Chapter Text
Let Me Live Out My Years
-John G. Neihardt
Let me live out my years in heat of blood!
Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine!
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dusk—a vacant shrine.
Let me go quickly, like a candle light
Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow.
Give me high noon—and let it then be night!
Thus would I go.
And grant that when I face the grisly Thing,
My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps.
Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring
That feels the Master Melody—and snaps!
“Don’t make me,” Aziraphale whispered into her arms, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the expected horror. “I can’t… I can’t see him like that.”
“Aziraphale, do you trust Me?” She murmured, fingers gently stirring his hair in soothing little arcs, peace settling over him despite his decimated spirit.
“Oh, Mother, don’t you know?” he keened miserably, skewered by such a question, after all this, after everything.
She tilted his head, guiding him to look up at Her, ever so slowly. Instinctively, he knew that She would not have forced him had he resisted, and somehow Aziraphale felt all the more fragile for that, like the delicate powdered wings of a butterfly in the face of the tempest-driven winds of Her unfathomable strength. Softly now, he felt Her knowing, aware that it would be nothing for Her to crush him. “Yes, I know, but you don’t. Look, beloved, and see.”
There was no compulsion in the request, though certainly there could have been. Instead, She was endlessly patient as he gathered himself to look. Hesitantly, Aziraphale finally dragged his eyes up to look, dreading what they would reveal.
Water droplets sparkled prettily like a million tiny diamonds where they existed, sprayed out in midair, frozen along with helpless time, which was futilely struggling in the relentless power of Her grasp.
Crowley had stopped time once, all but their little pocket of it, on that last day of everything and the first day of everything else. Stopping time on a limited basis was something of a naughty parlour trick, not considered remotely angelic if for no reason other than the heavy-handedness of seizing that much control. To do it on such a vast scale… it had been an astonishingly bold action, and draining.
Afterwards, Crowley wouldn’t have been able to fend off a stiff breeze had the need arisen.
Aziraphale's exhausted, grief-wrung sigh slid painfully out of a chest too raw to contain it for another moment. He looked upon the frozen tableau before him, taking in a long, last look at his truest friend, surrounded by the water of his terrible baptism, stilled this time along with all else.
Crowley was clear-eyed in his solemn goodbye, tension warring with surrender, as fear wars ever with love. His arms were spread wide but his fists were clenched, whether in pain, or the anticipation of pain, the angel was not sure. The holy water below him held an ominous darkness as it had swirled around his legs, and would swirl again when time started back up. The murky shadow contrasted sharply to the shining droplets in the air.
Holy water was, in all other creatures, a blessing and a force of healing, body and soul both. To a demon, however…
So beautiful, as many deadly things are.
There it was before him, Crowley’s death, frozen in time but already begun. Nothing to be done about it now but wait for time to slip free and steal his friend away forever.
How could anyone so precious have ever been rejected? How could their Mother have let Crowley go?
He tried to scrape together enough heart to ask.
You were an angel, once.
That was a long time ago.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked before he could find voice for his own aching question, smiling warmly at him before turning glad eyes back to Crowley, an unspoken Blessing pouring forth. Elsewhere, a mother found the strength to lift a car off her injured child, a teen on the rocky road to a criminal future had a change of heart, a new sort of flower burst into undiscovered bloom.
A sick, appalled, angry feeling crawled over Aziraphale, like the ghosts of a thousand crushed ants. “His death ?” he asked, voice cracking like the rest of him, hot tears newly burning as they redoubled, tracking down over his skin in well-worn paths.
Though never stating it outright, Crowley had often implied that, in her disconnection from Her masterful Creation, She was cruel. They had argued about it fiercely over the millennia, never meeting in the middle as they had in so many other ways. His world tilted violently on its axis as he found himself closer to shifting than ever before, wondering if it were true, even here, under the warm shelter of Her wing.
The force of nature.
The orator of life.
The seamstress of all Creation.
Not for no reason was She feared.
Immeasurable.
Incomprehensible, even for an angel, tucked up against Her as if he mattered. If he mattered. In the face of Her unfathomable vastness, how could he matter, really?
But She was right there, looking at Aziraphale like he did.
Ineffable .
She didn’t answer for a time, long enough that he wanted to scream, with the small fractured shard of him capable of wanting anything. Finally, She said, “I am the One who sees the sparrow fall. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of Her saints."
“But he’s not,” the angel heaved out painfully, anguish and loss ravaged, as he began to consider, truly consider, whether She was too distant to really love any of them. “Crowley isn’t one of yours, not anymore.”
And he hadn’t been precious to Her for a long, long time.
I won’t ever be forgiven.
Spoken so casually at the time, like some strange, defiant joke, yet even the memory cut like jagged glass.
“Not his death, Aziraphale,” She said, smiling tenderly, as if gently explaining a difficult concept to a confused child. Elsewhere, a little species of bird, the Carolina Parakeet, long thought extinct, began nesting once more. “His life is beautiful. Though Crowley was cast out, your friend still loves the Light. He could have stayed in the pit, cursing the darkness, as do the others, but instead he sought you out… ever the moth to the flame.” She traced a soft finger across Aziraphale’s forehead like a blessing, Her approval open and undeniable, staggering in its simplicity. “You could have driven him away, as would the others, but instead, you were compassionate.”
“He suffered… so much, and for so long,” Aziraphale swallowed hard, thinking of seeing the anguish past Crowley’s easy denial over the years, and in the tragedy that had finally pushed him over the edge.
Smite me, angel. 'M ready. G'head on with it.
“Wounds don’t always wither the soul, Aziraphale; in some, they make it flourish, as the desert bursts into bloom after the rain.” She fanned out idle fingers, and the angel felt Her words truly spring to life in some distant, thirsty land. “Some can drink deeply from a bitter cup without becoming bitter… and you yourself have helped to sweeten him, and he, in his way, you.” There was something faraway in the shining eyes so near to him as She spoke again, gravity mighty in each word. “He chose his fate. He has always wanted to do that.”
She was still, maddeningly, smiling.
He couldn’t bear it.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, the grieving angel took a stumbling step towards the fountain, the darkness of the corrupted water threatening to drag him under. She touched his shoulder and he steadied, despite himself. “Shall we let him keep his oath, My son?” She asked softly, watching him carefully as fresh sorrow welled up from its eternal spring.
“He's, he's in it… it’s already happened-happening.” Not without reason were angels sometimes fearful to look their Creator in the face. Aziraphale feared it as well, but not because of Her inconceivable nature. Despair did not hold a candle to the kind of cutting anguish hope could inflict.
Nevertheless, he looked.
“Can we stop him? Can I Fall, die, anything, anything…please, Mother, please. Tell me it’s not too late.”
“Would you have Me take this from him?” She asked mildly, curiously… “Take another gift from you that he has freely given?”
Pointedly .
His heart lurched as he recognized the night-black feather suddenly in the hand of God, still softly radiating the tender-hearted touch of Crowley’s long ago Blessing.
“No,” he moaned, then, “Yes! No… I don’t know… I just-" He broke off, reaching for the feather, trying and failing to force words through a body too forlorn to speak.
I would not be parted from him, for all the world, even if it slew me, even if it cost me your love, came the silent lament.
He didn’t need to speak for Her to hear him.
“My dear Aziraphale,” and She whisked the feather out of sight. “You know him better than anyone, save his own Mother, and yet you still haven’t seen him.” Her face took on new radiance, burning bright, too bright, even for angelic eyes. “Come and see.”
When She moved, She moved . Scrambling along, heart in his throat, cruel hope lancing through him like a knife, Aziraphale approached the amethyst fountain, dropping to his knees before it when a glance of Crowley’s playful inscription burned like Hellfire into his soul.
She did not hesitate, passing easily through structure and water both, as they were already a part of Her. She glanced back as if to check on his attention, as though there could ever have been anything else that would have had a hold of him now.
God reached out to Crowley, and a wretched panicky wave slammed through Aziraphale. She was the very source and definition of holy, what would that do to a demon?
It was a silly thought really. Nothing worse could be done to him now, and She didn’t sound… She didn’t sound…
Her hand slipped through ginger hair as unruly as the rest of him, sliding down to cup his cheek.
“Crowley,” She said, authoritatively, yet not without affection. "Come forth!"
“Ngk!” he choked out, knees buckling under him like those of a newborn fawn as he found himself, for the first time in a very long time, face to face with Almighty God Herself. Aziraphale leapt to his feet at the shattered sound, but the demon would have dropped like a stone into the holy water if She hadn’t been quick to catch him, easily drawing the Fallen angel up and holding him there while he tried to find his failing feet. “Oh, bless it all, I’m dead , and I’m still alive?!”
Aziraphale had never heard anything sweeter in all the long days of his life.
As shock left, along with its kindly numbness, reality set in. Crowley began struggling, nakedly broadcasting fear and hurt, even as She held him. “You-! I can’t- I won’t- Please tell me it doesn’t get worse than Hell!” he gasped out, frantically looking anywhere but at the One holding him up. “Isn’t it bad enough that I'll never see Aziraphale again?”
“Shhhhh…” Wordlessly, She caught his chin and steered his head to face Aziraphale. A force like lightning shot through the angel as their hearts connected along with their eyes, and Her long forsaken creation sagged abruptly, fight leaving him even if fear did not, as Crowley gazed upon the only solace he'd had for millennia. One long, keening sigh, and serpentine eyes turned back to lock onto the shimmering face of the Being who had first imagined light.
Eternity passed in the soft seconds as She drew the trembling demon to Her, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.
“My good son,” She sighed, voice warm with approval.
In a soul-stopping instant, Aziraphale suddenly saw Crowley… not in his familiar demonic form, but in the true form in which he was created, bright, so bright, flame and light, dancing and shifting, radiant and stunning, golden eyes and spirit.
Achingly beautiful.
Hand clasped over his mouth, the angel sunk to the ground once more, this time laughing breathlessly in sheer awe at the sight of him…. then Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, and there he was again, all mop of ginger hair and physics-challenging skinny jeans, shaking like a leaf with fear and grief and incomprehensible joy.
“M-mom,” he managed. “You still love me?”
She tilted Her head as an impish smile danced on Her lips, and Aziraphale was struck by the sudden discovery that the apple had not after all, Fallen so far from the tree.
She spoke to him, just for him, and a deep and tearful joy bubbled up through Aziraphale as he watched Crowley let out a hiccupping little sob before falling completely into Her arms. She fanned wings of dawn out and around him protectively as She drew him out of the fountain.
Aziraphale knew that a mere angel should not dare to think of even considering interrupting the Almighty at anything. Nevertheless, he all but danced in place waiting for his chance to reassure himself that Crowley was indeed hale and hearty, and that this was not some soothing fantasy of a mind snapped like matchsticks by a wrenching grief too terrible to bear.
Her wings withdrawing, Crowley reappeared from the blanket of pearlescent feathers and the first thing Aziraphale heard was, “Why am I still here?”
“Crowley!” he scolded, yanking the demon back out of what suddenly very much seemed like harm's way. “Haven’t you learned anything? Don’t question your Creator and Preserver !”
The demon made a face at him even as She laughed fondly at the angel’s belated mortification at his outburst. Millions of ladybugs woke from their hibernation to scatter into the Spring.
“Why should he stop now, Aziraphale? He was created with a question on his lips.” She leaned in to them as though divulging a great mystery. “It was ‘Why?’ and then, ‘Who are You?’” She gestured to Herself, before pointing to Crowley with a playful flourish, “‘Who am I?’… and after that," She let out a long-suffering sigh, "The deluge.”
Seeing Her wink had never really lost its ‘surprise' factor, and it had been a very long time since Aziraphale had seen it. Or Her, in fact. And that last time hadn’t been his most shining moment.
He pressed his hand to his warm cheeks and let out a long, slow breath. It was all a bit much for him today.
Crowley didn’t repeat his question, but he was looking at Her steadily despite fidgeting hands that defied his efforts to stop them from trembling. The demon expected Her to answer, and Aziraphale could not help but be impressed at his friend's audacity. “Th-thank you,” the angel stammered, when She did not reply, or smite the demon for his temerity. The breathed words were a mere tear drop in the bucket of the ocean of his gratitude.
Crowley, Crowley, Crowley… speaking, shivering, living. My dear, my heart, my love.
“Sooooo… no answer then. I’m surprised that I’m surprised,” his friend said bitterly, turning away from Her only to freeze as his eyes connected with Aziraphale’s, Crowley rapidly trying to blink away his vulnerability.
She swept Crowley firmly, harmlessly, against Her fiery form and turned, settling on the edge of the fountain, which sat up a bit straighter at the honour. Aziraphale edged closer, hopefully, wanting badly to reconnect with Crowley, touch him and reassure himself that all was well and… it did appear so. His demonic counterpart was here, managing to look petulant despite the wonder of his continued existence, despite being tucked snugly up against the Mother who had once cast him out.
Or perhaps, because of it.
Ah, my dearest… the hold you have on me , he thought as his heart lurched in sympathy.
Aziraphale hovered awkwardly, debating whether it would be terribly impolite to draw nearer, then gasped in sheer, giddy relief when She gave the amethyst edge an inviting pat under Her right wing. Crowley, by now, was so wrapped up in Her left wing that he was almost completely hidden, but when Aziraphale took his place Her wings arched out a bit more, encompassing them both in a safe little nook away from the rest of existence.
He had never felt safer… or more seen, and that, in itself, was terrifying.
Crowley seemed absolutely shell-shocked and Aziraphale imagined he looked much the same. Darting a look at God that was mixed gratitude and apology, the angel stretched a hand out to Crowley, waiting with impatient patience before the demon flicked his eyes down to notice it, and waited longer still before long fingers, chill from shock, brushed clumsily against his own, before finally closing firmly in his grasp.
“Aziraphale,” sighed the demon.
Crowley, his friend, his brother, his truest companion seemed hardly able to take his eyes off their Mother, drinking in Her Wondrous presence like he'd been suffering from thirst for six thousand years. Aziraphale, by contrast, kept his eyes on Crowley, mounting anxiety tugging on his nerves, breathing on his neck.
After all, the Principality had not, in the end, turned out to be what She'd intended, whatever that was. He was not sure what he had been supposed to be; he only knew that he wasn’t. He’d lied to Her, and to Heaven in general; he'd had a hand in thwarting Her Great Plan, sushi and crepes, a million tiny indulgences waved accusingly through his head and above it all, he loved a demon, well and truly, and even now, the strength of his love for his loyal Adversary was still a mighty force to be reckoned with, undaunted and unyielding despite the enormity of Her Presence.
He couldn’t bring himself to repent of it, even if his love made him a traitor in Heaven's eyes.
Guardian Aziraphale wasn’t a good angel; the Archangels had taught him well enough that crushing lesson, and he felt it like an open wound, and his heart thudded all too humanly in his chest as he waited for Her to notice and pass Judgment. It seemed to him like he had been waiting for it forever.
“Long time, no see,” Crowley drawled with exaggerated swagger, and not without guarded hostility, eyes narrowing at Her in a challenge that caused Aziraphale to want to shake him. “What made you finally drop by, then? ‘Cause I don’t know if You noticed, but this whole place of Yours is going to Hell in a handbasket, and I don’t just mean the third of us you've already tossed-eeugh, too tight, angel.”
“Ahh, sorry, my dear, but I really think-"
“What’s the matter with you then? You’re paler than an angel’s backside-" The demon shook his hand free with more drama than strictly necessary.
“Crowley, please!”
“What?” he demanded, “You think She pulled me out of the drink just to smite me now?” It was almost a dare, and Aziraphale negotiated a frustrated, frightened scream down into a strangled whimper instead.
“She’s right here.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Do you have a comb? Should I put on a tie?” Crowley dropped the raking sarcasm abruptly. “She’s never out of smiting distance, you know. What difference does it make? I've said way worse things to Her… and about Her.” In the face of Aziraphale’s alarm and under Her mysterious smile, the demon leveled an impressively cool gaze at Her as he spoke. “I’ll do it again, too. It’s not like we can do anything to stop Her whims.” He turned his attention back to Aziraphale. “Why are you the one frightened of Her anyway? She still likes you, well... enough to keep you Upstairs, anyway-"
“Loves, and not just me, Crowley. You can’t just sit here and pretend you’re not falling to bits inside because She still loves you- "
“Pfffft,” he scoffed defiantly, even as he visibly squirmed. “Well, I’m not going to go on and on about it. Doesn’t change a thing. I’m still a demon. Loving me didn’t stop Her from kicking me to the curb for asking a few questions-" He mimed tossing a ball away with a parting kick.
“Crowley, for all that is Holy- ooh, ah-" Aziraphale abandoned one tactic for another, turning his attention to their Mother again, and wishing She would stop that incomprehensible smiling as She watched them argue back and forth.
Although… considering the alternative…
Nevermind. Nevermind. Keep smiling .
“Ahh, beg pardon, please, beg pardon, I just-mmph.”
She pressed a quieting finger to his lips and the power of the touch set them burning pleasantly, holiness tingling through him, the holy kiss of a burning coal. “Principality Aziraphale, fear not! You are one of my Guardians, after all-,” She tilted Her head suddenly. “Did I not make you to be a Cherub?”
“Ahhhhh… ah, yes, well…” His heart sank like a stone. “I suppose you made me to be a lot of things, really.”
Crowley made a sound somewhere between sympathy and irritation. Her countenance took on a very grave expression and Aziraphale fought for composure as She leaned in close. Crowley spread his wings, such as he could, surrounded by Her own, making as if to leap to his defense, and a hysterical giggle forced its way from the angel at the thought of Crowley being willing to take on God Herself for him.
She reached for his head and his life flashed before his eyes. Worse still, so did Crowley’s. Time consuming, considering the length of their lives, and he really hadn't gotten much past Mesopotamia when Her clever fingers dove behind his ear and drew out a silver coin.
“Tada!” the Almighty Creator of All that had Ever Been announced, letting it roll flashily across Her palm and down Her arm.
“Auwwwno, not this,” Crowley groaned as Her smile broadened with devilry.
Aziraphale wondered if She’d used proper magic or sleight of hand, or if there was any real difference between the two for Her.
It was so silly and playful and insane, Aziraphale buried his face in his hands as he laughed and laughed, until he registered the warm dampness stinging his face and Crowley’s worried, “Angel?”
“I’ve missed You,” he blurted out, wondering at the smooth way mirth slip-shifted into sorrow. “You left us for so long… and the last thing I said to You was-"
“A lie,” She said solemnly, coin still dancing in Her fingers. “Yes, I know.”
“Is that why you left?” the angel ground out painfully, shame heavy and choking. Crowley was already shaking his head, but what the demon wanted to be true had no bearing on fact, and Aziraphale gathered enough nerve to look Her in those ancient, omniscient eyes, though he felt faint as a wilting flower doing it. “Please, I- I need to know.”
Her smile took on a serious air, almost grim, and She did not answer right away. Instead, God held up a finger and the coin rolled right to the very tip before beginning to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
“Proper magic,” Crowley observed, eyes locked on the shining coin with fascination.
“You have found your courage at last, beloved child,” She sighed, pressing soft lips to his forehead. His skin was warm where they landed, a Blessing of strength and peace in the touch, and with it…
Somehow, somehow , approval.
“In the Beginning,” She began[1], “My realm was a gleaming jewel, unified, a place of life, creativity, and change. I did not want a people bound and chained to My will, so I blessed them with their own free will to do as they would, regardless of how I bade them."
“Wuh, wait a minute here. That’s not how it goes. You gave the humans free will. We're different,” Crowley objected. He reached under his collar and dragged out a length of chain, flashing it quickly before letting it disappear beneath his jacket.
Undeterred by Crowley’s objections, the coin, and the universe, kept spinning, blurring softly into a glowing orb. Her smile brightened, and the rainy season began a month early for the African savannah. She shook Her head lightly. “How you continually surprise, Crowley.” He sat up straighter, startled, as a ripple of amusement went through Her… and sailed right through the pair of them as well.
Odd, and a not entirely soothing sensation, that.
“The surprise, my dear, is that one of my most willful creations truly believes I did not grant him free will.” She laughed softly and thousands of fussing babies sighed, smiled, and dropped sweetly into sleep.
Crowley held his breath, frowning slightly as he considered Her words, remaining silent until he noticed Aziraphale’s questioning eyebrow. “Well, ss'not like I ever really chose anything. It was all sort of… accidental. I didn't… mean…”
“Of course you chose,” said his Creator. “You've chosen again and again, more than most… listen well, and understand.”
Her face fell, suddenly, smile vanishing into something older and harder. The sombre expression sent shudders through Aziraphale, but even with his own discomfort, he did not miss Crowley’s wary cringe. Her wing drew closer to delicately graze his own and Crowley shut his eyes for a few deep, unsteady breaths. “With free will, we do not always choose wisely,” she began, “And actions must have their consequences.” The coin stopped, and an inky darkness slid over the surface of the metal, spreading and staining, marring its formerly pristine beauty. “The Traitor set himself against Me in My own House, and seduced others, so many others,” and there was a sudden influx of grief in Her voice, while in Paris, a cold, hard rain fell over the City of Lights. “To rebel along with him. With that conflict came the first War, and much harm was done.”
The coin warped, then split, jaggedly, not quite down the middle. She snatched the flying pieces in each hand before they could hit angel or demon.
“Now My house is divided,” She said gravely, “And My children despise each other.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's eye and Her expression warmed considerably. A barren woman in Greece longing for a child discovered she was pregnant with twins. “Most of them.”
Oh.
“Yes, ah, about that, well, you see, Crowley and I-"
Crowley frantically shook his head, drawing a finger across his throat in a silencing gesture and Aziraphale threw his hands up towards Her in mute, yet dramatic, exasperation.
She’s right here… and omniscient!
“Actions, and in particular, My actions, always have consequences, and so I do nothing lightly,” She said, gently pushing his hands down before running her thumbs over the jagged metal in Her own. Aziraphale startled to see blood well up from the scratch, but Her expression did not change. “I did not Create you for strife and suffering, but with freedom, it came all the same, and now My servant Michael has rebelled as well, pushed over the edge by her disappointment in… Me.” She looked up from the coin to Crowley, and the demon stilled as their eyes met. “And with that choice, there came more suffering: Yours, in your torment and guilt, and that of the innocents who perished in the flames.”
“And the souls who followed her to perdition,” Aziraphale added, that loss heavy on his mind, despite Crowley’s snort of contempt for his former captors.
“Them as well, though they also chose freely,” She replied, steel in the soft words.
“But not knowingly,” the angel replied, consternation dragging his spirit low.
“Actions have consequences, Aziraphale, and I do not condemn the pure of heart. You also have made choices. You gave away my sword.”
Her gaze was measuring, and he fought back the sudden, panicky urge to lie... again.
Aziraphale drew in a breath, gathering his courage. He held Her gaze as he finally, softly, confessed, "I did, yes."
“As you were meant to-"
“I…what?” Aziraphale felt his jaw drop, hand reflexively grasping the air as if for the sword itself.
“And then you lied to Me about it… as you were meant to.” An early, bitter snowstorm swirled across the Rocky Mountains, and the people began digging out their winter gear from storage.
Shock splashed, ice-cold down his spine, fanning along his trembling wings as the solemn words registered. He struggled to pull himself together enough to vocalize something, but he could not. A strangled, inarticulate, appalled sound slipped from Crowley, always there to rush in where the angel feared to tread.
“What the living Hell?!" the demon spat, up on his feet only to be tugged back down.
“Language,” She chided lightly, almost teasingly, giving the stunned angel the feeling he was being imitated.
“How dare-" Crowley began, trying to break free of Her grasp, and overbalancing when She released the demon only to reach out again to steady him.
“Shhhh…” She soothed Her seething child, before turning fully to Aziraphale.
“Guardian of the Eastern Gate, do you love Me?”
“I… of course.” It hurt him, really, to have Her ask, even as the memory of his stumbling, nervous excuses in front of Eden's great wall, taunted at him.
“Of course,” She echoed calmly, nodding in agreement, and some of his tension eased. “And indeed, you extend that love freely to all my sphere and the people therein, even though they wound your generous spirit, again and again.” She held up Her bloody thumbs, and instinctively, he reached out and healed them. Her smile became infinitely softer towards the flustered angel, who was staring at his own hands, stunned by their audacity. A flurry of dandelion seeds burst into the air to the delight of children playing tag in the field. “Aziraphale, you are My good and faithful servant, and of you, I had to ask a dreadful sacrifice… for the restoration of My broken people.” The coin dissolved as She took him by the hand, Her words bathed in something he might dare to call supplication, if he didn’t know any better.
“You set him up!” Crowley hissed, furious, even as Aziraphale held his hands out to placate him.
“Please, my dear, just-"
The demon rounded on him sharply. “She asked you because She knew you were going to lie, so you could do Her dirty work!”
“Crowley, I can’t think with you all in a tizzy-"
“Aziraphale had a choice. He answered freely-"
But Crowley had never been easily placated.
“He didn’t know why You were asking! Nicest damn thing any of those bastards upstairs ever did, and he was terrified about disobeying the Mother who just kicked millions of kids out of the house-"
“But I didn’t Fall, Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, leaping up to grab the demon's flailing, frantic hands. “Hush now,” he breathed out shakily, blinking to try to clear blurring vision. He addressed Her without taking his eyes off their clasped hands, giving and receiving what each of them needed in the moment. “I have always wondered about that.” He ducked his head, unable to face Her. “You had to know I was lying.”
“I did,” She confirmed, silently inviting them to sit with Her again. After a moment, Aziraphale did. Only when the angel turned soft and pleading eyes on him, did Crowley also acquiesce.
Not to Her, he seemed to say. Never, again, to Her.
In a smooth motion, She plucked two feathers out of midair and held them out on Her palms. One white as snow, and the other dark as sin. Aziraphale closed his eyes against the sight of Crowley’s gift and his own small sacrifice. A unhappy noise rose up from the demon’s direction and flickered miserably in the angel's heart.
She quietly held the whole of their worlds in Her hand, letting them have the moment they needed. When he opened his eyes, he saw Crowley looking grim, as though just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You shouldn’t have lied, Aziraphale,” She said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t what I created you to be, beloved. My sweetest child, always so worried that you wouldn’t live up to your purpose.”
He found himself rubbing his eyes, that odd and ancient defensive reaction by his corporation against the sudden moisture gathering there.
The deep ache of being so fully known.
She held up his white feather. “Pure, for the most part, but the curse you invoked still lingers, just a little. You are kind, child of Mine, and brave… and flawed.” Aziraphale closed his eyes against the sudden rush of shame, hearing the rustling as Crowley shifted unhappily against Her feathers, ready, again, always, to defend him. “Shhh, Crowley. Listen. You’ve wanted Me to answer. Aziraphale, your awareness of your flaws keeps you humble, which has kept you kind, a virtue which the rest of Heaven has long forgotten.”
“They’re- they're not- they’re afraid,” he sighed sadly, but not uncharitably. “They’re afraid of being corrupted, of being rebellious.”
They remember what happened to their choirmates.
“Yes, very afraid, as are you, so you can understand their fear… and yet, you stood against them for Righteousness and Truth's sake. You are brave. You are faithful. Guardian Aziraphale, you are exactly what I created you for.”
She raised Crowley’s black feather, breathing in the scent of it, the sweetness of his ancient Blessing. “And you, beloved ,” Crowley shuddered a little at the term, “Are wrathful. It is a virtue to despise injustice, as you do, and in your Fall, you see injustice.”
“…I didn’t mean to-" he began, voice cracking in a rebellion of its own.
“You did, in fact,” She corrected firmly, and the angel did not miss the hurt and frustration that flickered through Crowley’s expression. “But now you understand the wrath of Hell. Like Aziraphale, I have tempered you in the furnace, like the finest steel. Oh, My dear child, in the darkness, how you shine.”
She crossed Her arms and held each of their feathers before the other, gleaming ebony before angel, purest ivory before demon. “You were both sent to Earth, to influence My mortal children… and to be influenced by them in turn, and there you learned compassion for the imperfect, and forgiveness for the wrong.” She laughed then, and startled them both. Nine new Atlantic Right Whale calves were on the way. “Well done, My children. You two, of all My servants, have learned the lessons sketched out for you.”
The turmoil frothing within Aziraphale as the angel tried to process what She was telling him was interrupted by a gentle prodding along his back. He reached back to find Crowley’s questing fingers. The demon had reached right through the trailing edge of Her scintillating wings to plunge his hand into Aziraphale’s.
Crowley's hand was clammy and racked with tremours that his face resolutely refused to show. The angel squeezed tightly, pouring love and comfort in the gesture, such as he could.
The feathers were pressed into their free hands as She continued. “You met, and bonded, even through adversity. You looked at your enemy and found a friend. You, the two of you, came together despite your opposing natures, and in each other found the love and understanding you needed.”
Aziraphale raised an uncertain hand, like a shy child in a classroom. “Oh, Mother… why did you let Crowley’s Blessing cause such tragedy. He was being so good.”
“M'not good,” the demon corrected quickly, staring into nothing as he spoke, “And nothing good could have ever come from it anyway. It was stupid…”
“You’re wrong, Crowley,” She said, firm as the rocks at the base of Everest. “A demon’s Blessing, your Blessing, has never been done before. Such a rare and precious gift, I could not let it go unfulfilled. An act of such love, from one brought so low, must be made to shine in the very highest places, a lantern on a hilltop, for all to see.” The aurora, borealis and australis, were going to be particularly spectacular that week. “I delivered your gift onto Michael, who chose to use it to wickedly rob you of your will, but what she has intended for evil, I shall use for good. Behold:”
She plucked the feather from the demon's hand and pressed it to Her lips, the black shimmering into a burning, fiery gold that reminded Aziraphale of Crowley’s astonishing original form.
“To rise to your defence, Aziraphale had to challenge the blindness of Heaven, and to break them of their complacency,” She told the awestruck demon. “He had to grow fully into the steadfast Guardian that he was always meant to be, that you helped him to be. You,” She breathed over him with ethereal tenderness, “You gave him the cause he needed. For your sake, Crowley, there is nothing Aziraphale would not do, and so through your Blessing on him, I shall Bless all of Creation.”
When she pressed his feather back into Aziraphale’s hand, it had changed into a shining key.
“Guardian of the Eastern Gate and of all humanity,” She addressed him formally, and he sat up as though struck by lightning. “You are ready. Truly,” Her hand was gentle as She guided up a head he had not realised he had ducked. “Truly, Aziraphale, you are. Take the key to My Kingdom. I charge you to use your strength along with My authority to unite My divided people.” She dipped her chin gravely in a Blessing that washed warmly through him. Despite the rush of Power, the angel's hands shook a little as he accepted the monumental charge from the Creator of All.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out like a prayer, though breathing seemed suddenly difficult. “I think perhaps you've got the wrong…” he trailed off under the weight of her gaze, before nervously correcting himself. “No, I don’t suppose that You would, no.”
He looked helplessly to Crowley, who was frozen in place, so still that the angel briefly wondered if She’d stopped him in time again.
“Child after Mine own heart, know, as I do, that I have chosen exactly the right angels for the task.”
“This is a bad plan,” the demon said, shaking himself free of his paralysis.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, heart skipping a beat. The plural hadn’t escaped his notice.
“Definitely not the first time I've said that to Her either, angel… angels?” He snapped his head to stare Her full in the face.
“Much good will come of this, Crowley. Though I know, oh My child, I know well that the price you paid was high.” She brushed a kindly thumb across his cheek. “I grieve for you, and her victims, but to restore My realm and heal My people, what sacrifice was too great?”
“I don’t… know,” he replied, peering up courageously from unruly red hair, golden eyes flicking to Aziraphale, uncertainty and distress in each pained word.
“You do,” She insisted, sadness in Her smile.
“Aziraphale… I sent you to the Garden so you could protect humanity. I questioned you, knowing you would lie, so that you would Fall… but only to help the lost ones Rise. To reach them, someone must Fall.”
“What?! You let it go six thousand years just to slap him with it like an unpaid parking ticket now?!” Crowley demanded, out from under Her wing and on his feet in outrage.
“I… I understand.” Aziraphale said, hesitantly, aware of the sharp contrast in their reactions, shame and acceptance warring with the fear of Hell's brutality in his heart.
“What, no! The Hell, angel!”
“You know who She is. I can hardly argue with Her, Crowley.”
“I sure as Heaven can!”
“I didn’t let it go. I could not,” She told him firmly. “My people needed intercession, someone who could walk with them and understand, someone who has lived their suffering.” She stroked a soft finger over Her palm. “I do not ask more than what I have done Myself. Someone must bridge the gap to bring the lost ones home.”
“Damn them all! Again! And the whole bloody world too! He’s the only good one you ever made-" Lanky arms were thrown into the air with frustration as Crowley paced back and forth, fuming. “You can’t just throw Aziraphale to the wolves!”
She watched him storm impassively as Aziraphale reached a shaky hand out in consolation. “No, no, She’s right, naturally. The cause is just.” He squared his shoulders as best he could. “Imagine. We could fix this, my dear. Set things right. I… I would be willing-"
“No, damn it, no!” Crowley grasped Aziraphale by those same squared shoulders, forcing the angel to meet his gaze.
“It’s an honour, really, to be asked,” he managed, trying to reassure, delicate key heavy in his hand, the weight of destiny in the tiny structure, but still somehow holding the softness of Crowley’s feather, the shine of his earnest, frantic Blessing.
So kindly.
“I didn’t jump in that fountain to see you go down for this Her-forsaken place!”
She touched his hand and Crowley wrenched it back, but he quieted anyway. “One of you must Fall or they will have no hope. Someone needs to walk the hard path, and bring them home. It is the only way to restore what was lost. Who will go to them, and stand for them? What is your answer? Will it be you, or will it be Aziraphale?”
Crowley stopped like time. “What? Me?No… I can’t. I already Fell.”
God leveled her steady gaze at him. “Yes, you did.”
“For asking questions-"
“For answering one," She insisted, sliding Her hands out to clasp one of his own, drawing him close as She spoke sadly, tenderly. Stars and comets and sea and magma, Heaven and Hell and life, life, life, life swirled in the fathomless depths of Her eyes. “I’m not bound by time, beloved,” came the gentle reminder, along with a hint of something, oddly playful, despite the gravity of Her words.
It set Aziraphale’s mind spinning, and clearly he was not alone in that.
“You’re not bound by time…” the demon echoed, mulling over Her words, openly staring as he dragged back shaking hands to his chest. “It’s me… because it was me. I will, I did. I-“ Crowley raked hands through disheveled locks and dragged them down over his face. “I say yes now , and I Fall then . I already Fell! It wasn’t my questions. It was my answer!" he reasoned, understanding for his suffering blossoming in his soul, even as twisting thorns pierced Aziraphale’s heart.
This was my fault. He Fell for *me*. No, no, no...
Her long ago words echoed hauntingly through his soul.
“I am not my own, for I was bought for a price…” the angel whispered, hand clutching his vest where it lay over his racing heart as he staggered from the shock.
She inclined Her head gracefully, once for Aziraphale, then for Crowley, smile playing on Her lips like a teacher whose students had finally grasped a difficult lesson. The demon looked down at his hand in Hers, then at Aziraphale, still noiselessly reeling in dawning crisis, and then Crowley tilted back his head laughed, like some long anchored weight had suddenly released him.
With a soft sound, the chain around the demon's neck snapped and dissolved. As quick as it had come, his laugh evaporated too, as Crowley gasped and grasped frantically for the missing chain.
She caught one of his desperate, empty hands and curled his fingers around Aziraphale’s newly purified feather, now shining with a golden light that would have put the bashful sun to shame. “My child, you have paid a great price… and you are worthy of my Grace. If the day comes when you are ready… come Home," She cupped his cheek, love a living thing laced in every word.
Aziraphale pulled himself out of his own roiling internal tumult to see Crowley, stock-still in stupefaction staring at the angel's feather, now Blessed by Her own hand, protruding from slack fingers as She reiterated, “Crowley, come home and be welcomed.”