We should kiss.
Not because you passed
My way by chance,
But because you stopped
And I haven't been the same since.
Crowley parks the Bentley with a screech of tires, a testament to the urgency that propels him forward. He strides toward the entrance, the door standing firm against his weight as he begins to bang on the door. The cold of the wintry morning splices his lungs, but his body refuses to give way.
The relentless banging on the door echoes through the bookshop, cutting through the silence of the early morning. Aziraphale, who has dozed off at his desk in the middle of re-organizing, stumbles to his feet, disoriented and alarmed. His heart races with a mix of fear and anticipation as he hurries to the door. With trembling hands[1], he unlocks and opens it, revealing Crowley standing in the threshold. The expression on his face is a storm of emotions-ire, urgency, and an underlying desperation. Aziraphale's eyes widen at the sight, and for a moment, time seems to freeze.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice is a whisper, filled with a mix of disbelief- Am I dreaming again? He takes in the disheveled appearance of the demon, the insistence in his eyes- wait, his eyes. Aziraphale's widen in shock.
Crowley takes a deep breath, as if collecting himself, his gaze locks with Aziraphale. "I remember," he says, his voice a breathless mutter. "I remember everything, well, mostly. Some details, ngk are fuzzy and I-"
Aziraphale doesn't let Crowley finish his sentence. Instead, he reacts on pure instinct. Without a word, he steps forward, his arms wrapping tightly around Crowley, pulling him into a tight embrace. The angel's grip is firm, as if he's trying to anchor Crowley like a balloon that might fly away if let go.
The demon stiffens for a moment, surprised by the sudden closeness. Then, almost instinctively, Crowley's arms wrap around Aziraphale in return. He melts into the embrace like butterscotch candies on a warm summer day. Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley's shoulder, his grip unyielding. The scent of musky roses and soil, the familiar and comforting aroma of the demon, fills Aziraphale's senses, and he inhales deeply.
"I'm sorry," The words escape the angel just barely. Crowley hears them loud and clear. Crowley gulps as his hands dig into the angel's back. He pushes them into the bookshop so that they don't cause a scene so early in the morning. With the doors closing behind them, Crowley does not let go and neither does the angel as he wipes his face from tears with one hand.
"Don't cry," Crowley mutters softly, finally gently releasing Aziraphale who looks up .
"I've missed you so," Aziraphale chokes on his words, his lips trembling with every word. A small smile creeps on the demon's lips as he brings his forehead down and presses it against Aziraphale's. "You fiend."
Crowley chuckles, the sound a long-missed mix of relief and affection. "Missed you too, ya softie," he teases, his thumb gently wiping away the remaining traces of hot tears from Aziraphale's cheek.
The weight of the past, the pain of separation, and the joy of reunion converge in this quiet moment within the familiar walls of A.Z. Fell & Co. The bookshop, with its shelves of stories and the whispering promise of knowledge, now seems to breathe for the first time in ages. Upstairs, the luscious green plants bend toward the morning light instead of cowering in the shadows.
Aziraphale's hands find their way to Crowley's face, cupping his cheeks as if to assure himself that this is indeed real. Crowley leans into the touch, savoring the intimacy of the reunion.
"I'm here now," Crowley murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Aziraphale smiles, a genuine expression that lights up his eyes[2], "I don't think I could bear another separation."
Crowley's gaze softens, "You won't have to."
The morning light bathes them in a gentle glow, casting shadows on the shelves of books that have witnessed the unfolding story of an angel and a demon, entwined in a dance that defies the boundaries of Heaven and Hell.
"But did you have to choose Adam?" Crowley sniggers as Aziraphale smacks him playfully for ruining the moment.
"Well, I had to come up with something to adopt Nebula!"
"And you couldn't think of anything else?"
"Oh please, Janthony."
Their laughter fills the space. For the first time in years, they both feel an airy happiness in their hearts. Aziraphale gazes at Crowley with a mixture of gratitude and affection, his fingers still lightly tracing the contours of the demon's face.
"You know," Aziraphale begins, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I must admit, I've been managing the bookshop on my own quite splendidly in your absence."
Crowley raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Oh, I'm sure the collection of books missed my unique touch."
Aziraphale chuckles, "Perhaps. I know I did."
Crowley's smirk softens into a smile. "Well, you can't blame me for having the impeccable talent of keeping things interesting."
Aziraphale gives him a playful nudge. "Oh, I don't know. I rather enjoyed the peace and quiet."
Crowley feigns shock. "Peace and quiet? That's not what Bentley says. According to her, there were a few more tears than she thought would have happened."
"Ah, yes." Aziraphale awkwardly chuckles and clears his throat, thinking now that those kisses, those stolen moments, were all with the demon before him. Suddenly, he feels bashful about their actions. "It's been dreadfully dull without you, my dear."
Crowley leans in with a theatrical air, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Well, angel, I'm here now to rescue both you and the books from the monotony of a demon-less existence."
"I suppose I can't argue with that. The bookshop does seem to have a certain... vibrancy when you're around."
"Speaking of vibrancy," Crowley says, his tone turning more serious, "there's something I need to ask you, angel."
Aziraphale looks at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Ask away, my dear."
Crowley takes a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. "Your favorite color is yellow, is that real? Or not."
Aziraphale nods slowly, "Yes, of course. You know that, Crowley."
Crowley's gaze is intense, searching for something in Aziraphale's eyes. "And do you remember... everything?"
Aziraphale's brow furrows slightly and awkwardly stifles a chuckle. "I believe so. Where is this going?"
Crowley hesitates, then takes a breath. "Because, angel, I don't. I remember, but I don't remember the damn details... there are ngk two minds conflicting within me." He pauses for a brief moment and it's as if everything in his past screams out at once.
But then, Aziraphale smiles, and the chaos melts away.
"But it's you, Crowley. Here. If you ever need to ask, I will always answer. Always."
-
The bookshop glows in the warm light of antique lamps and budding Christmas decorations[3]. Aziraphale sits at his meticulously organized desk, a collection of open books and papers spread before him, the soft rustling of pages creating a comforting atmosphere. Crowley, leaning nonchalantly against the edge of the worn sofa, holds a glass of deep red wine in his hand.
Crowley observes Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "You know, angel, for someone who always complains about paperwork, you sure spend a lot of time doing it."
Aziraphale glances up from his reading glasses, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I do not complain, Crowley." He raises his eyebrow with a subtle charm exuding his sassy attitude.
Crowley chuckles, taking a sip of his wine. Aziraphale rolls his eyes, the smile on his lips betraying the mock exasperation. "Heaven forbid I try to maintain some order around here. Chaos is your department, my dear."
Leaning against the edge of the worn sofa, Crowley raises an eyebrow in mock innocence. "Chaos? Me? I'm just here for the ambiance, angel. Speaking of which," He eyes Aziraphale as he moves toward his records and pulls out a Christmas album. "No, don't you dare-"
"Oh, I dare," The angel stands a bit straighter as he paces over to his record player and places the 40s record onto the spinning table.
The scratchy sound of the record needle meeting vinyl fills the air, and soon the festive tunes of a vintage Christmas begin to play. Aziraphale wears an expression of sheer delight, reveling in the timeless charm of the music. Crowley, on the other hand, watches with a mix of amusement and feigned horror.
"You're not seriously subjecting me to Christmas music in November," Crowley protests with a groan.
Aziraphale grins mischievously, tapping his foot to the rhythm. "Well, my dear, I do believe it's never too early to spread some holiday cheer. Especially with everything I have to celebrate!"
Crowley shakes his head in mock despair, but a small smile quirks on his lips. As the festive tunes envelop the bookshop, it's as if the walls themselves join in the celebration. The cozy atmosphere becomes infused with the spirit of the season, and the angel and demon find themselves caught in the whimsy of a spontaneous holiday dance.
"Come on, Crowley," Aziraphale beckons with a twirl, extending a hand. "It's just a bit of fun."
Crowley grumbles theatrically but doesn't resist as he joins Aziraphale in a lighthearted dance after setting his almost empty glass of wine on the table. Crowley takes Aziraphale's right hand in his left with a soft sigh. When their hands touch, the music seems to fade out. Crowley's golden eyes meet Aziraphale's blue ones, and for a heartbeat, time suspends.
Crowley leads with a grace that transcends the makeshift dance floor[4], and Aziraphale follows, their movements fluid, soft, and unhurried. As they sway in time with the music, a subtle shift occurs. The distance that time and circumstance has woven between them dissipates, leaving only the undeniable connection that has bound them since the beginning.
Crowley's thumb traces circles on the back of Aziraphale's hand, a tactile reassurance that parrots through the silent spaces between them. Aziraphale, with a soft smile, leans a little closer, and rests his head on the demon's shoulder.
"And, what do you have to celebrate, exactly?" Crowley asks. A brief silence intrudes as Aziraphale thinks of his response. You, Aziraphale's heart bursts in his chest, but with a calm countenance, he responds.
"Our daughter[5]. Averting Armageddon, although that is long past..." He shifts so that he is looking into Crowley's eyes. The dancing stops. "And you, of course."
Crowley feels a warmth radiating from his core, a sensation that defies the usual chill associated with his demonic nature. "I suppose we've got quite a lot to celebrate," Crowley replies, a wry smile playing on his lips. "How do you think Nebula will take it?"
"I am not sure..." Aziraphale whispers softly.
"We have to tell her."
"I know that... I just thought perhaps she would be a bit older."
"She will know so-"
"I know," Aziraphale looks back to the demon in front of him. "I suppose I was a bit reckless when I adopted her."
"You're incorrigible, angel." Crowley tries to lighten the mood. He knows that they, primarily Aziraphale, will have to explain to her that they will never age like she will. Like she has. Like she will continue to do. That they will watch her lose her youth, but perhaps that will become a comforting thought in her last moments. With the sun making its way below the horizon, the pair find themselves trying to simply enjoy the present with each other. Yet, just as they are about to settle and talk, knocking comes upon the front door. Polite, gentle. Then, a heavier set of fists land on the door and rattle the glass.
"Who could that be?" Aziraphale gets up from his desk before Crowley sighs.
"I think it-"
"'Ello, 'Ello, 'Ello~! Mr. Fell?" A soft, kind voice echoes from beyond the door as Aziraphale unlocks it.
"Of course," Crowley mumbles as he grabs the bottle of wine and fills up his glass once more. Aziraphale opens the door to see Christopher and what appears to be a relative of Melody.
"Mr. Meelan?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow as he then feels something is off this time. Christopher has a different air about him: something unruly and wrong.
"Where is he?" Christopher gets straight to the point and Crowley appears from behind a bookcase where they had been relaxing.
"What is it, can't you see we are trying to-"
"Oh shut it, took us far too long to find this place." Christopher groans in annoyance as Melody tries to break the tension. Aziraphale looks at them in confusion before coming to the conclusion that these two were never human- that they are much like himself and Crowley.
"You're Aziraphale, right? I have only ever seen drawings of you in the archives." Melody grins from ear to ear. "We should have tea sometime."
"I- yes. But, Crowley!" Aziraphale quickly switches from focusing on the Melody doppleganger to Crowley and Christopher who are in a heated argument that is already on the rise. The angel grabs Crowley by his arm before he engages in any kind of fighting. "Stop it! This is MY bookshop!" Aziraphale raises his voice, irritated as he drops Crowley's arm. A silence breeches and Aziraphale closes the bookshop doors after everybody enters.
"Now. Explain yourselves."
"Well it was-"
"Crowley needs to-"
"These two are abs-"
"One at a time!" Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat before adjusting his spectacles. "No need to be so rushed!"
Christopher, the Melody doppelganger, and Crowley exchange wary glances, each seemingly reluctant to be the first to speak. Aziraphale taps his foot impatiently, the irritation evident in his expression.
"Right then," Crowley sighs, realizing that he might as well get this over with. "These two," he gestures towards Christopher and the other, "were sent to guard me. Angel, demon, well, sort of."
"Sort of?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, perplexed.
Crowley shoots a glance at Christopher, silently urging him to explain. Christopher clears his throat. "We're not exactly what you'd call traditional angels or demons. We're... well, we're creations of a sort. Byproduct might be a better term."
"Byproduct of what?" Aziraphale asks, the confusion on his face growing.
"Of the whole Armageddon thing," Crowley interjects, "or, more precisely, the thwarting of it."
Melody's doppelganger, who had been silently observing until now, adds, "I'm Muriel, a lower angel of Heaven. And this is Crocell, a Duke of Hell. We.. well, it's complicated, but we are supposed to guard this one so he doesn't cause trouble. He was never supposed to regain his memory, you see."
Crocell grumbles, "And here I was hoping for a quiet assignment."
Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his temples. "Well, I'm afraid you will not be intervening with Crowley and I. I can handle him just fine on my own."
Muriel hesitates, exchanging a glance with Crocell. "They can't have a rogue demon running around with memories of Heaven and Hell. And Heaven can't let an angel like you be with him. It's... unprecedented."
Crowley smirks. "Unprecedented? That's a new one for us, isn't it, angel?"
Aziraphale shoots him a disapproving look. "This is serious, Crowley. We need to find a solution."
Crocell nods in agreement. "We need to contain it."
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Contain it? I'm not some experiment. I'm Anthony J. Fucking Crowley, and I've been living just fine with my memories intact, thank you very much."
Crocell grins wickedly. "Well, living might be an overstatement, but I get your point."
Muriel snags Crocell's ear. "Stop being so rude, Crocell." Bells jingle in the air.
"So, you... what do you want?"
Muriel smiles, "We aren't here to take him away, Aziraphale. But we need to be able to keep eyes on you both while you are together. Crocell is a bit of a pain, but I promise we don't mean harm."
"You would lie to Heaven?" Aziraphale asks and Muriel's countenance falters momentarily.
"I wouldn't have been the first, now would I?" Muriel looks to Crowley who, for the first time, seems to understand.
"I.. well, I suppose not," Aziraphale clears his throat as he reaches to his bowtie. "Yes, well. What do you propose?"
Muriel pushes Crocell back with the palm of her hand toward the exit of the bookshop. "What do you say to weekly check-ins?" Muriel winks dramatically at the pair as they and Crocell exit the bookshop without another word.
"That sounds-" But they are already gone with the bookshop door swinging[6]. Crowley raises his brows as he looks at Aziraphale, bewildered.
"They're an odd pair." He stifles a chuckle. Aziraphale lets out a laugh. The demon and angel turn back to their nook and clink their wine glasses to another argument averted.
Quickly, the afternoon turned into evening. Aziraphale and Crowley return to their respective places in lounging and chatting over wine- a habit that the angel relishes in with such fondness it almost transforms into an ache. Crowley reclines on a plush chair, his serpentine eyes fixed on Aziraphale, who is perched on the edge of his desk now.
Crowley sips his wine, swirling it in his glass before speaking. "So, angel, what do you think they meant by keeping an eye on us? I mean, we're not exactly averting Armageddon anymore."
Aziraphale sighs, fingers fidgeting with the stem of his wine glass. "I suppose they're just being cautious. Old habits die hard, especially for angels. But it's a small price to pay to keep the peace. Besides," Aziraphale smiles to himself as he takes a sip of the wine and locks eyes with the demon, "I think those two are a lot like us. I doubt they would cause trouble for us. Especially that Muriel."
"I suppose I am more concerned with the demon. He seems rather... hostile. Reminds me of Hastur."
"Oh, I strongly disliked that one. Such a pain, for both of us. Why did he have it out for you so often?"
"Dominance," Crowley sneers with a facetious glance as he stretches his arms out.
"And you won?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, hiding his smirk behind another sip of wine.
"Ngk- well, I s'pose that depends..."
"On?"
"On whether the subject of dominance was Hell, Earth, or..." He trails off with a pouting lip and a shrug.
"Orr~?"
"Who's to say. I will never understand 'im."
Aziraphale chuckles softly, "Well, I suppose it could be worse. At least we're not at each other's throats anymore."
The demon leans forward, "Hm." His eyes narrow in on the angel who is suddenly very aware of any entendres of his words, and a faint blush paints his skin.
"Don't look at me like that," Aziraphale sighs.
"Like what, angel?"
"Like you're going to eat me alive."
"And what if I do?"
Aziraphale purses his lips and clears his throat as he speaks.
"Well, I don't ahem suppose I... wouldbeopposed." He says the last few words quickly as he takes another drink of his wine. The angel could have sworn that Crowley had then winked at him, but he will never be sure of it.
As the evening unfolds, the conversation delves into more personal territory. The candles, now electric since the bookshop was renovated, dim. Crowley finishes perhaps his fourth glass of wine while Aziraphale finishes his third. The pair now sit in lounge chairs in front of the fire, relishing in the quaintness their lives have suddenly fallen into.
"Angel?" Crowley inquires as he sighs, stretching out along his chair with a languid movement.
"Yes, dear."
"How old is Nebula?"
"She is around four and ten now, I believe."
"Hm," Crowley closes his eyes for a brief moment. Aziraphale looks over to him. "Ngk, and do you suppose last night was rough on her?"
"You remember last night?"
"I remember her intervening, and the... feelings... but nothing particular yet. Bit of a blur."
"Ah," Aziraphale averts his gaze back to the fire. "She's a strong girl. I think she is hurt, but she understands."
Crowley's eyes flicker open, "She's got quite the resilience, that one."
Aziraphale nods, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Indeed. Nebula's got a strength about her that I find rather remarkable for such a young lady."
Crowley raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What else can you tell me about her? I, uh... ngk, I feel like I've missed out on quite a lot. "
Aziraphale chuckles softly, "Well, she's a voracious reader, takes after yours truly in that regard. Quite fascinated by the supernatural, I must say."
"Psht, I can't imagine where she got that from," Crowley remarks with a sly grin, gesturing to the occult section of the bookshop.
"Guilty as charged, I suppose. But it goes beyond that. She's convinced that every creak in the floor or shadow in the night is a sign of something otherworldly. Keeps her on awares of threats afoot, she says."
"Got a little hunter in her, does she? I suppose she thinks you're her mentor in the ways of the supernatural, then."
"Funny you should mention that. She stumbled upon a stored crucifix I have stashed away for emergencies. You should have seen the look on her face."
Crowley's eyes widen with interest. "A hidden crucifix? What on Earth for?"
Aziraphale leans back in his chair, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, she's convinced vampires are real. Found the crucifix and declared that I must be a Van Helsing in disguise."
Crowley bursts into laughter. "A Van Helsing!? You? Oh, that's brilliant.... And she believes it?"
Aziraphale nods, a fond smile gracing his features. "Wholeheartedly. I've tried to explain, but she's adamant. Keeps asking me to teach her vampire slaying techniques."
Crowley's laughter dispels into a soft trailing snicker, "Well, who knows? Maybe she's onto something. Little Nebula, the vampire slayer. I can see the headlines now."
Aziraphale nods, "Exactly my point. We have to be responsible guardians, after all."
The demon leans to the side, resting his chin on his hand. "So, what's her latest theory on the supernatural? Any new discoveries in her quest to become the next Van Helsing?"
"Oh, you'll love this. She's convinced that certain customers in the bookshop are undercover supernatural beings, testing us or something. She's got a list and everything."
"A list? Who's on it?"
Aziraphale leans in conspiratorially, "Well, according to Nebula, Mrs. Henderson from the knitting club is definitely a witch. And Mr. Thompson, the one who always asks for recommendations in the mystery section? Werewolf, apparently."
Crowley erupts into laughter with the angel. "But the best part is when she starts interrogating them subtly, trying to get them to reveal their true nature."
"I have to see this. Maybe we should start taking bets on who she'll expose next."
"Oh, she'd love that. But you know I'm not a gambler."
"I'm not sure about that Angel. You bet on me, quite a bit,"
"Oh, not at all!" Aziraphale sits up straight, as if awakened by the turn of conversation from the leisurely state. "I always knew you would pull through. That you would save me, my dear."
"Save you?" He remembers the little gestures, the few times the demon had consoled the angel. Is that what Aziraphale meant? "I wouldn't make me sound so noble, angel."
"Not noble," Aziraphale corrects him as he leans in across his chair and gazes into Crowley's half-lidded eyes. "Just nice."
Crowley lets out an exaggerated groan, slouching further into his chair. "Nice? Oh, come on, angel! You know I'm not nice. That's practically a four-letter word in my book."
Aziraphale teases, "Well, my dear, sometimes a little niceness can be quite charming."
Crowley's eyes widen in mock disbelief. "Now You're the one trying to corrupt me, angel... by, well, ngk, uncorrupting me. Next thing ya know, I'll be handing out flowers and helping old ladies cross the street."
Aziraphale leans in closer, his voice a low, playful purr. "Now that's an image I'd pay to see. A demon with a penchant for good deeds."
Crowley groans again, but this time there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he sits up and leans in from his side of the chair. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Making me out to be some sort of reformed demon with a heart of ngk gold."
Aziraphale's gaze lingers on Crowley's lips as he replies, "Well, perhaps you're not entirely immune to the charms of goodness. It suits you, my dear."
Crowley feigns a look of horror as he presses one of his hands into his chest. "Suits me? Angel, you wound me. I've spent centuries ngk- perfecting the art of being delightfully wicked."
Aziraphale adjusts so their faces are mere inches apart. "Delightful! So you agree! At least," his eyes flicker to the demon's lips again. "At least deep down, you do."
Crowley playfully sighs, "Fine, if you must insist. I suppose retirement isn't so bad."
"Not nearly," Aziraphale breathes in, but is softly cut off by Crowley meeting the angel's lips for a brief, yet loving kiss.
-
The next morning dawns with a soft glow filtering through the curtains of the bookshop. Aziraphale and Crowley, having spent the night engaged in conversation and laughter, find themselves in the kitchen, sipping on cups of tea from angel wing mugs. Just as they settle into a moment of companionable silence, the front door creaks open. Nebula enters, her gaze instantly fixing on Crowley, a mixture of surprise and anger etching her features. She freezes in the doorway, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the man's audacious presence.
"Good morning, Nebula," Aziraphale greets, attempting to diffuse the tension in the room. "I hope you had a wonderful evening."
Nebula's response is a withering stare aimed squarely at Crowley. "Is this a joke?"
Crowley raises an eyebrow, "What's got yer feathers all ruffled?"
Nebula's anger bubbles to the surface. "You. You've been cozying up here all night, haven't you? What are you doing here? And why are you allowing it!" She motions to her dad with the second question.
Aziraphale sighs, "Nebula, please, let's all sit down and talk. There's a lot we need to discuss."
The trio gathers begrudgingly in the cozy sitting area of the bookshop, tension thick in the air. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, glancing between Nebula and Crowley. "Nebula, Crowley and I need to tell you something... important."
Nebula crosses her arms, glaring at Crowley. As Aziraphale begins to explain their immortality, the eternal nature of their existence and relationship, Nebula's anger shifts to confusion, then to disbelief. The weight of her father's words settle on her, and she feels suffocated by the gravity of the revelation.
"I don't... I don't understand. You're saying you'll never die?"
Aziraphale nods solemnly. "We've been around for a very long time, and we will continue to be."
Nebula's composure cracks, and she looks between them, "And what about me? Am I just supposed to age? Die of old age while you both remain?"
Aziraphale reaches out, placing a comforting hand on Nebula's shoulder, unsure of what else to say. Nebula's eyes glisten with unshed tears, and she stands abruptly. "I need some time to think. Excuse me." With that, she hurries upstairs, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley exchanging concerned glances.
Aziraphale stands a few seconds later, his expression troubled. "I should have anticipated this. I'll go check on her in a bit."
Crowley nods, watching as Aziraphale leaves the room. Once alone, he sighs softly, running a hand through his hair. Later, as Aziraphale returns from his landlord rounds, he finds the bookshop oddly quiet. After hooking his keys on the hook with his scarf, he spies Crowley napping on the couch. For a second, he considers not waking up his companion. He makes his way up the spiral staircase to the third floor. He knocks on Nebula's door.
Knock knock knock.
"Nebula?"
With no answer, Aziraphale creaks open the door and looks into the room to see her empty bedroom.
"Nebs?"
Aziraphale calls out again as he scopes around the room. Then, a distinct panic settles into his being. Without a moment to spare, he runs down the stairs yelling for Crowley. Crowley, on the couch, awakes with a start and looks around with wide eyes.
"Crowley, where's Nebula?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.
"She should be in 'er room-"
Aziraphale shakes his head. "She isn't there. I've checked the entire third floor. We need to find her, and quickly."
Without wasting a moment, the two rush out into the chilly late afternoon with their coats. Aziraphale heads toward her school and her friends' houses, calling out her name with increasing worry. Crowley, after checking the greenhouse, finds himself in Berkeley Square across from a strangely familiar apartment complex, where the last traces of daylight are fading away.
As he approaches the park, Crowley's eyes scan the area behind thick black sunglasses. He then spots vibrant red hair in the last rays of sun, sitting on an all-too familiar bench. Her figure huddles against the cold. Her knees are drawn to her chest, and her eyes are fixed on the horizon as the sun dips below the cityscape. Crowley hastens his stride just a tad as he takes a seat beside her.
"Here ya are," He rests back on the bench, trying to keep his air of nonchalance and hiding his worry that head been bubbling the more he looked around for her. "Are you alright?"
Nebula doesn't respond, her gaze still fixed on the distance, but her red eyes and flushed cheeks speak volumes about the cold she has endured without a coat or anything warm to comfort her. Crowley takes off his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. Without another word, he pulls her closer, the warmth of his presence providing a stark contrast to the chilly air with the embrace. Her body collapses into his and her chest begins to heave with her quiet sobs. Crowley hushes her softly and rubs her back with his left hand, resting his chin on top of her head.
"Y'know, bein' cremated' is me last chance for a smokin' hot body," Crowley finally speaks, his voice soft, and trying to lighten the mood. She lifts her head and looks up at him, her forehead resting against his chin.
"You're an idiot," She stifles a laugh and Crowley holds back a grin, pulling her into his arms and hugging her even tighter. "I... I don't want to be alone."
"You'll never be alone," He lifts her head as he looks down at her. "I promise."
Crowley continues to hold Nebula close[7], his jacket providing a cocoon of warmth against the chilly night while the wind bites his bones like a hungry hound. The air is filled with a mixture of quiet laughter and the soothing sounds of the city settling into its evening rhythm of approaching Christmas.
[Footnotes]
1. Possibly a mix of adrenaline and body ache overcoming his hands in tremors. There are many reactions that come with PTSD if the feelings that overcome the body are strong enough; flashbacks, panic attacks, tremors, and nausea are some of the most common physical and mental reactions.
2. If this is what it would take, Aziraphale would bend and break himself for eternity to bring back his love. If this is what God wants, then Aziraphale will follow wherever She leads as long as it meant that after trial and trial again, he would return to him.
3. When Aziraphale first heard about Christmas, he thought it a wonderful day for the Christians to celebrate. Albeit, they had Jesus' birth completely off calendar, but he also enjoyed the festivities and closeness of family and loved ones during the season. His first Christmas was in 336 in Rome under Emperor Constantine. However, his most cherished Christmas until now had been spent in Germany in 1821. There was a magnificent cedar tree with golden tinsel, wax candles, and a beautiful garland of different bird feathers from swan to pheasant. It was a tradition that the angel happily carried with him, and it showed through in his more modern decorating of the bookshop. Atop the fireplace is a boa of different feather plumes, and across the front windows of the bookshop are strings of warm lights. Yet, the Christmas tree is yet to be placed as Aziraphale had not found the time to visit the greenhouses of the area or the merchants.
4. It was in fact a 5x5 foot space at the most, with a rug and coffee table in the way of their movements.
5. Crowley's heart thuds in his chest. Nebula has not come home yet for she is staying the night, but all the same, Aziraphale believes him to be integrated into the family.
6. As Crocell and Muriel walk down the street to Crocell's car (an old tow truck), the pair walk in visible silence, but the sound of sleigh bells can be heard as they stroll.
What will we do?
When...?
When Heaven and Hell find out. When their plans for the second End of the World comes into play.
Muriel looks at Crocell.
We will do what we have always done.
And that is?
Protect. Inform. Observe.
You're a clever angel, Muriel. Truly. But don't be naive.
I don't believe it's naive. The Second Coming is homeward bound, but there is no harm and letting people enjoy their lives.
The jingling stops as Crocell opens the door to the truck and hops inside. Muriel does the same, and the engine roars to life.
7. Fears can be triggered by real threats and by memories of threats. Humans find it challenging to unlearn fears, and now Nebula has been introduced to perhaps one of the greatest inevitable fears of all. This fear of losing a grasp on what we all spend our lives finding is so much more violent, so much more intangible. The prize for doing all this (living and bonding) right is a well functioning society, the punishment for getting it wrong is run-away-paranoia or submission to all the bad that comes with the most subtle silver linings. The former makes friendships, the latter makes enemies whom could have been friends. That said, if after analysis one finds the threat to have real force and impact then perhaps it is best and most logical to become protective of that which is most important. Fears can be real, ghosts of real fears, or entirely hallucinated. It takes courage to figure out one's own fears, to face them and question them, but it is worth it.