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bird-slayer-brainrot · 4 months

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....In Love and Espionage - Ineffable Husbands but they're spies

(TW. reference to WWII and related content ie. bombing, Nazism, spying but nothing graphic.)

Crowley pulled the chair out from under the table. The scraping of metal against concrete alerted his company, but Aziraphale remained as he was, looking down at an unopened letter he clutched in his ungloved hands.

After a few moments, in which Crowley settled himself, removing his hat and coat and sipping the coffee Aziraphale had, knowingly, already ordered him. It tasted burnt and acrid. War rations, probably. Crowley looked at his surroundings. The cafe in some dirty corner of Soho (Aziraphale sent for Crowley, it was never the other way around. That was the new arrangement.), and it really put into context the quality of the coffee blend.

"Good afternoon." Aziraphale said in a low, quiet voice, still not looking up from his papers. Crowley made a noise in response. They were quiet a few moments more. This was not unusual. It was all part of the routine, really. Meet-ups remained short, unfussy affairs. They met in bars, parks, cafes, exchanged greetings, information, and then parted. It had been like this since their assignments began.

Crowley tried not to dwell on it. The assignments. The arrangement. The war. It was dragging, the flame of hate dimmed in periods of inactivity. Then, when the Germans dropped more bombs or the English secured a victory, there it was again. It was exhausting, keeping up. Crowley was tired. Exhausted. And it all seemed in no hurry to end.

Aziraphale folded his hands. Crowley met his eye. It was time.

"I'll keep this brief." His tone was steady, unswayed. This was a side of Aziraphale that, before the war. Hell, even before the "arrangement" - in an unofficial capacity - even began. "I need you to answer this truthfully."

Crowley smirked slightly. "I will not lie to you, Angel."

Aziraphale took a breath.

“Are you working with them?”

"Aziraphale!" Out of anything Aziraphale could have said (and it could, quite literally, have been anything. Aziraphale spoke almost every language. He predated language.)

“Shhh.” Aziraphale scolded, darting his head around. The cafe was still empty. He turned to look back at Crowley, frowning “Keep your voice down! You never know who might be listening.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure, because the single waiter and the old lady walking her dog are surely itching to here what two people having coffee have to say."

This earnt him a look from Aziraphale. Crowley took another sip of his coffee.

"Will you please..." Aziraphale sighed again. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. "Would you please just answer the question?"

Crowley nodded. “No," he answered. "‘Course not. “Are you?”

"Of course not!" Aziraphale had the audacity to sound indignant. Just like him, too, even though he'd been the one to accuse Crowley not a moment ago, "I just thought, considering all the fighting happening on the Russian lines, with the Nazis." Aziraphale paused for a moment, "Hell might have decided to, you know, switch their agenda."

Crowley nodded in understanding. It was fair enough, really. Crowley really wouldn't put it past Hell to align themselves with whoever they believed to be winning.

"What about you guys?"

Aziraphale sipped his tea, before placing it down. "Of course not. Heaven just wants this war over.”

“So does Hell.” at this, Aziraphale looked at him, startled. “Don’t be surprised. As soon as the war’s over and one, there’ll be, quite literally, hell to pay.”

Aziraphale nodded, before picking up the letter. He knew what this meant. A war was only as terrible as what came after. The devastation, the hate. The pain.

“Why don’t we just talk in your bookshop." Crowley suggested. "Wouldn’t that be, you know..."

Safer. He was going to safer. Aziraphale frowned.

“Well, actually,”

“I figured this would be. Just in case I was being…” the angel paused for a moment. “Followed.” he said softly, glancing down.

Crowley tried not to let the alarm show on his face, but inside he was fuming.

He knew this was a dangerous job, but it’s not like demon’s had much of a choice. But for Heaven to put Aziraphale and the whole blasted human race at risk like this was just…. Well, it was exactly like them. No, Crowley was already sick of this war. He knew he had a part to play in it ending. He just didn’t wish it came with such a risk. The involvement of supernatural beings such as them meant something. It meant that they were important in this. The greatest risk wasn’t just discorporation. No, this threatened the outcome of the war as a whole. Heaven and Hell might not have cared about the actions of humans beyond sticking it to each other when they could, but Crowley, hell, Aziraphale too, cared. Cared way more than they let on.

“I see.” Crowley stated in a cold voice. Aziraphale looked up at the demon, but he was looking away.

“I am glad.” Aziraphale sighed, pressing a napkin to the corner of his mouth. “It means we are in agreement of how to act moving forth. I shall be in correspondence?” he spoke the word like a question, but Crowley knew better than to think it was anything but a statement of fact. “Do let’s try to act safely about this, my dear.” Crowley looked up. Aziraphale was glancing slowly around them, probably checking to see if anyone had noticed them. When he was satisfied, he stretched his hand across the table, and placed it gently over Crowley’s. The heat of it stung, and Crowley suddenly felt as though he had been mistaken for an ant colony, and all the misplaced soldier ants were trying to crawl back inside of him. “I would hate for you to get hurt, Crowley.”

Aziraphale paid the check, and left. Crowley remained in his seat for a quarter of an hour or so, then stood up and exiting the cafe, leaving in the opposite direction to the angel.

Two weeks later…

A letter came in the male of Crowley as promised. Crowley sat at the desk in the sitting room of his Mayfair flat. It was a new addition to the space. He’d never really had a need for a desk before all the war business began, but where else was he supposed to sit down and write letters, if not a desk. He read the letter once, committing its contents to memory.

That same evening, Crowley exited the motor car, careful not to let the train of his skirts not trail across the puddles left by the day's rain. The letter Aziraphale had sent requested Crowley's presence at a small get-together hosted by a Mr Fredrick Brown. This was a fake name. This was an important mission. It had to go perfectly.

Crowley entered the building. Immediately, he spotted Aziraphale speaking with another , and made his way over to the angel and his companion. As he slid up next to the angel, Aziraphale turned his head and, after taking him in, gave him a knotted expression.

“And this must be the lovely Mrs Phale.” the man, who likely hadn't anticipated being interrupted, as seen in the expression of abject annoyance on his face which was only partially masked by British politeness (but not will enough). He watched Crowley with almost sly amusement, taking in the red curls tumbling over Crowley's shoulder, down the line of his slim, black gown. Aziraphale watched Crowley out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, Mr Phale, it has been a pleasure conversing with you." he said in a tone that suggested the opposite. "Go, dance with your lady. I shall hope to speak to you again soon." he waved them off cheerily. Aziraphale, who had at some point taken Crowley's arm in his own, maneuvered them around. They walked a few steps onto the floor. A slow waltz played in the room, and as they stepped, Aziraphale spoke.

"Mr Brown." he said almost breathlessly, spinning Crowley. "Has invited me to dinner. To discuss plans." Aziraphale said in a hushed voice. He was shorter than Crowley, and Crowley could feel the lingering traces of Aziraphale's breath against his neck.

"Good job." Crowley replied quietly. "So, intelligence gathered. Can we go now?"

At this, Aziraphale let out a short, soft laugh.

"We could." Aziraphale replied. The waltz ended, and a more upbeat tune played. Still, they remained as they were. "We could leave right now. If we wanted to."

They stayed for an hour more. When they left, they left together.

"I missed you."

Aziraphale couldn't help the noise that came out of his throat then. It was halfway between a whimper and a sob. Like a deer trapped in a blackberry bush, trying to detangle itself. Hopelessly.

He didn't pull away, though. He didn't want to.

It had been too long. Far too long.

The war had ended. The war had ended. They were in the bookshop, and Crowley was clinging to Aziraphale like he couldn't stand the thought of letting go, even for a second. And he couldn't. Even if his arms went numb and fell off. Even if a bomb dropped on them now and restarted the war. That war had taken so much out of them. So much out of everyone. This short, small moment in a bookshop in Soho was nothing compared to everything else. But it was happening and it was theirs, and that meant everything.

When Crowley had got the news, he'd climbed into the Bentley and driven to Aziraphale's as fast as he could. Aziraphale had been waiting for him, had set out wine. Crowley ignored it.

Aziraphale held him. He didn't say anything, but even that didn't matter. Because the war was over and, for a moment, everything was a little bit safer. Humankind... Aziraphale, they were all safe. And that, for the moment, was the peace the end of the war brought.

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