Work Text:
“How’s the car?”
The sun is too bright, but the demon forces himself not to squint as he looks into his own eyes. Crowley tries not to scoff at the tartan collar and Aziraphale kindly doesn’t mention the mess the demon has made of his bow tie. Small favors. Without them, the Arrangement would have been in shambles centuries ago.
“Not a scratch.” Aziraphale-as-Crowley rocks back on his heels and bites back a smile, forcing his expression to be casually neutral.
Crowley-as-Aziraphale lets out a relieves sigh. The demon hadn’t dared to hope—not when he was lucky enough to escape with his life and, perhaps more importantly, with Aziraphale’s—but he’s relieved nonetheless. He's had that car since it was made and if it’s within his power, he’ll drive it until the world actually ends.
Aziraphale kindly pays for their treats and hands Crowley his ice cream. The smell is distinctly Aziraphale (too sweet, nostalgic, richer than Crowley deserves). If the angel likes it, though, it can’t be too terrible, right? The demon can’t help the slightly-disgusted sneer that crosses his face as he takes it and has a lick. It’s nearly sickeningly milky, coating his tongue so thoroughly that it makes him crave something just to wash it all out. Water would be nice. Very strong alcohol would be better.
If their plan goes smoothly, there will be time for that later.
“And… the bookshop?” Aziraphale asks hopefully.
“Not a smudge. Not a book burned,” Crowley tells him gravely as he struggles to swallow the offending treat. He isn’t sure what it means, that everything is nearly back to normal. It was a big enough miracle that he and Aziraphale made it out in one piece, to say nothing of their worldly possessions. It makes him uneasy. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, so they say, and Crowley isn’t sure he’s able to foot the bill. But looking at Aziraphale’s small smile at the mention of his books, he’s not sure there’s an amount he wouldn’t pay to keep it there.
Crowley carefully watches the angel take the lolly and he can almost taste it: the artificial strawberry flavor, the food dye, the criminal amount of sugar. He forces down the near-overwhelming envy of watching Aziraphale lap at the vivid red ice lolly.
Though, if you were to ask him then, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what he was more jealous of: Aziraphale or the lolly.
The demon blinks just the once, just to get the sun out of his eyes for a blessed instant, because surely it’s doing something to his head (migraine or sunstroke or temporary insanity) as he catches himself licking his lips. He hears Aziraphale say something about bad luck, and by the time he opens his eyes again, he finds himself thoroughly removed from the angel’s company. With the snap of someone’s holy fingers, Crowley is very suddenly tied up.
Far, far back in Crowley’s consciousness, he knows that panicking is the wrong move. The angel would accept all this willingly, marching himself to Heaven’s gates—tied up or not—to give the Almighty Herself a piece of his mind. But in the scuffle, Crowley’s far more primitive serpent brain takes the wheel and he can’t stop his stomach from lurching in anxiety. His mouth flood with saliva that should be venom, his muscles flex to call fangs this body doesn’t possess. With great effort, he suppresses the need to fight (thrash, writhe, undulate) his holy kidnappers and settles for staring after Aziraphale with wild, darting eyes.
His heart clenches as Aziraphale reaches out, tossing the red lolly across St. James's Park and shouting after him. His mouth begins to form Crowley’s name before the angel clamps it shut forcefully and the demon swears he can hear his teeth crack. Crowley watches between Uriel and Sandalphon’s figures as Aziraphale is struck on the back of the head and goes down, hard (Go—Sata—someone, please no). Hastur’s disgusting grin is shameless as he spins the crowbar in his hand.
Eyes wide, Crowley shouts for the angel through the white tape that’s wound around his head. His feet drag beneath him as he’s hauled bodily through the park. He tastes brimstone and ash in his mouth. His teeth clack together and the sparks that shoot down his throat are made all the more hotter by the gag that prevents them from going anywhere but down. Crowley swallows it all: the sparks, the fear, and the angel’s name. He bites his tongue as he curses Hastur’s name and swears revenge through his bindings.
No one hears.
—
Crowley blinks at the stark white halls of Heaven and suppresses the urge to summon his sunglasses. After all, angels aren’t bothered by bright lights or the too-hot-sand almost-pain of standing on holy ground. Or rather, sitting. Luckily, he’s currently tied to a chair, which leaves little room for cold-blooded shivering in the air conditioned chill. The ropes binding him to the metal chair are hot, though: buzzing with holy energy and rubbing his wrists raw. Then there’s Aziraphale’s clothes. There are times when Crowley’s (more primal, usually drunk) thoughts lament the amount of layers that Aziraphale insists on wearing, but just then, he supposes he should be thankful.
Still, he fidgets in the angel’s skin. It’s… disconcerting, being Aziraphale.
The biggest understatement would be to say that Crowley likes Aziraphale. After all this time, words formed with the human tongue are insufficient. He cares about the angel enough to create the Arrangement. Enough to desperately beg him to run away to the stars, then stand his ground and face down the Apocalypse by his side. Currently, he was more than willing to risk his own existence by returning to Heaven to save him.
But he likes it when Aziraphale was, well, Aziraphale. Pretending to be his (greatest adversary/hereditary enemy/best friend/everything) is tiring when he would much rather be with the real thing. He should be thankful, however, that their swap was so complete. In spite of his hatred-fueled-anxiety, Crowley takes comfort in the familiar smell of musty leather book bindings and old paper pulp that clings to the coat from his (quiet, lonely) night in the book shop.
Sitting in the cold and empty room, it appears that the angels are taking their time: no doubt to let him—no, they think he's Aziraphale—stew before his judgement. He nearly hisses at the thought, but wrangles his expression under control. Even though he knows that Aziraphale is fully capable of anger—and not the Crowley drank the last of the 19th century wine he was saving for a special occasion anger, but the Holy and Vengeful Wrath of Heaven sort of thing—he also knows that the angel would never act on it without due cause. And, unfortunately, being tied to an uncomfortable chair in Heaven’s coldest waiting room just doesn't count as due cause. Crowley tries instead to focus on what might be happening to the real Aziraphale.
Allowing himself to remember the angel’s predicament is, admittedly, a bad idea. Hell has a penchant for torture, of course, but would they bother to torture Crowley? And who would they use? Hastur, most likely, will be the first to volunteer. Physical damage, he knows Aziraphale could take, though the thought of it shoots ice through his veins (hellfire burns and the ripping of wings).
The angel is strong, strong enough to be handed a flaming sword and sent to defend the Eastern Gate of Eden. Strong enough to lead a faction of Heaven's finest holy soldiers in the Near-pocalypse. A discorporation would certainly put a damper on their plan, but it’s better than the alternative. A mid-torture discorporation would only be an inconvenience but not The End of Existence. There was only so much a body could take before giving out, after all.
‘But,’ Crowley’s darkest thoughts hiss, ‘What if Hastur gets creative?’
What if, Go- er, Sata- ugh somebody-forbid, Hastur learned something about subtlety after years of Crowley’s own low-grade evil slide show presentations? Aziraphale is strong, yes, but he is also soft (hands, quilts, and well-loved leather). The angel never attempted to raise his sword against Crowley, even in the Very Beginning, handed it to the humans the first chance he got. An eternity in the pit would break any demon’s soul and after a stint like that, Crowley isn’t sure if Aziraphale’s wouldn’t be tarnished from it.
The real question is, would Hell’s revenge come swift, or would they take their time with it? Would they dispose of him quickly, like a misbehaved houseplant, or would they savor the destruction of Crowley: Hell’s most prolific demon, the Serpent, the original tempter?
If you were to ask Crowley at any other time, he would have haughtily told you that, yes, of course Hell would take their time. Their torture would be legendary against him, he would rave, and his name would go down in history. It would set all kinds of new records in Hell, from longest scream to furthest blood spray. They would need to invent a new form of torture and name it for him. It would go in the employee handbook and be required learning material in Torture 101.
But right then, sitting in a cold, metal chair in Aziraphale’s shoes (among other things), Crowley hopes from the bottom of his blackened heart that it would be quick.
Crowley hears Gabriel long before he sees him. The almost inappropriately loud click-clack of his dress shoes on polished marble echoes through the barren floor. The archangel approaches him from behind, leaning in and thumping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. Crowley does his best not to hiss, and allows for only the barest twitch of his nose at the contact. The last time an archangel had touched him was there, too, when Michael sunk a dagger in his side and pushed him off the edge of Heaven, sending him careening towards the Earth like a fallen star, the air burning his skin, his lungs, his wings—
“Aziraphale!"
Crowley blinks, thankfully startled from his thoughts for the moment, and the name helps to ground him. He configures his sneer into a sort of smile that any friend of Aziraphale's would know was out of place. He doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about, there.
"Glad you could make it,” Gabriel booms. He stands before Crowley, flanked quickly by Uriel and Sandalphon. Michael, curiously (thankfully), is nowhere to be found. The archangels are in perfectly tailored, pale suits with ties matching their eyes. Apparently, they still haven’t bothered to spring for Sandalphon's tailor after all this time, who stands there wearing tan. Still quite the upgrade from Before, when flowing gossamer sheets and silver accents were all the rage.
Black and red were always his colors, anyway. Black and red and gold.
“Certainly you could’ve just sent a message.” Crowley easily slips into Aziraphale’s speech pattern like… well, like an old friend (easy and kind and brave). “I mean, a kidnapping in broad daylight—“
“Call it what it is: an extraordinary rendition!”
‘And they used to call me dramatic,’ he thinks, and continues to bite his tongue raw. There’s a strong feeling of regret at causing Aziraphale's corporeal form harm, but he promises himself he'll remember to miracle the injuries away later. For now, it’s all he can do to experience some form of agency. A rebellion, he'd call it, if he were more theatrical.
Which he most certainly is.
"I think you're going to like this," Gabriel continues, and Crowley only just realizes that he hasn’t been paying attention. The bottoms of his feet stop burning, but he doesn’t spare a thought for it. He worries at the sores on his tongue instead and hopes the pain will let him focus on anything beyond his own apprehension.
"I bet you didn't see this one coming."
This close to him, Crowley can see the brilliant purple of Gabriel's eyes and feels lucky that angels can only sense virtues and not sins. In a great moment of weakness, Crowley feels envy.
It's not that he doesn’t like his snake eyes—he's had over 6,000 years to get used to them, after all—but sometimes, he wishes he could look into Aziraphale's eyes in public without a sheet of tinted glass in front of him. He wants to see if the angel's eyes matches the blueness of the sky on a sunny summer day. He wants to see lightning flash and illuminate Aziraphale's face, to watch the very stars he himself crafted reflected in his eyes.
(He wants, he craves, he covets.)
If he were being honest, Crowley would also admit to being prideful in that moment. Gabriel's violet eyes never could hold a candle to his own (brilliant and golden).
"You don't get this view down in the basement."
Crowley has only an instant to get his sins under control before the other demon senses them. Luckily, the other demon seems to be radiating pride until Crowley can almost see it coming off him in great waves. And why shouldn't he be proud? A demon in Heaven us quite an accomplishment, even if he wasn't exactly the first.
Crowley tilts his head toward the demon and notes that it’s one of his favorites. Or, at least, one of his favorite types: a lesser demon, Disposables, they call themselves. Crowley has always felt a sort of kinship to them, for creating their own identities (Crawly, Crowley, Anthony J). They're pumped out quickly Down There, one after the other, all identical. They have to be, since Hastur uses them as target practice more often than not.
Crowley tries to act surprised at the familiar jar in the Disposable's hands when, in fact, he isn’t. Michael's absence tipped him off long before the demon's arrival, and this only confirms it.
The Disposable gives Crowley a cheeky wink before tossing the hellfire into the fire pit that Gabriel miracles into existence. It roars to life, spiraling upwards until it nearly grazes the ceiling. It heats the space almost instantly, and Crowley takes pleasure in seeing Sandalphon loosen his collar a bit. While Aziraphale's clothes keeps him warm enough, he’s still glad for the extra heat. He feels his face flush in the warmth and wishes for a moment that he could see it. In spite of being bound to a chair in the holy halls of Heaven with hellfire roaring in his face, Crowley thinks it’s nearly worth the risk to see Aziraphale's face tinted red (embarrassed and passionate).
As the fire burns, the choking smell of brimstone and sulfur permeates the floor, chasing away the clean, clinical smell of air conditioning. It smells as much like home as Heaven does, which is to say, not at all.
In this moment, Crowley aches for Aziraphale's bookshop (leather oil and wine and barbershop cologne).
"Awful hot, that,” The Disposable takes a grand step back from the fire, letting out a little whoop as he does. “I'll, uh, be back to retrieve it later, then?"
"Yes, yes. An hour should be plenty," Gabriel nods and waves him off, impatient to start.
'Patience is a virtue,' Crowley mocks in his head.
The demon steps closer to Crowley and sizes him up. He feels his heart sink and straightens in the chair in spite of every urge to cower under scrutiny. If Aziraphale is one thing (he’s everything), it’s brave and Crowley won’t do him the disservice of presenting otherwise.
"Before I go… Can I er… ask a favor? Can I hit him? I've always wanted to hit an angel. Was made after the war, you know." The Disposable flexes his hands a couple times, rocking back and forth on his toes like a boxer.
"Go for it," Sandalphon calls from his corner of the room.
Crowley sees red.
He attempts to contain his wrath as if his life depends on it (it does). The demon is seeping with it, sure that even the angels can sense it, not to mention the Disposable in front of him. His mouth tastes like charcoal as he clamps his jaw shut so hard, it sends sparks dancing down his throat like popping candy.
He doesn’t dare to speak. He doesn’t risk moving. He can just wait and see.
Crowley tilts his head up and thinks of Aziraphale. He chokes back the sparks and the charcoal and the rage. He thinks of the quiet stillness of the bookshop and cups of tea. He thinks of dinner at the Ritz and that little park bench, always surrounded by ducks. He concentrates hard until he can ignore the smell of sulfur that clings to the demon and the disinfectant smell of Heaven until he can pick out the book bindings and the paper pulp and holds onto that. Beneath, he relishes in the too-sweet smell of hot cocoa mingling with the bone dry scent of red wine.
Surrounded by Aziraphale as he is, wearing his clothes and his face and his personality, Crowley doesn’t think it will be too hard to borrow the angel's bravery as well. He looks the Disposable directly in his eyes and tells himself he is not afraid. He will not be caught. He imagines that the demon will not sense his sins that perpetually hang around him like a fog, clinging to his soul like so much cigarette smoke.
The Disposable continues to stare, leaning in and cocking his head to the side. Crowley continues the mantra in his head (bravery, courage, valor), desperately trying to think of something, anything that would throw the demon off the scent of his sins.
It comes to him like an epiphany he never wanted. He tries to remember what it was like being pure, being holy. He tries to remember being an angel.
It was something he never looked back on and never brought up, not even within his own thoughts. He never fit in Upstairs and it honestly wasn’t that much different Downstairs, besides a lot easier to lie to and a lax dress code. But it was also the single worst experience of his long, immortal life and doesn’t lend itself very well to polite conversations. It's been a minefield topic ever since Crowley and Aziraphale began their Arrangement so long ago. There was only so much to talk about and so many secrets you could keep after 6,000 years of friendship. But Aziraphale would never ask and Crowley would never offer and that was that.
And so, Crowley remembers.
He remembers long, red curls and little braids in his hair. The round, golden eyes that reflected the light of his halo. The warmth of love that radiated from the core of his being. The dip of his hands dancing through the shining new galaxies. His name—his real Name—on the tip of Her tongue as he helped design the cosmos. He thinks of Before and lets it burn the cowardice and the questions and the sins until all there is left is courage and light.
In a way, it feels like Falling again, like staring at the sun too long during an eclipse. In another, it feels like Aziraphale, like watching a meteor shower with wide, wondering eyes. It hurts, in so many more ways than one, but it works. Before him, the Disposable hesitates and takes a step back.
"I er… I should be heading back, actually. Places to go and all that. I'll be back in an hour…?"
With a flourish of Gabriel's hand, the Disposable is eaten by the polished marble floor with a small yelp. Presumably, he’s taken down to the Basement in the quickest, most efficient (most painful) way possible.
With the other demon gone, Crowley immediately banishes all thoughts of Heaven, releasing himself from his own private inner torture. Any memory, any feelings he may have momentarily harbored are smothered beneath the wrath he once again allows himself to feel. It feels safer, more like home, so he holds fast.
Anger seeps into the cracks of Aziraphale’s body in a quiet, insidious manner. The angel has a sort of wiggling quality to him that always made him stand out. His inability to sit still and penchant for speaking with his whole body is what initially drew Crowley to speak to Aziraphale in the Beginning. Easier to read than any book, in Crowley’s opinion (and more interesting). But with the demon’s rage at the helm, the body stills like a cobra ready to strike: all coils and tension.
"So, with one act of treason, you averted the war," Gabriel tuts.
"Well, I think the greater good—"
"Don't talk to me about the 'greater good', sunshine. I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel," he snaps. "The 'greater good' was we were finally going to settle things with The Opposition once and for all."
'I was one of you,' Crowley wants to roar. ‘We were created together. Why were you allowed to stay while I was—'
Wrath and envy clashes and flares. Heaven has a way of shedding light on parts of yourself that you never wanted to know. It was one of the things he questioned, one of the reasons he was (forcefully, unfairly) cast out.
Gabriel nods with finality and Uriel steps forward, untying the holy rope that binds Crowley to the chair. The demon takes great care to shove his wrists further into Aziraphale's coat to cover the now-weeping burns. Aziraphale's body may be just a meat suit, but with a demon operating it, the thing is just as susceptible to holy items as his usual corporeal form. Luckily, Uriel seems uninterested in any prolonged contact.
"Up," she orders, and goes back to her place at Gabriel's side like a good little lackey. Strange. Crowley would’ve bet money that they’d be manhandling him by now. Maybe Heaven has changed more than just the uniforms.
Crowley stands up and straightens his bow tie. He’s never liked anything too close around his neck and the thing is uncomfortable as all Hell. He’s already wearing it too loose for Aziraphale's usual style and had messed up the knot in an almost unbelievable way, but he has appearances to keep.
“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?” Crowley asks hopefully. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.” Maybe Crowley couldn’t persuade Gabriel or the rest of them Before, but Aziraphale is different. The angel is always full of hope and guidance and trust… all things Crowley lacks. Perhaps, as Aziraphale, Crowley can get through to them, can—
“Well, for Heaven’s sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors,” Gabriel shrugs almost noncommittally.
‘Traitor?!’ Crowley seethes. ‘Don’t you see? He’s the best of you! He’s better than all of you! How are you all so blind?!’
“So… into the flame.”
And then Crowley understands. The lack of security for the judgement. The time constraint. The angels’ overall lack of apprehension or weapons. Uriel stepping away from him and Sandalphon staying in his corner of the room. Gabriel stands with the hellfire between him and who he believes to be Aziraphale and something inside Crowley breaks.
Because they do know Aziraphale. Not nearly as well as Crowley, but they know him all the same. Gabriel knows that no matter what judgement he renders, he won’t have to punish Aziraphale. Heaven and their holy soldiers will never technically have blood on their hands. They expect Aziraphale to voluntarily walk into hellfire and Crowley knows that the angel would.
Crowley’s wrath might not be holy, but it is righteous, and it’s threatening to burst Aziraphale’s corporeal form at the seams.
Fortunately, there’s no other demon around to sense it. Just Crowley, some hellfire, and the worst creatures in all of existence. He takes a deep breath and holds it before he steps forward.
“Right, well…” he says, almost disconnected. One more brave face. One more piece of himself shatters for Aziraphale (oh, angel). “Lovely knowing you all. May we meet again on a better occasion.”
The small smile Crowley gives Gabriel in that moment is as genuine as it could be, coming from Crowley, because the ‘better occasion’ he’s currently thinking of is one where he lights Gabriel on fire and roasts marshmallows over his thrashing body.
“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” Gabriel tells him before amending his face with a fake smile.
Crowley’s face slips. For just an instant, he forgets to keep the soft eyes and worrying lips. He forgets the lines in Aziraphale’s forehead and the twitch in his nose. For a single moment, Crowley allows his feelings to be seen, plain as day, on Aziraphale’s face. The face, Crowley is sure, that isn’t made for eyes hard like chips of pale sea glass and a mouth set in an angry slash (only smiles, only hope). It isn’t made to express rage or pain or sorrow, but the demon lets it happen all the same. With hellfire sending flickering shadows across his features, he’s sure the expression is chilling.
One foot in front of the other, Crowley enters the roaring spiral of hellfire. He watches Gabriel grimace as the flames lap against his coat. It’s hot, of course, but pleasantly so, like one of Crowley’s too-hot baths. He slips in with a pleased groan and cracks his neck much too far, making direct eye contact with Gabriel the entire time. The angels flanking him look rightly horrified, but Gabriel’s expression has identifiable disgust.
After allowing himself precisely zero time to think about the consequences of his actions, Crowley breathes in a mouthful of hellfire and spits at the angels with a grin that can only be described as demonic. They recoil in fear and horror, unfortunately giving him and the hellfire a wide berth before any part of them is even a little singed.
‘Take that, you angelic bastards,’ Crowley thinks with a snarl. ‘If you look in Aziraphale’s direction again, I will come for you. I will end you. I will show you what it means to Fall.’
“It may be worse than we thought,” Gabriel babbles. His wide, violet eyes reflects fear and fire and that’s as much as Crowley could possibly ask for in that moment.
“What is he?” Uriel asks from a safe distance.
(He’s mine.)
This time, when Crowley leaves Heaven, he doesn’t Fall, he jumps.
—
The free fall from Heaven gives Crowley such a wave of relief, it almost stuns him. Without the fire burning away his holiness, he could enjoy the smell of the thin air, the moisture of the clouds, the stretch of the angel’s wings behind him. The velocity smooths the feathers and tangles in Aziraphale’s hair to create wild, poofy curls. The air streams around him neatly and the angel’s coat barely flaps as he goes. A nearby flock of birds give him a wide birth as he slips through, feeling frictionless. He whoops and it’s caught on the wind as he dives toward the earth (towards home).
At the same time, his stomach drops to his feet from the height. He may have renamed himself for the crows, but it doesn’t tamp down his serpentine brain that panics at anything particularly higher than a tall tree. With his serpent instinct kicking into fight or flight mode, the genuine fear he feels at the speed the ground is rushing to meet him sets his teeth on edge.
(Relief, anticipation. Sorrow, elation.)
His body and soul feels torn in two as he falls, but the first Fall didn’t break him, so this won’t either. And if the wind rips the shouts from his lungs and dries his tears before they fall, so be it.
The moment his feet touch down, Crowley takes stock in where he fell, noting with luck that he’s at least in London. The back alley he lands is blessedly empty and spills out into a busy main street that can be followed almost the whole way to the bookshop. Resisting the urge to roll up the angel’s sleeves (soft forearms that haven’t been seen in centuries), Crowley smooths down his appearance before beginning his trek.
It’s the one place they’d expect him to go, so the demon follows the routine. He doesn’t think they’re watching—not right now, at least. There’s three very confused angels and a raging tornado of hellfire in Heaven, not to mention the paperwork. Regardless, he doesn’t dare risk it. He takes his time, refusing to use any miracles, curses, or shortcuts to get there. Just his thoughts, Aziraphale’s well-loved shoes, and his own racing heart.
The bookshop is exactly how he left it just hours before. Still not burned. Still not filled with Heaven’s army to come and smite him. Still not occupied by Aziraphale.
Crowley breathes in deep and chokes as he’s nearly overwhelmed with the smell of sulfur that has settled into him in spite of his free fall. The rendezvous time isn’t for another hour and Crowley is thankful the park is relatively close to the bookshop. He figures he has enough time for a thirty minute nervous breakdown before he has to head out.
Instead, he makes some cocoa.
He's never made any before, you see. Never even tasted the stuff, in spite of Aziraphale’s constant offering. So he digs through cabinets and drawers, finds two cups—one white, with angel wings and one black, with large letters proclaiming "The Devil's In The Decaf"—and chucks in some scalded milk and a handful of chocolate packets. Crowley tosses the stuff from his cup back in one gulp while it’s still boiling and relishes the feeling of a charred throat. The dregs are all burnt milk and chalky powder but he can barely taste it with the ragged remains of his tongue. Aziraphale's cup stays put to cool on the counter and perfume the air. Crowley hopes the smell will linger long enough to calm his frayed nerves.
The demon then gets to work. He rifles through the hall closet until he finds an ancient bottle of bath salts that’s almost certainly dated from the 17th century. Beneath the sink, he fetches a few emergency candles and carefully sets them up in the back room, making sure to remove any and all books from the vicinity. In spite of all the preparation, he still keeps a close watch as he works, still wary of the power that fire can have in a bookshop. The salt is poured into intricate designs on the old, musty carpet: a loop here, a whorl there. The demon spins round and round, careful to get the sigils just right, until the circle is complete with him in the center. As a final mark, he slices open his palm with the pointed wing of Aziraphale's gold ring and lets his blood drop over the circle.
As Crowley lingers inside, the world feels blessedly quieter, if more confining. Muted. Not Above nor Below can sense him here, for now. As long as the sulfur in the salts are present, it’ll continue to hold. With that thought, the salt begins to burn and blacken at the edges as his demonic essence lashes out to be free, hurrying him along. Pure sulfur would've lasted longer of course, but the vision of the inferno that was the bookshop is still too fresh in his mind to risk using combustible substances. And besides, where on Earth would he find that much raw sulfur on a Sunday?
Crowley breathes deep and holds it. He focuses on any pain in the body, healing Aziraphale’s body with his occult magic. He knits the wounds back together slowly, carefully. With a surgeon's precision, he pours himself into healing. He soothes the burns and breaks down the scar tissue, leaving not a mark behind. Reinforces the seams where his rage had threatened to spill through the cracks. Once complete, he gives the body a once over and nods, satisfied.
On the exhale, the soot and brimstone and blackened edges of Aziraphale’s clothing disperses. The fresh air from his free fall and the scent of asphalt and street are washed away, as well. The scorched edges of the coat are undone, the pus sticking to the blue shirt is cleaned, and the trousers are mended where the flames had gotten too greedy. All that’s left behind is the pleasant smell of the angel’s books and the underlying scent of burnt cocoa that permeates the shop. The salt continues to burn, thankfully keeping its unholy smell to itself.
With one last demonic miracle, Crowley fixes Aziraphale’s bow tie, straightening it out in a neat, professional little knot that chokes him only slightly.
The salt circle breaks just as he’s fidgeting with the knot and kicks the rest aside so he may pass. In spite of his careful preparation and planning, little curls of smoke waft through the shop to gently cloud the air. Crowley is almost thankful that the bookshop doesn't have smoke detectors, but if it had, perhaps the fire wouldn't have gotten so out of control the day before. He makes a mental note to bring it up to Aziraphale next time they're together. He carefully blows out the candles, stuffing them back under the sink. After a short hunt, he finds the angel’s small vacuum and collects the remainder of the salt before dumping it down the sink and rinsing it for good measure.
Aziraphale will still know, of course. He always did. Miracles—demonic or otherwise—always leave a mark. It’s why Aziraphale didn’t want to miracle his own coat clean: he’d always feel it there, a little patch of consecrated fabric. Instead, every time he looks at it, he’ll be reminded of Crowley (think of me, always). Regardless, any change Crowley makes to the corporal form will be felt as long as the angel is in possession of it. The wounds won’t hurt, of course, but there will be a little red thread of Crowley holding it all together until Aziraphale has time to cleanse it (please don't).
Forgetting himself for a moment, Crowley catches himself checking his wrist for the time, before remembering that Aziraphale doesn't wear a wristwatch. With a sigh, he checks the old grandfather clock in the corner and his heart speeds up. The rendezvous time is close at hand and there’s little left to do at the shop. He straightens the clothes a bit before opening the door and stepping into the afternoon sunshine.
—
After dinner, St. James’s Park is as lively as it always is during the summer. Couples gather under trees and huddle close. Families spread out on blankets across the lawn like an unfinished chess board. The ducks gather, too: alternating between begging for a crumb to eat and diving head first into the lake. The smell of hard cheese and wine wafts through the air alongside the lull of many private conversations. The setting sun shines through the big tree next to the bench, dappling it with light.
Crowley slips in next to Aziraphale and takes his usual place at the angel’s left. He pushes his sunglasses up his nose a bit further and sneaks a glance at the angel. Aziraphale lets out a small sigh of contentment as he does, sitting up straight and proper as always.
“That was lovely, wasn’t it?”
“Champagne was nice,” Crowley nods, agreeably enough. Not nearly enough alcohol for what he went through (never enough), but two bottles was a decent start.
Aziraphale glances at him strangely, as if Crowley voiced his thoughts aloud. Unperturbed, Crowley lounges a bit further into the bench and basks in the cooling sun. Half lidded eyes tilt towards his heavenly counterpart, content with just watching. It’s all very pre-Arrangement of him, almost romantic in the oldest sense of the word. Before the lies and subterfuge and little favors, it was just a demon watching an angel with untempered curiosity. Wings full of brimstone, tongue full of questions (eyes full of yearning).
Aziraphale rubs his wrists through his coat and Crowley’s mood sours. His heart stutters before sinking. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not now. He wants to go back to the bookshop, drink himself into a stupor, and fall asleep with his face pressed against Aziraphale’s ugly carpet (or Aziraphale himself). Unfortunately, he knows the angel too well and won’t be able to stop him. Even the Almighty herself would be hard-pressed to force Aziraphale into doing something he didn’t want to do.
An ancient memory trickles into his consciousness: ‘Didn’t you have a flaming sword?’
“My dear… I’ve been meaning to ask,” the angel hesitates. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I had told you a bit about what went on, well, Down There. Had a nice laugh about Michael and all that. And I rather thought you’d be open to talk about what happened to you—with you—Up There…?”
“Mm.” Crowley refuses to make eye contact, a feat made infinitely easier due to his sunglasses. The almost-lie sticks to his tongue like sludge. “Not much to say, really. Went about as expected.”
Aziraphale is quiet for a long time, and Crowley knows the angel caught the dishonesty in his words. He also knows better than to let his guard down: Aziraphale always drags the truth from him. But for a couple blessed hours, he was content with the simple pleasure of just being next to Aziraphale. It was much better than being Aziraphale, for sure. For one, the clean and holy scent of the angel amplifies the smell of old paperbacks that hung around him, even mellows out the burnt notes from the cocoa Crowley had made. Then there's the mannerisms that makes Aziraphale unique. Little fidgets, soft sighs, and the ruler-straight posture all work together as a balm for Crowley's very soul.
The sun sets over the horizon and casts St. James’s Park in oranges and pinks and purples. The families and lovers and even the ducks pack up and call it a night. Still, they haven't moved: Crowley, still lounging across his side of the bench and Aziraphale sitting proper. It isn’t until the first of the stars begin to peek out from behind the cloud cover that Aziraphale tries again.
“You know that I’m aware of the… amendments that were made to my corporeal form,” Aziraphale begins gently. “If you’re worried that I’ll be cross with you, I assure you I‘d never—“
“It’s not your anger that I’m worried about, angel,” Crowley sighs, defeated. They’re in uncharted waters. No one before has ever swapped corporeal forms with another being—ethereal or occult. There just isn’t a guide for any sort of conversation after something like that.
“But you are worried,” the angel prompts. He sneaks a glance over at the demon, as if he's afraid direct eye contact may scare Crowley away (he's right, as usual).
“No. Yes. I mean, for Go—for Sata—for somebody’s sake, it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park.” Crowley sighs tiredly. His eyes slip closed, but all he can imagine is the white halls of Heaven. Instead, he looks up at the stars. The light pollution hides most of them, but there are enough constellations out that he can admire.
“The trial was difficult then?”
It's dark, the park is empty, and they are alone. Crowley does the unthinkable: he removes his sunglasses. He drags a hand over his face tiredly and pushes his hair back before turning towards Aziraphale. He reaches out for Aziraphale but pulls up short, clenching it into a fist at his side. Curling around himself like… well, like a snake, Crowley hitches a leg up into the bench in an anxious and defensive position: a move made exceedingly more difficult by his tight trousers. He’s running on fumes at this point, but does did his best to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.
Something in his expression must be alarming to Aziraphale, because he immediately turns to Crowley, giving him his full attention. The angel reaches out and bridges the gap between them with a hand on his knee. The small touch shoots lightning through the demon's nerves and it's felt from his fingers to his toes (from body to soul).
“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says gently. “It’s going to be alright.”
Crowley takes a deep, cleansing breath.
“There… wasn’t a trial, angel.”
Aziraphale blinks.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale squeezes his knee gently and the way the angel says his name makes his eyes sting.
“Hell staged a trial for a demon. A demon. Not even a particularly good demon, especially since they figured out that humanity has been doing my job for millennia. But even if it was a complete sham, Heaven couldn’t be bothered to even pretend—"
“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, but pauses. The angel tries to temper Crowley first by brushing a lock of hair from his face. The demon stiffens, but doesn’t pull back, so he continues to card his fingers through soothingly.
“I’m not at all surprised, my dear,” Aziraphale lets his thumb trail across his forehead softly. Crowley shivers under his touch and leans forward in spite of himself, like a moth to a flame (it's always fire). “You know Heaven doesn’t take disobedience lightly.”
“But that was me and I deserved it! All I did was Fall, but he was going to kill you, angel, and you don’t deserve it!”
Crowley rips his hair out of Aziraphale’s hand, jerking his face away. He feels the loss of contact almost as keenly as the loss of God's love and he feels more pieces of his armor chip away. Golden eyes are bright in the moonlight and fully serpentine. Aziraphale tries to reach out to him again and sees Crowley flinch at the contact. Defeated, Aziraphale carefully keeps his hands in full view, folded on his lap.
“The war, the rebellion, it’s all in the Plan, it’s—”
“Don’t you say ineffable, Aziraphale,” Crowley shouts. “Not to me.”
“But—”
“Do you know what you do to me, angel? Do you know what I would do without you?” Crowley asks wretchedly. The day, the week, the fucking century is catching up to him and he suddenly feels so tired, so small. He distantly knows that he’s crossing a line, but 6,000 years is a long time to keep these secrets locked up. It all comes rushing, tumbling out and like Pandora’s box, it will change the world forever.
“I would strike down every archangel, torch every heavenly cloud,” Crowley vows. Aziraphale’s gasp is quiet, but audible in the still night. “I’d flood Hell with holy water and salt the Earth. I’d go back up to the stars and move them by hand. There would be constellations of you, angel, whole galaxies made in your likeness. I would be stuck up in space, manually moving great balls of gas and fire because you’d be gone and there’s no point to all this without you. How’s that for ineffability?”
His voice echoes across the empty park and they both listen until it fades away. Aziraphale is stunned into silence, but isn’t looking away from the demon. Crowley, meanwhile, wishes desperately that they had drunk enough alcohol so he had a scapegoat for this conversation. Though, with his glasses hanging from his shirt and the moon shining down just right, Crowley can see a flush play across the angel’s face. He’s glad he’s sober to witness it, even if it’s probably in embarrassment or shame.
The sleeping ducks nearby awaken in a scuffle of feathers as they move to nest somewhere quieter. Aziraphale is a calming presence next to him on the bench. With a gentle hand, he beckons Crowley towards him. His guard high, the demon slowly, carefully complies. Aziraphale guides Crowley’s face back where he can reach his hair and continues petting. The angel patiently waits for Crowley to regain control over himself before speaking.
“Crowley… I don’t know the details of your Fall—no, before you say anything, my dear, it’s none of my business and you’re well within your right to keep it to yourself—but I can tell you this with utter certainty…”
Aziraphale takes Crowley’s face in his hands, cradling it there until their eyes meet.
“You did not deserve it.”
Crowley’s eyes spill over, streaking his face. Pliant and vulnerable, he allows himself to be gathered gently into Aziraphale’s arms. The angel presses his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head, quietly murmuring that it’s alright. For a moment, Crowley toys with the idea of shifting into his snake form to avoid any more talking, to just coil around Aziraphale and be held. The borrowed bravery left over from being Aziraphale must still be in his system and he stamps down the urge.
“How can you say that, angel? You don’t even know what I did,” Crowley’s muffled voice comes from Aziraphale’s tear-soaked chest.
“I don’t have to, my dear. I’ve known you for six thousand years. There is nothing you could do that would make me think otherwise.”
Crowley says something else, but it’s too muffled to be understood. Aziraphale gently pushes him away enough so he can get some fresh air. Crowley looks at him so lost, hair sticking up at odd angles, and face splotchy.
“Aziraphale, I was…”
Crowley chokes on the words. It’s been six thousand years and he’s have thought he’d be over this already. His own personal feelings aside, he feels that Aziraphale deserves to know the truth. Or at least, as much as he’s willing to tell him tonight. He shifts uncomfortably and stares resolutely at the quiet lake, taking a deep breath—
“I don’t care,” Aziraphale tells him simply.
“Ngk,” Crowley chokes, words sticking together and tangling around his forked tongue. Startled golden eyes look imploringly at the angel, but he isn’t looking. Instead, he’s smiling faintly up at the stars. Sitting on a park bench, surrounded by a garden, and silhouetted by countless stars, Aziraphale looks beautiful. Crowley’s throat catches.
“I don’t care who or what you were Before," Aziraphale repeats simply. Crowley's heart flips as he gapes at the angel.
"How can you not? It… it matters, doesn't it? Unless I tell you—unless you know—then all this… this has just been one big temptation, right? One long con, a 6,000 year old lie—"
"Tell me, Crowley. Have you ever lied to me?" Aziraphale asks quietly and gently. A coy smile plays on his face and Crowley suspects he already knows the answer.
"No. Never," Crowley breathes. "Not ever to you, angel."
"You’ve had other names, other identities, but they’re in the past, Crowley. You’ve been so many things—angel, serpent, demon—and, my dear, none of that matters. It hasn’t mattered for—”
“How long?” Crowley croaks out desperately, his throat raw and wavering. Aziraphale sighs gently, patiently (lovely).
“Not as long as it should have been,” Aziraphale admits. “But long enough, my dear, that I should have told you sooner.”
Crowley absorbs the words and in that moment, he feels the shift. He reads between the lines, engraves the subtext into his mind, and feels the adrenaline hit his veins. His lungs forget to breathe, his heart forgets to beat. The stars align in the inky black overhead. The author pens the last footnote (in bigger letters and underlined twice) and finally begins a new chapter.
“It just… took me awhile to catch up. But I’m here now. I’ll always be here.”
As the moon pulls the ocean’s tides, Aziraphale reels Crowley in. It’s slow and hesitant, but that doesn’t stop Crowley from being surprised when it actually happens. Their lips meet and he feels like he’s burning again but this time, it’s an ascension. Higher than Heaven, to a place among the galaxies and nebulas, Crowley is lifted out of orbit and shoots upwards.
At the same time, he feels roots take hold in his feet, planting him firmly here, on this planet they call home. They tangle and weave through his rib cage and root him forever at the angel’s side. The empty ache in his chest fills and overflows outward, bubbling up as a half-laugh, half-sob as finally, finally they are together.