Chapter Text
There’s a demon in his bookshop.
Aziraphale should do something about this. He should—he should smite him. It would be the Right Thing to do. The Holy Thing. But a large, red, bold and italicized NO stamps itself across his chest at the mere thought of lifting a hand against the creature, and so instead they’ve been standing on either side of the counter, warily considering each other over The Mystery of Edwin Drood.
The demon seems to be in the same predicament as Aziraphale. It’s impossible to read his expression; he’s so still, like he’s been carved from granite. Sunlight filters weakly through Aziraphale’s dusty windows, highlighting the sharp line of his cheek, down to his thin frown. His unblinking yellow eyes are fixed on Aziraphale’s face, more curious than—well, than murderous.
Over the centuries, Aziraphale has come across his share of demons. None of them have been like this. The few demons who had dared to cross him had been more animal than man, and had either immediately tried to burn him with hellfire, or had tripped over themselves to run away.
“Angel,” this demon accuses, somehow managing to hiss the word despite the lack of sibilant letters.
Aziraphale tips his chin up, wondering why his heart had stumbled strangely at the title. It’s what he is, and has been so for millennia. Coming from this demon, though, it has the feeling of—of an endearment, somehow, which is just foolish beyond all words. “Serpent,” is what his mouth says, but then his teeth click shut around the word.
The demon’s eyes widen. “You know me then?”
Aziraphale shakes his head.
The demon deflates. It’s the only way to describe it—his entire body sags, like all his strings have been cut. He catches himself against the counter, then slides down it to lean insouciantly against the surface. It’s more awkward than casual, with his long legs sprawled out like that. The demon no longer looks at Aziraphale. His odd yellow eyes have cut down to the floor, the skin around them pinched with irritation. Or—disappointment. “Well, fuck.”
The thing is, Aziraphale still has his memories. He remembers standing at the Eastern Gate, watching Adam fight off a newly aggressive lion with his flaming sword. He remembers Noah and his Ark, and Cain and Abel, and the Son of God, &c., &c.
He has six thousand years of memories, but certain ones are—off. His memory is eidetic, and although he’s gone through and culled the boring ones, there are some he’s kept that have missing pieces. Little blips. Standing by himself in the garden, a wing extended, sheltering—his memory ends abruptly. Or that time in Rome, with the oysters and—again, there’s a hiccup. And that other time, that oddly treasured memory of when the church he was in during the War had a bomb dropped on it—the ending is just gone. Heavens, the entire failed Armageddon is nothing but a fuzzy blur, skipping around disjointedly. He remembers taking Adam’s hand, then looking over his head at—at—
“So, to be clear, you have no idea who I am,” the demon says.
“I—no.”
“And I have no idea who you are.”
“You don’t?” Aziraphale is mildly surprised when his heart plummets. How very odd.
“Not a clue,” says the demon, pushing himself to his feet again. He’s all barely contained energy, large fluctuations of his entire body to illustrate his thoughts. He’s—
(beautiful)
—busy, and so very—big. It’s a strange thing, because Aziraphale’s never been one to associate with such flashy characters, and yet—and yet—
“I don’t know why, but I feel like I know you,” the demon says.
Aziraphale blinks, then tears his eyes away from the demon to frown down at the counter. “I know what you mean.”
“No, it’s more than that.”
Aziraphale tilts a glance back up. The demon’s face has slipped from its granite, fixed look, into internal concentration, his eyes slightly unfocused and eyebrows scrunched.
“You’re—important.”
“Oh,” says Aziraphale, faintly. That, too, sounds right. Whoever this demon is, he’s important to Aziraphale. “But I don’t know you.”
Somehow, the words feel like the biggest lie he’s ever told (not that he’s told many, since he’s an angel, and angels are Good).
“Don’t you?” the demon asks.
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales through his teeth. “I think you should leave.”
The demon blinks. It’s the first time he’s blinked during their entire interaction. “Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” says Aziraphale, primly. “You’re a demon.”
“Well!” The demon smacks his hands against the counter and pushes away, all in one fluid movement. “You tell an angel he’s important and he tells you to sod off. Just bloody typical.”
“We can’t be important to each other,” says Aziraphale. He can feel the Old Testament Righteousness bubbling up in his chest. “You’re a demon. I’m an angel.”
The demon cocks his head to the side. A small, entirely wicked smile sketches the corners of his mouth. It’s quite unnerving—he looks like he’d like to take a chunk out of Aziraphale’s throat. Aziraphale folds his arms over his chest. “You should leave before I change my mind and really do smite you.”
“You said,” the demon says, grin widening.
“I said what.”
“You said we can’t be important to each other.” He leans over the counter, yellow eyes glinting so that they’re nearly golden. “You think I’m important, too.”
“Fuck,” says Aziraphale.
The demon flings a hand out at Aziraphale, pointing triumphantly and nearly stabbing him in the chest with his finger, what with how close they’re standing. The counter isn’t enough of a shield to protect Aziraphale from the demon’s wild movements. “Aha! You cursed! I knew I wasn’t wrong about you!”
Heat spreads up Aziraphale’s neck, to his cheeks. “Out!”
The demon sweeps a gracious bow at him, though it’s completely ruined by his cheeky wink. “Sure thing, angel,” he says, and saunters out.
If Aziraphale thought that banishing the demon from his bookshop meant that it would be the last they’d see of each other, he was sorely mistaken. Not two days later, he’s sitting at his favorite bench in St. James’ Park, throwing frozen corn at the ducks. They largely ignore him, preferring the less eco-conscious attaché who’s chucking pieces of bread at their heads.
The bench creaks as another body settles onto it. Aziraphale tenses. Somehow, without looking, he knows exactly who’s sitting beside him.
“Give me that,” says the demon, taking the bag of corn from him.
Aziraphale’s hands hang in the air for a moment. He lowers them to his lap, balling his hands into fists on his thighs. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. This is my bench.”
Aziraphale bristles. He squares his shoulders, ready for a fight. “Your bench? I’ll have you know, I’ve been sitting on this bench for decades now. If it’s anyone’s bench, it’s mine.”
“I’ve been sitting on this bench since it was first installed in St. James’.”
“Well, you can’t sit here now,” says Aziraphale, moodily. He tries to grab the corn back from the demon, but since he’s a demon, he snatches it away.
“Oh come on, angel. It’s too beautiful a day for all this righteousness, don’t you think?” He takes a handful of corn and scatters it to the ducks. They obligingly swim over, the traitors.
“I am not righteous,” says Aziraphale, righteously. Then he deflates a little. “Besides, you started it.”
The demon’s wearing sunglasses today, but somehow Aziraphale knows that he’s watching him out of the side of his eye, one sharp corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
“Oh, fine.” Aziraphale slumps against the back of the bench, wringing his hands together on his lap. He can’t help but to glance around, wondering who could be watching them right now, but also wondering why it mattered. He’d made it perfectly clear whose side he was on during the Armageddon—and it hadn’t been Heaven’s. He was sure Heaven hadn’t forgiven him yet, especially not after he and—not after—
“What is it?” the demon asks, nudging him lightly with his elbow.
Aziraphale shakes his head, more to clear up the weird static that’s fuzzed his memory. “It’s nothing.”
Anyway, he’s already declared that he’s no part of Heaven, and yet he hasn’t fallen. So, then. So what if he consorts with a demon? All things considered, it really does seem like the least of his transgressions.
“Why are you in London, anyway?” asks Aziraphale. If anything, maybe he can use this opportunity to gather more information about the demon. Always good to have ammo, just in case.
The demon seems happy enough to oblige. “I live here, of course.”
“You live here,” repeats Aziraphale, slowly. “And you’ve been sitting on this bench since they’ve installed it. You don’t know me, but I’m—important to you.”
“Woah woah,” says the demon, waving his hands. “I said that you’re important, not that you’re important to me. There’s a pretty large distinction, angel.” That slow grin of his stretches across his face again, the one that makes Aziraphale’s heart thump against his ribs. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who said that I’m important. To you.”
Aziraphale can feel his cheeks blaze red. He snaps his eyes away from the demon and back to the ducks, glaring at them so hard that they waddle furiously away, muttering to themselves about how he was the one throwing corn to them.
“You can have the stupid bench,” Aziraphale snaps, flustered, and gets to his feet.
A long arm snakes out and the demon’s hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him. He’s looking at him over the tops of his sunglasses (dangerous, there are pedestrians around, what is he thinking), yellow eyes oddly serious. “Haven’t you wondered at all? Why we don’t remember each other?”
How can I remember you if I don’t know you? Aziraphale wants to say, but can’t make himself. It’s not right. “No,” he says, which is still a lie, but at least not as big of one.
Unfortunately, know him or not, the demon sees right through him. He lets go of Aziraphale’s wrist and tips his sunglasses back up with one finger. “Liar,” he says, dropping his arm across the back of the bench. His smirk is back, but it’s strained and a little twitchy. “So, which side do you think did this to us? Yours or mine? Because mine is definitely pissed off enough to pull something this awful.”
Aziraphale sinks back down onto the bench, folding his hands between his knees. This time, the demon’s the one who can’t seem to look at Aziraphale.
“Yours too?”
One of the demon’s eyebrows makes appearance over the top of his sunglasses. He tilts his chin towards Aziraphale.
“I—may have angered Heaven enough for them to do—whatever it is they did,” Aziraphale admits.
“Oh good,” the demon says, with a huge sigh. He irritably chucks a kernel of corn at a nearby duck. “So it could be either of them.”
“What did you do to make them angry?”
“Oh, you know.” The demon waves a hand. “Disobeyed direct orders, stopped the End of Days. Just a normal Saturday.”
“Funny, that,” says Aziraphale, faintly. “Me too.”
The silence between them grows tense. A sudden, spooky feeling makes the hair on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stand on end. He darts a glance at the sky, then to his feet. “Do you think—they’ll try something else?” he whispers.
The demon’s still slouched against the bench, perfectly at ease, except for the fingers of his left hand which drum a nervous tempo against his thigh. “Hmm,” is all he says. Then he turns to face Aziraphale, grinning with a sudden wild energy. Aziraphale leans back. “Tell you what. I’ll share joint custody of the bench with you.”
“What?” Aziraphale blinks. “But what about—”
The demon waves a hand. He’s probably meant for it to look careless, except he nearly smacks Aziraphale in the face in his enthusiasm. “Never mind them. Even if they do try to do something—what of it?”
“What of it?” Aziraphale repeats, voice going an octave higher. “What do you mean, what of it. Aren’t you at all concerned?”
“Of course I am,” the demon snaps. “But what are we supposed to do about it? Fuck off to Alpha Centauri?”
Aziraphale’s teeth click shut.
“So.” The demon smacks both his thighs with his hands, then leans into Aziraphale’s space, all grins again. “I’ll take Monday through Wednesday. You can have Thursday through Saturday. We can alternate Sundays. Sound good?”
“Fantastic,” says Aziraphale, then drops his head into his hands with a groan.
It’s strange. When neither Heaven nor Hell make a move, Crowley finds himself returning to the bookshop again and again, like he’s being drawn in by the angel’s gravity. His flat still feels right, with its sharp, stone lines and terrified plants, but there’s just something about the bookshop. Or rather, about the angel.
Even stranger, the angel continues to let him. No, he doesn’t just let him, he initiates. On one occasion, Crowley’s puttering around the bookshop, idly poking at books and wondering why the angel’s carrying such titles as Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea and Biggles Goes to Mars, when the angel sighs and snaps the book he’s been thumbing through shut. When Crowley doesn’t immediately acknowledge him, he sighs again, this time with emphasis.
“Did you need something?” asks Crowley, politely.
“If you insist on loitering in my shop after hours—”
“The shop’s been closed since ten ack emma, angel.”
“—then the least you could do is go to lunch with me.”
Crowley slowly pushes Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea back onto the shelf, then lowers his hand. The angel’s not quite looking straight at him; rather, he’s wringing his hands together and darting short glances in his general direction. Which makes Crowley wonder if he actually had heard him right. “Lunch?” he repeats, just in case.
“I was thinking The Ritz,” says the angel. “It’s my favorite.”
“Interesting,” murmurs Crowley. “It’s my favorite, too.”
The angel sighs a little, then smiles. “Oh, wonderful. Shall we then?”
It’s not just The Ritz. There’s also the angel’s best wine, drunk late into the night. And then there’s St. James’ Park, sitting on their jointly owned bench and throwing frozen corn at the ducks, since the angel refuses to feed them bread because it’s bad for their health or some such nonsense.
Crowley is a demon. He’s a demon who is very good at his job, for all that he’s also rather rubbish at it. He’s innovative, and smart, and thinks Big Picture. It’s earned him several commendations from Downstairs. Being a demon, of course, means that the angel is his Enemy. He should be plotting ways to destroy him with hellfire, or at least fudge his accounts. But every bit of his considerable essence rebels at the very thought of hurting this angel, even if it’s just adding an errant zero on his tax return.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t really tried to find out who the angel is or what exactly he means to him. If he knows, then that means he’ll have to give up this tentative new friendship and be his Enemy again. He thinks maybe that’s why the angel doesn’t push so hard, too. They don’t even know each other’s names. The angel doesn’t ask, and neither does Crowley.
It’s—more, too. Crowley doesn’t understand it, but often he’ll find the angel watching him, a curious glint in his blue eyes. He never fails to quickly look away when he realises that he’s been caught, usually to do something completely obvious, such as stare blankly to the left of the window or, on one memorable occasion, to read a book upside down.
Maybe, he thinks. Maybe all it’d take is a little push.
And so temptation it is. Crowley is, after all, a demon who’s good at his job.
“What’s this, then?” the angel asks, cocking his head to the side. The bookshop’s closed, as usual, and so Crowley’s taken some liberties with the angel’s desk. It’s now a table fit for The Ritz, complete with a pristine white table cloth, candles, a bottle of Romanée-Conti, and one serving of tiramisu with two forks.
“Dessert,” says Crowley, holding out a chair for the angel.
The angel considers him out of the corner of his eye, then appears to come to a decision. Crowley isn’t sure if it’s a Decision with a capital D, but he figures he’ll know by the end of the night. “How can I resist such a—” He stumbles, but Crowley can hear the unspoken word. Temptation. The angel glances at him suspiciously, but Crowley keeps his expression as innocent as a lamb. Or a lamb in wolf’s clothing, whatever.
Circling around the table, Crowley takes the chair across from him and picks up the wine. He warms his fingers with a small amount of fire, then slides them suggestively up the neck of the bottle. The cork dutifully pops out. When he looks back at the angel, he’s watching him intently, pupils blown wide.
“Wine?” Crowley asks, brightly.
The angel clears his throat, then pinches the stem between his fingers and lifts it to Crowley. Crowley pours him a liberal amount, then fills his own glass.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Crowley, relaxing back in his chair, wine glass cradled in one hand. “Have you heard anything from—” He points a finger at the ceiling.
The angel finishes his sip of wine, then dabs at his mouth with his napkin and shakes his head. “Not a peep. And you?”
“Nothing at all,” says Crowley, smiling at him. He tamps down the grin that’s trying to break through. No need to scare him off with one of his wilder grins. Someone like the angel requires a delicate touch. “It seems like we’re completely off their radar.”
The angel sighs a little, smiling back. “It’s probably wrong of me to say, but I’m actually—relieved. Gabriel’s a bit of a, a—”
“A prick?”
“Well, I was going to say a tosser, but that works too.”
Some of Crowley’s grin spills through. He sets his wineglass back on the table. “You know, since both Heaven and Hell have gone silent, I have to say, angel, that I’m glad we’ve found each other,” Crowley says, earnestly, and reaches across the table and touches the angel’s hand.
“Begone, vile tempter!” shouts the angel, and then smites him.
All things considered, it’s a rather gentle smiting. Crowley isn’t even discorporated, just tossed out of the bookshop in a whirlwind of righteous, angelic fury. Picking himself up from the sidewalk, he dusts off the front of his suit and tries to stride back into the shop.
He stops.
“Oh, that’s just—you warded me out?” shouts Crowley.
The angel’s response is to be pointedly silent.
“Oh alright, I’m sorry, is that what you want to hear, angel? I—I misread the room. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”
“Must be a lover’s spat,” a woman whispers to her friend as they walk behind Crowley. He snaps his head towards them and hisses. They scurry away with muttered exclamations about kids these days.
“Go away, demon!” the angel shouts back from the entrance of his store.
Crowley flings out both his arms. “Where am I supposed to go? Anytime I go anywhere, I always end up back here.”
He lowers his hands again, feeling a little lost. It’s true, isn’t it? He’s been chugging along in his life, happy and carefree after the Armageddon, but for some reason he can’t seem to stop pestering this incredibly uncool angel.
Why?
They stare at each other over the threshold of the bookshop’s entrance. The angel has one hand on the doorknob, the other resting on his hip, like a scolding school teacher. Crowley slides his hands into his pockets and resists the temptation to scuff his foot.
“I’ll—go,” says Crowley, uncertainly.
The angel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “No, it’s alright.” He waves a hand, both as a beckoning gesture and to dismiss the ward. “You can come back in, but there must be boundaries, my dear.”
The endearment just slips out of the angel’s mouth. He looks as startled as Crowley feels, big blue eyes going wide.
I knew it. I knew I didn’t misread things, Crowley thinks. “I won’t tempt you again,” he promises.
“Good. That’s—good,” says the angel, hesitantly, like he has no idea what he wants.
They don’t even make it through dessert.
“This is wrong,” the angel says, but he has Crowley pressed up against the wall and one hand rucking up his shirt. “You said—you promised—”
“I never tempted you,” Crowley breathes into his ear, scrambling at his ridiculous bow tie. “This is all you, angel. This is us.”
“Oh,” the angel exhales against Crowley’s cheek, hot and damp. His breathing is ragged, quick little pants of air, like a scared rabbit. Crowley should slow it down. He’s going too fast for the angel, he can tell. But then the angel kisses the corner of his mouth sweetly, so fucking sweet that Crowley surges against him, kissing back too hard and too hungry. The angel makes a soft sound into Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley aches, tears springing into his eyes for some damned reason.
“I have you,” the angel says, and it almost sounds like I love you, but that’s crazy, they don’t even know each other—
“Angel,” Crowley begs, and the angel covers his mouth with a deep kiss.
The angel’s hand is in his hair, pinching the end of one tuft, like he’s curious about the texture. Crowley pushes back into his hand while simultaneously cuddling closer, wrapping every one of his long limbs around the angel. He can’t get enough of him. He wants to crawl right into the angel’s soul and make a home there.
“Were we like this before, do you think?” the angel asks, a little nervously, but still sliding his fingers through Crowley’s hair, like he’s taking comfort in comforting him.
Crowley lifts his head, resting his chin on the angel’s chest. “Must have been. Didn’t need to make all that much effort, did we?” He smirks, self-deprecating. “You must have been desperate to hop into bed with a demon.”
The angel snorts messily at him, which is somehow the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “I was about to say the same to you. Can’t imagine why someone like you would want a dowd like me.” Then his smile fades and his lips press into a small frown. “Unless, of course, your endgame was always to tempt an angel—”
Crowley plants his hands on the bed and shoves himself up, arms bracketing either side of the angel’s head. “No,” he says.
The angel studies his face for a long moment, then smiles at what his finds there. He nods. “Quite right, my dear.”
A little shiver goes up Crowley’s spine, and the angel’s smile goes devious. “Oh, ready for another round, I see.”
I love him, Crowley thinks, and he knows it like it’s a simple fact. He has to wonder what in the hell—what in heaven’s—what in the somewhere he’s done that’s made him go and fall in love with an angel.
The next morning, Crowley carefully crawls out of the bed. The angel immediately curls up into the cool spot he’s left behind, one hand by his mouth, fingers slightly curled. He’s snoring quietly, little huffs of air. Crowley reaches down, smoothing an errant curl from the angel’s forehead. Blue eyes blink open, and the angel automatically smiles up at him, small and sleepy.
“Goodness,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep. “I haven’t slept in decades.” He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, then yawns into his shoulder. “Are you off, then?”
It takes every ounce of his considerable will not to crawl back into bed with the angel. He’s so soft and vulnerable, and how the hell is Crowley supposed to resist? “I’ll be back tonight,” he murmurs, caressing the side of his cheek. “Just off to visit a friend. Long standing appointment.”
The angel turns his face into his hand, pressing a soft kiss against his palm. “Mmm. Maybe I’ll wait right here for you to come back.”
“Go—Sata—Someone. Don’t say that.”
The angel grins up at him, just a little deviously, and Crowley has to take his hand back and step away, or else he really is going to dive back into bed with the slightly improper angel until the next Armageddon.
“Demon,” the angel says, and Crowley turns back to him. He’s sat up, blankets pooled around his waist. A stream of early morning sunlight catches on the dust motes around his face. Crowley blinks. He never wants to forget this moment. “Did we do the right thing?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He makes it to Tadfield in record time, figuring that if he drives as fast as he can to get there, the sooner it will be that he can leave. It should concern him how badly he wants to get back to the angel. Crowley has never been dependent.
And yet—it doesn’t concern him. Not at all. He’s not sure what that says about him.
Tadfield is as perfect as it ever is. It’s an unusually beautiful spring day. The birds are hopping from branch to branch, singing their little hearts out. The flowers are blooming, but there’s no pollen in the air. The bees are buzzing, but none of them sting. Not for the first time, Crowley wonders if it’s Adam who’s changing the climate, or if the climate is changing itself to suit Adam. Really, it could go either way.
Adam’s waiting for him in Lower Tadfield, Dog sitting patiently by his feet. He jogs up alongside the Bentley, smile splitting his scrappy young face. Crowley didn’t know Adam before Armageddon, but somehow he seems much more centered. Happy. Relaxed, even. At home in a body that was never really meant to hold a soul as large as his.
“Hi, Mr. Crowley,” says Adam, standing on his tiptoes to peer into the Bentley’s back window. “Didya bring me anything?”
“It’s not your birthday, brat,” says Crowley, putting the car into park. He opens the door and bounds out, slamming it shut behind him.
“Huh,” says Adam, sidling up to the driver window. “You’re by yourself?”
“I don’t see you with your cronies,” sniffs Crowley.
Adam waves a lazy hand. “The Them have schoolwork. I finished up early.”
Crowley tips a look at him over his sunglasses. “Did you cheat?”
“Of course.”
“Good lad.”
“But seriously, why are you by yourself?” Adam asks, stumbling a little to keep up with Crowley’s long strides, Dog bouncing around his heels. Crowley keeps a good distance between himself and the hellhound. Sure, it looks like your average terrier mutt, but Crowley won’t be fooled, not he. He’s seen what a hellhound could do to a demon.
Crowley shoots a sideways frown at Adam. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I just thought the two of you would come together,” says Adam, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging his shoulders, all in one move only the youth could gracefully pull off. “‘e’s coming down on is own, is he? Didn’t want t’drive in the Bentley? I thought I’d fixed it up good enough.” His lower lip juts out a pout.
“It’s all right and tight,” says Crowley, distractedly. “I just don’t follow. Me and whom? Surely you can’t think I would have driven down with Shadwell, of all people.”
He quirks his lips into a smile to share the joke, but Adam abruptly stops walking, squinting curiously up at him. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, you mean like stopping the End of Days for little to no credit? Not much since then, I’m afraid.”
“No,” says Adam, dismissing the entire Armageddon with the carelessness only a twelve-year-old can manage. “I mean—there’s this whole chunk of you missin’. Like it’s been scribbled out, or somethin’.”
“What do you mean?” asks Crowley, a little nervously.
Adam leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, and squints at Crowley—into him.
“Sstop that,” hisses Crowley, folding his arms over his chest protectively.
“Oh, I see,” says Adam, leaning back on his heels smugly, like he’s just solved some great mystery all by himself. “Aziraphale is gone.”
“Who?”
The thing about Adam is that he possesses so much more than either angels or demons. It’s what makes him so human. At Crowley’s blank question, his smugness collapses into sympathy. “That’s not right at all,” he says, shaking his head. “You should remember him now.”
And so, Crowley does.