Hi all. Sorry for the longish absence. I was traveling, and somewhat unable to post. I mean, I could have, and I wanted to, but circumstances, etc. etc. Good to be back!
So, the first thing you need to know about this chapter is: it's been through four drafts. FOUR. Great swathes of time have been spent writing it, and discarding hours' worth of work, and retooling what I started with. It was a rough one to get right. Still not there.
Chapter 9 may be controversial, but here's the thing:
I've read a few Crowley/Aziraphale ship-fics in which the two of them (ahem) consummate their relationship... and it's the "first time" for both of them. This strikes me as odd. It's totally conceivable to me that Aziraphale has been sweet and chaste since the Beginning of Time (angels are sexless unless they make an effort, according to the book), but I do not buy at all the notion that Crowley has been as well.
Temptation is literally his job! It's who and what he is! One might say that he's a living embodiment of temptation (of course, the actor playing him might have something to do with that). Are we really going to believe that it's all been about talking farmers into stealing sheep, or nuns into dipping into the sacramental wine? Come on. He drinks, he sleeps, he's flashy, audacious, drives a nice car, and has the trendy flat... hedonism is going to be at his demonic core. Yes, he's in love with Aziraphale, but he's had a job to do, and six thousand years is a long bloody time. And Aziraphale hasn't been making an effort... not until relatively recently.
There. I just felt the need to expound on that.
This is an idea that I'd really like to explore more, but for now, I thought I would just tell one quick story of Crowley's exploits, how it contrasts with the present situation, and tie it into an incident we all saw onscreen.
So, it's the morning after for our ineffable pair... the morning after! But Crowley has a thing or two going through his head...
Hope you get feels! Enjoy
NINE
Crowley had long, long, long ago realised that human beings were far more imaginative and better-versed in their own mortal angst than demons. And so, in general, this meant that they could more effectively fuck up each other's lives than any supernatural being would bother to dream. And malevolence in general terms, Crowley was all for, of course. People being arseholes to each other just because was fantastically entertaining, and saved him a lot of work. Acts of revenge, quests for power, drunken insanity… these incidences were also exceedingly amusing, and Crowley really enjoyed stoking those fires for a laugh.
But people being arseholes to each other for reasons like, gender, race, and religion, this he had always found bewildering, and quite frankly, cheating. It was a lazy and thick-witted sort of evil. These were weak, fear-based actions with no finesse and no foresight, masquerading as principle and righteousness. Which was partly why he'd watched much of the Second World War unfold with jaw agape. The Holocaust was high on the list of the worst atrocities he had seen on any plane of existence. The part of him that Aziraphale called "nice" notwithstanding, even as a demon, he could not quite believe the massive level of mindless violence, and the untold amount and intensity of human suffering.
Needless to say, Crowley had quite a bit of contempt for power-without-principle Nazis by the time March of 1941 rolled around. With the Blitz into its sixth month, he had been knocking about wartime London for a couple of years, trying not to get discorporated, doing a temptation here or there, poking at Nazis and attempting to profit from their incompetence. Indeed, he quite entertained himself by annoying them, and basically trying to make their lives harder.
One evening, drinking in a literal underground bar and attempting to listen to the radio, the demonic voice of his old pal Ligur had cut into the very scratchy Glenn Miller orchestra. Ligur's purpose was to instruct Crowley to "bring down" a high-ranking official and "influence the course of the war."
Well, it didn't take a genius to realise that Hell would want the course of the war to tip in the Nazis' favour. But obviously, Crowley didn't fancy aiding a Nazi win, any more than he fancied facilitating the Apocalypse (in fact, the two outcomes had a great deal in common).
So, he'd taken advantage of the ambiguity, and decided to target a Nazi (rather than a Brit) called Stefan Harmony for a good Bringing Down. Harmony was a history professor from Berlin, who had been enlisted as a kind of "gofer spy" to the Führer. He'd been put in charge of locating certain artefacts that Hitler was keen to acquire, and Crowley had heard he was scheming to get his hands on some of the relics in Westminster Abbey. Crowley had watched them build that Abbey, had sabotaged construction in minor ways at different stages, had secretly had bits of it de-consecrated so that he could roam about inside… he liked that old Abbey, and considered it his own. Or, at least, a part of his own demonic work, of which he was proud. And, much as he hated to admit it, desecrating the Abbey offended him as a Londoner, such as he was. So, he didn't want anyone messing about with it. Harmony had to go, one way or another, and it happened to suit his orders.
Crowley spent some time observing Harmony. He could tell three things straight away about the man: he was intelligent, well-connected, and homosexual. This meant that Crowley had to be careful; someone as savvy and resourceful as this might not be so easy to disgrace. With an inward sigh, Crowley reckoned he might have to go the sex-route, in order to bring this man to ruin. He really didn't relish a kiss-and-cuddle with a Nazi, but the ends justify the means, do they not?
But Crowley discovered, to his surprise, that Harmony was as close to an open homosexual as there could be in 1941. He had come to terms with it himself, and it wasn't a secret amongst his inner circle. Certainly, his colleague Glozier knew about it, and even some of the right-hand men at the side of the Führer realised it. But, he'd been so instrumental in acquiring what the Party wanted, and probably had dirt on other officials too, so his goings-on went ignored.
So, with relief, Crowley realised that shagging Harmony himself probably wouldn't do much good because no-one would care. Political corruption was not an option either… the man was a Nazi, surrounded by other Nazis. Who would notice?
This would be more complicated than he'd anticipated – he'd have to get slightly more creative. And yes, he'd probably have to rain death upon Stefan Harmony, since the standard options were off the table. But it was somewhat distasteful just to kill the man. Ligur and Hastur often talked of craftsmanship… well, this would be craftsmanship.
It would be "taking down" a high-ranking official, and "influencing" the war's direction, even it was in just a small way, and not in the direction his bosses wanted. Still, two birds.
So, Crowley set about perpetrating an unnecessarily convoluted campaign to frame Harmony for something stupid that would get him killed. It involved befriending an insecure, not-so-bright runt of a Nazi officer with a hair-trigger temper and getting him promoted to a position that would allow him to divert bombers from a relay point. Then, it involved Crowley "befriending" the officer's wife in the Rhineland, and being seen by the neighbours whilst sneaking out through her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Finally, it involved implying that Harmony had been the culprit, getting the runty officer angry enough to want him dead, and finding out where Harmony would be on a given night, and relaying the information back to the bomb-manipulating officer. Easy-peasy.
He was able to discover through phone calls with a Nazi double-agent named Greta Kleinschmidt that The Mark, and his associate, Mr. Glozier, were planning a late-night rendezvous in a church in Soho, with the dealer of some artefacts they were after. He assumed the dealer would be a Nazi as well, and therefore probably deserved what was coming to him.
Over twenty-four hours, he tracked Harmony and Glozier's movements, to make sure that the former was still planning to be in that church at the appointed time. Fräulein Kleinschmidt was instrumental in that regard, especially when she let slip that Harmony was after a collection of books.
Crowley's stomach did a sloppy somersault. "Books? What sort of books?"
"Books of Prophecy, mostly, why?"
"Aw, seriously? Of all the…" he'd sputtered. "Where are these books coming from?"
"I told you – a dealer. He knows they're planning to kill him, but...
"A dealer of old, rare books. In Soho."
"Erm… yes. And he's a bit thick - he thinks I'm on his side."
"Shit!"
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes! Only, this time, no guillotine."
"Excuse me?"
Much to his own surprise and chagrin, Crowley found himself in a church the following night, intervening between a rare book dealer and three Nazi arseholes in Soho. It burned like Hell (so to speak), and extended exposure to the consecrated ground could have been fatal to him.
But danger be damned - what was he supposed to do? Leave his best friend to suffer to be burned and torn apart by a bomb, and ultimately discorporated, whereupon he'd definitely be reprimanded and possibly not allowed to return to Earth?
So, Crowley did what he came to do – he warned Aziraphale that a bomb was on its way, and suggested a miraculous survival for the two of them. But, in the last seconds, just before the shell made impact, Crowley realised with horror that the prophecy books were not in Aziraphale's hands, but rather in Harmony's which meant they would not survive the blast. He willed the books saved…
And thus marked a turning point somehow, in the life of a demon. And of an angel, if he wasn't mistaken.
He didn't know precisely what went on in Aziraphale's mind and heart at any given moment, but he was fairly certain that the angel had loved him even before that night. Probably for centuries, or longer, as was the case with Crowley. But he was not at all sure that the angel had ever allowed himself to feel it, to acknowledge it within himself.
But in the moment when he handed the satchel of saved books over to the angel, Crowley had seen a realisation dawning in Aziraphale's eyes, and it was miraculous, as well as a bit painful, to see.
And with that dawning, Crowley felt a familiar swell of affection.
And this came with a flashback to how they'd got here. Mostly to tangling a set of threadbare linen sheets late into the night, with the wife of a hot-headed Nazi officer. It hadn't been strictly necessary nor had it been one of the more enjoyable work-related rolls-in-the-hay of his career. Actually, as time had gone on, temptation shags had lost more and more of whatever thrill they held, but he'd continued to do them as a way of avoiding having to think of something else. They'd become a lazy crutch.
And indeed, sex with Frau Reimer of the Rhineland had been part of an elaborate, diverting, but not particularly clever plan. It also hadn't been pleasant. She was plump, which he really didn't mind, but had he been human, in her fervour she might've suffocated him with her breasts. She had a voice that grated on his nerves as it was, and when she was approaching orgasm, she would begin to recite the names of all of the Habsburg monarchs starting from the 11th century, which he found incredibly creepy (and not the good kind of creepy). And they'd done a chunk of their deed whilst a child cried down the hall, and she ignored it. (Well, she didn't ignore it forever, just for the twenty minutes it took them to finish that round). Crowley tried to ignore it, but couldn't… his soft-spot for children aside, the sound of crying was not conducive to good performance. Once she was unconscious, he couldn't wait to get the Hell out of there, but he'd had to wait for his moment. Waiting for one's moment was crucial, in matters of creating a scandal through lovemaking. Well, not lovemaking, but whatever it's called when it isn't love.
Whatever it's called when it isn't love.
When it isn't love.
It's called fucking. It's called, by some, sin.
It could be called betrayal.
Because he had love. And that, too, had led them here. This was love.
And suddenly he hated himself.
Love was not part of his job, but it was part of who he was at his core, demon or no. It was the only pure thing he possessed, and he should not degrade it by pretending at it with people who mean nothing to him. He'd been making an effort, for centuries, at showing actual love for his friend in subtle ways, and he should not debase those acts, debase himself nor Aziraphale with these stupid, stupid games. And, he should not betray a bond, even if unspoken.
And that was the last time he'd used sex as a tool. After that, he'd had to get more creative, and even more persuasive, but he refused to go back to the way things had been.
It was another seventy-eight years before he revisited the pleasures of the flesh with anyone else at all…
So, obviously, Crowley had never had a morning like this.
He'd never had a night like that either.
Crowley had pretended to have nights like that, many, many times – Frau Reimer in 1941 was only the last in a millennia-long string of both reluctant, and sometimes enthusiastic, trysts with those participating unwittingly in someone's doom and/or gloom. Sometimes, their own.
And he had pretended to have the lovely mornings that followed, so he knew the right things to say and do.
But it had only ever been a ruse, to buy time, or to gain trust, or to distract. It had only ever been a device, until he could get away, and perpetrate whatever he was going to perpetrate. And so, the right things to say and do to kick off the perfect morning-after, they all seemed empty. The pillow talk with streaks of sunshine splashed across the mangled bedclothes, the cups of coffee delivered with a kiss… it had all been done.
Crowley was at a loss. This morning deserved something more, something different.
Unsure of what exactly that was, he got up just as the sun was rising over London, tiptoed out of the pale-brown, Japanese-style bedroom, and left his best friend slumbering.
He needed to think of something good, but not cliché, fitting of the occasion.
And sensitive, just in case there was anxiety over Aziraphale's new status. Which there undoubtedly would be.
And flexible, just in case Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where he stood, and/or how he felt.
And not overwhelming, just in case Aziraphale happened to revert to form, and tried to pretend that none of it ever happened.
And honouring of their long, long, time together, and the things they'd shared, not just the previous night, but over the past six thousand years.
And he had approximately no time in which to come up with it.
So he quickly climbed into a black silk v-neck, and a pair of black jeans, smoothed out his hair, then made coffee, and leaned against the counter, drinking it, thinking hard.
What to do for Aziraphale this morning, of all mornings…
Something with books? Or perhaps with good champagne – peach Mimosas? Something with the two of them sitting across from one another, and sumptuous foods? Should it be the Ritz? A surprise morning excursion to their favourite luxury hangout? Or was that too public? He could perform a minor miracle and have something from the Ritz delivered in time, and they could have it out on the veranda… he'd have to miracle a veranda, too.
Or should it just be crêpes? Tried and true, and one of Aziraphale's favourite things on the planet? Should they continue with their crêpe experiment, or should he perhaps actually surprise his companion with a train ticket to Paris, and tough out listening to him attempt his terrible French? Should it be a leisurely drive in the Bentley? It was something he'd never done as a morning-after-thought… perhaps that was it. Where would they go? Oxfordshire was out of the question. How about Brighton? Nah, too on-the-nose…
"Good morning, Crowley," Aziraphale said, from the kitchen doorway. "What the devil are you doing just standing there staring at the wall?"
Crowley was so surprised, he nearly spilled his coffee.
"Erm… I… oh, I was just… erm, well…" he sputtered. Then he gathered his faculties, and sighed, "Well, can't say this isn't different."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Coffee?"
"All right," Aziraphale said, smiling. "Thank you." He crossed to the kitchen table, and sat down.
As he did so, Crowley couldn't help but look him over. "What are you wearing?"
Aziraphale smoothed out the lapels of his grey cashmere robe. "You don't like it?"
"I didn't say that," Crowley assured him, now crossing the room himself, with two mugs. "In fact… well, I like it quite a lot. But it's not your usual fare. It's a bit dark for you."
"Well, it's just something I've had, you know," Aziraphale said, waving off the sentiment, in a this old thing sort of way. "Never worn it before. Purchased it, somewhat on impulse, back… oh, during the Second World War, I should think. Not sure why I bought it, but suddenly this morning, it felt an à propos thing to put on."
Crowley sat down at the seat beside him, and smiled knowingly.
Aziraphale caught his eye, and smiled back, rather shyly. "All right, fair dues. I know exactly why I bought it."
Crowley thought of his subconscious preparation of the Aziraphale Bedroom in his flat, and continued to smile.
"I suppose I knew someday I'd need it because…" Aziraphale said, then he stopped, his face went flat, and he sighed. "Well, I didn't suppose that someday I'd need it because I'd become a demon."
Crowley reached across the table and took his hand, and Aziraphale squeezed.
"How do you feel this morning, angel?" The question was whispered, cautious.
"Changed."
"Changed?"
"Yes. Metamorphosed. Like I've come out on the other end of last night, so to speak, with new wings. And I have, quite literally. Do you suppose if I unfurled them now, they'd be black?"
"I suppose so."
"Well," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. "Not just now. One thing at a time."
"I should tell you, angel, you still look the same, this exquisite robe excluded. And you sound the same. Your smile is the same. As is your frown."
Aziraphale nodded. "You told me there was no material difference between feeling like an angel, and feeling like a demon. Midnight came and went, and now I haven't got any choice but to believe you must be right."
"Good."
"So, I think that the reasons for my feeling changed are not to do with Heaven and Hell, Crowley," Aziraphale told him. "They must be more to do with… well, this robe."
"The robe?" Crowley asked this, almost without moving his mouth. His hand crawled up his companion's arm just a bit, so he could stroke the fabric.
Aziraphale stared down at the table, grasped Crowley's forearm and stroked the silk, as Crowley stroked his cashmere. "Yes. A moment ago, I admitted that I knew exactly why I'd bought it. You know it too. It's dark and beautiful, comforting, totally unlike me, and it makes my body hum."
"I see," Crowley whispered, feeling his companion's pulse quicken.
"That's a fairly intense description of just a robe, isn't it?" Aziraphale asked, staring at their hands.
"I should say so."
"In a time when I couldn't…" Aziraphale began, then swallowed hard. "I couldn't have you, I suppose… well. You understand."
"I do."
"I used to wear it sometimes after seeing you. That night when I gave you the holy water, for example."
"Really?" Crowley breathed.
Aziraphale spoke so secretly now, Crowley practically had to hold his breath to hear. "Yes. But I could never wear it for very long because… things would happen to my body that I just couldn't abide, and I'd have to run away from it all."
"But we stopped running."
"We did. And when I woke this morning, and saw it hanging in the closet, I knew I needed it… on me. All over me."
"Oh, my," Crowley murmured.
There was a long pause, while they stroked each other's wrists and wondered if they would each find the courage to say what they were thinking.
"Everything is buzzing," Aziraphale confessed first, eyes shut tight. "All of my skin is in prickles, and I've never felt this way before. It's totally new to me, this sensation, and yes, I feel changed. It's a revelation. And I, for one, will never be the same again."
"I won't either.
Now, Aziraphale looked squarely, fiercely into his demonic companion's yellow eyes, and continued. "And since you asked me how I feel, I'll tell you exactly. Right now, everything is you, Crowley – even my own body. This morning, all we can think of – my body and I – is desire, and its functions of desire belong only to you."
"Oh, angel…" Crowley began.
"I can't believe I'm saying any of this," Aziraphale croaked.
"Please don't stop."
His voice was high, and threatening to break. "How do I feel? I feel you. Your scent is on me. The feel of you is on me. All over me. Pressing down on me, wrapped around me, your arms, your mouth, your breath, … even your voice, growling in my ear, it's still there, as though you might have left it behind. You're under my skin, and against my skin… maybe you are my skin. And everything I can feel right now is you. And I never want that to go away."
These words were stirring in all the right ways, and Crowley couldn't help himself. He reached up quickly, with the cashmere-stroking hand, cupped his eloquent companion's jaw, and pulled his head forward desperately. Their lips met hard, and the groans began straight away.
And just like that, this morning-after was a success. Crowley was immensely, ferociously grateful for everything Aziraphale had just said. The love, the candor, the willingness to be open, vulnerable, sensual, evocative, and deliciously discreet.
Soon, their tongues were clashing, and Crowley was just about to reach out, and find out whether there were any lingering angelic undergarments complementing the lovely grey cashmere robe…
When there was an unpleasant scratching sound coming from somewhere in the flat.
Aziraphale broke the kiss. "What the Hell is that?"
"Hello? Crowley? Anyone there?" a familiar voice said.
"Shit," Crowley spat. "It's the TV."
"What?"
"You know… TV, radio, it's how Hell gets in touch these days. It's why I don't have any broadcasting-type electronics in the kitchen."
"Oh," Aziraphale said, with a big, noticeable gulp. "I see."
"I'm sorry, angel."
Whew. Thoughts? Don't be a lurker - leave a review if you're reading! Thanks for doing so. :-)
