#so i went with a nice blazer that aria probably picked out for them

[r0ryy]

they are talking shit

[myidlethinkings]

I Guess We’re Falling Out

My own girlfriend angel and I started writing a Crowley ran off with Antichrist, now him and Aziraphale are raising Adam as their own child story. It goes with my Gabriel headcanon that he’s not the best of sorts, but he’s not the complete villain some have made him out to be (and Raphael is his Other, headcanoned in our minds as a Tom Hardy sort. We call them the Ineffable Flowers.)

Chapter One: Well Then.

Aziraphale swung the door shut on the young, crying, woman.

Eugh, a wasted mid-morning. Every so often, every few years or so there was always one. Well. Not just women. Men too. All manners of people on the spectrum of gender. Once there had even been a couple. He supposed that was the occupational hazard of having a demon as a friend. Crowley didn’t even mean for it to happen most of the time. A conversation, a nod, brushed shoulders in an elevator, heavens, even just the sight of his face still and enigmatic behind those shades would set people to follow, would crave his attention.

And sometimes, due to their acquaintanceship, these lost souls would spill onto the doorstep of his bookshop where Aziraphale would have to tend to their bruised hearts.

Yes, I know, dear.

Oh, I quite understand.

Please, have a biscuit.

He is truly not worth it, oh, indeed.

This one, however, had actually seemed Crowley’s type, and the thought of that had unsettled him. An amateur astronomer, they had apparently met at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich one solstice. They had shared many a night underneath a blanket of stars as she had shared with him the subject of the thesis she desperately wanted to pursue one day. He had never seemed to need a telescope, the woman – Aria – had said as if using hers was just for show and he had pointed to the sky in the correct direction at every turn without even properly looking, “As if he had flung them into being himself”.

A pot of tea, three Custard Creams, and a sympathetic best to forget about him, dear and he had managed to be rid of her.

He was sorting through The Romantics (with a subconscious heavy thud to the collection of that awful cretin Byron) when the ring of the bell over the door sounded and Crowley came moseying in, saying nothing as his long-limbed figure flopped on the couch.

“Afternoon, dear,” Aziraphale greeted him.

“Izzit?”

“Mm, a little past four.”

“Ghastly hour,” the demon yawned with a jaw that seemed to unhinge in a most inhuman way, “Neither here nor there. Five at least is interesting. Three at least is respectable. Four is…A Geography teacher in a bad suit.”

“Were you napping? You could continue it here if you’d like.”

Crowley rolled on to his back after shouldering out of his blazer, discarding it to the carpet and stretched, “Wouldn’t be in your way?”

“Never,” Aziraphale moved over to the door and hung up the closed sign, then casually, as if he’d just remembered, “Oh. An Aria paid a visit earlier.”

He was hoping for a pause and a confused “Who?” – like he’d said about Beth, about James, about Caroline, Jessica, Trish, about Caitlin, about Benjamin, about Fiona and Kenneth…

But instead, there was a soft, “..Oh.” which very definitely resounded with recognition and even a note of sadness.

“I told her to forget about you of course…Was I wrong to do so?”

He turned and Crowley’s expression was hidden behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale moved to sit in the seat opposite him, his voice a little tight, “Oh Crowley, I am sorry if I did wrong.”

“Hmm?” Crowley then gestured dismissively, “No, of course, you didn’t, Aziraphale. You can’t, remember?”

Aziraphale tutted at the gentle teasing.

“Thought I recognised her is all.”

A simple statement, but Aziraphale’s face softened. Ah. This again. The elusive Nannerl. Crowley convinced that every so often souls would be weaved back into the history of humanity. A child prodigy who had been taken from royal court to court alongside her brother, and while he had grown to fill the century with musical notes long remembered, she had been relegated to a mere footnote in history. Crowley had been searching for her ever since.

“Not her then?”

Crowley made a negating sound, “Thought for certain… with the name this time that the universe was trying to be funny… But it’s still just a big cockup of a lark… Anyway, she’ll make her own mark, Aziraphale. She’ll be one of the primary colours of this century.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly. He made the mistake of Crowley noticing, as he rolled his eyes and moved to his side, his back to the angel, “Oh don’t start.”

The smile deepened.

“I said stop it. Can’t nap when you’re smiling.”

Aziraphale went back to his books, but the smile remained. As the hours wiled away and the light began to dim, the angel’s eyes began to become bleary. He had never taken to Crowley’s habit of sleeping, but time began to drift as he began to pass in a meditative state.

The angel dreamed.

Or the closest to what dreams were in this half awake, half trance state.

The flitter flutter of memories. Senses. Flashes of colour. Half murmured conversations.

The feel of rain. It had been a nice day.

He came back with a hand on his shoulder.

A soft, “Aziraphale.”

For a moment he was caught between two worlds and his voice was half slurred as he asked, “Do you still have it?”

“Have it?”

Vague thoughts of rats scurrying off, of dancing feet, ebb away to nothing.

He was still sitting at his desk with Keats open before him, the question hanging in the air and fading to irrelevance now he’d been pulled back to reality.

“Oh, Crowley, nothing. I fear I drifted.”

Bright Star laid open to the world that existed for an angel and a demon in a bookshop. Aziraphale’s thoughts were back on the woman and Crowley had moved him to draw upon an old conversation with an old acquaintance that had inspired the poem… Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley’s eyes scanned the words.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

With a flourished and speckled ink accompanying the poem “For you and Yours, Mr Fell. Thank you again for your patronage.”

He slammed the book shut and for some reason blushed.

“I didn’t know you met Keats,” there was a dismissive sniff in Crowley’s words at the pretentious prose that rankled the angel.

Aziraphale was up, and slotted the book back in an almost defensive motion, “Was probably when you were having one of your sulks.”

Crowley balked, “I– wh– My sulks- I do not- I-”

The confusion from the demon at the barb stung Aziraphale’s conscience and he rubbed his temple, “I’m sorry, Crowley. My mind is just rather… I’ve been at it too long,” he gestured at the books, “Cataloguing them with a new system, and…” he offered an apologetic smile.

“New system, I’m impressed,” Crowley pulled a face but then gave his own smile, “No need to apologise. The ire was earned. After all,” He raised his hands in a dramatic shrug, “What would your plebeian demon know of literary matters?”

The self-deprecating jest only managed to make Aziraphale sad in a way he couldn’t express. He knew things abundantly. He had a wealth of knowledge, the very universe within him. He had always sought out the thinkers of history. He'd…He’d gifted humanity knowledge! Aziraphale shied away from that thought, aware that it dangerously bordered on some sort of sacrilege. But still. It had been hard not to think of such things when Aziraphale had looked upon a new discovery, a new philosophy, had walked through the great museums of the world, ever-evolving.

Aziraphale’s voice was prim in response as he stood from his desk, “Plenty. Now. Am I to assume you were going to suggest we should partake in some food?” The rest of the books could wait, and he desperately wanted to steer their conversation towards lighter subjects. Towards things that didn’t involve souls Crowley would most likely never see again, or at least for a very, very long time. Towards things that they could discuss more easily. Topics that Aziraphale didn’t feel so rotten because they made him behave most unangelic.

Crowley grinned, “And some alcohol to water it down. You know me so well.”

Aziraphale moved over and picked up Crowley’s blazer he had left on the carpet and helped him back into it, his fingers lingering a second longer than they should to straighten the shoulders, “Any ideas?”

“Ohhh…” Crowley lazily drawled, the sort of sound Aziraphale knew as the demon having a lot on his mind but little to say, “Was thinking we could just go for a wander and see what’s out there to tempt us?”

Aziraphale gave him a look, but stayed his thoughts on the matter of Crowley obviously goading him to say something, and the two left the bookshop without another word.

They wandered down the street. It was getting late and under the cover of night, Aziraphale felt both safe and a little emboldened. He told himself he missed the easy affection of olden days, where men in suits and top hats could wrap their arm around a comrade as they enjoyed a stroll and nothing was thought of it, and it took a swallow and three heartbeats before he nudged closer and linked his arm through Crowley’s.

The demon said nothing. No motion or change in his step or even a look acknowledging Zira’s sudden need for contact. And that made it all the worse. He should be saying something. Turning to Aziraphale, raising a brow, a “well, that’s new”, but instead they just continued walking.

Well, he couldn’t take his arm back now… Couldn’t ignore the hammering of his heart either. The darn human thing was thumping faster than a hummingbird’s wings and Aziraphale was trying his hardest to keep his steps even. He didn’t want to pull away at this point even if it meant he could breathe easily again, and Crowley really didn’t seem to mind. Or Aziraphale hoped. Physical contact between the two had never been their thing. They’d always walked and sat by one another, a safe distance between them to any onlookers. Close enough that it could be seen that they were at the least companions, but far enough that no one would think more on the matter of the two.

The thought that perhaps Crowley wasn’t so unused to this crossed his mind. Did the humans he’d been around lock arms in such a way? Had they done more? Had they held his hand as they looked up at the night sky with him?

“You’ve never taken me stargazing.”

It spilled out without him realising it and he was mortified at the accompanying hint of petulance in the words too.

…But it was true.

The most he had ever gotten out of him was in some of their run-ins happening at night. He would notice how Crowley would usually be looking up at the sky, slitted eyes staring at the marvel of it.

And just once… once Crowley had noted, “Jupiter is especially bright tonight.”

“Jupiter?”

“There.” He pointed to the distant planet, Aziraphale followed his line of sight…

“Oh. Oh, it is… That’s beautiful.” He murmured in awe. Her wonders truly did have no bounds to the glorious things they were able to see in their shared time on earth.

“Mmm.” Crowley hummed, eyes still focused above, “Lot of beautiful things up there.”

There was a pause as they continued to gaze heavenward. Aziraphale licked his lips, “I’m afraid I don’t know as much of galaxies and planets as I could. Or should, rather.” So many tasks needed him to guide humans by stars, he really ought to know them better.

“That’s because your head is stuffed with what they can do with flour and honey,” Crowley had dryly replied, head tilting down finally to look at the angel, his face blank save the curl of his lip as he hissed, “Sssso, what’s the target for the blessing next week?”

And that was all he said of the matter. He’d been a bit in one of his moods, and Aziraphale never pushed further to hear more from the demon.

He should have pushed…

“Ah,” Crowley brought him back to Soho, “That’s what’s gotten you in a mood.”

“Me, in a mood? I’m never in moods!”

Crowley let out a soft snort, “Aziraphale, you’ve never asked.”

As if it should be so simple, Aziraphale thought with his own annoyed retort building in his mind. He took a breath to respond when a flash of gold and the embers of a held cigarette snared his gaze, catching him off guard, and he turned suddenly fearful, but the figure was gone and… he must have mistaken the sight. Nerves high given the dangerous subject he was dancing on. He was really only good at the Gavotte and this was on the edge of a flaming sword he no longer possessed. He turned back to Crowley who was giving him a puzzled look at his sudden jerking. Aziraphale shook his head and cleared his throat. He gave up on the biting remark he had lost too in his worry, instead settling for gentle.

“Do I need to?“ Should I have ever had to?

The demon was quiet as he regarded him. Sometimes he was so damned unreadable to the angel, which was a stark contrast to his usual melodramatic flair. It made Aziraphale nervous. And he wondered if Crowley was doing it intentionally.

He desperately needed to fill in the silence and he spilled out, "Do you love her?”

Stop it.

“…Who?”

“The Mozart woman.”

He knew it was a ridiculous question before he’d even asked it. And he knew it unfair to ask. He knew the question was immaterial. But his hands were trembling and something was building up inside of him and he couldn’t explain what so he focused on anything.

Crowley tilted his head and the words came out bitterly, “Demons can’t love, remember? That was pulled from us in our Unnaming. Isn’t that what your holy brethren and sistren think?”

The angel’s breath hitched, “That’s not true. I mean. They do– but they’re wrong… Oh, my dear, forgive me. I’m all out of sorts.” He brought his other hand to his face. Why was he so caught in tormenting them both with this line of questioning? Why was he ruining what should be another nice evening of new food and wine and dialogue on the newest inventions by humans, or… or ending at his bookshop as many a night did, a good bottle and his record player going as they talked about various philosophies and what did 42 have to do with anything, anyway?

Crowley dislodged his arm and stepped away from Aziraphale to look vaguely at a display menu outside of a restaurant. Aziraphale hoped the conversation was done, though he mourned the loss of the arm twined with his own. He stepped forward himself sheepishly and looked in the window, absently remarking, “Oh, this place does those crème brûlée cupcakes. Shall we try here tonight?”

Crowley said nothing.

“…My dear?” Aziraphale prodded.

“What is it that you want, angel?” Crowley’s voice wasn’t angry, but it held an overwhelming distance. Something so far and away from the angel that he didn’t like it. Something the angel couldn’t place but it was so detached from him that he felt he might even understand the loss of Her. “What do you want of me?”

Aziraphale went still. He opened his mouth at first to try to answer that gnocchi might be nice but his voice fell silent. He had a feeling of a not so distant ringing in his ears that he was being cruel.

Crowley continued, circling around him, “This is your speed. What you wanted. No faster.” He stopped when he’d completed his round around the angel, looking back to the window, “I can’t do anything more than this. I’ve hit the bloody parking brake.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He knew. Heavens he knew this was the limit he’d set. He’d even allowed himself to forget there ever was a set tempo. That nothing had shifted since the flask of holy water… Since the saved books… Since a hurled “fraternising.”

He slowly lifted his hand and placed it on the back of Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley turned to him, his darkly embered hair glowing under the halo of a streetlight.

Aziraphale stammered, “I… I never… said a full stop, my dear.”

In one breath Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale and he stepped back involuntarily, bumping into the brick behind him. Crowley was leaning in, his arm resting above’s Aziraphale’s head, and seeing what was about to happen the angel panicked. He placed a firm, flat palm to Crowley’s chest, halting him. His eyes flickered from his friend’s lips to the confused eyes, and with all of the regret of his existence in his words, he whispered, “I… But I am sorry. We can’t.”

They couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. If they were caught. If their sides were…

If he ever let himself openly love Crowley…

Crowley blinked a moment at the hand that had stopped him, his expression playing out from one of dumbfounded shock, to realization, to a disgusted sneer, and he moved back, the dark glow of his eyes visible behind his shades. His sclera was missing entirely as he looked with some emotion that made Zira feel sick. The moment was gone, brushed away in a single moment of fear. But Aziraphale had left a new wound.

Betrayal rang out in Aziraphale’s mind. Judas wasn’t so cruel.

Crowley slouched back away from Aziraphale’s touch, as cool and casual as he could, despite the burning he felt at the cloth of his shirt. The angel’s touch was always so warm. He propped a leg against the brick of the restaurant, arms crossed, his face now neutral, giving away none of the intent that had just been there. Then, as if discussing the weather he clicked his tongue, looked away towards the crowds passing by, gaze lingering on one innocent couple wrapped up in each other, “…I’m actually not hungry. I think I’m gonna leave, angel.”

There was an undertone of a certain truth in those words but Aziraphale didn’t want to fathom what they meant.

He kept his voice light, “…Alright, dear. Monet exhibit on Sunday?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, “-z'it Monet or Manet again?”

“Most definitely Monet.”

“Right,” the lazy tone again, “You like the pastels,” he then made a bit of a sound indicating a farewell and sauntered off down the street, out of the light and into the shadows.

Aziraphale knew he was a bastard.

Three years. It wasn’t for three years until the demon appeared again. Standing there one late evening in his bookshop, clinging to a basket, with a sob in his throat and a shiver in his words.

“Angel,” he said, “I’ve done something really stupid.”

The story so far can be found on our AO3 (WHICH TOOK DAYS FOR US TO GET AN INVITATION, THE HECK, BACK IN OUR DAY IT WAS FF AND YOU SIGNED UP, THAT WAS IT).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399233/chapters/48385201