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October 1918. Golders Green, London. The first funeral of Robert Baldwin Ross.
It was unseasonably warm, and the small gathering was shifting uncomfortably in their mourning clothes. Standing slightly apart from the rest, Aziraphale himself was feeling rather cold despite this. His bones felt hollow, which he knew couldn’t be right since he had rather more control over his bones than most, but he couldn’t shake the aching feeling regardless. A clergyman from the Church of England was speaking over the urn, and Aziraphale was doing his best to hide his disgust behind a handkerchief when he felt the air at his side stir, and turned.
“Hi,” Crowley said. He’d been wearing a slightly sheepish look around Aziraphale since he woke up in 1901 and it still hadn’t quite faded.
“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale said coolly. Crowley shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Nice day,” he offered eventually. Aziraphale’s lips twisted.
“He would have hated this,” Aziraphale said. “He wanted to be buried with Oscar, you know. And everyone he would have wanted to come is either dead or estranged or at war. No one to attend except that horrible Anglican.” He scoffed. “He was Catholic.”
“Good of you to come, though,” Crowley offered.
“And what are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, rounding on Crowley as if he hadn’t heard. “Aren’t you busy?” His tone bordered on accusatory and Crowley quailed slightly under its quiet force.
“I dunno, I just–”
“Listen.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and dragged him out of earshot of the funeral, releasing him under a nearby tree. “It’s not that I’m not glad you’re back. Remember that, because I’m about to be very short with you, but it’s not that.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly and Crowley nodded.
“That being said.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. His voice was shaking slightly and he tried to press it back to steadiness inside his throat. “You will not get near one more human under my charge this decade, are we clear?”
“Angel–” Crowley started, surprised, but Aziraphale cut him off. Fury was bubbling up inside of him, bright and brittle and with a deeply-buried thread of exhaustion that he couldn’t afford to think too long about.
“No.”
“The Arrangement–”
“With all due respect, my dear, sod the Arrangement!” A few people from the funeral glanced over at them and Aziraphale lowered his voice with an effort. “I had a life while you were sleeping, you know. Quite a lot of a life, actually. And friends. I’m not going to be able to explain it to you, you weren’t there, so I need you to just trust me and just–” Crowley made to touch one of Aziraphale’s hands and he snatched it away, shoving them in his pockets.
“They all tried so hard, and the ones that are left are still trying, and none of it is going to matter in the end. They are all going to die before their time, or they’re going to be separated or left alone or driven away, and there’s very little I can do about any of that. But they are mine, do you understand me? I know you were involved in this stupid, petty matter with Billing, and I am telling you that you will not go near anyone else. Wilfred, Siegfried, Margot, Vita, Olive– and I’ll thank you to stop putting ideas in Lord Douglas’s head as well, he has quite enough bad ones on his own.”
“Sure, angel,” Crowley said quietly. “No problem.”
Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, still breathing rapidly, until the anger on his face crumpled. It wasn’t clear whether Crowley reached for him first and Aziraphale allowed himself to be drawn in or whether Aziraphale moved first, but however it happened Aziraphale ended up tucked into Crowley’s shoulder, crying into his new coat. Crowley projected the strong suggestion that anyone who might happen to be looking in their direction look elsewhere immediately, wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, and let him cry for a long time.
“I think I lost some perspective without you around,” Aziraphale said at last, on a quiet, ragged breath. Across the lawn, the funeral-goers had departed and the sun had fallen low. Crowley didn’t know how to answer Aziraphale, so he simply tightened his arms.