The second time Crowley tries to talk to Aziraphale, the angel smites him on the spot.
Iâm sorry, I didnât mean it, you startled me! Aziraphale babbles while he helps a dazed Crowley back to his feet and repairs his tattered robe. Angelic instincts, you understand. Please donât sneak up on me like that.
Noted, Crowley says, and they both awkwardly try to put it behind them.
The next time, Crowley is the one to react on instinct. Theyâve both just tried alcohol for the first time and are reveling its effects. Aziraphale is in a giggling heap on the floor and ranting about bats for some reason.
Strangle him, Crowleyâs treacherous mind whispers as the angel peers up at the ceiling and bares the soft skin of his neck. Would be so easy, just look at him, canât even fight back...
His fingers are around the angelâs throat before he can stop himself. Aziraphale looks up at him, the laughter fading, and they are frozen like that for a long moment. And Aziraphale doesnât look angry or afraid, he looks betrayed.
Crowley lets go. Steps back. Sssorry. Forgot myssself.
Aziraphale accepts that, although he really shouldnât.
The impulse never goes away. It resurges every time they are alone together, drinking or talking or trading favors, every time Aziraphale gets distracted and turns his back. Kill the angel, Crowleyâs demonic self screams at the most inconvenient of times. Cut his throat, break his wings. Crush his light, make him cry and scream and beg, make him BURN...
His only comfort is that it happens to Aziraphale, too. There will be moments when Crowley feels his neck prickle, senses a surge of holiness right beside him, and he will look to see Aziraphale watching him, eyes gleaming with a cold and righteous fury. It makes Crowley catch his breath and tremble with the need to become very small and slither away on his belly.
It doesnât happen often, not enough to be worrisome. They donât speak of it out loud, but they avoid touching as much as possible. Something about the proximity makes the urges more violent, like forcing two magnets together.
Though sometimes they canât avoid touching. When Crowley hands over a bag of books, he has to pop over to another continent so he isnât tempted to redirect another bomb to an innocent bookshop. When Aziraphale hands over a thermos, his hands twist in his lap, knuckles white, and Crowley knows heâs fighting the urge to open that thermos and fling the contents in his face.
It isnât fair, this distance they must keep, but they make the best of it. They have no choice. Opposite sides, and all that.
Then one day, the Apocalypse doesnât happen, and they switch faces, and it hurts, oh Heaven does it hurt to mingle their essences, even for a split second. They end up skipping the celebratory lunch and taking a nap back at his place, too drained to properly savor their victory.
Crowley wakes up hours later to an angel curled up at his side. He flinches on instinct, and Aziraphale snaps awake with a shout and throws him across the room.
I thought this would go away, Aziraphale says in anguish. Why hasnât it? Weâre on the same side now, arenât we?
Guess form shapes nature, Crowley says, rubbing his head where he collided with the wall. Canât take the angel out of the... well, angel.
Aziraphale pouts. There must be something we can do. I would at least like to hold your hand, dear. Without those awful intrusive thoughts telling me to thrust a sword through your chest.
Crowley thinks it over. Has an idea. Intrusive thoughts, eh?
Ancient problems require modern solutions. Clever, human solutions. They start with a psychologist who has extensive experience with helping patients manage similar conditions. (Theyâre not human, but their corporations are close enough, and they need to start somewhere.) They work slowly through the years, starting with sitting next to each other and letting their fingers touch, gradually working their way up to holding hands, then to brushing a kiss to a cheek or forehead. The impulses to attack donât go away, but therapy takes the edge off, helps them remind each other of where they are, who they are. Crowley takes his medication religiously (hah) and learns to stay calm and look those dark urges straight on without fear. Yep, I see you there. Nope, weâre not hurting our best friend today. Got tickets to the opera tonight, donât want to put a damper on that.
It takes Aziraphale a little longer to accept that these impulses will never go away. That it will be an ongoing struggle for both of them, eternally, for as long as angels and demons exist. Crowley loses count of the number of times he wakes to an empty cottage and knows Aziraphale has gone for an extended flight over the ocean, trying desperately to outrun the holy warrior that yearns to purge Evil in all its forms.
Crowley throws open the windows and makes cocoa and waits for his angel to come stumbling back in the door, exhausted and pale from the chill of the stratosphere. And Crowley holds out his hand and waits for Aziraphale to take it and nestle in beside him on the couch.
Come on, itâs not so bad. Took us six thousand years just to hold hands. Probably be another four thousand before we start spooning.
Aziraphale laughs weakly. Iâll mark the calendar, dear. Spooning at the ten thousand year mark.
Iâll bring the champagne. You bring the blankets.
Aziraphale looks at him. Squeezes his hand. I do love you, Crowley. So very much.
Crowley blushes. Thankfully, words have never been off limits. Love you, too. No matter how many times you smite me.
It was one time! Aziraphale protests.
Once was more than enough. You pack a punch, angel.
Aziraphale sighs and lays his head on Crowleyâs shoulder. They both tense up. Itâs the first time theyâve tried this.
Crowley breathes, in and out, very slowly. You good?
Yeah. Could stay like this for the rest of the day.
Letâs start with an hour and see how we feel. Donât want to push our luck.
Crowley smiles and settles in. One step at a time. Just like theyâve done everything else. He knows they can handle it together.
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