Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hold that thought.

You're the bad guys.

No nightingales.

I forgive you.

Don't bother.

Crowley had been driving for hours, perhaps even days, before he finally gave up circling the length and breadth of the UK. He pulled the Bentley to a stop on a quiet roadside somewhere in West Sussex; it was quiet here. Nothing but rolling hills, wildflower meadows, and chalk cliffs, embraced by the gentle lull of the ocean tides. He felt like he could finally think , like all of the noise of before had finally settled into a background hum. Here, he might finally be able to breathe .

It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was close. Like standing in the ruins of something important and realising the sky was still above you, the ground still solid beneath your feet.

He didn’t know what Aziraphale was thinking. He didn’t know what happened now.

Fuck, had he really laid his soul bare to Aziraphale? Had he given voice to the ache that had long since woven itself into his bones - those ancient, unspoken truths that had never dared see daylight until now?

Had he whispered love - his love - into the space between them? Had he pressed it, trembling, into the angel’s waiting hands like a fragile, winged thing?

Had he really kissed him?

The answer, bitter as ash on his tongue, was yes.

Yes, Crowley - foolish, heartsick Crowley - had torn open wounds that had only just begun to scab, wounds Aziraphale had tended to without knowing, with every softened glance and gentle word. And he had let them bleed, ruinously , all over the quiet sanctity of the bookshop floor.

He hadn’t just confessed. He’d offered - his heart, his centuries of yearning, every sharp-edged shard of who he was.

And now, the silence that followed rang louder than any rejection could.
A cathedral of absence. A prayer left unanswered.

Because Aziraphale had done nothing in return. But what had he expected? Really, what could the angel have possibly given him back in that moment?

No, that was a lie. For a moment, Aziraphale had kissed him back. One, fleeting moment.

Crowley cursed and slammed his hand against the steering wheel, startling a bird that had perched on the bonnet of the Bentley. It fluttered up in a burst of feathers, wings catching the light as it vanished into the sky - free. Freer than it would ever know.

Crowley watched it go, jaw tight. That kind of freedom. The kind you don’t have to think about, the kind you don’t question. That was something he envied more than he'd ever admit.

He wanted that. Shit, he wanted that.

To stretch his own wings, to vanish into the clouds and just… go. Leave everything behind. Burn a hole in the horizon and disappear.

The urge to run had always been there, coiled beneath his skin like a living thing. It pulsed through him, as old as his Fall, as constant as gravity. Sometimes it felt less like a choice and more like a condition of his existence. A need. A reflex. A plan .

He didn't leave the car though, not yet. Fresh air would have to wait; like how he had been waiting. He wasn't sure how long it would take, but it was coming.

I forgive you.

Don't bother.

And there it was.

A crackle from the radio. Just static at first, brief and brittle, before it shifted, tuned itself, and settled into something real. A voice. Familiar. Soft, uncertain, and unmistakably his .

“Crowley? Are you there?”

Crowley closed his eyes for half a second, the sound sinking straight into his chest like sunlight through fog.

He couldn’t help it - his mouth pulled into a crooked, quiet smile, the kind that barely reached his eyes but meant everything . His shoulders dropped, tension leaking out of him as he let his body sink deeper into the Bentley’s worn leather. “I’m here, angel.”

“Oh, oh good.” Aziraphale’s voice came through, relieved but careful, and almost guarded, like he was listening for something just beyond the edges of the line. As if he expected to be cut off at any moment.

“Code words worked, then,” Crowley said, a hint of a grin curling the edges of his words. “Just like you said they would.”

There was a small chuckle on the radio. “I just wish they didn't have to come into play at all. I hated calling you a bad guy.”

If I ever refer to you as one of the bad guys, that means I need to appear to be your enemy.

“Yeah.” Crowley swallowed, unsure of what more he could say. It felt like they were dancing around everything else that had occured. Perhaps the confession and the kiss would just be another one of those impulsive lapses that they folded neatly into their shared history, tucked away and buried under layers of denial.

Aziraphale barrelled on regardless, his sentences increasing in pace as his voice cracked. “Truthfully, I don’t know how much time I have with you. They’re not exactly monitoring my every move, but this entire promotion , it was clearly a ploy to sideline me. Keep me out of the way. They’re barely involving me in the decision-making. I’m the Supreme Archangel, for heaven’s sake! And yet I’m left out of key meetings, handed cryptic instructions, and constantly told everything is ‘under control.’ Still, I intend to glean whatever I can from the fragments they let slip. And once I do, we’ll meet, we’ll talk, and we’ll devise a plan to - well - to stop it.”

Finally, he took a breath. “It's the Second Coming, Crowley. They're going to attempt to destroy the Earth, again .”

Yeah, Crowley knew something like that was happening, though even he had to admit that he hadn't expected it to be as drastic as that. An apocalypse was one thing, but the Second Coming? Not even Hell would have money in this fight.

“Right.” He managed to croak, taking his sunglasses off in order to drag both hands down his face, fingers pressing into the sockets of his tired eyes as if he could rub the weight of it all away. “Right, ngh, yeah. I knew they were planning Armageddon 2.0 but I thought it was just, I don't know, a do over of last time. Shit, shit, shit!”

He was exhausted - of Heaven, of Hell, of the games, the circles, the inevitable endings dressed up as divine plans. And now this.

The Second Coming.

He let his hands fall into his lap, sunglasses dangling loosely from one finger.

“Hold on,” Aziraphale’s voice was a little stern, now. “You knew they planned to do something like this and didn't think to warn me?”

Crowley winced. “Wasn't like we had a lot of time. Besides, you'd already made it clear I had to be careful what I said.”

We really ought to come up with a phrase for when we are being overheard, something to stop the other from accidentally saying something damning. Babbling about ducks and trees having ears just won't cut it, dear.

Nyeah, sure. Something like ‘shut up a minute’, maybe?

Hm. A bit harsh, don't you think? How about something more subtle, less cruel. Something like… ‘hold that thought'!

Crowley grimaced. “I did try. I said something about Heaven ending all life on Earth.”

Aziraphale sighed. “No matter. It's not important. What is important is that we - no, hang on, how did you know and I didn't? I don't think Hell is even involved!”

Another wince. There was so much unspoken, so much they hadn't been able to discuss before everything went pear-shaped. And honestly, even if they had had the time... would they have? Communication had always been a tricky dance between them. They could trust each other with nothing but a glance, read each other in half-smiles and shared silences - but when it came to words?

That was where it got complicated.

Take the first apocalypse, for example. Aziraphale hadn’t told him everything. Important things. Things that could’ve changed how it all went. Of course, he’d apologised since. He'd had his reasons. And Crowley, mostly, had understood.

But he couldn’t do the same. Not now. Not when everything was hanging by such a frayed thread. He had to be honest this time. Transparent. No secrets.

“I tricked Muriel into smuggling me into Heaven,” he explained. “To figure out what was going on with Gabriel. Turns out he didn't agree with a second end-of-the-world, no doubt because he was all goo goo eyes for Beelzebub, and the other archangels didn't take too kindly to the disobedience.”

“You went to Hea- what happened to no nightingales ?”

I adore this song.

Could be… our song. Secret song.

Hm. I like that. Our song.

Our safe word. Something to express how we will always be there to follow the other. Instead of mouthing ‘trust me’, you could say, ‘nightingales’.

Oh, Crowley. It's a little silly, don't you think? To just randomly mention a bird in the middle of a conversation? We're back at ducks having ears!

Do you have anything better?

How about… I forgive you.

What?

Well. If you're doing or saying something I'm not supposed to agree with, but I do agree with it, then I could say ‘I forgive you’, and everyone else will believe the opposite is true.

Tsk. And I might just as well say not to bother.

And then I'll know you understand.

“That was different.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “That was a quick in-and-out, and I was disguised the whole time. You asked me to stay . In the place that… just, that place . And make me into an angel-”

“I would never have let them do that to you.” Aziraphale cut him off, the pain obvious in his tone. “You must know this. He had threatened to erase you from the Book of Life.”

Crowley grunted - another metaphorical spanner thrown in the works. “And what would you do, say no to the Metatron? Nah. Too risky. We don't even know what ‘restoring’ my status actually entails, especially if the Book of Life is involved. No, I had to stay here.” He paused, then added. “Good thing, too. I can be your intel on the scene. Very covert. You love spies.”

“ You love spies.”

“We both do.”

“Hm. Yes.”

Another silence fell between them. This was stretched thin and taut, seconds feeling more like hours. Crowley could feel the weight of it pressing down, heavy and expectant. He shifted, the faintest twitch, more restless now. He wanted to ask - needed to ask - what the plan actually was , what Aziraphale had really agreed to. But before he could open his mouth, Aziraphale mumbled something, barely audible, words slipping out like they hadn’t meant to be spoken aloud.

Crowley froze. He had heard it - or thought he had. The sound was so soft, it could have been his imagination playing tricks.

"What?" he asked, his voice rougher than intended, a flush of heat rising at the back of his neck. "What did you just say?”

“I-” Aziraphale choked out. “I really… I hoped we could have this conversation face to face, but with everything that’s at stake now - I don’t know when we could do that, and Crowley… I really can’t wait.”

“What’s going on, angel?” Crowley gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Talk to me, let me help.”

“Back in the bookshop, you…”

I forgive you

Don't bother

Had Crowley got it wrong? They'd never really confirmed those particular code words. What if he'd been wrong? What if I forgive you really meant exactly what it sounded like, and Aziraphale had thought that the kiss was nothing more than a temptation, something uncomfortable, a sin -

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “Had we had the time, I… had it been safe , I just want you to know, Crowley, my dear…”

Crowley gulped, his breath hitched in his throat and his innards felt like they were burning, twisting and churning with something he couldn't name.

“If you consent to it, though this might be terribly selfish of me to request, but-” Aziraphale took a deep breath; Crowley could hear the hesitance in his voice, that familiar sense of both determination and anxiety that often laced his angel’s timbre.

“When possible… i-if you aren’t opposed to it, of course, you see, well - it’s just…”

“Spit it out, Aziraphale.” Crowley barked, a little more harshly than intended. 

“Right. Yes. Um. It’s just that… I would… very much like you to… do it again.”

“Oh.” Crowley breathed out. 

“If that’s okay.” The angel whispered right away.

Well. If you're doing or saying something I'm not supposed to agree with, but I do agree with it, then I could say ‘I forgive you’, and everyone else will believe the opposite is true.

Crowley sucked in a breath.

Tsk. And I might just as well say not to bother.

It hadn't been a misunderstanding.

I forgive you.

Their coded messages had all worked.

Don't bother.

This was real.

“C-crowley?”

Shit. He straightened up. “Yeah, I'm here, sorry.” He cleared his throat. “We can do that again. Just as soon as you get back.” He paused, frowning with sudden trepidation. “When do you think you'll be back on Earth? How long is this all going to take?”

Aziraphale blew a raspberry; Crowley could almost visualise the angel’s brows lifting, eyes wide with theatrical exasperation.

“I can’t be too sure,” Aziraphale said at last, a sigh lurking just beneath the words. “As I mentioned before, I’ll need to gather as much information as I can, despite being kept mostly in the dark.”

“Yeah,” Crowley murmured. His fingers itched for something to do, to distract from the creeping weight of uncertainty, and so they drummed against the wheel in an uncoordinated pattern.

“However,” the angel continued, his voice shifting - stronger now, steady and deep with conviction, “I will return. Sooner than they expect, if I have anything to say about it. I will be with you, my dearest, and we can be an us. ”

“An us.” Crowley repeated, struck dumb by the clear declaration of intent.

“Yes. I think I should like that. Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”

The demon smirked, an indescribable sensation of hope coursing through his veins. His entire body vibrated with it, causing his chest to ache with something perilously close to joy. He couldn't help but laugh with incredulity, the disbelief that everything he had longed and yearned for since the dawn of the Universe itself was finally coming to fruition - his angel, his precious, radiant, bastard of an angel, was at last within reach.

Though the distance between them was insurmountable in physicality, emotionally they were side by side, bound by an invisible thread; twin stars drifting in a vast nebula - each glowing in its own unique and beautiful orbit, yet drawn together by a gravitational pull neither of them could comprehend. 

Crowley wanted to hold Aziraphale. Kissing him again would be absolutely bloody brilliant, but having him in his embrace? So close, so tight, as though to keep Heaven from tearing them apart ever again.

Heaven was still a big thorn in their side. The Second Coming had been announced not just as a prophecy, but as a directive. And the Book of Life was a very real, very tangible threat. The stakes had never been higher. One wrong move, one misstep, and it wouldn’t just be Earth that faced annihilation. Hell would fall with it, obliterated without ceremony or resistance. Which meant Crowley was, quite literally, doomed. And as for Aziraphale… Crowley didn’t need much imagination to picture what the archangels would do to him once they had the excuse. He’d witnessed their bloodlust with his own eyes on multiple occasions, now. They had been waiting for this, itching for it since the last time Aziraphale dared to stand in the way of the so-called Great Plan.

And with the Book of Life in play, they probably wouldn’t even bother with the Hell Fire. Just a name struck from the page, erased with divine finality. Aziraphale wouldn’t merely die - he would be unwritten. As though he had never existed. As though he had never mattered .

In short, they weren’t just risking their lives. They were gambling their very being - their memory, their history, their souls.

Which, perhaps, was why the next words out of Aziraphale’s mouth weren’t about strategy or salvation. They were something far more dangerous.

“You do know that I love you, don’t you?”

How inconvenient that Crowley’s vocal cords had chosen now to cease function; all that came out was a tragic mix of vowels, unintelligible mutterings and one or two unfortunate gulping noises that made him sound like he was drowning on dry land. Picking up on his obvious discomfort, Aziraphale audibly gasped - as theatrical as ever.

“Oh! It’s all right - we don’t have to do this now. You did your part in the bookshop, and I’m so very proud of you for doing so. I hadn’t… I hadn’t expected you to say any of that, considering.”

“Considering you’d just so expertly pulled off an encrypted message informing me that anything I said would be overheard and that I had to be discreet?” Crowley puffed out a breath. “Yeah, me neither. I suppose I… I realised it might have been my last chance to tell you and… and I’d only just, ngk, figured out that all of what I feel is… well, you know.”

“Love?”

“Ngh.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale was definitely wearing a shit-eating grin, and Crowley, regardless of his embarrassment, deeply regretted not being able to observe it. 

He groaned, thumping his head back into the headrest with a dramatic thunk. “I knew this would be humiliating. Demons don’t love, we’re not supposed to feel that sort of depth.”

“Well, they’re not supposed to feed the ducks, or rescue small children from annihilation, or prevent a lonely, frightened girl from doing something irreversible - you’ve always been a terrible demon.” Aziraphale whispered. “And you have such a big heart, my love.”

Crowley let out a long, guttural groan. “Nnnghh. If we get out of this mess, remind me never to be emotionally vulnerable again.”

“I make no promises.”

Crowley exhaled a shaky breath that might have been laughter - or might have been the last of his composure finally slipping away. “Just… don’t die, angel.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Came the soft response, like a gentle breeze against his cheek. “Not when I have something worth fighting for.”

Crowley didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. His throat was dry, and his mouth was full of too many things he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Eventually, he settled on, “You always did ruin my carefully cultivated sense of apathy.”

The laugh that echoed back through the speaker was soft and real. Outside the Bentley, the sky was darkening, a blanket of deep purple and blue hues. Crowley leaned back in the driver’s seat. “We’re really doing this?”

“We always were.” Aziraphale replied, his voice faint, as though he were suddenly further away. The radio began to crackle with static. “I have to go… they'll catch onto us if we don’t say our goodbyes now. Though, it isn’t a real goodbye. And I will find my way back to you, very soon. I love you, Crowley.”

“Yeah, angel, I… I love you. As well. Always have. Always will.”

Between the fading light and the crackling connection, they spoke it aloud for the first time in 6000 years - a promise, a hope, that fragile thread holding them steady.

For now, that was enough.

~~~~~

It was 1941, and an angel and a demon were drinking wine in the backroom of a bookshop during the height of the London Blitz. Having just narrowly escaped discovery - that not only were they friends, but that they were working together - they were both more concerned than ever at the risk of being caught again. Crowley had even made Aziraphale perform the apology dance for making him go through with the whole Bullet Act in the first place. 

Thus, Aziraphale had the bright idea of creating a coded language that only they understood.

“It’s really quite simple - If I ever refer to you as one of the bad guys, that means I need to appear to be your enemy.” He smiled, and then frowned. “We really ought to come up with a phrase for when we are being overheard, something to stop the other from accidentally saying something damning. Babbling about ducks and trees having ears just won't cut it, dear.”

Bringing up 1862 made Crowley grimace. “Nyeah, sure. Something like ‘shut up a minute’, maybe?”

“Hm. A bit harsh, don't you think? How about something more subtle, less cruel. Something like… ‘hold that thought'!” Aziraphale waved his hands around as if to prove just how brilliant this idea was. In the background of his ‘spectacular’ proposal, the calming lilt of Vera Lynn crooned of nightingales and the Ritz. He swayed in his chair, wine sloshing within his glass, momentarily distracted. “I adore this song.”

He could blame it on the booze, but Crowley was feeling a little soppy that evening. His angel had saved them, after he’d spent a short while lamenting that this would be their last night together. Perhaps he deserved a lapse in cynicism. “Could be our song. Secret song.”

“Hm. I like that. Our song.” Aziraphale agreed, nodding enthusiastically.

“Our safe word. Something to express how we will always be there to follow the other. Instead of mouthing ‘trust me’, you could say, ‘nightingales’.”

“Oh, Crowley. It's a little silly, don't you think? To just randomly mention a bird in the middle of a conversation? We're back at ducks having ears!”

“Do you have anything better?” Crowley glowered into his glass before knocking it back.

“How about… I forgive you.”

“What?”

“Well.” Aziraphale sniffed, looking at the table. “If you're doing or saying something I'm not supposed to agree with, but I do agree with it, then I could say ‘I forgive you’, and everyone else will believe the opposite is true.”

Crowley smirked, despite himself. “Tsk. And I might just as well say not to bother.”

“And then I'll know you understand.”

Their eyes met for a moment. The demon had removed his glasses long ago, revealing those unmistakable yellow, serpentine eyes - glowing like embers in the dusk, a striking contrast to Aziraphale’s own deep, stormy oceans. Something passed between them, something unspoken.

And then the moment passed, as they always tended to, and Crowley soon made his excuses to leave. It would be a little while until they saw each other again, and the topic of secret languages and coded phrases never really came up.

It wouldn’t come up until one terrible morning in 2023.

Hold that thought - we are being observed.

You're the bad guys - I need to appear to be your enemy.

No nightingales - where you’re going, I can’t follow.

I forgive you - I want you to kiss me again, but I can’t express this right now.

Don't bother - I understand you, angel, and I await to hear from you again.