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“I wish–” Aziraphale starts, and then stops. He exhales and twists his hands together in his lap.
There are big, shattering things that are difficult to say out loud, but there are also smaller, incredibly obvious things that are somehow just as difficult. Acknowledging them to yourself is hard enough; putting them into words and speaking those words aloud requires sometimes supernatural volumes of courage.
Crowley half-turns from the window of the number 6 Oxford City Centre bus, currently in the midst of a lengthy detour towards the front door of Crowley’s block of flats in central London, and looks at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. “Mm?”
Aziraphale tries again. “I just wish that–” And he fails again.
When you’re so used to being strictly confined by unbreakable, ineffable, unquestionable rules, it’s difficult to know where the boundaries are once those rules are gone. And therefore it’s almost impossible for any self-respecting angel to know how to shape himself, how to proceed.
Or if there are any boundaries left at all.
Heaven is nothing if not a clearly defined set of boundaries. Pearly gates, solid fencing, moats of fire and pain: there is no ambiguity in heaven. Yes or no, in or out, white or black, angel or demon. The world, of course, is another story.
The bus is wending its way towards London at a more leisurely pace than Aziraphale would have expected, even for a local bus. Even for a local bus conscripted into a chauffeured lift home. He has noticed that Crowley is resolutely not hurrying the driver up. On the contrary, it’s not at all clear to Aziraphale that Crowley hasn’t gone out of this way to slow her down a little.
You go to fast for me, Crowley.
Aziraphale feels as though his own words are still hanging over them.
It’s true, fundamentally. On the face of it. Crowley does indeed drive too fast, and an angel can always hide behind literalism when he needs to. Aziraphale certainly has, and does. It was true in every way, even in the subtextual meaning. But it was also a lie.
Cowards are naturally afraid of picking up the pace, and Aziraphale is overwhelmingly aware that he has been a coward. He wouldn’t have used that word before now. He would have said that he was righteous, on the side of the light, taking the slow path facing Heaven rather than the autobahn towards Hell. He hadn’t understood his long-term fear of speed as a failing before; he had always understood it as an act of duty. His desire to slow Crowley down was rule-following, glory in the highest, it was an act of worshipful obedience. At least, that’s what Aziraphale has been telling himself. And he had believed it.
Now, tonight, on this quiet bus, Crowley is delivering on slow.
Aziraphale feels certain that it’s a gift, a kind of loving offering he hasn’t properly earned, and he while he regrets his own cowardice, he’s touched by Crowley’s steadfastness. He can feel himself blush a little. Crowley’s faith in him, love for him, makes him weak in the knees.
And why shouldn’t Crowley go slow? He is, after all, a master of time. They both need a bit of a breather before The Consequences hit them, whatever those end up being. Why not extend this in-between time? No grand punishment could possibly occur in public, surely. Not on a homely bus late into an evening like this one. Not tonight. Not as long as they’re on the number 6.
“What are you wishing for, angel?” Crowley has turned his head slightly to watch him, his finger worrying the plastic bar in front of him.
Aziraphale smiles a stiff little smile, making eye contact only for a moment.
He reverts straight to coquettishness when faced with the full force of Crowley’s attention, particularly when Crowley is in a soft mood, as he is now. There’s a bit of rain on the window, and it reflects patterns on to Crowley’s skin and in the lenses of his sunglasses. He’s in black and white, slightly red here and there from the taillights of cars when they pass by. Aziraphale cannot fail to notice that it’s a flattering palette on him.
Aziraphale glances at Crowley, and then trains his eyes on the gaudy moquette on the vacant seats in front of them. He has always feared the consequences of letting his gaze linger too long when Crowley has switched on his seductive mode. He is formidable that way, completely irresistible. Only he’s not attempting seduction now, and Aziraphale knows that. This isn’t manipulative, it isn’t an act of temptation or a demonic miracle. This is simply Crowley in the act of being. This is his honest, raw existence. It’s so beautiful. Aziraphale’s reaction to it is entirely of him. It is him.
What is Aziraphale wishing for? So much. So many things. But one thing in particular.
“Bravery,” Aziraphale breathes out. It’s easier, somehow, to say it when Crowley’s face is in shadow, visible only out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve never been brave enough.”
“Er,” Crowley begins, leaning back in his seat, his hands falling into his lap. He pushes out his jaw in an idiosyncratic expression confusion.
Aziraphale smiles tightly. Everything about him is tight at the moment, but he tightens his already tightly crossed ankles just to be sure.
He glances across the aisle at a woman engrossed in a book. It’s a romance novel, a daringly racy one. Aziraphale read it in the early 1980s and quite enjoyed it. Don’t pay attention , he wills her, and then includes the other few passengers on the bus in his little miracle. Nothing to see here. Two old friends talking about nothing of interest. Ignore us. Think of lovely things. Be utterly, completely, delightfully distracted.
Crowley’s voice is low. “What d’you mean? You’re brave. How have you not been brave? You’ve been the bravest. Unlike bloody...Gabriel, or that sniveling Sandalphon, or–”
“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “No no, I haven’t. Not at all. I’ve been an absolute coward.” He takes a breath he doesn’t strictly need. “Unlike you.”
Crowley starts, and huffs in disbelief. “Unlike me?”
Aziraphale risks a sidelong look. “You’ve been immensely brave. All along. From the beginning, really.”
Crowley face crumples into a frown. “I don’t know about that.”
“I didn’t realize it,” Aziraphale says, and he feels his heart breaking. “All this time, the courage it took to–” The words get stuck in his throat.
Azriaphale clearly sees, now, how cruel his cowardice has been, how much pain it has caused. His rejections, his denials, his refusals. His reminders that Crowley is a demon and not worthy of trust. He’s hurt Crowley, repeatedly, with no recourse and no comfort. Righteousness is so often a cold choice. Heaven itself is heavily air conditioned, for the record; it’s unbearably cold all the time, and it all makes sense to Aziraphale now.
“Oh, stop it,” Crowley scoffs. “Right at the beginning you when gave away your sword. Wasn’t that brave? Given the way it’d been issued to you, and the way they keep records at Head Office. You knew they were going to ask, but you gave it to poor Adam anyway. And the thing with that...you know, the fire and that library in Egypt you loved so much, you were heroically brave that time, remember? And I’m pretty sure they required every Knight of the Round Table to be brave, didn’t they? Wasn’t there a test, or something? And then there was that trip to Paris for crepes, that was surely brave of you.”
“Brave and peckish aren’t at all the same thing.”
Crowley ignores him. “You were the one who came back discorporated to save the world, remember. Not something angels are meant to be able to do in the first place. You had no idea whether it would even work. It was demonic act, practically. Creative, clever, and certainly brave.” He pauses. “I was ready to run off to Alpha Centauri and leave them all to their bloody war. That’s hardly an act of bravery. And,” he holds up slim fingers as if keeping a count, “I thought we were done for when Lucifer was on his way. I was ready to roll over in sheer terror, but you didn’t waiver for a moment. You kept your head. You had to threaten me with the only thing that mattered to me. So,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and turning his eyes to the window, “I’m not sure what you’re on about, angel.”
There it is again. Crowley isn’t shy about it, not the way Aziraphale is. He isn’t afraid of it. It’s always there, subtle and humming in the background, almost imperceptible unless you’re looking for it, but sometimes it flares out like this, and when Aziraphale is close enough, it’s a miracle of its own. It’s stunning. He can taste it when he’s this close, and it’s absolutely scrummy. It’s better than the Ritz, it’s better than anything. There’s no way around it: it feels more like the most delicious divinity than anything Aziraphale has ever experienced.
It’s not only that Crowley’s love exists in the first place that Aziraphale finds so affecting, though it’s also that. It’s that Crowley doesn’t hide from it, or pretend it isn’t there. He’s not ashamed of it, or afraid of it.
Aziraphale wonders for a moment if perhaps Crowley doesn’t recognize it for what it is, that it all may be boldly unintentional. Perhaps, being a demon, it’s not something he can spot. He doesn’t have the sense for it anymore, not after the boiling sulphur. But then: humans never had the sense organ in the first place, but they still spend their lives groping around for it in the dark. And still, they know it when they see it. They somehow manage to feel it anyway. They can look at each other and somehow know. Through a glass darkly, to steal a phrase.
Though: wasn’t it his phrase to start with? Aziraphale always did like to encourage the writers among the humans. That might have been one of his. No: Aziraphale remembers suddenly. It was one of Crowley’s. Well, of course it would be.
And there it is again, a pulse radiating towards Aziraphale. It’s like divine light, like fire, and it generates a tingling heat. It’s impossible for Aziraphale to miss it when they’re so close. Crowley must know that. He must know that he can’t hide it from Aziraphale, ever.
Aziraphale pats at Crowley’s thigh. Such a small gesture, a weak reciprocation for something so grand and eternal. There’s more Aziraphale wants to say, but it’s so difficult. He needs not just bravery, but the right words, in the right order. It would be a tragedy to leave Crowley believing he lives in near-darkness when he is, in fact, basking in light.
Perhaps Crowley will be able to perceive love again, before the bitter end. If he were to be properly forgiven, as he should be. That would be nice. It would be so much easier to share it without this horrible struggle for words. It would be more eloquent, more complete. There would be no risk of being misunderstood.
Aziraphale tries to find the words, and the bus slowly trundles along.
Aziraphale is afraid of what comes next. What will it be? Some bolt of lightning from above, or some gust of holy wind to blow them apart, or a dousing of holy water to melt Crowley before Aziraphale’s horrified and heartbroken eyes? That’s the worst punishment Aziraphale can imagine. Whatever the appropriate smiting from the Almighty might be, it certainly won’t be less than the worst Aziraphale can imagine, surely.
He has failed. It’s Aziraphale’s role on earth to facilitate Heaven’s Plans, and he’s scuppered that entirely. It seems ridiculously self-centred to even consider it, but he doesn’t know what his role could possibly be in the world if loving and saving Crowley isn’t at the heart of it. Nothing else makes any sense anymore.
He thinks perhaps this is what falling from grace feels like.
He’s heard the living arrangements are dreadful down there, full of leaks and weird smells. Not a good place for old books, or old booksellers, for that matter. And from what Aziraphale has been led to understand, there isn’t a decent breakfast to be found anywhere, in any of the realms of Hell. It would be a glum existence, to say the least. If Crowley couldn’t pull a few strings for him. If Crowley weren’t there with him.
If Crowley were in hell with him for eternity, Aziraphale thinks, it would be alright. It would be fine. They’d manage.
The music would be fabulous, at least. And the wine.
Aziraphale glances up, as if he might see evidence of the The Almighty’s displeasure beaming down on him, some kind of heavenly sign warning him about the choices he’s making, he’s about to make. He imagined he’d be able to see the blow that will send him careening backwards, downwards.
But It’s only the ceiling of the number 6 bus.
It’s an odd respite they’re enjoying. Aziraphale isn’t sure why he wasn’t summoned to Head Office immediately after Adam’s conversion from Antichrist to human, dispatched and delivered along with the crown, scales, and the burning sword.
That sword had served a good purpose, in the end, in spite of its six thousand years being lost: it had kept Aziraphale quite toasty, sitting on the bench in the dark in Tadfield. He’s feeling a little chilly without it, truth be told. Nothing wrong with a bit of heated seating, is there. He shifts slightly closer to Crowley, who is always warm, and Crowley, sensing why, eases himself a little closer in return, offering more surface area of his long, warm thigh and bony hip.
Aziraphale imagines that he ought to have been damned by now, by all rights. He’s fairly certain that he should have been damned seven hundred and ninety-eight times by now, in fact, according to his own internal tally.
If the Almighty were going to object to any of Aziraphale’s actions, surely pardoning Crowley would have been the one She’d start with. But he had pardoned Crowley. Repeatedly.
Just yesterday Aziraphale had given him the strongest pardon he could summon, thinking it would be the last. He threw in the best, shiniest indulgence he could find, too, even though they’d gone out of fashion recently. He’s not sure Crowley even knew he’d done it, but he certainly had. He’d felt a little piece of grace move from him to Crowley. For the seven hundred and ninety-eighth time.
If God were going to object, wouldn’t it have been to that? Aziraphale sharing his grace with a demon?
What else could absolution possibly be for if not for this? If Aziraphale conveyed his angelic pardon ethereally enough, and enough times, might that not take away even just a little piece of Crowley’s damnation? Wouldn’t it be at least the tiniest step towards the redemption he keeps earning? Isn’t it worth trying?
Aziraphale looks up out of habit and he prays: Please, please, please forgive him. The resolutely ordinary ceiling of the number 6 bus continues to not look back at him, or to convey any meaning at all, one way or the other. The Almighty is silent.
Aziraphale pats at his hair, adjusts his jacket. He smoothes the fabric of his trousers over his thighs, without much luck. It’s been a long day, and he’s quite creased. That will happen when you’ve been discorporated, re-incorporated, witness the near-end of the world, and then walk four miles to the nearest bus stop. Is that a bit of asphalt in his hair? Any smudges on his face? He works a quick miracle to pretty himself up a little. Nothing dramatic, just a bit of a tidy. He strokes his soft belly and wonders if he shouldn’t have committed to more robust miracles in that area when he’d had the chance.
Aziraphale fears many things in this moment, and inexplicably, rejection is one of them.
Bit late for that now. If Crowley can be so brave, Aizraphale internally girds himself to be his equal in courage.
“It’s–” Aziraphale begins again. “It’s not only– Even when it’s–,” followed by, “You’ve never hesitated to–” Aziraphale experiences a light panic. What’s the best way to put this? “You’ve been very frank about–” That doesn’t seem right.
Aziraphale quickly miracles up some lovely fresh breath while he ponders a better way to express himself.
“What’s this all about?” Crowley turns his whole body towards him, which Aziraphale mostly feels, because there’s a bony knee suddenly pressed against his. He sighs, and keeps his eyes on his hands, which are clasped together tightly in his lap. The bus seems to slow down a little bit more.
“You’ve been very straightforward.” Aziraphale risks a quick glance at him. Bashful, that’s the word for what he’s feeling. Positively bashful. “All this time. You’ve never shied away from–” Whenever he gets nearer to the matter, he seems to lose his grip on it.
Aziraphale sighs. “I told you that I don’t even like you.”
“Yes. Well.” Crowley doesn’t have much to add to that. Fair enough, really.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
It’s not true.”
“I know.” Crowley’s voice is very quiet. Aziraphale really did hurt him very much, and mentioning it now is reopening the still-fresh wound he caused.
“I very much regret saying that.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I like you very much. Very much indeed. Too much, really. More than I–” Aziraphale needs to get this confession out one way or another. It’s as if his tonsils are preventing him from doing so, seizing his throat and gathering troops to form a barrier. “I lied to you.”
“Well,” Crowley relents. “It was a difficult time. I asked too much of you, more than you could give. I understand that. I pushed you too hard.”
“You didn’t push me,” Aziraphale says firmly. “I just wasn’t as brave as you are.”
“Still not clocking the bravery.”
Aziraphale feels his light panic progressing to flooding levels. “You offered to run away with me, Crowley. Twice.”
Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat that is completely devoid of obvious meaning. “I did do that, yes.” He turns against in his seat and pushes his back against it hard. He rubs a hand down the length of his thigh, his finger lightly and perhaps accidentally brushing against Aziraphale’s trouser leg. Probably not accidentally. “Doesn’t running away make me a coward rather than brave?”
“No,” Aziraphale breathes out. He turns, finally, and looks straight at Crowley’s profile in the weak light. “No, it was immensely brave, and beautiful, and I wish I could have– I wish I could have returned the–”
Crowley frowns.
This is all wrong. Aziraphale sighs. “I wish I could have been as honest as you were in that moment, dear Crowley, but I wasn’t brave enough. Not like you are. You’ve never hesitated to face what is–” He stumbles again. “What is so very true. Of us. And I have always hesitated, disguised it, denied it completely. Even now, look at my stumbling over my words like this, it’s ridiculous. And it is awfully cowardly of me.”
Crowley is very still.
“I wish I’d been braver,” Aziraphale repeats. “I wish I hadn’t been in such fear about our...our connection. To one another. As you never have been, no matter how dangerous it’s been for you. No matter the risk.” He unclasps his hands. They’re a bit sweaty, so he miracles them dry. He takes a deep breath and puts a hand gently on top of Crowley’s clenched fist. “It’s never not been...reciprocated, I assure you.” He slips his fingers into Crowley’s relaxing hand, which is, Aziraphale is deeply touched to notice, also slightly damp.
“You always seen it more clearly than I did, It seems to me,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know if I understood that I was even capable of...of...this variety of–”
Love.
Aziraphale knows he has an infinite capacity to love, though usually it’s a broader, more universal and agape expression than what he’s trying to communicate now. It’s not part of Aziraphale’s blueprint to love a specific individual this way. A demon. And yet.
“– the idea that I could stray so far outside the bounds of–”
The rules, the expectations. It’s meant to be very clear, the sides. Aziraphale isn’t human, he doesn’t get to choose, to question, to find another path. Has he simply spent too much time in the world? Has he been overly influenced by the beauty of human passion, their short lives and carpe diem , their romance novels?
“And not only because you’re a– It’s not only that, it’s just...we aren’t quite– Are we.” Aziraphale is aware that his words aren’t especially coherent, but Crowley’s thumb is stroking his fingers now, which seems like a good sign. He seems to understand Aziraphale in spite of his hurried mash of words. ”I wasn’t prepared to face how much I–”
Crowley’s eyes are obscured, and Aziraphale is sorry for it. He’d like to see all of Crowley’s expressive face just now. He smiles.
Aziraphale steels himself. “I love you.”
He feels something shift between them, some last obstacle vanishing, and Crowley turns his palm up and links their fingers together. Aziraphale feels as though their souls are intertwining. it’s glorious, like flying, like the joy and pleasure of a perfect pudding a thousand times over, and he feels warmer than he’s felt in ages. He takes another unnecessary breath, one that feels like the very first.
“I wouldn’t let myself admit it all this time. It seemed like denial the only option. I thought it was a temptation, I had to resist it, that’s what I’m meant to do. And I thought I was resisting, so righteously and in line with the Great Plan. But I wasn’t, I can’t, I never could, not really.” Aziraphale is painfully aware that he’s babbling, but he can’t help it. “Because you’re not a temptation at all, are you. It’s who you are. And this is who I am.”
Crowley shifts and puts an arm around Aziraphale, which brings them much closer together.
Words continue to pour out of him. “I can’t lose you. I would have preferred to see you safely slip away Alpha Centauri, even without me, even without ever seeing you again, than to have your soul destroyed by Heaven’s war. I can’t be part of any plan that requires you to be hurt, Crowley. I can’t bear the thought of it.” Aziraphale leans his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “You’ve known for so long that we’re on our own. I see it now, too. You’ve been so patient with me. It’s unforgivable that it’s taken me this long.”
Crowley leans his head lightly against Aziraphale’s. “I forgive you, angel.”
As far as my powers allow and your needs require, Aziraphale thinks, once again, and wills it to be so. I absolve you, he mouths against Crowley’s jaw, and another small piece of grace breaks free from Aziraphale and sinks into Crowley. Seven hundred and ninety-nine.
Aziraphale will keep forgiving him with all that he has in him until Crowley is no longer damned. He will do it until he is himself damned, if necessary. He will find the courage, because there is no other way.
Hell doesn’t send sternly-worded notes, and there will be no slap on the wrist for Crowley after all of this. They will be looking to destroy him, punish him permanently and completely. Lucifer is so livid the earth shook with it: Crowley will be expected to pay a price. Crowley must know this is probably the last few hours of his existence. This is the reason he asked for holy water: Hell has a lust for vengeance, and right now it’s Crowley’s blood they’ll be after.
It cannot be. Aziraphale cannot abide it, not anymore.
He resolves himself: he’s not sure how he’ll manage it, but Crowley will not suffer Hell’s punishment if Aziraphale can stop it. It cannot happen, and so it will not. Aziraphale will go to hell in Crowley’s place if he has to. He will build a moat of fill it with holy water, ferry Crowley across it himself without harming a hair on in head, if necessary. He would stand between Crowley and anyone, anything, any legion from hell, any former seraphim, the former confidant to God still in agony over the loss of Her love years ago, any hellhound or burning lake of brimstone, anything threatening to cause Crowley harm. He will bring the power of a Principality to Crowley’s defense, even if it sends Aziraphale straight to the pit for eternity. Even if it destroys him. He will choose Crowley over everything, including over the direction of the Almighty. It’s sacrilege to think it at all, but Aziraphale resolves himself to it. He can feel Crowley’s lips against his forehead. He is no longer afraid.
He must be damned now, surely. He has well and truly fallen. Please, he prays. You know I can’t do otherwise. Forgive me.
And still, inexplicably, holy lightning does not strike the homely number six bus on the slow path towards London, nor does the driver speed up in the slightest.