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“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley said, handing him the bag. “Lift home?”
Aziraphale stood in the rubble, only halfway aware that Crowley had passed him and was walking slowly but steadily to the Bentley. He was clutching the bag containing his beloved books close to his chest, feeling rather strange. Whatever just happened, happened way too quickly. He had some questions. But, more importantly, there was this flood of various emotions he just couldn’t contain. Most overwhelming of them was happiness, though. Happiness that he had his books, that he wasn’t discorporated (and thus didn’t have to deal with Heaven) and… And that Crowley was there. That they were still friends.
If reality behaved like fiction (and sometimes it did), heavens would open up and angels would pour down, singing the most beautiful celestial harmonies. But Aziraphale knew that these particular angels were very hard to sway to perform for personal occasions. So, nothing like that happened. It was still just him, the books and the burning rubble.
“Angel?” He heard Crowley call out. “Are you coming or not?”
And Crowley. And the Bentley. And almost eighty years of radio silence between them. What on Earth was he even going to say to him? Aziraphale shook his head and carefully made his way to the car. Soon enough they were driving through the dark streets of London in silence.
There were many things Aziraphale wanted to say. Many things he wanted to ask. He thought about the last time he properly saw Crowley, about how they fought. Even almost eighty years later, the bitter taste of that afternoon lingered still. But mostly he felt regret. In the spur of the moment, then, he acted hastily and let his emotions take the steering wheel. He regretted not reaching out to him sooner, firmer, in any way. But that was in the past; he couldn’t do anything about that now. He tried to keep his eyes on the dark road, but they kept on slipping to Crowley.
The demon, in turn, was looking straight ahead, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, gaze fixed on the road. His thin lips were tightly pursed together. Aziraphale let his gaze sweep over his dark silhouette. Both his hands were gripping the steering wheel tighter than it was probably necessary. For a split second, Aziraphale was almost sure he could see smoke coming from underneath them. Then it disappeared. On the whole, Crowley just looked very tired.
And then he glanced over. They were getting close to Aziraphale’s bookshop.
“What are you looking at?” Crowley hissed without much viciousness to his tone.
“Nothing in particular,” Aziraphale answered. Then he hesitated. “How did you know where I was?” he asked finally.
The Bentley came to a halt sharply. They arrived at the bookshop. Aziraphale looked at Crowley expectantly, but the demon only sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was quite confusing, how he would show up to a church, putting himself in harm’s way, how he would save an angel of all things, and his books and how, on top of all that, he still looked as if he was mad at Aziraphale. As if he didn’t want to be around him. Why go to all that trouble, then, to save me, Aziraphale wanted to ask, but bit his tongue eventually.
“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” said Crowley finally. At the snap of his fingers, the door on the angel’s side opened obediently.
“No!” Aziraphale blurted out immediately. Crowley raised his eyebrows. “No, I mean, you should come in for a nightcap, dear,” he said quieter than necessary, as if he was not sure if his voice would betray him like that again.
“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea–”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted him, firmly this time. “Please. It’s to say thank you.”
Crowley, usually an open book when it came to expressions, looked quite blank. Aziraphale couldn’t tell whether he was even considering it. They sat in silence for a while and then the engine of the Bentley was turned off. Crowley sighed and nodded.
“But just one drink,” he said, “and then I’m going home, angel.”
Aziraphale gave him a smile (which Crowley sort of reciprocated with a twitch of the corner of his mouth) and rushed to open the front door. Once inside, he double-checked if all of the windows were securely covered and then he turned on a small lamp. He turned around with a bottle of very good whiskey in his hand. Crowley was just closing the door behind him. He took off his hat and placed it gently on the nearest surface available. His hair was slicked back and slightly longer than the last time they saw each other.
Aziraphale gestured towards the backroom, where they would usually sit down, drink and talk. He observed as Crowley took very careful steps, his lips pursed together. He was walking slower than usual, lacking his signature saunter.
Aziraphale furrowed his brows. “Are you quite alright, dear?”
“Yes,” Crowley replied quickly, the “s” stretched out. He promptly sped up and a muffled yelp escaped his lips.
“Clearly, you’re not!” Aziraphale exclaimed and rushed towards his friend. He slid Crowley’s arm over his shoulders and situated his own hand on his waist. “Lean on me, dear,” he said firmly.
Crowley did as instructed without further protest, his hand gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder tightly, and they slowly made their way across the room to the couch. Once Crowley was sitting down, Aziraphale rushed to the cupboard where he kept a rather extensive medical kit. There was a war going on, after all.
Then he stopped in his tracks and, for the first time in a long time, felt faint. He looked over at where Crowley was sitting down. His sunglasses lied next to him, discarded, and he was wiping tiny drops of sweat from his brow. His eyes were half closed.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale begun, willing his voice to be calm, “please tell me you’ve checked if it was safe to go on consecrated ground.”
“Checked?” Crowley snorted. “Checked in with who, exactly, angel? Oh, yes, of course, hello fellow creatures of Hell, would you be so kind as to tell me if those before me who had gone to save their angels from discorporation on consecrated ground came back safe and sound? Yes? Grand, thank you,” he finished, the last words filled with venom.
“So you just went in?” Aziraphale felt himself becoming more and more frantic, self-imposed calm escaping bit by bit. “Have you no self-preservation instinct, Crowley? You could’ve died!”
You could still die, he thought. He regarded Crowley’s thin frame. It was all the more terrifying because he didn’t know what he was looking for. He knew what holy water did to demons, of course. But stepping on consecrated ground? He thought that probably in the whole history of humankind no demon dared to step their foot in a church. The threat of lighting striking and all that. So how could he know now what to do? How to help?
“I was trying to save you from getting killed!” Crowley yelled in turn. He was clearly shaken up; his eyes no longer even remotely resembling human eyes, the golden shade taking up the entire space.
“Yes, but that wouldn’t kill me, now, would it? I would get discorporated, granted, it would be awful to have to explain that in Heaven, yes, but you could have actually ceased to exist, Crowley, for hell’s sake!”
“I didn’t think it would kill me, alright? And I don’t think it will. It only might have affected my corporeal form a little, is all.”
Aziraphale stopped pacing around the room; he hadn’t even noticed that he started doing that in the first place. “Affected it how?”
Crowley looked down and didn’t reply. This gave Aziraphale a window to take a deep breath and calm down. He walked over to the couch and sat down on the opposite end.
“Is it your feet, then?” he asked gently. “Let me have a look.”
“Don’t bother,” Crowley replied harshly. “I’ll just miracle it away.”
“I don’t think that would be wise, dear,” Aziraphale said. He got up already and, after spreading a cloth on the floor, knelt by Crowley’s knees. The demon straightened up and tried to wiggle away, but Aziraphale placed both his hands on his thighs and held him down with surprising strength.
“Please, Crowley, let me do this. Just for now, just so we can lay low for a bit. I don’t think neither of us should be performing any miracles after what just happened at the church.”
Crowley’s face softened. He looked down at the angel by his feet. He looked like a painting, white curls roughed up a bit, eyes wide, on his knees as if he were getting ready to pray. At times Crowley wondered if Aziraphale prayed. Or whether or not he talked to God. In that moment, he looked like he might have been, brows furrowed with worry and eyes glistening with pain. Might have been silently asking the Almighty to protect Crowley from harm.
Crowley sighed and tucked the thought carefully into a beautifully crafted wooden box in his mind and focused on here and now. The angel was right. None of them should perform any significant miracles for some time. But agreeing with him meant that Aziraphale would want to touch, to help, and there was no getting away from it. Somehow, Crowley thought, the gentle hand of his angel would burn way worse than consecrated ground.
He nodded, finally. “Alright,” he agreed. Chose to ignore the hint of a smile on Aziraphale’s face. “Just for tonight.”
Aziraphale got up at once and suddenly the warmth of his hands on Crowley’s thighs was gone. They had been there, pressing lightly, for some time now and Crowley wasn’t even that aware of their presence anymore. Their absence, in turn, was noticeable. And it hurt. They didn’t touch often, almost not at all, and a part of Crowley was glad that it was this way, because he knew that once he’d allow himself to touch, to feel, to do something as trivial as taking Aziraphale’s hand, he’d be gone forever, boundaries forgotten, bridges burned, and so on. The other part of him, the bastard part, as he’d come to think of it, just wanted to place an oh so gentle kiss on the inside of the angel’s wrist, to live in the hollow of his collarbone, to cherish and to worship like he hadn’t been worshiped even in Heaven.
That was another thought for another wooden box. He watched Aziraphale potter around the backroom and finally return with a glass of whiskey in hand. He passed it to Crowley and promptly kneeled back down in front of him.
Without any warning, Aziraphale reached down to take Crowley’s foot in his hands and gently placed it on his knee. In turn, Crowley gripped the glass tighter and forced another gulp of whiskey down his throat. The burn of the alcohol was a pleasant distraction from the soft touch of the angel.
Ever so gently, Aziraphale removed Crowley’s shoe and placed it on the floor. The only barrier between his skin and the angel’s hand was now a black sock. Aziraphale took it in his fingers gently, his movements almost surgical in their precision, and began to pull it down delicately. None of them knew what to expect, how the wrath of God might manifest on a human body inhabited by a demon.
The sock came off and Aziraphale looked up. Crowley’s face was paler than usual. He was looking back at him with wide golden eyes.
“How is it so far, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked softly, his eyes back on Crowley’s foot. He held it up gently and inspected the sole. As he suspected, there were several minor burns and blisters, bad enough to be painful for some time. Thankfully, it did not look as if there was any sign of heavenly punishment creeping up his body, into his being, that it was just superficial and would heal. Hopefully.
“It’s fine,” Crowley replied. He tried very hard to sound casual, and, as it happened to be whenever he tried that, he failed. His voice came out strained and he wished he had his sunglasses on but refrained himself from reaching for them.
“Yes, good, it’s just that you’ve stopped breathing,” Aziraphale pointed out.
“Well, I don’t really need to, do I, angel?” Crowley snapped. Whiskey in his glass refilled itself.
“Just tell me, please, if it hurts too much.”
As if, Crowley thought. Would be a funny old world if we told each other how we feel.
Aziraphale reached for a wet cloth and began to gently cleanse the sole of his foot. His touches were barely there and Crowley observed him in this state of total concentration. He worked meticulously for a while, stopping only to wet the cloth again. It was a sight to behold, an angel, a saint, on his knees in front of a demon, a sinner, the damned one. It was as if history liked to repeat itself.
The dedication with which Aziraphale worked was making Crowley’s heart flutter and beat wildly in his ribcage, as if trying to escape. The fact that he insisted to do that for Crowley felt more like a declaration any words ever could. What he was declaring, Crowley wasn’t sure. But it was there, right enough.
Soft, most pleasant of feelings prickled around a particularly ugly burn. Crowley could feel the burned flesh give way to something new and healed. Aziraphale’s eyes were still fixed on where he was touching the cloth gently to his skin. His lips were barely moving, as if he was saying something under his breath.
“Angel…” Crowley spoke softly. It was enough.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sighed. The pricking feeling ceased at once. “I just wish there was something I could do to help.”
“You are helping,” Crowley said firmly. “We just have to be smart about this.”
“But you’re in pain.”
“It will pass,” Crowley gave him a warm smile, a true smile, to let Aziraphale know he meant everything he said. And more.
Aziraphale, on his part, still looked dissatisfied. There was a glimmer of pain in his eyes and looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it in the last moment. Instead, he carefully disposed of the cloth and began to disinfect whatever needed disinfecting with iodine. Then he applied ointment so soft and soothing it could’ve only come from heavenly influence. Crowley let it slide. Funny enough, he thought, that the angel’s holy touch didn’t burn or hurt. What an awful world would it be if it did.
Aziraphale carefully moved to the other foot and took off the shoe and the sock. It was damaged a little bit more, probably from Crowley leaning on it more often than the other. Aziraphale reached for a fresh cloth and repeated the procedure slowly and carefully until he regarded it with a semi-satisfied look. Then he looked up at Crowley.
It became obvious neither of them knew what to say. Of course, they had known each other since the very beginning and both thought of the other as a friend or a companion for a long time now. But suddenly it became very apparent that they’ve never shared a moment like this, something so different than getting drunk together or attending an opera, where there would always be boundaries, where it was safe and known. This was a completely new territory, clear waters unexplored and therefore dangerous, and the silence of the past eighty years hung heavy in between.
“Right,” Crowley said, smacking his free hand on his thigh, “I’ll be off then.”
“No!” Aziraphale protested. A small blush crept onto his cheeks. “I don’t think that would be safe. It’s the middle of the night. And you’re in no condition to drive.”
“But…”
“Stay here, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quickly. There was a begging note in his tone. “Just for tonight. Just until it’s safe.”
“Yes, alright,” Crowley agreed after a while. It was not like he could ever deny anything his angel wanted.
Aziraphale smiled brightly, with the most heavenly of his smiles. He carefully manoeuvred Crowley’s legs so that his feet were hanging off the edge of the couch and got up from his knees. Not daring to speak, Crowley just watched him shuffle around the shop, putting his medical supplies back in the closet and so on. He felt very tired and very afraid all of the sudden.
His eyelids felt heavy and he didn’t even realise he had closed them until they shot open as he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder. The angel was standing over him with a worried expression.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Brought you some pillows.”
Crowley murmured a quiet thank you and let the angel put one pillow behind him and one underneath his feet. He watched him settle on the far end of the couch with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Or at least I will be. Thank you, angel.”
Aziraphale smiled. He shifted about a little bit on his end of the couch as to make himself comfortable. “Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly into the otherwise quiet room. “I knew I wanted to tell you something. There is this great little space, a café, right near here in Soho, and the poets, at least before the war, the poets…”
He went on rambling as if they had only seen each other yesterday, as if there wasn’t a near death situation just a couple of hours ago, as if it was just an ordinary evening at the bookshop. As if he hadn’t just given Crowley the most gentle, cherished moments of his existence. But it was good. It felt right. Crowley watched him as he went on and on, cutting himself off and changing topics in his excitement. A warm feeling crept its way to his chest, one much like when you’re pleasantly tipsy, only so much sweeter.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when Aziraphale suddenly lost his trail of thought, and he turned to Crowley to remind him, that he realised the demon was asleep. Aziraphale closed his mouth and observed. He has never seen Crowley asleep. He looked peaceful and a whole lot calmer than when he was awake. His chest was moving slowly up and down and the sight of this grounded Aziraphale. There was a small twitch of his mouth and he could see his eyelids quiver slightly. He hoped Crowley was dreaming of something pleasant. And, usually, what he wanted to be true became true. So was it in this instance as well.
Aziraphale straightened himself up on the sofa and gently pulled Crowley’s legs up, so that he was fully on the sofa, almost lying down. He placed the pillow on which his feet rested onto his lap and stroked the top of one foot gently. Then he reached for a book that lied on the small table near the sofa.
“Sleep well, dear,” he murmured, stealing one last glance at the sleeping demon. “Thank you so much.”