Chapter Text
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2500 BC, The Land of Uz
“You’re just an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can.”
Aziraphale instinctively shies away from that thought. From the notion, however correct it might be, that he and Crawley are anything alike. They are meant to be hereditary enemies, and yet –
And yet somehow Crawley is the one who helped him. Who protected Job’s innocent children and turned their livestock into birds. Who helped him lie , yes, but to prevent the loss of life decreed by Heaven. Who sits with him now as he aches with the weight of his own actions – without judgement or reprisal, only companionable understanding and empathy.
It’s true, now, isn’t it? That Aziraphale only goes along with Heaven as far as he can. Because this – this was God’s plan, this was part of the ineffable plan that Aziraphale has striven to serve for as long as he’s existed. It is not for him to question, only to obey, and so Job’s children should be dead now, with seven new ones to take their places. That’s what Aziraphale was meant to do. But, oh – those children were innocent of any wrongdoing. What could’ve possibly been the morality, the justice, of allowing a demon to murder them?
“That sounds, um…” He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, not now that he recalls their conversation in Job’s basement. Recalls the tightening in Crawley’s face, the stoic press of his lips, the flat tenor of his voice.
“Lonely?” Crawley supplies.
It – that word, it gives weight to the emotion burgeoning in his chest, to this feeling of being unmoored. He nods, and presses his lips together to keep in any wayward sounds that might give away his distress. Looks back at Crawley as if seeking answers, though it’s clear the demon has none. And it’s – how did he get here? To this place where he’s seeking answers from a demon?
“Well.” Crawley turns his face away. Stares out across the horizon, across the sparkling blue waves that feel so peaceful, so incongruous to the turbulence of Aziraphale’s emotions.
That – that’s it? That’s all the demon has to say? Surely there’s more, surely –
“But you said it wasn’t,” Aziraphale insists, half question and half accusation.
“I’m a demon. I lied.”
But there’s no – no malice in the words. No hint of mirth or sarcasm, the way Crawley often masks his emotions. This time, Aziraphale hears an apology in them. Hears the things Crawley won’t, can’t , say – that he’s lonely, that he’s hurting, that he’s been carrying this for longer than he’d care to admit.
Strangely, it comforts him. By all rights it shouldn’t; Aziraphale has just pitted himself against everything he’s ever believed in, everything he’s ever valued. God’s plan is not meant to be known, and it is not for the likes of a lowly principality like Aziraphale to understand why things must happen the way they must. But it – those children were innocent . It’s the fact that Azirpahale’s thoughts keep returning to, over and over again, as a justification for his actions. The children were – well, they were nothing but the unfortunate victims of a petty bet between Satan and the Almighty. What would their deaths prove? What would it accomplish, other than the permanent devastation of two loving parents who have done nothing but believe faithfully in God with their whole hearts?
But then Crawley – if not for Crawley –
Oh, Aziraphale still isn’t sure why he was so convinced of Crawley’s goodness, only that he felt it. Felt it like he feels the presence of the Almighty sometimes, a burning warmth in his chest that reminds him he’s not alone, has never been alone. That’s what it feels like, now, sitting close to Crawley, staring out at the push and pull of the waves in their contemplative silences. Feels like a warmth in his chest, reminding him of the most important truth in the universe – he is not alone .
Maybe that’s why it comforts him. Maybe that’s why, as they sit there, Aziraphale feels some of the tightness in his chest begin to ease.
“It is… not what I expected,” he says, after a long, silent intermission. “This – change.”
“No, it’s not,” Crawley agrees. His voice is soft, almost gentle, entirely unlike the way anyone has ever spoken to Aziraphale before. “But it’s – alright. I think.”
“Yes, I – I think so, too,” Aziraphale admits.
The drift into silence again, broken only by the cawing of seabirds in the distance. The waves lap at the shore, and Aziraphale’s panic and fear subside bit by bit, going out with the tide.
In the distance, the sun begins to sink below the horizon. A cool breeze whips off the sea, and Aziraphale shivers with it, skin prickling where it’s exposed to the air. Next to him, Crawley shifts to the side – closes some of the distance between them slowly, furtively. Until, suddenly, they’re beside each other. Not quite touching, but close enough to, if they were the kinds of beings who –
“Cold, angel?” Crawley asks.
Before he can answer there’s a glimmer in the air, a soft brush of magic between them, and then Crawley is holding a blanket. Aziraphale just – he stares at it uncomprehendingly. Cannot seem to parse the question into something recognizable, something that makes sense in this new context. His brain feels a bit like it’s malfunctioning as it tries to grapple with their sudden closeness, the way Aziraphale can catch just a hint of Crawley’s brimstone and smoky scent, scents both unfamiliar and yet achingly comforting in a way he doesn’t understand.
But Crawley doesn’t wait for an answer. He just – unfolds the blanket. Settles it around them, one corner tucked around Aziraphale’s shoulder, the other tucked around Crawley’s. And it’s –
Aziraphale feels, very suddenly, that he is on a slippery slope. Possibly, even, a worse one than lying to Heaven about the fate of Job’s children. Because this is – fraternization? Companionship? He doesn’t know, truly, and it’s – his heartbeat thunders in his chest yet he freezes, as though if he doesn’t move nothing will happen, and it’s –
“Relax, angel.” There’s a hint of amusement in Crawley’s voice, in the way the corners of his lips turn up. “S’just a blanket.”
“Right,” Aziraphale agrees faintly. “Just a blanket.”
But it’s not . And he doesn’t know how to articulate why. So he resolves to put it out of his mind – at least for now, at least until he can once again find some distance between himself and this wily, impossible demon. For now, he will sit here and let the companionship warm him.
Aziraphale loses track of how long they sit there. Long enough for the sun’s last rays to dip below the horizon and plunge the world into night. Long enough for the last bit of warmth to leech out of the stone they sit on. Long enough for Aziraphale’s discomfort over the blanket to turn into gratitude for the warmth of it, and the heat that radiates from the demon’s body.
“You know,” Crawley says, breaking the silence for the first time in ages, “it will be okay. You’ll figure it out.”
“I suppose I will,” Aziraphale agrees. He doesn’t have much choice in the matter now, does he? He’ll either adapt, or he’ll Fall.
“S’pose I ought to go now.” But Crawley doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from the clear water that shimmers under the moonlight. And Aziraphale –
What? Doesn’t want him to go? What a ridiculous notion. This has been, all things considered, an altogether decent way of passing the evening – quiet, companionable, comforting – and Aziraphale might be a tiny bit tarnished now, due to his own actions, but that is not a reason for him to start enjoying the company of a demon. They’re hereditary enemies, after all. And if Crawley is not here to take him to Hell, then Aziraphale –
Aziraphale really ought to go.
“Yes, I suppose I must, as well.” Aziraphale sighs. He lets go of the blanket corner he’s been clutching, lets it fall from his shoulders and does his best not to shiver in the sudden chillness of the air.
Crawley turns to him, then, an unreadable expression on his face. Aziraphale meets his gaze through those ridiculous, tiny glasses that do very little to obscure the truth of his brilliant yellow eyes. He looks like he intends to say something, something just on the tip of his tongue.
“Yes?” Aziraphale asks. There’s a strange fluttering in his chest at the thought of what Crawley might next ask him.
“Should we –” Crawley takes an audible breath, so unusual for their kind, “say goodbye? Like the humans do?”
“Hmm?” Is that all? Aziraphale has observed a number of different human customs over his long years on Earth, and it isn’t immediately obvious which one Crawley is referring to. None of them are quite as scandalous as Crawley’s tone implies – though, maybe it’s less about the action itself than about their natures.
But then –
Perhaps it’s the confusion. After all, Aziraphale has just made a vaguely affirmative noise – it should be no surprise that Crawley interpreted it as permission to proceed with his intention. Surely the demon can’t be faulted for a simple misinterpretation, not when Aziraphale’s answer wasn’t sufficiently clear. And since Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure which human custom Crawley was referring to, it makes sense that he might turn his head, just so, and part his lips as if on the brink of asking a question. Therefore, neither one of them is at fault for what happens.
And, oh , it happens .
Aziraphale turns his head at just the right moment, just the right angle – and Crawley leans in with just the right intention – that what would have been a friendly peck on the cheek, a perfectly respectable human custom of farewell, turns into –
Into a kiss .
A real, honest-to-God kiss.
It’s –
Warm.
Warm than Aziraphale expects. Not, of course, that he has expectations about such things – he is an incorruptible (ahem) angel of the Lord, who has never once had impure thoughts about another being. Sure, he’s seen the way humans go at it. They seem to enjoy it, but, like food, Aziraphale has never had much of an interest in discovering for himself what all the fuss is about.
Unfortunately, like food, he discovers quite a lot.
He discovers that Crawley’s lips are warm and soft and achingly gentle. That he takes a sharp breath when he’s caught by surprise, a puff of air that Aziraphale can feel against his skin. That he leans into the contact, into that brief, tantalizing touch, before his whole body stiffens and he pulls away.
“I – er,” he says. Clears his throat. Takes a breath. “That, uh, was s’posed to be a – just a peck on the cheek, yeah?”
“I – right,” Aziraphale says faintly. Truthfully, he’s surprised he even managed to get the words out when his lips feel like they’re tingling. When his whole body feels startlingly attuned to the demon still sitting beside him. His heartbeat thrums in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, molten heat pooling in his stomach, and he – it’s like the food. Aziraphale’s greatest sin might indeed be gluttony, because all he can think when they separate is more . He wants to – to lean in and –
And what he wants doesn’t matter.
“Right, then.” Crawley stands. Vanishes the blanket with a snap of his fingers. Doesn’t turn to face Aziraphale as he does it. And it’s – oh, Lord, Aziraphale is resoundingly grateful for that, because he’s sure his face is flushed so red as to be a cause for concern. The chill of the night air has been completely erased by the lingering heat of Crawley’s lips, which seems to cling to him still. “S’pose I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Quite,” Aziraphale manages to reply.
Somehow, that’s it. Crawley vanishes into thin air, and Aziraphale is left sitting on a stone by the sea, one finger pressed reverently to his lips, as if he might impress the feeling of Crawley’s lips into his skin. He knows, with startling clarity, that he will remember this for the rest of his immortal life.