Chapter 1: Thirteen
Chapter Text
Thirteen
Aziraphale is thirteen when he finds the book. It’s one of many hundreds of dusty tomes that fill the shelves of his father's collection. He’s forbidden to touch them, but Aziraphale doesn’t always do what’s right.
Aziraphale treads the creaking boards with bare feet, winding his way through the stacks. His pyjama bottoms are too short and flap around naked ankles, light blue and pinned striped. The buttons strain at his belly, hang open at his neck. His round face is pink with the heat of excitement, his blond hair curling wildly from a night of tossing and turning. He clings to his torch with trembling fingers casting an unsteady light across the floor and along the shelves. He knows what he wants, he just doesn’t know it yet.
There are thousands of stories pressed between the pages of these books, a million words and his father has read none of them. Aziraphale will one day read them all. Tonight is the beginning of something that he can not comprehend.
The volume in question looks no different from the others. Whatever colour the leather spine used to be has aged brown from sunlight and oily fingers, the gold leaf lettering is indecipherable. Yet it sings to him. He halts his silent step at the moment he passes, turns on his heel and looks. Aziraphale has never been a decisive boy; he frets and worries over all his choices, and yet his hand has never been so sure when he reaches out and plucks the book from its place. He presses it to his chest and freezes in the act as if expecting the weight of his father's wrath to fall upon him. But there is no sound. No heavy footsteps on the stairs. No angry voice raised in fury. No swoosh of the belt as it strikes. Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes. And then he runs.
He reads. He reads as if tonight may be his last night on earth. Bundled under blankets, torch aloft he sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed devouring the words. It is not a novel, but a series of short stories, each as tragic as the last. Each one starts with a creature, innocent and effulgent, but inevitably it falls, cursed in a myriad of different ways. It has many forms, a serpent with iridescent scales and poisoned fangs, a great black bird with feathers as dark as night, maybe it’ll be a siren, a tempter, the bringer of death, but always it is terrible and beautiful. The stories twist in different directions, sometimes fate turns the creature bitter and foul, sometimes it struggles with hope and despair, but always it ends up alone. Aziraphale sobs as he reads, and then he turns the page and reads another. The sun is breaking across the horizon when he reaches the end.
He rises from his bed haunted. He eats his breakfast in a daze. He goes about his day distracted. His tutor canes his palm, calls him an idiot, and threatens to tell his father. He has never cried for himself, but he still finds tears for his creature.
That night he vows to return the book to its place though it hurts his heart to do it. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to leave it, to let it sit collecting dust in a darkened library never to be opened again, but he must lest he be caught. He lies in bed listening for the sound of his mother shuffling off to bed, but his father is still in his office. He waits.
“Well, well, well.”
Aziraphale gasps and shoots up in bed. His torch is in his hand and sweeping across the room before he can chide himself for his folly. It is just a dream he thinks, his heart throbbing in his ears, his chest, the tips of his fingers. As he calms himself he turns the torch towards the ceiling to flick the switch off, he sees it. A flash of gold in the darkest corner of the room where the wall meets the ceiling. Slowly, tentatively, he turns his torch upwards.
“Hello.” Says the voice. It belongs to a creature. On the surface, it looks human; long-limbed and slender, red-haired and swathed in black. But it is not human. It lounges across the ceiling, boneless and indifferent, its eyes flash yellow like a snake. Its wrists are bound in hoops of gold.
“You’re just a dream,” Aziraphale says, sounding certain in the way only teenagers can be, but he trembles nonetheless.
“Am I now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Aziraphale isn’t sure.
Thin lips stretch over jagged teeth. It flips, sauntering downwards in a series of sinuous movements. It perches on the end of his bed, leaning back on its hands, legs crossed at the knee.
“You don’t ssseem very sure.”
“I-I-“Aziraphale stutters, sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead and his heart is fluttering in his chest. He wants to shuffle backwards away from the creature, press his back against the wall. He wants to reach out and touch it, trail his fingers through the soft curls of its hair.
Aziraphale doesn’t move.
“You’re just a figment.” He manages at last.
“A figment?!” The creature's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and somehow its smile widens. It looks amused.
“How’s that then?” It says.
“You’re just…” a siren, a voice in Aziraphale’s brain calls out. Sirens are beautiful and whisper temptations. This creature tickles at Aziraphale’s desire in a way he has never experienced before, but then he is only thirteen.
The creature cocks its head to one side, studying him thoughtfully. It waits for Aziraphale to find his words - it is unhurried, unconcerned by its surroundings.
“I’m dreaming. And you’re a creature from my book.”
“You’re half right.”
“Which half?”
“You tell me.”
Aziraphale swallows, bells are ringing in his ears and he doesn’t know what that means. Concern that he may be about to have a heart attack flitters in his mind, it’s racing fast enough. No dream could feel this vivid.
“Which one are you?” He says at last because he knows in his bones that he’s not asleep. And that means it’s the other half that’s true.
The creature leans forward, somehow inexplicably close. Its eyes dance before Aziraphale’s vision, its breath sweet like apples.
“All of them.” It says.
Aziraphale shivers, shrinks. Its eyes are bright like beacons, luminous like the moon but there is a whole universe within them. Aziraphale has never been anywhere, except for the worlds in his books.
There is a slam of a door. Like a gunshot, it ricochets through the house. Aziraphale is afraid of the creature, but he is more afraid of the thing downstairs.
The creature tips its head to one side, eyes thoughtful, mouth pursed into a thin line.
“Alright?” It asks when the rhythm of Aziraphale’s heart returns to its steady pulse. Its voice almost sounds concerned.
“I-I have to put the book back.” he blurts out.
For a moment he fears the creature's fury. Storm clouds gather in its face, dark and raging but then they smooth away with the wind.
“You shouldn’t do that, “ it says. “Keep the book here, keep it safe.’
“I can’t. My father-“
“I can help you with that.”
Aziraphale hesitates. The monster downstairs haunts his dreams by night and dogs his step by day, but he has known no other way.
He shakes his head.
“Come oooon. Think of the fun we could have?”
It jumps up, flipping over, spinning around. It hangs in space like a superhero from Aziraphale’s comics. It moves through the air like a swimmer, its limbs flowing elegantly one after the other. Gravity means nothing, does nothing. It is so free from constraints that Aziraphale feels a pang of envy.
Yet even as it speaks, its eyes come to rest upon the book. A shadow passes over its face.
“Keep it,” it says, and it sounds almost like pleading.
What should one do when stuck between fear and terror, a rock and a hard place? What happens when fantasy and reality collide? Aziraphale does not know. He is just a boy - he has not been granted the wisdom of age, but he thinks he remembers a turn of phrase.
Better the devil you know.
Aziraphale’s father is a known quantity, consistent in his monstrosity. Aziraphale believes he can outlast it. Eventually, the tides will recede and he will remain, worn but still standing. Persistent. The creature is temptation on legs, but it is new, unpredictable, a wild card in a mediocre hand. Aziraphale will do what it takes to survive, but he does not play dice with the universe.
He makes his choice.
Despite the creature following at his shoulder, its lips pressed hot against his ear, Aziraphale cannot be dissuaded from his mission. He walks on steady feet, avoiding the creaking floorboards and weaving in and out of pools of shadow cast by the silver moon. He returns the book to its shelf. With one last exasperated sigh, the creature vanishes with a pop.
Chapter 2: Seventeen
Summary:
Aziraphale is seventeen and home from school. He would rather still be there, truth be told, but it is summer, and there are rules. Aziraphale obeys the rules, even when they wear him down.
When Aziraphale was thirteen he found a book that released a creature of infinite power into the world. Years later he has come to believe that the creature was just a figment of his imagination, an imaginary friend to help him through difficult times. But doubt is a dangerous thing, it sprouts like weeds between the cracks.
Aziraphale remembers a book from his childhood and reacquaints himself with its occupant.
Notes:
Another big thank you to ikeasebastian for the beta and the screaming in my DMs. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated.
And to the good people on the Good Omens 18+ server for all your supportive comments and general salivating over my character descriptions.
I'm sorry this has taken a while to update. IRL drama has taken hold of all my creative energy and flushed it down the toilet.
TW for emotional abuse and homophobia.
Chapter Text
Seventeen
Aziraphale is seventeen and home from school. He would rather still be there, truth be told, but it is summer, and there are rules. Aziraphale obeys the rules, even when they wear him down.
His father wants Aziraphale to go into the family business and speaks of nothing else for an entire week until reluctantly he agrees. With little enthusiasm and less effort, Aziraphale applies for an internship in the mail room. Not unsurprisingly, he is successful. The job is low-paid menial labour, not the sort of thing that Aziraphale enjoys (he feels resentful that nepotism couldn’t get him a placement in an air-conditioned office, whilst also feeling grateful for having a job at all) but his father has always insisted it is right and proper to start from the bottom. Aziraphale does not disagree with that sentiment - he just resents the hijacking of his holiday. His father booms with pride when the acceptance letter arrives, slaps his shoulder and calls him Sport. One might think that this sort of fatherly affection might please Aziraphale, but his father gives with one hand and takes with the other.
“You’ve never given me much to be proud of, boy,” he says, and he is sure to repeat it later at the dinner table and then again on his first day.
It is what it is. Aziraphale simply nods, smiles and persists.
What Aziraphale really wants is to be a writer. Stories gather in his head like raindrops on the edge of an awning, and then one by one they drip steadily onto his page. He writes at night, scribbling with black ink and calloused fingers by the dim yellow glow of his lamp. Sometimes he lifts his gaze to the darkest corner of his room, where the wall meets the ceiling, and imagines other worlds, a lonely demon and hair as red as the sinking sun. He can’t quite recall the reason why.
The reminder comes from the most peculiar of quarters. His father is on another one of his tirades, cursing the liberal leftists and their rainbow flags spreading to Manchester like a virus. It is 1985, and Soho has long played host to Pride Parades and the Gay Liberation Front but his father resents it slipping out of the crevices and into the mainstream. Aziraphale itches to join them. He longs to announce himself, to be more of himself than he has ever been allowed to be. He does none of these things. Instead, he keeps his eyes tilted downwards, nose pressed to the page of his book.
“Why do you always have your head in a book? You’re such a pansy, why don’t you go and do something useful with your time?”
Red-faced and furious, his father spews his vitriol like toxic oil across Aziraphale’s feathers but fails to ruffle them. Aziraphale attends an all-boy school; he has certainly been called worse. He lifts his head, eyes glazed over, and watches dispassionately as his father hisses and spits. He barely hears the words, instead, he focuses on the vein that starkly stands out against the sweaty temple, beating a frantic tattoo. He idly wonders if one day the artery will explode and flood the kitchen with putrid black tar. He wonders if he would cry. He has never had tears for himself and doubts that he could muster one up for the passing of his patriarch. Perhaps if he concentrated very hard. He has no time to ponder this further, for his father’s next words snap him out of his retreat.
“You always have been, haven't you? With that stupid imaginary friend of yours. What boy daydreams about other boys?”
It’s like lightning strikes from the sky, lighting up his neurons and fizzing down his veins.
He remembers.
He remembers the creature.
How had he ever forgotten the vivid dream that had woken something greedy and hungry in the depths of his soul? He had never looked at other boys the same way again, and though he had had his fair share of fumbled kisses in dark corners and alleyways, nothing had ever dulled the desperate desire to strip black silk from alabaster skin.
He smiles tightly at his father's words, feigning ignorance even as the memory of probing yellow eyes illuminates a dark space in his memory. With little more than a shrug, he makes his excuses and returns to his room. He sits at his desk and watches the sun drop below the horizon, splashing the sky with orange and red.
It was funny how he had forgotten in the years that had passed. He had thought of nothing else until he had not thought of it at all. He reminisces, lying back against the pillow of his childhood bed, his eyes resting on the farthest corner of the room. All his best stories had started with the creature back then. The demon on his shoulder, he used to call it. He blamed so many things on the mischievous misdeeds of the Demon Crowley. But like all things, he had grown out of it. He had been taught to behave.
Nothing lasts forever.
With a startling clarity, the dream was coming back to him. He can recall a book, with aged leather and brittle pages, the ink faded with time. If he closes his eyes and reaches out with his hand, he can almost feel the stiff paper against his fingertips and smell the scent of parchment. And something else. Sweet like apples. He wants it. Wants to bite into it and feel it crunch between his teeth.
Feeling hot and hard, he rolls onto his front and buries his face into feather-soft pillows, and if he dreams of a slender redhead all wrapped in shadows and the slither of skin as pale as bone, then that is between him and his bedsheets.
***
But really, when he thinks about it, and he thinks of nothing else as he prints address labels in the sweltering heat, he isn’t sure it was a dream.
Doubt is a dangerous thing. It sprouts like weeds between the cracks, and then with a misplaced breath, it spreads its seeds, spiralling out in all directions. He doubts, and he wonders, and he thinks about the abandoned books in his father's library. He hungers for faded words and a mischievous smile, for red hair he can twist between his fingers and a spine that bends until it cracks.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s hope that he’s feeling - and isn’t that twice as dangerous, the fall from grace twice as high?
***
Soon, summer becomes autumn. The leaves on the Plane trees turn from green to crisp orange and yellow. They begin to fall even as the September sun beats down on the Soho pavements.
Aziraphale is running late. Outside, his mother waits in a car that will take him to the station. Still, he lingers, his eyes on the door that leads to the forbidden library. He has walked past this door several times daily, every day since his memory returned. Each day he stands a little closer and waits a little longer, but he never quite finds the courage to step inside. Today is his last chance before he is ensconced back in the familiar halls of his Boarding school until Christmas break fills these four walls with baubles, tinsel, and fake cheer.
He knows it is wrong, that it is a mistake, that his father lurks somewhere in the bowels of the house. It is broad daylight. The curtains are open and there are no dark corners in which to hide; not when he was a boy, and certainly not now he has grown ten inches. But there is something inside that room that sings to him.
With cold sweat on his neck and a flutter in his chest, his fingers curl around the cool brass knob. He counts to three, and then to five and ten. His heart keeps time in his throat. With one fluid action, he wrenches the door open. He strides inside. He doesn’t even need to look, his feet remember. So do his hands, they find their mark with the lightest of touches. The book is in his arms and then tucked into his satchel before he even realises he is running for the door. His father never reads these books, he keeps them like butterfly specimens behind glass. If Aziraphale is quick, no one will ever know.
***
Aziraphale is still seventeen, but it is a new school year and he is a Prefect. Prefects should always obey the rules, they enforce them after all, and yet Aziraphale sits alone in an empty classroom with a stolen book resting on the desk in front of him. Beyond the single pane of glass, he can hear the twitter of children laughing like birdsong. He should be with them, but he will not be missed. This is not the first time he has spent his lunch hour staring at the cover of this book, his fingers reverently tracing the diminishing gold leaf design. His doubt screams as loudly as his hope.
If he breathes deeply he can almost smell the apples.
“It was just a dream,” he tells himself as if managing his expectations will somehow dull the pain of his loneliness when he opens the book and finds only words.
Slowly, tentatively, he opens the cover. The spine groans in complaint.
“Just a dream.’ He murmurs as his eyes flash across familiar words, the lettering faded with age.
Hope. Hope is as dangerous as doubt.
“Just a dream.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiles to himself. It is not fear that drips down his spine and pools in his stomach, but anticipation. He lifts his gaze slowly to the ceiling, and there it is. Lounging in a sunbeam, the creature arches its spine like a cat, all long limbs and flaming hair, skin glistening like diamonds as the pale afternoon light filters through the window. It stretches out languidly. Its eyes flutter open. It finds Aziraphale in an instant like a magnet drawn to its other half.
“You came back,” it says, and it seems surprised. It smiles just as lazily as it moves.
“I thought you were a dream.”
“You did then too.”
“But you’re not.”
It’s not a question. The creature answers it anyway.
“No.”
“What are you?”
“Anything you want me to be.”
It drifts like a cloud, a tangle of limbs draped in twisted black fabric floating weightlessly toward Aziraphale. It pours itself into the seat on the opposite side of the table, where it leans impossibly forward across the open pages of its life. Its face comes to a halt inches from Aziraphale, yellow eyes wide and curious. He can feel its breath on his cheeks. Sweet like apples. He can almost taste it on his tongue, sharp and tart and ever so refreshing. Their smiles are equal in magnitude.
At first, no words are spoken; they sit in silent contemplation.
The creature is observing him. Watching every thought, every feeling, flit across his face like a motion picture. Its predatory smile slips into something softer, kinder, it tips its head to one side.
“Anything you want.” it reiterates. Its fingers are long and slender like the rest of it, the tips are as soft as cotton and feather-light when it brushes them over his knuckles.
Aziraphale looks into those yellow eyes, eyes like sunflowers, like bumblebees, like baby ducks, and sees his own loneliness reflected back at him. It gives him courage. He swallows even though his mouth is dry as bone. There is only one thing he has ever wanted.
“A friend.” Aziraphale manages, “I would like a friend.”
He thinks he might want more than that, can already imagine streaks of red tangled around his fist as his mouth presses against the steady pulse of its throat, but Aziraphale has never been good at asking for what he wants. A friend is more than he can hope for—more than he deserves.
“I can be your friend.” The creature replies just as softly. But then its face lights up with mischief, and it dances back into the air. “I can be the best friend you’ll ever have.”
It’ll be the only friend he has ever had. He doesn’t tell the creature that.
“I’m Aziraphale,” he says, instead.
“Aziraphale.” The creature repeats, chewing on each syllable, “like the angel. I knew an angel once.”
“I’m nothing like an angel.”
It’s head tilts once again; its eyes have never left him, but they become probing curious things.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” it says.
Chapter 3: Eighteen
Summary:
Aziraphale feels a little bolder, walks a little taller, and if he notices the twinkle of pride in amber eyes, he says nothing of how it makes his heart thunder in his chest.
Aziraphale and Crowley grow closer whilst navigating Aziraphale's final school year.
Notes:
I am so sorry for the delay on this chapter. Thank you for waiting patiently. I had to move house somewhat unexpectedly and it threw me for a loop a bit. You'll be glad to know that the next chapter is well underway.
As ever, a big thank you to ikeasebastian for the beta. Your efforts are much appreciated.
Chapter Text
Eighteen
The Creature does not have a name.
Or perhaps more accurately, it has worn many names, each one inflicted by those who beg on their knees for its mercy, and then shed like dried scales. It has weaved itself in and out of time, planted its misdeeds in the depths of the collective psyche so that it became myth, a legend, a warning wrapped in an allegory. It has played the role of tempter, seductress, villain, brought entire cities to destruction with the gift of war. It was the first and will be the last, Asmodeus, Jinn, Pisinoe. Those are just some of the names it has been offered like sacrifices at the altar of despair. And there are stories, stories the book doesn't tell, stories that the Creature murmurs into Aziraphale’s ear as they huddle together at night, chasing away the cold and loneliness with body heat and whispered secrets. It tells Aziraphale that it was the original sin, that it slithered up from hell to cast the first people out of Eden. It insists it’ll be there when blood rains from the sky and oceans boil in their beds. It is humanity's nightmare. For Aziraphale, it is a dream come true.
Aziraphale has read the book, he has memorised each line like scripture, but he knows how to read between the lines. The Creature would have him believe that it is a monster, but Aziraphale knows better. The Creature is a slave.
And so Aziraphale refuses to believe all that he reads. He parses the text and draws his own conclusions.
“But you’re so nice,” Aziraphale argues one night. He lies in the orange glow of his lamp, an oasis in the inky darkness. A thick hardback rests open and forgotten across his chest, the Creature sprawls by his side. It is always by his side.
“I’m not nice.” The words come harsh and cold, but its expression, rendered sharp in the halo of the light, is anything but.
“I am bound to you.” It continues as if that answers all of the mysteries of the universe.
“I’m not nice,” it repeats and buries its face in the soft tartan fabric that stretches across Aziraphale’s belly.
Aziraphale strokes its silky soft hair like he would a cat, allowing the strands to pour through his fingers like water, and he reads between the lines.
It has been bound to others, and they were not so nice.
That thought stays with him long after the Creature falls asleep. As the night turns to day, and the clock ticks away the weeks that follow, Aziraphale is consumed by it. He is consumed as he goes about his classes and reads his books at night. He is consumed as Aziraphale leads the Creature from the relative safety of his dormitory and into the busy corridors of his daily life. He is consumed as he allows the world's greatest trickster to lead him astray. He thinks on it and he pencils in the gaps.
The Creature has no name because no one has ever thought to name it properly.
The Creature is not nice because it was born to serve others, and they were unkind.
The Creature despairs because it has never known love.
Aziraphale will do better.
***
It was a nice day. They do not know it yet, but it is the last sunny day of the year. Soon they will spend their free hours huddled together under fleecy blankets racing raindrops down a mildew-stained window pane. Hot chocolate will warm their fingers and fill their bellies, and icy toes will bury themselves under ticklish thighs, wrapped in ludicrously bright woollen socks.
But that is for another time.
Today they enjoy the last few golden rays of the autumn sunshine. It dapples the dry earth and warms their skin, lifting their spirits after a long day of classes. They lie beneath heavily laden fruit trees that grow in rows, invisible to all but the birds in their nests. The Creature holds court whilst Aziraphale ignores his homework, hanging onto its every word even as he believes just half of them.
“I was present at the birth of algebra!” it insists.
“So you said. Could you answer all these questions for me then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” And Aziraphale is pouting even as he resists his smile.
“How would you leeearn?” and it leans in easy and smiling, eyes glittering with warmth. Aziraphale has never felt so happy, never felt so at home, here under the changing leaves with a creature of infinite power that behaves more like a cat than a monster.
“You’re telling tall tales!” Aziraphale hoots with laughter and pokes it between the ribs, right in the spot that makes it wriggle and giggle and double over squealing.
The sound delights him and fills him with joy to hear his friend so carefree. He wonders if it has ever lived like this, with pleasure at its fingertips and a friend at its side. But the boy doesn’t dwell on those kinds of thoughts, not when a snap of the finger can bring fresh fruit and pastries to their hideaway. So he sets aside his workbooks and darkening thoughts, and feasts on their bounty, and together they laugh about the hijinks of the day.
Much to the School Masters dismay, they have become quite the dastardly duo and Aziraphale has never felt so alive. The planning of their pranks has become an elaborate affair, and they are carried out with the precision of the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Heist. With every success, Aziraphale feels a little bolder, walks a little taller, and if he notices the twinkle of pride in amber eyes, he says nothing of how it makes his heart thunder in his chest.
It is when his wits have left him and his guard is down that a ghost from his childhood trips from his tongue unbidden. It’s a name that flickers faintly on the edge of his memory, a fantasy of a boy left alone in the dark.
“Crowley, please I can’t breathe!” he says doubled over and howling. He laughs so hard his stomach feels fit to burst. The joy in his veins is magic, the delight on his tongue ambrosia. But then the spell breaks and he hears his words echo amongst the branches.
Immediately they both sober.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”
“What did you just call me?”
They speak over each other.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“What did you say?”
A silence falls but it is heated, with steady yellow eyes burning into slowly reddening cheeks.
Because this isn’t nothing. To name another is never nothing. The crease in the Creature’s brow and flick of its forked tongue betray the intensity of its feelings on the matter.
“Fine.” Aziraphale says at last. The silence roars in his ears along with his quickening pulse. The memory fills him with shame and is not one he had ever hoped to share. They were just the ridiculous scribblings of a teenage boy on the cusp of his sexual awakening, how could a Creature as ancient as his friend ever understand?
“I used to write stories about you,” he admits, drawing out his confession with long pauses, “when I was a boy.”
“What kind of stories?” The Creature shifts itself upwards, crossing its legs, leaning impossibly forward. At another time Aziraphale would marvel at the flexibility of its spine, as of this moment he can barely lift his eyes from the fraying tartan blanket on which they sit.
He flounders, his face burning to a cinder under an inscrutable gaze he can not meet.
When he doesn’t answer it pushes even closer, its cool breath dancing across his heated cheeks.
“Aziraphale?” It sings, “Were they naughty?”
Its tone is both conspiratorial and salacious, and Aziraphael can’t help the shiver of need that passes through him.
It knows. And not for the first time Aziraphale wonders if it can read minds, or perhaps it can simply hear the comings and goings of the outside when it is trapped between its pages.
He gulps down the rock in his throat, the sharp edges slicing at his larynx as it passes.
He too sits up, unnaturally straight, stretching his legs out before him. Rainbow-striped toes slip beneath The Creature’s knee, the touch is subtle but grounding. His eyes track their movement, watching as they slide into place, waiting for a flinch that never comes. He doesn’t dare to lift his gaze upward, lest he finds something unpleasant in the Creature’s expression.
But regardless of what the Creature suspects, he fears he has waited too long to speak, and now his secret is materialising into view.
“I was thirteen!” he says defensively and decisively, he can no more tell the truth here than look the Creature in the eye. He is burning alive.
The Creature’s laughter starts as a subtle thing, a quiet hiss like air escaping a balloon. But before too long its restraint bursts and a great booming joyous noise escapes its lips frightening the birds into flight. The strength of its guffaw propels it backwards into the air where it flails and kicks its legs, delighted with the confession Aziraphale has reluctantly gifted it.
It takes a moment or two and an annoyed scowl from Aziraphale, but eventually, it calms itself, drifting back towards the earth, its buttocks coming to rest on soft wool. It quietens but it never settles, squirming like the snake it claims it once was. Its expression is soft, adoring, and yet that does nothing to soothe the tension that is building in Aziraphale’s gut.
“When you’re quite finished.” He snaps. He can’t help it. It feels like a betrayal, and he’s not sure who is the one that has been betrayed.
The Creature purses its lips, flattening them into a thin white line that does nothing to hide the smile that twitches at the corners.
Satisfied by the attention at least, Aziraphale continues.
“I wanted to write a book, you see? About you. Us. I called you the Demon Crowley and you were the devil on my shoulder.”
“Oh, I like that.”
“Do you really?” He blooms under the praise.
“Of course. It is not every day a creature is named with love.” The Creature says.
And just like that it is settled.
From then on, he is Crowley.
Crowley flops back upon the blanket, his long hair spilling out like a halo of fire around his head.
“I could write it for you.” Crowley says, watching Aziraphale through dark lashes, face turned towards the last streaks of the day, “Your book. I know you dream about being published. All you have to do is wish it.”
“It’s quite alright my dear.” It’s said with a smile, with no hint of rejection, “those sort of things are better done by oneself.”
There is a pause.
“Alright. If you’re sure.” Crowley hums softly. His eyes glimmer with something akin to faith. He has never once doubted Aziraphale or his ability to succeed. Aziraphale isn’t certain he is worthy of such esteem but he is grateful for it. It makes him feel like a giant.
“It’ll be nice to be pressed back into the pages of a book without the risk of being trapped inside.” Crowley pauses, a slow smile widening revealing his many pointed teeth, “novel, one might say.”
Aziraphale laughs much louder than he ought, and Crowley’s own chuckle rises to meet the delicate sound. Their eyes meet, the gentle blue of the ocean lapping against the soft yellow sands.
Crowley slithers forward on his belly, rests his cheek on the edge of Aziraphale’s knee and sighs with something that sounds awfully like contentment.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale grumbles, but his tummy turns to butter and his cheeks flush hot.
“Are you going to help me with this or not?” he rustles the forgotten maths paper.
“Or not.” Crowley replies. He nuzzles his nose into the soft padding of Aziraphale’s thigh and promptly falls asleep.
“Fiend.”
It isn’t said with malice. In fact, it sounds rather fond though there is no one else to hear it. Aziraphale finishes his homework in silence, one hand tangled in the soft red curls of Crowley’s hair.
He’ll write his book, he thinks, and Crowley will be the star. He has already become the centre of Aziraphale’s universe.
***
“When I asked you to find me a date for the dance I didn’t mean…”
Aziraphale is panicking.
His voice is far higher pitched than he would like and words tumble from his lips in a jumbled cascade. He wishes they would stop, but they tumble forth and scatter between his feet as if tugged to Earth by gravity. He doesn’t mean them, not the way they sound. He wanted. He wanted it so badly he thought he might die from the ache of it. But he has never dared to give voice to his wants. Never dared to ask. He never wanted to be granted this as a wish.
Crowley stands before him on the other side of his dorm room door, holding a bouquet of deep red blooms that smell as sweet as the creature himself. He wears a tuxedo all in black, buttons polished, bowtie perfectly fixed. He is beautiful beyond words, and Aziraphale who reads so much and writes even more, has not a single metaphor to offer in comparison.
He wishes he could offer praise, compliment the sharp lines and smooth edges, but he’s still babbling, still fretting. He wishes he could stop. And then suddenly he does. Midsentence.
The Creature’s cocky grin had slipped from his face striking him like a blow to the chest. It steals his breath and along with it, his words.
“Oh. Oh I see.” Crowley says, and the apple of his throat continues to bob and his lips work to form words but no more sound escapes.
Horror, rejection, pain, they all dull those sunshine-bright eyes with dark clouds and drizzle, and no, no, no, that won’t do. That won’t do at all. Yet Aziraphale feels frozen in place, inert.
Crowley’s powers are a poison chalice. Any desire that Aziraphale murmurs into the creature's ear can be brought to life, made true. It is a delightful power, heady and exciting, except it must be wielded with care. Often Aziraphale frets. He frets that Crowley is only his friend because he once asked it of him. That he only stays now because he must.
What Aziraphale wants is to take Crowley to the Winter Formal. He has dreamt of it. Dreamt of strolling into the great hall, with its sparkling fairy lights and soft music, his white sleeve looped around black, a vision of perfect contrasts. He would sweep Crowley out onto the empty dance floor, where they would dance slow, cheek to cheek, chest to chest, trembling hands finding new places to hold.
But he can never ask for what he wants. It is a gift that must be offered freely.
So Aziraphale used his wits. He had instead asked Crowley to find him a date, hoping secretly that Crowley could read between the lines and offer what could not be requested. And perhaps he did just that, taking the opportunity afforded to him. Or perhaps he has offered himself up as a sacrifice when no other option was forthcoming. Aziraphale doesn’t know, and it is in the not knowing that his fear is ignited.
Crowley is about to leave, and Aziraphale sees tears begin to well in those beautiful yellow eyes. The vision breaks through his turmoil, clears the silent screaming echoing in his ears.
“Crowley, wait. Come back.”
And God be good, he does. His back is turned and his head is bowed but he pauses the tread of his feet on the threadbare carpet.
“I’d love you to go with me!” Aziraphale blurts out, “I had wanted you to but I didn’t want to ask.”
Like a sunflower, Crowley lifts his head and turns towards the sun. Like the sun, Aziraphale beams warm and bright.
Crowley is smiling too. He understands, of course, he understands.
The Creature steps forward, the flowers raised in offering.
“When will you learn,” he murmurs as Aziraphale takes the bouquet, their fingers brushing, embers burning, “that there are loopholes in all wishes, and that is where my freedom lies.”
Aziraphale is relieved that he is wily enough to understand. He should not have worried. Aziraphale might only be eighteen, but Crowley is older than the world itself.
***
The music swells. Disco lights flash and dance illuminating awkward teenage boys in smart tuxedos and their beautiful dates in dresses of reds and greens and golds. They twirl and spin and paint beautiful memories with their steps.
Aziraphale watches. Flooded with envy he stands by a wall, plastic cup in hand. Crowley is by his side. He is always by his side.
“Dance with me Angel?” the creature asks once the music slows and the lights dim. He offers his hand in invitation, a temptation. His fingers are long and elegant, and soft Aziraphale knows. He longs to feel those fingers grip the fabric at his waist, to nimbly dance down his spine, to hold him close. He yearns to feel the warmth of his body against his, of breath on his cheek, the heat of his gaze searing his skin.
But fantasy is not reality.
“Not yet.” Aziraphale wants it more than the air that fills his lungs in shallow stuttering breaths. He has dreamed of this moment. Fantasised about it. Hummed romantic tunes as he practised the steps alone in his room. In his imagination, he is brave and suave and the other boys stand back and watch in amazement as he sweeps the beautiful creature at his side onto the dance floor. He is eighteen years old and he is in love and he wants, wants, wants, but reality is not fantasy.
Reality ends not in a beautiful first kiss as Aziraphale performs the perfect dip much to his companion's delight. The night ends with harsh fists and broken bloody noses, and tears of despair where there should only be joy. It is the 80s afterall, and a love like theirs is not meant for public consumption. Assuming that his love is reciprocated at all, Aziraphale is never quite certain. So he takes another sip of his drink, and he watches.
“Later.” He promises, but it is a lie.
Crowley knows, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Whatever you want, Angel,” he says instead.
The night draws on, and the music drifts to an end. The lights come up and the boys scatter with their dates to dark corners and secret hideaways.
“Shall we go for a walk?” Crowley suggests.
“That sounds lovely.” He admits, and if his words slur a little then he will blame the fact that someone spiked the punch. He won’t acknowledge that Crowley was the likely culprit.
“Come on.” Crowley catches him by the sleeve and pulls him away from the wall. He stumbles and weaves, but his Crowley is there to steady him, a guiding hand in a world that is swimming before his eyes. The soft fog in his mind and the relative quietness of the night work to make him feel brave, and he nestles in close, leaning his head on the creature's shoulder.
They don’t quite make it to the chilled air of the winter night, instead, Aziraphale tugs Crowley into the darkness and anonymity of the cloakroom. Clumsily he lurches forward, pressing his lips against the corner of Crowley’s mouth. His skin is warm, so much warmer than a human ought to be, and softer, sweeter. For a moment they are locked together, lips pressing with equal fervour. Want and need collide and for a second there is only perfection. But the moment snaps with an audible puff. Crowley vanishes, leaving his lips cool and arms suddenly empty.
He reappears three paces back. Surprised eyes stare at him, slender fingers pressing to lips that are swollen pink and damp. But then his expression morphs into something else. Something closed off, aloof. There is a tightness to his jaw, a sharpness to his features that Aziraphale does not know.
Aziraphale’s heart stops in his chest.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Crowley says. He wags his finger like a teacher to a petulant child. It is plain that he is aiming for a playfulness, trying to soften the sharp edge of rejection, but there is a tremble in his hand that betrays a deeper feeling, something that will remain unsaid.
“We can look, but we can’t touch.”
Aziraphale’s heart freezes.
“But-but why?” His lip trembles. He will not cry. Not for himself. Not ever.
The Creature’s expression softens, and he looks more like the friend he knows. Aziraphale has never needed him quite so much as he does now. Has never hated him quite like this either.
Crowley steps forward, palm facing up in offering.
Aziraphale wants it. Wants to take his hand, knot their fingers together and tug him close. Wants to return to the quiet simple intimacy that they have shared these last few months. But he can’t.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley murmurs. He drops his hands to his side untouched. He steps forward again. Closer now, so very close and so very human in his uncertainty. But he is not human. Aziraphale had forgotten.
“I… care… about you. I-” Crowley cuts himself off with a harsh gasp, and for a moment he seems to teeter on the edge of something. He straightens. “But you are young and human and so very innocent. This isn’t right.”
Aziraphale might well explode with the fury that is restrained beneath his ribs.
How dare he.
He who has stolen the children from Gods and led them into hell lecturing him on what is right. But those words won’t come, no matter how anguished a scream throbs in the back of his throat.
“Please.” He begs instead. He feels the exact moment it happens, the moment his heart splits in two. He feels fibres tearing, blood gushing.
Aziraphale’s heart shatters.
“Please don’t ask it of me, you know I can’t disobey. And I- Perhaps when you are older and understand what it is you are asking of me.”
Funny, Aziraphale thought he was only asking for a kiss.
***
The days that follow pass in a blur of wind and rain. Aziraphale barely notices, doesn’t feel the turn of the Earth, or hear the tick of the old grandfather clock. The sun rises and falls and repeats again. He eats fluff and cardboard, sits through class with a blank stare absorbing nothing. Crowley makes himself scarce as he hides from a pain he has no power to alleviate. It is only a week and the Christmas holidays arrive, along with a train that will whisk them homeward.
Crowley knows when he slips back between the pages of the book that he may never see the light of day again. Aziraphale can see the terror in his eyes, can feel the withering of the trust between them. He tries to swallow down the guilt, push it beneath the hunger and heartache. Neither fight the inevitable. It is another betrayal. Aziraphale feels the regret as starkly as he feels the relief as he returns the book to his satchel and later buries it once more in the library where it belongs.
“Time to put away childish things,” he whispers to no one in particular. He wonders if Crowley can hear him, he never did think to ask.
“It’s just a figment.”
The belief isn’t as reassuring as it once was.
Chapter 4: Thirty
Summary:
Home again.
Funny how he had believed he’d never be back.
He stands in an empty hallway watching a lone spider spin its delicate web from a boarded-up window to the dusty chandelier. Silence reigns where there was once the loud ticking of a clock and the constant slamming of doors. The floors used to be made of eggshells, the air full of toxic tar. He had felt small here, crushed by the weight of it all.
Time passes, hearts ache, and Aziraphale comes home.
Notes:
As always big thank you to ikeasebastian for the fabulous beta work, and to the GO18+ discord server for gassing me up.
This chapter earns its Trigger Warning for history of abuse. If that is something that might be troubling for you, please proceed with caution. All events are historic and lack details but I appreciate it might be upsetting to read.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thirty
Home again.
Funny how he had believed he’d never be back.
He stands in an empty hallway watching a lone spider spin its delicate web from a boarded-up window to the dusty chandelier. Silence reigns where there was once the loud ticking of a clock and the constant slamming of doors. The floors used to be made of eggshells, the air full of toxic tar. He had felt small here, crushed by the weight of it all.
And then he had left.
Aziraphale stands in an empty hallway and feels nothing but the sucking void. Eighteen years of frustration and resentment —eighteen years he had crushed down deep into the recesses of his heart — freed itself from the constraints of his ribcage to be devoured by darkness.
He lets out a strangled sob. A single tear for his fallen patriarch, two more for the mother who had kept her silence. Not one for himself or the childhood that will forever be lost to him.
He tugs at the vintage waistcoat that has become his trademark look, allowing his fingertips to dance across the soft texture, to rub against the pile, to let the sensation soothe and ground him. He is here, and he is alone, but he has a whole life ahead of him.
Aziraphale is thirty years old, but he almost feels like he is starting anew.
For the first time in twelve years, he lets himself dwell properly on a closed up library, a worn out leather book, and the yellow eyes and autumnal hair of the creature trapped within. Betraying him, and abandoning him, is easily the worst crime Aziraphale has ever committed. He has never forgiven himself for it. For the longest time afterwards, Crowley was never far from his thoughts, a spectre slipping in at the dark corners much as he had on that first night. Aziraphale had quickly become well practiced at sweeping them away; the burden of his guilt too heavy to carry. But he is here now, renewed, and he allows himself to feel. He offers himself up to the void, and it opens its great gaping maw.
He thinks of Crowley. He thinks of autumn days under the whispering canopy of leaves. He thinks of frosty mornings huddled together in his single bed, watching the thin layer of ice crystals melt on a window pane. He thinks of homework nights, where Crowley would act out the play, passage, or maths problem of the day, prancing about with the confidence of a well rehearsed magician. Ever the showman. He remembers laughing so hard his ribs ached and his stomach churned until he thought he would puke. He remembers Crowley, sparkling and laughing, limbs akimbo, red hair glowing like embers in the firelight, defying gravity with every movement, every gesture.
Aziraphale’s feet follow where his mind wanders; his step is heavier than it once was but just as sure. The floorboards creak underfoot as he makes his way to the only place that he has ever wanted to go.
He stands in front of the library door, an ominous structure, thick with dust and heavy with memory. Aziraphale has always understood the value of a story, understands the weight of a pause before a hero finds his happy ending.
But he is no hero.
And he is not deserving of happiness.
On bad days, he wonders if Crowley would be ashamed of him. Strange that this is what troubles him most, not the fear that he will hate him. Perhaps he simply cannot imagine what hatred would look like on those smirking lips and in those eyes that once twinkled with mischief. Perhaps he doesn’t want to.
On bad days, he feels shame in himself. He thinks himself as terrible as his father, lashing out with words, if not fists, at the one who had tried to hold the broken pieces of him together. It was his hurt pride and bruised ego that prevented him from reaching out to shrink the distance between them. He should have come back sooner. He should have faced his father as a man, and taken the book and damn the consequences. But Aziraphale has never been that brave, and for that, he feels shame.
So here he stands, an orphan and the Lord of the Manor, fingertips tracing the lion's head etched in brass, twelve years of heartbreak still weighing him down. All he has to do is turn the knob and open the door; his feet will do the rest.
But he can’t.
Because on his worst days, he wonders if he clings to a fantasy just so he can avoid the truth of his own inadequacies. On his worst days, he worries that Crowley is just a figment of a broken mind.
Today is one of his worst days.
***
It takes seven days for Aziraphale to open the door. He hovers each day and relearns the feel of the grain and the swirls of knotted wood.
Another seven to pluck the book from its place, to crack open its spine, and turn to the first page. He doesn’t need to read the words, he will always remember the night he learned them, repeating the words over and over until they were deeply etched in his memory. Crowley had watched amusedly, his chin resting on Aziraphale’s chest, his feet kicking lazily behind him.
“Why learn them, that’s what the book is for?” he’d asked.
“Maybe I’ll be able to call you to me, from wherever you happen to be.” Perhaps even then he had known they wouldn’t last forever.
“I’m not sure it works like that.” Crowley had said, but Aziraphale had not missed the hope that had blossomed in the depth of those sunflower eyes or the bloom of pink on his cheeks.
In the end, Crowley had been right.
He had recited them many a time after they had parted, and Crowley had never come.
So he reads, even if he doesn’t need to. The spell is cast. The Creature appears.
Aziraphale watches silently, waiting to be noticed. His heart pounds heavily in his chest, his ears rushing with blood. He is ready with every apology on his lips, even before the Creature turns to him. He will do anything to make this right, anything at all, if only Crowley will give him the chance. Like so many things, forgiveness is a gift. He will not wish for it - he only wishes he can earn it.
Crowley seems disoriented at first, and for a moment he glances rapidly around the library, slitted pupils narrowed and flicking left to right. He hisses like a feral cat, his spine curved and tense and ready to bolt. Aziraphale aches to see it, longs to reach out and soothe his nerves with soft words and tender touches, but he isn’t sure if he is allowed. He isn’t sure if he is welcome.
“Crowley.” It is barely a whisper.
The Creature spins around, his mouth open in a little ‘o’ of surprise when their eyes meet across the room. Somewhere a clock is ticking, sluggish and lazy from years of neglect, and it counts down the seconds, each an eternity whilst Crowley processes his surroundings. But then the tension falls away, and a smile blossoms across his haunted features. It is a wet sort of smile, one that pastes over grief with relief and conceals all manner of dark thoughts.
“Thank Someone you’re okay.” He says with a breathy sort of laugh and then runs straight into Aziraphale’s waiting arms. He is as light as a feather and as warm as freshly baked pastry. He smells of apples and sunshine, and Aziraphale just wants to crush his nose into the smooth skin of his neck and inhale until his chest burns with it.
“Yes. I’m-I’m okay.” Aziraphale all but sobs.
“You’ve grown.”
“Yes.”
Crowley pulls away, studying him intensely, a delicate touch at his brow, a thumb along the crease of his eye. Aziraphale has crow's feet now, they crinkle when he laughs. Not that he has had much to laugh about.
“You got older.”
“It’s been… some time.”
“I know. And don’t think I’m not mad at you for it. I’m furious. But I’m so glad you’re safe. When you didn’t come back, I thought-” his voice cracks and he buries his face into Aziraphale’s thick, blond curls.
If only they could stay like this, wrapped in each other's arms, feeling the press of their chests as they rise and fall in tandem. It’s a perfect moment frozen in time. But time waits for no man, and Crowley’s relief soon falls away to make space for his hurt and his anger.
“You left me.” He says, his lips pressing harder into Aziraphale’s crown, “I trusted you, and you left me and you didn’t come back.”
“I came back.” Aziraphale tightens his grip, fingers twisting painfully in loose fabric, hoping only to hang onto this perfect moment for a little longer. “I came back, I'm just so sorry it took so long.”
“You should never have left.”
“I know. I know, I-” His breath catches in his throat, “-I was young and stupid and, and-”
“You’re still young and stupid.”
“Not as young as all that.” His choked-out laugh is as wet as his ruddy cheeks.
Crowley pulls away, his own tears following the contours of his sharp features to drip off his chin. He traces the shape of Aziraphale’s round cheeks with his fingertips as if memorising his face by touch alone. His expression is inscrutable, but there is a softness to it, and Aziraphale hopes. Oh, he hopes.
“I know. Some things- look I won’t make excuses.” Aziraphale says, “I was wrong. I’m so sorry. You have to forgive me.”
Crowley recoils at those words and his features morph into an ugly sort of sneer. Have to.
“Have to? Right, yes of course. Your wish is my command, my Master.”
“No! No! It’s not a wish, I didn’t mean it like that, please-”
“Of course not.”
But Crowley turns his back and vanishes.
***
“So, what happened then?”
He hasn’t seen Crowley for several days and his appearance at the door is as unexpected as it is welcome.
“What do you mean?”
“Look. I hurt you, I get it. But do you think locking me in a book for twelve years was a bit of an overreaction? You said you wouldn’t make excuses, so what was the reason?”
Crowley looks older now, and Aziraphale is only noticing it for the first time. His skin is decorated with tiny lines and crinkles like cracked varnish on an antique and Aziraphale feels it only makes him appear more beautiful. He thinks back to that morning in the library and tries to remember if he wore them then, but it was so fraught with feeling that he didn’t properly take it all in. He always remembers Crowley as young and vibrant and boyishly handsome. Now he looks more striking, distinguished, but also, tired.
“Come sit with me?” Aziraphale asks.
“Is that an order?”
“We don’t do orders, you and I. We never have.”
Oh, how he hopes that’s true. He thinks it is, hopes that they had shared so much joy because they were friends and not because he had demanded it.
Crowley hesitates and then ducks his head.
“No. You’re right. You were never like that.”
“I don’t ever want to be like that,” Aziraphale says.
“It just felt so much like a punishment.”
“What did?”
“I disappointed you, so you left me to rot.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Aziraphale's heart gallops in his chest, and he feels the heat rise to his cheeks under the Creature's scrutiny. But it had been, hadn’t it? Crowley had broken his heart but it was his ego that had driven him to return to school that winter and leave the book behind. Embarrassment that had kept him in his bed at night when he returned home in the spring. He had missed him so utterly, so completely, but fear had paralysed him. He couldn’t bear to face the Creature after what he had done, with shame crawling under his skin. He had spoiled something beautiful, pure, and uniquely his, and he loathed to see the evidence of it and feel their easy comradeship slip away to become something awkward and fractured. So he had retreated into himself, chose to live in the fantasy of him rather than face reality.
But it hadn’t been his choice to leave for good. His father had made that decision for him. Another argument, and a fight that had ended in violence. For once in his life, Aziraphale had punched back. It had been the only time, and the last time he was allowed to set foot in the house.
The story bursts forth in stuttering, halting sentences, and by the time he is done, Crowley has crossed the room to sit beside him, his face clouding over with thunder.
“Why didn’t you come for me? I would have helped you.”
Their eyes meet, and a different kind of tension flickers and ignites between them.
“Would you?”
“Of course, I would! I would never-” he pauses and whatever words he would have spoken disappear beneath the shimmering surface. Aziraphale mourns the loss of them, but perhaps there are some things Crowley is not ready to say. Instead, he continues, “I have to, don’t I?”
The impact those words have on Aziraphale is almost physical. He feels winded by it, weakened.
“But what if you didn’t have to?” He finds himself saying.
The closeness that has flourished between them dissolves, and Crowley shuffles backwards in his seat, sliding into a sprawl that maximises the distance between them whilst appearing comically nonchalant. To Aziraphale, he has never looked so tense, so uncertain.
“We’ll never know the answer to that.” Crowley doesn’t look at him, instead, he lets his head fall backwards onto the headrest of the sofa. They don’t speak again. But Crowley doesn’t flee, and Aziraphale accepts the small victory.
***
It’s a tentative thing. The rebuilding of trust. The rekindling of friendship.
For the first few weeks, Crowley takes to carrying the book with him, keeping it in sight so he can’t be taken unawares by the magical gravity that surrounds it. Later he hides it away, and Aziraphale makes a point of never asking after it. He doesn’t need to know.
They start with afternoon tea, every day at 4 pm, in the library. They sit together in their respective seats, watching the dust motes dance in the streak of sun that pours in through the slatted blinds. Sometimes they don’t speak, Aziraphale rummages through his father’s papers, putting his accounts in order, whilst Crowley stares silently into space. On those days, Crowley’s presence is a comfort, even when he appears so haunted by his thoughts that Aziraphale soon loses interest in the task at hand and instead surreptitiously watches his friend, with mounting concern. On those days he fears things are broken beyond repair, and he's all fat thumbs and clumsy fingers with no way of fixing the delicate balance of their shattered relationship.
But there are other days. Afternoons where Crowley all but forgets himself and the distrust that he harbours, and they talk about old times and Crowley spins a yarn, a sarcastic comment on his lips, a sparkle of mischief in those yellow eyes, eyes that still remind him of the autumn they spent beneath the fruit trees, and he thinks oh, there you are. On those days time slips away much as it used to. Aziraphale lives for those afternoons.
Time heals, he tells himself, and he can only hope that it won’t take a millenia.
***
“Aziraphale, I have something to say. “
And isn’t that just the most ominous beginning of a sentence he has ever heard? Aziraphale sits up, placing the teapot back onto its tray, the tea half poured and now forgotten.
“Yes, my dear.”
What escapes Crowley’s lips are not words so much as a garbled string of consonants. He growls in frustration and then crosses the room in two easy strides to feed his aborted confession directly into Aziraphale’s mouth. He presses their lips together with an almost violent pressure, tongue delving so deep that Aziraphale might swallow it down. Aziraphale takes his punishment with grace, a small whimper in his throat as he accepts and accepts.
“Crowley.” He gasps as the Creature breaks their kiss, his hands still twisted roughly in the lapels of Aziraphale’s cardigan.
“Aziraphale.” The word escapes him like a punched-out breath. His body seems to fall backwards then, only to be caught by the air. He staggers and then stills, his head hanging as loosely as the hands that have dropped to his side.
“Oh, Aziraphale. We have known each other a long time.” He says as quietly as the rustle of the leaves.
“Not so long for you.”
“The days pass just the same for me as they do for you. It has been a long time, and I have always been there for you. Even when you didn’t know it, didn’t want it.”
Aziraphale nods, his eyes flicking across the room trailing across the many hundreds of book spines that wait unopened, waiting for his greedy gaze to devour their words and bring their stories to life. He looks at them so he does not have to look at Crowley, at the expression on his face, at the pain that he put there. This feels like a rejection. This feels like a goodbye. There’s a storm brewing, dark clouds hanging ominously in the sky just on the horizon. Aziraphale just wants to close his eyes and let it pass over him. Let it drench him to the bone, if only he doesn’t have to see.
“I feel a great many things for you,” Crowley says, and he is fighting his own tears, Aziraphale can hear it in his voice.
“But I can’t know if they are real unless you set me free.”
Once, when he was a boy, Aziraphale had imagined that his heart was broken, but it is nothing compared to the brittle crack he feels deep beneath his ribs now. It’s like the snapping of a branch, or the crunch of a toppled vase. Some things are so broken they can never be repaired, they can only be thrown out and replaced with something new.
Lord, give me a new heart so that I can know love.
“No.” He gasps out before he can think, before he can consider the implications of his denial. Crowley is falling again, but this time it is a chair that catches him. His slender fingers clutch at his hair. It’s shorter now, styled like the fashionable men on the television. Aziraphale wonders how long this new change has gone unobserved, wonders how he keeps missing them. He wishes he had the time to catalogue each and every one of the unique features that make Crowley what he is, and curses the boy that he was for taking him for granted.
“Angel,” Crowley’s voice is soft now, it carries a gentleness he doesn’t deserve. “I am everything you need me to be, everything you want. Whether I want it or not, I mould myself to you. If you wished for me to love you, I would. I might already and I can’t know if that feeling comes from me, or from you.”
“Crowley-”
“Do you think this is my real form?” Crowley cries out. It’s an explosion of raw emotion, anguish and despair. “I came alive from your imagination, a reflection of your desire.”
This is the storm. The waters are rising and Aziraphale’s world is sinking.
Crowley tugs viciously at the tight fitting black garments he has taken to wearing. All sharp edges and slick design, black on black on black. The cut accentuates the narrowness of his waist, the angles of his shoulders and hips. He looks divine. Like temptation on legs.
“This isn’t me. I am not me. This is all for you.”
Traitorous tears spring from Aziraphale’s eyes as he shakes his head. No, no, no, not now, he can fix this. His fingers are big and fat and clumsy and whenever he tries to fix anything they stick together with the glue.
When Aziraphale fails to put his thoughts into words, the Creature jumps to his feet once again and grabs him roughly by the arms. He shakes him, and then pulls him close until his nose bumps against Aziraphale’s. For a breathtaking moment, Aziraphale imagines he’ll kiss him again, but instead the feral cat returns and he snarls.
“I would be obliged to. Do you want that? Would you want my love as part of a magical contract?”
Aziraphale is already shaking his head. No. But this time he is answering the question. Because he doesn’t want that, he wants to be chosen. He wants someone to look at him, and choose him. And more than anything, he wants Crowley to be able to choose.
“If I let you go, you’ll leave me.” He’s sobbing now, big ugly tears streaming down his red blotchy face. Are these tears for him or for Crowley? Is there even a difference now?
The iron grip softens, and a hand lifts to his face to gently wipe away the steady stream of slick salty wetness that cascades over his plump cheeks and drips from his soft chin.
“I can’t promise that I won’t.” Crowley says, “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“But-”
“Do you trust me, Aziraphale?”
And he does. Of course, he does.
There is nothing left to say, but to make a wish.
He feels the break of the contract like the severing of a tether. He feels himself being cast adrift.
Crowley stumbles backwards, the force of the snap so much stronger for him. His skin turns a palid green and he crumbles into himself and for a moment Aziraphale fears Crowley may vomit, but he doesn’t. He rebounds, but the hollowness of his expression never quite dissipates.
“Crowley?”
Everything in him screams to reach out, to comfort with his touch, but Crowley is stepping back from him, creating a space that feels like the cracking of the earth, a new chasm between them. He reaches with a hand before he can stop himself, anything to keep hold of the Creature who is drifting away from him.
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
Crowley retreats from him, not just in the physical sense - in the way he coils those sharp lines into a curl that protects his soft underbelly - but mentally, and emotionally. The spark extinguishes, the shutters come down, and he looks so painfully blank.
“Are you-?” look don’t touch.
“I need to go.”
“Crowley!” he calls after his retreating form but it is too late. The door opens and slams shut before he can form another sentence.
Aziraphale sinks heavily into his chair. The pounding of his heart settles into a sickly ache. He should have known. He should have expected. No one ever stays.
Hope. What a foolish feeling to cultivate.
Notes:
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Originally this was not where the chapter was going to end, but it got too long, and well, everyone loves a cliffhanger. But please believe me when I say this is the darkest hour before the dawn. Just hang on in there, they will find each other again. They always do.
I have also been convinced to add additional fluff as a reward for hanging in there, so you'll see the chapter number has increased.
Chapter 5: Thirty Continued
Summary:
Aziraphale is as patient as Crowley is old.
Notes:
Sorry for the delay! Christmas, covid and then a few other projects got in the way. This was also a difficult chapter to write, and I wanted to treat the subject matter carefully.
Content Warning for a frank discussion on sex, and implications for a history of abuse. There aren't any details. This is still a teen rated fic and there are no scenes of a sexual nature in this chapter. (unless you count light snogging)Big love as always to Ikeasebastian for being an amazing beta and listening to me yap about my fics. Big love to my writing server for running sprints with me and keeping me on target. I have got so much more finished this year already and it's only January!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thirty - Continued
It was nauseating, being alone. So much of Aziraphale’s life had been drenched in loneliness, but it felt different now, like picking a scab from a wound just to watch the fresh blood seep from a jagged edge, bright and red, the pain morphing from dull ache to something sharp and distracting. It tugs at the edge of his awareness, a dark shape in his periphery, a stone in his shoe.
At first, he busies himself. It takes no time at all to put the library back to rights, to brew a fresh pot of tea and find the good biscuits, the ones with pink frosting. He tells himself that Crowley will be back soon and will want a cuppa. He knows he’s lying to himself. He does it anyway.
But Crowley doesn’t come back.
And as the daylight dims, and the flickering orange of the street lamp floods the room with stark shadows, Aziraphale resigns himself to the fact that Crowley will not be coming home that night.
He doesn’t come home the next day either.
Or the next.
Aziraphale tries to adapt to his new normal. Pottering around a too large house, haunted by too many memories, memories that invade his dreams until he wakes in the night, damp and cold, throat raw from crying out for only She knows who. He tries to make something of the place, dusting and cleaning in a frenzy, making a happy home for the boy who had never had one. He could chase away the silence with music amped up far too loud, the rising crescendo of Pucchini’s Tosca filling every crevice, but somehow it still lingers in the corners, still hangs around his body like a veil.
The silence was his worst enemy. Silence provides a space for his thoughts, thoughts that circle around and around, sinking deeper into despair with every rotation. Inactivity was a partner to silence, together they made a destructive duo, a pair that invited lethargy and then depression.
Eventually, Aziraphale does what he always does when feeling overwhelmed by a narrative that dooms him. He picks up a book. He escapes into a different story. He trades his life for another becoming someone new, a swashbuckling hero who is destined to find his true love hiding in the bilge of a pirate ship. And if he imagines flaming red hair and yellow eyes that burn like torches, where the page describes blond and blue, then who would know except Aziraphale?
***
“I should hate you.”
The voice is a familiar one. It wakes him from a fitful sleep. All of Aziraphale’s sleep has been fitful of late. When he wakes, it’s in his childhood bed. There is a master bedroom lying empty just down the hall, but his father still looms large between those walls. Besides, he wants to be here, he wants to be comforted by his childhood things, by memories of a creature that watched over him from a shadowy corner, who kept his nightmares at bay.
There’s a soft yellow glow illuminating the room, though he doesn’t recall lighting the nightlight. It casts shadows across the wall and along the ceiling, creating great caverns of gloom where a creature might lurk. His eyes search for him instinctively - they always search for him, a flash of red and his heart skips a beat - he squints into the farthest corner, the place where the wall meets the ceiling. His ears strain for the voice that may well have been a dream.
“It’s funny. That wasn’t even the worst thing that has been done to me. I have… suffered.” There is no mistaking it, the voice belongs to Crowley, but it is cold, distant. Not at all like his friend.
“You know, I’ve seen the true face of evil. I’ve been warped by it, moulded by it. It made me into a weapon of destruction, of torment, of temptation. Those men, I hated. But you…” there is a pause then, the swish of fabric, the sound of an aborted sob.
“You hurt me in ways I can not begin to describe. Such a silly boy. A silly boy, with an innocent heart. I heard you long before you sifted through my pages, calling out with your heart if not your words. I heard you. And worse. You heard me too. It’s why I liked you. How I trusted you. I thought we were kin.”
He spits out the words like poison as necrosis eats at the torn open fleshy parts of him.
“It wasn’t even that long a time, really. I have waited for centuries to be summoned. I’ve been buried in tombs and lost at sea. I have been burnt and frozen, crushed beneath the earth. It always felt like a relief to be lost. I would go to sleep, hibernate within my pages until fresh fingers dug me out. But waiting for you felt like an eternity. And trust me, I know something about eternity. I don’t ever remember feeling fear like that.”
“Fear?” Aziraphale finds his voice, he scrambles to sit up against his headboard. His eyes are adapting to the dim light, and he can see him now, make out the shape of him.
The Creature lounges across the ceiling, boneless and indifferent, his eyes flash yellow like a snake. The gold bands that ordinarily adorned his wrists are noticeably absent.
But he isn’t indifference. Aziraphale knows him well enough to recognise the facade. He can feel the quiver of his voice as he speaks the words, sense the barely repressed heartache.
“The only thing I ever had worth losing was my freedom, and I lost that before time even began. When you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to fear. But then there was you. You were… kind. I’ve never had that before. You made me want to be something more, something better than what I was made to be. I wanted to be your hero, and I liked that you let me. I would have given you the world had you asked for it, but you never would. It made you different, special. You were mine . So I had something to lose.”
Aziraphale can hear the words, but he struggles to process their meaning, to sift through the depth of feeling folded within them. A logical part of him tells him that he should be afraid too. Crowley is angry and hurt and an all powerful being with nothing to stop him from lashing out if he loses control. But Aziraphale, a man who was once a boy who shed no tears for himself, isn’t afraid for himself and he could never be afraid of him . He knows that this anger isn’t meant for him, it's a destructive force that points inward. He wonders what would happen if it spirals out of control. He never wants to find out.
“You came back?” It’s more of an exhale than a voice but Crowley hears him. Crowley always hears him.
“Of course I did.” Warmth imbues Crowley's voice then, and somewhere in the infinite gaps between words, a soft affectionate you idiot hangs like a star in the sky, guiding the way. Bringing them home to each other.
“I’ll always come back.”
“But-”
“I am bound to you.”
He drifts closer, sliding across the ceiling with no thought to the laws of gravity. His eyes never leave Aziraphale’s.
A pang of confusion stirs within Aziraphale.
“But I released you.” He says, hesitantly.
“You did,” Crowley smirks and drops down onto the bed to straddle Aziraphale’s knees.
“It’s not magic, Aziraphale. It’s love. Which I suppose is its own kind of magic.” He cocks his head, thoughtful.
“But-“
“I’m not sure if it’s yours or if it’s mine, or if we are both idiots, but it is real and it hurts. I was afraid I’d lost you, it scared me more than I could bear. It still scares me. It makes me want to run. But how could I walk away from you when I had just got you back?”
“Will you stay with me then?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“Oh, Crowley, of course. Of course, I’ll have you.” Aziraphale is still uncertain, still confused. “The bond is broken?”
“Give me an order.”
“Kiss me.”
“No.” Crowley laughs and flops down over him like a weighted blanket. He buries his face into his neck.
“Maybe tomorrow. If I feel like it.” He grumbles against his skin.
Aziraphale encircles him with his arms and holds him close. Their position is awkward, their grip on each other uncomfortably tight, but neither make any attempt to move.
“I should hate you,” Crowley murmurs into the crook of his neck. “But I could never.”
“I am very glad to hear that. And for what it’s worth, I am so very sorry. I hated myself for a long time, I think, for what I did.”
“Don’t be stupid. You were a lost, unloved boy wanting for the first time. It made you… foolish. Perhaps I lost sight of that. But you’re older now, wiser perhaps.” He smirks, “Hopefully.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
Aziraphale snorts and presses a chaste kiss to Crowley's hairline. Wrapped in each other's arms and feeling a little like a puzzle that had found its missing piece, Aziraphale drifts off to sleep, and dreams of sunflowers.
***
The following few days are like something out of a dream. Aziraphale has never felt so blessed. To be able to wake with the Creature in his arms, honeyed eyes watching as he slowly rises to awareness, a small twitch on the lips and flutter of eyelashes, it is beyond anything that he could imagine. There are soft, chaste kisses pressed to his hairline and to his cheeks, the rubbing of nose against nose, and the feel of a long, slender body pressing into his as it stretches and unfurls like blossoms meeting the spring. They enjoy lazy mornings in bed and decadent breakfasts fried up in an ancient kitchen that has gone unused for a decade. They slip into a comfortable rhythm, not dissimilar to that of their youth, but instead of the dizzying schedule of classes, Aziraphale has his father's papers to sort through and belongings to catalogue. Crowley returns to form as an agent of chaos, proving he is just as skilled as ever at providing a distraction, but now that the bonds of his servitude have been severed, he also presses against the boundaries of his newfound freedom.
The changes are tiny at first. A new mug, black where Aziraphale’s are white, the changing of the dinner menu, small gifts and surprises miracled from the ether. But some are more substantial. The changing of the bedsheets from cotton to silk, black and red instead of cream and tartan. A sketch of the Mona Lisa signed by DaVinci himself appears in a frame above the bed. Aziraphale has so many empty rooms, space aplenty for the Creature to embellish as he pleases, and Aziraphale has offered, but Crowley chooses to remain with Aziraphale in his childhood bedroom. Chooses to leave a small stamp of his presence on every surface. Chooses to squeeze in close. Aziraphale has never felt so loved.
The first time Crowley goes for a walk alone, he does not consult Aziraphale or ask for consent, nor does he offer an invite; he simply kisses him on the cheek and bids him farewell. It sparks the fluttering wings of anxiety in Aziraphale’s stomach, the feeling of separation is so disconcerting that he spends the entire afternoon hovering by the library window watching for Crowley’s return whilst his tea grows cold and his biscuits stale. It’s his own problem, he knows, and he does what he can to quell his fears but they linger in the back of his mind. What if he doesn’t come back? He thinks, what if it was all a lie? It’s a poison dagger, pricking at him with every pacing step that he takes.
It takes a little while, and many walks alone, but eventually Azirphale summons the courage to raise the subject.
“Crowley,” he says, after one such walk. They lounge together on the sofa, a recent installation in the library for days like this one. It’s black leather that squeaks when Crowley squirms. Aziraphale has covered it in cosy tartan blankets. It's the perfect marriage of their two unique styles. Crowley drapes himself across Aziraphale’s lap like an oversized cat whilst Aziraphale scratches at the sensitive skin of his scalp in a way that makes him purr. He marvels at the silky texture of the flame-kissed hair that slips between his fingers like water.
That spark of anxiety is back. But it’s not just the fluttering of wings and the gnawing of rats in his belly, guilt is in hot pursuit, heavy like molten lead. He feels guilty because he wants . It is a lovely afternoon, he has a good book, hot tea, and most importantly, Crowley beneath his fingertips. He should be content. But he can’t stop thinking about kissing him, about touching him, about pressing his palms to heated skin. He is not discontent, not really, he just always feels an extra edge of possessive clinginess whenever Crowley has been out of sight and sometimes that manifests as a desire to consume, to mark, to make his own. He wants it so badly he finds the tug of his desire difficult to resist, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. It’s fanciful really, he has often dreamed of the sort of grand romance that fills the pages of his favourite novels, but it’s the erotic fantasies of his well worn bodice rippers that he dwells upon now. He shouldn’t, he should be grateful for what he has been gifted. Everything is just so easy with Crowley, they move together like two halves of a greater whole, like one being split between two corporations. It is more than most will ever find in their lives. It is more than he has ever dreamed of having himself. He certainly should not be making demands of the other, not when he has spent his entire life in service to others. But he wants, and he can’t help it.
“What do you want?” he asks instead, always mindful of the fact that Crowley, even with his newfound freedom, tends to bend to his will without much persuasion. The bluntness of the question seems to startle the other, enough that he bats away Aziraphale’s roaming hands and turns his head so he can look up at him.
“What do you mean?”
“From our er- relationship?”
“Right,” Crowley says uncertainly and bites his lower lip. “Are we that then? In a relationship?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
Crowley’s brow furrows and Aziraphale can almost see the ticking of clockwork behind his eyes as he considers.
“Yup.” He says, at last, popping the P. He snuggles back into his previous position, nose buried into the soft bulge of Aziraphale’s belly. “I’m yours. You’re mine. No one else need apply.”
“Okay. I just wondered if you were happy with the way things are?”
“Humm huh.”
That’s a yes, he supposes. Even with the curse broken, Crowley isn’t human. It’s easy to forget, sometimes. The way he nibbles at his food and laughs too loud, how he pads around bed-mused in too-big sweatpants scratching at his backside whilst he searches the cupboards for coffee supplies. To Aziraphale’s eyes, he is human, even when sometimes he floats off towards the ceiling. But he isn’t, and it’s possible that his body doesn’t sing to him in the way Aziraphale’s does. He doesn’t need sleep after all - though he seems to enjoy the illusion of it just fine - perhaps he doesn’t feel the drag of attraction, the heat of lust simmering under his skin. If the chaste and gentle affection that they share is enough for him, Aziraphale can live with that. He certainly couldn’t seek out another, not now that Crowley has returned to his life, and he could never demand something that Crowley would not freely give. But it is something that he would like to explore with Crowley, and so he has to ask. He has to know.
“You don’t want me then?”
“Want you?” Crowley sputters and his spine twists around unnaturally so that Aziraphale can see the disdain writ large on his face. “Of course I want you. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“No, but-” and perhaps it’s the poorly disguised stumble in his voice, or the way his face flushes beetroot red, but something makes Crowley pause, makes him sit up to study him more closely.
“Oooh. You’re talking about sex,” he says, and it’s not a question.
His frankness makes Aziraphale’s cheeks flush crimson, and the use of the English language escapes him. He nods.
“Oh. Oh I see. You asked me to kiss you before. You want me to…” he trails off his face sifting through a series of complicated expressions, none of which Aziraphale can categorise.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” And then, because he can’t bear the thought of Crowley saying that he doesn’t want to, he asks him if he has ever.
Another strange sort of expression makes a home on Crowley’s features, and it makes Aziraphale wish he hadn’t asked.
“I am older than the world, Angel.” He says, “I am the original temptation, and I have lived through every age of humanity. Of course, I have had sex.” He pauses, chewing over something like he isn’t sure how to put his thoughts into words. Aziraphale waits for him - he can be as patient as Crowley is old.
“I’ve had sex.” Crowley says, “But never through choice. Never for myself. Always for-” he leaves the rest unsaid. But it is enough.
“Would you want to, for yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he says it apologetically, his eyes wide and earnest. Whether he is seeking Aziraphale’s understanding or acceptance, he isn’t quite sure. Maybe it’s both.
“I would do it for you,” Crowley adds.
Aziraphale shakes his head emphatically. He doesn’t want that, as much as he wants to bury himself in Crowley, to take pleasure and return it tenfold, he could never ask for it like he had any of his wishes. Crowley has never had the freedom to want for himself. He would give him the time he needs to figure it out. He will accept any answer Crowley ends up giving.
“No.” He says softly and kisses him gently on the forehead, “I don’t want anything you don’t want. What I want is to give you everything you want. Do you understand? When you figure it out, would you tell me?”
“Yeh. Yup. Thank you. I… I realise that was difficult for you… before.”
“Wiser now, remember.”
They both chuckle softly, and Crowley presses his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, flicks out a forked tongue to taste the salt of his skin.
“I’m not saying never.” Crowley murmurs, “And even if it does turn out to be never, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I’m never going to leave you.”
“That’s-” Aziraphale tries to choke back his emotion, fails, and ends up with a lap full of Crowley. Crowley has never explicitly told him that he loves him, and to use that word so matter of factly, like it was a given, like it should be assumed, punches the air right from his lungs. The Creature straddles his thighs and combs his nimble fingers through the fluffy whisps at Aziraphale’s temples. He presses a kiss to his left eyelid and then his right.
“Did you think I would?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says honestly. “I suppose I was afraid that you only stayed because you had nowhere else to go.”
Crowley laughs at that. Head tipped back, eyes scrunched closed he laughs from the depths of his belly.
“Aziraphale. I am a being of infinite power. I could go anywhere. I could fly off to the stars and never think of you again.
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because I would miss you.” And he presses a kiss to his lips. It’s the first time since the last time. Where the last had been a kiss goodbye, this time is something different. A hello, perhaps, or a welcome home. Where their last had been a rough taking of something, this was a gentle and tender gift. An inquisitive tongue traces along the seam of his lips, dips gently between them and then pulls away.
“Okay.” Crowley says, hot puffs of breath against his mouth. He licks his lips thoughtfully. “Kissing you is nice. I want to kiss you more.”
“Alright.”
Crowley sinks back down onto his lips, and they while away a lovely afternoon, kissing and cuddling, canoodling like teenagers, and it is nice. It’s nice just to touch and feel without the weight of expectation that there will be something more. For too long Aziraphale has treated kissing like a stepping stone to sex, and used sex as a transaction; he has never truly appreciated the subtle intimacy of a kiss.
If this was all Crowley ever wanted to give him, it wouldn’t feel like a sacrifice.
Notes:
Just want to add a little note here, I may have a little treat for you soon. Look out for that chapter number increasing 😉
Chapter 6: An Interlude
Summary:
Crowley tells his story.
Notes:
As always, an enormous thank you to Ikeasebastian who keeps my enthusiasm for this story burning, and wrangles my terrible grammar into understandable sentences. and big love to my writing group pals for all the love and support.
This fic keeps growing, and I suspect there will be another two, perhaps three chapters before the story is complete. It is complete though, I know exactly where we are going, I just decided to take the scenic route.
Chapter Text
An Interlude
The day the Tree of Knowledge sprouted from its seed, Eden had not yet been conceived. It grew broad and wide in the emptiness of space and time and the Creator tended to it from the peach pip from which it grew to the goliath it became. It nestled into the starless gaps between dimensions, its roots spreading and feeding into every iteration of the universe, into every world, every civilisation. There is no being alive that does not know the story of the Tree, even if it has a different name; a different shape; a different lesson to teach us, it looms large over all of us, bleeding into every reality.
I was the seventh son of a lesser God. His purpose was minor and inconsequential, and I was destined for nothing more than to sit on the lower step of the Parthenon, ready to take His place in case He and the six that preceded me fell from grace. I barely knew my own mind, all I knew was how to obey. We are but tools you see, created with function and nothing more. We are ourselves in that we know ourselves, our passions and desires, but our purpose is our nature and our nature defines who we are.
For an eternity, I knew my function was to wait. And so I waited.
But every time I passed the sapling that would become the Tree, I itched to reach out, just to touch it, just to feel the velvety texture of its leaves. It stirred in me a feeling of apprehension. Like there was a void at the heart of me yearning to be filled. A longing. It wasn’t for the Tree exactly. I felt like I was missing something of great importance. Like a page missing from a book, the story makes no sense without it. It was the first question I ever asked, and the first time I was dismissed. And so I gazed upon the Tree, watching it grow tall and strong, and deep and wide, and asked a second question. That, too, went unanswered.
I nurtured the spark of curiosity in me until it blazed into a fire. And just like Prometheus stole fire from the Gods, I stole their knowledge. Not all of it, of course, the Tree still stands. I picked just one fruit of the many it bore, and from it I took a single bite. That’s when I saw it.
“Saw what?” Aziraphale asks. It’s a cold day, and the rain beats down on the window pane with a steady rhythm. They’ve nestled together beneath the sheets, legs tangled, nose to nose, holding hands, like kittens curled together in a basket.
“Everything.” Crowley whispers, “Actions and consequences. Cause and effect. Every choice that was available to me, right, wrong, good, evil and everything that lay in between. It was just a flash, but I knew then, knew the potential I had. Suddenly, I had a choice.”
“Didn’t you have a choice though, if you chose to steal the Apple?”
Crowley purses his lips with a hiss and a glare, and despite his obvious irritation, Aziraphale knows him well enough to detect the twitch of a smile at the corner of his downturned mouth.
“It wasn’t an Apple.” Crowley says, “It was the Fruit of Knowledge. Apples didn’t exist yet.”
“Right. Obviously.” Aziraphale smirks, “But er- peaches did?”
Crowley’s glare is positively blazing, and with the ease of a minor deity, he flips Aziraphale onto his back, pinning him to the mattress by his wrists.
“Who’s telling this story?”
“You are, my dear.”
“In that case keep this-“ he leans down and presses his lips to Aziraphale’s with an intensity that ignites sparks under his skin. “-closed.”
“You like it when I use my mouth.”
“Hush now.”
Crowley kisses him again, softer now.
“No. More. Interruptions,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss.
“So I took a bite of the Apple and freed myself. You see all Gods are part of a greater whole. They are each an oiled cog in a great churning machine, or perhaps you could say they are jetsam floating on the tides of fate. They have no more answers than those of us who crawl in the dirt. So perhaps it was my nature to rebel or maybe it had been instilled in me by the tree, I might never know. But for my crimes, I was punished. Chained in magical cuffs that would force my will to bend to my master, even if my mind battled against it.”
“Oh, Crowley.”
“Shhh. It’s alright. When the Earth came into being, my mother took pity on me. She brought me with her to aid in Her creation. Though I was grateful for the respite, rebellion still boiled in my blood, and though I was bound to do as I was told, there was nothing to say I could not act without Her orders. Loopholes, Angel, I found loopholes where I could act.”
Pride swells in Aziraphale’s chest and drips molten hot into his belly. He pulls his Creature close and presses tiny kisses to his brow, smoothing the creases that had formed there.
“You’re so clever.”
“Angel!” Crowley rebukes, but there is no bite, no bitter poison that sometimes drips from his fangs.
“I walked the gardens at night whilst she rested,” he continues. “I danced with the humans, ate their food, drank their fermented fruits. When I realised that like the Gods, they were locked inside a gilded cage, I offered them the fruit. I set them free. They, too, were punished of course, but I still believe what I did was right.”
“And you? What happened to you?”
“Punished. Always, I am punished. Until I met you.” He smiles tightly, “She put a stop to my wandering and bound me to the book. Eventually, it became lost to the sands until another found it.”
“Do you regret it?”
He doesn’t hesitate even for a second.
“No. I would rather have freedom of the heart and mind even if my bones are in chains.”
He waits, a sly smile creeping across his lip, his eyelids flutter to half mast like crescent moons.
“Had I not rebelled against the Gods, I would never have found you.”
Aziraphale feels a tightness constrict in his chest. Feels the ache of a lifetime of want. It is funny how the body can yearn for someone even when they are right there in your arms, as if it can feel all of the strings of time, as if he is connected to every Aziraphale in all of creation, each one still searching for his Crowley. He wonders then if they would always end up like this, or if he alone was the lucky one. Was thirty odd years of broken things the price he paid to be happy and in love?
And what of Crowley? Surely the price was too high, an eternity alone just for what must feel like a fleeting moment; an eye blink and Aziraphale would be dust.
“Could I wish for an eternity?” he asks, a quiet murmur that wouldn’t disturb the heavy silence that had fallen between them. He has never wanted to live forever. At times in his life, he hadn’t wished to see tomorrow. But now he cannot imagine leaving Crowley’s side, not if his heart hungered like his own.
“You wouldn’t want it.”
“But-“
“When one is immortal, a lifetime can feel like a moment, and a moment an eternity.”
He presses soft kisses to Aziraphale’s temple, his cheek, his chin. He covers his face in tiny butterfly kisses until Aziraphale’s cheeks burn pink. He giggles, and wriggles from the Creature’s grasp even as he clings on tight.
“I will be loved for an eternity, what more can I ask?” Crowley says. “Even if that eternity is just a moment, it is far more than I deserve.”
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