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It had been a nice day. It had been a nice couple of years for the Angel and Demon called item.
In the time they spent together, there was a calm waiting; sucking up the sun, savoring its warmth, as if they could hear the whispers of clouds gathering. Since their very invention, Crowley and Aziraphale always seemed to be waiting for another storm to roll in; if only to take their turn in shielding with a wing or hiding under feathers. This was not to say they didn't have fun. When the rain did come, a drunken waltzing took place as if the ground was sure to fall from under their feet.
Before, it'd been a holy abyss when, together, the two winded Earth up before the stars. When grounded: there was a wonderful view and a new, nice, day. You'd almost believe it was their world, created in their lower celestial eye and human self(ishness.) It's okay, they nearly believed the same. When nearly wasn't enough, they had faith; from the scales cross their cheek to the tip of their sword. Faith that this was the way it was supposed to be. Forever.
Crowley crossed their fingers and urged the other to do the same. Yes, sitting on our bench, feeding the ducks, and forking pastries into the mouth of you, lover is all part of God's grand plan.
They'd finally got it right! He'd passed the bloody tests and was now at the rewarding bit. There was an understood relief in such. However, the loved, not knowing relief personally, possessed only a kind of unwavering faith. It was unnatural: the way they'd hold a cross to their chest and believe God– despite everything– would be their aegis.
Fear is only what is not understood and, born unbelieving, Crowley feared for their lover. Wooden stakes are meant to stab no matter if in the shape of a cross. Fear was earned, warranted– "bestowed"– by God. And by God, the scars on the bottom of their feet and black feathers growing out their back are unworthy to fold into love letters. Yet, with a demon's ink quill and faith in his pestilence, one's reason for living wrote. In a diary more expansive than all encyclopedias and more worthwhile than the Book of Life, Angel wrote.
And surely, such celestial script was not meant to be read anything other than out loud. It felt right that way. In the voice of all that is good and under the warm light of a closed bookshop, stories were told– never forgotten. It was against a servant's nature to forget a single part of His (God's) bloody plan. Yet, human hopes and prayers rub off onto smokey suit coats. Human habits seep into the mind of a soft immortal.
Conversations over landlines and under awnings were made too good to leave behind. It was a choice that couldn't be made– only convinced– and always by necessity. An act of self-survival and sabotage.
They miss for the hell of it. They "forget" to sober up for the prayer that images of Dear will fade.
Aziraphale's diary was not meant to be read anything other than aloud– by an Angel of the utmost importance. But, Crowley had fallen; tripped smitten, sauntered solemnly, and what have you. His heart was too human and his soul was too full and in the back of his head, the demon convinced himself fine to break the rules. His angel had gone back to the flock after all.
When the demon landed eyes on their writing, there was not a light on in the shop– not a warm one. Shades were down and on and candles burned dangerously close to stories. There was no faith left to prevent it all from catching fire.
No, there was no faith left here. He'd left with the others; lion in a lion's den. But, this lion– the one who'd fled– had had humans rubbing on him, reeked of it really (if a demon had to guess.) Surely Angel had been softened by the ocean's waves. Surely the dinners forked onto his tongue meant something. Surely the servant of His plan had not forgotten the unspoken "Forever" to their arrangement.
Were wine and ribs alone not enough to tempt him to stay?
Angels cannot be tempted by lousy demons, a devil spoke.
"Angel," Crowley spoke, burned by charcoal suit and shades, shaking like savanna grass. Salt leaked from his eyes and burned the dry skin there.
His human form decayed like sunny days in London. This was not a choice, he convinced himself. He'd lost control of the skin taut around his bones– skin that had once been sculpted soft. Hair that had once been carved curled was pin straight and spiked, slick and unbrushed. Smile lines on his face deepened for all the right reasons for his species, crow's feet seeded into the corner of his eyes wilted. Freckles upon his shoulders cowered.
In the beginning, all light in their bookshop flicked off– its warmth had gone with the working electricity and plumbing. Then, when the devil came on in, a groaning under the floorboards came with him. There were moments in the night when the whole building would sound; settling further into the ground with loud keens.
There were moments when even the human habit of sleeping wouldn't work.
Crowley liked to sleep, it was as close to heaven as he could get– and stay. Even sleep won't stay now. Must God take everything?! She'd made a good plan for once– for a snippet of time– but they'd taken it all back and he'd pushed it far away (God that is. No one else.) Now, Crowley was stuck here: near hell but cold, rotting wet with the bottles on the floor and books on the shelves, melting– bending with the Buddy Holly forever spinning never singing. He was rotting. He was convincing himself his body had gone awry and that the scales on his skin, the bones protruding, and the snake eyes sinking were of no fault but God's.
It was all God's fault. She'd curated the knife in his back and hypnotized his angel to smite– to do his damned job: wipe the human and hellfire from his hands, pick up that splintered head-over-heels cross, and climb the grapevine.
He'd get her for it when he could move that is, when he could get to fucking sleep, when he could work up the courage to cry openly and to kill the part of him that still tugged at Aziraphale's pages.