Work Text:
(i - grief)
They stayed to watch in the end. Till the end. It only seemed right, somehow. At least, it seemed right to Crowley, and he wasn’t going to interrogate that feeling very deeply, thank you very much.
But Aziraphale was also showing no sign of moving away. Actually, as the sun began to go down, the angel gave a little sigh and sank to the dusty ground, arranging his robe around himself as he crossed his legs. A lot of the people around them who had stayed were on the ground too, had been for hours, and Crowley supposed it did make them stand out a bit, if they stayed on their feet. He sat down too, absently-mindedly brushing the dust from his clothes as he did.
The air was still around them, the only sound the pitiful groans from the men on the crosses. Horrible way to go, just horrific really. Hell could only wish they’d come up with something so excellent at both killing someone and making sure that they knew about it for a long, long time. Crowley would have to report back about this - son of God, kind of a big deal - but he didn’t know exactly how he’d describe it; the breathless waiting, the small gathering of humans who didn’t know why this poor boy was important but could feel that there was something they should know. None of them wept or wailed, as was the custom of these people. They just waited.
Eventually, only Joseph of Arimathea was still standing, leaning his head wearily against the wood of the crucifix, hand reaching up as though he might touch Jesus’ foot, give him comfort as the life ebbed from him.
Crowley had to look away from that, in the end.
After hours of contemplative silence, Aziraphale whispered.
“Not long now. Not long.”
It was for Crowley’s ears only, so quiet he had to strain to hear it, but it also sounded like a mantra. He glanced up from where he’d been drawing in the dust with his fingertip to see that Aziraphale’s face was pale, his hands pressed tightly together. Like he was praying. Maybe he was. Crowley had never seen him do it, didn’t know what it looked like.
And Aziraphale was right too, as he’d sensed the last threads of the boy’s life leaving him. It wasn’t long, just after sunrise, when Joseph looked up and announced to the crowd that it was over.
If it was up to Crowley, he’d have slipped away at that point. The mourning had to start some when, and he’d rather not be around for it. He could have slipped away. But Aziraphale was still there, and he stepped forward to help get the body down from the cross, holding the ladder steady for one of the young men to climb up, and then supporting that dead, dead weight as it came down.
Crowley stood amongst the women, and waited, although he wasn’t sure for what. He’d never seen the angel look so serious as he did in that moment, cradling the boy’s head in his arms as a sheet was opened on the ground to lay him in. The boy looked very young then, just a child to them who had already lived so long. Crowley’s nails dug into his palms. What use was the Great Plan if it ended like this? What use was the Great Plan for him, or for Aziraphale, if Her own son had this fate?
Jesus was laid carefully on the sheet, and Aziraphale knelt a moment at his head. He reached down and untangled the crown of thorns, that cruel humiliation, from Jesus’ hair, and as he pulled it free, he leaned down and placed a kiss on that tortured forehead.
Something like a groan, or a sob, rose in Crowley’s throat at the sight, the idea that this was Her son and all he had at his side was a lonely angel, the only angel on Earth to witness. A good and kind angel, who touched him gently and kissed his forehead, the way that a mother should, the way that She should.
Jesus had an angel at his side, and perhaps it was part of the Plan.
What had Crowley ever had, the moment that he Fell?
(ii - goodbye)
Crowley’s eyes were the problem at Lindisfarne, of course. Couldn’t possibly go poking around a priory stuffed to the gunnels with monks with those demon eyes of his. They’d be the first ones to go into a panic about it. It wasn’t like the old days, when he could wander round quite freely with his yellow eyes and no one looked twice. They expected it back then. The veil between myth and reality was a bit more veil-like and less brick wall.
Still, he’d pulled off the blind beggar trick a few times now and it seemed to work, especially for worming his way into such holy places. The ground was sanctified, of course, which meant he had to be generous with the bandages that he wrapped around his feet as well as his head, but that just gave the impression of the harmless cripple even more body. Crowley couldn’t deny he liked the dramatics of it.
Lindisfarne was definitely the worst place that Aziraphale had decided to set himself up as a monk, and Crowley wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t been sent to keep an eye on the place. And, although he’d never admit it, warn Aziraphale what was going to happen. It was bloody freezing, definitely not snake-friendly, and he didn’t even take the time to scope out the place first before he was knocking at the door and begging for entry into the warmth of the hall. No wonder they’d been producing such beautiful manuscripts here, if the weather was always this bad. There was nothing else to do.
“Come in, brother,” said a kindly voice, taking Crowley by the arm. A soft hand, unused to physical labour. Unused to fighting. “How did you find your way here if your eyes are bound?”
“I was brought here, sir,” Crowley said, cringing at the heat as his feet met the floor, limping all the better for it. “By a man on a boat who said you could provide the shelter that he could not.”
“Aye, well, we do not have many visitors to our lonely isle. But shelter we can give, and gladly. Even the summer is cold here.”
The monk led Crowley through what seemed like a hundred corridors before he was steered carefully onto a bed. When he reached out his hands, he could touch the walls on both sides of the room.
“It is small, but safe, brother, and there will be bread. Perhaps the good Lord will bless you while you lay here and mend your broken eyes. I will tell the abbot of your coming. ”
“Perhaps,” Crowley muttered under his breath, then took off his bandage as soon as the monk was gone. Just as he’d expected; a tiny cell, a tiny bed, a tiny window.
Bloody Christians.
By Vespers, he’d felt Aziraphale sense his presence, and by supper time the angel was at the door. It was strange to see him dressed in dark colours, his fluffy hair cut short, and Crowley told him so.
“I have to fit in, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “And why are you here?”
“Haven’t you heard? Something big going down here, in a few days.”
Aziraphale had heard. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“I suppose you tempted them into it?” he asked, sitting on the edge of Crowley’s bed and smoothing down his habit. “Sent them in this direction?”
“Had to,” Crowley shrugged. “Order from down below. Going to shape the history of this bloody country, or something. I don’t know.”
Aziraphale only sighed, and nodded.
“When?”
“Two days, if the wind stays in their favour. Big buggers too. Better be cleared out well before or they’ll take your head off. Imagine the paperwork.”
So in the morning, two days later, Aziraphale volunteered to take the blind beggar back to the mainland. A young monk called Cuthbert - brown skinned, curly haired - walked with them down to the boats, and chattered the whole way. Crowley, clinging to Aziraphale’s arm for the sake of appearances, could feel the waves of regret and sadness rolling off the angel. He was sorry to leave this place. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever been sorry to go from anywhere. Not like this.
At the edge of the water, Aziraphale left him a moment, and Crowley lifted the edge of his bandage just enough to see the angel take Cuthbert by the shoulders and press a kiss to his forehead. His lips lingered there, and Crowley’s stomach rolled over at the sight of it, this human who had more of Aziraphale than he’d ever had.
“Good luck,” Aziraphale said, his voice catching. “May God be with you.”
(iii - congratulations)
Much Ado About Nothing was a bloody riot, from start to finish. Will’s finest work, Crowley thought, and he could tell that even though he was so drunk he could barely stand by the time the play finished.
Next to him, right at the front of the groundling crowd, Aziraphale banged his hands on the stage and cheered louder than anyone as the players took their bows, finishing up with Burbage as usual, who’d done a fine turn as Benedict.
Will was hovering at the side of the stage, smugger than Crowley had ever seen him, and he grinned when the demon caught his eye. Bastard would be insufferable for months with a hit like this on his hands.
It was quite natural that they’d tumble from the theatre and into the tavern next door to continue the celebrations with Will and his players. Aziraphale could barely stand either but somehow they made it to a table in the corner, laughing their heads off as they recited lines from the play they had liked.
Will brought over a jug of ale, disgusting cheap stuff, and Aziraphale somehow got back to his feet as Crowley slithered helplessly from his chair, head resting against the table.
“Congratulations, dear Will!” Aziraphale cried, swaying dangerously. “The best you’ve ever done, I’m sure!”
From where his head leaned against the hard edge of the table, Crowley watched from one eye as Aziraphale grabbed the playwright in an exuberant hug, and kissed him soundly on the forehead. Will laughed and returned the kiss, his eyes shining, and Crowley felt a smile tug at his lips.
It was nice to see Aziraphale driven to the gesture by happiness for once. Even if it wasn’t anything to do with Crowley.
(iv - comfort)
The Dowling’s garden wasn’t exactly Eden, but Crowley had always been able to make the best of what he had, and it was a nice garden. Definitely good enough for snaking around a bit on a warm day, anyway.
Which is what he was doing. Snaking around. It was Nanny’s afternoon off, and the Dowlings were away at some fancy lunch in London. Aziraphale had agreed to keep an eye on Warlock instead of the cook having to do it, and Crowley was happily slithering around looking for a nice warm spot to doze in. He didn’t often feel the need to take his snake form, especially in the last two centuries or so, but when the fancy did come, he liked to indulge. There was something very calming about it, how the snakey urge to curl up in the sun took over, and his brain shut down for a while. Like his human corporation sleeping, but better. Snakes had little room in their heads for dreams.
He’d had his eye on the ornamental waterfall for a few days now, with the big flat rocks that seemed like perfect sun traps. The grass was cool on his belly as he made his way there, and his tongue flickered on its own accord. Not Eden, but not bad.
The waterfall was in a quiet corner of the garden and he wasn’t likely to be bothered there by anyone. He brought Warlock here, and they had bumped into Aziraphale a few times, but in general no one walked out as far as this. So Crowley felt no qualms at all in taking his biggest snake form, the one Aziraphale had once called the anaconda, and curling up on the largest rock available.
He felt all stretched out and loose, more comfortable than he ever was in his human body, and it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep. At least, he assumed it didn’t take long, because the next thing he knew, the sun was low in the sky and someone was screaming.
He knew that scream.
Crowley jerked awake to see Warlock backing away from him, hands held out in front of him as though they’d be any use stopping Crowley if he was a real snake. Half asleep, dazed, Crowley raised his head and Warlock screamed more.
Then there was a blur, and Brother Francis was there, scooping the little boy into his arms.
“It’s alright, young master, it’s alright!” he said. “It’s only Brother Snake.”
Warlock was sobbing, and Crowley could hardly blame him. This ‘Brother Snake’ was massive, and Warlock was so very small. Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the top of Warlock’s head and winked, using one hand to signal Crowley should curl up again. He did so, and at the same time, squeezed himself into a smaller, more reasonable form.
“See, he’s gone back to sleep,” Brother Francis said, turning Warlock to look once Crowley had laid his head back down. “Brother Snake won’t harm us, if we don’t harm him.”
Warlock didn’t seem convinced and clung to Aziraphale’s jacket, until the angel sighed and put him gently onto his feet.
“Now, young master, you’ve had a shock, that’s all,” he said, leaning down to kiss Warlock’s forehead. “But it’s alright. Let’s go and see if Cook has your supper ready, shall we?”
He took Warlock by the hand and led him away, turning his head to glance back at Crowley with a soft smile on his face. Crowley raised his head in thanks, then sank back onto the rock.
Snake form didn’t seem such a comfort, in comparison to what Aziraphale had given Warlock.
(v - love)
After the trials in Heaven and Hell, and lunch at the Ritz, Crowley slept for a week. Aziraphale knew this because it was in his bed. They’d come back from the Ritz, drunk and exhausted, and Crowley had been so incoherent with it that Aziraphale half carried him up to his own unused bed and dumped him there. He’d miracled away Crowley’s boots and jacket, put a blanket over him, and left him to it.
And the demon hadn’t moved, except to shift in his sleep and murmur sometimes when Aziraphale opened the door to check on him.
He’d never really got the hang of sleep himself, but he understood the bone deep, soul deep exhaustion that must be racking Crowley. It had been a long six millenia, a long eleven years since the day Crowley delivered the anti-Christ to that little hospital. It had been a long week, since they realised they’d lost him. It was long, all of it. He’d never felt his age more. So Aziraphale didn’t open the shop at all, because there was nothing he wanted to do except lay on his sofa and eat cake, drink tea and read books. Well, almost nothing.
It was strange having Crowley upstairs, just over his head, so close and so far away at the same time. They’d never existed like this before, side by side, sharing a space. But now they could. Now Crowley could sleep as long as he liked, and Aziraphale could guard him, and no one was going to come knocking, no one could be asking questions.
It was almost too much to think about.
On the seventh day, Aziraphale finished his latest cup of cocoa and flicked a hand, miracled himself up a thick blanket and a new book. He reached out briefly to check on Crowley, found no bad dreams lurking, and wriggled down until his head was resting on a large fluffy pillow. He picked up the book - Persuasion, an old favourite about long love requited (not that he had any thoughts about that subject, not at all) - and laid back.
Jane’s words washed over him, so familiar he could recite them, and he felt weightless suddenly, as though he was floating. When he shook his head to shift the feeling, he realised he’d been falling asleep. He hadn’t slept in centuries - millenia even. But the tug was still there, and he closed his eyes experimentally.
When he opened them again, Crowley was kneeling beside him.
“Oh!” Aziraphale’s body gave a jerk. “Was I asleep?”
“Think so, angel,” Crowley said, his voice rough with sleep. “Gave me a right scare. Not your usual thing at all.”
His words were light, but he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and Aziraphale could see the trace of fear left in his eyes. His dear Crowley. If Aziraphale had his way, he’d never be afraid again.
“I’m sorry. I suppose the last few years have rather caught up with me.”
“S’okay. You let me sleep here. How long?”
“A week, I believe, unless I’ve been out for a very long time.”
Crowley hadn’t moved from his knees, and he ran a hand through his already ruffled hair. Aziraphale was aware, all of a sudden, that their faces were very close together, and he wondered if Crowley would allow it if he was in his right mind and not addled from his long sleep. The demon was usually so careful, put so much space between them, as though he thought it might save either of them the pain of being closer.
Because it was pain. For both of them. Aziraphale had long since realised that.
He also realised that perhaps it could be over now. No one was watching. Hadn’t he already convinced himself of that?
So he did what came naturally, what seemed to be bubbling inside of him, and leaned forwards. His lips met Crowley’s forehead, gentle and undemanding, and just something, something to tell him that he wasn’t alone.
Crowley’s breath left him in a rush and he bowed his head, hands pressed to his vulnerable, bare eyes.
“Angel - what - what’re you doing?” he gasped.
“Nothing that you don’t want, I hope,” Aziraphale said, his heart and hands trembling as his book fell to the floor and he pulled himself up to sit. Crowley was rigid with - fear? God, he hoped it wasn’t fear - and the silence was broken only by the demon’s uneven breathing.
“Angel,” Crowley choked. “Please - if you don’t - if you don’t mean this -”
Aziraphale reached for his hands and wrapped his fingers gently around Crowley’s wrists, pulling him to rest between his legs. Crowley was trembling too and Aziraphale didn’t force his hands away from his eyes, but when the demon finally looked at him once more, his eyes were wide and - filled with tears.
“Oh my darling,” Aziraphale sighed. “What have I done to you?”
“Angel, please do it again.”
“Do what”
“On - on my forehead. Kiss me, please. If you mean it.”
His heart in his mouth, his own tears threatening, Aziraphale locked his fingers with Crowley’s and leaned forwards once more, his lips lingering this time. Crowley sobbed openly beneath him, until he had to pull away and wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, burying his face in his waistcoat.
“I love you,” Aziraphale murmured, his hand resting on the back of Crowley’s head. “My darling. My dear boy. I love you.”