[ Oh no. This was not in the plan, this was very much not in the plan and Crowley will honestly be the death of him. All that Aziraphale had ever wanted to do was the right thing, and he has landed himself in the mess just because he gave into his own base wants and desires. In the intimate folds of their wings, on the tips of Crowley's fingers and the very core of him, he had found a personal Eden. There they both had been, and Aziraphale had reached for the apple and held his hand out for Crowley to have a taste.
It was nothing short of damnation, and how is he supposed to explain that to Crowley without placing any blame on he, cause of the original sin? ]
I don't--
[ He forcefully closes his eyes shut and then slowly turns around to face Crowley; how could Aziraphale possibly face him at a moment like this? He's rooted to the spot, but he lets Crowley approach, trying very hard not to let any of his emotions stray onto his face. ]
Yes, Crowley, did I forget something?
[ Often, he thinks about Crowley and panics. His heart seizes, his lungs frozen, and damn his brutally honest eyes; they look as if they might have beheld the greatest treasure in all the world and told the world to keep it. His words are tight, veering close to giving up the whole ghost, and he bites his tongue and wishes he had just run away. It could be that Crowley is angry with him, and he has every right to be, and Aziraphale can only hope it were so easy, that they could both walk away from this and he could just be, for once, the villain. ]
[ Well, at least that stopped him. Crowley'd like to erase all pretense between them, he'd like to take that look from Aziraphale's eyes when he turns to face him, something close to panic, but at least he's stopped. Crowley walks around the car towards him, hands in his pockets, not bothering to answer that question. Of course Aziraphale hasn't forgotten anything, unless one counts a certain quality of truth which may be owed, after the intimacy they've shared. Surely even a demon might ask for that much. Oh yes, Crowley is angry, though he hates the look on Aziraphale's face and would do just about anything to banish it. He tips his head a little to the side when he stands in front of Aziraphale, studying him, considering. ]
Come on, now, what's all this about?
[ His voice is pitched low, and it's gentled considerably now, because if there's anything Crowley dislikes worse than seeing Aziraphale in distress, it's being the cause of it. And he gave him the holy water. That very act is still resonating within his soul like some divine music. It makes him want to fall to his knees and kiss Aziraphale's hands; it makes him want to manifest his wings and fold them around him and make them both part of the dark night, out of reach of anyone who might seek to come between them. ]
You don't think I'd let you walk away like this, do you? Go off all alone with yourself, thinking very stupid thoughts about how we can't be together.
[ His voice trembles just slightly on those last few words. Doesn't Aziraphale love him, long for him too? Crowley knows he does. He touches Aziraphale's hand, tangling his long fingers with his. ]
[ He actually was hoping that Crowley would let him go off and be on his own for a little while, because it didn't take six thousand years for Crowley to sink into his very bones, but it would take more than that to rid him from them, to placate his heart enough to even start to believe that maybe he could move forward from this. ]
They're not stupid thoughts, Crowley. This is wrong.
[ But he doesn't disentangle his fingers yet, not even on this busy street in the neighborhood in which Aziraphale conducts business in the middle of 1967 where people can see them hold hands and have a lover's row. Forget what they may think.
He touches Crowley for the first time in what may only be a few years but what feels like millennia, and his traitorous mind conjures the thought of Crowley's body pressed against his, and Crowley's wings folded over his own, cradling him as his eyes opened from slumber, kissing his temple where lay his black mark. Fully and unapologetically, he had at the time, accepted Crowley's demonic nature, knowing what burden it bore. Why, why had he done that in such haste? ]
Crowley, we really...
[ Aziraphale reaches over with his other hand and clasps Crowley's in between the two of his, soft and perfectly-manicured wearing an angel's signet ring and everything so very conventional. ]
We can't.
[ He feels so small in this moment, so pitiable and yet so undeserving of any pity whatsoever. He murmurs underneath his breath, softly so that only Crowley may hear, words he hopes no one else cares to. Really, they should get out of this street; this was poorly thought-out but Aziraphale is all too self-aware that he's grown careless. He hadn't thought anything could have been heavier on his heart than shying away from Crowley the first time. ]
[ His jaw shifts when Aziraphale says that it's wrong, the two of them together, the only sign of a physical reaction to the stab of pain it provokes under his ribs. As if Crowley hasn't known all along that a demon has no business falling in love with an angel--no, not just falling, but loving him for six thousand years, keeping all that secret lonely passion buried deep within him, until the night that Aziraphale reached out to him and told him he knows that he loves, that Crowley alone of all demons has never forgotten how to love. All that happened that night ruined him, made him anew. He's spent the last decade in a haze of pain and joy and longing, not knowing who he is except when he's with Aziraphale, when it seems to him as though the entire purpose of his creation was to be made to love him.
And now Aziraphale tells him that it's all wrong, and clasps Crowley's hand between his mercilessly, while Crowley can't help but stare at him with such yearning he's surprised it doesn't burn up one of them on the spot. ]
Of course we can. [ he says insistently, speaking purely in terms of the drink, ignoring that Aziraphale may have meant anything else. He steps in closer, and the hand Aziraphale isn't holding lifts to touch him, his thumb giving a subtle stroke at the edge of his jaw. ]
One drink, angel, what's the harm?
[ Oh, Aziraphale. He wants to make it impossible. How can he even think of leaving--how can he think they'll ever be free of one another? ]
Come with me. You're just going home anyway, might as well let me drive.
[ Crowley looks at Aziraphale with the kind of earnest longing that could bring a mountain to its knees, and he is just not that strong. He should have kept walking, because he can feel his resolve crumbling from stone to sand.
He knows it won't be one drink, not with the way that Crowley looks at him now. He can't see his own face, but he is doubtless that there writ is the truth. He never really was good at lying, and how could he even have made the attempt when Crowley always saw right through to the heart of him? Neither does he want to send the message that he doesn't want to salvage this friendship, the most important of things that Aziraphale has collected in this world of excess. No, he has gone about this the wrong way and he knows he has lost. He knows there is no small part of him that's glad for it, but that part would, with reckless abandon, gather Crowley into his arms and declare his love right there; that part had cunningly held him back just long enough for this self sabotage. ]
One drink. Nothing more.
[ The last part is said like a warning but there's really no bite behind it; Aziraphale believes it's a foregone conclusion that he should be unable to chase Crowley away this night, that he might, himself in his weakness, instigate something wholly stupid. Because the most honestly that Aziraphale had ever lived was that night, and try as he might, he has always been a terrible liar.
He starts to head toward the Bentley, wondering how long he can keep this up. An hour? Ten minutes? One, even? ]
[ For a breath of time he thinks it’s possible that Aziraphale will refuse, and the bleakness of that thought doesn’t bear following; to imagine a world in which they would no longer allow themselves the love that has, perhaps, been between them since the dawn of the earth, even one in which they are no more than occasional co-conspirators (fraternizing, he thinks with revulsion) is to imagine one in which there will be little happiness ever again. Perhaps Crowley has no right to expect to be happy, even less to experience the almost unbearable joy he feels when Aziraphale holds him in his arms, love wrapped around him like wings. But he is greedy for it. He’s gotten a taste for it now, and he won’t surrender so easily.
Crowley decides not to answer the warning in Aziraphale’s voice: he suspects only agreement would make the angel feel better, and to agree would be to lie, because Crowley has no intention of letting this go at one drink. Instead he only squeezes Aziraphale’s hand briefly, as a form of assurance, and then lets go, indicating with a motion of his head the car.
Once they’re in he reaches over to the glove box, making sure the holy water in its thermos is still there. He can’t help being jumpy about it, starting the car without comment and peeling away from the curb.
After a little while, though, he can’t help but speak up. ]
[ Of all the cruel things he could do, and that he has done to Crowley -- pretending like Aziraphale doesn't still think of him and love him as the whole of his parts, the snake and the troublemaker yes, but the creator, the hanger of stars, the being who couldn't forget how to love -- denying him their friendship would be one step far too cruel.
The drive is excruciatingly long, and marked so deeply with silence. Aziraphale tries and fails several times to come up with something to fill up the space with something besides the music, because not to do so means being alone with his thoughts and with possessing an imagination so wild as to compete with Crowley's, it's certainly dangerous territory. He's glad to have Crowley punctuate the silence, and give him something else to think about besides the grip of his fingers on the wheel and the pattern on his new shirt. ]
I thought maybe you had changed your mind, you never mentioned it again. It wasn't until I found out about the heist that I realized you were still looking.
[ There's a bit of a pause, and Aziraphale holding his hands as fists on his thighs, but he speaks up. ]
I couldn't let you go through with it. I still don't like it, but I can't let you cause your own destruction out of desperation, especially not for something I can provide.
[ Is he really talking about just the holy water anymore? He supposes he never really was, hiding behind things to say for the things he would really like to say instead. But he also really hopes it shouldn't come to that, that they can make another Arrangement in which they understand that love just doesn't conquer all, and haven't they been on this Earth long enough to know it? Hasn't Crowley, who has already fallen once, who has already seen God punish temptation when she herself was the one who placed the apple, ripe for picking, in the middle of Eden?
In actuality, it's a very short drive to the bookshop, and even though it's a busy night, there is miraculously a space to park right out front. Aziraphale gets out of the car and fumbles with the keys, something he hasn't done since the shop opened. ]
[ It’s an interminable drive for Crowley, too, with all his fears and anxieties writhing within him. If only Aziraphale would let him feel that love, the love for the whole of his parts, the love that Crowley knows in his soul was never once imagined or feigned. With Aziraphale guarding it away so carefully he feels like a creature starving, dying for the only love that has been given to him for six thousand years. Yet if he wants the proof that it is still there, that Aziraphale still feels it for him, he has only to think of the thermos in the glove box. It keeps him from going to pieces, giving in to bewilderment and pain.
He considers what Aziraphale says, and what things are left unsaid, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. ]
But you can’t know that it would have ended in destruction, can you?
[ Crowley reaches over and switches off the radio, the low music beneath their words and their silences getting on his nerves. ]
Do you think anything that would drive a person to desperation can never be worth it? That there couldn’t be any reason worth risking one’s life for?
[ Yes, he’s fallen, he knows what there is to lose. But isn’t it Aziraphale who’s always spoken of the Plan, the divine will that moves the universe in ways they can’t comprehend or even imagine? Who is to say what their place in it is—if their love must be forbidden? They have been with one another in the most intimate ways known to creation, and no fire has rained down from the sky, no earth has shattered beneath their feet. No sign of punishment.
He pulls up to the curb, slotting the Bentley into the open space and switching off the engine. Following Aziraphale to the front door, Crowley notices him fumble with the keys but pretends to take an interest in some old volume displayed in a shop window, not wanting to make him self-conscious. Once Aziraphale gets the door open he follows him in, standing beside him for a moment and touching his shoulder lightly. ]
Drink? [ They both very much need it, he suspects. ]
[ Aziraphale goes to pull out a bottle of wine, an old vintage from the 1800s, shiny from how often he drinks from this one, drinking and refilling and drinking once more. He pours them both glasses, and takes a seat in his favorite squashy chair surrounded by all his favorite things. He has lived a life of excess instead of a life of austerity, and no one had complained, that's true. But if God asked him to give all this up, claimed that it was clouding his judgment and his service, then he would do so for her Love. True, that he had not remained chaste as a servant of God does, and he had known gluttony very well, and pride, and greed. True, that he does not love his neighbor, that he wears mixed fabric, that he has lied -- and God had never asked him not to do these things, had not even been disappointed when he'd lost the thing bestowed to him by her. ]
No.
[ He says, in finality, but seemingly out of the blue. ]
I can't know what will end in destruction, it is not my place.
But neither would I ask The Almighty for her permission, and isn't that the same thing as knowing the result?
[ Honestly, she doesn't even take his calls anymore. He does not want to be rerouted to The Metatron, or Gabriel. It isn't as if he has anything of import to bother her with, this being too intimate and too personal to warrant a face to face meeting. ]
How do you propose we keep this a secret? To keep ourselves in check?
[ He doesn't mean to ask this as if chiding him, because he wants an honest answer. He wants a plan, he wants Crowley and his pleasant company and delightful mind. Would he keep a candle, unlit, and have it with him always, or burn it and enjoy its warmth for a few scant hours until there is none left? He looks at Crowley, desperate for an answer, any answer, because he'd like to believe there is hope in this. He just needs a stronger reason to defy Heaven than love; only madness lies that way. ]
[ Crowley takes the glass of wine and drinks about half of it down rather quickly, with a sinful lack of attention to the quality of the vintage. It's extremely good, and ordinarily he would be impressed, but his mind is somewhere else at the moment. He watches Aziraphale make his way over to his arm chair, feeling rooted to the spot himself. Then when Aziraphale has seated himself, and has sat in silence for a while (Crowley watching him hungrily from where he stands, almost pleadingly) and then at last speaks up, then Crowley moves, striding towards the couch where he usually sprawls out, but turning restlessly away from it at the last moment. ]
How could you ask Her even if you wanted to?
[ Bitterness lashes from his voice, but it's not directed at Aziraphale, not particularly. But what he wants to say is, what gives God any business in their affairs, his and Aziraphale's? When was the last time She spoke to either of them? It's been longer for Crowley than Aziraphale, surely, far longer. He used to wonder--not pray, but wonder--if forgiveness would ever be granted him. He used to fear to ask. Now he thinks, God can keep Her forgiveness and permission and all the rest. He doesn't want it: he only wants Aziraphale.
He moves towards him a step or two, but then checks that motion as well. Turning back to the couch, Crowley perches moodily on one of its arms. ]
We could go on as we have done.
[ He finishes off the wine in his glass before he continues, and grabs the bottle to pour another. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale's eyes on him, the way the angel looks at him with desperation, and Crowley can't meet that look, he can't, otherwise he'd seize Aziraphale in his arms and never let him go. ]
We'll meet, we'll talk business, we'll--we'll spend the night together if we want. No one needs to know. They don't know anything up there, do they? No one has a clue down below.
[ It sounds awful, he thinks. Cold and transactional. He swallows wine down a painfully tight throat. ]
[ That sounds so clinical, so very official. It reminds him of those big white halls of Heaven, with their dress code patternless and devoid of color, airy and light and highly exalted as beautiful. Meanwhile, Aziraphale filled every nook and cranny of his living space with the creations of man, books stacked high filled with their knowledge. He consumes their cuisines, so lovingly crafted. He loves to tend their gardens, to ponder the brushstrokes of their paintings, to let their notes and their declarations move him to emotion. Aziraphale loves to see beauty in the imperfection, uninspired by perfection. Bored by it.
Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
[ He can feel Aziraphale looking, even as Crowley stares into his wine glass behind the dark lenses that conceal his eyes, and oh--he'll ruin him, his angel will, looking at him like that, the way he can always do with just a glance, a word, a caress. He shifts uncomfortably, willing away the very physical reaction his body takes to Aziraphale's scrutiny. Memories of being beneath Aziraphale on this very couch scald him. Why is it that he can undo him so easily, why is it his very nearness makes Crowley shake with longing, like something within him is shattering apart? And yet it's so beguiling, every moment of it. He drinks more wine, his tongue feeling numbed to taste; it has no savor, nothing does, now that he's tasted Aziraphale's kisses, his cock, everything they have shared in intimacy--the brightness of his love, which Crowley starved for for so many long millennia. ]
Suppose not.
[ His voice is tight with misery. Seeing Aziraphale now and again is better than not seeing him at all. Things will go on much as they always have, all the time they've known one another. Except Crowley knows now, because he can feel it already, how much this will hurt: to pretend away the soul-searing love that makes him ache to be with Aziraphale all the time, or to lock it within except for the times it feels safe enough to bring it out--
Nothing, nothing about this is safe. Aziraphale's right, it's a madness. What can he offer, to ask an angel to defy Heaven? ]
Aziraphale, I--
[ Crowley looks at him now, voice catching in his throat, longing like something that will burn him up from within. ]
Will it make you happy, to do that? Is it what you want?
[ He has himself to offer, he thinks, it's all he's ever had--whatever a demon like him is worth. ]
[ He doesn't take another moment to think, because he doesn't need one. ]
No. Of course not, nothing could make me happy but to be with you.
[ There, he's spoken his truth, and it feels like he's been slapped in the face. The expression that he wears is pained, as if it is the most difficult thing to just get Crowley to see that yes, it's about their love, it's about him and Aziraphale both, and how they are so deeply intertwined that should one of them sink, the other one would be sure to follow. He is moored to Crowley's heart, would carve his own out just to make a space for him. The trouble is not how little he feels but how profoundly he does, how close he is to forsaking Heaven and all the rest that he is, for what else is he but an Angel? ]
But we are not free agents. We don't have the liberty to love each other. If I could recreate this world, and we could do what we wished with it, a hundred, a million times over I would choose that we could be together.
[ And what a shameful, what an unkind game God plays, to know the two of them would love like this. To know that Aziraphale would question a faith that wouldn't allow him this, that would look at these two halves of one whole and tell them they must be apart like a head with no shoulders or a tree with no roots. It's insane, and it's eating him from the inside out until he's hollow. God must know, how he craves for Crowley's mouth and the fit of his embrace, the timbre of his laughter, the curve of his hips. And God had loved him once, to create him, to breathe life into him; how could she have stopped? It isn't something that Aziraphale can understand or cares to, but in this disagreement he knows that she is wrong not to love him, not to forgive him, to turn a blind to his good. ]
[ The pain is Aziraphale's face seems like it will carve the heart from Crowley's chest. Yes: where Aziraphale sinks, Crowley follows. Wherever he goes Crowley follows. If he said that he would be happy with an Arrangement of so impersonal a nature, both of them guarding away their hearts, hiding their love not merely from their respective offices but one another, except perhaps for the occasional stumble, the occasional moment of surrender...Crowley would have done his best to be reconciled to it. If it was what Aziraphale wanted.
But it isn't, and Crowley knew--he knew it would have been a lie, if Aziraphale said yes, and it wouldn't have mattered, he would have had no choice but to accept it; how brave of his angel, he thinks, and Crowley is aching with pain and love for him, and he can't stay apart a moment longer. In a desperate motion he pushes himself off the couch and sinks to his knees before Aziraphale, grasping the angel's hands in his. His gaze turns up to him--he lets go only for an instant, to pull off his sunglasses and let them fall--and he looks at Aziraphale like he is the sun, the starlight, the shining fire of Heaven. He can't help it. ]
We could--be for ourselves, then, Aziraphale.
[ He swallows, the audacity of it vivid and swelling, his eyes bright. ]
We should be. What has Heaven or Hell done for us? Why do we give them everything, what is it all for, if we can't have one another?
[ Aziraphale feels his face turn red, and he is ashamed. Crowley decided he would risk dying to procure a little insurance, of course he would defy Hell for this sorry angel who, with heavy heart, looks away from Crowley for being unable to meet his eyes. ]
This is precisely what I mean, Crowley! These are words of a fool chasing his own grave.
[ He wants to pull Crowley back up by his hands, but they are so warm and feel like home, the only one that Aziraphale had ever wanted, here on Earth in the confines of his bookshop with all the things that an angel shouldn't want or have need for.
Why, he asks of God but only in his minds' voice, is it so bad to love him and be loved by him in return? What is so unforgivable about Crowley, so terrible that Aziraphale should even want to resist? Should he had still been an angel, no one would take issue. They could openly express their devotion in the too-empty, too-expansive halls of Heaven. Who do they hurt with this, and since when is love a sin? Why even send an angel to Earth, to be left alone for millenia, knowing what he is and what he is made of?
He clasps Crowley's hands and leans into him, nuzzles into his chest and buries his face there, drawing Crowley's hand around his back. ]
You ask me what Heaven gave me, the answer is nothing. But God gave me you, and I can't turn my back on her.
[ Crowley shakes his head, wordless—he’s not, he’s not chasing anything but Aziraphale, he wants nothing but him. He reaches for him when he comes near, pulls Aziraphale to him even as he buries his face in Crowley’s chest and pulls a hand behind his back, and his fingers clench there in Aziraphale’s clothes, the other hand disentangles so he can wrap both arms around him. He presses his lips to Aziraphale’s hair for a long moment. Perhaps the angel can feel how he’s shaking, how he’s close to coming apart; but Aziraphale makes him whole. He isn’t a lonely demon wandering the earth when he feels him close like this. He is wanted and loved, and it means more to him than any other allegiance. ]
Then take me. Take me as I am—as She gave me to you. Wasn’t I already fallen when we met? If we’re not meant to love then why—why would She do that, why would She be so cruel?
[ Crowley wants to believe in this God, the one Aziraphale speaks of—the one who gave Crowley to him. Isn’t it possible that it was Her design all along? Not a test, not a punishment, just the two of them meant for one another, whatever their natures. ]
What have you ever done to be punished for?
[ He strokes Aziraphale’s hair, like light and silk in his fingers, so soft and beautiful, and thinks, what God could not love him? It’s unimaginable. ]
[ How Aziraphale hates to see Crowley this way, broken and coming apart at the seams, his body insufficient to hold this firebrand of a soul threatening to burn the both of them up. And he indulges, breathing in the scent closest to his skin, a fond memory that washes over him now and fills him with warmth. His arms, so tight, anchor themselves on him. And as he calms, he begins to rub Crowley's back, soothingly, placatingly.
He thinks there is truth in this, that God would not be so cruel, that he was always meant to love, and so why wouldn't he? But he hasn't been good - he's meant to be thwarting Crowley, not co-conspiring with him. He isn't supposed to do temptations, and he certainly isn't supposed to entrust his blessings to a demon. He has given way to sloth and gluttony and greed and lust, those are his sins. He is trying to deny himself to Crowley, who he loves so dearly, who trembles before him like a leaf begging him to stay, desperately holding onto something good. That feels like a greater sin, to have turned away from Crowley, to be telling him that they can't and that Aziraphale won't. ]
Lord, forgive me.
[ It's a rush of air more than words, and out of his lungs leaves a void he seeks to fill with this embrace. ]
What if they come for us?
[ It's not an unfounded fear, but it is an acquiescence. He doesn't want to break both their hearts, not like this. But neither can he stand the unknowing, staying in the shadows. It will be a painful punishment to bear, but he thinks right now that nothing could be more painful than watching Crowley crumble like this. Nothing could compare. ]
[ He holds Aziraphale breathlessly close in his arms, unwilling to loosen his grasp or let go of the desperate need to have him there; he thinks please, please don’t leave, please don’t tell me to go, the fiercest and most earnest prayer he’s ever offered. To lose this would be beyond bearing. Aziraphale in his arms, his hand beginning to stroke over his back, gentling him, soothing his fears—the kindness and goodness of him, all the qualities that Crowley loves so fiercely about him and has done from the moment they met. Something in his chest eases just the littlest bit when Aziraphale breathes out that prayer for forgiveness. Trembling, Crowley holds onto him, swallowing when he speaks again. The rush of relief is dizzying. They may have some way to go to reach an understanding, but it isn’t a refusal.
It’s a moment or two before he trusts himself to speak. ]
That’s what the insurance is for.
[ The holy water—they’ll need it now more than ever. ]
I...I can possibly get something for your side as well.
[ Crowley’s reluctant to say it, but it’s only pragmatic. The more they’re together, the more likely it is that they’ll eventually be found out. ]
Maybe they won’t notice. And if they do we could—we could find someplace safe to go.
[ He sounds offended, as he often does when someone makes an outlandish implication. ]
I won't kill an angel.
[ Even the ones he has no love for, which, in all honesty, is most of them. He has particular distaste for the likes of Gabriel and Sandalphon, the angels who truly believe they're above the others, as if Heaven's hierarchy were about something so humane as that. Still, he does not want to destroy anyone's soul; he never has before, never even killed a human. It was an odd thing to think about, a contingency plan. It left a bad taste in his mouth to have to discuss something so horrible.
But then, there was Crowley. And Aziraphale would not let any harm befall him, not if he could help it. He knows that much, having procured the holy water for him, having so carefully and tightly screwed the lid and toweled the rest. Here now, unable to resist giving him all the love he can and patching up all the wounds his love might cure. As if he could hear Crowley's prayer and as if he had the power to answer it, he clings onto him and vows to himself never to let Crowley feel abandoned ever again. Aziraphale wouldn't want to so much as insinuate such a betrayal.
Still, he has questions. The plan is very important, he would need to think about it. ]
And where would we go? We aren't that difficult to track.
[ At least, Aziraphale wasn't. But Aziraphale was not meant for espionage, for stowing away or turning from the light. He would, as punishment, possibly accept his end were it not for Crowley. No, he vowed it unto himself; and so, if it came down to it, he would leave everything and run with Crowley as fast as he could, as far away where no one would think to look for them. Living, as he had, these past few years -- pushing Crowley out of his shop, holding back his kisses-- that wasn't living at all. ]
[ An edge of anxiety in his voice, his hands tightening a little where he clutches Aziraphale, unwilling and afraid to let him go. Oh, please don’t let him say the wrong thing, please don’t turn Aziraphale from this now. ]
Look—I can take care of the details. Whatever happens. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never—
[ He won’t let harm befall Aziraphale either. Including that which he could do with his own hands; whatever happens, if harm becomes necessary, it would be better for Crowley to do it. All he has to lose is Aziraphale.
He feels the angel holding onto him just as tightly, as if to communicate that they are indeed in this together, and it eases him a little, or at least stops him from fearing that he’s stepped over a line. Crowley shifts around carefully, until he’s leaning back against a leg of the armchair and can guide Aziraphale into the curve of his arm, to rest against his shoulder if he wants. ]
I hear Alpha Centauri’s nice this time of year.
[ It’s a joke, but a weak one. Maybe not entirely a joke, either. He’d flee to the stars with Aziraphale, if they had to—he’d go anywhere Heaven or Hell wouldn’t find them, at least not for a while. Crowley sighs. ]
I...I haven’t figured it all out yet, angel. It might take me a little time, but I will.
[ But he says it with a pout, knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn't stop Crowley. In fact, he would, on instinct, kill any angel that came for him, because they could easily destroy him. No, now calm, he moves away from his resting spot on Crowley's arm, only far enough to bring his chin down and kiss his lips, sweet like spring and leaving him bubbly as champagne. To think about a future where they are each other's main component, even if it's to run away to the stars, it makes Aziraphale dizzy with vertigo to consider.
He imagines a little cottage house someday, out in the country, with stone walls that Aziraphale loves but the big windows that Crowley does, waking up with him after trying sleep again, making coffee and getting distracted from the news as Crowley places a hand on the paper and climbs into his lap. There's a brief glimpse of them, walking hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way up a mountain and having to stop for lack of regular exercise, finally making it to the top and overlooking the gorgeous expanse below, a perfect spot for a light picnic of fruits and cheeses. And, perhaps, there's a night drive in the Bentley, windows rolled down and music low so they can hear the forest around them, the hoot of an owl, all alone with just stretches of road before them.
He blinks away a wetness in his eyes from imagining a life so beautiful: coming out of a movie with a half-eaten popcorn bag animatedly debating the characters. Going to a nursery with an industrial-sized cart and filling it up with all sorts of plants to stick in the back garden. A ring, that he places in a little velvet box and procures from his pocket, one day, and officially offers to Crowley his everything. These are the snippets of a life impossible, which is now pulling up just out of view ahead.
The road ahead is scary, but it's worth paving.
Lingering by Crowley, Aziraphale looks all around his face as if he could discern an answer, but finally comes out and says: ]
[ Perhaps it's best, he thinks, that they don't go into what Crowley would do for Aziraphale, if he had to kill angels or demons, if he had to abandon this world or see the stars he hung in the sky burned to ash. He doesn't say any of it, only watches Aziraphale with a devotion that he's no longer capable of hiding, and when he comes near enough to kiss him Crowley thinks this might nearly shatter him with relief and wanting. There's a sweetness in it, reminiscent of the first night they came together, love confessed and returned--no more doubting, no more caution. He gives himself headlong to it, as he did that night.
And perhaps Aziraphale's imaginings cast a glow around them, for he feels--nothing so concrete as the hope of a future in which they spend their days wandering together and their nights in the lovely cottage in Aziraphale's mind's eye, but a sense of warmth and comfort and familiarity, a feeling of being at home and at peace. It's the exact opposite of what Crowley was contemplating a moment ago, but he lets it sink into him, embracing it wholeheartedly--so much better than envisioning the agents of Heaven and Hell against them, or desperate efforts for survival. He holds Aziraphale as desperately as he did all those years ago, eager to drink in and give as much love as he can, a being of raw longing and joy.
Crowley looks back at Aziraphale with his unguarded eyes, unable to speak for a moment, though he nods in answer. They have one another. The details can wait to be sorted out--surely they can wait one night, at least. Or maybe a week. ]
Aziraphale.
[ The angel's name comes out as a sigh. Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his palm devoutly. ]
I've missed you. I've missed--everything about you.
[ Aziraphale pushes hope and love and warmth into his kiss; his lips were made for praise and joy and lightness. His hands were made to hold, to raise, to comfort. He can't be cruel because he doesn't understand it, can't bring himself to do it. But love, he has endlessly, all his stores of it earmarked with Crowley's name. He looks at Crowley taking his hand and kissing his palm, and his breath hitches. They'd been so close together all these years, yet with artificial distance between them that it felt as if they might be on different solar systems. That was Aziraphale's fault. ]
I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]
[ How can it be possible, he wonders, to have spent days and nights away from Aziraphale after Crowley had known the light of his love, the shivering joy of feeling all of that love centered on him? He, too, has wandered the world seeing Aziraphale everywhere he went, turning at an imagined rustle of feathers to look for him. Throwing himself into long sleeps and waking longing for the taste of his kisses, the sensation of his fine hands on his skin, that he felt in his dreams. It felt like a madness, an illness, or perhaps the best thing that ever happened to him, to have his soul so awakened, and even now, even sitting before Aziraphale on the floor of his bookshop, Crowley feels as though he misses him. Aches for him, every touch between them a balm for pain and an echo of his desire for more, more.
He presses his face down briefly to Aziraphale's hands. The sadness in his voice is something that he never wants to be the cause of. His kisses to the angel's fingers offer absolution, in whatever form a demon could possibly give; they offer his love, his devotion in its entirety. Looking up again, Crowley feels his breath halt, because Aziraphale is so lovely, so wanted. ]
Come here, angel?
[ Please come to him, please kiss him again, take him into his arms. He needs to feel Aziraphale over him, his bare skin, his beautiful wings, the intimacy he longs for and can't bear to be without since he first tasted it. ]
[ Aziraphale too, feels a sort of madness swell in him, for he is a renegade angel with a demon for a lover who encompasses the very fiber of his being. It is so that he wonders if he hasn't slipped into a dream just now, that Crowley's soft requests are just imaginings of an overactive, obsessed imagination. But Crowley's gaze is a questioning one, as if he is still not sure if Aziraphale might just call this whole thing off, as if he might too be dreaming the ending he wants to this story.
He hasn't exactly given Crowley any reason to place a confidence in him that he will not change his mind in the morning, and so he drops down to his knees to the ancient rugs of his bookshop. He is afraid of what he might find in Crowley when he looks at him: a being left out too long in the snow that even standing next to a fire there's still a chill deep-set in his bones; a pain so stark and so wretched, wrought by Aziraphale's own hand. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He arches up into Crowley and kisses him artlessly, ashamed of having hurt him so, of healing his own wounds with this love that is too good for him. Because for all Crowley thinks he deserves and thinks he himself is not, Aziraphale knows better. He would like for Crowley to see his worth the way that Aziraphale does: a boundless font of cunning and imagination and humor. A sharp mind and sharper wit, a carefree spirit and innovator, dangerous and thrilling. And then there's the side that only Aziraphale sees: the way he still craves for love, the good he is capable of doing, the horrors he won't associate with his name or his kind. ]
I don't want you to change, Crowley.
[ He never wants Crowley to think that, to think that there's something in him that is wrong, that is unloveable, that is imperfect to Aziraphale. ]
It's Heaven and Hell I want to change, I need you to understand.
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It was nothing short of damnation, and how is he supposed to explain that to Crowley without placing any blame on he, cause of the original sin? ]
I don't--
[ He forcefully closes his eyes shut and then slowly turns around to face Crowley; how could Aziraphale possibly face him at a moment like this? He's rooted to the spot, but he lets Crowley approach, trying very hard not to let any of his emotions stray onto his face. ]
Yes, Crowley, did I forget something?
[ Often, he thinks about Crowley and panics. His heart seizes, his lungs frozen, and damn his brutally honest eyes; they look as if they might have beheld the greatest treasure in all the world and told the world to keep it. His words are tight, veering close to giving up the whole ghost, and he bites his tongue and wishes he had just run away. It could be that Crowley is angry with him, and he has every right to be, and Aziraphale can only hope it were so easy, that they could both walk away from this and he could just be, for once, the villain. ]
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Come on, now, what's all this about?
[ His voice is pitched low, and it's gentled considerably now, because if there's anything Crowley dislikes worse than seeing Aziraphale in distress, it's being the cause of it. And he gave him the holy water. That very act is still resonating within his soul like some divine music. It makes him want to fall to his knees and kiss Aziraphale's hands; it makes him want to manifest his wings and fold them around him and make them both part of the dark night, out of reach of anyone who might seek to come between them. ]
You don't think I'd let you walk away like this, do you? Go off all alone with yourself, thinking very stupid thoughts about how we can't be together.
[ His voice trembles just slightly on those last few words. Doesn't Aziraphale love him, long for him too? Crowley knows he does. He touches Aziraphale's hand, tangling his long fingers with his. ]
Come on, come have a drink with me.
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They're not stupid thoughts, Crowley. This is wrong.
[ But he doesn't disentangle his fingers yet, not even on this busy street in the neighborhood in which Aziraphale conducts business in the middle of 1967 where people can see them hold hands and have a lover's row. Forget what they may think.
He touches Crowley for the first time in what may only be a few years but what feels like millennia, and his traitorous mind conjures the thought of Crowley's body pressed against his, and Crowley's wings folded over his own, cradling him as his eyes opened from slumber, kissing his temple where lay his black mark. Fully and unapologetically, he had at the time, accepted Crowley's demonic nature, knowing what burden it bore. Why, why had he done that in such haste? ]
Crowley, we really...
[ Aziraphale reaches over with his other hand and clasps Crowley's in between the two of his, soft and perfectly-manicured wearing an angel's signet ring and everything so very conventional. ]
We can't.
[ He feels so small in this moment, so pitiable and yet so undeserving of any pity whatsoever. He murmurs underneath his breath, softly so that only Crowley may hear, words he hopes no one else cares to. Really, they should get out of this street; this was poorly thought-out but Aziraphale is all too self-aware that he's grown careless. He hadn't thought anything could have been heavier on his heart than shying away from Crowley the first time. ]
You make it so hard to leave.
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And now Aziraphale tells him that it's all wrong, and clasps Crowley's hand between his mercilessly, while Crowley can't help but stare at him with such yearning he's surprised it doesn't burn up one of them on the spot. ]
Of course we can. [ he says insistently, speaking purely in terms of the drink, ignoring that Aziraphale may have meant anything else. He steps in closer, and the hand Aziraphale isn't holding lifts to touch him, his thumb giving a subtle stroke at the edge of his jaw. ]
One drink, angel, what's the harm?
[ Oh, Aziraphale. He wants to make it impossible. How can he even think of leaving--how can he think they'll ever be free of one another? ]
Come with me. You're just going home anyway, might as well let me drive.
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He knows it won't be one drink, not with the way that Crowley looks at him now. He can't see his own face, but he is doubtless that there writ is the truth. He never really was good at lying, and how could he even have made the attempt when Crowley always saw right through to the heart of him? Neither does he want to send the message that he doesn't want to salvage this friendship, the most important of things that Aziraphale has collected in this world of excess. No, he has gone about this the wrong way and he knows he has lost. He knows there is no small part of him that's glad for it, but that part would, with reckless abandon, gather Crowley into his arms and declare his love right there; that part had cunningly held him back just long enough for this self sabotage. ]
One drink. Nothing more.
[ The last part is said like a warning but there's really no bite behind it; Aziraphale believes it's a foregone conclusion that he should be unable to chase Crowley away this night, that he might, himself in his weakness, instigate something wholly stupid. Because the most honestly that Aziraphale had ever lived was that night, and try as he might, he has always been a terrible liar.
He starts to head toward the Bentley, wondering how long he can keep this up. An hour? Ten minutes? One, even? ]
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Crowley decides not to answer the warning in Aziraphale’s voice: he suspects only agreement would make the angel feel better, and to agree would be to lie, because Crowley has no intention of letting this go at one drink. Instead he only squeezes Aziraphale’s hand briefly, as a form of assurance, and then lets go, indicating with a motion of his head the car.
Once they’re in he reaches over to the glove box, making sure the holy water in its thermos is still there. He can’t help being jumpy about it, starting the car without comment and peeling away from the curb.
After a little while, though, he can’t help but speak up. ]
What made you change your mind? Just the heist?
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The drive is excruciatingly long, and marked so deeply with silence. Aziraphale tries and fails several times to come up with something to fill up the space with something besides the music, because not to do so means being alone with his thoughts and with possessing an imagination so wild as to compete with Crowley's, it's certainly dangerous territory. He's glad to have Crowley punctuate the silence, and give him something else to think about besides the grip of his fingers on the wheel and the pattern on his new shirt. ]
I thought maybe you had changed your mind, you never mentioned it again. It wasn't until I found out about the heist that I realized you were still looking.
[ There's a bit of a pause, and Aziraphale holding his hands as fists on his thighs, but he speaks up. ]
I couldn't let you go through with it. I still don't like it, but I can't let you cause your own destruction out of desperation, especially not for something I can provide.
[ Is he really talking about just the holy water anymore? He supposes he never really was, hiding behind things to say for the things he would really like to say instead. But he also really hopes it shouldn't come to that, that they can make another Arrangement in which they understand that love just doesn't conquer all, and haven't they been on this Earth long enough to know it? Hasn't Crowley, who has already fallen once, who has already seen God punish temptation when she herself was the one who placed the apple, ripe for picking, in the middle of Eden?
In actuality, it's a very short drive to the bookshop, and even though it's a busy night, there is miraculously a space to park right out front. Aziraphale gets out of the car and fumbles with the keys, something he hasn't done since the shop opened. ]
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He considers what Aziraphale says, and what things are left unsaid, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. ]
But you can’t know that it would have ended in destruction, can you?
[ Crowley reaches over and switches off the radio, the low music beneath their words and their silences getting on his nerves. ]
Do you think anything that would drive a person to desperation can never be worth it? That there couldn’t be any reason worth risking one’s life for?
[ Yes, he’s fallen, he knows what there is to lose. But isn’t it Aziraphale who’s always spoken of the Plan, the divine will that moves the universe in ways they can’t comprehend or even imagine? Who is to say what their place in it is—if their love must be forbidden? They have been with one another in the most intimate ways known to creation, and no fire has rained down from the sky, no earth has shattered beneath their feet. No sign of punishment.
He pulls up to the curb, slotting the Bentley into the open space and switching off the engine. Following Aziraphale to the front door, Crowley notices him fumble with the keys but pretends to take an interest in some old volume displayed in a shop window, not wanting to make him self-conscious. Once Aziraphale gets the door open he follows him in, standing beside him for a moment and touching his shoulder lightly. ]
Drink? [ They both very much need it, he suspects. ]
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No.
[ He says, in finality, but seemingly out of the blue. ]
I can't know what will end in destruction, it is not my place.
But neither would I ask The Almighty for her permission, and isn't that the same thing as knowing the result?
[ Honestly, she doesn't even take his calls anymore. He does not want to be rerouted to The Metatron, or Gabriel. It isn't as if he has anything of import to bother her with, this being too intimate and too personal to warrant a face to face meeting. ]
How do you propose we keep this a secret? To keep ourselves in check?
[ He doesn't mean to ask this as if chiding him, because he wants an honest answer. He wants a plan, he wants Crowley and his pleasant company and delightful mind. Would he keep a candle, unlit, and have it with him always, or burn it and enjoy its warmth for a few scant hours until there is none left? He looks at Crowley, desperate for an answer, any answer, because he'd like to believe there is hope in this. He just needs a stronger reason to defy Heaven than love; only madness lies that way. ]
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How could you ask Her even if you wanted to?
[ Bitterness lashes from his voice, but it's not directed at Aziraphale, not particularly. But what he wants to say is, what gives God any business in their affairs, his and Aziraphale's? When was the last time She spoke to either of them? It's been longer for Crowley than Aziraphale, surely, far longer. He used to wonder--not pray, but wonder--if forgiveness would ever be granted him. He used to fear to ask. Now he thinks, God can keep Her forgiveness and permission and all the rest. He doesn't want it: he only wants Aziraphale.
He moves towards him a step or two, but then checks that motion as well. Turning back to the couch, Crowley perches moodily on one of its arms. ]
We could go on as we have done.
[ He finishes off the wine in his glass before he continues, and grabs the bottle to pour another. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale's eyes on him, the way the angel looks at him with desperation, and Crowley can't meet that look, he can't, otherwise he'd seize Aziraphale in his arms and never let him go. ]
We'll meet, we'll talk business, we'll--we'll spend the night together if we want. No one needs to know. They don't know anything up there, do they? No one has a clue down below.
[ It sounds awful, he thinks. Cold and transactional. He swallows wine down a painfully tight throat. ]
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Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
Yes?
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Suppose not.
[ His voice is tight with misery. Seeing Aziraphale now and again is better than not seeing him at all. Things will go on much as they always have, all the time they've known one another. Except Crowley knows now, because he can feel it already, how much this will hurt: to pretend away the soul-searing love that makes him ache to be with Aziraphale all the time, or to lock it within except for the times it feels safe enough to bring it out--
Nothing, nothing about this is safe. Aziraphale's right, it's a madness. What can he offer, to ask an angel to defy Heaven? ]
Aziraphale, I--
[ Crowley looks at him now, voice catching in his throat, longing like something that will burn him up from within. ]
Will it make you happy, to do that? Is it what you want?
[ He has himself to offer, he thinks, it's all he's ever had--whatever a demon like him is worth. ]
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No. Of course not, nothing could make me happy but to be with you.
[ There, he's spoken his truth, and it feels like he's been slapped in the face. The expression that he wears is pained, as if it is the most difficult thing to just get Crowley to see that yes, it's about their love, it's about him and Aziraphale both, and how they are so deeply intertwined that should one of them sink, the other one would be sure to follow. He is moored to Crowley's heart, would carve his own out just to make a space for him. The trouble is not how little he feels but how profoundly he does, how close he is to forsaking Heaven and all the rest that he is, for what else is he but an Angel? ]
But we are not free agents. We don't have the liberty to love each other. If I could recreate this world, and we could do what we wished with it, a hundred, a million times over I would choose that we could be together.
[ And what a shameful, what an unkind game God plays, to know the two of them would love like this. To know that Aziraphale would question a faith that wouldn't allow him this, that would look at these two halves of one whole and tell them they must be apart like a head with no shoulders or a tree with no roots. It's insane, and it's eating him from the inside out until he's hollow. God must know, how he craves for Crowley's mouth and the fit of his embrace, the timbre of his laughter, the curve of his hips. And God had loved him once, to create him, to breathe life into him; how could she have stopped? It isn't something that Aziraphale can understand or cares to, but in this disagreement he knows that she is wrong not to love him, not to forgive him, to turn a blind to his good. ]
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But it isn't, and Crowley knew--he knew it would have been a lie, if Aziraphale said yes, and it wouldn't have mattered, he would have had no choice but to accept it; how brave of his angel, he thinks, and Crowley is aching with pain and love for him, and he can't stay apart a moment longer. In a desperate motion he pushes himself off the couch and sinks to his knees before Aziraphale, grasping the angel's hands in his. His gaze turns up to him--he lets go only for an instant, to pull off his sunglasses and let them fall--and he looks at Aziraphale like he is the sun, the starlight, the shining fire of Heaven. He can't help it. ]
We could--be for ourselves, then, Aziraphale.
[ He swallows, the audacity of it vivid and swelling, his eyes bright. ]
We should be. What has Heaven or Hell done for us? Why do we give them everything, what is it all for, if we can't have one another?
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This is precisely what I mean, Crowley! These are words of a fool chasing his own grave.
[ He wants to pull Crowley back up by his hands, but they are so warm and feel like home, the only one that Aziraphale had ever wanted, here on Earth in the confines of his bookshop with all the things that an angel shouldn't want or have need for.
Why, he asks of God but only in his minds' voice, is it so bad to love him and be loved by him in return? What is so unforgivable about Crowley, so terrible that Aziraphale should even want to resist? Should he had still been an angel, no one would take issue. They could openly express their devotion in the too-empty, too-expansive halls of Heaven. Who do they hurt with this, and since when is love a sin? Why even send an angel to Earth, to be left alone for millenia, knowing what he is and what he is made of?
He clasps Crowley's hands and leans into him, nuzzles into his chest and buries his face there, drawing Crowley's hand around his back. ]
You ask me what Heaven gave me, the answer is nothing. But God gave me you, and I can't turn my back on her.
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Then take me. Take me as I am—as She gave me to you. Wasn’t I already fallen when we met? If we’re not meant to love then why—why would She do that, why would She be so cruel?
[ Crowley wants to believe in this God, the one Aziraphale speaks of—the one who gave Crowley to him. Isn’t it possible that it was Her design all along? Not a test, not a punishment, just the two of them meant for one another, whatever their natures. ]
What have you ever done to be punished for?
[ He strokes Aziraphale’s hair, like light and silk in his fingers, so soft and beautiful, and thinks, what God could not love him? It’s unimaginable. ]
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He thinks there is truth in this, that God would not be so cruel, that he was always meant to love, and so why wouldn't he? But he hasn't been good - he's meant to be thwarting Crowley, not co-conspiring with him. He isn't supposed to do temptations, and he certainly isn't supposed to entrust his blessings to a demon. He has given way to sloth and gluttony and greed and lust, those are his sins. He is trying to deny himself to Crowley, who he loves so dearly, who trembles before him like a leaf begging him to stay, desperately holding onto something good. That feels like a greater sin, to have turned away from Crowley, to be telling him that they can't and that Aziraphale won't. ]
Lord, forgive me.
[ It's a rush of air more than words, and out of his lungs leaves a void he seeks to fill with this embrace. ]
What if they come for us?
[ It's not an unfounded fear, but it is an acquiescence. He doesn't want to break both their hearts, not like this. But neither can he stand the unknowing, staying in the shadows. It will be a painful punishment to bear, but he thinks right now that nothing could be more painful than watching Crowley crumble like this. Nothing could compare. ]
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It’s a moment or two before he trusts himself to speak. ]
That’s what the insurance is for.
[ The holy water—they’ll need it now more than ever. ]
I...I can possibly get something for your side as well.
[ Crowley’s reluctant to say it, but it’s only pragmatic. The more they’re together, the more likely it is that they’ll eventually be found out. ]
Maybe they won’t notice. And if they do we could—we could find someplace safe to go.
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[ He sounds offended, as he often does when someone makes an outlandish implication. ]
I won't kill an angel.
[ Even the ones he has no love for, which, in all honesty, is most of them. He has particular distaste for the likes of Gabriel and Sandalphon, the angels who truly believe they're above the others, as if Heaven's hierarchy were about something so humane as that. Still, he does not want to destroy anyone's soul; he never has before, never even killed a human. It was an odd thing to think about, a contingency plan. It left a bad taste in his mouth to have to discuss something so horrible.
But then, there was Crowley. And Aziraphale would not let any harm befall him, not if he could help it. He knows that much, having procured the holy water for him, having so carefully and tightly screwed the lid and toweled the rest. Here now, unable to resist giving him all the love he can and patching up all the wounds his love might cure. As if he could hear Crowley's prayer and as if he had the power to answer it, he clings onto him and vows to himself never to let Crowley feel abandoned ever again. Aziraphale wouldn't want to so much as insinuate such a betrayal.
Still, he has questions. The plan is very important, he would need to think about it. ]
And where would we go? We aren't that difficult to track.
[ At least, Aziraphale wasn't. But Aziraphale was not meant for espionage, for stowing away or turning from the light. He would, as punishment, possibly accept his end were it not for Crowley. No, he vowed it unto himself; and so, if it came down to it, he would leave everything and run with Crowley as fast as he could, as far away where no one would think to look for them. Living, as he had, these past few years -- pushing Crowley out of his shop, holding back his kisses-- that wasn't living at all. ]
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[ An edge of anxiety in his voice, his hands tightening a little where he clutches Aziraphale, unwilling and afraid to let him go. Oh, please don’t let him say the wrong thing, please don’t turn Aziraphale from this now. ]
Look—I can take care of the details. Whatever happens. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never—
[ He won’t let harm befall Aziraphale either. Including that which he could do with his own hands; whatever happens, if harm becomes necessary, it would be better for Crowley to do it. All he has to lose is Aziraphale.
He feels the angel holding onto him just as tightly, as if to communicate that they are indeed in this together, and it eases him a little, or at least stops him from fearing that he’s stepped over a line. Crowley shifts around carefully, until he’s leaning back against a leg of the armchair and can guide Aziraphale into the curve of his arm, to rest against his shoulder if he wants. ]
I hear Alpha Centauri’s nice this time of year.
[ It’s a joke, but a weak one. Maybe not entirely a joke, either. He’d flee to the stars with Aziraphale, if they had to—he’d go anywhere Heaven or Hell wouldn’t find them, at least not for a while. Crowley sighs. ]
I...I haven’t figured it all out yet, angel. It might take me a little time, but I will.
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[ But he says it with a pout, knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn't stop Crowley. In fact, he would, on instinct, kill any angel that came for him, because they could easily destroy him. No, now calm, he moves away from his resting spot on Crowley's arm, only far enough to bring his chin down and kiss his lips, sweet like spring and leaving him bubbly as champagne. To think about a future where they are each other's main component, even if it's to run away to the stars, it makes Aziraphale dizzy with vertigo to consider.
He imagines a little cottage house someday, out in the country, with stone walls that Aziraphale loves but the big windows that Crowley does, waking up with him after trying sleep again, making coffee and getting distracted from the news as Crowley places a hand on the paper and climbs into his lap. There's a brief glimpse of them, walking hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way up a mountain and having to stop for lack of regular exercise, finally making it to the top and overlooking the gorgeous expanse below, a perfect spot for a light picnic of fruits and cheeses. And, perhaps, there's a night drive in the Bentley, windows rolled down and music low so they can hear the forest around them, the hoot of an owl, all alone with just stretches of road before them.
He blinks away a wetness in his eyes from imagining a life so beautiful: coming out of a movie with a half-eaten popcorn bag animatedly debating the characters. Going to a nursery with an industrial-sized cart and filling it up with all sorts of plants to stick in the back garden. A ring, that he places in a little velvet box and procures from his pocket, one day, and officially offers to Crowley his everything. These are the snippets of a life impossible, which is now pulling up just out of view ahead.
The road ahead is scary, but it's worth paving.
Lingering by Crowley, Aziraphale looks all around his face as if he could discern an answer, but finally comes out and says: ]
We'll figure it out.
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And perhaps Aziraphale's imaginings cast a glow around them, for he feels--nothing so concrete as the hope of a future in which they spend their days wandering together and their nights in the lovely cottage in Aziraphale's mind's eye, but a sense of warmth and comfort and familiarity, a feeling of being at home and at peace. It's the exact opposite of what Crowley was contemplating a moment ago, but he lets it sink into him, embracing it wholeheartedly--so much better than envisioning the agents of Heaven and Hell against them, or desperate efforts for survival. He holds Aziraphale as desperately as he did all those years ago, eager to drink in and give as much love as he can, a being of raw longing and joy.
Crowley looks back at Aziraphale with his unguarded eyes, unable to speak for a moment, though he nods in answer. They have one another. The details can wait to be sorted out--surely they can wait one night, at least. Or maybe a week. ]
Aziraphale.
[ The angel's name comes out as a sigh. Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his palm devoutly. ]
I've missed you. I've missed--everything about you.
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I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]
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He presses his face down briefly to Aziraphale's hands. The sadness in his voice is something that he never wants to be the cause of. His kisses to the angel's fingers offer absolution, in whatever form a demon could possibly give; they offer his love, his devotion in its entirety. Looking up again, Crowley feels his breath halt, because Aziraphale is so lovely, so wanted. ]
Come here, angel?
[ Please come to him, please kiss him again, take him into his arms. He needs to feel Aziraphale over him, his bare skin, his beautiful wings, the intimacy he longs for and can't bear to be without since he first tasted it. ]
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He hasn't exactly given Crowley any reason to place a confidence in him that he will not change his mind in the morning, and so he drops down to his knees to the ancient rugs of his bookshop. He is afraid of what he might find in Crowley when he looks at him: a being left out too long in the snow that even standing next to a fire there's still a chill deep-set in his bones; a pain so stark and so wretched, wrought by Aziraphale's own hand. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He arches up into Crowley and kisses him artlessly, ashamed of having hurt him so, of healing his own wounds with this love that is too good for him. Because for all Crowley thinks he deserves and thinks he himself is not, Aziraphale knows better. He would like for Crowley to see his worth the way that Aziraphale does: a boundless font of cunning and imagination and humor. A sharp mind and sharper wit, a carefree spirit and innovator, dangerous and thrilling. And then there's the side that only Aziraphale sees: the way he still craves for love, the good he is capable of doing, the horrors he won't associate with his name or his kind. ]
I don't want you to change, Crowley.
[ He never wants Crowley to think that, to think that there's something in him that is wrong, that is unloveable, that is imperfect to Aziraphale. ]
It's Heaven and Hell I want to change, I need you to understand.
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i forgot he was even still wearing pants LMAO
what are miracles for?
definitely getting rid of your husband's pants
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we can switch this one over to prose too if you'd like!
sounds good!
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