Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sounds of laughter shades of life are ringing
Through my open ears inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns
And calls me on and on across the universe

Lennon–McCartney, Across the Universe

Babylon - 927 BC

Aziraphale sighs, watching the feminine form that saunters through the hot and dusty markets of Babylon. He’s tucked away behind a merchant's rack of silks, on an intelligence-gathering mission of great importance (he justifies in his head, but the truth is that he just can't help himself staring).

Crawley has returned to Babylon.

The demon is dressed to the nines, like some erotic dancer, and he's catching more than eyes as he meanders along from stall to stall. People seem to flock to him, mostly men, but Crawley doesn't seem interested in any of them. If anything he looks tired, shoulders slumped and face flat, and Aziraphale can empathize. It's been a few hundred years since he's last seen Crawley (also in Babylon), and it feels refreshing to be in the presence of another ethereal—no, occult—entity among the mortals (bless their hearts, and their inventive minds, but Aziraphale can hardly keep up with how quickly they come and go).

For his part, he's been stuck in Babylon for what feels like ages now. His dispute with Gabriel over a possible relocation fell on deaf ears. There's a lot happening in Babylon these days, what with the Assyrians. It can't be helped.

Aziraphale sighs again.

He moves like water, doesn't he? That wily demon. Does he know he's doing that?

With a futile attempt at swallowing, his throat suddenly parched, he clips down the line of vendors, keeping just far enough to go unnoticed.

Perhaps it isn't such a good idea to stalk his adversary like this. Stalking is dishonest, dirty work; a demon's job, he tells himself—though it doesn't stop him. He's on thwarting duty, after all, and he can only assume that tracking the forces of Hell is part of his job description… since he’s never actually seen his job description.

Wouldn't it be the greater evil to let the demon go unsupervised?

Of course it would.

Crawley positively slinks through the marketplace, his long curls flowing elegantly into the folds of his shawl, accented with bits of gold. He could easily be mistaken for a succubus in an outfit like that; showing off just a hint of midriff. How dare he dress so… so!

Gosh, he is a thing of pure beauty, isn't he?

Angels aren't supposed to want for things, but Aziraphale wants to watch him move—to learn his methods, of course.

Besides, at a distance it doesn't feel so wrong to appreciate the demon’s aesthetic qualities. Aziraphale was struck by him from that first moment in Eden, but he’s very good at shoving that aside whenever Crawley draws near. It's not like he wants to do anything about this attraction. Crawley is beauty for beauty’s sake, and Aziraphale simply wants to look at him. Like art. God created all things, and Crawley too. Aziraphale is merely appreciating one of Her creations.

It's almost forgivable—almost—that Aziraphale doesn't notice those serpent eyes focus in on him before quickly hopping back to the crowd. The angel does, however, pick up on the way bits of produce start to stray from out of baskets and roll toward the hungry and less fortunate as Crawley passes by, and the way that merchants' golden trinkets fade to bronze as he snickers and picks through them.

None of that seems particularly wicked to Aziraphale, but it must be; Crawley's a demon, after all. Wicked is what he does. He even has the nerve to smile as he does it.

Aha! That must be the evil part! No one should be having fun while on the job.

Aziraphale certainly doesn't have fun like that when he works. He smiles, sure, in that way that makes humans feel comfortable around a stranger, then he does his good deeds and hurries home to his (growing) collection of scrolls. He'd much rather be left alone, if he's honest with himself—which he rarely is.

That must be what separates good and evil. Enjoying work would be like… like… indulging! There is a time for toil and a time for play and ne'er the twain shall meet, for that is the path to certain… buggery.

Aziraphale brushes off his robes and manages to look pleased with himself, quite sure that he has figured out something that will give him a leg up on his arch-nemesis. Unfortunately, his small victory is short-lived as he loses sight of said nemesis around the curving street.

Aziraphale pops out from behind the row clay furnaces he's hidden against, and twists to scan the crowd. No fiery curls in sight, no flowing black silks on pale skin, no golden eyes with knife-slit pupils. No Crawley.

He steps out into the centre of the market, giving courteous nods as he tries not to run into anyone, but there's no sign of the demon anywhere.

Blast it! Where the devil did he go?

He's about to give up and go home, when a voice whispers over his shoulder.

"Hello, angel."

"Good Heavens!" Aziraphale jumps. A chill runs down his spine from the breath that hits his ear.

"That's debatable," Crawley says in a jovial manner, "but let's not talk about work." As he stalks around into view, Aziraphale notices that all hint of slouch has left the demon's shoulders.

"How's life treating you?"

"Life?" Aziraphale parrots back, perplexed by the question. What an oddly human thing to ask. "Life is work, Crawley. I am a servant of God,” he asserts, quite dignified and… assertive.

Crawley looks as though he's trying to bite back a laugh, which would be insulting if it didn't make his eyes crinkle in a most delightful way. "So what, you haven't been finding things to occupy your free time?"

"Well, maybe…" Aziraphale has to consider this. Should a demon be allowed to know his Earthly hobbies? What if Crawley told someone? He could get in trouble for enjoying himself. Couldn’t he? "But it counts as research. For work."

"Oh?” The expression on Crawley’s wide-eyed face can only be described as provocative. “And what have you been ‘researching’, angel?"

"Everything." Aziraphale gestures around them, suddenly energetic for no reason at all. "Text; the written word; is an outstanding invention! Like peering into their minds. I could spend hours reading all the stories they’ve come up with… I do spend hours, that is. Studying. It's quite rigorous."

"Is that so?" Crawley grins, all sly and irksome. "I was wondering when you'd make the switch to papyrus."

"It is. And I'll have you know that cuneiform tablets have many advantages when it comes to longevity." Aziraphale puffs out his chest, seeking to re-establish their boundaries. He is an angel, and Crawley is a demon; demons have no business striking up friendly conversation with angels. "Now, what do you want with me, foul fiend?"

"Want? From you?" Crawley motions to himself, brows arched shockingly high. A child runs by them and a plum flies from a nearby table and lands in her hands. "What could a demon possibly want from an angel?"

Aziraphale isn't sure why, but that hurts. Crawley, the handsome tart, doesn't want anything from him? He came all the way back to Babylon and hadn't even thought to look Aziraphale up? Is he not making enough of an effort to challenge his rival?

"Oh, don't give me that look, angel," Crawley groans, rolling his eyes. “I didn't mean it that way. Look… you alright?"

Aziraphale frets over a wrinkle he's just noticed in his white linens. His nails are perfectly immaculate and don’t catch on the fabric one bit.

"No. Yes. I mean. I am—alright. It's just… do you ever want for… company?" He finds himself asking, and immediately feels guilty for it.

"Alcohol, angel." Crawley pats him on the shoulder. "Give it a try."

"Alcohol?"

"Mhm. Humans are blessing the stuff left and right, offering it to their 'gods'. I figured there must be something in it that's got them so worked up."

"Blessing food?" Aziraphale reflects with a hint of wonder. Oh, there are possibilities in that! "I'd never considered… that wouldn’t be much of a sin, would it?"

Crawley smiles, and drifts forward through the street.

As if on cue, Aziraphale catches a whiff of something lightly spiced and savory; roast lamb. It's a scent that's been taunting him over the years. Many of the humans' culinary inventions seemed so… appetising, for lack of a better word. Gross matter, the other angels call it, but there's nothing gross about the smell of fresh-baked flatbread and pork, or leek and onion stew.

He's about to ask Crawley if they should try some food together—maybe he could even introduce Aziraphale to a drink of this ‘alcohol' substance—but by the time he focuses back on the conversation, Crawley has wandered ahead of him, hips swaying gently in the direction of the city's western gate.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Aziraphale calls after him, shuffling his sandals along to catch up.

"Sorry, wish I could stay and chat,” Crawley turns on his heels to wave at him through the crowd, “but I've got a temptation to get on with in Jerusalem."

"Already? You've only just—" Aziraphale holds his tongue. He's not longing for the demon's company. He's not.

Crawley raises a brow at him, so prominently that Aziraphale can make it out from the distance. "'s for some Solomon guy. I've got to go meet up with a lady from Sheba. Getting late!"

He turns away and then he's gone, and Aziraphale is left in a sea of mortals who will never know the things he does for them. Humble folks (and not so humble, but it’s not for Aziraphale to judge them… that’s all upper management) that he can’t even have one honest conversation with.

But Crawley seems honest, doesn't he? It's such a shame he can't be trusted. The thought leaves an awful taste in Aziraphale’s mouth as he returns home to pick through his scrolls, and he tries very hard not to think about it, or any of the other implications it might have.

He doesn't know this now, but many years will pass before he sees Crawley again, and every one of them will suck.

Somewhat South-west of Damascus - 814 BC

It is on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, trapped in a bottle, that Crawley perfects the art of sleeping. What else does one have but dreams while stuck inside a FUCKING bottle?

Solomon will pay for it, once Crawley figures out how the Heaven he's supposed to get out. He'll pay for it if Crawley has to drag him to Hell personally. Wrath isn't his style, really, but there’s a time for everything, and being enslaved by a human justifies many things in the mind of a demon. Hell, it justifies many things, full-stop.

When he sleeps, he mostly dreams of the things he'll do to Solomon once he's free… and, sometimes, of Aziraphale's smile following him through Babylon. That stopover on the way to Sheba was worth it just to see the look on the angel’s face.

It's so lonely in the desert. No faces here. Just Crawley and a glass wall.

Many years pass, who knows how long exactly, but then something happens. Crawley wakes one day to a great wind outside his prison, and noise like something lapping and slurping on the walls. The bottle tumbles around, swirling the vaporous essence that is Crawley inside of it, and then he's released into the burning sun, half sick and very put off. He’s about to rain down all his pent-up wrath on whoever's responsible, but then he notices two things: one is that he's free, which is very nice, actually; and the other is that there's a shaggy creature sitting in front of him, staring with big eyes and a lolling tongue.

A dog? A bloody stray dog? The thing looks like it's expecting something from him, so Crawley summons up a bone for it and pats it on the head.

“There you are,” Crawley says, awkwardly. What else do you say to a dog? “Good boy.”

He drops the bone on the ground and turns away, ready to stalk off toward Jerusalem, when—

"You're a jinn, aren't you?" A boy’s voice pops into his head, all bright and full of mischief.

Crawley's eyes go wide.

What the Heav—just, what?!

He pivots back to look the little beast over, and it winks at him in a way that a dog shouldn’t wink.

A telepathic dog? Yes, of course a bloody telepathic dog! Of course! Because the universe makes so much fucking sense.

"No, I'm your fairy godmother," Crawley grumbles, crossing his arms at it.

The dog wags its tail in the sand. "Will you grant me wishes, jinn?"

"Why the Heaven would I do that?"

"I freed you," the dog reasons. "I am entitled to three wishes, am I not?"

Crawley sinks down into the sand—he's not about to have this conversation standing on his bare feet—and gives the wretched thing his most convincing glower.

"It's not really a rule, no. Solomon was a bit of a dick, so I didn't have much choice there, but you're a dog," Crawley huffs. "My lot owes nothing to you."

The dog puts his head in Crawley's lap. It looks fluffy and soft and just a little bit sad, so Crawley scratches it behind the ears.

"Will you hear my story then?" The dog asks, eyes pleading up at him. "It's not every day that a dog tells stories."

Well, the scruffy thing has a point. In the three-thousand years after Eden, Crawley can't say he's had a chat with a dog before.

"Alright. Fine. If it'll make you happy, get on with it."

"Wonderful!" the dog barks. "My name is Abu. What might I call you, master jinn?"

The dog may be clever, but Crawley's not stupid enough to give his name away to a mortal again. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice… Solomon's going to pay so badly.

"Crowley," Crawley says. Oddly, it sounds better than the truth—there's some food for thought.

"Master Crowley!" The dog barks again, his tail wagging furiously. "Odd name for a jinn."

"Says a dog named Abu."

"Oh, but I'm no dog—I am a person,” Abu whines. “A thief!"

Crawley has seen some ridiculous things in his long life. Technically, he is a ridiculous thing. So it's not a stretch to believe that a telepathic dog named Abu is really a person, who’s also a thief.

"And I was handmaiden to the Queen of Sheba. Strange world, isn't it?"

Abu huffs, seeming to misinterpret Crawley's honesty (he’ll learn later that he has some catching up to do when it comes to popular idioms). "I wouldn't lie to you! I really am a man, but I've been cursed into this shape by a powerful sorcerer in Baghdad."

"Aside from the fact that sorcerers are huge arseholes, what'd you do to deserve that?"

Abu's tail stops wagging. He seems to sink into Crawley's lap. "I fell in love with a man who was imprisoned with me. I didn't know that the man was a sultan… but that's not important—not to me.

"I stood by the man's side when he confronted the sorcerer who had usurped his throne, but he was made blind and I was transformed into his eyes."

So it's about love then? How tragic, Crawley thinks. A starstruck love, doomed to fate. It's the type of thing that gets written into constellations.

Mundane human drivel.

"You say you love this man, and he's relying on you. What're you doing out here then? Get cold feet?" Crawley isn't bitter, but it probably sounds like he is as he pokes at Abu’s wounds.

"My master is brave," Abu says, with little stars in his eyes. "He found the sorcerer again, aboard a ship. The villain planned to steal away my master's beloved princess, and so he tried to stop him. I was thrown overboard."

"How do you get thrown overboard a ship in Baghdad and wind up on the shore of Galilee?" Crawley withdraws his hand and leans away. The dog on his lap feels heavy with misfortune. It's getting uncomfortable.

"You're the one who performs miracles." Abu gets to his feet and yelps. "You tell me!"

Crawley could imagine several methods available to a sorcerer in possession of a strong enough demon. All of them made his skin crawl.

"Doesn't matter, I suppose. What're you planning on doing about it?" Crawley asks, standing and brushing off his robes.

A dog's not about to live long crossing the desert on its own, Crawley’s mind offers up. Poor thing.

"The only plan is the one that God has written for us. I've been placed on this shore, and so have you, jinn. It's not a coincidence."

Crawley doesn’t hide his sneer. Fuck God’s plan. He has half a mind to leave the poor sod right then and there. But… then again… Here’s this defenseless creature, lost and alone in a blistering desert. A victim. If God planned any of this, it’s just another one of Her cruelties, and working to right God’s cruel plans; undermine Her authority… that’s demons’ work.

"As you've said, I'm a jinn—a demon—are you sure you want to make a deal with me, doggy?"

Abu bounces in circles, and stands up eagerly on his hind legs. "You seem like a nice enough demon to deal with."

Crawley flinches. Abu’s really pushing his luck with the language there. "How would you know?"

"As you've said, I'm a dog. Dogs have a sixth sense for the heart of a man."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but demons don't have hearts."

Abu falls back onto his front legs and sits, head tilted to the side. "You do,” he says, very matter-of-factly. “Yours isn't in your chest right now, but I can feel it."

Crawley doesn’t know what to say to that. He stares in silence and considers, just for a moment, lighting the mutt on hellfire.

"I'll make a deal with you, demon. I'll lend you my human heart until you find your own, I have no use for it when my master loves another. In exchange you must bring me back to him in Baghdad."

“You realize you’ll damn yourself to Hell, right? I mean, it’s not like it bothers me any, but I don't have much use for a human heart, either.”

Abu snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t think either of those things are true, and it’s all I have to offer.”

You know, Crawley thinks, having a human heart for a while might be fun. He’s never tried that before. And when would he have the opportunity to try again?

"I’ve only just gotten free of that bloody bottle.” He puts on a show of resistance, waving his hands out to the side like he’s just received an insult. He doesn’t want to seem too curious over Abu’s offer. “And you want me to fly you back over to Babylon?"

“Baghdad.” The dog’s puppy eyes seem to fill with too-human tears.

"Fine. Alright. Stop making that face, will you?”

“Yes! Whatever you say, Master Crowley.” Abu jumps up at his chest, and Crawley barely manages to catch him with one arm.

Hmm. That name does have a ring to it. Much better than the image ‘Crawley’ conjures; all slithering-at-your-feet like. Maybe he'll try it out for a bit.

“We best be off then. I have some unfinished business in Jerusalem, but I wouldn't mind a detour through Babylon."

They fly over the dunes on Crawley’s black wings, and on the way Abu tells him all about life on the streets of Baghdad, and of stealing bread and escaping prison cells. Crawley finds that the company isn't half bad. The pup has a knack for causing trouble, and Crawley even picks up a thing or two. (Pasting coins to roads while picking the pockets of distracted passersby? He could work something out of that.) When they arrive in Baghdad, he turns the dog back into a young man, and gives him a bow and an arrow that will strike the sorcerer without fail—and without the possibility of hitting innocent bystanders should he miss (which he probably will).

Crawley wishes him well, and his new human heart beats wildly in his chest.

The desert is a lonely place when you're a demon, but it's best not to get invested in humans, Crawley thinks to himself as he secretly moves the fates. Abu might still, miraculously, find love someday… before his short life runs out.

Love is a sort of temptation, isn't it?

Chapter Text

Ecbatana - 324 BC

The past few decades after Crawley reappeared in Aziraphale’s life have been puzzling, to say the least. For one, his appearances in Babylon were becoming more frequent. He seemed to seek Aziraphale out, for exchanges of friendly—there was no other word for it—gossip. Their conversations were habit-forming, ranging from philosophy to whatever new thing Aziraphale had eaten for lunch that day, and everything in between.

It was… lovely, having someone to talk to, someone who understood, but Aziraphale did his best to remain impartial. He only let his smile slip into genuine glee on occasion; perhaps once per visit.

Then Alexander came along, and for months Crawley spoke of little else. While he had problems with Alexander as a concept, the demon seemed fascinated with him as a person. He had been going on and on, positively gushing over the companionship between the King and his loyal Hephaestion. 

“It's like Achilles and Patroclus all over again!" he would say, and it left a seed of regret that Aziraphale had missed out on all his enthusiasm the first time around—he’d only heard stories of the events at Troy himself.

(Of course, his own request to relocate closer to the area, Athens ideally, was denied.)

He didn’t quite know what to make of it all. Crawley was so giddy and expressive over the whole thing—possessed, one might say. Which is why, upon receiving the news of Hephaestion's death, Aziraphale had to come to Ecbatana.

It only took a minor (superfluous) miracle to reach the city in a timely manner, and if anyone Upstairs asked about it, Aziraphale could always write it off as a mission of Mercy for the grieving souls of the locals. (It wouldn’t be a lie, exactly; just a stretch of the truth. Mostly harmless.)

What he finds on his arrival comes as a shock.

It's autumn, and the land is green and crisp and still as a corpse. The city's battlements lie in ruin, but no war has swept through this place except for the one in Alexander's heart. The city echoes sorrow and fear in equal measure under the King’s demands, and Aziraphale worries for all involved, in the way that an ethereal being who knows what happens to human souls might. 

Outside of Hephaestion's dwelling a carriage has been parked, and practitioners of funerary rites come and go with grim expressions. Aziraphale scans the scene and, sure enough, he is able to spot the distinct blacks and reds of Crawley among the spectators who’ve gathered there. 

My primary concern is the work, of course, Aziraphale thinks to himself as he picks his way through the crowd. There's still a chance that Crawley’s interest in the human lovers might mean Hell is somehow involved; plotting the downfall of another great leader. It's part of Aziraphale’s duty to check it the demon is responsible.

All his excuses go numb the moment he sees Crawley up close.

He’s standing near an open window, watching the King within as if in a trance. He doesn’t even acknowledge Aziraphale’s presence. His beautiful curls are gone, replaced with rough, uneven locks no longer than ear-length; like he might have cut it recently, and without the aid of a mirror.

He looks devastated.

A cold wind rolls in from the west, where snow crowns the mountain peaks, and Aziraphale can’t be sure if the chill that runs through him comes from it or from Crawley. He shuffles in next to him so they can speak in hushed tones. 

"Gabriel told me what happened. I came as soon as I could.” 

Crawley clutches at the fabric covering his chest, and his shoulders curl in ever so slightly. Aziraphale’s heart twinges in response.

"The poor sod never even had the chance to say goodbye," Crawley mutters, in the kind of flat way that takes too much effort to achieve.

Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure how to handle the situation; not even angels lament the passing of a few humans; so he says what comes to his mind without a chance to second-guess it, "Hephaestion must have known how he felt. Some things don't need to be said."

Crawley peels his eyes away from Alexander, crumpled and shaking on the bed next to Hephaestion's linen-wrapped body, and looks at Aziraphale as though he's just seen him for the first time.

"No, I guess not."

The sounds of the city's misery fill the space between them, both not knowing what else to say. It isn't an awkward silence, but there's something lurking in it, and it makes Aziraphale's insides turn.

Seconds tick by, and Aziraphale sighs and twists his fingers into the length of his chiton.

"I haven't checked in with Downstairs yet. Did your lot get him?" Crawley finally musters, voice brittle. It’s a clear attempt at normalcy.

"Oh… I didn't ask." Aziraphale can tell the smile he flashes falls short, and Crawley turns back to the window.

In the relative privacy, Aziraphale can take note of the expression on Crawley’s face. His brow sags, the muscles of his jaw clench, and the whites of his eyes are rimmed with red. He looks like a desperate thing—something straight out of Hell—which is not at all how Aziraphale pictured him in the past. It makes Aziraphale feel… complicated. 

How he wishes there was something he could do to soothe the painful lines of that frown. But what could an angel do to comfort a demon? What can he offer to someone that his side has abandoned?

Oh, he really shouldn’t have come here. He’s going to have to fib on his paperwork now (far more than he expected).

A demon shouldn't be in mourning. A demon shouldn't be oozing with Compassion. It doesn't add up with what Heaven preaches—it doesn't feel right—and it's hard not to examine that disconnect in a place that's so charged with the complexity of human emotion.

The voices in the crowd sniffle and sneer and whisper of treason. Alexander cries out through the window for all to see. He razed temples and executed physicians, and had to be pried away from his lover's body before it could be tended to properly. Two days without food or sleep, and he's still in a fit. It's a sight hard to reconcile with the fearless leader who conquered these lands—like he's been stripped of his divinity.

Crawley inches in closer, almost touching but not quite, and if it weren’t for the people surrounding them Aziraphale would be stretching a wing out to shelter him, just as he had in Eden. The impulse is strong even with the witnesses nearby.

Then the thought hits Aziraphale, like the inevitable pierce of sunlight through a breaking thunderhead: 

What would he do if one day Crawley ceased to be?

Would he raze buildings and condemn those responsible?

Oh dear. That’s not something he should think. Razing cities is technically an angelic act, if Sandalphon’s example of Sodom and Gomorrah is any indication, but the death of a demon probably shouldn't spark righteous fury.

It's not like he's even attached— 

Oh, who is he kidding; of course he's attached! They've known each other for nearly four-thousand years. He'd be attached to a cold if he had it for that long. Something that's with you all that time shapes you, whether you like it or not. 

And… Crawley falls reasonably more on the side of 'liking' than a cold would. There's no denying that Aziraphale looks forward to it each time he shows up for a jab. He's frustrating and misguided, sure, but he's also fun to be around, and fun is a concept Aziraphale is growing more and more fond of through the years.

Maybe the humans are on to something? Maybe life is more than what you do; it's also what you feel. Like the taste of fine cuisine, and the myriad of emotions elicited by a good story, and the heart-flutter sensation of gazing on something beautiful. 

Like the full-body warmth of making a friend—an associate—smile.

Crawley's not smiling now. Aziraphale wants to fix this for him—to put Crawley back together somehow—but he doesn't dare try. Instead he stands with him, wordlessly affirming his support.

“Hey, angel,” Crawley eventually moves away, and something in his eyes slips back into place as he looks at him, “can you do me a favor?”

A favor? For a demon? The honed edge of Aziraphale’s mind shouts, but he can’t bring himself to be so firm at the moment.

“Maybe,” he says, knowing it should be no. Maybe is a slippery slope. “It depends.”

Crawley’s eyes fall back to his feet. “Just… don’t tell anyone I was here?”

“Oh—oh no, of course not.” Aziraphale hadn’t even considered that he might. “I’d get in just as much trouble if they knew I had—” 

Well… it's best to let some things go unsaid. 

“Will you be following Alexander back to Babylon?” Back to my place, Aziraphale thinks, and quickly squashes the thought.

“No.” Crawley shakes his head. “I don’t think your side would like that.”

Aziraphale can feel himself go red from ear to ear, so suddenly exposed. He wants to tell Crawley that he’s being awfully presumptuous, and that he misunderstood the question. He wants to somehow assert that the demon’s presence is, in fact, unwelcome in the city that Aziraphale has blessed. He wants to do anything but bumble around his next words.

“I—you—no one—” Aziraphale sighs. “You’re probably right.”

Crawley gives him a small smile, and Aziraphale can barely catch his whisper, “Thanks. For…” he shrugs. “You know.”

They part, and just like that another seed is planted in Aziraphale’s mind. It’s probably a fern because it grows in the dark and doesn’t need much attention to thrive. As much as Aziraphale tries to hide it away, every now and then he likes to stroke the soft curls of its leaves.

Because now he's certain of it: Crawley can’t be all bad.

Overlooking Sparta - 322 BC

Summer in Sparta means three things: it’s hot, it’s dry, and the gymnopaedia are out strutting their military prowess for Apollo. Crowley’s found himself a nice rocky outcropping to bask on outside of the city, having decided to enjoy the festival from a distance. 

Apollo is an interesting concept, when he thinks about it; god of the sun, music, healing, and poetry, among other things. Sounds like a sort of angel, if angels put themselves on pedestals. (A bit like Lucifer, before the Fall.) The Hellenes have so many gods and temples and stories—so much character—and the best part is that they came up with it all by themselves.

Did She know all the silly things humans would think up with when She made them? He wonders idly. Did She know they would pick aspects of Her creation to turn into gods of their own? As if they knew a bit of Her existed in everything.  

He shakes the questions from his mind. They're not quite the questions a demon should ask.

With his legs dangling off the ledge, he leans back on the stone. The sky above him is clear blue, and the heat that filters through the olive trees is pleasant as far as he's concerned, but the bustle of everything going on down in the valley is a bit… much.

It’s been nearly five-hundred years, and the heart that Crowley borrowed still beats as if it were a new and fragile thing. It’s like he's developed chronic feelings or something—not that he didn't feel before, but he’s so much more aware of it now.

He gets all weepy-eyed whenever he thinks of his collection of Achilles and Patroclus pastiche, and when he sees happy couples sitting in gardens he wants to throw rocks at them (and not just for a laugh). Worst of all, he's found himself second-guessing many of the temptations he’s been assigned. (It could be that Hell’s upping the ante on him, which doesn't bode well.)

It can be bloody inconvenient, but… it’s not all bad. Especially not the part with music.

He closes his eyes, taking in the distant notes of a kithara and lyre duet, mixing with thunderous cheers as someone executes a particularly impressive discus toss. Music makes his heart do funny things; it inspires his imagination, and makes him want to try new stuff, like dancing. He can feel it in his lungs and bones while it plays, and he’s not sure he would trade that feeling for anything. 

Alone on his overlook with music in the distance, just for a moment, he doesn't have to think of the world and his self-inflicted role in it. It’s lonely, but—

"Crawley?" A familiar voice calls up to him from the trail below. "What are you doing up here?"

Crowley shoots up and hovers his face over the ledge. Down just a stone's throw from him is Aziraphale, dressed in his old chiton and holding a basket of fruit. His eyes are wide, reflecting the sky, with equal parts shock and delight.

Crowley can't help smiling back, but then he catches himself. After the mess he was at Ecbatana, he's been wishing more and more that there was some way to hide his face, without having to wear something as itchy and unfashionable as a mask—he's not that desperate yet. 

Maybe a linen sack? Nah, just as bad.

"Aziraphale!" he calls down. "Didn't know you were in Sparta."

Aziraphale hurries around the winding trail, shouting as he goes. "I only just arrived."

When he makes it to the top Crowley tries to stand, but Aziraphale flits a hand at him, discouraging the movement. He sets his basket between them and lowers himself onto the ledge, and the sunlight hits his hair in a way that makes him glow even brighter than usual.

"I'm here to see that Sparta doesn't join the war—the one against Macedonia," Aziraphale explains. "It would tip the balance in the wrong direction." 

He takes a pear from his basket and holds it out. "Would you like to try?"

Crowley's almost thrown off by the angel's generous mood, but he raises a hand to pass on the offer—not missing the irony. It's not an apple, but close enough.

"That a personal mission, or something from Upstairs?" Crowley flashes him a knowing grin.

"Whatever do you mean, dear boy?" The angel smiles back, innocence beaming off his rounded cheeks.

Crowley rolls his eyes to hide the bloom of pride in them. Aziraphale's had a bias in favor of Macedon, and big government, for a while now, and he had expected the angel to crumble under the weight of Heaven’s lack of cooperation eventually. It’s obvious how much Aziraphale itches to take the initiative and reach for some of his own ideas.

"Oh, come off it, angel. I'm not about to tell anyone."

Aziraphale bites into his pear and shifts around; fidgety, but not in a bad way.

"I'm quite sure Heaven would approve," he reasons. "They're all-for civilizing forces—I think."

"Force sounds about right," Crowley snorts.

"The iron fist of discipline is just another tool in the arsenal of the Righteous," Aziraphale says, as though the slogan should carry a sacred truth, but there’s a hint of Doubt in him.

"Hah!" Crowley laughs, but holds his tongue.

It's almost precious how the angel tries to justify something like brutal war-mongering for the greater good. Crowley himself can't see much difference between Alexander the Great and Xerxes the Great, except that Alexander had style and a better taste in companions.

But he doesn't want to push Aziraphale away right now, so he tries for a change in topic.

"How’re things going for you in Athens, eh?"

"Not well, I'm afraid." Aziraphale looks out on the valley. "The Home Office wasn’t happy about the move.”

“I’ll bet.” Crowley watches him with genuine concern. “They’re not exactly the forgiving type.”

“Well, it’s easier than asking permission.” Aziraphale’s worried smile jumps in place, utterly charming.

“There’s also a that bit of untidiness with the war, of course," he continues, leaning in all conspiratorial. "And that Diogenes fellow! Stirring up civil unrest and flaunting his—his… himself." His cheeks flush pink. "Was he your side's doing?" 

It's fun watching the way Aziraphale squirms, as though indignation were something he learned in Greek comedies.

"Nah, I can't take credit for that one. Though you have to admit, the dog's got a sense of humor," Crowley chuckles and arches a brow at him. 

"It's rather like he's trying to degrade society," Aziraphale huffs.

"I’d say that’s exactly what he’s doing."

If pouting were an art form, Aziraphale would be the Pygmalion of it; able to bring the art to life. He looks so put upon that most humans would assume he's being visited by his in-laws this weekend.

"He's making my work so much more tedious than necessary!"

Crowley smiles at him openly, and the angel huffs again and takes another bite of his pear, but there's a twinkle about him; something clever and warm. Crowley gets the impression that the angel’s playing into his role on purpose, just so they can smile together, and he loves it.

Likes it. A lot. It's… nice.

Thump, thump, thump, says his heart; the cheeky bastard.

Silence falls over them like a warm blanket, and Crowley lays back, with his arms pillowing his head, to kick his feet into the air. The peace between them feels completely different from the peace of being alone with his thoughts. It's not just relaxing; it's… like all's right with the world. 

It's not rational, and it's not a thought that Crowley would ever endorse; it's a feeling—as natural and unobtrusive as a heartbeat. Even the distant music sounds better with Aziraphale around.

When Crowley rolls his head to look at the angel, he notices fingers on the rocks in his periphery. Aziraphale's finished with his snack, and he's leaning back to appreciate the olive trees, propped up on his hands. The one closest to Crowley is bathed in undulating shades of green and yellow as light filters through the leaves.

Just try it, the heart whispers, just reach for him, just this once, just for now.

Crowley's arm untucks from behind his head unbidden, and inches across the distance. The angel's not watching him; he's serenity and bliss, floating in the summer breeze, and how can Crowley not want to touch such a perfect thing?

But then Aziraphale stirs, and Crowley's hand flinches back, flopping uselessly onto the stone. A knot forms in his throat.

Thump, thump, thump.

"Well," Aziraphale says, "that was a nice break, but I really should be getting back to it."

He stands and brushes himself off, and Crowley sits up to watch him, a bit dazed.

"It's Crowley now, by the way,” he says suddenly, and swallows down his nerves. Aziraphale hovers near him just a moment longer. “I changed it."

"Crowley?" Aziraphale hums, and seems to consider the sound of it. "I like that."

If Crowley could still glow like an angel, he probably would right now. His name on Aziraphale's lips feels right.

"Perhaps we'll see each other soon, Crowley." 

There's something hopeful in his tone as he turns and walks away, and Crowley feels his face heat up beyond what the summer sun is guilty for. Even after Ecbatana and Babylon and everything else, the angel wants to see him.

The world can't be all bad.

"Right! Sure," Crowley shouts, a bit belated. "I'll see you around, angel."

It’s the first time Crowley wishes they didn’t have sides.

Chapter Text

Alexandria - 48 BC

The scrolls are on fire.

It’s the only thing Aziraphale can think as another barrage from the catapults shakes the foundation of the library. His library. He can see, through the balcony of his scholar's quarters, that Alexandria is on fire too, but that matters a great deal less. Buildings are far easier to reconstruct than words. What’s a few crumbled bricks compared to generations of knowledge and wisdom lost?

He charges out into the hallway, running in the direction of the building’s heart. It’s hard to believe things have come to this in the first place. With Achillas' execution, Queen Arsinoë's leadership seemed to sway the war in favour of Egypt—even now her forces have the military genius of Caesar and his legion backed into one corner of the city. Her general had been wiping the map clean of Roman forces. Alexandria wasn’t supposed to be so vulnerable!

Now the Library—the greatest one in the world, to which Aziraphale donated his own collection in establishing—is burning. The chaos of the siege has breached the sanctum of the Mouseion, and all hopes that his library might be spared are swallowed in the tides of war. It's Sodom and Gomorrah all over again. Every window he passes is a portrait of destruction. Fire rains down from the ballistarii that Caesar left outside the city gates, and Aziraphale tries not to think about all that power in the hands of humanity.

It's not for me to judge them, he tries to remember, stumbling over his own feet. It's not.

After all, the scrolls are just material things…

Oh, but what they contain is not! History and medicine and stories and ideas—they’re all immaterial, irreplaceable, and none of it will be remembered by the miserably short-lived humans if Aziraphale doesn't do something.

He bolts down the steps with little thought to his own person. If it weren't for the flames licking through the gallery, it would be too thick with smoke to see. The kaleidoscopic mirror which once hung to reflect the sunlight into the library's dark corners now lies in pieces at the centre of the inner sanctum, cracking with the heat. Aziraphale can’t stop to mourn it. He clutches for the scrolls on the nearest rack as he enters the high-domed space, and stuffs them down the front of his tunic.

He’s never felt so helpless in all his years of existence; certainly not in Heaven, and not even during the Flood. He spins in place, eyes darting from one shelf to the next, not knowing what to do. The ruin of his home is dizzying. He can't miracle the scrolls to safety, or turn away the flames; this is a strictly human problem, and it's not Heaven's place to meddle in such trivial matters. He wouldn't get a mere slap on the wrist, or strongly worded letter, for such a massive infraction; he'd get reassigned to a desk job in a corner office without a view.

But his scrolls are on fire!

In a stroke of clarity, or despair, he makes a dash for the main exit. As he nears, there’s a horrible crack and groan of timber overhead. Rubble falls through the ceiling and a wall of fire sparks to life, blocking his escape. He jumps backward, panic kicking up in his veins. Discorporation wouldn't only be terribly inconvenient in this case, but any hope he has of rescuing the papyri stuffed inside his clothes would be dashed as well.

There's another exit on the far side of the building, he remembers, down the corridor of marble pillars, and Aziraphale runs toward it as fast as he can.

It's just around the corner…

Then zig-zag past the fallen pillar…

Yes! It's in view now!

He's almost there!

Only a few more steps—

—and he slams into the lanky black, and ruffling feathers of a demon in the doorway. The demon's wings are drawn up to soften the impact, and Aziraphale nearly rips out a few pinions in an attempt to catch his balance on them.

"Fucking Heaven, that smarts!" Crowley blesses and folds in his wings with a tugging motion. "Watch yourself, angel!"

Aziraphale can't bring himself to feel sorry at the moment. He doesn't even notice the demon's blasphemy. His eyes are wet at the corners, either from the smoke or the rest of it, and he looks up at Crowley with all the desperation he can muster.

"Oh, Crowley! Thank God!" Crowley hisses as though he might discorporate on the spot, but Aziraphale can't be bothered with his demonic sensitivities either. "Please, you have to help. The scrolls!"

Crowley grips his shoulders and looks down at the bulge of papers hidden against his chest.

"Right," Crowley says. He looks and sounds a bit angry, his voice rough and his expression tight, but he doesn't waste a second on it if he is. With a quick nod he stalks off in the direction of the gallery.

"Come on," he beckons, leaving Aziraphale to tail after him. While his usual pace is a swaying mishmash of casual and slithering, he’s more than capable of moving fast when he needs to, and he doesn't turn back to leave room for argument.

There’s a swell of confidence that Crowley's presence invokes, and Aziraphale finds himself caught in tow. He bounds up to his side, feeling the panic dissipate. He’s not sure why, but he trusts the demon’s intentions implicitly in the moment. Crowley’s here, for some reason, and he’s here to help; Aziraphale knows it in his heart.

When they get to the main hall, half of the scroll racks have already caught on fire. The room is turning into one gigantic oven, and Aziraphale has to pay close attention to not let his tunic catch on anything.

Crowley spins around on him, his features tense and revealing nothing. "Anywhere in particular you think this stuff will be safe?" The slits of his eyes are needle-thin and framed in pure yellow.

"I… I don't have my own place at the moment…" Aziraphale realises, which shouldn't feel so surprising since he's been living in the library for over two centuries now. "Anywhere will do. Anything nearby!"

Crowley nods and closes his eyes. His face pinches in concentration, and smoke presses in around him. Aziraphale waits.

He knows what’s about to happen, and he can appreciate the kind of power it will take to perform a miracle of this magnitude; moving thousands of objects into various buildings hundreds of miles away, all while making it appear that those objects have always been there. As he’s watching, it strikes Aziraphale how much of a creative force Crowley is. The sheer imagination required to pull this off is astounding for any celestial, aside from the artists of Heaven; the ones who created pieces of the universe at God’s side.

Not for the first time, but certainly for a poignant one, Aziraphale tries to imagine Crowley-the-angel instead of Crowley-the-demon.

What was he, back before the War? Were his eyes slitted like snakes’ and his cheeks just as pointy, or was he a soft and sunny thing, flecked with gold? Would they have met if it had all gone differently? Could they have been friends?

Aziraphale can almost see the outlines of who Crowley used to be in his demonic aura (it's just a different spectrum of colours than an angel’s, after all), expanding out under the pressure of the miracle… and there comes that complicated feeling all over again; the one from Ecbatana and Sparta, and too many other moments when Crowley appeared in his life. Just like in Babylon, Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off him.

There’s something different about this demon. He’s sure of it.

The dark pressure collapses inward and, with a very unnecessary flourish, Crowley throws his hands above his head and the unburnt scrolls around them vanish from the wooden racks they’re sorted into. Aziraphale feels the muscles of his jaw go loose, letting admiration seep into his face. Crowley meets his eyes and breaks into a toothy grin.

For a second, it's just the two of them in that room. The fire seems muted, and so far away. There’s magic in the way Crowley breathes, like light could come pouring out of him in a river of dust, and Crowley glows like he’s aware of it—aware of the way Aziraphale can see him right in that moment. He feels… love.

It’s faint, but it's there all the same. It's not the Love for the library that’s ambiently soaked into everything (and burning up with the rest of it), it’s definitely coming from Crowley and…

Oh no. Oh dear. Oh, this is bad.

The spell breaks and Crowley’s smile falls in an instant, and any inconvenient world-shaking revelations are blown from Aziraphale's mind. If it weren't for the lingering twinkle in the demon’s eyes, Aziraphale would swear that whatever’s just happened didn’t actually happen (or he wanted to swear as much, regardless).

"Good now? Yes?” Crowley hurries toward him, all taught lines and hard edges to cover the softness. “Can we leave?"

"Yes," Aziraphale answers primly and pats the front of his tunic back into place, "I think that about takes care of it."

As if on cue, an empty rack behind Aziraphale bursts into flames and nearly catches on his skirts. Crowley rushes forward to grab his wrist and pulls him roughly to the side.

“Oh!” Aziraphale jumps (is this the first time they’ve actually touched?) but he doesn’t try to escape. He half expects the demon to burn him on contact, but his hand feels as soft and ordinary and warm as any human’s.

“Shut up,” Crowley grumbles, a warning, and drags him out to the nearest courtyard. Smoke follows over their heads, thick and looming. Not a star can be seen in the hazy sky.

"The way I came in is blocked. Caved in behind me." Crowley stops in the middle of the yard and unfurls his wings. The pinions Aziraphale had pulled at earlier twist at an unpleasant angle, and a belated pang of guilt hits him. "We’ll have to make our own exit."

Aziraphale nods and follows suit, setting his own wings free after what feels like centuries of confinement. (To be precise, it has been nearly eight centuries, as Heaven doesn't approve much of overt angelic activity these days.) He stretches them out and feels a pop of relief in his joins.

"We'll meet at the usual spot," Crowley shouts as he kicks up into the wind.

"Which usual spot?" Aziraphale calls after him.

"The lighthouse!"

With a blast of feathers Crowley is on his way, and Aziraphale takes to the skies after him. He’s heavier than he remembers being, slower than the black-flash demon in front of him, but it’s exhilarating all the same to feel the wind underneath him again. He weaves around the glowing catapult fire and columns of smoke with ease, and he’s almost ashamed with how wonderful it feels.

It would be so lovely to take a stroll through the clouds under different circumstances, he thinks, while his eyes wander toward the strike of black gliding in front of him.

The Pharos Lighthouse isn’t far from the library, as the crow flies. It pierces straight to Heaven (metaphorically speaking, of course, though Heaven’s lobby does have a fantastic view of it). Above the harbour, it’s easily the tallest thing in a relatively flat landscape. On a typical clandestine meeting between them, Aziraphale would be waiting down on the rocky quay, listening to the waves lap between the stones, but now Crowley leads them up to the top of the spire where four gigantic mirrors reflect four equally-gigantic balefires out over the distance. In the streets below them, Caesar and his men struggle toward the harbour, but no one seems to notice the two supernatural beings flapping above.

When Crowley lands his wings fold away immediately and he turns to watch Aziraphale’s descent. The moment his sandals touch down on the marble surface Crowley is hovering in his personal space.

“What were you thinking, angel!” He practically spits, hands whipping into the air between them. There’s suddenly very little room to breathe.

“I am dreadfully sorry about your feathers,” Aziraphale wobbles on his heels, taken completely off guard by the display. “I can help you set them right again, if you’ll allow me.”

Crowley’s eyes do something complicated, and he goes completely red—blushing. He takes two steps backwards, with a sway to his hips, and crosses his arms. “T-that’ss not what I’m talking about,” he stutters. “I mean where do you get off risking discorporation over a bunch of papyruss?”

“Oh.” He hadn’t even considered that the demon might be worried about him. “That…”

Aziraphale straightens out his windswept clothing and tries his best to appear righteous. “That was, you see—a good portion of those scrolls were mine, as you know, and—”

“And what do you think Heaven would ssay about you losing a body over fire fodder?” Crowley asks, somewhere between a hiss and a whine, and his eyebrows do that thing where they try to conspire in the middle of his face. It doesn’t happen very often, but it gives away the intensity of his emotions every time, and Aziraphale takes note of it. “The paperwork alone, if they even conssider redeploying you, could take decadess!”

Aziraphale’s mind fails to produce any excuses for his actions, but it equally refuses to apologise for them. Instead, it takes a little leap for higher grounds.

“What were you doing there?” Aziraphale counters, looking down his nose at the demon.

Crowley goes still and silent. He turns to look out on the harbour, and a ball of fire lights the smokey sky behind him, racing to sink into a merchant’s skiff.

“You helped me! And saved a bunch of fire fodder, no less.” Aziraphale can’t hold back the glorious smile that cracks his face. “You—a demon!”

“It was for a job,” Crowley grumbles, curling his upper lip at the burning skiff.

“A job?” Aziraphale prods him. He doesn’t buy it for a second, but wonders in what way Crowley will try to justify himself.

“Yeah, you think I did that for you? Like I go around performing miracles for angels in my spare time?” Crowley huffs and the muscles of his jaw twitch. He watches Aziraphale with sidelong glances. “Do you have any idea how much time it’s taken me to tempt humans into learning mathematics? They hate maths! I’d have to work overtime if all that knowledge went up in flames.”

It still doesn’t sound convincing to Aziraphale’s mind. A partial truth, at best. There were surely enough copies of basic algebra in the world to not worry over it. The Greeks particularly love their geometry.

All the same, something is bothering Crowley. Something more than what he's saying out loud.

“Did you come because you were worried about me?” It dawns on him and his heart flutters.

Oh, what a wonderful feeling, if that were the case! Crowley; worried about him. Performing miracles for him. Aziraphale’s sure his smile is turning into something more than teasing, but he doesn’t really care.

“Don’t you dare go around ssaying thingss like that!” Crowley whirls on him and his eyes flash, abruptly ending one kind of heart-flutter sensation and inspiring a whole new one. Aziraphale wants to say his eyes look wild, but they’re still wide and yellow and… he’s scared. Not angry—terrified.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale reins himself in, going very quiet inside. He offers up much more gentle smile, and a small chuckle. “Silly of me, thinking that a demon could be worried over an angel.”

Crowley sniffs at him, and the lines of his forehead slacken. He leans against the spire in his I-was-once-a-snake-you-know sort of slump, and turns back to the city. He’s never been so touchy before, in Aziraphale’s experience. Sad, yes; playful, almost always; angry, not so much. Something must have affected him quite profoundly to put him in this state. A vague thought that perhaps Hell was clamping down on him leaves Aziraphale feeling oddly sympathetic. No one likes a fussy manager.

It couldn’t possibly be that Crowley was so affected by the threat of Aziraphale’s temporary absence. There had to be something more…

“It might not seem like obvious demon work, yeah?” Crowley starts, unprompted, as though he can hear the train of thoughts in Aziraphale's head. “But knowledge is Evil, right? My lot got that message loud and clear. Half the demons were philosophers and mathematicians and astrologers, once; types that understand the underlying framework of everything.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have anything to say to that. He remembers that once upon a… well, not a time—time hadn’t been invented yet—that he wanted to be a scribe. It’s a good thing he wasn’t, as scribes were, more often than not, involved in the ‘wrong crowd’, it turned out. Instead he was handed a sword, and found he was good enough at it to not want for other things.

“You know, it’s all part of that Great Plan that’s coming.” Crowley pushes off from the stone and inches in closer, then gives Aziraphale a look that's hard to place; gentle, but not happy. “The maths part: that’s not a personal project. That’s an assignment straight from Satan himself. He says it’ll influence Armageddon someday—that humans will need it to learn how to split atoms.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says, uneasy. The threat of Armageddon is always over them, and of course Aziraphale doesn't want the world to end, but it's not for him to question. War… he doesn't want any part of it. He didn't like the first one, and he's not going to like the last one.

He wonders, for a moment, what Crowley feels about all of this. He must have some reason for bringing it up. And trusting this information to an enemy? What is he thinking?

More importantly, if Hell wants knowledge to be saved, what does it say about Aziraphale’s own desire to save it?

“Oh, Crowley… You don’t think it was wrong of me to try to save those scrolls, do you?”

“Not a chance!” Crowley looks him over and his face brightens. “You have your vices, I’ll give you that, but there isn’t an Evil bone in your body, angel. I would know.”

Aziraphale lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “So much more could have been saved if I hadn’t… hesitated. I could have sent the fire away, or—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Crowley interrupts with a lilt of optimism. “Humans are clever enough; they’ll figure it all out again. Give them time.”

They both look out at the harbour now, and Aziraphale spots a man sneaking off from the rest of the Roman battalion—Caesar himself. He takes a leap for the open water, and starts paddling out to the nearest raft. In the distant sea the sails of a waiting trireme flutter.

“What will you do now?” Crowley asks.

“Well, for one I’ll have to go searching for what’s left of my scrolls." And for a place to stay, he doesn't say, dreading the thought that Crowley might have ideas about that. "Have far off did you send them?”

“Errmm… just to a couple libraries, maybe some private collections—no more than a few thousand miles or so,” Crowley squirms. “I had to find little nooks and corners to hide them all. Couldn’t just pile them up in the middle of a floor somewhere.”

“At least they’re safe,” Aziraphale groans, not looking forward to the task ahead of him.

A beat passes, and only the damp breeze rushes in to take its place. Aziraphale isn’t sure what else to say, so he watches Caesar’s raft paddle into the distance. The silence, in contrast with the crackle of flames and crash of rubble, is filled with a potential that Aziraphale wants to name, but can’t find the words for. Not in all the scrolls he’s ever read was there a perfect descriptor for whatever it is between himself and the demon at his side. The greatest library ever built couldn’t have housed their story, but now that it’s gone, Aziraphale thinks that, maybe, there’s a bigger world of ideas to explore. Ideas like demons with softness hidden beneath their words.

“I’ll see you around, I guess,” Crowley eventually says, eyes not coming up to meet Aziraphale’s.

“I’m sure,” is all Aziraphale can manage, his mind not quite with his body.

Then Crowley whooshes off, his feathers still twisted in places, and Aziraphale is left to face the smoldering city alone. He makes a silent vow to never place his scrolls under the protection of humans again, and then his thoughts start to wander back to the moment when Crowley performed a miracle for him.

What a pitiful situation it would be, for a demon to fall in love with an angel. Angel-stock aren’t designed for such human impulses to begin with; certainly not Aziraphale. Divine Love was a completely different concept from being in love, with all that pairing-off and sticky, romantic tomfoolery. There is simply no hope for a celestial with such an unfortunate sentiment…

No hope at all.

Jerusalem - 33 AD

It’s a quiet night. The moon's taken it's regularly scheduled break, leaving the sky pitch-dark and full of stars. It's one of those romantic-looking nights that humans go for, but that's not important. What's important is that it's truly dark out—just the right atmosphere for demons to be performing demon-y things, like vandalism and acts of civil disobedience.

Jerusalem's central forum is particularly quiet, aside from the grainy sounds of brush strokes on limestone walls. Crowley takes a step back to observe his work. Ruddy lines of paint drip down, appropriately ominous in the light of a flickering torch. Latin block script spells out, what he imagines to say, 'Romans go home'.

Thankfully his handwriting isn’t complete rubbish; the switch from the Phoenician alphabet to the Latin one never took a priority in Crowley's day-to-day, especially not after Caesar's book-burning scandal, but needs must when the devil drives. Though, technically Satan has nothing to do with this one. Crowley is painting big bold words onto the walls of the city’s forum because he bloody well wants to.

From the moment the Roman bastards took over Judea, Crowley’s been a constant thorn in their sides. He’s organised the rebel underground. He’s organised the rebel underground multiple times, in fact. He’s organised multiple rebel underground movements. They all hate each other, almost as much as they hate the Romans, and Hell loves the whole messy lot of them. 'Stir up some trouble' is an understatement for what Crowley's accomplished here in the Holy Land (and with such little effort on his own part).

It’s not so bad being a demon, sometimes.

Crowley holds his jaw in his hand and considers whether adding expletives to his statement might be overkill. It almost catches him off guard when he hears footsteps shuffling toward him. Someone approaches him from behind, not threatening but familiar, and presses a hand to his shoulder. He tilts his head to make out the profile of a person shrouded in black, squinting at the letters.

“Romanes eunt domus,” Loretta, Crowley recognises her streetwise accent, reads from the wall. “Something sounds funny about that.”

Crowley cocks an eyebrow at the wall, and taps his fingers on his chin. “Eh, Latin’s not my first language.” The words do sound off, but he can't quite place why, so he reaches forward with his brush and slaps on another exclamation mark.

Loretta’s wrapped in a shawl, just like him, and her mousy hair pokes out from the edges of it in a way that suggests she might harbour nesting birds under her cloak. When he turns to meet her eyes, she smiles down at her feet, and he can see that her cheeks are damp and bruised. She must not be having an easy night, which isn't unusual for her. If it weren't for Crowley being a demon and all, he wouldn't have been able to tell in the dim lighting. Damn the company she keeps. Literally.

She pulls the corner of her shawl tight against her face before she looks back at him.

“You want to have a go at it?” Crowley materialises a spare brush and a pot of paint behind his back, and offers them out to her (tempting toward vandalism is a worthy use of his powers).

“Don’t mind if I do,” Loretta chirps. She takes the instruments of disorder from him, and steps up to the wall, as though she had been waiting for the invitation.

Crowley crosses his arms and smirks as he watches her get to work repeating his chosen phrase. Loretta is one of his unwitting agents of chaos; part of the People’s Front of Judea gang. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he has a soft spot for her, compared to the rest of them. Unfortunately, she has lousy tastes when it comes to the men in her life.

Somewhere in the distance, Crowley's aware that Loretta's boyfriend has stubbed his big toe, and it's bleeding all over his favourite sheepskin rug. It’s very satisfying.

“Pontius is going to throw a wobbly when he sees this,” Loretta giggles over her shoulder. “That’ll teach them Romans a lesson.”

Crowley snorts to hide his smile.

Loretta seems to relax, distracted from her woes, and Crowley suppresses the thought that he’s done a good deed. She gets kicked around a lot in life, but she’s brave in a way that many mistake for weakness; open-minded and kind, and so desperate for acceptance. It actually sucks that she seems to trust him.

Humans love to dig their own graves, stumbling from one sin into another as they try to cover up their iniquities. Giving the right ones a little push in the wrong direction feels righteous at times, but there are always the innocents, like Loretta, who get caught hanging out with the wrong people. Crowley never likes getting personally involved, but he can't help that it happens. Ones like Loretta seek him out, like they know he’ll understand them.

The worst part is that he does.

Crowley pushes his paintbrush to another unblemished area of stone and more words emerge in various font sizes. It's a splotchy mess, to be honest, but it'll rattle a few chains. Loretta's eyes keep bouncing to him and then back to the wall, and Crowley’s about to ask her what the problem is when she drops her brush into her jar and turns to face him.

“Hope it's not impolite, me saying so,” her voice low and rough, with hidden sensitivity, “but your hair is gorgeous. 's there someone who braids it for you?” She tucks her own frizzy locks back behind her ear.

“Nope." Crowley turns to her and pulls his braid forward so she can appreciate it fully. "Just me.”

“Really?” Loretta places her painting set on the ground. “Can you do mine?”

“Eh…" He looks at her shoulder-length nest of split ends and tries to imagine the effort it would take to fix it without miraculous interventions. There's something far too fragile in the way she smiles at him. "Why not. Just, let's clean up here first, hm?”

Loretta perks up and wipes her hands on her skirts. “I’m getting sick of them back at the People’s Front of Judea, always calling me Stan—picking at me for being soft! I’ve been thinking, maybe a new style might help me, you know… talk to ‘em?”

Crowley’s heard this argument from her before. He’s heard it far too many times. First on the day when she sewed her own abaya, then when she bought her first tichel, and on the particularly bold day that she swiped some undergarments from an exotic vendor, but none of it seemed to help her cross the final hurdle of coming out to the rest of the gang.

“The only thing you need to talk to them is your voice," Crowley says, oddly incensed. Some things don't need to be said, a memory teases him, and he shakes it away. This is one thing that must be said; that’s allowed to be said. “They’re never going to understand you if you don’t tell them.”

Loretta twirls the stubborn section of hair that falls back into her face between her fingers. “Yeah, I know. It’s just," she motions down at her robe. It hangs longer than a man's but the lines of it are flat and undefined. As soft and curvy as her demeanor may be, her body is a sharp and calloused thing. "Maybe if I looked more the part, it would make convincing them easier, somehow?” Guilt and shame seep out of her, and Crowley’s gut twists from her pain.

“Loretta, you are the part.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and she sniffles at him. “You’re not playing at anything. If they don’t see that then fuck them.”

She ducks her head and giggles, “Well, that’s hardly lady-like.”

“I’m not exactly a lady,” Crowley shrugs.

“Right. You’re different. Eh?” Loretta smirks at him. There's nothing critical in her tone. ‘Different’ is the endearment she picked for him after the one attempt he made to describe his gender to her, and she likes to tease him with it now and then. Crowley's decided it’s as good an explanation as any.

"Close enough."

“I mean, we’re all a bit different,” she wiggles her hands about in an odd demonstration of whatever different means, and smiles. “Just, I never know quite where to place you.”

“I like it that way.” Crowley gives her a small grin.

They go about capping off the jars, and wiping their brushes off on spare cloth, then wrap it all in a couple of rough sacks, and Crowley thinks about what style would work best to keep Loretta's hair from frizzing in the heat. The African three-strand under braid has been really popular lately, and works well for shorter hair. It would frame her face nicely if he looped together matching ones on each side.

They're almost packed up and ready to go when the clank of armor rings from across the square.

"Hey, you there!" The voice of a Roman patrol freezes them in place, followed by the quick march of noisy greaves.

The guard blocks their path as he approaches. He has the most impressive chin Crowley has ever seen, and his bronze breastplate catches the firelight in way the proves he's cleaner than everyone else.

"What's all this then?"

"Ah!" Loretta drops her bundle of incriminating evidence. "Uh, nothing! Sir."

"'s not what it looks like, officer," Crowley grumbles, considering ways he could slip away from the guard's attention, but he'd rather not let the blowback fall on Loretta.

The soldier puffs up, and the eagle on his armor shimmers with national pride. "Are you two painting graffiti?"

"No sir!" Loretta snaps to attention and her fingers twist into her shawl. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"Then what's this here?" He waves broadly at the wall, which is now more paint than limestone.

"Campaign slogans. We’re with the People for Pontius Pilate; here to support his continued governance of Judea as our prefect." Crowley sniffs. The lies come easily to him, and are, in fact, quite fun to invent on the spot.

The guard shoves his stupid nose into Crowley's face, acting every bit the pompous ass that he appears to be. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Oh, no." Loretta jumps in the periphery, hands waving. "I would never expect so, sir."

The guard turns back to her and frowns. "Campaign slogans belong in the market plaza, not the civic forum," he barks.

Crowley wonders vaguely at how the man earned the rank of an aquilifer.

"I'll have to write you both a warning." The guard pulls a thin roll of papyrus from the satchel at his belt. "And you lot will have to clean this mess and move it to the markets, right?"

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Loretta mewls, clasping her hands in supplication. It's an act, of course, but the guard blushes before he clears his throat.

"Just don't do it again, miss."

Loretta nods. "Of course not, sir."

"By the by," he spins back to glare at Crowley, as though he's miraculously aware of where the blame lies (he’s not; or at least it wasn’t miraculous), "do you know what the penalty is for graffiti these days?"

"A fine?" Crowley guesses.

"A slap on the wrist?" Loretta suggests.

"Community service?" Crowley knows better, but harbours hopes for humanity despite himself.

"Crucifixion!" the guard trumpets. His eyes light with glee.

"A lot of that going around these days, innit?" Loretta says, scrunching her nose distastefully.

The man doesn’t seem to notice. He holds his enormous chin high and asserts, "It's good for the economy." It reminds Crowley of Aziraphale’s ‘look at me, I’m being a good angel’ act, and he has to cough into his hand to hide a chuckle.

"Yes. So." Crowley nods to the abandoned bundle in the ground. Loretta catches his meaning and swipes it back into her arms. "We'll be heading off to grab some water, I guess. To clean this. Thank you for your time, officer."

He turns to leave and Loretta shifts uncomfortably beside him.

"Hold on a minute!" the legionnaire shouts at Crowley's back. "That's no campaign slogan. 'Romanes eunt domus'? That's not even proper grammar!"

"It says ‘Romans go home’," Loretta yelps, and then covers her mouth with her sleeve.

The legionnaire pushes them aside and approaches the wall, looking over the paint with a frown. "No it doesn't. It says 'people called Romanes, they go, the house!' Do you know what the punishment is for dissent and bad grammar?"

"Uh… crucifix—" Loretta starts.

"Crucifixion!" The guard bellows, menacing, into Loretta’s face.

Crowley is about to snap his fingers, ready to miracle the man's clothes away and dart into an alley, when a familiar posh voice joins into the fray.

"Dreadfully sorry to bother you." An angel, who looks every bit the part of a well-dressed patrician, steps into the firelight, all white and glowing and perfect sky-blue eyes, "but is there a problem here, legionnaire?"

"A Greek?" the legionnaire scoffs at him, but the angel doesn't blink. "Don't tell me you're in on this too…"

"I am a Roman citizen, actually," Aziraphale smiles, and points to the winged brooch that holds his flashy white toga in place. Crowley has the strangest impulse to hug the bastard. "And I believe there's a robbery going on by the Southern gate. You'd best hurry."

His eyes twinkle at the guard, whose face and tone go even more vacant of intelligent thought.

"Yeah," he drones. "I’ll get a wiggle on. Nice day to you, ladies."

The guard slouches off in the direction of Bethlehem, and Crowley can feel his entire body tingle with the afterglow of the miracle Aziraphale casted for him. Not literally, of course; just in that way of knowing that an angel did something for his benefit. It’s not a common occurrence, but it’s happened more than once now. It feels like a tiny revelation every time.

“You hear that? He called me a lady,” Loretta says, elated. She perks up, adjusting her shawl to make herself look pretty. “What nice bloke.”

Aziraphale looks mildly confused, but wisely says nothing, and Crowley beams at him.

"A friend of yours, Crowley?" Loretta gives the upper-crust patrician a look that suggests he might smell like rotten fish, but Crowley knows that Aziraphale smells like dust and papyrus and whatever delicacies he's been gorging on lately, and that he's not actually Greek or a Roman citizen.

"Yes, this is Azira—"

"Mister Fell," Aziraphale cuts him off, "and we're not exactly friends… miss?"

Crowley's heart falters, and he misses his cue to introduce his human thrall.

"Loretta," she steps forward and offers out her hand. Crowley would be proud of her for introducing herself with her chosen name if he weren't preoccupied with a pressing need to sulk.

"Miss Loretta," Aziraphale says cheerfully, shaking her hand like he’s not sure what else he’s expected to do with it. Then he turns from her as though she's no longer present. Indeed, she goes still and silent and fails to catch any more of the conversation from that point.

"Crowley, what on Earth are you doing with this… display?" He motions toward the wall. Angel eyes are just as good at seeing through the dark (as opposed to seeing in the dark, like demons), and his are looking over the red paint with a touch of annoyance.

"Oh you know, just the usual stuff. Spreading discord, inciting rebellion." Crowley curls his shoulders in and shrugs. "You should see what I've done with the Campaign for Free Galilee. Now there's a morbid bunch of political extremists—"

Aziraphale motions once more, broadly, to the wall of graffiti and Crowley tries not to liken the mannerisms of Heaven's soldier to the Roman one. "You do know that your grammar is off?"

Crowley scratches at his chin and pulls a squinting, sour face. "Is it really?"

"It really is, dear boy," Aziraphale sighs, as though Crowley is doing this to him on purpose. He points at each word in turn. "The vocative plural of Romanus is Romani, then you have a plural conjugate verb, eunt, which would be fine except that you are making a demand—that makes it an imperative: ite. And domus! Do I really have to go further?"

"It’s not my fault the Romans came up with fifty tenses for every word!" Crowley whines, exasperated, not so much because he wants to engage in this conversation, but because he wants to see if he can push Aziraphale into rolling his eyes.

The angel does. It's adorable. "It should read ‘Romani ite domum’," Aziraphale groans. Crowley can hear the unspoken 'you ignorant plebeian' in his tone, and he smiles fondly. There’s nothing quite as endearing as Aziraphale’s catty moments. It’s not like the holier-than-thou pedantry he plays at when it suits him, Crowley’s figured out. Mostly because Aziraphale uses it, more and more, to convey an almost demonic contempt for minor inconveniences.

"Thankss." Crowley's tongue gets away from him, and Aziraphale, adorably, blushes.

"Would you… like some help?" He stares at the sack of paint and brushes in Crowley's hands. "Correcting it, that is."

Crowley's face cracks into a legitimate smirk. "Not really sure it's the kind of thing an upstanding citizen should take part in."

"Oh, nonsense." Aziraphale walks up to the wall and wiggles his manicured fingers in a way that Crowley has come to associate with his mischievous moods. "I may have earned my Roman citizenship, but I'm far from impressed with their involvement in Jerusalem."

"Oh? How very devisive of you." Crowley imagines, briefly, Aziraphale playing out the role of a sleeper agent in the Roman Senate; working his way up the rungs of society until he can dismantle it from within, shouting in vengeful glee, 'For Alexandria', as Rome crumbles into dust. It's a ridiculous notion, but it provokes a pleasant fluttering inside of Crowley's chest.

"Hardly! You know well that I owe my allegiance to a… higher authority."

Crowley snorts. He chooses not to argue the point that this higher authority might not approve either. "Whatever you say, angel. Need a brush?"

Aziraphale shakes his head and gives the wall an authoritative snap. The graffiti promptly corrects itself, shifting into an elegant script with proper punctuation (the exclamation marks are all still there, but appear much more orderly and respectable). Crowley paces around the angel on wobbly legs, caught in orbit by him.

"What are you doing in Jerusalem, anyway?"

Aziraphale hesitates. "Well... I'm sure you've heard by now. The boy will be… meeting his Father soon."

Oh, Crowley thinks. "Oh," he says. He liked Jesus, despite himself (and his employers). He's been trying not to think about the kid's part in the Great Plan. "It’s that time already? The poor bastard."

"Mind your blasphemy, dear," Aziraphale tuts.

"Well he is, isn't he? Born out of wedlock. He's not Joseph's kid."

Aziraphale gives him a withering look, but clearly holds back a grin, and Crowley's heart does something highly acrobatic in his chest.

"You have anything planned for tonight?" Crowley blurts out, like the utter fool he is. He feels like he's forgetting something, but he's not letting that stop him.

Aziraphale studies him for a moment. "Not exactly," he says, like he's ready to deny it if that would be more convenient for him.

"Then how about you join me on the roof of my flat? I’m just over there, see?" Crowley points at a nearby three-storied limestone and plaster hut, smooshed into a row of similar two-story huts; an absolute luxury with prime real estate on the civic centre—not that he's showing off, or anything. "We can appreciate the look on Pontius' face together, when he wakes up to this." Crowley nods to the wall.

"No," Aziraphale says, raising his hands. "No, I don't think so."

He looks like he's about to either leave, or go into a lengthy presentation on why visiting the roof of Crowley's flat would be a direct insult to God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and Gabriel, so Crowley scrambles for something else to say.

"Err, but—wait! I've… I have fresh bread and fig preserves. Just bought it this morning, from that bakery down the street you like; what's-his-name's, you know the one. We can make a breakfast of it."

"Hmm…" Aziraphale doesn't look swayed, but he doesn't leave either. Crowley heartens, trying to appear more casual by shifting his weight onto one leg and crossing his arms.

"Yeah, and goat cheese, if you like." He flexes his fingers and takes a sudden interest in the sheen of his nails, then polishes them on the sleeve of his abaya. "I can even break out a bottle of red."

"For breakfast?" Aziraphale raises a judgemental brow.

"Grape juice?"

"Well, I suppose it won't do any harm if I only have a bite or two." Aziraphale rubs his hands together and flashes a smile.

Crowley is about to offer him an arm and lead the way, but he catches himself. Such a gesture might be fine when hanging around the humans, but not likely welcome with an angel.

"What about your friend?" Aziraphale motions to Loretta.

Crowley looks back at her and tilts his head. What about her?

"More an associate, really," he dodges, hoping to drop the subject.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes again (a bonus, as Crowley wasn’t even trying to provoke that one), and waves a hand across Loretta’s still face. "My dear, would you like to join us for breakfast?"

Loretta blinks, suddenly part of reality again, and none the wiser. "Oh, sure! Crowley here was going to braid my hair."

"Isn't that lovely.” Aziraphale’s eyes scrunch up with his pleasant smile as he leads Loretta forward.

It's all Crowley can do not to wish pain and torment on his poor human friend the entire way to his flat.

When they arrive on the roof, the appropriate food and seating arrangements have already been laid out, fresh and free of any scavenging wildlife, as though it had been laid out for three ahead of time. If Loretta finds this odd, she doesn't comment, and Aziraphale guides her to sit first on the collection of pillows that surround the low-lying table. Crowley imagines that whichever pillows she chooses are stiff and lumpier than the rest.

Which is so stupid, he chastises himself internally, but he doesn't regret it.

All-in-all, it's not a bad breakfast. They do end up opening the wine, and Loretta polishes off half the bottle. They eat and talk and watch the dewy dawn rise. Loretta gets her braids, and Pontius makes the most ridiculous noises when he wakes up, and they all have a laugh over it. Eventually Loretta gathers herself up and looks ready to head home, but she pauses to give Aziraphale a curious look.

"Ya’ know miss Crowley fancies you, yeah?" Loretta says, eyes hazy and voice louder than necessary. Crowley chokes on his wine. "I mean, not that it’s any a’ my business, but you… you’ve been making lovely-eyes at her all evenin’—er, mornin’. So I figured you might wanna know."

Lovey eyes? Crowley's head spins, and he can't even blame the wine, as he's far more on the side of tipsy than outright drunk.

Aziraphale's whole aura turns beet-red, verging on purple, and he drops his bread jam-side-down onto the folds of his toga. His mouth hangs open in a way that suggests he'd like to speak, but nothing comes out. If it weren’t for Loretta’s continued presence, Crowley is sure they’d both be quite sober about now, but magically refilling bottles might raise a brow or two from the human.

"I'm not really the fancying type," Crowley carefully interjects. It's not a lie, but it's not the truth either—at least not when it comes to Aziraphale. "I mean, not really. Not sure what you call it; not fancying… people." ‘People’, in this case, meaning 'non-celestial beings, and celestial beings who aren't named Aziraphale; the angel who is trying very hard to breathe right now'.

Loretta tilts her head. "'m not really sure what ta’ call myself, neither. I mean, I've got a boyfriend, but he says he’s the type that likes men."

Crowley crinkles his nose. "Never liked labels myself." Or your boyfriend, he doesn’t say.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has made enough of a recovery that his skin has faded down to a moderate tickled-pink.

"Do you? I mean… do you?" Aziraphale asks Crowley, seeming to have missed everything after the part where Crowley fancies him.

The atmosphere on the roof is suddenly quite thick. Loretta sways on her feet.

"Well…” she says, cheeks red with drink, “I—I suppose I shouldn't be innerfering. Big mouth, mine. Right. Uh, sorry. Take care. Nice ta’ meet you, Mr. Fell."

Loretta wanders off toward the stairs, and Crowley pretends to stretch his neck in every direction except that of Aziraphale’s. It seems to give Aziraphale enough time to get his head back on straight, not attempting to repeat his question, but he doesn't sober up either. Crowley makes a tactful decision to follow his lead.

"What a nice friend you have," Aziraphale says in a way that implies something more along the lines of, prying busybody.

"Demons don't have friends." Crowley feels his heart sink, flooded in the swell of emotions that wine can coax, and he tries to ignore how the truth he’s been tucking away, when spoken out loud, stings him.

People like Loretta don't really count. Crowley can only reveal so much about himself with humans. Other demons are assholes, so Crowley can't reveal much of himself with them, either. There's only Aziraphale, who doesn't—who can't—own up to it. He shakes the feeling back into submission and looks Aziraphale over.

The angel is oddly calm, given his earlier fluster, like he's still processing what was previously unspoken between them. At this point, after so many conversations, Crowley knows him fairly well; he knows Aziraphale is smart enough to not simply dismiss what Loretta said, and he knows that Aziraphale isn't good at dealing with emotions. It takes him a long time to get to what he wants to say when a subject turns serious. It seems he's taking that time now, in Crowley's presence, which has to mean something.

Crowley has an idea of what. Neither of them are really fit for serious conversations, but he feels one creeping up on them, and a mix of curiosity and horror fills him. Being ever the optimist, he chooses to address the curiosity first.

"So, lovey-eyes, hm?" Crowley raises a brow.

"I might have been staring a bit overmuch while you braided her hair," Aziraphale says, quiet and without his usual high-energy gesticulation. He didn't take the bait, but Crowley's smart too; there's plenty to read between the lines.

"Oh really?"

"A misunderstanding on her part, I assure you." Aziraphale waves off the notion, regaining some of his mobility. "It just reminded me that I never did get around to setting your feathers right for you, back in Alexandria." He watches Crowley careful then.

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat. "I don't need it now."

"I should hope not." Aziraphale smiles, all timidity and caring, looking to and from the slice of bread in his lap and Crowley, as if considering his next words. He eventually moves the discarded item onto the table before continuing. "Regardless… could I—oh, you know. Could I? Now?"

Crowley can feel the heat traveling across his face, and figures his own aura likely reflects as much. Auras are pesky like that. However, he nods, slowly. When Aziraphale looks at him like he doesn't know what to do next, Crowley scoots over. Aziraphale flexes his fingers, and Crowley turns around, unfurling his wings.

The next few minutes pass in silence as Aziraphale runs his hands along Crowley's feathers. There's no maintenance being done here; none necessary. It's more like Aziraphale is petting him; appreciating the rare excuse of being able to touch him, and Crowley is indulging equally in the excuse to be touched. Reverence, it feels like, and Crowley can’t imagine why the angel might want to do this. (He can, actually, but he’s trying not to get carried away more than he already is.) The knot that forms in Crowley's chest constricts him almost painfully, but Aziraphale's ministrations are just soothing enough to take the edge off. In fact, it's too soothing. It feels good in a way Crowley hasn't felt in ages, replacing the twinge of nerves with the ache of something so much deeper.

He can't stand the whatever-it-is that's sitting between them. It's too much, and far too real. He has to break the silence. He twitches his wings away from the angel and turns back to face him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley searches his face, and finds a mirror to the fragile feelings in his chest, "what are we… to each other?"

Aziraphale wiggles in his seat, looking off to the side. "Well, you're obviously my wily adversary, and I—"

"No, I mean… I know all that, but…"

"But?"

"Are we—can't we be—friends?"

A moment passes. A pregnant moment. Crowley hates the way the word ‘friends’ slipped off his tongue like a prayer. His hand is showing in full, and he’s not sure he’s ready to hear what will be said about it, but it’s already too late. Let the cards fall where they may. Aziraphale looks up at Crowley's face, and then his gaze falls slightly lower. His breath hitches. Crowley catalogues every movement in slow motion—breathe in, breathe out—and in that brief eternity it feels like anything could happen. Impossible things. Things he's never considered before, like kisses and happiness. It's like Heaven and Hell cease to exist right then. Crowley wills his mind to catch up, but the damn thing has gone completely silent. His eyes go wide and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips of its own volition. Aziraphale's eyes droop shut, and he leans ever so slightly forward, and Crowley feels pulled toward him.

Then Aziraphale stops. His eyes blink open. The softness on his face immediately hardens, replaced with pinched brows and pursed lips. Confusion and concern. Crowley’s brain finally catches up to reality, and suddenly Heaven and Hell are looming over him, each ready to tear him apart for one reason or another. They hang over Aziraphale, too. There's now a distinct and undeniable awareness that, whatever it is he feels for Aziraphale, it's certainly mutual, and that they have never been in more danger than the past few happy moments.

"N—no." Aziraphale stutters out, rocking back and reestablishing the distance between them. "No, I don't think we can be friends. If your side found out… I dread to think what they might do to you, Crowley."

It still feels wonderful when Aziraphale says his name, but the effect is dampened by everything else that comes with it. Some things don’t need to be said, and some things can’t be. When Crowley meets Aziraphale's eyes again, they both nod and finally sober up. As the last of the dullness shakes off of Crowley and back into its bottle, it's replaced with a tremor of fear.

Aziraphale makes some sort of excuse for why he has a pressing need to re-alphabetise his scrolls, and Crowley barely hears it. He's left alone on the roof, oddly indifferent to the city around him and the Romans in it, and Loretta and the People's Front of Judea, and the possibility of eating meals with an angel. None of it seems to matter in the bigger scheme of things.

Not today, but someday, the Apocalypse is coming; not far from this very city. All of this will be destroyed, and Crowley will be forced to take up arms against his… friend. It's enough to make him sick, the scant food in his stomach suddenly turning and threatening to escape.

Crowley has been generally enjoying the experiences his human heart gave him, but stuff like this? It sucks.

The events of that dawn are never mentioned between them again. In fact, they won't even meet up for breakfast after that, as though the particular meal is cursed. Crowley avoids eating altogether. A wordless pact forms; a mutual understanding of how close they came to losing everything, and what precautions are necessary to prevent that happening. There's at least one chair of space between them when they drink from then on.

At least, that's how it goes for another two millennia, but then the world does end, and that changes everything.