Chapter Text
“Okay. Alright. Okay. Let me see if I’m — if m’ understanding this right.”
Crowley was holding a glass of wine so tightly in his white-knuckled grip that it was at serious risk of shattering. He was pinching the bridge of his nose in between two fingers, pushing up his sunglasses to rub at his eyes and taking in very deep, very calming breaths, so that he didn’t snap and hurl the glass at the wall before it even got a chance to explode in his hand.
“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that Aziraphale — Aziraphale! Killed — killed! — the Metatron.”
“Yes,” said Jesus, very patiently; this was the third time Crowley had asked Him to repeat Himself. It was just that, Crowley was having a great deal of trouble wrapping his head around the fact of the matter.
After convincing himself for nineteen morose months that Aziraphale would be up to his neck in abuse and mistreatment from Heaven, and then convincing himself that, as Aziraphale had done for six thousand years, he would be taking it lying down, and that Crowley would be able to do nothing to protect him as he endured it all . . .
Well, he certainly needed a moment (maybe several) to process that he had, in fact, stood up for, and protected, himself. In a rather unangelic (or, really, un-Aziraphale-like) manner.
“I don’t think Aziraphale’s ever even smacked a mosquito,” Crowley mumbled faintly. He straightened up for a moment to pour himself more wine, only to fall back against the same couch he’d been drinking on earlier, and was now drinking on again. Jesus was sitting in Aziraphale’s armchair right across from him. He had been explaining all of this to Crowley for the better part of the last hour, and the demon was struggling to come to grips with it all. “How could he have done that?”
“It wasn’t on purpose, I don’t believe.” Jesus’s voice was thoughtful, considering. “I got to know Aziraphale quite well in the time we spent together in Heaven — though, of course, you know him better than anyone.” The statement, said so matter-of-factly, made Crowley twitch. “Aziraphale was . . . well. Rather hysterical when I saw him afterward, however brief that was. He was certainly not proud of what he had done.”
Crowley shook his head, feeling slightly ill. He was thinking, horribly, of Aziraphale realizing he had killed someone, even someone as smarmy as the Metatron. The sick feeling of how Aziraphale must be feeling did, unfortunately, override Crowley’s own private victory over the bastard’s demise — because, come on, it was the Metatron, and he was a demon; he was allowed to be a little gleeful over it.
Only of course, it was hard to really be gleeful about anything, given the circumstances.
“And he did that because — because —,”
“Because the Metatron seemed to have threatened you, yes.”
“Right,” Crowley said thinly, feeling as though he had been punched in the throat.
Because, no, rather. Aziraphale had not been standing up for himself.
He had been standing up for Crowley.
Crowley thought he might, actually, be sick — something he hadn’t been since 1827, when he had been dragged Down to Hell for his ‘doing good’ business in Edinburgh and had vomited all over Beelzebub’s shoes before they could even start lecturing him and shouting at him and ripping out his vital (were he human) organs, and whatnot.
He drank — deeply — from his glass, and swallowed back bile along with the wine.
“And then he — he left Heaven,” he croaked out, “and he came back to Earth.”
As it turned out, when he had felt Aziraphale the night before, it had actually been him.
He had been so close, so fucking close — and yet, he had not come, and Crowley had not gone to him in time. Though the feeling of his presence had faded so fast, Crowley supposed he must’ve flown off or somehow miracled himself somewhere else faster than a heartbeat.
Crowley still blessed himself for not having reached him anyway.
“What does Heaven look like now?” He asked — more briskly, because if he kept on thinking about nothing but Aziraphale, he thought that there was a good chance lightning would come down and strike him right there in the bookshop, and then all of his efforts to keep it in (as the angel would say) ‘tip-top shape’ would be wasted. “Who’s running things?”
“I believe that the Archangel Michael has already been taking things into her own hands," Jesus said. “But it’s all quite a bureaucratic mess. It was rather a mess already, however; how could it not be, with all of them wishing for the annihilation of Earth?”
For a moment, anger flitted across His young face, and when He next spoke, Crowley could hear it in His voice.
“You see, Crowley — and I’m sure you understand this already — the entire purpose Heaven has for wanting the Second Coming is because the idea of free will frightens them.”
“But that’s lunacy!” Crowley exclaimed. He did understand it already, and this was a rant that had been boiling within him for a good while, each and every time Aziraphale had fretted over a human making a choice that Heaven wouldn’t approve of. “Your Mother came up with that one, She’s the one who gave them the option!” (Though privately, he recognized, he had been the one to really give it to them. The temptation with the apple, and all. He was almost certain they would’ve eaten it without his influence, anyway; he was just a scapegoat. Smart plan from God, that.) “What’re they gonna do next, go ‘round smiting all the spiders ‘cause Michael doesn’t like creepy-crawlies?”
Jesus nodded, looking grave. “It is all rather corrupt,” He said sadly, “and they do not seem to realize that they, too, are exhibiting free will in all of their actions. And that they have such capacity for goodness, just as humans do, if only they would be more inclined towards it. This is what Aziraphale and I worked to try and help them understand.” He sighed, shaking His head. “We were making progress. But I’m afraid that, right now — and for a while — Heaven is, and has been . . .”
“A bloody mess,” Crowley supplied, shaking his head. “Hell is, too.” He frowned suddenly, absentmindedly twirling the glass in his hand. “Surprised they haven’t come to call, what with all of this going on.”
Jesus hummed. “I believe there is a certain Duke Shax who has, in fact, been sending missives Up to Michael about the massive explosion Upstairs, actually,” He said.
“Of course she would be,” Crowley snarled. He ground his teeth together, one foot beating an anxious, angry tattoo into the carpeted floor. “Bet you anything all of ‘em Downstairs would love to get their hands on the Book of Life . . .”
The Book of Life. He hadn’t actually believed it to be real; not even after the Gabriel debacle. Surely it was, as he’d always thought, just a lie to get the angels to stay in line. Surely, if it had been real, then all of the Fallen would have been wiped from existence after the Great War.
It made no bloody sense — but then, he supposed, neither did anything else, when it came to God.
Though, he also supposed that if he were the one responsible for a Book with God’s own writing, detailing the past, present, and future of each and every being and thing in existence — he wouldn’t much want to mess with it, either.
He really just hadn’t believed it had existed at all. He would’ve preferred that — obviously. Most would, he thought.
But no, Jesus had told him; it was real. It was very real, and Aziraphale had taken it. Aziraphale had taken it, and then he had blown up his halo and destroyed the Metatron, and fled Heaven with the Book clutched to his chest like he was holding on to his own heart. Or at least, that was how Jesus had described it.
Jesus was nodding somberly, now. “Both sides are more similar than they realize,” He said, voice weary.
Crowley jerked his head in agreement.
“Where is Aziraphale now?” He asked in a low growl — getting back to what was actually important.
“That, I don’t know,” Jesus answered (and, honestly, Crowley had always liked Him, but did He have to take so much after His Mother by being so bloody unhelpful?), “not exactly, at least. I do know, however, that he did not go too far. It’s not as if he’s in America, or anything such as that; he’s still on the continent.”
“America,” Crowley spat. The last thing he had needed at that moment was a mention of America.
He drank heartily from his glass, and it refilled itself quickly out of fear of him throwing it at the nearest bookshelf. He looked into it, frowning pensively. Emotion was making his throat close up, and he drank again to chase away the feeling, swallowing tightly enough that it hurt.
“Why wouldn’t he come to me?” He said at last, voice very nearly stricken.
“He wouldn’t have wanted to put you in danger, I’m sure,” Jesus responded softly. “He must’ve felt as though he had already, when the Metatron threatened you. And . . .” He paused for a moment, considering.
“He told me about your — last few moments together. It weighed on him. Heavily. I wouldn’t doubt it, if it had influenced his choices.”
Crowley coiled in on himself at the words, a choked sound escaping from his throat. He had fought against thinking about those last few moments together that they had shared, before Aziraphale had gone to Heaven, ever since they had happened, and now, it was all he could think about. If he had done things differently, then — perhaps things would not be as completely fucked as they were.
(We’ve known each other a long time —)
It had taken every atom of his being, to choke everything he had said up his throat. And it had been so easy to fall into despair (and to fall out of his eternal optimism) when Aziraphale had looked at him imploringly and, instead of returning Crowley’s bared heart with his own, had begged him to come with him, to Heaven, where — he had insisted — they could be happy.
(I need you, Aziraphale had said.
Crowley needed him, too. But in the moment, it had hurt too badly, and he could barely muster up enough wherewithal to tell him that he understood, a lot better than Aziraphale did, just what returning to Heaven would entail. He could barely muster that up, and then he had so desperately, so angrily, so heartbrokenly strode forward, and seized the angel by his lapels, and . . .
I need you.)
“He cares very, very deeply for you, Crowley,” Jesus murmured, sounding far wiser than the age He looked; though, Crowley supposed half-hysterically, He was known, out of the hundreds of names for Him, as the Wisdom of God, Herself. Even in matters such as this. “I will not speak for him in that regard, but I do know that.”
Crowley heaved a shuddering sigh, squeezing his burning eyes shut behind his sunglasses. Grief surged painfully in his chest. He set his wineglass down and folded his hands together over his heart in a prayerful motion, choking back another noise of despair that was trying to threaten its way past his lips.
“We could’ve avoided all this,” he rasped out, words scraping up from his hoarse throat. “I asked him to come with me. To go somewhere we could just be us.”
“He wanted to give you a better chance, Crowley,” Jesus replied, impossibly gentle for Someone so worn. “He wanted to save the whole world, and to give you both the opportunity to build your own.”
Crowley looked up at Him, desperation — so familiar by now — seizing at his chest.
“You’re the Son of God,” he said, before spitting out a question he already knew the answer to. “Why can’t You just — fix all of this?”
Jesus gave him the sad look that Crowley had known He would give, because it was the same one He had given him two thousand years ago in the deserts of Judea, when Crowley had said to Him, You’re the Son of God. Why should You have to suffer?
“Because I cannot wish this world into righteousness”, He had said, then; “but I can give people a clearer path to it.”
“You know why,” He said, now.
“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled, hunching over and putting his head in his hands. “Yeah, I do.”
Silence fell between them for a long moment, before Crowley pulled himself together. It was something he had been doing for centuries, for millennia — since Before the Beginning, even — and he had learned to do it well. Especially where Aziraphale was concerned. He didn’t have time to lose it, if Aziraphale was counting on him.
(He thought, vaguely, of a burning bookshop, and a few miserable, lonely, damned hours without his eternal, infernal optimism; he thought of the faint apparition of his best friend, telling him to get a wiggle on; he thought of clutching the poker-hot steering wheel of his Bentley and driving it through a burning ring of demonic flame, getting all the way to Tadfield before the car succumbed, all because Crowley had been holding it together, all because Aziraphale had been counting on him.
Both then, and now, he had lost the being that was worth saving the world for.
Both then, and now, he had a chance to get him back.)
“So what should I do?” He asked, because it was worth a shot, and advice from the Son of God was worth a great deal of something, at the very least. Of course, He wasn’t going to make it that easy; of course, Her Son wasn’t going to be entirely candid when it came to answering questions.
“You know him best,” Jesus said. “Find him. Help him.” He rubbed His hands together, trailing His fingers over the scars in them, looking absentminded but entirely assured. “Save him, perhaps.”
Crowley closed his eyes again, and blew out a long, heavy breath.
Find him. Help him.
He drew a breath back in, and his heart ached.
Save him.
He looked back up, and his eyes were wet as he asked, “Was he ever angry with me?”
(He needed to know.
The answer would change nothing, really; but he needed to know if he had broken things so irrevocably in those last few moments together, with confessions spilling from his lips and onto Aziraphale’s, only not in the way they should’ve. He needed to know if, when Aziraphale had told him he needed him, it had been out of desperation, or out of . . .
He needed to know.)
“No,” Jesus said simply, looking like He had expected the question; as if He had been waiting for it. As if He had known that it was what Crowley feared the most, after those last few moments in the bookshop. As if He had been ready to show him mercy now, in answering the question so frankly. “He was angry with himself, for a time — a long time. I would wager that he is again, now. Or that perhaps he never stopped.”
“He should never have been.” Crowley blinked furiously from behind his sunglasses, spitting out his words, even as a stab of aching relief pierced through the despair he had felt all this time, thinking he had lost Aziraphale for good for more reasons than one. “He was just trying to do the right thing. He always does.”
(Are you gonna help him, then? Or are you just gonna lie here and feel sorry for yourself, like you have been ever since he’s been gone, while he’s been working to save everything?)
Crowley was an optimist.
It was a hard thing to have been, for the past year and seven months.
But he figured that now was as good a time as any to stop feeling sorry for himself.
To stop pretending like he hadn’t been waiting for Aziraphale, and to start believing that he could find him again.
Crowley opened his eyes. He stood, and stretched, and felt his black-feathered wings stirring hopefully within him.
“You can’t come with me, I’m sure?” He asked briskly, miracling himself to look less like he had just spent the last several days (really, the last year and a half and then some) drinking and wallowing in self-pity — clearing away the unshaven shadow on his face, the disheveled frizz of his hair, the darkened wine stains on his tight black trousers.
Jesus shook His head. He looked gratified, but wholly unsurprised. “Unfortunately not.”
Crowley nodded. “I’ll make do on my own, then.”
“You always do,” Jesus said, with a broad (if a little sad) smile. “But you’re stronger, with him.”
Crowley nodded again.
“I know,” he said — and he did, even if he had spent so long now trying to convince himself that he was just fine on his own. Trying to convince himself that even if he had lost Aziraphale forever, even if Aziraphale was gone, he was fine.
Trying to convince himself that every evening spent in the bookshop had not, in some quiet corner of his heart, been spent waiting for the bell above the door to ring.
But it had rung. And now, Crowley had his chance to get his everything back.
Jesus left soon after, to go back to Heaven. Crowley wondered what things were really like Up there; surely, they had to be in even more disarray than Jesus had said, what with the Metatron — the very Voice of God, given that She never deigned it appropriate to talk to Her angels, Herself, which, all things considered, had really led to this whole mess in the first place, God’s frustrating omnipotence — gone. But he didn't bother to think about it, much; it wasn't what was important right now.
(He did think, briefly, that if he were still an angel, he would be looking to Jesus for guidance — though from the way He had made things sound, it didn’t seem like anyone listened to Him for much of anything. Funny thing, that; that Jesus, the foundation of their theology, was being completely and utterly ignored for the sake of what they wanted. Their personal agenda.
Funny thing, that.)
But Crowley didn’t waste much more time. He had done enough of that, moping about the bookshop for the past year and seven months.
And yes — he was still grieving, he was still hurting, from everything that had happened before Aziraphale had gone; everything that had gone both said and unsaid. But all of that could be dealt with later, especially now that he knew that he had not lost the angel forever — so long as he found him now.
Find him. Help him.
Save him?
He dearly hoped that Aziraphale didn’t need to be saved.
But whatever he did need —
Crowley would give.