Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul 
And sings the tune without the words 
And never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

Act I

London, 1609

The utmost care was taken with their meetings, of course, but there were occasional, surreptitious days—perhaps once every twenty years—when Crowley dared to walk across town from his lodgings and rap his knuckles on the second-floor door of a modest, book-filled home on the east side and visit his angel. Aziraphale was not properly his, but he was the only other celestial being in the vicinity, and the only one Crowley had any interest in spending time with. The host of Hell was hardly good company, and the tedium of Heaven was a significant part of the reason Crowley had rebelled in the first place. But Aziraphale was not like the other angels, which had been made clear on the day they met back at the dawn of history, when he had offered a wing to shelter Crowley from the first rain. No other angel would have spoken to him, let alone been so thoughtful.

It had been made clear numerous times that they were not friends, and yet they were far from enemies; they never had been, even if it was expected of them. There were a great deal of things that were expected of them that they had found ways to disregard or skirt in their centuries on Earth. It had created a wicked bond between them—or at least that was how Crowley perceived it.

Admittedly, his perspective was somewhat skewed, for, after all, his affection for Aziraphale had grown steadily over their acquaintance, to the point that lesser beings might call it...well, love. Demons didn't love things or people, but Aziraphale was neither object nor human; he occupied a liminal space in the rules for demonic creatures, and Crowley was always looking for loopholes.

That day, there was a thick cover of gray cloud over the sky, which Crowley much preferred to sunshine—thankfully rare in England. His tenure in Rome had been less tolerable for luminous reasons, though at least he always had his tinted spectacles. He wore them for the humans’ benefit, but found that often he kept them on when he was in Aziraphale’s presence, too. He didn’t like to imagine that he wished to keep the marks of his nature hidden, and yet he couldn’t help but keep that notion at the back of his mind. He was tainted, and he did not ever want that taint to besmirch the angel.

Crowley sprang lightly up the stairs to Aziraphale’s door and knocked in three curt bursts. There was a muffled shuffling from inside—presumably Aziraphale making himself presentable for whoever had come to see him; he managed his appearance well enough, but when he was deep in reading, he couldn’t be bothered—and then the heavy lock clicked free and the door swung open. As predicted, Aziraphale was rumpled: in his shirtsleeves with his hair sticking up at odd angles, and with that distant look of just having surfaced from a long session of studying manuscripts.

“Oh! Crowley,” he said, blinking at up him as if just waking. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did we arrange something that I’ve forgotten about?”

“No, no, angel,” Crowley replied. “Just a social call. It’s been a while.” He held up a wax-sealed bottle of wine—miracled in from Italy that morning. “Thought you might like a drink.”

Aziraphale looked to the bottle and then back at Crowley. “Is it late enough for that already? Goodness, the day has slipped away from me. I thought I had just made tea and had bread and honey for breakfast.” He patted his just slightly rounded stomach under the thin linen of his shirt. “Well, come to think of it, I’m a bit peckish. And a drink wouldn’t be objectionable. Come in, my dear.”

He stepped back to allow Crowley across the threshold, revealing the inside of the small central room: the bowing shelves filled with books and stuffed with folded papers, and a squat writing desk set between two windows. There was no bedroom; Aziraphale didn’t indulge in sleep as Cowley had taken to.

“The cups are in their usual place,” Aziraphale said, gesturing toward a cabinet on the opposite wall from the door. He went to the desk and began to gather up various papers, putting his mind in order as well.

Crowley retrieved two clay cups and, taking the knife from his boot, cut through the seal on the wine to pour it. The scent rose up as soon as it was in each cup. He breathed it in deeply, glad for such a treat. He wouldn’t have brought anything less than exquisite to Aziraphale, whose palate was far more developed than his own. Aziraphale had taken to human food like a fish to water. Crowley took little of it himself, but he supposed that if he could sleep, Aziraphale could eat. He took both cups to the small round table near the center of the room and dropped into the spindly wooden chair, hard on his seat bones. His long legs he extended beneath the table.

“Have you been busy with your miracle-making, angel?” he asked.

“Fairly,” said Aziraphale, joining him at the table. His posture was straight and formal, despite his state of undress. Crowley was turned out in doublet and puffed trousers, as was in fashion for the period. It wasn’t his favorite attire in his long life, but he suffered it for the sake of blending in. Aziraphale continued: “And you? Any stand-out temptings recently?”

Crowley shrugged. “The usual: adultery, greed, nefarious doings for men and women alike. It’s been an unremarkable two decades, if you can believe it. This century is so far turning out to be rather bland. And don’t get me started on the throwing of filth from windows into the streets. The bloody Romans had decent sewage systems, and that was centuries ago.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t like the theater in this country to much, I might consider going elsewhere. I’ve heard Spain is nice.”

“Come now,” Aziraphale said reprovingly, “you love London. And for more than just the theater. The filth does leave something to be desired, but we’ve seen worse, haven’t we?” He raised his white eyebrows in gentle, tolerant suggestion. It never failed to make Crowley give in.

“We have,” Crowley admitted. “I heard Shakespeare’s putting on a new one soon. A comedy, I hope.”

“A tragedy, actually,” said Aziraphale. “Something about Denmark. I spoke to him about three weeks ago, but I can’t recall the details.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure I’ll like being surprised when I go and see it.”

Crowley grumbled, “Denmark. Well, at least the vikings bathed regularly. Haven't been recently, though.” He raised his cup. “Perhaps we can arrange a visit sometime soon.”

Aziraphale tapped his cup against Crowley’s. “Maybe in another decade or so.” He paused before he drank, his face falling. “You know how it might look if we were ever to be caught in company.”

It was cold comfort to know that Aziraphale disliked the necessity of spending most of their time apart, even if not as much as Crowley. Crowley kept busy, certainly; he enjoyed his work in tempting humans. However, he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that these stolen meetings with Aziraphale weren’t bright spots in an otherwise routine existence. As was the angel’s nature, he brought light, and not the kind that hurt Crowley’s eyes. For a demon to say he craved something angelic like that would have garnered him a severe punishment from his lot if they were to find out. They had put aside their lightness when they fell and would do everything in their power to deny missing it.

Crowley didn’t miss it per se—more that he sought the kind of effervescence Aziraphale put off. He was seemingly always in good spirits, and raised Crowley’s immeasurably when they were together. As Crowley took a deep drink of his wine, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d have to leave the angel far sooner that day than he would want to. It was work to force himself away these days, and it likely wouldn’t get any easier.

“Yes, of course,” said Crowley. “A decade or so.”

Aziraphale took a prim sip of his wine and sighed. “Oh, my dear, this is very nice. You shouldn’t have.”

Crowley’s chest hummed with pleasure. “No trouble,” he said with false nonchalance. “What were you reading earlier?”

“A treatise in German,” Aziraphale replied. He perked up at the mention of his interest, but caught himself and said, “I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Oh, go on,” Crowley said. “I know you want to.”

Aziraphale averted his eyes in that half-shy, half-pleased way he did that charmed Crowley to his core. With that look, he could get whatever he wanted. Crowley didn’t think he knew that exactly, but it was absolutely true. There were very few things Crowley wouldn’t do, if only Aziraphale would ask them of him. He didn’t often seek favors, though, much to Crowley’s disappointment. Fine wines would have to do for earning his favor, for now.

Aziraphale cleared this throat and began speaking in a familiar excited tone about the religious observations of some Teutonic scholar. Crowley listened with only one ear, more of his attention focused on the angel’s changing expressions: the brightness that came into his eyes and how his full cheeks reddened as he exerted himself in talking. The wine brought his color up, too, and they were nearly finished with the bottle long before he was finished talking. It was only when a nearby bell rang out vespers that he stopped in shock.

“My gracious,” he murmured, “I’ve been rambling. Crowley, I apologize. You didn’t come for this.” A line of concern formed between his eyebrows. “Or did you?”

Crowley picked up the wine and refilled both of their cups. “No, angel, but it’s all right.”

Aziraphale eyed him dubiously. “I don’t for a minute believe that, but you’ve been most tolerant, and I’m grateful. I don’t often have anyone to discuss these things with. Thank you for listening.”

Crowley considered playing it off as if it didn’t matter—as he usually would—but, to his surprise, said, “You’re welcome.”

For a moment they just watched each other across the table. These were the times when Crowley wished he could hear Aziraphale’s thoughts. He wasn’t impassive and wasn’t overly contemplative, and yet he was clearly mulling something over. Under the table, his feet shifted until his wear-roughened leather boots bumped against Crowley’s blackened ones. Crowley didn’t move away.

“Have you ever kept up a correspondence?” Aziraphale asked quite suddenly.

Crowley tipped his head down to peer at him over the tops of his spectacles. “With whom?”

“Oh, anyone. Friends, family.” He rubbed his chin, lips pursed. “Well, we don’t have many of either of those, do we? But I know so many humans who write such lovely letters to each other. Quite intimate, I suppose.”

“You’re not saying these are...sordid letters,” said Crowley, “are you?”

Aziraphale turned a bright shade of pink. “No! Of course not. Intimate friendships. Sharing deep thoughts and observations about the world. Talking of interests and…” He looked down. “Never mind. It was a foolish idea.”

Crowley leaned onto the table, rounding his spine and keeping his gaze focused on Aziraphale. “I didn’t hear any idea, angel. What plot are you hatching?”

“I am not hatching anything,” said Aziraphale, affronted. “Angels do not plot. It was just a passing thought. We, em, don’t see much of each other—not permitted and all that—so I thought we might...write to each other. You know, between”—he gestured to Crowley and then back to himself—“this.”

To be perfectly honest, that kind of notion had never once occurred to Crowley, though he knew perfectly well that humans were keen on writing letters. His handwriting was scrawl at best, but it was possible he could glare at the lines until they righted themselves into something legible. Or maybe it was his quill he needed to force into cooperating… He could cross that bridge when he got to it. He hesitated, realizing that he was already making plans for this rather than considering it. It seemed he had already agreed.

“I suppose we could,” he said levelly. “It’s not as if we don’t have the time for it.” A pause and then: “But, angel, don’t write about religious philosophy, will you?”

Aziraphale laughed and laid a hand over his heart. “I give you my word I won’t.”

Crowley nodded. “Fine, then. Ah, when do you want to start this...correspondence?”

“It shouldn’t be right away,” said Aziraphale, “or I’ll have nothing to write to you about. No miracles to share or the like. Perhaps in a few weeks?”

“Weeks?” said Crowley. “So often?”

Hands folded in his lap, Aziraphale said softly, “Well, it doesn’t have to be that often if you don’t want that. Maybe every few months?”

It was still a very short period on the scale of visits they were accustomed to, but Crowley’s question hadn’t been a protest. In fact, the prospect of hearing so often from Aziraphale brought on a certain brand of euphoria he hadn’t seen coming. After a millennium or so, he could still catch Crowley off guard. Yet another thing to admire about him; just what Crowley needed.

“Sounds well enough to me,” Crowley said. “I’ll have to buy some paper, and, well, a quill.” Aziraphale had a vessel full of bird-feather quills at his desk, but Crowley didn’t think he had a single one.

“No need for that,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve what you need.” He rose and went to his desk, pulling a sheaf of paper from it. Crowley expected him to choose a quill in the vessel, but he didn’t. Instead, Crowley watched him unfurl his white wings and from the rightmost one, he plucked a single flight feather. It caught the gray light from the window and shone with a delicate glint. He tucked his wings away and brought the feather and paper to the table. “Here you are, my dear,” he said.

Crowley took the feather and, while it was made of strong stuff, handled it carefully. For as long as they’d known each other, he’d never once touched Aziraphale’s wings. It was rather a sight more intimate than letter-writing, and most angels only allowed their trusted friends to groom them. Crowley kept up his own wings, grooming them every other day without fail. It protected the feathers, even if he didn’t often fly. Removing a feather and gifting it to someone was something he’d never heard of, and yet Aziraphale had done it without compunction, as if it was commonplace.

“You want me to use this?” Crowley asked dumbly, running the tip of his forefinger up the soft vanes of the feather.

Aziraphale’s smile was small and almost tentative, but he replied, “Yes. It should last you a good long while. Just sharpen up the tip with your knife.”

Crowley looked up at him through his spectacles, glad for them keeping the depth of feeling he was sure his gaze conveyed hidden. This gift was unlike any he’d ever received.

“Do you think I might, em…” Aziraphale said. He reached out some toward Crowley. “You know, yours…”

It took a few seconds, but then Crowley realized what he meant. “Yes!” he said hurriedly. Slower: “I mean, yes, all right.” He stood from his chair and, carefully, unfurled his wings. The feathers were, of course, black. The one he chose was near the center of his left wing, and it stung a little to pull it free. He winced, and felt his face heating up. Child, he admonished. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, his attention focused on the feather Crowley now held in his right hand. He turned his palm up. “May I?”

Crowley set the feather gently into his outstretched hand, entrusting a part of himself to Aziraphale.

The angel looked it over with a tender expression, smiling up at Crowley. “Thank you, my dear,” he said.

Crowley swallowed his heart, which had risen up into his throat and stopped him replying. He couldn’t fathom anything to say.

“So, I’ll write to you in a few months?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley managed to nod.

Aziraphale’s smile broadened. “Lovely.” A glance at the empty wine bottle. “I certainly don’t want to rush you out the door, but—”

“Yes, I should go,” said Crowley. “Can’t dally too long in case the head office comes sniffing around. And I’ve got tempting to do, right? Right.” He backed away from Aziraphale, toward the door. “I’ll look out for your letter.”

“Wait!” Aziraphale called. “I haven’t got your address.” He bustled to his desk and picked up a slip of paper. He didn’t carry a knife that Crowley knew of, so instead he tapped the quill of Crowley’s feather and it was miracled into sharpness. “Write it here.”

With a trembling hand, Crowley took the feather and dipped it into Aziraphale’s inkwell. He scribbled down the place to direct any letters. “Here,” he said. “I know where to send yours.”

Aziraphale accepted the paper and blew on it to dry the ink. “Very well, then. I’m glad you came by, Crowley. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“And you, angel,” said Crowley. He had no safe place to tuck the feather he had been given, but he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it to keep it from the elements outside. “See you around, then.”

Aziraphale raised a hand. “Yes, my dear. Until next time.”

Crowley left the small house, dodging a chamber-pot full of filth from the third floor as he did, and hastened through the crooked streets and back across the Thames to his own lodgings. When he was safe behind his closed door, he flattened himself against it and pulled off his spectacles. Uncovering the feather, he raised it to his cheek and brushed its silky softness against the skin.

“You make a bloody fool of me, angel,” he murmured into the stillness of his house. “An utter hopeless fool.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was away in Scotland for the minor tempting of a vicar to dip into the church funds for personal use (ehem, pornography) when the first letter arrived. Despite Aziraphale having asked for his address, the envelope appeared on his table by itself rather than by runner, and there was no address marked at all. Crowley wondered why he had even bothered.

The small square of beige paper was the first thing—even such a small change in his home—that Crowley saw when he returned. He picked it up by its pristine edge, studying Aziraphale’s looping cursive on its face: Crowley. It was sealed with purple wax stamped with the image of a flaming sword. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. Aziraphale had kept that for himself even if he had given the sword away long, long ago.

Crowley sat in an armchair and broke the seal with his knife, carefully unfolding the thick pages inside. The angel had written him a damned manuscript, it seemed. Somehow, Crowley wasn’t surprised, and he certainly wasn’t disappointed. On the page, he read:

My dear Crowley,

I hope this finds you well, and I hope that six months is enough time to have passed for us to begin our correspondence. As promised, there is no examination of liturgical thought enclosed, but rather observations. You see, it’s not often that we discuss the nature of the humans among whom we walk, and you know I find them quite fascinating in their imperfections. Indeed, I am an imperfect being as well, and I take comfort in sharing that with humanity. Each of them have their own strengths and faults, which never ceases to amaze me.

Just yesterday, I was at a tavern for a steak and kidney pie—quite flakey and fragrant and delicious, I must say—and I witnessed a man reciting full speeches from Marlowe’s plays. He had seen them so many times that he could repeat soliloquies even deep in drink. He was ignored by most of the patrons, who were concerned only their own dealings, but I could not look away from him. He delivered the words so gracefully, but when he was finished, he was promptly sick. That earned him more applause than the recitation. It was such a confounding mix of culture and brutishness that I left in wonder. (Not that I enjoyed the sight of someone being sick, mind you.) I thought about that strange juxtaposition long into the night, when the sounds from the street had quieted and I was alone with my meditations.

Humans are capable of stunning feats of honor and inspiration, and yet can so quickly flip to a complete lack of refinement. There is no such duality in celestial beings—or so we are led to believe. Angels are to be fundamentally good, and demons fundamentally wicked. There are bastions of those norms, of course, and yet I cannot believe with total certainty that we are so diametrically opposed that there is no common ground of...neutrality, perhaps? I’m not certain what characterizes such neutrality, but it must be an in-between space where we serve ourselves rather than our disparate causes. Can angels and demons serve their own interests? The desired answer is likely no, but centuries here and my own dear indulgences are evidence enough that I have my own desires. It’s dangerous to think in that that my present form is different from my original one, but are we ever the same? Do we not grow in time and experience?

Anyway, do you ever ponder how humanity took its present form? Of course, part of that was your doing, in the Garden when Eve took the apple you offered, but the shaping of their cultures and behaviors were all their own doing. And so varied are they! And yet the same in squabbling and celebrating and lovemaking and bringing new life into the world.

Crowley paused. What did Aziraphale know of human lovemaking? True, he was a being of love himself, but it was the joyous kind of affection for all things: paternal or fraternal or both. There was nothing romantic about the angel’s view of the humans—certainly not. But if there was… Jealousy flared hot and stinging in Crowley’s gut. Imagining Aziraphale in a human’s bed was too much to bear. Crowley banished the idea as quickly as it had come. The angel meant a theoretical understanding of lovemaking. Yes, that was it.

Crowley continued to read:

Their creativity, it seems, knows no bounds. It has, if I dare, expanded beyond what the Almighty could have intended. While She is all-knowing, how could She have foreseen such music and literature and dance and theater? I blaspheme, my dear, and I know it, but can you not see it as I do? There is much wonder to be found among the humans and their fruitful minds and hearts. Still, I recognize that so many of these beautiful creations come after sinful indulgence. I shouldn’t condone it, and yet I can’t help but appreciate what you and your kind do in tempting them to give in to their baser instincts. You can inspire terrible acts at times, but so too can you inspire great beauty. You, Crowley, are more responsible for the latter than the former, I think.

“Like He– Heav– like bother, I am,” Crowley muttered. “I can tempt people into evil. I just haven’t done it in a while.” Maybe it was time to start a war or inspire a few murders. He scowled, knowing he had come to dislike that brand of temptation; his preference was for mischief rather than outright cruelty. And were Aziraphale to find out that he had done something truly reprehensible, it would burn like a brand, marking him out for what he was. “I'm a bloody demon,” he said. But, hanging his head, he sighed. “A tempered one.”

The letter went on:

I will not call you good, for you’d hate me for it, and I have no desire to drive that kind of wedge between us. But if one looks hard enough, they might see a streak of light still in you. However, that’s enough on that subject—before I earn myself your enmity. Back to the humans…

He went on to describe a woman with her happy brood making their way down the lane by his home, and how they had lifted his spirits. He gave them a blessing of goodwill and health, which relieved one of the children’s sniffles. His alacrity went unnoticed by the them, but he had never sought recognition for his goodness; few angels did. They performed good deeds for the sake of them, not for a commendation from the head office.

Crowley himself enjoyed those letters of approval from Hell, but he was a weaker being than Aziraphale was. It was a consistent reminder of how he didn’t deserve Aziraphale’s company, let alone the regard he seemed to have for him. That regard was deeply cherished, though Crowley was sure he could never express that, for fear of chasing Aziraphale away.

Fraternal or paternal love; that was what he bore. To suggest something more would startle him, Crowley was sure, and drive the wedge that Aziraphale had alluded to between them. Demons didn’t like angels, per the rules; but Crowley loved Aziraphale, rules be damned.

He took the letter and tucked it safely back into the envelope, taking it then to a drawer where he could collect it and the next few that arrived after it. Already he was keen on receiving the next one. But first he would have to reply with a letter of his own.

The feather Aziraphale had given him was still wrapped up in his handkerchief, but he put the soft linen aside and revealed its snowy whiteness. With gentle intention, he lifted it and ran his finger up the shaft. It gave slightly under the pressure, and Crowley smiled. Gentle give, just like his angel.

He took some of the paper Aziraphale had given him half a year ago and, taking it to his table, sat down to write. He had bought a small well of red ink—an indulgent flourish—which he opened. It smelled of some kind of flower, making him wrinkle his nose is distaste. He would have preferred something acrid to the sweet aroma. With no other choice, however, he would use it.

The knife in his boot proved to be just sharp enough to shape the quill of the feather into something he could write with. He tested it with the tip of his finger before dipping it into the inkwell and, thoughtful, lay pen to paper.

Angel,

Six months seems fair enough. I should probably wait to write back (or something like that), but I’ve already started the damned letter, so I’ll just finish it. I don’t have your minor miracles to get it to you, so I’ll have to send a boy with it. Or perhaps a girl. One of those broodlings you wrote about. Seeing as a sniffle might kill a child in this day and age, it was indeed good of you to spare that little one the potential misery of a painful and congested death. Might be a bit on the morbid side there, but I’m morbid, me.

You’ve got a rosy outlook on things, which I really shouldn’t be shocked by. Only you could tell a story of some oaf spewing Marlowe and then spewing for real and be awed by it. Really, angel, you have a strange view of the world. People are mostly base, if you ask me, and give in to temptation far too easily. Your job is a lot harder than mine, really. The humans have exactly that kind of self-interest that you mentioned. It might be less common in celestials, but the humans have it in spades, and it usually leads to ruin. Sure, you favor pub food and clotted cream and scones, and innumerable boring tomes, but that doesn’t make you as the humans are.

He wanted to say that Aziraphale was above them, but it would imply that he himself was below, and Aziraphale didn’t approve of self-deprecating comments. He always chided Crowley for such things, insisting he was his own worst critic. The lords of Hell were his worst critics, he could say, but he didn’t bother; Aziraphale wouldn’t have listened anyway. He seemed to have selective hearing when it came to some of Crowley’s less savory doings, which was, admittedly, exceptionally endearing.

It’s true that sin inspires them, though, and my lot certainly have a great deal more of the truly winning ones down in Hell. Indulge in them as much as you want, angel. Nobody from your lot is going to look at you sideways for looking beyond the hymnals for something good to listen to. And they’d probably have something snarky to say about even visiting the playhouses. Speaking of, did you get to see Shakespeare’s newest? I gave it a miss, but you know I don’t like the tragedies. Too mournful, and there are far too many crying goodwives in the audience for me during those performances. The only thing worse is the histories. They’re terribly bad odes to what happened, honestly—as you well know; we were there. It’s the comedies I want. Give me a light caper and a bit with a dog, and I’ll be there.

That was sure to annoy Aziraphale, which gave Crowley a small measure of satisfaction. As much as he wanted to be good to his angel, he couldn’t resist ribbing him a little. Especially when he got pink and flustered, his gaze darting away and back and then away again, murmuring, “Oh, my goodness,” like a fretting matron. His primness was part of what drew Crowley so inexorably to him. Crowley’d never have that—not that he wanted it, either—making it so uniquely Aziraphale that it wrapped tendrils of fondness around the place where Crowley’s heart was supposed to be.

He thought out a few more choice paragraphs of inanities. It was frustrating to write little of consequence, but he wasn’t as deep a thinker as Aziraphale. There was no point in trying to fake it when the angel would know it for being false. He was candid and brief, folding a packet of papers that was much thinner than the one he had received. His own sealing wax was as red as the ink, and he pressed the image of a coiled snake into it as it quickly dried.

It was easy enough to find a youth to give a penny and send off with the letter. Crowley had enough influence over the boy to ensure that the letter would be safely seen to Aziraphale’s home across the river. With that done, Crowley went back inside and stood aimlessly in the center of the house. He had no particular desire to walk among the humans, and had no one in particular to tempt. It wasn’t often that he ate, but quite suddenly he had a craving for steak and kidney pie. Putting a feathered hat on his head, he locked up after him and went to find the nearest pub.

Chapter Text

Act II

London and the seaside outside of Nice
1718

Aziraphale’s white feather, despite the celestial properties it held, slowly began to show signs of wear over the next century. The barbs in the long vane separated and split at the ends, gathering into clumps up and down the feather’s length. Crowley had sharped the quill down to almost a nub, but as he was composing his most recent letter to the angel, it split right up the center, smearing purple ink at the middle of the page and obscuring the last line.

“Bloody He– bother,” he swore, scrutinizing the tip of the quill to gauge the damage. It was ruined, to his dismay. Sorrowfully, he tried to imagine what he might do with it, now that it was spoiled. He couldn’t cast it off like any other feather, but it was no longer any use to him; he couldn’t finish his letter today.

Frustrated, he pushed away from the desk he’d purchased the month before, when he’d returned to London after a two-decade stint in Japan. The feather he still held. It should have been molded to his hand by now, he thought, for having been so much handled. He would sometimes idly fondle it even when he wasn’t writing, picking it up and tickling the sensitive spot by his ear, where he was marked with a snake—arguably his true form. The touch of the delicate tips of the barbs sent pleasurable shivers down his neck and spine, and he took the moment to consider what it might have been like to feel Aziraphale’s fingers there instead. He sometimes wondered if the angel touched the black feather Crowley had given him in the same manner. Somehow, he doubted it.

With a last stroke of his fingertips up the tattered feather, he tucked it into a hidden place in his desk where it wouldn’t be often disturbed, but where it would still be a flash of white when he wanted to see or hold it. Sentimental fool, he admonished.

Glancing at his desk, he saw the abandoned, half-finished letter and couldn’t fathom continuing it with any other quill. He had a number for practical purposes, but he decided then, standing somewhat lost in the center of his study, that he would not replace it with anything other than another of Aziraphale’s—and for that he needed to visit the angel. His last address had been in the south of France, where he wrote that the food was exquisite and the sea brilliant blue. Crowley couldn’t be sure that he was there just now, but it was the best guess he could make.

Crowley tingled with anticipation, betraying his nerves at popping in on Aziraphale without notice. There was excitement, too; it had been so long since he’d last been near him, and his presence always came with a small measure of euphoria, which nothing else in all of Crowley’s time on Earth had brought. He smiled to himself, touching the mark by his ear.

Oftentimes the snap of celestial travel made him somewhat dizzy, leaving him spinning as soon as he willed himself to where Aziraphale was supposed to be. He stood outside of a cottage by the shore, waiting for his head to clear as the long grass caught the the delicate fabric of his stockings. The fashionable heeled shoes he wore—he was allowed some human indulgences these days—sank into the sandy soil.

Once he had recovered his equilibrium, Crowley made his way to the door of the quaint, thatch-roofed cottage and raised his fist to knock. Before he got the chance, he heard a call from behind him: “Bonjour!” The accent was poor and heavy, and could only belong to Aziraphale. French had never been his strongest tongue.

Crowley came around to see the angel walking up from the white-gold edge of the sea. He was in his shirtsleeves with a fawn-colored waistcoat buttoned over his round middle. His britches were pushed up over his knees and his bare feet were sand-covered. He carried a wicker basket in one hand—surely containing the remains of his lunch—and a book in the other. At first he didn’t recognize Crowley, but as he came closer, his face split into the kind of smile that ignited joy and fondness and abject yearning in Crowley’s gut.

“Crowley!” he said. “What welcome surprise!” He hastened over the grass to where Crowley stood and, setting down his basket, held out his right hand. Crowley hesitated; it wasn’t often the angel made an overture to touch. Carefully, he put his fingers into Aziraphale’s. They were clasped tightly. “What brings you here, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“I thought I might take the sea air,” Crowley replied with feigned nonchalance. “You wrote about how, em, nice it was here. Figured I’d see for myself.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “we can walk the beach later, if you wish, but you must come in. I’ll make us some lemonade.”

“Too sweet, angel,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “Have you got any wine?”

Aziraphale inclined his curl-decked head. “Of course.” He went to pick up the basket, but Crowley got to it first, carrying it through the door and into the cottage after the angel. The door hadn’t been locked.

The cottage was, to no one’s surprise, cluttered with various objects, from seashells on tables to herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry, and of course books. The herbs gave off a scent of rosemary and mint, which, when mixed with the ocean air, was delightful. There was, too, the more subtle fragrance of Aziraphale himself: soap and clean linen and Heavenly lightness. Crowley still had a lingering smell of brimstone, no matter how he tried to cleanse himself of it.

Aziraphale set his book down on a table that seemed to pass for a writing desk and went to a rustic cupboard, producing a dusty green glass bottle. He held it up with a knowing smile. “Bordeaux 1689?”

“You spoil me,” said Crowley. He adjusted his tinted spectacles on his nose, keeping the yellow of his eyes hidden. “Glasses?”

“Here,” Aziraphale said, picking up a pair of etched crystal wine glasses with short stems. He set them both on the table, encouraging Crowley to sit in one of the tall-backed chairs. “Care to pour?”

Crowley took the bottle and made the cork disappear with a wave of his hand. Aziraphale clicked his tongue reprovingly at the unneeded display, but said nothing by way of scolding. Crowley spilled deep red wine into both of their glasses. “A toast?” he said.

“To what?” asked Aziraphale.

“Unplanned reunions?” Crowley lifted one eyebrow.

Aziraphale chuckled, his cheeks still pink with the sun and warmth outside. “To unplanned reunions.” Their glasses clinked, and they drank. “Have you been well?” Aziraphale said.

“Well enough,” Crowley replied. “Busy with the usual temptings, and I spent some time in the Japanese emperor’s court. Many scheming social climbers to play with there. Quite amusing.” He peered around the little cottage. “Have you been alone here?”

“Mostly,” said Aziraphale. “I was in Paris for thirty years or so, but it grew to be too bustling for me, so I came here for some peace and quiet. It’s been lovely, I must admit, with so few distractions, and a charming widow up the lane who cooks.” He looked sheepishly down at his lap. “She chides me every visit for being a bachelor.”

Crowley’s stomach dropped. “Has she...have you…”

Aziraphale appeared quite affronted. “Certainly not. She’s a charming woman, but I prefer to keep to myself. And...she’s human.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered, taking a deep drink of his wine. Crowley didn’t make a habit of dallying with humans, either. It frustrated him sometimes—demonic impulses and such—but he controlled it, and…saw to himself.

Aziraphale blinked at him over his own glass, but changed the subject to Crowley’s time in the Japanese court. He had plenty of stories to relate, which he did until the first wine bottle and then the next were empty and both of them were pleasantly drunk. Crowley had shed his elaborately embroidered coat, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and leaning far too close to Aziraphale across the table. Their hands were only inches away, and neither of them seemed inclined to move.

“I have all of your letters, you know,” Aziraphale said, apropos of nothing during a lull in the conversation. “I’ve kept them. Tied up with a ribbon. A fine red ribbon.”

Crowley’s slightly unfocused eyes fell on the angel’s face. “I came for a feather,” he admitted at last. “I used the last one until it was ruined. Today, I mean, it split right up the center.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said quietly. “I wouldn’t mind a new one myself.” He rose unsteadily, catching himself on the back of his chair before he toppled over. From a pigeon hole set in a shelf on the wall, he produced Crowley’s dark feather. It, too, was worn from use, but didn’t show it as much as the one Crowley had. “I wasn’t certain I could ask for another.”

“Neither was I,” Crowley said, his gaze on the empty wine glasses. “May I have one, then?”

Aziraphale was quick to answer: “Of course, my dear.”

It wasn’t often that either of them unfurled their wings, but as the angel did, Crowley was startled to see that they weren’t well taken care of. The flight feathers were dry and less luminous than they had been before. Crowley’s brows drew together.

“Angel, what have you been doing with those?” he asked. “Or have not been doing.”

Aziraphale reached to touch the edge of his rightmost wing. “I suppose I forget to see to them sometimes. Most times.” He flushed. “Do they really look so terrible?”

Crowley did his own grooming, as was customary, every week or so to make sure he didn’t look a mess—even if he was the only one to see his wings. It was strangely comforting, and pleasant if he was in the mood to really handle and care for them. In Hell, touching someone else’s wings was taboo—too familiar and therefore discouraged—but in Heaven, there was a custom of having an intimate friend see to the care of one’s wings. It wasn’t often invoked because it took a great deal of trust, but as Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s uncared-for feathers, he itched to run his fingers through them until they were smooth again.

“‘Fraid so,” said Crowley. “I don’t think I could take one of those feathers, angel, when they’re like that.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “I don’t suppose you could wait a few minutes while I see to them?”

Crowley feared the answer, but he mustered his courage and rose from the table to approach Aziraphale. He said, quietly, “I could do it.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, white brows lifting up toward his hairline.

Crowley immediately backpedaled: “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

He made to turn away and recover his dignity, but Aziraphale called, “Wait!” Crowley paused, apprehensive. The angel continued: “If they’re such a terrible mess, I wouldn’t mind the help.”

Crowley's chest burned with relief, and with the ever-present affection that filled him when Aziraphale was near. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Aziraphale gave a short nod. He darted his gaze around the cottage. “Perhaps we might go outside. There’s not a great deal of room in here.” He drew his wings in more tightly to him to make his point.

“All right,” Crowley said. He gestured to the door. “After you.”

Aziraphale offered a smile as he retrieved a blanket to take with them. He passed Crowley by to step out into the sun and light wind. Crowley followed him to a spot on the grass, where he spread the blanket and, with a timid look, sank down to sit. Crowley took his place behind him, shaking his head at the unfortunate condition of the angel’s wings. His hands trembled just slightly as he reached out for one and gently took hold of the arch of it. He heard Aziraphale’s indrawn breath.

“Is that all right?” he said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “Go on, my dear.”

An angel’s wings, like a bird’s, had their own oils to keep the feathers in order. Neglecting to use it led to the dryness Crowley felt in Aziraphale’s. He set to massaging the top of the rightmost one, as he did his own, feeling the muscle beneath flex and then give. The tension in Aziraphale relaxed, and he leaned back just slightly into Crowley’s grip. Crowley, glad for the true permission, began smoothing the feathers down and gave himself permission to take pleasure in even this simple gesture—not that anything was simple when it came to whatever makeshift relationship he had with Aziraphale.

“You’re quite deft at this,” the angel said after a few minutes.

“Because I have practice,” Crowley told him. “You should have it, too, if you bothered. For all the care you take with your food and your books and your waistcoats, you shouldn’t neglect this.”

Aziraphale shifted slightly in how he was sitting, crossing his legs under him. “You’re right, of course. When I’m not performing even minor miracles, I...forget.”

“Forget what? That you’re an angel?”

“Not completely,” said Aziraphale, “but my connection to Heaven can be tenuous at best. I’ve been on Earth for so long, Crowley.”

Crowley stroked the oil down into the flight feathers with soft but insistent touches. “But you can’t forget your nature, angel.”

He could hear amusement in Aziraphale’s voice: “Well, you’re not always around to call me that, dear. I have your letters, but it’s different to hear you say it.”

“Different how?” Crowley ventured.

“Better,” was the reply. “You’ve a fine voice, you know. I should imagine you could sing quite well.”

Crowley laughed outright. “Oh, absolutely not. I didn’t even join the choir when I was in Heaven. You didn’t either, did you?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “I can hum a tune, but little more. I’ll leave the songs to the truly talented.” He sighed happily. “One thing that’s truly enchanting about humans is their music. Sonatas and fantasias. Truly remarkable.”

“I keep hoping for something with a harder edge,” Crowley said, “but the composers keep disappointing.”

Aziraphale clucked. “Always so particular.”

Crowley smoothed down the edge of the angel’s wing and, if he wasn’t mistaken, got a little shudder for his trouble. Boldly, he asked, “Feel good?”

“Divine, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

Pleased, Crowley kept up his work until the feathers were shining again. For something so delicate, they were amazingly sturdy. Crowley ran his fingers down a particularly fine one and said, “Mind if I take this? Or would you rather do it yourself? Hurts a bit, I know.”

“You can take any one that you want.”

Crowley took a firm hold at the bottom of the feather. “Take a breath.” Aziraphale did and with it Crowley tugged the feather free.

“Perhaps a second?” Aziraphale said, a bit more gently. “A spare?”

“I could,” said Crowley. “Sure about it?”

“Decidedly, my dear.”

He chose one from the other wing this time, maybe to keep the sides even. It likely wouldn’t make a difference, but he felt better about it all the same.

After a moment, Aziraphale asked, “May I pick the ones of yours I’ll take?”

“‘Course,” Crowley replied. “Why don’t you just...turn around?”

“Very well.” The angel neatly tucked his wings back down until they disappeared. He rose up first onto his knees and then came around to face Crowley. He was smiling brightly, and it warmed Crowley so much so that he felt like a newly created star. “Let me see the feathers, then,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s wings seemed to burst free, spreading wide behind him and casting shadows on the sandy grass and blanket he and the angel sat on. He knew they were sleek and black—impressive, if he did say so himself. Aziraphale appeared to agree; his expression was appreciative, admiring.

“You’re looking very fit, my dear,” he said.

Crowley did his best to look dismissive, but he likely didn’t manage it. He had his pride, and his fine wings were a part of it.

It took Aziraphale a short time to appraise the feathers, but eventually he reached his hands out and traced the length of one. Crowley closed his eyes, overcome.

“Little sting,” said Aziraphale as he pulled his favored feather free. It went easily, and when Crowley opened his eyes again, Aziraphale was staring down at it with tenderness. Crowley wasn’t sure he heard it, but he thought maybe the angel murmured, “Lovely.”

“And a second,” Crowley prompted.

Aziraphale chose one and held it with the other. “Thank you.”

“It was my idea,” said Crowley, glad for his spectacles to hide the embarrassingly bashful averting of his eyes.

“And it was a good one,” Aziraphale told him. “I wouldn’t want to miss a single letter.”

Crowley brought one of the angel’s feathers to the mark by his ear and brushed it lightly there. Aziraphale watched him raptly.

“Crowley,” said the angel, “I’m so very glad you came to see me.”

“You’ve just been alone here too long,” Crowley told him.

“Perhaps, but I’m always glad to see you.” To Crowley’s utter shock, he laid a hand on Crowley’s knee and squeezed.

Crowley’s mouth was suddenly dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of it. He barely managed to say, “Angel…”

Aziraphale sat perfectly still, looking into Crowley’s face as if expecting something. What, however, Crowley didn’t know.

When Crowley said nothing, Aziraphale took his hand away and turned his head toward the sea. “I suppose you should go now. Wouldn’t want to draw any undue attention.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered. “I’ll just be…” He stood, hiding his wings away, and stepped off the blanket. “Until next time, angel.”

Aziraphale stayed seated. “Write to me.”

Crowley held the feathers, stroking his thumb along the edge of one. “Always.”

Only when he got back to London with a dizzying snap did he realize he had left his coat in the cottage. He wished he could return for it, if only to see his angel again, but he would not. Aziraphale had it now, as well as Crowley’s feathers. He hoped both things would make him think fondly of him while they were apart.

Chapter Text

Aside from his long sleep through most of the fifteenth century, Crowley kept a good measure of the passing decades. He gauged them in music; in fashion; in particularly memorable troublemaking; and in Aziraphale’s letters. When one arrived, it never failed to appear just so on the surface of Crowley’s desk, paper crisp and folded with the utmost precision, addressed in elegant calligraphy to him by name.

The lines of each letter were so neatly done, it was as if Aziraphale had drawn a guide under each one with a ruler and then miracled them away. Crowley’s hand was slanted, and drops of ink speckled the pages of his letters, no matter how he tried to keep them tidy. Presumably Aziraphale didn’t mind; after all, he never commented on the quality—or lack thereof—of Crowley’s correspondence.

On a foggy morning in the Swiss Alps in 1813, where Crowley had been raising Hell in various mountain convents for the past three months, he woke to find a new letter—the first in almost a year. His still-clinging lethargy faded immediately, and he tugged up the loose trousers he had slept in, tying the strings at his waist. Otherwise he was bare, from feet to chest.

He picked up the letter with the kind of tenderness he reserved for only them and brought it to a leather chaise just beyond the door to his unused kitchen. Folding his long legs under him, he broke the seal and drew the pages out from the envelope.

My dear Crowley,

My greetings from Moscow. As I write, a merry fire burns in the hearth of my lodgings, while strikingly large flakes of snow fall hard from a cloud-obscured sky. It’s been like this for almost a week, and I’ve been housebound, save for venturing out to the woodshed to replenish my supplies for warmth. Despite the heat of the fire, I’m still bundled in furs and woolen underthings. (My, I should perhaps not discuss my underthings, but I fear I cannot strike the line now.)

Crowley had no trouble conjuring the image of his angel in thick, undyed wool underclothes, covering every extremity and curving over his soft middle. He would have taken them off only to bathe, which he did far more frequently than most people in this particular era. He wrote of their stink, and Crowley could easily see his pert nose wrinkling in distaste.

Russians, in the bitter depths of winter, even copulated with their clothes on, buried under blankets and touching skin-on-skin only were it was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t of any particular interest to Crowley, who had far more lurid fantasies in the back—and sometimes forefront—of his mind. One of his most ardent desires was to peel each layer of fine clothing away from Aziraphale, until he was standing totally naked, pink-tinged pale and unabashed. Crowley would touch and taste every inch of him, until he was trembling and seeking more.

In his chair, Crowley adjusted himself to account for the stirring between his thighs. Angels weren’t meant to be defiled in those ways, and it was possible Aziraphale would reject the idea completely, but Crowley was subject to his nature—and his Hellish impulses were to seek pleasure. The human body he’d been issued was quick to rise to the occasion, and should he ever actually be afforded the opportunity to touch his angel’s most intimate places, he was likely going to be the one shaking and begging for any contact Aziraphale would deign to give him.

Managing to rein in his thoughts before they grew even more suggestive, he continued to read:

Moscow has suffered a great deal since the French invasion last year, and then the fire in its wake, but rebuilding has begun, and I’ve been to hand to ease the process somewhat. My head office won’t tolerate too many miracles, and yet I’ve not been reprimanded for it. I do try to not to draw undue attention to myself, but I fear it might be time to move on soon. I’ve been missing England, I fear, and the energy the place holds after a long, cold winter and icy streets unlit by lamps. Perhaps I might not go to London, but seek a different quiet than I have here. Perhaps the sea? 

It’s difficult not to think of you when I come to the shore, no matter which ocean it is. The hiss of the surf wasn’t far off that day when you saw to the care of my wings. You’ll be relieved to know that I no longer neglect them, though my own fingers are less adept than yours.

Said fingers curled tightly around the letter, crinkling the fine paper, while Crowley wished it was angel feathers under them. The strong bones—light though they were—had been firm in his hands, the downy semiplumes soft against his palms. In those long minutes he had spread oil along Aziraphale’s wings, there had been nothing erotic, only cherishing respect, but since then, Crowley had conjured up scenarios where he had moved from the feathers to the join of the wings at Aziraphale’s back, pressing his lips there while he put his arms around the angel’s front and rubbed his chest, up to his neck and face, blindly caressing. Once or twice, Crowley had imagined gently pushing his forefingers past Aziraphale’s lips and into his mouth, where he would suck them.

Crowley let his head fall against the back of the chaise, hard on his neck. “Angel, please,” he murmured, a plea he never dared speak when they were together. Instead, he dreamed. He dreamed he held Aziraphale with the centuries of the love he’d hidden and conveyed without uncertainty that his devotion eclipsed even his loyalty to Hell and to himself. Crowley was indelibly his own master, but if Aziraphale would permit it, he would fall to his knees to do only what the angel wanted of him from that moment until the very end of time.

The letter went on:

If, maybe, I go to Brighton, would you come to me there?

Aziraphale put great thought into every line he composed, and Crowley did not for a moment miss the phrasing. It was not “would you visit me there” or even “meet me there,” but “would you come to me.”

Oh, angel, thought Crowley, call me and I’ll come. I’ll always come.

He continued to read:

There’s a charming hotel I remember staying in once before, and I believe a pair of rooms could miraculously come available should you be so inclined. Of course, we could not remain in company too long, but, if I may be so bold, Crowley, I’d like it if we were to spend more than a few hours together. If two days is too much to ask, then at least one.

Two days with Aziraphale. Crowley had not read anything he wanted more than that in, well, maybe ever. They would be inviting trouble from both Heaven and from Hell, but when there was so little oversight in the first place, for their paths to cross was not unthinkable.

Crowley, his chest tight with longing, read on:

Should you permit it, we could take the sea air and perhaps bathe in the water. There’s fine food (and drink for you) to be had, and better company. You may disregard this request, but I’ll be traveling sometime after the snow clears, at the beginning of the summer, and I do hope you might join me in your own time.

Now, I must tell you of the remarkable escape of a young girl here during the fire...

The rest of the letter was somewhat blurry in Crowley’s mind, and he had to read it twice before it made sense. Aziraphale was as pleasant and formal as ever in it, but again and again Crowley returned to the implorment: come to me, come to me, come to me. He could never resist. He’d go to Brighton straight away.

Agitated excitement rose in him, and Crowley sprang up from the chaise. Setting the letter down on his desk, he took inventory of what he would want to bring with him to England. He generally traveled light, ridding himself of furniture and most of his wardrobe when he took his leave. He could arrange with the landlord from whom he rented the place to sell it all to his own profit, which would surely please him, and Crowley could be gone directly. 

Standing at the center of the parlor with his hands braced behind his neck and his naked belly stretched taut, he forced himself to be calm; he needed to reply to Aziraphale rather than just charging off with no warning. It was only March, after all, and the angel had said he would travel with the start of summer. Still, Crowley could not stay put after the invitation had been extended.

He pressed his hand to his brow, pinching his eyes shut, and then yanked the chair out from under his desk and dropped down onto it to frantically write. As soon as Aziraphale’s feather quill was in his grasp, however, he had to treat it with more care. Dipping the sharpened tip into a well of ink, he began:

Angel,

It’s like you to go to a fire- and invasion-scarred city to miracle people’s lives back into some semblance of order and will buildings back up. My guess is that your lot have noticed, but indulge you. You’re the only one of them who would do such a thing, anyway. I’d say you’re too good for your own good, but I venture I know you well enough to say that you’re also arranging small misfortunes to befall certain people taking advantage of the poor and the damaged. War profiteers have never sat well with you, and miracling a carriage to break its axle or for gunpowder not to burn is your work, too. Wily angel, is what you are. 

Unwritten, but implied was: and I love that about you.

Crowley continued:

It’s more than time you get out of Russia. Brighton in the summer is fine, as far as I remember. We have four months until the solstice, and when the days are at their longest, find me by the shore.

He dithered, apprehensive, but then added:

I’ll be waiting for you. -C

It was a poor excuse for a letter, but Crowley’s were always shorter than Aziraphale’s. He often wondered if the angel was disappointed, but he could never bring himself to inanely ramble—not that Aziraphale did that. Crowley hung on every word (save for the ones that had blurred today), if only to imagine him putting each one to paper. The letters were small extensions of Aziraphale himself, and Crowley held them all dear.

He took the letter to fireproof combination safe he’d purchased a few years ago, in which to keep his collection of letters. He had miracled them to be nearly indestructible, but he reasoned that one could never be too cautious. The newest one he placed atop the others, securing it in place with red braided silk string he’d bought in Budapest in 1780. The letters were gathered in packets of ten and tied together as such. He touched the packet fondly before closing the safe’s door and engaging the heavy lock.

From the parlor, he went to his bedroom. The quilt was still disordered, and for a moment he was tempted to crawl back under it, but he held off. He went to the closet and produced something clean to wear and a tophat.

The landlord was in his study when Crowley arrived at his home. Crowley was offered tea, which he declined, taking brandy instead. He stirred it around the glass while he related to the landlord that he would be leaving at the beginning of the next week. The little round-faced man’s eyes lit when Crowley informed him he could do what he wanted with the furnishings and anything else Crowley so chose to leave behind. They shook hands after Crowley had finished his drink.

Uninterested in returning to his house just then, Crowley went to the end of a street that afforded him a stunning view of the valley below their mountain and the other peaks around. He might have enjoyed showing this place to Aziraphale, but then again, there wasn’t a place Crowley didn’t want to show his angel; he wanted him nearby wherever they were, and that was that.

Chapter Text

Act III

Brighton, 1813

Rain was coming down in side-sweeping sheets when Crowley’s carriage heaved to a stop outside the hotel where he had made arrangements to stay for the coming three months. He had only two trunks with him, both of them lashed to the rack at the back of the carriage. The footmen, their blue tailed coats soaked through to blackness, jumped down from their places and began to undo the fastenings. Crowley unfurled a bone-handled umbrella as he stepped down onto the slick cobbled street.

The hotel’s cream-colored edifice soared above him, the windows of most of the rooms unlit, save for the ground floor, where candlelight was reflected in the cresting rivers of water flowing through the gutter. Crowley stepped carefully over the channel and up onto the safety of the pavement. Despite the shelter of his umbrella, the wind blew the heavy rain onto his breeches, turning them sticky and damp.

“We’ll have your luggage taken to your room, Mister Crowley,” said a footman over the din of the passing carriages and rumble of distant thunder.

Crowley willed a pair of apples into being and fed them to the wet horses, murmuring thanks and a promise of a dry stable within a few minutes. He’d never been overly good with animals, but horses tolerated him when he was in his human form. If he was a serpent, they would shy and run with panicked whinnies.

Once inside the hotel, Crowley was given the key to a room on the third floor with a view of a sea; Aziraphale would like that. He had made sure that the one beside it remained vacant and ready for the angel—and to afford Crowley some quiet away from bothersome neighbors. He didn’t always seek solitude, but it seemed appropriate for expectant, even melancholy waiting.

April and May went by with relative dispassion, though Crowley purchased more clothing, and a few baubles to put in Aziraphale’s room to add “character.” They were simple things: a marble paperweight in the shape of a cherub (intolerable to Crowley), a fluted vase of cut glass that miraculously always held fresh lilies (Crowley didn’t sniff them), a walking cane with a blue glass globe for a handhold (more of a joke than for real use), and books—seven freshly bound volumes, from Lord Byron’s new verse to Fantasmagoriana, a collection of German ghost stories published, for some reason, in French. Crowley hoped with a childlike earnestness that Aziraphale liked them.

When the day of the summer solstice came, Crowley was sipping a digestif in the lounge—despite having eaten nothing that required it—and watching the red sun burn, still at the horizon. A few bold beachgoers were in the water, their sea-bathing clothes wet only up to the knees. The getups were truly outrageous, Crowley thought, with frills for women and knee-breeches and full shirts for men. He missed the old days, perhaps in Greece, where everyone swam naked. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had never been there to join him in those centuries.

Celestials had a certain presence when they arrived, and, if one was attuned, there was no way to miss one. Humans weren’t aware of the higher (or lower) beings of Heaven and Hell, but as soon as the doors to the lounge swung open to admit someone new, Crowley’s senses sparked. He nearly dropped the glass he held as he set eyes on Aziraphale there at the threshold.

He had a blue cravat at his neck, a dove-gray coat with tails that hung at the backs of his knees. His boots made no sound on the plushly carpeted floor as he crossed the room to where Crowley sat. Fumbling, Crowley set his drink aside and rose. Upon their last meeting, they’d shaken hands, but that wasn’t suitable for this century, or for public. Instead, they put their hands at their sides and bowed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice a welcome sound. “You’re looking well.”

Common parlance though that was—and generally a compliment—it fell hollowly as compared to the warmer tone of his letters. Crowley did what he could to avoid the heaviness of disappointment at nineteenth-century formality.

“Angel,” he said.

Aziraphale removed his tophat, revealing his fashionably cut white hair, but he held the hat in front of him, worrying its brim. “Here you are, just as you said. Waiting.”

“Waiting,” Crowley agreed. The angel seemed almost abashed, though Crowley couldn’t fathom why.

They remained silent for a time, a study in contrast: Aziraphale all whites and grays and starched fabrics and Crowley in soft blacks, save for a purple cravat. They were such an unlikely pair that they had attracted a few gazes from around the lounge. With a flick of his wrist, Crowley diverted the humans’ attention to other things.

“Have a drink?” he asked, gesturing to the half-empty bottle of Chartreuse on the side table. He’d drunk more over the past couple of hours than he’d thought.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Aziraphale replied. He took the armchair across from Crowley’s while Crowley miracled a second glass into his hand and poured the green liqueur into it. He handed it carefully to Aziraphale, conscious of how their fingers did not touch.

Crowley settled down into his chair and propped his elbows on the armrests. “How did you travel?” he said.

Aziraphale’s eyes were closed as he tasted the liqueur, but when he opened them, looking utterly content, answered, “Caravan and ship and then carriage. Awfully troublesome, but the head office doesn’t always appreciate it when I go bouncing around the globe by miracle, you know.”

“So you’ve said.” Crowley himself went by much the same rules. “And how long will you stay?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “surely two days.”

Crowley peered at him through the dark lenses of his spectacles and, for once, didn’t suppress his pleased smile. “Surely. But after that?”

The angel spun his glass in his well-manicured hands. “When will you leave?”

“When you tell me to,” Crowley said, low and perfectly, painfully honest.

Aziraphale’s fingers stilled, his eyes falling on Crowley’s face. “That would be longer than two days, my dear. But we—”

“Can’t. I know, angel.” Crowley raised his glass in a resigned salute. “But we have this, for now.”

“Indeed we do,” said Aziraphale, inclining his head.

They drank until it was deep into the night and most of the other patrons had gone to their beds. Aziraphale ordered chicken cutlets and gravy for a midnight snack, relishing it as Crowley watched and enjoyed his liqueur. They finished the bottle, both looser for it, unsteady on their feet when they finally got up to make their way to their rooms.

“You made this happen,” said Aziraphale as he was unlocking the door to his suite—beside Crowley’s.

“Made what happen, angel?” He was too drunk to know for sure.

“Tonight, tomorrow, the day after,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m certain you don’t know how long I meditated on actually asking you to join me here before I wrote it down. I was...apprehensive that you might have told me no.”

Crowley turned to him, finding him a little lost, his hat held over his middle like a shield. It was so unlike him to be shy that Crowley wanted to shake that from him by any means necessary. Before he could think the better of it—thanks to the liqueur—he went to Aziraphale and plucked one of his hands from the brim of his hat. He held it gently in his own.

“‘Come to me,’” he said. “That’s how you wrote it. You wanted me to come to you.”

Aziraphale’s face went pink, and his fingers curled around Crowley’s. “Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? You have such a keen memory, my dear.”

“Only for the things that matter, angel,” Crowley said. “It’s been millennia, and the details have started to blur, but not yours.”

“Oh.” It was a hushed word, barely more than an exhalation.

Crowley wanted to say a hundred things, most of them far too affectionate than he was actually willing to speak, but every one stuck in his throat, refusing to come out—even the innocuous ones. In lieu of it all, he lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Goodnight, angel,” he said.

“Crowley, I—”

Crowley shook his head, stepping away. “Goodnight,” he said again, and then he fled into his room. As he stood with his back against the closed door, he slipped off his spectacles. “You fucking coward.”

He threw the spectacles across the room, where they shattered against the wall, wire frames irreparably twisted. Sinking down to his haunches, he put his face in his hands. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, but he couldn’t face Aziraphale, either, after such a cock-up. He’d stew in his idiocy on his own, and by sunrise, he’d have to find a way to redeem himself.

*

If Aziraphale was at all disturbed by what had happened, he didn’t show it the next morning in the breakfast room. He already had scones and clotted cream and a pot of steaming Earl Grey. Crowley joined him, taking only coffee for himself.

“I thought we might go sea-bathing today,” said Aziraphale brightly. “You brought the right attire, I presume.”

“We might beat the crowd if we get out early,” Crowley said. “Won’t be too chilly for you?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You know I can make my temperature whatever I want it to be. I like the morning; it’s peaceful.”

Crowley could do the same, but didn’t often use his celestial cheats anymore. “All right, then. There’s a spot of shoreline that will serve just behind the hotel. Meet you there in a half hour?”

“You’re leaving already?” asked Aziraphale, pausing with a scone halfway to his mouth.

Crowley, surprised, hesitated. “Not necessarily. I don’t have to rush away.”

Aziraphale offered a smile. “That’s good. Please stay while I finish breakfast. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” Crowley lied. He’d spent most of the night warping and bending the wire and glass of his spectacles into something new. They didn’t look altogether different, but enough to warrant Aziraphale’s notice. However, the angel said nothing about it.

“I’m glad to hear it. I have to admit that I quite frightened myself by reading those German stories. Can’t imagine why they were translated into French.”

Crowley snorted. “Neither can I. They’re good, though?”

“Very,” said Aziraphale. “Spooky.”

Sipping his black coffee, Crowley nodded.

When Aziraphale was done with his food, they returned to their rooms to change into the truly foolish sea-bathing clothes. They had no sleeves, but the shirts otherwise covered all of them, and the trousers hung down to their knees. It was awfully constricting when they actually got into the water to swim, which Crowley disliked intensely. There was nothing to be done about it, however, without causing a scene at the seaside.

Towels in hand and their feet bare, they ventured out of the hotel and onto the cool rocks and sand of the beach. Unlike some other, finer beaches in the world, Brighton’s was a bit drab. Still, it was the company that made the difference, not the environs. Crowley walked at Aziraphale’s side, the angel’s steps shorter and faster than his own. They both had that wavering, sand-stepping gait that made anyone look ridiculous, but soon enough they were at the shore, where waves were rolling steadily onto the beach. There were very few people to be seen, for which Crowley was glad.

“Let’s have that, then,” said Aziraphale, taking Crowley’s towel from him and spreading it out on the sand with his own. Seemingly pleased with himself, he touched his hands to his belly and smiled. “Shall we?”

“Last in buys lunch,” Crowley said as he removed his spectacles and set them down.

Aziraphale paused to look at him, his smile only growing. “My dear, I do enjoy seeing your fine eyes.”

Crowley was sure they widened at that. He knew the snakelike yellow glint disturbed most humans, and he had no desire to attract more attention to himself than was necessary. They were his most telling demonic feature, and he didn’t relish revealing them to Aziraphale, either. He said, disbelieving, “You do?”

“Of course,” the angel told him, sure as ever. “They’re so lovely. Striking.”

Tingling from head to toe with unexpected pleasure, Crowley’s mouth turned up. “Thank you, angel. Nobody’s said that before.”

Aziraphale took one deliberate step toward him, bringing them scant inches apart. “Perhaps, then, you won’t hide them from me so often?”

“If that’s what you want,” Crowley said softly.

“It is, my dear.” Turning his face toward the sea, Aziraphale added, “Last in buys lunch?”

Crowley tensed in preparation to run. “On three?”

“One,” Aziraphale began. “Two. Three!”

Crowley was a good sprinter when he set his mind to it; he’d proved it time and time again in the games in Greece. But Aziraphale did the most unbelievable thing: he cheated. In a rush of air, he unfurled his white wings and sailed over the beach to the water. With a flourish, he tucked them away again and dove neatly into it, leaving Crowley to gape at the place where he had disappeared beneath the surface. A few moments later, he broke free, taking a breath.

Crowley slowed to a trot as he hit the water, wading awkwardly into it, gooseflesh rising in the chill. Aziraphale was bobbing along with the waves, treading water and looking very satisfied.

“You cheat,” Crowley said as he swam to him. “I can’t bloody believe your nerve.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Forgive me, but I hate to lose to a demon.”

Crowley scoffed. “Typical Heavenly hubris. Your lot really are full of yourselves when it comes down to it.” He shook his head. “Shameful, angel.”

There was no contrition in Aziraphale’s face. “Sore loser.”

“Why, you—” Crowley growled. He surged forward in the water, latching onto Aziraphale’s shoulders and shoving him into a wave. The angel sank, but was strong enough to fight his way back up, sputtering laughter. Crowley’s annoyance—only half that anyway—faded immediately, so charmed was he by the unselfconscious joy. He found himself laughing as well, his grip softening until his arms came around the angel’s neck in a light embrace. Aziraphale didn’t push him away.

“A troublemaking angel,” said Crowley, wry. “Neither Heaven nor Hell would believe it.”

“I’ve been on Earth a long time,” Aziraphale said. “Indulge me.”

Gooseflesh not at all caused by cool water the rose at the back of Crowley’s neck. “You can have whatever you want from me, angel.”

Aziraphale’s focus was entirely on him, something that Crowley craved deeply whenever they were together—and even when they were apart; it was a persistent yearning.

“That’s not a very Hellish thing to say,” Aziraphale told him.

Crowley knew that. “You bring out what’s left of Heaven in me, I suppose. Not an easy feat.”

“Oh, Crowley,” was the soft reply.

It would have been so easy then for Crowley to dip his head and kiss him. He had a hopeful inkling that it might not be refused. At his waist, he felt Aziraphale’s hands tentatively take hold of him. Courage, man. Courage. Slowly, he moved closer, but at that moment, a pack of happily screaming children came splashing into the water behind them, and Aziraphale’s gaze moved to the ruckus. Sense returning to him, Crowley slipped his arms away and swam back a foot, putting space between them. When Aziraphale looked back at him, his expression was regretful.

“Care to stay with the rabble,” said Crowley, “or shall we go?”

“Might as well go,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s getting too chilly anyway.”

They waded out of the sea and gathered their towels to dry themselves, though it would take a full change of clothes to really feel clean again. The salt made Crowley’s skin tight as they walked back toward the hotel.

“I’d like to have a bath,” Aziraphale said, “but then I fancy a walk to the shops. Care to join me?”

“Always, angel,” said Crowley.

*

They spent the day together, Aziraphale walking along the street with the cane Crowley had bought for him. It clicked pleasantly on the bricks and cobblestones. Tea was had in a shop by a boardwalk, and Crowley paid for the agreed-upon lunch some three hours later, around one o’clock. Conversation came easily and cordially, but the moment in the sea was not mentioned or reproduced. It was well enough; Crowley hadn’t the faintest idea how to address it.

The billiard room was empty when they returned to the hotel that evening for brandy and a game. Crowley resolved not to cheat, though it would have served Aziraphale right after the morning’s antics. He chalked the tip of his cue, tossing the little block to Aziraphale, who caught it deftly. Always favoring stripes, Crowley broke and watched as the fifteen-ball dropped into a corner pocket. He grinned and lined up for a second shot.

Aziraphale kept an eye on him, leaning one hip against the table’s edge and sipping from his snifter of dark gold brandy. He looked the part of an aristocratic gentleman of leisure: well-fed and soft-skinned. His fingers—full and cared-for—curled elegantly around the snifter. For admiring them, Crowley missed his shot. The angel made an amused sound under his breath and took over for his turn.

“An angel and a demon playing snooker,” Crowley mused as he picked up his brandy and swirled it for taste. “Sounds like a bad joke.”

Aziraphale knocked the four-ball into a center pocket. “It does rather. Some would call the two of us keeping any kind of company a joke. Most angels would.”

Sourly, Crowley said, “That’s because they’re wretched snobs in Heaven.”

“And Hell is better?” said Aziraphale with some measure of haughtiness.

“At least they don’t think I’m a joke.” Crowley, who had left his spectacles off at the angel's request, narrowed his eyes at him. “If that’s what they think of you, they don’t deserve you up there.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t know what my reputation is in the head office these days; I haven’t been there to give a report in decades. I wonder sometimes if they’ve forgotten all about me.” He stepped back from the table. “Your go.”

Crowley took another shot at the ten-ball. “There’s something to be said for being overlooked. I like the lack of meddling. I can set my own schedule.”

“I’d imagine you would like that,” Aziraphale said. “But, admittedly, freedom to perform miracles at my own discretion is...pleasing.” He pursed his lips, peering at Crowley. “And I don’t think the head office would look so kindly on the few times we’ve, ahem, collaborated in our work.”

“No,” said Crowley. “I don’t think they would.” A gesture at the table. “Your go.”

Aziraphale didn’t go directly to take his shot. His gaze lingered on Crowley. “I’ve very much appreciated those times, you know. You always do a good job. A very capable demon, you.”

Crowley snorted, leaning on his cue where it was planted on the floor. “Suits me. Far better than miracles ever did.”

“Ah, but that was long before there were humans to perform them for,” Aziraphale said. He sobered some. “I might have liked to know you in Heaven.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Crowley grumbled. “I was a bore. But then again, most angels are.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I resent that remark.”

Crowley allowed himself a small laugh. “You’re ever the exception, angel.” He got a smile for his trouble, and it warmed him.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked after sinking another ball.

“Does it matter?” Crowley replied.

“I suppose not, but I shouldn’t like to bore you with idle conversation.”

Crowley said, “You can’t do that. I don’t mind listening to you.”

Aziraphale nodded, unduly grave. “Well, you read my letters, after all. If you can bear those, a long chat wouldn’t be beyond your ability to tolerate. Still, perhaps there’s a museum we can visit.”

“Thrilling,” Crowley said, flat.

Aziraphale sighed as if put-upon. “Terribly hard to please sometimes, aren’t you?”

Growing embarrassed, Crowley conceded, “If you’d like to look at the art, angel, I’ll go with you.”

Aziraphale came to his side and bumped his shoulder with his own, even if it was a few inches lower. “We’ll find something that interests us both, I promise you that.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” said Crowley.

“My word is my bond,” Aziraphale told him. “It’s your go.”

Crowley picked up his cue again.

*

It turned out that walking the seaside at sunrise was an activity they could both agree on, and they met before the sun had crested the horizon to amble along at the water’s edge and wait for the light to fill the sky with reds and yellows and oranges. Aziraphale took his shoes off first, but Crowley soon followed suit, digging his long toes into the sand where it was packed and wet. 

Aziraphale’s feet were higher-arched and smaller, leaving more delicate prints. Crowley wouldn’t have minded tracing their shapes with his fingertips, maybe bringing out a laugh at the ticklishness. That was one of the unique wonders of their human forms that Crowley did his best to hide in his own but was intrigued to explore in Aziraphale’s. That was true of the angel’s entire form, however, though not something to be dwelling on when he was next to him and backlit by the morning’s radiance.

“Where will you go after this, my dear?” Aziraphale asked after a time.

“I’ve no particular plans,” Crowley replied. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“I thought perhaps a jaunt across the pond to the Americas. I’ve heard the Sierra Bagaules in Argentina are quite nice this time of year.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You in the mountains? Doesn’t seem comfortable enough.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I can stand something less than plush from time to time. And the peaks of the Andes really are stunning. Strange to go to the New World, of course, but it could be time for a change.”

“Well, have a portrait painted of you and your sherpa,” said Crowley wryly.

Perking up, Aziraphale seemed to alight on an idea. “You know, I don’t have a portrait of you, and I think I would like one.”

As often came with the angel’s whims, Crowley’s chest filled. “Would you now?” he said.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, plain.

Crowley shot him a curious glance. “What in the world would you do with a portrait of me, angel?”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands in front of him, resolved despite the odd request. “Hang it, I should think. What else does one do with a portrait?”

With caution, Crowley said, “Nobody hangs a portrait of their demonic acquaintance in their house.”

“Who’s to say that?” Aziraphale countered. “I don’t believe there are any other angels with demonic acquaintances. And”—he paused—“you’re not a mere acquaintance. Are you?”

Crowley felt as if he’d been struck in the gut, though not from pain. He managed to ask, “Are you saying you consider me a friend, angel?”

Aziraphale stopped, and Crowley was forced to come up next to him. Aziraphale turned to look him in the eye. “I should have thought that was more than evident, my dear. But if you think a portrait is inappropriate—”

“It’s not,” said Crowley quickly. “I mean, it’s not inappropriate. If you’d like to have it, then I’ll arrange it.” He tapped his temple, performing a quick survey of Brighton’s artists. “There’s a man who could sketch something up this afternoon. He’s miraculously free.”

Aziraphale’s face lit. “That would be most agreeable. And perhaps...he might do one of me as well?”

“He will,” Crowley said. “Of course he will.”

*

The portraitist was a tall young man in his early twenties, but his work was impressive beyond his youth: the details of each face, even in miniature, vivid and lifelike. He said it would take him a few weeks to actually complete each portrait, but that he could arrange to have them delivered wherever they needed to go. Crowley said he would remain in Brighton until they were finished and forward Aziraphale’s miniature to him.

“I’ll go to London, then,” said the angel, “for a while, before the Andes, so you might have an address to send it to.”

“You won’t be able to write from Argentina?” Crowley asked hurriedly, thinking of their regular correspondence.

Aziraphale patted his arm and said, “I’ll find a way, my dear.”

Crowley, upon the angel’s insistence, was the first to sit for his sketch. The portraitist—Master Wells—used a full sheet of paper and pencil to render his likeness: short red hair, defined jaw, long nose, wide mouth. Crowley appreciated the look of his human form and took care with it and its clothing as much as he cared for his wings. From what he had seen of Aziraphale’s at the beach, they were in far better condition than they had been in Nice.

Aziraphale sat by and conversed with Master Wells while he was drawing. Crowley was made to sit in silence so as not to disturb the process. He had cautioned Aziraphale that he should leave his spectacles on to spare them the portraitist’s questions, but Aziraphale had been insistent.

“He has a condition, Master Wells,” the angel had said. “Very rare. Runs in the family, you know. Do make sure not to neglect that in your piece.”

Wells had, to his credit, made a note of the detail and said nothing else about it.

When Crowley’s sketch was finished, Aziraphale took his place on the stool and raised his chin proudly. Wells directed him to relax his pose more, which seemed to perturb him.

“Go on, an—Fell,” said Crowley. “You look fine as you are.”

Aziraphale had favored him with a small smile and a quiet, “Thank you.”

Crowley took advantage of the time Wells used to sketch him to admire Aziraphale without it appearing intrusive. He didn’t have the ethereal beauty of some angels—their gilded markings and flawless complexions—but it wouldn’t have looked right on him. He was, as he occasionally admitted, soft, both around the belly and in his face. It was, maybe, his human indulgences at work, but there wasn’t a thing about him Crowley would alter.

Crowley couldn’t help but imagine the gentle slopes of his body beneath the fine jacket and trousers and cravat: wide shoulders and full middle, back curving smoothly to a pleasantly round backside. He had stocky legs and full thighs, ripe for gripping in the throes of...well. Crowley put a stop to that thought. Still, Aziraphale would be like one of the truffles he favored—sweet at first taste but then with a bite of bitter dark chocolate—were Crowley to take him to bed. And what he wouldn’t have given for that.

“What are you thinking of, my dear?” Aziraphale asked quite suddenly.

“Please don’t speak,” said Master Wells.

“My apologies,” the angel mumbled. Louder, still breaking the rules: “Crowley?”

“Your fine bone structure,” Crowley told him. He put a sardonic twist on the words, but, damn it all, he meant them.

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinkened, but he didn’t talk again.

Crowley, despite his better judgment, continued: “I was struck when I first saw you, all in white against the mud brick garden wall. You stuck out so dramatically.” He rubbed his palms on his thighs, over the black linen of his trousers. “Though I suppose I did too, being as dark as I am.”

“Red, you mean,” said Aziraphale.

“Mister Fell, please—” Wells began.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

Crowley said to him, “Red, then. I liked that long hair actually. Bit too dramatic for this day and age.” He shrugged. “But times will change again, as they always do, and we’ll still be here. Not that there’s anywhere else I’d go, really. Not unless you decided to leave.”

From the stool Aziraphale shook his head slightly.

“Mister Fell—”

“Yes, I know.”

Crowley glanced at the sketch. “Come off it, Wells, you’re almost done anyway.”

The portraitist huffed, but, adding a finishing touch to his sketch, lay down the pencil. “That will do, then, Mister Crowley, Mister Fell. Will you be requiring cases for the miniatures? I can arrange for sterling silver or brass. Gold, if you so desire.”

“Silver tarnishes,” said Crowley. “Brass isn’t fine enough. It will have to be gold.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, coming to his side from the stool. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

Crowley took his spectacles from the pocket inside his coat and, sliding them onto his face, told him, “Money’s no object.”

Aziraphale said, low, “No, I suppose it’s not.”

Also from inside his coat, Crowley produced the appropriate pound notes—surely miracled there—and Wells tucked them away into a secure box. He smiled at angel and demon, saying, “You’re very particular friends, I can see. That’s not always so common these days.”

Aziraphale was the one who replied: “There’s not a great deal common about us in the first place.”

Wells inclined his head. “Well, gentlemen, I thank you for your custom.”

Crowley led the way out of the shop, holding the door for Aziraphale to pass through. It was nearing the dinner hour, and shops were lighting candles in their windows. “Peckish, angel?” Crowley asked.

“I could be,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve heard the beef Wellington at the hotel is quite good.”

“Then let’s to the dining room,” said Crowley.

They hadn’t spoken of the fact that today was their second and final day together, but instead simply enjoyed it for what it was. Crowley didn’t want to let him go, and, to be honest, he didn’t want to stay in Brighton after the angel had gone, for the void it would leave in his days and his breast. But it was necessary to wait for their portraits to be finished. He considered perhaps bringing Aziraphale’s to London in person; however, the familiarity was dangerous.

It was true that their respective head offices had come to overlook them, but they should not take any unnecessary risks. Protecting even their irregular meetings was of the utmost importance to Crowley, who, if he lost the angel, wasn’t sure he would be able to tolerate Earth any longer. Not that returning to Hell was appealing, either, but— He buried that fear deeply, before it ran wild in his mind.

Aziraphale, insisting he make up for the money Crowley spent on their portraits, bought them champagne with an impressive vintage to share over dinner. It was on the drier side, which Crowley preferred. He sipped at it idly while Aziraphale set into his beef Wellington.

“I would ask, angel,” he said, “what your favorite part of a life on Earth is, but I think I already know the answer.”

“Do you?” asked Aziraphale. He had a forkful of gravy-covered meat poised just above his plate. One side of his mouth rose in a half-smile. “I don’t actually think so.”

Crowley cocked a brow over his spectacles, waving a hand at the ample spread of food in front of Aziraphale. “It’s not the Earthly delights?”

Aziraphale shook his head minutely. “No, my dear.”

“What then?”

“Why, you, of course,” was the answer.

Crowley’s reaction couldn’t exactly be described as “happy,” for Aziraphale’s confession overwhelmed him with not only joy but also awe and confusion. How, in all of the cosmos, could his angel mean such a thing in earnest? He was choked, his throat constricted, but he said, desperately, “Aziraphale.”

The angel sighed just audibly and said, “You are my most cherished friend. Surely you understand that.”

Crowley was struck dumb, floundering for anything to say. There was the most fundamental truth—I love you—and yet he couldn’t get the words out. Admitting it would no doubt shift everything, and they had barely come to terms with a friendship. Cherished friend. Not more, not less. Crowley dared not suggest anything further, despite how every cell in his fragile human form cried out for him to do so.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, hushed but strident.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I understand.”

“Ah. Good.”

Aziraphale seemed in some way crestfallen, but Crowley couldn’t amend what he’d hardly been able to reply without baring everything—and the dining room at a hotel, filled with others, was not the place to offer whatever kind of love demons could bear anyone. By nature, their affection was paltry and shallow, but Crowley’s was far more; it permeated all of him, until even his celestial core sought Aziraphale. It was a perfect disaster, really, with nothing to be done but to remain silent and take what companionable regard the angel had for him. He was lucky to enjoy even that.

Aziraphale went back to his dinner, and Crowley drained the rest of the champagne in his flute. He stewed in sullen, discomfited quiet for a few minutes, ostensibly watching the humans around them, until Aziraphale chose a new topic—one that had no bearing on what was (or was not) between them.

When the angel was finished, he suggested they retire to one of their sitting rooms to enjoy another bottle of wine—or three. Crowley, somewhat more at ease, stopped their waiter to order something sent to his room. Together, they ambled in that direction, through the main lobby and up the stairs. Crowley unlocked his door, ushering Aziraphale inside. Already there was a tray with the requested wine and a few chocolates and sliced strawberries, the latter of which Aziraphale went to directly.

The sitting room was small, with only a chair and a brocaded sofa. Crowley, after pouring a glass of Chablis for both of them, took one side of the sofa. He expected Aziraphale to go to the chair, but he sank down onto the other side of the sofa.

He lifted his glass to Crowley. “Cheers.”

Crowley clinked his against it, and they drank.

“Have I ever told you about the occasion that I met Alexander the Great?” the angel asked.

“You didn’t!” Crowley said, shocked. “You really met him?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I did indeed. There was a miracle for a sick horse, actually.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Of course there was. Do tell.”

The story was a long one, and it helped them through two of the bottles of wine, until Crowley was pleasantly drunk and listing toward the center of the sofa. Aziraphale had shifted, too, until he was nearer to him, a pair of cushions behind his back for comfort. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, baring white-haired forearms. Crowley was staring openly at them, sorely tempted to touch, when he heard Aziraphale gently say his name.

“Hm?” he mumbled, turning his eyes up to the angel’s face.

“You’re nearly asleep, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Come lie down and rest.”

Crowley had no inclination to get up and go to the bed. He grumbled, “Comfortable.”

Aziraphale offered an indulgent look. “I know. Come. Just here.” He reached out and set one hand on Crowley’s shoulder and the other at the side of his head, over his hair. With some insistence, he tugged Crowley toward him. Uncertain but too drunk to resist, Crowley allowed himself to be drawn down until his head rested in Aziraphale’s lap. The angel gave his hair a stroke and told him, “Sleep, my dear.”

Crowley could not deny him. He closed his eyes and drifted into oblivion.

*

Light, a headache, and a very dry, sour-tasting mouth greeted Crowley when he woke. He blinked into awareness, finding that he was awkwardly tucked into the embrace of the little sofa, most of his clothes still on. Aziraphale was nowhere to be found.

He had to have dreamed it, then: putting his head into the angel’s lap and sleeping there. Leave it to his befuddled mind to have conjured up an image like that. Body sore from a cramped night, he managed to get to his feet and stretch. He quickly removed his wrinkled coat, determined to call for a bath and something with which to clean his teeth and tongue. He was just tugging his shirt over his head, cravat somehow already absent, when he heard a startled, “Oh!” from the doorway to the bedroom. He turned to find Aziraphale, still in his shirtsleeves, standing there with a cup of tea in his hand. Immediately, Crowley pulled his own shirt up to cover his naked chest.

“Angel,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve just had some breakfast sent up,” Aziraphale replied. “Coffee for you. How’re you feeling?”

Crowley, still feeling exposed, did his best to reply in an even tone. “A little abused, but I did it to myself. Did I sleep here all night?”

Aziraphale came into the sitting room, his gaze moving over Crowley with steady appraisal. “You did. I didn’t want to move you, even after I got up.”

“You—” Crowley started. “You actually slept with me—with me on you—like that?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “You looked utterly spent and I had all the cushions.” He glanced down at his tea. “Is that all right?”

Crowley swallowed heavily. “What did you do while I was sleeping?”

Aziraphale’s face colored. “This and that. Kept watch.”

“You watched me sleep?” Crowley was at a loss, but so too was his pulse running high with elation.

“I, ah...yes,” said the angel. “Was that the wrong thing to do?”

Crowley had no right answer. “I...don’t mind. After all, I was asleep.”

“Indeed you were.” Aziraphale gestured to the breakfast tray. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“All right.” Crowley tugged his shirt back over his head, though he left it hanging loosely around his waist, looking the part of the disheveled drunkard. Aziraphale didn’t seem to object. He took a cup from the tray and poured black coffee into it. Even just the smell perked Crowley up.

“I’ll have to leave today,” Aziraphale said while Crowley sipped. “I haven’t yet gathered my things, but I shouldn’t dawdle.”

“No,” said Crowley. “Best get back to London. Will you take the coach?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Good.”

They regarded each other with breakfast between them. There was a half-eaten pastry on the tray and, quite suddenly, Crowley wanted to taste it. He snatched it up and took a large bite. Aziraphale raised his brows.

“I was going to finish that,” the angel said.

“Too late now,” Crowley told him as he chewed. He got a resplendent laugh.

“I forgive you, my dear.”

Crowley grinned. “You’d better.”

They didn’t linger long over the food, Aziraphale making noises of going to pack his things. Crowley was loath to let him go, imagining reaching out for him and enveloping him in an embrace by way of goodbye—and a hopeful prayer (ha!) for greater intimacy.

“When will I see you again?” Crowley asked as the angel went to the door. He joined Aziraphale there, just a pace apart.

“Not for a while, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replied. His eyes turned to the place where Crowley’s shirt hung down to expose his collarbones. “But I’ll write.”

Crowley said, “May I have another feather?”

Aziraphale said nothing, only unfurled his wings and plucked a snowy feather from the rightmost one. Crowley gave him one of his own dark ones, their fingers touching as they exchanged them.

“Goodbye, angel,” Crowley said. “Until next time.”

“Be well, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll wait for your letters, as always.” With that, he went out of the room, leaving Crowley alone with the single feather as a placeholder for his presence.

Crowley ordered his bath, taking a long time to sit in it and dwell in the loneliness that was already setting in. He’d shared an entire night with Aziraphale and remembered no more of it than the spare touches to bring his head down onto the angel’s thighs. What had he thought as he had watched Crowley sleep? Crowley couldn’t guess, but he hoped his contentedness was as great as Crowley’s had been. Maybe, upon some other occasion, they could be so close again—but Crowley would be awake to hold him, or be so held.

Chapter Text

The portraits came with a courier a fortnight later, wrapped for safekeeping in plush cloth. The cases were smooth gold and opened with a small catch at the bottom. Crowley revealed Aziraphale’s miniature first. Wells had done a fine rendering of the angel dressed in his blue coat. The rounded shape of his jaw had been faithfully captured, his full cheeks ever so slightly flushed. He had a minute smile on his face, a fond expression; he was beautiful. Crowley took the portrait and tucked it into his safe with Aziraphale’s letters.

With some trepidation, he looked at his own miniature. There was a true portrayal: dark coat and gray cravat, bright red hair, and, of course, his luminous yellow eyes. Wells had done them justice with richly colored oil paint, and it seemed as if Crowley was looking critically out at the viewer. His visage was less friendly than Aziraphale’s, but that was no surprise.

It would be appropriate that he simply wrap it back in its protective cloth and then in paper with the angel’s address on written on it to send in the post, but before he did, he took it to the writing table in his hotel room and, producing a sheet of paper, picked up the newest feather he had been given.

Crowley didn’t often read poetry, but he had, on a whim, picked up a volume of Wordsworth in 1798 from which one of the stanzas had stood out. He had committed it to memory and wrote it now on the corner of the page in his cramped hand:

STRANGE fits of passion have I known: 
And I will dare to tell, 
But in the lover's ear alone, 
What once to me befell.

He added a simple C as a signature and then tore the corner free. Prying his miniature from the case, he slipped the paper behind it. Aziraphale would never know the bit of the poem was there, but Crowley would, and that was something dear: a hidden (and forbidden) confession only he would bear witness to. He replaced the portrait and prepared to post it, choosing to send it without any letter. Enough of them would be written in the coming years to make up for that.

Once the miniature was off to its destination, Crowley began to make arrangements to leave Brighton. He wanted to put it behind him posthaste and find refuge in some far-flung place, where the reminders of Aziraphale would be less immediate. He had no interest in the New World, but thought that Egypt might suit him for a decade or two. There was comfortable heat and surely mischief to be made.

He arrived in Cairo more than a month later, having sent ahead for lodgings. He purchased lighter linen clothing and hats to protect his skin from the sun and spent a great deal of time exploring the city’s markets. He remembered when pharaohs ruled there, but didn’t necessarily miss them. Their tastes had run to the excessive, as evidenced by their temples and pyramids and elaborate burials. The city in the nineteenth century was still bustling, however, and Crowley was drawn quite gladly into the chaos.

He had been out for the day when Aziraphale’s new letter arrived on his desk, and he sat down with a cup of fruit juice to read it. A light breeze blew in through the latticed window of his rooms, pleasant against the October sun.

My dear Crowley,

May this find you hale and glad for where you are. I received the miniature several months ago, as promised. It turned out so very well. Perhaps upon our next meeting, you’ll show me Master Wells’ version of me—unless you think that far too vain. But one can’t help but be curious. Where do you keep it, I wonder. Is it squirreled away or somewhere to be often looked upon? Yours, my dear, is not always at hand, but never far enough that I can’t admire it whenever it pleases me.

I’ve come safely to the Andes, where I am staying at a mountain monastery rather than climbing actively. I find a great deal of serenity here, after the excesses of London, and even of Brighton. The monks eat simply and go about their days in prayer or industrious cleaning, but they do not expect me to partake in the daily activities. I am permitted to remain in residence, if only to cultivate my spiritual wellbeing.

Do I feel closer to God here? I can’t say that I do. She remains, as always, a distant figure I don’t even recall from my days in Heaven. Her Ineffable Plan must continue unhindered, but I do not feel a part of it. I suppose I am—we all are—but I don’t think of Her daily, and I certainly don’t actively worship, as the monks do. Does that make me a poor angel? Maybe it does, but the monks seek reassurance that God is present and watching over them. I need no such reassurance; I know She is with us, even if her guidance is spotty at best.

It seems less unthinkable now to fall from Her graces—not that I would seek to do such a thing. You said once to me that you did not mean to fall, simply asked the wrong questions. I have questions of my own that I fear might bring wrath upon me, even if minor wrath. That unsettles me greatly, and I often push these uncertainties down in hopes that I will forget them. There are times, however, that they cannot be avoided.

If I must be straightforward (and I always try to be with you), the central question is what it means for you and I to consort—if not openly or often. We are, in effect, eschewing our age-old rivalry for the sake of good company. It should not be possible for us even to find common ground, and yet from the first day we encountered each other, I found us on even footing. There was no expected hostility, only a polite conversation. That first rain pattered down on the walls of Eden and you accepted the shelter from it that I offered you, I understood that you (and perhaps I) were different.

I hope, my dear, that you recognize your uniqueness. If you do not, you must know now that it captivates. The energy that surrounds you is singular and fascinating. I cannot imagine any other demon could be as you are, and I am thankful for our chance meeting on that day at the start of time when you moved to my side and stood unabashedly under my wing. As I hold this quill now—your given feather—I sense you and the extraordinary qualities you possess. It is an honor to know you, Crowley. Please never forget that.

Yours sincerely,
Aziraphale

By the time he finished reading, Crowley was trembling. He was a demon, completely undeserving of the kinds of compliments Aziraphale had paid him. But somehow, in a deep and rarely acknowledged part of himself, Crowley believed him. He believed that the angel saw more than the Hellish spines he wore to prick anyone who dared get close enough to touch. He was not good, but Aziraphale didn’t claim he was. “Unique,” “singular,” but not good. That was, at least, a reassurance: Crowley did, after all, have a reputation to protect. Only Aziraphale could ever perceive the dangerously forgiving parts of him.

Laying the letter down, Crowley put his face in his hands and tried to calm himself. He could bear Aziraphale’s tender letters, he thought, but should the angel ever say such things to him in person, Crowley would have no choice but to fall to his knees and beg Aziraphale to love him. It would be appalling to all but prostrate himself and plead to be spared any further suffering: “Love me, angel, or cut me loose. I can’t do this any longer.”

Crowley dug his fists into his eye sockets until his stars burst in his vision. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the letter and despaired. What to say in reply without filling the page with a soliloquy of desire, devotion, passion… He was utterly lost, both in what to do and to Aziraphale. The angel owned him, and that was fundamentally wrong for each of them.

Crowley rose and pulled a bottle of stiff liquor from a cabinet. He pulled out the stopper and drank straight from the bottle. It burned his throat, but he needed its steadying power and the courage it would lend him. He paced the room until he began to tingle with the effects and then dared sit down with paper and quill. 

Angel,

I can’t see you taking bread and water with monks for longer than a few weeks, but if you’re finding some manner of calm at the monastery, I’m glad. That’s strange to say. Demons generally aren’t glad of anything. Our range of emotion is rather limited to spite, self-satisfaction, and general wickedness. You might have a grander impression of me than I deserve. Your goodness skews your perception. Is it not true that you always see the best in people? It’s not to say that you’re wrong about me, but there’s less to admire that you think.

Today I caused a number of carriages to collide in the middle of the market. I spread a severe cough in a girls’ school. (It’s not fatal, just inconvenient.) There was a miscommunication between diplomats that’ll sour negotiations between countries for a while. So you see, I’m far from admirable. I can’t fight my nature, and I don’t want to try.

It was, maybe, too severe a denial, but Crowley was swinging wildly away from what Aziraphale had said of him. He would embrace his awfulness as best he could and really wreak some havoc in the coming days. Not good, not nice—a demon to the core.

But I remember that first day well, too. Rain would have spoiled my hair, and I couldn’t tolerate that. If either of us are vain, angel, it’s yours truly. You spared me that, which I wouldn’t have expected of an angel. You say I’m extraordinary, but if either of us are, it’s you. You take great care with the humans, which not all of your kind (and certainly not mine) would do. The other angels might take a page from your book, rather than you one from theirs.

The Ineffable Plan. Who knows, these days, what it could be. And why care, either? If we’re all just cogs in the divine wheel, we’ll make the preordained decisions and that will be that. But if we’re free to make our own choices? Well, I like to think that we’re masters of ourselves. My decisions are my own, and I’ll accept any consequences thereof.

To answer your question, your portrait is at hand but not where anyone else could see it. Hastur and his lot like poking around sometimes, and I wouldn’t risk them seeing it. But it’s nearby, if that’s what you wanted to hear.

Crowley grimaced. That sounded more hostile that he wanted. Dipping his quill again, he drew a thick line through the words and amended:

I hope that’s what you wanted of me, and of it. I keep you close, angel, along with your letters. I’ll leave it here for now, but make sure to get a drink and some chocolate cake when you get down from your mountain. Maybe some of those oysters you like. Rome is nice this time of year. In another few decades, I can meet you there.

-C

He let the ink dry and then folded the letter into an envelope. Certainly there was no mailing address for a monastery on the side of a mountain, so Crowley tapped the edge of the letter and it disappeared, bound for wherever Aziraphale was holed up.

Still wavering somewhat with drink, Crowley went to the window and threw open the shade. The city was alive below, the stink of unwashed bodies and horse dung and meat going off rolling up from it. He leaned on the sill, dangling one hand out into the open air. A man was carrying a precariously balanced pair of baskets, and, with a snap, Crowley sent him sprawling, the contents of the baskets spilling out onto the street. It should have amused him, but instead there was an unusual emptiness. He glanced back at Aziraphale’s letter, still on the desk, and went to get another drink.

Chapter Text

Act IV

Buffalo, New York
1901

The trend for World Expos had started in 1851, the work of Aziraphale himself, by way of a minor miracle of inspiration. Getting inventors and artists and architects from across nations to collaborate on a single exhibition of current industry, art, or other human achievement took a great deal of inspiration, and more hard work and negotiation. But the angel managed to set the cogs in motion, and by April of that year, London was alive with an international festival of innovation. Crowley didn’t attend, though Aziraphale sent him a post card from that expo and each of the subsequent ones to which he went. And there were many.

At the turn of the twentieth century, Crowley had returned to London to take up residence in Grosvenor Square in the house vacated by the late Oscar Wilde. He’d let it on a whim, but found the gesture rather charming, in the end. The décor was antiquated and too lavish for him, but he cleared the place out and started again with sparer furniture and less lavishly patterned wallpaper. All the rooms were treated, but the second bedroom was occupied exclusively by his plants.

The first he heard of the Pan-American Exposition was in a letter from Aziraphale, who had said he was looking very much forward to seeing it. Crowley had read over that part with only a small measure of interest before he saw the line: “I do hope you’ll join me there for a day, my dear.” Going back over the words before it, he discovered that the expo would be held in some place called Buffalo, which he’d never heard of.

However, if Aziraphale was suggesting meeting before an entire century had passed, Crowley would travel wherever he needed to. In short order, he had packed enough for a long steam across an unsettled early summer Atlantic and secured a train ticket from the port of New York across a state that was far larger than anyone might have guessed to the western city of Buffalo, on the shores of Lake Erie. He arrived there almost nine days later with a two suitcases and feeling very much in need of a bath and a glass of wine. He had both, finding a note miraculously on top of his neatly made hotel bed after that read: Main gate. Tomorrow. Noon. - A

Crowley lifted the paper to his nose and sniffed, catching slight notes of vanilla and Heaven. His desire to see Aziraphale out striped any inconvenience of travel; he had and would again drop everything to go to him, business of Hell be damned. With the note still in hand, Crowley went to his luggage to retrieve the small golden case containing Aziraphale’s portrait, which he had carried faithfully since it had come into his possession. It might have started to show some age after a century, but he’d made sure it held up with tender care and a little demonic influence. He set his thumb at the edge of the case, looking fondly at his angel’s likeness.

The only thing that really changed about him over the millennia was his clothing, and sometimes the style of his hair. Surely now he’d be in one of the more fashionable sack suits, perhaps in beige, though, rather than the dark colors that most men—Crowley included—wore. He’d stick out in any crowd, as much as he might have tried to blend into it. Or perhaps that was just Crowley’s perception: Aziraphale was always the center of his attention whenever he was present. Nothing else could draw or distract him.

Crowley slept fitfully in the night, too wound up to rest much more than what he forced himself into the pass the time. When he woke in the morning, he freshened up and dressed in his day suit, setting a bowler hat on his head, spectacles over his eyes, and caught a hack to the fairgrounds. People were pouring through the main gate, but he lingered outside until Aziraphale made his appearance at noon on the dot. From somewhere, a clock tower bell sounded, and the angel smiled.

Directly, he stuck out his hand for Crowley to shake. “My dear,” he had said, “it’s wonderful to see you.”

Crowley had tipped his spectacles down to meet his eyes uncovered and said, “And you, angel.” Such a poor expression of the elation he truly felt and yet fought to keep from Aziraphale’s notice. He wasn’t always sure that he succeeded, but he hoped.

“Shall we?” the angel asked.

Crowley took the lead, paying both his fifty-cent admission and Aziraphale’s. Inside the gates was a resplendent array of wonders across three hundred and fifty acres, at which they both wondered aloud where to start. Aziraphale decided on the nearest attraction for the sake of convenience, and so their day began.

The pavilions were many and their subjects varied, from a New York State building to full halls of technology. Aziraphale was particularly taken with the Niagara Falls roar transmitter: a device that transferred the tremendous noise of the Falls to the fair. Crowley dismissed it, saying they should go to see it themselves rather than just listening to a tinny version.

Aziraphale peered at him, asking, “Is that an invitation to join you there?”

“We can go right now, if you want to,” Crowley replied.

The angel chuckled and took Crowley’s arm (much to Crowley’s pleasure). “There are still wonders to be seen here today. Perhaps another time.”

Crowley allowed himself to be led into the next exhibit hall, glad to be so close to Aziraphale, who pulled him enthusiastically along to see the wonders.

*

The Temple of Music, like the rest of the buildings on the fairgrounds, was constructed specifically for the event. A confection of Italian Renaissance style, the dome soared over a hundred feet above the concert hall, which could easily sit two thousand to hear the sounds of the tremendous pipe organ. The space was, perhaps, three quarters full just then, while the organist sat as his keyboard and played. In the central part of the audience, Aziraphale and Crowley sat to listen.

The Pan-Am was, Aziraphale had said as they wandered the grounds that afternoon, the first expo that promised dazzling (and copious) electric light. The nearby Niagara Falls hydroelectric plants gave Buffalo its incredible illumination, which was unmatched anywhere else in the world. Crowley didn’t always fall as hard and fast for the humans’ inventions as Aziraphale did, but this time he was, if he was being perfectly honest, quite awed.

Incandescent bulbs filled the interiors of the buildings, rendering gas lamps unnecessary. There was no smell of burning and far less fear of fire. The lights were still bright in the Temple as the concert went on into the early evening. At last, the organ sounded a great crescendo before falling quiet. A few moments passed in stunned silence, but then Aziraphale started to applaud. The rest of the audience joined him, until they were giving a standing ovation. The organist stood and bowed, a dismissal.

Outside, the sun had set and the panoply of lights had begun to shine across the fairgrounds. The arches and doorways of the Temple itself and the fountain in the courtyard beyond it were lined with them, a sight unmatched. In the distance, just beyond the central Court of Fountains, was the Electric Tower, from the top of which a light like that of lighthouse rotated above the fair. It was spectacular, even to a demon who had see a great many things in his long life.

“I’ve heard the apple fritters at the Stadium Restaurant are a treat,” Aziraphale said, drawing Crowley to him again.

“Is that so?” said Crowley, fond. “Well, let’s find our way there, shall we?”

Aziraphale nodded, setting his hat firmly over his white hair. “I believe we can take a gondola ride through Venice in America on the way there.”

Crowley snorted. “Oh, yes, of course. ‘Venice.’”

“Don’t sound so haughty, my dear boy. It’s charming that the world is being brought here for people who may never see Venice. Just because we have doesn’t mean—”

“I know, angel,” Crowley interrupted. “I’m not being a snob.” He eyed Aziraphale, studying him in electric-lit profile. “And we’ve never been in Venice together. Never ridden in a gondola like…” Lovers. But he couldn’t make himself say it.

“Indeed we haven’t,” said Aziraphale. “Come, let’s see if there’s boat for us.”

The Midway was bustling, but they were able to find their way to the dock where a small fleet of elaborately painted gondolas and their straw-hatted gondoliers were waiting. Crowley paid fifty cents for the both of them and they clambered into a boat, seating themselves on the plush yellow cushions side by side. The gondolier guided them away from the dock with sure pushes of his pole in the shallow canal.

Aziraphale peered out over the fair-goers, and Crowley watched Aziraphale. Under the scrutiny, the angel seemed to affect a kind of preen, holding himself upright and proud. Crowley liked to think that Aziraphale enjoyed admiration; he wasn’t sure many people often did so. Aloud, Crowley said, “This century looks good on you, angel.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, turning to him with warmth in his voice. “Though it’s young, I’ve been enjoying it so far. Humanity really is making technological leaps and bounds. It’s remarkable to witness.”

“It is,” Crowley said. “Far better than the fourteenth century.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Anything is better than the fourteenth century in your opinion. I didn’t mind it so much, though I could have done without the Barbary Crusade. Such a messy and unneeded conflict.”

“All the Crusades were unneeded. God has faces enough that She doesn’t need the humans killing each other over Her.” Crowley grunted. “Tiresome fights over doctrine. She shouldn’t have allowed it.”

“There are, perhaps, a great deal of things that should not have been allowed,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You felt that way about the Flood, didn’t you?”

“Decidedly. That was right bollocks.”

Aziraphale hummed and patted Crowley’s thigh, absently soothing. “Yes, my dear, I know.”

Crowley backed down. The vengefulness of the Almighty perturbed him, not that Satan was a paragon. Sometimes it was impossible not to wonder why the powers that be abused their creations so freely, especially since Crowley had become indelibly attached to humanity and its quirks (crusades and other shenanigans excepted). Aziraphale had been, historically, less inclined to question, but his letter after Brighton still stuck in Crowley’s mind.

The kinds of doubts Crowley himself had harbored—the ones that had landed him in Hell in the first place—were taking root in the angel and, perhaps, only spreading. But the last thing Crowley wanted was to see Aziraphale fall from grace. He would suffer as a demon, and Crowley would, if it was within his power, prevent any suffering for him.

“What’s troubling you?” Aziraphale asked, openly concerned. “I don’t want you to spoil the day with anxieties.”

Crowley, enamored, offered a smile. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me, angel; I’m always fine.”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. “Are you? I’m afraid you wouldn’t tell me if you weren’t, and I’m sorry for it. I hoped that you might trust me, ah, intimately enough to share your troubles.”

“You don’t need my problems on your shoulders,” said Crowley.

“But I’ll bear them,” Aziraphale insisted. “Gladly.”

Crowley sighed, for fear of taking that offer and revealing too much. “There are just some things I can’t tell you.” How I love you, most of all.

Aziraphale nodded gravely. “I understand. But should you need me, I’m always available to you.”

Rubbing his brow, Crowley tried not to let the annoyance rise in him. He did his best to keep his voice steady. “You aren’t. We can barely see each other.”

“You can write.”

“It’s not the same.” He shifted until he could face Aziraphale, their knees touching. “I hate it: the distance, the pretense, all of it. These days we have are too short, angel.” He turned his face down, frustrated at both the circumstances and his own inability to bite back the truths he preferred not to voice.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his fingers coming under Crowley’s chin to raise it. He let him tug the spectacles from his face. “I won’t have you putting yourself in danger for me. What if you were sent back to Hell and I could never see you again? We ration our time because we must—because I can’t give you up.”

Crowley’s chest contracted, his shoulders rounding. Aziraphale put his hands at his biceps, squeezing him there.

“My dear,” he said. “I feel it, too, you know.”

“What?” Crowley asked, still looking down at where his spectacles lay in Aziraphale’s lap.

“It’s a kind of pain,” the angel began. “You don’t hurt me, but it’s the pain of distance, the place in my chest where you reside that aches when you’re away.”

Stunned, Crowley did glance up then. Aziraphale was regarding with him with unprecedented sentiment. Crowley managed to say, “What does it mean for us, angel?”

“I’m not sure I have an answer,” Aziraphale replied. “Is there something you want it to mean?”

The confession was there on the tip of Crowley’s tongue: I’d do anything for you. You own my very soul—what’s left of it.

He said, “You can’t leave it up to me.”

Aziraphale didn’t care for that, it seemed; his mouth pinched at the sides. He asked, “Are you afraid of Hell?”

Crowley nodded stiffly. “They could take it all away.”

“As could Heaven.” He touched Crowley’s cheek. “We’re bound to our masters. Take what we can, shall we? Like tonight, here, this moment. Every one stands out like a beacon in my memory. Is it the same for you?”

“It is,” Crowley told him. “I’ll always be able to see you with the electric lights around you, singular and”—he hesitated, steeling himself—“just a little bit mine.”

Aziraphale’s expression held surprise but also the devotion Crowley had so long craved to see there. “I like that,” he said. “Being ‘just a little bit’ yours.”

Crowley laughed wetly. “I’m a greedy demon. Once I have a bit, I just keep taking.”

“And I’m a generous angel,” Aziraphale said. “When it suits me. I’ll give you a great deal.”

The gondola bumped against another dock, jostling them. The gondolier called down that they had arrived by the Stadium and the appointed restaurant. The spell of the ride broken, Crowley took his spectacles and slid them back onto his face. He stepped out of the gondola first, offering his hand to Aziraphale to help him onto the dock. They stayed joined there for a time, but then released each other, thanked the gondolier, and left the canal behind.

*

Fritters and ginger ale had, Crowley and Aziraphale resumed walking the fairgrounds under the white lights and among the laughing and wonderstruck humans. Crowley himself was a sight wonderstruck, both from the angel’s company and from the charm of the exposition. The combination had a miraculous edge that was unlikely to be reproduced at any other time and place. Crowley was fortunate to bask in it, even if only for an hour or two more.

“May I confess something?” Aziraphale said as they ambled along the quiet side of the Midway.

Crowley replied, “Anything.”

“I have all of the feathers you’ve given to me, even the worn and ink-stained ones.” He paused, but then continued: “You can’t see the stains on the black, of course, but the point stands. I hate to spoil them, really, to watch them bend and the barbs grow disordered. I try to do my best to preserve them, but I can’t always. Not when I use them as I do.” He was rambling some, gesticulating in front of him.

“Do you write a lot with them?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale said, “I haven’t owned another quill since you have me the first. I tip them with silver so they don’t go so quickly.”

Crowley’s dark eyebrows went up. “Silver? Very fancy, angel.”

“They deserve nothing less,” Aziraphale said stolidly. “I’ve had several inquiries as to where I get them. Guests are curious.”

“And what do you tell them?”

The angel let his arms drop to his sides again. “They’re bespoke.”

Crowley’s laugh was subdued. “Well, you’re not necessarily wrong. They’re meant only for you, but any other demon could give you one just like mine.”

“No,” Aziraphale countered. “Your feathers are yours alone.”

“Not when I give them to you,” said Crowley. “Then they're yours alone.”

Aziraphale’s smile was genuine. “What do you do with mine when they’re spent?”

Crowley had them tied up with the same string as the angel’s letters and tucked into his safe. He told Aziraphale as much, which clearly surprised him. “What?” Crowley asked, suspicious.

“There’s rather sentimental of you,” said Aziraphale. “You play at having no sentiment at all.” He wagged a finger. “All a front, I see.”

Crowley made a displeased sound. “Just don’t go telling anyone. Should the head office find out I’m going soft—”

“If either of us is soft, my dear,” Aziraphale told him, “it’s me.” He patted his belly lightly.

With a snarl, Crowley grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him around. He looked startled. Crowley said fervently, “Somebody told you that?”

“I— Well, not directly, but Gabriel might have implied—”

“That blessed bastard,” Crowley swore. “There’s not a single thing wrong with you, angel. Not a one. You’re perfectly fit. More than fit.”

Aziraphale watched him growl, until Crowley realized that he was more amused than upset with the archangel’s assessment—or perhaps it was amusement at Crowley’s reaction.

Crowley reeled back, second-guessing his defensive forthrightness. “Not that I’m...a great judge of that.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “you don’t often comment on anyone’s physicality, no, but I’d imagine you have your preferences.”

Crowley, frowning, pressed: “You mean amongst angels? Other demons? Humans?”

“Any of the above, I suppose.”

He fumbled briefly, not having thought often of it. Demons inspired desire, not often felt it themselves. Crowley was no stranger to it, however, for all the millennia of trying to picture Aziraphale without his clothes. But that was his human form, not his angelic one. They had several, including golden wheels of eyes and faceless balls of light, all of which were unappealing to the baser senses. So, Crowley decided, the preference Aziraphale meant was more for humans than of the divine or the devilish.

When presented with the myriad human forms, Crowley could choose some he favored, but it wasn’t objective beauty he sought. He didn’t seek beauty at all, outside of what he found in Aziraphale; that was more than he needed.

“Angel,” he said, “don’t let any bloody angel or demon or human convince you you’re anything less than I think you are.”

Aziraphale asked, “And what do you think I am, Crowley?”

“Perfect.”

The light from the Electric Tower flashed over them, making Aziraphale’s eyes glint. Crowley couldn’t read him, but he stood by waiting for a reply, for good or for ill.

“Thank you, my dear,” the angel said. “Now, I’m afraid it’s time I go.”

Crowley’s heart sank. He was certain he’d said something wrong, and he regretted it. “Right,” he mumbled. “Come to the gate then?”

Aziraphale stepped back a pace. “No. I think I’ll convey myself this time. I need...a bit of time.”

“For what?” Crowley asked, suddenly fearful.

“Consideration.” Lifting his hat to tip it, Aziraphale winked away, leaving Crowley alone.

Crowley stood in the empty space until other fair-goers filled in the gap the angel had left. Something was off. He’d said the improper thing. But he couldn’t have lied. To him, Aziraphale was perfect—all his flaws made him so.

It wasn’t until Crowley got into the hack to return to his hotel that he remembered he hadn’t gotten a new feather. He cursed, knowing the old ones wouldn’t last much longer. Sullen, he stalked up to his room, closing the door firmly behind him. He planned to make straight for the wine, but a spot of white caught his eye.

There, on the bed, were three angel feathers, each tipped with silver. Crowley picked one up and, heartsick, held it to his breast.

Chapter Text

My dear Crowley,

I must begin with an apology. I took my leave of you and of the fair very suddenly eight months ago, and I’m sorry for it. I’m not usually one to lose my composure, but I was unexpectedly overcome. By what, you might ask. That would be a fair question. It was not you or what you said—not quite, anyway. I’m just unused to being complimented in that way. And the manner in which we spoke on the canal… I’m not certain what came over me. Please forgive my hasty exit. And I do hope you received my token, too, and that you might use one of them to reply to me. Though I would not fault you for being upset with me and preferring not to write for a while. I would not presume now to ask for another feather of yours, but if you should be so inclined, I would be pleased to receive one.

In any case, I’m in Berlin for the moment, though things are somewhat unsettled. It’s a vibrant city, however, and I’m glad to be here. You’ve remained in London, I see, which you must be enjoying. It’s always been a bit of a home to you—and to me, though we should not often be in residence there together. I’ve been considering the prospect of opening a bookshop. Don’t laugh directly (you probably are). I know I don’t like sharing my library, but I might be able to deal in rare editions. I have a knack for finding them, after all. Perhaps it’s a foolish idea, but I can imagine being very content surrounded by books. Should I do it, I think it would be in London. I have a spot in Soho I fancy, in fact. But I won’t think too seriously about it just now.

A confession: a have been napping from time to time, and I find it rather refreshing. You were right about the dreams. They certainly don’t always make sense, but sometimes they’re vivid recollections of places I’ve been or things I’ve seen. And then there are just fantasies, nothing I’ve glimpsed before. I dreamt of you just last night, in the Garden, as I never saw you. You were lying in the shade of the apple tree, your wings folded behind you and your bare feet sticking out from your robes. You were speaking, but I couldn’t hear you, no matter how hard I strained my ears. That pained me, for I am ever fond of your voice.

I seemed to be in the form of some creature. I was hiding the brush, just observing a lovely demon. At one point, you crooked a finger and an apple fell into your hand. As you bit into it, juice rolled down your chin and you licked it away with your serpent’s tongue. How fascinating that was to me; I wanted to see more of you, and crept closer. You must have heard me because you looked my way, pausing in eating your apple. I froze, but you beckoned me and I ventured out.

My form, it seemed, was that of a mouse: natural prey for serpents. And yet I wasn’t afraid for my life; I did not think you would harm me. You held out your hand and I went into it. You lifted me to your face and scratched my mouse-y ears. I was mesmerized by your eyes, your fine, fine eyes, my dear. It was only then that I could hear you. You said, “I’m looking for an angel.” I wanted to reply that I was one, but it came out as only a squeak. Seemingly disappointed, you set me back down on the ground and gestured me away. I went, and when I woke, I was forlorn.

What does that kind of dream mean? I looked in a number of books of dream interpretation but couldn’t settle on anything concrete. But dreams are not concrete, are they? There’s nothing certain to be read into them. Still, I can’t help but seek something in my vision of you. Maybe I am just seeking you. That’s not something unfamiliar. I cherish your letters, but you were right to say at the fair that they are a poor substitute for your company. And yet I hastened away when I had the opportunity to spend more time with you. What a fool I am, my dear. I hope that you forgive me. Already a tired refrain, that, but I can’t bear to disagree with you. I won’t dwell on that here. I will simply send my apologies and pray you’re not overly cross.

Tell me of something that you’ve done since we parted. I do so like to hear the stories of your mischief, even if you think I don’t. Your ingenuity is quite remarkable. I myself am not so creative in my miracles. If you give me nothing, I shall have to imagine scenarios, which is rather disappointing for lack of your inspiration. Although, I’m given occasionally to considering what it might be like for us to do a kind of battle of miracles: contending for the same soul or being at odds in our tasks. Once, I might have been upset to come into conflict with you, but now I believe I would rise to the challenge. Would you do that, if the opportunity arose? A duel of sorts.

You can dismiss that if you so choose; it was just a passing thought I put to paper. I believe I might be going on for too long just now, but there is always a great deal I want to tell you. I so wish you could be a part of my day-to-day, so that I did not have to recount everything with pen and paper. What stories we would make together, my dear. In lieu of that, though, I must return to my dreams to see you. Have you dreamt of me? Is it wrong to wish that you have? I should not presume to dictate your nighttime imaginings. But if you should find me there upon some occasion, always believe I bear you only good will.

Yours sincerely,
Aziraphale

Crowley set the letter down carefully. He had been upset with the angel for leaving him so suddenly, though he had spent more time blaming himself for somehow finding exactly the wrong thing to say than putting the onus entirely on Aziraphale. But if the angel was apologizing, at least he understood that he was, in part, at fault. There was a measure of satisfaction in that, but Crowley knew perfectly well that he’d already forgiven him. He could never stay angry with Aziraphale for more than a few minutes, the bastard.

The silver-tipped feathers had made a pleasant ping when he’d dropped them into a pewter cup on his desk, but he hadn’t touched them in the intervening months. He thought, apparently as Aziraphale had, of how he had not given his own—often while he was grooming his wings in isolation. He considered plucking three now, but decided to wait until he’d replied to the letter. There was no use in putting it off; he wanted to write back. He always did, waiting then upon Aziraphale to send another letter, which would also receive a prompt reply.

Picking up one of the pristine quills, he took a sheet of paper and the inkwell and began to write:

Angel,

There’s nothing to forgive. You’re allowed to leave if I’ve done something to make you uncomfortable. You said it wasn’t me, but there’s no doubt I was a part of it. I’ll say I’m sorry for that. It’s not always easy to keep my mouth shut around you, even if I said there are things I can’t say. That’s true. I struggle with many of them too much myself to be able to actually say them. But it’s nothing awful, I swear.

Dreams are a realm not even the celestial powers that be understand completely. I wouldn’t have the first idea what your dream meant, and I don’t always grasp mine, either. But I’ve dreamt of you, angel—more times that I can count. There have been visions where you just pass through for a split second before disappearing. In others you’ve been the center of all my attention.

There was once that I dreamt of you falling, as I did. Your white wings were sooty and fraying as you tumbled down, but I rose up to catch you and keep you from falling beyond Earth and into Hell. We lay in St. James Park on the lawn on a cloudy day, and I washed your wings clean, until they were pristine again. It only lasted for a minute before they began to fall away, severing from you completely. I tried to prevent it, but it couldn’t be stopped. You weren’t upset; you were smiling. You wiped the tears from my face—yes, I was crying—and told me you would be happy on Earth without your bonds to Heaven. “Free me from Hell, then,” I said to you. You stroked my wings and told me no. When I woke up, I was shaking.

If you asked me to tell you what that meant, there’s no chance I could. But I don’t want dream anything like it again. You shouldn’t lose your grace, angel. Still, if you ever did, I would put everything on the line to allow you to stay on Earth and avoid Hell. They could never deserve you; I don’t, either.

Crowley paused to collect himself before he went on too candidly. Sharing that disturbing dream was more than enough. He’d had it more than once, too—utterly agonizing. But falling to Earth was a less terrifying prospect than losing his grace completely. Crowley had never had much grace in the first place, he was sure. But the angel? It wasn’t his defining feature, but it shaped him into the being Crowley so dearly loved.

He continued to write:

Don’t bother thinking much about your dreams, or fretting over them, as I’m sure you’d do. The subconscious is a tricky place, full of falsehoods and games. Enjoy the dreams, if you can, but don’t let them linger in your mind for too long and distract you. They’re nothing to be anxious over.

A duel, you say? Might be a worthy way to spend some of our time. Don’t think our head offices get their wires crossed often, but we could think something up: pick a poor soul to do battle over. I’d like to see what you could do when pitted against me, angel. May the better celestial win, eh?

What have I been doing lately… Well, there’s always trouble to be found in London. If anything sticks out, it’s a jaunt to Whitehall to make a few of the Horse Guards’ mounts’ shoes fall off on parade. That’s not very evil of me, I know, but it was certainly enjoyable to watch. There’s a matter with a gentleman in the Ministry of Defense, also in Whitehall, and his affair with a junior aide (a tedious boy, if I must weigh in). Ruined his reputation, though his wife suggested he bring the boy round for a romp instead of turning the husband out on his ear. Humans: they never fail to amuse me. I might have whispered a bit of temptation in his ear to bring that about for the missus.

I like the idea of your bookshop, angel. It would suit you well, even if you hoard the books and sell very few of them. I’d like to stop by and see the place you’ve picked out. Maybe, if you’d like, I can bring a few volumes for you. I have a first edition of Wordsworth you might favor.

In any case, I won’t go on. Take care in Berlin if there are rumblings of trouble.

-C

He sanded the letter to soak up the excess ink, but stopped to add a postscript.

P.S. Here are the feathers. I’ve tipped them with gold—if only to show you up. Until next time, angel.

Crowley, grinning, pulled three black feathers from his wing and, tapping the quill of each, gave them golden tips for writing. The metal flashed brightly against the inky darkness of the barbs. Crowley tied them together with his red string, tucking the letter against them, and miracled it to wherever Aziraphale was staying in Germany. He could deny the angel nothing, and he made no attempt to.

Chapter Text

Act V

London, 2019

The twentieth century and into the twenty-first brought more meetings than Crowley and Aziraphale had shared in almost all of their acquaintance. There was 1941, in a church, where the touch of Aziraphale’s forefinger across Crowley’s had not gone unnoticed. It was the briefest lingering gesture as he handed Aziraphale the leather case of smuggled books, but Crowley relived it for years after, in the long nights when he didn’t sleep.

There was the time in the Bentley when flower power and peace and love ruled. Aziraphale had done—under protest—what Crowley had asked of him and given him holy water (in a quaint thermos, of course). Crowley had been grateful, but Aziraphale’s melancholy was plain. He had shifted in the passenger seat of the car and would barely meet Crowley’s eyes. When Crowley had ventured to offer him a lift, Aziraphale had shut down and, turning away, told him he went too fast. Crowley wasn’t altogether sure what that meant, but it sent him reeling back as if struck. Aziraphale had sounded disappointed, crestfallen, and it was the last thing Crowley wanted. His only desire was to give his angel the kind of joy he deserved—that Heavenly creatures sought. If that meant Crowley could reap the Hellish self-satisfaction of doing just what he intended—for good or for ill—all the better.

Aziraphale had left him on that street at a lost for what exactly had been said between them, or had, more appropriately, been left unspoken. The rapport had been absent, replaced only by Aziraphale’s apparent discontent. Crowley knew he had likely crossed a line in even asking for the water, and the angel’s upset had disturbed him. In his next letter, he had avoided the topic and stayed to innocuous stories of his misdeeds or asking after Aziraphale’s miracles. The replies he’d received were as polite as ever, but markedly more reserved than the letters they’d exchanged in, say, the 1820s—after Brighton. The lack of warmth was almost palpable, even from the page.

It was only after the baby was delivered some decades later that Crowley dared see Aziraphale again in person. The whole experience of the child’s arrival had been maybe a bit anticlimactic, but after the fact, Crowley had to pause and acknowledge what he might be about to lose as all creation was destroyed in a cataclysmic war between Heaven and Hell. There was Earth, of course, and all the humans, but the bright point in it was the angel. They would have to stand on opposing sides, breaking the strange truce they’d come to in the past six thousand years.

A new agreement—in addition to their less formal celestial détente—was made over several bottles wine in Aziraphale’s bookshop in 2008, which he had indeed (partly at Crowley’s urging) established in Soho. They didn’t often drink to excess, but after the arrival of the bloody Antichrist, they’d decided they deserved it. And in the bottoms of those bottles, they determined that they would thwart both of their masters and do their utmost to prevent the boy Warlock from bringing the war down upon them. It was a bad idea, and both of them knew it, but it meant that in all likelihood, they would be seeing more of each other. When Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind that idea, Crowley kept his mouth shut, pushing his own concerns aside.

In the five years before they arrived at the Dowlings’ home, they continued to write—often to lay plans for when they would enter Warlock’s life. Aziraphale secured his position first, as gardener, and then Crowley took his place as the nanny. For the first time in very carefully counted years, they lived on the same grounds and were permitted to stay thus for the next long while.

Nanny Ashtoreth didn’t often have business in the greenhouse, but Crowley watched from a distance as Warlock spent his afternoons with a bucktoothed Brother Francis in the back garden. Aziraphale’s disguise was endearingly over-the-top. However, Crowley’s own wasn’t so very understated, either. There wasn’t much occasion for them to speak without arousing suspicion and Crowley expected it to remain that way until their time with Warlock was done. As such, it caught him off guard when the first letter arrived on Nanny’s desk. My dear Crowley, it began, as always, and Crowley, smiling, sat down to read. He replied often and well, even if Aziraphale was only a stone’s throw away in the staff quarters.

It all went sideways by Warlock’s eleventh birthday, when they realized just how badly they had blundered, how their time had been wasted. All of a sudden, the future was certain: war and destruction and loss. And yet—yet—they had managed to find Adam Young and guide him to put a stop to it.

But that wasn’t before Crowley said the most forthright and (arguably) foolish thing he’d ever conceived of: he invited Aziraphale to leave it all behind and run away with him. Certainly he’d thought of it before, but he’d never in his imaginings considered actually making the suggestion. It was said suddenly and without preamble under a gazebo in the park, and as soon as the words left him, he’d never wanted anything more than for Aziraphale to agree. Earth would be difficult to leave, but they’d be together. Nothing could matter more. Could it?

Apparently so, because Aziraphale had refused him. To Crowley’s shame, it bowed and then broke the hope that had been sitting in his breast since Buffalo that Aziraphale’s friendship might run deeply enough for them to stand two against the world. He was sure it was over then, that it would come crashing down around their ears in only a few hours. He’d left the park and Aziraphale behind, feeling sick.

What came in the short time that followed could only be described as utter chaos. There was a boy, a witch, and a burning bookshop where Crowley had lost all reason. As the pages of Azirapahle’s beloved books turned to ash around him, Crowley had hit his knees on the hardwood floor and cried heartbreak and fury to a God he was sure had abandoned them. If She could take Aziraphale, there was nothing to redeem Her.

With that cheerful thought knocking around in his mind, Crowley had gone directly to the pub and ordered the strongest liquor he could. An hour later, he was numbly listing in his chair. Only then did a very discorporated Aziraphale decide to make his appearance. Crowley figured his brain had finally become addled enough to conjure the angel from nothing, but when even an imagined specter of him ordered Crowley to come to Tadfield, he couldn’t be refused.

Even as the Bentley burned and warped behind him at the airfield, when he had realized that Aziraphale was there, he had nearly collapsed at Madam Tracy’s feet and told the angel everything: I love you. I won’t lose you. I’d do anything for you. He’d managed to keep his composure, but barely, and they’d averted Armageddon.

That tenuous composure was, unfortunately, slipping in the night, when it was all said and done and they had a bottle of wine and a bench at the bus stop to share between them. Crowley’s offer this time was made with the expectation of it being refused, but he couldn’t stop himself: “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

The hesitation had come first, but when Crowley had made it clear that there was no allegiance in them to their respective head offices anymore, the angel had replied, “All right, yes. I think I would like that very much.”

After a ride on the Oxford bus miraculously to London, they were standing in the hallway outside of Crowley’s flat, him fumbling with the keys but finally giving up and miracling the door open. As he gestured Aziraphale inside, he was quick to remember that he had never fathomed the angel would come into his home, as evidenced by a rather sizable part of his décor: the gallery wall across the sitting room from the door. It was thirty red frames matted with black velvet and hung with symmetry and care. In each was an envelope, lovingly preserved despite the yellowing of the paper, that read, in Aziraphale’s looping hand: Crowley.

It was unavoidable that the angel’s attention would be drawn to the wall; that was the point of having it, anyway. He stepped through the entryway and into the sitting room, but paused as he approached the black leather sofa at the center of it. Crowley stood with hands in tight fists behind him, fumbling even more now with an explanation than with the keys a few moments before.

“I wrote these,” Azirapahle said, a note of wonder in his voice. “All of them.” He went around the sofa to the wall and pointed at one of the framed envelopes. “That’s from Pakistan.” He stuck a finger out toward another. “And this one from the Ivory Coast. And, if I’m not mistaken, that one is the first I sent to you.” He meant the envelope at the center of the arrangement.

In measured steps, Crowley came to stand beside him. He did his best to play his response coolly. “Wall was a little bare. Thought I might add something spicy to it.”

Aziraphale cocked his head toward him, blue eyes bright. “Are my letters ‘spicy,’ my dear?”

Crowley nearly choked. “Ah, no, angel. No.”

“I suppose I could have made them more so, if that’s what you wanted.”

Crowley shot a baffled look at him. “What in the world does that mean, angel?” He had a few thoughts, but strongly doubted they were what Aziraphale was imaging. He pinched his eyes closed, rubbing a hand over his face with a groan. His presumptions were always his own, and always would be. Aziraphale was his friend. He said, “It doesn’t really matter. I’m so bloody tired, I can barely think.”

Gentle fingers wrapped around his wrist, drawing his hand down, and Aziraphale said, “Don’t fuss. I was only trying to be funny. It clearly missed the mark. Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” He made to draw Crowley along, but wasn’t sure where to go and stalled, frowning. The moue of displeasure was so endearing that Crowley’s knees felt weak. And Aziraphale was nearly holding his hand.

“No,” Crowley said softly. “Tell me what you meant.”

Aziraphale’s nostrils flared slightly as he drew in a breath through his nose. “Oh, well, I don’t know a great deal about youth slang these days, but I’ve heard that ‘spicy’ implies...suggestive.” He glanced down at where he held Crowley, and then back up. “I thought it might make you laugh if I implied that you would have wanted me to— Never mind. It was a silly notion.”

Crowley did find himself chuckling. “Angel,” he began, “do you realize that you were the first of the two of us to think that dirty letters would be funny? That’s very un-angelic of you.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Well, I...yes, I suppose it was, wasn’t it? But you said yourself I don’t answer to Heaven anymore.” He raised his chin defiantly. “I can be a little wicked, now.”

Crowley’s traitorous human body reacted, unfortunately, just as it should have: the blood in his stomach dropped to his groin, the beginnings of arousal. This was far from the time, though, and Crowley willed himself to keep ahold of his baser nature.

“I don’t think I would have had the courage to write such things,” said Aziraphale. “Even if you had asked it of me.” He pressed his hands together in front of him. “Surely you wouldn’t have, either.”

“I am a demon,” Crowley countered, playing at lightness even if he meant it and all it implied. “We deal in desire.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “But certainly not for me.” His smile wavered, betraying his uncertainty.

Crowley’s nerves ran high. This was a chance to be frank—more of one than he’d ever been given before. He was apprehensive, but if the near end of the world had taught him anything, it was that some chances were to be taken unquestioningly. Though he pushed his hands into the shallow pockets of his trousers bashfully, he said, “You’re wrong about that, angel.”

“I am?” asked Aziraphale. “You...desire me?”

Crowley, resigned, gave a nod. “I’ve never done for anyone else.”

Aziraphale’s mouth came into a round O of surprise. After a moment, he said, “My dear, I didn’t know. I had hoped, perhaps, but I thought in vain.”

“Hoped?” Crowley said, hushed.

Stepping in close to him, Aziraphale lay a hand on his chest, his ringed pinky finger slipping under the lapel of his jacket. “Most ardently.”

Crowley’s shoulders slumped, his chin dropping. “Angel,” he murmured. He took his hands from his pockets and carefully removed his sunglasses. Holding them in his right hand, he put the left over Aziraphale’s at his heart and looked him in the eye. “I’ve loved you for millennia.”

“Oh, my darling,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you.”

Eyes stinging, Crowley clutched at the angel’s warm fingers. “All these years… I never dared to think it.”

Aziraphale watched him with a soft gaze, a small smile. “I can’t count the times the words were on the tip of my tongue: Nice, when you had your hands on my wings; Buffalo in the gondola; the days when you walked under the rose arbor in the Dowlings’ garden in your fine black dress. I considered an admission in a letter, but my courage failed me.” He sighed. “I wonder what might have been had I been able to speak. We might have come to this far sooner.”

“You weren’t the only coward,” Crowley told him.

Aziraphale moved his free hand up to Crowley’s cheek, cupping it tenderly. “Did you mean to kiss me in the sea in Brighton? I’ve thought of it almost daily since.”

Crowley smiled. “I did.”

“I wish you had,” Aziraphale said, “but perhaps now we could make up for it?”

“Please,” said Crowley. “Please, angel.”

Drawing him down by the jaw, Aziraphale brought their mouths together. Crowley kept his eyes open to convince himself it was real, but as Aziraphale parted his lips and inquisitively tongued Crowley’s, he let his eyes close. He put his arms around the angel, pulling him against his chest with six thousand years of yearning. Aziraphale slid his around Crowley’s neck, his fingers in the hair at the nape. Pure joy, as Crowley had never known, exploded in his core, radiating through him until he was sure he shone with the kind of light he’d lost when he fell. Aziraphale’s touch—his kiss—was like being saved.

When they parted, Crowley saw that Aziraphale’s mouth was pink and damp, and his expression was hazy with what Crowley hoped was love—and passion.

“Will you come to bed with me, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale hesitated, and for a moment Crowley was sure he had pushed too far too soon, but then Aziraphale began to smile, stroking the side of Crowley’s neck. “Yes, my dear. Take me there.”

Crowley took his hand and drew him out of the sitting room, down the plant-lined hall, and into his bedroom. The bed itself was neatly made with gray linens and a dense duvet, pillows stacked against the headboard. He’d always slept alone, but tonight he’d share it for the first time, and gladly.

He led Aziraphale to the bedside, stopping there to give him a last opportunity to change his mind. Aziraphale read him clearly and chucked him under the chin. “I’m not afraid,” the angel said. “I want you, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “you’ll never stop surprising me.” He ran his palm over Aziraphale’s white hair. “My angel. Just a little bit mine.”

“Far more than that,” said Aziraphale. “All yours, in truth.”

Crowley kissed him again, desperate. Aziraphale answered with ardor, putting his hands under Crowley’s jacket and against his back. Crowley groaned into the angel’s mouth and got his shirt tugged from his waistband in return. Seconds later, Aziraphale was caressing his bare skin, making him tingle.

“Take this off?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley, daring, flicked the edge of Aizraphale’s bowtie. “You first.”

With clever fingers, he undid the knot and pulled the tie from under Aziraphale’s collar. Directly, he was undoing the buttons at his throat. Aziraphale shrugged his own jacket over his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. And then he was pushing Crowley’s away insistently, fumbling with the admittedly superfluous tie he wore. Crowley had to break the kiss to allow Aziraphale to get it over his head, and his shirt very quickly followed, despite his demand that Aziraphale take his clothes off first. Crowley didn’t really mind. He planned to take his time undressing the angel, fulfilling an age of fantasies.

The waistcoat came first, Crowley slipping the buttons through their holes and then parting the sides to put his hands under it and feel Aziraphale’s shape. He was as curving and full as Crowley had imagined, and he gave the most gentle of sighs as Crowley followed the length of his spine down to the sacrum. With no small measure of lustful wickedness, Crowley took a firm handful of his buttock and squeezed.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale murmured, bringing his forehead to rest against Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley divested him of the waistcoat, going for the buttons on his shirt. When it was open, Crowley found he was wearing another shirt beneath. “Too many bloody layers, angel,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s only proper, my dear.” He ran his hands up Crowley’s bare chest, coming to rest at his collarbone. “You, however, are never proper.”

“No,” said Crowley. “Demons aren’t that.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said as he nipped at Crowley’s lower lip.

Crowley shoved his shirt away, yanking the undershirt up and over Aziraphale’s head and leaving him bare from the waist up. His chest was lightly furred—as pale as the rest of his hair—and his belly was pleasantly rounded. Awed, Crowley sank down onto one knee and then the other, taking Aziraphale by the waist and planting kisses at his middle. Aziraphale put his hands into Crowley’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“Perfect,” Crowley said between kisses.

“You told me that at the fair,” said Aziraphale, “and I could barely believe it. I’m so far from perfect, my dear.”

Crowley turned his eyes up to find the angel looking down at him fondly. “Not from where I stand, angel.” He nuzzled Aziraphale’s navel. “I’ve never wanted anyone other than you.”

Pulling back just far enough to reach Aziraphale’s belt, Crowley released the buckle and easily opened the flies of his trousers. He’d clearly decided on the standard human male anatomy, the most obvious part of which was pressed against his underwear. Crowley paid it due attention through the cotton, until Aziraphale was taking deep, labored breaths from above him.

“Go on,” he said. “I need…”

Crowley trembled at the phrasing, but did as he was told. He eased Aziraphale’s trousers and underwear down until could step out of them. Somewhere along the way, his shoes had disappeared. Some minor miracle, Crowley supposed.

He took a long moment to appreciate the angel’s entire form, saying once again, “Perfect,” before he bent his head and took Aziraphale into his mouth.

All of this was new to him—presumably to both of them—but he knew enough about the rudiments to give pleasure. And Aziraphale gave all the signs that he was enjoying it: taking a firmer grip of Crowley’s hair, making soft noises of encouragement. It was only when Crowley felt a rush of cool air that he realized Aziraphale’s wings had unfurled. He was a vision of white, the soft wings coming around Crowley’s back to enclose him. The contentment was immediate; he’d never felt safer or more loved. Absently, he reached up to stroke the flight feathers, so dear and so cherished.

When Aziraphale hit his peak, he cried out, holding Crowley’s shoulders tightly. Crowley attended to him until he stopped gasping. Only then did he open the curtain of his wings and allow Crowley to stand. He kissed his own taste from Crowley’s mouth.

“Lie with me?” he asked.

“Anything you want, angel,” Crowley replied.

He stripped out of his trousers and underwear as Aziraphale tucked his wings away and crawled onto the bed. The angel lay on his back, an enticing treat for Crowley’s taking. Crowley joined him there, lowering himself over him like a snake over a sun-warmed rock. Aziraphale made space for him between his legs in invitation.

Crowley touched his face. “Like this?” he said.

Aziraphale nodded. “Just like this.”

When Crowley moved into him, his own dark wings burst forth, casting a black shadow over Aziraphale beneath him. He brought the tips down to brush the duvet, and Aziraphale took hold of them, working the lean muscles under the feathers. Crowley gave a deep groan, closing his eyes as he moved his hips. No one had touched his wings before, and it was exquisite. Between Aziraphale’s hands and the embrace of his body, Crowley was lost. The sensation washed over him, leaving him stunned and electrified. In the aftermath, he folded his wings behind his back and lay down against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Was that good?” he asked sleepily.

“Perfect,” Aziraphale replied as he stroked his naked back. “For a first go, anyway.”

Crowley laughed, but even his spent desire kicked up with interest again. “You’ll be the death of me, angel.”

“I hope not. After all, you’re the thing that brings me life.” Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head, over his disordered hair. “These must be the fits of passion Wordsworth wrote of.”

Immediately, Crowley tensed. “You found it.”

“Yes. I was cleaning the case for the portrait and I had to remove it. To my utter surprise, there was a folded note written in your hand. A love poem.”

“How could you not have known then that I was in love with you?” said Crowley. “It was so clear.”

Aziraphale hugged him close. “Some part of me did, I think, but I could never find the will or the words to ask you what you meant by it.”

“We’re both fools,” Crowley told him.

“Perhaps so,” said Aziraphale, “but it’s all in the open now.”

“Took too long.”

“Yes.”

Crowley eventually moved them under the duvet to keep them warm, but they were never far enough away to keep from touching. Still naked, they curled together.

“I want to see you more,” Crowley said. “We’ve not got the head offices looking over us anymore. We can meet as often as we like.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’d very much like that. But I’ll miss the letters. I’d like to write you love letters, my dear.”

Crowley turned his face to Aziraphale’s to see him properly—his lovely angel—and said with all his heart, “That’s what they’ve always been, angel. That’s what they’ve always been.”