Chapter Text
Anthony Crowley stood in the dock and looked out at the crowd. There were fewer people than there’d been at his last trial—not strictly surprising, he supposed, given that Hastur’s arrest had been widely reported in the papers, making the outcome of today’s proceedings a foregone conclusion.
“On account of the new evidence which has come to light regarding the murder of Louis Ferno,” the judge was saying, “the Crown has withdrawn its case against Anthony Crowley.”
Crowley glanced into the gallery. Lord Aziraphale Eastgate was there, apparently alone, his eyeglass screwed in, peering down at Crowley. Their eyes met, and Aziraphale looked away.
Crowley wrenched his attention back to the judge. “Mr. Crowley, your innocence is established and you are hereby discharged. Next case, please.”
He came downstairs a few minutes later, holding the suit-case of things he’d brought with him to gaol and wearing his own clothes again. Most of the crowd had dissipated, but there were two figures waiting for him when he emerged.
“Hello, you,” said Eric Stone, holding out a hand.
Crowley shook it. “Thanks for coming.”
“How does it feel?” Eric Williams asked. “To be a free man?”
“Fantastic,” Crowley said, grinning. “Do you, ah—have you seen Lord Aziraphale Eastgate about, anywhere?”
“He was here,” Eric Stone said, “but he left, soon as they said you were discharged. Must’ve had somewhere to be.”
“Must’ve,” Crowley echoed.
“Why, what’d you want?”
“Oh—I only wanted to thank him,” Crowley said.
One of the Erics was saying something, but Crowley didn’t hear. He’d thought it odd, at the time, that Lord Aziraphale hadn’t stopped Crowley from thanking him at the end of their last visit. Now he understood why. Aziraphale must have known, he realized, even then, that he wouldn’t see Crowley again, and had been giving him that last opportunity to finally say thank-you.
Crowley flushed hot with shame. It was obvious, wasn’t it, what had happened? Crowley had been on the verge of saying something unguarded and stupid, and Aziraphale had shuttered immediately, no doubt to spare himself the trouble of having to reject Crowley, and spare Crowley the pain of facing that rejection. And he’d stayed at the trial only long enough to see the thing through, then left straightaway, to avoid having to see Crowley again. He’d likely wanted to prevent a scene in which Crowley gushed his thanks and Aziraphale accepted them, nodding woodenly and wondering if he’d saddled himself with more trouble than Crowley was worth.
Because—Crowley had been dead gone since he’d come into the room that first day and seen Aziraphale waiting at the table, the single incandescent light shining down on his head, haloing him like Crowley’s own personal guardian angel, sent to deliver him from whatever Hell he’d fallen into since Louis’ death. Crowley, being Crowley, had been instinctively resistant to any such aid; he’d pushed Aziraphale away with slouching posture and muttered questions—and then, he’d asked why, and Aziraphale hadn’t gone off about his theories, or the facts of the case, or any of that. No, he’d leaned forward and said with complete sincerity: If you don’t want me to help, or, or you think I’m some sort of hopelessly aristocratic dabbler who’ll only muck everything up for you by barging in, please do tell me and I’ll leave at once, no harm done. I’m well aware I seem like an over-privileged idiot with too much time on his hands and not enough common-sense to use it for anything besides playing detective. I don’t expect to be able to convince you otherwise.
And that had done it for Crowley, no going back; he’d fallen completely and humiliatingly in love with the man trying to save his life.
Which might’ve been someone’s idea of a romantic situation, but it certainly wasn’t Crowley’s. Because he didn’t much fancy being powerless, helpless, inferior in every way, the object of Aziraphale’s pity and sympathy rather than his respect and admiration. Aziraphale had been clever, and gentle, and catty (the last of which was surprisingly attractive), and Crowley had to sit there and watch him, unable to be anything other than slightly witty and hopelessly besotted himself.
All the same, he’d thought—maybe—that Aziraphale had felt something, too. Clearly not whatever ridiculous tidal wave of adoration had swept over Crowley, but something; Crowley’d caught him looking, once or twice, had felt the heat in his gaze, had seen the way his eyes flicked away self-consciously. Crowley had entertained fleeting thoughts that Aziraphale might want—that Crowley might be permitted—some brief intimacy. He’d had no idea how to express that thought in a way that didn’t make it sound as though he were offering a payment for services rendered, which wasn’t at all what Crowley intended. But Aziraphale’s quick exit seemed to squash that notion; he obviously wasn’t interested in spending another minute in Crowley’s presence.
Which was—fine, of course, he didn’t owe Crowley any more of his time, it was Crowley who ought to be grateful—but bitterly disappointing all the same.
“Don’t suppose you’ll see him again,” Eric Stone said. “Not like you’re exactly running in the same circles.”
“Shouldn’t think so,” Crowley agreed, feeling hollow.
Eric shrugged. “Well, you can always write, can’t you?”
Dear Lord Aziraphale:
I hope that’s the right way to start this letter. I looked it up in an old guide I had, but I’m not sure whether it’s right. Apologies if I’m not being properly deferential. Not a lot of experience hobnobbing with the gentry, you know.
I also hope you’ll forgive the liberty of my writing to you, but it doesn’t sit right with me to let this matter close without thanking you fully for all you’ve done—I hesitate to say “for me,” as that feels rather presumptuous. I’ll say: for all you’ve done in the interest of justice.
So. Thank you.
If it hadn’t been for your intervention, I’ve no doubt that, right now, I’d be arguing with the gaolers over the wine selection for my last meal, not sitting comfortably in my flat writing this. I’d just about lost all hope until you showed up. I would say you were sent by Heaven, but I fear I wouldn’t be giving you proper credit for your own initiative. I owe you my life.
I’m aware that your helping me was not personal in any way, but I can’t help feeling a very personal sort of way about it. If that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read the next bit. I’m going to pretend in my own mind that you aren’t reading the next bit regardless, because I’m fairly certain that’s the only way I’ll feel reckless enough to write it.
I have a tremendous amount of esteem and admiration for you. I haven’t got any expectations—won’t even put my hopes into words—but I want to express the depth of my regard. You probably get that a lot, but there it is.
In the unlikely event that I can ever be of any assistance to you, please, please don’t hesitate to ask me. I’d gladly travel the world in hopes of doing you a good turn (or fight through London traffic, which might well be worse).
Thank you, once again, for the very great service you have done, both in saving me, and in helping me to feel as though I were worth being saved.
Yours, in every sense of the word,
Anthony Crowley
“Is everything all right, sir?”
Aziraphale blinked rapidly. “Yes,” he said, voice coming out odd and hoarse. “Everything is—it’s...lovely, actually.”