Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fire. Brimstone. The End of The World. A cool hand in his own. Familiar. Comforting.

“Aziraphale?”

He jerked awake, dizzy and–

“Aziraphale are you listening?” Gabriel stared at him, eyes intent, searching. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Oh, that– I may have, that is, I’m listening.” Or he was now. He straightened his posture, clearing his throat, trying to look attentive. Trying to ignore the shaky, unsettled feeling inside him, and how it was only made worse by Gabriel’s continued scrutiny.

It was only the two of them standing there, in some nondescript part of Heaven. Empty. White. Clinical. Nothing like his–his…?

That feeling of unease grew more pronounced.

Gabriel continued to stare.

Aziraphale struggled to meet his gaze head on, and failed, eyes dropping to Gabriel’s chin. “Please do, uh, continue, unless, that is, you must be– I’m– I’m sure you have–” he tried to suppress a nervous laugh, only to have it escape as a puffy breath, “more pressing things, matters, that need your attention?” He couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of his voice.

“Nothing you’ll need to worry about, I’m sure.” Gabriel gave him a smile that was wholly empty and fake.

Aziraphale returned it with a polite smile of his own, but it felt strained, trembling. He let it fall from his face a moment later, hoping Gabriel hadn’t notice.

“Now, about your new assignment.”

“New?” That alarm built even further.

“Yes, you’ve been reassigned. No more pesky earthy duties or whatever. Do you have a problem with that?” That searching look was back again.

But his–And–And? “No, no, as you were saying, erm, reassignment, no point complaining since I’m already here, being reassigned, and all, yes.”

Gabriel seemed satisfied with his answer, finally breaking eye contact. “This way then, and do try not to get lost.” He started toward a door that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Aziraphale followed, wanting to wring his hands. Instead he settled for smoothing down his suit jacket. A pure white material that didn’t sit right on him. His bowtie was the same bleached colour.

“Here we are,” Gabriel said, gesturing to the empty office that lay beyond the door.

Aziraphale peered through the doorway at the single pale grey desk, and chair. Feeling eyes on his back, he turned to Gabriel, who looked expectantly at him. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s very… nice.”

“I knew you would like it.” Gabriel clapped him heavily on the back, his fake smile taking on a smug edge. “Digitizing paperwork and reports, far more your style than field work. Who wants to battle demons like Crawly for eternity anyway?”

“Who?” He frowned, not recognizing the name.

For the first time that meeting, Gabriel looked genuinely pleased. “Nothing you need to worry about. Why don’t you get settled.” He made a shooing motion toward the desk, “I’ll have the first set of reports sent over.”

Feeling more than a little out of sorts, but not sure what else to do, Aziraphale entered the office and shuffled his way over to the desk. He set a hand on top of the empty workstation, feeling the cold of the metal seep into his fingers. There was a computer screen embedded in the surface, not yet turned on.

Gabriel gave another empty smile. “I’ll leave you to it then.” The door shut and winked out of existence, leaving him alone in the empty expanse.

Aziraphale slumped down into the office chair, pressing his hands to his dizzy head. This was wrong. Somehow this was all wrong.

But there was not one single thing he could point to and state how it should be. Nothing was different. Sure he had been reassigned, and maybe that was throwing him, but… but… His fingers found their way into his curls, clutching at them as he squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and cozy with– with– someone?

He tried to grasp the thought, but it slipped between his fingers, slithering away.

He was utterly alone.

And that didn’t feel right either.

When the reports Gabriel had mentioned materialized in the air, landing with a thump on the desk, Aziraphale was alarmed by how tall the teetering stack was. He’d braced it with a hand a second too late, and the top half of the tower tipped over, spilling papers across the desk and onto the floor.

Sighing, he bent down, and then stopped. Frowning, he placed a tentative hand against his chest and took another experimental breath. He didn’t need to breathe. No etherial being had to. But the sigh he’d given, the gesture felt familiar, like a habit. Which brought the question, why did he have such a– a human reaction?

He’d been on Earth preforming duties there. Yes, that was right, preforming miracles and blessings, wandering unnoticed in and out of human history, while he blended in with the locals by pretending to breathe. He’d simply been down there too long. Picked up a bad habit. He’d just have to work at– at breaking it.

His fingers curled, crumpling the nearest paper. A feeling rose within his chest, one he didn’t want to name. He knew how the others would react if they caught him doing such a thing. Breathing was beneath angels. He knew that. And yet… why was the thought of giving it up so upsetting to him?

His mind whirled, trying to make sense of everything, of his unease, of this whole situation. But angels were not supposed to question. Only the Fallen had done that. Had been punished for that.

So why did it feel like this wasn’t where he was supposed to be? Why did this feel so very wrong?

His hands shook. He half expected for something to strike him down for the thought. For the others to storm in, cold eyes and fake smiles, too many to fight off, pulling at his limbs, his wings, binding his hands, ignoring him as he screamed someone’s name, all the while as they lied through their teeth as they dragged him away, “This is for your own good.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, coming back to himself, head pounding like a drum. He didn’t want to be here.

He cringed, holding his head tighter, as the echoed screaming seem to get louder in his ears, piercing, blaring like an alarm. Only it wasn’t in his head. Aziraphale snapped up, staring at the empty space around him. That was an alarm. A siren coming from some other part of Heaven.

He rose somewhat shakily to his feet, letting the documents scatter back cross the floor. He drew another breath, testing to see how steady he felt. When he didn’t feel anything too out of place, he let his feet carry him away from the desk, and snapped a door into existence. Marching through it, he stepped out into complete and utter chaos.

Alarms were blaring in earnest and there were angels milling about every which way, gathering arms and shouting orders. Aziraphale stood there, stunned, trying to take everything in. Then an angel, struggling with their armour crashed into him.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, stumbling, trying to make way.

The angel didn’t offer an apology, instead spitting at him, “Don’t just stand there! It’s almost here.” They kept moving, still struggling with the stubborn buckle.

Aziraphale scrambled after them, matching their hurried pace. “What’s happened?”

“Those accursed demons, they’ve created a monstrosity. It’s attacking the main entrance.”

He stopped cold. “What?”

The demons were attacking? But Armageddon was stopped. The horsemen defeated. No side had won, and he’d– he’d revelled in that victory, celebrating with a clink of glasses. Him and–

Pain laced Aziraphale’s head, leaving him dizzy once more. The crowd pushed at him, buffering him side to side, making him stumble when he didn’t follow. He escaped the flow, crashing into the edge of a long table. He leaned against it, hand pressed to his forehead, trying to gather himself. Why was this happening?

“You there.” Another sharp voice and he looked up, still cradling his head. The angel on the other side of the table shoved a sheathed dagger at him. “Get a move on. They need all the help they can get out there.”

“With a dagger? Surely you have something a little more–”

The angel bristled. “Given how you misplaced your flaming sword, no.”

The dragger was dropped, leaving Aziraphale fumbling to catch it with one hand. His fingers tightened around the sheath when the sirens cut out. Startled silence fell over the assembled angels, before someone breathed. “Oh blessing.”

A deep crack and roar sounded, a bellowing cry that could only come from some monstrous beast.

“MOVE!” bellowed an angel, taking charge of the crowd. “Get in formation!”

There was more jostling, but this time Aziraphale allowed the crowd to draw him along. The main gate was that way. The way out. The thought should not have been so tempting, even with a demonic beast standing in the way.

He heard the beast long before he saw it. It’s bellowed cries, the way the floor shook from its movements. When Aziraphale and the rest of the host turned the corner, he finally caught his first glimpse of it, the beast was standing at the bottom of the escalators that led to Heaven and Hell.

A beast made of dust and shadows, a beast with great demon horns and wings. The sight of it brought a single name to his lips. “A Balrog.”

No one heard him.

Angels surged at the monster, weapons drawn and Aziraphale could only marvel at them. Couldn’t they tell? The beast had no presence. No life of its own. It was nothing more than a puppet drawn out of a… a book. This was nothing more than a distraction.

But then what was the goal?

His eyes flew over the battle, catching a flash of dark clothes and red hair. His breath caught and Aziraphale didn’t think. He launched himself down the escalator. That had to be who was driving the monster. He could feel them. A strong presence against a background of noise. Everything within him screamed to give chase.

He dodged around angels, dancing between the beast’s great clawed feet, not paying it any mind. Once he was past, he raced to the spot he’d seen– Only to find no one there. What? He turned about in circles, desperate and confused. They should be here. Right here. He could still feel–

Hands seized his ankles, yanking his feet down through the floor. A useless cry escaped him as the rest of him followed, plunging down beneath the surface. He struggled as the hands dragged him along, terrified like he’d never been before. They were dragging him into Hell. He should have known better.

The monster. The obvious taunt from a demon who now had ahold of his ankles. It’d been a trap and he’d fallen right into it, like a fool.

No one above was going to notice his absence, not until it was far, far, too late.

The ground around them gave way to cold wet dirt, and Aziraphale realized with a jolt that the direction was wrong. They weren’t going downward, but rather, sideways?

They broke through the rounded brick wall of a tunnel. The demon let him go, and Aziraphale collapsed onto the uneven stone ground. A channel of foul smelling mirky water flowed not even a foot away from him. He drew a shaky breath, and beyond the stench of the artificial river, there was something else in the air. Something familiar. Earth. They were on Earth.

Beside him, the demon danced around the underground tunnel, cackling with a glee that sang with happiness and… relief? “Those egotistical idiots, I can’t believe they let you out to fight! What did they think was going to happen?”

Aziraphale’s hands shook, the still sheathed dagger, rattling in its case. The demon thought he was an easy mark.

Said demon grinned at him, and Aziraphale was once again thrown. That wasn’t the type of smile one threw a prisoner, let alone a six thousand year old sworn enemy. It was– it was– But the demon turned his head, shouting down the tunnel. “Oi Adam! Wrap it up. Mission accomplished.”

“Right,” echoed back a voice, young, far too young. “Just give me a moment. Need to make this look good.”

The demon huffed, “Kids.” Before he turned his focus back to Aziraphale, or so he thought, the dark sunglasses made it a bit difficult to tell where the other was looking. “You alright?”

He was still sitting on the damp ground, of what he strongly suspected was a human sewer. The demon took a step toward him, and despite himself, Aziraphale flinched, scrambling up, only to realize the demon had gone absolutely still, a hand still half raised toward him.

This time he was certain the demon’s eyes were focused on him. “Aziraphale?”

Something lurched within him. The demon knew his name. But before he could even begin to form an answer, from around a bend in the tunnel there was an echo of steps, before two figures appeared behind the demon.

The first being was little more than a boy. Human, his senses whispered, as the boy stared right through him with eerie eyes. Behind him, was a woman with dark hair and spectacles, and there was no mistaking the witch’s aura that hung about her.

Were they in league with the demon? As much as the thought hurt, it wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened.

“Aziraphale? Angel?” The demon tried to take another step toward him.

Aziraphale drew the dagger. “Don’t!” It was part terrified squeak, part warning, and he was more than relieved when the demon went still, raising his hands in an almost placating gesture. Aziraphale steadied his shaking hold on the dagger. “Don’t– don’t try anything!”

“Something’s wrong with him,” said the boy with the eerie eyes.

The demon’s head snapped back and forth between them, like he wasn’t sure who to look at. “What do you mean something’s wrong?”

The boy frowned. “I… I don’t know.”

The woman had stepped closer to the boy, placing a protective hand on his shoulder, worried perhaps that a fight might break out. If she dragged the boy to cover, then, Aziraphale thought, he might stand a chance. Maybe. Gabriel might have been close to the mark when he said paperwork was more Aziraphale’s forte. He was deeply regretting this whole situation.

The demon was looking at him again, a pronounced frown on his face. “Aziraphale?” He tensed, but the demon remained where he was. “Talk to me, angel. What’s going on in your head?”

That feeling was still in the air. Though it no longer sang with gleeful joy, and had become tempered with other emotions he couldn’t read, there was no mistaking the soft emotion that kept brushing against him. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of it like a cloud of smoke. He couldn’t get distracted, not now.

His hands were shaking around the dagger again.

“Easy now. I’m not going to hurt you.” The demon still had his arms in the air, hands empty, waggling his fingers, as though that would make a difference. “See?”

Indignation swelled within him. “You kidnapped me!”

The demon shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “They started it.”

“Of all the childish reasons–!”

“Would you rather have stayed there?”

“No!” The vehemence of his own answer startled him.

“Then why are you putting up such a fuss!”

“Because you’re my enemy!”

Dead silence met his statement. Everyone stood frozen, as his voice echoed further and further into the sewer tunnels.

Aziraphale stared at them, feeling like he’d just taken something they held very dear and shattered it in front of them. He didn’t understand. Why were they reacting like this?

The demon had gone tense, hands curling towards fists. “Adam,” there was a growl in his voice, low and dangerous.

The boy shook his head. “He’s not lying. He really thinks–”

“I know that,” the demon snapped. “What. Did. They. DO?”

The boy squinted at Aziraphale, like he was some fine print book that was open to read at his leisure. Aziraphale shuffled back another step. The boy let out a frustrated breath. “His shape isn’t right. And there’s… something stopping him from noticing. A flower? I don’t know what that means.”

The witch adjusted her spectacles. “Can you describe it?”

“Um, it’s blue, with five, kinda, flat petals, and they’re tiny.”

The witch sucked in an alarmed breath, “Scorpion grass.”

The demon zeroed in on her like a blood hound. “What? What does that mean?”

The witch looked ill. “That’s a base ingredient for– for memory spells.”

Aziraphale went cold. The way Gabriel had been acting– No. No, they wouldn’t–

Anger exploded from the demon, his demonic power rushing out like an inferno. Both humans flinched and Aziraphale back peddled, wings bursting out. He readied his dagger, wondering if he should call forth the flames that followed him, no matter what weapon he used. He planted his feet, expression set, fear shoved away–

When the witch shouted, “Crowley!”

He knew that name. The demon. He knew–

A cool hand in his own. A secret smile meant just for him. A thousand little things that said more than words ever would. Long conversations by a warm fire, shared over a bottle of wine. Them against everything else. The two of them, together–

And then agony.

A terrible scream filled his ears, pained, and animalistic. He wanted it to stop, but it only grew louder and louder.

A cool hand touched his cheek. A noise of panicked voices fluttered around him. Everything hurt. The hand moved to his head, and the terrible wail faltered as slow calm fingers began to brush through his hair. The cry grew quiet, and then Aziraphale blinked, the scream falling silent in his throat.

The demon was speaking, voice soft and lilting, “It’s okay, angel. It’s okay.” The gentle hand was still running through his hair, and with another slow blink, he realized, that hand belonged to– to– A pained whine built in his throat, but the demon kept murmuring soft reassurances. “You’re okay. No one’s going to harm you. You’re safe.”

Safe. Aziraphale sagged, exhausted in a way he’d never felt before. He let the words wash over him, squeezing his eyes shut, as he tried to get his bearings.

He was on the ground again, no worse for wear, but his hands were empty. The dagger. He opened his eyes, blinking heavily, as his gaze strayed over the damp walkway. But there was no sign of it. The murky water. It must have fallen in. He watched the running stream, tired and unwilling to chase his own thoughts.

A shiver passed through him, making his feathers rustle like leaves. He blinked again. His wings were still out, curled around him, like they could protect him from the world. No, curled around him and the demon. He hesitated, and with a push that took more out of him than it should have, his wings slipped back out of Earth’s plane of existence.

The demon fell quiet, regarding him with open concern. “Back with us, angel?”

He nodded, and then stopped as his head spun. “Yes.” His voice was a terrible croak. He swallowed, mouth dry, doubting it would make a difference. “What happened?”

There was an edged silence. But, to his surprise, the demon answered, words careful, “Looks like upstairs used an occult spell with a nasty failsafe in it.”

“Oh,” his voice was very small, but he wasn’t surprised. Just scared. No wonder his head had hurt so much.

The demon was still running gentle fingers through his hair.

He shivered, and then his teeth started chattering.

“Is he going into shock?” He blinked at the young voice. Oh. The humans were still here.

The demon made a sound of annoyance. “He’s an angel. Not one of you squashy humans.” But he snapped his fingers, producing a thick quilted blanket, and carefully wrapping it around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but burrow into it, intrigued, for a moment, by its tartan pattern.

The demon gave him a critical look. “That being said, that stench isn’t doing us any favours. Think you can stand?”

That was a loaded question. One he didn’t want to answer right now. “I don’t–” His hands tightened on the quilt. “I don’t know you.”

The demon’s voice was feather soft. “Yes, you do.” But that only made it worse.

The reassignment. The cold searching looks Gabriel had given him. It made a sick sort of sense now.

Fraternizing with the enemy.

But for the first time, that beating drum of Wrong-Wrong-Wrong had gone silent.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and made his choice. “Alright.”

He let the demon help him to his feet. His legs shook, acting like they didn’t want to let him stay on this plain of existence. He wasn’t surprised by the gentle hands that steadied him. No one said anything. The humans led the way, walking ahead of them. Aziraphale struggled to follow as best he could. He wasn’t, in any sense of the word, steady on his feet, but the demon didn’t complain, helping him along, like they’d done this a million times before.

It left an ache in his chest. One he didn’t dare chase. Not while his head still hurt, and not while the other stood so close.

He was exhausted by the time they emerged from the sewer. The arm around his shoulders gave him a tight squeeze. “Not much farther now. Promise.”

There was a car waiting for them. The demon helped him into the back seat, as everything increasingly became too bright around the edges. He sank against the demon’s shoulder without thinking, eyes falling shut. The car’s engine sounded so soothing.

A distant worry flickered at him, drawing him slightly back. “The others– Upstairs–” Even now cocooned in a warm blanket, he was still shivering. “They’ll notice–”

The demon let out a biting sort of laugh, “No, angel, they won’t.”

And Aziraphale sighed, thoughts feeling slow and heavy. He should ask what that meant. He really should, but the promise in those words, and the protective arm holding him so close, all of it made everything else feel so far away. He was safe. He could worry about the rest of it later.

He came awake on the softest couch he’d ever felt. The tartan quilt still wrapped around him, the corners tucked in, and what had to be the fluffiest pillow he’d ever felt settled beneath his head. He blinked, not moving, as he cleared his eyes. Sitting on the coffee table, watching him, like he didn’t have a care in the world, was the demon. “Hey.”

Aziraphale blinked again, disbelief colouring his voice, “I fell asleep?”

A devilish grin answered him. “Like a baby.”

Heat rose in his cheeks as an indigent squawk escaped him. “I most certainly did not!” He pushed against the pillow.

“Easy!” The demon reached out, but he didn’t let that stop him from sitting up.

He looked about their surroundings, pulling the quilt back around his shoulders. “Where are we?”

“Jasmine Cottage.” His frown must have been pronounced enough, because the demon elaborated. “The witch’s place. We needed supplies.” He looked over his shoulder, drawing Aziraphale’s eyes.

Through a doorway, Aziraphale could see the witch hurrying about the kitchen. More impressive, she worked without hesitation, even with a demon and angel watching her. With deft hands, she boiled water, throwing together plants and herbs that came from a set of glass bottles that didn’t look like they’d been stored in the kitchen.

After referring to a dusty book, the witch ground the herbs together with a mortar and pestle. The ground up paste was then transferred into a small clay container, before she poured the hot water over it.

This she brought out of the kitchen and presented the steaming concoction to Aziraphale. He stared at it without comprehending. “Sorry, what am I supposed to do with it?”

The witch offered the clay container again. “You drink it.”

He blinked. “I what?”

The demon let out an angry hiss like a boiling kettle. “Don’t tell me those fuckers stole that too!”

“Language!” For a terrifying moment, he thought the demon was going to spit more curses at him, but instead the demon simply huffed, and looked away.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to think of having successfully made a demon sulk.

The witch cleared her throat. “This should help break the spell they put on you.”

He looked at her. “And then I’ll be cured?”

“Well…” she hedged.

The demon sighed. “Adam says your not supposed to notice what’s been done to you, it’s part of the spell, but occult magic, like this, it came after us, and those spells don’t hold anywhere near the same power, hence that failsafe, which goes off every time you start poking around.”

Aziraphale took a moment to digest that. “And once the spell is removed, what becomes of this failsafe?”

He didn’t like the grim look that took over the demon’s expression. “That’s where I come in.” The demon cracked his knuckles. “Celestial magic, should be interesting.”

Realization dawned on him. “You can’t be serious. A failsafe like that, it’s– it’s–”

“Powerful? Yeah. But I’m the best chance we have at breaking it.” He paused, regarding Aziraphale. “Besides, demon, remember? I can take a little pain.”

“That’s besides the point!”

To his surprise the demon looked fond. He reached out, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “It’s worth it.”

Heat rose in his cheeks. A giddy feeling in his chest.

The demon gave a sharp little grin. “I’ve always found there’s little that can stand in our way. Not even Armageddon, when it’s the two of us.”

“Us and the world,” the words slipped out without him realizing. He winced, pressing a hand to his forehead as the demon touched his shoulder. “I’m… I’m alright.”

The demon looked skeptical. His hand remained where it was, his thumb rubbing little circles against the blanket and his shoulder. It felt… nice, distracting.

The witch cleared her throat, and the demon glanced at her, face scrunched up with annoyance. Somehow, Aziraphale got the impression he was hiding embarrassment. The witch just raised an eyebrow at them. “Should I just leave this here and give you a moment?”

Aziraphale coughed, now embarrassed himself. “No, no, that’s– quite alright.” He accepted the clay cup from her, giving the contents a dubious look.

“Just think of it as having tea,” said the witch.

He heard the demon mutter under his breath, “Probably not that much different tasting.”

He stared at the milky, greenish coloured liquid. “I’ve never had–” A pinched look of anger began to appear on the demon’s face. Aziraphale quickly corrected himself, “I don’t recall having tea, I’m sure it’ll be quite the experience.” He held the cup for another awkward moment. “Bottoms up?”

The ‘tea’ tasted terrible. Bitter, sludgy, and utterly foul. It clung to his mouth, even as he struggled to swallow all of it down. He wanted to miracle it out of his mouth. His fingers twitched, but the demon gently caught his hands. “None of that now.”

Aziraphale made a sound of disgust. There was a roar building in his ears.

The demon brought his hands up, letting Aziraphale brace his own against his arms as he aligned fingers on either side of the Aziraphale’s temples. “Ready for this?”

He gave his accent, but he couldn’t hear his own words as a tidal wave of power crashed down on all sides, drowning his senses.

Holy water splashed across his face. He jerked.

Gabriel loomed over him. “Well, well, immune to that still? Pity, this would have been so much easier if we could just wash our hands of you, and leave it as Hell’s problem.”

Water dripped into his eyes. He yanked at ropes bound too tight, heart pounding like a caged bird.

“Angel!”

Gabriel circled the chair that had become his prison, a predator taking its time before the kill. “A pity you had to go and Fall for the enemy.”

“Don’t listen to him!”

Gabriel leaned in close. “You let that demon corrupt you.”

His lips trembled as he spoke, but every one of his words held conviction. “I did nothing wrong.”

Gabriel sighed, drawing away, disappearing out of sight behind him. “This is for your own good.”

Gabriel’s hands squeezed against the sides of his head, before biting power caught his memories and everything began to burn.

He screamed.

“Aziraphale!”

Fire. Burning books. The end of his world. And no hand was in his own. No tether of familiarity. No comfort.

Flames devoured the bookshop around him, an inferno of hellfire he tried to huddle away from. Burning. All of it. Everything he loved.

Cool hands, grimy with soot and ash, grasped his arms, turning him away from the horrible sight. A demon crouched before him, his great black wings shielding them from the blaze. A demon with desperate yellow eyes.

He knew him. And finally he had a name. “Crowley.” He sobbed.

“Aziraphale this isn’t real!”

He reached out, clinging to the other. How could he forget this? How could he bare to lose all this again? “It’s burning.”

“Listen to me! We’re in your mind.”

Glass cracked and exploded in the heat, sending devouring embers rushing through their little sanctuary. He flinched away.

Crowley shook him, frustration colouring his words. “You’ve got to fight.”

But–

“Aziraphale fight!”

Another blast of fire rolled over them, reeking of Gabriel’s power.

Terror gripped Aziraphale anew. “I can’t fight an archangel!”

“You took on Satan with a sword, for Satan’s sake. How is this different!”

He couldn’t stop shaking. Lips trembling as tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t want to forget you. I don’t.” He clung to Crowley with all his strength. “But he won. Crowley, he won.”  

The books were all burning. His memories. It was taking everything he had just to hold on this much.

“He hasn’t. Dammit Aziraphale, do you hear me, he hasn’t!” Crowley shook him again, expression fierce. “You’re still here. That bastard failed, look at me. This is your mind. Change it so we win!”

Aziraphale smiled, a wobbly, sad thing. “Angels don’t have imaginations.”

“Neither does Gabriel! Give me something to work with here!” He startled, hesitating. “Anything!”

His hand shook as he held it up between them, conjuring, as though it was a miracle, a glass of water into being. Crowley took it, brandishing it like a weapon, even as he kept a protective wing curled around Aziraphale. The fire murmured, shifting, the blackened smoke taking on forms. Aziraphale felt a lurch of fear. An army. All of it crackling with Gabriel’s grace.

Crowley threw the water. It cut through the smoke, hissing and spitting, driving the fire away from the books it was trying to devour. His hand dipped down to Aziraphale, open, demanding. Aziraphale handed him another glass, taller this time. His hands were shaking as he called forth another for himself.

The smoke was distinct now, shaped like Gabriel, a legion of him, each whispering all the terrible things Gabriel had ever said about him over the millennia. Words that still sunk like barbs into his being.

Aziraphale’s hands shook.

“Don’t listen to him, angel.” Crowley reached down again, this time taking his hand and Aziraphale held on like it was a life line, willing the other’s glass full again. Crowley threw it in the nearest one’s face, but they kept coming, more and more, the smoke forms filling up every corner of the burning shop.

And then Gabriel’s voice twisted into one, snarling in echoing tones, repeating words he’d thrown at Aziraphale before stealing his memories. “Disgusting. You had to go and Fall for the enemy.”

“Si–silence!” The word wasn’t as defiant sounding as he wanted it to be. “I have– I have nothing to say to you!”

The smoke swiped at him, but Crowley knocked it away with a wing. Another explosion rocked the building.

Gabriel sneered, staying just out of range. “You’ve let that demon corrupt you.”

“No.” He stuck his chin out, gripping the glass tighter in his hand.

All the Gabriels shook their heads. “This would have been so much easier if you just stayed down. This is for your own good, Aziraphale.” Their focus all shifted to Crowley, hands all raising in preparation for an attack.

A jolt went through Aziraphale. “No.” And then he felt righteous fury, “Don’t you dare touch him!” He threw the whole glass at the nearest Gabriels’ face.

It exploded on contact, smothering fire in a shower of water and fragmented light. Crowley grinned, showing off sharp teeth. “That’s my angel!”

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, drawing him to his feet. They stood facing the blaze. Aziraphale raised his hand, snapping, and they were surrounded by watering cans and buckets full of water balloons. Crowley snatched up a pink coloured ballon with glee. Aziraphale drew a watering can, holding it at the ready before himself. He glowered at the Gabriels, some part still scared, but he wasn’t in this alone. “Ready dear?”

“Oh, it’s on.” And lobbed the balloon, quelling the flames. Crowley kept up a bombardment as Aziraphale systematically went after the smoke, throwing water, and jabbing the can’s nozzle like it was sword blade through Gabriel’s shadowy chests. The last one vanished with a cry, spitting curses that Aziraphale sniffed at with distaste.

When the last ember was crushed and the last spark of fire extinguished, the bookstore still stood, its contents, his memories, slightly scattered but no worse for wear.

Aziraphale sighed, weary and shaken, but triumph, “We won.”

And the nightmare shattered, leaving only the soft landscape that made up Aziraphale’s being and memories.

Crowley’s presence brushed against his own, ebbing slowly back to the outside world. “See you when you wake up.”

He sent back affection and warmth, sinking down into a pleasant and dreamless sleep.

Aziraphale woke groggy and slow. He felt disjointed, like time had come along reordered things when he wasn’t paying attention and was now having a good laugh at his expense. He rubbed at his eyes, not liking the feeling one bit.

He blinked at his surroundings, and it took a very long moment before he recognized it for Jasmine Cottage. A pleased feeling came into his chest before it was all dashed away when he remembered what had brought him here. Crowley.

He bolted up, only to have his swimming head send him face first into the coffee table. The noise brought the subject of his worries barreling into the room. He tried to wave Crowley off, touching his now tender nose. “I’m alright.”

Crowley huffed at him. “I think it goes without saying, angel, but getting up was a stupid idea.” He made a face at Crowley who came over and helped him settled back on the couch, pulling a quilt back around his shoulders.

He blinked with surprise. Tartan. Crowley had miracled him a blanket with his favourite tartan pattern on it, even though he hadn’t remembered what his favourite anything was at the time. Affection swelled deep within his being. He smiled, and then rubbed at his eyes. “How long was I out?” But when he drew his hand away, he caught sight of the bandages wrapped around each of Crowley’s ten fingers. A cry escaped him. “What happened!”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” Crowley said, trying to wave him off. “Book girl insisted even though I told her it wouldn’t make a difference. They didn’t fall off, so they’ll be fine.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

Crowley gave a dismissive huff. “If I knew you were going to get this worked up I would have taken the bandages off already.”

“Absolutely not! You will leave those right there or so help me, I’ll– I’ll–”

Crowley smirked. “What?”

Heat rose in his cheeks. “Steal one of your house plants.” The smirk only grew. “See if I don’t!”

“Of course, of course. Whatever you say, angel.”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Aww, you love me.”

He huffed. “I should hope so. Someone has to keep up with you, you wily serpent.”

Crowley leaned in. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, angel.”

“Good, now tell me what happened to your fingers. And don’t think you can distract me from this.” Crowley scowled, looking put out. Aziraphale met him head on with a stubborn expression of his own.

“Fine.” His tongue flicked out for a second in annoyance. “Your former employer Gabriel decided to add a little extra juice to the failsafe. Happy?”

And that holy power had burned his fingers where he’d lined them up against Aziraphale’s temples. “Oh, Crowley–”

But the demon cut him off. “None of this was your fault, Aziraphale, got that?”

He fiddled with the quilt, unwilling to lie, but also not wanting to admit to the guilt rolling around inside him. In the end, his silence was answer enough.

“I mean it, angel.”

He sighed, not wanting to start a fight. “Yes, well, I’m more concerned if they come back again. How did they even get ahold of me?”

Crowley straightened, eyes sharp. “You don’t remember?”

He bit his lip. “It’s fuzzy. I’m still trying to sort through everything.”

Crowley only tensed further. “But?”

“But,” he echoed, the word tasting like ash, “I remember my wings being grabbed, a struggle, and Gabriel telling me–” His voice choked on the words. He forced himself past them, lest he started crying. “But that was later, when we were, uh, Upstairs.”

From the dark look on Crowley’s face, he knew exactly what Gabriel had said. Aziraphale blinked, surprised, and then berated himself as realization dawned. Of course Crowley knew, he’d been there in his mind. Seen it second hand.

Begged him to fight back.

His brain stuttered. “You!” He jabbed a finger at Crowley. “You said you could break the failsafe by yourself.” Crowley shrugged with no reaction at all, and Aziraphale spluttered, welling up with indignation. “You tricked me!”

“Yeah, well, is it my fault you won’t save your own bloody neck unless I get involved in the danger too?”

Aziraphale swatted his shoulder, which did nothing more than make Crowley laugh and Aziraphale fume.

Crowley continued to grin at him. “It worked, didn’t it? A little pep talk, some help with a water balloon fight, and you’re right as rain again. I think we’re getting good at this.”

He sank into the quilt, sulking. “I’d rather not make it a habit.”

“Won’t get an argument from me, angel. It’s the rest of them,” Crowley traced a bandaged finger upward, before dropping it. “They’re the ones we’ll have to keep an eye out for.”

He grimaced, worry gnawing at him. “And are we? In danger?”

Crowley’s face scrunched up, a deflective, “Nah,” coming out of his mouth. Aziraphale just stared him down. “Well, not until Adam’s toy version runs out of battery power.”

“Toy what?”

“Nothing alive,” Crowley was quick to assure. “No will. Just a wind-up look alike of you, sent in when I grabbed you. Help cover our tracks. Adam said it’ll pop into dust within a few months.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Like the Balrog.”

“Yeah, Adam out did himself with that one. Your bookshop came in handy with that one too. He took quite a liking to one of the first addition Lord of the Rings books you’ve collected.”

“The bookshop.” Something prickled in his mind, a shivering whisper of memory. “Oh.”

“Angel?” Crowley was getting worried again.

“The attack. We–” He frowned, gathering his thoughts, “We’d been drinking, the two of us, when they–” He looked at Crowley, eyes wide.

Crowley let out a deep sigh, voice soft, “They took us by surprise, at the bookshop, swarmed us with numbers.” A ghost of a smile, frail and pained, played across his face. “You put up a good fight.”

He grimaced, guilt only growing. “Not good enough.”

“Got me free.” He looked at Crowley, surprised. The demon shrugged. “They would have had both of us, if you hadn’t–” He blew out a breath, looking uncomfortable.

Aziraphale averted his gaze. He stared at his hands, at his unblemished skin. No bruises. No scratches. Nothing to indicate what had happened. Nothing but his jumbled memories.

“Aziraphale?”

He jumped. Crowley reached out, cool hand covering his own. He shifted his grip, letting their fingers tangle together. “I’m alright.” This was what he’d been defending. That night, even so outnumbered, he’d sought out the closest weapon, determined to defend Crowley with every ounce of his etherial being. “I think… I scared them with the fire poker.”

“A flaming fire poker.” Crowley looked far too pleased. “Had them fooled into thinking it was hellfire.”

His eyes widened. “Hellfire!”

A quiet chuckle. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“To scare them?”

“To channel the wrath of an avenging angel.”

He blinked. Was that what he’d looked like? He remembered the angels holding Crowley had scattered when he’d advanced, brandishing his improvised weapon. The relief he’d felt as Crowley had broken free, going out the window in a shower of glass. Aziraphale had moved to follow– “And then they grabbed my wings.”

There was no smile on Crowley’s face now. “Dragged you through that circle carved into your floor before I could reach you.” He sniffed, then stated in a low tone. “I owe you a new floor there.”

Aziraphale gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s quite alright, my dear.” He didn’t say anything as Crowley held his hand just as tightly. “It’s all over now.”

That only agitated Crowley further. “Over? They tried to obliterate you! Twice now.” Crowley looked at him, daring him to deny it.

Hellfire and Holy Water, the things that Heaven and Hell no longer believed could bring about his and Crowley’s destruction. So what crueler way to kill something then to take away everything that made him who he was?

“No,” he said slowly, “I suppose you’re right. They’ve made it quite clear where they stand.” He fell silent for a moment. He didn’t feel surprised. “I’m just not sure I feel ready to declare war on them, though.”

“You’re too soft, angel.”

He smiled back. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

But Crowley could see through to the fear he was trying to hide. “We’re not alone in this.”

“I know.” Anathema and Adam had already come to his rescue with Crowley. And he suspected Adam’s friends could not be discounted either, given how they’d defeated the Four Horsemen.

He thought of that wind up puppet version of himself sitting in that cold empty office, going through stacks of papers no one cared about. And then he had an idea. “By any chance could Adam send a… radio signal with instructions to the windup me, do you think?”

Crowley gave him a wary look. “I don’t see why not. And your reasoning?”

“Well, you know, my dear, what they say about revenge.”

Crowley gave him a throughly unimpressed look. “That it’s best served cold.”

“No.” Aziraphale gave him an enigmatic smile, bringing Crowley’s cool hand up and placing a kiss on it. “That’s it best served by two.” Crowley gave a wicked grin, that was only matched by his own. “Could I tempt you into, say, helping cause a little mischief Upstairs before that puppet runs down?”

“That sounds like an angelically wicked plan.”

“I knew you would like it, my dear.”

They leaned in, laughing, and together. And for one moment, they simply basked in each other’s presence, safe and plotting.

THE END