They had stories about him.
Not the written kind. But the ones that are whispered from person to person, passed along and changed by the years. No-one really knew where they started, or even when, but there were a good many of them. Some said he was a ghost, some said a lost soul, some of the more cynical said he was a few too many sandwiches short of a picnic. But the more creative said he was an angel.
He was urban myth, part of folklore. And the children played games with him, daring each other as to who could get the closest to him. Some perverse danger manifesting in their imaginations that he would someday turn around on one of them and do…something. Anything.
He did not.
He wasn't always there. No one ever saw him arrive, or leave. Or anywhere else, for the simple reason that he did not allow them to. It was only when he was there that he could be seen, when his conscious mind drifted and allowed the subtle camouflage that he shrouded about himself to fall.
It was the only part of England that had been left green, where trees still stood, unchanged by time purely because he had wanted it to stay that way. The rest of England, and indeed much of the world, had changed, so rapidly before his eyes that he not bothered even trying to keep up. He had felt no reason to.
St. James's park would stay this way until the end of time. If necessary.
One thousand, five hundred and seventy nine years. He was almost numb with the aching yawning of time that had passed. It hadn't been so bad, these past thousand years; the rawness could at least be kept at bay if his will was strong enough, and with a forceful distraction.
The five hundred or so years before, and its memories of agony and despair had long ago been denied by his mind, instead filled with a misting fog. It wasn't as if he'd done much in that time worth remembering.
It was the first six hours that he remembered the most. Was what brought him here on nights such as these. When he had once again been cast from his pathetic attempts to sleep by the powerful reiteration of those memories in his head. He remembered everything.
Could still feel the floor beneath his knees as he'd dropped, and the terrifying belief that he had fallen, in the biblical sense, so to speak. Because nothing except the forceful separation from his master should have felt like that, as though his heart were being ripped from his body, each breath like fire in his lungs, and an utterly horrifying concept of exactly how long forever could be.
But he had not fallen. He had made sure of that.
They had had a wonderful arrangement, he and Crowley. And odd but understanding friendship that had lasted since the dawn of creation. Neither one of them had thought about the concept of its end. It seemed impossible, almost blasphemous if one could call it that. They were forceful, supernatural, undeniable. Angel and demon. Aziraphale and Crowley.
He blinked, allowing another image to flash before his eyes. It was something he had gotten used to. After all, what else does an angel with no interest in the world have to fall back on, but the eons of memories that floated unbidden to the front of his mind.
Every now and then, usually after several hours of catatonia he would allow his eyes to briefly close, head tipping slightly back and he would feel strong enough to face one of them full on.
He had been beautiful. Undeniably so, and never unnoticed by anyone they met. It was the legacy of his birthright. But it had been a different beauty to his own. Crowley had always seemed dangerous, his hair, soft and dark and sleek, no matter what fashion the time period demanded. Eyes alluring even when they were demonic. And his smile, it was true that Crowley's smile could cause kingdoms to fall, wives to leave their husbands in droves. But that was not the smile the angel thought of. Not the smile that had been practised and perfected with years of diligent work, but the one that was Crowley's own, the one that only he saw. The one that shook his very core with the agonizingly painful recollection that Crowley had once too, been an angel.
A faintly content look passed across the angels face as he allowed himself to remember each and every one of those smiles. From the first tentative ones when they had started out, so new and unsure with each others presence, to the blinding grins he would be bestowed with in their final, if not more fraughtful years.
He was still surprised that he had not fallen that day, as by rights he should have. Surely even though he had not said the words, it did not make the very basic fact true. And what were words even, when his very countenance had all but shouted it.
Some days, he even wished that he had fallen, because then he would at least not be here. Alone.
Silently he bowed his head. His cheeks dry like they had been for a thousand years. Because to let tears fall now would mean the end of him.
He pulled his consciousness back around himself and walked quietly from the park. His feet taking him the required distance back to the flat. His flat.
Aziraphale had long ago sold the bookshop, after years of companies and lawyers reminding him in startled fashion that the land and contents alone could provide him with enough to last several lifetimes. He had given in in the end, not for the money, he had no need for that, but more because his once beloved books and the dreary little back room held no interest for him anymore. So he had left it all and moved further into the seething metropolis, into the once stylish flat which was become year by year more chic and antiquated. After all, it had been there, in the once homely little shop that they had last seen each other, when he should have fallen.
He remembers that day only too well. Can still feel the almost normality of it starting out, in the days when he still loved the sun.
Hindsight is one of the most terrible curses known to all creation, and the irony was never lost on Aziraphale these days. Had he, an immortal, known that time was short…
He had always like Crowley, from the moment they met in Eden, which should have set alarm bells ringing from the start.
He had been over the ineffable conversation again and again in is head. What exactly was He up to, letting them carry on like that. Letting conversation turn to grudging association, to respect, to friendship, to long nights spent sitting in the back room of Aziraphales book shop, getting drunk and laughing like no demon and angel ever should. Surely there were rules somewhere for that sort of thing, that should have meant that it would have been dealt with from the get go, meaning that Aziraphale would never have found himself in this hellish situation.
The angel let himself into the flat, swinging the door shut behind him and casting himself down in one of the chairs that had never been moved. He would do nothing more tonight than sit there and allow himself to remember.
Every relationship had a turning point.
The apocalypse had been theirs. Aziraphale had never truly realised the full depth and meaning of his feelings towards Crowley. Had always maintained that their level of comfort and trust was a natural product of their long term relationship. But it hadn't been until what they thought was the end that he had realised. With the demon standing beside him, ready to fall along with him, taking on an enemy that both knew they could not defeat, he was heart thumpingly, terrifyingly aware of how he felt. And it had scared him more than the prospect of war, of facing the Morning Star. It had scared him more than the thought of falling. Because it was not something that he could deny, or pray would not happen. And he had looked across at him, and he had known, undeniably, that he would love Crowley with all the intensity that his immortal soul could endure, until the end of time.
And he had trembled with fear.
He had known that they were coming, that it would be inevitable that they would catch up with him at some point. Admittedly, it had been years, just shy of ten. Enough time for Aziraphale to come to terms with the concept of lust within love. To be able to feel his presence more keenly than before, and to dream such blissful dreams in which he was always sure about him. Something that he had never been in life. It was true, that the thwarting of the final battle had released an unbound sense of freedom within Crowley, and that he gave his smiles more easily, but he had never dared to read more. Had never hoped much of the long, low glances, or the mildly uncomfortable silences in which the demon seemed almost to be gathering strength before finally, and gratingly deciding to get hopelessly drunk. He had forced himself to think nothing of casual touches, of when Crowley had taught him to drive, his body leaning close to his as he muttered instructions. Aziraphale remembered that day far too fondly. The way Crowley had brushed his arm along the back of the seat, his fingers barely grazing the back of his neck as he murmured lowly to him, his face tilted down and towards him, watching carefully as the angel followed his instructions, every now and then putting him right with a lingering touch to the back of his hand or the inside of his knee. And every now and then he would turn and ask Crowley if he was doing it right, the motion bringing their faces close, and it would be a few moments until Crowley would answer him.
The Bentley lay parked in a storage unit on the edge of the city, draped to catch the falling dust as it had done for last few hundred years. He would never go near it again.
He couldn't.
Hindsight. He thought again. Hindsight would have seen him cast down to hell long before their parting.
They had come for him on an unremarkable Thursday afternoon. He had been placing a lovingly restored Ballantyne on one of the shelves when he became aware of him.
"Crowley." He had said, acknowledging the demon as he settled the book in place, letting a finger trail down the spine. He had turned with a pleasant smile.
Aziraphale had never seen him like that before, had never thought that Crowley, so angelic, so demonic, could look so…human. So terrified and hunted.
He hadn't needed to ask him, after all, they both knew it would happen eventually, but for Crowley to look so…
"What will they do?" he had only vaguely been aware of the tremor in his voice, as affected as it was by the paralysing fear that was washing off of his companion. He didn't really want to know the answer.
Crowley shook his head, not in denial, but bewilderment, his eyes casting upon the ground as though the answer, a way out maybe lay there. "I…" he tried to speak, but whatever speech he had prepared was lost to him now. He looked up and seemed just as unnerved as Aziraphale at the change in the air. "Aziraphale?" his voice was so broken and hurt that he couldn't help but go to him, to reach out as he did, hands strong against his shoulders as the demon dropped his head, obscuring his face from him. He rocked slightly at the pressure of his hands grasping tightly beside the collar of his shirt, the heat of his skin unnaturally hot. He was already beginning to burn.
"How long?" Aziraphale breathed, his face betraying his panic and concern.
He heard Crowley swallow, a rough and desperate sound that almost bordered on a sob. "They're waiting outside." He said quietly, struggling with himself until he could pull himself upright and look him in the eye, his expression the epitome of heartbreak. Aziraphale nearly forgot to breath. "I made sure they let me say goodbye." He whispered, the words falling brokenly from his lips.
Aziraphale was aware of shaking his head, as though he could actually deny the forces of Hell. "No." he whispered. "No. you can't". He looked Crowley up and down, realising sickeningly that this would be the last time he could. "Don't" he pleaded, "Don't go." He tightened his grip as he looked around, the demon could tell he was looking for an escape. He let a sad smile grace his lips, as if he hadn't thought of that himself.
"Aziraphale." He whispered softly, drawing the angel's attention back to him. He was dismayed to find tears in his eyes, filling rapidly and spilling onto porcelain skin. He reached up and brushed the tear away, placing his hands on the angel's cool skin. "I…" he gasped, choking on a sob as he realised he was barely moments from crying himself. "I'm sorry." The words never left his mouth, but the meaning did. It was then that Aziraphale became aware of the true, agonizing irony of it all.
That Crowley felt the same way.
And that he always had.
"No." he shook his head, headless of the way the demons touch burned against his face. It couldn't be happening, couldn't be real. Hundreds and thousands of years waiting and hoping, and dreaming, to be snatched away when it had been real all along. "No." he cried, more forceful this time, damning himself, and Crowley, and heaven and hell, and God and Satan. Existence all together. He was burning, burning with Crowley from the inside.
"No." A prayer. He pressed his eyes shut, against the pain and the understanding and the sound of Crowley muttering his name. Head falling back as he felt the demon press his face to the side of his neck, hands releasing his shirt to grasp at his shoulders.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, the sound lost in the heavy heat of breath against skin.
"No." the angel muttered, not even sure what he was denying anymore, whilst letting his hand travel upwards to let his fingers bury themselves in Crowley's dark hair, pressing his cheek against his head and damning the fire that consumed him at the feeling of cashmere and silk against his face. He had known that it would feel this way, if ever they should come together. But in his mind, the beginning had never been the end.
He gasped, breaths failing as lips pressed against him, a hot and fiery trail marking the path of his blood thundering through his human body, a maddening beat just below his skin. His fingers flexed, grasping tightly at the demons hair as he was lost in blissful sensation, in kisses that burned like hell fire and soothed him all at once. He let out a sound, a strangled sob that was both ecstasy and agony as one of those kisses sought and found a tender spot at the hinge of his jaw, the demons ragged breath swimming hotly around his ear.
"Crowley." His voice was torn, but so was his heart. He moved his head, allowing a better angle for the demon to lick and to kiss and to bite, the hand on Crowley's arm seeking surer purchase as he felt arms slide around him, one burning a path around his side and coming to rest at the small of his back, fingers splayed and pressing against him, bringing them as close together as they could. The other crept almost unnoticed, fingertips feather light against soft skin until they raked firmly into golden hair, thick and long at the nape of his neck. The sound the angel made only stoked the fire between them, that burned everywhere they touched, were pressed together. "God." He whispered. And at that moment, to Aziraphale, he was. He was master of him, he could do anything, command anything of him and Aziraphale would obey.
A kiss was pressed to his cheek, hesitant and less sure than the others. Burning lips barely grazed his skin a second time, closer. The angel knew, could sense his uncertainty at crossing a very definitive line. He turned towards him, a mere fraction, letting him know that…yes.
The hand in his hair moved to press against his cheek, turning him into a kiss that could destroy worlds and end time. He nearly fell, but Crowley was there, an anchor in an otherwise encompassing storm, holding him fast against the maelstrom. Lips parted in hunger and desperation, pressing against each other, hot and burning and ice cold all at once. Angel and demon, in a dance that n-one had ever thought to have written. Matching in a way their natures never should have, knowing each other so perfectly, giving the other exactly what they should never had known the other needed.
A sob escaped between them, though from who neither could tell. And they clung to each other more fiercely, claiming each other with unbound despair and anguish, until they could no longer distinguish the taste of each other from the taste of them. And the hand against his cheek stroked gentle trembling patterns across his skin, moving softly to keep the hair from their eyes, black and gold.
There was a sound from outside. A harsh guttural noise that served as a reminder. Crowley paused against his lips, suddenly remembering but unable to pull away. He brushed against him in a way that denied them passion but displayed something just as deep, a soft and fragile caress. Both hands steadying themselves against his face, the tips if his fingers sliding gently into silken hair.
Amber eyes flickered open to look up at him, at his angel's face, so lost in desolation. Blue eyes almost black and filled with the tears that would be sure to fall and join the ones that had already marred his cheeks. He moved his thumb to gently wipe them away, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his. He could feel the misery settling inside him, building into fear as he realised that with every breath he took he was committing this moment to memory, to burn fresh and unchanged behind his eyes whenever he needed it.
"I have to go." Crowley muttered, his whispered voice loud in the small space between them.
He felt Aziraphale nod in perceptively. The angel's grip toying with the shirt at his waist.
"My angel." Their lips met again briefly, an insistent press that accompanied a fresh wash of tears on the angel's cheeks.
Aziraphale shifted, hooking fingers beneath the demons chin so that he could bring his head up. "Crowley…" His voice shook, but his eyes showed his determination. "Crowley, I…"
"Don't." fingers pressed against his lips, to be replaced gently with a kiss, words murmured against his. "Don't fall because of me."
Aziraphale allowed his eyes to close, drawing in the feeling of Crowley against him, of his hands, his touch, his kiss, the way they fit against each other. He pressed back, only slightly, allowing themselves one last, lingering kiss before another sound from the street made Crowley pull away, the air rushing cold against his skin.
Eyes open now he watched as Crowley took him in, a last look, and then he stepped back, and again.
And he was walking, turning from him.
Hand on the door.
He was gone.
And his world had fallen.