Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things began, as they so often did these days, with a cup of tea.

Now what was odd about this cup of tea wasn’t that it was too cold, or too sweet, or too American. What was the matter was something a bit further from the ordinary.

Crowley had noticed Aziraphale’s tutting, but had elected to remain silent. It was bad enough they’d had mediocre service at that little cafe this morning—they’d left before their order had been delivered and decided to retreat to the bookshop to recover.

At the very least, he took a small amount of comfort in the fact that their server would miraculously find himself scheduled for every opening and closing shift for the rest of the month.

Now they were sat across from each other in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, both of them smiling in a way that said “well wasn’t that an ordeal?” and “I’m glad you were there” and “at least we’re here now.”

Most Earthly mornings were unremarkable in their simplicity, which, in turn, made each one remarkably wonderful in their own right. More often than not, Aziraphale and Crowley would find a table at a cozy little cafe—family owned, of course, at Aziraphale’s insistence—and spend the early-lit hours in each other’s company, enjoying a hot cup of tea and, in the angel’s case, some flaky sugary pastry. On the mornings when one or the other was busy, or woke too late and missed the lull in traffic, or found themselves preoccupied with a certain tome, they took their morning cuppa in their own homes. And although they may not have known it, each found this to be somewhat lacking in comparison.

Part of the joy of being on Earth was sharing it with someone who understood just how rare that joy could be. Someone who strove to suck the marrow from life and glut himself on its small pleasures. Someone like the angel sitting across from him.

It’d taken Crowley ages to figure out that the way he thought of his best friend wasn’t in line with what most humans considered platonic. It’d taken him even longer to confront that thought without hiding at the bottom of a soon-to-be-empty bottle of wine. But, eventually—as all things do happen—Crowley acknowledged that yes, he did quite like the way his friend smiled after the first bite of a particularly delicious cake. And the way he held his own hands when he was fretting. And the occasional sudden glance he caught from the corner of his eye.

Would he ever voice these enjoyments and share them with the one person who, maybe, just might understand?

There was a better chance of a goat learning to recite the Russian alphabet in reverse.

The angel’s rant had been brewing for some time now—not quite unlike the tea—and Crowley had been anticipating it for just as long.

“Crowley?”

And there it was.

“Yes, angel?” No use avoiding it any longer now, he supposed. Sliding down in the chair he’d claimed as his own in Aziraphale’s shop, he braced himself for a minorly righteous rant.

“This tea,” Aziraphale began. His slight frown was a perplexing mix of confusion and disappointment.

“Was is steeped too long?” Crowley had been the one to steep said tea, and, because he was never one to admit his faults, especially where Aziraphale’s happiness was concerned, blamed this mistake on the tea itself rather than his own accidental negligence. He would never allow himself to be the cause of the angel’s displeasure.

“No, it’s not that. It’s… it’s thick,” he said, and jiggled the cup.

“Er… That’s a bit rude, don’t you think? Not like it’s brainy, either.”

Aziraphale leveled a very unamused glare at him and held out his cup.

Crowley leaned across the table and watched as the liquid wobble-sloshed around in a very un-tea-like manner. Almost smoothie-like, actually.

Crowley had never liked smoothies. They seemed a bit pointless, really. All that work blending all those ingredients together, and for what? The same things, but drinkable? Ridiculous.

“Well, that’s… unusual,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale poked a finger into the tea-jelly and grimaced. “Highly.”

A beat of concerned silence passed before Crowley decided to hazard the first guess.

“You think it’s—” Crowley said, and pointed Upward.

Aziraphale shot him one of his “oh, really” looks that Crowley refused to admit he rather enjoyed quite a bit.

“My dear boy, I doubt heaven would stoop so low as to interfere with our tea.” He pondered down at the cup for a moment. “It could be—” he said, and nodded Downward.

The demon waved away the suggestion, hand wafting like cigarette smoke.

“Nah, they’re more traditional than that. If anything, this would have been one of mine.”

Aziraphale snapped his head up and locked eyes with the demon. Raised an eyebrow.

Crowley scoffed and made a noise that could have been “are you kidding me, angel?” or “you can’t be serious,” but came out sounding more like a jumble of sharp consonants. The implication would have edged on offensive if it were anyone else. However, because it was Aziraphale, the person he’d shared over 6000 years of this Earth with, the one who has seen him drunk and weeping over his own false death in a corner pub on a Saturday evening, the one who’d looked at him with such hope and wanting that he made the Bard’s worst work a historic masterpiece, it was merely amusing.

Crowley slid his cup in front of Aziraphale.

“Here, angel.”

He perked up immediately. “Oh, thank you.”

But the perk was short-lived. As soon as the tea passed his lips, Aziraphale’s face screwed up and he sputtered.

“Good Lord,” he coughed, and frowned.

Now, at this point, Crowley didn’t notice the chime of the bell over the door in the main part of the shop that signaled an unwelcome customer. If he had, he would have also noticed that Aziraphale didn’t pay any attention to the noise, or betray any outward indication that he cared about the potential sale he would have to thwart. Crowley was busy mentally preparing himself to combat the ineffable force of the universe having it out with his angel’s happiness. Heaven, he was about to suggest brewing a fresh pot with holy water if that’s what it took. Apparently, his thought process showed plainly on his face, because Aziraphale looked Concerned. He hated when his angel looked Concerned, especially when it was about him. There was nothing to be concerned about, really. His reaction was perfectly normal.

“It’s fine, Crowley. I’ll just have something else. Really, it’s no worry at all.”

They both knew he was lying, of course, but neither gave voice to the thought. That would have been tempting the Power That Is, and they’d both had enough of that, lately.

Crowley sighed and retreated to the small kitchen on the other side of the room. Once he was out of Aziraphale’s sight, he curled over the tea kettle and hissed at it.

The poor thing rattled and shook before the plug miraculously popped out of the wall socket.

Satisfied for the moment, Crowley grabbed a glass, filled it with water from the pitcher in the fridge, and left the kitchen.

 ****

The following days were quietly uneventful, save a few broken shoelaces and a loose thread on Aziraphale’s favorite coat. None of these occurrences were truly upsetting, but they could have been seen as slight warnings—if the two of them were paying attention to that sort of thing, of course. They had, unfortunately, grown quite comfortable in the days following their abdication from ethereal and occult duties.

It was easy enough to miracle the shoelaces back together. After the first three times, however, they began to thin and fray to the point that Crowley noticed him glancing down at his feet every few minutes with little worried frowns. The coat, on the other hand, Aziraphale was used to repairing by hand. Sewing and stitching and patching it up over the years had become one of the few things that settled his jumbled nerves. Mostly because it gave his mind something solid to focus on, but also because it occupied his fretting hands. He could always miracle it spiffy again, but it never satisfied the same way.

The next Event occurred on a Wednesday night. That it was Wednesday was not particularly important, but for Aziraphale and Crowley, it meant sushi night, which, to them, was important in particular. Sushi was Aziraphale’s favorite, and Aziraphale was Crowley’s favorite, which meant sushi night was their favorite night of the week. The angel had even learned Japanese in order to receive the best service possible. ^[1]

Tonight, the angel had decided on something elaborate and carefully drizzled in eel sauce. On the other side of the small table, Crowley quietly sipped his sake. Sushi nights were the only times he actually ordered anything. He joked to himself that seeing Aziraphale enjoy it so immensely and wholeheartedly was the true temptation, rather than any of the clumsy convincing or telephone tampering he did in his spare time.

But it wasn’t really a joke, was it?

No, Aziraphale truly was the greater tempter of the two of them. Crowley had had 6000 years to figure out just how he did it, but had quickly come to the conclusion that no single quality was the culprit. What it was was the complete and utter earnestness imbued in every aspect of his existence. Crowley had tried to explain it to a mutual friend of theirs once, but even then, after thousands of years—and with a hundred left to go until the whammy of a realization hit him like a sack of bricks—he’d had difficulty putting his feelings into words. ^[2]

How was he supposed to explain how greatly he envied each utensil for feeling the warm and careful grip of his hands? How could he phrase the swell of his own heart when the angel ordered in flawless—if somewhat archaic—Punjabi, voice whisking him back to that humid valley, smelling spices on the river bank, standing side by side and wishing for a future tied together? How was he to say what moments came to mean?

It was their excuse, the words they hid behind every carefully coincidental meeting. They always nipped in or popped by, always quick yet never hasty. Their speed implied a task imperative, one that could not be delayed. Be right back, just got to pop in, you know how it is, must do, and all.

The key was in the after, in the hours stretching into dusk and dawn, time lengthened not by miracles, but by the miraculous joy of one another’s presence. Though it did not start this way, their words became a code to hold the secrets they could never say: just give me a moment, a beat of this century, a blip in our lifespan, and afterward I will come to you, or you may come to me, and we can share this space between us as our breaths grow ancient and the sun cools.

But tonight, there was no need for the pretense of quickness. There hadn’t been for a long time. These days, neither angel nor demon was especially worried about appearances, or diversions, or pretending.

Right now, Crowley’s only concern was making sure he caught the moment Aziraphale took his first bite, when the meal’s first impression settled on his tongue and his eyes slid closed and Crowley had a moment to let the walls bend down, to bare his heart in his eyes and hold close the sigh in his lungs, lest the angel hear it and Know like he would a prayer.

Crowley was careful about who he prayed to, these days.

“Any more oddities on your end?” he asked, rolling the bottom of his glass across the table one way, then the other, and back again.

“Oddities?” Aziraphale cracked his chopsticks open. “Oh, yes, right. Nothing so strange as the tea, I’m afraid. I’m still at a loss as to what that was, exactly.”

Crowley poked at his dragon roll. “I could look around, see if there are any lingering occult forces about? Make some inquiries?” It was almost a timid offer, as if he were just pondering this train of thought for the first time.

Of course, he had already made his inquiries, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that.

“No,” Aziraphale replied, “I’ve already made some myself and found nothing. So there isn’t anything to worry about, my dear.” Watching the tension creep into Crowley’s shoulders, Aziraphale tried to grin at him, to assure him with his eyes that everything was alright, but ended up looking like he was trying to convince himself rather than his dining companion.

“But thank you,” he said, and pat Crowley’s hand where it rested on the table. Crowley watched their hands, one layered on the other, and scrambled for what to say next.

“I reckon it was leftover Armageddon energy. You know, falling fish, cracking skies, all that.” Crowley set his glass down to wave his hand Upward in vaguely fish-shaped circles.

“Whales and dolphins,” Aziraphale added with one of his rare shy smiles.

Crowley took a risk and matched it.

“Bouillabaisse.”

The waitress standing beside their table cleared her throat far too politely.

“We don’t serve that. Can I get you anything else?”

Crowley’s face burned bright as his hair.

“Ah, no, thank you,” Aziraphale said.

And they were alone again.

Aziraphale was looking at the plate of raw fish before him and trying so very hard not to smile. Crowley noticed and burned brighter. He always noticed, when did he ever not notice? Funny that the angel thought he could hide anything from him after everything.

At the same moment, they looked up, caught each other’s eye, and Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley took a deep breath and a sizable gulp of sake.

Aziraphale lifted his hand and picked up his chopsticks.

Crowley watched the grip of Aziraphale’s hands, feeling that little bubble of envy boil in his chest. His eyes closed in anticipation of the first bite. Then his lips opened, soft as he hoped they were, and closed around the roll.

The angel let out a surprised squawk. Well, as close to a squawk as one can get with one’s mouth closed and full of sushi.

Crowley’s flew open, almost wider than his sunglasses were able to hide.

No. Not again.

“What the Heaven—” Crowley said.

“What the Hell—” Aziraphale said at the same time.

He pulled the roll out of his mouth with his napkin, which was previously folded in his lap in a show of politeness. He never used it, or even needed it. He was a meticulously neat eater.

“It’s—”

“Rubber,” Crowley finished, poking the traitorous sushi with his finger. The offensive little seaweed-wrapped toy squeaked when he squeezed it in his hand.

A new sort of quiet settled over their dinner table. Not like the quiet before, one full of soft looks and coy smiles and inside jokes handed back and forth over the years. No, this was true Quiet. Disquiet, some might say. Brittle as it was, it weighed heavy on their shoulders.

Aziraphale reached to take Crowley’s hand again, but found both of them already buried in the demon’s hair as he glared hellfire at the plate of squeaky toys. One of the fake rolls even began to melt and sag onto the porcelain.

Without anything to do with his hands, Aziraphale wrapped them around each other, rubbing his palm with his thumb. A familiar gesture, one Crowley had seen at the Flood and the Razing and the Burning, one that meant tested faith and a sort of hesitant stubbornness to believe, a hope against all hope. All he could do was reach out and touch, ground them both in our side and together and you and me, remind them both that even the apocalypse couldn’t keep them away from their hearts.

But he didn’t.

This was beyond simple consolation. This was a violation of the sanctity of their new world.

This settled it.

Something was Afoot.

****

What Crowley would never admit to, no matter what method of torture enacted upon his person, was owning a vast collection of personalized journals. They varied wildly by design and penmanship, having been collected and filled throughout the past 6000-or-so years on Earth. In fact, if one were to peruse his collection, they would be able to put together a fairly accurate account of the history of human writing methods. The one thing all of the journals had in common, however, was that they were meticulously cared for. ^[3]

Of course, he could just miracle the scuffs and tears away, but there was a heartwarming pride in caring for them with his own hands, especially where their contents were concerned.

It had begun with a list. A short list, mind, as Crowley’s patience was fairly thin in the Beginning. This list was inscribed on a sheet of calfskin vellum around the time humans invented proper writing instruments (in Crowley’s opinion, of course).

It read as follows:

1. Palm fronds (w/ or w/o dates)
2. Wind
3. Head scarves
4. Blonde

Over the years, across tablets and scrolls and pamphlets and books, Crowley’s lists changed.

For example, after a trying day followed by an unexpectedly pleasant evening, he had added, in blocky script, “oysters—special occasion ONLY.” And many years later, in 1793, he had inscribed in flowing cursive, “crepes.”

While it is true that there were more food items added to his lists than he had ever anticipated, it was only in looking them over after Everything that he noticed a rather glaringly obvious trend.

What alerted him to said trend was a notebook purchased in 1957, whose last pages were filled in the summer of 1978, which contained the following items:

4892. new bow tie (better color—tartan again)
4893. that blessed coat (still)
4894. the neighbor’s grouchy grey cat
4895. his blasted trust
4895-B. touched his hand on the thermos—26 years since the last
4896. new plant care tactics

Really, he should have noticed it sooner. Every page, since the Beginning, held some trace of the angel. His tartan, his smile, a suggestion he made, food he’d had Crowley try—tempted him to, really—it was all there. And every one of those items betrayed Crowley’s feelings with neon lights and fireworks.

Crowley disliked fireworks.

There hadn’t been many entries during the last 11 or so years, what with raising young Warlock and Armageddon and all. He was really quite busy then. But these past few months he’s started writing them again.

However, his list was growing sparse.

Hopefully today would change that. They were having lunch at the Ritz, after all, and nothing was better at raising the angel’s spirits than a spot of cake from his favorite indulgence.

The two arrived at the restaurant at half past noon after a walk through the park. Crowley held the door for Aziraphale, who graced him with a tilted head smile as he passed.

“Two, please,” Aziraphale said to the host with a bright angelic smile. “Our usual table.”

Crowley leaned on the host’s stand and futzed with his shirt collar. Was two undone buttons too much? Maybe he should’ve stuck with one. But then where’s the fun in that? Greater the risk, greater the reward, and what not.

“Pardon me, sirs, but do you have a reservation?”

Crowley stood up straight and looked at Aziraphale, who wrung his hands and looked at Crowley with that little pinch between his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley turned and loomed over the man, using his lanky height for a rare intimidation.

“Try Crowley,” he hissed.

The host carefully perused his list, sweat beading on his brow, and sighed. “There is no one here by that name, sir.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale interjected, “what about Fell?”

The host shook his head. He would have been terrified if not for the kindly man’s presence. As it were, he could only hope that the mean snaky one would leave first.

“Thiss is ridiculouss!”

“My dear boy, are you sure there hasn’t been some sort of mistake?” Aziraphale was nearly pleading with the host, eyes sparkling the way they did when he wanted exactly what he shouldn’t have. Or, in this case, couldn’t.

“Of course its a misstake. There’s no way it didn’t work,” Crowley said from his new position pacing back and forth behind the angel. Aziraphale turned to face him with solemn eyes.

“Unless there is.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, exasperated with worry, “miracles are miracles. They happen. That’s what makes them —” he flailed his hands about, searching for the word, “miraculouss.”

“But it didn’t work.”

Behind them, the host was glancing at a coworker from the corner of his eye, doing his best to translate “please help me these people are insane” through his face. His coworker, unfortunately, was not psychic, nor very good at reading people’s expressions. She smiled, waved, and walked away.

“There’s no way.” Crowley rounded on the host, who jumped to attention. “Check again.”

“Sir, I do apologize, but—”

“Oh, sssod it,” Crowley spat, and stalked out the door.

Aziraphale sighed and watched him go. Poor dear.

He smiled sheepishly at the host, who, by now, was longing for the extra shirt he’d packed in his bag that morning just in case, as he had a tendency to sweat when he was nervous.

“Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s, uh, it’s alright.”

“I do hope you have a pleasant day,” Aziraphale said, and, after a moment of worried hesitation, snapped his fingers on the way out.

The doors did not swing open.

He frowned and followed Crowley outside.

****

The only thing keeping Crowley’s nerves from fraying to their absolute ends and snapping (which brings to mind fire and burning and singed pages and that’s enough of that) was that their bench in St James’ park was unoccupied. Of course, on the outside, he was sprawled artfully over the dark wood, one leg outstretched like a lazy cat, one arm curved over the back of the bench seven inches from Aziraphale’s shoulder.

On the inside, he was the emotional equivalent a bag of cats that had just been doused with a bucket of water.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was wound tighter than a Deist watch. He was sitting as still and upright as he usually did, yes, but he was also twitching and fretting his hands and nervously glancing about under the guise of people watching.

When it was clear that conversation would not be initiated by either of them anytime soon, Crowley snapped his fingers and miracled a bag of peas into his hand. ^[4]

If they couldn’t enjoy a proper meal anymore, the least he could do was feed the ducks.

One particularly confident mallard approached their bench and stared up at Crowley, who had been lobbing handfuls of peas into the water and aiming for little beaked heads. Staring up at him, it quacked once, rather forcefully. Crowley dropped his gaze to the little bird and raised an eyebrow at it.

Satisfied with the attention, the duck waddled up to Crowley’s foot, opened its beak, and clamped down on his ankle.

The shout of surprise Crowley emitted would have frightened away any other bird, but this was one determined to leave a mark. He snapped his fingers and the duck disappeared in a poof of feathers and indignation. The bag of peas was spilled across the dirt, several of them splattered flat after having been crushed beneath the demon’s shoes.

“That’s it!” Crowley shot up to his feet and rounded on Aziraphale, whose eyes had gone wide with shock and worry.

“What is?”

“All of it!” Crowley squawked, throwing his arms up in the air and gesturing wildly. “Th—the, the tea, and the fish, and the shoes and the Ritz and—and the bloody duck—all of it! And you—”

“Me?”

“You haven’t said anything, or—or done anything. You just sit there and let whatever this is do this to you and you take it.”

“Excuse me? I don’t—”

“Where’s your bastard streak now, eh? Run dry after Adam whack-a-moled Satan back into the pit? And don’t tell me it isn’t getting at you, angel, because I see what all this is doing to you, I see it, and I—”

Crowley froze where he stood, arms mid-sway, and swallowed his words with an audible gulp.

Aziraphale looked up at him, brows furrowed, expectant. There was a spark in his eyes that Crowley hadn’t seen before. Or, if he had, he’d dismissed it as a trick of the light. But sunlight does not play tricks; if anything, what it illuminates, it reveals.

“You what?” The question was quiet and hinted at desperation. Whether it was a desperation to know his swallowed words or to leave the topic of conversation, Crowley had no idea.

He let his arms fall and hunched his shoulders up near his ears. “What’s what?”

“You were going to say something,” Aziraphale prompted. “And I do believe it was something important.”

“Erg, no, I—it’s nothing.”

“Well, if my apparent inaction has incited such an accusation, I’d like to hear the end of it. After all, as I have neither said nor done a single thing about what’s been happening, why start now?”

He was doing that thing again. That thing that he did whenever Crowley was being unreasonable. The turning-his-own-words-against him thing that never ceased to drive him up a wall.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

Crowley huffed and plopped back down on the bench. Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and waited.

“Are you quite done?”

“Ngk.”

The angel sighed and shifted to face Crowley, who had slouched so far down the bench it was a miracle he was still seated.

“You’re wrong,” he said, and cut off Crowley’s incoming indignant retort with a glance. “No, listen to me. You’re wrong. Not about ‘all of it,’ as you said, but about the rest. You told me you’ve seen what this has been doing to me. Well, I’ve seen what this has been doing to you. My dear, you’re at your wits end, and every small disaster drives you closer to madness. It’s… it’s difficult for me to watch, you know.”

Crowley finally lifted his head enough to see Aziraphale’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at him, but at his hands as they fiddled with the ring on his smallest finger.

“I’ve been trying not to let you see how much these past weeks have disturbed me, but apparently I haven’t been as stealthy as I’d hoped. That’s more your lot, I suppose,” he said, and tried for a smile that made it halfway up to his eyes before falling flat. “Ah, what I mean to say is that I am affected, you know. It isn’t easy watching the joys of this world turn against us. And after all our efforts to save it.” Another attempt at levity, another lead balloon.

“We can’t go on like this, my dear. I won’t allow us to. And I’ve been looking for reasons, but, as I said before, I haven’t found any. There isn’t anywhere left to look, I’m afraid. It seems as though the universe is plotting against us.”

“The universe, eh?”

It was a weak olive branch, thin and cracked and wilting, but it was something.

“The whole thing, even the great big mountain at the end.”

A weak smile passed between them before Aziraphale began again.

“And there is something I’ve been doing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s—well, it’s something.”

“Not like the last time, I hope?” There he was again, reaching for an answer he knew he didn’t want to hear.

“No, I hope not,” Aziraphale said, and chuckled. “Actually, I hope a great deal. That’s always been my problem, hasn’t it?”

“Not a problem, angel. It’s just… you.”

It was a moment that could have been a Moment, a tick of the clock that sounded like a promise. But it came and went in the span of a breath that faded too young.

For the first time, Crowley wished he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Then he could see, and he wouldn’t have to say, and he wouldn’t go off alone again. He was never very good with words.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath and leaned back into his own space, not having realized that the two of them had gravitated toward one another as the minutes passed. They tended to do that more and more often these days. Neither of them ever called attention to it, afraid that speaking of it would erase it completely.

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said, breaking the quiet between them. “I had best get going. Much to do.” The smile was back again, the one that tried too hard and convinced no one.

Crowley sighed and sat up a bit straighter. “You sure? I could drive you if you like.”

“No, thank you. I think a walk would do me good right about now.”

Crowley stood and reached out a hand, but decided against the motion at the last second, instead running it through his hair.

“Right. Well. Best get on, then, angel.”

“Yes. Rather.”

And they both stood there, watching the other neglect to walk away.

Aziraphale, ever the brave one, laid a tentative hand on Crowley’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I’ll see you soon, my dear,” he said, with the same voice that spoke of Good and Bad and Right and Wrong, and, finally, walked away.

As he turned the corner and vanished from sight, a spiral of worry snaked down Crowley’s spine.

The clever self-sacrificing bastard had better not do anything stupid.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale, ex-Principality and former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, was in a bit of a bind. Not literally, mind, although it certainly felt as though some force were constricting him more and more by the minute.

This sort of bind was of the Ineffable kind. The kind that could not be solved or fixed or untangled without great effort or sacrifice. Over the past few weeks, minor inconveniences built up to the point where he finally considered them a warning. Actually, if he thought about it, it was a cavalcade of warnings from the beginning, and he had only just started paying attention to them when it was too late. It had always been his modus operandi to hope against all hope—as being an angel, his wont tended toward the annoyingly positive—though it seems that, like the troubling matter of the Apocalypse, merely hoping for a solution and believing one existed in this circumstance were less than ideal.

After contacting the previously helpful Sergeant Shadwell, as well as various collectors of arcane tomes he’d made acquaintance with over the years, he’d come to the conclusion that the Incidents weren’t occult in nature.

Which meant there was only one remaining course of action.

Sat at his desk with his spectacles on and a cup of cocoa slowly cooling at his side, the angel set to work.

 ****

Crowley drove back to his flat more slowly than usual. He stopped at every stop sign, used the indicator for his turns, and even refrained from snapping the stoplights green. Though he would claim it was out of caution, the change in his behavior could most accurately be attributed to fear. A fear most insidious, indeed; the kind that lingered at the back of the eyes and taunted airy dreams. It was the paranoid fear for another person’s wellbeing.

Crowley had only experienced this kind of fear once before. ^[5] It was a true miracle that he hadn’t felt it more frequently, what with the number of Incidents Aziraphale just so happened to find himself in over the years. Of course, Crowley knew why he had to rescue him all those times. It was painfully obvious from the start.

The angel wanted him there, and so he was there.

Crowley popped in, called them lucky, snapped his fingers, and drank in his scoffs and excuses and tutting until they were both full—Aziraphale on cakes or curry or baklava, Crowley on wine and holy smiles.

Had he added those to the list yet?

The Bentley’s radio was silent. Even the chugging of its engine was more subdued than usual, as if it knew the troubles of its owner.

Crowley wished, not for the first time, that he’d been able to force Aziraphale to get a cell phone.

Why hadn’t the angel said anything? Sure, he told Crowley that he’d been doing something. A great unspeakable something, of course. Always was, with him, especially Before. But no one was watching them now, no one was listening. They didn’t have to be so clandestine about the Arrangement anymore. Heaven, there probably was no Arrangement now. They were on the same side.

So why didn’t he say what he was doing?

The radio kicked on with startling clarity.

Ground Control to Major Tom

“Not now, David, I’m thinking.”

The dial on the dash ticked up a few notches, drowning out Crowley’s increasingly worrying inner monologue.

He groaned in a very put-upon manner at having been interrupted. “What? What d’you want?”

And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much she knows

And, one by one, the thoughts came together.

“I’ll just have something else. Really, it’s no worry at all.”

“So there isn’t anything to worry about, my dear.”

His hand on mine, not letting go until he had to.

“My dear, you’re at your wits end, and every small disaster drives you closer to madness. It’s… it’s difficult for me to watch, you know.”

Aziraphale was a terrible liar. Though he braved his Heavenly encounters with a straight face and a cool demeanor, everywhere else he stammered and fidgeted and gave far too many details to ever be considered good at it. The only way he could convincingly tell a lie was if he believed it to be true.

Crowley knew that the best lies were rooted in truth, and what was more true than Aziraphale not wanting him to worry? Because when Crowley worried, Aziraphale always tried to calm his heart.

He was the first one to offer suggestions on how to find Adam. When Crowley was three bottles in on the worst day of his life, he appeared out of nowhere and pulled him out of the darkest part of his life (even though he wasn’t fully aware of the full impact of his loss, no matter how temporary). And long before the Arrangement, when Crowley first asked him to cover a temptation for him, he hemmed and hawed and made excuses, but agreed in the end. Always, he agreed.

Most importantly, he stuck around. Lent an ear. Offered a hand. Smiled when things got dark and lit up the world with eyes like stars.

But all that was beside the point.

What could he possibly do that would make Crowley stop worrying?

It’s not like he could call up the universe and ask it to cease and desist.

And then it hit him, much like he almost hit the car in the oncoming lane. Swerving the wheel back to the left, he scrambled at his face to keep his glasses on.

No. No no no no no.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

The radio ticked ever louder.

Far above the moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

That bastard.

He’d been saying goodbye.

 ****

Aziraphale pat a tall stack of papers at the center of his desk. Beside it sat his favorite fountain pen, the one he used for only the most important documents and most heartfelt correspondence. None of the previous papers had borne its ink. Instead, he had used his third favorite pen. ^[6]

There was one more letter to write.

But he couldn’t write it at his desk.

He picked up his fountain pen and retreated to the back room, where he opened one of the remaining bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and poured himself a glass.

A stack of vellum rested on one of the shelves. Over the years, he’d ordered several sheets every few months and kept them in tip-top condition. He never used them unless he needed to make an impression, as these days vellum was mainly reserved for religious documents. ^[7] How fitting for an angel to write on holy paper.

After taking a sheet out and smoothing it flat on the table with the soft palms of his hands, Aziraphale uncapped the fountain pen and ran his thumb gently over the engraving.

A.J.C.

He still didn’t know what the J stood for.

But there was no more time.

He took a sip of wine, centered his heart, and began to write.

 ****

London was a blur in the windows of Crowley’s Bentley as he tore through the streets, foot flat on the gas pedal.

“Wait for me, angel, or I swear to G—Sa—Somebody, argh!”

The glow from the streetlights stretched and flickered by the windows like a slipstream of stars. But Crowley wasn’t going to take his eyes off the road, not for an instant, not even to see an echo of the stars he set into the sky when the world was new.

He slammed his hands on the wheel. Why, why did he have to do this now? They did it, they were free, they didn’t have to go back, yet here he was, screaming toward the bookshop at Mach 4 to come to the rescue of someone who might not want to be saved this time.

Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?

“No no no, don’t you dare! Oh, go faster, for the love of—”

And that was it, wasn’t it? For the love of what? Or, rather, who?

Would it be enough to stop him, if he knew?

When Crowley thought of Aziraphale as self-sacrificing, he had to admit he was being a bit of a hypocrite. After all, who was the one who always abandoned what he was doing to come to the other’s rescue, no matter what?

But Aziraphale was a Principality, the ex-Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. He’d given his sword to the first humans, for whoever’s sake. But that was exactly it, the self-sacrificing bastard. More than Crowley, anyway. Crowley indulged him on occasion, yes, but Aziraphale always returned the favor with time and attention and knowing what he needed before the thoughts ever occurred to him.

At least he acknowledged his sacrificial tendencies. The angel always hid them beneath his desires.

When he’d given his sword away, he’d distracted Crowley with talk of good and bad, of right and wrong, of his longing to know how he appeared in someone else’s eyes. Of his need for a friend.

When he first agreed to the Arrangement, he’d hidden behind foolishness, an apparent need to have Crowley explain things to him in the plainest language, as if the slow plod of his words was the only thing holding the thoughts in the angel’s head. Then, the desire had been for companionship, for someone who understood him to meet him halfway and give him what he’d been asking for without having to diminish the air with sounds of wanting.

When he’d handed him the thermos of holy water, well.

Crowley urged the Bentley past 100 miles per hour and prayed that that was fast enough.

 ****

On the corner where the A. Z. Fell & Co. bookshop stood, a man in a tartan bow tie hailed a taxi at six o’clock at night with a single snap of his fingers. He looked surprised, then sad, then determined.

He sat down, smiled at the cabbie, and closed the door behind him.

 ****

Moments later, a vintage Bentley screeched to a stop across the road.

 ****

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley threw the doors to A.Z. Fell & Co. open with a snap of his fingers. For a moment, a corner of his mind was surprised the trick had worked, but the rest of him was too focused on the matter at hand to notice.

But the shop was empty. The only light came from the door to the back room.

Crowley ran toward it like a frazzled moth.

An empty wine glass sat on the table, an impression of lips still visible on the rim in the dim light. The half empty bottle sat beside it. Next to the bottle was a fountain pen lovingly set in its holder and a thrice-folded sheet of vellum.

Addressed to him.

His knees went weak and he collapsed into Aziraphale’s chair.

It was still warm.

With all the care in the world, Crowley quickly slipped the letter into his pocket and downed the remaining half of the wine.

At least he’d left a note this time.

The bastard.

The last time this happened, Aziraphale had defied all odds and returned to tell him where to go.

Tadfield… Airbase!

The remembered words pulled at his heart and he blinked away the memory. What were the odds of it happening a second time?

With wide eyes and a frantic snap of his fingers, Crowley left the shop.

He had a plan.

 ****

It didn’t take long to get to Tadfield from central London—not for Crowley, anyway. He arrived right at the far edge of dusk.

Retracing the turns in his memory, he pulled to a stop outside a quaint little cottage with a gear-less bicycle leaning up against the gate. He took a moment to admire the roses before stalking up to the front door.

Crowley knocked and knocked and knocked until the door creaked open and a young woman appeared dressed in her pajamas.

“Book girl!”

Anathema’s eyes went wide. “You! I remember you, what are—”

“I need to see the Book. Right now.”

Chapter Text

“YOU WHAT!?”

Two streets away, a small flock of birds fled the boughs of an oak tree. They were all rather put off by this, as they had just settled in for sleep, and it’s so very difficult to get the little ones down for the night.

“I burned it,” Anathema said with absolutely no remorse whatsoever. “Or, we did. The new one, anyway.”

Crowley paused in his raving shock to blink at her. “New one?”

“Agnes left me a second book of prophecies. A manuscript.”

“Well then, where’s the first one?”

Anathema gave him a look he was very familiar with, one that said “must I explain this to you?” but without the affectionate sparkle in the eyes that he liked. Instead, there was a shine of mildly spiteful accusation.

“You mean the one you stole? All of it’s prophecies already happened,” she said. “There’s nothing new in it. You took the last one, actually. I want that back, by the way.”

“No.” Besides, he didn’t even have it. It was secreted away in Aziraphale’s bookshop, probably stuck between the pages of a misprinted Bible or some dusty first edition. Or, Heaven forbid, being used as an accidental coaster for a mug of cold cocoa.^[8]

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. If Aziraphale were here, he would be absolutely beside himself. “You burned a book of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies? The only prophecies that were actually true. And you burned them.”

Anathema nodded. If she noticed the hissing, she didn’t let on.

“Why?”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Personal reasons.” Squinting carefully at him, Anathema asked, “Have you been drinking?”

Crowley scoffed. “Not enough.” Aziraphale would tut him into discorporation if he ever drove while intoxicated. Think of the pedestrians! he’d whine, and then turn those glowing eyes to the left side of Crowley’s face, which would kindle to a heatless burn as it always did.

“Augh!” Crowley’s hands flew to his hair and he doubled over, as though Hell were teasingly tugging at a puppet string attached to his sternum.

Behind Anathema, a pale, skinny young man poked his head around the corner.

“Anathema?”

“Go back to bed, Newt, everything’s fine. It’s a friend.”

“Aziraphale?” he asked, shifting from smudged and tired to bright and sunny in an instant. Turning the corner from the stairs to the kitchen, Newt nearly stumbled into the wall when he saw who was at the door. “Oh, it’s the tall angry one. What’s he want?”

Crowley was ready to explode. But the angel had been kind to this woman, once upon a time. And the young man, he presumed. He always did favor the bumbly types.

Ugh.

And, hold on, how did they know Aziraphale’s name?

No—a question for another time, perhaps. Got to stay on track. Time was of the essence.

“The book you two idiotss burned,” he called into the house.

“Oh, dear,” Newt said, and retreated to the bedroom.

Crowley crossed his arms and Scowled at the witch.

The witch remained unaffected. It was somewhat astounding, really, how she remained so put together in the face of a demon. Almost like—well, like witchcraft.

“It’s barely seven o’clock, why are you in bed?”

“Jet lag. We just got back from visiting my mom in L.A.”

“Fascinating,” Crowley drawled. He turned on his heel and sauntered toward his car.

“Is everything okay?” Anathema called after him. “Not another Apocalypse?”

“Not for you,” he grumbled, and waved a dismissive hand in her direction.

But she would not be dismissed.

“Is he alright? The angel, I mean.”

Crowley stopped walking. Somewhere to his left, a cricket chirped twice, then fell silent.

“He calls sometimes,” she said. “Since the Apocalypse, I mean. He stops by, too, every so often.”

Crowley scoffed. Of course he did, that was no surprise. She owned the rarest book in existence. He’d do almost anything to have his hands on it again, the hedonist.

“He talks about you.”

Oh.

Well.

“All bad things, I hope,” Crowley croaked, throat shocked dry.

Behind him, where he couldn’t see, Anathema smiled the way all people who Knew tended to smile, warm and softly smug. “Terrible, in fact.”

There was brief moment, ever so fleeting, where he considered telling her what’s happened, imagined opening up his chest and showing her what remains and asking her how to fix it.

“At least tell me he’s alright,” she said, again.

Leaning his head back, eyes skimming up at the trellis-covered garden entrance, the swaying tree boughs, the cloudy stars, Crowley considered the lie. It would be a kindness, an act befitting a four letter word. Though he was an agent of Hell—or, well, he used to be, anyway—he couldn’t condone supporting such a thing. That was his excuse, anyway.

Oh, but conscience does make cowards of us all. ^[9]

“If I could,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“What can I do?”

Humans. Amazing things, humans. No resources, no skills, no idea what’s going on and still they offer to help. The beauty of humanity, right there. A demon reaches out for absolution and a human offers their hand.

He had to hand it to Her, She did, after all, create the one thing truly worth saving.

Yet another four letter word.

“No, book girl,” he said with a sigh. “This one’s on me.”

And the door closed gently behind him.

In the garden, beside the roses and underneath a curling arch of ivy, Crowley took a breath of air fresh as Eden.

What an odd couple. Two important descendants, one whose purpose was to destroy the other. And just look how that ended up.

Silly, if you ask him. An absolute farce on destiny’s part.

Not to mention the witchfinder boy. Eh, Newton, fine, whatever. Newton, the bumbling fool—he was probably Aziraphale’s favorite. Probably asked him all sorts of questions. Probably asked about his shop.

Maybe he even asked him about Crowley, wondering where he was, why he wasn’t always with him, what sort of evil he was getting up to these days, after Everything.

Oh.

Right. Humans. Humans finding humans. They were particularly good at that sort of thing.

But what about angels?

Hm.

It could work. After all, he’d found Adam, hadn’t he? And the boy had been a hell-spawned needle in a flaming haystack.

And the woman Aziraphale had hitched a ride with— Oh. Yes, right. Of course, how could he not have thought of it before?

How convenient.

A sly grin slipped onto his lips, the first true bit of hope he’d had all day.

Crowley clapped his hands together before stalking out of the garden with more spring in his step than he stalked in with.

The garden plants trembled in his wake.

 ****

His next stop was back in London. Ridiculous, that he hadn’t thought of going to the person-finder around the corner before the witch out in the middle of nowhere. ^[10]

It was a lovely bonus that the man he was seeking out lived in the same building as the medium (or so her old advert claimed—he wasn’t about to question her other adverts).

It took far more knocking on this door for it to open.

“Auch, whoever tha’ is had better be ready to face a righteous fury—”

The door swung open to reveal a shabby man in a nightgown with wide eyes and a flabbergasted face.

“Sergeant Shadwell. I’ve an important job for you.”

“Mister Crowley, sir, I wasn’t aware we had a meeting—”

“Emergency circumstance,” Crowley said, and pushed his way into the flat.

He had never imagined what Shadwell’s living space would look like, but even still, he was quite surprised by what he walked into.

For one, it was very purple. Purple was most certainly not a color Crowley associated with the Witchfinder Sergeant. A frayed brown would be more appropriate, or even a darker burgundy, if he wanted to think a little bit outside the box. And he hadn’t pegged him as the scented candle sort, either. Or the doily type.

“Er. Do I have the right flat?”

A very familiar woman peeked around the door frame leading to the bedroom. For the briefest of moments, Crowley’s heart surged in his chest before he could remember that Aziraphale wasn’t here. His eyes stung with the frustrated tears he’d been holding back all evening.

“This is my flat, actually,” she said. When she saw Crowley’s face, her eyes lit up with a familiar joy. “Oh, it’s you! Mister Crowley! Aziraphale had quite a lot to say about—”

“Enough of yer chatter, woman, let the man speak,” Shadwell interrupted.

“Oi!” Crowley shot a dark look at Shadwell. Then his brain caught up with him. “Wait a minute,” Crowley said, and walked right up to Madame Tracy. “You’re the medium.”

“Yes, I am.” She straightened her nightdress and stood tall before him. Well, as tall as she could get, which wasn’t very tall at all. But tall enough to make an impression on a very worried demon, at least.

“You had Aziraphale—er, well, he and you—”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?” Shadwell called from the doorway.

His outburst went unheeded.

“Can you do it again?”

“Oh, well, I haven’t for quite some time now. I’m a bit out of practice.”

“What?” Shadwell yelled.

“With possession?”

“With contacting the other side, I mean,” she said, and brushed past Crowley. She put a pink kettle in the sink and turned on the tap. “It’s been months since I’ve had an appointment with anyone. And your man, he was the only real link I’ve ever made with the beyond, you know.” A tiny smile flitted across her face. “Such a pleasant fellow.”

“Yeah, right, sure,” Crowley said, having stopped paying attention halfway through her explanation.

“Kept in touch, actually. He came ‘round about a week after that whole mess at the airbase. Wanted to make sure we were both all right and answer any questions we had. A truly lovely man.” The kettle filled, Madame Tracy set it to boil on the stove.

In the corner, Shadwell was blustering up a storm.

“Would one o’ ye tell me what the blazes is goin’ on here!”

“Hush, Mister Shadwell,” Madame Tracy said, cutting off what Crowley had been about to shout at him. “He’s asking about his fellow, you see. Nothing to be worried about. Do sit down, Mister Crowley, and we’ll give it a go, shall we?”

Crowley thought there was a great deal to be worried about, actually, but didn’t say anything. He refused to complicate this conversation any further.

“Right,” he said instead, and sat. His knees knocked up against the bottom of the table.

Once the tea was ready (and Shadwell was calmed down and ushered into a seat at the table), Madame Tracy reached out for Crowley’s hands.

Crowley kept them in his lap.

“Now, dear, why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

Now, Crowley was not one to discuss feelings. His, or anyone else’s. Talking so far around them they could have been in different countries was always preferred. However, in the single instance where there existed someone who knew him well enough to know what he was feeling without him having to say how he felt, he didn’t mind it so much. Especially when he knew he would receive no judgment.

But this? This was one of his own personal hells.

“Rather not,” he said, sharp and quick. He took a sip of his tea to have another excuse not to talk.

Madame Tracy sighed and laid her hand flat on the table, palm down. “I’m afraid I’m a retired jezebel, if that’s what you’re after.”

Crowley nearly spat out his tea.

“NO. No, not—that. Satan, no. No, it’s just—” He sighed. She’s already thought the worst, what else could happen? He set his hands on the table to brace himself for the truth.

“Aziraphale’s gone and I can’t find him.”

Madame Tracy smiled and pat his hand. “Ah, there it is. You know, sometimes a good shock is just the trick to loosen the tongue.”

The thought flickered through his mind that this woman would make a remarkable demon.

“You think he’s crossed over?” she asked. Not unkindly, mind, but with a frankness that was as comforting as it was saddening.

“Well. Not exactly. But—”

Shadwell raised his hand. “I exorcised him once. With this here finger,” he said, leveling a dirty nail at Crowley’s eyes. “And he came right back.”

“Thiss is different,” Crowley hissed, and bat Shadwell’s hand out of his face like a tetchy cat. He turned his attention back to Madame Tracy. “Can you find him?”

“I will do my very best, dear.”

And oh, if that wasn’t a strike to the heart.

Finally, Crowley let her take his hands.

“Now I don’t have any candles lit or anything too fancy set up at the moment, but that shouldn’t have any bearing on the reading.”

Crowley nearly snorted. Candles didn’t have anything to do with Heaven or the Other Side, as she put it, unless one wanted to welcome a spirit with a bit of a cult vibe, which, admittedly, many spirits were quite happy with. No one on either side was exactly sure why. ^[11]

Madame Tracy lowered her head and blew a loud raspberry into the quiet of the parlor, shattering any calm that may have started to settle in the dim light. Rolling her shoulders and turning her face this way and that way, she hummed a high screech before whistling like a tea kettle. ^[12]

After a few moments of utter, tense silence, Madame Tracy relaxed her shoulders and opened her eyes.

“Oh. Oh, my.”

“What? What is it? Is he there? Aziraphale!” he shouted at Tracy’s face.

“Oh, stop that! No, he’s not here. There, I mean.”

Crowley looked at her like she was mad, and like he wasn’t about to burst into frustrated tears.

She sighed, and continued. “I remember what it was like to have him in my head. I couldn’t feel anything like that. It was sort of—more like a wall, actually. Very much like when I couldn’t reach beyond the veil at all. Before your angel opened the door, so to speak.”

“Not there,” Crowley said.

That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

If Aziraphale had discorporated, she’d have been able to find him no problem. That’s what mediums do. Well, the ones who can actually do what mediums do, anyway. And she was one of those.

So what happened?

“Oh, don’t look so glum, dear. I’m sure he’s—”

The lights went out. The table shook, the curtains fluttered, and Madame Tracy coughed out a lion’s roar. Then a raven’s caw, and finally a car horn before falling silent, head bowed low, utterly still.

Her head rose. A voice came out of her mouth.

“Would you stop that?”

Crowley blinked. Madame Tracy was staring straight ahead, sporting an intense glare he remembered from all the way back before the Beginning, having been at the receiving end of it enough to differentiate it from all the other glares he’d been at the receiving end of.

“Is that you, Michael?”

Tracy turned to Crowley and started. “Oh, good Lord, it’s you,” they said, putting the emphasis absolutely everywhere but the proper places to indicate surprise.

Crowley narrowed his eyes and ripped his hands out of the medium’s grasp. “Cut it out, Michael.”

“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean.”

“Where is he?”

Shadwell looked from Crowley to Tracy to the door. All his pins were in the other room, and there were too many demons in here for his one finger to take care of, no matter how fierce a weapon it was. So he sat, and he listened.

“If you know what’s good for you—which, honestly, why would you, considering your absolutely abysmal track record so far—you’ll stop this nonsense.”

“Michael—”

“Your angel isn’t on Earth, hm? How very interesting. Where could he be, I wonder?”

“Would you shut up and tell me where he is!”

“I asked you first.”

Crowley grumbled, anger bubbling behind his ribs. It was taking all of his self-control not to leap across the table and strangle the poor woman to death.

He’d seen Heaven’s wrath when he went up for Aziraphale, stepped into his skin and felt the hatred of his superiors, the beings tasked with protecting the good of the world. Gabriel wanted him dead quick and easy, no mess, no fuss. And even though Michael wasn’t present for the offense, they were still responsible.

There was more than one kind of fury burning outside of the world.

“What, cat got your tongue?” Michael cooed, head tilted in mock innocence. “Look at you. Just as mad as you were at the ark. No wily plans this time, eh, demon? No miracle-ing yourself out of another bomb or driving through hellfire? Just as well. As we are fated to succeed, so too are you doomed to fail.”

Crowley shot up from his chair, knees nearly capsizing the table, and slammed his hands down onto it with a snarl. Behind his glasses, his irises spread wide and dangerous.

“What, did you think you could find a way to your angel with the help of humans? All your thoughts are misgiving, Crowley.” Michael leaned forward in their chair, Madame Tracy’s hair waving forward over her ears. Their eyes were brimming with purpose.

“It really makes me wonder,” Michael said. “There are two paths you can go by, in case you didn’t know. And if you listen very hard, it might come to you at last.”

Madame Tracy shook her head and coughed.

“Goodness me, that was much less tingly than before.”

Shadwell, in a surprising show of wisdom, had remained silent throughout the exchange. However, he had successfully backed his chair up nearly to the wall and was holding his extended index finger as if it were a loaded gun.

“What in Heaven’s name was tha’?” he croaked.

“Archangel,” Crowley responded, far too distracted to care about his mild Heavenly trauma.

There was something. Something important. Something very, very important. A message, had to be. Michael wasn’t the sort to speak in metaphors. None of the angels were. So what was it?

Crowley paced the room as Madame Tracy recovered from a second bout of Angelic Possession. She poured two more cups of tea and ushered Shadwell back to the table.

“So, Mister Crowley? Was that helpful?”

But Crowley wasn’t listening.

Crowley was thinking, and thinking very hard, at that.

Where had he heard those words before?

Then, he remembered. Driving down some far off road, angel by his side, hands drumming the wheel, windows down, singing loud.

Yes, there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on
And it makes me wonder

He knew where Aziraphale was.

Thank Michael—ugh—he knew exactly where he was.

And suddenly, it all made sense. The goodbyes, the un-miraculous miracles, the great unknowable “something” the angel had been up to, the blasted depth of his caring. The letter, unread, burning a hole in his pocket.

Aziraphale had taken the stairway to Heaven, and come Hell or holy water, Crowley was going to chase him the whole way there.

Chapter Text

The problem with getting into Heaven was...

Well, all of it, really. Humans had enough trouble getting in without knowing the shortcuts. And for a demon?

Forget about it.

But he'd done it once before. Granted, he didn't look like himself then, and although he had the outer appearance of an ethereal entity, he was still Fallen on the inside. Heaven could have rejected him at any time.

He supposed it was like wearing shoes to the beach. Although in this case, the shoes were gently scuffed brogues instead of something reasonable. He couldn't feel the burn because Aziraphale was there, holding him up, protecting him with what he could, even from such a distance as there had been. He'd given him his face, his body, everything other than his immortal soul, to keep him safe. He even gave him his coat.

But I'd always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.

In a dark corner of his mind, one he didn't like to address very often, Crowley wondered. Other than Aziraphale, he was the only other person to ever wear that coat. And the angel detested stains. 

What if he’d stained his coat? Not with hellfire or wine or anything curable, but with himself? By wearing it, by inhabiting it with his damned self, could he have left something behind? Something that would always be there, underneath—a dark spot that Aziraphale would notice, like a frayed edge of the fabric at the collar or a chipped button, but more insidious? Did he stain it with his soul?^[13]

The rational part of his brain told him no, of course not, that’s not how souls worked. You have a vessel for a reason. A body kept everything in check, kept it locked in, kept it in one place. And swapping that body could have consequences. What people forgot was that despite the connotation, not all consequences were bad ones. 

For example, surviving an abduction and subsequent rigged trial.

But had the angel been the only thing keeping harm at bay? 

Could he do this by himself? Or would he go up in flames the moment his feet touched the white tile floors?^[14]

Staring up at the immense mirrored building in the center of London, Crowley felt, suddenly, like a Cadbury Creme Egg about to be tossed on a hot stove.

He took a deep breath and strode through the revolving door. Instinctively, he veered left, then halted in the middle of the lobby when he realized what he’d done. 

Before him stood two escalators, both going up. Only the one on the left had a reflection in the floor. 

This was the choice. Everything before, the rushing and the searching and the asking, that was just the lead up. 

Crowley could do this. He had to. 

When Aziraphale wanted him there, he was there. He wasn’t about to break tradition now. Even if Aziraphale didn’t want him there.^[15]

He took a deep breath, quietly swore a blue streak, and stepped to the right for the first time in is ages-old life.

 ****

It was a long ride up the escalator. Torturously so. It gave him too much time to think. The universe had oh so generously given him this time to consider his actions and, for once, Crowley went with what the universe asked of him.

He thought of how Aziraphale had been treated in Heaven, when Crowley had been the one wearing the coat. Over the ages, the angel had slipped him anecdotes of his brief visits to Head Office. Gabriel was the type to send strongly worded notes, the kind that made you feel like any old thing had to potential to be a grave sin if you looked at it a little bit sideways. Aziraphale once received a tightly folded admonishment for using one blessing too many that quarter century. And the blessing was for a literal saint, with the hat and robes and everything.^[16] Michael tended toward scathing looks that occasionally slipped into shameful glances. Never was one for words, that one. That was something even Crowley remembered. Uriel didn’t care for your run-of-the-mill disciplinary action. No, they were more about punishment. He’d felt the bruise on Aziraphale’s stomach when they’d swapped bodies. The purple-knuckled mark was a far too familiar. 

And Sandalphon. The only thing that ever accompanied mention of his name was a tight-lipped grimace which, honestly, spoke volumes.

Then there was his routine when he returned. On the rare occasion they checked in at the same time, Crowley would wait for the angel in the Lobby if he was the one to Return first. When Aziraphale was first, however, he always beat a not-quite-hasty retreat to the bookshop, leaving Crowley to go about the rest of his day on his own. 

Before The Swap, Crowley had no idea why Aziraphale would run off so quickly. The first time it had happened he’d been a bit put out, sure, but once the routine was established, there had been an ineffable agreement that Crowley would not ask and Aziraphale would not tell. 

If only he’d pestered him more over the years. Then he might know more about what he was walking into. Or, well. Escalating.

Crowley sighed, drumming his fingers on the handrail, escalator chugging along underfoot. He reckoned he should use this time to think up a plan. 

But, really, when had that ever worked out well? 

With the way the baby and the dog and the apocalypse turned out, might as well just go in blind and roll with the punches.^[17]

Honestly, the only plan that had turned out well in the end was the Church. And that was likely only because the angel was there to take care of half of it for him.^[18]

He still remembered the look on Aziraphale’s face when he handed him that frumpy bag. He’d tried not to look, to keep on and carry on straight ahead to the Bentley, but he couldn’t risk never knowing. Eyes wide, short breaths, a gentle grip, a touch almost too brief to note, and revelation writ across every inch of his face. 

At the time, Crowley tried to convince himself it was surprise at him having done something — ugh — kind for another person.^[19] Something selfless, something good. 

And maybe it was. But that wasn’t why he’d done it.

It was that look, the one he risked his heart to see out of the corner of his eye. The one that told him there was a chance, however small and fleeting, that he was enough. That what he had done, what he could do, was enough. 

Crowley had lied to himself. Had tried to reason that the angel’s stilted responses and far-off looks on the drive home were due to shock, the rude surprise at finding himself at the wrong end of a Nazi pistol all alone in the one place he, of all people, was supposed to be safe. But, truly, it was altogether a shock of a different kind. ^[20]

Sometimes, on nights with clear skies and warm winds, he wished he could tell himself the truth.

The escalator lurched, sending Crowley staggering a step forward, barely catching his balance on both handrails. 

“Oh, what in the—” He bit his tongue before the wrong curse slipped out. He shoved a hand through his hair, righting it as much as he could, and kicked the step in front of him. It didn’t move.

There were no grinding gears or screeching bits of metal, so he had to assume it wasn’t broken. So it had just stopped. 

His luck with these sorts of things was truly endless.

Casting a quick glance behind him, Crowley raised his right hand, fingers poised to snap, and hoped for a miracle.

And nothing happened.

Figures.

Step by beleaguered step, Crowley began to trudge the rest of the way up on his own.

James Bond never had to deal with this sort of thing on his rescue missions. 

 ****

Sweating up a river and jelly-boned, Crowley pulled himself up to a stop just as the Gates of Heaven came into view.

That’s what everyone called them, anyway. The books generously describe them as an open door, or great big pearly gold things. In reality, the Gates of Heaven weren’t even gates. Hell, they weren’t even doors. 

The Gates were a set of two of those annoying Tube turnstiles without the swipey card bit. Sure, they were made of pure silver and shone with the grace of good, or whatever, but they were only waist-high. Anyone could hop them quite easily. If it weren’t for the holy wrath that would likely rain down upon you if you did, that is. If you’re not meant to be in Heaven, Heaven won’t let you in. Somehow.

Crowley had never tested this theory himself, nor had he heard of anyone else who had. It was just a hunch, really. 

The question was if it was a strong enough hunch to hang the existence of his eternal soul on. 

Of all the trials he’d been waylaid by so far, the one he least expected was the spectre waiting for him at the top of the Stairway.

Just behind the turnstiles, hands behind their back, Michael stood still as a church statue, casually watching Crowley struggle up the last few meters of steps. 

“Took you long enough. Gabriel’s waiting for me, so hurry up and go get him. He’s starting to get on everyone’s nerves.”

Crowley didn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he punch Michael in their stupid, uppity face? He might have, if he thought for an instant he could reach over the turnstiles without incurring Heaven’s wrath the moment his pinky finger crossed over. Maybe he could throw something. A shoe, perhaps? But then he would only have one shoe, and he really needed both. Who knows what Heaven tile would do to his feet without them.

He settled for holding them up, as if to say “what” without saying anything at all.

“The principality,” Michael barked. They briefly glanced behind them, eyes steely.

“I know—Why do you—”

Michael slammed their hands down on the silver turnstiles, sending a holy slap echoing between pristine white walls. “Aziraphale! Go. Get. Him. Do you need me to speak any clearer? Maybe in Proto-Indo-European? Back to the basics? Get a move on, demon,” they sneered.

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, nudging his glasses out of the way slightly to give him the best put-upon profile. “And just how am I going to get to him? I have no idea where in this miserable excuse for an office he is.”

“Prayer rooms,” Michael said, and Crowley’s blood went cold.

“Excuse me?” It took most of his self-control not to hiss. 

“Surely you remember the protocol for defectors previously in absentia,” Michael droned. 

And he did. Mostly. What he remembered was that those who could not be contained were given a reason to do so voluntarily. Once there were at least a dozen humans in the world, angels who questioned Heaven’s actions weren’t cast out. No, not yet. Instead, they were assigned to answer prayers.^[21]

“Anyway,” Michael said, and swiped a hand over the flat top of one of the turnstiles. It chirped a tinny beep. “You know where he is. Please take him away.”

Crowley didn’t move. 

“Why are you doing this?”

Michael gave him a Look, one he’d never seen on their face before. It reminded him of Egypt, of sand under his feet, of kohl and dates and rivers, of prayers and plagues and parting seas. It was a look that tasted of pillars of salt.

Michael cleared their throat, hiding whatever that was, and tapped the turnstile. “Are you coming or not?”

Before, it was give and take. Crowley gave his all and Heaven took him by the throat and cast him out. The universe gave him a friend and he took full advantage of the company. Crowley gave an angel his heart and he took it and ran back to the one place that told him he wasn’t enough. Life gave him lemons, and this time, he was going to throw them back in its face, take that. 

Crowley took a deep breath, ignoring Michael’s impatient foot tapping, and pushed forward through the Gates. 

And for the first time, he did not burn.

Chapter Text

It took twelve hundred and thirty one processed claims for Aziraphale to begin to feel bored. Answering prayers was the simplest job an angel could do, a task that even the most inferior and heavenly-challenged ethereal entities could complete with some semblance of efficiency. Read the prayer, decide if it should be answered, stamp the form, and place it in a basket. He wasn’t about to consider himself above such menial tasks, as that was the purpose of his punishment, but really. 

Sat in a small room with only a desk, a chair, a table lamp, a pen, and two infinitely-inked stamps for company, Aziraphale adjusted his glasses and sighed down at the paper before him. Isadora Lexington from Surrey had asked Her for good luck during her audition the following day. The information on the form mentioned that she had once been arrested for shoplifting, and that she had punched a classmate when she was seven.^[22] She had also donated to the ASPCA every year since she was fifteen, volunteered at a soup kitchen each Christmas, and performed countless other minuscule good deeds daily. At the bottom, a small note recommended he mark the prayer IGNORED.

Aziraphale glanced at the corners of the room for the twelve-hundred-and-thirty-second time, searching for evidence of the previously-deemed-absent surveillance, then quickly stamped the form ANSWERED. He had done the same for the last twelve thousand and thirty one prayers to cross his desk.^[23] Even the one from the Satanist asking for good health.^[24]

Honestly, it was Heaven’s fault for placing their most rebellious angel in charge of something so integral to its operations. He knew this was considered a punishment, but Aziraphale could not care less about how he was perceived by them anymore. What did it matter that they only saw the bleached-white tartan and the round stomach and the tutting? He knew who he was.

He’d ventured into Hell itself, stripped before the Lord of the Flies and other Dukes of Hell, and jumped into a bath of holy water. 

He’d taunted an entire army of demons with tiny splashes of doom against a grimy window.

He’d made the archangel Michael miracle him a bath towel. 

There was nothing and no one left to fear.

Well. Save one, perhaps. But that wasn’t fear of, mind, but fear for. 

Did Crowley find the letter? Did he read it? How long would it take him, he wondered, to realize that Aziraphale was no longer on Earth? A few days? A week, maybe?

Then again, they’d become much closer over the past eleven years. Maybe he was on his way right now. Because, really, there was no way he wouldn’t try to come after him. Especially if he read the letter. 

Crowley was never the type to let someone tell him no, particularly if that someone knew better. And especially if that someone was a certain former Principality.

Oh, but Aziraphale was quite a hypocrite, wasn’t he? All that talk of Crowley going too fast when here he was, after barely any forethought, sacrificing himself to the Heavenly prayer mill so Crowley could go about his life safe from holy retribution.

He had hoped — ah, well. That was his problem, wasn’t it? His hamartia, the fatal flaw that brings down the tragic hero. Not that he was a hero. That’s a bit too grand a thought, even for him. Tragic, yes, maybe, if one could call missed glances and oyster shells and shattered dark glasses tragic.

But still, he had hoped — foolishly, he would admit, since, all things considered, he was, indeed, a fool — that his demon would know what was best.

There it was again. His demon. As if anyone could have him. His heart was too big for Aziraphale to hold without fear of harming it with a grip made tight by wanting hands. It beat too proudly to fit into his quiet life. Let him have plants to nourish and speed limits to ignore, music to play loudly and people to tempt toward mischief, toward making the world a more interesting place. For Aziraphale was merely one — one who shuttered his windows when people came by, who shied away from touch like hellfire, who feared the very thing he longed for above all — and the world was many. How could he, in his singularity, his stuffiness, his tainted holy soul, ever compare to the delights of the world they helped usher into being? To the people they guarded and guided down straight and winding roads? Therefore, let the world have him, a world wide enough to keep his heart without holding on too tightly. 

After all, that was the whole reason he was here, wasn’t it? 

He pulled another prayer from the pile and stamped it ANSWERED without reading it.

Let the world have his happiness. Let them put it to good use.

****

When he’d arrived at the Pearly Gates,^[25] Gabriel was there to greet him with that hideous smile of his, too white and too wide. 

“Aziraphale,” he’d said, like he actually cared.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale had replied, matching his insincerity note for note. The tiny smidgen of trepidation in Gabriel’s eyes was the only thing keeping him from turning tail and running home. No. He made his choice. Heaven made him an offer, and there was no way he could refuse without putting everything he loved at risk.

“Welcome back. Good to see you finally made the right call. Maybe we can finally get you ship-shape this time around, huh?”

On second thought, Aziraphale was beginning to regret his choice after all. 

“Anywho,” Gabriel said, eyes tracking Aziraphale’s hesitant pass through the turnstile, “good to have you, yadda yadda, you’ll be in the prayer rooms. I trust you know the way?”

Biting his tongue, Aziraphale nodded and walked ahead of Gabriel, whose smile dripped with barely concealed spite as he passed. 

Aziraphale wondered, briefly, if Gabriel honestly considered this a victory. What he’d done was by no means honorable or just, as many thought Heaven to be. But then again, Aziraphale knew better. Having been in the middle of Heaven’s Earthly operations for nearly the whole of his existence, trickery was only outwardly forbidden. Not that this was a trick, mind. Just a very unsavory means of getting what they wanted. Still, he had come of his own will by means that could hardly be considered a surrender. And though it was the result of a minor war of attrition, it was not a retreat, but a move forward. He hoped.

After traversing the wide open room he’d always had to deliver his progress reports in,^[26] Gabriel followed him through a maze of stark white hallways, tapping him on the shoulder every few intersections to point him left or right.

It was as though he was doing his best to be only minorly annoying; however, he was quickly pushing into tutting territory. Aziraphale may not have been British, but he had lived there long enough to know the value of a well-directed tut. The only one who had ever resisted was Crowley. Its effect on him faded after the five hundredth time Aziraphale directed his annoyance at his feet having somehow found themselves perched on a rare first edition as he jumbled himself into the corner of the sofa. 

“You know,” Gabriel mused, jarring Aziraphale out of his yearning, “none of us thought you’d actually do it. I mean, you, of all angels. Or is it people, now?”

Aziraphale felt his eyes pointedly staring at the back of his head, as if trying to figure out which individual strands of hair were human or ethereal. He turned left and tried not to flinch.

“Really, though. How much of you is left? The holy part, I mean. Since you survived.” He paused, expectant, as if mulling over whether to keep a secret he knew he shouldn’t tell. It was a common tactic of his, to keep someone’s attention with this kind of underhanded anticipation.

“We’ve been looking into that, by the way,” Gabriel mused. 

It took an immense amount of self-control not to freeze in the middle of the hallway. Gabriel stepped up to pace at Aziraphale’s side, hands behind his back, smirking.

“You know how Heaven works. Which makes me wonder. How is it that you’re even here?”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gabriel looked right into his eyes, unflinching. There was an undercurrent of hesitation, a tingle at the back of the mind that said to hold back, to wait. So Aziraphale held his gaze through the strike of fear and worry and waited.

Taking a deep breath, Gabriel hummed. “Nevermind. A conversation for another time. As for right now,” he said, stopping before a white door, which looked identical to the last hundred or so doors they passed, save for the silver-plated numbers near the top: 16 3:11-12, “your office.”

****

As soon as the door closed behind him, he looked around at the pale, blank walls, sighed, then glanced down at himself. The bow tie he’d picked out that morning, the baby blue tartan one that Crowley glanced at more often than the others, was bleached white. As was his eggshell dress shirt, his favorite waistcoat, all of his buttons, and his coat.^[27]

Ah. Still taking his colors away. A bit excessive, considering the circumstances. Not as though he would be going anywhere or flaunting his individuality anytime soon. But, still. They’d taken away his tartan. Back to the stark white bow tie, the very plain neat clothes. Everything felt too neat, too perfect. Nothing was lived in or worn from loving hands over time. 

For all Heaven claimed to be the fountain of love and grace, there was very little to show for it. 

All that was left for him to do was stamp papers and think. 

But of what? 

Of London? Of tourist attractions and sushi restaurants? Of hole in the wall places and calm rainy days and modern flats with hard couches and tall windows? Of sweet soft pastries in pastel boxes sat on the passenger seats of flashy cars screaming through traffic? Of evening walks, and reservations, and park benches beneath songbirds wide enough for two?

Of the bookshop? Of his books? Of the way he could inhale the smell of home whenever an ancient spine was cracked with care, the way snarky smiles warmed his heart from just out of sight in the evenings? Of tinny bells jingling welcome in the late hours of each day, of secrets tucked underneath rugs, of ages stored in shelves and stacks of tomes, in back rooms and bindings where old becomes new?

Of time spent lingering on thoughts, endless thoughts, of what-ifs and maybes and missed intentions and yearnings set to fade before sunrise? 

Had he not yet had his fill of thoughts after all these thousands of years? Or would he be gluttonous with those, too? Thoughts had done him no good in the past. Actions, too, had left him wanting. Stagnation seemed to be his wretched destiny. 

He had made his peace with that, though. Staying in one place had its comforts. You got to know where all the creaky stairs were, the cracks in the paint, which light switches were wired by a madman and which were coincidentally decorative. You learned the sounds of people’s feet on the floorboards. The thumps of a new customer, the shuffles of an elderly regular, the tapping of high heeled shoes on a business call ducking in to escape the rain. The chaotic scuffle of snake skin boots and dress shoes and expensive soles that followed into the back room and made themselves at home on your books, covers be damned. You grew into habits, into patterns, carved ruts in time that held for years and years. Traded excitement for comfort. For sharp, warm laughter that stung the heart like weeping nettles and never let go. For echoes of voices over the phone, following a script where all the best lines are improvised. 

And that’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Or, rather, who. You are not alone in your rooted ways, your waiting. Because there is someone there you are waiting for, who waits with you for the rain to stop and the colors to arc through your skies.

And you’re still hoping against all odds that he will arrive and save you even though you did your very best to stop him. You hope that he defies you, as he defied traffic laws and Nazis and physics and Satan and God Herself and Time, had left a hint of rebellion for you, a special reserve, off to the side in case of emergency. You want him to defy you. To to take apart your plans, to call you a fool, to see what you’ve done and say no, not for anything in this world. To have proof that you matter. That your roots are bound in a place that grows.

But Aziraphale took away that chance. He took that from Crowley, to protect him. All those other times, he could save him with a miracle, even a small one, a simple broken chain, a train ticket, a way out. If his demon came for him this time, he wouldn’t be safe. No miracle could save him from Heaven. 

Aziraphale couldn’t save him back.

On second thought, maybe Heaven was right. Maybe he really was a little bit damned.

****

But maybe, just maybe, off-chance and happenstance will conspire and defiance will win out in the end. 

For example, the ceiling tiles of a prayer room with the plaque reading “16 3:11-12” on the door could give way with a cracking thwap and unceremoniously deposit one gangly interloper on the floor between the angel-occupied desk and locked door. And that angel could shoot up from his seat, agog and aghast, but not the least bit confused, at the pile of designer fabric before him, peering through the small cloud of dust at a pair of stunned sunglasses. 

“Crowley!?”