Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If the world was a little more fair, Aziraphale and Crowley would have had quite the nice life together, Post-Almost-Apocalypse. 

Perhaps Aziraphale would finally clean out his bookshop and keep only the absolute essentials, and those fifty boxes would (somehow) be lovingly packed into the Bentley. Perhaps Crowley would be willing to cull some of his plant’s flock and only take the most verdant and the most lush of the bunch, and he’d be behind the Bentley’s wheel smiling. They’d drive off into the sunset and emerge at a small cottage that is theirs to decorate and love and be loved in, and despite one being an angel and one being a demon, they would make a beautiful home. 

It would’ve been lovely and downright poetic had it happened that way. And they certainly deserved it after six millennia of steering the Earth down the right path. 

However, the world is not fair and Heaven is even less so. 

See, Heaven and Hell are pissed. They wanted a war, they worked to have a war, and then suddenly a war that they were told would Most Definitely Happen did not, in fact, Definitely Happen. 

It didn’t happen at all, in fact.

And while Aziraphale and Crowley barely had anything to do with the Not Happening (despite their best efforts), it’s easier to be angry at two nobodies than at the Antichrist, also known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. 

In Hell’s case, there’s not much they can do against Crowley since his execution failed. Crowley’s their best agent on Earth - in their eyes, regardless of how annoying the prick is, he does damn good work. And while demons aren’t the most faithful or religious folk, they know better than to muck around with something that God has essentially put a “Do Not Touch” sign on. A demon surviving holy water is as close you can get to an Almighty Miracle, and Beezlebub and Lucifer know better than to go against that. 

Demons disobey - to an extent. They’re like that ill-behaved kid you always got stuck next to in elementary school. They act out and throw fits but stop just short of getting the call home to their parents. Just enough to be annoying and disruptive, but not enough to get spanked once they get home. 

In this way, demons are smarter than their un-fallen brethren. It may be due to how much Falling hurts, or it may be their experiences in Hell that breeds this caution, but here it works out well for Crowley. He’s a good enough agent that they’re not too bitter about having left him alive, and it’s easy enough to let him go do whatever he likes. 

In Beezlebub’s words: He’ll still cause mayhem and mischief and tempt people to Hell just by virtue of being so goddamn annoying, so leave him alone and he’ll stay out of our way. Now get back to work you worthless worm. 

Heaven, on the other hand - well. They seem to think that simply because they’re angels, they can’t do anything wrong. It’s an old-school way of looking at morality, but Heaven is somehow further behind the times than Hell is. 

Aziraphale went against Heaven, and since Heaven is Righteous and Correct, Aziraphale is therefore evil, sinful, bad, and completely wrong in every conceivable way. And unlike Crowley, who Hell rather respects for the work he’s done over the years to inconvenience and sow resentment in humanity, Heaven doesn’t give Aziraphale’s miracles much attention. 

Aziraphale was put on Earth as a punishment for giving away his sword - Heaven has never much cared what the humans did as long as they didn’t interfere with Heaven’s machinations, and therefore they never much cared what Aziraphale did as long as he kept away. His love for humanity was a credit to his angelic holiness, but it was something to mock behind closed doors. Like an overachieving student who is eager to do the reading, Aziraphale was teased and bullied for doing his job well since his job wasn’t considered respectable. 

This is a very long and convoluted way of saying: Despite Aziraphale’s miraculous survival after being dunked in hellfire (or perhaps because of it), Metatron made a rather controversial decision regarding their wayward Principality who has spent six millennia consorting with the enemy.  

Aziraphale and Crowley could have gone on to live as an angel and demon stuck in between worlds if Heaven was a little more fair or a little smarter or a little less cruel, but that just isn’t the case. 

**

They leave the Ritz - Crowley drops Aziraphale off at his bookshop, relishing the moment where their fingers brush against each other in a fond, temporary farewell. He has thoughts of seaside villages and soft, pale linens. He didn’t bring it up today, because today was a celebration. 

But tomorrow - that’s fair game, he thinks. He drives off, only barely stopping himself from giggling delightedly at Aziraphale’s enthusiastic wave goodbye. 

On Aziraphale’s end, he’s just slightly tipsy off of the champagne they kept toasting with. He’s warm and content, and maybe tomorrow he can be bold enough to reach out and see if Crowley’s hair is as soft as it looks. 

He contemplates this while watching the Bentley disappear from view, and then he walks inside without further ado. 

He’s starting his usual ritual of “check the first editions, then the personal favorites, then the answering machine, then go make tea” when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. In humans, this is a warning of danger. A sixth sense, so to speak, that makes sure humans don’t walk straight into avoidable danger. In angels, on the other hand, this is the equivalent of someone knocking at the door with a chainsaw and saying, “Ready or not, here I come!” 

It’s less of a warning and more of a “I’d tell you to buckle up, but if you’re not prepared you’re already screwed, mate.” 

Aziraphale has just enough time to drop everything he was holding before a complete flock of angels has appeared before him. Like rows of soldiers, they stand in front of him shoulder-to-shoulder. 

He very, very quickly sobers up. 

He can see Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, Ezekiel, and Haniel, but those are just the ones standing directly in front of him. He can’t count how many rows there are of them - more than enough that they shouldn’t realistically fit into his small shop. 

The angels themselves, well, he couldn’t name them all if he 1) tried and 2) had been to Heaven anytime recently for longer than a few minutes. At one point in his life he had known, if not all, then at least most of the angels. He had been more or less friendly with all of them. They had respected him, once, but that was quite awhile ago now. 

Aziraphale swallows back the curse word he’d like to say. He thinks that kind of respect would have come in handy right about now. 

“Hello. What a surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure of, uh, so much company? Should I put the kettle on?” 

He has a tiny moment of pleasure when Ezekiel’s eyes light up at the mention of the kettle, but it is immediately squashed when Gabriel says, “We’re not here for pleasantries, Aziraphale.” 

He wonders if Ezekiel would like to stop by another time for pleasantries. She seems like she would be amenable to trying out some of humanity, if the way her eyes keep darting around his shop says anything. 

It’s rather endearing, and if Aziraphale wasn’t concerned about the sudden visit and the truly ludicrous number of angels invading his home, he might have ignored Gabriel’s declaration and put the kettle on anyway. She looks like she could do with a cup of Earl Grey. 

He says, “No no, of course not. So you’re here for…?” 

“An ultimatum.” This time it’s Uriel speaking. She steps forward out of line to stare him down, and Aziraphale involuntarily takes a step back in response. “It’s been decided that things cannot continue on as they are. You’ve gone rogue, Aziraphale. Metatron has decreed that the Heavenly Host has to either bring you back into the fold or send you on your way.” 

That sounds alarming. 

“That sounds… a bit not good,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Can you explain this ultimatum, please?” 

Gabriel looks him in the eyes. 

Strangely enough, he seems sad. It reminds Aziraphale of a long-forgotten memory, of angels screaming in horror as Lucifer and the rest Fell. Of Gabriel in particular looking as if someone had cut out his heart. It’s jarring to remember that Gabriel hadn’t always been the pushy, self-righteous jerk he plays currently. 

With those sad, regretful eyes, he says, “I think you know.” 

Aziraphale says, “Explain it anyway, please.” 

It’s not pleasant (Aziraphale would go so far as to say that it’s unpleasant) watching Gabriel’s eyes wince in pain even as he juts his chin out. He slowly folds his hands behind his back and says, “Aziraphale. You either prove your loyalty to Heaven or you will be cast out and forced to Fall. There are no alternatives that will be considered.” 

“Oh.” He isn’t surprised, necessarily, but his ears are ringing. His tongue feels rather thick. He tucks his hands behind his back and hums. “And what would you have me do to prove my loyalty? I still - I believe in our Mother, I believe in Her power and Her knowledge, I believe in Her ineffable plan - I don’t - What would you have me do?” 

Uriel takes an unnecessary breath. She releases it and says, lowly, “Exterminate the demonic agent on Earth known as Crowley.” 

Again, Aziraphale isn’t surprised. Before he asked the question, he knew what the answer was going to be. And going by Gabriel’s pained face, Uriel’s stoicity, and Michael’s unwillingness to meet his eyes - 

They already know his answer as well. 

Aziraphale can’t see them very clearly through the tears that suddenly sprang up, but it doesn’t seem like they’re getting much pleasure out of this either. Ezekiel in particular looks miserable, the poor girl. It selfishly makes him wonder why they’re doing it, if it hurts them half as much as it’s hurting him. 

He pulls out his handkerchief and swipes at his eyes. Then he swipes some more, because he can’t seem to stop crying. It’s futile, though, and eventually  he gives it up as a lost cause and pockets the cloth. He straightens his jacket, brushes some lint off of his shoulders, and he looks up at them. 

For the first time in years, they look at Aziraphale, the Principality, rather than Aziraphale the embarrassment. 

“I love God,” He says with his clogged nose and watery vision. “I love Her with all I have. I love Her angels, too. Despite how you all look down on me - oh of course I’ve seen it, don’t look so surprised. It’s insulting if you think I’m that stupid - Despite that, I love you all. Each of you. Because you are God’s creatures, too, and in a way, you are my siblings. 

“I love humanity, because God created them, and because they are remarkable in their own right. And I love our fallen siblings, too, because they need love most of all.” 

It’s interesting, having all of their attention on him. It makes him stand a little taller, speak a little more eloquently. It all feels heroic, in a tragic sort of way. He wishes they would listen and this would change their minds, that they would evolve for the better, but. 

Well. 

He smiles a wet, broken smile, and it hurts.

“It just so happens that I love Crowley just a little bit more than all of those items combined. So I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that.” 

Gabriel says, “Please reconsider, brother.” 

Aziraphale says, “No.” 

And that’s that, really. 

A few moments later they leave Aziraphale there, screaming and suffering and Falling. 

Falling used to be a much more striking affair - regardless of the actual physics of the act, Heaven was created in such a way to be looking over all of Earth. Lucifer Fell such that it looked as if he went shooting through the sky, down down down until he careened directly into the Earth’s core. This was before things such as physical matter and temporality had been fully hammered out, so despite that not really being how Heaven and Earth and Hell exist in relation to each other, that was the general impression the act gave. 

Lucifer had always been the most dramatic of the lot, and he wanted everyone to see and know what their Mother was capable of doing to even Her most beloved child. His wings burned and he screamed and he went barreling downwards, and he blamed their Mother for all of it with what breath he had to spare. 

That’s what everyone thinks Falling looks like. 

It’s where the term “Fall” came from, after all. It isn’t the most accurate, because as previously stated, Heaven, Earth, and Hell don’t exist in a ladder formation or anything as hierarchical as that. Above and Below are easy ways to reference the two non-earthly realms, but they’re not really correct. It’s more of a metaphorical thing to fit into the self-righteous view the victors of that battle held. 

In Aziraphale’s case, he’s learning that Falling is not so much falling as it is burning up. He thinks that since he’s already on Earth, after all, in a corporeal body, where exactly would he fall to? He’s fallen to the ground, of course, and is curled up and shrieking, but that’s more a result of the pain than any aspect inherent to what’s happening. 

He can feel his ties to Heaven being severed - his wings burning hot and rippling with heat - his inner power curling in on itself and screeching - his wings, God, please, it hurts it hurts please, God - 

He sobs into the floor, arms coming up to cover his head and ears in a futile effort to block out how loud he’s being, because that’s not helping matters at all and is really just making his throat and head ache.  

Everything is raw and burning and he screams louder - some heretofore unknown instinct has come over him and it says, “Be as loud as possible, get someone to help, get someone to fix this, maybe God will save you” and no matter how much he knows it won’t do any good he can’t stop. 

It’s luck that his home is relatively soundproof and most of his neighbors already think he’s mad. They won’t kick up a fuss, which is a small comfort but comfort nonetheless. 

Aziraphale sobs, “God, please - “ and he burns, alone and scared and in unimaginable pain. 

Chapter Text

Crowley doesn’t take the news well. 

He would have, perhaps, taken the news better if Aziraphale hadn’t missed the lunch they had scheduled. In Aziraphale’s defense, Falling was much slower than he had anticipated and he had been weeping and aching long enough that he had last track of time. Regardless, Crowley panicked when Aziraphale didn’t meet him at St. James like they had agreed on, and he proceeded to panic the entire way to the bookshop. 

Aziraphale had managed to get himself into a semi-reclined position against the wall and was taking deep breaths in an (unfortunately futile) attempt at stopping the world from spinning. He hadn’t managed to realign up and down with the correct directions and was unfortunately learning that demons can apparently get nauseous. Apparently that’s something he’d have to get used to. 

It’s then when Crowley started banging on the door. 

He thought about the pain he was feeling and how monumental of a task standing up seemed, and he called out, “Go ahead and let yourself in, Crowley.” 

The door immediately splintered into millions of pieces (more or less) as Crowley kicked it down. He was yelling and looking around frantically before he fully entered the shop. “What the fuck, Aziraphale?! I swear if you got stuck in some cheap paperback I’ll make sure your sushi place never has fresh tuna ever again, I fucking swear - “ 

“Down here, my dear.” Aziraphale managed a weak smile when Crowley immediately ducked his head to stare at him. He waved weakly at Crowley’s strange look.

He waved a hand at Aziraphale’s entire figure. “Are you alright? What’s all this about then?” 

“Ah. Well. I might have slipped.” 

“Slipped?” 

“Took a bit of a tumble, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said. “But, well. What’s done is done.” 

“What’s done - ?” 

“Now that I’m no longer beholden to a rather arbitrary moral code, I have to ask: Do you pay taxes? Actually, more importantly, do you think I can stop paying taxes now? That seems like a sufficiently demonic thing to do. Refusing to do my civic duty and whatnot. Quite devious, I’d argue.” 

This was, in hindsight, not the most sensitive way of breaking the news. 

It takes about ten minutes for Crowley to finish freaking out and fussing over Aziraphale. He does a quick demonic miracle to take away Aziraphale’s lingering aches (“Oh! Oh that’s quite nice, thank you, Crowley.”) and refuses to calm down until Aziraphale lets his wings out and Crowley has magicked up some ice packs to press against the rawer parts. 

He had apologized profusely for not being able to do much else - It’s apparently common demonic knowledge that trying to do any sort of miracle on their wings is out of the question and would only make the situation worse. Aziraphale tried to make a mental note of that but was sidetracked by wondering why that would be if demonic miracles should work just about the same as holy ones. It seemed curious to him. He missed most of Crowley’s apologies due to his distraction, but he made sure to wave them off as best as he could. 

Aziraphale is left lying on a cushioned mat of some kind with his wings fully spread out and weighed down with more ice than the arctic. Crowley is pacing back and forth, but he’s lost most of his franticity and has dialed it back to mild agitation. 

“What happened?” He finally asks, significantly calmer than the first twelve times he shrieked the query. 

Aziraphale would shrug, but he’s still more tender than he’d care for. Most of his body feels fine, but his wings are still screaming even with the ice packs. He says, “Ah, well. Heaven was unhappy with our recent stunt and they gave me an ultimatum.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. 

“Well. They told me I could Fall or I could die.” Aziraphale tilts his head up as much as he can and smiles weakly. “I’d like to enjoy the world we just saved, so there was really only one option.” 

Crowley stares at him for a moment before carefully lowering himself to the floor. He kneels for a minute or two before he’s suddenly a flurry of motion. He scoots and wriggles and maneuvers his body and part of Aziraphale’s around until they meet whatever criteria he had decided they needed to fit and immediately. 

Crowley ends up propped against the wall with Aziraphale’s head is lying in his lap. His hands are buried in Aziraphale’s hair, stroking it, his neck, the front of his forehead - pretty much whatever his hands can reach that won’t jostle his wings too badly ends up getting petted gently, with a strange sort of reverence. 

“Those idiots,” He finally says, voice choked up. “Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.” 

Aziraphale’s a little preoccupied with the feeling of those delicate hands doing their damnedest to soothe his hurts. It’s very nice and even more distracting, so it takes him a minute to tune in. “Mm?” he finally says, dozily. “Ah, well. Nothing for you to be sorry about, my dear. I made my choice.” 

“You were the best of them all, you were the kindest - I can’t - “ He makes some kind of noise that manages to convey frustration and grief at the same time. Despite this, his hands remain careful and soft. Aziraphale would purr if he had the vocal cords for it. “You don’t deserve to Fall! You’re the most devoted to Her vision! What were they thinking, how could they...? I don’t underssstand. I don’t get it, I don’t - ” 

“What’s done is done,” Aziraphale says. “I think I made the right decision.” 

Crowley’s hands tighten just slightly. “Of course you did!” He says harshly. “You’re an angel, you can’t make wrong ones.” 

“Not any longer, I’m - “ 

“You’re still one to me,” Crowley snaps. “You’re the only one in this entire universe that has any right to be called that. As if those bassstards up there are angelic or kind o-or - “ 

“My dear, I dare say you’re more upset about this than I am,” Aziraphale says wonderingly. He carefully reaches a hand up and places it on top of Crowley’s. “Perhaps I’m being blase about this mess, especially considering how long I had been afraid of this. But now? After everything we’ve been through?” 

He waits until Crowley’s looking at him, and then he winks. “We’re on our own side, aren’t we? Whether I’m an angel or demon or a butterfly, I imagine it’d be much the same.” 

Crowley doesn’t respond at first. Aziraphale worries that he’s missed something vital, the way that Crowley’s face stays blank and his covered eyes merely stare at him. Then he suddenly barks out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’d make a very pretty butterfly, you know. All those bright colors - you’d have tartan-patterned wings, I reckon.” 

“Wouldn’t that be lovely! Tartan-patterned wings. I quite like that.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale takes a few days to recover fully, and even then, his wings remain tender and he thinks it will take at least a few months for the feathers to grow back. He’s up and walking around, and for the first time in centuries, he’s not in the mood to laze around with a cup of tea and a book. He wants to do something - some part of him is feeling twitchy and restless, and he hasn’t quite figured out what it is he wants to do. 

Crowley finally stopped trying to force him back to bed when Aziraphale threatened to remove his biscuit stash from the Bentley, which he knows Crowley dips into when he’s driving alone. He still hovers as Aziraphale gets the shop in order, refusing to let him out of his sight. 

While Aziraphale organizes his latest stock of books he would sell if he had to (but would still prefer not to), Crowley is a step behind, pretending to be occupied by something on his tiny mobile. 

“Do you think I should get one of those?” Aziraphale asks curiously once he finishes his rounds. He peeks over and adds, “I didn’t know you could read on them. That’s rather neat.” 

Crowley quickly shoves his phone into his pocket. “Er. Sure. We can get you one if you want. Whatever you need in this doubtlessly trying time. You know I’m here for you?” 

Aziraphale slowly says, “Ah, yes? I mean you’re here now, obviously.” 

“But you know I’m HERE. For you. To support you when you need it. And if you need someone to listen I will - “ he squints (which is difficult to see behind his glasses, but Aziraphale has gotten rather good at reading his expressions behind them) and says, carefully enunciating, “Sympathize without giving unwanted advice or invalidating your traumatic experience.” 

“Are you ill? Why are you talking like that?” 

“I’m trying to be supportive and helpful while you go through a difficult time,” He recites. His face is oddly earnest as he takes Aziraphale’s hands in his own and squeezes them. “Whatever you need, angel.” 

Aziraphale thinks he’s blushing. He isn’t sure since it’s never happened before, but his face feels warm in a way he’s only read about or seen on unsuspecting humans. 

Crowley keeps looking at him, genuine care leaking from every pore. 

“W-well. Well. Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale manages to say. “That’s very. Um. Thank you.” 

There’s a moment where it seems like they’re building towards something - Aziraphale couldn’t name it for all of the books in the world, but some part of him is reaching out and wants-  

He stumbles back when the door opens and footsteps stomp in. Crowley’s face twists oddly and he spins to snap, “Shop’s closed, can’t you read? Get - “ 

His mouth shuts. Aziraphale is frozen. 

“Crowley. We’re not here for you.” Lord Beelzebub says boredly, striding forward determinedly. Other demons that Aziraphale only vaguely remembers trail behind them, all looking oddly serious. “You. Azzzziraphale. Ex-Principality.” 

He tries not to sigh. “How can I help you?” 

“We have a - I suppozzzze you could call it a welcome packet - for you.” They snap their fingers, and Ligur steps forward with a manilla folder. Aziraphale takes it, opens it, and sees that it only contains a piece of paper with “Welcome to Hell,” scribbled on it. 

“Ah. Thank you?” 

“Yes. We felt it waz important to welcome you in person. We are imprezzed with your rebellion. Though you alzo inconvenienzed Hell, you did so by pizzzzing off Heaven.” 

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. Crowley is motionless beside him. “I see.” 

“If you promizze not to inconvenienzzzze us further, we’re willing to cut you a deal in light of your new status,” They say with a strange, quirked grin. “You and your pet stay out of our way, we leave you alone. No monitoring, no roundabout trickzzz. Nothing. No contact outside of courtezy callzzz once a decade to ensure no one izzz stepping on any toezz, and an assurance that you will at leazzt make an attempt at sinning.” 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. “And this includes Crowley?” He gives half a nod towards his friend. “No monitoring or tricks regarding him either. Neither of us will be attacked by Hell’s agents or anyone hired by you or your subordinates as long as we stay out of your way and I’m not too virtuous. Correct?” 

Beelzebub nods. “Correct.” 

He looks at Crowley, trying to convey the fact that he has no idea what’s going on. Crowley appears equally clueless. With bravado he shouldn’t have, he returns the nod with a regal one of his own. 

He says, “I’ll agree to those terms.” 

Beelzebub holds out a hand, they shake, and every demon in the room visibly relaxes. Beelzebub smiles at Aziraphale. 

“A pleazzzure doing business with you. And may I commend you on scaring Heaven enough they made you Fall?” Their smile widens at Aziraphale’s shock. “Come down for tea zzzometime. Unlike those bazztardzz upstairzzz, we remember power.” 

The other demons bow or wave before they leave the way they came. Beelzebub gives them one last - almost happy - look before following them out. 

They give it ten minutes, both to make sure no one remained within hearing distance and to steady their own nerves. Then Crowley says, “What the fuck,” and Aziraphale says, “I think I need to sit down,” and they both collapse on a couch that wasn’t there a moment before. 

“Beelzebub LIKES you.” 

“They think Heaven was scared of me?! Me! As if I were something to be scared of!” Aziraphale laughs, a little hysterically. 

“And what did they mean by ‘we remember power’? What did you do?!” 

“I didn’t do anything! I don’t know what they were talking about!” 

“You made a deal! For them to leave us alone!” Crowley pauses and he says, “Wait a minute. Wait.” 

“What? Oh dear, did I muck something up?” 

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale, they were sucking up,” He says, with dawning realization. “They’re scared too.” ^[1] 

“I didn’t do anything!” He exclaims. “Not anything that was different from your supposed surviving holy water, at least! Why aren’t they afraid of you?” 

“I didn’t give Heaven the bird while chucking myself off a cliff, now did I?” 

“That is not how that happened at all. If anything, I took a slight tumble.” 

Crowley heaves a magnificent sigh and tilts his head back. He says, “Is it too early to get completely plastered? The past few days have been. Way too much.” 

“Too much?” 

“Too much. Of everything. Too much nonsense and ridiculousness and incomprehensible jibberish. Let’s drink.” 

They drink. 

Somehow, they end up on the ground with their backs against the sofa, talking over each other and laughing uproariously at everything. Aziraphale’s lost his tie and a shoe, Crowley is stripped down to a tank top and is waving his arms to emphasize some point he long ago lost. 

“And another thing!” Aziraphale says suddenly. “Do you know - do you - I mean do you really know what this all means?” 

“What what all means? The inuffable plan or whatsit?” 

“No no no, I mean this. All of this!” he waves at both of them as sternly as he can manage with at least two bottles of red in him. “I don’t have to do the whole - ‘oh look, I care what Gabriel thinks’ thing anymore! No more reports!” he says gleefully. “No more of it! Crowley, no more of them looking at me like that!” 

Crowley’s head is lolled to the side as he watches Aziraphale grow more and more enthusiastic. “Like what?” he asks. 

“Like - oh, you know, the - “ 

He tries valiantly to pull his face into an approximation of Gabriel’s “I’m pitying you while also judging you while also thinking I’m better than you” face. He doesn’t know how well he succeeds. 

“ ‘Blah blah blah Aziraphale! You’re quite round, you know, and Heaven doesn’t much care for that obscene roundness! We like squares and straight lines and bland suits and you are a dissssssgrace!’ And who cares ‘bout the bees, world’s going to end anyway so get back to work doing useless things!’“ He bursts into giggles, curling over the bottle he’s still sipping from when he remembers it exists.  “No more of that! What a relief, really. I - “

“They made fun of you for being round?” 

Aziraphale’s hands fall and he turns to face Crowley head on. Crowley’s face is the picture of distress. “Oh, no need for that, stop being sad,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley’s face lightly. “They made fun of me for much more than just being round, but you’re missing the point! That won’t happen anymore!” 

“But why would they do that? Why didn’t you tell me they were so - so - so mean? I knew they were bastards but I didn’t know it was like that, I thought it was just. Self-righteous ‘aren’t we so great’ bull.” 

“Hm.” Aziraphale lets his head loll forward onto Crowley’s shoulder and halfheartedly shrugs. “I guess I didn’t want to clue you in on me being a horrible angel. If you didn’t already know, I mean. S’not very flattering, having everyone think you’re an embarrassment.” 

“I would never!” Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and tugs him closer, inadvertently smooshing Aziraphale’s face into his shoulder. Crowley squeezes him tightly, heedless of Aziraphale’s grunt of discomfort. “If you’d have to be like them to be a good angel then I’m glad you were a horrible one and I’m glad they’re all up there in Heaven being all snooty and rude by themselves and you’re here with me instead because unlike those bastards I - I know how good you are.” 

Aziraphale’s throat constricts oddly. He tries to swallow, and it’s like swallowing around a walnut stuck in the depths of his esophagus. “You’re being so nice. You don’t have to be, you know. I’m quite alright.” 

“Well.” He huffs into Aziraphale’s hair. “I don’t have to report to Hell anymore either, so I can be as nice as I want now. And I want to be nice to my best friend who’s been through stuff worse than Hell, because if he wasn’t alright, then I’d want him to know he could tell me about it instead of pretending, because I’ll think he’s pretty darn swell no matter what.” 

Aziraphale says, “Oh.” And then he says, “I think - I wouldn’t change it. But I think I might be maybe just a little sad.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I loved them, you know. Cared about them. Even though they didn’t really like me.” 

“You’ve always been good at that. Caring, I mean. Generally for those who don’t deserve it.” 

Aziraphale pulls back just enough to look up at Crowley and pat his face again. Softly, he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever cared for anyone undeserving. Maybe a few who are misguided, but undeserving? No.”

Neither of them acknowledge that they’re no longer drunk, which lets them stay wrapped up in each other for a few hours longer. 

¹ Beelzebub was not, in fact, scared of Aziraphale. Hell was wary, as they all remember the days where Aziraphale was a fierce warrior, but Beelzebub wasn't lying when they said they were impressed. This is not completely independent from the fact that Beelzebub has their own reasons for wanting the relations between Heaven and Hell to be less strained, and they believe that Aziraphale’s Fall could be an indicator that other angels could, perhaps, loosen up similarly.^{[return to text]}

Chapter Text

“So!” Crowley claps his hands together suddenly, startling Aziraphale from his perch near the window. “I think it’s time to teach you some of the intricacies about being a demon. If you’re feeling okay with that. It’s okay if you’re not ready, however long you need - we can take it at your pace. But, um, you did tell Beelzebub that you would perform some sinning.” 

“I did?” He pauses and puts his book down. “I guess I did.” 

“It doesn’t have to be anything horrible!” Crowley assures him quickly. He shoves his hands into his pockets and rolls up on the balls of his feet. “You’ve seen my preferred wiles, you don’t have to do anything half as - “ 

“I think I’d like to fight Mr. Rhodes,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “You know, the unpleasant man who runs the cafe down the way? He’s always so rude to his workers.” 

“Um - okay? You uh. Been thinking about that for awhile?” 

“He’s extremely rude.” 

“No yeah, I don’t disagree, but uh. You kinda whipped that one out right away.” 

Aziraphale shrugs, ignoring the way it makes his shoulder blades twinge. “I’ll admit, I’ve been feeling restless. Perhaps it’s the ever-dreaded demonic instincts coming out, but I think I understand what ‘itching for a fight’ means more than ever.” He pauses, then adds, “Plus he shortchanges us on whipped cream every time! How am I supposed to enjoy a mocha with one little puff of cream?” 

Crowley’s lips quirk and he turns to leave, waving at Aziraphale to follow. “Well, let’s go pick a fight and see if that’s going to be your sin du jour.” 

They end up at Rocky Rhodes at one of its peak hours - customers are bustling around, workers are running back and forth, and they arrive just in time for a table to mysteriously open up for the two of them. Crowley complains as they sit down, saying, “The name isn’t even a good pun! If they sold ice cream then maybe he could’ve gotten away with it. Maybe. But for a coffee shop?” 

“It’s a horrible name for a horrible man,” Aziraphale says ruthlessly. 

“Yeesh. Tell me how you really feel, angel.” 

“The amount of times he has skimped on basic necessities for a pleasant drink is a crime in and of itself, but I’ve seen him touch his baristas inappropriately more than anyone should reasonably have to put up with. Before, as an angel, the most I could do is give a positive miracle for the victim and remove them from the situation, or distract him myself, then justify it later as ‘thwarting evil, lustful wiles.’” He pauses while their orders are placed in front of them and they both thank the waitress absentmindedly. When she leaves, he continues, “It was frustrating having to justify every miracle. Anything that wasn’t exceptionally minor, like distracting a human from noticing something they shouldn’t - reports. In triplicate.” 

“They never read them, did they?” 

“Of course they didn’t! But they knew if I didn’t submit them on time or if I didn’t write a long enough one.” He grumbles, leaning back in his seat. “So. What I’m getting at is, I’ve thought about this a great many times, and I’m glad to finally enact it.” 

Crowley steeples his fingers and leans forward in his seat. “I’m ready to watch and be wow-ed, angel. Go to town.” 

He does. 

Strangely enough, his powers jump to attention much faster than they used to. Like they’re eager to be put to use, as if they’ve been waiting to be let off leash. He doesn’t even finish snapping his finger before young, kind Cornelia (who makes perfect lattes and has recently started dabbling in making the tops look like art - she’s managed something that looks almost like a flower so far) is reaching up to Mr. Rhodes. She grabs him by the thin necktie he always wears and proceeds to slam his face against the counter. 

This sparks her coworkers into rushing forward, one of them pulling out her cell phone and starting to record the whole matter. Cornelia is narrating every time he’s harassed her or her friends, the other girls cheering her on while the patrons of the establishment stare in shock. Someone appears to be calling the police, but their phone starts smoking and is dropped hurriedly. Crowley winks and says, “A freebie, since you’re new.” 

Aziraphale smiles softly and, with another glance from behind his mug, Mr. Rhodes is spewing vitriol he’s always felt but rarely expressed. All caught by the young lady recording - she appears to be uploading it to some kind of streaming site. The customers, slowly but surely, are working themselves into quite the frenzy. 

Crowley, visibly impressed, says, “Not bad, angel,” when the first chair gets flung. 

Aziraphale sips at his mocha and tries not to look too proud. Then he remembers that pride is something he can feel now, without any retribution, and he decides to beam at Crowley and say, “Thank you, my dear. This is more fun than I expected.” 

The restlessness that had been building up underneath his skin feels like it’s been released as quickly as steam from an open pressure valve. ^[2]  He relaxes back in his seat and waves a hand lightly to make sure they aren’t hit by the splatter of hot water from some young man’s flying tea cup. 

By the time the whole event is over, Mr. Rhodes has been arrested, Cornelia and her young lady are sprinting down the street hand-in-hand away from the cops, laughing like mad, and the cafe is an atrocious wreck. Windows are broken, three of the coffee machines are visibly sparking, and there’s at least three chairs that have been completely destroyed. 

Crowley holds out a hand to help Aziraphale to his feet. “You were wasted on Upstairs, you know.” 

“Don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence,” He warns behind a smile. “I still have standards, you know.” 

“Sure sure, of course.” 

“And I’m almost positive that my normal indulgences, once framed the right way, are enough sin on their own to power a city.” 

“Oh almost definitely.” 

“So this was likely completely unnecessary.” 

“For sure. But wasn’t this fun?” Crowley winks. He laughs when Aziraphale tuts an, “Oh, you,” before continuing, “We get to have fun whenever we want now. ‘Scuse me for wanting to get started on it right away.” 

Aziraphale’s face feels warm again. He presses the back of his hand against his cheek, marveling at the heat, before saying, “Even now, you’re still tempting me. Wily old serpent.” 

Crowley pushes his sunglasses up his nose and grins. “Guilty as charged.” 

“You’re shameless.” 

“Got that right. Means I’ll push my luck and see if I can tempt you for a stroll too.” He holds out an arm and waggles his eyebrows. 

Aziraphale says, fondly, “How could I say no?” And he takes the offered arm, linking his own with it. 

They walk with no real destination in mind. They window shop, and Crowley changes bits of his outfit based on what they find. By the time they’ve walked a dozen blocks, he’s acquired a silky scarf, sleek leather boots, and miscellaneous bits of jewelry. Aziraphale accuses him of peacocking, to which Crowley manifests more jewelry and asks, “Is it working?” 

At some point, Aziraphale trips a particularly obnoxious man and Crowley gets a cramp from laughing so hard. He asks, “Are you - is this all new demonic instincts cropping up or are these things you’ve wanted to do all along but didn’t because ‘that’s not what good angels do’?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He says, straightening his jacket. “It’s hardly my fault that man was too busy spewing expletives and bigotry to notice that the curb was so close.” 

“Ah yes, the curb that was ten feet away until it was suddenly right in front of him. That curb. Just like you have no idea what came over that girl earlier.”  

There’s more mischief on both of their ends, more laughter. The day passes by quicker than Aziraphale would care for, and eventually, they stop and watch the sunset from a secluded bench. They’re still amidst the hubbub of people moving to and fro, but they sit within their own bubble. No one approaches them or gets closer than the radius they decided was enough personal space. 

For the most part, they don’t talk too much and watch the sun drift downwards in silence. It’s a gorgeous view. 

“Is it odd that I’m still waiting for something to happen?” Aziraphale asks abruptly. 

“Something?” 

“Well. You know. First it was the apocalypse. Then it was our respective executions. Then Heaven gave me the boot. Then Hell made an alliance with us.” He hunches forward and leans his elbows on his knees. “I guess it feels as if we’ve been on edge for so long that a day like today is a rarity. I’m afraid it won’t last.” 

He can see Crowley leaning forward out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look at him. 

“It might not,” Crowley says honestly. His hand comes up to grab Aziraphale’s shoulder, and it quickly evolves into him rubbing said shoulder. “But you said it well the other day. We’re on our own side. Much of it’ll be the same. Something happens, and we deal with it because we know we can rely on each other to get through. It’s you and me against the world, angel.” 

Aziraphale leans into his hold, sighing. “Seems counterintuitive to say that when we went to so much trouble to save the world.” 

“You know what I mean. Whatever happens, we’re in it together.” He pauses and says, as if he’s reciting something he read, “And even in the aftermath of this latest upheaval, I’m here for you and will support and validate you as needed.” 

“Why did you say it like that?” Aziraphale asks, bewildered. He sits up and turns so he’s facing Crowley head on. “I mean, of course, I agree completely. I would do anything for you. But you keep saying things like that rather strangely. Like you’re reciting extremely poor poetry or something.” 

Crowley turns his face away, clearly pretending to be looking at something in the distance. “Well. That’s what all the stuff online says I should say.” 

“Online?” 

“Look, I had a limited amount of time to research how to support a recently Fallen angel and it’s not like there’s any books about it! So I Googled ‘helping a friend through a rough time’ and it all seemed better than what I was going to say, so.” He shrugs and crosses his arms, still not looking at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale stares at him. “Crowley,” He says, wonderingly. 

“No. Stop that.” 

“You are  - “ 

“Do not say it, I swear I’ll - “ 

“The absolute best friend I could ask for,” He finishes. Crowley’s mouth slams shut, his hand falls to his side, and Aziraphale feels some satisfaction out of surprising him. 

He knows what the song and dance should’ve been - him claiming that Crowley is kind, Crowley hissing that he isn’t, some more-or-less playful banter - but Aziraphale doesn’t want to go back to how things were. He wants to move forward, he wants him and Crowley to do new things, he wants to flip the script and invert the lines and turn everything topsy-turvy because now they finally can. 

“Well. Er.” 

“Really,” Aziraphale insists, reaching over to take both of Crowley’s hands into his own. Stupefied, Crowley lets him run his thumbs over their clasped hands, and he doesn’t object when Aziraphale squeezes them tight. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

It’s fascinating, watching Crowley’s face turn bright red. He stutters and clearly tries to say something coherent, but whatever it is he says, it doesn’t get across to Aziraphale. He smiles anyway and is just bringing Crowley’s hands up - to do what, he hasn’t decided, but part of him wants to press his lips there more than anything else has ever wanted anything - when they’re interrupted. 

It’s by someone saying, “Excuse me, Aziraphale?” which is polite, but Aziraphale has rarely felt this kind of irritation. It’s feels as if thirty, book-hungry customers have invaded his store and not even beating them off with a stick will calm their fervor to buy.  

He releases Crowley’s hands and, through his teeth, says, “Gabriel. What more could you possibly want from me?” 

⁽²⁾ Despite being around for six millennia, the habits of demons have not been studied extensively. It would be shortsighted to claim that they are inherently evil and must do evil things to exist, which is the general belief. Crowley, though, has shown that the demon’s natural state is less “evil” and more “let’s shake things up and cause some chaos.” This, though not inherently evil, generally takes more of a destructive form than the angelic equivalent, which is more of a “Let’s keep the order, please put the brick down, there’s a dear,” type of urge. ^{[return to text]}

Chapter Text

Crowley is a simple demon. He likes fast cars (well, his fast car), black leather, luxurious food, good sex (well, he thinks he’d like good, non-solo sex), and tempting his angel to indulge in sin. Other than that, he can pretty much take or leave it. 

He’s recently decided to add, “Being left the fuck alone (not including Aziraphale)” when listing his likes. Having Beelzebub and archangels popping up willy-nilly isn’t doing his heart any favors, and he’d really like to have one day or two where he and Aziraphale aren’t fielding some kind of crisis. 

He would also add “the archangel fucking Gabriel” to his list of intense dislikes. He’d go so far as to say it belongs on his list of hatred. Him interrupting potentially the most perfect day in existence should be cause for immediate execution in Crowley’s opinion. 

Aziraphale says, fiercely, “What more could you possibly want from me?” 

Gabriel, weirdly enough, looks like the question was a sucker punch to the gut. He winces and takes a step back. When Crowley looks down, he sees that the bastard’s hands are trembling and he’s wringing them rather intensely.

“I’m not here for any trouble,” He says slowly. For Gabriel, he’s practically whispering. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” ^[3]

Aziraphale spreads his arms out. With a wry grin, he says, “As you can see, I’m still in one piece. Crowley and I were having a pleasant walk. The world hasn’t ended, which means I can go to Sunday brunch at the nicest place in Lancashire. I’m doing quite well.” 

Gabriel’s hands continue their wringing. “That’s. Well, it’s not good, because you’re not anymore. But it’s a relief to know the… transition is going as painlessly as it could.” He pauses and says, weakly, “You’re not feeling any overwhelming desire to repent, are you?” 

Aziraphale’s face goes cold. “No. I have no regrets.” 

“But if you could come back,” He persists. “Would you?” 

Crowley doesn’t know how he would react to being asked that. Before Aziraphale Fell, he might’ve considered it. He didn’t mean to Fall, and he wonders what it would be like to do good openly. It would’ve been nice to be with Aziraphale as a colleague rather than a “hereditary enemy.” They could’ve been friends much earlier. 

Now, though. 

He would rather die than align himself with the monsters that burnt Aziraphale’s wings. The smell of raw, weeping flesh hasn’t left him yet. The astonishment that Aziraphale was still coming to terms with, the pained grimace, the frantic attempts to act like this wasn’t tearing him apart - 

No, Crowley would tell Heaven and all of its inhabitants to fuck right off if they tried to bring him back. 

Of course, this being a question directed towards Aziraphale… Well, Aziraphale’s wounds are still raw, and he didn’t want to Fall either. It would make sense if he would consider the offer. Because that’s all a question like that would be. Crowley wouldn’t blame him for going back, but he thinks he’d hate it. 

So it’s nice to hear Aziraphale say, “Of course not. Why would I want to go back?” 

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you want to return to God’s light? To the right side?” 

Aziraphale sounds bewildered. “Gabriel, you were so mean to me. Everyone was so mean to me - even putting aside the execution attempt and the recent unpleasantness, I was at best humored and at worst ridiculed for my attempts at making Earth better. I only stayed because I loved God and because I believed in Her vision. I believed that Heaven could do good and follow that vision. I’m only sorry that it took Metatron’s ultimatum to make me realize I was futilely grasping for something that never existed.” 

Gabriel has the gall to look confused. “But - I mean, we poked fun. You were always such a human lover and you actually worked hard at a crap job. It was funny.” 

“It wasn’t. It was mean. I was demoted for loving Mother’s creations enough to gift them my prized possession, and you all made it clear that you thought I was lesser for that love. You thought it was funny, but - “ His voice cracks. 

Crowley is hit with a powerful urge to wrap him in the softest blankets the world has to offer, and then to tuck him away somewhere safe where Gabriel can stop fucking hurting him. He wants to hiss at Gabriel until he leaves them alone, and then he wants to chase after him and rip his stupid face off of his stupid head. 

He instead miracles up a handkerchief to hand to his angel, which Aziraphale takes with a brief, grateful glance. 

After swiping at his eyes, he continues. “That’s not the Heaven I want to follow, Gabriel. I don’t want to follow a Heaven that ridicules love or a Heaven that would use my love against me. That’s not right, no matter what Metatron says. I can’t and won’t believe that God would approve.” 

Gabriel, poor bastard, looks lost. Crowley doesn’t blame him. He thinks he knows Aziraphale better than anyone else, and he didn’t know Aziraphale felt this way. He’s learned a lot about Aziraphale in the past few days, expanding the knowledge he had before and making it look meager in comparison. It’s been strange, realizing how much his angel has kept to himself over the years. What he’s let fester inside. 

It hurts to realize how miserable he had been in Heaven’s employ, all these years. It hurts more to realize that he stayed because he truly believed they were doing the right thing. 

“Aziraphale, I - “ He swallows and straightens his shoulders. “Well. You made your choice.” 

“I did.” 

“And he’s worth it?” Gabriel waves a hand in Crowley’s direction, as if he’s been involved in the conversation at all. “This demon, this - this disgrace. He’s worth Falling for?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes go terribly soft, which Crowley only vaguely notices past the rush of terrified bewilderment that floods his veins. He can feel his heart thumping in his ears. He says, “Of course he is.” 

He says it like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say. 

Crowley wheezes, “Sorry, what?” 

They ignore him. 

Gabriel’s hands return to their wringing. Aziraphale stares at him, a strangely understanding look appearing on his face. Crowley is trying not to hyperventilate. 

“What was it like?” Gabriel asks abruptly. “Was it terrible?” 

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says. “But only for a little while. And when I was done Falling, my best friend caught me.” 

Crowley wheezes louder, clutching a hand at his chest. “Angel - “ 

“How did you know?” Gabriel clearly is looking for some kind of revelation. He looks desperate. “How did you know that it wouldn’t just be eternal suffering?” 

Aziraphale’s face suddenly turns pitying. “Eternal suffering would’ve been taking the deal Heaven offered me. Living without Crowley - Anything else was already preferable.” 

Crowley thinks he’s being actively discorporated. His heart has never beat so hard or so fast, his face is flushed, and he feels dizzy. Is this what humans feel when they die? He thinks he’s going to die. 

“But - “ 

“It’s a choice, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, finality ringing in his tone. “No one can make it except for you. I can explain my reasoning all day, but in the end, this is about you.” 

“You speak blasphemy - “ 

“I’m a demon! I can do that now! What can you do, Gabe?” He asks brutally, standing up and poking Gabriel’s chest. “You’ve spent millennia doing what Metatron has told you without question. And what do you have to show for it? Legions of armies prepared for a battle they were never supposed to have! A cold existence - what’s your life worth, really? Does anything make you happy?” 

Gabriel’s face is a picture of stunned fear. 

Aziraphale softens, and he steps back, clasping his hands together. “I made my choice, and I chose happiness. I chose love. What do you choose, brother?” 

Between a breath and the next, Gabriel is gone.^[4] And Crowley has to deal with an entirely new reality of which there is no helpful article online to tell him how to navigate. 

“You Fell for me?” He asks, still wheezing. “Aziraphale, angel, what the fuck - what the fuck does that mean? What did he mean by that?”

³This may seem out of character for Gabriel. However, it should be taken into account that Gabriel had been Aziraphale’s commanding officer for millennia. As much as Aziraphale is goofy and strange, he was one of Gabriel’s for a very long time. He was hurt to learn that Aziraphale had lied to them for so long, but in the end, he cared for Aziraphale. Had he any courage, he would’ve argued against Metatron for him. 

It’s unfortunate that for Gabriel, caring for someone doesn’t necessitate respecting them. He and Aziraphale could’ve been friends if Gabriel could, if not understand, than at least respect that Aziraphale was different from him. ^{[return to text]}

⁴ Gabriel leaves and thinks for a long time. He thinks about the steel in Aziraphale’s eyes, the lack of malicious energy in his aura despite Falling, and he thinks about God, and he thinks about Falling. He thinks about his contact in Hell and how the meetings they had discussing the Apocalypse were actually rather enjoyable. 

He ends up setting up a meeting with Beelzebub, in which they start hashing out a treaty between their realms. It’s too late to make Heaven habitable for Aziraphale, but Gabriel has seen the way Ezekiel and some of the younger angels look at Earth. He tells Metatron that they can’t afford to lose any more angels, and if they have to loosen the rules, well. 

God made it so angels could do no wrong. She’ll step in if they go too far. 

And then he goes to visit Beelzebub for purely social reasons for the first time. ^{[return to text]}

Chapter Text

Aziraphale hadn’t intended to keep this information from Crowley, but it seemed unnecessary to tell him when Aziraphale knew it would only make him feel bad. It wouldn’t change what happened, it wouldn’t bring his halo back, and it wouldn’t make Crowley feel any better. He didn’t see the point in explaining the entire affair in full detail when taking that all into account. 

Aziraphale coughs. “Yes, well - They gave me an ultimatum, you see. A rather horrible one.” 

Crowley flails his arms around, saying, “Yes yes you told me that bit! You said they were pissed since you didn’t die so it was Fall or die - but that doesn’t sound like what Gabriel was saying at all, so spit it out already!“ 

Aziraphale is uncomfortably reminded of angels surrounding him, watching while he leapt. Their eyes, cold yet pitying. The feeling of all of him being doused in indescribably heat, his feathers burning - 

He says, ignoring the way his wings have started to ache again, “It was Fall or kill you. Which, killing you would mean leaving in a world without you. You can see that it wasn’t much of a choice.” 

He loves humanity and Earth. He loves the world and he will fight for it as long as he can.  It’s like he said to Heaven, though - He loves Crowley just a smidge more, and that means life without him is incomprehensible. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’d make it two days without him, let alone millennia longer until the real end of the world. Existence would be unbearable without him. 

Existence without him, along with carrying the guilt of having been the one to kill him? Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to live with that. He can’t even think about it without feeling horribly nauseous. 

When he told Crowley that they said he could Fall or die, he wasn’t lying. He didn't lie about that. 

Crowley doesn’t appear to follow his thought process, though, as he thrusts his hands into his hair and makes some strange wheezing noise. 

“Really, dear. You’re being rather dramatic about this. It doesn’t change anything.” 

Crowley shrieks, “I’m being DRAMATIC? You Fell for me and I’m the one who’s dramatic?!” 

“Well, I’m not the one who’s screaming in the middle of town.” 

 “This is insane angel, you get that? You didn’t have to, you could’ve - “ 

Aziraphale’s face flushes suddenly, though unlike the previous times, this time it’s due to anger. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.” 

“You didn’t have to Fall! You could’ve - I - I never would’ve wanted you to Fall for me! I - “ 

He didn’t know he was going to slap Crowley until it happened. His hand stings for a brief moment that lasts only slightly longer than Crowley’s initial shock. 

He says, “If you ever imply that my best friend’s life is worth less than some pretty words and a community of self-righteousness, I’ll kick your arse into the next century.” 

Aziraphale has never trembled with anger before. He doesn’t know who he’s angry at, but he knows that he would happily destroy them. Perhaps it’s whoever made Crowley feel like him dying was an option at any point. It’s frightening that Crowley would think so poorly of his own worth that he thinks Aziraphale’s position in Heaven held a drop to his company. 

Crowley presses two fingers against the blossoming red mark on his face. He says, faintly, “Oh, you said it right that time. Good job.” 

“I can’t believe - did you miss everything I said to Gabriel? I made this choice, Crowley. I chose you, I chose happiness, I chose - “ 

“You said you chose love,” Crowley says. He visibly swallows. “You said that.” 

“I did,” Aziraphale agrees immediately. “And I would choose it again and again. This life and the next. 

“And you know what else?  I don’t regret it. How could I? Didn’t we just have a lovely day? Thwarting your wiles was fun, certainly, but causing mischief together was delightful. Working together - being together - that’s all I’ve ever wanted, my dear.” 

He watches Crowley’s face contort in a few different directions before it settles on something reverent. Awed. “You love me,” He says. 

“I do.” 

“You love me enough to Fall for me.” 

“Dear,” Aziraphale says fondly. “I fell for you centuries ago.” 

“Only centuries?” Crowley steps forward. Almost shyly, he stops when he’s a hair’s breadth away from Aziraphale, and his toes start digging a circles into the ground. “Some days I swear I fell in love when you told me you gave away your sword.” 

It’s so easy to wrap a hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and tilt his head down for Aziraphale to reach. He rolls onto his toes just in time for Crowley to keen and meet him halfway, pressing their lips together ever-so-softly. 

It doesn’t last long enough. Crowley pulls away and barely has enough time to say, “Wow - “ before Aziraphale is pulling him back, pressing against him firmly and trying to make up for millennia of holding back. 

Crowley’s arms grasp at his shoulders - his chest - his hips - before settling with one around his waist and another cradling Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale, in turn, can’t bring himself to let go of the hold he has on Crowley’s nape. His other hand is busy burying itself in the front of Crowley’s jacket, trying to tug him closer. 

They separate after mere moments, but they don’t move too far away. Aziraphale can still feel Crowley’s breath on his lips, can taste the remnants of the espresso he drank earlier. He licks his lips and feels a little smug when Crowley’s breathing picks up at that. 

Carefully, he reaches and pulls those infernal sunglasses off, tucking them into his pocket. The removal of them makes Crowley’s happiness and love blinding, getting to see it reflected in his eyes as well as the rest of the lines in his face. One of his thumbs is rubbing circles into Aziraphale’s cheek, and really, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that Aziraphale can’t resist cupping his hand around Crowley’s and pressing a light kiss to the digit. 

The way that makes Crowley’s smile widen is enough to make him do it twice more. 

“What am I going to do with you, angel?” ^[5] 

“Keep me, hopefully, “Aziraphale says coyly. Crowley growls playfully and leans in to give him a quick peck, which has Aziraphale laughing into his mouth. “My dear, I do think we have an entire night ahead of us. In fact, my entire calendar has just been cleared for the week.” 

“Has it then?” Crowley asks, amused.

“Oh yes. Meetings rearranged, store hours changed, I got fired from my full-time - may as well call it a wash.” 

“May as well, yes.” 

“Whatever shall we do with all of this free time?” He bats his eyelashes at Crowley, who continues to look supremely amused. “I don’t suppose my demonic mentor has any ideas for how we could properly christen - er, break in my new demonic body?” 

Despite his face flushing to the tips of his ears and his pupils blowing up, Crowley keeps his cool remarkably well. He says, “I’m sure I can think of a few. There are some areas in which you’re lacking as a demon, after all.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale leans forward and wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist, humming lightly. 

“Oh yes,” Crowley says quite seriously. “You’re rather advanced in gluttony and sloth - I’d say you excel in those areas. Pride is coming along quite nicely, as is wrath. Greed, well - “ His eyes dart down to the arms around his waist, and his lips tilt upwards. “If I’m not wrong, I daresay that’ll be on its way soon enough too. And envy was always rather useless, in my opinion, so we’ll skip that one altogether.” 

“But?” 

With a long-suffering sigh, he pulls Aziraphale in close and says, right against his lips, “But I’m afraid your tendency towards lust - well, that’s just not on par quite yet. We might have to do something about that.” 

“I assure you, I’ve lusted for far longer than you can imagine.” 

“Have you?” 

“Oh yes. I’ve lusted, I’ve desired, I’ve yearned - “ He gasps when Crowley presses their foreheads together, and he can almost taste the longing between them. He whispers, “ Nearly every day, my dear.” 

“Don’t you think it’s past time to do something about that? It’s not very demonic to hold yourself back.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“I’d say your restraint is a remnant of your angelic instincts. Not to worry, though,” He says, their lips brushing against each other just a little.  “A little temptation, and I dare say you’ll be taking what you want like a proper demon.” 

He’s right - With those beautiful eyes staring into his, and his soft lips moving so seductively in front of him, Aziraphale can’t do anything but lurch forward, unable to bear the space between them any longer. He can feel Crowley smiling into the kiss, and it makes him smile too. 

All-in-all, Aziraphale thinks as Crowley miracles them back to his flat. This was a very good day. Perhaps the best. 

**

In the end, Aziraphale becoming a demon changes very little. Heaven and Hell stay out of their way for the most part. The only exceptions appear to be when Aziraphale meets Beelzebub for tea once a year and the few times Ezekiel has worked up the courage to visit Aziraphale for talks about humanity.  

He and Crowley spend most of their time together, until it becomes painfully clear that they would save quite a bit of travel time if they stopped pretending they still cared to live alone. It’s then when they start looking at homes to move into and Crowley starts picking out curtains and rugs and the like. Aziraphale’s only contribution is the inordinate number of bookshelves he refuses to part with. 

Crowley, because he’s a fool in love, incorporates tartan and cream into the interior decorating even though Aziraphale said he would be happy with anything as long as Crowley was there. Aziraphale hugs him tightly when he sees the final product. 

Their house is packed to the brim with books and vibrant green plants. The Bentley is parked outside, gleaming and full of Queen’s best hits as always. Their home is slightly bigger than a cottage, and it has a duck pond in back. 

It’s a beautiful home, all-in-all. 

Had the world been a little less complicated and a little more fair, Aziraphale and Crowley would have gone on to live as an angel and demon stuck between worlds, pulled in opposing directions but always choosing to meet in the middle. 

However, because the world is complicated and unfair and messy, Aziraphale and Crowley instead live as two demons on Earth who aren’t very demonic at all. Aziraphale’s wings heal (though they don’t become tartan-patterned as he had briefly hoped for) and Crowley grooms them fastidiously. Aziraphale in turn provides Crowley with as much body heat as his serpent could ever want. 

They move in together and argue over the best way to make lasagna, and they drink more wine and tea than all of England combined. Their kisses are filled with more love every day that passes.

In the end, they are together, and they are happy. 

⁵ Crowley does continue to call Aziraphale “angel” for the rest of time. This results in Adam, the Them, Anathema, and Newt only learning that Aziraphale is a demon when, at one of their rare get-togethers, says, “Bless it, Crowley, did you forget to pack the wet wipes?”^{[return to text]}