Chapter Text
Chapter 1
1941
The bomb had just exploded over the church that contained both Aziraphale and Crowley and the now zombie Nazis. Crowley having saved Aziraphale’s satchel of books had handed it off to his companion with a rather gentle tone one would assume was unbecoming of a demon. Because well, one does not expect a demon to save let alone help those in need. This however was incorrect because Crowley was rather fond of his Angel and the angel of him. And in that moment, Aziraphale realized that he had always loved Crowley, even when he didn’t, it was always there. The saving. The helping. The small things that only true friends or more would do for one another. Now whether Crowley’s heart-eyed angel knew that Crowley felt the same way as himself was unknown to him. This is because Aziraphale and just realized what he had been feeling for the past six thousand years or so. Other than those aforementioned acts, to Aziraphale, that was Crowley’s care for him as a true friend, even if Aziraphale was incorrect.
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Aziraphale distraught over forgetting about his beloved books during the destruction of the church and overwhelmed with the knowledge that his best friend had once again saved him, because he so loved doing so, was beside himself with the loss. Crowley, unamused that his friend was so upset, pried the satchel out of the corpse’s hand and presented it to him.
Now Crowley had been saving his friend for so long that it was just second nature to him. Maybe not even that. Maybe it was just his nature to make his Angel happy. Crowley, you see, did in fact love his angel. He had loved him for the longest of times and to Crowley, him saving the books was just natural. It was the wily demon’s way of loving Aziraphale because why ruin a long and lasting friendship with potentially unwelcome words?
You see, Crowley was unsure if any potential advances would be welcome with his staunch angel, and messing that up would be a very lonely existence indeed. So he loved Aziraphale in the only way he knew. By saving him.
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In the Bentley, heading to the West End Stage, Aziraphale had a moment of boldness come about him.
“You know . . . that was a very nice thing you did for me,” Aziaphale said with pride.
“Shut up,” Crowley growled. He couldn’t let him know the longing behind his act of, dare he think it, kindness. He’d be damned. Again.
“There must be something I can do for you in return,” said Aziraphale breathily, longingly.
“Forget it will you? Right! Spot of business to do. Spreading the old demon drink.”
As they sped through the fiery streets, Aziraphale momentarily lost his train of thought in slight fear of his being being discorporated in a war. However, they would return soon after.
In all their time together, Crowley was almost always supportive of Aziraphale’s hobbies and interests whether he himself cared for them or not. Why? Because Aziraphale was always so giddy with excitement and he wanted to see his angel happy, if not . . . more.
The West End conjuring act was awful for the both of them. Neither could use their miracles and it was becoming increasingly obvious to anyone who had a good handle on Aziraphale’s composure could tell, he was terrified. Of course, the demon knew his angel was scared because he was too. He just hid his better, that is, up until it came time for the Bullet Catch.
Holding the rifle pointed at his head was causing great fear in Crowley and his nerves started to show the closer it was time to pull the trigger. Shaking with dread he pointed it and fired. He never doubted Aziraphale’s trust but that didn’t stop him from the idea that he’d discorporate him and lose his best friend. And having to do the Satan awful paperwork.
Conjuring Act successfully produced and taking a much-needed rest on the couch in Aziraphale’s dressing room, Crowley relaxed and enjoyed Aziraphale’s giddiness at having brilliantly pulled off the trick. That is until the demon Furfur waltzed in and soured the mood.
“. . . a win for the side of the Angels,” Crowley said.
“Ah! Woohoo. Ennnteeeer!” came Aziraphale in the giddiest and most whimsical tone Crowley had heard in a while.
Back to the souring of the mood, Furfur and his zombie minions entered the dressing room much to both of their concern. And Crowley’s dismissal of having previously gone into battle with the demon.
“I’m here to inform you, as a representative of the high powers of Hell, that you, Crowley, are in breach of the Infernal Code. Consulting and collaborating with an Angel, Fell the Marvelous, aka, Azirapalala…Azirapapap . . . Aziphapalalal…”
“Aziraphale,” the angel corrected in the coldest most deadpan tone Crowley had the pleasure of witnessing. There was no whimsy, no sass, no raised eyebrows of persuasion, no hits at something other than what it was. And that was Crowley’s moment. The moment he realized he could tell him everything.
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Back at the bookshop over a few glasses of wine, he realized that Aziraphale’s previous question of doing something in return for saving his books was a proposition from his angel. He was just too stuck in his own longing for Aziraphale to take it for what he had meant.
Aziraphale nervous as he had been was still so but for an entirely different reason. “I knew you would come through for me. You always do,” as he poured another glass.
“Well, you said, “trust me,” as if it weren’t obvious for Crowley’s reason for trusting the angel.
“And you did. You could’ve walked away if you were truly as evil as you like to paint yourself, you would’ve done.”
“Nah. That’s the trouble with you lot. You see things in black and white. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta blur the edges,” came Crowley's remark.
“Well, maybe there is something to be said for shades of grey,” came Aziraphale’s knowing reply.
“Well, shades of dark grey.”
“Shades of very light grey, I rather fancy,” Aziraphale said with a smug look.