Crowley was restless.
He often began to feel this way when he thought too much about his situation. The walls surrounding his house stretched a little too tall for comfort. The garden he'd grown in an attempt to bring a little of the outside world to him became something wild, twisting and forest-like, the branches and vines seeming to almost cage him in, attempting to suffocate him. On nights like this, his fangs felt too big for his mouth, his senses felt too sharp - almost to the point of over sensitivity - and he was all too aware of the amount of organs that he no longer needed, that now sat useless and dormant in his body under layers of pale flesh.
Crowley's heart, one of his few remaining working organs, felt heavy in his chest. He was strangely aware of it's beating, in a way a human would never be, each thump pounding loudly in his head like the vibrations of a bass playing much too loud through the speakers of a dingy nightclub. Not that Crowley had ever experienced the thrill, shortly followed by mild disappointment and discomfort of visiting a nightclub, he was turned before they existed and had been sentenced to imprisonment within his own garden walls not long after. So to him, it probably sounded more like the harsh pounding of fists on his front door, moments prior to it opening to reveal an angry mob of villagers who'd never paid him any mind before. Vampirism was funny like that, it inspired fear, fury and - ironically - bloodlust in people who would have otherwise not even spared him a second glance.
Oh well, they were all long gone now. Well, most of them anyway.
The point was, Crowley was restless, full of far too many thoughts and feelings for one slightly lanky body to hold and not quite sure what to do with any of them.
Normally, he would tend to his garden and maybe find a spot he hadn't planted anything in. That wasn't a good idea anymore though. The garden had already grown so much that it was the only thing visible through the large gate in the wall surrounding his property. It would be outgrowing its enclosure within a decade if he didn't keep it under his strict control.
On top of that, the energy Crowley felt tonight was more self destructive than creative. When he felt like this, it was hard to focus on anything enough to ruin it let alone do a good job.
He could have gone through some more of his wine reserves, but drinking alone had started to become boring over the years. All it did now was remind him of his isolation unless he reached the point where he was inebriated enough to forget. But then he had to fully replace his blood supply with a clean one and that was never pleasant business.
So, on this night, Crowley decided to do something he hadn't done in almost a century. He went to the gate.
The gate was a tall, heavy, iron thing that stood to the east of his house. The village council had tried to have it made out of silver, having heard that it could harm his kind, but they would have had to sell their souls to afford it. So they made do with iron and a deal where refusal would have meant permanent death in order to keep Crowley from leaving of his own accord.
He had only spent time in the presence of the wrong sort of company once. A man aptly named Lucifer and a few of his associates. At first glance, he had thought them a little bit gothic even for the time, but he never would have suspected that they were actually cursed creatures, led solely by a hunger for blood and destruction. He hadn't seen the fangs until it was too late, until he could do nothing but watch them sink into his skin with a startled, pained cry.
A group of villagers who let fear turn to violent hatred and a few greedy council members, who were lured by the prospect of stealing eternal life for themselves later and just like that, Crowley had become a prisoner in his own home. His prison guards would make sure he knew that his actions would be watched for the rest of eternity and that he was always just a few wrong steps away from a steak to the heart or execution via sunlight exposure or whatever other cruel, twisted method they could come up with to make an example of him for any others of his kind that might be lurking in the shadows.
The whole thing was a bit hypocritical considering that they had forced him to give them the same curse that plagued him, but people in power were always going to convince themselves that every questionable, selfish decision they made was in fact for the greater good and not just their own gain. Although, how they had thought anything could be gained from this dreaded affliction Crowley failed to understand.
Crowley never went near the gate if he didn't have to, it felt too much like the bars of a cell, a reminder of his sentence. The gate was used only by village officials visiting to antagonise him and curious passersby who strayed close to try and get a peek of the being that resided within. The few times he had ventured close to it, to plant and perform maintenance on some trees, he hadn't looked through the bars. Why would he torture himself with visions of the freedom he would never be allowed to have?
However, it seemed that something was calling him to it that night, like whispers on the wind, beckoning him ever closer.
As Crowley neared the swirling metal structure, he let out a wistful sigh.
He kept a safe distance, leaning against the trunk of an apple tree about three or four metres away from the gate and peering out from the surrounding foliage the darkness with curious, glowing yellow eyes.
Half an hour passed and nothing happened. Although, that wasn't surprising considering the late hour. Crowley was about to cast the sleepy town beyond the gates one last glance full of longing and turn in for another sleepless night, but then his sharp hearing picked up on footsteps and a faint voice in the distance that seemed to be heading in his direction. He tried hard to make out words, but even with his enhanced hearing, it was almost impossible to tell what the voice was saying. Even stranger, there didn't seem to be an accompanying set of footsteps. So whoever it was, they were most likely talking to themselves.
As they drew closer, Crowley started to notice more details. The footsteps were clumsy, they seemed to falter at fandom intervals and varied between light steps and long drags across the rough pavement. Much like the pattern of the person's feet, their voice was ever changing, switching between stilted, half-finished melodies and wordless hums, the consonants ever so slightly slurred and vowels lingering longer than they usually would. When the owner of said voice came into view through the gaps in the iron bars, Crowley suddenly realised why.
It was a man, who looked to be around the same age Crowley had been when he had technically died. Around his late thirties or early forties. He was definitely dressed more like people from Crowley's time, all neutral shades and waistcoats and tartan bow ties of all things. His fashion choices were definitely a far cry from the outfits Crowley had seen people wearing on any of the TV shows he'd watched that were set in modern times. Also, he was unquestionably drunk and singing to himself, some song that Crowley thought he had never heard before. It was hard to tell with how disjointed it sounded.
If Crowley had to estimate how drunk, he'd say it was safely within the realm of 'forgetting all of life's troubles', but with the looming risk of drifting into 'had a little bit too much' and then further into 'absolutely bollocksed' territory if any more alcoholic substances were to be consumed.
The man stopped abruptly, leaning against a nearby lamppost and his offbeat singing came to a pause. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a little as if he thought he could shake out the dizzy haze that came hand in hand with having a little too much to drink.
The light from above fell upon him, highlighting the soft, white curls of his hair and the delicate lines of his facial features and all of a sudden Crowley was mesmerised. He couldn't move now even if he wanted to. His feet felt rooted to the ground as he drank in the sight of the other man opening his eyes to reveal pretty blue irises. Crowley had never thought he would learn what an angel stumbling home drunk would look like, but it turned out life still had some surprises for him.
Seeing the man look so ethereal while participating in a tradition so messy and human, Crowley took an instant liking to him.
In another life, Crowley would have moved closer, would have introduced himself and offered to help the man get home or perhaps a place to stay for the night if he had trouble remembering the directions. In this one, he stayed hidden behind his apple tree, a safe distance away and tried to convince himself that it wasn't entirely creepy to watch him from the shadows, that it was natural to be curious about the first human he'd properly seen in years. He failed spectacularly, guilt welling up inside him, but he still couldn't help leaning forward slightly for a better look.
"Oh, bugger, I'm definitely going to regret drinking all of that wine tomorrow," the man grumbled to himself, but Crowley's ears picked it up as if he was standing right next to him.
He had not been expecting the man to sound so prim and proper. On all accounts, it was like Crowley had taken a step back in time. Before he had a chance to smother it down, surprised laughter escaped his lips.
The man froze, his posture suddenly ramrod straight like a troubled teenager caught in the act of trying to steal from a corner shop, which was something Crowley knew nothing about, honestly. Wide, curious blue eyes searched his surroundings, before flickering over in Crowley's direction and narrowing in on the gaps between the gate. Crowley cursed his traitorous mouth as he watched them fill with recognition of the location, followed by a fierce, unwavering intrigue.
"Hello? Is anybody in there?" the man greeted tentatively. He took a few slow steps away from the lamppost and towards the gate, reaching out with his right hand to clasp one of the metal bars in a strong grip.
Crowley gasped, throwing his body behind the trunk of the apple tree and out of view just a few seconds too late. His back hit the solid bark of the tree and he clutched at his chest as his heart thundered inside it in a way that it hadn't in decades.
"I knew it! I knew somebody had to live here!" the man's voice exclaimed happily, like he had just solved a particularly tricky crossword puzzle, his volume entirely too loud with his inhibitions lower than they usually would be.
"Ssssshit," Crowley hissed under his breath. Why did he take so long to move? If he had been quicker, it could have been waved off as a drunken hallucination, but he had been too wrapped up in observing the other man and now he had been seen.
"It's alright dear, don't be afraid, you don't have to hide," the voice reassured him.
Crowley huffed out a laugh at the irony of it all. It was this man who should be afraid of him, if he only knew what Crowley was, he would be the one hiding.
A conspiratorial whisper - that was still way too loud to be inconspicuous - reached Crowley's ears. "I won't tell anyone I saw you, I promise."
Crowley bit his lip, trying his best to ignore him.
"I just… would very much like to know what you look like," the man continued, his voice slipping into something a little more like a normal speaking volume. "I grew up in this village and I heard so many cau- cautio-" his mouth seemed to struggle around the words, he gave up, "stories about this place and the person who lived here."
Crowley winced, knowing that the man had meant to say 'cautionary tales'. He'd heard plenty of them himself, spoken in hushed tones, the gossip of nosey villagers passing by or parents warning their children to stay away.
'Did you hear? A monster lives in there.'
'I heard the property was inhabited by a demon.'
'Nobody who goes into that garden ever comes out.'
'If you look directly at the thing that inhabits that place, you turn into stone.'
'You know all the kids that go missing? I heard they wandered too close to the wall and the thing inside ate them.'
That one stung. Crowley would never even dream of hurting a child. The thought alone made him feel sick to his stomach. He could count on just one hand how many times he'd drank from humans and even then those were times when he didn't have a choice. He'd been surviving solely on livestock that was sent into his garden through a hidden entrance once a month, it was one of the conditions of him being allowed to live, allowed to stay in a safe home where he wouldn't be attacked by hunters or other vampires.
"Never believed the stories though," the man admitted, interrupting Crowley's train of thought. "Even when I was younger. I would constantly get reprim- told off for getting too close to this wall. But it was never because I thought a monster lived here."
Crowely couldn't help himself, he turned around slowly, pressing his hands into the bark of the tree to ground himself and peered around it just a little. It wasn't enough to be seen in the dark, but it was enough for him to see the man at the gate. When he laid eyes on him, he knew he shouldn't have.
The man had a far off, wistful look in his eyes and his cheeks held a soft pink flush that tapped into the instincts Crowely always tried his best to ignore. He could sense the man's pulse, a steady beat under the soft skin of his neck. A stray intrusive thought told him that he wouldn't mind sinking his teeth into this human, not to harm him though. And wasn't that an absolutely terrifying thought.
He dug his nails into the wood, paying no mind to the fact that he might inflict a blemish on his most prized plant.
"What did you believe, then?" he asked, despite his better judgment and the voices in his head screaming at him not to respond, to just wait until the man went away. He always did have a problem with asking too many questions, being too curious. It was probably what got him here in the first place.
The man perked up, leaning his face closer to the bars, a hopeful smile growing across his features and lighting up his eyes. Crowley edged a little further from behind the tree, wanting to get a better look.
"Oh.. I... um," the man briefly took his hand off the bar to tug at his bow tie self consciously and Crowley took note of his perfectly manicured nails and the further spread of colour on his face. "I always thought… it must be dreadfully lonely… living all by yourself in a place like this… shut away from everyone. I thought you might like an aqc- a compan- someone to talk to."
Crowley's heart clenched, he felt like he'd been punched in the gut with how on the nose the man's observation had been. He had been lonely, desperately so and he would have loved to have someone else to talk to besides the plants, would have loved for that to even be an option for him. But the truth was, someone was always watching. Even by replying to this man - this beautiful, considerate man who'd ignored all of the assumptions and warnings and felt not fear, but concern for Crowley - he was putting them both at risk. He felt exposed and vulnerable and scared that he would drag this man down with him and he didn't like that one bit.
"I don't need your pity," he snarled defensively, spitting out the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
The man's face took on a look of worry and hurt, lines creasing between his brows and Crowley immediately wanted to take it back, to shove the words right back into his throat.
"Oh, no my dear, I didn't pity you," he immediately denied. "I was terribly lonely myself and I just thought, there might be someone out there who felt the same way I did," he ran a finger over the bar of the gate, his eyes downcast. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You must think me ridiculous, showing up here drunk in the middle of the night and conf- telling you this. I just never felt like the person who lived here could be evil like others said, I always thought 'How could someone who created such a pretty garden ever be bad?'"
Crowley's breath caught in his throat and his eyes stung with the threat of tears. He didn't even know he could cry anymore, but this man had looked at his fortress and seen not a prison, keeping a monster contained, but the garden he'd put most of his undead life into making. He saw the hard work and care that went into it, the seemingly endless nights he'd spent working on it, when loneliness gripped his chest with sharp claws and wouldn't let go until he threw himself into distraction. He saw his most prized and precious possessions, the one thing he had ever been able to feel a little bit proud of.
He stepped out from behind the tree, inching forward slowly, as if an invisible string was pulling him or as if he and the other man were the opposite poles of two magnets. However, he also kept his movements careful, as if approaching a scared animal. The moment felt fragile, like it could all go wrong in a matter of seconds. He stopped just short of stepping into the light.
"I don't think you're ridiculous at all, angel."
The man's eyes snapped up to look at him and he watched as they went wide with surprise.
"Oh," he uttered, a strange look on his face that Crowley struggled to pinpoint as good or bad. "Hello," the look melted away, replaced with a warm smile. He took his hand off the bar, instead thrusting it through the bars. "It's lovely to meet you," he greeted. "I'm Aziraphale. And you are?"
Crowley eyed the appendage in front of him warily, trying to resist, but the thought of the man, Aziraphale, getting that sad look on his face again eventually pushed him to step further forward. He reached out and took hold of the offered hand delicately, as if it would crumble to dust under his damned touch.
"Crowley," he said quietly, like it was a secret between the two of them. "Well… Anthony Crowley really, but only my parents ever called me by my first name."
His skin tingled at the first touch he'd felt from another person in a century. He could feel Aziraphale's heartbeat under his cautious fingertips and it was almost too much for him. When he let go of Aziraphale's hand, it was slow and reluctant.
Aziraphale beamed, the smile lighting up his whole face, making it look like he was actually glowing. His gaze never left Crowley's face.
"Your hair is very pretty, my dear," he blurted. Crowley sucked in a sharp breath and an indecipherable sound escaped his mouth. "And you have lovely eyes."
Crowley reached up subconsciously to touch the long red strands. It reached a great deal down past his shoulders at this point, but he gave up trying to cut it without being able to see his reflection after too many attempts where he accidentally cut his fingers or ear. They healed straight away, but he still felt the sting. It was nice to know that it still looked ok, he had been rather fond of changing his hairstyle and making it look stylish, so it did kind of bother him sometimes that he couldn't see how it looked anymore.
He hadn't seen what the change had done to his eyes, but he knew it was something unnatural. Back in the days before his confinement, countless people had coiled away upon seeing them, their attitude towards him suddenly turning sour and hostile. Whispers of 'wretched', 'vile' and 'demon' had followed and tormented him. He'd never heard anyone refer to them as 'lovely' before, as if they were something to be admired rather than something repulsive.
"Ssstop," Crowley warned, his emotions threatening to spill out like water bubbling over the edge of a boiling pot. "You can't say those things."
"Why not? They're true. Your eyes are very unique. Actually, they kind of look like that of a snake. They're beautiful," he described with a smile, but then his expression turned thoughtful and he seemed to hesitate before speaking again. "You aren't human, are you?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper.
Crowley quickly changed the subject. "What are you doing out here on your own so late at night, Angel?"
"A-angel?" Aziraphale repeated.
Distraction successful. Although Crowley was willing to bet it wouldn't have worked nearly as well had Aziraphale been entirely sober. As it was, Aziraphale wasn't entirely sober. He seemed more coherent than when Crowley had first seen him, but he definitely still seemed to be experiencing a pleasant buzz. So he blushed brilliantly and Crowley felt he had to look away.
It was at this point that Crowley's eyes shifted downwards, noticing a single, fresh, white rose in Aziraphale's other hand. Aziraphale followed his gaze and a look of understanding came over his features.
"Right. Well, I was on a date, you see?"
Crowley's heart sank. He knew that nothing could ever happen between the two of them, that even if he could, it just wasn't realistic. He knew that he was immortal and would one day outlive Aziraphale. He knew that Aziraphale deserved to have a nice, normal relationship with a human man who could take him on dates and spoil him and that he could never expect Aziraphale to be attracted to a monster like him anyway, that he probably only wanted to be his friend if anything and that they probably shouldn't even be that.
However, that didn't stop something from aching in his chest at the idea of another man giving him pretty roses that meant 'everlasting love'.
Still, he tried his best to appear happy for him, plastering a fake smile on his face. "Oh? And how did that go?"
Aziraphale faltered slightly, lifting the rose up to scrutinise it, before dropping his arm again dejectedly. "I'm afraid I was - to borrow a phrase from the Americans - 'stood up'."
Crowley's mood almost lifted at that, until he noticed how disappointed Aziraphale seemed to be about it. Then he just found himself feeling irritated at the mystery man who'd had a chance with Aziraphale and squandered it away. The guy clearly didn't know how lucky he was to be able to roam around freely and arrange dates with beautiful men whenever he wanted.
"That seems to be the story of my love life actually," Aziraphale admitted with a humorless laugh, clearly more bothered by it than he was trying to let on. He straightened up a little, trying his best to put on a brave face. "Still, I got to have a scrummy meal and some lovely wine, even if it was without the company I'd been expecting."
Crowley was baffled. Why would anyone throw away their chance to get to know this kind and attractive man who dressed and spoke like he had just stepped out of a deadly serious period drama, but still clearly knew how to have a good time? Seemed like pure idiocy to him.
"He's a fool if you ask me," Crowley commented. "You should forget about him. Don't let some idiot who isn't worth your time hurt you. You're way too good for someone like that."
"Hmmm," Aziraphale replied, acknowledging Crowley's statement, but clearly not believing it.
Crowley felt his fingers itching to reach out and comfort him, his throat barely holding back a myriad of compliments that wanted to spill out. This was getting dangerous. If Crowley didn't say goodbye now, he didn't know if he would be able to just let him go. He didn't know if he would be able to stay away, to keep a safe distance between them and settle for admiring the man from afar.
"I think you should be getting home now, Aziraphale," he advised. "It's dangerous to be out alone at night."
Aziraphale looked as if he was about to argue, but then his shoulders slumped ever so slightly and he let out a resigned sigh. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he conceded. "Although, I have already met one supernatural being tonight, what are the odds I'll bump into another," he jested.
Crowley tried to offer the amused response he was looking for, but the comment was too close to what he actually feared would happen for him to take it lightly. "You'd be surprised," he mumbled. Aziraphale shot him a questioning look, but Crowley couldn't elaborate, if he exposed the truth the consequences would be fatal for both of them. "Be careful, Angel. Please get home safely. Don't make any more stops along the way and don't forget to lock your door."
"I'll take care, I promise," Aziraphale responded, realising how serious Crowley was being about the matter. He looked into Crowley's eyes searchingly. "Before I go though, will I ever see you again?" he asked. "Would you come back to the gate for me?"
'I would do anything for you,' Crowley wanted to say.
"I don't think it's a good idea," he replied instead, trying to ignore the disappointment on Aziraphale's face and the deep-seated feeling that not seeing him again would be unbearable, even if it was in an effort to protect him. "Besides, I doubt you'll even remember me by tomorrow morning, Angel."
"I highly doubt I could ever forget a face as striking as yours," Aziraphale argued, his gaze roaming over Crowley's features as if desperately committing them to his memory. He cast a glance to the rose in his hand and seemed to deliberate over something before holding it out towards Crowley, careful not to damage its delicate petals as he pushed it through one of the gaps in the gate.
"I know it could never hold a candle to the rest of your garden, but I want you to have this," he offered. Crowley reached out and took hold of it shakily, making sure that his fingers brushed against Aziraphale's as it exchanged hands. His hand trembled slightly as he stared down at it, twirling it this way and that to inspect the perfect white petals.
Crowley would treasure it as much as the rest of his garden and he told Aziraphale as such, noting regretfully that he had stepped away from the gate when he looked back up.
The man smiled, delighted. "Perhaps you could have it pressed. Something to remember me by," he suggested, a soft hint of hope in his voice. Crowley almost laughed at the suggestion that he would forget him.
"Good night now, dear. I hope we meet again," he said finally, with a bittersweet smile. He offered Crowley a small wave, which was immediately returned before walking away and disappearing into the night after one last look over his shoulder.
Crowley waited until the angel was out of sight before turning away from the gate himself.
"Yeah. Me too," he mumbled to himself, his heart full of something he hadn't felt in a century as he made the trek back to his house. Something that felt suspiciously like promise.