A longer chapter than usual--the flashback seemed too short to stand alone, so we are back to London halfway through.

Egypt, 1548 BC

Crawly had never actually feared to approach the angel, not even in Eden. Now, looking at shoulders that should be rounded held hard and rigid, he stared at his back, and felt something like fear for the first time. He knew that Principalities were technically soldiers. It no longer felt amusing when looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sensed he was there without the approach. "I heard you'd taken my advice and gone to the Yellow River." His voice was expressionless. No turning, no glad "Hello, Crawly," no burst of sunshine. He stood staring at the sun shimmering on the water.

"I heard you stayed near the Nile." He licked suddenly dry lips, wishing he had the courage to take the last few steps, wrap his arms around Aziraphale's waist from behind, and just hold him. If only his last attempt at offering physical comfort hadn't gone so wrong. "So I came back."

"Gabriel and Mashit didn't need me. A lot of burning and pillaging and enslaving of innocent cities to do on the journey. Not really my thing."

"No. They might have noticed the lack of flaming sword."

"Right." He had never felt coldness from Aziraphale before. Coldness and anger. As the Flood waters had risen, Aziraphale had wept, and put the people to sleep to drown peacefully, then gone far away without telling Crawly where he was going. But now, there was sheer freezing anger at the Heavens. Crawly knew the signs. The angel was Questioning, and on the verge of Falling.

Fuck Gabriel and Mashit and Uriel and the whole damn lot of them for leaving Aziraphale here in the aftermath of their bloody carnival without help or comfort. As if he didn't matter.

"I thought I should pop back to the garden and check how my plants were doing, anyway."

"Much better without you."

Crawly wasn't sure if he should thank Aziraphale for checking on his garden, or be offended. He chose the latter, glad at a somewhat normal bit of cattiness from the angel. "That was harsh."

"Harsh?" Aziraphale's shoulders were shaking, and for a moment Crawly thought he was weeping. "No. Locusts are harsh. Boils are harsh. Killing children..."

"Is something my side would do. Only your side does too. At least we don't pretend to do it for righteousness."

"The Pharaoh was told to let the slaves go."

"Only those particular slaves. Anyway, it wasn't the decision of the ordinary parents, was it? And you said something about Abraham's lot enslaving people too. Hagar, she was one of their Egyptian slaves, wasn't she? Humans are always doing these things to each other. They don't need us to make it worse." Curse both Hell and Heaven, what was he doing? Aziraphale didn't need theological arguments right now. He needed comfort.

Crawly stepped forward at last, hardly daring to come close, settling for standing shoulder to shoulder without touching. Crawly wanted desperately to say: You're Falling, but it's all right, I'll catch you. We'll be together, love. Don't be scared. Instead he said, "Dagon was your friend up Above, yeah? They're not so bad, as infernal superiors go. They leave me alone to do pretty much my own thing, as long as I send Down paperwork. I can put in a word."

The words hung there, for the first time, an acknowledgement of the possibility of being on the same side.

Aziraphale turned at last, and Crawly expected to see white hot rage and rebellion. He was taken aback by a soft, sad smile, swimming tears. "Sometimes, for a demon, you are very kind."

"No, no, don't say that." He wanted to be kind, that was the worst bit. He wanted to be more than kind. He wanted to take Aziraphale's face in his hands and smother it with kisses, until there was no room on it for grief, kiss away every hurting thought, claim him right there on the riverbank despite the humans, and fill his world so full that there was no corner of it left for this pain. Then hold him close and keep him safe, as if Crawly wasn't a demon. As if he could keep anyone safe. As if a creature of love like this angel could belong to him.

Instead, Crawly said, "Come back to China with me. You'll like the Xia, they're clever people, great engineers. Pretty calligraphy for you to learn, and you'll enjoy the oracle bones. Lots of prophecies for you to pull apart and explain at length why they are wrong until they throw them at you."

"I can't. A lot of bereaved parents here, a lot of children orphaned by the Red Sea. I need to do what I can. I'm sure—I'm sure my presence here is part of the Her will. The lower you start, the higher you go."

He was wrong. Aziraphale might doubt policy, but he would never Fall. He would choose love and hope, every time. It was strange and terrible that he would even consider a demon for a friend, and also somehow just like him.

"All right." Crawly ground a scaly toe into the dirt. "I can't really go around purifying water, healing the sick, making crops grow better, you know. For whatever reason, my side apparently wanted this too. Still. If I can do anything for you, just ask."

"Stay by my side for a while?" Aziraphale asked it as simply as if it was a natural thing for an angel to ask a demon.

"Yeah, okay." As if it was no big a deal for a demon to promise an angel that.

There weren't any pleasure boats on the Nile that day.

Later, when the Arrangement was fully in place and he'd done plenty of blessings and minor miracles on Aziraphale's behalf, Crowley would wish he had helped share the load more in Egypt. Even more, he wished he'd been able to express some of what he was feeling.

Mostly, as with other painful things, he tried not to think about it.

London, Present Day

Crowley woke from a fitful nap. His flat was so bright. Why had he decided that decking it out all in pristine white and neon lights like a nightmare from Heaven was a good idea? There were other ways to look like an ostentatiously successful human. Much more comfortable ways.

He blinked awake. No, that wasn't right. His apartment was all in the exciting dark brushed concrete he'd decided on after reading an article about how the rich always ended up emulating the poor except expensively, and it was only bright because Aziraphale had turned up the lights and heat two days before.

He turned the lights down, leaving the heat on, and wandered into his never used bathroom, to stare at his reflection. No real difference, except for a faint silvery glow, and eyes that were more amber than yellow, with round pupils. He missed his old eyes. He resisted the urge to get out his wings to check again, and splashed cold water on his face, materialising a suit.

He padded into the atrium to visit his house plants. He needed to hurry. He had managed to elicit a promise from Aziraphale to come to the concert tonight, and he would be damned—Fallen again? That might actually be nice— if he was too late. He glared around at his plants, and they responded adoringly by putting out new leaves and spontaneously bursting into bloom. Being an angel was even ore boring as he remembered.

"All right," he growled, aware that they seemed to be trying to catch his eye rather avoid his attention. "Which one of you is going to turn into a rosebush?"

Half an hour, he was jumping out of the Bentley, incredibly relieved that the Aston Martin was missing. He wasn't sure how he would manage to hold it together and not sulk and snarl in front of Gabriel or Asmodeus or whatever stupid dramatic name he had. It was important to remember that Aziraphale no longer had centuries of developing tolerance for his moods.

He pushed open the door of the bookshop without knocking, forgetting that he didn't have the right. Aziraphale was in the main bookshop adding a volume to a teetering stack and turned, probably to warn him that the shop was actually closed this time, and—

Aziraphale's face lit up with glad, fond recognition. His lips parted as if to speak in greeting. Crowley froze, stunned, hardly believing the sight, his heart suddenly hurting in a pain he would gladly endure forever if Aziraphale only said his name.

Then, as quickly as it was there, the recognition faded, and Aziraphale was flustered and perplexed and a bit embarrassed, but courteous as always. "Ah, Bo--Anthony. You're a little late."

"Bad habit. They'll hold the seats. Here." He held out a bunch of deep coral roses with a flourish, ignoring the strange mixture of elation and disappointment. It had happened once, it will happen again, he told himself. It had to. He would make sure it did. This was his Aziraphale, who could never truly forget hi, no matter what sadistic tricks God played. "More vegetation. Grown in my own atrium."

The scent of the roses hung like Turkish Delight in the air, angel-grown roses exchanged between angels. Had that ever happened before, Crowley wondered? But then, had an angel ever held a demon's hands and kissed their fingertips? So many firsts.

Aziraphale behaved exactly as planned, which was unusual enough that it made Crowley suspicious. Of course, in his head, Aziraphale had coloured and fluttered and inhaled their scent, touching one petal daintily so as not to bruise it. At the same time, even when coming up with the fantasy, Crowley had suspected some sharp or bantering remark, and he was a little thrown by just how adorable Aziraphale's pleasure in the roses were.

It should make him happy. It did make him melt. But it also made him suspicious. Aziraphale on model behaviour had him on guard.

No, that was stupid. Aziraphale just wasn't comfortable enough with him yet to be snippy. He had to remember that banter from Aziraphale was a generally compliment earned only after a long history of companionship.

"You have an atrium?"

"Yeah. I like plants." Crowley thought about that more honestly. "I mean, I appreciate them. When they behave. Got to keep your eyes on them, though."

Aziraphale looked amused and pleased. "One of the more lovely innovations of this planet, I think. These are truly lovely." He touched a glossy rose leaf, as if not quite believing the gesture. Beat that, Gabriel, Crowley thought, and then was immediately seized with panic. If Gabriel actually was pursuing or worse his angel, of course he would effortlessly pull off every romantic gesture Crowley usually wouldn't think about. "I'll put them in water."

Crowley had preloaded the car with a playlist this time. He wasn't fond of the compression issues of MP3s, but Aziraphale used a gramophone, he would be fine. He hoped Aziraphale's ear for German was up to scratch. The angel could read over a thousand of the languages that sprung up after Babel, but he'd become lazy about speaking them once they'd settled in the United Kingdom.

Liebestod poured out of the speakers, and Aziraphale sighed appreciatively. Why had he never thought of using music to communicate before? Well, apart from Queen not really being Aziraphale's choice. Still, as long as he remembered not to leave anything in the car, it might have worked.

Softly and gently, see him smiling. How the eye opens fondly

"I thought you'd like it, angel." Crowley said. "I know Wagner is melodramatic, but this seems like you, somehow."

"It's very sad."

"Yes. Yes it is." Crowley stared at the road for once. "They needed a miracle. But that's what we do. I haven't lost my belief in my ability to make one."

Ever lighter, how he is shining,
borne on high amidst the stars

"Why do you call me angel?" Aziraphale asked abruptly.

"Well, you are one," Crowley said reasonably.

"Well, so are you, and so is everyone from the Heavenly Host," Aziraphale pointed out, equally reasonably. "Why me in particular?" He grabbed the edge of his seat. "Is it really necessary to take the corner that fast?"

"We're late." He spun the wheel. "Some angels are more angelic than others, I guess."

As from lips so joyfully mild,
sweet the breath that softly stirs

Aziraphale sighed. "I'm not really a good example of magnificent divine Grace."

"You're perfect." The words fell out too easily, reminding him that it wasn't just his eyes that had changed, and Aziraphale started. He would have to be careful, given how easy it was to speak words of love now. "I mean, you're a Principality. You're much better Created to make people want to love and trust your guidance than if you were seven foot of terrifying muscle."

Aziraphale smiled as if lit up from within. "That's a lovely thought."

You're lovely. He managed to repress it this time. "Right, let's get this tone poem over and done with."

Aziraphale gave him a funny look. "It was your choice."

Crowley grimaced cheerfully. "Got to be open to the pleasures of the world, no matter how unlikely they seem."

"You seem to be doing a good job of it already." Aziraphale's voice was light and innocent and one would have to know him quite well to detect the suspicion in it. "That restaurant was excellent. Been down long? I keep thinking your form is familiar somehow, but I'm sure I would remember an angel dressed like you."

"I would never forget you, angel. I've been interested in the world for a very, very long time, but I suppose you could say yesterday was little Anthony's first day on the planet. Right, we're here." He remembered to go around and open the Bentley door.

Perhaps the music had been a bad choice. Why had Aziraphale wanted Picnic at Hanging Rock? It was beautiful, true, but unsettling, and Crowley's anxiety was high enough already. What had Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, been trying to tell him by insisting he listen to it? Crowley sat and tried to puzzle it out, through the lilting jangling notes, the underlying tension. Surely not just, "It's creepy, you'll like it." Aziraphale was rarely as simple as he seemed.

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the music. Strange choice for an angel so set in his ways, Swedish impressionist orchestration. Crowley's thoughts bounced across the fluting notes. Still, it was nice of Aziraphale to want to keep in touch, even now they had lost the excuse of meeting at concerts to exchange notes. Crowley had become used to seeing him more often during the whole Antichrist business, and he had to admit to thinking it would be a pity if they'd gone their own separate ways more afterwards, Arrangement aside. It was probably a blasphemous thought for a demon, but they had a lot of shared history one way or another, and Aziraphale had been feeling like an important friend, lately.

Crowley's eyes flew open, and sheer panicky terror made him grope blindly for Aziraphale's hand, passing over his thigh and finding it at last. He clutched it so tight he must have been hurting the angel, but he found it pressed reassuringly in return.

"Are you all right?" the angel hissed.

"It's just—intense." He could no more relax his grip than he could return to his own world. Aziraphale, his angel. His eyes weren't as good at night vision as they had been, but they were still better than humans, and he drank in that sweet beloved face, turned to his in concern. He couldn't lose it. He couldn't lose his memories for it. Not after that precious flash of recognition on Aziraphale's face at the bookshop.

"Human music can be quite intense. Don't worry, the next item is less difficult." Aziraphale squeezed his hand again, and Crowley stayed still, willing his heart to slow, his breath to regulate.

He sat in the dark, and held onto Aziraphale like a lifeline.

Notes:

1) Coral roses symbolise not yet requited desire and the yearning to move from friendly love (yellow) to passionate romantic love (red). Also, coral pink/orange is my favourite colour. ~projects~

2) Liebestod, aka Mild und leise, wie er lächel from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde is a horrendously depressing piece in which Isolde tries to convince herself Tristan is coming back to life, and to her. Translation by Paula Hanson.

3) Picnic at Hanging Rock is a tone poem by Britta Byström, based on the film by Peter Weir, based on the book by Joan Lindsey. I recommend all three.