Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CW: brief reference to a drug overdose

It wasn’t that Aziraphale wanted to live in a haunted house; it was simply what needed to be done. After all, how much longer could he live like this? It had been five years since he published the final book in his The Ineffable Enigma trilogy– a low fantasy murder mystery series that had taken the world by storm. There had been a time when Aziraphale couldn’t spend a night out without being cornered by some fan or other. At one point, there had even been rumors about a television adaptation. They amounted to nothing, of course, because Aziraphale refused to rush art. After publishing the last book in the trilogy, he had taken a year to bask in the glory of his creative accomplishment, attend press conferences, and wait for inspiration to strike.

Well it turned out inspiration was a pacifist.

Three years ago, Aziraphale’s publisher Gabriel had started asking questions about spin-offs and sequels and secret projects– inquiries the novelist had answered with a series of nervous squeaks. Two years ago, the questions had turned to derision and demands. Last year Gabriel had stopped answering his calls altogether.

That’s why Aziraphale decided to spend the summer in Angelia: a small town an hour away from London. Like most small towns, it had a historical event that defined its suburban legacy– the death of Bex Beelzebub. Fifty years ago, the occultist, who had published a few books of their own on the supernatural, was found dead in their house, heroin needle on their floor next to their arm.

Seeing as Beelzebub was something of a celebrity in the occult community at the time, there were many rumors that their death had little to do with a drug overdose and more to do with foul play. Many implicated Sharron Shax, Beelzebub’s closest friend, and the Rattles, Angelia’s local gang, which had died down years ago. The rumors of murder were never taken seriously– in fact, Beelzebub had never even gotten an autopsy.

Beelzebub’s death– or murder– was very old news. Decades old, in fact. Still, Aziraphale was predominantly a mystery author, though he liked to set his stories against fantasy backdrops and add in quite a bit of romance. (Gabriel had wanted him to edit a love confession out of the last book Aziraphale wrote– a confession that had been building from chapter one of the first novel in the trilogy. In the end, the novelist had decided to make the confession even more dramatic. Gabriel did not respect his choice; his fans adored it.) Having a puzzle to work through would help Aziraphale get out of his writing rut. And even if he didn’t manage to solve the fifty-year-old mystery (which was a pretty high bar, true, but the man was desperate) living in a haunted house would be quite the experience. The spooky ambience alone should be enough to get his creative juices flowing.

Already Aziraphale could feel that part of him that had been buried for so long reawakening. The first step was asking questions and there were oh so many questions to ask when one was in a haunted house. 

“How many memories are trapped here, etched into these walls?” Aziraphale whispered. “If a person walks the world and is remembered, is that what gives their life meaning? If their absence defines a place, are they ever truly gone? Could there be a ghost haunting this house?”

Aziraphale chuckled to himself, dismissing that line of thought.

“Really, I believe in ghosts now? I believe we’ve lost the plot.”

Still, the prospect of writing a horror novel was promising. The blond didn’t particularly enjoy scary films but maybe it was a different experience when you were the one penning the story.

Or he could just write a romance. One without a fantasy element or a murder or anything like that.

“But that’s boring!” Aziraphale cried. “I’m not thinking about this anymore. I am unpacking and taking things one step at a time. Nice and slow.”

Too fast meant a trash can filled with half-written sequels and prequels and spin-offs that just didn’t fit; too slow meant five years of Aziraphale’s days starting without a purpose and culminating with store-bought ramen since his savings from The Ineffable Enigma were no longer enough to support his ‘dining at the Ritz we’ll meet at nine’ every night lifestyle.

Aziraphale unpacked, claiming the upstairs room as his bedroom. The house itself was still decorated the way Beelzebub liked it, which was surprisingly minimalist. Well, selectively minimalist, rather. The downstairs was fit with a simple kitchen table and chairs along with a couch and a television set from the fifties. Upstairs however… Upstairs was where Beelzebub kept their treasures. Treasures like a grand piano that sat in the hall collecting dust. One impulsive keysmash was enough to determine that it hadn’t been tuned since its owner had passed.

Aziraphale’s bedroom– a bedroom where a dead person had slept– was filled with discarded globes, maps, hourglasses, and one particularly terrifying ventriloquist dummy.

The novelist stepped into the room, setting his suitcase down; when he did, the dummy fell from its shelf, clattering to the floor.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“Oh no, absolutely not. I know a horror setup when I see one. Couch it is.”

That’s how the blond ended up unpacking his things and making camp downstairs, spreading his belongings out across the kitchen table. He packed light, bringing only ten novels for his personal recreation, his typewriter, a journal, a blanket, and, of course, a murder board. (Because, really, if he was going to attempt to crack a cold case, he might as well go all the way, right?)

Aziraphale curled up on the couch, snuggling into his blanket and trying to get comfortable. He fell asleep fully aware that this was qutie possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale awoke to the sound of clattering typewriter keys, which wasn’t unusual in of itself. Before running his fool’s errand and journeying out to Angelia, the blond had often had dreams of writing, of crafting the perfect novel on his vintage device. What was strange wasn’t the sound of clicking and clacking– it was the background noises that accompanied it.

Someone was pacing the living room, the floorboards creaking beneath their weight. They were also talking, muttering to themselves.

“ Save the Cat…  Richard II… Maurice… Hmm, looks like a pretty good collection, but this old thing?”

The keys clattered again.

“I mean really, who uses typewriters anyway?”

Aziraphale shot off the couch at that, shoving his blanket aside as he snapped his eyes open. The person in front of him was no phantom from his dreams– it was a man dressed in tight jeans and a dark jacket fit with a silver necktie. He was ginger and hazel-eyed and he was touching Aziraphale’s stuff . Worse, he was insulting the novelist’s creative method.

“I’ll have you know that there’s nothing wrong with engaging with literary tradition; the greats all used typewriters, or pen and paper, and I intend to to the same.”

The man shrieked at that, jumping a foot in the air as Aziraphale’s typewriter slipped through his fingers, landing miraculously unharmed on the kitchen table.

“What are you doing here?” the ginger hissed once he had somewhat regained his composure.

“What am I doing here?” Aziraphale echoed incredulously. “My dear boy, this is my haunted house.”

Technically speaking, Aziraphale was trespassing and would likely get into legal trouble if he was discovered living on the property. Then again, he had always believed that with great risk came great reward.

“I haunted it first!” the man exclaimed.

“W-what? Now that is just ridiculous, Mr… Mr…?”

“Crowley,” the man muttered, crossing his arms. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“My dear Crowley– ” Aziraphale started before cutting himself off. “What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

This seemed to bamboozle Crowley, who shifted from foot to foot with astoundingly serpentine reflexes.

“It’s, um, just a ‘J’ really. Maybe?” He paused, taking a moment to look Aziraphale up and down before blinking rapidly. Then he grinned. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You just caught me off guard, I guess. It’s been a while since… Since… You know what? Let’s have lunch. You’re a novelist, right? Your little book collection gives that much away. Anyway, I think you’ll like the diner, um…”

“Aziraphale,” the blond supplied instinctively. “Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, chuckling. “That’s a real pretty name. Suits you.”

“Thank you very much. It’s so kind of you to say so and– Wait. Is this supposed to be a date?”

Crowley shifted from foot to foot before shooting the novelist a cheeky grin.

“It is if you want it to be. Your call, angel.”

Aziraphale blushed at that, swooning for a moment under that mischievous hazel gaze before coming to his senses.

“You broke into my house and now you’re asking me out?! Crowley, this is just ridiculous, I can’t–”

“Oh come on,” Crowley drawled, hopping up to sit on the kitchen table, “let’s talk this through.”

“Talk through what? A roommate I didn’t sign up for?”

Crowley sighed at that, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m going to save your entire writing career. Let me?”

Aziraphale really should have said no. But it had been five years. Five years of living life on the sidelines, sitting around and waiting for ideas to come to him. He couldn’t afford to stay static like that any longer; it would surely drive him mad. All stories, after all, were really just the amalgamation of two things: a person going on a trip and a stranger coming to town. Aziraphale figured adding a little more plot to his life wouldn’t hurt.

That’s how the two men ended up in a booth at the local diner, Aziraphale sitting up straight, the picture of perfect posture, while Crowley was splayed across the table, watching him eat.

“You know,” Aziraphale started in between bites of cookie dough pancakes, “the servers here are very rude.”

Crowley nodded, his lips twitching slightly at that, like he was in on some sort of joke Aziraphale wasn’t.

“Uh huh. Very rude.”

“No, really. They completely ignored you earlier. I had to take your order for you and– And are you going to drink your coffee?”

Crowley frowned, considering it.

“... I don’t think I can at the moment,” he eventually decided.

?

“Call it Schrödinger’s ADHD– I want to touch everything at all times, but my actual ability to touch things is rather… unpredictable.”

“Um, alright. A sensory issue then? The love interest in the second book of The Ineffable Enigma had one of those. I had to do a lot of research in order to write him properly.”

Crowley’s eyes widened at that, then he doubled over, cackling. Fortunately his wild laughter wasn’t loud enough to turn the heads of the other diner patrons.

“Oh, angel you are good . Adorable, really. And yeah. I’ve never thought of it that way, but I guess you could call it that. A sensory issue… If only you knew.”

“You know, I really don’t appreciate how cryptic you’re being,” Aziraphale pouted.

Crowley shrugged at that.

“Fine, I guess I’ll do that writing thing you lot like. What was it again? Oh right: show don’t tell.”

With that Crowley leapt up, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Give me six shots of espresso!”

When the other diners didn’t look up from their meals, Crowley continued his absurdity, sauntering around the restaurant with a grin on his face that was borderline demonic.

“Look at this guy and his male pattern baldness. Bet he doesn’t know how to feed ducks. And this woman, oh ho. She has terrible taste in men– her date’s texting someone else under the table. Do you know, angel?” Crowley asked, trying and failing to swipe fries from the family seated across from them. “What ducks eat?”

“I– I– ” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley hopped across the table back into their booth with a smirk.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know!” he cried.

The diner went silent, twelve pairs of eyes turning to look at Aziraphale. And really , that just wasn’t fair. How come Crowley was allowed to hop all over the place but he couldn’t so much as raise his voice?

Pretty privilege, that’s what it was.

Or ginger privilege.

Or both.

Yes, it was decidedly both.

Aziraphale flushed, ducking his head before looking back up at the grinning man and whispering, “I don’t know.”

“Frozen peas,” the demon exclaimed.

“I don’t– ” Aziraphale started, his head spinning as the diners slowly resumed their conversations around him. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, it’s fairly simple,” Crowley crooned, leaning across the table. “You can call me the phantom menace.”

The blond snorted at that, shooting the ginger a sharp glare.

“I most certainly will not! That film was egregiously poorly written and didn’t contribute anything whatsoever to the Star Wars franchise–”

Crowley scoffed, flopping even closer to Aziraphale lazily.

“Oh please. The new movies are worse and you know it.”

Well, Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that. Except, he could, actually. Aziraphale was pretty good at arguing with pretty much anything. Banter was something of a sport to him, and one he much preferred to those which involved running, or throwing things, or chucking some poor fellow or other to the ground.

“Yes, but I’m a writer , my dear boy; I always prefer a poorly constructed plot to no plot at all. And besides–”

Aziraphale cut himself off, thinking clearly for the first time that day. He had found Crowley alone in a haunted house. Crowley who– allegedly– could only touch certain things at certain times. Crowley who no one else in the diner could see or hear.

“Oh good lord you’re–”

“Hauntingly beautiful?”

“You’re a ghost.”

Crowley shifted in his seat, snickering to himself.

“Yup. Now the real question is, what are you going to do about it?”

Chapter Text

It turned out that yelping and spilling Crowley’s now-cool coffee all over himself was what Aziraphale did about it.

“A ghost! A phantom! I can’t believe–” Aziraphale cut off his rambling as a server stopped by, handing him napkins with a concerned look.

The blond squirmed in his seat, caught between panicking and pouting as he looked between his stained clothing and the man across him who was, allegedly, not really a man at all. The novelist quickly determined that both reactions were appropriate for the situation.

“Demon! That was my favorite waistcoat, you foul fiend.”

“Wow, that really is a waistcoat. Posh little thing, aren’t you?” Crowley smiled, continuing his teasing while running a hand through his unfairly gorgeous ginger locks. “You might want to lower your voice , angel.”

“‘Angel?’” Aziraphale sputtered– this time in a whisper, to his credit– shooting the phantom a glare. “Now really, is this any time to flirt?”

“What, when you’re completely and utterly bamboozled? Yes. Obviously.”

“ Obviously ,” Aziraphale repeated sarcastically. 

Crowley nodded sagely, his tongue darting out of the corner of his mouth in a way that was downright cruel.

“Yup. Can’t risk losing my edge.”

Aziraphale sipped at what was left of the spilled coffee angrily because really, this just wasn’t fair. Crowley was a ghost! The man was dead! How could he possibly be this annoying?

And handsome , his last braincell supplied unhelpfully. He’s quite a lovely thing, really. Rather fetching.

“Oh, I’ll edge you alright,” Aziraphale muttered setting the now-empty coffee cup aside and wiping his lips daintily with the stack of napkins the server had brought over.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, his tongue flitting out of the corner of his mouth again.

“Is that how it is? You want to make a mess of me? Here I was, thinking you were so prim and proper, but no. No, no, no. You’re a real dark horse, Aziraphale.”

“A dark horse?” Aziraphale repeated, forcing his gaze away from that quick pink tongue with Herculean difficulty.

The ginger ghost nodded, snickering to himself.

“You naughty, naughty, angel. I don’t want to be the ghost that cried necrophilia, but that was as forward as it gets.”

“ Necrophilia –” Aziraphale gasped, flushing as his brain caught up with his mouth at last. “I did not mean it like that.”

Crowley waggled his eyebrows.

“I didn’t!”

The phantom relented, leaning back against his seat and shrugging.

“Fine, fine, play coy. I don’t mind.”

A minute of frustrated silence passed between the two men as Aziraphale straightened his bow tie, planning his next course of action. He eventually reasoned that it would be entirely counterproductive to attempt to kill the already-deceased.

“You’re obnoxious,” the writer finally grumbled, smoothing his pants.

“Oh I know,” Crowley drawled with a cocky grin, “but you’re going to tolerate it. After all, don’t you want to know how I died?”

Oh, Aziraphale did. He was itching from the impossibility of it all. But he had a point to prove and had a tendency to be a little bit of a bastard. So the blond held his head high, answering Crowley’s inquiry with a posh little sniff and an obvious lie.

“Not particularly.”

“Bullshit! You’re a novelist.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Impossible… Could it be that the phantom was a fan of his?

“How do you know that?”

Crowley shrugged in a way that made his arms look uncannily noodly.

“Like I said earlier, you’ve got the whole bookish thing going for you. It’s cute. And please, who else would move into a haunted house and take its resident ghost out for coffee?”

“To be fair, I thought you were a squatter at the time and– Oh, fine! I want to know how you died. How I can see you. Everything about you. Happy?”

Crowley cackled.

“Knew it!”

“Yes, yes, go ahead and gloat, but just tell me how you died!”

The ginger sighed, slumping back in his seat.

“Wish I knew.”

What?!

Crowley rolled his eyes as Aziraphale’s jaw dropped.

“The whole ‘I had a life’ thing is pretty fuzzy, I don’t know what to tell you. My memories, they ebb and flow like the tide. Oh!” the phantom exclaimed. “I’ve been to the beach, apparently.”

The novelist smirked, wiggling in his seat.

“Either that or you know a very common idiom.”

“Nerd,” Crowley scoffed, crossing his arms; Aziraphale– who had made a career out of actualizing his daydreams–  didn’t bother to deny it.

“Anyway, I linger here. Live– well, not live, exist, I guess– in the house. I have for a while. I know I can’t leave the town boundary: I’ve tried before but its like– Like driving a 1933 Bentley through a wall of fire. It can’t be done. Or maybe it can with enough willpower and imagination. There! See, I know I liked driving– loved it, really– but I can’t remember if I owned a car or how old I was when I learned how to drive or if I’ve ever gotten a speeding ticket. It’s all slippery like…. Oh, what does water slide off?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, considering.

“Wings. Water slides off wings. Like when an angel is sheltering a dear companion from a sudden rainfall.”

“You have a way with words, I’ll give you that much, but that’s not it. It’s– Ducks! That’s what water slides off of.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley, it seemed, was not only flirtatious and dramatic but also silly. No, that was putting it nicely– the phantom was downright ridiculous.

“Why the fascination with ducks?”

“Why the necrophilia?”

“There is no necrophilia! Oh, I am so done with you,” Aziraphale exclaimed, standing up with a blush (which really wasn’t helping his case).

Crowley slumped over across the table, his eyes wide and his face pale as he lifted a hand.

“Wait, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you off, I just…” the phantom swallowed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’m a ghost, Aziraphale; it’s been a while since I’ve talked to anybody. Or, since I’ve talked to anybody who could talk back.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest at that, catching a glimpse of the vulnerable softness the ghost kept tucked away behind his showy persona. The blond sat back down, reaching for Crowley’s hands only to pass right through them onto the table.

“Oh you poor, poor dear. Nobody deserves to be lonely like that. I’m right here and I want nothing more than to hear everything you have to say.”

Crowley looked up.

“You do?”

Aziraphale nodded, delighted to see a wave of relief cross over his interlocutor’s face. 

“Yes, I do. Really, I would hug you now if I could, sweet thing. Of course, only if that’s something you would want, I mean.”

Crowley swallowed, flushing.

“Ngk. Angel I…”

“Yes, my dear boy?”

Crowley sat up straight, his eyes flickering from hazel to a sharp gold, his lips parting as he blinked, looking not at Aziraphale, but through him.

A moment later his eyes returned to their usual shade and the phantom gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly despite the fact that, technically speaking, he did not need to breathe.

“Oh god, Aziraphale, I think… I think I was murdered.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he reached forwards, trying once again to caress Crowley’s hands in vain.

“You think you were murdered? But you just said you didn’t remember anything significant about your life. It’s all… Well, it’s all slippery and duckish, isn’t it?”

Crowley shook his head, a dazed expression on his face.

“No. The pieces I have make sense when we reconfigure them like this. It would explain why I’m stuck in this town, the gaps in my memory, the reason I’m here instead of heaven… Or hell. If we can figure out how I died, if we can get justice, I won’t be a ghost anymore.”

“How do you know all this?” Aziraphale asked, his head reeling.

The truth was, for all of the worldbuilding Aziraphale had put into The Ineffable Enigma and his dozens of scrapped novels, he hadn’t really taken the time to figure out his own religious beliefs. Heaven… Hell… They were really just words to Aziraphale Fell. But then again, the author was currently on a coffee date with a ghost– that was a game changer when it came to his previously nonexistent faith in the supernatural.

The phantom shook his head again.

“Aziraphale, you’re the first person I’ve talked to in– In seven years. Yes, I was killed seven years ago. I know I was murdered because… It’s not just the ghost thing. It’s the way I haven’t questioned anything until now. Until you came to haunt my haunted house. I’ve been a ghost for a fifth of my life? Maybe more? I can only guess my age from mirrors since I can’t fucking remember anything . Angel, time for me has always been this blurry, elusive thing flopping over itself like some fucked up temporal pancake…”

Pancake?

“Crowley,” the blond started gently, “I’m afraid you’re losing me. This is all quite complicated–”

The ghost clicked his tongue, waggling a finger in the air.

“No. No, no, no. It’s quite simple: I’m having a crisis, Aziraphale. I feel like I’ve spent the past seven years half asleep and now– Now I’m awake. Like someone’s doused my brain in espresso.”

Aziraphale winced at the simile. After all, it had been a mere ten minutes ago that he had spilled lukewarm coffee on himself. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and certainly not one he would like to relive on a cranial level. Yes, endangering his brain (which, as a novelist, was simultaneously his greatest asset and greatest liability. An angel and a devil that could never seem to pick a damn side ) was absolutely out of the question.

“That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“Well it isn’t.”

Aziraphale groaned, clutching his own un-espressoed head in his hands.

“My dear boy, that makes no sense!”

“It makes perfect sense! I told you about the whole thing with me touching things. How stuff is harder when I’m being observed. Physical stuff, like turning on TVs or whatever is difficult when there are people around. Apparently.”

“So you can touch things?”

“Again, yeah, sometimes. It’s fucking unpredictable, but how else would I haunt properly? Anyway, physical things tend to be harder when I’m with people but mental things… Well, apparently they work the opposite way. Really, I know just as much about the Ghost Rules as you do, but Aziraphale, I know when you see me, I feel alive. Everything that came before this, every day since my death, I’ve been living as a shadow, and what’s different now?”

Crowley reached out a finger, attempting to tap Aziraphale’s bow tie but passing through it instead.

“You,” the phantom continued, answering his own question. “It’s all you.”

“I changed the rules,” the writer whispered, the enormity of that fact hitting him at last.

The ginger ghost smiled at that.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did, angel. So what do you say we see how far we can bend them?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Meaning…?”

Crowley grinned, the Ghost Rules working in his favor as he lifted a fork, bringing it to tap against Aziraphale’s coffee cup in a quick, subtle movement– the same clicking motion people always made before giving a toast.

“Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

—

That was how Aziraphale ended up tipsy on the couch of a haunted house with a fidgety ginger ghost sprawled out at his side.

“Now really,” the author started, the words leaving him slowly, like his mouth was filled with tar or an obscenely chewy gum, “it’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, you’ve already been murdered, for god’s sake.”

Crowley shot him a glare before sniffing the champagne bottle again.

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying–”

“Fine, fine!” Crowley snapped, leaning forwards. “You’re right, it’s alcohol, not holy water.”

With that, he reached forwards, his hand passing through the bottle. The ghost frowned, cleared his throat and tried again. This time the touch worked and Aziraphale watched, awestruck as the phantom lifted it, bringing the green glass to his lips and downing the liquid inside.

“Well?” Aziraphale prompted, attempting to sit up, sluggish as he was at the moment. “How is it?”

Crowley smiled at that– a truly dopey grin.

“Sweet. So sweet, angel, but not as sweet as you.”

With that, the phantom started to levitate, floating higher and higher until he was touching the ceiling, all sprawled out in a noodly tangle of limbs. The man was like ramen, really.

“Ooh,” Crowley giggled, rolling over so he was looking down at Aziraphale with bright amused eyes. “Look at me, I’m all floaty. You should put this in your novel– what happens when you get a ghost drunk. S’ a good thing we didn’t do this outside: I would have floated away and taken you with me. Up, up, up. All the way up to heaven with my pretty little angel.”

Aziraphale flushed before shaking his head.

“You’re intoxicated,” the blond murmured, more as a reminder to himself than a reminder to Crowley. Then he asked, louder, “Are you alright, my dear? How do you feel?”

The ghost laughed from the ceiling.

“Wonderful. Silly. Silly, silly, silly. More like a noodle and less like a whale. Whales have great big brains, oh yes, they do.”

“Great,” Aziraphale replied, unable to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Alcohol didn’t make the novelist wonderful and silly. If anything, it made Aziraphale tired, and when he was tired he tended to get impatient, but not irritable. It was a strange combination of emotions– one that often had him talking to party guests and suitors at the bar the same way an exhausted parent would speak to a toddler who refused to go to bed. 

“Do you remember anything?”

That was met with another giggle.

“Remember? Nah, no can do angel, I’m off my head on laudanum.”

“This is champagne!”

“S’ in a green bottle.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that.

“Do you think you could come down now, Crowley? Try to sober up?”

The ginger rolled over, stretching out his long limbs and running a playful hand through his hair.

“Your wish is my command, pretty, pretty angel.”

Aziraphale yelped as the champagne bottle refilled itself and Crowley slowly floated back down to the floor, sober in a matter of seconds.

“Well that was something.” The ghost frowned. “I think it gave me a headache.”

“Which isn’t really fair, considering you don’t have a brain.”

“Hey!”

“Physically speaking, I mean. You’re really quite clever.” Aziraphale’s lips lifted into a drowsy smile. “And cute.”

Crowley’s eyes flickered at that, looking almost golden in the dim lighting and– God, did Aziraphale really just say that out loud? He really had had too much to drink.

“Alright,” the blond continued, his mouth prattling on without his permission, “now we go to sleep and try a new plan tomorrow. If I stay up any longer I’ll start talking about your hair and how wonderfully fluffy it looks and how badly I want to touch it.”

“Ngk,” the phantom sputtered before clearing his throat. “I can’t sleep. I am– um, was – an insomniac.”

Aziraphale nodded, half-listening as he flopped over onto the couch.

“Ah, so it seems the alcohol worked after all. Absolutely tickety-boo. Now I assume ghosts can’t sleep, insomniacs or no?”

Crowley nodded.

“Well, you can watch over me then. Guard my sleep.” Aziraphale chuckled, turning onto his side. “My own guardian demon.”

He had meant the title as a joke but Crowley… Oh, the ghost’s face lit up at that as he nodded, perching on the edge of the author’s couch like a man on a mission.

That night Aziraphale slept better than he had in months.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale woke up to find a very diligent phantom still perched on the couch. The ginger, it seemed, had barely moved since the novelist had given him the charge of guarding his sleep. The blond flickered an eye open, then closed it.

“I know what you’re doing,” the phantom snickered. “There’s no need to pretend to be sleeping.”

Aziraphale shrugged, sitting up and stretching.

“Crowley the friendly ghost,” he chuckled, smirking at the poltergeist.

“Oh shut it. I’m not friendly. Or nice. I’m spooky, that’s what I am. Real spooky fan, me.”

Aziraphale shook his head, looking Crowley up and down.

“Oh, I seriously doubt that. Now really, I bet if we watched a horror film together, you’d spend the whole time clinging to me with those noodly arms of yours.”

“T-take that back,” the phantom stammered.

“Very well, I was mistaken: you wouldn’t be the one clinging to me; I would be the one clutching you. You’re a sweet, precious thing after all, and would need to be held.”

Aziraphale smiled at the blushing ghost. He had meant his words as a tease, really, but now that he was thinking about it… What would Crowley feel like wrapped up in blankets? How wonderful would it be to hug him close, the silly creature all cozied up in his lap? Would Aziraphale be able to make him feel safe when he was scared?

These were dangerous questions and when Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes (which had a habit of randomly flickering golden, it seemed) it was clear he was thinking something along similar lines. The phantom’s gaze was fixed on his lips and judging by the way his tongue was darting in and out of his mouth– 

Well, time to derail that train of thought.

“My middle name really is just a J. Had weird parents. I just remembered that,” Crowley murmured, wrinkling his forehead.

Aziraphale nodded, hopping off the couch.

“Alright, so you are getting your memories back. We can take things slow, though. This is all new and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you–”

Crowley waggled his eyebrows and the writer cleared his throat.

“I wouldn’t want to upset you, you cheeky thing. So how about we try a different approach? Solving Beelzebub’s murder, the one I’m investigating for my novel… Well, I think that will really get the spooky juices flowing.”

The ghost nodded, floating around the room.

“Okay, fine, sure. I can do slow. I’ve waited this long anyway. So tell me more about this murder.”

Aziraphale smoothed his hair and then nodded.

“Right, well this house is haunted by Beelzebub, an occultist who died in Angelia fifty years ago.”

Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Yeah… Yeah, I knew that! And not just from hearing townspeople talk. I knew that from before. From my life.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Well, that was certainly a useful tidbit. A clue, even.

“Ah, that’s wonderful, my dear boy.” He paused, unsure if that was an appropriate word to use to talk about a person who had likely been murdered in cold blood. “Er, it’s wonderful that you can remember it, I mean. Not that a person died and–” 

The blond cut himself off when he saw Crowley smirking and shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re adorable, angel.”

Aziraphale’s whole face turned red at that and he blinked rapidly, changing the subject as fast as humanly possible.

“Yes, um, thank you. Well, anyway, Beelzebub, an up-and-coming occultist, started publishing books about Satanism and other… unconventional beliefs. Their diaries said they were doing a groundbreaking bloodletting ritual that they hoped would give them a glimpse into Hell. They planned to supplement said ritual with… illicit substances.”

“I’m not twelve, angel. You can say ‘heroin’.”

Aziraphale didn’t dignify that with a response.

“They were found dead the following morning, a cut on their wrist and a needle in their hands.”

Crowley clicked his tongue, furrowing his eyebrows.

“So the ritual was a no-go. Sounds like an overdose to me.”

“Well, the town thought so too. They were so confident that they didn’t bother to perform an autopsy. People came out of the woodwork with all sorts of theories of course, but most were refuted. That is, until the killer let their paranoia get the better of them– they stole the body, implying there was something to hide.”

Crowley– who was more focused than Aziraphale had ever seen him– bit his lip which was unfairly distracting.

“And we’re sure the grave robber wasn’t just a crazy fan going off the rails?”

“No, I’ve studied this. Angelia’s cemetery was carefully guarded due to a body snatching incident from a few years before Beelzebub’s death,” Aziraphale said. “Someone tried to steal the body of Agnes Nutter, the town’s founder. From then until a few months ago, the graveyard was kept under lock and key; only a local could have known when the Metatron would take his breaks.”

“The Metatron?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“Nickname for Enoch, the old town watchman,” Aziraphale explained, waving a dismissive hand.

Crowley sneered.

“Oh, very bad vibes, naming your kid something like ‘Enoch’. I haven’t met the man and I hate him already.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. His resident phantom apparently fluctuated between four states of being: flirtatious, flustered, silly, and downright ridiculous.

“Well, if you must know, he passed away last month. Old age. But anyway, the point is only a local could have stolen the body, and likely a local with something to hide. I’ve done some preliminary research on the train ride up here, and our possible suspects are Sharron Shax, Beelzebub’s friend and fellow occultist (she found the body), the Rattles, (the local gang who likely were the ones to supply the occultist with their drugs), and Madelyn Michael, the former mayor of the town who always disliked the occult. Real religious woman. Very traditional.”

“And this murder was fifty years ago. Meaing the culprit is likely…”

“Dead, yes,” Aziraphale nodded in confirmation. “That’s why this is not merely a cold case, my dear; it’s a frozen one.”

“So is anyone who could have killed them still alive? Or are all our suspects six feet under? Cause if everyone’s dead, gathering information is going to be hard. And I get that you’re all posh and literary and love your research but I’m really more of a hands-on guy.” Crowley paused, winking. “In more ways than one.”

Aziraphale shrugged off the innuendo as well as he could, thinking.

“Well, there is one person…”

Chapter Text

“Will you quit hopping around?” Aziraphale hissed in a whisper.

“Can’t. My imagination is hell-bent on destroying me: it thinks ghosts aren’t allowed in churches, therefore–” Crowley yelped, jumping from foot to foot. “I’m fucked.”

“Crowley!”

“What?”

“Cursing in a church?”

The ginger shrugged.

“I didn’t think you were the religious type.”

“I’m not, but it’s rude. Church is a wonderful place to daydream and you’re ruining the ambience for a lot of people.”

“They can’t hear me, silly angel. Only you can– Ah! Like sand at the beach!”

Aziraphale shook his head with a little huff, but his annoyance vanished once he realized Crowley, rather than simply being dramatic, was truly in pain. Now that was unforgivable.

“Floor is lava rules,” he said, gesturing to the pew beside him wildly. “The floor burns you, but the pew won’t. Now quick, sit down.”

Crowley looked between him and the pew skeptically.

“Trust me!” Aziraphale cried, raising his voice loud enough to get some stares from the congregants around him.

With that, the ginger flung himself onto the bench, closing his eyes and bracing for the worst. Fortunately, the worst never came. Instead, a moment later, the ghost blinked, opening his eyes and sighing with relief.

“Wow… That actually worked. I didn’t– Thank you, angel.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale babbled, waving a hand. In redirecting Crowley, he hadn’t realized just how close he would be to the gorgeous phantom. Really, if the ghost wasn’t discorporated at the moment, he would be practically sprawled across the novelist’s lap.

Crowley shook his head.

“It isn’t nothing, angel. You said… You said trust me.”

Aziraphale locked eyes with his earnest partner before looking away shyly.

“And you did.”

Visiting the church had been Aziraphale’s idea, and it had taken a lot of kind words and attempted caresses to get Crowley on board. For some reason, the phantom was utterly terrified of the place. Of ‘getting smitted’, in his own words. (That had sparked a thirty minute debate on the proper past participle of ‘smite’. Aziraphale said it was smote; Crowley insisted on smitted. In the end, they compromised and settled on smitten.)

The smiting was worth it, though. From his earlier research, Aziraphale knew that S harron Shax was not only still alive, but also had been spiritually reborn. The woman, who was well into her seventies now, had become a religious Christian after Beelzebub’s death, swearing off the occult as well as all study of the supernatural. That meant she could reliably be found in chuch services every Sunday morning.

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley murmured, gazing up at the colorful glass windows around them.

“Yes, I know. Do try and stay focused, my dear. Can you see her?”

The ghost raised an eyebrow.

“What am I even looking for?”

“An older woman. Very well dressed. Usually wears crimson and– Found her! Two rows back on the left.”

Crowley chuckled, looking Sharron Shax up and down.

“Wow, that is seriously impressive; she does not look seventy-seven.”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“A skincare routine will do that for you.”

The phantom rolled his eyes.

“Oh shut it, you sound just like my– My–” He stopped, frowning, then groaned. “Ugh, I can’t remember. Why can’t I fucking remember anything?”

This time Aziraphale didn’t chide Crowley for cursing in church. Instead he tried and failed to scoop the frustrated phantom up into a hug.

“I know, I know. It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“What do you need?”

The ginger paused, thinking. Then he turned to Aziraphale sheepishly.

“Just… Just a bit of quiet. I’m sorry, it’s just a lot and–”

Aziraphale tutted, shaking his head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my darling phantom. I’ll leave you be.”

—

Crowley stayed quiet for a while, curling up into himself on the bench until the service ended. Aziraphale waited, content to stay silently by his side. Most of the congregants had left already, but not Shax. No. She stayed seated in her pew, reapplying her lipstick.

Should I approach her? Be direct? What’s the best strategy here?

Aziraphale’s scheming was cut off by a handsome raven-haired man clearing his throat.

“I haven’t seen you in my church before; I would have remembered.”

Crowley sat up at that, his eyes– usually so bright and curious– gleaming with sharp emotion. Was the ghost… jealous?

Aziraphale offered Angelia’s priest a smile he hoped would signal polite disinterest. 

“Oh, I’m not a practicing Christian. In fact, I don’t even live in Angelia, I’m just here to… attend to a personal matter. A matter concerning one of your congregants, actually. Crowley and I were hoping we could talk to Ms. Shax.”

The priest raised an eyebrow at that, scrutinizing Aziraphale curiously.

“Crowley?”

Ah. Aziraphale realized his mistake in an instant: with Crowley’s vivacious personality, it was all too easy to forget the phantom was invisible, unseen and unheard by everyone but him.

“A friend.”

“I–”

“Stop hogging him, Lucian,” a voice behind Aziraphale snapped. “This man has been staring at me for the past twenty minutes. If you have something to ask me, boy, go ahead and spit it out. It’s not fair to keep and old woman waiting. I’ll give you until I get to my car.”

With that, Shax turned on her heel, heading out of the church and towards the parking lot. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley who was already following, hopping and hissing and trying his best to keep up.

“Yes, um, well, I’m sure you get this a lot, but it’s about Beelzebub–”

Shax held up a hand.

“I’m going to stop you right there. It has been fifty fucking years yet you all keep trying to spin me as some sort of murderer! Why would I kill my best friend? Bee’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. More importantly, I was unable to kill them. Everyone keeps forgetting that I was the one who found their body. As in, I wasn’t able to kill them because someone else already had . The coroner didn’t conduct an autopsy but they did establish time of death: 3:37 in the morning. Three witnesses saw my car pull up to Bee’s house a full half hour after that– a fact you would know if you read the original case files from the Angelia police department instead of reinventing the wheel and opening up this investigation from scratch.”

Aziraphale swallowed, his face heating up. It was true that it had been a while since he read the official police file on the death… It was just that so many sources painted Shax out to be a suspect.

“Oh I– I–”

Shax raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve done your research, I get that. But sometimes the simplest facts are all too easy to overlook. I’m at my car now, so I’m going to say goodbye. Good luck with your investigation. If there’s justice to be found for Beelzebub, I hope you find it– I’ve already made my peace with their death.”

—

It took nearly an hour for Aziraphale to type up his report, but he was pleased. It had been a long time since he’d felt this invigorated. Really, there was a thrill to investigating. To solving a puzzle. To thinking creatively. He had missed that these past five years. And Beelzebub’s room, while being way too creepy to sleep in, was actually helping him with his writing. He felt safe now that his guardian demon was standing by his side– or slouching by his side, rather– in that remarkably liquid way of his.

The novelist finished up his last sentence, humming and wiggling in his seat happily while Crowley grunted.

“I know what you’re thinking, dear, and I stand by my opinion: typewriters are not tacky; they’re pretty.”

The ghost snickered at that, then frowned.

“Of course you’d like pretty things, pretty angel. But no, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking– Do you mind if I vent a bit?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Go ahead, my darling phantom.”

“Right, well, I’ve realized that I’m, um, kind of touch starved. No– that’s an understatement. I’m actively wasting away. Like, I know it’s not a big deal or whatever, not getting a hug in seven years, but you know…” Crowley trailed off, forcing a laugh. “I remember cuddling. It just came back to me, a memory of cuddling with someone, being held by a person who cared for me and– And it’s hard knowing I can’t have that. That I’ll never have that again.”

The ginger cleared his throat, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes before going stock-still.

“Oh no, don’t do that,” he breathed. “You can’t make that face, it’s just unfair.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip wobbled, his heart hurting. This poor sweet phantom in front of him needed to know he was loved– That he was cared for– That he was valued– 

“Crowley–”

“It’s fine. Forget I said anything. You know me, always dramatic.”

The blond shook his head, frowning.

“You aren’t being dramatic at all. Look, Crowley, when I lace my fingers like this,” Aziraphale brought his fingers together, “it means I’m holding your hand. And when I bring my arms together like this, that’s me giving you a hug.”

Crowley’s eyes widened.

“A-angel–”

Aziraphale continued, either unwilling or unable to stop himself, he couldn’t tell which one.

“And when I touch three fingers to my lips like so, that’s me giving you a little kiss on your nose or your forehead or wherever you desire one.”

“ Ngk .”

Crowley made a series of incoherent noises then proceeded to sink into the floorboards.

Aziraphale shot to his feet, racing down the stairs into the kitchen.

“Crowley? Crowley!”

The novelist found his poor phantom in the room directly below Beelzebub’s bedroom, curled up against the door of the house’s storage closet.

“It’s alright, my dear,” the blond cooed. “I’m right here. I’ll give you whatever you need.”

Oh how Aziraphale wished he could touch him!

Crowley’s eyes went yellow at that, and he slowly stood, his voice taking on a cruel, leering tone. He cocked his head to the side, his lips lifting into a sneer.

“So needy. Desperate. Pathetic.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. What was happening? Was his darling phantom possessed ?

“My dear, come back, please. You’re safe. I have you now.”

The ghost blinked, his eyes slowly turning hazel once again. Then they started to water.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, shaking his head side to side.

“It’s okay– It’s okay–”

“No,” Crowley shook his head, his eyes wide as his hands trembled. “No I– I need to go– Leave– I’ll leave town, I promise!”

“Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale started, reaching for him.

Crowley shook his head again. Then the phantom ran through him, throwing the door open and fleeing the haunted house.

Chapter Text

It was fifteen minutes past midnight and Aziraphale kept fluctuating between panic and exhaustion. Neither emotion made for a particularly pleasant mental state.

And Crowley… The way the phantom had looked at the novelist before he fled– The fear in the poor thing’s eyes– 

Aziraphale bit his lip, trying and failing to hold back his tears. He had no idea if he would see his friend again. And Crowley was his friend. Ghost or not, the man was witty and kind and caring and oh-so handsome and now he was gone .

The blond had searched everywhere for him: the diner where they had breakfast together and the church and the local high school. He had checked the same side streets over and over until it occurred to him that the best place to look for a missing ghost was, in fact, a graveyard.

A graveyard…

Aziraphale frowned, his anxiety fading for a single moment in place of something much more chilling.

“My dear,” he whispered aloud, “did they ever find your body?”

Crowley had died seven years ago, if his memory was to be trusted. Was he from Angelia? Did he have a grave? Or was he never found? If he hadn’t been buried properly maybe… Maybe that was why he couldn’t leave. Couldn’t fade . 

Aziraphale shook his head, checking each gravestone listed under ‘C’ and coming up hopelessly short. He kept on walking, pushing foot after foot, and trying to control his breathing.

“I need to– I need to think of something else,” he gasped, collapsing onto the ground. 

So he thought about the Beelzebub case because if he kept thinking of Crowley sad and scared and alone, lost somewhere out there in the night, he was going to start crying, and once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Talk to yourself , Aziraphale’s brain prompted him. You know from your last manuscript that helps. Well, at least a little.

The blond nodded, opening his mouth and beginning to babble. Sure enough, the act of speaking helped him slow his breathing back to a normal level. As a novelist, he had always found comfort in words. During those rare glistening moments they didn’t elude him, he relished them. Yes, Aziraphale had spent his life building cities out of sentences and palaces out of paragraphs, using typewriter pages to craft both an armor that would protect him and a cape that would push him to be brave. Words had saved him before and they would now. He was certain of it.

“Right, well Shax quite literally has no motive and no opportunity, which is suspicious considering so many people wanted to paint her as the killer. Then again, real life is hardly as cinematic as it’s made out to be. How would I write this…?”

Aziraphale trailed off. There was no use going down that particular rabbit hole. This wasn’t one of his failed manuscripts or even that one scrapped screenplay he had written– a pilot for an original TV show about an unsuspecting tourist who stumbles across a town of ghosts who refuse to let him leave. No, this was real life and facts mattered much more than what would make for a good plot twist.

“Alright, what else do I know? Beelzebub got their drugs from the Rattles. If they were going to publish a book on their experience with the blood-letting ritual… Leak their supplier… Well, if I were up to no good, I certainly wouldn’t want that kind of attention. Then again, what if it wasn’t a drug overdose? What if it was something similar? A drug in a different font, per se…”

Aziraphale sat up, gasping.

“Poison,” he declared, his eyes wide. “I think they were poisoned.”

With those words, the exhaustion from the day caught up with the novelist at last, and he slumped over, falling asleep unguarded against the headstone of a certain Agnes Nutter.

—

Aziraphale awoke from a sleep that was far inferior to the one from the night before to a child’s shoe poking at his leg. He groaned and sat up only to find himself surrounded by four middle schoolers. The blond knew this age group well– they were his target audience, after all. Or at least, they had been the target audience for his first trilogy. For future creative projects, he wanted to write for older readers.

“Um, hello.”

A boy in a blue jacket stepped forwards.

“Oh, hi. We thought you were dead.”

The girl next to him cocked her head to the side.

“Yeah, we were about to call the police but couldn’t come to a consensus. After all, they wouldn’t do much good if you were actually a ghost.”

A ghost…

His ghost!

Aziraphale shot to his feet, startling the other two boys who were standing farther away, stealing frightened glances at him.

“Have you seen a ginger man? Tall, slender, and unfairly dashing?”

The tweens looked at each other, clearly confused.

“Oh wait. Of course you haven’t.”

No one else could see his precious phantom. The writer had spent all night searching for Crowley, desperately scouring the town, but maybe… Maybe if he was really and truly lucky… 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

Maybe Crowley had come back.

The blond didn’t say goodbye to the children or make any sort of polite exit. No, Aziraphale– who hadn’t so much as jogged since high school– sprinted all the way home. 

It was cold when he got there. Cold and loud. A wind that had not existed outside was raging away inside the house, sending teacups rattling in their cupboards and the window curtains flapping open and closed rapidly. The TV was also glitching, flitting on and off in an alarming display of static and in front of it… 

Crowley was hovering over the living room couch, floating some odd ten feet above the floor, curled up into himself. He was shaking– Sniffling– Crying–

And oh, it was enough to break Aziraphale’s heart.

“My darling phantom,” he whispered softly, “what are you doing?”

The ghost’s head shot up at that and he turned, swallowing, tears running down his cheeks as he met the novelist’s gaze.

“M’ haunting,” he choked out. “Being spooky.”

“I see,” Aziraphale started, frowning. Then it hit him. “Oh, dearest. This is all so terribly scary for you, isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded, bobbing his head up and down.

“Come here.”

The ginger shook his head, wiping his tears away.

“Angel, you know I can’t–”

“As close as you can, my dear boy. I want to be as near to you as is physically possible.”

Crowley lunged forwards at that, stopping a mere inch away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale who smiled at his favorite poltergeist, lacing his fingers together before crossing his arms across his chest.

“I’m hugging you, can you feel it?”

The phantom nodded, wiping his tears away, his lips lifting into a soft smile.

“I can, actually. Not physically, but,” he touched a hand to his chest, where his heart would be. “I can feel love. Care. Part of the Ghost Rules, I guess. It’s nice– feels all warm and soft.”

Aziraphale nodded, that same gentle warmth washing over him.

“Your demonic nature must be contagious, Crowley; I feel that way all the time when I’m around you.”

“Ngk– Don’t go saying things like that, Aziraphale.”

The blond raised an eyebrow.

“Like what? The truth?”

“I–” Crowley groaned, burying his flushed face in his hands. “Oh, this is embarrassing .”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale prompted gently.

The phantom opened his fingers, peeking out.

“Could you look at me, please?”

Crowley set his hands down hesitantly, swallowing.

“Thank you. You know you can tell me anything, right? And that I would never judge you or turn you away? Not for a single second you sweet, sweet thing.”

The ginger flushed wildly before his eyes glimmered, flashing golden just like they had the night before.

“Ngk. And there you go, stealing my confession. Naughty angel.”

Confession?

When else had Crowley’s eyes looked like that? It had happened several times, some more noteworthy than others. Always when Aziraphale was… 

When Aziraphale was teasing him.

“You mean…?”

The ghost nodded, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the ceiling of the haunted house.

“I mean my memories have a habit of coming back when I’m… flustered. I put that together last night and it was overwhelming at first but– Well, I really trust you, Aziraphale. I know you can be gentle with me. Delicate when you want to be, but also a proper posh bastard when I need someone to put me in my place. Surely you know the effect you have on people. You must.”

Aziraphale didn’t, actually. Sure, he had had a handful of partners– but less than average, given that he was mildly eccentric and, being chronically introverted, loved his work more than he did the average human being– and they had told him he was beautiful. Pretty. Attractive. All of that. But… Wasn’t that just what they were supposed to say? It was like telling someone ‘bless you’ after they sneezed; it didn’t actually mean anything.

So the blond didn’t answer, but his silence must have spoken volumes because the ginger shook his head, waggling a wild finger in the air.

“Oh don’t you dare deny it. I mean, just look at you: you’re gorgeous.”

Aziraphale flushed, cursing himself for all the times he had fallen back on the cliché of describing love as butterflies in one’s stomach in his writing. Beyond being trite, it was simply inaccurate– in truth, the floaty euphoric sensation flooding him was concentrated in his lungs.

Oh.

Oh .

This was love, wasn’t it? Aziraphale had written enough about the subject to know the symptoms well and this… This looked like a terminal case.

Crowley looked down from the ceiling, meeting the author’s gaze at last, his eyes wide and determined.

“So go ahead, angel, flirt with me. Shoot your shot. I’m sure a pretty thing like you has lots of arrows in your quiver.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, then rightfully panicked as every coherent thought he ever had fled his brain in a heartbeat.

“I can’t– I can’t do it on cue!” he cried.

But apparently he could.

“ Fuck ,” Crowley sputtered. “Those puppy dog eyes–”

The ghost never got the chance to finish his sentence. The next thing Aziraphale knew, the phantom was sinking to the floor, falling onto his knees, his eyes a sharp piercing gold.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite enjoying you, Crowley,” the ginger hissed in that icy voice that wasn’t quite his.

Crowley paused, a shadow crossing his face before his lips twisted into a lazy grin.

“Keep you?”

The phantom’s eyes flickered, switching back and forth between gold and hazel.

“You have… Sweet… My rose?”

Aziraphale watched anxiously as Crowley blinked, slowly but surely coming to, his face pale. He looked up, frightened and confused, only to let out a relieved breath when he met the blond’s gaze.

“I’m right here,” Aziraphale assured him, lacing his fingers together. “Do you want to rest? We can sit together and–” He stopped when he saw the expression on Crowley’s face.

The ginger was scared, yes, but he was also angry.

“Crowley?”

“Whoever killed me was someone I… cared for. Someone I trusted. Angel, I think I loved him, how horrible is that?”

“Oh my darling, that’s just–” Aziraphale cut himself off, his words– which had come to his aid last night– failing him. For there was no way to capture a cruelty like this. It was impossible to cage it within neat letters and stylish turns of phrase. No, there was no art in darkness.

“I hate him,” Crowley snapped, balling his hands into fists. “He stole everything from me. Couldn’t even kill me properly. Had to leave me trapped in this town without my memories. Taking my whole life– My death, even–”

The ghost inhaled sharply, uncurling his hands and blinking rapidly.

“On the bright side, this changes everything.”

Aziraphale brought his fingers to his lips, giving Crowley a little kiss through the signals he had designed for him. If the novelist could chose, he would kiss the phantom on his temples. After all, if anyone deserved to be adored and worshipped, it was him. Because how could the ghost still be happy– still be optimistic– after all that had happened to him?

“Yes,” the writer found himself saying. “Yes, but we shouldn’t rush it, my dear. Not if it makes you… delicate. I would hate to see you hurt, darling. I doubt I would be able to carry you to safety if I had to, but I would certainly try.”

Crowley looked up and blushed again, his eyes flickering from hazel to gold rapidly as he sunk halfway through the living room floor. He was back roughly ten seconds later, prying himself out of the floorboards with a groan.

“Great. Did you know my killer and I went on ice cream dates? I can’t remember this man’s face, or anything about my life, but I know he ordered chocolate and I got mint chip,” Crowley’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Not vanilla and… Oh god. Fuckity fuckity fuck . I think I had sex with him. Like a lot of sex. I need to take a bath in holy water, or sleep for a century, or whatever it takes to get that image out of my head. Subject change now, please!”

“Right!” Aziraphale cried, desperately scrounging for a new topic. “Well, I ended up sleeping in the cemetery last night–”

“You whot?!”

“Yes. And believe it or not, I may actually have a lead on that murder from fifty years ago…”

Chapter Text

“Aziraphale,” Crowley objected for the fifth time that day, “this is a really fucking terrible idea.”

The blond beamed at that, raising his eyebrows and looking at his phantom mischievously.

“What? Going around town telling everyone in my line of sight about how I think the Rattles were the ones who killed Beelzebub all those years ago, bringing unwanted and dangerous attention to myself in the process?”

Crowley groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, that.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin with a posh little huff.

“Well I’ll have you know I’m setting a trap. Obviously.”

“‘Obviously,’” the ghost repeated with an eyeroll, using his trademark Sarcastic Voice.

“I’m setting a trap,” the novelist continued, “and I need your help.”

“Angel, what–”

Aziraphale winked, turning his plan over in his head. He would discuss the details with Crowley later that evening, but for now… Well, he would be lying if he said he didn’t love keeping his gorgeous ghost in suspense.

“Wait and see.”

“Wait and see? Wait and see?! Aziraphale, do you have any idea how irritating that is?”

The blond’s grin only widened at that as he strode forwards, walking up to the nearest person on the street.

“Oh excuse me? I was wondering if you knew anything about the Rattles?”

—

That night Aziraphale made a point of leaving his door unlocked before he went to sit on his sofa and read. It was his third time reading Maurice and the novel was still just as delectable as it had been when he was seventeen and discovered it neglected in the corner of an old London bookshop.

The intruders came at nine on the dot– earlier than Aziraphale had expected, but then again, they probably had other crime to get up to later in the evening. He heard the front door first, swinging open and letting in a cool wave of evening air. Then the footsteps. Whoever the Rattles had sent after him, they weren’t trying to be sneaky; they were trying to send a message. Little did they know they were right where the novelist wanted them.

He smirked, shaking his head before setting down his book.

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

The writer stood up, stretching, and when he turned around there were two men by the staircase, snickering to themselves.

“Hey there,” the blond one crooned, drawing closer. “You’re new to town, aren’t you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale held up his hands innocently.

“Um, yes, I happen to be visiting for a creative project. Really, I’m on something of a writing retreat–”

The man cut him off before turning to his associate.

“Shut it. Well this is fun, isn’t it, Ligur? We’ve got ourselves a little novelist on our hands.”

The other man snorted.

“Probably why he’s going around asking all those pesky questions, Hastur. He wants to get famous.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, adjusting his bow tie haughtily.

“I’ll have you know I’m already famous, thank you very much. Surely even miscreants like you have heard of The Ineffable Enigma ? No one’s more than two steps removed from a middle schooler– not even criminals.”

“I said shut it!” Hastur snapped, shoving him backwards roughly. “We’re not here to welcome you to town and you’d better fucking believe we’re not fans of whatever book you’re pretending to have written.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. Now that was just rude.

“Yeah,” Ligur continued, stepping forwards and crowding him, “we’re here to tell you to quit it with the questions. Like, seriously, Beelzebub… That wasn’t even a murder. And if it was… Well, you should leave it the hell alone.”

“Actually,” the writer corrected before he could stop himself, “grammatically speaking it’s ‘if it were.’”

Hastur frowned, confused.

“What?”

“When you were threatening me you said ‘if it was’ a murder, but that’s technically incorrect–”

Aziraphale should have seen it coming. Really, what was he doing lecturing a pair of wannabe mafiosos on the rules of English syntax? One moment Hastur was glaring at him, the next he was swinging his hand forwards, slapping the author across the face with a blow strong enough to bring tears to his eyes.

The blond swallowed, wincing. Then he looked up at his attacker with a wicked grin.

“You’ll regret that.”

Ligur sneered.

“I don’t think we’ll be regretting anything–”

“Oh, but you will. Gentlemen, you’ve made a terrible mistake: you assumed I was living here alone.”

For a few seconds the house was quiet. Then it burst to life, lights flickering on and off, windows flying open, sending the evening air rushing in, the TV screeching its static for all to hear. 

“What is– What’s happening?” Ligur cried, grabbing Hastur’s arm.

“Shut up, you moron, it’s just– Ah!”

A book– Save the Cat – flew through the air, hitting Hastur’s shoulder before falling to the floor. Aziraphale shook his head. While the blond was grateful for the haunting, he was a writer and a bibliophile foremost– he made a mental note to tell Crowley to handle his books more gently in the future.

That’s when the kitchen chairs toppled over, clattering to the floor in rapid succession. The novelist was amazed and thoroughly entertained by the show his phantom was putting on; Hastur and Ligur, on the other hand, did not appreciate the ginger’s showmanship and were truly terrified.

“What is– Ligur what’s happening! Are you doing something?”

“Me? How could I be doing this? It’s…” the man trailed off, his beedy eyes widening. “It’s Beelzebub.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, shaking his head pedantically.

My dear gentlemen, I’m afraid you have the wrong phantom.

Still, he decided not to correct the two criminals, seeing as they didn’t seem particularly receptive to new information at the moment. Besides, it was probably better for them to believe the ghost was Beelzebub. They were the famous phantom, after all.

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair, realizing he had never seen Crowley conduct a haunting of this scale before. Only the occasional floatiness. And that time with the lights and TV when he was upset. This… This was unprecedented. He would need to treat the sweet thing with delicate care afterwards.

Something creaked upstairs, cutting off Aziraphale’s train of thought. The groaning of the floorboards continued until the blond saw it, gasping.

“It can’t be!”

But it was. Beelzebub’s piano, which had been tucked away in the upstairs hallway next to the late occultist’s bedroom, tumbled down the stairs, tossing out jarring melodies as it fell, headed straight toward the two intruders.

Hastur and Ligur shrieked, sprinting towards the door as the piano missed them by mere inches, crashing into the wall by the front hall. The exit was locked of course; they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Not until Aziraphale got the answers he needed. 

Writer’s block was a wily foe, after all– one he was determined to thwart at all costs.

“Leaving so soon?” the blond crooned, glancing at his fingernails. “I don’t think my phantom likes you very much. You can’t just walk away after you’ve been so terribly rude. Breaking into our house then having the audacity to threaten me– To strike me–”

The lights flickered wildly at that, a bookshelf in the other room crashing to the floor. Oh, this would be a real mess to clean up. But that was a problem for later.

Hastur gripped Ligur, shoving the other man in front of him.

“Take him instead! Take him and let me go!”

“What?” Ligur cried, shoving him away. “Get off me.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, please, I simply want to ask you a few questions. Do you and your associates traffic in poison?”

“P-poison?” Hastur sputtered.

The blond sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Right, I should have figured you would be incompetent. The Rattles were starting to lose their power a few years before Beelzebub’s death after all, and now that it’s been fifty years… You really are a poor excuse for a gang, aren’t you?”

Hastur and Ligur, to their credit, didn’t attempt to answer that.

“Do you keep records at least? A list of historical purchases and business contracts? I’m sure you must.”

“There’s a notebook,” Ligur babbled, bobbing his head up and down, “in storage. We can get it to you by tomorrow morning. Well, tomorrow afternoon cause we have to dig it up and– Oh, please just let us go! We didn’t know this house was haunted!”

“My dear fellow that is precisely why I chose to live here. Thank you for your help. Now go, be on your way.”

The door swung open and Hastur and Ligur didn’t take their time. They looked to each other, then to Aziraphale, before shrieking and bolting away into the night.

The author slumped to the floor as soon as they were out of sight, thoroughly exhausted. Playing the villain was thrilling, he had to admit, but also tiring. He had to give the antagonist of The Ineffable Enigma more credit for their degeneracy– demonic schemes, it turned out, were quite draining.

“My dear?” Aziraphale called. “My dear Crowley, where are you?”

His voice barely had time to echo through the house before the ghost was floating down the stairs, plopping himself down at Aziraphale’s feet and interlacing his fingers. In turn, the blond brought three fingers to his lips.

“Thank you so much. Really, I couldn’t have possibly done this without you. I didn’t know you had it in you, that kind of haunting.”

Crowley shook his head, in similar awe of his own supernatural abilities.

“Me neither. I was just planning to shove a few books over. Maybe knock down a chair or two but…” the ginger looked up furiously, his eyes gleaming with a cold severity Aziraphale had never seen in them before. “They hurt you , Aziraphale.”

The novelist smiled because really, how had he found a man so kind and soft and caring–

“Really, my sweet thing, the slap–”

Crowley hissed, glaring.

“It was more startling than painful but I’m ever so grateful you came to my aid. You came through for me. You always do.”

“And I always will,” the phantom whispered fervently.

“Oh my guardian demon,” Aziraphale whispered, touching his lips again, “whatever did I do to deserve you?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had a very lazy and very pleasant start to his morning, which was only fair considering last night’s chaos. Hell, two men had broken into his home! (Well, the house wasn’t technically his, and legally speaking, the novelist was also an intruder. But the point still stood.)

Crowley, still riding off the high of his haunting, was much more physically adept today. Which was lovely, because it meant right now Aziraphale’s phantom was making him a cup of tea– Earl Grey with two spoonfuls of honey, just the way he liked it.

“Almost ready, I take it?”

“Yup, hot drink for my hot angel coming right up.”

The author sat down at the kitchen table, humming to himself as the ghost brought said hot drink over, setting his winged mug down in front of him.

“There we go: fifty shades of Earl Grey.”

“You cheeky thing– ” Aziraphale muttered fondly before sipping the tea. “Ooh, that is simply divine!”

Crowley grinned, splaying himself across the table as the novelist downed the rest of the beverage gleefully, sighing with satisfaction.

“Glad you like it, Aziraphale. So what do we do now? Just sit around? I’ve got so much energy coiled up inside me it’s like there’s a hyperactive snake where my heart should be.”

The blond giggled at the image of a little black snake racing around the kitchen, throwing itself over the furniture dramatically and making a fuss. It was ridiculous, but sometimes the way Crowley moved was downright serpentine. Aziraphale had caught the man flicking his tongue out on numerous occasions, after all, when he thought the writer wasn’t looking.

“They’ll bring the logbook, I know they will. Still, it’s probably best that we not be home when they do. After last night…” the novelist wiggled mischievously. “Well, we wouldn’t want to scare them off.”

“Home,” Crowley repeated softly and Aziraphale swallowed.

The haunted house he had only intended to spend a fortnight in was becoming his home. When did that happen?

“Er, yes. I know I’ve only been here for a little while and it is technically your haunt but…” the writer trailed off, looking at Crowley with wide eyes. “We both get plenty of use out of it, don’t we?”

“I– Ngk,” the phantom choked, sinking two feet into the floorboards.

Plenty of use out of it… 

Aziraphale could practically see the lascivious images flashing in Crowley’s imagination, turning the poor thing’s mind into soup. His own brain was melting a bit already.

He cleared his throat, returning to his senses.

Flustering Crowley… Yes, he could make a day out of that. It sounded like a perfect way to pass the time: efficient, exciting, and downright fun .

“What would you say to going out on the town, my dear?”

The ghost blinked, his face still flushed.

“Going out on the town? Yeah, sure, of course. Anything you want, angel, really.”

Aziraphale had been told on more than one occasion that he was something of a bastard, and perhaps the allegations were true, because he couldn’t help but smile at that, lifting his eyebrows in a way he knew would be his guardian demon’s undoing.

“Right. It’s a date, then.”

Crowley hissed at that and the author laughed out loud.

“My darling phantom, I’m going to take you shopping.”

—

Aziraphale had missed this– the whole ‘shop until you drop’ thing. He had always had an eye for fine things, and during his short-lived fame at the height of The Ineffable Enigma ’s success, he had actually been wealthy enough to become something of a hedonist. In the five years since then, he had to considerably lower his retail therapy budget, but today was a special treat.

And so the blond tried on outfit after outfit, the first few in his favored light academic style; the rest in Crowley’s style– a choice that was driving his darling phantom utterly insane. Aziraphale had never had an affinity for leather jackets and tight fitting black button ups… but he did enjoy seeing the ginger’s jaw drop lower with every cropped Queen shirt he tried on.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” the ghost hissed frantically as Aziraphale popped out of the dressing room in a black turtleneck.

“Hmm?” the author murmured, feigning innocence. “My dear, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to.”

“You– You–”

The blond batted his eyelashes sweetly and Crowley groaned, doubling over and making a string of incoherent noises.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“You bastard!” he exclaimed once he caught his breath. “You’re trying to tempt me–” 

“Angels can’t tempt. It goes against our ethereal nature.”

“Gah! Fluster me, then.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale confessed. “Took you long enough to figure it out, you silly thing. I’ll stop if you wish, of course, but I think we should try to unlock more of your memories. My mystery’s almost solved, after all, but yours… There’s ground to break there. Is that alright, my dear?”

Crowley nodded, his eyes flickering golden as he swallowed.

“Y-Yes. Yeah. Please. Do your worst, angel, I can take it.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Oh can you now? Very well. In that case I think I’ll try the bow ties next…”

—

In the end, it was the pajamas that did it.

They fit Aziraphale very well– all soft and loose and fluffy– and when he stepped out of the changing room to display them, Crowley sunk halfway through the floor, flushing as his eyes shifted from hazel to sharp amber.

It had taken quite a lot of arm crossing and finger interlocking on the way home before the phantom got up the nerve to talk, a single tear falling from his left eye, running down his cheek.

Aziraphale would have done anything to be able to brush it away, but since the cruel force that dictated the ever-changing Ghost Rules forbade direct physical contact between them, verbal comforts would have to do.

“It’s alright, my dear, you’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’m right here, my darling Crowley,” the blond cooed, tapping his fingers to his lips with every pet name.

“Don’t worry, angel, I’m not sad. Not really. It’s just–” the ginger looked up, a soft smile on his lips.

“I lived a good life, Aziraphale. I had parents who loved me– they live in Cardiff. Two little sisters. A peaceful childhood in the suburbs. I had friends. Boyfriends. The cutest little pet snake. Passions and interests and– And I loved learning, I really did. I do? I don’t even know what tense to use, being technically dead and all.”

Aziraphale nodded, staying quiet. What Crowley needed right now was someone who would be there for him. Someone who would listen.

“I’ve always had an eye for beauty. That’s what drew me to you, you know.”

“Not the fact that I infiltrated your haunt?” the novelist asked gently.

The ghost rolled his eyes.

“That too. But angel– I was a photographer before; I’m not from Angelia. In fact, I spent most of my adult life traveling from place to place, working odd jobs to pay the bills. I had a gig as a nanny. Then another as a barista. Then, most recently, a gardener. I enjoyed the gardening actually, though I don’t think the plants liked me very much. I wanted to document this town– a ghastly yet enchanting example of how a place’s past defines its present.”

The ginger nodded to himself.

“I wanted a picture of all the lights… All the colors… It was like the glow of a thousand galaxies congregated in one place–”

Crowley’s face darkened.

“That’s where he found me. I had snuck in to take a picture and he said… He said… Argh, I can’t remember. It’s blurry. Like I’m catching glimpses of those memories from underwater. The lights– The colors– ‘Rose’–  ‘A haunting of our own’...”

The phantom trailed off, frowning, and Aziraphale noticed the way his eyes flickered, welling up with tears.

“It’s alright, the memories will come, dear. You’ve unlocked your whole life. You were happy. And creative. And kind, I’m sure.”

“And loved,” Crowley whispered in a small voice. “I was loved . My family… My sisters and parents and friends… All they knew was that I traveled and now it’s been seven years and– God, do they even know I’m dead?”

Aziraphale froze at that, the unfairness of it all striking against his heart once again. Someone had hurt Crowley, killed him, taken him from the ones he loved– And there was nothing the novelist could do about it. For of all of his eloquence, he was just a man; he couldn’t rewrite the past.

“I would give anything to see them again but I can’t leave Angelia,” the phantom groaned, his next words coming out in a frustrated rush. “For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t I have been murdered in Cardiff?!”

“It’s okay, Crowley– ” Aziraphale started but Crowley shook his head, cutting him off.

“It isn’t! I was murdered! Killed! My life was stolen from me! Think of all the art I’ll never make, all the memories I would have captured in my photographs. I could have done something, made something of myself, and now I just… I just rot.”

The ghost slouched, his hands trembling at his sides.

“It’s just not fair.”

Aziraphale felt his heart chipping away in his chest, but something held it together, keeping it from shattering completely. He leaned into that strong force, that pull, that dangerous softness inside him– The need to protect– The need to care – He let the feeling flood him.

“You’re right,” Crowley’s angel murmured, “it’s not fair.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

“That’s why I swear this– I will catch your killer. I will find him and haunt him and hurt him and make him pay. Then I will live the life you could have had, my sweet phantom. A life of kindness and softness and art. Every breath I breathe will be one in your memory. Anthony J. Crowley, I am yours.”

The ghost’s eyes flickered wildly at that before he fell to his knees, joining Aziraphale on the floor.

Crowley brought his hands to his.

“Aziraphale–”

Crowley brought his hands to his.

“Impossible–”

Conveniently enough, that was when the doorbell rang.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale looked back and forth between his phantom and his front door frantically. He was touching Crowley. He was actually touching Crowley! The hands he held in his own were soft and warm and–

And whoever was at the door had given up ringing and knocking and had started to kick , causing a proper racket.

The blond somehow found his way to the front door and opened it, caught between his glee at holding Crowley’s hand and his frustration at having his first moment of touching his phantom interrupted so rudely.

“Oh, what is it?” he cried, opening the door to reveal a very annoyed Hastur and a very panicked Ligur standing in front of him.

Ligur shoved a blue notebook into his hands. It was decades old, judging from the yellowing paper and the musky scent that clung to it.

“Is this what I think it is?” Aziraphale asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Ligur nodded, babbling, “Yes, yeah, it’s the accounts you asked for. Now just take the stupid book and keep your creepy ghost away from us!”

Aziraphale glared, crossing his arms. Creepy? Crowley wasn’t creepy. He was cute and clever and wonderful, made to be held and hugged and cherished.

“Now really, is that any way to refer to my love? He’s right next to me, you know, so do be polite.”

Ligur shrieked at that before Hastur elbowed him, grunting, “J-just take it and keep the hell away from us.”

The author shook his head, pouting.

“Keep away from you? You two were the ones to break into my home. You threatened me, hit me –” that was met with a sharp hiss from his right. “And really, who knows what else you would have done to me if I had been without my guardian demon. So really, you two should be the ones keeping away from me.”

The blond cocked his head to the side, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

“Run along now.”

Hastur and Ligur didn’t hesitate, bolting across the lawn of the haunted house and yelping as they went.

Aziraphale watched them leave with a little huff.

“Cowards,” he muttered.

Really, they should have been thrilled to have a run-in with the supernatural; he had certainly enjoyed his. In fact, he was quite smitten. Yes, Aziraphale Fell had not only fallen from grace in the brutal publishing industry– he had also apparently fallen for a ghost. Such was the way of the world.

The blond chuckled as he turned, heading inside. Falling in love was such a wonderfully freeing sensation. There was no point in agonizing over his feelings or keeping them bottled up, like affection was some dark and terrible secret. Too many lifetimes, both fictional and real, had been squandered by hiding passion that would have been welcomed– celebrated, even– by the one who ‘couldn’t possibly love them in return’.

Ridiculous.

Aziraphale closed the door. Yes. He should really confess to Crowley. Of course, he had written enough novels to know that ‘should’ and ‘would’ were words entire worlds apart.

The blond turned, scanning the living room for his ghost only the find the silly phantom half-sunken into the floor.

He rolled his eyes, chuckling to himself fondly, noting the ginger’s bright golden eyes.

“Is that what does it for you? Me being mean? I’ll have you know I don’t particularly enjoy –”

The novelist cut himself off at the ghost’s star-struck expression.

“Aziraphale, you called me your love.”

Oh.

Oh.

He had, hadn’t he? So much for the well thought out eloquent confession his beloved truly deserved. Aziraphale flushed, swallowing as all sorts of witty responses died on his tongue, his train of thought screeching harshly to a halt.

“I suppose I did. Um– Well– I–” the blond, who had made an entire career out of stringing beautiful words together, found himself coming up hopelessly short. His brain was being a total bastard.

Crowley interrupted, saving him from his floundering with a toothy grin.

“You’re never beating the necrophilia allegations now.”

“Crowley! Is now any time to–”

“To make you a desperate blushing mess? Always.”

Aziraphale groaned at that, hiding his head in his hands until his phantom cleared his throat, urging him to look up.

When he did, he found Crowley gazing at him with such care in his eyes– Such softness – 

“But in all seriousness, I feel the same. I love you, Aziraphale. You’re so caring and kind and gentle… A real angel.”

Aziraphale scoffed, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you stole my confession, you foul fiend. I had only started thinking about it, but really, I could have done so much better if you had just given me a little more time! I would have taken you dancing, you know. Thrown you a proper ball like in an Austen novel.”

Crowley’s lips twitched upwards into a small smile.

“You’re absolutely adorable, you know. What did I do to deserve you?”

The author shrugged, considering.

“Well, you loved a killer and now you love an angel; I’d say it’s just her way of balancing the scales.”

“Balancing the scales?” the phantom ran a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue. “Really, am I the only one between the two of us who can do basic arithmetic?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“The Gay Rules are much more straightforward than the Ghost Rules, I’d imagine. I can’t do math, but I’m a decent chef and I suspect you aren’t…”

He trailed off.

“Finish that sentence,” Crowley demanded.

“Aren’t the best at driving?”

The ghost slumped over, pouting.

“Ugh. As much as I’d love to deny such base accusations, I got a memory back when you, um…”

“Called you my love?”

Crowley nodded, his face heating up.

“Anyway, I vividly remember doing ninety in central London–”

“Crowley!”

“So yeah, the gay triad checks out. Wish the Ghost Rules were simpler. Wish they weren’t so fucking annoying. For one, I can’t touch you.”

“Well, that’s alright,” Aziraphale offered. “There are plenty of people who love each other but aren’t so fond of the touching bits. In fact, I made the protagonist of The Ineffable Enigma asexual, and have done a lot of research on the whole topic. I suppose you didn’t know that, considering I only published the trilogy two years after your death. Anyway, my protagonist was able to have a loving and passionate relationship all without ever kissing her partner or… Well, any of that.”

“Aziraphale–”

“It’s not that I’m shy about these things. In all honesty, I’m sure I could write phenomenal smut if I put my mind to it, but The Ineffable Enigma was a middle grade series. Besides, even if it wasn’t, that kind of relationship was simply not in character for my character. Author things, you understand? Or wait, you wouldn’t actually.”

“Aziraphale–”

“Hmm, you actually remind me of a reformed villain I was thinking of writing into a prequel series… But that didn’t go anywhere, of course. It’s alright. All part of the creative process, frustrating as it may be.”

“Aziraphale!”

“Oh, I’m rambling, aren’t I? What is it, my dear boy?”

Crowley swallowed, his eyes gleaming as he crossed and uncrossed his fingers.

“I’d love to hear more about your novels– could listen to you talk all day, honestly–  but first let me make one thing absolutely clear: the ‘I can’t touch you’ thing wasn’t me setting a boundary; it was me being dramatic and complaining for complaining’s sake. And asexuality is great, but it’s not me .

“I want to kiss you and make out with you and yes, fuck you– my flirting’s not a front; I’ll have you know I’m pretty damn good at it– and it really sucks that I can’t. I am very much allosexual and touch starved and I’m not exaggerating when I say I would haunt every house in England if it meant I could cuddle you right now. If I weren’t a ghost I’d be all over you, angel. Only if that’s something you would like, of course.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, a flood of emotion washing over him, “I would very much like to kiss you too. And more. It could be possible: earlier, before those thugs came and dropped off the notebook, you were able to touch my hand.”

“Yeah, I remember,” the phantom murmured softly.

“You said your life–”

Death? Ghosthood?

“Was a blur until I came along and then things started clearing up.”

“Yup.”

“Well, the fluidity now– the way you were able to go full poltergeist last night and then hold my hand a mere ten minutes ago… It means the rules are changing. It means we’re getting closer.”

“To solving my murder,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale laced his fingers together.

“Yes, yours and… theirs. Once we figure out how Beelzebub really died– Well, I suspect things are going to start moving rather quickly.”

“That’s fine. I like quick. Fast. I actually racked up six speeding tickets the year before I died but I didn’t bring my car here. I left it at home, I remember that. I guess I didn’t think I was going to stay here for long but… But I did.”

Crowley closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were glowing.

“Yes, Angelia was supposed to be a week. Less. A pit stop on the way to somewhere bigger and better but… Aziraphale, I died on the last day of August. I spent the whole summer trapped in this small town.”

The ginger’s eyes widened.

“No, not trapped. I liked it. I liked it because of him.”

“Because of him,” Aziraphale echoed.

Him – the mysterious man who had murdered Crowley seven years ago.

The blond brought three fingers to his lips, then gestured to the logbook.

“Shall we?”

Crowley nodded and they did, flipping through the pages detailing crime after crime until they found the entry from a week before Beelzebub died. 

Aziraphale gasped, his lips curling into a triumphant smirk.

“Ah, so it was you .”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale didn’t imagine life as a novelist would be particularly thrilling. Fun and elegant, of course, but not sensational. He, like every young writer, had had his fantasies of riches and fame. Fantasies he had been able to actualize for a few precious years before his last writing braincell left to go get milk, rendering him wordless and subsequently worthless. But this… Now this was better than any Châteauneuf-du-Pape or dinner at the Ritz.

Aziraphale Fell had barged into town hall and was currently confronting Angelia’s mayor.

“It was you,” the author insisted, crossing his arms and locking eyes with Melissa Michael, who was sitting at her desk, looking over some construction records. “Well, technically it was your mother, but you didn’t exactly turn her over to the authorities, now did you?”

Michael cleared her throat, looking Aziraphale up and down with mild annoyance.

“I’m a very busy woman. If you want to speak with me about… whatever concerns you have, you can email me and schedule a meeting like everyone else. I think I have an availability sometime next month.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, nodding to himself.

“Right. Pleasantries and context. I’m Aziraphale Fell. It’s lovely to meet you, Michael. Quite lovely, really. You’ve restored my love for the craft of writing.”

That was met by a sharp hiss on his right.

“Well, I’ll give her partial credit,” the novelist muttered to the phantom at his side. “Now to put it plainly, I’ve solved Beelzebub’s murder. The Rattles gave me their logbook. You know, the notebook filled with records of their decades of criminal exploits. It seems your mother Madelyn Michael, the mayor before you, grew tired of Beelzebub bringing occultists to town. She went to the Rattles for poison and laced a letter opener with it. A letter opener she then gave to Beelzebub as a gift. Beelzebub used it in their blood-letting ritual and died, leaving Angelia safe from anyone who dared to be different.”

Michael’s eyes widened. Then narrowed as she shrugged.

“Alright. What do you want to do? Call up the nursing home and have them arrest her? The doctors say she’ll be dead in a year. Less.”

Aziraphale considered it. Like Shax, Michael’s mother was in her late seventies. That along with the logistics of testifying in court…

The blond shook his head. He had come to Angelia to help his craft as a writer, not to try his hand at law.

“It’s alright. I didn’t do this for justice… not for Beelzebub, anyway. I did this for…” Aziraphale trailed off, lacing his fingers together. “I did this for myself and someone dear to me.”

Michael snorted, cocking her head to the side.

“She told me the first time I got elected, you know. Wanted to teach me a thing or two about what I should prioritize during my time in office. Beelzebub was going to ruin this town. Tear down its whole reputation. Just destroy the place. Personally, I like keeping my hands clean, but I get why she did what she did.”

“Reputation destroyed,” Crowley whispered, going stock-still at Aziraphale’s side. “Ruin me, why don’t you? As if I would let that happen.”

Aziraphale turned to him but the ginger shook his head, his eyes fading from amber to a darker shade. 

“I might put this in my next novel, you know,” the blond warned Michael. “Or leak it to the press. I’m not sure of the legality of it all…”

Michael waved a hand.

“I don’t care. If you need to get my family’s dark little secret off your chest, you can go right ahead. Angelia will vote for me next term anyway because this murder is fifty years old and I am not my mother.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but then turned to go. He wasn’t here to fix Angelia. He wasn’t even really here for his writing anymore. There was someone who mattered more; someone who meant everything to him.

The author stretched, brushing Crowley as he shifted his weight from foot to foot in a gleeful daze. 

He brushed Crowley … 

The blond reached out again, his heart hammering in his chest, but this time his hand passed though the ginger.

“Alright, well I appreciate your honesty. Now if you’ll excuse me–”

Aziraphale dashed out of the room, beaming. He rounded the corner, waiting until he was out of earshot of the mayor’s office before turning to Crowley, wiggling with joy.

“We did it. We did it! We cracked the case! And I couldn’t have done it without you and all your support. My darling phantom, I love you so.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed yellow as he flushed violently.

“Oh please–”

Aziraphale cut the silly poltergeist off before he could voice any ridiculous objections.

“Really, my dear boy, you’ve been so terribly kind to me–”

The ghost’s eyes grew brighter as Aziraphale continued, batting his eyelashes.

“So terribly nice.”

With those three words, Crowley was lunging forwards, grabbing Aziraphale by his lapels and slamming him up against the wall.

“I’m not nice, I’m never nice, nice is a four letter word. I’m a ghost for fuck’s sake. An evil spirit. A demon–”

“And you can touch me, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, the realization hitting him all at once.

The second the words left his lips, Crowley’s mouth was on his, taking and tasting, his hands running up and down the blond’s chest, touching him everywhere.

Aziraphale surrendered to the thrill of the sensation for a single precious moment. Then his greed overcame him and he reversed the wall slam, twirling Crowley around by that tantalizing waist he had been dying to grab ever since he first laid eyes on the gorgeous ghost. The phantom yelped as he hit the wall, but Aziraphale didn’t give him time to recover, instead standing on his tiptoes to kiss his forehead over and over and over again.

“Ah, there we go. That’s much better. Now I have you right where I want you.”

“Hedonist,” Crowley gasped, squirming in his grip.

“Always.”

Aziraphale continued his kissing, moving from the ginger’s forehead to his cheek, then down to his neck until he found a ticklish spot that had the phantom doubling over, giggling.

“Oh you sweet, sweet thing.”

Crowley shoved Aziraphale away at that, cocking his head to the side and sneering as his eyes turned gold.

“My sweet rose,” he whispered before going limp, spilling down onto the floor. The triumphant smirk from a mere moment earlier was gone and now Crowley was on his knees, sobbing and gasping and clutching his head in his hands.

“Oh my dearest, my darling, what is it?” Aziraphale cried, joining his phantom on the floor and holding him close.

“I remember, Aziraphale,” Crowley finally answered, his voice coming out like gravel. “I remember everything.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was a big fan of sauntering. He had been doing it for longer than he could remember. Really, his parents told him that when he finally learned how to walk, he didn’t just toddle– Crowley ran . He had been running ever since, as if determined to squeeze every possible second out of life.

But how could he help his hunger when the world was so big and beautiful? He wasn’t content to settle down and stay in one place. To have a favorite food or one job or anything as singular as that. He wanted to travel and see the world. To fall in love and make art. And so far? So far Crowley was doing a damn good job.

He had spent the past five years since he graduated college traveling, hitchhiking from place to place with just a backpack, a smirk, a camera, and an overwhelmingly optimistic attitude. So far his travels had taken him far from Cardiff. He had been to London to see the big city and then, last week, had gone to see Scotland. He had taken dozens of photos of the Stone of Scone and the number of an exceptionally cute blond man at the local bar– one of those posh librarian looking men who, for better or for worse, were Crowley’s god-given type. Well, one of them, at least. He wasn’t particularly picky.

The photographer’s next stop was the South Downs. It was supposed to be a quaint area. All peaceful and romantic. In another life, Crowley saw himself living there. If he ever found someone worth building a future with… Someone worth coming home to…

“Maybe next reincarnation,” he murmured cheekily, stepping out of his taxi with a grin.

He was in Angelia, a small town a day’s ride away from the South Downs. As fast as Crowley liked going, he also knew his limits, and after Scotland… Well, he would need to take a week to rest and regain his energy. Besides, of all the small towns he could have chosen to crash in, at least this one seemed mildly interesting. It had a whole history of witchcraft and occultism, a case of an attempted grave robbing and a death that had in all likelihood been a murder.

Crowley decided to thoroughly case the joint, stopping at the local diner to take photos and stuff his mouth with pancakes. (The photos were good; the pancakes could have used more cinnamon.) He explored the infamous graveyard, earning a scowl from its old caretaker, and checked himself into the nearby inn before going to see the crowning jewel of Angelia: the house of Bex Beelzebub, famous occultist.

Of course, Crowley was not, technically speaking, allowed in the house. Then again, when had a little trespassing ever stopped him? Besides, there was a thrill to breaking the rules. To poking around in places he shouldn’t. To asking the questions no one else was brave enough to pose.

Sure enough, the haunted house did not disappoint. The ground floor was clearly dated, judging by the furniture style and the old boxy TV in the living room. And upstairs… Ooh, upstairs was just fantastic. The hallway was empty save for a single piano that hadn’t been tuned in decades. Either that or Crowley’s musical skills were rustier than he thought. (He had always prided himself on his cover of ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy’.) Beelzebub’s room was filled with maps and globes and hourglasses and there was this one doll that sat by their bedside table with beedy black eyes… It was creepy and Crowley fucking loved it.

He grinned, shaking his head as he snapped a photo.

“Gotta love the Coraline shit.”

— 

Crowley woke up the next morning thoroughly satisfied. His photos from the haunted house last night were just perfect. The only thing he really needed from this town was juxtaposition. Something lighter to offset the darkness. It was Crowley’s artistic style, after all, working within shades of gray. Yesterday he had photographed a haunted house; today he would photograph a church. Fortunately for the ginger, it happened to be Sunday.

Anthony J. Crowley sauntered into Angelia’s church the way he sauntered into most places– with style. He positioned himself in a pew near the back, sussing out angles, captivated by way the morning light reflected off the colorful glass window panes. Really, if he knelt down, the picture would be… Well, it would be picture-perfect. 

So Crowley did just that, kneeling and wrinkling his forehead in frustration. 

Another inch higher… No, make it an inch lower …

He was interrupted by an older woman dressed in all red tapping him on the shoulder, gesturing to his camera with a very pointed glare.

“Do you mind ?” she snapped.

Crowley flushed.

It probably was rude to go and do a whole photoshoot during a church service, but that was what was most authentic. If he came in during the afternoon, after the priest’s sermon, with the whole place empty… Well, what was the point of that? 

Then again, if he came back at sunset…

Crowley shot to his feet, snapping his fingers.

“Oh, you’re just brilliant Ms…?”

“Shax,” the woman replied, pursing her lips. “Now if you’ll excuse me, some of us are actually trying to use this building for its intended purpose.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

Surely everyone knew the intended purpose of church was daydreaming. Why else would they design the place they way they did, with benches that weren’t comfortable unless you sat all slumped over with your head in your hands? Why else have all the lights and colors? Why else have a priest that looked like that?

The ginger licked his lips, swallowing. He hadn’t even been aware that he was checking out the priest, but apparently that was what was happening. The man up at the altar was devilishly handsome after all, which was ironic considering his chosen profession. He was tall, built with a subtle, casual sort of strength and hair darker than the night sky. And his eyes…

His eyes, bright emerald things, were locked with Crowley’s. They stayed fixed there as the priest continued his speech, never faltering as he looked the ginger up and down, unraveling him from across the room.

“I– I have to go,” Crowley muttered, ducking his head and fleeing the church.

If he were smart, he would leave town. He had gotten the pictures he needed. Bigger and better things were ahead. He didn’t really need to photograph the church but then again…

Then again, in the moment before he had flushed and broken the priest’s gaze, the man had smirked at him. He had caught the movement– the way his head had cocked to the side, his lips lifting in an expression sharp enough to make him shiver.

Crowley knew he was handsome. He was reminded of his good looks several times a week as he frequented various bars and restaurants where men and women lined up by his seat, offering up drinks and dinners and flowers and phone numbers. Anything for just one chance . And Crowley should pretend he didn’t like it, the power he had blindly stumbled into by winning some universal lottery, but the truth was he did. After all, who wouldn’t want to feel wanted?

Crowley was used to being on the receiving end of all sort of affection but this… Without even saying so much as a single word to him, Angelia’s priest had managed to fluster him. And Crowley… Crowley could get used to that.

So despite his instincts pushing him to run, to go on to the next great adventure, he resolved to return to the church that night. 

Not for the priest, of course; he simply couldn’t bear to abandon his art.

— 

Crowley managed to get the photos in. Choosing to return at sunset had been the right decision. The way the church windows reflected the light in the final hour of the day had been nothing short of divine, the emerging evening shadows truly capturing the ambience he was going for.

Now it was dark, and Crowley snapped a quick photograph. A casual one. After all, the moonlight flooding the building made the church out to be paradoxically both serene and spooky. 

Was that what it meant for a place to be holy?

Anyway, Crowley was satisfied with his day’s work and a little sleepy. He would head to the inn and go to bed. (Or try to, at least. It was all too likely that his insomnia would strike again, as it had several times a week for the past fifteen years of his life.) 

He stood up, stretching, when someone behind him cleared their throat. Crowley whipped around, his eyes widening as they met the gaze of the person he had secretly been hoping to run into: Angelia’s priest.

“Do you have something to confess, rose?”

“‘Rose?’” Crowley repeated smoothly, his years of flirting prowess saving him before he could make a complete fool of himself by sinking to his knees.

“Yes, your hair. It’s so scarlet, like the infernal flames themselves. What is such a tempting creature doing so close to the divine?”

Crowley swallowed, torn between shamelessly flirting or telling the priest some important context. You know, stuff like his name. His job. The way he was currently single.

He settled on the shameless flirting.

“Oh, please. I’m far from the Serpent of Eden.”

The priest shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“But you are . And you don’t even know it, do you, Mr…?”

“Crowley. Just Crowley. And if I’m the Serpent of Eden, what does that make you? The angel that guarded the tree of life?”

What was that angel’s name anyway? Azirapalala? Azirapapap? Aziphafalala?

“What, Aziraphale?” the priest asked before laughing icily. “Far from it. You see, angels are gentle; I am not. I’ll have you know that if I caught a filthy little snake in my haven… Well, I wouldn’t be nearly as merciful as the Principality would be. No, I would make sure he– it – was punished properly.”

Crowley flushed, starting to realize he might be in a bit over his head. He had come to the church hoping for some flirting. Maybe an exchange of phone numbers. Or a kiss. But if this was the direction the night was going…

The ginger lifted his chin, smirking.

Very well, I can fuck the priest. Why not embrace my inevitable Fleabag era? 

“And how would you do it, Father? How would you punish me?”

The priest’s eyes darkened at that as he stepped forwards, bringing a hand to Crowley’s cheek.

“Oh, make no mistake, we would be here all night and–” he cut himself off, raising an eyebrow. “Did you come here to corrupt me, pet?”

Crowley shrugged, because, yeah. He had in a way.

“Oh yes, I’m here to steal you from your faith and convert you to my wicked ways. I’ve done all sorts of sinful things.”

The raven-haired man cocked an eyebrow.

“Like what? Enlighten me, my rose.”

Crowley swallowed, a litany of of witty responses dying on his tongue at the moniker that was very quickly becoming his pet name . 

Fuck. He was tongue-tied.

“I– Um, I’ve done ninety miles in central London. Like, several times. Racked up six speeding tickets this summer alone, Father.”

The priest paused at that, a strange expression crossing his face. Then he smiled.

“Very naughty indeed. You can call me Lucian if you wish. Lucian Morningstar.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He was atheist, sure, but not that atheist.

“Unfortunate name for a priest,” he muttered, catching a sharp glint of something– anger? lust?- in Lucian’s eyes.

“So I’ve been told. And how long are you here, my rose?”

Yup. Definitely his pet name.

“I’m just passing through,” Crowley managed to hiss. “I’ll be gone in a week. Less. A few days, maybe.”

The priest paused, considering that, then nodded.

“ Perfect . I’ll have you know I’m quite enjoying you, Crowley.”

“Enough to keep me?”

Lucian cocked an eyebrow before chuckling at that.

“Keep you? Yes, on your knees, perhaps. You have quite the sweet mouth; what do you say we put it to good use?” 

Crowley, whose brain had melted away into soup, could do little but bob his head up and down.

“Lovely. In that case… Shall we take things to the confessional?”

Crowley flushed, his camera trembling in his hands as Lucian took another step forwards, looking at him with such want, such need –

“Fuck yes.”

Chapter Text

June in Angelia was usually cooler than June in Cardiff, but temperature aside, Crowley was having the hottest summer of his life. He said he’d stay in town for a week. Then two. Then three. Then he gave up and stopped making promises he couldn’t keep because that thrill, that adventure, that sensation he had spent his whole life chasing wasn’t in the South Downs or in London or overseas. No, it was right here. Here with Lucian Morningstar.

Lucian who was kind as well as drop-dead gorgeous. He had been the one to show Crowley around town, after all. To help him pay for his room at the inn. To get him a seasonal gig as a gardener.

June was a blur.

There were countless mornings of Lucian strolling by the garden on his way to church, looking Crowley up and down like he was craving him. Afternoons upon afternoons of Lucian buying him ice cream– the raven-haired man would get chocolate, and Crowley would get mint chip– and watching him eat it hungrily. Nights of Crowley fully embracing his Fleabag era and fucking the divinity out of the priest of Angelia. (Well, the priest of Angelia was the one fucking the sin out of him, technically speaking.)

July had passed similarly, which was fine by Crowley. Really, the ginger, who had never before given serious thought to settling down, began to consider renting an apartment and making Angelia his new home.

That was until the second week of August when he ruined everything. Lucian had been exceptionally busy that week with some religious thing or other and Crowley had gone a full three days without seeing his priest. Or partner. The truth was, they never really bothered to define their relationship. They talked all the time, touched all the time, but they never really communicated with each other.

That’s why Crowley being Crowley decided to take a gamble. He decided to fluster Lucian in church just like he had back at the start of the summer. He dressed up in his nicest button-down shirt, tie, and tight fitting jacket before sauntering over.

He had sprawled out in the back pew, catching a glare or two from Shax as he licked his lips, trying and failing to distract the priest. Lucian Morningstar was very good at his job, Crowley would give him that. Even as those bright green eyes met his, the priest didn’t flush or trip over his words. No, he continued his sermon– something about Bildad the Shuhite and the blameless children of Job– without so much as a single stutter.

Crowley waited after the service. He liked going fast, but he could be patient when he needed to be. After the last congregant finished their conversation with Lucian, the ginger popped over, grinning.

“How was the service for you?” he chirped.

Lucian frowned, closing his eyes before replying slowly.

“You’re not religious.”

“Damn straight. But I could be persuaded. Confessional?”

Lucian shook his head, his eyes flashing as he stood there silently, Crowley’s thrill of flirtation replaced by a twinge of fear.

“Are you– Are you angry, Lucian? Cause I–”

“Do you think they’re blind?” the priest snapped, his voice icy. “That they don’t see the way you look at me? The way you make me look at you?”

Crowley swallowed, holding up his hands.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cross a line. Just wanted to tease you a little.”

“Of course you did. I should have known better than to expect more from a slut.”

The words hit Crowley like a slap. Lucian had been strict with him at times, but never cruel. And he had never spoken to him like this before.

“What?”

“Reputation destroyed,” the priest muttered to himself, his face pale. “Ruin me, why don’t you? As if I would let that happen.”

Lucian paused, running a hand through his hair with an exasperated sigh.

“I don’t want to see you in my church again, is that understood?”

What the fuck?

“What is this? Some secret romance? I’m yours in bed but never in a crowd? Tell me, Lucian, do you love me or do you just love fucking me?”

No sooner were the words out of Crowley’s mouth than a hand was curling around his throat, Lucian’s fingers rough against his neck. It was a sensation the ginger usually enjoyed, but not without a warning. Not like this.

“You will not speak to me that way.”

“Oh why? Because you’re so pure and holy and–” Crowley gasped as Lucian’s grip tightened.

“Because I cannot be tainted.”

Crowley struggled against the grip to no avail. Finally the priest released him with a scowl.

“Really,” he muttered under his breath. “I signed up for a week of this not–”

Crowley shoved him away, storming off to his room at the inn where he spent the whole night crying. The next day Lucian left him flowers– anonymously, of course. They went and got drunk together and things were better from then on out. Practically fixed, really.

Except for the next few weeks Lucian kept pulling away. It was subtle at first, the way the priest stopped initiating contact. Started rejecting touch. He seemed to have no interest in Crowley’s days yet fully craved his nights.

When the photographer walked with him in the town park, flopping against his shoulder or intertwining his fingers with his, Lucian would pull away with the same refrain: “Don’t be needy, rose.”

Crowley didn’t want to be needy; he wanted to be needed. He wanted the priest, as tragic and clichéd as that was, and he wanted the priest to want him too. That’s why he did what he did best: he schemed, buying candlesticks from the store and wine he couldn’t afford along with a bouquet of flowers. 

This would be the perfect date. The one that would bring things back to the way they were in July. One fabulous kiss and vavoom! Relationship sorted.

So Crowley waited outside the church on Sunday afternoon, pacing and checking his watch every few minutes until the flood of congregants left. Then finally, Lucian came out. Oh, it was unfair just how pretty he looked in the afternoon light.

“Lucian,” the ginger murmured, calling the priest over.

The raven-haired man came, shaking his head, a frown tugging at the edges of his features as he addressed his lover with disdain.

“I told you not to come here, Crowley.”

“I’m not making eyes at you while you give a sermon; I’m just talking to you. You know, like people who care about each other do.”

Lucian opened his mouth at that, as if to object, but Crowley continued on.

“Come to Beelzebub’s house tonight at ten. I’ll bring wine. We can get properly drunk and work things out. What do you say?”

Lucian stayed silent, his jaw clenched and his fingers twitching at his side before they attacked swiftly, gripping Crowley by the neck.

“Convince me,” the priest demanded, his hold on Crowley’s throat firm but not yet punishing. The ginger leaned forwards, bringing his lips up to kiss Lucian’s ear before lowering his voice in a devious whisper.

“I’ve always wanted to get fucked in a haunted house.”

—

It was the first good evening he had had with Lucian in nearly a fortnight and Crowley was loving every minute of it. He loved the candles burning on the kitchen table and the wine he had downed before hopping onto the couch and flopping against his lover.

“That was lovely,” the priest drawled, petting Crowley’s hair in a way that made him feel coveted.

“Mmm,” the ginger murmured in reply, nuzzling closer. “You know I’ve, um…”

He cleared his throat, trying to think through the tipsy haze.

“I’ve been thinking. My job as a gardener is a seasonal position, obviously, but the diner is hiring full-time staff. Maybe I could stay here and we… We could be together.”

“Don’t worry,” he continued quickly, knowing how the priest was more reserved than he was, “we can have separate apartments. Take things as slow and private as you want. But I just wanted to float the idea by you. So what do you think?”

“I think,” Lucian drawled, standing and then moving to pin Crowley to the couch, his slender fingers wrapping around the younger man’s neck, “that you have made me an addict.”

Crowley cackled, squirming playfully in Lucian’s grip.

“That kind of night, hmm?”

Lucian laughed at that before frowning, that serious, sharp anger back in his eyes.

“You have made me an addict and I can’t have that, my dark darling.”

Crowley froze, suddenly aware of his position under the priest as he realized far too late what it meant that Lucian could hold him down in this abandoned house, grab his throat and–

The ginger giggled, fidgeting only to realize Lucian’s grip had subtly grown stronger. White-hot dread flooded his body, like the butterflies that had been fluttering away inside his lungs for the past three months were burning, suffocating him from within.

“Lucian?”

“I came here to end things one way or another. For closure. But you thought this was a celebration of a new beginning, didn’t you? Oh, my sweet rose. My stupid slut. You really can’t take a hint, can you, Crowley? Still, I’ll have you know you were much more fun than the last one.”

The last one?

Lucian dug his nails into Crowley’s neck and the ginger cried out in pain.

“Lucian please– Please– Just let me go.”

“They always say that but this is past the time for pleading; you had your chance to beg.”

The grip tightened, bringing desperate tears to Crowley’s eyes as he realized he was slowly but surely losing his ability to breathe .

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cried out, each word a sharp knife hacking at his heart. “I shouldn’t have– I thought–”

“What?” Lucian sneered, loosening his grip for a single precious moment before pinning Crowley again. “That I actually loved you? Cared for you? You were nothing more than my toy. Always so fucking needy . And now you would stay in Angelia? Or have me leave the church? Run away with you? Do you not understand that I would be ruined or do you simply not care? I’m not sure if I prefer my lovers stupid or cruel.”

Crowley whimpered at that, unable to scream as his vision blurred through his tears, growing fuzzy at the edges.

“Really, you’re pathetic.” A pause. “Pathetic yet left unchecked you will be my downfall.”

“I’ll leave,” the ginger croaked. “I’ll leave, I’ll leave, I’ll leave! I promise. I’ll do anything.”

“Hmm, I could let you go,” the priest murmured, considering, “but as I said, you’ve made a mess of me, Crowley. Look how desperate I am for one more kiss –”

Lucian’s grip loosened for a second. Then he leaned in close, forcing his tongue into Crowley’s mouth.

The kiss was long and merciless all while Crowley struggled against it. When the priest finally pulled away, he brought his fingers back to the ginger’s neck, shaking his head.

“Oh, but it’s too late. One single rumor, one single lie from those sinful lips of yours, and I am ruined. I’m sorry, my darling rose. I simply cannot afford loose ends.”

With that Lucian licked his lips, bringing his hands down to crush Crowley’s windpipe. Quick as it was, it was terribly painful. Pure terror flooded Crowley as his abused lungs gasped, desperate to draw breath only to be denied air over and over and over again– 

The last thing he saw before his heart gave out was Lucian’s cruel green eyes locking with his.

A small eternity later, he came to, standing.

“What is this? The backyard? The lake–”

Crowley stopped, bringing his fingers to his neck. It should be hurt– bruised, at the very least– after what Lucian had done to him.

Lucian …

Crowley looked up and that was when he saw it: the dark-haired priest was standing by the water’s edge, dragging something behind him. It was a person. A thin young man with ginger hair and a throat stained blue with fingerprints.

It was–

Crowley sunk to his knees, as Lucian dragged the body into the lake, dunking it below the surface.

He watched it sink lower and lower into those murky depths, deep down into the mud.

Crowley watched his dead body fade from sight, his frozen hazel eyes still wide open, terrified and betrayed.

If he had a physical body, he would have fallen to his knees and thrown up. Instead Crowley floated , a force beyond his understanding soothing him, dulling his emotions, tucking his memories away where they couldn’t hurt him as it drew him away from the lake, away from Lucian, and back into Beelzebub’s house.

For better or for worse, it was his to haunt now.

Chapter Text

Crowley broke down and told Aziraphale everything. The lust. The hate. The violence. All of it. Afterwards Aziraphale walked his phantom home and neither of them left their haunted house for the rest of the week.

One benefit of Crowley’s returned memories was that they confused the Ghost Rules. That meant for the first time since he had met the ginger, Aziraphale could actually hug him. Actually hold him.

So he did.

In the beginning days, Crowley was the one who cried, Aziraphale petting his hair and comforting him, tucking him into bed each night where he would fade into phantom form once again. Later on, it was the novelist who was crying. Unlike Crowley, he wasn’t quiet about it. No. Aziraphale spent the tail end of his week as a sobbing sniffling mess and his ghost loved him anyway, sitting in his lap and taking care of him with such gentle softness.

On Saturday, both men found that they were done with crying. Instead they tried their hand at living. Aziraphale was in the middle of winning a chess game against his ginger ghost– whose hands couldn’t decide if they were allowed to hold the pieces– when Crowley sat straight up, inhaling sharply.

“I’ve solved it,” he whispered, his rook slipping through his fingers, clattering against the floor.

Aziraphale pushed the chessboard aside, leaning forwards.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve decided what I want to do to Lucian. That fear? That terror he put in me? I want him to feel all of it. I want it to hurt. So we’re going to haunt him. Together.”

Aziraphale swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest. Because yes, this was just what he wanted. The second day after Crowley’s memories came back, he had paced the house, hands balled into fists, ready to go to Angelia’s church and tear Lucian’s throat out. The author needed to kill the priest for what he did to Crowley but Crowley… Crowley hadn’t wanted that. Instead he had slumped against Aziraphale, urging him to put his hands to better use. They had gotten drunk and cuddled for hours, with the ginger ghost flickering back and forth between solid form and phantom form. (Aziraphale was hungover the next morning; Crowley was not. Such were the perks of ghosthood.)

So this… Yes, this was excellent. But was Crowley implying…

“Together? Do you mean–”

The phantom nodded.

“Possession.”

“O-oh.”

“I feel like the Ghost Rules would let it happen. I mean, it is a big deal spooky thing, after all. I’ve never tried it before. Too many ethical issues. But if you’re willing, angel… Well, I’d just need to find a receptive body and let myself in. Yes, it’s definitely possible, my intuition’s telling me that much. Just harder than you’d think.”

‘Receptive body?’ ‘Harder than you’d think?’

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, trying and failing to cool his rapidly heating face.

“I’m not going to go there,” he muttered.

Crowley, wicked thing that he was, didn’t let him get away with his aside.

“Oh? Aren’t you? Well here are the facts, Aziraphale: I need a body and I’m thinking about inhabiting yours. What do you think? Then again, a ginger and a blond… An angel and a demon…” Crowley flashed the novelist a truly devious grin before winking. “We’d probably explode.”

Aziraphale flushed violently before he cleared his throat, tapping his fingers against his legs as he tried and failed to get all sorts of inconvenient thoughts out of his head.

“You should really be more careful, you know. It was one thing running that mouth of yours while you were a ghost. But now…”

Aziraphale leaned in with a wicked grin of his own.

“Now I can do something about it.”

—

Two hours later, Aziraphale rebuttoned his waistcoat while Crowley helped him fix his bow tie.

“Right,” the blond murmured drowsily. “What were we talking about?”

Crowley smirked at that.

“How I should be careful about how I run my mouth.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a little huff.

“Oh believe me dear, I remember that part. I meant before.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, shooting to his feet.

“Possession! I was going to possess you. Okay, I’ve got this just– Just sit down.”

The ginger guided him to a table, switching rapidly back and forth between ghost form and solid form as Aziraphale settled into a kitchen chair.

“Right. I’m sitting. What now?”

Crowley paced the room, running his hand through his hair before stopping in front of the novelist.

“The Ghost Rules say we both have to hold hands and close our eyes. Then while you’re not looking, I’ll fade into my phantom form– fade into you.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. He trusted Crowley, really, he did, but this was all so… unprecedented.

“Are you certain, my dear?”

Crowley nodded.

“Remember in the church when you made up that thing about the floor being lava? I think this works similarly. Like flying in a lucid dream. It’s less about what makes sense in the grand scheme of things and more about what makes sense to me . To my imagination.”

Aziraphale hummed, pursing his lips together. That actually did seem to make sense. Imagination clearly drove Crowley. Well, imagination and emotion. His haunting and his returned memories had only been made possible through the phantom’s bouts of passion– be that protective anger or good old fashioned butterflies.

The novelist closed his eyes, feeling the now-familiar wonderful sensation of Crowley’s hands on his. A moment later the feeling faded and then… And then Aziraphale’s eyes were opening of their own accord and Crowley… 

Crowley was with him . That was the only way to describe it, really. It was as though Aziraphale was wrapped up in his arms and it was soft and warm and–

And Crowley’s voice was in his head, speaking in gentle tones.

“Now don’t go all the way under, angel.”

“Sleepy,” Aziraphale murmured.

“I know, that’s how it’s supposed to be. You can think of possession sort of as an extreme case of sleepwalking. Actually, never mind. It’s not like that at all.”

“It’s like I’m being cuddled…”

“Mmm. Just stay with me, Aziraphale. I have control of your body but I want your mind alert. I want you to be able to stop me if you need to. Try–”

There was a familiar pleased hiss.

“Try giving yourself a hug.”

The writer tried and found it took much longer than usual to get his arms to follow his command. To lift and wrap himself up, all cozy and safe.

“That’s a good angel. How does it feel?”

“Quite pleasant, actually, and– Oh stop that. I can hear you thinking of making a dirty joke.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth open, heard himself laugh out loud, but the cackle that escaped his lips was very much Crowley’s .

“Can you really? Hear me thinking?”

This time Aziraphale was the one to laugh, chuckling softly to himself as Crowley moved their shared body, navigating them in front of a mirror. In it, Aziraphale could see himself– could see Crowley– flushing.

“Why? Because you’re thinking all sorts of sweet things about me?”

“Ngk.”

Silly thing, you’ve all but confirmed it.

“I can’t,” Aziraphale assured him. “Only when you’re making an effort to ‘talk’ or whatever this is. I just know you, my dear.”

“Fair. Alright, now you sit tight. I’m going to take you for a ride.”

Aziraphale pushed back against Crowley’s essence, raising a single bitchy eyebrow.

“Not like– Ugh. Angel, you are driving me insane.”

Aziraphale shrugged, pushing against Crowley’s control to speak through his mouth rather than in his mind. They had three modes of communication, it seemed: Aziraphale had his thoughts, which were private. Then he had… Well, whatever rules of possession meant he could speak inside his head, allowing Crowley to hear and mentally reply. Then there was talking normally.

“Oh, but that can’t be helped, can it? Not after you’ve corrupted me so beautifully.”

Crowley hissed out loud, sticking out Aziraphale’s tongue and then blushing at the sight. The blond relaxed then, giving his darling phantom full control of his body and surrendering himself to that tantalizing sleepiness that was his beloved’s essence.

He was vaguely aware of his body sauntering around the kitchen in his partner’s silly way, legs floundering as if they were made of soup rather than skin and bones. But it seemed that possession was a two-way street; while Crowley was controlling Aziraphale’s body, the novelist was able to peer into his mind. Into his memories.

  He could see them now, feel the love. And there was so much love in Crowley’s life. He saw two red-headed girls around ten years old jumping and laughing. He saw an older couple chuckling to themselves as a sleek black car screeched its way into the driveway ten minutes after curfew. He saw Crowley’s beloved snake, Noodle. And really, it was such a wonderfully intelligent creature…

And then there was him .

Lucian Morningstar.

Aziraphale could see it now, flashing in front of him. The way Lucian called Crowley the cruelest things. The way he hurt him. The way he held him down and took and took and took .

A soft voice in his mind washed Aziraphale’s anger away.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“The test drive was great, but I need you back now.”

With great effort, Aziraphale nodded, replying aloud, “Very well. So you can walk me around and throw me down onto couches. What else is on the agenda? Taking things to the bedroom, perhaps?”

Crowley laughed aloud at that, and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of his own face making a very uncharacteristically mischievous expression in the mirror.

“As tempting as that is, tonight’s haunting is our priority.”

Aziraphale relaxed, giving Crowley more control. A moment later he felt himself jump, but he didn’t fall. No, the novelist was hovering three feet off the ground. And his eyes… Crowley had found a way to make them glow golden.

“What do you think, angel?”

What did he think? What did he think?!

“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale breathed while Crowley rolled his eyes, muttering something about fancy flashy angels and their fancy flashy words in his head before using the blond’s mouth to speak out loud.

“It’s perfect. We’ll strike tonight.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, creaking open the door of Angelia’s church and stepping into the moonlit buliding. He and Crowley had spent the entire afternoon practicing sharing a corporation and had found the perfect balance of control. The novelist was fully present at the moment, not lost to that phantasmal daze that was Crowley’s occult presence, but physically speaking, the ghost was the one calling the shots. He was the one who was moving Aziraphale’s feet across the floor in that hoppy little walk of his.

The ginger– who was, technically speaking, blond at the moment– had assured Aziraphale moments earlier that the church floor was no longer hurting him. Apparently the Ghost Rules had decided that Crowley should not be treated as a ghost while he was wearing a mortal body. It would be unfair to his host, after all.

The novelist chuckled to himself before lifting his wrist to cover his mouth and feign a cough. As amusing as his partner’s imagination may be, now was not the time for humor. Not when he and his beloved phantom were lying in wait.

He could feel it– the golden threads of anxiety that laced Crowley’s essence. The way his own heart– the heart he now shared with his love– was beating wildly in his chest.

“It’s alright,” he whispered in his mind, immediately feeling those sharp amber coils ease. “We’re doing this together.”

Crowley nodded, walking himself to the center of the church and taking a minute to admire the windows. Such beautiful, colorful things. The ginger was more vibrant, more vivacious, and much more brilliant than all of them and yet… And yet he had been killed trying to capture their beauty. If Crowley had never gone to photograph the church, he never would have met Lucian, and if he never met Lucian–

If he never met Lucian he would still be alive.

Because of that, Aziraphale wanted to tear out every glass panel by hand. He wouldn’t stop until he could bleed a lake of his own, like the one Crowley’s body had been carelessly dumped in, as if he were some disposable thing rather than a priceless treasure the author would always cherish and never, ever harm–

“Angel,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s mind. “I love you.”

With those four words, Aziraphale’s anger dissipated, fading into a muted sort of fury, rather than the tempest that would have him tearing down Lucian’s church brick by brick.

The blond blinked, his eyes stinging as a rogue tear fell, sliding down his cheek. Crowley lifted a hand and wiped it away with a touch so gentle Aziraphale feared he would melt.

The writer looked up, gazing at the church ceiling.

Now was the time to pray. Or it would be if he were religious. Still, the novelist had faith in one being and one being alone. A being that, to his knowledge, was no god.

“Crowley,” he breathed, bringing his fingers to his lips. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley .”

A sharp voice rang out from in front of him, pulling Aziraphale from his prayers and Crowley from his rest.

“Are you here to confess?”

Aziraphale felt himself go limp, overcome by Crowley’s essence flaring around him. He surrendered to it, giving the ghost full control.

Crowley stepped closer to the priest, shaking from his rage. Rage and delight. For the first time in seven years, he was no longer powerless. He could touch. He could hurt. He could haunt .

“Seven years and still the same pickup line. It’s pathetic.”

Lucian’s eyes widened before he shook his head subtly, straightening his posture.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my sweet rose.”

Rose? Rose?!  

Aziraphale’s fury grew inside him but he didn’t take the reigns from Crowley. No, he stayed back, cloistered away in a cozy corner of his mind, watching the showdown.

“Rose?” Crowley repeated.

The priest nodded, his lips curling to reveal a gleaming predatory smile.

“Yes. Your cheeks are so brilliantly flushed– almost like a cherub’s. It’s simply divine. I want to do unspeakable things to you, angel. That’s why you came to my church tonight, isn’t it? To recieve grace?”

Aziraphale recoiled, unable to stop himself from wincing at Lucian’s words.

To hear the endearing title Crowley always called him coming from this monster’s lips… It made him want to vomit. (But that was an impossibility given that he was currently possessed.)

Sure enough, Crowley responded in a snarl.

“Only I get to call him angel.”

Lucian blinked at that, his eyes widening as he tried to parce the strange man in front of him. The man who, currently unbeknownst to him, was actually a group of two.

“What?”

“Pathetic,” the ghost snapped. “Same pickup line and same nickname? Tell me, how many others were there? How many lovers did you hurt and haunt and dump in that fucking lake?! ”

Lucian stumbled back, the blood draining from his face until his cheeks matched the color of the Cheshire Cat moon outside.

“Crowley.”

“That’s right,” the phantom drawled, stepping closer as Lucian backed away from him. “Like my vessel? I didn’t think blonds were your type but I was wrong about a lot, wasn’t I, Lucian? For one, I assumed you gave a shit about me. I’ve met someone who cares about me now. Someone who’s kind and gentle and honest. Someone who would never, ever hurt me like you did.”

Aziraphale felt his lips lift into a soft smile.

“A real angel.”

“It can’t be,” the priest babbled, shaking his head, his hands trembling at his sides. “This isn’t possible.”

“Oh, but it is. I’m right here, Father. Your little rose is back but this time you’re going to fucking choke on my thorns.”

With that, Aziraphale felt the familiar pricking sensation behind his eyes as they shifted from blue to gold. And then he was levitating, flying higher and higher until he had reached the ceiling of the church.

Meanwhile Lucian ran for the door, sobbing and throwing himself against its handle because Crowley had locked him inside. The phantom wearing Aziraphale’s body was zooming forwards in the air now, approaching the priest and sending pews toppling over in his wake.

An agonized scream tore its way out of Aziraphale’s mouth as he flew. It was Crowley’s: a cry for all he had lost and all he would never have because of Lucian Morningstar. The ghost shot forwards, tearing chandeliers from the ceiling and hurling them through the air at the priest.

“Apologize!” he cried. “Apologize!”

Crowley’s essence was trembling around Aziraphale, so furious and terrified and oh so tired . There was a hopelessness to his heartbreak– the knowledge that even right now, even with this revenge, he could get justice but could never get his life back.

“Apologize!”

The wave of pure emotion was just too much. Aziraphale stepped in, not taking the reigns back from Crowley, but merely sharing them, splitting control over his body.

The poor ghost registered the shift with a gasp and a little sniffle and– 

Fuck it, the windows were going.

With a supernatural strength Aziraphale didn’t know he possessed, he lifted his arms, willing the colored glass panels to shatter, to fly through the air, to rain down on the floor around Lucian.

A sliver from the far right window– the one that had depicted Raphael the starmaker– sliced the priest across the cheek and he fell down, wincing and clutching himself as he shook.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Crowley lowered himself to the floor, boxing Lucian in against the door with a few steps forwards, towering over him with wild golden eyes.

Aziraphale reached out his hand, brushing Lucian’s throat but Crowley pulled him back, shaking his head. He didn’t want Morningstar dead; he wanted him haunted. Ruined .

“I’ll do anything, Crowley. Anything,” the priest gasped.

Crowley bit his lip– Aziraphale’s lip– as if he was considering. Then knelt down, lowering himself so that he and Lucian were at eye level.

“I think it’s your turn to confess now, Father.”

Chapter Text

Crowley’s funeral was a week later. A week after Lucian Morningstar, wide-eyed and rambling, ran down to Angelia’s police station and confessed to the murder of Anthony J. Crowley along with a dozen other young men over the past decade. Crowley had been bad luck, the priest had babbled with a wild look in his eye, being the thirteenth.

Crowley was not the Serpent of Eden.

He was not Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate.

He was not Raphael, the starmaker who hung the constellations in the sky.

He was Judas– the fall and fate of Lucian Morningstar.

Or at least, that was what the former priest was telling anyone who would talk to him, which was quite a lot of people. Ever since he confessed, the press had swarmed Angelia, all too eager to fill tabloids with not only the story of a holy man turned murderer, but also of a priest who had gone insane, rambling about ghosts and specters and gingers who wouldn’t fucking stay dead.

Michael had drained the lake by Beelzebub’s house at the press’s insistence and sure enough, the bodies were all there. Thirteen men whose lives had been stolen from them. Some were were red-headed, young and slender; others were dark-haired, short and muscular. Really, it seemed Lucian would take whoever he could find. 

Interviews found that his modus operandi was the same: he would pick out a handsome face in his congregation– someone harmlessly passing through town who could be killed without consequnces– and flirt. Then he would lie in wait. When the object of his affection made a move to meet with him in private, the two men would begin a very emotionally intense relationship. Lucian would grow possessive, then disinterested. Then, when his partners made a move to win him back, he would kill them and drag them to the lake. 

They were his roses, and Lucian Morningstar had assembled quite the bouquet for himself.

At Crowley’s request, Aziraphale had stayed home the day they drained the lake. He didn’t want to see the corpse Crowley was or any of the other bodies Lucian had created. He wanted to picture the Crowley he knew– a man who, while not technically mortal, was sweet, fierce, and very much alive .

When Michael had asked after Crowley and his next of kin, the novelist spent the weekend discussing the prospect of a funeral with his beloved ghost. In the end, the phantom had decided that he wanted to be buried in Angelia. He wanted his family to come. It would be his way of saying goodbye.

And it would be goodbye: ever since they had haunted Lucian, Crowley had been… floatier. He would fluctuate rapidly, acting as a true phantom in public, while being as solid and opaque as a 1933 Bentley when he was alone with Aziraphale.

The writer would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Crowley’s current state. Having him corporal at home was… Well, it was just perfect. They could hold each other. Kiss. Cuddle. And, of course, put Crowley’s alleged allosexuality to the test. 

(A test both men passed with flying colors. And yes, the ginger was perpetually merciless with his necrophilia jokes.)

Then again, Aziraphale was dreading it a bit. The ending. Because in public… Well, the novelist had always been able to see and hear Crowley’s ghost form but now… Now it was growing blurry. Both men knew the day would soon come when Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see the ghost at all. Which was the point, of course. Crowley had been so vivacious in life; it only made sense that he would be the same in death. Who was Aziraphale to tie him down when he had already been trapped in Angelia against his will, forced to act against his nature, and haunt instead of finding a home?

The dead weren’t supposed to stay on Earth, confined to a single town. Aziraphale didn’t know what he believed– if he thought death was the end, or a new beginning, or just a journey to a different place– but he did know that Crowley deserved so much more than a phantom life.

So when the time came– and it was coming soon– he would let him go. And it would hurt more than anything, but he would have to. Really, he didn’t know how he would take it. Maybe the pain would dull with time, like an ocean tide crashing against the same cliff face day after day, rendering jagged edges blunt.

Crowley shifted at his side, reaching forwards and trying and failing to squeeze his hand. That was enough for Aziraphale to wave his unwanted thoughts aside and turn his full attention to the beautiful being next to him. Yes, unlike before, Crowley was in his ghost form and the author could… Well, he could quite literally see through him if he squinted.

The poor thing was crying, sniffling away and Aziraphale couldn’t touch him . Fucking Ghost Rules. Crowley’s imagination, wonderful as it was, could be a real bitch. 

“I’m alright, angel,” the phantom finally whispered, looking up from his hands. “I’m glad to see them again, really, I am, it’s just… Just so much .”

Aziraphale followed his gaze to them : Crowley’s family. He recognized the older couple from the phantom’s memories along with the girls– though in the glimpses he had caught from his beloved’s mind, they were much younger; on the cusp of secondary school rather than on the brink of adulthood.

They were burying Crowley, giving him the peace he needed, treating his body with the respect it deserved. And yes, they were crying, but there was also an element of finality to the event– a strange, twisted sort of relief. After all, they had spent the past seven years not knowing –  

Aziraphale shuddered. Of all the horrors in the world, to lose a child…

Crowley leaned closer, as if reading his thoughts.

“The closure will be good for them, trust me. They won’t move on– you don’t ‘move on’ from a loss like this– but this funeral is a gift. You let them bury their son. Thank you, Aziraphale I– I–”

Aziraphale’s lips lifted into a small smile.

“Am at a loss for words?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley was sobbing by the end of the ceremony. He followed his family to the border of Angelia. He watched them drive away. He stayed, kneeling in the dirt until they left.  

They faded away; he let them.

—

As the weeks passed, the invisible timeline governing Crowley’s fading became increasingly clear.

“The anniversary of my death was a few days ago,” the ginger whispered to Aziraphale in early September. He was transparent most of the time now. In fact, there were only a few hours a day when he was a man and not a phantom. 

“We don’t have long now until I fade. I think–”

He swallowed, his gaze flitting up to the ceiling.

“I think we spent our time well.”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to stop his tears from falling. Because really, they had . During Crowley’s time as a ghost, both men had experimented with the limits of possession– and discovered that there was very little they couldn’t do. Yes, the ginger’s haunting truly knew no bounds, and it turned out the man’s penchant for speeding had stuck post-mortem in the form of late night flights over Angelia.

And when Crowley was solid… God, what didn’t they do? Their time together then was filled with cuddles and dancing and all sorts of exhilarating mischief. Yes, the past few weeks, short as they were, had been the best of the novelist’s life. It wasn’t even a competition.

“Somehow I thought I could save you without losing you,” Aziraphale finally managed to choke out.

Crowley chuckled at that, his lips curling upwards in a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Oh, my hedonistic angel. Most people don’t even get one life. Not really. You’ve given me two. I’ve lived more with you this summer than most people ever will. My time with you has been my heaven.”

“I know.”

Aziraphale blinked his tears away only for another wave of emotion to overcome him, leaving him sobbing again.

“I want more.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to cry, sniffling quietly as he stepped as close to Aziraphale as he could.

“I know.”

— 

That night Crowley prayed over Aziraphale’s sleeping body. He was doing his job as the angel’s guardian demon, just like he the first night they met and every evening after. God might not answer his wishes, but his lover would. He was his heart, after all.

The novelist was a man of many words; Crowley was not. The ghost had spent his time with Aziraphale blessed with all sorts of eloquent rambling and witty barbs as well as unfairly flirtatious remarks.

That said, his last words to his beloved author were succinct. The angel probably would have done a better job at saying goodbye.

“ Live ,” Crowley whispered, taking advantage of his lingering physical form to take Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Go out and live, you vivacious thing. Take the photographs I couldn’t. Fall in love. Move on; it will only hurt me a little. I love you, Aziraphale. I love you with my whole heart, and if I never get to speak to you again, know that you were everything to me."

Crowley leaned forwards, planting a kiss against his angel’s temple; the next morning, Aziraphale’s darling phantom was gone.

Chapter Text

Seven Years Later

“Like driving a vintage 1933 Bentley through a wall of fire,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, tapping the steering wheel of said vintage Bentley as he passed the sign marking the entrance to Angelia.

The town had quieted down a few years after the news of the Cardinal Murders, as the press had dubbed Lucian’s killings, and was back to the sleepy half-abandoned atmosphere it had in the days Aziraphale was here with Crowley.

“Oh Crowley, don’t worry, I’m coming, darling,” the author hummed, turning down the worn dirt road. “Not all of us can drive at ninety miles an hour; we need a few slow buggers to balance you speed demons out.”

Fifteen minutes later, the blond parked his car and started off his annual ritual. Visiting Angelia was a pilgrimage, almost. It was important to him. He had learned so much within the confines of this community– Changed so much– Loved so much–

Aziraphale swallowed, a wave of pain washing over him. He was wrong about the ocean tides– it wasn’t that time healed his wounds, or dulled the haunting ache that losing Crowley had left within him; it was that his life was growing around the gaping hole in his heart, propelling him forward towards art and music and joy .

Really, when the writer thought about his ginger ghost, the love he held for him was strong enough to overcome the hurt in a way that made the ache almost fond. He was grateful for it. Most people never met their soulmates; Aziraphale considered himself immensely lucky to have found the person he was born to care for, even if their time together was cut tragically short.

The visit to Angelia always came with four steps: Aziraphale would visit the diner and order himself a coffee– six shots of espresso which he would leave untouched and would nurse until it cooled. He would then go to the park and look at the plants– really look at them. When he found one to his liking, he would take a picture. Just a simple snapshot, on his phone, really, but still it was a testament to his love. The novelist would go out and buy a bottle of Châteneuf-du-Pape and two glasses. Then he would go to the graveyard for a toast and stay there until the first evening stars blinked their way into the sky.

The first three steps took shorter each time. Aziraphale was becoming well practiced at not drinking coffee, spotting beauty in the world, and spoiling his faded phantom.

“The key to life is people, Crowley. Did you know that?” Aziraphale asked, sitting across from the ginger’s grave and pouring him a glass of wine.

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘What? You’re saying this? What happened to the posh introverted bastard I fell in love with?’ Well, to that I’ll say I might not always enjoy the company of others, but people are just so interesting. I moved to London and there are so many of them milling about… It’s great for staving off the writer’s block. There’s inspiration knocking around every corner. Oh, speaking of…”

The blond trailed off, unable to contain a giggle as he rooted through his bag for what he was looking for.

“Here we are: the third book of Phantom & Co. Really, Crowley, it’s just marvelous. This story has so much more potential than a mere trilogy. With The Ineffable Enigma I always felt as if I was pushing myself to expand my creative universe. To create sequels and prequels and spinoffs that had no larger purpose other than appeasing the industry. With Phantom & Co. on the other hand… Well, there are just so many avenues to explore! Especially when it comes to my deuteragonist. Wily ginger fellow; I have a feeling you’d like him.”

Aziraphale tapped his fingers against the book before raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I also switched publishers since we last spoke. Gabriel once again didn’t like the romantic angle I was pushing for, and… And I decided I deserved more say over the creative process of my novels. I’m with Pulsifer-Device now. I know you aren’t exactly  familiar with the literary world, and I don’t want to brag, but partnering with them is quite the accomplishment. A ‘big deal’, to put it in your words. Perhaps I’ll read to you later– you know, guard your eternal rest the way you guarded my sleep so diligently.”

Aziraphale poured the wine into his own glass, placing his book gently back into his bag.

“I’m really enjoying this life, Crowley. And I mourn you with my every breath. You can do both, I’ve learned. There are so many memories here, my dear boy. So many joys and so many sorrows. I’d like to toast to both.”

Aziraphale brought his glass to Crowley’s with a smile.

“A toast to you, my darling phantom. To you and to the world that is better for you having lived within it.”