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It was a perfectly boring Sunday afternoon. The Archangel Aziraphale held a bag of frozen peas in one hand, periodically switching when the cold began to burn and snap him out of his thoughts. Every now and then, he threw a small handful of peas to the ducks swimming blissfully below, watching them get gobbled up before retreating into his head once more. It was truly a mystery to him how a creature so simple could live so happily while so confined to Earth. Although, there were a lot of mysteries in Archangel Aziraphale’s life.
Distantly, the clanging of Big Ben rang out, its rhythmic chiming echoing across St. James Park. The Archangel counted; one, two, three… twelve. Unfortunately, much earlier than he would have liked but… perhaps this has been put off for far too long already.
With a wave of the Archangel’s hand, the bag vanished. He straightened his spotless white jacket and bowtie and marched down the path before he could think better of it.
In far too little – yet far too much – time, he reached a familiar bench. A very familiar bench. He ran his fingers over the infinite cracks and bumps, remembering the moment he discovered each and every one. As he admired the left armrest, a sharp splinter embedded itself deeply into his thumb. On instinct, he reached to pull it out – before taking a seat instead, draping himself over the bench in an exhaustion he could not feel in his body.
Before Aziraphale could get too comfortable, set of footsteps halted beside him. The Archangel turned (in an action that sent his heart racing) to find exactly what he came for. None other than- how could he put it into words? His best friend, his new enemy...
Crowley.
The demon looked the same as the day he last saw him, although his hair was significantly longer, with a single braid running down the side. He stood stock-still, with his usual crooked stance. Perhaps his eyes were roving under those impenetrable glasses; it was as if they obscured every waking thought and emotion, leaving nothing but an indestructible emptiness.
A stifling silence stretched on for far longer than the Archangel Aziraphale would have liked, though he could not find the words to break it. Eventually, though, his thoughts became too loud, and the demon’s invisible gaze pierced too deep.
“Hello, Crowley,” he forced out. Even he could taste the overbearing politeness dripping off his tongue.
The demon never wavered; not a shuffle, nor a flinch, nor even a sigh. Sensing that he would not join him on the bench, the Archangel stood, pouring all his energy into his polite posture. It seemed that he would be solely responsible for driving this conversation.
Rightly so, a treacherous voice whispered.
“How have you been?”
And that got a reaction. The demon Crowley scoffed, shaking his head at the ground. Before Aziraphale could correct himself, Crowley turned and began walk in the opposite direction.
A heat of panic washed over Aziraphale. He leapt up from the bench, reaching out to pull Crowley towards him, lungs clenching as he tried to shout. But, thankfully, Crowley did not stray far, coming to a stop in the very spot the other had stood to feed the ducks earlier. Still, the demon would not look at the Archangel, gaze fixed solely on some mysterious spot across the water.
Aziraphale sheepishly took his place on Crowley’s left, clasping his hands behind his back in a vain attempt to maintain some composure. Neither spoke for a long while. Though Aziraphale scrambled for something to say, Crowley continued to stare across the water, never once moving a muscle.
“I have, er… A bag of peas. If you would like some. To feed the ducks,” he finally landed on. The demon’s response was immediate – and dry.
“I’m not that bothered.”
Once again, an excruciating silence washed over them, this time lasting far longer. The two simply watched over the park for what seemed like aeons. Eventually, the tolling of Big Ben rang out again, chiming only once this time. Its ringing brought a flinch from Aziraphale and a sigh from Crowley, so deep it must have come from the bottom of the soul.
With a quick spin on the heels, the demon waltzed over to the bench and threw himself onto it, sitting squarely in the middle and throwing his arms over the back. As much as his heart ached, the Archangel could not bring himself to walk closer than a few steps. He stood alone, endlessly fixing his spotless blazer and wringing his hands in an effort to calm himself.
“You should probably pull that out before you make it worse,” Crowley suddenly spoke, gesturing lazily to Aziraphale’s hand.
The angel flinched, looking down at his thumb. The splinter glared back at him, begging to be removed; but the Archangel only looked between it and Crowley, sadly. He forced his hands to relax by his sides, ignoring Crowley’s huff. The two beings stared at each other in silence, one waiting for the words to come, the other waiting for... something.
“What’s up with that outfit, by the way? It’s hideous. Doesn’t suit you at all. Why on Earth would you wear it?” came another comment from the demon.
“I... I’m not entirely sure.”
And that was the truth. Since Crowley left, nothing had been for sure.
Aziraphale wanted desperately to march up to Crowley, pull him to his feet, and run away to Heaven. He wanted so desperately to see Crowley smile, feel his embrace, hear him crack a dark joke – anything that would bring back a shred of the normalcy of the good days – years. Thousands of them.
Yet now he could only stand silently.
Crowley had brought out many things in him. But never silence.
Finally, the emotions bubbled over. The Archangel inhaled sharply and squared his shoulders. He had an important job to do; he could not let his feelings get in the way.
“I didn’t come to chat. I’m here on official business.”
The demon raised a brow lazily, not even dignifying him with a response. Not sure if he even wanted one, the Archangel continued.
“The Metatron has asked me to see you again. He hopes you will reconsider our previous offer.”
“Hah, reconsider?” Crowley scoffed. “Cut the frilly chit chat. We’ve been through this already, in case you forgot. There’s no way I would ever join the likes of him .”
Aziraphale clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm.
“Please, Crowley. What don’t you understand? The Metatron is trying to do a good thing. He’s trying to help you!” he snapped.
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Crowley rose from the bench. He stalked towards Aziraphale, neck inclined forwards and arms stiffly by his sides. The Archangel took a step back as the demon slinked closer. Crowley brought his face close to Aziraphale’s; so close that he could feel the warm, quick puffs of breath on his own face. An almost unfamiliar reflection stared back at him in fear from the obsidian glasses.
“ Help ?” Crowley hissed, teeth bared. “Don’t act like he’s a saint. That bastard wouldn’t help anyone if his life depended on it. Seriously, take a look at yourself, Angel! You’ve practically been brainwashed!”
“You shouldn’t say such things! I don’t know what nonsense they’ve told you in Hell, but the Metatron represents the Lord. How could he possibly be as... as horrible as you make him out to be?” Feeling his voice rising, Aziraphale took another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. The last thing he wanted was for this to spiral like it had in the bookshop.
Digging into his blazer pocket, Aziraphale procured a small book. It was clearly worn; the pink leather-bound cover was faded around the edges, and the parchment pages were yellowed and soft, clearly having been handled often. Aziraphale mindlessly ran his hands over the smooth texture. Carefully measuring himself, artificially softening his voice (and internally wincing), the Archangel spoke again.
“The Metatron told me to show you this. He said you could have it back if you came with us to Heaven, that it might ‘bring some sense’ to you...”
Finally looking up from the book, the Archangel had expected to find a lot of things. Anger, disrespect, nonchalance; any typical ‘Crowley’ emotion.
But instead, Aziraphale’s heart was shattered into a thousand pieces.
Crowley’s face – still so close to his own – was trembling. Her eyebrows were no longer stuck in their permanent furrow. Instead, they were almost blank, betraying no emotion. Yet her lips twitched erratically, downturned and seemingly trying – but failing – to form words. She took a step back, almost tripping over herself in her haste. Though her glasses still obscured her eyes, Aziraphale knew the yellow slits were locked onto the book in his hands. Her chest steadily began to rise and fall with speed; occasionally her hands would jump forwards, fingers outstretched, before retreating just as fast as they had left. A wave of his own panic washed over Aziraphale.
All of a sudden, the humble book in his hands seemed to burn him. Without a thought, he shoved it back into his pocket and darted forwards. Though Crowley’s hands were shaking, he did not hesitate to grasp them and pull her closer. Crowley was pliant – until Aziraphale threw his arms around her. She quickly melted into the embrace, grasping Aziraphale’s jacket like a lifeline.
It was a closeness neither had felt in far too long – but in that moment, the angel and demon came to realise just how much they had longed for it again.
The two quickly lost track of time in that moment. It felt like an eternity had passed before they were ready to part (and even that was only due to the growing stiffness in their limbs), too engrossed in the familiar warmth and security of one another. Eventually though, they drew apart, silently wiping eyes and smoothing jackets. Appearance composed, Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry about that, I...” Aziraphale paused. “What exactly happened there, Crowley?” he asked tentatively.
There was a long, suffocating silence. Crowley reached up and took off her glasses, exposing the watery, yellow snake eyes. She rubbed a large hand over her face with a laboured sigh.
“Let me see that again,” she said, gesturing to Aziraphale’s pocket. The angel considered her for a moment with quiet concern. However, another glance into Crowley’s glistening eyes convinced him to produce the book, pressing it into her hands softly.
A striking look of awe overtook her as she ran her long fingers over the cover. She gently turned it this way and that, taking in every inch – but never opening it. Aziraphale’s heart leapt as a small crinkle of a smile spread across her cheeks.
“Where did you get this?” she asked quietly, almost silently.
“The Metatron had it in his desk. He told me to take it when he sent me to see you. Although, he forbid me from opening it, and from giving it to you before you agreed to join him...” Aziraphale trailed off, realising his mistake.
Though every time his eyes met Crowley’s, Aziraphale felt his trust in the man waver ever more.
Crowley looked up from the book to stare at Aziraphale for a long while. Despite not wearing her glasses, Aziraphale could not decipher what emotions were bouncing around in her head. All he could see was the flittering of her eyes, roving between him and the book. Eventually, she took a single step back. Just as Aziraphale began to panic, fearing that something was wrong, Crowley smiled and threw open the cover with great fanfare.
In a dizzying display, a tangle of bright colours emerged from the pages and spilled out into the world. The park seemed to warp and dissolve as it was overtaken by the coloured light. Aziraphale’s breath was pulled out of him as an endless array of constellation formed around him. They twisted and danced, in constant motion, dimming and brightening like the night and day, blending colours like the sunset. Unable to find the words, Aziraphale looked over to Crowley, who was grinning ear to ear as she admired the display.
And, suddenly, Aziraphale was not looking at the demon who fell from Heaven.
He was looking at the angel who created stars, galaxies, nebulas. He was looking at the angel who shone as bright as her creations, so full of energy and innovation. He was looking at his best friend.
A gleeful laugh interrupted his admiration.
“Ah, I’ve missed this,” Crowley sighed.
A thousand memories of a better time flooded Aziraphale’s mind, and he was sure Crowley must be feeling the same. But such memories brought a pain to his heart; and with that came questions. Dangerous questions.
Why would the Metatron send me with that book?
Why does Crowley despise Heaven so much?
...Is what the Metatron is doing even right?
...The Lord would never instigate such suffering, would they?
Too afraid to even think of answering any of his thoughts, Aziraphale settled on asking a much safer question.
“Just what is that book? This is... it’s beautiful,” he said, allowing all the awe he felt to bleed into his voice and momentarily distract him from his thoughts.
Crowley turned with a wave of her arm. The book – now floating at eye level – flipped independently through a seemingly never-ending array of pages as the constellations surrounding them shifted and spun in turn. Eventually, it landed on the very first page. Aziraphale leaned forwards, entranced by the intricate sketches and scribbles on the old pages.
“My old sketchbook,” Crowley stated simply, while a rueful grin quickly stretched across her lips. "I used to record all of my ideas in this thing. Alpha Centauri, Pleiades, Sirius, the whole lot. And so many that never came to be...” she trailed off. Her grin slipped steadily until only its shadow remained.
Throat welling up with emotion, Aziraphale found himself unable to say anything at all.
“I just had to go and ask questions,” Crowley continued. “I don’t regret it, not one bit. But there’s always those days where I’m sitting around, alone in that bookshop while you get up to God knows what in Heaven, and Muriel runs around the town helping whoever they can like the angel they are. Those days, I wonder what could have been; if I had just learned to shut my mouth.
“One minute I’m doing my thing, making my stuff. Then I get that idea: the questions. And suddenly I’m being summoned to the other Archangels. The Metatron’s voice is ringing throughout all of Heaven. He’s saying, ‘the Lord is never to be questioned. We can’t allow such treachery in our ranks.’
“And all at once I’m being shunned, watching my precious creations be torn to shreds, grasping as my possessions are ripped from my arms. They told me they had destroyed everything – although, it looks like they at least had the sense to keep something that would tether me to them. Assholes .”
Crowley snapped the book shut in an instant, making Aziraphale flinch as the glistening constellations fizzled out and faded into nothingness, the familiar park returning.
“I lost everything. To be cast out of paradise, left to fall for a thousand years only to land in a bubbling pit, armed only with a pair of eyes that can’t even see their greatest achievements.”
There was a long pause, silence only interrupted by laboured breathing – from whom, it was impossible to tell.
“But I don’t regret it. Not one bit. And you want to know why?”
Crowley threw her arms out wide and took a few steps back as she spoke, coming to a halt on the left of their bench. The afternoon sun shone proudly directly above her, casting a long shadow towards Aziraphale. The gentle breeze blew her hair rhythmically in tune with the long stretches of grass surrounding them.
“Because now I get to be here. On Earth, free to do whatever the hell I want. With you. On our side. I get so sit on this bench and get up to feed the ducks when I feel like it. With you. I get to ask as many questions as I want, to come to realise that paradise isn’t some empty, echoing, white void in a distant realm. I get to realise that true paradise is spending eternity doing what I want, when I want, with who I want – someone perfect. And for a long time... I had hoped you could be that someone.”
There was finally a moment of silence.
Crowley took a deep breath, chest heaving, and Aziraphale unconsciously followed; he found his chest loosening for the first time in... a while. He found he could not remember quite how long.
“So, you wanted to know why I hate Heaven, and him, so much?” Crowley panted. “Well, there. There you go.”
Every inch of Aziraphale’s body trembled and ached, overcome with such raw emotions he could not recall ever feeling – not in his 6,000 years of existence.
“Crowley, I...” he tried, but what could he possibly say?
The Metatron had cast Crowley out of Heaven – just for asking a question? All those incredible creations that Aziraphale had been so fortunate to see first-hand. That stunning angel who only exuded of life and beauty.
All destroyed. For what?
Fear? Necessity? Control?
As his fidgeting and trembling increased, Aziraphale quickly ripped the splinter from his thumb – though it hardly registered. Crowley watched the action silently. Fighting back tears, he carefully stepped towards Crowley, gently taking her hands in his own.
“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” was all that would come out, at first. But with those few words came a flood from deep inside the angel; something long suppressed, for longer than he knew. His head fell to his chest, unable to rise, as if it weighed the Earth.
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Those creations of yours were- are absolutely incredible.”
Then, a rare fit of rage washed over Aziraphale, muddled horribly with a hundred other feelings he could not decipher.
“Maybe... maybe you were right after all. About everything. They had no right to take all of that away from you. “
A bitter, watery laugh escaped him.
“I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? I just wanted to do the most good I can. The Metatron told me I could do that with him, in Heaven. And when you wouldn’t come with me, I just... I felt so many emotions, so many that I couldn’t name. So I took it out in the worst way possible... But I was silly to believe him. I was so naïve - to trust him over you . My best friend. I’m...
“I’m so sorry, Crowley ,”
Finally, Aziraphale began to sob in earnest. He pulled his hands away to try and wipe his tears, but it was a fruitless effort against the endless flow of regret. Crowley smiled sadly and brought his arms up to embrace the angel, squeezing firmly.
“You only ever wanted to do good, Angel,” she whispered.
“So did you,” Aziraphale whispered back.
Once again, the two stood for an unknown amount of time, seeming to stretch on forever. But neither cared as a warmth washed over them, filling their chests and making them feel lighter than ever.
Eventually, they silently pulled apart from each other, wiping eyes with an awkward laugh. Crowley sauntered over to the bench, throwing herself over the left armrest. Aziraphale followed politely, relaxing gently into the familiar wood. In that moment, the sounds and sights of the park surrounded him again, welcoming him back. He let out a contended sigh, somehow melting further into the bench.
At one point, a fleet of ducks swam towards them, quacking endlessly. Aziraphale waved his hand, and the bag of frozen peas materialised. He held it out silently to Crowley, who snatched it up and stood, walking towards the pond as Aziraphale followed. They took turns throwing the peas and watching as the ducks happily snatched them up.
Soon, the languid ringing of Big Ben echoed again, striking twice. With its chime, a thought popped suddenly into Aziraphale’s head.
“Are you going to make me do the ‘I’m sorry’ dance for this?” he asked.
Crowley turned to him with a wicked grin. Aziraphale groaned, which only made Crowley cackle, throwing her head back in glee.
Despite the indignation that washed over him, Aziraphale found himself unable to fight back a smile.
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