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The Wednesday Morning After “Jim” Arrived, 2023
The “human police officer” knocked at the door at the most inopportune time. Crowley had finally stepped out to tidy the Bentley for Aziraphale’s trip after all their bickering, and Aziraphale just wanted to put the argument behind them and drive to Edinburgh. And now this nonsense – Heaven could not have sent a more woefully underprepared secret agent. Just a cup of tea completely short-circuited the pitiful thing’s thought processes. When Crowley returned (still in a foul mood), he prepared to provoke their unexpected guest – until their introduction.
“Inspector Constable! That’s my name,” claimed the innocent creature.
Aziraphale couldn’t see, only heard and felt Crowley creep up behind him and perch on the arm of his chair. The surly edge in the demon’s voice transformed into amused deviousness: “Course it is.” That sinister, delighted laugh-snort – he sounded like a villain in a children’s animated television show. (On occasion, Aziraphale had caught brief glimpses of Warlock’s favorites.) “First visit to Earth, is it, by any chance?”
Aziraphale didn’t dare underestimate the threat posed by their innocuous-seeming visitor (an unsophisticated spy was still a spy), but Crowley’s antics made it hard to maintain his veneer of gullibility. He reminded Aziraphale less of a snake and more of a cat, toying with his prey. Idly, he imagined Crowley as a cat with a magnificent, shiny black coat and eyes that flashed like gold coins in near darkness. The two of them fell into a brief good cop/bad cop game while the newcomer (ironically unfamiliar with the trope) squirmed. But the demon quickly lost interest and pulled Aziraphale into the back room.
Aziraphale had coaxed Crowley into reaching into his pocket for the much-anticipated car keys just as the door frustratingly opened, and the artless meddler interrupted with, “All done?”
As Aziraphale inwardly groaned, the demon’s feline side quickly sprang back into action. He played with the pesky little presence like a catnip mouse, slyly skewering authoritarian policing while deftly turning down the heat on their Maggie and Nina problem. Their unsuspecting guest appeared to wholly swallow his fib about having to wait a few days to tell if people are in love.
And all the while, a night from decades ago came rushing back to Aziraphale in all its vivid detail. Uh oh. That chivalrous rescue and its aftermath had turned him into such a helpless, lovestruck mess…
May of 1986
Their relationship had evolved over the past fifteen years or so. Rather than meeting just “by accident” or when they had a good excuse like discussing the arrangement, they now planned regular social occasions. While their closer friendship delighted Aziraphale, it had taken time to adjust. The 1941 incident had disturbed him terribly. Although they had come through that night unscathed and with more trust in each other than ever before, he had still agonized for years afterwards about putting their safety in jeopardy again. When Crowley had begun to propose rendezvous, Aziraphale demurred on the grounds that things were moving too fast for him. The demon’s steady persistence had finally worn him down until he no longer resisted the invitations. But they always took extreme precautions. Crowley scanned their meeting sites in advance for any supernatural presences and gave the “abort mission” hand signal if he sensed anything suspicious. (That had only happened once so far.) When they attended concerts or shows, Crowley sat behind Aziraphale and a seat or two over to the right or left. Once the performers took their final bows, Aziraphale exited with the main crowd, getting swept along with the mass of human bodies headed for home or to the pubs. Crowley remained seated for a few minutes, pretending to study his programme, before catching up with Aziraphale under the cover of darkness.
On that memorable spring night, they checked out an experimental play. Feeling reasonably safe among the sparse audience, they broke their own rules to sit next to each other. While the show differed from Aziraphale’s usual tastes, the acting ended up being unexpectedly high quality and the plot emotionally stirring. During a heart-rending scene, he put his hand over Crowley’s, causing his own fingers to tingle pleasantly. For some reason he felt bold enough to draw out the interaction just a tad longer than he might ordinarily have done. Crowley didn’t move his hand away, and Aziraphale only pulled back reluctantly at what felt like the last possible second before it would have turned awkward.
Afterwards, he and Crowley were enjoying a leisurely stroll back to his bookshop, and he was walking on air. So far, everything had aligned perfectly on this charming (dare he say romantic?) evening. The balmy breeze, portending the warmth of summer, enveloped him like a gentle caress. He felt so connected with his favorite being in the universe and looked forward to extending their time together in the seclusion of his home, to just the two of them relaxing in cozy intimacy. He peeked over at the demon, sauntering down the street in acid-washed denim with his usual confident sway. Flaunting voluminous hair and layered bangs that fell in sexy wisps over his forehead, he resembled a rock star. Aziraphale didn’t follow the genre, but even he had absorbed some general idea of modern rock fashion from popular culture. Crowley’s latest look exuded glamour and rebellion, which suited him. Feeling giddy in his radiant presence, the angel chattered enthusiastically and gestured with animated body language.
The pair wandered by two uniformed police officers on patrol. One of them, having overheard a snippet of Aziraphale’s side of the conversation, stopped speaking with his partner and turned his head in their direction. Suddenly, the night took an ugly turn. The man hurled some distasteful and menacing phrases at Aziraphale, including a slur beginning with the letter F. Aziraphale had no idea what had triggered the offensive language. Maybe he was suffering through one of the worst days of his life and needed to take it out on the first passerby who irritated him simply by existing. Perhaps he was showing off for his partner, who was leaning against a closed shopfront and smoking sullenly. And possibly he was just an uncouth, cruel bastard who didn’t need any excuse to behave barbarously.
Aziraphale had certainly experienced prior run-ins with ignoramuses personally affronted by his soft mannerisms. He always carefully refrained from overreacting. At first, he considered turning around and calmly asking the officer to mind the rules of public decorum. However, the intense antagonism convinced him to ignore the idiot instead of risking a confrontation. He would grow bored of his taunts, Aziraphale assumed, so he murmured at Crowley to keep walking. This young cop, however, postured more aggressively than most of the bullies he’d encountered. Obviously accustomed to abusing his power, he clearly expected his victims to cower in fear or react overly deferentially. The angel’s dismissiveness only fanned the flames of his hostility.
He rounded in front of Aziraphale. “Oi! I’m talking to you!” He gave his shoulder a hard shove, causing Crowley to move quickly to catch him before he hit the concrete.
Aziraphale, steadying himself, brushed off his still impeccable coat and prepared to address the aggressor sternly. Drunk on his own authority, the cop slipped his truncheon out and began slapping it threateningly against his palm. Crowley stepped protectively in front of Aziraphale and lunged towards the assailant, stopping inches from his face and ripping off his own sunglasses. In the streetlight, the demon’s furious golden snake eyes loomed over the cop. This intimidation tactic mostly convinced belligerent humans to back down. It didn’t work this time.
The cop’s eyes initially widened, but then his expression twisted into a sneer. “Oi, Mosely!” he called to his partner, who curled his lip superciliously but didn’t care enough to drop his cigarette and actively involve himself. “What have we here? You some kind of fucking freak, are you? Your mum live next to a power station when she got knocked up?”
Crowley growled, “Something like that. Makes me strong as an ox too. Leave him alone.”
The cop smirked. “Is that a threat?” In a quick movement, he wound up the arm brandishing the truncheon.
Crowley’s reflexes won. He dropped his glasses and decked the cop so hard he stumbled sideways into the storefront and slid to the ground. Not quite unconscious but severely dazed, his eyes rolled up at Crowley in surprise. Crowley had an extra inch or two of height over him, but the cop had a far meatier build. He obviously hadn’t expected Crowley to possess the willingness or physical prowess to back up his words. Either adrenaline or a surreptitious miracle must have contributed to the force of the punch, Aziraphale speculated.
Crowley whipped around to face Mosely, who had begun to advance on him, but getting an up-close glance at the demon’s wide-open eyes made him think better of it. He lifted his palms in front of his chest in surrender and took a step backward.
Crisis averted, Crowley nodded slightly at Aziraphale and muttered, “C’mon, Angel.”
The turn of events had unnerved Aziraphale into silence. He didn’t oppose violence when it was necessary, but Crowley rarely resorted to it. After he unveiled his most salient features, most people concluded he was possessed or not fully human and beat a hasty retreat. Though, ever since the Enlightenment, the trick’s effectiveness had gradually waned, with humans these days sometimes presuming Crowley had a rare but inconsequential birth defect or harmless mutation.
Unpleasantry aside, every fiber of Aziraphale’s body and soul pulsed with starry-eyed enchantment. In his typical heroic fashion, Crowley hadn’t hesitated for one second to step between him and danger, letting him walk away without a scratch. He would never tire of the thrill of Crowley’s gallantry. As he followed his companion, his heart floated in his chest cavity, and his ears buzzed as if filled with bees – like 1941 all over again. He forgot to close his mouth, like a moron, while sneaking wonderstruck side glances. Every time that dashing profile emerged from under the shadows into the glow of the streetlamps, it made his stomach flutter like dry leaves dancing in a wind funnel. Surely, those poor knuckles had bruised while defending him from that awful brute, and Aziraphale longed to sweetly kiss them one-by-one in return for his selfless bravery. The angel had turned into putty in the demon’s hands.
“Thank you,” he spoke quietly once he found his voice again.
“Don’t,” Crowley responded tersely.
They trudged quietly until they reached the bookshop. Aziraphale hoped Crowley hadn’t changed his mind about keeping him company for the night. He couldn’t read the demon’s mood anymore. But Crowley readily accepted his offer to come inside and share a few nice glasses of wine. Loath to spend the next few hours alone, Aziraphale sighed in relief. They stepped through the welcoming doorway into the privacy of his haven, safe from any prying unearthly eyes from above or below.
The angel hung his coat on the rack, then turned around and smiled tentatively at Crowley, who still wore an inscrutable expression. “I know you don’t like it when I… voice appreciation, but I won’t forget that you saved me from corporeal harm tonight.”
“Just glad we’re past it and you’re alright,” Crowley muttered softly.
Then he did something so unexpected it took a few seconds for Aziraphale to wrap his mind around it. He moved forward, touching the angel’s upper arms hesitantly, stiffly at first. Then, to Aziraphale’s astonishment, Crowley enfolded him in his arms, firmly gripping his back and pulling him close for a few long moments. Aziraphale’s head just about exploded. Crowley had never hugged him – sure, an arm casually slung across his shoulder sometimes – but never a full-on embrace. He wouldn’t describe it as passionate, but certainly as platonically loving – the way two dear, longtime friends might fondly say good-bye at the airport gate. The placement of those steady, gentle hands on his shoulder blades comforted him just like sinking into a soft chair by the fireplace on a harsh winter day. The last of his tension uncoiled, and his heart cried out with unmitigated happiness yes, oh yes!
Crowley eased back and frowned. “How does an angel attract thugs more often than a demon?” His voice lilted teasingly, but Aziraphale heard the disquieted undertones.
The angel’s forehead furrowed in consternation. Crowley had rescued him plenty of times and shrugged off any unpleasantness quickly, or at least his cool exterior had led Aziraphale to believe so. Surely, this episode alone couldn’t have bothered him. The cop hadn’t even explicitly promised to kill him like the Nazis or French executioner. Maybe Crowley didn’t have nerves of pure steel after all? Aziraphale felt suddenly guilty about his imprudent past exploits when his distress, like a beacon, had summoned the demon to swoop in and save him in the nick of time.
He attempted a reassuring tone. “No reason to fret, dear fellow. The worst any human can do is discorporate me. Nothing some annoying paperwork can’t fix.”
Crowley winced. “Angel, you know how much it would hurt to get beaten up or discorporated?”
His expression oozed such concern, despite Aziraphale suffering from nothing worse than moderate anxiety tonight. “Yes… good point. I suppose it would. Though… you can hardly accuse me of foolhardy misadventures tonight.”
“No, not this time,” came a sigh tinged with mild exasperation, but his gaze exuded more tenderness than the angel could ever recall.
In this moment of shared solace and intimacy, a preciously fleeting opportunity presented itself. Aziraphale reached for Crowley and pulled him into his chest for a tighter and more lingering hug. He hoped the reciprocated gesture would come across as warm and natural, not as a pathetically desperate maneuver to get his hands on him one more time. Crowley didn’t flinch and gently squeezed him back. Aziraphale held his breath, leaning into the soft physical affection, joy bursting like Champagne bubbles throughout his insides.
Despite initiating the contact, Aziraphale had to tear himself away first, as his body began to betray him, or rather his body began to make his honest feelings known all too well. He blushed self-consciously, trying to will away the inconvenient firmness in his nether regions.
“You won’t let me drink these bottles of Bordeaux by myself, will you?” he deflected.
For hours, they imbibed companionably. The conversation flowed from cutting-edge theatre to current world events to the risible shenanigans of certain demons and angels. Everything appeared to have returned to normal. Or at least, Crowley seemed perfectly normal again. Aziraphale, on the other hand, knew he would never be the same again, not now that his body knew the feeling of Crowley’s caring arms wrapped around him. He would forever crave that gentle pressure, simultaneously stimulating and soothing his nerves through his clothing, those hands molding to his skin like a favorite cushion. Besides his touch, he’d never forget that poignant look of concern as Crowley implored him, in a roundabout way, to look after himself better.
The time on the clock crept to four in the morning. Crowley had begun to string out his words, moderately drunk but fatigued due to the late hour as well. He didn’t need to sleep, but his body had become so accustomed to the routine that he had to fight drowsiness if he stayed awake too long. Aziraphale understood – over time, he too had developed somatic rhythms, mostly around food. Then there were the unnecessary corporal desires that followed no pattern but could strike at random or anytime he dwelled on thoughts of Crowley... If Gabriel had even the slightest idea, he’d surely say that Aziraphale had spent too long on Earth – the ultimate insult among angels, who prided themselves on existing above physical concerns unlike those weak, impure humans who had no choice in the matter.
Aziraphale worried that Crowley would make an excuse about going home to get some rest. He longed to spend the whole night together but could only think of flimsy excuses for the demon to stay, and he certainly couldn’t utter the truth. If you desert me, I’ll wallow in the shallow depression you leave behind in the fabric, soaking up your lingering body heat and inhaling the intoxicating scent of your aftershave (which you wear even though you don’t use a razor to shave). I may not be able to stop myself from shedding a few lonely tears. Fortunately for the angel’s state of mind, Crowley was dragging his feet about leaving, so Aziraphale hoped he’d drift off unwittingly. He had already stretched himself out on the furniture languidly, and his lids kept fluttering, fighting to stay open. After those fascinating yellow eyes turned into slits, Aziraphale continued to talk in hushed tones until he was sure Crowley was no longer listening. By the time the long clock hand pointed at three, he felt certain the demon had fallen into a slumber. His breathing had deepened, and his arm drooped uselessly over the edge of the upholstery, fingers limp.
Aziraphale knelt on the floor next to Crowley’s reclined body, eyes scanning the length of him. If he were to wake up, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to come up with a suitable explanation as to what exactly he was doing. But enough alcohol swam through his veins that he deemed the opportunity to just stare openly, to drink in Crowley’s lovely form from head to toe, worth the risk. Such a feast for the eyes, he was… graceful limbs, sharply defined jaw with barely a hint of stubble, hair a mesmerizing blaze, eyes (Aziraphale envisioned them open) like the rays of the early evening sun when it bathed the landscape in soft goldenrod color.
Another dangerous impulse invaded his mind, and once it nestled there, he couldn’t let go of the urge to act on it. The universe would witness the deed, which in a way would make his infatuation real, more so than if it remained an invisible pining in his head. The thought didn’t give him pause. He leaned closer to that peaceful, comely face. His breath hitched. His lips quivered, and his salivary glands stung as if in anticipation of an indulgent dessert. This was so forbidden. Of course, everything they did together was strictly off-limits, but the sin he desperately wanted to commit at this moment went thoroughly against everything Heaven and Hell represented. But taboo always made desirable things twice as irresistible, the way that verboten apple must have smelled much more fragrant and tasted so much sweeter than all the other fruit God had sanctioned to eat in Adam and Eve’s garden. Prohibition, if he was honest with himself, had always played a small role in his attraction to Crowley. That little part of him that chaffed at Heaven’s restrictions, that itched to do whatever he pleased, gravitated towards Crowley like a moth to fire.
Aziraphale closed that final inch between them. And then… just a barely perceptible brush of lips on lips, a whisper-soft tickle of nerve endings. It caused a surge of sensation, starting with his lips melting, then sending hot and cold shivers racing down his neck and spine. Quivers radiated all the way south, down to his toes. If just a hint of a kiss could set him afire like that, what would it be like to press their mouths together in unrestrained ardor, tongues dancing in slow semi-circles, soaking up one another’s essences? How would it feel to lie skin-to-skin, stripped of all barriers between them, stroking each other’s sensitive flesh, lavishing erogenous pleasure upon each other the way humans did? Just thinking about it made him dizzy with need.
Aziraphale’s lips formed the words I love you. He yearned to let them bubble up in his throat and flow forth like a fountain. He wanted to scream his secret to all of Heaven and defy them to cast him down to Hell for his crime of passion. Instead, he mouthed the phrase soundlessly to the seemingly oblivious object of his desire.
Crowley had to love him back in the same way. As many times as he had risked Hell’s punishment to rescue Aziraphale from pain and discorporation, it had to mean he felt it too, mustn’t it?
The Wednesday Morning After “Jim” Arrived, 2023
(CONTINUED)
Captivated by reveries intense enough to knock the wind out of him, Aziraphale could only watch in awe as Crowley gleefully misled their guest. Just his trip down memory lane combined with Crowley’s quick-thinking finesse of a sticky predicament would have pierced him right through the heart. But to make matters worse, the demon’s face lit up with the most irresistibly roguish, sexy smile – the final straw that undid Aziraphale completely. Grateful love intermingled with a knifelike pang of erotic desire. His lustful eyes traveled up and down Crowley’s form as blood raced to his groin and an audible breath escaped his lips. (A wonder he even managed to catch the car keys suddenly tossed his way!) He dashed for the door before Crowley had time to notice the contours in his trousers.
Aziraphale fervently hoped Crowley wasn’t looking out the window as he pulled the demon’s precious Bentley away from the curb and into traffic. His driving nerves did not combine well with flustered arousal. He shook – distracted, perspiring, and fighting to tamp down his overactive libido to no avail. As hard as he tried to focus on the road, the acute swelling between his thighs refused to abate.
Once he’d weaved out of sight, he pulled over to a curb and balled his fists against the steering wheel, tight as a violin string. After a moment’s hesitation, he abandoned the vehicle and barreled into a random coffee shop. He beelined for the loo and locked himself into a cubicle, stealing a few minutes of privacy. Really, you have no self-control, the voice in his head berated as he unzipped and reached for the relentless throb. The impulse to relieve the piquant ache prevailed over his priggish sensibilities, even though self-pleasure would satiate him only in the shallowest sense. It would slake his carnal thirst (temporarily) but not the hunger deep within his soul. As he leaned against the partition and muffled his mouth with the heel of his one free hand, his fevered mind swam with images of the demon. Thoughtfully handing him his books after dispensing with the Nazis, whom Aziraphale had recklessly lured to the church. Embracing him warmly after saving him from a beating on that late twentieth century May night. Minutes ago, mischievously grinning ear to ear, eyes creased in merriment. Oh Lord, how was it even possible to want someone else so much?
Aziraphale no longer harbored any doubt that Crowley reciprocated his romantic affections – not after they had risked destruction for each other and this planet, which they called home together. Crowley’s loyalty had stood that test in a way that could only point to all-consuming love. But waiting for him to say it was tearing Aziraphale to pieces. Prior to the foiled Armageddon, the potential wrath of Heaven and Hell had convinced him they couldn’t explore their feelings, as gossamer as the excuse seemed at times. (The threat of punishment hadn’t stopped them from associating as friends, after all.) With nothing external now standing in their way and Aziraphale’s conviction that they were of one mind, his patience had worn threadbare. This emotionally overwhelming, burning, flesh-aching tug grew more urgent by the day. Yes, he could break the silence himself, but… what if Crowley hadn’t yet defined the sentiments Aziraphale knew they shared? No, he simply couldn’t say it out loud. If he tried the direct approach and it all went awry, that… well, that would just crush him. Crowley had to go first.
That didn’t mean Aziraphale couldn’t insinuate. If Crowley was holding back out of fear of rejection, a pointed hint could give him just the nudge he needed. And if he still couldn’t name what he felt, a dash of innuendo could spark insight. So, Aziraphale had resorted to some heavy-handed scheming. Wheedling Crowley into lending him the car gave him time to bond with the demon’s prized possession, of course. More importantly, it required Crowley to spend a night without him in the bookshop. The angel had left evidence of his feelings “hidden” in nearly plain sight – lovingly sketched portraits of the two of them in half ajar drawers, a diary open to a page of personal confessions only half-buried under a shallow pile of invoices on his desk, and small mementos of their time together “carelessly” left out in the open. “Jim,” with his innocent, child-like curiosity, played to Aziraphale’s strategic advantage. He would find the clues if Crowley didn’t, and guileless as he was, he wouldn’t keep them to himself.
Body now spent, having placated his gnawing sexuality (for the time being), Aziraphale allowed his mind to drift for another minute. The plan should succeed; he’d considered every detail carefully. But ever the clever angel, he’d devised a backup strategy. If for some reason it didn’t work, the dancing tomorrow night would. He would make sure of it. The atmosphere would emanate genteel romance, the two of them would reach tenderly for each other’s hands, and then… Well, Crowley himself had said it. They would look into each other’s eyes, and he would realize… they were made for each other.