Archive of Our Own

Z pinned him down, his hand gripped on the redhead's neck. The demon laughed hollowly, pressing his blade slowly on the angel's chest.

"Another one. For you, just for you, my dear."

A single tear escaped the angel's eyes, which were fixated on the demon. He didn't struggle (he never did): he stayed still, a distraught look in his eyes but still unmoving under Z's weight; the only thing he did, was raising a hand, slowly.

"A-Azira... phale..." he touched the scar on the demon’s jaw, ever so slightly.

The demon widened his eyes.

He felt panic rushing in: he pressed the blade further into the angel's chest.

The redhead looked at him with eyes full of tears and let his hand drop. He died right after.

A few minutes had passed since the assassination, but the demon still hadn't moved. He sat on the angel's lifeless body, breathing heavily, his thoughts racing: nobody had ever called him that since his Fall; no angel should've even known his real name at all. He went by Z, everyone called him that now, even angels: they did call him that or "the angel slayer", when they had to alarm others he was there. He hadn't heard that name in years, he had even almost forgotten it existed: the last time he had been Aziraphale, it had been when Crowley was—

He tried to calm himself down; his legs weren't working. His eyes dropped on the figure under him. Z lifted the lifeless angel's chin, looking better at his face: his cheeks were still tear-stained; he had died with his eyes open, those sad, hurt yellow eyes. He did look familiar, but he didn't really want to think about it.

"Don't look at me like that" Z whispered, hating how he’d wanted his tone to be commanding but almost sounded like a pleading.

"What were you trying to do, mh? Touching me that way..." he glanced at the angel's hand, placed on his side. Z took it by the wrist, raising it in front of his face. He looked at it for a moment, thinking, before pressing it unceremoniously to his cheek. It wasn't a proper caress, it was nothing at all really, just… a contact: it still had the littlest trace of warmth in it. Z leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, breathing shakily.

He let go of the hand, wishing it would stay where it was. It didn't. It dropped with a thud on the angel's chest, where the wound was still bleeding.

Z made a disappointed expression. He let a breath out, closing the angel's eyes with his hand and finally getting up.

That had been the fifth time they had met, the fifth time Z had let him live, and had just merely discorporated him. The thing was, this angel had a strange aura to him: it wasn't properly angelic, had something more mixed into it that made Z confused, he couldn't get himself to act as he did with the others. Another reason he didn't really want to think about, was how he had red hair, golden eyes and a voice that resembled one he had long forgotten before meeting this angel.

It had been terrifying, to forget: he hadn’t wanted to, he had clung onto Crowley's thought with all his might; he clung onto the memories of pretty evenings at his bookshop, fancy dinners at the Ritz, books and drinks and stars and laughter and...

Eventually, he had still forgotten Crowley's voice.

It had been agonizing, trying to remember what he sounded like and finding out he could not, not at all: his laugh, his sighs, his soft "angel"s, the way he called his name.

‘Aziraphale!’

‘A-Azira... phale...’

He brought his hands to his hair, shaking his head forcefully. Enough.

He flew away, leaving the angel's corpse on the ground.

-

Z had not had a good day, which wasn’t exactly surprising for a demon like him. That day, though, had been especially awful: he had managed to get rid of two angels but one of them had totally ruined his shirt splattering his… angelic blood or whatever that was. Now it stank of Heaven, it made him sick to the bone.

The shirt disappeared with a snap of his fingers and he looked at himself on the mirror: he had definitely lost the gut, his abdomen pale and scarred. He distractedly glanced at one of those old wounds, tracing one of them with his finger. The contact with his own cold hand made him shiver a bit, sending an unpleasant sensation to his brain: he didn’t really care, and just kept on tracing them, deep in thought. Thinking wasn’t as easy as it had been in the past, his mind always going back and forth on angels and demons and sometimes just… the void. Thinking was draining, speaking felt impossible sometimes when you hadn’t been able to talk to someone for years and had even forgotten what your own voice sounded like. He felt detached from reality most of time, feelings totally out of reach. He didn’t feel guilty killing his ex-co-workers, he never had. By now, it was mostly an automatic reaction: he saw an angel, he slaughtered them; the angel asked for mercy, he stabbed them and killed them with Hellfire.

Sometimes, he happened to forget his goal, his reasons, too far taken with the pleasure of wiping that scum from Earth. It was an impulse, a disgust deeply imprinted on his body and soul: he didn’t really think of it. It came as natural to him as breathing came for a human: he enjoyed seeing angels suffer, beg and cry; he enjoyed feeling in control of their stupid fleeing lives, giving them hope for a moment, and then shredding that tiny spark with his blade.

He moved his hand to the scar on his jaw.

Not with that one.

He didn’t enjoy torturing the redhead one, seeing him suffer. But he had to: he had to kill him, he had to bring pain to angels and get rid of them, of all of them because, because—

Sometimes, some part of him would surface and demand for a justification for what he did. He wished that part of him would cease to exist once for all: he was no longer an angel, he had no need to find a reason for what he did nor how he did it. Still, the thought of doing something unfair made him restless, nervous, it made him think so hard his mind felt like blowing up, like he was forgetting something so important. Had it been the Fall which had made him angry? No, that wasn’t it: he had expected to Fall a long time before it had actually happened. Was it because of the torture he had been subjected to, to force the grace out of him? But it had been by the demons then, and he didn’t feel anger towards them. He didn’t really feel anything at all when he thought of them, blissful indifference. It had hurt, and it had hurt a lot, but that didn’t matter to him; he didn’t care because there was something more important, so crucial and essential and hecouldn’t remember. He always seemed to forget things too often.

Why, why, why, why, why—

It always came to him at some point: he remembered sunglasses; he remembered yellow eyes and short red hair; he remembered hands holding each other and hidden smiles; he remembered— it hurt to remember; forgetting hurt more. He clung to the thought of him as much as he hated thinking of him, of the two of them.There was no “them” anymore, after all.

He glanced blankly at his left hand, which was gripping tightly his right arm: he hadn’t realized he had moved it from the scars. When he lessened the grip, he noticed he had left little black marks on his own skin. He laughed hollowly at himself, closing his eyes: he didn’t feel like laughing. He felt the urge to curl up and feel the hours pass away or, either way, go out again and kill other angels.

It had always been surprisingly easy, killing them: angels were so weak, especially when you had been an angel yourself and you knew their weaknesses. Z idly wondered why demons hadn’t started wiping angels out of existence earlier, when he’d been an angel himself. He wouldn’t have had to bear what had eventually been thrown at him, if they’d started acting sooner.

Part of that Ineffable bloody Plan of Hers, he snorted.

He changed in a new white shirt and went hunting again, hoping it would calm his nerves and stop that fucking headache.

-

The next time they met, they met on Earth.

Z had been wandering around for a bit, searching for whatever angelic presence he could find: he was in London, casually walking through it. It had been years since he had last been there, but the atmosphere was the same he remembered it to be: Saint James’ Park was less lovely than he recalled, but that was to be expected as anything and everything felt just awful since the world had been taken away from him.

His feet brought him near the bookshop eventually, in Soho: he had felt an angelic presence in that area, so he had followed his instincts and rushed there before his prey could sense him as well. When he got there, he was struck by two facts: first of all, the bookshop wasn’t there anymore. He should have expected that, since it had been years, decades: still, it set an unpleasant feeling in his chest.

When he got closer to what was of the bookshop, he was struck by the second fact: he had momentarily forgotten about the angelic presence and was reminded of it when he spotted a familiar redhead right in front of the building of his own bookshop. Z felt a sudden rush of jealousy: that was his place; it was his place, but it was his as much as it was Crowley’s, and nobody had to even get close to it, let alone an angel. He just wanted him gone.

He approached the angel with calculated steps, slowly, stealthily, with his usual detached, cold expression, his hand twitching; when he was just a few meters away from the redhead, though, he had to stop. The angel, he noticed, who had been looking fervently at the bookshop till then, who had now turned towards him, had clearly been crying; new tears were forming in his yellow eyes. Z didn’t understand. He looked at him, his dagger held in his hand, but he could not move.

Usually, strangely enough, it would be the angel himself the one to get close to him first, approaching him in the most strange ways: the first time they had met, the angel had wholeheartedly hugged him; Z hadn’t understood the gesture, but it’s not like he really wanted to understand it at all, so he had played along and had just… discorporated him. The second time, the angel had asked for his name: Z hadn’t answered, just said he was called “angel slayer” before discorporating him a once more. The third time, the angel had approached him willingly again, telling him he had heard his name was “Z”, but that isn’t your real name, is it? Z had gotten rid of him. The fourth time, he had extended a hand; the fifth time, the redhead had told him his own name: Z had gotten properly angry for the first time in years, pinned him down on the ground and… just discorporated him, again.

He never attacked, the angel: he defended himself as best as he could, but he had never attacked the demon, not even once, not even when he had had the opportunity to strike and escape being discorporated once again. He was weird, and he still had that confusing aura to him, and that’s all Z thought of him.

This time though, the redhead wasn’t approaching him: he was just looking at the demon, tears flowing and hands visibly shaking. Z couldn’t move: he distractedly wondered if it was some sort of spell or something like that. It had to be, no other reason the demon should’ve kept still when he could’ve easily taken the angel down.

The angel looked at him, then shook his head, put a trembling hand on his own mouth, and Z looked him walk away.

-

The seventh time, Z managed to move when they met again.

He had him pinned down again, the angel breathing heavily under him. Z grinned at him, had his dagger right on the angel’s neck.

“Now, now, what should I do with you?” he said, voice hoarse with disuse.

He had managed to kill more angels than he had expected to, that day, and he was in a good mood for once. He had met the redhead angel and decided that using Hellfire on him for the first and last time would’ve definitely been a good way to end the day.

He didn’t usually talk to preys, nor fellow demons, but, for some reason, he was totally tarrying.

“Should we end it here, our little tag game?” he said, playfully.

He had expected himself to enjoy the look of helplessness on the other’s eyes, but he wasn’t, he really wasn’t. He forced himself to.

The angel shook a bit under the demon’s weight. Z grinned, readying himself to smell the scent of fear he loved so much. What he was unprepared for, was the utter despair the angel hit him with just a few moments later.

“Why don’t you just get on with it?” the angel whispered, not looking at him in the eye.

The demon tilted his head, still smiling creepily.

“Sorry?”

“Get on with it!” the angel shouted, pressing his eyes shut.

The demon flinched; his face fell.

“You keep on doing this, keep on… just discorporating me, over and over again!” he snapped. “Do it but do it once for all! I don’t care! Just…” he looked at him, eyes teary and tired. “… Just, please”

Z made a horrified expression.

He fell back and crawled away from him, dropping the dagger. He looked at his hands weirdly as he noticed they were actually shaking with stress. Most of the time his body acted on his own, he didn’t even know why he’d been so bothered by the words now. He had had to put some distance between them, needed fresh air even if he didn’t technically need to breath.

The angel kept lying down, unmoving, looking at the sky above him and breathing. He raised his hands at some point, and started rubbing his eyes, a little harder now: he started sobbing. Z kept watching him, sat on the ground a few meters from him and was finding himself, once again, not able to move.

“Why?” he uttered.

The angel moved a hand from his eye, to look at him slightly with a reddened eye.

“Why are you doing this? Are you some sort of joke? I thought y’all were done with me but, I see, apparently you haven’t had enough yet.” he said, laughing hysterically. “I thought mercy was more of an… angelic thing! Your side’s thing! Definitely isn’t ours, but you still keep on… pulling this kind of shit! Is being alive not enough a punishment, I wonder?” he looked at the sky intensely. “Is this… not enough?”

“A-Aziraphal-”

“Do not!” he shouted, moving his eyes on the angel, who Z noticed had sat down now and was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. He felt pathetic; he didn’t want to make the angel see him like this. Not like this. “Shut up. Shut up. Don’t… not with that… dumb hair of yours and those eyes and—” he pressed his hands on his ears, closing his eyes shut, curling on himself. “That voice… I can’t stand it” he laughed, self-loathingly. “I really can’t…”

Once again, he didn’t feel like laughing.

“That is not my side” Z thought he had heard him say.

He uncovered his ears, opening his eyes wearily.

“I don’t have a side. Haven’t had one in a long time, really.” He said, sniffing and smiling sadly.

We’re on our side.

They stayed like that for a long time: Z was tired, he really was, but the angel wasn’t speaking, wasn’t forcing him to do anything at all. He kept him company, sitting just a few meters away from him, in silence, just staring in the other, hoping to find something that hadn’t been completely lost to despair.

Sometimes the angel would try to crawl a little closer, and the demon would crawl backwards, feeling utterly, pathetically scared. He knew, deep down, what he was scared of: accepting it would be admitting it had all been done in vain, that he was just another murderer, another horrible demon in the nine circles of Hell, and he wasn’t deserving of anything anymore; accepting it meant hoping, meant trying and feeling and loving again, and he couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t take another hit like that once it’d be over again. Because it would, eventually: he wasn’t who he’d been before, and Aziraphale was dead.

So, the angel crawled towards him, and Z went backwards: that always seemed to break the angel’s heart. Z couldn’t help it: he hated feeling scared; he rejected all his thoughts and, at least with himself, he could pretend he didn’t even know why he was so scared to begin with. He put some distance between them, and then put some more, and more. It was too soon, too soon.

He hated himself for breaking the angel’s heart.

“This is stupid, I’m going home”

“Angel, please. It’s okay.”

Z snorted.

“It really isn’t.”

He flew away.

-

Z slept through three months after that. Or at least, he had tried: he had ended up staring at the ceiling for three months straight, as it always went when he tried sleeping.

He hadn’t been one for sleep before the whole mess happened but being awake had felt like a worse option, right when he had just managed to get out of Hell. Even so, he had never been able to really sleep: nightmares plagued him, and not really knowing the details of Crowley’s death had made his mind get the funny habit of going back and forth imagining all the wildest and cruelest ways it could’ve happened. Had it been by holy water? A flaming sword? Had he called his name? Had he blamed him?

He didn’t sleep.

He always turned off the lights, though: after being left alone in a dark room for years, light feels just awful; also, when the torturers came, they always brought some sort of light with them to see the full extent of their work, Aziraphale had assumed. Being in the dark made him feel safe, made him feel no one was there with him and he was safe. When he felt too alone, he could pretend someone was with him, just not speaking, not touching, not breathing.

Anything and everything felt awful to him since the world had been taken away from him.

He got up from the bed suddenly, got dressed, went out.

The weather was cloudy, humid; it wasn’t a good time to go out, but Z didn’t really care.

He had gone to London again, too hurt to actually live there but too attached to it to imagine himself taking a break in a city that wasn’t the one he had lived the happiest few days of his long life. He went to Saint James’ Park once again, distractedly glancing at kids playing and running and at parents shouting that they needed to get back home: it was about to rain, everyone was going back home. He moved his eyes towards the sky: there was still time to go in another city on the other side of Earth if he wanted, where there was actual good weather; he wasn’t going to. Z kept on walking till he got to the bench and sat on his usual spot. Then, it started raining.

He didn’t move: just sat there, looking at the ducks, not thinking of anything at all. He idly wondered what would happen if he were to sink one of the ducks, so he did.

“Really, angel?”

Z turned his head. Other than that, didn’t move, too drained to.

He wasn’t really surprised to see an angel with long red hair, yellow eyes, sat on the other side of the bench: Crowley’s spot. Another thing he noticed was how it was no longer raining. Moreover, it was, but it had stopped raining on him: the angel had his white wings wide open, covering the demon from the rain.

The duck bobbed angrily to the surface.

“Sorry” he said, like reading a script. “I was forgetting myself”

The angel smiled sadly, then moved his eyes on the cloudy sky. Z stared at him, how little drops of water were falling on his red hair, dumping it as well as his clothes: he was beautiful, he’d always been. The demon unfolded his black wings as well, covering the angel with one of them.

The angel looked at him, startled by the sudden act of friendliness, but Z couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment by saying something.

They were closer than they had been the other time, definitely closer, but the angel had had the kindness to sit right at the edge of the other side of the bench compared to where Z was. The demon wasn’t scared, he wasn’t happy either, he was… calm, a tranquillity he hadn’t been graced with in a long time. It was nice, being a little closer: their wings were touching, rain brought good memories to him, and he was feeling too calm despite himself to be hurt by them.

“Didn’t feel like feeding the ducks so you went straight to drowning them?”

Z smiled a little.

“Just wanted to try it out, a friend of mine used to do it sometimes” he said. “He would always bring them back to the surface though. He didn’t want to hurt them, just wanted to play. He was that childish of a person.”

“I’m not childish, angel, I was just bored.” he glared at him.

Z snorted, looking away.

They stayed in silence for a bit. Z didn’t like silence very much but, if the redhead angel was with him, he could manage, his confusing aura kind and comforting. Didn’t feel like an angel’s, didn’t feel like a demon’s, just like his own was.

“Don’t call me angel. ‘M not an angel anymore” Z said suddenly, lowering his eyes.

He focused on his hands, which were now torturing themselves, fidgeting. Heaven had always called him out on that when he’d been an angel, scolded him on how an ethereal being should be proper and not move his hands too much, that was just shameful. He couldn’t help fidgeting when he was nervous though (and he had been nervous most of the time then, really), and he had got the habit to hold his hands behind his back, so that others could not see how shameful of an angel he was. He was a demon now, he didn’t need to hide, but it still felt pathetic of him.

“You’re still an angel to me, you’ll always be. Look, even now, you’re shielding me from the rain.” he pointed to the black wing above him.

Z looked at him with a blank expression on his face. He moved his wing slightly backwards then, water pouring right on the angel’s head, who had most annoyed expression Z had seen on him.

“Can you not? I’m trying to make a point here”

Z laughed a bit, returning his wing above the angel’s head.

“Sorry, dea—”

He put a hand on his mouth, widening his eyes.

The angel seemed to notice.

“Hey, are you alright?” the angel leant toward him, extending a hand.

Z got up from the bench, suddenly scared again.

I wouldn’t be able to take it if you left again.

The angel looked at him with regretful eyes and raised his hands in front of his own chest, carefully.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that” the redhead said, fearful.

The angel had never been scared of him, not even once. Now, Z was smelling fear coming out of him for the first time, and it was because the angel didn’t want him to leave.

Z looked at him: he hated himself for breaking the angel’s heart, it seemed it was the only thing he was good at when it came to the him. His own heart broke too.

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing,” the demon said. “I’m sorry.”

And he left, leaving the angel alone on the bench.

-

“Promise me you won’t run away this time”

Z grimaced, sat on the bench as he’d been last time. The angel was right in front of him, hands on his waist. He seemed annoyed; Z couldn’t really blame him.

“Can’t go anywhere without you chasing me, can I?”

The angel glared at him, Z could feel his exhaustion from where he was: not that Z was forcing him to stay; the angel already knew he should’ve just left the demon alone, they would have both been happier, then (they wouldn’t have been. They weren’t happy now, but they hadn’t been happy before meeting each other either, and Z knew that. He suspected the angel knew it as well).

The redhead sighed, suddenly sad and tired.

“Just… please. Please don’t leave.”

The demon looked at him, pondering.

He nodded: he’d always been a better tempter than he was.

The angel sat beside him on the other side of the bench, letting a tired sigh out. They talked.

Moreover, the angel had spoken by himself most of time: of his day, of other angels, of how much Earth had changed. Z felt too distressed to do anything but torture his hands, and the angel seemed to notice.

“You don’t manicure them anymore?”

Z snorted, looking at his ruined hands.

“I barely even have the motivation to get up in the morning, let alone take care of… these things”

The angel stayed in silence after that, looking at his own hands; Z didn’t know what to say, feeling he might’ve spoiled the mood.

Of course I did.

He felt the sudden urge to leave. He sighed:

“Listen-”

“What if I did them for you?”

Z turned his head towards the angel, and found the redhead looking right back at him. The angel made a soft smile at him.

“You’re making a weird face”

Z couldn’t hold his gaze, so he lowered his eyes once again.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I want to, seems a good way to spend some time. I’m not taking no for an answer”

Z didn’t answer at all. He avoided his gaze.

“Perfect. Let’s go then.” the angel got up, extending a hand.

“Right now?”

“Why not? Got anything better to do?”

Z grimaced at him. He moved his eyes on the angel’s hand then, pondering: he could’ve taken it; he could’ve taken it and build a bridge between them. He could have, and he wanted to, but… it all felt terrifying.

He averted his gaze.

“Enough with these games, I’m going home”

“I’ll come with you. If you feel more comfortable there, that is…”

Z tried to put his most annoyed expression on, not really remembering how his face was supposed to work but hoping it would have an effect on the other, nonetheless. The angel let his hand drop; he seemed hurt.

“Just… please, angel. You said you wouldn’t leave…”

Z didn’t feel like an angel at all, felt more like he was torturing him instead.

Then again, Z had promised, and he’d always been a better tempter than he was.

-

“This is stupid”

“I know you’re liking this so won’t you be a dear and shut up?”

Z grumbled, looking away. He had never cared too much about his flat, he didn’t care at all, honestly; he was feeling a little too self-conscious with the angel being there with him, though. Aziraphale distractedly hoped the angel didn’t mind the mess.

He moved his eyes on the redhead, who was focused on his hands: Z hadn’t been taking care of them at all, clearly; they were a mess and he knew it, but he hadn’t cared. The angel though seemed to remember his old routine flawlessly: he had done all the steps, gently holding his hand and cleaning his hands reverently. Aziraphale knew what would come next.

“I need to moisturize your hands now, can I…?”

Z looked at him, a little uncertain.

“I won’t hurt you” the angel promised.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry…” he sighed. “… go ahead.”

The angel nodded, gently placing the demon’s hand on the table. He put on the moisturizer on his own palms, rubbing them and smoothing the product a bit. Then, he looked at the demon opposite to him.

Z nodded, and the angel took his hands in his.

The angel’s hands were warm, Z noticed: they were warm, and soft, and kind, Aziraphale didn’t want the touch to ever end.

The angel smoothed the moisturizer on Z’s hand with his own, massaging them and caressing them from time to time. That was the first time they had touched with both of them totally, desperately wanting it. Z hadn’t known how much he needed that touch until he got it: he was mesmerized by the sensations and the pleasure it was giving him, no longer used to feeling positive emotions after all that had happened. It felt… nice; Aziraphale was content.

“There,” the angel said after some time. “done…”

He hadn’t let go of his hands yet, just held them on top of his palms as if they were some kind of present the angel was giving to him. Z didn’t want it, he wanted his hands to stay right where they were.

He looked at the angel for the longest time, without saying anything, taking in all the details he didn’t want to forget, all the details he knew he’d forget once he’d been left alone again, eventually.

He took in all the details, because he knew there was no going back from what he was going to do.

But he was a demon now, and demons always take what they want without asking.

All the lights of the room switched off suddenly, the curtains closing on the windows as the room fell in utter darkness.

“A-Aziraphale, what are you—"

He didn’t let him finish: the demon leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t the way Aziraphale had always imagined they would have done it: it was messy, there was a table in between them and he was shaking; he was shaking, badly, and he knew Crowley would have known, as his hands were still on his.

Crowley, Crowley…

In the dark, he could pretend. He could pretend nothing had changed, that there was someone there with him, who was just the only someonehe had always wanted it to be, touching, breathing and… kissing him back.

“The table is in the way” the angel said for a moment, before returning his mouth to Aziraphale.

They got up, and Crowley took the demon’s shaking hands and placed them on his waist, while he deepened the kiss, putting his hands on Aziraphale’s now off-white hair.

Apparently, Aziraphale supposed, Crowley wanted to go in a specific room of the house, but instead of just asking, he was keeping on taking wild shots in the dark. After some minutes, he lost it.

“Where the fuck is this bloody room?” he mumbled against the demon’s mouth, annoyed.

“Mmh…”

He kept searching, till Aziraphale decided he had had enough enjoying Crowley making a fool of himself and took themselves to the right room.

They sat on the edge of the bed and lied down on it on their sides, face to face, stopping the kiss to look at each other, holding hands. Crowley breathed heavily, recovering a bit: it was dark, so dark Crowley couldn’t really see a thing, but he had the impression Aziraphale had not closed his eyes and was staring at him in silence.

“Fuckin’ finally, huh?”

It could have been referred to the finding the “bloody room”, it could have been referred to themselves. Aziraphale suspected it referred to both.

“Angels don’t really swear, you know?” he said, voice hoarse.

“I might have white wings but I’m no angel, angel”

Aziraphale just stared at him.

“You still have time to tell me this is a joke” he said at some point, half-meaning it, the other half of himself knowing there was no time at all.

Crowley placed a chaste kiss on the demon’s lips.

In the dark, Aziraphale could pretend. He could pretend he was still an angel; he could pretend nothing had really happened; he could pretend he was still good; he could pretend he was still worthy of Crowley’s love; he could pretend there were still tears left to cry.

He let a sob escape his lips.

“I’m sorry…”

Crowley just looked at him, his eyes finally adjusting in the dark.

“I’m so sorry I… couldn’t protect you, dear.” He sobbed again, covering his mouth with a shaky hand. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to us, I’m…” he took a deep trembling breath, closing his eyes. “I did so many horrible things to you, my dear, and— I know you can’t forgive me, I know, and I know you shouldn’t, but…”

“Angel…”

“No, no, listen, I—"

Aziraphale opened his eyes, teary and terribly unfocused. He saw Crowley looking at him, with his same teary eyes. With the shakiest voice, he spoke.

“I forgive you.”

Aziraphale got closer and hugged him, his ear right where Crowley’s heart was supposed to be. It didn’t need to beat, but it did for Aziraphale.

He let himself be cradled by the sound; he listened to it, hard and focused and… he cried. He cried, silently, like a child who had been forced to hold it in for too long and was now scared of being scolded if he let it out. Because demons existed to destroy, kill, ruin and corrupt, not to apologize, cry, care or… love. Z had killed and caused many to suffer, but Aziraphale was just different: Aziraphale would’ve never been a demon, just as much as Crowley had never been a proper one.

“Crowley…” he said, with the smallest voice.

“What, angel?”

“Crowley…”

It broke his heart.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here with you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale held him tighter, feeling him more, burying his face further on the angel’s chest.

“Please don’t leave me…”

Crowley held him tighter as well, inhaling shakily.

“I won’t, ever.”

They fell asleep after a bit, holding one another, making a silent promise they know they would uphold, even if it’d cost their lives.

-

“What if I buy you lunch?”

Z grimaced.

“I don’t really feel flavours anymore. I think something broke.”

The angel seemed to think a bit.

They were taking a stroll in London, their place. Z was feeling at ease for the first time in years; it was nice.

“We can still try. I don’t mind getting lunch after all these years, and you’ve gotten thinner.”

Z smiled smugly.

“You know we don’t necessarily need to eat, right?”

“Of course I know! I just want to have lunch with you, that’s all! Is it too much?”

He was starting to get worked up for real. Z thought it was cute, he laughed a bit.

He took Crowley’s hand in his own, beginning to walk before him; however, after two steps, he noticed Crowley wasn’t following him. The angel was looking at the ground, still holding Z’s hand.

“Really though… is it too much? We can stop if you want”

Aziraphale felt his heart clench. He got closer to him then, fixing a lock of red hair that had gotten in the way of Crowley’s face.

“It’s not if it’s what you want to do. We can go.”

Crowley didn’t seem convinced, holding Aziraphale’s hand a little tighter in his.

“Crowley…” Z took his face in his hands. “As long as we’re together I’m fine with whatever, really”

Crowley blushed a bit and nodded, starting to walk.

They still had a long way to go.

It would take time for things to totally go back to how they were before, maybe some never would at all, but it would‘ve been fine, nonetheless.

It would be fine, as long as Aziraphale’s hand was held in Crowley’s.