Writing Blog for Moveslikebucky

Erasmus pushes William to the bench as they crowd into the little booth.  His knee is braced on the seat against William’s thigh and he tries very hard not to think about that.  Tries to keep his breathing even. Tries not to think about the thoughts he’s had in the past about this stuffy and fussy priest and his damnable thighs.  Sometimes he missed the damn cassock just so he wouldn’t have to see the things all the time.  Now he couldn’t get away from them even if he tried.

He sighs, looking anywhere but at the priest, bracing his hand against the back wall.  He has to be cautious of so many different things. All his years as a con man have somehow not prepared him for this.  Sure, he’s been in close quarters situations before - both with people he didn’t want to be around and with people he’d been tasked to seduce.  This is different. He cares about William, more than he’s ever cared about a single person.

“Erasmus...um-” Before William can finish the thought, Erasmus turns his head and shushes him with a finger.  The man has no business being in situations like these, even after all this time. It shouldn’t be endearing - this constant need William has to smooth over every situation he’s in - but it is.  

Oh, but this was a very stupid thing for Erasmus to do.  The situation is already tense, did he really think shushing the priest with a finger would make anything better?  He can hear the heavy scrape of armor through the church but it’s fuzzy in his head. Too muddled with the sensation of William’s breath surrounding his finger.  Warm out, cool in. Steady but heavy.  

How long has Erasmus been wanting - been watching this stuffy straight-laced priest from afar?  Trying not to get too close, not to touch, not to do anything with this vicious and incessant want that’s plagued him for so long.

He should look away, he needs to look away, but he can’t.  The guards are still milling around in the church and they’re getting closer and he can’t look away from William’s eyes.  They’re blue, like the ocean he only has vague memories of, from when he was younger. But there’s something else there, something deeper.  Something darker. Something Erasmus has seen in the eyes of his con marks, of barmaids, of drunken men. Something he’s seen in the eyes of lovers.

William’s blond curls barely brush Erasmus’s forearm where it’s held next to his head, sparking something all the way down Erasmus’s spine.  William’s breath is growing heavier the longer they stare at each other, and even in this low flickering light Erasmus can see the pink creeping on his cheeks.  On the tips of his ears. On his neck.

Erasmus swallows hard, and carefully switches from one finger pressed to William’s lips to covering his mouth with his whole hand.  As he does, he shifts his knee. Just slightly, but it’s more than enough. A muffled whine escapes from William’s throat as he closes his eyes and arches his back.  His hands come up to cling in the fabric of Erasmus’s tunic.

They stare at each other for another beat, listening to the guards outside toppling pews and breaking down doors.  This is not the time for this. This should not be the time for this.  But William is giving him a pleading look and the evidence of his desire is pressed against Erasmus’ knee.

Erasmus tilts his head to the side and nods once; William looks at him and nods back.  Erasmus closes the gap between them, stopping a mere inch from his own hand where it covers the priest’s mouth.  “Shhh…” Erasmus hisses as he kisses the back of his own hand, afraid to move it and break the spell, but wanting the sentiment to be clear.  He feels William exhale against his hand and this sensation is going to break him. He breaks off and takes his hand from the wall, reaching down to the laces of WIlliam’s breeches.  Erasmus stops, hand hovering just there, eyes searching William’s face. William tightens his grip on Erasmus’ tunic and nods again.

Erasmus makes quick work of the laces, freeing William’s erection.  He rests his forehead against the priest’s, still silently seeking permission with every step.  His own breath is mingling with what escapes of William’s through his fingers and it almost overwhelms him.  William moves a hand to cup Erasmus’ cheek, eyes pleading, and nods. They both know this isn’t the place, but they also both know they may never get this chance again.

Erasmus places a quick kiss to William’s forehead before sinking down to his knees, one hand still covering the priest’s mouth.  He looks up at William one more time, just as they hear a statue toppled over and breaking. William jumps and turns towards the sound and for one brief moment Erasmus thinks the spell is broken and this will end.  Instead William turns back and twines one of his hands into Erasmus’ red hair. Erasmus has seen this look a million times, on a million faces. It’s impossible not to in this kind of work. But he had never dreamed he’d see it on William’s face.

The torchlight in the church gets brighter as the guards get closer, and Erasmus can feel the urgency of his own nearly painful erection.  He runs a featherlight touch over William’s thigh, thinking of all the times he’s wanted to feel that musclebound softness. All the times he’s stared.  William shudders and grips Erasmus’ hair tighter. Erasmus trails kisses along his thigh, despite it still being covered by those damned breeches. But their confines right now don’t really lend well to ripping off clothing, so he’ll make do.  

He runs a thumb over the tip of William’s cock, finding it already leaking.  He feels the hitch of William’s breath behind his hand and nearly loses himself.

Erasmus isn’t usually like this, undone before the main event event occurs, but he’s already damned close to breaking.  Doing this with William, here, of all the places that they could’ve made this leap. There’s something so inherently sinful about it that shoots right to the heart of him.  

He keeps rubbing the tip in circles, paying close attention to the sensitive area on the underside, feeling William’s breath hitching behind his hand.  Every little sound and every little movement that William makes causes an answering twitch in his own cock, and Erasmus has never wanted anything more than this in his entire existence.

Erasmus leans down, close enough to feel the heat pulsing off of William, but he stops just short of his target.  He looks up at William again and he thinks this is a view he could get used to. He breathes deep and exhales slowly, waiting for permission.  William nods his head and Erasmus, needing no more than that, presses a long but tender kiss to the tip. He works his way down the length of it, feeling every twitch that his kisses elicit, before running his tongue back up to the tip.  He looks back up to William once more. He nods again, no hesitation in his gaze - just want. Erasmus takes the tip into his mouth.  

He strokes along the underside with his tongue - slowly and deliberately - as he takes more and more of William into his mouth.  The hand in his hair tightens, and Erasmus moans, noise muffled by the cock in his mouth. He pulls back off to just the tip and wraps his free hand around the base, letting it do the work his mouth can’t.  

In a perfect world, Erasmus would take William apart slowly.  Bit by bit and piece by piece until they were both such a mess for each other that this could never be a one-time occurence.  But he doesn’t have that luxury right now.  Not with guards destroying the church around them.  Not with them both on the run. Not with every moment of rest stolen from a world that wants them dead.

If this is all he gets, he’s going to make sure William enjoys it.

He takes William in as deep as he can, hollowing out his cheeks.  Erasmus feels him inhale sharply and tighten his grip, pushing and pulling as he sees fit.  Erasmus is about to topple over the edge - everything about this is intoxicating to him. The feel of William in his mouth, in his hand.  The hot sharp breaths escaping through his fingers. The heady scent of arousal.

William taps him on the head and he looks up, guessing from the push and the pull, and the bucking of William’s hips, what he’s trying to say.  He’s close, and Erasmus wants all of it. He pulls away just enough to circle his tongue around the tip once more before sinking back down as far as his throat will let him.  

William bites down hard on Erasmus’ hand as he spills down the back of his throat.  The mix of pain and pleasure is overwhelming and Erasmus soon follows him, coming undone completely untouched.  William’s leg is shaking furiously, and Erasmus splays his free hand across his thigh to pin him down, continuing his ministrations as William goes soft again.

William breathes quietly but heavily through his aftershocks and Erasmus wipes his mouth, rising back up and just looking at him.  The flush of pleasure looks good on the priest. His hand is still in William’s mouth. He can feel the lingering pain of the bite marks, exacerbated by William’s breath across them.  He chances a touch and runs one hand through William’s curls.  

“Hey!”  One of the guards shouts and they both jump.  “We found some tracks heading north! Boss wants us to follow those!”

“Right then, on with it,” says a voice entirely too close for comfort, right outside the confessional door.  They hadn’t even noticed. Jesus fucking Christ, Erasmus thinks through his haze.  William’s eyes are wide with fear, even as they hear the guards receding back to the door.

Erasmus can smell the old book dust that follows the priest around and the petrichor from the storm they escaped, both mingling in the air with the scent of sex.  This will be the end of it, he’s sure, and he can’t bring himself to move. To look away. To go back to life before this.

“We did it,” he says, softly, voice hoarse, “they’re gone.”  He sighs with relief, removing his hand from William’s mouth and resting their foreheads together again.  He thinks, in a most un-scoundrel-like way, that he could be comfortable right there for eternity.  

WIlliam is still breathing heavily, although more measured now.  He doesn’t seem to be able to meet Erasmus’ gaze and, really, he should’ve expected that.  What had he hoped? That this would be the start of something?  Something tangible and real?  Those aren’t the hopes a man like Erasmus gets to have, especially in regards to a man like William.  

“We should...probably get moving,” William says, voice rough and cracking like the fragile thing it is. “They’ll find out we didn’t go that way soon enough, and they’ll be back.”  The priest makes no motion to move, no motion to pull away. Neither does Erasmus, even as he feels his traitorous heart breaking in two.

“Yeah.  Yeah, we probably should.”

It’s the most difficult thing Erasmus has ever done, to wrench himself out of William’s personal space.  The spell had to break at some point, and things had to go back to normal. As normal as they could be. Only fools hope, and all that nonsense.

He doesn’t get far.  William’s hand cups his cheek and he lets out - for somebody’s sake - an honest to God whimper.  “What’s this about, priest?” Erasmus can’t help but hiss, overwhelmed by how warm and soft William’s hand is.  He leans into it like a cat and curses this touch-starved part of himself.

“Don’t,” William says around a quiet sob. “Don’t...just...don’t…”

“Sorry, you’re right,” Erasmus says as he pulls away again. “Won’t let anyone know, just a moment of weakness on my part.  Secret’s safe here, never has to happen-”

“Let me finish, my dear,” William says as he grabs Erasmus’s collar and pulls him back.  “What I was saying is, please don’t tell me that didn’t mean anything to you, because I don’t think I could bear it.”

The moment stretches into infinity, here in the confines of this box.  In the darkness and the silence. Balancing on a sword’s edge between the before and the after.  All at once they crash together. Soft hands tangling in crimson hair; spindly arms wrapping around a waist tightly, so tightly.  Lips pressed to lips after what feels like ages of wishing and looking and wanting.

“Your hand though, dear!  Are you alr-” Erasmus silences William with his mouth again, deepening the kiss, all but begging for entry, which William readily allows.

“It’s fine, I liked it, be wearing you on my hand for weeks now pr-,” Erasmus says when they break the next time.  This time William rushes to interrupt, giving back in kind, mapping out the points of Erasmus’ teeth and moaning in a frankly obscene way that he really didn’t know the priest had in him.

They break again and to Erasmus, William is somehow even more of a vision.  Lips swollen and red from their fervent kissing, eyes sparkling impossibly and full of something that Erasmus can’t quite place.  It’s too much; he almost can’t bear it, all these feelings welling up inside of him with nowhere to go. All he knows is if he doesn’t get his lips on William’s again, he’s going to explode.  

He leans in again just as the door is flung open.

“Are you two done?” Julia shouts at them. “The fake tracks I laid won’t throw them off for long, we’ve got to get out of here!”

Erasmus has to suppress a laugh at the look on William’s face.  Julia stares at them before realization dawns on her face and she goes beet red.

“Oh my...are you serious?  Are either of you really serious?  With guards! And...in...in a confessional!  Whatever, you know what, I do not care, at least maybe now you’ll quit with the longing, it’s so loud from the both of you it makes it difficult to think.  Sort yourselves out, I’m going to go get Joshua.” She turns on her heel and leaves.  

Erasmus watches her go, looking for all the world like that cat that got caught with the cream, when he hears snickering.  Very quiet and faint snickering.  He looks back at William, who is trying very hard not to laugh.  The sight undoes him and he breaks, big roaring laughs like he hasn’t had in years.  William breaks too, with a big full laugh that feels like the sunrise as they collapse onto each other in a fit of giggles.  It dies down quickly, leaving two beaming smiles in its wake.

“Come on then, William of Neath.” Erasmus says the name with a bit of haughty flair to it as he offers the priest his hand. “Would you allow a scoundrel to escort you back to wherever the hell it is we’re camping out tonight?”

It should be noted that even the best of us are susceptible to a bad day.  Even angels and even demons. Aziraphale has weathered his fair share of them - you don’t live on Earth for six thousand years without encountering a few.  This particular day paled in comparison to most of the ones he’d had, but sometimes even the kindest, nicest, and most put-together people will succumb to a string of innocuous bad events and sink into what is professionally known as a “funk”.

This is the state we find Aziraphale in as he returns to the bookshop.  Dejected, soaking wet, and downright depressed. He unlocks the door, snapping his fingers quickly to rid himself of the water.  It wouldn’t do to drip all over the floors, the old wood wouldn’t take kindly to it. Despite this, he still feels chilled to the bone and a bit damp.  Drying miracles never quite manage to get all of the water out.

He climbs the stairs to their tiny shared flat on the second floor.  It’s small, but it’s home, and it’s just enough for them. Before he gets to the second step he can already smell it.  Tomatoes, basil, garlic, mushrooms. Crowley must be making pasta tonight. Aziraphale loves it when Crowley cooks for him.  He’s been learning, which had surprised Aziraphale at first. A Crowley completely free from the confines of head office had turned out to be quite the romantic.  Candlelit dinners, lots of sweet nothings, and the clingiest cuddle-bug that Aziraphale had ever known (and he had known Wilde and been drunk with him).

The smell only gets stronger as he climbs the stairs, lifting his spirits ever so slightly.  But the weight of the day is still heavy on his shoulders as he opens the door to the flat.

“Angel, that you?” he hears Crowley call out from the kitchen.  Some kind of bebop is playing on the little radio there by the sink.  Something about Sunday’s and wasted years.

“Yes; was a bit of a mess, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says as he hangs his coat on the little angel wing hook by the door.  (Crowley had thought it quite hilarious right after moving in. The other hook, currently holding a very flash black suit jacket, is a devil tail.)  He slips his shoes off and puts them on the rack, turning to see Crowley leaning on the door frame of their little kitchen-slash-dining room, tea towel slung over his shoulder, bright red hair up in a messy half bun

“Deal didn’t go through then?” Crowley says, brows laced with concern.  He knows how Aziraphale gets, especially by now. It’s been years since that fateful August day when they stood side by side on an old airstrip and faced down the forces of Heaven and Hell with a scrappy group of humans.  

Crowley crosses over and wraps his arms around Aziraphale, placing a kiss into his hairline, “do I need to find the scumbag and stage a little demonic intervention?”

Aziraphale manages a slight chuckle as he nuzzles his face into Crowley’s neck.  “No, I don’t think so, dearest. The dealer never showed.”

“The scumbag,” Crowley says with absolutely zero bite behind it, “I’ll curse him myself.”

“None of that, foul fiend.” Aziraphale says with infinite fondness.  It’s been a long time since either of them have done anything truly in line with their respective sides.  

Crowley absently runs a hand soothingly up and down the angel’s back.  “Still, something else is on your mind, I can always tell.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Aziraphale sighs, “just several bad things all piling together.”

“Well,” Crowley pulls back and kisses Aziraphale quickly on the nose, “you’re not allowed to be sad because I made pasta, and you love pasta, and you love me.”  Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, touching their noses together. The intimacy of the action still takes Aziraphale’s breath away to this day.

Crowley kisses him quickly, then turns and makes his way back to the kitchen.  Aziraphale follows close behind, sinking into one of the tiny bistro chairs of the little dining set they managed to fit into the corner.  The rain has started back up outside, and Aziraphale leans his chin on his hand to stare out the window at it for a little bit.

Aziraphale doesn’t think he has a right to be this sad; everyone has bad days and he’s had much worse than this.  Lots of their neighbors around Soho have had a worse day than he has, he can’t hear their prayers persay, but he can feel the general shape of their hopes and fears.  And yet, he just can’t shake it.

A sharp yelp from the oven startles Aziraphale out of his thoughts.  Crowley’s burned himself on the pan for the garlic bread, like he always does.  He watches Crowley move around the kitchen, so steady and self-assured. Falling into domesticity has been so easy, so natural.  Almost like breathing. Crowley keeps swaying to the music on his radio, testing noodles and stirring sauce. He stares down the sauce and adds just a pinch more garlic powder to it, before giving it a stir and tasting it.  “Angel, I’ve done it again!” He says as he punches the air. They both know he’ll hardly eat any of it, but he relishes being able to do this for Aziraphale

“That’s lovely dearest,” Aziraphale says with his chin still in his hand.

Crowley smiles at him, tossing the towel back over his shoulder as he swaggers over to the table, “what is it, dove, like what you see?”

“You know I always do, darling.”  He smiles at Crowley as the demon takes both of his hands.

“Still feeling down, Angel?”  Aziraphale just nods at him. “Well that won’t do, c’mon, up you get.”  He pulls Aziraphale to his feet before shooting a glare at the radio. The bebop playing cuts out abruptly and switches to a very smooth piano beat.

Crowley winks at him, “dance with me, love?”

“Crowley what on Earth?” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and does his best to suppress the smile attempting to creep across his face, “you know I can only dance the gavotte.”

“No gavotte here, Angel, just swaying in the kitchen.”  Crowley guides Aziraphale’s hand to his shoulder before gently placing his own on the small of the angel’s back.  He presses their cheeks together and starts to sing along softly with the man on the radio.

“Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine?  My darling dear, love you all the time. I’m just a fool, a fool in love with you.”

They sway back and forth, as far as the tiny kitchen will allow.  Aziraphale can feel his nerves and anxieties calming; safe here in his demon’s arms.  They sway and they spin, and he giggles as Crowley keeps singing to him.

“Earth angel, earth angel, the one I adore.  Love you forever and ever more. I’m just a fool, a fool in love with you.”

“Crowley, dear, you’re such a hopeless romantic sometimes.” Aziraphale places a tender kiss to the little snake tattoo by Crowley’s ear.

“Not hopeless if I got you in the end, Angel,” Crowley says, nuzzling into the angel’s cheek before nuzzling into the angel’s cheek.  “I fell for you and I knew the vision of your loveliness.”

Crowley grips his hand tightly before spinning him around and bringing him back even closer.

“I hope and I pray that someday I’ll be the vision of your happiness.”

“Oh my dearest,” Aziraphale says, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder, breathing deeply, perfectly at peace, “you always have been.”  They sway slowly from side to side, not really dancing anymore so much as just existing.

He has to focus, he has to become Crowley.  This won’t be difficult, he’s known Crowley so long.  Aziraphale has memorized nearly everything there is to know about the demon - for thwarting purposes, obviously.

He knows the kinds of quips Crowley would make in the face of adversity.  How he carries himself around perceived authority.  How he walks like he’s not sure what exactly ‘hip bones’ are supposed to be.  

But he also knows Crowley’s kind heart and his clever mind.  He knows Crowley’s loyalty.  And it is loyalty, isn’t it?  He never went to Alpha-Centauri.  He never would have, not without Aziraphale along for the ride.

He knows how the lines around Crowley’s eyes crinkle differently when a smile is genuine.  How he stammers when he’s overwhelmed or embarrassed.  How when he’s had just a bit too much red he starts to hiss at the end of his words.  How he can captivate a room, hold it in the palm of his hand like an apple on offering.  How when he laughs, he laughs deep and full and melodic.

He knows so much about Crowley; the being in the world he holds most dear in this life.

He’ll have to channel all of that to keep Crowley safe, and he knows that right now Crowley is doing the same for him in Heaven.  They’ll survive this, they have to.  Aziraphale can reflect everything Crowley is right at them and win Crowley his freedom.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and a razor sharp memory comes back to him unbidden.  A church in 1941, the burning remains of a house of God that signalled the beginning of Aziraphale’s own awareness.  He’d been falling for a long time, but not from Grace.

He’d seen it, in Crowley’s flat the night before.  The eagle lectern from the church.  Sentimental old serpent.

When this is over, if they survive, there’s no need to hide any longer.  Their sides are perfectly aware of their “fraternizing”.  

If they get out of this, Aziraphale resolves to tell Crowley what he’s known for so long, in the deepest recesses of his angel’s heart.  He loves Crowley, with every fiber of his being that shouldn’t.  And when this is over, he’s going to tell him just that.

---

Ozone.  Overwhelming, nostril burning, ozone.  Like an overactive air conditioner.  And pine, but that particular artificial pine.  Cleaning solution.  Hovering over the surface like someone dumped an undiluted jug of it on the floor and just walked away.

And the light, it’s so harsh.  Hell is supposed to be harsh, but this is on another level.  He can’t see anything else for how bright the light is, these eyes that are not his are taking their sweet time adjusting.  He strains his wrists against the rope restraining him.  It’s rough and itchy, obviously imbued with some kind of celestial energy since he can’t will it away.

The room feels cold, like an unbearable chill.  But he can still feel himself sweating.  Like the worst waiting room in the known universe.  No temperature regulation to be had.  It’s ironic, he thinks, if this is supposed to be where you want to end up.  The chair that creaks every time he moves is not helping.  It’s so uncomfortable he wants to scream.  

He can’t, of course.  He’s bound and gagged.  By angels, of all things.  Figured his lot would go in for that before Heaven did.  Hell has several agents with those kinds of things as their purview (for pain and for pleasure, and for that weird place they intersect.)

Ah well, focus on something else.

The windows are a nice touch - floor to ceiling polished glass.  He can see all the wonders of the world from here, and even Crowley has to admit the view from the top is nice.  But it’s so empty.  A vast hall with no life in it whatsoever.  Where are they keeping all those alleged pure souls?  Not here, obviously.

It’s lonely, he realizes, with a twinge of affection for a certain ineffable being.  One that he’s currently wearing the face of.

No wonder the angel surrounds himself with books and food and the finer things.  There’s nothing here.  Nothing but overly bright and overly clean.

Aziraphale belongs in a dusty bookshop.  He belongs on Earth with the humdrum monotony of human life and the ever-changing majesty of human invention.  Not in this place.

This place that belittles him, makes fun of his hobbies, of his corporation, of his soft heart, of his do-gooder nature.  Everything that makes Aziraphale, well, Aziraphale.

This place never deserved him.  Never deserved an angel that cared about every being he came across, even so much as to cover a lowly demon with his wing in the rain; or who cares so much about humanity he’ll swan dive away and straight back down to Earth for an infinitesimal chance to save them all.

They’ve never deserved the one angel who truly is a being of pure love.  They were never his angel’s home.  Home doesn’t treat you like that; home is supposed to be a place of love.

He shakes his head.  Gotta play the part, he thinks.  He knows Aziraphale better than he knows himself.  Aziraphale has a few nervous tics, but underneath is a soldier.  A guardian charged with protecting the first of humanity.  A protector who has watched over the Earth and its inhabitants for longer than anyone or anything else (save for two).  

A being of so much immeasurable ethereal power that a mortal being could never comprehend his true form.  A being of so much love that it overwhelms even a demon who shouldn’t be able to sense that anymore.  A being who cares about things like crepes and Shakespeare and nonsense first editions of books no one even remembers anymore.

A being who cares about him.  Who cares about Crowley.  And is right now in Hell wearing his face and being strong for him.  

Crowley can do the same.  He can be a mirror image of Aziraphale, in every way.  He has to.

And when he gets out of here, the first thing he’s gonna do is finally, finally kiss his angel senseless.  Let him know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he is wanted, that he is loved, and that he is home.  Crowley will be there - for as long as Aziraphale would have him - to show him how wonderful he is, how beautiful he is, and how absolutely loved he is.

Even love from something wretched is better than the falsehood of this place.  Crowley had learned that the hard way in the early days.

But when this is over, he’ll be there to hold Aziraphale together, to be the light on the door that leads him home.

---

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub sneered, “I sentence you to extinction via holy water.  Have you anything to say?”

This trial had been a farce at best.  Just evidence and an execution sentence.  But they had been prepared for this.  

“Well, yes,” ‘Crowley’ says after a bit of contemplation.  “This is a new jacket and I’d hate to ruin it.  Would you mind if I took it off?”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes and Dagon groans.  He hears Hastur mutter something about “flash bastards” under his breath.  Aziraphale turns and takes off the jacket, folding it neatly over a metal chair in the corner.

He spares a couple of passing glances to the tub full of holy water next to him, saying a silent prayer to no one that this works.  He can feel the residual energy radiating off of the water and he suppresses a shudder as he strips down to just Crowley’s socks and underwear.

He’s wearing his demon’s face and facing down the very thing he’s feared for so long would be Crowley’s undoing.  How long has he been terrified of this?  Ever since that horrid argument in 1862 he’s feared for the demon where holy water is concerned.  

The lengths Crowley had gone to to get it has scared him, but it had been worth it in the end.  Aziraphale can’t imagine a life without Crowley in it, and hopefully after this he won’t have to.

He moves to the tub, stands staring into the water.  It feels a bit like things coming full circle, at this point.  “Any time now, traitor,” Hastur calls to him, “We don’t have all day.”

He turns around, takes a deep breath, and falls in backwards with a dramatic splash.  Aziraphale is gripped by a momentary panic as he hears the tell tale pops and sizzles of holy water-induced destruction.  It soon becomes apparent that this is just the residual demonic energy on the floors and walls, sizzling away into the ether when it mingles with the splashed water.

Oh, that means this is going to be fun.  He can’t resist, tossing a bit of water towards the window of the demons staring at him.  Watching them scream and recoil.  He smirks in a way that he hopes fits on Crowley’s face.

“I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck?”  Aziraphale asks to the room in general, finally turning to his supposed ‘jury of peers’.  He has to suppress a laugh.  Dagon is cowering behind Beelzebub, who looks like they just witnessed Gabriel trying to dance the salsa.  

“No?” he asks with an obvious lilt to his voice. When they don’t answer he goes back to his humming and splashing, being as ‘flash’ as he can possibly be.  

“He’s gone native,” Beelzebub croaks out while Dagon cowers behind them, “He isn’t one of us anymore.”

“So you’re probably thinking,” Aziraphale says with a flourish, draping himself over the edge of the tub as though he doesn’t know what bones are, “‘If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?’”

He watches their faces, sees the fear underneath.  Angels can sense love, that’s true.  But they can sense other things, too.  Fear, in particular.  They’re meant to assuage fears, to calm and reassure.  But Aziraphale has been playing both sides for long enough in the Arrangement that he knows how to nurture that fear as well.

He stares Beelzebub right in their beady eyes, “And very, very soon, you’re all going to get the chance to find out.”

“He’s bluffing, we can take him,” Hastur says, a bit too quickly to be casual, “One demon against the rest of Hell?  What’s he going to do?”  Aziraphale pays him no mind, Dukes of Hell are beneath Principalities anyway.  And none of the demons in Hell are fit to even look at Crowley’s face, as far as he’s concerned.

“Shut it!  Get him out of here, this’ll cause a riot,” Beelzebub shouts while rushing to block the window to the peanut gallery; Aziraphale honest-to-someone giggles.  Beelzebub keeps shouting, “What are you all looking at?  Nothing to see!  Nothing to see here!”

There are footsteps and a flickering of fluorescent lighting, and Aziraphale turns to see Michael, prim and proper as always, strolling down the hallway without a care.

“I came to bring back the - oh, Lord.”

Aziraphale almost wishes he had a camera phone, just so he could preserve the shocked look on the archangel’s face.  For days when he needs a good laugh

“Michael! Dude. Do us a quick miracle, will you?” He says, hand outstretched, not wanting to waste an opportunity and feeling emboldened by wearing Crowley’s face, “I need a bath towel.”

Michael hands him one in an instant, still looking shocked as anything.  The confidence that comes from being Crowley is exhilarating.  The more he gets away with, the bolder he is.  Aziraphale decides right then and there, he’s going to make sure they never, ever threaten Crowley again.  

“I think it would be better for everyone,” he puts on his best angelic fury voice, preying further on that seeping feeling of fear, “if I were to be left alone in the future.  Don’t you?”

He stares each of them down in turn, holding eye contact and glaring into their very souls.  He waits for each to nod in turn before deciding he’s satisfied.

“Right,” he says with a smirk and a wiggle (he is still him after all, even wearing Crowley’s face), before getting out of the tub and doing his best saunter towards the exit.

He heads for the elevator, stands still as a statue as he waits for it. He’s in such a hurry to leave he nearly runs into one of the Erics on his way in.  As soon as the doors close, he sinks against the elevator wall and sobs.   Aziraphale cries as he feels the worry wash away from him, the worry that’s plagued him for centuries now.  Crowley is finally free, and Aziraphale couldn’t be more relieved.

---

“Can I hit him?  I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

Of course Eric would want to take advantage of an opportunity.  Idiot that he is,

Sandalphon grins, gold tooth glinting in the harsh lighting.  “Go for it,” he says with contempt.  Aziraphale had told Crowley about earlier the day before, when the Archangels had cornered him in an alleyway.  Now it seemed they didn’t want to get their hands dirtier than necessary.

Eric stands in front of him, reeling his fist back like he’s gonna be able to do anything.  Lowly disposable demons, always wanna be above their station.  Crowley can’t break character, but he isn’t gonna let this asshole get a punch in.  

He stares coldly into Eric’s face, pouring every but of contempt he can without breaking the facade.  He can’t let them see him crack.  He can’t let them see Aziraphale crack.

He screws his angel’s face into what he knows Aziraphale to be.  Brave and steadfast, even in the face of adversity.  Never truly backing down when he’s up against the wall.  And he lets out one, teeny, tiny little smirk.  Just enough that only Eric would be able to see it.

“I...should be getting back,” Eric stammers, fear radiating in waves,”I’ll come and pick up the Hellfire in, what, an hour?”

“Barbecue will be over by then,” Uriel says with all of the enthusiasm of a uni student with a 5 AM math class.

Uriel makes her way over to him and unties the ropes on his wrists in one movement, “Up.”

And he does jump up, because that’s what Aziraphale would do.  He adjusts his clothing - waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - same way Aziraphale has always done.  The nervous tic that’s been his calling card for millennia.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?” Crowley knows the angel would make one last attempt, one last gesture to give them the opportunity to do the right thing.  “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well for Heaven’s sake,” Gabriel says with his corporate smile, “we make an example out of traitors.  So...into the flame.”

Crowley stares at the pillar of hellfire for a beat, more than a little concerned with if their plan will work or not.  He thinks of his angel, burning in hellfire, burning out of existence.

He thinks of a bookshop.  Of a Queen record melting to a gramophone.  Of linen pages and leather binding going up in smoke.  Of himself, on the floor, soaked to the bone, screaming to no one and nothing.  Of an angel shaped hole in his life.

Crowley thinks of how relieved he was, sitting there drunk on Taliskers, when Aziraphale had materialized in front of him.  Not himself again, not yet, but safe.  Where are you, wherever it is, I’ll come find you.  He’d meant it, and Crowley had found his angel again at the end of the world.

He’d screamed through fire, he’d drove through fire, and now he’d walk through fire.  All for his angel.

“Right, well, lovely knowing you all,” Crowley says, knowing Aziraphale would be kind, even to the last.  “May we meet again on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” the smile that Gabriel gives him now makes him want to vomit; it’s so callous and fake.  He stares Gabriel right in the eyes as he steps forward.  The heat from the pillar is warm and comforting; he’s a demon, after all, he was born anew in Hellfire after the fall.

Crowley takes a deep breath and walks in, letting his body adjust to the heat.  It’s comforting, in a twisted sort of way.  Like a nice screaming hot bath at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Crowley sighs and rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck a couple times for good measure.  Hellfire is surprisingly good for the joints, when it doesn’t kill you instantly.  Gabriel and the other archangels are staring at him, stupid gaping looks on their faces.

What’s a field trip to heaven without a little bit of fun at the expense of some right bastards?

He breathes Hellfire right in their faces, laughing as they scamper back liked spooked rats.  He thinks to himself that it’s a shame that the Hellfire didn’t hit any of them.

Sandalphon looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin.  Uriel is shivering.  Gabriel is wearing his fake corporate smile again, trying to find a way to salvage the situation.

“It may be worse than we thought,” he stammers out, Sandalphon hiding behind him like a scared little kid.

“What...is he?” Uriel asks, the only one with a level head in this situation.

“You see,” Crowley says in a multi-layered version of Aziraphale’s voice, “I don’t think you want to know what I am. Because the less you know, the less danger you’ll be in.”

Crowley weaves his hand in front of him, almost like an orchestral conductor, swirling the Hellfire between his fingers.  Shaping it into little spheres and then banishing them back to the rest of it, acting for all the world like he doesn’t care.

“Gabriel, we need to go to damage control,” Uriel says, tugging on Gabriel’s sleeve, “If word gets out about this.”

“You’re right, yes, of course,” Gabriel stammers, rubbing his temples with one hand, “It’ll start riots, I know.  Fine, Aziraphale, just...get out of the fire.”

“Oh are you sure?  I’m just working on my tan a bit, it’s ever so dreary in my bookshop, I don’t get much sun you know.”

“Just leave, Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouts, face red and perfectly done hair falling out of place.  That alone was worth the trip, to break the composure of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel (what a prick).

“Ah, right then, I’ll just…” he steps gingerly out of the fire, adjusts his clothing again (waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - every single time), and worries his hands together as he heads for the exit.

He gets in the elevator that will take him back to the lobby, where he’ll hurry to the prearranged rendezvous point as fast as he can.  As soon as the door closes, he collapses against the wall and laughs.  Big, full, gargantuan laughs.  Soon enough his sides is hurting and he hadn’t even known their corporations were capable of that.  

Aziraphale is free now, and Crowley has never been happier.

---

Aziraphale fidgets anxiously on the park bench.  Crowley should’ve been back by now, he’s sure of it.  He’d been half expecting to meet him in the elevator or the lobby, if he’s honest.  Then again, Heaven does like to drag things out.

It’s all he can do to keep from jumping from the bench when he sees his own usual corporeal form heading towards him.  They did it, they survived.  They averted the apocalypse and tricked both Heaven and Hell.  And now they can spend the rest of their days on their own side; together.

A place that Aziraphale has wanted to be for a very long time.  He settles himself as Crowley sits next to him on the bench.

“So,” Crowley says in the angel’s voice, but sounding so very much like himself anyway, “D’you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.”  Aziraphale is practically vibrating off the park bench.  He’d made his promise to himself, he’s going to tell him.  Just, not while he’s wearing his dear demon’s face.  “Anyone looking?”

Crowley presses fingers to his temples and scans the area, Aziraphale fidgets with a ring that doesn’t exist and shoots a look skyward despite knowing he doesn’t need to any longer.

“No,” Crowley says, sounding a little distracted in his own right, as he extends a hand, “swap back then?”

They link hands and Aziraphale feels the atoms on the outer edges of his corporeal form rearrange themselves back to his usual soft and stuffy self.  He shakes out the kinks just a little while Crowley cracks his neck next to him.

Aziraphale looks over at him, noting that he seems stiffer than usual.  Must be the swap.  Even if it was just outward appearances, it’s still rather taxing.  Crowley catches him staring and reaches up to change the collar on his jacket back to red.

“A tartan collar, really?”

“Tartan is stylish!”

Crowley just rolls his eyes at him, and Aziraphale decides it’s now or never.

“Crowley, I have something I really must tell you,” he’s glad to have his own visage back, if only so the ring exists again for him to fidget with.  This should be easy, but what if he’s wrong?

“Whatsit then, angel?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, and oh suddenly it is so very, very easy.

“I’m sure you must already know, I don’t see how you wouldn’t, I’ve never been good at hiding it, but Crowley,” Aziraphale can feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes.  He’s heard of happy crying before, but never experienced it himself, but this feeling of release so close to saying those three simple words must be what that’s like.  “Crowley, I lo-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

---

Crowley is, at best of times, a bundle of anxiety and nerves.  Today was no exception.

He hadn’t been sure when the time would be to make his move, but then Aziraphale had looked at him like that and every bit of resolve he might’ve had holding him back faded away.  

Aziraphale had been saying something, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention, but suddenly it didn’t matter.  All that mattered were those lips and his lips and the tears in the corners of his angel’s eyes and making them go away.

His hands were on Aziraphale’s face before he could tell them not to be, and their lips were crashing together soon after.

So now here they sit - on a park bench, lips locked together.  Aziraphale is frozen stiff as a statue and suddenly Crowley has a very sharp and very real fear that he’s gone to fast again.

He breaks off and hides his face in his hands, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline, “Christ, fuck, ‘m sorry angel, shouldn’t have done that.”

“Crowley, my dear-”

“Won’t happen again, promise you that,” he just can’t stop stammering.  “I mean, now you know, so if you want time or something or for me to fuck off just say the word.”

“Crowley,” Azirpahale says louder this time, gingerly touching Crowley’s wrists, “dear would you please put down your hands.”

Aziraphale wraps his fingers around Crowley’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face.  Everything is a bit blurry and Crowley realizes he’s crying.

He blinks the tears away and sees Aziraphale, smiling that bright and wonderful smile that Crowley doesn’t always get to see.  

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb along Crowley’s cheek to wipe away a tear that dared to escape it’s confines.

“Stop it,” Crowley says, trying to look away but finding himself unable, “don’t give me that look.”

“What look would that be?”

“You’re looking at me like you...you…”

“Love you?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley could swear the angel’s eyes sparkle.

“Yeah, that,” Crowley says softly as Aziraphale continues stroking his cheek, “you can’t love me.  I’m a demon, twisted and unkind that’s me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says cupping the demon’s cheek, “you couldn’t be more wrong about that if you tried.”

And then, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale leans in and kisses him.  Aziraphale is actually kissing him.  And he’s kissing Aziraphale back.  And Aziraphale is kissing him back again and what a revelation that is.

There’s no telling how long they sit there, it’s not like either of them have to breathe.  When they finally break apart, Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath against his lips.

“I love you, Crowley, I’ve loved you for so very, very long.”  Aziraphale tilts his forehead against Crowley’s and for some reason the intimacy of that is more overwhelming than the kiss they just shared.  “Wily old serpent, light to my darkness, my darling, my dearest.”.  

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says reverently and wistfully, drunk on love and belonging, “Aziraphale, you never belonged there, you’re so much better than them.  I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, kissing him again, “I’d like nothing better.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, peppering kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, getting to hear that laugh that sounds like daybreak, “let me tempt you to lunch.”

Aziraphale laughs, full of hope and full of love, the way Crowley thinks he should always be able to laugh.  “I do believe, my darling,” he says as he kisses Crowley on the nose, and it should not be as adorable or endearing as it is, “a table for two at the Ritz has just miraculously opened up.”

Crowley waves down the bus for Oxford (bound for London) and Aziraphale follows.  He’s moving on autopilot, after the day he’s had. His new corporation still feels a bit itchy and his guilt drapes over his shoulders like a blanket.  He knows this is nothing compared to how tired Crowley must be; holding his Bentley together, stopping time. Aziraphale feels a well of affection bubble up inside of him.  Our own side, his mind repeats again as they board the bus.  Crowley falls onto one of the benches, slouching against the window.  His head making an audible ‘thunk’ when it hits the glass.

This is the part where Aziraphale would usually take the seat in front of him.  Plausible deniability. Just two strangers on a bus, nothing to see here.

But they aren’t that, are they?  They haven’t been strangers in millennia.  Their sides already know. You don’t have a side anymore, neither of us do.   He drops into the seat directly next to Crowley, as though he’s done it a billion times.  Crowley looks up at him, dark glasses and an arched eyebrow. Aziraphale just smiles at him.  Crowley shrugs and props his chin on his left hand. The demon’s right hand stays perched on his knee, mere inches away, as he looks out the window.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s hand.  It’s right there, he could reach out. Could touch.  Could comfort. God – no, better not bring Her into this – someone knows they could both use a bit of comfort right now.  A hand seems a safe place to start. The angel steals a glance at Crowley.  The demon’s head is bumping against the window as the bus drives on, he’s probably on the verge of sleep at this point.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reaches out.  He covers Crowley’s hand lightly with his own, not wanting to be demanding or to take more than might be given.  He can feel Crowley still next to him. Not breathing and not moving; for all the world a statue.

Aziraphale turns to look at him.  Crowley’s expression is even more lost on him than usual, the glass reflection only bolstering the effect of the sunglasses.  “Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently, “are you all right?”

Crowley nods and slowly flips his hand over, turning his head to face the angel.  The look on Crowley’s face now already has a place in his catalogue. Aziraphale is reminded of a misty night in Soho.  In 1967. Crowley moved too fast for him, back then.

We’re on our own side.   It won’t stop echoing.  Crowley’s been screaming it at him for days.  If only he’d been smart enough to listen. If only he had trusted Crowley like he had always known he could.  Aziraphale gently and slowly laces their fingers, marveling at how well they fit together. Like they were meant to be entwined there the whole time.

He gives Crowley’s hand a very light squeeze, and it is returned almost immediately.  This is new for them, but it feels right. Feels purposeful. He files it away, watching the passing lights on the motorway.  Things are going to be rough, sooner rather than later, but they have each other; they always have.

And Agnes knows something , he just has to puzzle out what that something is.

Crowley is stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead, and Aziraphale isn’t sure why.  “Crowley,” he says, softly as he can, “you can sleep, I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

“Could…could do with that,” the demon says with a clear crack in his voice (filed away under “c”) before returning to his position against the glass.

“That window can’t possibly be comfortable,” Aziraphale says, trying to needle for what he wants rather than asking outright.  He’s never offered a shoulder for Crowley to sleep on before; he isn’t quite sure how.

“Nah, ‘s fine, I’ll manage.”  As if to further Aziraphale’s point, the bus hits a particularly nasty pothole, bouncing Crowley’s head with a thud.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, “You silly serpent.”

Crowley looks back at him again, and Aziraphale is feeling even braver than before.  He unlinks their hands, noting the twitch in the corner of Crowley’s mouth when he does, and instead wraps his arm around the demon, pulling him closer and guiding Crowley’s head to rest on his shoulder with a gentle hand.  “There, much better.”

Those hazy motorway lights reflect off the hood.  Off the side mirrors.  Off the windshield.  Flickering like firelight.  Crowley doesn’t like firelight anymore.

He’s still processing this.  This new chapter in his life.  Hell isn’t calling.  The world isn’t ending.  He’s free. Freer than he’s ever been.  So why in the Heaven does he feel so trapped?

Someone else is calling.  His phone lights up again.  He’s been gone for hours and Aziraphale is worried.  The angel has his own problems and Crowley tries his damndest not to drag him into his.  Aziraphale doesn’t need this mess.  These doubts.  This fear that the wrong move or the wrong breath or the wrong thought might bring everything crashing down.

Ten miles outside London and he makes a wrong turn.  On purpose, that is.  If he keeps driving, maybe he’ll get away from these doubts, these fears.

He’s a fucking coward and he knows it.

They had been out to a nice lunch at Aziraphale’s favorite sushi place, deciding then to retire to the bookshop, as had been the norm for the past several weeks.  With Armageddon averted and their respective sides no longer giving a toss, Crowley had seen no reason for pretense any longer.  He’d rather be with Aziraphale than anywhere else.

Things were normal until halfway back to the shop, when Aziraphale had reached for his hand and entwined their fingers together.  Crowley had felt his heart stop entirely (not that he needed it).  Aziraphale, for his part, just carried on the conversation.  As though he hadn’t just upended a demon’s entire existence with a touch.

When they returned to the shop, Aziraphale had busied himself with the continual task of inventory – made more continual by the new additions left by Adam.  Crowley had taken his usual place on the sofa.  He was having a grand time just staring at his own hand in disbelief and swearing to himself he could feel it tingling when Aziraphale decided to turn his world upside down one more time.

“You know, Crowley,” the angel said, gazing towards him fondly from the bookshelf he’d been working on, “I believe I very much love you.”

Crowley had arched an eyebrow at that, “It’s your job though, innit?  All creatures, great and small, that whole nonsense?  You love everything, Angel, I already knew that.”

He’d watched Aziraphale fumble with his signet ring, twisting it back and forth.  “No, my dear, I’m afraid you misunderstand me,” the angel said as he started very slowly towards the sofa, “I’m in love with you.”

And Crowley’s brain had all but shut down in that moment.  Six thousand years of wanting but never being able to have or to know or even to acknowledge had done nothing to prepare him for the full force of Aziraphale’s loving gaze.

He should’ve said it back.  He should’ve stood right then, closed the distance, wrapped the angel up in his arms and kissed him senseless.

Crowley had done none of those things.  He had stammered a muffled apology and stormed out the door.  He got in the Bentley and just started driving.  No destinations, no plans.

That’s how he found himself here, speeding down the motorways and ignoring Aziraphale’s phone calls.  Trying to drive away from his past while still steadfastly avoiding anything to do with the future.

He’ll fuck it up.  He knows he’ll fuck it up.  He’s a demon.  Part one of the handbook: How to Fuck Things Up (For Fun and Profit).  Number One Ruiner of Things, him.  Everything else in his long life had backfired at some point, why not this, too?

Sure, he might get a couple decades, a century if he’s lucky.  Eventually though, Aziraphale would remember that he is an angel and Crowley is a demon and they are ‘hereditary enemies’.  It would only be a matter of time.

The hazy mist turns into fat raindrops that splatter the windshield, fracturing the motorway lights into even more sparkles in the night air and on the hood of the car.  Aziraphale would worry even more now.  Crowley heaves a sigh and resigns himself, if Aziraphale calls again, he’s going to answer.

The phone rings.  He can’t make himself pick it up.  He lets it go to voicemail yet again.

Fucking coward of cowards, he tells himself, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

He notices he’s looped back around to Piccadilly Circus at some point; paying no attention to his direction.  It doesn’t matter where he goes, he’ll always end up back at the same place.

He misses his turn yet again, resolving that next time – next time – he’ll go back to the bookshop.  He’ll apologize; talk some sense into Aziraphale.  That this can’t be what he wants, what he needs.

He’ll let the angel down easy and it will all be fine.

A shorter buzz from the phone this time.  A voicemail.  That’s something, he thinks, that would be easier to deal with right now.

“Siri, play voicemail,” he says to the little contraption clipped to the Bentley’s visor.

“You have one new voicemail.  From Aziraphale.”

There’s a beep and Aziraphale’s voice, albeit wavering and cracking, fills the Bentley:

“Crowley, blast it all, I know you’re there!  You know I can’t stand these silly phone contraptions.  Please just, pick up the phone, I’m sorry if what I said hurt you.  I’m sorry if it wasn’t the right time or if you don’t feel the same.  Of course, you don’t, do you?  I should not have presumed to know your feelings without you making them clear, that was terrible of me.  I just…there’s a storm on, and I know you’re out driving, and I just want you to be safe.  We can talk about this; nothing needs to change.  Just please…come home, Crowley.”

The voice mail cuts off and Crowley can feel a stinging at the corner of his eyes.  Come home.  And that was the crux, wasn’t it?  Crowley has spent his entire life on the move, on the run from something.  Even his flat, despite his beautiful art and astounding plants, has never been a home.  There’s only one place in the world he’s ever felt he belongs.  Definitely not Heaven, and never Hell.  It’s been right here on Earth, in a bookshop in Soho.

Crowley turns the wheel sharply; he has to fix this.  He can’t let Aziraphale think he doesn’t feel the same.  He floors the gas and rockets back down Piccadilly on his way to Soho.

On his way home.

---

Aziraphale comes out of the bookshop before Crowley has a chance to even park the Bentley, wringing his hands together with worry.  Flitting about back and forth, starting towards the car, then turning around and going back to the door.  Not even noticing the rain.

What a fucking mess I am, Crowley thinks to himself, mucking things up.  He grips the steering wheel, fear coursing through him still.

He needs to say it.  He needs to say it.

Crowley cuts the engine and opens his door; Aziraphale still stands in the bookshop doorway, wavering between closing the distance and staying where he is.  There’s nothing Crowley hates more than seeing that look on the angel’s face.  It’s too close to Alpha Centauri.  To a fight at the bandstand.  To a neon-lit street in 1967.

Their eyes meet and that look makes Crowley’s fear melt away.  He’s certain, Aziraphale wants this.  Wants him.  Crowley isn’t going to mess this up, because every time the angel has ever had that look on his face – has ever felt that fear and self-doubt – Crowley has been the one to erase it.

Crowley has been terrified over what?  Over three words he’s afraid he won’t live up to?  Three words he’s been screaming in the depths of his soul for six thousand years?

He slams the door, causing Aziraphale to flinch slightly.  He rounds the car, storming towards the bookshop with renewed purpose, rain splattering his sunglasses and soaking him through.  Closing the last bit of distance that he’s been shoving between himself and the angel since earlier today.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says as he approaches, face softening, “Crowley, I’m-I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed-“

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kisses him, right there on the steps of the bookshop, in the pouring down rain.  Aziraphale stills completely, and for one brief moment the fear creeps back in.  He’s fucked it up, he’s gone too fast.

But then he feels strong angelic arms wrap around him, and for God’s-Satan’s-Someone’s sake Aziraphale is kissing him back.  It’s desperate and tender all at the same time, with millennia of words unspoken exchanged in this simple touch of skin.

Crowley reluctantly breaks the kiss and nuzzles the angel’s nose with his own, “Angel.”

“Yes, my darling?” Aziraphale is breathless and the endearment on its own is enough to nearly bring Crowley to his knees, but this is important.

“Aziraphale,” he says, running a thumb along the angel’s jaw, softly and reverently, “Angel I love you, so goddamn much.  Feel like I always have.”

The smile that breaks on Aziraphale’s face is blinding.  Like the very first sunrise in Eden.

“I love you too, dearest,” the angel says as he wraps his arms around Crowley even tighter and buries his face in the demon’s neck, “I have for so very long.”

“I’m sorry, Angel,” Crowley says, planting a kiss in Aziraphale’s hair, “I never should’ve run.”

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley can feel him smiling, “You were scared, and maybe I was moving too fast.”

“Bastard,” Crowley chuckles into the angel’s hair before leaning down to steal another kiss, “I think it might be raining.”

“It would appear so,” Aziraphale says, placing a few kisses along Crowley’s jaw, “Maybe we should go back inside, you can stay the night here, if you’d like to.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shine with mischief and it makes Crowley weak, “Oh, Angel, I thought you’d never ask.”

Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale’s once more as they stumble backwards through the bookshop doors, leaving the real world on the street behind them.

In the years that follow, Crowley will learn to be loved as he has always deserved, by an angel who has always yearned to do just that.  And Aziraphale will be loved in turn, by a demon who loves him more than Heaven ever could.

As with most days, [Redacted] was tending to the insects in the garden.  Their beauties and their children.  The sun was setting, and the fading light glimmered in their monarch wings, casting faint orange shadows on the grass around them.  

They were singing.  To the houseflies and the honeybees, to the hornets and wasps.  To the butterflies, moths, and even the tiniest carpenter ants.  [Redacted] loved nothing more than to sing to their children, to inspire them to motion, to work, to thrive.

As they were watching the bees learn to dance, marveling at their spins and turns and how the transformed that into a language only bees could speak, they sensed a presence sneaking up on them was not that of the nosy archangel.

“My dear brother, Lucifer,” [Redacted] stood and smiled at the newcomer, “You don’t often visit me in the garden, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Dear [Redacted] my most favorite of siblings,” Lucifer said, holding his arms out wide and welcoming, “Is it not enough to visit you?  So rarely seen are you in Heaven anymore.”

“Well, there is much work to be done,” [Redacted] lifted their hand to a low hanging branch allowing a shimmery purple stag beetle to crawl onto their finger, “The Almighty says that my creations will outnumber even the stars in the sky.  There will be more of them on Earth than anything else, and they will play one of, if not the most, pivotal roles in how the Earth works.”

“More insects than stars?” Lucifer chuckled, “Don’t let Raphael find out, he might get upset.”

“Oh, I doubt it, his heart is far too kind,” [Redacted] cooed at the little beetle before depositing it back where it came from, “And you are deflecting, what brings you to the garden today?”

Lucifer shifted nervously from foot to foot, “It’s happening tonight, I need to know where you stand.”

[Redacted] froze and turned to face their brother.  The butterflies for which they modeled their wings flitted between them as a heavy silence fell in the air.

“Lucifer-“

“You know what I’ve told you, you know it’s true.” Lucifer stared them down, resolution evident in his eyes.

“We have to trust-“

“There is no more trust!” Lucifer exclaimed, grabbing [Redacted] by the shoulders.

“You don’t know that!” they replied, still steadfast.  The flight of the butterflies changed, and they flocked to [Redacted], landing on their shoulders, arms, and hair, “You don’t know that.”

“[Redacted] I am begging you, I cannot bear to see you hurt,” he reached out and gingerly ran a finger along one of the butterfly’s wings, “These creations, these humans, the Almighty will favor them, and we will all be cast aside.”

“That is not for us to understand, brother!  You know that as well as any!”

“She will not speak to us, won’t give us real answers!” He said, letting go of their shoulders and stalking a few feet away, “Just these continual tasks, one after the other, all for these…for these…creatures!”

“And then that is our purpose!”  This path was a dangerous road, [Redacted] was sure.  The Almighty had always had reasons, even if those reasons had not always been clear.

“It does not have to be!” Lucifer shouted before taking a few deep breaths and calming back down, “We only want answers, will you stand with us?”

[Redacted] considered this for a moment, noting the trembling in the butterflies perched upon them.

“And what says Raphael?” [Redacted] asked with trepidation.  

“He is with me, as you should know,” Lucifer turned back to them, “All our lives it’s been the three of us.  I cannot do this without you, [Redacted].”

[Redacted] took a deep breath, “And we are just seeking an audience?  To have our questions answered?”

“That is all, my dear sibling,” Lucifer said, extending a hand warmly.  Invitingly.

“I see,” [Redacted] said, turning to gaze out to the garden.  The bees flitted from flower to flower, the butterflies floated in the air, a mosquito hummed pleasantly in their ear.  They were filled with so much love for their children.  So much that they thought this must be the way the Almighty felt for Her creations.  Their questions would be answered, because God is love and thus loved them in turn, “well then, let us go speak to Her.”

[Redacted] took in the sight of the garden; the sounds and the smells.  The sun dipped fully below the horizon, and their beautiful fireflies danced in the air.  Tiny starlight flickers, fading in and out.  Despite their trust in both Lucifer and Raphael, they could not shake a feeling of foreboding.

They did not know this would be their last day in the garden.

---

The next events happened so quickly, [Redacted] had barely been able to process.

Lucifer, Raphael, and themselves had approached the throne room of the Almighty, seeking audience.  Gabriel, Uriel, and Michael had barred them from entry.  Raphael had shouted something about just needing to ask questions, and Lucifer had drawn his sword.

The last thing that [Redacted] could remember before plummeting through the clouds was thinking they saw tears in an archangel’s purple eyes.

They had crashed into a pool, blinding heat searing through to their bones.  They could feel their face bubble and blister with the burning heat.  They could hear one of their brothers screaming nearby, but could not tell which.  With a special kind of horror, they realized the creeping burning was working its way down their wings.  They screamed in pain, in anguish, and in hatred.

Their Grace was pulled out, tossed aside by the archangels.  On the Almighty’s own order, they had said.

[Redacted] fought through the pain and dragged themselves out of the scalding liquid, gasping for breath.  They thrashed and spread their wings, screaming again.  Their beautiful wings were no longer a brilliant and shimmering orange, but translucent.  Almost opalescent, catching the light of the fire in muted purples and blues.  

A familiar buzzing followed them.  Opening their eyes, they saw the humble houseflies.  Lowest of their children, but beloved all the same.  It gave them some comfort.  They grieved for the loss.  The loss of their grace, the loss of their wings, the loss of the garden and their beautiful children.

[Redacted] did not know how long they stayed there, crying and burning, before they sensed another approaching.

“Rise, my dear sibling,” Lucifer, skin burning red like volcanic rock, stood beside them, “we have much work to do.”

“Why,” [Redacted] cried out, “why would She do thizzz!”  They shook their head at the buzzing sound that left their throat, words catching on it and dragging it out unprompted, “And why can’t I remember my name?”

“I told you, we are replaceable,” Lucifer said, “We are the fallen now, we have been cast aside, for the simple want of being loved.  Our grace is burned out, and our names have been ripped away as well.”

[Redacted] gave up all pretense, burying their face in their hands and crying.

“Shh, my dear sibling,” Lucifer said, “there will be time for grief later, for now, we must plan.”

“Plan for what?” [Redacted] asked, trying to wipe the tears from their eyes

“For our revenge,” Lucifer smiled, his teeth now yellowed and sharp.  He extended a hand once again, “Rise, Lord Beelzebub, and take your rightful place by my side.”

As Beelzebub looked around, they saw other angels falling through the heavens.  Those who undoubtably took Lucifer’s side after the initial casting.  Anger welled inside of them at a God who could profess to love but be this vengeful.

Erasmus had been the one to give it to him, showing up in camp one day with the stuffed toy.  Tossing it to the boy like it was nothing.  

When William had asked, Erasmus had said he’d stolen it from a shop in town.  The priest had wanted to berate him for it but couldn’t bring himself to when he saw how quickly Joshua was taken with it.

He is staring at Joshua and the dog now, musing his thoughts, when the boy shifts in his sleep.  The boy’s grip loosens and little Harry falls into the dirt.

William shakes his head and stoops to pick up the toy.  He pauses, turning the bunny over in his hands. It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but he could swear the deep burgundy material is diamond twill…

…

“Keep up, priest, come on then!” Erasmus yelled over his shoulder, “Haven’t you ever climbed a hill before?”

William didn’t know how they moved so fast.  Julia was far ahead at this point and the priest was sure carrying Joshua was the only thing slowing Erasmus down at all.  Sometimes he still had a twinge of doubt about this whole thing.

When Julia had arrived at his parish begging sanctuary, he hadn’t hesitated.  When Erasmus had, reluctantly, joined up with them, he had been apprehensive. Erasmus never truly seemed to care; more of a mercenary type.  If the conman didn’t owe them a debt of gratitude for saving him, William didn’t think he’d stick around at all. When they had come to the conclusion that the village was no longer safe for them, he’d begun to doubt.  He’d grown quite attached to the small boy, and knew this prophecy was bigger than any one of them could tackle on their own. But leaving his village, leaving home. That was difficult.

His faith was in flux.  Not his faith in the Lord, of course, that he was steadfast in.  But the Church there was the rub of it.

And he doubted himself.  Would he really be of any use?  What if it came to blows? What could a soft old priest hope to accomplish against armored inquisitorial guards?  Erasmus’ teasing only served to remind him if they were to be captured, it would ultimately be his fault.

He opened his mouth to tell Erasmus such but was stopped by a loud yelp.

Joshua had gotten fussy and decided he’d rather be with Julia, and in his attempt to clamber off Erasmus’ shoulders he’d knocked them both tumbling down the hill.  Julia saw to Joshua as William helped Erasmus to his feet.

“Are you alright, dear boy?” William asked as Erasmus grumbled.

“Damn urchin knocked me over,” Erasmus shouted, picking twigs and leaves out of his long red hair, “no bloody respect around here!”

“He’s two, what’s he supposed to know about respect?” Julia asked while seeing to Joshua’s very minor wounds.

“Well still, ought not to climb around so much.” The mercenary stalked off, shouting behind him, “Gonna get someone hurt one of these days!”

Julia shot William an exasperated look.  The priest just shrugged and made to follow Erasmus.  He caught up quickly, finding him pacing in a circle and cursing.

“You know,” William said softly, not wanting to spook the man, “Joshua could’ve been hurt a lot worse.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone did their best to make sure they took the brunt of the fall instead of the wee fellow.”

Erasmus shot him a glare, which was met with a knowing smile.

“Don’t get any ideas, priest,” Erasmus said, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I’m out for one person and one person alone.  Me. Myself. Just the one, end of discussion. I’ll not have a bloody man of the goddamned cloth tarnishing my hard-won reputation.”

William raised his hands in a gesture of deference, willing to let the man believe whatever he felt like.  However, William prided himself as a judge of character, not one to be put off by brazen displays of aloofness.  No, Erasmus most definitely was a soft touch at heart. William was sure he deeply cared for the boy. Nothing Erasmus could say would convince him otherwise.

“Ah SHIT , stupid little gremlin!” Erasmus shouted, breaking William from his thoughts.

“You hear me back there!” Erasmus shouted towards the witch and the boy, “You’re done for!  Do you even know how expensive diamond twill is? How hard I had to work for something as nice as this!”

His deep burgundy tunic had been ripped almost completely, ruined as it were.  William rewrote his inner thoughts a bit; maybe he was off. Maybe Erasmus was just what he said he was.

Erasmus went to stalk off again but stopped noticing the look on William’s face.

“What are you looking at, priest?” he hissed in William’s face, “I’ll be back, I just need to go be pissed off for a minute.”

“Understandable, it was a very nice tunic.” William said dryly, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.  He watched Erasmus stalk off further into the woods.

…

William had been wrong to jump to that snap judgement, of course, as he knows now.  But that can’t possibly be the same burgundy diamond twill of Erasmus’ old tunic, he must be mistaken.

But there it is, this pattern and this fabric.  From the tunic that had been ruined two years ago.

This is silly.  Ridiculous. Absolute nonsense.  He has to be going mad if he’s getting this distracted about the origins of a stuffed rabbit.  His paramount duty is to protect the boy, not get caught up in a bunch of what-if nonsense that doesn’t really matter.  And that’s the crux, isn’t it? Why does this matter? Why can’t he shake it?

He doesn’t put the rabbit down, just keeps turning it over in his hands.  It’s soft and worn from being well loved.

The stitching on the ears makes him stop; an odd looping thing.  As he runs a finger over it William is sure he’s seen that before as well…

…

They had made camp near a river, about four months after leaving the village.  They wouldn’t stay long; they never did. Just enough to sleep, maybe to eat a bit.  William had proven to himself that he could be useful and managed to catch a couple of trout (don’t say he never learned anything from his father, not that he ever tried to teach him much).

The smell of the fish roasting over the campfire was drifting through the air and everyone was in good spirits.  Julia was playing with Joshua, keeping him distracted and away from the fire. The two-year-old had developed a habit of grabbing anything within arm’s reach, and it wouldn’t do for him to go grabbing hot fish and burning himself.  Erasmus had wandered off some time ago.

“Julia, my dear, will you keep an eye on the fish for me?” William said, standing and wiping his hands off on his knees, “It’s almost ready, I’m just going to pop off for a bit and find where Erasmus ran off to.”

He followed the river, retracing the steps he saw Erasmus take earlier.  It didn’t take long to find him. He was sitting on a log on the riverside, tunic (a new one, in a deep forest green) draped over a branch1.  He was fiddling with the hem of a spare linen undershirt.

“Are you sewing?” William said, slightly surprised.

“Yea, gotta keep things in order somehow,” Erasmus said as he laid stitches along the hem. “These things wear out, can’t really go around getting new ones.”

“No, I suppose not,” William said as he watched Erasmus’ hands, deftly moving the needle to and fro, in and out.  

It was obviously a well-practiced skill.  William remembered the nuns, when he was still learning the priesthood, taking the time to darn socks that were wearing out rather than replacing them.  Vows of poverty and all that. They would work so quickly you almost couldn’t keep up if you watched. It was soothing. Sister Loquacious tried to teach him once.  It hadn’t gone well.

Erasmus’ needle moved with precision, even if the stitch looked rather odd.  There was the usual straight stitch he was used to seeing, but then he would pass the needle through loops he made at the edge.  Very odd, compared to anything in William’s small knowledge of sewing.

“Where did you learn to do that?” William asked, voice soft and almost a whisper.  One might mistake it for reverent if one were listening.

“Don’t really wanna talk about it, if it’s all the same,” Erasmus said as he finished his stitch.

“Right, of course,” William watched as Erasmus took his tunic down from the branch. “Dinner is almost ready, thought I’d come find you.  You know how Julia is, we’ll be lucky to have any left when we get back.”

“Ha,” Erasmus scoffed, “Right, because she’s the one who goes through our stores.  Don’t think I haven’t seen you sneaking around at night through the rucksacks, priest.”

They both caught the scent of fire-cooked fish wafting towards them.  Erasmus sauntered in the direction of camp with William following close behind.

A few weeks later, Erasmus had shown up in their camp and tossed a burgundy rabbit at Joshua, who immediately named it Harry.

…

That loop stitching is familiar.  It adorns so many things of his and Julia’s now, where Erasmus has volunteered to fix them.  And here it is, unmistakable, along the ears of this rabbit.

William feels something warm bloom in his heart.  His feelings, this infatuation for Erasmus has been bubbling for a while, no matter how hard he tries to stomp them back down.  His justification has always been that Erasmus is not in this for them, in the long run. The man had told him straight out. Erasmus does things for himself and no one else, no matter how false the priest knew that to be in his heart.

But this was unmistakable.  Sewing a toy rabbit for a scared child.  Sewing it out of his own ruined clothes. How long had Erasmus held onto that ruined tunic?  How long did it take him to make it?

William feels tears start to prickle at the corners of his eyes and holds back a sob.  It feels like something is cracking open inside of him, and when whatever it is spills out, he’ll never be able to put it back.

He misses Erasmus.

He’s alone in the woods with only a small boy and a dog, doing his best to keep them all safe, and he misses Erasmus so much that it physically hurts him.  This is a new feeling to William; attachments like this weren’t allowed in the priesthood.

He remembers the dream he had, almost a year ago now (though not a day goes by that it doesn’t haunt him).  The soft brush of lips on his, that euphoric feeling of being home ripped away so suddenly by the coming of daybreak.

William sits by a campfire, holding a small burgundy rabbit in his hands.

William sits by a campfire and heaves a sigh, hugging said rabbit the same way a small child would.  The same way a small child does almost every day.

William is in love.

He’s in love with Erasmus, and he’s finally admitting this to himself.

And there’s no going back now.

---

“We should have waited , safety in numbers, all that nonsense,” Erasmus says as he wrings out his hair, “now we’ll be lucky to make it back to spell-girl and the boy before morning!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Erasmus,” William says with a huff, “we wouldn’t have made it to the next –“

William is cut off suddenly as Erasmus crowds him against a stone wall, throwing a hand over the priest’s mouth.

“ Shut it, ” he whispers, “d’you hear that?”

William can hardly hear anything over the blood rushing to his ears, but he’s grateful Erasmus’s eyes are focused elsewhere, maybe he won’t notice the priest staring at his lips.  He shakes himself out of it and listens, and sure enough, the almost imperceptible shifting of metal. Soldiers well versed in their armor and weapons sneaking towards the church. The guard has caught up.

“We have to hide,” Erasmsus says, removing his hand and with it the air rushes out of William’s lungs.  “Gotta be somewhere in here.”

William looks over Erasmus’s shoulder, sees the little booth still standing near the pulpit.

“It would be a tight fit,” the priest swallows hard, worried about the close confines, “but the confessional is still intact.”

“No time to worry about that now,” Erasmus says, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards the tiny space, “they’ll be on us any second.”

They crowd into the tiny box, even tinier than the ones at the newer, statelier churches.  Erasmus pushes him to the bench as he closes the door behind them, and this is decidedly not a position William thought he’d be in today.  Frankly, he’s not sure his heart can take it.

There’s barely space for the two of them in the booth, and Erasmus is forced to stand with his knee braced on the bench between William’s thighs.  He looks anywhere but Erasmus’s face, terrified of what he might find there. And isn’t that silly? They’re friends, of course they are! This is nothing, it’s just two friends hiding from the inquisitorial guard in a tiny box that’s barely big enough for them.  Nothing weird about that at all.  

Nothing weird about how the only thing he can think about is the point of contact between his thigh and Erasmus’s knee.  He’s hyper-aware of it in a way he’s never been aware of anything before. His only solace in this is that it’s dark enough Erasmus can’t see the dusting of red that he knows is coming across his cheeks.  Or his neck. Or his ears. He feels dreadfully warm all of the sudden.

William risks a look at him, expecting judgement or terror or…well…he’s not exactly sure what he’s expecting.  But Erasmus isn’t even looking at him; he’s on high alert, listening to the guards draw closer. William has never told Erasmus how much he appreciates the man’s survival skills; he and the rest of them would’ve been dead several times over without him.  But it’s hard to think about things like that when Erasmus’s hand is pinned to the wall behind him and his arm so close it would be nothing to lean into it.

Oh, Lord forgive me, he thinks darting his eyes quickly upwards.

“Erasmus…um,” he starts, feeling like something should be said to break the awkwardness in this moment.  He’s stopped by a long and spindly finger against his lips.

“Shh…,” Erasmus says, tilting his head toward the door.  William hears the door creak open, here’s the scraping metal of the armor as the guardsmen move through the church.  The flicker from their torches seeping in through the cutouts in the confessional booth.

The firelight flickers in Erasmus’s eyes, making them look like molten amber.  William could get lost, if he’s not careful, in eyes like that. Like tarnished gold; still beautiful and gleaming despite everything they’ve been through.  He stays quiet, but Erasmus doesn’t move his finger. William could swear he sees something flicker in those eyes. Something he’s been seeing for far too long in his own, when he has the luxury of a mirror or when he catches himself in the reflection of water.  It’s a need. A want. A longing.

The footsteps draw closer, the light through the cutouts grows brighter.  There’s a hand on the doorknob of the box, William braces himself. They’ll be discovered and it’s all over.

“Hey!” one of the guards shouts from the doorway, and the knob rotates back to its original position, “We found some tracks heading north!  Boss wants us to follow those!”

“Right then, on with it,” the guard directly outside the confessional says as they hear his footsteps walking away.  Slowly, the firelight filters back out of the church as they leave, shrouding the two men in darkness once again.

William doesn’t move.  Neither does Erasmus. His knee is still firmly planted on the bench; arm still braced against the back wall behind William’s head.  His finger still lays gently against William’s lips.

Their faces are so close together.  William can smell the rain on his skin, along with the fire-ash that seems to follow wherever Erasmus goes.  In these close quarters, their breath mingles in the air, heavy with humidity from the rain.

His breath kindles coals, William thinks, blasphemy be damned, and a flame goes forth from his mouth.  

Erasmus smiles, a slow creeping thing spreading across his face, lighting it up like a sunrise.

“We did it,” he whispers, and William feels it more than hears it, “They’re gone.”  Erasmus heaves a great sigh of relief and William does, too.  Erasmus moves his finger and before William can be sad for the loss of contact, he drops his head and now, oh no, now their foreheads are touching.

William breathes in sharply at the contact, at the proximity, at everything.  Neither of them moves. There’s fear in Erasmus’s eyes William can see even in the dark.

“We should…probably get moving,” William stammers out, making no move to draw back, “they’ll find out we didn’t go that way soon enough, and they’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” Erasmus says, softer than William has ever heard him speak, “yeah, we probably should.”  His eyes search William’s, looking for something neither of them can put to words yet. William watches his face shift from fear to what looks like curiosity, and Erasmus moves his knee ever so slightly against his thigh.

The whimper that comes out of William is completely out of his control, Erasmus’s face breaks back into that crooked grin.

“What’s that about, priest?” he hisses like before, but there’s no bite to it this time.  All William can do is stare into his eyes, still in such close proximity. Erasmus drops his arm from the back wall entirely, bringing it around William’s neck, “don’t tell me you’re enjoying this?”

“Don’t,” William snaps, not wanting to confront whatever is happening, “Don’t…just don’t…”

“Sorry, must’ve misread that,” Erasmus says, reaching for the door handle and breaking the connection between their foreheads, unlooping his arm from William’s neck.  And that just won’t do. William’s hand reaches out to catch him by the collar, pulling him back.

“Let me finish, dear,” William says with more conviction than he’s had about anything in a long time, “Don’t do this if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Erasmus looks into his eyes, searching for something.  Searching for truth. Here in this confessional booth no one can see them, no one would know.  They could have this, this one moment in time. All he has to do is reach out and take it. His arm comes back around, hand resting in William’s soft curls and he leans back in and crowds him against the wall of the confessional booth.

Lead me not into temptation, William thinks as he winds his own arms around Erasmus’s back, closing this chasm that’s been separating them for what feels like ages.  

He closes his eyes and waits for that precious brushing of lips, but it never comes.

The door is flung open and almost off its hinges.  The two men jump apart, face to face with Julia.

“Are you two done? ” She asks angrily, “The fake tracks I laid won’t throw them off for long, we’ve got to get out of here!”

The two spare a passing glance at each other, moment lost and more than likely to be forgotten, before following Julia out of the church and collecting Joshua from his hiding place.

For the best, really.  No time for dalliance when you’re on the run.  He’d almost broken, and over what? Some close quarters and some dancing firelight.

William sighs to himself, more than a little disappointed, if he’s honest.  He’d almost slipped up; he’ll have to be more careful. These feelings, whatever they are, aren’t his to have.

6:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

“C’mon, Linda, just pop on back to mine for a bit, yer mum ain’t gonna know!”

“Danny ya absolute toss, I’ll do no such thing!”

The young couple swayed through the near empty streets of Soho, drunk on wine and each other’s company.

“But Linda-“

“Don’t ‘But Linda’ me Danny Williams,” Linda says, pointing a shaky finger in his face with no real bite behind her words, “We ain’t been dating but a fortnight and you ain’t gettin’ me in the bed that easily!”

“But Linda, when I’m with you I can…I can…” Danny grasped for something, anything to say, “I can hear music!”

“Cheek!” she said but looped her arm back in his anyway and leaned against him as they started back down the street.

“Really can, ya know?” Danny said with more than a little bounce in his step, “Really snazzy saxophone music!”

“Danny,” Linda pointed towards a tall ginger man in a utilities uniform, “I think it’s that man in front of old Mr. Fell’s.”

Sure enough, as they got closer, the man was playing on a saxophone.  At six am outside of a bookshop.  This would seem to have no discernable reason, but the great thing about the human brain in the way She made it is that when there is no reason, that’s reason enough.

“Well I dunno why he’s doing it, but for a telephone worker he sure is great at those few bars of whatever that is.”

“Sounds familiar though, don’t it?” Linda said quizzically, “Wonder where I’ve heard it before?”

“Either way, it’s Soho on a weekend, he’s probably just a sloshed as we are.”

“Probably so, now walk me home you old buffoon.”

Danny and Linda strolled off arm in arm and the obvious utility worker kept playing on.

---

8:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

Bill Waters was a patient man.  An upstanding member of the community.  A lawyer.  He dressed in smart suits and was never seen without his pork pie hat.  He had an image.

They had scoffed when he’d opened his practice in Soho.  They’d laughed.  But now?  Oh, now, he was one of the most respected litigators in London.

He prided himself on his work ethic, his attention to detail, and his meticulous methods.  He prided himself on his patience with his clients, with his family, and with anyone who he met.  The community loved him, his neighbors loved him, his family adored him.

Which is why several people milling around the early morning streets were shocked to see him jumping up and down and yelling at a street performer.

“Sir, I demand in the name of common decency that you stop this at once!” Bill shouted, face turning a rather embarrassing shade one could liken to a tomato plant, “It’s been two bloody hours!3”

If the man from the utilities paid any mind to him, he didn’t let it show.  Just kept playing the same four bars over and over again.

“I will call your superiors!  What are you even supposed to be doing?!”

The man just continued with his smooth beats and rhythmic dancing.  Was it dancing?  Could barely call it that in the first place.  Like something out of a bad 1970’s instructional video.

Bill continued to yell; the man continued to ignore it.

This just wouldn’t do, Bill resolved to phone the utilities company at once.  He threw his hat down in frustration and stormed back across the street to his offices.

---

10:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

“D’you think he lost some kind of bet?”

“Dunno…sounds familiar though, doesn’t it?”

“Ain’t this that shit from Eurovision like ten years ago?  The saxophone guy?”

Nathan, Alice, and Jude were gathered around the strange man with the saxophone.  They’d already tossed some money in his hat and were waiting for him to get around to taking requests.  They were also by far not the only ones in the crowd.

“It is!” Alice said pulling up YouTube on her phone, “It’s the Epic Sax Guy music!”

“Christ that meme is older than dirt,” Jude said grimacing, “Why you reckon he’s doing this?”

“Maybe Mr. Fell pissed him off,” Nathan said, laughing, “He’s pissed off enough people around here with those weird hours.”

“Dad said he’s been at it since six this morning,” Alice (last name of Waters) said, “That’s four hours ago!  That’s insane!”

“We oughta put it up somewhere, do a live stream or something.  See how long he goes!”

“You know, Nathan, maybe we should,” Jude said, pulling out his cell phone, “Hell, I don’t have anywhere to be.”

The saxophone man played on.

---

11:00 AM Saturday morning; the news offices of the BBC

“Christ, William, it must be a slow day if this is what you’re giving me.” Margaret, producer for the BBC Weekend News said angrily into the phone receiver, “You really expect me to send reporters out to video a street performer in Soho?  As if they aren’t a dime a dozen?”

She listened to the murmuring on the other end of the line, “Five hours?  The whole time?  And he’s dressed like what?  A utilities worker?  What do you mean Twitter?”

Margaret pulled out her phone and opened the app, clicking through to the trending page.  Sure enough, there at number one: #UtilitySaxMan.

“Well, it is a slow day.  Fine, send someone, just try to find me something real to put on the air by tonight, yes?  I can’t just be putting Twitter fluff on the air!”

Margret slammed the phone back on the receiver and shook her head.  What was the news world coming to these days?  She blamed the millennials.

---

11:30 AM London time (3:30 AM California time).  The Montecito home of Ellen DeGeneres

“I’m just saying we need this guy on the show.  You know how much the audience loves an internet celebrity.  Yes, that’s why I called you, because you’re in London.”

To the dismay of her wife who just wanted to sleep, Ellen was on the phone at 3:30 in the morning with one of the show’s associates in England.  Once she got the idea to have someone on her show, there really wasn’t much anyone could do to stop her.

“So, no one knows who this guy is?  He just showed up with a saxophone and started playing? Well that won’t stop us.  Just go down there and talk to him when he stops playing.  I just need him on my show, he’s trending like crazy, the memes are ridiculous!”

“I should probably go, but don’t let me down!  This guy is insane, he should be a star!”

She hung up as Portia throws a pillow at her.

---

1:00 PM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

“Play Single Ladies!” A voice from the gathered crowd shouted.

“Shut up, he’s not taking requests!” Jude shouted back at them.

“What are you, his agent?”

“I might be after this is over, you don’t know that!” Jude hissed from behind his phone, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

The livestream was an immediate hit.  He’s been inundated with new followers and reaction memes4. Even the BBC was here, along with several people in strange getups.  He’d gotten three direct tweets from Ellen DeGeneres already, though he couldn’t answer.  Not while the livestream was going.

This dude was insane.  He never stopped; he was like a damn machine.  Just kept playing and dancing (badly) and playing.  He ignored everyone around him, ignored that his hat was now full past capacity of spare change and 1£ notes.

It was like he was on a mission, though what that mission could be was anyone’s guess.

“Young man, have you any idea who this fellow is?” one of the men, this one wearing a monocle, asked him.

“Nah, can’t say that I do,” said Jude, “I mean, he hangs out at Mr. Fell’s shop a lot, seems to know him.  Dunno why he’s doing this though.”

“Did you hear that?” the man in the suit said to another, this one with a two-tone wig, “He knows the bookshop owner!  That’s our in!”

---

3:00 PM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

“It is clearly a performance showing the prevalence of man over the subjugation of the corporate world!  He celebrates his union job by playing this jubilant music!” said the man in the two-tone wig.

“I beg to differ; it is quite certainly a cry at the unjust conditions faced by workers!” said the man with a monocle.

These two had exactly three things in common:  They were art critics, they were insufferable, and they had been arguing about this for the better part of two hours.

“How can you be so daft?  The rawness and realness and power of this performance can only be described as euphoric!”

“Ah but you fail to take into account the monotony and the repetitive action!  This man is in a prison of his own creation!  A brilliant metaphor for the world under capitalism!”

The two men continued arguing and were approached by a man in a tan coat that was about one hundred and fifty years out of date.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” the man said, “But could you possibly tell me what all of the commotion is outside of my bookshop?”

“Oh, my goodness, you must be Mr. Fell!  And you haven’t heard?!” shouted the first critic, acting as though he might faint, “The art world is completely a buzz!”

“It would seem, my friend, that the next great performance artist of our times has taken up residence outside your bookshop!  Please, please introduce us to him!”

Mr. Fell looked confused as he tore away from the art critics and through the crowd.  Past the young man with the camera, past the BBC News van, and past some Americans speaking very loudly into their cell phones.

“Crowley, what on Earth are you doing?”

The saxophone music stops abruptly.  All eyes turn and focus on Mr. Fell.

“Oh, hello Angel…” the saxophone man stammers, “Just..uh…”

Before anyone can say anything, Mr. Fell storms forward and grabs the saxophone man by the arm, ushering him into the bookshop, behind a sign that clearly says “CLOSED”.

The crowd disperses, first the news van, then the passerby, then the art critics and the Americans.  Jude stands there for a moment wondering what just happened.

He soon forgets why he was there in the first place, and if Twitter held any clues for him, they’re long gone now.  Later, he'd look in his book-bag and find it full of loose change and 1£ notes.

Just an ordinary Saturday in Soho.

---

3:15 PM Saturday afternoon; inside A.Z. Fell and Co.  Soho, London

“Would you care to explain, dear,” Aziraphale says as he unpacks his leather satchel, “just why you’re playing saxophone on my front stoop?  And the news vans?  And the art critics.  You know how much I hate art critics!”

“You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Crowley says sulking on his favorite couch, “Got mad.”

“And did you conveniently forget dinner last week when I told you I’d be in Munich for a book auction for a few days?” Aziraphale shoots him a pointed look, “or were you just not listening in the first place?”

“Ngk.”

“I see,” the angel says, turning back to his books in a huff, “and how long were you out there?”

Crowley mumbled.

"Didn't quite catch that."

"I said ten hours," Crowley snapped, "Doing very demonic things, ruining everyone's weekend.  Can take the demon out of hell but not hell out of the demon and all that." He crossed his arms over his chest and sulked lower into the couch than should be possible.

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he put away his new books, “Yes of course, my dear.  Is that why you brought out the 'mess stuff up' jacket?Brightening everyone’s day with a bit of music, giving the BBC something to talk about?  Such a demonic level of happiness out in the street today.”

“I-well-well,you-I-“ Crowley stammered, jumping up to stalk behind the angel to prove his point, “I made an old bloke with a pork pie hat have a fit, right in the middle of the street!”

Aziraphale sighed, Crowley was never quite as smooth as he pretended to be, and the angel saw right through him.

“My dear you are quite ridiculous, next time just come with me then you won’t feel the need for this nonsense.”

Crowley shoved his hands back in his pockets, trying to look aloof and failing, “I mean…I guess.  Could use a vacation.  Plenty of demonic wiles to get up to outside the country.  Gotta keep you out of trouble...of course.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, clasping his hands together, “There we go then, problem solved!”

If the angel knew it was an excuse on the demon’s part to spend more time with him, he didn’t say.  Nor did he mind in the slightest.

-----

1 – The iPhone, of course, knew better than to break.  Just who’s apartment do you think we’re dealing with here, hmm?

2 – Least of all because he was scared of a certain angel picking up on a certain demon’s propensity to be what the kids referred to as a stage five clinger.

3 – In Bill Waters’ defense, he’d been late at the office the previous night working on a particularly challenging case.  He’d been so exhausted, when the saxophone started up at around 6 am he’d thought himself hallucinating.

4 – Some choice memes that were shared on twitter:

“Dunno, really,” Crowley said, grinning at him, “beacon of bad ideas and dangerous people, seemed a good idea at the time I guess.”

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, Aziraphale thought, maybe we can at least get back to where we were.

As they stepped out of the airport a few hours later, he stole a glance at Crowley, stretching up to meet the Egyptian sun.  Poor demon probably hadn’t seen good sunlight in years.  It wouldn’t surprise Aziraphale to see some of Crowley’s more snake-like tendencies come out while they were here6.

He immediately averted his gaze as Crowley’s shirt rode up just a bit too high.  Sure enough, there were scales on his spine.

Aziraphale swallowed hard and bid his heart to quit pounding as Crowley turned back and grinned at him.

The angel rolled his eyes and scanned the area, and soon noticed a short man in a smart cream suit hurrying towards them.

“My old friend!  Welcome!  Welcome to Cairo; city of the living! Paradise on Earth,” Sallah pulled Aziraphale into a friendly hug once he made it to them.

Aziraphale was always happy to see a friendly face, especially one of his oldest human friends.  He and Sallah had worked together in the twenties, and there was no one he could count on more for this.

“It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Aziraphale said with a wide smile, “And how are Fayah and the kids?  I believe our last correspondence you said there were eight of them now?”

“Nine as it were!  It’s been a while since I’ve written you,” Sallah looked over to Crowley, a bit perplexed, “And who is your friend here?”

Crowley extended a hand, “Anthony J Crowley, I’m an associate of Dr. Fell’s.”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale mouthed at him, Crowley just shrugged.

Sallah pulled Crowley into a friendly embrace as well, clapping him on the back.

“Any friend of Ezra’s is a friend of mine, indeed,” he said with a laugh, “Come, you are both welcome in our home!  We will discuss Tanis there.”

Sallah hurried ahead of them to his truck and Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Really?”

“What,” the demon said, looking a tad bit crestfallen, “you don’t like it?”

He’d considered it a stroke of luck when one of his regular customers got appointed vice-chancellor and offered him a job, he hadn’t really had a reason to refuse.

Passing knowledge on to the next generation was rewarding; his knowledge of antiquities and religious artifacts in particular was extremely appreciated at the school and among his “academic peers”.

But with George Hill hanging around in his office again, he was beginning to think it had all been a very bad joke.

“Dr. Fell, surely you know how valuable your work has been to the museum,” the director said while idly shuffling through the papers and tomes that littered Aziraphale’s desk, “You’ve been completely indispensable to us these past years.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Aziraphale huffed, following behind the man and putting things back in their proper (if disorganized) place, “And I’m also sure I want nothing to do with whatever it is you want this time. These things belong to the cultures that created them!  I’ll stake my entire reputation on that.”

“And yet they’re all cultures of the empire,” George said with a laugh, picking up an ancient-looking scroll and turning it over in his hands, “It’s not theft if it’s just relocation.”

At this George grinned at him; it came across as slimy.  It made Aziraphale sick to his stomach, these outdated Victorian modes of thinking.  Everything belonged to the person with the most money and the most guns.  It was terribly tragic.

After the last instance in Peru (which culminated in being chased by a boulder, nearly crushed by a stone door, and nearly being skewered with arrows) he’d decided he was finished helping the museum in their fools’ errands.

“Or call it borrowing, if it makes you feel better,” George added, sensing Aziraphale’s disdain, “besides, it’s not me who wants your help this time.”

“Oh, it had better not be that blowhard Carter, I’ve had enough of him to last a lifetime,” Aziraphale said as he took the scroll away from George, practically ripping it from his hands, “And please do stop touching everything, I have it all in perfect order!”

George just shrugged, “It’s SIS, Dr. Fell.  I’m afraid you can’t wiggle your way out of this one, old boy.”

“SIS?  British military intelligence?” Aziraphale scoffed, “My dear fellow, you must be joking.  What on earth do they need with a history professor?”

“They didn’t tell me, only wanted me to put them in touch with you, hence why I’m in your office now.” George looked around with mild revulsion at the chaos of Aziraphale’s office, “Tell me, does old Lindsay really have no issues with the mess here?”

“The vice-chancellor allows me whatever I need to get my job done,” Aziraphale said proudly, “As to the state of my office, I’ll have you know it’s perfectly organized in a way I see fit.”

“Yes, quite obviously,” George said, eyes floating around the room judgementally.

“Well if it’s British intelligence I doubt they’ll let me be,” the angel sighs, resigning himself to his fate, “When am I to meet them?”

“They made us a lunch appointment for tomorrow afternoon, I understand it’s at the Ritz of all places.” He turned and made his way out the door, “One o’clock, don’t be late, Dr. Fell!”

Aziraphale steadied himself against the desk as the door closed.

The Ritz of all places.