Chapter Text
Time passes, as it usually does.
Time is funny that way. When you try not to look at it, it slips around you like a ghost. But if you stare at the clock ticking away, it’ll stare right back, frozen, not going anywhere. These days, they lose grasp of time- the months simply roll by like steam, and Aziraphale becomes a part of Oxford. They both forget that they were only meant to be there for a little while.
They have lunches and dinners with Adam (though the first one after that night-out had been quite tense. Adam had been quite rightly furious. “You’re both just lucky that you’re so bad at being godparents that you ended up getting drunk with me instead of sending me home. I’d’ve been even more pissed off if that’d happened. As it is, still not cool.” “
“Erm… yes. Sorry about that.”)
They take walks through the Meadows, Christchurch college poking over the view of the trees. They find a bench in the botanical gardens that becomes one of their favourites. They have a go at punting, both fall in, make a bit of a scene about it, manage to feature in the University student magazine (again). They drink coffee in overrun cafes and shop in overrun bookshops. There is much to miss from London: the bookshop, of course, which Aziraphale visits on the weekends, as well as all the wonderful restaurants that Oxford seems to be missing. But there is also the Cotswolds, here- miles and miles of hills, going on for what feels like forever. They map it out together.
They continue to lecture, pretending that either of them have any real academic merit. It has been difficult to hide their personal experiences in meeting ancient philosophers and poets they are teaching, and in all likelihood, they both sound a little unhinged. But the students enjoy their lectures; their grades seem to improve as they teach, which can’t be a bad thing. They attend faculty wine and cheese nights and ignore all the faculty, paying attention to the wine and cheese. They mark essays in each other’s offices, and as the year passes, the winter sun turns brighter with spring.
And whilst they have shared all of time together on the same planet, having walked through thousands of the same moments in history, never has Aziraphale felt so settled in a point in time before. The enormity of the universe, the great expanse of time that unrolls before them- as an angel, that has always been quite clear to him. And that sort of awareness makes it hard for Aziraphale to absorb the moment that he is in. Knowing how much more is coming, and what all of it will be. He is no stranger to the philosophy of carpe diem: he’s done plenty of impulsive things knowing that this day will never happen again. But to allow a moment to fold around you, to bathe in it, without thinking of what will come next- without the fear of what will come next- that is something that Aziraphale has never known until now.
When he is with Crowley, he doesn’t feel the ticking of the universe. His subconscious doesn’t count the moments like sheep. These days, he simply is. He lives in an apartment with Crowley in Oxford. One moment, they will be holding hands on a bench, and he will feel it entirely. No ‘what next? What happens now?’. Instead, it is a feeling of complete peace, a feeling of home that he had never even fathomed. The familiar squirming in his chest replaced with something still, like a leaf on the surface of a pond.
Aziraphale sits at his desk, daydreaming with a red pen poised at his lip. The last sentence he read was something to do with the colour symbolism in Sappho’s poetry, and whilst it is interesting, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before; he stares at the courtyard below, students and teachers bending through the warped glass. The flowers are blooming.
He turns his head at the knock at the door- one he immediately recognises. Crowley dips in languidly, the sound of his shoes turning soft as he steps onto the old, worn rug. Miraculous, how seeing him for the millionth time feels just as wonderful as the last.
“Good morning,” Aziraphale says, closing his book of Sappho and shoving the essays away.
“Alright. Thought I’d pop in and erm. Yep.” Crowley slips his hands into his negligible pockets and wanders further into the room.
Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “You’re acting rather shifty.”
“Shifty? Me? I’ve- nah, never been shifty in my life, what’re you saying.”
He looks at Crowley expectantly, calmly. Crowley sags and sighs with his usual dramatic flare.
“Yeah, I’ve, done a thing. Not sure if you’ll like the thing, but I’ve done a thing, and I thought I’d, well, show you the thing. Once you’ve finished…” he waves dismissively at Aziraphale’s marking. “This thing.”
Aziraphale sits up in his seat with a smile. “Oh? How mysterious.”
“It’s- don’t get too excited, but, uhm.”
Crowley doesn’t finish his sentence. He slowly makes his way to Aziraphale’s side of the desk and stands there, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand. Even after months, there’s a self-consciousness to the action, and Aziraphale takes his hand gladly. Looking up at him, Crowley fits perfectly into Aziraphale’s world. It will take Aziraphale some time for him to forgive himself for taking so long to see it. He stands up, one hand in Crowleys, one on his cheek.
“I love you very much, my dear.”
If Aziraphale says it enough times, maybe Crowley will look like he believes it. Well, they have all the time in the world, he thinks. “Love you too, angel.”
He lays a single, soft kiss on his lips. When he pulls away, the smallest distance, he feels Crowley breathe out. Their noses touch.
“Now,” Aziraphale says quietly. He revels in the feeling of knowing how undone it makes Crowley when he kisses him. “What is this thing you’d like to show-?”
There’s another knock at the door. Aziraphale’s hands are still all over Crowley when the person enters.
“Aziraphale- we need to have a little…”
Aziraphale sees the archangel Gabriel standing in his office doorway. The two of them stare at each other. Crowley stays frozen on the spot, an angel’s hand on his cheek, a nice blush across both of them.
“... talk,” Gabriel finishes slowly.
Crowely steps back. Aziraphale mirrors him.
“Oh- hello- hello Gabriel,” Aziraphale says. He casts an anxious glance towards Crowley, who’s now leaning against the wall with a terrible attempt at nonchalance. With his hands fiddling nervously with each other, Aziraphale continues, “What a pleasure to see you here- let me- let me explain. You see- my, er, wily nemesis... well, things have changed a little since we last-”
Gabriel closes his eyes and holds up his hands to stop him. Aziraphale’s words falter.
“I really. Really do not want to know.”
Aziraphale deflates. He looks at Crowley, who’s grinning smugly from ear to ear- and starts laughing.
“Ah. Alright,” Aziraphale breathes.
“I only came to ask what in the Hell you’re doing here. In Oxford, with the antichrist. But,” Gabriel continues, “Yeah. I can see that you’re… hard at work.”
“You did fire me. I believe I’m free to do as I will,” Aziraphale replies immediately, and is shocked by his own impertinence.
Gabriel raises his eyebrows as if he’s shocked too. “Anyway. I am here to let you know that there has been a bit of a- misunderstanding. Regarding the second apocalypse.”
The archangel purses his lips awkwardly. Crowley is still laughing.
“It seems that intel was a bit… skewed.”
“Does that mean that Hell are calling back the cavalry too?” Aziraphale asks.
“I believe so. The grapevine wasn’t so reliable as we’d-” Gabriel stops and stares at Crowley, who’s leaning against the wall and cackling. Gabriel smirks at him dangerously. “Hi. Demon Crowley, was it?”
Crowley clears his throat, composes himself- dives forward with a hand extended. “Oh, yes, sorry, how rude of me not to formally introduce myself. Demon Crowley’s my name. Sort of. Most people just call me Crowley.”
Gabriel sneers at Crowley’s hand, doesn’t shake it. He looks at it in much the same way as he views food, whenever he catches Aziraphale eating.
Retracting his hand, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s side again, body waving from side to side- a sign that he’s feeling very pleased with himself. Quite frankly, Aziraphale is very pleased with him, too. If there’s one thing that Gabriel hates, it’s not being taken seriously. It feels as if Crowley has observed that, and that makes Aziraphale want to give him a big, messy kiss.
Instead, Aziraphale takes his hand.
Gabriel takes a second to view the scene, eyes scanning them up and down. He stands there with a straight back, poised and cold; grey suit blending into the worn-grey rug; so still that one could almost forget he’s there. A predator, camouflaging.
“Right,” Gabriel says, face barely moving, still staring at their hands. “I’ll… leave you to whatever this is. Again, I do not want to know.”
He turns to leave. Aziraphale and Crowley share a glance.
“So,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re not going to… punish me? Cast me down?”
Gabriel’s back is turned. He pauses at the door. He is deadly still- in some way, he reminds Aziraphale of a wild cat. But not entirely. He isn’t alive enough.
His head turns a little to view them. “No, Professor Fell. What would it do to punish you? Especially when-”
Gabriel doesn’t finish his sentence. He somehow tenses further, realising his mistake; he’s just reminded Aziraphale of the fact that Heaven can’t punish them, even if they want to. And then he dives out of the office.
Aziraphale and Crowley stand hand in hand, watching the closed door for a moment. Then they look at each other.
Crowley isn’t grinning anymore. It’s a barely there smile that’s somehow brighter than any grin.
“Let me show you the thing.”
Crowley opens the car door for Aziraphale. He drives them into the Cotswolds as if this is just another day, when it really, really isn’t. His stomach is all jumbled like a fallen game of jenga.
Spring is fully in bloom. The clouds pass in front of the sun like a Monet painting. Crowley takes the small, winding roads with his hands tight on the wheel. Aziraphale is chattering about all sorts of nonsense, which is just the way he likes it. He loves listening to him any day, but especially now, when he’d like to distract himself from the impending feelings of-
ohgod oh FUCK oh God oh Christing fucking Hell-
-and so Crowley takes the little country road turns, his Bentley complaining. He chastises it mentally, baring his teeth.
He’s accidentally taken a different road to the one he’d meant to. But if he remembers rightly, he needs to go past the farm- which he just has, on his left- keep going down the road, emerge over the dip. The blue gate should be on their right, and then it’s the third house on the left. Crowley counts the houses under his breath, and Aziraphale goes quiet, looking at Crowley and out of the window quizzically.
And there it is. The car comes to a creep, and they turn a tight corner into a gravelled parking area. A square, limestone cottage with a thatched roof. The sun is setting behind it, refracting the light so he’s wincing, until he stops the card in the shade of the house. The view of the hills behind it goes on forever, little white blobs of sheep dotted about here and there. Wisteria hugs the East facing side, and rose bushes dance in the wind beneath the windows. The garden needs a bit of care, but he thinks he’ll manage.
Crowley takes a slow breath. He feels Aziraphale looking at him.
“Crowley?”
“Hang on.”
Crowley dives out of the car, escapes the building tension that he can’t quite cope with. Not unless he wants his voice to break and the waterworks to start, which he’s been doing increasingly around Aziraphale recently. Mortifying. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he goes to open Aziraphale’s door. He always lets Crowley do these things, particularly now- Aziraphale likes to humour him, but it’s also largely because he likes Crowley doing things for him. That’s part of the reason he makes these little gestures in the first place.
Aziraphale steps out of the car. His hair flutters in the breeze a little; he fits in with the spring dandelions and clouds. There’s a soft, lip-parted look of awe on his face. Crowley thinks he’s seen it before, when he handed over a briefcase of books all those years ago.
“What is this, Crowley?”
And oh Christ, that’s not good, because he sounds like he’s trying not to cry. Which is absolutely not good for Crowley, who was already struggling to hold it together.
He clears his throat. Turns and looks at the house. Then, “Shall we?”
He saunters, as well as he can, towards the front door. Under the flower pot he finds the key- he opens the door, old and painted pale blue. The house is cool; the flagstones are worn; the staircase a little crooked and painted white. He steps further inside to let Aziraphale in. And if he turns to look at Aziraphale, he will cry, so he powers on.
“Kitchen,” he announces impartially, as he steps into said kitchen. There’s a large island, cabinets filled with mismatching mugs left by the previous owner. The sink is deep, and the window behind it offers a view of the neighbouring village, half a mile down the road. The spire of the church pokes above the hedges.
He hears Aziraphale take in a little breath- hears his soft footfalls as he looks around.
“Crowley…”
“Living room’s round here.”
He makes his escape once again, pushing open the door to the living room. The fireplace is unlit and large. Although without furniture, it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full of history. A large room, plenty of space for a piano.
“Oh… this is…”
He knows what he’s about to say. He can feel the love in this place. That’d probably be his fault, because he’d come across this place whilst casually browsing online, had a look around the other day, then fallen in love with the idea of them living here. It probably stinks of Crowley’s love. Just- love all over the place. And that’s aside from the fact that it’s easy to tell that generations of happy families have lived here.
“Yep. Best till last.”
He clears his throat, leads Aziraphale down the hallway towards the last room downstairs. They can have a look at the rest later, but he needs to show Aziraphale this one room.
“My dear, slow down-”
“Nope.”
He opens the double doors and turns the corner. Leans against the wall- hiding, he supposes. No: he doesn’t suppose. He knows he’s hiding, because out of all the things he’s ever done, demonic or otherwise, this is the most reckless.
Aziraphale finally steps into the room. There isn’t an intake of breath this time; there’s no sound at all. It’s painfully quiet, and Crowley chews his lip as he watches. This room is empty too, but he can see Aziraphale standing in here on a Sunday morning, the sun coming in through the East-facing window (once he’s stripped back the wysteria) and perusing the shelves. Shelves and shelves and shelves of books. He can see them now, and he imagines that Aziraphale can imagine it too. The stone floors will want a rug, to warm it up a bit. And the shelves are painted white- it might look nicer if the paint was stripped back to show the original oak. And the window frames could do with a lick of colour. Or something.
Crowley’s surprising himself with how much his flare for design is coming back. On a slightly smaller scale of course- windowsills, rather than constellations.
“A library,” Aziraphale says lightly.
Crowley doesn’t say anything. He folds his arms across his chest and watches Aziraphale through his sunglasses. His back is turned, and his arms are at his sides, and he’s gazing about the room like he’s sleep walking.
“Do you…” Crowley clears his throat. “D’you like it? I mean. If you like it we can buy it. It’s on the market. And, you know, you were saying how you’d like to stay in Oxfordshire. But how you like the Cotswolds because you miss the countryside, and this is ideal, isn’t it, ‘cause it’s just down the road from Oxford and there’s a train directly to London if we want to do dinner. There’s even a little bookshop in town that looks like it’s looking for a new owner. Not because of me, I didn’t do anything demonic there, it just happened to be available. In case you were wondering.”
Crowley shuts up. Aziraphale turns around. His eyes are huge and red and he’s wearing a shaky smile.
That makes him chew his lip again, just to stop it from wobbling. “Not a big deal, angel…”
“Crowley.”
He holds out his arms. Crowley could never deny the urge to fall into them. He pushes himself off the wall and lets Aziraphale wrap him up.
“Do you really mean it?”
Crowley props his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. His head bobs when he talks. “Only if you don’t mind moving your books here. Don’t know if you want to keep lecturing or buy that little bookshop in town, but I thought I’d show you, in case...”
“I can just imagine it.”
He steps back, hands on Crowley’s shoulders. His gaze floats around the room.
“Needs a bit of fixing-up,” Crowley croaks. Ah, shit, his voice is cracking, now. Excellent. He clears his throat. “If you want to put in the miracle-work.”
“Oh, no,” Aziraphale smiles. “I think some old-fashioned elbow grease might be needed here.”
“Really? You, putting in actual work?”
“Excuse me.”
Crowley chuckles. But he thinks he knows what Aziraphale’s getting at- the idea of them painting walls with paint rollers and arguing with each other about getting paint on the floor. Somehow, as messy as it sounds, it also seems just right. “Elbow grease sounds good.”
They stand in the middle of the empty library, Crowley winding an arm around Aziraphale’s back. They watch the sun lower in the sky, casting a yellow light. They sit in the moment, appreciate it; the house won’t look this empty again.
“So?” Crowley asks, finally finding some composure. “Feel like home to you?”
Aziraphale looks at him, brows knit and trying not to cry again. Which sets Crowley off- he blinks the tears out of his eyes.
“Of course. With you here,” he replies dreamily.
Crowley purses his lips, breathes deeply. No use, the tears are coming now. “For God’s sake, stop it. You soft bastard.”
Aziraphale gives him his brightest smile, wipes the tears from Crowley’s cheeks. Crowley takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. And without his glasses, he sees it all as clear as day. Aziraphale, an empty house that’s theirs, and another day ending.
A four letter word doesn’t cover it.