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Of course, it had been Aziraphale to figure the prophecy out: swap bodies, take each other’s punishment, put the fear of – well, not God per se, but something – into their respective sides. Every now and then, the angel’s cleverness could really shine. Listening to Aziraphale lay out a half-decent plan, Crowley actually believed they could pull it off (their recent failures with Armageddon notwithstanding, if they could, in fact, be called failures). It should have been a simple thing, really. Except Crowley didn’t plan on getting angry.
If Crowley was anything like you or me, he might have expected the anger. Had we lived through the few days he had, losing our best friend only to find them again at the end of the world…we would have been bouncing back and forth on an emotional yo-yo. Then, having to listen to sanctimonious angels berate said best friend – the only decent one among them? The one that Crowley, in whatever we might call his heart, cared for above everything. Even his Bentley. Livid wouldn’t have begun to cover it. And Crowley was a demon, after all.
Maybe, in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, Crowley had some inkling of what made Aziraphale so…hesitant where Heaven was concerned. He didn’t have good memories of the archangels but the close to six thousand years had watered those memories down to echoes of feelings – he couldn’t trust them. Yet, sitting in that massive empty room, listening to Gabriel’s calloused indifference, his outright hatred for everything that made Aziraphale Aziraphale, he clenched his fists to keep them from trembling in anger.
Aziraphale blustered when angry, puffing up like a ruffled bird and sputtering his words to match. It was part of what endeared him so much to Crowley and, while Crowley could match every one of the angel’s mannerisms, his anger burned something different. He couldn’t focus on the proceedings much, the flames dancing under his skin taking too much thought to rein in. But he controlled it – he knew that much. Channeling the best parts of Aziraphale came as easily to him as breathing, if in fact demons breathed, so he locked that anger deep inside.
His act could have fooled Aziraphale’s own Mother. Except She had to know what they were doing, didn’t She?
He did, however, quite enjoy breathing hellfire on Gabriel and his lot and bearing witness to the fear in their eyes.
None of it mattered though – the sham trial, the holier-than-thou bastards, none of it – because he had the only angel that mattered waiting for him on a bench in Berkley Square. That was not a date he intended to miss.
And he cracked a joke after they un-swapped bodies – because, of course, he did – about Aziraphale’s wardrobe, which Aziraphale deflected without batting an eye. It was a well-worn conversation between them, made even more intimate because of what they’d just been through.
Aziraphale’s bubbling joy at fucking with all the demons in Hell, and Michael to boot, startled a laugh out of Crowley. He could have brought up what happened in Heaven, but he couldn’t remember the last time Aziraphale had laughed that freely, had smiled at him that brightly – and Crowley, who, as we all know, is a selfish demon, basked in it.
He would have gladly buried the day under another six thousand years – thought Aziraphale might have too – except, later that night, long after they’d walked back to the newly restored bookshop under a perfect sunset, Aziraphale asked. The shop closed, they were lounging (which, as we all know, meant that Crowley was lounging and Aziraphale was sitting as proper as he could with his hands clasped in his lap) in the main part of the store nursing several bottles of 1959 Dom Perignon. “You – you never mentioned what happened. In Heaven, I mean.”
Crowley’s shoulders tightened. He glared at the glass of wine in his hand, hoping to set it aflame. Honestly, he had the power to do so, but he was too lazy to try, or even to take his glasses off to ease the process. He refused to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “Wasn’t much to tell,” he muttered.
Aziraphale tutted.
He wouldn’t push – Crowley knew he wouldn’t, especially if he asked him not to – but some things needed saying. It might be that they’d left far too many things unsaid over the years. Aziraphale’s soft “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” haunted him still.
If anyone asked him about the conversation later, he would emphatically blame the wine.
He sank down into the chair, leaned his head on the back and stared resolutely at the ceiling. “I – uh – I might have breathed fire on Gabriel,” he admitted, the words dragged out of his mouth, each one leaving an acrid tang on his tongue.
“I think I should have liked to have seen that.”
It was almost too quiet for Aziraphale and Crowley righted himself just to see what the angel was up to.
Aziraphale was sitting straighter, if that was at all possible, his gaze very distant.
That anger simmered just below the surface, roiling to a boil at the tense lines that settled onto Aziraphale’s face. “Bastards deserved far worse.”
Aziraphale’s gaze snapped over, his mouth set firmly in a frown. “Whatever are you talking about?”
How could he not know – not know what the other angels thought of him? When, in his own way, he tried to stay loyal? “They despise you, angel. You know that, don’t you?”
The smile Aziraphale gave him was small and pained. That was…unexpected. “No more than your side hates you, I expect.”
And oh, there was an undercurrent beneath that statement that Crowley wanted to unpack, but the conversation couldn’t handle it. “That comes with the territory,” Crowley countered with an easy shrug. He knew demons, and he knew Hell – nothing Aziraphale could tell him would shock him. He just didn’t know how to wipe away the desolation that had darkened Aziraphale’s face.
If anything, it stoked the anger hotter. “You knew?” He hadn’t meant to catch Aziraphale in the crossfire but there was no one else to unleash his anger on – his plants were safely back in his flat.
It was Aziraphale’s turn to look away.
They sat in a silence that had turned stiff and uncomfortable. Crowley still couldn’t bear to steal more than passing glances at Aziraphale. A chasm had opened between them and neither, it seemed, quite understood it or how to bridge it.
“Why – “ Aziraphale inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders – “why does it matter?”
“Why does what matter?” Crowley drew out the last word, spat out the “t” as if it personally offended him. It was obvious what Aziraphale meant, but they were at the point he wanted to hear it spoken. If he was going to drag words kicking and screaming out of his own throat, he’d be da- he’d be something, if he let Aziraphale off the hook.
Had they been having any other conversation, the look Aziraphale leveled at him might have been disapproving. It didn’t quite hold the same emotion now. He swallowed visibly. “Why does it matter what Heaven thinks of me?”
Crowley gazed back at his wine. Still toyed with the idea of lighting it on fire. “Because.” It was all he could think of to say. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead in this conversation. “It does.”
“That’s not an answer, Crowley.”
All at once, Crowley could no longer sit still. He rose from the chair in one fluid motion that would throw out most humans’ backs if they attempted it. Six thousand years’ worth of words slammed against his mouth, begging to be let out – words that would tell the angel exactly what he thought of him, why the He- why he mattered. He stemmed the tide as if he were trying not to vomit.
Aziraphale’s eyes followed him, worry creasing his brow. The instant Crowley stilled, he was on his feet and invading Crowley’s space in a way he never had before. He was close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, but he held himself apart, not touching.
“I thought angels were supposed to Love,” Crowley gritted out. His grip on the back of the chair was crushing, his fingers digging into the fabric.
Aziraphale laid a hand over his, and his body relaxed almost instinctively. “We do,” came the soft reply.
Crowley snorted. “Believe me, angel, nothing up there was remotely in the orbit of Love.” He couldn’t keep his voice steady, all the pent up emotions poking holes in the dams he had erected.
Soft, warm fingers curled around his and squeezed. Aziraphale loved his words, loved to talk, and yet, at all too rare moments, he fell utterly silent and let his actions speak for him. This was one of those moments.
He dragged his gaze upward, from their hands, to Aziraphale’s face but couldn’t decipher the emotions he found there. He tilted his head, opened his mouth to say something, but it all turned to ash on his tongue when Aziraphale reached up to remove his glasses. “Don’t.”
Aziraphale paused. His hand rested against Crowley’s glasses and, with the slightest shift, rested against his face. The lightest touch and, in it, Crowley saw the memories they shared over the last six thousand years. It spoke of forgiveness. Of love.
Crowley gripped that hand tightly. Not to move it, but to hold it in place. This is why it matters, he wanted to say. Because this – they laughed at this – they scorned this. With his free hand, he pulled his glasses away from his face, tossed them into the chair he’d vacated.
They knew each other better than any other two beings on Earth or in Heaven or Hell. They had successfully tricked their sides – Crowley trusted that Aziraphale could catch some of that meaning.
He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, Aziraphale was staring at him with something akin to wonder. And, maybe, something deeper.
Crowley managed a shadow of a smirk that possibly came off more as a grimace. “Going too fast again?”
Aziraphale slid his hand through Crowley’s hair and let it rest on the back of his neck. Gently, ever so gently, he pulled Crowley closer until their foreheads met. “Not at all, dear. Not anymore.”
You’re lost, you’re found
You’re hard to pin down
I never know if you’ll come through
Then you appear
Together we’re here
And that’s all that matters
Somehow