Ineffable Omens (Crowley x Aziraphale)

Could It Be Him?

Crowley stood outside the lonely bookshop, not quite sure what he was doing there.

"Aziraphale," he whispered again.

On the other side of London, the fallen angel felt a small tug on his heart, like something calling him to come home.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, louder this time, and Aziraphale felt a familiar feeling wash over him, much like the feeling he got whenever entering Tadfield. Love.

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated, still confused by the word. Aziraphale felt the familiar sensation wash over him again, leaving him feeling a bit tingly. He brushed the feeling aside and kept walking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was here. At my bookshop. Aziraphale's jaw dropped open, and he couldn't help it, his eyes filled with tears. There was the man he loved, the man who didn't even know he existed. Who turned him away. The man who had never been, and could never be, friends with an angel.

Aziraphale hid in the shadows for a little longer, taking in every aspect of his love he might possibly forget with time. Who knew if he'd ever see him again? He stared at his lean figure, the arrogant wanna-be-cool stance he stood with, the way his hair was always a wavy mess but he loved it anyway, the way the light reflected off his sunglasses ... if only he could see Crowley's eyes one more time. He loved his eyes.

Aziraphale stared wistfully a moment longer, than mustered all the courage he had left and walked up to the bookshop.

"You again?" Crowley asked, but it didn't come off mean or spiteful, more like he wanted to see the smaller demon.

"What are you doing at my bookshop? I thought you didn't remember-"

"I remember plenty of things that don't make sense. Care to come inside and explain?"

Aziraphale gulped. Maybe ... maybe it wasn't too soon to have hope. Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe he could make his demon remember him yet.

While Crowley fixed coffee, Aziraphale gazed longingly at his books, but he didn't dare touch them. He didn't want them ruined by his demonic touch. 

"Ahem," Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Would you mind if I took a minute to get cleaned up? Hell does nothing for personal hygiene."

"Go ahead," Crowley said, rolling his eyes at the pathetic demon standing before him. Why was he so fidgety and uncomfortable? Most demons had more self-confidence than that. Crowley gazed suspiciously at the demon as he hurried up the stairs. Something didn't make sense.

Crowley shelved his confusion for a moment and placed a record in the old record player. The lilting melody of Love of my Life by Queen began to play.

Upstairs, Aziraphale opened his closet to find his familiar collection of garments. Before he dared touch the pristine white and cream fabrics, he washed the hellish grime off his hands and face, staring in dismay at his reflection. His once bright and rosy complexion was a faded, skin-and-bones shade of pastel filth. His glazed over eyes were unnerving to say the least, and he hated that his form had changed so drastically after his fall. With a sigh, he let his wings unfold, and he stared at the black feathers, which were easily the most beautiful part of his newly changed form. Aziraphale had always admired Crowley's wings—they were a handsome shade of midnight black—but Aziraphale's dark wings just reminded him of what once was but was no more. He put his wings away and changed into his old clothes, feeling a bit more like himself. 

When he walked down the stairs, he recognized the tune of a Queen song he knew quite well. He chuckled. "This one always made me think of you. In fact I listened to it that morning ... the morning I ... well ... fell."

"Boo hoo. I don't care about your sob story. We all fall eventually. You don't want to hear the horror stories about my fall," Crowley said with an eye roll.

"Actually, I do. I know you'd always get nightmares about your fall, but you never told me what happened."

Crowley gave the other demon a suspicious glance, not believe him just yet. "I just—"

"—sauntered vaguely downward, yes, I know. You always say that."

"Just ... just tell me your story," Crowley said bitingly. "I just need to fill in the gaps in my memory and then we can go our separate ways."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, his face falling. Sure, him and Crowley had gone their separate ways before, but never for long. "Well, what questions do you have?"

"Everything. Who are you? Why do I have memories time and a time where someone is obviously missing?"

"Well, that'd be the Arrangement, you see," Aziraphale said, proceeding to explain how their relationship worked. "We met in the garden of Eden, you see. And I just kept bumping into you. After a time it seemed we could, well, have some use for each other."

Crowley was silent for a good long while. "Why is my memory so jumbled this century? Farther back it seems to make more sense, but the recent history is all a mess."

"I suppose that'd be because we started seeing each other more. The Almighty really was lazy removing these memories. You can't remove me from your memory and pretend I don't exist. I'd like to believe I've helped shape the person you are today."

"I don't even know you," Crowley spat. "You shaped nothing. Thank you for your time, but I think it's best you go."