Chapter Text
“Like Agnes said, we’re going to have to choose our faces wisely…” Crowley said, raising one hand out towards the bus. The bus, still flashing “Oxford City Centre,” on the front, screeched to a standstill in front of them. Aziraphale and Crowley stood up. Crowley rolled his shoulders and slurped the last of the liquid from the wine bottle, then chucked it into a bin nearby[1]. Aziraphale gave one last look around at the village of Tadfield and the church behind them. Lights twinkled in the windows of the cottages and a delicious breeze blew through the trees, rustling the branches. Even at night, the village was quaint and idyllic, pretty as a postcard. There seemed to be more air than usual, cool and heavy, pressing down on them, as though the atmosphere itself knew that it was on borrowed time. A cricket chirped happily somewhere close by.
The summer night air cooled his skin and the wine slithered through his veins, warming them and leaving him lightheaded. Aziraphale hoped he would be able to visit again someday, preferably without the threat of imminent doom hanging over him. He quite enjoyed the feeling of love that poured out of Adam Young and covered the town like a warm blanket. It would be quite nice to spend more time in such a welcoming climate. Perhaps with Crowley…
Crowley and Aziraphale boarded the bus and moved towards the back. It was dim inside and a sleepy silence enveloped the interior. The bus was mostly empty. The few humans on board were absorbed in their electronic devices. Crowley slid into a window seat, managing to splay out even in a cramped bus seat. For a second, Aziraphale hesitated. He’d ridden on buses plenty of times before with Crowley, and they never sat together. It was always one behind, one in front, or sitting on opposite sides of the aisle. Keeping up appearances, in case Above or Below happened to be watching. They most certainly weren’t watching right now.
Aziraphale pictured the chaos likely unfolding in Heaven at this moment. Ten million angels filled with righteous fury, wound as tight as bowstrings, begging to strike. Gabriel trying to talk them all down, while he himself longed to throw the first punch[2]. Aziraphale found that if he listened hard enough, he could hear the heavenly uproar. He gave his head a small shake, trying to clear the image. What was happening up there was no longer his concern. He wasn’t on their side anymore. He was on his own side. His and Crowley’s. He sat down next to the demon.
“What happens now?” Aziraphale whispered.
“I expect we’ll be hearing from them soon. Once they’ve cooled off a bit. We’ll need some sort of plan but I bet…we’ve at least got tonight,” Crowley murmured back.
There were a few moments of silence. Aziraphale’s human body, though technically only hours old, felt ancient and heavy. He wanted to lie down, to sleep and sleep and sleep, maybe for a decade. He didn’t feel the need to sleep very often. The more tedious parts of being human were easy to get along without. But now, he wanted nothing more than to sink into the soft, warm, quilt-covered bed in his flat above the bookstore. With a cold feeling in his stomach, he remembered that it was gone. His home, his haven, his passion, his books, erased. Burnt to a crisp. Ashes. It hurt to dwell on it; the loss felt like someone striking him in the chest with a mallet. He cast his mind around for a safer topic. A memory swam to the surface—Crowley was there when it burned. Crowley had rescued the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter for him.
“You, ah, said earlier that you didn’t go to Alpha Centauri…because you lost your best friend?” Aziraphale asked, thinking back to when he returned to Earth and found Crowley drunk in a pub. The terrifying freedom of being a racing, bodiless, ethereal presence wasn’t something he cared to dwell on either. It was like going down a very steep hill on a velocipede[3] with no brakes and a dreadful amount of sharp rocks waiting at the bottom.
“Who were you talking about? If— if you don’t mind talking about it, that is.” It occurred to Aziraphale that losing a close friend, a best friend might be too hard for Crowley to talk about. Even though they had triumphed today, Crowley had lost. Aziraphale wanted to help him, but the demon wasn’t one to share his personal life even at the best of times. When asked about his holiday plans, or his favorite film[4], Crowley’s preferred answer was a withering stare and a change of subject.
Aziraphale tried to think of Crowley ever mentioning a friend, or seeing Crowley spend time with someone else, ever. He could recall no one. He would have remembered if the demon was…what was the term he had once used? Fraternising. He would have remembered because he wouldn’t have liked it. They were Earth’s two constants. There since the beginning and present for every moment afterward. Thwarting each other (or, rather, making sure something got thwarted) for 6,000 years. Other angels and demons would occasionally pop in for a while, perform some miracles or wreak some havoc, then bugger off back to Head Office. But it was Crowley and Aziraphale who remained year-after-year, millennia-after millennia. Crowley was his…his responsibility to thwart, at the very least.
Aziraphale sensed a brief hesitation from the demon. Then Crowley rolled his head over to look at Aziraphale. His gaze managed to be piercing from behind his sunglasses.
“I was talking about you, angel,” Crowley said, “I thought you died in the fire. I thought you were gone.”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, stunned into silence. He adjusted to the information for a few moments. His buzz had vanished. He was suddenly wide awake, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. Aziraphale looked away, trying not to let his face betray the shock he was feeling and utterly failing. The feeling that enveloped him then was something like reaching into a nearly-empty packet of crisps and finding one large, magnificent, fully intact crisp right down at the bottom. A sort of surprise mixed with delight. Over the centuries, there had been moments when he had suspected the demon felt something for him. Something that certainly did not appear to be in line with the Great Plan. He’d always brushed it off, ignored it because it couldn’t be true…could it?
We can run away together…Alpha Centauri!
Crowley’s voice echoed in Aziraphale’s head. He recalled Crowley dashing up to him on the street, desperation flooding from him, pleading for the angel to come with him. Best friends? Was that what they were? It sounded to Aziraphale simultaneously too sappy and too limited a term for what they were.
In spite of his doubts, a familiar, warm, swelling feeling erupted in Aziraphale's chest. He recognized it as the feeling he shoved aside whenever Crowley gave him one of those looks or did something decidedly non-demonic. It had started showing up in 1793 after Crowley had rescued him from the guillotine in Paris. Over the years, it had only gotten stronger. When Crowley had saved him from the Nazi spies in 1941, Aziraphale had had to take a few moments to wrestle the feeling back down into the dark and rarely visited recesses of his mind. But sometimes Aziraphale still replayed the moment their hands had touched as Crowley had handed him the miraculously unharmed books. It had been so difficult to ignore because Aziraphale was not in the business of denying himself pleasure. And touching Crowley was the finest pleasure he’d felt.
Of course, he had never permitted himself to give any real thought to his feelings for Crowley. They terrified him. Though he had never heard a rule in as many words as “Thou shalt not have warm, fuzzy feelings about demons, no matter how good they look in black,” he was still pretty sure it wasn’t allowed. Being a big one for following rules, Aziraphale had steadfastly resisted the emotions that appeared whenever Crowley did. It was too dangerous.
Was it still dangerous? Did he still have Heaven and Hell and falling to fear? Did being on their own side mean they were free from the rules that had dictated their relationship[5] for 6,000 years?
Bugger it. Bugger it all. Bugger the Great Plan, bugger Heaven and Hell, bugger the Almighty Herself.
Aziraphale was too tired to push it away any more. He took a deep breath and, praying ardently for forgiveness, let go. The warmth spread throughout his chest, radiating through the rest of his body. He reveled in it, breathing a sigh of relief as the feeling blossomed for the first time. Aziraphale knew all about love—he was an angel after all. He loved everything, he had to. If you had asked him an hour ago whether he loved Crowley, the answer would have been, “Of course, I love all God’s creatures, big and small.” Asking him if he was in love with Crowley would have gotten you a surprised sputtering and a sort of, “Well, I-I really…I mean, it’s not as though…w-why are you asking exactly?”
If you asked him now, the answer would simply be, “Yes.”
A small smile crossed his lips. He chanced a glance at Crowley. The demon had returned to staring out the window, brooding. Aziraphale longed to touch him, to show him that he was through with being afraid and holding back. In a movement that felt as natural as breathing, Aziraphale leaned his head onto Crowley’s shoulder. Never having leaned his head on someone’s shoulder before, Aziraphale was unsure of what would happen next. But he had seen many humans do it and it always seemed to go well for them. He worried for a moment that this time it was he who was going too fast. Mental images flashed by of Crowley flinching away, or standing up and shouting at him or laughing at his show of sentimentality.
Incredibly, the demon did not do any of that. Instead, he leaned his head over to rest on top of Aziraphale’s. In the same breath, Crowley laid his hand on Aziraphale’s knee. Wherever their bodies touched, he felt little points of heat. Like a recently blown out match was being pressed to his skin. It didn’t hurt. In fact, it was thrilling. Every bit as enjoyable as the first sip of Chateau Lafitte, or the first bite of a sushi roll dripping with soy sauce. Aziraphale’s breath caught. The feeling in his chest threatened to overwhelm him, to overflow his measly human body and explode with all the intensity of a star. Instead of screaming and bursting out of his skin, he managed to redirect the sudden energy into his hand, which he wrapped around Crowley’s. He heard Crowley swallow loudly, but he didn’t speak. Crowley’s skin was cool to the touch, belying the heat created under Aziraphale’s skin wherever they were connected.
Holding Crowley’s hand was like holding a snake. There was something about the feeling of the muscles and tendons flexing under Crowley’s skin that whispered power. Each tiny movement had incredible strength behind it. When Crowley’s muscles and tendons flexed Aziraphale could feel the raw force contained just in the demon’s hands. A thought zipped across his mind of those hands wrapped around other parts of him.
They had touched before. Of course they had. 6,000 years is a long time to know someone and accidental contact is bound to occur. Fingers brushing as they passed a bottle of wine back and forth in the bookshop. Aziraphale lightly touching Crowley’s shoulder to get his attention in a crowded marketplace. Crowley clapping a hand on Aziraphale’s back as thanks after Aziraphale covered a temptation for him. Hands bumping as they walked side-by-side down a busy Paris street. This was different. They had never touched like this before—purposefully, directly, with an intent that said, you are mine.
Neither of them said a word. The bus drove on.
Emanating from Crowley was another familiar feeling. Aziraphale had caught a burst of it the very first time they met, on the Eastern Gate of Eden. Aziraphale had told Crowley that he gave away his flaming sword and the flash of feeling had shown up almost at once. Over the millennia, he continued to sense sparks of that peculiar emotion. Not every time they spent time together, but nearly. Aziraphale had never been able to categorize the feeling. It just didn’t come through to him clearly enough. At first he had thought it was an expression of surprise. Then, he thought perhaps it was irritation or nervousness. Sometimes he thought it was Crowley’s latent angelic energy trying to flicker to life (he didn’t believe that one could completely stop being an angel once you were one). He couldn’t call it anything for sure, but he did know that it was quite a powerful feeling. The demon’s emotions were difficult for Aziraphale to pick up, being too different from his own or those of humans. Though if he was honest, he preferred Crowley’s muted emotions to the vicious and cruel feelings that humans sometimes expelled. He had never felt anything from Crowley as terrible as the things they thought up.
The feeling he was getting from Crowley right now was rather more like fire than the radiant warmth Aziraphale felt. No longer a mere spark, but a raging wildfire. A sort of burning, a longing for…what? He had often gotten the sense that it was a feeling Crowley tried to ignore as well, judging from how fleeting the emotions were when Aziraphale was able to sense them at all. He did not seem to be ignoring the feeling now. It grew around them, inflating like a balloon, crackling in the air as reality acclimated to something entirely new. The humans didn’t notice or were very good at politely ignoring it. Aziraphale and Crowley remained very still, both trying to adjust to experiencing the feeling fully for the first time. Something was changing, shifting, and it felt permanent.
Crowley was burning. If any of the humans on the bus had spared him a glance, they would have seen nothing out of the ordinary, but inside, Crowley was ablaze. The feeling of the angel’s head resting against his shoulder had him ready to combust. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was due to the intense joy and relief that was filling him up, or because demons were not supposed to feel things like this. Amusement? Sure. A smug sort of giddiness when an act of temptation had been accomplished? Spot on. An encompassing, passionate desire to spread dissent and discord? Bob’s your uncle.
But love? Surely that wasn’t allowed, or even possible. Demons were solitary creatures. They didn’t get lonely. They didn’t fall in love. They might occasionally socialize and work together when need be, but the majority of a demon’s life was spent alone. Most of them preferred it that way. Yet when Aziraphale intertwined their fingers, Crowley knew he would never be content to be alone again. He rather thought he must know what a dying star felt like before it collapsed into a supernova. He had never felt so ethereal and so heartbreakingly human. Just two people, sitting side-by-side, holding hands as though it didn’t mean a thing, as though the cosmos weren’t shifting around them and the very laws of nature were not being defied. A feeling he had tried to suppress a thousand times seared through his body. Crowley didn’t have the strength to stop it. Didn’t want to stop it. He wanted to finally give in and actually let himself feel the way he had been pretending he didn’t for 6,000 years. He was in love with Aziraphale. It was impossible, and it was true.
The thought of his body being consumed by fire reminded him of the fury he had been able to distantly perceive exuding from Hell for the past few hours. He’d been doing his best to ignore the faint war cries because it was really just a huge bummer and he’d rather be in the moment with the angel next to him. But it couldn’t be ignored forever. Sooner or later, Hell would stop lamenting the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and start looking for revenge. They would come for him and Crowley could see no way to stop them. They would torture him, they would torture both of them, probably even using holy water and hellfire to get rid of them once and for all. He wouldn’t be parted from Aziraphale without a fight, but maybe it didn’t have to come to that. Maybe there was a way they could still escape with their lives.
Crowley pondered Agnes’s final prophecy, the scrap of paper upon which it was inscribed tucked safely in his pocket.
When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.
It was no great mystery what would happen to Aziraphale if he were to play with hellfire. He wouldn’t just be discorporated, his soul, his very essence would be destroyed. He would be gone, forever. Crowley’s mind shied away from that possibility. Aziraphale had always been there, somewhere in the world, doing good deeds, hoarding his books, and helping souls find their way to Heaven. The idea of Earth without him…it was enough to make Crowley’s chest feel as though it were being ripped in two. He wished fiercely that there was a way to protect him, protect them both…
The bus wound its way through the countryside, which eventually gave way to the hustle and bustle of London. Crowley couldn’t help noticing as they pulled onto the motorway that the M25 was no longer on fire. The burnt shells of thousands of cars seemed to transform before his very eyes. Chassis reformed, headlights flickered back on, the upholstery was sewn back together. People who had been vaporized in the blaze were abruptly alive again. They sat behind the wheels of their cars, worrying about what was for dinner, or thinking about their jobs, as though nothing unusual had happened. The traffic started to move and in what seemed like no time at all, the bus was grinding to a halt beneath Crowley’s flat.
As the brakes creaked, Crowley lifted his head and looked at Aziraphale. Holding his breath, Aziraphale looked back at him. This was a defining moment. They could part ways here, try to forget what had just transpired silently between them. They could go back to being work colleagues, work out a plan for dealing with Heaven and Hell later, in public somewhere, in broad daylight. Perhaps over crepes.
“Are you coming in?” Crowley asked, his voice a murmur.
Or…
Aziraphale stared into the slitted eyes he could just barely make out behind the sunglasses and nodded. He half-expected the action to be accompanied by the sensation of his wings burning and whatever else went along with falling from grace.[6] When nothing of the sort happened, Aziraphale was more than a little shocked.
Their hands separated as they stood and exited the bus, the expansive feeling of love following them as they went. As they stepped into the night, the bus driver peered through the windscreen in confusion. He was sure he had meant to drive to Oxford…
The streetlights shimmered on the wet, empty London street. It was late, long after midnight. Normally, in this part of Soho on a Saturday night, the street would be filled with late-night revelers. Music would be spilling out of the pubs. The humans would be drunk and laughing as they traipsed up and down the block, enjoying each other’s company in loud, raucous groups or quiet pairings. Sometimes Crowley would look out of his penthouse windows and watch the couples hold hands, steal kisses, fall in love. He used to roll his eyes at their mawkish displays but tonight, for the first time, he rather thought he understood the appeal.
This evening, the streets were deserted. Crowley could sense many human souls around, sheltered in their flats. They were sitting closer to one another than they would normally, aware on some level that something terrible had been avoided, that they were all being given a second chance of sorts. They knew what had happened, and they didn’t. Every moment, the knowledge was slipping away like water through cupped hands, like a dream after waking.
Crowley and Aziraphale’s breath misted in front of them, swirling around their heads in the crisp air. Above them, clouds were clearing to reveal a patchwork of stars glimmering faintly. Aziraphale stopped and looked upward, feeling sure that there used to be more stars up there. Millenia ago, he had helped to create a few of them. Probably it was just the city lights drowning them out. He lowered his gaze back to earth and his eyes fell on Crowley, who was waiting on the sidewalk, looking at him expectantly. It must have been a trick of the streetlight, a car driving past, a shooting star, something, but Aziraphale swore Crowley was shining brighter than any star he’d ever seen.
Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale took it and they headed up to Crowley’s flat.
[1] The bin hadn’t existed until Crowley wanted to throw away the wine bottle. Why he didn’t simply miracle the wine bottle out of existence was a mystery to Aziraphale, the bin, and the wine bottle itself.
[2] Metaphorically speaking. It wouldn’t be a punch so much as a torrent of cosmic energy that would reduce everything in its path to specks of stardust.
[3] bicycle
[4] Crowley’s favorite film is Mary Poppins but he’ll fall again before he admits it.
[5] for lack of a better term. How do you describe someone who knows you better than any other soul in existence, who has saved your life repeatedly, but who is meant to be your eternal, hereditary enemy? What do you call the person meant to be the thorn in your side, yet is more akin to fingertips brushing your cheek, or a candle on a dark night?
[6] Aziraphale had never been able to bring himself to ask Crowley how it felt to fall. “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven” jokes aside, it seemed too personal a question.