Chapter Text
Of all the things Aziraphale had ever said in his attempts to keep Crowley at arm's length, "Hush, demon," was by far one of the most tame. He had recently undergone a particularly harsh performance review, one that went poorly enough Crowley had needed to really pry to get even that much information from him, and so Crowley had hunted down an old favorite drink and sauntered into the bookshop to try and raise his spirits. He had thought it had been working, right up until he offered a genuinely innocent compliment about some old job Aziraphale had impressed him with. This was apparently the wrong thing to say. The angel went cold fast, and the way he had spit the D word out at the end of the sentence had gotten Crowley's blood boiling.
He tried to let it go, he really did. He understood what was happening there, knew it was a protective layer after what had to have put Aziraphale on high alert. He knew Gabriel was a complete wanker at his very best and downright cruel for fun at his worst. Aziraphale had always, always been the being who received the lion's share of Crowley's patience, something he gave as much as he possibly could and would keep giving until he ran out and had to recharge.
The unfortunate part being, of course, that Crowley did not have overmuch to begin with.
"What in Satan's name is your problem!?" He was yelling before he could stop himself, launching off the couch in the bookshop's backroom, and off they'd gone.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale says with a dismissive flourish, pouring himself another drink and remaining firmly in his seat. Crowley gesticulates vaguely at the air between them, and Aziraphale's bemused arching of an eyebrow did nothing to quell the hurt and anger bubbling over in Crowley's chest.
"What did I even do? I get that you're in a snit right now, but I'm not the one who put you there!" Crowley wishes he could get his voice to come back down to a less revealing level, especially in the face of Aziraphale's far too casual demeanor, but the situation is spiralling fast. "It was a compliment, Aziraphale!" Where did he put his blasted glasses? When had they even come off? Stupid to remove them at all, really.
Aziraphale sets his drink on the table beside him and sighs deeply, unflappably meeting Crowley's unguarded gaze. "Was it?"
This is going to suck .
"What else would it have been?" Crowley can hardly believe what he's hearing. "When have I ever lied to you?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Aziraphale says with a tut, and Crowley stammers out a string of embarrassingly incoherent consonants. "That's your job, wouldn't you say? Flattery is surely a powerful tool for you."
Dirty. Sssoiled. Fallen. Unworthy. Unforgivable.
Crowley freezes. "What?"
Aziraphale fiddles idly with his ring, but his gaze is steady and his face guarded. This can't be happening. His silence is deafening.
"Aziraphale, I can't-" Crowley starts, sputters . I can't do this anymore , he wants to say. I can't keep myself away and you can't let me in , he wants to scream until his throat bleeds, so what is there for either of us? He wants , is the problem, is always the problem, but he won't take what isn't offered. If Aziraphale won't give then he has no right to it, and the thought burns horrendously. "That's-"
You don't dessserve it.
"What?" Aziraphale says icily, eyes full of flashing steel, face a mask of pain and confliction. Crowley wishes it was satisfying, but it just hurts to look at. "What 'can't' you, Crowley? I was rather under the impression you thought you could do whatever you like at all times."
"What do you want from me, angel?" he asks instead of risking an answer, voice softer than he'd intended. "What iss this? Am.. Am I jusst a means to an end to you? A convenience?"
You ssswore , the Snake hisses, laughing, beneath his sore, sorry heart. 'Until the day the bloody world endsss', remember?
As if he could forget. As if every moment since that first time he vowed his love in the crater hasn't branded itself onto the parts of his soul he didn't even know he had anymore. As if every return to the wreckage of his Fall hadn't only evolved further as the years marched on, with every glance and unspoken thank you and near touch and "professional dinner," every bottle of wine and coveted book and box of chocolates. As if there aren't pieces of his heart scattered across the globe in Aziraphale's wake, in the places he's stepped in.
As if.
Aziraphale's mask slips a bit at that, at least. "A convenience ?" His shoulders sag and Crowley knows he's found a sticking spot. "You really think so little of me as to suggest I'm- that I'm just, what? Just using you? A means to what end , exactly?"
"Think so little of you !?" Crowley lets out a rifle crack laugh and snaps, firmly cementing his glasses back over his eyes. Aziraphale huffs at the barrier like he has any room to be offended. "Fuck, Aziraphale, I can't even compliment you without having you throw 'demon' in my face! Think so little of you!? Do you even hear yourself?" He's pacing now, a trapped animal faced with the immovable obstacle of an angel's stubborn pride. "It's like you think I'm-"
He stops.
Shit. No. No, no, no.
The Snake chuckles in his core, a low dirty sound that causes a chill through his whole body.
"Oh, please, Crowley," Aziraphale says, the dare obvious in his voice. "Tell me what it is I think." He folds his hands together placidly, and Crowley's heart sinks. He could go for the opening left him there, could strike at the heart of the matter; that Heaven does it all the time and it suits him fine then, but something else is twisting nastily in his throat, an ugly thought breaking through to the surface from under the rage. It hurts.
"You don't trusst me." Something undefinable passes across the angel's face, but it's gone as quickly as it came, schooled back into the expression of a soldier. "What do you think thiss is? What do you think I'm even doing here tonight?"
There's a far too silent moment then, and it stretches for far longer than Crowley can stand. He's suddenly painfully aware of his hands shaking, of the bruising rhythm of his corporation's heart, the ragged breaths he doesn't need. Aziraphale's eyes flicker bright for a moment before he purses his lips and swallows hard. Panic joins the pain.
Don't say it.
"What you do best, I'd imagine," Aziraphale murmurs, only just audible over Crowley's pulse in his ears. "And I won't allow it." He finally looks away, stares into his glass, and Crowley's heart gives up the pretense of possibly winning this fight and breaks for what must be the millionth time. Aziraphale clicks his tongue.
What did they say to you? How can you think that?
"I think you should go, Crowley."
Ssstupid. As if he would ever think otherwissse. He knows what you are. He knowsss what you do. Why would he trussst you?
"Angel," he tries, because he can't just leave well enough alone. Embarrassingly, he finds himself envying Aziraphale's ability to turn to stone when it suits him. His voice shakes. "Angel, you can't really think-"
Aziraphale's gaze burns when it returns to Crowley's. " Stop. I can think whatever I damn well please!" His voice is laced with razor sharp divinity, eyes alight with what Crowley knows through ages of experience is misdirected rage. Knowing doesn't take it back, though. "You're the one who always just- just waltzes in with gifts and- and these- these overtures and I haven't asked for any of it!" Aziraphale stands now, and Crowley winces at his own subconscious step back. "I don't want anything from you, except your leaving!"
Not enough. Never enough.
There's the rub; he knows this isn't about him, not really. He knows this is fear, and eons of Heaven trying to wash that brain of all its imagination, and that he's just the one person Aziraphale can deflect onto. He knows, no matter what the Snake whispers, that Aziraphale doesn't really think this is some long con, some atrocious game being played at his expense. Crowley knows that. Crowley knows how it feels to need something to hurt when you're hurting, and how it feels to need to be in control of something , and how powerful it feels to have someone's every weakness filed neatly away for situations just like this.
But damn everything, he has tried. He has tried and offered and given and waited and never once has he Tempted the angel to anything , not really . He's offered himself up as a scapegoat, as permission, an excuse. He's done everything but pull Heaven down with his bare hands for what they constantly do to his angel, and he'd try it if he didn't know Aziraphale would be upset by it. And it's not enough.
You chossse thisss.
Crowley's jaw clenches hard enough his teeth groan under the strain. "Fine," he manages to spit around the fork in his tongue. "Whatever you want, Aziraphale." And it's true, same as it ever was. He leaves Aziraphale fuming and defensive, and doesn't spare the bookshop a second glance as he starts the Bentley and tears away out of the parking spot.
(Once he's certain that he no longer hears the engine, Aziraphale cries at his desk for a long, long time.)
Crowley tries to breathe, tries to remember that this isn't even their worst row. Time. That's what Aziraphale needs. He'd just tried to swoop in too soon after the most recent incident, touched too fresh a wound.
Empty spaces, what are we living for?
Abandoned places, I guess we know the score, on and on
Does anybody know what we are looking for?
Another hero, another mindless crime
Behind the curtain, in the pantomime
Hold the line
Does anybody want to take it anymore?
Crowley groans loudly at the Bentley, but if she registers the agitation she shows no sign of relenting in her choices of Freddie's pointed crooning. " One time!" he shouts, swerving to miss some boy who had been swaggering across the street like he owned the place. If that had been a crosswalk, well, no one will remember the near miss in another thirty seconds. "One blasted time, I'd like to get a moment's fucking peace from this!"
Crowley doesn't know exactly what part of the evening he means, but the Bentley must assume he meant the angel, cranking the volume up to a deafening level. It'd be sweet if Crowley wasn't positive she was taunting him.
The show must go on
The show must go on, yeah
Inside my heart is breaking
My makeup may be flaking
But my smile, still, stays on
"Shut up!" he screams over the radio, realizing he missed his turn and spinning around to get back to it. He's pointedly thinking about his plants, almost hoping to find a spot or a dead leaf when he gets back to his flat. There's the slightest frision of dark glee at the cacophony of tires screeching and horns blowing when he whips around, but it's short lived and hollow.
Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance
Another heartache, another failed romance, on and on
Does anybody know what we are living for?
I guess I'm learning
I must be warmer now
I'll soon be turning, round the corner now
Outside the dawn is breaking
But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free
He is not tearing up. He is parking the Bentley, finally free of thrice damned Queen and he is walking into the building. He is jittery, yes, but what else is new? The doorman is clever tonight and doesn't say anything to him. He is on the lift, going up. He is not thinking of Aziraphale. He is not running the conversation through his head again from every angle, thinking of everything he could have said, should've said. He is not absentmindedly gnawing at the skin on the edges of his nails. He is not regretting his explosion when he knew Aziraphale had his walls up for a reason, not returning to his empty lair brokenhearted (again). He is unlocking his door. He is grabbing the plant mister and he is not going to tolerate anything less than perfection from the ungrateful little bastards.
The plants deliver, verdant and terrified and so spotless you'd think they were fake from a few feet away. So much for that plan.
Crowley drinks himself into a week long nap instead, opting for unconsciousness over the agony of his mind spinning itself in circles trying to fix this.
The next time they see each other, almost three years later, they don't talk about it. They fall into each other's orbit just like they always have, and if lunch is a little tense, a little quieter than normal, that's their business. If Aziraphale's insistence on paying for lunch and buying an extra bottle of wine for Crowley to take home is, perhaps, a bit conspicuously emphatic, neither of them brings attention to it. If the coin toss happens to fall in Crowley's favor, even though Aziraphale had been the one to flip it, there are no complaints. They part at the door, goodbyes quick and casual. Business as usual.