To Love Abundantly
“To love abundantly is to live abundantly;
To love forever is to live forever”
For someone who hardly spent any time there, Crowley had an awful lot of things in his flat. He had a 10-speaker surround sound system that could reproduce digitized harmonies so accurately that one almost felt as if they were hearing them live on a stage. He had a sleek, stainless steel refrigerator that boasted Maximum Storage Capacity and Superior Cooling Technology ™, neither of which the demon cared about because he never actually needed to eat, and any food he kept in the appliance wouldn’t dare go rotten out of the fear of Crowley's wrath (they knew what happened to the houseplants). He had a bed-- one of his favourite possessions and one of the few that he actually bothered using. It had sheets that were made of pricey Egyptian cotton and a thread count that Crowley wasn’t even sure was possible; he had simply expected the sheets to be soft, and so they were.
But, as the demon only ever stayed in his small apartment long enough to sleep and used it for little else, he often found himself milling around his angel’s dingy Soho bookshop, claiming that he was "just doing his job" by making any prospective purchasers of Aziraphale’s precious books suddenly realize that they had actually wanted to be in the much more interesting “exotic” video store at the end of the street. It always earned him a stern look and a slightly annoyed sigh, but he knew the angel was silently relieved not to have to deal with the customers himself, and that his prized possessions were safe once again.
On one of these particular days, draped over a dusty old couch in the front room, a sudden thought hit him.
“You know, angel, you don’t really have many things. I mean, aside from your myriad of rotting fire-starters,” Crowley said, gesturing around to the bookshelves beside him.
Aziraphale looked up from where he was hunched over his book, standing up straighter and pushing his glasses back from the end of his nose. “I don’t really need much, my dear. I honestly don’t know why you think you do,” the angel said with a slight chuckle.
“Well, having things is… nice, from the human perspective. Gives them a sense of superiority. Makes them feel special, if they think they have more stuff than someone else, or something unique that no one else has,” the demon explained, pinching a loose thread in the fabric and rubbing it absentmindedly between his fingers.
The angel hummed into the cup of tea he had materialized for himself, taking a small sip before setting it down on the saucer with a soft clink. He walked around the counter he had been standing behind, moving over to Crowley’s spot on the aging piece of furniture and sat down next to him once the taller man had brought himself upright.
“Well, I certainly don’t feel inferior to you simply because you insist on cluttering up your flat with expensive rubbish that you never use,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, “But I have to agree with that bit about having something unique.”
“Oh, yeah? And how’s that, angel?” Crowley said with a small smirk.
“It’s like I said before. I don’t have many personal effects because I don’t need them. Greed and covetousness and all that, you understand,” the angel said with a small wave of his hand, “But the few things I do have tend to make up for it. My books, for example. And you.”
Crowley was a little surprised at that. “Me?” He questioned, eyebrows raised. The demon let out a scoff and ran a hand quickly through his dark hair, mumbling quietly. “Can’t see why you’d enjoy having me. If anything, I just make your life harder.”
Aziraphale waved away his demon’s brief moment of self-depreciation. “Oh, come off it. Who else would tempt me to dinner at the Ritz? Or to feed the ducks? Honestly, my dear, aside from the Host, you’re the only permanent thing I’ve got. I don’t lend any time or attention to all these… these superfluous possessions you enjoy so much because they’re only temporary, they’re always temporary, but you… you are constant, Crowley. Forever.” Aziraphale's tone had taken on a hint of seriousness, but also of tenderness, and Crowley wondered when his hand had drifted down to grasp the angel’s.
“I may not have much,” Aziraphale began again, with eyes that shone almost as bright as Heaven itself, “But you, my dear, make me feel as if I have everything.”
To love forever is to live forever”
For someone who hardly spent any time there, Crowley had an awful lot of things in his flat. He had a 10-speaker surround sound system that could reproduce digitized harmonies so accurately that one almost felt as if they were hearing them live on a stage. He had a sleek, stainless steel refrigerator that boasted Maximum Storage Capacity and Superior Cooling Technology ™, neither of which the demon cared about because he never actually needed to eat, and any food he kept in the appliance wouldn’t dare go rotten out of the fear of Crowley's wrath (they knew what happened to the houseplants). He had a bed-- one of his favourite possessions and one of the few that he actually bothered using. It had sheets that were made of pricey Egyptian cotton and a thread count that Crowley wasn’t even sure was possible; he had simply expected the sheets to be soft, and so they were.
But, as the demon only ever stayed in his small apartment long enough to sleep and used it for little else, he often found himself milling around his angel’s dingy Soho bookshop, claiming that he was "just doing his job" by making any prospective purchasers of Aziraphale’s precious books suddenly realize that they had actually wanted to be in the much more interesting “exotic” video store at the end of the street. It always earned him a stern look and a slightly annoyed sigh, but he knew the angel was silently relieved not to have to deal with the customers himself, and that his prized possessions were safe once again.
On one of these particular days, draped over a dusty old couch in the front room, a sudden thought hit him.
“You know, angel, you don’t really have many things. I mean, aside from your myriad of rotting fire-starters,” Crowley said, gesturing around to the bookshelves beside him.
Aziraphale looked up from where he was hunched over his book, standing up straighter and pushing his glasses back from the end of his nose. “I don’t really need much, my dear. I honestly don’t know why you think you do,” the angel said with a slight chuckle.
“Well, having things is… nice, from the human perspective. Gives them a sense of superiority. Makes them feel special, if they think they have more stuff than someone else, or something unique that no one else has,” the demon explained, pinching a loose thread in the fabric and rubbing it absentmindedly between his fingers.
The angel hummed into the cup of tea he had materialized for himself, taking a small sip before setting it down on the saucer with a soft clink. He walked around the counter he had been standing behind, moving over to Crowley’s spot on the aging piece of furniture and sat down next to him once the taller man had brought himself upright.
“Well, I certainly don’t feel inferior to you simply because you insist on cluttering up your flat with expensive rubbish that you never use,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, “But I have to agree with that bit about having something unique.”
“Oh, yeah? And how’s that, angel?” Crowley said with a small smirk.
“It’s like I said before. I don’t have many personal effects because I don’t need them. Greed and covetousness and all that, you understand,” the angel said with a small wave of his hand, “But the few things I do have tend to make up for it. My books, for example. And you.”
Crowley was a little surprised at that. “Me?” He questioned, eyebrows raised. The demon let out a scoff and ran a hand quickly through his dark hair, mumbling quietly. “Can’t see why you’d enjoy having me. If anything, I just make your life harder.”
Aziraphale waved away his demon’s brief moment of self-depreciation. “Oh, come off it. Who else would tempt me to dinner at the Ritz? Or to feed the ducks? Honestly, my dear, aside from the Host, you’re the only permanent thing I’ve got. I don’t lend any time or attention to all these… these superfluous possessions you enjoy so much because they’re only temporary, they’re always temporary, but you… you are constant, Crowley. Forever.” Aziraphale's tone had taken on a hint of seriousness, but also of tenderness, and Crowley wondered when his hand had drifted down to grasp the angel’s.
“I may not have much,” Aziraphale began again, with eyes that shone almost as bright as Heaven itself, “But you, my dear, make me feel as if I have everything.”