Chapter Text
It had taken him a while, faster than he thought but longer than he hoped, to learn how to care for his plants the regular way. But now gloves and watering pots, a well-used pair of pruning shears and assorted fertilizers and soil additives lived in the small greenhouse they'd built above the shop, and Crowley could go there on quiet days and lose himself in the heat and humidity and green life of the place.
Aziraphale was happy for him, that he had learned to talk gently to his plants without shouting at them. But Aziraphale had clearly never actually listened to the words that he murmured lovingly to his plants, and did not realize that the demon had gone from shouting dire consequences for leaf spot to, instead, tenderly murmuring dire consequences for the crime of disappointing his angel.
At the moment he was outside, carefully winding a clematis runner onto the trellis he'd built up the glasshouse wall and quietly reassuring it that it would make the angel very happy, or there would be consequences. His angel had promised 'a light spot of organizing' which usually meant Crowley had at least six to eight hours to himself followed by a ravenous, if somewhat dusty, dinner break.
He was stripped down to short sleeves, enjoying a rare afternoon of sun over London, and didn't even look up when he heard footsteps behind him. "Thought you were still organizing."
"Hello, Crowley," said Aziraphale's voice.
Crowley spun--his angel was there, but not his angel--the kind blue of his eyes was lost in white radiance, and it burned. "No. Get out of him." His hands clenched in their gloves, and he almost reached for his shears before realizing that any weapon would only hurt his angel. "You can't just take him over. Get out of him!"
"Peace be with you," said Aziraphale's voice, and It Was So. Crowley could feel peace suffusing his body, quieting his muscles, soothing his mind.
He wanted to sink into it and never surface. He fought against it instead. "No. NO. You can't just take him, let him go!"
"Peace," She said again, and he slumped back against the glasshouse wall.
He held onto it, pressed into it. He wouldn't kneel. She had taken his angel.
He would not.
"Your care does you credit. I did not take him over. He offered." Aziraphale's body stepped forward, and touched his cheek carefully. "My Guardian loves you, very much. He asked for you, in his heart, in his prayers. When he thought I wasn't listening."
Crowley slid a little, forced himself back up and locked his knees against the dizzying light and love and presence before him--like Heaven used to feel, back before everything went so wrong.
He was having a little trouble tracking Her words, but... "He prayed... for me?"
"Even when he feared doing so might cause him to Fall. Especially then." She stepped back, just a bit, and Crowley found he could almost breathe again.
"He never..." he panted, "he never lost faith in You. Never once. All he wanted was for You to talk to him, that's it. That's all." He reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his eyes; they immediately fell from nerveless fingers. "Why are You talking to me? Why aren't You talking to him?"
"Dear, dear Crowley. I Am. I am talking to him now. He cannot hear this conversation, as you cannot hear his. But I wanted to see you again--wanted to see you through his eyes, even though you have cut yourself off from Me."
"I cut myself--What? I wasn't the one who did the cutting! I had questions, yes. I talked to people who thought they could have done it better. I even got angry. Yes. But I never looked at You and said 'begone, out of my sight, and by the way that first step is a doozy'!"
She smiled, so like and so unlike his angel's delighted grin that it nearly broke his stupid humanish heart.
"Do you play chess, Crowley?"
"I'm not done yelling at you!" He was almost back on his own two feet, almost didn't need the greenhouse wall for support anymore. Anger gave his muscles the power they needed.
"Imagine a game of chess where you can control the pieces," She went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "but at some point, they will decide for themselves what their next move is. You can force them to move, but every time you do it gets harder, and other pieces start to rebel as well. Making choices is contagious."
"I don't play chess. I don't like chess. And You don't play chess either."
"Of course I don't. Chess is far too simple. But if I tried to explain the actual game to you I would burn you out, and my Guardian would be quite cross with me. So. Chess, which is a metaphor, which I know you understand."
"Alright." He crossed his arms. "Chess."
"All the foresight in the world won't help you if you do not have your pieces in the right position. And if your pieces can move on their own, well... You could force them back, force them to where you want them to be, knowing that each time you do you increase the chances that they won't do what you need them to when the final move comes. Or you can take a few of them--a few, special, dearly beloved pieces, in this game--and you can let them move themselves, and trust them."
"You let me Fall to win a game? Is that what you're saying?"
"I let you Fall to win the world. I let you Fall because I needed someone I could trust to be there, and to tell Me even when you thought I was wrong."
"You still let me Fall. I trusted You and You let me Fall! I loved You!"
"Oh, Crowley. If you had trusted Me, truly, you could not have fallen."
"I loved You," he whispered again.
"Beloved, lovely Crowley. I love you, too. Your road was so hard." Tears slipped from those eyes, or not-tears--golden tracks down Aziraphale's face.
Crowley's heart froze as he realized it was blood, angelic blood, coming from somewhere past Aziraphale's mortal corporation.
The blood of angels, like he hadn't seen since the War.
"Stop. You have to get out of him. You're hurting him." Crowley stepped forward, flinching, into the radiance from his angel's eyes.
"We could talk like this more often, if you chose," she said.
"No. We can't. You're hurting him. You have to stop." He reached for the angel's face, running his thumb through those tracks, and hissed at the burn but did not let go. "Please. Please, You have to stop! I'll kneel, I'll leave, whatever you want, just stop."
She looked at him for a moment longer. "My Guardian chose well. Be in peace, Crowley," She said. She reached up to kiss his forehead and he gasped as light washed through him, laid him bare. "He will need you."
And She was gone.
Aziraphale dropped.
Crowley was barely able to catch him and cushion his fall; they ended tangled in a heap on the roof. Great rolling shudders wracked the angel's body.
"Aziraphale. Aziraphale, love, talk to me!"
Hands found his shirt and held on, clenching, twisting in the dark fabric. His angel was muttering, saying something, over and over as the shaking started to subside.
"...She's gone She's gone She's gone She's gone..."
Crowley leaned forward, finding Aziraphale's head and gently tilting so he could see his dear face.
The tears were... oh, thank someone, anyone, the tears were just tears now, and they barely burned at all. He rested his forehead against Aziraphale's.
"Angel," he said, urgently, "I need you to look at me. Please. I need you to look at me...."
The eyes that flickered open were blue. More blue than usual, underlaid with green and glowing slightly, but they were his angel's eyes once more and he almost crumpled in relief.
"She's gone."
"Are you all right? Do you hurt? Can you sit up?"
"...Yes," he said, almost inaudibly.
"Yes to which, love?"
"...All three. Yes, I'm all right, Crowley. Yes, I hurt. Yes, I can sit up." The sitting up turned out to be more of a 'slumping vaguely upright against Crowley's chest', but they were both willing to call it a win.
"What--" Crowley bit the question off, realizing that asking 'what possessed you?' just now was probably not the best question. "What were you thinking?"
"I got to talk to Her, Crowley!" Aziraphale said faintly, but his eyes and smile were brilliant. "It's been so long, so so long, and I got to talk to Her!"
"She could have done that without taking your body for a joyride. You were not built for this."
"She wanted to talk to you."
"I'm sure She had other avenues if She wanted to talk to me that badly, Angel." Now that everything was done, Aziraphale was shaking less in his arms, the tears trailing off, Crowley was starting some shaking of his own. "I could... I could have lost you."
"You didn't. And you'd have been quite cross if She'd yanked you to Her office for a chat."
"Yyyyes," said Crowley, slowly. "Yes. I... would have been quite cross. And I absolutely wasn't cross talking to Her this way."
Aziraphale pushed himself until he'd managed actually sitting up. "Oh good lord, you yelled at Her, didn't you?"
"Do I have to remind you that I am a demon, and I will yell at whoever I like?"
"You are maddening."
"And you are going downstairs with me for food and bed. No arguments, angel," he added, as Aziraphale opened his mouth. "Food and bed before you even think of any more organizing or anything else."
"Wine?"
"Tea," Crowley said, with feeling. "Cocoa if you're very good."
The angel attempted to look meek and chastened and only succeeded in looking exhausted but self-satisfied. "Surely She gave you to me."
"I gave me to you. I like it better that way. Up you get, or I will carry you."
"I don't deserve you." Aziraphale leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek before levering himself up with some difficulty and a small amount of assistance. He kept a tight hold on Crowley's arm as they headed for the door down to his little flat.
"It's not about deserve. Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping?"
"I knew you liked Hamlet, really!"
"Down, angel. And don't do this again without talking to me!"
Somewhere Else, away from where they could see, She smiled.