Kiss and dance like no other

The book sale was held neither in Sotheby's, where Aziraphale was accustomed to pursue the kind of manuscript that left his beautifully soft palms sweaty, nor in some smoky public house that he vaguely felt forgers would frequent. Instead, they delivered their cards—Crowley adroitly managing to present his without Aziraphale seeing what he listed as his name and occupation—at an elegant townhouse in Belgravia. The footman looked at the cards as if both names were expected, and ushered them into a surprisingly uncluttered and modern drawing room.

Aziraphale waited to be introduced, but a rather glamorous old lady in autumnal greys cried out "Anthony, darling!" Crowley kissed her cheek and established himself on the settee with his hand in hers, and Aziraphale found himself unceremoniously abandoned and feeling a little lost.

He looked around at the fashionable people sipping tea and sherry, wondering if the whole thing was some kind of terrible joke. He relaxed a little when his eye fell on an old acquaintance from the trade, a portly man in an expensive suit and hair almost as beautifully brilliantined as that of the demon.

"Surprised to find you here, Fell," the man said cheerfully, hailing a maid who was trailing around with drinks. Aziraphale strove for his name. Green? "Here, a sherry for my friend Mr Fell. I didn't think it was your scene—but, actually, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised after all," he corrected himself, shrewd blue eyes sizing him up. "No one could amass a collection like yours and still be on the up and up."

"I have no idea what you mean," Aziraphale said firmly, although he was beginning to have suspicions. Crowley was leaning considerately towards his companion, but Aziraphale was sure he detected a malicious tilt upwards to his lips. He was certain Crowley was listening to every word.

"I'm not saying anything. Discretion, that's the keyword. I suppose you are here for the palimpsest and not the pornography?"

Crowley's lips were definitely twitching.

"Certainly not for the—not in my line at all, my dear fellow!"

"I did wonder for a moment. Please tell me you didn't turn up with the Duchess's dago and just met at the door."

"Dago?" Aziraphale said vaguely. He had always liked Green well enough, with the indulgent and distant affection he felt for humans who didn't get in his way and were interested in important things like books. He seemed rather less endearing now. Aziraphale wondered if it would be too cutting to stop calling him dear.

"The greasy kept poodle in the fancy glasses. Maybe not a dago, but you can't tell me he's from England. Something odd about that one."

"Oh, no, Crowley's not from England," Aziraphale said firmly.

"So you do know him?" Green looked speculatively at him, taking in the immaculate suit, the plump manicured hands, the exquisite buttonhole. "Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised after all. Oh, well, no harm. You're a good book man, I've always said that, whatever else you are. But I'm not letting you get hold of these codexes."

Codexes. Palimpsests. Through his discomfort at this glimpse into Crowley's twentieth century world, Aziraphale's ruling passion held true.

''To be precise, Mr Green, I haven't had the opportunity to learn much about this sale. It seems most irregular—most irregular indeed."

"Well, of course it is irregular." Green seemed a little surprised. "I mean, they couldn't really come out on the open market, now could they? Bit of explaining to do."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "My friend, tell me exactly what is going on here, and—well. I might have a second copy of the Buggre All This Biblethat has suddenly come up for sale."

Green's eyes blazed. "You might? Well, I really don't know if I should say..." He leaned over and whispered in Aziraphale's ear, for quite a while, while Aziraphale turned first white, then red.

"Which codexes are under the newer text?" He could feel sweat trickle down his spine, his hands shaking with the most pure and overwhelming bibliophilic lust. To get hold of them, decipher them, read their delicious heretical...

Green confirmed it.

"But surely, surely they were..." He let the word die on his lips. Stolen. Green nodded, winking.

Crowley wasn't even pretending to listen to the Duchess anymore. His face was fixed on Aziraphale's—knowing, triumphant, and with something else in it that Aziraphale couldn't read.

Aziraphale supposed he should feel angry, but instead he felt like he was plummeting from the Heavens. This, this was too much. Some unsaid line had not just been stepped over, it had been scuffed into the dust beyond betrayal. Of course Crowley tempted, trying to wheedle Aziraphale further and further in the other direction. It was his nature, and a kind of game, when he knew Aziraphale's little weaknesses so well. But this. This wasn't small temptations, delicious alcohol and food and little lies back to Upstairs and a bit of demonic work.

This was serious. This was a betrayal. This was books.

He turned his back on Crowley. Right as he turned, he thought he caught a slight hint of fear on Crowley's face.

000000

On the way back to the bookshop, Aziraphale cradled the precious manuscripts on his lap, carefully wrapped and protected. Genuine. He could tell they were genuine. He didn't even need to analyse them. The knowledge of their realness throbbed through him, clear and real. Every urge of every cell in his mortal body told him to get them home, get some gloves on, and explore.

Crowley say beside him, radiating—Aziraphale wasn't sure. Some dark, gloating energy. But his fingers were digging into his own thighs a little. Anxiety, Aziraphale thought bitterly. Guilt? Did demons, even Crowley, feel guilt?

"Well, the bookshop trade must be doing well. Or did you miracle all that money into existence?"

Aziraphale ignored him. Crowley's fingers twitched, but his voice was still drawling. "I know you're dying to delve deep into them, but don't forget me entirely in your reading, darling. I'll be by to pick you up for supper."

"That won't be necessary."

"Come on now, angel. I know you want to read, but you owe me for this."

"I won't be reading. I will be establishing the original owners and returning them immediately."

"Of course you will—wait. You're serious."

The cab stopped, and Aziraphale thanked the driver nicely, and descended. He didn't even bother to pet the horse as he headed for the shop door, most unangelically pushing past a customer who was waiting in the vain hope that the shop might open some time this week.

"Wait, angel!" Crowley tossed some money at the driver and lunged after him. "Are you really—"

"I have no intention of discussing this on the street." The potential customers were a bit bewildered to see the door unlock itself, and even more so to have it slammed in their face and lock again. To add to their confusion, the man in dark glasses then threw open the locked door and followed nice Mr Fell inside, the door locking again behind him.

Da—darn. He should have sealed it miraculously.

"Angel. I thought you'd be thrilled."

"Really? Is that all you thought?" Aziraphale could never remember feeling so empty, and beneath it, a terrible agonising sense of loss. Crowley . He'd thought he could—no, that was stupid. That was impossibly, unforgivably stupid. Demons, by their very natures, could not be trusted. How could he possibly have forgotten that, just because one was a charming dinner companion and at least pretended not to do anything really bad? He had spent centuries—millennia—looking for a demon and smiling when he heard his voice. It was like some kind of cosmic joke had just reached the punchline.

He opened his vault and reverently laid the scrolls in it. Only when they were secure did he say, in a voice that was much smaller than he wanted, "Crowley, do you actually want me to Fall?"

"No—oh, yes—I mean— Fuck. " Crowley flung himself in a chair, throwing his glasses to the floor, staring at the ceiling with yellow eyes. "Of course I do."

"No angel has fallen for millennia. You'd get more than a commendation." Was that really his own voice? So small, so hard—like a bullet was small and hard.

"That's not the blessed point. This isn't about souls for the Master. Aziraphale, I'd never do anything to hurt you, you know that."

"Do you think I would enjoy Hell?" Aziraphale asked bitterly. "Which Circle do you think would fit me best?"

"What? No. You wouldn't stay in Hell." Crowley turned a face to him that looked genuinely bewildered, his yellow eyes wide. "You'd be up here. With me. Nothing would really change, only we'd be on the same side, and you wouldn't have to try so hard all the time."

"Crowley, I have thought you were many things, but I never thought you were this stupid."

"Angel." Crowley said the word blankly, as if he couldn't find anything else to say.

"Please leave, Crowley, and don't ever come back. The Arrangement is over." The words were lacerating his throat. He swallowed hard, with the horrible illusion that he was swallowing blood.

"No!" Crowley was on his feet. "I won't accept it. Not without talking."

"I can make you leave, you know. I am still in Grace, despite your best attempts, and this is my ground. I still, for whatever reason, don't want to hurt you."

"Just talk! You're so kind, you can talk. Aziraphale—" He reached out, and Aziraphale instinctively stepped back. Crowley's pleading expression was wiped blank in a moment. "No," he said quietly. "No. I pushed too far, but you don't need to look so afraid of me, angel. Please."

"I'm not afraid of you. I could destroy you."

"You're not the smiting kind, Aziraphale. Talk to me, please. Or let me talk. Just ten minutes, after sixty centuries, that's not much to ask, is it?

Aziraphale felt, looking at that blank, serpentine face, that ten minutes could be more dangerous than all six thousand years. After all, you weren't really unsafe when you were running towards that cliff. It was the last second, as the ground crumbled beneath your feet—

Were those actually unshed tears in Crowley's eyes? "Ten minutes."

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. "Thank G—S—someone— you . Sssit down, angel. We'll both sit down. I can't bear this, standing at each other as if we were going have have fisticuffs. Please sit. Sit down." His voice was gentle, soothing—was this how he tempted humans? That tender voice reassuring them there was nothing to fear?

Aziraphale sat anyway. He couldn't think of a reason to refuse.

"That's right, that's right dar—" He caught Aziraphale's expression. "Aziraphale. Now we can talk." He immediately fell into silence, though, staring at his hands clenching and unclenching on his lap.

"Well?"

"Do you know why I Fell?"

"You've told me many times. You asked questions, you spent time with the wrong angels, you didn't mean to, none of it was your fault in the least." Aziraphale's voice was heavy with sarcasm, and Crowley winced.

"No, I mean—the real reason I was never going to fit in with Heaven." His fists curled and uncurled. "I didn't need anyone. Not the other angels, not God, not even Prince Lucifer. I resented the whole idea of needing them. I only needed me, B-B-Botis." He forced the name out through his teeth, as if it hurt.

"I haven't heard that name in a very long time."

"You've had no reason to. It's not me anymore, hasn't been for a long time. I'm Crowley." He glanced quickly at Aziraphale, as if waiting—hoping—to be teased about being called Crawly, or Tony, or anything else, but Aziraphale was beyond that. "I prided myself on not needing anyone, anyone at all. I thought the Almighty had messed up with me, left out the capacity to love and need others. And you know how She likes to be loved and needed. It was never going to work out. I didn't need anyone , do you understand, Aziraphale?"

"I understand," Aziraphale said coldly. His heart hurt.

"No, you don't! Sixty centuries, Aziraphale, sixty centuries, and then you don't speak to me for less than sixty years and I just can't endure it. I hateneeding you so much." Crowley moved across the room, viper fast, and he was bending across Aziraphale, arms going around his shoulders against the back of the chair, and before Aziraphale could react, before he could work out if this was an attack, Crowley's mouth was on his. Fierce. Desperate.

Aziraphale's body responded before his mind did. His hands came up and wound themselves in hair that was somehow still soft despite the brilliantine, his lips parted, and Crowley made some sound that was both strange and familiar and pressed his tongue against Aziraphale's, sending shots of pure gold fire down Aziraphale, the demon's lips clinging and tugging as if he was trying to devour Aziraphale's very soul--

Aziraphale broke the kiss. He felt like he was surfacing from some thermally heated whirlpool, but Crowley was still there, still holding him, pressed down against him.

"Oh, Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, and his voice was as ragged and sharp as the edge of a saw. He pressed kisses down the side of Aziraphale's face. "Yes, at last. My angel, my darling, my love. Mine. Don't worry, I'll take care of everything, my darling, my Aziraphale, mine, mine, mine." He punctuated his claims with possessive kisses.

"Get out," Aziraphale managed to say, although everything in him was screaming to pull Crowley even closer, forget everything else, revel in this glorious affection and desire and need ...

"Aziraphale?" Crowley looked bewildered and shattered.

Aziraphale managed to unwind his hands from Crowley's hair somehow. He wants to make me Fall.

"Leave, and don't come back."

Crowley left, the door slamming behind him.

1) Palimpsests are documents (usually parchments) that have been reused by erasing, or partially erasing, text and writing over it. Heretical texts were written over not only to save the expensive parchment, but symbolically, to replace the words with "truth". As a result, some texts only survive as written-over fragments on palimpsests.

2) In demonology, Count Botis is a relatively friendly demon (and I assume in GO world, fallen angel) who has the ability to reconcile friends and foes, and appears initially as a viper. Seemed suitable. On the other hand, Botis commands 60 legions of demons, and the thought of Crowley as a commander of legions is kind of hilarious. "So, uh, you see, guys, if you don't mind attacking... Yeah."

3) Title from the same song, because when I arbitrarily commit to something, I commit to to it. See also trying to find my 118th flower name for a Pokémon.

4) Thanks as always, and see you soon! Need to untangle my stupid boys from their stupid mess.