Everything else...

Everything else...

Author: wanderingsmith
Started July 2022
Summary: "It's all in there, the boy's name, address. ...Everything else..." Aziraphale would have sagged tiredly if he'd had a body, "I worked it all out." He managed to stop himself from adding 'too late'. They needed to focus on getting to Tadfield. Crowley wasn't likely to actually go through the book anyway...
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I play with 'em..

AN: sequence of events:<br />
decode book. call Tadfield. go up to heaven and lie to gabe, mickeal, uriel, sandalphon about not knowing where the boy is, ask if could avoid war. set shadwell to watch boy. bandstand.

WRITE

meet gabe in park asking to speak to god. crowley home looking for star system. then at theater. then encounters azi on street

Prologue

"It's all in there, the boy's name, address. ...Everything else..." Aziraphale would have sagged tiredly if he'd had a body, "I worked it all out." He managed to stop himself from adding 'too late'. They needed to focus on getting to Tadfield. Crowley wasn't likely to actually go through the book anyway...

Tadfield

It was the third morning after she accomplished what her family had been working toward for more than three centuries.

Anathema had not yet managed to absorb the idea, she knew.

The worse damage to the cottage had vanished by the time she'd woken on the first day of the rest of her life. With Newt besides her, on her living room floor, where they'd made a nest with the duvets rather than try to tidy the bedroom after returning from the airbase.

The cottage was back to rights. And by the news, so was the rest of the world. Or at least back to what it was before Armageddon had gotten into high gear.

She was almost surprised she'd been allowed to keep Newt.

And keep him it seemed she was. He hadn't said a word about going home. Had shaken that unpleasant Shadwell fellow's hand, awkwardly hugged the woman the man alternated between insulting and protecting. And then taken Anathema home in his three-wheeled chariot; and stayed on her heels.

It was a very strange feeling to suddenly have someone her own age at her side. Her awareness of the prophecies had always made her an oddity as a child, and friends had been very few and far between. Boyfriends even more so.

It was... nice.

She was almost certain.

Almost as certain as she was that burning that 'bequest' had been the right choice. She couldn't allow herself to believe that she would have done such a thing in 'reaction'. She respected all that Agnes had done for her family. And the world. Her words, however frustrating in the moments when they insisted on being opaque, had led generations of her descendants to protect seemingly random people. From sudden death or lifelong destitution. Agnes' visions had led to people being in place on every continent over the decades. All so that Adam and his friends had been the people they needed to be to save the Earth from being ground zero for Heaven versus Hell 2.0.

It was also true that every generation had been as attuned as Agnes to the Powers that trailed over this world; if not to the time windows she touched. Being a 'descendant' was no simple statement; Newt had only seen one facet. But just as *he'd* focused in on Adam's address without effort, *she* had felt the drop and lock in the Fabric when he'd said she did not need to be defined by the term. She wasn't nearly the slave to verses that he thought, but she *could* feel the throb that words had.

And Agnes' introduction to her bequest rang of a challenge. Aimed at Anathema.

Agnes was ringing in Newt's voice when he spoke: Anathema was expected to cut the thread; lead her family *beyond* their guardianship. Or at least, beyond their posts as Agnes' guards. They were still occultists. Would still watch the world.

And Anathema would do so with a strange Englishman who was a living curse to modern technology at her side.

After they'd burned the empty 'bequest', Newt had accompanied her to check to see what an attempted Armageddon had wrought on the lei lines she'd mapped while searching for Adam. Had silently taken on the role of helper when a local woman had quietly asked for a potion for her son's odd nightmares.

Her mother had asked when she was going home, during last night's call -far away from poor Newt-, after congratulating her. And Anathema had hemmed and hawed and changed the subject. But after sleeping on it, she had an answer for her.

Newt might possibly not mind going to California with her, but Anathema felt... at home here. Even with the odd characters she'd encountered. Home certainly had as many weirdos. Her occult senses liked the area, now that she wasn't scouting it for the son of Satan; and failing. She might also be avoiding her mother accidentally asking something that would lead to her having to tell her that Anathema had burned possible prophecies.

And she had a faint feeling she should stay near and keep on eye on the Antichrist. Even if he was an ex-Antichrist. It still seemed a position that aught to be watched.

Which she suspected was the reason she'd been drawn to the book this morning, once again sitting in the little office she'd set up for her hunt. Not for information; she didn't really think there were any prophecies to do with 'after'. But it was... a reassuring sensation, to touch the familiar old pages, and hear the familiar cadence of words in her mind. Even if the leather's texture was subtly dryer now, even after she'd wiped the embedded soot that had ended up on her hands when she'd finally gotten it back. The pages themselves wouldn't dare be damaged by some nearby flames, of course -Agnes would have been quite offended-, but *something* had happened to it while it was out of her care.

Then she frowned, taken aback as she encountered a scrap of paper between two pages, edged in black as though *it* had been on fire, with unfamiliar scribbling across it.
Tadfield 046

A dim memory came back to her, of that rude fellow in black, looking rather sooty all over himself, throwing her the book, which had somehow flown true to her, not a page fluttering to foul the aim and risk damaging itself.

Book which had had a number of bits of paper, very singed, sticking out of it haphazardly, when she got her hands on it. In the busy moment, she'd automatically tapped the spine on her palm to settle all the papers safely inside, just as she'd spent most of her life doing with her own notes.

Except that she kept very few such scribbles in the book any more, having switched to a card system to more easily find the prophecies that she and her family had not yet caught happening. She kept the book as backup, and for those days when seeing the words in the order Agnes had laid them down felt necessary to understanding. Or when touching the pages that had been smoothed by so many hands before hers provided comfort.

And now the book was again full of notes. In a hand that flowed from a very neat penmanship, to an engineer's confident capitals; with detours through a rushed, shaky script that spoke clearly of the writer's worry. Which she understood perfectly.

She could not picture someone that called her 'bookgirl' so dismissively having made them, so she could only assume it was the work of the light fellow who she was quite certain had *magicked* her bicycle to have gears; and then taken them out again. And called it a velocipede.

Speaking of odd people.

Or... not-people.

Even having grown up expecting to see Armageddon, somehow she hadn't thought through that she might be encountering... celestial beings. Other than the Lord of Darkness, anyway. And his son. But whoever the beings from the car were, the other two that appeared at the airbase, well, she assumed that the one that had literally appeared in a flash of lightning from the Heavens was some high-ranking *angel*. And Beelzebub has burned their way up from the depths through the very asphalt to threaten Adam.

If she *had* taken the time to think of it, she was fairly certain she would not have expected them to be... like that. The Prince of Hell and... well, if she remembered her bible, the other fellow, to speak as an equal to Beelzebub, could well be the archangel Gabriel, the guardian. Or Micheal, though that would be a bit of pointed challenge to Adam's father, in the circumstance.

Funny the pictures missed showing he was a pompous ass. And apparently he'd given up his title of guardian. Typical.

She certainly wouldn't have expected them to apparently have some rebellious subordinates trying as hard as Anathema, and as fumblingly, to avert the apocalypse.

Wouldn't have thought that Heaven and Hell would be *wanting* Armageddon to the point of *cooperating*.

But regardless, it seemed pretty safe to bet the driver of the car was a... demon. By those weird eyes and his interaction with Beelzebub. And his... well, 'friend', based on the tone of their banter as they drove her home -to absolutely not comment on the way their auras behaved!-, would therefor be... some sort of angel. To challenge the pompous ass with quite that tone.

So an angel had scrambled to untangle Agnes' words in the hours before the world was supposed to end.

After half an hour, she looked at all the notes accumulating on her desk and couldn't help but wonder what had gone down wherever it was he lived. Why had he only appeared on the scene at the airbase if he knew Adam's address, and, presumably, the rest of the phone number to go with the area code he'd written down?

She was almost at the end of the book when she found the neatly tri-folded sheet of quality paper tucked tightly in. Not the result of her tapping loose papers in. This had been carefully laid.

She hesitated to read it, for some reason. Almost feeling as though it had been placed there to be hidden. To be left. Almost...

Almost feeling something like an aversion spell encouraging her to look away.

She glared at it. But this was *her* book. *Agnes*' book. Anything in it was Anathema's by right.

And she had a feeling Agnes had damped the spell; so she wanted Anathema to read this.

Nonetheless, she was careful opening it, half expecting it to catch fire in her fingers.

My dearest Crowley,

Anathema's heart rate picked up, recognizing the name Beelzebub had called their 'traitor'.
Also recognizing all too well the splash radius of several tears on the next line -more than a few of her cards had similar marks-, fallen before the ink had dried, and leaving their haze to softly contour heartbreaking words.

I am so very sorry.
I should cover this page with those words. I swear to you that I have never wanted to hurt you. Never. Not once.
I know I have done so so very often. I am so, so sorry, my love.
Yes: love. There are so many words I have longed to call you. Words I have bitten my tongue to keep echoing, aching, only in my mind, lest they draw the notice of those who would destroy you.

"Oh my God," Anathema whispered disbelievingly. She was 99% they were... a demon and an angel. A *demon*, and an *angel*!! She shook her head, almost as shocked as when Newt had identified Adam as the Antichrist with a single glance at a verse that Anathema had *memorized*.
She couldn't help reading on, even if she had a guilty awareness that this was unquestionably private.

But after what I just said... I need to let these words free. I cannot take another step, another breath, without giving these feelings a voice, even if I must burn them after. The words need to have existed on this world where I have hurt you.

When I found the book... I truly was not trying to lie to you. I have been searching for this particular book for, well. All the centuries since the witch put down her visions. My greed for it was not related to the Antichrist, to this crisis threatening all that we are and all that we love.
It was simply another precious book. And you know how much I love books! How utterly fascinating these human 'mysteries' are! And... truly it was such a relief to have something to think of that cheered me. That let me forget about... the End. And our failure to avert it.
And... I know you do not like books. However wonderful you are at finding rare treasures and then contriving to give them to me, I know you have never had the interest for yourself. Which has always made your taking the time, let along making the effort, to find those gifts all the more precious to me.
And another reason I so very much wanted to throw myself at you and kiss you senseless when you remembered my books in the midst of rescuing me, again, from those beastly Nazi.

I truly was not trying to hide something that I thought you would care about, last night! You would have been rightfully annoyed to listen to me exclaim and burble in glee at every little bit of history I found recounted in twisted verse. Though some were so delightful that I would have relished recounting them over a good red.

Then I stumbled on words that did relate to this mess. And... Oh Crowley! I should have immediately called you back. I know I should have. I swear I have known for millennia that you are not my enemy. You truly are my friend. My true and dear friend. You are so very dear to me, I sometimes feel maddened with the fear of losing you. And feel even more crazed when I see my fear bring closer the very thing I am so desperate to avoid.
At first it was truly simple thoughtlessness. A desperate rush to seek out all the answers once I'd found a breadcrumb.
Please believe me, darling, it was the millennia of habit of being on my own. For so long we were but ships that would anchor alongside for such brief moments, and then be pulled apart for decades. Or centuries. So many long lonely centuries... Doing research has never been something to wait on the other for, even if we did often end up discussing its frustrations deep into our wine cups.
I do not want to hurt you again, but I... I simply did not think of you in that moment. Oh please know that you are so often in my thoughts: as I see the stars rise in the sky, smell a new spice family on a stroll past a restaurant, hear someone rant of some strange technological failure. I have so often wished you were by my side that I could turn to you and share the moment; share a smile. But.. when books draw me in... that is less something we share. Even after this last decade where we have spent so much time together; I did not think. I am so sorry, my dear one.

There was a bit of forced humour in her mind wondering if seeing tears on paper somehow called to one's own tears to flow, the way watching a yawn was contagious. Because she'd had to stop to blink firmly a few times to avoid adding to the smeared letters making the reading differently-challenging than Agnes' old spelling. Looking at her pleasantly-shady walls during one of those breaks, she wondered if his references to books translated to his having written this while surrounded by centuries-old tomes on age-dark shelves. By the ravings of madmen, and other lies that had got saved as 'prophecies' over the ages.
He had seemed a diffident, fussy old fellow as he argued with his superior, grateful when his sooty friend had ambled over, even if it was to stutter through his own arguments.

She suspected that 'anchoring alongside' glossed over a great deal. Particularly considering the time span involved. Those two had been utterly familiar with each other. Physically comfortable; regardless of the snipping. Possibly even made more so by the snipping. And- she blinked and flicked her eyes over the words she'd just read. 'Deep in our cups'.

Drinking buddies. Millennia-old drinking buddies. An angel and a demon.

When I finally raised my head from the words, it- I do not know if I can truly explain, not even to you who knows me so well. How I could have suddenly imagined I could convince them to help simply because I now knew more; instead of flying to the side of the only person that ever HAS helped me. How I could have thought for one moment that I could stop this without the help of the ONLY person who shares my feelings. Who understands me, and this world.
Oh Crowley. Of the things I do dread losing tomorrow, you are the one that will shatter my soul. And that terrifies me, and makes it so very hard to reason, and choose a path as the clock ticks away all hope.

I would like to blame my regret and.. guilt at having gone to Heaven rather than to you for the way I just behaved. Blame the worry and mortification I was left with. Blame my ever-growing fear for your safety. But I do not deserve such reprieve.
I am so ashamed that I let the habit of the old teachings twist my tongue to such evil- yes, it was me that was evil, has it already been an hour ago? As it has been so many times before. MY words that were poison. Oh I am so very sorry! I... I so wanted- WANT to run away with you! To hold you and protect you and beg your forgiveness and offer you all that I am, poor gift that I know it is. To care for you, my too-nice demon.
To worship you. Oh my love, my Crowley. That I but had the right to say those words, that I could see them as anything but a death-sentence. I would cleave unto you and never let go.
Would that I had but a smidgen of the wondrous courage you have always had, even if you guarded that tender heart in snarls and snaps.
And then somehow find the strength to risk whether your feelings run so... so physically. I would never want to discomfit you. Though I suppose you have put up with so much from me already...
And I know your feelings run deep. I know you care. You are very good at shielding yourself from my senses, but every so often you slip and.. oh my darling. The memory of those peeks at the sparkling affection you carry has saved my heart even more often than you have risked yourself to save my corporation.

I KNOW Heaven lies. They proved it when they continued to paint you as evil and cruel. I KNOW you are the better being.
But I have so rarely found the wherewithal to set aside their words for those of my heart. The fortitude to risk your life for the chance that we might both have joy before the End.
I want so much to wrap you in my wings and scream challenge to any that would seek to harm you. I was made to be a soldier...
But no one angel, not even the mightiest, which I am not, can hold 'gainst all the legions of Hell. Let along all of Heaven.

Sometimes I want to blame Her for making me so fully swayed to Heaven that even your so much truer care and bravery did not turn me against them eons ago, that we might have colluded together... You deserve my full loyalty. Not my constant failure to show you the depth of my affections. Not to have to beg me to stand with you at every turn.

Anathema had to set the paper down and have a sip of tea. She should not be reading this. She should have stopped the moment she saw the first line, and arranged to return it. Or burn it like the bequest. Like the angel had already considered.
And yet... along with the anguish that she could feel embedded in the thick paper, there was also the desperate need to share these thoughts. To be heard. It sounded as though the angel was distinctly awkward with emotions, even within himself. She rather imagined he would do worse than stutter if he tried to open his heart to his undeniably-snarly demon.

She frowned to herself, trying to focus on the memories she had of them, distracted as she had been on both occasions where they'd met. She was also quite certain she'd been concussed and then Healed, the first time, which hadn't helped.

'Just get in, angel.'

Crowley had come across to her as borderline sleazy that night, until those last words. Sunglasses at night and tight leather pants or not, the gentleness he'd used for his friend had matched the way his aura calmed when they were close.

And as for Armageddon... His aura had been shaky and ragged even before his ultimate boss had pitched a tantrum and started stomping his way up to them all. But he'd still reached for the angel. Had only been protective when someone who should have been his ages-old enemy had stood over him with a flaming sword. Well... perhaps he'd also been a touch... adoring was too strong a word. Though devoted...

Whatever her personal opinion of him, if she were asked, she would judge that Crowley would have much rather died in fire and flame than hurt his angel.

She put her cup down, getting back to the letter.

I hate that we are running out of time. Time for me to make up for the past. Time... to spend together.

I have been wracking my brains trying to think what can be done. There are so few options I see.

I know you were right that it may come to killing him.

Even though, really, that had been on Anathema's mind as well, still, knowing now that it was Adam they were discussing... it was shocking to read.

Though I am not so certain that it is possible, now that you say he is coming into his powers. And... I... I know you could never do it. I know. I have always known how you feel about children. I do not know if I could, either. Though every time I look at Gabriel, or Sandalphon or- Well. They would not hesitate to kill a child. Have not.
After I failed so badly as your friend, I find myself praying I can be the angel that you need, now, instead.

The only other hope I have, is that God can... be reasoned with. I know how much you do not trust Her. And I admit, in the deepest night of days when the humans had made life feel so terrible that my hope failed me, my faith, even... I have wondered how She could possibly have made you Fall. What possible ineffability could possibly excuse such wanton scaring of so beautiful a soul. So beautiful that even THAT terrible cruelty was not enough to make you anything but the very best of beings I know.
Oh my dearest Crowley. I MUST find a way to get word to God! I WILL! I cannot lose you.

I will contact Gabriel and- Yes. Somehow convince him to intercede. To- to give up this ridiculous notion of destroying Earth just to score against his old rival Lucifer.

Or- Or contact God Herself. I have the right to ask for an audience with Her! I do.

And then once She has made them all stop this, then- I will find the words to beg your forgiveness and pray that you will let me back at your side. Oh please. I must. I simply must...

Please God, give me THAT strength, after all this time.

"Anathema?"
Anathema startled at the touch of hands on her shoulders, hurriedly swiping at the last tear the blasted words had manged to wrench from her. Then she made herself stop with a watery laugh and looked up at her worried lover in yet another bland sweater-vest, accepting a tissue. "I'm fine Newt. I," she shook her head, glancing at the pages of almost soft paper, "One of those odd fellows from the airbase left a letter in Agnes' book. It's-" she swallowed, her eyes catching on words here and there. On the waves left by the tears of an angel.

She looked up at the young man that fate had flipped onto her path, reminded suddenly of the angel starting to tell a story of a garden and a serpent who had to have been a shock for a fussy angel to encounter. She smiled. "It's kind of a love letter." Or confession, she thought as she looked back down, feeling thoughtful as she carefully refolded the paper, only half aware of Newt almost frozen behind her.

"To who??"

She looked up, thinking of some of those words. As odd as it was to have a boyfriend for the first time in her life... She wondered if the angel had ever managed to beg that forgiveness. She could read between the lines that he would have to climb out of a very deep and muddy rut to do so. Millennia... The term 'lifetime' was very different for them than for her.

She glanced at the letter, "Newt.... Did I hear your mister Shadwell call those men -well, not men, Crowley and his angel-, by name?"

She caught Newt staring at her with his mouth open when she looked back up. "His angel??"

Anathema winced guiltily. "Well. He's definitely an angel. The possessive might be.. a bit premature."

"Premature..." Newt's voice was faint for a moment, but then he shook his head quickly and answered with that so-British calm-in-the-face-of-the-Devil, "I remember sergeant Shadwell mentioning Mister Crowley and... someone he called a southern pansy. A mister Fell?"

Anathema's eyes narrowed, "Do you know where they live? Either of them lives?"

"Err... no. I... think mister Shadwell mentioned a bookshop but-"

She interrupted, about to reach for her cell before she stopped herself from letting it near the man, smiling sweetly instead, "Can you call him and ask for the address?"

Soho

Which is how by late afternoon Dick Turpin had gotten to hold up some very loud traffic through London and into Soho.

Anathema had half a mind to believe she should thank Agnes for their actually finding a parking spot near the shop that she at least knew was the right place when she saw the vintage Bentley parked illegally. Demon. Figured.

Then she stood for a minute staring bemusedly at the sign with the shop's supposed hours before huffing and reaching for the handle, surprised, and even more suspicious, that it actually opened.

And was even more surprised to come face to face with the *demon*. She would be frustrated at herself later for gulping, but at least she didn't step back.

"Hello mister Crowley." A flicker of light besides the demon drew her attention to the angel that had apparently been walking up to him from somewhere in the dim columns of books looming in the room. "Mister Fell."

"Aziraphale, please my dear," he smiled angelically as he greeted her, "No reason for formality after we both stood at Armageddon."

She nodded, "Anathema," she felt Newt come up behind her, "And Newt."

As Newt muttered some sort of greeting, she couldn't help but notice that not only was Crowley no longer smudged with soot, however properly demonic that had been, in hindsight, he was also out of those rather ridiculous skintight leather pants- trousers, dammit, if she was staying in this country that was not a mistake to keep making.

He was... almost in a dark tux. The trousers still a little ridiculously tight, a suit jacket that was just a little overly-fitted, though it avoided looking like a bus-boy. Mostly. The red tie, if it was one rather just a wide, twisted strip of fabric, slung loose around his neck as though a lover had already snogged him.. except the black silk shirt was far too tidy for that. Not done up properly, but tidy. She ignored his raised brow at her stare and turned to the angel, realizing, now that she wasn't worried for the fate of the world, that the way he was dressed, had been dressed both other times they'd met, was.... well.

Millennia. Those were very possibly actual original turn of the century, rather than cosplay. Very *nice* turn of the century attire, mind you. The kind of layered suit a gentleman would have worn to his 'club', at the very least. Possibly to the theatre. All in pale cream besides his dark demon. Though the tartan bow was out of place regardless of the century he was dressing for.

"We're gonna be late. What d'you want?"

"Crowley!"

Anathema pressed out a grin at the angel's practised, *fond*, chiding tone, discovering she wasn't so annoyed at the demon's rudeness, with the perspective of the words in that letter.

"What??"

Finding Crowley in the shop where she'd expected only the angel had thrown her plans for a loop. But seeing the tense hunch to the demon's shoulders, and the distance between them that she didn't remember at the airbase, to say nothing of the droop in their auras, even if they were obviously heading out on a date, she came up with a new plan. She pulled the letter out of her sleeve and stepped up to push it to the angel's chest, fixing her eyes on his and speaking in a normal volume, more than loud enough for his date to hear. " *Tell* him."

She didn't look away from Aziraphale's suddenly wide eyes and tight lips, thinking of millennia of fear and waiting for pain to strike. Thinking of a bequest and living an identity she'd never questioned.

Then she heard Crowley ask worriedly, feeling a change nearby that was likely a demon's aura coming closer to see why his angel suddenly looked so pale, "Tell who what, angel??"

She smiled gently before nodding and stepping out from between them, patting Crowley's arm as she passed him. Not the least bit hurt that he ignored her completely in favour of reaching for Aziraphale's shoulder.

She was about to walk out, ignoring Crowley saying his friend's name behind her, when she stopped.

6000 years. Her eyes narrowed and she spun back around on sensible heels, catching the angel's eye, glaring at him in frustration. She was *trying* to help here!

She was *this* close to telling Crowley to just take the letter when the angel finally settled, losing the terrified look in favour of something like the false calm he'd beamed at Gabriel.

And turned to Crowley and silently gave him the paper.

"Aziraphale?"

"Just... read it. Please, my dear."

She made herself turn around and walk away, fighting the habit of believing she had a *right* to know what happened so she could obey the Prophecy. Had she been born curious (nosy), or had she been taught so she might fulfill her role?

"Did Agnes tell you about this??"

Anathema stopped abruptly just as she was about to cross the road with Newt back at her shoulders, turning to him in surprise at the hurt tone, "No! Why would you think that?"

He frowned at her silently for a few seconds before shrugging, "You had your 'I know because Agnes said' look."

"Oh," she thought about seeing the two beings standing side by side just now and shrugged herself, "No. It just... felt like the right thing."

Newt started to smile a bit, un-tensing. "See? You never really needed her."

Aziraphale only just realized the humans were leaving as the door swung shut and he made himself unfreeze enough to flick them a safe and speedy journey home -though it was indeed safe, the speed of it quite shocked the poor occupants of Dick Turpin. To say nothing of old Dicky himself-, his eyes unable to look away from Crowley's expression.

He'd so often tried to tell himself that the demon cared for him. Loved him, even. At least a little. Sometimes.

But hearing his shocked inhale as he'd started to read had frozen him. What if what he'd felt from Crowley wasn't love. Or wasn't for him. What if he only wanted friendship and this- oh this could ruin the unsteady steps they'd been taking to mend the hurts Aziraphale's harsh words had inflicted!

But it was too late to take it back, now. He could only wait for the fallout.

At his little miracle, Crowley looked up, his eyes wide behind the lenses that Aziraphale had long since made himself able to see past.

Crowley stared at him silently for several moments before taking an audibly shaky breath to whisper, "You love me?"

Aziraphale nodded numbly, waiting for his friend to leave as the humans had.

Instead, Aziraphale's desperate prayers floated to the ground as Crowley stepped close, almost as close as they'd been against that wall in the old hospital. So close he could breathe his air. Smell the faintest occult echo from his miracled clothes and meticulously-threatened hair. Brimstone, smoke and spice and everything nice, though he'd refrain from telling Crowley that.

Crowley’s hands were cool as they came up to curve on his cheeks; gentle even with the hint of slick scales playing over them. Aziraphale waited, wide-eyed and heart soaring, for the press of lips, but found himself shivering at the unexpected soft slide of that blade of a nose along his own, instead. “Crowley…” Oh why was his voice so tremulous. He could see the pleased curl of his demon’s lips in response, and made himself huff just a little before snapping those pesky lenses out of the way. Then his hands crept to Crowley’s nape, fingertips tickled by soft hairs, torn between the incredible intimacy of something so ridiculous as *noses* touching, and the sudden disappearance of the crippling ropes that had always held him in place, even when there had finally not been one single thing in their way. Other than fear itself, of course.

Aziraphale's eyes had closed at some point, leaving him drowning in the molasses-slow sensations of actually touching Crowley. Touching him with no anger, no fear, no deathly worry; no *necessity* other than that of desire returned. There was nothing to stop him from wallowing, nothing to stop him shivering blissfully at Crowley's utterly soft husk, no longer buried under desperate relief, "You love me."

"Yes." Aziraphale whispered back, trying not to let any seed of worry take hold of him. Too aware that he would eventually fail. But clinging to the belief that Crowley would continue to tolerate his stumbles.

"I love you."

The breathy sound that escaped him then sounded far too much like a choked sob. But he couldn't find it in him to care as Crowley's lips followed right behind the tender words and finally pressed onto his.

If someone had asked him, he would likely have expected any first kiss in such fraught circumstances to be rather... heated. Perhaps a touch uncontrolled. Not that that was an off-putting thought. He looked forward to feeling Crowley's intensity in a more private setting than their spirited theological discussions.

But there was something to be said for the tenderest of brushes. For shaky breaths and tentative fingers combing through hair and touching once-forbidden skin. For shoulders allowed to sag in relief. In the final relief of finding love and comfort so near and so known and grabbing onto it at last.

AN:this was really not meant to be an Anathema story...

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