Chapter Text
“There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square . . .”
“It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think, angel?” Crowley leans forward, catching his elbow on the side of the table out of luck alone, and watches Aziraphale take his final sip of champagne.
“What?” Aziraphale presses one well-manicured hand to his chest. “You think I made her play this song?”
“Oh, I know you did it.”
“But that would be using a frivolous miracle.” Aziraphale lets out a tipsy laugh.
“Yeah, and you’ve never done that before.” Crowley rolls his eyes. He does, actually, like the song, has done since the ‘40s, but he likes to tease Aziraphale even more.
The piano player continues, filling the room along with the sound of tinkling silverware and hushed conversation. They’ve been sat at their table for almost two hours and this is their third bottle of champagne. Crowley is suddenly feeling very sleepy, but he also doesn’t want this afternoon to ever end. They’ve fucking done it, fooled Heaven and Hell and all of the incredibly unimaginative lot that fill both of those overrated places.
Aziraphale is looking flushed and quite pleased with himself. It does something to Crowley’s insides, twists them all up with the longing he’s been trying to repress for the last six thousand years. Crowley is a huge fan of repression; the humans created it, but he took the credit of course, and has used it to his advantage once or twice. He doesn’t think he’s as good at it as he used to be, however.
The last few strains of the song fade into the air, and Aziraphale looks at him expectantly, just a tad nervously. Crowley realises he’s been staring and sprawls back into his chair, feigning nonchalance.
“Shall we go, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.
“Sure,” he agrees.
The afternoon is warm but pleasant, suffused with the fading light of the golden hour. It makes Aziraphale look even more glow-y and perfect than he usually does, and Crowley diverts his eyes and tries to remember himself. Or at least remember that it’s never going to happen.
“Tired?” Aziraphale asks as they begin to make their way from Mayfair to Soho.
“A bit, yeah. Could use some sleep. Stopping time really takes it out of you. Facing down Satan; doesn’t look as good as he used to. A little too red for my tastes. A little too dramatic, bursting out of the earth like that, if you ask me. Don’t know how he got so huge. Maybe he’s been working out. Not much else to do in Hell.” Crowley realises he’s rambling and shuts his mouth with a snap.
“It was truly impressive, Crowley, stopping time like you did. Thank you. I . . .” Aziraphale looks like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. If Crowley has used repression when it suits him, Aziraphale has cultivated it into an art form.
Crowley shrugs. “It was nothing.” I did it for you. Because you asked. Wouldn’t have even thought of it otherwise, I was too fucking scared.
“So you’ll be wanting to head home, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can’t quite determine his tone. It’s a little hopeful, a little wistful, a little worried. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists at his side, not looking directly at Crowley.
Suddenly, this dance between them is too much. He can’t do this right now. He is exhausted, and he needs a tumbler full of whisky and to sleep for at least a week before he can deal with whatever is going on with him and Aziraphale.
“Yeah. I guess I should get going. Could use a kip. Maybe you could, too.” He turns back to Aziraphale with his hands thrust in his pockets, skirts around a few oncoming pedestrians. “Call you later?” His head is starting to hurt. A spot of rest would do him good.
“Oh. All right.” Aziraphale gives Crowley one of his patented ‘everything is fine’ smiles. “Mind how you go.”
It isn’t until he’s parking the Bentley twenty minutes later that he realises the dull throb at his temples that began plaguing him as he left Aziraphale has morphed into a full-blown headache. He drags his feet to the lift and up to his flat, stumbles inside, and slinks to his bedroom, pulling up the hem of his shirt as he goes.
Demons don’t get sick. Or if they do, it’s easily dispelled with a quick miracle; Crowley can count on one hand the number of times his human vessel has succumbed to illness. Each of those occasions had been presaged by a time of great stress or trauma: the black death, the Inquisition, both world wars. He figures the almost-end-of-the-world probably counts. Not exactly a walk in the park.
Once undressed, he flings himself onto his cool sheets and snaps his fingers, staring up at the blank ceiling. The pounding in his head doesn’t abate, however; it almost seems to increase until it is nearly unbearable. When he closes his eyes, he sees stars, but not the good kind. He groans and staggers back to his feet, ransacks the loo cabinet to find a bottle of Paracetamol he’s had since the ‘90s.
“Fucking hell,” he says to himself, downing a few with a sip of water from the tap. “This can’t be good.”
Not surprisingly, the medicine doesn’t help. An hour later, Crowley is in agony, and worse, now his stomach is in on the fun. He sicks up into the toilet and then lays his head on the cool tile, sweating and wondering if he’s been cursed.
Maybe Heaven and Hell found out he and Aziraphale had tricked them. Maybe they knew all along. This could be retribution: a drawn-out, messy death much worse than the instantaneous oblivion of the Holy Water bath they’d originally planned. And if this is happening to him, what about . . . Aziraphale. His stomach lurches again.
Vomiting is not pleasant, especially when one is likely being slowly discorporated by the powers of Hell. Distantly, he hears a ringing sound. At first he thinks it’s his bastard head playing tricks on him again, but then he realises it’s his mobile, which has at some point skittered across the bathroom floor.
“Aziraphale?” he answers, his voice scratchy. “Are you all right?”
“No, dear boy, I don’t think I am.” Aziraphale sounds as weak as Crowley feels.
“Are you at the bookshop?” He manages to heft himself up to sitting.
“Yes. I just made it, barely. I . . . don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel—” There is a retching sound from the end of the line, and Crowley’s whole body goes cold.
“Hold on. I’m coming over. Just stay right there.”
He hangs up without another word and struggles to dress himself and find his keys. His whole body feels like it’s on fire, and he realises he’s feverish, in no state to drive. Reluctantly, he manages to download a ride-sharing app and make it to the ground floor, all the while his heart is pounding in his ears.
The ride to the bookshop is excruciating for more than one reason. The driver, who is obviously new to London, takes a wrong turn twice and extends the journey by over ten minutes. Every sharp turn makes Crowley’s temples throb with pain. But far, far worse is the gnawing fear in the pit of Crowley’s gut that by the time he gets to the bookshop, it will be too late, and he’ll have lost Aziraphale for good.
Finally, they pull up to the curb and Crowley struggles out and up the stairs. Aziraphale is not in the bookshop, and a blast of icy fear nearly freezes him to the spot. But nothing is on fire. Nothing is out of place. There is no sign of struggle. Crowley forces himself to calm, pushes down his sickness, and heads for the internal stairs to Aziraphale’s flat.
The door to the flat is ajar, as though someone came through in a hurry and forgot to do the latch. Crowley finds Aziraphale hunched over the toilet, a look of abject misery on his face. It’s such a relief to see him, he almost feels better, but then another roil of nausea sends him to his knees.
Trembling, he reaches out to touch Aziraphale’s shoulder, perhaps seeking reassurance for himself as well as offering it. The angel’s body is warm under his fingers, too warm, but Crowley’s own fever seems to be fading. “Angel, are you all right?”
Aziraphale blinks at him, bleary eyed. “Oh, I feel utterly wretched. I feel . . .” He takes a deep breath, a look of confusion crossing over his features. “Better, actually. How strange.”
“I thought for sure you were—” Crowley scrubs his face with both hands and lets out a sigh.
Aziraphale gives him a knowing look. “You think it has to do with them?” He points up and then down.
Crowley, who by now is entirely recovered—no fever, no nausea, no headache—sits back on his heels and shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s not like we”—he gestures between the two of them—“can get food sickness. I used a demonic miracle and it didn’t help at all. What else can it be?”
Aziraphale hums pensively. He looks like he is feeling better, as well, his pale face regaining a bit of colour.
“You don’t think so?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale stands up and adjusts his clothing. “Did you have any sense, any at all, they were on to you, up there? Because I didn’t, down below. I’ll have you know I gave an impeccable performance, my dear. The Bard himself would have approved. Why else would they let us go?”
“I don’t know. But it’s pretty demonic, really, isn’t it? Make someone think they’re off the hook and then—bam—horrible, drawn out, messy death.”
“Not very Heavenly, though.”
“No, but neither are those supposed angels.” Crowley sneers. If he ever sees that bastard Gabriel again, he’ll show him hellfire.
“I suppose you have a point. Well, whatever the case, we seem to both be feeling back to normal. Let’s wait and see what happens next before we jump to any conclusions. In the meantime, perhaps you should stay here. Safety in numbers and all that.”
Crowley, who has no intention of doing anything else, nods and rises to his feet.
“Good. Now, let’s get cleaned up and have some tea. I have some books to consult.”
***
The books in question turn out to be Bibles, then John Milton, then William Blake. Aziraphale reads for hours at his desk in the back room of the bookshop while Crowley kips on the sofa right next to him. He is bloody exhausted and has every intention of sleeping for at least a full day, but he rejects Aziraphale’s suggestion that the bed upstairs might be more comfortable. If Beelzebub and Michael come knocking, he needs to be here, thank you very much.
Sometime later, Crowley feels someone shaking him and opens one eye. Aziraphale is watching him with a small smile on his face, but instantly withdraws his hand.
“What’sss going on?” Crowley props himself up on his elbows. It’s dark outside, but he has no sense of the time. “How long did I sleep?”
“Oh, twenty-four hours, give or take.” Aziraphale sits primly at the end of the sofa, removes his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose. Crowley has the almost irrepressible urge to put his feet in the angel’s lap, just to see what he would do. He doesn’t, but just barely, and instead retracts his feet to avoid the temptation.
“And? Did you find out anything?”
“No, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find anything to illuminate what happened yesterday. I’m beginning to think it was the food after all. Maybe now that we’re cut off from our respective head offices, we’re becoming more . . . susceptible to human ailments.”
“You don’t mean . . . but I can still do demonic miracles.”
“And I, angelic. But you’ll note that neither of us could cure ourselves. It could be that our powers are fading with time.”
Crowley frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of this one bit; he’s fond of humans, sure, most of the time, but he doesn’t want to bloody be one. “Fuck.”
“Quite.”
“Well, what do we do now?”
“I don’t know if there’s much we can do, my dear. We may just have to accept it.”
“Accept it?”
Aziraphale sniffs. “Do you have another theory, a better theory, perhaps?”
Crowley runs his fingers through his sleep-rumpled hair and blows out a breath. “I still think it has something to do with our delightful colleagues. Listen, I’ve got to go home to water the plants and get my car. You hold tight and get yourself a snack. I’ll help with the research when I get back in an hour.”
He hasn’t gone more than a few steps beyond the bookshop when it hits: the headache is back, and with it the almost crippling nausea. It is far worse this time, and there is no way he’s going anywhere. He doubles over in pain, dry-heaving and alarming several passersby, until he is finally able to stumble back inside.
“Angel?” he croaks, his whole body burning up.
“Crowley,” comes a strangled reply from the back room.
Aziraphale is on the sofa, curled in a fetal position with both hands on his stomach. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
Crowley flings himself to his knees and puts one shaking hand on Aziraphale’s sweaty forehead. Instantly, his own pain vanishes.
Aziraphale is staring at him, an expression of shock on his face that probably rivals Crowley’s own.
“I think I have a better theory, angel,” Crowley says.
“It’s us.”
***
Two hours later, they are very drunk indeed.
“So, it’s sssix feet,” Crowley says, slurring a little. “Six fucking feet.” That is the distance they have so far determined is the extent to which they can separate before symptoms begin to develop. Anything beyond ten feet is absolute agony.
“Not very many feet,” Aziraphale agrees. They are back in Aziraphale’s flat, sitting at his table with a mostly empty bottle of whisky between them. Their little science experiment has taken a mental toll as well as a physical one, and Crowley can barely lift his head up from where it’s propped on his hand.
“So how the fuck are we going to fix this?” It’s not like Crowley minds being close to Aziraphale; in fact he prefers it. But this forced proximity isn’t what he wants. What he wants is another glass of whisky. He pours the rest of the bottle into his glass, splashing a bit on the table. He gives Aziraphale a sheepish look before he miracles away the mess. Their power to perform miracles is still intact, so long as they don’t leave each other’s orbit. Distance seems to weaken their abilities, though so far they haven’t gone farther than twenty feet away from one another. They are planning to test this, but not yet. By some mutual silent agreement they are waiting until the whisky runs out before undertaking more experiments.
“At least this means we probably aren’t becoming human, after all.”
“Can you please not look at the bright side right now, angel? I’m trying to mope.”
Aziraphale looks vaguely affronted. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Crowley.” He pouts and crosses his arms over his chest, which, when combined with his cloudpuff curls, really only succeeds in making him look like a rather sozzled hedgehog. It absolutely shouldn’t make Crowley want to snog him.
“I’m sure,” Crowley mutters darkly.
“Well, we can’t figure this out right now when we’re both drunk.”
“I don’t wanna be sober.”
“Nor do I.”
“Could really use some more sleep, though.” It’s past midnight, and Crowley knows Aziraphale rarely partakes of slumber himself. He’s pretty sure he could get away with another couch nap, as long as Aziraphale stays close by.
“Yes, well.” Aziraphale worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I suppose a little rest wouldn’t hurt either of us. My bed is big enough for two.”
Crowley’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “What?” Aziraphale goes out of his way, on a good day, to avoid touching him. To say the proposal comes as a surprise is the understatement of the fucking millennium.
Aziraphale’s expression stays infuriatingly hard to read. He stands up, a bit unsteadily. “Come now. Things will look—”
“Don’t say better in the morning.”
Aziraphale’s mouth closes, and he purses his lips. “Fine. I won’t. But you really don’t need to be so grumpy.”
They are silent as they ready themselves for bed, back-to-back. Crowley miracles himself a set of black silk pyjamas, too drunk to think critically about what they’re doing. What he’s doing. He’s about to sleep in the same bed as Aziraphale. It’s only something he’s dreamed about for as long as he can remember. The sound of rustling clothing behind him, drawers opening and closing, is almost more than he can stand. He digs his fingers into his palms to stop from turning his head.
Luckily, he’s also drunk enough that his human body doesn’t react in the way it would if he were sober. That would certainly be a bit more too fast than he thinks Aziraphale can handle. He might discorporate on the spot, and then what would they do?
Aziraphale is already in bed when Crowley finally gets the courage to look. He’s wearing what seems to be a tartan nightshirt from circa 1920, which may be the last time he attempted to sleep.
“Everything all right?” Aziraphale asks.
“M’fine,” Crowley says. He takes off his glasses, slides under the blanket, and fluffs the pillow behind his head a little more violently than necessary. His head is spinning, and not entirely from alcohol. The whole bloody room smells like Aziraphale, and now he’s close enough for Crowley to feel his body heat as well.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry.”
“S’nothing to be sorry for, angel. Go to sleep.”
There is some shifting in the bed behind him, and the light goes out. Crowley doesn’t sleep for a long, long time as he listens to Aziraphale’s breathing grow steady and slow. He can’t help wondering what angels dream about, if they dream at all. Or if Aziraphale ever dreams of him.