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Pandora’s Book
He finds them two weeks after the not end of the world. He’d been tearing through every book he had but never had read and then going out and searching for more when he’d run out of those. It seemed as if he had suddenly been hit by the realization that all of this, all these wonderful and terrible things humans had made, books included, had been nearly lost. Forever. And he hadn’t read it all. There were things unexplored and memories that needed refreshing through the power of the written word. So he’d b egun tearing through book after scroll after script after tome.
Perhaps he’d been a bit frenetic about the whole thing.
But it all came crashing to a halt on Tuesday afternoon, the taste of a good earl grey tea still lingering on his tongue, as he ran his fingers across the spines of his newest additions. They were an unusual bunch. He’d gotten them as a package deal. He’d really only wanted the first edition collection of Sappho’s works, but he’d been allowed it only if he bought the whole case. Well. Not like money was an option to stop him even if he loathed to pay the price asked.
He picked from the books remaining at random. They were his now, might as well peruse them, see what humanity had written, be it good or bad or somewhere inbetween.
The book he picked up seemed to have a bit of all of it. Much like humanity as a whole, he supposed.
It was a collection of works from various authors. The forward said that while he had been an accomplished poet in his own right, some of the people he met seemed to have far wiser or more beautiful words than he. He simply could not let their words go on unnoticed and unremarked upon just because they had an unfortunate lack of fame to peddle them with. So here were the words, letters sent or shared, conversations or songs uttered, here they were written down. Some were signed, others left blank, and others still were hidden, tucked behind initials or clever pen-names.
Most of it seemed good; there were a few bits that were rather breathtaking and a few bits that were more than just dull, but on the whole he was having a pleasant evening in his armchair with his tea reading it.
He always read the names, the initials, whatever it was signed with, as a kind of game with himself. Could he spot a familiar name that made it big or even just had one thing published? Most of the names in the book had multiple poems so even the ones that were left with just pen-names were not too difficult to place. Having a steady sense of their prose, of their rhythm, and of their choice of metaphors helped place the individual if Aziraphale did in fact know them or their works. The ones signed with only initials with only a single poem or two were much harder.
Perhaps that’s why he kept such a record of who wrote what, often tracing back to compare poems to one another if written by the same individual. His mind whirling through authors famous and unknown, comparing comparing comparing
Perhaps that’s why the initials didn’t strike him as anything spectacular, anything familiar, anything more than just another puzzle to solve, perhaps that’s why he didn’t think of something familiar, something close to him, someone dear to him
He was up too close, loosing the forest for the trees.
At least, he was until the tree slammed into the car
or the car into the tree
or really
it was him in a bently talking about love
and then being slammed forward in his seat when they hit that lovely woman.
He’s reeling from the hit, staring down at the page before him as the words sound in his head, so so familiar
and they were familiar
but they could have been said by anyone
anyone could string together that set of words
anyone could place it in a poem
Crowley didn’t even like poetry, sneered at it, mocked it
But wasn’t that just like him? Wasn’t that just what he did?- he acts tough, blusters, pretends he doesn’t like a thing when it’s a very undemonic thing. When it’s a thing he doesn’t think he deserves. When-
Aziraphale reads.
It’s not great. It’s really not anything all too special, he’s consumed thousands and hundreds of thousands of poets and he knows there’s nothing too special here, nothing spectacular except for the way that if AJC is his Anthony J Crowley then it tugs and rips at his heart at his soul at him
So Aziraphale reads and tries to find a demon too kind between the lines of emotions demons aren’t supposed to have. Tries to find a familiar voice sat betwixt the letters of thoughts rendered on paper in a letter shared with a man Aziraphale’s never met. Tries to read anything but the way the lines drip of Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale
Tries not hurt at the tender ache in it all
He reads lines like
Of all the faces he wears
the one when he’s caught off guard
wine-drunk and thoughtlessly loose
the one where
we’re secluded away
deluded in a moment of
we’re safe we’re hidden we’re safe
that’s the face I love best
the one that doesn’t lie
with every forced smile or
facade of unfeeling strength
the one that frets
or lets himself enjoy
all the things he deserves
yet thinks himself undeserving of
he reads
I cannot get too close
if not for him forbading it
warding me off
and he should
he should
I am nothing good
nothing that he deserves to have
if I had him I
would not let go
I don’t know how
I strangle things
with too tight coils
with an ache I cannot suppress
I would gather him tight
I would kiss constellations
across his breast bone
down his stomach
across his thighs
and down his arms
I would leave
stardust light presses of lips
against the soft skin
of the inside of his wrist
feel the pulse of his heart
the unneeded one he has
despite it all
the one with kindness
and bastardness
mixed together
like the finest wine
I would cradle it beneath my lips
worship it in the most
unholy of manners
in the most profane of ways
I would not be able to stop
it would kill me i’m certain
no
it’s best he forestalls me
forbids me
denies me
I am nothing good
and he deserves nothing but that
he reads
I am terrible
and no good
and hardly any good at that
I ache for terrible things
awful things
my hands feel empty
and they yearn
for the joy
the privilege
the chance
to cradle his jaw in my palms
the way stars were once held
formed
made
loved
When he’s around
my whole body sways towards him
towards his heat
his light
like a snake to a rock
to the sun
to a supernova
surely I will burn
but there will be no sweeter torment
than to finally go
by that which plagues me
at night
and during waking hours
with such ferocity
that surely I
am already dying.
He reads
I’d slow the world if I thought
for just a moment
that it was what you wanted
what you needed
I fear I cannot do
that one thing which
you asked of me
I don’t know how to let go
how to not come
how to not search for you
feel out for you
come to you
I do not know how to stay away
I only know how to be around you
in your orbit
space was never so cold
before I knew your warmth
I’ve been cursed once to crawl
and yet you ask it of me again
alright
fine
I never have been able to deny you
have I?
I fear though
going much slower
will be a standstill
but angel
whatever you want
is yours.
He reads until he cannot. He reads until he cannot because he has run out of poems by AJC. He rereads them. He tries to pick them apart, see if it’s really Crowley, his Crowley, but his chest is tight and his core is humming with something, and deep within himself he asks how could it be anyone but him?
He doesn’t know what to do with this information.
He does
He doesn’t know how to handle this epiphany, this proclamation of things he knew already.
Oh but he does he does he does
He doesn’t know how to reveal to Crowley that he’s seen, read, been told so much more than the demon probably ever meant to reveal.
With a tenderness that breaks him
nothing less
with an all encompassing love
with love
simply love
Aziraphale steals a breath, and then another to fortify himself. He closes the book but marks the pages. He has work to do. He will take Crowley apart with love but it must be gentle and tender and lovely. And it must be slow. He cannot scare him off now, no matter how the demon blusters, his heart has always been a terribly soft and bruised thing wrapped in thorns.