Chapter Text
Rain beat on the train window.
Crowley wasn’t sure if the storm that had dogged him all the way across the Channel from France had been the same one that soaked him between boat and train station in Dover, or whether it was a sequence of them and he’d just missed the changeovers in the grey drab sameness and the gusts that splattered water on the windows and made the carriages rock. Either way the storm was mostly out there, and he was in here-- crammed in with a bunch of other people who were happy to be on a warm train instead of out there in the downpour. Even if most of them probably weren’t thinking about how much nicer it was on the buttocks than horses.
By the time he dragged into London-- somewhat delayed by weather and a station issue in Canterbury-- the sun had long gone down and the rain was threatening to turn to ice. Crowley caught the first cab he saw and directed the driver toward Mayfair and his flat, then-- “Oh! Go through Soho first. You know Whickber Street?”
“You want to go to Mayfair... through Soho? At this time of night?”
“Just ride through, yeah? Need to look at something.”
“Your money, mister. Won’t be stopping, though.”
“That’s fine,” Crowley said, pulling the carriage door shut before anyone could notice he wasn’t getting quite as rained on as everyone else.
He watched out the window, shade pulled just far enough that he could see what was going on. As they approached A.Z. Fell’s Bookshop he sat up straighter and pulled his aura in. He could feel Aziraphale in there, nervous and overstrung among several other, colder angelic signatures.
He didn’t really need to see the place, after that, even though the electrics were all on despite the hour and the place blazed in the gloom. He couldn’t stop himself from looking anyway-- figures moved purposefully inside, never pausing or flagging save for Aziraphale, eternally anxious.
Not a single candle burned in the window.
As promised, the driver didn’t stop or even noticeably slow down. That was okay, Crowley thought. He sat back in the cab, closing the window against the rain. He’d seen what he needed to see.
He tipped the driver an extra quid when he got out-- he’d considered being cheap, working a bit of wrath up in the poor man, but sometimes generosity did just as well and he loved watching the humans figure out how to take blessings and twist them into curses. And if the man managed to keep it a blessing, well, that was alright too. He’d just chalk it up to the Arrangement, a little goodwill on Aziraphale’s behalf while the angel was otherwise occupied.
The flat was cold and dark. Crowley waved the lights on, snapped and his extravagant tub was full of gently steaming water. Another miracle saw his clothes neatly pressed and hung up so he could climb into the scented water, sliding down until his he made patterns in the water just by breathing out his nose.
The warmth started soaking into him. Washed away hours of rain and gloom in heat and steam. He’d been out for months-- Hell seemed to want him run ragged, ordering him hither and yon for... seven months, he realized, totting it up in his head. It had been spring when they’d met with the ducks and now it was nearly bonfire night again.
Seven months, he thought again. He let his whole body slide under the water. Aziraphale felt ragged, in that tiny little glimpse he’d gotten before he stoppered his aura down tight. He didn’t know what they could possibly be looking for after seven months that they hadn’t found in the first week.
But then, they weren’t really looking for anything. He’d been here before with Hell, after the Temptation in the Wilderness-- endless questioning and reviewing and whatever else Hell could throw at him, and all the time there was nothing they didn’t already know. This had that same stink about it. A little light torture wasn’t for the actual information any more than this audit was.
Crowley’s body started clamoring for air.
He could ignore it, of course. He hadn’t used to worry about breathing at all, back when the world was new. But there was a lot he didn’t worry about when the world was new, and a certain pesky, pretty angel was top on the list.
The air was cold when he broke the surface. Cold against his wet skin and hair. Cold in his lungs. His stupid rebellious body shivered, and he snapped to raise the temperature in the room.
Okay. No candle. Way too many archangels. And this wasn’t like the promotion-- he could fool Gabriel, sure, but all of them? Not a chance. Might lead them a little chase for a while, but couldn’t keep it actually going for long.
He steamed gently in the tub for a bit.
Might actually be fun to lead them a little chase. Plant a few plots, be long gone when they went off. It... it probably wouldn’t fall on Aziraphale, nobody could expect him to keep up with everything, right? Not under these circumstances. And, well, if the Archwankers themselves couldn’t thwart him, could hardly blame Aziraphale for it when he couldn’t leave the shop.
Crowley dunked under the water again. And when he surfaced, he started making plans.
Still no candle. Crowley huffed and kept going, furled tight into himself. Well more than a year now, and how the Heaven could they still be on about Aziraphale’s shop at this point?
They should have been gone by now, there was surely nothing else to see. This was just abuse. He knew from abuse, by now, and this had the smell of it-- nothing to do with paperwork and everything to do with making sure Aziraphale fell in line, knew who was boss. Gave up his little treats and comforts to look more like Gabriel wanted him to look.
He’d been out of town and back in, Hell sending him all over for the tiniest things, dumping random instructions into his head will-he or nill-he. He knew from abuse. But he was used to it, and whenever he was in town he managed to check the windows.
And there were still no candles.
Crowley stalked down the pavement toward Mayfair and his flat. It was autumn now, the second autumn. Wet leaves slippery on the ground. Nights drawing in. No Christmas last year-- not at Fell’s, with its blazing lights and sign turned to ‘Closed’. No chance to slip in and feed his angel a treat. Didn’t really even dare arrange for a human to do it, not with Sandalphon in there always ready to turn someone to salt, and Aziraphale probably didn’t need to have to face Gabriel down for the sake of a delivered scone.
He was so deep in his thoughts, so intent on his destination, that he missed his footing when Hell dumped his next assignment straight into his head.
By the time he was blinking away the afterimages, he’d collected a bit of a crowd and a cut on his chin. “Right, fine, I’m fine, jog on,” he told people, dabbing a kerchief at his chin to cover the healing. “Just tripped, nothing going on, sod off.”
Mostly they moved; mostly they left. A few watched after him, until something more interesting happened.
Crowley ignored him. He had more important things to do and for some godforsaken reason they apparently included booking passage to Albania.
Autumn was the wrong time to go to Albania, although blasted if he could think of a time that would be better. Trying to avoid the Alps on the way back had taken even more time. The ship journey had, he thought, been worth it-- a nice trip through the Mediterranean and then through France had definitely been more comfortable than his last trip across the Alps-- but had taken more and more time.
He’d stopped in France for chocolates. Not necessarily the finest ones-- he wasn’t willing to take the extra time to swing through Belgium, this trip-- but at least he had something with him, because the archangels had to be done by now, right? They’d be done, and Aziraphale could finally rest a bit, and they could get back on a normal footing and he’d give his angel some chocolates for Christmas and they’d drink til they were blotto.
They were not done. In the one look he allowed himself before closing down tight he could feel Aziraphale’s aura in there, raggy and dim, a pale imitation of the Sacred Angel of Earthly Delights that he’d loved known for so many years.
The rest of the street had holiday everywhere-- bits of greenery and red ribbons and candles, all set for a Proper English Christmas. Fell’s had, again, blazing lights and a sign turned to ‘closed’
Crowley kept moving, taking himself home. He was, abruptly, too tired to even be angry; too tired to rail at Heaven and Hell. Too tired to pretend there was anything he could do to fix this.
Twenty months. Twenty months Hell had kept him moving without any real break; twenty months Aziraphale had lived under that microscope. Twenty months of constant checking, hoping.
Crowley went back to his flat. He set a miracle on the chocolates so they’d keep perfect til doomsday, if that’s what it took. And then he climbed into his big, plush bed, pulled the blankets around himself, and went to sleep. A week of sleep would do him good. Just a week, and maybe there would be enough of him to face all this.
Hail spattered against the window like a round of gunfire.
Crowley sat bolt upright in bed, taking panicked stock of the flat. No demonic presences (other than his own). Good. Nothing wrong with the building itself. He spread out his senses farther, and only felt London ticking along like London did. A little sootier, a little greener, a little--
Bolt upright turned into on his feet and headed to the window. Greener? He’d only meant to sleep for a week, what the heaven--?
Spring was in full force outside his window in spite of the storm. The trees below were that new-sprung green that couldn’t be dimmed. Flowers sprouted in window boxes.
Hell and damnation, not again.
He was dressed by the time he made it to the door, snapped a brolly into his hand without breaking stride. He had to get out there, had to know, had to see-- how long had it been?
There was a newsagent just next to his building, battened down against the rain but still serving. Crowley tossed the man a coin and grabbed a copy of the Times.
April. April, heaven, it was only April. He’d slept four months and he absolutely didn’t mean to but at least it was only four. His feet were already taking him to Soho, dodging pedestrians running for cover and umbrellas that all seemed to be aimed at his eyes.
A.Z. Fell’s blazed in the gathering dusk, but not with the electrics. Not with archangelic power, this time, but with candles in every window.
A snap had the chocolates in his hand. He hesitated outside the door-- there were customers in there, people stepping out and swearing or dashing in out of the storm and it was April and he suddenly wasn’t sure he’d be welcome. He didn’t know how long he’d been laggard, how many nights Aziraphale must have lit this for him that he didn’t show up.
He was still staring at the window when the shop door jingled a moment later and he heard Aziraphale say, “Get in here, what are you doing out there? Your hat will be ruined.”
Crowley looked up. The angel of Soho-- his angel, the best angel, the only angel-- was holding out a hand for him, face lit up like the candles in the window.
“Aziraphale,” he breathed.
“Get inside, would you? And don’t think I’m not going to hear what took you so long, but you’ll be soaked if you stay out there.”
Crowley let himself be tugged inside, into the light of his angel’s regard, and for the first time in two years felt properly warm.
He held out the chocolates. “I brought you these.”
“Oh, lovely! We’ll share them later-- go dry off by the fire, my dear, while I tend these last customers!”
He made his way through the stacks. They looked emptier than usual, although there were quite a few newer volumes among the old familiar catalog. The back room, too, seemed neater, less dusty. Less cluttered.
He couldn’t say he entirely approved.
The battered old sofa sat just where it had, though, with Aziraphale’s worn wing chair across from it. A fire blazed brightly in the hearth, lending heat and light and setting his clothing slightly asteam.
Crowley took off his jacket and hung it on the hook near the hearth.
He was home.