Sometimes Aziraphale feels old. Or, he feels weary and achy and tired. He is old, thatâs for certain, but angels donât really get old. Heâd been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadnât aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see.Â
And then Crowley will do something like start humming. Heâs wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesnât have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimalâno silly human classification. Heâs not an animal, he has a system, itâs just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because heâs putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions.Â
He canât place the tune. Itâs familiar, so familiar, but he canât place it. He doesnât realize at first that heâs been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen.Â
Crowley finally notices him, but doesnât stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing.Â
âWhat is that tune?â Aziraphale finally asks. âItâs driving me mad.âÂ
Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. âWillard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.âÂ
Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. Theyâd been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the manâs deft fingers. âAh.â Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like thereâd been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when theyâd heard him play. âI do remember, yes. I thought heâd be famous. Pity no one remembers.âÂ
âWe do,â Crowley says, and goes back to humming.Â
Or that time he stops by Crowleyâs flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. Heâs positively glowering when Aziraphale enters.Â
Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. âWhatever are you cooking?âÂ
âStew,â Crowley responds glumly. âOr, at least, Iâm trying to. I canât get it right.âÂ
âPart of the joy of stew is that you donât have to get it right.â He waves his hands. âThe pot does most of the work.âÂ
Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. âNo, itâs ⌠Itâs a specific stew. Iâve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and âŚâ He cuts himself off.Â
âCrowleyââ Aziraphale squints suspiciously. âHow old is this recipe, exactly?âÂ
Crowley sighs, already defeated. âMesopotamia?â he ekes out, abashed.Â
Aziraphale laughs. âOh, good! Itâll be a challenge, then.â He pulls the spoon from Crowleyâs hand, taking a sip. âJuniper berries,â he decides. âYou need juniper berries.âÂ
Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. Itâs one of the rare moments when theyâre both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting.Â
Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but heâs been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over.Â
âAh, young master Warlock,â he says, peering over their shoulders. âWhat a wonderful drawing youâve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?âÂ
Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. âNanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.âÂ
Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesnât look back.Â
Warlock pipes up again. âNanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?âÂ
âDid she now?â Aziraphale asks. Itâs hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. âBig âol lizards,â heâd said, âjust huge, you know. Like a dragon, but theyâll think theyâre real, see. Biggest things ever. âould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.âÂ
Warlock nods. âMy favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.âÂ
Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what sheâs drawing, and stops. Itâs the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon heâs ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. Theyâd seen them together, before, before theyâd all gotten hunted out.Â
âItâs a lovely drawing, Nanny,â he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be.Â
The pencil stops, then keeps going.Â
Warlock looks up at him again. âNanny says she ate the last one.âÂ
âI did,â Nanny Ashtoreth responds. âAnd donât you forget it.âÂ
Itâs the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. Itâs the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time.Â
Theyâre curled up in bed, two commas together, and itâs been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale canât seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss.Â
Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. âTell me good things,â he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder.Â
Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?
Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now.Â
They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and itâs easier. It doesnât take away all the bad that heâs seen, but itâs easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isnât gone, but thereâs good, too, pushing itâs way in to make room.Â
Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking.Â
Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does.Â