Chapter Text
Crowley’s tired.
He’s never been this tired before, not in the fourth century, not in the fourteenth century. He’s so tired he should be having a hard time keeping his eyes open, should be struggling not to fall asleep, should be yawning and saying things like Satan’s balls, I could go for a nap and Ciao, angel.
But he doesn’t. Sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. He’s tired, he’s sore, he’s fragile in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before, but closing his eyes? Looking away? Is unimaginable, and yesterday Crowley’s imagination kept a molten mass of rubber and steel convinced it was a fully functioning automobile for nearly sixty miles. So, yeah. Crowley can imagine quite a bit.
“But the hall was rather crowded that night, do you remember? So we can’t judge the performance by that measure.”
Crowley’s long since lost track of the conversation. He’s been doing a good job of nodding along. He says ‘uh huh’ and hums and makes irritated faces when the pitch of Aziraphale’s voice has faltered, since experience has taught him Aziraphale faltering leads to long silences leads to awkward throat-clearing leads to Aziraphale leaning back and saying things like ‘Oh, look at the time, I’ve got to open the shop early tomorrow,’ and ‘Those books won’t inventory themselves, you know.’ Crowley suspects he isn’t physically capable of making the appropriate response to that — which is putting his hands in his pockets and looking like he doesn’t care and then, eventually, walking away — so he searches blindly for something to say. What were they talking about anyway? Mozart? He picks up his wine glass. “Yeah, but Vienna didn’t have the best crowds to judge by.”
Aziraphale frowns.
Crowley fumbles his wine. “I mean, uh — Hamburg?”
Aziraphale’s concerned face doesn’t smooth away. Shit. “Oh, Crowley,” his angel says. “I should have realized.” He sits up and reaches across the table. Crowley has three heart attacks and a stroke before Aziraphale pats his hand. The angel doesn’t notice. “You’re exhausted, and here I am nattering on. You probably want to get some sleep.”
“No!” Crowley says too loudly. A woman at the next table looks over, and he glares at her. “No,” he says again. “I’m fine.” He looks over the table. Aziraphale’s plate is empty, only the faintest outline of chocolate left. Did he have a mousse? Or maybe it was ice cream. “Why don’t you get another desert? Or champagne? We should order more champagne.”
He expects Aziraphale to look interested — he very rarely takes any convincing to have a second dessert — but instead he shakes his head and pushes back from the table. “No, I think we’ve trespassed long enough. They’ll be switching over to the dinner menu soon.” He plucks his napkin from his lap and drops it onto the table before Crowley’s molasses-soaked brain can come up with some way to stop him. “Let’s call for the bill.”
“No, Angel — ” Crowley tries. He has to say something. But Aziraphale’s palm is still on his hand and everything is both too close and too far away. “I can’t sleep.”
Aziraphale’s face falls.
Crowley realizes what he’s just said. “What I mean is, I don’t want to sleep. That’s what I mean.”
“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He looks far too kind now. His eyes are a liquid blue. “In that case, let’s have some champagne, but not here. Come on.” He stands up. “I have several bottles waiting at the bookshop.”
Crowley wets his lips. The bookshop. He doesn’t want to go back to the bookshop. He’d rather stay at the Ritz forever. The Ritz makes sense to him. The Ritz has never burned.
But Aziraphale’s already getting to his feet and straightening his jacket and Crowley won’t — can’t — let him walk away without following. And of course Aziraphale wants to look over his bookshop. Crowley’s surprised he let them linger over the meal as long as he did. “Fine,” he growls and signals for the waiter.
The young man walks over and unobtrusively slides them the bill. Crowley takes it with a huff. He doesn’t bother to tip because Aziraphale always takes care of that, always drops just the right amount of money onto the table with a smile and a ‘best of luck to your mother, I do hope she’s feeling better soon.’ Usually, Crowley would walk ahead to collect their jackets and stand impatiently by the door while Aziraphale takes his time, smiling and nodding to everyone, too familiar even for a regular but with a kindness to his expression that ensures nobody really minds.
Crowley can’t do any of that today. He can’t look away from Aziraphale, can’t hold their things. All he can do is stick close. He signs the bill and stands, staying just to Aziraphale’s left, close enough that he could jump forward if anything happened. It’s a ridiculous bit of paranoia, Crowley knows better than anyone how useless he’s been at defending his angel, but when he tries to step back, he can’t.
Aziraphale, the daft angel, doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he turns to smile at Crowley. “This way, my dear.”
He’s equally unable to pretend the endearment doesn’t make him feel warm inside. He’s got a lump of ice in his chest where God’s love used to be, but a smile or a look from his angel always manages to light a match in that freezing space. “Sure, angel,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Lead the way.”
The doorman at the Ritz smiles at them. Crowley stays at Aziraphale’s heels, guarding him, but once they walk onto the street it’s impossible for him to remain close. They have to stop and twist around people, avoid doors and dogs and reversing lories. Even a demon and an angel can’t walk down the streets of London in lockstep without holding hands, and they haven’t done that in centuries, not since hand-holding went out of style between gentlemen. Crowley glances over anyway but Aziraphale has his fingers clasped together over his chest. They’re restless, tapping every so often against each other, but certainly unavailable.
Crowley shakes his head. For all his vaulted powers of imagination, he can’t quite picture himself reaching over and taking Aziraphale’s hand.
“Though speaking of Vienna,” Aziraphale says, as if there weren’t a dozen words and a hundred steps between where they are now and their last conversation, “the crowds were lovely there. I quite prefer the an der Wien opera house, I must say, though I know you helped build the Volksoper.”
Crowley shakes his head. “I only lent Müller-Gutenbrunn the gulden he needed. Wasn’t my fault he lost everything.”
Aziraphale hums an incommital noise. “I quite liked Salome.”
Crowley grunts. “Bloody Wilde.”
It’s a familiar conversation. Crowley won’t let Aziraphale know how much it grounds him to rehash it while walking the mile from the Ritz back to Soho, though he suspects the angel knows. It’s a twelve minute walk in good traffic. Evening is coming on so it takes them almost twenty. Conversation falters when there’s a ruckus from a passing lorry, and Crowley realizes he’s started counting his footsteps in that absent-minded way he does sometimes, eleven twelve thirteen fourteen, ticking along in the back of his mind. He forces himself to stop. Aziraphale is wrong about Choplin, anyways and telling him so takes them the last two blocks.
“So, champagne?” Crowley asks the moment they step into the bookshop. He’d started counting again after he hesitated, just for a second when the sign had come into view, not enough to mean anything, not enough for Aziraphale to notice. He forces himself to stop. One two three steps to the sofa.
No.
Crowley sits down to stop his feet from moving and then throws them over the arm of the sofa because he can. “Do you have any Kurg Brut?”
Aziraphale’s ceaseless chatter peters off. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on the hook. “Hm? Oh, I’m not actually sure. Let me check?”
Crowley nods before he realizes what that will mean — Aziraphale leaving his direct line of sight to walk into the back room. “Wait,” he calls out, too fast. “Never mind. Whatever you’ve got behind the counter will do.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going to check,” Aziraphale says, sounding startled. “I was going to, you know — ” He lifts a hand and twirls it, indicating his angelic senses, “check.”
“Oh,” Crowley says, mollified. Is he being too obvious? He’s being too obvious. “Right. Sorry.”
Aziraphale takes his favourite armchair in the corner. His eyes have gone slightly unfocused. “Hmm,” he says, “only some Perrier Jouet, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine,” Crowley says. His heart is still pounding — stupid thing. It’s not like he needs it. “Bring it here. We don’t even need glasses.”
The bottle appears in Aziraphale’s hands. “Oh, please,” the angel sniffs. “We’re not animals.” He miracles them champagne flutes and pours with the practice of one who has done this hundreds upon hundreds of times. “Cheers, my dear.”
Crowley takes the flute and finds himself smiling at Aziraphale. “Cheers.”
To the world echoes between them, unsaid. Or maybe it’s just Crowley.
They sit in silence and sip for a while. The light in the bookshop gradually dwindles. Crowley feels himself start to relax. He looks around.
The bookshop is... the bookshop. Whatever happened yesterday, it’s still here. The faint acrid smell of smoke lingers only in his imagination. He’s fine.
He’s fine until there’s an unexpected rustling from the front room. Suddenly Crowley is off the sofa and crouching in front of Aziraphale, snarling, one hand hooked in front of his face in a half-completed warding gesture, Hellfire riding up the sleeve of his coat. “Who’s there?”
There’s a horrible, heart-pounding pause, and then the squeak and rustle of a rat. It appears from around the corner, marching towards them on stiff little legs commanded by Crowley’s power.
Crowley snarls at it. Nothing else follows. There’s a tug on the back of his coat.
“It’s a rat, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. His voice is smooth, soft, and a little bit tense. “Just a rat.”
Crowley doesn’t stand up from his crouch. His eyes track. There is a rat, yes, but there could also be — there could also be —
Nothing.
No one.
Just a rat.
“Right,” Crowley says. His voice sound wrecked. He straightens. Something swims in front of his eyes and fire! What’s on fire? Where’s — ?! Except it’s him, of course. Of course it’s him. It’s Hellfire.
He puts it out instantly. Fuck, what was he thinking conjuring Hellfire around Aziraphale?
The tugging on his coat has gotten stronger, and now Aziraphale’s fingers catch on the edge of his sleeve. Crowley realizes that he’s swaying back and forth. “My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, standing far too close. “It’s quite alright. We’ve had a trying day, a trying week — a trying decade, really! I think you should rest.”
“No,” Crowley says. His head is shaking. Or is that the rest of him? Aziraphale’s hand on his arm feels like the only thing holding him together. “I’m fine.”
Aziraphale’s voice firms. “You most certainly are not.”
Crowley knows he can turn around and look at him. He knows that exposing his back to the rat isn’t dangerous, that there’s nobody else there. “But what if — ” he starts. Makes himself stop. “I can’t.” Shit. “I mean, I’m a demon. I don’t need to sleep.”
“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale admits, “but you certainly have gotten used to it.”
Crowley snarls. “So this is my fault now?”
“Oh, dear.”
Crowley immediately feels awful. He’d turn to comfort his angel but what if they came for him while he was looking away?
This is stupid, Crowley thinks, his eyes still on the door. I’m being stupid. They aren’t coming for him. I know they aren’t coming for him. They’re going to leave us alone. They said they would.
“They did,” Aziraphale agrees.
Crowley snaps his mouth shut. Fuck, did he say that out loud?
“I have wards,” Aziraphale goes on hesitantly.
Crowley grits his teeth but shakes his head. “They won’t work against angels.”
“You’re right, of course,” Aziraphale admits. They exist in silence for a moment, and then Aziraphale says, “How about this then?” and there’s another tug on Crowley’s jacket. It’s more insistent this time and Crowley finds himself giving into it, backing up a step. The tug repeats itself and he steps again, and then again, until the back of his knees hit the armchair Aziraphale had been sitting on and his legs fold in on themselves, dumping him onto the floor.
“Wha—?” Crowley splutters as his arse hits the worn wood. It surprises him enough that he looks back and he’s shocked by the view of Aziraphale from this angle, just slightly above him, blushing and looking down.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I meant for you to sit here.” He pats the seat of his armchair awkwardly.
Crowley usually thinks of himself as a demon who can handle anything, but he’s had a hard week. He doesn’t think he could handle sitting in Aziraphale’s lap right now. “No, this is good,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it. It’s relaxing, for some reason, to sit between Aziraphale and the rest of the world. It’s also nice, in a bone-deep way, to sit on the floor in front of him. Aziraphale’s meant to be above him, after all.
“Well, if you’re certain,” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s turned back to the door so he can’t see his face, but he sounds a little strangled.
“Yeah,” Crowley says. He’s starting to relax again, though he can’t quite stop watching the doorway. “What brought you to Vienna, anyway? To see Salome in 1910?”
“Oh, well, it’s a funny story actually. Haven’t I told it to you before? It started when a customer mentioned Oscar and — ”
They spend the night like that, Crowley sitting on the floor in front of Aziraphale’s armchair, Aziraphale finding story after story to tell. Crowley doesn’t sleep and Aziraphale doesn’t tell him to try and close his eyes, just lets him sit and sip champagne. The bottle never runs dry but they also don’t get drunk. Crowley uses the bubbles to keep himself awake. There’s a shaky kind of something in his chest that’s soothed by the familiar cadence of Aziraphale’s voice. It keeps the shadows at bay.
The faint taste of smoke still lingers in the back of Crowley’s mind. The champagne helps with that, too.
Dawn breaks eventually and light pours slowly into the bookshop. Crowley watches the shadows run back to their corners from the floor. He knows that he should stand up. He doesn’t really want to, would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his days here at Aziaphale’s feet, but he knows even that is a thought he would usually keep hidden from himself and is proof of his own exhaustion.
Aziraphale has fallen silent. Crowley leans his head back against the seat of his armchair and waits for the offer to call him a cab home. He knows it’s coming. He doesn’t know what he’ll say when it does. Beg, maybe.
A rotten demon, that’s what he is.
Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a long time. Eventually, he pats his shoulder. “We can stay here all day if you want to.”
Crowley blinks. He must have heard that wrong. Maybe he’s fallen asleep after all. He tilts his head back to look at Aziraphale. For some reason it’s easier in daylight. “What?”
Aziraphale’s face is kind. It always is but Crowley likes to think there’s a little extra softness in his expression when his angel looks down at him. He’s a greedy demon. He’s never pretended to be anything else.
“If you’re comfortable here, if you feel safe, then we don’t have to move. We can stay here for as long as you like. For the rest of the day if you want to.”
Oh. That’s — Well. Crowley takes a deep breath in. The taste of smoke is still there but it’s very, very faint. And they could stay here. And he could just sit. And they have the wards —
But they’re angelic wards. That won’t work against angels. And he’s being stupid, because he knows they aren’t coming for them, not yet.
And yet.
It’s so very, very hard to look away from his angel. He feels as though he’s over a cliff, as though he tripped the moment he saw the bookshop was burning and has been falling ever since. The Bentley, the airbase, Adam — they were just handholds he grasped onto for as long as he could as he plummeted down.
He’d been sure — so very sure — that they’d break him in Heaven, that they’d be able to see — they should have been able to see; what did it mean that they didn’t? — what he was. The moment he’d seen the Hellfire he’d felt a shock, as though his wings had spread open again, as though they’d caught him. He’d known then that he was going to live. He was going to live, and then what?
Well, then the Ritz. He’d landed at the Ritz, crashed headfirst into the table and Aziraphale had been there waiting for him, holding champagne.
And now Crowley can’t look away from him because the moment he does he’ll lose him. Everything they’ve won, everything they’ve saved, it’ll all be gone if he doesn’t clutch it tight to his chest with both hands.
Crowley shakes his head and throws the rest of the champagne back. “No,” he says. He’s being stupid. It feels good to be stupid, but it’s the demonic kind of the good, the kind that whispers in your ear against your better interest. He should know the difference, he’s a demon after all. “No, let’s go.” He pushes himself to his feet before he can think twice about it. His knees wobble for a moment but they hold. “I’m fine.”
Aziraphale hasn’t moved. He looks up at Crowley and Crowley has to look away. Aziraphale shouldn’t be looking up at him. “If you’re sure.”
“Yeah,” Crowley says. He is. He just also kind of isn’t because now that he’s on his feet, he’s starting to fidget. He takes a step and thinks one. Shit. “Yeah, I’m fine. Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, of course.” Crowley always buys his angel breakfast. And dinner. And lunch. He likes to treat him. Aziraphale deserves it. His feet pace a restless arc between the sofa and the window. Dawn has slid into early morning. Two three four — dammit. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Aziraphale hums again. “I could eat.”
“Exactly,” Crowley says. He resists the urge to snap his fingers and sticks his hands in his pockets instead. “Let’s go.”
Aziraphale finally — finally — gets to his feet and Crowley manages to chivvy him out the door. They end up on the street. The angel glances around, a slight smile on his face. “You know, I — hmm.”
Crowley looks over at him. “What?”
Aziraphale makes a face. “Oh,” he says, “it’s nothing. It’s just that — ” He smoothes a hand down the front of his shirt. “I just found myself thinking a thought I’ve had before. Only before I’d always stopped myself from thinking it. You know, put it away, pretend it didn’t happen. But now, well, I don’t need to do that anymore, do I?” He swallows and his eyes dart around. “I guess I can just think it now.”
“Yeah,” Crowley says. There’s a lump in his throat. He thinks about stepping closer to Aziraphale. Doesn’t. “Our side, remember?”
Aziraphale looks at him and smiles. “Yes,” he says, sounding relieved. “Our side.”
Crowley nods jerkily. “So, uh, do you want to tell me about it? The thought you had, I mean.”
“Oh, nothing half so interesting compared to what you’re imagining, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, blushing slightly. He steps forward and tucks his hand into Crowley’s arm, then starts walking them down the street. Crowley barely manages to keep up with him. Is this — ? Are they allowed to touch now? “Simply that the sunrise is something I would miss were I in Heaven.”
“That — makes sense,” Crowley agrees. He’s very aware of Aziraphale’s hand under his arm. They’ve done this before. They just haven’t done this recently. “Not a lot of sunrises in Heaven.”
“Not anymore,” Aziraphale agrees.
Crowley makes a face. “It really has changed a lot, hasn’t it? Used to be fluffy clouds and endless stars. Now it’s that damned tower.” Bright and harsh and cold, he doesn’t say. Even the memory makes him shiver.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He tucks a fold of Crowley’s jacket between his fingers. “You never did tell me what went on up there.”
Crowley shrugs and looks away. He hasn’t. Crowley’s heard all about his trial and the Holy Water and Michael, but Crowley hadn’t been able to say much beyond, “Agnes was right,” and, “It was Hellfire.” What had been salvation to him would have been destruction to Aziraphale. He can’t forget the look on Gabriel’s face. He hadn’t wanted Aziraphale to understand how much they hated him.
He still doesn’t.
“‘S fine. Doesn’t matter now anyways, does it?” Aziraphale looks like he’s going to disagree, so Crowley quickens their pace. “Come on, aren’t you hungry?”
He doesn’t actually have a destination in mind, but he’s sure if they walk in one direction long enough they’ll find a tea shop. This is Soho, after all. Sure enough, not thirty steps later Aziraphale is saying, “Ooo,” and tugging on Crowley’s arm until they’ve crossed the street. There is tea and coffee and little croissants and Aziraphale says, “Oh you simply must try this, it’s divine,” while shoving a piece of butter-saturated-something into his hand and, okay, yeah. It’s good.
“Mm,” Crowley says and remembers to chew before he swallows. Aziraphale beams.
They leave the place with a box of six more.
Crowley wants, very desperately, for Aziraphale to touch him again, but Aziraphale is holding the box and already turning in the direction of the bookshop. Crowley can’t help but hesitate. It’s long enough that this time Aziraphale notices.
“My dear, what is it?” he asks, turning back to him. His eyes are doing that relentlessly-kind thing again.
Crowley looks away. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Come on.” He tries to keep on walking.
“It’s not nothing,” Aziraphale says and the box is suddenly in one hand and the other is on Crowley’s arm. Crowley stops and stares at it. “Talk to me. Please.”
Crowley’s throat dries up instantly. He looks from Aziraphale’s hand to Aziraphale. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out so he shuts it.
Aziraphale must see the panic on his face because he rolls his eyes. “Oh, for — fine, don’t talk to me. Nod or shake your head in lieu of actual communication.” Crowley’s getting ready to make a face at that but then Aziraphale looks him in the eye and somehow manages to get past the sunglasses, the bastard. “Do you want to go back to the bookshop?”
Crowley’s nod isn’t quick enough. Aziraphale’s hand tightens. “Do not lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” Crowley croaks, his need to defend himself against the hurt in Aziraphale’s expression outweighing his instincts for self-preservation. Like always. “I love the bookshop, you know I do.”
“But —?” Aziraphale prompts.
“But — ” Crowley’s brain scrambles for something that’s true, just not the truth, “we were in there all morning. It’s nice to stretch my legs.”
Aziraphale purses his lips. He doesn’t look upset, which is the worst thing. He looks concerned. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”
Crowley really does try his best to think about it, but he can’t. The bookshop isn’t safe but then, where is? They’re fucked if anyone does come after them. “Not really.”
Aziraphale hasn’t looked away. “What about your flat?”
“What about it?” Crowley asks. He’s starting to sweat again. Shit.
“Don’t you want to — ?” Aziraphale starts.
Crowley interrupts him by striding off. It rips Aziraphale’s hand off his arm and he sort of wants to die but he can’t stand there a moment longer. “Satan’s balls, angel. Hurry up!”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale shouts from behind him. “Crowley!”
For a moment, Crowley thinks Aziraphale’s tone sounds as panicked as he feels. He stops and glances behind him. Aziraphale is hurrying after him, puffing hard, his face red. Crowley hadn’t realized he’d gotten that far ahead in so short a time. It makes his own heart pound.
“Sorry,” he says, as soon as Aziraphale catches up. “I’m sorry, I just — ”
They’re almost back to the bookshop. The bakery hadn’t been that far, after all. He can feel the prickle-tingle of Aziraphale’s wards ghosting over his skin. They aren’t as comforting as they used to be.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “ Really .”
“Did you see the new books Adam left you?” Crowley asks desperately. “I know I told you about them, but have you seen them? First editions, I’m halfway sure.”
Nothing distracts Aziraphale quite like new books. The angel still pauses to give him an irritated look, but allows himself to be distracted. “You don’t say?”
Crowley nods and leads the way to the front steps. The wards bend for him the way they always do. “Course.” He’s proud of himself for not flinching when the doors swing open. That’s progress, that’s what that is. “Right this way.”
He hovers until Aziraphale picks up the first book. When he’s ten pages in, Crowley knows he’s well and truly distracted. He backs away. It’s early yet, not even nine o’clock, and the day stretches out before him. It’s the perfect time to put himself in a corner.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hisses quietly to himself. He’s tucked himself away two stacks back, near enough to see Aziraphale but hopefully not close enough to be overheard by him. “You’re acting like more of a spazz than usual. You’re a fucking disaster, that’s what you are. Get yourself together!” He’s been useless, he has, thrown off his game. Reacting instead of taking action. Well, that stops now. “I need a plan.”
Yes, that’s it. He’s always had a plan before. Holy Water, now that had been a plan — a dangerous one, a pocket nuke hiding behind his da Vinci — but he’d had it.
What should his plan be? The idea behind the Holy Water had been simple: acquire it, hide it in his flat, throw it at any demon who came close enough to learn about his Arrangement with Aziraphale. Admittedly, steps one and two had been more complicated than he’d expected and step three had damn near killed him, but at least he’d known what to do the day Hastur had told him he was on his way.
And now? Crowley swallows. Well, now he has the opposite problem. He has to know how to go when Aziraphale asks him to leave.
Crowley drops his head onto his chest. It’s coming. He knows that it’s coming. It’s always come up before. Aziraphale allows him to hang out for a little while, drink with him, but eventually he starts to hint that Crowley should leave. He mentions things he needs to do and places he needs to be. Crowley’s always gotten the point before. Aziraphale tolerates his presence at the best of times and this — when he’s sweating and shaking and making an idiot of himself — is hardly the best of times. So, at some point Aziraphale will ask him to leave. What then?
Well, then he’ll leave, obviously. Figuring out how to do that is step two. Step one is to manage to be more than three feet away from Aziraphale without losing his fucking mind.
Okay then. Crowley sucks in a deep breath. He has a plan.
Over the next few hours Crowley forces his feet to let more space exist between himself and the angel. It’s hard. It’s bloody torment, if he’s honest, but he’s a demon. Torture’s in the job description. Yet if he’s more than ten feet away from Aziraphale, Crowley can’t blink, has to stare, feels like if he looks away for even a second Aziraphale will be gone.
He knows that kind of thinking is illogical. He knows how dangerous it can be. He spent time around Freud, after all. The human had actually gotten him on the couch a couple of times, convinced that he could get to the bottom of Crowley’s assertion that he was a demon if he only dug down deep enough. It was fun until Freud started to ask things like, ‘Tell me about your relationship with your mother,’ and then it got real old real fast.
Still, delusional thinking is delusional. The bookshop is as safe as it can be. Crowley’s not going to be able to stop any angel who comes for them anyway, so thinking he could is just ridiculous, which means standing on the other side of the bookshop and looking away from Aziraphale will result in nothing different than standing closer and not looking away from Aziraphale. Which means that he can look away now, any time.
Annnnny time.
Crowley blinks.
His heart pounds, and he’s taken an unconscious half-step forward, but he’s blinked, and Aziraphale is still there.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks. He looks up from the book he’s reading and his eyes dart around the shop frantically before they finally land on Crowley. “Oh,” he exhales. He sounds relieved. “There you are.”
Crowly manages a nod. “Not going anywhere, angel.” And isn’t that the damned truth.
“Good,” Aziraphale says, surprising him. Crowley stares. Aziraphale meets his eye for a moment before clearing his throat. “Er, that is, these new books Adam got me are actually halfway interesting. Would you like me to read you some?”
“Sure,” Crowley says, feeling thankful. He almost trips in his haste to lead them both to the back room. It’s only been two days. He can practice stepping away from Aziraphale tomorrow. “You’ll have to start from the beginning, though.”
“Not an issue,” Aziraphale promises.
Crowley hesitates at the entrance to the backroom. He really — really — wants to sit on the floor again, put his body between the door and Aziraphale, but that would just be giving into his paranoia and he’d lose all the progress he’s made today. So instead Crowley takes his usual place on the sofa. Aziraphale, for his part, sits in his favourite chair. “Here, my dear,” he says. “Listen to this.”
He reads for several hours. Crowley drifts as the story makes pictures inside his head. He’ll read occasionally, here and there when he’s found something worth putting the effort into, but he prefers to watch the story play out in front of his eyes or, best of all, listen to Aziraphale tell it.
Eventually Aziraphale pauses. Crowley blinks and refocuses on him. Aziraphale has placed a hand in the book, one finger marking his place.
“What?” Crowley asks.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks up and over. His smile is shaky. “I was just remembering some of the other times we’ve sat like this, that’s all.”
Crowley smiles and stretches his arms over his head, thinking. “There’s been a few. Most this century, of course, a few times before. I think the first was — oh.” He stops. Looks away. “Pompeii.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I think it was.”
Crowley can’t meet his eyes. Pompeii had been, well. He’d gotten the heads up from Hell about what was going to happen, along with specific instructions to stand aside and take notes. Hastur had thought it sounded hilarious. Crowley had agreed with him because he hadn’t had any other choice, and then he’d found a bar and he’d gotten very drunk, very quickly. He’d seriously considered staying in that bar until the volcano blew, and he hadn’t had a plan for how to get out again afterwards.
But then Aziraphale had found him. He’d walk in, paid his tab, and taken Crowley back to the place he’d been staying at, weaseling the story out of him before tucking him into bed. Then he’d spent seven days doing what he could to warn people in the city and seven nights sitting in a chair reading to Crowley.
Keeping him distracted. Keeping him sane.
“You got the word out,” Crowley says quietly. “The human way, with soapboxes on street corners because Heaven wouldn’t let you make a divine announcement, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help.”
“You told me,” Aziraphale says gently, “and we saved some. There were a few people who listened.”
Crowley has to shake his head. “Not enough.”
Aziraphale bites his lip and looks down at his book. “Perhaps not. Still, I did like the house there.”
Crowley shrugs. “I guess so.” He looks around. “Now that I think of it, there was a sofa and an armchair there too, wasn’t there? Or, near enough, anyway.”
It’s dim in the backroom but Crowley’s eyesight is good enough to see Aziraphale’s faint blush. “Was there? I hardly remember.”
Crowley watches him for a moment. He’s wondered if Aziraphale knew how much that week meant to him, how close to the edge he’d been. Maybe he had. “Go on then, angel,” he says, nodding to the book in Aziraphale’s hand and settling back into the sofa. “Tell me what happens next.”
It’s a children’s book so it only takes them a few more hours to read it. The sun’s gone down by then but they’re both comfortable, so they find the second book in the series and read that one too. Crowley listens from the couch, reclining in a position that gives him a view of both Aziraphale and the door. Nothing happens. Aziraphale finishes the last page of the second book just as dawn creeps back into the bookshop again. Crowley takes a deep breath and looks up. He’s surprised to realize they missed dinner.
“Well, it feels odd to say this, but breakfast again, angel? I’ll have to treat you to dinner tonight, for sure.”
“Hmm,” Aziraphale says. He’s also watching the light creep back into the bookshop. There’s a look on his face that’s similar to yesterday. Crowley watches it. It’s almost like the look Aziraphale gets when he’s reciting poetry, or when he’s watching humans write.
It hurts Crowley’s non-existent heart to see it, and it gives him an idea. It takes him a moment to really think about it, to imagine what he wants and what he thinks Aziraphale would like. Finally he reaches behind his shoulder into the shelves for the book he knows he’ll find there.
“Here,” Crowley says, holding the leather bound pages out to Aziraphale. “Use this.”
Aziraphale starts and looks over at him. “What?”
“This,” Crowley says, waggling the book in his direction. He waits until Aziraphale takes it. “I’d conjure you a pen, too, except I know you have a million of those.”
“Hardly that,” Aziraphale demurs, flipping the cover open. It’s blank inside, not even lined, and the parchment is old enough that it looks like it’s been sitting on the shelves since 1815, waiting to be found. “Crowley, what is this?”
Crowley shrugs, uncomfortable. Maybe Aziraphale doesn’t like it. “Just a journal. You had this look on your face like you wanted to write something down. So, you know,” he waves at the pages again. “Write it down.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks touched. “I’ve heard that’s a good way to get thoughts out of one’s head. Thank you, my dear. That’s incredibly thoughtful.”
Crowley turns away. “‘S fine,” he says. “Whatever.”
He expects Aziraphale to let it go, but the angel’s gaze lingers.
“What?” Crowley snaps.
“It’s only that, well, as you’ve said, we’re on our own side now.”
Crowley hunches his shoulders. He’s said it plenty of times. Aziraphale’s not going to deny it again, is he? “Yeah.”
“So — ” Aziraphale’s gaze is careful. “We can do what we like now.” He looks down at the journal. “We can have thoughts, and express those thoughts, and maybe even act on those thoughts, without fear of reprisal.”
Crowley winces. “Yeah.”
Aziraphale’s expression is kind. “No more reprisal than we’ve already earned, I mean.” He looks down at the book in his hand and chuckles nervously. “Even sitting here with you was something I worried about too often. Now Heaven knows I’ve been consorting with the enemy.” He looks up and smiles. “Stopping the Apocalypse with him, even.”
Crowley can’t help but smile back. “‘Consorting,’ eh?” It’s a long way from fraternizing, at least.
Aziraphale blushes. “Yes, well.”
Crowley’s smile dims as a thought occurs to him. “It’s just Heaven and Hell, though,” he says. “We still don’t know what — I mean, what She — ”
He can’t quite get the words out. Aziraphale seems to pick up on what he means anyway.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” he says reassuringly. “She’s okay with it, clearly.”
“Maybe,” Crowley says. He can hear the edge of desperation in his voice. “But you don’t know that, angel. Maybe this is the perfect time to walk away. Maybe you should before you — ”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, too gentle. “I’m not going to leave you.”
Crowley has wanted him too, so many times over the millennia and has stopped himself from begging him not to, nearly as many times. “Maybe you should.”
Aziraphale cocks his head at him. “Why?”
Crowley presses his lips together. “I told you in Pompeii.”
Aziraphale’s blue eyes remain steady. Crowley wonders if he recalls the mini-shakes, the wine, the aching terror just as vividly as he does. “I told you then and I’ll tell you again now, my dear. I’m not going to Fall for this. I would never.”
Crowley feels a dig of actual pain. “You don’t know that.”
Aziraphale looks at him oddly. “I do, actually.” He looks down at his book again. “Anyway, thank you for the gift, Crowley. I think I’ll have a lot to explore in this.”
“Sure,” Crowley says. He’s on edge now. The impulse to deny the angel’s gratitude is strong, but Aziraphale isn’t wrong. They can make their own choices now. Crowley’s already Fallen and there’s no one to judge if a demon is being polite to an angel anymore. “Fine,” he says, in a quieter voice. “I mean, you’re welcome or whatever.”
Aziraphale looks up at him, surprised, and then he smiles. It’s a very bright smile.
Crowley allows himself to bask in it for half a second before he looks away. There may be no one to judge, but Crowley’s battered soul can only take so much attention. Still, the freezing space inside of him warms, and it stays warm for a full minute after.
They go out for breakfast. Aziraphale gets waffles and Crowley black coffee. When they’re finished Aziraphale tucks his hand into Crowley’s arm again and, just like that, it’s easy to walk back to the bookshop. Aziraphale goes immediately to the register and sifts under the books to emerge with a thick white novelty pen that makes Crowley groan.
“Really, Angel? That was a joke.”
Aziraphale smiles. “It was a gift from you, my dear.” He turns the pen over and the glitter suspended in water catches the light as it follows gravity down. The bobble letters A-N-G-E-L follow. “I thought it was fitting.”
“I got it at a truck stop in Texas,” Crowley grumbles, ignoring the pleased feeling rising in his chest. He watches Aziraphale settle into his armchair with his pen and new journal. “It’s hardly fitting for a book from the nineteenth century.”
“I think it’s very fitting,” Aziraphale says, uncapping the pen. “Hush now.”
Crowley shakes his head and takes the sofa. He’s still exhausted, mentally, physically — spiritually, probably, who knows? — and it’s relaxing to lie there drifting while Aziraphale writes.
He writes a lot. He doesn’t seem to be able to stop, like once he’s started he just keeps finding new things to say. Crowley’s intensely curious. He keeps his gaze away from Aziraphale, finds it drifting instead between the doorway and the window. He thinks about wards. He’d feel a lot more comfortable if he could add demonic wards to Aziraphale’s angelic inscriptions, except no one has ever combined the two before. The results could be explosive.
That being said, no demon has ever switched bodies with an angel before and lived, so…
They could try. The problem, Crowley thinks as Aziraphale goes scritch-scritch-scritch beside him, is the bookshop. It’s so attuned to Aziraphale now, so full of his presence, that he doesn’t think he could anchor a demonic ward here. He’d need his own space for that and it’d have to be somewhere close. Somewhere where he could overlap the two sets of wards, perhaps.
His eyelids have drifted almost closed but he’s still watching the door. The light in the bookshop has changed. It was bright enough before but it’s getting dimmer again and the shadows are shifting. Eventually Aziraphale looks up.
“Oh dear,” he says, in that tone Crowley knows well. It’s the I-just-spent-a-day-lost-in-a-book-and-we-weren’t-supposed-meet-up-later? voice. “What time is it? I’m so sorry, my dear boy. I got carried away.”
This time it’s easy to smile. “Not a problem, angel. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, happily. “This journal was a very good idea. I admit I feel ten stone lighter. Writing things out really does help put them in perspective . You should try it, my dear.”
Crowley makes a face. “Not really my jam.”
“Hmm,” Aziraphale says, looking at him. “Yes, right. Well, we’ll have to find you something else, then, won’t we?”
Crowley scrunches his nose. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. Then he smiles. “We’ll think of something.”
“Okay,” Crowley agrees. He’s not really sure what they’re talking about. “Come on, why don’t we go out for dinner? It’s late enough.”
Aziraphale glances out the window. “Yes, I suppose it is. Very well. Where would you like to go?”
Crowley rolls to his feet and shrugs, rocking back a little on his heels. “I dunno, anywhere you want. I’m not really hungry.”
Aziraphale nods and stands. He looks at the journal in his hand and then at a side table, and then shakes his head and turns to walk back into the main room of the shop. Crowley finds that he can let Aziraphale get a whole six feet away from him before he starts to get antsy. It’s progress.
Aziraphale is tucking the journal into one of the drawers under the register when Crowley comes up behind him. The drawer has a lock and Aziraphale turns the key before securing it in his pocket. “There we go,” he says, straightening. He claps his hands together. “Let’s see. Sushi?”
They end up sharing a plate of nigiri at a new shop that’s opened nearby. Crowley had suggested Aziraphale’s usual place where the chef knows him by name, but Aziraphale had shaken his head and murmured something about ‘Not yet, I don’t think.’ Then his fingers had jerked and his new journal had appeared in his hand. He tisked at himself and sent it back, then twisted his hands together in front of him.
Crowley does his best not to stare at those hands as they eat their meal. It’s hard. Aziraphale’s elegant fingers manipulate chopsticks just as easily as they do knives and spoons. He remembers what Aziraphale had looked like when they’d eaten nigiri in Japan or when he’d first tried imported sushi in America. For all that they’ve had very little extended contact, only a meal or a bottle shared here or there across the planet, six millennia of once-or-twice a century meeting added up.
Of course, they’d met more often in the past two hundred years. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale had worried like he had that their six thousand years were coming to an end.
After dinner, Crowley turns once again in the direction of the shop. He manages to do so by turning his back on Aziraphale even which he thinks is progress of the highest kind. He stops when he realizes Aziraphale isn’t right behind him, though.
“My dear,” Aziraphale says when Crowley looks back at him. “You know I would stay in my bookshop forever, but isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather go?”
Crowley frowns at him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just — ” Aziraphale’s hands are twisting together in front of him. “You’ve been so good about indulging me, and you know I could spend the next hundred years tucked away in my little part of Soho, but I’m sure you’re getting anxious about Mayfair. You haven’t even mentioned the Bentley, my dear. You know it’s still parked in front of your flat.”
Crowley swallows the sudden acrid taste of ash. He sees soot and fire and feels the heat of molten metal under his hands. “I know.”
“And it’s just, well, your poor plants. I wouldn’t want them to suffer. Such an absolutely lovely garden you have. I was quite impressed the other day. I know I told you that already, but I was. And if you want to go back to your flat and see to them or your car, well, I’d— I’d understand.”
Crowley’s heart pounds. “No.”
Aziraphale peers at him. “No?”
“No,” Crowley says. His hands shake. His stomach clenches. Panic burns in the back of his throat. “No, I don’t care about the bloody flat. I don’t care about the blasted plants. I don’t care about my fucking car!”
He’s shouting now. He clenches his hands into his fists at his sides. Aziraphale stares at him as though he’s lost his mind, and he has. Of course he loves his car, and he tolerates the plants, and, okay, the flat is only a place to sleep, but there are things about it he enjoys, like his da Vinci and his momentos, but he can’t— he can’t go back to them right now. Why doesn’t Aziraphale understand ?
He sucks in air he doesn’t need. Aziraphale steps in closer and reaches a hand up, putting it on Crowley’s arm. “Darling,” he says.
And Crowley — Crowley breaks . He falls. One minute he’s standing on his own two feet, radiating fury, and the next he’s on his knees on the dirty London sidewalk, melted as though he’s been touched by Holy Water. Aziraphale’s hand is still on his shoulder, the only thing holding him together.
“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Oh Crowley, oh darling, it’s okay.”
Crowley is crying now. When did he start? He doesn’t know. He tries to stop but can’t. He’s losing his fucking mind in the middle of Old Comptom Street with wasabi on his fingers and dirt on his knees.
“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale says. His voice is achingly gentle, more kind that Crowley deserves. He puts both of his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and pulls him forward, encouraging Crowley to rest his head against his thighs. “Darling, it’s okay. I’m here.”
It’s remarkably comforting. Crowley sucks in air and fights back tears, folding into Aziraphale as though he’s a sofa. It’s like being back at the bookstore, actually, sitting on the floor, or at least it is until Aziraphale shifts, crouching down to bring himself to Crowley’s level.
That’s not right. Aziraphale doesn’t belong down here with him. Crowley never meant to drag him Below.
“No,” Crowley tries. “Don’t. I’m — ” He scrubs a hand over his face. There’s salt on his cheeks. He loves humans but how can they stand this? He’s never been so glad to be wearing sunglasses in his life. “I’m alright, angel. Here, help me up.”
Aziraphale hesitates. “Are you — ?”
“Yes, I’m bloody sure,” Crowley says and waves his arm. Aziraphale stands and pulls him up, as Crowley knows he would. Crowley gives himself a second to let the dizziness pass. God — Satan — Somebody, he’s a mess. He looks a right wreck, he does.
“Fine, let’s go to the stupid flat,” he says, his voice gruff, “but you’re coming with me.”
“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You know that I — ” He cuts himself off. “I mean, yes. I’ll come with you.”
It isn’t far to walk but Aziraphale hails a cab. Crowley bounces his knee for the entirety of the short ride, that is until they round the corner to his flat and he promptly opens the cabbie door, leans over onto the road, and throws up.
“What the soddin’ hell?” the cabbie yelps. “Mate! You can’t just — !”
The cab slams to a stop. Crowley retches again. He stumbles out of the cab on two wobbly legs and makes it across both lanes of traffic without getting hit which has to be Aziraphale’s handiwork.
“I’m sorry!” he hears the angel stammer behind him. “My friend, he’s very ill. No, not like that — bad party. I’m very sorry. Here — ” Crowley knows Aziraphale is throwing a handful of bills at the man. “Very sorry.”
Then there is the slam of a cab door and hurried footsteps coming towards him. Crowley finds a streetlight and holds on. He still feels sick. The world won’t stop spinning.
“I’m sorry! Oh my dear, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you, I should have let you go at your own time,” Aziraphale is saying worriedly. There’s the brush of an angelic miracle, a brief heat-cold-heat against his skin, and Crowley knows the worst of the sick has been miracled away. Even his teeth feel clean. “Let’s get you home. Er, to the bookshop. Er, maybe not. Where you would like to go? Anywhere, my dear. Name a place.”
Aziraphale sounds wretched. Crowley looks at him, one eye open in a squint. It’s all that he can manage. “St James,” he rasps. It’s the first location that comes to mind. “Take me to St James.”
There’s the whiff of a miracle, a stronger and longer one this time, and then Crowley is clutching at Aziraphale instead of the streetlamp. He cracks open his other eye.
They’re in St James’s Park. Crowley swallows and looks at Aziraphale. That kind of transportation miracle is hell on the imagination. You have to know exactly where you’re going and exactly how you’ll get there in order to move from one place to another and skip the steps in between. But if there’s one place Aziraphale knows well enough to transport them to, it’s St James’s Park.
“Thank you,” Crowley mutters. Their regular bench is just a step or two ahead of them. If he lets go of Aziraphale, he can probably make it before he falls down.
Aziraphale doesn’t give him the chance. He simply tugs on Crowley’s arm and half carries him to the bench, depositing him there and then saying “No, no, not like that. Come here. Lie down.”
Crowley hesitates, swallowing. Aziraphale looks at him sternly. “Anthony J Crowley,” he snaps. “Come here .”
Crowley finds himself on his back with his head in Aziraphale’s lap and his feet dangling off the edge of the bench. He isn’t quite sure how he got here. He’d almost assume a miracle except there’s no way he’d have ever known how to go from standing to lying with his head on Aziraphale’s thighs well enough to miracle it. He can hardly believe it now, and it’s happening.
“There,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is just this side of shaky, enough that Crowley can ignore it if he chooses. “That’s better.”
“Are you sure?” Crowley asks. He can never ignore anything where Aziraphale is concerned. “If you didn’t mean — I can move — I — ”
“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, and puts his hands firmly on Crowley’s head. It feels amazing. And then his fingers are digging into Crowley’s hair and oh God, that feels even better . “You just stay here with me a minute. No thinking now.”
No thinking is usually impossible for Crowley. His mind is always going a million miles a minute. It’s his defining feature. It's what got him kicked out of Heaven in the first place. But somehow having Aziraphale’s hands on him makes him forget how to string two thoughts together. Those perfectly manicured fingers scratching ever-so-lightly along his scalp has — impossibly — actually shut his brain up.
Equally impossible is that after half an hour his eyelids begin to close for whole stretches at a time. He isn’t sleeping, he isn’t anywhere close, but he’s relaxed enough to consider it. He trusts Aziraphale to watch their backs. The angel is awake, sitting upright on the park bench. He’s watching. They might not be safe but they’re okay.
And they stay okay for hours. At least one, maybe two. The sun is almost down before Aziraphale shifts minutely and says, “Crowley.” His voice low and soft but easily understandable. “I know this is difficult for both of us but I think we need to talk.”
Crowley knows his breathing has hitched. He can feel it, which means Aziraphale must be able to feel it, too.
“We can take as much time as you like,” Aziraphale goes on. “We can stay here for as long as you need to. If this is a safe place for you, we don’t have to move for the next fifty years, but we do need to talk.”
“It’s not, though,” Crowley finds himself saying. It’s easier to speak with Aziraphale’s hands in his hair. He’s on his side with his back to the bench seat and his head is still on Aziraphale’s thighs. At some point he’d drawn his knees up to his chest. When he looks through the dim of his sunglasses all he can see are the ducks in St James’s Park. “They came for us here before. They could come again.”
Aziraphale hums. Crowley can feel the vibration of it through the fabric of his pants. “They came for us here only because we let them.”
Crowley grinds his teeth together but doesn’t disagree. They’d talked about it, had agreed to meet at the park. They’d thought it a likely spot to get ambushed. He’d hated the entire plan.
“We can go somewhere else if you prefer,” Aziraphale says. “The bookshop, perhaps. It’s warded. Only against demons, I know, but it’s something, at least.”
Crowley shakes his head. “It’s not enough. I should add demonic wards to your angelic ones. Layer over the two.”
Aziraphale hums again, thoughtful this time. “Do you think we could?”
“Maybe,” Crowley manages. Bloody Manchester, he’s exhausted. “I’ve been thinking about it. Would need an anchor, though.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “My anchor is my circle. It’s etched directly into the floor.”
Crowley nods. “I’d have to bring something over.”
“From where? Not Hell, surely?”
Crowley shakes his head. “No, I’ve got — ” He thinks of his throne and his throat closes up.
“Please, darling,” Aziraphale says. His hands are still stroking through Crowley’s hair. “Use your words for me.”
Ugh, when he put it that way — “At my flat. I’ve got something that’ll work.”
“Okay,” Aziraphale says. His voice is soft. “Do you want to go back there and get it?”
Crowley feels the panic start to build in the back of his throat. “No.”
“Okay,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t sound judgmental. He doesn’t even sound sad. He just sounds like he’s stating facts. “We’ll leave that for now, then. Even if you did have an anchor you’d need a space that really identified as your own. Would the top floor do?”
The panic fades slightly. Crowley finds himself shaking his head. “No,” he says, “you’ve been there too long. You’re essence has soaked into the entire shop.” It’s not a bad thing.
“Hmm, we’ll have to think of something else, then.” Aziraphale hesitates. “What was the anchor at your place? Or is that too personal a question to ask?”
Crowley sighs. “Don’t think we have personal questions anymore, angel. It was the throne.”
Aziraphale starts. “You have a throne ?”
“Yeah, in the study. Oh, right, I shut the door when you came over. I didn’t want — ” Ligur. The Holy Water. He has to swallow again. “It’s from Hell.”
He can feel Aziraphale’s frown. “Doesn’t seem like it would match the decor.”
“Eh, Hell’s changed, just like Heaven. You know how it is. Ideas start to spread and take root. You saw it in it’s mouldy phase, used to be more of a burning wasteland with gaudy furniture. Pretty to look at but too hot to sit on, that kind of a thing. I nicked it when things started to go in a more underground direction.”
“Hm, I see,” Aziraphale says. “That does sound like it would be useful. I understand you don’t want to go back to your flat, though.” His voice becomes more hesitant. “Could you tell me why? Is it the throne itself?”
Crowley tenses again. “Sort of.”
Aziraphale’s hands card through his hair gently. “Crowley.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Talking. Ugh. “It is sort of the problem, a little bit. I mean, the throne is the anchor, right? I’ve tied my wards into it and you know how wards are. They’re just imagination written down. Given form, so to speak.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley licks his lips. “Right, well — my wards say the usual, bugger off, you’re not welcome here. They’ll work against angels right enough but they won’t work — they didn’t work — against demons.”
“Oh, Crowley . They came after you there?”
“Yeah,” Crowley rasps. Too smart, that’s what Aziraphale is. “Yeah, they did. After — after — ” His throat closes up again. Aziraphale waits him out, running his fingers in an unending pattern over Crowley’s head. Crowley finally musters up the courage. “After I left you at the bandstand, I didn’t know where to go. I went to the theatre. I got a message from Hastur saying that he was after me. He told me not to run.”
Aziraphale growls, low in his throat. “Did he now?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says. “So I ran, of course.”
“Of course you did,” Aziraphale says. He sounds fond. “Is that — oh no.” He stops. His hands on Crowley’s head still. “That’s when you found me on the street, wasn’t it? When you told me the forces of Hell were after you. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”
Crowley bites his lip and focuses on the ducks in the pond. They look happy. “It’s okay. You didn’t — you wanted — you were still trying to fix things. I was just running away.”
“No, you were protecting yourself,” Aziraphale disagrees. “Exactly as you should have done.” His nails scratch, very lightly, against Crowley’s scalp. He takes a deep breath. “So you went back to your flat?”
“Yeah. I went for the Holy Water.”
Aziraphale sucks in a gasp. “That’s what I felt that night at your apartment. I was so tired, I didn’t think — I thought it was from the lectern, or the tea set I’d bought you that I saw you still have on hand, but that was Holy Water?”
Crowley nods. “Feel of it’s changed a little, got a melted demon inside. I poured it into a bucket and balanced it above the door. Oldest trick in the book.”
“That’s what they meant at your trial,” Aziraphale says. “Oh Crowley. I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”
Crowley frowns and turns slightly to look up at him. “Why? You don’t have anything to be sorry about. That Holy Water saved my life.”
“I have much to be sorry about,” Aziraphale argues quietly. He stares off into the duck pond, an unhappy flush to his cheeks. “I’m sorry I said no to running away with you in the first place. I’m sorry I gave you the Holy Water because it could have hurt you. I’m sorry I waited for so long to hand it over because you’ve proved now that you needed it, and it must have been a comfort to have it close, knowing it was there, that it was there if they came after you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you to fight the other demons when they came.”
There’s too much there for Crowley to parse through. He closes his eyes and focuses on the last bit. “I wouldn’t have wanted you there. I almost didn’t make it out.” Aziraphale goes tense again, so Crowley adds, “Besides, you did help me. Your call gave me the idea to use the phone. I wouldn’t have made it back to street level if you hadn’t called.”
“I’ll be thankful for that, then,” Aziraphale says quietly. His hands start moving again. “I’m sorry, my dear. I distracted you, got caught up in my own feelings when I’m supposed to be helping you with yours.”
“‘S okay,” Crowley says. He shifts so he’s on his side again, looking out at the duck pond. It’s easier this time, more comfortable. He’s going to have a hard time letting this closeness go when it’s finally taken away from him. “I’m here to help you, too, you know.”
Aziraphale’s hands feels like a smile. “I do know.” He clears his throat. “Is that why you don’t want to go back to your flat? Because you know that if they came for you once, they could come for you again?”
It makes more sense when Aziraphale says it. “I guess so. My wards didn’t protect me. I knew they wouldn’t, but I — I have a hard time imagining that they could right now.” And the Holy Water. He really, really doesn’t want to go near the Holy Water.
“So they won’t,” Aziraphale finishes. “I understand.” He waits for a moment. “And the Bentley?”
Crowley tenses. “Last time I saw it, it was a burning wreck,” he says as steadily as he’s able. “Just like the bookshop. I couldn’t — if I sat down in it and smelled smoke I don’t think I could —”
Aziraphale’s finger stutter. “The bookshop?”
Crowley licks his lips. “Yeah, you know? I told you. It burnt down.”
“Yes, but I thought — oh,” Aziraphale says. “The book. That’s right, the book was all burnt. You mean you went inside?”
Crowley realizes he’s clutching his knees to his chest. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Didn’t know where you were. Thought you might have been there.”
“Oh, Crowley ,” Aziraphale exhales. “What if you’d been hurt?”
“Was just fire,” Crowley says. He pulls at a loose thread on his jeans. “Not like it could have hurt me.”
“It absolutely could have and you know that,” Aziraphale scolds. His hands are moving again. “And the very next day I asked you to dress up as me and go back there again. My dear, I’m so sorry.”
“‘S okay,” Crowley says again. “Had to be done, and I would do it a thousand times over. It worked , didn’t it?”
“Yes, but — ” Aziraphale sighs. “I do wish you’d said something earlier. Does it bother you very much to be inside?”
Crowley thinks of the acrid smell of smoke he’s mostly entirely sure is it in his head. “Not so much.”
Aziraphale’s fingers tighten in his hair. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
“I’m not,” Crowley says, too quickly. Aziraphale relaxes and Crowley immediately misses the tension on his hair. “It’s not that bad now, really. I’ve almost gotten used to it.”
“Almost is not quite what I was hoping for,” Aziraphale murmurs quietly.
Crowley swallows. He looks back at the duck pond. “I’ve been trying to work on it. I know I’ve got to get back to the flat eventually. I’ve probably already overstayed my welcome.” The pit of ice at the centre of his being seems to grow. “I mean,” he says quickly, “I’m a demon so, you know, it’s in the job description. Don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily, but I wouldn’t — ”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts. His voice is quiet but achingly sincere. “No, my dear, no. In fact,” he takes a deep breath, “I’ve been worrying about quite the opposite.”
Crowley feels whatever passes for a heart stutter in his chest. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Aziraphale starts. He takes a deep breath. “What I mean is, I really should tell you, Crowley dear, that though I have talked about your flat and the Bentley, I have not been trying to get rid of you. On the contrary, in fact, I have been rather quietly terrified of the day you do decide to leave. You will at some point, I know. My simple life is not your usual style, but the past two days have been, well, they’ve been perfect. For me. Having you with me, being able to see you, knowing you were safe — I cannot describe to you how much I have enjoyed having that.”
Crowley heart stops for a long moment before starting again. Is he dreaming? Is this a dream? “Angel — ”
Aziraphale hurries on. “I know we’ve only seen each other infrequently in the past and the last eleven years have pushed us to work in closer contact that we usually enjoy — than I enjoy, at least. I will, of course, completely understand when you decide you need some time away from me. You have your own life with your own interests, your beautiful garden, for example, but after everything — after all that we’ve been through — I really can’t imagine letting you out of my sight just yet. Not right now. I’m sorry to say it feels as though I might never be able to.”
Crowley’s heart is going mad now, beating fiercely in his chest. There’s a lump in his throat that he thinks might be joy, except it’s been so long since he tasted it, he’s not quite sure. “Do you really mean that?”
“I do,” Aziraphale says sadly. His hands scratch through Crowley’s hair again. “I’m so terribly sorry. I know it must be frustrating for you. I’m sure you didn’t save the world just to spend it babysitting an angel. I’ll get over it as soon as I can, I promise. I’ve never wanted to be a burden. I just — I beg your indulgence for a little bit longer. A — a year, maybe. A month, at least. A week would be too short, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t — ”
“A year sounds perfect, angel,” Crowley rasps. He raises a hand — he’s shaking like a leaf, but he manages — and finds Aziraphale’s wrist blindly. He wraps his fingers around it and tightens his grip. “Two years. Ten. A hundred. Never ask me to leave again if you can help it.” He squeezes his eyes shut. If he’s careful, he won’t feel the tears leaking out. “I really thought I’d lost you. I can’t bear to be away from you, either. The world wouldn’t have much point for me if there weren’t a you in it.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. It’s such a soft sound, as much happy as surprised, and before Crowley knows it Aziraphale has wound their hands together until they’re pressing palm to palm, fingers tangled forever. “My dear, that’s exactly how I feel. I couldn’t bear if it you — if you were to leave me. I know I would deserve it. I know you’ve warned me and I know that I’ve refused you — twice! — but I had hoped — I had so very much hoped that I would have a little more time with you before you had to go.”
“‘M not leaving,” Crowley promises. His throat feels like sandpaper. Is this really happening? Could it be a dream? Except Aziraphale’s palm is pressing against his own and Crowley couldn’t have imagined that, not as real as it seems. “I couldn’t even leave in the first place. Didn’t even try, never made it very far. Ended up in a theatre, I told you. I couldn’t go alone. I couldn’t face the stars.”
Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eventually he bends down and presses a brief, chaste kiss to the back of Crowley’s hand. His voice shakes. “I’m glad.”
Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s hand down and tucks it close against his chest. His eyes burn. The icy centre inside of him stutters as though it can’t quite believe this either. He knows that Aziraphale’s going to take it back. He’s going to pull his hand away and tell Crowley that he didn’t mean it. Any minute now. Any — minute —
They stay there together until the duck pond glows red in the setting sun. The air turns cool. Crowley doesn’t dare move. He clutches Aziraphale tight and soaks in every moment with him that he can.
“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, finally, “that if we’re in agreement about staying together than our largest concern is location.”
Crowley swallows. Our. “How so?”
“Well,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, “if I may be so bold, the bookshop, while difficult, does not appear to pose as much of an issue for you as your flat does.”
Crowley scoffs. “Why, because I’ve managed whole days in the bookshop and was sick before we’d even turn the corner to my flat? No clue what gave you that idea, angel.”
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear the smile in his voice, “what I mean to say is that, if you’re still amenable, you could perhaps — move in — to the bookshop? Except it doesn’t need to be this bookshop,” Aziraphale says, hurriedly. “I could move the shop, to be sure. Location doesn’t matter so much. We’d need to find a big enough space. I do have rather a lot of books, but we could, I don’t know, go looking around London? There must be somewhere else that is — ”
“Angel,” Crowley stops him. He turns onto his back again so he can look up at Aziraphale. He can’t not look at the angel right now. “You’d really do that? You’d move for me?”
Aziraphale looks down at him helplessly. “Of course I would.”
Crowley couldn’t stop himself from smiling if he tried. “You don’t have to do that. I like the bookshop just fine.”
“It’s too quiet,” Aziraphale apologizes, “and stuffy.”
Crowley turns to press a smile into the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I like stuffy. And it’s not really that quiet in Soho.”
“There are quite a few restaurants nearby,” Aziraphale admits.
“And it’s a quick walk to the British Museum,” Crowley points out. “You like the cafeteria there.”
“I do, rather. And you enjoy the National Gallery, which is also not far.”
“Exactly,” Crowley says, relaxing. “I think it’ll be better if we add some demonic wards, I’m still not sure we could manage it. I’d need my throne and, like you said, a space that resonants as mine, but we can figure that out.”
“How?” Aziraphale asks. “Like you said, I’ve been there too long.”
Crowley hums. “What if we expanded?”
“But how would we go about doing that? We’d need quite a lot of room. You’d need more than your throne, you have all those wonderful things at your flat and, of course, your plants.”
Crowley laughs. “Of course my plants. You like my plants, do you, angel?”
Aziraphale blushes. “They are very lovely. They, well, they remind me of Eden, actually.”
Crowley blinks hard. “Yeah,” he says with a lump in his throat. “Me too.”
Aziraphale tightens his grip around Crowley’s hand. “I wouldn’t want you to have to consider leaving them behind.”
“I’d never,” Crowley says automatically. He glares in the direction of his flat. “Don’t tell them that, though.”
Aziraphale laughs. “Of course not.”
Crowley looks back up to smile at him. A thought occurs. “Hey, is there still that empty shop beside you?”
Aziraphale frowns. “No, the bookstore is still there — ‘Adam and Eve Books,’ who are they trying to fool? Neither Adam nor Eve were that adventurous.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “No, not the naughty bookshop, the other one.”
“Oh, the one that used to be an overpriced clothing store? Yes, I think so.”
“A hundred pounds for a pair of jeans is not overpriced, angel,” Crowley feels the need to point out.
Aziraphale purses his lips. “It’s practically highway robbery!”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “You remember highway robbery. There were more pistols involved. Anyway,” he goes on, “I could take that place. It’s got more than enough room. Of course, we’d have to do a little work, knock down the walls between the two shops and look at the flat upstairs, miracle the top floors together. I mean — ” He cuts himself off and peers past Aziraphale’s shoulder, suddenly finding the clouds on that side very interesting. “I know you changed your flat to a second floor for the bookshop and that’s fine, but it’d be nice to have a place to get away from the front door for a while, so, I dunno, maybe — ”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, interrupting him. He squeezes his hand again, until Crowley gives up and looks over. Aziraphale’s smiling. “I think that’s a fabulous idea.”
Crowley swallows. “You do?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “That’ll give you plenty of space. Having you right next door alone would be lovely, but actually expanding — taking down the walls and putting the two shops together — oh, I love it. It would keep you near and give you what you need. And I’m perfectly okay with the idea of a flat. I eliminated mine because I wasn’t using it, but if you’re giving up Mayfair I think you more than deserve a space to call your own.”
“It wouldn’t have to be — ” Crowley swallows and holds Aziraphale’s hand tighter to his chest. “It wouldn’t have to be just mine , angel. It could be ours. If you wanted.”
Aziraphale is silent again. Crowley dares to look at him. His angel is blinking hard. “Do you really mean that?”
Crowley wonders if maybe — just maybe — Aziraphale wants this as much as he does. “Of course I do.”
Aziraphale lifts their hands and presses a hard kiss to the back of Crowley’s hand. “Okay,” he says shakily. “Then I think this is the most perfect idea you’ve ever had.”
Crowley smiles faintly. “That means I’m catching up to you. You’re the one who figured out Agnes prophecy, after all.”
Aziraphale smiles. “Maybe, but you’re the one who pulled it off.”
“We were, Aziraphale.”
His angel smiles. “Yes,” he agrees. “We.” He presses another kiss to Crowley’s hand before tucking him in tight. “A whole shop for you and a flat above for us, it sounds wonderful! There will be more than enough room for the throne and I think you should do whatever you like with the space. There are several large wide windows, if I recall. I even think it might have been a florist before it was a clothing store. It would suit the plants very well.”
“I suppose it would,” Crowley admits. “They’d probably enjoy the extra light.” He frowns. “Not that they deserve it, of course. Got to shape up still. They’ve got a problem going with leaf spots these days.”
“They do not.”
Crowley looks up with a mock glare. “Oh I see how it’s going to be. You just want me to bring my plants so you can spoil them.”
Aziraphale’s hands are still in his hair. “Don’t be jealous, my dear. I fully intend to spoil you both."
