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It was the year 1594. The autumn sunlight drenched the Globe Theater in warmth and a golden glow. William Shakespeare frantically scrawled down words onto an already cramped piece of paper and pleaded with his rehearsing actors not to walk out on him. "I'm telling you, I only need to change a few more things before it's ready to give back to you, you no-good, half-witted excuses for players!"
"Bill, you're drunk, and you've given us a dozen versions already to memorize. I'm hungry and I want to go home," the actor today reading for Romeo stated. "We'll come back tomorrow."
Echoing their agreement, his fellow actors dropped their costumes and props at the edge of the stage and left, much to the playwright's chagrin. He continued to scribble more words down and then paused before letting out a cry of euphoric victory. "Now! Read this and tell me what you…" But all of the actors had gone. "Oh."
Sitting on the lowest benches to see the actors rehearse was an unlikely pair. An angel and a demon. The angel had been trying to convince the demon to come with him to the theater for a couple of years now. Unfortunately, when the demon had finally agreed, there was nothing actually being performed. Only rehearsals.
"That was underwhelming," muttered the demon, Crowley. "We've been sitting here for three hours, angel, and now the actors are gone. I'm leaving too."
"No, don't!" said Aziraphale, the angel. "Maybe we could--"
Shakespeare had heard them talking. He whirled around to face them and brandished the paper. "You!" he cried.
"Ah--us?" stuttered Aziraphale.
"Get over here and read these lines for me. I need to see them performed."
"No," said Crowley flatly.
Aziraphale wanted to apologize for his companion's rudeness, but he also didn't particularly want to have to read any lines. "I'm afraid neither of us are actors, just audience members--"
But Shakespeare had grabbed both of their arms and was marching them over to the stage. "Everyone's an actor. Whole world is a stage. Besides, it doesn't matter, I just need you to read the lines."
He does sound quite...intoxicated , Aziraphale thought privately. He quite enjoyed this man's plays, but he questioned whether anything he could have written in this state could be good.
"No, no, absolutely not!" protested Crowley. "Angel, there is no way in Hell that I'm going to do this."
"Angel?" asked Shakespeare.
Aziraphale would have shot Crowley a glare if they hadn't been in public. "Yes, it's short for...Angelo. That's my name."
"Well, Mr. Angelo, you can read Romeo's lines. That's these." He pointed on the page.
"I'm leaving," Crowley said again.
"You will do no such thing!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Come now, I'm sure it won't take very long."
Crowley let out a long, drawn out sound that was partially a groan and partially a hiss. "Ffffine," he said finally. "Three hours of watching those morons read the lines and I still have no bloody idea what this play is about. Is it one of the funny ones? I do like the funny ones."
"It is a great tragedy!" proclaimed Shakespeare, throwing his hands into the air. "An epic romance, star-crossed young lovers, whose circumstances drive them to their deaths."
"How wonderful," drawled Crowley. "So, Angelo , you're reading for...what's his name?"
"Ah, Romeo, I believe." Aziraphale frowned as he read the lines. He was fairly sure that he understood what was happening in the scene. "Which, ahem, means you must be reading for--"
"Romeo's beautiful lover, Juliet!" said Shakespeare. He was writing a second copy of the lines on the back of another piece of paper.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Crowley said.
Aziraphale sort of shrugged at him, as if to say, well, it'll be over soon, and then we can go get lunch . Crowley just sneered in response.
"Now, Mr. Angelo, you start...here. It is the first meeting between two lovers. Do try to make it seem realistic." Shakespeare handed them each one of the papers.
"Alright, let's see…" Aziraphale felt himself blushing as he read over the lines. There was quite a bit in there about sin and prayer and...hands and lips. He cleared his throat. "'If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.'"
Crowley coughed. "Excuse me?"
"Just--read the damned lines, sir," Shakespeare said.
"I am going to regret agreeing to this." Crowley scanned the paper and found his line. Sounding almost bored, he read, "'Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and...palm to palm is holy palmers'...kiss.'" He wrinkled his nose.
Aziraphale hurried his next line. "'Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?'"
Crowley raised his eyebrows. "'Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.'" The irony in his line was not lost on either of them.
"Good, good, very good," Shakespeare muttered to himself. "Continue!"
"'O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair'," Aziraphale read. His voice shook just slightly. The words were indeed beautiful despite their writer's inebriation, and they had some sort of power over Aziraphale as he said them. He looked up from his script at Crowley's face, eyes hidden behind his darkened glasses and expression impenetrable except for a small note of incredulity. Aziraphale bit his lip. He hoped that his effort to make the lines believable didn't come off just a little too earnest.
"'Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake'," responded Crowley.
"'Then move not, while my--my prayer's effect I take'," Aziraphale said, stumbling through the line. "'Thus from my lips, by yours, my...sin is purged.'"
Shakespeare was nodding, watching them intently.
Was it Aziraphale's imagination, or did Crowley speak the next line a bit more softly? "'Then have my lips the sin that they have took.'"
"And there !" exclaimed Shakespeare suddenly, making them both jump. "Is where they kiss. Just as soon as Juliet gives him permission--yes, yes, perfect! Good. I've outdone myself."
"I don't actually have to kiss him, do I?" Crowley asked.
His teasing tone made Aziraphale frown slightly. He almost said something to the effect of would that really be so terrible? before catching himself and saying nothing at all.
"Not unless you want to!" laughed Shakespeare. "This isn't a real performance, sir. Just read the next line, Mr. Angelo, if you would."
Trying not to sound breathless, Aziraphale read, "'Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.'"
"And there they kiss once more!" the playwright cried. Again, Aziraphale and Crowley both flinched in surprise. "And the last line!"
"'You kiss by the book'," Crowley told Aziraphale.
"Thank you very much, gentlemen." Shakespeare snatched their scripts back and took up his pen again, dipping it into the ink pot conveniently balanced on the edge of the stage before scrawling the word perfect across the bottom of one. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off to celebrate my accomplishments with a very large amount of alcohol. I don't expect I'll remember you in the morning, but carry this knowledge with you: you have just been the first performers of a scene from what shall become the most celebrated love story in all of history!" He swaggered off.
Crowley and Aziraphale were left standing by the stage, silent for several minutes.
"Let's agree to never speak about this again," said Crowley.
Aziraphale did not say anything, which Crowley probably took as agreement anyway. He also did not suggest that they go get something to eat together. They parted ways that day without so much as a goodbye.
It just wasn't fair that the Bard's words had gotten to his head like this. Aziraphale had long since accepted that the all-consuming love he had for Crowley would never and could never be reciprocated. And yet there he was, blushing like...well, like a human . Sometimes Aziraphale thought that he might have spent too long living amongst the humans and that was why he could no longer close his eyes without seeing Crowley's face.
His skin, which had once not served any purpose other than to make him look like a man so he wouldn't frighten anyone, now felt much too real...and felt too much . Sensations like pain and heat and cold didn't used to bother him. He barely knew that they were there. The understanding of heat and cold had come first, standing in the desert sun and then the penetrating chill when night fell over the sandy hills. Pain had come far later--not until after he had watched the young prophet Jesus (then called Yeshua, before his name had been Anglicized) die in agony. Aziraphale hadn't really known pain himself at the time, but he knew it was something to be dreaded. Something to avoid. For the most part, he had succeeded in avoiding pain since then, though the occasional discorporation was always unpleasant.
And now this. He never thought he would have to worry about something like this. This was always something far beyond anything he thought an angel could be capable of. Then again, no other angel had spent over five thousand years inhabiting a human form and living on Earth. This was uncharted territory, to say the least.
Because--because it was a sin , for goodness sake! One of the big ones! Everyone knew that. It was what Shakespeare was referring to when he wrote those beautiful, wonderful lines. Humans could be forgiven for those sins. Any of them, even lust. But angels were held to a higher standard. Aziraphale simply couldn't afford to let himself become any more human.
Over the next couple of years, he tried to convince himself that the best thing would be to return to Heaven and give up life on Earth. Say that he had grown weary of it and ask for someone else to take his post. Never see Crowley again. While thinking about it, he learned another new, very human sensation: heartache. He didn't want to go back to Heaven. Earth had everything he wanted. Earth had good food and excellent theater and books and wine and cozy armchairs and people in love and dogs and the concept of curiosity and…
And Crowley. Earth had Crowley. Even though Aziraphale was avoiding him. It only worked for a few years before Crowley found him at the Globe, again . Shakespeare, true to his word, hadn't remembered them. And Aziraphale had fallen right back into his old ways of giving in when Crowley asked him for help, letting him flip a coin, and giving him a pleading look to help the Bard out by making his new play successful.
More years passed, then decades. Four hundred and twenty six years since the day that he and Crowley had read the lines, Aziraphale was dusting off his oldest copies of Shakespeare's plays. He had always loved them, and had seen every performance of them that he could. Some were rather strange. He had a feeling that Shakespeare would have approved even of the strangest ones and would have been delighted, if a little confused, by the all-women productions.
As he reached up towards the highest books on the shelf, one of the books came tumbling down and bounced off of his head before hitting the floor.
"Ouch!" cried Aziraphale. He rubbed the sore spot on his head and put the dustcloth aside to kneel down and gently pick up the old volume. "Ahh," he sighed. It was his very favorite copy of Romeo and Juliet , the one that he had found in the early seventeen hundreds in a small library that had mostly burned down. A small black scorch mark marred the red cover.
The book had landed on its spine and fallen open. Aziraphale habitually took his reading glasses out of his pocket and slipped them onto his nose. He began to read. His heart figuratively skipped a beat when he realized what page it had opened to.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much .
Aziraphale let his hand linger on the words. He had been there when they were first written and spoken. He remembered all too well the way they had flowed from the Bard's mind to the ink on the page, and from the ink on the page out from between Crowley's lips. Like they had been written precisely so that he could say them.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
"I should close the book," Aziraphale whispered to himself. "It brings back...too many memories, reading it like this. And I've tried so hard to forget it all...to stop feeling all of it. Why…oh, why do I still feel it?"
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
He lifted the book up into his lap, leaning against the bookshelf and sitting cross-legged on the ground. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing shakily. The words had just as much of an effect on him as they always had, right from the beginning, though it was easier to ignore when he was watching other people speak them. When he was alone, he could only hear Crowley. His tone while speaking the lines had been exasperated, irritated, sarcastic and impatient--a far cry from the many loving, flirtatious, and almost reverent performances Aziraphale had seen since. But Aziraphale didn't care. Crowley had still been the best Juliet in any performance he had ever seen.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do ;
Aziraphale didn't know exactly how long it had been since he realized that he wanted to kiss Crowley, since that particular physical aspect of typical romantic human relationships had seemed appealing to him. What he did know was that for as long as he had wanted it, he had known that he could never have it. Angels were not meant for that sort of thing. They weren't supposed to want physical affection of any sort, let alone... that sort.
And although he supposed he knew that Crowley had some fondness towards him, that he cared about their friendship in every way that he was capable, demons didn't do love the way that angels or even humans did. Sure, they could do the physical aspect...but that was the trouble, wasn't it? Aziraphale couldn't give anything in that way, and Crowley couldn't in the other. It would never be enough, for either of them. Star-crossed, indeed.
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
They had stopped the apocalypse together (though the more Aziraphale thought about it, the more he wondered exactly how much the two of them actually had done for the whole situation) almost a year ago now. Aziraphale was grateful every day that the Earth was still going. He was grateful that he and Crowley hadn't been killed and that they were being left alone for the most part to live their lives. And he was grateful that Crowley hadn't left his life entirely even after there was no need for their arrangement anymore now that neither of them were working for Heaven or Hell and there was no apocalypse to stop anymore. And yet it felt like he had just been standing still this whole time.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
It was his punishment, he supposed. He had become far too human-like, and as punishment he received the terrible parts of being human as well. He felt the pounding heart and flushing face of in love as opposed to just the angelic warmth and calm of loving . He had the deep ache in his chest of knowing that he was never going to be loved in the way that he wanted to be. The human knowledge that no matter what, he was always just going to be...alone.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
It was honestly a shock that he hadn't fallen already. Every moment that he remained an angel was a surprise to him. Perhaps the ones who made those sorts of decisions had just determined that he wasn't worth it. He hadn't belonged in Heaven for a long time, but he would make an incredibly disappointing demon as well. He would be a disappointment wherever he was placed, so the powers that presided over whether an angel had sinned enough to fall just didn't care if he was sitting in a bookshop on Earth. He wasn't causing any trouble anymore. That must have been all that mattered. As long as he stayed quiet, and...and away from Crowley if he could, nobody would see the need to make him fall.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
Yes, if he could stay away from Crowley…
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Aziraphale touched his own lips as he read. He couldn't stop himself. The human desire in him wanted to imagine other lips against his, wanted to touch and be touched in so many ways. But he wasn't allowed , he couldn't…
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
You kiss by the book.
He kept reading. Halfway through the play, tears began to slide down at his face--yet another human trait he had slowly acquired. He was never sure what to think about crying, he just knew that he did it far more often than most humans did. Angelic emotions tended to overflow easily. And this story was just so...well, tragic, of course. Tragic and beautiful. Unrealistic? Maybe a little, but the point that Shakespeare wanted to make lost nothing for it.
By the end, Aziraphale was sobbing. His tears splashed down onto the pages and stained them, but he didn't care. He closed the book and hugged it to his chest, shaking. "They just wanted to love each other and be left alone," he sniffed. "And they...they were just...so young!"
He gasped sharply as the door to the bookshop opened.
"We are closed !" he cried, unable to hide the catch in his voice as he dissolved into tears again.
But the voice that answered him did not care that the shop was closed. "Angel, are you crying?"
Aziraphale couldn't answer through the harsh sobs that continued to wrack his body. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed his forehead against his book. I wish...I wish that I wished he wasn't here!
"Angel!" Crowley sounded very close now, and quite worried. "Aziraphale, are you alright? Look at me." His voice was too soft, too sympathetic and gentle. "Look at me, angel. Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?"
"N-no, I just…" Aziraphale relinquished his hold on the book as Crowley tugged it out of his hands to look at it.
" Romeo and Juliet ?" Crowley read. "I...I'm sorry, are you really crying over a four-hundred year old play?"
" Yes !" Aziraphale wailed, breaking down further.
"Oh! Okay, alright, um…" Sounding vaguely panicked, Crowley said, "There, there? It's not real, Aziraphale." He patted the angel's shoulder.
"I know that," retorted Aziraphale. He tried to wipe roughly at his eyes, but it didn't do much good. Tears continued to pour down his face like so many raindrops. He felt like he might burst from the flurry of emotions inside of him.
Suddenly, Crowley's hands were on either side of his face. He tried in vain to swipe the tears away with his thumbs as they fell. "Please stop crying," he implored. "I really don't like seeing you like this."
Aziraphale almost stopped breathing. He could feel every tiny movement of Crowley's hands against his skin. In his astonishment, his tears forgot to keep falling.
"That's better, isn't it?" Crowley encouraged.
Aziraphale's lower lip trembled and he burst into tears again.
"Oh, well, that settles it. I'm just absolute shit at this," groaned Crowley.
"It's alright!" Aziraphale tried to convince him. "P-please, don't worry about me, my-my dear. In fact, perhaps you ought to leave."
"You don't really want that," Crowley said, trying and failing to sound confident.
Aziraphale shook his head helplessly. "No, I don't," he choked out. "That's the last thing I want."
"What do you want?" asked Crowley.
For you to stay. I want you to stay, and take me in your arms until I can stop crying. And...and I want to stop doubting myself, to stop being unsure every moment about whether or not I'm destroying myself. And I want … "You," Aziraphale breathed. "Just you."
"Well...I'm here."
He nodded. "I know."
Crowley's hand slid around to rest on the back of Aziraphale's neck. "Why are you really crying? I don't believe that it's just about an old play."
"It isn't just any old play, Crowley. Don't you...don't you remember?" Aziraphale was slowly beginning to get his crying under control.
"I thought we agreed we'd never talk about that," Crowley laughed uncomfortably.
"I agreed to no such thing!" Aziraphale said shrilly.
Crowley frowned. "I suppose you didn't. Huh."
Aziraphale took a deep breath. He shivered as Crowley mopped away the last of his tears with his sleeve before he had a chance to do it himself.
"But what got you so upset?" said Crowley. "I don't understand, angel, I'm sorry."
"It's alright." Aziraphale forced a smile. "I'm not sure you could understand, my dear."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Ah, well, it has to do with...love."
Crowley pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head so that he could look at Aziraphale directly. "You think...I can't understand love?"
"Well, yes."
"Where did you get that idea?" Crowley asked, dumbfounded.
"Maybe understand is the wrong word. I'm sure you're aware of it, it's just...you can't feel this kind...as a demon. You know."
"What kind?" demanded Crowley.
Aziraphale half-heartedly gestured towards the book. "You know...romantic love. Human love."
Crowley just stared at him.
"What?" Aziraphale said defensively.
"Angel…" Crowley said slowly. "First of all...why would that upset you?"
"It's really quite silly," said Aziraphale, although it was anything but silly .
"Try me. You know me. I'll be the first to let you know if something is silly or not."
"It's just...I was reading the play, and...I was thinking about how all they wanted was to be left alone enough to be in love, but their families...they hated each other so much that they ended up causing their children to turn to suicide rather than just...letting them be who they were," Aziraphale tried to explain. He was keenly aware that Crowley's hand was still on the back of his neck, and kept his eyes fixed downwards. "The whole thing is just… unnecessary and based off of needless hatred. And these two children get caught up in it, when all they want is just to be allowed to love. That's all. They just wanted to love." He raised his gaze to meet Crowley's. "Trapped on different sides through no fault of their own, and they just want to love each other."
"Angel?"
"And, well, of course," Aziraphale pressed on, holding onto his courage, "it always makes me think about us ."
"Us?"
"No, it's alright, I know--we could never be... that , for so many reasons."
Crowley placed his hand over Aziraphale's, joining their fingers together. "Do you want us to be?"
"It doesn't matter what I want," Aziraphale said, smiling sadly. "It doesn't matter one bit, my dear."
"Yes, yes it does. Because if you don't want that, then I won't ask you if you want to kiss me," Crowley informed him.
For the second time, Aziraphale forgot how to breathe.
"But if you do want that...then I'll ask."
"Crowley…"
"But I need an answer. And don't...don't you dare tell me that I'm moving too fast now." His hand moved until their palms were pressed together, their fingers flat against each other like two hands might touch in prayer if they belonged to the same person. "Yes or no?"
"I... yes ," Aziraphale managed to say.
Crowley smiled. "Then, let lips do what hands do." And then they were kissing.
All of the times that Aziraphale had imagined and tried not to imagine this moment couldn't possibly compare to the real thing. It was simpler than he had thought it would be. He didn't feel like his body was being lit on fire like it was described in books. Rather, everything just became calmer. His heartbeat slowed rather than sped up, and his eyes closed naturally. Crowley kept their only points of contact as their hands and their lips. A deep pain that Aziraphale had barely been aware of was fading.
Aziraphale pulled away first. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening anymore. Fear gripped him. Now, surely, Heaven couldn't ignore him. Surely he would have to fall now.
"Angel," Crowley said. "What's wrong? Angel, what's wrong? Are you alright? Breathe, Aziraphale, breathe! Oh, angel, I'm sorry--"
"No, don't be! I'm just scared."
"We don't have to do anything more--"
"Shhh," said Aziraphale. "I'm not scared of you . I just...I don't want to fall , Crowley." His voice broke.
Crowley pulled him into his arms and shushed him. "It's alright, it's alright. You aren't falling, angel."
"How do you know?" whimpered Aziraphale. He clung to the demon tightly. Had he ever been held like this before?
"Because I know, Aziraphale. I know. And you'd know if you were." Crowley stroked his hair. "If you were going to fall, it wouldn't be now. It would have been a long time ago. And you can't fall. You're the best angel in all of Heaven. Always have been. You're never going to fall. It's alright, it's alright."
"How can it be?"
"Because...because loving someone isn't a sin. It can't be. Angels are supposed to love, it's practically in your job description," Crowley reassured him.
"We aren't supposed to love demons," Aziraphale pointed out. "Loving a demon the way I love you... kissing you the way I just kissed you...it has to be a sin. But…" As the seconds passed, Aziraphale was realizing something. He no longer cared. If he was going to fall for loving Crowley, then he would rather be fallen than live without loving him. "But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Give me my sin again."
Aziraphale initiated the kiss this time, sitting up taller and touching his lips to Crowley's: softly at first, but gaining confidence. He pressed forward until it was Crowley with his back against the bookshelf, Aziraphale sitting between his knees and his hands holding firmly onto Crowley's waist.
"You do kiss by the book," Crowley said breathlessly. "Where did you learn how to do that?"
"Human instinct, I suppose," replied Aziraphale before closing the gap between them and kissing him again.
"You haven't stopped surprising me since the time you told me that you gave away your sword," sighed Crowley. "Angel, you are a wondrous thing."
"Hush, stop talking. I've waited too long to do this to be distracted by something as commonplace as talking," Aziraphale instructed.
"Oh, indeed? Not as long as I have."
"How long have you--"
"Six thousand years. From the very beginning."
Aziraphale didn't pretend as if that didn't shock him. "Really? Well, in that case, we ought to make up for lost time."
"Wait, wait...just a second." Crowley brought his hand up, touching the back of his knuckles to the angel's cheek. "Aziraphale, I need you to know something."
"What is it?"
"I am capable of love. I think all demons are, but almost all of them choose not to. I just chose you, right at the start, I thought...might as well let it happen, because...because if I stopped, I don't think I would have had anything left sometimes, anything at all." He seemed to be struggling to find the words to explain. "Aziraphale, I've loved you so much, and for so long, and I knew that you loved me in some way, too. But I always thought that you would always choose Heaven over me, and I didn't want you to have to make that choice. Not until I knew at the end of the world that choosing Heaven would destroy you. I couldn't let that happen."
"I understand," Aziraphale murmured.
"But even then, after it was over, I waited, I gave you time, all the time in the world. I would have waited an eternity for you to be ready."
Aziraphale was currently trying not to start crying again. It was from overwhelming happiness this time, though, not despair. "I appreciate that, my dear."
"But you are now?" Crowley asked. "You are ready? You won't just pull away again this time?" It was unbearable, how hopeful and yet how unsure he sounded.
The angel's eyes brimmed over. "I assure you, I am quite ready. And I am sorry that it took me so long."
"Don't ever apologize for that," Crowley said quickly. "Angel, it was worth every single agonizing second."
"Let's not wait another one, then." Before any more tears could slip out, he kissed Crowley again.
After a significant length of time (he didn't keep track exactly but it was probably several hours), Aziraphale became aware that the door to the bookshop was almost definitely still unlocked. Though it was unlikely that anyone would come into his bookshop this late at night, he didn't want to risk it.
"Do you want to stay?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley looked rather disheveled. Somehow, his jacket had ended up a few feet away on the floor and his sunglasses had fallen off of his head. His normally perfect hair was tousled. The slits of his pupils had widened into soft ovals. "You're...asking me to stay?"
"Of course."
"Then...yes."
Aziraphale stood up. He placed the copy of Romeo and Juliet back onto the shelf, went to the door to lock it and turn the sign around, and came back to find Crowley still sitting on the ground. He smiled at the look of this hasn't quite sunk in yet on his demon's face. "Crowley, let's go upstairs," he suggested gently.
"Right, yep, good idea." Still, Crowley didn't move.
With a patient sigh, Aziraphale took his hands and pulled him to his feet. "Come on." He took the time to pick up Crowley's jacket from the ground, leaving the sunglasses right where they were, before leading him up the stairs to the tiny, barely-used apartment that was really only good for storing the books that were too old or too special to keep in the shop. With a frown, he realized that the bed was also covered in books. He nudged them all into neat stacks on the floor with a minor miracle, getting rid of the dust in the blankets for good measure. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the blankets next to him. "Come here," he invited.
Crowley did. He put his arm around Aziraphale's waist and exhaled slowly.
Aziraphale thought that he could be perfectly content sitting like that for the rest of time. He held Crowley's hand and stroked it with his thumb, putting his head down on the demon's shoulder. "Are you at all...worried about Heaven and Hell discovering this?"
With a quiet hum, Crowley shook his head. "'Alack, there is more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords,'" he quoted. "'Look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity.'"
"Yes, dear, but really ."
Crowley laughed. "No, I'm not worried. They've got better things to do, and they're still terrified of us anyway."
"Ah, you may be right."
"Why? Are you worried?"
Aziraphale squeezed his hand. "Just a little."
"Are you going to...what's that phrase the humans use? Get cold feet?" Crowley asked, half-serious.
"Certainly not. 'I have more care to stay than will to go', you might say." He chuckled. "Here's a question: how long will we be able to continue to quote that play before we run out of lines?"
"I don't know, angel. I just hope our story has a happier ending, don't you?"
Aziraphale's face fell. "Well, yes, of course."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down like that," Crowley said. Then he yawned.
"Oh, are you tired?" exclaimed Aziraphale.
"It's been a week or so since I've slept," admitted Crowley. "I'm fine, really."
But Aziraphale was already pulling back the blankets on the bed. "Let's get some sleep, then."
"You...don't sleep," Crowley stated, confused.
"No, but you do. And who knows, it may well be another human trait that I can take on." Aziraphale decided that they would both be more comfortable in pajamas, so he made it happen.
"You're going to try and sleep?"
"Or perhaps I'll just lay here, or read. Either way, you do need rest."
Crowley didn't argue any further. When he and Aziraphale were both lying down, he closed his eyes and sighed.
"Goodnight," Aziraphale said, pulling him into his arms. He knew that he wouldn't be sleeping, but that was fine. He would be more than happy to just live in the experience of holding the being that he loved so dearly.
Barely awake, Crowley responded, "'Goodnight, goodnight, parting is such sweet sorrow...that I shall say goodnight...till it be morrow.'"
Aziraphale smiled and ended the conversation with a whisper. "'A thousand times goodnight', my dear. 'A thousand times goodnight'."