Where the Mountains Meet the Heavens

Earthly Choirs (London, 2019 CE)

Chapter illustrated by the incredibly talented lonica_caprifolium

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"How do you set the music on this thing?" Aziraphale asked, running his hand curiously over the sound system.

"Don't know," Crowley said, vague and impatient and tired. He wanted to get clean. More than that, he wanted a moment alone until the rattling in his brain, the fear and triumph and the miracle of a hand in his once more and an angel in the flat could resolve into something he could understand. Make a plan, get them out of it. They had saved the world, and he needed to hold onto his optimism, remember that things always worked out for him — and that meant for Aziraphale too — that the world was fundamentally on Crowley's side. The only thing that hadn't worked out for him was winning the angel.

But there was Aziraphale, fussing over his sound system, plump and whole and real and profoundly irritating in that way that made Crowley want to snarl at him and kiss at him the same time. Not burned alive, fond of him, and perhaps that was enough, at least for tonight.

Aziraphale had died. The world had nearly ended. Satan had appeared. They had betrayed their sides. And Aziraphale was trying to put music on. It was annoying, and endearing, and Crowley was frustrated with him and by all the heavens and hells he loved him and perhaps, if they survived this, he could tell him.

So he made a fatal mistake, and told Aziraphale how the sound system worked.

"It just has an on button and an off button. It just plays what it wants to." Crowley had a set of carefully alphabetised CDs dating mostly from the 1990s, but the sound system had never required him to actually put them in.

"Oh my, how clever," beamed Aziraphale. "Modern technology. I suppose that's why it doesn't need tobe plugged in or have any speakers, either." He looked with Crowley with bright round eyes, and Crowley had absolutely no idea if Aziraphale was sincere or taking the piss. Again. Affectionate, frustrated laughter welled up in him.

"I'm going to go have a shower," Crowley said, because he was stinking with ash and fire and rubber and didn't know if he had another miracle in him. And the water would be soothing on his aches. Aziraphale might have a brand new body, but he didn't. "Make yourself at home. Liquor cabinet and wine rack are that way, kitchen is that way, wave at the telly if you want it to work. All that I have is yours," he added, in a nonchalant way that he hoped concealed the please, anything, just take it, take me behind it.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Crowley," Aziraphale said, prim and proper as ever, and Crowley rolled his eyes at the formality and went to soak in the shower. Not a bath, or he might never wake up.

He realised his mistake as he emerged, having spent far too long debating what to wear out of the bathroom, restored enough to make some clothes. He wished he dared go for just a towel slung low around his hips, but Aziraphale wasn't some easy human temptation, and might wither him with a look or a word if he wore too little. Pyjamas, surely pyjamas weren't too formal. He spent a whole ten minutes debating whether to wear a top or not and eventually decided on a plain black cotton brocade pyjamas. Sleeves rolled up to display his arms to best advantage, collar bones and a sprinkling of chest hair showing under the eye drawing way the collar was buttoned, enticing but unimpeachably modest. Bare feet. Crowley felt a little ridiculous about his nervousness, especially as Aziraphale had seen him in a lot less, but that was before they were on the same side.

He felt even more ridiculous when he walked out to polyphonic waves of celestial harmonies.

Well, not celestial harmonies, which were a bit repetitive and on a single theme and frankly was one of the bits Crowley missed least about being a seraph. Choir was a bit literal in the First Sphere. Human harmonies on a celestial theme, which had more variety in voices and were far more moving.

Of course the sound system had responded to Aziraphale's presence, and was pouring out love and beauty and goodness and praise to the Almighty into the dark, empty flat. Of course. It only played Gothic Symphony and Dance of the Mountain King for Crowley. Aziraphale got the stuff that was lovely, just like him.

Crowley stole a moment to stand, drinking in the sight of the angel. Like a lamp in the concrete and cold of the flat, face transported with bliss in the music. Would he look like that at other moments of bliss? Long lashes shadowing his eyes, eyebrows raised, nostrils flared, lips stretched tightly, every bit of him intent with pleasure.

Not permitted to think about, at least in his presence. Still the Almighty's child, even in rebellion against the other angels. Still with perfect faith in his Holy Father, in ineffability. Still God's, not Crowley's.

Well, Crowley had lived with that for six thousand years.

"Scapulissuisobumbrabittibi, et sub pennisejussperabis," exulted the choir. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Well, David had meant the Almighty, and Aziraphale might trust in Her still. Crowley's trust was in the angel who had covered him with his feathers so long ago.

Can you trust me in return, Aziraphale? I have tried to be your shield and buckler, I have tried to protect you in return for sheltering me so long ago, over and over. Tried to protect you from danger, from trouble, even from inconvenience. I failed you today, but I won't fail you again. I promise. It rang hollow in his own ears. He still could see the flame flickering on the edge of his vision. Maybe I only failed because we were apart, not on our own sides.

He moved forward and did something he had never done before. He stood behind Aziraphale and wrapped his arms around his chest, gathered him close, breathed in the scent of his skin and perspiration — no cologne, Adam had missed that detail — and the density of his presence in his arms as the music flooded around them. Flesh and blood, body heat and the movement of his ribs as he breathed, dandelion fluff soft hair and the texture of skin over fat and muscle and sinew, tangible, or at least Crowley imagined, under the layers of clothes. Once they had both been purely ethereal creatures, but Crowley was struck hard and painfully with just how precious these corporeal forms wrapping them were, Aziraphale's mind and spirit clothed in the softness and strength and heft of this body.

Returned to him. By the Antichrist.

Aziraphale's hands came up and covered his. "Listen to the words, Crowley."

"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day. Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee."

"It's a promise, you know. I will protect you, Crowley. Against all of Hell."