#don't mind me just thinking about aziraphale all alone up in heaven without any distractions missing crowley

[wordsinhaled]

“I need you” isn’t “I love you,” and it isn’t “Yes, let’s go off together,” but the thing is, it might as well be. And it might be one of the more honest things Aziraphale has ever said.

He has never said it aloud before now. Not like this, with eons worth of raucous indignant feeling crawling up into his throat. He had not wanted, not expected to say it like this, mocked by his own stricken reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, each lens a dark mirror.

"I—I need you," says Aziraphale, and his voice breaks down the middle. It might as well, for he's confessed too late. Crowley is shut to him, recedes from him like a wave broken on the terrible bedrock of Aziraphale's futile stubbornness.

And still, even like this, Aziraphale needs him.

His presence, his constancy. His unfailing, tenacious friendship.

Crowley’s kindness, his softness, his solicitousness under the prickly façade Aziraphale sees is just that—a layer that can be so easily peeled away to reveal the deep core of caring beneath, too entrenched to be deserved by any world they could live in. He needs Crowley’s unguarded gaze, needs the way Crowley’s forever looking at him across distances when he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t notice: chin tilted up, eyes soft as marigold petals.

A phone call away whenever anything or nothing at all happens is Crowley’s dear voice; his lovely dry humor; his sauntering, slithering, improbable walk despite which he somehow flawlessly falls into step alongside Aziraphale anywhere and all the time. His hip knocking against Aziraphale’s, casual as anything and yet so much more than. Flashes of black and wisps of red flitting in and out of Aziraphale’s periphery for thousands of years.

He needs their circuitous arguments, their winding ethical debates—after most of which they somehow end up on the same side, that is, their own side, terrifying and exhilarating in its Promethean familiarity—and Crowley’s chaotically-sure moral compass. The times Crowley is braver than Aziraphale could ever be; and the times Crowley reminds him of how brave he actually always has been.

And Aziraphale needs even the great big awful rows, the ones that end in their standing on opposite verges of another chasm of their own making. Because the culmination of such a fight is always the meeting again in the middle. It’s the low sweeping bow of their apology, a ritual not half earnest for all its facetiousness, which says so much without either of them having to utter a word. Crowley holds a whole conversation in the dip of his fiery head and the exaggerated flutter of his elegant wrists, when it’s his turn; and, when it’s Aziraphale’s, the hashing-out of differences is there in the way he executes each familiar movement with the practiced ease of a faithful courtier, though it’s been ages since he stood in any king’s court.

He needs the knowledge that they always forgive each other. Because, well, they do. They must. They will. What’s a spat or a quarrel or even a proper falling-out to two beings like them, to him and Crowley?

Aziraphale needs Crowley’s happiness. His truest happiness. If that isn't the crux of it all, what is?

He remembers the ancient light of Crowley's joy, how it had shone once about both of them like an aura through the blackness of undeveloped space. It never left, all that bright, barely reined-in giddiness, all that frenetic energy, but he's transmuted it, magpie-like, into something else. Aziraphale can sense it whenever Crowley brings him a new vintage record to add to his collection. Whenever Crowley pulls out Aziraphale’s chair for him outside Marguerite's, or orders just what he likes for him at the Ritz. Whenever he drops into the shop unannounced with a little box tucked under his arm, full of gorgeous petits fours from the new bakery Aziraphale hasn’t yet tried, and says, gleeful, Ohhh, you wouldn’t believe all the wiling I had to do to get my hands on these, angel. You’ll have to thwart me for this, I know. But first—no, no, no, first! The only sensible thing for you to do would be to try them… you’ll like the pear macaron...

And of course Crowley is right. He's right about most things, isn't he, after all? Because Crowley knows him, and he needs to be known, but it simply wouldn't do for anyone else to be the one doing the knowing.

Aziraphale likes the pear macaron, just as Crowley knew he would.

He likes all the things that come along with Crowley, really. The fast car, oh yes, sleek and stylishly classic and so very Crowley through and through, though Aziraphale has committed staunchly to grousing about it. The way no companionable silence held in Crowley's company is ever truly silent. The jaunts to the park on seasonable days: Crowley's touch lingering where he pours frozen peas for the ducks into Aziraphale's cupped palm; the fondness in Crowley's tone poorly disguised as he points out his favorite mated pair trawling placidly across the pond. The drinking together long past the small hours of the morning in the back room of the bookshop, where the walls are the same warm ochre shade as Crowley’s eyes.

It isn't ever so much about the drinking as it is about the together bit. How the space between them dwindles with the syrupy passage of time. How Crowley softens and melts into the settee. How he becomes Aziraphale's to watch, for once. How he grows so wondrously relaxed and gloriously at home there in Aziraphale's space that Aziraphale begins to wonder if this will at last be the night Crowley does not, eventually, get up and retreat back to his Bentley to take himself away again...

There is always that fragile little moment, right after sobering up, when everything in their universe seems at the same time to be entirely too set in stone and entirely too much as though it all hangs by one delicate, dissembling thread. Always the split second in which Aziraphale looks into Crowley's guileless face and remembers he could unravel everything with a single tug.

Yes, one sharp tug on the lapels of Crowley's jacket would do it, he knows. How easily it could be done... Tumble the two of them into one another, just then, and they would never be parted again. And his deft-tongued Crowley would lick the heat and the aftertaste of Talisker into Aziraphale's mouth, then, before it had the chance to dissipate completely.

He could. He could.

It's in those stretched milliseconds, brimming with a tender longing so acute it tips right over into an agony, that Aziraphale realizes: I do need all of you, darling, don't I? So terribly much it might unmake me one day. Never mind Aziraphale's most fickle and blustering attempts at denial, he knows this to be true as he knows the truth of little else in the cosmos.

And perhaps today is that day—the day Aziraphale will dissolve and be remade in the permanent shape of lack.

[not-your-regular-writer]

I wrote this for Valentine's Day this year after I saw this card:

And it totally looked like something Crowley would give Aziraphale haha. So enjoy :)

*Phone rings in the bookshop. Aziraphale picks up. It's Crowley.*

- Hello, Angel. Have I, by any chance, dropped my black leather coat at your place?

- Well, hello, Crowley. Which one, you own too many of them.

- Oh, you know, the... The... Well... You're probably right. Can't even describe it without making it look like the one I'm wearing right now.

- So how do you know it's missing?

- I just know. There's a void in my wardrobe. That's how I know. But it's ok, it's a cheap one, maybe it's in this mess I call a home. And... How are things up there?

- Oh... Things are just fine. Today is a special day, many clients have come looking for books, and I'm very much pleased to notice that people find appeasing to give books as gifts in a special date like today's.

- (hesitant) Special... Date?

- (Azi starts blushing for some reason) Valentine's...

- Oh, sure. That date. Can't stand it. Too much love on the streets. No wonder I've got a headache since I woke up this morning. Everything is so... Pink. And happy. Urgh, makes my stomach...

- (Irritated) I see, Crowley, you hate valentines day. Nothing new about it. If you excuse me, there's a line of clients waiting to get their sweeties a book.

- Oh, fine, then. Talk to you later.

- That remains to be seen.

- Wha...

*Azi hangs up, feeling a bit ouraged. He breathes deeply before going back to the clients, his eyes go over a chair next to him. The black coat is there. He can not only see it, but smell it from that distance. He sighs, reaching discreetly to it. Aziraphale had hidden a little poem in its pocket. He thought it would be sweet if he picked it up today, and found it alone, of course, maybe it would put a smile on his devilish handsome face. He wanted to play Crowley a bit, but he was so unpleasant Aziraphale gave up on the entire joke. He shakes his head, too upset to finish the gesture. But the smell trailed behind him. He felt so much love around him, humans could be so charming sometimes, that he forgot about Crowley for a while. "

Later that day...

*Aziraphale is organizing the last pile of books on the counter. It was a fine day, pleasant, cheery, fun. He made a good sale, and earlier that day he had picked up some roses to give as a courtesy to the buyers. He had cut up lots of pink and red paper hearts to have customers write a message to their sweethearts as a surprise inside the books. He had even baked some chocolate muffins in the shape of hearts, but as a treat to himself, guessing he would probably be alone by the end of the day, as always, but in the company of a good cup of tea and a new prophecy book that had just arrived from the 15th century...*

*The doorbell rings. He raises his eyes. Crowley is coming in, taking his glasses off. *

- Crowley... (hesitant) What a... (forcing a smile) Delightful surprise.

- Hey, angel. (looking around, embarrassed) I thought you'd be finished for today, so I thought we could... Have dinner, or something. You know, nothing special, I mean, we always have dinner, it's...

- (smiling the tiniest of grins, out of sight, still with his back turned to Crowley, putting the books back on the shelf) Oh, yes, just dinner. I suppose the Ritz is going to be a bit... Busy for the night, so...

- Oh. You're right. Maybe it is not the best night to dine out...

- Indeed, my friend. (a bit optimistic) But we could arrange something...

- I don't know, angel. Now that you've mentioned it, it's true. It's gonna be noisy, and... Crowded... And... You're probably right. I didn't really think through it.

- Well, I... (he turns around, getting closer to Crowley, who is still at the door) I could cook for us. I mean, I do not mean to brag about it, but I happen to be a very good cook, thank you.

- Oh, I do know that. We could have some... Pasta?

- I'm thinking a very tasty ravioli, marinara sauce, maybe some corn bread and cheese, and... Oh, we'll see.

- I don't wanna impose...

- Of course not, my friend, it is no imposition.

- Then let me get us some red wine to go along with it.

- (Excited again) Fabulous. Then, I will get dinner done, meet you here in an hour?

- Sure, sure. I will... Get the wine.

*Crowley is out on the street, it's been one hell of a task to find fine red wine around, but he managed. When he was getting back to the bookshop, he saw something that sparkled an idea on his mind... *

*Back to the bookshop. Aziraphale is cooking, much amused and pleased with himself. He's distracted checking the taste of his marinara, and he can't see Crowley coming closer.*

- Aziraphale?

- (Jumping) Oh, for good heavens! You almost never use my name, what has got into you to do that?

- (smiling, a bit shy, unusual for him) I... I... (going to say something, but changing his mind) I found our wine. Your favorite of course. Had to put some effort into it, what one doesn't do for a nice bottle of Pinot Noir?

- Oh... (frowning, a bit confused) Definitely. Would you be so kind to put it on the table, along with the basket of bread?

- Yeah, yeah, no problem. (he picks up the wine and the basket, still fighting with words. He makes up his mind, dropping both, and picking something from his pocket, handing it abruptly to Aziraphale). Here. It's for you.

- (Startled, running his hand on the white apron he put on to cook, a little upset, maybe thinking the should have picked a more appropriate moment to give gifts) Ah... Well... (speechless, he picks up. It's a card, a blank white paper, written in black and white, very simple, very blasé. Aziraphale listens to his heart in his years, reading it intently).

- (Crowley starts talking fastly, trying to distract the mood, the sweetness of the occasion) I know it's valentine's day, but you know, humans send cards to one another, anyway, it just felt weird to just not say anything, so I got you this card. It's not a big deal. It doesn't really mean anything. There isn't even a heart on it. So basically it's a card. Saying hi. (Exhales, embarrassed) Oh, forget it...

*Aziraphale hugs him, tender and carefully, his eyes are glistening, he feels much happier than he can express, but he just hugs him, hoping the gesture speaks for itself. Crowley is still as a rock, eyes wide, hands on his pockets. He tries for a pat on the back, but he can't seem to make his hands work. He notices Aziraphale's face is very close to his, he can smell his skin, his white smooth hair, almost tempted to touch it... They part. Aziraphale is smiling beautifully, like only an angel could. Like only Aziraphale could, actually. *

- Thank you, dear.

*Crowley nods his head, not sure of what he could say, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to need it. He goes back to the stove, still holding the card close to his heart without even noticing. It makes Crowley smile, but he takes the bottle and the basket back to put them on the table. The smile never left his face.*

*They have a nice dinner, talking, joking, discussing, eating and drinking. It was a fine night, like many others they had together. But this one had something to it, a different glow, a lighter atmosphere. Crowley is ready to go back to his apartment, his heart is a little heavy, and he wonders why. It is an unusual feeling, but curiously, he can't remember feeling it towards anyone else but Aziraphale. They stand by the door, Aziraphale has that candid smile again after going in the back and getting Crowleys coat.*

- Here. I was just playing you.

- I knew it! Aren't you becoming a trickster yourself?

- (smiles wider) I've got my charms...

- (low voice) You do. (Louder) Ah, so... I should get going. It was a fine meal, I must say.

- Well, thank you. It was a fine company, as always, my friend.

- Well... Happy... Night. Of February... 14th.

- Ditto, in fact, it's almost February 15th.

- Sure... See you around.

- Definitely

- Bye, Angel.

- Bye, Crowley.

*Crowley walks towards his car, feeling a bit dizzy. It was probably all that love thing in the air. At this hour, a bit more than love should be in the air, in fact. He breathed the air, closing his eyes, holding the coat in his hands. Something fell, and he picked up. It was a pink piece of paper. It had Aziraphale handwriting in it. He frowned.*

- He wrote a poem. For... Me.

*He turns around, looking at the bookshop, but now it's all dark and empty. Aziraphale probably went to rest. He would not bother him, right? Maybe... Maybe he didn't even intended for him to find it, maybe he forgot. Yes, he must have forgotten, he didn't even mention... He looks down at the paper again. The feeling of being completely filled inside, but so empty at the same time. So light and so heavy. So close and so far. He gets into his car, putting the poem back in his pocket. He starts driving, too pleased to admit. But the smile is there, crossing his face with the light of a thousand stars.*

*A light shines in the upper window of the bookshop. Aziraphale watched the entire scene. He eats a muffin, too glad to mind, looking at the card over the table. It was the best Valentines Day he had in centuries. Things were getting better."

[amagnificentobsession]

I was not prepared 😔💔🔥, but there is still hope. ♥️

“I need you” isn’t “I love you,” and it isn’t “Yes, let’s go off together,” but the thing is, it might as well be. And it might be one of the more honest things Aziraphale has ever said.

He has never said it aloud before now. Not like this, with eons worth of raucous indignant feeling crawling up into his throat. He had not wanted, not expected to say it like this, mocked by his own stricken reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, each lens a dark mirror.

"I—I need you," says Aziraphale, and his voice breaks down the middle. It might as well, for he's confessed too late. Crowley is shut to him, recedes from him like a wave broken on the terrible bedrock of Aziraphale's futile stubbornness.

And still, even like this, Aziraphale needs him.

His presence, his constancy. His unfailing, tenacious friendship.

Crowley’s kindness, his softness, his solicitousness under the prickly façade Aziraphale sees is just that—a layer that can be so easily peeled away to reveal the deep core of caring beneath, too entrenched to be deserved by any world they could live in. He needs Crowley’s unguarded gaze, needs the way Crowley’s forever looking at him across distances when he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t notice: chin tilted up, eyes soft as marigold petals.

A phone call away whenever anything or nothing at all happens is Crowley’s dear voice; his lovely dry humor; his sauntering, slithering, improbable walk despite which he somehow flawlessly falls into step alongside Aziraphale anywhere and all the time. His hip knocking against Aziraphale’s, casual as anything and yet so much more than. Flashes of black and wisps of red flitting in and out of Aziraphale’s periphery for thousands of years.

He needs their circuitous arguments, their winding ethical debates—after most of which they somehow end up on the same side, that is, their own side, terrifying and exhilarating in its Promethean familiarity—and Crowley’s chaotically-sure moral compass. The times Crowley is braver than Aziraphale could ever be; and the times Crowley reminds him of how brave he actually always has been.

And Aziraphale needs even the great big awful rows, the ones that end in their standing on opposite verges of another chasm of their own making. Because the culmination of such a fight is always the meeting again in the middle. It’s the low sweeping bow of their apology, a ritual not half earnest for all its facetiousness, which says so much without either of them having to utter a word. Crowley holds a whole conversation in the dip of his fiery head and the exaggerated flutter of his elegant wrists, when it’s his turn; and, when it’s Aziraphale’s, the hashing-out of differences is there in the way he executes each familiar movement with the practiced ease of a faithful courtier, though it’s been ages since he stood in any king’s court.

He needs the knowledge that they always forgive each other. Because, well, they do. They must. They will. What’s a spat or a quarrel or even a proper falling-out to two beings like them, to him and Crowley?

Aziraphale needs Crowley’s happiness. His truest happiness. If that isn't the crux of it all, what is?

He remembers the ancient light of Crowley's joy, how it had shone once about both of them like an aura through the blackness of undeveloped space. It never left, all that bright, barely reined-in giddiness, all that frenetic energy, but he's transmuted it, magpie-like, into something else. Aziraphale can sense it whenever Crowley brings him a new vintage record to add to his collection. Whenever Crowley pulls out Aziraphale’s chair for him outside Marguerite's, or orders just what he likes for him at the Ritz. Whenever he drops into the shop unannounced with a little box tucked under his arm, full of gorgeous petits fours from the new bakery Aziraphale hasn’t yet tried, and says, gleeful, Ohhh, you wouldn’t believe all the wiling I had to do to get my hands on these, angel. You’ll have to thwart me for this, I know. But first—no, no, no, first! The only sensible thing for you to do would be to try them… you’ll like the pear macaron...

And of course Crowley is right. He's right about most things, isn't he, after all? Because Crowley knows him, and he needs to be known, but it simply wouldn't do for anyone else to be the one doing the knowing.

Aziraphale likes the pear macaron, just as Crowley knew he would.

He likes all the things that come along with Crowley, really. The fast car, oh yes, sleek and stylishly classic and so very Crowley through and through, though Aziraphale has committed staunchly to grousing about it. The way no companionable silence held in Crowley's company is ever truly silent. The jaunts to the park on seasonable days: Crowley's touch lingering where he pours frozen peas for the ducks into Aziraphale's cupped palm; the fondness in Crowley's tone poorly disguised as he points out his favorite mated pair trawling placidly across the pond. The drinking together long past the small hours of the morning in the back room of the bookshop, where the walls are the same warm ochre shade as Crowley’s eyes.

It isn't ever so much about the drinking as it is about the together bit. How the space between them dwindles with the syrupy passage of time. How Crowley softens and melts into the settee. How he becomes Aziraphale's to watch, for once. How he grows so wondrously relaxed and gloriously at home there in Aziraphale's space that Aziraphale begins to wonder if this will at last be the night Crowley does not, eventually, get up and retreat back to his Bentley to take himself away again...

There is always that fragile little moment, right after sobering up, when everything in their universe seems at the same time to be entirely too set in stone and entirely too much as though it all hangs by one delicate, dissembling thread. Always the split second in which Aziraphale looks into Crowley's guileless face and remembers he could unravel everything with a single tug.

Yes, one sharp tug on the lapels of Crowley's jacket would do it, he knows. How easily it could be done... Tumble the two of them into one another, just then, and they would never be parted again. And his deft-tongued Crowley would lick the heat and the aftertaste of Talisker into Aziraphale's mouth, then, before it had the chance to dissipate completely.

He could. He could.

It's in those stretched milliseconds, brimming with a tender longing so acute it tips right over into an agony, that Aziraphale realizes: I do need all of you, darling, don't I? So terribly much it might unmake me one day. Never mind Aziraphale's most fickle and blustering attempts at denial, he knows this to be true as he knows the truth of little else in the cosmos.

And perhaps today is that day—the day Aziraphale will dissolve and be remade in the permanent shape of lack.