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“I feel as though we’ve gotten away with murder,” Aziraphale whispered, eyes wild and giddy in the low light of Crowley’s apartment.

They had ridden the bus back from Tadfield in silence, taking turns watching the sky, streets, and manholes for suspicious activity. Through some telepathic agreement, they had refrained from even looking at each other until Crowley had locked and bolted his apartment door behind them. Now, curiously unable to look anywhere else, Crowley felt his serious thoughts turn slippery and slide away like a bar of soap when you grip it too tight in the bath.

“Funny that,” Crowley answered. “We stop a war and save seven billion humans from being boiled like lobsters, and we feel like the bad guys.”

“Don’t you dare make me hungry for seafood at a time like this, Crowley.”

A beat of silence, and they both dissolved into a muffled cacophony of giggles, snuffles, and one extremely undignified snort that Aziraphale would never admit to.

“We need to plan,” Crowley wheezed.

“We need to plan.” Aziraphale nodded. “And we need to drink. Wine, preferably. Madeira even more preferably.”

“Why?”

“Higher alcohol content.”

Crowley leveled him with a flat look, amusement definitely not dancing at the edges. “No, why do we need to drink? Shouldn’t we be taking this seriously? We’ve got all of Heaven and Hell coming for us at any moment.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said. “We’re certainly not going to find a solution to this while sober.”

He watched as Aziraphale turned on his heel and strode toward the kitchen. Crowley was thankful for it too. Otherwise, he was sure he would have let out the words that he had held in for so long.

Everything felt like it was unraveling. His car. His walls. His sanity. The Great and/or Ineffable Plan.

“I found a 1932 Malmsey back here,” Aziraphale called. “And look, you have chocolate truffles.”

He let them unravel.

***

Later that night, after getting thoroughly drunk and regretfully un-drunk again, Crowley lay in his bed, facing the window and the Inevitable Consequences he knew were creeping closer by the second. He turned, eyes flicking over an uncharacteristically unconscious angel next to him. That Aziraphale only put up a moderate fight to sleeping (“I’ve already slept this century. I’m not a child.” “Don’t make me use my Nanny Ashtoreth voice.”) spoke volumes of how much the past few days had taken out of him too. Crowley’s heart–or whatever was still in there–ached for what Aziraphale must be feeling. After 6,000 years, the grief Crowley felt for his own faith in Heaven still bloomed like a bruise just beneath the surface. Yet despite everything, Aziraphale lay beatifically against Crowley’s black satin sheets, golden white hair like a bursting star in the night sky.

His hands ached to reach for him, pour his own light into him as he had kindled the flames in the cosmos. He had enough. He was sure he still had enough.

Softly, into the air between them, he let the words go.

“Stay,” he said. “Please, stay.”

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"I feel as though we've gotten away with murder," Aziraphale whispered, eyes wild and giddy in the low light of Crowley's apartment.

They had ridden the bus back from Tadfield in silence, taking turns watching the sky, streets, and manholes for suspicious activity. Through some telepathic agreement, they had refrained from even looking at each other until Crowley had locked and bolted his apartment door behind them. Now, curiously unable to look anywhere else, Crowley felt his serious thoughts turn slippery and slide away like a bar of soap when you grip it too tight in the bath.

"Funny that," Crowley answered. "We stop a war and save seven billion humans from being boiled like lobsters, and we feel like the bad guys."

"Don't you dare make me hungry for seafood at a time like this, Crowley."

A beat of silence, and they both dissolved into a muffled cacophony of giggles, snuffles, and one extremely undignified snort that Aziraphale would never admit to.

"We need to plan," Crowley wheezed.

"We need to plan." Aziraphale nodded. "And we need to drink. Wine, preferably. Madeira even more preferably."

"Why?"

"Higher alcohol content."

Crowley leveled him with a flat look, amusement definitely not dancing at the edges. "No, why do we need to drink? Shouldn't we be taking this seriously? We've got all of Heaven and Hell coming for us at any moment."

"Exactly," Aziraphale said. "We're certainly not going to find a solution to this while sober."

He watched as Aziraphale turned on his heel and strode toward the kitchen. Crowley was thankful for it too. Otherwise, he was sure he would have let out the words that he had held in for so long.

Everything felt like it was unraveling. His car. His walls. His sanity. The Great and/or Ineffable Plan.

"I found a 1932 Malmsey back here," Aziraphale called. "And look, you have chocolate truffles."

He let them unravel.

***

Later that night, after getting thoroughly drunk and regretfully un-drunk again, Crowley lay in his bed, facing the window and the Inevitable Consequences he knew were creeping closer by the second. He turned, eyes flicking over an uncharacteristically unconscious angel next to him. That Aziraphale only put up a moderate fight to sleeping ("I've already slept this century. I'm not a child." "Don't make me use my Nanny Ashtoreth voice.") spoke volumes of how much the past few days had taken out of him too. Crowley's heart--or whatever was still in there--ached for what Aziraphale must be feeling. After 6,000 years, the grief Crowley felt for his own faith in Heaven still bloomed like a bruise just beneath the surface. Yet despite everything, Aziraphale lay beatifically against Crowley's black satin sheets, golden white hair like a bursting star in the night sky.

His hands ached to reach for him, pour his own light into him as he had kindled the flames in the cosmos. He had enough. He was sure he still had enough.

Softly, into the air between them, he let the words go.

"Stay," he said. "Please, stay."

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This works even more when you remember that Neil Gaiman’s original idea was of just one character (a demon who is bad at his job), and Terry Pratchett split him into two, a demon and an angel (both equally bad at their jobs).

Me: I really like the Crowley as Raphael headcanon but I do think it’s a little weird given that Aziraphale’s name means “Of Raphael” maybe he was originally serving under Raphael before his Fall? 

Some theorists online: Crowley and Aziraphale were BOTH Raphael and God literally split him in two casting out the side that doubted and questioned and keeping the side that was loyal and devoted. They both however still care deeply about humanity, as you can’t erase that part no matter what you do. They are the literal two halves of the same whole searching for each other, which is supported in a meta sense as Aziraphale and Crowley DID start as the same character that was split into two, an angel and a demon 

Me:

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In bookstore

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Thinking about Aziraphale being Known in the queer community.

Do you need a place to stay because you were kicked out of your house? Mr. Fell will help you find a shelter. Are you unsure of your place in your religion? Mr. Fell knows a lot of religious leaders, who will help you find peace with your beliefs and who you are. Are you scared and need to talk to someone? Mr. Fell will give you a list of queer-friendly therapists or counselors—or you can just come visit him and he’ll listen to you. His advice may be delivered in outdated terms, but the bare bones are solid and helpful.

Do you need to hide? Mr. Fell will let you stay in the flat above his shop. You don’t need to tell him why.

Mr. Fell has been in Soho for longer than anyone. People whisper that he’s unchanged, immortal; he’s proof that magic exists. To the inexperienced, he’s a grumpy bookshop owner; to his neighbors, he’s help.

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neither of them will make the first move and that’s why it takes 6000 years

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Did you ever dream you had a friend? Someone to last your whole life and you his.

-E.M. Forster

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Don't know what it means to hold you tight

Being here alone tonight with you

It feels so right now, so

Hold me tight

Let me go on loving you

Tonight, tonight

Making love to only you

So hold me tight

Tonight, tonight

It's you, you you you

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*kiss kiss*

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someone on my insta requested a/c storming area 51 but i couldnt think of a reason y theyd be at america bc im dumb so i drew this instead

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Friends? We’re not friends!

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Crowley looking so sad about Aziraphale’s bookshop.

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the softest eldritch horror in the universe 😌

been thinkin’ about aziraphale’s celestial form.......... i think it would be equal parts terrifying and comforting and no one can tell me different 😇

instagram | twitter

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I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

alive for a little while.

-Dogfish, Mary Oliver

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[ID: excerpt from ‘A Wedding,’ a poem by Boris Pasternak (tr. Robert Hass)

“Life too is only an instant,  only a dissolving of ourselves  into everyone,”]

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[ID: excerpt from ‘A Land Not mine,’ a poem by Anna Akhmatova (tr. Jane Kenyon) 

“I cannot tell if the day  is ending, or the world, or if  the secret of secrets is inside me again.”]