No Plan
They sat together- as they often did now- shoulder to shoulder upon the park bench, touching in a way that was significantly insignificant- all easy, unnoticed. Natural. Six thousand years now unwound and settling comfortably draped over their laps to pull them closer still. The sun painted abstractions of golds and red in the ripples of the lake as it sunk into the horizon. Some mingled a moment to drink in the sight, most hurried on. None seemed to notice the quiet couple watching as unspoken words passed easily between them.
Aziraphale was the first to stir in what surely had been an hour or more. He glanced over to Crowely slouched against the bench and studied the way the dying light awoke a fire in his hair and danced across his shades. The sight was marvelous, far more than the sunset in all its splendor of Creation.
And it scared him.
He cleared his throat,
“Crowley? You know, I’ve been thinking-”
“-that’s a dangerous thing to do, Angel.” The demon smiled as Aziraphale not-so-kindly nudged his ribs and sighed. There was something in that simple sigh- something heavier than Crowley had expected and he felt his smile falter as he peered over his shades to study the angel. There was a terrible tension held in the corner of those pale eyes, in his coiled lips, in the very posture that made up the divine self. He felt the knife slide between his ribs.
Crowely knew well what it was:
Doubt.
Doubt and all the constricting, heavy heat that came with it. Crowley closed his eyes- for no more than a second- and felt it spark alive in his chest. The serpent's coiling around the throat, the hissing questions, tongue flickering against ear. Teeth sinking in, the poison slowing ichor in veins.
Doubt.
Had not the first temptation come from within?
He ached for Aziraphale. He felt his heart split open in understanding and he wished no more than to drop to his knees and cradle that wavering face. He wanted to soothe the storm curdling those delicate features and keep the pressure from boiling up and breaking. And yet, even as it seemed his very nerves stung and sung out to help, Crowley made no move.
The uneasy stillness of a catalyst hung between them.
Aziraphale’s fingers groped for Crowley’s and as they intertwined understanding passed between them; a yawning hurt words could never put to light. The demon squeezed. The angel broke. It started as a high hiss, dropping to a wavering wail, deepening still to a rushing moan that seemed to emerge from the belly and force itself from a jaw that wanted oh so desperately to stay wound, and when breath was finally taken it hitched and rocked against rough waters spilling down his cheeks. He moved to cover his shame by a trembling hand, only to be intercepted by Crowley and pulled into his chest. Greif washed through him a flood, leaving no moment unturned, six thousand years now cast in a watery, ugly light that burned behind his eyes. What rainbow could suffice as forgiveness against this tumultuous act of realization?
In turns Aziraphale finally registered the fingers running through his hair, the steady rhythm as Crowely rocked them both and breathed sweet soothes. He untangled his face from the now-soaked lapel, feeling the vines grow taunt that tethered him, but he had to know, had to see. And there they were- near obscured by the dark lenses- the streaks of understanding cooling and tickling down Crowley’s hollowed cheeks.
“Ineffable-!” The word was meant to be spat with all the malice upturned in the flash flood, but Aziraphale found it only croaked from him, dribbling down his lips. Crowely nodded. He knew. Of course he knew- he had known this whole time, and oh how Aziraphale had played the part of the fool so beautifully!
Except the fool knew too, did he not? What painted him foolish but the words that dripped into blocked ears, unheard and unfelt? So that left him what? Not even the player, but the played. Not impassive, but the constant turning, the refusal to see, to listen. To know.
No condemnation could be found in Crowley, not in the slightest. He only sat back against the bench, fingers still entangled in Aziraphale’s hair. The angel leaned into the touch as stillness settled in him once more. There was an empty peace to be found in it, distant and thick.
“What now?” He asked. He could not make himself look at Crowely. He knew then that he feared the answer, knew he trusted the demon enough that anything he said would breath life into his worries. And as he felt the grip in his hair wind tight for just a flash, he understood that the weight was felt by the both of them.
Crowley relaxed and tilted his head, offering an easy smile,
“Oh Angel,” he breathed, “don’t you see?”
“It doesn’t matter.”