Work Text:
She comes to them on the beach.
They are walking back to their home, having spent hours combing the shore for little treasures, holding hands and walking practically on top of one another. Their seaside cottage is within sight, when She comes to them.
They've married. Living in their little cottage. She knows about the little trick they pulled off to save their skin. She knows everything. But She does find it curious, this fraternization, except it's not that, because when She looks closely, it really is the two of them, an angel and a demon, and they're in love.
It should be impossible, but there they are. Aziraphale loving a demon, not so surprising. The few conversations She's had with him? He's exactly the type. But Crowley? A demon? Falling in love? And that's what it is, undeniably! It's love! And so She just has to ask.
She is not angry. She is just curious. She knows everything, after all, but sometimes even when designing The Great Plan things can slip past. Always destined to happen, just not necessarily noticeable. Like when you write a paper, you don't think about what color the page is, but the page is still a color. It's still a part of the paper, just not one you would ever expect to need to think about.
So, She comes to them on the beach.
Aziraphale is used to Her; he feels Her everywhere, he sees Her everywhere, and he has spoken to Her before. He is wracked with nerves, instilled with reverence, yes, but he believes in Her mercy above all other things.
Crowley is not so fortunate. He collapses to his knees, his head bowed. It hurts to look at Her.
“Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate. Demon Crowley.”
She says his name. His name, his chosen name, and Crowley shudders violently, unable to stop himself from bursting into tears.
“I have a small inquiry for you.”
“Yes, Lord?” Aziraphale asks, speaking for the two of them, seeing as how Crowley can't find the words.
“I am curious as to how you, an angel, a principality, and how you, a demon, serpent of the garden—”
Crowley chokes on a sob.
“—managed to be submerged in Hell Fire, and Holy Water, respectively, and not be destroyed.”
Crowley can't speak. Can't do anything really. So everything falls to Aziraphale, and the angel has lied to Her before.
“Well, my Lord,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Our respective superiors seem to think we've gone native. We have been on Earth for quite a long time, my Lord.”
She is quiet for a very long time, but she does not leave.
“Is that all?”
Aziraphale cannot believe what he's doing, even as he does it. “Yes, my Lord.”
She doesn't have a body, not really, but they can still feel her shaking her head.
“Aziraphale,” She says. “You may fool Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon. But you cannot fool Me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Aziraphale says regretfully. “I'm sorry, my Lord.”
“I forgive you.”
Because she sees to the root of the lie. Sees that he would not have lied to save his own skin, he lied to save someone else's.
“I am not here to punish you for your deception.”
She pauses heavily.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Aziraphale manages.
“I am here simply out of curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” Aziraphale asks, then tacks on hastily: “My Lord?”
“You love a demon.”
Crowley is still bent over on the shore, kneeling before Her, trembling, crying, his fists gripping at the sand in front of him, grinding it to glass between his fingers.
“My Lord,” Aziraphale says nervously. “I love all living creatures.”
“Yes. This is what I made you to do. But you love him especially.”
Aziraphale can't bite back the quiver in his voice. It would be no use to lie. “Yes, my Lord.”
“And you—”
Crowley practically folds in on himself.
“—love an angel?”
Crowley doesn't answer Her. He's trembling, his face soaked with tears. Aziraphale watches him nervously, then turns his eyes to Her. “My Lord—”
“Do you, Anthony Crowley—”
Crowley makes the most wretched sound.
“—love him, the principality, Aziraphale?”
Crowley nods. The movement is jerky, wracked as he is with reverence and fear.
“Demons… should not love.”
For several long moments, the only sounds are the waves, and Crowley's sobs.
“And yet… you do.”
Aziraphale looks up at Her, astonished. “My Lord?”
“You love, and are loved in return. Something no demon should be capable of. So, I am forced to look within you, to your intentions and your heart, everything you have or will choose to do with your free will, and I am forced to ask Myself: are you really a demon at all?”
Aziraphale doesn't dare to speak. Crowley bites out a whimper, terrified of what such a statement, such a statement from Her, could imply.
“You have Fallen.”
Crowley forces himself to nod again during Her pregnant pause.
“I do remember you, Crowley. So curious, insatiably so. An eternities worth of questions.”
Crowley forces another nod. The glass between his fingers is beginning to cut him.
“I have answered so many questions since your Fall. The same ones you asked me. Others, too, you have never wondered, but would starve to know the answer to.”
Crowley doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't nod. He doesn’t shake his head. He simply sits, head bowed, trembling in the sand, waiting.
“Aziraphale.”
“Yes, my Lord?” his response comes immediately, almost spoken over Her.
“Why haven't you Fallen?”
Aziraphale sputters, shocked, alarmed, frightened. “My Lord, I— I am your dutiful servant— I love You— I am faithful to You, I answer to You, I believe in You— ”
“Yes.”
He falls silent.
“Indulgent as you are, you are faithful to Me. And you, Crowley—”
His shoulders shake when he sobs; there's a wet patch in the sand where his tears have fallen.
“—insatiable as you were, you were faithful to Me.”
Aziraphale has stopped breathing, although Crowley continues, sucking in air as he heaves sobs.
“Look at me.”
Crowley sobs, shaking his head, his eyes screwed shut. It hurts to see Her, hurts to feel Her, hurts to even think of what comes next.
“Crowley. Look at me.”
He wrenches his head up. Forces his eyes opens. The tears streaking down his face immediately double in quantity.
She touches him. Caresses his cheek, and he gasps, choking on the air he doesn't need. He looks up at Her with wide, fearful eyes, terrified of Loving Her.
“Do you repent?”
“Yes, my Lord,” he chokes out, his entire body trembling.
“You do.”
There is something like wonder in Her voice.
Crowley leans into Her touch.
“Crowley… you are forgiven.”
She is never really gone, ever present and always with them, always with everyone, always watching, but there, physically, on the beach, She does not stand there with them any longer. Crowley wails, leaning forward, chasing Her touch which is already gone, unclenching his fists, cut open and rubbed raw, reaching out for Her and collapsing onto the shore when She does not catch him.
Aziraphale is on him in a moment, scooping him up into his arms and holding him close, breathless, nearly unbelieving of what he just bore witness to. “Crowley—”
“I love Her!” Crowley wails, twisting in his arms, reaching out to where she once stood. “I love Her! I love Her! I—”
Aziraphale shushes him, looking up and down the beach worriedly for passersby. “I know, Crowley, I—”
“She—!” Crowley cries, still reaching out. “She— She's gone!” he scoops a fistful of sand up and it falls from his clenched fist. “She's gone again!”
“No,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound soothing, but just sounding what he is: shocked. “No, never— never truly. She's all around, She's everywhere, my dear, always watching, always loving.”
Crowley twists in his arms, a sudden exhaustion taking over him. He stares out at the sea, unclenching his fists. The sand trickles out onto the shore, back to where it belongs. When he speaks, he's barely audible. “She forgave me.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, his mouth dry.
Crowley shakes his head. “But I'm... unforgivable.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “She is merciful.”
“Not to me,” Crowley says in a quiet voice. “Not— not ever before. I'm bad. I'm abhorrent. I'm sinful. I'm the fucking serpent .”
“You repented,” Aziraphale says, in awe.
“I... love Her,” Crowley says, suddenly very sober.
He twists in Aziraphale's arms to look up at him. “I love you. ”
Aziraphale gasps. Not at his admittance. Not at his honesty. Not at his love. But at his eyes.