Don't tell me I'm a tease, because I'm not.
Heaven had plunged into chaos. Word spread among the lower-ranking angels like wildfire, it centered around Muriel, the scribe who had carried away an injured fellow angel. When Muriel finally appeared to report, she was disembodied, her ethereal form trembling. It was clear she had been crying. Saraqael, determined to offer comfort, did everything in her power to reassure the terrified angel of her protection.
Shortly after, Michael and Uriel arrived, to address the rapidly spreading news about the injured angel carried to earth. With little coaction Muriel, Muriel confessed everything, still shaken with fear. She laid bare all the details involving the demon Crowley, their mutual suspicions regarding Aziraphale's absence from the celestial records, the exchange of appearances, her own disembodiment, and her harrowing eyewitness account of Crowley and Aziraphale descending the heavenly beam.
The turning point came when it was firmly established that the demon had vilely deceived Muriel and had literally stolen the supreme archangel from Heaven itself, then the Metatron was summoned. This conclusion took nearly a whole day to reach, during which time threats of demotion and sending Muriel to Hell as a demon were thrown around.
Saraqael, increasingly bored as the celestial discussions led nowhere, cast a glance at Muriel. Despite the Metatron had absolved her of wrongdoing, she still stood there, her ethereal form radiating fear.
Hours, or perhaps days, passed, filled with celestial discussions that seemed futile. They delved into plans involving miracles, prophecies, and various angelic tricks, all of which they had used before in their quest to find Gabriel, but none had succeeded. The catch was how to rescue Aziraphale without anyone realizing he was missing in the first place.
Saraqael spent this time, instead, assessing the situation, searching for scenarios to make the other archangels see the Metatron's deceit and the potential consequences of his actions.
"I really think that the easiest way would be to let our contacts in Hell find the demon." Michael stated, phone already prepared.
"No." Uriel said steadfast. "A second supreme archangel getting lost?"
"We ask for the serpent, not the archangel!" Repeated Michael.
"We've discarded it before," the Metatron said in frustration, "that won't do."
Saraqael, looked at the Metatron, and wondered what his ultimate intentions were. She hadn't said a word since she had defended Muriel, and her patience was wearing thin, so she spoke up. "Are we certain Aziraphale didn't go willingly?" she asked boldly. "No one saw him resist Crowley."
All eyes turned to Saraqael, tension mounting in the room. The Metatron's eyes scrutinized her. But Saraqael was not afraid. She was tired, alone, and wanted him to be punished. The Metatron didn't respond as Saraqael hoped.
"Those who did see him described a thin angel, badly injured, wings covered in blood," Michael asserted. "I'm sure he fought the demon."
"Thin?" Saraqael pondered, casting an intentional glance at the Metatron. "I can't recall ever seeing him thin. But then again, I haven't seen him in the last three years."
Uriel raised an eyebrow. "Neither have I."
Michael seemed perplexed. "Nor have I."
The three archangels looked at the Metatron, who took a step back, relenting, "Yes, he was thinner, maintaining his divine form and not consuming human food," he added dismissively.
The other archangels nodded in agreement.
Uriel directed her attention to Muriel, who was still standing there, trembling behind Saraqael. "Muriel, you should return to the bookshop. The serpent could also go back. Better she be there to inform us."
"Properly this time, I hope," the Metatron added. "I have a cherub working in the London area who will find them." He looked at the globe intently. "She's extremely good at finding humans, and those two are practically native." He said more to himself than for those there.
Michael appeared taken aback. "So no involvement from the other side?"
"No," the Metatron snorted. "We should expedite the 'Second Coming.' You three should focus solely on that."
With that, the floating head dissolved, leaving the archangels alone with Muriel. Michael and Uriel exchanged glances, as if awaiting the other to make the next move.
Saraqael, reminiscing about the harmony in Heaven, where archangels worked together instead of competing, couldn't help but smile. "I wish Sandalfon were here," she mused aloud. "He always had a knack for finding a merry tune to lift our spirits."
Both archangels turned to her, puzzled.
"Sandalfon, where is he?" Uriel asked, resting on the only desk in view. "Why…"
"I have two sets of memories," Michael stumbled, gripping Saraqael's chair. "But he… Sandalfon is real, and he vanished after Gabriel's trial." Michael muttered astonished.
Saraqael smiled, looking at the archangels. "Muriel, be a good angel and go to the Quartermaster for a new body, then return to the bookshop." With a frugal miracle she conjured a bench for the two archangels. "We have many more people names to discuss."
Crowley lounged decadently on the sofa, one leg resting on the back and the other on the armrest, his body sprawled across the seat. With closed eyes, he hummed 'It's a kind of magic' internally as Aziraphale diligently studied the Book of Life.
This arrangement was safer for him, for one wrong touch of the celestial tome could result in oblivion. Aziraphale had resumed his previous work at making lists. Crowley hummed at their collaboration. They were making a list of all those who had been crossed out, from either side, and those that had changed status, mainly demons who had been restored back to their angelical selves. The rhythmic scrapping of the pen against the paper a tell-tale that his angel was there with him, he was at home.
"Ahem," Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Crowley, my dear fellow, there is something we must attempt."
Crowley's eyes flickered open, and he regarded the angel with curiosity, his fingers playing nervously with the edges of his sweater, his blue gaze dancing uncertainly between Crowley's eyes and the book. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his expression. "Um… go on, angel. Spit it out."
Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale spoke with excitement, "We should try to erase the black ink." The angel got up, bubbling with anticipation.
Crowley chuckled softly. "Lemon juice, acetone, or Isopropyl alcohol," he suggested, mostly seating himself, clearly delighted to see Aziraphale in good spirits. "We'll need something more potent to erase celestial ink," he teased, knowing Aziraphale's response.
"As a bookseller, I happen to possess some knowledge of document restoration," Aziraphale declared grandly, placing his hands on his hips and grinning radiantly. "We must proceed with utmost care, ensuring we don't accidentally erase the original ink and inadvertently make anyone disappear."
Crowley couldn't help but smile, his gaze locked onto Aziraphale's smiling blue eyes. He had missed him so much. He was tempted, yes, Crowley the demon whose expertise was tempting, was tempted himself; as Aziraphale danced around the room, picking up thinks, and talking with that profoundly sensual voice of his. Crowley was tempted into kissing him.
"My dear, aren't you coming?" Aziraphale asked, already wearing his trench coat and holding a bag.
Crowley blinked in surprise, his eyes widening slightly before he looked away and put on his sunglasses. "Oh," he managed, his voice unusually soft. "Would it be safe?"
"Shall we go for lunch?" Aziraphale's cheeks tinged with a delicate shade of pink. "I'm feeling a bit peckish, and we'll need supplies to erase the ink."
"Hmm," Crowley snickered; he knew it wasn't entirely safe, but he also knew Aziraphale needed space and freedom. "Ngh," he agreed, getting up and donning his jacket. "There's a charming little restaurant not far from here."
"Is it any good?" Aziraphale inquired as they descended the stairs.
Crowley accepted the bag from Aziraphale and hesitated briefly. "Well, it does specialize in game cuisine, and there were rave reviews about their duck magret." He looked at the angel with an intense gaze before opening the door to the outside world. "But remember, angel, be safe. No miracles today. We need to keep a low profile."
Aziraphale looped his arm around Crowley's elbow and held on tightly. "Don't worry, dear. I'm in good hands."
Crowley knew he wasn't supposed to be feeling this way, but as they ventured out into the world, he couldn't help but revel in his love for Aziraphale. It didn't matter anymore; he embraced it wholeheartedly.
Adam, once known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World, and Lord of Darkness, had transformed into a young man with dreams and aspirations entirely his own. At the tender age of nineteen, time had sculpted his physique, and he had embarked on the journey of self-discovery. The innocence that once danced in his eyes had gracefully given way to the wisdom of experience, and the laughter of youth had matured into a resonant melody.
Tall, handsome, and with his hair cropped shorter, Adam had grown into his own skin. The tumultuous days of his past had been replaced by the soothing cadence of life's everyday rituals. Tadfield, the idyllic English village where prophecies had once converged, remained cradled in the peaceful embrace of normality, adhering faithfully to the rhythm of small-town life. No unexpected disruptions, no untimely storms; just the expected ebb and flow of existence.
Within this tranquil haven, the Them, who had once revolved around Adam, had matured in their own right. Childhood had transitioned into the uncertain phase of adolescence, and each had set out on their unique journeys.
Although Adam would have liked to claim that he was the first to make a life-altering decision, it was Pepper who led the way. She had relocated to London to pursue a degree in Law. Soon after, inspired by her courage, Adam had decided to enroll at the Royal Veterinary College. Brian, on the other hand, opted to stay in Tadfield, working alongside his parents. Wensleydale, true to expectations, followed the path of chartered accountancy.
Yet, despite the paths they had chosen and the physical distance between them, the bonds of their friendship remained unshaken. They video called each other, they texted and send each other funny videos and stickers. Some of the new friends Adam had in the past, been a tad jealous of the Them, just to forget magically the next morning that they were jealous at all.
While he had physically departed from Tadfield, the village remained etched in Adam's heart. He yearned for the company of Dog, who, incredibly, hadn't aged a day. University corridors had replaced the park where he used to play, and textbooks had supplanted the prophecies that once shaped his destiny. However, his connection to his roots held firm, a guiding light that beckoned him home during every holiday.
As the sun continued its relentless journey across the sky, Adam's life unfolded with remarkable simplicity and extraordinary moments. His days were still touched by the remnants of magic and wonder. Yet, amidst it all, he sensed a change, a subtle shift in the air. Even Dog, growling at invisible things at night sensed something was coming."
Crowley strolled alongside Aziraphale down the charming streets of York, basking in the pleasant afternoon sun. He had enjoyed seeing the angel eat. It was something that fascinated him, the way he savoured every bite, making little sounds that were lustfully angelic. Aziraphale's expressions of bliss at every new flavor painted a portrait of celestial ecstasy.
And he, too, savored the meal – a grilled rabbit, elegantly simple yet profoundly satisfying, accompanied by fine wine. The delightful lunch still danced on their palates, and Aziraphale's freshly cleaned clothes swung gently from the dry cleaner's bag he carried, the chemical supplies carried by the angel.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, Aziraphale's arm looped through Crowley's, as the gentle hum of the city forming a soothing backdrop to their day, it warmed Crowley's heart. Occasionally, they would share anecdotes, tales from their shared history that now felt more cherished than ever. The proximity, the physical closeness was new, different, refreshing, it made his tension go away. And it was all at Aziraphale initiative, he just went along, not daring to go too fast and risk scaring Aziraphale away.
As the streets wound their way through the heart of the city, Aziraphale's voice broke the silence, soft and contemplative. "You know, my dear Crowley," Aziraphale began, a slight blush dusting his cheeks, "I remember a day in Heaven when you created nebulas and stars. You were so happy, so full of wonder."
Crowley turned his gaze toward Aziraphale, a hint of surprise danced in his eyes. He had often wondered if Aziraphale recalled those distant days, and now here it was, laid bare before him. "I remember that day," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability. "It was... a long time ago."
"Let there be matter, let there be gravity, let there be everything from pages 11 to 3,000,602 inclusive." Aziraphale repeated with a self-conscious smile, his cheeks warming further.
Crowley's heart skipped a beat. He remembered that day, too. "Yeah," he replied softly.
Aziraphale's eyes met his, a shimmer of sincerity reflected in their depths. "I want to see you happy like that again," he confessed, his voice carrying a touch of melancholy. "That's one of the reasons behind why I leave for Heaven, to make things right for you."
Crowley shook his head, emotions swirling within him. "Aziraphale," he said, his voice low and sincere, "I am happy now. Just being here, with you, seeing you happy... it's more than I ever dreamed of." He winced, knowing that the weight of his existence had changed him, he wasn't that angel anymore, he hadn't been for millennia. "I don't care for those thinks anymore."
"I just wanted you to know." Aziraphale whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
As their shared history hung in the air Crowley casually draped his arm over Aziraphale's shoulder, and for a moment, they walked in silence. It was a silence filled with unspoken understanding.
As they reached their hotel, Aziraphale's exhaustion became evident. Crowley shifted his hand to Aziraphale's waist, helping him up the stairs and guiding him toward the bedroom.
"I'm tired." Aziraphale remarked casually as he sat down and began to remove his shoes. "Strange, I almost never needed to sleep before."
Crowley couldn't hide his concern; his eyes narrowed slightly. "You're right," he replied with a forced grin, attempting to mask his worry with a hint of humor, "It is strange." he said wiggling his fingers at him.
Yet, deep down, an unsettling unease began to take hold of him. The weariness etched into Aziraphale's features was a stark contrast to the vibrant angel he had always known. Crowley couldn't shake the foreboding feeling that something was amiss. He needed to ensure Aziraphale's well-being, even if it meant using a miracle to heal him.
So he set himself to help Aziraphale out of his clothes, but the angel stopped him. "I can do it myself." He said sweetly.
"You sure?" He asked, his face at inches from the angel, his hands still around the brim of his sweater.
"Yes, go and get yourself comfortable." He said.
Crowley reluctantly left for the bathroom and took a quick shower. He usually used a miracle to make himself presentable, but now the warm water was the only possible way. Once he was out of the bathroom, barefoot and only wearing his jeans, he stood in the food of the bed, drying of his wet hair with a towel.
Aziraphale was fast sleep, beautiful, gorgeous, lovely angel. An angelic vision of serenity. He moved closer, until he was just next to him, and wondered if kissing him in his sleep was okay. It wasn't, but he was a demon after all. He hissed at himself and with a heavy heart, he quietly padded over to the couch, draping a blanket over himself.
He was in a small, square white room. Aziraphale was there; he looked at his hands, covered in bruises. He was facing a bloodied wall, purple light cast from above. He could feel his wings pressed awkwardly, the pain searing through him as he tried to turn around. His heart was beating faster and faster.
"Nooo," he pleaded, despair taking hold of him as he realized he was still in Heaven. His fears were real; he was dreaming. Crowley had never saved him. "Not again!" Tears cascaded freely.
He heard it, a fluttering of wings.
He turned around, wings twisting in ways they shouldn't, scraping against the walls, pain and despair roaming his body in equal parts.
Crowley was at the entrance, his black, lustrous wings spread behind him, dressed in a white tunic, barefoot, his long red hair framing his snake-like golden eyes, void of any affection, his face calm, a bit sad.
Aziraphale smiled, relieved to see him. "Crowley!" He didn't move, his eyes fixed upon him. "Crowley?" He asked, trying to reach him, just to find the invisible wall between them.
"Don't bother," Crowley said, turning around and flying away.
"Please, Crowley!" Aziraphale's knees gave out, and he was on the floor, crying. "Crowley!" He screamed, feeling his heart breaking into a million pieces.
"Crowley!" He opened his eyes as his own voice woke him up. His heart was racing as he realized he was back in the real world. He was sobbing, trying to be silent but failing miserably.
"What are you doing on the floor?" Aziraphale looked up; he hadn't realized he was on the floor. Crowley stood at his feet, hair pointing out in every direction, he was barefoot, wearing just his jeans and a black tank top with a gold thick chain peeking from under it.
He didn't even fight back when he reached for his hand, letting Crowley hurl him up to the bed and cover him with the blankets.
He sobbed, badly, despite the cushiony mattress, despite seeing that Crowley was there, despite knowing he was not back in Heaven.
"For heaven's... no, hell's sake, what had they done to you?" He looked up at Crowley, unable to say anything. His dear demon hissed, loudly, angrily, eyes bright amber, his skin glowed a faint tone of gold, his blue veins a dark contrast. With a growl, Crowley moved agilely over Aziraphale, placing himself behind him and under the covers, weaving his long legs around his naked ones and strong arms around him, his head rested on the pillow behind him.
Aziraphale hadn't felt his own tremors until Crowley's body steadied him, his warmth spreading, a calming brimstone scent surrounding them, what he felt was way deeper than just warmth, as if their souls completely melted together, an electric feeling wrapping around them both.
"What happened, angel?" Crowley's whispered words caressed him as his hand was on his chest, shooting him with slow circles.
"A nightmare," Aziraphale whispered back.
Crowley kissed softly the top of his head. "I've got you."
Aziraphale's tears fell for a while; the brimstone scent and the electric feeling subsided slowly, until he could just feel Crowley wrapped around him.
"I'm sorry to wake you," Aziraphale said once he could speak again.
Crowley kissed his shoulder, over his shirt. "I'm glad you did." He let go of his waist, his hand reaching for his hair and curled a strand around one of his long fingers. "Now sleep, tomorrow we're going to buy you some pajamas."
Aziraphale didn't want to sleep; he wasn't one to sleep habitually. He wanted, needed to stay awake, basking in Crowley's proximity, the feeling of warmth hadn't disappeared. It was even stronger, as if there were virtually no separation between them. He felt whole; his heart had returned to its normal peace. And he wondered if it would be easier to tell Crowley then, as they were closer than ever, to make him aware of his feelings.
"I love you," he whispered, feeling it should be screamed, but he just whispered, hoping he would listen. "I accepted it after the bomb, when you saved my books." Aziraphale said, his voice trembling a little. "I could not deny it to myself or call it anything else." He laced his fingers with Crowley's, his hand cold over the sheets that covered his belly. "I can't say when friendship, camaraderie, turned much more." He chuckled, blushing, "Maybe after Job's incident."
Aziraphale was met with silence, and he waited for him to say anything. As the minutes stretched, he wondered if Crowley had fallen asleep, or he hadn't heard him. Maybe his heartfelt confession had been wasted. A sense of dread took him as he began to wonder if it was just one-sided, and Crowley just felt…
"Since the wall," the words left Crowley's throat as a raspy and hoarse hiss, "when you sheltered me from the first rain." Crowley shifted, somehow getting closer. "We looked into each other's eyes, and," he croaked, the rumble making their flush bodies tremble, "I… I was yours."
Then Aziraphale was the one to fall silent. As he took his words in, Crowley's love dated back to the beginning; he had been a steady figure through millennia, a friend for sure, but love? By his mind passed flashes of Crowley's smile, though time, different haircuts, different sunglasses, beards, and goatees; but his endearing smile always was directed at him. The small presents he gave him, the wine, the chocolates, the books. The way he saved him over and over again. "Mine," Aziraphale croaked out.
"Yours," Crowley reassured."
