Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley has one thing on his mind.

He needs to get drunk. Really drunk.

Pressing his foot all the way down on the gas pedal, feeling like tar is coursing through his veins and trickling out of the hole that was blasted in his chest by a single sentence, he storms down the streets of London, down the stupid fucking M25, then out of the city and somewhere, anywhere but Soho where someone just ripped his two hearts to shreds like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He has no one to blame but himself. Afterall, he handed Aziraphale his hearts on a silver platter. He just didn’t expect him to throw them into a sulphur bath.

Going a good hundred miles over the speed limit, he overtakes the car in front of him, another one coming from the other way and honking its horn at him as he nearly crashes into it face first, Crowley desperately clings onto the fear and adrenaline that he briefly experiences. 

Nothing lasts forever, Crowley. 

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, voice harsh and rough like a stone but full of desperate plea, hand reaching to turn the music back on after he almost slammed the button into pieces when A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square started playing. Bentley must have sensed that its owner wasn’t in a mood to be messed with, because instead of putting on Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy like it initially wanted, it plays Under Pressure performed by Queen and David Bowie. Crowley doesn't really care.

He just needs to get black-out drunk. And England isn’t a place for that. But Scotland is.

He pulls up by The Resurrectionist, realises what he is doing and drives off with a furious groan, ends up going to a forgotten, dingy old pub on the suburbs of Edinburgh where everyone keeps to themselves, glancing at you briefly from their seats before going to their miserable drinks and miserable conversations. A perfect place for another miserable soul, though Crowley doubts he has one. He does however have - apart from both of his hearts broken - all the vital organs that a typical human has, which makes him perfectly susceptible to getting drunk, really drunk.

The barman at first seems like they want to refuse giving him the whole bottle of whisky, but something in Crowley’s face - maybe the unspoken threat that if they don’t comply, they will very much regret it - must have made them think twice, because after a moment Crowley feels the neck of the bottle between his fingers, cold tip of the bottle pressing to his lips as he takes an unholy big swig, trying his best to stop comparing the feeling of the glass against his lips to how something else against his lips felt. He slams some cash onto the counter, not caring that he just gave away three hundred pounds for a bottle of Auchentoshan which definitely wasn’t worth that much, and walks off to sit down in one of many available dark corners the room offers. Crowley, I need you!

“No, you don’t,” he groans in exasperation to the air sitting in the chair across the barrel that works as a table, and takes another swig, praying- no, just hoping the alcohol gets to his head already, makes him forget, makes him stop thinking, makes him feel like he didn’t exist, makes him forget about the gaping hole in his chest.

At some point he was asked out of the pub - or maybe Crowley left on his own after a few hours of miracilling the whiskey back into the bottle - and he finds himself drunkily walking around Edinburgh, muttering under his breath that a certain angel could go fuck himself for all Crowley cared, that everything was a mistake, that he shouldn’t have bothered with that confession, that everything was unfair, that Beelzebub and Gabriel could also go fuck themselves, that Aziraphale really shouldn’t bother with forgiving him or whatever the fuck he meant with that sentence. The air is cool and heavy with moisture, a presage to a coming rain.

The graveyard is as deserted, gloomy and shrouded in fog as it’s always been ever since the nineteenth century when he first visited it, and Crowley sloppily walks over to the big statue of Gabriel standing in the middle of the courtyard by the small chapel and throws the empty bottle of whisky at it, finding a shred of satisfaction in the sound of the glass shattering at the impact. “Fuck you in par- p-paricu- partiticular!” He yells, flipping the statue off, and hates that the stone doesn’t move to form into a disapproving frown on Gabriel’s face, that it’s just a sculpture and not someone that could get angry at Crowley, because right now he would kill for an interaction that didn’t involve teary eyes and shaking fingers going up to touch at lips. “F-fuck you an’ your happy love life! And fuck Blez- Beluuz- Beelbu- Beelzebub! Fuck ye all!” 

He reaches to grab a bigger piece of the shattered bottle from the ground, ends up falling to his knees in the process, sloppily gets back to his feet and squeezes his palm around the glass before chucking it at the statue. It doesn’t shatter and Crowley howls, because, by all circles of Hell, he needs to cause destruction. 

“FUCK!” He screams, fisting his hands and slamming them into the stone, wishing he could topple the statue and break Gabriel’s stupid fucking face into a million tiny pieces, turn it into dust and then scatter across the world and burn the whole earth to the ground. The glass cut his palm open and now dark red blood trickles down his wrist and forearm - and Crowley doesn’t care for it. He hits the stone again, the world around him swaying and spinning more and more as alcohol gets to him with every passing minute, and doesn't stop until he doesn't feel anything apart from the pain blooming from the split knuckles.

Ground goes up to meet him as he falls backwards on his ass, gravel aggravating the cut on his hand, and the sky breaks apart into heavy rain. Crowley closes his eyes and lies down, hoping the water will mix with his tears and no one will see him crying. His chest jumps with heavy sobs.

He needs to-

Nothing lasts forever, Crowley. The angel glanced at him one last time before walking into the elevator. 

He needs to get more drunk than that.

Chapter Text

Crowley ends up drinking himself into oblivion every day for the next week.

He probably would continue to do so for much longer if it wasn’t for his phone buzzing in his back pocket with notifications for the last five minutes, somehow sending nauseating vibrations through his whole body. He sloppily sets the bottle of gin down on the ground by his couch - it’s been nice to be back in his flat again - and wiggles around until he can free the device from under himself and see who’s been disturbing his cryin- free time . 

Adam the Antichrist

> where r u 

> we’ve been waiting for u and aziph for the last 10 mints

> did u forget??

> answer me

Anathema Device

> is everything okay with you two?

> we can’t reach Aziraphale

> if you can’t make it, just let us know

“For fuck’s sake,” Crowley groans, reclining in his seat until his legs are on the floor, and slowly flops to his side, making more of his body get off the couch limb by limb. He reluctantly gathers his bearings, types a quick message to Anathema, making at least seven typos just to spite her, and promptly ignores any more of Adam’s messages as he waves his hand to change out of the shirt he’s been wearing for the last week into his casual outfit. Another wave and all the alcohol evaporates out of his body, and he’s ready to go to the yearly meeting of the Armageddon Group, as Adam and Newt call them.

Only once he’s speeding down the streets of London, does he realise that Aziraphale might be there, too. 

I forgive you. His hands clench on the steering wheel, the leather creaks from the force of the grasp, and he accelerates, relishing in the sound of other drivers honking at him as he nearly crashes two times. He doesn’t care if the angel - pardon me, the Supreme Archangel of the Stupid Fucking Heavens Above Kiss My Demon Ass - is going to be there; at least, that’s what he tells himself, ignoring the racing of his two hearts and how they send unease through his body with each beat. Aziraphale can fuck right off. He can forgive his own holy supreme ass, can spend all of his stupid archangel time forgiving Crowley and he wouldn’t care for it. 

Crowley likes to think that he’s not a delusional being. 

He makes a parking space appear right by the cafe where the Group decided to meet this year, ignores the alarm of the moved car going off, and exits the Bentley, waving his hand to close the door behind him. The cafe is bustling, why the fuck do they have to meet at the busiest time every time , and Crowley spots the correct table only thanks to sensing the Hell Hound’s - sorry, Dog’s - aura. He takes a free chair from another table without asking if it was taken, moves it to Newt’s left and Adam’s right and flops down with a heavy exhale. 

He hopes he doesn’t sound too obvious about his current mental state when he mutters: “I’m here. You can stop bothering me now.”

Adam glances up from his phone unimpressed and sets it down on the table. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Sure you don’t,” Anathema scoffs, rolling her eyes, then takes a second look at Crowley and furrows her brow. “Something’s different.”

No shit , Crowley wants to hiss but stops himself, instead looks out the window where what looks like a third of London is flowing through the street. Newt shifts uneasily in his seat, visibly uncomfortable with the fact that Crowley is sitting right next to him - because even after four years of their yearly meetings, he’s still a little scared of the demon. Not that Crowley really cares. 

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is?” Anathema asks, setting her elbows on the table; she must be trying her best to drill a hole in Crowley’s skull with her attentive gaze. But Crowley is a human only in the physical sense, so she should give up. He’s not going to tell her that, though.

“Told you - I don’t know,” he spits, seeing out of the corner of his eye how Newt flinches at his harsh tone. “It’s not like I put a fucking tracker on him or something.”

“Though you did since you…” Adam trails off, giving him a knowing glance, and Crowley truly wants to set his chair ablaze for a moment. “Anyhow, should we wait for him? Do you know if he’s planning on coming?”

“No, and I do not wish to know, ever,” he hisses, settles on glaring at the kid and hates that it doesn’t make him cower in his seat like any normal human - but then again, Adam isn’t really human. Besides, he is sixteen now, in the prime of rebellious behaviour and breaking any and all rules, so he isn’t going to be moved by a simple glare, even if it comes from a demonic pair of snake eyes. 

“Are you guys ready to order?” A waiter asks them in a cheery voice, suddenly materialising by their table, and everyone goes to look through the menu one final time before giving their order. When it’s Crowley’s turn, he can’t help but smile mischievously as he says: “Espresso with whisky.”

The waiter doesn’t stop smiling nor does their tone change as they answer, “We don’t sell any alcohol here, sir.”

“Not even Irish coffee?”

“No, sir.”

“You guys are really lame, you know that?”

“Sir-”

“Just give me two double espressos in a cup.” He waves a hand dismissively, turning away from the waiter to glare right back at Anathema who looks like she has a lot to say about his behaviour, given her widely disapproving gaze. Crowley smiles candidly, baring his fangs, and blinks a few times like he’s seen people do in movies. “Is something wrong, dear prodigy of Agnes Nutter?”

Newt straightens his back a little bit and has enough courage to give Crowley a warning glance, but the demon doesn’t care. Anathema squints at Crowley, cocking her head a little bit. “You know you shouldn’t drink alcohol when we meet. Adam’s still a kid.”

“I’m literally sixteen-”

“Which is still underage,” Newt cuts in with a serious tone.

“That’s not-!”

“Unimportant!” Crowley groans, throwing his head back. “It’s not like they sell alcohol here anyway! We should start-” He wants to say they should start meeting in Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death because they sell drinks with alcohol there, but then he remembers that it’s right next to the bookshop, it’s where Nina works and it’s where he and Aziraphale went for lunch a couple of times, so his mind scrambles to find a different cafeteria in his memory but comes up with nothing. “We should start meeting somewhere where they do.” 

Surprisingly, it’s Newt that asks, “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“Who said something was wrong?”

“ You when you stormed into the cafe with a thousand yard stare, when you looked like you could murder someone with your bare hands, when you were late for our meeting, when you’ve been behaving like a dick presumably all day,” Adam enumerates on his left hand, sounding a lot like he could keep going, arms folded on his chest, and gives Crowley another one of his knowing, unimpressed smiles. The demon groans in defeat, leaning forward to lie his head on the edge of the table, ignoring that the waiter was just about to set everyone’s orders on it, and lets his arms dangle freely, almost touching the floor.

“Something happened and you need to tell us what it is,” Anathema orders with a little gentler voice, tapping her fingers right by Crowley’s head. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

“In fucking Heaven.” He finally mumbles, sitting up only to take a big drink out of his cup, then sets his head back down. His hearts already start beating a little faster because of the caffeine.

“Care to be a little more specific? Anyone can figure out an angel would be in heaven.” Adam points out.

He’s not going to tell them. They’ll have to pry it out of him question by question. Crowley remains silent, figuring this is enough of an answer. 

“Fine,” Newt sighs, sounds like he’s a little exhausted by all of this. “What happened between you and Aziraphale?”

There. Jackpot. Crowley presses his lips together and wishes the earth would swallow him whole, but can’t help but answer, a part of him hoping this will make him feel a little better. “We fell out.”

“A little vague.”

“Give me a more specific question then.”

“How exactly did you fall out?” Newt asks with the gentleness of a steel chair.

He doesn’t love me, he never did, brainwashed from the start, who would have guessed, all the angels are the same after all, just a bunch of bees with a single brain cell they all share between themselves. And how about you stop all of that? “He went back to Heaven to become the Supreme Archangel,” Crowley decides on saying, sitting up just enough to rest his chin on his forearms, voice quiet and a little defeated, can’t help pronouncing both of the capital letters despite his best efforts.

All three of them exchange confused looks, then Adam inquires, reaching for his cup of what looks like an insanely sweet frappuccino or something of that sort. “Wasn’t there a Supreme Archangel already? The one we met?”

“Not as of last week, no,” Crowley hears himself answering in a monotone voice, like he’s not in control anymore, like his consciousness retreated into the depths of his being, began sulking there and left his body on autopilot. “Gabriel quit his job and went to travel the cosmos with the love of his life.”

He means for it to be blank and vague, but it still ends up sounding like a quote from some shitty, sweet-it-surely-must-be-rotten romantic book. And it hurts like an absolute motherfucker. He sees Newt and Anathema exchange quick glances, the latter stopping herself from reaching to hold Palsifer’s hand at the last second because she realises she wouldn’t be helping right now.

“Aziraphale was asked to take his place,” the demon continues, forcing his gaze to land on the bottomless dark pit that is the drink in his cup. “And he did it without hesitation.”

“And because of that you’re not talking anymore?” Adam asks, seemingly oblivious to the underlying pain in every word Crowley has said today. He gives the kid a warning glance, says slowly and overly evenly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Adam, I think you shouldn’t-” Anathema tries, because she’s very aware that Crowley is a ticking bomb right now, that all three of them are walking on very thin ice. 

But the Antichrist isn’t really moved by either Device’s words nor the demon’s unspoken threats; he shakes his head, cutting Anathema off, and drills his unwavering gaze into the side of Crowley’s skull, lights the very fuse everyone else was trying their best not to light as he continues: “It’s a very stupid reason to cut your ties with someone.”

Everyone expects Crowley to blow then; he can tell it from Anathema’s careful gaze and Newt’s body language - he looks like he’s ready to jump out through the window at any moment now. 

“It’s not your place, kid,” Crowley replies simply with a smile that feels and looks like a punch in the jaw, taking another sip of his drink, and hopes his voice doesn’t sound too weak and pleading, that it still carries a force that makes you think twice about your next words. “So consider dropping the subject, will you?”

“I won’t,” Young replies with all the bluntness of a typical teenager, and his eyebrows draw down and inwards, a slightly worried tilt to them. “We’re just… alarmed , because the two of you always seemed… let’s call it ‘close’.”

In the rare moments that Crowley thinks of God, he wonders why She created teenagers with all of their rebellious behaviour, blunt statements and the need to pry their noses in things that aren’t about them. But then again, so much as wondering about God’s choices got Crowley so far, so he hardly ever lets his mind wander in that direction.

“Well, not anymore,” the demon mutters around another sip, desperately hoping the caffeine in his drink would make both of his hearts fail so that he wouldn’t need to be a part of this conversation anymore, “so case’s closed.”

“It’s very much open, good sir!” Anathema cuts in harshly, slamming her hand on the table.

“I second that,” Newt adds, voice only a little less stern than his partner’s. Four years of being together must have been a good influence on his confidence, because when he continues, his voice is even and firm, but still gentle. “So tell us what happened, okay?”

No, no, no , Crowley’s mind hollers, feels like his consciousness grew hands and is wrapping them around his throat, not their place, stupid, puny humans and their need to talk about their feelings. He shakes his head and lays it back on the table, folding his hands over it as a form of protection - but protection from what exactly?

Should have stayed in bed and gotten drunk. But instead he’s here, with people that are sticking their noses into someone else’s life - even more, someone’s love life- but what love was there between the two of you, when you wanted to stay and he wanted to go, when you said ‘fuck them’ and he said ‘I can fix them’. 

Was it about fixing Crowley for Heaven or the other way around? 

What does it matter anyway? Aziraphale’s gone off to be the Supreme Archangel, has probably made so many changes and done so many wonderful, good things, because he’s a wonderful, good being and a wonderful, good angel, so what use is there in thinking about him, in wondering what his motives were? He’s gone and Crowley’s here. 

And Crowley wishes not to be here. He wishes to be anywhere but on this plane of existence. 

“He went back to the very people that have been hurting him since the beginning of time,” Crowley says very quietly, hoping the bustling cafe drowns out his voice and no one actually hears him, but all three of his companions just lean in closer to not miss a single word. “Wanted me to come with him. I told him we- I told him ‘no’, that it was a bad idea.”  The demon rubs his face with his cold, clammy palm, and wonders when his skin stopped being pleasantly dry and warm. “But Aziraphale was - is , I presume - sure he can fix Heaven. He wasn’t very happy to hear me decline his offer.”

That's not entirely true - Crowley just doesn't know what Aziraphale's expression actually meant. He's been too drunk to even think about it, and part of him never wants to know the truth.

“He wanted you to come with him?” Anathema asks, masking her shock fairly well, and Crowley just nods, taking another drink of his coffee, his hearts not too moved by the caffeine overflowing them sip by sip apart from how fast they’re beating.

“How would a demon go to Heaven?” Adam furrows his brow, leaning back in his chair, and has that deep-in-thought pull to his mouth. “Aziraphale would make you an angel?”

“Something like that,” Crowley mutters, glueing his eyes to the busy street outside the window, and wishes to silence his thoughts that go something like: would he make me just a simple plain angel or would I be an Archangel again. His thoughts are a miserable and dangerous thing, are painfully similar to horses - and from the one time Crowley’s ridden a horse, he’s learned that they’re very unpredictable and untamable at their core, even if they seem domesticated on the outside. How about you give me a break and be quiet for once in your pathetic little existence? 

His head listens, like a horse that just felt a whip on its backside. But who knows for how long simple threats will be enough. 

I really need a drink. 

"Well, can't you just talk it out?" Adam continues, perhaps purposefully oblivious to Crowley's nonverbal signs to fuck off. "You seemed like really good friends. It surely isn't nice to see that relationship go so easily."

Crowley thinks it's just his head that is ringing, but then a siren starts wailing outside just as Young finishes throwing his stupid opinions, and he feels a sudden urge to throw himself under a bus or do anything to make this stop. He lowers his sunglasses just enough so that his eyes are visible to his companions, and glares at the teen, happily noticing that for once, he loses some of his typical confidence under the demon’s gaze.

"I think we're done here.”

He leaves them at the table, doesn’t leave any money for his drink because the least they can do after making his mood even worse is to pay for it themselves, and doesn’t really remember anything from the drive back to his apartment. Vertigo fills his head, courses through his veins, seeps into his bone marrow, roars in his ears and leaves Crowley feeling like he was never real to begin with. What am I, what’s the point, why do I even bother with Earth after he’s gone?

One blink he’s turning the car off with a wave of his hand, another blink and he’s falling to his knees in the hallway of his flat, the doors quietly clicking shut behind him, and there are tears rolling down his face. Crowley leans forward, places his elbows on the ground, and lets the tears puddle just under his head as he sobs, back heaving with every terrible, shaky inhale. Every atom of the universe is crashing down on him, wailing in his ears like an ambulance siren, tearing his mind into shreds. The world is trying to tell him something, but Crowley doesn’t want to listen. 

“Fucking- Fucking shit! ” The demon shrieks, slamming a fist into the floor, and doesn’t at all register the pain blooming from the side of his hand. The floor doesn’t snip at him, doesn’t tell him he’s going too fast, doesn’t ask him to apologise, doesn’t ask him to piss off, doesn’t stutter ‘I forgive you’ with a broken voice, and Crowley hates it.

His phone buzzes a couple of times and he doesn’t need to check to know it’s either Anathema or Adam, one of them trying to apologise, the other trying to make him change his mind or whatever the fuck. Crowley grabs the device out of his pocket and hurls it across the hallway, finds a shred of satisfaction in the sound of it breaking at the impact with a wall. 

Nina and Maggie visit him about two hours later, alarmed that he hasn’t shown any signs of life since last week, and find Crowley splayed out on his couch, the bottle of gin he hasn’t finished now back in his hand. They try talking some sense to him, try to tell him that he can’t change the past and that the best he can do right now is move on, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. At some point Nina says something along the lines of ‘sometimes I wonder what you saw in that angel’ and that’s when Crowley breaks, lashes out fully and unnecessarily to the point where Maggie needs to step in and yell at him to back off or she won’t hold back anymore. The women leave soon after and where Crowley expected to feel satisfied with finally letting out some of his anger, he actually just feels worse than before.

He finishes the bottle of gin in one go, the world sways heavily in protest, his legs don’t want to carry his body anymore, but Crowley tells everything to fuck off and stumbles into his bedroom, falling face first onto the bed and not caring that he still hasn't taken off his shoes. The mattress dips under his weight nicely - it’s made out of that popular memory foam Crowley once read about in some newspaper and impulsively purchased - and feels a little bit like someone is hugging him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. After sleeping in his car for months up until today - because a part of him didn’t want to go into the bedroom, because that would mean that things did in fact change, and change for the worse - it feels like falling through the floor, falling and falling and falling, but instead of a sulphur bath, it’s a pair of arms in a tweed jacket and the smell of old books, cocoa and peaches waiting at the bottom. 

Crowley sleeps for three months and doesn't wake up once during that time.

At first he dreams, which is a rare occurance - dreams of his time as an angel, when the world was young and waiting to be filled with gorgeous creation. He dreams of putting the stars in the sky, the nebulas he created and how they shimmered, opalising in every colour that was ever created. He dreams of a shy angel that always needed to convince himself that Heaven was good, his gorgeous blue eyes that carried the colour of the sky in them, and then dreams of his own naivety that Heaven has always been good. He dreams of falling all the way Down and the sulphur bath that turned his wings black, that burned his eyes out and replaced them with slitted serpent irises, that made him feel like he was actually, really and fully, dying. 

But then he dreams of a giant library with rows and rows of bookshelves, high windows with coloured glass and even higher rooms, all filled with books and knowledge. Upon realising it’s not the bookshop because it smells… colder here, Crowley opens one of his eyes, sees that he’s curled up in a ball on the top of one of the shelves, and that he has no idea where he is. 

It doesn’t matter. With a miserable, quiet whimper, he tries to go back to sleep. 

He thinks he’s sleeping, but whenever he opens his eyes, he’s still somewhere in the library: on a branch of a giant tree growing in the centre of it, on the top of a bookshelf, on a giant shelf between stacks of books that age as far back as 4000 B.C and as far forward as the thirtieth century. There are people - no, creatures - here, and they all try to tell him he needs to go back.

But what is ‘back’ at this point, where is ‘back’ in regards to ‘here’? Besides, what’s the point in going back to nothing? What is there for him to come back to: an empty bookshop that actually sells books because Muriel doesn’t quite understand what they’re doing just yet, Nina and Maggie that try to make him talk about his feelings as if he was human like them, the Armageddon Group that drive him mad with their questions?

“He’s been here for ten days now, Matthew,” says the elf with a confused and tired tone. “I don’t know whether I should alert lord Morpheus about a being overstaying their welcome.”

“He’s kind of like our boss, if you think about it,” the creature called Matthew says with a raspy voice; Crowley cracks one of his eyes open to notice that it’s a speaking crow. “Sulking and-”

“Matthew! You forget yourself!" The elf snaps with a warning tone, but it doesn’t sound like the crow is in any real trouble for speaking their mind. 

Crowley envies it.

He sleeps and sleeps, sometimes changes into his serpent form without even thinking about it, then slithers around the library in search for a comfortable spot and always ends up on the tree in the centre, wrapping himself around a branch or the trunk. 

The inhabitants of this realm bother him every once in a while - sometimes it’s a scarecrow with a pumpkin head that has a frown carved into it, sometimes it’s a fairy with dark skin shimmering like glitter and opalising, gossamer wings, sometimes it’s a person that looks so much like a human Crowley almost thinks it is one. But then he catches them changing into nothing more than the colour green and disappear in plain sight, so he scratches that idea. 

The elf, who others refer to as Lucienne, visits him a few more times. At first, they come alone and try to make him talk about where he’s from and why he’s been staying here for so long - and here, as Crowley learns, is called The Dreaming - but they never get anything out of him, just make him coil himself tighter as if that would make him fully disappear. Lucienne tries looking for help from their peers - Matthew or the Scarecrow - but none of them succeed.

Then one day, Lucienne walks over to the bookshelf where Crowley is sleeping, and they bring someone that feels so familiar, so much like the endless chill of space, he can’t help but open his eyes and turn his head to look at the visitors.

Staring right back at him are two pupils glowing like stars, the rest of their eyeballs  pitch black like the cosmos; their skin is pale, figure very slim, and their cape looks like it’s being eaten by a flame from the bottom up, but it doesn't seem to do any real damage; the flames carry the light of nebulas Crowley feels like he recognises. There’s a necklace around the being's neck, but the space where a stone used to be is empty.

“He’s been here for eighty two days now, sir,” Lucienne explains, glancing at Crowley with worry and a little bit of interest. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but you were unavailable.”

“He’s one of Hers.” The being says like they’ve made a pleasant discovery and a corner of their lips lifts up in a one-sided smile; their voice is low, sounds like it fills the entire empty space of the library even though they speak quietly. “I need to speak with you, mister demon.”

Crowley doesn’t answer, only moves to lay on his back and give his side a break. That must be enough of an answer for the being, because they continue:

“I am Dream of the Endless, Morpheus, Prince of Stories and Lord of The Dreaming. I’m afraid you have overstayed your welcome here by a landslide. Why is that, demon?”

Crowley wants to scream, wants to cry, but there’s no thunder left in him. He whimpers and his lips tremble. Morpheus feels so familiar it’s overwhelming. 

“Did She send you here?” Dream asks gently. “Did God make you come here?”

How does this being know of God? And why do they speak of Her so casually, as if She didn’t create the entire universe?

Dream smiles, and Crowley realises that he must be able to hear his thoughts.

“You are in my realm, demon. Nothing can hide from me here." He shrugs, seems almost apologetic about it, then tilts his head to the side and continues, “Your creator is nothing more than a speck of sand in the grand scheme of things. She’s quite popular, mind you. But She did not do anything to earn my respect, therefore I shall be as casual about Her as I wish.”

Crowley blinks a few times, tries to clear his head because his mind is nothing but foggy and tangled, and turns his head to look at Dream and Lucienne. 

“I didn’t-” his throat is dry as a desert, so he clears it and tries again. “I didn’t want to go back.”

“And what do you want now? ”

The answer is on the tip of his tongue, begins with ‘a’ and ends with ‘ziraphale’, but he shakes his head to get rid of that thought and hopes that Morpheus didn’t catch it. Or that he won’t care about it too much.

“I- I don’t know,” Crowley answers quietly, because apart from having Aziraphale back, by his side, he really doesn’t know what he wants.

Dream smiles and it looks sad, pained, looks exactly like Crowley feels, and it all dawns on him just as Dream says: “I have been through what you’re feeling, demon. If it’s any comfort, it does get better, eventually. But I’m afraid I can’t let you stay in The Dreaming any longer, no matter the circumstances that made you come here in the first place.”

Crowley turns on his other side and slides off the bookshelf, but his body has forgotten what it’s like to move, so he lands on his feet and then immediately falls to his knees. Lord Morpheus leans down and reaches out a hand to help him stand up. 

“Ah, so you’re The Serpent.” He smiles like he remembers something pleasant and interesting as he finally looks Crowley in the eyes, and Crowley furrows his brow, can’t stop himself from asking: “ The serpent? What is that supposed to mean?”

“If you don’t know, I’m afraid I cannot tell you.” Morpheus looks away from Crowley’s eyes for a moment, his gaze goes distant like he’s just travelled thousands of lightyears there and back in a matter of a second, the blinks and he’s present again. “Are you ready to go back to your world, then?”

“How am I supposed to even do that?”

Crowley is a little - no, very - lost with Dream’s mysterious answers, and really wants to finally feel some clarity. 

Morpheus definitely doesn’t help by smiling like he knows something Crowley doesn’t. He pats the demon on the shoulder as a form of farewell, then reaches for a pouch attached to his belt, opens it and pulls out a handful of sand. Lucienne takes a precautionary step back and Crowley wants to ask what’s happening, but he won’t get the chance.

“You just go to sleep, demon Crowley. May we meet again under brighter circumstances.”

Dream blows into his hand, making the sand scatter, but instead of falling to the ground and making a mess, it floats towards Crowley’s face like a cloud. As the first pebbles touch his skin, he feels incredibly exhausted and can’t help closing his eyes and smiling lazily at the thought of having a nap. 

It feels like he’s falling from Up all the way Down again, but as he hits the bottom, it’s his memory-foam mattress and bed sheets under his hands. 

He smacks his lips, wishing he had some water by his bed, and realises he still feels drunk. Or maybe it's the fact that he cried himself to sleep.

Slowly cracking his eyes open, he reaches a hand to rub it down his face, slightly pulling on his bottom eyelids, and groans miserably into the silence of his bedroom. May we meet again under brighter circumstances. The world is spinning in the corners of his vision, his head is actually killing him, his physical body feels like it's made out of lead, not whatever a typical human is. Ah, so you’re The Serpent. The capital letters are infuriating, because he has no clue as to what they’re supposed to mean. Crowley furrows his brow and forces himself to focus on miraciling the hangover away, but the headache doesn't leave, just nestles itself in his frontal lobe and gets comfortable. 

He finally rolls out of bed maybe thirty minutes later - after staring blankly at the ceiling became too boring and the thought of moving became more enticing - and does typical human things instead of using miracles: takes a shower, drinks a glass of water, actually washes his hair and brushes it with a comb instead of using magic to keep it in shape, changes out of the clothes he slept in into something fresh, and heads out. 

Maybe I have gone native , he thinks to himself, sliding into the driver's seat, and smiles a little, both at the thought and at the feeling of Bentley's engine rumbling steadily underneath him, maybe it's that magical sand. He doesn’t put any music on and enjoys the sound of his car filling his ears like it’s the sweetest thing in the entire world.

Maggie is surprised when she sees him walk into her record shop, but as he leans against the counter and opens his mouth to say something, she does a pretty good job at being mad, glaring at him from her desk.

"We thought you were dead," she says a bit coldly, back turned away from Crowley while she's stacking a bunch of cassettes onto a shelf on the wall. 

He shrugs, though Maggie can't see that, and says, hoping he sounds nonchalant, "Needed to sleep it off."

"You could have left us a message. We were worried. There was a teen boy here and at Nina's a few times, asking about you, too." She finally turns around and gives him a cold look, but her gaze softens after a moment. "Are you doing better now, then?"

Crowley thinks that for the hour that he's been awake, he hasn't felt the urge to cry, claw his throat to pieces or drink himself senseless, and mutters, "You could say that."

Maggie stares at him for a moment, with those blue eyes that always seem to notice things that want to stay hidden, but doesn't push it and smiles brightly. The smile reminds Crowley of Aziraphale all too much, but he imagines he strangles that thought and buries it in the ground. 

"Well, you could go to Nina's with me, apologise to her," Maggie offers once she's finished setting the cassettes on the shelf and the counter is empty again, apart from two boxes full of vinyl records. Crowley presses his lips together, hates the feeling of shame that starts tingling the back of his neck and dancing under his skin, but forces himself to mutter: "I suppose I do owe Nina an apology."

Maggie grins at him, what is there to be happy about in this situation, I yelled at them when we last spoke, and ushers him out of the record shop so she can close it, then types something on her phone, smiling at the screen. Crowley wants to ask her what she's doing - he can't help trying to bring people together, and Maggie texting someone with a smile might just be that - but the she shoots him a  glance and slides her phone into a pocket, pushing his shoulder playfully to make him cross the street. "What did we tell you about trying to make people get together?"

"I wasn’t- I just-" 

"Oh, I'm messing with you, relax!" Maggie laughs wholeheartedly and winks at him before walking into Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. "But still, don't play a matchmaker."

Inside is bustling, a long queue always present by the counter, and just as the cafeteria always seems to have loads of customers, Nina is always behind the desk and with a grumpy expression on her face. The frown cracks for a second when she spots Maggie walk in, they exchange quick smiles, and then the expression is back on her face.

Maggie leads him to a table and sits down like she owns the place, and Crowley can't believe his eyes. She laughs at his shocked expression that he must have not been hiding very well. "What is it?"

Crowley looks over his shoulder, at Nina working behind the counter as if not a single thing in the world has changed, then back at Maggie and gestures with his hands, but doesn't know himself what the motion was supposed to mean. The world feels brighter but darker at the same time, as if things got both better and worse while he was asleep, and Crowley can't put his finger on it. It's like trying to pull out an egg shell shard when you crack the egg into a bowl - and Crowley always hates when that happens, and he hates it now. 

"Things… changed," he says a little unsure, still looking around the café as if he could see the whole world from his seat.

"You mean me and Nina?" 

"Not exactly, just…" he trails off, feeling very weird and unexplainable things with his celestial senses, and finishes with a voice barely louder than a whisper, "everything."

When Aziraphale was around, he never had that problem - when he had to look for the right words, human words, to describe what he was feeling, because he could just use terms that celestial beings understood like a second language. But no one here is a celestial being, apart from Muriel but they don’t really count in this situation, so Crowley has to do with what he has.

“It’s- It’s like the lighting in- in the entire world is better and worse at the same time,” he explains, hopes Maggie will understand, and from how she nods slowly, she seems to understand enough. “The world just feels… different, like someone didn’t fully mix its colours and left… various shades of grey instead of just one.”

It hits him like a train when he realises what he just said, shades of grey, and Crowley starts to doubt whether he actually feels better than before. 

“Maybe it’s Aziraphale’s doing?” Maggie wonders, for some fucking reason looks up at the ceiling, but Crowley thinks she means to look Up, as if she could glance at Aziraphale from her chair.

“Can we-” his voice is no longer even, nothing is okay anymore, and Crowley has to shut his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath that is shaking for some reason. “Can you n-not mention him?”

“Oh, of course,” she rushes to apologise and quickly slips her phone out of her pocket to type something, though Crowley can’t see that. He opens his eyes just as Maggie sets it down on the table. 

Nina sits down with them a few minutes later, visibly exhausted from work, and smiles at Maggie again. Crowley bites back the urge to ask about these clear signs of affection, because he really wants to respect their privacy, but bringing people together has always been a part of his being, so it’s a little hard. 

“You’re alive,” Nina says with her usual blank, cold tone, and sends Crowley one of her famous glares. “Even though it’s been three months.”

“I’ve never been alive in the sense you understand.” He shrugs, feeling how sore his whole physical body is. “But I still would like something to drink.”

Nina is very unimpressed with his behaviour, and raises her eyebrows disapprovingly to let him know , then folds her arms on her chest. Maggie’s gaze jumps back and forth between them for a moment, then she stands up and offers, “I’ll make us all something to drink. The usual for you, Nina?”

“Yes, thank you.” She turns away from Crowley to smile at Maggie in a thankful manner. “Jake’s new, but he knows you’re with me, so they shouldn’t mind.”

“Of course. Crowley, what do you want?”

He looks at the two women, both of whom were smiling at each other very brightly just a moment ago, ‘ you’re with me’, and really has to fight back the urge to start asking about all of that. He forces his lips to move, but his voice is a little unsure. “Double espresso.”

His gaze follows after Maggie as she walks behind the counter and starts preparing the drinks; everything about how she moves around the cafe shows that she’s done it dozens of times before. 

Nina pulls him out of his thoughts by asking sourly, “Not six shots of espresso in a big mug?”

His lips curl into a grimace and he shrugs again. “It’s not like there’s anything I need to brace myself for.”

“I could think of something.”

Crowley hangs his head with a sigh, then slowly looks up to meet Nina’s unwavering brown eyes, and hates the feeling of shame still present under his skin. “Look, I’m sorry . You said something that made me… lash out, and it was fully uncalled for and mean on my part. I’m sorry I said the things I said, I shouldn’t have. I’m really sorry.”

Nina assesses him with a long glance, and Crowley hates that the silence is being drawn out like that. He won’t admit to it, but he’s grown to like both Maggie and Nina, the latter a little better because he’s always had a soft spot for pessimists, and the thought that he might have fucked up enough to lose these… people, is unpleasant to say the least. 

“You know, for a being that only looks human, I didn’t expect you to know how to properly apologise,” she begins slowly and leans forward to rest her elbows on the table, then extends a hand between her and Crowley. “But I accept your apology.”

He stares at the hand, and while he knows what he’s supposed to do, grab the hand and shake it a couple of times, and don’t unnecessarily prolong the contact , it takes him a second before he finally moves his hand and grabs Nina’s. He didn’t expect it to go so easily, even if saying the apology made him want to recoil a few times.

Nina smiles at him and it looks like she’s happy they made up - which completely blows Crowley’s mind - then tilts her head a little and asks, “Are you doing better after your… power nap?”

“A little bit,” he answers slowly, still a little dazed with how things turned out, then shakes his head to get a hold of himself. 

“Do you… do that often?”

Crowley shrugs and smiles a little. “In my time on Earth, I’ve found that sleeping is the best thing you can do with yourself. So I do it every now and then.”

He figures that telling Nina he’s slept through pretty much the entire fourteenth century might not be a good idea, so he keeps that to himself. 

Maggie comes back with the drinks a few minutes later, looks pretty happy with her latte art on Nina’s cup, and her smile grows only wider when Nina compliments it with admiration. Crowley really needs to focus on not staring at the two women too much, even though his fingers are itching to miracle something to bring the two toge- closer together. 

He finally caves and nods at the general direction of the two of them. “Can I ask about what’s happening here?”

The two exchange looks, then Nina laughs and Maggie winks at Crowley before looking back at her… friend? “We’ve been going out for about a month now, so…”

“Month will be this Saturday,” Nina cuts in, then actually fucking blushes when Maggie makes a surprised noise. “I just… have a good memory.”

Maggie laughs incredulously and reaches to briefly squeeze her girlfriend’s hand. “Like I would mind.”

Being in the presence of the two is like sitting close to a fireplace after a freezing day - Crowley doesn't mind it, but it also reminds him how cold he’s been because of his solitude, because there isn’t a pair of arms around him. He clears his throat and reaches for his cup, tries to focus on the taste of coffee in his mouth, but his mind keeps coming back to the fact that this is it, he’s alone while his… acquaintances all seem to have something going on for them. 

“What are you going to do now?” Maggie asks slowly, wrapping her hands around her cup of what looks like a cappuccino.

“Well, I thought of opening up a shop.”

Nina almost chokes on her drink, needs to cough into her elbow and ask Maggie to pat her between her shoulder blades a couple of times before she regains her composure enough to where she can stutter a shocked, “ Wh-what? ”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“ You? Running a shop?” Nina can’t help but scoff, and folds her arms on her chest, leaning back in her chair. “What would you even sell?”

“I’m quite a big fan of plants, actually. Could sell that,” the demon wonders, tapping on his chin in reverie. “That’s pretty much the end of the list, honestly.”

“You like… plants?” It’s Maggie’s turn to nearly choke, but she doesn’t end up needing her girlfriend’s help.

“I’m getting a feeling it wasn’t an obvious trait of mine.”

“You never struck either of us as a plant person,” Nina explains, glancing over Maggie just to make sure she’s okay before returning her gaze to Crowley. “Or someone that would bother with running a shop, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley takes a big swig from his cup to hide the sour expression on his face. “I thought I could use a distraction after everything.”

Maggie rushes to brighten the mood before it goes too bad by switching the topic and asking cheerily, “Do you have a spot picked out? Somewhere in our area?”

Crowley looks at her in confusion, because his idea for running a shop was really just a though ‘yeah, I could run a shop’ and nothing beyond that, but just as he’s about to explain that to them, that it was nothing more than a dream for now, Nina checks something on her phone and says:

“I think that cigarette and vape shop a few doors down closed down a couple of weeks ago, thank god because I hated that place,” she rolls her eyes, the disapproval for this type of product clear in the expression on her face, “and no one has expressed any interest in buying it, as far as I know. That could be a nice spot, if you want to stay on our street.”

Crowley looks between Nina and Maggie in awe, tries to make his mind catch up to what just happened, because instead of it being a dream, no more than an idea, he could start running a shop this week, essentially now. He stutters a shocked, “Y-yeah, that sounds good, actually,” and tries to smile in the most thankful manner he’s capable of. 

“Come on, I can show you where it is,” Maggie offers once she’s finished her cappuccino, nodding at the bustling street outside the window. “I need to get back to work anyway.”

“Sure,” is all the demon can stay, still quite dazed. First, his apology was accepted, now something that was no more than an idea mere moments before can become very real, is within his reach. He hopes he doesn’t seem like he had only dreamed about running a shop, that he’s thought all of this out a long time before, but from how Nina and Maggie exchange knowing smiles and glances before saying goodbye, it seems like he’s gotten shit about hiding his feelings. 

Maybe it’s for the better. 

They walk out of the cafe and start swiftly manoeuvring through the ever-busy street, passing Maggie’s record store and then a few other shops before stopping by windows taped with old newspapers. It looks to be the size of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, and has a big window on each side of the entrance which is located in the middle. Maggie walks over to the paper glued to the door and motions at Crowley to come closer. 

Up for rent or sale. For further information contact XXX-YY-ZZZZ or this.particular.email@com 

“You don’t really have all of this thought out, do you?” Maggie asks softly, watching him read the information for the third time. He smiles like he’s been caught red-handed and murmurs, “Not really.”

“It’s okay if you want to ask us for help. We’ll gladly explain to you how… us humans run our shops,” she offers, then smiles at him reassuringly when he sends her a tentative glance.

“T-that- that would be nice.”

He looks back at the paper on the door and tries to memorise-

“You- You can take a picture of it, you know?”

They go back to the record store where Maggie explains him the basics of running a shop, water, electricity, heating, while she’s setting new vinyls in their correct genres; she ends up letting him use her work laptop to set up an email, how can you not have an email, then helps him write the message and double-checks it for any errors or weird choice of words before giving Crowley her approval. When he presses the ‘send’ button, she squeals happily and goes in to give him a hug, much to the demon’s surprise. He hesitantly returns the gesture and finds that it actually feels nice, isn’t at all overwhelming like he remembered it to be.

The sun has set by the time he slides into the Bentley and waves his hand to turn on the ignition, and it’s more muscle memory than anything else when he presses on the button to play some music. He expects to hear funky guitar and lyrics he recognises, but while it is Freddie Mercury, he doesn’t sing, just speaks:

“Glad to have finally reached you, Crowley. Congratulations! Didn’t think I’d ever see this day come, rather expected you to be discorporated or tortured for all eternity.”

“What do you want, Shax?” he asks, voice as blank as he can make it, but in reality he’s really confused and a little worried. Last time he received congratulations from Hell, they handed him a baby in a basket.

The guitar makes a weird, high-pitched sound, and Crowley thinks it must be Shax laughing on the other side, then Freddie Mercury continues, “You’ve made quite a mess on Earth these last few months, haven’t you? Quit being modest, it’s the angels’ job.”

He ignores the drivers honking at him when he does not give way to them, and takes a sharp turn to go into a small, one-way street, to hopefully avoid traffic. All he can think about is laying back in his bed and falling asleep, maybe drinking a bottle of wine before that. “Quit blabbering and get to the point.”

“You’re a Duke of Hell now, Crowley! You’ve truly proven yourself to the Dark Council over the last three months, so we decided to promote you. Don’t try to make us regret that.”

The audio cracks, and then Freddie Mercury goes back to singing We Are The Champions like he’s trying to mock Crowley.

But Crowley doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear anything apart from the deafening ringing in his ears. 

Chapter Text

The box thuds heavily as Crowley sets it on the ground, then steps over it and other things cluttering the floor before he finally reaches the tubs of paint standing by one of the walls. Sweat is dripping down his face already, making his shirt stick to his back uncomfortably, but he’s not going to do anything about it, not when the overstimulation helps silence the chaos his mind has descended to. He cracks the tub open and looks at the colour one last time before pouring the paint out onto a rack.

He could renovate the entire space with magic - one small miracle at a time - but then he’d be left alone with his thoughts too quickly, and he’d much rather avoid that.

You’re a Duke of Hell now, Crowley.

He bites on his lower lip, the pain, however faint, making the thoughts retreat into the back of his mind where they don’t bother him too much yet , and dips two paint brushes in paint, then grabs one with his hands, moving the other with a little bit of magic, and starts painting the wall. 

The free minutes squeezed in between doing absolutely anything to keep his mind occupied are filled with what did I do to get promoted, how did I end up becoming a Prince, why me, why me, what did I do, what did I do, WHY ME, I DON’T WANT THIS, I WAS ON MY OWN SIDE AND NOW I’M A PRINCE, and it’s scary to not know something, to feel like something is just within his reach, but when Crowley goes to grab it, it slips out of his hands and runs away. He knows the answer to all these questions is close, it’s somewhere around him - he just needs to sit down and focus, maybe even think about everything calmly and soberly for once instead of avoiding the issue.

The kaitoke green he picked for the walls is soothing to look at, even if the yellow paint is still a little present underneath the first coat. Crowley steps back for a moment to look over how much he’s done already, and takes a slow, deep inhale. 

It’s the first time in over three months that he’s considered actually thinking about everything. He wonders how much harm will come from it. 

Crowley let's work consume him completely and absently hums Another One Bites the Dust under his nose to fill the silence; he’s too scared to play any music from fear that it’s going to be Hell with more ‘good’ news for him, but after a few hours of restless painting, he finds that maybe silence isn’t that bad. It gives space for his mind to wander, like a plant that can finally extend its roots everywhere after being moved to a bigger pot. 

What did Aziraphale’s ‘I forgive you’ mean? Did he mean to forgive Crowley for how he tried to make him stay with hi- here on Earth? He sits down on the floor and starts assembling the shelves he bought, and is very aware of how fast both of his hearts are beating, a quick but steady thrum in his ribcage. Did Aziraphale mean that he was forgiving Crowley for choosing that moment to call the thread between them what it actually was, for almost calling it love? Or was he forgiving him for trying to make him stay even though it was clear Aziraphale was going?

The screwdriver breaks in his hand from the force of his grip, but Crowley simply uses a miracle to mend it back together and resumes work like nothing happened. 

Why did Aziraphale decide to go back to Heaven even though he’s seen with his own eyes that they weren’t actually ‘the good guys’? Did every attempt Heaven made at ending the human race not make him think once that maybe everything wasn’t all black and white like he saw it to be? Did spending over six thousand years with Crowley who always questioned the ineffable plan not make him a little less trusting in the righteousness of it, of Her and everything She stood for?

And where did he get the fucking audacity to ask Crowley to go back with him, after everything Crowley and the two of them been through because of Heaven? He knew Crowley hated Heaven - for all the right reasons - so he must have known he wouldn’t want to go back there, even if to fix it, even if they went together? Why did he listen to Metatron anyway? That fucker was even worse than Gabriel, was more of a snake, metaphorically, than Crowley himself.

Why did you leave, you idiot?

Crowley goes between painting a second coat on the walls and assembling the furniture he bought, and time passes - first hours, then day becomes night and then the sun rises again. He doesn’t stop to sleep or eat, only sometimes jumps to sit on the giant acacia counter that’s standing in the middle of the shop (for now) and looks around the place, and tries to make peace with the nervousness curling under his skin like a small flame. He finally begins to understand how Aziraphale felt when he first opened his bookshop in the 1800s. 

When Maggie and Nina come over to help on Saturday, they find Crowley absolutely drenched in sweat while he’s trying to move the shelves into the magazine in the back. He ignores them, hellbent on doing this particular task without any magical help, and by the time he’s done, he is pretty sure he pulled a muscle in his back from all the strain.

Nina makes him take a break and they set up on the counter that Crowley’s been putting off moving to its designated place. Cups of steaming coffee and a box of some pastries Crowley doesn’t remember the name of clutter the remaining free space on the table, Maggie pulls out a speaker from her bag to put on music, Nina complains about how busy this week’s been, and Crowley gets that weird feeling of familiarity and comfort as he slowly sips his drink and then hesitantly takes a bite of the pastry. It’s the first meal he’s had in a week, so his body starts to shake from the sudden shot of glucose and caffeine, but it’s not that bad, actually grounds him in the feeling that despite everything, he’s still somehow here. 

When Maggie finally decides on what music to play, Crowley is terrified he’ll hear someone from Hell speak to him in the singer’s voice, and is just about to stop Maggie from pressing play, but then the song starts playing - gentle acoustic guitar and bass, the vocalist singing normally - and he relaxes a little bit. It’s the first time in forever since he’s listened to music from a different artist than Queen, and while he doesn’t recognise it at all, Crowley must admit he likes what’s playing. 

Nina watches him bob his head to the music with a smile, and he rolls his eyes at her, which only makes her laugh. Maggie compliments his choice of colour for the walls and how well it goes with the acacia wood of the counter and the shelves, and Crowley can’t stop the blush creeping onto his face.

His mind clutches onto the word ‘friends’ like a drunken person that’s trying to stay upright. 

With Nina’s help, he learns how to operate a drill, and although it takes him a total of six tries and miraciling away all the failed attempts, Crowley finally manages to put up a shelf all on his own. While the two of them work on drilling hooks for lamps into the ceiling, Maggie sits in the giant chair Crowley bought for himself and works on designing the logo for the shop on her tablet; she sings along to the music and shows Crowley her progress every now and then. He meant to only give Maggie his opinion and let her get back to work, but somehow after a few minutes it’s Crowley that’s curled up in the chair with his eyes glued to the screen and brows drawn down in focus, while Maggie helps Nina with putting up the lamps and checking if they’re all working correctly. The two of them compliment how well the 'professional' technical part of renovating has been done, and all the demon does is smile mysteriously and explain that he simply knew someone who owed him a favour.

After ten days of renovating day and night, of which two days were spent restlessly setting all of the plants that were finally delivered on the shelves, Tuesday, the day of the grand opening, rolls around. Crowley waves a hand to make music play from the speakers, glares at the devices to let them know that if Hell starts talking, they’re gonna be the ones paying for it, then slips his sunglasses back on and goes to roll up the blinds on the windows. There’s quite a lot of people waiting outside the shop, their combined breaths creating a big cloud of steam above their head, and the demon feels an all too familiar pang of anxiety. But despite everything, truly everything that happened, he’s still an optimist to the core. So it’s going to be okay.

Crowley keeps on wondering where all the customers are coming from, constantly kept busy with taking care of the people waiting by the counter and restocking the shelves. He stopped caring about the dirt stuck under his fingernails long ago. The plants are selling like hot buns - is that the term? - and four hours after opening the shop, he already has to scribble down a note to reorder half of his stock. However harrowing the work has turned out to be, it’s refreshing to meet so many people interested in house plants, even though none of them share his ideas about putting the plants through psychological torment to make them grow better. Apparently, natural fertilisers and pesticides are the way to go. 

Nina comes in just as he walks out of the magazine with two small pots of fittonias in each hand, and smiles upon seeing him absolutely covered in dirt. 

“You need some work clothes,” she snickers and sets her elbows on the counter once all the customers are taken care of and the demon has a moment to finally catch his breath. “An apron at least, so you still look tidy while being dirty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He furrows his brows.

“Maybe,” Nina shrugs, fully aware of the ridiculousness of her words, “but it works. I spill drinks on myself all the time, so I always keep a spare shirt in the magazine.”

He glances over his dirty turtleneck and trousers, and while a simple miracle can make them look tidy and nice, he can’t just do it in front of all the customers, nor can he really go into the magazine while it’s busy. 

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, but it sounds like he's already decided to buy a new apron after he closes the shop today.

"So," she clasps her hands together, "how's your first day as a shop owner? How are you finding it?"

Crowley smiles and doesn't even try to hide the exhaustion. "Terrible… but in a good way? I think it's a little too soon to say anything else."

Nina smiles as well and nods her head, but Crowley can't quite grasp what the smile is supposed to mean. He frowns and points at her face with a nod, "What?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just…" he gestures at his own face. "You smiled like you knew something I didn't."

"Well, because I do," she chuckles and rolls her eyes, like that was also an obvious thing. Crowley repeats her words under his breath in a mocking tone, ignores that it only makes Nina laugh more, and goes to take care of a customer that looks too shy to ask for his help themselves. 

He closes the shop, uses a few miracles to clean up because he can't be arsed to do it all by hand, hates every second of writing another order for photos plants because the company selling them doesn't like to cooperate for whatever reason, then enjoys a silent walk to a shopping centre in Camden. The streets are busy as ever, that's the way they've always been in London, so Crowley tries to stick to more narrow and less popular paths as much as he can and is glad to find the strategy working. 

It’s when he walks into the mall that he realises he doesn't know where to find an apron. At least it's bright enough in here that he doesn't need to take off his sunglasses to see where he’s going - even though he doesn’t have a clear direction he wants to head in. 

Nina the Coffee Shop Owner

where can I buy an apron?<

>shop with cooking equipment. normal clothes shop won't have them

Peculiar thing, humans and their shops. But then again, now Crowley's become a part of it. 

He manages to locate a shop with cooking equipment after ten minutes of aimlessly wandering around the mall, and really doesn't trust Nina's suggestion at first glance - because how is he supposed to find an apron in a shop full of pots, pans, knives and cutting boards? 

One of the employees is kind enough to help him find what he needs, and, because they must have nothing better to do, doesn't pass up the chance to flirt with him despite Crowley’s clear signs that he's not interested. He has to stop himself from using a miracle to make that human piss off because he doesn't want to get noticed by Hell but then-

Then it dawns on him. 

He's the Duke of Hell (somehow). A fucking Duke can be a little more wasteful with their miracles than any other demon, surely. 

But that would be mean, and Aziraphale-

But Aziraphale isn't here. And if he won't like what Crowley’s about to do, then he can take his Stupid Archangel Ass to Earth and tell him that himself. 

Crowley smiles a little to himself - it's a dangerous smile, one that feels like baring your fangs right before lunging at your prey - and easily balances between pretending to be oblivious to the employee's stupid flirts and pretending to enjoy them, all while buying the two black aprons he picked. 

Just as he leaves the shop and rounds the corner, and the employee reaches for their mug of coffee, Crowley waves his hand a little and makes the liquid spill over them. He hears them yell - both because it must have been hot, and out of shock - and can't help but laugh. It feels good to be back in the game-

He expects to hear a particular someone scold him for being evil, and realises that no one’s there to tell him off anymore. It feels like missing a step and suddenly going tumbling down flights upon flights of stairs.

Just as he easily balanced ignoring the flirts and pretending to enjoy them, now he balances between screaming until his throat gives out and having a mental breakdown all the way back to his house. He hurls the aprons through the hallway, uses magic to make them land over the armrest of his pretentious chair, then finally cries. 

Because Crowley realises that he's very, very alone. 

If there will ever be someone that catches Crowley's eye, now he can do something about it. Now, with Aziraphale gone, but what is there between you now , after this, he can find - try to find - someone else he can love. He can have a one-night-stand, he can host a bloody orgy, he can-

You haven’t been good for long.

He can do many things, Hell, he can do anything and everything now that he's Duke of Hell and Aziraphale's gone. But Crowley is beginning to realise that there is one thing he can't do - can't move on, not from a six-thousand-years-old feeling.

Why the fuck did you have to leave, you stupid Angel?

If he was starting to feel okay, like he had things under control, it's all gone now.

Alexandria, 48 BC

Crowley leans against a wall of some building only because it's the only shade he can find quickly, and glances at the entrance to the library pensively, one hand instinctively moving to make hair fall out of its intricate style so he can hide the sides of his face a little better. Aziraphale was supposed to be out by now, they were supposed to be getting dinner together - meanwhile it's nearing evening and the angel is nowhere to be seen. Crowley takes a sip out of the waterskin strapped to his belt and frowns at the taste. Romans have better wine, but this has to do while he’s in Egypt. 

He wonders how much longer he's willing to wait for the angel, and hates the answer. 

He more so hears than spots Aziraphale when a larger group of scholars is exiting the library, and Crowley has to stop himself from smiling a little. No matter how sunny it is in Egypt, the heat being a little unbearable even for the demon, somehow the angel still manages to be the biggest ray of sunshine in a hundred mile radius.

And Crowley loves, no, hates, no - just finds it interesting.

Their gazes cross, Crowley nods at the angel inconspicuously, and a few minutes later Aziraphale manages to break away from the group of scholars, but not without engaging in a quick discussion about some ‘important work of philosophy’ as a last ditch attempt to prolong the conversation. Finally, he approaches Crowley’s spot in the shade and smiles a little.

“You’re late,” the demon points out, not missing the chance to sound a little accusatory. 

Aziraphale grimaces, then turns to look at the library longingly and the grimace shyly turns into a smile. “Yes, I apologise, but… this library is so extraordinary, I had to take one last proper look at it!”

The streets are pretty much deserted - now that the scholars all went their way and with the ongoing siege of the city by Julius Cesar. People have either fled deeper into the continent or hid in their houses and pray for the fighting to end. Crowley hopes some restaurant far from the library will be open. They definitely can’t stay here . 

“You sure love your literature, Angel,” he teases, starting to walk towards a street that should lead them away from the library and, hopefully, the fighting as well. 

“It’s not just that!” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and the topic is consuming enough for him not to notice the direction they’re heading. “It’s about the knowledge these texts carry! So much history, Crowley! And so many different views on so many different topics.”

Angel sighs, and from his facial expression, he seems to be daydreaming. Crowley hates the heat, but not just the one from the sun beaming at his face.

But he hates what is about to happen during the night even more.

So long as the conversation stays on the topic of books, texts - any form of literature, really - Aziraphale says yes to pretty much everything Crowley suggests, and they end up going to the southern suburbs of Alexandria, to a tavern that looks pleasantly lively, with quite a few tables taken by both commoners and traders. It’s nothing super fancy, but there’s a nice smell coming from the kitchens, and everyone seems to be enjoying their drinks. Maybe the alcohol here is better than what Crowley’s been drinking so far.

They sit down and order, and while they wait, Aziraphale continues blabbering - not that Crowley minds it, ever - about Egyptian philosophy and the significance of death in their culture. The wonder and reverence in his pale blue eyes makes Crowley’s stomach toss and turn, like his organs are trying to get comfortable in his abdominal cavity and failing. He forces to move his gaze to the stitching along the collar of Aziraphale’s white linen shirt, and realises with frustration that the colours of the pattern perfectly compliment the angel’s fair hair and blue eyes. Not helping.

He tries to think about something else, preferably something mundane and not regarding the angel nor what the night is going to bring, but, as ever, his thoughts always steer back to incoming disaster and the feeling of guilt that makes him feel there’s cold water trickling down the back of his neck.

“But, enough about me! Tell me what you’ve been up to!” Aziraphale asks cheerily just as the waiter brings their orders - a flask of beer, two mugs and a plate with grains, dates, vegetables and baked fish for Aziraphale. 

Trying to avoid a total catastrophe and losing a friend, Crowley almost says, wishes he could, because it’s been a tiring endeavour, trying to convince Down that burning down one of the biggest libraries in the world is not worth their time.

He went to the harbour and walked all the way along the shore until he was out of earshot of any living thing in a five-mile radius. Even the seagulls flew to look for fish somewhere else, like they knew there was a meeting about to take place on the sandy beach. 

“Surely, there must be something worse that could be done,” he tried, feeling like speaking with nonchalance was more exerting than carrying a boulder on his shoulders. “Mass slaughter, a proper back stabbing, overthrowing a government.”

The wind giggled in the palm leaves, water splashing on the sand - chuckled, the unbearable heat - snickered. “All of these things are already planned, Crowley, all at the right time. This needs to happen here. We must secure souls for our Lord, by death or by tragedy and hate.”

“Yes, but-”

“Another demon will be assigned with this task, should you disobey,” the wind warned, sounding like it was having a grand time playing with Crowley.

“It’s my job to-”

“The library will burn one way or another, Crowley, this month or the next. Just because you’re the ambassador of Hell, doesn’t mean you’re untouchable. You’ve still got a job to do.”

He turned his gaze towards the water, clenching his jaw. These were valid points - valid points he didn’t give a flying fuck about, though. Not when it regarded a library, and therefore-

“Will you do it?” Asked the water sloshing on the sand. It sounded like it already knew the answer and was just toying with Crowley for the hell of it. 

He glared at the incoming wave that was about to reach his feet, and the water stopped a few inches before his sandals. “No,” he muttered through gritted teeth. 

“Then another one shall be given the task. Don’t think there won’t be consequences.”

Crowley shrugs and sends Aziraphale a smirk that hopefully comes off as nonchalant. “Ah, you know, doing the usual evil demon stuff. Spreading mischief and dishonour wherever I go,” he takes a swig from his cup and grimaces at the taste. This beer tastes like watered down piss. “Preventing others from doing good.”

“You know… there’s quite a lot of works on the portrayal of evil through the ages in the library,” Aziraphale tries, somehow easily senses that Crowley’s in a sour mood and seems to try and cheer him up. “I could show them to you tomorrow?”

He truly wishes he could say yes - because who knows, maybe it would be an interesting experience, and because listening to Aziraphale ramble about literature is surprisingly nice - but the truth is that there won’t be anything to come back to tomorrow apart from ashes and soot. And Crowley despises that he can't do anything about it without risking his existence. 

They stay in the tavern till around midnight when one of the waiters tell them they are about to close, then slowly walk out onto an empty street and breath in the cool air and-

The library is burning. 

Crowley turns around and starts slowly heading to the southern gate of the city, get out, get out, away from the centre, but quickly realises that Aziraphale isn’t following after him. He’s stood in front of the tavern with his face turned towards the sky. 

“Angel!” The demon groans, walking over to him. “Come on, it’s late!”

“But the sky, Crowley!” Aziraphale opposes, points upwards with an adoring smile, eyes seeming to twinkle in the light.

Crowley smiles, doesn’t even look up because the dark abyss void of any stars staring back at him would only make his mood worse, and instead focuses his gaze on Aziraphale’s beaming face. “Let’s go. You can finish telling me about that book.”

Aziraphale nods and sighs, and is just about to start walking when his brows suddenly furrow. 

Aziraphale just sighed. The library is burning. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, though he perfectly knows what’s up. 

Aziraphale turns in the direction of the city centre, “The siege! We have to help them!”

He runs off immediately, but the demon manages to grab his wrist before he gets too far. “No, we do not! ”

“Crowley, let go of me!”

“It might be dangerous! I don’t want you risking your life, it’s not our fight!”

Aziraphale frees his wrist from Crowley’s grip and resumes running, so now Crowley has to chase after him to at least make sure the angel won’t get hurt trying to help. They move against the fleeting masses of people that all head to the southern east of the city, and the closer to the centre they get, the harder it is to breathe, air becoming full of dust and ash. Crowley wets his shawl with a bit of wine from his waterskin, ties it around his face, then does the same with a spare bandana from his pocket and gives it to Aziraphale who’s been coughing nonstop for the last few minutes they’ve been running. It won’t help much, but should keep them from suffocating for a good moment. Poor Angel isn’t used to ash in his airways like a demon is.

But none of it matters once they reach the square by the library, because the sight makes Aziraphale pull his makeshift mask down. 

The library is burning. And Aziraphale is on his knees.

He suddenly staggers upwards and tries to run inside, but Crowley expected him to do that, so he grabs his shoulder and then hooks their elbows together just in case.

The flames dance high in the sky like it’s a party for them, and Crowley knows there’s a bit of hellfire in there with how maliciously they move. He snarls, because he absolutely hates feeling helpless and how it always reminds him of his past. Aziraphale attempts to free himself from Crowley’s grasp again, streaks of moisture running down his face and leaving trails on his dusty cheeks, but Crowley’s holding him even tighter, now that he knows there’s hellfire.

“Let me- Let me go,” Angel tries, but the force in his voice is long lost. “Please, l-let me go, Crowley.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Angel,” he explains with a voice softer than he meant to use.

“Please , Crowley.”

He shakes his head, though Aziraphale can’t see that. He unhooks their elbows, lets him fall down to his knees again, and rests his hand on the angel’s shoulder to stop him from running off. 

There’s a small crowd of mostly scholars gathered on the edge of the square, and they all seem just as distraught as Aziraphale at the sight - wet cheeks, hands thrown in the air, angry and pleading questions directed at their gods. Even Crowley feels a rush of anger at the thought that so much knowledge is being lost with every passing second, that so many ancient texts and works that could teach new generations went up in flames like they meant nothing. 

Bastards, he thinks helplessly. He sticks his tongue out to check if the demon responsible for this is still present anywhere, but picks up nothing. Maybe it's better this way.

Crowley looks down at Aziraphale just as he escapes his grasp and runs off into the library. 

Bastard. 

“Angel!”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to hear him or doesn’t care about him right now. The edge of his tunic is the last thing Crowley sees before the flames climb higher into the air, like the fire is a living thing that wants to stretch its limbs. 

Crowley runs over to the entrance and carefully edges forward, immediately feeling the heat of the tiles under his sandals. He hesitates for a moment, stupid idiot, why do I bother, trying to decide whether Aziraphale’s still alive. The fire may not be purely out of hellfire, but that doesn’t mean the angel won’t die from it. 

Crowley grits his teeth, because he’s angry both with Hell and with Aziraphale, then waves a hand to protect his clothes and runs inside. Flames almost welcome him in, graze over his arms like trailing hands. 

“Aziraphale!” He yanks down his makeshift mask and yells, passing by piles of burning paper and broken down shelves. “Where are you, you idiot?!”

He searches the entire base floor and finds nothing besides more lost knowledge, then climbs the stairs and heads to the first floor with a racing heart and spiralling mind. It’s even worse up here, the heat slowly getting to Crowley; while downstairs there are still things that could be salvaged, here everything is piles of coal and ash already. Helplessness is like bile in Crowley’s mouth. 

“Aziraphale!”

He turns around aimlessly, doesn’t know where to start, doubts there’s any point in searching anymore, but then suddenly there’s a hand grabbing his wrist and tugging him towards the stairs. Before Crowley can fully register what’s happening, they’re already outside the library and on some empty backstreet, and the air is just slightly more breathable than it was inside the library.

Aziraphale looks like a mess. Crowley wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake, tell him how much of an idiot he is, but the moment he places his hands on him, Aziraphale winces terribly. 

“I couldn’t-” He backs away from Crowley, but more to just avoid unnecessary contact, and turns his head to glance at the alley they just ran out of to leave the library behind. “I couldn’t save anything.”

Crowley sighs, completely forgets about being angry with Aziraphale for being a dumbass. “Let’s go, Angel.”

His hand floats around Aziraphale’s back, and he motions at the angel to start walking. Aziraphale moves woodenly, like his soul is still in the library, burning along with the texts. He doesn’t say anything during the walk to his abode, just keeps looking over his shoulder and breaking down into tears every time he sees the flames dancing in the sky. Crowley offers him the rest of the wine from his waterskin - to wash his mouth or ease the pain - but Aziraphale declines like it could make things worse. 

But from how his arms and legs, even cheeks are covered in burns, Crowley doubts things could get much worse than this. He doesn’t push it though.  

As if nothing happened, as if they went to Aziraphale’s house straight after exiting the tavern, they sit down in the salon - Angel on the small sofa, Crowley on a bundle of pillows lying on the floor. Crowley can sense there's unspoken things floating in the silence that washes over them. 

He begins to move towards Aziraphale to help him miracle the burns away, but Aziraphale shakes his head and presses his lips into a thin, stubborn line. When he looks up from his hands and meets Crowley's gaze, it's like the unspoken things have already been said - with a simple gesture, with a single look into Crowley's eyes.

"It was Hell, wasn't it?" Aziraphale asks, tone edging on sounding accusatory. “With hellfire in the fire?” 

"Yes."

"Was it you?"

Crowley frowns and takes off his glasses since there's no more need to keep up appearances. "How could it have been me?! I was with you the whole evening!"

Aziraphale scoffs, but it's a defeated, sad sound, and moves to rub his eyes. Crowley tries to move towards him again because the burns really need some tending to, but just as last time, Angel shakes his head. 

"I can't help thinking you're somehow involved in this," he explains with an apologetic voice. It’s like he can’t control the instinct of looking for blame in the nearest demon - and Crowley’s always the nearest demon around.

Crowley backs away like he just burned his hand with holy water, staggers upwards and then throws his arms in the air with an angry scoff. The events of the night, along with the alcohol he’s drunk, make him feel lightheaded, and Aziraphale accusing him of something like this only makes things worse, like there’s fire coursing through his veins and ash in his lungs. “Of course! Because I’m a bad, evil demon! Mischief is in my blood, obviously!” Crowley smiles with all his teeth, fangs bared in the dim light, and spins around like a dancer. “Because I’d do something like this without any regard as to how that would make you feel, yes? Because I’m a demon and all I do is lie, be selfish and laugh at other’s misery.”

“Okay, I’m sorry!” Aziraphale raises his voice a little, then carefully rests his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

But Crowley isn’t done, no no. He’s only just started, and words are an unstoppable stream flowing out of his mouth. He wonders whether he can or even wants to stop talking. 

“I don’t care, Angel,” he hisses and kneels down in front of Aziraphale, peers into his pale blue eyes with the intent to shake him by the shoulders mentally. “You wanna know the whole story? Be my guest, I’ll humour you. Hell really wanted me to do this: ‘burn the entire library to the ground, Crowley, leave nothing but burnt stone and ash behind’ . I wanted to do it, for some time, I really did.”

Aziraphale turns his gaze away, corners of his lips trembling. Crowley feels like he took a step off a cliff and is falling, like he's ash scattered across the wind. He doesn’t know whether he’ll ever feel sure about anything once he’s finished talking, if he’ll ever reach the ground for good again. 

“But you wanna know what changed my mind? You did, Angel.” He grits his teeth, hates the warm feeling shyly blooming in his chest. Demons - he - shouldn’t feel like that. “Each time I saw you walking out of that library with nothing but wonder in your eyes, I wavered in my decision, because I saw how much books and all the other crap mean to you. Look at me, Aziraphale,” he dips his head to make their eyes meet, and after a moment, Aziraphale amicably turns to face him. “I told Hell I wouldn’t do it, I swear it to you. But we both know they’d hire someone else in my place. I didn’t-” Crowley cuts himself off, doesn’t know how to scathe around this thing between them, doesn’t know if scathing around it is a good idea, “I didn’t want to see this much knowledge be lost to some useless assignment from Hell. But I suppose they got what they wanted in the end.”

Aziraphale dips his head down, another tear slowly running down his cheek, and Crowley feels the sudden urge to brush it away. 

“I’m sorry, Angel.” Is what he says instead of doing something stupid.

“No, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale chuckles wetly and looks up again, “I’m sorry for accusing you, it was incredibly unfair of me. I’m just-” his lips tremble again and he allows himself to cry, hiding his face in his hands even though his cheeks and palms are covered in burns, “I’m just so… heartbroken.”

Crowley really wants to go in and give him a hug - the thing is, he doesn’t move an inch, just sits on the ground and watches Aziraphale cry. Because demons aren’t supposed to comfort others, are they? Crowley never considered himself a demon all the way down to the bone; he is on the demon spectrum for sure, just not on its far end like the rest of his lot. He is a feather that will never fully fall, just saunter vaguely downwards but never meet the ground. 

So he compromises. He may not be a demon, but he’s definitely not an angel either. Therefore, he can’t be nice, but he could… comfort his acquaintance. To avoid the paperwork that would come if an angel he had to keep tabs on had a mental breakdown. Management would love to know how he managed to break an angel.

He slowly moves toward Aziraphale for the third time since they’ve come here, and finally doesn’t see him protest. He gently grabs one of his arms, pulls it away from Angel’s face and starts working on miraciling the burns away. The skin doesn’t want to cooperate at first, mostly because each burn has a bit of hellfire in it, so Crowley focuses on absorbing whatever hellish essence he can out of them like he’s sucking out poison; while he’s consumed with that, Aziraphale makes their clothes clean again and miracles some fresh water into a basin standing by the entrance to the room so they can freshen up later. 

Crowley finds the situation they're in quite comforting. After everything that happened today, sitting in silence is like a balm. It’s just the two of them in a dimly lit room, the quiet shuffling of their clothes as they move about and slowly work on Aziraphale’s burns together. Some of the injuries won’t heal as quickly, one of the scars on his shoulder blade might never fully fade, but it’s better than nothing and it certainly doesn’t seem to hurt as much anymore. Aziraphale sends Crowley a shy, thankful smile, and he just nods in return, very confused with the weird feeling in his chest that's fully nestled itself in there now. He realises he’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand, so he drops it quickly but gently and moves away a little bit. 

They spend the rest of the night as if nothing, absolutely nothing happened - Aziraphale miracles an amphora of Roman wine onto the table, Crowley lights all the candles in the salon and they hang out until it’s nearing dawn outside. The wine is good - Aziraphale’s miracle drinks are always better than the real stuff - so good in comparison to anything Crowley’s had here so far, and it leaves him just a little tipsy, enough to be perhaps a bit too forthcoming when saying goodbye. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks for what must be the fourth time, to which Aziraphale smiles and nods his head, patient as… well, as an angel. “But, like… are you sure ?”

“Yes, I’m quite alright- Yes,” Aziraphale quickly looks away halfway through the sentence, then sends Crowley another one of his bright smiles, “and you? I completely forgot to ask if you got hurt in the library, I’m so sorry!”

“Naaaaah!” Crowley waves a hand dismissively and staggers backwards, suddenly losing his balance. Another wave, and he’s a little more sober, enough so that he’ll stay upright. “Fire’s like a… bath to me, sort of. M’fine. You sure you’re okay, though?”

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale’s face has a little more colour to it, especially on the cheeks.

“Cause you were, well… yeah, you were… and I just wanna… Look, I’m sorry I didn’t do anything about the fire, I could have-”

Why is he saying this? Why the sudden notion to make sure Aziraphale is okay? Crowley could go, get in bed and sleep this whole thing off. So why is he still on Aziraphale’s doorstep?

“Oh, you’ve done quite a lot already, Crowley,” the angel tilts his head a bit, his smile going slightly sorrowful. “But I do appreciate your concern and… everything.”

Oh, how quickly they’ve mastered avoiding acknowledging this thing between them. 

“Okay.” Crowley suddenly has a lot of things to think about, and he knows he can’t nor does he want to do it while Aziraphale’s watching. He takes a step backwards, finally steps out onto the street, and looks towards the sky to see it just a little brighter than it usually is at night. Dawn is maybe two, three hours away. “Okay then.”

Aziraphale stands in the doorway of his abode and sends Crowley a tired but still bright smile. “Truly, thank you, Crowley. I’m in your debt.”

“Ah, shut up,” he groans, spinning in place, but the warmth that’s still in his chest latches onto the angel’s words. “You would have done the same for me. Besides,” he smiles slyly, “I’d rather spend an eternity working with you than with some other angel.”

The warmth in his chest only grows stronger after that. Crowley feels like his own soul is betraying him.

Aziraphale smiles, but he seems flustered. “Yes, well, I… feel the same way, I suppose. I’m- I’m glad to hear we’re on the same page.”

Oh, this thing between them. What is it, exactly?

“Well then,” Crowley sighs, suddenly doesn’t feel like going to bed. He could stay here. “I’ll see you around?”

“I suppose so. Farewell, Crowley.”

“Bye, Angel.”

Crowley doesn’t go to his house, though - he goes to help volunteers trying to salvage anything out of the library. A few days later, when he’s on his way to Aziraphale’s to proudly bring him a few scrolls he’s managed to save from under the rubble and ash, he finds a note on the doorstep that says: ‘New assignment. Athens. A.’

A few hours later, Down gives him a new mission on Rhodos. It’s close enough to Athens that he could give Aziraphale those books then, right?

Crowley reads the words A. Z. Fell and Co. even though it feels like a slap across the cheek every time he does now, then groans under his breath to ignore his own heavy breathing, and walks towards the entrance. He knocks once, twice, then finally gives in and opens the door to look inside.

“Muriel!” he yells, peering over the doorstep with his hand firmly holding onto the door. He wouldn’t dare to cross it without an invite, not after the bookshop’s been renewed as an official Heaven Embassy.

“Sorry, I’ll be with you in a moment!” Muriel’s voice seems to be coming from the very back of the shop, but just as Crowley is about to groan again, this time at the thought that he will have to wait for them to come get him, he hears her add: “Come in!”

So he steps in, hearts thundering in his ears, but same as the last four times he’s come here after… after , it feels completely unfamiliar, like it’s not The bookshop. Apart from the fact that Muriel still doesn’t quite grasp why she can’t sell books - something which Crowley had to stop them from doing many times over the phone - which is why there’s a few Jane Austen and Terry Prachett works missing, and from the desk being much tidier than it used to be, the space looks exactly the same as when Crowley left it.

And he still doesn’t know how he feels about it. He may have opened his own shop about two weeks ago (and the business is going great) and decided to start growing his hair out again - all of which greatly signify that things have changed a lot. But none of the above make him feel like something is different nowhere near as much as when he walks into the bookshop every Friday to give Muriel, as she likes to call it, ‘Earth lessons’. 

He tries not to think about the hesitation with which he walks over to the chair by the desk. It used to be his second nature - slinging a leg over one of the armrests, resting his back in the crook of the seat that never gets uncomfortable no matter how much use he and Aziraphale got out of it. Now, Crowley slowly reclines in his seat like there’s not enough joints in his spine, then leans into the side, folds his arms on his chest and slings both of his legs over the armrest, pulling his knees close. He doubts Muriel will notice that he’s not his usual self anyway - not that he’s been himself at all as of the last four months. 

When Muriel finally comes out of the back, carrying a few giant encyclopaedias in their arms, they seem almost relieved to see him.

“I have so many questions for you this week,” she informs him excitedly, walking over to set the books down on the smaller desk with a thud. “Want something to drink?”

“Alcohol,” is all Crowley trusts himself to say, then reaches to rub his nose. He wouldn’t mind hot cocoa, but that would stir his mind in the wrong , angelic direction. 

Muriel walks over to the cabinet where Aziraphale usually stored alcohol, and is about to pull out a bottle of wine when Crowley clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and furrows his brow.

“Stronger.”

“No. Last time you got so drunk, you barely answered my questions. And I-” she sends him an apologetic, unsure smile, and shrugs, ” I want to learn.”

Well, would you look at that. He finally takes off his sunglasses to send Muriel a glare, but she’s learned to know him enough to not be that intimidated by it anymore. They pull out the wine, grab a glass and walk over to sit down in front of Crowley. He pours some wine into the glass, then grabs the bottle by its neck and takes a long swig. Muriel shifts in her seat uncomfortably, eyeing how much of the drink has disappeared when he’s done.

He rubs his nose again before sighing heavily, but it doesn’t make his heartbeat any slower nor his breathing any more relaxed. “Go on then, ask away.”

Late afternoon turns into an evening by the time they’re done with this week’s ‘Earth lesson’. Crowley longs for another bottle of wine, one he won’t be forced to share, but Muriel is quite firm when they tell him no, so he waves a hand over his glass to fill it magically. Miracle alcohol may always taste terrible when he’s the one conjuring it, but at least it is alcohol. Because, by the stars, he really doesn’t want to be sober for the next part of their weekly meetup.

For whatever reason, Muriel has this weird notion to make him talk about what he has been up to throughout the week. It might be because they’re just curious about what an extraterrestrial entity like him does on the daily basis here on Earth, but Crowley can’t help but feel like it’s some sort of either interrogation or therapy session - and the thought of either makes him feel uncomfortable, like there’s someone peeking under the covers he threw over himself without his consent; peeking and finding him absolutely wrecked and horrified. 

Crowley rubs his nose again even though the skin’s gotten irritated, before flicking his tongue out to see if his miracle wine smells any good. Maybe being a Duke of Hell comes with added benefits, because it seems a lot better than the last magic wine he conjured into existence. Or maybe Crowley’s just had more practice with miracling alcohol recently. 

Both of the possibilities make him even more uneasy. 

His day began with such a bag migraine, Crolwey couldn’t miracle it away because he couldn’t bring himself to keep his focus for the time necessary for this kind of magic. After that, he’s had another problem with the company providing his shop with photos plants - because now the fuckers are having trouble with their shipping operator, as if that is Crowley’s fault. And to top it all off, he’s pretty sure one of the customers was hitting on him today, even despite his complete lack of interest. As if Crowley has a giant piece of paper saying ‘I am single and wish to be flirted with’ glued onto his chest. He ended up exclaiming ‘No, thank you!’ so loudly the whole shop heard him, and had to close early to not lash out on the next customer that would be even remotely polite towards him. 

While running a shop provided him with a much needed distraction from the overwhelming sadness and solitude, it made him even more aware of how much things have changed. Crowley’s quickly developed to have a love-hate relationship with the place - because on one hand, it is his shop (his shop!), and on the other, it is a painful reminder that he is so fucking alone. And people trying to flirt with him certainly aren’t making his situation any better.

Muriel finally comes back into the room with two cups of cocoa in her hands - one bigger, for herself, the other, much smaller, presumably for Crowley. The moment they set the cups down, Crowley springs up from his seat and walks over to the alcohol cabinet to pull out a bottle of whisky. It stayed the same amount the last time he drank whiskey in the bookshop - which was when Aziraphale was still on Earth and they met up to hang out and chat - and the realisation makes Crowley grip the bottle’s neck with a little too much force than necessary. He strides over to the table where Muriel’s set the cocoa, and pours a hefty amount into his cup, hoping that spiking the drink will stop it from reminding him about Aziraphale, then plops down into the chair and ignores Muriel’s unsure, slightly disapproving gaze.

“I’m cold,” he explains, smiling so wide he bares his fangs at her. They press their lips into a line and nod, absolutely not buying his bullshit lie, and reach for her cup of cocoa.

“What have you been up to this week then?”

“Ah, you know, little bit of this, little bit of that.” Crowley leans against one of the armrests, slings his legs over the other one and folds his hands on his chest. Nonchalance doesn’t help him forget about his unease - if anything, he grows even more aware of it. “Spreading evil, mischief, whatever you wanna call it.”

“Yes, well.” Muriel shifts in her seat; they seem a little uncomfortable, maybe because of the amount of whisky Crowley’s just poured into his cocoa after just having drank a whole bottle of wine all by himself. “I’ve heard that there’s been some promotions Down.”

Crowley smiles rakishly. “Oh, really?”

“I heard a new Duke of Hell has finally been chosen.” Muriel darts a quick glance at the demon, then looks back down at their cup of cocoa, steam enveloping their head like a gloriole. Does she know or is she just still a little uncomfortable with Crowley? Both? Or is it just about the amount of whisky in his drink?

Crowley reaches for his cocoa and takes a big sip. It burns his mouth, his throat, he feels fire even in his stomach. It makes him forget that his hearts have been racing in his chest the entire time he’s been in the bookshop today, that he’s uneasy and so not okay; it makes him arrogant and a bit too reckless than he should be.

Sometimes, when he’s drunk, Crowley fully embraces he’s a demon. “Hmm, yes,” he smirks into the rim of his cup, “I happen to know them, actually.”

Muriel glances at him again - it’s a bit more curious look, though still reserved. Crowley sits up, rests his cup in his lap and places his elbows on the armrests, chin resting in an awaiting palm. The chair might as well be his throne. He drills his gaze into Muriel and smiles, baring his fangs once more. 

“Who’s your source of information?” He asks out of pure curiosity. 

Muriel shrinks into themselves like they’re expecting for Crowley to attack them. “Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.”

A siren starts wailing. Crowley thinks it’s outside, but no - this time it’s only his head, his mind that’s slipped into override.

“Is he now?” He hisses slowly, meticulously.

“He told me he sensed it,” Muriel goes to explain, her fingers rapping a lively, nervous beat into the sides of their mug, “about two, maybe three weeks ago.”

Crowley’s sure there’s smoke coming out of his ears, that there’s electricity curling under his skin like an animal that yearns to be set loose. It’s been gloomy and rainy all day, but now the sky outside turns pitch black. There’s a thunderstorm coming.

“Does his Supremeness know who’s been chosen as the Duke?” Crowley asks, grabbing the ear of his cup to down the entirety of his drink in one go; his head swivels once the alcohol hits and burns its way down his oesophagus, but he welcomes the feeling with open arms. Anything to brace him for what’s surely about to happen.

“No, just that there’s been a shift in power.” Muriel smiles nervously again, unaware or purposefully ignorant to Crowley’s change of demeanour. “I heard some things come with the position of a Supreme Archangel - sensitivity to magic, detecting good and evil, that sort of thing, you know?”

“Do you wanna know who the Duke of Hell is now, Muriel?”

She glances up at Crowley, and now he’s sure they’ve been unaware, blissfully so, of his sudden change of demeanour. Before, his hearts were racing, breath heavy in his chest, and he was sure he was going to throw up at any moment and then curl into a tight bundle and attempt to hide from the world. Now, he feels all his muscles tense and ready to send him striking forward. And Muriel’s beginning to see it - that the miserable demon splayed out in the chair before them is no longer harmless.

He’s ready to wreck chaos with a single sentence. Crowley’s tongue is longing to form the words on his lips and set the air alight. 

“It would be a vital information I… would be happy to learn about,” Muriel finally says, voice forcefully even. 

“And would you relay that information to your superior?”

Crowley’s voice is so sweet, it could give you cavities. 

“Y-yes, I would. Of course I would, that’s my job. Why…?”

“Oh, I’m just curious, don’t mind me,” Crowley waves a hand, then leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “As a Duke of Hell, I need to know what Heaven’s up to, eh?”

It’s the first time since Crowley’s been named Duke of Hell that he’s actually said it out loud, owned up to it, admitted that that message from Shax wasn’t just a hallucination his drunken mind decided to create. He feels vertigo roar in his ears, Prince, Prince, one of the Princes now , and has to lean backwards to maintain his composure. He wants to run out of the bookshop and crash his car somewhere far away, somewhere where a wreck like that, like him, will be easily forgotten. He wants to forget he’s ever existed. He wants to set this whole building on fire, he could, just a single flick of his wrist and a snap of his fingers, so much power at his disposal, HE'S THE DUKE OF HELL. 

Muriel’s eyes blow wide open. She works on not spilling their cocoa onto their lap; it would be a shame to ruin such a nice looking skirt and sweater. Crowley catches himself noticing that the fabric of the skirt is exactly the same shade as Aziraphale’s suit jacket.

He stands up abruptly, ignores how his vision goes fuzzy and white for a second, his head spinning like he’s sitting on a carousel, and the demon more stumbles than walks out of the bookshop and into the night, Muriel right on his heels, dying to ask him so many questions but unable to pick a single one. 

“See you next week, An- kid ,” Crowley mumbles, waving a hand while sauntering towards the Bentley. His mind helpfully echoes Angel, Angel, Angel until the word loses its initial meaning and leaves only a sweet aftertaste in his mouth. Aziraphale always smelled like old books and peaches, old and fresh, bitter and sweet at the same time. Crowley grips the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak, stomps down the gas pedal and goes flying down the street like lightning. A loud thunder booms above the city like a message from a displeased god.

Muriel is left standing in the doorway of the bookshop, shocked and flabbergasted, brows so high up they’re almost reaching her hairline. They try to understand what just happened, what they just learned about, but the information is like a puzzle that’s in the wrong shape. It’s supposed to fit, but it really doesn’t want to. 

“Muriel, dear?” There’s an echoing voice coming from the bookshop. She looks over their shoulder to see a ghostly, semi-translucent appearance of Aziraphale standing in the summoning circle, a tired but gentle smile on his face. “You wanted to tell me something?”

Chapter Text

In the rare occurrences that Crowley dreams, he dreams of The Fall.

Before the Beginning

He always experiences the visions in first person - relives them, really - and they’re frame for frame accurate. He sees the scowl on Gabriel’s face, each wrinkle of his frown as they look at Crowley’s chain-bound wings, black feathers spreading outwards from the bases like a stain . The metal is searing into his skin, already too holy for his soul, and he fights back the urge to grimace in pain. I have to be brave - at least that’s what Crowley tells himself even though he’s terrified, anything to stop himself from bursting into tears. There are rays of sunlight coming in through the thick cover of clouds, and everyone knows She is watching the Fall from far above.

Crowley feels the Supreme Archangel’s gaze move from his wings and onto his, also chain-bound, wrists resting in his lap. There’s a few black and red scales covering the skin, peeking from under the sleeve; in this position, forcefully brought to his knees with his arms bound in front of him, they can be easily seen.

Gabriel smirks, his gaze lazily moving back and forth between the speckled wings and the scales on Crowley’s wrist. The Archangel’s feathers are so white and pristine that, combined with the holy sunlight, they’re blinding. The chains are starting to burn. Crowley hangs his head down, feeling his heart doing triple time in his chest. Any heart conditions have yet to be created, but Crowley feels like his celestial body might just invent one.

“Is there anything you want to say for yourself?” Gabriel asks, voice booming, full of force that makes hair stand straight on the back of Crowley’s neck. 

He slowly looks up, musters up enough courage to squint at the sun that moves to shine on his face, meets the Supreme Archangel’s gaze and then glances over the gathered crowd, but just as Crowley is about to say something grand, something stupid, something that certainly won’t make things worse - anything to show that while he may have been defeated, he’ll still keep going with his ways until they’ll wish they'd killed him when they had the chance - he spots pale blue eyes somewhere in the crowd; pale blue eyes reddened with held-back tears, pale blue eyes that meet his gaze and blink once, then the second time. The gesture could mean a thousand different things, but, somehow, Crowley feels like he knows exactly what that angel just told him. 

He deflates completely, doesn’t fight back the holy metal burning terrible scars into his skin, and looks down at his chained wrists. “No,” Crowley whispers and slowly clenches his fists, wishing he had the strength to hurl them at Gabriel’s smirking face. The ray of sun moves away from him and onto the next fallen kneeling to Crowley’s left, and Gabriel follows after it, dutiful as ever.

Beelzebub has a whole speech when their turn comes. They say they’ll be back, and that Heaven will regret casting them all out. That they’ll be a menace even God will fear. Their wings look like they’re decaying, clusters of rotten, bloodied feathers slowly sauntering to the ground as Beelzebub shakes from their angry speech and, presumably, pain. The wings have gotten the brunt of the damage in the battle, one broken off near the place where it connects to Beelzebub’s back, large slashes in the skin, and there’s a certain stench to their whole person that reminds you of death - even though no one here knows what death is like. Not yet.

Crowley watches Beelzebub’s face as they swear to be the worst thing Heaven will ever deal with - and all he can see is the dread in their eyes, the streaks of moisture staining their cheeks, the smoke coming up from the searing chains. The more any of them swear to be evil, the more the metal burns. 

Then the actual fall begins. Sandalphon yanks Crowley upwards by his chained wrists, and he staggers to his feet, barely able to keep his balance from the overwhelming pain. The clouds dissipate completely and the entire area is now bathed in thick rays of sunlight. Crowley turns his face towards the sun and has to squeeze his eyes shut to even bear facing that direction.

His mind starts to formulate a thought - a thought that begins with a miserable, pleading ‘why’ - but the moment it does, the light gets unbearable, searing his skin worse than the holy chains, and he hisses in pain, to his own surprise. No one around him seems to notice. The sunlight dims just a little bit only once Crowley turns his back to it.

It’s another warning, another punishment, as if he isn’t about to pay for only asking questions. Hopelessness makes Crowley feel dizzy, and when he watches another being be pushed over the edge, for a moment he thinks he is already falling, even though there’s still a dozen others before his turn comes.

The worst part about all of this is that he didn’t even mean to fall . He didn’t mean to fight - or at least fight on the side of the war that he ended up being dragged into (but then he starts to wonder if he would have fought on the other side, and he doesn’t know what to think of the answer). He was flying back from a meeting with Saraqel that regarded one of the supernovas they were helping him with, when suddenly Tamiel caught his attention from the ground below, calling his name.

Of course, Crowley flew over to check on his… yes, on his friend . Tamiel was always loyal and didn’t mind Crowley’s inquisitivness, of course they were friends. 

“You have to come with me, come on!” Is all he said the very moment Crowley landed on the ground.

They rushed to where they and a few other angels would meet up every once in a while to talk - to share ideas, to chat about unimportant things, to ask questions (Crowley especially loved the last part, because sometimes he would hear his questions be answered) - and saw that the usual group had already gathered. Even Morning Star was here, and he had finished their speech just as Crowley and Tamiel reached the gathering. Then suddenly, there was a sword pushed into Crowley’s hands, someone tugged on his arm and the crowd carried his body like a river took a single leaf, mercilessly changing the course of its life forever. 

The fighting sides met on a flat, never ending field, and a deafening crash filled the air as lightning tore through the sky. Crowley let the battle unfold around him, the smell of magic thick in the air, and quickly realised he could either wait to be discorporated or try to fight his way out of this.

But he couldn’t just start cutting down his acquaintances, right?

He saw a friend of his, Zaraphel, fall to the ground lifelessly, burns from an exploding halo covering her entire face and neck, robe soaked in blood pouring out of a nasty gash in her chest. She was an angel responsible for creating the shapes of snowflakes, and now her body disintegrated into them before Crowley’s eyes.

It was either his friends or his acquaintances. 

Crowley gripped the handle of his sword properly and swung. 

It’s finally his turn. He steps towards the edge and risks leaning forward to see what awaits at the bottom. All he can see is an ocean of dark grey, stormy clouds, their tops bathed in the beaming sunlight. 

He turns around to glance at the crowd, spots the pale blue eyes again, now filled with tears, and his heart drops. 

Then, when Gabriel pushes him over the edge, so does his stomach. It feels nothing like flying. There’s no freedom in this fall, because Crowley knows he won’t be able to spread his wings. He knows the chains will hold and burn until he meets whatever awaits him at the bottom.

She’s petty.

He’s falling. He’s already fallen. He can think all the blasphemy he can. The sunlight sears his exposed skin, tries to punish him more than it already has, and Crowley lets out a startled, delirious laugh. The air carries his voice.

No time could pass at all, or it could be decades, centuries, maybe even millions of years - and in that time, Crowley screams until his throat gives out, cries until his eyes hurt, and laughs until his abdomen starts to protest. He feels dehydrated even though he’s never drank anything in his existence, and the pain in his body is immeasurable - he’s all rugged burn scars, dried blood and ruffled hair and feathers. He wishes he could wave a hand to miracle everything away, but in this in-between state he’s been stripped of all of his magic, and the chains, while they have rusted over during the fall, still restrict any of his movements.

The ocean of stormy clouds suddenly ends, but before Crowley can turn around to see what’s under him, he falls right into a bottomless pit of boiling sulphur and the colour yellow fills his field of vision before he squeezes his eyes shut in protection. His body constricts at the sudden change of temperature and Crowley has to force his limbs to move to bring his head above the surface. 

It feels nice - it’s maybe a little hot, but after spending so long falling through the air, exposed to storm, snow, rain and winds upon winds, he really can’t complain. But something’s wrong.

The chains start to break, link by link. And the moment they fall off, the real punishment begins. 

In the waking world, Crowley tosses in his sleep the same way he tosses around trying to get out of the pit.

The sulphur burns all of his feathers, eats away at his skin like a starved creature, and Crowley’s pained screams echo in the pit like a bloody church bell . The pain makes him weak, overwhelming and never-ending waves of what must be agony coursing through him, and he falls under the surface despite his best efforts. The sulphur eagerly burns out his eyelids and gets its hands on his eyes. Crowley opens his mouth to scream, but it’s just another gateway for pain to enter. 

Where there were once rows and rows of slick white feathers, are now scarce, burnt tufts and skin coming off in entire patches. After what surely must be centuries, amidst the constant feeling of his existence being ripped to shreds, Crowley musters up enough strength to reach for the edge of the pit, wrap his fingers around it and slowly, millimetre by millimetre, move towards it; he doesn’t notice the colour of his skin nor the way it seems to shine in the dim light. The only thing on his mind is the desperate need to get out of the pit, or discorporate trying.

A hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him towards the edge and then over it; Crowley ends up rolling down the exterior side of the pit in a tumble of miserable excuses for wings and ruined robes. He stays still for a moment once there’s solid ground underneath him, and tries to even out his breathing and not give in to the panic trying to take hold - because he doesn’t trust that his punishment is over. It can’t be. 

He places his hands on the ground and that’s when he sees them - the red and black scales.

Crowley yelps and suddenly, he has no limbs. 

Gravel crunches next to him and he sees someone kneel by his head. “It’s over,” they say with a hollow but gentle voice. There’s flies buzzing in the air. “Take a deep breath and focus.”

He recognizes their eyes, the gentle dark-brown colour of the irises, though there’s decayed skin around them. Beelzebub holds their gaze on Crowley while he attempts to turn back into his form with arms and legs, and doesn’t say a single word when he fails the first few tries.

They help him up to his feet when he finally has them. His body is shaking from the still-present pain, from panic, from shock, from The Fall. Beelzebub glances him up and down, at his ruined wings and robe that’s in pieces. 

“Your magic is back,” they inform him with that hollow, flat voice. “You can clean up. And your right wing is on fire.”

Crowley turns to look, but he realises the flames don’t cause him any pain, instead dancing on the scarce remaining feathers. They feel more like a warm bath than anything. 

“I don’t… feel them,” he says in shock.

Beelzebub’s smile is bitter and dead, like everything about them. “How long do you have to burn until you become immune to fire?”

They walk off after that to help someone else out of their punishment, and their cloud of flies follows after them. Crowley thinks about Beelzebub he met all those years ago - millions of years, it must be now - and their giddy disposition. They used to be responsible for flowers, bees and butterflies, and there was always a cloud of colourful petals and a wonderful scent following them around. Now, there’s just the stench of decay and buzzing flies, skin around their eyes and mouth decomposing like they’re nothing more than a walking corpse. Who knows how much more damage is hiding beneath the robes they have tightly wrapped around them?

For the second time, Crowley thinks how petty and vindictive She is.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, hands fumbling to find an edge to hold onto, pull him out of the pit, he must be burning again, dissolving in the sulphur, and slowly, his mind catches up to reality - that he’s in his bed, satin sheets under his clammy palms and weak rays of sunlight trying to get into the bedroom through a crack in the blinds. Both hearts racing in his chest, why did I think having two hearts would be a good idea, Crowley lays back down with a heavy exhale and throws an arm over his eyes. His wings are out, splayed out on either side of him, and that alone goes to show how distressed the dream - nightmare, let’s be real - made him.

In and out. Slowly. He doesn’t really have to breathe, but he tells himself that it might help him wind down. In and out. So that he doesn’t attract lightning to strike him. He wouldn’t want to ruin the bed.

Crowley moves his right wing forward and reaches to run his fingers over the dark feathers in search of comfort or distraction. It seems like they need some tending to. He waves a hand to move the blinds and let the light in, rays of sun landing on his bare chest and jeans he didn’t bother getting out of the night before, then rolls out of bed to take a shower.

Preening by hand has always been something that helped him get his mind back on track - when he was still an angel, it was a way for him to relax after a long time of work; when he fell, it was the only thing keeping him from going insane. While everyone used miracles to bring themselves back in shape as much as they could (because there was no way any of them would be allowed to forget about their punishment), Crowley never used magic to fix his wings. He looked ridiculous at first - with his clothes tidy and neat and wings looking like a mistake to say the least, a ledger, a painful reminder of everything that happened. But when all of the feathers regrew and the skin on the bones healed, they were just as soft and slick as before The Fall. It took three decades to reach that point. Every single weird stare and disapproving scoff was worth it. 

Crowley sits down on the floor in his living room, finds comfort in the cold, hard surface underneath him, and reaches for the box with preening supplies he keeps under the coffee table. He pulls out a bottle of orange seed oil and puts the silver claw rings onto his fingers, then slams the box shut before he can notice the set of golden rings still in a neat packaging he bought for a particular someone half a year ago. 

His mind wanders as he gets to work, a pensive furrow set to his brow, and he lets it.

Because what really struck him is that Aziraphale insisted on going together, as if he didn’t know just how much Heaven hurt Crowley. These past few years, Crowley finally started peeling off the armour he used to wear to hide the bruises The Fall left on him - where he used to clam up whenever it was mentioned, now sometimes , when the evening brought silence and serenity into the bookshop, he’d say something about what happened: that he still vividly remembers how his eyes burned or how his feathers caught on fire as if they were doused in gasoline. Aziraphale would sit opposite to him - or sometimes next to him, on the couch - and he’d never say a word of comment, just offer a blanket, cup of cocoa, sometimes even a hug. 

What he did always say was that if he could, he would take half of Crowley’s pain for himself. It made Crowley bristle up, but more so to hide how much these words meant to him.

At times, Crowley got the feeling that Aziraphale wanted to make up for what was done to him all those years ago. The moment he learned that Crowley couldn’t see the stars because of his eyes - which in itself is a funny story, because he found that out from a herpetology book he bought in 1823 - he drew the stars for him: various constellations, how he imagined stars looked up close, how the sky looked in the middle of the night. When humans finally figured out how to go to space and take pictures of it, Aziraphale got Crowley the biggest photo album of space he could possibly get his hands on. It didn’t matter that the book wasn’t odd, first edition or the only copy in the world - what mattered is that the pictures were vibrant, big, and accurate. The Horsehead Nebula was just how Crowley remembered it.

Aziraphale was always ready to go to the darkest place to do The Right Thing, even if that meant he’d lose his status as an angel or his happiness. He took the possibility of going to Hell for helping Job with bravery that Crowley never saw in anyone before; Aziraphale knew what he did was not what God intended - and therefore could be considered wrong - but he felt like he did the right thing and that was the only thing that mattered to him. For someone who seems very innocent at first sight - so innocent it's quite often deceiving - Aziraphale also carries more bravery than a soldier trained in countless battles. Crowley often wondered just what it was like in Heaven after The Fall - and what it was like for Aziraphale, who continuously needed to reestablish his faith in God.

Crowley brings his hands to his face and realises too late he still has his claw rings on; they prickle the skin of his cheeks, drawing a bit of blood, but he doesn’t pull away and simply digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, keeping his fingers in the air. His shoulders feel sore, their line so tense they could snap under the slightest pressure.

Crowley gives himself a moment before he goes back to preening. He’s far from being done.

Maybe if they called them what they were - in love - sooner, things would have gone differently. It would have been much easier if Crowley ever experienced any type of love - that bloody divine love Aziraphale sometimes vaguely mentioned (probably so as not to upset Crowley), human love or at least appreciation (if he’d let it). Being a demon in theory, he wasn’t given the ability to sense love like angels could (or was rather stripped of it), so Crowley’s idea of what love is very… superficial. For the longest time, he thought what he felt for Aziraphale was just deep appreciation and admiration, and care, and… other things - and it was Nina that made him realise that those feelings were also signs of love. ' Other people’s love-lives all seem so much more straight-forward than our own.' Makes you wonder when those feelings of his became love.

Telling Aziraphale about this was the scariest thing Crowley has ever done in his existence - and he’s survived The Fall, stopped Armageddon and fooled both Heaven and Hell. It felt a lot like walking through a field of fog - Crowley didn’t have the slightest idea of where he was going, nor what he was doing; he just knew he had to get it out of his system. It was messy, it was awkward - it was his last-ditch attempt at making Aziraphale stay, even though it was clear he made up his mind.

He started shaking his head halfway during Crowley’s speech - when his voice cracked, ‘And I would like to spend…’ - and that’s when Crowley became painfully aware of his situation, of the blood rushing in his ears, of his hearts readying themselves to launch out of his chest and run out the door. He messily barreled through the remainder of his words, ended up scathing around the subject, like both of them always have for over six thousand years, and then listened to Aziraphale the same way a condemned man waited to be hanged. Crowley held the slightest bit of hope in his heart till the very end, and maybe that was his downfall. Despite everything, Crowley is still an optimist.

There’s moisture on his cheeks. This time, he remembers to take off his claw rings before reaching a hand to wipe his face. There’s still a bit of blood coming out of the prickles, but other than that, it’s tears. 

Aziraphale was always ready to sacrifice everything, even his own happiness , in the name of the greater good. While Crowley preferred to stay on the run and always look over his shoulder in search of a chase, Aziraphale was ready to dig his heels into the ground and look the danger in the eye, meet it head on. Where Crowley avoided the subject of The Fall and wanted to brush it under the rug, Aziraphale wanted to make up for the fact that it happened, let Crowley know that his scars were seen and maybe not fully understood, but nevertheless accepted.

Shock, like a lightning strike, springs through Crowley’s soul. His body tingles. 

Aziraphale went to Heaven for him. 

How much does that change?

Aziraphale presses his fingers into his lips. He waits to feel something, but there’s absolutely nothing - not even guilt and shame that used to be his constant companions the first few months, no matter how muffled due to being in Heaven. There’s nothing. There’s nothing . Heaven, he feels nothing. 

As another prayer is spoken on Earth, a gentle ringing, like an ever-distant church bell, starts playing inside his head. Aziraphale tries not to grimace (the sound always gives him a migraine) and instead hangs his head down and sighs quietly. A stack of documents is staring at him accusingly from his desk, like they’re glaring at him in Uriel’s name. He tries not to think about his duties for a moment.

‘We could have been us.’

I know.

‘You idiot.’

Oh, I know. I hope you know, too.

Aziraphale slowly looks up, squares his shoulders and reaches for the documents, immediately focusing his attention on the one at the very top so that his mind stops replaying that moment. He’d love to sit down and think about everything - thing is, he hadn’t had the chance to even catch a breath, metaphorically. If answering prayers isn’t eating up all of his free time, it’s the endless meetings with other Archangels and Metatron or slowly working through the documents Uriel begrudgingly brought to him. 

Aziraphale hardly ever sleeps, never really found it as relaxing as Crowley described it, but he’d kill… well, no, he’d do a lot for a few hours of actual sleep right now. 

I’m the Supreme Archangel now. I have my duties.

Another roll of his shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension out of them with that simple motion (it doesn’t help at all), and then he grabs the document to skim through it and write down whatever he finds important. The edges of his notepad are filled with tiny sketches of plant leaves and stars - it’s more muscle memory than anything else, to doodle wherever he can when he’s feeling tired or down. A leaf of a particularly well-drawn snake plant takes up a good third of the page he’s writing on right now, forcing Aziraphale to space out his notes. 

He manages to work through about half of the stack when he feels a ping in his head, kind of like a flick on the forehead - a message that a meeting is about to start. He reaches to flip his notepad close and put it into one of the pockets in his coat, but not before running his fingers over the snake plant. If he focuses hard enough, he can almost remember what the leaf’s surface felt like. 

‘Oh, I hate all of ‘em. Don’t ever forget that. This one, though, I hate the least, I suppose.’ Crowley ran his fingers along the edge of one of the leaves. They were almost as long as his legs.

Aziraphale slips his eyes shut, exhales quickly and focuses on moving to the meeting area. Teleportation is as easy as breathing up here, but it still leaves him a little lightheaded, and he has to take a steadying breath when he feels the ground abruptly shift under his shoes. He opens his eyes to glance around the room - another barren, white space with a bunch of windows overlooking Heaven - then pushes the nausea away and slips a bright expression onto his face like a mask. He’s done it a billion times before, it’s his second nature Up Here.

“Aziraphale,” Saraqel greets him before he even notices them, their voice even and polite. Out of all the other Archangels, they always seem the most welcoming towards him. 

“Greetings, everyone.” Aziraphale makes his lips twist upwards in a gentle yet eager smile. “I do hope you’ve all been well.”

Saraqel smiles back, it seems genuine and just a tiny bit pleased, and nods their head. “Thank you. I hope you’ve been settling into your duties well.”

It’s been terrific. “It’s been busy, but I’m happy to be of service for The Great Plan.”

Maybe he would actually kill for a few hours of sleep.

Michael smiles at his words, but it’s easy to deduce that their politeness is forced to say the least. Both them and Aziraphale are aware that they really wanted to be The Supreme Archangel and that they’re bitter about not getting the job. They’ve always been an Archangel, always loyal to Heaven and God, never stepped out of line, did a lot of good, did everything The Great Plan expected of them. Meanwhile, Aziraphale was just a Principality that’s lived on Earth for over six thousand years - so it’s safe to assume he’s gone native - stopped Armageddon and had a tendency of… second-guessing The Great Plan. The choice should have been obvious. 

But here they are, with Aziraphale as The Supreme Archangel. 

Uriel shows up a few minutes later in a tornado of gold flakes that eventually forms into their corporeal form, then sends everyone brief smiles as a greeting. Aziraphale still isn’t sure how they feel about him being The Supreme Archangel. They’re rather reserved whenever they’re not in a meeting, quite cold and untrusting; at first, he thought they were like that only towards him, but then he saw them treat Michael and other angels in the very same manner. It seems that’s just Uriel’s nature, but it’s not a very comforting realisation - not when Aziraphale would kill for someone he could consider an ally up here.

Metatron appears to Aziraphale’s right in a sudden outburst of light, nothing more than a big, floating head, and opens the meeting without acknowledging anyone. 

It seems to always go the same way - an idea is laid out and they discuss whether or not it is beneficial to The Great Plan. Michael argues with Uriel and it doesn’t matter that quite often they’re both on the same side of the squabble. Saraqel’s stopped trying to diffuse their fights about ten meetings ago, Metatron never seems to even notice, so it’s usually Aziraphale that has to step in and remind them who they are and what their duties are. 

It’s disheartening to see that the beings managing Heaven are this immature and petty. These are the angels that were ready to fight with Hell just to see who would come out on top, and use Earth as their battleground - no, playground. These angels want to turn everyone into a pillar of salt at the mere sight of a wavering faith or disobedience. These angels want to prepare Heaven for The Second Coming. These angels seem so bloodthirsty they might be as vicious as demons, perhaps even worse . These angels are supposed to be the good guys. 

A lot of the time, Aziraphale feels like an idiot, attending every meeting like he’s unable to see that there’s a high chance he’s trying to save a sinking ship. 

Despite it all, the sickening solitude and exhaustion, Aziraphale hasn’t lost hope that he can make a difference.

When he feels another ping in his body, this time in his chest, he’s almost relieved to realise it’s Muriel calling him from Earth. He steers the meeting in the direction of it coming to an end, please, I need a break from these angels, and ten minutes later he watches all of the Archangels disappear to get back to their duties. Azirapale starts going back to his office with a heavy sigh; he feels like a man he once saw a painting of - Atlas, he thinks he was called - carrying the very Earth on his shoulders, an exhausted tilt to his brow and resigned expression on his face.

Aziraphale agreed with Muriel that she would call him only when something urgent was happening (because coming back at any convenience would be most unwise), which means that there’s probably another excuse for a headache waiting for him on Earth. But he doesn’t really care - if anything, he’s quite excited for trouble, actually. Aziraphale hasn’t been to Earth ever since he was appointed the Supreme Archangel, and he’s been itching to go back. Heaven is overwhelmingly pristine, bright and empty despite making Aziraphale feel like he never has a moment of solitude, whereas Earth is weirdly cosy with all the noise, colours, smells, feelings and people.

He drags his fingers over the surface of his desk, drawing the summoning circle that matches the one on Earth, and watches the lines slowly start glowing. Aziraphale gets a single breath in before Muriel’s circle drags his soul to Earth and vertigo fills his head. Another inhale, and he can feel the wooden floorboards of the bookshop, the smell of old books trying to enter his nose despite Aziraphale not being here physically, the electric candles flickering upon sensing his arrival. 

Aziraphale dusts off his coat despite it being so spotless it’s sickening, then looks up. Muriel is standing in the doorway of the shop, most lights turned on, he knows what that means. He tries not to ask the most pressing question, even if it feels like the words will part his lips themselves if they have to.

“Muriel, dear?” He calls and smiles at them when they turn around. “You wanted to tell me something?”

But she doesn’t smile back. She seems quite distraught and wrings their hands. Aziraphale furrows his brow.

“What’s the matter? I’m sorry I didn’t come any sooner, I was in a meeting. Did something happen?”

Their lips tremble and all Muriel does is nod shakily. While they work on closing the doors and rolling down all of the remaining blinds, Aziraphale focuses and pulls his physical form down here from Heaven. The floorboards rush to meet the soles of his shoes, the smell of books eagerly enters his nose now that he’s here body and soul, he can finally feel the warmth the radiators under the windows give off. Aziraphale can’t help but roll his shoulders, relishing in feeling everything : the exact way his clothes arrange on his body, how the fabric twists in time to his movements, the way his pupils accommodate to the light levels. He can’t help but smile, even if briefly and weakly.

However, any trace of happiness within him is gone the moment Muriel is done closing the shop and stands before him with that lost expression. 

“It’s okay, dear. You might want to take a deep breath, I know it usually helps.” Aziraphale reaches and places his hands on Muriel’s shoulders, and watches her follow his instruction. “There, and again? Splendid. Now, can you tell me what’s the matter?”

Muriel closes their eyes for a moment, lips moving quietly in a prayer Aziraphale can clearly hear in his head word for word, ‘Give me strength to say what needs to be said, give me strength to fix what seems unfixable’ , then sighs and looks up at him.

“It’s mister Crowley, sir.”

It feels like someone just dumped a bucket of cold water onto him. He stops himself from exploding with emotions and keeps his voice even. “What about him?”

“He… He told me who the Duke of Hell is.” Muriel’s eyes dart to the side, and the moment of silence where she takes another steadying breath is excruciating for Aziraphale. “It’s him, sir. He’s- he’s the Duke.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blow wide. He shakes Muriel by the shoulders and manages to form a few coherent sentences, “Where is he, where did he go? I must speak with him, now ,” and then starts pacing around the bookshop, trying to figure everything out. He weighs his options - the threat Metatron and other Archangels pose, how he messed up (royally fucked up) the conversation with Crowley, whether he still has a chance to fix everything - and then makes the decision and storms out of the shop. He knows just where to go. He knows just what to say.

Aziraphale does none of these things. He drops his hands and takes a slow step backwards, mindful of the summoning circle still active somewhere behind him. Crowley is the Duke of Hell. 

He needs to see him. This changes so many things.

Aziraphale feels sick.

“Where’s he now, Muriel?” I need to talk to him. About so many things .

Although… it may not be that much of a good idea.

Muriel’s face contorts in another lost grimace. “He’s just left, actually.” She wrings her hands for a moment, then finally caves and walks over to the table set with dirty glasses and cups to clean it up. It’s easy for Aziraphale to notice that they’re in need of a distraction. “But I know he usually spends Friday evenings in his shop, working on orders for the next week. He might come back there later.”

His shop? Aziraphale suddenly feels like he missed a step and went tumbling down flights upon flights of stairs, like he’s falling with no wings to stop him from crashing. He absently reaches to massage at his chest, and feels a crumpled up piece of paper in the pocket of his coat. 

He woodenly sits down in what used to be his chair, waits for Muriel to leave to the kitchen with the dishes, and only then pulls out the picture. It’s solely thanks to magic that after eighty-two years the colour hasn’t faded, and it allows Aziraphale to look at Crowley’s awkward smile and his own poorly drawn moustache like the picture was taken mere hours ago.

He can’t help tracing his fingers over the slick surface of the photo, letting them linger on Crowley’s chest like he could reach for him this way. 

Crowley has a shop now. And he’s the Duke of Hell.

Aziraphale puts the photo back into the pocket, pats it gently for safety and then rests his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his hands. The one good thing about spending so much time in Heaven is that there’s no way for his mind to start racing there - which has been a saving grace, given the mental state he’s been in - but now that he’s back on Earth, the rush of thoughts feels like a stampede of wild horses, and it makes him dizzy. Crowley’s the Duke. Crowley has a shop. Crowley’s beyond my reach. I messed up. I need to talk to him. I need to tell him so many things. Do it again. God, do it again. I need him to do it again.  

The last thought is the worst. Without realising it, Aziraphale reaches one of his hands to press it against his lips, and he feels it. It’s nowhere near what it actually felt like, fireworks behind his eyes, molten lava in his stomach, for the better and for the worse.

“Sir?” Muriel reenters the room, but stops when she spots Aziraphale looking like he’s going through a mental breakdown. Perhaps he is. “Is everything alright?”

He drags a hand down his face, then straightens his back like there’s a steel rod in his spine, and sends Muriel an exhausted smile. “I just have a lot on my mind, dear, nothing to worry about.”

They don’t look convinced - if anything, a part of them seems to want to press the matter anyway, and it reminds Aziraphale of Crowley so much, he doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. It’s so easy to tell the two have stayed in touch after Aziraphale left, and while it makes him just a little bit (irrationally) jealous, it also gives him hope that at least Crowley’s not been entirely on his own after everything. 

“Maybe…” Muriel edges, taking a step towards Aziraphale, and nods towards the doors, “maybe you’d like to see if he’s in his shop?”

I would kill for that - is what Aziraphale almost says, but stops himself at the last second. Metatron made it rather clear that he was willing to let Crowley come back as an angel only because it would guarantee Aziraphale’s obedience - so when Crowley refused to come, Metatron’s open facade crumbled in a matter of seconds and his true colours were shown. If he were to see Aziraphale trying to get back in contact with Crowley or even appearing within his proximity, especially now that Crowley’s been appointed Duke of Hell, who knows what conclusions Metatron would draw. It’s too much of a risk - for now, at least. They could face off the other Archangels or Hell together, but on their own, neither Crowley or Aziraphale, no matter how strong, cunning, brave and reckless, are capable of that. 

Besides, Aziraphale doesn’t feel like he has the right to just barge into Crowley’s shop after everything that happened. If they were to ever hypothetically meet, it would have to be somewhere neutral.

But at the same time, Aziraphale’s dying to see the Earth and its inhabitants again. And he can’t do that from inside the bookshop. So he compromises.

“I don’t think that would be much of a good idea,” he begins, smiling sourly, and stands up from the chair, hands immediately going to smooth out his coat and trousers. “But I’d love to take a little walk around Soho, if you’d like to join me. It’s been so long since I’ve been to Earth.”

Muriel’s face lights up and they nod, going to fetch their coat. Aziraphale watches with a gentle smile as she gets ready, packs her satchel full of things that really aren’t needed for a short walk - flashlight, a small bottle of holy water, a handful of books, a first-aid kit - and then closes the doors, double-checking if all the locks are turned. They turn towards him once they're done, a bright and excited smile on her face, and it’s so contagious Aziraphale feels the corners of his lips moving upwards on their own accord. 

Muriel takes him to all their favourite spots in the area - a bench in the park from which you can see the giant plastic dinosaurs, a spot on the path around the pond where a swan attacked her once, a small shop that sells globes, maps and books about travel. By the time they’re on their way back to the bookshop, it’s well past the closing hours of any shop and the streets are pretty much deserted, the dark sky slowly beginning to sparkle like someone scattered glitter across it. Aziraphale stops to look up at the stars, adoration and reverence in his eyes.

“Oh, he’s in his shop, like I told you!” Muriel suddenly says and smiles, pointing at a shop window across the street, its shutters tinted with the light from the inside. A slender, slim figure is moving around, setting down some boxes, picking up others, and Aziraphale would recognize that manner of walking from galaxies away. “Maybe we stop by?”

“I-” Aziraphale’s mouth is suddenly dry as a desert, and he forgets how to make his tongue work. He takes a deep breath before he tries again. “I really don’t think that is a good idea, Muriel. He’s-”

“He’s not been particularly happy, sir,” they interrupt gently, eyes glued to the silhouette moving behind the shop window, a worried tilt to her brow. “I don’t think he’s been happy at all.”

Aziraphale wants them to stop, and at the same time he wants them to keep going. He needs to be told how much he messed up, how different it could have been, had he not been so stupid. 

“He’s been getting by, but what sort of existence is that when you have nothing to look forward to?”

“I- I should go, Muriel.”

The remainder of the walk to the bookshop is silent, apart from the vertigo rushing in Aziraphale’s ears. He watches Muriel fumble around their satchel until they finally pull out the keys to the doors, and doesn’t know when the prospect of going back to Heaven became this difficult for him. He doesn’t want to leave, but it’s not like he has much of a choice right now, not yet. 

He will have a choice. But for that, he needs to grit his teeth and go back Up. 

“Thank you for today, dear. I really missed being back here.”

It’s Earth he comes back to, not Heaven. When did it become this way? The other way to what it should be for a proper angel?

“I’m glad you had a nice time,” she smiles nervously, then looks down at her shoes, visibly blushing. “I- I apologise for my remarks today, sir, it was not my place.” 

Aziraphale’s smile is bitter, but nevertheless gentle. He reaches to place his hand on Muriel’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to cower before me like that, dear. Besides, I needed to be told… of the mistakes I’ve made, as painful as it was. You did me a favour, if anything,” he chuckles softly, then drags his other hand down his face. Being on Earth makes him realise how exhausted he is. 

“I’m… I’m glad I helped, then,” Muriel chuckles as well, then her gaze moves towards the doors by The Dirty Donkey where the elevator is. “When are you planning to visit again?”

Aziraphale sighs, the weight of the very world bearing down on his shoulders. “My duties take up most of my time, unfortunately. I’m afraid it might be a while before I can come back again. However,” the corner of his lips curls up mischievously as he sends Muriel a wink, “I won’t be able to turn down a call, should you ever need me.”

She chuckles nervously, but the spark in their eyes is just a little bit naughty. Staying in touch with Crowley has left a mark on them already. It’s endearing. 

Aziraphale rubs Muriel’s shoulder one last time, then turns to walk to the elevator by The Dirty Donkey. The moment the doors close and the box starts moving upwards, he feels his emotions draining from him like a sponge squeezed to its limits. By the time he reaches Up, he’s as apathetic as you can get, the stampede of thoughts hidden behind a thick veil beyond his reach, and his clothes are back to being all pristine and perfect.

But he’s The Supreme Fucking Archangel Aziraphale, and while Heaven can strip him of most of his emotions, he’d rather die than let them take his plans away. 

Chapter Text

Ever since Armageddon’t, Crowley’s grown weirdly fond of the holiday season. 

He’s never been a fan of it before - celebrating the birth of Christ wasn’t something a demon would do, and the joy that hung in the air wherever he went always made him feel nauseous. He’d bristle up at the sight of all those jolly humans buying each other presents, because it reminded him that he’s never had anyone to celebrate the holidays (or anything, for that matter) with. He’s never given Aziraphale a gift - or rather, he has, but it was usually a favour or a rescue from some mess the angel's gotten himself into. Aziraphale once gifted him that great picture book about the cosmos, but it was in the middle of summer, so it hardly counted as a gift for any holiday. 

But after Armageddon’t, once the anxiety around switching faces with an angel died down, Crowley found that he visited the bookshop more. If he had things to do or places to be, he’d still stay on the phone with Aziraphale and listen to him list all the books he’s thrifted recently or even read a book out loud (he’d never admit it , but he loved the times when Aziraphale read to him). It’s like the near-death experience made them grow closer.

Then the holiday season rolled in and one evening, on the twenty-fourth of December, Crowley finds himself sitting on the couch in the bookshop, comfortably wrapped in a blanket, and the thought of going back to his empty flat is the last thing on his mind. He gazes out onto the street outside the window - snow is falling and the street lamps give off a warm orange light - and he feels like he's in a Christmas movie. The feeling only deepens with the thought that Aziraphale is in the kitchen making them hot chocolate. 

The angel comes back a few minutes later and hands Crowley his cup of steaming-hot drink, then sits down in his chair with a satisfied sigh. 

“Tough day?” Crowley asks, trying to sound indifferent. 

“Quite so.” Aziraphale places his cup of hot chocolate on the coffee table between his chair and the sofa, then leans back and slips his eyes shut for a moment. “First I was… fending off a few customers who were very adamant in trying to buy books as Christmas gifts for their loved ones. Then, I went to the shop to buy some groceries, and what did I come across? Nearly every human was full of pent up rage caused by their Christmas shopping. Ridiculous, these humans,” Azirpahale opens his eyes just so he can do an overly-dramatic eye roll. “Naturally, I had to miracle these feelings away - because how can you celebrate Christmas if you’re so angry? - and I ended up having to change the mood of an entire mall. And to top it all off, as if my day hadn’t been exhausting already, I somehow got roped into attending the Shopkeeper’s Association meeting and all they talked about were the Christmas lights. Christmas lights! Can you believe that?”

Crowley smiles a little and looks down at his cup of hot chocolate, then out the window again. Given the noticeable lack of colourful lighting, it’s easy to figure out what decision was made at the meeting.

“I’d be very glad to spend the rest of this day doing nothing productive,” Aziraphale sighs, then leans forward to grab his cup of hot chocolate and take a long sip. What is first a satisfied smile turns into a frown, then a face of disgust. Crowley watches it all happen in shock, followed by poorly-hidden glee. 

“Did you do what I think you did?” He asks, fighting back the laughter bubbling up in the back of his throat. Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s cup to take a small sip, then groans and slouches in his seat, much to Crowley’s joy. “You actually did, didn’t you?”

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale opposes, pulling a hand down his face, but despite his indignant tone of voice, he's smiling. It makes Crowley laugh even more.

Once the initial giggles leave him, he stands up, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, grabs both of their cups and heads towards the kitchen. “Come on, Angel. I’ll help you differentiate between salt and sugar, in case you mix it up again.”

The following day, when Aziraphale is busy with something upstairs, Crowley quickly pops out to the shop and gets him a bar of dark chocolate with flakes of sea salt sprinkled on top, something that caught his eyes a few days ago and something he never thought he'd buy. It's the very first gift he’s ever bought for someone for the holidays, and the thought makes him feel weird. When he hands it to Aziraphale, the angel groans and rolls his eyes, but his smile says something different. Trying to sound exasperated, he murmurs: “I do hope you don’t make this your tradition.” 

“Making you gifts out of weird chocolate sweets or just making you gifts in general?” Crowley responds, smiling slyly. If there is something he loves doing, it's bickering with Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looks up at him quickly, then glues his eyes back to the packaging of the chocolate and blushes a little. “The first one.”

Obviously, Crowley makes it his tradition. 

Next year he gets Aziraphale crispy bacon covered in chocolate - weirdly enough, a few days later, when they are at the Ritz, Aziraphale spots a seasonal dish at the top of the menu: pork with Sicilian chocolate sauce. The year after that Crowley gives his growing tradition a rest, knowing that no matter what he’d do, it wouldn’t shock Aziraphale that much because he’d be expecting the surprise.

Three years after what Aziraphale called ‘the hot chocolate incident’, Crowley sets in motion his most audacious plan yet. 

He begins laying out the foundations for the surprise in June of that year, starting by figuring out what confectionary Aziraphale likes the most. The angel has grown a little suspicious whenever Crowley brought him sweets ever since The Incident, because though both the chocolate with salt and the one with bacon were surprisingly nice, he’d much rather just have regular chocolate. Once the suspicions are allayed, it takes Crowley two months of inconspicuous gift giving until he narrows the list down to five different confectioneries. All that he needs to do now is figure out which one would best suit his evil plan. 

They meet up on the twenty-fourth like every previous year since their little holiday tradition began, and spend the day the usual way - they go to the Ritz, take the long way back to the bookshop so they can enjoy the snowy weather, and stop in a shop to grab some wine for the evening. With music playing from the gramophone, they decorate the bookshop: drape fairy lights along the edges of the shelves, make a wreath with pine twigs and glass baubles and hang it outside the front door, then place the rest of the baubles around the shop. Then, with glasses of good wine on the coffee table, they sit together - Crowley in his usual spot on the sofa, Aziraphale in his chair - and talk the rest of the day away.

Around midnight, Aziraphale retreats to his bedroom, saying he's ‘knackered after such a busy week’. On any other day, Crowley would feel a little disappointed. But this day, this year, he is perfectly fine with it. “Sweet dreams, Angel,” he says, shooing Aziraphale up the stairs with a wave of his hand. He waits until he hears the doors to the bedroom click shut before he clasps his hands together. Crowley wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t admit he was excited. 

He miracles his groceries into the kitchen with a simple snap of his fingers and gets to work as quietly as he can. 

The morning comes, the sky heavy with clouds and the pavement covered in a thick layer of snow. Crowley wakes up to the sound of Aziraphale boiling water for tea in the kitchen. He stays in his spot on the sofa, comfortably warm under a blanket. He’s never realised how domestic things between him and Aziraphale have grown. 

“Ah, good morning!” Aziraphale says, walking into the room like he is looking for something specific. He has a bright smile on his face. Crowley smiles back. “I do hope you haven’t done anything dastardly while I was asleep,” the angel continues, passing the sofa and stopping by the desk to look for something in the top drawer.

“Not at all. You know how much I enjoy sleeping.”

“Yes, you do.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale rummage around the drawer with growing interest. “Looking for something, Angel?”

“Hm? Ah, no- or, I mean, yes, I do. Do you happen to know where I’ve put my pocket watch?”

Crowley furrows his brow. “Last time I saw you with it was yesterday when you were going to sleep. Maybe you left it in your bedroom?”

“Ah, of course! Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale sends Crowley a smile, quickly shutting the drawer close. He walks over to the stairs like he's in a hurry. 

“Ready for your holiday gift then, Angel?”

Aziraphale is already halfway up the stairs when he responds, “Just let me grab my watch! I’ll be with you in a shake of a lamb’s tail!”

Crowley sits up a little higher in his seat and rearranges the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. When he hears Aziraphale’s footsteps going down the stairs, he has to force his lips to remain in their usual scowl instead of twisting upwards in an excited smile.

“I can tell you’ve got something prepared for me.” Aziraphale points out, keeping his arms behind his back. 

“Could say the same about you.”

“Don’t go smart on me, dear.” 

Crowley sends Aziraphale a grin. “I’d never, Angel. Shall we, then?”

Aziraphale smiles as wide as it is physically possible, his excitement a ticking bomb, and nods. “You first.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes, pretending to be the very opposite of excited because he's definitely not excited, not at all, and waves a hand to make a small box of Ferrero Rocher appear on the coffee table. He watches Aziraphale’s face light up a little as he sits down in his chair, setting down his own gift on his legs. 

The following few minutes are a work of art, a sight that will never leave Crowley’s memory. Aziraphale opens the box and goes to pick up one of the pralines. He inspects its packaging, ignoring Crowley’s impatient huffs and ‘it’s just chocolate and stuff, Angel’. He slowly unwraps the praline, inspect if further with a furrowed brow, then glances at Crowley suspiciously one last time before popping the sweet in his mouth. The demon watches it all happen with an innocent smile.

“Oh, it’s amazing, Crowley.” Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment, taking it all in, then reaches to unwrap another praline. “Thank you, dear.”

Crowley recognises the praline. He feels his heartbeat quicken. 

Aziraphale bites into the chocolate and his face goes from satisfied to shocked and then disgusted. He makes a truly hilarious sound, then shoots Crowley one of his rarely used glares. Crowley doesn’t care. He’s busy dying from laughter. 

“I can’t believe it worked!” Crowley almost falls off the sofa and catches himself at the last second. “I can’t believe my evil master plan worked!”

Aziraphale regains an ounce of his composure only once he's spit the praline into a tissue. “You are actually the worst.”

“And you fell for it! I can’t believe your genius angel ass fell for it! Ha!”

Aziraphale fights back the smile trying to crawl upon his lips and pushes the box to Crowley. “Have a chocolate, then. See how I felt.”

“You can’t fool me with this, Aziraphale,” Crowley shakes his head, but goes to reach for the box anyway. He picks out one of the pralines. “I spent the entire night replacing half of these chocolates with chocolate-covered brussel sprouts. I know precisely which one is which.”

He unwraps the chocolate and pops it in his mouth. 

When Crowley almost spits the whole thing out, it’s Aziraphale’s turn to burst out laughing. 

Turns out, Crowley’s been too tired by the end of his culinary adventure to remember which praline was real and which was a brussel sprout only covered in chocolate and chopped hazelnuts. Aziraphale goes to the kitchen and comes back with a small knife and a cutting board - so that if either of them have a craving for another chocolate, they can make sure it’s not a sprout before they eat it. 

Aziraphale grabs the package he left by the side of his chair when he went to the kitchen, and hands it to Crowley, smiling a little. “My turn. And in case you’re expecting any funny business, I promise you, it’s not. I’m not one to do that sort of thing, or at least not with food.”

Crowley takes the package gingerly and looks at it dumbfounded. “What did you do that for?”

“What on Earth do you mean?”

“It’s a gift.”

“And?”

“It’s a gift for me .”

“Yes? I don’t understand where you’re going with this, Crowley.”

“I-” Crowley looks back down at the package, “I just never got an actual, physical gift from anyone before. Maybe apart from that book about cosmos you got me once.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze and smile soften. He goes to sit down on the sofa to Crowley’s left, then after a moment of thought places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad I’m your first then.”

Crowley sputters like a broken down machine and goes to hide his face (and blush) in his hands with a groan; this allows Aziraphale to blush like crazy without being noticed. 

“Don't phrase it like that, Angel.”

“My apologies. But you know what I mean.”

“I’m not equipped to comprehend positive emotions like that,” Crowley half-apologises in a murmur, still holding his face. Aziraphale manages to get his blush under enough control to where he’s fine with facing his friend again. 

“What do you mean, dear?”

“This,” he points at his chest with his hands, then waves one at Aziraphale, “and this and… everything. I don’t understand what this weird feeling in my chest is.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale scoots a bit closer, to where their thighs are pressed against one another. He takes Crowley’s hand, the one he just waved at the angel. “You don’t have to, as you call it, ‘comprehend’ it.”

“What else do you do with the things you feel?”

“You silly old serpent,” Aziraphale laughs, bright like the sun itself, “you embrace them. Now, open your gift.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale one last time, still unsure about accepting this gift, then finally gives in and pinches the wrapping paper, creating a small tear. The wrapping easily unravels under his fingers, and after a moment a red and black bundle of fabric lies before Crowley’s disbelieving eyes.

“You made a scarf for me,” he says blankly, very, very confused with whatever is happening inside of him. 

“I did!” Aziraphale squeezes his hands into fists, overcome with joy. He seems rather proud of himself. “I even made it, uh… snake friendly. You can, sort of like… twist it in on itself if you ever feel the need.”

Crowley sends Aziraphale a look, at which the angel laughs and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t give me that face! I’ve seen you get tangled up in the blankets while in your snake form more than a dozen times! It’s adorable, yes, but I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“I-” 

“Accept the gift, you silly old serpent.” Aziraphale nudges him with his knee. “And enjoy this day, will you?”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Why do you make gifts for me every year, even if they’re rather… unique?”

“ Because - Well, because-”

“I just wanted to make something nice for you.” Aziraphale sighs and smiles to himself. “To be frank, I wanted to give it to you last year, but I still didn’t feel quite satisfied with my skills, so I gave myself some more time. Can’t I do nice things for you as well?”

“I don't do nice things,” Crowley quickly cuts in, baring his teeth.

 “Sorry, I forgot,” Aziraphale chuckles, “but you get what I mean. Must I have a grand, specific reason to make you a present?”

Crowley gingerly pulls the scarf out of the packaging and lets it unfold before his eyes as he holds it up. The yarn is nice to the touch and the two colours match each other perfectly. He mulls on Aziraphale’s question for a moment, glancing over the knitted stripes. 

“I don’t know.” Is what he decides on saying, figuring that explaining everything that is going on inside of him is not worth the time. He presses his lips together, then scrunches up his nose at Aziraphale’s growing grin. “Fine, I’ll allow it, I suppose. Just don’t get too ahead of yourself. Demons don’t get gifts that often.”

Aziraphale nods, because of course they didn’t, that would be ridiculous, and because of course, he wouldn’t get ahead of himself at all. 

Chapter Text

Crowley walks out onto the street and waves a hand to close the doors to his shop as he crosses the road to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. Nina shoots him a surprised glance from behind the counter, hands busy with wiping one of the coffee machines clean. Since the cafe isn’t too crowded right now, Crowley sets his elbows on the counter and simply stands there, slowly moving his eyes from one tea brand to another. He rubs his nose absent-mindedly. 

“Did you come here just to lour or can I get you anything, mister six-shots-of-espresso?” Nina asks, back now turned and hunched by the open fridge. Crowley spots a few plates with cakes stacked on the shelves inside, and thinks about the absolutely empty fridge in his flat, wire still rolled up the way it came when he first bought it. Then he spots a plate of eccles cakes on one of the shelves and feels a cold wave of nausea. 

He rubs his nose again before he mutters, “Some tea, actually.”

Nina snorts in surprise, but doesn’t say anything and waves a hand at the shelf full of boxes and jars with various tea types that Crowley’s been staring at. “Pick your choice.”

Pick your poison , is what she must have wanted to say, and what Crowley hears nevertheless. He looks back and forth between his options, but there’s so many to choose from that it makes Crowley wonder whether he should buy coffee instead. Nina puts the kettle on despite his silence, sets a teapot next to it and then leans against the counter opposite to Crowley.

“You okay?”

I don’t think I’ll be okay ever again. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve never seen you drink tea before, that’s all.” She shrugs. The kettle reaches the peak of its rumble, slightly muffling any other sounds for a moment, and Crowley closes his eyes to hold onto the sound, prolonging it in his mind. One hand massaging at his chest, fingertips easily picking up the quick heartbeats, he murmurs, edging on sounding teasing, “Can’t I take care of my hearts every once in a while?”

“ Hearts? ”

The corner of his lips quirks up slightly. “I know you humans have only one heart, but there’s no need to make a scene about it.”

Nina grimaces and raises her eyebrows playfully. “Why have double the heartbeat at all times? What made you want that?”

The unspoken thing is ‘why have double the heartbreak?’ , but Crowley tries to focus on the spoken words and shrugs. “Saw some television series about a guy that had two hearts. Thought it was cool. He never seemed to complain about it.”

It’s not the truth, certainly not the whole of it, though. Apart from Aziraphale’s, Crowley has never seen eyes so tired and weary, so heavy with the burden that the passage of time carries before he came across the show. Sure, angels, demons and such are somewhat immune to the whole thing - otherwise what good would immortal beings be - but there are things that happen to you on Earth that even God can’t control. Although the character was nothing more but fictional and played by humans, Crowley found that the yearning feeling in his chest - a yearning to find someone that understood him, someone that felt this awful, dull pain - subsided whenever he watched the show. It was the little things the humans made that he found the most lovely, that grounded him in the feeling that here, on Earth, was his place. Having Aziraphale by his side used to be enough before television was invented, but when the world keeps on having so much to give, Crowley can’t help himself. It's second nature for him - looking for things to tie him down, looking for reasons to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Crowley massages at his chest again and chews on the inside of his cheek. “What tea would you recommend?”

“Well,” Nina glances over her shoulder at the shelf stacked with boxes, “depends on what you want. Herbal tea is good for relaxing. Green gives you a bit of a boost, like coffee. Black is just for when you crave tea, I suppose. Fruit tea is hideous, in my humble opinion, but customers like it. It’s very sour and, well, tastes like dried fruit.”

She surely could keep going, and Crowley almost wants her to. But he has a shop to run, and while he could keep it closed for weeks and still not go out of business, it certainly would draw unwanted attention and possibly cause an economic crash - and although the latter would make Hell very pleased, he doesn’t want any of that. Not now, possibly not ever. 

“I’ll have black,” he finally says and groans exasperatedly when Nina motions to four different types of the tea. “Whatever’s mild. I just want a drink. To go.”

She chuckles and goes to prepare the tea. Crowley turns around to lean his back against the counter, arms folded on his chest, and lets his eyes slowly scan the cafe and then the world passing by outside the window.

The smell of roasted coffee beans, spices, and pastry enters his nose now that he focuses on his surroundings. The customers sit by their tables, books, notebooks or tablets laid out between plates with food and cups of steaming, hot drinks. The light seeping in through the windows is gentle, the sky cloudy as ever and rain staining the sidewalk, and it paints the blue walls of the shop a cool, nice shade. People outside are either walking briskly to reach their destination and escape the rain or going inside shops to dry themselves. There’s a few people huddled by the entrance to Crowley’s shop, under the arch by the doors, all of them waiting for the worst of the downpour to pass. 

“I can tell something’s on your mind,” Nina starts casually, standing by the counter where the tea is steeping. Her gaze is glued to the black leaves slowly unfurling in the hot water. “I know talking is not your style, but I can listen.”

Crowley mulls on the possibility of opening up to someone; last time he did, it went terribly, horribly, incredibly wrong. It’s probably not worth the risk.

But, fuck, is he tired of feeling like shit all the time. He’s been in this depression pit for nearly five months now; he’s been stuck in a pit before, and he didn’t like it then. 

So Crowley compromises, like with most things in his existence. He won’t get what he wants, but he won’t get what he doesn’t want, either.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually.” He turns to lean his elbows on the counter again. Nina looks up at him from the paper cup she’s pouring the tea into. “Does… does it get easier?”

Her gentle, easy smile turns a little bitter, then understanding. She puts the lid on the cup, sets it in front of Crowley and starts typing the order on the work tablet. “It does, it just… takes some time. A few months, a year, maybe more. Depends on the person… or being, I guess.” She looks at Crowley and smiles a little again. “Talking about it helps. Or at least figuring it out, thinking about it. Don’t avoid it.”

“Yeah.” Crowley catches the underlying message in Nina’s words with ease he wishes he didn’t have. He waves a hand in the direction of the tablet when the transaction menu pops up. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I don’t think therapy is for your lot.” Nina chuckles briefly, not too phased that she’s just received magical money, and busies herself with processing the payment. “But for what it's worth, you can talk to me. Or Maggie. She asked me to tell you that.”

“Okay.” Crowley nods and grabs the paper cup. He latches onto the burning sensation in his palm. “Thanks.”

Nina understands it when he leaves the shop like the very legions of Hell were on his heels. She watches him walk out onto the rain, turn his face towards the sky, the droplets trailing down his sunglasses and then his face. His hair and clothes are drenched in a matter of seconds, but by the time he reaches the doors of his shop and waves a hand to unlock them, he’s dry again; the only sign that he was outside is the way his hair slightly frizzles and puffs up. 

Something is different about the air. Crowley can smell it. 

He stops by the entrance to his shop, his hand stilling halfway towards the handle. The humans around him watch him expectantly, dying to escape the rain. The air smells like…

It’s very faint, but it smells like… He sticks his tongue out, just to be sure.

It smells like peaches and old books. 

Of course it does. It smelled like that all day, he just didn’t notice it before, too consumed with his train of thought. After the meeting with Muriel, he’d spent the entire weekend in his plant shop, either busying himself with setting everything up for the next week, writing orders or just sleeping on the walls. 

But that means that Aziraphale was on Earth. And judging by the strength of the smell, it happened either the day before yesterday - Saturday - or even Friday. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He opens the doors, slithers inside the shop and then quickly locks them again before someone can even try to enter. His hearts are pounding. This is getting ridiculous. 

He groans in exasperation and quickly waves a hand, making the heart on the right abruptly stop - it’s been causing too much of a fuss as of late anyway (but when it stops beating, it feels like a part of him died. He ignores it). Fuck eyes heavy with the passage of time. He feels like he’s going to have a heart attack with just one heart. 

Why the fuck was Aziraphale on Earth? Especially after so long?

Crowley drags a hand down his face, leans against the door and slowly slides down until he’s on the floor. He sets the cup of tea on the floor next to him. Someone tries to come in, but the door's still locked, and the rattle sends vibrations through Crowley's body. ‘Talking about it helps. Or at least figuring it out, thinking about it. Don’t avoid it.’ Oh, fuck you, Nina. He really doesn’t want to think about the reasons for Aziraphale coming back to Earth. 

Or, maybe he fucking does. It's Aziraphale who left, no matter his reasons, and it's Crowley who stayed, even though there were moments when he'd rather discorporate. Aziraphale has no right to just barge back into Crowley's space.

Him and Muriel are gonna have a talk after he’s closed the shop today.

Nah, fuck that. They’re gonna have a talk right now. 

He scrambles off the ground, leaving his tea on the ground, waves a hand to roll down the shutters in the shop windows and turn off the lights, and barrels through the small crowd of customers waiting outside the door. He hisses: “Out of my fucking way,” and all questions about closing the shop in the middle of the day die out. Everyone suddenly has somewhere else to be and by the time Crowley blinks again, the street around him is pleasantly empty, as if his deadly aura was palpable. 

He storms into the bookshop, vertigo rushing in his head and roaring in his veins, ignores how the floor burns his feet like consecrated ground because he came in without an invitation, and pins Muriel to the ground with just his eyes. She’d be more intimidated by that if they weren’t being scolded by a burly, feminine-presenting customer. 

Crowley swallows past his pride and the desire to wreak havoc and set the air alight, and walks over to the two of them. “Hello. Is there a problem?”

The customer whips around to face him, and Crowley, all while dancing on his feet to keep them from burning too much, feels a tingle of satisfaction upon realising he’s met his equal. The person is half a foot taller than him, with shoulders twice as broad as his, and they seem almost just as furious as he is. The angry tilt to her brow gives off a vibe that they are a force to be reckoned with.

If only Crowley cared. 

They don’t even bother smiling, just explain harshly: “The problem is that a bookshop doesn’t seem to be selling any books. I believe you understand my frustration.”

It’s like doing the thing he was born to do - smiling as sweetly as it is physically possible and bowing his head down in a parody of an apology. He can taste the customer’s growing anger on his tongue; it’s sour, it’s spicy, it’s bitter. It’s delicious . It drowns out the burning sensation coming from the soles of his feet.

“Ah, you see, my friend here is a collector of books. While she displays them in what could be considered a shop, they don’t really intend to sell any of them,” Crowley mutters politely, moving his gaze to Muriel for a moment. This whole situation has made them so nervous that they don’t seem to catch the unspoken ‘ What did I tell you about not selling any books? ’ that his glance means. Crowley looks back at the customer and bites back a curse that wants to escape his lips, because the floor is really starting to burn. “If they did try to sell you anything, it’s because she’s new to the job.”

The person snarls and throws their arms in the air. “What in the world are you talking about? It’s a bookshop!”

“Well, not by our standards.” Crowley smiles, points at the doors and growls: “Now, out! ” while waving a hand, making the customer disappear before they can even say anything. He glares at the doors and the lock immediately turns with a click.

For a beat, it’s completely silent in here. Even the vertigo in Crowley’s head stops.

But it picks back up the moment Muriel waves a hand to stop the ground from burning him and then chuckles nervously around a stuttering: “T-thank you-”

“Oh , zip it! ” Crowley hisses, whipping his head around to once again pin her to the ground with his eyes, then paces around the room a few times before leaning against the back of the chair by the desk and sighing heavily. The smell of old books and peaches - of Aziraphale - is so strong here, it makes Crowley nauseous. It makes tears well up in the corners of his eyes, and he groans, rubbing them away. 

Muriel edges towards him, but keeps a safe few-metre distance. It’s like they know what’s coming. 

“I didn’t expect you to call upon His Bloody Supremeness the same day I told you I’m a Duke,” Crowley spits, gripping the edges of the chair. The vertigo in his ears turns into a constant ringing. He can’t hear his own thoughts. 

Muriel winces at his harsh tone and shakes their head. “I didn’t- It’s not like that!” 

“Really?” Crowley cocks his head, gripping the chair more tightly with every second. He feels like he’s going to explode from this overwhelming anger, electricity already buzzing and crackling under his skin. “Then how is it?”

Muriel doesn’t respond immediately and instead looks outside the window, as if their salvation could come from there. Crowley bares his teeth in an angry snarl and snaps his fingers to roll down all of the blinds. He’s not going to let her escape this conversation. 

“ Well? ”

“It’s- I-” Muriel lets out a quick breath, draws her brow down and tries again, “I called him before that, before you left. When I went to make hot cocoa.”

Crowley’s mouth forms into an ‘O’ shape before he lets out a disbelieving scoff and finally lets go of the chair. “And what in all that is unholy would you do that for?”

“Because-” Muriel’s eyes dart to the side and that alone is an answer.

Anger is like fire, licking at the back of his neck. Destroy everything, Duke. It’s like thunder grazing his skin. He almost lets all of it consume him, drown out everything else. Almost. It is your birthright now.

Instead, Crowley fists his hands very tightly and walks over to where Muriel is standing, letting out a furious groan from behind gritted teeth. He shoots her a glare, sunglasses still on, but it makes them cower and shrink into themselves nevertheless. Anger is like smoke in his lungs, making him choke on every breath he takes. “You want to play matchmaker now? Is that what that fucking is?!”

Muriel takes a step back, ducking her head as if Crowley was to to swing his fist at them, part of him wants to, and it makes his anger seethe. He follows after them, each step meticulous, like a predator slowly coming up on its prey. “Did you ever think about whether I would want that? Or is your stupid angel mind too good and pure to comprehend what I’m going through?”

“I-”

“Oh, yes, call upon The Supreme Archangel! Let him shower us in his divine love, let him cleanse all our wounds and forget the bad days! Be ssstil my heart! Let the Archangel do the job, because he’s the good guy and he’s fixing what the bad guy destroyed.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Muriel tries, guilt visible on her face. They must feel bad about being the cause of… this . If only Crowley had the capacity to care right now.

“What in the fuck-forsaken world did you mean, then?!” Crowley yells, throwing his arms in the air. “Answer me, pebble-brain! What in the fuck did you want to accomplish by calling for Aziraphale while I was still in the bookshop?”

Muriel looks lost, a deer caught in the headlights and waiting for the inevitable impact, and stutters in search of the right words. Crowley forgets any self-preservation and chucks his sunglasses to the floor with so much force it leaves a tiny dent in the floorboard, then miracles himself a new pair to put on. He stares at the broken pieces of tinted glass scattered across the floor and waits for even a shred of satisfaction. It doesn’t come. 

“I think you and mister Aziraphale should talk,” Muriel begins a little shakely, eyeing the broken glasses with worry, and takes another step back towards the bookshelves. It seems like they want to disappear between the mounds of literature, but whether her plan is to fight or flee, she doesn’t take her eyes off of Crowley, not when he’s this seething with anger and danger. “I think if only you both explained what…”

“Oh, shut up!” Crowley groans and rolls his eyes, though Muriel can’t really see that when he has his glasses on. “Stop with your stupid assumptions! We don’t need to talk. I don’t want to talk to him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The conviction in her tone takes Crowley aback so much, he suddenly forgets his tongue and makes a sputtering sound instead of an answer. Muriel takes that as an opportunity to keep going, voice still slightly trembling from the nervousness, and waves one of their hands to the window, to the world Crowley blocked out with a single snap of his fingers. “You do! You think you hide it well, but I can tell you’re- you’re so sad sometimes. I just- I just want to help!”

“ You just want to help ,” Crowley repeats in a mocking tone under his breath, then bares his teeth in another angry snarl. Now he's not only angry, but also fucking miserable, and if it wasn't for his pride, he would have left the bookshop already. Muriel dares to turn her head over her shoulder to look for any means of escape, then presses their lips together, squares their shoulders and steps towards Crowley, seeming like she’s ready to meet their demise, if need be.

“Yes, I do! I don’t like seeing you like this!”

“Don’t be daft,” Crowley scoffs, but the force in his voice is fleeting. He can’t wrap his head around Muriel, nor their reasoning. When the ash in his lungs is gone, he feels nothing but empty, again. “Don’t bother with me.”

Muriel groans - it’s probably the first time Crowley has seen them frustrated - and points at him. “See, this is what I’m talking about! You’re not your usual self, even I can tell that!”

Crowley takes a step back, desperately waiting to feel something, but now that all of his anger has run out, his soul has nothing more to give. For an immeasurably powerful and ancient being, he feels trapped within his terrestrial body right now. Muriel’s words reach him from miles away, a gentle echo in his head.

“I understand now, that it was unfair of me to try and fix things between you and Archangel Aziraphale without your knowledge or consent, but you have to see that you’re hurting. I’ve seen you hurt before… before, but this is different.” Muriel pauses and dares to take a small step forward, to carefully reach their hand towards him and let it hover in the space between the two of them. “Even if you don’t want to fix everything, I think you should at least make up.”

Crowley glues his eyes to Muriel’s hand and lets the world blur into one in the corners of his vision. 

“I can sense how much you’re hurting,” they continue, a genuinely compassionate tilt to their brow, “because while I can sense love, I can also sense that yours is full of pain and bitterness. It’s eating you alive, mister Crowley.”

It’s not like I can die from it - Crowley thinks, but he’s not that sure about that. A lot of the time in the past several months has felt like a mercilessly prolonged agony. 

“And- And why the Hell do you care? What do you get out of this, eh?” He asks, hoping it sounds any menacing. The sudden absence of adrenaline rushing in his ears is dizzying. He’s scrambling for his mind to focus and go into the offensive, because he hates that Muriel is backing him into a corner. 

“What could I get out of this?!” The angel throws her arms in the air once more. “I just don’t want to see you miserable! Am I overstepping, by wanting to help?”

Crowley turns to pace around the room again, eyes glued to the floor and a scoff parting his lips. Muriel’s compassion makes him feel like he’s being strangled alive. He spots pieces of his broken sunglasses beneath his feet and a sudden wave of shame overflows him. For a moment, he feels like it might drown him.

He wants it to. He’s so tired.

“Mister Crowley, I understand it might be difficult to understand after what happened between you and Archangel Aziraphale, but I care about you, to an extent that you allow me. Is that so bad?”

Crowley hates the noise he makes when Muriel says these words, and he has to use all of his demonic power to make himself stay in the bookshop and not run away as fast as his legs would allow him. “Don’t say that,” he growls with a cinched throat. 

“Why are you reacting like this? I don’t-”

“Because I’m scared, Muriel!” 

There is a beat of silence, in which Crowley rushes to find more words to pour his feelings into. He can't let Muriel continue pulling him apart like this. His mouth is a broken dam.

“I’m fucking terrified, all right?! Last time someone cared, they cared so much that they left me here all on my own. You care, Nina cares, Maggie cares, and what am I to do with this? What, what?! You care oh so much, but you can’t fill this empty space that’s been punched through my chest, can you? How far has caring gotten you, anyway?”

Muriel watches Crowley pace around the room, his eyes trained on them like he’s accusing them of caring. Despite all the furious blinking, he can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. 

“And don’t you start with all of your angelic bullshit, that you can feel how fucked up my feelings are or whatever. Don’t you dare! ”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t fucking want you to! What I need is to be left alone!”

Muriel steps towards him and says with conviction that could topple kingdoms and move mountains: “I don’t think that’s true!”

“Shut it, Muriel!” Crowley growls with poison overflowing every single word. “I don’t give a damn about what you think, especially not right now!” He does another circle around the room, then finally comes to a stop and waves a hand to the street outside the blinded windows. “Suddenly, I have you and two humans who care so much it’s nauseating, and I don’t know how to cope. It’s like trying to speak in a language you’ve never been taught.” 

The angel stutters to make a response, but Crowley shakes his head in resignation, the air around him seeming to thicken on its own accord, like it can sense his mood shift.

“You know nothing about me, got it? Whatever you think you know is probably false, because you do what Aziraphale’s always done: you view me through the lens of who I was before I fell. You want to help not because you think I need it - deserve it - but because I was an angel once and you hope that if you push me in the right direction, you can still set me on a path to sssssalvation. Neither of you seem to remember that that’s not the person I am right now. You see me as a demon only when it seems to suit your needs, and let me tell you something…” 

Crowley walks over to where Muriel is standing stunned by his speech, leans down and takes off his sunglasses to look her in the eyes. He bares his teeth when he hisses, fury burning its way through his veins: “I do not care for it.”

Unlike with Jim-Gabriel, who took everything thrown at him in an annoyingly-calm manner, Muriel shudders at the demon’s words and glues their eyes to the floor. Crowley presses his lips into a thin line and storms out of the bookshop, content that he managed to bring back his fury. He can’t allow himself a moment where a single conscious thought could form - because that would throw him completely out of balance.

The outside world encompasses him in a muffling cloud as he walks down the street to where he parked his Bentley. Humans seem to get out of his way without really knowing why, but all the demon can feel is the fire in his blood vessels. 

The leather interior of his car is cool to the touch, and when Crowley rests a hand on the passenger seat, he realises he’s burning hot. Just don’t ruin the Bentley , he tells himself sternly. He’d turn the whole world to nothing more than dust and ashes, but even then, he’d leave his car without even so much as a smudge on the polish. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he rests his head on the steering wheel and gives himself a few minutes before he finally pulls it out to see a missed call from Adam and two from Anathema. 

Naturally, he calls back Adam. He’s still angry and needs someone to fuel that fire.

“What.”

“Where are you?”

Crowley grits his teeth, but Adam can’t see that. “Who are you to ask me that?”

“You- Nevermind, listen, ” Adam’s tone shifts into something more serious, “there’s something we’d like to show you, preferably right now. Are you busy?”

“Does this ‘something’ involve making me talk about what happened between me and Aziraphale?”

There’s some hushed whispers around Adam, then a rustling that must be the phone being handed to someone else. “You can’t run away from that, Crowley,” Anathema says sternly, and he can easily picture the frustrated pull to her lips. It makes Crowley smirk.

“What ever do you mean, prodigy?” He snips, feeling fire lick at the back of his throat. It’s exactly what he needs right now - unnecessary fights that leave a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth. 

There’s a bit more rustling on the other side of the call before Newt speaks with anger that makes Crowley humm with satisfaction, “How about you grow up and face what you’re going through, huh? If you’re not by the Paddington Old Cemetery in the next thirty minutes, I will personally drag you there by the collar of your stupid jacket. Understood?”

“Loud and clear, Private Pulsifer.” He murmurs, stopping himself from smirking. This is exactly what he needed, but he still hungers for more. The bitterness in his mouth is intoxicating.

Bentley rumbles to life under his hands, and soon Crowley is whizzing down the streets of London, yelling at people to get out of the way because he won’t fucking hesitate and he will speed up to run them over . He manages to splash a few pedestrians with the water gathered by the edges of the road. It feels like he’s leaving a trail of smoke behind him, but it’s not coming out of the car’s engine - it’s Crowley’s seething anger.

He feels violated, but he isn’t sure what by - is it because he’s terrified of the possibility of being known again, be it by someone not as extraordinary as Aziraphale, because last time it went down like a lead balloon? Is it because he can’t admit before himself that he could kill to see Aziraphale if he ever came down to Earth again, that he hates that about himself? It’s so easy for him to run back to the hand that hit him, so easy to go back to the way things were, just so that yearning claw could lodge itself back inside his chest where his heart is. 

The answer is simple. Crowley hates that he can’t stay angry at Aziraphale for long. And just because he hurt him doesn’t mean Crowley wouldn’t do it all again if it meant seeing him.  

Hell, this is hopeless , he thinks, having fully given up now, and lets the Bentley halt abruptly just by the gate to the cemetery. The Armageddon Group are already waiting for him. Crowley grinds his teeth; he’s still angry, but now the anger’s turned bitter and has been directed more at himself than anyone else. 

No one comments on Crowley’s more-than-usual gloomy mood. Adam opens his mouth to say something, changes his mind at what looks like the last moment, then nods at the gate, motioning at everyone to follow after him. 

“So, what is it you wanted to show me?” Crowley asks, making his voice sound indifferent, hands fiddling with loose string inside his pockets. Maybe speaking will draw his attention away from everything going on inside of him.

“To be honest, Adam’s called us here just like we called you. We know nothing,” Anathema explains, doing a terrible job at pretending that she’s not at all interested in Crowley’s state.

“U-huh. Adam?”

“It’s just around the corner. You’ll see.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, perhaps a little dramatically. The gravel crunches under their shoes as they walk down one of the many paths between gravestones of various age and condition. Water is dripping off the scarce leaves that have yet to fall, a memory of the earlier rain. There’s no hope for sunlight today. 

They turn left at the next crossroad they come across and dive under the naked tree branches. Crowley is slowly growing antsy and he’s run out of loose string to fiddle with inside his pockets. If he worries at the seam any more, he’ll rip it. 

“Adam, could you please tell us anything?” Newt tries, looking around impatiently. “You just told us you found something regarding Crowley. Surely you could-”

“We’re here!” Adam exclaims, breaking off into a run. Crowley can’t help picking up his pace a little. What could there be in a graveyard that would somehow involve him out of all demons? 

When he sees it, he thinks he might puke. 

A statue of the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale sends him a blank yet gentle look. 

“What?” He hears Anathema scoff incredulously, followed by Newt’s questions. Crowley doesn’t listen - can’t listen for the deafening silence that’s filled his ears. His eyes are glued to Aziraphale’s face that the artist portrayed terrifyingly accurately, and just like when he argued with Muriel, the world in the corners of his vision blurs into one. All that remains is Crowley and Aziraphale’s statue before him, his warm yet determined expression and grey eyes that seem to turn pale blue the more Crowley stares at them. 

“Hey, do you hear me? Crowley?”

He suddenly feels a hand be placed on his shoulder, and jolts himself awake. It’s Newt.

“Are you okay?”

Crowley lets out an exhale and blinks just to see better. He wants nothing more than to sit under the statue and memorise every little detail of Aziraphale’s face, every wrinkle and crease, every wild curl of his hair. He wants to trace figures in his smile lines and crow’s feet. He wants nothing more than to be forgotten by the side of this statue.

“Um-” he clicks his lips, looking for the right words, “no, not really.” 

After so long (time moves terribly slow when you’re miserable), with knowing that Aziraphale was on Earth a few days ago, being in the presence of a statue of him sets Crowley's soul alight. He fears what will happen if they ever see each other face to face again. He’ll be fuming. He’ll be overjoyed. He’ll be ruined. 

“Need us to do anything? Anathema asks gently, keeping her distance to give him space. Crowley shakes his head slowly and swallows past the ball lodged in his throat, “Don’t treat me like I’m a glass figurine, for starters.”

She smiles a little but Crowley can’t find it in himself to smile back. He nods at the statue, then forces his eyes to move away from it and to Adam. “How did you find it?”

The teenager smiles sourly and shrugs, kicking at a bigger rock he found in the gravel. “My school took us on a trip to London recently. Me, Brian and Pepper decided to walk around nearby cemeteries. That’s when we found it. I wanted to call you then, but I had to go home and all.”

Crowley looks back at the statue. He wonders why the artist decided to show Aziraphale in robes from ancient times instead of anything even a bit more modern. He wonders how it all came to be, that somehow Aziraphale’s appearance became perfectly portrayed by some random artist. He wonders if Aziraphale had to put on these robes for the duration of the sculpting process. 

“How is it that a… Well, a bookseller somehow ends up becoming a sculpture?” Newt asks. “How do they-” he waves a hand at the statue, “how did the artist know what The Supreme Archangel looks like?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno. I wonder that, too. Heaven works in mysterious ways, I suppose.”

“Look,” Adam walks over to the marble plaque at the base of the statue, “ The Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. ” 

Nothing new, Crowley thinks, following Adam’s footsteps. He traces a hand over the engraving and feels a soft humm of magic woven into the stone. The state of the statue suggests it's been outside for a good few centuries. But that can't be possible - he's seen the greatest sculptors of human history at work, so he knows that the process can take a few years. Crowley furrows his brow, inspecting the marble further. 

Newt watches the demon slowly circle the statue before he asks what has been on everyone's minds: “Is this real, Crowley?”

He glances at the man like he's just asked him if fish wrote jokes (for the record, they much prefer musicals). He weighs his options - how would humans, be it humans that were directly involved in stopping Armageddon and one of them was (still is, technically) an Antichrist, would take the fact that a statue just popped into existence on some cemetery? 

“What makes you say that?” He asks instead, somewhat avoiding the question.

“It can't be a statue of an archangel that was appointed a few months ago. Marble statues can take years to make.”

Crowley smiles a little, then looks up at the sculpture again. “I think it's a miracle.”

Adam doesn’t even try to hide his soft scoff. Crowley glares at him, but the teen continues to smirk. 

“I mean that a miracle was used to make the sculpture, or at least speed up the whole process. Don’t put words in my mouth, kid.”

Anathema steps in front of Adam to break Crowley’s line of sight and hopefully divert his attention, then speaks before either of them can say a word of protest: “Why would someone-”

“ That someone being Heaven. ” 

“Fine,” she rolls her eyes, “why would Heaven do this?”

Crowley shrugs, pocketing his hands. The initial shock of seeing Aziraphale, be it a sculpture of him, has turned into a constant need to keep his eyes on the statue in case it decides to disappear. “So that everyone knows who’s in charge.”

Anathema and Newt exchange worried glances. Adam furrows his brow and follows Crowley’s gaze back to the statue as if it held answers to all of his questions. 

“Why would they need us to know who's in charge? What difference does it make?” He asks.

The demon sighs, dragging a hand down his face. So Heaven has credibility to blame Aziraphale for the next thing that doesn't go to plan. “I don't know.” 

They stand by the statue for a while longer before Adam gets a call from his dad that he wants him home by evening, so Anathema and Newt decide to walk him to the train station, despite the teen’s whining. Crowley musters enough energy to give them all a half-smile and a nod for goodbye before he sits himself down on a nearby bench. It gives him a nice view of the statue without being too obvious about doing nothing else besides staring at it. 

It's when Crowley's tracing lines over Aziraphale's smile lines that he sees the gathering storm clouds. But it's not the clouds itself that grab his attention - it's the swarm of flies that somehow contrasts with the dark grey of the sky. 

“Hello, Crowley,” they buzz in unison, “got a minute?”

Chapter Text

1941, The Blitz

Aziraphale pours the wine into two glasses, hands one to Crowley and then sits down by the table. The demon drinks quietly, humming contently after the first sip. 

“What year is this?” He asks, sliding his glasses lower to glance at the liquid. 

Aziraphale cracks a proud smile. “1855, I believe, Château Mouton. I still have a few bottles left, reserved for… special occasions.” 

He looks at Crowley, but quickly moves his gaze when he feels his heartbeat pick up again. Ever since the altercation at the church, excluding the bullet-catch stunt, he’s felt like he’s been floating a few feet above the air. His heart feels like it weighs less than a feather and his chest has an entire garden of flowers blooming in its cavity. 

“Well, it’s a very good year,” Crowley murmurs, taking another small sip, “probably one of the best, in my opinion.” 

Aziraphale nods, then reaches for his coat behind him and pulls out the picture stashed in one of its inner pockets. He hands it to Crowley and says, “Take a look.”

“At what?” Crowley whines, perhaps a little over-dramatically. His leg starts bouncing. “It’s not like Hell isn’t on their way as we-” he does a double take, then lets his mouth fall open in disbelief. “W-what?”

“I switched it when that demon handed me the envelope,” Aziraphale explains sheepishly, hoping his blush isn’t that visible. He fiddles with his hands a bit; the muscle memory of doing the switch is still fresh in his fingers. 

“How did you do it?” 

He looks up at Crowley like he’s just saved his books all over again, and beams . “Well, all I needed to do was say the magic words while I was doing the trick…” He takes the picture from the demon’s hand and holds it in the air. “Banana, nutmeg, shoelace… and taa-daah!”

He flicks his wrist, but the picture falls onto the table instead of swiftly slipping into his sleeve. Crowley chuckles softly. 

“Maybe we retire the whole magic act?” He teases. “You’re… really bad at magic.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and grabs the picture to put it back in the chest pocket of his vest. “I got it right when it mattered.” 

Crowley’s lips crack into the faintest of smiles. Aziraphale wishes he took his glasses off so he didn’t have to guess what was on his mind. 

He opens his mouth, but closes it when he realises he isn’t sure what to say. You have no idea how much this all means to me. But surely Crowley must have some idea about it, otherwise - would he have done it? You have no idea what… how I… Crowley, I…

“Listen,” he begins, feeling nervousness like cold prickles on the back of his neck, “I… Thank you.”

“What for?” Crowley responds quietly. He has his eyes glued to the bottom of his glass. 

“For the books,” Aziraphale shrugs and looks to his side for a split second, making sure the windows are blinded, before crossing his gaze with Crowley’s - or at least with the lenses of his sunglasses. “For the whole… magic trick.”

“Well, you said ‘trust me’,” the demon answers dismissively.

Aziraphale leans forward and reaches to grab Crowley’s hand. He can feel the demon stiffen and then relax under his touch. “And you did,” he says gently, affectionately , and beams again. 

Crowley looks at their hands, then at Aziraphale, then cracks another weary smile and moves away a bit. “I’m sorry, Angel, but we shouldn’t…”

Aziraphale quickly takes his hand back. “Right. I’m sorry.”

“No, wait.” Crowley leans forward in his seat, but he doesn’t close the distance between them quite as much as Aziraphale did. He places his elbows on the table and hides his face in his hands with a sigh. “It’s not that I mind, it’s just…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t have to finish for Aziraphale to not pick up on the rest. Of course. Tonight was too close of a call for comfort, no matter that it all ended well. They should be more careful. He should be more careful with what he’s feeling and how he’s showing it. 

Better to keep it hidden, I suppose. Aziraphale nods and forces a smile onto his lips. “Yes, you’re quite right. I’m sorry.”

Crowley watches him for a long moment. It’s his turn to check if all the windows are blinded, then he reaches over and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own. The skin of his palms is warm to the touch as he drags his thumbs over the angel’s knuckles. 

“I really don’t mind, Angel,” he reassures quietly. Every line of his frame has been tense for most of the night, but right now his voice is soft like a bed of clouds. “I just think we should… keep our distance for some time. Until they forget this whole thing ever happened, and why it happened.” 

Aziraphale leans in and kisses Crowley on the lips, cupping his cheek with a free hand. Crowley’s lips are just as warm as his hands, but Aziraphale doesn’t register it because the demon kisses back without hesitation. He feels fireworks exploding behind his eyes. 

But that's in another universe. In another universe, they’re willing to risk everything for this. In this universe, however, they are scared, and pretending seems to be the way to go.

Aziraphale thinks that if Crowley keeps going like this - gently, softly, caressing his hand as if it’s the only thing that matters - he might discorporate or do something stupid, risk it . He forces himself to nod slowly at the demon’s words. 

“And do try to keep out of harm’s way in the meantime?” Crowley asks, but despite making it sound teasing, Aziraphale can tell he’s being serious. “I burned my feet pretty badly in that church.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know?” The angel murmurs, drawing his brow down slightly. “You could have gotten discorporated.”

“Yeah, so could you.”

The tone of his voice suggests that the argument is settled. Aziraphale smiles a little. Crowley’s warmth feels like open arms waiting for him to fall into. His feelings are playing a dangerous game.

“I really mean it, you know?” He says, looking the demon in the eyes. He seems just slightly less tense, but nowhere near taking off his jacket or glasses. Nowhere near not looking like he’s ready to run at any given moment. “I appreciate you doing this for me. I really do.”

If it’s as close as I’m allowed to get , he says in his head, then so be it. One day, it won’t have to be like this. 

Crowley looks away from Aziraphale’s eyes and instead glues his gaze to their tangled hands. “You would have done the same for me,” he mutters, shrugging dismissively. 

The angel smiles and places his other hand on top of Crowley’s. “I would, yes. Still, thank you.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, sees something in his face and then slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls away, clearing his throat. Aziraphale could swear he saw blush on his cheeks. “Right. I should probably get going.”

He finishes the rest of his wine in one go, not spearing even a moment to enjoy its taste, then stands up and heads for the doors, grabbing his coat on the way. The angel trails behind him, heart thundering in his ears, hands still remembering the touch of Crowley’s warm skin. He feels lightheaded.

“I’ll see you around?” He says, clasping his hands behind his back for the lack of anything he could busy them with. 

“Y-yeah.” Crowley scratches the back of his neck, tension fully back in his body. He looks torn between dying to leave the bookshop and not wanting to leave at all. “I’ll probably lay low for some time, maybe until this whole war thing is over.”

Aziraphale chuckles nervously. “I suppose I should as well.”

Maybe before tonight, the prospect of not seeing Crowley for a few years wouldn’t sting that much, because it was easier to pretend when he wasn’t sure his feelings could ever be reciprocated . But Aziraphale isn’t sure how he’s going to take it now, with a garden blooming in his chest, heart fluttering every time he catches a glimpse of Crowley, and feet that haven’t touched the ground in hours.

Crowley opens the doors and stands there, face turned towards the sky. The loud rumble of bombers way high up in the clouds is almost deafening. Street lamps cast a golden-orange light onto the demon’s face, and it makes Aziraphale feel like someone put his wings on fire. This amazing feeling is making him experience the worst guilt in the whole wide universe.

If it wasn’t killing you, I wouldn’t let you leave and lay low. He watches the light reflect on Crowley’s sunglasses, the way it makes the freckles on the bridge of his nose look like star clusters. If it wasn’t killing me, I’d tell you everything my heart sings with every beat. How much it burns me, to feel this.  

“Stay safe?” He asks, hoping he sounds at least a little chippy. 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth ticks upwards in a weak, sour smile, then he clicks his lips. He replies with a voice of someone that is tired of a fight that hasn’t even begun, of someone going into a fight already lost. “You too, Angel.” 

He tips his hat towards him, then leaves towards his car parked nearby. Aziraphale watches him from the doorway, arms now tightly folded on his chest. His quick heartbeat is like war drums in his ears.

The night before the rest of their lives 

“Glad you were here, gents. Who knows what could have happened to these possessions,” the postman chatters, managing to send them both a genuine, bright smile despite it being the middle of the night on a Sunday. Aziraphale can barely register his words, but in his defence, there’s a lot of them. He hands him the box and forces his lips to form into a smile that is meant to be a goodbye. “Thank you very much, sir. One,” the postman furrows his brow as he glances over the contents of the box, “two… I’m sorry, but it says here there was supposed to be a sword, too?”

Aziraphale blinks incredulously before he finally clocks in that he's sitting on the old thing. He stands up quickly and chuckles nervously, “Ah, I completely forgot! My apologies.” 

He grabs the hilt of the sword and hands it over like it’s burning hot with hellfire. Though it feels terrifyingly familiar to hold it again, it also fills him with a weird feeling that sits in the bottom of his stomach like a pit. He sends an embarrassed smile to Crowley, but the demon is watching him with a slightly furrowed brow.

“You have to sign here, sir,” the postman says, pushing a clipboard into Aziraphale’s field of vision. He takes it and scribbles his name on the dotted line, but when the human picks up his wittering once again, his mind slips into autopilot and doesn’t stop until the human is long gone in his car. Aziraphale sits back down on the bench, suddenly feeling a rush of dizziness from the adrenaline finally beginning to wear off.

He takes a deep breath and hears it all too loud in his ears. His vision spins each time he moves his gaze, so he tries his best to keep it focused on a single spot. Problem is, then the events of the day come to him all too easily. 

Choose your face wisely. They just averted Armageddon.

“Ah, the bus's coming,” Crowley murmurs, lazily sitting up from his slouched position. The remains of wine swish around in the bottle in his hand.

Aziraphale finds himself shifting in his seat, like he doesn’t want to get up. “It's going to Oxford, though…?” He says, part of him glad that they might spend the night on the bench in Tadfield, far away from a burnt down bookshop.

“The driver will miraculously drive to London anyway.” Crowley smirks. “He just won’t know why.”

Aziraphale forces a weary smile onto his lips. Crowley sees through it with ease. He’s the first one to stand up when the bus squeaks to a halt next to them, and then patiently watches Aziraphale gather himself to move as well. The bus driver doesn’t seem to mind that it’s taking him so long. Crowley gets on first and when Aziraphale reaches the seat he’s picked out for them, his hand is already waiting to be grabbed.

Aziraphale has never hesitated so little.

Crowley's hand in his own is like a lighthouse calling Aziraphale's wandering mind ashore. It's warm like sun-baked rocks, like the stars the hand once cradled, like the shade of Crowley's red hair. Aziraphale doesn’t even feel himself lean into the warmth, but with every passing minute there's more points of connection between their bodies: their knees first brush against one another with each turn the bus takes, then their shoulders, then somehow their thighs are pressed together and Aziraphale can feel Crowley's shoulder lean into his with ever bump on the road. He feels sick, but he doesn’t know why. He leans into the warmth in hopes of finding the answer. 

The drive to London is but a blur apart from the slow journey of Crowley's thumb over the back of Aziraphale's hand. Soon, the streets of London fill the windows on both sides of the bus, and a few minutes later Azirpahale feels Crowley nudge him with his knee to let him know they have to get off. He doesn’t remember accepting Crowley's offer to stay the night at his flat, but he can’t bring himself to speak up. Part of him doesn't want to say even a word - because that would mean the end of this haze he's fallen into, because that would mean that his bookshop did in fact burn down and that he didn’t have where to go, both tonight and every night after that. With his lips sealed shut and Crowley's hand in his own, everything else wouldn't be real. If he held onto this lie, he could hold onto the others, too.

The streets of London are paved with stars, their light casting shimmering lines on the damp pavement as they walk. Crowley’s thumb continues to slowly move up and down Aziraphale’s hand, tracing over his veins and knuckles, their shoulders brush, and no one bats an eye. It makes Aziraphale dizzy, more than h already is - because do they actually look ordinary like that, together? Is this not wrong or weird, that it’s a demon holding an angel’s hand?

Why is his head so unbelievably loud?

When Crowley stops before the doors to his apartment building and lets go of Aziraphale's hand to look for the keys in his pockets, the absence of warmth in his palm makes Aziraphale present enough to glance at a nearby street sign. He notices Berkeley St. written in simple white lettering and a few stickers plastered around it. In any other instance, had they not just averted Armageddon, Aziraphale would think ‘ hooligans ’ and maybe even use a miracle to take the stickers down. But not today, not right now, not with the haze in his mind. There’s a click to his right, but if it hadn’t been for Crowley placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him in, Aziraphale wouldn’t have moved.

They go up the stairs to the first floor, then take the elevator and ride all the way to the top, still not breaking the silence. Aziraphale latches onto the fleeting sensation of Crowley’s warm hand on his shoulder that guided him out of the elevator and into the corridor. After a bit more fumbling with the keys, the demon finally manages to open the doors to his flat and lets Aziraphale walk in first.

He lets Crowley briefly show him around the barren space that is his home, even manages to listen to what all the different houseplants are, then they settle down in the living room - Aziraphale on a big couch that begs to be occupied by more than just one person, Crowley in a giant, black leather armchair. They exchange a bottle of Scotch whisky that the demon fished out of a cabinet, but pretending that they didn’t just stop Armageddon doesn’t take them very far and soon their conversation falls flat. Aziraphale finds himself looking around the empty, clean flat and half-expecting Gabriel to peek out from around the corner at any moment. Only the low lighting, plants and overall dark colours of the place manage to soothe his paranoia about Heaven already coming to get him.

Crowley sighs, looking into his glass like he could see the future in the sloshing liquid. “So, the last prophecy.”

Aziraphale stirs in his place, not as drunk as he’d wish to be. He hums, waiting for Crowley to continue. There’s a cloying feeling in his throat, but instead of pushing it away, he finds himself clinging onto it like a fly clinging to honey.

“What are we supposed to do, exactly?” The demon mutters, making it sound like he’d much rather not think about all of this.

“It’s…” the angel clicks his lips, attempting to make sense of the mess in his head. He can’t, but he doubts it’s because of the alcohol. “I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Crowley somehow manages to sit even lower in his chair without actually sliding off the seat. “How did it go? Change your face… ?”

“... for soon you’ll be playing with fire ,” Aziraphale finishes, looking down into his whisky. Thanks to the low light coming from the odd neon sticks Crowley has resting against walls and shelves, Aziraphale can’t see his reflection in the surface of the liquid. Perhaps it’s for the better.

“I’d rather just sleep this whole thing off, and sleep it off properly ,” Crowley groans, furrowing his brow with irritation. He finishes the rest of his drink and hisses in response to the alcohol burning its way down his throat. Aziraphale cracks a smile at the sight and then does the same with his scotch, though he paces himself a bit more than the demon. 

He wonders what he will do once - if - the last prophecy is fulfilled. There’s no bookshop to come back to. There will be no Street Association Meetings, no matter how boring, because he’s not a shop owner anymore. There won’t be any new, unique, first-edition books he could buy and put on a shelf. 

“Aziraphale?” He hears Crowley say in that soft tone that feels like a dagger plunged into his heart, like someone picking at a scab long-healed. “You okay?”

Aziraphale forces a smile onto his lips and hopes it looks believable. “Yeah, I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

Crowley shrugs in a bit exaggerated manner, rubs his nose, one of his legs starts to bounce and then he turns to look outside one of the windows, making an indescribable sound that the angel catalogues under ‘Dismissive and defensive’. Aziraphale feels the weird feeling - it’s cold, it’s suffocating, it’s his heart trying to crawl out of his chest and rest by Crowley’s legs - growing ever stronger. It pains him that neither of them are able - or are allowed, or know how - to say what they really mean. To open up just a bit. Let somebody in. 

Aziraphale smiles softly and nods. He thinks he understands. And Crowley seems to understand what the gesture means. He nods as well, though it’s so small that the angel almost misses it. 

“Right,” Crowley clears his throat, embarrassed with the moment they just shared, and springs up onto his feet. “I’m gonna take a nap for an hour or two, because I can’t bear to be conscious for the foreseeable future. Will you…?”

The question hangs in the air. Aziraphale feels his heartbeat quicken a bit. He wonders what’s going to happen. 

“Will you be alright for a bit? Do you need anything?”

“Oh. Um-” Aziraphale wrings his hands out, standing up slowly. He cringes at the soft creak of the leather couch. “I’m not going to sleep, I don’t think.”

“You can stay on my bed anyway.” Crowley looks like he’s dying to pace around the room but he keeps himself in place anyway. He rubs his nose again, then puts his hands in his pockets. “I can sleep on the wall. Or the ceiling.”

The angel raises his eyebrows in surprise, then chuckles softly, freely , for the first time in what feels like ages. He shakes his head and sends the demon a smile. 

“A chair and a blanket will be fine, thank you.”

With a flick of his wrist, Crowley moves the giant leather seat from the living room to his bedroom, then hands Aziraphale a blanket that came together with the whole flat when Crowley bought it. It’s soft to the touch and smells of mint and sage, a scent that lulls Aziraphale into blissful quiet. In the time that he makes himself comfortable in the chair, Crowley manages to miracle away the ash and smoke lingering on his body, take off his jacket and chuck it at a wall, and then fall asleep the very moment he lays down on the bed. Aziraphale can’t help but smile to himself.

The rest of the night is measured in the slow rise and fall of Crowley’s chest, a sight that engraves itself in Aziraphale’s mind without his knowledge. From his place in the giant leather seat by the window, hiding beneath a blanket and with a hot cup of tea in his hands to soothe the nerves, Aziraphale gazes at the scattering of freckles on the bridge of Crowley's nose and tries to make sense of the yearning feeling blooming in his chest.

They can't ever work out, can they? Crowley's a demon while Aziraphale's an angel, and that combination could never work out because… because, well, it couldn’t. Hereditary enemies didn’t engage in romance. And if their respective head offices were to find out, they'd be toast and never let out of sight again. That would mean the end of not only The Agreement, but also their friendship as a whole. Aziraphale would never see Crowley again. So the question now is: what's more important? Holding onto whatever it is they have now for longer, or having something greater for a shorter amount of time, a second in the eyes of their infinite existence?

Aziraphale thinks he has the answer, but then he sees Crowley fuss around with the bedsheets, turning to lay on his side in a curled position; he sees the unnecessarily frustrated tilt to his brow because his feet got tangled in the covers, sees the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes, and the relaxed line of Crowley’s pressed lips. Aziraphale drags a hand down his face and feels himself crumble.

I can't do this to him, nor us. It's too risky. But he can't forget the feeling of Crowley's thumb grazing over his knuckles in a soothing motion, the warmth of his skin against his own palm as they sat pressed against one another on the bus. Aziraphale isn’t sure which one of them needed to hold the other's hand more - if it was Crowley's warmth calling Aziraphale back, or the feeling of Aziraphale's skin keeping Crowley grounded, keeping him from fidgeting with every loose thing he could get his hands on. Crowley kept his cool after the altercation that was the Armageddon, but it was the little things Aziraphale noticed over the millennia they have spent together that gave away that he was shaken up, perhaps as shaken up as the angel: the absent nose-rubbing, constant readjusting of his sunglasses, fussing with the ridiculous tie-thing around his neck, picking at loose strings on the buttons of his jacket. Why did he pretend he was fine? So as not to worry Aziraphale?

The angel places a hand on his chest, feels his quick heartbeat against his fingertips. He feels weird, almost as if he was sick. He's never been one to flee, but right now, all he wants to do is run away as fast as he can.

Is this what love is supposed to feel like - like a fire trying to burn you from the inside, too great to be confined in the frame of your physical body? Does it always feel like it's going to eat you and everyone around you alive? Does it always make you want to crawl out of yourself, to escape yourself and this feeling of impending doom that will undoubtedly come if you don’t let your feelings out? Is love nothing more than a rabid dog that's going to escape its leash? Good God, what am I going to do?

Aziraphale feels the tea grow cold in his hands with the passing minutes he spends on thinking. He watches Crowley sleep the night away, a steady inhale followed by an equally steady exhale; a small smile spreads across his lips at some point, so he must be having a nice dream. Aziraphale wants nothing more than to sit right by the bed, rest his chin on the edge of the mattress and memorise every crease in Crowley's face, the location of every freckle on the bridge of his nose and on his cheeks. The angel feels himself lean forward in his seat, anything to see his face a bit more clearly. He wants to hide away in the junction where Crowley’s neck connects with his shoulder, and this need terrifies him. Aziraphale feels like he's going to burn to ashes.

Instead, he stands up and goes to the kitchen to pace around while he waits for the water for another tea to magically boil. Rather than thinking about whatever it is he feels towards Crowley (he's too scared to admit it), he focuses his attention on the matter at hand. Change your face. It's simple, at least he thinks it is. It might be the worst idea in the world, but it's also the only solution to the horrible situation Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves in that the angel can think of. Every other prophecy of Agnes Nutter came true, so why shouldn’t this one? Choose your face carefully. Aziraphale wrings his hands out nervously. The possibility of becoming Crowley - that is, if he interpreted the prophecy correctly - is, to put it lightly, weird. 

He drinks his tea in silence, paces around the barren kitchen a bit more and then rests his forehead against a wall. He tries to think about anything else than Crowley's warm hand in his own, Crowley's warm hand on his shoulder guiding him to the stairs. He tries not to think about the lingering smell of fire and smoke on Crowley's person and the leather chair, something the demon must have been too stressed to miracle away earlier. Aziraphale tries not to think about his burnt down bookshop and everything that that meant - that he no longer had a home, that he lost everything on Earth that he cherished. 

Well, almost everything. But he tries not to think about that, either. 

When a bit less than two hours pass, Aziraphale makes his way back into the bedroom and allows himself to crouch down by the bed and gaze at Crowley's sleeping face for a moment. His hands long to reach towards the demon, run fingers through his hair and brush it out of his eyes. Crowley must still be dreaming, judging by the smile that's grown from being barely noticeable to something that could be considered a smirk. Aziraphale pockets the memory of this sight in his heart where it will stay safe forever, then slowly reaches a hand, rests it on Crowley's shoulder and shakes him gently. 

The sounds of protest that escape the demon’s mouth make Aziraphale's heart skip a few beats. He smiles a little as he whispers, “Um, hi, sorry to wake you. I, uh… I've got something.”

“Have you got coffee as well?” Crowley asks rhetorically, rubbing his eyes with his fist. Aziraphale feels dizzy from the heat on his face. He backs away from the bed and retreats to the leather seat, but the moment he sits down, he feels an urge to pace around, so he stands back up immediately. Crowley sits up groggily and yawns into his elbow. “What time is it?”

“Around three in the morning,” Aziraphale answers and smiles when Crowley groans and throws himself back onto the bed. “I think I've got a plan, but it's gonna need a bit of work.”

“And is that why you woke me up at this hour?”

“Yes.”

Another groan leaves Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale, now smiling in a bit of a wistful manner, waves a hand to make a fresh cup of double-espresso appear on the nightstand by the bed. Crowley spots it like he has sensors for coffee built into his eyes, and a languid smirk stretches his lips upwards. He sits up, rolls his shoulders with a slight grimace and reaches for the cup.

“You’re an angel,” he murmurs, glancing at Aziraphale with a spark in his eyes before slipping them shut as he takes a big sip. Satisfaction spreads through him like a big wave. Aziraphale runs a finger around the edge of his collar, feeling like there’s not enough air coming into his airways. God, get a hold of yourself.

“Ah, it’s nothing, really.” He says, smiling nervously. He wrings his hands out; he’s torn between doing the thing he so scarily desires and doing what needs to be done if they both want to live . “Just a small miracle.”

“Yeah, but your miracle drinks are as good as the real thing,” Crowley shoots the angel a knowing glance. “I always get it wrong, somehow , and all my drinks taste like piss.”

Aziraphale blushes. He turns his back to Crowley for a moment, trying to pull himself together. The demon doesn’t seem to mind, going for another sip of espresso.

“So,” Crowley says after a moment, “let’s hear that plan of yours.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know whether he’s glad about the topic change or not. He gets his blush under control and turns to face Crowley again.

The demon listens to his messy proposal without a single word of protest. He watches Aziraphale pace around his bedroom with a furrowed brow and, for a moment, a small smile, and slowly drinks his espresso like he doesn’t have any other plans for the day - or the rest of his existence, for that matter. He almost seems like he’s having a really nice time, despite being woken up from his nap, and that sudden thought throws Aziraphale off so much, he makes a stuttered sound instead of a sentence. 

Luckily, Crowley picks back up where Aziraphale ended. 

“This is very risky, Angel,” he murmurs, brow furrowed. He cradles his cup and a new cloud of steam comes up from above the rim - he must have used a miracle to heat the drink back up. 

“I know,” Aziraphale sighs and sits down in the armchair. He hates the sound of the leather creaking under him. “Which is why I woke you up. So that we could… practise?”

“Practise us pretending to be each other?”

“Well, practise being each other.”

Crowley makes a complicated face, one that Aziraphale can’t really put to anything. He pushes away from the head of the bed and moves to sit in the middle of the mattress, legs crossed, hair a little messy. Aziraphale feels like if he doesn’t actively keep himself in place, he’s going to do something very stupid. 

“Okay,” Crowley says after a moment of thought, then clears his throat and repeats a little louder. “Okay. Come on, then.”

He pats the mattress next to his knee, inviting Aziraphale to sit with him. The angel moves slowly like through a haze - but instead of an adrenaline and anxiety-filled haze like the last one, this haze is full of heat creeping up his neck, quick heartbeat and hands longing to reach for Crowley’s face. The mattress doesn’t make a single sound when Aziraphale climbs onto it, apart from the quiet rustle of the bed sheets. Crowley moves to the side a little bit, giving the angel a bit more space between him and the edge of the bed. 

They sit there, in silence, and Aziraphale really can’t be sure what’s going to happen next. 

He speaks so that he doesn’t have to find out. 

“How do you propose we do it?” He asks, watching out of the corner of his eye as Crowley raps his fingers on the edge of the mug.

“I thought you had it figured out,” the demon teases, but it’s probably the fear of what the morning might bring that makes his smile quickly evaporate.

“I said it’s going to need a bit of work.”

Crowley taps the mug again, pinky to index finger, then the other way around. Then again. “I suppose…”

“Yes?”

“I suppose we could possess each other.”

If they had any better options, Aziraphale would scoff, maybe even laugh a little, at the absurdity of the proposal. But if Agnes was - or is? - correct, they’re soon going to be playing with fire, so all the angel does is nod and square his shoulders like he’s going to battle. He turns to face Crowley properly, and can’t help but think that if he’s about to die, he won’t mind having spent the last of his moments with him.

Crowley watches him attentively for a long moment. Wondering why is a dangerous game.

Finally, the demon finishes the rest of his espresso in one big sip, sets the mug aside and also turns to fully face the angel. He sticks his hand out. Aziraphale takes it without an ounce of hesitation.

“We should try to do it simultaneously.” He says, forcing his voice to stay calm despite it wanting to tremble. “Otherwise… Well, I’d rather not think what will happen then.”

A wry smile stretches across Crowley’s face. He gently squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “I suppose there’s worse ways to go.”

Aziraphale smiles back.

“Ready?” Asks Crowley, moving his other arm to his side to draw the magic.

Aziraphale nods. He counts down outloud, and on three, they cast their miracles and move.

Every empty space Crowley’s soul leaves, Aziraphale fills with his own being. It feels like walking forward against a strong wind - the world is trying to let him know it rather he went the other way - but Aziraphale doesn’t need to think about the consequences of stopping the process halfway through to keep himself going. It feels like weaving his being into creation again, but instead of having free will as to its appearance, he has to make it fit the one he’s pushing himself into. 

And then it’s over. Aziraphale hears a heavy exhale. It sounds awfully familiar.

Slowly, unsurely, he opens one eye, then the other. Before him, he sees himself - already obscenely slouched, with a weird expression on his face. 

“Well?” He asks, as if the answer wasn’t sitting right in front of him. All of it feels weird - the body, its limits, the remains of demonic energy lingering in its cells. He feels like he has to tame Crowley’s tongue to obey him, to have it articulate everything properly. 

“Don’t pronounce it like that, Angel,” Crowley, through Aziraphale’s body, furrows his brow, “or should I say: dear . ”

Aziraphale sees his own face stretch into a smile that has ‘Crowley’ written all over it. 

“We are going to need a lot of work, I’m afraid.” He says, but he smiles back.

Later, when the morning draws near and they can both sense the world doing something close to a system refresh, Crowley in Aziraphale’s body moves around the flat one last time, as if to make sure he properly remembered his house in case he’d never see it again, before he reluctantly starts getting ready to leave. He trails a longing hand over a leaf of a particularly large snake plant, its leaves reaching all the way to his waist. 

“You really like your houseplants, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, standing in the doorway to the corridor where Crowley keeps most of the plants.

The demon shoots him a look - a look of someone deeply wounded by such an assumption. 

“Naaah, I hate all of ‘em. Don’t ever forget that. This one, though,” he runs his fingers over the leaf one more time before stepping away, “I hate the least, I suppose.”

Just like Crowley has allowed himself one last minute without pretending to be Aziraphale, Aziraphale allows himself to smile in a way that he’s never seen Crowley do - longingly and gently, like looking at the stars and knowing you can never reach high enough to touch them. He stands by a wall while the demon puts Aziraphale’s coat on; he spots the unhappy frown on his own face, and can’t help but smile.

“You have to seem like you’re not being tortured by wearing this, you know?” He teases, walking over to smoothe a crease that formed on Crowley’s shoulder before he can stop himself. The demon freezes in his place, pale blue eyes trained on Aziraphale, who only then realises what he’s doing and awkwardly steps away, clearing his throat. “Um, well then…”

“Yes. I should probably go,” Crowley quickly looks away and begins patting the coat as if he was looking for something. “Oh, right. Remember the glasses, dear .”

“Sure,” Aziraphale gladly accepts the opportunity to change the topic and does his best impression of Crowley’s way of speaking. “I’ll see you in the park?”

“Of course. Noon sounds good?”

“You got it.”

Crowley nods and smiles a little. Aziraphale has seen his own reflection enough times to know the gesture was forced, like a boulder being pushed up a hill. 

“Listen…” he begins, not knowing what he wants to say. Crowley watches him, and for a split second, there’s a gleam of golden-yellow amidst the pale blue ocean. 

I’m sorry , Aziraphale wants to say, I shouldn’t have said those things at the park then. I like you more than you could imagine, and I fear this feeling is going to burn me alive . 

I’m sorry, he wants to say, about your car. I know how much it meant to you.  

I’m sorry, he wants to say, that I couldn’t see what I’d lose if Armageddon did happen.

I’m sorry, he’s dying to say, that I can’t bring myself to say these things out loud. I’m sorry these words might not see the light of day.

Crowley seems to see something in, well, his own face, because he nods ever so slightly. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.” 

Aziraphale nods back. He presses his lips together, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll say something that will jeopardise everything - not just the plan, but The Agreement and everything that it means. 

Crowley wrestles with himself before he takes a step forward, places a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes. “See you later,” he murmurs softly, in a way that almost brings Aziraphale to tears, then turns away and walks out. Aziraphale can hear his retreating footsteps, then a ding of the elevator doors opening. 

He stands there, an angel in a demon’s skin, and all he can do is bring his arms up and hug himself. He buries his face in his own elbow and slips his eyes shut for a moment. If that’s how close to Crowley he’s going to be before he dies, then so be it. Maybe this body will remember this embrace, and if they live long enough to switch back to themselves, Crowley will be able to feel it. 

31st of December, 2022, London, England

“Angel, care to explain where you’re taking us?”

Aziraphale laughs, shaking his head, and listens with a smile to Crowley’s whining. He’d much rather stay in and drink something. He’d much rather sleep. He’d much rather get so drunk he fell asleep. It’s cold, Angel, come on. Wayward leaves rustle under their feet as they make their way down a wide path in the park.

“You could instead be a dear and tell me the time,” he calls over his shoulder, fighting back a grin, “since you’re always wearing that ridiculous wristwatch of yours.”

“Pff-ch, excuse me?” Crowley takes a few longer strides and catches up with the angel. “It’s not ridiculous, certainly no more than your pocket watch from the last century! And it’s a quarter past eleven, since you ask .”

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale nods. His heart starts beating a little faster from anticipation, so he glances over Crowley to distract himself. “Aren’t you too warm in this?”

Crowley follows his gaze to his long coat lined with wool. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not like the winters are any cold, are they?”

“Oh, so I should be like you and wear just a thin piece of fabric that is only coat-shaped?” Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale gladly notices his growing smile. There’s a moment of silence before the demon speaks again, “Come on, what did you plan?”

“Nothing! How could you even suggest I planned something?”

The demon does a spin, still walking shoulder to shoulder with Aziraphale, and gestures at their surroundings as if he was stating the obvious. “Because we’re in the middle of a park on New Year’s Eve?”

“And?”

“And for all these centuries that we’ve watched humans celebrate the passage of time , you’ve never been mysterious about your plans on that day. Something has to be up. I can smell it.”

“Can you now?” Aziraphale murmurs, giving up and not hiding his smile anymore. That only earns him more of Crowley’s whining, but they both know he doesn’t actually mean it. They both know he’s rather enjoying himself. 

It takes them another ten minutes before they come up on a small hill. Aziraphale glances over the beaten ground once they reach the top, then waves a hand and makes a blanket appear - it’s not that they necessarily need it, but it will surely make things more comfortable. He sits himself down with a sigh, enjoying the crisp, cool air entering his lungs. 

Crowley stands by the blanket and watches him for a long moment, a small smile spreading across his face. Aziraphale notices it only thanks to the millenia they have spent together. His heart flutters.

“Are you gonna stand there all night?” He teases, patting the empty space on the blanket next to him. “Come on, you silly old snake.”

“Oh, you can talk,” the demon chuckles, but does sit down next to him. Their knees brush while he’s making himself comfortable; Aziraphale can feel his heat like he’s a walking radiator. The warmth makes him very aware of how close to each other they’re sitting. 

Aziraphale waves a hand to make a bottle of champagne pop into existence between their legs, while Crowley simply looks at his own hands and a second later he’s holding a pair of champagne glasses. He holds them out for Aziraphale to pour the drink in. Their fingers brush when he takes one of the glasses from the demon. 

He smiles and holds his hand up. “Cheers.”

“It’s half till midnight, Angel,” Crowley corrects him, but his cool face immediately cracks with a stupid smile. “Yeah. Cheers.”

They clink their glasses. Aziraphale sits back, takes a sip and then sighs again. Crowley turns to face him a little better and rests his elbows on his knees. He’s swishing his champagne around in his glass, lost in thought. He’s put his sunglasses on his forehead; his yellow eyes almost seem to glow in the surrounding darkness.

“Okay. I think you can tell me what we’re doing here now,” he tries, but when Aziraphale shakes his head and chuckles, Crowley groans and does an overly-dramatic eye roll. “Come on! Quit your mysterious games!”

“I’m not being mysterious!”

“Oh, ‘I’m not being mysterious’,” the demon repeats, mocking Aziraphale’s tone. “Says the angel that just took us to a park on New Year’s Eve without saying why. You’re full of it!”

“Well, it’s meant to be a surprise!” He says defensively, rolling his eyes in an equally dramatic manner. 

“See? You’re doing it again!” Crowley drinks a bit of his champagne, then points the glass at the clear sky above them. “We’ve seen fireworks thousands of times! Sooooo, what is it you brought me here for?”

“Wait and see!” Aziraphale gently pushes at his knee. He laughs at Crowley, who once again repeats his words in a mocking tone.

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is, ‘wait and see’?”

“You need just a bit of patience, dear.” 

“You’re no fun.”

“If you say so.”

The demon sighs dramatically and hangs his head down, clearly meaning to make it look like he’s given up on trying to learn anything from Aziraphale. 

“Come on, Crowley,” the angel tries, leaning down to meet Crowley’s eyes. “If it’s any consolation, you’re going to find out at midnight”

“You’ve had your chance. I’m not interested anymore.”

Aziraphale laughs. He catches a glimpse of the demon’s smile, because Crowley has never been able to pretend to be mad for long. He always cracks in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s talk, then.” Aziraphale drinks more of his champagne. “Reminisce. The time will pass quicker that way.”

The last part is what makes Crowley give in, because if there’s anything he loves doing more than sleeping, it’s talking. He straightens his back a bit - nowhere close to sitting properly, but enough so that he can look Aziraphale in the eyes with ease. He moves closer to where they’re shoulder to shoulder. Aziraphale feels like a cat basking in the warm rays of sunlight.

When the clock hits midnight, the sky is set alight with fireworks. Despite seeing them countless times before, Crowley still looks amazed by the magical display of colours. It’s a rare moment where he takes off his armour and lets the world - Aziraphale - see him for who he is deep down, buried beneath all of his demonic attributes: unconditionally and fully in love with the universe, humanity and everything it's created. And it's an even rarer moment where he looks so much like the angel he once was - face beaming with awe, joy and excitement, skin as colourful as the nebulas - or fireworks - around him. His eyes dart from one explosion to another, starved to witness each and every one of them.

Aziraphale hardly ever looks at the fireworks themselves - he always has something far more beautiful to admire right next to him. Tonight, however, he forces himself to peel his eyes away from Crowley and focus on the next firework flying into the sky that he can spot. He flicks his wrist right before it explodes, and the firework turns into a beaming nebula that slowly fades out into darkness.

Crowley laughs - it’s the most free, joyous sound Aziraphale has heard from him ever since they first met thousands of years ago. He looks like a child in awe, mouth wide open and stretched in the brightest of smiles in both human and demonic history. His eyes attentively follow the beams of light spreading across the sky like colourful rays with a mind of their own. Aziraphale smiles, heart fluttering in his chest, and repeats the miracle with more fireworks.

When the last nebula fades away, Crowley turns to him and asks with a soft voice and tear-stained cheeks: “Can you make one more appear, please?” 

Aziraphale smiles and nods. The sky is set alight with colours. 

Crowley cries, but it's happy tears. Without even an ounce of hesitation, he reaches for Aziraphale's hand and places a kiss on his knuckles before the angel can even register what’s happening. His lips linger on his skin longer than necessary. “ Thank you.”

Crowley turns his face back towards the sky, physically beaming at every new explosion even though they're just plain old fireworks again. Aziraphale looks - no, gazes - at Crowley, and feels like his soul is about to crawl out of his body, anything to close the distance between them and do something. It's Crowley's soft, amazed chuckle that snaps him out of his thoughts, but Aziraphale can't bring himself to look away from the demon and see what made him laugh. He doubts he will be ever again.

Do you know my heart sings your name with every beat? - Aziraphale wonders, looking at the wet streaks on Crowley's cheeks, how they shine in the firework light, and feeling drawn closer and closer to him like a magnet. He moves to the demon's side, not too close to where it could be considered as anything specific, but close enough for him to lean against his shoulder if he wanted to. 

And then, Crowley does just that. He places his hand right next to Aziraphale’s, his index finger shyly overlapping the angel’s, and leans against his arm, eyes still glued to the sky. Aziraphale presses back, giving them both support, and rests the side of his head on Crowley's shoulder. The night sky gradually returns to its usual darkness broken only by the fireworks still going off. 

He feels Crowley rest his cheek on top of his head and then sigh, a gentle smile lingering on the corners of his mouth. Aziraphale moves his hand just a bit closer, and Crowley's meets him halfway. He joins their hands together, thumb moving over Aziraphale's knuckles like it's an instinct for him.

“I’ve never realised how much I missed this,” Crowley whispers, voice trembling. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale smiles and squeezes back. “My pleasure.”

There's a beat of silence before the demon takes a shaky inhale. Aziraphale looks up to see him crying.

“Crow-?”

“No, I’m fine,” Crowley shakes his head, freeing his hand, and angrily wipes at his face. “It’s just… stuff in my eyes.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Aziraphale sits up, and with his heart doing double time in his chest, takes the demon’s face in his hands. He gently brushes away the tears with his thumbs. “It’s okay, you know that.”

“No, it’s stupid,” Crowley says exasperatedly, but doesn’t pull away. 

“It’s not, dear,” Aziraphale tilts his head to follow the demon’s gaze. “I think it’s a wonderful thing to cry.” 

Crowley grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath. 

“Perhaps even more wonderful if it’s happy tears.”

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily, then hesitantly places his hands on the angel’s wrists - not to pull his hands away, more so to keep them in their place. Aziraphale waits patiently, brushing away any tears that come spilling. Every line of Crowley’s frame seems fragile, and Aziraphale will do anything in his power to give him comfort. 

They stay like that for a while, showered in the light of fireworks still going off high above them. The humans should be done with their celebrations shortly. When Crowley finally speaks, his voice is fragile and raspy.

“Fine, okay.” He drags his thumbs over Aziraphale’s skin: from his palms to where the edges of his sleeves lay. “Have it your way.”

Aziraphale chuckles softly. He brushes under Crowley’s eyes one more time for good measure, but doesn’t pull away. Neither does Crowley.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale dreams of an angel.

He dreams of an angel with a smile brighter than all the stars he’s just created, with red curls as wild as the nebulas blooming around them. It’s an angel that takes his hand, places it on his own and draws a circle on his palm. A bright line follows the path of his finger, and then a small, glowing orb rises from Aziraphale’s hands. He dreams of their joint laughter that fills his ears. 

“Look at you, you’re gorgeous,” says the angel, and in the dream he means Aziraphale. When Aziraphale looks up from the little star nestled in his palm, their eyes meet, and the star's warmth finds place in his chest. 

He dreams of Crowley’s whining that never lead to anything, that was more of a form of art on Crowley’s lips, meant only to either rile Aziraphale up or make him laugh. He dreams of the evenings they spent together in the bookshop, dust slowly falling off the shelves in the gentle light, two glasses of wine placed next to one another, an old gramophone playing an equally old classical music Aziraphale’s thrifted from Maggie’s shop. He dreams of the few times they danced, always drifting towards each other and always catching themselves before they’d get too close, before things went too far. Hands brushing against one another, a breath stolen from the other’s lungs, exchanged glances and then forced, heavy smiles that spoke of all of their wishes and desires, unnoticed by the other. Something always managed to keep them apart. Perhaps that something was always themselves.

He dreams of the night he stayed at Crowley's after Armageddon, hours spent trying to teach each other how to pretend to be the other. He clearly remembers the moment when Crowley placed his hands on his hips, trying to help Aziraphale master his ridiculous way of walking. 

“Don't bend your knees to the side like that, you're gonna hurt yourself, Angel. Now,” he pushed him gently, ushering him to start walking, and pressed on his hips whenever Aziraphale missed the timing, “see, that's better.”

Aziraphale chuckled. Staying focused while Crowley was holding him like that was nearly impossible.

He dreams of the slow mornings that followed the nights they spent together. Sunlight lazily seeps in through the windows, casting shapes on the floor. The smell of tea is ever fresh in his mind, just like the sight of Crowley curled up on the couch by Aziraphale's desk. With a blanket thrown over him - something Aziraphale always did the moment Crowley dozed off - he looks at peace, and Aziraphale finds that he keeps on looking up from his book to make sure nothing disturbs the demon. Or just to watch him without worrying he’d be caught staring.

You’re torturing yourself, love , he hears in his head; the voice is languid, like a cat stretching its back .

Aziraphale wants to stop and figure out if it’s his mind that’s speaking, but then he’s drawn to another dream. Once the rush of change is over, he opens his eyes and feels warm lips press against his. 

He gives in to the feeling rushing over him like a big wave, and kisses back, cupping Crowley’s face with a free hand. Crowley moves closer, the bed sheets rustling around him as he does. 

Aziraphale is the one to pull away first. He looks into those golden eyes and smiles, but it’s a sad, devastated gesture. 

“This isn’t real,” he whispers, voice breaking a little. Crowley grabs the hand holding his face and gently kisses its palm.

“Why do you say that?” He asks softly. 

Aziraphale wants to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Because I’m scared. Because I ruined everything, dear.

Crowley looks up at him, awaiting his answer, and the golden colour of his eyes is just a little off. They’re not even remotely real. There's something cat-like to them, not snake-like. He can't quite put a finger on it - he just knows; he's bound to after six thousand years of seeing Crowley’s eyes.

What are you doing? - asks a demanding voice, a voice that kind of reminds him of the demon but also doesn’t sound like him at all. What in God's name do you think you're doing?

Aziraphale struggles to find an answer. There are no words to put his feelings into. 

I-  

“Look at you, you’re gorgeous,” Crowley says, pleads , but his voice catches in his throat. He’s standing by the doors in the bookshop, about to leave, sunglasses covering his eyes. The memory of his lips is fresh in Aziraphale’s mind and skin. He raises a hand to press at his face, feel all of this again. He needs Crowley to do it again. 

“Wait-!” He stammers out, but the demon’s already gone, the slam of the doors echoing in Aziraphale’s ears. The bookshop suddenly feels so unbearably empty. 

Maybe that’s why Aziraphale left. He couldn’t stand the silence of the shop, the absence of a demon lounging on the couch by the window, the quiet, lonely evenings without a prospect of spending them with a friendly face. 

Aziraphale feels like he’s missed a step and is plummeting down into the abyss. 

What have I done? - he asks himself, feeling tears rushing in. His body grows numb, and in that numbness, he starts suffocating.  

“Archangel Aziraphale?”

Find me somebody to love, somebody to love, somebody to love, love, love, love. 

“I think you might quite enjoy their music, Angel. And don’t you dare say it’s bebop. I will ask you to get out of the car if you do.”

“Archangel Aziraphale, are you alright?”

Somebody find me somebody to love, find me somebody to love, somebody to love, love, love.  

“You’re so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

There’s a hand placed on his shoulder. He forces himself to awaken. 

He must admit, he’s not very glad that Michael’s face is what he sees when he opens his eyes. Aziraphale reaches for the remains of his energy and puts on a smile. It feels like a strain.

“I’m very sorry, I must have been tired.” He chuckles awkwardly, dragging a hand down his face.

Archangel Michael takes a step back, but there’s not a shred of understanding in their expression. Aziraphale tries another approach, hoping to ease the tension. 

“It must be a habit I picked up on Earth. Humans do it when they’re tired - doze off, sleep.”

He tries not to think about that night at Crowley’s where he sat and watched him sleep. Seeing as Michael doesn’t acknowledge his words in any way, Aziraphale gives up trying to form any sort of connection with the Archangel that isn’t filled with aversion.

“I’m sorry, did you need something from me?”

Michael looks to their side before they finally meet Aziraphale’s eyes. It's like they just want to get this interaction over with.

“Yes. Me and the other Archangels checked on everything like you asked. I came over to inform you that Heaven is ready for the Second Coming.”

Aziraphale busies himself with bringing his desk to order, hoping his lack of enthusiasm isn’t apparent. “Oh.”

“I’m telling you this seeing as we were talking about joining forces with Hell. Metatron relayed to us that The Almighty approves of the idea, and since you’ve worked with a demon before…”

Michael trails off and looks to the side again. Aziraphale tries to swallow past the ball lodged in his throat, but it doesn’t seem to budge. He feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards in another smile, but the more he does it, the less believable it seems to be. Part of him wishes he could feel numb again. Maybe all of this wouldn’t hurt so much then. 

“Naturally. I’ll get in contact with him as soon as possible. Thank you, Michael.”

They nod, giving him a small, awkward smile, and walk away in a rather brisk manner. Aziraphale watches them leave with a creeping sense of dread. 

He’s gonna have to talk to Crowley. What’s more, he’s expected to talk to him. 

How did this all come to be? - he asks himself, hiding his face in his hands with a heavy sigh. For over six thousand years, he’s supposed to be my enemy, and now we’re expected to work together. Just when we’ve stopped…

Just when we've stopped being friends. Just after I ruined everything. The moment we've started doing what we should have been doing from the start, the exact opposite is expected of us. 

Well, at least of Aziraphale. He doubts even God knows what Hell expects from Crowley in regards to the Second Coming.

He comes to Earth three days later, with bags under his eyes and a heavy heart. He’s painfully aware of how exhausted he is, how all of it seeps into his bone marrow and weighs him down. Feeling very much like an outsider, almost as if fearing he isn't welcome, Aziraphale steps out of the elevator and onto the street. Humans flow past him like water, going on about their days. Someone’s talking on the phone. A group of teenagers is laughing about something. There’s people sitting outside Nina’s coffee shop, reading books, eating cakes, working on their electronic devices. 

Aziraphale makes his way towards the bookshop and spots a piece of paper stuck to the doors from the inside. 

Went with Mr Crowley on a walk. Will be back in the evening. Feel free to make yourself at home! 

Muriel, 37th Scrivener

This used to be my home.  

He places a hand on the door handle and pushes it open. The locks give way to him with ease. Aziraphale thinks that at least the bookshop will welcome him back. 

Then the doors click shut behind him. The sound echoes miserably in the space that feels so overwhelmingly crowded with smells, lights, colours, things - a stark comparison to the equally overwhelming, but barren surroundings of Heaven.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Aziraphale breaks down crying. This is exactly what he feared would happen when he came back. 

The books watch him hide his face in his hands, and weirdly enough, Aziraphale feels like they’re judging him. With vision blurred from the tears he can't be bothered to wipe away, he looks around the bookshop and hates that it looks pretty much like how he left it. 

Because it would be so much easier if things changed - if Muriel sold some of the books, if she moved the shelves around, if they switched the carpet covering the summoning circle, if she repainted the walls. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like a prodigal son coming home if Nina moved her coffee shop somewhere else, or if Maggie didn’t wave at him excitedly as she crossed the street to her record store. 

Last time he came back to Earth, he didn’t have the possibility of another Armageddon weighing his soul down. He was still recovering from the shock his last interaction with Crowley left him in, the memory of their lips pressed against each other fresh in his mind as if he had been reliving the moment over and over every second since they parted. And that’s because he has.

But now Aziraphale feels like if he doesn’t reach out to grab onto those that he holds close to his heart, he might never get another chance to feel true, genuine, passionate warmth. No more sensing love in the air, no more joy sizzling under his skin and wanting to break free. 

Oh, how easy it would be if things went back to the way they were: dining at The Ritz, sitting in the bookshop and talking, putting up silly little magic acts just to make Crowley laugh - because though he pretended to despise it, he always patiently sat through the whole thing and smiled afterwards. They could still uphold The Agreement and be friends.

But the memories of the past are now tainted with the knowledge that their relationship was far from good. It's terrible to think how much Aziraphale left out in their conversations, carefully dancing around any subject that would steer them on the path of vulnerable, raw honesty. He never pushed when Crowley clamped up, and sometimes that's where the problem was. So scared of crossing a boundary - both the ones that their respective offices and the ones they themselves have set - they never talked about the things that mattered, that were just within their reach, if only Aziraphale had the courage to address them.

It feels like a slap across the face. Perhaps it would be better if he actually got one. 

What was I thinking? - Aziraphale asks himself for what feels like a thousandth time, and walks over to sit on the couch by the window. He likes to think that he knows the answer, but the more time he spends here on Earth, full of its diverse inhabitants, its smells and vibrant colours, and sees how much he's missed out on during mere months of absence, he can't help but think of himself as nothing more than a fool. He knows he'll never get that time back. He's always going to feel like there's something missing in the grand catalogue of memories he keeps in his mind. There's just going to be a single piece of paper with ‘traitor’ written on it.

And if he messes up and lets the Second Coming happen, that card is going to be the last thing he'll ever file under ‘memories’ in his head. Because there won't be any new memories to be made if there won't be an Earth to come back to - to live on; no new memories that would eventually drown out that singular card, grow over it like moss grows over stone. And even if there will be, it won't be the same - because no matter what will be left, it won't matter so long as he won't have someone to share this experience with: a particular someone with golden eyes and an odd manner of walking. I’m so tired. 

Aziraphale doesn't think twice before miraciling a glass of whisky into his hand. This is what he needs - numbness. He can't be distracted by his feelings if he wants to stop the Second Coming from ever happening. The amber liquid sloshes lazily as he sits on the couch, then rests his head against the headrest and takes a small sip. He welcomes the warmth and bitterness of the alcohol with open arms. 

There's a gentle knock on the doors. Aziraphale lets out an exasperated sigh - not of a tired angel, but one belonging to a bookseller. 

“Sorry, we're closed!”

The door is pushed open, but before Aziraphale can stand up and say something to wade off the customer, he hears: “Mister Fell?”

“Maggie!”

He scrambles back to his feet, almost missing the table when he puts the glass down, pats his clothes down for no particular reason and turns to beam at her. She chuckles when she sees him walk over, smiling back in an equally excited manner.

“It is you! I wasn't sure when I saw you outside. It's been a minute!”

Any joy evaporates out of Aziraphale like it wasn't there to begin with. His heart halts for a moment, and when it resumes, words like ‘traitor’ and 'prodigal son’ echo in his head with every beat. He has to remember how to smile. “Ah, you know… when duty calls, I have to answer.”

He can't be certain if Crowley told them about the whole… situation they shared - and if he did, then how much? - so he decides that being vague is his best option. Maggie doesn't seem to notice, or maybe she understands that she can't be told too much.

“And-” Aziraphale waves a nervous hand at the street outside the windows, bustling as ever. “And how are things?”

She shrugs, leaning against one of the pillars by the doors. “Ah, you know, same as ever. Mister Crowley opened up a plant shop a few stores down from me, don't know if you've heard.” She doesn't notice the colour draining from Aziraphale's face, traitor, traitor, traitor, look what you've lost , and keeps going. “We've been coming over to help Muriel learn about Earth and humans every now and then. And you? How have you been?”

It's like a dam dying to break open. From the moment I left, I've been asking myself whether I've made the right decision, and the more I think about it, the more I think I messed up. Please tell me it's not all over. Please tell me I haven't lost everything. Please tell me something that will keep me going.

“Ah you know… angel stuff. Doing good deeds and all that.” Working towards averting another Armageddon, so far to no avail. “I got- Uh, I was given a new job, hence my prolonged absence. I was drowning in work for a moment there.” He chuckles nervously, twiddling with his hands. 

He tries to feel joy from seeing a friendly face, but it gets muffled by the crushing guilt and constant nagging of his thoughts, a candle in the centre of a storm. Every square inch of Earth is going to be a harsh reminder of what happened, whether it will all turn out good in the end or not. It's going to be a thorn lodged inside his chest, blooming with fresh pain with every beat of his heart. It's going to eat him alive.

“Well, I hope you'll be able to catch a little break soon. You look quite tired, if you don't mind me saying.” Maggie smiles at him, a worried tilt to her brow, then sighs and waves at the doors. “I'm gonna go back to my shop. It was very nice to see you again, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale smiles back, and for once it doesn't feel that forced. “Likewise, Maggie. See you soon, hopefully.”

She turns to head to the doors, but that's when Muriel pushes them open and stops in the doorway with a puzzled expression on their face. When they look up at Aziraphale, there’s a gleam of worry in her eyes.

“Muriel?” Maggie takes a step towards them. “I thought you were on a walk with Mister Crowley. Did something happen?”

Even before Muriel opens their mouth, Aziraphale feels anxiety begin to curl in the back of his throat, under his skin, in his veins. A part of him wants to go deaf, so that he won't hear what she's about to say. 

“I- I was supposed to go on a walk with Mister Crowley,” Muriel furrows her brow, then stutters, still puzzled: “But he didn't show up. I waited for thirty minutes, in case he was running late.”

Aziraphale hears his own breath in his ears as if it’s the only sound in the whole world. He knows Muriel’s words not to be true. Crowley never ran late - he always said it wasn't his style. ‘I make up for it in other ways. Not everything I do has to be evil.’

Nevertheless, he tries to stay hopeful. Perhaps he’s just overreacting, largely due to how his last meeting with Crowley went, and getting himself more worried certainly won’t do any good. “Maybe he texted you?” He tries.

Muriel pulls out their phone out of a pocket in their trousers, but the way she holds the device looks like they're still not sure how to handle it. “I checked - or at least I hope that's what I did. Look,” she lets Maggie glance at the screen and presumably open the app, “nothing, right?”

“You're right, nothing.” Maggie furrows her brow, then sees that both Muriel and Aziraphale look rather worried, and tries to lighten the mood. “Well, I'm sure it's nothing. It's not like your lot can ever be in danger on Earth.”

Aziraphale thinks of a church, then of a striped thermos. He forces his body to cooperate, and nods at the woman's words; his lips stretch into a smile like they have done countless times before. “I'm sure you're right. Crowley's cunning. I'm positive he can handle anything thrown at him.”

“See, Muriel? Nothing to worry about,” Maggie pats them on the shoulder in a reassuring manner, then gives Aziraphale one last smile. “I really have to get going now. Come round my shop if you have the time, Mister Fell!”

“I most certainly will!”

He waits until the doors click shut after Maggie before he lets out a breath and then looks over to Muriel. They’re watching him expectantly. She doesn’t move at all to take off her coat or leave their duffle on a nearby chair.

Aziraphale takes the safer approach to the situation. “Did you two have a falling out? Maybe he didn’t show up because he’s still angry with you?”

Muriel makes a complicated face, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I- I mean, we did have a falling out recently about… about stuff, but I’m positive he would have showed up nevertheless.”

“And did you look for him?”

She shakes their head, a grimace twisting the corners of her lips. “I wouldn’t exactly know where to even start. I just know how to get to the park and back, maybe around the area here, too. I spend most of the time in the shop. It’s quite… daunting outside when I'm on my own.”

Aziraphale smiles in an understanding but distant manner, folding his hands behind his back. He starts pacing around the shop without really realising it. “And you were supposed to meet at the park? St James’s Park?”

“I believe so, yes. The one that’s not far from here, right?”

“Precisely.”

Another grimace from Muriel. They look distraught. “Then yes. We usually meet by a bench by a pond. Mister Crowley likes to sit there a lot, I think.”

If there had been any colour left in Aziraphale’s face, it would have left now. That thorn in his chest twists and digs deeper, look what you’ve done, do it again, we could have been us, don’t bother, I need you, do it again, I need you.

“Supreme Archangel?” Muriel waits for Aziraphale to look up at them again before she continues, voice small and reluctant. “I’m- I can’t help but worry. It’s unlike Mister Crowley to not show up without a word.”

Aziraphale tries to smile in a reassuring manner, but he’s aware that right now, the gesture looks visibly forced. He’s too consumed with worry. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”

Muriel nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. Aziraphale wrings his hands out, desperate to do something. “I want to look for him, make sure he’s okay. Would you like to accompany me?”

They made him take the stairs.

They came for Crowley a day after his meeting with Beelzebub, while he was walking down Whickber Street to his shop. One step he was fine, the next there were hands coming up from the cracks in the pavement, grabbing his ankles. Crowley managed to let out a horrified scream before the ground parted into a big hole and the hands pulled him in, tugging at his clothes and pulling his hair.  

Crowley makes a wheezing sound that could barely be considered a breath, and holds onto the metal railing of the stairwell like it’s the only thing standing between him and utter oblivion. Just one more step, he tells himself, but then he looks up to see flights upon flights aligned in a steep zig-zag. 

“I just want to talk, alright?” Beelzebub followed him around the cemetery with unyielding patience - or maybe it was arrogance. Either option made him nauseous just from thinking about it. “Crowley!”

“Leave me alone,” he hissed, not looking behind him. He took a sharp turn, hoping he’d lose them on a narrower path. “I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

“I didn’t come here to gloat!” they scoffed, suddenly appearing right in front of him. Crowley walked past them without missing a beat. He was used to Hell not getting the message to leave him alone.

“I don’t care!”

“It’s about you becoming a Duke!”

He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, then slowly turned around. Resignation was painted all over his face, etched into every single line of his frame; it made up his body on the molecular level. “What about it?”

Crowley forces his limbs to cooperate. One step at a time. The singular light bulb flickering above his head is giving him a migraine. He needs something that will make him remember he’s alive, that will make even one of his hearts beat once again. He can’t shake off the memory of Hastur’s laughter as the incantation finally took hold, when a terrible scream tore itself out of Crowley's cinched throat.

The snake moves. It’s hurting just as much as Crowley. 

“They’re going to take you, whether you’ll be willing to come or not. The Dark Council can’t just change their mind on a whim, and they certainly won’t do it just because you don’t want the job.”

Crowley pressed his lips together and looked to the side. He focused on not letting his leg bounce anxiously. 

“Okay.”

There was a moment of silence. He looked over to catch Beelzebub watching him with a furrowed brow. “What?”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

Crowley folded his arms on his chest and pushed further into the side of the bench, trying to find comfort in how the metal armrest dug itself between his ribs. He wasn’t going to share any more space with Beelzebub than it was necessary. 

“If what you say is true, then my reaction to something inevitable doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Beelzebub gave him a sour smile. It meant something along the lines of ‘that’s the spirit’, and Crowley despised it. The last thing he wanted was his shitty ex-boss’s approval or anything close to it. 

“Congratulations on becoming a Duke of Hell, Crowley!” Shax crowed, clapping their hands together. Hastur joined in on their laughter. Furfur just smiled at Crowley like an overzealous executioner, tapping their hands together finger by finger. Crowley tried to regain control over his body, smile at them, pretend that they couldn’t break his spirit, but the tension that first overcame him has left nothing but a tremor inside. He clenched his jaw, keeping his lips shut, fearing that if he opened his mouth, his teeth would chatter.

They made him get down on his knees. The wet floor rushed to meet him, and it was only thanks to his reflexes that he managed to break his fall with his hands and not fall face first on the ground. 

“I must admit, I’ve waited a long time to see this.” Hastur walked over to grab Crowley by the nape of his neck, slightly pull him up and make him meet their dark, empty eyes. “Even if it means you’ll be my equal now.”

Furfur crossed one leg over the other, splayed out in their chair as if it was their throne. “If it’s any consolation, it’s gonna hurt him a lot more than it hurt any of us. He’s been up there too long.”

“Then he’ll wish he had laid low like he should have.”

Fire sears its way through Crowley’s bloodstream. He keeps his lips squeezed together, the strength of his promise to not make a miserable sound rivalled only by the desperate want to remember what it’s like to be alive, as alive as a demon could get. It’s that desire that drives him up the stairs one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, even though everything hurts as much as The Fall did, tearing, shredding and ravaging his atoms. For a split second, before he quickly strangles the thought with shaky hands, he thinks that if this pain goes on, there’s going to be nothing left of him. 

The snake makes a miserable sound in both of their names, whispering it to its master’s ear. Crowley stops himself from letting out a soothing hush, because if he opens his mouth, he’ll surely scream. And the last thing he wants is to give these bastards down there any more joy of hearing him suffer than he already has. 

“So, where is Lord Dagon?” Crowley asked, trying to ease the tension - not the one in the air, but the one inside of him. I really have got to stop shaking. “I was hoping for the whole Dark Council to be present.”

“Shut up,” Hastur barked. Everything about them seemed like they were having none of Crowley’s bullshit - not that they ever had. They grabbed one of Crowley’s shoulders, Shax - the other. Despite the latter’s thin posture, their hold was strong. Crowley didn’t even think about trying to break free; he had redirected all of his focus to control the tremor inside him. Furfur stood up from their chair and pulled out a scroll from inside their jacket. They walked over to where Crowley was held down, nonchalance dripping from their steps like ooze. 

Whatever it was in Furfur’s way of walking, it made Crowley feel like a deer caught in headlights, skull waiting for the impact with the car. His breathing picked up, and despite his initial promise to keep his dignity, he tried to break free from the hold that’s been keeping him on his knees.

“You- You can’t do that!” He stammered out through a cinched throat, then made the mistake of looking at Shax, then Furfur. “You c-can’t, I’m-”

The sudden, brief moment of silence that followed made Crowley feel like he was suffocating. It was the last moment before the collision of the car with his skull. Hastur snorted. 

“Oh, circles of Hell-”

“Satan help me!” Shax slapped Crowley’s back with one of their hands, shoulders jumping up from laughter, then turned to look at Furfur. “Get a load of this idiot!”

“I can’t believe it,” Furfur placed a hand over their forehead, “you actually thought you were the Grand Duke of Hell?”

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it, opened and then closed it again. He felt like the car had already crashed into his skull.

“Typical Crowley.” Hastur scoffed, something dangerous and furious hidden under their even, mocking tone of voice, as they leaned over to say the next words right into Crowley’s ear. “Pompous, narcissistic, disloyal prick.”

Furfur shrugged, a malicious spark in their eyes as they sent another wide smile Crowley’s way. They lazily began fiddling with the seal of the scroll. “I suppose we should have seen this coming.” 

They broke the seal holding the edges of the paper. Furfur slowly unfurled it, and once they did, they looked up - first at the rest of the Dark Council, then at Crowley. They grinned. Crowley felt the remains of his confidence leave. He wished he could leave as well. 

“Shall we begin?”

Crowley glued his gaze to a bird he spotted on a nearby tree branch. He wished Beelzebub would just end there and leave him. Instead, they continued to sit next to him, kicking their fucking feet.

“So, what happened to Alpha Centauri?” Crowley asked, hoping that maybe if he struck up a conversation, time would pass quicker. 

‘ Did you go to Alpha Centauri?’

“We’ve settled down there for now,” Beelzebub smiled, but not the sour, half-smile Crowley was used to, which was an odd thing to see in itself. It reminded him of the time before The Fall. “Gabriel is truly mesmerised. I suppose it is very pretty.”

Crowley didn’t know whether he was proud that there was someone who admired his work, or offended that it’s Gabriel of all beings that was mesmerised. Perhaps it was a mixture of both that he was feeling. 

“And-” he sighed, biting hard on his bottom lip, and tried again, hoping this time he actually sounded indifferent, not just imagined it- “and is he here? Gabriel?”

“No, told him to stay.” Beelzebub looked at him for a long moment. Crowley wanted to ask them to stop. “Figured it would make you less cooperable if he came along.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a sour smile. Beelzebub must have been taking the piss. Surely they knew how Crowley felt about them, Hell, the whole system; they must have had an inkling, at the very least.

And if they haven't? That possibility made Crowley feel a terrible chill creep up the back of his neck and slowly tear his fragile composure to pieces. Beelzebub being completely oblivious to Crowley’s attitude towards Hell was worse than them choosing to simply ignore it - because then everything Crowley stood for was unimportant and impactless to the point where no one even gave a damn.

I need a drink - he thinks, strenuously pulling himself forward, hands tightly wrapped around the railing. Every attempt at using miracles makes the pain worse, so he's got only his corporation to rely on. A drink will help.

But a drink will make things dull and blurry, and that’s the opposite of what he needs. Right now, he needs to feel sunshine on his face, wind ruffling his hair, maybe the taste of air in his lungs. He needs to feel his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes. But… but then my heart will hurt again. A drink won’t cause that. 

But he’d also feel his heart beat again, even if it meant acknowledging the open wound that was his soul. It would beat and beat and beat, sending waves not of blood but of, albeit naive, hope through him. He needs it, as well as he needs to laugh, cry, scream, kick a cardboard box and let out all of this pent up rage. Hell he’d even kiss someone only if it meant he’d get a slap on the cheek right after. He needs - no, he wants to do something that will make him feel alive, that will remind him what’s been making him go on all these millenia. 

To the sound of Hastur’s excited, creepy chuckle, Furfur began reading the scroll. The language was ancient, going probably as far back as the time before the crucifixion, but it all began coming back to Crowley after the first few words. The hatred and anger overflowing every word left a bitter, tart taste in his mouth, and seemed to seep under his skin.

But it all faded in comparison as the first wave of pain tore through him like a spasm. Hastur and Shax held him in place, knowing that if they let him keel over and scream, it would make it easier to handle - or at least it would give Crowley hope that it would. And what they wanted was to see him suffer. For them this was just a pleasant intermission in their mundane existence. For Crowley this was just as bad as The Fall.

At least he learned that Beelzebub wasn't lying. Shame none of it mattered.

His veins bulged up, forced by the magic of the incantation, and painfully pressed against the constraint that was his skin. It felt like boiling hot tar was being poured into his blood vessels, turning his insides to ashes and soot-covered bones. At some point, maybe minutes, maybe hours into the initiation, the pain got so bad that Crowley, with the last of his coherent thoughts, thought ‘fuck that’ and let himself scream. 

He opened his eyes as another stab of pain tore through his very being, and at first he thought he was crying - but then, pulling the remains of his consciousness together, he realised that the liquid oozed down his face felt like treacle. It smelled of burnt skin and spoiled blood. It was the same tar that slowly, painfully made its way through what were once his blood vessels.

It's that crazy desire that makes him move with a little more strength, but it still feels like an eternity has passed by the time Crowley reaches the exit. Wheezing, he doesn’t stop to catch his breath, and stumbles through the doors and out onto the street. First, he shivers at the sudden, overwhelming amount of sensory input, but every noise, smell and beam of light shining on his face serves as an anchor to his soul. 

One foot in front of the other, he staggers down some street he hazily recognizes. His heart begins beating again, one shy thump after another, you're alive, you're here, you're alive. Crowley chuckles in disbelief despite his abdomen protesting painfully. He takes a turn and heads towards St. James's park, dragging a hand down his face and smearing the remains of the tar that was still fresh on his cheeks. 

He realises it's moments like these that remind him why he's still here. The more they try to take away the life he’s made for himself here, the more Crowley clings onto it, and when all he wants is for the earth to swallow him whole, it's his heart beating against his ribcage and echoing in his ears, pleading let me live, let me live, let me live, that makes him hold on. Giving something he’s desired all his life to someone else has always been easy for him.  

So he does. He gives his heart a chance to live and his lungs the air to breathe, and naively hopes that someday, someone will do the same for the rest of him. It’s a twisted way of doing things - this microdosing of indirect self-care, because he can’t bring himself to do it directly and fully - but it’s what’s worked for him all this time. 

Just stand up and leave. Just move. It's over, you can leave. But it's like his thighs had been glued to the bench, so Crowley remained seated next to Beelzebub, the tumult of thoughts dragging his soul left and right. The former Grand Duke of Hell leaned back on the bench, continuing to kick their feet, then closed their eyes and took a deep breath. 

Can I go? - he almost asked, restless, but bit his tongue just in time. 

“You know…” Beelzebub began, sparking up the conversation as if they were mates that went back a long way. Crowley turned his head away so that they couldn't see him roll his eyes. Here we go. More belittling. “I think we've got to thank you and your angel.”

My angel. He scoffed, cold sweat gathering on the back of his neck, and clenched his hand, digging half-crescents into his palm. Not even an 'I'm sorry, I guess'. To think a part of him - hidden beneath all of the anger, bitterness and the sadness that was like a void in his chest, sucking him in - so much as hoped for some sort of apology for all the millennia of shit he'd been put through. Maybe he was more naive than he thought. Maybe he should stop putting any sort of faith in others. My angel.

But sure, he’d bite. He’d see where this conversation would take him. Curiosity always got the better of him, even if the topic Beelzebub touched reeked of more chest pains and heartaches. “Why?” 

They smiled, slowly like decay overtaking tissue, but also softly like flower petals falling down from the trees during spring. “If it wasn't for you two, we would have never realised that… friendship, or something alike, between an angel and a demon, was even remotely possible.”

‘I am an angel, you are a demon. We are hereditary enemies!’

“Sure, old habits die hard, but here we are.” They continued, that smile stretching into a full on grin. For the first time since before The Fall, Crowley saw Beelzebub happy. 

‘I don’t even like you! We’re on opposite sides!’

And he despised it. He desperately needed to change the topic.

“How did you know?” He asked, forcing each syllable through his cinched throat like a boulder up a hill. He should have just walked away after he heard about the initiation. “How did you know I was appointed a Duke of Hell?”

“Oh, it wasn't difficult,” Beelzezbub shrugged, oblivious or deliberately ignorant to the blatant topic change. “I've been the Grand Duke since Hell was first established. I could feel the shift of power on my skin.”

Crowley scrunched his nose instead of rubbing it like he wished to. He figured as much. He wondered if Gabriel felt the same when Aziraphale was given his job. 

He forced his limbs into motion and stood up from the bench, grinding the spinning of his vision to a halt. He could feel Beelzebub's stare on his back like the buzzing of flies just out of reach of his arm. Then he just started walking, trying to feel satisfaction from the fact that Beelzebub seemingly finally got the message: that he wanted to be left alone.

He sits down on his favourite bench and leans his head back with a heavy sigh. The pain in his right arm and shoulder has subsided into a steady, heavy throbbing, but it's better than the sharp stabs he was experiencing before. Crowley takes a deep breath and holds it in for a moment. He's alive. He's still here. Everything might hurt, his life might be in pieces he's still trying to pick up, but he's here. It's a weirdly comforting thought. 

Crowley stays by the lake until the sun sets and no longer bakes into his skin, leaving it to grow cold to the touch in November air. He relishes in the hard press of the wood underneath him, the sound of the water lazily sloshing on the shore, and the more he focuses on it, the less he feels the pain still lingering in his body. 

The last words of the incantation were spoken, the initiation was complete. Shax and Hastur let go of Crowley and he simply collapsed, trembling too much to be able to mitigate the fall. The hard, cold press of concrete underneath him brought a sliver of relief. Furfur rolled back the scroll. They left one by one, laughing to themselves, talking about another job well done. He couldn't breathe - not that he needed to, of course, but the fact was that he couldn't when he really wished he did. 

He felt dead. The tar bubbled underneath his skin, in his bone marrow, in his stomach. Only his corporation held it together. 

At some point the two demons that brought him down in the first place came back into the room and took him by the shoulders. Crowley hissed, their rough tugging only making the pain worse, and tried to move his legs so that they wouldn't just drag him all the way back up, but he couldn't. The demons hauled a corpse down the corridor and if anything, they seemed glad they did. A corpse wouldn't talk their ears off, trying to persuade them to leave him. 

Then they made him take the stairs.

He eventually peels himself off the bench, wincing as his muscles stretch unwillingly and painfully. The stagger to his flat takes him twice as long as it usually would even in his most drunken state, and by the time Crowley reaches the doors of the apartment building, he's drenched in sweat. His right shoulder is hurting like crazy again, so he spends a minute fighting to pull the keys out of the pocket with his left hand and then aiming them at the keyhole. Hell either made sure the initiation would go this way, or he’s spent so much time on Earth that he’s having an equivalent to an allergic reaction. It’s like a shock collar on his neck, zapping him and slapping his hand whenever he reaches for magic.

And that’s the worst thought - that spending most of his existence on Earth, the place he’s grown to call home, is what’s causing him pain right now. Crowley feels cold shivers creep up his back and the sides of his torso, betraying his already fragile composure. Is nowhere safe from infidelity, the shit that leaves a tart taste in his mouth? Can’t he catch a fucking break? Hasn’t he suffered enough? 

Once he’s finally inside the building and somehow manages to get through the doors of his apartment, all he can do is stagger into the bedroom and very slowly and delicately, lay down on the bed.

Wheezing, Crowley looks up at the ceiling and beyond it. The mere thought of looking Up that isn’t filled with disdain or anger feels like needles prickling his heart. A demon trying to feel something even remotely neutral towards God has always been akin to simply asking for death. It burns him to do this, but beneath it all, all the tar coursing through him and mixing with the tears staining his cheeks, Crowley remains an optimist. A sometimes-homesick optimist.

And so he looks and asks: why?

But as always, he’s met with silence. 

Perhaps it doesn't matter. Crowley sighs. His eyelids begin to grow heavy with every second. One slow rise of his chest, followed by an equally gentle fall, and then he’s out, face covered in dry tar, clothes drenched in sweat. 

He spends the following few days at his flat, taking things unusually slow and performing small miracles here and there to ease back into the groove of things. The giant snake that appeared wrapped around his arm and shoulder is still red and swollen, like a fresh, festering wound that doesn’t want to heal, and Crowley knows that magic will not help here. Given that his incantation was equally bad as The Fall, then the aftermath of it will be no different from it. It’s going to be another scar he will never be allowed to get rid of, not fully. 

He tries to make peace with it - it’s not like he has any other choice - and traces a gentle finger in the periphery of the snake’s head. 

He leaves his flat two days after the initiation at ten til noon, with a loose blazer thrown over his shoulders and a steady mind. It’s not that he’s feeling much better than before, but the prospect of a distraction - in the form of opening his shop again - makes some sense of calm wash over him. He takes his time as he drives the Bentley the roundabout way to Whickber. He can smell something is a miss even before he reaches his destination, and the closer to his shop he is, the more nauseatingly sweet the air gets. He quickly notices a big crowd of people waiting by the doors, probably drawn by the card in the window that miraculously says that today the owner will be back from his little vacation, but it’s not what catches Crowley’s eyes.

It’s the soft white curls that stand out against the crowd like a white rose in a grass field. Crowley feels his muscles stiffen. He slams the doors of his car with a little too much force once he’s out, having abruptly stopped on the side of the street near his shop.

“Out of the way, peopl,” he growls, pushing through the crowd until he reaches the doors. In the moment that he fumbles with the keys to the shop, the air around him thickens with the scent of old books and peaches.

He was doing so well. Now he’s sinking in quicksand.

“Crow-”

He ignores it. Silencing what this voice awakens within him is like hammering a wooden stake into fresh, upturned ground. 

“Shop’s open till seven, to make up for my prolonged absence,” he says loudly, giving the crowd of humans a quick look. “I’ll be with you all in a minute.”

He finally manages to get the doors open, slithers inside and then slams them shut before anyone can get in after him. The humans outside move to form a semi-coherent line. Crowley drags a hand down his face.

He looks down and sees the paper cup of black tea from Nina’s shop that he left here just before he went to yell at Muriel a few days ago. The feeling of violation that overcame him then is now back, leaving tremors in his limbs. The dark abyss that the oversteeped drink has become stares right back at him, sucking him in. 

Crowley leans his head against the window in the door. He breathes in, buck up, then out. Grabbing the paper cup into one hand, he uses the other to open the doors and let humans pour in. He doesn’t look to see Aziraphale outside the shop, staring at him with those pale blue eyes.

Chapter Text

Two days pass. They aren’t talking. 

Crowley throws himself into work with the fierce intention of pushing himself to the limits. There doesn’t seem to be an end to the humans pouring into the shop every day, and he lets them all in, hoping that they will dilute the poison coursing in his veins. Their envy of his new “tattoo” tastes like dark chocolate on his tongue; Crowley finds himself choking on it. Jealousy should fill a demon with joy, he should bask in it with pride. That’s the point of the marking - one of many, probably - isn’t it? 

Instead, Crowley just feels nauseous. He covers his arms after the fifth or sixth incident, but the ones that saw it still reek of envy when they enter the shop again. He keeps his blazer on despite being drenched in sweat, using miracles to keep himself feeling fresh, because the compliments he receives leave him uneasy, throwing him off balance that he’s already struggling to maintain. 

Another two days fly by, and they’re not talking. It’s for the best. 

Muriel comes into the shop exactly five days after Crowley saw Aziraphale back on Earth, letting a gust of cold November air with them as they enter. Luckily for her - unluckily for Crowley - he’s just gotten a moment of respite since it’s around lunchtime. 

In a silent shop, with the blinds up for the world to see, Crowley has nowhere to run or hide. And when Muriel speaks, no matter how nervously, he feels like a bug being stuck to cardboard with a pin. 

 “Supreme- Mister Aziraphale sent me here. He says he really needs to talk to you.” 

Crowley waves a hand and makes some fresh espresso appear in his empty, unwashed mug he’s been using since the day before yesterday. He takes a big swig. It tastes terrible. “Don’t care.”

“Mister Crowley, he says it’s extremely important.”

“Then why didn’t he come himself?”

Muriel gives him a ‘seriously?’ look, wringing their hands out. Crowley scoffs, because he’s rarely seen it on their face. 

“Fair point. But I don’t get what could be so important?”

She shrugs, anxiety etched into the way she furrows their brow. Seems as though every angel dislikes questioning anything . “It’s not my place to ask or know. Could you, just, please , come by the bookshop after you’re done for the day? Please?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and begins with the tone of a teacher tired of repeating himself: “Muriel, I…”

I’m terrified. I’m hurting. I want to be scared and hurting alone .

Crowley eyes her up and down. She doesn’t seem any more anxious than they normally are - with still being new to Earth, its customs and all - so it’s safe to assume that right now, they’re nothing more than a messenger. Which makes him wonder: what’s so urgent that Aziraphale apparently needs to talk to him - and why didn’t he try to earlier, perhaps even the same day he came back? Why give Crowley the few days of illusionary space while still suffocating him with his sheer proximity whenever he walks down Whickber Street?

Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity will strangle the snake. 

“...I’ll come by in the evening.”

The rest of the day goes on excruciatingly fast. Crowley stalls as much as he can, engaging in the so-called ‘small talk’ most humans seem to enjoy, and encouraging them to browse the shop like it’s an entire shopping centre. By the time the last of the customers leave and the clock strikes six in the afternoon, Crowley wishes he could make the day a few hours longer. He tries to prolong his stay in the shop by cleaning the whole place, but he finds that it’s still spotless from the last time he was stressed out. 

It’s not even that late. Crowley wraps his arms around himself, buries his face in the crook of his elbow and looks at the clock on the desk with a silent plea. Make the decision for me. He eventually leaves at half till seven, closing the doors behind him with a snap of his fingers. When he notices the lights in the bookshop still on, he knows there’s no escaping from what’s coming. 

But as he’s walking the short distance from his shop, he starts to wonder whether his anger isn’t a bit misplaced - that is, if his guess at Aziraphale’s motives for leaving are even remotely close to the truth. Crowley knows - or tries to believe - that Aziraphale left for him, although he’s not sure how that was supposed to benefit him. One thing remains the same: he left him here alone without a single word of explanation, making it seem like he was saying ‘goodbye’, not ‘see you in a bit’. 

Crowley tried to find the hidden message in the angel’s words, he really did. The problem was not in his lack of talent in the matter, but in the fact that whenever he thought about their conversation, all he could feel was anguish and sadness that made his ears ring and his hands shake. The first few months of his solitude were spent either sleeping or drinking his problems away, a few days on trying to come to terms with why Aziraphale left, then the rest - on stubbornly telling himself that this was for the better and getting defensive whenever someone tried to tell or show him otherwise.

Crowley knows that he has every right to be angry. He clings onto that permission with all his might, places it in the centre of his being like an anchor and hopes it won’t let him falter.

His hand halts for a moment before grabbing the door handle and walking inside. He sees Aziraphale scramble up from his chair the very moment he enters.

Crowley feels like a gladiator that has just entered a colosseum. He looks over at his opponent, arms already weary from holding his shield up high so early on. This isn't going to be a conversation. This is going to be just another obstacle to get through.

When did you become a task for me?

“What is it?” Crowley says, not really bothering to actually make it sound like a question. 

“Um, hi.” Aziraphale starts, smiling nervously in one second, then immediately pressing his lips together into a line. He looks lost, undecided on which approach to their conversation will be best. “How- how are you? We- We were looking for you a few days ago, when I arrived. Is everything-”

“Don’t do that.”

The angel wrings his hands out. There are red marks on the backs of his hands, which draws Crowley to the conclusion that Aziraphale spent all this time holding them extremely tightly.

He forces himself to look away from his hands and chews on the inside of his cheek, desperate to find something else to land his gaze on. Everything feels off. Aziraphale looks pretty much the same as when he last saw him, aside from the stubble on his face and dishevelled hair, but at the same time, he also seems off.

“O-okay. I… Well, I actually came here to talk to you about something.” 

He can smell the unspoken things in the air - it smells like fresh rain, upturned ground and smoke of a candle that just went out. It’s resignation mixing with a sense of disappointment he can’t quite comprehend, it’s vertigo roaring to life in his ears. He can’t let it take hold of him.  

He pockets his hands in his jeans and digs half-crescents into his palms, his crumbling composure making him aware of the throbbing that’s come back to his right arm and shoulder. It's probably from the exhaustion caused by purposefully overworking himself at the shop. “What could you possibly want from me, oh, Supreme Archangel?”

Aziraphale visibly flinches upon hearing the title. It’s like a slap across the cheek. 

“It’s…” He takes a deep breath, exhales sharply and tries again. “It’s about the Second Coming.”

Crowley doesn’t show it, like Hell he would , but he’s almost relieved. It’s not about them - well, not exactly. But the Second Coming doesn’t entail talking about what happened.

Right? It’s probably for the best that they don’t talk about it, right?

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s silence as an invitation to continue. “It’s like you said at the park a few years ago. This is ‘the big one’.”

“So, all of us- All of humanity against all of Heaven and Hell?” He clarifies, feeling his control slipping away. It’s like he’s going to implode.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well then,” Crowley sighs, hopes that the vertigo leaving him shaky isn't that visible, and then points vaguely at the doors behind him, “that means if we want to stop it, we can’t work together. I’m gonna go and have a drink.” 

He makes it halfway to the exit before he hears it: a shaky inhale. This is what stops him, not the plea that follows. 

“Crowley!”

Crowley grits his teeth. Had it not been for the tears welling up in Aziraphale’s eyes that he noticed way too easily, he would have been in his car already. He hates how quickly he responds to that tone of his voice, a naive dog still keeping hope that the hand that hurt it won’t be raised over its head once more - even if the damage doesn’t seem to have been done on purpose.  

Any plans that his mind has already began sketching, eager to fulfil Aziraphale’s plea like it’s the only thing it’s good for, Crowley imagines burning, and tells himself this will make him feel better - putting his foot down so hard it stomps over any signs of life they could have had, had they not been fools.

But what does it matter now, anyway? Crowley feels the vertigo slowly suck him in like a black hole. The pain in his arm spreads up his neck and gives him a headache. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. He hates Aziraphale. He hates himself. He hates Heaven, Hell, The Great Plan, The Ineffable Plan. He hates it all. He wants to burn it all.

It takes him all of his energy not to run out of the bookshop. His soul is ripping itself to shreds, pulling in opposite directions: outside and into Aziraphale’s arms. He sighs, leans his back against one of the pillars by the doors and asks flatly: “What?”

“I can’t stop Armageddon on my own, you know that! I-” he hears Aziraphale waver for a second too long, “I need you to help me.”

I need you - is what Crowley’s mind latches onto, and what the angel almost ended up saying, if his hesitant words were any indication. It’s like a dagger twisting in his chest. The vertigo leaves nothing behind and now Crowley feels hollow. It’s confusing - to be seething with anger, be overcome with a sort of sense of joy that he’s trying to stomp out like a fire, and also be on the brink of crying.

“You seriously expect me to just- To just ‘yes, and’ you, clap and follow along?”

Aziraphale’s face twinges into a pained grimace, his breath briefly shudders. He has that dreaded, terrified look in his eyes again - just like the last time, just before they parted ways after the kiss. Crowley can’t find it in himself to care. He is an open wound that has never fully healed.

“ Somebody , you do.” Crowley says under his breath. He can’t tell whether he’s disappointed or surprised. He raises a hand to his forehead, then slowly rakes fingers through his hair. “You do, don’t you?”

“I- It’s-” Aziraphale opens his mouth, but closes it and tries again after a moment. “It’s not about us. It’s the whole Earth we’re talking about.”

“Right.”

Surely this is better than addressing the elephant in the room. Crowley will gladly bite, eat the bait that definitely has jagged nails hidden inside. He’ll skewer the roof of his mouth for this. One last time. For old time’s sake. 

“Right.” Crowley murmurs again. “I’ll see you around when it comes to it, or whatever.”

Aziraphale flinches again. He turns his head away, tears threatening to come rolling down his cheeks. Crowley remembers New Year’s, gentle thumbs brushing under his eyes, it’s okay . He clenches his jaw until he feels a sharp pain, then resumes heading - fleeing - towards the doors, determined not to look back because it will serve him better than caring again . “Ciao.”

But unlike the last time they parted ways, Crowley doesn’t wait by the Bentley for, well, a miracle. He slams the doors of his car shut, snaps his fingers in the direction of the ignition, and drives away before he changes his mind. He feels air blowing right through his chest because he's empty , hollow , because there's nothing where his beating hearts used to be. He feels only the echo of the beat on the left, a distant, faint sound reaching through the vertigo roaring inside of him, ripping him apart and leaving nothing. I need you to help me. I need you. I need you.

“Do you, now?” He murmurs under his breath, anger reverberating in his throat. The leather steering wheel creaks under his hands. 

Bentley quietly takes him back to his flat in Mayfair, taking the quickest route without his knowledge. Crowley just sits in the driver’s seat, looking dead on with a distant, unfocused gaze, and listens to blood rushing in his ears. He moves through a haze, doors to the building, the elevator and then his flat opening for him even though he doesn’t remember using magic to move them.

The silence of his apartment is a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding in his head. He rolls his right shoulder, wincing as it once again protests at any sort of movement, and takes his shoes off, throwing them against the wall. Just as he moves down the hallway and in the direction of the living room, dreaming about the cold leather sofa awaiting his arrival, he hears a knock on the doors so sudden that it makes him jump.

“Crowley? I really need to talk to you.”

Oh, fuck off. Crowley ignores it and manages to move a few steps farther down the hall before Aziraphale speaks again:

“You know I won’t stop until I say what I have to say.” There’s a moment of silence, during which Crowley waits with a baited breath for Aziraphale to continue. “Please. It’s really important.”

He sighs, leaning his head back, and waits. He can hear Aziraphale shuffle on the other side of the doors, probably stopping himself from pacing around. The time passes, stretching from a few seconds to a few minutes, but he still can sense Aziraphale’s presence. 

The sooner it starts, the sooner it’s going to be over. Crowley reluctantly waves a hand to open the door, not bothering to look over his shoulder. The feeling of violation that Aziraphale’s intrusion causes is quickly silenced by the memory of the last time they were both in Crowley’s flat. He vividly remembers teaching the angel how to walk like he does, putting his hands on his hips and trying not to think stupid things, and he remembers the taste of fresh double espresso Aziraphale miracled for him, and the odd feeling of intimacy he experienced throughout the whole night. 

Crowley walks into the kitchen area instead of the living room like he initially wanted, and reaches towards a cupboard under the kitchen island to pull out a bottle of whisky. When he hears Aziraphale enter after him, he asks more out of habit than anything, without really thinking about it:

“Drink?”

Aziraphale lets out a breath he must have been holding, then presumably nods and says: “Please.”

He pulls out two glasses, pours whisky into one of them and pushes it across the counter in Aziraphale’s direction. The distance between them, deepened by such a simple thing as sliding a glass towards him rather than handing it over, is striking, and Crowley can clearly see it in Aziraphale’s face. He pours whisky into his own glass and then sits on a stool by the island with a heavy sigh, letting his right shoulder dangle freely as he rests his left forearm on the marble counter, and slides a hand down his face.

“I don’t appreciate the intrusion,” he mutters, pressing his lips into a line and training his gaze in the amber liquid in front of him, “but go ahead.” 

“O-okay… So, uh, I’m assuming you know what the Second Coming is, in general? God’s Last Judgement, subsequent to Jesus Christ returning to Earth?”

Crowley feels a pang of anger at the mention of Jesus, the memory of what had been done to him forever fresh in his mind. “Yeah, more or less.”

Aziraphale’s eyes linger on him for longer than they perhaps should, sending shivers down the demon’s spine. He doesn’t look up, pretending to be enamoured by the shade of orange the whisky’s turned in the light of the lamp hanging above their heads. 

Aziraphale sounds like he’s forcing himself not to stray away from the topic. “And Heaven wants to work towards it together with Hell.”

Crowley rolls his right shoulder again, not bothering to hide the pained grimace that twists his lips, and asks, a little infuriated: “See, this is what I don’t understand - if Hell and Heaven working together is what will… I don’t know, ‘jumpstart’ the Second Coming, shouldn’t we stay as far away from each other as possible?”

In the dead silence that follows, he asks himself: Do I want this, though?

Do you want this, though? - Aziraphale’s gaze asks at the same time. - Because I don’t want this.

“I… As much as this logic would make sense, I don’t think either of us could stop another Armageddon completely on our own.” He responds, sounding almost apologetic. “That is, if you would want to…?

“Oh, you know very well what I think about Armageddons and what not.” Crowley interrupts with a hiss, sending the angel a glare. 

The corner of Aziraphale’s lips barely, just barely and momentarily twitches upwards, before it’s shrouded by yet another uneasy expression. 

Crowley feels familiarity trying to take him over, beckoning him with open arms - it would be so comfortable, to slide into old habits and not feel this fragile, irritated and unsure all the time. If he gave in to it, this conversation wouldn’t be as awkward as it is, wouldn’t feel like a game of chess playing by rules he’s forgotten or never knew to begin with. 

“Okay then.” He drinks a bit of his whisky and then clears his throat, fire briefly burning in his mouth. “What do you propose we should do?”

Where he expects Aziraphale’s face to light up like it always did when he had a plan he was dying to explain, he sees sorrow and something along the lines of grief.

“I’m still trying to figure it out.” He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then looks Crowley straight in the eyes. “But I think we might have to burn the place where Jesus is supposed to return.”

Crowley forgets about his hurting arm for a second, now overcome not with a pang, but a full on wave of rage. He grits his teeth. “Do you want to burn him alive ?”

“God, no!” Aziraphale sends him a surprised and slightly affronted look. “How could you even think that?”

“Well, you didn’t exactly hesitate when we were stopping the first Armageddon, did you?! If it wasn’t for the corporation you were inhabiting at the time, you-” 

“I know I was a fool! And you were as eager to kill the Antichrist as I was!”

Aziraphale raising his voice like that has always been a rare occurrence, and just like all the times before, it completely throws off Crowley’s train of thought. He’s left staring at the angel with his mouth slightly agape, who continues, getting off his stool and now pacing by the kitchen island. 

“I was a fool then, and I know - believe me, I do - that I’m still being a fool! I’m perfectly aware of that, and I would appreciate it if you'd stop rubbing it in! I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

For the first time today, when Aziraphale looks at Crowley, there's a gleam of stubbornness in his eyes and a determined furrow to his brow. No more incurable grief, trembling lips or tears threatening to roll.

“But this is the whole world we’re talking about. And while I do think this… matter , er… this situation we shared shouldn't be swept under a rug and go unacknowledged, I believe now may not be the best time to really dissect it.”

Crowley swallows slowly, the throbbing beginning to really get to him. He can almost feel the shock collar’s weight on his neck, if only it was actually real. He's trying to figure out whether he actually wants to talk about what happened - if he wants to fix things. They've fallen out dozens of times before, but this is different. This is the point of no return to the way things were. They can either leave their friendship, or something more than that, to rot, or they will have to start pretty much from scratch.

But Crowley has an inkling as to how this is going to play out. While Aziraphale has always been the one to initiate vulnerable and intimate situations, he’s never had the courage to stay in them, peel off his tight armour, lower his guard and let himself be seen. With Crowley it's the opposite - he'll avoid putting himself in such situations, but when he does find himself in one, sliding off his mask is quite easy, and sometimes he even enjoys it. Right now, Aziraphale says that they should talk about this string between them, tense and ready to snap at any given moment, but Crowley suspects that this is the same Aziraphale that will later avoid the topic all together and use Heaven listening to them or some other bullshit as an excuse.

The thought leaves a sour taste in Crowley's mouth. He takes another drink of whisky to wash it out.

“So if I'm getting this righ- fuck ,” he hisses suddenly, slamming the glass back onto the table with a little too much force. It’s like someone just prodded him with a holy stick. He starts carefully massaging the top of his shoulder for the lack of any better idea to make the pain go away. “So we go to this place and burn the ground? Or something?”

Aziraphale is watching him attentively, the tilt of his brow going from determined to worried. He answers after a minute, like Crowley's words pulled him out of his thoughts. 

“I- I suppose it will do the job. We - or, actually, you could use hellfire. That should do the trick, I hope.” He stops, an indescribable expression on his face, and Crowley knows there's cogs turning in his head. “Crowley, is everything-?”

“No, don't.” He says quickly, shaking his head, then winces as another wave of pain shoots through a good half of his body, blooming from his right arm. Why can't he catch a bloody break? “Don’t… don’t pretend like it's all okay just because we're talking.”

There it is , he thinks, stifling the sense of guilt as it kindles, as he sees Aziraphale's face twist into that anguished expression again.

When he speaks, his voice contradicts his face: it's steady and unyelding.

“Crowley, you’re hurting. Let me help, please. Surely there’s something I can do.”

Crowley almost spits out: yeah, you can fucking leave me alone.

 Aziraphale’s worry, ironically, is merciless: it always leaves Crowley naked and shaking, leaves him craving more, and leaves him terrified. It’s dangerous. Being vulnerable and taking off his armour is one thing - this is different. It feels like opening up a wound that has already scarred over, like digging fingers into him and tearing him apart from the inside.

But it's also intoxicating. It's addictive. Whenever Crowley experiences it, a sense of joy is never far from all the alarm bells ringing in his head. He'll put up a fight, but he's glad to have his autonomy taken away from him in such an instance - because he knows it's for his own good. To him, it's a test of devotion - and Aziraphale almost always exceeds. The last few times - not really.

Aziraphale usually exceeded the test.

The angel stops pacing and stands by the side of the kitchen island, a good few metres between them, then shortens the distance a little bit, approaching the demon like he’s trying to tame a wild, wounded beast that’s ready to lash out at any moment. Crowley doesn’t move an inch, paralyzed with Satan knows what feelings, his right arm pulsing with pain as if it had a heart of its own. He focuses his gaze on his drink, but when Aziraphale moves again, he sees his reflection in the glass. 

“Please, Crowley.” 

“No.” He says quietly, then turns to face Aziraphale, left hand curling into a shaking fist. He says again, voice full of anger and fear: “No. You’re not going to help me.”

“If I could only use a mira-”

“ NO .”

Aziraphale jumps at Crowley’s sudden change of tone, then furrows his brow in confusion. “I just- Crowley, I only want to-”

“No! No miracles.” He repeats, bile filling his mouth to the brim. He tenses his abdominal and chest muscles to stop the sob trying to leave his throat. All of this is too much - the pain, the proximity, Aziraphale's smell that is suffocating him by the minute, the sudden care where there was none not an hour ago. “You- A miracle will make this worse. Believe me, I learned it the hard way. And besides, like I’ve already said ,” he drags a hand down his face, then pins Aziraphale down with a glare, “I don’t want your fucking help.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, protest and tell Crowley that he knows better than him, that he will help because he’s an angel, that he’s read a bloody book about human first-aid, that he just wants to help and-

Crowley bares his teeth in a snarl, angry with words that weren’t even spoken, and slowly rises from his stool to stand face to face with the angel. This conversation has been going on for too long anyway. “This is my fucking house,” and it could have been- Shut up! “I let you in despite really, really wanting to be alone. You’ve said what you had to say. “ He stops for a moment and drinks up Aziraphale’s anguished expression like it’s honey. It’s poison, really, but right now he’d rather choke on it than anything else. “I have a place in mind for where Jesus might return, maybe that’s a good place to start from. Once you figure out how to stop him from ever returning in the first place, we’ll go.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together in a thin line; he has an expression of a convict humbly listening to his sentence that he knows he deserves. Crowley has to stop himself from looking at his mouth, remembering the way it tasted and how it felt pressed against his own, and turns his gaze away. 

“You can go now, Supreme Archangel .”

So he does.

In the silence and emptiness of his already-baren apartment, left alone like he wished, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s happy with how this conversation went. The sense of victory that first washed over him is now watered-down with hollow disappointment. 

Don’t think about it - he orders himself, and walks over to the sink to pour cold water over his right arm. Clutching onto the faint relief that it brings like a man hanging on by a thread, encircled by the sound of the rushing water, he wonders if an angel’s miracle would make the pain go away. 

Days pass like a blur, filled with work at the plant shop and then reluctantly coming to the bookshop in the evenings to talk with Aziraphale about the progress he's made. Things between them are still awkward and nervous, both of them unsure where they stand and if there's a resolve to this issue. Crowley dislikes that he sees exhaustion etched into Aziraphale's face, bags under his eyes where there never used to be any in the millions of years they've known each other. 

A few times, he almost asks about it, but bites his tongue just before the words come out of his mouth. It isn’t his place to ask anymore; they could very well be strangers at this point. Perhaps if they admitted to it, things wouldn't be this fragile. 

Aziraphale is a right old mess, and pretending not to see it would be foolish of Crowley. His gaze keeps on moving to the demon's arm every now and then, even though Crowley has resolved to wear his blazer every hour of every day. It's stopped hurting, at least in the physical sense, and any pain that still lingers in his arm is purely psychosomatic, caused by the memories burned inside his mind. Aziraphale looks at Crowley with the same worry the demon saw that evening at his apartment, but besides the one time where he opened his mouth and looked like he was about to say something, he doesn’t push it, and takes Crowley's reserve with grim acceptance. 

And Crowley thinks he hates it. He'd rather they had an argument so loud that all Nine Circles of Hell would hear them, but at the same time, he can't bring himself to start it - probably out of pride or out of fear that if things go badly, there will be no relationship to mend like there is now. He wants to lock the doors to the bookshop, roll down the blinds and stop Aziraphale from hiding behind indifference like it's a haven for him. He wants to force them both to do something, anything . 

But Crowley doesn't do that, hands and mouth dead-still whenever he mulls on the possibility. Maybe he's a coward. Maybe bitterness and fragility are more predictable than joy, because he can always lean against the former if he needs to. Joy is treacherous and unsteady. Bitterness is unmoving like a rock.

It's Wednesday when Aziraphale finds the right books and reads the correct excerpts. Crowley’s there to see his face light up with nervousness and excitement, and he feels a rush of hot air hit his face upon the sight. He peels his eyes away from the angel before he can notice him staring, and folds his arms on his chest, turning to look out a window. Agreeing, however reluctantly, to be in the presence of the angel is one thing - feeling the things he’s feeling is another. The former is rather safe, it’s known like you know a beaten path; the latter is dangerous and has led Crowley astray once before. He doesn’t want to make this mistake again. 

“I, uh…” Aziraphale slowly walks over to where Crowley is standing, all while he’s still nose-deep in the book he’s holding. He eventually looks up at the demon and reaches his arm out to show him the paragraph that caught his attention. “I think this might be it. Take a look.”

Crowley pushes his sunglasses up his head, pulling back his hair, and leans forward.

“ He will return where Death was defied .” He glances up at Aziraphale to see him nodding, encouraging him to continue. “ Dead shall rise and the banished shall return. The first part is a tad ambiguous, don't you think?”

Aziraphale contains his already-racing mind pretty well, and simply nods. Crowley sighs, tells himself that so long as he keeps his distance, going back to the way things were should be fine, and stretches his lips into a grimace before they can form a smile. “Well, go on. You probably have some ideas already.” 

For just a split second, Aziraphale beams. Then he exhales and furrows his brow, the determined, indifferent mask sliding back onto his face; a mask that Crowley finds himself wanting to dig his fingers under, tear it apart and see what it’s hiding. 

He squeezes his biceps instead. 

“I think the ‘where Death was defied’ is a very broad statement, since it’s being defied everywhere in the world every day, in different ways. I’ve got a few places in my mind,” he scratches the back of his neck, then briefly looks at the demon, “same with the other part of the paragraph. But… I want to hear what you think about this.”

“Well, uh…” Crowley sputters, taken aback by Aziraphale’s words. It’s not that Aziraphale didn’t exactly listen to what Crowley had to say before - it’s that he can’t remember the last time he just asked him point blank about his opinion. “It might sound extremely self-centred, so bear with me, but we’ve been roped into quite a few situations where Death was defied. Starting with the latest: altercation during the first Armageddon. And us fooling Heaven and Hell.”

Aziraphale nods. He has a grim expression on his face; he takes the book back, marks the page with a wayward feather he finds on a nearby shelf, then gently closes it and runs a finger down its back like he’s soothing a wild beast. 

“You know, I can’t help but think that we’ve been tangled in these Armageddons and what-nots from the very start.” He says quietly with a very disheartened tone. Crowley feels shivers race down his spine. “And I’m not sure I like it. I…”

Crowley almost screams. He almost grabs Aziraphale and shakes him by the shoulders, keep going, you’ve got it!

He blinks, then quickly looks up at Crowley, chuckling nervously. “Sorry. I must just be tired. Don't listen to me.”

The demon opens his mouth, hand relaxing around his bicep and very slightly moving to reach for Aziraphale. He’s about to say what's hanging on the tip of his tongue, let all these raw feelings out and let them ravage the bookshop.

But then he doesn't. All of this is scary, and Crowley's terrified of losing whatever is left of his relationship with Aziraphale. When he speaks, he's bitter about not saying what he wants to:

“So, where do you think we should start?”  

Night flows like tar, stretching into the late hours while they discuss every potential place they might have to visit. Crowley makes a mental note to pack a box of hellish matches for the trip, then another one to give Bentley a little pep-talk before he goes to pick Aziraphale up in a few days. By the time they're finished, it’s nearly four in the morning and Crowley finds himself yawning into his hand every few minutes. He might spend the night at his shop. Maybe he’ll sleep on a wall.

He goes to the kitchen in the back to make some more cocoa; this year’s November has been particularly cold and a night without a hot drink in hand leaves him tense and covered in goosebumps, his body trying to retain as much warmth as possible. In the serene silence the bookshop has fallen into, in the break from endlessly racking his brain, trying to be as helpful as possible, his mind finally wanders.

Satan, he’s missed Aziraphale. His heart is rattling on the bars of his ribcage, trying to crawl out of it and be held in the angel’s hands. When he’s not painfully aware of what happened, when he has a moment of blissful amnesia, Crowley finds himself drifting closer to Aziraphale like a magnet, yearning for the taste of his lips and the warmth of his arms.

Confusion is a fickle thing, hard to navigate - especially now. He sighs, pouring cocoa into only one of the two cups, then grabs the full one and exits the kitchen. 

“So, when do you want me to… Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Crowley stands still for a moment, taking in the sight, then walks to where the angel is sitting slouched on the couch, head leaning sideways, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Once he gets close enough, he can hear the quietest of snores, barely discernible even in the silence. 

His heart begins to send waves of warmth through him - because what else can it do when Aziraphale is… well, he’s... 

Crowley imagines squeezing his heart dry with a fist, stop, stop, stop . He may be confused, but until he figures it all out, keeping his distance is a safer option.

But even dry and withered, his heart continues to beat, and Crowley can’t bring himself to stop it. 

Aziraphale looks peaceful, the creases in his face finally relaxed. It’s an odd thing to see him sleep in the first place; Crowley can easily remember all the times he’s seen the angel doze. Something else other than the Second Coming must be a miss, because he’s never seen Aziraphale this exhausted before. The bags under his eyes could very well be black holes. Even if slightly dishevelled hair quite suits him, it's not his style, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to either care or notice.

Crowley sets the cup of steaming cocoa down on the table, moving the papers they’ve been writing on to the side. He looks around for a blanket, finds one thrown over the back of his chair, and places it next to the angel. Then he walks back into the kitchen and takes great care in reheating the remaining cocoa as loudly as possible.

When he comes back into the main room, he finds Aziraphale awake and with his lips against the rim of his cup, blowing to cool his drink. The angel looks up, and while he doesn’t exactly smile with his lips, he does so with the corners of his eyes. Maybe that’s how they will start mending their relationship - with little things they'd otherwise pay no mind to. Maybe it won’t be so bad. 

Crowley raps anxious fingers against his own cup and stops by the chair, leaning against its side. “Long day, eh?”

Aziraphale freezes for a second, then relaxes. He nods very slowly, corners of his lips twitching as if undecided whether they should form a smile. “Yes, rather.”

“I wanted to ask…” If everything’s alright . “When do you want me to pick you up?”

“Oh! Um, let me think. Maybe… maybe the day after tomorrow - or should I say, simply tomorrow? It’s probably three or four in the morning by now.”

Crowley looks over his shoulder at the clock behind him. It says ten after four, but the clock is slow because Muriel still doesn't quite understand the concept of measuring time, so it might very well be nearly five.

“Alright. Noon sounds good?”

“Of course.”

They fall silent and Crowley can simply feel his soul stirring, trying to do anything to end this awkwardness. He takes a big sip of his cocoa, then taps his fingers on the cup again. “I should- I’ll go get some rest.”

He finishes his drink with another big swig, sets the cup on the table and then briefly looks at Aziraphale. With his heart beating heavily against his chest, he says very quietly, so that Aziraphale hopefully can't hear it: “And so should you.”

Chapter Text

They actually walk to the first place on their list. 

Crowley promptly decides to lead the way, not eager to walk arm to arm with Aziraphale and feel the galaxies of distance between them. Aziraphale doesn't say anything and simply follows along, busying himself with reading everything he has scribbled down in his notebook. On the inside, Crowley's yelling at himself to do something to break this tension. 

They quickly make their way through the streets of London, most of them busy as usual despite the weather being rather bad even for the end of November. Crowley doesn’t have to look behind him to know he hasn’t lost Aziraphale in the crowds – the smell of old books and peaches is ever prevalent, same as the angel’s vibrant presence that’s like a constant light shining on his back. Aziraphale has expressed his worry about the time before they headed out, and Crowley couldn’t find an argument against it, so the walk to St James’s Park takes them only a few minutes. It’s safer to assume they’re on a time crunch rather than not. 

But when they get to the bench, they just stand there, forgetting about the supposed deadline. Aziraphale quietly closes his notebook and puts it in a pocket in his coat. Crowley puts up the collar of his jacket, trying to shield himself from the icy breeze. Even then, he shivers, but he doubts it's from the cold.

He puts a hand in his pocket and wraps it around the hellish matchbox. He can feel Aziraphale staring. 

“Crow–”

“I know,” he says quickly, quietly. “Just give me a moment. It kind of feels like burning our past.”

Our.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Azirpahale nod. He seems to get it. It's rather comforting.

Finally, Crowley pulls out the matchbox, picks one match and carefully lights it. Aziraphale takes a few precautionary steps back. The area around then is blissfully empty, so Crowley doesn’t even check before throwing the match at the bench. The wood holds the flame, but doesn't burn. Crowley drills his gaze into the dancing shades of orange and red.

Seven matches. One down, six to go.

Fire dissipates on its own after a few minutes, leaving a miniscule pile of ash where the match was. The bench doesn't seem any different than before it was set aflame. Aziraphale writes something down in his notebook – probably that exact observation. Crowley quietly turns to face the angel and searches his face, trying to find… Find what exactly? He doesn't know. Maybe hope, hiding in the creases of his face? Maybe determination, beneath the stubble and under the eyebags? 

Aziraphale presses his lips together. His expression says ‘come on, we should go’, but in a gentle, understanding kind of way. Crowley simply nods and lets himself fall behind on the way back to the Bentley. 

Crowley slides behind the steering wheel while Aziraphale tries to make himself comfortable in the backseat on the left, as far from the demon as the car will allow. This distance – this void – is an awful thing to feel. It feels like being sucked dry of any and all emotions.

Crowley leans his head against the headrest and sighs heavily. This is going to be–

“I'm afraid this is going to be more difficult than I initially thought,” the angel murmurs, voice rigid like a tense rope. Crowley's face splits into a sour smile. He waves a hand towards the ignition and backs out of his parking space. 

“Tell me about it.”

The forced proximity they experience in the Bentley weighs on Crowley’s shoulders, and every instance where their gazes cross in the rearview mirror makes it worse. He tries to keep as much distance between them as physically possible, and wishes he could make the car longer, bigger. The first thirty minutes of the trip are especially difficult because Aziraphale is still conscious – he said something about attending a meeting later today – and they have to sit through the awkward silence together.

Finally, Crowley caves and puts on music. Freddie Mercury’s voice starts seeping through the speakers, and he clings onto it just so he doesn’t have to think about the person sitting behind him. He clings onto it so hard, he doesn’t notice when Aziraphale has fallen asleep. 

Though it’s doubtful that he’s actually fallen asleep, because his lips move as if he’s speaking. He keeps one hand clasped over the other, squeezing it rather tightly, but even so Crowley notices a gleam seeping from between his fingers when he looks over his shoulder at some point. Upon further inspection, accompanied by a car honking at him for not giving way to it like he should have, he finds a glowing circle traced all along the back of Aziraphale’s left hand.

Just what mess have you gotten yourself into, Aziraphale?

He stays silent for the duration of Aziraphale's absence, glancing over in his direction every now and then to see his lips still moving and brow drawn down pensively. If Crowley had to guess how the meeting is going, he'd say that either way it's excruciating for Aziraphale. He sees the corners of his lips twitch upwards into a nervous smile every now and then, a smile he's begun calling ‘the Heaven smile’ a long time ago.

When he sees it now, beneath the jumbled feelings occupying the space in his mind, he finds that he still hates it.

Aziraphale comes back an hour later, yawning his way back to the mortal plain just as they approach Tadfield. Crowley briefly looks at him in the mirror, easily notes that he seems exhausted, then glues his gaze back onto the road.

“We're almost there,” he says flatly, just to fill the silence. “Ten minutes or so.”

It’s easy to tell they’re nearing their destination just by looking at the weather: there’s dark clouds gathering above, a cold breeze picking up. It’s going to rain, maybe even snow a bit. Picture-perfect weather for November.

The angel nods quietly, then yawns into his hand again. “We're making a good pace.”

The corner of Crowley's lips moves upwards. Yeah, they are. He got approximately five speeding tickets while Aziraphale was gone. He presses down on the gas pedal to get a sixth one, for the hell of it .

“Should we…” Aziraphale twiddles his thumbs. Crowley notices that it's become a big give away to the angel's anxiety. “Does Adam know what's happening? Did you talk to him?”

‘And because of that you're not talking anymore? It's a very stupid reason to cut your ties with someone.’ “Yeah, I did. Quite recently, actually.”

He doesn't have to look to know Aziraphale's expression grows grim. A part of Crowley wants to push the subject, get to the bottom of it.

“I think we should stop by his, let him know what's up. Who knows if he'll be involved in this Armageddon as well,” he says instead. 

He sees the angel look out the window, almost as if not to let Crowley see his face anymore. “I think that would be good, yes.”

Crowley asks Aziraphale to ping Adam that they're coming over on his phone, then his mind is overflown with memories from the last time they were in Tadfield: sitting on a bench in the middle of the night, sharing a bottle of wine, feeling very scared and vulnerable. He remembers the drive back to London on the bus, the exact shape of Aziraphale's hand, how his knuckles felt under his thumb, how their legs were pressed against one another. 

Well, no matter. It's well in the past now.

Crowley stops the Bentley a few houses from Adam's, then looks over to the ignition to turn it off. The engine’s rumble slows down until it completely stops, leaving him and Aziraphale in deafening silence. Aziraphale checks his notebook again, even though he’s probably memorised everything in it by now. Crowley busies himself with looking over the cassettes and CD’s he has stashed, trying to find anything that hasn't turned into The Best of Queen yet. Much to his surprise, there's only one album of The Velvet Underground and one of Tchaikovsky’s compositions, the latter’s case quite beaten. He turns to look at its back and sees a price tag from Maggie’s store plastered on the bottom right. Crowley never bought anything from Maggie. 

He quickly puts the CD’s away.

Thankfully, Adam arrives a moment later, saving them from any more awkward silence. Crowley sees the teen’s brow furrow as he approaches the Bentley. 

“I figured you weren’t coming alone,” he says. 

Crowley exits the car and sends him a sour smile. He hears Aziraphale do the same. “What gave it away?”

“The ‘we’re’ in your message,” Adam explains, looking at the angel apprehensively. Aziraphale visibly deflates. 

“Hello, Adam.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

Crowley folds his arms together, feeling a mixture of defensiveness and appreciation, and steps into the teen’s line of sight. “It’s not your problem, alright?”  

Adam immediately looks over the demon’s shoulder, not even having to stand on his tiptoes. Crowley forgot how tall he's gotten, or maybe he’s grown a good few centimetres from last week. “He didn’t show up to our yearly meeting, so it is kind of my problem. I’m not being an ass in your name, if that's what you mean.”

Crowley sighs. He's not being an ass, he's just… letting Aziraphale know that he's mad.

Maybe he is being kind of an ass. He simply doesn't know how to feel.

Adam folds his arms on his chest and nods in the general direction of Aziraphale and Crowley. “What did you come here for? It's not everyday you're in Tadfield.”

“It's, uh…” the angel decides to take the lead, but still, he looks lost. Perhaps he needs to do this, perhaps it's some sort of redemption for him. Crowley isn't going to stop him. “It's Armageddon. Another Armageddon.”

Adam pales. Crowley sees the exact moment his nonchalance evaporates, like air out of a popped balloon. 

“Is it going to be like the last time?” he asks. “Am I gonna go all… Antichrist and stuff?”

“We can't be sure,” Crowley answers slowly. We. “We don't think so.”

“But we decided that it's best to inform you. I know it's not very comforting.”

“Tell me about it.” Adam's face splits into a sour grimace. He folds his forearms more tightly, and when he looks up with a worried gaze, to Crowley's surprise, he directs it at Aziraphale. “Tell me you're gonna stop it.”

“We'll do our best, Adam.” Aziraphale places a hand over his heart and bows his head. He looks solemn and broken at the same time. “I give you my word that I'll do everything in my power to stop it.”

Adam seems just a bit reassured. He moves his expectant gaze over to Crowley. Crowley rolls his eyes, but eventually does the same gesture as Aziraphale. If it's going to make Adam feel a little better, he'll bow his head down and say:

“I promise, kid.”

Adam gives him a weak smile. “Good.”

Crowley smiles back. Then he glances at his watch, then Aziraphale. “We should get going.”

“Naturally.”

“Should–” in the five years he’s known him, Crowley has never seen Adam this uneasy– “should I let Anathema and Newt know that something's coming?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look, then Aziraphale nods slowly. 

“Please. We're on a bit of a time crunch, but I'd hate to keep them out of the loop.”

Adam gives them one last nod before running off back to his house, presumably to grab his bike and get to the Jasmine Cottage. Crowley watches him until he disappears around a bend. He can't quite put a finger on it, but he thinks he feels worried. The moment the teen leaves, it starts raining, the dark clouds just waiting to be set free, and so they quickly go back inside the Bentley.

The silence in the car is broken only by the rain splattering on the windshield, yet still, it leaves Crowley’s ears ringing. It muffles the rumble of the engine as it roars to life. When they were talking to Adam, it was different – old habits took over, they talked with ‘we’ and ‘us’ instead of ‘i’ and ‘me’. The wall separating them crumbled for just a moment, letting the sun in. 

Crowley accelerates, and the screeching of the tires fills his ears in place of the nothingness. There’s no time to unpack any of that. He doesn’t want there to be time to unpack any of that.

Does he? What does he want?

One blink he’s driving the Bentley, involuntarily breathing in the smell of old books and peach flowers, the next he’s casting a flaming match onto the asphalt in Tadfield Air Base. The fire doesn’t mind the crazy rainstorm and dances on the ground until it catches whatever magical remains there are in the asphalt. Memories come crashing in almost immediately, nice knowing you, do something or I'll never talk to you again, Adam defying Death, Crowley stopping time itself, Satan. He even remembers Mister Shadwell and Madam Tracy. Flickering flames reflect in Crowley’s sunglasses, smoke and the smell of fresh asphalt fill his lungs.

Aziraphale is worried, Crowley can tell it by the way he quickly retreats back to the Bentley instead of standing in the rain with him until the fire dies down. They have only four more places on their list, but they started with seven matches in the matchbox – and God loves the number seven. Everything connected to Her is also connected with seven. Today is Thursday, the nineteenth of November. They are nowhere – or no-when – near anything connected to seven. 

It’s only well into the night, when the window wipers are tirelessly working to give Crowley a clear view of the road through the windshield, that he finally breaks the silence:

“So,” he clears his throat, “that thing on your hand.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aziraphale immediately place a hand over the one that had a glowing circle on it. Anxiety is like a cape that drapes over his back before Crowley’s eyes. “What about it?”  

“You tell me.”

Aziraphale seems like he’s about to break off into a run and disappear in a cloud of dust. He looks over both of his shoulders, as if there could be someone else in the car with them.

“Listen, I think it’d be better if I know if Heaven is picking up on our trail. So…?”

It’s like Aziraphale is forcing himself not to teleport out of the Bentley. He finally gives up fighting this urge, exhales heavily and murmurs, almost as if he’s embarrassed: “It’s a summoning circle.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows expectantly. Even in the darkness, Aziraphale can see it; he groans, exasperated.

“It’s the same summoning circle as the one in the bookshop. It’s so that I can… Sort of mentally go to Heaven and attend the rid- the meetings with the other Archangels.”

Crowley takes a sharp turn, overtaking the car that is standing on the side of the road with emergency lights on, and Aziraphale inhales equally sharply at the sudden movement. He can feel the disapproving look the angel sends his way while he regains his composure, sighing heavily and shuffling to sit straight again. 

Eventually, Aziraphale continues, taking Crowley’s silence as a continuous invite for an explanation. 

“I know that missing these meetings would raise suspicions, so I decided that this would be the safest option. A golden middle, if you will.”

“And why take the car?”

The angel turns and gives Crowley a slightly frustrated glance. “ Because a miracle to teleport to even the other part of England would also raise suspicions. It’s about two or three Lazarii.”

Crowley scoffs, murmuring under his breath: “You and your bloody Lazarii.”

Aziraphale’s grimace breaks into a smile for a split second. He twists the ring on his pinky, a pair of wings wrapping around his finger in an almost protective manner. He looks out the window, to the world shrouded by darkness and pouring rain. The window wipers screech against the windshield every now and then. “I…” Aziraphale forces his hands to steady and places them on his knees. “I do hope it’s not too much of an imposition for you and the car.” 

Crowley shrugs; there’s cold prickles travelling down his spine, tension in his hands and neck. Is it how it’s going to be now – is every moment of sincerity going to feel like a trap? “It’s fine.” 

Maybe it’s not fine – because he’s suffocating on the smell he once couldn’t get enough of, because he’s squeezing himself into his side of the car to keep as much distance between him and Aziraphale, because his mind is racing and all of this is wrong and so not okay and he needs to–  

Crowley imagines strangling his thoughts until they stop moving; strong, unwavering hands wrapping around a frail neck with practised ease. He yawns into his elbow, brushing off this feeling, then waves a hand to miracle away the exhaustion. They will take a short break after they’re done in Scotland so he can take a nap. “Let’s just save the world.” 

Soho, London, 13th of July 1985

Aziraphale presses a finger on the paragraph he just finished and reaches for the bottle of cider next to him, still refreshingly cool thanks to his miracle. He doesn't stop to enjoy the taste and immediately goes back to his book. The outside world may very well not exist to him right now. 

He picked this book up by accident, drawn to it by what he later realised was nostalgia, and forgot about ever purchasing it until he came back to the bookshop from his errands. Unpacking his bags, the cover suddenly appeared amongst other knick-knacks tumbling around, and that's when it hit Aziraphale why he bought the book. ‘Cosmos’ – you could say that's where he and Crowley met. 

Most of the information in the book is false: the supposed age of the universe, age of planet Earth and all that, but at least they got the stars right. The author writes about the magnificence of the world, that all life on Earth is a miracle (to be frank, it is; just the singular biggest that was ever performed) and with every word, Aziraphale realises he is more and more engrossed in the story, even if it’s not a work of fiction.

Evening turns into night, the sky finally begins to fade until it gets properly dark somewhen after ten. The bookshop is blissfully quiet apart from the gentle swaying of the blinds when a gust of air sweeps through a cracked window, and thanks to the location of the whole place, it's not too hot from the sun (though it could be better). Aziraphale drags a finger around his collar, loosening the bow tie a little bit, and after a moment of thought decides to fully untie it and leave it draped around the back of his neck. 

It's midnight when he hears tires screech to a halt on the street outside; he's heard the sound so often in his existence that he doesn't have to look up from his book to know that it's the Bentley. Soon after, there's a heavy knock on the doors. 

“Angel.” Crowley hums some tune under his breath, then knocks again. “Angel. Aaaangel .”

“Coming, coming.” 

Once he unlocks the doors and swings one side open, he finds Crowley leaning against one of the pillars, already-messy hair properly dishevelled, his black leather vest looking a little worn. He has a loopy, slightly crazed smile on his face.

“ Satan , Angel.”

Aziraphale readjusts the collar of his shirt, pulling it away from his neck with a finger. Crowley has called him ‘Angel’ four times already; it’s a nickname – an endearment – that’s never been used so frivolously before. He sees Crowley’s eyes slowly move up his undone bowtie, eyebrow raising in surprise. 

“Yes, Crowley?”

Crowley snaps out of his thoughts and sends Aziraphale the widest grin possible. He nods at the doors. “I just had an amazing night. Can I come in?”

Aziraphale steps back, waving a hand invitingly. Crowley slithers inside, bumping into the other door with his shoulder, and stumbles towards the couch. 

“I can tell you did.” Aziraphale’s lips twist into a smile, watching Crowley sit down with a heavy sigh and throw his arms behind his head. “Would you like a drink? Water, cider?”

“D’you have any beer? Cider’ssss–” the demon smacks his lips– “not nice.”

Aziraphale gasps jokingly and walks over to the kitchen. “I’m appalled you think that.”

Turns out, Crowley was at a concert – a Queen’s concert, to be precise, though Aziraphale has a hard time differentiating between when Crowley’s talking about a band and when – or if at all – he’s talking about the Queen of England. There’s a lot of hand waving and onomatopoeias involved in his story, most of which Aziraphale can’t catalogue under any sounds of Crowley’s that he’s grown to recognise, but he thinks that he gets the jist of it: that Crowley indeed had an amazing night. 

Crowley then takes it upon himself to show Aziraphale exactly how he had fun by playing out what he did at the concert itself.

“Whoo-wee! And then-! And then they-! Bang, bang, waa!” He jumps off the chair like it’s a trampoline, and somehow lands steadily on his feet without spilling too much of his beer. Aziraphale watches him with a wide grin. “And then Mercury just went: ‘Eeh-ooh!’ And we went: ‘Eeh-ooh!’”

Aziraphale laughs, then snaps his fingers at the carpet under the demon’s feet to make the beer stains disappear. “Crowley, as riveting as it is, can you at least put your drink down?” 

He grumbles, humming presumably a Queen’s song under his breath, and saunters over to the table to put the bottle down. It’s only thanks to Aziraphale expecting it and catching it in time that it does actually land on the table and not on the floor. “Care to sit down maybe?”

“Naaaaaah. I’m having fun , Angel! Come on!” The demon waves a dismissive hand while also inviting Aziraphale to join him, stumbling back towards the carpet like he’s an actor on a stage. “And then the drums went: bang! Bang, bang, bang! Crash, waaa, bang!” 

Oh dear – Aziraphale thinks helplessly, warmth blooming in his chest, but still, he laughs. Truth be told, he hasn’t felt this happy and free in a while. Maybe it’s thanks to seeing Crowley literally beaming like a star. His smile is contagious, making Aziraphale’s lips twist upwards completely on their own. 

“And it was jus- Just magical, Angel.” Crowley finally stops dancing – stumbling – around the bookshop, breathless and with flushed cheeks. He seems a tad less drunk than before – maybe he walked off some of the alcohol. “It was just fucking amazing.”

Aziraphale smiles at him earnestly. “I’m very happy to hear it, Crowley. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Yeah, you should have fucking seen me there. I probably jumped the highest out of all the beings in the stadium.”

He laughs. “Of course you did.”

Crowley drags a hand down his face, then walks back over to the table and grabs his bottle of beer. He paces himself a bit more with the remains of his drink.

“You used to dance quite a lot, didn't you?” he asks.

Aziraphale smiles into the rim of his cider bottle and shrugs. “I did. I still would, had gavotte not run out of fashion.”

Crowley grumbles again, a sound Aziraphale neatly catalogues under ‘Well, I have a strong opinion about what you just said’. He notices the exact moment the demon uses a miracle to refill the bottle; Crowley smacks his lips right after another sip. They both know he can't ever get his miracle drinks quite right.

“You could have just asked for another bottle.” Aziraphale motions behind him, in the direction of the kitchen. “There's still a few in the fridge.”

Another grumble. Crowley sets the empty bottle on a book that had the bad luck of being in his field of vision, then extends a hand towards Aziraphale and looks him deep in the eyes. Even drunk, his tone is genuine when he says:

“Show me.”

It's hard doing the routine by himself, especially because he's trying his best to remember the steps, but besides a few fumbles, Aziraphale thinks he's doing rather well. Crowley stays on the edge of the dancefloor, bobbing his head to the music with a silly, wide grin, and he seems utterly enamoured. Just as the song crackles to an end on the vinyl record, he strides closer, waving a hand to turn the stereo on and not giving Aziraphale a moment to take in what’s happening. 

Music of this decade is not exactly to his taste – there's just so much going on in it – but it's easier to enjoy it with a demon making an absolute fool of himself next to him. Crowley moves like, well, a snake, and makes such silly faces while he mouths the lyrics of the chorus, it’s–

It’s endearing. And maybe it’s the alcohol speaking through him, or maybe Aziraphale has grown tired of pretending, because he musters up enough courage and takes Crowley’s hand into his own, leading him into a dance. 

And Crowley doesn’t seem to mind at all. He laughs, candescent and beaming like a star.

Even drunk, he picks up what Aziraphale is putting down rather well, and soon they’re doing a simple gavotte routine to Queen’s music still playing from the stereo. It’s such an irregular circumstance that it shouldn’t be working, and yet it does so perfectly. 

“Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?”

“Oh, I love this one, Angel! Come on, gimme me a hand!” Crowley exclaims, hurriedly reaching for Aziraphale. He barely has the time to register that one song ended and another began, before Crowley pulls him into a truly magnificent dance. 

“If I’m not back again this time tomorrow… Carry on!” Crowley shakes his head, cackling, and spins them around. “Carry on!” 

Oh dear, Aziraphale thinks, helplessly staring at the demon’s face and feeling his heart swell. Oh, my stars.

From then, Crowley goes a little wild – just like the song playing – leaving Aziraphale to dance alone next to him, not enjoying the music as such, but still very much enjoying himself. He watches the demon jump onto a nearby chair, jump off of it with a spin, then spin around some more, then vigorously headbang, and then he’s taking Aziraphale’s hand again–

The melody slows down, drums and guitars giving way to the piano once more. They’re swaying left and right again, a lot more calmly than before. Just as the song ends, Crowley makes Aziraphale do a one last spin, then joins both of their hands together and stops. 

It hangs in the air – that something is about to happen. Aziraphale waits for it with a baited breath, staring into Crowley’s eyes, that gorgeous yellow of his irises even prettier in the evening lights. 

Crowley moves just a little towards Aziraphale. He does the same. There’s less than a foot separating them. 

Then Crowley inhales sharply, like he’s just broken himself out of a train of thought, and mumbles very quietly, almost like he’s telling himself off:

“Sorry, too fast.” 

It's like a slap across the cheek, a punch to the gut. Aziraphale feels blood rushing out of his face, leaving him pale. His mind begins to race. What have I done, what have I done, whathaveidone, whathaveidone .

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s hands and takes a step back, then another. “Sorry.” He doesn't even finish his beer, and instead only grabs his vest and goes to the door.

No, please don't, it's–

“Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

He leaves Aziraphale right there, in the middle of what turned into a dance floor and then became just a carpet again, heart bleeding, hands empty where they were full not a minute ago, and with tears welling up in his eyes. He stares at the doors like he can make Crowley come back with just a glance. Right now, he wishes he could. 

“No,” he says into the silence, shaking his head slowly, “ I’m sorry.”

It rains through most of the night and begins clearing up only as the morning finally comes. It's still quite dim by the time they reach Edinburgh, the old architecture of the city painted bright orange with street lamps. Crowley rolls down his window in hopes that the cold, fresh air will make him feel a little more awake. In the back, Aziraphale shuffles in his seat, trying to get a better view of the city through his window. He's been silent for most of the seven hours they spent in the car, and only once asked about whether they were in Scotland already, but now the absent, sorrowful expression on his face makes space for something a bit more relaxed. Crowley even notices a slight uptick of his lips in the rearview mirror. 

Whereas the drive to Edinburgh was manageable, the walk to the graveyard is far from it. They pass by the pub Crowley went to after his life crumbled into pieces – he still remembers the exact taste of the whiskey he was served, how it didn't take much to make the bartender give him the whole bottle – then The Resurrectionist has Aziraphale walking faster, checking his watch and notebook just so he doesn't have to look at the place. From then, their path to the cemetery is pretty much the same as the one they took with Elspeth and Wee Morag.

The graveyard itself is the worst. Think you can just stop a suicide without repercussions? I'll show you. Crowley brushes his arms up and down, hoping to ease the goosebumps that quickly cover his skin, and holds his breath until his heart slows down to a normal rate. Aziraphale tries to keep up with his brisk pace without saying a word. Just what the fuck were you thinking? Crowley glares at Gabriel's statue, remembers the pain in his knuckles when he punched it relentlessly six months ago, and holds his breath again. Thump, thump, thump. You almost got a soul for our master, you idiot. Aziraphale stops by the statue and watches it with a furrowed brow, but Crowley, pushed by the feeling of impending doom that only grows the longer he's on the grounds of the graveyard, walks past him and straight to the tiny chapel. I'll let our master know that you're sorry, don't you worry, you scum.

He digs a shaking hand into the pocket of his coat, pulls out the matchbox and looks over his shoulder to see Aziraphale coming in hurriedly. He has a question ready on his lips, it's plain to see, but just as he's about to say it, Crowley lights the match and casts it onto the floor where he drank the laudanum, and takes a step back. 

He doesn't want to hear whatever Aziraphale has to say. Not here, not now. Not ever.

He waits until the fire catches on whatever magical residue that lingers on the ground, nods for no particular reason, then storms out of the chapel and out of this fucking graveyard. He stops to wait for Aziraphale only once he’s by the gate, and when the angel finally catches up with him, a little out of breath, Crowley immediately begins walking back to the car. 

“Cr- Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, already falling behind because he's never been one to take long strides when walking. “Could you just wait for a moment?”

“I'm sure whatever you want to do can be done in the car!” 

Aziraphale stops abruptly and sends him an annoyed look. “I’m not talking about that!” 

Crowley groans, stopping as well, and turns to face the angel. He just wants to get out of the city. Planning a break here was a bad idea, but he couldn't have imagined how difficult and triggering being in Edinburg would be. Perhaps they can make a quick stop on their way back to England, or maybe he'll just miracle the exhaustion away on the go until all of this is over. Anything so that he doesn't have to stop and think about what's happening to him and what happened to him. 

And Aziraphale is forcing him to do just that.

“Can you–” Aziraphale drags a hand through his hair, making it even more dishevelled than it already was from the damp air. “What's happening?” 

“Why do you care?”

“Is this how it's going to be? You're just gonna… shut me out till the end of time, which may very well be near?”

“What the fuck do you want me to do, then?” Crowley snaps. He looks Aziraphale up and down accusingly. “It’s not easy. This is not easy. You’re just– You’re watching from the sidelines. I am the one that’s casting the flame. I –” Crowley points a finger at his chest– “am the one burning our past.”

“It would be foolish of me to wield a hellish match every time,” Aziraphale explains, tone still a little annoyed. “I can do it the next time, if that would make you feel better, but I don’t think this is about that!”

“Oh, fuck off!”

He puts his hands on his hips and paces, eyes still trained on the angel. He presses his lips together, exasperated, and shakes his head. 

“I don't want to talk about it. Let's just go to the car.”

“Didn't you want to take a break here?” Aziraphale furrows his brow. “I thought–”

“It can wait. I'm fine.”

Aziraphale takes a cautious step towards him, like he's trying to diffuse a ticking bomb. He cocks his head to the side, a worried look on his face. “ Crowley .”

Crowley steps back, the previous anxiety now back in his body. He's fucking terrified is what he is, and he's struggling to comprehend why – because it's not just about the graveyard and everything that happened there nearly two hundred years ago. “Don't! Just– just don't .” 

He watches Aziraphale give up trying to make him talk: the exhausted expression creeps back onto his face. 

Crowley swallows past the bile in his throat. He shouldn’t have agreed to this trip, he shouldn’t have heard Aziraphale out. He could have figured it all out on his own, saved the world on his own. This is becoming way too much. “Let's go. We'll take a break once we get back to England.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale closes the distance between them just a little more. “You shouldn’t just drop this like it’s nothing.”

“What the fuck do you know about how things should be, eh?!” Crowley whips his head around, baring his teeth. He doesn’t care that they’re beginning to receive weird stares from the humans walking past them. “What, because you’re an angel, a do-gooder , everyone else’s opinion fades in comparison to your bloody ideas?!”

“That is not what I said!” 

“I don’t care what you said, okay?! I don’t– I don’t want to talk about this, get it? Why won't you listen to me?”

“I–” Aziraphale looks like he's just got air punched out of his chest. “I am lis–”

“ I don't care . I'm going. You can stay here if you want.” 

He nearly jogs back to the Bentley, but to his disappointment, Aziraphale doesn’t fall too far behind and gets inside right after him. Crowley doesn’t miss a beat and turns on the ignition, clutching onto the rumble of the engine with all the might he can spare – anything to tune out the fact that Aziraphale is sitting right behind him and that all of this is so wrong .  

It’s only thirty minutes into their journey back to England that gnawing on his thoughts becomes too much for Crowley and he breaks the deafening silence. 

“I don’t want you barging into my matters like that.”

There’s not a single muscle on Aziraphale’s face that moves. He keeps his gaze glued to the world passing outside the window, and with a very distant and sorrowful voice replies: “Okay.”

Crowley clenches his jaw and rolls his eyes. This conversion feels like trying to take off a shirt that is three sizes too small – it’s claustrophobic, makes him want to move around just so he knows there’s space he can fill with his person. 

“I need you to understand that things can’t just go back to the way they were.” 

Aziraphale nods very slowly. He seems disassociated. 

“Aziraphale, this isn’t a monologue.” Crowley spares him another glance in the rearview mirror. “I need to know if you’re listening to what I’m saying.”

Aziraphale crosses his gaze with Crowley’s in the reflection. “I’m always listening, Crowley.” He looks away again; he seems like he’s drowning – in what, though? – and is barely keeping his face above the surface. “I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt that I didn’t listen to you. It was not my intention.”

“Well, I didn't usually feel heard,” he murmurs, the bitterness of his tone leaving a weird aftertaste in his mouth. The silence is tense, like a rubber band that is about to break. 

Aziraphale caves into himself a little more. He reminds Crowley of an armadillo curling into a ball, tucking away from reality.

“I'm sorry,” is all he says, barely keeping his voice even. “I'm sorry I made you feel that way.”

Crowley thinks he isn't talking about just one thing – he's talking about everything that happened. 

He focuses on not letting his gaze stray towards the rearview mirror again. It won’t do him, or Aziraphale, any good. It’s better that way. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing, plays in Aziraphale's head over and over again; it's the last thing he hears before he's pulled into a meeting with Heaven or falls asleep, and it's the first thing he hears when the meeting ends or when he wakes up.

Maybe this was a mistake , he thinks at some point, just as they cross the English border, when Crowley puts on music to fill the silence; it's a gesture that lets them pretend that there's nothing to talk about – that there's nothing that can be fixed. This should have gone differently. 

Many things should have gone differently.

  In the rare moments he's conscious, Aziraphale focuses on taking in all of the sights of their journey, urged by the feeling that if they – he – mess up, all of this will be gone. He figures that if he has the memory of this beautiful world forever fresh in his mind, he'll be so scared of losing it that he'll do everything in his power to save it. No half measures. 

Every time he thinks about the world, his gaze instinctively drifts towards Crowley; if he won't be there with him even if they do save humanity, none of it will matter. And every time Crowley generally pops up in Aziraphale's mind, he keeps thinking back to their fight in Edinburgh. I should have pushed more. I should have pushed less. Neither option seemed like the right one. The more they sit in this mess, the less it seems like there is a way out of it. 

He awaits the moment they reach whatever destination Crowley chooses for his break with dread that covers his skin in goosebumps. The air in the car carries the threat – promise – of a conversation waiting to happen, like the smell of ozone indicating that there's a storm coming. 

I should be –

“...Archangel Aziraphale! Glad you could join us.”

He closes his eyes and tries to adjust to the sudden rush of the summoning, focusing really hard on stopping the world from spinning. Bugger . Attending these meetings in such a messy manner is not very pleasing, neither in the physical nor mental way. He smiles through the wave of nausea at Metatron, then chuckles. “Always ready when you need me.”

“How are the preparations going, then?” Michael asks, their forced smile so sour Aziraphale can taste it in his own mouth. “Is the opposition… cooperating ?” 

When you think about it, the opposition is very much not cooperating. At the very best, which hardly ever occurs, it's staying neutral towards everything Aziraphale is doing. 

“Yes,” he answers, weighing out every word as he goes, “we're on our way to… our destination. To– You know, to get it going!”

Metatron smiles. They either don't pick up on what Aziraphale is doing, or they're perfectly aware of it and are playing along just for the… Heaven of it. Uriel and Saraqel exchange a look; Aziraphale isn't sure whether they're confused about the expression or if it's something completely different. 

Uriel looks at him, their gaze blank as ever. “So everything is going smoothly?” 

‘I don't want you barging into my matters like that.’  

“It is, yes.”

What on Earth am I doing? – he asks himself yet again. 

“The Almighty has been asking about, you know?” Metatron says casually, clasping their hands behind their back. “She's been very curious as to how you've been faring as an Archangel.”

Aziraphale freezes; every muscle in his body contracts and doesn't relax. Then the bitterness comes, and maybe he's too tired to stop it like he usually would, because he lets it fill his mind. 

Does She, now?

When he's feeling like that, it's easy to smile like nothing is happening. “It's… It's something I'm still getting used to,” he admits, surprised with his sudden honesty, “but I assure you, I'm honoured to be in this position. Nothing brings me more joy than fulfilling God's Great Plan.”

Or working to go against it. Or maybe he and Crowley are unknowingly doing exactly what The Plan wants them to. It's always hard to tell. 

Metatron smiles again, satisfied with the answer. Aziraphale savours the bitterness in his mouth so that he doesn't say something stupid and ruin everything.  

The meeting goes on for a while longer, concerning Heavenly matters that could have been handled without talking them over, but Aziraphale has given up trying to heal Heaven's bureaucracy very early in his archangelic career. When the others finally begin to disperse, he takes a deep breath and traces a finger along the summoning circle on his hand, then feels the rush of the journey ruffle his hair like a strong breeze.

He comes back to see dull-coloured hills and a sky surprisingly free from clouds. Yawning into his hand, he looks over the passenger seat at the clock; it's around one in the afternoon. 

The bliss doesn't last long; pain and sorrow quickly hit him like a train. 

“We've just passed York,” Crowley murmurs, briefly looking at him in the mirror. It's the first sentence he's said to Aziraphale since their departure from Edinburgh. “I'm thinking we'll take a stop in London, after we're done with the next place on the list.”

Aziraphale twiddles his thumbs. “Um, could we–” He scrambles to find something to land his gaze on something other than the rearview mirror, and finds that the landscape is too barren to provide him with anything. He settles for the line of horizon. “Could we stop somewhere closer to Folkstone? Perhaps… Ashford?” 

Crowley cocks his head to the side, then clicks his lips. “I don't see why not. I can wait till then.”

“If you want to take a break–”

“It's fine.” Crowley glances at him in the mirror again, for no more than a split second. His tone is blank but surprisingly gentle, given the circumstances they're in. “I'm fine.”

But he presses down on the gas pedal even more; the engine roars a little louder, higher. Even though he's grown accustomed to the speed of the car, Aziraphale feels how the rush presses him deeper into the seat. He lets it crowd him like a weighted blanket. 

He naps for the duration of their trip from York to London, literal stones weighing down his eyelids. The sound of the engine fades out, the music gets quieter, the car stops shaking as much as it usually does. It's almost like he's driving in a cloud. It's nice . I could get used to this. This thought lulls him into a deeper sleep, then gently pulls him out of it. 

He can hear Crowley quietly humming a song, tapping a beat on the steering wheel with a finger. The thought attacks him again. It's so nice, domestic, and serene. If he doesn't speak, it can last longer. 

As they approach the western part of London, even without looking at Crowley, Aziraphale knows he's growing more anxious by the minute. The church was a very close call, more so than their performance on the West End, for both of them. Azirahale almost got discorporated; Crowley, apart from really burning his feet, stood way too close to a well of holy water for way too long. Many things could have gone wrong.

But they trusted each other. Now it's really hard to tell what the other is feeling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, hoping maybe he'll pull him away from the dark thoughts that are most probably occupying his mind, “how do you propose we go on about this?”

He glances at him in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed. For some reason, it's easier for him to look Aziraphale in the eyes that way. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the church.” He twists the ring on his pinky finger, squeezes his hand into a fist, then flexes it. “Consecrated ground, wells of holy water… Humans are the least of our concern.”

Crowley sighs heavily. He drums on the steering wheel with his fingers. 

“I don't know. But…” he takes a wide turn and pulls up to the church's driveway– “we have some time to figure it out. People are just entering.”

Aziraphale follows Crowley's gaze; it seems like a service is about to start. He readjusts in his seat and tries to figure out how he can lead this conversation without it ending in another argument or with Crowley distancing himself even more. 

“I could… I could go myself,” he offers. 

“No.” He's surprised with how much determination he hears in the demon’s voice. “No. You're not risking burning yourself with hellfire for this.”

Warmth spreads through Aziraphale. It gives him hope that he scarcely allows himself to feel. 

“Following that train of thought, you can't go in there alone and risk getting in contact with holy water.”

“It's not as risky.”

It's Aziraphale's turn to sound stubborn. “It is .”

Crowley makes a complicated sound, one that sounds along the lines of ‘Well, I mean…’, but doesn’t oppose him. He fidgets with the tie on his neck for a good few minutes before he finally speaks again:

“I think we should both go. Let’s just be quick about it.”

Aziraphale nods. Then, after a moment of wrestling with himself, risks it all by adding, smiling a little, “I’ll just stand on the side where the holy water is.”

It’s hard to recognise the sound Crowley makes in response. 

Aziraphale gets out of the car for a little walk while they wait for the service to be over, because he can’t bear anymore of the tension or the silence. Taking a route through the small cemetery surrounding the sides of the church, he savours the few minutes of peace where he doesn’t have to worry about Heaven, averting another Armageddon and the messed-up remains of his relationship with Crowley. The last one is especially difficult to withstand.

He stops by a random gravestone and leans against it, turning his head up towards the sky. It’s too bright of an area for there to be many stars visible, but he gladly finds a few. He takes a deep breath, scrunches up his nose at the pungent smell of smog filling his airways, and tries to memorise the feeling of cold stone pressing against his palms. His mind goes back to 1941; he can easily picture where everyone stood when the bomb exploded the church, the exact rush of feelings when Crowley handed him back his books, how he casually offered a lift home afterwards like he didn’t just set Aziraphale’s world alight .

After fifteen-or-so minutes, he hears gravel crunching to his left. It’s Crowley, already walking in that odd manner he always uses when he’s moving on consecrated ground. 

Aziraphale springs to his feet immediately, determined to make their stop at the church as short as possible. “You could have called me!”

“I’m fine,” Crowley hisses through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

Once they enter the building, Aziraphale takes the lead, taking long strides to quickly assess the location of any and all wells of holy water present in the church. He finds only one, next to a pastor’s lectern, and positions himself in such a way that if it were to fall over, all of the water would splash on him. Crowley looks like he’s slightly struggling to get to Aziraphale – might be because the burns from the last time he walked in a church still haven’t fully healed – but he eventually makes it, with a determined furrow to his brow and an uncomfortable pull to his face. 

Aziraphale nods at the spot where he stood in 1941, fishing out his notebook and pen, and takes a cautionary step back. With shaking hands, I’m so sorry, Crowley, that you’re suffering like that , Crowley pulls out the matchbox, lights the match on the third try and throws it to the ground. 

A well of holy water to his back and a hellish fire right in front of him. How did we get here?

Aziraphale is surprised to see Crowley wait until the fire dissipates, jumping from one foot to the other with a hiss each time; once there’s nothing more than a small pile of ash left, the demon nearly jogs out of the church. Just as Aziraphale exits the building, he sees him jump into the Bentley.

They pull out of the driveway in silence; Aziraphale writes down in his notebook that, if his assumptions are correct, they successfully eliminated another place from their list, leaving them with two more – West End Stage and Paris. Crowley groans a little as he presses on the gas pedal, the line of his shoulders tense. Aziraphale can hardly imagine what he must be feeling – his burns from the fire in the Library of Alexandria took about a hundred years to heal, let alone fade, but he had Crowley’s miracles to help speed the process. Maybe he can– 

“Right,” Crowley sighs, popping the ‘t’ to mask the hiss waiting to be set free from his mouth. “Royal Opera House, right?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale forgets about the rearview mirror, their way of peaceful communication, and leans forward in his seat, looking at Crowley’s face. “Would you like me to help you? With the pain, I mean?”

The demon shakes his head. “No,” he says quickly, but doesn’t sound so sure. Aziraphale has learned not to push it, though.

Crowley parks on Floral Street and turns the car off, hissing one last time when he presses on the breaks, then leans his head back. Aziraphale’s mind has already drifted off to other things to distract him, when the demon brings himself together and says quietly:

“Actually, I could use a miracle.” 

Crowley turns his head and briefly looks at Aziraphale over his shoulder, reluctance etched into the frame of his body – though it seems that the pain is overpowering everything else. He scoots to the side of his seat, signalling at him to come sit in the front with him.

Aziraphale sits down in the passenger seat like it’s his first time here, but orders himself to focus on the task at hand before his mind can drift off again. He turns to face Crowley a little better and waits for him to make the next move. They can fix it – all of it – one step at a time, one from Aziraphale, next from Crowley. Crowley slides off his shoes, leaving them by the gas pedal, pulls one leg up to his chest, then the other, leans his back against the door and grows still. 

Aziraphale waits. He can wait a hundred years if he needs to. 

Eventually, Crowley moves again, breaking himself out of his train of thought, and pulls up the cuff of his right leg. “Here,” he murmurs, motioning at the area just above his ankle. “It should do the trick.”

Crowley’s wearing black socks with a burgundy rim around the top. Aziraphale doesn’t know why it attracts his attention so much. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s something domestic – knowing what kind of socks your friend wears. It doesn’t regard saving the world, Heaven, Hell or any other grand thing. It’s something so mundane one barely notices it.

He double checks if Crowley does want this, looking him in the eyes, then slowly reaches his hand and wraps it around his leg. He’s immediately hit with the thoughts – memories – about the warmth of Crowley’s skin, something that engraves itself into his mind a little deeper with each time their bodies touch. He draws the magic with his other hand and focuses on directing the miracle towards Crowley’s foot, like directing a stream of water into a groove he carved out for it. 

“Oh, bless ,” the demon whispers, sighing with relief and leaning his head back. Aziraphale quietly does the same thing with his other leg, and holds back a smile trying to twist his lips. 

“It’s not much,” he says timidly, “but I hope it helps.”

Crowley sighs again; he doesn’t stop himself from smiling a little. “It does. Thank you… Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale caves and smiles back. He doesn’t stall, worried he might overstep if he stays in the passenger seat, and retreats to his old spot in the back of the car. The silence isn’t as difficult to bear as it was before – now, there’s a thread of understanding, of gratitude, connecting them.

They leave London when the clock strikes two in the morning; the play took longer than they anticipated, so they decided to see the second half of it. Even without knowing the beginning of the story, Aziraphale sat through the whole thing utterly enamoured, drinking up the way the actors’ costumes looked in the lights, the music, everyone’s talent. Crowley splayed himself out in his seat, resting one leg on the chair in front of him and hanging the other over the armrest; he sat through the play quietly and without moving an inch, sometimes smiling at something one of the characters said.

It was easy to make themselves go unnoticed by the humans when the play ended and everyone started leaving. When the room was finally empty, a singular light shining onto the stage, Aziraphale once again got hit with a wave of memories: the bullet-catch and its aftermath. It felt like the picture stored in the inner pocket of his jacket was glowing, burning his skin, begging to be held again and acknowledged. If it wasn’t killing you, I wouldn’t let you leave and lay low. If it wasn’t killing me, I’d tell you everything my heart sings with every beat. How much it burns me, to feel this. Somehow, these words still rang true. It was a confusing realisation.

Crowley cleared his throat, breaking Aziraphale out of his reminiscing, and nodded at the stage. When they stood on it, the demon to his left, it felt like they were doing another stunt, but this time the audience was nowhere to be seen. Crowley looked around the room for a long moment – Aziraphale suspected he was reminiscing as well – before he pulled out the matchbox, checked whether he was standing in the right spot, and cast the match.

Five down. One more to go. The picture in Aziraphale’s coat continued to burn, like a piece of metal gone white from the heat. 

Crowley sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the headrest. The Bentley turns itself off, leaving only the headlights on, and quietly unlocks his door, almost like it’s asking him to get out. Maybe it’s grown tired of him. He wouldn’t be surprised – he’s not gonna drive a car for a month once all of this is over.

He eventually exits the car and leans against the hood, pocketing his sunglasses and pulling one leg up to the mudguard; he watches the headlights cast long, bright lines on the ground, insects flying through them, making it seem like there’s dust dancing in the air. A cold breeze blows, ruffling his hair in all directions, so he rakes a hand through it and pulls it all back. It’s grown longer than he’d like it to be, but he hasn’t had the time to go about cutting it. 

He waves a hand towards the ground, then again, and looks over his shoulder. It doesn’t seem like Aziraphale will exit the car any time soon. He might as well get comfortable now. 

Crowley sits down on the blanket he miracled for himself, leaning his back against the hood of the car next to one of the headlights. One more flick of his wrist and he’s got a small pillow next to his leg, waiting for him to rest his head on it like a pair of open arms waiting for a lover. The ground underneath him is mostly cold rather than damp, and the remains of grass make a quite comfortable surface to be laying on. Things could be worse. He’s not going to sleep in the car – he’s done it enough when Shax was the ambassador of Hell on Earth. Besides, a cold November night, as opposed to the toasty interior of the Bentley, will be a nice change of pace. 

Aziraphale gets out of the car when Crowley’s eyelids have grown heavy; he moves carefully, so as not to disturb him – not that he’s sleeping, not yet – and stops in front of the empty blanket that Crowley just so happened to miracle for a good minute. 

Crowley nods at the poor bundle of fabric lying on the ground, go on, it’s yours to use . Aziraphale grabs the edge of it and pulls it farther away from Crowley than it was before, sits down, then lies on his side, back facing the demon. 

Maybe it’s the way Aziraphale just put more distance between them, or that he can’t even face Crowley, that steals sleep out of Crowley’s eyes. He was the one distancing himself – now, he’s the one regretting he ever did. He can see Aziraphale slipping through his fingers with every passing minute. And it’s his fault.

This far out of a city as small as Ashford, everything that’s out of reach of the headlights is swallowed by the void. Crowley drills his gaze into the line where the light ends and the darkness begins; he tries to find the grey area where the two sides meet. There’s a thing that’s not letting him rest. 

“Why did you come back, Aziraphale?” he asks, barely stirring the silence of the night. The shades of black the sky displays are the only measure of the passage of time. He knows the angel isn’t sleeping – for one, he slept in the car; for two, Crowley simply knows. They’ve known each other too long for something so simple to slip past his mind. 

Aziraphale seems to sink into himself. Crowley stares at his back, wanting nothing more than to drill a hole through it just to see his face. 

There’s a long moment of pause. Finally, Aziraphale answers, voice distant: 

“I don’t know.” 

He hugs himself tighter, tugging his knees to his chest. Crowley nods silently; he kicks a wayward rock with his foot and watches it tumble out of the reach of Bentley’s headlights. It’s too cold for any crickets to linger in the surrounding shrubbery, so they’re engulfed by the distant hum of the city, like a rainfall that’s miles away.

Yes, you do , he thinks. I just wish you could tell me. I wish we knew how to talk.

There’s only one way to know how to talk – by talking. Crowley can imagine Maggie and Nina laughing at him, telling him that they were right from the start. 

“I, uh…” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as his first instinct to fidget. He sees Aziraphale barely turn his head towards him, letting him know that he’s listening. “I think we… should… talk .”

Aziraphale doesn’t move. Crowley wants to groan. 

“Not now, I mean, just… after we’re done with the last spot on the list, perhaps? Would you– would you want that? Would you… be okay with that?”

He’s talking, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He has no idea what he’s doing. He feels like he’s falling all over again, disoriented, thrown around by winds like a ragdoll. His heart is beating out of his chest; even without the other one beating alongside it, it’s like a wardrum in his ears, you’re alive, you’re stupid and naive, there's hope, you’re alive . 

Aziraphale slowly turns to lie first on his back, then on his other side, and looks at Crowley. In the cold light of Bentley’s headlights, his eyes look like two silver coins. He smiles just barely; it’s the most happy – or something along the lines of it – that he’s been ever since they set out on this trip. He nods his head. “Yes, I’d like that.” 

“Okay.” Crowley nods back, then forces himself to look away. “Okay.”

What the fuck am I doing? – he asks himself what must be the hundredth time today.

Crowley pulls out the matchbox for one last time. He slides it in between his fingers, opening it from one side, then the other, then again. It’s way too late for it, but he’s gotten cold feet – because what if they are wrong and are actually doing nothing to stop the Second Coming? What if they didn’t accomplish anything?

But the magic burned , his mind gently points out, pushing the memory of the dancing flames before his eyes, it was no coincidence.

“You’re sure this is it?” he asks Aziraphale, eyes trained on the spot the angel showed him. He slides the matchbox open again, then from the other side. The two leftover matches rattle quietly as they tumble around. He’s prolonging the inevitable, because after this they will be done with their list, so there won’t be anything keeping their temporary alliance together. And they’ll be closer to The Talk – the talk Crowley suggested in the first place. 

Aziraphale unknowingly cuts short Crowley’s stalling. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

The water dripping from a broken faucet in the corner of the room taps quietly. The angel’s unspoken words hang in the air, ‘Are you alright?’ And to that Crowley would say, ‘I haven’t been alright for a very long while.’

He sighs and stops fidgeting with the matchbox, holding it open from one side. He looks at the two matches waiting to be grabbed; they’re leaning against each other, stuck in the corner of the box. Two more minutes pass before he finally picks one of them and slides the box shut.

Aziraphale looks him in the eyes as he lights the match and casts it on the floor. Once again, the magic crackles like a firework about to set off. Crowley takes a step to the side, guarding Aziraphale from any wayward sparks in case they can pose a threat to him, and drills his gaze into the flames for one last time. Maybe he’ll find salvation in there, answers, excuses to avoid the conversation. The fire beckons him like a distant whisper. The water from the faucet continues to tap.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Crowley, I have a question.” 

“Shoot.”

He hears him take a step forward to meet his eyes. “I was wondering if your… if Down has been asking about our progress? Anything?”

Crowley furrows his brow. “Now that you mention it, no, I don’t think they have. They sent me a letter saying that I just gotta cooperate with you and that they will provide me with further instructions if necessary, but that was before we set out.” He shrugs. “Guess they left the heavy thinking to Heaven.”

The water tapping in the corner of the room laughs. “Not all of the heavy lifting. Cut us some slack.”

Shit, fuck, damn it all, bollocks, fuck, fuck, fuck! Amidst the tension overtaking his body, fight or flight trying its best to kick in, Crowley manages to notice Aziraphale’s worried – no, terrified – expression. Then he forces himself to concentrate on doing one thing: not. Fucking. Up.

He grins, baring his teeth, and bows in a mocking manner. “Lord Hastur, so good to hear you!”

“Cut to the chase, Crowley.” The water somehow manages to convey all of Hastur’s disdain. “How are the preparations going?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale – Aziraphale looks like he stopped breathing and moving in hopes he won’t be noticed – then at the pile of ash that’s not too far from where the dripping faucet is, then at Aziraphale again.

“They’re going… swimmingly,” he decides on saying, hoping that the irony of the phrase won’t be lost on Hastur. “I was just on my way to a quick temptation at the office of France’s president.”

The water laughs; it sounds like a jacuzzi. “I bet you were.” 

Crowley bows his head. His heart is beating out of his chest. “When will the Second Coming commence? Once we’re done with our curses and miracles, that is.”

To his surprise, when the water flows again, it sounds almost unsure. “We’re still negotiating on the date. You will be informed.”

The dripping slows until it completely stops, leaving them in silence. Aziraphale finally exhales heavily, his breath shuddering. Crowley drags a hand down his face and does a circle around the room, trying to walk off some of the tension.

“How much do you think they heard?” Aziraphale asks quietly, twiddling his thumbs like crazy. Crowley physically stops himself from walking over and grabbing his hands to make him slow down and stop. “The water was dripping when we came in here.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley sighs. “Hastur didn’t sound any less or more of a jerk than they usually do. I think I would have noticed if they were withholding something like that. Besides–” he smiles sourly– “they would have come up here to drag me back down themselves if they knew what I was up to.”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem that reassured – maybe it’s because the possibility of seeing Crowley be dragged Down right before his eyes again isn't a pleasant thing to think about. For Crowley, it's easier to joke about it than face the fact that it's the third most traumatic experience of his existence – first being The Fall, second being the torture that becoming a Duke was.

“I don't think we have to worry about him,” he tries, hoping to actually reassure Aziraphale this time. “Come on.”

Still a little shaken up by the sudden encounter with Hastur, they quickly leave the tomb and gladly find themselves back among humans out on some square Crowley doesn’t remember the name of. He turns his face towards the sun, a stark contrast to the dark and cold cell, then nods at Aziraphale to start walking. 

“I know a place,” he says, trying to speak louder than the bustle that’s around them, “where we could sit down for a drink.”

Either Aziraphale tenses again or he still hasn’t relaxed. He nods automatically, like he’s not entirely in control of his own body. 

“Do you… still want to do this?” Crowley asks gently. He doesn’t know which answer he’d like more. 

Aziraphale looks him straight in the eyes; he seems like he’s regaining control, like slowly swimming towards the surface of the water. Despite having a quite distraught expression, there’s stubbornness in his gaze. “Yes. Do you?”

“I do,” he replies, surprised with how easily the answer came. He hopes this conversation won’t end a disaster like the last one. 

Well, there’s only one way to find out. Crowley takes a few long strides to walk in the front and leads them down the street.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale literally beams as he says: “They said I could appoint you to be an angel!” 

Oh, no. No, no, no. Don’t do this to me. No.

“... and everything. Like the old times – only much nicer!”

No, no, no. I said goodbye to the stars a long time ago. Don’t do this to me, Angel.

Crowley paces around the room as if he had all of Hell hot on his heels, and scoffs, “I told them to fuck off when they wanted me to go back to Hell! And you should have done the same with Heaven!”

Aziraphale looks at him bewildered. When he says his next words, Crowley feels like he punched him in the face, then in the gut. 

“Of course you said no to Hell – you’re the bad guys!”

He says it like it’s obvious. 

Crowley eagerly dumps a bucket of cold water onto Aziraphale’s head. “When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it will be just as dead as if Hell ended it.”

Aziraphale feels like he’s being backed into a corner. 

No, you’re– You’re wrong, it’s not like–

“Tell me you said no.”

Aziraphale looks at him, pleading in his eyes and in the creases of his face, how could I have said no, it’s–

Crowley holds onto the remains of his dignity and stops himself from kneeling down before him. “Tell me you said no.”

Crowley feels like the ground is crumbling beneath his feet, and if he doesn’t reach out to grab onto something, it’s going to swallow him whole. He stretches his arm out and hopes Aziraphale will take it. 

Aziraphale scrambles to put through his point, you have to understand me, I’m doing this for you, for us, Crowley, please . “If I’m in charge, I can make a difference.”

It’s another punch. Crowley’s losing count of all the bruises this conversation is leaving on him. When he speaks, he has the voice of someone going into battle with little hope of coming out victorious. But he has to try – for them. After all, he’s an optimist. 

“R-right. Uh… I didn’t get a chance to say what I wanted to say, so I’d better say it now.” 

With a steel hand constricting his airways, and the feeling of impending doom like a cold breath on the back of his neck, Crowley thinks he’d rather fall again than go through whatever is happening right now. And with Aziraphale looking at him with nothing more than confusion throughout his whole speech, he knows he’s losing not just the battle, but the whole war.

“... And I would like to spend–” shit, shit, shit, shit,no, I can’t do this, I can’t– “I mean– If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can!”

Please don’t let me down.

Please don’t do this to me.

“ Just the two of us. We don’t need Heaven, we don’t need Hell, they’re toxic!”

Just the two of us. It’s a prayer he latches onto.

“We should get away from them, just be an us .”

Aziraphale shakes his head, his composure crumbling like a sandcastle. No, no, no, this isn’t how this was supposed to go . 

“You and me, what do you say?”

“Come with me to Heaven!” Aziraphale begs, lips trembling. This was supposed to be the happiest moment of their lives – instead, it’s turning out to be possibly the worst. “I’ll run it, you can be my second in command!”

Crowley has tears in his eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t understand what he did wrong. 

“You can’t leave this bookshop,” the demon pleads, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Aziraphale feels blood rush out of his face. There’s no air in his lungs. He takes one final attempt at making Crowley understand him.

“Oh, Crowley.” He nearly reaches his hand to cup his face and brush a thumb under his eye. “Nothing lasts forever.”

Nothing lasts forever, but we will. 

We wouldn’t last anyway.

Okay.

“No... No, I don't suppose it does.”

Crowley pulls his sunglasses out of his jacket and puts them on before he actually starts crying; he looks up, pushing the tears back in, and doesn’t know if it’s with a prayer or a curse on his lips that he says:

“Good luck.”

Aziraphale turns to watch him leave and struggles to make sense of what just happened. He just knows that he can’t let Crowley leave, no, please don’t leave me, it’s not like that, it’s something completely different, please–

“Crowley, come back–” to me– “to Heaven! We can be together!” Like we want to! Like you want us to! “We can be angels, doing good!”

Isn’t that what you wanted? 

This is not what I wanted. 

He sees that the approach doesn’t do him any good, so Aziraphale tries a different one. He’s getting desperate. “I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”

Oh, fuck off.

“Oh, I understand .” Crowley snarls, barely keeping it together. “I think I understand a whole lot better than you do.”

This is it then.

This is it then. It’s a dagger digging into his heart.

Aziraphale forces a smile onto his lips, but it’s a bitter, dead expression. “Well. Then there’s nothing more to say.” He can’t believe what’s happening. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale for a long moment, trying to figure out how to salvage this sinking ship and coming up with nothing, then moves his gaze around the shop like he can find salvation hidden amongst the bookshelves. 

Still nothing. There’s no going back. “Do you hear that?” He asks.

Aziraphale sighs, upset beyond measure and maybe a little angry, too – with himself, with Crowley, with the world. “No, I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s the point.” Crowley savours the pause between his next words. “No nightingales.”

The dagger in Aziraphale’s heart twists, tearing through muscle, leaking out blood. Crowley sighs, the beginnings of a sob like an echo in his mouth. When he speaks, it’s with the intention of inflicting pain.

“You idiot. We could have been…” so many things, so many wonderful things– “us . ”

Aziraphale watches him with a grim expression, then looks away so that Crowley doesn’t see him cry. 

This is it, then. He’s not coming and I’m leaving, and it’s my fault, and we messed up, and if only I could have said it differently, if only–

There's something oh, so desperate in the way Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat and presses their lips together. He can feel moisture on Crowley's cheeks, streaks of tears going all the way down to his jaw. The kiss is nothing like Aziraphale imagined a few hours ago while he was getting ready for the ball – it's abrupt, jarring, messy, like someone is repeatedly stabbing his heart using the dagger that was already lodged in it. There's no fireworks, no butterflies, no molten lava -= just these jumbled feelings first untying, then getting even more jumbled. 

Aziraphale feels like he's suffocating even though he doesn't have to breathe; eventually, his hands move up Crowley's back, engraving the exact slope of his shoulders, how the fabric of his jacket feels, inside his mind. But just as he begins to take it all in and warm up to the idea of returning the kiss, Crowley pulls away, immediately taking a step back and setting in place the void that will separate them from this point on. The light coming through the window shines on his damp cheeks. Aziraphale gasps for air like he's drowning – and he is, he's drowning in his feelings, emotions like violent waves that fill his mouth and lungs. 

Crowley is looking at him expectantly. ‘There,’ he says without speaking a word.

It's an ox rib. It's an out-stretched hand. This is what you're giving up .  

It's a gift. It's a reminder of what he's fighting for. 

Aziraphale presses shaking fingers against his lips, remembering the way the kiss felt. He relives the moment one last time, then steels himself, forces his voice even and says the words:

“I forgive you.” 

It's a promise.

It's a curse.

He can feel the exact moment the heartbreak – both his and Crowley's – sets inside their bones like rot. Crowley visibly clenches his jaw and turns away.

“Don't bother.”

It's a warning.

It's a curse.

—

Crowley shuffles around, trying to find a comfortable position on the rickety seat; it seems like the chair wasn't designed to be something stable in the first place. The coffee table looks like it's about to topple over from simply existing, its legs, although they're even, not equally reaching the ground beneath them. 

Aziraphale reaches for his cup of espresso, cradling it in his hands, and sighs. He doesn't seek that eager to talk.

“Thanks again,” Crowley says, at a loss of words on how to start this conversation, “for the miracle. At the church.”

The angel smiles a little and nods. He looks tense, and Crowley can't blame him. He'd rather drive a flaming Bentley again than do this.

Buck up. 

“So…” He clears his throat and puts his hands in his pockets, but quickly realises there aren't any strings he can fidget with in the pockets, and instead reaches for his tie. “Why did you leave?”

Aziraphale freezes, his hand holding the cup stopping halfway to his mouth, and his gaze grows distant. Crowley waits patiently, twisting and pulling on his tie as a way to ground himself. 

Eventually, Aziraphale brings himself together, sets down his cup and looks down at his now-empty hands with sorrow shining in his eyes. 

“I left for us .”

Crowley stops himself from scoffing and interrupting him, but, Satan, he wants to. He nods slowly. Aziraphale glances up at him, unsure as to how to interpret his reaction, then down at his hands again. 

“I hoped that I could make a difference – that it wouldn't be… frowned upon, a demon and an angel being friends. I hoped–” he exhales sharply– “that I could fix Heaven. For you, for us.”

Crowley feels his soul be punched out of his body; it drifts above his head like a cloud of smoke. 

“I didn't ask you to.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighs, helpless. “I just thought it was the right thing to do at the time. I wanted to think that I could… change the system. That by being someone that had the chance to view it from the inside and the sidelines, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes that have been made before me. But as it turns out, it’s an impossible thing to do.”

Crowley raises his eyebrow. 

“I think you said something about this once.” Aziraphale looks at him, visibly uncomfortable. Truth hurts, and this millions-years-old one must particularly sting. “That the system doesn’t need to be fixed…”

“...because it’s working exactly as intended.” 

Aziraphale reaches to readjust his bowtie, sliding a finger around his collar, and Crowley notices that his hands are shaking. 

“But I also left because I felt like Metatron was threatening me. You. Us. It was just a feeling then, so I didn't really pay it much mind when we were talking.”

Crowley freezes; his mind stops relieving that fateful day. He was not expecting that. He didn’t even take it into consideration when he was thinking about the whole thing. 

“After I left, it seemed like their facade kind of crumbled.” Aziraphale furrows his brow, looking at the ring on his pinky finger like it can help him push on. “I think the coffee was a covalidated threat: he got it from Nina’s, do you remember?” He looks to Crowley with desperation, but when he finds that he’s watching him with his head cocked to the side pensively, not with an understanding expression, he visibly deflates. “Give me coffee or give me death. It… it made more sense in my head. So even though it was just a feeling, I couldn’t risk it.”

You could have said something , Crowley wants to point out, a little mad at himself that he’s not as angry with Aziraphale as he expected himself to be. But the moment he thinks about it, he thinks he understands why Aziraphale didn't mention it.

“And you didn’t say anything because…?”

“Because I didn't trust this hunch that much. It was just a brief thought, a ‘what if’. Now that I think about it, I fear he might have been watching us.” Aziraphale grimaces. Crowley thinks there's shame in this expression. “And when we were talking, I was very… occupied with the idea of appointing you to be an angel again.”

Crowley nods. He kind of hates that it’s starting to make sense – because he’s losing reasons to be angry. 

“Do you think they're watching now?” 

“I– It’s hard to tell with them.” Aziraphale sighs, exasperated. “Sometimes I think the Archangels know everything I’m up to, sometimes I feel like they don’t suspect a thing or don’t care.” 

Crowley racks his brains, trying to remember anything about Metatron from the time he was an angel. Apart from being kind of a jerk and a floating head, he can't remember much. He seemed cunning, but in a way that all the Archangels were cunning – sure of their wit, but stupid when met with an obstacle. 

Aziraphale takes his silence as an invitation to continue. He hangs his head down like a prisoner waiting to be hanged for his crimes. “You were right. I was naive, so naive, thinking I could make a difference.” 

The corner of Crowley’s lips twitches upwards in a slight grimace; he’s not sure whether he agrees with the last one. He turns away and looks out the window of the cafe, trying to make sense of everything Aziraphale is saying. It brings him comfort that his side of the story mostly adds up to what he himself figured out on his own.

“I mean, you’re kind of making a difference.” He reaches for his own cup of espresso and uses a small miracle to reheat it. “You’re working towards stopping the Second Coming.”

“Well, I’m being rather bad at it,” Aziraphale scoffs, then quickly shakes his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making this about me. I’m sorry.”

You don’t know that, Crowley wants to say, you don’t know whether you’re failing. Only time will tell.  

He nods, deeming it a good enough acknowledgement of Aziraphale’s words, then slowly turns his cup around on its platter; it makes the small cookie left on it fall onto the table. 

“It hurt when you just threw me into the ‘bad guys’ bag. I hoped maybe I– That spending so much time with me made you change the way you saw things.” He picks the cookie up and sets it back on the platter. “That I’m not evil just because I’m a demon.”

He turns the cup around again; his leg starts bouncing in rhythm to the song playing from the cafe’s radio.

“First, you say that I’m capable of good because I was once an angel, then you say I’m a bad guy because I’m a demon. Which am I then, Aziraphale?”

“I– I don’t–”

He clings onto the anger smouldering to life within him. This is something he understands – this feeling like fire under his skin. “Because either way it hurts – pushing me into a box of your worldview.”

Say it, Crowley thinks. He leans forward in his seat in anticipation. Don't let me down again.

“I think–” Aziraphale exhales sharply, really struggling to keep going, and gives Crowley a pleading glance. “I think you’re you . But I don’t– I don’t know what it means.” 

Crowley leans back in his seat with a sigh; he feels oddly relieved. The small fire of anger begins to die like a snuffed out candle, the warmth it created the only reminder it was there at all. “Does it have to?”

Aziraphale looks like he's about to have a mental breakdown. “I– I really don't know.”

They fall into tense silence; Crowley turns his cup of coffee around, then decides to just finish his drink and stop fidgeting with it. He wonders if maybe he pushed too hard, or if he touched a subject too sensitive for this conversation. He hasn't seen Aziraphale this distraught in a very long time; maybe he's just exhausted and doesn't have the energy to mask his feelings the same way he usually would. 

Or maybe he doesn't want to mask it. 

“Crowley–” Aziraphale waits for him to look him straight in the eyes, and then continues, voice still shaking– “why did you kiss me?”

Crowley stops fidgeting; his tie falls back onto his chest, dropped by fingers which have grown still as a rock. He suddenly wishes he could disappear. It would be so easy. Up and leave, get in the car and go. Just avoid the question. 

“Crowley, please. Believe me, I know how difficult this is.”

“Okay.” He clears his throat, but the ball that’s lodged itself in it doesn’t budge. It feels just like the moment right before he kissed Aziraphale. “Okay.” 

He takes off his sunglasses, puts them on the table with more negligence than he planned, and drags a hand down his face. 

“I… I don’t know why. I guess I thought I could make you stay.” He takes a deep breath. “With your ‘nothing lasts forever’ you made it sound like we wouldn’t last, so I got desperate.”

The furrow of Aziraphale’s brow eases, but it somehow carries more sorrow in it than before. 

“I didn’t mean that .”

“Well, that’s what I heard.”

They fall into another tense silence. Aziraphale stares blankly into his cup, the cogs in his head turning at maximum speed. Crowley gets that feeling again: that Aziraphale is sinking, drowning in something. 

“It hurt when you left,” he says very quietly, but knows that the angel can easily hear him, “it really hurt. I was a mess; I think I still am. Some of that pain still lingers.” Like fire lingers in a burn even though the skin has healed, like poison lingers in a soul long after the anger has gone. “I wanted you to come back just so I could throw all of this mess onto your lap, show you how you’ve hurt me. But when you came, it was with terrible news. So now, I’m a little confused as to how I’m supposed to feel.” He looks down at his hands and sighs heavily. Saying what he’s about to say is very difficult – it feels like betraying himself, by remaining stupid and naive after everything. “But I don’t think I hate you.”

Maybe it’s that they’re finally talking, or maybe that this conversation is making him feel very vulnerable, because it doesn’t take much out of Crowley to reach his hand out and help Aziraphale out of whatever it is that has got a hold of his thoughts. “We can’t change what happened, Aziraphale.”

The angel nods woodenly; he reluctantly lets Crowley pull him out of his own mind. When he looks at him again, there are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

“The worst thing is, I think it was inevitable,” he says in a hollow, bitter tone. 

There it is. That's the thing that has been keeping Crowley up at night – what did they do wrong for things to turn out the way they did? Now, the answer lies plainly before him, served up on an ornate, shiny platter. He can devour it, savour its taste on his lips like it's his last meal. He can make himself choke on it if he pleases. 

And he will. He once said he’d skewer the roof of his mouth for this. He can see the jagged nails sticking out of the truth served in front of him, but he’ll welcome the blood in his mouth with open arms. Because now, he knows he won’t be the only one bearing the pain.

“I think so, too,” he replies slowly. “But I think everything has been leading up to this for a very long time.” He cracks a faint smile, but it drops when he sees that Aziraphale doesn’t – or maybe can’t – smile back. “We’re both at fault here, not just you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale looks to the side, shaking his head. “But somehow it stings more this way.”

Crowley leans forward in his seat, carefully resting his elbows on the rickety table. He feels like the hole in his chest has been filled – not fully, not yet, but it’s better than nothing. It’s like a balm on his soul. 

“For what it’s worth, I forgive you, Aziraphale,” he says, promises , quietly, just for the angel to hear, and reaches his hand out. 

Aziraphale exhales shakily, the tears in his eyes coming rolling down. He slowly grabs Crowley’s hand, like he’s learning the way it’s shaped, how it feels against his own skin, all over again. 

“Is it okay if I say it back?” he asks, chuckling wetly.

Crowley smiles. He hasn’t smiled like this in a very long time. “Yeah.”

“I forgive you, too.”

The way back to the car takes them through a small park. Crowley feels familiarity trying to kick in, and this time, he lets it drape over his shoulders like a cape. He watches Aziraphale drink up the sights of their surroundings (not that they’re spectacular) and wonders where their conversation leaves them at. They’re not exactly back to the way things were, but they’re certainly not angry with each other, either. They’ve peeled off each other’s scabs and licked the wounds clean -= the pain is still there, but so is their mutual understanding. 

Maybe that’s his problem – that he’s desperate to know how everything stands instead of letting things unfold in their own time. Crowley closes his eyes and focuses on the hum of the city for a moment: he can hear the dirt crunching under his boots, Aziraphale’s precisely timed steps to his right, a flutter of wings as a pigeon flies over them. They talked. They’re talking. Things didn’t turn out half as bad as he feared they would. Maybe he should try to control things a little less.

He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Aziraphale. He waits until the angel looks back at him before he asks, eager to keep the flow of their conversation going as long as they can: “How are you finding your new job?”

Aziraphale cracks a faint smile. “I could ask the same thing.”

Crowley smiles, again. “You first.”

“Well… It’s exhausting, for sure. I suspect it’s because I’ve grown used to living on Earth so much that it’s an instinct for me to crave some sort of rest every once in a while.” He chuckles. “Other than that, it’s kind of like playing a game of poker that you don’t know the rules of.”

Crowley hums in understanding. It sounds very much like what he experienced when he was an Archangel, maybe without the exhaustion. 

“I know I’ll gladly resign once– if this whole thing is over,” Aziraphale sighs, his expression growing a little grim. Crowley cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out what caused the sudden mood change, but the angel cuts his contemplation short by saying, “Your turn.”

He sputters, trying to put into words the rollercoaster of emotions that learning being a Duke of Hell was. “It’s, uh– It was a lot to take in at first. I don’t really know how I got the job in the first place.” His left hand goes up to rub his right arm, trying to soothe the psychosomatic pain caused by the memory of the initiation. He sees Aziraphale follow the path his hand takes, and looks away quickly. “I’d rather… not talk about it that much now, if that’s okay. It still… hurts.” 

The tilt of Aziraphale’s brow is gentle. “Of course.”

“But regarding your question,” Crowley continues, forcing a small smile onto his lips, “I honestly haven’t had that much to do. There was a council meeting, which was pretty boring, but other than that, not much has changed.”

He rubs his arm once more and is thankful that Aziraphale doesn’t look at it again. 

“But I think I’ll resign once this mess is dealt with.” 

The angel laughs softly. Crowley bottles up the sound of it.  

They reach the Bentley a few minutes later, still chatting. It feels like the more they talk, the closer the last missing piece is to falling into its place. Aziraphale stops by the left side of the car and looks at the doors to the passenger seat, then at Crowley, twisting the ring on his pinky. 

“Is it okay if I…?”

“Sure.”

It’s odd to set their boundaries again, like walking on ice and trying to determine where the thinner and thicker parts are, but Crowley finds that he doesn’t really mind, even if it's hard. 

“And how is your shop doing?” Aziraphale asks once he’s slid into his seat and, obviously, buckled his seatbelt.

Crowley smiles proudly, turning on the ignition and pressing on the gas pedal, and sends them flying down the street. The sound of cars honking at him for not giving way is like music to his ears. “I’d say it’s going well, actually.”

“Have you been to The Shopkeepers’ Association Meeting yet?”

“ Satan , don’t even mention them to me,” Crowley groans. He gladly takes a turn that will quickly lead them out of the city. “I had things to say about the Christmas lights, alright.”

“Oh, I remember when I–” 

Aziraphale suddenly falls silent, like he’s been cut off. Once the road allows it, Crowley looks away from it and glances in his direction. He catches the last second Aziraphale’s present, disappointment, surprise and fear mixing on his face, before his eyes roll back into his skull and he falls unconscious, head hung down. The summoning circle on the back of his hand glows slightly. 

Crowley sighs. They just started talking again and Heaven already, somehow, got in their way. He carefully reaches a hand and, even though Aziraphale can’t really react, his heart beats heavily in his chest while he pushes his head upwards and against the headrest so that he won’t have a sore neck when he comes back. 

He puts on music for the lack of anything better to do, but turns it down so as not to disturb the angel sitting next to him. Bentley’s roar quietens on its own and only the tremor of the seat under Crowley’s thighs remains. He gently pats the steering wheel. 

The hatred caused by Aziraphale's reasoning has been replaced by confusion mixed with a sense of clarity. Thinking back to their conversation from over six months ago, he looks at it from Aziraphale's angle, and notices things that have slipped past his mind before. He attributed his agitation to his excitement over Metatron’s proposal, or over the possibility of Crowley becoming an angel again, but perhaps there was more fear behind it than he initially thought. 

It’s an unpleasant realisation – to see how much more terrible, for both sides, that moment was.

Aziraphale yawns his way back to reality about an hour and a half later, with bleary eyes and a quiet groan. He folds his arms on his chest, sliding a little lower in his seat, and closes his eyes again. He looks exhausted beyond recognition. 

You can go to sleep, Crowley wants to say. I’ll wake you up when we get to London.

“What’s up?” he says instead, disappointed with himself. Being open like that without a topic to bounce back into is hard. 

“I have some news, actually,” Aziraphale murmurs, tone sour. There’s a long pause before he speaks again, almost like he’s looking for the right words. “The Archangels want to come to Earth to visit Muriel to see how they’re doing. To be sure that she’s ready for the war when the time comes.” 

“Oh.”

“Precisely.” 

Crowley drills his gaze into the line of horizon far ahead of them and raps his fingers against the steering wheel. They could stop somewhere in Southern England and avoid coming to London for a few days – but if Aziraphale were to be asked about his whereabouts, it would be hard to come up with a viable lie, same with Crowley and Down. They could go to Spain and pretend they're up to good (and no good) there, doing preparations for the Second Coming. They could go to London and just drive around the city, hoping they will avoid the Archangels and the uncomfortable questions they would most certainly ask. But each of these options doesn't solve the issue of how they would answer these questions – and for that, they need time and space to think. Time and space that the inside of the Bentley won't give them – because the car will have had enough of them long before that, and because it's just not a good idea.

“Does Muriel know?”

Aziraphale fumbles around, patting his pockets in search of something. “No. I should text them.”

Crowley fishes out his phone, knowing very well that Aziraphale almost never carries his with him, and hands it to him. The angel gives him a nervous, thankful smile, and mutters at the screen with a furrowed brow. 

Crowley shuffles in his seat and looks out the window again. He’s trying to come up with a different solution instead of the one that has been formulating in the back of his mind for the last few minutes. He's scared it will come across as too forthcoming. They made up only a few hours ago.  

But it also makes the most sense. They can’t prolong their “preparations” for the Second Coming forever, and Heaven and Hell might start without them regardless of their progress. If the latter happens, they should be in London where they have easy access to Up and Down. And if the world will burn, Crowley wants to see it end in the city he’s learned to call home. 

“You could…”

“Yes?”

This is going to be very hard . “You could… stay at… my place. For the time being.”

Is this too fast? – he thinks immediately, hit with a sudden wave of doubt. 

Aziraphale clears his throat and looks down at his hands, violently twiddling his thumbs. He’s blushing. “Would that be… okay?”

It brings Crowley some comfort to see that this new way of communication is equally difficult for the angel. 

“Because I can manage on my own if–”

“It would be okay. I wouldn’t propose it if it wouldn’t.” 

Aziraphale nods slowly. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. “O-okay. Then I can just tell the other Archangels that we’re… doing our ‘thing’ in… Spain, maybe?” He cheers up ever so slightly, glad that they’re figuring this out so efficiently. “That is, if they don’t see us in London. I don’t know what to say if our paths do cross.” 

“I suppose, but this might be a terrible plan,” Crowley begins, himself unsure with what he’s about to propose, “we can tell them we’re done with our thing and The Second Coming can commence.” He looks to Aziraphale, sensing the anxiety that crept into him. “It’s the only way to know if we succeeded.” 

Aziraphale looks down at his hands again. “And what if we didn’t?”

“There’s still time to figure it out – at least till we get to London, possibly a few days more on top of that.” 

“But that doesn’t change the fact that we don’t have a Plan B,” Aziraphale points out quietly. Crowley shrugs. 

“What do you propose then?” he asks in hopes that making the cogs in the angel’s head turn will help steer his attention away from their grim circumstances.

Aziraphale sighs, and it’s such a specific sigh that Crowley glances at him. He doesn’t have a guide to the unintelligible sounds Aziraphale makes, and usually follows his instincts, and right now his instincts decipher the sound as: ‘I’d really rather curl up into a ball and read a book than deal with whatever is happening.’ 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you want to figure it out now or later, when we’re at mine?”

The angel looks down at his hands and watches them twist the ring on his finger like trying to power up an old machine. “Now.” He then adds under his breath, sighing heavily, “Let’s get this over it.”

So they do. Aziraphale soldiers on through his exhaustion, carrying the bags under his eyes with well-practised ease. Crowley pushes each subject gently, letting the angel set the pace of the conversation according to his energy levels, and is impressed with how sharp his mind has remained despite everything. The sky goes from a greyish-blue to navy, to royal until it turns completely black and void of any stars. At some point, Crowley rolls his window down ever so slightly, letting the cold air in to refresh himself.

Aziraphale does the same, but enough to put his hand out and stretch it open, letting the wind push his fingers back. Head turned longingly towards the world outside, almost as if not to let Crowley see the expression on his face, he moves it up and down.

He nearly reaches his hand out and squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder, we’re gonna be fine . Nearly. Let’s not push it .

“Want me to put some music on?” he asks. “I think there’s a CD of Tchaikovsky’s compositions somewhere in the bunk.”

Aziraphale turns to him after a moment; there’s an indescribable expression on his face, something along the lines of sorrow. He manages to crack a faint smile. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

There’s more plea hidden beneath these words than Crowley anticipated. He reaches for the CD and hands it to the angel for him to put on. Aziraphale gently pats the CD deck once he’s done and murmurs, “Don’t turn it into a Queen’s album, dear.”

Crowley can feel the Bentley rumble a bit more under him. He rolls his eyes, which makes Aziraphale chuckle. 

They’re quite close to London now, maybe less than an hour away. Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty starts seeping out of the speakers, encircling them like the wind coming through the windows. As Crowley presses down on the gas pedal, overtaking a lone driver that must be a bit under the influence, judging by the way they’re swerving left and right, he thinks that they – him, Aziraphale and the world – will be alright.

Chapter Text

When they enter Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale lets out a breath he’s been holding. 

The place is shrouded in darkness, one which Crowley doesn’t bother breaking by turning the lights on. Aziraphale follows him down the hallway and into the kitchen area, repeatedly squeezing and relaxing his hands. He doesn't exactly know why he's anxious. Maybe he's just nervous. Crowley waves a hand in the direction of the kettle, and even though it’s unplugged, it turns on, cutting the silence with its rumble. 

“Tea?” the demon asks, sauntering towards the counter. 

Something in Aziraphale eases at the thought of cradling a hot cup between his hands. The fear of being an imposition to Crowley dies down a little bit. He nods. “Plain black, if you can.”

They drink in silence. Aziraphale basks in the feeling of warmth spreading down his oesophagus, to his stomach and then through his whole body. Crowley fidgets with his cup, running his fingers along the rim of it, tapping against its side, and ends up barely drinking anything. Aziraphale can tell that despite playing it cool, he’s anxious. Or maybe it’s something completely different. 

Before he can say anything, Crowley murmurs:

“We should get some rest.” 

Aziraphale gathers himself to ask the difficult question. It’s stupid, really, but he can’t help but be nervous, despite the threat of another Armageddon looming over his head.

He cracks a faint smile, moving his fingers to make the ring on his pinky turn around. “I wanted to ask. Is it okay if I sleep on the couch?”

Crowley looks to his side, abashed – much to Aziraphale’s surprise. “I, uh… You can… sleep on my bed.”

Oh. 

“I feel like sleeping on a wall today, anyway,” Crowley quickly explains, the violent blush on his cheeks visible even with only the street lamp light coming through the windows. He fidgets with his cup again. “And before you say anything – it’s fine, really! I like sleeping on the walls, it’s really no big deal.”

While he goes on, flustered beyond comprehension, all Aziraphale can do is stare. To be honest, the thought of lying in any bed is very enticing right now – and for the last month or so, it’s been like a dark desire creeping up on him when he least expected it. Maybe it’s because of that that Aziraphale rather quickly recomposes himself and nods. 

“O-okay. If you really have nothing against it. I'd appreciate that.”

His answer eases some of the tension out of Crowley. He fidgets with his cup one final time and nods as well, lips pressed into a thin line. He looks torn between wanting to grimace from embarrassment and smile for the very same reason.

Aziraphale carefully, as if the bed is a piece of art that cannot be ruined in any way, sits down on the edge of the mattress, then slowly pulls his legs up and leans against the headboard. Even with the window behind him closed, he can hear rain splattering on the windowsill, tip, tap-tap, tip-tap . He slowly unbuttons his vest, then unties his bowtie and leaves them both on the nightstand to his right. Crowley slides off his blazer and throws it in the direction of the other nightstand; it lands on it neatly folded thanks to a bit of magic. Then Aziraphale watches in awe as the demon simply walks onto the wall like the gravity doesn’t apply to him, waves a hand to make a pillow and a duvet appear in his hands, and simply lies down.

Crowley must sense Aziraphale is staring at him, because he looks over in his direction and smirks, maybe a little playfully. “What?”

“I– Wow , I just– How did you–?”

Crowley smirks even more. Aziraphale missed that particular smile. “A little demonic miracle.”

Aziraphale blushes, fighting back a chuckle and an eye roll. He reclines just a little bit in his seat, allowing himself to rest his head against the bed of pillows behind him. The sheets smell like mint and sage, with a hint of tobacco pipe. 

“Wake me up in the morning if I’m still asleep by then,” Crowley murmurs, turning to lie on his side, back facing Aziraphale, and wraps himself tightly with the duvet. From Aziraphale’s perspective, he looks like nothing more than a big bundle of fabric that someone glued to the wall six feet above the ground.

Crowley falls asleep seemingly immediately, Aziraphale about ten minutes later, when his eyes have grown tired of scanning the room or the wooden snake statue standing in the corner. He watches Crowley’s chest gently rise and fall – it's a motion that guides his own breath into a steadier, slower rhythm like a lullaby. Then, when he's drifting in a half-awake state, the exhaustion finally catches up with him with such a force that Aziraphale feels like someone pulled out the plug powering his body. 

He wakes up when the sky is still a little dim, the windows wet after a rainy night. He postpones getting out of bed and leaving the bedroom as much as he can, because the bed sheets are too warm and comforting to be abandoned so easily. Crowley turns to lay on his back, head turned towards Aziraphale, and it allows him to stare at his face without being caught. It's a rare thing, to see him this relaxed and unguarded, frustrated only by the fact that his duvet is tangled in between his feet. 

It's so nice. The bed is soft and cosy, and has a pleasant smell. Crowley looks comfortable despite sleeping on a literal wall. They could stay like this forever and pray that the world doesn't burn while they're gone. 

Right. The world burning. Aziraphale almost forgot about it for a moment. He forces himself to get out of bed, takes one final longing look at Crowley, then leaves the bedroom, quietly sliding the door shut behind him. He heads to the kitchen. From then, it feels like he's reliving the night from five years ago, as he nervously paces around the kitchen, waiting for the coffee machine to finish working. He racks his brains, going over their plan over and over again until all words begin to lose their meaning.

What if they're wrong? What if they’re wrong? What if this whole road trip was for nothing – well, almost for nothing? Their backup plan isn't half bad, but Aziraphale can't help but worry that it's not going to be enough to stop the joint forces of Heaven and Hell. They're going to see the world burn. And it's going to be his fault. His alone.

He walks around the apartment, looking for anything to occupy his mind with, holding the cup of coffee in his hands to stop himself from fidgeting with his ring. There aren't any books he can read. The records stashed by the coffee table are already in an alphabetical order. Even if Aziraphale was one to stress-clean, the place is already spotless, and he's not going to get this comfortable in Crowley's home without his consent. He looks around helplessly, feeling like he's on a train that is about to crash, thrown left and right by some external force. The plan is going to fail. They're going to fail. It's going to be his fault – Crowley tried his best and Aziraphale can't ask anymore of him after everything he's done for him: forgave him, worked with him, been his best friend, tried to be more than that. It's going to be Aziraphale's fault, because he's not made the difference he wanted to make. If anything changed after he took up the position of Supreme Archangel, it changed for the worse. 

He fists his hand, forcing it to stop shaking, then waves it in the direction of the coffee machine and puts another cup under the drip. When it's full, he carefully takes it in one hand, sliding open the door to the bedroom with the other, and checks if he hasn't disturbed Crowley before stepping in. He’s still on the same wall Aziraphale left him, curled up into a ball and with a furrowed brow. Aziraphale leaves the cup of coffee on the nightstand by the demon's blazer, then takes another longing look at him. He could kill – well, maybe not… no, he actually would – to brush the hair out of his face, even if his hands are shaking again. 

Instead, he finds himself sitting down on the floor of the living room, in the rectangle of light cast on the floor by the light coming through the window. He leans his back against the sofa and finds solace in the press of cold leather underneath him. He unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders with a heavy sigh. Then, after a moment of thought, he spreads his wings out.

Oh, it feels good. He's had his wings out maybe twice in the last five years, so the feathers are in a poor shape to say the least, and miracles alone might not be enough. Aziraphale rolls his shoulders, leans his left wing forward and tries to remember how to preen by hand. Maybe it will help him get his mind off of things. 

A few minutes pass when there’s some shuffling behind him, which leads him to suspect that Crowley woke up. A moment later, the bedroom door slides open. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” Aziraphale hears, followed by some blowing to cool the drink. He nods in response. When the demon speaks again, it's with genuine curiosity and maybe a hint of amusement: “What are you doing?”

Aziraphale drops his hands and sighs, frustrated with himself and his heavily-out-of-practice fingers. “Preening. Trying to preen. My feathers are in terrible condition.”

Crowley takes a few steps closer in his direction, then Aziraphale hears a quiet ruffle. The demon is standing over him to his right, leaning forward, his shirt unbuttoned in the top half and showing the bare skin underneath. He also has his wings out, shielding his back like a cape. 

Aziraphale takes one glance at Crowley and feels something stirr in his stomach. Crowley's wings are slick, shiny and in top condition. 

He scoffs softly. “Your feathers are putting mine to shame.”

The gaze with which Crowley looks at him makes the heat grow. Aziraphale tries not to let his mind wander.

“It's… not good,” the demon begins, smiling a little. He cocks his head to the side, still looking at Aziraphale's wings. “But nothing a good preening session can't save.”

“Well, I've got a whole day to kill. Should remember how to do it by the end of it,” he jokes dryly. 

Crowley furrows his brow, head still cocked. He slowly taps his fingers against the side of his cup, index to pinky. “I could do it for you.” He smiles again, a little playfully. “You can watch me and learn.”

Aziraphale blushes, so he's glad that he has his head turned away from the demon. He fiddles with his feather, running his finger down the rachis and making the vane ruffled. He'd hate to ask more of Crowley after all the hospitality he's given him. 

“It's really no big deal. If you can only show me how to do it? I can manage from then.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley leans forward even more and looks him in the eyes. “I can do it for you. I mean it.”

Aziraphale looks away, twiddling his thumbs. No, it would be inappropriate of me. I can't give you anything in return. Crowley tries a different approach, the tilt of his brow gentle. 

“I learned a lot about preening after The Fall. Your wings will be in good hands,” he says, half-joking. 

After The Fall. Aziraphale feels blood pounding in his temples, rushing in his ears. After The Fall. 

“I'd hate to be a burden–”

“You aren't. You won't be.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hands, stopping them from any sort of movement. He nods after a moment, lost in thought. “Okay.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side again. He asks gently, “Do you want me to?”

Aziraphale glances at him, then away, the memories from The Fall crowding his mind – the fighting, the aftermath, everything that surrounded it. He doesn't know why it triggered him so hard. It didn't use to. Maybe he's still tired – a one night's rest can't undo six months worth of exhaustion. Or maybe everything regarding Heaven has been weighing on him for too long. 

“Yes.”

Crowley smiles softly, then sets his cup on the coffee table. Aziraphale pushes away from the couch and turns around, moving to sit by the table. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Crowley reaches for a small box stashed by the collection of vinyl records. A soft clicking of jewellery being moved around can be heard. 

When Crowley moves to sit to Aziraphale’s left to show him how to preen, he's blushing. Aziraphale wonders why. 

“So, uh… Okay. Give me your wing, please.” When he does, Crowley gently takes a hold of one of the feathers with his thumbs, and nods at the odd golden rings he's wearing on his index fingers. “You can do it without these – I used to for quite a while – but they get the job done more efficiently.”

Aziraphale grabs a different feather and tries to focus on Crowley's fingers as they swiftly move down the rachis of the feather, the odd claw rings clicking quietly against each other while they push and tuck. The vane looks a lot neater after he's done. 

Crowley notices Aziraphale's puzzled gaze and smiles at him again. “It's easier than it looks.”

He nods slowly. He can't stop thinking about The Fall. Crowley shuffles to sit behind his back and gets to work. Aziraphale reaches for his cup of coffee and cradles it in his hands, trying to focus on the sensation of warmth in his palms. 

When Crowley first touches his skin, it’s purely by accident. Aziraphale flinches when he feels it, the demon’s warm touch a stark contrast to his cold body, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he has to stop himself from giving into the touch completely.

At some point the line between it being an accident and deliberate completely blurs, leaving Aziraphale drifting in his own thoughts while Crowley's warm hands work their way down his wings one feather at a time. It's silent apart from the occasional clink of the claw rings and the rustle of window blinds flowing in the breeze coming through a cracked window. It's not too cold for it being the end of November, and Aziraphale always preferred cold to hot, but even so, his skin is covered in goosebumps.

July of 2017, Brighton, England

Aziraphale turns his head to Crowley, beaming like the sun itself, and can’t help but laugh when the wind nearly blows his hat off of his head. Giddiness fizzles under his skin like pop-rock candy, ready to burst out of him at any given moment. 

Crowley gives him a dramatic, displeased glance, but there’s a shadow of a smile he’s fighting back on his lips. “I don’t get what’s so amazing about going to the sea.”

“We are going to the sea!” Aziraphale exclaims, like it’s obvious. “Isn’t it simply exciting?” 

Crowley shrugs, turning his eyes back to the road. “I’m surprised you’re taking the heat this well. I thought you liked cold weather more.”

“Oh, it’s nothing a minor miracle can’t handle.” 

He can’t help glancing at Crowley again. Even with magic, Aziraphale can feel the sweltering heat in the air, but it’s not the summer that makes moisture gather on the back of his neck now. Crowley’s hair is ruffled from the wind blowing through the rolled-down windows, and its red shade has turned a bit more golden and warmer in the sun. He looks unlike his usual self with shorts, a shirt and a T-shirt on – and without the ridiculous tie-thing on his neck – but somehow, he still looks like he belongs in this moment, in this summer. 

 They pass the sign welcoming them to the city of Brighton and soon after, Crowley’s pulling up to a driveway nearby the beach in Kemptown, waving a hand to push another car aside so that they can exit comfortably. Aziraphale grabs the picnic basket from the back seat and grins again, at this point beaming even more than the sun shining on their faces. Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little bit, too. 

They’re going to have a picnic. They’re going to have a picnic! 

Crowley grumbles under his breath as they walk – that it’s too crowded, that all the good spots are already taken – but when Aziraphale jokes that he can go walk around the city or wait in the car, he makes a mocking face at him and nearly sticks his tongue out. There’s an art to manoeuvring between the beach towels, bags of food, toys and playing children; it’s an art that Crowley has surprisingly already mastered. Maybe it’s in the way he normally walks, swaying left and right as if dodging bullets, that makes it easy for him to navigate the crowd. They eventually find a spot that requires just a minor miracle to make it perfect. Crowley seems rather satisfied with finding a place close to the water, especially for someone who was so eager to go back to the car not five minutes ago.

They didn’t grab an umbrella when they were leaving London, but as Aziraphale reaches for the picnic basket, it’s already in his hand. He hands it to Crowley, figuring that the demon would fuss and grumble about the placement of it if Aziraphale took care of it, and then opens the basket and pulls out a big beach towel. 

“There’s really not much philosophy behind it, Crowley,” he teases, watching the demon walk around their spot with a furrowed brow and glance at the sun every now and then. “You just stick it in.” 

“There is philosophy behind this, alright.” Crowley glares at him, but in a playful way. “I want to stay in the shade for as long as possible. That means placing the umbrella in the correct position.” 

Well, can’t really argue with that. 

“I’m gonna go for a swim then, if that’s alright.” Aziraphale unbuttons his shirt, slides off his shoes and leaves it all by the basket. “Unless you want me to help you?”

“No, no, go for it. Have fun.”

As Aziraphale runs off, the giddiness inside of him finally having an opportunity to burst out and making him giggle in the process, he turns around to see Crowley watching him with a wide grin. It’s that rare, happy grin Crowley sometimes gives him the chance to witness. 

The water by the shore is unpleasantly warm, but as he goes farther until there’s barely any humans around, it gets cold enough to make Aziraphale shudder. He takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut and dips under the surface, enjoying the feeling of air bubbles tickling his face and rushing past his ears. His hair flows around his head like an additional halo, for once unbound by the laws of gravity. Aziraphale forces his eyes open after a moment, and even though it stings like hell, it’s very entertaining to watch the blur of blue and green be broken by streaks of light cutting through the water.

As he pushes above the surface and gasps for air just to see how humans feel when they do it, it has never tasted sweeter, heavily contrasting with the salt on his lips. The beach in the distance looks like nothing more than an array of colours on a yellowish background. Aziraphale turns to lay on his back, enjoying feeling the sea sway him around like he’s nothing more than a piece of driftwood, unbothered and without responsibilities. The sun bakes into his skin. He lazily moves one arm over his head, then the other, slowly making his way back to the shore. 

Crowley has beautifully set up the picnic while Aziraphale was gone: the bottle of wine is waiting in the basket, propped up against a cooling pad; the snacks Aziraphale has packed are all displayed on a big platter placed in the middle of the towel; he positioned the towel in such a way that the shade from the umbrella is landing somewhat in the middle of it, for both him and Aziraphale to enjoy if they want to. When the demon sees him coming, still a little wet and still beaming with joy, he furrows his brow and nods at his legs, covered in sand and pebbles up to his heels. 

“Don’t you dare step on the towel with these.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but complies. He gladly accepts the water bottle Crowley hands him. 

“How’s the sea?” the demon asks. He’s looking down at his fiddling hands like he’s not interested in the beach at all. He’s squeezed himself into the circular shade the umbrella casts as if sunlight could turn him into ash. Aziraphale doesn’t mind being in the sun – he’ll dry up quicker that way, and besides, he hardly ever gets the chance to feel it on his bare skin beside his face.

“Very refreshing!” Aziraphale chuckles, using a hand to push back his wet hair. He’d hate for it to get frizzy. “You should try it.”

Crowley makes a complicated face, colour high on his cheeks, and because he’s still looking down, Aziraphale can’t decipher his expression. He slowly rolls the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows, then reaches for the bottle of white wine, swiftly ignoring his proposal. Aziraphale is too drunk on joy to pay it much mind. They’re having a picnic.  

Thanks to Crowley’s miracle, the wine is cool enough to cut through the heat that has been getting to Aziraphale even despite his magic. Grapes are like an explosion of sweetness and acidity in his mouth, one which the salty crackers wonderfully balance. Crowley nibbles on an orange, savouring each bite, and fiddles with the leftover skins afterwards, trying to make a sloppy sculpture out of it. He eventually gives up, fishes a small cutting knife out of the picnic basket and starts scoring the skin, grooving a pattern into it. Aziraphale can’t get enough of this feeling – the warmth and the promise of cold in the sea that’s within hand’s reach, Crowley’s soft smile, the wine, even the rocky beach beneath the towel. 

He smiles as wide as his corporation will allow him and lies down with a satisfied, heavy sigh. It makes Crowley chuckle softly, though his gaze is glued to his work on the orange peel. Aziraphale cocks up an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing!”

“Come on, Crowley.”

Crowley reaches for his glass of wine and swishes it around; it looks like he’s drinking sunlight itself. “You seem… pleased.”

Aziraphale grins, though he doubted he could smile more. “I am.”

Crowley looks back down at the orange peel. His cheeks are red; Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s because of the heat or something else. “That’s good.”

Oh, it’s more than good. It’s fantastic . 

They get a chance for a bit more tranquillity around three in the afternoon, when most humans decide to go somewhere to eat or just leave the beach altogether for the day. Crowley moves where the umbrella shade goes, like a flower hellbent on photosynthesizing as little as possible, and despite the temperature reaching its peak, he doesn’t take his shirt off. Aziraphale is surprised he bothered with using a miracle for staying cool instead of just taking his clothes off like he did. 

His second swim is longer; he prolongs the moment of returning to London and its crowded streets, and instead focuses on the feeling of cold surrounding his body like a thick blanket. He dives under a small wave that is coming his way, and kicks his legs, swimming closer to the seabed. Being underwater feels like flying in slow motion; Aziraphale spreads his arms out and flaps them gently, moving with every sway of the sea. He runs a hand along the stony floor, grabs a handful of rocks and then lets them gently fall out of his palm. They feel slick to the touch, like glass beads. The sea hums in its own language, hides whispers in the waves crashing on the shore.

When he finally comes out, shaking his head to get some of the water out of his hair, the beach is pretty much deserted in comparison to when they came here. Crowley seems to still be consumed with his work on the orange peel. 

Aziraphale comes up to him and stops a few feet before the towel, just so he doesn’t accidentally spray Crowley with water when he inevitably shakes his head again. “Care to join me, maybe?”

Crowley’s hands freeze in the middle of carving out a piece of the peel. He forces them to resume after a moment. “Don’t really feel like it.”

“Even in this heat?”

“Yeah.” 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. “If you’re worried about our stuff, I can stay here and watch over it. Or– Or I’ll use a miracle and we can go together! You’ll really like it, I promise!”

Crowley gives him a brief glance; there’s something tense in his frame now. His hands are gripping the orange peel a bit more tightly. “I said I don’t want to.”

Aziraphale gnaws on the inside of his cheek and looks around the beach as if to find more arguments to make Crowley change his mind. He waves a hand, pointing in the general direction of the stony shore. 

“The beach is deserted, Crowley. It’s as much privacy as you can get.” 

The demon completely abandons his work on the orange peel, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He’s stubbornly looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. “I’m not comfortable with taking my shirt off.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze softens a little bit. “You can swim without taking it off. It will be dry in a matter of minutes after you’re done. It’s so hot.” 

Crowley tenses up even more. He absently pulls down the sleeves of his shirt. “I just don’t want to.” 

Aziraphale vigorously shakes his head one final time, getting rid of as much moisture as he can, then slowly sits down on the edge of the towel. Crowley glances at him reluctantly, then away again. Aziraphale carefully scoots just a little closer. 

“Can you tell me why?” 

Crowley goes completely still. Even with his sunglasses on, Aziraphale knows his gaze is as distant as it can get. He reaches his hand out and gently pats the empty space on the towel between them; the pebbles crunch against one another under his touch. The sound seems to pull Crowley out of his own mind. 

“I just want to help, if I can.” Aziraphale promises, smiling at him softly. Surely Crowley knows that. 

The demon watches him for a long moment, then slowly begins to stand up. For a second, Aziraphale expects him to maybe just sit next to him, but then Crowley reaches for his shoes he left near the basket, grabs them in one hand, using the other to make sure his sunglasses are high on the bridge of his nose, and turns towards the exit of the beach. 

“I’ve got a few temptations and curses to do here,” he murmurs, looking over his shoulder – not at Aziraphale, just in his general direction. “I’ll see you by the car in an hour or two.” 

“Crowley, wait, I–” 

But Crowley’s already on his way, walking fast enough to quickly escape the reach of Aziraphale’s voice. 

—

“Can you tell me?” Aziraphale asks at some point, quietly, gently. Crowley hums, awaiting his next words. “Can you tell me what happened in The Fall?”

The demon’s hands freeze halfway down one of Aziraphale’s feathers. He eventually resumes, almost like he had to snap out of a train of thought. “What do you want to know, exactly?”

“Well… You told me minor bits every now and then, but never the whole picture.” Aziraphale tucks his wings behind his back and turns to face the demon, who sends him a reluctant look. He seems like he’s ready to back away and out of the room. “It’s not that I want to pry my nose into your personal matters. I want to understand what happened to you. Would you be okay with that?”

Something in Crowley’s face changes: the arch of his brow eases, the spark in his eyes shines just a little brighter. Aziraphale stares into the golden abyss and loses himself in it; he comes to only when Crowley motions at him to turn back around so he can continue his work. 

And maybe it’s easier that way, when Crowley knows he’s being listened to without someone staring directly at him, because after a moment, he opens up and lets Aziraphale in. 

“Well, Lucifer and the guys kind of roped me into the battle. One minute I was listening to his speech, the next someone pushed a sword into my hand and I was on the frontline.” Crowley sighs, running a hand down the feather he's just finished cleaning. His fingers brush Aziraphale's back. “I didn't…” he says quietly, like it's hurting him just to remember this, “I didn't want to fight.”

He resumes his work; click, slide, clack, slide . 

“I fought only so I wouldn't be killed – that’s how I like to think it went, at least. Everything happened so quickly from then.” 

Aziraphale nods slowly. He remembers the war, crying his way through every encounter, every slash of his sword – doing everything to survive, only to then hate the outcome. Not many angels were killed, but none of them should have been. Death came to reap before life was even invented – he could feel how wrong it was in his heart, like poison spreading through his soul. 

“When it was over, they chained up the survivors and displayed us like… some trophies from a successful conquest. I saw you when Gabriel asked me if I had anything to say for myself. You said…”

“I said ‘I’m sorry’.”

“I know.” 

Click, slide, clack, slide. 

“Then my turn came.” Tension creeps into Crowley’s voice, but he exhales sharply and soldiers on. “I laughed, I cried, I screamed as I fell. Yet all I could think was how petty She was, and probably still is .”

Aziraphale can see it with his own eyes, feel it on his own skin. Rain splatters on his face, violent wind tugs on his robes and hair, metal continues to burn even as it corrodes. He remembers Gabriel’s proud smile when the last of the fallen was pushed over the edge, how he turned towards the crowd and applauded everyone for their loyal sacrifice. Nobody ever mentioned the ones that lost their lives in the war. All that mattered was that Heaven came out on top, with its path paved with golden blood. 

Aziraphale starts to feel cold; it always happens when any realisation about Heaven’s real side hits him. His entire worldview is crumbling, cracking at the seams, and he’s scared to find what’s hidden underneath. 

Stop , one half of him wants to say, this is hurting me . I’d rather live with the thought that Heaven sometimes loses its way than know that this has always been its way.

Keep going , the other half begs. Don’t stop. Let this burn and sear.  

Crowley sighs, once again running a finger down Aziraphale’s feather and brushing the skin on his back in the process. He continues. 

Aziraphale sees himself falling through the clouds, then sees them suddenly part to show the pit of boiling sulphur way down below. The welcomed warmth of the liquid turns against him the moment the chains fall off his wrists; Aziraphale shivers when Crowley describes what the sulphur did to him, how it burned everything he was. 

I’m so sorry, he wants to say, but it would pale in comparison to what Crowley went through. There are no words to make up for the pain he endured. A simple sentence like that won’t heal these scars.

“Beelzebub helped pull me out of the pit. My skin was covered in scales. I had barely any feathers left on my wings.” Crowley chuckles, but it’s a rather hollow sound. “I looked like a messed-up chicken.” 

Aziraphale caves in on himself, mind going a million miles a second. How could Heaven have done this, how could She have come up with such a punishment? How can She be considered a just god when She is capable of that , when she still strives for the destruction of life in the name of some stupid game she’s playing with the universe?

“All of us needed… some time to get our shit together before we could even form Hell. The pain still lingered for the first few years; it hurt to use miracles, to move your limbs. The Fall left on us scars that will never fully fade.” Crowley sighs heavily, as if he’s exhaling the very weight of the world off of his lungs. “The pain from them is still present, like a ringing in the back of my mind. I got used to it a long time ago, though. But that’s why I never wear anything too exposing in public. I’m just… embarrassed.”

How can you be embarrassed? It’s not your fault, it’s– I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry.

There’s a faint clicking behind him; Crowley takes off his claw rings, then slowly brushes along the bones of Aziraphale’s wings, smoothing out the feathers one last time. Aziraphale can hear the smile in his tone, even though it’s weak, when he says: “I learned all about preening then, before Time started. It helped distract me from the pain and overthinking; it helped me forget about how I got to where I was.” 

His hand stops in the middle of Aziraphale’s right wing and fusses around with the feathers until he’s satisfied with the result. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale begins, not knowing where he wants to take this. He just knows that his mind is about to explode, overflowing with all the painful memories of Heaven that he’s been carrying for millenia. “I…”

Crowley interrupts him gently, “Don’t be. I think I’m rather content with where I am and who I am now, so I guess I’ve made peace with how I got here.”

Aziraphale nods woodenly. He’s drifting in the feeling of Crowley’s warm hand against his skin, the thoughts in his mind so chaotic they’re leaking out through his ears.

“It’s not your burden to bear, Aziraphale.” 

He nods again. “I just– I just wish there was something I could do.”

Crowley shuffles around behind him; his hand continues to move down his right wing bone. “You listened.”

It’s not enough for something so terrible. I wish I could make it up to you.

14th of April, 966, the region of Gniezno in Poland

Aziraphale exits his tent, violently wringing his hands out, and looks around the camp in hopes of finding a familiar face or anyone that will hear him out. He feels like he’s going to explode. All of the gathered humans are getting ready for the big event of the day; their squires are running back and forth fetching things and carrying messages. Aziraphale’s servants should be here soon to help him get properly dressed, but until then, he has to find a way to occupy his mind or hands before he ruins his ring from fidgeting with it so much.

Heaven wanted him to do this, to make this happen – only thing is, when he finally mustered up the courage to talk to Mieszko, the deal was already done and the date was set. Heaven, oblivious to this coincidence, is now beaming with pride so bright that whenever Aziraphale looks up at the sky, he swears he can see it lighting up the world. 

'Wonderfully done, Aziraphale!’ Gabriel exclaimed, while Sandalphon gave him a hefty punch in the arm (definitely with good intentions, of course). The other Archangels clapped politely, though Saraqel was watching him with squinted eyes, like they knew the truth. Aziraphale didn’t have the courage to clear things up – he feared what the consequences would be, given what they were the last time. And now Heaven’s expecting a very thorough report. It's making Aziraphale feel like an impostor.

He looks around the camp one more time, helplessness leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth. Everyone is so colourful and excited, chatting and not really thinking about the future, and he should remember all of this, perhaps even write it down somewhere so that he can mention it in his report later. But all he can think about is that he'd do a lot to have someone to–

“Ah, Aziraphale! Thought I'd see you here.”

Aziraphale feels himself lighting up at the sheer sound of Crowley's voice. He's not been this happy to see the demon in a while.

“Crowley!” He turns around, smiling, then immediately furrows his brow. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see the show, of course.” The demon grins innocently. His eyes spark from behind the odd spectacles he has resting on the bridge of his nose. “I was in the area, couldn't pass up on the opportunity.”

He walks closer to Aziraphale, hands clasped behind his back, does a sloppy, playful bow, then enters his tent without even asking for permission. Aziraphale huffs, neither surprised nor really frustrated, and follows in after him. 

“I hope you're not here to… thwart,” he says. 

“If you're talking about the baptism, then no, I'm not.” Crowley turns away from the drapery hanging by the bed which he was admiring, and gives Aziraphale a look. “Unless you want me to?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley pleadingly. No, he doesn’t want to stop the baptism, but if things turn out badly, it’s going to be his fault, right? They’re definitely going to blame him for all of this if it brings this country more harm than good. 

“I– I don't know,” he sighs. His answer earns him genuine surprise on Crowley's face. “Can we talk about this later?”

Crowley shrugs, easily sweeping the topic under the rug. “Absolutely.”

Aziraphale is desperate to change the subject. “Uh– Um– Would you like something to drink? Or– Or eat? I can ask one of my servants to fetch us something!”

“No, I'm fine. I'll drink at the feast.” He turns back to admire the drapery. “Nice landscape. Wish I had one like that.”

Crowley moves to the other side of the tent while Aziraphale gets changed into a more formal outfit; it’s in a pleasant light brown colour with a grey undertone, and it reminds Aziraphale of fields of wheat he saw while he was travelling to Gniezno. Crowley judges his outfit with one long glance, eyebrow arched, then nods slightly as if approving of it. Aziraphale scoffs, rolling his eyes, but smiles nonetheless. 

They exit the tent and head towards the lake where the ceremony is to take place. Crowley’s long red hair flows in the wind; it’s a little frizzy from the moisture hanging in the air, making the ends a bit curly. He’s not put it up in an intricate hairstyle like he usually does, probably so as not to stand out too much in the crowd, same with the beard. If it wasn’t for his clothes suggesting that he’s a small lord from a distant land, and the fact that he arrived with a few servants, he’d look like an unkept peasant that accidentally found himself witnessing a historical change never before seen in these lands. 

The demon discretely mentions something about the way the Czech delegation looks compared to Mieszko’s people, which makes Aziraphale chuckle. He’s missed this. He hasn’t seen Crowley for a good few decades, and a lot has happened in that time, a lot of things that he wouldn’t mind telling him about. He whispers something about one lady’s hairstyle in return, and it earns him a sound that he catalogues under ‘When you put it like that, you’ve got a point’. They bicker like that until they reach the lake, where the atmosphere itself forces more serious expressions onto their faces.

The ceremony is quite special. Mieszko walks into the lake with only plain clothes on, and a priest follows in after him, his robes flowing on the surface of the water. It must be cold, but neither of the men show it. Mieszko’s hair is long, and when he pulls his head back out of the water, inhaling heavily, it drapes around his neck. His men watch the baptising intrigued and a little bemused, but they don’t seem displeased about it. When their turn comes, they don’t protest besides commenting on the temperature of the water with sudden gasps and groans.

The feast is fantastic and loud, a stark contrast to the tranquillity of baptising. Dobrava sits by her father, Prince Boleslav, and Aziraphale notices her glancing at her future husband with interest. Mieszko has put on a warmer, thicker tunic with a simple stitching around the neckline, and pulled his hair back to let it dry without getting in his face. The two leaders talk mostly between themselves, probably discussing political matters. Their people mingle with each other rather well, considering that they’re not official allies yet. Soon enough, a small dance is initiated. Aziraphale claps along to the music, enjoying the show, and manages to forget about his worries for a moment. 

Crowley swishes around the mead in his cup, then sets it down loudly enough for the angel to hear. He turns to him with a quizzical expression. 

“You wanted to talk,” Crowley explains, then shrugs, “at least you looked like you wanted to talk when I saw you earlier today. Figured now is as good a time as any.” 

Oh. Right. Aziraphale takes one final longing glance at the humans dancing around the campfires, part of him wishing he could join them, then sighs and turns to face the demon a little better. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to start. 

“I, uh… I got a new assignment from Heaven a few months ago. They wanted me to do exactly what happened today – to persuade Mieszko to get baptised.” He grabs his cup of mead and takes a small sip, giving himself time to figure out what he wants to say next. It’s delicious, so he drinks a bit more. “Only thing is, when I got around to making it happen, it already had. I was told that Mieszko and Boleslav had already come to an agreement and everything was getting finalised.” He looks around to make sure that nobody is eavesdropping on them; he wouldn’t want to confuse the humans on a day as special as this. “So I went to Heaven to… clear things up, tell them what happened. But they already thought that I was done with my assignment and came to tell them the good news.” 

Crowley’s brow furrows. He slowly drinks his mead, not sparing the partying humans a single glance. But he doesn’t look directly at Aziraphale, either, just at the surface of the bench they’re sitting on, which Aziraphale is grateful for. 

“And I– I didn’t tell the truth, ultimately,” he says very quietly, scared that the right people might hear him. The playing music gives his voice some cover, but not enough to ease his nerves. “I kind of– I– Now I need to write a very thorough report about the whole thing.” 

“What I’m getting from this is that you feel…?”

“Like an impostor,” Aziraphale finishes, hanging his head with guilt. “I lied to Heaven.” 

Crowley finally looks him in the eyes; the yellow of his irises looks like liquid gold in the light cast by the fire. “And why don’t you want to tell the truth?”

Aziraphale remembers his footsteps echoing in the archives as he walked among the shelves stretching endlessly upwards, slowly adding to the pile of scrolls and manuscripts he was carrying in his hands. He hasn’t seen a soul for over a month, though it could be longer since he lost track of time a while ago. The archives always had a clear map to them, yet he felt like he was stuck in a maze that kept on changing with each of his steps. All of this because he just asked a couple of questions, minor, very minor questions. The problem was that the questions were the last thing Gabriel wanted to hear. Maybe they just had a bad day, right? 

“I–” Aziraphale feels like he’s about to be snared up in a trap like a rabbit and forced to look into the eyes of his predator. “There was never the right time. Something always came up.”

Crowley simply nods. He seems to let the lie slide. 

“I’m just worried that this baptising might do more harm than good,” Aziraphale confesses after a long moment of silence. He can’t stop the words flowing out of his mouth at this point. He needs to get all of this mess out of him. “And if it does, I’m going to be blamed for it.”

“How?” Crowley cocks his head to the side. “If Heaven wanted you to do it in the first place, why should you be the one carrying the blame if it goes sideways?” 

Because that’s what always happens, Aziraphale thinks with resignation and bitterness. He doesn’t say it out loud. It’s bad enough that the thought appeared in his mind in the first place. 

“I just… have a bad feeling, that’s all.” When he sees Crowley open his mouth to reply, he scrambles to cut him off, afraid of what he might say, “But Heaven always knows what’s best for the world! So I’m sure I’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

Crowley’s face twinges into a quite disgusted grimace, which he hides with the rim of his cup as he takes a long swig of his mead. Aziraphale feels cold sweat gather on the back of his neck. He feels trapped and doesn’t know why.

“Okay,” the demon clicks his lips and gives Aziraphale a glance, his eyes pensively squinted, “I’ve got something for you to consider then.” He waits until he knows he has Aziraphale’s undivided attention before asking, “Have you ever thought that what’s best for the world in your eyes may not exactly align with what Heaven thinks is best?”

He feels like Crowley just pushed him and made him fall on his back, the impact stealing air out of his lungs. It always happens when their conversations steer to this topic. The demon continues as if what he said didn’t just shake Aziraphale’s world.

“Same goes for you, while we’re at it. I think… Oh. I see I’ve hit a spot.” Crowley puts down his cup of mead, then awkwardly clasps his hands together. “I apologise.” 

There’s not a single coherent thought in Aziraphale’s mind – it’s a cacophony of the Archangels’ and Crowley’s words contradicting each other. If you step out of line, there will be consequences. Do you know what happened the last time someone questioned The Great Plan? You’re an angel that goes along with Heaven as far as he can. You wouldn’t like Hell, Angel. I’m not taking you to Hell. We need to maintain the holy harmonies, angles! I’m not asking for much, aren’t I?! Not kids. You can’t kill kids!  

Crowley clears his throat, still awkwardly, then knocks on the bench between them, trying to break Aziraphale out of his train – stampede – of thought. 

“Let me give you an example of what I mean, eh?” he tries, hoping to ease the tension that crept into the space between them. He draws a line on the surface of the bench with his finger. He raises his right hand, then places its index finger on one side of the line, then does the same with his other hand. “This is Heaven’s point of view,” he nods at his right hand, “this is yours,” he nods at the left. “Here’s what happens.”

He begins slowly moving his fingers along the line he traced earlier. His right finger doesn’t swerve from its course, while his left moves closer and farther away from the line without any pattern behind it. 

“Heaven sees everything through the eyes of someone who’s… excuse the joke, hellbent on following The Great Plan. You view it through the eyes of someone who has spent a long time on Earth, gotten to know humans, seen what they’re capable of. So your idea for what’s best for humanity will inevitably differ from Heaven’s, even if just a little bit. And I don’t mean always.” Crowley’s voice grows surprisingly gentle. “But sometimes it will.”

Aziraphale gathers his composure and tries to hold it in his hands like he would hold too many scrolls at once: struggling, with uneasy hands, but determined not to drop any. He furrows his brow, slowly picking up what Crowley is putting down. 

“So in this scenario, Heaven thinks this baptising is a good thing, and that, in the end, it helps The Great Plan, yada yada.” His fingers stop moving along the line and he looks up at Aziraphale. “What do you think?” 

“Well…” Aziraphale sighs, “it’s good from a purely strategic point of view, for a start. Mieszko needs an ally to help fight the Veleti. And by becoming a Christian country, they will become a part of this religion’s culture, which has a lot of benefits.” 

Crowley nods approvingly, then motions at Aziraphale to look back down at the bench. His left finger moves closer to the invisible line he traced. “Then your view aligns pretty damn well with Heaven’s.” He takes his hands away. “What are you scared of then?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale mutters, a little defeated and not really eager to continue this conversation. Maybe it’s becoming a habit.

Stop it!

“Okay.”

Crowley looks like he wants to say something more but ultimately doesn’t, then reaches for his cup of mead again. Aziraphale reluctantly picks up a piece of bread from his plate and nibbles on it. He pushes aside this existential crisis and tries to focus on the slowly-ending-but-still-going festivities. A few men have begun the game of jumping over the campfire barefoot, their slightly crazed laughter overpowering the already-quiet music played by a lone bard. Mieszko and Prince Boleslav have gone back to their tents, taking most of their men with them, so the atmosphere has become a lot more relaxed. Aziraphale admires the flames contrasting with the dark night sky. 

Crowley finishes his drink, slams the cup down on the table and clears his throat. His gaze is focused on the men quite literally playing with fire. “I’m gonna have a go.”

Aziraphale would lie if he said he was surprised. He watches the demon walk up to the humans, say something in their odd native tongue, laugh and then kick off his shoes. He sends Aziraphale a wide grin, then takes off and jumps above the campfire. He cackles when the flames lick the soles of his feet, even though they probably don’t hurt him at all. 

Aziraphale rests his chin on his hand and continues to watch the game, but his mind drifts off to the lines Crowley traced. The line representing his view twangs and vibrates like a string of a harp, never staying in the same spot for longer than a moment.  

—

“And what was The Fall like for you? Up There?”

Aziraphale’s mind and heart stop. He can hear an ear-piercing ringing, like a bomb exploding in slow-motion. He drowns in this sound, loses himself in it to the point that the world around him, including Crowley, begins to fade. If Crowley’s saying anything, Aziraphale can’t hear it. In his mind, he curls up into a ball and lays still, a prey playing dead before its hunter. 

If he stays still, maybe the memories from The Fall will leave him alone.

Crowley finishes verifying his work on Aziraphale’s wings, then carefully places a hand between his shoulder blades. He flinches, broken out of this disassociated state and surprised that it’s not just a brief touch of the tips of his fingers, but then immediately leans back into it, his cold soul starved of the heat that Crowley has always radiated. 

“I just want you to know,” Crowley begins, voice soft and quiet; it’s that tone that always brings Aziraphale to tears, because it feels like his defences are being stripped away, more so than before. “I… I’ll wait for you, Azira- Angel .”

Aziraphale presses his lips together and closes his eyes in a silent prayer. He whispers after a moment, yearning squeezing his heart dry: “I’ll be worthy of you.”

Crowley’s hand slowly moves. Aziraphale’s lips tremble, no, please, I’ll be good, I’ll behave, please, don’t leave , and he nearly whines when he feels the demon touch him again. He was readjusting his hold, there was nothing to worry about.

“No. It’s not that.” Crowley’s thumb moves in a lazy circle around the base of Aziraphale’s left wing, and it leaves him on the brink of tears. All of this is too much. “It’s not about being worthy.”

This time, Crowley actually starts moving away. Aziraphale can’t stop the sob that escapes his mouth. This thing he's feeling – these are big feelings with big names. They’re ripping him apart, shred by shred, piece by piece, picking at a wound that has scarred over a long time ago. He needs to get out, he needs to say something, he’s going to–

“Cr-Crowley. Please . Stay.” Before he can hear any sort of answer or denial of his plea, he continues. “I need– We need to talk. Please. I–”

He hears the demon shuffle, then sees him in the corner of his vision to the left. Aziraphale looks down at his hands, noticing that he’s not just twisting, but essentially spinning the ring on his pinky. 

“There’s something I want to tell you. Or– I– It’s been weighing on me for some time now, and… And now, with our conversation, the feeling is back. Would you– I– I don’t know how to–”

“Talk to me, Angel,” Crowley interrupts him gently, “and I’ll listen.”

Aziraphale twiddles his thumbs for a moment that stretches like eternity, then takes a deep breath. When he opens his mouth, it’s like a fall into the abyss without any certainty as to what’s awaiting him at the bottom. But there’s no going back now. 

“You asked me what The Fall was like for me.” Golden blood on his sword, glistening in the light shining onto Heaven’s side of the battlefield. There’s ash in the air, filling his lungs even though he’s not breathing. “It– Not just The Fall itself, but the aftermath of it – it was awful.”

It immediately sounds silly. Of course it was awful – it was The Fall. 

When the battle was over, Aziraphale stood in a line of angels stretching endlessly across the battlefield, ramrod straight and trembling from the adrenaline – or an equivalent of it – wearing off. The Archangels, led by Gabriel, stopped by each angel to congratulate them on their bravery. 

‘Ah, Aziraphale! Our most accomplished fighter!’ Gabriel exclaimed, smiling with true pride, pride that made Aziraphale's skin crawl. ‘Everyone! Take note! This–’ he grabbed both of Aziraphale's shoulders and shook him, perhaps a bit too vigorously– ‘is how you fight for Heaven!’

What did I do, he thought, overcome with dread. He cried – no, sobbed – his way through the battle, pleading with every opponent to run away, lay down their arms, anything . Not many listened, and as much as Aziraphale hated it, he wanted to continue existing. 

But what kind of existence is it, if others had to give their lives or freedom for it?

Gabriel reached for a pocket hidden amongst the folds of his robe and pulled out a small golden ring. He took Aziraphale's hand and put it on his right pinky finger, then grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his arm up. Gabriel waved his other hand, encouraging everyone else to cheer and clap.

Aziraphale prayed for the ground to swallow him whole. 

He now looks at his ring, still as shiny as the day he got it, and slowly squeezes his hand. 

“They gave me this ring for my bravery,” he says quietly, “for my… sacrifice in the Great War.” He extends his hand, letting the light catch on the tincture and the feathers going around the rim. “It’s meant to symbolise that I’m a noble, big-hearted and obedient angel. A valiant warrior, ready to protect Heaven.” He shivers. Obedience. He’s grown to have very mixed feelings about it over the last few years, especially the past six months. “There’s a lot of meaning behind the details, as I was told, but in the end, they all seem to tie to Heaven and the Great War.” 

Crowley's eyes drift towards the piece of jewellery; he sometimes teased Aziraphale about it because it didn't always match his outfits, but never really asked where he got it from. Maybe he figured that if the topic was never brought up, there was nothing to talk about. 

“I don't know why I still wear it. I like to tell myself that it's a symbol of my protection over the Earth and things that matter to me . But that doesn't change how I got it.”

And because taking it off would entail turning his back on Heaven – and even now, despite everything, his instincts are yelling at him about how dangerous and unsafe that is. It's easier to stay on Heaven's side and try– 

No, Heaven is not on the good side anymore. Maybe it never was to begin with. Maybe it strayed from the path along the way. What matters is that it is far from what Aziraphale pictured it to be. And it stings like hell.

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling, and feels the remains of his devotion slowly begin to crumble. He's scared to find out what will be left of him once it's fully gone. 

“I think Heaven was really scared of any new uprising that could sprout up from– from what the first one left behind. And so… The Archangels were rough.”

‘Let it be known that if anyone even dares to question the Ineffable Plan, they will face severe consequences!’ Gabriel’s voice echoed through the halls where everyone was gathered. There was steel and blood-red rage in his tone. They never resembled an angel as little as they did then. ‘We don’t want to go through another Fall now, do we?!’

‘No,’ everyone said in unison. Aziraphale only mouthed the words. He was terrified. 

“I don’t think– No, I don’t know how much of it was the Archangels doing their jobs and how much of it was them themselves. I just remember…”

‘Not missing your starmaker friend now, are you?’ Sandalphon elbowed Aziraphale as they passed him in the hall, making him nearly drop the scrolls he was carrying. Uriel smiled, following right behind them, and didn't spare Aziraphale a single glance. Aziraphale gave them both a nervous smile and then shook his head vigorously, holding the papers with star constellations close to his chest. Gabriel asked him to just fetch them. So why was he scared for his life?

“I just remember walking on eggshells for the centuries before Time started.”

Crowley watches him silently. There’s warmth in his eyes; Aziraphale wants to drown in it. 

“They–” I’ll follow along, I’ll never say a word of protest, just please don’t leave me, don’t leave me . “I– I was–” I’ll be good, I’ll be nice, just don’t let me be alone, I’m so scared, I don’t want to be alone, Mother, Mother, please, answer me.

He sees Crowley reach his hand out towards him and place it over his wrist; only then does Aziraphale notice that he’s been clenching his fists to the point they have turned white at the tips of his fingers. Too disassociated to do anything, he lets the demon take one of his hands and place it in his own, tracing a thumb over his knuckles, soothing reddened skin where he can. 

“I’m listening, Angel.”

“They–” Aziraphale closes his eyes and inhales, trying to steel himself for the pain that is to come. “I’ve never been so alone in my entire existence as I was then.” 

The dam breaks. He lets the water fill his mouth. 

“I was so terrified of falling out of line that I stifled anything that would make me stand out in any way.” For a brief moment, he smiles sourly. “Not that it really worked after I was sent down to work on Earth, but… but it got me through– through things.”

Gabriel wasn’t wearing any heeled boots – it would be millenia before they would be invented – yet their steps echoed in the hall where everyone was once again gathered together. Angels of all classes stepped aside for him to walk through. Everyone kept their eyes down. Gabriel pierced everyone with their violet gaze. 

‘I hope everyone knows why we’re doing this. This is God’s Plan we’re talking about, angels! Don’t you get it? Don’t you get that everything has to work together like celestial harmonies?’

Aziraphale bowed his head down when Gabriel walked past him, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest.

‘So when someone isn’t doing what they’re supposed to, what do you think happens?’ Gabriel threw their arms in the air. ‘There are no celestial harmonies! There are celestial… cacophonies. Do you get what I’m saying?’  

“By the time I got accustomed to living on Earth, my ‘standing out’ no longer mattered. I could just say it was something I picked up down here, and no one asked any further. At some point, the line between what I was and what I learned from humans started to blur.”

He gives Crowley a pleading look, please, I don’t want to feel like this, can we just forget you asked?

 “Keep going, Aziraphale.” Crowley gently squeezes his hand, reading him with ease. “It’s okay.”

Aziraphale falls silent. If Crowley keeps going on like this, he is… Well, he doesn’t know exactly; he just feels this impending doom, like one more word from his mouth will be the death of him. It’s like he’s watching Crowley perform an open-heart surgery on him as he himself stands on the sidelines. It’s disturbing, yet he can’t look away. He wants to say: That’s my heart. Be careful. Stop. Maybe you should leave it as it is. If the wound has healed, why open it again?  

But it makes him wonder: where is the wound from?

Aziraphale turns to properly face the demon, minding the coffee table behind him as he does, and takes in the sights. Crowley sits in front of him bare-chested, with light coming through the blinds casting bright lines on his skin. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, showing the giant snake tattoo wrapped around his right arm. His wings are splayed out behind him in all their glory. He’s the embodiment of serenity; with light catching in his red hair, making it seem like it’s glowing, he looks like a deity that lost its way and found itself sitting by Aziraphale purely by accident. 

“I– I can’t–”

“Yes, you can, Angel. Talk to me. I’ll listen.”

It’s the last breath before the plunge. It’s the second before missing a step and tumbling down the stairs. It’s the split moment of ignorance after waking up, just before reality comes crashing in. It’s a breath taken just before pressing your lips against someone else’s, before you breathe their air like you’re one and the same person. 

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand, and when he feels him squeeze back, he thinks that the second after the plunge may not be so bad. 

“When… With everything being very rigid Up after The Fall, they didn’t accept anything that was out of line – anyone who was out of line. They–” Aziraphale exhales sharply, don’t leave me, I’ll never do this again, don’t leave, please . “The Archangels figured that the best punishment for those that did was… I think the best term to describe it is: rejection. Abandonment.”

Crowley doesn’t nod, doesn’t furrow his brow, doesn’t grimace. He just listens. 

“It’s difficult enough being alone even for a moment when in Heaven – with how barren, dead and overwhelmingly empty it is. And with others purposefully avoiding you to punish you… It was… a lot .” Aziraphale shakes his head, trembling lips pressed together to stop himself from crying, but the tears still come rolling. “It wasn’t just a lot. It was h-horrible.”

He frees his hand from Crowley’s hold and wraps his arms around himself. Crowley looks at him, for the first time in a very long while, with genuine worry. It’s a rare thing to see Aziraphale this vulnerable and naked. Actually, it’s never happened before. Not to this extent. 

“I always got a new assignment when I didn’t do everything to the dot. I would go days, maybe weeks, without seeing anyone; trying to find my way in the heavenly archives, burdened with the knowledge that the documents I was sent to fetch could have very well been miracled to the desired location. It got to the point where when I saw the Archangels approaching, I would have a near panic attack.”

Crowley tilts his head; his brow is now furrowed in understanding. They both know Aziraphale mostly dislikes being alone – maybe because of what Heaven did to him, maybe he is just like that. He only accepts solitude with the promise of seeing someone later, with knowing that someone is just a phone call or a five-minute walk away.

“It got better once I started working on Earth… let's call it ‘full-time’.” Aziraphale glances at Crowley with genuine appreciation. “Though when I took up the position of Supreme Archangel, I didn't expect it to hurt so bad again.”

Crowley reaches for his hand once more. Aziraphale nods, thanking him for this gesture, and inhales shakily. He's going to actually cry. And maybe it won't be so bad. 

“I never thought how bad things must have been Up,” Crowley says quietly. “I'm sorry.”

Aziraphale nods again. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Angel.” Crowley scoots a little closer and grabs both of his hands. The way he says the word ‘angel’ pushes Aziraphale closer to tears. “It’s not okay. You can’t keep excusing Heaven for their ways. They hurt you.”

Aziraphale wants to pull back, turn away from Crowley and the painful truth he’s saying, but the demon's hold is firm, though still gentle. 

“I don’t– I don’t know what’s left of me without Heaven.” He inhales shakily, but it comes out as a sob. “I don’t know w-who I am without it. I can’t just turn my back on it!”

Crowley’s gaze softens. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands, then slowly pulls him in and wraps his arms and wings around him. Aziraphale's breath shudders; everything suddenly comes to a halt when he feels himself be wrapped in this caring cocoon, then this everything moves again and hits him like a train. He begins to cry, hands clutching at the back of Crowley's shirt as if for support from a fall. 

“It’s gonna be okay.” 

“N-no , it can’t be. I can’t be an angel without a heaven. That's– that's not what that word means.”

Crowley hums, thinking about Aziraphale’s words. He says after a moment, “Then give it your own meaning.” 

He places his cheek on top of Aziraphale’s head, pulling him even closer, and places a hand between his wings like it's a promise. A promise that he'll stay. “That’s what I do every day.”

Chapter Text

The first day of the rest of their lives, 11 am. 

Crowley focuses on moving in Aziraphale's prim and proper way, hating, quite frankly, every second of it, and slowly makes his way down the street. His legs seem to lead the way on their own, taking him to Soho for whatever reason, but he doesn’t make the effort to change his course since he’s got an hour to kill before the meeting in St James’s Park. 

Being in Aziraphale’s body feels a lot like wearing a completely different suit for the first time in his life; Crowley has an especially hard time adjusting to the feeling of the tartan collar pressing against the back of his neck, and runs his finger around the edge of it every few minutes, when he can’t take it anymore. He’d take the whole thing off if it were up to him, but then the entire plan would go to shit, and that cannot happen. 

But there’s another unknown thing he’s experiencing – he can sense love in the same way he can sense envy, hate or desire as a demon. Love leaves a delicate, sweet taste in his mouth, makes the air he’s breathing smell like a garden, like flowers that have drunk up the sunlight until they couldn’t drink anymore. It floats above people's heads like cigarette smoke would, overflowing Crowley's senses as he passes them on his way.

At least now he knows what Aziraphale was talking about when he said he could sense love in Tadfield. Wonder what that must have been like. 

Few minutes later he's standing on the corner of Whickber Street, staring at the brand-new looking bookshop and focusing really hard on not letting his mouth fall open like it wants to. The world doing a system refresh is one thing, but this? This is something else. His heart knows it’s not meant to be here, staring right back at him, brand new like the day it was first opened, yet here it is. The windows are spotlessly clean and if it wasn’t for the light reflecting in them, Crowley would have thought there was no glass separating the shop from the street. 

He walks up the steps and reluctantly places his hand on the door handle, as if it could disappear in a puff of smoke at any given moment. The steel under his palm is cold to the touch and vibrates ever so slightly; the magic that brought it back to life unscathed is still present in the very atoms creating the shop. 

He shuts the doors behind him and sighs heavily, leaning his back against them. Being outside feels like partaking in a big test that he doesn’t know the questions to, let alone answers, so he’s glad to have an opportunity to escape prying eyes of Heaven for a moment. Inside, it smells like old books and peach flowers again, but also like freshly polished wood; with a quick look around, Crowley locates the source of the latter in the form of a new bookshelf standing by a wall that was unoccupied before. The smells are a stark contrast to what Crowley sensed here last time – smoke so thick he nearly choked on it, heat burning his airways and ash and anguish filling his lungs. He can still feel flames licking his skin, like loyal hounds who were excited to see their master again. 

The memory of the fire makes shivers race down his back, as if he’s expecting to experience it all over again. Crowley grabs the opportunity to run a finger around his collar one more time, trying to replace the feeling with a different sensation. It’s fine, you’re fine. He forces himself to take another look at the shop, as to ground himself in reality where there’s no fire swallowing books and wood. No fire, see? Buck up.

He walks over to the new bookshelf and runs a finger down a spine of one of the books, then furrows his brow when he reads the titles. Oliver Twist? The Six Bullerby Children? Star Wars comics? Dickens’s work is the only thing that belongs in this shop, maybe Lindgrens’s, too, but Star Wars? Aziraphale probably isn’t even aware of its existence, and even if he is, he has no idea what it’s about. This has a child’s name written all over it, Crowley just can’t remember who it is. It must have slipped his mind. Maybe it’s because of the switch.

He walks between the shelves, making sure everything is back in its place, first on the ground floor, then upstairs. There’s not a single speck of dust floating in the air, not even in the guest bedroom that was turned into another storage room for books that didn’t make it to the display shelves. Everything is, as Aziraphale would put it, in a tip-top condition. 

A shadow of a smile forms on Crowley’s lips at the thought. Angel and his peculiar way of saying, as if he was stuck in the late 1800’s at best. But it also makes him realise: he can give him the good news about the bookshop being back and, quite frankly, in a better condition than before! It will make Aziraphale so happy, he’s going to make a face that Crowley’s body has never been physically capable of making.

It’s that want to make Aziraphale smile that has Crowley leaving the shop and heading to St James’s Park with as brisk a pace as Aziraphale’s body will allow him without ruining the disguise. Suddenly everything will be fine, it’s raining but not to the point that it’s uncomfortable to be outside, and he’s glad that it rains the way it does. Crowley hasn’t been this excited in a while because he’ll tell Aziraphale and–

He stops abruptly at the entrance to the park, spotting Aziraphale in Crowley’s body waiting by the duck pond only thanks to the way he’s moving (like both of his hip joints have been dislocated). He can’t tell Aziraphale – well, not in the way he wants to. Not when they are yet to play with fire. 

As he enters the park, it’s like he’s walking into a lion’s den. He doesn’t know why, but he can sense something in the air. He feels himself straightening his back even more so than before, tension making his muscles rigid. 

Aziraphale looks uncomfortable as well – at least as uncomfortable as Crowley’s body shows, which isn’t a lot to an untrained eye. He gives him a quick nod, a ‘Hello again, I’m terrified’ that the demon easily recognises. They walk towards the ice cream stand. 

Crowley folds his arms behind his back before he can start fidgeting with something, and allows himself a smidge of his normal behaviour by quickly rubbing his nose. 

“How’s the car?” he asks, though a part of him suspects what the answer is.

Aziraphale sends him a very quick smile. “Not a scratch on it.” 

Oh, bless you, kid. He nods. 

“And how’s the shop?” Aziraphale asks, looking down at his hands.

Crowley lets a brief grin split his face. Their most beloved earthly possessions are good – better, they’re like brand new . “Not a smudge. Not a book burned.”

Aziraphale sighs with what must be relief, then grabs the ice cream from the human and hands the vanilla whippy to Crowley, who reminds himself that he has to keep up appearances and tries a little bit. It’s too sweet for his liking. Way too sweet. He’d give the rest to Aziraphale if he could. 

Aziraphale seems to comprehend as little about what happened yesterday as Crowley does, which is a comforting thing. When Death interrupts their conversation, Crowley feels these suppressed memories become set free, but as he tries to say something, someone places a hand over his mouth and pulls him backwards. His vanilla whippy falls onto the ground with a sad plop , then someone steps on the wafer and makes the whole thing look like a total mess. 

The angels tie his hands behind his back, then his mouth, and begin pulling him away from Aziraphale, who realises what is happening a second too late. He tries to run after them, but topples to the ground a moment later, when the hit of the crowbar catches up to him. Crowley grits his teeth, seething with anger, and struggles to break out of the angels’ hold, but it’s no use with the rope binding his arms. Threats and such is one thing, but hurting Aziraphale – well, actually hurting Crowley, but to Crowley they’re hurting Aziraphale – is one thing too many. 

Heaven and Hell separated them again, as if the bastards couldn’t find anything better to do than barging into their lives like they owned them. They’re going to pay for this. He’s going to make them pay. And he knows Aziraphale will, too. 

How does Crowley live like this? – Aziraphale wonders, trying to get used to the war drums in his ears. Ta-dum-dah-dum, ta-dum-dah-dum, ta-dum-dah-dum ; it’s like his chest is a snare that a drummer can’t stop playing on. He slowly walks around Crowley’s apartment, trying to find a rhythm in the heartbeat that will help him with timing his steps correctly. It seems like no matter how much he tries, how much Crowley pressed on his hips, he held him by the hips, oh good Lord, he keeps ending up looking more like a wobbling giraffe than a snake swiftly moving from left and right. 

He wraps his arms around himself again, trying to ease the anxiety fizzling under his skin like cold fires do on New Year’s Eve. He’s worried that his interpretation of the last prophecy is incorrect, and therefore that he sentenced both him and Crowley to complete and utter destruction. It’s going to be his fault. They’re going to cease existing without having a chance to say a proper goodbye, to say what has been on their minds for all these years – and Aziraphale has a lot to say, so much he fears a few minutes wouldn’t be enough to convey even the gist of it. 

He somehow makes it through the two hours that he has to wait before he can head out to the park. He spends some time browsing through Crowley’s collection of vinyls, pleasantly surprised to find that they’re in an alphabetical order, then hangs around the hall where the house plants are, and wonders why they seem to shiver when he gets closer to them.

“It’s alright, dear,” he coos, reaching his hand out again, a lot slower this time. The fiddle-leaf fig – what an oddly-accurate name for a species – doesn’t seem reassured, and moves away as much as a plant can. Aziraphale tries anyway and eventually places a hand over the leaf, then slowly runs a finger along its edge. “See? Not so bad.” 

The fig must sense that something about their owner is off – or that it’s not really its owner – because after a moment of gentle scratching, it begins to lean into Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Oh, aren’t you a love,” he chuckles softly. The other plants turn, almost as if they’re curious, and since he’s got time to kill, he says hello to each of them. “Crowley is just keeping up appearances, you know?” he assures them. “He’s actually very fond of you.” 

He grabs his sunglasses and heads out when the time comes, patting his jacket in search of a watch and realising he’s wearing one on his wrist instead. The way it looks somehow has Crowley’s name written all over it. It’s odd not to have knick-knacks hidden all over his pockets: a handkerchief, a pair of glasses, keys to the bookshop, a piece of paper with something scribbled down on it, loose change in case a shop he’ll go to won’t accept card payment. He feels unusually light with only the keys to the apartment and a phone in the pockets of his jeans. 

Aziraphale gets out of the building and is shocked to see the Bentley parked on the side of the road, slick and shining like new. He wonders if the quiet roar he hears is coming from under the hood of the car, as a way for the car to greet him, or if it’s just his imagination. He nods at it, figuring that saying hello won’t do no harm either way, then waves a hand at the oncoming taxi. 

When he doesn’t see the demon in the park, his worries overpower the excitement at bringing him the good news about his car, and no rational explanation seems to be able to soothe his nerves. Surely he just got caught up with something, right? The Archangels haven’t tracked him down and besides, Crowley learned to pretend to be Aziraphale very quickly and very well, so it’s going to be hard to see through the disguise. 

When he sees the demon finally approaching him down a path, walking in a way like, as Crowley would wonderfully put it, ‘he has a stick up his arse’, he lets out a heavy sigh of relief. Okay. Okay. Now they just need to pretend for a few hours, wait until the prophecy is fulfilled, then everything can go back to normal. 

Crowley eventually makes his way to him, looking like he's not really enjoying moving in such a pristine manner, and gives him a tight smile. Aziraphale nods in the direction of the ice cream stand. 

“One vanilla whippy and one ice cream lolly,” he says, biting his tongue before he can add ‘please’ at the end. He's not sure whether Crowley would do that, so it's best not to. 

He hears the demon slowly walking behind his back. “How's the car?” he asks casually.

Aziraphale is surprised to hear the question, but if Crowley is asking about that, then maybe…

“Not a scratch on it,” he replies, giving him a quick smile. “How's the shop?”

The few seconds it takes Crowley to answer are excruciating. It's his turn to smile at him.

“Not a smudge. Not a book burned.”

Aziraphale lets out the breath he hasn't realised he's been holding, then looks up at the sky, thanking whoever is responsible for it. He hands the vanilla whippy to Crowley. 

“Do you understand what exactly happened yesterday?”

The demon furrows his brow, which must be an equivalent to him making a complicated face and an incomprehensible sound if he were occupying his own corporation, and slowly tries a bit of his ice cream to give himself time to think about his answer. Aziraphale can tell he doesn’t really like the taste, and is surprised that he eats a bit more anyway. 

He glances at the strawberry lolly in his hand, slowly melting and threatening to drip onto his fingers, and reminds himself that Crowley wouldn’t really eat it, so he shouldn’t either. 

“I understand some of it,” the demon begins slowly, not really sure of his words. “Some of it is just…” 

“Ineffable.”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, curious about his reaction to Death’s sudden appearance, but the demon is not standing next to the ice cream stand like he was a moment ago. He whips around and sees him – or actually, he sees himself, which somehow makes it even more terrifying – being dragged away by two angels. Uriel and Sandalphon are proudly closing the convoy. Sandalphon’s golden teeth shine in the light seeping through the rain clouds. 

Aziraphale throws away his lolly and takes a step forward, breaking into a run after Crowley, no, don’t take him to Heaven, don’t–, but then something very cold and very hard collides with the back of his skull and sends him to the ground. 

No, they can’t take Crowley to Heaven! Aziraphale can’t bear thinking what might happen to him, given what he knows the Archangels are capable of doing. He raises himself to his elbows, but the world spins violently the moment he moves, like he’s sitting on a very quick carousel that’s not planning on stopping.

“What’s wrong, love?” someone yells, the echo of it rattling in his head. Aziraphale forces himself to look over his shoulder and stares right into two black bottomless pits that are some demon’s eyes. Two others, barely passing as humans with their ridiculous outfits, watch him with fascination. 

No, Crowley, I have to–!

But the world spins even more, and Aziraphale thinks he can see stars when he blinks again.

Anger hits him like a wave, a wave that slowly fogs his vision until everything begins blurring into one. He’ll make them regret this. 

“Oh, it’s fine,” he says, promises, threatens, slurring his words. “It’s absolutely tickety-boo.” 

—

Crowley wakes up in the middle of the night, his dream still present under his eyelids whenever he closes them. He shakes his head, trying to get the memory of it out of his head.

‘Aziraphale!’ his scream echoed. He remembers stretching out his arm, then everything got swallowed by blinding light. 

Aziraphale’s expression is what’s stuck with him the most – that horror, not just fear, overpowering every other emotion. His skin was pale as snow, his gaze dead, with no life behind it. He looked like he would rather die than find out what’s going to happen later. 

And Crowley wanted nothing more than to make that face go away, to hug Aziraphale and promise him that nobody is going to hurt him again, not as long as he’s around. But then the light came. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shake off the anxiety that the memory brought up. It's bad enough that they told their respective offices that the Second Coming can start. They have spent the time since restlessly waiting for the world to actually end, only for it not to do so. Everything seems to be fine. 

And Crowley doesn't trust it one bit. It's not that he doubts that their plan worked – it's just that he has a bad, bad feeling. Maybe the dream he had amplifies it. 

They decide to go to Soho – Crowley can check up on his shop, see if the plants need watering, and Aziraphale can see Muriel again, find out what the Archangels wanted from her. The Bentley has a dissatisfied aura to it when they enter, so Crowley pats the steering wheel and quietly promises that he'll give it a proper break once all of this is over. Aziraphale cracks a faint, tight smile as he watches him talk to the car, but he continues to anxiously twiddle his thumbs for the duration of the drive.

It's going to be fine , Crowley wants to say – for the peace of mind of both of them. If he says it out loud, it can become reality, not just a hopeful thought. But if he says it out loud, it's all the more reason for it not to be fine. 

He walks into his shop and paces around the place restlessly, glaring at the plants that have dared to develop spots on their leaves during his absence, then grabs a plant mister from a shelf and does a quick round. Other than that, there's nothing more to be done, and he hates it . He watered the plants rather vigorously when he left, and since there's barely any daylight coming through the windows at this time of year, it's going to be a few more days until someone needs a drink again. 

That is, if the next few days have the chance to happen. Let’s… let’s not think about that.

Crowley takes one final look at his shop; there’s a sense of pride swelling up in his heart. He built this place from the ground up, after all. He’s a terrible shop owner: he’s usually away; when the shop is open, he has a hard time parting with the plants even though he bought them for the sole purpose of selling them to someone else. The customers seem to come only because he’s the only plant seller in the area, and because his plants are the most magnificent (and most terrified) in the whole of London. But that doesn’t change the fact that this is his and his alone, from the acacia shelves to green walls and a damn good shop sign. 

He gently pats the door handle, it was nice while it lasted , then walks out. If he stayed longer, the parting would be even more difficult. He should focus. 

Crowley enters the bookshop, realising with surprise but also satisfaction that he doesn’t need a clear invite to walk in anymore, and finds Aziraphale standing over Muriel who’s sitting slumped on the couch. 

“Dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale assures, reaching out and gently squeezing Muriel's shoulder. 

Crowley very much dislikes being kept out of the loop. “What’s alright?” 

“Nothing is,” Muriel replies immediately. She sighs heavily and tries to get rid of the hints of bitterness in their tone. “They–” they bite their lip– “Heaven wants me to come back. They want me to get ready for the Second Coming.”

Crowley wishes this came as a surprise. Instead, he feels himself deflate a little. 

“Do you want to go?” he asks.

Muriel looks at him like prey looks at its predator. Crowley has seen that face on Aziraphale many times. If it’s taken Aziraphale this long to finally begin to come to terms with the fact that Heaven aren’t ‘the good guys’, then it must be twice as difficult for Muriel. 

Aziraphale smiles at them with understanding and compassion. He’s the only one who understands what she’s going through right now. “It’s your choice, Muriel. You have the right to it.” 

It doesn’t seem to calm Muriel at all. If anything, it startles them even more.  

“I– I don’t want to leave the bookshop,” she says, pleading, like they’re being dragged to Heaven as she speaks. “I like it here! Earth is so… peculiar, there’s so much to see and do. I can’t imagine seeing it go after only starting to learn about it.” The joy in their voice is momentary and quickly gives way to weariness and resignation. “But I can’t disobey Heaven. I just can’t!”

Yes, you can.

“Yes, you can,” Aziraphale replies, calm and unwavering. He doesn’t notice Crowley’s surprised, but also impressed look. “I can order you to stay, if you want me to. I’m the Supreme Archangel. No one else is.” 

Crowley can read Muriel like an open book, given that he’s had practice with talking to an angel going through an existential crisis. She doesn’t know what they want; their need for freedom, for discovering things, is battling with the blind loyalty that was hammered into her head from the moment she was created. With knowing what the aftermath of The Fall looked like in Heaven, it’s safe to assume that she’s also terrified of falling out of line. Who knows how an angel from the 37th degree was treated, with how they treated Aziraphale? 

Muriel looks like she’s about to have a breakdown. They glance at Aziraphale, unsure if he’s a friend or a superior first, then bites her lip and looks down at her hands. In the silence that washes over the three of them, Crowley can almost hear the chaos unfolding inside Muriel’s head.

“I’m gonna go pack,” she finally says, very quietly, sitting up and heading towards the stairwell before somebody stops them. 

Aziraphale looks mostly sad, not really disappointed. He knows what this is like and expecting Muriel to lose their loyalty to Heaven so easily would be a foolish dream. It’s more abrupt for her than it was for him – for him it was piece by piece, one bad thing after the other every few decades, whereas for her it’s pretty much everything happening all at once.

Crowley gently nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder. He looks up at him and the exhaustion visible in his gaze seems to be thousands of years old. 

“All of it still hurts,” the angel whispers. He’s searching Crowley’s face, trying to find an antidote for this pain in the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes.

“I know.” 

He can’t bring himself to say it out loud, so he looks at Aziraphale with ‘It’s going to be fine’ hiding in his eyes. Aziraphale nods. Their mutual understanding hums in the air. 

Muriel comes down the stairs thirty minutes later, with the face of someone that has fought one battle too many, who’s half-hoping to lose the next one quickly and finally taste the sweet relief of peace. She’s carrying the duffle they got as their very first purchase on Earth, but as she approaches them, she slides it off their shoulder and hands it to Crowley.

“I–” they take a shaky inhale; they’re about to cry– “I realised I shouldn’t really show up with this. It might be…” The fear in her eyes says the rest for her: ‘It might be frowned upon. I might get in trouble.’

Crowley takes it and carefully slings it over his shoulder. It’s a little heavy from the things packed inside. “We’ll keep it safe for you.” 

They nod, lips pressed into a thin line in hopes it will help her hold it together. They reach out their hand towards him. 

“I really liked our ‘Earth lessons’. Even if you were difficult to work with.” 

Crowley scoffs and shakes her hand. “So were you.” 

Muriel turns to Aziraphale and bows, which makes Aziraphale grimace awkwardly. “Thank you for the opportunity to look after this bookshop.” 

“You really don’t have to bow, dear,” Aziraphale sighs. “And you’ve done an amazing job. I wouldn’t want to have anyone else in this position.” 

If it wasn’t for the circumstances, Crowley would jokingly mention the few books Muriel did accidentally sell, but he keeps it to himself. They can get together and spend the whole day joking when the world doesn’t burn. 

They let Muriel lead the way out of the bookshop and towards the lift. She looks around the street, memorising every square inch of it in case they never get the chance to see it again, and Crowley notices the tears gathering in their eyes. 

She looks like she wants to say something before leaving, something grand like a final goodbye, but can’t find the right words to express their feelings. Aziraphale gives them a warm smile and bows his head quietly. Crowley makes the sloppiest salute known to mankind, which earns him Muriel’s quiet chuckle. She enters the lift, reaches for the button that will take them up, hesitates for a moment, then slowly presses it. 

“Going up. ”

Crowley hates that sound. 

At a loss of what to do with themselves now that they’re back in the bookshop and alone, Aziraphale sits down on the couch and tries to read a book, while Crowley first paces around before he eventually curls up in the chair with arms tightly folded on his chest, and peers out the window to occupy his mind. He sees Maggie cross the street, holding an empty ceramic mug, enter Nina’s cafe, then exit a few minutes later with the mug full. He can just barely see Nina behind the counter and the small smile on her lips. 

He wonders what they will do when this whole mess is over. Will they finally get a break? Maybe they can go to The Ritz and have that extremely alcoholic breakfast they didn’t get the chance to get last time? Or they could leave London for a bit, give themselves the space to figure out their own mess without anyone nagging them about unimportant things like shops, miracles or curses. They could hole up in Crowley’s flat and forget the rest of the world for a bit, living off of Aziraphale’s miracle drinks and take-out they would occasionally order. Crowley will definitely take at least a week-long nap, and he might just tempt Aziraphale to do the same. Maybe it will finally make the bags under his eyes fade. 

He hopes they will finally get the chance to heal until there’s nothing more to heal from. 

He’s managed to doze off in the silence of the bookshop, lulled by the occasional rustle of pages as Aziraphale reads on. The feeling that everything is back to normal, as if the last seven months didn’t happen, creeps up on him like a hand travelling up his shoulder and to his neck, but evaporates when the gramophone turns on and–

The gramophone turns on? 

Crowley opens his eyes, sees that Aziraphale is just as confused as he is, and has only a second to feel fear overtaking him before the gramophone starts playing. 

“Aziraphale, what did you do?” the violins demand. The anger hiding behind the music is palpable.

Along to the music, the telephone on the desk starts ringing. Crowley doesn’t reach for it, foolishly hoping that if he doesn’t move, Heaven and Hell will think that the bookshop is empty. The handset clatters onto the desk as if an invisible hand pushed it, then there’s a click of the call being answered.

“Crowley, you bastard. What is happening?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, Crowley looks at Aziraphale. Their mutual understanding signs louder than ever before. 

Crowley legs it for the doors, quite literally having Hell hot on his heels, and Aziraphale follows right after. The gramophone continues playing, a triumphant trumpet and loud snares letting them know that Heaven is coming. The line on the phone has gone dead, adding to the cacophony of sounds, drowning out Crowley’s racing thoughts. The doorbell rings violently when they burst out of the doors. The demon flicks his wrist in the direction of the Bentley, starting the ignition. He’s about to cross the street and literally jump behind the wheel when he hears Aziraphale stumble, and he can’t stop himself from turning around to check if he’s alright – because if he falls, then he’s going to get taken, and Crowley doesn't want to let that happen. It’s stronger than the urge to get fucking moving before Hell and Heaven get here .

Aziraphale has stopped dead in his tracks, looking at him with horror in his eyes. Crowley turns to continue running, but he’s met with the wall of Hastur and Dagon’s chests. They grab him by the shoulders before he can register what’s happening.

“Crowley!”

“Aziraphale!” he yells, fighting to turn around so he can see what’s happening. He hears the ground crack and part somewhere over his right shoulder, then another pair of hands grabs him and begins pulling him away. “Go and–!”

But just as Aziraphale moves, the Archangels exit the lift, shrouded in thick rays of sunlight, and block every path he could possibly take. Sandalphon – Crowley hasn’t seen the bastard for quite a while, but he certainly didn’t miss them – looks extremely pleased with the possibility of having a fight. Aziraphale stumbles backwards, then looks around hoping to find another means of escape. The humans move around them as if nothing is happening, thanks to a miracle someone must have casted amidst the chaos. 

“You– You bast– Fuck off!” Crowley snarls over his shoulder, fighting very hard to reach his hand out towards Aziraphale, but the demons’ hold is unwavering. He looks atAziraphale with ‘Plan B, plan B, NOW’ screaming in his eyes. 

But just as Aziraphale moves his hand to meet Crowley’s, or just any part of Crowley’s body, the Archangels grab a hold of his coat and pull him away at the last second. Uriel and Sandalphon look like they’re enjoying themselves. 

Struggling to stand his ground with Hastur, Dagon and Shax tugging at his clothes, Crowley experiences the worst deja vu possible. Mere inches separate him and Aziraphale, but because neither of them are able to shorten it, it feels like they’re miles away. Just the tips of their fingers or the touch of their foreheads, that’s all they need . 

Aziraphale groans, surprising the Archangels with his sudden outburst of strength, and moves a few inches closer. Crowley does his best to slip out of his oppressors’ hold.

“Aziraphale!” he yells one final time. His voice seems to echo endlessly. The fear and anger in Aziraphale’s eyes are a terrible thing to witness. 

“Keep them away from each other at all times!” Michael yells. Then everything is swallowed by light. Crowley hears celestial harmonies in his ears.

Chapter Text

Crowley blinks vigorously, trying to clear his vision from the blinding spots. The hands holding him down have not moved, so he’s stopped struggling to break free. He looks around, trying to figure out where the hell he’s been taken and where Aziraphale is. 

His vision slowly returns until he can fully see again, only to find out that his surroundings don’t differ much from the blinding light he saw before. He’s in Heaven. They took them to Heaven. To the terrace where they tried to burn Aziraphale’s corporation five years ago.

Aziraphale groans somewhere to his left; Crowley gladly finds that besides having his arms tied tightly behind his back, nothing happened to him. Crowley tries to convey ‘We will figure this out’ in his gaze, but isn’t sure whether the angel catches it. 

The hands holding him travel down his arms, stop at his wrists where they bind them with a chain, then someone pats him on the shoulder so hard it makes him fall down on one knee. The metal must be holy, because it burns whenever it moves against his bare skin. Aziraphale tries to take a step towards him, but Sandalphon immediately stands in his way, clicking their lips like telling off a naughty child. 

“You’re lucky we decided not to get hellish chains for you. Misbehave, and we will.” 

Aziraphale presses his lips together, presumably biting back a nasty remark that wouldn’t make things better, and slowly takes a step back. 

The gathered beings regroup until they form two coherent sides: the Archangels, without Metatron, on the left, the Dark Council on the right. Where the demons stand, the floor has turned darker and dirtier, and clouds have gathered in the sky above their heads. They would much rather not be in Heaven right now, but the possibility of finally getting revenge on Crowley seems to ease their minds a little bit.

“Right then,” Michael clasps their hands together, walking to stand in the middle of the circle they have formed. “What do we do with you two now?” 

“I say we have a little fun with them before we execute them,” Dagon immediately says. 

The idea is met with enthusiastic chatter; Crowley is surprised with just how eager Heaven seems. Shax and Sandalphon move forward to grab him and Aziraphale, and presumably take them to their damnation. Crowley yearns to break off into a run and never stop running, and never look behind him, and pray to some force higher than God that they will stop chasing him after a few centuries. 

And he nearly does, but when he sees that Aziraphale is standing frozen in place, his distant gaze suggesting that running is the last thing on his mind, he abandons his plans. Because he can abandon Earth, his car, plants and shop, and live with it, but he can’t abandon Aziraphale. He never could.

Desperate not to go down without a fight, Crowley struggles onto his feet and takes a few steps back, keeping a distance between himself and Shax. They furrow their brow at him, immediately suspicious of him, and stop. Sandalphon reluctantly does the same. Aziraphale still hasn’t moved an inch. It’s like someone cast a spell on him. 

“ N-no, you don’t want to do this,” Crowley begins, voice trembling. He bites down on his tongue, forcing it to obey him. “You can’t just do that to me! O-or Aziraphale! He’s still the Supreme Archangel! And I’m a fucking Duke of Hell!” 

Shax laughs, baring rows of sharp teeth. “Oh, none of it matters! You meddled with the Ineffable Plan. You remember what happened to Gabriel when they didn’t comply, don’t you?”

Crowley doesn’t allow himself to be scared – he refuses to make room for it in his mind. He tenses his forearms, the chains burning lines after lines into his skin, and searches his mind for another excuse he can spew out to buy them a bit more time. 

Then he feels something in the backpocket of his jeans. It’s a box, squished from when he dozed off in the chair in the bookshop. It’s a matchbox. It’s the matchbox.  

He looks up at Aziraphale, trying to let him know he has a plan, then at Shax and the rest of the lot.

“What makes you so sure that us ‘meddling’ with the Ineffable Plan isn’t a part of the Ineffable Plan?” Crowley smiles innocently, very aware that this tactic won’t work the second time. Heaven and Hell are stupid, but not that stupid, even he realises that. He hopes that he’s not being very obvious about trying to fish something out of his jeans, but just to be sure, he sends everyone another grin to throw them off. “How can you know what The Almighty wants?”

There’s a sudden, loud crack, then a lighting strikes the floor next to the Archangels. Once the smoke clears out, Crowley sees Metatron in their corporation, their white clothes literally reflecting the sunlight. Fuck off with that!

“I, for one, know.” They do a polite bow directed at everyone gathered. “And I can tell you that She is not pleased with what’s happening.”

As if I cared, Crowley thinks, but keeps it to himself. He twirls the matchbox around in his hand, sliding it open from one side, then the other. The singular match rattles inside, so he makes himself stop before somebody notices he’s got it. 

Hastur groans, impatient. “Let’s just start torturing them! I’m sure that it doesn’t go against the Ineffable Plan.”

Metatron smiles softly. “I do not suppose it does.”

Oh, piss off! She is all up for a bit of torturing these days, isn’t she?! Why am I not surprised?

Shax begins moving towards him again, so Crowley takes another step back. “Not a step closer!” He looks around the room and gladly finds that he has everyone’s attention. “I have a box of hellish matches with me and I am not afraid to use it!” 

‘Matches’ is a strong word to describe a single, broken-in-half match that feels like its head has been partially nicked. 

“Oh, please,” Metatron scoffs. “Go for it! Be my guest! I am utterly terrified!” 

Furfur looks at their fingernails, inspecting their condition as if they actually cared about it. “Burn everyone here, including your dear friend. We can throw you into a bath of holy water when the dust has settled.” 

Crowley’s mind halts with a deafening screech, like a car that stops at a red light for the first time in its life. 

“Or…” Uriel looks up as if they were pondering something very intensely, but only for show, “we could burn you both now , then throw the one that survives into a bath of holy water.”

“That way none of their tricks will work!” Michael gives Uriel a proud, approving glance. “Brilliant idea!”

“I believe we did bring some hellfire with us,” Furfur says innocently, like it’s all just a happy coincidence that they’ve come prepared to kill both Crowley and Aziraphale. “Or Crowley could start it for us with his hellish matches .”

They planned this, he realises with horror, this was their Plan B all along.

Or maybe Heaven and Hell have been waiting for an excuse to kill them for the last five years, no matter how he and Aziraphale would have mucked up their plans?

He squeezes his hand around the matchbox, squishing it even more. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do . He could really use Aziraphale's sharp mind right now. 

But Aziraphale continues to be frozen, gaze distant, lips pressed together. He looks like he's about to fall apart. He wants to move, God, he wants to run for the first time in his life, run and never look back , but it’s like his body has completely shut down, leaving him stuck in his corporation like it’s a shell imprisoning his soul. He tries to make his mind work, start the engines and light the fires, but it’s like trying to light a candle in the middle of a hurricane. 

He wants this feeling to stop, he wants to speak, scream, move his limbs, form his hands into fists and drive them through everyone’s faces until they back off, he wants this to stop, he needs it to stop–

Maybe it was easier when he was Up here alone, because he knew that Crowley is at least safe from Heaven. Now, they’re threatening to utterly destroy him. Aziraphale vividly remembers what happened to the little dragon-looking demon when he was in Hell in Crowley’s corporation. 

Thinking that it could happen to Crowley makes him want to vomit. 

Aziraphale needs to do something or they’re going to die; he’s banging on the walls of his body, begging it to cooperate, but fear is like concrete in his blood vessels, ligaments, muscles, neurons . Maybe that’s what a rabbit caught in the headlights feels like. It’s mesmerised by the promise of death filling his vision. 

Crowley grinds his teeth until his jaw begins to protest; his mind is working on the highest setting possible, letting steam out through his ears. He doesn’t think he can pull this off – so much for being an optimist – but there’s worse ways to go than dying trying to save yourself. 

“Why do you want to burn the world again anyway?” he asks, glaring at Shax to let them know they should still keep their distance or he’ll bite. “Why bother with all of this?” 

Uriel and Saraquel roll their eyes and groan impatiently. Hastur hides their face in their hands with a heavy sigh. Michael scoffs, “Dear Lord, why do you always talk so much? Why do you have to ask so many questions?!” 

Crowley manages to crack an innocent smile, then does a messy curtsy. 

“I propose something else, angels… and demons,” Metatron says, barely hiding the disdain towards the Dark Council in their voice. “I propose we humour him. For old time’s sake, if you know what I mean.” They smile at Crowley, a nasty, malicious smile, to which Crowley responds with the same gesture. “It’s not like they can run away. One won’t leave the other.” 

Metatron eyes Aziraphale with a long glance; they know something is up with him, something that is not letting him move. 

So long as I make them talk, Aziraphale can figure something out , he convinces himself, also glancing at the angel. Aziraphale finally meets his gaze, but the gesture alone seems to be a strain for him. Crowley gives him a ‘Can you do this?’ look, to which Aziraphale responds with tears gathering in his eyes. 

He can do this. They can do this. He turns back to the gathered angels and demons.

“Well then? What’s your answer?” 

Michael glances at Metatron for their approval, and when they receive one, they sigh and speak with the tone of a teacher who is tired of always teaching the same lesson. 

“The Second Coming is a part of the Ineffable Plan. We can’t go against it. No one should.” They glare at Crowley. “When we’re done with humanity, we will finally have the final battle, which we didn’t get a chance to have last time.” Another glare. “And Heaven will finally rule over Earth like it’s meant to!” 

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves just now,” Furfur hisses, squinting their eyes at Michael. “Who wins the battle is yet to be decided.” 

Saraquel folds their hands together and continues where Michael left off. “ Should Heaven win, all the humans who will have ascended to Heaven will have the lands to themselves. We will create an eternal paradise for them, like God promised.” 

The other Archangels all nod, beaming with pride at the mere thought of fulfilling God’s plans. Talk about eternal paradise in an apocalypse. 

“Sounds lovely,” Crowley mutters, then adds, a little louder, “but why bring Jesus into this?”

“He’s going to rule the world when the war is over, of course! We figured it might be easier for the humans if he’s there to oversee their ascension when the Second Coming happens.” It’s Uriel’s turn to glare at Crowley. Their blank gaze is far scarier than Michael’s angry one. “Don’t think we won’t bring him back. We’ll find a way around your little trick eventually.”

Well, shit . He racks his brains for another question he could ask to buy them more time, even if it's a matter of a few minutes at best. This entire situation is like driving a flaming Bentley and keeping it together with the sheer power of his imagination and determination. One moment of losing his focus and the whole thing will collapse. And they will die. 

“I still don’t get why there must be a final battle. Are you fucking bored? Blood thirsty?”

The Archangels seem appaled by such an assumption – ever the righteous fuckers, eager to torture him and Aziraphale but disgusted with the idea of being blood thirsty – while the Dark Council puffs their chests out with pride, patting each other on their backs and grinning. 

Hastur eventually stops chuckling and sends Crowley an unimpressed look. “Because the argument must be settled. We need to show Heaven that they were wrong for casting us out. You fought in the Great War, too, jackass– “ they shrug– “you tell me.”

I didn’t want to fight, echoes in Crowley’s mind, in the exact same tone he used when he was telling Aziraphale about it. I just had questions that I wanted to get answers to.

He squeezes his hand around the already-squished matchbox, then feels the match properly break in half. It’s not like he would use it anyway. Everyone is looking at him expectantly, seeming rather thrilled with the show he’s putting up, the idea of torturing him and Aziraphale cast to the side for the time being. At least it’s something, but Crowley knows it’s not going to last forever; neither can he talk forever, because there’s only so many questions he can ask. 

They’re humouring him, so he will humour them back. But he’s pulling at strings and coming up with less and less each time. 

He turns to the Dark Council. “Why was I made a Duke, by the way? Cause it sure as Heaven wasn’t your idea. It felt–” he rolls his shoulders, the sheer thought of what happened making his muscles contract– "more like an order you had to carry out.”

Furfur makes a truly disgusted grimace, Shax not falling far behind. Dagon raises their eyebrows. 

“You– You don’t know?” They scoff when they see him shake his head. “You seriously don’t?”

Crowley shrugs. He’s honestly just as surprised as they are – he thought this whole promotion was Hell’s way of showing him they’re the ones in control, that they will torture him if they please. 

Shax clicks their lips and speaks, seeing as no one else is willing to explain it. 

“There was a great surge of evil energy at the beginning of May.” They wave their arms in the air, their ridiculous armour trying to fold to follow the movement. “And I mean really , really big. I don’t think we’ve seen a surge like that since the fourteenth century. So I checked where it originated from, and you’ll never guess where it led me!”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. He’s dying of curiosity, but he’s not going to play these silly games with Shax. 

“To London, jackass! It was precisely in your little area, too. In a matter of a few days it spread over the whole island, then even to Europe. I don’t know what you did–” they give Crowley a look that’s edging on being impressed and jealous– “but it was definitely your doing. No one else was up there at the time.” 

Beginning of May. What was he doing in the beginning of May? Drinking senselessly, crying, sleeping, arguing with everyone– 

No.

He argued with Adam and Anathema a little, but that couldn’t be it. Then he talked with Maggie and Nina and–

No.

He fought with Nina. Had it been Maggie, it wouldn’t have led to anything, but Nina has a fiery personality that kind of reminds Crowley of his own. Even without his input, she can be very harsh and cold towards others. And to top it all off, she runs a bloody cafe in Soho, of all places. Tens, if not hundreds of people stop by it daily, then these people go somewhere else and talk with someone else, and then it’s like water on a mill. 

Crowley’s anger spread like a disease, got amplified by everyone else’s shitty moods, and then spread even more. 

He sighs heavily and hangs his head down. He’s such an idiot, and this feeling is leaving a sticky feeling in his mouth, like an aftertaste no water can wash out. It’s very much in his style to get promoted for something he did unintentionally. He looks up at Shax to see that they’re grinning at him, satisfied with his reaction. 

Right. Back in the game.

He takes a cautious step towards the windows overlooking Heaven, then nods his head in the general direction of the lands outside and, hoping this change of subject will be smooth enough to benefit him, asks, “Do you think those angels want this?” He taps his foot on the floor, clack, clack. “Do you think other demons want this?”

Well, the latter is more probable than the former, but – 

Crowley sees Hastur exchange nervous glances with the rest of the Dark Council, and nearly chokes on the feeling of sudden realisation that hits him. 

“Oh, Satan.” He cracks a genuine, disbelieving smile. Is this hope? “They don’t! That’s why–” he tries to point his finger, burns his wrists instead, and settles on nodding at Hastur accusingly– “you didn’t have a date planned when I asked you about it! It’s because nobody wants to fight anymore!” 

Michael scoffs haughtily. It seems to set Shax off. 

“Don’t start acting all superior, you… you pigeon! You are having the same problems with your troops!” 

Crowley bursts into laughter, however weak one; it’s edging on being either hysterical or crazed. He was sure this would be nothing, but it turns out, he hit a literal goldmine. He looks out the window again, thanking every angel and demon below for having a shred of common sense. 

“Everyone is tired! Fed up with your bullshit!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous–” Metatron begins.

“It’s you who is being ridiculous!” Crowley whips around and pins them with a determined gaze, taking a confident step towards them. “ You’re being delusional! Have you ever thought that if everyone apart from you doesn’t want to fight, then, I don’t know… it means that you’re in the wrong?”

Metatron is looking at Crowley like he just turned into a frog and started breakdancing. Crowley eagerly drinks up the look on everyone’s faces. This is fucking brilliant! It’s rekindling his hope; slowly, shyly, but it is, and it’s giving him the strength to keep up this charade for just a little longer. 

The Archangels have fallen into an argument with the Dark Council; much to Crowley’s surprise, Metatron is very active in yelling at Hastur. Taking advantage of the opportunity, since nobody is focused on him right now, Crowley slowly walks over to Aziraphale until he thinks he will hear him when he says:  

“I need your help, Aziraphale. I can’t fight them off on my own.” 

Aziraphale gives him a terrified, pleading look, blinking away the tears in his eyes. Crowley sees that he’s not fit for any sort of a fight right now, he knows that, okay, but he himself is on his last leg, and after he's done talking, he won't have anything more to offer to buy them time. Which is why Aziraphale needs to step up. 

“Please, Angel.” 

He takes a step back before someone goes in to separate them a lot more violently, and forces himself to peel his gaze away from Aziraphale and back at the crowd of angels and demons. They’re not out of the woods yet, far from it.

“Why– Why are we fighting anyway?” Michael suddenly yells, throwing their arms in the air, their voice just barely louder than everyone else’s combined. They wave a hand in the direction of Crowley and Aziraphale. “We should just kill them now! The Second Coming needs to start!” 

“It can’t happen without you bringing back Jesus Christ, remember?” Dagon points an accusing finger at Michael. “And it’s your fault!” 

“How is that our fault?! It’s the Ineffable Plan!” 

“For Satan’s sake, Michael, stop avoiding responsibility!” 

Crowley listens to it with disbelief stronger than the one he was experiencing minutes ago. They’re arguing like a married couple. He never would have even thought of there being another form of a relationship between Heaven and Hell. For it to happen once or twice is a coincidence, sure, but thrice? 

Shades of grey, he realises, thinking back to a conversation with Aziraphale they had about in 1941. 

“You can’t possibly be punishing me and Aziraphale, and also Gabriel and Beelzebub for that matter, for ‘consorting with the enemy’, when you’re doing it, too!” he exclaims. 

The room falls completely silent. Dagon and Michael exchange a discreet glance, a glance that somehow everyone notices. 

Shax is the first one to explode. Sandalphon doesn’t fall too far behind, working very hard to be just as loud and furious as they are. 

“Dagon?! You… traitor! Another traitor in our ranks! I should have known from the start!” They push Dagon’s shoulder, baring their jagged teeth in an angry snarl, then whip around to glare at Hastur and Furfur. “Next thing I’m gonna hear is that you’re working with the pigeons as well?!”

“How dare you?” Furfur finally raises their voice, for the first time since this whole charade started. “Who do you think I am?! You know me, for Satan’s sake!” 

“Michael!” Sandalphon spits out their name like it’s something disgusting. “To have no shame… To… To even speak with another demon…!”

“You always knew too much too quickly!” Uriel jabs a finger into Michaels’ chest. “You traitorous excuse for an Archangel!”

“Oh, because you’re so righteous, Uriel, aren’t you?! I know you’ve talked with demons, too!” 

“Exchange of intel is something completely different to what you and Dagon must have been doing!”

“That’s enough!” Metatron screams, but no one listens to them. 

“Maybe now you’re going to tell us that you want to go off into the stars with the demon?” Saraquel drags a hand down their face with the heaviest sigh imaginable. “I cannot put into words how disgusted I am with you!” 

The gaze with which Furfur looks at Dagon could turn a mortal into a puddle of burning goo. “Never trust a demon, that’s what I always said!”

“You never said that!” Dagon groans with disbelief. “Ligur did!” 

“Do not bring Ligur into this!” Hastur growls, pure fury shining in their black eyes. “Keep that name out of your traitorous mouth!”

“Enough!” Metatron yells again, more frustrated with the fact that no one is listening to them rather than the fact that a supposed traitor has been uncovered.

Crowley glances over his shoulder at Aziraphale again. Help me, Angel, he pleads. I’ve got nothing else.

Aziraphale seems to gather himself with the utmost strain, truly barely keeping it together. He opens his mouth…

“That is enough, Archangels.”

…and that’s when Aziraphale seems to fully shut down. Crowley feels like someone just pointed a gun to his head, right between the eyes – a gun filled with holy water. Arguing with both the Archangels and the Dark Council is one thing, something he can manage moderately well, but God? He’s got nothing. This must be it. He can’t talk his way out of this. Last time he tried talking to Her didn’t exactly end well for him: he was alienated by the other Archangels, which led to him joining Lucifer's group, which then led to him falling. 

The clouds part, letting thick rays of sunlight shine through the glass ceiling and cast a circle onto the floor. The Archangels all take a cautious step away from the beams, heads bowed down with reverence. The demons hiss at one another, also stumbling backwards, and huddle up together, forgetting their oaths of vengeance and punishment. 

“This is not the way,” She continues, Her voice echoing in the room. 

“Did– Lord Almighty–” Uriel scrambles to put through what they mean to ask while also being as respectful as they can– “you honour us with your– Your presence! Did we do something…”

“...wrong, Lord?” Metatron finishes, the tone of their voice suggesting that they’re growing nervous. This must be different from their private chats, appears in Crowley’s dazed mind. 

There’s a long moment of silence before She speaks again. “That I cannot say. I am, however, very disappointed in all of you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Crowley feels shivers race down his spine. He has heard Aziraphale swear before, but not like this. The room, already silent, somehow falls even more silent. The sunlight seems to dim a little bit, almost like She’s… surprised. No. Shocked.

“Aziraph–” She begins, but Aziraphale cuts Her off.

“Don’t come in here, all benevolent and great, when you’re the one responsible for all of this!”

Aziraphale commands his legs to move and slowly walks to stand to Crowley’s left. God’s sudden appearance made something inside of him snap, properly snap. He can feel electricity curling under his skin, a storm so sudden there’s no thunder to herald its arrival, so sudden it is certain it won’t do anything but literally tear the sky apart. 

“It’s so in your style to show up when everything has already turned to shit, just so you can act as the altruist, as the ever-forgiving and ever-loving god you paint yourself to be!” Aziraphale spits out, each word a poison deadlier than the last one. The rope binding his wrists burns when he flexes his forearms, so he flexes them even more, fed up with everything Heaven has ever done at this point. 

“Aziraphale, I suggest you stop this right now and–”

“Silence, Metatron.” The sunlight shines just a little brighter. There’s steel behind Her voice. “I did not ask for your contribution.”

Metatron looks like they’ve just been slapped across the cheek. Aziraphale doesn’t even notice the Archangels or demons. He has tunnel vision and the only thing it is focused on is the circle of light shining on the floor. He glares at it with something far worse than hate. 

With disappointment. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice trembling terribly. His muscles are constricting, trying to stifle the sobs as they kindle. “Why does it have to be this way?” 

The light turns a warmer shade. “Ever so curious, aren’t you, Aziraphale?”  

“Answer me!” He has to stop himself from walking over to the light and stomping on it, as if that could inflict Her some sort of pain. “If you’re so all-knowing, you know that I’ve truly had enough of these games.”

He hears Crowley shuffle and position himself just behind his right shoulder, an ‘I’ve got your back’ hidden in the gesture. Aziraphale doesn’t react to it in any way, because for one – he can't, for two – he trusts that this time they understand each other without needing to say a word. 

“It has to burn for it to start again. Creating this universe wasn’t something I decided to do on a whim. There are rules I have to obey. If I were to break any of them, it would no longer belong to me.” The light seems to dim for a moment. “It is far less taxing to burn this world and start over than create a completely new one from scratch.”

“So… this is just a game to you, isn’t it?” Aziraphale scoffs, disappointed beyond measure. “We’re just an experiment?”

“I never said you were.”

“Oh, you just did.” 

Aziraphale savours the silence that follows, desperate to finally experience some sort of catharsis, only for it not to come. 

“I have loved you for all my life,” he says quietly, his whole body shaking from the sobs it’s fighting to control. “You breathed me into existence and then left me to fend for myself, but still, I clutched onto hope that it was all just one big misunderstanding, and that you actually did care about me. I wanted to believe – and for most of the time, I did – that the Archangels being terrible towards everyone was the cause of a mix-up between you and Metatron, words lost in divine translation.” A broken sound escapes his mouth, a sound that was supposed to be a bitter chuckle in theory. “I trusted your righteousness with all of my broken soul, and every time you let me down, I gaslit myself into thinking that I was just not understanding your divine plan for this world. That there was something wrong with me , not you .” 

There are tears rolling down his cheeks, leaving behind long streaks of moisture. Aziraphale bites down on his bottom lip, exhales heavily and keeps going. He’s going to pour his heart out until there’s no more blood to be spilled. 

“Drowning half of the world? Torturing and toying with an innocent man just so you can win a bet? You cannot convince me that you have good intentions in ruling this universe. That we are nothing more than pawns to you.” He nods in the direction of the demons huddled together. “You cast them out for what? For not agreeing with everything you ever said or did? So you could have someone to put all the blame on when things didn’t go to plan? Or was it so that you could rule over Heaven with an iron fist without actually ever getting your hands dirty? Is that why the Archangels are so… awful towards everyone? Did you pour your own hatred into their souls when you were creating them?!” 

“Aziraphale, that is enough!” 

Aziraphale whips his head around, suddenly broken out of his train of thought, and pins Metatron down with the coldest and deadliest glare. “You!” He takes a few quick steps towards them, ready to lunge, and feels exhilarating satisfaction at the sight of them backing away with a worried expression. “I will not humour your desire to torture me, nor will I allow you to finally fulfill your vendeta against Crowley, or any other demon for that matter. Shut up!”

Metatron winces at his harsh tone, but there is a furious spark in their eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t care one bit. He turns away from them and drills his gaze into the sunlight.

“If a god is a being who looks over the universe they have created, who doesn’t play with its inhabitants out of boredom, then you do not get to call yourself a god. You are nothing then.” 

Something high above cracks like thunder. The sunlight shines brighter, trying to blind Aziraphale’s vision, so he squeezes his eyes shut, stopping any more tears from rolling. None of these games will work on him anymore.

“If you truly care about keeping your ownership over this universe, you will stop toying with it. You will stop trying to destroy it. If you didn’t want this to happen in the first place, you should have created us in a different way, hammered other ideals into our heads. Don’t you dare put this blame on any of us.” He looks around, embracing everyone in the room. “I do not allow it.”

“What do you propose, Aziraphale?” She asks, voice blank. He can’t tell whether She’s too stunned to show any emotion or if it’s something completely different. 

He ponders the question for a moment. What he himself wants is easy to name, but She’s asking about more than just his world right now. 

“I want to see this world flourish, but without divine interventions. Let it grow and rot at its own pace.” He turns to look over his shoulder and at Crowley, and reaches his hand out as much as the ties will allow him. The demon moves to press his shoulder against his, a grimace of pain caused by the holy chains visible on his face. His warmth anchors Aziraphale’s mind. “I do not believe dismantling Heaven and Hell will make any difference. Let them stay if they want to, but do not view those that don’t as traitors. We’re all entitled to have our own sides and make our own destiny.” 

“This is madness!” Hastur yells. A wave of concurring chatter follows. “What are we supposed to do then?” 

Aziraphale shrugs, trying to convince himself that he is fine, he's definitely not crying or shaking, he's not on the brink of a proper breakdown, that he can be nonchalant about this whole mess. “Go on about your day as you normally would, just stop trying to destroy the world in the process. There’s no need to prove whose side is better.” 

He turns his gaze back towards the circle of light. “Lastly, I want me and Crowley to be left alone. No more sudden promotions, demotions, assignments. I'm done.” 

“ We’re done.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale knowingly. “However, if you break your promise and try to bring about another Armageddon, you can be certain we will stop it. So there’s no point in trying.” 

“Tell me simply then. What exactly do you want?” 

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other again. Then Aziraphale turns to stare into the light for the last time. 

“Freedom. No more plans. This universe doesn’t need a god.” 

“Very well.” 

The sunlight gets brighter and brighter until it swallows everything. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut, pushing the remains of his tears out and sending them down his cheeks, and leans into Crowley who does the same. When the world seems to dim until it feels like it’s gone back to the normal level of luminance, he risks cracking one eye open. They’re back at the bookshop. 

Crowley groans, reluctantly moving his arms to find that the holy chains are gone, the burns on his wrists and the pain coming from them the only indicator that what just happened was not a hallucination. He rolls his shoulders, which have gone stiff from the position they were forcibly kept in, and slowly lets out a shaky exhale. He takes a cautious step forward, not trusting that this is over, only to find that the floor of the bookshop moves to meet the heel of his shoe and anchor him on this Earth once and for all.

He turns to look at Aziraphale, who meets his gaze with a fresh batch of tears already gathering in his eyes. Crowley steps towards him, then wraps one arm around his back, using the other one to bring his head closer and place it in the crook of his neck. Aziraphale hugs him back with a terrible sob. 

They stand there, in the middle of the carpet, and cry until they slowly crumble to the ground. 

They’re alive. They’re free. They’re alive. 

“W-what have I done?” escapes out of Aziraphale’s mouth in hiccups, his torso heaving from crying. Crowley rubs his back in a circle with a shaking hand, and tries to make sense of what happened. “Cr– Crowley, what have I done? ” 

The simple answer would be that he saved the universe, but that wouldn’t convey everything that took place and the consequences of it. Crowley doesn’t know how to reply; his mind has fallen into static and white noise. There aren't any words to put all this mess into, because no words like that have been invented. So he doesn’t say anything, only hushes, hugs Aziraphale tighter and cries, hoping this will make things a little better. 

Night stretches endlessly, measured in the tears they've both set free, tears that date back to millions of years ago. Outside the shop, life goes on in a depressingly-normal way: someone honks at someone else, a few patrons of the Dirty Donkey exit the bar, laughing and whooping. Headlights of a car shine through the windows, casting travelling squares of light onto the floor and the angel and demon lying on it.

It's only after their crying has subsided into occasional sobs and shaky inhales, after Crowley rubbed his eyes dry and made the skin around them irritated, that he finds the strength to move. 

“Come on, Angel,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “let's lie down somewhere more comfortable.”

The adrenaline has begun to wear off, leaving them dizzy and trembling. They clumsily lift each other up, exhausted beyond measure, and stumble up the stairs and into Aziraphale's hardly-ever-used bedroom. There's still a used mug with what must have been tea about a year ago standing on the nightstand. The window is blinded, leaving the room nearly pitchblack, so Crowley waves a hand to turn on the lamp in the corner of the room.

Aziraphale slowly sits down on the edge of the bed, slides off his shoes, scattering them by the door, then lifts his legs and leans against the headboard with a heavy sigh. Crowley walks around the foot of the bed and takes a place next to him, pressing his shoulder against the angel's. 

“Can I stay?” he asks softly, looking down at their hands overlapping one another. 

Aziraphale nods, lacing their fingers together without hesitation. “I want you to.” There's a long beat of silence before he speaks again, with a little more life behind his voice, “Your wrists… Are they…?”

Crowley clicks his lips. “Yeah, they kinda hurt. I suppose my attention was a bit too occupied to really notice.”

“Let me…?”

He extends his hands to Aziraphale. The angel gently grabs his wrists, placing his thumbs on the inner side of his forearms, and furrows his brow. It feels like his touch grows colder until it reaches a soothing, cooling temperature. Crowley lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, then slowly collapses into Aziraphale, resting his head on his shoulder. He feels the angel wrap an arm around him, sinking his hand into his hair, and gladly relaxes under his touch. 

“What do you think is going to happen now?” Aziraphale asks quietly. 

“What do you mean?”

“What if I did the wrong thing?” Aziraphale crumples up the right leg of his trousers with his other hand. 

“I don't think you did anything wrong,” Crowley replies softly. You saved us. “We'll figure it out.”

Aziraphale sighs, but doesn't seem too reassured. Crowley can almost hear his overthinking, coming out of his ears and nostrils. 

“I had this dream – at least, I think it was a dream, but I'm not quite sure anymore – where some great being told me I was ‘The Serpent’,” he says to fill the silence, struggling to pronounce the capital letters with how sore his throat is. “They never told me what that entailed. But I was The Serpent of Eden. Maybe it's got to do something with this?”

Aziraphale taps his hand on his thigh, humming quietly. Crowley tilts his head to look up at him, and sees a pensive grimace on his face. They're tired. Maybe they should talk about this after they've had proper rest. 

He begins dozing off, lulled by the slow journey of Aziraphale's hand over his head and the silence that seeped into his mind in place of the chaos. The only conscious thought he's having is that this is extremely nice ; it's helping ease the tension out of his body, though it will be a while before he can say he is relaxed with his full chest. He's about to tell Aziraphale to go to sleep, but then the angel speaks, carefully weighing out every word as if he's not sure if what he's saying makes any sense. 

“You know, I… I've been thinking about Eden and Eve. I suppose my view on the whole thing has changed after all these years and… everything. You showed Eve there was another option, you didn’t push her into disobeying… God,” he pronounces the last word with palpable disdain. “‘Temptation’ is a strong word for it, but sure. Maybe this refers to you showing me I didn’t have to follow Heaven just because? And the rest… I did the rest.”

Crowley nods quietly, blinking away sleep until he stops feeling this fatigued. It certainly makes more sense than what he figured out when he was thinking about his dream.

“What if She predicted this?” Aziraphale asks after another beat of silence. “She’s omniscient. Surely she knew what was going to happen.” 

“Would it change what happened? We set ourselves free – not because She let us, but because we fought for it.”

“How can you be sure?”

Crowley turns to the angel, his eyes soft. No one else has ever had the chance to see that gaze. Crowley reserves it for special occasions, for when the world has lost its sharp edges and he doesn't have to hold himself back. Now, the world is clearer than ever, but Crowley takes his foot off the brakes nevertheless. 

“I just know it. I can feel it. If you can’t trust your gut right now, trust mine, Angel.”

Even if it calms Aziraphale down a little bit, he doesn’t show it, and instead gnaws on the inside of his bottom lip until the silence gets to him again.

“I don’t know what's left of me now,” Aziraphale confesses very quietly, his voice trembling a bit. “I don’t know who I am without Her.” 

Oh, Angel. Crowley reaches for his hand and instinctively rubs his thumb over the creases in his palm. It's a simple answer for him: everything that Aziraphale is rushes through his mind. Aziraphale getting in trouble for having a craving for crêpes. Aziraphale doing silly magic acts. Aziraphale loving the colour yellow. Aziraphale enjoying swimming in the sea and basking in the sun afterwards. Aziraphale making amazing miracle drinks.

“Well, for a start: you’re a bookseller, even if you hardly ever actually sell books. You’re a frequent client of The Ritz.” It earns him Aziraphale’s soft, wet chuckle, so Crowley keeps going, determined to hear that laugh again. “You’re an enjoyer of some very old music. You love food. You like collecting old things.” 

He drags his thumb along the edge of Aziraphale's hand as if he's reading the history of his life from his palm. 

“You learned to speak French the hard way. You possessed a middle-aged woman and, quite frankly, rocked her dress. You drive painfully lawfully.”

He gently presses his head into Aziraphale's shoulder, squeezing his hand.

“You’ve got all the time in the world to figure out who you are, Angel.” 

Aziraphale squeezes back and rests his head on the demon’s with a sigh, but it’s a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Crowley. I wouldn’t have done this without you.” 

“Ah, well , I mean–” he sputters defensively, not too keen on taking responsibility for that . “It’s you that did the heavy lifting.”

“I wouldn’t have had the chance to if you hadn’t fought off the Archangels and the Dark Council. You were incredibly brave. I was…” Aziraphale trails off. “When they threatened to torture us, it took me back to the times I was punished for my disobedience, and to what I saw down in Hell when we switched bodies.” Crowley feels shivers travel up Aziraphale’s back and neck. “I couldn’t get these images out of my head. To think I would see Heaven treat you the same way they treated me for all these years… It overpowered me.” 

The demon squeezes his hand again. “I wouldn’t have been able to talk to Her at all. I suppose we both did some heavy lifting,” he chuckles. “Besides, I don’t think we will have to worry about them ever again.” 

“Do you really believe that?” 

“Angel, I know that. You kicked Her butt. ” He hears Aziraphale chuckle again, a sound Crowley realises he wants to get drunk on. “I think Heaven and Hell will go back to idly doing good and bad respectively, and maybe they will finally get some rest, too, I don’t care. They’re not our problem anymore. After all the shit they’ve put us through, we deserve to be left alone once and for all. And I think you made them realise that.” 

Aziraphale cracks a faint smile, the blush on his cheeks suggesting he's embarrassed by such a compliment. He rubs Crowley’s shoulder one final time and sends him a faint smile, his voice laced with immeasurable exhaustion. “We should probably get some rest.”

Crowley nuzzles his head under Aziraphale’s chin with a hum of agreement. He’s too exhausted to even think about going back to the Bentley and driving to his flat. 

“Can I– Um–” He chews on the inside of his cheek, his tired mind struggling to figure out how to ask it without making it more awkward, and pushes away from Aziraphale's shoulder. “Would it be okay if I slept here tonight?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale gives him a bewildered look – because why is that even a question? Crowley slept in the bookshop countless times before. Then something in his mind clicks, because he suddenly blushes heavily, almost as hard as Crowley. Crowley’s ‘here’ must have meant this room. “You can, uh… sleep with me, if you want to. In the bed, I mean.” He looks down at his hands, realises he's fidgeting and makes himself stop. “I kind of don't want to be alone right now.”

Crowley smiles at him tenderly. He understands; besides, he’s the best person to guard Aziraphale from his demons. “Sure, Angel.” 

Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief, happy to get rid of the tension that this conversation brought, and pushes away from the headboard to rest his head on the pillow. Crowley lies down on his side and brings him in closer, resting his chin over the top of his head. Aziraphale lets out another heavy, satisfied sigh, and when he wraps his arms around the demon’s torso, it feels like something clicks, like everything has finally fallen into its place.

He sinks a hand into Aziraphale’s soft curls and runs his fingers through it. It’s like he’s touching a cloud. 

“What do you want to do now?” he asks softly, mesmerised by the way Aziraphale’s hair looks when illuminated by the lamp’s soft light.

“Sleep,” he murmurs in response, his breath hitting Crowley’s neck like a warm wave. 

Crowley chuckles, “Yes, I know. I meant, like, in general.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale moves a little bit, nuzzling into Crowley’s hold until his nose brushes his Adam’s apple. Crowley tries really hard not to think stupid things when he feels it, but his mind is sluggish and cannot be stopped. “I suppose I’ll… You know what? I’ll read a book.” Crowley can practically hear Aziraphale’s smile. “And eat something. I miss the taste of things. You?”

“I think I’ll sleep for a week straight,” Crowley replies, his voice growing raspier by the minute, then yawns into the pillow. “We could go to The Ritz, if you want.”

Aziraphale pushes even closer towards him, pressing the side of his nose into his neck, and sighs heavily, which makes Crowley shiver. 

“I would love to.” Another soft chuckle. “It will be the dinner I talked about in ‘67.” 

“We have dined at The Ritz countless times since then. What’s going to be so different about this one?”

“We are free.” Despite the hoarse voice and sloppy (for Aziraphale’s standards) pronunciation, his tone is serious. “This is… this is what I meant when I said it sixty years ago. No more pretending.”  

A wide, languid smile stretches Crowley’s lips. He ruffles the angel’s hair and murmurs, half-joking, “I can finally return that favour for the holy water.”

Aziraphale huffs and grumbles, sending out wave after wave of hot breaths, and if Crowley had to guess what the sounds mean, it would probably be something like ‘you don’t have to’ or ‘you already have’. 

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers once he’s calmed down, firmly pressing his nose into the demon’s neck. He adds after a long moment, with the voice of someone whose mind is already half-asleep, “My temptress.” 

Crowley’s lips form into another smile. A fire opens up in his chest and spreads through his whole body, setting ablaze everything on its path. “My guardian,” he replies equally tenderly and nuzzles his face in Aziraphale’s white curls.

Chapter Text

Crowley tenses his muscles, groaning, then slowly cracks one eye open. The window blind is rustling in the breeze coming through a cracked window – Aziraphale must have opened it in the night – which makes the sunlight cast weird shapes onto the floor. 

He raises his free arm and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. Aziraphale's head is resting on his bicep and he has his arms loosely folded on his stomach. He looks like someone taking a nap under a tree on a field, not sleeping in bed. Of course he even sleeps like someone out of the 19th century. Crowley smiles a lazy, tender smile. Then the realisation hits him, surprisingly gently given its significance: they did it. They’re free.

And they could do with some coffee. 

Crowley begins to move to get out of bed, but that causes Aziraphale to stir and, with a heavy sigh, turn to lay on his side and with his head on Crowley’s chest. He lazily throws his arm over the demon’s stomach, almost as if the conscious part of his brain is telling Crowley that no, he is not going anywhere. 

Old bastard , Crowley thinks around another smile, and decides to run a hand through the angel’s hair instead, combing it out of his eyes. It seems to ease him back into a deep sleep again, enough so that after a moment Crowley makes another attempt at getting out of bed and, though clumsily, succeedes. 

He takes a glance at his watch he left on the nightstand before they went to sleep, and is shocked to learn that they've slept for two days straight – assuming they came back to Earth on the same day they were taken to Heaven. Crowley raises his eyebrows, glancing at Aziraphale again; he doesn't think he's ever seen him sleep for longer than one night, let alone half a day. He must be extremely tired after everything.  

He quietly saunters down the staircase and into the kitchen. It's a lot less messy than he remembered it to be, probably thanks to the fact that after he once stress-cleaned it a few months ago, Muriel never used it beyond making cocoa or tea. Apart from the imprints in the dust from mugs being moved around, it looks unlived in, forgotten. Like the owner hasn't been home in ages. 

Well, that's going to change now , he tells himself stubbornly, grabbing a dish towel and wetting it under some water to wipe off the dust. Despite his muscles feeling like they're made of lead, he manages to be rather quiet with his cleaning, and after a minute or two, the kitchen is spotless again. He grabs two mugs from a shelf, then reaches for the bag of coffee beans kept between bags of three different types of flour – no idea why Aziraphale would need them, but it’s not Crowley’s job to know. Hell, he'll make coffee by hand. He's got all the time in the world now. 

The machine purrs quietly, like a cat receiving a very pleasant scratch behind the ear, as it first grinds the coffee beans, then makes the drink itself. Crowley grabs a third mug while his coffee is being made, pours a bit of milk into it, then twirls his index finger around until it gets foamy. He may not really like lattes and such, but Aziraphale definitely does. 

The angel is still asleep by the time Crowley makes it back into the bedroom, stepping carefully so that the drinks don’t come spilling out. He sets Aziraphale's coffee down on the nightstand, keeping his own in his cupped hands, sits down on the unoccupied half of the bed and leans his head against the headboard. The warmth radiating from the mug feels like a lullaby for his body, spreading through each muscle fibre and ligament. 

He reaches to place a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, rubbing a lazy circle with his thumb, and his heart swells. It's a weird feeling, like something is constricting his chest but in a pleasant way, like something is stealing just a little bit of air from his lungs, leaving him breathing quicker. He moves his hand up to brush it through the angel's hair again. Despite everything, it's still soft to the touch. 

Aziraphale moves, turning to face Crowley, and throws an arm over his thighs. After another heavy sigh, he cracks a bleary eye open, then the other one, and immediately squints. He groans. 

“Made you some coffee,” Crowley murmurs, reaching to grab the mug from the nightstand, then sends a small miracle through the drink to heat it back up. Aziraphale raises up onto an elbow, drags a hand down his face, and takes it with a thankful smile and surprised expression. 

“That's very… thoughtful of you.”

Crowley shrugs, playfully scrunching his nose at the glance Aziraphale sends him. “No one will believe you. How did you sleep?”

“Never better,” he replies around another groan, placing his mug down by his chest and stretching his free arm outwards. “I think I'm starting to get why you like sleeping so much.”

“Careful, Angel,” Crowley winks at him, “it’s a slippery slope. Next thing you’re gonna sleep on the ceiling.”

Aziraphale laughs, a candescent, joyful laugh. Crowley realises he hasn’t heard his laughter, proper laughter, in nearly seven months. He pushes on, yearning to hear it again. 

“Your hair would probably look like a cloud floating just under the ceiling,” he teases, closing his eyes to imagine it. Aziraphale continues to laugh. It's like he's beaming with pure joy, filling the room with his light.

They lounge in the bedroom, talking and then sitting in silence, and enjoying every second of it. Aziraphale drifts into another nap early in the afternoon, the circles under his eyes begging to be slept away, so Crowley goes downstairs to give him some space. He cleans whatever there is left to clean, just so Aziraphale won't have to worry about it later and because he simply wants to. Then he lays on the couch, waving a hand in the direction of the stereo and puts on some music. 

His phone buzzes, though he doesn't hear the first few times because he's too engrossed by tapping out the drum line of the song that's playing. When it becomes too distracting, he fishes the damned device out of his back pocket with a groan and glares at the notifications flooding his home screen. 

Anathema Device [2 missed calls]

15:15, 23/11/23, two days ago

> Crowley, did you do something? I could feel something crack at night

> Was this Aziraphale? Did something happen to him?

Anathema Device [1 missed call]

10:10, 25/11/23

> Are you guys alright? 

Adam The Antichrist [5 missed calls]

23:49, 23/11/23, two days ago

> what happened

> i felt smth happenin was this you guys

> can u pls answer u fiend

Adam The Antichrist [3 missed calls]

15:17, 25/11/23

> atp i just want to know if ur alright

> everything feels weird you did something didnt u?

> ru dead??

Newton Pulsifer Witchfinder

15:15, 25/11/23

> adam and anathema wanted me to write to you because apparently you're ignoring them or are dead

> are you alright? they're saying something happened but I don't know what

Crowley groans again, growing exasperated, then throws his head back onto the armrest. He drags his tongue along the edges of his teeth while he ponders, his thoughts sluggish, caffeine not doing much besides leaving a buzzing feeling under his skin. They owe the group an explanation, but he can't be arsed to go, nor does he want to bother Aziraphale when he's in such a need for rest. The simple answer is to call one of the three and explain everything – but a phone call seems like such a big thing right now, when the world is still raw and Crowley still feels a little unreal. 

After a few minutes of wrestling with himself, staring at the dark screen of his phone and the reflection of his face within it, Crowley glances in the direction of the stairs, as if to make sure Aziraphale is still asleep, then swipes a finger to open the messaging app. 

Newton Pulsifer Witchfinder

we’re fine. we can talk tomorrow<

>okay. i’ll let them know

Before Crowley can read the next incoming message, his phone literally explodes, receiving calls from both Anathema and Adam, and he struggles not to drop it out of his hands. Then he glares at the screen as if that would make the humans peter off, but much to his disappointment, it doesn’t work like that. 

He inhales deeply, trying to hatch a bit more patience out of himself, and swipes to answer Anathema. By the sounds he’s hearing, he’s caught her in the middle of a sentence.

“ No, we can’t just go– Crowley? Finally, you answered!” Her eye roll is pretty much audible. “Where are you? Can you meet us?”

“Uh, not really…” he begins, then looks up at the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Aziraphale gives him a quizzical look, to which Crowley mouths, ‘Adam’ and then waves a hand around, which is meant to represent the rest of the gang and the chaos they generally represent. “We had a… rough day yesterday and–”

“ We? Is Aziraphale there with you? How?”

Adam must have raised his voice, because Crowley hears his: “They showed up in Tadfield together a couple days ago!” like the kid is the one speaking through the phone.

Anathema groans at him to back off, though there’s more playfulness in her tone than frustration. “Doesn’t matter. Can you meet us?” 

Aziraphale has made his way over to where the demon is lying by now, his cup of coffee safely in the cradle of his hands. He sits down in the chair and leans forward, trying to catch parts of the conversation, so Crowley decides to just put it on speaker. 

“As I said, not really. We’re both quite knackered.” 

Anathema passes on his words to the rest of the gang. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. Only now does Crowley notice the state of him: hair askew, imprints from a pillow on a good half of his face, his clothes wrinkled up and his shirt partially unbuttoned, showing the simple white t-shirt underneath. He looks nothing like himself and the most like himself at the same time. He seems anxious, frail, perhaps because he’s not trusting that they are in fact free, but there’s also something more relaxed in his figure. Maybe it’s the way he slouches or the tilt of his eyebrows. Maybe it’s in the way he manages to smile, like it’s no longer a strain for him.

“But I think we can make it tomorrow,” Crowley adds slowly, eyeing the angel to see his reaction. He nods eagerly, taking a sip of his coffee. “If you’re still up for a chat.”

“Obviously!” Anathema scoffs. 

There’s some scuffling on her end, then the line crackles and Adam speaks, his energetic voice a stark contrast to Anathema’s calm and even one, “Tomorrow’s Thursday, so I finish school at one, but I won’t be able to leave until I’m finished with my homework, and Wensley is supposed to help me with chemistry, so the soonest I can come is around three. Sounds good?” 

“S-sure,” Crowley replies, a little stunned by the amount of information he was just hit with. He hears Aziraphale chuckle very quietly, so he makes a mocking face at him. “Give me a ping when you’re in the area, we’ll be there.”

“‘We’re’? Did you hear that, Anathema? He said ‘we’!” 

Crowley rolls his eyes, maybe a bit too-dramatically, which makes Aziraphale chuckle again. “Whatever,” he grumbles, “see you tomorrow.”

He disconnects before he hears any more of their bullshit, and discards his phone on the carpet. Thankfully, it doesn’t buzz with any call or notification. Crowley looks up at Aziraphale with the face of someone who just went through the biggest effort of their life. 

“They’re so much,” he groans, running a hand down his face. 

“I’m glad to hear not much has changed,” Aziraphale chuckles. He goes to rest his chin on his hand, but the moment he feels the stubble on his cheeks, he pulls away. “Eugh. I think I’ll go to the barber.”

  “Mm, I don’t know–” Crowley wriggles around to lay on his side and sends the angel a challenging glance– “I’m curious to see you rock a proper beard.”

“You have seen me with a beard many times in the last six thousand years. I think we’ve both seen it enough.” When Crowley opens his mouth to answer, Aziraphale raises a hand and tuts. “Besides, I haven’t been to a barber in a good while. I like the experience. It’s very relaxing.”

“What, having your face be slathered in shaving foam?” Crowley scoffs, but smiles. “Suit yourself.” 

Aziraphale gives him a look, though they both already know the answer to his proposal. “You can always tag along. We can stop by a shop on our way back, too. I’m dying to eat something.” 

Crowley watches with fascination that he’s struggling to conceal the way Aziraphale gradually returns back to his old self. He chats with his barber like he never missed their previous appointments, asks about his husband, their two dogs and if they gave more thought to adopting a child, all while having an inch-thick layer of shaving foam on his face. When they move over to the basins to have Aziraphale’s hair be washed, Crowley follows after, growing more intrigued by the minute. He watches the barber closely, especially when he starts giving Aziraphale a scalp massage that manages to make him groan in a way that makes Crowley think… things. 

The man notices Crowley’s curious gaze and nods at him to step closer. “I can show you how to do it, if you want to.” When Crowley sputters that it’s fine, really, he can figure it out himself and he doesn’t want to be a bother and interrupt his work, the human chuckles and says, “Relax. My next client is in an hour. Besides, I can’t be mad that my client’s partner wants to know how to give a scalp massage.”

Crowley feels like his heart sputters to a halt, only to then resume beating twice as fast. Partner. He’s too stunned to fight the blush colouring his cheeks. He’s too stunned to speak for a moment. He’s too stunned to do anything, actually.

“Come on,” the barber chuckles again, maybe laughing at Crowley’s reaction, or maybe he’s just being friendly. He steps to the side of the basin, nodding at Crowley to stand next to him. 

He glances at Aziraphale, trying to gleam his reaction. He notices some colour on his cheeks, even though it’s fainter than the demon’s, his lips pressed together in a way that would suggest he’s holding back a smile. Okay . I can manage this.

Crowley swallows hard, heat creeping up his spine and gathering on the back of his neck like a scarf, and steps up to the basin. The barber pulls his hands out of the water, grabs Crowley’s before he changes his mind – he should, maybe this is too fast, he’s gonna make a fool of himself – and places them over Aziraphale’s head, splaying out his fingers. 

“So just… brush his hair out of the way so that you can touch his scalp,” he instructs, guiding the demon’s hands until he decides to break out of his stupor and actually do it himself. “Yeah, like that. And then you go in circles… like that, yes, perfect! I’ll go get you some shampoo.” 

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh, melting into his seat under Crowley’s touch, his head slumping against the rim of the basin. The barber walks to a cabinet opposite to them to fetch whatever it is he needs, and that gives them maybe half a minute of privacy. Crowley presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, heat spreading from his neck to gather behind the ears; it's making him feel woozy, like there's cotton where his brain should be.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh that Crowley’s malfunctioning mind interprets as a soft moan. He almost reels his hands away, startled.

“Can you stay in this spot for a little bit?” the angel asks quietly. “This… yes, here.” 

Crowley reluctantly resumes his work. He’s pretty sure he’s starting to sweat. When he manages to look away from Aziraphale and stop overthinking for a moment, he notices the barber watching them with a sly, small smile. When their eyes meet, he slams shut the cabinet that was open, grabs the bottles of shampoo and what is probably conditioner, and walks back to the two of them as if he wasn’t intentionally stalling.

“I’m gonna give you some shampoo,” he explains while he lathers what, in Crowley’s eyes, is an ungodly amount of shampoo onto Aziraphale’s head. “You just keep doing your thing. I’ll take over in a second.”

The demon manages to swallow past the dryness in his throat and croak out: “O-okay.”

Which makes the barber laugh, and Aziraphale chuckle. Crowley grumbles under his breath about all of this being a collusion against his reputation, and focuses on not letting any of the foam get into the angel’s eyes. 

He lets the barber do the rest of the work from then, from washing out the shampoo to applying the conditioner. While they wait for the latter to do its magic, he shows Crowley another version of a scalp massage, grabbing his hands and stretching his fingers in the direction they’re supposed to move. It’s all a little jarring, from being referred to as Aziraphale’s partner, through giving him a bloody scalp massage to the friendliness of the man. It leaves Crowley speechless for most of the conversation, giving hums as responses. The barber doesn't seem to mind.

Crowley sits on the waiting couch for the rest of the appointment, alternating between practising the technique he was just shown on his thigh and looking at Aziraphale’s reflection in the mirror, only to always find him smiling and relaxed. The barber ends up trimming maybe half an inch of his hair, which seems like nothing until he dries and styles it. When he’s done, he spins Aziraphale’s chair around so that he’s facing Crowley, unbuttons the cape and carefully slides it off. 

“Voila!” he exclaims, really proud of himself. 

And, quite frankly, he should be – he breathed more life back into Aziraphale than Crowley expected him to. The spark in his eyes may not be back, but he holds himself straight – not because he’s tense, but because he’s Aziraphale and it would be rude to slouch. When he smiles at Crowley, abashed that he’s been put on the spot even though they’re the only people in the shop, there’s glee in the gesture. His hair looks luscious again, and it makes Crowley wonder if it’s softer to the touch than it was at night when they slept. 

Sssstop. He digs his fingers into his thigh, his brain short-circuiting and thinking he’s still practising the massaging technique, then forces himself out of his train of thought and stands up. 

“See you next week?” the barber asks Aziraphale casually, unphased by Crowley’s reaction.

“Of course! Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.” 

“Oh, please,” the man blows a raspberry, waving a hand, “I was free and, honestly, a little bored. You’re also my favourite customer, so I can make an exception.” 

They laugh. Crowley smiles, seeing that Aziraphale is happy or at least something akin to it. They exit out onto the street, where the demon gladly breathes in the crisp late-autumn air, a stark contrast to the overabundance of smells in the barber shop. It helps him not view the situation that just occurred as the most embarrassing experience of his life. 

Aziraphale nudges him with his elbow, and when the demon looks up at him, he gives him a cheeky smile. “I want you to know you were very good at doing the massage.”

“Um. O-okay. I– Uh, I–” Crowley imagines giving himself a slap across the face, and it seems to do the trick, because when he speaks again, he can formactual words. “I’d like to show you something. It’s… It’s tied to Heaven, in a way, so I understand if you won’t agree, but I… I can’t get this out of my head, and so I thought that maybe you will be able to clear it up.” 

Aziraphale furrows his brow. He doesn’t look put off by the idea, mostly curious, despite everything. “What is it, exactly?”

“A statue,” Crowley blurts out before he thinks about whether this is actually a good idea. “Of you.”

“Oh.” Then he surprises Crowley by saying: “Alright. Let’s go then.”

Forty minutes later they’re standing in front of the statue, both of them leaning their heads back to see the whole of its face. Crowley steals a quick glance at Aziraphale to gleam what he’s feeling. Much to his astonishment, he’s fighting back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity. 

Aziraphale points his finger at the face and chuckles when he replies, “They got my nose wrong. It’s straight as a ruler.” 

Crowley bursts into laughter. He feared bringing Aziraphale here would ruin his mood, ruin this fragile peace they just got, but it seems to have done quite the opposite. “Y-yeah. You’ve got a point.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been wondering why they made it in the first place.”

Aziraphale takes a step forward and drags his hand along the edge of the marble plaque. It seems to have been cracked into two – maybe by a rock someone hurled at it, or maybe by what Crowley and Aziraphale did two days ago. Either way, the crack goes exactly through ‘Supreme Archangel’, leaving only the name intact. The remains of the magic that brought it to life vibrate under his fingertips faintly. Then he walks back to Crowley. 

“I think they just wanted to see it topple to the ground when the time came. It never meant anything else to them." He drills his gaze into the statue's eyes and says after a moment of thought: "I think I can give it my own meaning now, though." He looks down at his hand and the golden ring that has ornated it for millions of years. Crowley can practically hear the gears turning inside his head. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s a reminder of my protection over Earth.”

They meander through Soho and somehow end up walking to Chinatown. The red lanterns are lit, casting warm crimson light onto the pavement, keeping the November darkness at bay. Most of the restaurants are overflowing with customers, everyone desperate to get out of the gloom and find comfort in a bowl of warm food, which makes the streets comfortably empty. Crowley teases Aziraphale about the whole ‘barber experience’, the other half of his brain mesmerised by the way his white hair looks in the red lights. Aziraphale tells him to go and try it out for himself, but he dismisses it, saying that for one, he's grown to like having longer hair again, and two, he can miracle away the stubble if it becomes too much. 

“You haven't cut it even once after… after I left?” Aziraphale asks, more surprised than Crowley anticipated him to be by this.

“Yeah, not once.” His hand instinctively goes up to pull on the hair, long enough to reach the base of his neck, but too short to be gathered up in a bun or braid. “I couldn't be arsed to do anything about it for the first few months. Then I opened my shop and had that to run. Now I honestly don't even notice it.”

“I think it suits you quite well. I really liked your hairstyle from the early 2000s.”

“Honestly?” Crowley turns to glance at Aziraphale. Puddles of rain splatter under their boots as they walk. “I’m a little surprised. Thought you didn’t like it!”

“What gave you that idea?”

“I swear everytime I came over with my hair tied up, you seemed to look away.” Crowley’s ready to assure Aziraphale that it’s fine, it’s in the past, but all of his thought process gets put on hold when Aziraphale blushes.

“It’s… It wasn’t because I didn’t like it, dear.”

Fucking Hell.

Crowley suddenly feels like he’s going to combust. Then Aziraphale chuckles in embarrassment, easing the tension a little bit, and it seems to stop the ticking bomb that Crowley’s hearts have become. He drifts ever so closer towards the demon, their shoulders briefly brushing, and Crowley presses back when they do. He looks at Aziraphale with tenderness and astonishment he can't put into words, the lanterns making the lenses of his sunglasses look like a starry sky. Even shrouded in crimson light, the blush on their cheeks is plain to see.

Aziraphale stops by a corner store on their way back to the bookshop. Crowley waits outside, enjoying the crisp air just so he will appreciate the heat of the shop more. The angel comes out quickly, carrying a bottle of red wine in hand. He points at the sticker with the logo written in bold, elegant letters. 

“Chose this one, but it might be a shot in the dark – I never had this brand before,” he explains, shrugging, his brow furrowed. Then he looks up at Crowley like he just remembered something and immediately felt bad about it. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry!”

“What are you–”

“Sorry! I shouldn't have assumed you wanted to spend the evening together.” Aziraphale takes a step back, scared he crossed a boundary. “I apologise, that was too forward of me. Just because we've made up and– and you know… It doesn't mean we can just…” he trails off. 

Crowley looks at him dumbfounded. When his brain kicks back into motion, all he can do is look down, kick a wayward rock with his shoe and watch it tumble towards a tire of a car. 

“Well, do you want to…?” The unspoken words hang in the air. Crowley wrangles his tongue and forces himself to say it out loud, because leaving things unsaid was how their relationship crumbled last time. “Do you want to hang out like the old times again?”

“I– I would love to! I'm just–” Aziraphale drops his hands with a mixture of resignation and frustration, the latter directed at himself. “I–”

“Cause you told me I was going too fast for you, and so I've been– I don't know, I guess, trying to keep it casual… semi-casual, and follow the pace you set for us. ” Crowley makes a face that lands between a grimace and a smile. The events of the day rush past his mind in a violent haze. “I should have been the one to ask, not you.”

“No.” He is taken aback by the stubbornness behind Aziraphale's voice. It's like something in him shifts. “No, Crowley. I was scared when I said that all those years ago, yes, and confused with my feelings. But–” he looks up at the demon, the spark in his eyes, that fiery passion, fully back– “I think it's time I caught up to your speed.”

Aziraphale takes a step towards him and reaches out to grab his hand. With their bodies doused in the sharp, colourful neon lights of the corner store, it's somehow far more romantic and vulnerable than under a street lamp in a park or by candlelight. 

“You said you will wait for me, and I can't thank you enough for that. There's still a lot I need to come to terms with, but I already feel so much lighter than I've ever been, like some terrible weight has been finally lifted off my shoulders. I– I want to enjoy my time here fully and unapologetically. I don't want to postpone things anymore. I'm tired of easing back into things slowly and hiding, all out of fear of disturbing someone.” Aziraphale blushes when he says the next words, but his confidence doesn't waver. “I wish for us to spend time together like we used to. I want to finally freely express what I've been hiding for so long. If you want this, too.”

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand, then intertwines their fingers. He's a little dazed by his speech, still getting used to this new openness in their relationship. It feels raw, like stimulating an open nerve ending, but he finds that he likes it, very much actually. He pushes his sunglasses up, pulling back his hair so that the angel can see all of the tenderness overflowing his gaze, so that the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes give more meaning to the gentle smile on his lips. It feels like the entire world roars in excitement and exhilaration, deafening in his ears, when he replies:

“Of course I do, Angel.” He squeezes his hand again and stops himself from getting down on one knee, before his short-circuiting brain gets the better of him. “Would you like to dine with me at The Ritz?” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “Make up for all the times we didn’t get a chance to?”

Oh , he thinks as he sees a smile creep onto Aziraphale's face, a smile as bright as the neon lights around them, how I missed you.

Their favourite spot has just been freed when they enter, so the only miracle Aziraphale casts is to make the bottle of wine he bought teleport to the bookshop. There's an array of candles on the table, casting warm light on the cutlery and making their champagne shimmer as if they're drinking the sun itself. Crowley surprises both him, Aziraphale and their waiter by ordering something to eat for himself, intrigued by the new menu heralding the winter season. Once the human leaves, Aziraphale gives him an inquiring look.

Crowley shrugs dismissively and smiles, embarrassed. “It's a special occasion.” He raises his glass, and with a shiver going down his spine, says: “To our world, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiles back, wide and earnest. The clink of their glasses rings ceremonially. 

“To our world.”

The food is delicious; Crowley doesn't pick on it as much as he usually would and actually eats most of it, then switches his plates with Aziraphale so that they can both try the other's food. Champagne is truly exceptional this evening, better than any one they had at The Ritz before – though it might be thanks to what they're feeling rather than the drink itself. They slowly drift closer from their usual places by the table, like planets getting back into orbit. Crowley realises how the distance between them has shortened only when he breathes in and all he can smell is Aziraphale’s new cologne, when he clearly sees his Adam's apple jumping when he laughs.

The champagne is quickly gone, but Crowley substitutes the alcohol for his angel’s laughter while they wait for dessert. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle in the candle light, hiding the shine of the stars they once witnessed the creation of, his chuckle like gasoline to the fire inside Crowley’s chest. Crowley realised he was a goner a long, long time ago, and fantasised about a dinner where he could finally express his feelings many times, but this? This is so much more than he imagined even in his wildest dreams. 

Aziraphale pushes him into trying a piece of the souffle, so he caves in and does his best not to show that he likes it. They don’t linger long after it’s gone, their bellies full, alcohol settling under their skin and leaving them buzzing. 

They keep their hands together on the way back to the shop, Crowley's thumb brushing along Aziraphale's veins and knuckles. The cold doesn't get to him, for there's a new found fire roaring under his sternum, searing through his blood vessels. Aziraphale is blushing, his smile giddy, and listens to Crowley talk about the time he found Muriel being chased by ducks when he came to their Friday meeting in St James's park. It's not that interesting of a story, but he seems fascinated anyway, drinking the words right off of Crowley's lips.

When they get back, Crowley immediately throws himself onto the couch with a heavy sigh, much to Aziraphale's amusement. He has half the mind to leave his sunglasses on the table before squishing his face into the folded blanket lying next to the armrest, groaning into the fabric. His feet are pleasantly sore from all the walking they ended up doing, but now with his legs up, the feeling begins to fade, moving up his calves to fully dissolve in the muscles of his thighs. 

“Do you want something to drink? Wine, tea?” Aziraphale asks, shuffling around the bookshop, turning on the lights and rolling down the blinds.

Crowley doesn't bother turning his head so that he can speak clearly, and instead answers directly into the blanket, “No, thanks.”

He hears Aziraphale’s steps draw closer until he stops by the couch. His smile is audible when he asks: 

“Can I sit with you? Or are you going to sleep?”

“Not sleeping just yet,” Crowley replies in a mumble, his voice muffled by the blanket. He reaches his arms out, stretching with a satisfying groan, then pushes up onto his knees and moves around so that he's occupying only half of the couch, the one closer to the window. “Go ahead.”

Aziraphale sits down with a sigh, leaning his head back against the headrest. Crowley scoots closer to him until their arms are pressed together, then rests his head on his shoulder. Maybe he will doze off – sitting on this couch has never been so comfortable.

“That was an amazing dinner,” Aziraphale says, voice a little hoarse from so much laughing. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

“M’glad.” Crowley lets himself close his eyes for a moment, and finds that he’s not too keen on opening them again. “I missed this. I missed you.” 

Aziraphale wraps an arm around him, bringing him in closer. “You’re an old sap, Crowley,” he chuckles, nuzzling his face in the demon's hair and breathing in the smell of miracle shampoo. “I missed you, too.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it behind his ear, then gently caresses his cheek. Crowley looks up at him, not really knowing why - he just feels like something is about to happen. Nervousness settles at the bottom of his stomach like a creature ready to pounce.

“Can I kiss you, Crowley?”

Crowley swallows hard, unable to squeeze out a word. He nods. 

Aziraphale cups his face with his hands and slowly brings their lips together; the time it takes for them to meet stretches endlessly, like in slow motion. Something in Crowley melts when they kiss. His heart flutters so hard it makes the other one start beating abruptly, like a bomb that’s about to explode. He caresses Aziraphale’s jaw, then sets his hand on the base of his neck, and lets himself drown in this feeling.

Crowley’s second heart begins easing into its rhythm only when the initial rush of adrenaline subsides. Maybe all of this mess was an allegory to his and Aziraphale’s relationship, maybe him making himself have two hearts was about more than just his fascination with humanity. There was one where there used to be two, but now they’re both back and beating, with still a lot of life left in them. The war drums in his ears and his chest are like a snare, reminding him that the ground under his feet and the air in his lungs are real and his, and Aziraphale’s. No matter how much others will want to take all of that away from Crowley, he will fight tooth and nail for it. 

“Oh, Satan,” he breathes out when they pull away. “Oh, fuck.”

Aziraphale laughs and kisses him again. He pulls Crowley’s hair back and it must set off something wild inside of him, because his kisses grow hungrier. Crowley never realised how starved for this feeling he’s been, how their first kiss did nothing to satisfy this crazy yearning – only made it so much stronger. Aziraphale’s desire radiates out of him like a heatwave, leaving Crowley’s mind woozy. He moves his hand into his hair, placing the other in between his shoulder blades and oh, fuck, this is everything.  

Aziraphale knocks their forehead together when they inevitably pull away again, colour high on his cheeks and a grin on his face. Crowley's lips buzz the way a numb limb does, and he has a hard time distinguishing between where his body ends and where Aziraphale starts. 

All his brain manages to formulate is a soft, disbelieving: “U-uh.”

Aziraphale bursts into a sudden, elated chuckle, and brushes his thumbs over Crowley's cheeks. “Y-yeah.”

The demon chuckles as well. He can't really put into words what he's feeling – and even if he could, it would be a long monologue – so he just stays silent, gently combing through Aziraphale's hair with his fingers. A part of him wishes to stop the time, just so this moment and the feelings linger a little longer.

Angel sighs, kind of collapsing into Crowley, so he leans back against the armrest and motions at him to lie down on his stomach. Aziraphale easily finds a comfortable spot with his head resting on Crowley's chest like he's done it a million times before. Crowley places his hands on the back of his neck and gently digs his fingers into its tense muscles. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, “I refuse to believe you're not using a miracle right now.”

Crowley smiles. “I would never.”

“You’re so evil.” 

Crowley can’t help it – to be frank, he doesn’t need to fight this urge anymore – and kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head. 

— 

“WHAT?!” both Anathema and Adam exclaim at the same time.

Aziraphale flinches, furiously twisting the ring on his pinky, and blushes. “Y-yeah.”

Crowley throws his shoulder over the backrest of the bench as a way to give Aziraphale some emotional support, because it seems like the amount of questions he’s being bombarded with is making him a little nervous. There’s a shadow of a smile on the demon’s lips; though most of the time they get on his nerves, right now the group’s antics are a nice amusement.

“You told god, God, the creator of the universe, to fuck off?!” 

Aziraphale gives Adam a pleading look. He certainly doesn’t seem to regret his actions, but maybe hearing them be put so bluntly is the cause of his embarrassment. 

“Essentially, yes, I did.”

“Not just essentially, Angel.” Crowley gives him a look, arching his eyebrow. “Literally. She had it coming for a very long time.”

Aziraphale returns his glance, and when he sees the faint uptick of Crowley’s lips, a smile reserved just for him, he seems to relax a little bit. He presses back against the demon’s shoulder, also brushing their thighs together, and Crowley gladly braces against it. He can be the anchor Aziraphale needs right now. 

Anathema paces around in front of the bench around which they’ve gathered, having given her cup of coffee to Newt so she doesn’t chuck it across the lawn in a spur of emotions, and brings her hands to her temples. Her boyfriend is the definition of confusion, his gaze jumping between Adam and Anathema who are his only connection to the supernatural side of the universe, and who aren’t helping him understand it one bit. He’s just a guy. He didn’t feel any sort of ‘shift’ in ‘the powers of the universe’ – he only saw the lightbulbs in his living room flicker.

He now pushes on to try and understand anything that his friends are talking about. “What did this change feel like?” 

“Like–” Anathema scoffs, frustrated at her loss of words– “like I could feel the tectonic plates shifting. Only they were as big as the universe.” 

“Like there was a shell around the world and it cracked,” Adam adds, brow furrowed, mind somewhere else.

“Oh.” Newt reels his head back like he just got whiplashed. To Crowley, he looks like he regrets ever asking, but he’s trying to be very brave about it. “I think I get it?” 

Anathema’s gaze softens as she looks at him. “Maybe I’ll explain it to you later?”

Adam diverts his attention back to the angel and demon, who are sitting on the bench like they didn’t do anything out of the ordinary two days ago. He notices the way they’re pressed against each other, how Crowley’s arm is thrown over the backrest and hovering behind Aziraphale’s shoulders. He grins. Crowley bites back a nasty remark.

“What are you going to do now?” Adam asks instead of pointing out the obvious, perhaps sensing the demon's readiness to deflect any teases.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, then shrugs. “I suppose we will rest. Go about our lives as usual.” 

“And what about Heaven and Hell, with what you’ve done?”

Angel smiles, proud and a little mischievous. “They won’t bother us again.” 

They pull him into a whole new conversation filled with questions regarding his time as the Supreme Archangel, and the time before that while they’re at it. After a moment, Adam leaves them to circle around the bench and lean against the armrest where Crowley’s other arm is. The demon swats him playfully in the back when he’s forced to pull his hand back. He can smell the kid is up to being… well, being Adam – so up to teasing at best.

“So,” Adam says innocently.

“So?”

He ostentatiously looks at Crowley’s arm thrown around Aziraphale’s shoulders, then shrugs like he’s never had a malicious thought in his entire life. Crowley’s forever grateful that he and Aziraphale were incompetent enough they didn’t end up raising Adam – because if they did, he would be ten times the menace he is. 

“I’m guessing things are okay now?” 

“And how’s school?” Crowley shoots back, aware that Adam hates when it’s brought up. 

To his surprise, the teen just chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You first.”

“Ah, piss off.” 

Another chuckle. The other’s conversation is a nice background noise that buzzes in Crowley’s left ear. 

“No, but seriously, tell me! You seem happy, even without comparing it to the last few times we’ve seen each other.”

The demon groans, but blush creeps up his face before he knows it. Yeah, so what if he’s happy? There is no need to be so upfront about it – after all, he has a reputation to uphold.

But, fuck, he’s happy . He’s never been this happy in his entire existence. He looks at Aziraphale who is laughing at something Newt just said, who is chatting with Anathema about her astronomy studies. There’s scarce sun rays cutting through the clouded sky, and coincidentally, most of them land on Aziraphale’s face as if they’re returning his internal brightness. It’s very cold, but Crowley doesn’t really notice it thanks to the heat they’re sharing through their pressed bodies.  

“Yeah, well… We talked. About… everything,” he explains dismissively, crumpling up the leg of his jeans. “There’s a lot still left to unpack, but we’ve got time. We’ve got all the time in the world now. So–” fuck, why is it hard to say it out loud– “yeah, I’m– I’m happy.”

Maybe it’s hard to say because he’s never been free to do so before? 

Adam lets out a loud ‘aww’, which earns him another swat of Crowley’s hand. “When you find yourself someone, you little shit…” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you just sounded like an old grandpa.” 

“Really, piss off.”

But Crowley’s smiling. He sees in the corner of his eye that Aziraphale is staring at him, his expression tender. Who knows how much of Crowley’s words he heard? 

Fuck it. He will scream about his happiness from the top of a mountain. He will be loud and proud about it. And if his reputation suffers from it, then he’ll develop a new one.

Crowley leans in and Aziraphale meets him halfway. It’s a brief, casual kiss, more like a peck, but it feels like everything. And it makes everyone else whoop and clap.

They walk the Armageddon Group to the underground station in Lancaster Gate, parting with a loose proposition to visit them around holiday time just to enjoy proper winter in Tadfield. It’s discernibly colder by the time they exit back onto the street – the group was twenty minutes too early for their ride, Aziraphale was too consumed with talking with Adam, and just when Crowley was about to suggest that they could get going, he got dragged into a conversation with Newt that he ended up enjoying. 

Aziraphale blows a raspberry, which creates a cloud of steam around his face, and wraps his scarf a little tighter. Crowley puts up the collar of his coat before throwing an arm around the angel. 

“Coffee?” he proposes.

“That sounds lovely right now.” 

The demon sets a rather brisk pace for their walk to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, more eager to warm himself up the old fashioned way rather than using a miracle, and Aziraphale doesn’t complain, saying that Crowley is a walking heater anyway. The toasty interior of the coffee shop makes Crowley’s sunglasses fog up, so he hangs his head down while he wipes them with a sleeve of his shirt, not keen on showing his eyes to the world, and lets Aziraphale do the talking. 

“What can I get yo– Oh, fuck me, look who it is!” Nina sputters, sounding genuinely surprised, which is a rare thing for her. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Hello, Nina,” Aziraphale says, lassitude by the sheer possibility of going through explaining everything all over again. “If you get us something hot to drink, I can tell you everything.” 

“Sure thing. What do you want?”

“This biscoff latte you have here sounds interesting. And for him…” Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who finally looks up from wiping his sunglasses only to give the angel a shrug. “Double espresso.” 

“Not six shots?” she teases.

Aziraphale smirks, eyes still trained on Crowley. “No. Don’t want him walking on walls.”

Nina chuckles, raising her eyebrows, as she types the order into the system. “If you can wait, Maggie should have a break in a few minutes. I’m sure she’d like to hear your story, too.” 

“In that case,” Crowley interjects, returning Aziraphale’s smile with a toothy grin, “we’ll have a slice of some warm pie if you have any.”

The pie is in fact piping hot when a waiter brings it to their table, the dollop of whipped cream whacked on top of it slowly losing its shape as seconds pass. Crowley cradles his cup of coffee in his hands, enjoying the sensation of warmth slowly travelling up his arms. Aziraphale offers him a bite of the pie, saying that it’s phenomenal, but he declines, more interested in how the biscoff latte tastes. 

“Is this going to be a situation where we switch our drinks because you like mine more?” Aziraphale jokes, watching Crowley slowly smack his lips after taking a sip.

He glares at the angel, then steals another small sip before placing the cup down on its platter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“See, Maggie?” they hear Nina exclaim; she waves a dish towel in their direction, for a moment abandoning wiping her hands. “This is what I’m telling you about. Just look at them!”

Maggie chuckles, replying to her girlfriend quietly, and steals a few curious glances in the direction of Aziraphale and Crowley. Crowley moves to sit closer to Aziraphale just to drive further the fact that he and Aziraphale are whatever Nina claims they are.

Aziraphale cocks his head in confusion when the women finally approach their table and sit down in the chairs across from the couch. However, he quickly recalls a smile back onto his face before either of them can notice. Crowley pockets asking him about it for a moment when they are alone, figuring bringing it up now is not the time.

“Lovely to see you again, Mister Fell!” Maggie says, extending her hand. She nudges Nina with an elbow when she stays silent, so she groans, cracks a quick smile and throws out a blank: “Hello, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale shakes Maggie’s hand and smiles at Nina, a little embarrassed. “I know it’s been a while,” he begins apologetically. 

“Yes, Maggie mentioned that apparently you got a new job.” Nina squints her eyes at the angel, but he isn’t that moved by it, hardened by having to attend meetings with Archangels for six months non stop. “What was that about?”

“I got… I got the position of my former boss.” Aziraphale waves a hand in the general direction of the window. “Of that… naked man that was here in May.”

Nina bursts into disbelieving laughter. “That was your boss?!”

“It’s complicated, but yes.”

“No wonder you felt inclined to take care of him.”

Aziraphale’s smile drops for a moment, overshadowed by something grim, before it returns, a little wearier. Crowley knocks their knees together, I’m here, Angel, and steals the cup of latte out of his hands to lighten the mood a little bit (and maybe because he quite likes the taste). Aziraphale chuckles softly, but doesn’t protest. 

“You can’t deny it, Maggie,” Nina mutters like she’s tired of repeating herself. “They’re being ostentatious about it at this point.”

Maggie smiles at Crowley, the brightness of the gesture rivalling Aziraphale’s smiles. “I’m very happy to see you’ve made up.”

“Ah, you know…” the demon sputters, still taken by surprise whenever someone points out his – and Aziraphale’s – affectionate behaviour. He nearly misses the platter he’s supposed to place the cup of coffee on. “We just…”

“We talked,” Aziraphale finishes for him. It seems like Maggie’s gentle demeanour is a nice change of pace for him after being bombarded with questions by everyone else. “I apologised and–”

“I wasn’t all innocent, either, Angel,” Crowley corrects him gently yet sternly, knocking their knees together again. “Don’t put all the blame on yourself.”

“Well, okay.” The angel turns back to Maggie. “After I took up the position of my former boss, I was too busy to return here. But we’ve dealt with this now, so… I suppose you could say that we’re free.”

“You mean unemployed?” Maggie furrows her brow. 

Crowley can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, kind of.” 

“So… are you going to reopen your shop now or…?”

“Don’t know,” the demon shrugs. “Haven’t given it much thought to be honest. Haven’t had the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

Both women and Aziraphale look at him, all three curious and confused. Crowley’s shoulders hunch up as he looks down at his hands sheepishly.

“I’ve been mostly closed the past few weeks. It’s nice to run it. It’s a nice distraction. It helped me take my mind off… things, you know, when you were gone.” He glances at Aziraphale. “I– I don’t know! I don’t feel like I have anything to distract myself from anymore. I don’t think I’ve had that many customers overall anyway.” He smirks. “I suppose that lately I've been a terrible shop owner, cuz I'm barely around. It might draw some attention that I'm still doing so well. Might get accused of money laundering.” 

Aziraphale grins. “If you sell your plants, then you're already a better shop owner than I am. And It’s not like you would mind such an accusation.”

“That is besides the point, Angel.” He shrugs again. “The last few weeks have been hectic to say the least. I need to think about it.”

“So long as it doesn't turn back into a vape shop, I'm fine with anything,” Nina grumbles, Maggie immediately humming in agreement.

Crowley gladly takes the opportunity to draw attention away from himself, and nods at the women, hiding his smirk with the rim of his cup. “Why don't you break the news to Aziraphale while we're all gathered here?”

To his surprise, it's Maggie who glares at him. Nina blushes – heavily, like she's been thrown into a steaming bathtub – and fiddles with her hands. Aziraphale looks between them, puzzled. 

“What news?”

Crowley grins innocently. Aziraphale nudges him with an elbow, but he doesn't budge. Nina and Maggie exchange a glance, communicating in some way Crowley can't gleam, then the latter clasps her hands together and says:

“Me and Nina are a couple! We've been going out for…” she looks at her girlfriend, who murmurs something under her breath, embarrassed beyond recognition– “about eight (?) months now.”

By a lucky coincidence, Aziraphale only began raising his cup towards his lips, so he doesn't spit his drink when he hears Maggie's words. Crowley watches everything unfold with satisfaction, and returns Nina’s stare with another innocent smile. 

“That’s…” Aziraphale blinks, his expression going from shocked to overjoyed, to a sudden realisation, and eventually settling on a bright smile. “That’s wonderful!”

Maggie chuckles, embarrassed, and looks at Nina, who manages to crack a smile towards Aziraphale. Crowley would tease her about all of it, but he knows perfectly well how she’s feeling right now, so he’ll save it for another time, when their relationships aren’t in the spotlight. Besides, she seems happy despite still looking grumpy like she usually does.

Aziraphale caves and switches drinks with Crowley while the conversation flows on, perhaps because the bitterness of espresso nicely balances the sweetness of the apple pie. Nina doesn’t linger long after Maggie retreats to her record store, but Aziraphale and Crowley stay until it gets darker outside, enjoying the smells and ambience of the café in the meantime. Because of it being the end of November, every table in the shop is taken, crowding Aziraphale and Crowley with so much background noise that they can be sure no one will be able to listen in on their conversation. 

So Crowley asks Aziraphale about his reaction when Nina and Maggie approached them. Aziraphale blushes and makes an indescribable noise, trying to give himself more time to think about his answer.

“I… felt their love. You know, the same way I could feel that the Tadfield area is loved.” He shivers, like he’s experiencing the feeling again. “I got all… tingly all of a sudden, and I wasn't sure why. I suppose our meddling did lead to a relationship between Maggie and Nina,” he chuckles.

Crowley smiles into the rim of his cup, then downs the rest of the drink, sugar from the biscoff part of the latte overflowing his senses. Maybe even him messing with the weather helped kickstart that relationship, even if it didn't go as well as he hoped it would. He stands up first and reaches a hand out for Aziraphale to grab, bowing his head down. Exhilaration that floods him when he feels him take his hand is like a wave of electricity quickly shooting through his body. Maybe it’s because this time his courteous behaviour isn’t lighthearted. And maybe because Aziraphale realises that, too.

Only once they’re in the bookshop, strikingly quiet compared to the coffee shop, does the knot in Crowley’s chest – that he didn’t realise was there – unties. He watches Aziraphale shuffle around the place, lighting all of the lamps scattered between bookshelves and other free spaces, his movement languid. He pouts when a lightbulb crackles and goes out instead of turning on like the rest and snaps his fingers to turn it on again. Crowley can’t really put a finger on this sudden feeling of bliss, a stark contrast to the tension that’s been in the back of his mind all day.

Aziraphale must notice that the demon has grown pensive, because he approaches him slowly, with his head slightly tilted. “You alright?”

He blinks himself out of his train of thought, absently massaging at his chest where that knot resided moments ago, and looks out a window only to feel it reform again. “Yeah, just…” he trails off. “I thought I was over it, but being outside and being… you know… I mean, being outside the bounds of the bookshop was still exhausting. I think if it hadn’t been for the amount of distractions, I would have looked over my shoulder every few minutes.”

Aziraphale's gaze softens. Crowley reaches for his hand, grounding himself by feeling his knuckles under his thumb.

“It was different yesterday because… I don’t know, I guess you were kind of on my mind the entire day.” He cracks an embarrassed smile, but then his expression grows a bit more sour. “I think I was just worried about Hell or Heaven watching us – even though I don’t have to be worried anymore! And my brain just remained on standby, you know? To be ready in case anything happened.” He looks around the bookshop – not because he's scanning the area to be sure they're safe, but because seeing this cluttered, messy place brings him comfort. “I think– It's gonna be hard for a bit, isn't it? Unlearning old tricks?” 

“I think I know a thing or two about that,” Aziraphale points out, tone playful in hopes of keeping the mood high.

Crowley scoffs. “Y-yeah.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard.” Aziraphale places his hand over the demon’s. “And if it does – we’ve got each other to lean on, right?”

Crowley feels himself lean forward, drawn to the angel by some external force, and knocks their foreheads together with a heavy sigh. Aziraphale smells like rain and coffee, his cologne washed out after a long day out; he smells like the promise of warmth on a cold day. He’s never been the warm one out of the two of them, but right now he’s like the only star in the entire solar system, and Crowley realises that he’s been cold for too long.

“Yeah,” he says again, voice quiet. “We do.”

He reaches a hand up to cup Aziraphale’s face, this warmth between them settling in his belly and bubbling as it tries to find an out, when there’s a knock on the doors, followed by a ring of the bell as one wing is swang open.

“Hello! Sorry!” Muriel quickly shuts the door behind her, which gives Crowley and Aziraphale enough time to move out of the intimate position they found themselves in. “I’m terribly sorry to burst in so suddenly, I just wanted to come as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow, his previous embarrassment quickly overshadowed by confusion. “Whatever for?”

“To come back!” Muriel’s expression is the definition of joy. 

“Like–” Crowley struggles to make his brain work again, still sluggish from the heat– “here? To Earth?”

“Yes!”

Crowley, surprising both angels, is the one to grin. The yearning inside his chest, pulling on his heart strings, gets put on hold. “That’s brilliant, Muriel!”

She eyes him, still shocked from his reaction, but returns the gesture. Aziraphale steps up to them, arms spread wide and inviting for a hug. Muriel hugs him back immediately, laughing giddly.

“I'm very happy to hear that, dear.” He pushes away and places his hands on their shoulders. “Would you like something to drink to celebrate?”

She lets Aziraphale lead her to the couch, Crowley following after them and gunning for the chair. They sit on the edge of their seat, barely containing her excitement, and fiddles with the leg of their trousers to the point it's completely rumpled while Aziraphale goes to make everyone tea. 

The very moment the teapot is set down on the table, Muriel explodes like a confetti cannon. 

“So, the Archangels said I could go back if I wanted to, and, you know, here I am, but they actually told that to everyone, although I don't think anyone aside from me will–”

“Hold on, hold on.” Crowley raises a hand like he's in class and is asking for permission to speak. “They did what? ”

Aziraphale leans his elbows on his knees and looks at Muriel. “How about you start from the beginning?”

By the way she sounds, Muriel has a hard time comprehending everything that happened after Aziraphale and Crowley arrived in Heaven, but their explanation is concise nevertheless. Apparently, Crowley and Aziraphale’s arrival caused a bit of a ruckus, what with the entire Dark Council coming and then God herself showing up. Everyone’s orders were to proceed as usual, so no angel really questioned anything when the power in the building went out for a good moment. Maybe it was because of the time Muriel had already spent on Earth, or maybe it was always their nature, but she was dying to find out what was happening.

And she did, the following day. Archangels, led – much to everyone’s surprise – by Michael and not Metatron, who remained in the back for the entire time, said that there would be no more Armageddon to work towards, not now nor in the future. They said that God’s plans changed – which was met with a lot less surprise than Crowley would expect. When Muriel approached the Archangels after the meeting was over, she was told that they can go back to Earth if they please. Uriel seized the opportunity while everyone was still in the room, raised their voice and repeated their words for every angel to hear. Anyone who wanted to could go visit Earth. The Archangels only asked that enough angels would remain in Heaven at a time to keep everything running. 

So there Muriel was, stunned beyond comprehension, all alone in Heaven. She finally got around to going to Earth a day later, when the initial shock died down and they could think clearly again. 

“Which leads me to my question,” she sighs, clasping their hands together nervously. “Could I stay in my room here? Would that be okay with you, Archangel Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale smiles. “You don’t need to call me that. Just ‘Aziraphale’ is fine. And of course you can!” He reaches forward and grabs her hand, squeezing it gently. “Don’t take my question the wrong way, but would you like to look for a place of your own at some point?”

Muriel sputters, then chuckles nervously. “Y-yeah, I’d love to. I just… I don’t feel all that ready to get ‘out there’ on my own. I’m afraid of making a fool of myself in front of some human.”

“You’ve done pretty damn well with the cashier at the corner store,” Crowley points out.

“I’m afraid that is not a good example, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. 

Muriel looks down sheepishly and taps the rim of her cup with a finger. “I– I would love to resume our Earth lessons, Mister Crowley. That would really help me with settling down. Would you be okay with that?”

“Sure thing, pebble brain.” Crowley shrugs. “Fridays still sound good to you?”

She beams at him. Crowley cracks a smile as well.

Muriel retreats to their room soon after that, once their tea cup is empty and their head is full of ideas for carving out a space for herself here on Earth. Crowley’s too fatigued to clean up the coffee table, so he flicks his wrist and snaps his fingers until the miracles do the job for him. Just as he’s about to collapse onto the couch next to Aziraphale, who’s picked back his Unseen Academicals , the angel looks up at him and smiles upon seeing his tired face. 

“We can go upstairs if you want,” he offers. “So long as you can sleep with a lamp on. I do want to catch up on my reading.” 

Crowley grumbles incomprehensibly, takes Aziraphale’s hand and drags him up the stairwell and into the bedroom, the thought of going to sleep being the only thing making his limbs move. He plops down onto the bed face-first with a satisfied grunt, and feels the events of the day begin to seep out of him, leaving him buzzing and empty, but in a good way. The mattress dips when Aziraphale lays down next to him. He places his hand over Crowley’s back, in between his shoulder blades. 

Crowley sighs heavily, letting the air rattle in his throat, and feels himself melt under the touch, his muscles gone pliant from the sheer proximity of Aziraphale.  

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel murmurs, moving closer to wrap his arm around his back to pull him into an embrace. “I’m so sorry I didn’t act upon it quicker.” 

Crowley wriggles around in his hold until he can look at Aziraphale properly, and furrows his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Your love.” Aziraphale brushes hair out of his eyes, then cups his face. “I can feel it, dear.”

Everything comes crashing in all of a sudden – all of the glances they’ve exchanged, gestures, smiles, all the bickering and quiet, slow mornings that followed loud, alcoholic nights. Crowley never stopped to think whether Aziraphale could feel his love, because he himself was never able to sense anything from Aziraphale. Sure, he could feel desire, but he always attributed it to some human that would inevitably be in their surroundings; even in the bookshop in the middle of the night, it was easier for Crowley to believe that he was feeling the desire of someone drunkenly walking down Whickber Street rather than unpack the other possibility. Besides, he was scared of what would happen if he ever acted upon it, let alone called it out – especially after 1942, then 1967. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I must admit I had moments where I would intentionally… look away when I would feel it, or find excuses to tell myself this wasn’t about me. I was scared – not only of what Heaven and Hell would do if they found out, but also because I feared what it would say about me, to love a demon.” He brushes Crowley’s cheek in a gentle stroke. His smile grows sorrowful. “I’m very sorry, Crowley. I caused us both a lot of pain.” 

“I think I get it,” the demon murmurs gently in response. “It was hard to come to terms with–” the word ‘love’ doesn’t want to escape his throat, but he pushes past this feeling and forces his lips to cooperate– “ loving you at first. I feared you would be no good to me, nor would I be any good to you.”

He reaches for Aziraphale’s hand which is cupping his face, and places a soft kiss in its palm. “It’s okay, Angel. We’re here now.” 

Desire begins to radiate out of Aziraphale in lazy, warm waves; combined with the cold touch of his skin, it makes Crowley shiver. He nuzzles his face back into his hand with a huff. 

“What are you feeling?” the angel asks. His voice is quiet. 

Crowley looks up at him. “Your desire.” 

Aziraphale’s lips taste like the tea he drank, bitter and warm; with his hands sunk in his white curls, frizzy and still a little damp from the rain, Crowley is close enough to pick up the smell of his person, the scent hidden beneath the cologne, peach flowers and old books. He feels Aziraphale’s hands travel down his neck, stopping over his back and around his waist, holding him close. Just like Crowley feels desire like waves after waves, Aziraphale feels love tingling under his skin – only in this capacity, it feels more like electric currents that make his hands tighten, clutching onto the demon’s clothes. Crowley slides a hand under Aziraphale’s collar, managing to undo his bowtie and unbutton the top button of his shirt, but his hands are too shaky to bother with the rest. He relishes in feeling Angel shiver when his warm hand comes in contact with his cold skin. 

He presses his nose right under Aziraphale’s jaw, breathing in the smell of his person, getting drunk on it. There’s sweat gathering on Crowley’s neck and behind his ears, amplifying the already-sweltering heat he’s experiencing. He’s grown dizzy and cooperative from having his senses be this overpowered, so he lets the angel take the lead. 

Aziraphale rolls over to lie on top of him, pressing their bodies together; his heart joins Crowley’s in their wild staccato. He relishes in the sounds that escape the demon’s mouth – from huffs to quiet moans and whispers – and with every new one his heart swells with love a little more. When Crowley bends his leg to lean his knee against his side, Aziraphale grabs his thigh like it’s always been an instinct for him. He kisses his Adam’s apple – such an irony for it to be called that way when you’re kissing The Serpent of Eden – and feels Crowley’s quick breath rushing through his airways under his lips.

“Angel,” he breathes out, one hand gently pulling on Aziraphale’s hair while the other clenches on his shirt. “Oh, Angel.”

Aziraphale unbuttons the demon’s vest and slides a hand down his side to once again grab a hold of his waist. Crowley is all sharp edges and pronounced bones, and now all of this thin frame is for Aziraphale to hold and adore for all eternity. He presses one final kiss on the base of his neck, in the junction where it meets his shoulder, and stays there, trying to catch his breath. 

Crowley’s lips buzz, his hearts stuttering as they try to go back to a steadier rate. Once Aziraphale raises onto an elbow and looks up at him, he notices that his mouth is red and a little swollen, his pupils blown and his hair completely askew. His desire seems to have subsided into something more balanced, and no longer overpowers the demon’s senses in waves. 

Crowley smiles tenderly, combing through the angel’s hair in an attempt to make it look a little neater. Aziraphale leans into the touch with a sigh, then grabs his hand and places a kiss over his knuckles.

It doesn’t need saying, not after what just occurred. But Aziraphale says it anyway.

“I love you, Crowley.”

Maybe if they haven’t just made out, it would be harder for him to reply – it’s still hard for him to think of himself as a demon in love with an angel, let alone in love in general. But his lips are still a little numb and his body remembers the shape of Aziraphale’s hands holding onto it, clutching and never wanting to let go. His hearts still pound heavily in his chest, and maybe they always will. He can still taste Aziraphale’s desire.

Crowley leans down to kiss him on the lips, then whispers into the space between their mouths, his quiet voice carrying all the weight of his vow: “I love you, too, Angel. I’ve loved you all of my life.”

At some point Aziraphale picks back up the Unseen Academicals he left on the nightstand before he lay down on the bed, and Crowley cuddles against his side, head resting over where his heart is. He reads with him for a while, but the previous exhaustion eventually catches up with him and makes his eyelids grow heavy. Aziraphale’s hand is sunk in his hair, moving in lazy circles over his scalp. 

The demon tilts his head ever so slightly and looks up at Aziraphale. He’s miracled his ridiculous reading glasses onto his face; with his vest unbuttoned, it’s easy to see how crumpled his shirt has become. His undone bowtie hangs loosely around his neck. When he notices he’s being stared at, he turns to Crowley and sends him a tender smile. 

Crowley thinks that if he ever dreamed of going back to Heaven, that dream was now fulfilled.

Chapter Text

It ends, as it has begun – in a garden.

Crowley peers over a mound of snow, but immediately regrets it when he’s hit square in the face with a snowball. His reaction is a second too slow, and the snow smashes right between his eyes, making him stumble backwards. Aziraphale tugs on the sleeve of his coat, making him duck behind the mound again, and it’s only thanks to him that Crowley doesn’t land on his ass.

“What did you do that for?!” he grumbles, sparing one quick glance in the direction of their opponents before brushing off the snow from the demon’s face. His gloves are wet and covered in a layer of snow leftover from making a new stash of snowballs, but they make do with cleaning Crowley’s face enough for him to see clearly again. 

Aziraphale has a slightly crazed look in his eyes from the adrenaline rush – his cheeks and nose are flushed, and his breathing is steady but quickened. He’s loosened the scarf wrapped around his neck, having warmed up from all the running and, quite frankly, owning the opposition. Crowley knows Aziraphale has taken part in quite a few fights during his time on Earth – battles in fifteenth-century England, fairs, sparrings shoot-outs in mid-western North America and more – all of which have made him quite the tactician and an asset to have in a snowball fight.

And all of which have been an out for the frenetic energy that’s always bubbled under his skin, that seldom had the chance to see the light of day nowadays. And now, almost knee-deep in snow, with his ears and nose numb from the cold and his steaming breath warming the space between his and Crowley’s face, it looks like this energy is oozing out of him, tamed but still wild. 

“Not my fault!” Crowley opposes, shuffling to get back onto his knees. He glares in the direction of the other side of the field, but doesn’t make the mistake of sticking his head up again. “It’s Anathema! She’s… well, a witch, but you know what I mean!” 

“Come on, come on, cowards!” they hear her call out from her hiding spot, almost like on command. “You can’t hide forever!”

“We’re winning anyway!” they both yell back simultaneously. 

Adam cackles. “Sure you do!” 

“I just want you to know–” Newt groans; he sounds like he’s the closest to Aziraphale and Crowley– “I’m not going to sit in the snow forever!” 

Aziraphale carefully peers over the mound, takes note of his surroundings, then crouches down again to grab a handful of snowballs. Crowley digs his bare hands into the snow, making some for himself. 

“I’m going to flank Adam,” Aziraphale informs, brow furrowed in focus as he once again looks around. “I need you to cover me.” 

“How on Earth do I do that?”

“Be chaotic.” Aziraphale’s smile is mischievous as he winks at the demon. “Draw their attention.” 

Crowley squints his eyes at him, his hands tingling from the cold of the snow. “You owe me big time for this.” 

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Crowley grumbles under his breath, mentally preparing himself to be a literal shield for Aziraphale, grabs the snowballs he’s prepared and jumps over the mound with ease. Thanks to the element of surprise, he has a second to orient himself in the surroundings before the first snowball comes flying in in a long arch, another following immediately after. He ducks under the first one, while the latter manages to hit him on the shoulder as he bolts across the field in a messy zigzag. Anathema yells something to Newt, and it was probably a sign to actually, properly open fire, because suddenly Crowley is bombarder with snowballs, even though most of them miss. 

A moment later, he’s reached what he thinks is Anathema’s hiding spot, and rounds the corner to find he wasn’t mistaken. She has a few snowballs at the ready, but when Crowley retaliates, she immediately puts her hands up to hide her face from the brunt of the hit. It gives Crowley the opportunity to approach her and push a handful of powdered snow behind her collar, where her scarf betrayed her and exposed a part of her neck. Anathema whips around, waving an arm to ward him off, but she’s too slow and some of the snow manages to get under her coat.

“You fiend!” she groans, frantically patting on the back of her neck to make the snow melt quicker. “You’re the worst!” 

Crowley just laughs; he throws the remaining snowball at her leg, which Anathema manages to kick mid-air with a frustrated groan. She glares at him, but bursts into laughter a moment later as well, having dealt with the discomfort on her neck. They hear snow crunching to their left and look up to see Newt approaching them, trying to shake off the clumps of snow that are stuck to his gloves. He is the furthest from bravely coming to the rescue of his fiancée. 

“I’m dying for tea, a lot of it,” he announces, grimacing a little from being out in the cold for so long, “and I really don’t care who won.” 

“Obviously we did,” both Crowley and Anathema reply. Anathema swats him on the shoulder, which only makes the demon laugh again. 

“Whatever you say, honey. We should probably–”

“Fine, fine! We’ll call it a draw, alright?” Aziraphale yells somewhere to their left. 

They come up to find him lying in the snow on his back, his coat more white than beige from the amount of snowballs splattered over it. He’s breathing heavily, the tip of his nose fully red at this point; the slightly manic look in his eyes is slowly fading. Adam is on his knees next to him, his hair wet and cheeks rosy. It looks like he just had a proper scuffle. 

“He’s a monster, he is,” Aziraphale says as Crowley crouches down next to him and gives him a hand to help him get up. He manages to barely rise onto his feet before he slips and falls ass-first, pulling the demon down with him. Crowley manages to depreciate his fall at the last second, saving himself from falling on his face.  

Anathema immediately takes the opportunity to pay him back, seeing as he’s lying prone on the ground, and runs over to shove a handful of snow behind his collar before he even has a chance to gather himself. 

“Fucking hell, woman!” Crowley hisses, arching his back when the icy-cold water drips down his spine. He glares at Aziraphale reproachfully, tossing a bit of snow in his direction. “Help me, Angel! You put me in this predicament in the first place!”

Aziraphale laughs, but does reach over to pat and rub his back until the worst of the feeling is over, then casts a small miracle to dry his coat again. 

“Why did you call it a draw?” Anathema whines.

“Because I think Adam is , in fact, hell-incarnate,” Aziraphale explains, waving a hand at the teen. Adam glares at him and huffs. “It was the lesser evil. He surely gave me a run for my money.”

“You can’t do a lot against a sixteen-year-old boy, Angel.”

“No. No, I don’t suppose I can.” 

Crowley brushes most of the snow off of Aziraphale’s coat, not bothering to be very thorough about it for now, then lies down on his back next to him, shoulders pressed together. He looks up at the sky; it’s getting darker by the minute, with maybe a few more minutes of daylight left, but the first stars are starting to show. He feels Aziraphale reach over to lace their hands together, and so he squeezes back, his heart full and his throat sore from the cold.

“We may have to clean up a bit,” Adam says, looking around the area with a slight grimace. “My mom is not gonna like this look of the garden forever.”

“Fine.” Newt puts his hands together with a large clap. “But tea first. Please .”

It ends, as it has begun – in a garden.

The smell of freshly baked pie gently pulls Crowley out of his sleep. He groans, rolling onto his side and extending his limbs in a proper, satisfying stretch, his joints cracking. Because of the smells coming from downstairs, and because he didn’t collide with anybody when he rolled across the mattress, he suspects that Aziraphale is downstairs in the kitchen.

Crowley has to roll over one more time before he can get off the bed. Digging the heel of his palm into his eye and with a big yawn stretching his mouth, he walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, the floorboards pleasantly creaking under his bare feet. There, he’s hit with a new, stronger wave of smells, and he quickly finds out why – Aziraphale has just pulled out a baking dish, with what looks like some sort of fruit crumble, out of the oven.

“Morning,” Crowley murmurs, carefully manoeuvring around Aziraphale and the piping hot dish in his hands, and reaches to put the kettle on. He leans against the counter and looks at their dining table, and it takes a few seconds for the shock to cut through the drowsiness. The table is stacked with food. 

Aziraphale puts the dish down, leaves the oven mitts next to it and walks over to give the demon a peck on the cheek. Then he lets him pull him into a sleepy hug.

“It’s three in the afternoon, Crowley,” Aziraphale chuckles.

“Close enough.” He nods his head in the direction of the dining table. “Who is this feast for?”

“Oh, it’s hardly a feast, especially compared to Wednesday.” Aziraphale shrugs, turning around in Crowley’s embrace to reach for a hand towel and clean his hands. “I got a little carried away.”

“What in the world did you make on Wednesday then?”

Aziraphale frees himself from Crowley’s lazy hold and walks over to the table to tap the fruit crumble with a finger, hissing when he finds that, to no one’s surprise, it’s still piping hot. Crowley prepares his tea, then cradles the cup in his hands. He turns his face towards the sun coming in through the window, basking in its warmth. When he went to sleep, it was the end of March, but now April has arrived and graced them with a bit of sunshine. 

“Well, I went for a walk to the town on Tuesday to check out the local library, and found an old book about Central European desserts, so I got… a little inspired. It’s been a while since I’ve made yeast pastries, and they had some old fruit at half-price in the shop, and…” He shrugs, his smile showing embarrassment. “Thankfully, the neighbours stopped by in the afternoon – they said they could smell my baking from a mile away, and just had to see who ‘the new baker’ in the area was – so I gave them some of the food, and donated what was left.”

“Look at you, already making a name for yourself in the neighbourhood,” Crowley teases. He takes a sip of his tea and enjoys the feeling of warmth spreading through his chest. “Are the neighbours nice?”

“I met only the ones that stopped by; they’re the people who I was chatting with when we moved in. They were worried you got sick when I mentioned you were sleeping upstairs.”

The demon rolls his eyes. “I simply got tired from carrying all of the boxes around. You were of little help.”

“I did set up all of the furniture while you were sleeping.” 

“We’re even then.”

It was raining the day they arrived, so instead of steadily unpacking with sun baking into their backs, they had to ask the driver to reverse right up against the doors of the garage and hurriedly carry everything in. The weather did not give them the time to process the fact that they were finally (finally!) moving into the cottage which they’ve been trying to get for the last month. Crowley, who was worried about the seedlings and saplings stuck in the very back of the truck, with no light and uneven humidity levels, pretty much ran back and forth with the boxes until he made a dent big enough to grab all of the plants and put them in the sun room for safe keeping. Aziraphale, being the angel he is, got caught up in a conversation with the truck driver to the point that he invited her in for a cup of tea, as a way of thanking her for all the help. He snapped back into helping Crowley only after the demon came into the kitchen, grabbed him by the hand and literally led out of the room with a frustrated groan.

Once the truck drove off, leaving tyre marks in the gravel, with their shirts wet from rain and sweat, everything finally hit them. Aziraphale was so elated, he wrapped his arms around Crowley’s torso, picked him up from the ground and twirled around with a giggle, ignoring the threats of his demonic wrath that he spewed out in response. He was also too exhausted to protest. And perhaps he enjoyed it a little, too.

While Crowley fussed around in the garden, stubbornly ignoring the rain, and mapped out the best spots to plant everything, Aziraphale holed himself up in the room he selected to be his library and lost his mind while trying to put all of the books in a good order. It got to the point where he came out into the rain and asked for Crowley’s help – to which he obviously agreed, surprised and intrigued with the fact that setting up a few bookshelves can be such a demanding task. The process didn’t go without a fight – what the fuck do you mean this is a fantasy book, Angel?! – but eventually, when the day began nearing its end, the library was finished, with all of the lightbulbs installed and mandatory houseplants present by the window. 

Crowley retreated into the bedroom, having half the mind to change out of his damp clothes, and collapsed onto the mattress, thanking the stars above that they decided to keep the bed that came with the cottage. Floorboards creaked as Aziraphale walked up the stairs and entered the room after him. He was nowhere being tired – because he fucking slacked off for most of the day, while Crowley worked his ass off – but got into the bed anyway. Crowley rolled onto his side to face him, and burst into a chuckle when he saw Aziraphale’s ridiculous reading glasses.

“I still don’t get why you wear these,” he murmured, moving closer to him to catch a glimpse of what book he brought with him to read – another book of Sir Terry Prachett, The Colour of Magic . “It’s not like you need them.”

“Well, I think they’re stylish!” Aziraphale opposed, sounding quite offended. 

“Whoever told you that is a liar, Angel.”

He put his book down with a gasp. “You foul fiend. I keep my remarks about your… tie thingy , to myself, so I’d appreciate it if you did the same sometimes!”

Crowley raised onto his elbow. His damp hair has dried a little and made a proper mess of his head. “ Tie thingy? What’s wrong with my tie?”

“And what’s wrong with my reading glasses?”

Crowley squinted his eyes at Aziraphale, whose gaze was unwavering, though still playful. He sighed, rolled his eyes, then ostentatiously turned to lie with his back towards the angel. 

“Whatever. I’m gonna take a nap. A long one.”

“When can I expect you back?”

It’s become a normal question Aziraphale would ask Crowley whenever he would announce taking ‘a long nap’ or ‘sleeping something off’ – specially after one time at the bookshop, when Crowley woke up in the middle of the day after three days of sleep, and startled Aziraphale by simply walking up to him while he was consumed by the book he was reading. If Aziraphale could, he surely would have gotten a heart attack then. 

Crowley hummed, trying to put a number to his exhaustion and simple need for sleep. “Let’s say… about a week?” 

“Alright–” Aziraphale leaned over to kiss him on the cheek– “have a good rest.” He winked at him. “And, in all seriousness, I think your tie does compliment your outfits, sometimes .”

“Geez, Angel,” Crowley sputtered out, rolling his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same about your glasses. But, but!” He turned onto his back so that he could look at Aziraphale properly. “They do make you a stunning bookseller.”

“Why, thank you!” Aziraphale beamed. “I got them when I first opened the bookshop.”

“You know what? That explains a lot.” Crowley smiled back at him. “Goodnight, Angel.”

“See you, darling.”

They sit in the garden, where Aziraphale talks about the things he was up to while Crowley was asleep. He took a walk around the neighbourhood and discovered a very scenic path that led all the way to South Downs National Park. On his way there, he met a young couple who owns a nearby camping site, and they were kind enough to give him a map of the area that they hand out to all of their clients. While he continues to talk, he has his hand sunk in Crowley’s hair, gently combing through it. He has set his book down on the blanket, because what was supposed to be a two-minute explanation has now turned into a full on twenty-minute story. Crowley listens to him with his eyes closed, head resting on his thighs, and slowly eats his serving of the fruit crumble. He’s put away his sunglasses for the time being – the hedge surrounding their garden is high and thick enough to give them complete cover, and if anyone was to walk up to them, they would have to go through the house anyway, giving Crowley enough time to cover his eyes. 

It’s a nice day. It’s breezy, the wind carrying the smell of grass and first blooming flowers. The ground is still a little wet from the morning dew, so they lie on a thick blanket. Spring may not be the best time to plant things, but Crowley thinks that using a bit of magic to help with the process can’t be considered cheating if other gardeners in the neighbourhood never learn about it.

They take a drive down to the coast later in the day and lay on the stony shores, watching the sun set. The wall of white cliffs behind them turns from golden orange to yellow, then finally to gray. When it gets dark, Crowley points at the sky, talking about whatever star clusters he recognises, if he put them up there, and how much of a hassle star making was. 

And then, for a split moment, he thinks he sees the stars form an outline of a face. Its eyes open, the corners of its mouth ticking upwards. “We meet again, demon starmaker,” whispers the gust of wind that blows, but when Crowley blinks again, the face is gone, the stars that had formed it now back in their original position. 

He looks at the sky befuddled, but when the realisation hits him, he can’t help but smile gently and nod.

“Do you remember the very first time we met?” he asks, turning to glance at Aziraphale.

He turns his head away, almost like he doesn’t want Crowley to see his face, and sinks his hand into the ground, moving the cold pebbles around with his fingers. “Of course I do. You were quite silly.”

He snorts. “I was?”

“Yes, with your wild hair and… the arm flailing, and everything.” Aziraphale shrugs. 

“I did do that a lot,” Crowley admits, chuckling. “But having worked on this nebula for so long, you have to understand how excited I was to finally turn it on.”

“It was plain to see, dear.” Aziraphale finally turns his head to face him. Although it’s dim, Crowley notices the blush high on his cheeks. He has the face of someone who's going to regret what he's about to say, but who will say it anyway. “You complimented the nebula and I thought you were talking about me.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale dumbfounded, then the memories in his mind finally connect with a satisfying click, and he bursts into laughter. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything!” Aziraphale groans, embarrassed beyond recognition, and hides his face in his hands. “Stop laughing!”

Crowley’s trying to contain his laughter, but can’t. It’s just too funny. “Oh, I’m never going to let you live that down!”

“Crowley! Stop talking!” 

He pushes Crowley’s shoulder with one final embarrassed groan, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling. 

It’s the middle of July when Anathema and Newt get married, shrouded in thick rays of a golden sunset. Aziraphale claps so hard his palms turn red by the end of the ceremony, but it doesn’t stop him from clapping again when another opportunity arises. Crowley pays half his mind to the wedding itself, the other half of his brain consumed by the sight of Aziraphale dressed in a proper suit. Its golden sleeve cuffs match his ring, and the blue tie compliments his eyes beautifully. The smell of desire is warm and sweet in Crowley’s nose, and he imagines Aziraphale is experiencing something similar from all the love hanging in the air. 

The reception is extraordinary – not that Crowley has been to many weddings to have formed an opinion about it – and it’s only then, amidst a partying crowd, that he finally gets a chance to talk to the groom. Newt looks different to when he last saw him: more confident, easy going. He looks like he’s perfectly content with his place in the world. For the first time when he talks with Crowley, he doesn’t seem intimidated by him.

A sudden outburst of laughter and cheering interrupts their conversation, so they both look over just in time to witness Anathema do the bouquet toss. After some more cheering, it is Aziraphale that emerges victorious, beaming and blushing, apologising profusely to everyone else for being the one to catch the bouquet. Crowley doesn’t even realise his mouth falls open. 

“Well, I had a suspicion this would happen,” he hears Newt remark, half-joking. Crowley gives him a bewildered look, to which he replies with a shrug, like what he’s talking about is as obvious as the sky being blue. “I think it’s been a long time coming. I’m honestly surprised you still haven’t tied the knot,” he explains.

“We…” Crowley trails off, his mind suddenly too full with wedding rings, flower arrangements and wedding cakes, to formulate a proper sentence. “We never talked about it.”

He catches Aziraphale’s gaze for a moment, just before Anathema approaches him to presumably talk about the same thing Newt is nagging him about. Crowley swallows hard, his mouth dry as a desert. We never thought we could talk about it.

“Well, just don’t make my wedding about you two, alright?” Newt jokes, patting him on the shoulder, before he walks off to join his groomsmen. 

At some time during the night, when the music has subsided from energetic to more mellow, the kind that lovers gently sway from side to side to, Crowley exits the building and finds an empty bench in the surrounding garden. He miracles himself a cigarette, then snaps his fingers like a lighter and lights it. Smoke begins to lazily billow upwards, leaving swirling patterns in the air; since there’s no one around, Crowley pushes his sunglasses up, giving the bridge of his nose a break. 

Aziraphale quietly joins him after a few minutes, and accepts a drag when Crowley offers it. He’s still holding the bouquet, almost like he doesn’t want to risk getting it stolen or thrown away. There’s a bottle of wine in his other hand. 

“I got us this wine,” he explains, as if it needed an explanation, and hands it to Crowley to open while he sits down. “Like that time six years ago.”

The demon cracks a wide smile and nods, holding the cigarette in between his lips. The bottle opens with a satisfying pop and a strong floral aroma attacks Crowley’s nostrils. “Viognier?” he asks, his interest piqued.

“Yes.” Aziraphale blushes and looks down at his hands, pretty much cradling the bouquet in his lap. “It’s only suitable to have some florality right now.” 

And it tastes like flowers, too, amidst the fruit, honey and tobacco notes. Crowley smacks his lips and takes another sip before handing the bottle over to Aziraphale. 

“Um…” the angel begins, setting the flowers down on his lap, “I don’t know how superstitious you are about the bouquet toss, but either way, I… I want to bring… this up.”

This . Crowley takes a long drag of his cigarette, either giving himself the chance to think about an answer, or giving Aziraphale the space to say anything more if he’d like to.

“Okay,” he says eventually, tone soft, when the silence has gone on long enough and managed to make him anxious. He exhales the smoke with a sigh.

“Did you– Did you ever think about it? Marrying someone?” 

Crowley sighs. “There was never just ‘someone’, Angel,” he replies quietly. He offers Aziraphale his cigarette again, and he accepts it, tapping off the ash afterwards. “Yeah, I did,” he adds after a long moment of silence.

The thought of it never really left his mind after it first appeared – it would get shrouded by other things sometimes, but nothing could make it go away. Not even their falling out last year. Crowley thought about getting married when he lay naked on the floor in his apartment, with a bottle of whisky left half-empty next to him and a cigarette in hand. No amount of nicotine could free his mind from ‘you go too fast for me, Crowley’, or the way Aziraphale beamed at him a couple days earlier after Crowley helped him out. The cold press of concrete under his skin offered little help to keep the noise in his head at bay. He took a deep inhale and relished in how it stung – both the smoke and the yearning.

He thought about it when he spent nights in the bookshop, dozing off with the sight of Aziraphale hunched over his desk being the last thing he’d see before he’d fall asleep. He thought about it on his way to a temptation, a curse or something worse. He thought about it when he smelled desire in the air. He thought about it when he showered, slept, and looked in the mirror. He thought about it when the chaos in his mind became too much and seeped out his ears like steam, as if to keep the pressure in his skull within limits.

“Did you ?” he asks, glancing at Aziraphale. 

He twiddles his thumbs for a good moment, trying to find the right words to put through what he means, then takes a deep breath and nods slowly. “I did. I admit there were times when entertaining the idea was difficult, because of… of Heaven, and what they did to me, us, but… yes, I did.”

Crowley taps off a bit more ash and glances at the butt of the cigarette pensively. He’s surprised with how calm he is when he asks: “Do you want to get married?”

Till death do us apart. What does it mean to an immortal being? Love does not die, but what if it rots?

Perhaps it would be safer to leave it as it is now, unspecified , a part of him says, an instinct from the past. They love each other. They went to Hell and Heaven for each other. They broke each other down and then built them back up. Crowley has seen Aziraphale at his worst; Aziraphale had the privilege to see Crowley at his best. They nearly lost each other, but fought tooth and nail to mend what was broken, even if it was awkward, even if it hurt. They don’t need any fancy for what they are.

But they nearly lost each other because they were too scared to call things what they really were, to take the next step in their relationship. It doesn’t matter what they will become – husbands, husband and wife, or spouses – to the outside world. What matters is that they cement their love if both of them wish to. When this civilisation inevitably crumbles, and the memory of an angel and a demon who were caught up in it dies as well, the two of them will remain. And so will their love. 

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley after a long moment; he’s nervously wringing out his hands, but his smile is tender and so sincere it makes Crowley shiver. “Yes, I do.”

The thought of it – this feeling of certainty, of being tied to each other on a whole new, unbreakable level, brings some steadiness into Crowley's breath. It’s exhilarating to hear Aziraphale’s answer, let it repeat in his head over and over and never lose its sweetness. He doesn’t know why – it’s not like he was expecting denial or excuses. They are not like that anymore. 

He cracks a smile, which quickly turns into a grin. Aziraphale laughs; he reaches over and squeezes Crowley’s hand. Crowley looks him in the eyes, and gladly drowns in the pale blue ocean.

“So do I, Angel.”

Crowley thinks there's something wonderfully messy in how things turned out – had it not been for tonight's wedding and Newt's remark, who knows how much time it would have taken either of them to finally muster up the courage to pop the question. To get engaged – because that’s what happened, right? – on a bench in a garden, sharing a bottle of wine and a cigarette, somehow perfectly represents the growth of their relationship. Because it ends, as it has begun – in a garden.

Aziraphale’s lips are chapped from all the talking he’s done tonight, but they’re still soft when they press against Crowley’s. The flower bouquet is placed in his lap, like it’s Aziraphale’s interpretation of an engagement ring, and the sweet scent of peonies and ranunculus fills the air around them. All Crowley can think of is who he would like to invite to their wedding, if he’d like to invite anyone in the first place, where would be a good place for a reception, if chocolate cake is a–

But then Aziraphale kisses him again, smiling into his lips, and all of the mess in Crowley’s mind gets put on hold. He should enjoy the moment, they’ve got all the time in the world. A tiny cheer erupts from the direction of the reception area, voices which Crowley attributes to the newlyweds, but he ignores them. 

With summer fully rolling into motion in July, they take a longer break from London and spend a month at the cottage, driving down to the coast nearly every day to take some edge off the heat. Long nights stretch into even longer mornings, with Aziraphale stalling to leave the bed and reading instead, and Crowley gladly using his thighs as a place to rest his head. The minutes are measured in the slow drag of Aziraphale’s fingers through the demon’s hair, combing through it, massaging his scalp. Crowley melts under the touch, the heat only adding to the feeling. 

But even though life feels like magic, a nightmare about The Fall haunts him one night, and Crowley suddenly wakes up gasping for air the same way he did when he dropped into the pool of sulphur. The scars on his torso itch and burn, a terrible feeling that causes him to frantically reach behind his back. He bites back a curse when he can’t seem to reach far enough to properly soothe them. 

He hangs his head down with a heavy sigh and digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders instead, trying to replace one sensation with another. The mattress creaks when Aziraphale rolls onto his other side – they got a bit drunk in the evening, which is why he’s asleep now.

Or was: because Crowley realises he opened his eyes when moonlight reflects in his pupils. He raises onto an elbow, rubbing his eyes a little bit. “You alright?” he murmurs with a hoarse voice. 

“Yeah, just…” Crowley catches himself formulating a lie in his mind, reverting back to his old habits, and forces himself to stop by taking a deep breath. “Just a bad dream.”

 Aziraphale scoots closer to rest his head against the demon’s side. “Can you tell me about it?”

Crowley looks down at him with uncertainty – sometimes it’s still hard to fight the thought that there’s nothing to be talked about. But Aziraphale seems like he’s powering through the desire to go back to sleep just to offer Crowley a bit of comfort. How can he say no to that?

“It was about The Fall,” he replies quietly. Aziraphale sits up, clicking his lips, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I was back in the sulphur pit, wrapped up in chains. It’s when I got the scars on my back.”

As if on command, his hand moves to trace a line along one of the scars that stretches down his back and reaches his side. Aziraphale’s seen them before, but every situation where they would be touched Crowley would back out of, overcome with discomfort stronger than his desire to get close and intimate. Sleeping in the same bed is one thing, one Crowley can manage quite well, but there’s so many things he’s missing out on, not only in the sexual sense. Yet he can’t bring himself to get over this feeling. 

He doesn’t even know the origin of this feeling, but the best bet is that it is shame. It’s a constant reminder of one of the most terrible things that happened to him, and the last thing he would want is for someone to look at the scars and make assumptions. Besides, it’s hypocritical – to say that he’s made peace with who he is and how he got here, while also being ashamed of the scars that he gained along the way. It’s frustrating.

“I tried to heal them multiple times, but it didn't help. They still hurt. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Aziraphale rests his face on Crowley’s shoulder, rubbing his other shoulder with his hand comfortingly. Crowley knocks their heads together with a resigned sigh, trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to endure it for as long as he lives, and failing miserably. 

After a long moment, Aziraphale asks: “Would you want me to try? To heal them? Would that be okay?”

“Ssssssure,” he replies disheartened, too depressed to really think about it. 

“ Crowley .” Aziraphale says, stern yet gentle. ‘Don’t brush me off, darling.’

Crowley sighs again. Does he want Aziraphale to try? It’s not like he can make things any worse than they are. And, Hell, he’s dying to get over this feeling. It’s more than worth the risk. 

“Okay. Go ahead.” 

He slowly takes off his T-shirt and holds it crumpled in his hands. Aziraphale sits up straighter. He places one hand over Crowley’s sternum, as if to secure him, and slowly brings the other to one of the scars. It doesn’t hurt when he touches it, but it still makes the demon flinch. With his brow furrowed, Aziraphale slowly moves his hand over the entirety of Crowley’s back, which is more scar tissue than normal skin anyway. It brings a soothing feeling, a feeling that sinks deeper and spreads across Crowley’s whole torso. He slouches in his position, thankful for the hand supporting his sternum. 

“Any better?” Aziraphale asks. 

For some reason it hits him then – that yeah, it’s so much better. It feels like getting a new lease on life. Crowley digs the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to wipe away the tears before Aziraphale notices, and stammers out, voice a little trembling: “Y-yeah.”

Aziraphale rests his head back on Crowley’s shoulder, still moving his hand up and down his back, the palm of it slightly glowing. “It’s alright, dear,” he hushes. When he’s done, he swiftly wraps his arms around Crowley’s frame and brings him into a hug before he collapses and becomes a crying mess. “It’s alright.”

Crowley looks up at him, but before he can do it himself, Aziraphale wipes off his tears. 

“You’re an angel, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, then kisses his temple. “Well, I try to be.” 

Crowley wrestles with himself for a moment, then pushes past this unexplainable fear that he's an imposition and asks: “Can you do it again?”

Brighton is busy, as it always is during the summer, so it takes more than a few miracles to get comfortably settled on the beach. Crowley takes it upon himself to set everything up, and waves at Aziraphale to go into the sea already, because it’s clear that he’s dying to go. He watches him run off and grins when he hears him yelp at how cold the water is. 

Same way as it was a few years ago, the crowd thins out a bit in the afternoon, giving them a bit more breathing room in their spot. Aziraphale dozes off with his book placed over his head, so Crowley replaces it with a wicker hat after taking a picture. He can already hear Aziraphale pouting about the pages being crumpled, and the thought of it brings a smile to his face. He hides in the shade as much as he can, but keeps his shirt unbuttoned, testing the new boundaries of his comfort zone. The fruit they brought is sweet and refreshing, courtesy of the cooling basket in which they were kept during the drive. Crowley fiddles with the leftover skins, tearing it into a singular, long strand. 

After maybe half an hour, Aziraphale wakes up from his nap with a loud yawn and a stretch that slides the wicker hat off his face. He rolls onto his side, then pushes himself up. His hair is askew, which is why Crowley leans over to ruffle it even more. 

“You heathen!” Aziraphale groans, trying to bring some order into his haircut, to no avail. Crowley cackles. 

“You look gorgeous, Angel!” 

“And you’re incredibly funny.” Aziraphale glares at him, but cracks almost immediately after. “I’m gonna go for a swim. Would you be able to look after our things?”

“Actually, I… I was planning to go for a swim, too,” he says tentatively, perhaps a little embarrassed. 

He didn’t plan to when they arrived – the beach had more people than there were pebbles on the entire shore, and so it was obvious someone would stare and make assumptions. But while Aziraphale was in the sea, Crowley noticed a human who also had scars on their body. They took their shirt off to the sound of their friends cheering and whooping, then someone even blew a party horn. Their joy was palpable. If they could do it, Crowley thought he could at least give himself a chance. If things were to go horribly, he would turn into a snake and terrorise the beach in retaliation. 

Aziraphale’s smile softens. He gets up and offers his hand to the demon, snapping his fingers to cast a protective miracle over their spot. “Come on then, dear. The cold water is amazing.”

They walk down to the shore hand in hand, manoeuvring around humans and giggling in the process. The wind makes Crowley’s shirt completely part, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind having his back exposed. With every passing second the discomfort gets weaker, overshadowed by a raw sense of freedom. He flinches when a wave splashes on his legs and reaches his hips, the cold leaving a prickling sensation in his feet. “Oh my, o– fucking Hell!”

Aziraphale giggles. “Told you the water’s cold!” 

It is, but it’s also the most refreshing thing in the entire world amidst the sweltering heat. They wade through the water until they’re deep enough to start swimming, and enjoy the sound of waves sloshing around them, seagulls calling high above their heads. Crowley dives underwater and swims until he reaches the sea bed, pebbles lazily slipping through his fingers when he drags a hand along the seafloor. The cold seems to soothe the scars on his back, though it’s mostly a placebo effect.

But maybe the key to overcoming this discomfort doesn’t lie in finding the right salve, massage or miracle for it. Maybe he has to come to terms with the fact that these scars aren’t going to fade, that he should stop beating himself down for having them in the first place. Yes, it hurts to be reminded of how he got them, but thinking about the past isn’t going to magically change it. Scars don’t form on the dying, afterall – they're proof of someone’s survival.

Crowley resurfaces with a gasp, relishing in the sweet taste of air in his lungs. Aziraphale chuckles, floating on his back next to him. His smile is warmer than the sun shining onto them. 

“You look happy,” he says, glancing at Crowley. 

Crowley swims over to him, something wild beating inside his chest, asking to be set free. He kisses Aziraphale without a word, a deep, long kiss, heavy with things he can’t put into words. Aziraphale moves his hand to place it on Crowley’s waist, but halts when he feels scar tissue under his fingers. The demon smiles into his lips, grabs him by the wrist and places his hand back on his waist. Something wild has taken a hold of him – something that’s been chained up for too long.

“I am happy,” he replies. He is. With Aziraphale in his arms, skin to skin, sun shining on his back and cold sea cutting through the heat like a knife, he couldn’t be happier.

The first month back in London is spent mostly on rearranging the bookshop and tearing through one of its walls to connect it to the adjacent property – which Crowley decided to move his plant shop to. Whatever free time they have left is filled with helping Muriel find themselves a place to live. Their initial plan to stay in London somewhere in the suburbs evolves into moving to Nottingham to study geography in the span of one night. Crowley doesn’t need a lot of convincing to let Aziraphale take the car to Nottingham with Muriel, leaving the demon by himself to clean up his previous shop to make it ready for sale. 

Painting the walls of his new shop green makes him think back to a year ago, when everything was fragile and laced with pain. He thinks back to lonely evenings with nothing but empty bottles of whatever liquor he fancied that night scattered around him like a summoning circle, to nights when sleep couldn’t come like the universe was pulling a prank on him. The shade of green he has chosen for the walls is warmer than the one in the previous location, nicely complementing the yellow of the bookshop. The shelves all lay dismantled under a wall behind him, guarded by rows of clay plant pots with giant monsteras, an elephant ear plant and a few snake plants.

Everything fits – the red acacia wood, the warm green of his plant shop, the yellow of the bookshop that catches his eye whenever he turns his head left. Like a harmony that finally gets a chance to be heard.

Maggie is the one to propose throwing Muriel a small farewell party, so one sweltering summer evening in September, when all the shops have already closed, Aziraphale is tasked with luring Muriel into Nina’s coffee shop without tipping them off about the surprise. Nina fusses around the leftover pastries and cakes from today, mumbling that it’s not going to be enough, and doesn’t take into consideration Crowley’s reminder that occult beings don’t really eat food (besides Aziraphale). 

But none of it matters, because Muriel squeals when she sees the surprise, a sound no one has ever heard come out of their mouth. She runs over to hug Maggie and hide their tears away from everyone else. 

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, birdie,” she hushes, clicking her lips. “You can still come down here to see me and Nina whenever you wish.”  

Nina’s usual dry demeanor seems to falter upon this sight, and stays that way throughout the party, her snarky comments not as snarky as usual. Crowley thinks he gets it, as he sees her lean against her girlfriend’s side, letting her guard down even more. His soul has lost its sharp edges by being with Aziraphale, too. He’s grown to like it.

He looks up at his angel now and watches him talk with Muriel about some book they both have read. There’s a relaxed air to him, the kind of lethargy you feel on a hot summer evening that leaves you thirsting for something sweet. It’s soothing to watch him be this at peace, like it’s healing a part of Crowley’s soul that he didn’t realise needed healing. So he dozes off, his guard so low he’s left his shield in the doorway of the café, and lets everything else fade out. 

They marry in October.

Crowley sits on their blanket cross-legged, nervously fiddling with the piece of paper he wrote his vows on. Aziraphale reaches over and takes off his sunglasses, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“You know I love your eyes, dear,” he says tenderly, cupping his face before he sits back down. The sunglasses are carefully put away to the side.

Crowley blushes furiously and looks down at his hands. He forces himself to stop wringing out the piece of paper before he tears it by accident. Besides, it would be a nice keepsake. “Alright,” he blurts out, abashed.

They marry on a stony beach, the white wall of cliffs behind them as their witness. Their vows are old, a testimony to the age of their love, and it doesn’t go without a few tears being spilled. Crowley picked out Aziraphale’s ring in an antique shop in France when they went there for a weekend getaway, and fuck , does he break down when he sees his angel’s reaction to it. On the other hand, Aziraphale, once he’s wiped his tears to his satisfaction, admits that he’s kept Crowley’s ring in the back of his bookshop, in a box hidden between rows of books, for nearly a century.

“It’s an interesting story,” he explains, carefully putting the ring on Crowley’s finger, while the demon looks at him drunk on love and stunned. “There was a man who was very insistent on buying a book. Naturally, I didn’t want to sell it – and also the book he wanted to get was a truly stunning edition of John Milton’s Paradise Lost . But he must have been desperate, because he pulled out that ring and well… I was a goner.” Aziraphale sniffles and when Crowley looks up at him, he realises he’s crying again, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. The crystal on his wedding ring shines like a star confined into a glass box. “All I could think about was how perfectly it would match your person, like it was made for you. The thought of giving it to you one day, placing it on y-your hand …”

Aziraphale’s breath shudders terribly; he uses one hand to wipe his face, cheeks red and wet. He sniffles again, but it doesn’t seem to help that much. Crowley just holds his other hand, with his stunned gaze drilled into his wedding ring , and realises that he’s about to cry as well.

“I– Oh dear, I didn’t mean to bawl my eyes out like that,” Aziraphale chuckles wetly. “I– I meant to say that it gave me hope. It made me push on when I’d rather give in to Heaven’s ways – because I knew I had to hope to be able to do this one day. To– To make you mine as you have made me y-yours.”

Crowley scoots closer to him, their knees touching, and reaches over to wipe under Aziraphale’s eyes with his thumbs. “Angel…”

“Let me say this, darling–” Aziraphale looks up at him, blushing– “before I lose my courage again.” He gathers himself with a deep inhale. “I… I wanted to ask you to– to marry me …earlier, in spurts of bravery, when I couldn’t think of– of anything else besides how it would feel, to be with you, to be something more than… than we were before.” Aziraphale shrugs, his smile ever so sorrowful. “Then my fears would get the better of me. I’m not half as brave as people may think.”

“Because you're so much more, Angel,” Crowley says gently.

Aziraphale acknowledges his words with another smile and continues. “Which is why I wanted to thank you for being the one to pop the question. And for making me the– the happiest angel in the entire universe.” He cups Crowley’s face with his hand, brushes away the tears the demon didn’t even realise were there. “I hope you know just how much you’ve done for me, how much you mean to me.”

The sun begins to set, painting the white cliffs a cool, golden colour. Their wedding rings glisten in the light – two stars that can look like one from far away. Aziraphale leans in to kiss his husband, his sun , and Crowley meets him halfway, shaking from love, crazy, unbridled love that has always fizzled like a star – only needed to wait a few thousand years until it could be seen.

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crowley's ring

aziraphale's ring