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Ten days. It had been ten bloody days since Crowley and Aziraphale had fooled their respective head offices and celebrated at the Ritz. Ten days didn’t seem like a Hell of a lot, but when it was ten days added onto six thousand years of bleeding his heart dry with pining for his best friend, it was a sodding eon.
And Crowley was literally bent out of shape about it. He couldn’t concentrate. He could barely look at Aziraphale without falling down for no apparent reason. His blasted legs would just stop working, and he’d have to brace himself as gracefully as possible against the nearest surface to make it look deliberate. Like he just wanted to lean. Flash bastard and all that. He couldn’t eat (which was fairly routine). He couldn’t sleep (which was categorically not). He was a bloody mess, and he had no idea how to fix it.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale was completely fine. Acting like not a bloody thing was different. All smiles and inviting Crowley in for a nightcap and calling him on the phone to arrange a visit to the new museum exhibit about Satan knew what. Crowley was so busy staggering into priceless artifacts and getting shouted at by security that he had no idea afterward what they’d even gone in to see.
The point was, Aziraphale was normal, and Crowley was not. And he was fairly sure it had something to do with the uncontrollable lust-love-whatever-EMOTIONS that he couldn’t stop feeling for a certain angel now that Hell was no longer breathing down his neck.
Crowley had tried to stay away for a bit, get some distance between them, but the Bentley, and his phone, and even his own feet all conspired to take him straight to Aziraphale’s door no matter what he said about it. Crowley had then tried to pretend to himself that Hell was still in the picture, still watching his every move so that he dare not say anything to Aziraphale for fear of putting them both in danger again. All that had got him was a bad case of jump-out-of-his-skin paranoia and an outbreak of supremely attractive hives. So at last he had tried to actually address it with the angel--and the stuttering stream-of-consciousness drivel that fell out of his mouth merely led to a confused look and a sincere, if somewhat condescending, “Crowley, are you quite all right?”
So. Now he was here. Because he was desperate. Because he had literally nowhere else to turn. Because Aziraphale happened to mention that the woman would be leaving town soon, and it had put the idea in his head. And, frankly, because he was a bloody idiot with zero chill.
He rang the bell first before reading the sign.
Madam Tracy, Sibyl to the Stars, By Appointment Only, DON’T RING THE BELL
“Bollocks,” Crowley swore, snapping his fingers.
Madam Tracy opened the door in a swirl of robes. She was wearing considerably less makeup than the last time Crowley had seen her, and was minus one ginger wig.
“Mr. Crowley,” she said, surprised. “It appears we had an appointment. I have no idea how I missed that in my diary this morning. Won’t you come in?”
“Obliged,” Crowley muttered as he followed her into a nearby sitting room.
“I’ll just get us some tea.”
As she bustled about in the kitchen, Crowley took in the tawdry fabrics, brass figurines, and crystal ball.
“Here we are,” she said kindly as she settled the cup onto the table in front of him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crowley?”
“I need some sort of…” He waved his hand vaguely. “...hocus pocus. Something to tell me...what to do.”
“What to do about what, love?”
“I have a...a problem. I can’t be more specific.”
Madam Tracy raised an eyebrow that could either mean I know exactly what your problem is, you daft pillock, or I am only tolerating your brusque manner because you’re paying me. He didn’t give a blessing which it was. He just wanted someone to tell him what to do.
“Cards, then,” she said, picking up the crystal ball as if it weighed nothing (which was likely, since it was obviously made of plastic) and set it on the floor next to the table. Then she pulled a squarish, scarf-wrapped bundle from a pocket in her voluminous robes. She set the bundle on the table and untied the knot, folding out each corner of the scarf around a deck of Tarot cards.
After unwrapping the cards, she closed her eyes and folded her hands together, making some sort of hmming-hrrking noise in the back of her throat that did not sound particularly healthy, nor confidence-inducing. This had clearly been a Bad Idea.
Her eyes popped open like someone had pinched her arse. Then her features relaxed into her usual smile, and she started shuffling the cards. After a minute or two of shuffling and sorting with a sublime expression on her face, she laid the deck on the table in front of Crowley.
“Now, cut the deck in half whilst contemplating your question.”
Crowley did as he was told, though he very nearly took her literally and cut the cards into pieces out of spite.
“There, there,” she said, looking down at the cards rather than at him. “It will be alright. We’ll see what the cards have to say, hm?”
Crowley ground his teeth together and slumped loafishly in his chair. Profoundly. Stupid. Idea.
“Well, isn’t this interesting?” she said after she’d laid out a cross pattern of four cards.
“Interesting?” he said, leaning forward. Maybe she’d See something useful, though truthfully, it looked to him like a nine-year-old had gone to a Ren Fair, got a contact high from all the weed, and decided to draw silly pictures.
“Yes. You see this card here at the top? That’s the Seven of Wands, love, only it’s reversed. And in this position in the spread, it’s saying that you need to believe in yourself. You’re battle weary from a long, dark struggle. But you’ve persevered, haven’t you? You’ve made it. So hold to that belief as you’re dealing with your problem.”
Crowley harrumphed. Sounded like a bunch of garbage psychobabble to him. Though the part about the battle weariness was true, he supposed. He nodded for her to continue.
“This card here, the Knight of Cups, is telling you there’s a gallant man in your life that you need to propose to.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You need to propose, love.”
“Propose...like...marriage?”
Madam Tracy pursed her lips, looking at him as if he were being particularly thick. “Could be marriage. Could be an arrangement of sorts? The cards only reinforce what you already know.”
“Shows what good they are, then,” Crowley sniffed. “I know fuck all about anything.”
Tracy sighed heavily and took a sip of her tea.
“Wassat one?” Crowley said, indicating the card on the right. “I like that one. Pointy swords, girl all tied up. That looks like me.”
“Ah, yes. The Eight of Swords. But it’s reversed, love.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning you’re in a rut, and you need to use the strength we talked about with the Seven of Wands to dredge yourself out of it. You are your own worst enemy, dear. Getting in your own way all the time.”
“Huh, yeah, well… I resemble that remark, I suppose.”
“And this one is the most important card. It’s the What’s-Next card, you know. The Magician.”
“The Magician? Augh, really?” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose in disdain. Charlatans. Totally bamboozled Aziraphale last century. Crowley’d never cared for them since. “Can’t bloody stand magicians.”
“This one is special,” Tracy insisted. “This one is positive, quick-thinking, and inspiring. Harness that positive energy, and your problem will be resolved as if by magic.”
Crowley sat for a long moment--a long few moments, in point of fact--considering what Tracy, and the cards, had told him. On the one hand, they’d been vague and unhelpful. On the other hand, they’d been...hm...vague and unhelpful.
“Yeah, I don’t get it,” he said.
Tracy rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and said in an overly calm voice, “The cards are telling you to just kiss him already.”
Crowley, who’d decided for some silly reason to tilt his chair back at that particular moment, fell completely to the floor, knocking the table with his foot and sending tarot cards flying in every direction.
“What?” he squeaked, popping back up onto his feet as Tracy rose gracefully to hers.
“I said,” she began, taking a deep breath. “Just kiss him already, you ridiculous person. Saints preserve us, you are incredibly dense.”
Crowley gaped at her for a full minute in complete shock.
For her part, Tracy straightened her robes, and plastered her calm smile back into place.
“Thank you so much for coming, love. That’ll be eighty quid.”
Grumbling, Crowley paid her, and then sped the Bentley all the way back to the bookshop.
Stupid cards, stupid fortune, stupid brain not knowing what to do. Tracy got one thing right: he couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t stay still. He had to do something or he’d end up like that girl all tied up and abandoned. And he had to admit that having his problems resolved as if by magic held a tremendous amount of appeal.
Maybe...maybe he should take Tracy’s advice. What was the worst that could happen? Okay, the worst that could happen is that he’d lose the love of his life and his best friend and any hope of happiness in this life or any other. Splendid.
He was still undecided about what he was actually going to do when he shoved open the door to the bookstore and called for the angel.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley whipped off his sunglasses. “Aziraphale, where are you?”
“Here, dear,” the angel said, calm as you please, standing at the top of the stairs to the flat he never used. “Whatever is the matter? You look positively disheveled.”
“Dish--? Ngh-- Angel, come down here.”
With an arched eyebrow that Crowley could see even from this distance, Aziraphale capitulated and walked steadily down the stairs towards him. Crowley’s legs wobbled treacherously while he waited, the shifty bastards.
As the angel’s feet touched the floorboards, he said, “Crowley, what could possibly be so--”
“I…” Crowley interrupted, but then stopped, words stuck in his throat.
“Yes?” Aziraphale said with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression.
“Fuck it,” Crowley said.
He lurched forward and captured the angel’s face in his hands. He paused the length of a heartbeat, waiting for Aziraphale to pull back, to protest. But he didn’t protest--he slid his hand over Crowley’s wrist, gripping it softly, as if granting permission. So Crowley leaned that one inch further and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s, pouring into it all of the strength and faith and adoration and magic he felt for the one being he loved enough to stay and save the world for.
Crowley could barely feel his body for all the energy radiating between them as they kissed. And he wondered, for just a moment, if this was what it felt like to be discorporated.
A full measure of euphoria later, Crowley pulled back to assess the angel’s reaction.
“Sorry,” he said huskily. “Should’ve asked first.”
But Aziraphale was smiling up at him without a trace of regret or worry.
“The only apology I’ll accept is one for taking so damned long to kiss me in the first place,” he said, his smile turning smug.
Crowley gaped, speechlessly. “Wh-- You could have kissed me!”
“I suppose so,” the angel said, tracing a finger along Crowley’s jaw and gazing at him in a dreamy fashion that was causing havoc in Crowley’s lower extremities. “But sometimes an angel likes to be wooed. I have standards.”
Crowley scoffed. “Oh, oh, well, alright then. I suppose it was worth all the anguish I’ve suffered this last fortnight. You have standards, after all.”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale agreed, unfazed. “Anguished, were you?”
Crowley made a few inarticulate noises as the angel’s hand dropped from his face to stroke his hip.
“I bet I can think of a few ways to console you,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.
Fuck, Crowley realized in that moment of neurons exploding in his corporeal brain, the cards were right.
It was the last cogent thought he had for, frankly, an obscene amount of time.
* * *
The next afternoon, Aziraphale hummed to himself as he shelved a few books on the ancient art of divination from his section on human mysticism. Crowley had gone to get them something to nosh on, and just in time, too, for Aziraphale was positively famished from the previous night’s--and morning’s--activities. He’d need all the sustenance he could get to keep up with Crowley’s robust energy levels. Not that he was complaining. He had plans for later that evening, and he intended to see them through.
A knock at the door interrupted his ruminations. He set the books on a nearby stack and walked to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open, as he already knew who would be on the other side.
“Good day, love,” said Tracy with a brilliant smile. She was wearing a sedate cardigan and beige, knee-length skirt. “I hope everything went as expected last night.”
“Oh, yes. Very much so, thank you, my dear.”
“Always happy to help out a friend,” she said, winking at him. Then she held out her hand. “That’ll be eighty quid, love.”
Aziraphale pulled out his rarely used wallet and handed over the requested fee.
“Worth every penny,” he said, smiling.