Crowley met his gaze, determination glinting in his golden eyes. "We owe it to ourselves, don't we?"
CHAPTER 51 Rejection
Aziraphale trod through the creaking door of the bookshop, each tinkle of the entrance bell sounding like a melancholic note, a requiem for something lost. The weight of the recent exchange hung heavily in the air, the unresolved tension a palpable ache in his chest. As the door swung shut behind him, the dimly lit space embraced him like an old friend, but the warmth it once offered felt distant and faint. The familiar scents of aged parchment and old leather greeted him, now mixed with the subtle soil and grass fragrance of Crowley's plants, the new aroma making him aware of the way Crowley was now a part of the air he was breathing.
Crowley's harsh dismissal echoed in Aziraphale's mind, a haunting melody playing on a ceaseless loop, each note etching deeper wounds. The venom in Crowley's words stung, leaving a raw wound in Aziraphale's heart. The cheerfulness that had adorned his lips upon Crowley's memories' return now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by a profound sadness that threatened to engulf him.
Regret and self-blame danced through Aziraphale's thoughts, an uninvited waltz that twisted his emotions into knots. The confirmation that Crowley harboured resentment gnawed at Aziraphale's conscience. The recent scenes replayed in his mind like a heart-breaking film, the wounds inflicted by their words cutting deeper than any physical pain. How hurtful 'I forgive you' was. The tenderness and consideration that had defined their relationship seemed futile in the face of Crowley's evident anger.
His footsteps reverberated in the dim space, a gloomy melody that underscored the weight of the atmosphere. The soft glow of light filtering through closed blinds cast a mournful dance on forgotten tales and well-worn spines. Surely Anthony's plants missed the sunlight. Solitude hung heavy in the air, a tangible weight. Aziraphale couldn't shake the certainty that their connection slipped away, like grains of sand slipping through an outstretched hand.
With a grunt, Aziraphale painstakingly opened the blinds. If he wanted to maintain a minimum of cordiality between Crowley and him, he had to at least make sure that his beloved's plants were kept alive. The gentle sunlight streamed in, casting a subtle glow on the once-neglected flora.
Aziraphale's gaze shifted to the metal round staircase leading up to their home. He contemplated retreating into his routine, pushing away the chaotic symphony of emotions. Despite the likelihood that Crowley would leave his side, Aziraphale ascended the metal round staircase, leading to the small apartment that had been witness to countless shared moments. An unfamiliar weight settled in the pit of his stomach as he stepped into the kitchenette, once a haven of shared meals orchestrated in tandem with his demon, now feeling strangely alien.
Unthinkingly, Aziraphale moved pots and pans, attempting to create a semblance of normalcy in the midst of emotional disarray. His hands mechanically selected a teapot, the routine of preparing tea serving as a futile attempt to anchor himself in the comforting patterns of daily life. The plants in front of the window swayed gently, as if yearning for the touch of the hands that had once nurtured them together.
His gaze lingered on the wooden table, where two chairs stood as sentinels to a shared intimacy that now felt like a distant memory. Aziraphale sank into a chair, the words 'Leave me alone' echoed in his mind. Just the day before, his husband sat on his lap, seeking comfort, long arms hugging him tight, warm breath on his skin.
Aziraphale realized that this moment of comfort would surely never happen again. The wooden surface beneath him felt unyielding and unforgiving. The shadows in the kitchen deepened, casting the cream cupboards into sharp relief, closing in around him. The air thickened, suffocating, each breath a struggle, as if the walls were compressing his chest, squeezing out life. The kitchenette, a cage, its dimensions shrinking with every passing moment.
His surroundings became a distorted blur, the Victorian cabinets looming like giants, their presence oppressive and menacing. The wooden table, where laughter and shared moments had once blossomed, now felt like a cold, unyielding slab. Aziraphale's hands trembled, fingers tracing the edge of the table as if seeking an anchor in the disorienting swirl of emotions.
Crowley may never love him again. The heartbeat in his ears quickened, a frantic rhythm that matched the racing thoughts in his mind. The dim light flickered, casting unsettling shadows that danced on the walls, mocking his distress. The world outside the window seemed distant, unreachable, as if a thick fog had descended and cut him off from everything beyond.
The sensations intensified, and Aziraphale's skin prickled with an invisible weight. The walls closed in further, the air growing scarcer with each passing second. Clutching at the sides of the chair, he sought something tangible to ground himself. The ache in his chest transformed into a vice-like grip. Panic, an unwelcome intruder, tightened its grip on Aziraphale's psyche, threatening to consume him whole. The world tilted, and for a moment, Aziraphale felt untethered, adrift in a sea of overwhelming emotions.
Then, like a lifeline thrown in the nick of time, the kettle's whistle shattered the suffocating stillness. The sound cut through the chaos, a jarring reminder of the present. Aziraphale's breath hitched, and he clung to the familiar sound, a lifeline pulling him back from the brink.
With a gasp, he snapped out of the suffocating grip of panic, jumping up from his chair. The cream cupboards receded, the air gradually returning to its normal density. The wooden table, once a hostile force, became a simple piece of furniture again.
Aziraphale's trembling hands found solace in the steam rising from the teapot, and he clung to the rhythmic inhales and exhales that slowly regulated. He poured a cup, the ritual no longer a shared communion but a solitary act of seeking warmth in a chill that had seeped into his very core. As the liquid filled the cup, the panic subsided, leaving behind a lingering unease.
He had thought about making food, having something prepared for when Crowley arrived, presenting him with something that would remind him of the happiness of being together. 'Crowley doesn't like to eat,' he thought, and decided to go downstairs.
The creaking steps of the metal round staircase echoed Aziraphale's internal turmoil as he descended, each step a reminder of the fragile state of their once-happy home. The dim light from the chandelier cast a subdued glow over the bookshop, the same space that had witnessed the shared laughter and whispered confessions of centuries past.
Once downstairs, the old chesterfield sofa, adorned with blankets, beckoned Aziraphale into its embrace. He sank into its familiar softness, holding the teacup as if it were an artifact from a bygone era. The subtle hum of the city outside the windows mirrored the rhythm of his longing heart, a heart that beat in unison with the memories of their joyous union.
Time passed, marked by the steady tick of a clock that seemed to mock Aziraphale's yearning for normalcy. His fingers idly traced the edges of a blanket, a poor substitute for the warmth he yearned for. As time unfolded, the realization of Crowley's absence weighed heavier, the solitude a relentless companion.
Crowley may never love him again, the thought echoed in Aziraphale's mind like a mournful refrain. Dust particles danced in the muted sunlight that filtered through half-closed blinds, casting ethereal patterns on the floor. The heavy silence pressed against him, each corner of the room whispering fragments of conversations that now felt like echoes of a distant past.
Aziraphale's eyes wandered to his desk, cluttered with trinkets and mementos, a testament to the life he had built with Crowley. A sigh escaped him, a gentle exhale carrying the weight of both regret and determination.
Tears welled in Aziraphale's eyes, a cascade of emotions that spilled over like the ink on forgotten pages. He blinked them away, as if denying the vulnerability that threatened to engulf him. "Why now?" Aziraphale muttered, the question hanging in the air. "Why let it unravel at a time like this, when we were so happy?" He wouldn't succumb to the ache, not yet. Aziraphale's commitment to averting the apocalypse clashed with the desire to salvage his relationship. The conflicting priorities added complexity to his emotional turmoil, a delicate dance between duty and love. The walls of the bookshop bore witness to his internal struggle, a silent audience to the unraveling threads of celestial and earthly bonds.
His fingers traced patterns on the cup, creating ripples in the liquid that mirrored the turbulence within. The open book lay forgotten on the table, its pages untouched. The words, once a refuge into other worlds, now blurred into a meaningless dance, unable to divert his mind consumed by the absence of another. Aziraphale hastily wiped away tears, straightening his posture as though the act could mend the fractured pieces of his heart. His eyes, red-rimmed and weary. "Pull yourself together, Aziraphale," he scolded, his voice low and edged with frustration. "Crowley can't see you like this. Focus."
Rising with a determined grace, Aziraphale placed the teacup back on the saucer, the delicate clink echoing in the quiet room. He moved with purpose, tidying up the scattered remnants of his disarrayed emotions. Yet, despite the façade of collected composure, Aziraphale couldn't escape the gravitational pull of his own heartache; the fear of losing Crowley, both physically and emotionally, cast a shadow over Aziraphale's heart.
A sigh escaped him, a quiet exhale that carried the weight of his longing. The knowledge that Crowley might return lingered in the air, a fragile hope that Aziraphale clung to even as doubt gnawed at his resolve. The minutes stretched into hours, each tick of the clock echoing the uncertainty of their shared future. Aziraphale mopped around the bookshop, a silent dance of grief choreographed to the rhythm of a heart that refused to surrender. "Maybe I should have said more," he admitted, his words echoing off the bookshelves. "Perhaps then he'd understand."
A chill seeped through the bookshop, settling into the very walls that had housed centuries of shared laughter and whispered confessions. Aziraphale moved through its familiar spaces with an air of listless detachment. The once lively atmosphere now echoed with the ghostly absence of Crowley, casting an uneasy pall over every nook and cranny. As the minutes stretched into hours, Aziraphale's attempts at normalcy crumbled like ancient parchment. Making food, tidying up the upstairs a little, reading a book—each activity tainted by the persistent absence of his husband. His life had become so intricately woven with Crowley's that, despite enduring more than two hundred years in the bookstore without him, Aziraphale no longer saw himself capable of living without Crowley.
The tick-tock of the clock echoed through the bookshop, a relentless reminder of time slipping away as Aziraphale moved through its familiar spaces with an air of listless detachment. The once-lively atmosphere now hung heavy with the ghostly absence of Crowley, casting an uneasy pall over every nook and cranny, the chill seeping through the walls settling into his very soul.
Watering plants, organizing books, cleaning windows—rituals that once brought solace and routine now served as painful echoes of a life disrupted. "I can't go on like this," Aziraphale muttered, the solitude amplifying his words. "There has to be a way to fix it, to make things right." His every action, every attempt at normalcy, felt like a feeble protest against the ghostly void left by Crowley had carved within him. The silence, once companionable, now echoed with the haunting whispers of memories.
The midday sun streamed through the storefront windows, casting a warm, hazy glow over Aziraphale's bookshop. Aziraphale, surrounded by the haphazard arrangement of books and forgotten tales, sat behind the counter, his eyes fixed on the entrance.
His fingers traced absent patterns on the polished surface, mind engaged in a delicate dance of thoughts. The tension lingered, a palpable weight in the air, as Aziraphale grappled with the turmoil in his heart. The need for Crowley, the yearning for his presence, hung over him like a shroud.
"He'll come around," Aziraphale muttered to himself, a soft whisper in the sea of books. He took a steadying breath, attempting to quell the storm of emotions swirling within. The desire to salvage their relationship warred with the urgency of the impending meteor threat.
The crystal chandelier overhead refracted the sunlight into a myriad of dancing rainbows, a spectacle that usually brought joy to Aziraphale's heart. Today, however, the colors seemed muted, the brilliance of the display dimmed by the shadows of uncertainty.
Aziraphale knew he needed to tread carefully, to approach Crowley with calm and civility. The delicate fabric of their connection required mending, and Aziraphale resolved to be the weaver of those threads. "He doesn't hate me," Aziraphale reminded himself, the words a mantra against the insecurities that threatened to surface. He reached for a cup of tea, the porcelain cool against his fingertips. Sipping the comforting warmth, he mulled over the words he would choose, the delicate balance between urgency and restraint.
Leaning back in the sturdy chair, Aziraphale considered the complexity of their love, woven with threads of time and shared history. If they had fall in love twice, surely a third time was not beyond reach.
"I hurt him," Aziraphale acknowledged, eyes drifting to the battered sofa that had cradled their shared laughter. The thought of Crowley nursing wounds, both ancient and fresh, stirred a protective ache within him. "I think he needs to know that I'm willing to work through it, to make it right."
With renewed determination, Aziraphale set aside his fears and focused on the task at hand. He knew that Crowley needed space, that they needed to rebuild trust and find common ground. As he sipped his tea, he contemplated ways to bridge the gap between them, to show Crowley that he was committed to making their relationship work.
Just then, the bell chimed, jolting Aziraphale from his reverie. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his bow tie and smoothed down his vest before turning towards the front of the store.
Night had settled over Soho, wrapping the bookshop in a quiet cocoon. Crowley's sleek black car glided to a smooth stop in front of the quaint bookshop. The gentle hum of the engine ceased as Crowley killed it, leaving the sounds of the city to fill the void. The soft glow of streetlights cast a warm hue on the cobblestone street, creating a quiet ambiance.
As Crowley stepped out of the car, the air crackled with an electric tension, sending a shiver down Crowley's spine. The demon approached the familiar entrance, his steps measured, each one a beat in the rhythmic dance of anticipation. He could see the soft glow of the shop's lights through the window, and the sight stirred a mix of emotions within him.
Upon pushing open the door, a delicate chime announced his arrival. Inside, the bookshop was dimly lit, with shelves casting long shadows across the room. His heart drummed an erratic beat as he scanned the room, finding Aziraphale standing near the round rug, an expectant look in his eyes. The angel wasn't even pretending to do anything.
Crowley's gaze traced over Aziraphale's features—the pretty, dainty nose, the soft blond hair that almost seemed to float like feathers, the blue eyes that held a myriad of emotions, fingers rubbing the edges of the knitted vest he was wearing. There was a hint of vulnerability beneath the refined exterior, a vulnerability that mirrored Crowley's own.
They stood there, feet apart, the weight of unspoken words heavy in the air. The silence between them was pregnant with the echoes of their recent fight, a battle that had left wounds that needed tending.
Aziraphale's lips parted as if to speak, but no words emerged. Crowley, too, felt the urge to say something, to break the silence threatening to consume them. Their gazes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch between them. The charged atmosphere hummed with the weight of words unspoken, a palpable energy that arced between them. It was like standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to take the plunge. He wanted to bridge the gap, to mend whatever had shattered between them, but the words were elusive.
"Angel," Crowley began, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. Aziraphale looked up, a tentative smile playing on his lips, ready to interject. "Look, Aziraphale, I didn't mean to—"
"No, my dear, I must apologize first," Aziraphale's words tumbled over Crowley's attempt to speak. He gestured emphatically, his hands expressing a mix of regret and urgency. "I never intended for things to get this out of hand. You see, I was trying to—"
"No, no, no, Aziraphale," Crowley cut in, frustration and desperation lacing his tone. He paced across the wooden floors of the bookshop, his movements restless. "I just need you to understand that—"
"I know I can be pushy at times, but you must understand, Crowley," Aziraphale blurted out, his hands gesturing emphatically. He took a step closer, a plea in his eyes. "Heaven and Hell are watching us, and we can't afford to—"
Crowley's hiss cut through the air, a serpent's strike. "I get it, angel. I know we're under a bloody magnifying glass, but it doesn't excuse—"
"No, no, you don't understand," Aziraphale interjected, desperation creeping into his voice. He moved to intercept Crowley's pacing, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "We're on the brink of something catastrophic, and we need to maintain appearances, but I need you to know that I lov—"
Pulling away from Aziraphale's touch, his movements agitated, Crowley interrupted him, frustration etching his features. "Appearances? Aziraphale, this isn't about appearances; it's about… about what we have—"
"And that's precisely what I'm trying to say!" Aziraphale exclaimed, his eyes wide with a mix of urgency and longing. He gestured between them, the emotion evident in his movements. "I can't pretend! I can't bear the thought of losing—"
Crowley interrupted him, an edge of frustration in his voice. "Aziraphale, you just don't get it, do you?" Crowley felt the familiar surge of anger building within him. The angel wasn't really listening, not truly acknowledging what Crowley was going through. The demon sighed, running a hand through his fiery red hair.
"But, dear boy, I never wanted to prete—" Aziraphale tried to interject, only to be interrupted once again.
"That's the problem!" Crowley snapped, pacing across the room. "You never listen. You think everything can be solved with a cup of tea."
"Well, excuse me for trying to bring a bit of normalcy into our lives," Aziraphale shot back, his patience clearly wearing thin. He crossed his arms, a defensive stance, but his eyes revealed a vulnerability that mirrored Crowley's.
Ignoring Aziraphale's retort, Crowley paced restlessly across the creaking wooden floors. "You act like everything is just like… like it was before you left for Heaven, but I can't ignore the fact that we're—"
Frustration flashed in Aziraphale's eyes. He shifted his weight, leaning against the antique bookshelf for support. "Crowley, can we please focus on one thing at a time?"
"One thing at a time? Aziraphale, you're always so focused on what you think is right, on fixing everything, that you don't see how I feel," he retorted, his voice a low murmur, frustration lacing his words. Crowley punctuated his words with agitated gestures, his hands slicing through the air.
Aziraphale's response was swift; his eyes narrowed slightly as he crossed his arms defensively. "Crowley, you get angry too easily. It's infuriating!"
"Ang—angry? Me?" Crowley hissed, the anger bubbling to the surface. Crowley took a deep breath, attempting to regain some semblance of control. He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry to be a bother to you. It's just... I needed space." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.
To Crowley's horror, Aziraphale's eyes welled with tears, words tumbling out in a rush. "I know you hate me, Crowley. I know you despise me for leaving—"
Crowley's expression softened, his anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of understanding. He took a step closer, a gentle hand reaching out to comfort. "Hate you? Aziraphale, I could never hate you, I lo—"
"But you see, we have to focus on the meteor, on saving the world. We can't let our personal matters distract us," Aziraphale continued, determined to cut Crowley apparently over and over again.
Crowley's frustration bubbled up, and he raised his voice, "Aziraphale, can you just let me—"
Aziraphale's hands grasped at the air, trying to convey the depth of his feelings. He took a step forward, as if reaching out for an understanding that remained elusive. "But you said..." Aziraphale's voice wavered, a tremor of hurt evident in his words. "You said you forgave me, and I—"
"You said it first!" Crowley's voice rose, a crescendo of conflicting emotions. "You left me! Standing there by the Bent—"
Aziraphale's hands balled at his sides, his body trembling. "Crowley, you have no idea how terrified I was—"
Crowley, now agitated, couldn't hold back any longer. He resumed his pacing back and forth, the space feeling too confined. "Will you just—"
Aziraphale's voice rose, desperation tinged with sorrow. "But I never wanted to go. I wanted to stay with you, with the one I—"
Crowley threw his hands up in exasperation. "Will you let me talk, Angel?"
Aziraphale blinked, a moment of realization crossing his face. "Oh, dear, I apologize. Please, go on."
Crowley took a deep breath, attempting to regain some semblance of control. "Heaven and Hell are watching us, and we can't afford to slip up."
Aziraphale's expression softened with understanding. He nodded, acknowledging the gravity of their situation. "I understand, my dear. I just thought it might help if we discussed—"
Crowley, however, wasn't finished. "And I know I'll have to stay in the bookshop for appearances, and it is your home, but—"
Aziraphale interrupted, "Crowley, please, the bookshop is—"
Crowley's hand shot up, cutting him off. "And we mustn't forget the meteor, we need to figure out how to stop it."
Aziraphale took a step closer, the tension easing between them. "We have to figure it out together, Crowley."
For a moment, they stood there, the admission of faults hanging in the air. The room felt less oppressive, the weight of their recent argument lifting.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, his eyes searching Crowley's for understanding. "Shall we go upstairs to the kitchenette?" he suggested, a hopeful lilt in his voice.
Crowley considered it for a moment before nodding, a silent agreement passing between them. They moved in tandem toward the metal staircase at the back of the bookshop, the steps creaking softly beneath their feet.
As they ascended, the anticipation of the conversation ahead lingered, but there was also a glimmer of hope in the air—a chance for understanding and reconciliation.
Reaching the kitchenette on the second floor, Aziraphale gestured toward the vintage table. "Let's talk," he said, his eyes filled with a mix of sincerity and longing.
Crowley settled into his seat across from Aziraphale, his legs spreading to claim more space, the symbolic distance between angel and demon narrowing. The night cradled the promise of resolution, a silent canvas upon which the two could paint the words they both desperately needed to express.
As Aziraphale began, "I want to start by saying that I truly am sorry for what happened. I never intended for things to end this way," Crowley felt a tight knot in his chest. The apology stung, its sincerity conflicting with the lingering bitterness of betrayal. He closed his eyes, seeking refuge behind his sunglasses, shielding the tumult of emotions beneath.
"End," he mumbled, the word bitter on his tongue. Recovering his memory had unearthed a chaotic storm within him, memories of past rejection and abandonment intertwined with those of the present. "Recovering my memory has been... intense." He uttered the word once more, a refrain of nasty finality. Crowley, beneath his nonchalant exterior, couldn't help but feel a surge of sadness. He wanted to lash out, to demand answers, but beneath the anger, there lingered a thread of love and care for the angel seated before him. The one he still loved, no matter the mess they found themselves in.
As Aziraphale's hand gently found its place on Crowley's forearm, a desperate plea in his voice, Crowley felt the warmth of the touch, a stark contrast to the cold distance that had grown between them. Aziraphale's apology clawed at the barricades Crowley had erected. "Crowley, please, let me explain. I know I've hurt you, and I want to make it right." The plea tugged at Crowley's resolve, but he couldn't let go of the anger just yet.
Feeling fed up, Crowley opened his eyes, abruptly cutting off Aziraphale's attempts to apologize again. "Aziraphale, it's not about apologies. Leave it be. Things are as they are." His internal turmoil raged—a tempest of conflicting emotions, swirling between resentment and the undeniable love he still harbored for Aziraphale.
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Aziraphale nervously asked, "Where do we go from here?" Crowley felt the weight of the question, the uncertainty of their future pressing on him. He wanted to escape into the familiar comfort of cynicism, but Aziraphale's presence anchored him in a tumultuous sea of conflicting emotions.
Pausing for a moment, Crowley finally looked at Aziraphale. "We figure out how to stop the meteor. That's what we focus on now." A practical goal, a distraction from the emotional maelstrom within. The thought of saving the world provided a temporary respite from the intricacies of their strained relationship.
"Time for a spot of tea, don't you think?" Aziraphale asked, trying to sound casual despite his nerves, as he stood up again.
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Have you eaten?" The question, a mundane detail, betrayed Crowley's concern beneath the stoic exterior.
A shaky smile played on Aziraphale's lips as he admitted, "I haven't. But we don't need to eat. Angels and demons and all that."
"Exactly," Crowley interrupted, a hint of impatience in his tone. "We don't need to eat or sleep. But our bodies get used to it, and then they have a hard time without eating or sleeping."
Slightly flustered, Aziraphale argued, "Well, I'm not hungry anyway." Crowley smirked, a mixture of amusement and frustration. Aziraphale's stubbornness, both endearing and exasperating, tugged at Crowley's emotions.
With a smirk, Crowley got up from his chair and said, "Doesn't matter. As soon as you see the food, you'll get hungry. While I'm preparing something, why don't you tell me what happened?" The practicality of the task provided a momentary escape from the emotional weight of the situation.
"What happened?" Aziraphale repeated with a hint of uncertainty.
Swinging open the refrigerator door, Crowley let the cool air carry the tantalizing scents of bacon, Parmesan cheese, and eggs. "What happened in Heaven when you accepted the position of Supreme Archangel, so now there's a fucking meteorite about to destroy Earth?" In his mind, Crowley was wrestling with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. His smirk was a thin veneer, a feeble attempt to mask the turmoil within.
Retrieving a package of spaghetti from a cupboard, along with a pot and a frying pan, Crowley continued, "Why did they wipe our memories?" He filled the pot with water and put it on the heat to boil, arms crossed defensively.
He filled the pot with water and put it on the heat to boil. "Start wherever you want, Aziraphale," Crowley said, turning around to face him with a guarded expression, the sunglasses hid the storm in his eyes.
To his surprise, Aziraphale sat back down and sighed. "The Metatron immediately wanted us to start setting up the Second Coming, another end of the world," Aziraphale sighed even more, "I thought I could do things differently."
Taking a deep breath, his eyes locked on the worn old wooden table, Aziraphale began, "It all began with Metatron's grand design for the Second Coming." As Aziraphale spoke, Crowley listened intently, the intoxicating aroma of bacon sizzling in the pan, the scent weaving through the room. "He wanted us, the archangels, to orchestrate it, manipulate the events of the Great Plan leading to the end of the world."
"Manipulate the Great Plan?" Surprised, Crowley straightened his posture, "That's fucking crazy!" he interjected, his surprise evident. "Shouldn't he be smited for that?" The disbelief in Crowley's voice betrayed the disillusionment that gripped him. The interjection was a fervent plea for justice in a world that seemed increasingly devoid of it.
"He's the one who decides who's getting smitten." Aziraphale, still seated, gazed at Crowley with a mixture of sorrow and determination. "I didn't see it at first. I placed a suggestion box on my desk and tried to make Heaven better, convincing the other archangels that the Second Coming was unnecessary," Aziraphale explained, his gaze shifting between Crowley and the worn wooden table. "One day I checked the Book of Creation, and it was all wrong."
Aziraphale's confession hung heavy in the air. Crowley's gaze lingered on him, veiled behind sunglasses that shielded the anguish welling up within. The mention of the Book of Creation sent ripples through Crowley's soul; he had a copy he borrowed from Hell ages ago, a souvenir of sorts, as he himself had a copy long ago when he was a star maker.
Silence settled in, a pregnant pause filled with unspoken emotions. Aziraphale's gaze remained fixed on the table, tears lingering in his blonde eyelashes. A dull ache settled in Crowley's chest, a palpable pang of longing surging through him as he wished to mend the fragments of their relationship, hold Aziraphale close, and assure him that everything would be alright.
As the water in the pot continued to bubble and churn, a low simmer that mirrored the underlying turmoil in their hearts, Crowley's voice cut through the quiet. "Aziraphale, you should have listened to me. I tried to tell you that this would happen." Crowley's flippant remark was a defense mechanism, a feeble attempt to inject a note of detachment into a conversation steeped in emotional gravity. He tossed a box of spaghetti into the boiling water with more force than necessary.
Continuing, Aziraphale said, "I accepted the position because I thought, perhaps, I could influence the outcome. Make it less destructive, find a way to save humanity in the process. To create a place for—"
Crowley scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him, "I told you, Heaven wanted to destroy Earth." Meanwhile, he heated a large skillet over medium heat and added a few strips of bacon.
"I thought I could find a compromise, a way to align Heaven's goals with a more compassionate approach," Aziraphale interjected, his voice tinged with desperation.
Crowley pivoted to meet Aziraphale's gaze, his eyes flashing with disbelief and defeat. "Compassionate approach? Aziraphale, you're talking about Heaven! How could you possibly—"
Aziraphale nervously wrung his hands, his gaze avoiding Crowley's stare. "Crowley, I never expected it to come to this. I thought I could navigate the politics, make a difference. But Metatron had other plans."
His frustration boiling over, Crowley slammed the spatula against the frying pan with a bit too much force. "Damn it, Aziraphale, just like with Gabriel's trial, the Metatron condemned us both to lose our memory." The bacon sizzled in the pan, the rhythmic crackling punctuating the heavy atmosphere. Crowley turned his attention back to the stove, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical as he channeled his energy towards to the egg mixture. Without looking up, Crowley spoke in a measured tone, his voice tight with frustration. "Just go on, Aziraphale. I'm listening."
"I didn't have access to most of the documents, so I started asking questions."
"Bad idea, angel, they don't like questions," Crowley interjected. The spaghetti finished cooking; he drained it, reserving a cup of pasta water. In a separate bowl, he whisked together eggs, grated Parmesan cheese, black pepper, and a bit of water.
Aziraphale continued, "There should be a star to signal the new birth of the Messiah. Only there was no Messiah; the Messiah is with the Almighty. I tried to contact Her, but She never responded."
Breaking into dry laughter, Crowley joked, "She can't answer, busy officiating weddings." He deftly mixed the bacon with the egg mixture until the sauce evenly coated everything.
Ignoring him, Aziraphale pressed on, "There should not be any meteor, Crowley. Before our memories were erased, I never saw or heard of the Second Coming including a meteor, anywhere."
As Crowley plated the spaghetti carbonara, garnishing it with Parmesan cheese and fresh herbs, the aroma filled the room. He placed a plate in front of the angel before sitting across from him.
Crowley sighed, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. "Now that I see the meteor problem from the perspective of my… memories… I can deduce that a supernatural force has moved or created the meteor."
Digging in, Aziraphale made a small appreciative moan as he savored the first bite. "So, what now? How do we stop the meteor?"
"There is an emergency system in the universe. If a celestial body leaves its trajectory… it is put back on track using magnetic force fields, black holes…" Crowley gestured around with his fork. "It's a very complicated system, but it works very well."
Aziraphale smiled tentatively. "Well, maybe it will all work out in the end. It's possible, right?" He looked at Crowley with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, as if searching for reassurance that everything would indeed fall into place.
Crowley had to consciously suppress a fond smile as he watched Aziraphale savour the food, completely absorbed in the culinary experience. The scene brought back countless memories of peaceful, loving moments they had shared, but with a twist – now, everything was different, and the tension between them was palpable, waiting to resurface the moment they left the table.
"Crowley, please," Aziraphale implored, his voice laced with urgency, "tell me the meteor won't destroy Earth. I need to know that everything will be okay."
"No worries, Aziraphale. We can just stop time and alter its course. Easy peasy," Crowley said with a dismissive wave of his hand, trying to downplay the situation even though he could sense Aziraphale's mounting unease.
"I'm not sure how to pull this off without drawing attention to ourselves, especially since Michael and the others are always watching," Aziraphale said, his brow furrowed in concern.
"I reckon it's worth a shot, angel. I will have a chat with those wankers and see if they are willing to lend a hand," Crowley said with a shrug, "From what I gathered, Saraqael seemed pretty keen on saving the Earth, so maybe there's a way to sort this out without any drama."
Aziraphale's voice softened, laced with concern. 'Crowley, my dear boy, I don't want to see you hurt. Can we find another way to resolve this?' His eyes implored Crowley to understand, to see the sincerity in his words.
Forcing a smile, Crowley looked down at his plate, "Sure." Crowley said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the worry creeping into his own mind. Taking a bite of his food, Crowley chewed slowly as he beneath the surface of his calm facade, his heart ached. He no longer cared about putting himself in danger if it meant protecting Aziraphale.
They fell into an awkward silence, occupied only by the sound of cutlery against ancient china.
"You said Gabriel had a trial too?" Aziraphale asked, his voice small as he pushed around his plate a stray strand of spaghetti, not looking at him.
Crowley swallowed the half-chewed spaghetti in his mouth before responding. "Yes, they put him on trial for trying to stop the Second Coming," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "They condemned him to lose his memory, but Gabriel managed to escape and save it in the fly, so he wouldn't forget everything."
The clatter of Aziraphale's fallen fork echoed through the kitchenette. Crowley's gaze lifted from his meal to meet the angel's tear-filled blue eyes. A quiver in Aziraphale's voice betrayed the emotional storm within him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he trembled.
Concern etched Crowley's face, and seeing the tears welling up in Aziraphale's eyes, Crowley's heart shattered into a million pieces. The love he felt for the angel surged within him, an overwhelming tide threatening to drown his composure. He longed to wrap Aziraphale in an embrace, to kiss away the pain etched across the angel's features.
"I couldn't. You left right away," Crowley spoke in a soft, gentle tone, his words carrying the weight of an unspoken apology. In that moment, Crowley questioned whether revealing the truth about Gabriel and the erased memories might have changed everything, prevented Aziraphale from leaving.
Aziraphale's mouth opened and closed, a silent struggle playing out before him. His azure eyes remained fixed on Crowley, the silent questions within them palpable. The angel dropped his gaze, arms crossing protectively over his chest. "Well, it doesn't matter now," his voice cracking with the strain of holding back his emotions.
The desperate desire to hug, kiss, and assure Aziraphale lingered within Crowley, kept at bay by the pressing need to address the impending celestial crisis and the fact that Aziraphale wouldn't appreciate it. Crowley watched Aziraphale with a mixture of concern and regret. The atmosphere between them became heavy once more. The angel's sudden emotional shift tugged at Crowley's heartstrings. He pushed aside his own discomfort and reached out a hand, hesitating for a moment before placing it gently on Aziraphale's.
"Angel," he murmured softly, the usual swagger in his voice replaced by an uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I wanted to tell you. But you were gone, and—"
Feeling the delicate weight of Crowley's touch, Aziraphale's eyes flickered upward. The angel pulled away, a determined edge in his voice, "All that matters is that we figure out a way to stop the meteor before it hits Earth." Aziraphale's shoulders drooped slightly, his breath catching in his throat as he struggled to contain his emotions. Crowley could see the turmoil reflected in his eyes, the fear and anxiety threatening to overwhelm him. Despite his best efforts, a faint tremble shook Aziraphale's voice, betraying his attempts to remain stoic.
Crowley's gaze lingered on Aziraphale, a surge of frustration and longing welling up as his desire to offer comfort was met with Aziraphale's resistance. Crowley's heart sank at the realization that, once again, Aziraphale was distancing himself emotionally. It was as if a door had closed, shutting Crowley out. The rejection stung, a sharp pang in his chest that echoed with the familiar ache of unspoken words and unaddressed feelings.
"Yes, of course. Priorities," Crowley nodded, his annoyance masking the deeper hurt beneath. The weight of rejection lingered in the air, and Crowley struggled with conflicting emotions. It fueled a growing realization that perhaps solving the meteor problem was the only way he could ease Aziraphale's distress. Resigned to Aziraphale's rebuff, he stood, shaking off the tension that had settled in his joints. Fingers flexed, he prepared the power for summoning an archangel. "Agreed. Let's get started." He gave a sharp nod, "Come on, let's summon one of those arseholes and see if we can convince him to help us."
"No! No summoning!" Aziraphale interjected, leaning forward with a tone of caution. "Last time I tried that, the Metatron appeared. Better wait for them to come to us. They are always around, so we should wait."
"Fine," Despite the tension between them, Crowley couldn't help but notice the way Aziraphale's eyes seemed to plead with him, as if begging him to understand something unspoken. It was a look that made Crowley's heart ache, and he found himself wanting to reach out and cup Aziraphale's face in his hands, to tell him that everything would be alright.
To tell him they would be alright. Crowley wondered optimistically if they could not only avert the imminent disaster but also mend the fractures in their own bond. Maybe once the immediate threat of the meteor was solved, and the deep sadness and sorrow that seemed to go to the very core of Aziraphale's being was gone, they could talk and solve their problems.
Crowley hesitated, his gaze lingering on Aziraphale. He pressed on, "But once this is over, we can talk, properly. About everything else." The words carried a weight of vulnerability, a tentative bridge he extended toward Aziraphale. Feeling the weight of his emotions, Crowley eased back into the wooden chair.
Aziraphale looked up, searching Crowley's eyes for sincerity. "Can we, Crowley? Can we really?"
Crowley met his gaze, determination glinting in his golden eyes, but beneath it, a vulnerability that betrayed the emotional conflict within. "We owe it to ourselves, don't we?" The fragile thread between them held the promise of a conversation yet to unfold. As they resumed their meal, the silence transformed. No longer suffocating, it now held the potential for healing amidst the chaos of their celestial crisis.
Firstly, thank you for your incredible engagement and patience! Now, a quick heads-up: I'm currently buried under paperwork due to a sector strike, and my stress levels are reaching celestial heights. To maintain my sanity, I've decided the ineffables need to reconcile – for my own mental health. So, expect the plot to zoom forward at warp speed.
This chapter might be a tad longer to compensate for my tardiness, but I promise a resolution awaits. In true Neil Gaiman style, simplicity will be the key – just like Adam's tactics back in the day.
Thank you for your understanding!