Chapter Text
They say that time's supposed to heal ya
But I ain't done much healing
Hello, can you hear me?
I'm in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet
There's such a difference between us
And a million miles
PRESENT DAY | WEDNESDAY | 4:37 PM | PALM SPRINGS, CALIFORNIA
The last time Aziraphale was with Christ in the desert, the Son of God was being nailed to the cross.
Yeshua's screams are different today. He lets out a jubilant whoop as he catapults himself off the springboard with his knees tucked to his chest. The pool's smooth, crystalline surface erupts when his body hits the water.
A few droplets land on Aziraphale's bare shins. He's not fond of pools and their chemical smell. Wriggling anxiously in his deck chair, his fingers itch to snatch up a towel from the stack of bubblegum pink terry cloth on the ground beside him.
But that would mean leaning in Crowley's direction.
The demon is a riot of colour reclining in Aziraphale's periphery. He's wearing a shirt-and-shorts set patterned with an array of tropical plants. Crowley's outfit coordinates perfectly with the towering palm trees circling the property and the motel's exterior walls, which are the same eye-catching pink as the towels (or eye-offending, depending on one's perspective).
All this vibrancy, it's so… jarring compared to the stark white surroundings of— of… Well.
Aziraphale plucks at his own plain linen shirt. It keeps sticking to his chest. California has always been a touch too warm for his liking. It's the first time he's been back to the Golden State since the '50s. Prior to that little incident with Gary Cooper, he hadn't set foot on the American West Coast since the 1850s during the Gold Rush.
California (and the rest of the planet) won't even make it to the 2050s if he and Crowley can't, as the young people would put it, get their shit together.
There are only a few feet between Aziraphale's deck chair and Crowley's, yet the gulf between them might as well be miles. Crowley stares straight forward, his mouth a flat line, his arms crossed resolutely over his chest. One knee bounces as he watches Christ hoist himself out of the pool, bound along the deck, and fling himself off the diving board again and again with high-pitched squeals of delight.
At least, Aziraphale assumes Crowley’s eyes are focused on their charge. His enormous wrap-around sunglasses take up half his face, as if he's some starlet fresh out of drug rehabilitation and avoiding prying photographers. The lenses are so large they even eclipse his eyebrows—and oh, does Aziraphale dearly miss the expressiveness of those brows right about now. These sunglasses are also fully opaque. Aziraphale yearns for the countless stray glimpses of yellow eyes revealed by light slanting at just the right angle.
(He most certainly will not think about glasses shoved carelessly onto equestrian statuary or naked eyes in a dim bookshop, wide and damp and so very vulnerable.)
There is nary a hint of yellow to be seen when Aziraphale chances a more direct glance at Crowley. Only a sliver of Aziraphale's own reflection caught in mirrored glass, warped and nearly unrecognisable. His hair has grown longer, curling over his ears. He still has slashes of gold lining his eyes that won't budge no matter how fiercely he scrubs.
A sharp hiss crackles in the air—a flame bursting from the tip of Crowley's index finger. He uses it to light a cigarette dangling between his lips. It flares bright with Crowley's intake of breath, a glittering ruby red. The burning papers highlight the sheen of sweat in the hollow of Crowley's throat.
Aziraphale would like to suck a bruise there. A claiming mark. As if he has any right to that.
"Hey man, you know those things are terrible for you, right?"
Yeshua pads towards them, his wet skin gleaming burnished bronze. Aziraphale feels a stab behind his sternum when he realises that Christ's swim trunks are the same pattern as Crowley’s clothing. He grits his teeth. At any rate, rebirth is treating Yeshua well, it seems. He's lean but more well-muscled than he was at the Crucifixion.
He's built like Crowley, Aziraphale's traitorous mind supplies, recalling the way Crowley's trim waist had fit in the curve of his palm as he desperately clutched it while they—
"That's what I hear, anyway," Yeshua says with a light chuckle. His voice still has that same scratchy quality from thousands of years ago, with a hint of the drawl common among beach-dwellers. He gestures at the neon pink "No Smoking" sign on the wall behind Crowley. "Plus, ya know. Rules."
Crowley huffs and waves a hand idly in front of his chest, smoke wafting from the end of his cigarette. The first two letters in the sign pop and sizzle, blinking out. "Don't worry, the lungs are just for appearances," he rasps, flint scraping on stone.
The sound of his voice remains unexpected after so much prolonged silence. Aziraphale hasn't heard him utter a word since they checked into the motel earlier. Before that, Crowley had been unbearably quiet during the nearly seven-hour drive here. Before that, they'd exchanged a few terse words, shouted over the Bentley's engine as they absconded with Yeshua from a Nevada air base. And before that, well…
The less said about the silent stretch between "Hear that? No nightingales" and Nevada, the better.
"Dude, you're hilarious," Yeshua says to Crowley, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine mirth.
His laughter is muffled as he stoops to grab a towel and drape it over his head. A few quick pats and he lets the towel fall to his shoulders, his half-dried curls springing in all directions. Interestingly, the Messiah is letting himself go grey; both the dark hair on his head and his scruffy beard are threaded through with silver.
"Eh, suit yourself, I'm not your boss," Yeshua continues when Crowley takes another drag of his cigarette. "Anywhoo, I'll see you guys later, yeah? Gonna go make a serious dent in the mini bar."
He gently taps Aziraphale and Crowley each on the nose (he actually, actually says, "Booooop" with a little smile while he does it) before jogging inside.
Crowley blows out a stream of smoke on a long, weary exhale. Once again, he has managed to coordinate with the scenery. There's a rumble in the distance. Dark plumes rise above the desert mountains against the backdrop of— Ah, it would appear the sky has turned a rather sickly-looking chartreuse.
That's new.