Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Anchor & The Kite
It was Friday. A nice day. Rain had not yet darkened the sky, but the gloom emanating from an old bookshop would suggest otherwise. The shades were drawn, the doors were firmly locked, the sign in the front declared the shop as ‘very closed,’ and there was nothing to suggest that there was anybody currently occupying that space. In fact, any persons who walked by wouldn’t even spare a glance at the building.
A minor miracle, performed for the sake of having a tad of peace and quiet among the chaos.
Inside the old bookshop, once one traveled past the shelves filled with countless books, an unassuming door became visible. Behind that door was a small backroom, where secret rendezvous were held, as well as inordinate amounts of alcohol. Currently, an angel and a demon were not having a secret meeting, but rather drinking heavily, as was their norm. An open, almost empty, bottle of 1865 Chambertin was placed half-hazard on a coffee table, and the two held glasses that were not-quite filled to an excessive level.
The angel and the demon both agreed that it was a day for drinking, despite it not being even close to evening. They’d only had lunch an hour or so ago—time usually slipped away from them.
The demon—whose name was Crowley, but once had been Crawley; whose eyes were serpentine, but had once been a glorious gold; who longed to be looked at a certain way by a certain someone—swirled the wine around his mouth before swallowing. He was on the verge of drunkenness, but to stray from being tipsy would allow his mouth to become loose-lipped, and that would mean letting dangerous words embrace his tongue. Words from the past—the bandstand, for example—and words he so desperately wanted to say in the present. But overindulgence in alcohol was one of the only things that could make him forget Falling, forget asking the wrong questions. So, as he sprawled out on a small couch in the back room of the bookshop, he brought the glass to his lips once more.
The angel—whose name was Aziraphale, but preferred a nickname given to him by an old “friend”—sipped politely. He daintily placed the glass down on the coffee table, next to the wine bottle, refusing to become inebriated. His reasoning was awfully similar to that of the demon sitting across from him, but they would never know that. Aziraphale did not want to become any sort of relaxed in the back room of the bookshop. It would lead to disaster, he knew. Crowley might not have a care in the world about Hell, but that just meant Aziraphale had to worry double. They may not have had a side anymore, but that did not mean they were beyond the reach of Heavenly and Satanic forces. He didn’t want to worry—Crowley could handle himself, and he had, on many occasions—it was that Aziraphale, well, he loved Crowley. And he would worry.
A silly word: love. The angel and the demon had not spoken that word to each other, or to others, for their long, long existence, and it was believed that they would never. A demon was to love absolutely nothing; an angel was to love everything equally. But Crowley could never feel apathy toward Aziraphale—he only ever felt warmth in his chest that he buried beneath sarcasm and smirks—and Aziraphale could never not love Crowley more—giving him holy water, a suicide pill, to speak, made him shake with fear for the years after, when he didn’t see Crowley or know if he was still alive. He was.
The demon refilled his wine glass with the quick snap of a finger. It was a quick, loud sound that broke Aziraphale out of his stupor. Crowley adjusted his sunglasses, which had started to slip down his nose. Underneath the darkened lenses, his yellow serpentine eyes glittered brightly. Aziraphale wanted to see the depths that they held. Crowley’s eyes were magnetic; they lured the angel in until he never wanted to leave.
Crowley lurched to his feet, glass dangling precariously in his hands, his words not quite slurred. “We’re on our own now, Angel.” He grinned, teeth stained a light reddish-purple color.
Aziraphale gazed at Crowley with—what he prayed was not—heart shaped eyes. “Yes, indeed.” Simple words, they were, simple words.
Crowley raised his glass up and cheered to the air. He took one last pull from the glass and then, with the wave of a hand, the glass left his hand and appeared on the coffee table. Crowley frowned slightly. “If you ask me, though, they’ll let peace reign for a few decades, and then try again.”
Aziraphale gulped. Crowley didn’t notice, instead swaggering—although it was more like a loose-limbed stumble—around the little backroom.
Aziraphale poured a little more wine into his glass and remained sitting primly in his chair, as Crowley found his collection of Shakespearean plays. The originals were not displayed in the shop, and normally Aziraphale would feel alarmed that someone was touching them, flipping through them, but this was Crowley. Crowley, who knew how much Aziraphale loved books. Crowley, who wouldn’t dare harm a hair on its head—so to speak.
“There’s only a singular chance of Armageddon though—Hamlet!” Crowley slid the book off the shelf and held it up in the air, one slender finger jabbing at the cover. Aziraphale fought the urge to wince. “I remember this!”
“I should hope you do,” Aziraphale replied, feeling as if he might be drinking too much too fast. He placed his glass back on the coffee table, next to Crowley’s, and swore to leave it there. He could miraculously sober up, but that was quite painful. It was easier to just let it pass, as Crowley was doing at the moment. Though it was incorrect to say the angel and the demon were drunk, they were on the edge of tipsy.
“1602! And you went to Edinburgh, both to tempt and perform a miracle.” Crowley seemed lost inside memories, his hand falling limp. The book almost, but didn’t, fall. Crowley caught it just in time, and placed it back upon the shelf. “I did a miracle, too.”
“That you did,” Aziraphale broke in. “Made Hamlet famous, for … Shakespeare.” He wanted to say ‘for him’ but the words would not escape his tongue. His self-control was at its limit, but it was there.
Crowley turned to him and pointed. “And you gave that girl—what was her name?—90 guineas.”
“Well—”
“Mighty kind of you,” Crowley said, traveling back over and retaking his seat on the couch, head tilted back. Aziraphale might have admired the column of his neck for a moment, but he would never admit it. He quickly looked away, toward the door that led back into the main room of the bookshop.
A moment passed. Awkward silence ensued. Aziraphale was sure that he should be the one to say something, but didn’t know what to say. Crowley was … he was … not sober. Anything Aziraphale said could very well be forgotten, or excused, as he wasn’t in a clear state either.
“Eh—you’re an angel after all,” Crowley finally said, leaning forward and eyeing the bottle of Chambertin. “Oh, I’m too drunk for this.” His words slipped out, as did the alcohol, pouring back in the bottle it came from. Crowley groaned and sighed heavily when it was over. “Oi, sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it,” he muttered lowly.
Aziraphale followed suit, and soon the bottle was filled back to the brim. He swallowed hard. The corner of Crowley’s mouth ticked up. Aziraphale let cur-sed words slip between them. “D’you want to stay?” he offered. It was the polite thing to do, after all.
Crowley shook his head. It wasn’t an automatic no but he certainly hadn’t thought about it for more than a couple seconds. Aziraphale shouldn’t have felt upset at that fact, but it wasn’t as if they had anything to do for the rest of the afternoon.
“Better go check on the plants, and … well, the plants,” Crowley said awkwardly, climbing to his feet. He flashed Aziraphale a tight smile. It seemed like he was leaving a lot unsaid, and he was. But there was no time to press, or even ask about his plants, because Crowley had already strode out of the bookshop, leaving Aziraphale sitting there, wondering what the Heaven had just happened.
***
The next day, the demon and the angel met for lunch at their usual establishment—a table for two had miraculously opened up right as they arrived.
The small cafe was a diamond in the rough; Crowley had been the one to discover it, so of course it was perfect. It was quaint, usually quiet, and the aroma of coffee and pastries filled the air. The tables were wooden, and could be expanded if one simply pulled the edge of the table out, while the chairs were made out of metal. They scratched slightly on the checkerboard floor, leaving light scrape marks. The low hanging chandeliers filled the cafe with dim light—not romantic, at least not the way they saw it. Everything was overpriced, but at least the food and drink were above average for what one would find in such a place. There was plenty good about their alcohol selection as well—it was diverse for such a small cafe.
They took their respective seats in the back—the angel took a seat carefully, feeling apprehension, while the demon sprawled out, no tension evident in his body—and were handed laminated menus that had certainly seen better days. The edges were peeled up, and the words had faded with time. Crowley handed the cards back to the waiter with a self-assured aura. They had been enough times to know exactly what they wanted.
Aziraphale ordered first, because of course he did. Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way. The angel requested a small glass of Meursault—earliest vintage possible—and a Goat’s Cheese & Leek quiche, much to Crowley’s delight. The demon always teased him about his refined taste, and this was no exception. His laugh sounded like the tinkling of bells, to Aziraphale. It was rough, and low, but a beautiful sound, like the best of classical music.
Crowley, who hadn’t eaten in centuries, simply asked for a Malbec—of Argentinian style. When he received the news that the cafe actually didn’t have an expansive list of wines, he decided to have the same as Aziraphale: Meursault.
They sat in comfortable silence, neither wanting to shatter the fragile peace. Aziraphale was anxious about speaking; he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Crowley liked just being around Aziraphale, whether or not they were actively discussing anything, but knew he should probably explain his behavior the day before.
Crowley sighed and pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. He began to say something—a simple word—but the waiter appeared with their glasses. “So,” he finally said, his voice sounding gritty. Crowley wrapped his fingers around the stem of his glass and raised it to his lips. His eyes tracked Aziraphale’s as the angel watched the demon sip and swallow intently. Crowley smirked and leaned further back in his chair, waving a hand at Aziraphale’s glass. “It’s getting cold,” he teased.
Aziraphale blinked, his cheeks tinging a light, silly pink, and his eyes fluttering shut in embarrassment. Then, to disrupt the charged environment, he scoffed. “I should hope you haven’t done something to it.”
Crowley’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, something that tugged at Aziraphale’s heartstrings. “Of course not. That would be against the rules.”
Aziraphale took a sip and tilted his head. “Rules?” he queried, as the quiche was placed in front of him. The waiter lingered for a moment longer than necessary before pivoting on one heel and striding away. Crowley watched him go, an unsettled expression on his face. “Quiche?” Aziraphale offered.
Crowley shook his head, but this was normal for him. Aziraphale did not feel rejected because of it, not like yesterday. It was one thing to not eat food, another to turn down lodging. He didn’t know if Crowley was still living in his flat, but hoped he was, seeing as the Bentley was not a suitable environment for someone such as Crowley, who liked to stretch out and saunter around.
“Rules …?” Aziraphale prompted once more, slicing off a small piece of the tart and placing it in his mouth. It was scrummy, and he smiled with content, his eyes fluttering closed once more.
When Crowley answered, his voice was rougher than normal, and deep. “To keep the fragile existence we’ve carved out for ourselves peaceful, Angel.”
Aziraphale’s eyes popped open. Crowley’s head was tipped down, staring at him. “We didn’t create rules when we averted Armageddon, did we?” the angel asked, curiously, taking another bite, and then sip.
Crowley took a heavy drink from his glass before speaking. “I think we were a little busy, then.” He shrugged casually.
Aziraphale had no idea where the conversation was going, only had the sensation that it was tilting in a dangerous direction, and he attempted to recalculate. “Has your—” he cut himself off when Crowley raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “Have you heard from your former side?” He corrected himself.
Crowley shook his head. “No, I think the stunt we pulled scared them off pretty well.” He finished his glass and gently placed it on the table. Then, Crowley tipped his chair back and waited as Aziraphale finished his quiche and wine.
***
The two left the cafe around an hour later. The sky was bright, and Aziraphale had a small bounce in each step as Crowley strode next to him. Aziraphale noticed that—perhaps unconsciously—Crowley gravitated to stand between the street and Aziraphale. It might not have meant anything, but Aziraphale couldn’t help the warmth that filled his chest. It was delight, this feeling, and he felt wrong for feeling it. Crowley couldn’t possibly know what he was doing.
“Back to the bookshop?” Aziraphale asked, hoping that Crowley would say yes. He wanted to soak up every possible moment with him before fiction became fact—Hell and Heaven returned to wage war against humanity.
Crowley made an uncommitted noise but didn’t stray from the path the two were traveling. In fact, when they reached an intersection within the street, he held up a hand to pause traffic for them. “It’s strange, though,” Crowley said, as if continuing a conversation they had never started.
“What?” Aziraphale asked, turning his head.
“Being independent like this. Not bound to the rules of Heaven or Hell.” Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. Crowley realized a second later and spun to face him. “Problem, Angel?”
“Crowley …” Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that he still wanted to belong to Heaven—he did, though—it was that he didn’t like the idea of not having a side. Over six thousand years on Earth being a Heavenly Angel and now he was … Well. He had no idea of what he was.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Crowley said cheerfully. “This is a good thing.”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale said as they resumed walking. Was it a good thing? Spending eternity without a purpose?
“No Supreme Archangel to tell you not to wear tartan collars or tweed jackets,” Crowley added as they crossed the road once more.
They had a few more paces to go before reaching the bookshop, and Aziraphale bit his lip. There was a question burning in his mind, something he really wanted to ask but didn’t exactly know how to phrase it.
“When you—we—did the body-swap … in Heaven, what was my trial like?” Aziraphale asked awkwardly. There was no way in, well, Heaven that Aziraphale would not have had a trial—especially because the Almighty was, above all else, fair. He and Crowley had a good thing going, but he missed performing miracles, no matter how minor, for the Almighty. He couldn’t imagine that this was what She wanted for him, and although he would never question Her, he felt doubt.
He looked at Crowley, whose expression had shuttered. The sunglasses he was wearing prevented Aziraphale from seeing his eyes, but the rest of his facial features tightened, and his saunter was tenser.
Aziraphale unlocked the door to the bookshop and ushered Crowley inside. There was no need to grant the demon permission; he’d had it for centuries, despite Aziraphale not ever explicitly stating so. Once the two were inside, Aziraphale closed the door, locked it, and turned to face Crowley expectantly.
Crowley slowly removed his sunglasses. The darkened room seemed to light up his eyes. The serpentine slits seemed even narrower than normal. Aziraphale was taken aback. Crowley had asked about Hell numerous times, and seemed delighted with Aziraphale’s retelling of the events. He’d enjoyed it immensely when Aziraphale mentioned how he’d asked the Archangel Michael for a towel—and they’d obliged.
But every time Aziraphale brought up Heaven, Crowley stiffened and changed the subject. Aziraphale had let it slide many times, but now, when Crowley made word choices such as our side and independent and not bound to Heaven, Aziraphale wanted—nay: needed—to know.
“Crowley?”
“Angel.” His voice was gruff, and heavy with warning.
Yet Aziraphale soldiered on. “What did Heaven say?”
Crowley looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else—even in the fourteenth century, and Aziraphale knew he’d never found anything as meaningless as the 1300s. He turned the sunglasses over and over in his hands.
They squared off. The demon closest to the door, the sun making him seem like a silhouette, red hair having the power of a hundred burning suns. The angel facing the demon, looking directly into his eyes, unabashed and unafraid. There was no reason to be.
Finally, Crowley spoke. “They didn’t say anything.”
The breath Aziraphale had been holding soared out of him. He very rarely got frustrated, especially not at Crowley, but all he wanted was a simple answer. “Crowley, it’s a simple question. I’m not asking for a play-by-play, but I would rather like to understand my side and their reasoning.”
“Your side,” Crowley echoed. His voice was emotionless, his eyes lost their spark, his face dropped. “Right.” His fingers slid the sunglasses back on his face, and his head tilted back slightly.
Aziraphale couldn’t see the depths hidden in them, but understood what the act meant. Crowley wasn’t going to give him any information. It wasn’t like Crowley to hide things, not from Aziraphale, but there they were.
The angel staring at the demon, pleading with his eyes and words for information. The demon staring at the angel, refusing to give in.
“Right,” Crowley repeated. To Aziraphale, it looked like he steeled himself before whirling around.
His hand touched the doorknob when Aziraphale spoke quickly, desperately. “No, Crowley … That’s not what I—”
“Your side, Angel,” Crowley said, his voice holding a finality that Aziraphale knew could not be dissuaded.
And so the angel watched as the demon left him.
The demon always left the angel, but the angel always let him leave.
And, in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, he remembered that he still did not know whether Crowley had lodging or not.