Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1263 B.C

It seemed like something that had been wrought by Hell. That was the simplest way Aziraphale could describe it. It was grotesque enough back by the river- the Nile was a winding basin of blood, as if it was a living thing that had ruptured all its arteries. The city was worse.

He didn’t want to witness the aftermath of the plagues, but Aziraphale was compelled to see the heart of where Egypt was struck by God’s wrath. He knew what was coming tonight. And it just… it didn’t seem…

Aziraphale shook his head and made his way through the city, not daring to look down at whatever was crunching beneath his feet. With the shroud of darkness covering everything, it was nearly impossible to navigate the empty streets.

“Let there be light,” he said in a hushed voice, and a soft, white glow alighted in his palm. He used it to illuminate the mud-brick houses as he walked.

He had to see it. He just had to. The places where they slept. The unmarked dwellings with families inside and parents who may not have thought to hug their sons before sending them to bed.

Aziraphale suddenly heard a shuffle to his right. He jolted in horror and whipped around, fearing that he was not as early as he anticipated and the Angel of Death had already descended. But his light revealed a crouched, cloaked figure with vibrant red hair spilling out from beneath his raised hood.

“Crawley?”

“Angel,” the demon responded curtly. He dunked something into what seemed to be a bucket and stood to make three hasty yet deliberate swipes on the door of the house in front of him. Then he bent down, grabbed the bucket, and moved to the next door, repeating the process.

Aziraphale already had a suspicion, but approached the first door the demon had trifled with and shone his light upon it. There were three streaks of fresh blood, two opposite each other on the doorposts and one brushed atop the lintel.

“Crawley! What are you doing?” he hissed, marching toward the demon, who was already on his fourth house.

“Arts and crafts,” Crawley mumbled, lifting the bloody sprig again, but Aziraphale caught his arm.

“You’re marking EGYPTIAN houses, Crawley!”

“And?”

“God’s orders were that only the Israelites be spared from the final plague. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do this.” He lifted his hand to perform a miracle, but Crawley lunged at the angel and snatched his wrists, slamming him into a wall.

Crawley kept him planted there, his body pinned roughly against Aziraphale’s, his face so close that their foreheads and noses were pressed together. The angel could smell the faint scent of hot cinnamon gusting through Crawley’s clenched teeth (why did it smell so good?). His eyes were furious. He was warm.

“You use your powers to scrub off a speck of what I’ve spent the night doing, and I’ll scream,” he threatened quietly. “I’ll scream until every Egyptian comes out of their home and I’ll tell them what’s about to happen. Not sure what will happen then, to them or me, but I know it’s not what God wants- which means it’s not what you want.”

Aziraphale looked around at the indiscriminately marked houses and panic constricted his windpipe. “Crawley, if you do this… if it isn’t just the Israelites that are spared, then-”

Crawley glowered at him. “Let me ask you something, Aziraphale. Every firstborn Egyptian male will die tonight, right? Not just the children- firstborn adults too?”

“That’s what God has decided, yes.”

“Then will the Pharaoh die too?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then shut it. Because that… how could he not have considered that? The Pharaoh was a firstborn son. So then, he would… but no, that couldn’t be right, because …

“Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?” Crawley growled harshly, releasing the angel from his grip. “According to those rules, the Pharaoh should die tonight. But God won’t let him, will She? Go on, puzzle it out.”

“She- She’s making an exception,” Aziraphale sputtered, feeling as sick as if he’d drank all the blood in the Nile. “She’s sparing one of them.”

“Hallelujah, he finally gets it!” Crawley proclaimed in a subdued voice. Then, deathly serious, he snarled, “Don’t tell me I can’t choose to spare these people when She’s picking and choosing, too.” He quickly painted marks on another door.

Aziraphale watched the demon and considered the reason he went there tonight- deep down he knew it was because what Heaven had insisted was right felt wrong. He opened his mouth to speak, when Crawley bit out-

“I’m not up for killing kids, Angel.” Those words hit like poisoned barbs. “So, will you help me, or not? I don’t trust using a miracle to cover all the doors. I’m afraid the Angel of Death is too discerning- she’ll be able to sniff out if it was made by a demon. But if YOU did it…”

Crawley searched Aziraphale’s face, hoping to find something that wasn’t there. He started bargaining. “Half, you could do half of them, right? Or at least just the ones with kids?”

He rushed toward Aziraphale and gripped him by the shoulders. “Come on, Angel. You helped me save Job’s children. You gave up your sword because you were worried about Eve, remember?” He looked at him urgently. “You know this isn’t right. I know you do.”

Aziraphale felt like a rope being pulled until it frayed. Yes, he knew that. Yes, he had done those things. But if he did this now, what would happen to the Israelite children? What would happen to him- and to Crawley?

A cold blast of air surged through the streets, blowing through Aziraphale like wind through a wind chime. The Angel of Death was coming. Aziraphale was frozen, and Crawley was out of ideas. His arms slackened, and in one last desperate attempt, he reached out his hand to the angel.

“Please?”

It sounded like an intercession. Aziraphale’s hand lifted instinctively, but another torrent of wind blew his body backward and he dropped his hand, terrified.

He should never have come.

“Crawley, I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Crawley looked at him like he didn’t recognize him. Then he jerked his hand back and strode away, speaking as he did.

“You know, when I saw the plagues myself, I couldn’t believe it- that Heaven could do all this, and there were still angels stupid enough to stay there.”

There was a long pause before he turned back to face Aziraphale.

“I wish you were just stupid.”

With that, he tossed the bucket at him and made off into the night. Aziraphale watched the lamb’s blood slowly pool toward him as the air grew colder, as cold as countless bodies would be in the morning.

He waited until the blood nearly touched his feet before snapping himself as far away as he could go, vanishing as his tears spattered against the ground.

*

2 B.C.

When Herod ordered the firstborns to be slaughtered in Bethlehem thousands of years later, Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to find Crawley there, hiding in the back of a barn. His arms were full of squirming babes- two were draped over his shoulders.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly what his plan was- keep grabbing as many as he could and hide them himself? Use a miracle to transport them somewhere?

It felt poetic that he was there- pre-ordained (After all, Aziraphale had warned Joseph to flee with Jesus to, of all places, Egypt).

Crawley glared at Aziraphale as if he was a threat, which stung more than the angel expected. The demon’s long arms clutched at the tiny bodies protectively.

“Well, Angel, you’ve got me. I’m still not sold on killing kids. Can you just… pretend you never saw me? I don’t see why it would matter. We both know I won’t be able to save all of them.”

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale said, gently taking the two infants perched on Crawley’s shoulders and untangling them from his hair. His hands lingered in his soft curls for a completely reasonable duration of time.

“Didn’t what?”

“See you. Just some very, very crafty little ones. They escaped themselves.”

He nestled the two infants he’d taken in the soft hay below and used his free hand to conjure a scroll and quill in the air before him. “Now, do you remember where all these children came from?” he asked.

“…Yes?” Crawley said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Wonderful! I’m making a roster, so everyone is accounted for. We’ll transport every male child young enough to be in danger to that lovely villa we have set aside in Alexandria, and-”

“I was thinking we just do a miracle to make them all look female.”

“What?”

“That’s what I was going to do,” Crawley said, shrugging his newly freed shoulders. “They’re only hunting firstborn males, right? It seemed… easier.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that is a decent plan,” Aziraphale said, trying not to let his ego be bruised. “There are some flaws, granted, but it is a quick fix, at least in the meantime-”

“Angel,” Crawley said, and Aziraphale braced himself to be snapped at, or dismissed, but instead the corner of the demon’s mouth quirked upward. “You can decide how we do it. You’re not stupid.”

The words cracked open the memory of what Crawley had said so long ago, and the hurt Aziraphale didn’t realize he was still harboring from those words leaked out like sap from bark.

“I’m not?”

Crawley rocked the infants in his arms a bit too hard before heaving them into a bed of hay. He brushed the straw off his robes and slowly approached him.

“Fundamentally, you never have been,” Crawley said, reaching out his hand. “But before, you probably would have been too afraid or full of doubt to help me. Now look at you, planning a baby heist yourself.”

His hand hung in the air between them like Crawley wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, or he was still deciding whether to do what he intended. In the end, he ghosted his fingers across Aziraphale’s cheek. “Progress from an angel? Now there’s a real miracle.”

The hairs on Aziraphale’s arms pricked up and there was an icy, clawing feeling in his gut. No, he was not stupid. He knew those words were purposely chosen, words meant to push him forward until he fell- because that was the alternative to clinging to his status, and to Heaven.

“That’s very nice of you,” he needled back, immediately earning the desired reaction.

“I’m not nice,” Crawley snapped. “I’m never nice.”

“It’s very nice to go out of your way to save the lives of children on… three occasions now? Really, it’s more than nice, it’s downright angelic-”

“SHUT UP!” Crawley bellowed, his voice layered with a demonic roar, causing many of the infants to cry. His teeth were bared, but he regarded the reaction of the children and let out a long, rumbling exhale.

“Tell me something, Aziraphale,” Crawley jeered. The angel felt dread even before the words flicked off his tongue, suddenly scorched by the intensity of those yellow eyes.

“If a demon’s rescuing babies and Heaven’s slaughtering them, are you truly certain you’re on the ‘good' side?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. After honoring his part and helping Crawley save as many infants as possible (they saved most of them), he left without answering. He spent centuries trying not to answer that question.

That, more than anything, felt like an answer itself.

Chapter Text

341 B.C.

Crawley was still bitter that he hadn’t discovered symposiums sooner.

He may have never gone to one at all if Aristotle hadn’t started attending them (and Crawley was a captive fan of his basic ventures into metaphysics). Ever since, Crawley made a point to never miss one. He had reached enlightenment.

Well, not really- but he had found the perfect way to meet hell’s quota while also having an excellent time. Food, drink, ruckus, a touch of his own corruption to wrap things up… these little banquets were the best thing humans had ever come up with and the easiest thing he had ever infiltrated. The only downside was the mask.

He wore a linen comedy mask every time he attended. When he was inevitably questioned about it, he would claim he was an actor who had just come from the theater and wanted to keep the spirit of performance alive. And when the question turned to heckling, as it usually did, he would quickly switch to a crying tragedy mask- it usually got enough of a laugh for him to get away with the whole ordeal without needing a miracle.

He had never had a problem simply using eyewear for thousands of years- but for some reason the Greeks were extremely suspicious of it, and he couldn’t very well be near humans with the eyes of a serpent, so masks it was.

Crawley swirled wine around in his cup, growing tired of the uninspiring banter of the other attendees now that Aristotle had excused himself. He was disappointed, but would never miss the impending chaos, or more importantly, the wine.

“So, I assert that we must rely on the rules of the community to govern society,” the Grecian across the table from him, a man named Xenophon, continued. Crawley hadn’t been paying attention to anything he’d said until then.

“Without a framework of ethics set forth by a greater collective, everything will systematically fail. A single individual is fickle and unreliable. Morality and goodness are derived from tradition, which functions almost like…” he took a long swig of his wine before saying, “divine guidance.”

Crawley had been grinding his teeth together during the speech and he finally interjected before he lost all his enamel.

“I assert that your position is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

The surrounding men stared at him- it was an unusually brazen response, and Xenophon was rightfully offended.

“And your rebuttal?” he grumbled.

Crawley straightened up, set his cup down, and cracked his neck. He was burning to answer, even if the words weren’t meant for this human.

“Society only evolves because individuals dare to oppose it. A society can believe in and do horrific things, and it won’t correct itself without intervention. A person does not have to accept what a community presents as ‘moral’ and ‘good’ if it prevents them from choosing to do what is truly ethical.”

The other men pondered his argument until one said, “It’s an interesting position.”

“I agree with Antinous,” another said, and Crawley nearly cackled, lifting his mask and tossing back some wine.

“No, I agree with Xenophon,” another chimed in. “I think-”

“I grow bored of this,” the man at the head of the table said, yawning. Crawley didn’t remember his name, only that his opinion mattered because he was the richest among them. “The music’s begun, and the wine is flowing. I’d rather hear poetry. Come, two of you, recite a poem and we’ll decide which is best.”

“I think Antinous should begin,” Xenophon said, arms crossed. Crawley nearly forgot the sore sport meant him until all the men looked at him expectantly. He couldn’t go by “Crawley” in Greece, and he was rather fond of the name Antinous- the only problem was he would forget to respond to it after a certain amount of wine.

“Not much of a poet,” he said, hoping his casual dismissal would prompt someone else to volunteer. The opposite occurred.

“What, you? The theater performer? Spare us, if your tongue can conjure debate, it can conjure poetry!” someone objected angrily.

“My tongue can do plenty, I assure you,” he leered, hoping to at least get a good temptation out of this mess, but the rabble drowned him out. Crawley rolled his eyes as the lot began drunkenly chanting, demanding a poem, and sighed. He didn’t have anything memorized, and he was reluctant to improvise when his mind was still churning with the words “divine guidance,” but decided to do so anyway.

“I met you and I think they danced
The light and dark within me
I like to think they mated too
And don’t care if that’s greedy

You glow, you glint, you’re radiant
There’s magic in your hands
I would use my hands to give
You freedom from commands

I resent your stubbornness
You come with many rules
I test you just to press my luck
And fear we are both fools

I am no stranger to desire
Yet that’s not all I feel
What I hunger for the most
Is time with you to steal.”

The group was quiet for a moment, then began clamoring in general disapproval. Crawley shamelessly dipped into an extravagant, defiant bow as they argued loudly over each other about who would go next.

Crawley raised his head, and his eyes happened to sweep over a familiar profile across the room. Surely, it couldn’t be- but there was no mistaking that shock of white-blonde hair, that posture, the folding of those hands. He would know Aziraphale in any age by the slightest sight or sound.

It wasn’t the type of place he’d expect to see the angel. He couldn’t imagine Heaven having sent him here. Crawley smirked into his wine.

The demon ignored the hollering protests of his former company as he wordlessly departed from them with an apathetic wave of his hand and sauntered over to where the angel sat.

Aziraphale was listening intently to a speech still being given with an enchanted look on his face, seeming fascinated. After going unnoticed for several moments, which irritated the demon, he announced himself.

“Aziraphale!” he exclaimed, and the angel startled, half jumping from where he sat as if he’d been caught doing something he ought not have been doing.

“Ah, good evening,” he replied with perfect politeness. “Sorry, have we…?”

Crawley untucked his hair and shook out his fiery mane of curls, then briefly pulled up his mask and gave the angel a wink.

“Oh, it’s you!” he laughed, his shoulders relaxing. “Hello, Crawley.” He didn’t offer the empty spot beside him to the demon, which irritated him further, so he dropped down and sprawled out next to him without invitation. The angel shifted slightly away from him, prompting Crawley to prop up his cushion and roll on his side, deliberately closer.

“Enjoying the festivities, are we?” he asked gleefully.

Aziraphale lit up like a constellation. Radiant. “Good heavens, yes! Look at them all, humans sharing wisdom in harmony… it’s marvelous, isn’t it?”

Crawley’s expression under the mask was incredulous. He looked around to be sure they were in the same place. He saw men launching dregs at each other, one molesting a harpist, and several drinking until wine sloshed down their robes. He had been to enough symposiums to know that things were about to fully disintegrate into lewd frivolity. It was his favorite part, after all.

“How long have you been coming to these?” Crawley asked.

Aziraphale hesitated. “A little while.”

“And you think it’s all just stimulating conversations among harmonious fellows?” Aziraphale wasn’t dense. Crawley decided to cut through the angel’s reflexive propriety. There was no room for that between them.

“Well, no, but it is at first! I just leave when things start to get… indecent,” he said, still sitting upright instead of leaning back on the array of cushions and pillows.

“And yet you’re still here?” Crawley asked, sucking in air through his teeth and clicking his tongue in mock disapproval. “Things are starting to get indecent, Angel.”

Aziraphale chanced a quick glance around the room and jerked his head back, eyes wide and lips clamped in an impressively straight line. Crawley hoped he hadn’t seen how things were unfolding with that harpist.

“Yes, they are starting to get rather silly,” he minimized with a grimace. “But I can stay just a bit longer. It would be a pity to leave when you’ve only just come.”

Crawley was glad that the angel couldn’t tell that his grin was as large as the one on his mask. He didn’t mean to start gloating, but he was a demon, and one that was getting a bit too smug.

“A pity indeed. I missed seeing you during the dinner portion,” Crawley said. “I take it from the empty plates in front of you that you partook in the meal?”

“I did,” Aziraphale answered warily. “It was delectable.”

“Tell me Angel, was it as good as that ox rib? Seems like you’ve developed a taste for one of the finer human pleasures since I first tempted you to eat.”

“At least I’m enjoying food, while what you hunger for is time with me.”

Crawley nearly choked on his wine. Aziraphale folded his napkin neatly and finally perched his back against the cushions.

“Heard that, did you?” Crawley asked levelly, mimicking nonchalance. He didn’t enjoy the falling sensation in his gut. He had a particular disdain for falling.

“That, and your debate with Xenophon,” the angel said. His subtly amused smile was an affront, and Crawley opened his mouth to scrub it off.

“What I find interesting is that you think the poem was about you, Aziraphale.”

That did it. Aziraphale immediately became flustered, just as the demon expected. “Well, it was… you said… that bit about the subject being radiant, and there being magic in their hands, I thought- er, I thought that meant miracles, so I guess I just…”

“Assumed?” Crawley finished, resting his head on his hand. “Then tell me, Angel- did you want it to be about you?”

Aziraphale didn’t go to pieces or run off, which was not what he expected. Instead, the angel seemed overtaken by the same curiosity that must have reeled him to such a place to begin with.

“Was it?” he asked, face inscrutable.

Crawley stared at him.

He opened his mouth to lie, but for Aziraphale to ask him that question directly made lying in return feel… wrong. Which was immensely annoying, because lying was one of the easiest things in the world for Crawley. He lied constantly- to humans, to demons, to angels. To himself.

Aziraphale made him feel too many things at once and he couldn’t hold them all. It was like trying to hold water.

But he decided he liked the challenge.

He glanced about and conjured a full glass of wine with a flick of his wrist.

“Have a drink and I’ll tell you,” he retorted, pushing it toward the angel. Like all the times he’d offered him libations in the past, Aziraphale regarded it with blatant disgust.

“Ah, now, don’t be so hasty to judge- you looked at the ox rib the same way and then you spent an entire night eating it. You regretted missing out on something you didn’t even realize you desperately wanted...” Crawley trailed off, clearing his throat.

“You think I’ll give into new temptations every time I’m around you?” Aziraphale asked tartly. Still, he couldn’t help giving the demon that cheeky little smile.

“If I should be so lucky,” Crawley said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Come on Angel, you get three things out of this! Firstly, an introduction to something even finer than human food. Secondly, the identity of the subject of my poem. Thirdly… some relaxation!”

Crawley gestured up and down at Aziraphale with exaggerated sweeps of his arms as the angel playfully batted his hands away. Crawley ended the display with a quick and firm upward brush of his knuckles underneath the angel’s chin. “Look at you! You’re so coiled up with tension you look like you’ll spring into space if I flick you. I’ve never seen anyone more in need of a drink.”

“I think I’d rather you flick me,” Aziraphale said carefully after an equally careful pause, turning his head slightly to glance at Crawley. Crawley looked back at him with an expression safely hidden behind a perpetual linen laugh. Then the angel’s searching eyes snapped down to his hands, fidgeting in his lap.

“It would be nice to see space again, after all,” he said. “Maybe I’d even get to see some of the stars you made. You know, I don’t think I really appreciated them the way I should have when I had the chance.”

“You can make it up to me,” Crawley said, propping himself up on his knees and sliding his upper body across the edge of the table as he pushed the cup forward with his fingertips, “by appreciating this wine while you have the chance.” And then, as if the words tripped against his lips while dancing (why the fuck do only demons dance?) he added, “With me.”

Aziraphale stared at it like it was a threat.

“It’s made with grapes, not apples,” Crawley urged, watching eagerly as the angel reached for the cup, then held it. “Go on, have a sip.”

Aziraphale set the cup back on the table, and after several seconds got to his feet.

“I think I’m going to retire for the evening,” the angel said with a perfectly benign smile. “I hope you’re able to spend more time with whoever you spoke of in your poem. I’m sure you will.”

“Aziraphale…” Crawley started, but didn’t know what to say. Ask to go with him? Ask him to stay? Tell him the truth?

Absolutely not.

“Next time, then,” he said coolly. The angel’s smile faltered so briefly it may as well have remained the same. He slid the cup of wine directly into Crawley’s open palm, their fingers briefly overlapping.

“Next time,” he agreed, although it didn’t seem like something that needed to be said. Aziraphale walked a few paces before turning back.

“Oh, and Crawley,” he said softly. “I don’t know about the other person you spoke of, but I don’t think you’re a fool at all.” Then the angel managed to dodge the drunken pandemonium and continued on until he was out of sight.

Crawley looked down at the untasted wine on the table. He replayed how Aziraphale had clenched the cup in his hand, white knuckled, then raised it. How he had leaned in with his lips half parted, time grinding to a halt as he so nearly closed the distance with his mouth. Instead, he’d dropped it back down and pushed it away.

Crawley exhaled, not wanting to drink anymore. He closed his eyes and pulled off his mask, crushing its jovial smile in his hands before stuffing it in his robes and covering his face with the tragedy mask instead.

Chapter Text

992 A.D.

Aziraphale didn’t mind the cold. He didn’t mind eating nothing but overly salted cod for weeks, if he elected to eat. But he did mind the nausea that came with being at sea. He minded it quite a bit.

Heaven rarely gave him assignments that required being out on the ocean. They had let the Vikings do as they pleased for some time, but decided to have him oversee this particular venture- apparently, it yielded important results down the line. All he could do was hope for calm waters and an equally calm stomach.

“Do you think it’s lonely?”

Aziraphale turned in surprise, recognizing the voice immediately. He felt a sensation in his stomach that was more like fluttering than seasickness. Crowley stood only a pace away, covered in dark fur pelts, his expression cryptic under his engraved wooden eyewear. The angel started to inquire about what he had asked, but the demon spoke first.

“That’s a lovely hat.”

“Oh, thank you! It’s quite stylish, isn’t it? It’s excellent for the cold weather, and…” Aziraphale stopped gushing when he saw that Crowley was snickering.

“Well! That’s just bad form, Crowley, insulting a man’s headwear,” Aziraphale sputtered, self-consciously reaching up to clutch his fitted fur cap. “Besides, why are you even here?”

“To stir up mayhem and brew inequity. You know, the usual,” he yawned. “Hell thinks I’m doing masterful work. Have I told you how much I love Norsemen? They built boats, and what did they do? Immediately used them to be downright bastards. I happened to notice before anyone else downstairs and realized all I needed to do was be onboard while they do their plundering, and I can take all the credit for it.”

“You’ve been going on Viking raids as a passenger and telling Hell it was your idea?” Aziraphale asked in amazement. He couldn’t exactly endorse it, but he also couldn’t deny it was stupendously clever.

Crowley cackled. “Pretty good, right? Oh, come on, it’s good. I hitch a ride, I get free entertainment- I mean, you should see these guys fight. They go berserk, Angel. Absolutely berserk.”

“That’s all very well and good, Crowley, but why are you here?”

Crowley blinked. “I just told you. I’m going out on a raid. Honestly, I’m surprised to see you here, what business could you possibly-?”

“This is a TRADING ship, Crowley.”

The demon’s expression deflated. “…Not a raiding ship?”

“Afraid not, my dear. You’ve boarded a ship with the sole purpose of exchanging goods, and I’m here to ensure there will be no berserking or any such balderdash.”

Crowley looked back at the receding shoreline. “Well, bugger. I mean, it’s an easy mix up- ‘raiding,’ ‘trading,’ sending both ships out on the same day? I’m sure I’m not the first one to fumble it.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “The ships don’t look much alike.”

“I’ve never really paid attention,” the demon said casually. “I don’t do much at all during voyages besides enjoy the breeze until everyone goes off raiding and then I fuck off for a nice stroll on the beach.”

“Why don’t you just miracle yourself back to the harbor?” Aziraphale suggested. “Double check you’re on the right vessel next time, and everything will be tip-top.”

“Why don’t YOU miracle yourself back, Angel?” Crowley huffed. He looked exceptionally annoyed. “Why didn’t you come find me? I could have done this assignment for you and told Hell I’d done another raid as well- I mean, they’re on the same day and all, it’s not like they’d bother to check up. Our arrangement-”

“There is no arrangement!” Aziraphale snapped. “Stop suggesting there is! I mean, I would never-”

“Oh, you would never, would you? Surely not. I must have imagined that time I took an assignment to set a Benedictine monastery on fire and gave it to you instead, so every monk and book made it out intact. Or that time we were both assigned to witness the coronation of Charlemagne, and I went alone to spare you from the whole boring affair.”

Crowley seemed more agitated with each example, as if listing them out was like stoking coals. “Do I even need to bring up The House of Knowledge? I was supposed to destroy it! Instead, I let you oversee its construction and even smuggle in your collection from The Library of Alexandria. You know I’m still gambling whether my side will forget about the whole indefinitely delayed destruction thing, right?”

Aziraphale folded his arms. Memories tumbled through his mind like yarn down a stairwell, both tangling and unraveling as he confronted just how much Crowley had a habit of indulging him. “Those were all…”

“If you say mistakes, Aziraphale, I swear I’ll throw you and your poofy little hat overboard.”

“No! They were just…” He blundered, trying not to reveal his thoughts. “…Outstanding circumstances.”

“Whatever,” Crowley said, dragging the word out. “Throwing a fit over this is fitting for you, I suppose. And I guess that means I’m staying.”

“What?” Aziraphale cried. “Why?”

“Because you’re being stubborn and I resent it. I’m going to prove I could have just as easily done this assignment for you. Maybe by the end, you’ll reconsider being more amicable to the arrangement we already have, despite your insistence to the contrary.”

Aziraphale thought about saying something sour, but didn’t, because he was not actually mad at the prospect of being together with Crowley at sea for several weeks. Not mad at all.

“Do I think what is lonely?” he asked, suddenly remembering.

“What?”

“You asked me a question when you came up to me earlier. It was the first thing you said. ‘Do you think it’s lonely?’”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “Sailing when no one cares about you. Casting away from land when there’s no one on shore to look back to.”

To others, perhaps, the question would sound hypothetical, and his voice would sound the same. But when it came to Crowley, Aziraphale’s ears were more finely tuned.

“I care,” Aziraphale insisted, and put his hand on the demon’s arm as if to say, ‘and you know it.’

“About what?” Crowley asked distantly, not even acknowledging the angel’s touch. But why should he? Touches between them were as natural as the tide.

Aziraphale wished he could miracle away being flustered. “The success of the voyage!” he nearly shouted. “That’s why I’m going to stay as well. If everything goes smoothly, then I’ll… well, I’ll at least consider an arrangement.”

He watched as Crowley smirked and removed his eyewear, and Aziraphale felt a sense of vindication.

*

Nearly a week into the voyage, the crew had settled into a routine and the sea had been obligingly peaceful. Gentle waves lapped against the side of the vessel as Aziraphale sat near the hull. He and Crowley had made themselves invisible to the humans onboard. It was inconvenient to have to dodge their bodies, but it spared the two from being expected to do cumbersome tasks like loading cargo.

Crowley joined the angel without invitation and sat beside him.

“I rather like ships,” he said. “You never know what might happen on a ship, or where you might end up. Endless possibilities.”

“True,” Aziraphale agreed. “You could end up attacked by pirates, capsized in a storm, caught in a whirpool…”

Crowley laughed, tossing his head back. “Am I rubbing off on you, Angel? We’ve only been together a week or so and now you’re the one talking about mishaps and torment.”

“No, I just don’t like sailing, that’s all,” he declared, just as he had the first day to explain away his seasickness- but the angel hadn’t had any bouts of it with such steady waters, and it was too late to renege on the claim now.

“Oh, this is truly encouraging, Aziraphale. You’re lying as well? I’m flattered I’ve had such an influence on you.”

Aziraphale would normally rush to deny it. But he couldn’t be bothered, not when Crowley had given him the opening he’d been patiently waiting for.

“You lied, too.”

“I’m a demon,” Crowley said, flashing him a look. His eyes glinted in the waning sunlight, egg-yolk yellow. “I lie all the time. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You knew this wasn’t a raiding ship.”

Crowley’s silence confirmed what the angel already knew.

“You came because I was here,” Aziraphale pressed. “You wanted to get me to agree to an arrangement.”

Crowley was apparently finding the waves quite fascinating. Twilight was nearly upon them, and Aziraphale knew the demon couldn’t deny it any more than he could grab the sun and stop it from sliding beneath the waves.

Finally, Crowley simply asked, “What gave it away?”

“Mixing up a raiding ship and a trading ship? You built nebulas, but lack the attention to detail necessary to notice the difference between two completely different vessels?”

Crowley sighed, blowing out his surrender in a powdery cloud of steam against the cold air. “Yeah, alright, I didn’t really put much planning into it. I thought it would be a good laugh, too.”

Neither said anything until the sun had slipped halfway beneath the water, its light warm and orange, making Aziraphale think of a half-eaten tangerine (clearly, he had already grown tired of the cod).

“Why didn’t you just tell me to piss off, then?” Crowley asked gruffly. “Since you’re so astonishingly clever, why not just tell me you knew from the beginning?”

Aziraphale looked down to where their hands were splayed out side by side on the deck, taking great notice of how close together they were in the dimming light. He almost- almost- stretched his out to close the distance, but he noticed a tiny knot in the wood between their hands. It was such a small flaw, no larger than a coin, but it reminded him of the insurmountable dilemma that always made him withdraw from Crowley when his instinct was to lean in.

“You were trying so hard that I decided to try, too,” he answered simply.

The angel couldn’t tell if Crowley liked or hated this response, but he ultimately plopped down with his back flush against the deck and his knee propped up, watching the stars beginning to bloom above.

“I don’t usually bother trying at all, unless it’s for you.”

It sounded like hope, but when Aziraphale turned to look at him, Crowley’s eyes were shut, and he imagined they both knew that he wouldn’t dare to say something to break past the fragile barrier of those lashes.

Aziraphale slowly reclined beside him, pulling his furs around himself tightly. Sometimes he wondered how much of his bond with Crowley was based on them both understanding the burden of needing to leave so much unsaid to Heaven and Hell. Sometimes he wondered why they felt the need to do it with each other, too.

“Are any of these ones that you made? Can you recognize them from here?” Aziraphale asked, pointing at the clusters of gleaming white pinpricks in the sky. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but he decided it would suffice.

Crowley didn’t answer immediately, but Aziraphale knew he was smiling. Then the demon started describing large sweeps of the cosmos he had made, where they were and which ones were the best, as Aziraphale captively listened long into the night. He wondered if Crowley could tell when he was smiling, too.

*

Without the usual sickness, Aziraphale had discovered he was actually quite fond of the ocean. He loved the taste of salt on his lips, the rhythmic melody of each swell, the mast inhaling the wind and sweeping them into the vast blue of sky and sea- but there was something to be said for keeping up appearances.

“It is a rather nice day, all things considered,” he said, standing behind Crowley. It’s not like they spent ALL their time together- there was that day when Crowley disappeared for a few hours, and Aziraphale had anxiously circled the deck, fearing that he had somehow gone overboard (or worse, decided to leave him) before realizing he had found a storage of mead and wine below deck and drank until he passed out.

“I really hate to ruin the surprise for you, but I think it’s only fair to warn you that it’s not a nice day, Aziraphale. Not a nice day at all,” Crowley said, taking in a deep breath. “Ah well, we’re lucky we made it as far as we did before running into a storm.”

“A storm?” Aziraphale cried. “But the sky is the bluest it’s been since we’ve set sail! It’s bluer than a robin’s egg!”

“It won’t be, if you give it half an hour or so- probably less. I can smell it. I’ve seen plenty of storms on the raiding ships. After a while you get a knack for sniffing them out. Look at the crew.”

Aziraphale turned his attention to the humans, who were rushing about the deck and urgently calling to each other, working to lower the sails and tie down the cargo with sophisticated knots. Aziraphale’s spirits plummeted.

“Oh, this is terrible,” Aziraphale moaned. “How bad is it going to be?”

“Bad,” Crowley said nonchalantly. “Not bad enough to sink the ship, but definitely bad enough to give you a nasty bout of seasickness.”

“A nasty bout of- I don’t-” Aziraphale’s cheeks were flaming, possibly more so than his former sword. He covered his face and asked, “How did you know?”

“Because while I very much enjoy the recent frequency of it, you’re a terrible liar, Angel. And as much as I’d like to think it’s entirely due to the pleasure of my company, you’ve been far too happy on this voyage for someone who hates sailing. It’s almost like you finally got the chance to enjoy it without getting ill from rough seas and bad weather.”

The wind was beginning to pick up, howling like a hound as it knocked against the ship.

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Crowley added.

“Sorry about what?” Aziraphale asked, feeling his stomach beginning to lurch.

“The weather. Weather has never been my specialty.”

Aziraphale was going to say he didn’t understand, but a wave rocked the ship to the side like a bassinet, causing everyone onboard to stagger. The angel clamped his hand to his mouth, hardly knowing why he bothered because he felt the sick slide past his palm. His head was spinning. The thought of simply dispelling the storm was lost beneath the thundering inside his skull in concert with the cracks of thunder above.

The air was heavy and the clouds were a mottled gray, spreading like a thicket of cobwebs being woven with darker and darker thread. A downpour began as the ship was thrown about, and Aziraphale crouched with one hand clutching his stomach and the other planted on the deck, smattered in vomit. The crew was screaming, the sky was screaming, his head was screaming, perhaps he was screaming, too- but then it all stopped.

The horrible sensations in his stomach and head were gone, and all the noise around him had been dulled to a low muffle. The storm was still raging, but it was as though the angel had been granted partial immunity from it. He felt a hand on his arm gently tugging him up. He stood, breathless, as Crowley examined him. The demon’s fiery mane was soaked through, loose strands sticking to the wet skin of his neck.

“You… you made it stop,” Aziraphale gasped, reaching out to clutch Crowley’s shoulder, steadying himself.

“Oh, that mess? Yeah, I do torture for a living, but that was unbearable to watch,” he said, curling his lip in disgust. “The miracle should hold for the rest of the journey- no more seasickness. I don’t know why I didn’t think to just do that instead of spending all this effort on the weather. Like I said, it’s obviously not my strong suit.”

His meaning was clear to Aziraphale without the assault on his senses. “You’ve been manipulating the forecast the whole time we’ve been out here so I wouldn’t get sick?”

“And I was doing a damn good job, until now,” Crowley said, flicking his wrist. “It was beneficial to your Viking traders too, right? What do you think, about time to admit I should have done the job to begin with?”

Aziraphale had no time to respond because Crowley reached out with no warning and grabbed him by the waist. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Just as well, because Crowley quickly used his strong arms to lift him up and push him to the side just as the mast crashed right where he had been standing with enough force that it split the deck.

“Good heavens!” Aziraphale shrieked, not bothering to survey the scene around him before he miracled the mast back to its upright position and restored the splintered hole in the deck. There was a collective cry from the Vikings in response, but they were too busy fighting to keep the rest of the ship intact to waste time marveling.

“Have the heavens really been ‘good’ today, Angel?” Crowley panted, still clutching him close. Aziraphale meant to pull away. He meant to. But he didn’t move, and neither did Crowley.

“Heaven is always ‘good.’ It’s Heaven,” he maintained.

“Why do you bother defending them when they don’t give a… a fig about you?” Crowley growled, raking his fingers up the back of his neck.

“Thank you for using nice language,” Aziraphale offered.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Angel!” Crowley erupted, releasing him. “You almost just got discorporated on an assignment Heaven sent you on and you’re going to keep pretending everything is roses?”

“They probably knew you’d save me,” he tried.

“Heaven doesn’t know we’re friends!”

“Friends?” Aziraphale balked immediately. “That isn’t… you and I… we’re merely consorting.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, but Aziraphale heard the flicker of pain behind it. “THAT’S what you took from all that? Honestly, why do I even bother?”

“Because-” Aziraphale said, not meaning to do so out loud, reigning in the rest. Because we ARE friends. Why else would you put up with me? Of course we’re friends. More…

“Crowley, I serve Heaven, and you fell from it…”

“I’d say I was pushed,” Crawley muttered. “But sometimes a push isn’t such a bad thing, Angel. Sometimes it can save your life.”

Aziraphale looked back at where the mast had struck. “You’re right,” he said, feeling quite small. “Thank you.”

“Say it again,” Crawley said, arms crossed, not looking at him, and he felt smaller still.

“Thank you.”

“No, not that, I don’t care about that. Tell me I was right.”

Aziraphale was starting to get vexed, but he also felt quite bad for denying that Crowley was his friend- especially when he had a terrible feeling that he would do so again.

“You were right.”

“Again.”

“Crowley-”

“And this time with a little dance.”

“A- a what?!”

“Tell me I was right, and you were wrong, and add a little dance to give the atonement some panache.”

“Angels don’t even DANCE, you unthinkable-” his next strongly chosen word was garbled with seawater as an icy wave smashed into the front of the vessel, tipping it backwards, knocking everyone over. Aziraphale watched half the crew tumbling backwards, about to be swallowed by the waves, and finally said ‘Enough,’ to the entire ordeal. In fact, he roared it.

“ENOUGH!”

The crewmen were suspended mid-fall, and the darkness above folded up like a scroll. The rain ceased, the waves stilled, and blades of sunlight cut through the harmless, pillowy clouds. Everyone laid sprawled out among the deck, and the Norsemen looked up in confusion and amazement at the miraculously clear sky before cheering.

Aziraphale surveyed the aftermath anxiously before he spotted Crowley, tangled up in a fishnet, his limbs bent into impressively awkward positions. He looked at Aziraphale testily with a clear “don’t-you-dare-laugh” warning embedded in his eyes.

“Tonight,” he said, shaking rivulets of water out of his hair, “I am having an obscene amount of alcohol.”

*

Apparently the crew also thought getting drunk after the storm was a superb idea, and Crowley was determined to smuggle a few bottles from the galley before they were all gone. Aziraphale agreed to help him due to a rather persistent feeling of obligation, and to take some food as well.

Their attempt to liberate the wares from a confined space filled with people resulted in at least three squabbles, a great deal of awkwardly tangled limbs and stepping on each other’s feet, and finally, a pile of cod and two bottles of mead and wine.

They sat at the hull, which had become their unofficial spot, to enjoy the spoils of their successful conquest. Crowley had finished half a bottle of wine and was making diligent progress on the mead while Aziraphale ate the cod, noting the difference in their enjoyment.

“Why did you go to the effort of meddling with the weather just to keep me from getting seasick?” he asked.

Crowley took a long drink and then let out a satisfied exhale, creating a stream of white vapor against the frigid night air. “Have a drink and I’ll tell you,” he said, holding out his cup.

“Oh Crowley, for Heaven’s sakes-”

“You’re going to have to give in eventually, Aziraphale, because I’m never going to stop asking. And there’s no time like the present.” He thrust the cup forward again, impatiently.

On any other night, Aziraphale would have said no, just as he had for millennia. But that night was different- HE was different. He decided that at night, he could fold up everything he was supposed to do and set it in a pile on the ground until dawn. Perhaps there would be no dawn. At night, it was not a lie to say perhaps there never was a sun.

He reached out, snatched the cup, and took a long gulp.

He expected it to burn, was prepared to recoil, but was pleasantly surprised to find that it tasted honey-sweet and floral. His eyes blew open, and he took an excessively long drink as he heard Crowley laughing.

“I never thought I’d see the day!” the demon exclaimed with an overjoyed clap. “Tell me it’s good, Angel, I need to hear it!”

“It’s sublime,” Aziraphale crooned, tipping the cup back again. “Mercy, it’s as good as food. Maybe better. You were right.”

“What was that?”

“You were-” Aziraphale cut off, remembering their earlier exchange. To his surprise, he laughed. His head was buzzing like a hive, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant- quite the opposite. “Crowley, I can’t believe you asked me to dance!”

“I still expect you to. Come on, you owe me,” the demon said, matching his drinking.

“I do NOT,” Aziraphale asserted, taking another swig. “You came here under false pretenses to… seduce me into an agreement.”

“And you lied about hating the sea to save face, and I still took the time to keep the weather clear for you every day. I did a miracle to ensure you wouldn’t be seasick for the rest of the trip, and I saved you from being flattened by a hunk of wood during the storm.”

Aziraphale didn’t like having it all neatly laid out like that. It made everything seem obvious, even through the haze of the mead.

“That was all really nice of you,” he managed.

“Shut up,” Crowley spat. “Tell me I was right and do a funny little dance. Or whatever you can do that resembles a dance.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said sharply, and stood. He wobbled immediately as he did, and Crowley cackled.

“Before I do this though, you need to answer my question,” Aziraphale announced, and Crowley froze.

“What question?”

“You said if I had a drink, you’d tell me why you bothered to tinker with the weather just so I wouldn’t get sick. Well, I had a drink- many drinks,” Aziraphale said, realizing just how much his balance was compromised.

“Oh. Well, I didn’t feel like mopping your brow and watching you empty your guts for weeks,” Crowley said.

“Tell me the truth.”

Crowley flinched like he’d been struck. He was silent, as if he couldn’t lift anything to his tongue- not even a lie, let alone the truth. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that he had broken something between them, an entirely different arrangement than what Crowley came aboard proposing- something that had always existed unspoken between them, and now had cracked, fault lines snaking up the sides.

Finally, Crowley quietly said, “You think I would ever let you be in pain?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, really looked at him, and thought, ‘He looks so lonely.’

He wanted to do something, wanted to know why, wished that the sea breeze would tell him the answer. But the wind whipped his face like an accusation, because deep down he knew why. No wonder the wind wouldn’t bother to whisper, nor expose, whose fault it was.

Aziraphale wasn’t ready to hear it, anyhow.

“You were right,” he said, completely uprooting the weight of the moment by staggering to the side with a flamboyant hand gesture.

“What the hell-” Crowley started, but Aziraphale was far from finished.

“You were right,” he said, lifting his leg, and sticking out his palm with his fingers pointed. “I was… wrong…” he said, trying to twirl as he had seen humans do while dancing, but instead just shuffled around drunkenly in a large circle, careening his arms.

Crowley, who had been baffled at first, was now roaring with laughter. “You were... right!” Aziraphale finished, trying to bow, but toppled over, landing against a conveniently placed barrel.

Crowley was choking for breath, heaving, arms folded over his stomach. Aziraphale had never seen him laugh so hard- he didn’t even know he had the capacity for it.

He was happy.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean to say that, no, fuck it, I don’t care, that was brilliant. Can we agree right now that you’ll do that any time you’re wrong about something?”

“Only if you agree to do it, too,” Aziraphale muttered, collapsing back on the deck. The wind gusted past him again, and he shivered. He made for his cup, realizing the mead had been keeping him warm, and found it empty. He sighed, disappointed.

“Here,” Crowley beckoned, holding up the bottle and wagging it around in his hand, the liquid inside sloshing against the sides.

Aziraphale scooted over to him and allowed the demon to refill his cup. After taking several hearty sips and still feeling chilled, he did something he had never done before (at night, it was not a lie to say there never was a sun, or such things as consequences) and pressed his side against Crowley’s, leaning against him.

He felt Crowley’s whole body go stiff, and even though the warmth was so much better than he had imagined, easily better than any alcohol or food, Aziraphale’s courage waned. He began to move away, but Crowley pulled him back roughly, clasping him tightly to his side with an arm around his shoulder.

The angel nestled easily against him. He wanted to preserve the moment, as if he could dog-ear it like a page in one of his books and revisit it over and over.

“We can make another agreement,” Aziraphale said, enjoying the warmth, the mead, how Crowley’s hair tickled the side of his cheek. “About the arrangement. I concede. I don’t mind officially making it… well, official.”

Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale could feel the deep sound reverberating through his chest.

“I told you, didn’t I? You never know what might happen on a ship.”

*

The trade went excellently. All the cargo had survived the storm, and the exchange was done professionally with no bloodshed. Aziraphale and Crowley watched the Vikings reboard their ship and disembark, beginning their journey home as the two remained ashore.

“A smashing success, I’d say,” Aziraphale beamed.

“Couldn’t have gone better. Well, maybe a bit better, but yeah. I take it you remember last night?”

The angel’s body flared with heat, but he rushed to say, “Of course. Yes. The arrangement? Jolly good, it’s settled, you were right and all that piffle.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Angel. Well, I best be going, I’m knackered,” Crowley said, stretching.

Aziraphale felt his cheeks being sapped of color. “Where will you go?”

“Anywhere I can have a lie down,” Crowley shrugged. “Don’t worry though, I’ll be in touch the next time you can help save me from some paperwork. And I expect you’ll be reaching out as well- right, Angel?”

“Right. Sure,” Aziraphale said weakly. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll see you when the need arises.”

Crowley winced slightly, and the angel wished he could throw a net and pull the words back. Crowley slipped his eyewear back on.

“’Til then,” Crowley said, turning and raising his arm in a half-hearted wave, and shuffled away.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s black garb mingled in with the crowd and disappeared. He wondered if he could ever watch him leave without feeling like a sailor looking back at an empty dock.

Chapter Text

1615 A.D.

Aziraphale watched the man in the large house on Chapel Street through a slat at his office door. Inside, he was hunched over a wooden table, pausing the stroke of his quill every so often to release a hoarse, wet cough.

The morning sun poured through the latticed curtains like honey, but the room seemed cold and grey like long forgotten tea. It was filled with the unmistakable dreariness of mortality’s last limps before the inevitable.

“I’ve read all of his works,” Aziraphale sighed.

“So have I,” Crowley said, crouched against the wall a few steps down on the stairway. “Out of curiosity, what did you think of his ‘Fair Youth’ series? Lovely sonnets.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Yes, they were.” He said no more on the matter. When he did speak again, it was to ask, “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I know you how much you fancy Shakespeare. When I saw that his penmanship had turned to chicken scratch, I knew what it meant. I figured you did too, so I legged it over and found a fancy little angel looking all glum in his ruffles.”

In truth, Aziraphale looked more than glum. He looked devastated. Crowley took great issue with this.

“No use getting all depressed, Aziraphale,” he said, climbing up to him and resting his elbow easily on the angel’s shoulder. “You know better than to get too attached to humans- dying is just one of those things they do. But what a life ol’ Billy boy lived! 39 plays! That’s nothing to sneeze at-”

“He can still write 40,” Aziraphale asserted, watching Shakespeare’s quivering hand nearly knock over his pot of ink. Crowley wondered why the angel would even bother to lie to himself over something so futile before the snap realization that it wasn’t a lie at all- it was hope. Crowley recognized that hope.

“Anything’s possible,” he said neutrally, and Aziraphale’s expression brightened slightly. That was good, but Crowley wanted to buff out all the sadness, polish that face back to its familiar cheerful shine.

“I assume you saw his last play,” he tried. “Did you like it?”

“Oh yes, The Tempest was very good,” Aziraphale said, encouragingly less gloomy. “Not my favorite, mind you, but I liked it very much.”

Crowley had seen its first performance at the Globe Theatre and hadn’t liked it at all. Or rather, he had liked it before the end. The themes of rebellion, magic, righteous anger… love… those were all fine by him. But that fucking ending- Prospero forgiving the people who cast him out and never getting an apology? Begging for forgiveness when he was the one wronged in the first place?

Crowley had booed loudly and lobbed a significant portion of fruit at the stage. Thankfully, such heckling was commonplace at the theatre, because he suspected Aziraphale had been somewhere in the audience for the premiere.

“Very good, yeah,” Crowley echoed. “I mean, that very first scene- a big storm at sea! Bring back any memories, Angel?”

“He won’t make it to 40 plays, will he?” Aziraphale said, as if he hadn’t heard. He was back to watching Shakespeare intently. Crowley curled his cheek to the side in a dramatic cringe, exposing his clenched teeth and blasting air through them. He slid his arm off the angel’s shoulder and took a step down from him on the stairs.

“Aziraphale, how many artists get the chance to create on a scale like he did? To do what they love, do it well, and live to see people acknowledge it? Think of all the people we’ve seen come and go, the goods, the greats- how many of them left behind what he will? A legacy!”

“I’m certain he’ll be remembered, thank heavens for that,” Aziraphale said. “I just…” He folded his hands together, shoulders slumped.

“I wish remembering him could replace losing him.”

It was only then that Crowley truly understood what was happening, because it was something he had never experienced. He was confident there was no precedent for it among angels nor demons. Aziraphale was in mourning.

He had absolutely no idea what to do.

“Come on, Aziraphale, buck up!” he said, swinging his arm in front of him in encouragement. “Don’t be all… this,” he said, gesturing to the angel, who remained despondent. Crowley sighed.

“Listen, even if all your favorite humans die, I’ll still be here. You know, to fill the favorite role.”

“Who said you were my favorite?” Aziraphale grumbled.

“Oh please, at the very least I’m your favorite demon,” he said, playfully tugging at the pleated ruff around Aziraphale’s neck. The angel was unmoved, and Crowley was increasingly desperate to say or do something to just make everything better, although he was beginning to understand that wasn’t the way this worked.

Still, it made him reckless enough to say something partially to cheer Aziraphale up and partially because he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re MY favorite.”

“I am?” Aziraphale asked, jolted out of his stupor. He looked at the demon with those cornflower blue eyes, those ridiculously unfair eyes-

“Yes. My favorite angel,” Crowley improvised. “I mean, have you seen the other contenders? Fuck ‘em all, you’re the only one worth knowing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and left it at that. Silenced settled over them like a shroud. Crowley couldn’t stand it.

“Thou makest me merry,” he said, trusting Aziraphale would understand the reference. “I am full of pleasure."

It did prompt a reaction. “You remember that from The Tempest?”

“I told you I’ve read all of Shakespeare’s works. But then again, I’m a demon, so I don’t blame you if you thought I was lying.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it’s just… I thought you hated it. The way you booed at the play…” The angel suddenly looked down at Crowley with a stern expression, like he was a child in need of a scolding. “Honestly, Crowley, that was quite rude, you hit the poor man playing Prospero with three tomatoes!”

Crowley suppressed a very loud groan. Aziraphale was always so eager to point out the things he didn’t want him to know and so quick to rush past the things he did.

“He deserved all five tomatoes, but my aim was a bit off. And you should have at least said hello if you were close enough to see me do that.”

“I wasn’t close at all. But I recognized your voice from across the crowd. Even when you’re shouting and acting like a toss-pot, I’d always know your voice.”

Crowley grinned. “See? I knew I was your favorite.”

Aziraphale reddened, but was quick to retort with, “What you are is silly. Quoting Caliban at me? Is that how you see yourself?”

“Naturally,” Crowley lied. He imagined Heaven would view all demons as Caliban, but that wasn’t the point. Aziraphale was acting like himself again.

“Absolutely not! Let’s see now… You could be Ferdinand,” the angel mused.

Crowley laughed, head turned toward the ceiling. “You’re joking. The virtuous prince in his fancy britches? I’m the furthest thing from.”

“Quite the opposite. I think you have a lot in common, actually,” Aziraphale murmured, and glanced away.

Crowley caught on to the implication and savored how predictable Aziraphale was whenever he dared to breach the topic of romance. ‘Well, well, well, what have we here, a flustered angel.’ It was one of his favorite kinds of angel. He couldn’t let it go to waste.

“Are you saying that because Shakespeare based Miranda off of you?”

Aziraphale bristled. “Nonsense! Well, I wish he HAD used me as inspiration for a character, but it certainly wouldn’t be Miranda-”

“Really?” Crowley leered, sliding his eyeglasses down as if to inspect the angel more thoroughly. “Compassionate Miranda, the pinnacle of naivety and obedience? I’d say it’s pretty spot on.”

“Oh dear, I don’t think you understood the character very well,” Aziraphale tutted. “And besides, just think, if you were Ferdinand and I was Miranda, we’d be lovers!”

Crowley continued to look at him without his glasses, at least one barrier between them removed.

“Naturally,” he repeated softly.

Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears. Crowley lurched back. The angel rarely cried, and by his count, he had never caused it.

“Stop,” Crowley said, as if petitioning a landslide to do the same. Fuck. Since when was hinting at something bold or crass between them enough to make Aziraphale cry? He’d been doing it for centuries without a hitch.

He hated this. He had to stop it.

Crowley stepped back onto the same stair as the angel and reached out his right hand, then stopped. He moved closer to Aziraphale and extended his left hand, but it froze as well. He didn’t know if his touch would make things worse.

‘To hell with it,’ he decided, and wrapped his arms around the angel. Aziraphale’s whole body prickled at his touch, but then he collapsed into Crowley and burrowed his face in his chest. His shoulders quivered as his tears soaked through the fabric of Crowley’s waistcoat, and the demon held him tighter, pressing his cheek against Aziraphale’s temple.

“Angel…” he sighed. He didn’t know what to say. How could Crowley camouflage his pain while extinguishing Aziraphale’s?

Crowley understood the risk that came with being near the angel and he didn’t care. He wanted Aziraphale without preoccupation, without the endless act of revising exactly what he meant to say.

He was sick of feeling like a wooden shelf bowing beneath the weight of secrets.

But Aziraphale was crumbling in his arms under that very weight and he was certain that this was a moment to pause, not to linger.

“Aziraphale-” he started again, but the angel wrestled out of his arms and began to descend away from him into the inky darkness at the end of the stairwell.

No. It wasn’t going to end like this.

“Aziraphale!” he thundered, snatching him by the wrist. The angel didn’t try to pull away, but didn’t turn back around, either. They were suspended in limbo, and only Crowley could shatter it.

“I don’t like seeing you blubber like this. If it’s because of something I said, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale replied with a sniffle.

“Shove it,” Crowley snapped. “If you’re going to insist on being sad, do you at least want some company until your idol up there snuffs it? I’ll stick around, for as long as you need me to. Might make you feel better.”

The silence felt so long Crowley imagined a candle could have burnt down to the wick by the time Aziraphale mustered a response. He turned back to face Crowley. He wore a smile, but it was too tight, as if a part of him was acting- like he really was playing Miranda, taking cues from backstage.

“You’re not allowed to say anything,” Aziraphale muttered, wiping his eyes with the frilled cuff of his doublet.

Crowley swallowed. “About what?”

“About where I live. Not a word. If you’re going to stay with me, you have to promise.”

The realization that Aziraphale was saying “yes” sizzled through Crowley like hot grease.

“I promise,” he affirmed. “Why would it matter? I don’t care. I mean, I live in a barn house, it’s falling apart-”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I live in a manor.”

“You WHAT?”

“It was available and I can keep all of my things in one place!” he proclaimed defensively. “And I’ll be perfectly fine on my own if you-”

“I’m sure it’s a beauty,” Crowley interrupted. “All that’s left is to show me where it is. Come on, Angel.” He released his grip on the angel’s wrist and pushed his hand into Aziraphale’s, clasping their palms together. “Go on, lead the way.”

Aziraphale looked down at their entwined hands, not moving for several moments, and then started down the steps while Crowley trailed behind him. The demon flashed his teeth in a triumphant grin. Staying with Aziraphale, in his home, until the playwright croaked?

‘You’d better live forever,’ he telepathically threatened the coughing man above as Aziraphale pulled him out into the sunlight.

*

The manor was every bit as outrageous as Crowley imagined. A gravel walkway lined with immaculately trimmed hedges guided them toward the towering, whitewashed building.

The inside was a motley of opulence- embroidered carpets swallowed the floor, the diamond-paned windows scattered twinkling rainbows against the velvet curtains, and a massive oak table with a high-backed chair stood in front of an unlit fireplace.

The demon counted several rooms and the broad staircase suggested even more. He imagined there must have been a library somewhere (there was, of course).

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asked nervously as Crowley swept his hand across a tapestry.

“It’s unbelievable,” Crowley said. Thankfully, Aziraphale took it as a compliment and beamed.

“Well, please, make yourself at home.”

The demon’s mouth twitched upward. He intended to.

*

SEPTEMBER

The first morning at the manor, it was barely after sunrise when Crowley woke. He had a deep disdain for being woken up that early, and was scouring for whatever had stirred him when the smell of warm spice flooded his nose. It was enticing enough to coax him to the kitchen. Aziraphale was bouncing about between pans and kettles, piling food steadily onto the table.

“Morning,” Crowley grunted.

“Oh, good morning, Crowley!” Aziraphale chirped brightly, stirring the contents of his pot. He fiddled with the appliances and added two glasses to the table. “Breakfast is ready.”

“You didn’t need to,” Crowley said, yawning. “Really, you didn’t need to. Do you always get up this early?”

“Early? I slept in today. I missed the sunrise!” Aziraphale lamented.

Crowley scowled. “No, no, this won’t do, I can’t have you waking me up at this hour every day, Angel. I’m a creature of the night. I don’t need breakfast- I never bother eating it.”

“But… I made it for you,” Aziraphale pouted, looking at the spread of food. Crowley wanted to slam his head against the table. He should have been the one making breakfast, he was supposed to be cheering Aziraphale up and he was already fucking up on the first day…

“It looks even better than it smells,” Crowley announced, sitting down with his elbows stretched out on the table, causing Aziraphale to wince. “What sort of divine cooking do we have here?”

“Let’s see, I made eggs and butter, there’s porridge (Crowley gagged), bread- oh, and that would be perfect with this,” the angel said, pushing the two drinking glasses toward the demon.

“Keep one for yourself,” he said in confusion, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“They’re both for you. I think you’ll like it. Drink them together.”

Crowley looked down at them- one looked like milk and the other was clear. The first smelled of rich cinnamon, which he realized was what had woken him in the first place. He sipped both in quick succession. He paused in disbelief, then laughed.

“Alcohol? You served me alcohol for breakfast? Angel, you shouldn’t have!” he cried in delight.

“It’s a common breakfast beverage! It’s posset!” Aziraphale insisted. “You’re supposed to combine them, but I prefer keeping the ale separate…”

“You can wake me up early if it’s for posset, how about that,” Crowley said. “And I’ll have the bread and eggs as well, thanks.”

Aziraphale didn’t eat, but the demon assumed he already had. In truth, the angel didn’t usually eat breakfast, either. He had only bothered to cook because he was curious if Crowley would enjoy posset as much as he did.

He wasn’t sure he would since Crowley smelled so much like cinnamon himself- and probably tasted like it, too.

*

OCTOBER

It was in the belly of Autumn.

Crowley had spent his first month cohabiting with the angel trying his best not to stir up trouble, track mud inside the manor, or damage any of the pristinely kept furniture. Most days, he was successful.

He had also made it his personal mission to make Aziraphale laugh at least once a day. In this, he succeeded without exception.

After a month, Crowley had also learned that there were really only two seasons that prospered at the angel’s home- inside and outside. Aziraphale seemed to enjoy a healthy balance of both, so the demon tried to ensure they split time between them evenly.

That day, Aziraphale decided he wanted to walk about the rural farmland surrounding Stratford-upon-Avon, which meant Crowley was sentenced to an afternoon of smoldering sun, rippling pastures, and the hammered gold of marigold meadows.

“What do you like most about wandering around?” Crowley asked, not finding it particularly stimulating. He wished there were faster means of transportation than walking, carts, or carriages.

Aziraphale pondered for a moment as he savored the view from the hillside. “The birds.”

Crowley laughed. “Little birdies, eh? You like watching them flap about? Do you miss your wings?”

“Sometimes, but don’t poke fun- after all, you’re fond of ducks, aren’t you?”

“What’s not to like about a duck? They can walk, fly, AND swim. Multi-talented! Can’t help but respect it.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, that’s what I like about birds. The variety, the versatility… and there are so many! Endless chances for discovery.”

“You could say the same about plants,” Crowley pointed out, letting his hand graze over a branch that was bursting with clusters of leaves and vibrant dahlias.

“But plants don’t sing,” Aziraphale countered, bumping his side. “If we start listening, we could learn what each kind of bird sounds like- oh, there’s one now! I’ll have to start reading about them later…”

Crowley thought it was a waste of time. After all, why would it ever matter to him if a certain kind of bird sang?

*

NOVEMBER

There was a fireplace in nearly every room of the manor (and there were 28 rooms- Crowley had counted) but the largest ones were in the dining hall and the library.

Aziraphale was quite proud of the library he had assembled and spent a lot of time there, which meant Crowley did, too- through sheer coincidence, of course. After all, it had a very nice fireplace.

That particular evening, Crowley was lounging in a cushioned armchair with a book and had even remembered to swing his leg off the arm of the chair just before being reprimanded for it. Aziraphale sat opposite him, engrossed in Thomas More’s “Utopia,” which was of course the author’s original signed copy.

Crowley wasn’t even sure which book he was holding- he hadn’t even bothered to glance down at it. He was only pretending to read while he watched the angel, studying his expression and the way it shifted as he digested new pages.

Every now and then, Aziraphale would steal a glance at him, too. Crowley didn’t react or look away- there was no need to, not with the black opaque of his eyewear hiding his stare.

Aziraphale, however, didn’t need to be perceptive to know that Crowley wasn’t reading since he was holding his book upside down. He knew the demon was watching him. He just pretended not to.

Eventually, the angel stood and sought out a different book, only to find it wasn’t where he’d left it. This alarmed him immensely, as he had organized the books quite meticulously and had never had one go missing.

Crowley watched him scurry around the room, the floorboards groaning beneath his anxious footfalls as the embers in the hearth crackled.

Finally, after at least ten minutes or so, Aziraphale stopped. The fire licked the wall and cast shadows that nested into the hollows of the angel’s features.

“Crowley.”

“…Yes?”

“Where is my copy of The Divine Comedy?”

“In my room. I annotated it.”

“You WHAT?”

“…I annotated it. You know, wrote in the margins?”

“It was a first edition, Crowley! And you scribbled on it?!”

“No. I improved it.”

An explosive argument ensued. A finger was jabbed repeatedly into Crowley’s chest only to be swatted away, which led to approximately three minutes of shouting and four very strongly worded insults lobbed back and forth between them (at least one of which you wouldn’t expect to hear from an angel).

Five minutes later, the two sat down to eat dinner together, the tension still thick enough to be cut with the butter knife on the table. Another five minutes later, they were laughing together about the book.

“I mean, really, Dante thinks fraud is worse than violence? Or that people get blown about in a whirlwind forever for naughty thoughts?” Crowley exclaimed. “Look, Angel, I know a thing or two about Hell, and it’s not organized in tiers like a bloody cake!”

Aziraphale was so amused that he let Crowley keep his copy in case he thought of any other witty things to write in it.

It was the first book he ever gave away.

*

DECEMBER

Winter was a remorseless traitor. It was a vicious thing that slaughtered plants and would do the same to anything or anyone it ensnared in its grip. Crowley loathed it. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was enchanted by it and spent hours watching ladleful after ladleful of white powder covering everything like frosting.

Twice within the last three weeks, the two had walked together through a glade cocooned by snowcapped sycamore trees. Crowley had offered his arm to Aziraphale during both strolls.

The first time, the angel didn’t take it (“Oh, that won’t be necessary my dear, it’s not that cold out so I hope you’re not up to any jiggery-pokery-”). The second time, he tucked his palm under the demon’s arm without comment.

“I hate the Winter,” Crowley huffed.

“No!” Aziraphale gasped as if personally affronted. “But it’s so pretty!”

“Some of us are accustomed to rather hot climates,” he pointed out.

“O-Oh. Right,” Aziraphale said sheepishly.

Crowley turned to look at the angel. He was contentedly looking up at the frosted branches and the ice covering the trees like a lace sheet. Crowley suddenly noticed that the snow had blended in with Aziraphale’s feathery tufts and was collecting in his hair.

Without thinking, he reached out and sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s soft curls and brushed all of the snow away.

Both stopped walking, frozen like the nearby stream. The stillness settled around them, the kind that softened every edge, every sound, every uncertainty.

“Don’t misunderstand, I’m fond of Summer, too,” Aziraphale continued casually, and started walking like nothing had happened. Crowley mirrored his steps. “Spring happens to be my favorite.”

“I’ll bet you think Spring is just oh so pretty,” Crowley said with a smirk.

Aziraphale yanked on his arm in protest. “First of all, it is, thank you very much! And second of all, at this rate you’ll be the one making dinner tonight.”

“Not unless you want your manor burned down,” he said. “You remember what happened the last time you left me in charge of the kitchen?”

Aziraphale shuddered. After all, who could forget the great beef stew disaster of October 1615?

*

JANUARY

It was excessively cold out, even for Aziraphale, and thus it was a day spent indoors. The angel was in the library, naturally, lying on the plush carpet. He was perched up on his elbows, swinging his legs behind him, holding a deck of cards. He was trying to perform a successful sleight of hand but kept dropping the cards whenever he tried to palm them. Eventually he deduced that he really ought to learn to shuffle before attempting illusions.

Crowley stood near him, closer to the fireplace for light, with a large star atlas spread over the table. Aziraphale had agreed to let the demon mark it up to his heart’s content as he had sadly not been able to obtain the original copy of “Uranometria.”

And mark it up, he did. Crowley crossed out large portions of it, drew arrows and circles over offensive areas, and wrote obnoxious comments everywhere (“Not accurate, too artsy,” “This should be on the LEFT, stupid,” “What sort of idiot names a constellation ’Grus’?”).

Several hours passed and the two remained feet away from each other, fixated on their respective projects. Neither spoke. Neither left.

Neither realized that this was a form of intimacy.

*

FEBRUARY

There was really no need to ever go to town, just as there was no need for either Crowley or Aziraphale to cook. But Aziraphale insisted on doing things the hard way rather than relying on miracles- he seemed to find it more rewarding, and at the end of the day, Crowley was there to make Aziraphale happy. That desire felt less and less related to Shakespeare, who Aziraphale also insisted on checking up on. The prognosis was never better.

Crowley escorted the angel through the market, letting him peruse while making note of his selections. He was still rather sour that Aziraphale wouldn’t take his arm when walking in public but was hoping they could make up for it with a trip to the local tavern. Anything to get out of the street- the pleasant smells of leather, rich smoke, and brewing ale were overpowered by the stench of mud, waste, and sewage.

However, there was something else sweet in the air- not a smell, but a sound. Aziraphale noticed as well because he stood, squinted, then tilted his head to the side dramatically as if that would help him hear better. It was so disarmingly childlike that Crowley sputtered, trying not to laugh.

The source came into view quickly enough. A band of troubadours descended into the marketplace, an assortment of eccentric characters that flooded the streets with color and song. The sound of lutes and harps slowly lured people out of nearby buildings to watch them perform.

Crowley found it briefly entertaining but grew bored of it quickly. He turned eagerly toward the tavern, but then noticed a quiet, distinct sound to his right. He glanced at Aziraphale, who was humming along to the music.

Crowley didn’t interrupt. Aziraphale’s wordless melody forced him to recall the realities he imagined where he might hear such a thing every day. It was another reassurance he would carefully pin in the corner of his mind.

Eventually the troupe bustled along, and Aziraphale lingered watching them while Crowley lingered watching Aziraphale. Once they were gone, Aziraphale asked, “Would you fancy a drink at the tavern?”

“You know me so well,” Crowley pipped.

*

MARCH

Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale in hours, which wasn’t necessarily uncommon, but it was getting quite late and it was unlike him to deviate from routine after dinner. Crowley sighed, and embarked on a quest to find the missing angel. The logical place to check first was the library.

Lo and behold, Aziraphale was at the back table, fast asleep. His back rose and fell slowly as he leaned forward on his folded arms, a book still in his hand. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You missed our chess match for this,” he said accusingly. He started to leave, and then stopped. He stomped out angrily, and then returned with Aziraphale’s favorite pollen-yellow blanket.

“If you’d been clever enough to go to bed when you were feeling woozy, I wouldn’t have to do this,” the demon hissed, snapping the folded blanket out by the corners. “Or you could have just sat by the fire to stay warm,” he said, lifting the linen up to Aziraphale’s neck, which he absolutely did not graze the back of with his fingertips on purpose.

Crowley sighed theatrically. “I’ll give you an earful about this later,” he said, marching through the wooden doorpost. The angel released the book in his hand and pulled the blanket in tightly, a small smile dancing about his lips.

*

APRIL

Whenever they finished dinner, Crowley and Aziraphale usually drank wine and spent their time either talking or playing checkers. They used to play chess, but Aziraphale eventually grew tired of catching Crowley cheating (the demon always brushed it off, claiming he was, “Just exploring the possibilities.”) Crowley did regret this, because the angel seemed to always win at checkers.

Afterwards, Aziraphale would go to bed. Despite the many rooms to choose from, from the beginning Crowley had slept in the bedroom adjoining Aziraphale’s. Every night he wanted to kick the wall down and sleep in the angel’s bed instead, but the tears in Aziraphale’s eyes when he implied it was obvious that they should be lovers scared him far too much to ever ask.

There were a few rare times that Aziraphale paused at the entrance to his bedroom door and asked Crowley to join him. The first time the angel beckoned him to come inside, Crowley’s heart thrashed against his ribcage like a pianist striking chords. But then Aziraphale asked, “Would you watch over me as I fall asleep?”

Crowley scoffed, hoping the sound would mask his immense disappointment, just as he hoped that his dramatic shift in posture would distract Aziraphale as he repositioned the unbearable hardness bulging against his pant leg.

“And how old are we turning this year?” he jabbed, only for Aziraphale’s head to sink and for him to begin to retreat into his room alone. Crowley nearly dove after him, but forced himself to be civilized and use his words.

“Oh, come on Angel, can’t take a joke? Yeah, sure. I’ll sit there while you nod off.”

Aziraphale tried to insist that it was “Fine, really” and he shouldn’t have asked, but Crowley insisted right back that it wasn’t a bother until he managed to cross the threshold of the doorway. Aziraphale conceded in silence by laying down among an absurd amount of pillows.

Crowley perched by the bed in the dark, waiting, wondering if his presence could inspire something more than comfort. He wanted it so badly he could almost pray for it. But God had no place there- after all, why would Aziraphale ask Crowley to watch over him instead?

The demon passed the time by tallying the glossy hairs on Aziraphale’s head, calculating how many heartbeats had gone by, how many breaths. One, two, three, four… Any moment the angel could turn and ask him to fill the emptiness beside him on the bed, and that would be all the invitation Crowley needed to satisfy the emptiness inside them both in a way that prayers never could.

But the chance never came. Aziraphale would always sleep peacefully, an arm’s reach and an eternity away, while the demon sat wide awake and ravenous until dawn dappled against the curtains. Aziraphale would wake refreshed and bright-eyed and simply say, “Oh, good morning, my dear! You’re up early!”

Crowley wanted to say many different things on these occasions, such as, “I didn’t sleep a wink, you moron. I was too busy thinking about how much I want to bend you over and press my head between your shoulder blades and swallow each gasp and moan you make as I pump myself inside you. I’m still hard thinking about it now while you’re about to skip off to make breakfast, you stupid bloody bastard-”

Eventually though, Crowley could only think of one thing to say to Aziraphale after those sleepless nights, something which he never said out loud- “Do you know you’re being cruel?”

*

Shakespeare died on the 23rd of April. Word had reached them as quickly as ink spreading through water, and Aziraphale and Crowley rushed to his residence. Other people were there as well, and some were weeping.

Aziraphale’s eyes were perfectly dry.

Crowley stood in silence, waiting until Aziraphale was ready, and took his usual place at his side once the angel finally turned to leave.

They walked back toward Aziraphale’s home and Crowley tried to think of something to say, unsure if helpful words even existed after a death. About halfway back to Aziraphale’s manor, he stopped walking. He turned to Crowley and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know how much you hate it, so I won’t say how nice it was of you to stay with me-”

“Then don’t,” Crowley said. He felt his stomach churn, felt like he could see a collision approaching in his peripheral. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Shakespeare’s dead, Crowley. You don’t have to stay with me anymore. I’ll be alright. In truth, I’ve made you stay far too long.”

“You didn’t MAKE me do anything,” Crowley snarled. “Don’t be stupid, Aziraphale. Let’s go home.”

The glare of the angel’s composed smile made it painful to look at. “I’ve had a lovely time with you. Thank you for indulging me- you didn’t have to.”

Crowley tried to speak, but coughed up ugly noises instead. Panic was cutting off the air to his lungs, the blood in his temples slamming the word “Stop,” against his brain like a drum. This had to be some cruel trick, a sleight of hand- but he remembered how terrible Aziraphale was at magic.

“I shouldn’t have held you hostage like that,” Aziraphale said. “I was being selfish.” His lip trembled, and he bit down on it before continuing. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I know I’ll see you again, but it’s still so hard to say goodbye.”

“THEN DON’T!” Crowley roared.

Aziraphale’s resolve seemed to flounder, and then he skittishly approached the demon until their chests were nearly touching. Crowley looked at him as all the reassurances were plucked from his mind and he was too numb to think or speak. Aziraphale was leaving him there. Aziraphale smelled like lavender. It was rather chilly for April- Aziraphale needed a blanket. Aziraphale was leaving.

The angel leaned forward slowly, sliding his hands up Crowley’s forearms to his shoulders while he pressed his cheek against the demon’s cheek. Crowley raised his arms instinctively just as Aziraphale turned his head and pressed his lips against the coiled black snake stitched into the skin at the end of his cheekbone.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, his breath breezing past Crowley’s ear. When the angel pulled back, he swiveled on his heel to start walking away, but not before Crowley saw the tears in his eyes that stubbornly refused to fall.

Crowley’s arms hung in the air useless and empty as he watched Aziraphale’s back shrinking into the night.

‘Come back. Come back. You can’t leave, you don’t understand- the further away something is, the farther back in time it appears. And you were finally close enough to be in the same moment as me. I want to go where you go. I want to sleep where you sleep. Please don’t leave me.’

If his plea had taken shape, it would have fallen and clattered uselessly against the cobblestone below. Aziraphale did not turn back. Crowley did not pursue him.

The moon was as thin as rice paper. It peered at him like a single pale eye, watching his feelings open like undertows and give way to others. He was a cocktail of regrets.

The cruelest irony was that only then did Crowley truly understand what it meant to mourn.