard.
"Hi, hello," Raphaelle muttered after opening the door, already slithering her way towards the other end of the classroom. "Sorry, I'll just -"
"It's the last time I'll allow this, Raphaelle. Next time no need to come up here, just stay with the monitors for the rest of the hour," the teacher retorted.
Raphaelle finally dropped sideways in her chair and whispered a greeting in Aziraphale's ear that made her shiver in anticipation. She set her pencil case down, put her bag out of the way and finally, finally looked at the paper sitting on her half of the desk. Aziraphale desperately tried to seem focused on the lesson, but when she heard the sound of a page being turned and a sharp, surprised laugh being wrestled from her friend's throat, she couldn't help her eyes from snapping to the mirth painted all over her face. God, she was beautiful. She found herself smiling in return, feeding from the moment until its unavoidable end was sounded by the teacher's voice.
"Girls, I'm getting tired already. Silence, please."
They both looked at their desk, the spitting image of contrite pupils, but the look they shared after a minute was aflame with amused determination.
It didn't take long for Aziraphale to receive the flower again. She had her suspicions when Raphaelle insisted to help her into her cardigan, but she had been raised to give the benefit of the doubt. It was certainly just a sweet gesture. One that had not been usual until then, but that she wouldn't mind receiving more often.
It was only when she reached into her pocket looking for a spare rubber band that she found the incriminating evidence of her friend's mischief.
"Oh come on, and here I was, thinking you were being nice!"
"Nice is a four letter word anyway, you shouldn't call me that. You're way too proper for such a vocabulary."
"It must be your bad influence."
Raphaelle snorted. She liked to lean into the image people had of her. It made her feel safer, tricking people into believing they knew everything about her, never showing the soft parts that could be used against her. As she sauntered through her teenage years, the colour of her clothes had taken a hard turn towards black and red, while Aziraphale was still clad in creamy tones. She had become calmer, almost aloof, as if nothing could make her upset anymore. It made people stop trying.
The only person who had access to her curiosity and her kindness was of course Aziraphale. They shared whispers in class, and time laying down in the grass under a hidden apple tree. Time that felt the kind of soft that inspires artists. In those stolen moments that make the mosaic of the younger years of a life, they also shared Raphaelle's questions about the universe and Aziraphale's books.
"You're going to love this one," Aziraphale told her one day after class, holding out yet another pristine hardcover volume, "it has everything you like. Action, existential dread, everything. And it's about a spy. I'm certain you'll want to be the villain."
"Oh, a dashing villain, then? Very sly, incredibly handsome?"
Aziraphale chuckled. "I won't tell you more, we'll talk about it tomorrow after you spend the whole night up reading it."
"Come on, I have more self control than that."
"You know you don't."
"If you knew," Raphaelle muttered under her breath.
She was halfway through the book, in the middle of the night (no comment), when she noticed that something weird was going on with the pages. Aziraphale's books were never, ever damaged, so she flipped a few pages to see what could cause such a bump. She snorted at the sight of the flower, and once again when she read the sticky note that had been pressed on top of it.
I bet it's past midnight already. Can't wait to talk about it tomorrow! xxx
It felt so sweet to be known, and to be appreciated all the same.
_________________________________________
This September felt as bitter as it felt warm, and the sun was blazing. Tadfield was but one of Aziraphale's memories. Her mother had ended up winning, after all. They moved back to the city a whole decade after they arrived and Aziraphale had been enrolled in a public school for her last year before university.
She had had little time to say goodbye. The decision was announced during an evening that felt like a film. An armchair occupied by her mother and on which her father was leaning an elbow, a lamp whose yellow light was drawing disturbing shadows on their faces. Smiles, tense and fake, the eerie reflection of the lamp's filament copied and pasted on each one of their neatly aligned teeth. She only stopped suppressing her tears when she reached her room, afterwards. Looking around, she saw all that she could take with her and thought of all that she couldn't. Even the colours that made this room an oasis looked faded; even the books that used to bring a smile to her face looked miserable. So many books she could not share.
She only saw Raphaelle for a few stolen minutes under their tree before guilt made her run back towards her golden prison. The amber of Raphaelle's eyes was drowned in tears when they hugged. They did not say as much as their embrace did.
I will miss you, it sobbed, I feel like it's the last time I see you. Like the future I envisioned for myself will go along with you. You are everything. I'm glad our paths have crossed and I'm not quite sure of the direction I should take the day I'm not in your orbit anymore. I thought it would last forever, but I'm learning that nothing does. I love you.
Aziraphale had gone. Stealing a glance back, she had seen Raphaelle unmoving under the tree, so unlike the bubbling friend she knew, her shield of aloofness now protecting her from every single person on this Earth.
Today, she still saw Raphaelle's stony face behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She still saw her finally moving, only to hide her eyes behind dark sunglasses.
Aziraphale opened her eyes. Nearly closed them immediately, as white light started burning the back of her eye sockets. The public school was as pristine as her family's manor had been in Tadfield. Everything was fancy, from the tiled floor to the intricate ceiling. Paintings that should be hung in a museum for everyone to access were kept on the walls. The students seemed to find it usual. They seemed to like spending their time sneering, too. Sneering at her figure, at her strict plait, at her old books. Her whole body felt frozen all over, getting stiller by the minute in the hope that she somehow would disappear from everyone's perception. And when finally her day was done, she had to go back to a house that contained no warmth. No questions were asked and the few words that were in relation to Aziraphale's new school were self-congratulatory. Oh, how easy it would be now, to enter the law school she had been destined for. What a wise choice. What a better life this was going to be for her.
Aziraphale had rarely felt so lonely.
In her room, that evening, an object begged for her attention. A deep red colour clashing with the creamy and pastel tones of every single other thing this prison contained. An envelope she had never seen before.
Before she could think about it, her finger was ripping the blood-coloured seam, reaching in its insides to bring them up to her eyes. They made her heart beat a rhythm she knew like the back of her hand. The painted flower was laughing in the face of stillness, its colours flooding Aziraphale with familiarity and longing. Its edges were worn out, packed with time and life just like every single thing Aziraphale loved. Just like Raphaelle herself. A note under it contained a few words that were not enough to relieve her parched soul, but brought the taste of life back to her lips nonetheless.
Thinking of you. I hope you're doing well with all the posh kids and that you didn't think you'd win this easily. I must admit this move was on another level, but don't underestimate my determination to keep giving you this blasted flower. (Big words, your fault.) You know where to write back.
- R
Aziraphale did not feel so lonely anymore.
_________________________________________
Their correspondence kept going back and forth during the whole year, patches of blue sky in their otherwise bleaker life. The exams were stressing for both of them, Aziraphale because of the expectations her parents weighed on her shoulders and Raphaelle simply because she wanted a chance in life. It was not a given for a kid from her social class, and she liked astronomy and plants so much that she did not think she would be quite as happy if she did not end up studying them.
They'd both been admitted, in the end. Aziraphale in law school and Raphaelle in a double astrophysics and biology curriculum. As she had a bit of time on her hands, Aziraphale had convinced her parents to let her go back to Tadfield for one afternoon.
Her heart beat frantically when she finally caught a glimpse of the unruly red hair she had spent hours looking at what seemed like centuries ago. The world immediately became a blur of greens in the middle of which the flashy red shape was a lighthouse guiding her towards life. Her legs were running before she knew they even wanted to, and she collided into her friend with the energy of a person at sea grabbing a lifeline.
"I missed you so much," she sobbed into Raphaelle's scent, as she burrowed her face into her nest of silky hair.
"Missed you too, angel."
Oh, this is new, she thought, revelling in the strong embrace. Raphaelle had started calling her angel in her letters, but she'd never heard it from her lips. It felt good, joyous, almost weightless.
"Whatever did I do to deserve such a nickname, dear?"
Raphaelle's first answer was a chuckle. "'S good to have you on my shoulder. You keep me away from trouble, y'know? Even when you're not here."
"Give yourself some credit," Aziraphale smiled at her, cradling her cheeks in the palm of her hands, all the affection in the world dancing in her blue eyes. "So, how have you been?"
They talked for a while, filling in the gaps that their slow correspondence had commanded in each of their stories. It almost felt like these last few months had been nothing but a nightmare they had just waken up from. Aziraphale, for the first time since she set foot outside of Tadfield, had a strong sense that she was home.
Something bothered her, though. She had trouble putting her finger on what exactly felt off, but she perceived a tension that had never been there before. It was a subtle tear, probably just the byproduct of all the time they spent away from each other. The remains of the walls they'd had to build around themselves during the school year. It was there, though, clinging to some words, an instant of hesitation freezing Raphaelle's fingers right before she put them in Aziraphale's hair while she read a poem she had liked, her head on Raphaelle's lap.
It was so easy to overlook at first, but it solidified in an intake of breath Raphaelle took before speaking. "Aziraphale," she started, and it was there, heavy in her throat, a stifling hesitation that almost made her cough.
"Hm?" Aziraphale had a feeling she should not interrupt.
"I ehm," Raphaelle cleared her throat, her amber eyes escaping towards the crown of the surrounding trees, "I have something to tell you."
"Tell me, then."
"I think - I think I like women." Raphaelle's eyes were back on Aziraphale's, blazing an intense need to read her friend's thoughts before she could even voice them.
"As in - you're a uh - lesbian? Bisexual? Or -"
"Yes. I'm - well I think that I am a lesbian, at least."
"Oh." Aziraphale was pensive for a second. She did not expect this to be the secret that made Raphaelle's movements more careful. She had never given it much thought herself, as she simply knew that whatever husband her parents had planned for her would not be the choice she would have made for herself. But for Raphaelle - well, for Raphaelle it made sense. She could hardly see her sharing her life with a man. She needed someone soft enough to leave enough place for her sunny self, someone who smelled like home and who she could wrap in her long arms. Somehow, a man did not feel right. But did a woman feel right? Who would know her well enough, love her well enough to let her shine like she deserves to? Her heart was captured in the fist of a fear she could not decipher. "How long have you known?"
"A year, maybe more. And I wanted to let you know, because -" Raphaelle paused and time paused with her. She obviously struggled to find the right words, her mouth and eyebrows moving at each new thought. She nodded once, shook her head twice, winced, scrunching her gorgeous freckles. Her eyes were darting in every direction, following her words like flies she had to catch and put in order. "I wanted to let you know before I told dad. I plan to come out tonight. When I'm back home."
"How do you think he will react?"
Raphaelle deflated. "I don't know. Probably not well. It'll pass, though. It always passes, right?" She looked for reassurance on her friend's face.
"It does pass", Aziraphale assented. A smile drifted on her face without having been summoned. "There's nothing wrong with it, you know? Loving women, I mean. You'll bring so much joy to whoever you fall in love with. She'll be a lucky girl." Raphaelle's eyebrows shot up, and she was wringing her hands, bracing herself to talk when Aziraphale kept going. "However you dad takes it, dear, it's not a crime to love someone."
She looked at Raphaelle with the most tender look on her face. Their hands intertwined, Aziraphale squeezed Raphaelle's between hers. They were soft in all the meanings of the word. They felt like home.
"Thank you."
"Whatever are you thanking me for?" Aziraphale looked at her watch. "Oh, bother, I have to take off, dear, or I'll miss my bus and get eaten alive by my parents." She got up, took Raphaelle in her arms, revelling in her soft smell and the gentle pressure on her back. "Best of luck for tonight. I'll be waiting for your letter. Good luck for next year too. I do hope I'll get to see you before next summer!"
"Same here, angel. Good luck to you too. You're the most courageous and hardworking person I know, so I know you'll succeed. And of course I'll write."
They smiled, observing each other's face, drawing its details in their memories. Aziraphale brushed Raphaelle's arm one last time, and made it a few steps in the direction of the bus stop before she halted.
"Oh, you should check your pockets," she smiled above her shoulder, an amused spark setting the sea of her eyes aflame.
Raphaelle barked a laugh and that was exactly the answer she had been hoping for.
Her long fingers were fidgeting with the end of a paper petal when Raphaelle reached home. She was still wrapped in the comfort this afternoon had given her. What better time than now to find the strength to come out to her dad? She braced herself, breathing in her courage before opening the door.
"Dad," she called while getting rid of her shoes, "I'm back. I uh - can you come? I have something I'd like to talk about."
"Don't take those off."
She jumped at the growl, much closer than she expected. All sense of comfort evaporated at the sight of a fist clenched around a crimson envelope. Her crimson envelope.
Oh. Oh, no.
It was a letter she wrote but never sent because her courage kept running out. Its content almost spilled from her mouth this afternoon. Some of the words started being pushed outside of her throat, but Aziraphale had to go before she was bold enough to come clean about why she'd had this need to define her sexuality. She loved a girl. Had loved a girl for years, the only person in the world that knew that underneath the black armour she wore, bright colours were to be discovered. The same bright colours her hand reached for into her pocket, grasping at the strength the paper petals always gave her.
Her dad had read the letter. He knew. He didn't seem to take it well.
"Dad, I -"
"When did you plan to tell me, huh?"
"I - now, actually, I wanted to -"
"Right. Well, too late. I know. And now you've made sure I can't make it right." He inhaled, and Raphaelle could have weathered anger, but the hurt she could see in her father's eyes made her helpless. "Of all the things this posh girl could have done to you, I'd never have expected -"
Her own anger flared. She could feel it in her bones, this defensiveness that pushed her forward. "She hasn't done anything. Don't blame her! Blame me, blame my heart, but don't blame Aziraphale! Being loved is not a crime. Hell, loving her is not a crime, either!"
"Oh, Raphaelle, you don't understand. I'm so sorry I failed you. I - if you can promise me you won't see her, maybe I could -"
"Looks like I understand a whole lot better than you do."
"Don't say this. I'm your father. I know better."
"Yeah, you don't know shit." Her eyes were blazing. There was no place for talking, for explaining, for coming to a common ground of understanding, it was written plain as day on her father's face, now. And the anger, the anger was there at last.
"Get out. Get out of my home, you little shit. And don't you come back, you're not welcome here anymore." He approached her, the menace he exuded taking all the place around them in the room, stifling whatever word Raphaelle could have tried to utter. He opened the door and pushed her through it. She took a couple uneasy steps after the shove, the saunter of a puppet whose strings had been cut off without being aware of it just yet, and fell miserably on her arse. "You're not my daughter anymore," the man living in her childhood home growled like a full stop before he chipped the door closed.
It was the last day Raphaelle used this name.
_________________________________________
The September air was cold in Aziraphale's lungs when she stepped outside. It made her throat feel raw. She needed it. She needed to feel something, anything, that made her remember the sheer humanity of her condition, because it was all that she had left when the expectations around her forced their way inside her head. A rush of cold air would make place for original thoughts.
Today was a decisive day in the course of her life. She was to sign a contract with her father's law firm, effectively making her work for him. She had become a barrister with flying colours, exceeding the expectations of her parents and accomplishing the journey they had set up for her. The only thing lacking in their perfect playbook was marriage. They had made her meet suitor after suitor, each more powerful and wealthy than the last, but none sparked anything more in Aziraphale's heart than a diffuse awkwardness.
She did not want them. She wanted to stop her mind from going back to Tadfield but simply couldn't. She wanted Raphaelle. She knew it, now. The single biggest regret trapped in her ribcage, rattling on her bones for attention, was not having understood that she loved her, back then. It should have been easy. Raphaelle had said, she had said she loved women and Aziraphale should have understood that she, too, wouldn't be able to feel anything for a man, because everything she could ever want was right in front of her. But no, she had missed the mark. She had shared a few blend words and just - gone away. Like it was just another day, like her life had not just taken a turn that would lead her here, unhappy and having to shock her body with cold air to feel somewhat human.
Like she had not unknowingly erased their whole relationship from existence.
When no letter had come weeks after they had met in Tadfield, Aziraphale had taken it upon herself to take the pen and write her thoughts down to send to Raphaelle, even if in the game they'd been playing for what felt like millennia, it was not her turn to play. The letter had come back to her unopened. She'd grown worried, then, and had rushed to Tadfield at the first occasion she had. Raphaelle's father had opened the door, wearing a mask of hurt and anger.
"Oh, you got nerve coming here," he had spat. "I have nothing to tell you. Can't believe you did that to her. Now fuck off and never come back."
The door had been slammed right in her face. She'd been numb for a minute, too shocked to even start walking. Then, it had hit her. The silence, the unopened letter, the words of her protective father. It all had made sense suddenly, and the guilt had started taking form, cradled by ribs that wouldn't let go of it to this day. Raphaelle's confession was so clear in hindsight that she could laugh if it didn't hurt that much. She loved women, she had said. She had proven time and time again that Aziraphale was precious to her. She had shown her that the love she felt, she felt it for her. And then Aziraphale had uttered empty words, made wide statements. She'd rejected her while being convinced that she was embracing her whole. How cruel. No wonder Raphaelle wouldn't talk to her anymore. She'd felt discarded, abandoned like an afterthought when she had bared her core to her best friend in the world. Like deep down, Eurydice had wished Orpheus would look back to have a proof that he really cared for her. Aziraphale hadn't.
She had looked for ways to make it up to her. Even if deep down she knew what her silence meant, she couldn't help but try to find new ways to reach her. She had come up with empty hands and ears ever so full of the rattle of her guilt.
She had never loved anyone since.
She sighed. As if the day was not bleak enough, she had to lose a fight against her own thoughts on top of it all. She couldn't get those eyes out of her mind, black dots captured in amber, just like in the movie with the dinosaurs, following her everywhere she went. They were disappointed, these days. Tired.
She checked her mailbox on her way out, took the few bits of paper that had been crammed inside without really looking at them, made it forward for a few steps and stopped dead in her tracks. There, nestled between an advert and a bill, was an envelope whose red could as well have been written in her DNA. Life was back in her body like she just jumped into a freezing pool, her heart flapping its wings frantically in her chest, the guilt, the guilt gripping her insides from its prison made of ribs. She was so aware of her own existence that her vision became clearer, it was like she could see the grain of the crimson paper, the fibres it was made of.
The adverts and the bills fell to the ground to be forgotten as she fumbled to catch the envelope with shaking hands. It couldn't be. She was unforgivable, It couldn't be. But her address could as well have been carved in her skin because she knew those shapes like the back of her hand, she knew that Raphaelle's hands had traced those words on the crimson paper that she was ripping like her life was on the line. And it was, it seemed, because why ever else would she feel so lightheaded at the sight of the used edges of a paper flower? The shaking breath she took could as well have been the first to reach her lungs in years. Before she could register it, she was taking the flower to her nose in hope Raphaelle's smell lingered around the poem on its back.
The flower alone was a good omen. Aziraphale could not think of a reason to honour their tradition that wouldn't include making her deliriously happy. If anything, she had to be forgiven, right?
There was another piece of paper enclosed in the envelope. Aziraphale unwrapped it and as her eyes jumped from one word to the next, her mind was taken in the flow of Raphaelle's cursive and she laughed, she laughed and cried at the same time, water flowing her face and staining the thin paper, making the ink bloom all over it like a whole garden of flowers that just learned that spring was finally around the corner.
Hi angel. It's been a while. I hope you didn't forget me. I'd like to have a chat with you, if you're amenable. I'll be at Give me coffee or give me death in Soho every afternoon waiting for you. I know I disappeared on you (I'm sorry about that) but I promise you I'll be there. Here's our flower as a sign of good faith. I've missed you. I'll tell you everything.
- C
P.S. : I go by Crowley now
Aziraphale stopped to think for a few seconds but she had to admit that her decision was all done. She did not want this job. If she took it, she would be crystallised in her parents' dream, trapped in a snow globe world forever, unable to live her own life. She would never be herself, never find what happiness looked like for her. Whatever the discussion with Crowley would end up being, she couldn't take the risk to miss yet another turn on her path.
Well, then. Aziraphale looked at her watch, measured how much time she had left to look more like herself. The first real smile she had in years lingered on her lips while she opened the door and rushed back inside.
_________________________________________
"Six shots of espresso in a big cup," the barista said the moment Crowley reached the counter.
"Exactly."
"It just meant that I recognised you. You'll have that, then?"
"I will. Thanks."
Once the cup was safe in her hands, Crowley looked around the room for a free place to watch the door from. She found one, like she had the last two days, sat, and started her daily wait.
It bothered her, the uncertainty. Had Aziraphale even received the letter? Had she read the thing? Had she thought about it, or was she still unsure? Crowley could imagine her anxious eyes, yet she hoped them inhabited by the spark she knew, a spark of hope and optimism that looked like a lighthouse in the midst of a stormy sea.
For the millionth time, Crowley wondered how she had changed. Five years at their age could bring an armful of life altering events. Hell, this statement was enclosed in her own flesh and clothes, in the envelope of her as well as in her mind. If she'd already been a string of a child before, she was now made only of bones and nerves, with angles at every corner of her long body. She was spikier as a person too, defensive, a bit jumpy. A dry humour underlined by tight black clothes, worn but always ruthlessly styled. Her natural internal resourcefulness had bloomed with her lack of means.
So what would Aziraphale look like, now? She could still see her long light hair kept tidy in strict plaits, her soft jumpers swimming at a safe distance from her appealing body, all well pressed creams and whites. She hoped that life had been gentle with her. Aziraphale had always walked through thorns without even wincing. The silence Crowley had kept her in, though, was an unforgivable offence. Being abandoned by her best friend was an ordeal Aziraphale did not deserve, whatever the reasons. She would be right to burn the bridge that had kept them close for so long completely.
Crowley bowed her head, weaving her fingers in her hair, pulling until it hurt. She had failed her best friend. The loss seeped through the tidy gauze of hope she had bandaged her heart with restlessly. She had failed her best friend and now it was too late. It had been for a long time.
The sound of the bell above the door filled the air. Crystallised it.
Amber eyes rose tentatively, stopping through auburn lashes on countless rays of warm light dodging green leaves outside, filling the air from the shopfront and catching every single dust particle in the room in their slow dance. Crowley's hands loosened in her hair when finally she saw the person who just entered.
White blond hair cascading in free waves from the nicest face Crowley had ever seen past shoulders clad in a simple pastel wool jacket down to the very same waist she had longed to put her hand on years ago. A simple yet elegant dress the colour of the sky that highlighted her welcoming silhouette. Gray-blue eyes shyly looking around the room.
They stopped when they met hers, widening in surprise. The brightest smile Crowley had ever seen filled Aziraphale's beloved face as tears pooled and spilled too quickly to be caught. The light had just increased tenfold, or maybe Crowley had just seen an angel.
She tried to stand up but her legs felt so weak that she fell back on her chair. But she would not give up, not this time. She gathered her force and managed to stand upright, palms on the table and mouth quite askew, when Aziraphale took a step in her direction. She seemed to become bolder, or perhaps to realise the length of time that they had spent apart, because the hesitant step became two confident paces and three urgent strides before their bodies collided in the tightest hug Crowley's ribs had ever seen, sending the guilt trapped between them in a panicked frenzy.
That heavenly smell was here, so light underneath a light layer of bergamot orange, dragging her back to many afternoons spent under an apple tree caressed by a refreshing wind. A sudden feeling of familiarity knocked her off her feet with the sheer strength of an unexpected realisation that she had not felt home since the last time she saw her angel. Aziraphale was lost in it, too, in this spark of surprise that makes life worth living. They stood together like a vault, two arcs only held upright because they were finally in contact.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale uttered in Crowley's nest of silky red curls.
Crowley let out a surprised chuckle. "Whatever for? I should be the one apologising. You know what? I do apologise, I shouldn't have taken this long to come back to you. Should have found a way not to leave you in the dark like this."
Aziraphale found the strength to take a small step back to have a look at her friend's face. "I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. You said everything back then, you told me you liked women and I - I did not understand what it was really about. Not until I tried to contact you, but then -"
"You tried to contact me?" Crowley's mouth did this wonderful thing, opened in bewilderment while her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Between her ribs, that guilt that had made her mad for years was dissolving like it had been this easy from the beginning.
"Of course I did! And you sent the letter back, and asked your father to not let me in. I understand why you did that, I understood so late. I'm sorry." Tears were spilling once again on her perfect cheeks and Crowley reached out without thinking about it. She wiped them gently with her thumbs and Aziraphale leaned into the touch. She rose her hands, waiting for a permission that Crwoley gifted her with a nod, and took her sunglasses to tuck them into her jacket pocket. Oh, how I missed your eyes.
"I did not know you tried all that. I didn't send the letter back, angel, I would never have. And my father - I don't know what happened but I never told him to treat you badly. He kicked me out the very evening we spent together, because of - well, because of what I wanted to tell him about."
Aziraphale's eyes were distant, lost in the sea of memories she was trying to patch together to make them make sense. "So you weren't there when I came? Oh God, did he kick you out because you came out?" Long gone were the tears, Aziraphale's face could as well have been made of steel with this protective expression that made Crowley melt.
"Not exactly. Well, indirectly. I intended to, but he found a letter I'd been wanting to give you without finding the strength to, so. He was already waiting when I got home. I didn't get the chance at a proper conversation."
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley would always remember the first time she heard her name spoken through those pink lips. "This letter. Would you mind telling me what it contained?" Hope was a trembling thing in the air after that, tentative but lingering between them while Crowley swallowed nervously, reaching for words that seemed scared.
"It - I wrote that we had known each other for a long time, that we'd - always been a group. Oh, I should go straight to the point, shouldn't I? I've already lost so much time. In that letter I wrote that I loved you. That was the point of it." Her hand was back on Aziraphale's cheek like it just couldn't leave and there was something pleading humming in every nerve of her body. "I've never felt something like this since."
A disbelieving laugh spilled from Aziraphale's lungs. "I did hope I didn't get this wrong, at least." She braced herself. "I've had the time to think about it. Quite a number of long nights, too. Well. I know, now, that what we had, whatever was between us, is what I aspire to in a relationship. I loved you, too, and I want to do things right this time, but if you're willing - if you're willing I'd like to give it a try."
The wound opened by the past tense was immediately healed. "It, meaning us? Can I invite you to a date?"
"I believe you already did, dearest. Should we sit for that coffee? Oh, and I think I saw pastries."
Crowley 's laughter echoed around the room, as free as she felt.
Later that afternoon, she walked Aziraphale home. They strolled side by side, taking in the golden light and finding the street devastatingly romantic. The hours had been pouring past them unnoticed until the barista made it exceedingly clear that it was time for them to exit her establishment. Neither of them liked the idea of stopping the easy conversation they had fallen back in as if millennia could pass without denting their relationship, so they walked leisurely until, finally, they reached Aziraphale's door.
"I had a wonderful afternoon," she smiled when the moment had to be acknowledged.
Crowley's smile made the corner of her eyes flower with charming lines. "Me too. When can I see you again?"
"I wouldn't want to go too fast but - I'm free tomorrow." A whole lot of time had be freed when she ditched her father's offer after all. "We should exchange numbers."
They did. "All done," Crowley said when her text gave the notification number on Aziraphale's phone its third digit.
Aziraphale shifted on her feet. "Please forgive me, I did not think to bring flowers this afternoon. Except, well." She rummaged through her bag and extended the paper flower towards Crowley.
She took it softly, turning it between her fingers and wondering how she could be so lucky. Aziraphale was beaming at her, everything about her presence so radiant that she could feel her heart being tugged towards her like a sunflower. She folded as well. "Thank you," she whispered against Aziraphale's lips before they met hers.
_________________________________________
Yet another September had borrowed August's warmth. Aziraphale was waiting for her tea to brew when the door opened and Crowley leaned against its frame like she was trying to borrow the shape of it. Time seemed to stop each time Aziraphale perceived her. It had been happening for the twenty years since they found each other again, and she had to wait a fraction of a second to find her breath again. Time had had little effect on Crowley. She still wore her sharp angles like the most gorgeous outfit. White hair had made their appearance on her temples but her fiery mane was still springing down her shoulders, longer than ever. She simply looked more at peace, with a sunny demeanour people only witnessed when she was in Aziraphale's orbit - which was, to be honest, most of the time.
Today, she wore a soft dark grey t-shirt, loose trousers peppered with dirt, a pair of gloves she was - adorably - keeping away from the door frame not to soil it and a sharp smile that made her amber eyes pop. "I'm done with the apple tree, angel. You can come see it, if you'd like."
"Oh, wonderful. Let me change shoes and I'll be there in two shakes."
"Alright, I'll be right under the thing." There was something more than affection in Crowley's voice, something that usually meant mischief. Oh, Aziraphale was dying to know why.
She took her slippers off, opened the shoe closet and reached for her blue crocs. Underneath them, she found the source of Crowley's mirth. The very same paper flower that their twelve year-old selves had made was tucked behind it. They had framed it when they had moved into the cottage, and Aziraphale had hung it on the wall above Crowley's side of the bed, only to find it on her own bedside table one week later. It hadn't stayed in one place more than a few days since.
Aziraphale sighed the happiness that flowed through her. Oh, how good it felt to be loved by the kindest, smartest, most random woman she'd ever had the chance to meet. How exciting to know that Crowley was always looking forward to surprising her. It was love in its purest form, a colourful flower they kept giving each other. She put her crocs on, wrapped the frame in a Ziploc bag she hid in Crowley's coffee beans box, took her cup of tea and headed outside to find her wife.
She couldn't wait for her to be surprised.