Chapter Text
Four weeks later, Aziraphale went to St. James's Park.
He was comfortably settled on a bench with a book and a tin of biscuits when a slim, dark figure appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sat down beside him. Aziraphale didn't look up from his book.
“Are you sure it's safe to meet like this?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Nobody's watching. I can tell, up here.” Aziraphale had never asked how Crowley knew whether or not Hell had eyes on him at any given moment, but it had never occurred to him to doubt the demon's word on the subject. “So,” said Crowley. There was an awkward silence that lasted only for a moment or two. “How are the wings?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Better,” he said. There was still a bit of pain, concentrated mostly in a spot just above his right shoulder blade when his wings were tucked in, but it wasn't too bad. “They had to rebreak them in order to set them properly. It was a few days before they let me out of the infirmary at all.” He grimaced. “They assigned me a specialist healer. She gave me exercises to do. Three times a day. And I have to check in with her weekly.”
“Sounds like fun,” Crowley said.
“Oh yes, tremendous fun,” said Aziraphale drily. “Almost as much fun as spending an entire day debriefing with a room full of Archangels.” He shut his book and drummed his fingers against its spine. “I left a few things out, of course. Gabriel seemed rather impressed when I claimed to have drawn enough power to make the jump directly into Heaven just from sheer force of will.”
“So he believed that?”
“It seems Gabriel has heard some rather impressive stories of the feats humans can perform when under extreme stress.”
Crowley snorted. “Did anyone remind him that you aren't human?”
“I presume he was thinking in a more analogous sense,” said Aziraphale. “But yes, actually. Michael did.” He tried to keep his disquiet from showing in his voice. “I'm quite sure she has no inkling of what really happened, but ... she could tell I was holding something back.”
He risked a glance over at Crowley. The demon was half-sprawled on the bench, looking straight ahead. “What about you?” Aziraphale asked. “How did things play out... after?”
“The Dark Council,” said Crowley, “is currently investigating Asmodeus and his inner circle. Which is a bit tricky since Asmodeus is a sitting member of the Dark Council, and an important one at that. Knowing the bureaucracy of Hell, they should be making a decision about what to do about his unauthorized activities within the next century or two. In the meantime, I'm still reporting to Beelzebub.” His dark glasses were slipping down his nose a bit, and he pushed them back up. “I can't tell if dear Lord Beez is pleased with me for helping to bring some trouble down on their rival, or pissed at me for associating with him in the first place.”
“Does anyone suspect–?”
“Seems not,” said Crowley. “If anyone noticed that I was drawing power, they haven't said anything.” He shrugged. “If they do, I'll just tell them that I was trying to stop you. They won't suspect I was helping you. Why would they?”
Aziraphale sometimes wished he could be as confident as Crowley. But sometimes ... sometimes, he was glad he wasn't. Sometimes, he was quite sure that his caution, in the face of Crowley's recklessness, was the only reason they hadn't yet gotten caught.
Aziraphale decided to change the subject. “Listen,” he said. “I know you don't like my saying things like this, but I really must tell you ... thank you.”
“Shut up,” said Crowley. He gave a little sniff. “Wouldn't have been down there at all if it weren't for me,” he muttered.
“Oh, stop,” said Aziraphale. “We both know it wasn't your fault. And some good did come out of it.”
“Oh, well,” said Crowley. “So glad I was able to accomplish some good.” He glanced over at Aziraphale at the same moment that Aziraphale glanced over at him. “What good?” he asked.
“The sword I took,” said Aziraphale. “I was able to return it to its rightful owner. A cherub named Elwen. Seems she lost it when she was discorporated during an altercation with an unknown demon in 1253.” He looked up at the sky, where the sun was hinting that it might possibly consider peeking through the clouds at some point that day. “She was grateful to have it back,” he said. “Came to visit me in the infirmary to thank me in person. Twice.” He couldn't help a smile. “She smuggled me in some cocoa.”
“Angel,” said Crowley. “It's nice to hear you have a fan, but you can't expect me to just sit here and be pleased that I played a part in returning stolen property. To an angel.”
Aziraphale ignored him. “The dagger was a different story,” he went on. His smile faded. “It belonged to an angel by the name of Lorieth. They haven't been seen or heard from since the fifteenth century.” He looked over at Crowley. “I don't suppose there's any chance...?”
Crowley turned to look at him, and shook his head slowly. “So far,” he said, “there's been no evidence that any other angels are being held captive,” he said.
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He hadn't been expecting Crowley to tell him otherwise. Michael had said outright that she had evidence suggesting that Lorieth was dead, truly dead, and had been for quite some time. But he hadn't been able to help hoping. He worried at his lower lip for a moment, then looked over at Crowley, and back down at his book. “It's a pity I didn't think to grab a few more of them,” he said.
Crowley made a little throat-clearing noise. “About that,” he said. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. He set it down on the bench and slid it toward the angel. After a moment, Aziraphale picked it up.
“Oh,” he said. “Crowley, how did you get this?” He was looking at a good-quality photograph of the display of divine weapons.
Crowley shrugged. “Spy camera,” he said. “Little miniature thing, easy to hide. Saw an advert in a magazine a couple years back. Thought it looked neat. Works pretty well, yeah?”
Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was terribly fond of his newfangled gadgets.
“I can't just take this Upstairs,” he said. “How would I ever explain how I got it?”
“Not my problem, angel. I'm sure you'll figure something out.”
Aziraphale tucked the photograph into the back of his book. “Thank you,” he said. There was really no way that Crowley could spin this as anything other than an act of goodness. Aziraphale had seen the records Michael kept of angels missing in action. To have answers about even a few of them...
“Don't mention it,” said Crowley. “I mean it. As far as I'm concerned, that picture doesn't exist.”
They sat in silence.
“Listen, angel,” said Crowley, eventually. “I, ah. I'm sorry about–”
“Don't,” said Aziraphale. “Don't apologise.” He turned his head and stared at Crowley until the demon looked up and met his eyes. “For any of it.”
“Right, but when I–”
“Any of it, Crowley.”
“Oh,” said Crowley. “Um. Okay. Right. So." He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "What do we do now?”
Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment, his heart aching over what he knew he had to say. “We should ... probably keep our distance for a bit.”
He thought of the way Michael had looked at him during the debrief. She wasn't the type to just let go when there were secrets to be chased down. “They're likely to be watching both of us more closely than usual, and I would prefer not to imagine what they might think if we were to be seen together.” He barely managed to get the words out. It had only been for a short time, but he had gotten accustomed to seeing Crowley every day, and in spite of everything, he missed that.
For a moment, Crowley didn't speak. Didn't move. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, right, that's ... that makes sense.” Aziraphale was quite sure he wasn't imagining the hurt in the demon's voice. The regret.
“I don't like to think about what Hell would do to you if they found out that you helped me escape,” said Aziraphale. The words were true, but they felt hollow. He wondered if Crowley could hear his own regret. Wondered if Crowley understood.
I love you, he wanted to say. I love you and I'm fairly sure you love me, too, and I wish we could do something about it, but it isn't safe.
“Crowley,” he said instead. “I won't say it again if you don't want me to, but thank you.”
The demon didn't snipe at him, didn't tell him to shut up. He just nodded, once.
Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and looked back down at his book, trying very hard not to think about surprisingly strong, gentle hands, and lips that tasted of spice and smoke. There had been truth in that kiss. He was sure of it. Someday, they would have to talk about that. Someday, when it was safe.
And what makes you think it will ever be safe?
Safer than it was right now, then.
“Right,” said Crowley. “Guess I'll see you around then, angel.” He stood up and brushed a bit of imaginary dust from his lapels.
“You know where to find me,” said Aziraphale, smiling weakly. “If, you know. If you ever need me.”
Crowley returned the weak smile. Then he turned, and walked away. Aziraphale watched him until he was out of sight.