Far Away from the Stench of the Heavens

Did they? Aziraphale could not quite look at Crowley and he wanted to talk to him even less. But Crowley held his gaze level and began to drink. Almost immediately he knew if he'd stayed quiet they would end up in this limbo forever. (Except the Second Coming would then start on schedule and Aziraphale would lose him. Crowley had many talents but he could only stop so much time.)

Aziraphale let the silence between them linger as he watched Crowley from the corner of his eyes. A selfish part of him had thought hoped Crowley was as miserable as him. (Then he would understand. Then he'd come with to Heaven with him and help.) But he wasn't. He looked good. Then again, Aziraphale reflected briefly, Crowley had never been unkempt. It was something that happened to someone else, just like traffic and this... awful feeling.

Crowley frowned deeply. Aziraphale's response wasn't as he'd expected. Not at all. He'd been bating him into a familiar huff. Instead he looked like a kicked dog. His expression softened so he was no longer fronting with aloof indifference. Without saying a word he filled a glass with a couple fingers of whiskey for the angel. He felt a bit bad for coming in so hot, and that made him feel even worse. Crowley may not consider himself an agent of Satan's unholy will, but he was still a demon, for fuck's sake. Aziraphale's haunted expression should not leave him desperate to sweep the angel into his arms until he was smiling again.

But he couldn't. Not just yet.

It was the first day of Spring. Crowley hadn’t even had to see a calendar, she’d felt it down to her core. If she were truly committed to her shop, Crowley would have woken up early to arrange fresh bouquets of spring wildflowers. She was far more interested in the greenhouse, teeming with life. Flowers bloomed with every footstep, if not where she intended to go, but in the trees lining the boulevard and fields of suburbia miles from London proper. 

By the time she heard his voice, the hothouse was fragrant with fresh greenery and her fingers sticky with pollen and sap. She didn’t remember dressing but became suddenly quite aware of her body and how delicate gossamer silk draped against coppery skin. Crowley’s lips parted when Aziraphale appeared, and she moved toward him. She felt powerful, like she could change the world with a sigh, but the flowering seasons tended to imbue her with such delusions of grandeur.

One look at her and he knew—the barren lands of his soul was not immune to her spring. Things took root and grow. Aziraphale smiled, the sound of his name on her lips buoyed him like dandelion seeds blown by a gentle breeze. His thumb grazed the flower she put on his jacket as he followed her around as though in a trance. A poisonous, beautiful plant—love despite failings.

"It is traditional to offer libation to my goddess of spring," he said, taking in the extraordinary beauty of her curves barely hidden by the silk she wore. In these moods she would be inventing, creating life and splicing genes. Her hands would take the sharp scents of leaves and her smile alone would nourish a withered sap. Aziraphale would watch and hold her, occasionally spending the entire season by her side like the devoted hound he was. The pull was stronger than ever.

"Old traditions." The curve of her lips was coy yet not without a trace of mischievousness. "Then perhaps we should bask in the sun before the summer heat makes it impossible to move."

Crowley had been a fixture at the Ritz for months, even more so than before Aziraphale ascended to his new station in Heaven. In fact he was renting a room because money was easy to get, even when he was using minimal miracles in order to keep his paper trail scant in Hell. All he wanted was to be left alone to brood, because what else was there to do now? He’d turned his back on Hell and while he didn’t regret it one bit, it was a lot more lonely without Aziraphale’s companionship. 

And for what? The romantic ideal of setting things right? Whatever that meant.

He knew it was petty, haunting this place, bitter and tired where once it had held happier memories, but a demon had to find his kicks somewhere. There were worse places to call purgatory. It was a week night and the dining room was relatively quiet; he was considering retiring for the evening with a bottle of whiskey and head full of ghosts. Brooding was best done with witnesses, otherwise it was just sulking.

And then it happened. A host lead an achingly familiar figure to sit at a table across the room. Aziraphale. Lord knows how he found the time off after all this time, probably quite literally. He was struck dumb for a moment, unused to seeing the angel anywhere outside his dreams these days. How anyone could possibly mistake him for human was quite beyond Crowley, but the real question was if he should acknowledge the angel at all. Who would blame him if he didn't? For a long moment he considered leaving out the back and doing something reckless. 

But at the end of every day, it was Aziraphale and he’d loved him since before humans started recording time. So he got up and went him after the host left to get a server. 

The bottle of whiskey landed heavily on top of the table, followed by Crowley slouching into the chair across from the angel.

And so, as soon as the host left he dropped his smile and sat so still he might as well be another one of the pillars at the restaurant. Wouldn't that be nice? He only wanted to do good, to be a pillar of support and strength. He stared blankly at the silver-white shine of the cutlery until the emotion wrapped around his corporeal throat begin to strangle him, and he let it because yes, this was where Supreme Archangels sneak off to in order to have a little cry.

A dull thud on his table made him jump. The waitstaff knew to leave him alone and he was about to make a pointed remark when all of a sudden he was eye to eye with Crowley. Crowley, who said something that for the life of him he couldn't hear. Who sat himself across from him like it was any other day in what was supposed to be the rest of their lives.

"What?" Oh no, that was all breath, no words. His voice seemed to have left him. Aziraphale blinked the beginning of tears away and tucked his feelings away.

Aziraphale was quick to recover, but Crowley saw it for the moment the expression lingered: Stricken. It had not been his expectation to find Crowley here. He felt mildly affronted. Surely the angel knew well that if Crowley could be anything, it was petty. It was also deeply irritating that he wasn’t enjoying Aziraphale’s pain more. 

Instead he just wanted to comfort him, be a sounding board for his frustrations. Crowley couldn’t imagine being a layabout Principality for centuries thrust into Heaven’s bureaucratic hierarchy, nevermind tasked as its overseer. At least Hell’s made sense: Power, duplicity, ruthlessness, and a dash of flattery to the right demons was how to climb the ranks down below. Aziraphale hadn’t looked so stressed since the whole ordeal with Job. 

He glared at him over his shades, however. Crowley still had his pride, and he would be damned if he made it a cakewalk for Aziraphale to get back in his good graces.

"Crowley? Ah, there you are." His eyes had gone all soft in the radiance of his smile. That was before he remembered himself and the circumstances of their last parting. Aziraphale shifted on his feet, the plush carpets of the Ritz giving him a sinking feeling that went all the way up his corporeal throat. Dear someone but he'd almost forgotten how heavy a corporation was. He was an angelic picture of nerves before he gestured at the empty seat next to the demon.

‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.’

That old movie line floated to the top of Crowley’s mind when he met familiar blue eyes, still as beautiful as the day they’d met on the Garden of Eden’s crumbling walls. Now what he should do was something dramatic. Make a scene, mortify him proper so that he never even considered  stepping foot in here ever again. At the very least tell him to piss off. 

And maybe had he looked the part, Crowley wouldn’t be hesitating. If only Supreme Archangel Aziraphale had been even a little haughtier than usual or eyed him with anything less than contrition, then it would be that much easier to be cruel to him, but he looked just the same as he always did: An eccentric creature with the sort of timeless look that was nonetheless old fashioned. Aziraphale also looked terribly vulnerable, shy, almost.

The bell chimed as Aziraphale walked into the shop. He looked around and saw nothing but the cluttered worktop where his angel would have arranged her orders of bouquets.

"Hmm." He tucked the bottle of wine into the crook of his arm. "Crowley?" Was she out? Watering her plants? The latter was more likely since the door was not locked so he let his feet lead him towards the back of the shop where the air grew humid and warm as it opened into a greenhouse. It was no Kew Gardens, but he knew some of the botanists there would have chewed their own leg to acquire some of the species Crowley had in her collection.

It was the first day of Spring. Crowley hadn’t even had to see a calendar, she’d felt it down to her core. If she were truly committed to her shop, Crowley would have woken up early to arrange fresh bouquets of spring wildflowers. She was far more interested in the greenhouse, teeming with life. Flowers bloomed with every footstep, if not where she intended to go, but in the trees lining the boulevard and fields of suburbia miles from London proper. 

By the time she heard his voice, the hothouse was fragrant with fresh greenery and her fingers sticky with pollen and sap. She didn’t remember dressing but became suddenly quite aware of her body and how delicate gossamer silk draped against coppery skin. Crowley’s lips parted when Aziraphale appeared, and she moved toward him. She felt powerful, like she could change the world with a sigh, but the flowering seasons tended to imbue her with such delusions of grandeur.

The dissemination of knowledge and information in written form as a trade was still in its infancy but people all over the world were keen to follow the trend. It was more convenient than attending talks, symposium, or even theatre, and you can lend it to others or carry it around as an accessory with which to signal others of your excellent pedigree. To be well read was to be wreathed in invisible gold.

Crowley laughed because he couldn't help it. What a ridiculous creature his angel was.

"So? Rich people exist, and let me tell you, no number's too big for that lot. They'll make your life a living hell if they want something you've got."

Not that he really needed to be concerned. Aziraphale, fair and mild-tempered though he was, at the end of the day, he was still a Principality: A guardian and shepherd of mankind. No human could do much more than offend the angel's exacting sensibilities. Crowley was soft for him, though, and didn't like to see him troubled.

"Cr—hic—Crowley, my dear," the angel spoke, followed by a syrupy blink. They were several bottles into the night and he was beginning to feel it. He motioned for Crowley to come closer.

Crowley looked at him like he'd sprouted an extra head. it wasn't as though it was an unfathomable prospect. Aziraphale had been obsessed with reading since its invention. If he didn't know better he'd have assumed the angel had inspired the written word.