Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The church was beautifully constructed with all parts present and accounted for. Stained glass windows, high arching ceilings, solid stone, and wooden pews each in their proper places. It wasn’t as old or as well-loved as many of the churches Aziraphale had seen, but it served its function well. The service was shorter than he expected from so much pomp and circumstance. No expense had been spared on flowers, on venue, …on caskets. The attendance was large, but to him the place felt empty.

He’d attended funerals before, of course, and burials of all sorts over the years. Large, joyous celebrations, intimate family affairs that he’d been honored to join, simple wooden-box lowerings, and decadent, gilded services. It wasn’t foreign to him to be the only mourner at a graveside, but often the occasion was filled with so much love he could hardly bear it, love that was deepened and hollowed through grief, ringing heavy and profound.

An intensely human emotion, grief.

Then there were services like these, where the emptiness of the air broke his heart. The church was full, coworkers mostly, contacts, those that had been called friends but were in truth closer to acquaintances. Near the front sat one or two true friends and a few family members, all distant, some in blood, some in love. When the service ended they all filed out gradually, until the only figure left in the large hollow room was a single, former gardener.

 He approached the altar slowly. A few workers waited impatiently in a nearby room for the last of the mourners to leave. They were not allowed to begin their jobs until the church had emptied, but Aziraphale would not be rushed. Not in this.

He swallowed tightly when he reached them and forced his hands to drop to his sides from where they were pressed against the front of his vest. He’d planned to say something. Do something other than stare blankly at the three boxes, two large, one slightly smaller. He found himself unable to move, not willing to walk away in silence, but incapable of finding anything worth saying.

They were no longer here, in any sense of the word, empty caskets in an empty church. They were with Her now. He was with Her now, and that was some comfort. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t lost people before. He’d lost them again and again, and of course it was always expected, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Thoughts of “better place” and “ineffable plans” flitted through his head on paths so well-worn he didn’t bother to linger on them. They were little comfort.

He blinked away tears and let out a huff of breath. He was being ridiculous. But still, it was always worse when-

He was startled out of his thoughts when he heard the church door open behind him. He turned slightly, then spun fully around when he saw who was making his way through the pews.

Crowley strode determinedly down the aisle, jacket and jeans traded for a formal suit, face somber and drawn. The last time Aziraphale had seen him in a church he’d hopped around like mad, making a joke of it, but obviously in pain. Now he took each step resolutely, though the angel could see the flinch in his chest each time his foot hit the ground. He watched in silent horror until he finally stood next to him, still.

“I thought you were going to wait until-… until the burial,” he watched Crowley with concern, but the demon kept his eyes straight ahead on the casket in front of them.

“Changed m’ mind,” his jaw was clenched tight, but the rest of him looked almost relaxed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, feet set resolutely on the floor, as if he’d settled into the pain.

“Crowley-,”

“I didn’t like the thought of you standing in here alone,” Crowley interrupted before Aziraphale could say anything. He swallowed, hearing the break in his voice on the last word. “Raised him together,” he explained, voice taking odd turns in pitch. “Should say goodbye together too.”

And as much as he wanted Crowley somewhere safe Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel glad he was there. He felt steadier, and took a deep breath, allowing Crowley’s presence to ground him. Crowley, however, still looked lost, and Aziraphale half-raised his hand to offer comfort, almost thinking better of it until Crowley stepped closer to him. He placed one arm gently around his shoulders.

“Come on, dear. We should let them get on with it,” he turned, and Crowley followed pliantly, leaning into the touch. “Did you still want to go to the burial?” Aziraphale asked gently as they left the church grounds.

Crowley shook his head.

“No,” he straightened up, and Aziraphale let his hand drop back to his side. “I want to go back to the bookshop and get very, very drunk.”

---------------

Crowley’s feet were even worse than they’d been in 1941, Aziraphale could tell from the way he limped to the Bentley, but he knew better than to offer to drive. By the time they reached the bookshop, Crowley was in obvious pain, a concerning development considering how well he usually was at hiding it, or covering it with humor. Aziraphale’s concern only grew when Crowley offered little protest to Aziraphale’s insistence on healing him. He settled onto the couch at the back of the shop, bottle of whiskey already in hand, and let Aziraphale pull his legs up onto his lap.

When he was finished, had done all he could for the divinity that had scorched his feet, there wasn’t much left to say, so Aziraphale pulled the whiskey from his hand and poured them each a generous glass.

Sometimes things like this just happened. They’d both made and lost their fair share of human friends. Always expected. Never easy. It was always worse when it was children though. With adults there was the comfort of a life well-lived, the world having changed for their presence in it, their music already written. Children just left such an emptiness behind, a palpable void of vanished potential. Aziraphale kept his own quiet coping to himself, latching onto his tired thoughts of “ineffable plan,” but knowing the words would only send Crowley raging.

Then again, he almost wished Crowley would rage. The quiet melancholy was more than he could bear.

Sometimes these things just happen. Lightning strikes. Planes crash. Thirteen year-old boys die, and She gathers them home to Her.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale started, unable to withstand the sound of pouring whiskey again as Crowley knocked back another glass and set it on the table, reaching for the bottle. “When Warlock found us drinking in the kitchen?”

Crowley grunted, emptying the bottle into his glass.

“Which time?” he indulged the conversation.

“He was ten at that point I believe. He should have been in bed hours ago.”

“Always did have trouble getting him to stick to a bedtime,” Crowley shook his head and took another drink. “When he was smaller he’d fight me tooth and nail. Literally. Kid bit me more often than not when I tried to tuck him in.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale agreed. “You were so proud.”

“Yeah,” the corners of Crowley’s lips twitched in a way that only Aziraphale could have recognized was a smile.

“He used to wander about,” Aziraphale remembered. “And then one night, there he was, standing in the kitchen doorway, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Didn’t even have the decency to look surprised. Do you know, I think he went looking for us intentionally?”

“Course he did,” Crowley snorted in a way that could almost have been a laugh. “I knew that when the first thing he asked was ‘Can I try some?’”

“He was always so curious. It was incessant,” Aziraphale smiled a little.

Such a consistently human trait, curiosity.

“And you gave him some, just like that,” Crowley accused with a raised eyebrow.

“I did no such thing!”

“Because I stopped you,” now Crowley did laugh.

“Whiskey was medicine for the longest time, how am I supposed to keep up when childcare standards change so constantly?” Aziraphale complained, setting down his drink.

“Whiskey hasn’t been suitable for children for nearly a hundred years, angel,” Crowley grinned.

“That is not very long, and you know it,” Aziraphale pointed an accusing finger at him. “Besides, if I recall correctly, you’re the one that ended up actually letting him try some.”

“Hmm,” Crowley nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Made him smell it first though.”

“And the face he made, good Lord,” Aziraphale laughed properly. “He never bothered us after bedtime again.”

Crowley tipped the rest of the whiskey back down his throat, frowning.

“Nah,” he played with the rim of the glass contemplating it. “He was never a bother.”

“No,” Aziraphale picked up his own glass again and took a drink. “No, he certainly wasn’t.”

They were silent for another moment, neither of them moving.

The spell was broken by a quick, violent shattering of glass as Crowley threw his tumbler at the wall. It was over before Aziraphale realized what had happened, the echo of the sound in his ears, and Crowley was still again, staring at the spot where it had made impact.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, all the anger having left him as quickly as it came. Aziraphale put his hand gently over Crowley’s.

Then he tensed.

“Crowley, sober up,” Aziraphale was suddenly sitting straight, he set his drink down.

“I said sorry, angel. ‘M not even that drunk yet,” his voice had no fight in it though. Then Aziraphale’s hand tightened on his, and he glanced up at the angel, frowning.

“No. Crowley.”

Aziraphale was sober and already making to stand, the faint scent of ozone lingering in his senses and a high pitched whine ringing in his ears.

Crowley shot up at the sound of the bookshop bell, swaying a moment from the drink, righting himself, then gritting his teeth from the lingering pain in his feet. Aziraphale had done what he could, but it wasn’t perfect. The physical wounds could be healed, the blisters and the blood, but there was little he could do for the more ethereal damage the consecrated ground had done. The sharp ache would stick with him for a while yet.

Quiet, sure footsteps made their way towards them. They didn’t stop until they rounded the corner into the backroom.

And in front of them stood Michael, shining, pristine, and insufferably satisfied.

Chapter Text

“Michael,” Aziraphale spoke first, every muscle in his body tense. “What are you doing here?”

He was nearly crushing Crowley’s hand with the strength of his grip, but Crowley didn’t mind. Didn’t even notice. Was too busy trying to make sense of the new reality that was Michael in the bookshop as he sobered up, brain sent into overdrive, connecting dots.

Michael just smiled, glancing between the two of them.

“It was you,” Crowley realized, half rage, half grief. Michael just smiled wider.

“What?” Aziraphale looked back and forth between them. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Crowley swallowed, his jaw clenching.

“The plane crash,” Crowley said in a strained voice. “The lightning,” he explained, even though he knew he didn’t need to. Aziraphale understood already. He just didn’t want to. “It was her.”

“That’s right,” Michael finally spoke, voice delighted and melodic. “Aren’t you clever?”

 “You- You-,” Aziraphale didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence, eyes wide with shock slowly drifting into something else. He took a step toward her, and she stepped back, hands up. Not a surrender. More a condescending “calm down.”

“I’m not here to fight,” she said it like it was obvious. Aziraphale stepped forward.

“I’m just here to warn you,” she said it like she was innocent. She stepped back.

“Yes. Consider the boy a warning shot,” she said it like she’d won. “Every time you do something we don’t like, we’ll take away someone you love.”

“Get out of my shop,” Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, pulled out of his own rage by the venom sizzling in the angel’s voice. He’d never seen Aziraphale so angry. Not in Alexandria. Not at his godson’s funeral. Not at the end of the world.

 “You may have shaken Gabriel a bit with your little fire trick, Aziraphale, but you don’t scare me,” she chastised, all sing-song voice and confidence. “I’ll be honest, apart from the boy, I don’t really know who is and isn’t important to you. But I’m not opposed to taking shots in the dark,” Michael shrugged, hands still raised. “There are more than a few "customers" you're fond of.”

Crowley tried to swallow down his own rage, well aware of the power radiating off of the Archangel, even as she stood, relaxed, hands raised. But Aziraphale kept walking forward.

Michael turned her attention to Crowley, her tone teasing. “Humans in your building who wave to you. You wave back when you think no one's looking. But I am,” her smile was all malice and teeth. “I always am.”

Michael kept talking, listing all their friends, listing humans who’d shown them compassion, humans who’d done them a small kindness. There were so many.

It was such an inherently human instinct, kindness.

And Aziraphale kept walking her back. Crowley said nothing, eyes on Aziraphale. He was the picture of composure for anyone who didn’t know him, but Crowley watched his hands. Not fidgeting, not nervous, but held still with such tension that they shook. And suddenly Crowley realized what he was doing.

“The young man who cuts your hair.”

He was stalling.

And Michael kept walking back.

“The woman who does your nails.”

He wasn’t just backing her out of the bookshop. He was backing her into the street.

Where there was open space. And nothing they particularly cared about.

And despite her insistence to the contrary, Michael was nervous here. Eager to leave.

“You can’t just go around killing people,” Crowley’s voice broke, despite himself. He was terrified, because he felt the charge of divine energy building up next to him, humming faster and higher with each mention of another human on the chopping block. “Killing children. For- for vengeance? You can’t. It’s- it’s-,” And he was terrified because for all his swagger and faux-confidence, Crowley wasn’t a fighter. But if Aziraphale wanted to do this, he’d be damned thrice over if he let him do it alone.

“It’s to keep you two in line. And why not? They were born to die, anyway. It’s what makes them human,” she shrugged. “And besides, they’ll all have deserved it in one way or another. Every human’s sinned. It’s easy enough to justify the occasional smiting.”

“And Warlock?” Aziraphale stopped moving, sounding like he was choking on his own voice. Michael was standing in the doorway. “He was thirteen. What was his crime?”

Michael looked genuinely surprised at the question, then glanced up at the sky, suddenly bored with the conversation. She took half a step back, out of the bookshop. It was raining, but the water parted easily for her, leaving her dry.

“He was the godson of a demon and a renegade angel. An abomination, really.”

Crowley surged forward, using his sudden burst of contempt to feed himself false courage, hoping to catch Michael off-guard. He grasped her by the lapels, dragging her from the bookshop’s doorstep and away from their home. When he felt her shift in his grip, he pulled back and threw her to the street, trying to buy Aziraphale enough time for a proper strike.

Aziraphale didn’t waste the opportunity. Michael landed on her feet, sliding across the wet pavement, hand forward in a mock three-point stance to steady herself. She looked up, furious, just in time to see Aziraphale flying toward her, wings out and sword drawn. But she was already crackling with electricity, and the blade was a human one, miracled in haste. It shattered on impact, sending metal cascading into the street, and Aziraphale was thrown back, landing sprawled on the ground, wings pulled out of this plane at the shock of a close-range smiting.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called out, but the angel didn’t move. He took a step towards him, but Michael’s head snapped in his direction and he froze.

Michael watched him, eyes still wide with surprise. The sword lay in pieces on the ground, but it had still met its mark, and Michael held her upper arm. He caught something in her gaze. Just a flash. So quick he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it.

Almost.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open a little as he re-examined the situation.

Aziraphale had started to move, just enough to curl into himself, trying to pull himself to his knees. Michael stood between them, cautious, glancing upward as she did the quick math on whether she should try to retaliate now or make her escape. If she left now, there’d be no preventing her smiting another human, another friend, and Crowley’s grief still sat cold and hollow in his chest.

Crowley snapped his fingers.

Not a miracle, more like flint striking stone.

The hellfire didn’t hurt, but the creation of it did. And he’d rarely done it before, mostly just to sign papers, a quick spark on his fingertip before shaking it off. Now he lit his whole hand, the flames bursting out to curl around his arm, each flicker of heat drawn from his own essence, pulling from his infernal form the energy it needed to stay lit. But as he stalked closer to Michael, much to Aziraphale’s horror, Crowley saw in her eyes that he’d been right.

She wasn’t scared of Aziraphale, hadn’t been there to watch him survive hellfire, hadn’t borne witness to Crowley’s performance.

But she was scared of him. And she hadn’t been anticipating a fight tonight. Whatever Aziraphale had done down there must have been quite the show, and Crowley could almost laugh at how misplaced her fear was.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

“Oh, but I would,” he struggled not to hesitate in his steps. Especially when, halfway towards her, he realized he didn’t have the end of a plan. He didn’t know if he was bluffing or not. The Archangel Michael stood steps away from his hellfire, too proud to run and too unsure to fight, and his grief pulled at him, aching and tired and hungry.

He doubted he could kill her. Doubted if he’d survive the attempt. But Aziraphale was still injured and Warlock was still dead and if he didn’t make her considerably more afraid of them right now, she would continue taking things from them. Continue taking people. The fire in his hand grew brighter, and it drained him, sparking painfully around his skin where he fed it.

He could deal some serious damage before she could wing it all the way up and they both knew it.

Then she smiled sweetly.

“Fine. You wanna play dirty?”

And Crowley stopped moving. He forgot to breathe, forgot to make his heart beat. He fought to keep the hellfire in his hand burning, and it flickered dangerously low as he focused in on a single sound.

“Nanny?”

Chapter Text

Michael was holding Warlock, one arm wrapped around his chest, holding the thin boy aloft without any effort. He glanced around, panicked and confused, until his eyes settled on Crowley.

“Where am-,” Michael cut him off with a violent squeeze to his ribs, and he coughed from the force of it.

“He’s alive,” Crowley hardly dared breathe.

“Of course, he’s alive. I wanted to save this little bargaining chip for later on, but,” she sneered. “Apparently you imbeciles want to do this right now. So,” she flipped a strand of fallen hair out of her eyes, trying to appear more in control of the situation than she was. With one arm around Warlock, her shoulder bled freely. It was only her corporation, but it certainly made it harder for her to fight. And, Crowley realized as he watched her flinch with every movement Warlock made, it had to hurt.

Michael rarely came down from heaven. He suddenly doubted if she’d had so much as a papercut in 6000 years. He grinned and stepped closer, raising the hellfire, holding it out like a gun and resting his arm on his other hand to steady it.

“Ah ah ah,” she cautioned, raised Warlock higher, a human shield. “Let’s make a deal. That’s what you like, right? Demon, deal?” When Crowley didn’t answer, she continued, “Tell me how you two survived your executions, and I’ll leave him here with you when I leave. Even put the parents back too.”

“Don’t do it!” Warlock called out, earning him another squeeze to the ribs, and Michael’s other hand came up to cover his mouth. He didn’t understand all the details. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know what was going on. That he was being used to put the people he cared about in danger.

Even thirteen-year-olds want to protect the ones they love.

Such an ineffably human power, love. And it can make one brave.

“If you don’t do it,” Michael growled, “I take him with me upstairs and you never see him again. He lives the rest of his short, human, life in a white-walled room, alone.” Crowley swallowed, then his gaze flicked to Warlock.

“Warlock, do you remember when I used to take you to bed? And you weren’t tired?”

“Stop talking, what are you talking about?” Michael squeezed his ribs again, and Crowley’s hands shook when Warlock gasped in pain and he thought he heard a crack, but Warlock nodded his head silently, and he steadied them. He couldn’t miss. He wouldn’t miss.

“Tell me-,”

“Now!” Crowley ordered, and Warlock shifted his head just enough to gain some purchase and bit.

Michael cried out. She kept her grip but dropped the boy just enough to give Crowley a window, and he fired. It was barely a lick of flame, Crowley didn’t want to risk anything bigger, but it caught, hungry and furious, on the edge of her lapel. And then Michael did release Warlock, pushing him away in her haste as she pulled her arms from her jacket and dropped it to the ground where it sizzled on the wet pavement, flames still licking up toward her, seeking out their divine prey.

She glared at Crowley, fury and fear, and Crowley braced himself for the retaliating blow as the flame in his hand flickered. There was a reason demons avoided calling on hellfire. It was ravenous. And he was quickly running out of power to feed it.

“Warlock run!” he ordered.

Michael took a step forward.

Then froze.

Warlock stood in front of him, hands clenched and shaking at his sides as he stared down the Archangel.

“Move, boy,” Michael commanded, a tone created to lead armies, a voice that held the power of heaven behind it.

“No,” his voice was high-pitched and shaking, the voice of a scared child. The rain didn't part for him, and his dark hair was wet, plastered against his face. He stared up through the strands, eyes wide but unmoving.

Bravery is such a painfully human choice. But its so often worth it.

“Warlock, don’t,” Crowley begged, wanting to push him out of the way, but loathe to get too close with his hand still lit.

“You won’t hurt Nanny. I won’t let you!”

“You won’t let-,” Michael almost laughed, then turned to see Aziraphale advancing on her, recovered and steady on two feet, now at her back, flanking her. She was still for a moment. Considering options. Growing frustrated and angry as she realized how limited they were. She huffed, then stood straight, brushing off her shirt and trying to regain her composure.

“I suppose I’ve made my point here.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed sharply. “You certainly have.”

“Another toe out of line from either of you, and-,”

“We understand, Michael,” Aziraphale cut her off and she glared at him. With a final, strict tug of her shirt sleeve and a hmp of derision, she pulled herself back up to heaven with an aggressive glow of light that left them all momentarily blinded.

------------------------------------

“It was kinda stupid, wasn’t it?” Warlock looked up at them, one side of his nose wrinkled in distaste as he anticipated a lecture. “What I did?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Aziraphale shot Crowley a look. He was leaning against the Bentley, arms crossed, where it was parked halfway up the Dowlings’ driveway. If the commotion in the house was anything to go by, the Dowlings had been returned, much to the confusion and delight of the house staff.

“It was very brave, what you did,” Aziraphale set a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. “And Michael certainly wasn’t expecting it.”

“What exactly happened? Who was she? I’m pretty sure she broke one of ribs, why doesn’t it hurt anymore? Why was your hand on fire, Nanny? Why-,” Warlock released his questions all at once, having held them in the whole car ride. When he’d finished he was nearly out of breath, head looking back and forth between Aziraphale and Crowley, insistent and curious. Aziraphale sputtered for a moment, looked to Crowley, who was no help, then looked back at Warlock.

“Well you see,” he started. “Personally, I think it was all just Michael. She’s always been the more proactive of the bunch. Can never really stand not having the upper-hand. She-,”

“Aziraphale.”

He paused and glanced over to Crowley, then seemed to consider something, head bobbing left and right as he weighed it, a motion that quickly shifted to nodding his head in reluctant agreement. He focused back on a confused Warlock.

“That’s- That’s a lot of questions, my dear. And its all a bit-,”

“He’s going to say ineffable.”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale gave Crowley a quick glance of annoyance.

“Well…,” Warlock glanced between them, fiddling nervously with his phone in one hand. “Could I come hang out with you guys sometime? Its just that its been so boring around here since you left. And I had no idea you lived so close. I promise I won’t be a bother, I-,”

“No,” Crowley straightened suddenly against the car, still resting his weight on it. He corrected himself quickly at Warlock’s crestfallen expression. “No, you won’t- I just mean you- you won’t be a bother. You can come whenever you like.”

“Oh!” Warlock perked up, then smiled. “Alright then. I guess I’ll see you… sometime?” He started to back his way reluctantly up the driveway. He turned, then paused. Before he could think about it too much he ran back and gave them each a quick hug. Face red now, he turned and pulled out his phone before either of them could say anything, touching the screen randomly as he walked quickly up to the house.

They watched him silently until he walked safely through the door.

“You know, if he comes around, he’s going to continue asking questions,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Yeah.”

“He’ll never stop.”

“Course he won’t,” Crowley sniffed, “’s what makes him human.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Part of it, anyway.”

When Crowley still didn’t move to get back in the car, watching the house intently, Aziraphale ventured a hesitant observation.

“You must be dreadfully exhausted after all that hellfire last night.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise.

“And I’m sure your feet still hurt something terrible.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“Would you like me to drive home, dear?”

“How dare you.”

“I was only asking-,”

“How dare you.”