Work Text:
-1-
At the end of the first day of the rest of their lives, Aziraphale was tired, a feeling unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and if the fast asleep Crowley lounging on his couch was any indication, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
It had only been one day since they stood, side by side, at the airbase and confronted their superiors. Since they held the antichrist’s hands and confronted Satan together.
It had only been one day since they spent the night together at Crowley’s flat because Aziraphale’s bookshop had burnt down, trying to devise a plan to save the other’s skins.
And it had been even less, only a few hours, since the bookshop and Crowley’s Bentley got restored. Since their plan to thwart each other’s executions worked. Since they had a celebratory lunch at the Ritz.
It had only been a few hours. A few exhilarating hours.
And yet, it felt much longer than that.
All the excitement of the past week was finally starting to catch up to him.
Or, if he was being honest, of the past 11 years. All those years raising the mistaken antichrist, Heaven and Hell close behind their backs. All the stress of failing, of Warlock coming into his powers.
And he hadn’t even been the right child. And the right child hadn’t even needed them. The right child would’ve probably come into his powers, had Crowley and Aziraphale interfered earlier.
Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his eyeglasses off as the words swam around in his book, letters separating and merging and rolling around the page, as if Aziraphale –or the letters themselves– was drunk.
But he’d purged the champagne and wine from his body at the same time as Crowley decided he wanted to sleep on the couch. They had both sobered up and that was that. Crowley had fallen asleep and Aziraphale…
He wasn’t even sure what he had been reading, or if he had even been reading at all, nor did he care.
He closed his eyes to regain some semblance of stability.
—
The first thing he thought when he opened his eyes was ‘what a pretty forest’. He was surrounded from all sides by trees. Large and thin alike, more tones of green than he had ever seen in one place at the same time. Bushes, some wild flowers growing from the foliage, mushrooms clinging to trees. He didn’t even wonder where he had been before the forest, but if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to come to an answer.
He somehow knew that if he wasn’t paying enough attention to his surroundings, he’d get lost amidst the trees.
It was beautiful.
He felt like an outsider. A nagging feeling inside his chest –or was it around his head? Deep in his stomach?– that there was something off about the place, regardless of the beauty in it.
At some point, he had begun walking, like being pulled towards a force. Something sweet called to him from deeper within –he assumed; he didn’t know where the exit was, or if there even was an exit.
The force in question was a clearing. A clearing, except for a single tree in the middle, towering over the rest, its trunk thick and twisting, leaf-filled branches sprawling around like they didn’t know where to go.
And under it, a child, around 10 or 11 years old, protected from the sunlight with his back against the trunk and a notebook and pencil in hand. He was scribbling and scratching at the paper, frowning more intensely by the second, as if the notebook in his hands was throwing insults his way.
He would’ve found it endearing, had it not been for something odd.
Somehow, the kid sitting right there, small wireframe glasses, short curly blond hair, and light clothes surprisingly clean despite the grass, bark, and earth stains that should be covering them, looked uncannily similar to him, but young, little.
If someone didn’t know any better, they’d probably assume the child was his. Or, no, they’d think the child was him, but he knew better, and he knew that, while that sort of thing happened occasionally, that level of resemblance was simply too strong for him to ignore.
He was never too curious of a person angel, at least not by human standards. He loved learning, loved trying new foods, hearing about the next great thing humanity invented and, on one noteworthy occasion, getting mingled in espionage, among others. But, for the most part, he prefered to stay within his comfort zone. Within the stacks of books he’d assembled, within his routines.
And this definitely didn’t fit into any of his routines.
He would’ve taken a step forward, revealed himself and talked to the child to reassure himself that nothing was wrong, but he knew that approaching a child in the middle of wherever this was wouldn’t be the best idea, even if it’d satisfy his curiosity.
He stood his ground, undecided whether he should leave or stay. But, could he even leave? He wasn’t even sure there was an exit in the first place.
A shuffling sound brought his attention back to the tree. There was something in the leaves above the child, and the child had barely paid any mind to it.
He almost went in. He almost ran to the child to protect them from whatever or whoever might be lurking overhead.
But that wasn’t necessary.
A scrawny kid from around his age slung from a low branch, held by his legs. He was grinning upside down at the other kid, his ginger ponytail still swinging around from the momentum. He was wearing sunglasses, which had surprisingly not fallen from his face. He was wearing dark colours, in contrast to the other kid. He reminded him somewhat of Crowley. Yes, the way he looked was similar, but there was also something else. Something which felt intrinsically like Crowley.
In fact, now that he paid attention to it, he could feel a tint of Crowley everywhere, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It was somewhat related to the feeling of not belonging, but that didn’t make any sense. He always felt like he belonged when he was with Crowley. Besides, Crowley wasn’t there, so it was most likely just him. He’d have to check on it later on his own. No use worrying his friend for no reason yet.
The grin in the upsidedown child, who was now swinging his body, turned devious in an instant once the other looked up.
“You know,” he started, “it’d be much easier if you just… gave me your homework and you did mine.”
The voice was also familiar, but far too young to accurately pinpoint from where. It definitely didn’t sound like the not-antichrist nor his friends, and he most definitely didn’t sound like Warlock, so it must’ve been someone else.
The child with the notebook and pen dropped them on the grass with a groan. “Stop it, you know I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?” the sunglasses-clad child asked innocently, and Aziraphale immediately knew it was not innocent at all, and oh wasn’t the child’s blood all going to his head? He’d been like that for quite a few seconds now and that couldn’t be comfortable, could it?
“You know. That thing.”
“Dunno what ya talking ‘bout.” He swung his body once more to climb back on the branch, and once there, he jumped.
If Aziraphale could get heart attacks, he would’ve had one already, and he almost went to his rescue again, only to find him standing upright with no scratches, looking over the boy still sitting. He extended his arms. “Now, gimme”
After assessing him for a few seconds, in which the arms started moving more insistently, he sighed and picked his things up, giving them over. “Fine, here’s my notebook, now give me yours.”
That’s when Aziraphale noticed the other notebook laying on the grass, a feet away.
“Don’t worry,” the red-headed boy grinned, “I won’t let you down. Won’t even notice it’s not your handwriting, really.”
“Oh, I do hope you’re right.”
“Can be our little… uh… you’re good with words, what uh…” He snapped his fingers. “Arrangement! Our arrangement. What do you think? Sounds fancy, yeah?”
“Oh, please, don’t give it a name. If they find out we’ll be in so much trouble. Besides, I’m not accepting your preposterous-”
“Preposterous,” mouthed the other boy.
“-idea. I just, well, I got a new book and I’ve been looking forward to reading it, but this is taking too long!”
“Exactly! That’s what I mean! If you just… accept this ‘preposterous idea’ and give me whatever homework you don’t get and I give you mine, then both of them get done faster, and you’ll have more time to read whatever book you want at any time! It’s genius!”
“You’re insufferable,” he smiled in amusement or fondness, or both.
But Aziraphale had stopped listening after the word ‘arrangement’. How could he have been so purposefully obtuse before? The feeling of not belonging, the scent of Crowley which permeated the whole place, especially where the red-headed boy stood, the little version of him, not knowing where he had been before then…
It’s because he had been nowhere before then. He’d been at his bookshop, but after that, he simply appeared in that forest without recollection of how he got there because he hadn’t gotten there physically.
Now, he realised part of the uncanniness was the lack of sound. The lack of birds singing, or exiting trees. Or any other animal. That’s why the sound of leaves shuffling had startled him that much.
It was a dream.
Crowley’s dream. Else, he wouldn’t feel the wrongness in the air, and he’d probably be in the little him’s body rather than an outsider unable to change anything.
But was he? If he revealed himself to his little self, would Crowley’s consciousness detect him? Would he only detect him if he presented himself to him directly?
Somehow, he didn’t think it was a good idea to try his theories out.
He shook his head and, now that he knew where he was, removed himself from the dream with ease.
As he had suspected, Crowley was still sleeping on his couch, a cocky smile on his face.
Oh, he should probably apologise. That would be the done thing to do, wouldn’t it? For having intruded in his friend’s dream just like that.
But he looked so peaceful, and the dream had looked so nice, had it not been for the odd feeling he got, and he was sure Crowley must not have felt it. So it could wait until morning, or whenever he woke up. No need to burst the little bubble of happiness Crowley found himself in. No need to disturb that harmless fantasy.
And he was definitely not going to think about why Crowley had been dreaming about them as childhood friends at all.
-2-
A month passed, and like all things on Earth eventually did, the Earth moved on. No one minus a few select people and nonhuman beings remembered the events of that fateful day by what they were. Not mass-hallucinations, not lies created by the government –any government– to hide something else, but the actual truth, even though some people, especially the ones whose bodies left the mortal realm and then were put back, thought it strange.
No one else knew it was real, and that’s what made it all the more special to have survived. To have gotten to this point without anything going wrong. The one month mark since the Earth survived. Something worthy of celebration.
At least, that’s what Aziraphale, and Adam, thought.
Crowley, Aziraphale could tell with ease, was not of the same opinion.
Currently, Crowley was driving him –not them, because Aziraphale knew Crowley wouldn’t accept being bundled in the list of people who wanted to go– towards Tadfield, after the insufferable drive through the M25 which was, at least, not set on fire anymore.
It was strange to think a month had already gone by.
Nothing had changed, not for the humans, and not for them, unless you count not having their sides on their backs. Nothing had changed, and yet everything did the moment they thwarted their former respective sides.
But he would dwell on the weirdness of it all later, when he wasn’t being swung around in the Bentley like always, despite being in the same woods where Crowley had hit someone for the first time ever.
He barely had enough time to process that thought before they arrived at Anathema’s cottage, which she had bought a few weeks prior after realising she quite enjoyed the village of Tadfield and didn’t have any reason to go back to the States until the holidays, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough money to buy it.
The reason why they had driven all the way over to Tadfield lay –or stood, or sat, depending on what he was currently doing– inside that house. Adam had invited them all over –everyone who had been there in the end, minus his Earthly and, Aziraphale supposed, only dad– to celebrate the first month since it all almost went wrong. Since Earth cut ties with Heaven and Hell and they were free, even if only for the time being, like Crowley had speculated was the case.
It wasn’t easy, being convinced. Sure, Aziraphale thought it a lovely idea, but he had to agree with Crowley; they had already mucked around in humans’ lives too much and it was time to let go and lay low for a while. But, in the end, of course they relented. Adam was just a kid –even if he was also the former antichrist– and, honestly, he was just so excited about this that even Crowley couldn’t say no for too long. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, after all –or at least, so they hoped– and they were just humans.
Sure, they had always celebrated the world not ending. They always predicted mistaken dates for when the world would end and then acted surprised when that didn’t happen.
But this was different.
This was real.
That was the reason they were now being greeted by a hyper 11 year old boy, ushered inside by him, totally –or perhaps purposefully– oblivious of Crowley’s pained expression at the concept of spending more time than necessary at a boring ‘party’ with people he barely knew and had no desire to keep in touch with as he did so.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, was ecstatic, if a bit nervous, and despite not being a part of the celebrations, so was the Bentley, purring as they crossed the threshold.
He hoped Crowley would warm up to the party eventually. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.
They settled on a couch just across from where everyone else was sitting, in the midst of a conversation. Aziraphale didn’t know what he expected, but a quick ‘hey’ from the kids –to which he responded with a wave and a ‘hello’– and only receiving a proper greeting by the host, Anathema, and Marjorie had been… a little disappointing, he supposed. But he certainly didn’t expect Shadwell –who was most likely embarrassed, or mortified, about the whole thing, or so he hoped– to greet them, and the poor young man Anathema had called ‘boyfriend’ at the airbase seemed much too awkward, so he couldn’t hold it against him.
Anathema sat back down and spoke. “Adam here had been telling us about his dreams before everything happened.”
“Is that so?” Aziraphale couldn’t resist asking.
He’d forgotten about last month’s dream invasion until that moment. He wondered if it would be too weird to bring it up now and he decided that yes, it would be. He’d just wait until later, once they were alone and no longer bound to cause a scene. How long Crowley would stop talking to him until he regained his footing if he embarrassed him in front of many people, he didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.
The children on the floor –who soon identified themselves as the Them– perked up and started ranting about what Adam had told them, as the boy in question let his former hellhound and current dog jump all over his lap as he gave pets to it. If he didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have thought the pair to be anything but normal, but that was supposed to be the case, wasn’t it? Meant to live on Earth and mix in with the rest of humanity. It was hard to believe them to be supernatural, but the same could be said of Aziraphale and Crowley, and both had once been Heaven and Hell’s agents on Earth respectively.
The thought gave him pause.
He was brought back to the present an unknown amount of time later by an arm swinging around and hitting his shoulder.
The arm belonged to an animated Crowley, ranting about stars, all the children facing towards him, eyes and ears set on his explanation. And so were the adults, quiet and staring at Crowley like he knew all the answers.
He didn’t.
Aziraphale smiled.
They’d never talked about it, not really. Their lives before the War, if it could even have been called ‘life’. No one ever brought it up. No one in Heaven, he supposed no one in Hell, and definitely not either of them.
But he didn’t need to talk about it to know Crowley’s fascination with stars, the way he talked about them like a long forgotten memory, through whispers in the dark in those rare moments of vulnerability, in Mesopotamia, in Rome, in London after a church bombing, too many to pinpoint but too few for how long they’ve shared and enjoyed the Earth together, stemmed from something deeper. A connection beyond finding them intriguing, beyond appreciating their beauty.
So no, they never talked about it, but Aziraphale knew he helped build the sky, and he couldn’t help but love the dots that were covered by the constant smog and light pollution in London all the more for it.
In those moments of true vulnerability with each other that were too few and far between.
But that they could have more often, now that they were finally free.
Noon soon turned to evening, and with that, Marjorie and Shadwell left. Shadwell hadn’t spoken much besides a few remarks here and there, but Aziraphale preferred it that way, for although he couldn’t bring himself to truly dislike the man, he found out he’d much rather not have long conversations with him either.
Evening soon turned to sun-down and the children dispersed as well, one by one.
Soon enough, it was only Anathema, her nice boyfriend, Crowley, and him.
Crowley took notice of the darkness around the house from a window and sat up straight. “Right, guess we should be going now?”
Aziraphale dropped his smile. “Oh, must we? I was just having the most interesting conversation with Anathema about-”
Anathema gave Crowley a doubtful look. “Are you sure? Last time you drove from Tadfield to London at night, you ran me over with your car.”
He winced. “Listen-”
“No, I won’t hear it. I was fine afterwards, but that doesn’t mean it didn't happen. We have a spare bedroom here. Make yourselves comfortable, but I'm not letting you go at night when I'm pretty sure neither of you never even learned how to drive in a proper driving school, if at all."
“Oh, come on-”
“Actually Crowley,” Aziraphale interjected, “I do believe Anathema is right, you know. I really don’t want you to hit someone with that dreaded machine again.”
He sputtered, “She hit me! And don’t call the Bentley-”
Aziraphale turned back to Anathema, ignoring Crowley’s protests. “Thank you for your hospitality, dear lady. Where shall we go, then?”
—
It was still night when he opened his eyes, stars and the moon lighting up the grass. The air was cold against his face, but not unpleasantly.
A faint, barely there sensation slowly directed him towards a mount.
It wasn’t big, by any means, but it was enough that he couldn’t see what was calling to him from where he stood.
As soon as he set foot on the grass of the slope, though, he could hear two pairs of feet crushing the grass from another side as they made their way up.
He stopped.
And listened.
"Come on, you can't just bring me wherever this is and not let me open my eyes. 's not fair. If I did the same to you, you’d be complaining all the way too," Crowley's voice came from the hill.
He perked up and took a single step towards the voice. Towards the sensation.
The voice sounded younger than what he was used to, but completely Crowley.
Older than the other dream, though.
Oh.
“I didn’t say you’d have to keep them closed for all eternity,” what he supposed was his own voice, but younger, said. “In fact, I do believe it’d be a good idea to open them right about now.”
As he said that, Aziraphale crouched and peeked, just enough that he could see, but not enough that they’d be able to immediately catch him were they to look behind themselves.
There was a sharp intake of breath, and Aziraphale could see clearly –despite the darkness around– the reason why.
A telescope. It was a beautiful, old model for the present day’s standards, but clearly new, so the dream wasn’t set in the present day.
It was as if all the light reflected on it, surrounded it as it stood on the grass, near a blanket, pointing at the starry night. No light pollution, no smog, between the Earth and above.
As soon as he realised what Crowley saw, he was hit by a rush of strong emotion. Love unlike anything he’d felt before. It took his breath away, until he realised he didn’t have to breathe in the first place and even less so in a dream.
“Did you know,” younger him said. From the voice and frame, he suspected they must be around their early 20s, but it was hard to tell. “Halley’s Comet is supposed to return today?”
“Today… wasn’t it,” Crowley was breathless. “Didn’t Halley say only… 1758? How would… I…” He gulped and turned to his companion, who was smiling at him. “Aziraphale-”
“Shush, who knows when it’s going to arrive. Better get going to the telescope, don’t you think? Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy getting a hold of one. I had to go to-”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted him before he could start rambling, “thank you.” He ran into position.
He set his eye on the eyepiece.
And the sky shone, a beautiful white streak of light breaking it in half.
Aziraphale stared agape at it. It was beautiful, even if it was only a rendition in a dream. He completely forgot about the two other beings gazing at the comet –and the space where the comet had once been, once it retreated back into the depths of space– alongside him until a thump brought his attention back to the pair.
Crowley had enveloped him in a tight hug, nuzzling into his neck, and he squeezed back. Dream him.
Suddenly, it was too much. The entire place was once again filled by the obvious sensation of love, more potent than before. And something in the air told him to go, go, go.
And he agreed with it. He couldn’t stay any longer there. This had quickly devolved from satisfying his own curiosity to fully invading Crowley’s privacy –if satisfying his curiosity after realising he was in another dream didn’t count as also invading Crowley’s privacy.
So he yanked himself out of the dream and woke up.
He had been sitting on the desk chair of the spare bedroom when he’d fallen asleep, a still-unconscious Crowley sprawled across the double bed behind him that they hadn’t even considered sharing when they settled in for the night.
He sighed, shut the book he’d forgotten laid open across from him, and pushed himself off the chair.
A few feet away, by the window, was an armchair.
As he sat on the armchair and looked up at the sky, there were more stars than usual.
-3-
It had been 3 months since it first happened, and 2 months since the last time it did, when he fell asleep again.
Aziraphale was on his way to a meeting with a book collector out of the city, and pretty far away too, who was in possession of a first edition written in the mid 17th century.
Upon hearing the news from a fellow bookdealing acquaintance, he jumped at the chance to contact the man, no matter how insistent his acquaintances were that the man would go to as extreme lengths as himself, if not more; including, but not limited to: faking a heart-attack, sending the book off to his reluctant daughter even further away from the city, and simply locking you out without hesitation– to ensure that no one can get their hands on any of his books for even a second.
Of course, with a little divine intervention, Aziraphale found the man reluctantly agreeing to set up a meeting on two conditions: he had to go over to his place, not meet somewhere in the middle, and that he’d have to arrive within the 7 - 8 a.m.time frame. Any later, even if only by a minute, and he’d be locked out.
He’d told Crowley about it the previous day, insinuating that he might need some help getting there, but Crowley just shook his head.
“Sorry angel, can’t. Gonna be joining a gardening club to mess with other people’s plants tomorrow. It’s gonna be fantastic.” It didn’t matter if November wasn’t exactly the best time to start going to a gardening club in the first place.
Aziraphale had raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet. They didn’t have to pretend to do things for their previous respective sides anymore, but he’d let it slide.
This is how Aziraphale currently found himself inside a train in the early hours of the morning, before dawn had even broken over the horizon, that he didn’t know the timetable of and wasn’t even sure was meant to be moving around at this hour. He was the only one in his train carriage but he was fairly sure he’d seen one or two other passengers enter the other ones.
The subtle rocking of the train–unlike the first few trains he’d gone in which were less masterfully constructed but still much better than horse-drawn carriages– on the rail tracks relaxed him as he looked out the window. Everything was dark, but he could still see the trees and other objects passing by in a flurry. It was hypnotizing, so much so that he didn’t touch the bags of books he’d brought for the trip, still in a heap beside him.
His eyes were growing heavy, and he had only enough time to hum and think about telling Crowley about this new development; about him sleeping for the third time ever –or maybe not, he might use it to tease him, in some way. Maybe. Or maybe not, given that he slept as well and had for the past few millennia, if not even longer– when his brain finally shut off.
—
He was in a garden.
Outside a garden, to be more specific. He overlooked the trimmed plants from his vantage point behind some trees –a garden in the middle of forest, or so it looked like. A waste of time, really. It reminded him of the Tudor era, possibly Elizabethan. He remembered those trimmed bushes in intricate patterns and beautiful colourful flowers within the frames, surrounded by paths and a human statue in the middle. While it was never one of his favourite garden looks over the years –the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were up there in his favourites– he’d forgotten how beautiful they could be, even if he preferred a more wild look to gardens than the order that these purposefully possessed.
He hadn’t had the chance to spend much time in gardens like these, only a few times here and there when on assignments or for the Arrangement. Never for his own. And well, like everything except war, alcohol and bread, it went out of fashion and he hadn’t had any other opportunities to indulge in its beauty.
In the distance, he could barely catch the hint of a voice, hushed.
He stepped from the trees and followed the sound with his eyes until he stumbled upon a wild red mane. Two men, around their 30s, were sat talking to each other. He immediately recognised the clothes the one who looked like him–and now, he could tell was him– was wearing. It was the same outfit he’d worn during the late 1500s and early 1600s, the outfit he used when he met Crowley at the Globe theatre –and many times before and after that– when they went to see Hamlet, except his jerkin and ruff weren’t anywhere to be found.
Crowley –because that’s who he was, he didn’t need to even look at him properly to know that– on the other hand was wearing different clothes to the ones he had worn back then. It was shabby, despite how he usually presented himself. Like a gardener –but not like Brother Francis, not a stereotypical gardener. Just a regular gardener from the supposed era.
Only then did he realise just how isolated they were from the rest of the world.
The garden was surrounded by a ring of trees under which he was standing, and it stretched far beyond what he could tell from his standing point. As if it had been made so that no one else could look over and find whatever was in the garden. There wasn’t even any manor in sight.
They were laughing, two distinct laughs he’d recognise anywhere, even if the surprise of hearing his own voice from outside, and even more so, young, never failed to make him confused. Two sets of laughs, many varieties of which he’d gotten to learn from the more than 6000 years he’d stayed on Earth, and would continue to learn as time went by.
Then, they stopped, and the air all around them felt suffocating. A heavy sense of anxiety, of dread, settled over him, different to the first time he’d entered Crowley’s dreams. He’d already gotten used to that gentle, pulsing force that tried to push him out like a rather ineffective antibody. This came from Crowley directly. As a reaction to the dream he was experiencing.
He tuned in on the voices.
“Well, if… if I’m being honest, I don’t really know what’s going to happen… nor when,” the dream version of himself said as he fidgeted with his hands. “They really want to marry me off, you see, and I don’t quite believe I’ll be able to dissuade them for much longer. They say I’m a disgrace for not being wedded by thirty.”
There was a tense moment in which neither spoke. Crowley pursed his lips sadly.
“And they’re right. I should- I am- I…”
“Well,” Crowley cut through, “if they think you’re a disgrace for not being married at thirty, then I’m as much of a disgrace as you.”
“Crowley! Don’t say that!”
“What? It’s true! I’m not married either, and I’m not planning on getting married to some woman any time soon. If you’re a disgrace for that, then I’m one too. So don’t you dare believe them unless you want to insult me as well, you hear, angel?”
Aziraphale tensed at the words, while the dream one deflated.
“Crowley…”
Crowley seemed to deflate too, “I know, I know. I just wish…”
“I know, Crowley.”
Dream Aziraphale was now looking at the ground, unable to meet Crowley’s unrelenting gaze.
“But… Aziraphale?”
He reluctantly looked up, something akin to hope in his eyes.
Crowley reached for his hands and took a deep breath. The other didn’t pull away, now unable to part from his gaze. “Aziraphale, angel, I need you to know that, even if they marry you off to some random woman from a far away land, even if they force you to go across the pond to some distant country, I’ll be there. It doesn’t matter what they try to do, they will never be able to tear me from you. I will be by your side, even if it means we can never…”
“Crowley…” The other him’s voice was trembling.
Aziraphale tentatively reached a hand to his cheeks to find it get wet. He must’ve started crying some time ago, but he didn’t know when.
“I’ve known you for-” Crowley’s voice hitched. “I’ve known you for all my life, angel, and if they think they can just come in and-”
“But they will, Crowley, what is it that you still don’t understand?” He sounded desperate now, waving his hands around. “They will! They’ve never done anything to show me that they respect my decisions, and if you think they’ll let me bring you with me, you’re sorely mistaken. You’re not a slave, you’re a gardener,” he said, and at something in Crowley’s expression, he quickly added, “And don't you dare even ask for that. I would never have you sacrifice your own freedom and rights. Not to be near me, not for anything. It would be..." He paused for a breath. "It would only hurt you. Hurt us. I'd never be able to look at you in the eyes again, knowing I'm responsible for you throwing away your life like that. You, coming into harm... it doesn't bear thinking about. It's better if you just-”
“We could run away together.”
That startled both Aziraphales.
He brought their still-clasped hands up and Aziraphale was reminded that the two had never let go.
Apparently, the other him was reminded of that at the same time, as he quickly drew his hands away.
“Crowley, please…”
At that point, Aziraphale decided he’d seen more than enough of the dream and left, feeling an ache in his chest once he awoke.
He thought of the dream, the raw displays of emotion from both of them, the-
No, it wasn’t his dream. If it was, he wouldn’t have felt so… out of place there. As if he was intruding in something much too personal.
He had somehow managed to get inside Crowley’s dream again, no matter the distance. It was most inappropriate for him to be thinking about it after he awoke. To try to read into it, to analyse it-
So he leaned against his back rest and stayed up for the remainder of the trip, books forgotten next to him.
He didn’t feel like reading.
-4-
It had just been a mere few weeks later when Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves stuck inside the bookshop, the heavy rains of early December –and, truthfully, all year; they lived in London, after all– surrounding them.
By all means, Crowley should’ve left half an hour ago, when the rain was starting to pick up pace but was still manageable. By all means, Aziraphale should’ve let him go when he stood to leave before the streets were drenched enough that it was impossible to drive through them without an accident being almost guaranteed, even with the assistance of a miracle.
He should’ve, but instead, he’d insisted he stay, hoping his desperation wouldn’t shine through, and now, they were both on the couch, tentatively and silently breaching the space that had always been between them.
The carefully constructed wall they had spent millenia trying to hold up, despite the constant insistence of their minds that they should tear it down and pretend it had never existed. That nothing had ever been separating them and they could continue onwards like they could were they human and not held back by their respective sides.
Which they now very much didn’t have.
He’d felt that way for millenia. He wasn’t sure when he started feeling it, but was only aware of it after he decided to strike up a conversation with the still a demon, not an aardvark, in Rome. When they went their respective ways, he suddenly wished they could talk more often without the pressure of their sides hanging over them.
Since then, he took 3 steps forward, and 2 back. 3 steps forward, and 5 back. Always reaching for their friendship, and always retreating before he forgot their roles.
It was only 1900 years after Rome that he realised the feelings had changed. He still wanted to grow even closer to Crolwey, despite how risky and how many decades they had spent away from each other before their most recent encounter, but this was stronger. He was made aware of every single wall they’d –he’d– made up which was still standing –’don’t drink/eat with the demon’, ‘don’t have an interesting philosophical conversation with the demon’ and ‘don’t enjoy the demon’s company immensely’ being some of the first walls to crumble– and, for a second, felt he could reach out and destroy them all.
He didn’t need to be inside Crowley’s head to know he wanted to tear it all apart as well. If anything, it was Crowley who most likely thought Aziraphale didn’t want to.
And rightfully enough, he supposed. He’d always been the one reminding them of their roles, after all.
But, somehow, Crowley had persisted. Had kept their friendship even after Aziraphale broke it off in fear.
And they’d survived.
And currently, the wall was in the shape of Crowley’s head atop Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale’s hands laying on his head.
He didn’t know when he’d started raking his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley had made no indication of such a change having happened, but soon, he was asleep.
At the constant and subtle –given a small miracle– pattering of the rain in the background, and the soft feeling enveloping his hands, Aziraphale followed suit.
—
He was standing outside the backroom of his bookshop, behind the bookcase in front of which Crowley usually sprawled his body across the couch. As soon as he caught sight of the figures through the gaps between the books, he knew what had happened and where, exactly, he was.
He should’ve gone, he knew. It was obvious how it was going to go, by that point. The other Aziraphale and Crowley would be hanging around each other, then something would happen that would make him feel like he was intruding, and then he’d have to leave.
But for now, he decided against it, as he gazed at the familiar clothes the two were wearing.
A bombed out church.
A hand reaching for the other.
Books in a bag.
Love.
He wondered if that’s how they would’ve looked back then after Crowley gave him a lift home. If they would’ve been sitting across from each other, his own hands on his lap as the two of them stole glances in the other’s direction, tense air around them, but the good sort of tense, the sort of tense that indicated an irreparable shift, the beginning of something new, had he been brave enough to invite him in before the Bentley darted off and they didn’t see each other until the war ended, each too preoccupied with their own valiant attempts at diminishing the suffering as much as possible, even if Crowley hadn’t put it that way once they eventually met.
He’d always hoped that would be the case.
Seeing Crowley wearing that same attire, even if he could barely make it out from that angle, was enough to make his chest ache in a pleasant way.
In the background, there was a low pattering of rain. He couldn’t tell whether it was part of Crowley’s imagination or if the outside world managed to seep inside his dream.
Somehow, he found that he didn’t care to know.
They were carefully avoiding the other’s gaze, looking at the table, at something on a wall, whilst stealing glances every so often whenever they thought the other wasn’t looking.
But Aziraphale was looking.
Aziraphale was looking at the men who seemed to be in their 40s and clearly with many things left unsaid.
The silence was suddenly disturbed by Crowley. His figure pushed himself from the couch and made his way to the gramophone. Aziraphale’s –both of them– gaze followed his movements.
“Come on,” he said, as he scrambled through the collection of discs, “you must have some modern music around here somewhere.”
Dream Aziraphale tutted, but Crowley shushed him and pulled out a disc.
“Aha!” He brandished the disc like a trophy and then squinted, “Vera Lynn, huh?” He smirked as he slid the disc into the gramophone and turned it on.
The lovely melody of an orchestra he couldn’t quite place started playing over the rain as Crowley made his way to the other Aziraphale and held out a hand. A voice started to sing “Come on, angel, may we share one dance?”
When two lovers meet in Mayfair
So the legends tell
"Oh, you know I don't dance."
Songbirds sing and winter turns to spring
"Come on, it'll be fun."
Every winding street in Mayfair falls beneath the spell
Dream Aziraphale still looked unconvinced, but held Crolwey’s hand in his and was ungracefully pulled up, stumbling into Crowley.
I know such enchantment can be
They laughed, still pressed against the other, and separated just enough to look at each other’s eyes. They lingered there as the song continued.
'Cause it happened one evening to me
Eventually, they started to pace, not parting their gazes for a second, not as they turned, nor as they stepped on the other’s feet.
That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And A Nightingale Sang In Berkley Square
Aziraphale couldn’t move. The scene playing before him hypnotizing him. Crowley and him holding each other and swaying under the sweet vocals of Vera Lynn. Somehow something more intimate than what he had imagined could have happened that night. In his fanciful daydreams, he pictured conversations, drinking in each other’s company, tending to Crowley, and if he was feeling particularly hopeful, confessing his love and Crowley reciprocating.
But this… this was somehow sweeter than a love confession.
The thing is, Crolwey was right. He did have ‘newer’ music in his bookshop –and by that, he meant music before the 1950s– including some by Vera Lynn, so he must’ve seen them somewhere at some point. Or maybe not. He was just not aware of this version.
And yet, Crowley did, and enough that his dream was able to replicate it with ease. Or at least, it seemed that way. Each instrument resonated on their own, each shone so much that he didn’t think even Crowley would be able to come up with something like that unless his brain had absorbed the tune. Unless he had listened to it enough times that his brain got used to replicating it when he wasn’t hearing it. When he was unconscious.
The thought, were he corporal in that second, would’ve made him shiver.
And as the song continued, so did their dance. They brought each other even closer, and through their eyes, the longing was clear. He didn’t need to feel the air around him, the inside of Crowley’s mind, filled with such adoration to be able to see it, and yet, it was the only thing he could feel.
Soon, the song faded and the next began to play.
Only then was he keenly aware of where he was and separated himself from the dream.
He didn’t want to leave, of course he didn’t. Not when everything he had been longing for and more ever since that fateful night in 1941 finally happened. But he couldn’t stay any longer, not now that a spark of hope within him had been born. Or perhaps renewed. Perhaps he had always been just vaguely aware of the possibility of Crowley reciprocating, but his mind had convinced him otherwise.
When he opened his eyes, Crowley’s head was still on his lap, unturned by Aziraphale’s awakening.
A fond smile played at Crowley’s mouth and Aziraphale’s heart fluttered as he resumed stroking his hair.
He tried to douse the hope down. Tried to tell himself that it was just a dream and that Crowley couldn’t possibly feel the same way. That he had somehow misconstrued the dance in the bookshop. The lack of space between them. The feeling of love all around him coming from Crowley.
But…
Well…
He focused on the rain still pattering outside the bookshop and on Crowley’s weight on him, the soft strands of hair between his fingers, and put his thoughts aside.
-5-
Aziraphale’s plans for Christmas day usually went as follows:
First, he’d close shop for the week in order to avoid people coming in for a last minute present that they most likely wouldn’t even have been able to afford.
Then he’d spend the week waiting for the day as usual. He’d sometimes meet with Crowley, sometimes spend time alone reading a good novel, or whatever else had caught his attention in that moment.
But on the day, well. He usually decided to leave the shop early and walk around, trying to figure out where miracles were most needed. Heaven would always heavily restrict his miracle use around that time as to not arouse suspicion –which Aziraphale always found counterproductive, really; if you wanted people to believe in the Almighty, wouldn’t it make sense that Christmas day be filled with unexplained miracles? But he still managed to make some people’s days better. Pushing people in the right direction, using a temptation here and there to convince adult children of abusive parents to not go over and instead spend time with the ones that truly love them, offering a blessing to the ones in need.
But this year, he decided against it.
Not because he didn’t want to help. He liked helping humanity, he really did. He just wanted some time to relax. To not do anything that might make Heaven believe he was trying to go back. To not do anything to bring unwanted attention to himself, and all attention was unwanted.
Well…
All attention minus of the one he had silently decided to spend the rest of eternity with.
This morning, he didn’t set out anywhere. Instead, he spent some time decorating.
It was slightly funny how, in all the years that Christmas had been celebrated, he’d never decided to decorate his current lodgings. Sure, he’d gone to Christmas parties before because of some human acquaintance or assignment. And before Christmas, he’d attended Yule, and Saturnalia, and plenty of other festive seasons.
He’d just never found a reason to decorate his shop.
Until now.
It had taken him a good while to set up mistletoe on as many parts of the ceiling and door frames as he could without it being overkill and without the assistance of a miracle, but by the time he finished, he couldn’t help but smile at the end product.
He’d decided to be brave. He knew of Crowley’s feelings for him ever since that night at the bookshop the month prior, but he hadn’t yet done anything about it, unaware of how to bring it up. Of how to let Crowley know that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
He set mind to change that.
It was a little bold of him to hang that much mistletoe around. If someone else were to walk into the bookshop, they’d know it was clearly targeted and not just a funny Christmas tradition which usually ended up with a quick peck on the cheek rather than the traditional kiss.
But no one else was going to be inside the shop, and he knew Crowley, after his initial shock, would be delighted at the heights Aziraphale went to ensure as many kisses as possible.
And if somehow, the tiny, miniscule possibility of Crowley not reciprocating came true, he could potentially pass it off as not being well-versed in the funny little human tradition he was trying to imitate and that it was just for decoration. That he wanted to get himself as close to the human experience just to see how it felt.
Either way, it was a flawless plan.
So he didn’t let the thought of it going awry tamper with his mood. He was practically wiggling as he waited for Crolwey to inevitably come over. No, they’d never spent holidays together before. It was just so dangerous, and they both had work to do for their respective sides, even if off the clock. Crowley had been part of the reason Christmas got so commercialised, for example. And Aziraphale couldn’t help but find it irritatingly funny.
But it was now different. No job to do, on or off the clock. The worst had already happened and they were fine, and Crowley would walk right through those doors right that second.
Ring
Or call. That worked too.
He all but leapt to answer it.
It was Crowley, of course it was. He didn’t need to hear him to know it, even without one of those telephone systems that let you know the caller, whatever Crolwey had mentioned their name was.
He was about to open his mouth to invite him over, to seize the opportunity to let him know that he wanted him over, to spend time with him, to get rid of any hint of doubt he might be feeling, when Crowley spoke.
“Aziraphale.”
He stopped and reined himself back before he could blurt out, ‘What about you spend Christmas day with me here, it’s awfully cosy’.
“Yes?”
“I’m bored,” ah yes, the excuse. He thought they were already over that but apparently not. It was fine. Better get it out of the way first, then. “Extremely bored,” he didn’t say, and lonely, but Aziraphale thought he had enough of a grip on Crowley’s language to know he meant it. “And I was thinking…”
‘Yes?’ he wanted to ask. But he let Crowley gather his thoughts.
“Well, I don’t really feel like moving. Too cold for me, you know?”
Ah. He felt his smile slide off his face. He hummed.
“So… you know. Just letting you know. I’m probably going to take a nap to pass away the cold-”
No…
“-but-”
“I could come over,” he blurted out, unwilling to hear the rest of Crolwey’s sentence.
There was stunned silence at the other side of the line.
“I.. I mean, if you don’t-”
“No, no, yeah, I, uh. I was about to say that, actually. You just… surprised me, is all.”
Aziraphale’s cheeks started to hurt from smiling.
“But yeah, you can come over. Consider it uh… helping a friend out.”
He didn’t care to figure out why Crowley had chosen to go with that but thought it better than to tease him right then. Perhaps later.
As he hung up, a smile still on his face, he took in the interior again and sighed.
Perhaps another day.
While he was never displeased to spend time with Crowley regardless of when or where –unless it was during the time before their Arrangement and they were trying to achieve the opposite goals, and even then, he always ended up enjoying it eventually– he couldn’t help but feel crestfallen at his plans being thrown out the window.
But Crowley had invited him over. Even if Aziraphale was the one to invite himself over first. Which meant he wanted to spend Christmas with him. And he’d be damned –though hopefully not literally– if he were to pass on that opportunity.
.
The day went in a blur. They talked, mostly. Drank some, but not enough to get drunk or even tipsy. Reminisced.
And now, they were, once again, sitting next to each other, albeit on a more than a bit uncomfortable couch in his flat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. In front of them, It’s A Wonderful Life was playing on Crowley’s television set –’tv, Aziraphale, it’s a tv’– despite his insistence on watching Die Hard.
(‘Come on! It's a Christmas film! Let's watch it!'
‘I do not believe that any film under the name of "Die Hard" could possibly be a Christmas film, Crowley, regardless of when it’s set.’)
And a good thing too, because the evening had exhausted him and he didn’t think he would be able to sleep well with a film with such a name playing in the background. He supposed maybe setting up the decorations in the bookshop might’ve helped with how tired he felt now.
And apparently, the same was true for Crowley, who fell asleep just a few minutes before he followed suit.
—
Cold.
That was Aziraphale’s first thought as he opened his eyes.
It didn’t come as a surprise to find himself in the middle of some winter place. Layers upon layers of snow everywhere he laid his eyes on.
The only exception being a beautiful evergreen, surrounded by foods and carvings, and a log set aflame between the formation of houses, far enough from him that he couldn't feel the heat radiating from the log, but that its brightness still caught his eye and beckoned him.
Yule. That must be it. But when?
He hadn’t seen that style of architecture in, oh, ages. It was definitely Scandinavian in style, but he wasn’t quite sure of when in time.
The houses around him were empty. He didn’t need to look inside to know that. Yet, he didn’t feel alone. How could he, being, in the most literal sense, with Crowley? That was a constant in these dreams, it seemed. That there should be only Crowley and Aziraphale, the rest of the world forgotten. It was oddly comforting.
But he couldn’t see, nor hear, Crowley anywhere. Neither the other Aziraphale.
He closed his eyes and tried to pay attention to the sounds, maybe-
The sound of footsteps got closer to him, from inside the house he was standing in front of. They were heading for the entrance.
He looked around for anywhere he could hide, but in the end, he didn’t need to. Crowley, now looking much closer to how he knew him, walked backwards out of the house. The expression plastered on his face couldn’t be described as anything except for fond, still looking at whatever, whoever –it was Dream Aziraphale, he knew– was standing at the other side.
The other Aziraphale soon made himself present.
It was surprising how they –or well, Crowley; he hadn’t really tried to find out whether the dream version of himself could act as eyes and alert Crowley of his presence, and although he believed he couldn’t, Aziraphale still didn’t want to risk it– still hadn’t noticed him hanging around right next to them, a few meters off.
They didn’t notice him as dream Aziraphale’s eyes glanced up at the door frame without moving his head, bringing with it Crowley’s and his own gazes.
They still didn’t notice him as Crowley smiled, almost shy, as he brought his attention back from the mistletoe hanging over their heads and drew in, ready to kiss Aziraphale.
The other Aziraphale, the dream version, and not himself.
Somehow, the thought of it was unbearable.
Crowley's hands were on the other's shoulderblades when Aziraphale made himself present.
He took a step forward, snow crunching under his feet. His entire body felt like it was burning at doing what was long overdue. Whether it was in embarrassment or anticipation, he didn't know.
Crowley spun around.
And he looked mortified.
His eyes and mouth flew open. All the colour left his face as the dream --all of it; the snow, the houses, the other Aziraphale-- dissolved around them into nothingness.
Crowley jolted awake with short, gasping breaths. Aziraphale couldn't tear his gaze from him, sure he must look the same as Crowley.
Despite not needing a heart, he could feel it rapidly pulsing over his chest. Could hear it.
In those seconds of silence, nothing felt real, as if they hadn't quite left the dream yet. Nothing had visibly changed in Crowley's flat, and yet, as Crowley turned his still mortified eyes on him, uncovered as the glasses lay somewhere else, he knew everything was different.
The silence went on for a second too long before Crowley cracked and burst into expletives.
"Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit- fuck. I'm sorry, Aziraphale, I-" He jumped from the couch as if it had been blessed. "Shit. Just forget this ever happened, alright? I'll..."
Aziraphale grabbed his hands and yanked him until he was back on the couch next to him, effectively shutting him up.
Crowley didn't move, didn't say anything. Just stared at Aziraphale, expression unchanging.
Aziraphale gulped, mouth suddenly much drier than it was before. "No, my dear. I should be the one who’s sorry."
"I-" He furrowed his brow. "You? Why should you-"
"Let me finish."
He clicked his mouth shut.
"I should be the one to apologise," Aziraphale took an unneeded breath, "because this isn't the first time this has happened. That I've... invaded your dreams, and for that, I am sorry. I truly am. I knew I had to tell you eventually, but I never found a good time to tell you and then I forgot or it was too late to say anything and-"
Crowley grew somehow even paler and his eyes even wider.
He knew that if he didn’t do anything to reassure him then, he’d probably scamper off somewhere. Hide for the next century or two. Probably move out as he did so, since he couldn’t very much push Aziraphale out the flat just so that he could suffer in peace –well, he could, but he wouldn’t.
And that was the last thing Aziraphale wanted.
Aziraphale rubbed circles into his hands, hoping it’d have a calming effect rather than agraviate him further, but Crowley yanked them away, seemingly having forgotten that they had been holding hands the whole time. He was back at sputtering nonsense once again and Aziraphale was starting to run out of ideas.
“Crowley.”
“Y- yeah?” he choked out.
“For how long?” he tried to ask gently.
Crowley winced. “Nnn for how long… for how long what?” His voice was pinched at the last word.
“These dreams. For how long have you had these dreams?” He reached out again and was glad when Crowley reluctantly let him hold his hands. “Dreams in which we’re human?”
And dreams in which they were together, but he didn’t add that part. He didn’t think his bravery could extend to asking that.
“I… I need a drink.” He tried to let go of his hands and stand, but Aziraphale didn’t relent, tightening his grip on his hands.
“We can drink as much as you want later, but please, answer my question, Crowley.”
“Um. The thing is,” his eyes darted across the room until they rested on his sunglasses over by the table.
Aziraphale loosened his grip on the hand closest to it and Crowley reached for them before sliding them on his face. He might’ve wanted to see his face, his whole face, as they had this conversation, but Crowley clearly needed it, and he wasn’t about to deny him some semblance of comfort.
He started again, this time, much more composed, with the barrier separating them. “The thing is, I’ve had dreams in the same vein for… er, I don’t know. A few centuries, I’d say. Maybe more, maybe less, who knows. Because of the whole, being surrounded by humans for millennia, you know. But they, uh, increased?”
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow.
“They… increased. I started to have more dreams like that since we decided to try and raise the antichrist to be neutral. So, eleven years, mostly. Guess I didn’t think we’d have much time together on Earth anymore, or at all, so my brain… I don’t know, conjured up ideas like, ‘What if you and Aziraphale had been humans? What if there was none of this whole utter… nonsense you have to deal with? No… sides or anything like that. Just regular humans with regular humans’ problems. Nothing world-ending standing between you,’ and I started dreaming that. They’ve become more common now, after we avoided everything and there was no longer, you know, anything world-ending we hadn’t dealt with. Never had this many so fast. They used to come like once or twice a year at most, and before, like once or twice every other century.”
Aziraphale didn’t know how his face looked as he took the information in. It was too much, yet he wanted to know even more. Wanted to find out all of which he had been hiding. Anything he’d be willing to tell him.
“So you’ve been dreaming that we were humans…”
“Would’ve been easier that way, you know. Nothing to worry about, besides the awful shit humans come up with on the regular, but we already know all about that. I don’t resent that we’re immortal, of course. It let us see all the…” he made a gesture with his hand, “all the beauties of the world, humanity growing, fucking up, rebuilding, but sometimes I feel that we were never really… given the option. To grow, fuck up, rebuild. We’ve changed with the times, yes, but it’s not the same. Using different clothing, acting out with different customs, languages, that’s only part of the human experience. No growing up together, no teenage drama, or childhood scrapes, or you know. Any of that.” He paused to take a breath. “So, you know. It’s stupid. Just kinda wished I’d had a human life with you. Which is impossible. You’re probably thinking me a fool right now, I know. It’s stupid. Very stupid.
“It's just, maybe, if we had been human, if we had grown up together, known each other for all our developmental… things in our lives, if there had been a time restraint since the beginning that we couldn’t get rid of, unlike the apocalypse, then, perhaps, I would’ve-” He stopped rambling and shook his head.
“Crowley…”
“Forget about it. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it, alright?”
“You would’ve… what, Crowley?”
He grumbled, “Look, you probably know it already. Would be strange if you didn’t, you’re smarter than that. Don’t make me say it. This is humiliating enough. No need to add something else to the pile. Like I said, just forget it, seriously. It’s no big deal. And don’t peek into my dreams again.”
Aziraphale looked guiltily at his lap, but then brought his eyes up and resolutely stared at Crowley. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you say it.”
Crowley went still. “What?”
“Please, Crowley.” He squeezed the hand he still had in his. “Tell me what you were going to say.”
He swallowed. “Look, I understand if you don’t ever want to be around me after this,” he started tentatively.
Aziraphale simply stared, trying not to give away the emotions and thoughts running around his head and pulsing through his veins.
“But after how long we’ve known each other, how much we’ve lived together, I realised how much I’d rather spend time around you rather than not. Always fun, having you around to talk to. Great company. Have I ever told you that? Should’ve.” He coughed, and a small smile started to tug at Aziraphale’s lips. He let it. “Anyway, part of the reason I asked you to form the Arrangement. A genius plan, really. Efficient, effective, and a way to spend more time with you not trying to stop the other. Knew you’d eventually come around to it. It was too perfect. An excuse to hand out. Yes, big, ugly demon, me. Creating an arrangement with the ulterior motive of wanting to hang out with you. Abhorrent, I know. But you looked happy when we did, so I always wondered if someday…” he spared a glance at Aziraphale.
Whatever was going on in Aziraphale’s face was clearly enough for Crowley to make up his mind. He probably looked like a love-struck fool at that moment. But he was glad for it.
“If someday, there would be a time in which I could tell you that I love you.”
A part of him had known it was coming. Another part of him was surprised he got to hear those words so soon. But neither of those parts were complaining.
Quickly, as to not make Crowley get any doubts, he added, a playful tug on his lips, “You know? Before you called me over, I had put up a few Christmas decorations.”
Crowley furrowed his brows and leaned back, away from Aziraphale. “Christmas decorations? What’s that got to do with-”
“Yes, you see, I set up these lovely bundles of mistletoe around the bookshop. Hoped they’d come in handy. Pity we didn’t get to use them, isn't it?”
Crowley’s eyebrows lifted above his sunglasses before he schooled his expression into what one would generously call a ‘smirk’ to preserve his already destroyed reputation, and into what Aziraphale would call a smile.
Between his forefinger and thumb, Crowley summoned some mistletoe and held it up between them.
Aziraphale daintily took his sunglasses off, closing the legs and setting them up on the table, and stared at those beautiful golden eyes before wiping that grin off his face with a kiss.
Crowley melted into it.
Perhaps, Aziraphale thought as he held Crowley’s cheek, mistletoe soon forgotten on the couch as Crowley returned the gesture, clinging to Aziraphale as if just one second of losing contact would make him crumble, perhaps entering his dreams hadn’t been such a bad thing, after all.
Crowley unknowingly responded to his thoughts with a hum, and Aziraphale smiled.
Not bad at all.
+1
They were standing on Crowley’s balcony for New Year’s Eve. It was just a few minutes before midnight and the fireworks all around London were getting ready to launch. Under normal circumstances, some fireworks would’ve already gone off early, but this wasn’t a ‘normal’ circumstance in the least. The difference stood on that balcony, angel and demon looking at the city with hands interlocked as they waited for the turn to a new year. No fireworks would go off early, Crowley had reassured Aziraphale, and it seemed to be holding up.
Once the clock struck midnight, once the city was filled with colours and sounds, it would be the first new year of the rest of their lives. A true new beginning. So it had to be perfect.
Didn’t matter that both of them knew it would be perfect regardless of anything that could go wrong, as long as they were by the other’s side.
Like promised, the sky started to explode into colours only once it truly was the start of the new year. It would’ve been beautiful, from the high vantage point of Crowley’s flat, had they been looking at the sky in the first place.
Instead, Aziraphale had pulled Crowley into a kiss.
It wasn’t their first kiss, of course. It wasn’t their second either, or their third, or their fourth, but nonetheless, it felt the same as it did that first time inside of Crowley’s flat, only one week prior.
Once the fireworks partially subsided, they separated.
Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, tracing the shape of his cheekbone with his thumb and up again. Aziraphale couldn’t help but melt into the touch.
“To our first year together.”
“To us.”
Crowley pulled him back in for a quick kiss. It was chaste, just a peck, didn't even last a second. And yet, it was just as beautiful as the last.
He let go, and they gazed at each other for a moment.
Crowley tugged Aziraphale’s hand and turned to his flat. “Coming?”
As soon as they got inside, Aziraphale locked the door to the balcony, and Crowley miracled himself into his pyjamas.
When he turned to face Crowley, he couldn’t help the adoration that flowed from within him.
Crowley just stood awkwardly, feet half pointing in the direction to his bedroom, as his body faced forward. He shifted his weight from one feet to the other.
"I'll be heading to sleep now. If you still… er…"
“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale snapped himself into his tartan pyjamas –he’d acquired them once he realised he was probably going to sleep more often and it’d be best to have them if needed, after their talk during Christmas; this was the first time he was putting them to use– and walked next to Crowley towards his bedroom.
Once inside, Aziraphale held both of Crowley’s hands and looked into his unshielded eyes. “Are you sure you want this? To share a dream on purpose?”
Crowley gave a love-sickened smile –oh, how he loved that smile– and traced the back of Aziraphale’s hands with his thumbs. He brought them to his mouth and kissed each. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, angel. Love to spend time with you. Who says I don’t want to spend all of my non-waking hours with you as well?”
“Well, if that’s the case…” Aziraphale said sheepishly, trying to hide the heat growing on his face, “that’s alright, but no dream me, or else I’m pulling us both from the dream in an instant and become a nuisance so that you can’t go back to sleep.” He lifted the covers on one side of the bed and climbed in.
Crowley chuckled and followed, laying on his side so that they were facing one another and resumed holding his hands. “Uh-uh, nope. Now it’s your turn. You’ve been inside my dreams who knows how many times-”
“Five.”
“-already and I have never- wait, five?” His eyes grew wide for a second but shook his head. He pulled his right hand from Aziraphale’s grip and poked at his head. “Five times and I’ve never been inside yours. Not even sure you’ve been in your own dreams. And I’ve never been inside the dreams of someone else who isn’t me. Doesn’t seem all that fair, now, does it? Only fair if you fall asleep first and I follow.”
“I…” He looked around, though he didn’t know why. “I suppose so, yes.”
“Come ‘ere.”
Azraphale drew himself closer to Crowley, wrapping his arms around his torso, and released a breath as he very slowly descended into slumber.
Crowley followed almost immediately afterwards.
—
Unlike all the other dreams, he immediately felt like he belonged there once he opened his eyes. He’d only felt like a spectator before. Just there, immaterial, looking in and not being able to change anything. And he sort of had been.
Not counting the one time in which he did.
But this felt nothing like that.
Crowley was now in front of him. Real Crowley; he didn’t have to check with his subconscious to see if it was just part of his imagination or not. That’s probably how Crowley had realised it was the real him and not just another fragment of his imagination once he caught sight of him. He just felt real.
His eyes bore into his own with all the love he had felt in all those dreams he had entered, and in all those small moments afterwards. In the bookshop, at the park, at a cafe, and, he soon realised, that he had felt for centuries as well.
And Aziraphale was real.
For the first time, Crowley was in his dream, holding him instead of the dream version of himself, looking at him with the same adoration but more intense.
And, frankly, Aziraphale couldn’t do anything but pull him into a kiss.
As they separated, a light shone in Aziraphale’s eye, so he forced his gaze from Crowley, who still hadn’t looked away himself –much too similarly to that day at Tadfield Manor, but in that case, Crowley had been the one to look away while Aziraphale stayed gazing at his face and hoping the human would go away and, oh, he shouldn’t have thought about that, he could feel the beginnings of a blush creeping in; he forced the thought away lest it somehow become part of the dream too– to try to figure out where –and when– they were this time.
From a little window, its curtain not drawn, morning light peeked into the structure they were standing in.
It was nicely decorated, plants filling every corner and window where bookcases and bookshelves weren’t already in place, the leaves acting as splashes of colour.
Despite the plants, bookcases, and bookshelves, other decorations were minimal, especially in the wall vicinity, letting the natural brown walls of the cottage shine on its own.
Their cottage.
He extricated himself from Crowley’s grip, too awestruck to realise he had done so.
He thought Crowley must have followed his gaze and been as in awe as him, for he didn’t complain once Aziraphale stepped towards one of the bookshelves to inspect its contents.
The book titles were empty. He didn’t know what he was expecting.
And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to be disappointed.
He turned around as he heard the shuffling of a leaf, to find Crowley tracing his fingers over a plant with much more care than how he treated the ones in his flat.
“Angel, this is-” he said, choking up.
Aziraphale walked to him and put a hand on his back. “Yes, my love?”
They gazed at each other and he noticed the tears on Crowley’s face. He only noticed his own tears once Crowley reached for a cheek to dry it off with a thumb.
“This is our home, isn’t it? Or will be. This is…”
“I suppose it would be me, of all people, to have prophetic dreams, hm?” He couldn’t stop smiling. “Unless you don’t want to?” He finished with a question, though only out of courtesy. He already knew what Crowley’s answer would be.
Crowley dove into his arms and kissed him once again. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t literally feel it through the dream, he still felt it in other ways and it was still as beautiful as it always was.
“You know what, angel?” Crowley squeezed him tighter and let his head drop on Aziraphale’s relaxed shoulder.
“Hm?”
“I wouldn’t mind living in the country with you.”
Aziraphale returned the squeeze. “Good. Neither would I.”
“Can’t really age like humans do, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still grow together, yeah? More of the same, really, but…”
“Shhh, let’s talk about it once both of us wake up and have had breakfast, alright, my heart?”
Crowley slightly nodded in agreement and didn’t let go.
They had a morning to look forward to. A morning laying on the same bed, waking up to see the other’s face with a tired smile and messy, yet beautiful bed hair. A breakfast table shared between two, food cooked instead of bought or miracled into existence. Just the two of them for the rest of eternity or until the slow death of the universe. Just the two of them in each other’s embrace, enjoying spending the rest of their immortal lives together, because there was no doubt in either of their minds that they would stay together for longer than the end, once it inevitably came for one reason or another. They had already done it once before and they would do it for as many times as was necessary and even more.
Because they were free, safe.
And not even Death could break the dream they'd built for themselves.