Crowley has been with humanity since the beginning. The original serpent of eden, he is the first "monster" in humanity's bedtime stories. He is the figurative and literal demon on human's shoulders, always there to guide them one way or another. He's weaved through history itself, and prides himself on an impeccable track record of demonic activity throughout the last 6000 years.
But, naturally, after 6000 years, Crowley finds that he's spent more time pining after a certain Angel than doing any sort of work. Like, an extreme amount of pining.
And it isn't until after the notpocalypse that Crowley realizes that, entirely accidentally and very embarrassingly, he may have accidentally made his pining very, very public.
One of Crowley's favorite ways to waste a day is to take Aziraphale to different museums around the world and watch as the angel wanders around and points out all of the inaccuracies
"Good Lord Crowley, have you seen this painting? Portraying you as a dragon is a tad dramatic, I think. All we were doing were having a picnic. And I have never had my hair looking like that, thank you."
"I don't know Angel, they've got your wings spot on. Wa-Hang on, have they added horns to my head?"
"Oh, I see, suddenly it's only inaccurate when they've got you wrong."
The museums always seem to be miraculously empty, and whenever Crowley mentions this, Aziraphale suddenly finds a new, very interesting piece of art to admire
Crowley admires the lengths Aziraphale goes to to hide the small miracles he's done for Crowley's sake
As if Crowley wouldn't move literal mountains for the angel
*He did, actually, do that once.
In the 12th century, they were having a lovely evening together with multiple caskets of wine, up until Aziraphale complained about the amount of light in his eyes
"Honestly Crowley, all this sun and no shade, it must truly be awful for the humans around here with no shelter. It's a tad much, even for me."
Crowley, even then, immediately recognized this off-hand comment as an underhanded complaint, and knew that would not stand
When the small earthquake passed, Crowley claimed that the nearby church was on a fault line and he was simply doing his demonic duty by damaging holy goods in the area
If Aziraphale realized that the mountain range in the distance suddenly provided much more sun coverage, he never mentioned it.
Currently, however, Crowley follows Aziraphale around, wandering behind him and never truly looking at the things in the museum
In every single place they've ever gone together, there was only ever one thing that deserved Crowley's attention
And it certainly was not an inaccurate model of a 18th century tea set
But when Aziraphale wanders into a hall titled 'Love of the Past', he starts to panic. Just a very tiny amount, basically none at all. A small enough amount of panic that he could deny it, even to himself.
He thinks about the past, towards the beginning, back when Humanity was still getting it's footing and figuring out how to have governments and societies and (the most important part) figuring out the whole alcohol situation
Throughout the years, especially towards the beginning, Crowley began to resent any time not spent with Aziraphale
Everything seemed small and dull when compared to the way the Angel smiled when he saw new type of human dessert, or the way he laughed when Crowley managed to work out a clever comment
And once Crowley experienced those things, he never wanted anything else
He had seen the poetry the humans had written, how much emotion they could pour into a simple piece of parchment or a clay tablet
He never cared for written word, but he was shocked at just how much feeling the humans could manage to pour into words
So after Aziraphale left Rome (after the oysters and the wine and the smiles, for somebody's sake the smiles), he went due east for a new miracle on another continent
Crowley stayed and got well and truly drunk. As he did best.
He had spent a few weeks around the other drunks around the area, most poverty stricken and saddened with some sort of grief of one type or another
It wasn't until a group of poets wandered into his dark corner of the pub that he started to considered writing
Obviously nothing anyone would ever read, he'd ensure that. Every scroll or parchment that he'd touch with a quill would be burnt with hellfire before it left his sight
But, as many of his worst ideas started, he had nothing better to do and too much time to think
So he wrote. He wrote letters, first addressed to nobody, about random thoughts that would pop into his very intoxicated brain. Whether humans would ever find traces of the unicorns they lost on the ark, whether he would ever find a way to count just how many scales he had, whether he would ever reach a point where he didn't have to cover his eyes every day
Slowly, the letters started becoming addressed to 'A'. Whether he was conscious of this or not, he'd never admit.
But he wrote. He wrote to A about Hell, the jobs they required of him, the things they'd have him do. He wrote of the way humans had beaten him to the punch 90% of the time. How they would do things worse than Satan himself could imagine, and they'd never blink an eye while doing it.
He wrote of the way the sun darkened each day that passed without his Angel, the way his wine never seemed to have enough flavor when he was alone.
He wrote of the ways he imagined he could orchestrate an elaborate reunion, a convoluted mess of too much demonic activity in a small area that just happened to have a wonderful new tea, or so he's heard, and wouldn't it be a shame to leave the town without tempting the angel to try it?
He wrote to A about how he was sure he had no heart, no emotions. He was a Demon, for somebody's sake, he certainly had no need for stupid things like that, and so the ache in his corporation's chest when he sees the Angel had to be some sort of malfunction.
Anatural function, surely, that could be fixed with the right amount of aloofness and strong liquor
He wrote of the way the sun always seemed to hit the Angel's hair just right, and Crowley had no faith, he had no God.
But in those moments, with a halo around the angel and that smile aimed towards him, he might consider praying now to a different source altogether, a closer source. One full of life and light and actual proper goodness, not that fake advertised bullshit they plaster on church walls in pretty paintings and sad songs
Crowley wrote for a long while, and found that the writing helped the pain.
Even if only because it brought on memories of Aziraphale, and that was enough to hold him until they met again. It had to be, he had no choice in the matter.
And he wrote so often throughout the ages, and often while he was drunk. And he was so sure, so positive that he had burned every trace of his heart and emotion out of existence.
He had to be. The danger those words could put Aziraphale in was far too great. He couldn't be bothered to care of the danger to himself, but the fact that the very hint of any emotion could come close to hurting his Angel was enough to ensure that they would never come across another being's eyes.
He destroyed every letter and word that described his desire, his pain, his greed. He ripped the words he created out of reality as easily as he had written them. Every time, he burnt the parchment, and every time, it burnt a part of him with it.
And then the Apocalypse had happened. Or, well, didn't happen, he supposed. Really, he wasn't entirely sure if there was a difference.
Because everything had changed, even if the rest of the world hadn't noticed. And he was suddenly allowed to see Aziraphale with no excuse, no half-hearted reasoning behind it. He was allowed to want, and to crave, and he relished it.
And he was allowed to take the angel to museums to watch him fuss over small mistakes humanity had collected throughout the ages
Until he realized that they had, in fact, also collected HIS mistakes.
In a hall. A whole bloody hall. A hall, dedicated to and full of stupid parchment and sappy letters and wine stains over words written so long ago
And honestly who gave them the right? Leave it to the humans to collect other people's belongings and put it on display as their own
And he knew, from the moment Aziraphale read the first page on display, he just knew. This was it. All of it was ruined.
All because Crowley had gotten so drunk and passed out in his room above the pub, and when they'd thrown him out in a drunken stupor, they'd collected his belongings to sell afterwards. And he'd never even realized, so concerned about the next meeting, the arrangement, concerned about anything and everything except the one thing he forgot about and could end them both.
Any moment now, Aziraphale would look up at him, with disgust and confusion and all those emotions that he'd really rather not see on his face, preferably ever, but especially not towards him.
But Aziraphale never looks up. He reads the first page 5, 6, 7 times, being sure to capture every single word. Every wrinkle in the paper, every crease.
Then he moves to the next, and then the next. He repeats this process. Every page, he scours each and every page. Searching and scanning, analyzing every word.
Crowley is frozen at the entrance of the hall, too terrifed to say a word, but too hopeful to leave. He stands there, suddenly feeling the same feeling in his chest that he felt so many years ago, in the corner of the pub, sitting in the dark, wishing for the light that he knew would never come.
He's so panicked, that he doesn't notice Aziraphale finishing the last page, and wiping the tears from his eyes. He startles when he accidentally meets his eyes, and prepares a number of excuses and deflections, all to preserve this shred of peace and safety they had carved out for themselves.
"Angel, I- you really- ngk- humans are so rid- are you hungry? I could eat, I've heard they've got a killer bar around here, and we cou-I can get us there in 10 minutes, ngk actu- scratch that, we could be there in 5, I bet. Museums aren-angel?"
Crowley finds himself stopping the random stream of words coming out of his mouth, when he notices tears in Aziraphale's eyes
"Angel, I-"
That's all Crowley can get out before Aziraphale is walking towards him with a purpose
And suddenly Aziraphale is very close to him
Very very close
And suddenly Aziraphale's lips are on his, and Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley's jacket, and Crowley's hands are just waving in the air back and forth while he processes the last .5 seconds.
By the time he realizes what is actually happening, Aziraphale pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Crowley's, and laughs.
He laughs. Laughs. Aziraphale is laughing and it's a wonderful, beautiful noise and Crowley doesn't quite understand why, but then he's laughing too and then they are both standing there, arms around each other, laughing and Crowley realizes now that all the words he's written, all the praises he sang of his Aziraphale, the way he wished and prayed for his heart and laugh and love
Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.
Meanwhile Aziraphale has been observing humans for the 6000 years. He has been admiring the different ways they communicate, not just with words but with art also.
Aziraphale loves to go to the museums with Crowley. Yes, he teases him about the fact they never paint them right and points out all the inconsistencies, but he admires the paintings.
They may have painted his hair in a bit of unfashionable way (honestly, he never liked the classical angelical long curls, it was just not for him) and may have have added horns to Crowley, but just the thought, that someone spent countless hours working on a painting, which depicted them, filled Aziraphale with excitement and joy.
He tried to remember every one of them because if he and Crowley get called to their positions in Heaven and Hell and never see each other again, or get discorporated and won't be able to return, or are just punished for all the "fraternising" they did, he'd have an image to remember.
Aziraphale would have something to hold on, a certainty that somewhere, in some museum, they are together.
Always and forever together. (And God damn that stupid hairstyle or the horns, that doesn't matter!)
And yet Aziraphale sometimes feels sad that it's never them. Well yes, it's them but just not them.
It's only a painting (doesn't matter how good). It's never something really theirs. It's like seing thousands copies of yourself in the museums, but on each copy something is of and it just isn't you.
Aziraphale desperately wants to have something truly theirs in a museum, where someone will take care of it and protect it.
But he knows that's impossible. And this fills him with inexplicable sadness and melancholy.
Of course, he tried to make something. And he got really good at drawing.
He could paint and draw the most realistic portraits and scenes but yet there was something missing.
He never knew what. Was it the twinkle in Crowley's eyes? Or the way he smiled?
The way Crowley laughed or spoke about new inventions.
Crowley once mentioned this Leonardo. Crowley seemed to be a big fan of his (and he implied that some of Leonardo's ideas may have not been entirely Leonardo's... that he may have done some diabolical inspirating)
Was it the way Crowley's eyes would look at him when they drank wine? Or when they were just walking around London?
What was he missing?
He tried over and over again, but it seemed like he couldn't expres his feelings the way humans did.
But everytime he went for a dinner with Crowley, he felt that inexplicable feeling. Was that what humans described as love?
He didn't know.
Aziraphale's heart ached becuase he couldn't say "I love you" just like humans.
He tried to say it. To paint it. But he was never successful.
The closes he felt to saying "I love you" was whenever he had a good dinner and wine with Crowley.
That seemed to be enough for him.
And then he remembered that this all might crumble down. And nowhere will there be any trace of them.
He was afraid during the Apocalypse. Not because of himself but because something might happen to Crowley.
When Crowley called one morning after the supposed end of the world and proposed an idea to go to a museum, Aziraphale gladly agreed.
They walked through the halls and eventually came to the last one.
"In this exhibition you can see love lettres from the past. We don't know who wrote them and if they were ever delivered, but the love in these is so strong you can feel it even today. These love letters are surely a document of pure and true love," read the sign.
Aziraphale walked to the first letter.
"I don't even know what to write, A. I'm writing whatever comes to my mind in a hope it'll relieve me of the burden I feel. I shoudn't feel this way. I mustn't feel this way."
He blushed, his thoughts racing at maximum speed.
It couldn't be... Could it?
And as he read on, he was sure.
This was them in a museum. This was their trace. Something to say: We were here. And we were here together.
This was the greatest thing someone has ever done to him.
He read the letters countless times, memorizing every word, every tiny inkblot.
He wanted to seal them in his heart, somewhere deep where anyone but him could reach them.
"Angel, I- you really- ngk- humans are so rid- are you hungry? I could eat, I've heard they've got a killer bar around here, and we cou-I can get us there in 10 minutes, ngk actu- scratch that, we could be there in 5, I bet. Museums aren-angel?" Crowley was fighting with his words.
Aziraphale smiled and started walking over to him.
"Angel, I-" Crowley turned bright red.
Aziraphale knew everything. And he wanted Crowley to know how grateful he was for all of this. He wanted to show him he felt the same way.
Aziraphale leaned in. He knew what he was doing. And he was closer and closer to Crowley until their lips touched.
This was it. This was them.
Aziraphale started laughing. Everything he has ever wanted was there.
"You said something about a bar? I'd love to go." This was his way of saying "I love you."
Crowley knew that.
Aziraphale remembered all the paintings he saw and did. What are they in comaprison to this?
Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.
@thethingswedotomorrow , thank you, it was a joy to read and then to write.♥️
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. This was absolutely beautiful, thank you so so much, words cannot express how happy this made me ❤️❤️
THANK YOU! Now I feel obligated to say that words cannot express how much happy I am! 💛💛💛 (imagine that's the vavoom colour)
