Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

True to Crowley’s request, neither of them have mentioned the demon’s confession since it happened. They have both, with some success it must be said, been pretending that it never occurred. This state of affairs can only last so long, however, before the dam bursts. The only question is who will be the first to break.

They have a close call just a day after the world was supposed to end. They have no sides anymore, at long last; they are as close to freedom as they will ever be, they are happy , and if they cannot say it now when can they?

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, and the words tremble on his tongue.

We did it, angel , he wants to say. We changed them . I told you we could .

He does not even bother to attempt concealing the open fondness in his expression.

We changed the stars .

Crowley raises his glass.

Please tell me you know that .

‘To the world,’ he offers, and for Aziraphale the world goes soft in a way that holds none of the shame or inadequacy he felt at that description before. This time the softness is gentle, and safe, and theirs . It is wonderful, all encompassing; too much to express.

You were right , Aziraphale wants to say. I’m sorry . It was a lie. I was wrong. 

He raises his own glass.

Of course I like you . It wasn’t true. I need you to know that. 

He opens his mouth.

Please tell me you know that.

‘To the world ,’ he says, and means so very much more.

Chapter Text

When Crowley gets back to his flat after their meal at the Ritz, he fully intends to sleep for at least a week. No hyperbole is intended here; having spent literally decades asleep before simply because he felt like it, a mere seven days in response to the world almost ending seems perfectly reasonable. Besides, it is probably for the best that he puts some temporary distance between himself and Aziraphale. 

He manages, in total, about four hours. Even this is spent tossing and turning restlessly until some time after midnight, when he gives up and moves to the sofa. He switches on the television with a gesture and pays little attention to what appears on the screen. It is noise and colour, and for now that is all he needs.

00000

The bookshop is brighter than usual, which is odd but not concerning. It is cleaner too, but Crowley supposes that can be put down to Aziraphale's efforts to organise following its imperfect resurrection at Adam's hands. 

He finds he doesn't like it very much. It is the most jarring form of unfamiliarity, because it is so close to the way Crowley knows it (and he knows this shop better than he would ever admit), and yet uncomfortably different at the same time. 

Also, Aziraphale isn't here. 

'Angel?' Crowley calls uncertainly. 'Aziraphale? Where are you?' 

He has something in his hand. Only when he goes to put it down (on a table he is almost sure was not there a moment ago) does he realise it is the singed and battered copy of Agnus Nutter's prophecies that he had taken, in a moment of panicked unreality, as a so-called souvenir. 

(Taken and returned to its owner. He returned it, didn’t he?)

He freezes in the act, fingers still on the book where it now rests atop a stack of pristine Bibles. 

That isn't right either. Aziraphale's Bibles are not kept in the main shop, and very few of them are in such good condition. 

Feeling suddenly cold, Crowley swallows and slowly retracts his hand, as if pulling it against some determined opposing force. 

'Aziraphale?' he says again, too quietly. 'I can't find you.' He didn't want to say that. Why did he say that? 

Something smells like burning. 

'Aziraphale!' Crowley calls, suddenly darting forwards and moving between shelves - too many shelves, when did the shop get this big? 'Where the Hel - the Heav - where the fuck are you?' 

It is like a living maze, twisting dizzyingly around him; he can't see or remember the way back to the door, and the once absent clutter is back. Crowley is nearly running now, knocking books to the floor - the prophecies are back in his hand - his shoulder collides with a hard wooden corner and he stumbles, sunglasses flying off to shatter, too easily, on the floor. He does not slow down. 

He needs to find Aziraphale. Aziraphale knows where the Antichrist is, they can stop the - no, they have already stopped - well, Adam stopped - 

'I've lost my best friend!' Crowley is no longer in control of what he is saying, the words seem to come forward with no input from his brain, but then - 

'We're not friends !' 

'Aziraphale!' That is his voice, Aziraphale's voice, no matter that it is pitched in righteous indignation and fear. 

'I don't even like you!' 

Crowley swerves, gasping, terrified and relieved and breathless, around a final corner - 

And there in front of him is the wide open expanse of Heaven's execution room, with two angels facing each other in the middle. 

Aziraphale stands with his back to Crowley, spine straight and defiant, head tilted up to meet Gabriel's cold purple eyes. 

Neither of them seems to notice Crowley, although he is well within the Archangel's line of sight. 

'Shut your stupid mouth,' says Gabriel irritably, 'and die already.'

Gabriel snaps his fingers and a column of fire surges up from the floor, enveloping Aziraphale entirely - Crowley screams -

 - and wakes up. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale does not sleep but he is aware that Crowley does, and is therefore rather surprised when his telephone rings at barely six o'clock the next morning. 

'Is it?' says Crowley, sounding slightly manic, when Aziraphale points out the time. 'Sorry, angel, lost track. I'll call back later. Ciao.'

'Crowley, wait -' but the demon has already hung up. Aziraphale considers calling back immediately, but he has no idea what he would say. 

After some minutes of deliberation, Aziraphale finally moves away from the telephone and returns to taking inventory of the bookshop's newly manifested stock. For the next several hours he attempts to put the call from his mind, though always staying within earshot in case Crowley should try again. (After all, "within earshot" can be stretched a considerable distance with what barely even counts as a miracle.) 

He opens the shop for a few hours in the afternoon, successfully frightening away four separate customers before he makes a single sale and decides enough is enough for one day. 

He wonders if he should call Crowley now. It has been twelve hours since their aborted conversation this morning. Crowley has made no further attempts at contact, but it seems unlikely he would have telephoned in the first place if he had nothing to say. 

Unless of course what he wants to say is, in fact, that they have nothing more to discuss; that, the apocalypse having been averted and the world saved, it is time they both got back to their largely separate lives. 

Why call to announce this, though? Would it not be more prudent, and rather more in character for the demon, to simply get on with things, perhaps saunter back in a year or so as though no time has passed, and continue as they ever have? 

Aziraphale dithers.

In recent centuries, barring the decades immediately preceding the unfortunate incident at the church, contact between the two adversaries has become increasingly common. A handful of years apart, perhaps - ten or twenty at the outside, and less approaching the present day - has been perfectly normal. Since Adam's birth though - or more accurately Adam's delivery, by Crowley, to Tadfield - they have by comparison been living in each other's pockets. 

Perhaps Crowley is bored of him, bored of spending so much time together. Perhaps he had intended their lunch at the Ritz to be a goodbye of sorts. Not goodbye, exactly, but farewell; temporary but firm, a pause for them both to catch their breath, to regroup separately for a time. 

(Aziraphale does not want to regroup separately, he finds. He does not want to pause. He wants to find out what being on their own side actually means , and he wants Crowley to teach him.) 

Then again perhaps it is just the opposite. Perhaps Crowley had called because he was in trouble, and he has not tried again because he was unable to get himself out of it. Perhaps - 

Aziraphale is surprised to find himself with the telephone in one hand, half way through dialling Crowley's number, before his final thought is allowed to finish. 

00000

Crowley has been pacing for ten minutes by the time he finally decides to just call Aziraphale back. It will only be more awkward if he doesn't; Aziraphale is bound to have questions after this morning. He will have more if Crowley starts actively avoiding him. 

His hand is just reaching for the receiver when it begins to ring, startling Crowley and causing him to give a most undemonic little jump before he snatches it up. 

Damn. He should have let it ring for longer; now it will seem as if he was sitting waiting for it. 

'Aziraphale,' Crowley greets the angel; his tone is aiming towards careless but falls rather short. 

'Crowley, I -' Aziraphale hesitates, as if he hasn't planned this at all. Crowley feels an unpleasant twisting sensation in his gut at the sound of Aziraphale's discomfort. He wills it away firmly. 'Would you like to go for a walk?' 

'... What?' Crowley is momentarily thrown, although not unpleasantly. 

'I said , would you like to go for a walk?' Aziraphale asks, bolder this time; the exasperation in his voice is so much more like his normal self that Crowley almost smiles. 

'I heard what you said ,' Crowley replies. 'It's just not what I was expecting, to be honest.' 

'What were you expecting?' The pause before Crowley responds is too long. They both feel it. A set of timelines diverge, all dependant on Crowley's answer. 

Crowley can practically hear the echoes of a thousand other moments like it, scattered across millennia; times when a Choice has been made, and he wonders even now if some of them might have been wrong. He does not want to get it wrong again. 

'Nothing, angel,' Crowley sighs eventually; it could equally be a dismissal or an admission. Crowley himself is not sure which he means, or which he hopes Aziraphale hears. 

'Well, in any case, I thought I would go for a walk,' Aziraphale continues; whatever his interpretation of Crowley's words, he seems keen to move on from it. 'You know, enjoy the world being… Not destroyed. Get some fresh air.'

'In London?' 

'Stretch my legs. I've been cramped up in this dusty old place for hours, you know.' 

'Angel, I have had to drag - literally drag - you out of that dusty old place after weeks in the past. What's going on?' 

'Nothing! Nothing at all. I only called because you -' Aziraphale catches himself, coughs. 'Well, I just thought you might like to join me. It's really no bother at all if you'd rather not.'

Crowley hesitates, but he has never been very good at saying no to Aziraphale. (It is infuriating. He is sure Aziraphale knows.) He pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and sighs wearily. 

'Where did you have in mind?' 

Chapter Text

They meet at St James's Park out of habit. If either seems unusually cautious of their surroundings, the other does not mention it. Crowley's eyes might linger a little too long on the young woman texting as she walks, but it is difficult to tell beneath the sunglasses. Aziraphale perhaps listens more closely than is polite to the argument of the elderly couple feeding the ducks, but they have soon passed by and out of earshot anyway. 

They are quiet at first, which suits them both just fine, but after a while Aziraphale begins to wonder if perhaps he should bring up the phone call. Crowley seems to be behaving as though he never made it (which should be indication enough to leave the topic alone) but - well, Aziraphale is worried, plain and simple. He has by now constructed several dozen different potential explanations, and none of them seem particularly inviting.

At long last, when their silence has stretched well past comfortable and into something sticky and awkward, Aziraphale takes a deep breath and begins in a rush;

'About this morning -' 

'Angel,' Crowley interrupts immediately, as though he has been expecting this and has his answer ready. (He has. He does.) 'I would consider it a great personal favour if you were never to mention this morning again.'

This does not help matters; even if he had not been certain before, Aziraphale is now sure something is wrong. He has no wish to force confidences against Crowley's will, or push their conversation into territory they will both regret, but he has to know. 

'I just wanted to make sure… Is everything alright?'

Are we alright? Are you? Did something happen? Did I do something wrong? Are you safe ? 

'Everything's fine,' Crowley's tone is casual, dismissive. 'Tickety-boo.' Gently teasing. Aziraphale relaxes, just a little, because that easy mocking is just so familiar. 

'You would tell me, wouldn't you? If something was wrong?' 

Crowley sighs. It is difficult to tell behind the sunglasses, but Aziraphale thinks he might roll his eyes. 

'The world's been saved, angel. We made it. Our own side. ' (This with bitter sarcasm that even Aziraphale can't miss, but he is given no time to respond.) 'What could be wrong?' 

This is not an answer, and they both know it. 

'Well… If anything does …' Aziraphale trails off, picking absently at a waistcoat button and watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye. 'You can , you know. Tell me. If you want.'

Crowley raises a single eyebrow with devastating scorn. Aziraphale thinks his reply will be equally cutting, and it would be something of a relief if it was; it would mean they really were okay, that things really are going back to normal. 

(Does he want normal? Does he want a return, or a progression? He doesn't know. Six thousand years he has skated around this decision, but he has always had the certainty of Heaven to fall back on before, to take it out of his hands. Now he is on his own. It is terrifying.)

Then, suddenly, Crowley's expression softens. He does not scoff or snap or shrug away Aziraphale's offer. Instead he says, very quietly:

'Likewise.' 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to respond, but Crowley has already glanced up and nodded towards an abandoned newspaper on the nearest bench. The front page bears a large and unflattering photograph of a prominent politician beneath a rather simplistic summary of their latest campaign failures. 

'I've been meaning to ask… Was that one of yours or one of ours?' 

Aziraphale, momentarily wrong-footed by the change of subject, follows the direction of Crowley's gaze and catches sight of the divisive headline. 

'I'd rather assumed it was one of yours,' he responds with mild curiosity and a pinch of disapproval. Crowley shrugs and shakes his head. 

'I've not had much to do in that direction lately to be honest. They've been messing things about quite well on their own.'

'They do rather have a habit of that, don't they?' 

00000

They return to the bookshop after two hours of wandering aimlessly around St James’s Park. Their initial awkwardness has relaxed into something comfortable and familiar, so that Aziraphale is taken unpleasantly by surprise when Crowley slows to a halt halfway across the shop floor and announces that, actually, he probably ought to be going.

‘Come now, my dear,’ Aziraphale hopes his voice does not sound as strained to Crowley as it does to himself. ‘You needn’t leave so soon.’

He had almost convinced himself that he had imagined the change in Crowley’s demeanor, the stiffness of their initial conversation. They had, after all, eventually slipped so easily back into their old meandering discussions; Aziraphale had started to think that perhaps they were both simply tired.

Crowley’s expression is apologetic, but determined.

‘Sorry, angel,’ he says carelessly. Aziraphale’s heart twists painfully at the forced casualness. It hurts that Crowley is clearly so uncomfortable in his presence; it hurts more that he is trying to hide it. ‘Stuff to do. I’ll call you.’ Aziraphale does not have time to protest again before Crowley has flicked a lazy salute and turned around, sauntering towards the door with all his usual serpentine grace and leaving Aziraphale stranded, alone, in the middle of the shop.

‘Don’t go,’ Aziraphale implores him, but too late and too quietly; he stands there for a long time watching the door, waiting for he doesn’t know what. 

Crowley has forgotten the conversation, has forgotten his own confession.

It is the only explanation Aziraphale can bear to contemplate. Either he has forgotten the conversation, or he remembers it but has changed his mind, and Aziraphale cannot stand the thought that it could be the latter. 

He doesn’t blame Crowley, of course. 

(How could he forget?)

Until very recently, he has been quite stubbornly forgetting it himself.

(He can’t have forgotten.)

Probably Crowley hadn’t even meant it at the time. They had both been extremely drunk.

(He hasn’t forgotten. There is no way he could have.)

Even if he had meant it, in that moment… alcohol brings out the strangest things in people. Very likely it was only the drink talking after all.

(Aziraphale doesn’t really believe this. Does he?)

Crowley has not forgotten. The weight of this realisation settles on Aziraphale slowly; he can feel it dragging his shoulders down, can feel his expression collapsing away from Crowley’s scrutiny. It is like some winged thing unfolding in his chest, something unwelcome but not unexpected; a disappointment so intense he is almost sick with it.

Crowley has not forgotten the conversation; he just doesn’t feel the same way anymore.

It hurts . 

It hurts even more because Aziraphale knows he has only himself to blame. If he had just accepted Crowley the first time; if he had been honest then (although goodness knows he had hardly had time to organise his own thoughts on the matter, let alone express them), then perhaps things would be different now.

Now, after everything, when they have finally made it; they have finally got it, their (semi-official, even) own side; when, at last, they are safe … It is too late. Aziraphale is too late.

He closes his eyes, and if his cheeks are unusually damp… there is no one around to see.

Chapter Text

Half an hour into their impromptu walk and five minutes into their reflections on human politics, Crowley finds himself becoming unbearably comfortable. Aziraphale makes no further mention of his ill-advised early morning phone call, and neither of them refer even obliquely to the end of the world. They are, if anything, even more relaxed than usual; back to their old selves but without either of them having to look over their shoulders for fear of their respective superiors.

Crowley doesn’t even realise it is happening at first. When he does, they are back at the bookshop; Crowley is trailing behind Aziraphale as they head automatically to the back room and Aziraphale’s inexhaustible selection of wines. Aziraphale has not invited him in; they have not spoken about their plans at all.

Crowley slows to a stop. Aziraphale takes several more steps before he realises Crowley is no longer following him.

This is too much, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale is being too careful, too gentle. They are slipping into truly dangerous territory, where Crowley might easily forget himself and say things he knows he will regret; they will both regret.

‘I should be getting on,’ he says, with an apologetic smile. 

Aziraphale looks confused; almost hurt. Crowley grimaces. He had not anticipated resistance from the angel.

‘Come now, my dear,’ Aziraphale protests softly. ‘You needn’t leave so soon.’

Crowley shakes his head, just slightly. He can’t. He can’t .

‘Sorry, angel,’ he forces his voice into carelessness. ‘Stuff to do. I’ll call you.’ He tips a friendly salute as he turns to leave, tucking his other hand into his too-small pocket and determinedly not looking back.

He maintains his casual swagger until the Bentley door is closed, and then he slumps forwards with his wrists draped across the steering wheel.

‘Shit,’ he hisses softly. ‘Shit shit shit .’

Until very recently, Crowley has been working under the determined impression that Aziraphale has forgotten his confession. It had been easier. It would still be easier, but now he is beginning to doubt that assumption.

Despite - perhaps because of - his extreme gentleness, it is clear that Aziraphale is avoiding something. Now that the apocalypse has been successfully averted there are very few things Crowley can think of that this could be.

The most likely candidate, Crowley suspects, is also the least welcome.

Aziraphale has little reason to be holding back confessions of a desirable nature. Heaven is not going to stand in his way now, and Crowley made his own feelings quite plain some time ago. 

This leaves only rejection. Again. And why not? Shifting allegiances aside, who they are - what they are - what he is - has not changed.

Aziraphale must know how close Crowley has come to unearthing unwelcome truths once again in the last few days. He must have realised that if ever either of them were to recall That Conversation, it would be now. He must be eager to shut down the possibility before it gets any further. This is why he is being so bloody careful. 

Crowley hadn’t really expected any different, but nevertheless, it hurts . It hurts, in fact, a lot more than he would have thought.

It is not just the knowledge that Aziraphale has not changed his mind (or his heart). That, Crowley could live with; to return to the way they were before would be enough. 

Not this, though. This stilted pity is so much more difficult to bear than even outright hostility would be.

The world is saved. They have their own side now, practically officially. Aziraphale cares enough to be trying not to hurt him. And it still isn't enough.

'For fuck's sake,' Crowley growls, starting the Bentley's engine with an irritable jerk and peeling away from the pavement without checking his surroundings. He assumes they are clear, and so they are. 

If Aziraphale would just forget then it would be fine. Crowley doesn't need the confirmation. He doesn't need to be let down gently or whatever it is the angel is planning. He just needs them to be as they were, as they have ever been. 

No, he decides suddenly. 

What he needs, and would very much enjoy, is copious amounts of alcohol followed by the oblivion of dreamless sleep. 

00000

If he gets drunk enough then he will not dream. This is Crowley's theory. He isn't quite sure how drunk enough is, but he doesn't plan on taking any chances. He drinks with the sullen determination of one with no fear of liver damage and no intention of remembering this in the morning.

At some point Crowley’s eyes drift closed and his head flops forward; his sunglasses slide halfway down his nose but not quite off his face. The bottle - he gave up on glasses some hours ago - drops with a decided thunk to the floor and rolls away, sluggishly dribbling blood red liquid onto the carpet.

It could be minutes or hours later that someone is knocking on his door and opening it without waiting for a reply. Crowley looks up blearily, pushing his glasses up his nose and glaring at the new stain on the carpet until it shrinks away, embarrassed by the scrutiny.

Aziraphale is standing in the doorway, frowning. Crowley cannot tell whether the expression is due to disapproval or concern; he is surprised to find he doesn’t much care.

‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing?’ Aziraphale demands, as Crowley swipes the bottle from the floor and peers speculatively into its dregs. Crowley transfers his scowl to Aziraphale, who looks not the least bit daunted.

‘Haven’t done anything in Heaven’s name in a long time, angel.’

‘Obviously,’ Aziraphale’s voice sounds sharp but distant, echoing vaguely even though he is just across the room. ‘You’re a demon.’

‘You don’t say.’ Crowley tips his head back and downs the remains of the wine in one long swallow.

‘We’re on opposite sides.’

‘We’re on our side!’ Crowley snarls, bashing his knee painfully against the edge of the table as he stands up abruptly.

‘There is no our side !’ Aziraphale cries unconvincingly, actually stamping his foot in frustration.

‘Then go away !’ Crowley snaps, whirling around to turn his back on the angel and stalking towards his kitchen in search of more alcohol. He has no idea how this conversation devolved so quickly.

When he pushes open the kitchen door he is for some reason unsurprised to find that it opens onto Tadfield Airbase, and that Aziraphale is once again in front of him. He is holding the sword, not yet aflame, with far more confidence that Crowley remembers seeing him handle weapons in the past.

‘Armageddon must restart, right now.’ Aziraphale is addressing Adam Young. Gabriel stands beside him silently. Crowley stares, terrified and confused. ‘A temporary inconvenience is not going to get in the way of the ultimate good.’

‘Aziraphale, what are you -?’

‘This is the Great Plan, Crowley.’ 

Crowley has never heard the angel sound so cold. Irritable, thoughtless, waspish; yes, all of those. Furious, exasperated, desperate; many times. But never this cool, clinical detachment. Never like them .

‘ What ? This isn’t what - what are you doing , angel?’ Crowley is lost. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t - Aziraphale can’t be siding with them, after everything, can he?

Aziraphale looks towards him properly for the first time and Crowley sees through the rigid exterior in a moment of bewildering, horrible clarity. Aziraphale’s eyes are everything his voice and posture are not; they are wild, wide and desperate, imploring. Crowley instinctively moves forwards.

‘Angel -’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry.’

Aziraphale turns away, raising and igniting the sword in one movement. The whoomph as the flames catch seems to come from all around; suddenly everything is burning, not just the sword. The flames leap towards the sky as ground shakes and Crowley falls, cracking his elbow sharply on the tarmac; there is heat everywhere, scorching, and this can’t be happening, it can’t - 

Crowley wakes with a shuddering gasp and stares frantically around his dark, silent flat. He scrambles upright in his seat, heart pounding unnecessarily. Nothing moves; nothing is here. The flat is cool and quiet, undisturbed, but it seems to Crowley in that moment to be the quiet of a held breath; the delicate stillness of a predator just before it strikes. It is not a peaceful quiet.

He does not move for a long time. Nothing changes, but the feeling of foreboding does not go away.

Chapter Text

Crowley does not contact Aziraphale the next day, which should not be concerning but somehow is. After his uncharacteristically abrupt departure yesterday, not to mention the aborted and still unexplained early morning phone call, Aziraphale feels more than justified in his conclusion that something is most definitely Not Right.

He had thought that their walk had done something to dispel the strange new hesitancy between them. He had been quietly delighted to realise that Crowley was following him into the shop with no need for an invitation or discussion. 

Then, suddenly, Crowley had been gone. It was as though Crowley, too, had realised what was happening, but unlike Aziraphale had not liked what he saw.

The only explanation Aziraphale can think of which makes any sense (he can’t have work to do; he can’t be worried about Hell; he doesn’t actually need sleep, and would have said so if he had simply wanted it) is that Crowley had realised what Aziraphale was so very close to finally admitting, and wanted none of it.

Bitterly, Aziraphale reflects that he really cannot fault Crowley. Their roles have been reversed, that’s all; it aches terribly, but it is only what he deserves, after the way he has behaved. 

If Crowley needs space, Aziraphale decides, that is what he will give him. He does not attempt to contact Crowley, and stubbornly dismisses the uncomfortable feeling that he is overlooking something.

The world has only just been saved; they have both only narrowly escaped utter annihilation, and now Crowley is not speaking to him. There does not need to be any other reason for this prickling sense of unease. It will pass.

00000

Crowley dozes in fits and starts for the better part of the next fifteen hours. The faint sense of looming dread settles into a constant background hum which he attributes to his own broken rest and persistent nightmares.

In the middle of the afternoon on the Third Day of the Rest of Their Lives, he finally leaves the flat. He is going to talk to Aziraphale, and they are going to sort this out. This stalemate is too much; one way or another, he intends to have this resolved.

He drives past the bookshop three times before he gives up and goes back to his flat, more frustrated than ever. All of his attention is given over to his own furious internal battle. He has no reason to believe that his actions have been observed. All the same, they have been.

00000

Aziraphale’s execution had not worked. This is unacceptable. He is a traitor, a coward, and a personal annoyance. Whatever else he is now, he is also too dangerous to target directly.

This calls for a little creative thinking, which is admittedly not a strong point for the majority of either angels or demons (what need have any of them for an imagination? They are given orders and they follow them), but it is a wonder what personal humiliation can do for motivation. 

Heaven is not going to punish Aziraphale in an official capacity, partly under Gabriel's own orders, but no matter. Gabriel is not looking for an officially sanctioned trial. He is looking for retribution . 

Aziraphale disobeyed. Aziraphale ruined all their meticulous planning. Aziraphale embarrassed them. Him and that demon boyfriend of his. 

Gabriel watches, and he waits, and he plans. 

Chapter Text

Destroying Crowley ought to do the trick, Gabriel decides. It is a wonderfully efficient solution, with the added bonus of being personally satisfying as well. Aziraphale has clearly become attached to the demon, which has used its corrupt influence to tempt an angel into disobeying orders. It will be two traitors with one strike. Heaven will surely approve.

00000

Aziraphale has not seen Crowley for a week. He is beginning to become worried. They have, of course, gone very much longer than this without contact even in the recent past, but this feels different. This feels wrong . He just can’t put his finger on why . Nevertheless, he maintains his distance as he promised himself he would. Let Crowley come to him when he is ready, and they will sort this out. It will all blow over and they can go back to being themselves once again. Perhaps more of themselves than they have ever managed before. It will all blow over.

00000

Crowley does not leave his flat for several days, which, though he doesn’t know it, somewhat disrupts Gabriel’s plot. Gabriel does not like adjusting to new situations. He likes to know what needs doing, and do it; he likes to make a decision and follow through with that decision. His decision this time had been to wait until the demon left, then enter the flat with Sandalphon, and ambush on his return.

Patience, Gabriel reminds himself for perhaps the tenth time, is a virtue. He makes what he considers to be a very impressive effort to exhibit this virtue, even as finds himself becoming interminably bored with the whole situation. The pair of them could quite easily storm the flat; one low-ranking demon is no match for two well-prepared Archangels, but that isn’t the point . That wasn’t the plan . They are going to stick to the plan .

00000

Crowley makes it twelve days before he gives in. Aziraphale has not contacted him, perhaps is not going to contact him, but he has had enough of waiting. He has had enough of spending his days and nights restless, unsettled; having his sleep broken; waking up with splitting headaches and watching television to distract himself and then giving up, pacing and worrying and... bloody... pining , that’s what he’s doing, he’s pining , and it is unseemly. 

Damn Aziraphale.

Well, no. Not damn Aziraphale, not literally , but… something.

Sometimes human languages are infuriating beyond belief. It is no wonder they are all so catastrophically terrible at communication, with such meagre tools as this at their disposal.

Anyway, it is Aziraphale’s fault, this whole situation. Crowley intends to tell him so in no uncertain terms. (Then he intends to offer wine and crepes and whatever else the angel wants so that they can just move on and be done with this. He won’t actually apologise , because he has done nothing wrong, but he will be conciliatory and understanding; he will be any number of truly humiliating things just to get this over with.)

First, he needs supplies. Alcoholic supplies mainly, with no small amount of pastry and sugar based supplies on the side. He could simply miracle them up, of course, but in the end he decides not to for two reasons. One is that he just knows Aziraphale will be able to tell if they aren’t the real deal (he thinks briefly of the French Revolution incident and rolls his eyes, but even this expression is steeped in exasperated fondness). The other is that he has been staring at the walls of his flat for almost two weeks now; he needs a change in scenery. 

Getting into the Bentley releases a tension Crowley had not quite realised he was holding. It does not put him entirely at ease, not yet, but it opens the door to the possibility. He relaxes into the seat for a moment, hands on the wheel and head back, relishing a moment of normality.

Then he peels away from the curb and smiles - grins , devilishly - for the first time in days. Everything is going to be alright.

00000

Finally . 

As soon as that monstrous car is out of sight, Gabriel and Sandalphon slip into Crowley’s flat to wait.

00000

Crowley has two shopping bags in his left hand and is pressing his mobile phone to his ear with the right. It rings several times before Aziraphale picks it up, just as Crowley is shouldering open the door of his flat. There is a clatter, as though Aziraphale had dropped or nearly dropped his own phone, and then the angel’s rushed (hopeful?) voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi,’ says Crowley lamely, wishing he had planned this better. He walks through to the kitchen and deposits both bags, clanking loudly, onto the gleaming counter. ‘It’s me.’

‘I know it’s you.’ Crowley hears the “ you idiot” that was almost tacked on the end of Aziraphale’s sentence and has to smile. Maybe this will be easier than he thought. His chest aches strangely at the sound of Aziraphale’s exasperated voice. He finds his lips curving upwards foolishly and clamps down on his expression even though there is no one around to see it. ‘What is it?’ Aziraphale continues when Crowley does not reply. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine, angel,’ Crowley reassures him, starting to unpack the bags one-handed. He doesn’t look up from his task as he talks, which is a mistake. ‘I was just… wondering.’ Okay, perhaps not so easy after all. ‘I thought you might like to -’

‘Hello, Crowley.’ Crowley’s head jerks up, wine bottle in hand, and takes an automatic step backwards. Shit . Standing framed in the doorway is Gabriel . The Archangel Gabriel. In his flat. While he is on the phone to Aziraphale. Whom Gabriel tried to burn. Gabriel tried to burn. Tried to kill. Destroy. Gabriel tried to kill Aziraphale .

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks stupidly, thinking frantically - wildly - desperately - for an escape route, for a benign explanation, trying to wake up - perhaps this is another dream, if he just convinces himself it is a dream he can wake up, what is Gabriel doing in his flat ?

‘Crowley?’ says Aziraphale’s voice over the phone, suddenly concerned. ‘Crowley, is everything okay?’

‘We’ve come to see you,’ says another voice. A shorter angel steps around Gabriel into the kitchen, a horrible false smile plastered across his insincere face. It takes a moment before Crowley can place the name of this one. Sandalphon. Gabriel’s thuggish lackey.

‘Who’s there with you?’ Aziraphale asks insistently. Crowley has not moved since he first jumped back from the angels.

‘No one,’ Crowley replies automatically. He does not like the way the angels are looking at his phone. He doesn’t know if they have heard or guessed who is on the other end, but he knows what will happen if Aziraphale realises what is going on. ‘It’s just the TV.’

‘You were talking to your television?’ Aziraphale sounds doubtful. Gabriel is watching Crowley, head cocked slightly to one side as though in curiosity. Sandalphon is gazing in thinly veiled contempt around the room, looking bored. Crowley wonders why they haven’t attacked yet. He has to assume that is what they are here for; angels who were willing and eager to burn one of their own are not likely to drop in on a demon for a friendly chat. He doesn’t know how he is going to get out of this one. His attention is torn three ways; watching the angels and preparing for their next move, listening to Aziraphale and trying to think of a way to quickly hang up without arousing suspicion, and still madly trying to come up with a plan .

‘Yeah,’ says Crowley vaguely, unable to come up with anything better. ‘Listen, I’d better go -’

‘You only just called me!’ Aziraphale interrupts, affronted. ‘Look, I think we need to talk -’

‘Not now, angel.’ His stomach drops as soon as the nickname leaves his lips, but he cannot take it back. Gabriel’s gaze has sharpened. Why are they waiting ?

‘But -’

‘Something’s come up. I’ll call you back later.’

He is beginning to have serious doubts that there will be a later, for him.

‘Crowley -’

He hangs up. Places the phone on the counter with an unnervingly loud click . Maintains his hold on the neck of the bottle, because it is the only weapon within his reach. He starts inching his free hand along the drawers behind his back; maybe, maybe he can reach the one with the knives in it - 

‘I don’t think so,’ Gabriel scolds in a parody of paternal gentility, raising a finger and twitching it from side to side. Suddenly it is like trying to move his hand through tar; he didn’t know angels could do that. Gabriel turns slightly and inclines his head towards Sandalphon, whose horrible grin widens as he steps forward. Crowley quickly side-steps away, but going all the way around the granite island will bring him closer to Gabriel; his hesitation means that Sandalphon is faster and has hold of the lapels of his jacket before Crowley can move far enough away.

Crowley vanishes the jacket with a miracle, leaving Sandalphon snatching at thin air; he brings the bottle of wine around in a powerful arc, intending to smash it against Sandalphon’s head, but Gabriel snaps his fingers and the glass shatters well before impact, drenching them both in wine and slicing open Crowley’s hand but leaving Sandalphon otherwise unscathed. 

Crowley heals his hand with a thought, but it is a difficult thought, because one or both of the angels are resisting him - and now Gabriel is stepping closer, but his hands are folded primly together in front of him; he makes no effort to raise them to strike or defend, which is only more terrifying. Crowley has not battled an angel in - he can hardly remember the last time he actually fought an angel hand to hand, not for thousands of years, not since -

He dances back out of the way ridiculously, trying to stay out of reach, skirting around the edge of the room because as long as he keeps them in his line of sight, as long as he doesn’t expose his back to either of them, he has a chance, he thinks stupidly. He has a chance.

‘This is all your fault,’ Gabriel accuses him petulantly, picking a stray chip of glass from his tie and flicking it in Crowley’s direction. ‘If you had just done your job, none of this would be happening. If the pair of you had just done your fucking jobs .’

Crowley glimpses once again the cold fury beneath the collected exterior, and he wonders - do they know? Do they know about the switch? They can’t know, or else surely Hell would be coming to collect him, and Heaven would be after Aziraphale? But they cooperated for the kidnapping; what if even now Aziraphale is fighting Hastur or Beelzebub? The thought turns him cold with horror and fills him with a new determination. He rolls his shoulders and plasters his best wicked smirk on his face.

‘Come on then,’ he taunts, glaring at them over his sunglasses. ‘Come and have a go. I’m immune to holy water, hadn’t you heard?’ Please, please let them still believe the switch . ‘You can’t kill me.’

‘Holy water is one weapon,’ Gabriel concedes, stepping forwards. Crowley steps sideways, trying not to let them corner him. He quickly miracles the knives he had been trying to reach into his hands. They will not do much against angels, but the effort it takes to summon them tells him that any grander attempt will surely fail. Gabriel looks at the blades almost pityingly. He’s enjoying himself, the bastard , Crowley thinks. He’s enjoying this .

‘We have plenty more,’ Sandalphon finishes Gabriel’s thought and steps forwards; Crowley slashes at him, opening a deep gash across his torso which heals too quickly. Sandalphon grabs Crowley once again, and this time he lifts with a strength that does not match his corporation’s form at all - he lifts and throws , and Crowley smashes into the opposite wall with such force that it leaves a splintering dent before he drops to the floor and scrambles up again, brandishing the knives with an unnecessary flourish. He tastes blood in his mouth but does not waste his time or energy trying to heal it.

‘Try me,’ Crowley bares his teeth around the blood, hoping it makes him look intimidating rather than weakened.

‘We intend to,’ Gabriel assures him.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t hear the phone ringing at first. When he does, he is beside it so quickly it might as well have been a miracle. He snatches up the receiver and presses it to his ear with both hands.

‘Hello?’ he asks, tentative and flustered. 

‘Hi,’ says Crowley. Aziraphale sinks into the chair beside the telephone; he practically melts with relief at the sound of Crowley’s voice. He makes no attempt to hide it. ‘It’s me.’

‘I know it’s you,’ Aziraphale thinks he manages to keep the smile from his voice, just. You idiot , he doesn’t say. You brilliant idiot . He feels slightly giddy and can’t think why.

‘What is it?’ he asks, schooling his features into impassivity, just in case Crowley can somehow hear his expression. There is a pause. Concern clenches in Aziraphale’s gut. Don’t hang up , he thinks. Not this time, please don’t hang up . ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine, angel.’ He sounds tense but safe. Aziraphale relaxes slightly. ‘I was just… wondering. I thought you might like to -’

Aziraphale waits for Crowley to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t. There is a muffled sound on the other end of the line which he can’t place; another voice? Not Crowley’s, some distance from the phone. Aziraphale sits up straighter.

Crowley says something, but Aziraphale cannot quite make out what. It doesn’t sound like he is talking to Aziraphale.

‘Crowley? Crowley, is everything okay?’ More voices. Aziraphale does not like the sound of them, though he cannot place why. ‘Who’s there with you?’ Aziraphale stands up, automatically getting ready to leave. He needs to get to Crowley; never mind giving him his space, he is in trouble . What kind of trouble Aziraphale doesn’t know, but whatever kind it is, Aziraphale will not leave him to face it alone.

‘No one,’ says Crowley unconvincingly. ‘It’s just the TV.’

Aziraphale wants to relax, wants to believe it, but the blatant lie just winds him up further. Crowley has no reason to call and then lie about background noise. 

‘You were talking to your television?’ Don’t lie to me , he thinks. Not now , and, please be safe.

‘Yeah,’ says Crowley vaguely, sounding distracted. ‘Listen, I’d better go -’

‘You only just called me!’ He will not let Crowley hang up on him again, he will not . ‘Look, I think we need to talk -’

‘Not now, angel.’ Aziraphale does not like the thinly veiled urgency in Crowley’s voice. 

‘But -’

‘Something’s come up. I’ll call you back later.’

‘Crowley -’

There is a click as Crowley hangs up. Aziraphale pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it stupidly for a moment, as though it will be able to give him answers.

‘ Really !’ He blusters, because irritation is easier than the alternative. This is the second time Crowley has called him and then hung up in as many weeks. Well, this time Aziraphale isn’t going to wait around to be told the reason. He is going to find it out .

Blasted Crowley. What on Earth is he playing at?

It is easier, it is so much easier to give in to frustration. To be annoyed. To blame Crowley. Because the alternative is so much worse . 

The alternative is that Crowley is in real danger. Aziraphale can hardly bear to contemplate the idea; they are supposed to be safe now, they are supposed to be free . It isn’t fair !

He takes a sharp, steadying breath, and steps smartly towards the coat rack.

If Crowley is not already in trouble, he will be when Aziraphale catches up with him. Either way, this has gone on long enough. Aziraphale is going to do something about it.

00000

The angels are better trained, but lazy and overconfident. Crowley is outnumbered and out of practice but desperate. They are surprisingly evenly matched, actually.

At least, this is what Crowley tells himself as he drags himself to his feet once again. He is bruised, aching and bloody; several ribs are surely broken and standing on his right leg is agony. Sandalphon now has a distinctly crooked nose and what is well on its way to being a truly impressive black eye. Gabriel’s suit jacket is torn, at least until the Archangel glances at it and it knits itself back together again.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Crowley manages. He stands lopsided, one arm looped across his midsection, forcing his neck up to meet the angels’ eyes. He lost both his knives and his sunglasses some time ago. The angels are not using weapons, it seems. Not yet. This is not, Crowley realises, an assignment from Heaven; that would be quick and clean, over and out. This is personal.

‘You are awfully talkative, aren’t you?’ Gabriel muses idly. He trails a finger across the globe on Crowley’s desk. The globe catches fire, causing Gabriel to snatch his hand away hurriedly. It is not Hellfire - Crowley is not strong enough for that right now - but the look of panic in Gabriel’s eyes in the split second it takes the Archangel to work that out is more than worth the draining effect of the miracle. Most of Crowley’s energy is currently going to remaining upright and not discorporating.

He doesn’t know if their plan is ultimately to destroy or discorporate him, but either way it will amount to the same thing in the end. Hell is unlikely to be handing him a new body any time soon.

He still has no idea how he is going to get out of this. He is thinking in terms of seconds; survive this moment, then this one, then this one. He will come up with something. He has to.

He hasn’t even made up properly with Aziraphale yet.

‘You’re very annoying,’ Gabriel observes. ‘I do wonder how Aziraphale was able to stand it all those years.’

‘Birds of a feather,’ oozes Sandalphon, tilting his head from side to side to crack his neck. Crowley wonders if the movement was necessary or if he simply thought it looked intimidating.

‘True,’ Gabriel agrees casually. ‘True.’

Crowley hisses. He can’t attack; he can’t take both of them at once. He is fast losing the ability to defend. They are toying with him.

‘If you’re going to kill me,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘then kill me.’

‘Oh we will,’ Gabriel assures him swiftly. ‘But this is just…’ he shrugs, ‘More fun. At the moment.’

That’s it; Crowley is not going to just wait to be destroyed. If he is going down, he is going down fighting . Maybe he can even take one of them with him. He launches himself at Gabriel, hardly knowing what he will do if he gets there. Gabriel sighs in a put-upon sort of way and throws out a hand - more for effect than necessity - the force of his miracle slams Crowley back once more into the wall.

Crowley groans as his vision flickers and tips dizzily, faint lights flashing before his eyes and blotting out the room. It takes all his effort to remain standing, hands flat against the wall to stop him slipping down it.

He is losing this battle fast.

He doesn’t even see Sandalphon’s fist coming, but doubles over with the pain when it connects to his stomach. He spits blood onto the angel’s shoes, swings his own hand up blindly, but Sandalphon blocks it with ease. They grapple; Gabriel watches, just watches , while Crowley clumsily tries to bat Sandalphon away and is slammed backwards once again for his trouble. He can hardly see anymore.

‘ Do it ,’ he snarls. ‘ Get it over with .’

Sandalphon is pinning him to the wall with one hand - his left - Crowley’s own hand is on the angel’s wrist, tugging fruitlessly to drag it away. Crowley’s own left hand is raised in pointless defence against Sandalphon’s right. The angel has curled that one into a fist and is drawing it back. Crowley will not flinch. He will not flinch .

He tries to miracle himself away, and fails. Tries to knock Sandalphon’s feet from under him; tries to drop the ceiling on Gabriel’s stupid smirking head; none of it works. He cannot bring even the slightest miracle to bear. The only reason he is still standing is the handful of shirt Sandalphon is holding to keep him in place.

He is going to die here.

He doesn’t mean to close his eyes, but there is only one angel’s face he wants to see if he really is about to be destroyed, and it isn’t either of the two bastards in his flat.

Sorry, Aziraphale , he thinks. I’m so sorry .

Chapter Text

Aziraphale knows something is definitely wrong the moment he steps out of the taxi. He doesn’t know why, but something is absolutely not as it should be.

He pays the driver and doesn’t bother to wait for change as he hurries towards the door.

He walks quickly but maintains rigid control until he hears the crash from above. 

Then he runs. His heart lurches with terror - something’s happened, they’ve realised, they’ve found him - at the same time as his legs jerk him into action, up the stairs - he cannot stand around waiting for the lift - he launches himself up, round the corner -

Please, please - 

He reaches Crowley’s landing and has to throw out a hand to stop himself smashing into wall as he exits the staircase.

Please be safe -

More crashing, definitely coming from Crowley’s flat -

He bursts forwards, breathless, with no plan and no idea what he is about to face, with only the thought that Crowley is in danger, he’s in danger, I need to help him needtosavehim, Crowley is in danger - 

He is through the door, he sees the wreckage, his heart twists and his throat closes up - 

He sees them -

He sees Gabriel watching -

He sees Crowley bleeding -

He sees Sandalphon’s fist -

Sandalphon’s fist grinds to a halt barely an inch from Crowley’s face. All of Aziraphale’s energy, all of his thought, every single part of his will is thrown into that one action. He doesn’t think about it; he doesn’t plan it. He wouldn’t have managed it if he had.

In that moment, the only thing Aziraphale is thinking is PROTECT CROWLEY . So he does.

As soon as he realises what he has done his control begins to slip and he has to fight to keep it there. They are staring at him, all three of them - well, Gabriel and Sandalphon are staring, Crowley does not seem to have registered he is really there yet, but he is looking in Aziraphale’s direction and on his face is a naked fear and a hope that it hurts to see.

‘Crowley, MOVE !’ Aziraphale bellows, forcing everything he has into keeping Sandalphon locked in place. Gabriel is moving towards him but that doesn’t matter, all that matters is that Crowley gets out of the way, get out of the way , all that matters is that Crowley is safe.

Crowley slithers to his left, out of Sandalphon’s grip, but he doesn’t make it far before he falls to the floor. Aziraphale feels blood dripping from his nose with the force of his own miracle.

‘Get out of here,’ he gasps. His hold is breaking; Sandalphon is moving. Gabriel is watching like he has all the time in the world; watching like he has no doubt about his own ultimate victory, and is simply curious to see how they will get there.

‘No,’ Crowley manages, trying to force himself upright. He makes it to his knees and even then has to brace one arm against the floor so as not to fall down again.

‘ Get out !’ Aziraphale cries frantically. He cannot look around; he cannot take his eyes away from Sandalphon, who looks furious. Who is still too close to Crowley.

‘Not… leaving you,’ rasps Crowley. He drags himself up by holding onto the edge of his desk.

‘I’ll be fine.’ Aziraphale insists. He won’t be fine. Gabriel is smiling like a shark. ‘I’ll manage.’ Sandalphon is turning, straining against the failing hold of Aziraphale’s desperate miracle.

‘I said,’ Crowley replies stubbornly, turning to face the angels but maintaining his one-handed grip on the table. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

‘ Please ,’ Aziraphale begs, choking tearfully on the word. Gabriel claps his hands together triumphantly.

‘How touching,’ he says. ‘Do let Sandalphon go now, there’s a good chap.’ He snaps his fingers and Aziraphale staggers as the miracle is broken. Sandalphon can now move freely. Aziraphale steps instinctively in front of Crowley.

‘Well, this wasn’t exactly the afternoon I had in mind, but it will do,’ Gabriel continues, brushing down his suit. 

‘Leave us alone,’ Aziraphale demands shakily. ‘You said you’d leave us alone.’

Gabriel looks at him like he has said something monumentally foolish. Aziraphale supposes he has.

‘We said we would leave you alone,’ he corrects. ‘We never said anything about him .’

Crowley puts one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder; for balance, for comfort? Aziraphale isn’t sure. He closes his eyes at the contact. He has no idea how they are going to get out of this.

‘Why?’ he asks brokenly. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘ Why ?’ Gabriel parrots. ‘Why smite a demon? Why punish a traitor?’

‘It’s over,’ says Aziraphale. He tries to stand tall, to shield as much of Crowley as possible. He can feel Crowley taking deep, rattling breaths behind him. He does not like the way they sound. ‘It’s over . You can’t…’

‘I can’t ?’ Gabriel repeats, his fury rising visibly. ‘You do not tell me what I can or cannot do, you useless, pathetic excuse for a -’

‘Shut it,’ Crowley interrupts. He steps out from behind Aziraphale, still hardly able to stand but holding his head high and proud all the same. Aziraphale’s heart breaks at the sight. ‘If you’re going to kill us, kill us. If not, go away .’

‘We came here to kill you ,’ Sandalphon corrects. ‘Not him .’ Aziraphale tries to step forwards. Crowley pushes him back weakly but Aziraphale simply takes his hand and finishes the movement.

‘If you want to kill Crowley,’ he says, trembling and terrified, this is it , this is it, they are done, there is no turning back; this is not even wilfully misinterpreting the Plan, this is not something that can be explained away with any amount of excuses, this is It . ‘Then you will have to kill me as well.’ 

‘What makes you think we won’t?’ Gabriel demands. Crowley blinks sluggishly. It is becoming difficult to think. 

‘Because you’re afraid,’ he says, only realising as he speaks that the words are true. His leg buckles; Aziraphale has to grab his arm to hold him upright. Aziraphale’s touch stings for some reason. Crowley glances around and thinks he must be finally losing it. Aziraphale is glowing . Literally glowing.

‘You don’t know what we are,’ Aziraphale confirms aloud. If they had seen through the switch, surely they would have commented on it by now. Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale is gathering his strength. There is a lot more of it than he has ever had cause to discover before.

‘You don’t know what we can do.’ He maintains his grip, now on Crowley’s elbow, as Crowley seems to slip even further down. He cannot hold on much longer without healing. They don’t have time for this.

‘You’re afraid.’ If he hasn’t Fallen yet, he surely isn’t going to. He holds onto that thought tightly. If he hasn’t Fallen yet, he isn’t going to .

And if he would? If he would Fall for this? What would he do then? Would he still go through with it? He takes a deep breath.

Time to find out.

‘Leave,’ he enunciates clearly, drawing on every scrap of power he can. ‘Us,’ he straightens his spine, places himself just slightly in front of Crowley once more. ‘ Alone .’

There is a blinding flash of pure white light - Aziraphale does his best to shield Crowley from the blaze - and a single moment of stunned disbelief on Gabriel’s and Sandalphon’s faces before they are, all four of them, blasted backwards with the force of this new miracle. In the light is woven flames, living flame that reaches for the two attackers like clawed hands. There is a voice, deep and echoing, commanding in some forgotten language no human could translate. With this voice another is interwoven, overlapping; the voice of a child, a human child. A boy.

‘ I know all about you two ,’ it says gnomically, ‘ don’t you worry .’

There is a crash; a sound like an overstretched elastic band finally being released; then silence.

The light fades slowly. Aziraphale blinks bright spots out of his eyes and waits, tense and ready to move, ready to push Crowley out of the way and… do something , he doesn’t know what.

Gabriel and Sandalphon have both vanished. The room is empty but for he and Crowley; silent but for their own ragged breathing.

Crowley slips once more, losing his footing even while standing still. Aziraphale spins around to catch him, grabbing his elbows from below to keep him upright. He looks to be at the very end of his endurance.

‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ Crowley slurs drunkenly. His face is screwed up in pained concentration. 

‘Neither did I,’ Aziraphale breathes.

‘Thanks,’ Crowley gives a lopsided grin and falls at last, eyes dropping closed as he finally loses consciousness. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale catches Crowley before he hits the floor, but only has the energy himself to slow their descent, not to stop it. He ends up sitting on the ground with Crowley sprawled in his lap, breathing (thank Someone; thank Anyone) but out cold.

He takes a moment himself, because he has no choice. Whatever he just did has wiped him out; he does not sleep and does not, as a rule, need to, but he can feel his eyelids dragging themselves down now. He thinks it might be dangerous to give in to this impulse, though, not only because Crowley is relying on him but because it does not feel like a natural tiredness.

Crowley is relying on him .

He is exhausted. He has no idea how he managed any of what just happened.

Crowley is hurt .

He cannot move; he certainly cannot stand. He has one arm stretched across Crowley’s chest from behind; one resting on Crowley’s forehead. 

Crowley needs him .

Gabriel and Sandalphon could be back at any moment. Aziraphale has no idea where they have gone, if they went of their own accord or were forced; they might be fetching reinforcements or they might have disappeared for good for all he knows. If they do return, there is no way he can defend against them.

Crowley is relying on him .

Ever so gently, Aziraphale maneuvers his arms so that they are beneath Crowley; one under his shoulders, one under his knees. He braces himself, shifting his feet into a more secure position and then - with perhaps a tiny miracle, which is all he can summon up at this point - he lifts .

He staggers upright, clutching Crowley’s unconscious form close, and walks towards the bedroom. He is out of breath by the time he deposits Crowley carefully onto the bed, and has to remind himself that he does not actually need to breathe.

He does need to sit down, however. Whether the chair was there already or not he isn’t sure; he does not think he would have had the energy left to miracle it into existence, but he supposes he might have pulled it from another room. Either way, he sinks into it gratefully. 

The next thing he is aware of is that the light in the room has changed. He must have fallen asleep after all; he decides quickly that he does not like the experience. It takes a moment to re-orient himself.

As memory rushes back he springs upright in the chair - when had he slumped down? - and leans towards Crowley, who is still dead to the world. Aziraphale flinches at the phrasing in his own head. Still sleeping .

He looks even worse now, or perhaps this is only because now Aziraphale has time to actually catalogue his injuries; every visible patch of skin looks bruised. There is an ugly purple swelling over one cheekbone, split skin coated in dried blood above the corresponding eyebrow. His breathing is laboured, the fingers of one hand horribly crooked. He looks broken.

Aziraphale ghosts his fingers across Crowley’s ribs, which seem to be causing the most immediate problems. He cannot heal them fully yet, but he can start the process, and maybe take the edge off the pain.

‘Oh, my dear,’ he whispers as he works. ‘My dear boy.’

He delicately straightens Crowley’s hand, willing the finger bones to knit themselves back together as he does.

‘There,’ he says, laying the hand back down. He brushes Crowley’s hair from his face; the bruises around his eyes start fading immediately, but it is a slow process. Aziraphale wishes he had the ability to do more right now. He is already tiring again.

He leans back, breathing steadily. He might doze off again, he isn’t sure.

The next thing he knows he is opening his eyes and Crowley is moving his head.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale shifts forwards. 

Crowley blinks slowly. His gaze is unfocused, his pupils slow to adjust to the light. He turns his head, seeking out Aziraphale, and as soon as their eyes meet the angel feels such a tumbling rush of unfamiliar emotion that he rocks back in his chair as though physically struck. 

' Oh ,' he breathes softly, hand fluttering to sooth his own, suddenly racing, heart. It is almost a corporeal thing, this wave of unfiltered love , almost tangible; and it is gone as suddenly as it arrived. Aziraphale's own immense love, already surging up to meet it, is left stranded, bereft. He is breathless with the shock of it, feels as though the very ground has fallen from beneath his feet, so he does the only thing that makes sense in that moment. 

He grabs Crowley's hand with the speed and ferocity of someone who really is falling, grabs and holds, squeezes like he will plummet to certain death without it. 

' My dear ,' he whispers, desperate, terrified, 'was that you ?' 

It is not at all what he had planned to say to Crowley when he woke up (as far as he had planned anything), but now it seems all he is capable of. He can see the walls being thrown up hastily behind Crowley's eyes, can sense the emotions being pulled back, locked down. 

'Angel…' 

Is that warning in Crowley's voice, or apprehension? 

' Was that you ?' Aziraphale demands again, harsh this time, driven by panic; it had been so fleeting, but he is sure what he felt was real. 

Crowley closes his eyes again, turning his head away. There is defeat in every line of his battered body. 

'Yes,' he rasps.

'I had - I thought -' 

'I told you,' Crowley interrupts, still not looking at Aziraphale. His does not have the energy or the will to deal with this right now. 'I told you years ago, angel. Don't act so surprised.'

'I'm not - I thought you'd changed your mind.' Something in Aziraphale's voice catches Crowley's attention, and at last he turns around. His expression is doubtful at first, still drowsy but scowling suspiciously until he sees the naked longing on Aziraphale's face. 

'I didn't,' Crowley admits quietly. His scowl has softened, but there is still doubt there, still fear. His yellow eyes are wide, darting. 

'I did.'

He speaks so quietly Crowley had barely hear it. 

'What?' 

'I did,' repeats Aziraphale, more firmly this time. 'I changed my mind, Crowley, you were right.' The words are tumbling out now, clumsy and uncontrolled and sincere . 'You were right, we… You were right and I was going to tell you but I wasn't sure. You were acting so strangely, I thought… Perhaps you just wanted to go back to how things were, but you almost - they almost killed you, my dear, and -' 

'Aziraphale -' 

'You would have been dead , not even discorporated but dead , they were going to - and I couldn't let them -' 

' Aziraphale !' 

He stops abruptly. 

'I know,' says Crowley. For a moment Aziraphale doesn't understand. Crowley swallows hard, bracing himself to speak again. 'I thought you'd burned. Remember?' His tone is as gentle as when he reminded Aziraphale of his ruined bookshop. Aziraphale wonders how he could ever have believed Crowley had changed his mind. Changed his heart. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ Aziraphale whispers. There are a dozen different things he could be apologising for; he doesn’t specify which. All of them, he supposes.

Crowley laughs. It looks like it hurts. 

‘What’s so funny?’ Aziraphale demands.

‘You, angel,’ Crowley is still smiling through the pain. Aziraphale is leaning forwards, reaching unconsciously for anything that remains of that rush of emotion he felt on Crowley’s waking, but it is locked down tightly now. ‘You just saved both our lives. And you’re apologising .’

‘That’s not what I’m apologising for.’

Crowley closes his eyes and leans back into the pillow. ‘I know,’ he says.

‘I meant it,’ Aziraphale continues after a pause. ‘I changed my mind.’

Crowley winces before he looks back at Aziraphale. If this is going to be done, it is going to be done properly.

‘Changed your mind about what?’

‘You know what.’

‘I do,’ Crowley allows. He takes a moment to heave a deep breath around the lingering pain in his ribs. ‘I want you to say it.’

Aziraphale opens his mouth. After everything they have done; after disobeying, after fighting, after this afternoon , there is no way that this can be the tipping point. If he hasn’t Fallen yet, he isn’t going to .

‘You said you loved me,’ Aziraphale begins. He stops, looking at his hands. He has drawn away from Crowley and interlaced his own fingers now. ‘Was that true?’

‘You know -’

‘Please,’ Aziraphale interrupts. ‘I need you to… please.’

‘Yes,’ says Crowley. He grits his teeth and forces himself to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. ‘It was true.’

‘Is it still true?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Crowley. Please.’

‘Yes.’ It sounds as if the word has been torn from his throat. ‘Yes, it’s still true.’

He still looks terrified. He looks as though he still has doubts about what Aziraphale’s answer is going to be. Well. For all his own hesitation, Aziraphale cannot allow that.

‘I love you too,’ he says in a rush, then flinches as though he expects to be struck down where he sits. Nothing happens in the following ringing silence.

‘Really?’ Crowley’s face softens in a way Aziraphale has never seen before; the lines of pain and fear smooth away, his brow clears and his eyes widen; his lips part as one side of his mouth lifts in a faint, tentative smile.

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale laughs giddily; he can feel Crowley’s walls coming down again, agonisingly slowly, can feel the love - the adoration - seeping through. ‘Yes, Crowley. I love you.’ He reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand, more gently this time. ‘I love you.’

Chapter Text

They spend the next several days shut up in Crowley's flat, recovering. Crowley mostly sleeps. Whether due to Aziraphale's presence or because of sheer exhaustion, he does not dream. He tries not to speculate too closely on the reason. 

Aziraphale steadily works his way through what pastries and wine survived the fight and potters around destroying all Crowley's concentrated efforts by being nice to the plants, of all things. He isn't sure which of them is responsible for the miracle which brings the shelf containing some of his favourite books into Crowley's living room, but he is grateful for it. He does not think either of them are ready to be alone even for the time it would take him to travel to Soho and back in a taxi. 

It is not for another week that either of them considers actually leaving the relative safety of the flat. What if Aziraphale’s miracle had somehow only warded the building against invading angels? What if another attacker, from either Heaven or Hell, is waiting for them at Aziraphale’s shop? What if they get separated? What if ?

Eventually, though, it is too much for them both. One shelf of books is simply not enough for Aziraphale, and Crowley has never been very good at staying still for long periods of time. He is becoming increasingly restless, and entertaining a bored (and still recovering) demon is taking its toll on Aziraphale’s patience.

‘I thought I might open the shop today,’ Aziraphale suggests one morning as Crowley emerges, tousle-haired, from his bedroom. Aziraphale is sipping tea and reading the newspaper. Crowley has never before had the newspaper delivered, but Aziraphale gets it every day and it does not seem to have occurred to either of them that it would not still turn up for him even here.

Crowley tries not to look too startled - or worse, concerned - at this revelation. He shrugs and pulls his sunglasses from his pocket, sliding them on nonchalantly. 

‘Any particular reason?’ he asks, hoping he sounds only mildly interested.

‘Well, we can hardly stay cooped up in here forever, can we?’ Aziraphale reasons calmly, setting the newspaper aside and looking at Crowley. He does not comment on the way that Crowley’s shoulders relax at the word we .

‘I suppose not,’ Crowley allows.

‘Good,’ Aziraphale smiles. ‘You can help me finish cataloguing the new stock.’

00000

Crowley should not have said yes to this. It is boring, and he is tired, and he does not understand Aziraphale’s filing system in the slightest. He is beginning to suspect that there is not actually a system at all, or else that it is one Aziraphale has designed himself, from scratch, deliberately to be as difficult to follow as possible. He is leaning towards the latter explanation, as it seems like just the sort of thing Aziraphale would do. Something strange and warm settles in his chest at this thought. Crowley does his best to ignore it.

Aziraphale is humming while he works. Crowley vaguely recognises the tune.

He picks up a book (one of the new ones, he suspects; it looks too contemporary to be part of Aziraphale’s original collection) and flips it over to read the back. He finds no plot summary, only three very brief reviews which give away almost nothing about the novel’s contents. He smirks. Aziraphale had barely spoken to him for a month over that little innovation.

It is pleasantly warm in the bookshop. Crowley settles back into his chosen chair and smiles slightly at the sound of Aziraphale shuffling around and getting the tune wrong. He opens the book for something to do more than because he is really interested in it; he has not even registered the title.

00000

‘There,’ says Aziraphale, sliding a final stack of books neatly onto their new shelf and dusting off his hands as he turns around. ‘Now, I think -’ He stops when he catches sight of Crowley, who is fast asleep, mouth slightly open and glasses hooked over the arm of the chair. He has a book open on his chest; Aziraphale tuts as he pulls it from Crowley’s slack hand and carefully smooths the crinkled pages.

Aziraphale had been about to suggest that they go out for some lunch, but he cannot bring himself to wake Crowley now. He is certain Crowley is not entirely recovered from the fight yet, and he looks so relaxed . It is rare to see him so unguarded; so soft.

Well. There is a rather lovely bakery just around the corner; Aziraphale could be there and back before Crowley ever realised he was gone.

He hesitates. What if this is exactly what Gabriel and Sandalphon have been waiting for? What if they return in his absence and he comes back to find - to find - he has to sit down and breathe carefully for a minute to regain his composure. He wants to reach out and take Crowley’s hand, but he isn’t sure if that would be an imposition.

This is ridiculous. They can hardly spend the rest of their existence without ever going out of one another’s sight. It is impractical. He tenses, ready to stand once more; he even braces one hand against the table, but does not actually leave his seat.

He can’t do it. He can’t leave Crowley alone, not now. 

It will only get worse the longer he stays.

Last time he left Crowley on his own he nearly died .

Crowley will think he is being ridiculous.

What if this time he is too late?

This is ridiculous . There is no way this is sustainable.

Aziraphale stands forcefully; progress. Then he hesitates once more. He can at least leave a note.

It takes another five minutes for him to find a suitable piece of paper and a pen (he does not pretend even to himself that this is the result of anything other than deliberate procrastination). Three more to write two short lines explaining his absence and promising to be back soon. Another handful dithering about where to leave the note itself so that Crowley will find it quickly if he wakes up.

Eventually he folds it up and tucks it into the curled fingers of Crowley’s right hand, where they sit against his chest in the absence of the book. He lingers for a moment, brushing his hand delicately across Crowley’s forehead - just where the worst of the visible cuts had been until only a few days ago. Then, gathering his courage, he presses his lips ever so lightly over the same spot.

Then he leaves.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s dream is at first pleasantly mundane, though somewhat nonsensical. He and Aziraphale are walking through St James’s Park debating which of several different species of parrot has the longest memory. Crowley is convinced his downstairs neighbour’s pet African grey is holding an unfair grudge about some imagined slight. Aziraphale thinks he is being over-dramatic.

Then, quite suddenly, there are hands gripping Crowley’s arms tightly enough to bruise - there is tape across his mouth so he cannot shout out - his heels scrape painfully across the ground as he tries to struggle free, and Aziraphale is looking around, bewildered - Crowley tries to call out a warning but he can’t, and then everything is dark.

He opens his eyes again in a horribly familiar room. In the dream, he cannot place how he knows it. It is wide open and empty; the floor to ceiling windows look out onto an unlikely amalgamation of Earthly landmarks, and he and Aziraphale are both strapped to uncomfortable chairs, side by side. His head is throbbing.

‘You alright?’ is the first thing he says, squinting against a light that seems painfully bright to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale twists his hands in his bindings and grimaces, but nods reassuringly all the same.

‘Tickety boo,’ he replies.

Crowley looks around once more; the room is suddenly full. In front of them are the angels; Gabriel in his sharp suit looking irritable and impatient, Sandalphon at his side with an eager expression on his face; Uriel with narrowed eyes just behind them, and Michael to their left.

Behind Crowley and Aziraphale is a crowd of demons, lead by Hastur and Beelzebub, crowing for their destruction.

‘You know, telephones do exist,’ Crowley says, perhaps unwisely. ‘If you’d wanted a word you only had to pick one up.’

‘We’re not falling for that one again, Crawly,’ snaps Hastur.

‘Oh but you’ve got to admit, it was a little bit genius, wasn’t it?’ Crowley twists but cannot quite get Hastur into his central vision; he lurks expertly on the periphery.

‘We don’t have to admit anything of the sort.’ That sounded like Dagon, but Crowley cannot see far enough around to tell.

‘What do you think?’ Gabriel speaks this time; Crowley snaps his head back around to see the Archangel considering them with something like curiosity. He looks at the angels flanking him and gestures towards Crowley and Aziraphale invitingly. ‘Who wants to go first?’

Before Crowley has time to even blink, Uriel is in front of them sinking a fist into Aziraphale’s gut. Aziraphale doubles over as far as his restraints will allow but almost immediately straightens back up again.

No , Crowley thinks desperately. No .

‘Come on,’ he taunts openly. ‘He’s not the one you’re all so pissed off with, is he?’

‘Crowley, don’t -’ Aziraphale begins, but Crowley continues talking loudly, drowning him out.

‘I’m the demon. I’m the one who tempted him into it.’ The angels are watching him now. Good. Now he just has to keep it that way. ‘What was he supposed to do anyway? He saw me wiling, he thwarted. Not his fault if that wasn’t the point this time.’

‘ Stop it !’ Aziraphale cries, struggling hard against his bonds now. ‘What are you doing, Crowley?’

‘Come on, come and have a go,’ Crowley leans forward, baring his teeth in a wild grin. ‘Original tempter, remember me? Who wants the bragging rights?’

Forget about Aziraphale , he thinks. Forget he’s even here. Focus on me. Look at me. Look at me .

Uriel’s eyes do not leave Crowley as another punch lands on Aziraphale’s ribs; then Sandalphon is there, kicking Aziraphale’s immobilized knee - Aziraphale cries out in pain at that.

‘ I’m right here !’ Crowley is shouting now, straining to get out of the ties that hold him to the chair. ‘Who’s feeling lucky?’

The demons are cackling. Michael has walked behind Crowley now; Crowley cannot keep an eye on everyone at once. Sandalphon catches Aziraphale across the face with a fierce backhanded slap.

‘It’s okay,’ Aziraphale gasps. ‘I’m alright.’

‘ COME ON !’ Crowley bellows; the restraints bite into his wrists as he struggles furiously, spittle flying from his mouth as he hisses expletives at the angels. ‘ Come on , you fuckers, get over here -’

Michael strides back into view holding a large ceramic jar. Crowley gives up on any pretense.

‘LEAVE HIM ALONE!’ he screams, suddenly more panicked than he has ever been in his existence. ‘LEAVE HIM ALONE - AZIRAPHALE - LEAVE HIM ALONE !’

Michael watches Crowley expressionlessly for a moment. Then they are tipping the ceramic jug and fire is spilling out, flames like raindrops tumbling - flames - flames falling onto Aziraphale - and Crowley is screaming - the demons are shrieking with animalistic glee - the angels are smirking and Aziraphale is burning -

00000

Aziraphale returns to the bookshop to find it drenched in fear. He can feel it even from across the road; his throat closes up with terror as he hurries over and through the door. 

Nothing looks out of the ordinary. He lowers his paper bag from the bakery onto the floor, just in case, preparing to defend himself. 

He shouldn't have left. He knew he shouldn't have left. 

He only barely manages to avoid calling out for Crowley as he creeps through the main shop towards the back. 

What he sees when he gets there fills him with relief and hurt at the same time. 

Crowley is safe; at least, he is uninjured and alone; he is still sleeping. He is also twisting in his chair, hand closed tightly on Aziraphale's unread note, little sounds of distress escaping from him as he frowns unconsciously. 

'Oh my dear,' Aziraphale breathes, stepping forwards and sinking to his knees beside the chair in one movement. 'Crowley?' He does not want to wake him suddenly, but he cannot leave him like this. He puts one hand carefully on Crowley's arm but pulls back almost immediately when this seems to make matters worse. 

'It's okay, Crowley,' he tries helplessly. 'It's alright, you're only dreaming. You're safe.'

Crowley mumbles something that sounds like "no" but does not wake. 

'You're okay,' Aziraphale tries again. 'There's no one here. Everything is fine.' He reaches out again, more firmly this time, and takes Crowley's hand. Tears are beginning to leak from the corners of Crowley's closed eyes. Aziraphale can feel a sympathetic lump rising in his own throat. Crowley mutters again, a string of unintelligible words and something that might be Aziraphale's name.

'Please Crowley.' He is going to have to do something soon, sudden wakening be, well, damned. He does his best to project a feeling of security, but it is difficult against the tide of fear still coming off Crowley. He feels as though he is intruding on something he has no right to see. 

' No ,' Crowley chokes again; that is it. Aziraphale cannot stand this anymore. 

'Crowley, wake up !' Aziraphale shakes Crowley's shoulder, holding himself back from putting too much angelic force into the words. 

Crowley lurches up with a ragged gasp and doesn't seem to register, for a moment, where he is. 

'Shh,' Aziraphale soothes automatically, moving to make sure Crowley can see him. He does not let go of Crowley's hand. 'You're in the bookshop. You're safe.' 

Crowley's breath hitches on something like a sob when he finally catches sight of Aziraphale. Aziraphale can only squeeze his hand and wait.

'I saw you burn,' Crowley whispers hoarsely, still heaving ragged breaths as his gaze flickers around the room, checking for who-knows-what.

'No,' says Aziraphale, peering into Crowley's eyes and willing him to believe it. 'I'm here. We're safe.'

'They tried to burn you,' Crowley insists. Aziraphale is beginning to think that maybe he is not fully awake just yet. 

'They tried,' he allows. 'You saved me, remember? And I saved you. We switched. We're safe.'

Crowley shakes his head and looks at Aziraphale with heartbreaking fear on his face. 

'They came back,' he says. 'They'll try again.'

'Perhaps.' Aziraphale is not going to have this conversation from the floor. He straightens up - Crowley's hand twitches as though to stop him leaving - and perches on the arm of the chair. 'I don't think they'll get very far, though.'

Crowley's breathing is still uneven, but at least now his attention seems to be slowly focusing on Aziraphale. His eyes are clearing, focusing away from whatever horror he witnessed in his sleep. 

'What do you mean?' 

'Adam,' replies Aziraphale simply. 'Think about it. I really couldn't have pulled off that miracle on my own, and I don't think you were in any condition to be helping. I think it was Adam.'

‘ Adam ?’ Crowley repeats, looking doubtful. 

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale confirms. He holds Crowley’s hand gently in his, smoothing his thumb along Crowley’s knuckles absently. ‘I heard - well, I thought I heard his voice, you know. Didn’t you?’  Crowley shakes his head. ‘No, I suppose you weren’t really in any state to be noticing at that point.’ For a moment Aziraphale’s expression turns haunted; Crowley waits for it to clear before he speaks.

‘I thought he was getting rid of his powers?’ Aziraphale shrugs.

‘Perhaps not entirely. I’m not saying it was Adam, mind you,’ he adds conscientiously. ‘Just that it might have been.’

Now Crowley looks affronted.

‘If he was capable of doing that the whole time, why the bloody hell did he leave it so late before stepping in?’

‘I don’t think it was exactly… deliberate ,’ says Aziraphale. He is really just thinking aloud; he has no idea if he is correct in his musings. ‘I don’t think he’s… watching us, or anything. I suspect it was a sort of last resort. He was trying to make sure everyone was safe, wasn’t he? At the airfield. Perhaps it was a leftover part of that, coming in when we really needed it.’

There is silence for several moments as they both consider this. It is both comforting and frightening to consider that a being with power like Adam’s has them in his sights, for good or for ill. Aziraphale also feels something like pity for the poor boy; whatever else he is, he is still only eleven years old. He has already done such a lot; it seems an unfair weight to expect of any child.

‘Do you think it could work again?’ Crowley asks eventually. Aziraphale suspects his thoughts have been running parallel to Aziraphale’s own. 

‘Possibly. I’m not sure,’ Aziraphale answers. Then, because he cannot stand the sight of Crowley’s little frown of concern, he shelves his own reservations and lies through his teeth. ‘I don’t think we need to worry, though.’

‘Oh?’ Aziraphale does not miss the way that Crowley’s grip on his hand has tightened, but he does not mention it. This is still very new. 

‘We’ve seen them off twice now,’ Aziraphale explains, hoping to convince himself as much as Crowley. ‘I doubt they’ll be back again in a hurry.’

‘What if -?’ Crowley begins, but Aziraphale interrupts before he can get any further.

‘We’ll face it together,’ he says. That, at least, is the truth. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.’

Chapter Text

The last of Crowley's injuries healed approximately four months ago. It has been three weeks since his last nightmare. Life, it seems, is returning to normal. 

Well, almost normal. A better normal. To be honest, it is still taking some getting used to. Not that Crowley is complaining, of course. It is different, but a good different. Crowley has always rather liked different.

There is an openness between he and Aziraphale that there has never been before; an ease in their friendship that has only ever been allowed out in glimpses in the past. They smile more easily, more softly; they speak more honestly; they touch more often. They have more or less dispensed with excuses to spend time together, and do so now simply because they want to.

One day, six months after the attack, Crowley is feeling rather pleased with himself as he drives towards the bookshop. He has spent the last week tracking down a particularly difficult to locate copy of some book - he has little interest in it himself - which Aziraphale has apparently been pining after for months. Aziraphale, of course, has no idea that Crowley has even registered the title, let alone that he has done little else with his time for seven days than search it out.

Crowley smiles - smirks - to himself as he parks and grabs the book in question from the passenger seat. He saunters confidently towards the door and pushes it open without invitation, despite the ‘closed’ sign. If it had been locked, it daren’t remain so. 

Aziraphale looks up from his position behind the counter, pen in hand, scowling and ready to dismiss this unwanted customer quickly. His expression clears when he sees who it actually is.

'Here,' Crowley announces without greeting. He maintains a determinedly casual expression; he does still have some appearances to maintain. 'Present.' He tosses the book with a flick which sends it tumbling end over end through the air towards Aziraphale, who catches it automatically. The angel looks momentarily scandalised at this treatment of books, but his expression quickly clears when he catches sight of the cover. 

'Oh!' he exclaims, looking up at Crowley. His eyes are glittering joyfully. 'I - oh this is wonderful! I…' He trails off. He is not yet accustomed to being allowed to express himself freely; his feelings are nakedly displayed on his face, but putting them into words is… still somewhat of a challenge, sometimes. He takes a shaky breath to steady himself against the rush of emotion the small gesture has evoked.

'I love you,' he says after a pause, sounding shocked at his own daring. His eyes flicker towards Crowley and away. He has said it already of course, but that was… different. That was desperate. It was true, but it was raw and painful, driven by barely receding panic at the idea of losing each other. This is softer; more gentle; this is deeper, somehow, and thus more dangerous.

'I know,' Crowley grins. Aziraphale frowns and pouts, because it isn’t fair , it isn’t fair that Crowley can make him feel like this with a handful of careless words and the truly atrocious treatment of a book. (It is a delicious sort of inequity, thrilling and terrifying all at once.)

Crowley’s grin widens. He takes two long strides forwards, places one hand on the back of Aziraphale's neck to pull him forwards, and plants a swift kiss on the angel's cheek (just because he can , now, and Aziraphale turns a quite delightful shade of pink when he does). 'I love you, too.'