Archive of Our Own ^beta

They go to Crowley’s flat, after Armageddon. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s first choice, however as his first choice was, as far as he knew, currently sitting in a soggy pile of char and cinders, it was the only other sensible option. He sighed as they went through the front door, Crowley first and Aziraphale after him, the demon swinging the door shut behind the angel and wordlessly gliding past him, toward the office.

“Euch,” he said, from around the corner. Aziraphale followed.

“Euch,” he echoed, when he arrived. “Who, er … was that … ?”

Crowley looked glum, sunglasses fixed on the puddle. “Ligur. Result of your security policy, angel. Thanks.” He breathed out through his nose, long and meditative. “Saved my life, probably.”

“Then it was my pleasure.” They stood, staring at the puddle, shoulder-to-shoulder. After a few minutes, Aziraphale snapped, and the goo dematerialized in a blinding holy glow. Crowley winced and looked away. “Much better,” Aziraphale risked, weakly.

“Yuh.”

They stared at the floor a bit longer. Truthfully, neither was sure what to do next.

Crowley was the first to speak, after a while, hands in his pockets, still staring at the floor. “They’re going to come after us.”

“Indubitably.”

“So we’re still going to die,” he lamented, glum and bordering on whining. “They were going to torture me for eternity anyway, and that was before I coached an eleven-year-old into telling my boss to piss off.” He scuffed a foot over where Ligur’s remains had been. “I suppose I can beg for forgiveness - choose my face or whatever. They’ll still drown me in Holy Water. Dissolve me. Whatever.” He swallowed hard. “An eye for an eye. So, uh. Nice, er. Nice working with you. Glad we saved the world, anyway.”

Aziraphale looked to him, brow creased with upset and worry. “Crowley.”

“I mean they probably won’t kill you,” Crowley went on. “Angels aren’t usually like that, anyway, right? Especially if you apologize.” He considered it for a minute. “I mean, you’re definitely going to Fall at least, but I guess my last actions on Earth can be to tell you how that’s going to go. The trick is not to fall asleep while you’re taking the dive - I did that, got bored I guess, and I couldn’t slow down fast enough to -”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cut in, sharp and firm. Crowley paused. Took a breath. Aziraphale softened. Then,

“No, you know what, you’re right, they’re definitely going to kill you. Probably hellfire. Did you see Gabriel back there? Itching for a bloody fight, and he’s just the paper-pusher. I can’t imagine how Michael feels right now, glad I’m not Up There anymore I’ll tell you that. At least you don’t have to worry about Falling, though. You think we’ll see God for once if we die?” He bit his lip, scowling. “Got a few choice words for Her, after all this.”

“Argh!” Aziraphale threw his hands up. “Crowley! Listen to me!”

“What?” Crowley snarled. “I’ve had a very trying day, Aziraphale, excuse me if I’m trying to come to grips with the death I didn’t think was going to come after a quick 6,000 years. I’m in my prime! Still plenty of good years left in me! And I stopped the bloody Apocalypse, very not-Hellish but you’re welcome, anyway, but that’s life for you, I guess. But I’m trying to make you feel better about it too, you absolute twat.”

Aziraphale, quite unconsciously, started twisting his fingers into his hair. “How is talking about our inevitable executions supposed to make me feel better?”

“Trying to make you laugh, innit?” He spread his arms. “We saved the world! Congratulations, traitors, enjoy the sweet embrace of death!”

Aziraphale stared at him for a beat. The demon laughed, and it ended up sounding a little bit like a sob. Aziraphale took his hand, and started dragging him through the office, past the houseplants* and into the bedroom, which he knew about only because he’d been there once in the late 80s, when Crowley had taken one of his shorter fourteen-month naps. He shoved Crowley onto the bed and stood over him, arms crossed, glaring down imperiously.

[* Which were rather surprised to see their Infernal Master hiccuping and making the odd squeaking noise that might have, from any other sentient being, been crying.]

“Stop crying,” he said with all the authority of a Principality, echoes of the universe just under the tone of his voice. Crowley gulped and made a valiant effort. “I have a plan.”

Crowley watched him. His glasses slid down his nose, and he stared, wide-eyed, slit pupils unmoving, before he muttered, “A Great Plan?” And then he started laugh-crying again, falling backwards onto the bed, pulling at his hair. Aziraphale sighed and leaned over him, hands on his hips.

“Crowley, this really is - oof.” He grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. Crowley had kicked him. Actually kicked him! Right in the waistcoat, and there was a bootprint and everything! Aziraphale glared at the bootprint, eyes narrow, while Crowley carried on with his dramatics on the bed. The angel frowned deeper as he tried to brush the stain off, and found it was truly ground in. It was the work of a quick snap to make it disappear and then, his face like stone, he grabbed Crowley around the ankle and jerked him off the bed. The demon’s back hit the hard stone floor and he gasped, the wind briefly knocked out of him, as Aziraphale stepped over him, one foot on either side of his skinny torso, and propped his hands on his hips. “Would you listen?” Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley blinked. “Okay.”

“I have a plan, not a great plan and probably not even a very good plan, but I have hope that it will be an effective plan, which is much better and involves neither of us dying.”

“Okay.”

He pulled a slip of paper from his waistcoat, and brandished it at Crowley. “Agnes Nutter’s prophecy, I don’t think, means pretending to be sorry.” When he saw Crowley starting to squint at the page, he sighed, and turned it around to read it aloud, instead. “When all is fated and done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.”

Crowley’s face screwed up with concentration. “So what the bloody fuck does it mean, then?”

Aziraphale steadied himself. If he were feeling more charitable, or if Crowley had been less ridiculous earlier, he might have encouraged the demon to sit down on the bed. He might have broken his theory more diplomatically. But he was tired, actually tired, and he was afraid, even if he refused to show it, and Crowley was being a child about this, and so instead of being kind and gentle and tactful he said, “She wants us to bloody well switch bodies, doesn’t she?”

“She what?”

“Switch bodies! I dress my holy essence up in your body, you throw my form over your infernal nonsense, and we fool them both! Literally choose our faces!” He let his arms fall to his sides. “Crowley, listen, you’re right: both sides are going to be furious. Someone’s going to have to take the blame for this, and you’re spot-on that it will most definitely be us. You’re probably even right about the executions, although we can’t know that for certain. Still, it’s … likely.” Crowley looked dangerously close to laugh-sobbing again. “But if we switch bodies, Crowley,” he said slowly, leaning in closer, “then they can’t use all the Holy Water and hellfire they want, and it will never work.”

Crowley’s mouth was open. “You can’t know … How do you know for sure that that’s what -”

“It makes the most sense, dear boy. You said it yourself: an eye for an eye. We made them look like fools and destroyed their plans, their only logical recourse is to destroy us.” He offered his hands to Crowley. “But if we switch bodies, or physical shapes at least …?” He raised his eyebrows, lips pursed. “Let me help you up, Crowley.”

The demon’s hands slid into his own. “Okay.” With a grunt, Aziraphale gripped his hands and raised him from the floor, only for Crowley to sway for a minute and then collapse into a sitting position on the bed. This time, Aziraphale sat next to him, calm, watching his face the entire time.

Crowley thought it over for the better part of an hour. Occasionally, he would move his mouth, as if he were going to say something, but then he would stop, and be quiet for a while longer. There were long stretches when all Aziraphale could hear was the quiet ticking of the demon’s watch, or the occasional traffic sound from the street outside. Big Ben chimed. Finally, Crowley’s shoulders relaxed a little. He hadn’t said anything, but Aziraphale was so familiar with his body language that he didn’t need to. Cautious, the angel extended his hand for a handshake. “You’re in agreement?”

“And we won’t explode?” Crowley asked, hand halfway to the angel’s.

“I have no way of knowing that. We’re dead either way, though.”

“True.” He swallowed, and his arm inched forward, before he snatched it back, eyes wide. “Hang on, we’re going to have to fully pretend to be each other, then.”

“Yes. That would be rather important.”

“You’re going to have to act like me.”

“Correct.” He frowned at the demon’s dubious expression. “I have known you for the entirety of human existence, Crowley. I think I’d be rather familiar with your mannerisms by now.” He might have said something of Crowley’s impression of him, but truthfully he wasn’t worried. He’d seen Crowley mock him many times in the past, and although it was childish and petty and sometimes hurtful, Aziraphale was also humble enough to recognize that under the layer of vicious mockery, Crowley was usually dead on. He sighed. “We can practice, if it makes you feel better.”

“Going to have to,” Crowley affirmed. “Definitely.” His mouth twitched into a frown, just for a second, before he whispered, “And you really think this is the way out, hm?”

Aziraphale patted his knee. “The only one I can see, dear boy. Trust me, if there were something less absolutely reckless I would have suggested it already.”

“Yeah.” Crowley stared at his navel for a minute, lost in thought, and then looked back to the angel, sitting up as straight as he ever did, and squaring his shoulders. “Right. Right, okay. You’re right. And I’m in. But before you put on this body you ought to know a few things.” He snorted, and Aziraphale hesitated, as if his friend might burst into hysterical sobbing again. Crowley didn’t, though, and instead crossed his legs, his hand on his knee, tapping out each point as he made it. “One: I’m a snake so there’s that. We’ll have to practice transforming, just in case.”

“Just in case,” Aziraphale muttered, thoughtful but not disagreeable. “Yes, yes, just in case.”

“Two: snakes have terrible vision and I’m sorry but you’re not going to be able to see anything really aside from a bunch of blurry smudges and some infra-red if it’s dark.” He smirked. “You’ll get used to it.”

“That explains your driving,” he replied, with a soft chuckle. To his enormous relief, Crowley joined him in it.

“Does, I suppose. Anyway, Hell’s dark so you’ll be fine with the infra-red. Right, next, three: Everything tastes like ash, so unless you want your favorite food to be ruined forever, don’t eat anything.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “Is that why you don’t eat?” he asked, after a minute, a wave of pity washing over him. Crowley frowned and then laughed, waving a hand.

“No, angel. I mean, it doesn’t help, but no, I do eat, about once every two or three weeks - you had to have noticed** - but any more than that and I just have to nap so much it’s hardly practical. But the point stands: if you don’t want to associate your favorite food with the taste of ash and brimstone, don’t eat while you’re me.”

[** He had, and he always suggested Crowley’s favorite restaurants for lunch dates around those times.]

“Noted.”

“Great. Four: snakes don’t actually have limbs, not sure you ever noticed, so the arms and legs are sort of, uh, fabricated and they’re fairly numb unless you stumble across consecrated ground, so just be careful how you go.”

Aziraphale nodded. “This is honestly explaining so much about you, Crowley. Is that why -”

“I walk like that for reasons of personal aesthetic, angel. It’s a learned skill. You’re going to need to demonstrate before tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.”

“Right.” He looked thoughtful. “Okay, got the snake thing, the vision - oh, if you get stuck you can taste the air, that’s got me out of a few spots over the years - the limbs, the eating thing. Er.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Can’t fly, you knew that one …” He thought it over, idly scratching his knee, and then, “Oh! I’m probably going into shed next week, so everything itches. Ignore it; I’ll deal with that if we live.” He stuck out his hand. “That’s it. Ready?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to hesitate. “I’m not sure.” He put his hand out, hesitant. “I mean, I do want to live, absolutely, but if I’m going to have to remember all of this then I’m a bit concerned.”

“It’s not that bad. Like I said: you get used to it. The body’s not going to magically do anything else. Well, it’ll turn into a snake if you’re not careful, but we’ll iron that out.”

“Do you want instructions on this body?”

“Anything special I should know?”

“... Not really. No. Pretty standard, honestly.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You know, if we pull this off, and don’t die, and switch back, and still don’t die, you’ll be the only angel in history to have a trial run of being a demon.” He barked a half-laugh, one time. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Aziraphale agreed, grimly. And then he nodded, Crowley returned the gesture, and they gripped hands. Neither of them had actually changed bodies before, but they’d inhabited them, possessed them, and re-corporated them, and although it was disconcerting, like using someone else’s shower and not quite knowing what all the knobs did, it was still at the base a body, and the change went as smoothly as they could have hoped. They sat still for a breath afterwards, Crowley-as-Aziraphale looking wildly around the room, eyes wide, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, and Aziraphale-as-Crowley squinting at him, trying to make anything out.

“I’ll never make fun of you for books on tape again,” Aziraphale concluded, in Crowley’s voice. Crowley-as-Aziraphale, in response, shoved a pair of sunglasses onto him.

“You look like a bloody prat.”

“You mean you look like a bloody prat.”

“No, you-being-me look like a bloody prat with that Mister Magoo horseshit. Stop squinting, it doesn’t help.” He licked his lips, and looked perplexed. “I want a Cornetto.” He stood, cautiously at first, and then took a few experimental steps, before turning and holding up a finger to Aziraphale, not that he could have seen it anyway. “Wait there, we’ll practice the walk, but I need ice cream.” He strode from the room, confident and even and steady (albeit with more swagger than Aziraphale ever attempted), and returned minutes later with a Cornetto in hand, biting into the top of it. “Oh, it’s so sweet.” He made a face. “How do you eat this?”

“I like them.”

“I mean, I’m not complaining, it’s the first normal thing I’ve tasted since I Fell that wasn’t charcoal or blood, but you have to eat some vegetables or something to balance this out.” He took another bite. “Mf, it’s good though.” He savored the ice cream for another minute, while Aziraphale experimentally stuck out Crowley’s legs and tried to study his feet. They were, as promised, mostly numb. Except for the itching, which he was resolutely ignoring and which was, possibly, slowly driving him insane.

“Right,” Aziraphale heard his voice say, around a mouthful of ice cream, “off you go, then.”

Aziraphale had to think about it. Hard enough being in a different body - his center of gravity was off, and unlike when he was possessing the lovely Madame Tracy he didn’t have another person that was used to the body along for the ride to help - but add in numb feet and not being able to clearly see the floor and he was more than a little disconcerted. Still, he managed to lever himself standing, feet spread wide and arms out. He swayed a little. He heard himself - his voice - whimper.

“Oh, we’re definitely dead.”

He frowned. “Don’t be so pessimistic, it’s just my balance is off. Give me a minute. You’re too tall and skinny, you damnable demon.” He pretended not to hear himself laughing in the background. “Right. Okay, so you always lean back a bit, kind of off to the left -” He straightened up, and then leaned, just as he’d said. “So far?” He risked a look over his shoulder - Crowley’s shoulder? - and saw Crowley-as-himself sitting with his face in his hands, watching with trepidation through a crack in his fingers.

“Better, anyway.” There was a beat. “Hang on - you … you changed the collar of my jacket. Angel, is that tartan?”

Aziraphale ignored him. “And then hands in pockets!” he said with forced cheer. “Always! These are very small pockets, Crowley!”

“Yes, they’re women’s jeans. The pockets are completely useless: it’s one of my finer pieces of work.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Of course. Anyway, so you slouch to the left, and then there’s the way you swing your right hip.” He took an experimental step, and then another. And then grabbed a statue because he lost his balance, and nearly wiped out. “Oh, bother.”

“Alright, first of all, too much. Second of all, I would never say ‘oh, bother’.” Crowley stood and Aziraphale became aware of how warm he felt to Crowley, when he took the outstretched hand to help pull him back to his feet. “Alright, try again, but less Jack Sparrow on it.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” He watched, appraising, as Aziraphale gave it another try. “Better.”

“I still feel like I’m going to fall over.”

“Means you’re doing it alright.” He put his head to the side - studious - and watched as Aziraphale took another wobbly step in his body. “Less sway. Think of it as an upright slither. Not big movements but you go side-to-side as well as forward.”

“I don’t have much experience with slithering, I’m afraid.” He tried once more. “Better?”

“Eh.” He saw the smudges of his body’s shoulders shrug. “Yes. But a bit stilted. But you know, it’ll fool them. It’s close enough.” He stepped aside. “Do a couple of laps. Really, angel, it’s all in the hips. Right. Better.” He did a few laps, as requested, Crowley watching appraisingly through his own blue eyes, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah there you go. It’s all in the attitude, angel.”

“Attitude, right.” He paused, and then continued, announcing as he did, “Move, I’m better than all of you!” He smirked as Crowley laughed. “Get out of the way, I have to go climb a telephone pole and cut all the lines.”

“Yes! Yes, attitude!” He fell into step next to Aziraphale, walking backwards. “Let the hate flow through you.”

Aziraphale paused. “What?” He watched his own face fall.

“Right, forgot you haven’t seen Star Wars. It’s from a film, angel. Anyway, attitude. I’m better looking, I’m smarter, I’m infernally evil, I’m who every edgelord teenager wished they could be, I’m the ultimate being of temptation.”

It was unsettling, Crowley thought, how Aziraphale’s presence in his body could warp his facial expressions like that. He wouldn’t have ever considered that he could smile with such … affection. “Certainly,” Aziraphale told him. “Oh, certainly. Very evil. Not a single kind bone in your entire body.”

“Nope. Infernal. Forged in the fires of Hell.” He poked his body in the chest. “Literally bad to the bone.”

Aziraphale remembered himself, and resumed slouching. “If you have bones. I’m not convinced.”

“Hah, right.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands and stood up straighter, settling into typical Aziraphale posture in spite of being in Crowley’s body. “Tip-top. Now, you do me.”

“Angel, I’m sure I can manage.”

“Well, I had to prove I could, only fair for you to do the same. Stand up straighter.” Crowley rolled his eyes and obliged. “And get into character -”

“Of course you would say that. Hang on.” He looked thoughtful, and then clasped his hands in front of himself, smiling in a way that was probably meant to look warm and inviting but instead looked rather deranged. “Pip pip old boy, here we are all … uh … oh, Oscar Wilde! First edition! Tickety-boo and get a wiggle on! Buy one of my books and I’ll fucking murder you!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to admonish, but it was a lost cause. He’d started snorting somewhere around ‘wiggle on’ and outright laughing at the last part. “Dear boy, I don’t generally say, er, the uh -”

“Oh, you’re me now, you have to say it.” Crowley prodded him. “I wasn’t sure this mouth would even be able to do it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckery fuck. You do it.”

“The fuck word,” Aziraphale concluded, while simultaneously resolving to never tell Crowley about the Shadwell incident. They stared at each other for a minute, before they both, as one, started laughing, low and hesitant at first, and then harder, more genuine, until there were tears streaming from Aziraphale’s eyes and they were both forced to sit on Crowley’s bed before they fell over, leaning into one another. Crowley’s body seemed unconsciously drawn to Aziraphale’s natural body heat, leaning in a little closer than maybe necessary. When Aziraphale realized, he acted nonchalant, laid back on the bed, and distracted himself by pushing the sunglasses back up Crowley’s nose.

“This is absolutely bonkers,” Crowley sighed, likewise laying back, hands folded on his stomach. “It shouldn’t work, but it’s so daft that it might.”

Aziraphale sobered a little. “Yes, rather. Best chance we’ve got, though.”

“Million-to-one odds, I bet.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Probably. But, you know, remember when I was learning magic?”

“I have done my best to forget, but yes, I recall.”

“The magician I was learning from - lovely chap, really knew his stuff, could always make the tricks look so easy - was talking about theory one day, and said that some of the tricks seem to work like that. Million-to-one. Like the lady in the box of swords***, yes? It’s a million-to-one chance that the assistant makes it out without injury. And yet, they do.” He held up a finger, making his point and made an attempt to imitate the voice of his mentor, though it was worse than usual due to using unfamiliar vocal chords. “Million-to-one chances, Ezra, will come through for you nine times out of ten.”

[*** Aziraphale had never attempted the sword box trick. He did love magic, and fancied himself fairly good at basic tricks, but he knew his limitations. He also, on a deep level that he would never, ever confess to Crowley, knew he was fairly rubbish at magic and he didn’t think any lovely assistants deserved to be subjected to his attempts to learn the sword trick.]

“Hah. Hope so.” Crowley sighed, and grabbed his body’s wrist, looking at the watch there. “Sun’s going to be up in a few hours.” He dropped his arm back to the bed, and Aziraphale let it fall. “I should go. I don’t think they’ll wait long.”

“No, they probably won’t,” Aziraphale agreed. He pushed the sunglasses up, the better to rub his current body’s eyes. “We should have a plan.”

“Yeah.” Crowley closed his eyes - a part of him was loath to do it, it was so nice to be able to see - and sighed, scrubbing the strangely familiar face with his hands. “Alright. So the energies - they’re less likely to notice the mix of energies if we’re together when they come for us. They’ll think we’ve just contaminated one another. They’re not wrong, but that can be to our advantage overall.”

“Good plan.”

“But,” Crowley went on, thinking aloud, following the strand of thought as it went, “if they don’t see us meet they might suspect something.”

“What makes you think they’ll come for us at the same time?” Aziraphale sounded thoughtful, staring up at the ceiling. “Do you think if you wore glasses you’d be able to see better?”

“They don’t work, and they give me a headache. Focus, angel. They’ll definitely come for us together - we won’t be able to chase each other if they do. They’ll expect that.”

“Are we that predictable?”

Crowley frowned. “I think we might be.”

“Inevitable, I suppose. Alright, so we meet up somewhere. They’ll take the opportunity.”

“St. James’,” Crowley said, without hesitation. “Out in the open. They won’t be as suspicious if we’re out in the open.”

“No, they wouldn’t be. My people certainly won’t be, anyway.”

“And mine’ll just think I’ve finally tripped up badly enough to give them a clear shot.” He ignored the pitying look Aziraphale was giving him. “Natural state of demons, Aziraphale - they really are all out to get you.”

A chill came over Aziraphale suddenly, and a heavy silence settled over him. There was a curious ringing in his ears, quite unrelated to the curious vibratory sensations he’d been trying to reconcile since suiting up in Crowley’s corporation. “Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to have to go to Hell.” He swallowed and looked over to Crowley, who was watching him out of his own blue eyes. They lay like that for a minute, looking at one another. Even in Aziraphale’s body, Crowley wasn’t much of one for facial expressions, but there was something there - pity, Aziraphale thought. It was unfamiliar, seeing it on his own face, but he’d seen it on Crowley’s before, and it wasn’t so different. “I’ve never been,” he murmured. “I’m not sure what to expect.”

“It’s … probably not what you’re thinking.” Crowley sat up, leaning on stiff arms, staring at the ceiling. “Not the part they’ll take you to, anyway. Not if they’re going to execute you - they’ll do that publicly. It won’t be in the Pit.” He shook his head. “Too much risk of you escaping into the Hellfire in the Pit.”

“So you don’t think I’ll have to see … him?”

“Who, Lucifer?” Crowley waved a hand. “Nah, only the Dark Council ever sees him these days. And I’m not even sure they see him all that much. He’s been ... quiet.” He shrugged a shoulder. “After the Antichrist was born, I figured that’s why he hasn’t been around. But then you’d think with Armageddon looming we’d start hearing from him more, you know? But we didn’t. I still can’t believe he showed up at the airfield. The only one that’s seen him for ages has been Beelzebub and maybe some other Dark Council members. And his head torturer.” Crowley made a face. “Mazikeen. Nasty piece of work. Lilim.” He shook his head. “Nah, you won’t see him. Or Mazikeen. I’m too small potatoes. It’ll be Beelzebub and Dagon and Hastur, probably, working on the Council’s orders. Maybe Verrier, but I doubt it.”

“Hastur? I know the others, I suppose, but who’s Hastur? Have you talked about him before?”

“Duke of Hell, I’ve mentioned him.” He sighed. “He’s my supervisor. I hate him. And not in like, the demon way where we say we hate someone because we actually like them. Legitimately hate him. He’d have killed me ages ago, if he’d had the chance, but until recently I’ve still been coasting on original sin and the Spanish Inquisition. Verrier is a big fan of original sin.”

“Which you didn’t do. The Spanish Inquisition, that is. You definitely did original sin.”

“They’ll never know,” he scoffed. “And anyway, isn’t original sin enough? Can’t have literally every other sin without it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, never mind. You’re just going to see ol’ Beelz, probably. And Dagon. And definitely Hastur - he won’t miss it.” He frowned. “Bet they’ll have an audience. It’d be their style. Make an example out of the traitor.” He growled. “You know, and it’s bloody hypocritical, isn’t it? I’m meant to rebel and go against the powers that be. That’s all I did! It’s - argh - it’s fucking Falling all over again!” He twisted a hand into the sheets. “Follow these rules, got it, oh, but there’s a whole list of secret rules that we won’t tell you, but don’t violate those, Crowley, you scoundrel, those are the really bad ones and -” He stopped when he felt a hand wrap around his wrist, insistent and gentle. He looked over to his own body - Aziraphale, though, that openness of expression was all Aziraphale - who was frowning at him.

“They wanted a war, Crowley. Both sides. The rules went out the window the minute they decided they were going to fight.” He squeezed Crowley a little, the demon’s body’s skin cold and dry against the warmth of Aziraphale’s body’s hand. “You knew, right away. I should have listened. I’d hoped … But you were right.” He took a breath. Crowley looked away, staring at the floor, Aziraphale’s shoes, the bed. Anywhere but his own body. “If it’s any consolation, they probably won’t have an audience for you. That would be too exhibitionist for Gabriel. And Michael, well. If anything goes wrong, Michael won’t want anybody else to see. No, it’ll just be the four of them: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. That way they can spin the story however they want when it’s all done.”

“Typical,” Crowley grumbled.

“Oh.” Aziraphale sat up suddenly. “Crowley! Heaven!”

“Yes?”

He looked to Crowley-as-Aziraphale, who was staring fixedly at his shoes. “They’re going to take you back to Heaven.”

“Oh, goody,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of a man who, while considering things probably couldn’t get much worse, had just discovered everything had gotten worse. “Probably going to burn like … well, like that church in ‘41, but all over. At least your body will be alright. I can take it.”

“It won’t, though. It’s not consecrated.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t been since Yeshua. It’s been too long since She was there, and Gabriel has never bothered to re-bless it. It’s just … it’s just an office. A big, empty office.” He looked down, face falling. “No love left there at all.” He swallowed. “You’ll be fine.” Crowley was watching him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Things haven’t been the same for a long time, Crowley.”

“You never said.”

“I hoped it would change. I hoped it would … go back to the way it was before. It never did, though.” He shook his head. “It’s why I finally settled in the bookshop. If there wasn’t going to be love in Heaven, then I was going to make sure there was some somewhere in the world. For all sorts, not just the divine.” He forced a chuckle. “I’m soft, Crowley.”

Crowley patted his hand and they shared a look. “Your bookshop’s always been fine for me, angel,” he said softly.

“Yes. Yes, it has.” He took a deep breath. “All gone, now. It’s … I’ll recover. Find something else to do.” A thought occurred to him, suddenly, and his eyes widened. “Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“You said, when you came to Tadfield, that the M25 was on fire.” He looked over, and blinked. “The M25 wasn’t on fire when we came back.”

“No, of course it wasn - Oh. Oh.” He raised a hand to his forehead, twisting fingers into Aziraphale’s soft curls. “He couldn’t have. It had to - no. No, he can’t have - Ngk.” He grabbed his own body’s bony wrist again, and dragged Aziraphale off of the bed, toward the office. “He couldn’t have put it all back.”

“He must have,” Aziraphale breathed, using full advantage of Crowley’s long legs to keep pace as Crowley practically ran to the office. They got stuck, briefly, when they tried to force their way through the door at the same time, but Aziraphale slithered out and was already waving the TV on as he rounded the corner into the office, Crowley hot on his heels.

The news snapped on. “ - though the same research vessel was later found intact, with no injuries or fatalities reported among the crewmembers. This is similar to the incident earlier today on the M25 where there were documented reports of fire and death, however no evidence exists that this actually occurred. At this time, NHS is investigating, but mass hallucinations are believed to be the source of the majority of these reports. We have in the studio to discuss this further the doctor who -” Aziraphale waved the TV back off. They weren’t watching it, anyway, instead staring fixedly at one another, wide-eyed and deathly still.

“He put it back,” Crowley whispered. “He put it all back.”

“But Ligur -” Aziraphale shook his head, not allowing himself to hope, although twinges of a light feeling, of love, were stirring inside him. Crowley’s stomach roiled and growled in response. “He didn’t put it all back.”

“He’s eleven, surely you can forgive a mistake or two.” Crowley grabbed his shoulders, and Aziraphale fought the urge to lean into the warmth of his hands. “I’m going, angel. Meet me at St. James at one. By the usual spot.” He nodded. “If we survive, I’ll meet you after at rendezvous eight.”

Aziraphale frowned, groaned. “Crowley, you know I can never remember -”

“Bench in Tavistock. Angel, he put it back. I bet he put it back.” He started backing away, tripping a little over unfamiliar feet in his excitement. “One o’clock, St. James’! Bring the Bentley!”

There was a slam as the door shut behind Crowley-as-Aziraphale, and the pounding of wingtips on the stone floor. Aziraphale blinked - it didn’t help the vision - and then paused, because the running sound was no longer getting farther away. It was … he was coming back. The door banged back open.

“Don’t be nice to my plants while I’m gone!” Another slam, the sound of running, and this time it faded away entirely, punctuated by the clang of the fire escape door slamming shut. Aziraphale stood, hands clasped behind his back, and tried to ignore how Crowley’s body objected to good posture. “He never told me how to turn into a snake,” he said, at length, slightly disappointed. After a time, he shrugged, and started stalking around the office, looking at the chair (gaudy), the desk (huge but utterly devoid of anything useful), the books (books?), and the art. There was the da Vinci sketch, he’d always liked that, the uncomfortable wrestling statue, he’d never liked that, and … the eagle from the church in ‘41. He paused in front of it, smiling, and traced his fingers over the arch of the eagle’s wings. “When did you go back for this?” he murmured, tapping the bird on the beak. He sighed, happy, smiling so widely that Crowley’s face ached with the unfamiliar movement, and then, only because he knew he was alone and would never be heard, “Oh, Crowley. You old softie.” He tapped the beak once more, chuckled, and turned away. He’d ask about it later.

The plant room stood ahead, green and verdant, the early-morning sunlight trying weakly to slip through the clouds and skylight. “Well,” he murmured, walking toward the greenery, his hands brushing the leaves as he drew even with them, quieting their trembling, “aren’t you all just gorgeous?”