Crowley froze, every atom of his body coming to a complete standstill. Aziraphale had appeared out of nowhere, just like that, and he felt like a fly in a spider's web, like he had just run against a glass door that he could not have seen. Oh, this was cruel. He did not turn around.
"Don't even use doors anymore?" He tried to keep his voice level, cold, unaffected. He failed considerably, but the message got across anyways.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, immediately flinching at the words. The first time they were seeing each other again, after-- after that, and his first words were I'm sorry and he was apologizing for not using a door? Aziraphale felt like swearing, but could not. "I thought you wouldn't open if I-- well. I thought this was easier. Like a bandaid."
"Well, you were right. I wouldn't have." Steel was creeping into Crowley's voice, steel around his heart. With a forcing of limbs, he spun around, his gaze piercing through the armor of his sunglasses. Facing him.
"I need your help" Aziraphale said.
"What," Crowley said. He had possibly never put as much meaning into a single word. The glass door turned into a Great Wall. Aziraphale understood. But he was willing to climb.
The angel (oh, a true angel now, wasn't he--not his angel) fumbled, talking with his hands before his mouth even opened. Talking with his eyes, too, but they got lost in translation. Repelled by a black mirror.
"I know this is untoward. I know it's-- But Crowley, I don't have a lot of time."
"Nothing lasts forever, yeah," Crowley spat, hating himself the second the words left his lips. Unnecessary cruelty. Demonic, huh? Worse yet, Aziraphale accepted the verbal lashing. Don't forgive me, Crowley thought.
Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all.
"Why are you here?"
Aziraphale glanced upwards. Then he looked intently at Crowley. I don't have much time. Right. He couldn't speak freely, Crowley realized. Of course he couldn't. This was exactly what he had been afraid of, what he had known would happen. His angel in chains. (Yet here he was. Here he was.)
"They don't know I'm here," Aziraphale mumbled, gesticulating weakly between them and Up. "I guess I can divert their attention now, for a bit. Comes with the new powers"--he shrugged helplessly--"but not for long. Crowley, do you know about-- about the-- what they're--"
"Armageddon 2.0? Sure."
There was an undecipherable look in Aziraphale's eyes. "Why didn't you-- well. It's not just. I mean it kind of is--it's. More than that. Crowley, I need you to do something for me."
"No."
"This is important." (This isn't about us.)
"I don't care." (There is no us anymore.)
"You do! You always have."
"Oh not this again," Crowley hissed. "You were an angel once. You can be forgiven. Shut up."
"That's not what I meant."
With two long, angry strides, Crowley closed the space between them. Menace, anger, hurt-- "Then what did you mean?" He spat the words. Like a weapon. (Then why was it a question?)
Aziraphale's face crumbled. He stood his ground nonetheless, not backing away. The angel's anger was less spiky, but it rose to meet Crowley's. It made his next words hit like bricks. "I mean that you love. I mean that you, Crowley, are the best person I know. I mean that I love you."
The words dropped like a lead balloon.
There was utter silence between them.
Why were they so close?
Why were his sunglasses so dark? Aziraphale saw only his own reflection. He couldn't bear that, and dropped his gaze. Oh, worse. There was his mouth, mere inches away.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley's lips, really really looked, and there was nothing more, now that he knew about the feeling of Crowley's lips and of his heart, there was nothing more he wanted to do than to kiss him. But he couldn't, he couldn't. Not like this. He needed the next time (he had to believe in a next time, in a time with Crowley, again)--the next time they kissed he needed it to be good and happy and an affirmation. He couldn't bear it otherwise. He would break entirely. He was sure of it.
But still, still-- Crowley was so close. He could smell nothing but him. Think of nothing but him. That weakness again, that soft spot inside him he had never known how to hold down. And with it, Want reared its greedy head. Aziraphal leaned in ever so slightly, felt their noses touch-- and then used all his strength to move away, to pull back. It was not the right time. Not yet.
He looked past Crowley, who might have as well turned to a pillar of salt. Crowley, whose face was a mask he couldn't let slip. The air flickered between them.
There were tears in his eyes when he finally forced his gaze towards Crowley's face, a silent plead to not misunderstand. Please, please. But he couldn't expect that of him. He was pulling away again. But not because he wanted to. No, there was nothing he wanted more than to pull closer. There was nothing more he wanted than to talk to him, to truly talk, to explain and apologize and make amends, but he was bound by Duty and Rules and Watching Eyes more than he ever had been.
This was his rebellion: he lifted a hand, the ghost of a touch, fingertips against cheekbone. The memory of holding on. Of never wanting to let go. Crowley flinched without moving, a shiver of his lips. Aziraphale let his hand drop, briefly, to Crowley's chest, holding it over his human heart. It was beating just like his.
This was his successful magic trick, when it counted: he drew away, leaving a crack in Crowley's steel-clad heart, and a note in his chest pocket.
"I'm sorry. I need to go."
"Of course you do."
"Oh, Crowley. I--" But he did not finish the sentence, knew there was no proper way how. So he said, quietly, softly, "Trust me, please."
And he did. Crowley hated it, hated it so much, but he did, he did trust him despite it all. But it did not erase the hurt. The festering wound. Now what was he supposed to do with that?
With one last pointed look, Aziraphale vanished.
Crowley was alone.
His defenses lay shattered at his feet, and he slowly gathered them back up. He did not mend the cracks. (That's where the light had gotten in.) He cleared his throat. Tried to banish from his mind the look in Aziraphale's eyes, the memory of his lips and of his tears.
And failed considerably.
I love you.
(Touched his cheek, and then his chest, and faltered.)
[this fic is now also on ao3 and being continued there]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
5436 words, rated T
The aftermath. An exhaustion deeper than body. A secret too heavy to carry when when grief burned so close. Crowley has to tell him.
"What am I to you?"
A saving thing, an agony, a binary star, tenderness, an unhealed wound, a home, a home, a garden.
Come to me, we'll heal together.
——————————————————
inspired by the great Toni Morrison: “I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it.”
starts with a massage, and then an undoing of a deeper hurt.
——————————————————
“Let your wings out, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. It’s not a question. Crowley feels a rush of shame, but Aziraphale’s thighs are on his waist, his hands are pressing into his flesh, and Crowley has never been able to deny the angel anything. He lets them unfurl, charcoal gray, cupping Aziraphale on his back, enclosing them together in demon wings and fraying feathers. He hears the angel give a sharp intake of breath, and Crowley flinches. This close, Aziraphale can see where God broke the bones of his wings. Where She snapped the feathers that make it so that Crowley can still fly, but not without remembering who he was, who he’ll never be again. They’ve healed long ago, but the scars are there in the shape of them, and Crowley almost can’t stand the thought of Aziraphale staring, until he feels the angel’s hands slip between his feathers and press at the aches of old wounds.
“Is this all right?” the angel asks, running his fingers through the quills, much like if he were to play with Crowley’s hair (would he? Oh god, Crowley melts at the thought).
“Yes,” Crowley manages, a strangled whisper, but Aziraphale understands, shifting his weight to take the demon’s fallen wings in his palms and care for them, see them, not as a mark of shame or pain but as Crowley’s.
“They’re lovely, you know,” says the angel, and it’s like he’s making sure there’s no part of Crowley’s cursed wings he doesn’t touch his fingertips to, shaking out the crimps, a bestowing.
“Thank you,” Crowley says again, because he can feel the angel means it, and he doesn’t know what to make of that, can’t let it in, but it’s too late, it’s seeping, it’s too much, the pleasure of his touch and his presence and his words.
“We did it,” Aziraphale says, softly. His fingers are at the demon’s throat now, working into the tensed muscles at the base of his skull, then down to the place where wings join to spine. “We really saved everything.”
“We did.”
“You and I.”
The angel’s hands are hot and strong. They knead the tension out of Crowley’s body, but, Crowley is desperately aware, they’re sparking another tension, somewhere deeper inside him, the starving place that never feeds.
“You and I…” Aziraphale repeats, thoughtfully. He lets the quiet emerge between them, and Crowley lets him. The angel’s hands on him, the delirious startling of peace.
ok so imagine an alternative meeting with god where aziraphale, crowley, jesus and muriel, too, for good measure, try to summon Her (probably by crowley screaming angrily at the sky), it doesn't work, they retire to the bookshop to regroup but then they're suddenly interrupted--
The doorbell chimed. It was the lady from the shop next door.
"Oh. Bad time?"
The silence that greeted her was an unmistakable answer.
"Well. Always a bad time," Aziraphale thought he heard her say, but she had not talked at all, had she? She just stood there.
Something™ slowly dawned on Crowley and Aziraphale.
“Is this–” Crowley hissed.
“Believe so,” Aziraphale somehow managed to squeeze out between pressed lips, and swallowed.
“Fuck.”
YES, God said. And suddenly there was no sound in the room, no air, no static, just the idea of a bookshop. Her gaze now moved towards them, and when it hit they could do nothing but stare back like deer in the headlights of a car–a Bentley, perhaps.
AZIRAPHALE. He stood perfectly still, the weight of her word, his entire being, resting on his shoulders. It did not feel heavy. She turned her head. Almost smiled. CROWLEY. His eyes were wide, sunglasses gone. He stared back. His name. His self.
She looked at them. Fixed them with a gaze human eyes could not comprehend. Neither demons, nor angels. No living thing. And in it was everything. God smiled: an unreadable expression.
And then God asked them a question.
SO?
And for once, both of them, the angel and the demon, were completely and utterly speechless.
They stood there with their hands clasped so tightly together that one began where the other ended. They stood there, together, before God. Not a judgement, but a question.
Crowley moved his lips, shaking, finding his voice. He held on to Aziraphale for dear life – and love, too. Aziraphale held on tight.
"Ans-" said Crowley. Then he froze, holding himself back. His eyes were wide, widening, beholding something beyond the weave of the world. A realization.
God still smiled, eternally, and gently shook Her head.
WHAT DO YOU WANT
"I used to want answers," Crowley said slowly, "But I've realized I don't need them. I can answer all the questions myself. So... I ask for nothing."
Aziraphale looked at Crowley beside him and the world, figuratively, behind him, and he said: "I've got everything I need."
Jesus shrugged, lifted his hands and slowly tilted his head to the side. He smiled, ineffably, and said, "I died for them."
THAT IS ALL RIGHT
And God continued smiling, as if playing an ineffable game of poker, or perhaps dice (a game in which no one knew the rules but her - or were there any rules to begin with? Had She ever bothered making them up?). God lifted a hand. Billions of fingers. Gently moved one.
And a choir of bells softly chimed. The sound was all-encompassing, everywhere, in every crevice and every atom and the spaces in-between too. It was light and it was blinding, and when it faded away, God was gone. A low rumbling, gone, too, a sound they never even knew had been there, all this time, under everything. Then a sigh, a laying down of arms, relief, nothing, nothing at all and yet the world, still. After everything.
God, gone, the angels and the demons, too. Gone from earth. Completely.
For good. Forever.
(Not from existence, never that, but from this universe. Crowley's creation. The Stars were still shining. A home he had built.)
They were all alone.
They knew this with utter certainty.
(Well, Jesus was still there, and so was Muriel, but they were not – they were just people.)
"It's just us," Aziraphale breathed. Slowly, finally, he turned his head to look at Crowley.
"It's just us," he confirmed.
They looked down at their clasped hands.
“Well.” Crowley cleared his throat, tried to find some ease in his tone. “That went better than expected!”
“Crowley, God has abandoned the earth!”
“Not abandoned, Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed. “Left the earth alone. Has given it actual freedom. And…and we, I mean us, we’re still here. Angel–” And he suddenly stopped, tripped over the word. It carried a different weight; it felt lighter. There was something gone from it. He tried again. “Angel.”
For the fraction of a moment, he was terrified. If Aziraphale was no longer an angel, did that mean–?! No. No, that was not it. His terror was reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes, but it slowly drained out as he raised their clasped hands. He let go gently, opening up their palms.
“I feel it, too,” Azirapahle whispered, except his face was suddenly joyful. “I’m not an angel anymore. But I’m not–”
“You’re not fallen, no,” Crowley breathed, and the relief he felt could have moved mountains.
“Crowley, you’re– you’re not –”
“I know.” Relief gave way to confusion. Crowley groaned. This felt entirely new. But they knew who they were, they remembered everything. “Are we human?”
“I’m not sure. No.”
“You’re right.” Crowley knitted his brows. Felt into his being. “I think we could be. If we wanted. But we’re not. But I don’t have any powers. You?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
They stared at each other. The war was over. There would never be another, save from the many that humanity would inevitably wage. As was their choice. And when they died, they would be dead. Nothing more, nothing less. Earth and decay and the natural cycle of life. And they would be good, too, and insurmountably kind, and would receive no divine reward for it.
They knew this to be true with utter certainty.
“Gonna have to tell the atheists they’re finally right,” Crowley said and laughed incredulously. He stopped when he saw the expression on Aziraphale’s face, who was staring somewhere far away. For once in his life, he could not read it.
There were too many emotions on it at once.
Then his eyes snapped back to Crowley’s–and his emotions singled in on one feeling alone. “Crowley– it’s just us. We’re, we’re here. On earth. Together.”
The words hit Crowley like a pile of bricks, the joy in them almost toppled him off a cliff. Yet there he stood, in front of Aziraphale, who had been abandoned by God, stranded on earth forever, and had never looked happier. It was too much to bear. He wanted to bear it forever.
"I would like to do something very human." His smile was pure, angelic. He was not. (At last, at last.) He was something else, something new. He lifted his hands and gently grabbed the collars of Crowley’s jacket. The softest of fists. Happy tears teetered at the edges of his eyes.
The way Crowley's heart clenched and released felt wholly human, regardless. Still, he forgot to breathe.
And then Aziraphale kissed Crowley. And it was good.
Well, he tries to. Crowley does not usually try to grow plants. He decides to grow them, and they obey. It's vengeance, vendetta. But lately, nothing seems to obey his will. It's weak, that will, broken into smithereens just like his heart.
And he can't even take it out on his plants. That's because Crowley has mercy.
So he tries to grow tomatoes.
It's summer (the first summer without him) and he has lodged in an airbnb in the country, and behind an old ramshackle ram-shack he has made himself a little plot of land. Well - it's all God's stupidly green earth, isn't it. But this two by two piece of earth he claims for himself. He could have at least that, right? He looks up at the sky. Frowns.
Let me have at least that.
Aziraphale liked to do things the hard way. (He's still doing that, Crowley supposes, up there. Up there. He's not dead, but it feels like it. He's gone. Gone to Heaven. Not to a better place.) Aziraphale liked to do it properly, the human way, when it pleased him. Which was often, but not always. Think: French. Nom de dieu de merde. Pardon his French.
Pardon his stupid everything.
Crowley inspects his tomato plants. He's trying to grow them the human way. Funny, that. He nurses them like he nurses his heart, and miracles won't do. He's tried.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow tomatoes, he thinks.
Raindrops fall on red and green: the plants and the vines and the tomatoes and his hair. It's August, it shouldn't be raining this much. It's been a shitty August. It's been a shitty year. Thirteen months and two weeks and one day, to be exact. Not like he's keeping count. Why bother?
There's a spot on one of the leaves, and Crowley's heart sinks before it even had the chance to ever rise. It's only one tiny, dark, black spot, but he knows what it means. It means it's too late.
A horrible month. A horrible life. Not the right conditions to thrive. Disease, rearing its ugly head, grinning. It's already too late. It's always too late. It would multiply and spread. It has already spread, underneath. Invisible to visible. It won't take long, now.
His soul is a tomato leaf.
Black as grief.
He's tended these seedlings, he's raised them, and planted them, too, and here they are before him tall and proud and still alive, and Crowley knows they are already dying. He can relate.
The sensible thing to do would be to discard it all, be done with them. It's not worth the effort, technically, to keep them alive. But to Crowley it's worth it. It has to be. They are worth it. He is worth it. Stupid stubborn perseverance, stupid stubborn hopeful heart.
He isn't immune to foreshadowing. He looks up again. Angry, this time, bitter. A bit of surrender, too.
The rain drips and drops on his face.
He looks back down, snaps the sickly leaf off with expert fingers. Continues to tend to the plants, as he will until they inevitably die. He plucks a tiny tomato. It's so small, fragile, one of the first of a doomed harvest: but it tastes sweet.
Determined, Crowley continues his labor of love, patient as with all living things.
He is responsible for these vines.
Maybe, despite everything, just maybe, he can nurture his heart back to health. (And maybe, just maybe, he is not human and does not do things the human way. When it dis/pleases him. He's always been a rebel. Just a little miracle, a little bit of life-giving defiance. So small no one notices, not even us.) Crowley smiles.
He grows tomatoes.
.
This ficlet was inspired by Louise Glück's Vespers. May she rest in peace. "In your extended absence, you permit me use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants." read the full poem here
chapters: 5/5 rating: M/E wordcount: 13.9k au: human, the magnus archives
summary: Aziraphale works as the head archivist at Eden Institute. Crowley has been supplying them with potentially cursed artifacts over the years -- until he himself gets entangled in a case that turns him from associate to client...
[ art credit and support credit and 1000 hugs to: @chernozemm my beloved ]
start reading:
“Ouroboros. Yes. The introductory statement is meant to be concise, though, akin to a title. You can describe the necklace in detail in your statement, Crowley. Also, I need you to state your name. It occurs to me I don't actually know it. I mean. I'm not saying I want to know your full name, or anything. Just, all these years– erm. You'd have to state it anyway. For formality's sake. We have a system.”
“Sure. So. Name's Crowley.”
“I… know that part. [sighs] Full names, please, throughout.”
“Ah. Anthony J Crowley.”
“I said full names, please. What's the J stand for?”
“Erm. Uh. Just a J, really. Thought it added a certain gravitas, y’know, flair. Je ne sais quoi. Makes people treat you serious, a J like that.”
“Uh. Alright. Well. Anthony J. Crowley, then. I suppose. Seriously? [clears throat] So. Please start from the beginning.”
“Mmmmhhhh wellll. I’ve been coming to Eden for, what, now, six years maybe?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“Anyway, not like I go here often. We’ve met a handful of times, you and me, maybe nine, ten? I mean, it was ten times. I know. Uh. Not like I counted or anything. Just, coming here, it stays with you a bit, doesn’t it? All that occult shit. Which is why I come here, of course. I’m – what should I call it? A… supplier. Of sorts. I work with – this is confidential, right?”
“Yes. Internal use only. We don’t give out those files. Your words are safe with me. Erm. Us.”
“Good. Right. I work with the Doomsday Group. Can’t really talk about it much, but you’ve heard of them. Shady stuff, crime, theft, trade, religious artifacts, apocalyptic jazz, all that. Supernatural stuff, too, sometimes. Or claimed supernatural. You know I don’t believe in all that. Well. Didn’t. I didn’t believe in it. Now… uh, anyway. Sometimes we get those weird artifacts, right, apparently cursed, so I bring them to you, to, to check, or verify, or call bullshit. Or to lock them away, or whatever you do with them when you buy them off our lot. That’s how we met. Best part of this shit job, really, if I’m being honest. I didn’t ask to be– hm. Wish I could just– ngh. Confidential, right? Wish I could just be done with them. Run off. Can’t, though. But erm. Forget I said that, alright? Please.”
[pause] “You're rambling a bit, de- Crowley. Or should I, should I call you Anthony now?”
“Hell no. I mean – Crowley's fine. You've called me Crowley for years, haven't you? What, now you don't like it?”
“No, no, I do in fact quite – well, for propriety’s sake, the official documentation, I thought – nevermind. So, Crowley, while the background information on your…job is reasonable, might I politely remind you why you’re here? Please talk less about our personal relationship, or at least only insofar as it pertains to the case, and more about what happened to you since… since you put on that necklace.”
“Right. Righty-oh. S’ just, never been in this room before. The tape recorder, all that. I’ve only ever been here as a sort of… co-worker? Nah. You’re not my co-worker, you’re better than that. As a tradesman. So to be here as a client , it feels… surreal.”
“That is understandable. I trust you will muddle through, though.”
“Hey – remember the first thing I said when I came here? Today, I mean.”
you wanna read 29 pages of bastille smut? in which crowley fucks aziraphale in chains but they pretend all the way through? i applaud you for your bravery, and say: vive la révolution! bon appetit
“That’s the trouble with you lot, you tend to see things in black and white. Sometimes, you just gotta blur the edges.”
“Well, maybe there is something to be said for… shades of gray?”
Their glasses clinked.
“Well, shades of dark gray,” Crowley corrected, and the ease crept back into their conversation along with the little correction, leaving the emotional vulnerability under the table, where the photograph rested on Aziraphale's thigh.
“Shades of a very light gray, I rather fancy.” Aziraphale smiled into his glass, preparing for their disagreement to turn into a full-blown silly discussion on color theory. Which it did.
While their aesthetic discrepancies about various shades of gray were being discussed at length and in oral treatises, the angel and the demon were very much on the same page when it came to wine, and the drinking of it. They had not over-indulged, not tonight, but were emptying the bottle between them slowly and comfortably, having settled into a conversation of the same kind. The virtues of mixing colors, all that. It came to them easily, the debating, each fending for the role they had been assigned.
“Of course, take too many colors and you just end up with a sort of brown-gray sludge,” Crowley said now, and made a face. “Bit like the walls of hell.”
This was the wrong term to drop so carelessly, on a night such as this, and the lapis-lazuli dreams of Aziraphale’s mind were washed right down the drain, where they traveled until they turned into a sort of brown-gray sludge and dripped onto the road to hell, which matched the walls in color. Hell, where Crowley had almost ended up tonight, and not to pay a friendly visit with a report card.
“Crowley, what would have… If they’d taken the photograph, what would have happened to you?”
Aziraphale had turned the page and stumbled upon a new chapter of their conversation, pricking himself on the safety pin that kept the messy draft of the novel of Them all in one tidy place. This was uncharted territory, both of their relationship and of his heart. Aziraphale really, really terribly loved a good story with a happy ending. Shame if it were to be cut short, finished before its time. But where was it headed? The proof was in the pudding. (A good kind of sludge, with a more pleasant color.) There were no instructions, not on the pudding box and not in the first and second and hundredth drafts of their millions of stories. Aziraphale was scared, he realized, of the open-endedness.
He looked nervously at Crowley, for a moment, before his eyes flitted away.
“Eehhhh,” Crowley said. “Eh. Dunno. Y'know. Bad stuff. Good at that , they are.”
Crowley wouldn’t answer him, Aziraphale realized. At least not properly. The demon began blubbering away now, about the creativity of hell, trying to work his way back to the topic of colors along the sludgy walls of hell and likely succeeding, but Aziraphale wasn’t really listening anymore.
Aziraphale didn’t say he was scared. He even tried not to show it. He’d shown too much, already, tonight. And look where it had gotten them, all this emotion. They were safe now, yes, but Crowley had risked too much for him today – and too many other days and nights, as well. It was all his fault. And he kept doing it, too, purposely even, sometimes (though not tonight) and it was so terribly selfish of him.
Crowley’s safety was more important to him than anything else.
And he was its biggest threat.
They couldn’t keep doing this. Not after tonight. Not after Crowley had tread on hallowed ground for his sake; after Crowley had held a gun to his face, shaking, pleading no; after Crowley had almost gotten dragged down to hell for trusting an angel. Not after Aziraphale had realized that he– how much Crowley meant to him, and how much losing him would tear a hole into the very fabric of his being. Not the loss of his corporation – though that was its own kind of terror and a cause of many past nightmares – but the loss of him, Crowley, his very being. No more Crowley ever again, not in this body or any next. The thought had been so terrifying he'd rejected it immediately, and shut it away, but it was back now, a monster not constrained by drawers or cages of the mind. He'd realized there was no Aziraphale without Crowley, not really. And he couldn’t imagine it. But to keep him safe, to truly keep him safe–
“It’s getting awfully late. Maybe you should leave, now.”
–he needed to stay away.
“Eh?”
“I said it’s late, and I’m ti– tired… and– you should probably leave. We’ve spent– too much time together, today, have we not?” He tried to laugh, nervously, and Crowley furrowed his brows.
He got up anyway, abruptly and a little stiffly. “If that’s what you want, angel.”
It’s not what I want at all. “Yes.”
Aziraphale got up, as well, pushing his chair into the table and following Crowley to the door. The demon was walking briskly, but stopped short before reaching the exit. Aziraphale came up to his side, looking torn, and lifted a hand as if to hold him. He, too, stopped short before making contact. Let it drop.
“Angel,” Crowley started, but obviously didn’t know where to go with the words. What’s going on? The sudden change had thrown him off, and yet he was beginning to realize, slowly, what might have caused it. The worry in Aziraphale’s eyes was telling.
“I can’t have you risking your life for me,” Aziraphale said now, very quietly.
Crowley exhaled through his nostrils. We’ve both been risking our lives for each other for a very long time , he wanted to say. Wonder why that is? He said nothing. He didn’t want to think about the answer to that question, either.
Aziraphale looked at him, and there was something in that look, in that god-unforsaken gaze , that tore at Crowley’s insides, and he leaned forward: just a bit. And Aziraphale didn’t draw back. They stayed like that for a moment entirely too long for it to mean anything but one thing, but neither closed what little distance remained between them.
It was Crowley who turned away.
“Good night, angel,” he murmured, and Aziraphale only registered the sound of the little door bell as the Bentley was already roaring to life.
He stood there, alone, for several more moments, grappling with what had not happened, before he returned to the back room, where the photograph lay on the table, mocking him and his silly little human feelings. He didn’t want to look at it.
He should destroy it. Wasn’t that the right thing? The only thing? But Crowley’s absence hurt (already, already it hurt) and... what if he followed through and kept him at an arm’s length? What if nights like these were no longer possible? At least not until things had cooled down, one way or another. A few decades, maybe.
But he couldn't do it. Couldn’t bear it.
He pocketed the picture, carefully, in his waist coat. He suddenly felt like crying. Instead, he wandered into the shop, sat down at his desk, and opened a book. Paradise Lost. How wonderfully ironic.
He kept reading until dusk, and longer still, and when the little bell chimed again, announcing a brave and forlorn customer, Aziraphale slid the photograph between the pages, and closed the book, and got up with a smile.
Wordless, that's how it happens. How could you have put words to any of this? Six thousand years, they have talked. They've never said anything.
So why start now?
Crowley can't bear it, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Aziraphale is reading - looking down intently at his book, anyways. The tip of Crowley's shoe is pushing against his, and he has noticed. The proximity of his lanky form, almost towering, but gentler, more pliable, ready to bend to breezy whims. A soft shadow, but it doesn't reach or touch him. Not yet. Aziraphale grips his drink a little more tightly, imperceptively, holding on to the tangible reality of the warmed glass.
Sometimes, Crowley wonders what is going on in the angel's head. Ignoring him like that. Ignoring the unignorable. He stares down at him, the crown of his head. Halo, rather, no crown. He's no royalty. Halos are only holes, in the end, more nothing than structure. You can look through them, they are no shield. White curls beneath.
Maybe not so holy, after all.
No manners.
Crowley moves slowly, sinking like a broken ship towards the inevitable ocean floor, until his knee feels softness. It's not the ocean floor, not the end of the world. Another destination, a simpler one. The couch, fabric, his pants, his leg, knee against knee.
He leans over him, but sideways. No need to make it too obvious, what he is up to. For all intents and purposes, he is only resting his glass on the side table; the sort-of-accidental-semi-straddling is only something that happens as a byproduct. A by-thought. He can't see Aziraphale's face, but he knows, he knows the angel is caught up in a strategical weighing of procedure, a tug of conscience: the book and the demon. Attention to divert.
You can't ignore me, angel. You can't ignore this.
But I'm just resting my glass, resting my legs, too, beside yours.
I'll make you pay attention. Are you paying attention?
The story will have to wait.
He reaches for the book, first, takes it gently out of an immobile hand. No resistance at all. Only then does he look at his face, at last, but he's only looking at the glasses. Little round reading glasses, as senseless as the halo. Decoration. Crowley pulls them off, awkwardly with one hand only, and a handle snatches on Aziraphale's ear before he tugs it off. His legs settle more firmly on the couch, on the outside of Aziraphale's. He realizes the angel must have moved his legs to accomodate him better. But now he's still.
Aziraphale doesn't say anything, doesn't move: save his eyes. They seek his. But Crowley avoids the eyes.
Aziraphale is looking at him. He is not looking at Aziraphale.
He is ignoring Aziraphale.
But he cannot ignore the sudden intrusion of sound into the hold-your-breath-silence between them. Crowley blinks, pulls taught like a fraying rope: a clink, loud, a thud, muffled, a little trickle, almost a splash. Out of the corner of his eye, he feels the glass drop out of Aziraphale's hand. He only sees movement, not the mistake itself. Not the glass, lying empty on the carpet, nor the liquid spilling from it like feelings. Not the outcome. That comes later. He's only in the moment.
He can't concentrate on the spilled drink, he can only concentrate on the tremble of nerves and muscles he is feeling. It isn't his own body that does it. No, his body is calm. It's Aziraphale who's trembling, though it's the only movement he makes. So still, so soft. What do you want me to do? Aziraphale lets him proceed, and Crowley accepts the invitation, extended silently beneath Aziraphale's chest. The flutter of his heart. The shiver on his breath.
He wants to inspect him, study him, cease the tremble. He seizes him, ever so studiously. Tilts his head up.
What a face. So well-known, from afar and ever-up-closer, too, centuries of drawing nearer, but he finds something new to discover every time, a new kind of familar, understated beauty. No matter how many times you look up at the same night sky, does it ever cease to take your breath away? Old feelings, new feelings, but all of them warm and fuzzy and awestruck and good. So good, his angel. He doesn't need a halo to be good.
Crowley settles a hand on his lips. Soft lips, not chipped at all. Soft hair. Soft angel. Still so pliable.
At last, at last, Aziraphale moves. Crowley can't even see it - not because it's slow, but because it's out of his range of his vision, which is as fixed and immobile as Aziraphale's body has been, this whole time. He can't sway, he can't stray from his path. But he feels it: fingertips on his thigh, then fingers, a gentle pressure. A hesitant press of half a palm.
He can't look at his eyes. He can't do it.
If he does, he might stop. Might snap out of it, reconnect his body to his thoughts. Worse: he might see a hundred conflicting messages in the angel's eyes. So he doesn't. He keeps his eyes trained on his lips, and leans forward.
It tastes of oak and wood, tart first and then sharp at the back of his mouth, as he inhales. Their lips press firmly together. The pressure on his thigh is gone, but Crowley holds on to the face: he is afraid if he lets go, he might topple off the face of the earth. Or worse, the couch. And wouldn't that be undignified.
But then Aziraphale moves his lips, and Crowley moves his lips too, and the pressure of it shifts and the kiss shifts too. Crowley's thoughts, already teetering, tumble out of his head. The taste of alcohol dies away as they find something deeper, underlying, undefinable: the taste of each other.
Aziraphale's hands slowly settle back on Crowley, clutching gingerly at his back and at his hipbone. He doesn't shy away; he doesn't move their bodes closer together, either. Crowley wants to think he can hear another clink, envisions the halo dropping off his holy head, spinning on the floor before coming, finally, finally, to a rest. Only metal, now. A glow dying away. No more illusion or grandeur. Just them.
He still can't see Aziraphale's thoughts, but that's okay. That's tickety-boo. He can feel his lips, his hands.
The hands and the lips and the patches of leg are the only contact between them. But these points of contact are not to be ignored. In fact, they are ignoring everything else: the entire world.
Even sound, or the lack of it. It is still, silent, wordless. Their breaths come strained but softly, their lips make the barest of sounds. They couldn't speak even if they tried, molded together as they are. So close, and yet they could be so much closer. In body - let's not look at the spirit. We'd only be ignored.
No words pass between them. And yet.
And yet, Crowley's mouth is not shut any longer.
The angel cannot ignore that, and opens his own.
[i saw this insane art by @shoomlah and lost my mind, but hopefully not my words. you decide on that. they seized me.]
