Chapter Text
In the background, he heard more rapid shuffling, the sound muffled as if his ears were stuffed with cotton or he was submerged in water. Accompanying the sound was the pounding of his unnecessary heartbeat and a shaking feeling. It felt like he was being thrown as if he weighed nothing. It recalled memories of Vesuvius (and a right nasty time that had been).
A familiar voice was calling to him. It certainly wasn’t Her - hadn’t been in years, if he was being honest. The voice reminded him of soft sweaters and flickering candlelight, wrapping around him much like a snake coils into itself to preserve heat. It wasn’t the uncomfortable suffocation he was used to associating with his dreams, but as if sinking into a plush bed or a warm comforter.
“-owley? Are you alright?”
The dreams had (thankfully) largely left Aziraphale out of the equation, only presenting the occasional mirage of a being so rude it couldn’t even exist within a similar sphere to the angel. The ridicule, though difficult to ignore but could be more or less shrugged off due to its lack of resemblance to reality. But this time, it seemed that the dream had decided to be more vivid. At the front of his mind, there was the image of Aziraphale looking troubled, reminding him of the moment at Tadfield Airbase before time had paused for just a second. Same worried blue eyes, same clenched shoulders, same worn face.
It was all so familiar.
“Crowley, can you hear me?”
The depth of his sleep grew shallower and shallower. Crowley could feel his eyes fluttering, chest heaving, his throat groggy and thick with sleep. His limbs felt heavy and his back was loose, leaving him slumping over. Two hands were firmly on his arms, securing him in an upwards position. Had he not known better, he might have guessed his corporation had reverted back to a more serpentine form.
“Angel? 'S that you?” he mumbled, still half asleep. His sunglasses were falling down his nose bridge, the bright light flooding in behind his eyelids encouraging a faster rouse from sleep.
“Yes, dear. I’m here. I’m right here,” Aziraphale responded, squeezing one of his arms slightly while navigating his other hand to a bony hip, trying to navigate the other into a more stable position.
(Crowley recalled that night in Edinburgh and his unsteadiness following a quick nip of laudanum. There was a conversation about… guinea pigs? No, not that… A farm? That was it. Though the details were fuzzy, he did remember the angel holding him upwards, guiding him to safety while kicking around the graveyard. What a trip that had been.)
Crowley slowly flicked his eyelids fully opened, looking in the general direction of the voice. Burnished gold met with an oceanic blue, dazed eyes looking into a sharp gaze. Noticing their eyes meeting, Aziraphale smiled gently, though his eyebrows remained furrowed with worry.
“Ah, there we go. There you are, Crowley.”
The demon had to resist the urge to melt in Azirphale’s arms. He could feel the perspiration along his hairline, the slowing of his overzealous breaths. The “coming down” from an episode was always the most tiring part. It felt like all the energy had been wrung from his body as if he was little more than a damp towel. What little remaining energy Crowley could gather he used to try to respond to his friend’s concerned but smiling face.
“Oh, Aziraphale. Fancy meeting you here…” he trailed off.
The angel propped his companion up and leaned him against the couch in an effort to stabilize him more. After getting him to sit up sufficiently, Aziraphale reached into his jacket and produced a tartan (really?) handkerchief to wipe at the sweat beading on Crowley’s hairline. Though the words were unclear, the demon could hear some mumbling from under the other’s breath.
“Y’know, angel,” Crowley slurred, trying to sit up a bit more. “You really don’t need to do all this. Could just…”
He tried to snap his fingers - an attempt to straighten his hair and glasses, sort himself out into a more presentable state. Whether it was sweaty palms or residual exhaustion, nothing came from the attempt.
“Aw, damn it all to Hell,” he muttered in reply.
Aziraphale braced the wavering figure, removing the dark sunglasses and miracling them off to the front desk, where they would sit freshly cleaned and waiting. The tartan handkerchief, having served its purpose, was also miracled away with a quick flick of the wrist. In its place was a small glass of water.
Crowley chuckled. “You really could be quite good at magic with all your whooshing and what have you.” The wrist with his watch made a flippant gesture, which would have been more fluid with more consciousness and steady breathing.
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale murmured, tilting the glass of water toward Crowley’s direction, encouraging him to drink. If it kept the other awake, he would happily entertain the joke. “It’s more fun when it’s actually sleight of hand and less magic.”
The glass was soon emptied of its contents. The cold water made the demon perk up a bit, much like a plant that had been freshly watered (or scolded viciously). He shook his head slightly, slit pupils refocusing and darting around the room. Coming back to himself, he remembered he was in the bookshop.
Aziraphale sat silently next to him, a hand on his arm, watching snake-like eyes move around the room. Though his mind often raced with worries and various factoids, the angel was unable to conjure anything to say. The only thing running through his mind was a simple set of two questions:
What was that? Is he okay?
The angel said neither out loud. Rather, he simply asked, “Do you want any more to drink, Crowley?” and took back the glass gently.
Eyes shifted back to Aziraphale, now more aware and brightening slowly. The usual glimmer of mischief in his eyes was steadily restoring itself. It was easy to forget how pretty, albeit unsettling, Crowley’s eyes were when free of their usual shaded barrier.
“I think I’m okay. Thanks though,” he replied, a hand running through his mess of fiery hair. “Are you alright, angel?”
Aziraphale straightened up stiffly, not prepared for the focus to be shifted in his direction. Becoming conscious of his hand on Crowley’s arm, he retracted it slowly and returned it to his lap alongside its companion.
“I’m quite alright. You just gave me a fright is all,” he responded, trying to sound less shaken and more confident. Uncertainty wouldn’t put either of them at ease, so best to avoid it.
Crowley sighed at the response, closing his eyes and sagging back into the chair. His hands came up to cover and rub at his eyes, exasperation and exhaustion obvious.
“Yeah. I was kind of hoping this wouldn’t happen.”
(Crowley hadn’t sounded that defeated in a while. Usually, his voice was tinged with sarcasm, wit, or venom - excuse the pun. The sentence was spoken in a manner that reminded Aziraphale of that time after the Flood. He had been so despondent, looking around at the remnants of the animals and houses washed away. At the time, he could only articulate three words: “It’s all gone.”)
In an effort to save his friend some face, Aziraphale attempted to move on gently, humming slightly before speaking.
“It’s really no bother, dear boy. We all have issues sleeping from time to time.”
(Nevermind that Aziraphale rarely slept, let alone had done so frequently enough to have any sufficient evidence to even feign knowledge of the subject.)
Crowley groaned into the hands covering his face. It might have been the lighting or the rubbing of his face, but there did seem to be a slight flush on his face. He mumbled something out, the words muffled and indistinct.
“What was that, Crowley?” Aziraphale inquired, all tinges of judgment removed from his tone.
Curse his kindness. It made this even more embarrassing.
“I said,” the demon restated, sitting up and throwing down his hands in defeat, “That I was really, really hoping that you weren’t going to ever see me like this.”
Had he looked in the general direction of his friend, he would have seen angelic eyebrows knit together in concern. The tartan bow-tie was straightened, giving the waistcoat a much needed break. Instead, snakish eyes were focused on the ceiling again.
“Happy now?” Crowley asked, finally turning towards Aziraphale, whose sudden waves of anxiety radiating off the celestial body made the demon uncomfortable. “What?”
“I’m not going to…” Aziraphale stuttered, trying to tamp down his worry. “I’m not going to judge you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh.”
That was all it took. It was like a sandcastle baked in the sun, and having firmly faced the waves, was being toppled by a gentle sprinkle of rain. The hardened exterior, typically trademarked by dark sunglasses and a tilting stance, cracked and fell away. Underneath, soft and unsteady, stood Anthony J. Crowley alone.
Said being cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the vulnerability weighing in the room. A quick snap of the fingers and the spot next to the till found itself vacant, its previous dark occupants sitting precisely on the bridge of an aquiline nose. Eyes, resembling the sun in the evening, disappeared once again behind dark shadows.
Though it hurt slightly, Aziraphale didn’t blame him for the assumption. Those up in Heaven were not exactly known for their tolerance of weakness. Gabriel especially had made that clear, much to the applause of Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel. But, as Crowley knew, Aziraphale very much despised such farces, poorly hidden behind bright smiles and neat jackets. Still, the angel could admit that remnants of those ideas and internalized hierarchy remained swirling around his thoughts, much like a fly around a bowl of decaying fruit.
Holy judgment had been the cause for the Schism. The perceived “decay” of moral fortitude resulted in a swift kick out the door for a significant number of them. No arguments, no forgiveness.
Only holy declarations and sentencing.
Exit, pursued by fire and flame.
Aziraphale was unsure how, or if, he should communicate to the demon his feelings of watching the trials from the sidelines, the scorn he had for the joy others seemed to take in them.
“It wasn’t that pleasant,” Crowley finally said. He was looking towards the ceiling again, chest heaving slowly, hands held to prevent shaking.
“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked for clarity. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I know you don’t,” Crowley sighed.
(If it had been another being, suspicion and mockery would have been at the forefront of his mind. But this was Aziraphale , the being who had once fallen for a prank call until Crowley had disconnected the line.)
“I meant the Falling part,” the demon clarified after a moment of thinking. “You asked about it earlier. If I had done the good thing and you had done the bad.”
Aziraphale looked towards Crowley, unable to meet his eyes due to a combination of sunglasses and respect for the other's reservations. The silence filled the space again until Crowley continued his thought.
“Smells an awful lot like sulfur. Stinks, really.”
He didn’t even wait for a response before moving along with the idea.
“It’s kinda like… oh what’s it called again? The thing with the jumping out of a plane. Why people started doing it, I have no clue, but what do they call it?”
“Are you talking about skydiving?” Aziraphale questioned, having no idea what skydiving had to do with sulfur.
“That’s it! It’s like skydiving without a parachute!”
“What is?”
“Falling.”
Aziraphale took a moment to process the interaction. He had questions, of course, but he wanted to let Crowley get it all out first. Looking over and seeing the other waiting to see if the angel had anything to say, Aziraphale made a motion for him to go on.
“Yeah, it’s all kinds of dark and menacing. It feels like you’re falling for an eternity - and I’m not exaggerating. When you’re finally done, it’s just lots of…” Crowley took a moment to (poorly) mimic the sound of fire roaring and burning things up. “Just overall not an experience I recommend. Far too squeezy and hot.”
The angel knew Crowley was minimizing how horrific the whole scenario was - it was one of the ways to cope with some truly horrific things. Though Aziraphale had never seen the full process of Falling himself, hearing the sounds coming from Hell from the mortals was enough evidence that it could be nothing short of torturous.
“Well, that sounds… unpleasant.”
He had to stop from scolding himself. Sometimes, the voice in his head sounded a bit like Gabriel, though he loathed to admit it.
What an understatement. Your friend describes the process of having one’s holiness revoked and the only thing you can muster is “unpleasant?"
Crowley looked over towards Aziraphale, as if able to hear his internal argument. The air of confidence and indifference and nerves softened slightly. It seemed as though the angel was handling it worse than he had - and he had experienced it.
“Do you dream of it often?” was the question after several moments of toying with the cuffs on his sleeves.
“You mean the Falling part?”
Aziraphale nodded, feeling guilty for having asked.
“Not as much as you might think, actually.”
It wasn’t a lie. Between it happening and the present moment, enough time had passed that the whipping wind and burning brimstone had become little other than a vivid memory, an occasional uninvited guest in his dreams. While Before, it might have kept him awake for decades, now he could usually get away with a nap or two every so often.
“How do you manage it?” the angel whispered out.
“I didn’t. Well, not at first,” came the honest reply. “It got easier with time, really. Having things to distract myself helped too.”
By “things to distract himself,” Crowley actually meant things like having seen Hamlet at the Globe with a companion, dinners at the Ritz, double-crossing bookselling Nazis, and the rare moment when he got to take an uninterrupted trip to the Southern Downs accompanied by an angel and a Queen CD. He, of course, said none of this out loud to his companion. In reality, it didn’t need to be said. Both beings already knew what he meant.
“It was probably the worst before Adam restored this place,” Crowley added, pointing up at the skylight and gesturing to the room.
Aziraphale was hit again with a sense of guilt and melancholy. He had nearly forgotten that the place had gone up in flames right before the expected Armageddon. He had been discorporated then in a misstep by one certain witchfinder sergeant and had missed the burning of the space. Though he never mentioned specifics, Crowley’s eyes that day at the pub had said plenty. The saddened “I lost my best friend” really… scared Aziraphale - for lack of a better word.
(It was soon after this incident and the store’s restoration in which a certain demon made sure to dispose of all candles within the shop, in favor of the “more practical” electric variety. Aziraphale had particularly mourned the loss of a candle smelling of sandalwood and vanilla, but knew it was all for the other’s peace of mind. And besides, Crowley had managed to find a diffuser that was close enough to the real thing. Less practicality could be assigned to the numerous fire extinguishers that had slowly overtaken one of the closets.)
"Oh, don’t look so sad there, angel,” the demon joked, waving his hand in a gesture of brushing something away or clearing the air. “It’s all okay.”
Aziraphale tried to smile, a sort of melancholy thing that he did when too much was on his mind and he was trying to make it seem like not a very big deal. Though his smile was usually a thing like a twinkling star, a forced smile never quite reached his eyes and barely held for more than a moment.
(Angels are not meant to be anxious, naturally, but those who have been afflicted with the condition are exceptionally poor at managing it.)
Of course, having known Aziraphale for thousands of years, such minute expressions were not lost on Crowley. These “wrong” kinds of smiles had historically been most prevalent when Gabriel had been around and it was nothing short of upsetting. Crowley would have probably fought the bastard (physically or verbally - either would suffice) but usually attempted to restrain himself to keep from upsetting Aziraphale more.
“I don’t blame you if it still upsets you, you know,” the angel murmured out, as gentle as a plucking of a harp’s strings. It was nearly impossible to tell if he meant the fire of the bookstore or the falling - most likely both.
Crowley grimaced a little out of habit. Feelings were not his strong suit, and his struggles with communication was little but a further extension of his deficiency.
“It…” he trailed off and looked down and then back up at Aziraphale, seemingly glowing in the light of the sun. If he tilted his head at the right angle, he could swear he saw the silhouette of wings against the worn suede jacket.
“Yes, dear boy?”
He couldn’t bring himself to lie to Aziraphale. Sure, he had told little lies to the other from time to time regarding things largely insignificant - like enjoying the contents of a movie or what rug color he thought looked best when compared to the color of the bookshelves. But this wasn’t about an old Chaplin film or various shades of carpet. This was different.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over it,” Crowley admitted. “It’s not something you can just forget.”
Aziraphale hummed in sympathy. “No, I didn’t quite think that was the case.”
Had it been anyone else, Crowley might have thought the tone of voice bordered on pity. But decades of time had made it explicitly clear that the angel was nearly incapable of it. Rather, his kindness was always genuine and sympathy was always at the forefront of his mind when interacting with anyone (save a few terribly rude older folks who had once made it explicitly clear that they saw his gavotte as less than acceptable).
Crowley looked off to the side. Eye contact would only make this part harder. Before he could say anything, however, Aziraphale spoke up, interrupting his train of thought.
“You don’t have to manage these kinds of things, you know. What good is an Arrangement if you can’t rely on the other?” he noted, blue eyes sparkling.
It is at this point that it is important to mention that demons are capable of crying. Most of their responsibilities involve making others suffer, and sometimes those others include other demons. Crying is therefore a form of emotional catharsis or a sign of success, depending on which position a demon may find themself in. Crowley was unusual in which he had cried for others, limited largely to the devastation of a small group of children in Mesopotamia and immediately upon discovering the result of an angelic discorporation. It was at this moment that Crowley experienced another of his infrequent bouts of crying.
He wiped at his eyes without removing his sunglasses, the heels of his hands covering his eyes sockets. In an attempt to wipe away any evidence of his shame, his cheeks turned red with friction and embarrassment. Crowley could hear the rustling of Aziraphale’s jacket and the light clicking of the shoe soles on the wooden floor.
“Oh dear,” the angel muttered out, sounding closer and closer with every fraction of a second. “Are you alright, Crowley?”
Though the demon might have tried to hide away from the other, Aziraphale managed to gently remove the sunglasses and reveal shining amber. Dark ichor lined the bottoms of the eyes, droplets forming on the eyelashes. Freckles from years under the burning sun were dappled across the nose bridge and red cheeks, much like paint splattered upon a canvas. Aziraphale held Crowley’s face with his hands, feeling the burning warmth of an inextinguishable Hellfire through his palms.
“I don’t know how to-”
Aziraphale shushed him gently, radiating comfort and love. “It’s all okay. I’m here.”
“I just-” Crowley took a breath. “I just wanted to be good. I just wanted to- I barely remember who I was.” He looked away, dark tears slowly trickling downwards.
The angel murmured quietly, “I don’t know much about who you were before. But I know plenty about who you are now. You’re a good person, Crowley.”
“No, I’m not.”
The response was strained but nearly immediate. It was a far cry from that day at the nunnery-turned-paintball arena. There was no yelling or slamming of walls. Rather, it was the opposite.
“I’m not a good person, Aziraphale. Never have been.”
The hands holding his face directed his glance back into the very serious eyes of an angel, irises the color of a freshly cleared sky and burning with all the intensity of the sun. There was a level of indescribable kindness reflected back into golden eyes, both miraculous but also incredibly natural. Crowley had never been able to quite perceive love the way Aziraphale had, often confused when questioned. However, in this moment of quiet reflection, Crowley might have been able to gather the vaguest of ideas as to what his companion meant.
“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” Aziraphale rebutted. “I know you find it extremely difficult to believe me every so often. But please, just this once, have faith in me?”
How could Crowley deny him? It was like trying to fight back against a torrential rainstorm. No matter what one might do to resist the rain, the weather has little interest in doing what mortals want. But this rain, like that day upon the Eastern Gate, was the kind that was welcome - restorative and essential. They had stood together and looked up at the sky, turning their glance towards the first two humans walking into the horizon.
“I can try,” Crowley whispered out, knowing he wasn’t only promising Aziraphale. “I want to believe you.”
This time, the smile spread all the way to the angel’s eyes. It reminded Crowley of a star cluster he had been fond of Before. The stars and Aziraphale had a lot in common, he reckoned. Lots of shining and hope and wonder and awe. It was… nice.
Outside, as if by a miracle, rain began to patter down. Across the street from the bookshop, patrons of a coffee shop raced to escape the water. On the sidewalk, an umbrella was opened and the two women on a date huddled closely under it without hesitation. A few streets over, a retired witchfinder and a medium with curly reddish hair sat down for a cup of tea together.
Somewhere in Tadfield, a young boy and his friends and his dog were being called inside. Down the road from Them, an out-of-place American woman was trying (with varying levels of success) to help her boyfriend fix an old television set that had suddenly, and without warning, blown the fuses in the cottage.
In Soho, through the windows of the storefront of A. Z. Fell and Co., one would find an unusual sight: a demon dressed in mournful black being gently comforted by an angel clad in the same shades as the evening sun and warm loaves of bread. The two stood in stark contrast to each other, speaking in hushed tones and tempered confidence. In the air, warm sandalwood and vanilla mingled with aging parchment and incense with firewood. An electric candle flickered on a nearby desk.
And God looked down upon the supernatural entities She had made, and, behold, it was very good.