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In the beginning was the Word, and then there were more words, and then there were so many of them that one could be forgiven for getting confused.
There’s someone standing on top of the Wall and looking down, a white speck against the lush greenery of Eden. He’s called Aziraphale. That can be known for sure, because it was God Themself who created him, just like that—They said “Aziraphale”, and there he was. It was very efficient.
Aziraphale is observing one of the gifts God has bestowed on humanity, in action for the first time. Not free will, not yet, there is still some time until that happens. Today, Adam and Eve are lounging in the tall grass of one of the meadows with a creature that lets them pet its sandy-coloured fur. Today is about imagination.
“I think I’ll call it lion, you know?” says Eve.
“Sounds good to me,” says Adam.
Nothing happens. The lion flicks its ear. The angel on his post way above them turns his head this way and that, seemingly surprised. This is not how using new words usually works when God uses them. But then again, humans don’t have that kind of power, he supposes.
As it turns out, humans are all about actions, and free will, when it’s finally acted upon, has much more spectacular consequences. The name Adam has given to the fruit he and Eve have eaten is not particularly relevant when Aziraphale watches Adam fight the lion outside the Wall.
That’s also the moment he meets Crawley, though, and perhaps watching human language morph, abstract itself and fork into a thousand variations in the following years wouldn’t feel so dangerous and disorienting if it weren’t for him.
Aziraphale takes to stories spun from the human tongues, and he takes to Crawley. Both have a sort of an insidious charm about them.
***
The year is 2403 BC. “The scribe and the priest,” someone calls them when Aziraphale pays a visit to the temple. Crawley does so love paganism.
It’s 985 BC now. “On soldier duty,” a guard says looking at Crawley, dressed with military practicality, his hair ruffled. Yes, a soldier would seem plausible, wouldn’t it. “Merchant”, the guard calls Aziraphale, who pushes his cart full of fruit without doing much pushing. They pass through the gate undisturbed.
“Peregrinus,” a Roman senator declares in 105 Anno Domini without even talking to Aziraphale. Crowley serves them fish and bread, a slave for however long his current scheme takes to unfold. The senator frowns when Aziraphale smiles and expresses his thanks.
“He’s your cousin, is he not?” a confused musician asks them once, in 806, and Crowley laughs about it for the entire next century. Privately, Aziraphale thinks that it makes a bit of sense. They have more in common with each other than they have with humans, after all. But the word tastes ludicrous whenever he tries to hold it on his tongue, for their circumstances are so much more complex than those of some family feud. Crowley’s right to laugh, though he should have saved it for 1383, when they are presumed to be a groom and a father-in-law by a well-meaning lady.
“Would you and your friend like to come in?” inquires the wife of a banker who is about to invite them to dinner in 1850, and this word has always been the most common one. This one stuck around, as much as it could be translated between languages—differently seasoned, but ultimately a very similar dish.
It would be telling that no human has ever looked at them and said “enemies”, if Aziraphale allowed himself to notice the fact.
***
“Would you like another plate for your husband?” a waitress asks Aziraphale in a new place they’re giving a try in 2019, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what about it lands like a punch to the gut. He was about to bite into the braised chicken, which smells delicious, like pears, or maybe apples, and tender meat permeated with spices—which it is, it is all of those things, of course. Aziraphale’s mouth waters; the fork is heavy and cold in his hand; on his tongue, there is nothing.
“Sure,” Crowley says to fill the silence. The waitress gives them a smile and leaves a plate she had ready just in case on the side of the table before she vanishes. It’s white and empty and unnecessary.
“Are you going to eat?” Aziraphale asks.
“Nah. It was just easier to let her leave the plate if she already brought it from the kitchen. I swear, why does everyone always assume that everyone has to eat if they’ve come to a restaurant? Can’t it just be a social call with a glass of wine?”
Aziraphale guides his knife through the meat. “You’re bothered by the assumption, then?”
“Hm?” Crowley takes his glass and swirls the wine around, but his shoulders raise very slightly and his hand is careful. Aziraphale knows him well; has known him for thousands of years—surely it counts for something. “Eh, not really,” he says at last. “‘S just a human thing. You get used to it.”
“Ah. Quite.”
Aziraphale cuts, and chews, and swallows. Perhaps the meat should be minced—that would be funny.
“Are you bothered?” Crowley asks, putting the wine glass next to the empty plate and finally dropping the pretence. He’s good at that. Aziraphale has spent centuries wishing Crowley would keep the pretence up, but this time, he is grateful.
“I suppose I wonder if you have a preference. For whatever you wish to call it,” he says quietly.
“Anything is a step up from fraternisation,” Crowley replies, and it would have been a jab, once, but now there’s no venom in it.
It hits Aziraphale, then—why the comment shook him so, despite their relationship having been mistaken in a myriad of ways, for so long, even by their superiors. He and Crowley can talk about it now, agree to be anything they have ever been or have never been: an antique book dealer and some sort of financier, a writer and a gardener in a cottage somewhere in the country, the best of enemies, the worst of friends. Unemployed, in twenty-first century London, they could take vows in any corporation if only the fancy took them, or none at all. They could spin any story and have it be true.
Or take any action.
Aziraphale, trembling, stretches out a hand to cover Crowley’s and watches him be moved under his sunglasses.
“Perhaps words aren’t that relevant,” he says.
Crowley swallows. Gives his jaw a good workout, as proper in a restaurant.
“I was Crawley, once,” he says at last. “And then I wasn’t. Maybe I’ve never been, doesn’t matter. What I mean is, sometimes it’s good not to fight a word, and sometimes it’s good to choose a word yourself. Both. You know that.” He turns his hand and grasps Aziraphale’s fingers. “So, what I mean, what I mean is—you can’t mean that. You love words. You pay exorbitant sums for books with a single misprint verb, for someone’s sake.”
“They’re unique!”
“They’re human mistakes, priced way above their value.”
—but they’re smiling, back in familiar territory. Crowley’s body loosens and uncoils. Aziraphale finishes his meal one-handed.
“Partner?” he asks, soaking up the last of the fragrant sauce with a piece of bread.
“Partner sounds pretty good to me, yeah.”
The word tastes odd. But tongues are one of Aziraphale’s favourite parts of God’s Creation, and he can do many weird things with them, for an angel.