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The first time you hear about it, you laugh yourself silly. Foolish humans, mistaking an angel for a god. Foolish angel, both selfish and selfless enough to let them. But you keep listening, and hear them describe what their worship looks like, what exactly it is that your angel is the god of.
Not just pleasure, but sex. Intimacy. ‘Making love,’ even. Of all kinds of love, even those… forbidden. You want to take it as a sign, a message. You don’t.
You mingle among his acolytes, to be near him by proxy; hearing them sing his praises, silently devouring their descriptions of him—how soft his body, every curve and dip, how sweet his moans, the taste of his skin, his lips, his—
How kind he is, how giving: a god that rewards devotion tenfold; whether you seek your own pleasure, or his, or seek help understanding how to love someone else. Tender, ecstatic, sacred. It should be profane, but to you it sounds holy, and you’re not supposed to know what holy sounds like, anymore. You think his disciples are the luckiest people in the world.
You take their words, treasure them and, desperate and heartsick as you are, in your weaker moments: you imagine.
Aziraphale, meeting you in a moonlit grove, glowing gently and laying you down on a bed of clover. Clandestine; a prayer being answered. Faithful but damaged, yet allowed to worship anyway. Teaching you. Teaching you how to use your mouth, your hands, every inch of your body to please him, letting you come to his altar and pray not for forgiveness but to be given more of him. And you think of your angel smiling, filling you, giving and giving while your wretched demonic form scrabbles to keep even a scrap of it for yourself in the memories from this single night. You can almost hear his voice whispering in your ear, the sweetest liturgy, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.
You imagine, and you touch yourself, burning with shame, knowing you are not worthy of an angel’s love. You imagine, long after those disciples are dead, long after everyone has forgotten about this minor pagan god. Everyone, except you.
You whisper a prayer. You don’t expect it to reach him—not from your abominable mouth, not to the ears of someone who isn’t meant to be prayed to. You discover, with a faint feeling of joy, that praying to him doesn’t burn your mouth the way praying to Her does. Aziraphale never cast you out. You Fell from heaven, but not from your angel.
He answers your prayer. Only a few words, but you can feel the power settling into your bones, a gift from your deity. The knowledge that he heard you is terrifying and exhilarating at once.
You want to rush to his side immediately, but you don’t. If your prayer had made him want to see you, he would have come himself. A few gentle words will have to be enough (and it is, it is so much more than you ever hoped for). And how could you look him in the eye, knowing he Knows. Is it not a sin to pray to him? Is it not a sin to lust for him? To love him? Blasphemy might not matter to you, but it matters to him. It must.
Instead, you go to sleep for a century. Your dreams for that hundred years are sweet, the divinity settling into your very essence. You had forgotten what it felt like.
When you wake, the first thing you do is pray.
You must be very old now, comes the reply. Why have you returned? You are welcome here; take my blessing and find a deity more worthy of your worship.
No, you say. You are the one I seek.
I cannot give you what She might.
It is not Her blessing I crave, you explain. He accepts this.
Your prayers become more frequent, the feeling of your touch returned too intoxicating to give up. Too cowardly to show your face, but at least you can do this, give him this much devotion. A penance for what you are.
Why me, your angel questions the next time his sole parishioner is on the brink of sleep. I was a god of physicality. Intimacy. Are you courting?
You remind him. The taboo or forsaken loves are, too, your domain.
I am the god of taboo loves because I believe they should be celebrated, he gently chides. You need not be ashamed.
Forsaken, then.
Why have they forsook you?
As if he didn’t know. Because it is taboo. Because he deserves better than me and he knows it as well as I.
I am sorry. And he sounds like he means it.
I pray not for vengeance or for answers; only comfort.
That which I can provide is yours.
It is not until now, as you dwell on his words, his questions and his sympathy, that it occurs to you he might not recognize you, after all. She always knows, but angels are not omniscient. But surely your voice must be familiar to him?
Do you know me? you ask one night, heart in your throat.
I know you more each time you pray to me. And hell, his voice is so familiar to you.
But do you know who I am?
I know your voice. I know your heart. I do not know your face.
You are both relieved and terrified. It was one thing when you thought he knew who you were, when you thought this was a way he would let you be close to him without having to be acknowledged, without demanding reciprocation.
Aziraphale had said he was sorry, and you had mistakenly thought it was him regretfully confirming what you had known from before the first time you'd prayed to him: that he couldn't accept you. But if he truly doesn't know...
You imagine him discovering the truth. You’re not stupid enough to imagine there could be reciprocation; only rejection. He would scold you for praying in the first place, much less praying to him. He's an angel, and you are a demon, and what if. What if this whole ritual you had started looking forward to almost daily was what made him Fall?
I am dying. It's a lie, but it's a forgivable one. Your angel is silent. Perhaps he's not listening, or perhaps he's waiting for you to say more. This could be my last prayer. I'm sorry I didn't have more to give you. Time, worship, so on.
You lived for a century. A pause, consideration. You must have been quite young the first time you spoke to me.
I was forsaken a long time ago.
Yet you continued loving. I can ask for no better worship than that.
Your heart aches.
You want to ask to see him, to see if he still means that when you are face to face and he fully understands. But you can't. You’ve always been a coward. I'm sorry.
You have done nothing that needs forgiving. Your heart is as good as gold.
You can't bear this.
You stop praying. Let him think you died. Let him forget all of this. It is cruel to refuse him a farewell, but you think that would kill you.
Disciple, you hear one day, and your useless heart stops in your chest. He had never initiated a conversation before. You hadn’t been sure he could.
Why have you called me? You can’t keep the emotion out of your voice—the pain, the fear, the anger.
I wanted to say goodbye. A pause. Tell me where you are. I want to meet you.
Your eyes screw shut, at once cherishing and dreading the feeling of Aziraphale reaching out to you. He deserves to know. If you have put him in danger by bringing this profane thing into this connection, he at least deserves some say in how it ends. But in all your conversations, you’ve never truly lied. He will know the truth, the moment he sees you.
Or, rather, he might. Your angel, for all his brilliance, can be stubbornly oblivious. How pathetic, that after confessing almost everything save a name, you are hoping that alone will absolve you. You pace your flat, half hoping that the fragile thread connecting you will break, but it is sewn from the makeup of your souls and does not shred easily.
You will be disappointed, you say.
Oh, I doubt that. You have given me so much. Let me give this to you.
I am not worthy, you say.
Is that not what gods are for? he asks. To take the unworthy and love them anyway?
Not in my experience, no. Gods are for judgement. Not him, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
I do not judge; I only love.
S'pose that's appropriate, for an angel, you say, knowing that you are the exception. That love does not extend to the likes of you.
His voice, suddenly sharp. How do you know I'm a—?
Figure of speech, you answer quickly.
I have a friend who calls me that. His voice is gentle again.
A friend?
An associate.
Oh. A pause. S'common enough term.
I wish to see you, he tells you again.
He deserves to, you know that. Just as you deserve the scorn and castigation he will give you for daring to think you could have this kind of relationship with him.
You kneel, facing your desk, your throne. You swallow thickly, bowing your head. Let yourself be a disciple for a moment more. Prayer unravels around your tongue, worship given freely to Aziraphale as well as the invitation to come to you. For a moment, the connection feels so strong that it makes your spine weak, and your body trembles as it starts to wind your angel towards you.
His voice in your ears for the first time in over a century. "Be not afraid," he says even as he is finding his feet. He landed with his back to you, disoriented.
You wish you weren't. "Aziraphale," you breathe, reverent, the first syllable a soft hiss as it escapes from your cursed tongue.
“How do you know my name?” he asks, and then he turns around. You’re looking straight at him, taking every second you can get to soak him in before you can never look again. He looks stunned. “Crowley?” Hearing him say your name feels like a sacrament you don’t deserve.
You can think of a hundred punishments demons, angels, and gods alike would deal to someone like you. You don’t apologise—it's far too late for that. If it had been the once, all those years ago, perhaps you could have gotten away with it. But a century later, and you had continued, been indulgent. Selfish. Just like your god, but unholy.
Your god is looking around your flat. He’s never been here before. It was always you that reached out, never him; always you pursuing him, unrequited. From the first time you slithered up to him on the wall, you had always been the first unless there was something wrong.
The silence is killing you, waiting for judgement to fall on your head. "I'm sorry," says your god.
Of course. You’d warned him, hadn't you? He would be disappointed. You weren't worthy. Still, it aches, anticipating the rejection.
"Why didn't you say?"
"I said a lot as it was." Cut out your eyes, your tongue, your heart.
"Oh Crowley," your god says. He looks at you with pity. Pity because he must reject you. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long."
You say nothing. There is nothing left to say. Aziraphale is leaning down, close to you, and when you feel your god's lips brush your own it feels like a shock of electricity. You jump back and Aziraphale looks hurt and confused.
"What are you doing?" you hiss. Is this pity? Some kind of twisted punishment?
"I—I wanted to express my love for you."
You grit your teeth. "Don't be stupid. I'm a demon. You can't love me."
"I assure you I can and I do," he says firmly, as stubborn and obtuse as he always is when he wants something. "I don't care what heaven or anyone else says."
"Well you should. I'm a demon, " you repeat. Your voice fades from anger to misery. "I'm me. " Aziraphale takes another cautious step towards you. Not afraid, not... not pitying. But giving you an escape, if you want it. You stay rooted to the spot.
Hands on your face. Soft and gentle, not a soldier's but a god's. You keep your eyes lowered as he pulls your head up until you have no option but to look up. Your eyes are completely yellow, making no attempt to hide. "You are. And I love you, Crowley. More than earth, more than heaven. More than Her." He spreads his wings, light emanating from his eyes, the picture of radiance. Once upon a time, this would have been a show of power, putting you in your place, but now your god’s warmth welcomes you closer. You could bask in it for eternity.
It feels like an eternity; it’s beautiful. You remain knelt before him, revealing him. Softly, reverently kissing his thighs, looking up at him with such adoration.
"Oh Crowley," he says, a hand cupping your cheek. "Crowley, my love. My last disciple."
You blush, but murmur, "I am here to worship."
He brushes his thumb so gently over your bottom lip. "Darling, do you still want to learn?"
"Yesss," you say, unable to help the hiss, but the quick stab of shame is gone as quickly as it came on.
Aziraphale seems to glow and leads you forward so gently, so tenderly that by the time you have him in your mouth, you are somehow certain that you can do nothing wrong. Not here, not to him. Your god would not let you fail.
He doesn’t. He tastes of milk and honey and love, and you have never felt more holy.
"How long?" he asks, tenderly laying you out on the bed.
You give a wry laugh. "Your followers weren't exactly subtle.”
"No, my dear.” His eyes are bright, his hands resting on the heaving cathedral of your ribcage. “How long did you feel forsaken by me?" your god asks you. "How long did you think I didn't requite you?" He pauses, and his voice becomes a whisper. “How long have you loved me?”
"Well. You ssee." You shiver, but you’re basking in his gaze. "There wass a garden."