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Ridiculous angel.
Aziraphale had always been ridiculous. Since the first day Crowley laid eyes on him. Since the first conversation they shared. What proper demon could imagine such an angel, who no sooner stepped foot on Earth before handing a heavenly weapon over to a pair of humans because “it’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting already” – the same weapon Aziraphale wielded over his shoulder just yesterday, while the ground vibrated underneath.
It was quiet now. The earth was still, and the stars were out.
The demon watched thoughtfully as hands that wielded a flaming sword now uncorked a wine bottle, poured a glass.
Before yesterday, Crowley had never seen Aziraphale wield anything other than a dessert fork, or a handkerchief, or perhaps a pair of opera glasses. Maybe an ancient tome, plucked from a dusty shelf on its way to being deposited across a cluttered desk…
…But no. Aziraphale would never be careless with something he thought precious. He would take the time to put on his silly white gloves, perch his absurd reading spectacles on his nose. And he would open the book gently. Aziraphale was always careful with the things he loved.
Ridiculous.
Like a wing stretched over Crowley’s head when the skies turned grey over Eden and the first rains splashed onto the earth. There was the smell of rich soil drinking in water. The scent of new growth – of life, of living, and wasn’t that something? Under the shelter of pristine white feathers, Crowley’s anxiety about the whole eat-the-apple business melted away, and a warmth spread through his essence despite the cold of the rain. Because the garden was so verdant green, and the world was new and vast and clean. And the future was ineffable, apparently, according to one very interesting, very ridiculous angel.
Like that time in Rome, when they happened to pop in on the same day.
Crowley had been coming off a long nap – his longest ever, at the time. Eight years. The thirty or so before that had been disappointing. Many of the years had been disappointing, actually. The fires, the brimstone, the pillars of salt; the ‘Great Plan’ seemed more predictable than ineffable, those days. And Crowley tolerated it, he really did. But watching a man who thought himself the son of God turn his gaze towards Heaven moments before death and ask why he had been abandoned – well. Crowley’s mind had gone a bit fuzzy after all of that.
So, when Crowley wandered into that market in Rome, his body fighting the weight of eight years’ worth of lethargy, and that ridiculous angel appeared, all bare forearms and rosy cheeks…
Aziraphale had said Crowley’s name. And tolerated Crowley’s quick temper. And taken him to dinner – oysters for Satan’s sake. And afterwards insisted on a trip to the theater. They were putting on a comedy, and “though the thematic material these days is a bit derivative, dear boy, the staging is completely original.”
…Crowley’s jaw eased its clenching, and the all-consuming ache in his body dulled. And that space inside where he’d felt cold for many long years finally began to thaw.
Aziraphale was always careful with Crowley. During the Arrangement, meticulously dotting every ‘I’ and crossing every ‘T’ on all those reports sent upstairs. The night of the London church bombing, when the angel demanded to wash and apply salves to Crowley’s blistered feet by hand – the human way. When offering up a tartan thermos, lid fastened tightly, fingers quivering and breath shallow. Aziraphale was careful with that which he loved.
“Here you are, my dear.” The angel gently pressed a glass into Crowley’s hand and settled back into a well-worn desk chair in the back room of an old bookshop.
There was a second yesterday that Crowley truly believed would be his last. A moment when he resigned himself to the fact that his plan had desperately failed, and he would spend the last moments before his utter destruction bickering with Aziraphale – and wasn’t that just typical? It was alright, though. Because Aziraphale came back for him; he’d stood by Crowley’s side against Heaven and Hell. He’d chosen their side. For Crowley, in that moment, that could have been enough.
But then that ridiculous angel, wielding that ridiculous sword, ordered Crowley to “come up with something!” as the ground pitched beneath his knees.
“Or…” And in six thousand years Crowley had never seen Aziraphale look so desperate, so pleading, so plainly terrified.
“Or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Right.
This was not enough. Obviously.
“Crowley?”
“Hmm?”
The demon’s eyes drifted from the wine glass in his hand to the angel sitting across from him.
It was a familiar tableau: it could have been a snapshot from any number of evenings they’d spent together. Except today was the very first day of the rest of their lives. Time that hadn’t been guaranteed, hadn’t been written; there was no chapter entitled ‘life after the end of the world.’
“It looked as if you were somewhere else for a moment.”
But the world hadn’t ended, of course. And the bookshop wasn’t burned down anymore. And Aziraphale was here and alive. And beautiful.
“Nah.” Crowley swirled the liquid in his glass, warmth blooming in his chest and spreading steadily outwards. “I’m right here, angel.”
For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Crowley blinked and sipped his wine, and Aziraphale’s features melted into a smile, and the Earth continued turning as it had for six thousand years. Crowley watched as the angel tipped his head back, eyes closed, sighing. The sigh of rain gently falling on your skin. Of stretching your wings after centuries of being grounded. Of being alive on the day after the end of the world.
“It’s getting rather late. I think I might try for a nap.”
“Have you ever?”
“Once or twice. When the occasion called for it.”
Crowley shifted, taking the words as a signal to peel himself from the soft leather, where he’d been reclining since just after lunch. As was their routine at the end of a long evening.
“Crowley?”
Crowley stilled, glancing up. The angel hadn’t opened his eyes.
“You’re welcome to stay. If you like.”
The corners of Crowley’s lips slowly pulled into a small smile, and he let them, since Aziraphale wasn’t watching. He settled back into familiar cushions and set his drink aside. And since Aziraphale wasn’t watching, Crowley pulled a blanket (the tartan one) from the sofa arm, spreading it over his long limbs. When sufficiently nestled, the demon’s gaze rested on soft laugh lines and pale curls. He sighed.
The sigh of being exactly where you want to be. At last.
“Good night, angel.”
“Good night, Crowley.”
Crowley’s eyes slipped shut.
“And please do take off your shoes, my dear. I don’t want them scuffing the leather.”
The demon beamed.
Ridiculous.