Archive of Our Own

It was a fine day, by all accounts. Birdsong heralded Aziraphale’s morning, though somehow he felt, deep in the depths of his angelic mind, that perhaps it was an omen. He had no idea why he’d think that, but only for a moment, as he opened his blinds and heard the fragile song among the rustlings of the dew-lit grass somewhere far-off, he did.

And then he thought no more of it, and the sun shone just the same.

Aziraphale loved the dawn - when he was a younger soul he’d thought it one of Her greatest majesties. He still held this belief, old as he was, but spared some thought to the dawn as its separate entity. It was brilliant and beautiful, the finest crescendo of daybreak’s symphony, and for a moment it was his, as he sprinkled sugar into his coffee and twisted the tassels on his tartan dressing gown. Crickets hummed in the summer grass. It was, truly, a fine day.

The bookshop was still keeping its own, the M25 was still blocked, and the stars were still lit. It was, in Aziraphale’s mind, a perfectly regular day. And he went about his morning regularly- sorting new arrivals and keeping tabs on that one mysterious book of old text from one certain old collection headed by one certain old Norwegian man. Customers came and went, never seeming to buy anything. They shook their heads and moved on their way, ferrying down invisible rivers of summer haze to the channels and oceans of their quaint little lives.

“Well then,” Aziraphale sighed, dusting somewhere between the fiction and fantasy sections, “I suppose I should be grateful, hm?”

There was no one there to hear him, but he felt that in some way he should be heard - that he deserved to be heard. It was a funny feeling, to speak to some ethereal void.

“I mean,” Aziraphale continued, “Nothing’s happening. No angry Archangels at my door, no armies of Hell climbing in through my windows. That’s something, I think.”

The books did not respond. Their mahogany shelves still sang of trees with deeper roots, drinking in the particles of dust in the liquid sunlight that fell upon Aziraphale’s cheeks like fresh snowflakes too shy to show their faces. Perhaps the shelves wished they might’ve been violins, tables, floorboards, or little toys with intricate cogs and wheels, but they did not return the angel’s conversation.

Aziraphale did not mind, though, just wiped the dust off his face and continued his pursuit. He’d learned to be grateful for such simple moments, lest he wasted them foolishly. A melody fluttered in through the window, something with a cello and a viola, and he paused to listen, drinking deeply of the cup of sunshine left on his windowsill with time-wrought hands. He fancied himself a fine song, though such things were deemed foolish by many he had been associated with.

The melody wavered, but, with his hands wrapped around his coffee and his gaze combing through Keat’s later works, he barely noticed.

His gaze wandered through the pages, and his thoughts whirled through nights in Rome and walks in Paris. They danced through sips of sweet château wine when the world was new and light savory crepes in bitter twilight gardens a-flickering with similar birdsong. His memory and its chromatic chronicle were whirlwinds - the likes of which would delight any romantic scholar, and he held it all in his gait as he stepped between shelves, poised and well-aged as he was.

“I do wonder,” Aziraphale murmured, “If I shall ever feel urged to see Rome again.”

Again, the books did not respond. Maybe they would’ve liked to see Rome, but they were books and didn't have voices.

“Perhaps I should ask him,” he spoke upon Ode On Melancholy, which smelled of pressed violets.

The poem had no idea who “he” was, but the book did. “He” was, of late, a common character in Aziraphale’s mutterings, much more common than, say, a few decades ago. Except, of course, for a few choice days where Aziraphale would return from the outside in varying moods and promptly invest in a cup of cocoa or a glass of strong wine.

Rome was lovely this time of year, and Aziraphale would have loved a short vacation, especially with a particularly close friend. (His only friend, really, but that was beside the point.)

He had half a mind to call him up and ask him within the minute, but suddenly he received a call from a disgruntled tourist asking ‘the benevolent Mr. Fell’ for directions to his shop, and his vacation plans were pushed aside for the moment.

Around noon, he knocked over his tea. He didn’t knock his tea over often, but his hands failed him with a bolt of sudden adrenaline to his spine.

He was cold - cold and numb as anything. It had come on so suddenly - crouched behind him like a tiger and scratched at his back. Something’s wrong. His hands shook. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with Crowley. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he knew, sure as the rain.

The phone rang. Aziraphale didn’t answer it. He reached out, sending angelic probes to the ends of the Earth and back. They caught like fabric to a barb to a river a mile away.

The phone rang again.

Aziraphale was already by the river, his tea growing cold. He was corporeal in a fraction of a moment, rearranging time like a hot knife through butter.

He stumbled quickly, catching himself. The river was deep and long, murky and green, sunlight a sheen on its tinted ripples. It was more like a stallion than a river as it churned, unburdened by anything, not stopping for anyone.

And then he saw the body.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale, caught by surprise, stumbled backward, his shoes catching on pebbles as they skittered into the river, sending ripples in the torrent. Indeed, it was Crowley there - soaked and unconscious, his glasses nowhere to be seen, cuts on his face and his arm at an unnatural angle. Though he was out cold, he did not sleep serenely, a large cut across his right eye, blood sparkling in tiny bright beads where it had not been washed away by the relentless, churning river.

“Excuse me?” A man with a mullet approached him. Aziraphale barely comprehended much more of him. “Are you his family?”

Aziraphale gulped, shoving down his fear and righting himself. “Yes, my dear boy, I am. Whatever happened?”

The man shook his head. “We don’t know. We…we found this.”

The trees above seemed to lean with Aziraphale’s silent descent to the pavement as if they’d fall at the slightest gasp of wind or rain. The Earth seemed to increase its constant spin, seemed to throw all things violently into a wind tunnel and tell them to crash to the dirt - to become debris among the slivers of silver stars so lovely and unseeing.

Aziraphale felt the impact. He felt it hard, rocks piercing his skin, the gaze of the man above him, the lack of serpentine eyes upon him.

In his hand was a tartan thermos, cap still screwed tight.

Aziraphale stopped thinking.

The man helped him up, and Aziraphale couldn’t even ask his name.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Had Aziraphale met anyone here? Was there anyone before him? No, that couldn’t be right.

The angel didn’t respond, just sealed his lips and brushed rock off his jacket, every atom in his celestial void of a body screaming. Not for anything in particular, but for everything, everything all at once. To run, to hide, to wake up, to go home, to grab Crowley and crawl down to Hell himself.

It was taunting him, the thermos, laughing as the birds rustled sweetly in the trees, as the river ran to the sea, as children were born and old men died, as gardens flowered and great oaks crashed and street performers sang, and food on supermarket shelves rotted in their plastic packaging and Aziraphale remained.

In some small area of his million glass shards of consciousness, he heard something tell him he could take Crowley home.

How dare it - Aziraphale had been doing so for thousands of years, hadn’t he?

And still, he could hear the birds singing some strange tune. Still, he could feel the wind on his skin, the leaves in his hair.

Surely, misty and disjointed, as loose and tangled as the river beneath him, with Crowley lying limp and battered in his arms, he knew the way home.

That was his purpose, after all. The rusted cogs of the world would still sing of Aziraphale, the protector, after all traces of Her creation were gone.

And he was good at waiting for Crowley to awaken. The demon would sleep for decades, and Aziraphale would wait, Crowley always lingering in the back of his mind. Perhaps Aziraphale thought he’d be safe there, protected while he slumbered.

Perhaps then he’d be sheltered from the rain.

Aziraphale barely noticed a thing, bursting soaked and wispy at the edges sideways through the bookshop door. Miracling the customers away as he went, all he knew was the smell of fresh mud and the briefest hint of sunshine.

Like the wind, he swept into the back of the shop and laid Crowley on the couch. In the dim light, his face shone pearly white and bruised. Aziraphale, despite himself, bent to the floor, numb and very much alone. Hollow, perhaps, like an empty banana peel or an old decaying temple covered in ivy and rusting gold.

He dug his hands into the rug and felt as if he ought to pray - to scream to some obscure false creator far kinder than any God in the night. Barter with the shadow of a flower on the sidewalk, the first little song of a newborn bird - whatever, whoever would hear him and listen.

But all that remained in front of him was Crowley, and maybe that had always been the case. And so he shook himself from his reverie, away from falling shadows and lovely gods.

Pushing his body up from the floor, Aziraphale straightened his jacket. It was a simple move, but in the light created in tandem with the shadows on the floor, it was Sisyphean. His gaze sauntered downwards, meeting Crowley’s closed eyes, beads of water still casting bright and minuscule rainbows on his cheekbones from their perches on his eyelashes.

Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves. With his eyes closed, he soothed the bruises on Crowley’s face, his ancient hands mending cracked ribs and slightly waterlogged lungs. The cut over his eye dissolved into nothing, and his arm lay whole and unbroken on his chest.

Aziraphale brought a hand to Crowley’s forehead and swept the thin hair away. He remembered the garden - where Crowley’s hair was long and tangled as if it meant to swallow Aziraphale whole like an old poem. He knew the scent from the wind that day, even so many years later, like it was a piece of his soul. He knew Crowley, too. He had seen his anger and fear flickering upon his face as he stood beside him upon that garden wall, waiting for the rain to come.

And so Aziraphale stood.

“You silly old serpent,” he murmured, his voice wispy and whistling. “Whatever have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Crowley did not respond. Aziraphale’s voice was far too light as he fought to keep his tone steady in the glow of the demon’s sleeping face.

“Perhaps I should put some music on,” Aziraphale sighed, hands itching in his pockets. His breath was speeding, whipping fast around corners and catching on the glass between the cobblestones of his throat. “Yes…that sounds good.”

He walked across the room and proceeded to shuffle through his record cabinet. Aziraphale collected old records - if only for their aesthetic. It was comforting to everyone who saw them. As for himself, he liked them. He adored the squeak and scratch and the vintage tone each brought, filling the bookshop with a warm autumn tone singing of thick coats and fresh rain and rushing wind and hot cider.

Aziraphale dusted off a fine (Freddy-Mercury-free) Tchaikovsky and returned to Crowley’s side. His feet wore well-wrought paths through the scarlet carpet as if the tufts were stalks of corn or wheat, bright and golden like the depths of the demon’s closed eyes.

Oh, how he wished he could dance in them - he alone knew how. To dance - to tame those passages and secrets and little time-wrought whispers. To hold all those gold-cast memories and free them from the clutch of Midas - to kiss them and call them whole and good to his face alone - that was what Aziraphale coveted.

“Ngk…angel?” The voice was soft and scratched, salted and raw and so very lovely - like fresh water in the early hours of the morning or sweet, mellow jazz on those cool summer nights. “Angel, is that you?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped and whipped around, nearly dropping the record on the floor. “Oh, thank god you’re awake!” He crossed the room in a moment, scanning the demon’s face. “Are you alright? Did I get everything?” His hands were shaking as he hid them in his coat.

Crowley looked up clearly. “‘Zir’fel? Where - where ‘m I?” His back was straight, his tone panicked, his hands clenched. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, like a cat about to spring.

Aziraphale stared down quizzically. “Why, you’re in the bookshop, dear boy. I do hope you’re comfortable enough. Would you like something to drink?”

Crowley shook his head. “No, ‘s alright, angel.”

He got up, sauntering awkwardly to the door. He tipped over a stack of books as he went but didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll take my leave now. Don’t…don’t deserve…”

He trailed off awkwardly, motioning to the couch, the records, and Aziraphale, who was holding a steaming cup of earl gray and a plate of biscuits. He shook himself. “It doesn’t matter. Thanks for the help.”

Aziraphale put down the tea and biscuits. “Oh no, you don't, my dear.” He caught Crowley’s arm - carefully, gently, so as not to startle him - and tugged the dazed demon back. “You just took a plunge down a river and cracked three ribs. If you went out there, you'd run into a wall and break your nose.”

Crowley shook him off, his hands still too small for his pockets. There was still water in his hair, and it stuck long and crimson to his jacket. “I’m fine, angel. I’ll go home and sleep it off.” He tried to muster a smile, but it looked a whole lot like a grimace. The last rays of morning light shone blindingly in his eyes, gold and bright and vibrant as he shielded them with his hand, chipped nail polish still holding on.

But Aziraphale was Aziraphale, and so he stood his ground. “At least stay a little longer,” he said, turning to upright the book pile. Placing Sappho over Rilke, he straightened up, brushing off his coat and offering Crowley a smile, all backlit and haloed by the sun.

“Let me tempt you,” he said, picking the biscuit plate up again. “Just like back in the day.” He looked back at Crowley, silently thinking, soft and only, please stay.

Crowley shrugged, but under Aziraphale’s scrutiny, a weight seemed to lift off his chest. He took his hands from his pockets and wrapped a finger around a teacup.

“Right then,” he smirked. “Let’s eat lunch, hm?”

“Do you remember Rome?” Aziraphale asked over a plate of croissants.

Crowley looked up from his empty plate. “Of course, I remember Rome, angel. Not an easy city to forget, that one. Why?” His hands were still shaking, Aziraphale noted.

“I was thinking of taking a little vacation at some point,” Aziraphale explained, wiping crumbs from his cheek. “I’ve been in London for such a dreadfully long time. While I'm not tired of it, per se, I could use…a change of scenery, couldn’t you?”

Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about Rome. Aziraphale wanted to talk about why Crowley had ended up at the bottom of a river. But his mouth was stuck with honey and the voice screaming inside would not travel.

And so Aziraphale waited for his response.

Crowley shrugged. “Sounds warranted,” he said, tossing a spare coin between his hands. “So, now it’s you asking me to run away with you, eh, angel?” He winked and tossed the coin into the air. Aziraphale watched it fall with a deep seed of remorse.

“Crowley, I-” Aziraphale had apologized a few times since for his past words, but it felt like he could never do so enough.

“Oh, come off it, Aziraphale.” He smiled, broad and devilish. “I was just toying with you. I’m not mad. Not at you, at least.”

Aziraphale relaxed, the soft scent of buttered croissants and gently pulsing lamps bringing soothing graces to his trembling hands. “I-I’m very happy to hear that, my dear.”

He paused for a fleeting moment and then asked, tentatively, “Crowley, why were you in that river?”

Crowley started, hands clenched in his lap. Something deep in his eyes wavered, and he sighed.

“Fell in,” he said. “It’s a terrible habit.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, not expecting that answer. He expects me to believe that?

Crowley nodded. “Had a tad too much to drink last night and woke up here.” He swirled a spoon in his half-drunk tea. It clinked against every wall. “Rather clumsy, me.”

“What?” Aziraphale repeated, suspicious. “Why didn’t you just stop yourself from falling in?”

Crowley shrugged. “Beats me. It doesn’t matter to me. You worry too much, angel.” His voice was strong, unwavered by worry, sorrow, or concern for his current predicament.

But Aziraphale could still feel the cold thermos in his hands. Crowley’s last line of defense. The vision in his mind shot frigid bullets through his lungs, and he wavered there at that sunlit table, breathless and fearful. Cold tension fluttered its frosty wings between them and twisted deep in his stomach.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, dragged his gaze from the table, and nodded, looking deep into Crowley’s exquisitely captivating eyes.

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Crowley seemed to relax and opened his mouth to say something before closing it again.

“Though I am quite fond of your company, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued. “So please stay safe.” Please stay.

Crowley reddened slightly and laughed sheepishly. “Well then,” he said. “I promise I won’t go jumping into any more rivers.”

His hair glowed with a brilliant fire as it caught the sunlight, the gorgeous hue rippling through Aziraphale’s corporation like a flashlight in a dark room. It was a soft, righteous fire, matched in his eyes. It sang of neither Heaven nor Hell.

“We’re on our side,” Aziraphale heard, deep within his mind. The memory floated gauzily to the corners of the bookshop, finding a cozy home among the bookshelves. He hoped it’d stay like the sunlight that dripped warmth upon his ancient hands.

The worry didn’t leave him. It stayed like a raven, no matter what Crowley said, no matter how convincingly he smiled.

After some time, Crowley left, and the day went on, and Aziraphale stopped thinking. He sorted his books, fed the ducks in St. James, bought a fancy plaid scarf, dusted all his shelves, and certainly didn’t think about why Crowley was in the river.

He most certainly could not let himself think about it.

Three days passed in this fashion, and when the time finally found the angel in the evening, he was sprawled on the floor, his stomach in knots.

“Perhaps…” he mused, “Perhaps Crowley’s right after all, and I am worrying far too much.” He hadn’t seen him since, but at least he’d kept true to his promise.

The books, once again, left their voices silent.

“But that can’t be true,” Aziraphale continued. “Why would he have the holy water, then?”

The books were slightly annoyed. They were enjoying the bustling silence of an evening in Soho.

To the delight of the books, Aziraphale suddenly rose to his feet, straightening his tartan bow tie. He felt a tad bewildered, like a keyring that had fallen off somebody’s end table. He remembered the sunlight dancing and wavering through Crowley’s hair, the rough lilt of his voice. All those secrets wrapped inside a body Aziraphale couldn’t comfort.

But oh, he wanted to. None of his friend’s words fell on deaf ears, and he saw every little sleight of hand or deprecating smile. And Aziraphale ached. Was he anything if he couldn’t make anything better?

Was he anything if he couldn’t stop Crowley from falling yet again?

He sniffed, putting all those depressing thoughts aside, and walked to where he’d set the tartan thermos like it was a precious treasure or a bomb. He took it carefully from the table on which it lay. He unscrewed the cap.

Sure enough, it was holy water.

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted, the eternal lack of its beat filling his ears. His hands shook, and if they had not been holding the thermos, they’d be on his face, shutting out the world. And the Earth around him seemed to shake like a landslide jostled free from the mountains of his mind.

It’s your fault, he thought, standing there. You did this.

You gave him this. You let this happen. You’re a rotten friend, aren’t you? He gripped the thermos with enough strength to almost break it.

He let it wash over him - the worry, the grief, the look in Crowley’s eyes as he sat in his car with his dreams of the stars. He closed his eyes, dizzy and thirsty and so very tired. Every single line on his face was made of Crowley’s starlight. There was no returning to the garden wall.

He had stared at the sky, pride and joy sweetly nestled in his deep voice as he looked up at the stars he could no longer touch.

Aziraphale slipped to the ground, the thermos crashing beside him, his face in his hands. He clutched at his face, feeling for all the world as if he were going up in flames, sorrow silent and gently hidden, as it always was.

He wondered if Crowley could see the stars from the bottom of that river, his body going cold and numb. He wondered if he still saw himself in them. He wondered what Alpha Centauri looked like - if it looked as lovely as the gold in Crowley’s eyes. He wondered if he had wanted to break the surface when he fell below it.

Had it hurt? Had he regretted it? Had he thought softly of Aziraphale, of Paris, the Ark, the Garden?

Or had he just gone for a walk home, the thermos clutched in his hands?

Had he gone to the ruin and rubble of that muddy river alone, like a cat silently walking off to die?

Did he not want an eternity with Aziraphale, who had waited for years, unknowingly in loneliness, while he slept?

Did he think himself so unlovable? So undeserving of kindness that only the pebbles at the bottom of the roaring river could love him?

Had he grown too old, too weary out of nowhere? Had he seen himself in the mirror and heralded some bitter end?

But in the end, Aziraphale knew what mattered. No matter his intentions, he took it with him.

And for that, Aziraphale could not forgive himself. He should have called Crowley the night before, trusted his gut feeling that morning, or never given him the holy water in the first place.

He should’ve kissed his forehead softly and whispered gentle words until they hung like constellations. He should have soaked up Crowley’s guilt with a sponge and wrung it out over the Liffey. He should’ve screamed at the sky, cut off his wings with his own sword, and clawed at the gates of Heaven until his nails were bloody stumps - god knows he would’ve if it had helped.

He should’ve been better, been so good and warm and terrifying and powerful that the universe would rather tremble and weep than take anything from him.

But it wasn’t the universe - it was Crowley, which was worse. Aziraphale, kneeling on his carpet or spinning through space with his hands clenched, wasn’t strong enough for Crowley - the only one he’d ever wanted to keep afloat.

God, why didn’t he call? Aziraphale thought. He did not pray. Aziraphale wasn’t even in his head enough to pray, his thoughts empty and monotone. Or did he call, and I missed it? Why didn’t he say anything? He could’ve just told me.

Perhaps that’s why he asked me to run away with him.

If Aziraphale’s heart could plunge any further, it did. It fell through the atmosphere, through the celestial curls and waves of his body, a flightless bird to the sea.

“Well, that’s it, I suppose,” he murmured, slumping beside the table. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?” A voice inquired from behind him.

Aziraphale whipped around and, as he often did in train stations, cafes, French prisons, and Queen concerts, came face-to-face with Crowley.

There Crowley was - dry and calm, strange and steady, and very, very much alive. He was there, in a leather jacket and an old band t-shirt, his hair tied back, looking down at Aziraphale with eyes bright and unbarred by layers of clear water. He had taken off his sunglasses.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, barely hoping his voice would reach. “We…we need to talk.”

Crowley looked down at him, clearly shaken. “What?” He took a step forward. “Are you alright, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale attempted to shove the thermos under the table, but Crowley’s eyes flicked to it and back before he could do so.

Something deep and mournful in his face flickered in the sunlit tides of his eyes. Something tender and vengeful and laced with the entirety of the millenniums through which he had lived.

“Oh, angel,” he whispered, rather hoarsely, dropping to a crouch in front of Aziraphale’s slumped form.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale mustered, meeting his eyes. “It’s not my business. I’m being awfully pushy, aren’t I?”

“Aziraphale, hey,” Crowley said, brow wrinkled with worry. “Hey, it’s alright.”

He snapped his fingers, and they returned to the couch, but it did nothing to lift Aziraphale’s worries from him. It was soft. It was a good couch, Aziraphale thought, as he tried to think of anything other than his current situation.

Crowley gazed gently at him, a hand on his shoulder. “Angel, what’s bothering you?” His voice held far more tenderness than Aziraphale had ever heard from anyone. He wanted to bask in it, to cover his ears and live in shelter from the cruelness of the world.

Aziraphale never really got what he wanted in the end.

He took a deep, shaky breath, forcing back the pricks in his eyes. “I’m sorry for being such a rotten friend,” he said. “I’m sorry for the holy water and for not running away with you when you wanted to. I'm sorry for everything. I don’t…I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He forced himself to meet Crowley’s eyes. They were wide and confused, overcast and present. “I’d do anything for you,” he breathed. “Anything, my dear. So if you want to go away and live your life alone in the sky, if that’s what makes you happy, I certainly wouldn’t object. I’m good at living alone, really, I am.”

“Was it because of me?” His words came out all choked and rough. “Were you unhappy, and I didn’t realize? Did something happen, and I failed to protect you?” He couldn’t be quiet again. He couldn’t.

He didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. “You could’ve…you could’ve just said so. I know humans leave without a word, but you shouldn’t have to. No matter what, we could’ve worked it out, even if you wanted to leave by yourself and go where I couldn’t find you.”

His words sped up. He was scared he’d disappear before he had the chance to say them.

“Angel - ” Crowley’s voice was strangled, surprised, but Aziraphale went on.

“You know, I was so scared when you asked me to run away with you, my dear boy.” He wanted to stop trying to talk through the mist in his eyes, but he kept on. “All I could think of was what would happen if Heaven found out.’” He clenched his hands and breathed into the sweet evening air. “I knew they’d kill you if they discovered your intentions, and I couldn’t do it. I’m terribly sorry…I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to you.”

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go at it alone, not without you.” Aziraphale was beyond stopping, his hands shaking, his breath pounding in his ears, speeding like the cars on the road outside.

“And there you were,” he whispered hoarsely, spreading his hands. “Beat up at the bottom of the river. You broke your arm, did you know that? Y-you truly looked like a mess, my dear. And I had to carry you home, Crowley. I felt like a murderer, I really did. I was sure you were trying to take away the only thing that mattered to me.”

A breath shuddered from his open mouth, and he finally met Crowley’s eyes. “Even if you go, I can’t let you without you knowing just how important you are to me.”

Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, to which he leaned in. Crowley didn’t speak for a moment, seemingly unable to do so.

“Aziraphale, there’s no need to pretend for my sake,” he said softly, his voice hoarse and deep. “I’m not going to hurt myself. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He slumped back against the couch, summoning a drink from the air.

“Do you remember Hastur?” He asked, eyes downcast, the juice in his glass a liquid whirlpool as it settled into the fruition of its existence.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes all misty. “The one…the one with the frog?” He vaguely recalled the pale demon lurking ever so often behind Crowley’s back. At some point, Aziraphale had pitied him, so far from Her gaze as he was.

Crowley made a strangled noise in his throat that once must’ve been a laugh. “The one with the frog,” he confirmed. “I killed his associate around the time you found Book Girl’s book. With the, er, holy water.” He said the words delicately as if they’d scar the angel’s skin.

“Oh. Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “Is that…is that why…” His voice was breathy as he trailed off, his breath faster than it should’ve been.

Crowley had noticed this and waved his hand in a way he deemed to be reassuring. “I couldn’t care less about him, angel, just listen.” He turned to Aziraphale with a piercing gaze, warm and determined. His arm was still around his shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere. Not to some distant star, and definitely not to some riverbed.”

He took a breath as if steading himself. “I was attacked,” he said. Despite everything, his delivery was unconcerned in nature.

Aziraphale, however, reeled back in shock, albeit after a solid second and a half of processing.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry!” He wrung his hands and darted up, glancing around the room nervously. “And here I am pushing all my worries onto you. Goodness, how stupid of me! Is your head quite alright? I can put up more runes around the bookshop, i-if you like, and you can -”

“Angel,” Crowley whispered. There were quite a few conflicting feelings clear on his face, the gentle lights from the bookshop glowing in his eyes.

“ - stay here tonight if you’re comfortable with that, and I can go out and look for Hastur. Or, we could go to Rome, as I said, and -”

“Angel!” Crowley said, quite a bit louder. Aziraphale snapped out of his panicked monologue and stood very still, his well-manicured hands twitching intermittently.

“Hastur’s dead, Aziraphale,” he whispered, his voice a husk of his previous shout. “See? I’m hardly worth your worry.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Aziraphale sat back down beside him. “So that’s why you bought the holy water,” he murmured.

Crowley nodded. “Summoned it just in the nick of time.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m too sorry. Or not relieved, for that matter,” he smiled in Crowley’s direction, but Crowley wasn’t smiling.

“I’m not sorry either,” he said, his voice hard. “Bastard deserved to die, ‘specially for making me fall off that bridge.”

Aziraphale, for some reason, was still weighed down with sorrow.
So, resorting to what he always did, he asked Crowley if he was alright.

Crowley sighed. “Don’t say things like that, Aziraphale. I already told you - I’m fine.” The anger that should’ve been in his voice was instead deflated resignation. “Don’t burden yourself with me.”

(Had the evening been any more regular, Aziraphale later realized, he wouldn’t have dared say anything which so deeply revealed his inner turmoil. But the night was a soft cloak around his shoulders. He had no other couch to sit on, no other place - no cool room or bubbling river or lush valley in the grand expanse of the spinning universe he called home - to be.)

The silence buzzed around them for only seconds before Aziraphale responded.

“Crowley…” he started, unsure if he would ever stop, for years or hours, “you’re not a burden at all.”

Crowley only shook his head, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

“You’re my best friend, my dear. You are. Talking with you is a joy, quite frankly.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “Thanks, angel, it’s just...”

“You don’t want to rely on anyone, I know. Or you don’t think you deserve it. That would probably be more accurate, no?” Aziraphale was afraid of stating it matter-of-factly, but he didn’t want to lose the poor serpent.

Crowley pressed his hands together and pointed them to the ground. It was as if he was praying to his own private god, hidden in the soil he stood on. Tight-lipped and far beyond his emotional capacity, he dug his heels into the floor in defiance of Her Herself and nodded.

“Aziraphale, you were crying,” he muttered, helplessly. “I made you cry, huh? That’s not what any kind of best friend would do.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, placing his hand over Crowley’s, “Oh, you silly old serpent.” Despite himself, he smiled. It was a grateful smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, blush spreading slightly over his nose, ruby and pink in his cheeks.

“I’m afraid that was just me and my old mind,” he said, ever so gingerly. “I do tend to overthink things. I was so scared you’d leave me. But you never have, now have you?”

Crowley chuckled darkly. “You gave me such a beautiful speech, and I did nothing to deserve it. How funny is that?” His words were strangely fast - as if they were rushing to get out of his mouth without permission.

“Crowley, don’t say that!” Aziraphale nearly shouted. “I couldn’t bear it. I meant every word I said. I do think of you kindly, and I’d be inconsolable if you left me.”

Crowley didn’t meet his eyes. “Really? ‘M a demon, I don’t deserve such…niceties.” He rose as if to get up, but Aziraphale stopped him, his hand on his arm.

“I’m not letting you run away this time,” he said, with more force than he meant to. “I truly would do anything for you. So at least hear me out.”

He blushed slightly, and it took all his strength to meet Crowley’s eyes. When he did, they were deep and full of anxious surprise. And when he sat down, it was with a tenacity much like a deer rooted in defiance of all its biological commands.

“Fine, angel.” Crowley sighed in an attempt to act aloof. He failed rather miserably, his voice faltering, layered with all kinds of regret and fond admiration.

“I’d give you the moon if I could, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, his shoulders shaking slightly. “You deserve so many good things. You deserve so much better than you’ve had.”

Crowley shook his head like Aziraphale was a false prophet. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale.”

“And I’m an angel,” Aziraphale responded, hands folded in his lap, jacket crinkled on the red couch. “We’re not so different, really.”

Crowley’s eyes bulged. “But - but you…”

Aziraphale sighed. “Every single being deserves love and care, you know. No matter what. My coworkers may have forgotten that, but I sure haven’t. Even the serpent of Eden.”

He smiled at Crowley. “Especially the serpent of Eden. You don’t deserve to live with such regret. I don’t want you to live in the shadow of your, er, former employers. You’re worth so much more than that, my dear boy.”

The ‘dear boy’ in question shook his head again. “I don’t get it, angel.”

“Get what?” Aziraphale asked, attempting to light an oil lamp on the side table.

Crowley flinched, his eyes dark and full of flame.

Aziraphale extinguished the lamp.

Crowley relaxed.

“Why are you still here? I mean, you could…fraternize, say, with anyone you wanted. And you’re sitting on a couch with the goddamned snake of Eden. You should hate me.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale finally reached over and took his hand. It was warm. “Crowley, listen. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, no matter how much I tried to. Even at Golgotha, even at the Beginning. Do you hear me? You were so stubborn and smart and kind. You charmed me, my dear. I’m so glad I kept meeting you, kept waiting while you slept.”

Crowley looked up at him, a small, almost unnoticeable smile on his face. Aziraphale kept talking. (He was oblivious to this, as such a move would’ve discorportated him on the spot.)

“How could I ever hate you? I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for you. I’d be a stuffy old angel with a stupid old flaming sword, like Gabriel or - or Michael. Frankly, I don’t like how you treat your plants, and I get lonely when you sleep too long, but…I want to keep being here with you. Fraternizing, if you will. There’s no one I’d rather do it with, my dear.”

“I want to keep going to the Ritz and feeding the ducks at St. James. I want to keep arguing over the most inconsequential things, and inviting you over just for the heck of it. I want to go on that picnic with you. I want to go off to distant stars you’ve made and see summers there. I want to travel to Los Angeles and Amsterdam and Chicago and Shanghai and tempt you to lunch. I want to take you up on something the first time without dancing around it, and I want to teach you to dance the Gavotte. I want to keep meeting you in the most beautiful places. In car parks, elevators, forests, and all the other places I go on walks in hopes of running into you. I want to plant a garden with you. I want to stay by your side.”

He paused, his final confession light and heavy on his tongue. (Crowley’s state, at this point, was truly beyond words.)

“I know it’s selfish, really. But I want to keep living with you near me for as long as time will allow me to, my dear serpent.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Crowley fell into his shoulder, clutching his clothes, hiding his face in his jacket like he would die if he didn't. Aziraphale started at the touch, pushing down his fear. It felt good. Warm. Nothing like Heaven.

He gulped suddenly and stopped immediately, realizing how much of his mind he’d poured onto the velvet couch. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy. I think I got ahead of myself there.”

He reached out a tentative hand and grasped Crowley’s shaking shoulder. “Are you…are you quite alright, Crowley?”

“Oh, f-for sssomebody’s sake, angel…” He whispered, voice hoarse with awe, head still tucked against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Oh. Well, I’m just glad you’re -”

“Did you really mean it?” Crowley looked up at him, mist clouding his eyes. “About wanting to be near me?”

Aziraphale knew, of course, that Crowley knew the answer. He just needed to hear it, just one more time.

“Absolutely, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, soft, like a prayer. “Beyond any doubt, I assure you.”

Crowley relaxed, and Aziraphale ran a hand through his fiery locks as they draped over the couch. The serene sweetness of nighttime silence buzzed through his window, ran in waves from the street, carried from the wings of mourning doves on the Soho telephone wires.

“Ngk,” Crowley said again. He lifted his head again, lamplight shimmering through his hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. That was stupid of me. Didn’t want you to worry.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s my job to worry, Crowley. Please, don’t worry about that. If you need help, do come to me.”

“I don’t understand," Crowley murmured. “Can’t wrap my head around what I did to deserve you, y’know?”

Aziraphale only smiled. “My dear boy, do be careful!” He gasped. “I’ll end up with a big head.”

Crowley reeled back in mocking shock. “You? A big head? Angel!” He laughed, weight still deep in his eyes, clogged in his bones.

He wiped at his eyes and turned his face away without a word. Aziraphale reached out a hand to his shoulder once again, but Crowley spoke before he could do so himself.

“I don’t want to go off to the stars, y’know,” he said. “All by myself, I mean.”

“Goodness, are you inviting -”

“No! No.” Crowley’s face rose and fell with alarm. “Don’t want to curse m’self, angel.”

Aziraphale embraced him, pulling the demon’s head to his shoulder again.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“I know,” he answered. “I know. I think you were right.”

He looked back at Aziraphale again and gulped. “Here, o-or wherever you want to go, I want to stay with you, too.” Embarrassed, perhaps, or just self-conscious, he averted his eyes.

Aziraphale moved without meaning to, at first, the fresh evening air soaking deep into his lungs, the crickets singing through his window. He reached out, cutting through years of mists like golden sunlight, and brushed a soft hand against Crowley’s cheek.

He gasped softly, a sudden movement, a soft sound in the downy twilight, humming amidst the streetlights and lamps and all the tiny points of warmth in the entire godforsaken world. But the world aside it seemed to Aziraphale that there was only him - him, and Aziraphale himself, his arm outstretched as if heralding a new symphony in the soft blanket of twilight. Crowley leaned into his touch - melted into it like it was the first warmth he'd felt in centuries. He closed his eyes and looked for all the world as if he was praying. He shook. His cheek was hot, heat running through Aziraphale's veins like fireworks. It buzzed, the heat and Crowley's worshipful expression.

Since Eden, Aziraphale had been but a moth to a flame. Helpless in his flight, unable to go on without a guiding glow, unwilling to press against the fate that so forcefully ground him into place, into time.

But Crowley leaned forward, and perhaps Aziraphale was the most helpless he’d ever been, the most vulnerable, but the twilight knew it didn’t matter. He was alive - alive, alight, in defiance of all which had come before the two of them. He wasn’t tethered anymore, by anyone.

He realized this all in a fraction of a second, the warmth of Crowley’s breath on his cheek. His eyes were as bright as they’d always been, through wind or rain, frost or haze.

“Have I ever told you how much I like your eyes?” He asked, words flying breathlessly from his mouth without his permission.

Crowley froze, momentarily stunned, quickly followed by a tiny laugh. "You don't have to like them. I just took off my sunglasses to see you better. You're the one worth seeing, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale’s head felt light.

“I really do like them,” he managed, somewhat indignantly. “I think they’re positively lovely. All golden and wonderful - the color really suits you. I was terribly disappointed when the humans didn’t like them. I think you're worth seeing. In fact, I think you're beautiful, Crowley.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better, angel.” Still, he did not draw away, face so close to Aziraphale’s own that they were nearly touching. The force behind his words was weak if there at all, and Aziraphale knew he barely believed it.

“My dear boy, I was not prompted by any factor other than my own affection,” He murmured, glee lighting little sparks in his voice. His hand was still cupping Crowley’s cheek. He didn't let go, the touch an anchor.

The night was warm and long. They had all the time in the world.

Crowley gulped. “It’s been like this for a long time now, hasn’t it?” He slid his hand under Aziraphale’s as if looking for warmth, assurance, proof.

Aziraphale grasped it and held it tightly. “Knowing you has been one of my greatest privileges.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I waited too long, though - I only stopped lying to myself when you saved my books!” He laughed to himself, his forehead brushing Crowley’s. “How silly of me.”

He faced the past and didn’t look back.

“Really, Crowley, I think I’ve loved you since I tempted you to those oysters.”

It went farther, he knew now. But those were stories to be shared over tea and biscuits, under covers and within garden walks and good books and old record stores in the years to come.

But as he was, the twilight was swiftly churning with night above the bookshop, and Crowley was gazing at Aziraphale with all the reverence that one would gaze upon one’s childhood storybook hero or an ancient gracious god. His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to think. All he knew was that he smelled of cinnamon and all the beautiful things in the world.

“I’ve loved you since the Beginning.” He murmured the words softly as if praying. “Since the bloody garden, angel.” Crowley sighed. There were tears in his eyes.

Aziraphale leaned in, ever so slowly. Crowley didn’t object, just gazed at him with an incredible fondness.

Aziraphale kissed him.

He was soft and warm. He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, inhaling a breath in belated surprise, whispering “angel” into his mouth. It felt like finally speaking genuine words after six thousand years of silence. And oh, Aziraphale had waited for so long. Crowley’s hands were heated as they brushed through his hair. He wiped the condensation from Aziraphale’s eyes with his thumbs. A tiny hum escaped the angel’s lips, and Crowley chuckled, drawing back and resting his forehead against his.

Aziraphale didn’t want him to go, to be even that far from him. He wanted to grab and kiss him again, to apologize for so many years of lost time. To live there forever, in their private dawn for as long as he possibly could. To reread all the poetry he’d ever loved and think of him. To grow full on the flowers that bloomed in their little garden. To speak all those hidden little words, all those fond thoughts and little admirations - how his hair flowed down his back and his spindly fingers held the stem of a wine glass - how he gave his wilted plants to the lady upstairs and how he still looked up at the stars with so much love. How he clung to every one of Aziraphale's touches like they were lamps in a blizzard, like he was afraid they'd go out.

He opened his eyes slowly, nerves all frayed and so very calm. His heart was skipping beats, and he had to reassure himself that he didn’t need the beat.

“I thought you were dead,” Crowley whispered, a warm hand still cupping the back of Aziraphale’s neck, their noses bumping within view of the windows, the bookshelves, the whole godforsaken world.

“What?”

“After the bookshop fire. I thought you were dead. I thought you went and, and got yourself bloody killed and it was all my fault.”

“Oh. Oh, Crowley - ” Aziraphale, suddenly very alarmed, tightened his hold. He was still warm, still alive.

“If it makes you feel any better, angel, I couldn’t do it either. I had wept and drank myself half to death by the time you came back.” Crowley chuckled. “I couldn’t imagine a future without you in it. Everything was so…so hopeless, angel.”

“I’m here now,” Aziraphale murmured, somewhat horrified, drawing a hand through Crowley’s ginger hair. “I’m here now, right now, with you. I’m not leaving, my dear.”

He let out a big, shuttering breath. Mascara was smudged under his eyes. “Say that again…please. One more time.”

Aziraphale bit back a lump in his throat. How terrifyingly bittersweet it was, to love something that hadn’t been loved before.

They didn’t do touch in Heaven. Didn’t do touch in Hell. If he was honest, these were the kindest touches he’d ever received. They were sweet and tender and wouldn't hurt him. They weren't cold and sudden and unfriendly like Gabriel's - they were gentle and simply begged him to be loved. His eyes stung with the thought.

He looked into his eyes and knew he understood. To heal would be bittersweet for both of them. It would take time. But he could wait here, within the warmth of Crowley’s hands and the sweet evening, and change.

He shifted closer, unwilling to lift his hands to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere, Crowley. No one can take me away, I promise you. I’m here and staying, and I love you.”

Crowley leaned in and kissed him again - brief, silent, like butterfly wings, like gossamer. His lips were warm, and Aziraphale chased them, sipping kisses as if through a dream - soft and lithe and lovely, Crowley’s eyelashes brushing against his cheek. Aziraphale’s hands clutched everywhere, desperate to touch him, tangling in his velvet hair until he couldn’t tell where he started and Crowley began. Crowley pressed kisses to his cheekbones, his jaw, and they fell like rain, drawing little gasps like flower petals in the spring. Aziraphale could barely breathe, smothered in a great warmth, unlike anything he'd ever known.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, tender and breathless between kisses, bright eyes illuminated, flickering like lamps beneath his wet eyelashes. “My angel,” he murmured, his breath hitching ever so slightly. His hand twisted softly in Aziraphale’s sweater as the aforementioned angel tilted his head and kissed his face, mapping it with his lips.

The lights could have gone out all across London, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have cared.

“My angel.” He wasn't Heaven's, not anymore. The freedom shook him into silence, staring just over Crowley's shoulder as the seconds wore on.

“A-Aziraphale? You alright?” Crowley pulled back, waving a hand in front of his face, and Aziraphale blinked in rapid succession. “I-I’m sorry if I -”

“Ah!” He glowed. Oh, how he knew he glowed. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy, I - I just…” He giggled, a genuine, victorious sound, and watched Crowley bloom with relief.

“I’m just so happy,” he laughed, extending his fingers, stretching his hands in Crowley’s grasp, knees bumping against the couch. He shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, leaning against a shocked Crowley’s chest.

“Er…wot?” Crowley shifted upwards and looked down, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, holding him tight. “‘Scuse me?”

“We’re alive,” Aziraphale grinned, softer now. “We made it, Crowley. We made it.”

Crowley held his shoulders and smiled into his hair. “Damn right, Aziraphale.” He shook gently - or perhaps it was a deliberate sway, like a boat on the water, like a dance, like an ark.

“I’m sorry it took me this long,” Aziraphale breathed, soothing his coiled muscles. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, my darling.” He could hear Crowley’s heart beating from where his head lay. How funny it was, how very funny indeed.

“I would’ve waited for as long as you wanted,” Crowley responded. “You know I would’ve. Stop apologizing so much, eh? ‘Ssss no fun, you know. Saying sorry.” He shifted slightly so that both he and Aziraphale were lying reclined on the couch.

Aziraphale looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I suppose you’re going to have to shut me up then,” he smirked.

Crowley laughed and kissed him again, hands clutching his collar. Aziraphale smiled into it, catching glimpses of Crowley’s sundrunk eyes, his lipstick smudged ever so slightly, his spindly legs just propped up on the armrest. It was such a joy to see him smile, after so long.

“Could I tempt you to dinner?” He asked, his hair spread out in a waterfall over the couch. “I believe a spot just opened up at the Ritz.” Even after everything, the mischievous little glint still shone in his eyes.

“Only if you’ll stay the night,” Aziraphale responded, sitting up and miracling his coat, “as I said earlier. Tell me about the stars.”

Crowley gave him a tender, gracious smile, excitement flaming in his eyes. “Of course I’ll tell you about the stars, angel.”

Aziraphale held out his hand. “It’s a deal, then?”

Crowley shook it, still smiling. “It’s a deal.”

He paused, a tender smile still on his lips. “Oh, and Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“I’d love to plant a garden with you.”

And perhaps She smiled, somewhere in the cosmos, looking at them kindly and omnipotently from her seat in the heavens. Perhaps, somewhere, a garden was growing. A good and proper garden. And perhaps a nightingale really did sing in Berkeley Square that night, but if it did, Aziraphale didn’t know. And that was okay - he was busy heralding a new era, after all.

No matter how many homes were held within those moments he was missing, Aziraphale didn’t care. He wouldn’t leave, not for anything.

He would stay in London with Crowley. Crowley would stay the night and they’d watch Golden Girls. They’d go out for that picnic and dine under the stars and visit Rome within a month’s time. They’d live out decades from that single night, and travel all over, and Crowley would fail spectacularly at dancing the Gavotte. They’d get a cottage in South Downs and visit Adam every so often, just to see how he was keeping up. They’d start healing from the damage Heaven and Hell had done, ever so slowly. Crowley would tell Aziraphale about the stars, and Aziraphale would tell Crowley about his adventures with Oscar Wilde. They’d share bottles of wine and kiss under the stars and be truly and genuinely happy for all the years to come.

And, of course, in their front yard, they’d grow a garden.