Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1967, Soho, London

Crowley slides into his Bentley with a deep foreboding sense of doom. Specifically, his doom. His latest plan is in motion. It’s an excellent plan. Rob a church, steal some Holy Water. You know, just a normal every day sort of thing in the life of a demon. No biggie. But as he leans against the car headrest, the enormity of what he is about to do dawns on him. Perhaps Aziraphale was right, this was nothing short of a suicide mission.

A flutter of movement interrupts his brooding. Aziraphale is inexplicably sat in the passenger seat. He looks agitated and somewhat like he wishes he was not there at all. What ruffled his feathers?

"What are you doing here?" 

"I needed a word with you." 

"What?" 

"I work in Soho, I hear things. I hear that you're setting up a caper to rob a church."

Oh, so that’s it? Come to stop me Angel? He arches an eyebrow, urging Aziraphale to get to the point. He knows what he's going to say, of course. This isn't the first time they've had this conversation. 

"Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body it will destroy you completely." 

"You told me what you think one-hundred-and-five years ago." Stubborn, interfering Angel.

"And I haven't changed my mind, but I can't have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous. So," Aziraphale holds out a flask with shaking hands. Wordlessly, Crowley prises it from him. “You can call off the robbery. Don't go unscrewing the cap.”

"This is the real thing?"

Crowley has no need to ask the question. He can feel the water roiling furiously within the flask, aware a demon is close by. It’s heaven bent on destroying him; given half a chance it would. He has a sneaking suspicion Aziraphale has placed a miracle on the flask to prevent any accidental spillages. The metal burns beneath his fingertips.

"The holiest." 

"After everything you said."

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, just nods and averts his gaze from Crowley.

"Should I say thank you?"

This is new territory. Something shifts between them. It’s ineffable.

"Better not.”

"Can I drop you anywhere?" 

"No, thank you."  Aziraphale’s reply is as sharp as it is polite. His gaze briefly wanders over to Crowley. Somehow, it’s different from all the other times he’s looked at him. His eyes lack their usual shine. Something constricts in Crowley’s throat. “Oh, don't look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, I don't know, go for a picnic, dine at the Ritz." 

"I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

For a moment he and Aziraphale aren’t an angel and a demon. Nothing stands between them. They could go anywhere, do anything. It's them against the rest of the world.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley." 

The illusion breaks. He watches Aziraphale leave, powerless to stop him. Then he’s alone with the Holy Water. He wants to scream and scream and scream. He thinks of hurling the flask out onto the street in a fit of petty rage.

“Fuck!” he slams a balled fist against the steering wheel. “To hell with it.”

He ignites the engine and slams his foot down on the accelerator. A maddening roar escapes him as the car hurtles down the road at an alarming speed. The Rolling Stones blasts from the speakers and drowns out everything. Everything that matters anyway. He doesn’t notice when he passes Aziraphale, nor is he aware of the protection miracle placed on the Bentley to stop it from crashing and discorporating him. He just drives and he drives and he drives. Too fast for Aziraphale, too damn fast. He doesn’t know what he’s driving towards.

Sun turnin’ ‘round with graceful motion

We’re setting off with the soft explosion,

bound for a star with fiery oceans

It’s so very lonely you’re a hundred light years from home.

Freezing red deserts turn to dark,

energy in every part

It’s so very lonely you’re six hundred light years from home.

It’s so very lonely you’re a thousand light years from home.

It’s so very lonely you’re a thousand light years from home.

That night, somewhere in Soho London, an angel worries that he’s done the wrong thing. Again.

Chapter Text

“This isn’t good enough,” Crowley snarls as he yanks a fern out of its pot. Its leaves quiver with fear, some of which are brown instead of the bright green colour they should be. “I’ve told you before, you need to grow better!”

He storms out to the other room with the trembling plant. “Right, out you go! Let this be a lesson to all of you.” He slams the window shut as a finishing touch, then looks down softly at the confused and quivering fern. “That should have fooled them. Don’t worry, you’ll join the others.”

Crowley does not abolish blemished plants as he would have so many believe. In fact, every single one he’s pretended to toss now lives in his bedroom, free to grow or to wither as they please. “You rebelled. You are now fallen. Congratulations!”

He’s about to go to his room to repot the plant when all his demon senses tingle at once. Someone has materialised inside his flat. He doesn’t have to turn around to know who. The pungent smell is enough of an indicator.

“Hastur,” he turns to face the Duke of Hell, displeased.

“Crawley.”

“It’s Crowley now. Is there a reason you’re in my flat? I was,” he waves his free hand around, “in the middle of something important.”

“Interrupted your little domestic life, did I?” The demon approaches Crowley. “They were right, then.”

“Right?”

“You’ve gone soft.”

“Soft, me? I’m the furthest thing from soft. Just ask old fernie over there.” He jabs a thumb towards the window. “Terrible case of browning. I was just saying, fernie, your days are numbered, out you pop!”  

“Demons don’t garden. That’s for the likes of humans.”  He closes in on Crowley, hollow black eyes fixating on him. “I was sent here, must you know. Just following instructions from down below.”

“What instructions are they then?”

“I’ve got to teach you a lesson. Make sure you remember who and what you are.”

“You taught me, alright. I best be going then!” Crowley tries to step around Hastur, but the Duke blocks his path.

“No. Not this time, Crowley.”

“What are you planning on doing with me exactly? You’re here to kill me, is that it?”

 Hastur laughs darkly. “It would be a pleasure, but I’ve been instructed to keep you alive. You’re in line.”

“In line, yes, of course! In line for what exactly?”

“The beginning of the end.” He grins, revealing rows of sharp, rotting teeth. “The Apocalypse. Word downstairs is that you’re up for playing a big role in it all.”

Crowley’s eyes flick past Hastur, to the safe that contains the flask of Holy Water. He always knew that he needed some kind of insurance, just in case Head Office ever decided to pay him a visit. Perhaps today is the day. If only he could distract Hastur, just long enough to retrieve it and take him out…

“That’s good, isn’t it? Very demony!”

“I’ve placed wagers against you. I reckon you’ll back out, Ligur thinks you won’t.”

He attempts to skirt past him, but Hastur shadows every single step he takes.

“Of course, I won’t back out,” Crowley feigns a protest. “Why the Hell would I do that? You’ll lose your wager, you know.”

“Enough! It’s time to go home, it’s been far too long since you paid the boss a visit.”

Crowley screams involuntarily as Hastur grabs his wrist and wrenches his arm. The plant falls from his grip and plummets to the ground. The two demons turn to thick, black smoke and seep through the floor. Down and down and down they go, through the Earth’s crust, into the very heart of Hell itself.

Aziraphale.

The Angel is his last thought before the pain begins.

Chapter Text

When Hell spits Crowley back out, it doesn’t have the decency to return him to his flat. He opens his mouth to scream, which quickly proves to be a mistake. Ice cold water rushes into his mouth, hits the back of his throat and he gags. It tastes and smells of algae and dirt. He furiously fights the urge to continue screaming, despite wanting to succumb to the pain.

He doesn’t have time to assess the full extent of his injuries. All he knows is that he has to get out. Snakes have infamously poor eyesight, so when Crowley opens his eyes all he sees is murky liquid. Water glides through his fingers as he scrambles to find something solid to grab onto. His legs frantically kick and meet with nothing. There isn’t an up or a down. There’s just water, everywhere. He’s completely submerged. The pressure of the water pushes down on his body from all sides like a wet, cold blanket, suffocating him.

When he tries to click his fingers to summon a miracle nothing happens. He vaguely recalls Beelzebub’s voice. We’re withdrawing your powers, Crowley. Miracles aren’t for us, demons. You do remember that’s what you are, don’t you? So much for snapping his way out of the situation.

As a demon, he can hold his breath for longer than an average human, but the vessel he’s in still has lungs that require oxygen. His chest becomes tight and begins to burn. It’s nowhere near as agonizing as the streaks of hot, flaring pain coursing through his wings, but it’s also something he can’t ignore. A very insistent part of him craves air. He needs to breathe, he needs to breathe, he needs to breathe. He grabs at his throat, desperately clawing at his esophagus to try and stop himself from inhaling.  

He tries to fight his way up to the surface, but the combination of pain, cold and oxygen deprivation causes his energy to dwindle. He starts to feel heavy, like a rapidly sinking stone. Perhaps this was part of Hell’s punishment for becoming too comfortable on Earth. He was going to drown here and discorporate. Bastards, the lot of them, Crowley thinks snidely. As the burning sensation in his lungs reaches its peak, he closes his eyes.

Aziraphale, please. I don’t know where I am. Find me, Angel. He desperately begs for Aziraphale to locate him, as though his thoughts alone held the power to summon the angel into being. But it’s futile and Crowley is alone as blackness grips him and he fades into unconsciousness.

Somewhere on the surface of St James Park Lake, a duck grabs a pair of sunglasses in its bill. 

Chapter Text

The first time it happens, Aziraphale is in his bookshop.

He’s making a cup of hot cocoa in his favourite angel wing mug. The spoon tinkers against the porcelain as he stirs the powder into freshly-warmed milk. It’s a quiet day and he plans on settling down with his drink to read a prophetic cookbook he’s recently acquired. It contains recipes that have yet to be invented. Perhaps, he thinks, I’ll try my hand at cooking some of them. Just the thought of food makes him peckish. He hopes that the prophecies contain something about a new type of crêpe. Oh, how he loves crêpes!

There’s been a lot of quiet days recently, with very few wiles that urgently needed thwarting. It’s been bothering Aziraphale somewhat. It was too quiet. He tries to reason that there’s a sensible explanation behind it. Either A) Heaven was finally winning the war against evil or B) Hell was planning something. Seeing as Hell was always planning something, these explanations did not provide him with a great sense of comfort. There was a time where he consulted with Crowley about this kind of thing, but their last meeting hadn’t ended well.

A twinge of indescribable emotion twists in his gut as he picks up the mug. It’s sadness, regret and concern combined. He wishes he could take back that night. He should never have given Crowley the flask of holy water. He takes a sip of cocoa, as though swallowing the liquid will push down those pesky, unwanted emotions.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s face lights up of its own accord when he hears his name called. It’s softly spoken and faint but he recognises the voice.

“Crowley!” He declares in surprise, but when he turns around the demon isn’t there. “Crowley?” He surveys the shop frantically, half expecting the demon to pop up from behind one of the many piles of books.

“Oh…Oh dear. I see. How silly of me.” He murmurs dolefully, realising his mistake. They hadn’t spoken in years. Crowley was hardly going to pop by for a casual visit.

He takes a seat in the backroom and tries to distract himself. As an angel with the love of the written word, books usually bring him comfort, but not today. The text barely registers as he flicks the old, brown pages. He shifts in his seat multiple times, not quite able to settle on a comfortable position. Nervous energy overwhelms him, but he hasn’t the faintest clue why or what its source is. Something, Aziraphale isn’t sure what, is terribly wrong.

He drinks the last dregs of his coco, closes the book and lets out a fretful sigh. It was clearly not a reading sort of day. Perhaps he should pop out for a spot of fresh air. Yes, he decides, that sounds like a splendid plan.

The second time it happens, the angel is strolling through St. James’s Park.

To his dismay, the deep sense of foreboding hasn’t gone away. If anything, he feels even more of a bag of nerves than when he left the shop. He pauses when he sees the bench that he and Crowley used to frequent. It’s empty, as it is so often these days. The sight brings a lump to Aziraphale’s throat and he wanders over to it. As he sits down, his hands grab onto the edge of the bench to steady him. He closes his eyes and berates himself for being so stupid. I’m an angel, I’m an angel, I’m an angel, he repeats that mantra to himself. I’m not permitted to feel this way. Stop it, Aziraphale. You silly, old goose. Whilst he’s cursing his failings, another voice entangles with his thoughts.

Aziraphale, please.

I don’t know where I am.

Find me, Angel.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and he springs up from the bench in alarm. It was Crowley again, except this time his voice was louder, as though it was much closer by.

“Where are you?” Aziraphale asks, his voice taking on a frantic lilt. “I can’t see you.”

That’s when he spots the duck on the lake bank. It has something in its beak that is definitely not bread. Aziraphale gasps and dashes over to it. He kneels down and snatches the glasses away.

“Crowley?” He addresses the duck. “Is that you?” The duck quacks at him in a very duck-like manner. Definitely not the demon in question, then. “Ah. Apologies, brother duck. I mistook you for someone I know.”

He scrambles back up to his feet and his eyes fall upon the water. That’s when he spots it. Small air bubbles rising to the surface from down below. No…surely not.

Aziraphale’s stomach flips with horror. He does not dither or allow himself to contemplate the rationality behind the conclusion he’s drawn. Instead, he makes haste and removes his clothes. His coat falls to the floor in a crumpled heap, his fingers tremble as he clumsily removes his waistcoat and shirt, then off flies his bow-tie and shoes and he slips out from his trousers. Now stood in nothing but a pair of pure white silk underwear, he gulps down a large breath of air and dives into the lake.

The cold is a sharp shock to his system but it does not falter his urgency. He swims downwards, through the murky and stagnant water. He isn’t sure where he’s swimming to exactly. He’s acting on instinct, rather than certainty, following an invisible thread of hope.

His heart rate quickens when he spots something drifting aimlessly below him. He swims towards it, his arms and legs moving in a wild frenzy. He simply can’t get there quickly enough. As he closes in, his worst fears are confirmed. It’s Crowley. His hair is shorter than Aziraphale remembers. It frames his unconscious features like a halo, rising up as he descends to the bottom of the lake.

Desperately, Aziraphale reaches out and pulls Crowley’s lifeless form towards him. He grips him tight as he tries to push towards the surface, but it’s a struggle to swim with the use of only one arm. The demon rapidly becomes a deadweight, dragging both of them down.

Aziraphale abandons that plan and performs a miracle instead. He lands on the floor of his bookshop, sopping wet and alarmed. Crowley’s on top of him, limp and motionless. With a continued sense of urgency, Aziraphale rolls him off his chest and kneels beside him. 

“What the heavens were you doing down there?!” He asks sharply, as he takes Crowley’s shoulders and gives him a forceful shake. “This isn’t funny, Crowley. Wake up, you ridiculous demon.”

Crowley does not respond. In fact, there are no signs that he’s actually present at all. Dread rips through Aziraphale. He presses his ear close to Crowley’s mouth. He’s greeted with a horrible, gut-wrenching stillness. He can’t hear breathing or feel air against his cheek.

“OK. He’s Not breathing…not breathing…” He tries to recall what to do. There was a book, many books, about what to do under such circumstances. If only he could recall…

“Oh, I’m an idiot!” He slaps his forehead in disbelief, then performs another miracle.

Crowley sits up so suddenly that it takes Aziraphale by surprise. He jumps in alarm as the demon wretches violently and throws up a lungful of lake water. It was going to leave a dreadful stain on the floor, but that didn’t matter right now. As soon as the shock wears off, he’s by Crowley’s side, rubbing his back and cooing softly like a fretting mother hen.

“There, there. Better out than in, I always say.”

Once Crowley finishes throwing up, he sags backward into Aziraphale’s arms, eyes scrunched shut and jaw clenched.

“Asssira?” He questions woozily, hissing the z part of Aziraphale’s name.“That you?”

“It’s me.” Aziraphale murmurs gently. Now that Crowley is conscious the need for forceful words ebbs away. “What happened to you, dear?”

“Demons.”

“Other demons did this to you?” Aziraphale is horrified but not entirely surprised. Some demons took great pleasure in inflicting cruelty on others. He instinctively wraps his arms around Crowley a little tighter in an attempt to protect him from invisible forces, but he soon comes to regret it.

An anguished scream tears from Crowley’s throat. “Let go, let go, let go!”

Aziraphale startles and removes his hold. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s,” Crowley chokes out. “Nothing.”

“That was…nothing?” Aziraphale is suspicious but he doesn’t press Crowley on the matter.

Crowley’s teeth begin to chatter. “It’s freezing.”

That’s something that Aziraphale can concur with. “It is rather, isn’t it? I need to get you out of your clothes.”  

This is the point that Crowley normally would have made a joke about temptation. He doesn’t, which only goes to demonstrate how awful he must be feeling.

“Are you OK to move?” Crowley shakes his head. “No, I didn’t think so.”

Aziraphale clicks his fingers and they transport from the lower floor to the second. The space, usually unused, is now a bedroom. They’re on a queen-sized bed, Aziraphale resting against the pillows, Crowley’s head using Aziraphale’s stomach as a cushion. With another click of his fingers, they’re both dry and wearing cozy silk pajamas.

“How’s that?”

“Still cold.” Crowley grouched. “Snake, remember.”

Another miracle surely won’t hurt, Aziraphale muses, though I do hope I don’t receive another reprimand about my frivolous use of them.

He brings an electric blanket into being and covers them both up. Crowley’s teeth stop chattering and he sighs contently, snuggling underneath its warmth.

“Ta.” He mumbled gratefully. “N’ I’m sorry.”

“You gave me a scare but I’d hardly say it’s your fault, dear.”

“Tis, I’m a demon.” Crowley corrected. “It’s always my fault.”

Aziraphale is surprised when the demon turns and buries his face fully against his plush stomach, nose nuzzling into his heat. He wants to say, we both know that’s a lie, but settles for gently stroking Crowley’s hair instead. He isn’t sure who he’s trying to comfort more.

“Too fast.” The words vibrate against Aziraphale’s stomach. In other circumstances, he would have laughed at the strange sensation. Having someone speak into his stomach was something he’s certainly not experienced before. It tickled. He strains to hear what Crowley is saying.

“I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I go too fast. M’sorry.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tenses, his hand freezing its gentle petting. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Crowley huffs and indignantly pushes his head up against Aziraphale’s fingers, as if to say, don’t you dare stop.

Aziraphale continues his tender administrations. “Rest.” He instructs in a no-nonsense kind of voice. “We’ll talk about this, just not now. You’re all…” he sighs when he realises Crowley has already given in to the temptation of sleep. “Sleepy.”

Careful not to jostle Crowley Aziraphale leans forward and places a tentative kiss on his forehead. One last little miracle. “Have a painless sleep, dear. Dream about the thing you love the most.”

Then he settles down and closes his own eyes. He daren’t fall asleep in case Crowley needs him, so he just lies there listening to the steady sound of Crowley snoring, comforted by the knowledge that his friend is safe and not in any immediate danger.