Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Apocalypse came and went - or rather it came, was thwarted by the devil’s rebellious son and a merry band of misfits, and ended as any other day would. The sun set, revealing a cascade of spangled stars across a blanket of seemingly endless darkness; not a single one of them kissing the earth with a burning desire to destroy. Rumors of Atlantis vanished just as quickly as the city had arose, and the Kraken descended back into the depths of the vast ocean like a spirit whose soul had been appeased.

The world was right. The dolphins rode the Atlantic current, not a single one of them boiling en-route as they migrated south. And the gorillas feasted on bananas, their minds ever lucid.

The only thing supposedly unnatural about the day after said Apocalypse was how an angel and a demon, an unlikely duo, managed to con the likes of heaven and hell with the help of a dead witch’s prophecy. The idea itself was ridiculous and hardly believable, but nevertheless, it was entirely and irrevocably a fact. With a touch of their hands, appearances were swapped and punishment was inflicted on the immune body, causing confusion and fear from their superiors. And so, angel and demon were left alone. They belonged to no one.

They often wondered in the days and weeks following the “Apoco-wasn’t” if they were still an angel and a demon. Either in complete solitude or amongst each other’s trusted company, golden slit eyes would double-take as they passed by a mirror, and wings would burst from their spines to insure they were still pearly white or raven black. Temporarily satisfied, Aziraphale and Crowley would continue about their day debating on what wine would pair best with their dinner plans. Would they have fish or chicken for dinner? Or perhaps try the new Thai restaurant opening on the west end of London?

It was a simple life, but a life suited for the two of them. A life without paperwork, reports, or quotas. A life without eyes - hundreds and hundreds of eyes - watching their every move and judging their every decision. It was a human life; something they had both grown quite fond of over their 6,000 plus years of residing on such a luscious and beautifully broken planet. They were content. Some might even say happy - irrevocably so. They now had an endless supply of time to explore new restaurants, converse on park benches, feed ducks, and be together.

Together.

It was an odd thought. It was a thought that sent tingles up an angel’s spine and caused a demon to rake his hands through tousled auburn hair nervously. They knew that neither of them should take it for granted, even if both time and fate seemed to be on their side. Time was a fickle thing, after all. And fate - fate could be altered.

Nevertheless, as the pair drove along the M25 headed toward the recently familiar town of Tadfield with the autumn sun high in the sky, the question of time was pushed into the farthest corner of their minds, not even a concern.

Aziraphale and Crowley relished being together, whatever their “together” meant. They (well, the angel to be exact) was positively thrilled to have been invited to tea with their newest American friend and her technologically impaired boyfriend. Crowley was just along for the ride, basically game to partake in whatever made his angelic counterpart happy, even if it meant spending the evening with two somewhat-tolerable humans. It was all about being together. If neither of them were quite ready to move past the brief brush of fingers and graze of passing shoulders, then they could at least offer each other reliable company.

That would do, for now.

Chapter Text

As a southeastern American would say, Crowley drove like a bat out of hell. More accurately, a drunk bat out of hell with its wings on fire being chased by the devil himself. His golden, serpentine eyes paid little attention to the road as asphalt turned to gravel, and with a squeal of his breaks, his Bentley jerked to a stop in front of a quaint English cottage.

“My dear, I’d sometimes swear by your driving that you were attempting to have us inconveniently discorporated,” Aziraphale huffed, straightening his bow tie as soon as he found it safe enough to let go of the handle above the window. It had become his lifeline whenever he rode with the demon. He had even heard that some humans referred to the handle as an “oh shit” grip, which when riding with Crowley, was a suitable term.

Smirking fondly at the tousled blonde, Crowley simply shrugged his narrow shoulders. “You’re being overly dramatic, angel. Besides look - we made it in record time! Who else can get you from London to Tadfield in under and hour, eh?”

“That’s not something you brag about, Crowley.” Aziraphale tried to sound stern, but his tone came off as mildly annoyed at best. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I bet once your little witch friend liquors you up, you won’t complain about my driving the entire way home.”

“She’s your friend too, Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected, watching as the demon sauntered towards him with the usual careless sway of his hips. Damn him and his hips. The way the demon walked should have been illegal. His hips were the eighth bloody deadly sin. The angel peeled his eyes away from said hips with a disgruntled huff, quickly finding a piece of lint on his tan vest to be equally as interesting.

Crowley, pretending not to have noticed the lingering gaze of blue eyes, refrained from smiling and bumped past the angel on purpose, though careful not to cause him to stumble into the brick wall surrounding the property.

“She’s a friendly acquaintance at best. I’ll give her that.” Crowley turned to walk backwards, facing the angel as he shuffled towards the door. Glasses slid from his hair to the bridge of his nose. “But do come along now, it was you that insisted on coming to this bloody gathering, after all.”

Aziraphale brushed his hands over his vest and straightened it by habit, following the insufferable demon up the stoned path to the house. “True, but it was you that insisted on driving me.”

“Tomato, Toe-mah-to, angel.” Crowley waved a hand carelessly as Aziraphale joined him at the door. Neither would ever openly admit that they wanted to be here with the other. It was unspoken - a little game that they played. One would think that after surviving an Apocalypse and attempted executions that feelings would come easier for the two of them; however, pride and denial were far easier to front.

So, they stood awkwardly, elbow to elbow, as Aziraphale reached up to knock on the door. He cleared his throat expectantly.

Faint voices could be heard from inside the cottage as well as a shuffle of footsteps. Within a moment’s time, the footsteps paused and the door knob jiggled open to reveal the bookish American. She straightened her askew glasses with a smile, holding the door open for the two celestial beings standing on her stoop.

“Aziraphale, Crowley, do come in!” She exclaimed, standing aside to welcome the pair. Her long, black curls were pulled back off of her shoulders revealing her usual attire; however, it was apparent that the witch had tried unsuccessfully to keep the sugar and flour off of her dress with a thin, laced apron. The poor dear had tried to cook. Crowley gave her a quick glance over and though his glasses hid his eyes, it was obvious he was unimpressed.

“Oh thank you, dear. How kind of you to have us over!” Aziraphale smiled at the human. She had become one of his “favorites” over the past few months.

“I do hope your ride was pleasant.” Anathema offered to take their jackets as they entered her home, though Crowley chose to ignore her open hand as he meandered into the foyer. He acted far more interested in the interior of the cottage rather than its occupants. If Aziraphale tried to scold him on his rudeness later, he’d simply use the cozy decor of the home as his defense. It was quaint, after all.

A fire crackled, heating the living room while slow jazz (which unfortunately reminded Crowley of elevator music) played softly. The furniture was old but still stylish, and a few lamps -a mixture of modern and rustic - added additional light to the off-white walls and hardwood floors. There was nothing particularly special about the cottage itself, but it was apparent that Anathema added her own particular flair to the cottage’s decor by adding a few crystals to the mantle and side tables. Witches and their rocks - Crowley snorted.

“Pleasant enough I suppose,” Aziraphale replied, handing her his 180 year old jacket, “I’m just glad to have gotten here in one piece.” Crowley pretended to ignore the comment, though Aziraphale knew his yellow eyes rolled behind the thick, dark glasses. After six thousand plus years of knowing each other, they could practically predict each other’s reactions. It caused Aziraphale to smile inwardly as he followed Anathema into the study.

“Where’s lover boy?” Crowley sniffed the air. Newt’s scent wasn’t fresh.

“Newt will be along shortly. I needed a few extra baking supplies so I had him run to the store.”

“Is he still driving that blue embarrassment?” Crowley asked, picking up and inspecting one of the larger crystals. He was half tempted to swipe it.

“You mean Dick Turpin? Yes,” her cheeks flushed. While she didn’t particularly like the vehicle, she had grown somewhat fond over it. She’d never admit it though.

“Strange. I figured he’d get rid of it. I can hardly imagine it being comfortable for the two of you and whatever it is you get in to,” Crowley waved his hand flippantly.

“Well, I think he has an emotional attachment to it.”

Crowley could understand that. He had had the same car since 1926. He loved his car. It was probably the only thing he’d openly admit to loving.

The demon gave a half-nod, but didn’t respond otherwise. Anathema was 90% sure that Aziraphale would apologize for the behavior of his companion later in the evening; he always did. But there was no need for an apology. In the short amount of time that she had known the two of them, she had grown used to their quirks. They were the yin to the other’s yang. Aziraphale was overly polite and pleasant, while Crowley gave two shits about what anyone thought of him. Well, not anyone. The demon had a soft spot for the angel. Anyone with two eyes could see it. His aura practically strained to touch the angel’s, and Crowley often hovered around Aziraphale like a guard dog.

In the short time she had known Crowley and Aziraphale, Crowley had never told the angel no. Aziraphale had, but his “no’s” were often meaningless when said to Crowley. They cared about each other, but to what extent Anathema wasn’t quite sure.

“Until Newt gets back, would either of you care for a drink? I would offer tea, but Newt tells me I’m horrid at brewing it.” She was American, after all. She could make a pot of coffee all day, but tea not so much.

“I would love something, yes,” the angel replied enthusiastically. “Would you happen to have anything slightly stronger than tea?”

“Excuse me?” Anathema appeared confused.

“Alcohol. He means alcohol, love.” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door frame.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Actually, I have this hard cider that I think you’d like - an old family recipe. You mix apple cider with a few shots of whiskey, heat until warm and add a few cinnamon sticks. It is a nice drink to have in the fall, I think. ”

“That sounds delightful, doesn’t it Crowley?” Aziraphale clapped his hands together and smiled, though Crowley shrugged, indifferent. Alcohol was alcohol. He’d take it hot, room temperature, cold, in a mug, jar, cup, whatever. But the brewing cider did explain the faint hint of cinnamon in the air. He had noticed it upon entering the house. He had initially assumed Anathema had lit a scented candle, or perhaps set out potpourri - women (and Aziraphale) liked that sort of thing.

“Fantastic! You two make yourselves comfortable - I’ll be right back.”

As soon as the young witch disappeared into the kitchen, Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a huff.

“Really dear? Can you at least attempt to be nice for once?” The angel’s arms crossed over his chest - a typical stance whenever the angel was displeased with the demon.

“Nice? This is my nice, Aziraphale. Demon, remember? I’m not hugging the bloody girl if that’s what you want…”

“I’m not…” Aziraphale paused, eyes closing as he took a deep breath. He got flustered easily.” I’m not asking you to hug her, just don’t be rude!”

“I’m not being rude.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not going to fake it, if that is what your asking. She’ll be dead in another seventy years or so, so I don’t see the point in…”

“ Crowley! For Heaven’s sake! I…” Before the red-faced angel could finish, Anathema walked through the door carrying a tray of steaming hot mugs - a cinnamon stick poking out of each one. She was stifling a smile, having heard the tail-end of the conversation between the two celestials. Most would have been offended by the demon’s comment about her impending death, but not her. She was different. She had seen things that mere mortals weren’t supposed to see. She helped stop the Apocalypse. An angel and a demon were standing in her study. What applied to her didn’t apply to other mortals - not anymore.

“Here we go…” Anathema set down the tray and handed them each a mug. “You might want to let it cool for a bit. It is quite hot.”

Aziraphale tested the liquid cautiously, thin lips pursed against the rim of the ceramic mug. He sipped thoughtfully, “Mmming” in agreement, his fingers catching a few rouge drops that trickled down his chin.

“Quite right, it is.” He set the mug down, careful to do so on a coaster. He didn’t want to stain her polished wood table, after all. Crowley on the other hand sniffed the drink, slurped the cup and smacked his lips as if he didn’t like the aftertaste.

“Needs an extra kick if you ask me.”

“I didn’t, but thank you for the tip,” Anathema shot back, smirking up at the demon.

Aziraphale chuckled.“Oh, good one!”

He was quite pleased to see someone (other than himself) give Crowley a taste of his own medicine. He knew he liked Anathema. The girl had already proven to have a spine of steel at the Tadfield air base and was obviously very smart, but quick wit? It was a welcomed surprise. Even Crowley seemed genuinely surprised by her response. His eyebrows rose atop the rim of his glasses, and if Aziraphale knew better, there was the slightest upward turn of his lips. Maybe Crowley would warm up the girl after all.

“ Hardy har har…” Crowley mocked, pulling what looked like a flask out of his back pocket. “Aren’t you just hilarioussss.” While Crowley was known to bring his own alcohol with him, Aziraphale had never seen that particular flask before.

It was silver, much like Crowley’s other accessories, and had a small imprint of a snake twisting around the flask with the serpent’s mouth as the opening. The pattern was done by hand - that much Aziraphale could tell. Probably a custom job. Of all things, only Crowley would have a flask custom made. Flashy bastard…

Crowley poured the contents of the flask into his mug, stirred it around with his finger, and took another slurp. Then another. “Better.”

He then put his mug down next to Aziraphale’s and plopped down on the couch. He slapped his boots atop the coffee table, long gangly arms draping over the side of the couch. The piece of furniture creaked under his weight. He knew Aziraphale was glaring holes in the back of his head, and he grinned.

“So what interesssting activities do you have planned for us this evening, hmmm? Board games? Potion brewing?” Crowley asked, head leaning back against the top of the couch. “I absolutely refuse to play Candy Land, but you might tempt me to a game of Twister.”

“Actually,” Anathema began, pausing only to sip at her own drink. “I was hoping to get Aziraphale to take a look at a book my mother recently sent me. She said it had been in the possession of a cousin of mine on my father’s side. It is rather old. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Of course, Crowley mused. Books and food. Why else would Aziraphale want to come? Said angel lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of the book, eagerly following the witch as she retrieved it from the cupboard.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, never one to presume. Anathema nodded and handed it over.

The angel took the book from her with all the gentleness one would have holding a newborn baby. His fingers grazed over the spine of the book, carefully peeling back the cover to read over the title page. He had come to realize in his years of collecting that most novels printed before the 1800’s rarely had a title printed on the cover. Instead, the cover of a book would've been bare. This novel was no different.

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” he breathed, flipping through the pages. For its age, the book was in amazing condition. Another point for the Device family. They seemed to cherish and take care of old books much like himself.

“How long do you think your cousin has had this book?”

Anathema shrugged, watching the angel with interest. “I don’t know. I believe he inherited it from his parents. Not sure which one.”

Aziraphale nodded, scrambling for the reading glasses in his upper vest pocket. They weren’t needed - just an accessory. The angel had grown used to them over the past hundred years. They made him feel more human - like he belonged.

“It is written in Latin. If I could just find the publisher’s date…”

“Careful, it’s probably a summoning book, angel,” Crowley called over his shoulder.

Aziraphale scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” He grabbed his mug and took a generous gulp of cider. “It is nothing…”

The angel didn’t finish. A noise akin to a gag rasped in the back of his throat. Crowley had never heard Aziraphale make that noise before.

The demon turned his head curiously, eyebrows creasing in concern.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. The mug shook in his grasp, splashes of cider trickling down his clinched, white knuckles. The poorly concealed distress in the demon’s voice caused Anathema to look up from the book to take in the angel’s appearance as well.

“Angel, what…?” It was then that Crowley noticed it. A horrible, sickening feeling bubbled in the pit of the demon’s stomach as the angel shook from head to toe. Sitting atop the coaster was Aziraphale’s mug of cider - right where he had left it. The mug in Aziraphale’s trimmering hand was Crowley’s. He had grabbed the wrong mug. Oh fuck.

Anathema reached out as if to steady the angel; however, before her fingers could grab hold of his elbow, Aziraphale crumpled, scarcely hearing someone scream his name before his head smacked against the floor.

Chapter Text

Crowley didn’t know fear. Fear was a stranger - a vague acquaintance at best. Crowley could count on one hand the number of times fear clutched at his heart or churned his stomach, but this, as he kneeled next to his friend’s prone body, was by far the worst. 

He remembered first meeting fear when he fell, (or as he liked to tell others), sauntered vaguely downwards. Sauntered or not, unsure as to what would come next had troubled him greatly. Would he still be able to see the stars he helped form into being if he was no longer in heaven, or would they forever more be a fond but distant memory? He loved the stars as Aziraphale loved books or good food. Creators tended to have affection for their creations, whether it be music, art, literature, or in Crowley’s case, stars. A piece of a creator’s soul is given to their masterpiece upon its design, and regardless of the outcome, there is always an attachment. 

Thankfully, he had never been denied the stars.

The second time fear made an appearance was in 1941, during the London Blitz. He had heard whispers of a well-to-do book collector having caught the attention of a few notable German spies - spies with direct ties to the Führer himself. For a while, Crowley had watched Aziraphale from a distance, never interfering, but always hidden in the shadows should the angel need him. Aziraphale had always been susceptible to trouble - not because he was stupid or lacked common sense, but rather because he was too damn gullible and good . He never assumed in any of his dealings that he was being “played for a sucker,” and had it not been for the gun being pointed directly at the angel’s head, Crowley would have shook his head in embarrassment for his friend. The gun was a game changer. 

The very sight of the pistol, cocked and ready to fire, only inches away from the crease of the angel’s brow sent an unpleasant shiver up the demon’s back. He knew he shouldn’t have cared, he really shouldn’t have. What was one less angel in the grand scheme of things? It would’ve taken years - hundreds, maybe thousands - for Aziraphale to finish the paperwork should his human brains have been splattered against the sanctuary’s walls that night, and then there would have been no guarantee he’d get another body. It pissed Crowley off the think - to know that he cared, and with a frustrated snarl, the demon entered the church, feet ablaze, to keep the angel on earth. 

The third time Crowley had been surrounded by fire and smoke. He could always feel Aziraphale, always . Not anymore though. The angel’s bookshop was collapsing around him, pillars of ash and smoke crumbling at his feet as he screamed. Many times he called out for the angel, his voice cracking in anguish, though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. Aziraphale was gone. Discorporated . His very being had returned to heaven, and most likely, his human shell was smoldering somewhere under the rubble. It was over - they had lost. If he ever saw Aziraphale again it would be during the Great Battle, and Crowley knew he’d not be able to face him then. Losing Aziraphale on earth was one thing, but the possibility of watching him die by a fellow demon’s hands coiled his gut. He nearly gagged at the thought. 

Standing on shaky legs, Crowley stumbled out the door with a book tucked under his arm. It was the only thing he had left of the angel. He felt numb. No anger, no pain, no sadness - just numb. The only thing left to do at this point was to get absurdly drunk.

The fourth time was only a few months ago. Thwarting the Apocalypse had been rather stressful, but Crowley never did feel what he had come to recognize as fear at the Tadfield Airbase. No, what scared him was what came next. He had stood by the angel’s side wearing Aziraphale’s face while Aziraphale wore his, just waiting. They both knew their respective sides were coming for them, but when, they did not know. All they had to go off of was a dead witch’s prophecy and the relative assumption that their bosses were pissed . 

But then it happened. Crowely had felt himself bound, gagged and drugged forcefully away while Aziraphale received a nasty blow to the back of his head. They lost sight of each other after that, neither one knowing what to expect from that point forward. They had their own ideas of course, but they couldn’t be certain. They just had to trust the prophecy. But Crowley wasn’t good at trusting - not when his life and the life of the angel’s was at stake.

Thankfully, they had won. Their gamble paid off. They were going to be left alone. Crowley could breathe again. 

But now as he leaned over his friend, hands grasping at Aziraphale’s, his throat was constricting once more. Fear was back to taunt him. It leered at him - pointed it’s nobby finger at him and laughed. Crowley felt like he was back at the bookstore, watching it burn. The same helplessness tugged at his heart, although this time it was far, far worse. This time, it was his fault. He had done this to Aziraphale. Instead of books burning, the angel was clawing at his throat, trying desperately to wrench the fire from his esophagus. Horrible noises were being emitted from the angel’s lips, and his mouth opened and shut desperately like a fish having been out of the water too long. 

“Aziraphale! Azira...what the hell is happening?!” Anathema screeched, doing her best to hold down the angel’s other arm. Crowley had nearly forgotten she was there. His ears were ringing, his head spinning. 

“CROWLEY! Please!” His head shot up, serpent eyes glaring at the girl, his sunglasses discarded somewhere on the floor. 

“The fool drank hell fire,” Crowley spat. The sound of Aziraphale choking filled the void between them, consuming everything. 

“But how is that even possible?” Anathema asked, wiping the sweat from her brow. She had misjudged the angel’s strength, but held Aziraphale’s right arm firmly. 

“My cup...damn it, Aziraphale! I’m trying to help!” The demon growled, one hand pinning Aziraphale’s left arm to the floor while the other cupped the angel’s face, trying to get him to focus. “I spiked my cider with liquid hell fire...from the lake of Fire.* Ever heard of it?” The intensity in Crowley’s voice caused the young witch to shudder. Of course she had heard of it.

“Great for demons, but dead...deadly to angels. Aziraphale! Azira...stop! Jesus , look at me! LOOK. AT. ME!” 

Crowley looked positively distraught. His teeth were bared and clinched, and his golden irses had expanded to mask the sclera. Anathema had never seen him like this and prayed that she never had to again. He looked wild, like a feral dog who was determined to protect a few scraps of meat. He looked demonic. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or feel sorry for the wretched creature across from her. 

Aziraphale’s thrashing suddenly began to subside to twitchy jerks and spasms. It was as if he was losing control of his nervous system. Wide, pain filled blue eyes that had once been focused on Crowley seemed to look past the demon now, unfocused. 

“No no no no no…” Crowley patted Aziraphale’s pale cheek desperately, wanting nothing more than to gather the angel in his arms and never let go. “Stay with me, angel. Hey! Eyes on me, remember? Eyes on me!” 

“He’s dying…” Anathema croaked, hands trembling. She knew it even without looking at his aura. She had seen death many times in her young life, she knew what it looked like. 

“No he’s not...he won’t! The bastard’s too stubborn to die.” Crowley all but snarled at the witch. “He can’t die.” 

“But what about a new body? Adam gave him a new body, surely…”

“NO!” Crowley snapped, baring his teeth at her. His canines were sharper than she remembered. “ They won’t give him a new body. We’re fucking outssssiders, remember?! If he goes, that’s it! Heaven doesn’t want em’, fucking Hell doesn’t either….” Nobody wanted them. He and Crowley were on their own.

The demon heaved a deep breath and released it shakely, trying to reign his emotions in. He couldn’t lose himself - not yet. Aziraphale needed him, and if they had any chance what-so-ever at keeping the angel alive, he needed to calm down. He closed his eyes momentarily before glancing back at Anathema, eyes still sharp but seemingly tamed. 

“We’re on our own.” Crowley said, the venom gone from his voice. “We’ve got to fix this. We’ve got to save him …”

The witch nodded, gaze flicking back and forth between the two celestials. She felt herself gulp and tried to steady the shaking of her own hands as she tentatively reached out to touch Aziraphale. Before she placed a hand on the angel’s chest, she shot Crowley a nervous glance, almost seeking his approval. The demon didn’t respond, but gave her a sharp nod. Anathema gently undid Aziraphale’s bow-tie and loosened his collar, snaking her lithe fingers around the angel’s throat. She felt his adam’s apple bob sporadically against her palm as he struggled against the suffocating pain. 

“Do you think this is only affecting his human body, or his celestial one?” 

“Both. Definitely both,” Crowley replied, hovering protectively by the angel’s side as Anathema inspected him. “Hell fire is meant to be torturous to any afflicted angel, body and soul” he explained, watching her carefully. “Depending on what part of the body it touches, and depending on the amount, an angel’s death can be quick or slow.” 

Anathema could tell that this was extremely hard for the demon to talk about. She could hear the break in his voice and could feel the waves of anguish rolling off of him. She dared not look at his aura, for she was afraid the very intensity of it would break her heart. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling - she couldn’t put herself in his shoes. She had only known Newt for a few months now, and while she had grown to love him completely (almost as if he was designed specifically for her) she couldn’t imagine him losing him. Crowley and Aziraphale had been friends for over six thousand years. For one to lose the other would be soul crushing. 

“Right,”she nodded with a wet sniff. Her eyes stayed on Aziraphale. She couldn’t look at Crowley right now. “How much was in the mug?” 

“Enough.” His jaw tightened. Anathema understood. 

“Any cure?” 

“I...I don’t know. Not that I know of.” Crowley hadn’t witnessed first hand the burning of any angel, which he was thankful for. Demon or not, he took no pleasure in watching any creature - heavenly, demonic, or earthy - die a slow and torturous death. Crowley wasn’t like other demons though - that was apparently clear. 

“Well, there must be something …” she closed her eyes, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. She gritted her teeth, and her head tilted ever so slightly in concentration. She kept her hands steady. She was feeling for him. His human body was still working, albeit not well, but she had no clue as to the state of his celestial form. It took a moment, but she finally saw him, and when she did, she felt sick - physically sick. She pulled back quickly, almost as if she had been burned herself and gasped, eyes wide. 

“What?!” Crowley demanded, golden eyes glowing fiercely behind the fray of his auburn hair. 

“It's not good...its not…” her voice broke, still trying to steady her panicked breathing. 

“FUCK!” Crowley felt like throwing something. He was losing control again, he could feel it. The demon raked his hands through his now disheveled hair, trying to keep the urge to panic at bay. Aziraphale wasn’t helping matters. His human body was giving up. He could sense it, and he could tell Anathema did too. She was speaking urgently to Aziraphale, practically pleading with the prone form on the floor to hang on while her fingers threading through the blonde curls that now matted against the angel’s forehead. 

Then suddenly, something in the room changed. The atmosphere shifted, and Aziraphale stilled under Anathema’s touch. 

“Zira?” Crowley reached out and shook the angel’s shoulder, but there was no response. “Hey! Aziraphale...angel!” He shook harder - still nothing. 

“No...no. NO! ANGEL!” Frantically, the demon clung to him like a lost child, fingers curled tightly around the fabric of the angel’s waistcoat. He shook him again and again, pleading for Aziraphale to blink, move, do something. But Aziraphale didn’t respond, didn’t blink, didn’t move. Had Crowley been in his right mind, he knew he wouldn’t respond. He was gone - he knew it. 

Anathema, who had been shoved aside by the hysterical demon quickly sat up and crawled back over to them, determination creasing her brow. Without warning, she peeled Crowley’s hands away and pushed him back with as much force as she could muster. She didn’t know how the demon would react to being man-handled let alone touched by a human, but currently, she didn’t care. The clock was ticking. 

At the same time, an inhuman snarl crawled from the back of Crowley’s throat; however, before he could lash out at the one who tore him away from Aziraphale, Anathema bent down and placed her mouth over the angel’s, forcing air down the scalded throat. The act caused Crowley to pause, fearful eyes wide in shock. She did it again, and again, only pausing to listen, her face inches from his. 

“What...what are you doing?” Crowley was still in a state of stupor, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Something,” she barked between a breath, “I’m doing something .” 

“But it won’t work, we’re not human. He’s not human!”

“But this body is!” Anathema shot back, eyes fierce and determined behind her round rimmed glasses. “Look, he hasn’t discorporated yet, Crowley. It means he’s still here - he’s still here. I feel him.” She placed a hand over Aziraphale’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart as emphasis. 

“He doesn’t have much longer, but I’m certain that the only chance we have at possibly keeping him here with us a little longer is if we keep this body working!” She was panting, her chest heaving with emotion. The witch stared at Crowley as if willing him to trust her - to understand that she was doing everything that she could think of to help Aziraphale. She knew trust didn’t come easy to him, but if they had any chance in hell or heaven at keeping Aziraphale alive, Crowley had to work with her. 

Crowley gawked dumbfoundedly at the witch. Their eyes remained at a deadlock only a few moments longer before she broke away to resume tending to the lifeless body of the angel. Crowley watched her breath for him again and he blinked, finding it hard to form words.

“Crowley!” Inhale. Breath. “You’ve got to do something!” 

“But I…”

“Do something or you’ll never talk to him again!” 

A punch in the gut. He forgot to breathe. Those words were so achingly familiar. The words reverberated around him, consuming every ounce of his consciousness, and Crowley felt dizzy. 

He couldn’t fathom not hearing Aziraphale’s voice again. It was unthinkable, really. He had stopped time once because he was unable to picture a world where Aziraphale ignored him completely, but this was different. Aziraphale wouldn’t be ignoring him - Aziraphale would be gone. He’d be alone, utterly and completely alone, and Crowley couldn’t wrap his head around that possibility. He just couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

With a look of determination the demon growled low and dangerous, eyes shooting up towards the heavens. He raised his arms, mimicking his movements at the Tadfield airbase, and with a twist of his wrists, time stopped. 

The celestial plain was very similar to the Sahara Desert. Endless rolling hills of red sand met a deep blue sky, one beginning where the other ended. In every direction it was the same. There were no clouds in the sky and no sun - just light; a comforting kind of light that not only warmed the skin but the soul as well. It was and had always been a neutral territory for both angels and demons alike - a middle ground between Heaven and Hell. It was familiar, but undoubtedly a place you didn’t linger for too long. Some mistook it for purgatory, but it wasn’t. Purgatory was for lost and confused souls, not for the occasional meeting between an angel and a demon. 

Crowley felt his raven black wings stretch out behind him, joints and tendons aching after having been tucked away for so long. His feathers fanned the air behind him, and for a brief moment Crowley closed his eyes and relished the feeling. He felt whole again. 

As they dipped back down to graze the top of the sand in a slow flutter, the demon’s eyes shot back open and he inhaled deeply, sniffing the air for the familiar scent of old cologne, mint, and Earl Grey tea. Aziraphale . The angel’s scent was present and hung thick in the air, mixed with what Crowley could only describe as charcoal and metal. They were smells that didn’t mix well together - smells that weren’t meant to linger around a heavenly presence. 

Crowley followed the smell, his head darting around the plain like a skittish deer. His serpentine eyes were wide and completely yellow, void of any human attributes as he scaled the area around him. For a brief moment, Crowley thought he was too late. When he didn’t immediately spot Aziraphale his first thought was that he had discorporated, and that the angel’s lingering scent was the only thing left to prove that the Aziraphale had in fact been here. But then, something white caught his eye.  He immediately started running. 

Unlike his human form, Aziraphale’s celestial form was still moving - still alive . The demon would have sighed in relief had it not been for the physical state of figure before him. Aziraphale’s wings, which were as beautiful as ever, laid limply against the red sand, pillowing the angel’s upper torso. One of the angel’s arms rested by his side, unmoving, while his other hand clawed sluggishly at his throat. Crowley felt physically sick at the sight of Aziraphale’s neck. 

The once soft, pale skin was black. His scorched skin flaked and began peeling back to reveal nasty reddish blisters that seemed to attack his veins, crudely coloring them a shade of blood red as they pulsed and stretched out across the angel’s jawline. Aziraphale’s lips were partially open as he struggled against the pain, and a low cough rattled his chest, flecks of gold ichor painting his lip and chin as he sputtered. 

The sight brought Crowley to his knees. His hand shook as they hovered over the dying angel, not knowing how or where to touch him. He didn’t understand how Aziraphale was still alive. He was suffering horribly, and while it was rather uncharacteristic of a demon, Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to suffer. 

“Zira?” Crowley placed a gentle hand on the angel’s forehead, finally mustering enough courage to touch him. “Angel, can you hear me?” His long fingers stroked through the angel’s hair. 

Aziraphale’s blue eyes had dimmed, no longer the color of the sky after a rainstorm. They were glazed over and red rimmed, and held the look of someone who had accepted defeat. Even as they slowly rolled over to gaze upon the worried face of the demon, it was apparent Aziraphale was tired. It made Crowley think that maybe, just maybe this was it. That there was nothing he could do - that he might as well be comforting a corpse. But then, amongst the angel’s unmasked pain, the corner of Aziraphale’s lips twitched in what Crowley could only describe as a smile. Hope pulled at his heart strings. 

“Angel, I’m here. I’m not leaving you, alright? What can I do? Tell me...tell me what to do…” Crowley pulled Aziraphale carefully into his lap, cradling the angel’s head in the crook of his elbow. 

Aziraphale’s mouth moved, attempting to speak; however, all that he managed to get out was the “C” and the “ley.” 

“Yes, yes, it's me. I’m here,” He repeats, trying to smile. “Please, tell me how to help you.” 

The angel only sighed and shook his head. 

“No, no Aziraphale,” Crowley ran his fingers through the pale blonde curls again. “You’re not giving up. I’m not giving up...we went through too much shit for it to end like this, you hear me?” The demon shook the angel softly, prompting Aziraphale to look at him. 

“Please, there must be something ,” Crowley pleaded, eyes skimming the angel’s face for answers. Aziraphale coughed again, his head falling back as another wave of pain rocked his body. Crowley clung to him tighter, shushing him gently much like a mother would shush a wailing toddler. 

“Zira, please,” he cooed, “Stay with me. Think .” 

Aziraphale’s eyes found his again, and he grimaced as he swallowed. He could taste the blood on his tongue. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift away. He wanted the pain to end, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. It hurt him to see Crowley so upset and desperate, and had he the strength, he would’ve reached up to smooth those worry lines away. 

“Water…” Aziraphale rhasped, barely above a whisper. 

“What?” Crowley asked, leaning his head forward so that his ear was right next to the angel’s lips. 

“H..hholy...wa...water.” 

Crowley blinked. Oh God. Yes, of course. Of course! Why had he not thought of that? Of course holy water was the answer, how could he have been so daft? 

Crowley’s hand stilled in the angel’s hair as he brought his lips down to kiss Aziraphale’s forehead. He then swiftly moved to cup the angel’s cheeks. 

“Listen, I’m going to fix this. Right now. I’ve got to go back, but don’t...don’t leave. Hang on a little longer, alright? Can you do that for me?” The demon’s eyes were wide and desperate, searching the angel’s face for a sign of confirmation. Energy spent, Aziraphale could only nod. He’d stay as long as he could. 

“I’ll fix this, okay? I’ll fix this!” And with that, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands leave him as time resumed. 

The present world came back to Crowley in a woosh . No time had passed on earth while he had visited the celestial plain, and with a shuddering breath, the demon reached out and squeezed Anathema’s shoulder. 

“Holy water. We need holy water,” he said urgently, eyes hard and intense. 

Pausing in her life-saving ministrations, the young witch looked up. Sweat had begun to bead on her brow and her rosy cheeks glistened. Had they not been short for time, Crowley might have thanked her for tending to his friend so fervently. The key word being might. Words of gratitude tasted bad on his tongue. 

“Holy water?” She repeated, “How do you…”

“Aziraphale told me,” he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Long story. Don’t have time to explain now. We need to get our hands on some holy water, like now .” 

Just as Anathema was about to open her mouth, the door clicked open and Newt Pulsifer came through the door, shouting a pleasant “hello” from the foyer. 

“I think I got everything this time, darling,” he called, the sound of paper bags hitting the kitchen countertop. 

“NEWT!” Anathema shouted, her voice demanding and urgent. “I need you to run upstairs right now and get that bottle of holy water - it is in the green trunk!” 

“But, why would you need…” his voice tapered off as the scrawny man peeked his head through the door. While he couldn’t see everything, he saw enough. He saw Anathema and the demon Crowley hovering over what he could only assume was Aziraphale based on the tuffs of blonde hair and posh clothing. While he could not physically see the angel’s face, based on the witch’s posture and the wide-eyed, frantic look on the demon’s face, he could tell something was terribly, terribly wrong. 

“NEWT, JUST GO! HURRY PLEASE!” 

“Right...yes, on it,” Newt said, scrambling up the narrow, wooden staircase. His heavy foot-fall caused the old wooden floor to creak and moan in protest as he turned to run down the hallway, knees hitting the floor with a thud in front of  the ancient green trunk. It was one of those trunks that used to only open by lock and key; however, the years had rusted the old lock making it nearly impossible to use a key should the owner still have it. Thankfully, the key was no longer needed, the latch broken and worn, and Newt lifted the heavy lid open with a grunt. 

Newt reached down, fingers picking up bottle after bottle, trying to find the right one. He heard Anathema shout “ HURRY ” from the floor below, and he tried to move faster, the bottles clinking loudly as he sorted through them. Finally, after a few subtle curses, he found the right one. It was a clear bottle, its contents sloshing back and forth as it was jostled. A small metal cross was tied to the nozzle of the bottle, and the initials “H.W.” were written on the top of the cork. 

“GOT IT!” He yelled, turning to run down the stairs, nearly tripping in the process. Once he reached the bottom floor he handed the bottle to Anathema, out of breath from his exertion. The witch took it from him with a jerk and passed it to Crowley who looked positively dumbfounded as to why she had given the bottle to him. She didn’t hesitate to explain. 

“I know the water can’t touch you, so I’ll hold him,” she said, already moving to prop the angel’s body against her shoulder, arms holding him upright. “That way if any of it spills, it spills on me, okay?” 

Crowley nodded, popping the bottle open with his thumb. Anathema man-handled Aziraphale’s jaw, forcing his mouth open even wider. 

“Ready,” she said, dipping her chin at the demon. “Slowly now…”

Although somewhat shakily, Crowley reached over and tilted the bottle against the angel’s parted lips, watching as the water began to slide down Aziraphale’s throat. After a few seconds, Anathema stopped him and brought a hand down to massage the angel’s neck, forcing the prone body to swallow. Crowley than began pouring more, nearly emptying half of the bottle before he stopped completely. The witch kneaded his throat again, and thankfully all of the water went down “swimmingly” save for a few stray drops that had leaked out of the corner of the angel’s mouth. 

Anathema then laid Aziraphale back down, cradling his head in her lap. The room went silent. Nothing could be heard save for the harsh breathing of the three conscious occupants, excruciatingly waiting. Newt watched nervously by the door while Crowley simply stared, eyes locked on the angel’s face.  Thirty seconds passed. 

“Well?!” Crowley hissed, breaking the silence. “Why issssn’t he coming around?” 

“I...I don’t know. Maybe it takes time?”

“Are you sure that was real holy water? Because if it wasssssn’t…” he warned, gold eyes sharpening. 

“I’m positive,” she replied defensively. “I collected it myself at Saint Mary’s in Phoenix, Arizona. Watched it be blessed and everything.” What sort of witch would she be if she couldn’t tell the difference between real holy water and fake? A laughing stock, that’s what. Agnes Nutter would have rolled in her grave (figuratively speaking) had Anathema given Aziraphale plain old water. 

But now, as time slowly ticked on without the slightest twitch from the angel, Anathema began to question herself. 

Once again, she placed her hand over the angel’s still chest, feeling for life. She prayed to anyone who would listen to let this work, oh please let this work. If it didn’t, she didn’t know what they’d do - what Crowley would do. The demon’s sanity was hanging on by a thin thread - a thread that was stretching thinner and thinner as every second ticked by. The thread would snap at any given moment if this failed. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. A dead angel was unbearable, but a broken demon was unfathomable. She suspected that should Aziraphale die here on her living room floor, Crowley would crumble in on himself and all but die with him. 

It was utterly, and completely heartbreaking. 

A minute passed. 

“I don’t understand,” Crowley moaned, his voice breaking under the strain of sorrow. The snap was coming. “He told me holy water.. .he told me .”

“Maybe we were just too late,”Anathema replied softly, trying to control the sob that worked its way up her throat. Newt could hear the quiver in her voice and quietly walked over to place a comforting hand on her back. He thought it best he didn’t speak. 

“No...no...I made him promise me that he would hold on. I made him promise before I came back that he…” he choked on his words. Crowley’s eyes closed, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Snakes weren’t meant to cry. 

The demon slowly crumpled forward, fingernails digging into his scalp as his forehead touched the floor, a sob rocking his lithe body. He groped blindly, one hand finally curling around Aziraphale’s arm. He clung to the angel’s body as if it was the only thing that grounded him to the earth and screamed . The sound itself was enough to silence the birds outside the window and cause the sun to retreat behind thunderous clouds. All manner of life in and surrounding the cottage felt the waves of agony rushing over the demon’s shoulders - the scream itself causing the electricity to flicker, leaving the room to be lit only by the sun’s fading light. Heaven and Hell weren’t paying attention, otherwise they would have noticed the shift in the earth’s atmosphere. 

The demon’s keening morphed into low, antagonizing whimper as the hand that wasn’t already clinging to Aziraphale’s body encircled his stomach, trying desperately to hold himself together. Nothing could be heard over the demon’s sobs and the erratic sniffling of the witch and her lover. Fear had been replaced by despair. She lingered at the door step, head bowed, face pale. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered, voice hoarse from screaming. “I’m so, so sorry…” He didn’t dare look up. He couldn’t look up. It was over, it was done. He failed. 

He. Was. Alone. 

Another rush of unrelenting agony consumed the demon, and as another sob began to build the arm he clung to twitched. 

It’s not real , Crowley. You’re imagining things , Crowley. 

The arm twitched again. 

This time, he looked up. Anathema must have felt it too, because her eyes, red with tears, looked down at the angel almost expectantly. She placed her hand on his chest, and her eyes widened. 

“Crowley, I feel…” she didn’t finish. As if breaking the surface of water, Aziraphale gasped greedily, his chest heaving and eyes impossibly wide. 

Chapter Text

To say that it was a miracle that Aziraphale was still alive would have been an understatement. None of them understood how. Although she was no doctor, Anathema knew enough about healing to know that even if Aziraphale’s human body was just a vessel and not the deciding factor as to whether or not the angel himself lived or survived, said vessel was human.  He had skin, hair, organs, lungs, teeth, a heart - everything that made up a human and made them, well, human. If Hellfire was as deadly to angels as Crowley made it out to be, it should have practically dissolved the angel’s larynx and esophagus, or at least burned it beyond an irreversible state. 

But maybe Hellfire affected an angel’s human body similarly to poisoning. It would explain the asphyxiation and the total shutdown of his nervous and muscular systems. It would explain why basic human resuscitation seemingly kept Aziraphale’s body “alive” long enough for the holy water to reverse the damage. If Hellfire was the poison, then it made sense that holy water was the antidote. Still...what about Aziraphale’s actual body? The celestial one? 

Anathema hadn’t outright seen how the Hellfire had damaged Aziraphale’s celestial form, she had only seen or rather felt its slow consumption of the angel through his divine aura. What she had felt was more akin to a burn than poison. It felt like a black mass - a raging hot infestation that clung to the celestial, spreading like wildfire through his veins. Like a spark to a piece of dry wood, it would eat, and eat, and eat until there was nothing left. It was what she imagined Agnes Nutter’s aura looked like as she burned at the stake - without the heavenly glow and overwhelming sense of goodness and purity, of course. 

So Anathema’s question was this - did Hellfire affect Aziraphale’s human body and celestial body differently? Based on her observations, it seemed to be so. If she took a sip from Crowley’s flask, would she experience the same? Would she feel the wrath of Hellfire as it coursed through her body as Aziraphale had, or was Hellfire specifically created to damage and kill angels? She was smart enough to know that taking a sip of liquid hellfire was not in her best interest, but she was a problem solver and a thinker. It was another mystery for her to solve - another code to be cracked. It would become a new obsession that would cause her sleepless nights and long days as she tried to piece this particular puzzle together. 

Maybe this was her purpose. Maybe she was destined to become the first human and occultist to not only understand the difference between a celestial’s human and natural form, but also their physical strengths and weaknesses as well as discover ways to remedy issues that would cause either harm. Maybe she shouldn’t have burned Agnes’s second book of prophecies after all. They could have given her some insight as to whether or not this was a path worth pursuing. 

But she had already made up her mind. 

Prophecies or not, there was no turning back. If she could in one way or another be an asset to either Crowley or Aziraphale, or dare she think it, both , it was worth pursuing. Heaven and Hell may have abandoned them, but she wouldn’t. 

_____________________________________________

Aziraphale wasn’t conscious for long. He sucked in a few greedy breaths, blue eyes bloodshot and worn. As his chest heaved, he felt gentle hands cradle him closer, and a familiar voice shushing and whispering words of comfort to him as he tried to gain some sense of awareness. He was so tired though, so tired. He hadn’t the strength to keep his eyes open. The shapes and voices hovering over him began to fade as he blinked sluggishly, words of i ts okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, angel lulling him back into a peaceful unconsciousness. He felt safe - safe enough to let the darkness consume him. 

When he came to again, his bought of consciousness was short once more. This time, he hadn’t even tried to open his eyes. He just listened. He heard the steady breathing of someone beside him and the light click of boots pacing just outside the door. He heard crickets chirping just outside the window, and the hoot of an owl in the far off distance. So it was night. 

Aziraphale felt something cool and wet dab at his forehead and those same soft, gentle fingers card through his hair repeatedly. Nails scraped lightly at his scalp, and he felt the bed dip slightly under the weight of another body - a body that smelled of cinnamon and leather, with a hint of charcoal. It was a familiar scent, and a scent he had grown to love. While he couldn’t yet voice the demon’s name, his throat still raw and blistered, yellow eyes and auburn hair flashed across his memory. 

The angel exhaled softly, knowing Crowley was close. The demon was his security blanket, and his presence immediately allowed Aziraphale to sink back against the pillow, utterly worn and spent. As long as Crowley was with him, he could rest.  He could allow himself and his body to heal. He could completely succumb to the pull of sleep knowing he was being watched over by one of the only souls he dared to trust, and the only soul that truly mattered to him. 

If this was peace - true and unrelenting peace - he could get use to it. 

_____________________________________________

Shortly after returning to the world of the living, Crowley had miracled Aziraphale’s body as well as himself upstairs to the spare bedroom. Although alive and outwardly stable, Crowley did not think it was in the angel’s best interest that he be transported back to London. Additionally, Anathema had insisted they stay. In fact, she had ordered it. They had no idea what repercussions they would face in the days ahead, and with her basic knowledge of first aid and healing, Aziraphale’s best chance of recovery was if he remained in her home so that she (and Crowley) could observe him closely. 

So, until further notice, Anathema had two house guests. 

Crowley had not left Aziraphale’s bedside. No one expected him to. The demon had pulled an old wicker chair to the side of the bed and sat, occasionally whispering reasurances and smoothing down blonde curls whenever the angel stirred or gave any impression that he was in pain. Anathema had watched from the doorway, finding the exchange sweet. If questioned, Crowley would never admit to caring as much for the angel as he actually did, but there was no questioning his unwavering loyalty and outright love for Aziraphale. She was quite certain that if Aziraphale had died on her floor, Crowley would have never been the same. In fact, while the thought disturbed her, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Crowley would have found a way to die himself. 

Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about that - not now. 

With a bowl of cool water balancing in one hand, the young witch rapped her knuckles against the door frame. It was her house, but Aziraphale room was Crowley’s territory. 

“Can I come in?” She asked softly. Crowley didn’t look up at her, but he nodded.

“How is he?” Anathema doubted that in the short hour she had left Crowley alone with Aziraphale, that the angel’s status had changed any, but she never wanted to assume. 

“Same,” he responded with a slight shrug, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he leaned heavily against the bed. His gold eyes remained fixed on the sleeping angel’s face. 

Anathema hummed and nodded, crossing over to stand on the other side of the bed. She moved to replace the bowl of water beside Crowley with the fresh bowl, as well as provided the demon with a clean wash rag. Crowley immediately took the rag, dipped it in the water, and dabbed at the angel’s forehead. 

“I’ve sent Newt to the closest Catholic Church. I figured we needed extra holy water, you know, just in case,” her voice remained soft, barely above a whisper. She doubted she’d cause the unconscious angel to stir, but it just seemed appropriate to keep her voice down. 

“Won’t hurt I suppose,” Crowley sighed, wringing the rag out and placing it on the side table beside the bowl. “Might help...probably will help,” he murmured, voice tired. He leaned back in the chair and stretched, the bones in his spine shifting with a pop. 

“Yes, I figured it would do him good if we continue to make him drink it. It may not heal him completely, but I think it’ll help repair the worst of the damage, and at the very least, dull the pain.” 

With Aziraphale currently unconscious, neither of them had any way of determining how extensive the angel’s wounds were, nor how much pain he was in. Anathema had observed his aura prior to entering the bedroom and was only able to determine by the dulled black void blanketing Aziraphale’s upper torso that he wasn’t completely cured. At this point, all they could do was wait and treat what they could. It was frustrating, yes, but it was better than the alternative. 

Reaching out, Anathema rested a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. Her brow creased in mild concern as the angel’s skin warmed her fingers. 

“He still has a fever,” she said more-so to herself, knowing that Crowley was already well aware of that fact. 

“Yep,” Crowley replied, popping the “p.” “He’s burnin’ through these water bowls. Can’t keep em’ cool.” The demon motioned lazily towards the fresh bowl sitting to his left, his body looking similar to a marionette whose strings had been cut. He was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. Anathema didn’t need to glance at his aura to know that. She wasn’t much better. In fact, if the situation had been any different, she would have graciously welcomed copious amounts of liquor and a very very long nap. 

Yet, here they were, the two of them on either side of the prone angel like two poorly carved gargoyles, tired and unmoving. 

“You should get some rest,” Anathema said, pushing her glasses up and into the thick, black nest of curls that was pulled high atop her head. “I can sit with him for a while. I don’t mind.” 

Crowley bent forward, pinching the bridge of his nose, jaw tight. “I don’t need to rest, girl. ” His voice lacked venom despite the insult.

“Crowley, it has been a long day, a few hours…” 

“I said I don’t need to rest.” He looked at her sternly, the black slits of his eyes fixed and narrow. “I’m staying.” He said the words slowly, emphasizing each syllable. Although not quite in a position to strike, the snake within him began to curl defensively, it’s back twisting and arching as its tongue flicked dangerously. Anathema immediately regretted her persistence. She should’ve known better. She raised her hands to pacify him - a similar notion to a dog showing its belly in submissiveness.

“Okay, okay,” she reassured, her hands stayed up. Crowley immediately relaxed back into the chair, satisfied that she understood his position. Still, his shoulders remained tense, the snake refusing to uncurl. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Anathema said, once more glancing at Aziraphale as she crossed back to the door. “Let me know if you need anything, or if he wakes up. I’ll bring some more holy water up once Newt gets back to see if we can’t get him to drink some.” 

Crowley didn’t respond, nor did he acknowledge her. He had gone back to leaning on the bed, his chin resting in his hands. She no longer had his attention, though to be fair, she reckoned she never did. The angel always had his attention. It was silly of her to think otherwise. Even when the demon’s eyes were looking elsewhere, there was always apart of him that remained in-tune with Aziraphale’s being. 

It was sweet, really, though Anathema would never ever say so. Not in front of Crowley. 

“Right,” she cleared her throat, shoving her hands in the pockets of her dress. “I’ll be back to check in later.” With that, Anathema disappeared down the hall and down the staircase. There was no point in her lingering.

With the witch gone, Crowley heaved a heavy sigh. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The demon reached forward with long, willowy fingers and pulled Aziraphale’s hand closer to him. He held the angel’s hand in his, lightly threading his thumb over the pale knuckles. The angel’s eyebrows twitched at the touch, but he gave no other sign of awareness. 

“I’m still here you know, ”Crowley murmured, tracing the lines of Aziraphale’s face with his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.” He didn’t expect Aziraphale to answer, but he felt the need to reassure him. He didn’t want the angel to think he was alone. That was never going to be the case. 

Crowley’s face, haloed by lamp light turned to glance quickly at the open door as if to make sure no one was listening. His tongue wet his lips, and the only present smells were his own and Aziraphale’s. Newt and Anathema’s unique scents were distant, insuring the demon they were in the house, but out of hearing range. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. 

“You’re a real prick, you know that, right?” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, threatening to run over. “ Fuck Aziraphale, you about died . You promised you’d hold on, and damn it, you almost made me think worst. You can’t do that to me. You can’t! Not after everything...not now. I can’t…” Crowley’s voice cracked and he looked down, wiping his face with his sleeve. Human bodily fluids were so inconvenient. 

I can’t do this without you , he wanted to say. Don’t leave me. Don’t you ever fuckin’ leave me. 

These emotions nearly made the demon laugh. Who could have ever known that two mortal enemies would become anything but. They had, for all intents and purposes, turned their backs on their respective offices. Some might say they did it for the world and for humankind, but truthfully, it was for each other. The thought of facing eternity without the other was unfathomable. Death would’ve been kinder. 

Okay, so maybe it was an added bonus that neither would have to watch “The Sound of Music” over, and over, and over, and over, and over. Screw that mountain. Up yours, Julia Andrews. 

Looking back up at Aziraphale, Crowley cracked a sad smile. He was glad the angel wasn’t awake - he didn’t want him to see him like this. Crowley never wanted to seem anything but confident and put together in the presence of the angel. He wanted to be a constant for Aziraphale - a lighthouse in the darkness, a source of security. Not a sobbing, pitiful, broken mess. The angel didn’t deserve that. He deserved the stars. 

“Just...just focus on getting better, okay?” Crowley managed to finally say after his brief release of grief. “That is all that matters now. Just you getting better.” Everything else was inconsequential.  He pushed his auburn bangs from his face and reached for the damp cloth, determined to do his part to insure that Aziraphale did get better. He blotted at the angel’s hairline, soothing the heated skin with carefully placed fingers and doting brushes. 

“I’ll be here, angel. I’ll be here.” God herself couldn’t keep him away. 

Chapter Text

When Aziraphale opened his eyes for the first time for any substantial amount of time, it was mid-day. How long he had been under, he did not know. He recalled that at one point it had been night, but whether it was last night, or two nights ago, or numerous days prior, Aziraphale was unsure. That is what unconsciousness did to you. It left you foggy, unaware, and vulnerable - sensations the angel didn’t care for at all. Aziraphale was the first to admit that he had grown soft over the years, but he had never ever been helpless, let alone incapable. On the contrary, a Principality was anything but. 

Nevertheless, for the first time in well, ever , Aziraphale felt just how inconveniently vulnerable he was. He hated it. 

Shifting his head against the pillow, Aziraphale opened his mouth, parched from a lack of frequent usage. The best way he could explain it was how the mouth and tongue tasted after a hangover. He was thankful there was no unpleasant aftertaste, but for the life of him he couldn’t make his mouth salivate in order to provide relief. He then made the mistake of swallowing air. Immediately, pain erupted in his throat - a tortuous and unrelenting pain. Had he been standing, it would have brought him to his knees. 

Aziraphale gasped and made a noise that could only be described as a compulsory whine, and while the rest of his body felt uncharacteristically heavy, he managed to bring an instinctual hand up to his throat. He vaguely understood that in his current physical state he could not provide himself with the healing relief he so desperately needed, but he tried anyway. Tears leaked from his eyes, cascading down his temples and into his hairline. 

 Dear God, have mercy. Please, please have mercy. Like a broken record, it repeated over and over in Aziraphale’s head, watery blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, begging and pleading for her to listen - for anyone to listen. 

She didn’t answer (not that he expected her to), but hands were suddenly on him. They moved to pull his hand away from his throat while simultaneously stroking his forehead and hair. The hands were everywhere, moving to both protect and comfort him. The pain didn’t subside, but he found some emotional relief in the touches - even more so when amber eyes met his. 

Crowley. Blessed, blessed Crowley. 

Had the circumstances been different, Aziraphale would have commented on the unruliness of the demon’s hair, as well as the dark circles under his eyes; eyes that held a number of emotions. Concern, fear, and hope beng three that the angel recognized. He couldn’t recall ever seeing Crowley like this before. It was disturbing to say the least, but there was very little he could do to ease the demon’s concerns and bubbling panic. Aziraphale tried to say the demon’s name; however, the festering pain in his throat kept him from making any sound other than another agonizing cry. 

“Zira, shhhh , don’t try to talk, okay? I’m here. I’m here. ANATHEMA!” Crowley called for the witch over his shoulder, hands still moving to placate his friend. “Anathema! Help would be nice right about now!”

The vial of holy water that they had been forcing Aziraphale to drink while he had been unconscious sat on the bedside table, half empty. Crowley didn’t dare touch it, at least not without Anathema there to help maneuver the angel. She always seemed to do the holding while he did the pouring - it was the safest option. A drop or two would only cause his skin to sizzle and burn with the possibility of a few heat blisters, but a small splash could take his hand off, or worse. Over the past few days Crowley had thought more than once that he deserved such cruel and unusual punishment - he was the reason Aziraphale was suffering, after all. But, he ultimately decided against it. He’d be no help to the angel if he was missing a hand, or if he became a messy, melted puddle of demonic goo. 

No, Crowley thought as he continued to stroke the angel’s forehead, Aziraphale needed him now. He’d wallow in self-pity later. Maybe he’d scream at his plants. If he unloaded his self-hatred and grief onto them, then they’d be absolutely ravishing, he was sure of it. He’d not see a brown spot for months. 

The swift click of boots alerted Crowley to Anathema’s presence, her long black hair billowing past her shoulders as she rushed into the bedroom. She felt the demon’s eyes on her as she positioned herself on the other side of the bed, and without saying a word she knelt on the sheets and hoisted Aziraphale up as gently as she possibly could. The angel shook in her arms, his hands trembling as he feebly grasped at her arm for support. As elated as she was to see him awake, Aziraphale struggled against the raw pain, desperate for relief. At least while he slept, the pain was dulled. She considered it a small blessing, though she doubted that the demon, who was currently fumbling with the bottle of holy water felt the same. 

“Hey Aziraphale,” she cooed, smiling down at those desperate, blue eyes. “We’re going to help you, I promise. Relief is coming here shortly…” she looked back over at Crowley and nodded. She was ready. 

“Open your mouth for us, can you dear? You need to drink, it’ll help,” Anathema urged him reassuringly as Crowley tipped the bottle against Aziraphale’s dry lips. Seconds after the first few drops touched the angel’s tongue, he began drinking hungrily. He gulped earnestly, relishing the cooling effect the holy water had on his blistered throat. He could feel it work against the columns of his larynx, sizzling like raindrops on asphalt, as well as ease the uncomfortable churning in his inflamed stomach. Oh God , it felt good. 

“Easy now, angel. Easy,” Crowley said, pulling the bottle away before Aziraphale downed the entire thing. Aziraphale’s lips followed like a leech to blood, hungry and desperate for more. 

“You’ve gotta’ pace yourself Zira, we need to make this bottle last.”  Neither he nor Anathema knew how many more times poor Newt would be able to get away with stealing holy water. He wasn’t the stealthiest of humans. Though, Crowley supposed Newt could find a different Catholic Church to swipe from, even if their options were limited in Tadfield. 

“Does that feel better?” Crowley smiled down at the angel, his heart fluttering in earnest when Aziraphale’s head jerked in a nod. The angel’s breathing had regulated again, and the lines that stretched across his forehead softened as he went boneless. He was spent. 

Anathema brought him back against the bed and tucked the comforter around the angel’s body. By the flutter of his eyes, she could tell Aziraphale’s consciousness was waning again. 

“I have some things that I think will help,” she said, pushing herself off the bed. She left the room but came back only moments later with a few items - items that caused Crowley’s eyebrows to rise inquisitively. 

“And these items are…?” the demon was skeptical.

“A humidifier,” she replied, plugging the bulb shaped device into the wall. Steam began rising from the small opening at the top - the water bubbling rhythmically as the apparatus came to life. “It keeps the air in the room moist. I think it will help his throat. It always helped me growing up when I had a sore throat or congestion, and since he’s...you’re,” she paused, addressing Aziraphale directly, “unable to consistently drink at the moment, it should help ease the pain in your throat.” 

The angel didn’t have the strength nor the ability to speak, but his lips curved in a soft smile despite the heaviness in his eyes. It was all the “thanks” he could muster at the moment. 

Anathema could have lost herself in that minuscule flutter of a smile. It was a small reminder that Aziraphale was still present - that he was still alive . She’d count it as a blessing. She doubted that she, nor Crowley judging by the pleased look in demon’s eyes, would ever take the angel’s smiles for granted, not when Death had been looming by her door just a few days before.

The witch cleared her throat, not letting her thoughts get ahead of her. “I also brought this,” she pulled out a few stems of dried herbs from her house coat. 

“It’s lavender and mint. Both provide a comforting scent. I thought it might help you rest better.” She tied them to the bed posts and said a few words under her breath - so soft that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could make out what she was saying. A prayer perhaps, or a healing spell. Crowley assumed the latter. 

Rubbing her hands together as if banishing any lingering water, sweat, or grit from them, Anathema rocked on her heels and huffed. 

“Right, well, I am going to go put the kettle on. If you’re feeling up to it later, would you like to try some tea?” Blue eyes, hazy from pain and fever watched her as she leaned against the door frame. He nodded again, blinking sluggishly. Tea sounded heavenly. He longed for something to wash away the aftertaste of smoke from his tongue. 

“Great,” she said, patting the frame of the door as she pushed away from it. “You try to get some more rest. I’ll be back with some tea later.” 

Crowley watched her leave before he turned his attention to Aziraphale. “You know, I’m starting to see why you like her so much…still warming up to the boyfriend though.” 

The angel’s eyes met his and Crowley released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He reached out and clutched one of Aziraphale’s hands, threading their fingers together. Although the angel’s hands were limp to some degree, the demon relished in the warmth of them. He relished in the warmth that was Aziraphale - wholly and completely Aziraphale. The cold didn’t suit the angel. Death and hell wasn’t for someone as pure as good as him. 

Crowley had always thought it, but Aziraphale was the best of them all - angel and demon alike. He was sure of it. 

Aziraphale seemed to sense the emotions building up and threatening to crack the demon in two, and he gently squeezed Crowley’s hand, offering him a tired but genuine smile. Even if he couldn’t provide anything more to his distraught counterpart, he released a wave of love - a sensation that expanded from the touch of their hands all the way up the demon’s arm to encompass him. The small but effective detachment of love given to Crowley caused Aziraphale to succumb to the fatigue that plagued his body, and he released a long sigh. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you.” Aziraphale vaguely heard Crowley whisper, the demon’s warm breath tickling his ear. “Go on and sleep, I’ll be here.” 

Aziraphale didn’t doubt that Crowley would stay. In fact, he’d almost guarantee it. He was thankful for the demon’s steady company. Crowley made him feel safe. Crowley felt like home. He closed his eyes to sleep again, vaguely aware of an equally tired body laying against his, pressing himself close and enclosing him in a gentle embrace. 

_____________________________________________

It was raining. Rivlets of water trickled down the paned windows, the soft patter of raindrops beating against the roof. Aziraphale came to rather suddenly, almost as if he had been startled from a dream. He looked around the room, first observing that the demon (who he was certain had slept beside him through the night), was now standing and looking out the window, a flash of lightning illuminating his sharp features. His hair - a stark contrast to the dulled colors of the room seemed to be styled again, no longer disheveled by stress and sweat. The glasses were back too, hiding amber eyes behind black lenses - eyes Aziraphale had always found to be beautiful. 

The angel licked his lips and attempted another swallow, pleased to find that while the pain was still there, it was far more tolerable. He could work with this. 

“Cr...Crowley?” He managed to croak out, his voice hoarse from disuse. Talking was uncomfortable, but the angel couldn’t stand another second of silence on his part. Crowley immediately turned to face him and sunk down in the chair next to the bed, capturing Aziraphale’s right hand in his. 

“Hey angel, how are you feeling?” Crowley removed his glasses, tucking them in the front pocket of his leather jacket. Aziraphale smiled at the sight of them, storm blue and amber fixating on each other. 

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck, but better than before,” he replied, shifting against the sheets. He suddenly noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual clothes. Instead, he was clad in tartan pajama bottoms and a rather large long-sleeved shirt that was a few sizes too big. He must have looked as confused as he felt, because Crowley immediately felt the need to explain. 

“I changed your clothes, I hope you don’t mind. Well...I miracled them. I didn’t, you know…” the demon motioned towards Aziraphale, a hint of red kissing his cheeks. Aziraphale understood. 

“Ah, yes, well,” he cleared his throat, wincing in discomfort, hand briefly gripping the demon’s. “I appreciate the gesture, dear.” 

“Of course, of course,” Crowley nodded, brow creasing in concern. He squeezed back, providing the angel with the anchor he needed. Aziraphale had been in worse shape in the days prior, but nevertheless, the demon did not like seeing him like this. He’d do anything to ease his suffering. If only he could reverse time rather than stop it…

Almost as if a thought came to mind, Crowley brought a hand up and snapped, a steaming cup of tea appearing on the side table next to the bottle of holy water. Despite the feeble protests of the angel, Crowley delicately picked up the bottle of holy water and poured a small amount into the cup. He placed the bottle down just as gently as he had grabbed it and used his index finger as a spoon, although said finger never touched the tea. The liquid swirled in the direction his finger revolved, mixing the contents evenly. 

“Crowley, you shouldn’t be meddling with that,” Aziraphale chided with unease. “Anathema could have done that. There was no need to put yourself in harms way for a spot of tea.” The demon merely shrugged. 

“Don’t worry about it, angel. I’ve been careful.” Crowley said, momentarily ignoring the tea to lean over the angel. “Here, I’ll help you sit up.” 

With Aziraphale’s arms around his neck, he helped pull the angel into a sitting position and both fluffed and stacked the pillows behind his back. He then carefully lowered him back down on the bed. The angel’s head spun at the change in position, the blood rushing from his head down his body. Having been horizontal for a number of days, sitting up was a new challenge, though it was one he could handle. 

Crowley made sure Aziraphale was steady before he let him go, and offered him the cup of tea. Aziraphale mumbled a soft word of thanks and took a sip, the warm liquid sliding down his throat. He hummed pleasantly, eyes closing to savor not only the taste, but the relief it provided him. 

“Anathema added honey and lemon to the tea. She said it would help soothe your throat, and the holy water, well, that is a given.” 

“Well, it tastes marvelous,” Aziraphale replied, his voice sounding somewhat better than it had moments ago. Crowley observed that he looked relatively better too. It was amazing how quick the holy water worked inside the angel’s system. He knew it would take a number of days, maybe even weeks for him to heal completely, but he was thankful for the healthy flush on the angel’s cheeks - a color that chased away the dampened grey that reminded him so much of sickness and death.  

 A beat of silence passed between them. Crowley watched Aziraphale drink the contents of the mug, amber eyes taking in every inch of the angel from the tip of his white-blonde curls to the curve in the bed where his toes were. He stared as if he was taking a mental picture, eyes hungry to observe every wrinkle and inch of skin. How close he had been to losing him. How. Fucking. Close. Crowley felt his heart clench at the very thought, no, memory and breathed in deeply. It was a steadying breath. 

“Zira?” Crowley waited until the angel looked over at him. “Are you...are you okay? Are you going to be okay?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft - timid even. Aziraphale’s gaze softened, and he placed the mug down on the table, his hands shaking slightly. 

“Yes, dear. I’m okay...I’m going to be okay. I suppose I should thank you.” 

“Don’t.” Crowley shook his head, eyes hard. 

“But my dear…” 

“Aziraphale, please , don’t thank me. Just don’t.” The demon’s head bowed, and he hid his face behind his hands. His fingers snaked through his auburn hair, placing pressure on his scalp in exasperation. 

“Why not?” Aziraphale’s head tilted, and he reached out to place a comforting hand on the top of Crowley’s head. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t helped me.” 

“Stop it, angel! Are you daft? ” Crowley growled, flinching away from Aziraphale’s touch. He stood up with such force that his chair toppled over, and he paced back to the window. 

“You could’ve died because of me! You were so close, Aziraphale, so close.” He turned sharply, eyes desperate and wild. “It would’ve been my fault - mine! So don’t you dare thank me!” 

Crowley looked like a cornered animal, pacing back and forth with his tail tucked and scales bristling. The sclera of his eyes were masked by gold, and the slits were dilated. The demon looked feral, and he kept himself as far from the angel as he could, nearly pressing his back against the wall. It unnerved Aziraphale to see him like this. He was certain that if he tried to reach out, the demon would show his teeth. Never in their 6000+ years of life together had he ever seen Crowley so unravelled - so vulnerable. And to think it was because of him. Crowley was punishing himself, unjustly so, and it broke Aziraphale’s heart. 

“Crowley, love,” he pleaded, hand still hovering in the air where Crowley’s head had been moments before. “Listen to me.”

“ No . Don’t angel, I swear…” 

“Crowley, stop this. Listen to me right now.” Aziraphale wasn’t asking - he was demanding. The angel’s tone made the demon visibly flinch. Injured or not, he was still a force to be reckoned with, and a Principality of God’s Heavenly Host. The other angels may not acknowledge him as such, but he had not been stripped of his rank or title. Not yet. 

He held his chin a little higher. “This was not your fault. It was an accident, alright? Nothing more. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me intentionally - I know that. You’d bite off your own hand before you’d let anything happen to me, dear.” Aziraphale let himself chuckle, blue eyes staring at the back of the demon’s head fondly. 

“You’ve done nothing but protect me since the dawn of time, my love. I know you. Crowley, I know you. Please don’t do this to yourself.” The angel sounded desperate, his voice (despite the hoarseness) imploring the demon to understand. If Crowley could only see himself through the angel’s eyes, he’d never question himself again. 

Crowley didn’t turn to look at him though. He continued to stare out the window, body rigid and shoulders shaking from suppressed sobs. He was heartbroken - a creature mourning a soul he hadn’t lost. All the while that same soul sat in the bed nearest him breathing and whole, reaching out and urging Crowley to look at him .  If the demon just looked at him, maybe he’d understand - maybe he’d see. There was absolutely nothing to forgive. 

With a resolute sigh, Aziraphale lifted the bedsheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His hands were firm against the mattress, and once his bare feet touched the cold floor he pushed up, grunting in exertion. He immediately broke into a cold sweat, his body weak and feeble from disuse, and the angel’s knees buckled as soon as he took his first step. 

“Azira...angel! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Crowley lunged forward, arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s torso before his knees hit the floor. Aziraphale clung to him, breathing heavily while Crowley maneuvered him back to the bed.

“You’re in no shape to be moving around yet, Aziraphale! What were you thinking ?” The demon sounded angry, though his hurried movements were riddled with worry. He tucked the angel back under the sheets and fluffed the pillows, carefully arranging Aziraphale’s head against them. He tended to Aziraphale like a perturbed mother, mindful of every blonde curl. It was no wonder that Warlock had loved him best. 

Though, as Crowley began to pull away, Aziraphale grasped his wrist to keep the demon close. 

“No, don’t go,” Aziraphale said, ignoring the soft protests of his demon counterpart. 

“If you won’t listen willingly, I’ll make you listen, you insufferable twat.” Aziraphale’s other hand rose, cupping the side of Crowley’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. The demon’s skin was smooth save for the prickle of stubble. Aziraphale smiled inwardly. He had always loved how imperfectly human Crowley aspired to be. 

He gently guided the demon to look at him - amber eyes were watery and threatening to spill over. 

“What happened was not your fault. It was not.” Crowley tried to look away, but Aziraphale’s grasp was firm. 

“It was an accident, love. I could have just as easily been hit by a car or shot, and while yes, you may want to keep your liquid hellfire stash to yourself, it was my own stupidity that failed to notice the difference. Your bloody mug was a different color, after all - you know how I pride myself in attention to detail.” And the angel did. His bookshop, although seemingly in disarray was actually rather organized. Aziraphale knew where every single book was stored, and he kept each and every one in tip-top condition. He meticulously treated everything he owned with the same manner of detail, and noticed things others failed to acknowledge. Some would call it a gift - Aziraphale just considered it a notable character trait. Résumé worthy, perhaps. 

“You can’t continue to punish yourself for this, Crowley. You can’t, do you hear me?” Aziraphale was adimate, willing the demon to understand. He held fast to Crowley’s chin, blue eyes searching gold. Their breath mingled as their faces remained only inches apart. Crowley was the first to break eye contact and looked downwards, lips quivering. 

Aziraphale felt himself deflate. The demon was stubborn. Crowley had always been stubborn, but this was an issue that Aziraphale couldn’t let Crowley continue to punish himself for. Crowley had enough insecurities and personal trauma that he had dealt with over the centuries - all issues Aziraphale had tried to address (unsuccessfully so), but Aziraphale wouldn’t let him add this to the list. 

With one hand still cupping the demon’s cheek, Aziraphale brought his other hand up and raked his fingers through tawny hair, eyes still carefully exploring Crowley’s features. He paused if just for a second before he closed the gap between them, pressing his lips against Crowley’s. This kiss was chaste; dry, cracked lips slowly moving against the demon’s tentatively. Crowley made a muffled noise of surprise, eyes wide in shock, but he didn’t pull away. Rather, tears began to spill down his cheeks and he took a shuddering breath. 

Aziraphale’s lips pecked softly at his, working their way up Crowley’s jaw and cheeks, tasting salt and cinnamon. He kissed his eyelids reverently, shushing him and stroking over his tan skin with careful hands. 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley moaned, a sob causing his chest to stutter. The angel responded with another kiss, silencing him as their lips met once again. This time, Crowley responded. 

Slender arms encompassed Aziraphale, urgently pulling him closer. Their chests touched, lips moving hungrily against each other, bodies arching and compliant. The demon was surprisingly gentle, fingers cradling the back of Aziraphale’s head, holding him impossibly close. He held him like an object that could shatter at any moment - something that was to be treasured and handled with care. Though Aziraphale, as sick as he was, was anything but breakable. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, reluctantly pulling away. His breath was warm against the angel’s lips. “This doesn’t change anything. This doesn’t erase what happened, what I did. You should hate me.” 

Aziraphale only smiled, hands stroking Crowley’s face. 

“I could never hate you, dear. Never. How could I hate someone I love?” 

Love? Aziraphale loved him? The demon’s mouth fell agape, heart pounding. 

“But…”

“No buts, Crowley. Do you love me?” 

“You know I do, angel. Always have.” There was no hesitation. 

Aziraphale shrugged, radiantly beaming up at his demon. “Then that is that. I’ve questioned myself for far too long. We both have. The past is the past, Crowley. What happened yesterday or five thousand years ago does not shape the days ahead. We have time, so much time , my dear. I will not spend a second of it watching you hate yourself for things that no longer matter.” 

Crowley shuddered, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s. He breathed in and out, absorbing the warmth that was Aziraphale. The angel loved him. Really, truly loved him. He could feel it. Why, Crowley did not know, but here they were, tangled in each other’s arms, noses touching and breath mingling. To be this close was astonishing. 

Crowley did not know what to say. He knew to fight Aziraphale on this - to try and prove his guilt and unworthiness - would be futile. The angel would not be swayed otherwise. All he saw when he stared down at Aziraphale was admiration and love staring back up at him. So Crowley did all he could think to do. He kissed him, long and hard. 

Unlike the first kiss, lips and teeth clashied, six thousand years of pent up affection unhinging through desperate touches and moans. Nothing about this kiss was graceful, and Crowley moved to straddle Aziraphale, hands cradling and stroking him in a fury of ravenous motions. He had forgotten himself, and was completely enraptured by the celestial below him - so much so that he almost didn’t notice Aziraphale wince. 

“Oh God, oh, sorry!” Crowley jerked back quickly, eyes scanning Aziraphale for any visible injuries. It had become a habit. “I’m so sorry!” 

“Say you’re sorry again and I’ll punch you.” Aziraphale smirked, though he rubbed at his throat again. Damn blisters. 

“We shouldn’t have gotten so carried away, I suppose,” Crowley said, still perched on Aziraphale’s lap. The angel patted the sheets beside him and Crowley flopped down on the bed by his side with a petulant huff. Now that he could have Aziraphale, he had to wait. God was somewhere probably laughing. 

Aziraphale smiled apologetically at him and threaded their fingers together, shuffling so that he rested his head on Crowley’s chest. Crowley opened his arm to the angel, and kissed the top of the blonde curls that tickled his chin as Aziraphale settled comfortably against him. He inhaled the demon’s scent through his nose, and exhaled contently. They may not be able to do all that they wanted to at this very moment, but they could still be with each other. 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed, eyes fluttering tiredly. “We have...what was that word you pronounced so enthusiastically? Oh yes! Eternnnniiiitttttyyyyyyy to enjoy each other’s company.” 

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Crowley said sarcastically, though an amused smirk teased his lips. “Very funny.” 

“But true,” Aziraphale added with a yawn. 

“Yeah yeah yeah, just go to sleep, angel.” Crowley said, voice laced with affection. He stroked Aziraphale’s shoulder rhythmically, watching Aziraphale’s chest rise and fall as sleep took him and placed a soft kiss to the angel’s crown. 

“Cheeky bastard...” he muttered, finally allowing himself to rest.