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Here’s the thing about being inside someone else’s head (or rather, having someone else’s head inside yours):
You can’t exactly talk about it. You can’t tell most people, for fear of being thought of as literally insane, or facing some divine or infernal punishment. And the people you could tell– precious few, but emphasis on the precious– simply don’t understand. They don’t understand what it means to have thoughts that aren’t yours inside your head.
(You’re actually fairly certain you were supposed to forget, but the magic of an eleven-year-old untrained Antichrist is imperfect, and so they remain.)
You’ve pretended, for years, to know what it feels like, to deliver the thoughts of someone else. You just didn’t know what it would be like. What it would leave behind.
To be entirely fair to Aziraphale, he did his best to make it easier for her, relegating his thoughts, as it were, to one side of their combined mind, even if his voice occasionally jumped in too rapidly.
There was just that one moment.
That one moment, when he hadn’t been able to keep his thoughts to himself, when six thousand years’ worth of memory had come spilling out all at once enough to drown her, six thousand little things he couldn’t possibly contain, and quite honestly she doesn’t blame him.
She just doesn’t know what to do with them.
A quiet retirement has been good to one Madame Tracy from London. It’s given her some time to come to terms with all the stress of an apocalypse, a new romance, and all the changes therewith. It’s also resulted in a new pursuit: babysitting.
She’s had very few chances to interact with children; before, her three jobs were almost completely adult-centric, and she always assumed she'd be awful with children. Turns out it's quite the opposite.
(She's a storyteller, at heart. Children love stories.)
She babysits as a favor to her neighbors, and the children find they rather like their colorful (literally), charismatic babysitter, and she finds she rather likes their excitement, so it works out for everyone.
Now, though, the two twin boys she’s sitting for are in bed and their twelve-year-old older sister is perched on the couch next to her reading a book.
“You shouldn’t read them those stories,” the girl says, judgement in her voice.
“What stories, Delly dearie?”
“The fairy tales. Where everything turns out right without anyone even doing anything, where everyone falls in love for no reason.”
“Well, love, it’s not no reason–”
“It is! They barely even know each other.” She makes a face “There have to be better love stories. Those don’t have good morals.”
Better love stories... Well, she hadn’t thought of it as one, but…
“I know a better love story,” she suggests.
Delilah makes a suspicious face.
“It starts in a garden, with a serpent–”
“Oh god, you are one of those religious babysitters,” Delilah says with exasperation.
“Don’t interrupt, dearie, it’s not polite. Now, there was a garden, and a serpent. And then there was an angel who loved the serpent–”
Delilah is suddenly rapt. She’s never heard this version of the story before.
(How had Madame Tracy seen the story fold out?
In bits and pieces. If she’d seen all of it, she’s fairly certain she would have gone mad from the sheer force of it.
It had been rather like time had stopped, and transported them to another dimension where they could see all these thoughts and memories, and then transported them back into the real world with no time past. Like when you go into a theatre to see a movie and expect it will be dark out when you come out, but it isn’t.)
(It had all started with one thought, really: one blindingly clear, electric thought as Crowley, still practically smoking, tumbled out of the flaming Bentley.
Because as the Apocalypse started around them, as Heaven and Hell plotted to end it all, one thought had surged blindingly through his– and into her– mind.
I've never loved him more than in this moment.
Other thoughts rose up, along the lines of If it weren't on fire I'd kiss him on the bonnet of that stupid car, and My God, did he really DRIVE here? but that was the clearest. The one that started it all.)
“Not funny at all!”
He is still reeling from the audacity of the demon's statement– really, as if they could get all mixed up like that– when the first thunder sounds and the first rain begins to fall. The demon flinches, as if afraid of the new phenomenon, and the instinct to protect planted in the angel's chest flares to life.
He raises his fine white wing as a shield, and the demon smiles.
The protective urge inside him stirs again.
Oh.
Well, he's never felt anything like this before.
Crawly is huddled in a storage closet, the smell of hay and salt practically smothering her, half a dozen children between the ages of one and ten.
Aziraphale peers in through the keyhole, not wanting to disturb her, to startle her, to scare her– they are still enemies, after all– but his heart clenches at the sight. And, well, if they are God’s children, isn’t it his duty to protect them?
So somehow, the food in the closet never really runs out; every time Crawly wonders how she will keep the children quiet and fed, there is something there for them.
Aziraphale wonders vaguely if Crawly has been discorporated since he last saw her– she looks a little different: bonier in the shoulders, the blades pushing through her dress like her wings are still straining to escape; her features are more delicate and her lashes are longer. The eyes the color of sunlight and the flaming red curls, though, are still the same.
Her head is slowly dipping down towards the two-year-old child nestled in her lap, threatening to nod off (demons do not need sleep, strictly speaking but immense strain can have an effect similar to exhaustion on them), and Aziraphale takes this as his opportunity to put a steaming dish of rice on the shelf. Alright, a bit too much to be written off as an inventory error.
(But then, surely the Almighty is one Crawly’s side, at least a little bit? If She has allowed her to protect Her children so far? Surely, Aziraphale thinks, reminding the demon that She has not abandoned her entirely is a worthy cause. A worthy, angelic cause.
A single white feather alights on top of the dish.)
After a moment, Crawly wakes herself up, and sees the dish of food. Her yellow eyes widen softly in amazement, and then turn towards the door, but the angel responsible has already disappeared.
Crawly knows better than to regain any faith in Her. But that doesn't prevent a renewal of her faith in something.
“What's that?” One of the children asks next time Aziraphale sees them, pointing at a white feather braided into Crawly’s hair.
“A gift,” Crawley says, eyes fluttering towards the door as if to say, I know you're there. “From a very old friend.”
Aziraphale does not reply– he cannot– but the thought manifests itself silently.
I've never known I loved you until this moment.
1202
The Middle Ages eventually move on from the Round Table and all that, and if there’s an advantage to that, it’s that his path and that of the Black Knight no longer cross quite as often, what with there being lots of other places in Europe to have contention. That’s one less complication, at least.
He’s done his best to avoid the serpent since the Ark– he’s not sure he’s entirely forgiven for letting the demon get away with rescuing so many of Her children– but it seems like there is no more avoiding him, what with them both in Europe so much now.
Tonight, the demon is nowhere to be seen, which he’d usually be happy for, but Aziraphale thinks he might be able to help him out of the scrape of having a sword pointed at him, with a highway robber ordering, “Your money or your life.”
“Please,” he says, thinking how inconvenient it would be to get discorporated, “I am a man of God, I have no money-”
“Angel?” An incredulous voice behind him draws his eyes away from the sword. “Oh, bloody hell–”
“Don't tell me you're running around–”
“In this den of sin?” It’s dark, but he can hear Crowley’s smirk. “Part of the job description, angel.”
“Do you know this chap, then?” says the man with the sword, and Crowley affirms so. A few more highwayman-ish figures emerge from the trees.
“Yes, he’s sound. Doesn’t travel with weapons or money,” he says, as if he has the contents of Aziraphale’s purse memorized. “And usually some damn good wine.”
*
“So you just… hide out in the bushes all day and wait for someone to come along and rob?”
“That’s a bit of a simplification of things,” Crowley says. “But yes, in essence, that’s the business of highway robbery.”
“But the families– and the frightened young women–”
“We only stop people who look like they could use it,” the man who appears to be the leader says with a smirk. “And those young women would be a lot safer with us than the courtiers.”
“We’re not too keen on the ladies here,” another man remarks from the shadows. Aziraphale still hasn’t managed to make an accurate count of quite how many there are.
“I am,” a wolfish woman with a bow and quiver says in a low voice.
“But you’d rob a priest?”
At this, the man actually laughs. “Half the time the priests have more money on them than the barons.”
“Haven’t you heard, angel?” Crowley says to his shocked expression. “The Lord’s House harbors more sins of the flesh than the whorehouse these days.”
He swallows. “I suppose I should try to do something about that–”
But the thought fades as some bread cheese and conversation are passed around; he adds his own wineskin to the spoils, and breaks bread with thieves and charlatans and demons. After a time, everyone but him and Crowley retire to their tents, and the two of them are left staring into the fire together.
“Miss me?” Crowley asks with a teasing lilt, but in a bittersweet way that seems to say I missed you as much as it asks anything.
“Crowley, we’re adversaries–”
“Oh, don’t start up with that again. You know you love it.”
“Excuse me? I know nothing of the sort.”
“Don’t play stupid. You know you love it. The chase. ‘Accidentally’ running into each other. The battle of wits, the arguing, all of it. S’ why you keep letting it happen–”
Aziraphale replies through gritted teeth, “I understand that demonic motivations work a little different, but carrying out Her work is not a game to me–”
“Please. You’d’ve smote me centuries ago if it wouldn’t have driven you mad with boredom.” He smiles, in spite of the argument. “S’ okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”
You have no idea what I have to hide from you.
The next words that fall from Crowley’s lips will ruin him for centuries:
“I like it too, angel.”
His hands shake with– anger? Frustration? He doesn’t know. He does know that Crowley understands nothing, as if this is just a game to them, as if–
As if I don't love you more every moment.
Very few people can say that Timon of Athens is one of their favorite Shakespeare plays. Very few would rank it in their top fifty, even if they had to include repeat performances to make the list that long.
Aziraphale hasn’t a clue how good Timon of Athens is, quite frankly, because he’s in a rather far-back section of the theatre, and it’s hard enough to hear the play when he gives it his full attention.
Which he doesn’t, because Crowley is dozing off next to him, and he’s slowly tipping over into Aziraphale’s chair with every passing moment, until his head (and long mane of red hair) are resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
In all their many years of being adversaries, to not-quite-adversaries, to something like allies, they’ve never actually touched before. He’s wondered, idly, if it would burn– the way consecrated ground burns demons, but Crowley doesn’t budge, and Aziraphale only feels the pleasant, warm pressure of Crowley’s body.
I should move him, he thinks absently, but decides not to– the play is rather dull, and Crowley would much rather sleep through it. And watching Crowley’s sleeping face is much more interesting than whatever poor Timon has gotten himself into. The way the strands of hair in his face move with his breath. The way his eyelashes occasionally flutter like he is going to wake, but he never does. So placid in his sleep, so much the opposite of the lively, nervous demon.
He’s very much engaged with these thoughts when the applause at the conclusion of the play finally wakes Crowley with soft “Ngk?”
Aziraphale starts away, realizing Crowley is still very much leaning against him. “You seemed rather dozed off. I didn’t want to bother you.”
He makes a few more unintelligible noises before inquiring. “The play?”
“What?”
“The play, angel. Was it any good?”
“Oh! I’m afraid I had trouble telling. Loud crowd, and all. I couldn’t say I was enthralled.”
Not by the play at least. Goodness, how could I have noticed a thing about the play with you sitting there like that–
“Angel.” The way he says it makes Aziraphale think he must have said it several times before he noticed. “You’re miles away angel, what are you thinking of?”
“Oh, nothing important, my dear,” he manages.
Only how much I love you in this moment.
Just then the doorbell rings, and Delilah is snapped out of her trance.
“I think that’s your parents, Delly,” Madame Tracy says, getting up to answer the door.
“Wait!”
“Yes, dear?”
“You’ll finish it, won’t you? The story?”
A smile crosses her thin lips. So her story had worked after all. “Of course, dearie–”
“And you have to start over. Tell Lewis and James–”
The doorbell rings again, and she walks towards it at a quickened pace, not wanting to worry the poor parents. But Delilah doesn’t let her leave without a promise to continue.
*
It takes a little bit, the next time, to catch Lewis and James up to where their sister had been in the story, but soon they’re caught up to where she left off last week, and Delilah is eager to hear what comes next.
(“It is a better story for them,” she tells Madame Tracy eagerly. “Different.”)
And she can’t resist their smiles.
The dining in France during the revolution is, to say the least, subpar. Crêpes, fortunately, are easier to find than a more elaborate pastry– there’s a man cooking some up just at the base of the guillotine, in fact, should the revolutionaries get hungry after a long day of beheading.
Crowley miracles up the money for some crêpes, and some hard cider of truly questionable quality, and they find themselves wandering around the city for a while before settling down in a walled garden, one wall toppled by revolutionaries dragging the family that lived in the attached mansion a few days ago. The plants are slowly dying from lack of care, but for now it still looks like a garden, and there’s a little ledge for them to perch on while they eat.
“You mean Hell really had nothing to do with this?” Aziraphale says, looking at the destruction around them, turning over a bloodstained cobblestone with the toe of his shoe.
“Didn’t need to,” Crowley replies grimly. “They came up with this one all by themselves.”
“Dear me,” Aziraphale manages, worrying the shredded remains of some greasy papers in his hands.
They watch the sun set in silence for a little while, Crowley tapping his foot on the pavement, but not in an impatient way, just that gentle, rhythmic way that always lets Aziraphale know he’s there. He’s always there, whenever Aziraphale’s thinking of something, worrying over something, he’s there, tapping his feet and staring into the sun.
“Thinking about something, angel?” Crowley says as dusk begins to settle. “You look miles away.”
Aziraphale tries to say, Nothing, the way he always does, but he finds the words do not come out of his mouth, and instead Crowley’s hand squeezes his fidgeting ones, with a soft but harsh, “Angel.”
“It’s my fault, Crowley.”
His brow knits over the sunglasses. “What’s your fault?”
“The war. The killing, the blood, all of it–”
“Angel, what are you talking about? You haven’t even been in France–”
“Not just this war, Crowley! All of them! All of them since– since Eden–” And now his voice begins to choke up, and he presses his palms to his face, dropping Crowley's hand that had been in his lap.
“Angel, I don’t follow–”
“The sword! The bloody sword! The one I gave them. The one they used to think up killing, and battles, and war, and everything!”
“That wasn’t your fault– you didn’t mean– you couldn’t have known–”
“It is my fault. I should have known. I was supposed to protect them, and instead– instead I gave them everything they needed to destroy each other.” He feels tears running down his cheeks. “It is my fault, Crowley. Every single one. The humans would never have war without me–”
“Angel–”
“No, Crowley, don’t angel me, I know it’s–”
“Aziraphale, listen to me.” Crowley puts his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and forces him to be still. “It’s not your fault. I know it’s not your fault. Who even thought of humans killing each other? Cain, wasn’t it? And he only had a rock.”
“But they couldn’t have had war–”
“And even if it had been the sword,” he continues. “They thought of it by themselves. They always did. Even in the beginning, they always surprised Her. They’re human, Aziraphale. They come up with things all by themselves, and some of them are awful, but some of them are bloody amazing. And we can’t do anything about it.”
Aziraphale shivers despite Crowley’s warm touch. It suddenly occurs to him what a compromising position this is, a demon comforting a weeping angel in the middle of Paris. He supposes they should leave, but he finds he rather doesn’t want to.
“It’s not then anymore. We don’t control the humans. Neither does She. And She definitely doesn’t control us.”
Aziraphale’s tears have stopped, and the guilt in his heart is slowly waning under Crowley’s comforts. What if, what if he’d done the wrong thing and Crowley had done the right thing? Did it really matter? Maybe the humans would have come to it themselves anyway.
(Maybe– and this is the most terrifying thought– maybe right and wrong isn’t always what She says it is.)
Suddenly, a gentle rain begins to fall from the sky, and people from the city start to creep into the walled space, looking for shelter. They can’t stay much longer, not with so many… witnesses… around.
But Crowley draws him close, terrifyingly close, and presses his lips gently to Aziraphale’s temple.
“It’s time for us to leave the garden, angel.”
And he’s never wanted him more than in this moment.
(She finds she rather glosses over the Holy Water episode, only getting the gist of it across. Somehow, Aziraphale didn’t seem eager to divulge that in the memories he accidentally shared. So much pain. And in this moment, just this one moment, he hadn’t been in any pain.)
1941
The church, though– the church stands vivid in everyone’s memory
But for once, she doesn’t see it through Aziraphale’s eyes.
She sees it from his perspective, yes, but she reads the words in Crowley’s eyes, just over the top of his glasses, that the lovestruck Angel cannot.
And oh, his eyes.
Words fall from his lip– “Little demonic miracle of my own–” “Lift home?” But they are nothing to what his eyes say.
Notice me, they beg. Notice me, angel. Notice everything I’m thinking, everything I’ve ever thought about you.
Notice me. Notice how little I can hide it.
Their hands brush as he hands Aziraphale the case.
Notice me. Notice me, and hate me for it, despise me, revile me, but please, for the sake of all that is unholy, notice me.
He stumbles on rubble, his heels aching from treading on Holy Ground, but Aziraphale clutches his arm to steady him, and guides him gently back to the car.
How can't you notice how much I love you, angel?
But Aziraphale is too busy to read these thoughts in Crowley’s eyes.
Because while he has never understood so little, he has never loved Crowley more than in this moment.
“The demon gets burned by– um– holy things? Like a vampire?” James interjects.
She chuckles. “A bit like a vampire, yes. In fact, he sort of started that myth. Dark clothes, long sleep, avoiding crosses and holy water– those writers took a lot of liberty.”
“Did they invent a lot of things? Stories and words and stuff?” Lewis demands.
“Oh, yes, a great deal. Mostly by accident. There’s one in particular I remember, first popped up a few years after the church–”
“What is it?”
“Worship the ground they walk on. Crowley didn’t know it, but he invented the phrase just then.”
Delilah knits her brow. “How?”
“It didn’t matter to him to follow Aziraphale on to Holy ground,” she says with a small smile. “As far as he was concerned, everywhere the Angel had ever been was hallowed.”
1967
Crowley loves languages.
He can’t read for more than a few minutes without getting bored, but he can never get enough of spoken language. Aziraphale knows this– he’s watched him through the centuries, at plays, poetry readings, concerts– and knows that hearing the words the human comes up with is the same drug that reading is to Aziraphale.
And the way he knows languages– they’re both polyglots, of a sort, but Aziraphale can only read the language he knows (and he can decipher incredibly complex texts, at that); when he tries to speak, his tongue goes wooden. Generally he remains well-versed enough in whatever the prevailing European language of the day is, and starts to forget whatever he last knew when that goes away. He certainly couldn't manage Latin anymore.
But Crowley– oh, Crowley could pour poetry in a thousand tongues from his lips, could listen to ancient songs in long-dead voices, could translate the words of every dead civilization on a single hearing. It’s like language was made for his serpentine tongue, like humanity’s thoughts were made for him to understand.
Which is why Aziraphale isn’t really surprised to find him at a poetry reading in one of London’s many greenspaces– he doesn’t recall which– sitting cross-legged in the grass, listening to some local students read verses.
The orange glow of his cigarette is the first thing Aziraphale notices, a triple flame with the reflection in his sunglasses. He is too mesmerized by the poetry to notice Aziraphale until he is sitting right next to him.
He removes the cigarette from his mouth in an elegant gesture. “Thought this might be your scene, angel.”
The suggestion that Crowley might have come to see him– the way he certainly didn’t come here seeking Crowley– makes Aziraphale shiver. “You were right.”
His lips twitch into a smile, eyes still trained to the small platform. “You’re late. It’s almost over.”
“Well, don’t let me ruin the finish for you.”
One poem finishes, and someone begins to introduce another with some Latin words: “Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam.” He feels like he should recognize them, but as soon as the last syllable fades, his mind is a blank.
Crowley leans over, so close he can feel his warmth, and whispers in his ear: “The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long.”
Aziraphale wonders for a moment if the whole poem will be in Latin, if the whole time will be like that– Crowley’s warm, smoky voice pouring verses into his ear, Crowley’s warm, smoky breath spilling down his neck– and he finds he rather hopes it is. But then the reader begins the next line, in clear English, and Crowley moves away. Aziraphale suddenly feels rather cold.
“They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,”
Oh dear, another one of those about mortality. The humans do love those, and they always make him so sad.
“Love and desire and hate:”
If these words feel so familiar, he chooses to ignore them–
“I think they have no portion in us after”
There is no after for him; these feelings, he thinks, will never be gone from him–
“We pass the gate.”
Oh, that wonderful human notion of speculating, the meaning their mortality lends them. Something he and Crowley will never know, a blessing and a curse–
“They are not long, the days of wine and roses:”
Him and Crowley, they have forever, yet never enough for what he’d truly like: dinner at the Ritz, a picnic at St. James’ Park, just a stroll through London–
“Out of a misty dream”
He will never lose Crowley, at least, but he will never truly have him–
“Our path emerges for a while, then closes”
He cannot lose Crowley, they have been walking so long on this path, he is not ready for it to come to its close– the humans have to lose the ones they love, but he cannot–
“Within a dream.”
(He tries not to think about what Crowley does when he’s not there. What dangers he puts himself in. How he risks himself against Hell every single day, what awaits him if he fails. Everything he’d rather go through instead of that.
Still, he tells himself, what Crowley gets up to with handsome Scottish men in Soho is none of his business. Or he has told himself, for so long.)
But as the book is closed, as the lights fade in the park, the people around them begin to stand up and walk away, the thought comes to him with terrifying clarity: I need to give him Holy water.
“Are you alright, angel?”
“Would you know,” he says, expecting his voice to be shaky but finding it’s steadier than it’s ever been, “I’ve just remembered something terribly important.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” he says, not unkindly, placing his cigarettes between his lips again. “Another time?”
“Of course, my dear.” And he walks away, but he watches the glowing ember of the cigarette until it is completely gone.
I have never needed you more than in this moment.
1997
Of the archangels, Uriel is the most kindly disposed towards Aziraphale. They’re not quite as much of a stickler for rules, and they don’t have the same disdain for humanity. They’re more willing to debate theology with him on their occasional visits to Earth, and allow Aziraphale to show them around the planet.
At this moment, wandering the streets of London, they’re debating the nature of demons– what exactly did the demons lose in the fall? Other than their obvious evil alignment, what exactly makes them different from angels?
“Well, demons can’t feel love, of course,” Uriel says, as if it should be obvious. “They lost Her love, so they certainly can’t love the way we do.” They arch their eyebrow as if to say, Of course, you know exactly what I am talking about.
“But surely– I mean, they must love in some–” he chooses his words carefully– “Some twisted, demonic way. That makes them love awful things.”
“How can they, without Her love? It’s what allows the humans to love. They’re Her creation. She put a little of Her love in them, and now they feel love for each other. The demons can’t have anything like that. Why?” They demand suddenly. “You haven’t witnessed any demons acting as if… as if they love something, have you?”
“Well, I suppose I don’t really know any demons well enough to say,” he replies with feigned coolness. “But no, I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
(There is a postcard in Aziraphale’s breast pocket, delivered to the shop that morning, that would be a rather damning piece of evidence against both Uriel’s and Aziraphale’s statements. On the front is a picture of Michelangelo’s Laurentian Library, and scribbled on the back in Crowley’s distinctive cursive that is more loops and letters, reads:
Florence always makes me think of you, angel.)
If one statistical outlier of a demon is currently demonstrating a remarkable ability to love– well, Uriel doesn’t need to know that, not in this moment.
2012
Aziraphale knows, that night, that the world is ending.
He knows it as Crowley as lying on his couch, sunglasses discarded on the couch next to him, sobered up but still sleepy. He knows that this cannot last.
He knows that he will fight, tooth and nail, for the world that he loves, and he will protect it to its dying breath. He knows that the end is nigh. Maybe it can be stopped, but he knows with terrifying certainty that Armageddon has begun.
Will you be by my side? he thinks, studying Crowley’s not-quite-sleeping face. Will you stand with me when we save it? Will we stop the war together?
Or will we go against each other in the end? Will we fail and will they pit you against me in punishment? When it comes to it, will you be able to raise a sword against me?
“S’alright if I stay the night, angel? Won’t be a bother,” he mumbles into the couch cushions.
“Of course, my dear,” but Crowley is already half-asleep.
And he sees him, and he wants him, and he loves him, and he feels all of it more than ever before in this moment. And the world will end and Aziraphale will still want him.
Can’t I pretend, though? he thinks, staring at the sleeping Crowley but not needing to because he already knows just what that looks like. Has it memorized. Every time he looks at that face, he tries to memorize it.
Because if I memorize the color of your eyes, can I pretend they’d look at me the way I want?
If I memorize the curve of your lips, can I pretend you’d let me have them?
If I memorize the sound of your voice, can I pretend it’s for me alone?
If I memorize every inch of you, can I pretend you’re mine?
He knows, that night, that the world is ending.
But his world, on the couch in his bookshop, is still whole.
2015
They’re at the farmers’ market, on their day off from their work at the Dowling’s, because Crowley insists that Brother Francis must be “established in the local horticultural community”, but Aziraphale knows they’re really there because Crowley likes the fresh fruit. Which he’s more than happy to go along with.
“Those disgusting mushrooms you fancy so,” Crowley begins to list, handing a bag to him, “Honestly, angel, if I wanted to eat something that tastes like dirt I’d go scoop up a big handful–”
“Yes, well, one demon’s trash, what else did you get?”
“Something called a cotton candy grape, sounds terribly sweet–”
(Contrary to what most believe, it is Crowley who prefers sweets, not Aziraphale.)
“And a new breed of apple! It’s supposed to resist disease and taste like pineapples!” He says this with a remarkable enthusiasm for simple fruit. “Isn’t it wonderful, angel? They’re coming up with all kinds of plants and things She never even thought of– a new flavor apple? They’re taking Her creation and creating even more.”
“You were always fond of the apples, my dear,” he teases back. But he knows what Crowley is saying. That maybe, if the humans can keep surprising Her, Her plan is not ineffable after all. That maybe the world will not end. That maybe they can still stop it.
Because Crowley always did love apples. He always did love toying with Her plans.
(And then, another memory– a flashback within a flashback, dizzying for Madame Tracy to process, but emotively clear: 1689, southern Africa, Crowley tossed in the sand next to Aziraphale:
“They found it, angel. My star,” he says with great satisfaction.
“Which one? I seem to recall you made several–”
Strictly speaking, Aziraphale remembers none of this, as he wasn’t quite around for creation, but he remembers Crowley getting rather drunk atop a mountain in the Alps once and rhapsodizing about all the stars in the sky, and which ones he made, and which ones were misshapen but which ones were perfect, and which he liked best.
“The double one. Oh, Ptolemy discovered it way back and called it– Alpha Centauri, I think? But he’s the first one to get a good look at it. He saw how I made it, how it’s two stars–”
“How wonderful for you, my dear–”
“I was hoping they’d call it, ‘The Lovers’, or something,” he continues, “Since it’s two and all– and it was terribly difficult to make them go ‘round each other like that– but I s’pose it’s enough they’ve seen it.”
“It’s a lovely star, my dear.”
And oh, Crowley had always loved the things he created.)
“If they’re any good we can get some more for Warlock. Introduce him to sinning against her creations and all that.”
“Hmm, you and your temptations,” he says, reaching into the bag to sneak one of the grapes. By now, he thinks Crowley must know what he means when he says it.
So she tells the story, right up until the point where he came rolling up in that flaming car, and every moment that Aziraphale had ever loved him came pouring through her mind, and then right through the parts where she was herself again, though fading conveniently into the background, but then she realizes, abruptly, that she doesn’t really know the rest.
“But how does it end?” James demands.
“Well– well, they save the world,” Madame Tracy tries to explain, but it’s not really effective.
“But that’s not an ending,” Delilah insists. “Does Aziraphale ever tell him he loves him? Does he ever find out Crowley loves him back?”
“We-ell,” She says, realizing she’s written herself into a hole. “I suppose you’ll have to wait until next week. It’s time for you boys to go to bed.”
Now, she just has to think of a solution.
Fortunately, Crowley and Aziraphale accept her lunch date, and seem more entertained than offended by her story.
(And Crowley is draped in Aziraphale’s lap the greater portion of the time, answering that
“You mean,” Aziraphale says, “You told these children about– about us as... a bedtime story?”
“They did ask for a love story,” she says, “And they didn’t like the ones I already had.”
Crowley, on the whole, seems very amused by the situation. “So what’s the problem? They seem to have liked the story–”
“Well,” she says slowly, playing with her bead bracelets in her lap. “I’m afraid I don’t know… how it ends. After you save the world. They want to know… want to know what happens from there.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow–”
“I believe she’s asking if you got the girl, angel,” he says with a languid smirk.”
“Please,” she adds for good measure.
“Well, I suppose it is a rather interesting story–”
“Are you going to tell us how it ends?” Delilah demands practically as soon as Madame Tracy is next through the door. “Really?”
“Of course, Delly, just sit down–”
“But does he tell Crowley he loves him?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Right after they save the world, in fact. And they came up with a terribly clever plan to make Heaven and Hell leave them alone…”
“What are you thinking about, angel?” Crowley asks that night, seeing Aziraphale lost in thought on their couch that night. “You’re miles away.”
“No, darling, I’m right here.” He smiles lazily up at him, finally saying what he never said all those times. “I just love you ever so much, in this moment.”