Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

London
21 August 2019

If there was ever a moment Crowley wished could last forever, wished the pendulum would stop its arching movement, the Earth would pause in its orbit, and the tick of his watch would come to a standstill, it was now, here with his angel as they celebrated all the time they had in the world.

In a way, freezing time wasn’t necessary. They could have as many dinner dates and nights at the theatre as they liked now. The shadow of their former bosses no longer loomed over them. Freedom was theirs to do whatever the Hel- Hea- Earth they wanted. The angel and demon weren’t so much living on borrowed time than time they wrenched from God’s ineffable hands and ran off with.

It was just that Crowley couldn’t get enough of Aziraphale. This newfound freedom was a good look on the angel. His eyes shined with unrestrained joy as they lingered on the demon without shying away. He hmmed, gasped and tittered over the smallest of delights. His posture was more relaxed as he leaned toward Crowley.

He called him my dear.

If it were any other normal day, Crowley would watch all this wearing his well practiced frown with the sort of attention a snake gave at the sight of a tasty meal. Today was far from a normal day.

There was an energy sparking between them. The rush of freedom, the triumph from outwitting their head offices, and the promise of continued days for Earth and humanity—the thrill of it all, that they actually managed to subvert Heaven and Hell to save the world, was infectious. The passion and obvious joy emanating from the angel as he chatted on poured into Crowley.

So Crowely could forgive himself this one time if he let his demonic attitude slip a bit. He gave himself some room to breathe. Draped in his chair with limbs stretched in every direction, he let himself show a small smile as he enjoyed Aziraphale’s endless stories.

He deserved this much. This was not just a reward for stopping Armageddon, but for managing to make it here with the angel happily by his side.

Love was a funny thing. Many humans, while they are young and inexperienced, think being in love is a singular emotion. The feeling continues on and on, a passion that stays constant, forever and ever and ever, ect.

Nah, that’s a bunch of rubbish. Take it from a demon. Love, it evolves.

6,000 years ago, when his love was new and embarrassingly close to the level of a Beatles fangirl, he could only dream of being where he is now. Back then, he was so curious and that drew him to Aziraphale. He craved every moment he could get with the angel. The yearning he felt was all-consuming.

If you told him 2,000 years ago where he was now, he would hardly believe it. It was a difficult part of his life. When he realized Aziraphale would never reciprocate his feelings—that angels love every living thing but don’t love love anyone—it felt like falling again. He knew then the demon was cursed to never be loved by the ones he loved most.

He spent those years mostly screaming at God and getting as drunk as he could. His love felt like a punishment. It ate away at him.

And then Aziraphale invited him for oysters. He even seemed to enjoy the demon’s presence. That day, Crowley accepted that he would never stop loving Aziraphale. Which meant loving an angel knowing he would receive no love in return, or at least no more than the companionable, angelic sort.

From there on, his pining tampered down. Still there in some manner, but more focused. He was methodic in every choice he made. A dinner here, an outing there. He crafted The Arrangement, slowly working himself more and more into Aziraphale’s life.

All the while he kept himself in check. Never took more than the angel could give. It was like training a young apple tree. Ropes kept him tied back, not letting his desire push him to do something stupid. Once he was in more control, he let down the ropes one by one. Until one day, his heart had grown into a mature apple tree.

In the present, when he admired the angel, the love he felt was akin to sitting by a fireplace. It was so warm, safely contained within brick and iron where it could never threaten to burn it all down. Love felt like an integral part of his being, as much a part of his nature as being a snake. His heart basked in this comfort, always satisfied with the moment and never demanding more.

No, this was enough. More than enough. An eternity of no Heaven or Hell to deal with while humans continued to be clever and make all the books and cuisine Aziraphale loved was all he could ever hope for.

This was more than Crowley ever deserved. He wouldn’t dare ask for more. He learned that lesson long ago. He could never push for more than Aziraphale clearly wanted. And Crowley would only ever give what his angel wanted.

“Oi,” Crowley called out to their waiter from across the room. “Grab us another bottle, wouldja?”

“Crowley! That is incredibly rude.”

“Well I would hope so.” Crowley cocked his head back as he let the last of his drink roll down his throat.

“It wouldn’t kill you to have more manners. It’s not like anyone is keeping track of us anymore.”

Crowley’s lips pressed into a line as their waiter returned with a second bottle. Crowley didn’t break eye contact with Aziraphale. Not when their champagne flutes were refilled. And not when he sarcastically drawled, “Thaaaank you for the champaaaagne.”

“Not at all, sir.”

The demon smirked at the miffed expression the angel shot him. Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed the way they always did when he knew Crowley was trying to get under his skin. His brows furrowed and he straightened his back just so.

Crowley savored the reactions he drew from the angel. He had every one catalogued, thousands of years of seeing every flavor of Aziraphale. He has witnessed them all enough times to memorize every detail, and yet he never tired of seeing them again and again.

But then the corners of Aziraphale’s lips quirked upwards and Crowley stopped breathing. The angel didn’t say anything, just stole a few glances before turning back to his food.

Crowley’s hand shot across the table, nearly knocking over his drink. He chugged down the alcohol in large gulps. That was new. Wasn’t prepared for that. Since when did the angel look at him fondly as he was intentionally being an arse?

His heart didn’t beat nearly this hard when Satan was erupting out of the Earth for an unwelcome family reunion.

Aziraphale tapped a napkin to his lips. “I don’t suppose you have any plans after this.”

Crowley grappled with the change of topic before babbling, “Nope. No- Naaah. Evening’s completely free. Nothing booked. I’m open for- er, my schedule’s open for… whatever.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I meant more in the long-term, but that is good to hear. Perhaps we could continue this celebration at the bookshop. I have a bottle of— Oh! But you probably want to return to your Bentley.”

“It’s fine, angel. The car’s not going anywhere. I’ll grab it another time.”

“Oh, but are you sure? I don’t want to keep you from— that is to say, we should spend this time enjoying the Earthly things we nearly lost. After all this excitement, I’m afraid settling down at my place would feel rather dull.”

“I think I could use a little dull right now.”

It was true. As much as the demon loved racing through London, plotting devilish schemes and covertly meeting with his celestial adversary, his scheming tank was running on empty. He was drained. All his diabolic energy went into killing a work colleague, trapping another colleague in his answering machine, discovering his best friend and reason for living burned in what he thought was hellfire, getting hammered, finding out his friend wasn’t dead, keeping the Bentley together through sheer force of will through a wall of flames, facing Satan, stopping time somehow, and switching bodies with his best friend to trick Above and Below into backing the fuck off.

If it weren’t for no longer being on speaking terms with Hell, he’d be demanding double time on his wages.

At Crowley’s words, Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled, literally sparkled, as he gave a shy grin. “Oh—well, wonderful! If that’s the case, you are more than welcome, my dear boy. In fact, there may be enough time for a walk to your car first before it gets dark. You can drive us over. Get reacquainted with your Bentley, as it were.”

“How late is it?” Crowley looked at his watch. It read 34:68 and the numbers were jittering about at random. He glowered, smacking the thing. Here his watch could tell him what time it was anywhere in the world—even if he were standing at the bottom of the ocean—yet it couldn’t handle being in a timeless realm for a single not-minute. Bloody thing was likely having an existential crisis.

“Oh, it shouldn’t be too late. It doesn’t look like they’ve pulled out the dinner menus yet. So, does that sound good to you?”

“Yeah. Sure, angel. Whatever you like,” Crowley said, suppressing a yawn.

Honestly, what he really needed was a good, long nap. Falling face first into his favorite couch sounded more appealing than taking a walk. But Aziraphale knew him well, well enough to know how much Crowley missed his car. Even if a walk sounded tiring, it would be worth it to see his old girl again.

“Right,” Aziraphale said as he bundled up his napkin. “Best we take dessert to go.” As the waiter walked by, he tried to grab his attention through eye contact, opening his mouth to speak. But the waiter was distracted, missing the cue. As he walked past their table, Crowley grinned at the appalled look on the angel’s face.

Crowley leaned forward, nefariously said, “You know, angel, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little rude. Not like Upstairs is keeping score.”

“Oh, your influence on me is downright diabolical.” Despite his protests, he twisted around in his seat. “Excuse me,” he called out and winced at his own boldness.

Once their final order was made, the bill paid, and takeout boxes promising a sweet future for a very delighted angel arrived, Aziraphale eyed Crowley. “Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” His chair scraped the floor as they took their leave.

London
24 November 1974

“Crowley!”

“Wha?!”

Crowley was at a loss. He had no idea why Aziraphale was looking at him like, like he used the Lord’s name in vain or spilled his drink on an incunable—which were both equally sinful in Aziraphale’s book. The open-mouthed look of horror he earned from the angel was completely uncalled for.

Aziraphale leaned forward, darting his eyes around the bar as though not to be overheard. “Are you telling me you bought a Betamacks?”

“Yeah, and? D’you know how much pir- priva- stealing humans can do wid onav those? I dun’ get whatsa big deal? And is ‘betamax’, not… whatevr y’said.”

Crowley wobbled in his stool and sipped his whiskey. He couldn’t see where Aziraphale was going with this, which was admittedly normal when he got this drunk. One minute he was inviting the angel to watch Eurovision with him then—boom—pointless topic derailment.

“Betamax… betamax…” Aziraphale practiced the word under his breath as he swirled his wine. With a physical flinch, he snapped back into his previous thought. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that. Not that you would have known, of course. I just wish you would have consulted me first.”

“Hey.” Crowley stood, leaning over the angel to be as intimidating as possible even if he staggered a bit. With an accusing finger pointed at the angel, he growled, “No one tellsss me howda ssspend my infurnac- infernal wagesss!” To solidify his point, he promptly collapsed onto the floor.

“Oh dear!”

Crowley felt a little delirious but in a soothing way. The corner of his cheek tugged into a smile. Aziraphale wouldn’t challenge his point now that he was distracted. He effectively won the argument. One point for the demon.

“Sober up, Crowley. You’re drawing attention.”

“Nah,” the demon stubbornly replied. He could distantly hear other voices, cloaked in concern, coming closer as Aziraphale tried to fend them off.

“No need to worry. My friend just had too many drinks.”

Crowley frowned. Since when did Aziraphale call him a friend out loud?

“Crowley, you need to wake up!”

Crowley groaned. “Five more minutes. No, make dat ten. Feels nice.”

He heard a huff. “Now really!”

Crowley caught the sound of scuffling and voices but paid them no mind. He was starting to think this whole outing had been a terrible idea. Leave it to Aziraphale to pick some lavish pub that had more gaudy decor than alcohol selection. And what kind of self-respecting alcohol establishment plays piano music?

At some point, Crowley heard Aziraphale’s voice near his ear. “Do you plan to spend the rest of the evening sprawled out on the floor like that?”

Without opening his eyes, he replied, “Why don’t you join me? The floor is only slightly sticky.”

Aziraphale tutted. Abruptly, he felt himself being lifted off the ground. It was done so quickly and fluidly, the demon was almost more surprised by the ease of the movement than being off the ground.

The angel carried him out of the pub. He should have been embarrassed. A proper demon would rather fight for their dignity than be disgraced like this. She had disgraced him enough the first time. No need for seconds.

But Crowley had no fight in him. Nor the energy for at least a small grumble. It was easier to let his body go listless. His head rested against cotton, velvet and the soft body underneath. A door opened and a cold breeze danced over his skin. He turned closer to the warmth that held him.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley released a satisfied sigh and let himself be carried away. Maybe this outing wasn’t that bad of an idea after all.

London
17 January 1941

Crowley leaned into the Bentley and honked his horn. That got the angel’s attention. He practically flew off the ground at the noise, still clutching his bag.

“Any day now!”

Aziraphale finally scuttled through the ruins of the church, making his way to the Bentley.

Crowley leaned on his car, trying to look at ease. His feet should be killing him. Instead, they had reached the point where he couldn’t much feel them anymore. The numbness made him feel weightless, as though there was no ground beneath his feet. It was going to take some willpower not to ruin his rescue mission by getting them both discorporated in a car wreck.

Aziraphale kept giving him quick, darting glances. Crowley swallowed despite his dry throat. They didn’t part on the best of terms nearly a century ago. He really didn’t want another row about it. He’d rather pretend the whole thing never happened.

“After you.” Crowley held the passenger door open for Aziraphale to settle inside.

As he took to the wheel, Aziraphale marveled at the car’s modern interior, running a hand over the leather seats. “This is quite the locomotive.”

“Only you would call a luxury car a locomotive. This here’s a Bentley. State-of-the-art. Best car on the market. Got her about a decade ago. Still practically new.”

“It’s a lovely car. Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed when he hit the gas. “It’s, umm, quite fast. Very… efficient. Can it go at slower speeds?”

“It can,” he replied in a smug tone. His foot didn’t ease off the gas.

“Right. Well.”

Aziraphale tore his eyes off the road lest he witness the city flying past them. He turned his attention to his bag of precious books. Crowley watched as he laid the bag gently on the seat between them, adjusting its handles with care. Unsatisfied, he lifted it back into his lap. His thumb slowly soothed the worn leather.

“There you are,” he whispered.

“I’ve seen mothers give their babies less affection than you give your books.”

“Oh hush.”

Crowley held back a chuckle, leaning back into his seat. To save them from awkward silence, he flipped on his cassette player. His lips sagged into a frown hearing Freddie Mercury’s voice drift through the car.

“Forgot that was in there. Doubt you’d like it.” He tried to smack the machine off. All he managed was to turn on the A/C and make the digital clock flicker.

“It’s no-,” ~Oooh love~ “Oh. That, well. It’s quite alright.” Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat. His fingers were tracing the timeworn wrinkles in the bag. Crowley shivered. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, feeling his heartbeat grow faster than it should.

“We’re almost there,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley couldn’t tell if he was still talking to his books or assuring himself the car ride would end soon.

Crowley urged the Bentley to drive a bit faster. He wanted to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere and the chill it brought with it.

The car came to a stop, one wheel still on the curb. He leaned toward Aziraphale. The angel’s lips were moving with silent words he couldn’t make out. His hold on the bag tightened.

“Here we are,” Crowley announced. “Off you go.”

“I will see you again soon, I hope.”

His eyes were so hopeful, the words heavy like he had been practicing them for a while. Crowley’s brain stuttered, then his mouth stuttered before he finally blurted out, “Ye- yeah. Yeah, of course. Sure. We’ll go… eat something. For lunch.”

Aziraphale grinned, and, oh, his hand was on his arm. It was only for an instant. Aziraphale likely didn’t think much of it. For Crowley, it felt like he watched the birth of a new galaxy within that short moment.

Aziraphale cradled his bag with great care as he exited the Bentley. Crowley didn’t move. He watched as Aziraphale crossed the road—the shop bell rang and the door closed behind him. It wasn’t until the lights shined from the bookshop windows that Crowley allowed his body to relax.

He reclined back. Despite having fixed seats, the Bentley altered itself so Crowley could lounge back further. He focused on the warm spot on his arm. Despite the chill in the air, he could still feel the imprint there, as though Aziraphale was still holding on to him.

He laid there, not moving or thinking. Through half-closed eyes he watched the time ascend on the clock. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 o’clock.

“Right, time to go. Got a lunch to plan.”

The Bentley pulled off the curb and sped away.

London
December 1801

The past half hour was probably the noisiest the bookshop had ever been since its opening over a year ago.

“Give up, yet?” Crowley cheerfully asked.

Aziraphale was on top of a ladder where the open front door let in the frosty wind outside. Across the top of the ladder was a rolling toolset that was likely a relic from the 15th century. The sound of a bell ringing and ringing and ringing filled the bookshop like five handbell players performing Carol of the Bells asynchronously.

Aziraphale grumbled. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be just fine. It should work this time. Just one more screw and—oh bugger!”

Said screw fell to the ground with a faint clatter. Crowley returned it to the angel and moved back to his post where he half-held the ladder still and half-feigned aloofness while fighting not to tremble from the icy, winter air.

“This seems more work than it's worth, honestly.”

“Like you know anything about honesty. You’re a demon,” Aziraphale said.

It stung, if he were perfectly honest. Which apparently he wasn’t. By now the pain from these little remarks had dulled. Each time skin was damaged, it grew back stronger. The flesh around Crowley’s heart was so thick now it would take a major blow just to draw blood. His heart was no different than Aziraphale’s ladder, a stepping stone for the angel’s use to bring himself higher. Just how Crowley wanted it to be.

Over the frustrated shrieks of jingling bells, the angel continued, “This is a necessary measure. I have grown quite tired of humans sneaking up on me all the time.”

“What you call ‘sneaking up on you’ humans would call ‘shopping’. You do realize you own a bookshop, don’t you?”

“Don’t be dim. Did you come here to make scurrilous remarks all day or are you here to help?”

“I came here to invite you to a Thursday jaunt to Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” Azirphale frowned, but by the short over-the-shoulder glance Crowley knew he had captured the angel’s curiosity. “That’s a bit out of the way. What’s there to do in Cornwall?”

“There’s a man there, Richard something, says he’s invented a machine that can move people and stuff around only using steam. Calls it a ‘steam locomotive’. And I have two tickets for the first ever demonstration.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “So it’s some sort of carriage, I take it?”

“Not a carriage,” Crowley sneered. “Carriages are pulled by bloody horses who bite your shoulders and drop a deuce in the middle of the road. No, locomotives have none of that. Doesn’t need anything pulling it. Just moves entirely on its own.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale didn’t seem to be paying much attention, his focus on jangling the bells as much as possible while tightening a screw.

Over the noise, Crowley nearly shouted, “There’s also an inn there well known for their cornish pasties and cream tea.”

“You don’t say?” Aziraphale turned his full body away from his task to regard Crowley. His screwdriver fell to the floor. The angel didn’t notice.

Crowley forced a languid pose as a gust of wind chilled him to the bone. “How ‘bout it, angel? Up for a little day trip?”

Aziraphale held his lips tightly together, trying in vain to hide the smile growing on his face. “Well, I suppose I could witness this steam stagecoach for myself.”

With forced exasperation to hide his own desire to grin, he said, “Locomotive, angel. Steam locomotive. Only you would call it a steam stagecoach.”

London
January 1779

In the reflection of an hourglass was the distorted image of a glowering demon.

The abandoned loft was a hollow crypt of its former self. A fine layer of dust settled like newly fallen snow. The winter air wailed through the chimney, spreading ash and charcoal across the room. There was no light. No life. The candles sat unused for over a year. All was left untouched.

He had fought to be back here, to be standing in this room. Stupid way to get discorporated. The past year was spent lying on every document under his pen. The story he wove for all of demonkind to hear was filled with cunning, devilish mischief and creative use of a paperclip. It certainly didn’t involve anything like horses, carriages, or trampling.

Crowley flared his nose, a sharp exhale turning into a rising fog. He stared as the sand fell in a steady stream. Just as he had left it. A ceaseless flow that would continue for eternity if allowed. If you were patient enough.

Crowley seized the glass timepiece, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip. Two gold eyes stared back at him, stretched wide and deformed. Patient eyes watching, and watching. Waiting. Patience is a virtue, afterall.

He shouted.

The hourglass shattered on the floor. The glass and sand exploded into a starburst across the space, joining the dust and soot that claimed the loft as their home.

Without looking back, Crowley stormed out. His coat was left draped over a spotless chair, abandoned.

He would never return to this place again.

London
1709

It was fine. Everything’s fine. More than fine. It was great. Marvelous. Cool—well. Warm. Practically toasty, all things considered.

It quite literally happened overnight. The evening before had been an ordinary January day. Humans went on with their day to day activities. The weather was cold, but a few extra layers and a warm fire was enough to stave off the worst of the chill. They kept going. Tradespeople went about their business. Housekeepers prepared warm meals while keeping the fire kindled. The children took delight in sleighs and snowfights.

The next morning, it all went downhill, as did the temperature. The whole of London was frozen. And no one was prepared.

First, the most vulnerable froze to death. Both livestock and the humans treated like livestock.

Then, there was starvation. The food they stored for the winter was as solid as ice. Defrosting it all was mostly impossible. People were going through their firewood like Aziraphale goes through his books. Many resorted to burning their furniture just to get another few hours of warmth.

In a matter of days, the corpses piled up, frozen in the streets or huddled in their glacial homes.

It’s not like a demon could go on holiday even during a natural disaster. No, for Crowley, it was business as usual. And if that business included starting fires where the homeless gathered, picking fights with the wolves edging into the village, or tempting a group of orphans to steal food from the well-off, it wasn’t anyone else's damn business.

Which led to Crowley being here, burnt-out and without enough occult juice to keep the fireplace going. He sat on the floor because he wanted to. Not because he toppled to the floor, thank you very much. He was wrapped in his bearskins, watching a bottle of merlot wine defrost in the glowing embers of a dying fire.

Yes, even alcohol froze in this weather. It was bloody aggravating.

Things weren’t all bad, though. Nah, he was feeling superb. Over the moon. Crowley’s mood was better than it had ever been since this awful frost had started.

He felt warm for one. His body no longer shivered. His spine was like liquid, melting as tension drained from his exhausted muscles.

It must be over, Crowley thought. Practically spring-like. Spring in August. Maybe by February he could find a sunny beach with some warm sand to burrow into.

“Crowley?”

What?

Not a foot away was Aziraphale, crouched on the floor, sky blue eyes observing him under furrowed brows. Crowley didn’t even hear him come in. Must of nodded off. Maybe he should hassle the angel, taunt him for breaking and entering the lair of a demon. Or were they going out for dinner today?

He should get up, but lifting his head was a bit difficult with his stiff neck. That’s why you don’t sleep on the floor. He could literally bite the dust from this position.

“Crowley! My Lord, you’re freezing cold!”

Aziraphale’s hands roamed his forehead, cheeks, hands—wherever there was some skin still showing. Crowley growled, but lacked enough breath to put any furosity into it.

His hands bloody burned. After all these centuries, keeping himself from reaching out for the angel, the touch Aziraphale gave him hurt like hell. Crowley wished the angel would quit it with his holy, consecrated, filled with grace spiel. It was enough to give a demon a rash.

“Oh dear! How long have you been like this? No matter. I’ll have you right as rain in no time!”

At a snap of his fingers, fresh wood replaced the dying cinders, erupting into a roaring fire. Crowley heard the floorboards squeak with each of the angel’s footsteps. A moment later, the demon was being tucked in with duvets, quilts, and a puffy, tartan comforter.

“Wanna try and feel a pea through all this?” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale froze, metaphorically. He didn’t grace his question with an answer, the bastard. Rather, he stared at Crowley, his icy grey eyes widening.

A sudden weight fell on him, making him sink into the ground. Hands cupped his face. Crowley felt his eyes flutter open, unaware they had closed at all.

“Stay with me!”

The angel’s voice was all distant and echoey—as though he went and got discorporated again. Stupid angel, like he would leave him. No Alpha Centauri for them. Not when his angel needed him here, on Earth. Of course he was staying. Obviously.

Two hands vigorously shook his shoulders. He groaned. Just let me sleep, angel.

“No, no, no, no… Crowley? Come on! Stay with me! Oh no… oh no, I’m losing him…”

Aziraphale’s voice drifted into a whisper. Crowley sighed slowly. He felt so heavy. So heavy he could keep sinking… and sinking…

Barbary Coast
1666

A strike to the chest knocked the wind out of her.

She was gasping for air. Rigid hands grappled over her chest. Her fingers got tangled up in rope. She pulled the rope too tight. It squeezed the air out of her lungs worse than a corset.

“There you are!”

Crowley didn’t give any notice to the shaky voice. Panting, she frantically unwound the rope encircling her. Long strands of hair stuck to her face, covering her eyes. She was drenched. Her whole body sagged with the weight of her soaked clothing. She could still hear the steady beat of rain on the deck overhead.

Once she was free from the obnoxious rope, she leaned against the wall catching her breath. Even without the rope it was still difficult to breathe. Maybe her corset was too tight.

An unsteady huff reminded her she wasn’t alone. She looked up, expecting a member of her crew. Instead, a fussy angel stood in the doorway, wringing his quivering hands.

Crowley gawked at him as she pulled herself together. Aziraphale always looked good in tights. They peaked out from the hem of his breeches. Overlapping his bottoms was a cream-colored doublet with ornately stitched patterns as blue as forget-me-nots. What right did he have coming aboard looking so bloody gorgeous?

“Crowley…”

“What are you doing on my ship?”

“Your- your ship? What?”

Crowley sloshed over to him, making a wet squelch sound with each step. “Yeah, my ship.” She threw her arms out indicating the whole schooner they were standing in.

Aziraphale crinkled his nose. “Please don’t tell me this is a pirate ship.”

“I won’t tell you, then,” she replied, flashing her most devilish grin.

“Oh, good lord.” He pouted, a look of disapproval that didn’t reach his eyes.

“How did you get here, angel?”

“I—oh, I think you must be confused.” Aziraphale took a long breath, the kind that told Crowley immediately that she wasn’t going to get the chance to speak again for awhile.

“You brought me on your ship, remember? The circumstances were so dreadfully embarrassing. When I boarded La Vierge, I was told the ship was making a routine shipment. A perfectly safe voyage, they assured me. And, of course, I don’t want to get wrapped up in this endless war these humans are determined to keep prolonging.

“But, as it turns out, the first officer snuck onboard a shipment of ammunition meant for the Royal Navy. When he admitted this, I was beside myself with shock. He was such a lovely chap, too. After one delectable meal together, he gave me this lovely collection of spices from the East India Company.”

“Was that what you were holding while the ship was capsized?”

A rose shaded blush bloomed over Aziraphale’s cheeks. He fidgeted, only making eye contact for brief seconds. “I mean, it was a gift and it would have been terribly rude to-”

“The ship was sinking, Aziraphale! There’s a time and a place!”

“Long story short,” he continued as though Crowley hadn’t said anything, “a Royal ship followed us and... you saw what happened.”

“I take it they weren’t interested in negotiations,” she said through a sarcastic smirk.

“Well, if their way of negotiating is by firing cannons, then there was plenty of that.” With a final exasperated sigh, he glanced back at Crowley. His eyes softened. “Remember?”

“Yeah, angel,” she said, barely louder than a whisper.

She expected a smile from Aziraphale, but instead his lips dropped into a faint frown. “Oh, I doubt you’re even listening to me?”

“I’m listening.” Crowley crossed her arms, not sure how the angel came to that conclusion. Before she could say anything more, however, a violent shudder rippled down her spine. Her hands made fists in her drenched clothes.

“Right, let's get you warmed up.” Grabbing her elbow, Aziraphale steered her out the door. Crowley focused on the touch of those soft fingers on her. Her fists clenched to her sides. She followed Aziraphale’s lead and nothing more.

Crowley couldn’t remember the journey to her quarters. In what felt like an instant, she found herself in her bed with the angel tucking her in.

“Maybe some tea would do you some good. I’ll be back in a mo’.” The angel trotted out of the room.

A shiver ran through her as she stared out the cracked door. Crowley hoped Aziraphale wasn’t about to start a fire on her ship so he could make his tea. She swallowed a gulp, screwing her eyes closed. She shuddered.

Right, don’t think about that. Not a good mental image.

The shaking didn’t stop. Her whole body trembled with relentless waves of shivers. What energy she had was slowly seeping away leaving her drowsy and achy. Right, the rain. Her clothes were still wet and she was freezing.

Crowley sat up, struggling a bit to get her stiff spine to cooperate. A groan escaped her lips. She started with the corset, loosening the laces. It was harder than it should be. Her fingers didn’t want to bend and she had to stop and remember how to move her arms up to pull it off.

She got half her tunic off when she got stuck. Her arm was bent awkwardly through the sleeve. Try as she might, her sluggish mind just couldn’t work out a way to maneuver her limb out.

Who thought limbs were a good idea anyway? Damn nuisance was what they are. Being a snake would be better. No dangling parts to worry about. Really, God did me a favor when She-

“Crowley! What are you doing?!”

Stomping feet rushed across the room before Crowley felt her shirt forcefully yanked back down. A flash of anger escaped as a low hiss. She tried to fend Aziraphale off, but her arms weren’t listening to what she was telling them to do.

“Nooo, ‘sss makin’ me cold,” she whined.

“Crowley, please! Stop squirming! Just let me take care of you.” She felt a soft hand brush her hair back. Except for the convulsive shivers, her movement stopped. All that existed in the world now were those deep pools of blue eyes boring into her own. “You need to trust me, okay?”

“...always.”

There was a soft gasp, from who Crowley didn’t know. She couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. Her body sagged forward. A plush shoulder to her forehead helped stop her fall. An alarm went off in her head telling her she was going too far, but she couldn’t find the strength to pull away.

“Hold on just a little longer, alright? I have some tea for you.”

Through auburn eyelashes, the shape of a teacup was just visible. She reached for it, noticing belatedly that she was in dry, fuzzy clothes she wouldn’t be caught dead in even on the best of days.

But today wasn’t that great of a day, was it. Or, she didn’t feel that great. Muscles throbbing and trembling all over, she could feel exhaustion stealing over her.

Then the rim of the porcelain cup was pressed to her lips. Aziraphale laced his fingers through her hair as he helped tip the warm liquid for her to drink. She almost choked at first, her mind more on his hand than the tea.

Heat melted through her, chasing away the frost that had settled into the dark corners inside her. A warm body pressed up against her. Her soft clothing wrapped around her like a hug from an angel. Her heart throbbed with how much Aziraphale cared for her, even if he was only nursing her back to health.

It wasn’t the best day, but it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

Venice
1497

Crowley spied an angel sitting at his desk with his nose in a book and coffee steaming nearby.

The demon had spent the past eight days living in Aziraphale’s home, though the angel was unaware of this. He had slithered in one night through a mouse hole and into his cluttered study. With just one glimpse of Aziraphale, Crowley felt as though he could breathe for the first time after holding his breath for years.

But he hadn’t gone to him, not immediately. He was content watching the angel happily weave around his stacks of manuscripts, scrolls and paperbacks.

Curled away in a dark cubby, golden eyes peering out between the cracks between books, the demon was able to piece together what Aziraphale was up to.

Twice this week Aziraphale had a visitor.

He called the man Aldus. Over wine and elderflower fritters, the man spoke of a printing business, the literature he strived to replicate and spread to the masses, and a great deal of flattery over Aziraphale’s extensive collection. In one memorable moment, the human made an offhand remark that some of his books hadn’t been seen since the days Constantinople fell. The angel’s cheeks flushed pink.

Of course, Aldus was buttering him up. Aziraphale was doing him quite the favor, lending out his collection so he could, as he said, “Place a book into the hands of every resident in Venice.”

To anyone else, what Aziraphale was doing would likely be seen as generous, even noble. But Crowley knew better. Hidden from sight, the demon took a self-indulgent glee in watching the angel vigilantly hover over the human’s shoulder. Even when Aziraphale willingly agreed to lend Aldus a text, he would glare at the man as though he wanted to snatch the text back and throw the man into the canal.

Aziraphale had no visitors today. He showed no signs of leaving, as well. The angel sat in his chair, a small smile directed at the first printed book from Aldus’ printing press nestled in his hands. The moka pot he filled with boiling water moments ago had already been forgotten.

Crowley was no longer in the burrow he made for himself. With the window open bringing in the ocean breeze outside, the chill it brought lured the serpent out from his cubby hole. Concealed between two piles of manuscripts, his eyes focused on a teapot sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

Crowley flicked his tongue. He could taste the heat radiating off the pot. Aziraphale even had it wrapped in a tea cozy to keep it warm longer. Not that it would make a difference. It would be hours before Aziraphale emerged from his book again. Which meant the warm teapot was his for the taking.

His vision tunneled, blocking out everything but the sight of his prey. His body stilled. All thought left Crowley’s mind. Hunting instincts took their place. No threats in sight, his prey unaware, the serpent striked.

In no longer than a second, Crowley darted across the desk—“Ah- Crowley?!”—and captured his target in his coils. His body wrapped around the teapot leaving the prey no chance of escape.

Oh, it was warm! It was like cradling a newborn star, burning with light and heat around his coils. The tea cozy was soft and had enough give to be pliant in his grip. When he flickered out his tongue, it smelled of books, elderflower, and Aziraphale. He pressed his face into the fabric, letting the heat thaw his tepid scales.

“Crowley? You’re, um— This is a tad inconvenient. If I could…”

A hand circled his body, tugging him away from his prey. Instincts flared. He tightened his embrace, not allowing his prey a chance to get away. He heard a startled squeak. The hand let go. Crowley buried his head back into the tea cozy letting out a sigh.

“Waaarm,” he moaned. This was so much better than basking in the sun. He didn’t want to let go. It was so toasty, and soft, and smelled angelic. If he could never hope for the warm embrace of an angel, let him at least have this blessed teapot.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley felt Aziraphale pulling him away again and groaned. “Just a tick, let me… just—get this blanket.”

A moment later, a blanket was draped over him. The entirety of his being was enveloped in a soft embrace of heat and Aziraphale’s scent. Crowley was in pure tranquility.

A hand gingerly caressed up and down his scales. The serpent sank into the touch.

“Rest now, Crowley. I’ll keep you warm.”

Constantinople
1191

It was a clear, sunny day. Crowley could feel the heat of the sun sinking into his skin leaving him warm and content. There was a hint of ocean water in the air, but the walls around the city blocked any view of the sea.

The street the little eatery Aziraphale and Crowley sat at was busy. The sound of humans bustling around was constant background noise in this part of Constantinople. At tables around them were sounds of chatting, laughter, and the clatter of silverware. One patron seemed to be haggling with a server and was losing miserably. In the eatery proper, a violinist played a lighthearted tune.

Aziraphale was rummaging through his leather bag filled with books of prophecy. Crowley missed this. They hadn’t run into each other for about a decade. He used to be able to go longer without contact. Time was gradually wearing him down. The more he tucked down his feelings, forced himself to be content, the more he longed for the angel’s presence. No matter what he did it was never en-

“Crowley? Are you there?”

Crowley startled. Aziraphale was watching him carefully, lips pressed together. “Yeah, here. Just zoned out. What’s this poem you—?”

“I have it right here. You must take a look. The manuscript itself is simply exquisite.” Aziraphale carefully laid out the book and delicately flipped the pages.

It really was a work of art. The borders were decorated with patterns illustrating various leafage, flowers and animals in golden ink. Every few pages bore multicoloured artworks depicting whatever was happening in the poem.

“Must of cost a pretty coin for that.”

“And it was worth every one! The story it tells is just… transcendent. I’ve probably read it ten times over during my travels.”

Crowley’s lip curved into a slight sneer. “It’s not another one of those depressing ones, is it? Where everyone is screwed over at the end to make some point about morality and other nonsense?”

“No. Not at all, as a matter of fact. It’s a—well, it’s mostly a love story, to be frank. Which, I know you wouldn’t care for, being a demon and all.”

Aziraphale’s suspicious glances aimed at the demon burrowed into his chest, punctured his heart and dragged a seeping rift open. If only that could drain him of the love he felt all too much. Let the blood ripple down his ribs, forming crimson waterfalls. How long would he have to drain his heart for the river to finally run dry? Would the wound bleed for eternity? Is he going to bleed for eternity?

“Naaah, loves not exactly our department.”

“There are other exciting bits, with heroes and chivalry,” Aziraphale pressed on. “But it’s the wordsmanship that makes the work so captivating! Here.” He turns the book over and starts flipping through the pages. “How about I read to you?”

“I don’t know a word of Georgian.”

“I’ll say it in Latin, then. Or—at least try to.”

As Aziraphale looked for the right page, Crowley belatedly realized he was about to listen to Aziraphale reciting love poems to him. Oh Satan, he shouldn’t do this. He longed for this, but —oh— it was gonna hurt. Watching him practically moan from eating milk pudding had already pushed him to his limit. How much more could he take?

The angel gave an ahem, as if the words to follow weren't enough. ”Know that a rose without thorns has never been plucked-”

“Ha!” Crowley barked, cynicism his only protection at this point. “So, what? Everyone’s an asshole no matter who you pick?”

“Of course not. It is simply conveying that all humans have flaws and no one is perfect.” In a neutral tone, he added, “And I think we both know the reason why.”

“It was their choice, not mine.”

“Of course it was…” Aziraphale was unimpressed, but stopped on another page.“‘Oh Sun,’ he prayed, ‘who have been called the image of a sunlit night, one in essence, timeless in the realm of time, whom the heavenly bodies obey to one iota of a second-’”

“Bit contradictory, this poet of yours.”

“Perhaps, but it is thought provoking.”

“Pff, thought provoking,” Crowley shook his head. “Anyone can write some nonsense and call it ‘thought provoking’. You say nonsense all the time. Doesn’t make it thought provoking.”

Once the words spilled from his mouth, he internally groaned. Ah, fuck, he pushed too hard. He only meant to make jest of the poem and now he insulted the angel. If he were a rose, there would be no stem visible underneath all his thorns.

That said, if the angel was insulted he didn’t show it. All he did was patiently flip through his book, his expression unreadable.

“Even a serpent is lured from its lair by the sweetness of discourse.”

“Oh, you think I’m so enticed by your sweet, angelic words, huh? A bit vain for an angel.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I would never claim such a thing. I was merely reading from the book.”

“Uh huh, right…” Crowley leaned back, a mask of nonchalance. His eyes wandered to a group of children sitting in a circle, dealing cards and betting on candies.

“Oh, here’s one.” Aziraphale took a long breath.

“Every rose will fade and wither, no matter though it once was fair. The dry rose falls within the garden, a new rose arises there.”

Crowley fell.

He had been an angel once, Before. Disgustingly innocent and naive. All of them were. But the thing was, Heaven was supposed to be perfect. It was Hers, afterall. Everything She made was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Crowley had thorns, and he wasn’t afraid to show them. And he would lay down money that every single perfect angel in heaven had thorns too. That wasn’t what ended up separating them. No, it was between the ones who hid their thorns and the ones who didn’t want to hide them at all.

So Crowley fell into a garden. Feathers faded to black. His being drained of all Her grace.

And there he met an angel.

He had thought without Her love, he would never know love again. His fate was to wither away—consumed by hate that filled so many other demons. But then an angel gave away a sword and offered a wing in the rain. And from the hollows of his being, scorched barren by hellfire, a new rose emerged.

“Now, see? I knew you could appreciate at least some of Rustaveli’s work.” His eyes glimmered over the genuinely overjoyed smile stretching across his face.

Crowley’s chair gave a sharp screech before dangerously teetering back and forth, threatening to fall. Crowley only caught a moment’s glimpse of Aziraphale’s eyes growing wide. It felt as though a string of rope had jerked him from the seat, held him back from going any farther.

“Are you leaving? Right now?” Aziraphale called out to Crowley’s back. He could hear his chair scrape the ground as well.

“Just remembered a temptation I need to… tempt. I’ll see you around.”

“Perhaps I could join you and we could-”

“No, better not. You know, The Arrangement. I don’t interfere in your work, you don’t interfere in mine.” Crowley ducked his head to hide his face from Aziraphale’s view. He could feel the heat burning across his face. All he wanted was to hide the blush afflicting him—return to his place and scream until his voice went hoarse.

“O- Oh. Alright.” Crowley could practically hear him fiddling his hands. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

Crowley gave a casual wave, never looking back. Not seeing the angel watching his retreating back until he was swallowed in the crowds.

Gяeece
43|

“No. No, I’m just overthinking this. Everything will sort itself out. Just... give it some time.”

Crowley had been watching Aziraphale talk to himself for the past half hour.

He had meant to drop in. Ask what the angel was up to then subtly mention a food stall by the river he passed by earlier. He still remembered the oysters. The angel was much more at ease around him when there was a table between them and a spread of food and drink to enjoy.

His foot stayed firmly planted just outside the doorway, never breaking the line of entrance. It was probably too soon. They had dinner together, what, 50 years ago. Practically yesterday with how their encounters went. It would be downright mortifying if the angel started to think he was clingy. Even worse if he figured out the reason why.

“Maybe I’m not doing this right. There must be something I haven’t tried yet. Let's see...”

Aziraphale had been fretting like this the entire time. He was bent over a table covered in scrolls. On an end table sat a wide rimmed bowl filled with water. A water clock floated inside.

“Oh, this is all my fault. I should have paid better attention. I was so fixated on my own problems I didn’t even notice…”

Crowley had a vague idea what was troubling the angel. It was entirely religious, of course. Most likely Heaven assigned him here. Humans were squabbling about some holy trinity mumbo jumbo. It was all nonsense, of course. Wouldn’t matter in the end when they were standing at the pearly gates. Not that it would stop humans from exiling those who disagreed with their holy doctrine, which was always conveniently people they happened to already hate.

“I’m completely powerless. I’ve tried everything I can, I only… Why am I so worthless?”

There was a crack in the water clock. It started to spin and wobble around the bowl. It smacked the edges over and over.

“Please wake up. Just open your eyes and look at me. Please ——”

It was a hot day. Once the rainy season had passed, the days had only grown longer and hotter. Much too hot for a water clock. They’re very tempermental. Only accurate if the water is at just the right temperature. It's no wonder the thing was breaking.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. All I can do is sit and wait. Not much help, am I. Some things never change, I suppose.”

He should tell him about the clock. It was crumbling now. Piece by piece. It was as good as melting in the water, like a styrofoam cup thrown in a fire.

“Can you hear me, Crowley?”

He jerked away from the door in alarm. Nope, too soon. 50 years was definitely too much. Better make it 100 years just to play it safe. He went back into the city square.

Dejected at his cowardice, Crowley kicked at rocks as he walked down the black tarmac road. “You know I love you, don’t you? I’m about to lose my mind, I love you so much,” he mumbled to himself. He wiped a cloth over his sweating forehead.

If only he could hear Aziraphale say the same words back to him. A fang dug into his lip, blood filling his mouth. He needed the pain. Aziraphale could never love him in return. It was ridiculous to hope for otherwise.

The sun baked the road underneath Crowley’s feet. As he walked home, his sandals stuck to the tarmac, making a popping sound with each step. Outside the city, he found some sand to burrow in to keep himself cool. Perhaps he could hibernate for the next 50 years.

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“Do snakes hibernate?”

“What? Hibernate? I wouldn’t know.” A pause. “Shouldn’t you know? You are a snake.”

“I’m still a demon first. It’s not like I’m going around making friends with the local reptilian population.”

“Ah—well—maybe if you did you would have an answer for your question.”

As Aziraphale and Crowley tossed around their meaningless banter, they were occupying themselves with a… non-occupational task so to speak.

It was the greatest famine Egypt had ever seen. A long drought plagued the land for many years when the sun froze in the sky. Day never fell. No clouds formed to bring them rain. No rain meant no flooding. And no flooding meant no food.

As Crowley put it, the demon trying to come off as colder than she actually felt, it wasn’t good for their numbers. How were they expected to do their jobs if the humans they were supposed to be blessing and tempting were dying all over the place? Obviously, if they helped the humans survive this literally hellish weather, they could get back to doing their jobs properly.

“Do you get buddy buddy with the local animal kingdom? Sounds like something an angel would do.”

“Well, no. Not since Eden, really. You know how they all turned wild after… everything. I remember once I tried to pet the most darling looking hippopotamus and it nearly bit my arm off!”

“Arg, nasty things, hippos. Good to know, though. I’d feel absolutely terrible knowing I was getting your friends murdered.”

As soon as she finished the last word, the bull standing in front of Crowley dropped to the ground. Not dead, of course. Just sleeping. It would keep sleeping for a long time. So long the humans would have to assume it was either sick or lame.

It was up to the humans what to do from there. The thing was, these bulls were considered sacred. Why they thought that, Crowley didn’t know. The humans gave them a lavish life of the finest food available as everyone else in the city starved.

Would they continue the religious ritual, leaving the beasts be until they invariably died and give the animals a burial fit for a pharaoh? Or would they slay the beasts and use their meat to feed the hungry? It wasn’t for Crowley to decide, but, either way, at least the animals wouldn’t need to be fed anymore.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at her, actually picking up the sarcasm in her voice this time. The new, unexpected reaction made Crowley’s heart flutter. Satan, she loved him so much.

“Well, if you are quite done, I’ve already finished with the extra storage unit. They should suddenly remember they forgot to check it for food in a few hours. Best we were off before then.” He dusted off his coat and vest. From where Crowley crouched on the ground, she suddenly noticed something was missing. Her eyes blinked under furrowed brows.

“What happened to your watch?”

“What watch?”

“Your gold watch. It has a dangling sort of chain on it. You always have it on you. Can’t know what time it is without a watch.”

The angel approached her. Crouched to her level. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would embrace her, rap his arms around her as tightly as Crowley wanted to embrace him.

Instead, his hands cradled Crowley’s cheeks, his fingers so soft and gentle. Despite the wretched heat and the annoying stickiness the contact brought, she couldn’t help leaning into the touch. It was so out of the blue, as were his eyes, etched with worry and burrowing into him.

“I’m here, Crowley.”

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ፐ◿῔ᐬަ BCCCCCC

The Tower of Babel has fallen.

The humans were doing so well, too. Absolutely brilliantly. This city was the greatest accomplishment in humankind’s history. The tower they built was extraordinary. Practically a city in itself. Sure, they boasted a bit saying they would build a tower that could reach the heavens, but they earned the right to be proud. It was an era of innovation, creativity, and the humans were finally, finally, not killing each other.

God couldn’t have that. It was finally perfect. They were doing fine on their own. And She couldn’t just let that stand.

It was insidious the way She went about it. There was no Fall. No exile from Eden. The city wasn’t annihilated with fire and brimstone.

All She did was take their words.

It started off as simple confusion, understandably. There was no way of asking what had happened and, if anyone knew, they couldn’t bloody well tell anyone. The only reason Crowley knew this was Her work was Aziraphale giving a pointed finger up to the heavens.

What started as confusion turned into hysteria. The bonds of kinship and camaraderie tore apart. Fights broke out across the capital. Crowley wasn’t sure if anyone knew why they were even fighting each other.

As the angel took his arm and led them out of harm's way, all the demon could do was watch the fires break out and ask why, why, why?

It was nightfall. Out the window, Crowley could see the glow of the burning city—hear the cries and shouting in the distance. The air itself was on fire from all the heat.

He tried not to focus on that. Instead he focused on the hand stroking his hair and the incoherent words of the angel.

Aziraphale and Crowley were laying together on a futon. There was nothing they could do. Nothing to say to each other, literally. When Aziraphale found him that morning, he started rambling in whatever language the angel—and only the angel—could speak. Crowley had to put a finger to his mouth to silence him and say, “Yeah, me too,” before Aziraphale understood.

They couldn’t speak to each other. In words, anyway. As it turned out, a lot could be spoken without any sort of language. For starters, to tell Aziraphale that he was entirely fed up with this whole ordeal and wanted nothing more to do with it, Crowley threw himself face-first into the first bed he saw.

Aziraphale wasn’t far behind. He scolded and huffed, but then he crawled into bed after the demon. His body was touching Crowley’s back. Then a hand was tangled in the long strands of his hair. Soothing strokes. He sighed.

Crowley didn’t want a language anymore. Let them keep speaking through touch. Each time those fingers rubbed his head they said, It’s alright, I know. I’m here now. I’m here. Crowley whined cause it was everything—everything—he could ever want. Just for this moment, just this once, he let himself feel loved by the angel he adored.

One day, one day the angel would grow to love as he did. They would make a new language, one that only they knew. With every word they uttered, they would also be saying “I love you”.

Aziraphale spoke and it sounded like music. There was meaning somewhere in those words, but the voice he knew so well was calm. Assuring. Crowley lost himself in it. When he heard paper turning, he rolled over.

Aziraphale was reading.

Crowley was speechless. Wrong word. Crowley was dumbfounded. The closest thing to a utopia humanity would ever have was burning outside the window, and Aziraphale was reading a book.

Oh, now that was hilarious. All the grief and irritation he’d felt before melted away. Crowley rested his head on a pillow and snickered, not giggled. Demons don’t giggle. They laughed in jest, chuckled sarcastically and snickered, but never giggled.

His sides shook as Crowley could feel a full laugh building up. It was such an Aziraphale thing to do. Even when God took away all the words Adam once created, effectively making every written work obsolete, Aziraphale would still read, the stubborn angel.

Crowley was outright laughing now. What was it? ‘The Tale of Genji’? ‘The Knight in the Panther’s Skin’? ‘Hamlet’?

“Crowley?”

He ‘snickered’ again. Right, of course that wouldn’t translate. It was elating knowing the one word Crowley could understand from Aziraphale was his own name. He rolled back over, his laughs petering out.

She could take everything from him, even his words, but She could never take away his name.

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“Stay with me!”

Crowley stood in the distance out of sight. Shocked. Frozen in place. Even in the arid heat of the desert, Crowley could feel a chill running through him.

“Breathe! Please! You have to breathe!”

The shouts pierced the air. Eve was sobbing and wailing. She shook Abel’s listless body. Blood continued to pool around him.

“No! Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me! I need you!”

Crowley felt just like her son. The blood drained from him. His whole body grew cold. He couldn’t breathe. He could only watch, heart shattered and aching.

“Please, God, no! No, no, no, no, no, no...Don’t leave me! I can’t—I can’t live without you! I can’t!”

He should go. There was nothing else anyone could do. His body was stuck in place, as though Eve’s cries of anguish had him take root into the ground, pulling him deeper into the earth.

“I don’t want to lose you! I love you! I love you so much, please! Come back to me!”

Crowley was running. Away from Eve huddled over her dead son. Away from howls of a grieving mother. His feet raced through sand as fast as they could carry him.

He couldn’t let Aziraphale see. It would ruin him. One sight of the charred, burned flesh and he would know. Just like Crowley knew. There was only one thing on Earth that could make that kind of wound.

“Aziraphale! Angel! Where are you?!”

He shouted and ran. Didn’t know how. He still felt like the wind was knocked out of him. But he pressed on. He had to find the angel. Aziraphale needed him.

He stumbled into an oasis. Stumbled through some flora. And there he was. Aziraphale was on the ground, falling on his bottom at Crowley’s sudden appearance. Crowley nearly laughed in relief.

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were wide. Petrified. Staring at something behind him.

It hadn’t occurred to Crowley. If Abel was dead, wounded, murdered, then someone had done that to him. And that someone was still on the loose.

Crowley turned. He saw a man. Cain. Blue and pink flowered dress. Yellow jacket. A crowbar swinging at him.

A blow to the gut. Crowley hit the ground. He was gasping for air. Clutching his chest. Breathes. Bloody hell that hurt.

“Crowley! Oh God, Crowley!”

A weight hit him in the chest again, but this time it was soft. Heavy, but soft. Aziraphale was squeezing him. His whole body trembled. Crowley’s shirt was getting wet. A hand gripped his head, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Crowley! Crowley… Crowley…” The angel sobbed this mantra over and over.

The weight of Aziraphale’s body was grounding. Helped him pull himself up, walk against the current threatening to drag him back under. He saw a roof above him. A ceiling fan. It smelled like books. And Aziraphale.

Crowley wanted to rub the angel’s back, but he was so tired. His arms wouldn’t move. He listened to the sobs, not understanding why his angel was crying but wanting to soothe him. Needed to. Keeping the angel happy was the only way he could love him. It was his purpose in life. So he had to. Somehow.

“I’m here…” Crowley’s voice croaked. His face flushed. He could feel the river pulling him back under. “M’here…”

the Fall

The demon was screaming.

It wasn’t just them. In this wasteland of brimstone and hellfire, angels that had fallen from Heaven now joined together to make a new choir. The new gospel they sang was one of agony, torment, and loss.

Hellfire had reshaped them. It invaded their body, burned away every bit of Her Grace that was in them. They twisted and contorted. Sulphur and tar blackened their wings. Everything around them attacked with a malicious hunger threatening to consume them whole.

The demon was wailing and sobbing. Every part of their body was inflamed. They were on fire, burning alive. If only it could be over. Their skin could melt off and become one with the brimstone. It would be worth it not to feel anymore. Not to feel anything.

Then there were hands on them. They pulled away, hissed, sobbed at the unfamiliar voice that escaped their mouth. What have they become?

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

The demon whined. Someone was there. The hands that touched them didn’t burn but soothed. It cooled their skin and made their heart throb. A soft breeze flowed over their body. They felt a feather brush their arm.

“It hurts!”

“Where does it hurt?” The sweet voice dulled the pain as much as the hands. But it wasn’t enough, it hurt so much.

“Inside,” the demon cried.

A hand caressed their cheek. “Inside?”

“I’m—I’m empty. I’m so empty!”

Everything that they were was gone, burned to ash leaving behind a void inside them. They didn’t know who they were now, what they were. It was all gone. They would never be the angel they once were again. It was like watching their own death.

They howled and wailed. The wind blew and the hands eased the physical pain, but they did nothing to assuage the demon’s misery.

“What’s hurting you, dear? Is it me? Is this too much?”

The hands retreated and the demon wrenched them back. They opened their eyes, the world around them dulled of all color.

Except those eyes. Sapphire eyes looked down at them, surrounded by pure white wings untouched by the hell they were in.

An angel. A real angel.

“Please, tell me what you need.”

The demon whimpered. “Take me back. Take me back, please! I don’t want this—”

“Take you back, where?” Plush fingers stroked calming circles over his temple.

“To Her…” Their voice cracked.

Angelic eyes narrowed before widening, a look of comprehension washing over their delicate face. “Oh…”

In the demon was a war. There was a voice, so faint it was hardly noticeable among the constant screams. The voice reminded them of the wrongness they felt in Heaven. It spoke of how they didn’t fit in. They didn’t belong in Heaven. This is where they belong now.

But losing everything they once were was eating away at their heart. They wanted so much to turn back the clock, make everything that happened go away. They would know who they were. She would love them again. She would… oh God!

“She doesn’t love me!” They wailed. Their back arched as the horrifying realization broke them. “Why?! Why don’t you love me, Lord?! I- I… I need- I… I just want- want you to love me, please…”

The demon could feel it ripping now. A reality that was filled with joy and love shattered in their mind. There was no hope was there? They would drown in this torment. Bathe in hellfire for eternity. No one would ever love them. There was nothing left to love. Everything that made them wonderful was no more. There was nothing left worth loving.

The angel’s hands enshrined his face. The touch to his cheeks was gentle, but there was an underlying strength there. It didn’t threaten them. It was the strength of a guardian. A promise to never use that strength against them.

“Listen to me, Crowley,” the stern voice said. The demon nearly gasped at the name. “You are not Falling. You are safe. You are loved. You are so loved, my dear.”

A whimper escaped Crowley’s lips. He leaned into the hands holding him.

“I can’t say I know for sure. And I know you will likely disagree. But I do believe She loves you. I do, truly. I cannot possibly imagine God not loving you as much as I do.”

That’s when it clicked in place. Aziraphale was here. It was him. So benevolent that even the flames in the deepest pits of Hell couldn’t tarnish him. The angel was cradling him, healing his wounds and pouring him with love. Aziraphale loved him. He said that he loved him.

“This isn’t real.”

It made sense now. An angel couldn’t survive here without falling themselves. And Aziraphale would never say that he loved him. Crowley wasn’t in hell. He wasn’t falling. Everything around him wasn’t actually happening.

“None of this is real,” he muttered as the molten sulphur swallowed him.

…

The angel rested in the primordial waters.

It wasn’t day or night, or anytime really. Here, time was molded like clay. You could stretch it out really long or bundle it up. Spin the clay at high speed or work on it slowly. Unlike clay, time never hardened. Clay dries overtime, but there was no overtime when molding time. It remained timeless until you wanted to mold it some more.

In this timelessness, the angel relaxed, letting his body sink just below the surface, enough to submerge his body into the water.

To be fair, this was how it should be. The angel thought this as he lifted a handful of water and watched the liquid pour out of his hand, turning into stars before falling back into the water. Sinking was what demons do. He lost his ability to walk on water when he went down like a lead balloon.

Emotions the angel didn’t want to look at were bubbling up inside. Nostalgia, longing, remorse. His heart was building a dam, trying to hold it in. Contain it before it spilled over. If he could, he would rather not give a damn.

The angel didn’t want to look at himself. White feathers and heavenly robes weren't his style. And it would never be his style. Bitterness rose to the surface and that—that—he embraced. It was better to focus on everything he lost. Even as he stared into the beauty of nebulae and galaxies above him, he couldn’t let himself want more.

The sound of dripping water met his ear. Rhythmic. Growing louder. Footsteps across the waters.

The angel made a point not to look. His sun-burning eyes remained fixed on his creations above. Whoever was here didn’t matter. They weren’t real. Nothing was real.

“Comfortable?”

Memories can be a tangled mess, making connections that aren’t very obvious. The taste of a particular type of cherry touched on the memory of trying to spit cherry pits into a distant bucket at the annoyance of a cotton-haired friend. The touch of wet wood reminded him of hiding children on a rocking boat while their families drowned in the waters below.

The voice could not be contained by any dam. The angel was flooded with memories of joy, boundless creativity, and most of all love. It was cruel. There was no defense for how much it broke him.

A whisper in his mind told him he should be snarky, but the effort that would take didn’t seem worth it. He was tired. One word from that voice drained him of whatever strength he had left. It just wasn’t in him.

He heard a splash just beyond his feet. Then silence. He closed his eyes. Internally, he sighed at himself, already annoyed at his lack of self-control. He looked.

And there She was—sitting crossed legged in the center of ripples that haloed around her. There was nothing extraordinary about Her. No wings or beams of light. The closest She had to a halo was the ball of hair encircling Her head. She looked so human, a spitting image of Eve. Just your ordinary small, fragile human.

Except for the love. The sensation was that of a phantom limb. He shouldn’t feel love. He wasn’t really an angel. She wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. It was the tangled web of his memories. The image of Her was the image of love.

That, too, was cruel.

“How are you feeling?”

“... like shit.”

He could already hear Aziraphale gasping in his head over using such crass language in Her presence. The angel didn’t care. He was in a fake Heaven with a fake God and he could say whatever he damned well pleased.

“I’m not surprised.” There was a lilt in Her voice. A hint of a smile.

Water dripped as She gathered some in her hands. With a graceful touch, She shaped them into stars. A fiery glow illuminated them both.

The angel was no longer sinking into the infinite sea. The sun felt warm, but it couldn’t kindle the void She left in him.

“You abandoned me.”

A frown tugged the corner of Her lips. She let the words settle—pondering the taste of them. “I suppose I did.”

“There’s no ‘suppose’. There’s nothing to ‘suppose’. It’s what you did. As simple as that.”

“Are we really going to talk about this now?”

“No better time than the present.” And what better time would there be, the angel thought. It wasn’t everyday you got the chance to go off on your own inner demon, er, inner God.

“I trusted you, you know,” the angel continued. “Even when everything was going wrong, I had faith in you. That we could work it out somehow. And look where that faith got me.”

“I know,” She said. Her eyes avoided him. She looked so… sad. The angel hated it. Hated how vulnerable she looked. “I know I hurt you. But you must understand that I thought I-”

“I don’t care what you thought. I really don’t.”

A deafening silence settled between them. A penny could drop and, well, this was quite the wishing well to drop a penny into. A timeless hour slowly passed in a single moment.

Her voice broke the silence. “What now then?”

“Like I know.”

“Well, I’m here now, as you can see.” Her hand moved nimbly up and down highlighting how present She was. “I don’t plan on leaving you like I did before. I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”

“Why,” the angel spat at Her with a curled lip. “What—because you love me like you love everything?! Like how you loved the Earth so much you would let it be destroyed, for heaven’s sake?!”

“It wasn’t destroyed in the end, now was it?” And She dared to smile at him. Like she was guiltless in all this. “And I do love you, you know. Even back then, I never stopped loving you.”

“No, no, no, don’t. Just—just stop. I don’t…”

It was too much. The angel curled up hiding his face from Her. The image of Her, this image of love, was tarnished now. It would never be like how it was before. Her rejection—the Fall—all the pain had changed him. This love was foreign to him now. She was practically a stranger to him anymore. There was only one love he cared about. And that love didn’t belong to Her.

“I-”

His throat constricted. Everything in him didn’t want to admit this. It made him weak, exposed, and unbearably honest. It’s not like he had to say anything. None of this mattered. What happened in the illusionary heavens stayed in the illusionary heavens. Yet—

It mattered to him. In the real world, he would never let himself say this outloud. Since the Fall, he stomped it all down, as deep inside him as he could. This was his chance to let it out. For once, he could be free of some of the turmoil raging within—drain the wound and let it heal.

He breathed in deep.

“I loved you. It bloody hurt to love you so much. Even now—I still love you. As much as I try to hide it, I do… For so long, all I wanted was for you to love me. But I- I can’t. I just can’t do this. Not anymore. I’m done. I need to move on. Live my life.”

Her lips tightened. Perhaps there had been an ethereal light to Her, because that light in Her eyes was now gone.

“Does it have to be? I can show you how much I love you? I’ll prove to you-”

“No. I don’t want your love. It’s too late.”

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. For a moment, the demon felt weightless. He did it. The burden was gone.

He was free.