Oh, you've been leading me
beside strange waters
Streams of beautiful lights in the night
But where is my pastureland
in these dark valleys?
If I lose my grip will I take flight?
--Bruce Cockburn, "Strange Waters"
Strange Waters: If I Lose My Grip
Sometimes, Aziraphale felt like he was Falling.
He didn't know how it felt to Fall, true, but one lazy afternoon in Gomorrah he'd asked
Crowley how it had been, curiosity loosened by the excellent wine the two had been
sharing. The demon had gained a distant look, his eyes somewhere far away from the
couch he sat on with Aziraphale.
"Like nothing else." Crowley had eventually replied, his gaze still on that far place. "Like
wine and song and sex rolled all together and packaged with a kiss. I've never felt
anything close, before or after. Not even the Presence compared." His gaze snapped
back to reality, and he managed a slightly limp smile at the angel. "That was the last time
anything felt so good. I'm not sure it was worth it."
"Falling never is." Aziraphale had replied automatically, his mouth supplying the
words it was trained to, and Crowley had merely grunted in reply. They had finished the
bottle off without trading any more words, and when Aziraphale bid Crowley a good
night, his demon's reply had been somewhat lacklustre.
Sometimes, Aziraphale thought he knew that feeling.
He'd felt it, in a small margin, the first time he'd met Crowley, back when the demon was
still Crawly, back when Aziraphale's job had been to guard the East Gate of Eden, and
Crawly had kept him company on the long, cold nights before the Garden was removed
from the world to free up Aziraphale for other duties without letting humanity back in.
He'd felt it again when he and Crowley had sat down to hammer out the details of the
Agreement. Nothing like it, indeed. Aziraphale had been hard pressed to avoid Crowley
for centuries after that one; the sensation had scared him out of his wits. It was good, oh,
so good, and so easy to fall into. But wasn't that the point? It was always the easy thing
to fall; it was staying aloft that took effort.
In the end, Aziraphale had found he could not avoid Crowley any longer, had found the
demon and apologized for his absence. He hadn't explained the 'why'. Some things, the
demon did not need to know.
Aziraphale always knew he would Fall one day.
It wasn't that he wanted to; far from it. But he knew, deep inside, that every time he saw
Crowley, every time he felt that glorious, painful, wonderful sensation, dizzying and
exalting at once, he was a step closer to the edge. At first, he had tried to deny the
problem; but angels aren't allowed to lie, not even to themselves, and a lie that major
grated against him until he admitted the truth to himself. Crowley was tempting him. The
demon didn't know, didn't try. He would likely have been horrified if he'd known that
every smile he gave Aziraphale pried another finger loose from the branch the angel was
clinging to, hanging over the cliff edge. He would have tried to stop. Aziraphale couldn't
let Crowley stop smiling; the smiles brought him too much joy.
Lately, Crowley had been smiling a lot.
With Armageddon averted and neither of them being disturbed by their respective
employers, Crowley had a lot to smile about, and Aziraphale was slipping faster than ever.
He could feel the wind rushing past, knew that soon he would hit bottom and that would
be the end; he would have Fallen. He hadn't known that it would take this long to Fall all
the way.
Aziraphale hoped that Falling would be worth it, for him.
He didn't know what he would tell Crowley, when the day came. He didn't know how he
could explain. He couldn't say, "It's your fault," even though it was, because it also
wasn't. He couldn't say, "I did this for you," because he hadn't, although in a way, he
had.
He supposed that all he could say would be "I'm sorry."
Would Crowley still like him, after the Fall? Or was the entire reason that Crowley stayed
near him because of that connection with Heaven, with that which he'd lost so many
millennia ago?
Aziraphale didn't know the answer.
He'd prayed, oh, he'd prayed long and hard, begging for God to listen, to understand. If
God heard him, the Ineffable didn't acknowledge his prayers, and Aziraphale had a feeling
he knew why. He was too close; why should God listen to an angel who was about to
Fall?
It didn't really matter; the only thing God could have done would have been to remove
Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley, and that was exactly was Aziraphale didn't want. Even
if he Fell for the sin of it,
Aziraphale
Loved
Crowley.
And the feeling, wonderful and terrible, rose in Aziraphale's chest, swelled until his limbs
shook, until his eyes closed and his breathing (breathing, that delicious, human thing that
Crowley had convinced him to try and he'd never gotten out of the habit of) quickened. It
was German wine, sweet and heavy; it was a Wagner matinee, soaring and dark; it was
(and Aziraphale had no words, he'd never had sex, never wanted it, so he couldn't
describe the incredible agony of sensation that shook him like a straw in a hurricane). It
was the Fall.
And then it was over.
beside strange waters
Streams of beautiful lights in the night
But where is my pastureland
in these dark valleys?
If I lose my grip will I take flight?
--Bruce Cockburn, "Strange Waters"
Strange Waters: If I Lose My Grip
Sometimes, Aziraphale felt like he was Falling.
He didn't know how it felt to Fall, true, but one lazy afternoon in Gomorrah he'd asked
Crowley how it had been, curiosity loosened by the excellent wine the two had been
sharing. The demon had gained a distant look, his eyes somewhere far away from the
couch he sat on with Aziraphale.
"Like nothing else." Crowley had eventually replied, his gaze still on that far place. "Like
wine and song and sex rolled all together and packaged with a kiss. I've never felt
anything close, before or after. Not even the Presence compared." His gaze snapped
back to reality, and he managed a slightly limp smile at the angel. "That was the last time
anything felt so good. I'm not sure it was worth it."
"Falling never is." Aziraphale had replied automatically, his mouth supplying the
words it was trained to, and Crowley had merely grunted in reply. They had finished the
bottle off without trading any more words, and when Aziraphale bid Crowley a good
night, his demon's reply had been somewhat lacklustre.
Sometimes, Aziraphale thought he knew that feeling.
He'd felt it, in a small margin, the first time he'd met Crowley, back when the demon was
still Crawly, back when Aziraphale's job had been to guard the East Gate of Eden, and
Crawly had kept him company on the long, cold nights before the Garden was removed
from the world to free up Aziraphale for other duties without letting humanity back in.
He'd felt it again when he and Crowley had sat down to hammer out the details of the
Agreement. Nothing like it, indeed. Aziraphale had been hard pressed to avoid Crowley
for centuries after that one; the sensation had scared him out of his wits. It was good, oh,
so good, and so easy to fall into. But wasn't that the point? It was always the easy thing
to fall; it was staying aloft that took effort.
In the end, Aziraphale had found he could not avoid Crowley any longer, had found the
demon and apologized for his absence. He hadn't explained the 'why'. Some things, the
demon did not need to know.
Aziraphale always knew he would Fall one day.
It wasn't that he wanted to; far from it. But he knew, deep inside, that every time he saw
Crowley, every time he felt that glorious, painful, wonderful sensation, dizzying and
exalting at once, he was a step closer to the edge. At first, he had tried to deny the
problem; but angels aren't allowed to lie, not even to themselves, and a lie that major
grated against him until he admitted the truth to himself. Crowley was tempting him. The
demon didn't know, didn't try. He would likely have been horrified if he'd known that
every smile he gave Aziraphale pried another finger loose from the branch the angel was
clinging to, hanging over the cliff edge. He would have tried to stop. Aziraphale couldn't
let Crowley stop smiling; the smiles brought him too much joy.
Lately, Crowley had been smiling a lot.
With Armageddon averted and neither of them being disturbed by their respective
employers, Crowley had a lot to smile about, and Aziraphale was slipping faster than ever.
He could feel the wind rushing past, knew that soon he would hit bottom and that would
be the end; he would have Fallen. He hadn't known that it would take this long to Fall all
the way.
Aziraphale hoped that Falling would be worth it, for him.
He didn't know what he would tell Crowley, when the day came. He didn't know how he
could explain. He couldn't say, "It's your fault," even though it was, because it also
wasn't. He couldn't say, "I did this for you," because he hadn't, although in a way, he
had.
He supposed that all he could say would be "I'm sorry."
Would Crowley still like him, after the Fall? Or was the entire reason that Crowley stayed
near him because of that connection with Heaven, with that which he'd lost so many
millennia ago?
Aziraphale didn't know the answer.
He'd prayed, oh, he'd prayed long and hard, begging for God to listen, to understand. If
God heard him, the Ineffable didn't acknowledge his prayers, and Aziraphale had a feeling
he knew why. He was too close; why should God listen to an angel who was about to
Fall?
It didn't really matter; the only thing God could have done would have been to remove
Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley, and that was exactly was Aziraphale didn't want. Even
if he Fell for the sin of it,
Aziraphale
Loved
Crowley.
And the feeling, wonderful and terrible, rose in Aziraphale's chest, swelled until his limbs
shook, until his eyes closed and his breathing (breathing, that delicious, human thing that
Crowley had convinced him to try and he'd never gotten out of the habit of) quickened. It
was German wine, sweet and heavy; it was a Wagner matinee, soaring and dark; it was
(and Aziraphale had no words, he'd never had sex, never wanted it, so he couldn't
describe the incredible agony of sensation that shook him like a straw in a hurricane). It
was the Fall.
And then it was over.