***

Crowley slipped into the dark city street and closed the bookshop door. Thick London air swaddled him. It stank of fumes and petrol, but he let it fill his lungs in sharp, quick bursts. It was still here, he had to keep reminding himself. The world, the shop, the car. London. He still had somewhere to call home. His chest ached.

Wind smacked against him through the car windows as he weaved in and out of the thin early morning traffic on the way to his flat. He’d taken an ill-advised nap on Aziraphale’s sofa after their post-Ritz celebratory drinks had stretched into the small hours, and now he yearned to collapse into his own bed and sleep for a week. Maybe the relief would hit him then. For now, though, it still felt like something was looming over his shoulder, waiting to catch him off guard. 

Nothing he came across gave away what had happened two days ago. Well, nothing except the puddle of what used to be Ligur in his doorway. Holy water was still in the air, something electric and acidic that sought out impurity and drowned it. His eyes itched. He stepped over the mess very carefully and tried not to think about the sound of Ligur’s flesh dissolving. He’d deal with that mess when he woke up. 

He kicked off his shoes, dumped his jacket on the desk and flopped into bed. His glasses ended up on the floor, but he didn’t much care. They’d done it - saved the world (sort of) and saved each other from obliteration. There was nothing left to do, and he was exhausted, and everything hurt. He shifted, trying to ease it, but all he got was a different sort of ache. His lungs felt too big for his chest, like his ribs were straining every time he breathed.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something very unpleasant was coming. Perhaps it was because that feeling had followed him very closely for eleven years, and was having a difficult time recognising that it had overstayed its welcome. His mind screeched a constant chorus of we are fucked, we are fucked, we are fucked with no indication of what it was that was going to fuck them. Heaven and Hell could figure out their ruse at any moment. And even if they didn’t, that didn’t mean they were safe. Sure, he’d made sure the angels were properly afraid of Aziraphale, and from what he heard the demons had been bricking it, but fear makes people do stupid things. He wasn’t keen on finding out what it did to archangels. Or dukes of Hell. 

They could be out there right now, standing outside his flat with a fresh bucket of holy water. The bookshop could be a smouldering ruin again. His hand twitched to pull out his phone and call Aziraphale, just to be sure, but he stopped it. He couldn’t be like this, he couldn’t panic at the slightest thought that something might have happened. Aziraphale was on his guard, too. If something did happen, he’d get himself out before he could be discorporated and call Crowley. Unless it happened too fast for that. 

This was stupid. He knew they’d have more time before they were figured out, if it came to that. A diplomatically arranged assault didn’t just happen out of the blue. It would take another day, at least, if Heaven and Hell were still colluding. Even if they weren’t, if Hastur rose up for his own revenge and Gabriel decided to clear up loose ends personally, there was time. They’d have time. 

“We’ve got time,” he told the pillow, in the hope that his body and mind would hear it and calm down. No such luck. He groaned and pressed his face into the sheets. All of this was supposed to be over, and yet here he was, grappling with the sheer bloody terror of being alive. All he wanted was a bit of decent sleep.

His mind drifted back to Ligur. Having a corpse in the area did tend to make humans uneasy, so perhaps that had rubbed off on him. The holy water in the air probably didn’t help. He sighed very deeply and slumped off the bed and onto the floor, and very slowly traipsed across the flat to find his gloves and apron. The walls pressed down on him. The tv flashed in the sunlight as he passed. He fed what was left of Ligur into the garbage disposal with a set of tongs and slumped back into bed.  

He squeezed his eyes closed. He tried to get comfortable. He snapped his fingers and the lights went out. In case movement set off the odd tingling in his chest again, he stayed very still, and waited. The great relief he’d been waiting for simply did not come. He was still afraid. 

A siren screamed past outside and he jerked up. Was that a fire engine, or a police car? He vaguely thought they had different sirens, but never learned the difference. It didn’t matter, actually, because if there was any sort of emergency like a fire or an apocalypse or a broken flower pot, humans called everyone in to stand around and look worried, so if one lot of them was wailing past his window they all would be soon. Something could very well be on fire somewhere. 

With gritted teeth and a firm resolution that this was not going to become a habit, he dialled the shop. 

***

When Crowley left, Aziraphale stood quite still for quite some time after the door closed behind him. For a moment, he thought about how he’d looked at him at the Ritz, about the waves of love that burned off him that he must have been blind to have missed before. He’d always attributed that warmth to Crowley’s presence, to his Hellish nature. But he’d been blind, or at least wilfully ignorant. What good would it have done them before, when it would have certainly got Crowley killed, if not the pair of them? But now, they were in the clear. It was finally safe to see what he'd been pretending he couldn't. Remembering the look on Crowley's face made him smile as he turned to look at the shop. 

For the first time in his very long life, he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. There were a great many things he could do, and indeed would have done had this been a normal day: opened the shop, closed it again, gone out for lunch, read a book. But there was a great absence of things that he knew he should do. Whether his role in the Great Plan, the Ineffable Plan or any other as yet unknown plan had been a deliberate plan by the Almighty or not, it was now over. The end of the world had, er, ended. He was unlikely to be given assignments from Heaven any longer, judging by the picture Crowley pointed of what happened Upstairs. In the grand scheme of the universe, he simply had nothing left to do. 

This being a terrifying and unwelcome state of affairs, even from a mediocre angel who quite liked not having to do very much work, he stood very still and thought about it for seventeen seconds before concluding that if he thought about it any longer, he’d go mad. As such, he looked wildly around for something else to think about. His gaze landed on a row of pristine new books that hadn’t been there two days ago, their embossed titles shining in the pale early morning light. There were books in his bookshop that he didn’t know about, and this was, frankly, unacceptable. 

“Right,” he said, and straightened his bow tie. He made sure the sign read ‘closed’, drew the blinds down, put the kettle on. It was time to update the inventory. 

The phone rang an hour later. 

“Hello?” 

“It’s me.” Crowley had that same trepidation in his voice that he’d had the night he’d called about Armageddon. Aziraphale brought the phone over to the desk, where he had been noting the new additions to the shop in a ledger. 

“Ah, Crowley. Is everything alright? I thought you’d be resting.” 

“Yeah. Fine. Why wouldn’t it be? What about you?” He sounded annoyed about something, but then he quite often did. Aziraphale balanced the phone between his shoulder and his ear and flicked through his ledger. 

“Business as usual on this end. I’m taking inventory. Adam left some new books, you see, so I’ve got to update my records.” 

“Right. So the shop’s closed, then? No one around?” Crowley’s voice was urgent now, pressing for something Aziraphale didn’t understand. He’d been fascinated with telephones for quite a while after they became widespread, but their one drawback was that you couldn’t see the other person’s face. He vastly preferred talking to Crowley in person. 

“Er, yes. I won’t open until after lunch, I imagine.” 

“I’d leave it for a few days. Don’t want people wandering around in there until we know we’re off the hook for the Antichrist stuff.” Aziraphale blinked and glanced around. Nobody was there. The blinds were still drawn.

“Have you seen something?”

“No!” Crowley quickly blustered. “Just be careful.”

“You don’t think we’re still being followed, do you?” Aziraphale held the phone to his ear properly again, ledger forgotten. Crowley took a long time to answer. 

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale swallowed. He’d assumed they’d have longer before things got tricky again, given the fear he’d induced in Crowley’s superiors. At least he’d hoped as much. “Look, if something happens, call me and I’ll come to you.” 

“Er, you’re sure nothing’s happened?”

“No, Aziraphale, nothing’s happened!” Crowley practically growled at him on the other end of the line. “I’m just telling you to be careful.” 

“I’m not an idiot, you know.” 

“Could’ve fooled me. Just remember to call if you see anything strange. I mean anything. You know my mobile number, right?” He sounded very panicked for a person who insisted that nothing at all was wrong. 

“Yes, yes, of course.” He didn’t, but it was written carefully on a piece of paper that usually sat in his coat pocket. Perhaps he ought to memorise it, just in case. “Are you quite alright?” Crowley shifted and coughed on the other end. 

“I’ve got things to do. Later, angel.” The call cut off. 

Aziraphale blinked at the receiver for a moment before he put it back on the hook with a frown. Crowley was often short with him, but he couldn’t recall ever hearing him so panicked about something. Aziraphale was usually the one doing the worrying. He was quite good at it, in fact. Currently, he was worried about Crowley, and trying not to be, because he suspected Crowley would find it insulting. He was very pointedly not worried about his importance in the grand scheme of the universe and the Almighty’s Great Plan, because he’d chosen to worry about keeping his records accurate instead. That didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it; the idea that he had been made redundant had crept in and burrowed deep in the back of his head whether he wanted it to or not. But he was quite certainly not worrying about it. 

The new books were all children’s books, which was perhaps to be expected, but they were all immaculate first editions. He didn’t know quite where to put them. They couldn’t stay where they were - he had a system, after all. Antichrist or not, nobody put Enid Blyton next to Mother Shipton in his bookshop and got away with it. He lifted a stack of Famous Five books and surveyed his overfull shelves for an appropriate home. There wasn’t anywhere with enough space for all the new arrivals, but if he reorganised a few things, he might be able to find a shelf for them. He started towards a shelf of fiction from the 40s, but stopped in his tracks. If Adam had added books, he may well have taken them away, too. And with the sheer volume of the things he had on hand, it could take years before he sought out a book and found it had gone missing. He'd have to recheck the entire shop. 

He put the stack down at the bottom of the shelf and hummed to himself. It would certainly give him something to do for several days, perhaps even a week. That wasn’t what it was, of course, he wasn’t just inventing tasks to avoid his great cosmic insignificance. It needed doing, and he’d just been given an indefinite amount of free time. It made complete sense.

He nodded decisively, as though confirming his intention to the bookshop rather than himself, and strode off to brew a new pot of tea. 

***

Crowley switched off the TV and swung his legs off his desk. 

“Coming, dear?” Aziraphale called from the front door. They were going to a performance of some concerto or other, at his request. Crowley grumbled something about patience and stood up. 

He smelled smoke.

“Wait!” He called to Aziraphale’s stiff back, but he didn’t hear him, he was already walking towards the bright mass ahead of him. Flickering light surrounded his body, making his hair shine pure white as he walked calmly out of Crowley’s front door. 

“Aziraphale!”

A burning piece of paper drifted down through the air into his flat. His limbs wouldn’t move. He could barely force himself forward from his cold walls to the fire. His front door opened straight into the bookshop, and the bookshop was burning. 

“Aziraphale!” 

The fire wrapped itself around him, made his skin tight and dry and left him filthy with soot, but it didn’t burn him. Hellfire. Shelves crumbled in the flames and collapsed, sending smouldering books crashing to the floor. And there, grinning in the midst of the blaze, was Hastur. 

“What on Earth have you done?” He whipped around, the fire leaving white lights blinking in his eyes. Aziraphale was there, in the doorway, holding a jug of water. He pointed back at Hastur, but Aziraphale didn’t even look at him. When he looked back, Hastur was gone. The full force of Aziraphale’s fury was pointed straight at him. 

Aziraphale tossed the water over a stack of books and steam hissed into the air as the flames were extinguished. Crowley stepped back at the expression of absolute disgust on his face. The air felt electric. 

“How could you?” Aziraphale tossed more water onto a shelf next to him. The steam rose up in a wave and stung his hand like acid. Holy water. 

“I swear, I didn’t! How the fuck could you think this was me?” Crowley circled back to the doorway, backing away from Aziraphale and the jug he wielded like a weapon. Holy water poured from the walls of the bookshop in great waterfalls, drenching the books and carpet in a way he knew Aziraphale would never normally accept. He backed further into his flat and heard water gushing from the ceiling behind him. 

No way out. 

Aziraphale‘s wings spread wide over him, drenched with holy water. Drops of it started to fall around him as he backed away. It hissed when it made contact with the ground in his flat. 

The old phone on Aziraphale’s desk rang shrilly. 

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Crowley asked, trapped between a furious angel and a flood of holy water. Aziraphale sighed and shrugged his wings away, suddenly frowning at Crowley like he’d only caused a minor inconvenience. He placed the jug on the floor and picked up the phone. It kept ringing, so loud he couldn’t hear what Aziraphale was saying. 

The ringing followed him into consciousness. 

He jerked once he realised what was happening and fumbled for his phone, which buzzed impatiently on the floor. The room was still dark. 

“‘Ziraphale?” He mumbled into it. So he did have his mobile number. 

“Oh, hello.” He sounded a little embarrassed. 

“What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, quite. What about you?” He sounded worried. 

“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seemed a bit, er- worked up, last we spoke, and I haven’t heard from you since last week, so I just thought I ought to check you were alright.” Crowley blinked and sat up properly. The sheets were tangled around him, and he was still wearing his jeans. 

“Last week?” He repeated. “Oh, right, yeah. I’ve been asleep.” 

“I hoped that was it. Oh, terribly sorry, did I wake you?” Aziraphale didn’t sound nearly as worried this time. In fact, Crowley thought he was being rather smug and not trying especially hard to hide it. 

“Not at all,” he hissed into the phone. 

“Good, good. Are you busy, then?” Crowley knew what was coming next. 

“Dinner?” He preempted. 

“That would be wonderful,” Aziraphale brightly said. “I know a lovely place just down the road from the shop.” 

It was about seven in the evening, but it didn’t really feel like it. His disturbed sleep had set him off-balance in a way he couldn’t shake even an hour later when he pulled up outside the bookshop, like he was trapped in the feeling of skipping the last step on a staircase. 

He hoped for a bit of familiarity in the shop, something to wipe the memory of fire from his mind. What he got instead was chaos. There were shelves stripped bare and books in hundreds of tottering stacks all over the floor. Some were in boxes or crates, but most were left on the carpet. There wasn’t even room between them to get any further than two paces in, and his sharp breaths took in the scent of dust, old paper and tea. 

“Aziraphale?” He called. He couldn’t keep the panic out of his voice. What was happening here? White hair popped into view from behind a bookcase and he swallowed a bit of the dread that had been piling up in his throat. He was holding a pile of old, ratty books, and looked quite bewildered at the intrusion. His usual coat and bow tie were missing, and his sleeves were rolled up. If he didn’t know Aziraphale better and know such a thing was impossible, he’d say he was disheveled. 

“Crowley?” He seemed confused, but then beamed. “Oh! Dinner, yes. I must have forgotten. Be with you in a minute, just a few things to clear up first.” He disappeared again. 

“What the Heaven happened here? Looks like a bomb went off in a charity shop.” 

He looked around and saw that there were boxes of books on the stairs, too. He ran his finger through a sheet of dust on one of the empty shelves. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a bare surface in this shop. The panic that had nestled into him after the apocalypse lashed out again as Aziraphale reappeared with a different pile of books. 

“Are you leaving?” He didn’t mean to make it sound like an accusation, but it certainly felt like one. It was fine, he reasoned. Aziraphale had his own life. Now he wasn’t bound by his obligation to thwart, it was well within his rights to go where he pleased. He didn’t want to admit why the idea felt so much like a betrayal. 

“In a minute, yes, if you’d be patient. I just need to finish up here and fetch my coat.” He was separating the books into different piles. Crowley sighed very slowly and deliberately to stop himself snapping. 

“Leaving London, I mean.” Aziraphale looked up at him with a somewhat worried expression that wrinkled his face.

“Why would I be leaving?” 

“Are you?” 

“No,” he said, now looking quite worried indeed. “Why? Are you?” 

“No,” Crowley quickly said. They looked at each other suspiciously for a moment. Could he leave, if Aziraphale did? He couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than London for the foreseeable future, but if the angel wasn’t here, it would be a colder place.

“Mind how you go, by the way. I’ve been reorganising.” Aziraphale still sounded uncertain, but he changed the subject and gestured to the myriad piles that swamped the floor. Relief flooded the back of Crowley’s head, but his traitorous heart was apparently deaf, since it still beat too quickly. "I started taking inventory after the Apocalypse and I thought, this all needs moving around. Once I'm done it'll be much easier to put new books where they're supposed to be." 

“You know you could miracle it, right?” Aziraphale frowned. 

“I prefer to do things properly, thank you very much,” he said, with a pointed look. “And it’s really more about doing it than having it done.” 

“Right. And how do you even get out of here? You’ve bricked yourself in.” There were at least four feet of dense book stacks between them. 

“Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t been out since I started. Too much to be done. Just a moment, dear boy, I need to fetch my coat.” He weaved through the piles to the back room. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been stuck in here breathing mouldy book dust all week,” Crowley called. That would be just like him, to sit and obsess over his books without pause.

“My books do not have mould!” He firmly said, when he returned a moment later with his coat and bow tie in place. He crouched and shifted aside some of the books to form a tiny path. “Tally-ho, then,” he announced, once he was able to actually stand beside Crowley. Maybe it was the dim yellow light of the shop, but now he was closer, Aziraphale’s eyes looked a little red at the edges, and it seemed like the natural shadows below them had darkened. He wondered if he’d slept. 

“You alright?” 

“Perfectly. Why wouldn’t I be?” He could have believed it, but Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. “Now, the place we’re going...” 

He talked about it all the way to the restaurant, but it wasn’t the way he usually talked about food, with a smile and a wistful look. His voice was low and tired he occupied every space with words like it would protect him from something, like if he stopped talking the silence would rise up around them and choke him. It was a small place, opened a few years ago, a unique kind of Thai-Japanese blend with a special kind of sushi that he dedicated ten minutes to describing before their order arrived. It was comfortable and homely, like the bookshop. Like Aziraphale, Crowley privately thought. The place pressed in on him, though, too cramped and full of things and columns and people, with Aziraphale’s unusually quiet voice filling in the small gaps and drumming against his skull. It was a little too much like Hell, too. He kept feeling eyes on him. 

Alcohol helped. It dulled the panic and slowed the outpouring of ‘what if’ in the back of his head, but it left him adrift from himself like he was a passenger in his own body, like watching someone else panic instead. Aziraphale kept looking at him like he wanted to ask if he was alright, but hadn’t worked up the nerve yet. 

He’d finally managed to commandeer the conversation, and was mid-way through an explanation of reality television that he’d definitely given Aziraphale at least three times in the last decade when the angel frowned and started patting his pockets. 

“What?” 

“Oh, I’ve just remembered I’ve been an absolute fool, and put an original Marlowe folio in completely the wrong section. I simply have to write that down, or I’ll forget about it completely and ruin the new system.” He produced a pen and paper and scribbled furiously on it. 

“You were thinking about your new book organising system in the middle of dinner?”

“I’m at an important stage in the process. There are an awful lot of variables to keep track of, and I cannot afford to make such a serious mistake!” He looked very earnest about it, too, in the way only Aziraphale could be. “So sorry, dear chap. What were you saying about this ‘Love Island’? It sounds like a heavenly invention.” 

“Oh, no. This one’s definitely one of ours.” 

Aziraphale blinked. He drank a sip of wine and flashed a pained glance at him, and it was only then that Crowley realised what he’d said. He was too drunk to do this, to watch out for tiny words that held oceans. He stumbled to recover.

“I mean- one of Hell’s. It’s got to be.” 

“How could a programme about love be- er- one of theirs? You didn’t have a hand in it, did you?” Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. He waved his hand, forgetting that there was a glass in it, and forgetting again that there was wine in that. It sloshed over the tablecloth. He snapped his fingers and it was gone before Aziraphale could even open his mouth to fuss.

“Love’s the most painful thing in the universe, angel. Humans have been tearing each other apart over it since the beginning. Of course demons are all over it like rats on a dung heap.” 

“Why do they do it?” Aziraphale asked. His bright eyes flashed from looking at Crowley to examining the tablecloth very closely. “Love. If it hurts so much. I mean, sometimes they’ll sacrifice everything for it. Leave their families, their homes. Even die. All for something that supposedly hurts like a mortal wound.” 

Crowley licked wine off his lips. They were numb from drinking now. Over the years, he’d noticed that Aziraphale sometimes said things which meant more than he meant them to mean, and didn’t notice until just after he’d said them. And sometimes, very rarely, he’d say something that meant so much he’d look at Crowley like his whole world depended on him understanding something that hadn’t even been said. It was so difficult to keep track of it when he was this drunk. He felt his skin buzz out of nowhere, like he was being watched, and scanned the patrons around them. Nothing. He shrugged, and looked back at Aziraphale, who was watching him with an earnest sort of worry that bored deeper into him than he’d like. 

“I suppose they must think it‘s worth it.” 

He nodded. 

“I suppose they must.” 

***

Crowley had seemed a little off all the way through dinner. Twitchy. He kept looking at the other patrons like they might be about to spring up at them, and he seemed to be drinking about twice as much as Aziraphale. The love he’d felt at the Ritz was still there when Crowley looked at him, but it wasn’t right. It was muffled this time, cut off like an ocean pushing against a window. Probably because Crowley was fairly drunk, he thought, and tried to only worry about it in the back of his head when Crowley wasn’t looking. He’d always felt that Crowley could tell more about what he was thinking than he let on. 

“Have you tried sleep?” Crowley asked out of nowhere, when they reached the bookshop and he was about to get into the Bentley. 

“Never could get the hang of it. Why? Are you having trouble with it?” Perhaps that was his problem at the moment, then. Sleep deprivation was a form of torture for humans.  

Crowley turned away to open the car door, and the street light flashed in his sunglasses. 

“You look all tired and gloomy, that’s all. Might do you some good.” He gestured vaguely at Aziraphale, and somewhat at a lamppost. 

“Gloomy?” 

“Yeah. All-“ Crowley made an exaggerated frowning face. 

“Why should I be?” What he meant to say next was, ‘The world isn’t ending, after all.’ Aziraphale wasn’t as drunk as Crowley, but he’d had a couple, and there was something in the darkness in the alley behind them that pushed to say things that he would never be brave enough to say sober. So what he actually said was: “I’m with you.” 

Crowley turned very slowly to look at him. 

“Angel...” Crowley had been tapping a rhythm the roof of his car, over and over again, faster and faster. He stopped, and gave Aziraphale a look of barely constrained wonder. The love was still there, he was sure of it, and when he stepped a little closer he could feel the warmth of it like he was getting closer to a fireplace. It was ridiculous to be so afraid of saying something about it when they both knew it was there, but they were both stubborn like that. 

Crowley coughed, and the moment broke. Aziraphale stuttered forward again. 

“Even if I was gloomy - which I am not - I don’t think sleep would help. I can never seem to get off properly.” 

“Oh, can’t you?” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows at him and gave a wolfish grin. He tutted and clasped his hands behind his back. 

“Oh, don’t look like that. You know what I meant. How do you do it so often? How does it work?” 

“You’re a very clever angel. Read a book.” He emphasised the ‘k’ very dramatically, and was so focused on it that he stumbled getting into the car. 

“You are going to sober up before you drive, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asked, after he’d started the engine. He shuffled closer to the warmth. Crowley sniffed and got into gear. “You drive like a lunatic as it is.” 

“What’s that, angel?” The radio was already blaring Queen too loudly to hear him. 

“I said, sober up!” He tried shouting, but Crowley had already slammed the accelerator and shot off with his tires squealing, and the warmth dashed away with him into the night. Aziraphale was left in the cold streetlight, shivering.  

Logically, he knew that Crowley would be alright. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour, and with a bit of demonic intervention he’d make it home without incident. The Bentley probably wouldn’t even let itself be crashed. But that didn’t stop him worrying when he went back into the bookshop and surveyed the work he had yet to do. 

He wasn’t feeling particularly energetic of late, that was true, but the last thing he needed was to spend eight hours horizontal, doing absolutely nothing. What he needed was to keep working, to keep sorting out his books. He’d feel more like himself once the shop was back to normal. That reminded him of the Marlowe folio, which reminded him that he really ought to dedicate a shelf to the chap instead of letting it get mixed in with Shakespeare’s things. 

“Better put the kettle on,” he told himself, and got to work. 

***

Crowley had a problem. To be more accurate, he had several problems, the first being that he was inordinately afraid that he was about to die. The second was that there were few things that could really help with the first: driving around very fast, and getting drunk very fast. The third was that these solutions were unsustainable. He could drive very fast for a few hours and end up in Scotland, and then drive very fast all the way back home, but it became monotonous after a while and the speed stopped dulling the anxiety. And he could drink by himself for days on end, but all it did was distort the fear, make it obfuscate into weird fragments so he’d be walking through his flat and have a fit when a leaf brushed against his skin. The fourth problem related back to the first: he was pretty sure he wasn’t about to die, but a gap had formed between Crowley knowing this and Crowley believing it, and as such he was in a constant state of panic.

The last time he’d been more or less relaxed was standing outside the bookshop with Aziraphale before he drove home. He’d tried to replicate the drinking, with no success, so there was one factor left that might help: Aziraphale himself. 

Crowley swung by the bookshop a few days after they had dinner. Aziraphale seemed to have been shifting around piles of papers and books and scrolls, moving them from one shelf to another or nudging them across the floor to another patch, which led them to another patch that would, eventually, lead them to a shelf. Whatever system he was implementing looked incredibly difficult and tedious, which was probably why he’d decided to implement it.

“Still organising, then?” Crowley stepped over a pile of misprinted Bibles and slinked over to the desk, where Aziraphale was making notes in the ledger. This was familiar in a safe, warm kind of way. It was difficult to panic when faced with Aziraphale’s daft little reading glasses.

“Obviously,” he said, not looking up. There was a half-finished mug of tea beside him with a layer of dust floating on top. 

“Not been out?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Not even for lunch ?” Crowley leaned over the desk and pouted, waiting for Aziraphale to sigh and give in. They’d go somewhere nice where the staff all knew him, and Crowley could drink off his panic, and Aziraphale could explain his unbearably dull book system and Crowley wouldn’t mind at all, because Aziraphale would be explaining it with that look on his face he got when he was excited about something. 

“No.” He blinked. 

“No- no lunch?” Crowley stammered, trying not to sound like he’d just been hit by a car. Aziraphale finally raised his head from his papers to shoot him an exasperated look over his spectacles. He still looked exhausted.

“I really am terribly busy,” he said. What kind of universe had Crowley stumbled into, where Aziraphale said no to lunch? 

“Right. Er- fine, then.” He backed away. “Another time.” 

“Wait,” came the angel’s strained voice, before he could set off through the maze in search of the door. Crowley turned back. He’d stood up now, fiddling with his pen in both hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. You could stay, if you like.”

Aziraphale stared at him with hope, and fear, which go hand in hand when one has something very important to lose. 

“Got any wine?” Crowley weakly asked. 

It wasn’t a bad afternoon, in the end. He could get somewhere approaching calm, with Aziraphale more or less present and the booze taking the edge off his panic. He could forget that the bookshop made him anxious, because Aziraphale was there, bustling around making notes and shifting books onto different piles. He didn’t seem to want to relax, though. He sipped half-heartedly at his wine while Crowley plowed through his, and didn’t sit down for more than a few minutes at a time because he always remembered that something somewhere had to be moved or labelled or inventoried and rushed to get up again. 

When it became clear after several hours that Aziraphale wasn’t going to give in and stop working, Crowley left. For now, he could reassure himself that Aziraphale was relatively safe, at least. He could go home and nap, and battle off his anxious thoughts with the surety that Aziraphale wasn’t going to let anyone into the shop, nor was he going to leave it. Crowley could come back in a few days when this mess was taken care of and they’d go out properly.

He came back three days later, and the shop was in a worse state than he’d left it. And what’s more, Aziraphale refused dinner. Crowley stayed for drinks in the evening until Aziraphale turfed him out when he was starting to nod off on the sofa. He went home, slept, and worried about it again in the morning. He needed more time, Crowley assured himself. Aziraphale did things slowly. And he did have a lot of books. 

But when he went back after a few days of drinking and watching bad reality television and driving frantically down country roads while  trying not to panic, there was still a maze of books on the floor and an angel fluttering among them who politely refused to dine at the Ritz. Once had been alarming. Twice was frightening. And three times was a pattern. 

He couldn’t fathom it. One of the great constants of the universe was that however much Crowley irritated Aziraphale, he’d overlook it for the promise of good food. Had he done something to offend him the last time they’d been at dinner? He’d been too hazy at the end of it to have a hope of remembering it clearly now. It couldn’t be him he had a problem with, since Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind him sitting in the shop while he organised. Whatever was happening, it was clear that something was very wrong with Aziraphale.

***

Crowley came by every few days and sat on the stairs of the bookshop, away from the mess. It seemed to make him anxious. Aziraphale wondered if the cramped, chaotic space reminded him of Hell. It reminded him, sometimes. He’d resigned himself to sitting with his phone and some wine, occasionally reading a bit of news or complaining about the service in the shop. He’d insist Aziraphale keep taking breaks from organising to drink with him, and pout and complain when he refused. It was a mild irritation, but Aziraphale welcomed his company. What was more concerning was that couldn’t feel any of Crowley’s love unless he sat right beside him - probably because Crowley spent all day drinking and it created a haze around his emotions. He assumed he reserved his nights for sleeping. He hoped so, anyway. It probably wasn't healthy for even a demon to be this drunk this often.

He started every visit by asking Aziraphale to eat out with him, and Aziraphale had to swallow his dread and very politely decline. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with Crowley. He just couldn’t face going out. There was so much to be done in the shop, and he didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment anyway. 

Today, he sauntered in after lunchtime, already swathed with the acrid smell of alcohol. Aziraphale frowned at him over a pile of Greek philosophers. Usually he at least waited to get to the shop before getting properly pissed.   

“Did you drive here like that?” Aziraphale asked, as he watched him sway around the chaotic heaps of books and plop down into a chair. Crowley squinted at him over the top of his sunglasses, which were slightly askew. “It isn’t safe, you know. You might hit someone, or be discorporated.” Crowley just spread his arms in a dramatic shrug.  “Is something wrong?”

“Just want a drink with my best friend. You got room on the sofa, or is it full of books?” Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling when he said that. His best friend. The sofa, unfortunately, was full of books. “Well, let’s go somewhere, then.”

“Crowley,” he tried to keep the nerves out of his voice. He couldn’t leave the shop at the moment. Too much to do, too much he’d lose track of if he didn’t keep on top of it. 

“Come on, you’ve been cooped up in here for a month now. You don’t even sleep. It’s not good for you.” 

“I am busy, you know. It’s important work.” 

Crowley mouthed his words back at him in a mockery of his tone and picked up a book from a stack at random behind him. He moved it backwards and forwards in front of his eyes, in a great effort to focus on title. Aziraphale swiftly tugged the book out of his fumbling hands.

“Marcus Aurelius, if your inebriation has rendered you illiterate as well as intolerable.”

His fingers brushed Crowley’s and there was that love again, sending a rush of warmth up his arm from the point of contact. Even less strong than before, but still something. He withdrew his hand, embarrassed, but Crowley didn’t seem to notice. His love was getting further away every time, or perhaps it was that Aziraphale needed to be closer and closer to feel it. If Crowley would just sober up for a change, he’d be able to feel it properly again. 

This happened sometimes, with Crowley. He’d get into a mood about the state of the world for a week or two and spend most of it drunk or asleep. What Aziraphale couldn’t work out was why it was happening now. They’d just averted the apocalypse. They were free from their superiors, and the world wasn’t on fire or drowning in nuclear radiation. All in all, they were on the up, but Crowley was still restless and frustrated and he wouldn’t talk about it. Perhaps he just needed something to occupy him, like Aziraphale did. He didn’t actually know what the demon did these days, when he wasn’t with Aziraphale. Drinking, it seemed. 

Perhaps Aziraphale had done something to upset him, and hadn’t noticed.

“Pretentious little bastard. He can wait a couple of hours. I’m bored. You’re bored. Let’s go.” 

“I am not bored!” 

“You keep picking things up and frowning at them. Then you go and pick up another thing and frown at that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He did, and he rather wished he didn’t.

Every time he was organising and came across a book he remembered being particularly captivated by, he’d open it. He’d try to re-experience the feeling of reading it for the first time, but what he got instead was a sense of coldness, of distance from a past happiness that he could never return to. He’d close the book and put it back in its place, try to forget the empty feeling it brought and ignore that section entirely. Inevitably he’d find another book somewhere else, perhaps from a different century this time, and read the first few pages, waiting for the fondness to hit him like it always had before. It didn’t. 

He felt like his excitement had been locked away somewhere, and every time he tried to wake it up, it curled up tighter in its corner. He tried to read with music on, he tried to read with different lighting or in a different part of the shop. The only thing that helped was sitting next to Crowley and feeling the flickering love rolling off him. Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to be truly passionate about whatever he was reading. 

That was partially why he couldn’t bring himself to go out and eat. For one thing, he couldn’t work up an appetite. And for another, he was very afraid that he’d take a bite of something wonderful and have it taste like ash. 

“Honestly, angel, this isn’t good for you.”

“I’m just tired, Crowley, that’s all.” 

“Then sleep!”

“No!” He exclaimed. Crowley’s head tilted back a bit in surprise. He didn’t usually raise his voice like that. “No,” he said again, more quietly. “I can’t just lie there and do nothing for hours at a time. It would drive me mad. I need to do something.” 

“Then come out with me. We’ll go somewhere nice.” Aziraphale winced. “Not necessarily a meal. Just out. Anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley was the one who jumped a mile at every car horn outside, who seemed to drink more and more every time he saw him. And yet Crowley was looking at him with such heartfelt concern that it felt cruel to keep refusing him. He didn’t feel like he deserved the worry. There was nothing strictly wrong with him, after all. He was just tired. Aziraphale sighed. Perhaps it would be good for them both.

“What did you have in mind?” 

***

Sitting in the shop all day was driving him mad. The walls bore down on him. He couldn’t walk three paces without brushing into a shelf or a statue or a book or the book’s owner. The last thing wasn’t so bad, but it made him tense up involuntarily and Aziraphale always stared at him afterwards for so long that it was uncomfortable. (He stared when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking, and glanced back and forth between him and his books.) He could practically feel the misery rolling off him when he got close, and it was starting to get suffocating. He needed to get into the open air and do something with himself other than sit and talk. Even drinking had stopped helping his restlessness by now. 

“I need to get out of London. Let’s go for a drive somewhere. Anywhere.” 

Aziraphale paused by Crowley’s chair. 

“A drive?”

“I’ll sober up, if that would make you happy,” he groaned. He hadn’t been properly sober for days, and he knew Aziraphale knew it. His worried questions were starting to grate, too. He had a lot of nerve to keep poking at the issue, considering he was coping with whatever his problem was just as badly as Crowley, and was refusing just as strongly to talk about it. 

“Yes, it would! I’d appreciate not being discorporated, if you don’t mind.” 

“Fine, fine.” The alcohol dribbled out of his system and the fear poured back in. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Aziraphale watched with trepidation. “Let’s go, then.” 

He bustled past with a handful of scrolls. 

“Well, just give me a moment, will you? I’ve not finished-“

“You’ve not finished anything! Look at this place. This should have taken you a few days, maximum, and at the rate you’re going, you’ll still be reorganising into the next century! And I really don’t see the point. It’ll end up a mess again the second you get it done.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. He gently put the scrolls in their place on a shelf - or at least what would be their place for the next few hours, before he decided to move them again - and let his fingers trace over them. He didn’t look at Crowley for a moment. 

“It is taking a bit longer than expected,” he admitted. And then, quieter, “I need to do this, Crowley.”

“Five minutes, angel. I’ll be in the car.” 

The thick August heat was dry and still, and the part of him that was still irreversibly serpentine thought about curling up in a good patch of sunlight and calling it a day. The rest of him, which was still irreversibly stressed, thought about the headache he was developing, the taste of bitter grapes in his mouth and the anxiety pounding in his chest. 

He turned up the radio loud enough to drown out the sounds of London happening around him - the traffic, the car horns, the beeping pedestrian crossings, the children wailing and people laughing and walking and talking - so loud that he felt every beat shake his bones. He tapped his foot frantically to Tchaikovsky’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ and wished Aziraphale would hurry up. He seemed to spend a great deal of his life doing that at the moment. Hurry up and save the world, Aziraphale, hurry up and get in the car, Aziraphale, hurry up and tell me what the Heaven is wrong with you, Aziraphale. 

It had been the same for millennia now: Crowley nudging and pushing, and Aziraphale putting up a front of insult while letting himself be tugged along. If he went too fast, Aziraphale would panic and back away. He knew he was too much for him already. And now he felt like he was going mad, like everything in the world was pouring into him from every angle, and he was very scared that if he opened his mouth the terror would all start pouring out of it, straight at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was the last line of defence between Crowley and going insane, and who was already desperately miserable about something himself. Crowley had been protecting him from day one. Why stop now?

The angel in question finally opened the car door and frowned at the radio. Crowley could barely hear what he was saying until he got in and turned it down. “I really don’t know how you can stand to listen to music so loudly, it can’t be good for-” 

Crowley slammed the accelerator as soon as he shut the door. Aziraphale yelped and braced himself against the seat. 

“I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” he grumbled. Crowley slammed the brakes at a traffic light and he had to brace again to make sure his head didn’t collide with the dashboard. “This vehicle really ought to have seatbelts.” 

“You are not putting seatbelts in my vintage car,” Crowley warned.

“I’m not putting up with being discorporated, either,” Aziraphale retorted, but he didn’t make any new additions to the Bentley’s interior. He did, however, keep making a range of distressed and frustrated expressions as Crowley zoomed through the streets, weaving around black cabs and pedestrians and buses.

“Relax,” Crowley drawled, though not being in any way relaxed himself. The car shot off from the traffic lights and started making its way to the M25. Absently, he wondered if Adam had changed it from the symbol of the Great Beast Odegra. He switched the radio to the traffic report, and quickly had his answer. He turned it back to Radio 4. Aziraphale struck him as a Radio 4 person. 

“Perhaps we could go down to the coast. The sea air is supposed to be good for you,” Aziraphale suggested. “Oh, I came across a charming little French cafe in Brighton, the last time I was there! I haven’t had brioche like it this side of the Channel in years.” 

“And when was the last time you were in Brighton?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale was very, very bad at remembering normal human timeframes. 

“Oh, sometime in the fifties, I think.” Crowley looked at him very tiredly. “Oh, alright. But the area was very nice. I’d still like to visit. Watch the road!” He gestured wildly at the windscreen and Crowley swerved out of the path of a motorbike. 

‘Just A Minute’ came on and Crowley twitched to turn it off. The last time he heard Nicholas Parsons’ voice, Dagon had been using it to check up on him. He deliberated for a while, with flashes of fear running down his neck, but then he heard Aziraphale chuckle. He hadn’t actually been listening to what they were saying, but the sound dragged him back to himself in surprise when he realised he hadn’t heard it much lately. He left the radio on. 

Wind rushed through the open windows when he got up to speed on the M25, taking some of the edge off the August heat. It did make a deafening racket when he really got going, though, so he turned the volume up again. Aziraphale seemed to relax a little when they got onto the open road, since there were considerably fewer pedestrians to collide with, and had contented himself with looking out of the window and letting the wind hit him. Occasionally he’d exhale in amusement at something on the radio. 

“Humans are funny, aren’t they?” he said, after ‘Just A Minute’ finished. Crowley glanced across. 

“Some of them.”

“I mean, the kind of games they invent to entertain each other. Imagine being so easily distracted as a species that it’s a challenge to talk about one topic for a minute without repetition, deviation or, er...” he gestured loosely. 

“Hesitation.”

“Exactly. I mean, their attention is so easily lost. Must be because their lives are so short; they haven’t the patience for a great deal of proper thought.”

“They are funny,” Crowley agreed, thinking that the reason they were both having such a bad month was that they were both refusing to talk about one topic for even ten seconds. Crowley switched the radio to Classic FM instead. “Go on then.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I’ll be Parsons. You be a contestant.”

“Oh! Yes, that would be fun.”

“‘Kay then. The beach. Go.” 

“The beach?” 

Crowley accelerated past a particularly slow Ford Fiesta and slammed the car horn. 

“Hesitation!” He announced. Aziraphale frowned, but shuffled a bit in his seat to ready himself.

“Oh, alright, hang on. Do another one.” 

“Your funeral. Cars.”

“Ah, cars are a quite ingenious human invention which have revolutionised the way people live their lives. However, I find that some people drive rather too fast for their own good, and if it were up to me, they really wouldn’t be allowed to share the road with other humans-” 

Crowley honked the horn again. Aziraphale gave him a pointed look. 

“Repetition of human.” 

“It’s harder than it looks, you know. Right, I’ll give you one. Do crepes.”

They went back and forth for a while like that. Crowley started suggesting popular bands he knew Aziraphale hadn’t heard of and making him ramble about what he thought they could be, and Aziraphale gave him the names of obscure dishes and made him do the same. It was nice to be out of the city for a change, with the wind in his hair and hot afternoon sun shining through the windows. He could almost forget about the claustrophobia of the street, about the dread of looking over his shoulder at every turn, about the smell of smoke. Aziraphale seemed to have cheered up a bit, too, though he still looked exhausted. 

After a couple of hours, they ended up winding down country roads on a detour to avoid the heavy traffic. They were listening to the radio in silence again, and Aziraphale had gone back to bracing himself in his seat and snapping at Crowley when he turned corners at anything over thirty. Crowley pressed the accelerator a little harder every time he careened out of a corner, partially to annoy him and partially because the towering trees on either side of the road felt suffocating, like something leaning over them, like something was following them. 

“It’s not as though we’ll be late for anything,” Aziraphale said, patting down his rumpled clothes in a brief stretch of straight road. Crowley didn’t say anything. He couldn’t bear slowing down, not with the panic starting to build up again. 

He’d always raced around as fast as he could because it made sense. It was efficient, and probably demonic, and liked the tug in his gut when the car jerked forward faster than it really ought. But now, it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t even about annoying Aziraphale. Now it was about his body finally moving as fast as his heart. It was about forcing himself through the air so fast that the roaring wind drowned out his thoughts. 

He couldn’t breathe properly. The road ahead twisted around so fast he could barely keep track of it. The needle on the speedometer crept up again. 

“Crowley,” he heard Aziraphale say, not just irritated but tense now. He couldn’t say anything back. He jerked the wheel around a corner and nudged the accelerator again. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t slow down. 

Aziraphale was shouting now, but the wind threw his voice out the window before it could reach him. 

There was a sharp corner ahead. He turned the wheel without thinking, and something huge and overwhelming rushed up to meet them. 

There was a great wrenching sound, and everything stopped. 

***

For a long time, all Aziraphale could focus on was the sound of Crowley’s ragged breathing beside him. He’d miracled the Bentley into the middle of an empty field before the lorry could hit, and it had drained him. Neither of them spoke. Crowley hadn’t taken his hands off the wheel, even though the engine had cut out mid-miracle and the car sat motionless in the field. He didn’t even ask where they were. Aziraphale wouldn’t have answered if he did. 

The silence was suffocating. There was so much he could say, so much that was bubbling up in his throat that he could yell at Crowley about going too fast and nearly getting them both killed and wasn’t he looking where he was going? But none of it came out. What would be the point?

Crowley fumbled with the keys, like he meant to keep on driving as if nothing had happened. Aziraphale grabbed his wrist before he could start the car, and felt absolutely nothing. No love, nothing but his own fear and misery and emptiness, and the overwhelming urge to be sick. Crowley wrenched himself free and staggered out. He slammed the door and left Aziraphale alone in the gently rocking car, reeling. 

Crowley didn’t love him anymore. 

It wasn’t about being drunk at all. All this time since the Ritz, Crowley had been falling out of love with him, and he hadn’t noticed. Or, he had, and just been wilfully ignorant as usual, because the reality of it was just too painful. He’d given up any meaning he might have had in the universe, abandoned Heaven, abandoned his purpose, for Crowley. Who had, apparently, decided that he wasn’t that great after all. Was that what he’d been drinking about for the past month? He was sick of Aziraphale and too polite to tell him?

Aziraphale got out of the car like a dead man. 

Crowley was sitting on the ground, covering his head with his arms, blocking the whole world out. He twitched when he heard the car door close. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked. His throat was dry, and his voice came out hoarse, and wavering, and higher than he’d like. Crowley shook his head, but didn’t even look at him. 

“That was close,” he said. Neither of them laughed. 

“If we get killed, that’s it, you know. We’re dead.” Aziraphale said. Crowley shrugged. 

“We’d only be discorporated,” he croaked.

“You think Heaven and Hell are going to just hand us a new pair of corporations and let us be on our way? I’d never see you again. Is that what you want? Is it?” Crowley sighed and put his head between his knees again.  

“They’re scared shitless of us. We’d find a way around it. We always do.” 

“And would you? Would you even bother? I mean, was this your plan for today, Crowley? Come out and get us both killed so you’d never have to see me again?” His heart raced, but the rest of him was so very, very tired. He barely recognised his voice when he heard himself speak.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley snapped. 

“If you don’t want to see me anymore, just say so.” 

Crowley slowly raised his head. He’d pulled off his sunglasses when he got out of the car, and his yellow eyes were narrow, scrunched with hurt and fury. 

“ What? ” 

Aziraphale just stared at him. What else could he say? That if Crowley really didn’t care about him, he wouldn’t have minded being killed right beside him? That he was the only thing that made him feel anything anymore? 

“You think I don’t care about-” Crowley drew himself up, all his muscles coiled tight. It was at times like these that Aziraphale thought of the great snake he’d seen in Eden. 

“I can’t feel you anymore.” Crowley made a frustrated shrug, waiting for him to explain. “I used to get a warm feeling when you were nearby. Like when I can tell something is loved. But it’s gone. Even when I touch you, there isn’t anything there.”

Crowley stared at him. There were tears in his eyes. He swallowed, and pointed with his sunglasses. 

“So- so let me get this right. You don’t give a shit anymore. And that’s my fault?” 

“No! Of course I still- you’re the one that’s drunk every time I see you, and trying to get us killed!” 

Crowley laughed. It was awful and bitter, and came out like a hiss. 

“You think this is about you? You think- what? You think I’m forcing myself to hang around with you? You think I’m really that nice, and you’re really that intolerable, that I’ve got to be plastered to cope? You think this-” he gestured to the car, “was on purpose ?” 

“What else am I supposed to think? You never talk, Crowley! You never say!”

“Oh, and you do?” 

Aziraphale looked down at his hands so he wouldn’t have to see Crowley looking at him like that, so full of bitter hurt that it hurt him right back. 

“Have I done something wrong? Did something happen? Did you run into someone from Hell?” He couldn't keep the pleading tone out of his voice. He was drifting here, tethered to Crowley by a single thread that was keeping him from losing himself in the world entirely. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Crowley shrugged, and kicked a clump of grass.

“I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t know, alright? I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Crowley wouldn’t look at him anymore, staring at the grass he’d kicked up instead. He pushed it around with the tip of his shoe. Aziraphale nodded once, more to himself than Crowley. The field was still, and sunlight shone from Crowley’s red hair. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either,” he admitted. 

Crowley snorted. 

“Right pair of idiots we are, then.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Crowley hissed. “Right. Well, not to be rude, dear, but you’ve tried not talking about it, and that doesn’t seem to have done you any good.”

“No, angel.” Crowley, as usual, was stubborn. He wasn’t going to get anything out of him just yet. Aziraphale floundered for what to do next. 

“Is there anything that helps?”

Crowley looked at him like he was trying to decide how embarrassed he wanted to be the next time he spoke. Eventually he lowered his eyes so he was looking somewhere over his shoulder and coughed awkwardly.

“You.” 

“I do? How? I haven’t done anything.” 

“Just keep being your usual angelic self, and leave the worrying to me.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. 

“I’m afraid I’m not very angelic these days.” 

And then the ball dropped. 

“S’alright. I’m not very demonic,” he barely heard Crowley say.

Was this Falling? Was that why he couldn’t feel Crowley’s love anymore - he was losing his divinity? Angels are beings of love, and Aziraphale had spent the past weeks losing his. His love for books, for food, for the world in general. Miracles exhausted him, the world exhausted him. He had to invent things to do in his shop to stop himself going mad. 

“Can I do anything to help you?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale blinked and his eyes shot up to him like he’d just been caught doing something horrible. He knew about Falling, in the sense that he knew demons were Fallen, but he didn’t know what it was like. Crowley had never spoken about it. There had to be more to it than this. It was a physical Fall in the beginning, for one thing. And for another, demons could love. Or at least, one demon could. He couldn’t ask Crowley about it, not yet. He already looked like he was in pain just having this conversation, let alone the one that would happen if Aziraphale brought up something so horrible as that. 

“You already have,” he said instead, and straightened out his waistcoat to avoid looking at him. “You were right. I’ve been in the shop too much of late. Starting to go a bit potty.” 

Crowley didn’t look convinced. 

“You want to keep on to Brighton, then?” He said. He did, but he slowly looked at the Bentley, and then back at Crowley, who winced. “Alright, point taken.”

Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale stared at it. 

“Get a move on, then! That brioche isn’t going to eat itself.” 

Aziraphale smiled painfully. If he was to Fall, and lose his ability to feel love like other angels could, he was lucky to be around someone who made his so abundantly clear that it wouldn’t matter. He took his hand, and let himself be tugged across space to a hotel car park where the smell of seaweed filled his head. Crowley hadn’t touched the Bentley, but it was parked quite calmly in front of them anyway. He looked down at their joined hands, and then up at Crowley, who looked a little bit embarrassed, but mostly pleased with himself. 

Yes, if he was Falling, he was glad to have Crowley there while he did it. 

***

Aziraphale was a bloodhound for quaint little cafes, and sniffed one out less than five minutes’ walk from the hotel car park he’d miracled them to. It was a cramped little place with tiny tables, but they sat by the door and he could see a strip of beach and blue sky from the window if he craned his neck. It wasn’t French, and there wasn’t any brioche on the menu, but Crowley had ordered it, so it arrived. Aziraphale had given Crowley that startled, adoring look he always wore when Crowley did something like that, like he couldn’t believe anyone would want to do such a nice thing for him. Six thousand years, and he was still apparently surprised every time Crowley showed him he cared. 

He’d stared at the brioche for a moment, like he was scared of what would happen when he ate it. Crowley raised his eyebrows and he hurriedly stuck his fork in. After a couple of bites, he smiled nervously at Crowley and stuttered that it was lovely. Only Aziraphale could be this nervous about desserts. 

When the coffee machine started going it filled the cafe with an obnoxiously loud grinding, whirring sound like a waste disposal that rattled his skull. He swallowed and leaned on the table with his elbows, hunching his shoulders defensively. He half expected to hear Beelzebub’s voice buzz through the sound of the coffee grinder. 

A warm hand gently closed over his on the table and brought him back to the moment. Aziraphale looked at him with a creased face that said, ‘is this okay?’ Crowley twisted their fingers together and smiled. Aziraphale offered a quick, nervous smile and went back to his food. 

They hadn’t spoken much since getting here, since they were both shattered, but it was a companionable silence. He didn’t think Aziraphale was still cross about the car accident, mostly because when Aziraphale was cross, he made it very obvious by way of complaining, huffing and frowning a lot. But then again, Crowley hadn’t insulted a book or needled too hard about the Great Plan. He’d nearly gotten them both killed. They didn’t have a precedent for that. 

A cold wind whipped in from the sea and grated across his face as they stood at the end of the pier, watching the water. The wind was more abrasive here than in London, carrying harsh salt in the air, unobstructed by buildings or miles of land. The rides on the pier rushed up and down with metallic clangs. Children shrieked and ran. People were everywhere. He was reminded of the day in St James’ Park when they’d been kidnapped in each other’s bodies, when he’d been dragged away from Aziraphale. 

His hand was only inches away. He thought about reaching for it, but he didn’t want to do too much too fast and overwhelm him. He was about to step a little further away when Aziraphale casually slotted their fingers together. 

“I wouldn’t mind staying here for a few days, you know,” he said, shooting Crowley a pleading glance. “You were right. It’s good to get out of London, especially since there isn’t an Apocalypse on this time. We could have a holiday.”

“A holiday,” Crowley repeated. 

“Oh, only if you want to, that is,” Aziraphale quickly added. “I wouldn’t want to presume that you would, I mean, that is-”

“Relax, angel. We can stay as long as you want.” 

Aziraphale smiled and nodded in a self-satisfied way, and looked back at the sea. There was a performer somewhere further up the pier playing an accordion, and he caught snatches of music when the breeze blew it in. 

“Does this help?” Aziraphale asked, after a while. He tapped his fingers on the back of Crowley’s hand. 

He thought about it. There was a whole world of colour and motion and sound pressing into him. People were everywhere, any number of which might not be people at all. Not-people who were going to rip them apart again. But Aziraphale gave him something to hold onto, something warm and solid to focus on that wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Well...” He nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder with his. The bit of him that was still a snake thought about wrapping itself around him very tight and never letting go. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

In the distance, far over the sea where the water met the horizon, a grey storm was brewing. He thought of the eastern wall of Eden, and squeezed his hand a bit tighter.  

***

A room miraculously freed itself in the hotel they parked at, and they had dinner in the restaurant that evening. Aziraphale panicked before eating again. The brioche had been lovely, but he suspected that was because Crowley had acquired it for him, and not because he’d regained any true passion for it. Aziraphale drank the wine too fast and cut up the food into little pieces. Crowley seemed a bit calmer now, though he did dig into the wine a little too enthusiastically. He fiddled and tapped his feet, and his eyes darted around at the patrons under his sunglasses. It would have been inconvenient to take his hand at the same time as cutting up some lobster, so Aziraphale pressed his foot against Crowley’s under the table. He calmed down at the touch, and nudged him back. 

Crowley was starting to look at his plate funny, so he sighed and stuck a forkful of food into his mouth before he could argue with himself any further. It wasn’t bad. Objectively, it was rather good. But the spark of pleasure he used to get from eating had fizzled out. He wondered if this was how Crowley felt. If that was why he hardly bothered with anything but drinks. He carried on eating, purely because it would have raised more problems to stop, and pretended he didn’t see Crowley pretending not to be worried about him. 

There was a large bed in the centre of their hotel room, which Crowley sprawled on as soon as they got there after dinner. Aziraphale sat stiffly in a chair by the window, and pulled a book out of his coat. They had found several second hand bookshops around the seafront, which Crowley had grudgingly followed him around and let him ramble about the state of the books. This was an especially unhappy copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ he’d rescued and was vaguely hoping he could conjure some enthusiasm about restoring when they got back. 

“What’re you doing?” Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale held up his book. “You’re just gonna lurk over there all night?” 

“Would you prefer if I left?”

Crowley pushed himself onto his elbows and let his sunglasses slip down so he could stare in incredulity with more force.

“I’d prefer you to come over here and get some sleep.” 

Aziraphale blinked. There are some things it is very difficult to say. What Aziraphale wanted to say was, ‘there’s only one bed’. But he couldn’t. Crowley must know, mustn’t he? So what he said instead was:

“You really think it will help?” 

“Not to be rude, angel, but you’ve tried not sleeping, and that doesn’t seem to have done you any good,” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale gave him a look down his nose to let him know he disapproved of his words being used against him in such a fashion. 

Angels didn’t sleep, as a rule, and certainly shouldn’t go around needing it, but he wasn’t much of an angel anymore. He wasn’t Fallen, but he was tired and empty and useless. He felt, more than anything, human. And humans slept. 

“Oh, fine. But I’ve told you before, I’m really not much good at it.” Crowley groaned into the pillows. 

“It’s not a competitive sport. Just come and lie down, before I miracle you over here myself.” 

Aziraphale gave him a sharp look and took off his coat and shoes. 

“I don’t have the clothes for it,” he pointed out. Crowley snapped his fingers and they were both in pyjamas. Crowley’s were black, and Aziraphale’s were tartan. “Oh. Thank you.” He shuffled around the bed, uncertain of where and how to embark, and whether he’d end up too close to Crowley, who shifted a bit to the left and hissed at him to ‘sodding hurry up’. 

He eventually crawled awkwardly onto the bed, lay stiffly on his back, and stared up at the ceiling. It was comfortable, but a bit odd. Crowley clicked his fingers and the lights went out. 

What now? He thought. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He’d heard that was important. You were supposed to relax, let your mind wander and drift gradually down into unconsciousness. He didn’t want his mind to wander, because when it did, it wandered to Heaven. 

It was awfully quiet now. He tried to think about the seaside, and the pier, and the rolling water and the storm in the distance that might break over the town come morning. He thought of Crowley, laying beside him, and storms, and Eden. And Heaven. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale frowned, but didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t miss it, really. But he did miss belonging to something, being a part of something bigger than himself rather than being a single angel standing against all of Heaven and Hell. He missed being useful. There were no more orders, no more miracles to perform, no more plans, Great or otherwise. He was so directionless it was paralysing. He may as well not exist at all. In the eyes of the universe, he was useless. 

Well, not the entire universe. Not to Crowley. Even when he was a proper angel, Crowley had been the only person who’d looked at him like he was worth looking at. There was one person in the world to whom he mattered, and one person who mattered to him. That was why he was Falling: Crowley had become more important to him than God’s Plan. 

He’d expected it to hurt. This didn’t, really. It was the difference between being burnt alive and being submerged in a pool of ice water. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t feel anything. Other people’s love was lost to him. Simple things he used to enjoy left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t help Crowley, he couldn’t even run a bookshop. 

Crowley stirred beside him. He was asleep, but twitching. 

His mind had wandered, and he didn’t like it. He was probably going about this sleep business all wrong. Crowley certainly wouldn’t have invested so much time in it if it required hours staring at the wall thinking unbearable things before one’s brain realised what one was trying to do, did the polite thing and shut off. The demon in question had curled up under the covers and already fallen asleep, so he couldn’t even ask. He shifted onto his side, staring blankly at a thin stream of light that fell through the window. He thought about getting up again and reading instead. 

A stifled moan escaped Crowley and Aziraphale jumped. Did people make noises when they slept? Was that a common phenomenon? He shifted sideways to look. Crowley was face-down, with what was visible of his face tilted toward Aziraphale. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he could see them moving frantically under the lids. He was rigid, too. He muttered something, so distorted by sleep it was impossible to make out. 

He reached out and took Crowley’s stiff hand in his own. Crowley jerked up and his eyes shot open. His hand locked around Aziraphale’s and he glanced wildly around in the dark until he reoriented himself. His eyes found Aziraphale’s. He blinked once, twice, and slumped onto his side, staring at their hands. The fight had gone out of him, and now he gripped Aziraphale’s hand so hard it hurt.

He thought that would be it, for a while, as Crowley stared into the air with his hand in a vice grip. But there was something about darkness that led people to say things they wouldn’t usually say.  

“I’m fucking scared, angel.”

“Scared of what?” 

“Everything. Everywhere in London, I’m terrified they’re coming for us again. Can’t even walk down the street without seeing ten ways it could go wrong and get us killed. It’s driving me insane.”

Aziraphale turned so he was facing Crowley properly. 

Damn the Plan , he thought, and then glanced up at the ceiling as though God might have heard him. And then he thought it again. Damn it all . He’d come this far. When the Plan said he was supposed to stand on a battlefield and destroy his best friend, he refused. If the Plan said he was supposed to destroy humanity, he’d refuse that too. If that was the divine destiny he’d lost, if that was what being an angel really meant, God could sod off and he’d damn well make his own plan. 

“Then we leave.” Crowley stared at him, and sat up very slowly. Aziraphale rose with him, making sure he didn’t let go of his hand. “You’re right. They know where we live. The only reason they haven’t come for us is because we put the wind up them. So you’re right. We ought to leave before they get wise to our little ruse.”

“Leave what? London?”

“Yes. I’ve always fancied living in the countryside, you know.”

“Really?” Crowley said, in a voice that said he wasn’t interested in what had just been said, but rather what had been said about ten seconds beforehand, and was now pretending to be paying attention. Aziraphale leaned a little closer to him. 

“I won’t go without you. If you stay, then so shall I.”

“Don’t be stupid. What if Heaven comes back for you?”

Aziraphale crossed his legs under the covers, and took both of Crowley’s hands. 

“Let them try,” he said. Crowley blinked at him. 

“Sorry?” 

“You think I’m going to tolerate being killed now? After everything we’ve gone through? Pardon me, dear, but fuck that.” Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “I intend to live. And I shan’t be giving up on that until we are both thoroughly dead.” 

“You want to run away together.” 

“It’ll be more like a secret retirement,” he said, and Crowley snorted. He looked down at their hands, and Aziraphale could barely see his face, now he’d ducked it out of the light. He’d been given the chance before, in almost the same circumstances, and refused it. If Crowley had been a spiteful person, he might have thrown that back in his face. But Aziraphale knew him better than that.

Eventually, he looked back up.

“It’ll have to be a bloody big place to hold all your books,” he said, and Aziraphale smiled at him. It was going to be alright. 

“You could have a proper garden.” 

“Yeah. With a great big apple tree in the middle.”

Crowley lay back down, gazing up at Aziraphale. 

“You know you’ll have to pack up all those books you’ve been organising, right? The organising that’s taken you a month?” 

“Bother,” Aziraphale muttered, and for a mad moment he thought about leaving them. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said. ”You’ll have help this time.”

***

The relief hit Crowley in waves over the next few weeks. London was still too much for him; he suspected it would be for a long time now, but he could breathe again knowing that he wasn’t trapped there, that he would soon have somewhere properly safe to go. 

Clearing out the bookshop was surprisingly cathartic after seeing it in chaos for so long. Aziraphale was still insufferable about his more delicate books, and insisted on packing up most of them himself while Crowley was banished to the sofa in the back room. There were moments in those days where Crowley was afraid he’d revert to shuffling books around in a series of increasingly complicated systems rather than actually giving them a place to go. When he worried, Aziraphale seemed to sense it, and would point out a shelf of sturdier books for Crowley to pack up. 

Other times, he’d make a point of talking about the cottage they were moving to in the South Downs. He was excited for Crowley to have a proper garden, and he spent a lot of time enthusing about feeding the birds and having a vegetable patch and going to the farmer’s market. Ordinary human things. Or rather, it seemed like he was coming up with things that he thought Crowley might like, and getting excited on his behalf. 

“You know you’ll be there too, right?” Crowley jokingly said, after Aziraphale spent half an hour discussing the plants he’d read about that would grow well in the soil at their cottage. The angel blinked at him. 

“I’d hope so. You’d better not leave me here alone.” He said it like a joke, but then flinched at himself and gently put down the old, fragile book he’d wrapped in tissue paper. His face flitted through several tiny flashes of emotion. He was always so open; Crowley could see exactly what he was feeling as he felt it. It was one of the things he really admired about him. He was still distant at times, though. And sometimes, when he thought Crowley couldn’t see him, he’d look so weary and sad that Crowley wanted to pry the answers out of him so he could find some way to help. 

“I-I meant, there have to be things you want, as well,” Crowley stumbled to recover.  

“I already have everything I could possibly want, dear.” 

“Angel.” 

Aziraphale sighed, and ran his hand over the smooth tissue paper on the book in front of him.

“I don’t like to think about what I want,” he quietly said. Crowley sidestepped a stack of boxes so there wasn’t anything between them. 

“What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale looked straight at Crowley with a quiet fear in his eyes, and swallowed. 

“I thought perhaps I was tired, after the end of the world. Or that the Almighty was punishing me somehow. I don’t know what it is. I just feel less…” he looked a bit helpless. 

“Less…?” 

“Less. I feel less than I did before. In a lot of ways.” 

Crowley wasn’t good at being comforting, in the way he thought people were probably supposed to be. What he was good at was disagreeing with Aziraphale. Especially when it was blatantly clear that Aziraphale needed to be disagreed with.

“You aren’t. Not to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth in surprise, before resolving into a shy smile. 

“I’m glad you think so.” 

Crowley patted him awkwardly on the arm. 

“Come on, then. Got to be something you want in the house. Big library, obviously. Nice pantry? Tartan kitchenware?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. 

“That would be lovely,” he pointedly said. “But there’s only one thing I really couldn’t live without.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale would say something that meant so much he’d look at Crowley like his whole world depended on him understanding it. What Crowley now realised was that all this time, he’d really been saying the same thing over and over. 

I’m with you. 

You could stay, if you like. 

I won’t go without you. 

You’d better not leave me here alone.  

He then thought about crying. What he did instead was smile fondly, if a little exasperatedly. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

He held out his hand. 

“Lunch?” Aziraphale ducked his head in embarrassment and took it with a very pleased smile. 

They slipped into the bright city street and closed the bookshop door. Thick London air swaddled him. It stank of fumes and petrol, but he let it fill his lungs in slow breaths. It was still here, he reminded himself. The world, the shop, the car. Aziraphale. He still had somewhere to call home. His chest ached. 

He was a demon, and demons weren’t supposed to know what ‘I love you’ meant. But as Aziraphale turned to look at him, he let the warmth of late summer seep into his bones, and thought it was probably something like, ‘don’t leave me here alone’. 

***