Chapter Text
With the war of the fire
My heart moves to its feet
Like the ashes of ash
I saw eyes in the heat
Feel it soft and as pure as snow
Fell in love with the fire long ago
“You can stay at my place Angel”
Aziraphale looked up from his palms, still clutching the 2001 Red Zinfandel, with one hand around the neck and the other resting on the base. He still had a thin lip of currant on his jaw that would go unnoticed by himself for sometime.
The angel looked to his friend who sat beside him as they waited on the bus. Aziraphale had in fact heard Crowley, however the offer did not quite register as there was an eerie pitch that rung in his ears upon hearing the news of his bookshop. Flashes of its state, ashed rubble and discorporated memories of the past 300 years of dwelling, running through his mind all at once.
“Hm?” He asked, despite knowing exactly what he had previously said. He snapped back to the present, as he realised that he was not in the after burn of his beloved bookshop, he was in fact right here. He was here with Crowley.
Crowley smiled weakly, the sympathy for his angel shined through the cracks of his seemly heartless demeanour. He considered a movement of sorts, perhaps a touch of the shoulder or the elbow. Crowley looked to Aziraphale’s hands, the colour of milk spilt on snow, he considered this to be the final destination for his hands, but quickly dismissed the thought as to not aggravate further emotions.
Before another action could be made on either behalf, the rectangular vehicle clucked down the row, coming to a halt before them. Crowley was the first to stand, grabbing his coat that hung on the edge of the bench and throwing it over one side of his shoulder. He looked down to his friend, who hadn’t come to his feet despite it being time to board. He consider Aziraphale’s hands and then his own as he drew one out to his dazed friend. Aziraphale looked up through his brows, red creeping across his ears that failed to be hidden by the pale tuffs of hair.
Crowley smiled without teeth, it was simple and remorseful. He held his hand out to Aziraphale patiently.
“Come on Angel. Let’s go.”
Aziraphale placed his hand in the other, gently, cautiously, as if the action would cause the earth to split in two. The fires of hell and the rain of God would combined to create a terrible rift in the universe, swallowing anything and everything whole. But it didn’t. Nothing happened. At least not to the world around them. Their hands rested comfortably within one another. The world was whole. The world was sane.
But within the chest cavity of the demon and his angel, their hearts pumped fasted than perhaps humanly possible. The sensation of warmth and stone combined to create a perfect equilibrium of heaven and hell. Their own respective worlds seemed to spin violently on their axis’s while remaining perfectly still in their bus seats. Neither of them said a word nor spared a glance, yet their hands remained entwined with one another. The slender boney fingers of Crowley’s slightly shaken hands, and Aziraphale’s, who’s hands remained perfectly still out of fear that the movement would scare the demon off, were as pale a snow and as still as stone.
Neither of them looked at the other, as a common thought shared between them, among other things, was that if either of them made eye contact, if they shifted in the wrong direction or breathed in a way that was even ever so slightly audible, this precious moment they held between their palms would promptly end. And that wasn’t going to happen, at least not until the bus had pulled into its stop.
As ‘ding’ echoed through the hall of the bus, Crowley shot up from his place. The swift movement caused their hands to pull apart, Aziraphale’s flopping to the seat beside him. The sharp action caused an even sharper spike in blood pressure, grieving the angel with a heart ache and the demon a headache.
As the pair stepped off the bus and onto the pavement, the bus heaving away to where ever it wasn’t supposed to be, Aziraphale stared at what he could only describes as a ‘complex’ rather than a home. Crowley lead the party of two through the doorway, both of them pretending that Crowley in fact HADN’T dropped his keys three times upon trying to open the door.
“You can er- well, make yourself comfortable…of course” Crowley said, his back turned to Azirphale as he fidgeted on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the state of his home in contrast to the angelic being that stood in his living room.
Aziraphale said nothing as Crowley awkwardly shuffled out of the room, presumably to make a room that doesn’t exist more to his angels liking. The angel in question, stood in raptures of the house, er, complex, that he was in. It was all but entirely constructed from concrete. It felt cold, ill personal and void of character. It felt so irritably ‘Crowley’ but more like the facade that he tried to sell like a vagabond. Not to everyone around him of course, it seemed like this costume was a private performance for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone. He could never quite understand why it was so important to Crowley that he be perceive as an ill-feeling monster, especially since he knew, and always has known, that Crowley has more heart than himself sometimes. Perhaps Crowley knew this too, but could never bare to pull it above the weight of leather, malice and concrete.
-But there was something else that Aziraphale could sense. Something about each of the four walls that made up the room; as though something had soaked deep into the marrow of the concrete. It smelt of frankincense and lavender; it was warm, hot, almost burning. It was a sensation of colour and brilliance, coming in crashing waves and incasing his lungs with still water.
Aziraphale clutched his collar, “my heavens what is that?” He managed to gasp out through the thick fog of heat and rose, his voice stretching to the walls in pleas that they would cease this infernal tsunami of sensations and provide the exasperated angel with some answers. But of course he already knew the answer, he was a being of heaven, but he wasn’t ignorant to the earth beneath his feet. This feeling that seemed liquify his ability to form a comprehensive thought, could it perhaps be…love?
“Are you alright?” Said Crowley, leaning against the oddly constructed doorway, again attempting to appear unbothered by his presence when in actuality, his hand quivered ever so slightly as it laid tucked between his arms.
“Hm?” he replied, once again his question being crystal clear yet choosing to ignore that fact, “oh yes, fine, fine, just tickety-boo!” The angel chirped like a bird in a tin, or rather concrete, cage.
Crowley’s brows began to knit closer and closer together; it seemed as though ’tickety-boo’ had become somewhat of a tell as to what was in fact NOT ‘tickety-boo’. Crowley considered a step forward, either out of sympathy or curiosity, he would decide on the way. But he decided upon refraining himself and instead just moving the conversation along.
“Ive fixed up my room a bit, so you can sleep in there for tonight.” He said nonchalantly, his mask beginning to slip from his face.
“But where will sleep Dear?” The endearment stabbed Crowley 6 times in the chest, one slice of gooseflesh for each syllable. He tied his costume on tighter.
“On the couch, or I’ll just watch the telly for a while.” He shrugged, cause who cared? Least of all him that was for sure.
Aziraphale frowned, he was no fool, he of all beings needed sleep the least, but Crowley on the other hand, certainly did. Frankly he had never understood the concept of sleeping nor its purpose for timeless creatures such as themselves, but it seemed to be a particularly favourite pastime of Crowleys. And while Aziraphale could never look back at the decades his demon would spend sleeping with fond memories, he would always cherish the day he would wake up (-and come back to him). So of course he would certainly not take Crowleys sanctuary of sleep away from him. Not now, not ever.
“Don’t be silly My dear-“ another 6 stabs “I have no need to sleep, I’d much prefer to sit here and read” he said matter-of-factly, his chin raised ever so slightly as to appoint himself as correct even if he wasn’t.
Crowley opened his jaw to protest, of course he was tired, positively exhausted, but who was he to deny his angel comfort if thats what he wanted? “Are you sur-“ his curtesy was cut off my a frustrated angel.
“Yes of course” said he, and with an awkward down curl of the mouth, bow of the spine and a through-the-teeth ‘goodnight’, the demon shuffled out of the living room and off to bed. In the moment, Aziraphale felt a wash of relief; he sat down in what could only be described as a throne and smiled out of victory, finding comfort in knowing that Crowley would be well rested once he woke.
But as Aziraphale sunk further down into Crowley’s peculiarly placed desk ‘chair,’ he noticed the ever growing absence of the force he had felt only a few minutes prior. During their little spat, if you can even call it that, Aziraphale desperately clinged to his corporated form as Crowley’s presence seemed to overwhelm the rising flood of senses by merely being in the room. But now that the demon was no longer here, while the presence of the force was certainly still there, its electric charge has dimmed to a comprehensible level. The lack of suffocating angelic energy had made Aziraphale acutely aware of just how alone he felt in this unfamiliar place, unfamiliar room. Of course this place wasn’t all entirely unknown to the angel. He’s been here a few times actually, 3 times to be exact. All of which with out Crowley’s knowledge; something he would never admit to the tenant. But in Crowley’s immediate absence, the room became a bottomless sea of unknown space.
The first time he had “visited” so to speak, was in 1941. Crowley had come to his rescue, and more importantly the rescue of his beloved, darling books of prophecies (‘First additions and all signed’ Aziraphale would often chime at the mention of his books). In that moment, as the demon held out the brief of books, their hands colliding ever so slightly as the angel took them back into his possession, Aziraphale had noticed a tuff hair sticking out of place beneath his felt hat. This of course, justified the late night stroll from his soho bookshop to Crowleys flat in central London. Upon arriving, Aziraphale had in fact made the right decision; As Crowley lie there sleeping, the strand of hair that stuck out of place had infected the rest of his head. It was a good thing he came when he did! A moment later and who knows! Aziraphale combed Crowley’s hair back into place with his plump fingers, relishing every strand of fevered hair that kissed his palm. Once the danger had been adverted, Aziraphale’s hand rested on the demons cheek perhaps a moment too log, before vanishing into the night and back to his bookshop.
Azirphale did not see Crowley again until after the war. 4 years later when Crowley arrived at his bookshop, his hair perfectly combed back. How strange.
The second time was in 1967. The word of Crowleys little church heist had reached Aziraphale, due to their respective correspondents being one in the same person, rather quickly. When the vile request for Holy Water was made 105 years ago, his heart shattered all the same as he handed over Crowley’s suicide in a tartan thermos. He had barely been able to choke out his rejection the first time the demon had asked, because why should he say no? Logistically speak, Azirphale should be handing Holy Water out by the barrel to any demon foolish enough to request it, after all, they were on opposite sides (At the time that is). But Aziraphale was selfish, far too selfish to let go of someone he held so dear to him, no matter what side of the line he stood on. But after a century of what the teens like to call now, “the silent treatment”, Azirphale had decided upon giving the demon what he had asked for, not for Crowley’s sake, but for his own; he was rather selfish after all. He could bare to conjure the thought of such an undignified death, but he had a plan. He had decided, that should the day come that Crowley ever decided to use his own version of cyanide on himself, Aziraphale would turn himself over to heaven, informing them of The Arrangement and step into the Hellfire with a smile of relief. The plan was simple, outrageous, derivative and painfully theatrical, but it was all he could think of as he stepped out of The Bentley. It was all he could do as watched Crowley and his vile of cyanide drive off into the bustle of late night London. His second visited consisted of an hour staring at the tartan thermos, insuring that it was still closed and was still full; he considered taking it back, perhaps blaming it on another depressingly suicidal demon prowling the streets of London, but decided against it, remembering the plan once again. The other half of his visit consisted of the Angel sitting by Crowley’s bed side, counting every inch of his form to insure that it was still there, that it was still intact and that it was still breathing. He wouldn’t dare mention how long he stood there for, and he would never admit that it wasn’t until the sun began to rise and the demon began to stir that he would take his leave for the second time.
The third and final time until present day, that Azirphale had visited was only a few days ago. They had agreed that their 3rd rendezvous point, that being the Bandstand in St. James park, was the best place to discuss their little crisis.
They talked about the wrong crisis.
After what felt like the earth splitting beneath his feet, spitting each word like fire out fear of burning his own tongue if the hurt didn’t leave his chest. He watched Crowleys mouth fall agape, as he attempted to say anything in retaliation, perhaps to wound the angel back, but more like to salvage what was left of this 6000 year long conversation. But it was no use, the rising flood waters of anxiety the angel held in his chest had closed the pearly gates to his heart. What was said had been said. But that didn’t mean what was said wasn’t regretted. That night Aziraphale would visited the flat again, in fear that his spit fire had been too hot even for a demon, that perhaps that the wounds he had inflicted would drive Crowley straight to bottom of the tartan thermos, and it was far to close to the end to crash early. But as Aziraphale had arrived, he allowed himself to breathe for the first time in 3 hours 47 minutes, upon seeing Crowley still fully corporated slumped over in his desk chair, or, throne, so to speak. Aziraphale began to approach what he assumed to be a sleeping demon, but as he drew nearer, he halted to a complete stop upon watching Crowleys body stiffen in his chair. Aziraphale froze, like a deer on a website, (he was pretty sure thats how the expression went), fearing that he had been caught red handed. Millions of excuses flew through his head and a billion different ways he could escape this concrete box with his dignity and pride intact. But Crowley remained in place, unsuspecting of the angel in the doorway behind him. The demon sat there solemnly, a glass of bourbon filled to the brim dangling in his hand, threatening to spill or to fall or both. This wasn’t an uncommon sight, a demon drinking to excess that is. It’s part of their job after all. But Aziraphale had never seen him so deflated, so serious with each sip he took. It was the most heartbreaking sight he could bare to witness, watching how alcohol seemed to seep from each cut of wounded pride, pooling into his glass of bourbon. No, he could not bare his crime scene any longer. And with that Aziraphale slipped away once more. Crowley relaxed again his chair, he too breathed for the first time since Azirphale had arrived in his flat.
Azirphale now sat uncomfortably in his chair, it being the first time him doing so to Crowleys knowledge. He bit his manicured nails to blood, the salty tinge of iron awakening him from a nervous breakdown. He had never considered the possibility of a demon possessing the talent to loving anything, yet here he sat in what felt like a wet sponge filled with the ethereal substance. Aziraphale attempted to calm himself to little to no avail. He considered the objects in the room, counting each an every one. The majority of the populated furniture consisted of plants. Yes, perhaps this is where all the love would be oozing from. But as he approached the lusciously radiant plants, he felt only fear. No, this certainly wasn’t it. He wondered around the flat for a few moments more before admitting defeat. What else could it possibly be? He couldn’t give up, not until he had found the source of this unearthly amount of love. He considered one remaining possibility, and it made him light in the head. His conquest would not, could not cease until he had investigated one final option. And it was the option he wanted least to be true. At least, thats what he told himself.
Crowley was of course doing what he often did when he was stressed, he was sleeping. But to be more specific was dreaming; if one can believe that was possible for a demon, but Crowley wasn’t anything if not defiant of what people believed he could or could not do. Although he would never admit that his in his gluttonous use of his ability to sleep for grossly extended periods of time, his dreams were often filled with that of a particular angel. Although if he were to ever ask himself about his own dreams, he would persuasively convince himself that the soft rounded shapes and flashes of cream coloured sheets were NOT his mind conjuring up abstract images of his angel. He muttered his defensive in his sleep until a presence jerked him back into consciousness. The bed dipped down as the figure laid down next to him. Crowley prayed, for what was probably the first time since his Fall, praying to whomever was listening, that the figure that was now nuzzling into his side was not who he secretly hoped it to be. Perhaps it was a demon come to assassinate him in with strange new tactic, or maybe it was a burglar who was a little bit lonely. Anything, anyone would have been fine, grand even. But as he felt the heavenly force beam into his spine, he realised his worst nightmare and greatest dream had come to give him a hug.
Azirphale, upon lying down next to the “sleeping” Crowley, had one arm stretches over his rigid frame, while the other he held close to his chest. He did not want to risk waking the demon by jarring his arm beneath him, nor discomforting him by keeping it there all night. But Crowley wouldn’t have cared. Aziraphale could have strung him up by his feet and he still wouldn’t have cared. The angel wasn’t entirely sure why he was now doing what he was doing, but as he stepped into Crowley’s room to investigate if he kept a prize possession of sorts in here, had been overwhelmed once more by the suffocating influx of love. Aziraphale took a moment to sus out the state of the room, scanning over each item before landing his eyes in the centre of the room. Crowley’s bed. Of course! That what he loved! It all made perfect sense now, of course if you spent as long as he did around that soft thing he would love it as much as he did. Aziraphale had to investigate this gravitational pull of love surrounding the bed Crowley now lay sleeping on. Which now that he thought about it as he lay tangled around Crowley’s body, made perfect sense as to why he was here. But has he cuddled closer to the demon to investigate the root of the love, he realised that the force was getting stronger.
A warm touch of air kissed Crowleys neck, prickling the gooseflesh that began to rise on its tippy-toes. It was Aziraphale, breathing gently in his sleep against his nape. Against the shudders of icy warmth, Crowley began to think of this notion, as he came to realise that neither Angel nor demon actually needed to breathe. The corporation of flesh, bone and blood they inhabited were merely fractures of light and shadow casted by their respective heavenly and demonic forces. They served as timeless vessels that never expired. They did not require nutrients, sleep or air, and by proxy, to breathe. This created two possibilities as to answer the sensation Crowley felt against his neck:
1. That after 6,000 of being an earthly corporation, Aziraphale out of habit and out of an attempt to blend in with earths inhabitants, had become accustomed to the act of breathing and was now doing it without being aware of it. Most likely.
2. The second option, and the one that sent an uneasy concoction of emotions into the pits of Crowleys stomach, was that Aziraphale was doing it on purpose.
What the demon was to do in such a blood-curdling moment was beyond him, he needed a distraction, a focal point. Crowley observed Aziraphale’s hand as it laid softly over his side, bad focal point. The pads of his fingertips were a light pink from the blood rushing to them. His fingers were plump, soft flesh curving over the bone to create the loveliest, most delicate pair of hands Crowley had ever seen in his millennia long existence. His distraction was not helping. He concluded that moving was the best course of action. He dared, he braved the slightest movement. Shifting his hand away from the bed sheets and closer to Aziraphale. What the bloody hell was he doing? He watched in horror has his own hands came into contact with the angels. How dare he do such a brazenly bold thing! But, as their fingers interlocked with one another the whole world electrocuted itself, the surrounding four walls becoming nothing but a stage for this beautiful moment.
Crowley began to shuffle, rotating in his place, ensuring that his hand never left its place in Aziraphale’s. He rolled over until he was now face to face with the Angel in his bed. This had been the first time that they had ever looked into each others eyes with such sincerity. Every emotion they had ever felt over the past 6000 years now laid bare in the space between their eyes. Every ounce of joy and every grain of sorrow sat silently in the 3 inches of room it was allowed. Neither of them said a word, but then again when they looked at each other in such a way, they didn’t have to. Crowley braved another moment, taking the spare hand he had that wasn’t already wrapped around Aziraphale, and placed it behind his head, pulling him closer to his body. The Angel, whose head now rested comfortably in Crowley’s chest in a way as though it was always meant to be there, put his investigation aside and allowed himself to just exist right here, right now.
There are thousands of different ways the dictionary can describe a moment, but only one seemed to fit right.
The pair both knew that this couldn’t last forever, eventually morning will come, and the will have to face whatever infernal damnation their respective sides have waiting for them, and even worse, they would have to let each other go; physically and eternally. But for now, they only held each other and just let this be whatever this was.
The moment is calm
The moment is warm
The moment simply, is.