Chapter Text
The romantic lighting at the Ritz usually made Aziraphale feel peaceful, dreamy, and flirtatious. But as Aziraphale slowly lifted his wine glass to his lips and looked over the rim at his companion, the dimness strained his eyes, and a headache settled behind his temples. The young man sitting across from him was handsome–Aziraphale could credit him that. He possessed a mop of copper curls and long, dark eyelashes. He was young, too. All of twenty-two—and only interested in older men. Aziraphale scarcely knew what to say to him. At first, he thought it would cause awkwardness at the table, but the boy filled every silence. His voice irked Aziraphale as he spoke in a somewhat put-on, posh Kent accent about his position as a curator for his university’s art gallery as he grew his reputation as a painter. The boy was once again begging Aziraphale to sit for him nude.
“I’d like to paint your entire body,” he flirted, raking his eyes lasciviously along Aziraphale's figure. “And you know you have a very classical face. It’s angelic.”
Aziraphale smiled tensely and spoke in a tetchy whisper, "Please quit saying that in public." Aziraphale averted his eyes, "I've sat for you plenty of times."
"Yes, but never in the nude."
"We are not discussing this here," Aziraphale admonished.
The young artist kept trying, but Aziraphale's mind was somewhere else. He recalled the last time he'd posed nude - in his stateroom on the Titanic for Crowley's camera. He had felt luminous...before he ruined it. Then his traitorous mind brought him to the last time he'd seen Crowley: the bookshop, three years before, when Crowley had stopped by wearing a knee-grazing dress and a short, wavy bob to tell Aziraphale she had put in for a transfer to Berlin. He had taken the news poorly.
“What do you want to go to Berlin for? What could possibly be in Germany you can’t have here with–with–within London?” Aziraphale whined.
“Freedom, Angel.”
“Freedom from what, Crowley?”
At the time, Aziraphale had failed to see the scale of the devastation on her face. “Freedom from this.”
Aziraphale watched Crowley leave, and a piece of him broke off and froze. She had written regularly at first. She had written , even though Crowley was self-conscious about her writing, with her demonic tendency towards poor spelling and bad grammar. But after the fiftieth or so letter was left unanswered, Crowley gave up trying. Aziraphale had not heard from her since last September. The absence of her voice made Aziraphale cold. Bitter. Lonely.
This young artist had been on Heaven’s radar as a potential Renaissance revivalist. Aziraphale volunteered for the assignment when it was suggested that the boy could use a muse—something to get him out of the house and find a way to move on. But the more time Aziraphale spent with the boy, the worse he felt about his decision.
The artist said something, and Aziraphale shook himself back into the present. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”
“You’ve gone quiet again. Are you alright?”
“Oh, it's just a headache,” Aziraphale said; he pinched the bridge of his nose for emphasis before tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. He almost spit it back out the instant he felt a shoe nudge up against the insole of his foot and started traveling up the inside of his leg. He jerked his leg away.
“Sorry to hear it. Why don’t we go someplace a little more comfortable? Maybe I could help you with that headache.” The artist smiled wolfishly, and Aziraphale’s heart sank into his shoes.
Aziraphale sent away his untouched plate, paid for his date, and followed the boy out to his car.
***
28 February 1922
Dearest Mr Fell,
I arived in Berlin almost a month ago, and I'm sorry for not writing sooner. Every-thing has happened so quickly!
Berlin is so different from London in every way. The pace, the language, the culture. Every-thing is so modern and progressive.
I secured work as a secretary in Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institut für Sexualwissenschaft to help me get oriented in my new city.
During my first week I quickly learned all about the Institute’s inc inkred really great work. I never thought human beings could ever be as evolved as they are here. The level of re-search and innovation they have already acheved will bring humanitly along by centuries, kicking and screaming if they must! The institute just purchased a brand new bullding to expand its ability to help people in crisis about things such as their sex and gender. The building opens next month. I’ve had to work diligently since I arrived. I've gotten so involved with it that Ive nearly forgotten about my day job, if you can believe it.
My flat is an artists garret, which is a bit drafty for this old lizard, but the stove gets hot. The bath tub could be bigger.
My second shift begins at night. Not like THAT, saucy. You read far to many books for your own good.
No, by night, I frequent various clubs playing the most revelatory jazz to see if I can tempt a soul or two. I don’t get much tempting done during the day. You would positively hate the music but I think you would enjoy the clubs themselves. There’s great people-watching. You always attract the most fassenating human beings in those sorts of places.
Now that I’ve settled in, you are more then welcome to come visit.
I hope to hear back soon that you're well.
Yours eternally,
C
***
He is the least artful painter I've ever met, Aziraphale thought as the young man pawed at Aziraphale’s chest and pulled his braces off his shoulders in the backseat. His touch was too rough and clumsy, even for a passionate encounter. It went with his rough and clumsy paintings. All the divine inspiration in the universe can't inspire talent where there's none.
“Wait! Wait. Can’t we talk first?” Aziraphale asked. The boy tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed.
“Why?”
Aziraphale looked down, jaw clenched. “I don’t know. I thought it might be nice.” The artist snorted and gave a callous, impatient chuckle.
“We talked in the restaurant!”
No, YOU talked in the restaurant , Aziraphale thought. And what dull, lifeless speeches they were. They lacked wit and sparkle. But even that was not what Aziraphale missed most. There were no commonalities or shared histories.
“Yes, of course. Sorry. I guess that would be silly.”
The artist’s lips were on Aziraphale in an instant. The strawberries his date had ordered were out of season and sour, and Aziraphale could only choke down one for the sake of courtesy. The champagne Aziraphale had in lieu of dinner was expensive but too dry. The artist tasted of both, and there was an element of strangeness to how he clumsily used his tongue that Aziraphale found unpleasant.
“I want you, angel,” the artist rasped. Aziraphale closed his eyes, the words burning a hole in his chest as the young man fumbled with the buttons on Aziraphale’s trousers.
Perhaps the artist mistook Aziraphale’s quick, panicked breathing for ardor when he buried his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale braced one hand on the backseat, one hand on the window, and closed his eyes.
***
7 March 1922
Dearest Mr Fell,
I am still sorting all my mail, so I do hope I haven’t already missed a letter from you.
The opening of the new building went splendidly. There were a lot of stirring speeches, and you well know I don’t usually go in for speeches. Some-thing about this feels hopeful to me. I’m excited to witness it.
I hope all goes well with you. There are some books here that I’ve been reading on topics related to the work being done at the institute. I almost sent them to you, but I think I might use them to lure you out here. Bit of a dirty trick, but I think you might just forgive me when I show you around.
There’s a cafe on my corner that has the most marvelus coffee and babka. You would adore it.
Be well for me, will you? Write soon.
Yours Eternally,
C
***
Aziraphale dared to open his eyes for an instant, and tears began to well in them. This was not going well at all. The artist scraped Aziraphale with his teeth, and Aziraphale gripped the seat with enough force to leave indentations on the leather. Collin seemed to take Aziraphale’s flaccid penis as a challenge, pulling out every trick in the book. Aziraphale had dodged the boy's advances for weeks, never letting him get any farther than some over the clothes fondling. He did not want it, and he already knew it would be no good. If Crowley had not succeeded, after all…
After the Titanic, they had tried to recapture that magic, to make their way back to one another. Crowley had worked the hardest, constantly presenting Aziraphale with opportunities for intimacy. But the tragedy had overshadowed their joy. Aziraphale’s fear and shame had consumed him, eventually stripping him of every good thing, including Crowley.
Aziraphale shut his eyes again and tried to relax–to let the sensations take over the overwhelming sense that this was wrong. Aziraphale pushed memories to the forefront of his consciousness, trying to escape the present.
Crowley was handing him a platter of ox ribs. Crowley was wearing a crown of laurels and drinking wine while Aziraphale tipped oysters into his mouth. Crowley feeding an apple to Aziraphale’s horse. Crowley was laughing as Elspeth dragged a barrel behind them, and his smile was infuriatingly beautiful.
The images shifted as Aziraphale began to become aware of his body again. A familiar tightness and heat pooled in his lap as he got hard in Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale gasped and buried his fingers in beautiful, auburn curls.
Crowley was wearing a black shift with ribbon ties. He took Aziraphale’s photo and kissed him passionately. Crowley was looking up at Aziraphale, cheeks hollow and eyes shimmering burnished gold.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned.
“Um…it’s Collin, actually…Remember?”
Aziraphale opened his eyes. His fingers were tangled in orange curls. The artist looked up at him with an awkward expression. Aziraphale felt shame crest over him like a wave. How could he be so depraved? So stupid? So repeatedly idiotic?
“I–I have to go.” Aziraphale pulled himself together as the artist stammered apologies and asked what he had done wrong. It had the same tone as someone who was accustomed to being told they had never done anything wrong. Aziraphale reassured him that was the case. “I just have to go.”
The boy pouted and flung his hands out at his sides as Aziraphale shoved the car door open and stepped back into the night. “Go? Where?”
“Berlin. I’m long overdue to visit Berlin.”
***
15 April, 1923
Dear Mr Fell,
This has become much more a diary than a dialog, hasn’t it? Some-times, it feels good to just lay out my thoughts and mail them away. Tonight, I’m feeling modlin, so I’ve come to put my pain in the post.
You’ll note the date. Big night for us. I had to get out of the house. I went out to hear some poetry earlier, but a young man got up to deliver a poem so insultingly derivative of E.A. Poe’s “Annabelle Lee” that I had to depart.
They don’t make a liquor strong enough for this feeling.
I feel as though I’m adrift in the North Atlantic again, but I don’t think anyone is listening for me on the wireless.
My purpose feels muddy. I feel muddy. Some-times, I even miss dreary old London. I definitely miss having a bottle of wine in a certain bookshop in Soho.
My address is the same as ever.
Yours Eternally
C
***
Aziraphale stumbled through London, less sure on his feet than he had been in a long time. The world looked fuzzy under the street lamps in the fog. He played the scene over and over again. How could Aziraphale use that young man? How could he betray Crowley? How could Aziraphale’s own body betray him?
He had made it less than a quarter of the way to his shop when the strange sensation started building. He felt dizzy and warm, with an acrid taste in the back of his mouth. By the time he registered what was happening–something that should not happen to angels at all–he was vomiting wine off the edge of the curb in a most undignified manner.
Aziraphale wiped his mouth. His eyes burned, and his throat ached. If only Crowley could see him now. “Some angel I’ve turned out to be.”
He walked the remaining three and a half miles to the bookshop, packed a hefty suitcase, and waited unsleeping until dawn. He wrote a note to Margaret–the single mother who had begun selling records out of the bookshop–asking her to mind the shop while he was gone. He left it with a key in an envelope stuck in the letterbox, then hopped on the first flight to Berlin.
Crowley had found a job. Aziraphale recited the information mentally. 29 February, 1922. Paragraph 3, line 1 of 1. “I secured work as a secretary in Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institut für Sexualwissenschaft.”
Aziraphale would start by looking for her there. Starting at her home seemed too aggressive, too presumptuous. But whenever and wherever he found Crowley, he would apologize profusely. He would do their apology dance in the middle of the street if he had to if it meant Crowley would forgive him and come home.
***
19 September, 1924
Mr. Fell,
I told myself, after writing to you for a year without an answer, that I would carry on writing to you for-ever. That it didn’t matter if you never responded. It was enough to know you were reading my words.
That you would be forced to think of me for a moment, even if it was just to toss my envelope in the bin.
But I can’t continue like this anymore. I’ve realized that pretending at this is so much more painful than finally letting go. That’s what I came here for, right? To be free?
Stay in London. Pretend nothing ever happened. I’ll do the same from here.
Sinserely,
C