#jenna221b
Day 14: Spirit (4004 B.C.)
Aziraphale is well aware that he’s playing for time; he’d said that he needed to dash five minutes ago, and here he is very much notdashing.
It’s just… there’s a pleasant smell leftover from the rain, making the earth fresh and clean, as if it’s already been made anew. He can’t help but dawdle. After all, what good is a Garden if no-one is around to enjoy it?
Crawly is walking along the wall, keeping his balance with his arms outstretched. Aziraphale has to catch himself from saying, “Take care you don’t fall,”—he supposes that it’s rather redundant advice at this juncture.
In any case, Crawly does not seem at all bothered about the height; his eyes are closed, chin tilting up towards the sky.
And…
There’s a flicker, of sorts, invisible but certainly present. Aziraphale unfurls ethereal senses cautiously, and suddenly has to stop himself from stumbling. It can’t be… but, it is.
For Upper Management had told him in no uncertain terms that demons no longer have spirits—only ugly, mangled remnants of what once was, no real emotion in them at all. (Privately, Aziraphale has never sensed much feeling in any fellow angel’s spirit.) But, Crawly’s… Crawly’s is brimming with life. There’s a myriad of emotions, everything at once, and more besides: anger yes, and plenty of hurt, but there is wonder, too, despite it all. Wonder and excitement for the humans, the plants, the animals… secret, unadulterated joy for all these new creations.
How do you do it? Aziraphale thinks, watching Crawly in awe. You should be impossible.
Crawly’s eyes open. He stops and raises one eyebrow, looking a mixture of amused and… puzzled? “Not to discourage Sloth or anything, but shouldn’t you be…?”
“Oh, this is all part of the job,” Aziraphale says quickly.
Crawly smiles. “Really.”
“Yes, absolutely. Observing, you know.”
“Hmm.” Fleetingly, Crawly mimes drawing a sword. “Think you’ve gone above and beyond observing, angel. And, well… you’re still talking to me.” The last part is said a little hesitantly, almost as if he expects Aziraphale to balk at the reminder.
“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale says, aiming for his most pragmatic tone, “what did They all expect to happen, stationing us both here? It would hardly do to ignore you, that’s not very angelic.”
Crawly snorts. “Best not to speculate,” he replies, in such an accurate imitation that Aziraphale can only laugh.
Yet, there’s only so much playing for time one can do. As Aziraphale readies himself to truly depart, Crawly sobers slightly, looking thoughtful.
“See you, angel. It’s been…” He smirks. “Ineffable.”
“Ah… yes, quite.” Aziraphale nods. “Mind how you go.” Oh. He had not planned to say that, has never said anything like it before, but can’t deny that it sounds… right.
The last sight he has is of Crawly standing by the wall, hand raised in a half-wave.
Upstairs, Aziraphale is soon accosted, laden with a series of forms: ‘Reflections on the Eden Failure.’ However, he finds that he cannot focus on his work at all, can only hope against hope that he will be assigned to Earth again.
(Perhaps permanently.)
*
Day 13: Body (1348)
At first, Crowley thinks his mind is playing tricks on him; surely Aziraphale, pure and pristine and good, cannot possibly be standing before him, in this putrid hovel. But then, the assumed illusion starts speaking, as if it’s perfectly natural that an angel should be here, of all places, and Crowley knows that he could never have dreamed up something quite like this.
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
So calm, so matter-of-fact! As if Crowley had simply wandered off that afternoon; as if the years can’t fly by without warning, sheer chasms between them.
Crowley shakes his head, tries to grin, but knows it doesn’t sit right on his face. “What’re you doing here, angel? Haven’t you heard?” He laughs through a dry mouth. “It’s the end of the world.”
It isn’t, of course; there’s not been a peep from Above or Below. But it feels like it—or, at least, some humans believe it to be so, and Crowley thinks that still counts as being the real thing. He’s been doing an awful lot of unanswered pr—shouting these days: what exactly does She think She’s playing at, giving humanity a load of false starts? She might as well make this the Big One, why does She keep pushing them all to the brink for—for what? Sorry, not quite yet?
“Now, you don’t mean that,” Aziraphale says softly. Crowley starts, unsure as to just how much he’s said, and watches Aziraphale tiptoe his way through discarded bottles. “That’s just the drink talking.”
“Mm, nope,” Crowley says, “think I’ve drunk so much that I’m sober.”
A flicker of a smile crosses Aziraphale’s face—not happy, not really, more like fondness shining through his concern. “I don’t believe that quite follows.”
“Did you hear the earthquake? Everyone thinks s’one of mine.” Crowley shrugs. “Who amI to correct ’em, eh?”
“I did hear some—”
“An’ the famine! Plague, too, s’pose I’m all pals with the head honchos, news to me—”
“My dear—”
“—but gives us some time off the Arrangement, if you were, y’know, wonderin’—”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale meets his gaze head-on. “Do you really think I’m here for the Arrangement’s sake?”
Crowley falls silent. Abruptly, he has to look away, lying back on the bed. His nose stings sharply. It would be mortifying to cry right now. He turns back at the sound of glass tinkling together and finds Aziraphale quietly tidying the place up. He is suddenly very conscious of what a pathetic sight he must look, of just how sour his breath is. Now, his face burns with shame. He attempts to sit up in the bed. “You don’t have to.”
Aziraphale’s hand stills. “I know. But… I’d like to if I may.”
There’s not a trace of judgement in his expression. Crowley has to look away again. He nods. “Still. You don’t have to pretend, angel.”
A crease appears in between Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
Crowley gives a grimace of a smile. “Know I look a fright, that’s all.”
Aziraphale’s face softens. “No,” he says gently. “Not in the slightest.”
Aziraphale cleans in a jumbled mixture of human methods and miracles. Gradually, the place feels more liveable, and Crowley finds he can breathe easier; the bed is now clean and feels much softer than before. He hadn’t realised it until he was no longer feeling it, but the past few days (…weeks?) have passed in an unnerving blur, as if something had broken in his corporation, leaving him not quite grounded within it. But now, he can feel the reassuring yet leaden weight of his legs sinking into the bed, the sheets warming his arms.
And while he still feels exhausted, little by little, his head becomes clearer. The alcohol is leaving his body, but it’s a slow, careful process—not the one fell swoop that he usually resigns himself to, something that often leaves him feeling more ill than if he had done nothing.
“Is that your miracle?” is what he means to ask but, mouth half-against the pillow, the words sound indistinguishable: “S’th-y’r-mm…?”
However, Aziraphale must understand well enough for he favours Crowley with a tender little smile before giving the room one last sweep. Crowley tries to follow the angel’s movements, but his eyes keep closing of their own accord.
“I thought it would be rather unpleasant, doing it all at once.” A pause. “At least, I’ve always found so.”
Crowley tries to parse that. He has a vague recollection of attempting speech, but it’s slurred with tiredness beyond comprehension.
And then, a hushed voice, as if drifting by on the beginnings of a dream: “You can sleep, darling.”
When Crowley next opens his eyes, the room is darker—his limbs still heavy, but comfortably so. As he stretches, he feels the warmth of another body next to his. Aziraphale watching over him.
“You’re… you’re still here,” Crowley says, which does not even scratch the surface of all he wants to say.
Underneath the sheets, Aziraphale’s hand finds his. “Yes,” Aziraphale says simply, as if it’s obvious; as if it’s the one certainty in the world.
*
Day 11: Colourful (1971)
It’s a typical London evening for traffic—which is to say that it’s utterly abysmal. Whilst sitting on a bus going at a pace surely slower than any self-respecting snail, Crowley hankers for the Bentley, but he needs to stay put: the Arrangement is in action once more. Last week, Aziraphale had been left run ragged with Heaven suddenly demanding that he fulfil a constant stream of minor miracles. To Crowley, it all stank of Upper Management running out of ideas, the equivalent of a distracted, “Just keep yourself busy and stay out of my way—but I’ll notice if you’re not doing anything.”
Still, Crowley considers, distracted is miles better than the alternative.
He had thought it best to tempt Aziraphale into doing a little shift swap—never mind that Hell haven’t bothered to give out even the lightest of paperwork for a good while, that’s not for Aziraphale to know.
So, here Crowley is, assuming an air of boredom on the bus, but really keeping an ear out for any notable details about the passengers: the student scraping to afford their textbooks; the struggling parent behind on rent; the young boy who feels an ache of loneliness well beyond his years. Of course, nothing can be solved through miracles alone—wouldn’t that be a lovely world—but Crowley silently does his best; he can pretend it brings him out in hives later.
The bus finally starts to move. Crowley must glance out of the window at precisely the right moment, spotting a building, green foliage… At first, it doesn’t click, more of a subconscious recognition, but then the shape of the architecture is suddenly all too familiar; it’s almost as if he can hear the air raid siren wailing in the distance.
They’ve turned the church into a garden.
And, as Crowley makes his way to the front of the bus, he sees that there’s someone in this new garden: Aziraphale is standing in front of one of the arches, where a stained glass window would have been. The sun is setting through it, giving Crowley a little picture of what it could have looked like if the glass had remained: the angel bathed in hues of red, pink, gold…
Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing in deeply, a hand on his chest. With a pang, Crowley wonders if he can hear the siren, too.
There’s a bus stop right at the Church Tower. Crowley knows he could alight from there easily.
But…
Crowley waits. Listens…
No.
For Aziraphale is alone amongst the plants and the church ruins. It’s not a coincidence; Crowley can hear a wish on the wind, keeping unwitting humans at bay: One moment… just a moment, please…
And Crowley will not deny him that.
The bus driver catches Crowley’s eye. “This your stop, mate?”
Crowley shakes his head with a smile—teetering somewhere in between happy and sad. “Not today,” he says. He takes one last look, then goes back to his seat.
*
Day 10: Light (1967)
On his third attempt at knocking on the door, a shout floats up from the floor below: “There’s no use in being polite about it, duck!”
Aziraphale jumps. He peers over the bannister and finds a woman halfway up the stairs in her dressing gown. She has kind eyes, her face softened by crow’s feet as she smiles.
“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale says.
She jerks her head upwards. “Sleeps like the dead, he does. I’ve had to screech something dreadful just to give him some biscuits.” She pushes up her sleeves, all business-like, then positively bellows, “Anthony! You have a gentleman caller!” She gives Aziraphale a wink. “That’ll get him up sharpish. You knock again, love, go on.”
So, Aziraphale does. He only has time for one hesitant rap of the knuckles before he hears the chain being taken off the door, and then Crowley is standing before him, listing slightly, one arm leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing a creased nightshirt, one point of the collar sticking up, the other left tucked in and rumpled.
Aziraphale blinks, opens his mouth—but suddenly finds that words won’t come.
No matter, Crowley is speaking already, low and tired: “Ah, sorry, Margaret, I’ll just wash the tin out.” His eyebrows rise, peeking through beneath his fringe. “Oh. Um. ‘Lo, angel.”
“You…” Aziraphale clears his throat. “You weren’t answering the telephone.” The words echo in the landing, a hollow ringing. Inadequate.
Crowley goes to speak, but the lady downstairs beats him to it: “If you could pop the tin round at your earliest convenience, dearie, I’ll soon fill it up again.”
Crowley chuckles quietly, and his hand comes up to cover his mouth; he’s embarrassed. Underneath everything else, Aziraphale’s heart aches with affection.
“Mm-hmm, will do,” Crowley says. Then, to Aziraphale, he gestures inside the flat with a nod. “Comin’ in?”
Crowley leads him to the kitchen. Everything looks washed-out and grey; all the curtains and blinds are drawn shut.
“Sorry,” Crowley says, “Meant to phone as soon as I got back but…” He tries and fails to stifle a yawn. “I just—”
“It’s quite all right.” Aziraphale says. Tries to smile. There’s an awful tightness in his chest, unrelenting. He should have realised that it would only be paperwork, an overly long menial shift; there’s been frequent drunken evenings where Crowley complains about how time passes strangely in Hell—that when he gets back to Earth, it takes a while for his body to adjust.
But Aziraphale had thought… He’d thought…
Stop. No matter.
Seeing Crowley standing, safe and sound (thank God, thank God) should be—is—the greatest relief in the world, but he still feels restless with fraught energy that has nowhere to go. There’s a window by the kitchen table; Aziraphale heads towards it, standing in front of the windowsill, unable to stop himself from fiddling with the blinds. Willing his hands not to shake.
His fidgeting causes a gap to appear in between the blinds. A crack of light dances around the room. He closes his eyes momentarily at the sight of it, too harsh and sudden in the gloom.
It’s so very hard to breathe—no, stop, don’t be ridiculous.
But he can’t avoid the feeling: the almost silent ringing of holy water inside the flat, like tinnitus in his ears. And, if he can hear it, surely all of Them can, too.
You haven’t given him insurance; you’ve given him his downfall.
Aziraphale grips the windowsill, knuckles white. It’s too much, all this love and fear he has to hold, but he can’t let it out, can’t let it seep through the cracks, he can’t, he…
Unbidden, Aziraphale feels his mouth twist. And then, he’s crying silently, shoulders shaking; he tries to hide his face in his hands.
Behind him, a sharp inhale. “Aziraphale—”
“Ignore me!” Aziraphale gasps out, “oh, just ignore me, it’s nothing, it’s—” But his voice fails him, and he chokes through a sob, an awful sound, like drowning.
Arms around him, stopping him from falling.
“Angel,” Crowley whispers, “what’s…?” Then, in a rush, like he can’t get the words out fast enough: “Shh, shh, shh.”
“I—I thought I killed you.” Aziraphale weeps through the confession. “I c-couldn’t stop thinking it.”
“…No,” Crowley says, and he sounds strange, half-strangled. “Oh, Aziraphale. No.”
“I thought s-surely I’d…l-led them right to you. I’ve—I’ve been such a fool.”
“You’re not, you’re not.”
“I’m so… so scared for you.” Aziraphale whispers it against Crowley’s shoulder. “All… every minute.”
He feels Crowley kiss his forehead. “Let me… you have to trust me when I tell you this, angel, all right?”
Aziraphale nods.
And now Crowley whispers back, lips brushing against Aziraphale’s temple. “It’s well locked away, only I can get to it. We’re the only ones who’ll ever know, okay? It’s…” His voice quietens even further. “It’s the safest I’ve ever felt, Aziraphale, I promise you. It’s—” A faint breath of not-quite laughter. “S’probably why I fell asleep right away.”
Sleep, Aziraphale thinks. The pain in his chest is lessening, but there’s a dull ache in his head like he hasn’t drunk water for hours and hours, and… sleep would be lovely.
Not yet. Not when he has still so much he could lose.
“Just answer your bloody phone next time,” he sniffs. “H-honestly.” Please take care. Please.
Crowley laughs—muted but a proper one, this time. “Noted,” he says. I will. I love you.
*
Day 9: Dark (1941)
Aziraphale keeps flinching in the passenger seat—his hand hovering over the gear-stick, almost but never quite brushing against Crowley’s knuckles.
“Nothing’s going to hit the car,” Crowley reassures. “Trust me.”
“It—it’s not a question of trust,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley glances over; Aziraphale is looking out of the window, eyes darting about like he wants—needs—to keep track of everything at once. When the silence is split by one long blaring note, he closes his eyes and exhales shakily.
“All clear,” Aziraphale murmurs.
Crowley makes a noise of acknowledgement before slowing as they near the bookshop. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on that building alone, but it’s a difficult task; it’s nigh on impossible to miss the changes in the city’s landscape, the residual scars and wounds leftover from the bombing. So much lost.
He parks as close to the front door as he can get. Now that he’s no longer pre-occupied with driving, the burns on his feet seem to flare—but he does his best to grin through it, quipping, “Home sweet home.”
“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale is smiling. “Very prompt service.”
“All in a day’s work.”
A little pause, and then Aziraphale opens the door on his side. Another silence stretches for a moment too long, long enough for Crowley to imagine that perhaps the real hallowed ground is what lies right outside; that very soon, he will be barred from it. He turns the key in the ignition, hoping that the sound might drown out Aziraphale undoubtedly saying, “That will be all, then.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly. He still hasn’t left the car.
Don’t draw it out, angel, it’s all right, I’ll just get going—
“Do come inside, won’t you?”
With that, Aziraphale gets out, leaving the passenger door open. Crowley has a suspicion that this is only done so that he will have to get out of the car himself in order to shut it. And now that he’s outside, he’s more than half-way to the shop…
Whilst unlocking the door, Aziraphale says, “Your feet are hurting, aren’t they.”
It is not a question. Crowley knows he was a fool to ever think he could hide it. There are so many years between them, all ensuring that they are both well-versed in spotting the fleeting expressions one tries to conceal: a fond eye roll; a smile; fear.
Pain.
“Pinches a bit, that’s all.” Crowley replies. Not exactly a lie, really; he hasn’t specified just how much of a bit.
Even though Aziraphale’s back is to him, Crowley can practically hear the answering frown.
Blackout blinds mean the shop interior resembles something like the darkened wings of a theatre, pieces of furniture cropping up without warning like hidden set pieces. Crowley stubs his toe on the table that he’s certain has moved at least an inch to the left within the last few decades. He had hoped that would at least make Aziraphale laugh, but instead there’s a highly un-angelic swear somewhere near the desk.
“I’m so sorry! Sorry, sorry, oh heavens, that’ll hardly help your poor feet. Oh, for—I should get… there’s candles somewhere. I can take a look.”
Crowley shakes his head then realises that’s a fruitless gesture. “You’ll only worry,” he says, still trying to keep it light, it was all a lark, angel. Don’t fret, s’not worth it, promise.
Aziraphale laughs. It sounds slightly choked. “I’m afraid it’s rather too late for that. I’m already worrying.” There’s the scratch of a match being lit, and Crowley catches a glimpse of Aziraphale feverishly looking around—there’s that restless look to his eyes again. “I can’t find where I put the candles and I know you’ll say ‘just do a miracle’ and I did try that before, but that… that sort of light has a danger of getting through the curtains, you see, and… I hardly knew, actually, until there was a diatribe outside only just—ah!” A stamp, and they’re in near-total darkness again. “Flame caught my fingers,” Aziraphale says with a self-deprecating tut. “I suppose it serves me right.”
“Don’t,” Crowley says firmly. “That’s a load of shite, Aziraphale. You don’t—don’t deserve anything to—”
Burn you. Hurt you.
Another pause.
“You must know,” Aziraphale says distantly—he’s moved away from the desk, Crowley can’t tell where, “that you don’t deserve such a thing, either.”
Crowley swallows. “Can’t see you,” he says.
A gentle creak of floorboards. “I’m right here,” Aziraphale says softly, so close that Crowley can feel him breathing. Aziraphale’s finger trails across the path of his jaw…
And then, Aziraphale’s lips press against Crowley’s cheek; he feels them part… just beginning to form words…
“Don’t say thank you,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale moves away, only slightly. “That… that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
Crowley shakes his head again. “Come here?”
They reach for each other, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, stumbling in the dark, and Crowley suddenly thinks that he could walk into a thousand churches and still feel like he’s walking on air.
“Oh, you’re a wonder,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. Ah, Crowley thinks, he might have said that last thought aloud. “Reckless, pig-headed, completely…”
Crowley laughs, bumping Aziraphale’s nose with his own. “You flatterer.”
“You must know,” Aziraphale repeats, “oh, my dear, you must know that I…”
But the remaining words tremble into silence, vanishing into the night. It’s all right, Crowley understands. They do not yet have the luxury of an all-clear signal. Shh, angel. You don’t have to say anything. I can… I can hear it.
*
Day 12: Mind (2019)
The world appears to have an opaque film around it—while Aziraphale knows that he should hear the roar of the Bentley as it careens towards them, feel the occult heat of the flames, it still seems distant; as if all sense impressions are delayed on their way to reaching him. The passing of time is no different, slow as treacle, as he waits with bated breath for Crowley to open the car door.
And then, a thought drifts across… a shopping list: bacon, eggs, those posh teabags if they’re on offer, mustn’t forget milk—
Oh, Mr. Aziraphale, I’m sorry, Madame Tracy cuts in, that’s one of mine. Got a bit distracted.
She isn’t speaking aloud; the words resonate weirdly inside their minds, like an echo. It’s not altogether the most pleasant of experiences, but Aziraphale finds himself relieved that, despite technically possessing a human body, he does not have complete control—that even in this most strange set of circumstances, the dear woman is still very much herself.
Not to worry, Aziraphale replies. I can’t imagine that I’m faring any better.
Well, it’s an odd thing—and even her thoughts are delivered in a confiding whisper—but you’re very quiet. Sometimes I think I hear… snippets, you know, but it’s ever so faint.
Ah,Aziraphale says. Best not to dwell on it.
Of course, he has always pretended to never have thought it, but now he can admit that the possibility has always been there: that if Heaven ever suspected anything, they might rummage around in his head and find all the incriminating evidence they could ever need. Silently, year after year, he has become something of an expert at shoving his thoughts into secret, dark corners, locking them away.
Finally, there is another movement amongst the fire—the car door opens… and Crowley steps out, still with that familiar swagger, yet there’s something not quite right; through the smoke, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his legs shaking—only slightly, but enough.
Oh, what’s happened? Aziraphale thinks nonsensically, in a staggering rush, and he can feel it all unravel, every lock within him breaking, his heart overflowing, what’s happened, what’s, please be all right pleasepleaseplease—
Oh! Madame Tracy sounds abruptly breathless. You might have warned me, lovey. Nearly bowled me over, all of that once.
Forgive me, Aziraphale says. It’s rather difficult to… to…
There’s so much of it, she continues in wonder. However do you manage?
Aziraphale laughs. Do you know, I haven’t the faintest.
Step by step, Crowley gets further away from the fire. In slow motion, Aziraphale can see the wondrous spark of recognition in his eyes. His hair is wild, scattered with ash, but of course—handsome devil—it suits him.
Well! Now, Madame Tracy is laughing. He’s a looker, isn’t he?
Dear lady. Aziraphale, impossibly, feels his face flush. That’s quite enough ofthat, thank you.
A little silence. And he has no idea what else she’s heard; for the reply is suddenly quite serious. I hope you both make it, love.
Yes, Aziraphale thinks, and feels his heart skip a beat—the beginning of a grin shapes Crowley’s lips. Yes, I rather hope so, too
*
