The Sundered Song

The air in the small kitchen above the bookshop was thick with the scent of butter and scorched sugar, and white with a fine dusting of flour that covered nearly every surface. Aziraphale stood in the center of the chaos, a smudge of white on his cheek and a look of intense, theological concentration on his face as he peered at the blackened lumps cooling on a wire rack. They were meant to be croissants. They looked more like geological specimens from some unfortunate, carbon-based planet.

From his position, slouched elegantly in one of the kitchen’s mismatched chairs, Crowley watched the entire endeavor from behind his dark glasses. He hadn’t moved in an hour, save to stretch one long leg out, then the other, a picture of serpentine grace amidst the culinary carnage.

“You know,” Crowley said, his voice a low drawl that cut through the angel’s frantic thoughts, “there’s a lovely little place in Mayfair. They have a man, his name is Jean-Pierre, and his entire purpose in this world is to make those things so you don’t have to.”

Aziraphale huffed, turning away from the disastrous pastries to glare at the demon. “That is entirely beside the point. I wanted to make you breakfast. It’s a gesture. A domestic one.”

“Right. Domestic,” Crowley repeated, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He finally pushed himself up from the chair, unfolding his lean frame with a deliberate lack of haste. He moved through the kitchen like a shadow, his dark clothes a stark contrast to the flour-dusted environment. He stopped directly behind Aziraphale, close enough that the angel could feel the heat radiating from his body. “And this domestic gesture has resulted in what appears to be several small charcoal briquettes.” He picked one up, weighing it in his palm. It made a sad, hard little sound as he dropped it back onto the rack.

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh, it’s hopeless.”

Crowley’s smirk softened. He reached out, his long fingers gently turning Aziraphale’s face towards him. His thumb moved to the angel’s cheek, slowly wiping away the smudge of flour. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt straight through Aziraphale, a familiar warmth that started in his chest and spread rapidly outward. He found he couldn’t quite draw a proper breath. Crowley’s thumb lingered, stroking the spot he’d just cleaned, his gaze intent even through the dark lenses.

“Not entirely hopeless,” Crowley murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in, and Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. The kiss, when it came, was not on his lips. Crowley pressed a soft, warm kiss to the tip of his flour-dusted nose. “A for effort, angel.”

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, Crowley was still watching him, a genuine fondness in his expression that made the angel’s heart perform a little flutter. It was still so new, this. The freedom to look, to touch, to simply be together in this way.

With Crowley’s attention momentarily diverted as he inspected another burnt offering, Aziraphale saw his chance. It was cheating, of course, but the circumstances felt dire. He focused, just for a second, on the tray of blackened croissants. With a minuscule, almost imperceptible snap of his fingers, a faint golden light shimmered over the rack, so quick it was lost in the morning sun streaming through the window. The scent of char was replaced by the warm, buttery, perfect aroma of freshly baked pastry. The croissants plumped up, their layers separating into flaky perfection, their color shifting from burnt black to a beautiful, inviting gold.

Crowley sniffed the air, his head tilting. He picked up one of the now-perfect croissants. It was warm, light, and flaked delicately under his touch. He raised an eyebrow, looking at Aziraphale over the top of the pastry.

“Miracle?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat, a prim and slightly guilty expression on his face. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Now, would you like some coffee with your… briquette?”

Crowley took a bite, his eyes closing in theatrical satisfaction. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, his voice a low rumble of pleasure. “Jean-Pierre can go to Hell. You, angel, are a culinary genius.”

A pleased, rosy blush crept up Aziraphale’s neck. He knew it was a lie, but it was a lovely one. “Oh, well. It was nothing, really. Just a bit of elbow grease.” He turned away to hide his smile, beginning the daunting task of cleaning the kitchen. He started by gathering the flour-dusted tea towels, shaking them out the window with a vigorous snap.

Crowley didn't offer to help. Instead, he leaned his hip against the counter, finishing the croissant with slow, deliberate bites, his gaze tracking Aziraphale’s every move. There was something deeply satisfying, almost hypnotic, about watching the angel bustle about. It was a sight Crowley had witnessed for centuries, but never like this. Not with the quiet, settled understanding that now existed between them. It was the difference between watching a performance from the stalls and being invited backstage.

“You’ve got books in the kitchen, angel,” Crowley observed, gesturing with the last flaky remnant of his breakfast. “Is there any room in this building that isn’t a fire hazard?”

“It is a bookshop, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice slightly muffled as he wiped down a countertop. “The presence of books is rather the point.” He moved to a precarious stack that had taken up residence on a stool in the corner, a clear overflow from the shop below. He began sorting them, his movements practiced and gentle, dusting each cover with a soft cloth. Most were familiar friends: a well-worn collection of poetry, a slightly water-damaged travelogue from the nineteenth century, a lurid penny dreadful he kept for amusement.

But then his fingers brushed against a binding that was entirely unfamiliar.

He paused, his hand resting on the book’s spine. It was slim, bound in a smooth, dark material that felt like neither leather nor paper. There was no title, no lettering of any kind on the cover or the spine. It was utterly anonymous. Frowning, Aziraphale lifted it from the pile. It was heavier than it looked, with a strange, dense quality to it. He couldn’t recall ever purchasing it, nor could he imagine it being part of any collection he’d acquired. He knew every single volume he owned, knew their histories, their scents, the very feel of their pages. This was an intruder.

His curiosity piqued, he opened the cover. The pages were a heavy, creamy vellum, and the script… Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. It was exquisite, a flowing, elegant calligraphy that seemed to hover just above the page. The ink wasn't black or brown, but possessed a strange, pearlescent quality, shifting from silver to gold as he tilted the book in the morning light. It was beautiful, but it was also utterly alien. It resembled no angelic script he knew, nor any demonic scrawl he’d ever had the misfortune of viewing. It was something else entirely.

“Find something interesting?” Crowley’s voice was close, his presence a sudden warmth at Aziraphale’s shoulder. He had moved without a sound.

“I… I don’t know what this is,” Aziraphale murmured, his scholarly focus absolute. He traced a line of the shimmering text with his finger, not quite touching the page. The script seemed to pulse faintly under his proximity, a soft luminescence that was almost imperceptible. “I don’t remember this book. At all.”

Crowley leaned in, peering at the pages over Aziraphale’s shoulder. His scent, a familiar mix of ozone and expensive cologne, filled Aziraphale’s senses. “Pretty,” Crowley commented, his tone casual, though his eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. “Looks important.”

“It feels it,” Aziraphale agreed, his voice a whisper. “But I can’t place the language. Or the binding. It’s as if it simply… appeared.” He flipped through a few more pages. Every one was filled with the same incomprehensible, beautiful script. A book of prophecy, perhaps? It had that feel. But from whom? And for what purpose?

A familiar weariness settled over him. For six thousand years, mysterious objects and cryptic prophecies had meant trouble. They had just extricated themselves from the biggest trouble of all. He wasn’t eager to be drawn into another cosmic game. Not now. Not when things were finally, blessedly, quiet.

With a soft snap, he closed the book. The faint shimmer from the pages was extinguished. He looked at Crowley, who was watching him with a curious tilt of his head. He saw the easy comfort in the demon’s posture, the faint dusting of flour still on the collar of his black jacket, and made a decision. The mystery could wait.

“I’m sure it’s just something I misfiled ages ago,” Aziraphale said, forcing a breezy tone. “My cataloging system is more of an art than a science, you know.”

Crowley grunted, a sound of amused disbelief. “Right. ‘Misfiled’.”

Ignoring him, Aziraphale tucked the strange volume under his arm and carried it out of the kitchen and down the stairs into the heart of the bookshop. He walked purposefully to his large, cluttered desk at the back. He cleared a space between a stack of invoices and a stone inkwell, and placed the unlabeled book down with a soft, definitive thud. There. It could be dealt with later. Or perhaps, if he was lucky, he might forget about it altogether.

“Right,” Crowley said, pushing himself off the desk he’d been leaning against. The sight of the strange book being tucked away, ignored, did little to settle the restlessness that had been prickling at him all morning. The quiet domesticity was lovely, it was everything he’d fantasized about for longer than he’d ever admit, but it was also… quiet. They were free. Truly, properly free, for the first time in six thousand years. He wanted to do something with it. Something other than bake or dust.

“Let’s go out,” he announced, the words more of a command than a suggestion. He sauntered towards the door, keys already jingling in his hand. “Drive. No destination. Just… away.”

Aziraphale looked up from his desk, a small, pleased smile touching his lips. The idea was clearly an appealing one. A chance to escape the sudden, unwanted mystery of the book and the lingering scent of flour. A chance to simply be with Crowley, out in the world they had saved. “That sounds wonderful, my dear. A splendid idea.”

He fetched his tartan coat, shrugging it on as Crowley held the bookshop door open for him. The little bell chimed, a familiar sound that felt different now, marking their exit into a world that was entirely their own. The London air was cool, carrying the scent of traffic and damp pavement. Crowley led the way to where the Bentley was parked, its black paint gleaming with a sinister polish that was at odds with the cheerful morning.

Aziraphale settled into the passenger seat, the leather sighing softly as it took his weight. He loved the Bentley. He loved the smell of it, the low growl of its engine, the way it felt like an extension of Crowley himself—all sleek lines, hidden power, and surprising comfort. He watched as Crowley slid behind the wheel, his long frame folding into the driver’s seat with a practiced grace. The demon’s hands rested on the steering wheel for a moment, his fingers splayed against the worn leather. It was his throne, and he looked utterly at home in it.

The engine turned over with a deep, satisfying roar that vibrated through Aziraphale’s bones. Crowley revved it once, a smirk playing on his lips, before his hand moved to the dashboard. He jabbed a button on the radio, clearly anticipating the familiar opening chords of a Queen anthem to blast through the speakers.

A burst of harsh, grating static filled the car instead.

Crowley froze, his smirk vanishing. He jabbed the button again. The static crackled, unwavering. “What the Heaven?” he muttered, twisting the dial. He spun it through the frequencies, but every single one produced the same loud, aggressive hiss. There was no hint of music, no talk show host, not even a faint, distant signal. Just a wall of empty, electronic noise.

“Perhaps the reception is poor here?” Aziraphale suggested mildly, though even he knew that was unlikely. The Bentley’s radio worked perfectly well in the deepest tunnels and most remote country lanes.

“It’s never ‘poor’,” Crowley snapped, his irritation palpable. This was an affront. The Bentley did what he wanted. Always. He slapped the dashboard, a sharp thwack of his palm against the polished wood. “Come on, you stupid beast. Play something.”

The static didn’t even flicker. He tried a different tactic, focusing his will, demanding a specific decade. “Give me the seventies,” he commanded under his breath. The static continued, mocking him. He tried the forties, the roaring twenties, even some Gregorian chants he knew Aziraphale secretly enjoyed. Nothing. Only the sound of a dead channel.

Frustrated, he rested his hand flat on the dashboard, just above the silent radio. And then he felt it.

It was a low, subtle vibration, a thrumming that hummed up through the wood and into his palm. It wasn't the powerful rumble of the engine; this was something else. A thin, high-frequency energy that felt fundamentally wrong. It was a foreign presence in his car, a faint but persistent hum that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. His blood ran cold. It felt ancient, and it felt powerful.

He glanced over at Aziraphale. The angel was looking out the window, a placid expression on his face as he watched a mother push a pram down the pavement. He was completely oblivious to the wrongness filling the car, to the violation Crowley was feeling in his very bones. The angel looked so content, so at peace. The last thing Crowley wanted to do was shatter that by admitting something was amiss with the one worldly thing he had complete and utter dominion over. Worrying Aziraphale over a faulty radio seemed ridiculous, even if his instincts were screaming that it was much more than that.

He snatched his hand back from the dashboard as if burned. He took a slow breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders. He would figure it out later. Alone. For now, he would protect this fragile peace they had built.

With a final, decisive click, he shut the radio off entirely, plunging the car into a sudden, thick silence broken only by the engine’s purr.

“Right,” he said, his voice a study in forced nonchalance. “Thing’s on the fritz. No matter. The sound of my engine is music enough.” He shot Aziraphale a quick, tight smile. “Park?”

“St. James’s would be lovely,” Aziraphale replied, beaming. “We can feed the ducks.”

Crowley nodded, putting the Bentley into gear. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb, but the silence felt heavy, unnatural. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, the ghost of that alien energy still tingling in his fingertips.

The walk to the lake was filled with the easy chatter that had defined their friendship for millennia. Crowley pointed out a particularly garish hat on a tourist, and Aziraphale offered a brief, fascinating history of the pelicans that had been gifted to the park in the 17th century. It was all so wonderfully normal, a soothing balm on the strange, dissonant note of the Bentley’s silence.

Aziraphale had, of course, miracled a bag of stale bread into his coat pocket, and he now stood at the water’s edge, dutifully tearing off pieces and tossing them to the eager, quacking flock that had gathered at his feet. Crowley lounged against the railing beside him, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with an air of detached amusement.

“You spoil them, angel,” he remarked, his voice a low drawl. “They’ll expect this service from every tweed-clad gentleman who wanders by. You’re creating a dependency.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, tossing another crust. “They’re hungry. It’s a simple kindness.” He glanced at Crowley, his expression soft. “You used to feed them with me. Before.”

The word hung in the air between them. Before. Before the Apocalypse that wasn’t. Before they had stared into the face of oblivion and chosen each other over their respective sides. Before this fragile, undefined thing between them had started to take shape.

Crowley’s posture didn’t change, but Aziraphale saw the subtle shift in his jaw. “Didn’t want to get my hands dirty,” he deflected, pushing off the railing. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

They set off along the path that wound around the lake, falling into their familiar rhythm, shoulder to shoulder. The inconsequential chatter died away, replaced by a comfortable silence. Yet, underneath it, Aziraphale felt a current of something else. A tension that had nothing to do with silent radios or mysterious books. It was the tension of the unspoken. They were… together. But what did that mean, in the bright light of day, surrounded by strangers? What were the new rules? Were there rules?

His gaze drifted down to where their hands swung with each step, coming impossibly close before moving apart again. Crowley’s hands were elegant, with long, deft fingers. Aziraphale knew them intimately, had watched them gesture dramatically, pour wine, grip the steering wheel of the Bentley. He had felt them, briefly, on his shoulder or his arm in moments of crisis or camaraderie. But he had never simply… held one.

The thought was audacious. It made his heart give a strange, fluttering thump against his ribs. For six thousand years, such a thing would have been unthinkable. A public display. An admission. But now… now there was no one to report to. No Archangels or Dukes of Hell to hide from. There was only the warm London sun, the distant sound of traffic, and the demon walking beside him.

His own hand felt clumsy, too warm inside his coat pocket. He pulled it out, letting it swing freely at his side. With every step, his knuckles brushed against the back of Crowley’s hand. The contact was electric, a tiny spark that shot up his arm. Crowley gave no sign he’d noticed, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, his expression hidden behind the dark lenses of his glasses.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. He could do this. He wanted to do this. He had faced down Heaven and Hell. Surely he could face this.

He took another step, and as their hands swung near once more, he didn’t let the moment pass. He turned his palm upward and let his fingers brush against Crowley’s. It was a question, not a demand. He felt Crowley’s stride falter for a fraction of a second. The demon’s hand was cool from the air, the skin smooth over his knuckles. Aziraphale hesitated for only a heartbeat more before closing the distance, his fingers sliding between Crowley’s.

Crowley stopped walking entirely.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on a duck paddling serenely on the lake, unable to look at the demon’s face. He felt the long, cool fingers lying passively in his own, and for a terrible second, he thought Crowley would pull away. That he had misread everything, that this simple gesture was a step too far.

But then, slowly, Crowley’s fingers curled, tightening around his. The grip was firm, definite. A wave of warmth, so potent it was almost dizzying, washed through Aziraphale. Crowley’s thumb moved, stroking once over the back of his hand.

Aziraphale finally risked a glance. Crowley was looking down at their joined hands, his head tilted. He then lifted his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s. The dark glasses made his expression unreadable, but Aziraphale could see the corner of his mouth twitch, the barest hint of a smile. It wasn’t smug or teasing. It was something softer. Something new.

Without a word, Crowley started walking again, their hands still linked between them. It felt monumental, a shift in the very foundations of their existence. And yet, it also felt perfectly, utterly natural, as if their hands had been shaped for this very purpose and had simply been waiting six thousand years for the chance to prove it. The subtle tension that had followed them from the bookshop dissolved, replaced by a quiet, solid certainty that felt as real and tangible as the hand he was holding.

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands for the entire walk back to the car. Aziraphale was acutely aware of every single detail: the slight, pleasant friction of their skin, the way Crowley’s longer fingers fit so perfectly between his own, the secure weight of it. It was a simple, grounding anchor in a world that had so recently threatened to spin apart. He felt a foolish, boyish grin trying to spread across his face and had to concentrate on maintaining a dignified composure.

The drive back to Soho was quiet. The Bentley’s engine was a low, contented rumble, and without the radio, the silence should have been awkward. It wasn’t. It was a comfortable, shared quiet, filled with the new, unspoken understanding that had settled between them in the park. Crowley drove with one hand, his left, while his right rested on the center console, palm up. An invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, Aziraphale laid his own hand over it. Crowley’s fingers closed around his again, and they drove the rest of the way back like that.

By the time they reached the bookshop, the sun was setting, painting the London sky in dusty shades of orange and violet. The familiar jingle of the bell above the door was a welcoming sound. Inside, the fading light slanted through the tall windows, illuminating dancing dust motes and casting long shadows between the towering shelves. It was home.

“Tea?” Aziraphale asked, his voice softer than usual.

Crowley gave a lazy shrug, though his hand was still holding Aziraphale’s. “Don’t mind if I do.”

They didn’t release their hold until Aziraphale had to fill the kettle, and even then, the space between them felt charged, alive with a warmth that had nothing to do with miracles. Crowley didn’t retreat to his usual slouching spot on the sofa. Instead, he leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Aziraphale move through the familiar motions of preparing tea. His sunglasses were still firmly in place, but Aziraphale didn't need to see his eyes to feel the weight of his gaze. It was steady and intent, a physical presence in the room.

They drank their tea in the main part of the shop, Aziraphale in his favorite worn armchair and Crowley perched on the edge of the desk, dangerously close to a stack of 18th-century poetry. The conversation was sparse, unnecessary. The day had said enough. As darkness finally consumed the last of the light outside, Aziraphale lit a few lamps, casting a cozy, golden glow over the room.

Crowley stretched, a long, languid movement like a cat uncoiling. “S’pose I should…” he started, but the sentence trailed off. He didn’t move to leave. He looked towards the sofa, then back at Aziraphale. The question was unasked but clear.

A pleasant warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. “You don’t have to,” he said quietly. “You could… stay.”

A slow smile spread across Crowley’s face. It was a genuine, unguarded thing that made Aziraphale’s breath catch. Without another word, the demon unfolded himself from the desk and collapsed onto the tartan sofa, kicking his boots off and propping his feet up on the armrest. He was asleep, or at least pretending to be, within minutes.

Aziraphale watched him for a long time, the teacup cooling in his hands. He felt a profound sense of peace settle over him, a rightness that resonated deep in his soul. This was it. This was everything he had secretly, desperately wanted for longer than he could ever admit.

He stood and began his nightly tidying ritual, moving quietly so as not to disturb the demon. He straightened a stack of books, dusted a globe, and finally turned his attention to his desk. The papers from his breakfast experiment were still there, along with the strange, unlabeled book he’d found. He picked it up, the cover smooth and cool beneath his fingers.

And as his skin made contact with the ancient binding, a soft light began to emanate from it.

It wasn’t a harsh glare, but a gentle, pearlescent luminescence, as if moonlight were trapped within the pages. The elegant script he’d been unable to decipher seemed to shimmer, the silver lines of ink pulsing with a faint, internal rhythm. He stared at it, mesmerized, his heart giving a sudden, sharp thump. It was beautiful, but it was also deeply strange. The light grew a fraction brighter, casting a soft glow on his hands and face.

At that exact moment, out on the street, the dashboard of the Bentley flickered to life. The radio, which had been stubbornly, completely silent for hours, crackled. For a single, breathtaking second, the wall of white noise vanished. It was replaced by a sound of impossible purity.

It was one note.

A single, melodic tone, clear and perfect, like it was being played by a celestial harp. It hung in the dark, silent interior of the car, a note of profound and ancient beauty, filled with a sense of immense, heartbreaking longing. It resonated in the leather of the seats and vibrated in the glass of the windscreen before, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

The radio fell silent. The dashboard lights went dark.

Inside the shop, the book’s glow faded, the shimmering script becoming inert ink on a page once more. The room was just a room again, lit by the warm, ordinary light of the lamps. Crowley stirred on the sofa, muttering something in his sleep, but did not wake. Aziraphale stood frozen by his desk, the now-ordinary book clutched in his hands, the echo of something he hadn’t heard ringing in the sudden, profound silence.