Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eden, 4004 BC

The first time Aziraphale heard Crowley talking to God was also the first time Aziraphale heard someone lying to God^[1].

He was standing on the wall, guarding a now empty Garden with his now empty hands when he heard Crowley's voice below him, echoing off the stones. 

"About that flaming sword... that was me. The angel put it down, I picked it up, gave it to the humans... he never even noticed. Would probably have given me a fight if he had. Very good angel, him. Unlike me, but You know that. That's why You cast me out, yeah? Yeah." If Crowley's voice broke a little on the last word, well, it must have been the wind distorting things.

Later, when the Lord asked about the sword, what else was he to do but repeat Crowley's story? Even if Crowley was a demon and therefore could be expected to lie about everything, it wouldn't have been fair to- to- to betray him like that. He had been trying to protect Aziraphale. It was a kind thing to do, and demons were not known to be creatures of kindness. And so, when the Lord asked, Aziraphale had followed Crowley's example and lied. If Crowley had known about it, he would have called it a successful temptation, getting an angel to lie to God, but he would have been secretly thankful. A kindness for a kindness, from an angel to a demon.

Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

The next time Aziraphale heard Crowley talking to God, he learned it was possible to insult Her. He was in the hold of the Ark, comforting the animals as the storm raged around them, when he heard a familiar voice just around the corner.

"-they're just children, for Your sake! They never chose to turn against You! That was their parents! How can You just let them die?" There was a pause, as if Crowley were anticipating an answer. Not that he would get one; as of late, the Almighty was prone to dictate first and answer questions never.

"I'm a demon and I can see that's wrong." Crowley’s voice was softer now. Even Aziraphale’s angelic hearing was strained trying to catch his words. "Why can't You, you twat?"

Was that... disappointment Aziraphale heard? He wasn't sure over the sound of the cats yowling in fright.

Why would a demon be disappointed in God? Demons hated God, it was in their nature. They wouldn’t be demons if they didn’t. Aziraphale suspected he would hate God, too, if he had been cast out of Heaven. But then, the demons had only Fallen because they chose to fight against Her. Their hatred of God must have existed even before they were exiled.

It made no sense for Crowley to be disappointed in God. People you hated couldn’t disappoint you; you already thought the worst of them. To be disappointed you had to have expectations and hopes. And what expectations could a demon have of God?

He thought of Crowley’s question, of the distress in his voice as he asked it. He thought of Crowley’s kindness in the Garden, lying to God to protect Aziraphale. He thought of Crowley’s surprise when he discovered Aziraphale had given his sword to the humans. Crowley had not expected kindness from an angel then, and yet he expected it from God now. Aziraphale’s mind shied away from the possibility the two things could be connected.

And what of Crowley’s own kindness? Protecting Aziraphale. Interceding on behalf of the children. Once again Crowley was acting against his demonic nature for no clear reason.

Aziraphale knew, of course, about the children Crowley had hidden on board^[2]. Not that Aziraphale could do anything about it^[3]; he was merely a simple angel and Crowley was a terribly wily demon. So wily that Aziraphale hadn't a prayer of finding the children hidden in the vastness of the Ark. In fact, he wasn't even sure there were children at all! It might be just a trick, an illusion of Crowley’s designed to mislead him. Better to avoid the matter altogether, just in case. It wouldn't do to discover a demon doing something nice.

Jerusalem, 33 AD

The third time Aziraphale heard Crowley talking to God, he discovered two things: one, that it was possible to question the Ineffable Plan and two, why Crowley Fell. He found both quite disconcerting. 

He’d just returned to his rooms after comforting Yeshua’s small band of followers when the shouting from the alley started. He probably should have been more surprised by who it was, but Crowley had a talent for appearing in the strangest places.

“They said he was the son of God. He was crying out to You there at the end. And what did You do? Nothing! You let them torture him and kill him and call it all part of the Plan! And for what, telling them to be kind to each other? If the Plan depends on punishment and murder, You might as well let Hell take over; we’re experts on that kind of thing.” There was a laugh that was tinged with more than a little hysteria.

"Honestly, what kind of Mother are You? Oh, I know: the kind that banishes Her children for daring to question even one small part of Her Divine Plan! I wasn't going to argue, you know. I JUST WANTED TO KNOW WHY!" A small, broken noise like the whimper of a dog on its deathbed, then the voice of total defeat. “I just wanted to know why.”

Angels did not necessarily sense pain the way demons did; it was not part of their essential nature. Despite that, the pain in Crowley’s voice was nearly a tangible thing. It put Aziraphale in mind of Miriam’s pain at the loss of her son; of the small group that was suffering their shared grief only a few streets away. It was the pain of losing something forever for no explicable reason.

Aziraphale had always been told Falling was painful, but he thought they meant the pain of brimstone and fire. It had never occurred to him there was anything deeper behind it. None of the other demons he had ever encountered^[4] seemed to feel it - or much of anything, really. Except maybe a desire to do evil for evil’s sake.

Crowley, though... Crowley was strange for a demon. He was wicked, yes, and wiled and tempted with the best of them, but he was never cruel. In fact, he loathed cruelty. To the point where he was cursing God for it. Could it be because he hadn’t chosen to Fall like the rest? If all he had done was ask questions, did that make him less of a demon than his brethren and sistren and otheren who had actively fought the Lord? Was asking questions the same as an act of war? And was Crowley right ? Was a Plan dependent on suffering a good Plan at all?

Aziraphale absolutely needed to cease listening whenever he heard Crowley talking to God. It led to Thoughts, which led to Realizations, which led to Doubts. Not that he took them seriously; the Plan was the Plan and he its instrument. How could one doubt the Ineffable?^[5]

It still took him nearly three days to stop wondering. He might have gone on forever, but it wouldn’t do to be late to the tomb he was supposed to unseal.

Bavaria, 1630 AD ^[*]

Aziraphale really needed to pay more attention to the news coming from the Continent; he’d heard there was some kind of religious war on, but he hadn’t expected the sheer devastation he found.

He’d come to Munich in search of good beer, misprinted Bibles, and those delicious little spaetzle things. What he got was a countryside that looked as though all Four Horsemen had decided to throw an early reunion party and a demon so far in his cups it would take a compass, a map, and a three-day hike through the jungle for Aziraphale to find him.

“They gave me a commendation for all this, You know,” Crowley was slurring at the ceiling. Aziraphale could hear the capitalization, but he doubted any of the other patrons of the tavern could. He also doubted Crowley had any idea he was even in a tavern; the tankards in front of him looked like they were filled with wine, not the dark beer currently on offer. 

“My dear boy, you’re going to have a ferocious hangover,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley from his chair. Crowley looked around, startled, his lips splitting into a serpentine grin when he recognized the angel.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted in the overly-loud fashion of drunks the world over. “I was just having a word with the Lady Upstairs!”

Aziraphale elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “Quiet!” he hissed. “They burn heretics here!”

“‘S not heresy if you know it’s true,” Crowley argued, but he quieted for a moment. Aziraphale was just getting ready to (unnecessarily) breathe a sigh of relief when Crowley started shouting again. “Isn’t that right, Lord? I know You!”

Aziraphale gave up and started hustling Crowley out of tavern as quickly as he could. “Do you want to be hanged as a Lutheran?” he asked, his temper rising to something he thought approximated brimstone^[6].

“I met him, y’know. Luther. Very righteous. Told him he had a few good ideas. Wound up with a- commen- connen- condemnation? No, commendation, that’s the one- for it, too.

"Do I get commendations ‘cuz I’m condemned, you think?” It seemed Crowley had reached the philosophical stage that only the very, very drunk or the very, very overeducated were capable of. “Or is it the opposite? I’m condemned to get commended? I don’t want them, y’know.

“You hear that, bitch? I never wanted any of it! You- You should have been the one that went to Hell! You’d like it better than me.”

In a moment of what anyone else would have described as “fuck it” and what Aziraphale would describe as reaching the end of the tether of his patience, the angel miracled them both into the nearest available room at the nearest available inn^[7]. He dropped the drunken pile of limbs and noise that was Crowley onto the bed.

“Isn’t the point no one likes Hell?”

“Suppose so, angel,” Crowley said, rolling over on his back and spreading his arms. “But some of ‘em, the other demons, they hate it less. Get off on the misery, they do. If you dropped one of them outside right now, they’d be in Heav- they’d love it.

“But itsa waste, y’know? Just another way for ‘The Great Lord’--” the air quotes were levees around the floodwaters of sarcasm “--to send perfectly good people to Hell.”

Aziraphale felt as if he were suddenly becalmed in a sea of confusion. “My dear boy, you are a demon . Aren’t you supposed to be collecting souls for Hell?”

“There’s souls and there’s souls, angel. Tempt someone who just needs an excuse to do the wrong thing? Fine. But that’s not what’s out there.” Crowley propped himself up on his elbow and gestured to the ruined countryside that surrounded them. “That’s good people pushed to the brink. Doing the wrong thing because they have to, not because they want to. But they’re still going to Hell because the fucking Almighty holds grudges!” This last bit was addressed to the ceiling, which was unmoved by the outburst.

Aziraphale had never questioned God’s decisions when it came to the judgment of souls, but that was mostly because it wasn’t his department. Other angels handled it, just as he handled miracles and divine inspiration. Now, however, the long-buried mustard seed of doubt Crowley had planted in the garden of Aziraphale’s certainty was beginning to flower.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason-”

“What, like being in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Crowley suddenly sounded exhausted. “Give it up, angel. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing for me, either. I’m clearing out soon as I’m sober. Heard there’s big stuff happening in the New World, might try my luck there for a while.”

There was no arguing with that. The war and all that came with it were far too large for one angel to repair, no matter how many miracles they worked. Aziraphale resolved to go out and do a few blessings anyway; better to save a few souls than none. Then he’d go back to London and wait for Crowley to return to him with tales of the New World.

“Rest well, then.”

“‘Bye, Aziraphale. Be seeing you.”

As Aziraphale left, he could hear Crowley start shouting at the heavens again.

London, 1967 AD

He’d come looking for Crowley because he’d heard there was a plot afoot to rob a church and there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to let the demon destroy himself. It was completely against the spirit of the Arrangement! If Crowley were gone, Hell would send a new demon to Earth and Aziraphale would actually have to thwart things instead of just balancing out Crowley’s mischief. How would he have time for the bookshop? And who would he lunch with? He couldn’t let Crowley do it. The thought was intolerable.

He miracled open the door to Crowley’s flat, intending to confront him. He didn’t see Crowley anywhere, but the light was on in the (spotless, almost never used) kitchen. Aziraphale moved toward it, his footsteps muffled by the absolutely atrocious shag carpet^[8]. One of the mirrors in the hallway showed Crowley, standing at the counter with a large bowl in front of him.

“Honestly, would You just do me a favor and Bless this bloody stuff? It’s not even for me, not really. Well, maybe a bit, but only if I don’t have a choice. Suicide’s never been one of my favorite sins.”

Aziraphale did something extremely human and blinked in surprise. This was not what he expected at all.

“It’s- it’s like this. If any of my lot ever caught wind of what’s been going on, we’re done for. Me, I can take torment just fine; I’ve been through worse. Him, though, they’d hurt him. Take everything he is and twist it until it breaks, then warp it some more just for the fun of it. Until he stops being one of Yours and starts being one of Ours. And they’d do it in front of me.

“But if I’m gone, what’s the point? Can’t make me watch him hurt if I’m not there.”

Oh. Oh.

Aziraphale had, at various times, begun to suspect Crowley viewed him as more than a colleague. More than a friend. Something- something stronger.^[9] It was mostly for small reasons: a brush of fingers that lasted an instant too long, a dessert ordered solely for Aziraphale’s benefit, a concert attended that Crowley had no interest in. And sometimes the reasons were large; a satchel of books in a ruined church came to mind.

For his part, Aziraphale would confess he did feel stirrings in his heart for Crowley. Somehow, over the long years of the Arrangement, a queer alchemy had happened, turning the base metal of routine meetings into the gold of joy whenever Crowley appeared unexpectedly. But no matter how much he wished he could express the deep longing that sometimes overcame him, he knew it was impossible. He was an angel; Crowley a demon. It was a divide that could not be crossed, no matter what one’s feelings were.

Aziraphale was pulled from his thoughts by Crowley speaking again. “And if his lot ever came calling? It’d go better for him if the demon he was hanging around with pulled a Wicked Witch of the West.^[10] Might get a promotion, defeating one of Hell’s legions and all.”

It was true defeating a demon would probably get him promoted back to Heaven, but Aziraphale had ceased caring about Heavenly politics sometime around the turn of the last millennium. Besides, he couldn’t bring his books to Heaven and he’d rather have those than a promotion. He’d rather have Crowley than a promotion. And that was the crux of the thing, wasn’t it? He’d rather have Crowley and he couldn’t.

“Anyway, even if it doesn’t come to that, it wouldn’t hurt to have insurance if the boys from Below come calling. One of them gets a bug up their ass and all of a sudden you’re dog-paddling in shit creek and hoping not to go under. Might as well get myself a raft, just in case.”

Finally Crowley was talking sense, or at least as much sense as he usually talked. Using holy water to protect himself from other demons was something Aziraphale could support. As for the other scenarios Crowley had imagined, it would be a cold day in Hell^[11] before Aziraphale let any of them come to pass.

“I’d rather not rob one of Your places, but the angel is being stubborn and holy water doesn’t just come from the tap.” Crowley paused. Aziraphale could see him raising an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “Well, not unless You want it to.”

Silence reigned for a moment, underscoring the lack of, well, anything to indicate Crowley’s tap water had suddenly become holy.

“I guess I will be robbing Your place then, since it’d take a miracle to get the angel to change his mind.” 

No, thought Aziraphale, sneaking out the way he came in, not a miracle. Just the knowledge you aren’t going to leave me.

London, 2019 AD

He was almost out the door to check what was left of the bookshop when he heard it. He shouldn’t have stayed to listen, but, well, it was hard to ignore someone muttering to themself when they were doing it in your voice.

“Just. Keep him safe. Please.” How Aziraphale still managed to be so much himself when wearing Crowley’s body was a mystery for the ages. It was Crowley’s voice speaking, but the patterns were all Aziraphale.

“I don’t know how the humans do this.They just... speak? And expect You to hear? With no way of knowing whether You are listening?” A slight rattling sound, as if someone wearing sunglasses were shaking their head rapidly. “I suppose this is what they mean when they talk about faith.”

You have no idea, thought Crowley. He was a demon; he knew God was as real as the Earth She created and the stars he had made, but that didn’t stop the hollow, doubting feeling that came from shouting into the void with no way of knowing if anyone heard you or if they would even care if they did. He would never stop shouting, of course, but sometimes he thought he’d be willing to burn Heaven and drown Hell just for one moment of recognition.

“Well. If You are listening, please protect him up There. Uriel was looking entirely too pleased with themself the last time I saw them and I shudder to think what Gabriel will do now that the War has been cancelled. It won’t be safe at all, and if anything happens to him-” A long pause and a shuddering breath “-I don’t think I could trust You anymore.”

Crowley wasn’t sure which thought hit him harder: the idea that Aziraphale, the best angel he knew, would stop trusting the Lord, or the idea that Aziraphale would do such a thing for him. Something must have gone wrong with the bodyswap. Or maybe Adam hadn’t put the world back together exactly right. Or maybe the world had ended, Hell had won, and now Crowley was trapped in an eternal nightmare dimension. Because Aziraphale was threatening to turn his back on God if She didn’t keep Crowley safe in Heaven. It was as absurd as a rain of fish in Oxfordshire or nuclear power plants running on lemon sherberts^[12]. And yet, he had still heard the words emerge from Aziraphale’s (his) mouth.

“Not-that-I-want-to-stop-Trusting-in-You,” Aziraphale blurted out all in a rush, sounding even more ridiculously like himself despite speaking with Crowley’s voice. “But I will! I mean- won’t! Oh for the- You know what I mean. And I do mean it.”

It never ceased to amaze Crowley how his tartan-wearing, sushi-eating, book-collecting fussbudget of an angel could, on rare occasions, show his true nature as a steely warrior of Heaven. And there was no doubting the steel behind that last sentence.

...which then proceeded to disappear like a puddle on a scorching day. “Right, what is it that the humans say?” Crowley doubted his voice had ever sounded that chipper in his entire 6000 year existence. “Good chat! Amen!” 

Crowley pinched the bridge of his (Aziraphale’s) nose and crept silently out the door. He could only hope the angel would do a better acting job in Hell or their whole plan would be shot before it even began.

Chapter Text

London, 2019 AD

Aziraphale was a being of love and so could sense it with nary a thought. He knew there was a deep, fragile love behind all the things Crowley did for him: saving his books; reviving a dove; toasting the world with him at the Ritz. But even that knowledge was not enough to prepare him for the jolt of absolute certainty^[1] that went through his celestial bones the final time he heard Crowley talking to God.

It was after their dinner at the Ritz. He had become aware of the increasingly charged atmosphere between them, the winds of possibility beginning to collide into the thunderstorm of action. He could practically smell the ozone before the lightning strike. So it was no surprise when Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and brushed a dry kiss over the knuckles. “Back to mine for a drink, then?”

There hadn’t been a drink. Instead, Aziraphale shocked them both by catching Crowley just inside the door and kissing him. It was oddly familiar and comfortable, like coming back to the bookshop after a day of blessing to find Crowley already waiting for him on the lounge in the back. He would have kept it up indefinitely (or at least until the lightning strike of romance precipitated the thunder of lust), but Crowley had pushed him away with obvious reluctance and fled to the bedroom.

Crowley’s reason was the absolute flimsiest of pretenses- “Need to make sure the bedroom’s up to snuff for you, angel^[2]”- but he let him go, suspecting Crowley needed a moment to process the surfeit of emotion coursing through them both.

It was the emptiness of the apartment that did it, the concrete walls serving as a whispering gallery that carried Crowley’s voice from the bedroom to the hallway and thus to Aziraphale’s ears.

“Look, I know we’re not on speaking terms. And that I’ve said some, um, things to You before. But this isn’t about me. It’s about the angel. You can’t let him Fall because of me. Because of this. Because of what I want with him. From him. If- if that might happen, just smite me now so it won’t. Turn me into a snake again. Hel- Heav- Heck, turn me into a tartan waistcoat. At least that way I can hold him for all eternity. But don’t let him Fall. He’s the best angel You have. He’s worth a hundred of the wankers Upstairs. And if he Fell...” There was a pause, as if Crowley were deciding between threatening or further pleading. And in that pause there was a sound.

All around them came a voice like a bell, or perhaps many bells: the big, booming ones in cathedral towers and the small, delicate ones used by hand-bell choirs and everything in between. And the voice said two words, and two words only: "He won't."