Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.

-Bruce Lee

: : :

You know that feeling when you meet someone, and they reach into your chest and touch a fragile, intricate, blown-glass part of you that no one has ever even seen? Their fingers skim it, and they're very careful and you're afraid they'll break it but then they just smile and the fear doesn't matter anymore? And so you can't help but let them curl their fingers around it because they're so wonderful and careful and it feels so safe and like everything is all right, but –

Then they're torn away from you, so suddenly, and their hand is ripped out of you before they can let go, and so they take that part of you with them. And you're left just gasping in pain, because you may have been hurt before, but it's never hurt this much. And you know it's not their fault they were torn away, but it still hurts.

So the waters rush into that hole, and you slowly close up the outside, keeping them in because something in there is better than nothing, especially after that part of you is gone. And those waters will never replace it, but if that person got torn away, and if they'll never be able to come back… it'll be OK. 'cause hopefully they still have that part of you, even if you don't, anymore. And it'll get better with time, it really will. Because that water-filled part of you, inside, will always ache with loss, but maybe… maybe someday that person will return, and it'll all be all right, again.

That was how Crowley felt, the day Aziraphale was recalled to Heaven.

: : :

It wasn't even right after the failed apocalypse. It took two weeks for it to happen.

(The best sanctified two weeks of Crowley's blessed life, as it were.)

: : :

It had been a normal Saturday. In the past two weeks, things had gone fast. It seemed like now Aziraphale could really see Crowley as a person, now—not that he hadn't been close, before, but now it was so obvious. Crowley would make jokes, the same taunts and teases he'd done a thousand times before, but now Aziraphale wouldn't get upset at all, only smile fondly at him—like he knew a secret Crowley didn't. It unsettled him. But he didn't let it show that it bothered him, didn't let on that Aziraphale's new reactions threw him for a loop. (After six-thousand years of hanging around the angel, Crowley'd thought he'd known him, and boy was it weird that Aziraphale'd actually changed, especially so quickly, after all this time.)

After the apocalypse, as they were standing in front of Aziraphale's ruined bookshop, the angel'd hugged him. Crowley'd frozen, startled at the suddenness of it, but allowed it for the second it took Aziraphale to realize he was uncomfortable. The angel'd drawn back, then, giving him an abashed smile and apologizing. Crowley'd reached a hand out, then, and found himself staring as it grasped Aziraphale's wrist, almost of its own accord. He glanced up, quick, and then away, mumbling something about it being all right, 'just don't startle me like that, again, angel'.

Crowley hadn't known what possessed him to say it. Maybe it was the after-effect of the noxious fumes streaming over the Bentley as he'd crossed the barrier into Lower Tadfield, maybe it was just an odd feeling of fitting with Aziraphale, after nine-hundred-seventy peaceful years of just talking at him. Either way, Aziraphale gave him a beam that really should've hurt (what with how loving and all it was), and brushed his fingers over Crowley's hand, still on his wrist. Crowley'd hastily let go, at that, snapping his hand back and stuffing it into a pocket. He'd straightened, cleared his throat and headed back for the Jeep. When he'd turned, he saw Aziraphale still standing on the sidewalk, and Crowley'd asked if he wanted to stay the night at his flat. But the angel had only shook his head, gazing sadly back at the charred ruins of the bookshop. Crowley resisted the urge to stay.

He went home, collapsed on his pristine bed, and slept.

: : :

The next two weeks were tentative, as both the angel and demon felt out their new relationship. It was somewhat jagged around the sides, painful and new and different, but calm and familiar and soothing in the center. It kept them both coming back for more. Every night, Crowley would appear, and they'd spend hours talking in the backroom. (Thank Adam for having restored both the bookshop and Bentley—Crowley hadn't been quite sure if he could've handled those losses in addition to this new loss-but-not-quite… thing that was going on with Aziraphale.)

They talked about this and that, old things and new, and it was like Crowley was seeing a whole 'nother aspect of the angel. There was this strange light in Aziraphale's eyes, sometimes, too—it was quick, but it was still wicked, and each and every time Crowley found himself at a loss. It was like he had tunnel vision—his entire world narrowed down to seeing that sly little quirk of Aziraphale's mouth, or a positively evil gleam in those eyes that disappeared instantly, leaving only innocence its wake. Sometimes, he couldn't speak for a moment, afterwards. Sometimes, Crowley could brush it off without betraying any nervousness of his own. One day, however, he simply couldn't.

It had been humdrum enough. It'd been a windy day, and Crowley hadn't managed to make it the five feet from the curb to the bookshop's door without his hair becoming a positive rat's nest. He'd snarled to himself as he barged in the door, telling Aziraphale that they'd have to do take-away tonight, because there was no way in H-Manchester that Crowley was going out into that wind again, and—

And Aziraphale had looked up, blinked at the sight of him, and chuckled. He came around the counter, smiling kindly at the still-ranting demon, and had raised his hands, gently burying them into the demon's mussed hair. Crowley's tirade cut itself short, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses as his (unneeded) breath caught at the angel's proximity. Aziraphale was about six inches away, gaze still fixed on him, blue eyes kind as he said something in a warm, tender tone of voice about something and Crowley—Crowley just—he just—

He just had to kiss him. So he did.

What made him squeak (which he would later deny) was the intensity with which Aziraphale responded. Some way or another Crowley's arms had gone around the small of the angel's back, and then Aziraphale took a step closer, one hand sliding down from Crowley's hair to cup his cheek as they kissed, and now Crowley couldn't back down. He'd been just about to, actually, all ready to pull away and stutter awkwardly and tell the angel to just forget it before diving back into the storm outside, but…

(Well, Aziraphale was holding him there. Practically against his will! He couldn't leave.)

After that, things got a bit dicier. There were quite a few harmless, candid jabs of banter as Aziraphale reorganized his (new) material on the bookshelves, and Crowley traipsed along behind him, annoying as best he could. Sometimes those harmless moments evolved into close ones—so close, in fact, that pretty soon one of them was pinned up against the spines of those children's books, both breathing fast through kisses, hands tangled up in each other, eyes wide as they came back to themselves and the reality of the situation brought them back to earth. They'd never gone too far, though—just far enough to be mutually startled by the brief loss of coherent thought. But those moments were never awkward, somehow. Left to his own devices, Crowley probably would've made them awkward (inadvertently), but somehow Aziraphale always just pulled him in and kept him from making too much of a fool of himself. (Crowley suspected it had something to do with Aziraphale never calling what Crowley did, afterwards, 'foolish', but he firmly shoved that to another part of his mind and didn't think about it.)

Two weeks passed, and Crowley found himself so much at ease that he almost became suspicious of it. There was a breezy sort of happiness blowing around in his chest, making the nonexistent bones sing like wind chimes and he had to school his expression before entering the bookshop so Aziraphale wouldn't get wise. It wasn't normal for him to lose control—he was a respectable demon, thankyouverymuch, and control of his own self and actions had been one of the very few things he could cling to, depend on.

But recently, if Aziraphale said just the wrong thing in just the right way—Crowley would find himself grabbing at the angel, smoothing his fingers over the curves of his back, licking up his neck and hissing sultry things in his ear like he just couldn't help himself. Aziraphale was more than a possible outlet for over six-thousand years of skirting human sexuality—he was Aziraphale. How had Crowley never seen it, before? How had he never reacted like this, before? It was like the angel flipped a switch in his brain, like an electrical current swept straight through him and any hint Aziraphale gave him that was just on the wrong side of innocent just made Crowley act.

Because Crowley had seen temptation, before—he was a master at it. But to see such purposeful, wicked intent on a face that Crowley'd only ever seen innocence on—oh, Aziraphale's temptation was a class act. And Crowley couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself from just getting in and trying to claw himself into that perfection. It was like an addiction. Mild jabs turned to teasing, turned to Aziraphale saying something innocuous and Crowley adopting a predatory, taunting smirk with a perverted rejoinder and then it would just build from there and Aziraphale wouldn't stop him. The angel would let it get out of hand, would let Crowley slide up against him, all grace and sultry whispers and would gasp and oh, Aziraphale was so over-sensitive, how could Crowley resist? (Especially when Aziraphale didn't seem too inclined to shove him off?)

It was like every moment with Aziraphale (now, anyway) was a drop of balm on every crack in his being that'd ever been carved by pain.

Perhaps it'd always been that way—or always had the potential to be that way.

How hadn't this happened, before?

(Maybe before, Aziraphale hadn't known, and Crowley hadn't realized—but what did it matter, anyway? What was important was that they were both alive, and together, and that nothing would ever tear them apart.)

: : :

Crowley had strode into the bookshop two weeks (to the day) after the aborted apocalypse, ready to snag the angel by the tie and drag him out for dinner. Then he saw the note. It was on parchment, and hastily written, and Crowley felt his nonexistent heart stutter to a start within him.

C.- Recalled home. Will talk soon. Take care. -A.

And Crowley accepted it. Hard as it was for him to have faith, if there was one thing he could believe in, it was Aziraphale.

The first night, he didn't allow himself to panic.

The second night was much worse. Thousands of possibilities swam dizzily in his head, all negative, all horrible—uprooting common sense in everything he'd ever known or thought about. His appetite—a thing usually reserved for lunch or dinner with Aziraphale—was wished away, entirely. Crowley just didn't care. He tried sending messages, after a few days of no response. He wasn't even sure they made it through. Still, Crowley tried to fight back the rising terror that Aziraphale was just gone—was back in Heaven, being reprimanded or simply told to stay away from Crowley, entirely. Bitter, Crowley could see just how that would play out.

He wouldn't blame Aziraphale for choosing Heaven over him. Hell, if given the choice, Crowley would choose Heaven over him. But it wasn't his choice. It was Aziraphale's, and as the days bled into a week, Crowley felt something in him rupture. It felt like his energy was just streaming out of him from an Aziraphale-shaped hole in his chest. It wasn't too noticeable, at first—wasn't obvious, at all. But the first week of blind panic and utter helplessness did not bode well for his state of mind. Aziraphale was always on his mind. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do that didn't remind him of the angel. Sleep was his only escape, and so Crowley quite shamelessly over-indulged in it. But the story was always the same. Just before bed, lying there in the dark, images and half-conversations would fly through his head. Familiar smiles and words that'd comforted him brought only the pain of that loss, now.

The first two nights, he'd cried into his pillow—pride be damned (just like him). After that, though, he'd gotten a better hold on himself, and while he was still panicking, mentally, he managed to keep up appearances. He made small talk with the postman and the old lady downstairs. After that first week passed only in silence (despite his attempted messages to Above), Crowley told himself not to expect anything, and to just keep going on. It got easier, but it never hurt less.

Aziraphale's forgotten me.

Heaven's convinced him I'm a horrible influence—which, to be honest, I am.

What was I thinking, that I'd get to be happy without consequences?

What did we even have?

Did it even happen?

I can't even remember, anymore.

What right do I have to him? I'm just a demon. Heaven is his home.

What, did I think he'd Fall for me? Is that where this was heading?

Well, if Heaven thinks I'm that awful, maybe I am.

Aziraphale would be the only one who'd disagree with them, and even he…

He said he'd be back soon, didn't he?

What, did Heaven stick him back in Bible Camp?

Why haven't I heard anything?

After two weeks of hearing nothing, Crowley was very close to what humans might call 'depressed', or even on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It disgusted him, but he just didn't have the energy to fight it. His thoughts took dark and circuitous turns, always bringing him back to one quiet notion that was apparently becoming fact.

Aziraphale's abandoned me.

I'll never hear from him, again.

I've somehow managed to mess even this up.

It's all my fault. You're telling them that, aren't you, Aziraphale?

Put all the blame on me, and you'll get off scot-free.

It's OK, angel. It's all my fault.

You don't have to stick around.

I know… I know I'm not worth you sacrificing everything you have just for me.

's OK, angel. Just leave me here to rot.

Maybe I'll actually become a 'real' demon, now.

After all, if that thrice-blessed 'spark of goodness' gets me nothing but pain, what's the use?

Might as well give Heaven a strong case against me.

Not that it would change anything, I know.

Are you even hearing this, Aziraphale?

Crowley knew it was horribly dependant of him, to keep waiting like this—keep hoping, keep believing that those two weeks after the apocalypse hadn't just been in his head. But without Aziraphale around, it was hard to put a perspective to anything. Without the angel's steadying presence, it was like his mind was scattered in different directions, unable to focus or even sum up the effort needed to find out what had happened.

But, at this point, Crowley didn't think he'd ever know.

There had just been Aziraphale—and then there hadn't.

Maybe it was better to just cut his losses, instead of trying to fight for an angel who'd obviously given up on ever contacting him again, long ago.

That didn't make it hurt less.

Because Aziraphale wouldn't've left him hanging for two weeks, would he?

…Well.

Not unless the Aziraphale Crowley remembered didn't exist, anymore.

(And oh, had Crowley thought he'd been in pain, before? Just the thought that Aziraphale didn't want anything to do with him, anymore, just ripped the bandages off those cracks, making them fester anew with raw anguish for what they had had, and for what he had lost.)

: : :

be of love(a little)

More careful

Than of everything

guard her perhaps only

A trifle less

(merely beyond how very)

closely than

Nothing,remember love by frequent

anguish(imagine

Her least never with most

memory)give entirely each

Forever its freedom

(Dare until a flower,

understanding sizelessly sunlight

Open what thousandth why and

discover laughing)

-ee cummings