1
They were at the pond feeding the ducks, just like most days.
Crowley had found it a little harder than normal to sober up that morning. He and Aziraphale had gone back to the bookstore and drunk themselves silly. Of course, that was perfectly acceptable, what with them having averted Armageddon and all.
The long, lithe demon leaned lazily against a trash bin, watching the angel throw bits of a new- bought bread loaf to the slightly shifty- looking ducks. Aziraphale turned and smiled warmly at Crowley, and the demon's stomach did a sort of flop. He blushed and looked away.
"What's wrong, dear?" Aziraphale asked, coming toward him with that concerned look on his face. Crowley's face flushed again at the angel's customary endearment to everyone he knew. "Nothing."
"I know it's not nothing," the Principality said seriously. "I mean, we just saved the world. You must be feeling something. Is that it? Are you feeling confused?"
"Well, yeah," Crowley muttered. "I'm extremely confused. And I'm glad the world is saved. But that's not what I'm confused about." He looked up at Aziraphale now, his eyes young and questioning, his sunglasses slipped down his nose just enough.
Aziraphale stared deep and long into his friend's yellow irises, then grabbed Crowley's arm and began to drag him off. "Where are we going?" Crowley said, wrenching his arm away.
"You need to just sit down and talk for a little," the angel said firmly. "If you don't get whatever you need to out, then you'll feel miserable even on this wonderful day. And if you're miserable, then I'm miserable."
Crowley gave up, and let himself be dragged into one of those coffee shops Aziraphale visited regularly but one that the demon would never be caught dead in.
Aziraphale sat him down at the back table and went to order their drinks. The angel came back with two steaming mugs of basic coffee. Crowley wished his cup espresso.
"So," Aziraphale said after they had sipped their coffee for a while, "What's wrong?"
"Everything," admitted Crowley. "I'm just so uncertain now. We've both gone against our superiors, and somehow we haven't been blasted off the face of this worrying little planet. We've stopped the biggest event in the history of the Earth, and yet we're sitting here drinking coffee. My Bentley's back good as new, you've got your books back, and the whole world is at peace. I should be the happiest demon alive. Well, no I shouldn't, I shouldn't be happy at all."
"But you love this world," the angel said reasonably, "You never wanted to see it destroyed."
"I should be furious!" Crowley hissed, pounding the table with his fist and leaving a scorch mark. Aziraphale quickly wished it away. "I should be being severely punished! I just stopped the thing my side's been waiting for forever!"
"And I did the same thing," Aziraphale said in a quiet voice, "My side wanted it as much as yours. But we're different. We know the world and the human culture better. We've grown to care for it. We had things we would miss."
Crowley seemed to deflate a little in his seat. With that uncomfortable stomach lurch again, he watched the angel brush his golden hair out of his brilliant blue eyes.
"But you said that wasn't all you were confused about," Aziraphale said, suddenly businesslike. "What else is there?"
Crowley looked at the middle- aged angel and wondered what he should say. That last night when they had both been completely wasted he had looked over at his best friend and thought how beautiful he really was? That every time the angel called him dear he felt as if he would do anything to hear it again? No. That wasn't an option. He was a demon. Aziraphale was an angel. Demons did not love. Angels loved everything the same.
Crowley stared sadly into Aziraphale's eyes, and ran out the door.
Aziraphale sat at the table, rather shocked. Crowley had never just run out like that. Crowley was the rock to his rather swaying choices. But the look that had been in his old friend's reptilian eyes was ancient, and heart- wrenching. It was a look of despair, and the angel knew he had to find out what it was. Because he couldn't let his Crowley hurt like that without the angel being there to comfort him.
He buried his face in his hands and groaned softly. He'd done it again. Ever since Saturday, he would accidentally think of Crowley as his Crowley. He had to stop doing that. It just gave him false hope. He knew that the demon would never consider him as more than an acquaintance.
Aziraphale had gotten this silly notion* roughly eleven years ago, when Crowley had first told him of his delivery of Adam. The angel had got to thinking about all the things he would miss. His list went so:
His books. From his least favorite to his prized collection of misprinted Bibles.
Food.
Wine.
Coffee shops.
Music.
Sweater vests.
(And though he didn't want to admit it, and especially not the fact that this point should go under number one, he would miss) Crowley.
Because, after those six millennia, it had taken the fact that he would lose his friend forever to jolt him awake to the reality that he loved Crowley. Not in the way that angels were supposed to love everything. He loved the demon in a burning sense that angels should not really ever experience. It was dirty, it was unrequited, and it was impossible. Aziraphale told himself that every morning, but that little annoying voice in the back of his head kept telling him that maybe God wasn't against it.
And Aziraphale's rationally thinking mind would reject that idea quickly. Of course he'd be against it, he argued with himself, good G- Someone, I'm an angel! And anyway, it's not like Crowley would ever want to. If I told him, I would probably lose him forever. And it's better to just keep him as a friend than tell him my true feelings and never talk to him again.
But the little voice kept piping up, and every day, Aziraphale would argue with less and less rancor.
Aziraphale drained what was left of his coffee and sadly paid the bill. The angel shuffled outside to find the Bentley gone. As I thought, he said to himself. But he couldn't keep the slight pout off his face.
Crowley angrily brushed away the tears- tears!- that were trickling slowly down his face. He never cried. He couldn't believe what had gotten into him. He had actually been considering telling the angel. You can't, he thought furiously, ever! Because if you do, you'll lose him, and then you'll probably be sentenced to torture. He huddled over the steering wheel of the Bentley, pulling himself together. He swallowed and looked up, through the glass of his window and into the coffee shop where Aziraphale was still sitting.
Crowley looked away, started the car, and rammed a tape at random into the cassette player.
Jesse McCartney crooned away at him. I shouldn't love you but I want to, I just can't turn away…
Crowley groaned and closed his eyes, taking off his sunglasses and rubbing his temples. The Bentley had a way of making you irritable. He didn't even know he owned any Jesse McCartney music.
But what the lyrics were saying was true. There's so much I can't say. Do you want me to hide the feelings and look the other way?
Crowley had to, so he could keep his angel safe. And that was what mattered to him most.
I'm wondering why I've waited so long. Looking back I realize it was always there just never spoken.
He hit the Bentley cassette player so hard the tape flew to the back seat and sizzled slightly. Breathing hard, he pulled up to the curb and stormed inside his apartment, nearly knocking the old lady downstairs over.
Slamming the door to his flat, he steamrollered over to his untouched bedroom and lay on top of the covers, fuming. Eventually he fell asleep, just missing the call to his home line from Aziraphale, who left a hesitant message about getting together for lunch at the Ritz tomorrow.
It was a bright, sunny morning, so opposite from Crowley's mood that he felt like shouting at the clear blue sky. He satisfied himself with vigorously kicking one of his plants on the way to the kitchen.
His ansaphone message light was beeping, and he stabbed at it, sitting down at the table, his face in his hands.
"Erm, hello," said a rather awkward sounding angel, "I was wonder, er, I mean, after all that, if you still wanted to, erm, get together for lunch at the Ritz today. So, yes, uh, hope to see you there…." Beep "End of message."
For the few moments that Aziraphale's voice had issued from the answering machine, Crowley had sat stock still, not even breathing. His unneeded heart beating wildly, he picked up his land line and slowly dialed his friend's number. He held the phone to his ear.
It rang thrice, and by the third time Crowley's hands were sweating much more than they needed. If the angel doesn't hurry up and pick up the phone, Crowley thought darkly, I might just-
"Hello?"
Crowley shot upright. "Uh," he replied intelligently, "Hi, Zira. Do you still want to do lunch?"
Crowley couldn't tell, but the angel blushed crimson. "Of course. How about, oh, let's say, one? It's roughly eleven thirty right now."
Crowley gave what Aziraphale thought was an affirmative grunt and hung up. The angel sat back in his comfortable chair and sighed. It would be a long wait till lunch.
So in the meantime, Aziraphale began to pick out which sweater vest he would wear that day.
*The accidental pet- name- thingamagog. Not the fact that Crowley was his acquaintance.