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PROLOGUE
Saraqael pauses, listening carefully. Always on alert, they hadn’t risen to a comfortable position among the high-ranking angels by being careless. Heaven does not reward anything other than the performance of perfection, and Saraqael was a master of navigating between, well, more factors than anyone should have to juggle. Even an angel. Especially an angel.
They were on a special assignment, with explicit instructions not to be caught, and so each evening they carefully opened their senses to the liminal spaces around them before slipping out of heaven and - a heartbeat later - emerging in a swirl of shimmering feathers on Earth. Saraqael would prefer the straightforwardness of the elevators over the rather showy act of appearing-from-nowhere, but they were careful not to be seen on either side of the trip, so they supposed it didn’t really matter.
Standing outside a rural cottage lit by the shining moon, they listen again - always listening, always so careful - and hear Agnes inside, getting ready for bed. Good, then. They were right on time, not that time was ever a problem for someone like Saraqael.
They roll silently into the cottage behind Agnes, and Agnes turns suddenly and sits at her desk, hand poised expectantly over the book she’s been writing. Unseen, Saraqael rests their palm on the back of Agnes’ head, and the link between them flares to life. Developing the link had been tricky and took a bit of trial and error, but it had been worth the effort. The link is well-established by now, and one of Saraqael’s biggest secrets - their wild and usually uncontrollable ability to see the future - fills the link with the placid predictability of a planet orbiting the sun.
The visions flow, and Agnes writes.
Later, as the visions start to fade, Saraqael pulls back their hand and Agnes blinks uncertainly and licks her lips, before mechanically turning and climbing into bed. Agnes falls directly into a deep sleep, and the hint of a smile crosses Saraqael’s lips.
“Sleep”, they murmur with another small burst of energy directed at Agnes, “and forget”.
Agnes will awaken in the morning, just as she always does, with no memory of having added to her book of prophecy. The writing, however, is in her distinct handwriting, and the ink in her inkwell is slowly disappearing, and so she imagines she writes the prophecies in her sleep. In a way, she does.
Saraqael pauses, listening carefully, ever on the alert, before spreading shimmering wings of light and returning to heaven.
*******************************************
March, 1634
Aziraphale waits outside a small cottage in a village in Lancashire, England. Restless energy fills him, and he opens his senses again to the feelings of love and safety that suffuse the entire area. And - there! - a feeling of wicked satisfaction, sauntering toward him. Aziraphale closes his mind's eye and smiles with relief, and perhaps also with anticipation, although he would never have said as much.
There was something so comfortable about being able to send a request out into the world and to feel Crowley's answering call.
Urgent? A query, formless but understood.
Not too urgent. But don't keep me waiting! A reassurance, a request, a prayer.
And now, here he comes, strolling down the lane like he belongs there - or like it belongs to him. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, Crowley did belong everywhere, and the entire world did belong to him. Aziraphale's entire world, anyway. Not that he would ever tell anyone that, of course. There are some things an angel just cannot share with a demon. Or with anyone.
Still…
Aziraphale intently studies the purple and yellow blooms in a bed of spring flowers next to the cottage, trying for casual nonchalance. He lightly trails his fingers through the flowers, admiring the forget-me-nots and daffodils, then briefly gathers the blooms of a few sweet violets and inhales deeply. He looks up over the flowers at Crowley, momentarily speechless as the demon smiles knowingly at him. "You called?"
Aziraphale clears his throat and steps away from the flowers. "Yes, well, there's something - or someone - here. I rather thought you should like to see."
Crowley looks around the remote area curiously and arches an eyebrow. "Here?"
Aziraphale nods firmly. "There's some kind of block on the whole area, to avoid notice from heaven or hell. It's quite curious, and I have a theory about why. I think it's important!"
Crowley's pupils dilate as he draws a deep breath and widens his senses. "I can't feel a block," he admits, "but no one is watching right now."
Aziraphale nods. "They can't."
A flicker of a smile on Crowley's lips. "And the cottage?"
"Mine, for now. This area interests me."
Crowley steps closer and purrs, "I'm listening."
*********
The cottage is bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun as Aziraphale and Crowley step outside.
Crowley's breath catches as Aziraphale is bathed in the soft warm light, and Crowley circles around for a better angle. Appreciating his angel is something of a hobby, and Crowley is enjoying the enticing possibilities of being somewhere beyond the notice of heaven OR hell.
The pair walks in amiable silence, each stealing glances at the other when they think they won't be noticed.
They both notice.
Approaching another cottage similar to the one Aziraphale is using, they pause.
"She lives here?"
Aziraphale nods.
Crowley studies the area, first with his eyes, and then with his inner senses. Aziraphale waits patiently, enjoying the feel of Crowley's competent assessment.
After a while, he nods. "I agree. I think there's some kind of power emanating from this cottage. You think it's her?"
Aziraphale shrugs. "It would make sense. There's no one else there. May I show you?"
Crowley gestures ahead, and Aziraphale steps forward with a small smile, making certain they'll pass unnoticed by any earthly creatures.
Stepping forward to gaze through a window, they see Agnes stand up from her desk and drift over to her bed, as if in a trance. An echo of a whisper settling around them - sleep and forget. And - someone else. Someone - Crowley stumbles backwards frantically, but Aziraphale stands frozen in disbelief and locks eyes with them.
Saraqael.
Their eyes widen too minimally to notice at that distance, but they gesture imperiously. Wait.
Aziraphale nods and steps back anxiously, locking eyes with Crowley.
*********
Saraqael takes a deep breath. They don't need to breathe, of course, but there's something very grounding about choosing to breathe, choosing to embrace that connection with Earth and humanity. Thus grounded, they turn and roll out of the cottage towards the double trouble waiting for them under the trees.
The two wait, heads tipped together, outwardly calm. Crowley’s eyes are shuttered by his sunglasses, despite the night sky that envelopes them all, and Aziraphale's fingers flutter restlessly. Ok, not entirely calm.
The pair is still standing close enough to the cottage to have been influenced by the miracle to forget, so they won't remember tonight anyway, and Saraqael is concerned about what they're doing here. No harm in talking, they muse, and they really do need to figure out why this place has attracted the attentions of both heaven and hell.
Saraqael approaches, implacably rolling forward, and inclines their head to each. “Aziraphale,” they admonish. “Crowley.”
Aziraphale winces, but Crowley’s face remains passive. “Sorry, have we met?”
Saraqael glares at him for a moment, wishing they could read his mind, and then changes the subject. “Why are you here? No one should notice this place.”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “That's, er, that's why we're here. I could feel the block and I wanted to investigate. I suppose that was you?”
Saraqael studies them. “Both of you? Together?”
Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “Just bringing backup, you know. In case there were demons!” His voice raises an octave.
Saraqael wonders with surprise, is he lying?
Crowley glides forward smoothly and draws Saraqael's attention, momentarily startling them from their next question.
He growls, “What were YOU doing there? With that human?”
Protective , they observe with surprise. Of the human? Or the angel? Saraqael's annoyance fades under the weight of their fascinated curiosity.
An unexpected impulse settles over them, a desire to talk about their special assignment with Agnes. They begin to share and the words tumble out. The experience of not needing to be so careful and guarded is freeing, and they find the experience of unburdening themselves and sharing their secrets is almost comfortable, even if it's only temporary.
“Visions?” Crowley scoffs, sceptical.
“You don't believe me?” Saraqael is briefly surprised, before remembering the others think they'll remember tonight. If that was true, Saraqael would have plenty of reasons to lie, although lying is hardly something anyone should expect from an angel.
Crowley shrugs. “I've never heard of an angel - or demon - with visions.”
Saraqael nods. “I believe I'm the only one. Would you like me to show you?” This unprecedented desire to connect continues to surprise Saraqael.
Crowley looks at Aziraphale, and the two lock gazes for just a moment, but it seems an entire conversation has taken place in that brief heartbeat. They step together, shoulder to shoulder, and nod.
Saraqael rolls forward. Sitting confidently between them, Saraqael reaches out to hold each of their hands, and they notice with interest that the angel and demon also hold one another's hands, closing the circle of power being traced into the night air.
Saraqael breathes slowly and deeply, letting the power swell inside them, a powerful ocean wave sweeping them up - up - up - and forward on its crest - lifting Aziraphale and Crowley too - and then gently spilling them onto the sands between them as a vision starts to take shape:
A garden slowly phases into view, softly lit by the rose gold of a setting sun. Tall trees tranquilly shelter a clearing, dotted with plants in vibrant bloom. The clearing frames a small round table and three chairs, and their occupants are laughing.
The view moves closer, and suddenly their faces sharpen into focus: there's Aziraphale in a waistcoat with worn buttons and a dark back, comfortable and loved. And there's Crowley, all angular shapes and sinuous dark lines, but without his signature sunglasses. And - there's Saraqael? Yes, Saraqael, relaxed and smiling in their tartan-striped jacket.
A nightingale is enthusiastically singing in the background, blending a song with the eldritch laughter that filters gently into the trees surrounding them all.
Each member of this intimate audience pauses, as they absorb the merry camaraderie that they're both creating and observing.
Aziraphale shakes his surprise first and murmurs, "We look... friendly."
Saraqael takes a shaky breath. "These visions can be trusted. We - we will be."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "We're on the wrong side, darling."
Saraqael studies the image carefully, letting the feel and shape of it sink into their very soul. "Someday, we'll be on OUR side."
Darling?
Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a long, meaningful glance as they release Saraqael's hands, and Saraqael notes again with interest the way the pair seems to hold entire conversations without a single spoken word.
Saraqael tries to memorise all the details of this moment - the way Crowley and Aziraphale look at one another, so comfortable and familiar, so at ease. Saraqael has never been at ease with anyone, not really. Heaven does not encourage comfort, honesty, or connection, rewarding only the performance of isolated, invulnerable perfection.
Drawn from their reverie by a movement of Crowley's hand, Saraqael suddenly has another vision: a cozy sitting room, cheerful and snug and full of comfortable places to lounge. The feeling of a brushed leather sofa under their hand as they lie curled on one side, Crowley's long-fingered hands stroking their hair, their eyes closed in contentment. Small crystals tinkle and chime in the warm sunlight. Aziraphale's hands are resting in their soft - FUR? - and they're purring. PURRING?
Saraqael blinks furiously, trying to focus, trying not to lose themselves in this unbidden vision, even as it beckons them back with the promise of warmth, safety, connection, physical sensation, and pleasure. Crowley and Aziraphale are looking at them expectantly. Relief that no one else saw the vision mingles in their heart with regret - for the same reason.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" The purr is still vibrating deep in their bones, and they're surprised the others can't feel it.
The three continue to talk, and Saraqael explains about the memory block they’re using with Agnes. Crowley suggests including a trigger to make the memories return under certain conditions, like a fail safe in the case the memories are needed again. Saraqael purses their lips thoughtfully. This evening has given them much to think about, and they add his suggestion to their mental list before bidding the pair goodnight. Saraqael considers warning them about their impending memory loss - or lifting the block - but both options seem too dangerous, and so they determinedly raise their wings and shift back to heaven.
*********
They watch Saraqael vanish in a swirl of shimmering rainbow feathers, and Aziraphale turns to Crowley. “What did you think of that?”
He removes his sunglasses. “I don't know,” he reflects, “it wasn't the weirdest thing I've seen.” In the aftermath of the vision, Crowley feels hope and longing swell inside him, a wordless plea for a shared future after an Armageddon that never comes.
Both thoughtful, lost in a swirl of memories new and old, they turn together and watch the night sky. The stars twinkle all around them, and the brightness of the Milky Way stretches overhead.
Aziraphale eventually breaks the sacred silence. “Do you still watch the skies with that human? The scientist?”
Crowley glances at Aziraphale curiously before returning his gaze to the night sky. He smiles a tiny smile, remembering. “Galileo? Sure. There's so much more to him than his love of the night sky, though. He's so curious, he wants to learn about everything. Gravity, astronomy, physics, maths, music - you name it and he's asked questions about it. And he's an inventor! Did you know he builds telescopes? Telescopes! So humans can study the stars and planets. Remarkable!”
Crowley shakes his head in amazement touched with pride.
“Have I told you I was there when he built his first telescope?”
He had, but Aziraphale was hardly about to interrupt a story that put such a warm, happy glow on Crowley's face.
“He studied the moon, the sun, Venus, Jupiter’s moons - there were so many new things to discover and his joy at each one was infectious. I remember sitting with him on cold winter nights, celebrating the solstice and talking over his latest discoveries.”
Crowley’s eyes shine with his own joy at the memory.
“And how is he now?” Aziraphale asks gently.
Crowley sighs. “He's back at home, and happy to be near Maria Celeste again - that’s his daughter. I think their conversations and her support mean the world to him. She’s his anchor in a world coloured by small-minded unkindness and disappointment. And he's planning to write another book, this one about motion. Kinematics.” He rolls the word across his tongue with pleasure, savouring the feel and sound of it. “He's conquered astronomy and now he’s going to pioneer the entire field of physics! As for the rest…”
Crowley’s expression darkens. “His ideas about the motion of the Earth contradict the ‘unchanging perfection of the heavens’ and they forbid him to teach such ‘foolish, absurd, and heretical’ ideas. Even though he pointed out the Bible should be an authority on faith and morals, not science. So what did he do?”
“He listened,” Aziraphale replies softly.
“He listened,” Crowley snarls. “He tried to do everything right to make them happy, even if it meant setting aside his greatest passions. Even if it meant avoiding the truth ! And then he wrote a book with their blessing, full of knowledge and discovery and wonder, and then they got angry about it! And put him on trial! And after all that, can you believe he's still trying to make them happy?”
Crowley’s outrage is radiating off him in waves of suffocating heat, but Aziraphale doesn't step back. Instead, he reaches out and takes Crowley's hand.
“‘Vehemently suspect of heresy’, for daring to believe the truth after it's been declared ‘contrary to Holy Scripture’” Crowley's voice is angry, mocking.
“Cast aside, on house arrest for the rest of his life. Trapped… he didn’t even do anything wrong!” Crowley’s voice breaks and he glances at Aziraphale.
“Humans don't always get it right-”
“-They aren't the only ones,” Crowley interrupts, fury clashing now with sorrow in his voice. “What's wrong with knowledge? Or curiosity? Shouldn't we be asking questions? Can’t we be forgiven for our mistakes? Don't we deserve to learn and grow, without having to worry about being punished or abandoned or stuck forever?!”
“Even plants need to change and grow,” Crowley hisses, blinking hard, soul flailing, then he meets the quiet strength in Aziraphale's gaze. Moisture pooling in the corner of Crowley's eye settles slightly under the steady, quiet reassurance of his - his -
Aziraphale clears his throat, feeling rather out of place in a conversation like this. What does he know of the struggles of human religions and sciences, or punishments and rejections? He doesn't like to think about such things. Ready to move on, he asks hopefully, "let me tempt you with a distraction? Let’s go inside."
Crowley seems to fold in on himself, just for a moment, before standing a bit straighter. Saraqael's vision, his memories, and the novelty of being in a truly private space with Aziraphale are combining into a cocktail that's left him feeling shaken and stirred. Hope and desire and sorrow and longing swirl just under the surface of his skin as he saunters into the cottage. A hint of a gleam in his eyes, he purrs in a voice still thick with emotion, "Temptations are my job, Angel. Dance with me?"
Following him, Aziraphale's eyes widen. "I don't dance!" And then a bit more firmly, "Angels don't dance."
Crowley glides closer, eyes bright, and closes the door. Are those still tears, threatening to spill? Aziraphale isn't sure, and it makes him nervous. Emotions are so complicated - and generally not welcome in heaven.
Crowley focuses again on Aziraphale's face, his eyes. "You're not just an angel though, are you? You could dance. You could learn from other humans, take a class or something, hmm?"
A vision of joining the elegant dances at court, dressed to impress and moving expertly about through a sea of other lovely dancers - other humans - catches his imagination and holds it. His eyes light up, but still. Still. There are some lines an angel shouldn't cross. Couldn't cross! Especially not with a demon. Except… Saraqael's vision. If it were true, maybe the lines would someday be erased.
Locking eyes again with Crowley, Aziraphale feels the pull of their own special gravity. He steps to the side, unable to step fully away. Crowley steps to the other side, and they slowly begin to circle one another, eyes held, orbiting, orbiting, repeating the steps to a dance they've been sketching into the fabric of time for millennia.
A pink flush brightens Aziraphale's cheeks. "There's - there's no music!"
Crowley snaps his fingers with a flourish, and a sweet, elegant tune in triple time fills the charged space between them. Aziraphale's eyes widen, studying Crowley. So beautiful, so fragile. Poised still on the edge of something - a century of broken-hearted sobbing, perhaps - but carefully trying to step around that. For me, Aziraphale realised. For us . He takes an involuntary step forward, and Crowley's gravity gets stronger. "You dance?"
Hope flares brighter in Crowley's eyes. "Mmm, not well…" he trails off, watching Aziraphale carefully.
"Learn to dance for me, Angel," he whispers as he reaches out and strokes his cheek, pressing a spark of magic into his skin. Aziraphale's entire essence is drawn up to that spot; basking, tasting, savouring the feel of Crowley's magic under his skin.
Crowley does not step closer. It takes more strength than it would to change the Earth's path around the sun, but he Does. Not. Move. They're so close, and he can see Aziraphale balancing on the edge of something. Delivering a blow of rejection, isolation, separation. Crowley couldn't bear it, he needs this, he cannot be cast down again, not now, not tonight, not by his - his - His.
Eyes blinking quickly to clear the tears lurking again, he says softly and a bit thickly, "Let me show you."
Half plea, half prayer, all vulnerable. A gift.
Aziraphale's heart swells as their gravity pulls him ever closer. He reaches for Crowley's hand, and as their fingers brush, he presses some magic of his own into Crowley's fingertips. Five points of light flare briefly, and Crowley moans softly, pulling Aziraphale into him.
"So close," murmurs Aziraphale, not objecting.
"The ländler. It'll even be popular at court someday," Crowley explains, leading him through the glides, rolls, and turns. Every time they separate - agony! - Crowley anticipates the moment they will connect again. On each reconnection, he strokes more sparks of magic over Aziraphale, a heated, joyful caress.
Aziraphale begins to stiffen, to pull away from the sparks of fire dancing under his skin, to pull away from the intimate dance of their bodies on the cottage floor.
Crowley freezes.
Aziraphale studies him, hesitantly.
Fingers still touch, but gentle and quiet, now.
The whole world seems suspended in time, breathless, waiting.
Crowley drops his eyes. "I'm a demon," he whispers brokenly. "Unforgivable."
*********
Saraqael relaxes in their small pocket dimension in heaven. Tall windows, pools of sunshine everywhere, a soft sofa to relax on. Small crystals hang near the windows, casting rainbow points of light around the room as they sway and tinkle softly in a gentle breeze.
They replay their memories of the evening. Another successful vision for Agnes, the surprise of being interrupted, the intriguing way Aziraphale and Crowley seem to know and trust one another. Like friends. Tonight's vibrant visions were so different from their current sterile reality that they find it hard to fully imagine, but the appeal of feeling comfortable with others, of having friends, of laughing, is hard to ignore.
Saraqael wants to keep the memories, to savour them, to wrap them around their shoulders like armour. Regretfully, they recognize the danger in carrying these memories around in their head in the company they have to keep. Crowley’s suggestion comes back to them, and they consider his idea: a failsafe.
Although the weight of needing to be so very careful weighs heavily on their shoulders, Saraqael nods firmly and taps into the iron resolve that has got them through so much. A failsafe, then. If one of the three of them is ever in danger, and needs help from the other two, they will all remember.
A shimmering octarine wave of magic makes the air sparkle briefly and then drifts towards Aziraphale and Crowley. Saraqael nods again, regretfully, and takes a deep breath as the sun outside their windows abruptly sets.
*********
Aziraphale, unaware of the shimmer of magic settling into their hair and sinking down into their very essences, asks Crowley gently, "You're - you're - well, you're not just a demon, are you?"
Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale's hands ever so slightly, but his eyes remain downcast. Just like him. How could he have ever thought…the question trails away behind a veil of sorrow.
Aziraphale reminds him, "Saraqael's vision. Do you trust them?"
Crowley’s eyes narrow. “No.” He hesitates. “Maybe?” He scans the cottage and spots the table where he sat with Aziraphale, earlier in the day. Several empty wine bottles linger there, but there are several more full bottles beckoning in the warm candlelight. He drops the angel’s hands and picks up a bottle, and then proceeds to give his throat a workout while Aziraphale pretends not to savour every movement. Setting down the newly-empty bottle, Crowley opens another and passes it to the angel.
Aziraphale accepts the bottle, but doesn’t drink. Lost in thought, micro expressions flit across his face until he settles on one and meets Crowley’s eyes. “I trust their vision,” he says softly, confidently. “Rare, powerful magic like that would feel…twisted…if it wasn’t honest. I would feel it. There was love in it!”
Hesitantly, Crowley glances down and back up. “So what does that mean? For us?” The last part comes out as a choked whisper, and his eyes begin to glimmer again.
Aziraphale feels something shift and soften in his chest, and his eyes suddenly feel full. He meets Crowley’s liquid gaze and murmurs, “There is hope. There could be a happy future for us. Together. Maybe - maybe - I don’t know, it could be a place like this. Somewhere to get away from everything and just be. Together. ”
Crowley’s heart aches and yearns, and he steps forward. “With Saraqael?” he asks wryly, one eyebrow raised, but it doesn’t mask the naked longing in his eyes or the way his heart is beating again in time with Aziraphale’s.
“Maybe?” Aziraphale giggles nervously at the thought, but he also takes a step closer to Crowley and their gravity begins to reassert itself. “I have a secret,” he whispers, eyes flicking nervously around the room.
Crowley’s heart beats faster. “What’s that, Angel?”
Aziraphale remembers what Crowley said about Galileo and how attached he seems to be to the human, and feels his thoughts and resolve settle. He gazes at Crowley anxiously, but there's no doubt in his voice or eyes when he says, “I don’t think you need to be forgiven. I don't think you did anything wrong. I don't - I don’t think you deserved to fall!”
The last, he declares defiantly, and glances around the room as if daring heaven to prove the safety of Saraqael's block on the area to be a lie. Nothing happens. He takes a deep breath, and turns back to Crowley.
Crowley looks shattered and his whole body is trembling as he protests, “Unforgivable! That's what I am! Cast aside, punished, rejected, trapped for all time. I'm a demon, ANGEL!”
Aziraphale steps closer, and a small spark of magic leaps from his hand, bridging the distance between them. Crowley jumps, startled, and his eyes refocus on Aziraphale.
Aziraphale's voice drops to a clear, firm whisper. “You're perfect. You don't need forgiveness because there's nothing to forgive, and everything else is a lie you were tricked into believing.”
Crowley gasps and his eyes glitter. He manages to choke out a single word. “Perfect?”
Aziraphale steps closer, his honest blasphemy still heavy on his tongue. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. Crowley grabs him roughly, leaning far more weight onto Aziraphale than seems strictly necessary, but before Aziraphale can step back or say anything about it, Crowley's forehead is pressed against Aziraphale's.
“You can't say things like that. You can't say I'm perfect.”
“No one is listening to us. I can say anything! I can be honest, for once!”
“You don't mean it! We're enemies. You don't even like me!”
“I do!” Aziraphale sends another spark of magic towards Crowley, this one laced with heavy undertones of honesty and love.
Listen to me now. I wouldn't lie to you, never you, not where we can't be overheard.
Crowley feels his breath catch as his eyes flood and his heart expands. Human bodies really are a lot of trouble, he muses, as he reaches out and pulls Aziraphale back into a close dance embrace. He snaps his fingers and the music resumes, this time slower, softer, deeper.
Their racing hearts settle back into a rhythm, beating together, as Crowley leads Aziraphale through parts of the ländler again, slowly, savouring the press of their hands, the feel of Aziraphale's quiet strength following Crowley's lead, even as he adds his own embellishments to their motion. Creating the dance together, hearts and bodies orbiting a common centre.
Crowley leans his head against Aziraphale's, and once again strokes magic over his skin. Aziraphale sighs with pleasure.
“Say it again, Angel.” The vulnerability and raw need in Crowley’s voice tugs at Aziraphale’s very soul, and his whole body seems to melt against Crowley’s, yielding to his shape and need.
“You're perfect,” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley's ear.
Crowley's whole body trembles and his arms tighten around Aziraphale. He doesn't believe Aziraphale is right, of course, but Crowley believes Aziraphale thinks he’s right - and isn't that interesting?
He stops holding back. He wants to claim and savour this moment now, and think more about everything later. As the two human-shaped beings move together, their gravity now pressing them tightly to one another, Crowley traces the wordless worship of his magic across every inch of Aziraphale's exposed skin, until the magic has covered him.
Aziraphale's body is alive, his soul rising to the surface and swelling to fill every inch, to taste the magic swirling and sparking over his skin. Lost in sensation, he's forgotten how to speak, but they have never needed words, not really.
Yes.
Do it again.
Do THAT, again.
Crowley slows the music again as they turn in a measured embrace, orbiting one another in this protected space and time. He presses magic into Aziraphale's hair, and the strands glow softly, adding their own warm, white light to the golden candles in the cottage and the silver moonlight shining through the windows.
His hands trail down Aziraphale's face, pausing to press more sparks into his earlobes. Aziraphale moans, his whole body vibrating in response to the embers of Crowley's magic.
Yes! Please!
Crowley lowers his lips and presses them into Aziraphale's, breathing heated magic into his mouth as their lips caress. Gently at first, and then more urgently, lips and tongues press and circle, lick, stroke, tease. Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out. The magic flows between them, Crowley pushing the sparks of his magic and awareness deeper and deeper into Aziraphale's body, seeking to fill every part of him with his touch, his essence. Seeking to claim and possess his - his - His.
Aziraphale groans as the size and weight of two souls swell a body meant to hold only one - and then his arms wrap tightly around Crowley's waist, and magic pours from his hands. If Crowley's magic dances under Aziraphale's skin like the sparks of a fire, Aziraphale's magic is a river of writhing current. The cool swell plunges into the depths of Crowley's body, filling him with light. Filling him with love.
You're perfect.
Perfect.
Moaning into one another's mouths, sharing breath, sharing magic, filling each other with their souls - with their love - they finally understand.
Mine, Crowley growls into Aziraphale's lips as he sends more sparks of magic dancing through him. You're mine.
Yes, Aziraphale sighs, fully surrendering to this moment.
Crowley embraces Aziraphale as he embraces his need, his desire, his love for his - his - His -
soulmate.
Soulmate?
Soulmate.
And with that shared thought, the magic between them swells to a crescendo of explosions that would eclipse even stars being born. Their bodies glow from within, eyes locked as they fall into one another, hearts and souls entwining. Changing forever, inextricably linked by the intimate sharing of this moment.
The music plays on, and they remain suspended together in time for a heartbeat - for forever - and for a moment, everything seems right with their world. Until the sky begins to blush, a pale glimmer of pink on the horizon, and Saraqael’s magic flares to life before vanishing entirely. Crowley and Aziraphale sway, briefly dizzy, and stumble apart. Aziraphale sits down abruptly and Crowley clutches his head with a loud groan. They blink at one another, dazed, uncertain.
Still holding his head, Crowley rasps, “Angel?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “What happened?”
Crowley sits a little straighter and grumbles, “damned if I know. Damned if I don’t, for that matter.”
Aziraphale searches his memory. “We talked in the cottage yesterday, and we saw the human woman at sunset.”
It’s a statement, but it sounds like a question, and after a moment’s careful thought, Crowley agrees. “Yeah.” His eyes scan the cottage, taking in the many empty bottles of wine scattered about. “What in heaven was in that wine?”
Aziraphale shakes his head and protests, “It came with the cottage!”
Crowley’s thoughts alternately feel too large and then too small for his head, and he sighs, looking at the small table with two chairs tucked neatly against it. Something scratches at his brain. “Was there another chair here?”
Aziraphale looks startled. “I…I can’t remember?”
Troubled, Crowley rolls his shoulders and tilts his head to one side and then the other, stretching out his neck and settling deeper into his body and the world around them both. His eyes suddenly flare wide as he realises the time. “I need to get back to Florence or I’ll be late for a temptation.”
Aziraphale feels a tremor of apprehension roll through him, but of course Crowley has to go. They can’t stay together forever; they aren’t even friends. Under this internal monologue, Aziraphale steps away from any unangelic emotions he might have been about to feel as he likewise moves his body away from Crowley with a brittle smile. “Of course, mind how you go.”
Crowley gazes at him and sees more than Aziraphale might prefer. “Next time, Angel, I’ll bring the wine.” He rises, and rises, and disappears into the soft dawn-kissed sky.
Aziraphale sighs regretfully. Will it always be like this? And as he starts to tidy up the cottage until his next visit - he has commitments back in London - he starts humming a sweet, cheerful tune in triple time. He isn’t sure he recognizes it, but it fills him with the soft warmth of hope, and so he continues to hum as he cleans.
*******************************************
EPILOGUE
Present day, after season two
AZIRAPHALE stands frozen amidst the oppressive white walls and oppressive white everything in heaven, urgently focused on a small but important bit of magic: I’m not here. Don’t notice me. Nothing to see. Keep going. The Metatron stalks past. A moment later, Sandalphon glides away in another direction, glowering. Predators, both of them, and dangerous. Aziraphale swallows slowly and takes a long, deep breath, otherwise still frozen, waiting.
The cold sterility of heaven is suffocating him, Aziraphale decides. Endless, long expanses stretch in every direction, and for some mysterious reason, you have to walk. Everywhere. Through infinitely boring corridors of white.
He walks. He's supposed to be in charge, but no one will agree to him changing anything, and he’s stuck. He needs an ally - even more so now, he realises, after his accidental foray into eavesdropping - but right at this moment he'd settle for a refuge from all this blighted blankness. A place where he could breathe, think, and just relax for a few minutes in something approximating comfort.
Thinking about the conversation he most definitely wasn’t meant to hear, he considers how to keep himself safe. How to keep everyone safe? Crowley! The thought shifts something inside him, like books slotting into place on a bookshelf he hadn’t realised was empty. And then, like reading the ending to a story that you knew was coming but still somehow hadn’t expected, he knew. A dance, a kiss, a promise. “Crowley,” he whispers: a caress, a vow, a dream. He touches his lips with a prayer that was already answered long ago, and focuses on the other part of the memory. “Saraqael,” he breathes: a murmur, a question, a command.
Suddenly a rainbow shimmers in the corner of his eye, and Aziraphale freezes again, this time caught between curiosity and alarm. A rainbow - in heaven?!
Cautiously, he turns, and sees the small pattern of colourful light dancing and circling on the floor. He glances up. No one is around.
He follows the light, and it retreats before him, leading him forward. A few twists and turns, and then a misty barrier he slips through with a cold, damp shiver. Suddenly, the mysterious little beacon is lost.
Before he can wonder about the cold mist lurking in the corners of heaven, the entire space around him lights up with vibrant, shimmering rainbows.
Bemused, Aziraphale takes it all in - the towering windows filled with sunlight and crystals, splitting the warm pools of light into rainbows spilled across every surface. And there, in the middle of it all on a sofa that looks extremely comfortable, sits Saraqael. Sitting stiff and upright, with a look of astonishment and alarm on their face, they stare at him like a hungry cat trying to decide whether what had walked into their lair was a threat to flee or a tasty little snack to devour.
Aziraphale relaxes his posture, in an effort to ease the alarm radiating from Saraqael, and looks at them thoughtfully. The colours of their tartan collar are vibrant under the sunshine, and rainbows dance around the collar like a flashing neon caress.
Aziraphale reaches up to touch his tartan bow tie, the colours almost imperceptible now as a nod to the monotony of both Heaven's palette and expectations.
His eyes meet Saraqael's as they study him just as thoughtfully. Memory of an evening shared and then forgotten long ago dances through his mind. Maybe this is the ally and the refuge he’s been looking for? He infuses a bit more vibrancy into his bowtie, incorporating some of Saraqael's colours into his own tartan pattern, and steps forward.
CROWLEY sleeps. It’s his favourite thing to do lately, and if he could, he would sleep away the next hundred years. Two hundred, maybe. How long would it take to sleep away a heartbreak millions of years in the making? Would the world still be here? Well, no, no it wouldn’t, and so he can’t sleep for much longer. Because blast it all - he still cares. He cares about the ones who are counting on him here, and much to his sorrow and shame, he still cares about the one who left him behind. As he remembers once again that painful experience, he hears the sweet music of another star being born from one of his nebulas. His eyes widen - this one is out of order - and then memory floods him. Not the birth of a star at all, but the sweet blooming of love from long ago. His eyes widen, pupils dilating, and memories slam into him. Holding Aziraphale as they danced, pressing magic into one another’s bodies. A vision from Saraqael - a vision that has not yet come to pass. They had promised their visions were always true. Hope surrounds Crowley and lifts him up. Maybe. Maybe. For the first time in months, Crowley feels a glimmer of hope. “Aziraphale,” he whispers, and for the first time in a very long time, it’s enough.
SARAQAEL has been spending more time in their sunny pocket dimension lately, retreating from a heaven divided by plotting and ego. Millions of years of loneliness, of performing perfection, of having to be so very careful all the time has taken a toll, and Saraqael prefers to escape whenever possible. They’ve even considered trying to sleep the way humans do, but have found the idea too uncomfortable to experiment with - yet. Saraqael studies Aziraphale as he takes a step forward. No one should be able to find this place.
Suddenly the crystals in the windows start swaying and chiming as if in a breeze, and Saraqael is reminded of the birth of the Horsehead Nebula. Their mind shifts to remember that glorious moment - but instead shifts to make room for an entirely new set of memories. Not new, exactly, but long forgotten. Two hands, linked with their own. A promise of connection, and a future spent laughing and at ease.
Saraqael’s eyes widen and they gasp as the unexpected swirl of colour and feeling wrap around them. Aziraphale glances around, assesses the escalating tension in Saraqael’s eyes, and reassures them, “This place is lovely. Your secret is safe with me. Do - do you remember?”
They pause, visions of laughter, friendship, and purring at ease dancing through their memory. Hope for a better future sparks in their heart, and Saraqael nods. “Crowley?”
Aziraphale smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everyone. Especially Crowley.”
The … End?
