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Chapter Text

"Please, I just-"

"You were given a flaming sword to guard the Eastern Gate, and to guard the Eastern Gate only. By giving it away, you directly disobeyed the Almighty's orders."

"But - but I was just trying to help! Isn't that what we were asked to do? To show love and kindness to all of God's creatures?"

"God cast them out of Eden for a reason. They are no longer worthy of those things."

"I-I'm sorry. I just-"

"You should be grateful the Almighty didn't make you Fall for this. We have chosen an alternative punishment, instead."

"I… yes. Of course. What's it to be?"

"…"

"W-what are you doing?"

"If you like the humans so much, then you can stay on Earth with them. Stop struggling, you don't want us to make a mess, do you?"

"Wait, n-no! Please! Let go!"

"You can have them back once you have repented and earned Heaven's forgiveness. Now stand still, this will only take a moment…"

The murmurs of the crowd of people watching the strange proceedings fills the air, nearby onlookers speculating not-so-quietly on what Noah could possibly be doing. Two of every animal obediently make their way onto the large boat, with only the occasional animal needing to be pushed back into place. A few people quietly scoff to one another that Noah has finally lost his mind, but if Noah hears them, he doesn't let on.

Aziraphale stands at the front of the crowd, near the fence separating him from the animals, overseeing as much as he can from his place as a bystander. He wrings his hands nervously, glancing back and forth to watch the crowd and then the animals. Every now and then his eyes glance up at the sky expectantly before darting back down.

His instructions had been perfectly clear. Keep an eye on the construction of the Ark, make sure no one interferes, and prevent anyone aside from God's chosen ones from boarding. A nice, simple job. One that even he couldn't screw up. 

"Consider it a step closer to getting your wings back," Gabriel had said with a smile, clapping Aziraphale on the back. 

Aziraphale isn't an idiot. He knows why he's been given this task over any other. It's a test to see if he will disobey orders again, will go out of his way to save the humans God has damned. It's almost painful, watching so many humans stand around laughing at Noah, knowing he won't be able to save them when the storm comes, but this is a task he can't fail. He can't allow anyone else on the boat.

God's plans are ineffable, Aziraphale reminds himself firmly. Just because you can't see the reason, it doesn't mean there isn't one.

There is a reason for all this. There has to be. He just has to trust Her.

His back twinges painfully.

"What's all this about?"

The voice startles Aziraphale; he didn't expect anyone to actually talk to him. Every other time he's been around humans, he's mainly been left alone. He'd figured this time would be the same. 

Apparently not. 

He glances at the person who approached him, just to make sure they're actually talking to him. The stranger is a man with dark, almost black clothing, and long red hair that reaches his shoulders. He's not looking at Aziraphale, too busy looking around in what appears to be fascination, but Aziraphale had caught him turning his head away when he faced him, like he was trying to pretend he wasn't watching him. No one else is looking at him, or even seems to recognise him. 

"What's all what about?" Aziraphale says politely. It's rather obvious what "this" the man is referring to, but he can't think of anything else to say. He's probably not supposed to be talking to mortals, anyway.

" This. The whole 'building a big boat and filling it with a travelling zoo' thing." He emphasises his point with a large, vague gesture of his arms.

"Ah. Yes. Right. That." Aziraphale swallows, casting a quick glance around to see if there are any other angels nearby observing him. There aren't. "Well. Rumour has it God asked him to build it. Fill it with two of every animal."

"Oh? Who's saying that?"

"Noah. No one believes him, of course. Everyone's saying he's gone mad."

The man still doesn't look at him. He's constantly turning around, watching everything going on. "Huh. What other rumours are going around? Any about why God would ask someone to build a boat like this in the first place?"

Aziraphale picks at his fingernails, briefly glancing at the sky again. He's not supposed to tell anyone what's happening, just in case they try to make plans. But rumours about why are already spreading anyway, and Noah himself has told many people the reason he was asked to build the Ark, so what harm can it do? "According to Noah, God isn't pleased with the human race. Planning on wiping it out with a big storm."

Most humans had brushed off the rumour with a laugh, saying there was no way God would want all of humanity dead. This human doesn't seem to find it funny. "Everyone?"

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. "Well. It is just a rumour. And God doesn't seem to want to wipe everyone out." He gestures to Noah, who's still guiding all the animals onto the boat. "Noah, over there, his family, his sons, their wives, they'll all be fine."

The man still won't face him directly, but Aziraphale can tell by the creases on his face that he's not comforted by the words. "But they're drowning everybody else?"

Aziraphale can't think of anything to say to that, so he doesn't.

"Not the kids. They can't kill kids," the man presses.

Aziraphale picks at his fingers and says nothing. The reminder of what he's been asked to allow to happen makes guilt sit heavily in his chest.

"Sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect a demon to do, not a god that's supposed to be all-loving," the man says.

Aziraphale isn't entirely sure if he's still talking to him, but he responds anyway. "It is only a rumour."

"Yeah," the man mutters. "A rumour."

Aziraphale bites his lip and turns his attention back to the boat. One of Noah's sons is struggling to wrangle a lion back into line, and his brothers rush to assist him, abandoning the sections they were asked to supervise.

"Oi, Shem!" the man beside him yells. "That unicorn's gonna make a run for it-!"

Too late. The unicorn breaks away from the line and gallops away, too fast for anyone to catch up with it. Aziraphale bites back a sigh and turns to talk to the man again.

Then he sees it. His eyes. His yellow, snake slit eyes. 

Aziraphale's blood runs cold.

"Oh, it's too late. It's too late!" the man-shaped being yells to Noah's son, still squinting at the runaway unicorn. "Well, you've still got one of 'em!"

Above them, thunder crashes, and the rain Aziraphale has been waiting for finally begins to fall. The storm is starting.

"Well, great talking to you," the being says. "Good luck with the whole 'potential drowning' thing."

"Thank you, I suppose," Aziraphale says. He looks from the crowd to the animals to Noah and back again, refusing to make eye contact with the… the thing beside him.

The being leaves without another word, and Aziraphale lets out a long, slow breath, slumping in relief. 

When he'd been permanently assigned to Earth, he had been warned that there was an agent of Hell still lurking about. A serpent, he'd been informed. The one that tempted Adam and Eve in the first place. He'd been told, over and over, to keep an eye out for this demon, to thwart any of his evil wiles, and, above all else, to not make contact with him. 

And, like an idiot, Aziraphale had just gone and told the enemy everything.

"Heaven help me," Aziraphale whispers to himself.

Around him, the rain continues to fall.

Aziraphale doesn't spot the demon until he's already by his right shoulder, leaning over to make conversation. 

"Think Pharaoh's finally gonna tell us what's been going on with his crazy dreams?"

Aziraphale keeps his eyes fixed firmly forward. He knows exactly what this is about. This is the moment Pharaoh will declare that Joseph has complete control over Egypt.

"I have no idea," he says instead, wringing his hands anxiously. Lying isn't very angelic, he's probably supposed to tell the demon it's none of his business, or just smite him on the spot, but he doesn't want to potentially start a fight around so many mortals. They're at the back of the crowd, so Aziraphale can run and draw the demon away if he needs to, but he doesn't want to risk it. If a fight breaks out, not only will people get hurt, but it will draw attention away from the event about to take place, and that's not what Aziraphale wants. And with no sword, he won't be able to protect himself anyway, much less win.

"It has to be big, whatever it is," the demon says. "Can't remember the last time this many people showed up to hear what Pharaoh has to say."

Aziraphale spares the demon the quickest glance he can manage. It looks like he's been disguising himself as a noble, but for how long, Aziraphale doesn't know. He hasn't noticed any demonic activity in Egypt over the last few years, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there. Temptations to foil Heaven's plans, perhaps? Encouraging Potiphar's wife to tempt and then frame Joseph like she had in order to get him thrown in prison, hoping it would prevent Heaven's plan from working? It did sound like the kind of potential interference a demon might come up with. 

"Personally, my money's on the 'crazy dreams' thing," the demon continues, either not noticing or not caring that Aziraphale hasn't replied. "Been causing a lot of upset, you know. Rumours about what they might mean. Probably best to get it out before they spiral out of control."

Aziraphale hums noncommittally, glancing nervously at the demon again. Why is he talking to him? Surely an angel would be the last person a demon would want to talk to. Maybe he's hoping to trick some information out of Aziraphale again, like he did in Mesopotamia? Getting information about divine plans from an angel would certainly be beneficial to Hell, so it would explain why he hasn't simply tried to destroy Aziraphale, but it's a risky move. Any good angel would try to smite a demon on sight. Surely the risk of destruction outweighs whatever benefits Hell might get from receiving information from an angel?

Perhaps that was why he had refused to look at Aziraphale properly when they met. He was hoping Aziraphale wouldn't see his eyes and realise he's a demon.

Distantly, Aziraphale realises that Pharaoh has finally arrived to speak to the crowd. He only half listens as Pharaoh finally announces he's giving Joseph control over Egypt, too busy keeping a watchful eye on the demon next to him in case he tries to do… something. He's not entirely sure what that something might be, but he's hoping he'll know if he sees it. 

Whatever the something is, the demon doesn't seem too interested in doing it. He drops their conversation to listen to Pharaoh speak, making little noises of interest or surprise. His eyes are completely fixed on Pharaoh, and he doesn't notice when Aziraphale turns his head slightly to get a better look at him. His face is surprisingly… expressive. Aziraphale would have thought a demon would be more guarded around an angel.

"Clever lad, isn't he?" the demon says once Pharaoh finishes his speech. "Working out those dreams like that. Seven years of famine, who'd have thought it?"

"Yes. Very clever indeed," Aziraphale says, still not taking his eyes off the demon.

"Pretty clever idea, too, storing excess food to deal with the famine," the demon continues, turning back to Aziraphale. "I think-"

Aziraphale realises too late that he's been staring, and the demon catches his eye before he can turn away. This is the first time he's had a chance to have a good look at those serpentine eyes, and he can't help but stare just a little. They aren't as ugly as he thought they'd be. If it weren't for the unusual colour and the slit pupils, they could almost be human eyes staring back at him, wide in shock and surprise and… fear…

Oh, Aziraphale realises. He knows I know, now.

"Shit," the demon mumbles, raising a hand to cover his eyes, even though it's obvious it's far too late. "Fuck, just… pretend you didn't see that… oh fuck, okay, hold on-"

The demon reaches out to him, and Aziraphale's stomach drops. He stumbles back, away from the hand, heart beginning to pound. Twice now this demon has spotted Aziraphale before Aziraphale spotted him, and he's likely only survived until now because the demon wanted to use him for information. He's weaponless and defenseless, and if the demon decides to kill him - which is looking more likely by the second, judging by the increasingly panicked look on his face - he has no way to fight back.

So Aziraphale does the only thing he can do in this situation.

He runs.

He can hear the demon curse and give chase behind him, but he doesn't dare turn around. He picks up his pace, shoving past a young woman and accidentally knocking her over, and he feels bad, he really does, but he's too terrified to stop and help her, so he keeps running. He pushes his way through the crowd, turns in different directions at random, does everything he can think of to throw off his pursuer.

A sharp turn around the corner reveals the marketplace isn't far, and relief floods through Aziraphale's body. The marketplace is loud and crowded and confusing, even more so than the crowd of people who had come to listen to Pharaoh speak; the perfect place to hide. As soon as he reaches the crowd, he'll be able to disappear amongst the people, and slip away through a small street off to the side.

Aziraphale runs faster, feet pounding harshly against the ground. The edge of the crowd in the marketplace grows closer and closer. Almost there… almost there… almost-

A hand grabs him and pulls him into a small street.

Aziraphale starts to scream, but the other hand is quickly clamped firmly over his mouth to muffle his voice. He struggles wildly in the strong hold, twisting his body and trying to strike the demon - for who else would be strong enough to hold him still? - with his elbows or hands or anything else that can reach.

"Shush! Stop struggling!" the demon hisses. He tightens his hold on Aziraphale, but he's clearly struggling to keep him still.

Aziraphale sobs in panic behind the demon's hand, still thrashing to get free. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, sweat streaming down his face as his feet kick helplessly.

"I said stop struggling! You're going to draw attention!"

Aziraphale redoubles his efforts, flailing wildly, hoping the demon will lose his grip. Tears prick his eyes, slowly sliding down his face.

"Oh, for the love of-" the demon twists awkwardly, pushing and shoving back against Aziraphale, until finally he's pinned against a wall, both of his hands trapped in the demon's one, his mouth still covered. " There. Now calm down , I'm not going to hurt you."

Aziraphale doesn't believe him. He keeps struggling, but the demon has the upper hand now, and it's clearly taking him less effort to keep Aziraphale pinned to the wall than it is for Aziraphale to worm his way out of his grip. Another frightened sob escapes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he won't have to watch whatever the demon has planned for him.

"Okay," the demon breathes, panting slightly. "Okay. Here we go. Shh, shh, I'm not gonna hurt you, just stand still…"

Stand still, this will only take a moment…

Aziraphale screams behind the hand, kicking even harder than before. He manages to catch the demon in the leg, but despite the grunt of pain he doesn't let go, pressing Aziraphale against the wall even harder.

Oh god, he's going to die here. 

"Shh, shush, shush, you're okay, I don't want to hurt you, I just need to-"

Aziraphale's sobbing now, wet tears staining his face, great heaving gasps leaving him breathless and dizzy. His back burns like it hasn't in millennia, like he's back at Eden, wings forcefully spread out and exposed, the glint of a Heavenly blade getting closer and closer…

He screams again, only for a dirty piece of fabric to appear out of nowhere and be shoved roughly in his mouth.

"There," the demon sighs in relief, finally removing his hand from Aziraphale's mouth. "That's better. Now just hold still, I'll let you go in a second, just let me…"

Aziraphale shakes his head violently, still sobbing, as the demon reaches for him again. He tries to jerk away, but only succeeds in banging his head against the wall, and he wheezes in pain. No matter how hard he tries, he can't spit out the fabric gagging him. 

"You're gonna be fine," the demon says, resting a cool hand on Aziraphale's forehead. "I just need to make sure you can't go blabbing to anyone about what I am…"

Aziraphale's breath hitches, tears falling freely. He cries quietly behind the balled up piece of fabric, trembling violently as he waits for the demon to kill him, wishing he could go home, wishing he had his wings, wishing he could go flying just one last time. 

But nothing happens. 

"What the fuck?" the demon mutters. He presses his hand more insistently against Aziraphale's forehead, and finally Aziraphale can feel it. A small thread of demonic power searching for something, trying to influence his mind. He pushes it away. 

The demon's scowling now, pushing the thread harder, but Aziraphale keeps pushing back. If he must die, he at least wants his mind to be his own.

The demon makes a third attempt, but this time when Aziraphale pushes back, he freezes. His eyes flick to Aziraphale's, seemingly searching for something. Whatever he finds makes him push himself away from Aziraphale, backing away like he's the one in danger.

Aziraphale's knees give out beneath him, and he slides to the ground, shaking. He should run, but his limbs feel heavy and won't cooperate, too weak to hold him up.

The demon eyes him warily, maintaining a safe distance. "What are you?"

Aziraphale whimpers. The demon snaps his fingers, and the fabric in his mouth disappears.

"What are you?" the demon repeats. "Why can't I wipe your memories?"

What?

"W-wipe my memories?" Aziraphale chokes out. "What do you mean, wipe my memories? "

"I mean I don't want you blabbing to the next person you meet that one of the nobles has snake eyes!" the demon hisses. "Do you know how hard it is to get people to not look? So I'll ask you again, what are you? "

Aziraphale can't find the words to reply. One would think it's fairly obvious what he is. Angel minds are much harder to influence than human minds, after all.

The demon doesn't seem to agree. He edges forward, inhaling deeply, then lets a small, forked tongue slip past his lips to flicker in the air.

"You don't smell like an angel," he says at last. "Well, you do a little, now that I'm looking for it, but so do other humans that come into contact with angels. I didn't think you were - I can smell an angel a mile away, you know, there's no way one would be able to get that close to me without me knowing - but when I tried to wipe your memories just now, I wasn't too sure…" He frowns, tilting his head curiously. "Now that I think about it, you look familiar. Have we met before?"

Aziraphale swallows. "I don't believe we have."

"Are you sure? Because I swear I recognise you from somewhere."

"I'm quite sure."

The demon looks thoughtful for a long moment, rocking back and forth on his heels, and although every instinct is screaming at Aziraphale to run, he can't bring himself to get up.

"Aha!" The demon snaps his fingers. "Mesopotamia! You were the guy I talked to about that boat!"

"I - I assure you I don't know what you mean. I've never met you before in my life-"

"Are you cursed?"

"E-excuse me?"

"Are you cursed?" the demon repeats. "Not by one of my lot, of course, I'm the only demon up here, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember cursing a human… was it Heaven? It was Heaven, wasn't it?" He winces in… sympathy? "You poor bastard. What did you do to piss off Heaven so bad they cursed you with immortality?"

Aziraphale's mouth opens and closes like a fish. No matter how hard he tries, he can't think of anything to say. This is supposed to be his end, his untimely death at the hands of a demon. He isn't supposed to sit here and listen to him ramble about curses and immortality. 

"Don't wanna talk about it, huh? Hey, that's fine, I get it." The demon seems calmer now, approaching him with a cool confidence Aziraphale has never seen anyone possess. "Sorry about scaring the shit out of you, I just thought… you know, you might run screaming to tell everyone about my eyes. You get why I didn't want that to happen, right?"

Speechless, Aziraphale can only nod.

"Right. Speaking of, how come I can't wipe your memories? I've never had trouble with a human's mind, after all."

"I'm an agent of Heaven." That… isn't quite what he meant to say. He's supposed to say I'm an angel of the Lord, and thus it is my duty to thwart your evil ways before they can interfere with divine plans, so if you wouldn't mind standing still so I can smite you, that would be lovely.

"Ah. I heard Heaven had someone working for them on Earth, but I thought it was an angel. Conned you into working for them, did they? Cursed you for pissing them off then promised salvation if you do as they say?"

Despite the circumstances, Aziraphale can't help but feel indignant. "They do give humans salvation! That's not a con!"

The demon rolls his eyes. "Sure, if you say so. That explains the angel smell, at least. And why I couldn't touch your memories. Pointless having an agent on Earth if a demon can just take control of their mind."

He holds his hand out to Aziraphale to help him up. For some reason, Aziraphale takes it.

"What's your name?" the demon asks as he hauls him to his feet.

"... Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale, huh? Sounds like an angel's name. Did Heaven make you change it? Sounds like the kind of thing they'd do." He gives Aziraphale's hand a firm shake before letting go and taking a step back. "I'm Crawly."

"Crawly." The name feels odd on his tongue. All these years of not having a name for the mysterious agent of Hell working on Earth, and now the demon just… gives it to him, just like that. "It's… nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Crawly tilts his head again. His stare is unnerving. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got stuff to do. I'll see you around, Aziraphale."

He brushes past Aziraphale and heads for the centre of the town, then pauses and glances back. "Hey, would you mind keeping the whole… snake eyes thing to yourself? One immortal fucked over by Heaven to another?"

For some inexplicable reason, Aziraphale nods.

"Great. See you later!"

And with that he was gone, leaving Aziraphale standing in the street staring at nothing like the past ten minutes never happened. 

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale quickly dries his tears with his sleeve before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the small street. 

If Crawly doesn't realise Aziraphale is an angel, then Aziraphale certainly isn't going to be the one to correct him.

Listening to Jesus cry out and beg God to forgive the ones causing his pain is one of the most difficult things Aziraphale has had to do since the Ark, but he does it anyway. Gabriel had been very clear in his instructions that Aziraphale was not to intervene under any circumstances, or there would be dire consequences. He hadn't elaborated on what those consequences would be, and Aziraphale hadn't asked. 

"It's for the greater good," Gabriel had explained with a bit too much eagerness to be genuine. "God's orders. Besides, weren't you the one who wanted to have mercy on those humans in the first place? You should be thanking Her for this."

Aziraphale hadn't replied.

So here he is, watching God's son be nailed to a cross, a crowd of people surrounding him, and not one person daring to intervene.

"One would think God would at least want to keep him safe, above anyone else."

Aziraphale glances at Crawly, no longer phased by her suddenly appearing at his side out of seemingly nowhere. Ever since Egypt, they've been bumping into each other more and more frequently.

"Surprised you're here," Crawly continues. "Would've thought they'd at least send an angel to keep an eye on things." She frowns. "Guess they can't even be bothered to do that. Or to come smirk at the poor bugger themselves. Suppose that's what you're here for."

"I'm not here to smirk."

"Well, Heaven put him on there, and you're working for them."

Aziraphale feels a spark of irritation. "I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly."

Crawly pauses and gives him a long, considering look. "No," she says. "I suppose you're not."

The hammer bangs against another nail. Jesus cries out again.

"I've changed it, by the way," Crawly says, as casually as one can manage in such a situation.

"Changed what?"

"My name." She pulls a face. "'Crawly' just wasn't really doing it for me. Bit too… squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"But aren't you a snake?" He tries to think of any other demons he's heard about recently that could be her. "So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?"

"Crowley."

Crowley. It's… quite a nice name, actually. Suits her much better than Crawly.

Ahead of them, the hammer keeps coming down.

"Did you, uh… ever meet him?" Aziraphale asks, if only to try and distract himself from Jesus' pained gasps and moans.

"Yes. Seemed a very bright young man," Craw-Crowley says. "I showed him all the kingdoms of the world."

That… is news. Aziraphale wasn't expecting her to say yes. He'd figured a demon wouldn't want anything to do with someone as holy as God's son. "Why?"

She shrugs. "He's a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited."

The hammer comes down again. This time, Jesus almost screams.

"That's gotta hurt," Crowley mutters, wincing in sympathy. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?"

Aziraphale swallows. His back aches. "Be kind to each other."

"Oh, yeah," Crowley says, voice grave. "That'll do it."

Neither of them speak again as the cross is raised, listening in silence as Jesus howls and wails in agony. They watch as he sobs and whimpers and pleads quietly for forgiveness on behalf of others. Aziraphale can hear a woman crying - his mother, most likely - as Jesus' sobs and whimpers and pleas slowly quieten, until they're replaced with ragged, shallow breaths. After what feels like an eternity, those fall silent, too.

Aziraphale looks away as Jesus' mother begins wailing loudly, crying out against the injustice of her son's death. A long, agonising, torturous death he was forced to suffer because he had dared to be kind, even to those society have decided don't deserve kindness.  

Especially those society have decided don't deserve kindness.

Aziraphale's back aches. 

"I should get going," Crowley says at last. "Don't want to be here if any angels come to pick him up. See you around, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods, but doesn't turn to watch her leave. He stays exactly where he is until the family is finally ready to lay Jesus to rest.

"You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death."

The words, Aziraphale is sure, are supposed to be much more alarming. But it's hard to be alarmed when he recognises the voice under the helmet.

"Is that you under there, Crawly?"

"Crowley," the voice corrects. Armoured hands lift the visor on the helmet, revealing two bright, familiar snake eyes.

Of course. Of course Crowley is the Black Knight. Aziraphale isn't even sure why he's surprised.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he asks, a bit sharper than he intends, trying to keep his voice down so the humans can't hear him as clearly. 

"It's alright, lads. I know him. He's alright," Crowley says dismissively to the men behind him, not even bothering to look at them. "I'm here spreading foment."

"What is that, some kind of porridge?"

" No . I'm, y'know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur's been spreading too much peace and tranquility, so I'm here-" Crowley waves his arm vaguely- "you know, fomenting."

Aziraphale bites back a sigh. Typical. "Well, I'm meant to be… fomenting peace."

"Let me guess, Heaven's orders?"

Aziraphale glares at him. 

"Just saying. I still don't know why you take orders from the people who cursed you in the first place. All they're doing is making you do shitty work in damp places. If you ask me, you'd be better off telling them where to shove it."

"It is rather damp, I'll give you," Aziraphale concedes. "But I can't tell them to… shove it, as you so eloquently put. It doesn't work like that."

"Sure it does," Crowley scoffs. "I did it."

"Yes, and look where you are now."

"Not under Heaven's thumb, that's for sure."

"No, but you're still in the exact same place I am, carrying out orders from Hell."

"Not that it seems to be doing much, considering you're here," Crowley says. "All we're doing is cancelling each other out. We could've just stayed home."

"No we couldn't," Aziraphale says. "What would we tell Head Office?"

Crowley shrugs. "Same thing we're gonna tell them in the report anyway."

Aziraphale's chest tightens at the idea. "But… but that would be lying. "

"Ehhh, possibly, but the end result would be the same," Crowley says dismissively, like lying to Head Office isn't one of the worst things either of them could possibly do.

"But my dear fellow, they-" Aziraphale searches desperately for a way to explain exactly why it's such a terrible idea, since Crowley doesn't seem to get it- "well, they'd check."

Crowley gives him an unimpressed look.

"Michael's a… bit of a stickler," Aziraphale tries to explain. "And you don't want to get Gabriel upset with you." Underestimation of the century. 

Crowley scoffs. "When was the last time anyone in Heaven actually bothered to check up on you in person? At least a millennium, am I right?"

Crowley has a point, it has been a long time since Heaven has checked up on him. All of his orders come from notes, now, and he hasn't seen another angel since Jesus' death. But the mere thought of lying to his superiors makes his back sting and his chest twist anxiously. 

He can't disobey Heaven again. He needs their forgiveness.

"Look, I know what they're like up there. So long as they get the paperwork, Heaven won't care what you're doing," Crowley says. "As long as you're seen to be doing something every now and again, they'll leave you alone."

" No. Absolutely not. " His chest feels tight at the words alone. " You may be willing to risk punishment so you don't have to work as hard, but I'm not, and I'm shocked you'd imply I would. We're not having this conversation, not another word!"

He storms off back to his horse, and Crowley doesn't try to stop him.

His chest is still tight when he gets home.

By far the most time consuming part of carrying out orders from Heaven is actually travelling to where he needs to go. Most angels would simply fly to their next task, but that's not exactly an option for Aziraphale, so he has to take the human way. Which is usually a slow, extremely unpleasant journey.

So of course Heaven asked him to perform a miracle on the other side of the country.

Sighing, Aziraphale checks that he has all the necessary supplies for the journey. He's already checked about three times, and admittedly he may only be doing it to put off the trip for just a few more minutes, but he'd hate to get halfway there only to realise he's forgotten something.

Or that's the excuse he's using, anyway.

"Going on holiday, or something?"

"Oh, I wish," Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. Normally seeing Crowley again would be delightful, but his journey ahead will be so stressful he can practically feel the headache it will cause him already . "I need to go to the other side of the country to perform a miracle, but it's such a long way, and I-"

"You can perform miracles?"

Oh dear. He forgot Crowley doesn't know he's an angel.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale says, scrambling desperately for an excuse. "You see, Heaven has… granted me a limited amount of… magic. Just enough to perform any blessings or miracles they require."

"Huh. I didn't know that," Crowley says. He circles Aziraphale, a habit he's picked up for reasons Aziraphale can't quite figure out. "I guess it makes sense. Upstairs have used humans to perform miracles before. I thought they just… sent you to keep an eye on things they don't want my side screwing up. Or got you to preach on their behalf."

"Yes, well, they decided I would be more useful if I could perform miracles, as well," Aziraphale says. "It really is only enough to carry out the tasks they give me, though."

"Uh huh. What's the miracle?"

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. He really shouldn't be telling a demon about Heaven's plans, but… well, Crowley has never directly interfered with his work unless it contradicts Hell's orders. What harm could it do? "This awful plague is taking a toll on a lot of people, and they've been getting frightfully angry at the Church. So Heaven have asked me to pop over and heal a few of the sick, to try and… encourage them to have faith again."

Crowley hums, rocking on his heels. "Where're they sending you?"

"Hampshire," Aziraphale says, eyeing Crowley suspiciously. "Why?"

"Just curious. Coincidentally, I'm meant to be heading south, too. I was thinking we could travel together."

"Travel together?"

"Sure. Why not? Got to be better than travelling alone."

Aziraphale thinks about it. He hasn't been looking forward to travelling alone, and demon or not, Crowley is always such pleasant company. And if he's heading south anyway…

A note appears before Aziraphale can take Crowley up on his offer, and he fumbles to catch it before the wind blows it away. Frowning, he unfolds the note and starts to read, his heart sinking with every word.

"What's wrong?"

Aziraphale swallows. "It's… orders from Heaven. They want me to head north for a blessing of the utmost importance."

"I thought they wanted you to head south?"

"They do. They want me to do both."

"Well that sucks. Could've had the decency to tell you earlier." Crowley shrugs. "Nothing you can do about it now, I guess. Come on, let's go, shouldn't take you too long to reach Hampshire if we set off now."

Aziraphale's hands clench around the note. "I need to perform this blessing within three days."

Crowley pauses, raising an eyebrow at the note. "And they're only telling you now? "

Aziraphale swallows thickly and nods.

"Alright, fine, we'll head north first, you can do this extremely important blessing , then we'll set off for Hampshire."

"No," Aziraphale says, voice tight. "I… those miracles in Hampshire need to be done by the end of the week."

"... What?"

"They want me to do both," Aziraphale chokes out. "They want me to do both, and I can't…"

Aziraphale covers his face with his hands, trembling violently. Heaven had been very adamant when they insisted that the miracles in Hampshire need to be done within the week, and the note says they still expect that to be done. They had also made it perfectly clear that it is in his best interests to not fail under any circumstances if he wants their forgiveness, and while that isn't explicitly mentioned in the note, the warning is perfectly clear. 

Any other angel wouldn't have a problem. They could just fly to Hampshire and back. But Aziraphale can't, they know he can't. If he didn't know any better, he'd say they're deliberately giving him a test they know he can't pass.

There's no way he can perform both the blessing and the miracle in time.

"Oh, fuck, are you okay - gimme that note, what the fuck did they say-" Crowley snatches the note from Aziraphale's hand, frowning down at it as he skims through it. "'Please be sure to meet the deadline for both of these tasks, as you are fully aware of the consequences that shall take place if you fail.' What the fuck does that even mean?"

Aziraphale sniffs and tries to wipe his watering eyes. He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he stays quiet.

"This is ridiculous," Crowley seethes. He crumbles the note into a ball, then sets it on fire. "How the fuck do they expect you to do two things at once? It's not like you have wings, you can't fly there, so what the fuck do they expect you to do? Don't they know anything about how mortals have to get around up here? Typical fucking angels, inconsiderate bastards, the lot of them…"

Aziraphale bites his lip and stares at the ground, picking at his nails as Crowley continues to rant. His eyes burn with tears as he tries desperately to think of what to do, but his mind is drawing a blank. He can only do one or the other. There's no way he can perform both the blessing and the miracle in time, so he needs to figure out which is more important. The extremely important blessing that popped up at the last minute? Or the miracle he already agreed to do? Which makes him look more reliable? Which makes him look worthy?

Every mission he's set is a test. If he gets this wrong, he may never get his wings back.

A shaky sob slips past the tightness in his throat.

"Oh, fuck , don't cry, Aziraphale. Come on, it's just a stupid miracle, they'll get over it-"

"It's not," Aziraphale gasps through his tears. "It's not, they won't, you don't understand-"

"Hey, hey, hey-"

"I can't do it, I need to do it, but I can't, what am I supposed to do-"

"Breathe, Aziraphale," Crowley says. He sounds just the slightest bit desperate. "Just breathe."

He doesn't need to breathe, but Crowley doesn't know that, so he obeys, taking deep, shaky breaths through his mouth. Crowley murmurs soothing encouragement every now and then, but otherwise stays silent as he waits for Aziraphale to calm down. 

"What am I supposed to do?" Aziraphale  finally whispers.

Crowley doesn't speak for a moment, and Aziraphale doesn't think he's going to. But then, voice ever so slightly hesitant, he says, "I think I might have an idea."

"You… you do?"

"Yeah. I'm headed south for this temptation anyway, right? And Hampshire isn't really that far from where I need to go. I could do the miracle for you."

Aziraphale wasn't expecting that. "Do it… for me? Are demons even allowed to do that?"

Crowley shrugs. "Probably not."

"But… but won't Hell find out?"

"Hell won't notice shit. It's not like they track the miracles we perform."

"They don't?"

"Course not. Why would they? So long as I do the stuff they ask me to, they don't care what I do up here."

"Oh," Aziraphale says quietly. "It's not like that in Heaven."

"Yeah, thought that might be the case. Bastards Up There always were controlling pricks." Crowley scowls at the mention of the other angels in Heaven, but then he focuses back on Aziraphale and he softens. "Heaven won't find out, either. If you let me help."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "They will. I appreciate the offer, but I can't let you do that. Heaven… wouldn't be pleased if they found out I gave a demon any information about my missions."

"But they won't find out," Crowley says. "They aren't going to care how it gets done, so long as they can see it is done. They won't be watching."

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, which are still picking at his nails. Crowley is wrong, they will be watching, because this is an impossible test, and Gabriel will be watching to see if he screws up.

"I'll be careful," Crowley says, and this time there's a hint of pleading in his voice. "They won't be watching you specifically, they'll be watching the results. I promise, no one will find out it was me. If they question why there was a demonic presence in Hampshire, you can just say I tried to ruin your plans and failed."

Aziraphale bites his lip. It's a tempting offer, and his only option if he wants to get both done, because there's no way he can do both tasks on his own, but temptation is Crowley's job. As an angel, Aziraphale is supposed to resist temptation at all costs.

"Come on, Aziraphale," Crowley says softly. "You go do your blessing, and let me take care of your miracle."

Aziraphale glances up. "You'd really do that for me?"

"Of course I would. You're my friend." Crowley holds out his hand.  "Let me help."

It's a terrible idea, Aziraphale tells himself, anxiety twisting in his gut. It's too dangerous. Heaven and Hell will be furious if they find out. 

But what other choice does he have?

Aziraphale reaches out and hesitantly shakes Crowley's hand.

He expects to feel… something, anything, that might feel like he's being bound to Crowley, that makes him feel heavy and guilty for making a deal with a demon. But there's nothing. No invisible chain shackled around his wrist, no bite of demonic power nipping at his being, no sudden drops in temperature chilling him to the bone. The only thing he can feel is Crowley's skin against his, cool and smoother than he'd expected. 

Crowley lets go of his hand, grinning at him. Aziraphale still can't feel anything damning. "Glad you agree. I'd better get going, then, if I want to meet that deadline of yours. I'll see you around, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods wordlessly, his hand falling to his side as he watches Crowley walk away. He stares after him long after he's gone, the memory of Crowley's hand in his still fresh in his mind. 

This is dangerous. If Heaven finds out what he's just done, the consequences will be much more severe than never getting his wings back. He could be put to death. He could be sentenced to extinction. He could Fall.

And yet he can't bring himself to regret it. Not when Crowley unknowingly gave him a chance to save his wings.

Feeling lighter than he has in a long time, Aziraphale gathers his things and heads north.

Chapter Text

"Really now, this is quite unnecessary," Aziraphale huffs. The witchfinder ignores him, yanking on the ropes tying him to the stake to make them tighter. A crowd of people surround them, chanting "burn the witch" over and over.

This is ridiculous. All he did was defend a young lady being chased by witchfinders, and now he's tied to a stake and being accused of being a witch. Him! An angel, of all people, accused of being a witch and making pacts with the Devil! Aziraphale would laugh if it weren't such an inconvenience.

At least they released the young lady. He just wishes they'd dropped the accusations altogether, instead of shifting them onto him. The paperwork alone will be a nightmare to deal with.  

He sighs in exasperation as the witchfinder addresses the crowd, boasting about how he managed to "courageously confront and expose the witch" by finding the "Devil's Mark" on his back. Well, it was a nice body while it lasted. He only hopes his next one is just as comfortable as this. Ideally, he'd like to have the same one back, but the angels in the corporation department don't really like him, so-

"Snake!"  

The screech cuts through the chatter of the crowd, replacing the chanting with screaming. The humans Aziraphale assumes are closest to the snake push and shove one another in their attempts to get away, and the ones further away are almost trampled in the confusion and panic. Several people trip or fall and struggle to climb back to their feet. Some look confused by the chaos and incoherent yelling, but they either slip away once they decide they don't want to take their chances, or join the hysterical panic. Even the witchfinder pauses, unsure if he's supposed to continue now he's quickly losing his audience. Aziraphale furrows his brows. One tiny snake can't possibly cause this much chaos, can it?

Then he catches a glimpse of it, and he understands. The snake is enormous, far bigger than any snake he's ever seen. It's seemingly unbothered by the crowd threatening to trample it, and swiftly slithers directly towards them. 

The witchfinder pales as the snake gets closer, slowly backing away. The snake slithers between Aziraphale and the witchfinder, hissing quietly.

"A familiar!" the witchfinder cries. He brandishes the torch towards the snake as if to show it off, but the crowd is gone, no longer interested in the execution or how their "courageous" witchfinder will deal with this.

The snake hisses louder, rearing up and baring its fangs. Sweat drips down the witchfinder's face, but he sets his jaw and raises the torch again.

For a long moment, both of them are very still.

Then the witchfinder swings.

The torch never finds its target. The snake strikes just as it starts to come down. Aziraphale expects it to bite the witchfinder, but it clamps its jaws around the wood instead, inches from the witchfinder's fingers. He lurches back, letting go of the torch as he stumbles over his own feet to get away. When he looks up, his jaw drops at the sight of the snake wielding his torch.

The snake hisses again, and flings the torch back at the witchfinder. It lands by his feet, and there's a familiar sliver of magic as the flames on the torch flicker and sets the witchfinder's trousers alight.

The witchfinder screams, stumbling away from the torch and frantically patting his trousers to get the flames to go out. He shoots one last terrified look at the snake, then flees like the crowd already had the sense to do, still trying to put out the flames.

"Good riddance," Crowley says, shifting back into her human shape. She folds her arms and glares after the witchfinder, scowling.

Aziraphale stares, just a little. She's a mess. Her dress is crumpled and covered in grass stains, and her hair is tangled, the clumps of mud stuck in her hair large enough to be visible even from where Aziraphale is standing. She looks like she clawed her way out of the ground, and yet he can't take his eyes off her. As filthy as she is, she still looks mesmerising. Must be her demonic charm.

"Was setting his trousers on fire really necessary?" Aziraphale says at last.

"He had it coming. He'll face much worse in Hell." She turns to Aziraphale. She's still wearing the glasses she had at the Globe Theatre, so he can't see her eyes, but the rest of her face visibly softens when she looks at him. "Let's get you out of there, yeah?"

"Please do. These ropes aren't exactly comfortable."

Crowley snorts. She clambers up the pile of wood and starts to untie him. "Sorry I took so long. Got discorporated. Only just got back."

"Discorporated?" How on Earth had Crowley managed to be so careless she got discorporated?

"What happens when demons get killed on Earth," Crowley explains. Oh, that's right, he's not supposed to know about discorporation yet. "This body isn't my true form, y'know. Demons working on Earth get a body to help us blend in, and if it gets destroyed, we get sent back to Hell until we get a new one."

"Well how on Earth did you manage to get discorporated? You're normally so careful to cover up the whole… demon thing."

"Same way you nearly went, actually. Got called a witch by some arsehole who couldn't take no for an answer. They hung me, though. The whole 'burning me alive' thing didn't really work out for them." She unties the last of the knots, and the ropes fall away. "There."

"You should have called me," Aziraphale says, rubbing his wrists to try and get the blood flowing again. "I would have tried to help."

"Call you how? Can't exactly teleport a message to you, and even if I could, you'd've never got there in time."

"I-I don't know! You're the demon, I'm sure you could have figured something out."

"How noble." Crowley grins at him. "Next time I'm in trouble, I'll try to think of something."

"See that you do," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's offered hand and letting her help him down.

"You can be my own personal guardian angel," she says teasingly.

Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat. He stumbles over the wood, barely registering Crowley catching him and telling him to be careful. Does she know? Has she figured it out?

"A-angel?"

"Yeah. 'Cause, y'know, you work for Heaven. You're like, I dunno, an honorary angel."

"O-oh." He lets out a breath. She doesn't know, thank goodness.

"Why? Do you not like it?"

"No, no! It's fine! It just… took me by surprise is all. I don't mind."

"Okay, if you say so." She grabs his wrist, and his heart jumps again. "Come on, angel. I saw this new restaurant on my way up, I think you're gonna love it. I've heard it's to die for."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the grin she shoots him, but allows her to pull him along anyway, still trying to calm his racing heart.

In hindsight, his current predicament is probably at least a little bit his own fault. He'd heard rumours about the things happening in Paris, of course, and had he taken the time to really think about that, he likely wouldn't have bothered making the trip until things calmed down.

And yet here he is, chained up in a little cell listening to the cries and screams and cheers of the people outside, as the executioner in front of him talks about the honour of dying at his hands, and has the audacity to try and touch Aziraphale's clothes. Just touch them, with no regard for how expensive they may be!

"Animals," Aziraphale huffs in frustration.

"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only your lot do that."

Aziraphale smiles involuntarily at that lovely, familiar voice, warmth blooming in his chest. "Crowley." He turns eagerly - it's been quite a while since he last saw his friend - and stops short. "Oh, good lord."

It isn't the way Crowley is lounging dramatically, as though he's trying to impress someone. It isn't the hair, although that certainly isn't the most flattering style Aziraphale has seen on him. It's the clothes, hideous in such a way that no one should look good in them, and it's completely unfair that Crowley does. It has to be the result of some kind of miracle. Aziraphale will accept no other excuse for those clothes - if they can even be called that - looking good on Crowley.

"What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?" Crowley asks, slightly irritated. "I thought you were opening a bookshop."

"Well, I was. I got peckish."

"... Peckish."

"Well, if you must know, it was the crepes," Aziraphale says, sitting back down on the stool. "Can't get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche."

"So you just popped across the channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble?" Crowley's voice is thick with judgement. "Dressed like that?"

"I have standards," Aziraphale huffs, eyes flicking over Crowley's clothes once more. He really, really wishes he could change his outfit. It's distracting. 

"I'm almost impressed you even managed to get over here in those clothes," Crowley says. "How long did it take until they dragged you here?"

Aziraphale purses his lips and doesn't answer. It was an embarrassingly short amount of time, but he doesn't want Crowley to know that, even if he does think Aziraphale is a human. 

"Heaven really needs to give you a raise," Crowley continues. "You wouldn't be in this situation if they just let you have more miracles. Surely replacing you if you kick the bucket will take more effort than just giving you more magic."

"Yes, well, they believe scarcity is a good thing, with these kinds of things," Aziraphale says. "Stops people taking things for granted, and all that."

In truth he'd been reprimanded just last month for performing too many frivolous miracles, and he'd decided he would rather avoid receiving another note from Gabriel about the issue if he can help it. He does need to keep his superiors happy if he wants to get his wings back, after all. But Crowley doesn't know about that.

"Well, you're lucky I was in the area."

"I suppose I am. Why are you here?"

Crowley shrugs. "Hell sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance."

Aziraphale gapes at him, shooting to his feet. "So all this is your demonic work?"

"No! Your lot thought it up themselves. Nothing to do with me." Crowley rolls his eyes behind his infernal glasses. "What is it with you humans and blaming everything on demons? You do enough evil on your own, you don't need any help." 

Aziraphale softens, feeling slightly guilty about the accusation already. He knows this kind of thing isn't Crowley's style, but one can never be too sure what Hell will assign him.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the shackles around Aziraphale's wrists fall to the ground. Aziraphale rubs his wrists, casting Crowley a grateful glance. Warmth blossoms in his chest again.

"Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the... rescue."

"Don't say that," Crowley warns. "If my people hear I rescued an agent of Heaven, I'll be the one in trouble. And trust me, you don't want to know what Hell does to demons that are in trouble."

Aziraphale's stomach twists uncomfortably, but he tries to ignore it. "Well, I'm very grateful, either way. What about if I buy you lunch?"

"Not looking like that, you're not," Crowley says, and Aziraphale just knows he's rolling his eyes again. "Come here, I'll just-"

He gestures vaguely, and Aziraphale's clothes change to the same outfit as the executioner. When he turns back, he sees the man being dragged off by two Frenchmen, now wearing the clothes that got Aziraphale captured in the first place.

"Dressed like that he's asking for trouble," Crowley says. 

Aziraphale stares mournfully after the man. "I liked those clothes. It took me hours to find something that looked good on me. Now it's all gone to waste."

"Relax, you look fine. What's for lunch?"

Aziraphale brightens almost instantly. "What would you say to some crepes?"

The knock at the door surprises Aziraphale; the grand opening to his bookshop isn't for a few hours, and he wasn't expecting many people to turn up, anyway. 

"I'm afraid the shop won't open until Friday," he says as he opens the door. "But if you'd like to pop back after lunch-"

"Relax," Crowley says, grinning widely at Aziraphale. He's clutching a package and a small box to his chest. "It's only me."

"Oh!" Aziraphale smiles and opens the door wider. "In that case, please do come in. I have a lovely little back room where we can sit and chat."

Crowley saunters inside and heads straight for the back room, sprawling on the first sofa he spots like he owns it. Aziraphale takes the seat opposite him, still smiling to himself. He's been meaning to show Crowley around his new bookshop for a while, but he's never managed to get a chance, since both of them are so busy with whatever tasks Heaven and Hell assign to them. Miracles and blessings combined with the organisation of opening a bookshop have meant Aziraphale hasn't had nearly as much time to spend with Crowley as he'd like, no matter how excited he's been to show Crowley the shop before its grand opening. And the few times he has had time to spare, Crowley was off doing his own tasks, or performing some of Aziraphale's blessings. 

He really should get Crowley a "thank you" gift, now that he thinks about it. He's been taking on more than his fair share of the Arrangement lately, in order to give Aziraphale more time to work on the bookshop, and his gratitude alone doesn't feel enough. Perhaps he'll take Crowley out somewhere, or help him set up his own place. He's incredibly grateful Crowley was thoughtful enough to help in his own way, the least he can do is return the favour.

"Got you a little something," Crowley says. He holds out the package and the little box to Aziraphale. "Just a couple of housewarming gifts."

Aziraphale's heart flutters as he accepts the gifts from Crowley, a familiar warmth curling in his chest. "You didn't need to."

"Eh, saw them on my way here, thought you'd like them," Crowley says, waving his hand dismissively. "Not a big deal."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley's flippant act. He opens the large package first and gasps when his eyes fall on the large box of chocolates. "Oh, Crowley! These are my favourite! How did you know?"

Crowley shrugs wordlessly, but he preens a little at Aziraphale's words. 

Aziraphale pops one of the chocolates in his mouth, a noise of delight escaping him. "Oh, these are delicious. Crowley, you must try one."

"Nah, I'm alright. Too bitter for my taste." He waves a hand at the smaller box. "Go on, that too."

Aziraphale sets the chocolates aside, promising himself he'll finish them later, and begins to open the small box. He can feel Crowley's eyes on him the whole time, carefully watching his reaction. Waiting to see if he likes it. The knowledge that Crowley cares about Aziraphale's opinion makes Aziraphale's stomach flip pleasantly.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale gasps as he peers inside the box. He pulls out a white mug, with feathered angel wings as a handle. "It's adorable. Where on Earth did you find it?"

"Just saw it in a shop," Crowley says casually, although he looks extremely pleased with himself. "Reminded me of you."

A smile spreads across Aziraphale's face at the words. It's not the first time Crowley has brought Aziraphale something that reminds him of him, and it likely won't be the last, but hearing the words makes him feel warm and fuzzy every time. It's nice, knowing Crowley thinks about Aziraphale even when they're apart. 

"Well, it's lovely," Aziraphale says, running his thumb over the wings. "It was very thoughtful of you to give me this."

"Ah, shut up," Crowley scoffs, although there's no heat in his words. "Just an impulsive buy, really, thought you might like it." He grins at Aziraphale. "It's fitting, with you being an agent of Heaven and all. Since you haven't got any wings yourself, figured these would do, instead."

The smile freezes on Aziraphale's face, and he fights to keep it in place. An irrational pang of pain fills his chest at the words, and his back twinges slightly.

He doesn't know, Aziraphale reminds himself, trying to keep the hurt off his face. He didn't mean it like that, it's not his fault, he doesn't know.

Crowley frowns at Aziraphale. Apparently he isn't doing a very good job at trying to hide his hurt. "You alright?"

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale says, forcing himself to sound bright. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just now, you looked… I dunno, sad?" Crowley leans forward in his seat, brow creasing in concern. "Was it something I said?"

"No, of course not, what could you have possibly said, that's ridiculous." Aziraphale laughs nervously. "Just… something that crossed my mind, is all. Nothing important, you needn't worry, it's nothing to be concerned about." He rushes to cut Crowley off before he can press any further. "This is such a lovely mug. I'd hate to put it in the cupboard straight away. I think I'll pop the kettle on, make us some tea. Would you like some?"

Aziraphale doesn't wait for Crowley to answer, already out of his seat and rushing to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He puts his new mug on the counter, and reaches into a nearby cupboard to grab Crowley's usual mug. Behind him, Crowley gets up from the sofa and follows him.

"Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley leaning on the door frame, still looking concerned. He forces himself to push away the pang of guilt about making Crowley worry. 

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Of course," Aziraphale says, voice as chipper as he can manage. "Perfectly fine. Never better. Do you still only take one sugar?"

Crowley regards him suspiciously, but to Aziraphale's relief, he drops the topic. "Yeah, just the one."

Aziraphale hums, letting the familiar motions of making tea soothe the unintentional twinge of pain in his chest. He pours Crowley's first, then his own, using the new mug Crowley gave him. The angel wings don't make a very comfortable handle, he quickly realises, and it takes a moment to figure out how to best hold it. 

He passes Crowley his tea once he's done, and settles back down in his chair, cradling his own mug close to his chest. They sit in silence for a long time, each taking small sips. 

"Is it the mug?" Crowley asks finally. His voice is oddly quiet. 

"What do you mean?"

"The mug. Is it because I got you an angel mug?" Crowley leans forward, trying and failing to hide his worry. Aziraphale can feel his eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. "You know I'm just teasing, right? I know I talk shit about angels a lot, I just… you work for them, I thought it'd be funny. I didn't mean to - to insult you, or whatever, I know you're better than them-"

"Crowley, calm down. It's not the mug," Aziraphale assures. It is the mug, but not for the reasons Crowley thinks. "You didn't insult me. I'm fine."

Crowley looks doubtful. "I've known you for thousands of years, angel. I know when something's wrong."

Aziraphale's chest warms a little at that. "I know. Honestly, though, I'm fine. Just an… unpleasant memory, is all. Nothing that you caused, just something that crossed my mind."

"You sure?"

Aziraphale nods firmly. "I'm sure."

"Do you… want to talk about it?"

Memories of the harsh glint of the sunlight on a blade, searing pain clawing down his back, white robes damp and sticky with blood, flash through his mind. "Not particularly."

"Okay."

They sit in silence again. Crowley leans back against the sofa until he's sprawled across it, head occasionally shifting as he takes in more of the room. Aziraphale keeps his gaze fixed on his mug, searching for something to say to distract him from the memories trying to make their way to the surface.

"Why do you hate angels so much?" is what eventually comes out of his mouth, although Aziraphale doesn't remember deciding to ask that. 

"They're pricks," Crowley scoffs immediately. "Bunch of self-righteous bastards who think they're better than everyone else just 'cause they're licking the Almighty's arse, even though half the time they're no better than my lot."

Aziraphale tries not to wince at the harsh words. Crowley has never hidden how he feels about angels, so he doesn't know what answer he was expecting. "How do you know? Have you ever talked to one?"

"Well, no. But I don't need to. Just look at the way they treat you."

Aziraphale swallows and says nothing. Crowley's casual defence would be flattering, if it weren't for the fact Aziraphale is an angel, and that their treatment of him is his own fault.

"I almost did, once," Crowley says, almost casually, but a bit quieter than before. "Talk to an angel, that is."

Aziraphale lifts his head, but Crowley isn't looking at him. "You did?"

Crowley hums. "Back in Eden. You know, the garden Adam and Eve got kicked out of? There were some angels there, guarding the walls. Trying to make sure no one got in or out." He snorts. "Fat lot of good they did."

Aziraphale winces.

"Anyway, I was gonna talk to one of them, after I got Eve to eat that apple. Got bored, figured, why not? Might be interesting to get an angelic perspective on the situation. See if any of them had anything interesting to say."

Crowley falls silent for a moment, head tilted back against the sofa, obviously lost in the memory. When it doesn't look like he's going to continue, Aziraphale clears his throat and prompts, "So why didn't you?"

Crowley shrugs. "Only saw one angel who didn't look like he'd smite me on the spot, and I didn't see him again after the whole eat-the-apple business. Think he was meant to be guarding the Eastern Gate, but by the time I got up there, he was gone."

Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat.  

"Never did find out what happened to that angel," Crowley continues. "Kinda strange that he just disappeared like that, took ages for the other angels on the wall to go."

"Yes," Aziraphale says faintly. "Very strange, indeed."

"Never saw another angel, after that. Just assumed they decided humans were too sinful to associate with."

"Oh. Sinful. Yes."

"Probably why they got you to do their work for them, now that I think about it. Bastards can't even be bothered to do their own dirty work."

Aziraphale stands abruptly. "Yes, well, it's been lovely chatting with you, Crowley, but I should probably get back to work. Lots to do before the grand opening, after all."

 Crowley looks startled. "You alright?"

"Perfectly. Just busy, is all."

"Okay… do you want any help?"

"No, no, that's quite alright." Aziraphale plucks Crowley's mug from his hands and heads to the kitchen to wash it. "You must have things to do, yourself. I wouldn't want to keep you."

For a moment, Crowley is silent. Then he sighs and trudges towards the door, calling out, "See you later, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale doesn't respond, just stands by the sink and feigns cleaning his mug until the door closes behind Crowley. He sighs and shuffles back into the back room, sinking into the sofa and resting his head in his hands.

He could have met Crowley in Eden. If he hadn't given away his sword, he could have met Crowley on the wall surrounding Eden, and Crowley would know. He'd know, and Aziraphale wouldn't have to lie to him.

It didn't have to be like this. 

Aziraphale's back aches for the rest of the day.

Crowley calling to ask Aziraphale to meet him at St. James's Park isn't an unusual occurrence. They've had their Arrangement for so long it's become common to occasionally drop in on one another to ask if the other has any assignments that need taken care of. And with Heaven and Hell sending them more local jobs now they've both settled down full-time in England, the chances of having assignments in similar places have greatly increased. Still, as he approaches the agreed meeting spot, Aziraphale can't help but notice that Crowley looks… tense, somehow. 

"You said you wanted to speak with me?" Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley out the corner of his eye. The ducks gather around them, quacking expectantly. Aziraphale absently takes off his hat and starts throwing bread to the ducks to placate them. He's made the mistake of not feeding them once. Never again.

"Yeah. I've been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?" Crowley isn't looking at him, which Aziraphale can't help but find odd. He's always had Crowley's undivided attention. "We have a lot in common, you and me."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Aziraphale says. "You're a demon, after all, and I'm…" He trails off, unwilling to outright lie to Crowley even after all these years.

"You know what I mean," Crowley says, and this time there's a hint of playful exasperation in his voice, but it's gone as soon as it arrives. "I need a favour."

"We already have our agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other's way, lend a hand when needed."

Crowley still won't look at him. "This is something else. For if it all goes… pear-shaped."

"I like pears."

"If it all goes wrong." Crowley's voice sounds tense, then goes quiet, as though he's afraid of being overheard. "I want insurance."

Aziraphale turns to face him properly now, confused and a little worried. Aziraphale has always been the worrier between the two of them. Never, during their entire friendship, has Crowley shown the same concern for their safety as Aziraphale does. "What?"

"I wrote it down," Crowley says. He passes Aziraphale a small piece of paper. "Walls have ears."

Aziraphale unfolds the paper, frowning in confusion.

Then he reads what's on the paper, and his stomach drops.

The words holy water glare up at him, burning in a way he never expected anything holy would. He looks in horror back at Crowley, who still won't look at him, and goes over every interaction they've had that he can remember.

"Well, not walls, trees have ears," Crowley rambles. "Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do, that's how they hear other ducks-"

"No." Aziraphale's chest feels tight. "Out of the question."

"Why not?"

Why not? Why would he?

"It would destroy you." He shoves the piece of paper back into Crowley's hands. "I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley."

"Not what I want it for," Crowley hisses, pushing the paper back. "Just insurance."

Aziraphale looks back down at the paper. He feels sick. Insurance to do what? Take out any demons who may come after him, without bothering to get protection against any angels who might arrive on his doorstep to smite him once and for all? Or take himself out of the picture, so no one can hurt him, demon or angel?

And why now? Crowley's never cared about the possible consequences of their friendship! He's always brushed it off with a laugh and a joke about how little Heaven and Hell care about them. What happened since the last time they saw each other that made Crowley change his mind?

No. No, he can't. He won't give Crowley the means to destroy himself. And even if Crowley's telling the truth, even if that really isn't what he wants it for, giving him holy water would just make things even more dangerous for both of them. It would be real, physical proof of their connection, and there would be no way to talk their way out of that. 

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley," he says at last. "Do you know what trouble I'd be in if-" he glances up at the sky once, then twice, as though just thinking about Heaven would make them appear and see Aziraphale willingly talking to a demon- "if they knew I'd been… fraternising."

It's the wrong thing to say, and he knows it the second it comes out of his mouth, but he doesn't take it back, even when Crowley finally, finally, turns to look at him.

"Fraternising?"

"Well, whatever you wish to call it," Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. "B-besides, how would I even get it? I can't…"

He can. He can, but he won't. 

"You can go into churches. I can't. And churches always have holy water." Aziraphale can feel Crowley's glare, even through the dark glasses. "This might be life or death, Aziraphale. I need it."

Aziraphale swallows thickly. He can't back down on this. "I said no. That's my final word on the matter."

"Fine, then. I'll find some other human to fraternise with."

Hurt twists in Aziraphale's chest, but he pushes it down. "Of course you will."

"I don't need you."

"And the feeling is mutual!" Aziraphale snaps. "Obviously!"

He snatches the paper from Crowley's hand and tosses it into the water before storming away, not daring to look back. He doesn't want to see if Crowley looks hurt, not if it might make him change his mind.

It's too dangerous. They're already too dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and Aziraphale can't - won't - be responsible for any of it. Won't be responsible for the death of the first being who's been kinder to him than anyone else has since Eden, even though Aziraphale doesn't deserve that kindness.

He'll find a way to keep them both safe. If that means staying away from Crowley, then so be it, even though the mere thought hurts his very soul. 

Crowley dying because of Aziraphale would hurt more than staying away from him ever could.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes." Mr. Glozier's smile is sharp and promises unpleasant things in Aziraphale's very near future. "Killing you."

"You can't kill me," Aziraphale pleads, trying desperately to think of a way to talk himself out of this. The last thing he needs is to explain to Gabriel why he got discorporated by Nazis. "There'll be paperwork."

None of them look confused or even slightly phased by his words - which is a shame, it's usually such a good tactic for buying him time to get out of sticky situations - but the sound of a heavy door closing makes them pause. Aziraphale is just as confused. He doesn't remember anyone else who's supposed to be here tonight. Certainly no one who would keep gasping like the newcomer is doing, as though they're in pain-

Oh. Aziraphale recognises the figure hopping down the aisle. He'd recognise him anywhere.

His heart flutters.

"Sorry, consecrated ground," Crowley grits out. Oh, it's been so long since he's heard his voice. "Ohh, it's like... being at a beach in bare feet."

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the way his stomach is suddenly doing flips. Their fight the last time they met was simply awful, so why is Crowley-?

"Stopping you getting into trouble," Crowley replies, like it's supposed to be obvious, as though walking into churches and making absolute fools of themselves to save gullible angels is something demons do every day. 

But how did Crowley know he's...

"I should have known," Aziraphale says. "Of course. These people are working for you." 

It's not true, he knows it's not true the moment he says it.

Crowley denies it anyway. "No! They're a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want you to get killed and get left with some boring, stuffy angel as your replacement."

Despite the less than ideal situation they're both in, Aziraphale's lips twitch upwards. It's such a Crowley response, pretending he's doing this to benefit himself in some way, while his ridiculous prancing about says otherwise. 

"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley," Mr. Glozier interrupts. Aziraphale almost forgot he was here. "Your fame precedes you."

"Anthony?" Aziraphale repeats. 

"You don't like it?"

"No, no, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it." Crowley's name is his business, after all, and Aziraphale's opinion really doesn't matter that much. If Crowley likes it, that's enough for him.

Warmth curls in his chest at Crowley's question anyway. 

"The famous Mr. Crowley?" Greta seems almost awed, although not enough to lower her gun. Her eyes run over Crowley's body, and Crowley tips his hat in her direction. "That's such a pity you must both die."

"What does the J stand for?" Aziraphale asks, just to get Crowley's attention off her.

Crowley makes an odd sound. "It's just a J, really."

Aziraphale suppresses a smile. Of course Crowley didn't think any further than that. He's not even surprised-

"Look at that," Crowley says, distracted. Aziraphale follows his line of sight, and his heart sinks. "Whole fontful of holy water. Doesn't even have guards."

Oh. Of course that's what Crowley is really here for. Why would it be for anything else, after the fight they had?

Wait. Guards?

Does… does Crowley think holy water needs guards?

Aziraphale bites back a laugh.

"Enough babbling, kill them both," Mr. Glozier says dismissively, and just like that, Crowley's attention is on them again.

"In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here," he says. "If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely won't enjoy what comes after." He mutters the last part out the side of his mouth to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale has to suppress a smile.

"You expect us to believe that?" Mr. Glozier sounds smug again. "The bombs tonight will fall on the East End."

"Yes." Crowley leans on one of the pews, trying to balance on the tip of one foot. "It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course."

Last-minute demonic intervention?

"You're all wasting your valuable running-away time," Crowley continues, pushing off the pew. He sends Aziraphale a pointed look. "And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would be very difficult for my friend and I to survive it, even if one of us shielded the other."

"Shielded?" Is Crowley actually…?

"Kill them, they are very irritating." Mr. Harmony doesn't seem concerned about Crowley's generous warning, but then again, it isn't for them. Not really. 

Crowley stops fidgeting long enough to point up dramatically, just as air whistling can be heard overhead. Aziraphale looks up too, searching for something, and as the whistling gets closer, he can feel it - Crowley's magic, impossible to sense if Aziraphale weren't looking for it, wrapping around him like a protective cloak. He glances at Crowley, who's completely unprotected, eyes wide in panic. If he's discorporated… if Hell finds out he killed some Nazis just to save Aziraphale…

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and instinctively reaches out to cover Crowley with a miracle of his own just as the bomb hits.

When he finally opens his eyes, the ruins of the church surround him, the Nazis buried almost entirely under the rubble. Crowley is still alive, thank goodness, the destroyed ground no longer burning him. He's cleaning his glasses, frowning down at them, and Aziraphale should be worried that he's given his biggest secret away, but he's too relieved that Crowley is alive. 

"That was very kind of you," Aziraphale says at last, once it becomes apparent Crowley isn't going to break the silence. 

"Hmm?"

"What you did just now."

"Oh. Yeah. That." Crowley's frown deepens. "Wasn't expecting to get out of there myself. Didn't think I'd be powerful enough in a church."

"Perhaps you, ah, shielded yourself unconsciously?"

"Maybe. Preserving my own self interest and all that, seems pretty demonic, I guess." Crowley slides his glasses back on, then looks Aziraphale up and down. "You alright?"

"Not a scratch," Aziraphale assures, exhaling quietly in relief. "Thank you."

"Ah, shut up." Crowley grins at him, and it's oh so familiar. Aziraphale's missed that grin. "Can't have you dying on my watch. I'd hate to have to break in a new agent of Heaven if you bit the dust."

Dust. Aziraphale's smile falls. "The books! I forgot all the books!"

"Hey, calm down. They're probably just under the rubble somewhere," Crowley says. He struts over to the rubble and begins digging through it.

"As a pile of dust, perhaps. Oh, how could I forget them? It took me forever to collect those," Aziraphale moans.

Crowley grunts behind him. 

"They were first editions, too! Oh, they'll all be blown to-"

"You mean these books?"

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley holding out a bag to him, a satisfied smirk on his face. The bag the Nazis brought with them.

The bag they'd put his books in. 

His heart stutters.

Aziraphale reaches out to take it, staring blankly at Crowley. His fingers brush against Crowley's cool hand. His pulse spikes at the second or two of contact that seems to last an eternity. Crowley pulls his hand back, his thumb gently running across one of Aziraphale's fingers. He's still smirking, but it's… soft, somehow, not smug like one would expect a demon to be. Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat. 

"Figured you'd want these shielded, too," Crowley says, and Aziraphale swears he can see him wink playfully behind those dark glasses. "Lift home?"

He brushes past Aziraphale and walks away, casually stepping over the piles of broken stones like the last few minutes never happened. Like he didn't rush into a church just to save Aziraphale. Like he didn't drop a bomb on them to kill the people who were threatening him. Like he didn't protect Aziraphale and his books from the explosion and never even attempted to protect himself. 

Aziraphale looks down at the bag like it isn't quite real, like it will crumble to ashes the way it should have done when Aziraphale forgot to grab it. 

Crowley didn't forget. Crowley remembered, and cared enough to save them, even though he didn't bother to save himself.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks. I love you. 

"Aziraphale? You coming?"

Aziraphale's head snaps up. Crowley's stopped, looking over his shoulder at him, waiting patiently. 

"Yes. Of course. I'm coming."

Aziraphale stumbles over the rubble, dazed, still clutching the bag tightly to his chest, the contents far more precious than they were minutes ago. Crowley steps forward to meet him, grabbing him by the arm to help stabilise him when he nearly trips. His heart pounds.

"Careful." Crowley grins down at him. "I forgot you can't see as well in the dark as I can."

I love you, Aziraphale thinks as he lets Crowley guide him over the rubble and away from the church.

"I finally got one of those cars everyone's been so obsessed with," Crowley says. "Picked her up brand new in 1933. You'll love it. So much easier to get around."

Crowley tugs Aziraphale towards a black car parked up on the road, practically impossible for mortals to see in the dark. He never lets go of Aziraphale's arm, even when he reaches out to pull open the door on the passenger's side.

Aziraphale climbs into the car without a word, the bag of books resting on his lap. Crowley closes the door for him, then slides into the driver's seat a moment later. He turns and gives Aziraphale a grin.

"Still got that old bookshop?"

Aziraphale can only manage a nod. Crowley makes a sound of affirmation, puts the car into gear, and sets off.

Aziraphale glances down at the bag in his lap, then back at Crowley. His heart is still pounding in his chest, so loud he swears Crowley must be able to hear it. He barely registers the speed at which they're driving, the image of Crowley handing him the bag looping through his mind again and again. 

Crowley must sense Aziraphale staring at him, because he takes his eyes off the road to look back. He smiles, and it's the most beautiful smile Aziraphale has ever seen.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he teases.

I love you, Aziraphale thinks. It's the only thing he's capable of thinking right now.

The two of them fall silent, Crowley keeping his eyes on the road while Aziraphale returns to staring at the bag on his lap, the words I love you circling his mind every time he thinks about the way their hands brushed together when Crowley handed over the bag.

The realisation, Aziraphale reflects, doesn't feel new. It doesn't feel like it's come out of nowhere, startling him the way Crowley likes to do to humans. It feels like it's been there for a long time, a warm presence standing right behind him, waiting patiently for him to turn around and see it. It's… not as scary as he would have assumed. It's comforting. Familiar. Soft.

He's a being of love. Loving things and people is in his nature.

But he's never imagined this is what it feels like to be in love.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley's voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Yes?"

Crowley's looking at him instead of the road again, concern shining in his eyes. "You okay? You're quiet."

"Yes. Of course."

Crowley makes a noise of disbelief. He reaches over to press his hand against Aziraphale's forehead, and Aziraphale has to take a moment to remember how to breathe.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking you're alright. You're not normally so quiet. Are you in shock? Shock is a bad thing, isn't it? I did just drop a bomb on your head, I guess that could be a shock to anyone…"

A small smile spreads across Aziraphale's face.  "A hand on a forehead is for checking for a fever. Not for shock."

"Oh." Crowley retracts his hand. "Yeah, that makes sense. Are you in shock?"

"No, Crowley." Warmth curls in his chest at the concern, blanketing his body. "I'm fine, I promise."

"Okay. Good." Crowley lets out a breath. "That's good. Can't have you collapsing on me after I just saved you. I never know what's going to take you humans out. It's so hard to tell."

Just like that, the warmth vanishes. It shouldn't. Crowley's called him a human countless times throughout the years, this should be no different. Yet, for some reason, it is.

"Yes," Aziraphale says quietly, turning to stare out the window. "It is."

They fall back into silence. Aziraphale tries to keep his eyes on the window and watch the world fly by, but he can't stop his eyes from drifting back to Crowley. Crowley doesn't look back, seemingly content that Aziraphale isn't in danger of dropping dead at any moment.

As they pull up to the bookshop, Crowley slams his foot on the brake, and Aziraphale catches a slight blink-and-you'll-miss-it wince. It's gone before Aziraphale can even think about mentioning it.

"We're here," Crowley says. He gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, opening the door for Aziraphale and holding out his hand to help him out. Aziraphale takes it.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They stand awkwardly together on the pavement. Aziraphale wrings his hands, trying desperately to think of more to say. When he doesn't come up with something quick enough, Crowley moves to get back into the car. He winces again, just slightly, and Aziraphale grabs his arm before he can think about what he's doing. 

"Wait."

Crowley pauses and turns back to Aziraphale.

"I… you don't have to go yet," Aziraphale says. He hopes he doesn't sound desperate. "You can come in, if you'd like. Have some wine."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Wine, angel? Really?"

Relief floods Aziraphale's body at the familiar nickname. He'd been so afraid he'd never hear it again... "It's just… it's been so long since I last saw you. We should catch up."

He expects Crowley to make some kind of snarky comment. For him to remind Aziraphale exactly why they haven't seen each other for so long. For him to say this meeting is a one off and drive away and never, ever come back. 

Instead, Crowley shrugs and says, "Yeah. Alright."

Aziraphale lets out a slow breath. He reluctantly releases Crowley's arm and enters the bookshop, relieved when Crowley follows him. The two of them head for the back room, the one that had started to become their room before that awful fight. Crowley flops onto the sofa, his hiss of pain nearly inaudible. Aziraphale doubts he would have caught it if he wasn't listening for it.

"Your feet."

"S'fine. They're fine."

"Crowley."

"It's fine. It'll go away in a few days. Heal quicker than you humans do, remember?"

Aziraphale swallows thickly. He knows that's not true, not when it comes to holy injuries, but he can't say that. He's supposed to be human, he's not supposed to know these things, and he can't do anything about it. No matter how much he wants to.

"At least take your shoes off," he says at last. "That might make you feel better."

Crowley huffs, but obediently kicks off his shoes, failing to stifle a sigh of relief. He doesn't touch his socks, but he doesn't need to - the church grounds apparently ate away at his shoes and socks like acid, because the bottom of the socks are almost completely burned away. The soles of his feet are an angry red, already beginning to swell and blister, and even though he's seen far worse injuries, the sight still makes Aziraphale feel a little sick.

"Oh, Crowley…"

"It's fine," Crowley says, even though it's so blatantly not fine, and the proof is right in front of him. "You said you had wine? Could do with some wine. Bet it would hurt less if I had wine."

Aziraphale suppresses a sigh and nods, retreating to the kitchen without another word. Crowley hisses quietly behind him, and his heart aches.

He retrieves a bottle of wine and a glass, then pauses, biting his lip. It's his fault Crowley is in this situation. If he hadn't been so foolish, so naive, Crowley would have never come anywhere near that church. He never would have gotten hurt for Aziraphale's sake. The least he can do is try to make Crowley feel better.

Faintly, Crowley mutters a curse in the other room, and Aziraphale's mind is made up.

Right. First thing's first: cool water. It's been a long time since he's had to treat a burn, but he's almost certain he's supposed to start by cooling the burn with water. If nothing else, it should hopefully take some of the pain away.

He rummages through the kitchen until he manages to find a bowl just large enough for Crowley's feet, and fills it with cool water, running his hand through it to make sure it's the right temperature. He sets it gently on the side, careful to make sure none of the water spills out.

Okay. Next, first aid kit. He's sure he has one lying around somewhere, although he can't remember what's in it, or even what's supposed to be in a first aid kit. It's been such a long time since he's had to use onel. He'll just have to hope everything he needs is in there. The burn will need bandaging, right? Surely it should have bandages, if nothing else.

He finds the first aid kit shoved to the back of a cupboard, and sure enough, there's bandages in it, although that's about it. The only other thing in the kit is two old pieces of cloth. He could use one to clean the burn, perhaps? And another to dry it once he's done, so the bandages won't get soaked? He's heard cloth tends to stick to burns, but Crowley's a demon, so it should be fine. It's all he's got, so two cloths it is. 

Is there anything he's forgetting? Is there something else he's supposed to apply to Crowley's feet, or is this everything? He can't remember, it's been so long-

"Satan, angel, how long does it take to get a glass of wine?"

Aziraphale glances down at the supplies he's gathered. It will have to do. He doesn't want Crowley to be in pain much longer.

Carrying all his supplies is harder than he expects, but he manages. He carefully staggers back into the living room with the bottle tucked under his arm, first aid kit and glass clutched between his fingers in one hand, and the bowl balanced on his other.

Crowley looks up when he enters, pretending he wasn't nosing through the stack of papers Aziraphale had left dumped on the table, and raises an eyebrow. "Why couldn't you leave some of that in the kitchen and go back for it when your hands are free like a normal person?"

He reaches out to "helpfully" take the bottle and the glass from Aziraphale, and takes another look at the first aid kit and bowl in Aziraphale's hands. "That stuff won't work, you know. It's a holy burn. It won't heal it."

"No, but it might help with the pain," Aziraphale says. He kneels down beside Crowley's feet, setting the first aid kit and bowl beside him.

"I told you, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt that bad."

"I don't believe that for a second."

Crowley waves one hand dismissively, popping open the wine bottle. "I've had worse."

"Still, I would like to try treating it. To ease the pain, if nothing else."

Crowley sighs dramatically, pouring the wine into the glass. "Fine, fine. Knock yourself out."

Aziraphale sighs in relief. He'd been afraid Crowley would fight him on this, and he doesn't have the energy to argue tonight. He gently lifts Crowley's left foot by the ankle, peeling the sock off and lowering his foot into the bowl. Above him, Crowley hisses and takes a long, noisy sip of his wine.

He repeats the process with the right foot, placing the socks aside to dispose of them later, and retrieves one of the cloths from the first aid kit. He dips the cloth in the bowl, then lifts one of Crowley's feet and begins to clean.

Crowley flinches. He takes another noisy sip and digs his fingers into the sofa, but he doesn't pull away. He lets Aziraphale clean the burn without a single complaint, even though he doesn't think it will do anything.

Aziraphale's heart aches. Even when he's in pain, Crowley's willing to indulge him.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Crowley's foot. Washing and cleaning the burn won't help it heal, he knows that. The only thing that could help it heal would be a miracle, and Aziraphale isn't supposed to do that. He's supposed to be a human with a limited amount of miracles, miracles he certainly can't afford to waste on a demon. Using one now could raise suspicion, especially after the one he used earlier. 

He shouldn't heal him. He shouldn't.

Crowley hisses again.

It's not fair.

Aziraphale risks glancing up. Crowley isn't looking at him. He's staring determinedly at the wall to his left, trying desperately to hide the way his face is scrunching up in pain. Pain that wouldn't even be there if it weren't for him.

Aziraphale lowers his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

And puts the tiniest miracle on the cloth.

Crowley inhales sharply.

Aziraphale tenses.

Then Crowley lets out a slow huff, like he usually does when he's trying to hide the fact he's in pain, and Aziraphale relaxes again. 

Good. He didn't notice.

It doesn't take long for the miracle to take effect. It's nothing big, just a little something to ease the pain and speed up healing slightly, but it seems to make a difference. Crowley sighs in relief, relaxing against the sofa, and he sips at the wine more leisurely. When Aziraphale switches to his other foot, the most he does is tense his leg slightly, before going limp again as the miracle takes effect.

Aziraphale's glad it's helping, he really is.

But he can't bring himself to be happy about it. How can he, when he knows he has the power to heal him completely?

"Well, what do you know?" Crowley says at last, while Aziraphale is patting his feet dry with the second cloth. "It did help."

He smiles down at Aziraphale with a kindness he doesn't deserve.

Aziraphale's mouth goes dry. "I'm sorry I can't do more," he says. 

"Eh, just don't go ambushing any more Nazis in churches. That'll probably help." Crowley must see the look on Aziraphale's face, because he quickly adds, "I'm kidding."

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise and bandages Crowley's feet silently.

Neither of them say anything else. Aziraphale finishes bandaging Crowley's feet, snatches up the socks before Crowley can attempt to fix them with a miracle, and packs away his supplies while Crowley slips his shoes on. If he notices how quiet and tense Aziraphale is, he's generous enough to not mention it.

"You should probably think about heading home," Aziraphale says eventually. He rises to his feet, first aid kit in one hand, bowl in the other. "It's getting late."

"Yeah. S'pose I should." Despite his words, Crowley hesitates, like he doesn't want to leave. Aziraphale swallows.

"Well, goodnight then. Drive safe."

"Yeah. Night."

It feels awkward and stilted, so unlike their usual farewells, but Aziraphale can't think of a way to change that, so he doesn't try. Crowley heads for the front door, says goodbye once more, and leaves Aziraphale standing alone in the back room, still holding the first aid kit and bowl.

He silently heads back to the kitchen, putting the bowl back where he found it. He glances out the window, even though he can't see a thing, then stares down at the first aid kit still clutched in his hands. Outside, a car - Crowley's, most likely - tears away, screeching down the road until it presumably turns a corner, and the ungodly noise disappears.

The bookshop is left in silence. 

Aziraphale slams the first aid kit onto the counter.

He's the reason Crowley got hurt. If Crowley knew the truth, Aziraphale would have been able to heal him properly. He wouldn't have had to let him walk away, still in pain, still with a lot of healing to do. He'd be able to return Crowley's favours, give back as much as he gets, instead of sitting and silently taking everything whilst giving nothing in return.

But he can't. He can't, because Crowley doesn't know the truth, and Aziraphale has no idea how to tell him after so long. Crowley hates angels, he's made that crystal clear over the thousands of years they've known each other. What would he say if Aziraphale told him the truth? It would destroy their friendship. Crowley would never talk to him again. And it's selfish, he knows it's selfish, but Aziraphale can't bear the thought of that happening. 

He doesn't want to go another century without his best friend ever again.

Aziraphale sighs, fiddling with the edge of his waistcoat in an attempt to keep himself from picking at his nails. His last manicurist kept telling him off for doing that, and he's been doing his best to heed her advice.

None of this would have happened if he hadn't lost his wings. Crowley would know what he is, he'd be able to freely use his miracles in front of Crowley, be able to heal him, and, most importantly, he wouldn't have to lie. The lying is the worst part.

But what is he supposed to do? He has no idea how to begin explaining the truth to Crowley, but he can't keep it a secret forever. Armageddon will arrive eventually, and Crowley will see him on the battlefield, on the side of the angels, and he'll figure it out. That would be far, far worse than just telling him himself.

But if he tells him, Crowley might-

Aziraphale takes a long, deep breath.

Maybe… maybe he'll wait a little longer. Just until he gets his wings back. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. He'll earn Heaven's forgiveness, get his wings back, and everything will be alright. He'll tell Crowley everything, explain the misunderstanding, and they'll hopefully laugh it off and remember it fondly in a few millennia. Yes, that's what he'll do. It will give him time to plan exactly how he's going to explain everything.

Aziraphale puts the first aid kit back in the cupboard he found it, a lot more at ease now he has an idea of what to do.

Everything will be okay once he gets his wings back. He's sure of it. 

He just has to have faith.

He's waiting in the car when Crowley finally returns. His entire body is tense, and he has to rub his hands on his trouser legs to avoid picking at his nails. His stomach twists over and over at the thought of what he's about to do, but he has no choice. Anything is better than risking losing Crowley.

It takes Crowley a moment to realise he's there. He does a double take when he sees Aziraphale sitting in the passenger's seat. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed a word with you."

"No, I mean, how did you get in my car?"

Shoot. He forgot he's not supposed to be able to miracle himself into Crowley's car. "I, er… you left the car unlocked."

Crowley frowns. "I did?"

"Well, you didn't unlock the car when you got in just now, did you?"

Crowley glances back at the car door, as though just looking at it will verify Aziraphale's claim. "Huh. I guess I didn't."

Aziraphale lets out a quiet breath. Thank goodness.

"Go on, then. You broke into my car for a reason-"

"I didn't break into-"

"-so what's so important you couldn't just call?"

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "I work in SoHo. I hear things. I hear that you're setting up a… caper... to rob a church."

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses, as though this isn't important, as though doing this won't put his very life in danger. And while this isn't the first time Crowley has shown little to no concern over his own wellbeing, this time his dismissal makes Aziraphale sick to his stomach.

He'd planned to be logical about this. To give a reasonable argument as to why Crowley should reconsider. But watching him roll his eyes at Aziraphale's words, like they don't matter, he can't help but beg. "Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely."

"You told me what you think," Crowley says bitterly, "105 years ago."

"And I haven't changed my mind. But I can't have you risking your life." Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat at the mere thought. "Not even for something dangerous. So…"

With shaking hands, Aziraphale pulls out the tartan thermos. He can barely bring himself to touch it, as though he would be the one destroyed if so much as a single drop spills.

There are so many ways robbing a church can go wrong. So many ways it could endanger Crowley. From the humans being a little too careless with the precious contents, to catching the attention of the wrong people, both Above and Below.

Forcing his hands to still, he holds out the thermos.

Crowley's eyebrows raise.

"You can call off the robbery," Aziraphale says, trying to control his trembling voice. "Don't go unscrewing the cap."

He promised himself he would never give anything so dangerous to Crowley.

But he'd rather make sure he receives it safely and without any unwanted attention than allow him to risk his life trying to obtain it himself.

Slowly, Crowley reaches for the thermos, as though it will disappear if he moves too fast. He holds it as gently as Aziraphale did as he takes it. Every tiny movement makes the water inside slosh, and every time Aziraphale's heart threatens to stop. But the cap is screwed on tight, Aziraphale made sure of it, and no water leaks out.

"Is this the real thing?" Crowley asks, eyes fixed on the thermos.

Aziraphale swallows. "The holiest."

"The holiest?" Crowley's attention snaps back to Aziraphale. "As in, an angel…"

Aziraphale nods.

"You stole holy water from Heaven?" Crowley's voice is soft, awed. "For me?"

He didn't. Even thinking about stealing from Heaven makes Aziraphale's back sting. But he can't tell Crowley that. Can't say he blessed that water himself, praying frantically that Crowley will never have to use it, and if he does, that no harm will come to him. So instead, he nods again.

Crowley stares at him, mouth slightly agape, and something in the air shifts. Aziraphale almost always has Crowley's full attention, but this feels different, somehow. His eyes widen behind his glasses, and he shifts in his seat until his entire body is facing Aziraphale.

Something has changed, shifted ever so slightly. Aziraphale has no idea what. He can only hope it's nothing bad. 

"Should I say thank you?" Crowley asks breathily. 

They've known each other for over 4000 years, and Crowley has never once said 'thank you' to him. 

"Better not," he says.

"Well, can I drop you anywhere?"

Crowley's offer means more. Although he doesn't know how, he's sure he knows what Crowley's really asking.

And he knows he can't accept it. Not now. Not while he's like this.

"No, thank you."

Crowley's face falls. 

"Oh, don't look so disappointed." Aziraphale tries to smile at him, but it feels weak. "Perhaps one day we could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz."

He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.

"I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go," Crowley repeats, more insistently. The offer makes the air heavy. Whatever it is that has shifted will shift even further, depending on his answer, and Aziraphale desperately wants to say yes. 

But he can't. Not while he's like this, wingless and unable to give as much as he takes. It wouldn't be fair. And it's too dangerous, anyway. His friendship with Crowley is a big enough risk as it is, and if Heaven finds out, he'll be in so much trouble, and he'll definitely never get his wings back. What is he supposed to do if that happens? He can't expect Crowley to be okay with settling for a damaged angel. 

He thinks about the night at the church, when he let Crowley walk away, knowing he had the ability to heal him fully.

Crowley deserves better than that.

He deserves someone whole, someone who's not desperately trying to regain a piece of themselves they've lost. He deserves someone who can put just as much in as he can, who has all of themselves to give, instead of just pieces. Someone who can heal him when he's hurt. 

Aziraphale can't be any of that. 

Not until he gets his wings back.

He wants to say yes. Desperately. But it's too soon, too fast. Aziraphale can't give him what he deserves yet.

No matter how much he wants to, he cannot say yes.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley," he says instead.

The weight in the air settles reluctantly back into place.

Aziraphale doesn't wait for a response. He gets out of the car and begins to walk home. Every step that takes him further away from the car feels painful. It takes all his strength, every ounce of his willpower, to keep walking, to wait until he can be what Crowley deserves.

He can only hope Crowley decides to wait with him. 

And that he'll still want him once he sees the truth.

He thought he had time. 

Every time he worries about Crowley finding out the truth, he tells himself the same thing: he has time. He'll get his wings back, get Heaven off his back, and tell Crowley everything. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but eventually. It doesn't matter when. He has time. 

And then Crowley calls him, and suddenly he doesn't have time. 

Because Armageddon is finally approaching.

Chapter Text

Heaven has been sterile and clinical for as long as he can remember. All blank walls and pure white floors that are constantly scrubbed within an inch of their lives. Not out of concern for cleanliness, for anything less than spotless physically can not be achieved, but simply to give the lower angels something to do. There are no pictures or paintings on the wall, no murals or fountains, not even a stained glass window like the Catholics are so fond of. Such material things are beneath angels. The only angels with any possessions of their own are those that require desks for their jobs, and the desks and chairs are all they own.

It's a far cry from what humans picture when they talk about Heaven. Mostly because angels and human souls are kept separate. There's an infinite garden - although it looks more like a city these days - outside for the humans to roam in, to play and laugh and get messy, and, most importantly, to keep them away from the terribly busy angels and their tight, precise schedules. An angel or two stand guard by the doors to ensure no humans slip inside, but aside from that, they are completely separated. Humans get their paradise, angels get their neat and organised workspace. A system that works for everyone.

Aziraphale has never liked it. It's one of the reasons he guiltily enjoys Earth and all the delightful colours that come with it, why he always hopes he'll be assigned to the doors once The War is over. Heaven always feels too cold and hollow. Not like life has been sucked out of it, but like life never dwelled there in the first place, suffocated by the stiflingly tidy air before it had a chance to flourish. Crowley says angels and anything divine smells like bleach, and although Aziraphale can't smell it himself, he can certainly understand why that might be the case whenever he walks down the empty, sparkling corridors.

He wonders, sometimes, if Heaven was different Before. Like most angels, his memories of Before are fuzzy, a defensive measure to protect them from wasting time mourning what they lost, or worse, trying to restore it. Demons lost all love for their former friends when they Fell, but angels did not, and were left shouldering the burden of empathy and love for those that stabbed them in the back. And, well, one can't fight a war when the other side is full of people one loves. Hence, the fuzzy memories. So no one is weighed down by something as trivial as emotions, and so no one will be tempted by nostalgia to try and recreate whatever feeling they had Before with another being.

That's the idea, at least. But, surprise surprise, it hasn't been working very well for Aziraphale at all. It's disappointing, but not unexpected. He's always been the odd one out, affected by things that don't bother anyone else. 

But. Perhaps it doesn't work very well for other angels either. Perhaps their emotions peek through too, shining through the cracks of the carefully constructed wall they were forced to build to keep themselves safe.

Perhaps he can use that to his advantage, if he can find that empathetic crack.

Aziraphale hopes so. It's the only plan he has. He'd spent hours pacing back and forth in his bookshop, frantically rehearsing how to phrase his proposal to Gabriel. If it wasn't for Crowley pushing him out the door and manhandling him into the Bentley, he'd likely still be there now. 

He keeps his hands behind his back as he stands in the corridor and waits for the Archangels to arrive. They're not late, they never are, but he is early, and they have a lot of duties to fulfill. And they certainly won't appreciate it if they see him nervous and fidgety when they have so graciously taken time out of their busy schedules to hear his suggestion. A nervous and fidgety angel is an angel who stutters and wastes time, and Aziraphale does not want to be dismissed as a waste of time before he's even had a chance to speak. 

He hears them before he sees them, the brisk, impatient tap of their shoes echoing through the corridor. The sound makes a band of anxiety squeeze his chest, trying to crush his lungs and heart. He tries to fight back the nervousness when they approach, clenching his hands like that will stop them sweating. It's only Michael and Gabriel today; Uriel is busy providing Archangel training for Sandalphon, and thus is unavailable for meetings until further notice, according to Gabriel. He's had thousands of meetings just like this. There's no need to be nervous. 

"So! Aziraphale." Gabriel smiles at him, although it feels… plastic. "You said you had some big news for us?"

"A-ah, yes, I do indeed." Aziraphale swallows. He tries to stand straighter, but he's already as straight as he can go. "You asked me to keep an eye on the demon Crowley, and I have come to report I have done one better. I have found the Antichrist."

The smile never wavers, but he doesn't look as pleased as Aziraphale was hoping. "So?"

"So - so with this information, we can keep a closer eye on Crowley, and better observe his movements. Perhaps even uncover a few of Hell's plans, see if there's anything we could… do about them?" He tries not to shrink under their piercing gazes. "J-just a suggestion. I just thought it would be useful to have a chance to-"

"Yes, I suppose so," Michael concedes. 

"Excellent work Aziraphale," Gabriel adds, clapping politely. The tightness in his chest loosens a little at the praise. "I trust you will use this opportunity to discreetly obtain information about Hell's plans, especially information about the upcoming war, and bring it directly to us. Who knows, there may even be a reward for you if you do well enough."

Aziraphale lets out a quiet breath. Good, it's going well. They are receptive to his information, and hopefully that means they will be open to his suggestion. 

"If I may, Gabriel. I have a… proposal, of sorts."

"Fire away, fire away! But make it quick. We have a meeting in five minutes, and it's imperative we catch up with Uriel to see how Sandalphon's training is coming along."

"I… I would like to try to convert the Antichrist."

The silence is frigid. Their expressions never change, but they stare at him, unblinking, for a long time, long enough to make him want to squirm. 

Oh dear, what part of that sentence was enough to upset them now?

Finally, Gabriel speaks past the smile frozen on his lips. "Beg your pardon?"

"W-well, I just think it could be beneficial. For the greater good," Aziraphale scrambles to explain. He desperately tries to remember what he and Crowley rehearsed. "Our mission is to rescue souls from Hell's evil clutches and bring them into God's light. If we could convert the Antichrist, it would be a blow to Hell's forces, and be extremely beneficial to our cause. You know, show them Heaven's light is stronger than them?"

And perhaps Armageddon won't have to happen. Billions of human souls will be saved if this plan succeeds. But for some reason, he can't get that point out. The way Gabriel and Michael are looking at him grips his throat, strangling his words so they wither away before they can pass his lips.

He finds himself holding his breath. He doesn't mean to, but he is. The band that had loosened is tight again, squeezing harder and harder with every second they stare blankly at him. 

Oh dear, this is a bad idea, isn't it? Of course the Archangels aren't interested in his suggestion, everything is already laid out, how could he possibly hope to try and change the ineffable plan-

"Well, you have ambition, I'll give you that," Gabriel says. "You know what? Why not. Go ahead."

The tension lifts slightly. "Really?"

"Really really! We're the good guys after all, and good guys give second chances. You're certainly familiar with them."

The words jab him in the chest. He ignores it. Gabriel isn't trying to be mean. 

Despite Gabriel's words, Michael doesn't look so sure. "It is an impossible task. The Antichrist is not fully human, and it is Written-"

"Ah, what's the harm in letting him try? What's the worst that could happen, the Antichrist rips him apart from the inside out for trying to meddle?"

The words are light, but they make Aziraphale's stomach clench anyway. They shouldn't, it's only a joke, but they do. He's always been too sensitive.

"I will be careful," Aziraphale says quietly. "I will make sure neither the Antichrist nor the demon Crowley discovers what I'm doing. I'm rather good at avoiding demonic detection."

Which isn't exactly a lie. He is, from an angelic point of view, very good at keeping his ethereal presence under wraps. Crowley still doesn't know he's an angel, after all.

"Besides, I have faith the Lord will keep me safe from harm," he adds for good measure. Praising Her always helps smooth any ruffled feathers up here.

"That's the spirit!" Gabriel claps him on the shoulder. Hard. Aziraphale has to fight back a wince. "Anything else? Make it quick, we only have one minute."

Aziraphale swallows. "There is one more thing," he says quietly. 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. 

"If I… if I succeed, may I have my wings back?"

Gabriel's smile twitches.

It takes everything in Aziraphale's power to not take the words back or try to laugh them off as a joke. He doesn't want Crowley's careful coaching to go to waste, no matter how much Michael's stare makes him feel sick. They've been practicing, Crowley drilling tips and tricks on how to ask for this into him.

"Converting the Antichrist is no easy task," Crowley had said. "If anything should get them to break your curse, it should be this. If they say no, you can always ask for a raise!"

His advice wasn't entirely practical; Aziraphale had to cut out more than a few insulting lines. But the majority of it was surprisingly helpful, and Aziraphale doesn't want it to go to waste.

The worst they can do is say no, Aziraphale reminds himself firmly. They won't do anything else. All they will do is say no.

"You know what, Aziraphale?" Gabriel's smile is as cold as Heaven's corridors, but it's a smile nonetheless. "You've got yourself a deal. If you successfully convert the Antichrist, you can have your wings back."

His heart leaps. For a moment, he's breathless and fuzzy. 

"Gabriel," Michael says. "The meeting."

"Of course. I trust that's all, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale manages a nod. "Yes, that's all. Thank you."

It's the first concrete goal he's had in a long time. 

They don't bid him farewell. That's understandable, they are very busy, and Aziraphale has taken up more time than they were likely expecting, so he doesn't take offence. He turns and heads back to Earth, a spring in his step - or as close to a spring as a proper angel can achieve - and a genuine smile on his face.

At last, things are starting to look up. 

The size of the Dowling estate is one he hasn't seen in a long, long time. Aziraphale has spent so long curled up in his beloved bookshop in central London he almost forgot what houses look like when they aren't cramped in with goodness knows how many other buildings. Admittedly, this is his own fault. He doesn't leave London much anymore, citing Crowley's increased activity as the reason. And, well, Heaven doesn't give him many assignments these days, so there's been no reason to leave. 

In some ways, it's nice. He hadn't realised how much he missed being surrounded by so much flora until he first set foot on the Dowling estate and breathed in the fresh air one cannot find in London. Being able to smell the freshly cut grass and find a variety of wildlife outside the rats scurrying along the streets and the underground is refreshing.

On the other hand, he now has to actually take care of the aforementioned flora, because he foolishly decided on the role of the gardener instead of the nanny. He doesn't know why he talked Crowley into agreeing with that decision. Playing nanny would surely be better for his cause, since there's only so much interaction a small child can have with a gardener compared to a caretaker, and Crowley does adore gardening so.

But for some reason, allowing Crowley to be the nanny was the first thought in his mind. Perhaps it's his unwillingness to deal with such a small child for such a long period of time. He doesn't dislike children, and Warlock is a wonderful boy, but he's not very good with them at all. Crowley has always been far better with children than he.

Either way, he's managed to get himself stuck in quite a pickle. It's far from his worst pickle - as far as pickles go, this is so minor it's practically a cucumber - but it is a pickle nonetheless. 

Because even though he - for reasons unknown to even him - decided a gardener is the best possible disguise for him, he doesn't actually know how to garden.

It's not for lack of trying. Crowley certainly did her best to give him as many lessons on how to properly garden before they even officially took their respective jobs. But her method is just so mean, and he can't bring himself to do it. Why would he want to insult Her creations, after She put in so much work to make them beautiful and unique in their own ways? No, he will not resort to threats and insults. If the plants do not grow, that is down to his own shoddy care.

"Sure angel, whatever you think is best," Crowley had teasingly sneered when he told her that.

He'd also considered picking up a few botany books, but he simply doesn't have the time to dedicate himself to learning a new skill. At least, not the way he likes to, spending days on end pouring over a book and absorbing every last drop of information like a sponge. It's his favourite and most effective method of learning, but it requires time, and time is a luxury they don't have, so with a heavy heart, he'd been forced to forgo the books. 

Blast it all, if only he could use miracles without blowing his cover! Then he could sit in the sunlight and enjoy the summer breeze whilst the garden bloomed and flourished around him. But no, he must do it manually, and it's frustrating how much more difficult it is than he was expecting. He can never tell the difference between weeds and desired plants, and always ends up giving them too much or too little water. 

He's also apparently not supposed to welcome slugs and snails in the garden, but he likes them, so he's going to conveniently not hear that particular bit of advice. Twenty seven times in a row.

With a sigh, he once again attempts to even out the branches for the shrub he's trying to trim. Crowley lectured him extensively on the importance of even branches, and although he doesn't see the point, he trusts her advice. To a certain extent. It is possible she's just messing with him. 

Only a few more years of this, and it will all be over. He is so close, so close he can practically feel the weight of his wings on his back. Just a few more years and Armageddon will (hopefully) be averted, he'll have his wings back, and he'll be able to tell Crowley the truth. Won't have to lie by omission every time they talk. 

Oh, he's been waiting for this for so long, and finally there isn't much longer to wait. His chest lightens every time he thinks about all the things he'll be able to do. He'll be able to fly again, spend hours grooming his feathers until they're nice and sparkly - and oh, he can't believe he ever took that for granted, can't believe he used to hate grooming his wings, he's never going to stop once he gets them back - and he'll be allowed to use his miracles as freely and as openly as he likes. He'll be able to let gardens bloom with a few miraculous nudges, instead of struggling to keep them alive or relying on Crowley to revive them. 

Not that he minds Crowley helping with the garden. It's quite sweet, actually, how often she steps in to offer her assistance. She says it's because she doesn't like seeing the garden in such a sorry state, and that they can't afford to let Aziraphale lose his job, but by this point he's relatively sure she just likes doing things for him. It's amazing how often the smallest hint of her fond smile gives away her true feelings. 

Still, he'd like to be able to return the favour. It's something he's wanted for a while, being able to do just as much for her as she does for him. In fact, he's wanted it for so long it's grown from a simple desire to a fantasy. 

It will be nice, being able to miracle up alcohol for the two of them. Or surprise her with an impromptu dinner at her favourite restaurant, which miraculously has a table free. Or remove pesky stains on her clothes by simply brushing his hand over them.

Or maybe he could heal her hands when they get small scratches from the thorns on her flowers. That would be nice. He could hold her hands in his own, let his touch heal her wounds. Or press a kiss against her palm and feel the cut obediently close under his lips-

"Making a mess of the garden again, are we, Brother Francis?"

Aziraphale jolts sharply at the voice. He glances over his shoulder, where Crowley is staring down at him, Warlock balanced on her hip, an amused smile on her lips.

"Ah, forgive me, Ms. Ashtoreth. I was in a world of me own."

"Clearly," she says dryly, though not unkindly. She sets Warlock on the ground, patting his head with a fond look one wouldn't normally expect from a demon. "Why don't you run off and play, hmm? See if you can annoy those pesky guards."

"Do not do that," Aziraphale cuts in. "They work hard to protect you, young master, and it's important to respect yer elders-"

"- which you can do by respecting my suggestion-"

"-or by simply talking to them," Aziraphale continues. "Why don't you go ask them about their day? I'm sure they'll appreciate the company."

"Ask them what their seventh favourite lizard is," Crowley suggests. "In fact, go get a whole list of their favourite lizards. Include as many questions as you can. And make sure you ask them why. Grown-ups love it when you ask them why."

Warlock grins widely at them, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. His front tooth is missing, knocked out from an incident last week involving a sled and two footballs that Aziraphale had definitely not been involved in, thank you very much, Crowley. Warlock loves watching them go back and forth, and has spent literal hours watching them in the past. He says it's like watching his parents, only much more fun since they're never actually angry with each other, which makes Aziraphale's heart ache strangely.

"Go on, shoo," Crowley says playfully, shooing him dramatically enough to make him giggle. "Brother Francis and I have boring grown-up things to talk about."

"Okay Nanny. Brother Francis, will you tell me about the caterpillars later, like you promised?"

"Of course I will," Aziraphale says, something warm curling in his chest. "You go play now. If you find out that guard's seventh favourite lizard, I'll see what I can tell you about it, hmm?"

Warlock nods eagerly, eyes shining at the prospect of learning about even more animals. He takes off without even saying goodbye, charging over to the guards' usual station to get that seventh favourite lizard name. 

"Remember, be nice!" Aziraphale calls out. 

"Remember, give 'em hell!" Crowley calls out at the same time. 

"Okay!" Warlock yells back. It's unclear who he's talking to, but that's nothing new. 

"Caterpillars, angel?" Crowley says quietly as soon as Warlock is out of earshot. "Tell me you've not been letting those pests near the plants again."

"They're not pests," Aziraphale says. Dropping the accent is always such a relief. "They just want to eat, like everything else."

"Yeah, but you're not supposed to let them eat these plants."

"Oh, I doubt anyone will notice. It's just a few little holes."

"Hmm." Crowley inspects his work on the shrub with narrowed eyes. He can almost feel the judgement rolling off her. "You don't know what you're doing, do you?"

Aziraphale slumps. "No."

"Give me the shears, I'll even it out."

Aziraphale hands them over gratefully, stepping back to admire Crowley as she works. It's fascinating, how she knows exactly what she wants the shrub to look like and how to achieve that before she's even made the first snip. Within seconds snippets of branches are littering the ground around her feet, and the shrub is already looking much neater.

She works for maybe a minute, fiddling with the leaves to hide any gaping spots even she can't fix. Finally, she steps back, and the shrub looks far prettier than it did when Aziraphale had his hands on it, with only a few patches noticeably bare. 

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. You were just making a pig's ear of it." She squints more suspiciously at the shrub. "It looks a bit pathetic. And there aren't any flowers. Have you been complimenting it again?"

Aziraphale sniffs indignantly. "I simply think positive reinforcement is far more beneficial than-"

"Grow better!" Crowley screams at the shrub, completely ignoring Aziraphale. "Do you want to be thrown into a shredder? Huh? You're lucky you're not one of my plants, I'd've ripped your roots out long ago, but that doesn't mean you can slack off. If I catch you looking so sad again, not even Aziraphale will be able to save you, do you hear me?"

The shrub shudders. A flower springs from one of the branches.

"Much better," Crowley says, nodding in satisfaction. "Keep that up. If you don't, you won't like the consequences."

Aziraphale sighs, running an appreciative thumb over one of the petals of the newly formed flower. "Don't listen to her. You're beautiful just the way you are."

"You're too soft on them. My plants never get in such a state. When they do-"

"You go out and plant them in a nearby park," Aziraphale says, smiling cheekily at her when she splutters in indignation. "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know you can't bring yourself to destroy them."

"That's not true!" Crowley squawks. "Don't undermine my authority!"

"Oh, of course, what was I thinking? You are the cruelest plant mother that has ever walked the Earth. My apologies."

"That's more like it." She points a threatening finger at the shrub. "You. Don't get any wrong ideas. Aziraphale is a filthy little liar and I will grind you into dust if I catch you slacking."

Aziraphale's smile falters at the words. He tries not to think too hard about Crowley calling him a liar. He knows she's only joking, but it makes his stomach churn anyway. Makes him think about all the possible less-than-favourable reactions she may have when he finally tells her the truth, and that's one of his least favourite things to think about. He doesn't know how he'll bear it if his confession goes badly.

Crowley, thankfully, doesn't notice his reaction, and he manages to get his expression under control before she turns back to him. 

"Go keep an eye on the little hellion," she says, nudging him playfully. "He needs a bit more heavenly influence, he's spent too much time with me this week. I'll whip this garden into shape for you."

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. The churning in his gut eases, and his heart warms.

A few more years. Just a few more years.

"Whatever. Go spend time with the brat."

Aziraphale does.

"No dog."

"No dog."

"Wrong boy."

"... Wrong boy."

The look he exchanges with Crowley is one full of dread and resigned horror. Everything - everything - has been riding on this boy, and they got it wrong.

Aziraphale almost doesn't dare to breathe. He tries desperately not to think too hard about what this means, about how badly they've screwed up, but he can't help it. The fate of the whole world is riding on their shoulders, and they've gone and misplaced the Antichrist. Worse, if the Antichrist isn't here, Aziraphale has no clue where he might be. They've had no reason to suspect Warlock isn't the Antichrist. According to Crowley, the whole plan had gone unusually smoothly. They were both confident they had the right child, had no reason to suspect otherwise.

Well, that's all gone out the window now, hasn't it? The Antichrist is missing, Armageddon is days away, and they're sitting in the car outside the wrong boy's birthday party with absolutely no clue where the real Antichrist is.

No, no, no. He was so sure this would work. This was supposed to save the planet he loves so dearly, was supposed to spare all the innocent lives that wander the Earth so they could enjoy their lives for just a little longer. It was supposed to - supposed to-

His wings.

Oh lord, his wings.

Aziraphale's breath hitches. Converting the Antichrist was supposed to be his ticket to getting his wings back. He was going to report back to Heaven once Warlock sent the dog away and declare his mission a success. From Heaven's perspective, the Antichrist converting would be the only possible explanation for Armageddon's sudden rescheduling. This was his one chance to get his wings back, the one time in 6000 years he's had a solid end date.

And now his one chance is gone.

Crowley is saying something, he's vaguely aware, but he can't hear him over the sound of his own laboured breathing. What now? What is he supposed to do now? He can't possibly lie to Heaven about this, he'll never get away with it, and if they find out he lied to them-!

His back twinges sharply, wrenching a gasp from his lips. A painful reminder of what he's lost, what he's lost the chance to get back, as though he could ever forget what is missing from him, what two appendages should be protruding from his shoulder blades but aren't.

Think, think. He has to do something, he can't just sit and twiddle his thumbs. His wings aren't the only thing at stake, the whole Earth is. Billions of innocent lives. His pile of favourite books stacked beside his armchair, that little bakery across the street he visits for breakfast every morning, his drunken nights with Crowley - oh no, Crowley, he's going to lose Crowley-

"-ngel. Angel!"

There's a hand on his shoulder, shaking him harshly away from his thoughts. He manages to snatch in a breath, eyes darting to meet Crowley's. 

"Breathe," Crowley desperately commands, worry etched into his face. "Calm down, we can't do anything if you pass out."

"The - the Earth," Aziraphale stutters out. "The humans, oh Crowley, my-!"

"Your curse, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley murmurs. He squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder, grounding him. "Come on, only one of us can freak out at a time. It's gonna be alright, yeah? You'll get another chance. Right now we gotta calm down and focus. We'll figure something out, but we have to put our heads together, and we can't do that if you're conked out in the passenger's seat."

His voice isn't quite as calm and soothing as Aziraphale suspects he'd like. There's a distinct tremble in his voice, barely concealed panic he's desperately suppressing for Aziraphale's sake. Trying to calm him and help him get back under control, even though between the two of them, Crowley has the far better reason to be panicking. 

Goodness, what has he done to deserve Crowley?

With a great amount of effort, he sucks in a deep, shaky breath. He counts to five in his head and exhales, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"That's it," Crowley says, giving Aziraphale's shoulder another reassuring squeeze. "Just breathe, just like that. Damn, angel, you really make the one guy who doesn't need to breathe walk you through breathing, huh?"

Aziraphale laughs weakly. He takes another stuttering breath, and this exhale is stronger than the last.

They sit together in silence for maybe five minutes as Aziraphale breathes. The panic clutching his chest doesn't fade entirely, but his breathing does calm.

With an exhale that looks more like a sigh, Aziraphale leans his head back against the headrest.

"Feeling better?" Crowley asks at last. 

"Much. Thank you."

Crowley waves the gratitude away, just like he always does. "You're still pale. Have you eaten today?"

"Well, I-"

"Okay, that settles it. We'll get you some food, and we can talk about all this over lunch."

Aziraphale sucks in another breath. He's calmer, but still fighting to maintain that calm. "I don't think I'm up to a restaurant right now."

"We'll go to the bookshop and order takeaway, then. Yeah, that's a better plan. Your bookshop has alcohol. You get takeaway, I get alcohol. Win-win. Chinese or Italian?"

"Chinese, please."

"Done."

Crowley puts the car into gear and slams his foot on the accelerator, speeding away from the party and completely ignoring Aziraphale's frantic yells of "the pedestrians, Crowley!"

Crowley's own panic still hasn't faded. Aziraphale can see it in the hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, the sharper than normal turns, the too-high pitch in his voice when he rambles about the new Chinese place he found last week that he's, like, pretty sure do takeaway, and if they don't, they do now, isn't that convenient?

But he holds it back. He keeps his panic under wraps for Aziraphale, even though his mind must be swimming with all the terrible things Hell will do to him once they find out.

Aziraphale can't decide between feeling grateful and feeling guilty. 

His back aches for the rest of the car ride. 

The words have started to blur together. He's been staring at them for so long, the only reason he knows what they say is because he's memorised them. Still, he keeps staring at them, as though they will miraculously twist and rearrange themselves if he looks away for even a second. 

He still can't believe it. He's found the missing Antichrist. 

He hadn't known what to expect when he picked up the book. Some insight, perhaps, on the events relating to Armageddon he cannot see or experience himself. Maybe even a clue as to how, exactly, he can stop it. 

But finding the Antichrist? That's more than he ever expected.

He has no idea how long he's been cooped up in his bookshop, hunched over the book. Perhaps it's been days, although he doubts it. He only remembers Crowley calling once, asking if he's found anything and reminding him to eat and sleep, and if he'd been here for days, Crowley surely would have called more than once. Even if Aziraphale had simply not heard the call, he would have popped round to check on him, concerned with making sure he's taking care of himself. He would have-

Crowley. 

He needs to tell Crowley. 

Aziraphale scrambles for the telephone, starting to dial Crowley's number before the thought finishes registering in his brain. This is the information they've been waiting for, it's imperative he tells him so they can-

Can what?

Aziraphale pauses, right before inputting the final digit. What exactly are they going to do with this information? They've been so focused on trying to find the Antichrist, he doubts either of them have bothered to think about what they'll do once they find him. So what will they do? What can they do? The boy has the dog, Armageddon is goodness knows how many days away, and by this point there's not much they can do to stop it. Not unless they-

Aziraphale banishes that thought from his mind. He won't consider it. He's an angel, he doesn't kill people. His purpose is to protect, not cause harm.

Besides, didn't Crowley say the whole point of the hellhound is to guard him from all harm? No, trying to kill the boy is not a productive method. They will have to find another way. 

Perhaps Crowley has an idea. He's always been so clever, so creative, coming up with so many unique ways to thwart both divine and diabolical plans. Hell, he was the one who came up with the plan to raise and influence the Antichrist. How hard could it be to come up with another plan to thwart Hell?

Yes, Crowley will be able to think of something. He should-

Should he?

Aziraphale's finger continues to hover over the telephone. Crowley has risked enough for this plan. He's already going to be in deep trouble with Hell, and asking him to risk even more is unfair. 

Besides, this is information he ought to give to Heaven. Heaven, whose entire job is to thwart the plans of Hell. That's why he agreed to attempt to convert the Antichrist 11 years ago, wasn't it? So… so Heaven is much better suited for this. They'll be able to think of a way to stop the Antichrist. The other angels are so much smarter than him, they'll think of a way to do it that won't involve killing the boy. 

Yes, the best thing to do in this situation is to bring the information to Heaven. They will take care of the boy, nip this nasty business in the bud quickly and efficiently. 

He should tell them. Right now. Leave his bookshop and head straight for Heaven. 

He stays hovering over the telephone. 

He told Crowley he'd call as soon as he knew anything, didn't he? He doesn't like breaking promises, especially not to Crowley. He lies to Crowley enough without adding to the pile. So… he really should call him. 

No, no, what will that accomplish? Crowley won't agree with his decision to get Heaven involved, he hates them too much, and any further plans on his part will put him at risk. It will be better to take care of it and tell Crowley the good news afterwards. Perhaps they can go out for lunch to celebrate.

But… Heaven won't be happy. They may be extremely angry with him for losing the Antichrist in the first place. He'd been hoping to find him before they find out about the little mix up, so he can take care of the problem before they realise anything is wrong. If he tells them, they will be furious to hear they have to clean up his mess again, and he will certainly not get his wings back. If he tells Crowley, they can do something, and Heaven will be none the wiser.

Aziraphale lets out a frustrated huff. He steps away from the telephone and starts to pace, fiddling with his fingers like that will help him think. He doesn't know what to do. There are pros and cons to each possible action, and he's always had terrible judgement with this sort of thing. Never been good at it, really. It's almost pathetic how much he relies on Crowley to be a second pair of eyes, to "peer review" his judgement. And maybe that's a stupid decision, since it gives a demon so much power over him, but Crowley's proven trustworthy so far, and has never hesitated to tell him when his judgement is good and when it's lacking. He trusts Crowley, perhaps more than he should.

He should trust Crowley with this, too.

But Heaven…

Aziraphale squeezes his hands. He hasn't felt so lost in a long, long time. 

Perhaps he should tell them both? That way, no matter which choice is the correct one, he will have made it. Yes, that is the safest option. The problem is dealt with no matter what. 

But what if they both decide to do something? Or worse, what if they decide to do something at the same time? Crowley may go charging after the Antichrist alone, with only Aziraphale for backup, and Heaven will likely send a whole army of angels to deal with the Antichrist in whatever way they see fit. And once they've taken care of the Antichrist… well, one demon can't do much against an army of angels, even if he is the famously powerful Serpent of Eden. 

Not to mention Heaven will certainly notice his… alliance with Crowley. And then they will definitely be angry with him for consorting with the enemy. He will lose his best friend and his wings all in one fell swoop-

No! This isn't about his wings! Aziraphale shakes his head harshly, banishing the thought from his mind. He can't believe he's being so selfish. Worried about his wings, of all things, when the Earth itself is at risk of complete destruction! What kind of angel is he?

He ought to tell Heaven. That's the correct thing to do. He doesn't know why he's still dithering. Of course Heaven is the correct option, they're the good guys. The good guys can always be trusted, especially with sensitive information like this. 

But what if they kill the boy? What if they decide the best way to get rid of the Antichrist is to smite him where he stands? Aziraphale may have a weak stomach, but the other angels do not. He doesn't want Heaven to have that blood on their hands. They already have enough of that from the blood they were forced to spill when they removed his wings.

(What if they do nothing at all?)

He should tell Heaven. But he doesn't want to.

He wants to tell Crowley. 

Doesn't he?

Aziraphale takes a deep, trembling breath. 

And what if he's wrong? What if he's somehow misunderstood the prophecy? What if he tells someone - Crowley, Heaven, it doesn't matter who - and they target the wrong boy? An innocent human child, who would not deserve whatever fate would be bestowed upon them. Aziraphale would never be able to forgive himself. 

He can't ask Crowley's opinion. Crowley will jump on the first lead they have, desperate to do something. And Heaven is out of the question. To ask for someone to tell him he's right is to admit he's learned nothing during his 6000 years on Earth. It will prove he's useless, a waste of time, unworthy, and a million other things he cannot be to Heaven right now.

And if he goes with his gut and the information is incorrect… the consequences are unthinkable.

Letting out a breath, and desperately resisting the urge to pick at his nails, Aziraphale glances back at the telephone.

More information. He needs more information before he can make a decision.

"Oh Lord, please guide me through this," he prays desperately under his breath as he dials Sergeant Shadwell's number.

Predictably, he receives no response. 

"You can't leave, Crowley. There isn't anywhere to go."

His voice cracks as he says the words. He tries not to think too hard about what he's saying, but it's impossible. No matter how hard he tries, he can't banish the reality of their situation from his mind. They're out of time, out of options, out of chances. There's nothing more either of them can do, and continuing to try only puts them both in danger. Unless the Almighty Herself steps in, there's no stopping Armageddon. Not unless Heaven strikes the boy down, which they can't do, because they're the good guys. 

Their only option is to distance themselves from one another, so they are not targeted by their own sides as well as the opposition when the Great War begins. 

And once again, Aziraphale is the one putting in the work for that distance, because Crowley just does not seem to get it, even though he, of all people, should know how dangerous their respective sides can be to them. 

"It's a big universe," Crowley says, turning around with a sweep of his hand. "Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together."

There's a certain vulnerability, a certain tenderness, in those last three words that makes Aziraphale's heart thump.

"Go off… together?" He can hear the longing in his own voice, can't possibly hide the hope that makes it quiver. Crowley's offer plays out like a play in his mind: both of them curled up in some unknown corner of the universe, unnoticed by Heaven and Hell, basking in each other's company for the rest of eternity. 

He wants it. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything. 

Why is it the things he must reject are the things that hurt the most?

"Listen to yourself," Aziraphale says. He almost wants to hope Crowley can't detect the tremble in his voice, but they've known each other too long for that to be a reality. "We couldn't possibly hide for that long, and I-"

"I could hide you," Crowley says. Aziraphale pretends he can't hear the desperation in his voice. "I'll take care of anything you need. Whatever it is, I'll take care of it."

Aziraphale swallows. His chest twists. "We… we can't."

"Of course we can." Crowley presses. "How long have we been friends? 5000 years!"

"We're not friends!" It's a lie, it's a lie and it hurts, but he forces the words out anyway, because they need this distance. What's one more lie, after the thousands he's forced Crowley to unknowingly endure? "We have nothing whatsoever in common, I don't even like you!"

He never should have allowed things to go this far. They never should have become friends in the first place. They're an angel and a demon, and the only reason they're friends is because Crowley doesn't know what he really is. If he knew the truth, he never would've approached Aziraphale in Mesopotamia.

Ironic, really, that between the two of them, he's the diabolical one. What kind of angel lies to and misleads their friend for 5000 years?

"You do," Crowley says. His tone is slightly teasing. It's the voice he uses when he's trying to lighten the mood and calm Aziraphale down.

Hearing it now, with Armageddon approaching so rapidly, makes his hackles raise. This isn't a game. It's not something Crowley can wipe away with a wave of his hand, not something he can protect Aziraphale from with a well-placed miracle. This is reality, and damn it, he's never been able to protect Aziraphale from reality. He can't. There's too much to protect him from, and the only reason he tries is because he thinks Aziraphale is a human. 

"Even if I did know where the Antichrist was," Aziraphale snaps, "I wouldn't tell you! We're on opposite sides!"

"No we're not!" Crowley snaps back. "Just because Heaven has you under their thumb doesn't mean they're on your side. They don't see you as one of them. Damn it angel, can't you see by now they don't care about you?"

Aziraphale flinches. "Yes they do."

They must do. If they didn't, they wouldn't give him so many chances to redeem himself. They would have cast him down to Hell a long time ago. The fact that they've kept him around, given him chance after chance to earn forgiveness, has to mean they care about him. No one goes to such lengths for people they don't care about. 

Right?

"If they cared, they would've broken your curse a long time ago," Crowley says. "They don't care about you, and they don't care about your kind. They're not on your side. I am."

Except he isn't, because Aziraphale has done nothing but lie to him their entire friendship. They're not on the same side, and they never will be, no matter how badly Aziraphale wants that to be the case. The only reason Crowley thinks otherwise is because Aziraphale has tricked him into thinking he's a third party instead of the opposition. 

"Not anymore," he forces out. "It's over."

Crowley's face falls. Aziraphale's stomach churns, and he has to turn away, because if he looks at Crowley for too long he may break and take it all back. He takes a step away, and it's so much worse than when he walked away after he gave Crowley that holy water. At least then he knew he was coming back. 

But now…

"So that's it, then?" Crowley says, voice flat. "You're just gonna throw all this away? Your home? Your people? Me?"

"They're not my people." It's the only part of Crowley's statement he can refute.

"Like hell they aren't! Just because you got cursed doesn't make you any less human. So why the fuck are you turning your back on your own kind to help Heaven?" Crowley spits the last word, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe it does. 

"I… I can't tell you," Aziraphale whispers. He takes another step, refuses to turn around. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then make me understand!" Crowley must have started chasing him, because he's close enough to grab Aziraphale's wrist, holding him in place.

He could break away. Crowley's grip isn't very tight - it never is, he's too worried about hurting the fragile human - and it would be easy to yank his hand away. 

He doesn't. 

"Please, Aziraphale," Crowley begs. He never begs. "Please talk to me. I don't - I don't wanna rush you, but if you really think we're out of time-"

"What do you want me to say, Crowley?" he snaps. Every muscle in his body is tense. His chest twists and constricts, a band of elastic simultaneously crushing his lungs and stretching so far it may snap.

He still doesn't pull away from the fingers coiled around his wrist.

"I don't know! Something! Tell me why you're choosing that lot over your own side. Over me!"

"Because they'll do the right thing!"

"That's bullshit and you know it! They can't even treat you right! For Satan's sake, it's been 5000 years. The apocalypse is literally days, if not hours, away! If they haven't given you salvation by now, they're never going to do it."

"I just need to work harder!"

"They're using you, angel!"

The word stings. It stings like it never has before, mocking him, mocking his lies. Mocking Crowley, and how close, yet very far, he is from the truth. The band pulls tighter.

His back burns. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale hisses. "You - you have no idea what Heaven is doing, what their plan is! You don't-"

"Then explain it!" Crowley demands. "You can't! You know just as well as I do that those stupid fucking angels aren't the ones who give a single flying fuck about you! I do!"

He tugs on Aziraphale's wrist for emphasis, and Aziraphale still doesn't pull away. Because he's selfish, he's so selfish, and he wants Crowley to keep touching him for just a few moments longer, even though he'd hate him if he knew the truth, knew that he's one of those detested angels, and such a horrible one, too, because only a bad angel would do this to their best friend.

Something is crushing him, and he can't tell if it's the ever tightening band in his chest, or the weight of his own sins on his shoulders.

"Even if that was true, I still wouldn't choose you over them!" The words are like knives as he forces them past his throat, slicing him up and letting him bleed out from the inside and drown in his own lies. It takes everything he has to continue to force the knives out. "You don't - I need-"

"Need what? What could they possibly have that I don't-"

"They have my wings!"

…

… 

Oh.

He didn't mean to say that.

Crowley goes still behind him. His fingers don't release his wrist, but they loosen ever so slightly, and that alone is enough for the band in his chest to constrict, tighter than ever.

Faintly, Aziraphale wonders if time itself has stopped. He can't tell if the dull roaring in his ears is the distant sound of London traffic, or something else, something coming entirely from him.

The weight in his chest and on his shoulders doesn't lift. Doesn't lessen or shift, or do anything to make him believe his words have lightened the load he's been carrying for so long. It still hangs over him, teetering on the edge, its fate entirely dependant on Crowley's response.

"... What?" Crowley eventually manages. He's disbelieving, and Aziraphale can't blame him. "What are you talking about? Humans don't have wings."

Aziraphale swallows. His explanation, the one he still hasn't finished perfecting, sticks in his throat. 

"Is that what this is about? Did they promise you wings?" Crowley tugs on Aziraphale's wrist again, but it's half-hearted at best. It's a flimsy interpretation of Aziraphale's words, and they both know it. "They can't do that, you know that, right? They can't give a human wings. They're lying, Aziraphale, I-"

"They didn't promise me wings," Aziraphale chokes out. He tries to ignore the flash of steel in his mind's eye. "They took my wings."

He doesn't turn around. He can't bear to look at Crowley, and he doesn't need to. He knows Crowley is gaping at him, mouth opening and closing the way it always does when he's struggling to find something to say. He wishes with all his heart he had something to offer, something to give Crowley to cling to, but he doesn't. He never has.

"Humans don't have wings," Crowley repeats at last. It's a statement, not a correction.

And Aziraphale - Aziraphale still can't bring himself to tell Crowley the truth. Still can't force the words past his lips, even though they're right there.

He doesn't need them. Crowley has always been clever. Far cleverer than Aziraphale himself. 

"You… you're an angel?"

Aziraphale's throat tightens. He manages a nod.

Crowley drops his wrist like he's been burned. 

"That… you - no. No. You don't - I would've…"

Aziraphale's hands curl uselessly into fists. Air nips at his wrist, right where Crowley's hand was moments before, and it feels so much colder than the rest of him. Lighter, and not in a good way, without Crowley's cool skin grounding him. 

He has nothing to say to make this better. He can't even bring himself to look at Crowley.

He tries anyway. 

"Crowley, I-"

"You lied to me?"

Yes.

"Technically, I didn't lie," Aziraphale says. His stomach churns. "I never said I was a human. You just assumed-"

"Oh, and that makes it better, does it?" Crowley says lowly. "You just let me think you were a human this whole time, and you never bothered to tell me, but because you didn't technically lie, that makes it okay?"

"Oh, like you've never told a fib or two over the last 5000 years," Aziraphale huffs with an irritation he doesn't feel.

"Not to you! I've never lied to you!"

"I don't believe that." It's a lie, it's a lie, why can't he stop himself from lying to Crowley? "You've probably done it countless-"

"Name one," Crowley hisses. "Name one time I've lied to you."

Aziraphale can't even open his mouth. His stomach rolls. He feels sick. He can't remember Crowley ever outright lying to him. Between the two of them, Crowley has always been the most honest, and they both know it.

"What else have you lied about?" Crowley demands. "Was our whole friendship just - just one big joke to you? Oh, look at Crowley, the stupid demon that can't clock an angel when he sees one!"

That makes Aziraphale whirl around. "No! I would never-"

"Wouldn't you?"

Turning around turns out to be a mistake. Crowley's hands are balled into fists, his shoulders are hiked up to his ears, and he's almost snarling at Aziraphale. Watching him like this, Aziraphale can't hide from the damage his words are causing.

5000 years, and Crowley has never been this angry with him. 

"Of course I wouldn't," Aziraphale chokes out. He desperately scrambles for some kind of anger to make this easier, anger he must have suppressed long ago, but he can't find any. "I'm an-"

"An angel," Crowley spits. He's spat that word so many times over the years, but it's never felt like an insult the way it does now. "I shouldn't be surprised. This is exactly the kind of thing an angel would do."

There's a tremor in his voice. It makes Aziraphale take a jolting step forward out of pure instinct alone, before he pulls himself to a stop. The light of the setting sun shines in such a way he can see through Crowley's glasses-

Oh. He's crying.

Crowley jerks backwards, just a second too late. The glasses are shrouded by shadows again, but Aziraphale's heart has already stilled.

Crowley doesn't just look angry anymore. He looks hurt.

Aziraphale's heart clenches. I did that.

"Was it just a game to you?" Crowley forces out. His voice doesn't stop shaking, and every furious breath feels like a knife in Aziraphale's chest. "Was I just some - some pet project you were using to kill time down here? Or some kind of stupid bet?"

"No-"

"Did you want to save me? Is that why you were prattling on about being forgiven earlier? Did you want to try and make me an angel again? To what? Get a raise? A promotion?"

"No! I'd never use you like that!"

"Then why the fuck did you lie to me?"

Aziraphale flinches.

It's deathly quiet. There's no birds chirping, no wind blowing, even the ever present rumble of traffic has stopped. Either that, or Aziraphale has blocked it all out, because all he can hear is Crowley's pants.

His shuddering, uneven, hitching pants.

He half expects Crowley to surge forward, to punch him in the face. For his wings to flare and for hellfire to curl around his hands, for the argument to come to blows as he takes his rightful anger out on the one who hurt him in the first place.

Except he doesn't expect that at all. Not from Crowley. Another demon, perhaps, but never Crowley. He knows Crowley, and he knows no matter how angry he gets, he isn't the violent type.

Not even when he deserves to be.

Crowley deflates. His shoulders slump and he looks down at the floor like his head is too heavy to hold up as the fight leaves him.

"I don't know why I expected anything different," Crowley says flatly. "Of course an agent of Heaven would pull some shit like this."

The words hurt more than any blow ever could. Aziraphale makes another aborted attempt at stepping forward. "Crowley-"

"Forget it. It's whatever."

"But I-"

"I said forget it."

Aziraphale's hands clench and unclench. His gaze drops to Crowley's hand, the one that was so trustingly curled around his wrist mere minutes ago.

How has everything gone so wrong so quickly?

Aziraphale swallows. He looks back at Crowley's face, but Crowley won't look at him. He aches to say something, but what is there to say? Nothing can make any of this okay.

He should be used to having nothing to offer Crowley, by now.

"I can't go against Heaven," he whispers, so quietly he can't tell if he wants Crowley to hear or not. He almost forgot that's what sparked this in the first place. "I'm sorry."

It's the wrong thing to say. But there's nothing right to say. This final nudge to separate them, to keep them safe from their own sides, is all he has.

"Yeah, that's no surprise," Crowley says. "That's exactly what an angel would say."

Aziraphale flinches again. His back burns, and yet somehow, the stinging in his eyes hurts more.

"It's fine," Crowley says before Aziraphale has the chance to ruin things even further. "Whatever. I don't care anymore."

He turns on his heel and walks away. Every step feels like he's pulling Aziraphale's heart further and further out of his chest.

He's losing him, and it's all his fault.

"Crowley-"

"Have a nice doomsday."

Aziraphale closes his eyes, trying to will the stinging away. Tears slide silently down his cheeks.

The weight of his lie that's balanced on his shoulders for so long doesn't lift. It crumbles, like a boulder splitting apart and sending rocks tumbling into him, bruising his very soul. Every breath he takes feels like a strike as the life and friendship he's managed to craft for himself falls apart.

Without the lie pinning him down, he feels untethered, and for once Crowley isn't here to keep him grounded.

His back burns like it's never burned before, and yet somehow, it's nothing compared to the pain in his chest. 

By the time he opens his eyes, Crowley is gone.

Chapter Text

Crowley has never been very good at keeping track of time. It's not uncommon for him to spend days rearranging his flat, or realise he's been wasting away in a pub for weeks on end, or for him to take a quick nap only to find whoops, would you look at that, a whole century has passed. He thought that would change once the Antichrist arrived, because surely he'd want to remember how long he has left until he loses his freedom, but nope, he was just as blissfully unaware of time as he's always been. 

Still, he'd half expected to be painfully aware of it this time. An internal stopwatch of some kind, telling him 13 hours, 37 minutes, and 19 seconds since his fight with Aziraphale or some dramatic shit like that. 

Instead, it feels like time has gotten even blurrier. Forget down to the second, Crowley doesn't even know how many hours it's been since he and Aziraphale talked. Which really shouldn't be hard to keep track of, since there's not many hours left on Earth to remember.

He honestly doesn't even know why he's still here, driving aimlessly through the streets of London. Earth could implode at any second. A blink is all the time it takes for the war between Heaven and Hell to start, and Hastur is after him, and it's in his best demonic interest to book it to the other end of the universe as soon as he can. The sooner he runs, the further he gets, and the further he gets, the less likely they are to find him. 

But he's still here. He's still here, even though Hell has caught on, even though Hastur is on his way to "have a chat" with him. Even though the safest option is to leave while he still can, because Hastur won't waste time looking for him when the war is so close. 

Even though there isn't really anything - or any one - to leave behind like he thought.

But for some reason, he can't do it. Not yet. Something urges him to stick around, stay for just a little bit longer, find the Antichrist and… somehow stop everything. He doesn't know how, but he feels he owes it to the humans to at least try. Their lives are on the line just as much as his.

It feels impossible, especially without Aziraphale by his side. 

Crowley grits his teeth and presses harder on the accelerator. Cars miraculously (it's not a miracle, not really, only angels can do miracles, but he picked up the habit of calling them miracles from Aziraphale, and he can't think of a different word to use instead) swerve out of his way. It's weird, watching his speed creep up and up without a fussy huma- angel in the passenger's seat screeching at him to slow down. 

Weird, but better. Yep, definitely better. Now he can drive however the fuck he likes without conforming to anyone's standards. Not only does he not need Aziraphale, he doesn't even want him. Who wants a pissy agent of Heaven in their car telling them how to drive? Not Crowley, that's for sure.

He glances at the empty seat beside him and ignores the pang in his chest.

Damn it, damn it, Aziraphale should be here. This is just as much his fault as it is Crowley's. He's not stupid, he knows Aziraphale is hiding something from him. He's a terrible liar, and far easier to read than any of those stupid books he has piled to the ceiling in his bookshop. He probably knows exactly where the Antichrist is, and is hoping Crowley won't be able to tell he's lying to his face about it. As though he hasn't learnt how to pick up on that kind of thing after 5000 years. 

Wasn't enough to realise he's an angel though, was it?

A furious hiss escapes him before he can stop it. His face burns hotter than all the hellfire in, well, Hell.

In all his years, he's never felt so humiliated. Thousands and thousands of years of calling him, checking up on him, making sure he eats and sleeps and fulfills every last human need, and now it turns out it's all a lie because he's just an angel.

An angel that made a complete fool out of him. Strung him along for millennia, duped him into thinking someone in this shitty universe actually gave a fuck about him for once, and probably had a right old laugh at his expense with his bastard angel friends up in Heaven. 

Satan, he's so stupid. How has he never realised Aziraphale's an angel? His sense of smell is so sensitive, it should be impossible for an angel to hide from him. In fact, it should be impossible for Aziraphale to not smell like an angel. Sure, over the years even the hint of angel that's always been there has been drowned out by the scent of pastries and parchment, but even when they first met, an angel smell should have been much stronger than it was. He should have known what he was dealing with the second he contemplated approaching Aziraphale in Mesopotamia. How has Aziraphale managed to mask the invasive smell of bleach so much? Has he been planning this lie for longer than he's known Crowley?

What else has he lied about? What else has Crowley missed? Is their entire friendship just one big hoax? But Aziraphale is a terrible liar, and it's almost impossible to keep up that kind of ruse for thousands of years. Some of the truth must be in there somewhere. Crowley knows better than anyone the best lies always have a hint of truth to them. 

But. Perhaps Aziraphale is a good liar after all. So good he managed to fool Crowley into thinking he's terrible at it. A misdirection, just like those stupid fucking magic tricks he can't do.

How much can be a lie, though? He knows so many little things about Aziraphale, things no one would bother to fake, not even a clever little human. He hums to himself when he's tidying the shop and doesn't realise he's not alone. He fiddles with his hands to stop himself from picking at his nails because he wants them to look nice and neat. He hates throwing away clothes he has no intention of wearing anymore because they're sentimental to him. And there's thousands of other tiny details just like those stored in his mind like a personal Aziraphale encyclopedia.

True, the small details are just… small details. But combined they paint a picture of his best friend, who cares about him and trusts him enough to let him see all these small details. He's cherished these details, things no one else knows about Aziraphale, for thousands of years.

And now he doesn't even know which ones are fake and which are real. Because some of them must be fake. Why else would the picture he thought he knew by heart not match up with the Aziraphale he saw yesterday?

Why else is his best friend a complete stranger all of a sudden?

Crowley slams his head against the steering wheel and groans. The one constant he's had throughout his time on Earth is Aziraphale, and he doesn't even know if he can call them friends anymore. 

Logically, he shouldn't. Aziraphale lied to him, and friends don't lie about things like this. The only ones who lie about things like this are angels who decide manipulation is their new favourite form of play and have found a nice, gullible demon they can use as their new toy. 

But that doesn't sound like Aziraphale at all. Aziraphale can't manipulate his way out of a paper bag, much less pull off a long con like this.

(Can't he?)

No. Some of it must be genuine. No one can forge a friendship for so long and not come out the other side at least a little fond. Crowley just… doesn't know how much is real. And he's trying to figure it out, he really is, but it's hard. He's run through every interaction with Aziraphale he can remember, searching desperately for deception, but he comes up empty handed almost every time. Even knowing he's an angel, he can't pinpoint any moments where Aziraphale's affection seems fake no matter how hard he tries. Yeah, in hindsight Aziraphale has always seemed to get nervous whenever Crowley calls him a human. But beyond that, he can't think of anything that feels off. 

Is he still blind to Aziraphale's lies? Is he still missing something, still refusing to see something? Or have they always been friends after all, and Crowley's just paranoid now he knows Aziraphale isn't a human?

But then why did he lie to me?

Fuck, fuck, how is he supposed to figure this out? He can barely make sense of yesterday, never mind 5000 years of (possibly fake) friendship. When they'd been arguing, he'd figured Aziraphale was just being paranoid again, pushing him away in an effort to protect them. He's always done that, always been the first to cut ties and run at the first sign of danger and hope laying low will protect them.

But now Crowley's not so sure. After all, no angel would truly care about protecting a demon like him.

But what else can it be? He can't think of another reason Aziraphale would go to such lengths. Was he worried someone would see them and get the wrong idea? Accuse him of conspiring with a demon and take care of him? But it would be so easy to just explain the interaction away as a method of lowering Crowley's guard. Tolerating a demon's presence for information, a personal sacrifice in the name of the greater fucking good. It's the exact kind of shit Heaven would eat up. Aziraphale would get off scot free for his selfless deeds, and Crowley would be smote on the spot. Nothing lost, not for Aziraphale.

No, fear for their safety - for his safety - is the only thing that makes sense. But why would an angel care about that? Why would an angel care if Crowley gets hurt or caught by Heaven? And it must be Heaven, because Aziraphale always glances upwards, never down, never fearing what Below would do if they got their hands on him. Why else would Aziraphale frantically push him away, if not out of fear of what Heaven might do to him?

It's the only explanation, but it's an explanation that crumbles under the fact that Aziraphale's an angel, and leaves Crowley with nothing. It doesn't make sense. The pieces don't fit together and Crowley can't figure out where he's going wrong.

Maybe it was all part of his ruse to stop him discovering the truth. Maybe he wanted the illusion to last all the way up to the war. Show concern for Crowley's wellbeing, so if they saw one another on the battlefield, Crowley would be blinded by affection and not strike him down. Hell, maybe that's why he kept up the ruse once he exposed himself as an angel. An attempt to salvage the situation and calm Crowley down so he could flee unharmed, even without using his wings. 

(Does he not know Crowley could never hurt him?)

Actually, maybe it's related to the wing thing. Not that Crowley knows what the wing thing even is. "They have my wings?" What the fuck does that even mean? How can Heaven have his wings? Aziraphale clearly can't use them, but how the fuck did Heaven manage that? Did they put some kind of fucked up enchantment on them to prevent Aziraphale from using them, and made him agree to do their bidding so they'd eventually remove the enchantment? Or did Aziraphale decide to be a good little angel and work hard and try to convert a demon so he can negotiate with Heaven to remove the enchantment?

But why go to such lengths? Why not come to Crowley? Surely he has to know Crowley would never leave him at Heaven's mercy like that. Crowley has spent more time than he can count tracking down books and materials and minor Earthly indulgences just to make Aziraphale smile. Aziraphale has to know Crowley would turn Hell upside down looking for a way to break such an enchantment for him. All he'd have to do is pout and ask.

Why didn't he ask?

Is… is he really that untrustworthy? Did he spend 5000 years with Aziraphale and never gain even a sliver of trust? What more could he possibly do if everything else he's done wasn't enough?

Crowley slams his head on the steering wheel again, ignoring the blaring of the horn and the irritated honks he receives in return. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Actually, no, scratch that. All of this makes sense for an angel. It's just like an angel to use something like friendship to hurt someone. A very risky tactic, but one that makes sense. Of course an angel would do something like this. Of course an angel would lie and manipulate and deceive him, and then push the blame onto him. Of course an angel would act like a demon and then see nothing wrong with their actions, because the only difference between angels and demons is false moral high ground.

It makes sense for an angel to do this. Unlikely, and tricky to pull off, but it makes sense. 

But it makes no sense for Aziraphale to do it.

It's like his mind has split Aziraphale in two. There's his best friend Aziraphale, who goes to lunch with him and gets drunk with him and knows exactly how he likes his tea. And then there's the angel Aziraphale, who lied to him and refuses to tell him where the Antichrist is and acts exactly like Crowley expects an angel to act.

It hurts, knowing he doesn't know which one is closer to the real Aziraphale.

Even now, with the information he has, he can't see the two as the same. An angel wouldn't clean and bandage his feet to heal the holy burn of consecrated ground. An angel wouldn't let him curl up in the corner of their bookshop whenever he ditches a meeting and has to hide from Hastur. An angel wouldn't give him holy-

Crowley's head shoots up. The car, which has apparently been on autopilot for quite a while, swerves violently to the left.

Hastur.

The holy water.

He can use the holy water to get rid of Hastur.

Crowley jerks the wheel and makes a sharp right, narrowly avoiding hitting a pedestrian, and slams his foot on the accelerator with new purpose. Hastur first. He'll set up a trap for Hastur, and once he's taken care of, he can make one last desperate rush to find the Antichrist and put a stop to all this at last. It's cruel, sure, but hey, it's not like he's supposed to be nice. And if it's between him or Hastur, well, he's not supposed to be selfless either.

Fuck, why didn't he think of this before? Stuff like this is exactly why he wanted holy water in the first place. Why he'd begged Aziraphale to-

He catches a familiar flash of creamy white on the pavement and slows down instinctively. 

Speak of the angelic devil.

Aziraphale hasn't noticed him. He's got his head down, fiddling with his hands, and his brow is probably creasing the way it does when he's anxious about something. It's such a familiar look, one he's seen thousands of times, one he always itches to smooth away. 

He should probably stop. Tell Aziraphale Hell knows about the mix up. Just to warn him about his departure, if he can't find the Antichrist in time.

Nearby, a pram starts to roll away from a distracted mother. There's a tiny, almost impossible to notice, wave of angelic magic, and the pram miraculously rolls back to her before it reaches the road.

Crowley's hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

He keeps driving.

It was the right thing to do.

It was.

Aziraphale's been repeating that to himself over and over ever since the argument. He was up all night muttering to himself, telling himself there was no other way, pushing them apart was the safest option for both of them, it was the right thing to do.

It still feels like the biggest mistake of his life.

He can't get Crowley's hurt face and flat voice out of his mind. He's tried everything to make it stop. But eating at the nearby cafe makes him remember the lunch he shared with Crowley three months ago. Rearranging his shop makes him linger on every book Crowley scoured the Earth to find for him. Playing music reminds him of the concert they'd attended together in 1762. He's even tried sleeping, but every time he closes his eyes all he can think about is how much Crowley loves to sleep.

He'd decided to take a walk first thing in the morning, and his feet had led him straight to the bandstand. He'd stood there frozen until Gabriel showed up, with an unintentionally pointed reminder to prepare for the war and what he's at risk of losing if he doesn't, and even that couldn't break through his mood for more than a minute.

No matter how badly he wants his wings back, it's hard to care when he's already lost so much.

He's taking the long way back to the bookshop. He doesn't know what else to do. He's not ready to leave Earth, likely never will be, but there isn't much left to be done. He can't bring any Earthly possessions back to Heaven with him, for that would be selfish and very ungrateful, presuming Heaven cannot fulfill all his wants and needs. He's an angel, he's not supposed to covet such meaningless Earthly indulgences.

He's never felt less like an angel than he does now. And after the way Crowley reacted to his confession yesterday, he can't even bring himself to want to feel like an angel.

He doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He doesn't want to give up his life and all his petty, meaningless Earthly indulgences. He doesn't want to win the war and spend the rest of eternity in "paradise." All he wants is to spend his last day with Crowley. And he can't do that, because he ruined everything.

He's the worst angel that's ever roamed the Earth, and he's not even miserable about that for the right reasons.

Goodness, can't he do anything right?

Perhaps he was too hasty in his decision to push Crowley away. Surely, if this was the correct decision, it would not be so unbearably painful?

No, there was no other way. Pain does not mean it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing is often the most painful thing, he should know that by now. No other angel has this problem. Why is it still so hard for him to understand what the right thing to do is?

There's little point dwelling on it now. Not that he can make himself stop. He knows it's pointless to continue to think about what else could have happened yesterday. He made his choice, and now Crowley is mad at him, most likely hates him, and Aziraphale can't even blame him because he's a horrible angel (he doesn't know what's worse to Crowley, the horrible part or the angel part) and a worse friend-

"Hello, Aziraphale."

His head snaps up and his blood runs cold.

Michael.

No, not just Michael. Uriel and Sandalphon are here, too. They're crowding around him, uncomfortably close enough to invade his personal space, and it takes all of Aziraphale's strength to not cower away.

He shouldn't be so afraid of them. They've done nothing wrong.

But three Archangels on Earth instead of one - especially when Armageddon is mere hours, if not minutes, away - most likely means he's done something wrong. 

Still, it's best to be polite. He's messed up enough without being disrespectful to his superiors. "Oh, Michael. Uriel. Sandalphon. Hello-"

"We've just been learning some rather disturbing things about you," Michael interrupts. The Archangels crowd even closer, guiding him forcefully away from the main street and into the wall of a nearby shop.

Oh. Oh no.

"You've been a bit of a fallen angel, haven't you?" Michael continues casually, like the words don't stab a spear of fear into his chest. 

No, no, no, no, no-!

"Consorting with the enemy?"

"I-I haven't been consorting-"

"Don't think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell," Uriel cuts in before he has a chance to defend himself. He feels like he's been punched in the chest. "He's in trouble, too."

No.

No!

This is exactly what he's been trying to avoid! Exactly why he pushed Crowley away! It was supposed to work! Why hasn't it worked?

"Aziraphale, it's time to choose sides," Michael says. "I'm sure it's a simple enough answer, even for you."

Aziraphale swallows, tries to ignore the pounding of his heart. Maybe… maybe if he distracts them, they'll forget about the whole "friends with a demon" thing. "I've… actually been giving that a lot of thought. The whole… choosing sides thing-"

Sandalphon punches him. Hard.

The blow takes him by surprise. He doubles over, wheezing, hand moving to cover his stomach in a too-late effort to protect himself.

"You think too much," Uriel says. Neither of them reprimand Sandalphon. "You should have realised by now thinking you know better than us is what got you into this mess."

Before he has a chance to recover, Uriel grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up, pinning him against the wall.

It's not like when Crowley pinned him to the wall in the old hospital. It may have seemed violent to an outsider, but Crowley had been gentle. He hadn't been harmed, hadn't even knocked his head against the wall. Crowley was in his personal space, so close their noses were touching as he pinned him with his whole body, but it had never been a threat, not a real one. The worst that had happened was his coat lapels getting all bunched and wrinkly in Crowley's hands, which barely even touched him.

This isn't like that. Uriel's hands press into his shoulders to the point of pain to compensate for being pinned from a slight distance instead of with a full body. Like he's too disgusting to be touched more than necessary. He's raised oh-so-slightly off the ground, low enough he can still reach the ground if he goes on his tiptoes, but high enough he can't pull away easily if he wants to.

Between the two wall pins, this shouldn't be the one that feels like a threat.

But Crowley hadn't hurt him.

"You… you mustn't!" Aziraphale gasps. He's certain Uriel can feel his heart hammering through his chest. Even though the distance is intimidating, he can't help but lean away further, like he can fade into the wall to avoid that sharp gaze. 

How could you do this? he wants to ask, but he knows how. They're looking at him the same way they did all those years ago. Back when they took his wings.

He doesn't want to think they'll hurt him again. But they've already punched him, and he doesn't know if he trusts them to not do more.

Stall, stall, he needs to stall until-

Stall until what? It's not like anyone is coming. He's so used to stalling for time when he's in trouble, stalling to give Crowley time to rescue him, but that's not an option, wouldn't be an option even if Crowley didn't hate him. And so few angels come to Earth, and even fewer would dare step in and stop an Archangel from disciplining a subordinate as they see fit.

No, if anything he needs to change their minds. Convince them hurting him isn't the way to deal with this. Will that work? Will they even consider listening to reason if they think he's betrayed them? Or will they just see manipulation?

Intimidate them back, he can practically hear Crowley hiss. Don't let them walk all over you. Threaten them back.

"We're the good guys," Aziraphale rambles. He's barely aware of what he's saying. "I have to warn you that - that I'm going to take this entire interaction up with…"

Uriel's neutral stare makes him hesitate. But the words are already halfway out of his mouth.

"... with a higher authority," he finishes. He feels as foolish as he probably looks.

"You really think Upstairs will take your call?" Uriel says, sneer in voice but face carefully blank. "After everything you've done? You're ridiculous."

Michael watches passively, not stepping in to intervene, face just as blank as Uriel's. Sandalphon, however, has a smirk Aziraphale wants to call cruel, even though angels can't be cruel.

"Clearly his second chance was a waste," Michael says. Like he's not there, not being pinned and threatened by his own side. "A shame. Gabriel was so hopeful he'd redeem himself."

His wings.

No.

"An additional punishment will be required for this. It is unfortunate, but we cannot allow others to believe they can act out as they see fit without consequence."

Aziraphale's heart stops.

Additional punishment? 

They still have that look. The one from 6000 years ago. The one they'd worn right before they took a heavenly blade and… and took-!

But what else can they take? They've already taken his wings, something he thought they'd never take. What else is there? He has nothing left, nothing more to take. His wings, his best friend, his whole life. What more can they possibly-

A horn sounds. All four of them freeze, glancing to the sky on instinct. None of the humans walking by react.

"It's starting," Uriel states. It's not directed at him.

Finally, Michael's expression changes. A sharp smile, one he should find reassuring, but instead fills him with dread. "New plan. The War is more important than your little rebellion. And the greater good is our highest priority."

Aziraphale doesn't move. His breath is frozen in his throat. Uriel still hasn't let him go.

"So. If you return to Heaven and fight in the war, we will overlook this little… incident. And once we win, we will return your wings to you."

Aziraphale nods. His legs tremble. "I-I understand."

At last, Uriel lets him go. The three of them take a synchronised step back so they're standing in a row, away from him and his personal space. Aziraphale doesn't dare move.

"And Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale swallows.

"This is your last chance."

A flash of light, and the Archangels are gone.

Aziraphale remembers how to breathe just as his knees give out. He slides down the wall, gasping for air he doesn't need but finds reassuring, unable to care that he's getting his clothes dirty. His whole body shakes with delayed adrenaline, too late and too useless to do anything against three Archangels. His heart is still trying to beat its way out of his chest.

He hasn't felt this way since his second meeting with Crowley in Egypt.

Stupid. Stupid! What was he thinking, trying to threaten his superiors? And threatening to call a higher authority? What kind of bluff is that? Who in Heaven would go against an Archangel and tell them how to do their job?

He'd panicked. He'd panicked and didn't think, and blurted out the first words that came to mind. It was all too much. The punch, being pinned against the wall, the threat of losing his wings for good…

His wings. His stupid, stupid wings.

Once we win, we will return your wings to you.

This is your last chance.

Does he even want them anymore? After all the trouble they've caused him? After they've hurt Crowley?

No, of course he still wants them. They're his, they're a part of him, why wouldn't he want them? He's being ridiculous again, and he needs to calm down and be rational.

Aziraphale runs a shaking hand down his face. His lungs still shudder, but his breaths are deep and even, if slightly too fast, so he doesn't need to worry about hyperventilating so long as he doesn't think too much. Like he's ever been able to do anything but think too much. It's the only thing he can do, aside from not think at all.

What now? He technically has orders to return to Heaven, but that's the last thing he wants to do right now. Is it really reasonable to take orders from those who just cornered and threatened him? What else can he do? Who else can he go to? It's not like there's anyone above the Archangels he can-

A higher authority.

You think Upstairs will take your call?

Aziraphale jolts.

Unless the Almighty Herself steps in, there's no stopping Armageddon.

Oh. Oh. Goodness, he's an idiot for not thinking of this earlier.

Aziraphale pushes himself to his feet. His legs are still trembling, but it's easier to ignore now he has a goal in mind. He needs to work fast. The horns have sounded, so who knows how long he has until Armageddon begins?

The circle under his rug should still work; he takes great care to make sure it stays enchanted with divine magic. And he's sure there's candles in the back room somewhere. Yes, on the third shelf, if he remembers correctly. The scented ones Crowley got him as a souvenir after he came back from holiday. 

Perhaps if he does a good enough job, the Almighty Herself will return his wings.

Most importantly, if it works, he can begin to make up for what he's done to Crowley.

Desperately clinging to a determination he hasn't felt in millennia, Aziraphale heads back to the bookshop and ignores his still shaking knees.

Crowley doesn't like travelling through telephone lines. Sure, it's convenient and quick, but it's also disorienting and extremely easy to get trapped. Back when telephones were first invented, he used to get stuck more times than he cares to admit, and would have to wait patiently until someone called again to get free. Aziraphale lectured him many times about how he shouldn't be jumping through telephone lines in the first place, because "you simply can't trust all this newfangled technology, Crowley!"

Crowley had assumed that was just human jealousy talking, because really, who wouldn't want to jump through telephone lines? But, well, that theory's gone out the window now, hasn't it?

Anyway, the point is, once he figured out how to do it, the novelty quickly wore off. Finding more creative things to use the rapidly developing telephone technology for, like shutting down the internet or inventing popup ads, was far more interesting than risking getting trapped in a telephone line or feeling dizzy and nauseous from a less than perfect exit just for a few extra minutes to talk to-

Besides, that's what his car is for. Crowley hasn't kept his Bentley in perfect condition for 90 years to just ignore it in favour of convenient but irritating telephone transport.

"Where are you, you little runt? I heard your voice! You and your best friend Aziraphale, you're dead meat!"

But using it to trap Hastur in his answering machine makes it all worth it.

Grinning to himself, Crowley tunes out Hastur's complaints and name calling, if it can even be called that. Because, snake? Really? Bit on the nose, and not even in a funny way. 3/10, score is only so high because for once he came out of the phone in a better mood than he went in. Hard not to, when the plan he pulled out his arse went off without a hitch for once.

So, now what? Should he leg it to the other side of the universe? It will certainly be easier without Hastur chasing him. He'll need to decide what he's taking. The Bentley, for sure, maybe some of his plants. He doesn't know how they'll survive off Earth, but he's sure he'll figure it out. No point in bringing his CDs, the Bentley will just change them to Queen anyway, he might as well leave them. A shame, he worked so hard on that collection…

He doesn't have to leave anything if he stops Armageddon.

Ugh. It's no use. He can't think about leaving Earth without that nagging feeling coming back. The one that tells him to stay, just a little longer, just for a bit, tugging him to remain on Earth to stop Armageddon. But how is he supposed to do that if he doesn't know where the Antichrist is? The only person who knows that is Aziraphale, and he-

He called him. 

Aziraphale called him.

I know where the Antichrist is.

That's what he was saying, wasn't it? Before Crowley cut him off to deal with Hastur?

Crowley stares at the answering machine. Aziraphale always calls him until he picks up, or at least finishes saying whatever he has to say.

It's taking him an awfully long time to call back.

Despite himself, worry gnaws at him. He can't hear Hastur anymore.

It could be a trap.

But that's not Aziraphale's style.

Isn't it?

He could have changed his mind about calling. Taken Crowley hanging up on him as a refusal to talk, although why he would think Crowley would refuse to talk to him about something as important as the Antichrist's location, Crowley doesn't know.

Or… or he could have tried again. Tried calling Crowley's answering machine, because he refuses to learn Crowley's mobile number when there's a perfectly good answering machine in his flat.

The answering machine Hastur is-

You and your best friend Aziraphale, you're dead meat.

Your best friend Aziraphale.

They know about Aziraphale.

Crowley's heart stops.

If Aziraphale calls again, Hastur will be able to get out. And he'll know, he'll know what hurting Aziraphale will do to him. Take out an angel and get revenge for Ligur all in one hit. Two birds with one stone. 

Oh satan, Ligur. Ligur wouldn't have come if they were just mad about the Antichrist. They came because of Aziraphale, too.

And if Hell knows about him and Aziraphale, then Heaven…

No.

Crowley forgets. As he runs out of his flat and down the stairs, he forgets he's mad at Aziraphale, forgets Aziraphale is an angel, forgets their whole friendship might have been a ruse. None of it matters.

Aziraphale might be in danger.

And damn it, even if Aziraphale doesn't care about Crowley, Crowley can't stop caring about Aziraphale.

He throws himself out of the building and blindly punches Aziraphale's number into his phone as he wrestles with the Bentley's door. He needs to warn Aziraphale. Heaven finding out about them has been his biggest fear for as long as Crowley's known him, and fake friendship or not, Crowley will never forgive himself if Aziraphale gets hurt or worse because he failed to warn him to hide. Even if Heaven won't do anything, Hell certainly will.

Ring.

The door opens only because he wants it to.

Ring. 

He slips into the driver's seat.

Ring.

He turns the car on. The keys are still inside his flat.

Ring.

He slams his foot on the accelerator and peels away from the pavement he illegally parked on, heading straight for Aziraphale's bookshop.

On and on the phone rings, and every ring makes Crowley's heart pound in his throat.

Please pick up.

Ring.

Please.

Ring.

Please.

Ring.

Please.

Aziraphale does not pick up. With a yell of frustration, Crowley tries again.

He can't be too late. He can't.

Cars swerve out of his way as he tears down the road, half of them moving out of self preservation, half because of a miracle or two. Crowley takes turns and swerves faster and more violently than he's ever done before, foot pressed completely to the floor as he urges the Bentley to go even faster.

Aziraphale still isn't picking up.

Maybe there's a reasonable explanation. Maybe he decided to take a walk, or pack up his things. Maybe he couldn't wait for Crowley and set off to deal with the Antichrist on his own. Aziraphale can only answer his calls if he's home, and there are a million normal, non-occult (or ethereal) reasons for him to not be home. But there's a biting feeling in the back of his mind telling him something is wrong, and Crowley has spent too long listening to his gut to ignore it. No matter how badly he wants it to be wrong.

The sound of sirens makes his heart leap into his mouth. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to not panic. This is London for crying out loud, there's sirens every two minutes. Just because Crowley is halfway to discorporation doesn't mean the sirens are related to his own personal emergency.

No. Not an emergency. Emergency implies something is wrong. It's just an… urgent situation. He just needs to nip in, warn Aziraphale, and get out. But it's not an emergency because nothing is wrong. Aziraphale is fine. He has to be. Crowley can't accept anything else.

Has the drive to the bookshop always taken this long?

Maybe he'll walk in and see Aziraphale doing… whatever it is he does when the world is ending. And he'll forget to be afraid once he sees Aziraphale is fine, and his anger will come back from being drowned out by mind-numbing terror.

Part of him wants to focus on that anger, but he can't. Not when his mind is running in circles, blaring that "Aziraphale's in danger" alarm he's grown so used to over the years but never feared more than he does now.

He hopes Aziraphale is safe. He hopes desperately, channelling every last scrap of optimism he has into believing Aziraphale is safe, because he's willed plenty of things into existence and this shouldn't be any different. But what if that's not what he finds? What if Hastur is there, trying to hurt him? What if angels are there, come to strike him down in the name of their twisted divine justice? Crowley's not a fighter, how is he supposed to help if someone else is there?

What if he doesn't find Aziraphale, but a pool of blood and Aziraphale's-

No. Stop. It won't happen. Aziraphale's fine. If anything, Heaven would come after Crowley for corrupting one of their precious angels. He's fine, he's fine, he's-

The sirens are getting louder.

And there's smoke up ahead.

No.  

Crowley turns the last corner to the bookshop. It's not far now. He's wrong, the smoke is just a bad coincidence, a stupid joke set up by someone Above or Below so they can laugh at the stupid demon losing his mind over the angel he isn't supposed to care about. It's just someone prodding at his emotions, pulling strings to make him dance, look at Crowley, stupid little snake, running to the rescue of the angel that doesn't need him and probably doesn't care about him…

The bookshop comes into view, just a second later than usual. A second that's obscured by the smoke and the fire engines surrounding the building.

No.

No no no no no.

Crowley's mind goes blank. Static screams in his ears and his vision narrows down to the smoke pouring out of the windows.

The Bentley parks on its own and Crowley throws the door open, pushing past the crowd of people that won't get out of his way. Aziraphale isn't in the crowd, Crowley would recognise him a mile away if he was, so they're not important enough to acknowledge. 

The concerned murmurs still reach his ears. 

"It just went up, no one knows what happened."

"They've not been able to get in."

"Is Mr. Fell okay? I didn't see him come out."

"A neighbour had to report it."

"Mr. Fell's so protective of this old place, no way would he let this happen."

Crowley bites back a scream as he ducks under the arm of a firefighter yelling at him to stay out. Distantly, he can hear another asking him if he's the owner of the bookshop, which is the stupidest question he's ever heard, obviously he's not the owner, everyone in SoHo knows Aziraphale and his little bookshop. 

He ignores them all. None of them are worth his time.

He stumbles through the doors that open obediently for him, and burning heat immediately hits his face. The smoke makes it hard to see, especially with his dark glasses, and it creeps under the frames to sting and dry out his eyes. Even though he's not human, it still burns his lungs, although they continue to work as they should, protected by a thin layer of demonic magic. Fire can't kill him, unless it's holy fire, but the smoke still hurts.

Aziraphale isn't the same. It's one of the few true differences between angels and demons: being vulnerable to all fire. Hellfire will kill him instantly, Earthly fire will destroy his corporation, and holy fire will burn him alive and cremate his remains. No matter what kind of fire this is, Aziraphale is vulnerable to it.

He spins on the spot, desperately scanning the room just in case Aziraphale is huddled in a hidden corner, but either his eyes fail him or Aziraphale is not there.

Fuck, please no. 

"Aziraphale!" he calls out, halfway to screaming. He needs something to work with. Some kind of proof Aziraphale is still here, still unharmed, still alive. He just needs Aziraphale to answer him.

But he doesn't. 

No, no, no, this isn't happening. Aziraphale is here, he has to be, Crowley can't - won't - accept anything else. He needs to be here so Crowley can chew him out for scaring him, for being reckless enough to let his precious bookshop burn, for having the audacity to make Crowley worry about his safety when he's still so angry-

He tries to reach out, tries to find Aziraphale's presence, but he can't. Even when his tongue flicks out to taste the air, all he can detect is ash and the burning bleach of recent ethereal magic. But no Aziraphale. The bookshop is covered in Aziraphale's scent, his angelic scent that has always been so faint, wrapped up and concealed in that corporation of his. Crowley has spent millennia training himself to pick up on that weak smell, but it's still hard to detect when the rest of the bookshop can cover it up so easily. Between that and the fire, it's impossible to detect his presence. He can't even tell if the fire itself is angelic or demonic in nature; what little air is left is thick with both demonic and angelic magic, both of which could have easily come from Crowley and Aziraphale themselves.

"Aziraphale! Where the heaven are you, you idiot? I can't find you!"

5000 years, and Crowley's never not been able to find him.

He spins around desperately again, hoping, almost praying his senses are just failing him, that the fire is confusing him, that Aziraphale will call out to him any minute. Because he is here, there's nowhere else he could be, he'd never let his bookshop burn. 

(If he's here, why isn't he stopping it?)

"Aziraphale for go- for sata- argh! For somebody's sake, where are you?"

Nothing, nothing, nothing, there's nothing, Aziraphale would never ignore him like this-

A burst of pressure punches him in the gut and knocks him on his back. Water, he realises a second later than he should, a desperate attempt to put out the possibly infernal, possibly ethereal fire that just keeps burning and burning and burning…

Crowley struggles to sit up, and through the smoke and the flames and the paper, he catches sight of a circle of marks etched into the floor. A circle he knows for a fact is almost always covered by a rug. A circle he already knows is the source of the bleach of recent magic even before his tongue flicks out to confirm it. 

Heaven knows. 

If Aziraphale contacted Heaven (he did, of course he did, he's an angel and any good angel would report back to Heaven, and Aziraphale is always so concerned with being good) after trying to call Crowley, when they know about their friendship, then…

Through the flames he can make out Aziraphale's telephone. The receiver is lying broken and burnt on the floor, a state Aziraphale would never allow unless… unless Hastur…

"You've gone."

The words are pulled from his mouth without his permission. His chest caves in without their support. His eyes, previously completely dried out, are suddenly wet.

"Somebody killed my best friend," Crowley chokes. Rage attempts to burn in his chest, rage that's been burning all day and all night since Aziraphale's confession, but it's smothered by the smoke of the flames that stole the being he cares about more than the Earth itself. He wants to scream and cry and lash out, but it's already taking all his energy to stay upright.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't get the Antichrist's location. He didn't save him from the one thing Aziraphale feared the most. And he's not even going to get to avenge him, because he has no idea who did this. Someone killed Aziraphale and destroyed all his beloved Earthly possessions in cold blood, and he's never going to know who. 

How is he supposed to live the rest of his life not knowing which face is the face of Aziraphale's murderer?

His head drops. He's too tired to hold it up anymore, and he can't keep looking at the fire. If he does, he'll think about where Aziraphale might have been standing, which flames surround his ashes, and Crowley will never sleep again if he thinks about that for even a second. 

A book catches his eye, and Crowley picks it up numbly to inspect it. It's surprisingly intact, considering all the other books are curling in on themselves like they're trying to escape the fire eating them alive. He wipes the ash off the cover to read the title, blinking hard to get rid of the blur in his vision.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter.

Oh. This must be Book Girl's book. It must be, because this is the only book missing from Aziraphale's collection, the only one Crowley has never been able to track down, and Crowley would know if Aziraphale found it any other way because Aziraphale would have called him. 

He'd hate it if the fire destroyed the only copy of the rarest book in existence.

Somehow, Crowley pulls himself to his feet, the book tucked safely under his arm. The doors open for him again as he staggers out, unsteady on feet that are in no position to keep holding him up but somehow do anyway. At some point between the bookshop and the Bentley, he removes his broken glasses and drops them to the floor, but he can't pinpoint when, exactly. 

The Bentley pulls away from the kerb without Crowley pressing his foot on the accelerator. One of the bookshop's windows explodes as he passes, and even with his windows up he can still feel the heat. One final slap in the face that mixes seamlessly with the pain already boiling him alive from the inside out. 

He doesn't think he's going to register anything as he lets the Bentley drive him away, but he does. He recognises the street he last saw Aziraphale on, when his head had been down and he'd been worrying about something. When Crowley drove past him without stopping. 

If he'd stopped, if he'd warned him, would Aziraphale still be alive?

A sob chokes him. Clenching his eyes shut, he fumbles for a second pair of glasses; the less of the world he has to see, the better. It's not worth looking at without Aziraphale anyway.

"You! You're late!"

The words grab Aziraphale's attention and the tone pulls a response from him before he's even reorientated himself. Heavenly gateways are confusing at the best of times, and although none of the other angels ever have a problem with them, Aziraphale always needs a few minutes to prepare himself to step into one, so entering one unexpectedly is… less than ideal, to say the least. 

At least he landed the right way up this time, even if he did stumble. Portals always twist and turn him so, and he's had many embarrassing landings that involved him falling flat on his face or backside. It's not a good look, especially when he's supposed to be more graceful in Heaven than anywhere else in the-

Oh. Oh dear, he's in Heaven.

What a ridiculously silly and foolish thing to do, entering the circle like that. Since when did he become so unaware of his surroundings?

"I, ah, I actually didn't mean to be here yet," Aziraphale says. He winces when he takes a step forward, unusually unsteady on his feet. He's had rough landings before, but they very rarely impede his ability to walk, and when they do, they usually make him heavy. For some reason, it's not like that this time. He feels… free?

No, no. Exposed, somehow. Almost naked. 

It's an issue he'll have to sort out in his own time, when he's not under the glare of another angel. Right now he needs to be strong and confident. A little difficult when he's limping so obviously, but perhaps if he pretends he isn't, the other angel will be generous enough to not point it out-

His hope flickers and fades when he finally looks up and realises who he's talking to.

The Quartermaster. Oh joy.

This situation really can't get much worse, can it? Arriving in Heaven in the Quartermaster's office, late and in poor physical condition. And for Armageddon no less. The Quartermaster will definitely report this, and a mark on his record is the last thing he needs right now.

"Still sorting things out on Earth," Aziraphale continues, trying not to wince. The Quartermaster isn't unfair, angels are never unfair, and he'll listen if Aziraphale gives a good reason for being late, but it's doubtful he'll consider this a good reason. 

The Quartermaster tsk's as he approaches, frowning at him for only a second before he glances back down at his papers. It's not a scowl, he knows it's not, because no angel would ever scowl at him, not even when he's messed up. But it feels like one anyway.

"Aziraphale," the Quartermaster says, scanning the paper. "Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate…" He pauses, eyebrows twitching upwards by a fraction. "Under careful assessment of the Archangel Gabriel due to misconduct."

This time Aziraphale can't hide his wince. The Quartermaster isn't quiet, and while the angels passing down uniforms are polite enough to not stare, he still knows they're listening intently. It's hard for angels to mess up badly enough to be under assessment, especially for an Archangel to oversee it. 

"An angel like you really should know better," the Quartermaster says. He picks up the uniform sitting on the desk and dumps it into Aziraphale's arms. "It's unacceptable for you to be late like this. Keeping your platoon waiting won't look good on your assessment."

He has a platoon?

Aziraphale swallows thickly. Platoons are a great honour. Being trusted to lead one, especially for Armageddon, is the closest Heaven gets to handing out awards, and he should be overwhelmed with gratitude. Platoon leaders are targets, after all, and being gifted with leadership speaks of a great amount of faith in his ability to not only lead his platoon, but to stay alive and work under the pressure of being swarmed by attacks. It's a much higher position than he deserves, especially since he's under assessment, and although he doesn't know why he's been given such an important position when he's in so much trouble, he should be grateful. 

Instead, he's nauseous. 

Perhaps he's misunderstood. Maybe he's just part of the platoon. That would certainly make more sense than leading one. 

But they wouldn't wait for him if he's supposed to be just another soldier. 

Well, it's too late to ask for clarification now. Not knowing his exact role in Armageddon is not something he's willing to admit to the Quartermaster, especially not if he is the leader, because that's admitting he hasn't been spending the last 11 years planning out strategies and tactics like he should have, and the Quartermaster will definitely not forgive that.

Perhaps he should have actually read the letter Heaven sent him 11 years ago instead of allowing Crowley to set it on fire to torment some teachers. 

Oh, he's been silent for too long. He should respond, most likely apologise, but it'll probably come across as insincere, what good angel takes so long to apologise-

But the Quartermaster isn't looking at him. He's frowning down at his papers again and muttering to himself. 

"Aziraphale… why is that name so familiar?"

Oh no. 

"Aziraphale," the Quartermaster repeats, flipping through his papers, voice sterner than before. "You were issued with-"

"A flaming sword, I know," Aziraphale cuts in, desperate to explain himself. The Quartermaster doesn't appreciate it when things go missing, and if the Archangels took his wings for it, the Quartermaster will have his head. "It's not my fault! She was having a very bad day-"

"Not that," the Quartermaster snaps. "Everyone knows about that."

Aziraphale's stomach rolls. He'd hoped so desperately Gabriel would keep it discreet, at least until he got his wings back. But if everyone knows about the flaming sword, they must also know about his punishment, and now they all know he's still under assessment, that he still hasn't earned Heaven's forgiveness after 6000 years…

"You were issued with a body! Where is it?"

What?

What does he mean, where is it? Aziraphale's wearing it, where else would it be, it can't just poof away like a human magic trick-

He looks down at his hand. 

His distinctly non-human hand. 

Ah. So that's why he feels so exposed. 

Apparently the situation can get worse. 

"I… I'm afraid I hadn't actually prepared to step into the transportation portal," Aziraphale explains. Something cold curls in his chest (his core? He's had his corporation for so long he's forgotten what non-human terms he's supposed to use, and isn't that another mark against his ability to be a good angel, when chest feels more natural to him than his real body parts) and he desperately tries to ignore it. It's not fear. It's not. "So the body… discorporated."

"Discorporated," the Quartermaster repeats.

"It was 6000 years old."

Maybe he should keep his mouth shut. Explanations are supposed to help, not make things worse, and he's definitely making things worse, if the Quartermaster's face is any indication. 

"I count them all out," the Quartermaster begins, walking around his desk - oh no, he's leaving his desk, this isn't good- "and I count them all in again. And then you turn up, late for Armageddon, already injured, and with a discorporated body?"

Aziraphale swallows. His eyes lower until they meet the floor. 

"You had one thing to take care of," the Quartermaster continues. He's not in Aziraphale's face, not like the Archangels were earlier, but the spit he sprays as he talks still hits Aziraphale's cheek. He doesn't apologise. "And you couldn't even do that?"

It's not my fault, Aziraphale wants to repeat. But his throat tightens, refusing to let the words pass. Perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps his body is finally protecting him from saying something stupid by taking his ability to talk altogether.

"You are, without a doubt, the most pathetic excuse for an angel I've ever met! No wonder the Archangels took your wings!"

Aziraphale hunches in on himself. His eyes sting, and he can't bring himself to look up from the floor. His throat tightens even more, but really, what can he say? He's known he's a pathetic excuse for an angel ever since he made Crowley cry. He doesn't deserve to be here, and he deserves to be on Earth even less.

"You get into position right now," the Quartermaster isn't shouting anymore, but his voice is still dangerous, "and I won't say anything more about the body you discorporated. Count yourself lucky you've found me in a generous mood."

He is lucky. Normally the Quartermaster would demand a full report, a century's worth of punishments, and his wages brought to a complete halt until he's paid for both the old corporation and the new one. Being offered a chance like this is unheard of, and if he has any sense of self preservation, he should take it immediately. Should report to his platoon and do his job, be a good angel and stop trying to challenge the Great Plan to save the Earth.

The Earth Crowley is still on. Still fighting to save, even though all of Hell will be after him if they find out.

"I have to go back," he says instead. He knows he should be firm, should demand instead of plead, but he still can't lift his head, and his shoulders are shaking. "I was in the middle of something important."

He didn't get to tell Crowley the Antichrist's location.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Quartermaster scoffs. "Nothing is more important than Armageddon."

Crowley is. 

"I have to go back," he repeats, firmer this time. "I… I demand to be returned."

"Without a body?" the Quartermaster sneers. "What are you going to do? You can't possess them."

Crowley can. 

"Demons can," Aziraphale says without meaning to. He lifts his head even though he still can't look at the Quartermaster. He's not trying to look at him anyway. 

His eyes fall on the spinning globe. 

"You're not a demon, you're an angel. Surely you don't need your wings to remember that."

Aziraphale flinches, away from the Quartermaster, towards the globe. 

Crowley never said anything about Aziraphale's wings. Never used them to hurt him, never used anything he's overly sensitive about to hurt him. Not even during their argument, when Aziraphale deserved it the most.

He keeps retreating towards the globe. He's going to be in so much trouble for this, but...

"What are you - where are you going?"

Aziraphale doesn't respond, but he does walk a little faster, just in case someone tries to stop him. He can't let that happen. He needs to get to Crowley. 

"Get away from that! Make yourself useful for once, for god's sake!"

He's far more useful on Earth than he is here. Even if Crowley doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him, he has important information. He's useful to Crowley.

If he's lucky, if he's useful enough, Crowley may give him a chance to earn his forgiveness. And if he doesn't, if he never wants to see Aziraphale again, at least it won't be because Aziraphale abandoned him when he needed him most.

"I'll report this to Gabriel! This will go straight onto your assessment!"

He doesn't doubt it. Nor does he doubt that such a report will destroy any chance he has of getting his wings back.

Fuck the assessment.

He takes a deep, trembling breath, and only hesitates for a second. 

Fuck his wings, too.

Aziraphale taps the globe. He has no idea how to navigate it, but he's confident he can figure it out as he goes. 

Hold on, Crowley. I'm coming.

The door to the flat closes with a soft click that echoes loudly through the almost empty room. The tired silence that's clung to them since the bus stop has followed them in, but Aziraphale doesn't know how to break it and Crowley doesn't seem interested in breaking it for him, so for now he just has to allow it.

He's never actually been in Crowley's flat before, and it's somehow simultaneously nothing like he expected and exactly what he'd expect from Crowley. He's admittedly never thought Crowley's flat would have such a minimalistic style, but looking at it now, it makes sense. Crowley's always been surprisingly uptight about neatness and organisation, so the decoration style isn't as much of a surprise as Aziraphale would have thought. He almost wants to compare it to Heaven, but Crowley's flat, while lacking the cozy and homely touch Aziraphale's bookshop has - had - isn't nearly as cold and uninviting as the searingly white walls of Heaven.

It's nice, Crowley trusting him enough to let him into his home, even if the circumstances are… less than ideal, and certainly not what Aziraphale envisioned for his first visit. It's more than he deserves after what he did yesterday.

"Thank you for letting me stay the night," Aziraphale says. He's been meaning to show more gratitude for Crowley's constant generosity for quite some time now, and without the excuse of Heaven finding out about them to stop him, there really is no better time to start than now.

"'S no problem," Crowley says. "Couldn't just fuck off and leave you without somewhere to stay after the day we've had."

He could have. London is littered with hotels, and it would've been easy to book a room in one, even without the use of a miracle. But Crowley invited him anyway.

"Bathroom's down the hall and to the left," Crowley continues, gesturing vaguely in the general direction of the hall. "Don't have a guest room, so you can just use mine, it's not like I… need it…"

Crowley trails off, face making a complicated expression Aziraphale can't interpret. Still, he knows what Crowley's thinking, and he can't fight back a wince.

"Do you… sleep?" Crowley asks. He's tense, like he can't decide if the situation is awkward or uncomfortable. Personally, Aziraphale thinks it's both.

"Not really," he admits. "I've tried, but I just…"

"Right," Crowley says. He clears his throat, raises a hand to rub his eyes, then lowers it when he realises his glasses are in the way. "Right. Guess that makes this easier. Uh. We can just. Stay out here then, I guess."

"We? You aren't going to bed?"

"Nah."

"But…" Aziraphale tugs on his waistcoat. "But you love sleep. You never… unless you're working, you always…"

"Figured you probably don't want to be on your own in my flat all night. I can stay up. It's not a problem."

Except it is. Crowley looks dead on his feet, and his swaying isn't like his normal swaying. It's unsteady, he keeps jerking himself back upright, instead of his usual hypnotic sway of left to right. He was unsteady when walking earlier, too, and he'd stumbled into a wall on his way up the stairs. His back is to the hall Aziraphale assumes leads to his bedroom, and Aziraphale knows he only turns his back on things like this when he's trying to resist some form of temptation.

Once again, he's sacrificing for Aziraphale, even though Aziraphale has done nothing to deserve it.

"Crowley…"

"It's fine. I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me."

"Like you lied to me?"

Aziraphale flinches.

"Sorry," Crowley mutters after a beat of silence. He sounds exhausted. "That… I didn't mean to say that. That was too far."

But was it? After everything Aziraphale's done, after everything he's put Crowley through, surely he deserves to let it out. It's only fair.

"Just… just leave it. I'm fine, so leave it."

And maybe Aziraphale should. He doesn't have the right to boss Crowley around and he certainly doesn't have the right to insist Crowley take care of himself. It's a level of care demons are prickly about at the best of times, and one Crowley has only ever allowed because they're friends - were friends, because Aziraphale honestly doesn't know if they are anymore, and he doesn't want to presume. Crowley may want nothing to do with him, which is perfectly understandable no matter how much it hurts, and he doesn't have the right to express that care anymore.

But Crowley is sacrificing himself for Aziraphale again, is putting aside his discomfort to help Aziraphale again, and he loves Crowley too much to allow him to do this to himself. He might have, once, because he's weak and selfish and constantly craves Crowley's presence, but he wants - needs - to do better, to put Crowley above himself for once in his life. It's the least Crowley deserves.

So instead he says, "You're tired. You should sleep."

"Come on, you said there's one last prophecy," Crowley says, completely ignoring him. "Get it out, then, let's see if we can figure it out."

"You should sleep."

"Shouldn't take too long, I'm not great at decoding prophecies but I know some stuff, and you've been breathing prophecies since writing was invented, so between the two of us we should-"

"Crowley, please."

Crowley stops. 

"Please go to bed," Aziraphale begs. "It's been such a long day, and you've already done so much. You deserve to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"We stopped the apocalypse. We faced off against Satan and two agents of Heaven and Hell, and-"

"Stop it." Crowley's voice is strained. "Just… stop."

Aziraphale falls silent. He picks absently at his nails for a moment, then remembers he's not supposed to do that and fiddles with the chain of his pocket watch instead. 

"Why do you care? Why does it matter if I sleep or not? I don't need sleep. I'm a demon."

Aziraphale's throat tightens. This isn't about the sleeping, and not even he is foolish enough to think it is.

"Because you…" Aziraphale struggles for a moment. They've never vocalised this, any of this. For 5000 years things have been left labelled but unsaid, friends without any acknowledgement of what that word means. Aziraphale has always had a fondness for words, but not even he can fit thousands of years worth of feelings into a sentence. He probably couldn't do it even if he was given infinite sentences and a million years to prepare. Doing it now, under pressure and with the knowledge that expressing most of those feelings now of all times is inappropriate, is impossible.

But he has to try. For Crowley.

"Because you're… you matter to me."

The hesitation is less than ideal, especially for such an important conversation. He can't even meet his eyes. But it's the best Aziraphale can do after saying nothing at all for so long.

Crowley's face is carefully blank. "Do I?"

"Yes."

He could call out the hesitation. He could point out the nervous fidgeting, the way Aziraphale won't look at him, or a million other things he's probably aware of that tells him he has reason to doubt Aziraphale is telling the truth.

Instead he says, "Then why did you lie to me?"

Aziraphale flinches. The silence grows heavy between them, but Crowley doesn't take the words back or continue to talk.

"I didn't mean to," Aziraphale says at last.

"That's not the defence you think it is."

"I know."

Crowley huffs. He raises a hand again, bumps into his glasses, and tries to play it off by running his hand through his hair. "Just… tell me this. Were you ever going to tell me?"

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. It's cowardly, but he can't look at Crowley. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apology. I want you to answer me."

He expected that, but expectations don't stop the words from stinging.

"I did want to tell you," Aziraphale says. "I swear I was going to. I just didn't know how, and I could never find a way to word it right, and then Armageddon happened…"

"And what? You didn't think that was the most important reason you should tell me? Even knowing we didn't have much time?"

"We didn't know that," Aziraphale says weakly. "That was the whole point of our plan."

Crowley looks unimpressed.

"I… I didn't tell you because we had a plan," Aziraphale tries to explain. It just sounds like an excuse. "I thought… well, it was such a good plan, and when you said I could use it to get Heaven to lift my… to deal with my problem, I thought for sure it would work. I thought if we could pull it off, Heaven would give me my wings back."

"So your wings were more important to you than telling me the truth," Crowley says flatly.

"That's not what I mean!"

"Then fucking explain it! I'm trying, Aziraphale, I really am, but I can't see what the fuck else I'm supposed to get out of this!"

His throat tightens even more. Aziraphale fights to take a deep breath to loosen it so he can answer.

"I wanted to wait until I got my wings back," he says. "I promise I was going to tell you. I just wanted to wait until I had my wings. I… I knew it wouldn't be easy to tell you, but I just thought… well, I thought everything would be okay once I had my wings back."

"How?" Crowley asks. He sounds desperate. "How would having your wings make any of this okay?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer… and realises he can't.

He… he doesn't know. He's been so focused on getting his wings back, because getting his wings means Heaven's forgiven him, and then everything will be okay. It can't be okay if Heaven is angry with him, because that's a bad thing, so if they've forgiven him, everything must be okay again.

But Crowley has nothing to do with Heaven. If anything, having wings - physical proof of his angelic nature - would make it worse. He's a fool for thinking his wings would do anything to make up for lying to Crowley for thousands of years. 

Aziraphale risks a glance up. He can't see Crowley's eyes, but he doesn't need to. The stressed crease of his brow is enough to tell Aziraphale everything he needs to know; Crowley is just as desperate for an answer as him, to hear something, anything, to justify his actions. 

"I don't know," Aziraphale whispers. It's just another disappointment to add to the long, long list of times he's let Crowley down. Only now he can see his lack of wings aren't the reason he's unable to be what Crowley needs. "I thought… I don't know."

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. His fists are clenched at his sides, but he doesn't seem angry. Aziraphale can feel Crowley's gaze picking him apart, digging into his eyes and face and body language to search for an answer Aziraphale doesn't have. It makes his chest ache, knowing he won't find what he's desperately looking for. 

Finally, Crowley's shoulders slump. 

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

Aziraphale's stomach squirms unpleasantly. "I'm sorry."

"Okay. The prophecy?"

"Crowley-"

"The prophecy, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale's lower lip trembles, though he tries desperately to stop it. He pulls out the scrap paper with the final prophecy on it. 

"You should sleep," he says even as he hands the paper to Crowley. "I'm sure I can figure it out."

"It's just deciphering a prophecy. That's nothing compared to what we've done today."

"But you've already done so much."

"It's fine. I can do it."

"You shouldn't have to."

Crowley glances up at him. He grips the paper a little tighter.

"Don't you trust me?" he asks.

Aziraphale gapes at him. "Of course I trust you!"

"Do you?"

His voice is wobbling. A knife slices Aziraphale's heart in two, and he wants to look away, to hide from what he's done. But that wouldn't be fair to Crowley, so he forces himself to meet his eyes, so he can see how genuine, how truthful, he is.

"There's no one I trust more than you," he says, and the strength and conviction in his voice surprises even him.

It catches Crowley off guard, too, but it makes a little tension drain from his face.

"Then why won't you let me help?" he asks quietly.

"Because you've done enough." Aziraphale dares to take a step forward. Crowley doesn't step away. "Crowley, you've done so much. You came up with the plan to raise the Antichrist together. You were the one to suggest looking for him and thinking of a new plan when we realised we messed up. You drove through the M25 when it was on fire and kept your car together until you got to the airport. You stopped time, for Heaven's sake."

"I killed Ligur, too," Crowley says absently. "He was here earlier. With Hastur. When you, uh, called. That's why I put the phone down."

Aziraphale's chest twists. He didn't know Hell found out so early…

"Well," he says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "There you go, then. You've done so much for the Earth, Crowley. Stopping time alone is enough to exhaust any celestial being, and you deserve to rest."

"The prophecy-"

"I'll do it," Aziraphale says. He reaches out to hold Crowley's hands.

Crowley pulls them away before he can touch them.

Right. Okay. They're not there yet. Or possibly ever again. That's… fair, even if it does feel like Aziraphale is disintegrating from the inside out.

"Let me figure out the prophecy," he continues. He doesn't mention the failed touch. "Please. It's the least I can do."

Crowley stares at him for a long time. Long enough Aziraphale thinks he intends to stand there all night, or perhaps has fallen asleep already.

Eventually, though, he gets a soft, "Alright."

The prophecy is carefully pushed back into his hands. Their skin doesn't brush as he's handed the paper.

Aziraphale's shoulders slump. He hadn't even realised they were tense. "I'll have the answer by morning. Ah… have a nice sleep."

"Mmm." Crowley runs a hand down his face, yawning, and turns to the hallway. "Goodnight ange-"

They both freeze. Crowley's hand is hovering awkwardly in the air from where his arm was dropping down to his side, and Aziraphale's breath is ice in his lungs.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says. "Goodnight Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods, even though Crowley isn't looking at him and can't see it, and pushes back the tears in his eyes. He doesn't deserve to cry over this. "Goodnight."

Crowley disappears into the hallway. Aziraphale's vision is too blurry to make anything out, but a door closes, so Crowley must have retreated to his own room. He'll be asleep in seconds, most likely. 

Aziraphale allows himself twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to collect himself, to feel the pain in his chest and find a way to breathe around it, to let the tears prick his eyes like needles until the burn becomes unbearable. 

Then he pushes it all away, sets the prophecy on the desk, and gets to work.

Crowley's memories of Heaven from Before are hazy at best. Satan did his best to wipe everyone's memories of their time in Heaven after they Fell - something about lingering loyalty to the opposition, severing former ties to loved ones to show obedience to him, not needing to be held back by feelings for those who stabbed them in the back and will use those feelings against them, blah blah blah - so trying to think about his life before he Fell is like pushing through thick jello to gaze through a frosted window and stare directly into fog.

He's been back for all of five minutes, and Crowley honestly doesn't think he needs those memories. All his mind can conjure is white, and, well, that definitely still holds true. Nothing but white as far as the eye can see, glaring and sharp and endless without even any furniture to break it up. Crowley normally appreciates minimalism - Hell is always so crowded and it makes his skin crawl - but this is a bit much, even for him. 

So, yeah, apparently he's not missing much.

And the current circumstances aren't exactly encouraging him to change his mind.

The ropes around his wrists are tight; carefully loose enough to avoid being labelled cruel but excessively tight enough to cause unnecessary pain. He wonders if he's supposed to be grateful they're not tighter. Bad luck on their part if he is, because demons don't do gratitude, and Crowley sure as fuck doesn't give it to asshole angels who cover their bullshit with flimsy "generosity." He can think of a dozen smart comments to make about this situation, and it really is a shame he has to hold them back for the sake of their plan. A plan that was, surprisingly, Aziraphale's idea, one he'd apparently spent all night mulling over before he woke Crowley at the ridiculous time of half 7 in the morning.

It's a good plan, he has to admit. Wearing one another's corporations to give them immunity to hellfire and holy water respectively will both spit in Heaven and Hell's faces and cause a little chaos, if they play their cards right. 

Still. What a waste of snark. Looks like the 6000 years worth of insults he's been carefully crafting will have to wait for another day.

The footsteps behind him are his first warning. Gabriel's obnoxiously smug voice is the second.

"Aziraphale. So glad you could join us." Gabriel claps him on the back twice, hard, in a mock example of a friendly pat. The force of it is enough to make Crowley lurch forward, gritting his teeth as he fights to keep his wings from reflexively flaring out of Aziraphale's corporation. Trading bodies didn't allow them to trade wing colours, and besides, Aziraphale's wings have been confiscated or whatever. If he lets his wings out, it's game over.

Strange, though, he thought whatever bullshit miracle or enchantment they put on Aziraphale would be on his corporation. Or maybe for the body to be too tight, so his wings have no way to get out. But it's just a normal corporation.

Hmm. It must be on his true form, then. An enchantment like that will be a pain to break, could take centuries to find a way to destroy it. Maybe that can be his new project once he gets back to Earth, give himself some time to calm down and relax, and it has the added bonus of giving him an excuse to avoid Aziraphale. Avoid him in person, that is, since Crowley will still be thinking about him during his search, how can he do anything else when his research will be for Aziraphale…

Crowley's fists clench and he has to bite his tongue to hold back a furious hiss.

Okay, maybe doing anything Aziraphale related isn't a good idea. Maybe he needs to spend the next few centuries focusing on himself and only himself like a proper demon.

Shit, Gabriel's talking, and Crowley hasn't been listening at all. Fuck, he needs to pay attention if he wants his half of the plan to work. He doesn't know how well the angels know Aziraphale, how many slip ups he can afford, but he can't take risks right now. He's already working on potentially false assumptions, already working against angels that may know Aziraphale better than he does. No need to make it worse.

Focus. He's not Crowley right now. Right now, he's Aziraphale, his best friend(?) of 5000 years, the person he knows better than anyone, the angel who lied to him-

No. The angel who's currently in a lot of trouble with the bosses he fears. That's the only angelic thing he needs to remember right now.

Focus.

"-to like this. I really do." Gabriel leans in uncomfortably close, a gritted smile frozen on his face. Satan, Crowley wants to punch him. But Aziraphale wouldn't want to punch him. Aziraphale would stay perfectly still, refuse to shy away from Gabriel, be the good little angel who won't give his bosses any reason to think he thinks of them in even the slimmest negative light. So that's what Crowley does. Sits perfectly still, spine stiff, face and body language as neutral as he can manage in the presence of an angel.

"And I bet you didn't see this one coming." Gabriel's smile drops, just for a moment, and although that probably means bad things for Crowley, he still basks in the satisfaction coiling in his chest at an angel like Gabriel temporarily dropping his act out of fury.

He keeps his face blank, though. Aziraphale would never smile at making his boss upset, so Crowley can't either. At least, he thinks Aziraphale would never smile at such a thing. Satan, please let him know Aziraphale would never do that. Please let just enough of his Aziraphale knowledge be real enough to get through this.

Gabriel is wrong about one thing. He's pretty sure he knows what's coming. If Aziraphale's interpretation of the last prophecy is correct, and it should be, because Aziraphale is so, so clever, and he's never been wrong about a prophecy before - fuck, please let Aziraphale be right-

"Don't get this view down in the basement," a familiar voice says, and Crowley has to bite back a whoop of victory. He knows that voice, if only vaguely, that very demonic voice…

Yep, sure enough, that's a demon carrying that… bucket? Pan? Crowley can't tell what it is from this angle, and he doesn't dare twist to look, because he needs to keep his eyes on Gabriel, just like Aziraphale would. Whatever. He doesn't need a proper look anyway. He knows what's in it. There's only one reason the Archangels would let a demon sully their beloved heavenly floors with their presence, and that's…

The circle of stones light up, a vortex of hellfire shooting up towards the ceiling.

Yep, there it is. 

Aziraphale, you brilliant, brilliant bastard.

The demon scurries away without another word, leaving Crowley with two angels and an on-track plan. 

"So! With one act of treason, you averted the war."

Treason? Didn't know you were the bloody Queen, Crowley wants to say. But Aziraphale wouldn't be so disrespectful. Aziraphale would meet Gabriel's eyes, push past his obvious fear to defend his actions, his belief in doing the right thing. This, at least, Crowley knows. He saw it during the confrontation at the airport, when he was terrified Aziraphale would cower and abandon him when faced with his superior and ordered to stand down. When Aziraphale, trembling and swallowing every ten seconds, continued to stand by Crowley's side and gently reminded them all of the Ineffable Plan. 

Crowley doesn't know how to feel about Aziraphale. Doesn't know if they're friends or acquaintances or neutral coworkers, doesn't know if Aziraphale cares about him or just wants to save his own skin. Over the last two days he's been emotionally fucked six ways to Sunday, thrown from anger to terror to grief to relief to anger again to numbness, and he's watched as Heaven and Hell tried to burn the Earth to the ground while trying to shoulder the knowledge that he doesn't know his best friend as well as he thought he did, might not know him at all. 

But he does know this: Aziraphale cares about the Earth and would never apologise for saving it. Would never apologise for doing what he really, truly believes to be the right thing.

So Crowley won't.

"Well, I think the greater good-"

"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel," Gabriel snaps, and oh wow, Crowley didn't think he could get him to snap, this day just gets better and better. "The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all."

Crowley bites back a smile. If only they knew the opposition is right in front of their-

Gabriel comes closer, leaning on the arms of the chair he's tied to - oh look, he's not above invading Crowley's personal space, isn't that fantastic-

"But then again," he says lowly, eyes sparking dangerously, "you're already settling with the opposition, aren't you?"

Crowley swallows. Gabriel is right in his face, and it takes all his willpower to not spit in his eye. He leans away instead, shoulder blades digging into the backrest of the chair. 

Be Aziraphale. Be Aziraphale.

"And I could forgive that. I really could," Gabriel continues. He doesn't lean closer, but he doesn't move away, either. "I can see why someone like you would be tricked into… fraternising with the enemy."

Oh, you hypocritical bastard.

"It's no surprise you've been unable to earn our forgiveness for so long. It must have been hard, trying to repent for your sins with a demon like Crowley corrupting you. That's why I wanted to give you one last chance. I knew a weak angel like you couldn't stand a chance against a cunning demon's charms."

Oh. Oh fuck no.

Crowley ducks his head, biting his lip hard to stay quiet, and hopes the action will be read as shame or fear. He doesn't know what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak, but he knows it will blow his cover. But fuck, what he would give to give Gabriel a piece of his mind right now. Because, weak? Aziraphale is far from weak. Over the last two days Crowley has had several scathing thoughts about Aziraphale - liar, manipulative, typical bloody angel - but not weak. Never weak.

How dare this bastard say otherwise?

Crowley takes back all his earlier doubts. He may not know Aziraphale like he thought he did, may not know him at all, but he definitely knows him better than these bastards do. They don't know a damn thing about him if they truly believe he's weak. 

"But your task was very simple. All you had to do was return to Heaven and fight for us." Gabriel leans in closer. He's not quite breathing on Crowley, but it's a near thing. "And you couldn't even do that. There's only so many chances we can give you until you prove yourself unforgivable, you know."

Crowley freezes.

"It really is a shame," Gabriel says, stepping away at last. "I really hoped you would change, but I see you're just as selfish as always. It's not like we didn't warn you."

Warn him of what?

Crowley's heart rate spikes. This isn't just a punishment for stopping Armageddon. It's not even a punishment for being friends with a demon. There's something else going on, something Crowley doesn't know about, and he has no idea how he's supposed to handle it, not as Aziraphale.

Maybe that's the point? Maybe they know he's not really Aziraphale, and they're trying to get him to mess up so they can call him out? But how could they find out? They were so careful when they swapped bodies, there's no way they could have been caught.

Unless Aziraphale…

No. He wouldn't. Even if he doesn't care about Crowley, he wouldn't tell Heaven anything. His life is on the line just as much as Crowley's is. Unless he was never in danger, and it's a trap to-

No! Hell has Aziraphale, they wouldn't care! And Aziraphale would never-

Wouldn't he?

You don't know for certain. You don't know him. You don't know-

More footsteps.

"Ah, Uriel! Right on time." Gabriel's plastic smile is back. His eyes never leave Crowley. "I think you know what this is about."

He doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue.

Something is in Uriel's arms. Something soft and white and smells like…

Aziraphale-!

Crowley lurches forward, straining against the ropes to-

Oh. It's not Aziraphale. It's just some… wings…

… Angel wings that aren't attached to an angel.

Crowley desperately wants to flick his tongue out, but that will give him away. So he just has to inhale deeply as Uriel passes him, hoping desperately he can catch a scent. And he does. It's an old scent, thousands of years old, and it's missing the tinge of human comforts and indulgences he knows so well, but it's still familiar. It's still Aziraphale's scent.

They took my wings.

Crowley's stomach drops. No. They… they wouldn't…

Oh, but they would.

"I really didn't want you to ever see this," Gabriel says. His sad frown is so exaggerated and fake it makes Crowley feel sick. "I wanted to do it before you got here. But demons can't be trusted, and we do need to test the fire, so…"

Crowley doesn't respond. He can't, he can't stop staring at the wings in Uriel's arms, dusty and dull and grey from millennia hidden away.

Nothing in Heaven is dusty or dull or grey. Crowley knows this for a fact.

But the wings - Aziraphale's wings - are.

"I really am sorry, Aziraphale." Gabriel says. His face is sad, but his eyes are smirking. "I really did hope you'd earn them back, but what's done is done. You have no one to blame but yourself."

Earn them back? For what? They've been ripped off, they're useless, it's not like they can-

Uriel throws the wings into the fire, and they're alight instantly.

Crowley watches, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, as Aziraphale's wings burn. The smell is awful, bleach with a sharp, bitter edge corrupted even further by something acidic and rotten. Crowley's stomach churns, and it takes all his willpower to not throw up right there. The wings are gone within seconds, feathers blackening and disintegrating, ashes catching alight and vanishing the way only hellfire can achieve. It's over before he knows it, but the smell… the smell lingers, the only reminder of what's just been destroyed.

And with the smell, buried under the bleach and the acid, is the very, very faint scent of burnt parchment and pastries.

Crowley can't breathe. Scattered scraps of burning paper flash through his mind.

That's what Aziraphale would smell like if he…

"Excellent, it works." Gabriel's tone is far too jolly for the situation. Like that's not a part of Aziraphale they've destroyed in cold blood. Like Aziraphale wouldn't be devastated and shattered if he was here.

Uriel approaches, nose wrinkled, and flicks the ropes around his wrists off. "Up."

The smell must bother the Archangels. No angel would want to know what an angel destroyed by hellfire smells like.

But they're planning to go through it again anyway. They want to make the smell worse by making Aziraphale walk into the fire after his wings.

His lungs draw in air more on instinct than any actual need, and Crowley clings to the sensation as he rises. He has to. If he focuses on anything else he will personally make the smell worse. If he looks at Uriel for too long, or listens to Gabriel too much, this room will be tainted forever, and no amount of bleach will be able to remove the stench of three extinct Archangels.

Crowley is no stranger to hate. Or he thought he wasn't, at least. But this? This boiling rage, clawing at his being and blinding his vision and threatening to set his borrowed corporation alight? It's the second most intense thing he's ever felt, and so much more powerful than he ever dreamed of. He wants to drag Uriel and Sandalphon into the vortex, hold them tight in his arms as they scream and writhe to get away in the eight seconds it will take for them to burn up completely. He wants to wrap his hands around Gabriel's throat, watch his eyes widen and hear him beg for mercy as his own, personal infernal fire that licks at his veins sears a scar into the smug bastards neck before consuming him, turning him into a candle in Crowley's palms.

Crowley's never been violent. Even in his worst moments, even when facing down Satan, even when Aziraphale lied to him, he never wanted to be violent. He's not a fighter and he knows it, knows he'll get much further with his words than his fists.

But this is an exception. They burned a part of Aziraphale, and want to burn the rest of him, and Crowley wants to murder them with his bare hands. His fingers twitch with the urge, infernal fire dangerously close to sparking in his hands. 

But Aziraphale is Down There. Surrounded by demons who won't hesitate to destroy him if they know what he is.

If Crowley kills them, he not only destroys their plan and blows their cover, he kills Aziraphale. And that is something he can't allow. 

He can feel the heat of the hellfire even from here, beckoning him closer, rich with temptations. Aren't you cold up here, little demon, with these ceramic angels and freezing, flawless walls? Don't you want to be warm? Do you not feel the power before you, don't you want to hold it? Let it surround you, consume you until it's part of you, ready to be manipulated, under your command as much as a chaotic fire can be controlled? Step closer, step closer, let the flames ignite your rage. Get revenge for what these angels have done, light them up and make them hurt like you hurt, give them what they deserve, show them their sins are just as heavy as your own.

Crowley knows temptation like the back of his hand. It's what he does. He knows how to wield it, takes comfort when he's completely surrounded by it, just waiting for him to reach out and touch. He's the master of temptation, and he knows the best way to control it is to allow it to take control and manipulate it from there.

He also knows how to ignore it. Whether it's from his experience working with it or the millennia he's spent with an angel rubbing off on him, he can be completely surrounded by wonderful temptation and never lay a finger on it. 

He'll ignore the temptations today. For the sake of their plan, for the sake of Aziraphale. He will not burn the Archangels no matter how much the hellfire at his fingertips whispers to him. 

But even if he can't touch them, he's going to make damn sure they regret every single second they've ever spent in Aziraphale's presence.

He's an opportunist, after all, and, well, what demon can say no to the chaos he has available in the cards in his hands?

Chapter Text

It's not the first time Crowley's seen the bookshop after the fire, but looking up at it now, towering tall and proud over the Bentley like nothing ever happened to it, still feels weird. Fleeting. Like if he blinks it'll be shrouded in smoke and crumbling to the ground in a pile of ash by the time he opens his eyes. So he sits in his car staring at it for quite some time, just to make sure it really is there. That's it. That's the only reason he's still sat here after fifteen minutes. It's definitely not because he's stalling or anything.

Truthfully, Crowley had no intentions of coming back this soon. Their argument still won't get out of his head no matter how much he wants it to, and one moment of solidarity as they stood off against their bosses and Satan himself with nothing more than a tyre iron and a small child who just happens to be the Antichrist isn't enough to wipe away the… the everything that happened because of that incident at the bandstand. Even now, after everything they've been through, just thinking about it makes Crowley's blood boil.

He needs a nap. He needs a holiday. He needs to do something away from here that won't make him think about Aziraphale.

But every time he seriously contemplates doing so, hellfire flickers behind his eyes. Every time he glances at the Bentley, phantom rotten bleach invades his nose and mouth. Every time he thinks about running away and buying a cottage in the South Downs, a croon of "We did warn you," whispers in his ears.

So here he is. Sitting outside the last place… okay, no, third last place, Heaven or Hell would still be way worse - third last place he wants to be.

He doesn't have to go in. It's been seventeen minutes and Aziraphale hasn't come out to speak to him, so he must not know he's there. Crowley can turn the car around and drive home right now. He can go to sleep and deal with this at some point in the future. Hell, he doesn't have to deal with this at all. Aziraphale kept his status as an angel from him for five thousand years, why should Crowley tell him anything? He's owed a little secret keeping of his own.

Grey feathers turn black and disintegrate in his mind.

Ugh.

With a heavy sigh, Crowley hauls himself out of the car. The Bentley slams the door shut behind him a little too eagerly, and although it can't really lock him out, he gets the message anyway. He's not welcome back until he talks to Aziraphale.

Dragging himself to the doors of the bookshop is a chore. His feet shuffle and scuff along the ground, like if they take a million years they won't have to do this at all, instead of just delaying the inevitable. But even with the slow pace he's at the front doors far too soon, and for a whole minute all he can do is stare at them. His feet won't move, his hand won't raise, his magic won't push. Not a single part of him wants to be here.

No part except that stupid voice in the back of his mind that isn't a conscience but is doing a very good job of pretending to be one. 

It wasn't this hard when he came back in Aziraphale's body. Seeing the bookshop intact had knocked the breath out of him for a moment, and every new book was jarring, but it wasn't hard to walk in. Hell, it wasn't even hard when the damn place was on fire and he barrelled in without a single coherent thought in his head except find Aziraphale.

He hates thinking about that moment almost as much as he hates thinking about the bandstand. He can't stand the memories of the panic, the smoke, the crushing loss. It always makes him forget to breathe, his body trapped in a self-defence mode for a crisis that now only exists in his memory.

Why was it easier to walk through these doors when he was risking facing Aziraphale's death than it is when all he's facing is a conversation?

Grinding his teeth, Crowley manages to lift a hand. His fingers hover over the doors, uncertain, before he rests his fingertips on the wood. Immediately they swing open, the chime of the bell singing a greeting as the warmth inside rushes to invite him in.

Crowley shuffles inside, the doors closing firmly behind him, trapping him in. He can will them open if he wants to, but like with the Bentley, it won't be a welcome action. The bookshop knows his presence just as well as it knows Aziraphale's, and it doesn't want him to leave. Even after everything, he's still welcome here.

It smells just like it should, too. Last time he was here all he could smell were books and ink; Adam is good, but not even he can casually replicate occult or ethereal scents. But Aziraphale is back now, and the bookshop's smell has that very faint angelic tinge to it like it always has.

Part of Crowley expected the angel smell to be stronger now he knows what Aziraphale is. He'd thought maybe Aziraphale was somehow covering it up with a miracle or enchantment, although for the life of him he had no idea what kind of enchantment could achieve that, but the weak smell makes so much more sense now he knows the truth about Aziraphale's wings. Wings are the only part of them that can't fit into a corporation, so they have to be tucked away onto a different plane of existence altogether. It's why anyone with a body smells weaker than someone who only uses their true form; the corporation is concealing most of them, and by extension, their scents, with only their wings hanging out to actually give off a smell.

But no wings means there's less angel to smell, and with the rest of his true form so tightly wrapped up in his corporation, of course Aziraphale's scent would be even weaker. Crowley never stood a chance at figuring out his true nature based on smell alone.

"Ah, I'm sorry," a familiar voice calls out. Crowley clamps down hard on the urge to bolt. "I'm afraid the bookshop is still closed, many new additions, lots to reorganise you understand."

Aziraphale emerges from behind a pile of books, an old bible clutched to his chest and a thin smile on his lips. It falls when their eyes meet.

Crowley freezes.

Aziraphale freezes too.

They don't do anything but stare at each other, sharing a stunned silence. Aziraphale's face is slack, his eyes are wide, and his fingers are so loose on the book Crowley honestly thinks he might drop it.

It's been three days since they've seen each other. Three days since the swap, three days since the wing burning, three days since Crowley turned down Aziraphale's offer of lunch at the Ritz and left with no intention of coming back for a long, long time.

He should've just said it then and there. Should've stayed on that bench and told him everything while he still had the courage to look at him, to be around him. Then he wouldn't be here, back far sooner than he wants to be, mind completely blank on how the fuck to even start saying what he needs to say.

But that day had been such a long day, even though it wasn't even noon, and he had been so tired, and he honestly couldn't stand looking at Aziraphale a minute longer. It was easy when he was just staring at his own corporation, listening to his own voice, but actually seeing Aziraphale's body? It had been too much. A million different feelings - most of them angry, some at Aziraphale, some for Aziraphale - buzzed in his mind, all of them demanding his attention, and he hadn't had the energy for any of them. He'd needed time to himself. So he left, taking the truth of what happened at Aziraphale's attempted execution with him, and it's taken him three days to work up the nerve to come back to tell him what he should've told him immediately after swapping back. 

He almost wishes he could find the will to not tell him. He doesn't owe Aziraphale shit, not after Aziraphale lied to him. He could walk away and keep this secret for thousands of years and Aziraphale probably wouldn't even blame him. He'd just stand there, sad and understanding, and take it. Or try and protest, but back down immediately once Crowley points out he doesn't have the right to demand transparency from him after what he did. Keeping it from him would be the proper demonic thing to do.

But Crowley doesn't like that mental image any more than he likes being here. Thinking about keeping this from Aziraphale just makes him feel shittier than he already does. He's never lied to Aziraphale and he doesn't want to start.

He needs to say something. Anything. He probably shouldn't just spit it out and flee, which means he needs to start a conversation, but fuck, he has no fucking clue what to say. Just looking at Aziraphale makes his brain screech to a halt, hissing angel, angel, angel over and over again so he can't focus on anything else. He wants to run. He's spent his whole demonic life running from angels, and now he's supposed to stand in front of one and talk to them? Act like angels aren't supposed to hunt him down and smite him right out of existence?

Yes. Because Aziraphale would never do that.

But he is an angel, and that's what angels do. Even if Aziraphale won't do it, that doesn't mean every last survival instinct of Crowley's isn't screaming at him to get the fuck out.

Say something, damn it. Just talk. It's not that hard. He's talked first a billion times, had no choice in the beginning of their (maybe) friendship when Aziraphale was flighty and nervous (of course he was, he's an angel, what angel would want to talk to a demon?) so this shouldn't be any different. He just needs to start, just one word-

"Crowley," Aziraphale says. His voice cracks a little.

Crowley swallows. "Hey."

Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat, waiting for him to continue. 

He doesn't.

He can't. 

"I didn't think I'd see you back so soon."

"Me neither."

Aziraphale winces. Crowley doesn't take it back.

How on earth is he supposed to do this? This isn't the same as every other conversation at all. This is different, too different, everything is different and he has no idea how to go forward.

It should be easy. He's talked to Aziraphale before. Spent most of his life on Earth looking for excuses to talk to Aziraphale.

But this isn't the same. Crowley doesn't know how to talk to an angel.

This is a mistake. He shouldn't be here, but it's too late now. He is here, and Aziraphale will want to know why, so he has to say something. Might as well be the thing he came here for. Like it's easy. Like this isn't a clusterfuck of a situation even without the whole "secretly an angel" thing. How is he supposed to explain what happened up in Heaven? Where should he even start?

By the way, your bastard bosses destroyed the wings they ripped out of you in hellfire and wanted you to watch them do it. Just thought you should know.

Yeah, because that will go down well.

Focus, Crowley. Starting is always the worst part. He just needs to start talking, then he can figure it out along the way. 

But Aziraphale takes a deep breath, stops fiddling with his waistcoat, and says, "I need to talk to you."

"Yeah. Same." Crowley swallows dryly; he's stalling, but he can't help it. "Uh. You first. You might not wanna. Talk at all once I've said my stuff. So. Y'know. Better to get it out now."

"Right. Of course." Aziraphale's shoulders hunch. He's uncomfortable. Crowley knows the signs. He'll look at the floor next, his hands will drift together to pick at his fingers until he catches himself and fiddles with his waistcoat or pocket watch again-

Except Aziraphale doesn't do any of that. He meets Crowley's eyes instead and, in a shockingly steady voice, says, "Crowley. I owe you an apology."

Crowley blinks. Blinking doesn't come naturally to him, so it's impressive Aziraphale's words have made him do so. "You… already did? At my flat, remember?"

"Well, yes." Aziraphale's eyes flick sideways, just for a second, before he forces them back. He clearly wants to look away. Why isn't he looking away? This isn't like him. "But that was an incredibly poor attempt at an apology."

It was?

"I thought I was explaining myself, but I was really just making excuses," Aziraphale says. His thumb taps repeatedly against the side of his fingers loosely balled into a fist. It's a new nervous gesture, or at least one Crowley hasn't seen before. "And that's not what an apology should be about."

Why does that matter? Crowley wants to ask. I'm a demon, I don't know anything about apologies. I didn't even want one when you gave it to me.

"You deserve better than that. You deserve a real apology. So…" His thumb taps faster. He still doesn't look away, why isn't he looking away? He hates prolonged eye contact. "Crowley, I'm sorry I lied to you. I never should have done that. You're my best friend and I should have told you the truth a long time ago. I didn't know how to tell you, but that's no excuse. I should have found a way. But I didn't, and I hurt you, and I'm so, so sorry. I would like to make it up to you in any way I can, but I understand if you don't want that."

… What the fuck is Crowley supposed to say to that?

This isn't what he came here for. He didn't plan for this. This was supposed to be a brief yet painful interaction. Crowley tells Aziraphale about his wings then flees to avoid him for the next century. He wasn't expecting… this. 

Aziraphale is still looking at him even though he so clearly doesn't want to, is still tapping his thumb against his fingers as he waits for Crowley to speak. It's not like him and Crowley doesn't know what to do with that. How much more will Aziraphale change now Crowley knows what he is? How many new lines are going to be thrown into the script he thought he knew word for word?

Aziraphale doesn't look nearly as thrown by the change as Crowley is. He barely even stuttered during his apology. He probably spent hours rehearsing it, rewording it, pacing back and forth until it sounded just right and said exactly what he wanted it to say. Crowley can practically see it; he's watched Aziraphale do it a million times whenever he's had a meeting with those bastard Archangels. He knows it takes a lot of work, and usually a lot of guidance, for Aziraphale to get it just right.

"Okay," Crowley says at last, which is probably not what he's supposed to reply to a long thought-out apology with. But he doesn't know what else to say.

"Okay," Aziraphale repeats quietly. He shrinks in on himself just slightly before catching himself and straightening again. Crowley's words clearly aren't what he wants to hear, but he doesn't say anything else, just takes them silently and locks away the slow devastation that tries to form on his face to deal with later.

The thought makes Crowley's gut twist.

"I just…" Crowley runs his hand through his hair. "I don't get it. Why you're saying all this. To me."

It sort of makes sense, on a surface level. He's seen this happen with humans before. Someone hurts someone else, they apologise for it. Say they're sorry for what they've done. Aziraphale lied to him, and he's sorry about it, so he's apologising. Can't get more straightforward than that.

But that isn't… this isn't them. They don't do this. It's not like they've never fought before, even if none of their previous fights were ever like this, and throughout all of them they've never once apologised to each other. There's never been any need to. They fight, they storm off, they calm down, they come back to each other, incident forgotten or swept under the rug. Simple as that. It's not worth staying mad forever when the only people they can really talk to is each other. They've never needed apologies before. Aziraphale's said sorry before, but half of the shit he says sorry for isn't anything he needs to be sorry for, so those don't count.

But this? They don't do this. They say sorry sometimes, but they don't apologise.

Crowley will come back. He knows he will, knows no matter how long it takes he won't be mad forever. He doesn't need an apology. So why is Aziraphale acting like he does?

"I've come to realise," Aziraphale says softly, finally dropping his eyes, "that I haven't been as good a friend to you as I should've been. As good a friend as you are to me. But I want to change that. I want to be better. You deserve better. I want to be the kind of friend you deserve, if you would be okay with that."

An offering. Two offerings, actually, wrapped in one. One offer to do better, whatever that means, a peace offering to tempt Crowley into agreeing to remain his friend. Like he even needs that.

But also an offering allowing him to turn him away. To reject the apology and his friendship and never see him again. Aziraphale is offering that, even though he clearly doesn't want it. Offering Crowley the chance to permanently cut Aziraphale out of his life.

Could he really do that? Live the rest of his life on Earth never speaking to Aziraphale again? He's never even thought about doing that, but now Aziraphale is giving him the chance to do so if that's what he wants.

An emotion of some kind swirls in his chest. He can't pinpoint what emotion it is, but it feels shit.

The ball has never been in his court like this. He's never been the one staring at Aziraphale's hand and debating whether to step forward with him or not. Throughout their whole friendship it's always been Crowley leading, Crowley taking the first step, Crowley extending a hand and waiting for Aziraphale to find the courage to take it. And he's never minded that, really he hasn't. Demons aren't the friendliest bunch and it makes sense that anyone, human or angel, would be hesitant to take the first step and expose their back. 

So Crowley reaches out first. Gives him plausible deniability if something goes wrong, so he can claim it's Crowley's fault instead of his own. Ironically, Crowley only ever moves first when he doesn't have nefarious intentions. When he's tempting he prods and prompts the other person to make the first tumbling step that will ensure their downfall, and always makes sure to get them to look away from where they're stepping so they don't notice until it's too late.

But with Aziraphale? He always makes the first move. Always takes the first step, always lets Aziraphale see exactly where he's leading him, always waits for him to decide to follow. Crowley picks the direction, Aziraphale sets the pace, providing he chooses to follow. That's how they work. It's how they are, and Crowley's never minded always being the one to move first. It… it warms him when Aziraphale chooses to follow his lead. Chooses to trust each step won't lead to his destruction, that despite being a demon Crowley will keep him from falling as he guides him, even if it takes a while to find that trust.

The ball is never in his court. It's always in Aziraphale's.

But now it's Aziraphale making the first move. Aziraphale taking that step, Aziraphale extending his hand, Aziraphale waiting patiently for Crowley to decide if he wants to follow his lead or turn him away. And all Crowley can do is stare dumbly at him. When did Aziraphale take the lead? When did he not only catch up but overtake him, waiting for Crowley to take the step he's already found the courage to make? Is it normal to feel like the weight of their future together is resting on his shoulders? Is this why Aziraphale always takes so long to take each new step?

They've never needed this. Crowley has always been more than happy to take the lead for him if it makes Aziraphale feel safer.

But.

But for once Crowley doesn't want to move. For once he doesn't know how. He can't see the next step and one wrong move could destroy what little they have left even more. For once he's the one who's hopelessly lost.

And for once, Aziraphale is taking the step so he doesn't have to. 

Aziraphale wants to fix this just as much as he does. Wants to fix it so badly he's willing to risk leading. He's trying, and that… Crowley doesn't know how to feel about that, but he doesn't think he hates it.

Either way, he can't take that hand. Not right now. He'll drag them back and make them start from square one if he tries to take it now. But he won't push it away or ignore it, either. He'll just have to take his time and trust Aziraphale will still be reaching for him when he can finally reach back.

He didn't fight to stop Armageddon, defy his bosses, and walk in Heaven's halls again just to permanently lose his best - and only - friend.

If only he could fucking say that.

"About the swap," he says instead. He can't acknowledge Aziraphale's apology right now, not when he doesn't know what to say. Aziraphale put thought into that apology, and Crowley wants to put thought into how the fuck he's supposed to respond. He can afford to take his time like that now Aziraphale is the one taking the lead. "There's… something you should know. About what happened in Heaven."

"During my trial?"

"You didn't get a trial." And wasn't that a kick in the teeth when Crowley first heard about Hell's mock trial. Rigged or not, it was still more than Heaven was planning to give Aziraphale. "That's, uh. Not the thing I need to tell you, by the way. It's something else."

Something much, much worse than refusing to give one of their own a trial. A chance to defend himself.

Fuck, how the hell is he supposed to say this?

"They didn't hurt you, did they?" Aziraphale asks, panic faintly ringing in his voice. "What did they do? Crowley, I'm so sorry, I swear if I thought they would hurt you I would've warned you. Oh, of course they would hurt you, after Michael and Uriel didn't stop Sandalphon when they were warning me about Armageddon I should have known-"

Fuck, he needs to say something. He needs to stop this rambling so he won't have to decipher whatever the fuck Aziraphale is just casually admitting to. Not now. Not now. Think about it later, but not now. Say something, anything-

"They burned your wings," is what he finally blurts out.

"… They what?"

… Wait. Shit. He was supposed to say it better than that. He was supposed to be… delicate? How the fuck could he have done that? Demons don't do delicate.

Fuck it. It's too late now.

"At your… in Heaven. They burned your wings. To… test the fire." Crowley spits the words out. "I got the feeling I was missing something important, so I figured I should tell you. Probably should've done so earlier but. I dunno. Sorry."

"Oh."

Aziraphale looks lost. His hands drift together, absently picking at the skin on his fingers, but he doesn't seem to realise since he doesn't let go or start fiddling with his waistcoat again. Crowley opens his mouth to remind him, then closes it.

"Oh," Aziraphale says again, to himself this time. "Well. I… suppose that's it, then. I really have lost my chance to… although now that I think about it, it does seem rather silly to think they could… but they promised…"

He trails off. His blank expression starts to crumble even as he desperately tries to hold it together.

"What… exactly did they promise?" Crowley asks cautiously. He'd heard what Gabriel had said, but maybe he misunderstood. He hopes he's misunderstood. For Aziraphale's sake.

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. "They promised they'd give me my wings back if I could earn their forgiveness."

… Fuck. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, "Aziraphale, they can't…"

"I just… they're angels," Aziraphale continues desperately. "I didn't think… why would they lie about this? We're - they're supposed to be good, so I thought they could do it. I knew they wouldn't tell me how if I asked, but I never thought…"

The devastated look just keeps growing and growing, and it hurts to look at.

The worst part is Crowley isn't surprised at all. Making promises they know they can't fulfil is exactly what angels do. Lying and manipulating people to get what they want is what they do. Giving false hope is what they do.

The worst part about angels is never knowing where you stand with them.

Of course someone like Aziraphale wouldn't think to worry about that.

"They were never going to give them back, were they?" Aziraphale whispers, choking on his words like they're punching him repeatedly in the gut.

"They ripped them off, Aziraphale," Crowley whispers back. "They can't… you can't just reattach them. Even if you tried, they'd never work again."

There's a demon in Hell without any wings. The poor bastard got them ripped off in a fight and panicked so bad they killed the other three demons on the spot. They tried to sew them back on hoping the nerves would somehow magically reattach themselves, even risked bargaining with another demon for help, but the wings never healed. They hung limp and lifeless, dragging along the floor and tripping other demons up until eventually someone ripped them off again for getting in the way. The dead wings were thrown away, and the demon has been wingless ever since. 

Thinking of Aziraphale in that demon's place, pinned down and frantic as his wings are ripped out of him, makes him nauseous.

"Cut off," Aziraphale corrects absently. "They were cut off."

… Of course they were. Angels did it. Clean, clinical, precise angels who want to pretend they're above the barbaric actions of demons. Like using a weapon is better than using bare hands.

"Thank you for telling me," Aziraphale says at last. "I… you didn't have to, but I appreciate it."

"Sure."

They stand in awkward silence. Crowley rubs the back of his neck. Does he just leave now? He said what he came here to say. There's no need to stay here any longer, especially not when he doesn't want to be here. He can just leave. He should just leave.

But Aziraphale still looks broken and devastated, and 5000 year old instincts scream at him to wipe that look off Aziraphale's face, even if the sting of Aziraphale's lie is crying at him to get the fuck away from this angel wearing his best friend's face.

But what can he do? He can't give Aziraphale his wings back, and nothing he does or says will restore them from the pile of ashes they now are. Even if the thought of touching Aziraphale didn't make him want to scream, there's nothing Crowley can do to fix this. He's completely powerless to stop Aziraphale's pain, and that just makes him want to run away even more.

Aziraphale has never had a problem he couldn't at least help with.

Of course the problems he can't solve only start now Aziraphale is an angel.

He can't just leave. He's sure his legs won't move until he says something to help, just like always. Aziraphale may have changed - or maybe he's always been like this and Crowley's just seeing him for the first time - but Crowley hasn't. He still can't leave Aziraphale upset and in pain without burning to do something.

But he doesn't know what to do.

Doesn't even have the energy to try and comfort him like he should.

Defeated, he starts heading for the door. He can't do what Aziraphale needs right  now, and continuing to stand here will only make them both feel worse.

But then Aziraphale sniffs, so quiet Crowley wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't spent the last 5000 years listening carefully for every little noise Aziraphale makes when he's upset, and his hand freezes before it can touch the doorknob.

He doesn't want to just drop this information and leave. He needs to say something.

"I'm… sorry," Crowley says slowly. "For what it's worth, you didn't deserve what they did to you. No one does."

Not even an angel, he manages to bite back. He's not stupid enough to think it will help instead of hurt, and he doesn't want to hurt Aziraphale.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. Crowley's words can't possibly help to heal even a fraction of the damage done here, but Aziraphale smiles weakly at him anyway, gratitude peeking past the pain. Crowley hasn't done anything that requires gratitude, he's not even done the bare minimum, but he takes it anyway. Takes it and hopes Aziraphale wouldn't smile at him like that if their friendship never meant anything to him.

He doesn't know where they go from here. His best friend is a stranger and everything is broken and torn, and brushing it aside like normal won't work but he doesn't have a clue how to go about fixing it without leaving and waiting for it to go away.

But Aziraphale apologised, even though that's not how they work. Aziraphale is trying. So Crowley will try, too. 

"I…" The words stick in his throat, but he forces them out. Talking - really talking - is foreign to him, but he doesn't want to leave Aziraphale blindly guessing. If this is what it takes, he'll do it. "About us. I need time. I just… this is a lot, and I need time."

There's probably a way to word it better, but fuck if Crowley knows what it is. He doesn't do words, never has. They always get jumbled up and stuck in his throat, tumbling out in completely the wrong order and pissing everyone off, and he doesn't know why Aziraphale loves them so much. Even now, when words are more important than they've ever been, they just won't come like they're supposed to.

He'll just have to hope Aziraphale hears what he means. A plea to wait. A promise that this, whatever this is, isn't permanent. That they'll fix it, they'll go back to the way they were. They will. He just needs time.

"Okay," Aziraphale nearly whispers, and it's soft, but there's relief in his voice.

He's heard.

Crowley still doesn't want to be around him. He still leaves the bookshop too fast. He still drives away without looking back. He's exhausted and he needs to sleep because seeing Aziraphale is still too much right now.

But it's not permanent. They won't let it be. They'll fix it somehow, and Crowley will do his best to make sure the next time he sees Aziraphale, he won't be filled with dread.

He doesn't know how to be friends with an angel, but he'll figure it out.

It's a small price to pay to keep his best friend.

Aziraphale has never been in the habit of keeping his bookshop clean or tidy. Quite the opposite, in fact. He's spent centuries carefully testing and rearranging his shop to be as unappealing as possible without getting any pesky health inspectors knocking on his door to shut him down. It had been difficult to get the right level of dusty and find an appropriately disgusting smell, but he had managed it after roughly 50 years, and combined with the incomprehensible organisation system it's usually enough to deter potential customers from actually seeking out a book they want. Since perfecting his strategy he's only needed to make minor adjustments over the years, mostly to make room for new additions to his collection, but occasionally to keep up with ever-changing health regulations. Really, quite rude of them to be so inconvenient to him when they came from his side.

And yet somehow Aziraphale finds himself fiddling with his shop for the third time this week, music crooning from his gramophone as he sweeps away the dust and dirt on his desk and arranges his paperwork in neat little piles. His books are already spotless, but that's to be expected; he'd never allow them to get anywhere near as dirty as the rest of his shop, not after he's spent so long carefully maintaining and fixing them so they'll last as close to forever as human objects can. The rest of his shop, however, so very rarely experiences the in-depth cleaning his books receive a minimum of once a month.

He could tell himself he just fancies a change, but, well, it would be a lie. He knows he'll mess it all up again fifteen minutes after he's cleaned it and get it back to its usual filth as soon as the humans outside start eyeing up the shop through the window and contemplate if today is finally the day the uptight Mr. Fell has decided to make his bookshop hospitable for customers to breathe in again. Really, there's no point in cleaning it when he knows he's going to mess it up again.

But he needs something to keep his hands busy, even if it doesn't keep his mind occupied.

He hasn't seen Crowley in five months.

It's to be expected. Crowley asked for time and Aziraphale is more than willing to give it to him. And time for celestial beings such as themselves isn't the same as time for humans, and they've gone much, much longer without seeing each other. Five months should be nothing to him. What's five months compared to centuries? Millennia? Eternity?

Crowley is giving him a chance to earn his forgiveness, and is even telling him what to do to earn it. It's far more guidance than Heaven has ever given him, and if giving him time is the first thing Aziraphale needs to do to earn that forgiveness, he'll do it. He really shouldn't complain.

But they've spent the last 11 years seeing each other nearly every day as they raised Warlock, and suddenly five months is an achingly long time. Aziraphale hadn't realised how much he's grown used to seeing Crowley regularly until now, and it's agonising. He misses him. Misses going to lunch together, misses the evenings in the back room as they drink, misses calling him on the days Crowley can't pop round for a chat.

He misses him, and he honestly has no idea how he was once able to go centuries without hearing his voice.

But Crowley doesn't want to see him yet. Crowley has asked for time, so Aziraphale will give him as much time as he needs, no matter how much it hurts. Even if it means he has to wander the Earth aimless and lonely for thousands of years.

It's a long, seemingly endless tunnel to trudge through on his own, but the light at the end will be all the brighter and more beautiful for it, so it's worth it. He hopes.

With a half-hearted hum along to the final notes of the song, Aziraphale empties the dustpan into the nearest bin one last time. He could miracle it away, but he's always preferred doing things manually if he can. It started as an effort to blend in with the humans better and keep his angelic status from Crowley, and eventually became a habit until he found himself doing things the human way even when alone.

It's a habit he admittedly doesn't intend on breaking even now Crowley knows the truth; there's something soothing about each little errand having its own little process and routine. It takes more time, yes, but Aziraphale has nothing but time. It's part of the reason he isn't so fond of all this new-fangled technology; unlike humans, his time on Earth isn't limited, so why would he want a machine to do things for him to save him time? He wouldn't gain anything, and he honestly doesn't understand why Crowley likes all the new technology so much. Everyone is already in such a rush, where's the harm in slowing down?

He's just dusting off his hands and picking up the dustpan to put it away when the bell above the door chimes, and Aziraphale bites back a sigh. Darn it all, it will be so much more difficult to deter whatever customer has wandered in now his bookshop isn't in its usual state. Locals have probably been watching him clean and dirty his shop repeatedly and decided to wait until just after he finished cleaning to strike. He's started locking the door when he goes on his cleaning sprees to try and avoid this very thing, but he must have forgotten this time.

Still, Aziraphale is an expert at making people leave his beloved books alone, even without the dust and foul smells. And at least this might keep his mind occupied.

"Hello there," he says stiffly, not even bothering to put up his usual faux polite tone as he goes to greet the intruder, "how may I help you? Please make it quick, we will close very soon."

There's silence for a few seconds - silence that notably does not contain an apology or footsteps or any acknowledgment of his words. Aziraphale bristles. Really, the cheek of consumers these days!

"I said-"

"You've cleaned," a familiar voice says, one that registers a fraction of a second before Aziraphale rounds the corner and his gaze falls on his guest. "You never clean."

"Ah-!" Aziraphale fumbles with the empty dustpan he's still holding. "I… yes, well, I just felt like tidying up a little. You know, new year, new me!"

"Mn." Crowley's standing in the middle of the bookshop, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don't have to clean it yourself, you know. You could just… miracle it clean."

Aziraphale glances down at the dustpan. "I suppose I could, couldn't I? Habit, is all."

"Mm."

They stare at each other. Neither of them speak for nearly a minute, and it doesn't take long for Aziraphale to start sweating. He hadn't imagined it being this awkward whenever he's indulged in a moment of weakness and thought about Crowley coming back. He had, perhaps naively, imagined Crowley just slipping into the bookshop and taking him out for lunch or to the park like he used to, conversation flowing casually and naturally like it never stopped. That's how it's been every other time they've made up after a fight.

But this isn't like every other time. Didn't he promise to put in more effort if Crowley was generous enough to give him another chance? How foolish to assume they'd go back to the way they were so easily. Earning forgiveness is never easy. He should know that by now.

Should he make the first move here? Crowley asked for time, and Aziraphale doesn't want to risk rushing him, but doesn't making an effort involve taking initiative? He doesn't want to make Crowley do all the work in their relationship again, but he also doesn't want to accidentally pressure him into anything. But Crowley's come to him. Why do that if he doesn't want to see or spend time with him?

It's a delicate balance, one Aziraphale can't afford to mess up, and he needs to learn it quickly if he's ever going to be worthy of Crowley's forgiveness. 

Well, perhaps asking what he can do for him would be a nice start? Yes, that way Aziraphale can make sure Crowley is in control and hopefully won't feel rushed.

"What can I-"

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

Aziraphale blinks at him.

"It's just… it's a nice day," Crowley says, gesturing vaguely to the windows, which show it is absolutely not a nice day. "And I bet you've been holed up in here for weeks. You need fresh air-"

He cuts himself off with a grimace.

"A walk and some fresh air would be nice," Aziraphale says. It's not been weeks, but it has been days since he last left the bookshop. "It is getting a bit stuffy here."

"That's 'cause you don't clean," Crowley grumbles, then he glances around the bookshop again and his face twists. "Or. I guess you do now."

Aziraphale wilts slightly, even though nothing about Crowley's tone or words or body language seem disapproving or upset. But what can he say? He can't admit he's been cleaning and messing up his bookshop because he misses Crowley and doesn't know what to do with himself. That's pathetic.

"Did you have anywhere in mind you want to go?" he asks instead.

"Not really. Just fancied a walk, didn't want to go on my own. It's no fun."

Well, at least he considers Aziraphale's company more fun than solitude. That must count for something, right?

Grabbing his coat and pulling it on, he tries to smile at Crowley as naturally as possible. It feels awkward on his face, but hopefully it looks convincing enough. "Well then. Shall we?"

They step out onto the bustling London streets together, the bookshop locking obediently behind them. It's not a nice day, but it's not completely unpleasant, either. A little chilly even with his coat thanks to the crisp January wind, and the overcast sky is a barrier preventing what little warmth the winter sun gives off from reaching them, but it's dry and completely free from rain or snow, so despite the low temperature the weather is passable enough for a walk.

Aziraphale lets Crowley lead as they walk, following quietly and trying not to wring his hands. Normally neither of them mind walking in silence, but nothing about their relationship has been normal since the bandstand, so instead the silence is just shy of suffocating. Even Crowley can't seem to think of anything to say if his tense shoulders are any indication.

Looks like it's up to Aziraphale, then.

"So," he says hesitantly, "how have you been?"

Small talk. Because Crowley is such a fan of that. Wonderful. Well done, Aziraphale.

"Fine," Crowley says, trying to cram his hands into his tiny pockets and failing.

"Anything interesting you've been up to?"

"Sleeping, mostly. I, uh. Got new plants, too. Carnivorous ones. They were gonna be thrown out anyway and I've got room since I had to get rid of some of my other plants, so I just took them."

"That's nice." Aziraphale twists the chain of his pocket watch, searching desperately for something to say in response and coming up blank. Normally he'd tease Crowley about being too soft to actually destroy his plants, but in truth, he doesn't know for sure that's the case, and he doesn't want to push his luck now of all times by implying he's nice. No one knows what Crowley does with his plants except Crowley, and with their relationship already so fragile Aziraphale doubts he has the patience for their usual teasing. So that leaves him with nothing to say.

Well, isn't this going swimmingly? How are they supposed to go back to the way they were if all their usual interactions are awkward or off the table?

"Any demonic tricks you've been entertaining yourself with? I know you had plans for messing with the buses…"

"Taking a break from demon work. Considering everything. Don't even know if I still need to do any work now Hell've let me go."

"Oh, of course. I suppose I've been doing the same, now that I think about it." Well done, old boy. Bring up our jobs like they aren't related to the reason we're like this in the first place. Splendid.

"'S nice to actually have a break for once," Crowley says, finally giving up on fitting his hands in his pockets. "I can sleep as much as I want."

"You do that anyway."

"Yeah, but now I can do it without needing to think about lying to my lot later."

"I suppose so." Aziraphale glances at Crowley, but he's not looking at him, instead staring straight ahead determinedly. "I don't really know what to do with myself, to be honest. I've never not been working."

"Just… do what you normally do. But without the miracles. That's what I've been doing."

Easier said than done. Most of Aziraphale's favourite activities include Crowley. Crowley is incredibly fortunate his favourite human activity can last as long as he wants and stops him from thinking; Aziraphale can't spend five months doing nothing but eating, if only because no human establishment is open for that long. 

"I kinda thought," Crowley says slowly, like he's unsure if he even wants to let the words leave his mouth, "you'd continue with the blessings thing anyway. Perfect time to spread good will and love for God and all that, what with me being asleep."

"Well, it's like you said. We deserve a break." That and he's not even thought about doing angel work. How can he, when all he can think about is Crowley and how much he needs to make up to him? "I've mostly just been rearranging my shop, really. Trying to find a good place for those books Adam so kindly gifted me."

Crowley doesn't reply, and Aziraphale doesn't know what else to say, so he just stays quiet and continues to follow Crowley's lead, staring at the ground.

It's not… awful. It's far from comfortable, certainly, but considering how awful their fight was and how lonely Aziraphale has been these last five months, it's far from the worst outcome this outing could have had. Stilted silence is much better than barbed snark and sharp insults, and Aziraphale is determined to take his victories where he can get them right now.

A relationship can't be repaired in a single day. He needs to remember that. Fussing unnecessarily about making sure he doesn't blow his chance, about making sure he proves to Crowley he's worth taking back as a friend, will only distract him and keep his focus on himself instead of on Crowley, where it belongs.

Besides, it's not the first time they've shared awkward silences. They've become far less common the longer they've known each other, but in the beginning they shared plenty of awkward and uncomfortable moments together as they felt out one another's boundaries and got to know each other. This is a step back, yes, but it's a step they've already overcome once. Why shouldn't they be able to do it again?

Because before Crowley didn't have a reason to not trust you, his traitorous mind whispers, and now you've hurt him and given him a reason to run away and never come back.

But Crowley hasn't done that. He wants to let Aziraphale make it up to him. He wants to overcome this just like Aziraphale does.

He catches himself picking at his nails again and forces himself to stop, although he can't quite bring himself to drop his hands. Out of the corner of his eye Crowley's hand swings freely by his side. Aziraphale aches to hold it. To twine their fingers together and whisper that it's to stop himself from picking at his nails, and conveniently not mention that he just finds Crowley's hand incredibly pleasant to hold, cool and smooth and-

And incredibly inappropriate for him to be thinking about right now. He's on thin ice as it is, now is the worst possible time to think about pushing even more boundaries. How can he contemplate something as intimate as holding Crowley's hand when he barely deserves to be in his presence right now?

Even so, he can't help glancing at it longingly. Technically the last time they touched was when they swapped bodies, but for some reason whenever he thinks of the last time those hands touched him, his mind always drifts to Crowley's fingers curled around his wrist moments before he found out the truth instead. It was the last time they touched one another casually, and Aziraphale can't help but miss it. Surely he can be excused for thinking about it when his hand is right there, so tantalisingly close that all he would have to do is reach out a centimetre or two to slip his own hand in the gaps in Crowley's, run his thumb over the knuckles and strange teeth-like marks-

Oh, those weren't there last time. In fact, they look fresh.

"You've been bitten," Aziraphale notes with surprise. Crowley hasn't been bitten in centuries, he's long since learnt to avoid animals, and the scabs on his skin don't match the pattern of any animal or human bite mark Aziraphale has ever seen. But they're definitely bite marks of some kind, no doubt about it.

"Oh, those. Remember how I said I got some carnivorous plants? One of the fuckers bit me when I yelled at it this morning for not doing its damn job. Thought it could show me up in front of the others. Had to get rid of it to make an example out of it so none of the others try anything funny."

Aziraphale bites back the instinctive comment about replanting, and instead says, "Well, I suppose you could say you've nipped that issue in the bud?"

Crowley gives him a flat look. It's a look he's seen thousands of times whenever he does any kind of word play, and it's so achingly familiar that for a second he can trick himself into believing they're back to normal, Crowley and Aziraphale, best friends wandering the Earth looking for something to do to amuse themselves with when they're not working.

But they're not back to normal. Things aren't like they were before, and a second is all the time the world grants him to play pretend before he's reminded of reality. Instead of groaning or making some snarky comment or empty threat, Crowley turns his attention back to the street and says nothing.

It's such a minor change. Extremely silly to get upset about.

So why does it hurt?

He wonders if Crowley's hands hurt. He's never been bitten by a carnivorous plant before, so he can't say how painful it is, but Crowley's plant bit hard enough to cause scabs, and the skin around them is red and looks painful. He doesn't think most carnivorous plants are even strong enough to pierce skin, but then again, most plants can't shake in fear and sprout flowers when nervous, either. Crowley's plants have always been special.

He glances at the scabs again. They'll heal quickly, he knows they will, but…

Crowley knows now. This isn't like that time at the church. He doesn't need to stand back and let Crowley potentially suffer.

"Would you… that is, could I… I was wondering-"

"Spit it out, Aziraphale."

"Do you want me to heal it?"

Crowley stops. Turns. Stares at him blankly, expression completely unreadable. Aziraphale's stomach twists; is Crowley going to refuse just because he's an angel? Is it really so shocking to hear he doesn't want him to be in pain, even if it's only minor?

"You want to heal them."

"Yes?"

"Even though they'll be healed by the end of the day anyway."

"Yes."

Crowley keeps staring blankly.

"I… I don't have to if you're not comfortable with-"

"Fine." Crowley holds out his hand, although he glances away and pretends to be very intrigued by the display in the window of the nearby candle shop. "Go ahead and do whatever it is you need to do."

Aziraphale thought about situations like this many times over the years, but in his mind it's always been so much more tender. He holds Crowley's hands in his fantasies, gazes into his beautiful eyes as he presses a kiss to his wound, or rubs his thumb over the injury like he's soothing it away.

But this is nothing like the scenarios in his mind, and he's terrified of his fingers so much as accidentally brushing Crowley's skin in case that crosses some kind of unspoken boundary.

He doesn't need touch to heal someone. He didn't touch Anathema when healing her broken arm. But Anathema was a stranger and Crowley is his best friend, and he wants to be allowed to touch him again. There's something so intimate in healing a wound through touch, and surely even Crowley, despite not having been an angel for millennia, must remember that.

Which is exactly why Aziraphale doesn't dare do it. How could he hold Crowley's hand while healing him when they can't even have a conversation? It's too soon and Aziraphale doesn't want to mess this up. He's pushed Crowley far enough as it is by offering to heal him and inadvertently reminding him what he is.

Still, Crowley is letting him heal him. He's letting an angel perform a miracle on him. That must count for something, right? Some minor show of trust? Does this count as a baby step?

Aziraphale's hand hovers over Crowley's, and with a small miracle the wound heals, scabs fading into fresh new skin until the marks disappear altogether. He's not worried about any humans seeing. Humans so rarely pay attention to such things, and if he doesn't want them to see, they won't.

Crowley snatches his hand back as soon as it's healed and tries once again to shove them in his pockets, although the outcome is no different. He doesn't say anything, not that Aziraphale expects him to, but he does give a small nod of acknowledgement before he keeps walking.

Is that good? Oh, Aziraphale hopes so. That was nothing like he imagined, and he feels a little foolish for offering in the first place. The bite marks were such minor wounds, and ordinarily he likely wouldn't have bothered, might have even made a remark about them being what he gets for tormenting his poor plants the way he does. But remarks like that are for close friends only, and Aziraphale hasn't earned the right to make them again yet. 

He just wanted to do something for Crowley, like he should have been doing for years now. Healing his wounds is such a small step, but it's one he should have made a long time ago.

Well, better late than never.

They window shop in silence for the rest of their walk, and their goodbyes are stilted and awkward when they get back to the bookshop, but it's a start.

Aziraphale is just grateful he's been permitted to have that.

Relearning his friendship with Aziraphale has been going…

Well. It's been going.

Crowley doesn't have a clue what he's doing. He's flying completely blind, lost in the maze of fixing a friendship with no idea how to navigate it because before he and Aziraphale would just go around the damn maze. But apparently that's not what they do now, so Crowley has to charge in with half an idea and a desperate hope the universe will take pity on him and just let things fall into place. 

Much like most of his life, really.

So far, most of the times he's hung out with Aziraphale have been… tolerable. Not ideal, but he can work with that. Tolerable is better than nothing, right? 

Right. 

His plan to spend time with Aziraphale in small doses hasn't immediately blown up in his face, and he's going to take that as a good sign. He'll get used to hanging out with an angel, they'll get over themselves, and everything will be a-okay. They'll laugh about this in a few years. Weren't they silly, making a big deal about the teeny tiny detail of someone's entire fucking species? Almost completely irrelevant, really.

Never mind that for millennia he's been desperately trying to hide from angels so they won't smite him for the crime of existing, never mind he's spent just as long bloody furious at the bastards for playing his best friend like a fiddle so their hands could stay clean, never mind the way they're all so high and mighty and think they know everything and are better than everyone and will step on anyone to do whatever they want and claim it's done in the name of God like that isn't just an excuse for them to do whatever they please and get away with it while the rest of them are condemned and criticised for doing the exact same shit-

No, never mind all that. Aziraphale is an angel now - or, well, has been all along, and fuck if that isn't hard to remember - and Aziraphale isn't anything like those twatfeathers up in Heaven. Aziraphale is different. Crowley just needs to remind himself of that, and the only way to do that is to spend time with him and reassure himself that he does know Aziraphale, and nothing has changed just because he's an angel now.

Like, it's Aziraphale. His best friend of 5000 years. How different can he possibly be?

St. James' Park is their chosen destination today. Normally they spend time together at the bookshop and save the park for business, but that's just… it's too much right now. Even though he could leave at any moment, being in an angel's space for a long period of time is just… yeah, no. Not happening. Neutral ground is best for now, just like they used to do, and Aziraphale hasn't protested, so it's fine.

It's fine. 

Aziraphale is already feeding the ducks when he gets there, and it makes the tension in his chest unwind. This is fine. This is good. They feed the ducks together all the time. This is normal, they're having a perfectly normal meeting between friends like they have done for thousands of years, and it will stay that way as they feed the ducks bread-

It's not a bag of bread in Aziraphale's hands. It's a bag of seeds. 

Whatever. Seeds, bread, it doesn't matter. It's fine.

He sidles up to Aziraphale, hesitating only for a moment before snatching some seeds out of Aziraphale's bag and throwing them to the ducks. It's fine. They're friends and everything is normal, and this is a normal thing they do and have always done because they're friends, so there's no reason not to do it now. Excellent. 10/10. He's so good at this friendship fixing thing.

Aziraphale jolts in surprise (he stopped being surprised years ago, he always expects Crowley now no matter how unexpected his visit, when did that change when did they go back-) and glances at him with a shaky and unsure smile. 

(He never used to smile at him like that.)

"Ran out of bread?" Crowley asks, just for the sake of finding something to say.

"Not exactly. I found out bread isn't healthy for ducks, and people have recommended feeding them seeds instead."

"Huh." 6000 years on Earth and he never knew that. Neither of them did, apparently.

"I do feel awful about feeding them something so unhealthy all these years."

"'S not your fault. You didn't know." 

"I should've." Aziraphale's eyes are fixed on the ducks. One is quacking insistently at a secret agent who has made the mistake of standing near the railing to wait for his coworker whilst holding a bag of bread and is frantically trying to shoo it away. "An angel should always know how to keep all creatures on Earth happy and healthy."

"Ehhh, there's too much processed food these days to keep up with something like that. The little buggers look healthy enough, and you know now, so it's fine."

The reassurance is practically second nature at this point. Crowley's been soothing Aziraphale's worries about doing harm for almost their entire friendship; he doesn't even need to think about the words before they come out. And when Aziraphale gives him a soft, grateful look, just like he always has, the tension in Crowley's shoulders unwinds.

This is what he's needed these past few months. Just a normal day out with his friend.

The secret agent tosses a handful of bread crumbs towards the duck. Unnoticeable to the human eye, but crystal clear to Crowley's, the crumbs turn to seeds just as the duck descends on them like it's trying to single handedly (single wingedly?) become an entire flock of vultures.

Crowley's jaw clenches.

"I'm thinking of going back to work," he says. The duck turns on the secret agent again, and he throws another handful of bread, sweat beading down his face. Crowley turns away to stare at a couple arguing loudly before he can see any more transformations, but he still senses the minor ripple of a miracle.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It's boring just sitting around doing nothing, and London's been too calm. Bit of demonic mischief might spice things up again."

"Ah, yes, quite. I suppose I have been a tad restless myself, now that I think about it." The bag of seeds crinkles as Aziraphale wrings it. "I might go back to work too."

Another ripple.

"You already are," Crowley mutters bitterly before he can stop himself.

"Pardon?"

"The bread," he clarifies, fighting desperately to keep his voice even. "You keep miracling it into seeds for that duck. So you're kinda already working."

"Oh. I didn't even notice. It doesn't really count as work though, does it? I'm just making sure it won't upset any stomachs."

"You're intervening with human stuff to do good. That's angel work." His tone is strained even to him, but he can't help it, it's hard enough just keeping the snarl out of his voice.

Fuck, why is he getting so worked up over this? It's bread for fucks sake. Who gives a shit if Aziraphale wants to change it into seeds or fruit or whatever the fuck he wants to make it better for the duck? It's such a minor, petty thing to be mad over, barely a crumb itself in the grand scheme of things…

So why does it matter if it's bread instead of seeds? Humans make their choices, and this human has chosen to feed the duck bread. There's no need to correct his decision. Why does Aziraphale feel the need to interfere? He wouldn't have done this a few months ago before Armageddon. He would've tutted and muttered to Crowley about irresponsible humans who don't do their research, maybe would've even asked Crowley to do something about it, but he wouldn't have done anything himself.

So why interfere now? Why can't he just let the human fuck up? Why does he need to change anything?

Every time Crowley thinks they're getting back to normal, every time things are like the way they were, something happens to ruin it. Aziraphale will use a miracle, or he'll do something Crowley's never seen him do before, or he won't say something he normally would, and it's driving him up the wall. It's a never ending game of spot the difference he doesn't even want to play, and the more time he spends with Aziraphale the more differences he finds. Oh, that handkerchief is a different colour. That there chair is missing the pile of books a breeze away from toppling over. That smile is fake and awkward and absolutely nothing like the soft, unbearably fond smile he's held so near and dear to his heart all these years.

"Do you really think so? I thought it… or, well, I suppose I wasn't really thinking…"

Fuck, he won't even respond like he normally does. Where's the backtalk? The friendly back and forth about good and evil and where stepping back and doing nothing lies? Where's the Aziraphale who spent millennia debating with Crowley about these topics without fear of either of them taking it personally?

"You're doing good," Crowley bites. "That's work. Not working would be staying neutral and just letting shit happen." 

Say something back. Anything. Challenge him. Why won't he challenge him? Aziraphale isn't a pushover so why is he acting like one? Just say something normal for Crowley to bounce off and use to distract himself from his quietly boiling blood.

"I suppose you have a point. I'm just so used to trying to please my side that I-"

Another ripple of fucking angelic magic, and he still won't defend himself like he normally does.

Crowley almost, almost says something. His mouth is opening to snap, mind already blocking out whatever Aziraphale is saying, but he manages to catch himself. Swallows back whatever was building, pushing it deep, deep down so it hopefully won't come back up. Whatever he was about to say, he's sure it would ruin their outing together, and he doesn't want that. They're trying to fix their friendship, not make it worse.

Even though Aziraphale isn't acting like the friend Crowley knows, but whatever. It's fine. It's fine.

It has to be fine.

"Yeah," he says instead, hoping it makes sense as a response considering he didn't hear the rest of Aziraphale's sentence. "Yeah, same. Force of habit, I guess."

Breathe. Breathe. Let it go. They're both still learning how to deal with this… this… this. And after Armageddon and their fight, maybe Aziraphale just wants to take a break from the whole good vs evil debate. Although he really shouldn't be going back to work if that's the case.

Actually, maybe neither of them should be going back to work. Maybe it's too soon, maybe all of this is too soon. Crowley doesn't know. He just knows he feels like shit and he misses causing mischief and he misses having someone to talk to and he misses the bookshop and the bakery nearby and the long bickering car rides that always come with that little disapproving tut and the nights full of fuzzy alcohol and…

And he just misses Aziraphale. He misses Aziraphale so much. It's torture not having the person he treasures most in the universe close, and it's killing him that everything hurts no matter what he does. It hurts to be near Aziraphale and it hurts to be away from him. There's no winning in this situation. All he can do is suck it up and try and try and try until things are okay again and he can have his best friend back without it hurting so fucking much.

Maybe Hell is doing the whole torture thing wrong. Crowley could probably use this to give them some pointers if he actually had any intention of ever speaking to any of those dickheads ever again.

… Going back to work doesn't have to include speaking to them again, right?

The secret agent is still trying to shoo the duck away with bread. This time there's hesitance hanging heavy in the air when the angelic miracle turns it into bread, like Aziraphale is expecting Crowley to tell him off.

It shouldn't bother him. The mere notion should be ridiculous, but…

But they're one after the other, and it's grating on his nerves because there's such a simple solution…

The agent reaches into the bag again. Crowley huffs, and the bread turns into seeds.

(Once upon a time Aziraphale would've just asked him to do that right from the start. He's always gotten a kick out of making Crowley do good.)

The agent startles when he scoops up a handful of seeds instead of crumbs, momentarily distracted from his duck woes to peer into the bag quizzically. He doesn't have long to question himself and his obvious sleep deprivation, though, because the duck quacks again and pecks his shoe, and he squeaks and flings his handful of seeds to the ground, far away from his feet.

Crowley makes sure a few land on his shoe anyway. Might as well have a laugh while he's here.

To the agent's horror and Crowley's delight, the duck's next quack attracts the attention of all the other ducks, who waste no time abandoning Aziraphale to circle around the agent, demanding food and flapping their wings when they don't get it fast enough. The agent pales - far paler than is probably healthy, poor fucker must be new - and whimpers as he overturns the bag so the seeds scatter on the ground and makes a break for it as soon as the ducks appear to be distracted. Still a few follow him, quacking insistently as they chase a grown man around the park.

Crowley can't help it. He cackles, a genuine smile tugging at his cheeks until they hurt for the first time in… for the first time since… for the first time in a while. The ducks here are wonderful creatures of chaos, and he's always wondered if Hell somehow managed to slip a few creatures of their own onto Earth at some point, because there's no way God let this level of anarchy get stuffed into a single species of bird. They deserve those well-earned seeds for all the mayhem they've assisted Crowley with over the years.

He glances at Aziraphale, still smirking, expecting to see an eye roll or an exasperated but secretly fond sigh. He expects to be scolded for harassing that agent, and is prepared to bite back a cheeky I didn't do anything, the ducks did that all on their own. It's what they've always done, and Crowley's always enjoyed it. There's just something about getting told off despite fully knowing Aziraphale doesn't really mean it that Crowley finds fun.

"You didn't have to do that."

"But that's the fun in it. It's not as funny if I have to chase him off." Crowley is almost giddy. There it is. This is the Aziraphale I know.

But Aziraphale isn't looking at him like he normally does when Crowley's done something he doesn't entirely approve of but reluctantly finds funny. Instead he's got an indecipherable look on his face.

"Not that," he says. "The bread. You didn't have to miracle it all into seeds like that."

Crowley's stomach sinks. His smile falls.

"It's not that I'm not grateful," Aziraphale adds, "but I can do that myself now. You don't need to do it for me anymore."

"I know you can do it yourself," Crowley says, trying desperately to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "You're an… you're an angel after all. I just. Y'know. Thought I'd help out."

"Still. You don't have to do things like that for me anymore. Not if you don't want to."

… What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

When has Crowley ever given the impression he doesn't want to do things for Aziraphale? It's not like it's a big deal. He's been doing things for Aziraphale for so long it's second nature at this point. It comes easier to him than breathing, easier than tempting, easier than walking or slithering. There are very few things in the world - perhaps even nothing - he enjoys more than doing things for Aziraphale. It's just what they do, nothing he would've ever thought twice about.

So why is Aziraphale making a big deal out of something they've done forever?

(Does he just not need Crowley anymore?)

(Has he ever needed Crowley as much as Crowley needs him?)

"Noted," Crowley mutters, glaring at the ground and attempting to stuff his hands in his pockets so Aziraphale won't see them ball into fists.

"I just don't want you to feel like you have to-"

"Nope. I get it. Free from obligation, me, now we don't have to report back to our sides anymore. No reason for me to do something like that since we don't need the Arrangement anymore-"

They don't need the Arrangement anymore. 

They don't need the Arrangement anymore. 

Oh fuck.

He's not thought about the Arrangement since they stopped Armageddon. Normally he doesn't need to think about it much at all. It's just there, just the name of the excuse he gave Aziraphale a long time ago so they could have a reason to speak to one another. Nothing he's ever put any weight on; he's never considered their friendship dependent on the Arrangement, never even seen it as a huge factor; not on his end at least.

But it's always been there. Always a ready made excuse to fall back on no matter how rocky their relationship gets. And now they've lost it at the worst possible time, when things are worse than ever. Sure, they're going to fix it, but now they've lost their safety net without even realising, and Crowley is petrified of falling.

It was hard enough building up their friendship the first time. If things go horrifically wrong and they have to start over completely, how are they supposed to do it without the Arrangement?

It's just another punch in the throat after a series of long, endless slaps in the face. Just another thing they've lost. Granted, this one isn't the fault of Aziraphale being an angel, but it's still gone. Still something Crowley knew like the back of his hand ripped away from his grasp with no warning and no consideration for the friction burns it causes.

Haven't enough things changed? Does he really have to lose one of the biggest constants in his life on top of having his entire worldview turned upside down? The one thing that guarantees Aziraphale's company, even if it can't guarantee his friendship?

He wouldn't even care if everything between them wasn't so fucked. He's never placed too much love on the Arrangement. So long as he has Aziraphale, he doesn't care about the state of the Arrangement.

But it doesn't feel like he has Aziraphale these days, not really, despite their best efforts. Some days he looks at Aziraphale and doesn't know who he is.

Like today.

And now they don't need the Arrangement anymore. All they have is an old friendship both of them are desperately clinging to like a wet plank of wood, desperately hoping it'll be enough, not even realising until now their life jackets have deflated and can't keep them afloat should their grips slip.

Crowley feels sick.

What are they without the Arrangement? Friends, Crowley would've said once, still wants to say. But when Aziraphale won't act like one…

"I forgot about that," Aziraphale says to himself, gazing out over the lake, the wheels in his head almost audibly turning. "I mean, I didn't forget it, of course, but I just didn't think about it after Armageddon. I suppose you're right, though, we don't really need it anymore, do we? I certainly don't think either of our sides will be requesting we fill quotas anymore, so there really is no need to…"

"Guess not," Crowley says. His mouth is unbearably dry. 

"Well, look on the bright side. At least you don't have to put up with doing good for me anymore."

It's meant to be a joke, and Crowley laughs, but it isn't a good laugh. It's strangled, hysterical, only escaping because he genuinely has no fucking clue how else he's supposed to respond to this shit again.

"... Crowley? Is everything alri-"

"Is that really what you think of me?" Crowley asks, voice still strained from laughter. "You really think I've just seen it as putting up with my end of the Arrangement this whole time?"

"I…" Aziraphale looks flustered, but not upset, more confused. "You just… you've said before you don't enjoy doing good. I just thought-"

"Thought what? This is, what, an inconvenience to me? Something I'll be glad to be rid of?"

"But… you don't enjoy it. Why wouldn't you be glad to stop?"

"Do you really think a demon would do good for someone if they hate doing it that badly? Fuck, I'm not saying I leap for joy whenever I do one of your blessings, but it's not…" Crowley runs a hand through his hair. There's a knot of words in his throat he can't even begin to untangle, but none of the words getting out are saying what he wants. He doesn't even know how to say what he wants in his head.

Once he wouldn't have to. Aziraphale would pick up the words he can't find, would know exactly what he means. Because that's what happens after knowing someone for thousands of years; learning to read them, becoming familiar with their thought process, not able to mind read but still knowing them well enough to have a pretty damn good guess of what they might be trying to say, all of it comes automatically like breathing.

Sure, Crowley can't read Aziraphale properly anymore; any time he tries, Aziraphale changes something, veers away from Crowley's expectations entirely, and Crowley doesn't know why or what's causing the change aside from the newly acquired knowledge that Aziraphale is a fucking angel.

But Crowley hasn't changed, has he? Aziraphale should still be able to read him just as well as he always has. 

And yet here he is, grasping for words even when he doesn't know what he's searching for, because Aziraphale is apparently just as clueless as him.

(Why don't they know each other anymore?)

"You think, what, I was just really good at hiding how much I hated it?" Crowley says at last. "You think everything was just out of some kind of obligation because of the Arrangement? You can't think of any other reason?"

"No! Of course I don't think you did it out of obligation!"

"Then why is it such a big deal to you if I do things for you or not? Why do you keep bringing it up?"

"Because you - I - because you don't have to anymore!"

"I know that! I'm not an idiot, Aziraphale, I know I don't have to. I never have! So why do you think I suddenly need to stop when it's never been a problem for me before?" Crowley wants to tear his fucking hair out. How does Aziraphale not get it? "Does it just annoy you? Is that it? You could've just told me instead of trying to pretend it's for my benefit!"

"No! It doesn't annoy me at all!"

"Then what? You just don't like the stink of demonic miracles?"

"That's not even remotely true, and you know it." There's a twitch in Aziraphale's jaw, a set stubbornness in his brow. Finally, finally, something familiar, and it's awful, Crowley doesn't want Aziraphale to be frustrated or angry, he doesn't want either of them to be angry with each other, but something sick and selfish within him is just so relieved to see something he recognises.

It's not helpful though. It's just one familiarity in a sea of unknown, not enough to keep Crowley afloat or soothe the sharp waves in his own temper.

"Do I?" Crowley grinds out, glaring back with just as much stubbornness. "Do I know that, Aziraphale?"

"Of course you do! You've known me for-"

"Have I? Because lately it feels like I don't know you at all!"

"Why on earth wouldn't you know me?"

"You - I - you just-! Ugh!" Crowley throws his arms up in frustration. "You're not… you don't act like yourself anymore! You just… you keep doing and saying shit, and I… fuck, I swear it's like I've never seen you before!"

"What? You're not making any sense!"

He knows that. He knows he's not making sense, and it's infuriating. But what is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to find the words to describe the mess in his head? How is he supposed to explain the way every new nervous tic, every new response, every new behaviour, puts him on edge?

"Is this because I'm an angel?" Aziraphale asks, suddenly hesitant, the fire gone almost immediately. Crowley hates that. Aziraphale shouldn't be hesitant, not around him. "Crowley, that… this doesn't change anything-"

"Doesn't it? All I've seen from you is change! Every time I turn around you've changed something!"

It's just never ending change. Aziraphale cleans the bookshop now. Aziraphale maintains eye contact when he's nervous now. Aziraphale apologises now. And Crowley can't make heads nor tails of where it's all coming from; all he knows is it only started once he found out the truth.

But why now? None of those things have anything to do with being an angel. They're habits he should've seen right from the start, so why didn't he? Why are they only popping up now, when the only thing that's changed is he knows Aziraphale is an angel now?

Was Aziraphale really so paranoid about being found out he hid entire parts of his personality? Did he really go to the extent of hiding his nervous tics and his enjoyment for cleaning and his feelings on Crowley doing things for him? Why? Why hide these things? It makes no sense, Crowley has no idea why anyone would hide anything so minor. But it's the only explanation he can think of, even though it's an explanation he doesn't even believe.

How much does he know the real Aziraphale? How much has Aziraphale kept from him? How does he know Aziraphale isn't still keeping things from him?

And if he's not hiding anything, if he's starting to be completely honest about all these little details he's hidden, why is one of the many changes his sudden inability to act like Crowley's friend?

"I just… I just don't recognise you some days," Crowley finds himself saying, voice disgustingly lost and hopeless. "You don't… you're not you."

You're not the friend you swore I knew.

"Of course I'm me," Aziraphale says. His arm twitches, begins to reach out, before he reconsiders and pulls back. 

(He never used to pull back.)

"Then talk to me! Tell me what the fuck is up with you! Tell me why you're like… like… like this!"

He just wants an explanation. That's all he wants. He wants a reason for why Aziraphale keeps changing, for why he isn't acting like himself, for why he isn't acting like a friend. Because despite his best efforts Crowley just… can't think of one. He's just constantly overthinking, running himself in circles to the point of exhaustion with no answer in sight.

He doesn't know why things keep changing this much. He doesn't know why things are this bad. Sure, he's still mad about the angel thing, but that isn't… he just doesn't know why that means Aziraphale won't treat him like a friend.

All he wants is to know why Aziraphale won't act normal.

But Aziraphale doesn't explain anything. He doesn't come out with some reasonable explanation for his strange behaviour, the reluctance to let Crowley do things for him, the plain and perfectly neutral responses to things that would've once started three hour debates.

Instead he just stares back at Crowley, just as helplessly confused and lost, and says, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to just say something to shut me up. I just want you to be fucking honest with me and tell me what's wrong for once!"

Because there is something wrong. There has to be. Something's wrong that's causing all these things to change, but Aziraphale won't tell him what. He won't let him help just like he won't let Crowley do things for him anymore. He's holding back, he's hiding things again, and Crowley is just. So. Tired of it.  

How can they fix their friendship and go back to normal if things change so much he no longer knows what normal is? And how is he supposed to stop that from happening if Aziraphale won't talk to him?

Say something. Anything. Just please fucking talk to me.

But Aziraphale doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring at him, helpless and lost.

Fuck it. This isn't going anywhere.

"Forget it," Crowley mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning away. 

"Crowley-"

"Just remembered I've got stuff to do. Elsewhere. Yeah."

"Oh." He can hear Aziraphale fidget. He doesn't dare turn around to see if it's a fidget he knows; he's not sure he'll handle it if he doesn't like the answer. "I… I'll see you another time, then?"

"Sure."

It's cowardly, maybe, to run. To hide away in his car and drive around until his thoughts clear, then hide in his flat and refuse to speak to anyone instead of just trying to talk out whatever just happened. Isn't that the whole point of what they're doing, after all? Fixing things instead of just leaving them and waiting for them to blow over?

But Crowley is a coward through and through, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to talk anything out when he feels like this.

So instead he flees.

It will just have to be a problem for another day.

Crowley likes to think he's a pretty good demon. Sure, he doesn't care for murder or torture or the end of the world like most demons do, but what he lacks in traditionalism and stereotypes he makes up for in creativity. And a few lies here and there in his memos to head office, but honestly, those should also count as good demonic work, shouldn't they?

Still, demon or not he's not a complete asshole, which is why it doesn't take him long to feel bad about his latest spat with Aziraphale.

He overreacted. He knows he did. Sure, every minor detail changed is absolutely infuriating right now, but no matter what his simmering anger and treacherous brain tells him, that's not Aziraphale's fault. So what if he doesn't want Crowley doing things for him anymore? So what if he doesn't want to have long, fascinating debates neither of them can get with humans anymore? So what if he cleans the bookshop now? It's his life, he can do whatever he wants. Crowley doesn't want to be the asshole who tries to dictate shit like that.

Sure, it hurts like a bitch that Aziraphale can't even act like his friend anymore. But the small stuff? The small changes that do nothing but get under his skin? Those aren't Aziraphale's problem. They're Crowley's, and he needs to suck it up and get over it.

Aziraphale is an angel, and Crowley was a fool for not expecting that to change things.

(He just thought most of the change would be on his end, not Aziraphale's.)

Normally Crowley would just ignore the issue until it goes away, but apparently they don't do that now. Apparently they… apologise to each other. And even though the thought makes his skin crawl, if only because it's another reminder things aren't the same as they were before, he has promised himself he'll try since Aziraphale is. So try he will.

He's not proud of the 15 tabs he has open on his phone teaching him how to apologise.

Aziraphale left him a message on his answering machine, but Crowley didn't listen to it. It's undoubtedly an apology of his own, and Crowley wants to do this face to face, since apparently they're supposed to… blech, talk about it and communicate their feelings and needs and why is he doing this again?

Oh, right. Because no matter what his paranoia tries to tell him, Aziraphale is his friend, and Crowley wants to fix their friendship as fast as possible so they can actually enjoy their time on Earth together now they don't have Heaven or Hell breathing down their necks. And because he feels like a really shitty friend himself right now.

It's an adjustment for both of them. Aziraphale isn't blowing up with frustration, so Crowley shouldn't either. It's not fair. Not that fairness is normally a thing he cares about, but. It's Aziraphale. He's always been the exception and Crowley doesn't want that to change. There's enough change between them already.

So he refused to listen to the voice message and instead just rang Aziraphale himself, asking to meet at the cafe down the street from the bookshop.

Which is why he's sat on his own at a table in that very cafe like a complete loser, twirling a butter knife between his fingers and waiting for Aziraphale to show up. If he shows up. Crowley's pretty sure he will, can't think of a reason he wouldn't, but still.

The man at the till has been shooting him sympathetic looks for the last fifteen minutes now, which isn't helping his mood. He knows he looks pretty pathetic to an outsider, sitting all alone at a table with two slices of cake and very clearly expecting someone who hasn't arrived yet, but to be fair, he is early for once, so of course Aziraphale isn't here yet. Did the man ever think about that? No. Inconsiderate bastard. Well, he's going to have a shock when he finds out his train tonight has been cancelled and replaced with a shitty replacement bus service, isn't he? Serves him right for being so bloody nosy and making assumptions.

The door opens, and Crowley glances up half-heartedly - they aren't supposed to meet for 10 more minutes, after all - but shoots up straight when he sees Aziraphale glancing around the room, wringing his hands as he searches for him. Crowley gives a little wave when Aziraphale finally spots him at their usual table, gesturing to the empty seat in front of him as Aziraphale hurries over.

"Hey," he says when Aziraphale sits down.

"Hello."

… Now what?

Does he just lead with the apology? Let them settle into conversation first and slip it in halfway through? Save it until the end? Fuck, he's not built for this kind of shit. Social expectations have always been low on his list of things to give a shit about; he's only vaguely aware of the ones he can use to piss people off, like influencing northerners to break the unspoken "mind your own business" rule by talking to strangers on the Tube at 7 o'clock in the morning.

"I, uh." Crowley coughs. "I got you cake. I don't know if you eat, but I just. Y'know."

Anxiety twists in his chest as Aziraphale blinks down at the cake like he's only just noticed it. Crowley only bought it on instinct, but if Aziraphale doesn't eat, he's going to look like a fool.

Aziraphale must eat, mustn't he? He's always so excited to try new restaurants, always keeping his kitchen full of all kinds of snacks. He must eat, he must, Crowley can't be wrong about this too-

"I eat," Aziraphale says. "Thank you."

Crowley doesn't sigh in relief. He doesn't. He just… exhales a bit harder than normal. For no reason in particular, and certainly not a cake or angel related reason. Too much air in his lungs is all.

Neither of them speak as Aziraphale digs into his cake. Despite the reasons they're there, the silence is comfortable; Aziraphale visibly relishes his cake just like he always does while Crowley watches. It's a familiar scene, so familiar Crowley almost forgets things haven't been familiar at all over the past few months, and he's needed this relief so desperately he's reluctant to break the silence to address the reason he invited Aziraphale out to begin with. Just five more minutes of peace is all he wants. Just five.

But eventually Aziraphale finishes his cake. His hand reaches for Crowley's automatically, and Crowley already starts to push it over to him when Aziraphale freezes, glancing up at Crowley guiltily, and pulls his hand back.

Well. Looks like it's apology time. Yay.

"I-"

"So-"

They cut themselves off, staring at each other, mouths twitching nervously like neither of them are sure they're allowed to laugh.

"You first," Aziraphale says.

"Nah, you go."

Aziraphale fiddles with his fork, running his finger over the decorative grooves and bumps on the handle. He traces the pattern of the groove, eyes transfixed on the fork as he bites his lip. For a moment, Crowley's hopeful he'll just keep his eyes on the fork like he normally would, but then Aziraphale meets his gaze and says, "I want to apologise for the other day. I don't know what I did to upset you, but I will try not to do it again."

Crowley takes a deep, deep breath, pushing down the twinge of frustration at the eye contact Aziraphale so clearly hates but won't shy away from. This, at least, he expected. It's why he didn't listen to the voice message and asked to meet in person instead, so he can do this to his face. Aziraphale apologises for things that aren't his fault all the time; it's just never phrased like an actual apology like this one is. 

"No," he says, turning to look out the window so Aziraphale won't have to keep forcing himself to make eye contact. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one who should… apologise."

Fuck, even that takes effort to drag from his throat. Is this how Aziraphale felt when he made that apology in the bookshop? Like he had to drag the words out of his mouth kicking and screaming because they just weren't used to being there in the first place?

Actually, Aziraphale probably rehearsed his apology, so maybe he didn't have that problem. Maybe Crowley should've rehearsed his apology, too.

"... Sorry?"

"I shouldn't have gone off like that," Crowley says, desperately scrambling to remember what all the articles he's read said. "You weren't doing anything. I'm the one who overreacted. So. Y'know. M'sorry."

Oh, well done, Crowley. Brilliant apology, that. He'll be winning awards for best apology in the universe next. Fuck, how do humans do this all the time?

"You don't have to apologise," Aziraphale says. "I'm sure you were just… maybe you were having a bad day, or frustrated, or-"

"I do." If they actually apologise to each other now, Crowley's damn well going to apologise when he needs to. He refuses to dump this awful shit entirely on Aziraphale. "I - we're both frustrated. But that doesn't… you don't deserve to put up with that shit just 'cause I'm in a bad mood. I wouldn't put up with it, and neither should you."

"Oh." Aziraphale blinks at him. That's not entirely unexpected, he guesses - Aziraphale's about as used to hearing apologies as Crowley is - but he still wishes he wouldn't look at him like he's just spouted an indecipherable lecture on space in a different language.

Does he really think Crowley's so much of an asshole he'd let Aziraphale take the blame when he didn't even do anything wrong? 

No, that doesn't sound like Aziraphale. Not Aziraphale, who sees the best in everyone, even Crowley, for some fucking reason. There must be another reason. Probably related to Heaven, because most of Crowley's problems come from Heaven, and also because they suck and they deserve to be blamed for anything and everything. Fuck Heaven.

"Well, ah, thank you," Aziraphale says at last. "You didn't have to apologise-"

Crowley shoots him a look, because yes he bloody did.

"-but I do appreciate it."

"Mm."

They fall quiet. Aziraphale fiddles with the fork. Crowley flicks the plate with his uneaten cake on it and miracles a wind to ruin someone's carefully styled hair outside. The cafe is quietly bustling around them, plates and glasses and cutlery clinking over the conversations from the other customers.

"What now?" Aziraphale says at last.

"Apparently we… talk about it. Find out what fucked up and fix it so it doesn't happen again."

"You don't look very thrilled about that."

"It's whatever. Better get it done and over with so it won't happen again." Hopefully. Because he'd already rather gargle nails than try to express his feelings, and he doesn't want to have to do this again over another argument. He already doesn't want to argue with Aziraphale at all, but this is an extra incentive.

"Well then… where do we start?"

"Dunno."

Well, isn't this going well? Why couldn't any of those damn websites provide a few examples on how to work this shit into the conversation?

At least Aziraphale looks just as clueless as him. It helps to know he's not the only one who doesn't know how this works. Makes him feel like less of a failure or shitty friend.

"I don't…" Aziraphale refocuses his gaze on his fork. "I don't understand what I did to upset you. You kept talking about how I've apparently changed, but I really, truly don't understand what you meant."

Never mind. Scratch the part about not feeling like a shitty friend.

"I was…" Fuck, what is he supposed to say? There's no way to phrase this without sounding like a petty, whiny asshole. I threw a hissy fit because you had the audacity to miracle bread into seeds and it reminds me you're actually an angel, also sometimes you don't do what I think you're gonna do and it pisses me off. Totally a reasonable response to a very normal issue. Not a dick move to pull on his best friend at all.

The worst part is, even if he does manage to say what his problem was, he's not confident Aziraphale will call him out on his unreasonable bullshit. He would have, once, but that was then and this is now, and the now is an Aziraphale who just walks on eggshells around Crowley most of the time. If Crowley handed Aziraphale a list of things he does differently and demanded he stop, he probably would. He wouldn't fight back or argue, just bow his head and accept the new terms and conditions. 

Not that Crowley would do that. He doesn't want to control Aziraphale like that, and even the thought of it makes him sick. It's too close to what those bastards in Heaven - and honestly, even in Hell - are like, controlling actions and attitudes and speech, forcing anyone on their side to conform perfectly to their expectations or face the consequences. Crowley never, ever, wants Aziraphale to feel like he has to do that with him. To act a certain way to please him just because a different way is currently pissing him off. He's always liked the small, subtle ways Aziraphale defies what's expected of him; he doesn't want to be the exception to that rule.

He wants things back to the way they were, yes. To be on familiar ground again. But he doesn't want to control and bully Aziraphale.

What he wants - what he really wants - is the easy companionship, the comfortable conversations, the contentment from just spending time together. The details don't matter so long as they're together and enjoying themselves. He wouldn't care about any of the small changes that irritate him so much if just being with Aziraphale wasn't so painfully different. If they actually acted like friends instead of… instead of whatever flaming disaster they apparently currently are.

He doesn't know how to say this. Doesn't know how to convey what his problem was.

But he can't say nothing. He can't just brush it off like he was just having a bad day. He wants to, oh satan does he want to, but he can't. If he does, they won't solve anything. They won't fix anything. They'll just keep running into the same wall, over and over, and yeah, they'll probably break through it eventually, but not until they're already covered in cuts and bruises. And haven't they struggled enough? Haven't they already fought tooth and nail just to keep this friendship and stay alive? Don't they deserve to take the less painful path for once? 

"You just… act different," Crowley says, wincing. Great, he's only just started and he's already not actually saying anything helpful. "Most of it is just small stuff, but other times you just… I dunno, it just bothered me that day."

"How so?"

Christ, Crowley hopes Aziraphale isn't asking so he can "fix" it.

"Just-" Crowley scrambles for an example that isn't stupid and petty- "like, not wanting me to do things for you anymore. I didn't think you ever had a problem with it, and I don't know if this is something new or if you've always felt this way but just didn't tell me for some reason. And if it is new, I don't know why it suddenly bothers you, and if it's not new, I don't know why you wouldn't just tell me you felt that way in the first place."

"Okay…" Aziraphale's staring at him, but not like he's forcing himself to make eye contact, which is an improvement. He's looking at Crowley like he's a puzzle he's been trying to figure out for weeks. "I don't… can you tell me why that bothers you? I just… I still don't understand why it's a problem."

Fuck, that's right, he has to talk about his feelings too. Fuck, fuck, what did the guide say?

"It just makes me feel-" this is hell this is awful how the fuck do humans talk about how they feel so damn much- "like you didn't trust me enough to tell me. Or that you don't need me anymore now you're. Y'know. That's why it bothered me."

"I see. I'm sorry. I'll try to-"

"Don't. Don't apologise. I don't… this isn't something you need to apologise for or fix. It's my problem, not yours. I'm the one who just needs to get over it."

Aziraphale doesn't look reassured. If anything, he looks even more concerned. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

No, is the first word in Crowley's mouth, but he pauses just before he says it. Just trying to suck it up apparently doesn't work, or at least, not as well as he wants it to, and if there's something they can do together to make it easier, he's willing to try it. Not that he wants to dump that on Aziraphale's shoulders - it's not his responsibility after all - but if Aziraphale wants to help, if that will make him feel better and stop him from trying to apologise, Crowley doesn't see the harm.

He doesn't want Aziraphale to change just for his sake. He just wants to understand. He wants to know what's going on inside Aziraphale's head like he used to. After all, feeling like he doesn't know Aziraphale at all anymore and being miserable about it won't help either of them. Relearning him might.

Aziraphale apparently won't argue or explain himself on his own. But maybe if Crowley asks him…

"Just… tell me why it bothers you. I'm not going to ask you to put up with me doing things for you if it makes you uncomfortable, but I'd feel better if I knew why."

Aziraphale's face is both slack with shock and twisted with uncertainty. He's not used to talking about this kind of thing either. He's just as used to Crowley knowing him like the back of his hand as Crowley is. Actually explaining themselves for big things like this isn't something they have to do often.

"You've always done things for me," Aziraphale says, slowly, like he's testing the words. He does best when he rehearses things, Crowley knows, but neither of them have had the luxury of being able to rehearse this. All they can do is say shit and pray it works. "And it's not that I mind, or that it bothers me, but I just… I've always wished I could do more for you than I do. And now Heaven isn't watching, now that I can, I don't want to make you feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindne- your… favours."

"I don't mind," Crowley says. "I don't mind doing things for you."

"I don't mind it either. But I mind when you do everything. I don't want to use you like that."

"It's not using me. I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to."

"Still. I don't want you to have to do everything. I want to make up for all the times I've not returned the favour."

"It's not like I've been keeping score or anything. I've never expected you to-"

"Because you thought I was a human," Aziraphale says quietly. His eyes are downcast. "But me being an angel changes things."

Being an angel changes things. Because of fucking course it does. This whole angel bullshit apparently does nothing but change things-

Crowley swallows back the boiling in his blood. He's just an angel. That's it. He's still Aziraphale. Him being an angel isn't that big a deal. "Does it?"

"Why wouldn't it? You didn't expect me to put in the same effort as you because you thought I couldn't. But I could, and I didn't. Of course being an angel changes things."

"... I don't think it does."

Maybe the words are risky, but he doesn't care. He wasn't sure about saying them, but now that he has, they feel right. Like there was never any doubt it doesn't change things, even if Crowley himself wasn't sure of that until he said it.

Because honestly, he can't think of a world where he wouldn't want to do things for Aziraphale. Can't think of a world where he keeps track of how much he does and how much Aziraphale does. He's never thought Aziraphale hasn't been putting in the same effort he is, and even with hindsight, even with the knowledge Aziraphale is an angel, he still doesn't. He can't imagine it bothering him in the future, either. Even when he first found out the truth, every time his thoughts have spiralled, this has never crossed his mind as an issue to be upset about.

"... I don't understand."

"You're talking like you've never done anything for me. That's not true. You've always done things for me. Covering temptations, lying to head office for me, providing distractions when I need to get away from humans as a snake. I don't see how you being an angel suddenly means you haven't done anything for me."

"I haven't done as much as I could, though," Aziraphale says, looking more and more lost by the second. "You've always done so much more, and I did what I could, but I could've done more. I could've used a miracle to help you in so many situations-"

"And there's probably more stuff I could've done for you that I didn't do," Crowley cuts in. "It's not a balancing act, Aziraphale. You just said you did what you could. Sure, maybe you could've done other things with miracles if I knew the truth, but you still did what you thought you could. Hell, you did stuff you didn't even need to, like after the church when you-"

When he cleaned Crowley's burnt feet, which, as a holy burn, shouldn't have been soothed by mortal water, nor healed in a matter of days.

When, really, he wasn't prepared to take care of his burning feet at all, because when he walked into that church and dropped a bomb on it, he didn't expect to not be discorporated.

"When you healed my feet and shielded me from the bomb," Crowley says slowly. "That's what happened back then, wasn't it?"

Aziraphale stiffens. He gives a tiny, almost unnoticeable, nod.

"Always thought that night didn't make much sense," Crowley mutters. "Weren't you worried I'd notice and figure it out?"

It was unlikely he would have. He knew - or rather, he thought he knew - Aziraphale had a limited amount of miracles, so he probably would've assumed Aziraphale used one of those. His only concern would have been if Heaven would somehow notice the two unsanctioned miracles.

But he knows Aziraphale - well, he's pretty sure he knows Aziraphale - and Aziraphale wouldn't have even considered that. He always jumps to the worst case scenario first.

"Yes," Aziraphale admits, "but I couldn't just let you suffer or get discorporated. I was worried about what Hell would do if they found out you were protecting me, and then you were in pain. I knew there was a chance you'd notice and figure it out, but… you were more important."

You were more important. 

You were more important.

"See, that's why I don't get it when you say you didn't do enough for me," Crowley says softly. 

"I didn't heal you properly. You were still in pain when you left, and I could have fixed it, but I didn't-"

"But you still healed me. You risked your secret to heal me."

Sure, he wishes Aziraphale didn't have a secret to risk. But he did, and he risked it anyway, for Crowley's sake.

You were more important.

"It wasn't enough," Aziraphale says. Nearly whispers, really.

You've always been more than enough, Crowley wants to say, but doesn't. He can't, not right now. Later, maybe, when things between them are better, but not now. It's more than they can handle right now. How can they tackle territory they were too afraid to touch even at their strongest when they're barely comfortable with each other?

"You were protecting us," he says instead. "How is that not enough?"

It's a certainty that's been shaky ever since he found out the truth, but steadily growing and strengthening again. Aziraphale protects them. He guards them, works his ass off to make sure they never have to face the consequences from Heaven and Hell for their friendship, coming up with plans and excuses and lies almost as quickly as Crowley when he needs to. While Crowley charges forward, tugging Aziraphale along, Aziraphale watches their back, looking over his shoulder and trusting Crowley's lead so he can keep his focus on making sure they aren't followed.

Sure, sometimes he's overly paranoid, and sometimes Crowley wishes he'd relax a little, but his caution isn't unjustified. It's thanks to that caution and quick thinking and determination to protect them that Aziraphale came up with the plan to switch corporations, after all.

He wasn't sure at first, when the sting of betrayal was more of a stab and he was so wrapped up in his emotions he couldn't make sense of anything, but the more time he spends with Aziraphale again, the more he's sure; their argument at the bandstand before the whole angel reveal was about protecting them. Aziraphale being an angel doesn't change that like he'd feared. He was still trying to protect them, to guard them from Heaven and Hell even though he was scared they'd already lost everything.

Hell, maybe Aziraphale being an angel means that makes more sense, not less. Human reactions to danger vary, but more often than not, Crowley sees them get angry. Trapped, mistreated humans are likely to fight back sooner or later, especially when they have no personal connection to the ones hurting them. Sure, individuals may understandably cower to try to protect themselves, but it's humanity's collective ability to say enough is enough and fight back that's kept them alive for so long. It's what makes them pick themselves up no matter what happens and push themselves forward again and again, surviving and thriving despite whatever odds are thrown at them.

In hindsight, a human cursed with immortality would get sick of Heaven's shit eventually. The starry eyed wonder or fear of working for Heaven wouldn't last forever if they were treated like shit. Sooner or later a human would throw down the gauntlet and declare no more. Their heels would dig in and their eyes would burn as they made their demands, stubborn little things that they are, consequences and mortality be damned. It's why, when the really big war eventually comes, Heaven and Hell against all of humanity, Crowley isn't so convinced humanity will lose. They survive just as easily as they die, they'll throw everything away for the sake of a risk just because they think it's worth it, and their wit and creativity is a smoking cannon Heaven and Hell will never hope to replicate.

No, a single human would never tolerate Heaven treating them like dirt for 6000 years. It's in their blood to fight back, to push and rage and escape control, to be something angels and demons could never hope to be. That's why they were created, after all.

But an angel? One who's seen first hand what happens to those who don't obey and has their entire purpose to lose if they step out of line? They would never dream of rebelling like a human would, not unless they were willing to risk Falling. They would never consider it worth the risk.

An angel mistreated by Heaven would just act exactly like Aziraphale.

Crowley's just always failed to realise this because he's a demon and demons would react the same way.

Maybe Aziraphale being an angel doesn't change as much as he was afraid of. Maybe it just makes them even more alike than he thought. Two immortals fucked over by Heaven constantly watching their backs and terrified of what Heaven and Hell may do to them at any moment.

And Aziraphale protected them anyway. Even though he was scared, because he's an angel and of course an angel would be scared. He still put everything on the line, just like Crowley did, to be friends, and worked to protect them so they could live to stay friends.

"Proper little guardian angel, you," Crowley says. The words don't sting his mouth like they have been doing these past few months. Instead they ring, like he's said something similar before, in the distant past he can't remember anymore. But they don't hurt. That's progress, right?

Aziraphale winces, but when Crowley gives him a small grin, he seems to realise Crowley doesn't mean it as an insult, and he gives a shaky but relieved smile back.

Somehow, that smile makes it easier to breathe. 

"I guess I'm just…" Crowley grapples for words. They're still difficult, probably always will be, but he tries anyway, even harder than he was trying before. Aziraphale is always worth trying for. "I'm… I don't want you to change. Or. I don't want… this to change." He gestures between the two of them. "Us. It's… I like what we have. Had. Whichever it is. I don't want the… angel thing to change things between us."

Aziraphale takes his words in quietly, fiddling with his fork and eyeing the cake Crowley still hasn't touched. He doesn't reach for it, though, or even ask for it.

"I… don't know if we can go back to exactly the way we were," he says at last. "I'm not the helpless human you thought I was, after all. Even if you don't mind doing things for me sometimes, it still won't be like it was before. You won't need to make sure I'm sleeping or eating, and you don't need to push your limits or overexert yourself with your miracles like you did with the bomb and the church. I can pull my own weight now. I want to pull my own weight now. I've wanted it for a long time."

Crowley pushes down the frustration that tries to bubble up and insist Aziraphale doesn't need to worry about pulling his weight or whatever. It may not be important to Crowley, but clearly it is important to Aziraphale, and he doesn't want to dismiss that. Not when Aziraphale is finally being honest with him, and definitely not now he's doing something other than apologising and just trying to please Crowley.

"Okay," Crowley says. "That makes sense. I just… I know things aren't going to be exactly like they were before, but I don't want it to feel completely different. Like what we had wasn't real. I can get over small stuff changing if the big picture is still pretty much the same." He grimaces. That doesn't make sense, does it? "Like, if you wanna, I dunno, use more miracles to free tables at restaurants or whatever, that's fine, I don't care about that. I just want to know who I'm talking to when I see you. I want to know you're still the person I've known for thousands of years, human or not."

"I am," Aziraphale says. He meets Crowley's eyes, but this time it doesn't feel uncomfortable. This time it's like he's trying to press his words into Crowley's very being with his gaze alone. "I promise I am."

Part of Crowley wants to look away, but he doesn't. He holds their shared gaze, trying desperately to make Aziraphale understand he's not trying to be a dick, but he's struggling all the same. "I'm trying to believe that. It's just… hard."

It's hard to believe things are still more or less the same when all he can see is all the things that are different. When all he can see is how Aziraphale is different.

"I understand," Aziraphale says, and Crowley believes him. "I want to do anything I can to help. If there is anything I can do."

"Be honest with me," Crowley says before he can really think about it. "I know it will take time for me to see it, but just… I need you to be honest with me. I need the truth about things. Please."

"I can do that."

"And talk to me. You don't… you don't talk to me like you used to. I know things are awkward and we could be better, but you act like we don't know each other sometimes and it's hard to get used to this when it feels like you're not yourself. We've known each other for 5000 years, and I don't want to pretend we haven't."

"Okay," Aziraphale says. He doesn't look uncomfortable, but he does look just a touch sadder. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise… I was trying to respect your boundaries. I didn't want to make you feel like I was trying to pretend I didn't lie to you or upset you."

Ha. Ironic. That's exactly what Crowley was trying to do. Not well, but still.

But he sees where Aziraphale's coming from. How is he supposed to know where the boundaries lie or what Crowley wants if Crowley doesn't tell him?

Of course, that requires Crowley himself knowing in the first place. Which he doesn't, because they've never done this before. Fuck.

"And I suppose…" Aziraphale fiddles with his fork some more, turning it over and over and over. He doesn't look away, but he shifts like he's starting to want to. "I suppose I was scared it would be painful. To pretend nothing has changed. And I don't know what's too far or too much for you right now. I don't want to do something I haven't earned the right to do."

… Wait.

Wait.

What?

"Earn?"

Aziraphale stops. Stares blankly at him. Crowley stares blankly back.

Because seriously, what the fuck?

"Yes, earn," Aziraphale repeats slowly. "I… I hurt you so much, and I know it must be uncomfortable to just be around me. There's lots of things we only did because we were comfortable around each other as friends, but we're not like that right now. I haven't earned your friendship back, so I haven't earned the right to do those things. I'm already so lucky you want to give us a second chance when no one would blame you for wanting nothing to do with me, so I need to prove to you I'm sorry and earn your forgiveness and friendship back."

… Huh?

"That's…" Crowley runs a hand through his hair. How does he even begin to untangle that bullshit? "Shit, Aziraphale, no. Why would you even think-?"

Even when they barely knew each other Aziraphale was at least comfortable enough to make small jabs at him. Now he thinks he needs to earn the right to do what he could already do when they were just neutral acquaintances? He thinks he has less right to act a certain way than he did when they were complete strangers? Does he really think Crowley is that pissed he's pushing them even further away than they ever were and making Aziraphale start all over from scratch?

He wants to shake Aziraphale and demand to know who the fuck put that shit in his head, because it sure as fuck wasn't him. He's never said Aziraphale needs to earn his friendship, can't even think of a time he's implied it. So where is all this coming from?

Actually, no, it doesn't matter. Probably. Right now getting that shit out of his head is more important than figuring out how it got in.

Although if this is the result of some shitty apology book Aziraphale got his hands on, Crowley can't promise he won't torch the fucker to set an example to all the other books on what will happen if they fuck with Aziraphale's head again. He's got enough headaches about this shitfest without any more being added to the pile.

"Okay," Crowley mutters, fiddling with his knife. "Okay, that explains some stuff."

It explains a lot, actually. Of course Aziraphale wouldn't act like himself if he thought he needed to earn the right to do so.

Still, the explanation only mildly comforts him. Because, once again, what the absolute fuck.

"Okay. First of all, you don't have to earn anything," Crowley says. It's hard to keep his tone soft, but if he starts hissing and spitting like he wants to, Aziraphale will definitely misinterpret his words, and that's the last thing they need right now. "This isn't… you don't need to prove you deserve it."

"Of course I do."

"No. Fuck, Aziraphale, I've never considered not being friends with you. I'm pissed you lied to me, yeah, but I'm not gonna cut you out of my life if you don't grovel enough."

Even the thought makes him taste phantom bile. He doesn't want Aziraphale to beg and grovel and bend over backwards to earn Crowley's presence. Aziraphale is his friend. What kind of friend would he be if he wanted to watch Aziraphale suffer like that just to prove he should be allowed to stay by Crowley's side?

Aziraphale is staring at Crowley like he's never seen him before, still lost and confused despite his efforts to keep his face blank, and Crowley's stomach twists every second that look is on his face. This shouldn't be a surprise.

"I don't understand," Aziraphale says at last. It's awful to hear. "Of course I have to earn it. I always have."

"You don't." When has Crowley ever-

He hasn't. But…

Oh. 

Oh.

"You don't," Crowley repeats, softer this time. "Not with me."

"... Then what am I doing?"

"Working with me. Fixing… all of this shit." Crowley doesn't know how they do that. But he's confident they'll figure it out. There's no other option he'd want. "We're just working together, Aziraphale. Just like we've always done."

At last, Aziraphale lowers his eyes like he wants to, focusing back on his fork, twirling and processing. Crowley waits. He's patient like that, when he wants to be. And he'd wait for eternity if that's what Aziraphale needed.

"Okay," Aziraphale says. "I can do that."

"I know." Crowley wouldn't ask him to do it if he didn't think he could. "We always do."

They will, there's no doubt about that, because they're a team and they always figure out everything they need somehow. Even if things are a mess right now, even if neither of them know what they're doing, they'll get it eventually.

"Is… there anything else you need? Besides me being honest with you and talking to you?"

Ah, fuck, that's right. Needs and feelings, his new worst enemy.

"Probably. I'll let you know the second I figure it out, though." He may be stumbling through this maze completely blind, and he may be stubbing his toe on every rock imaginable, but he's not going to leave Aziraphale to just guess what he needs just as blindly. He'll hate it, but he'll talk about it if that's what they need to do to get through this. "And you? Anything you need to make this easier?"

"... Tell me what you need. No matter how many times it changes. I'm not good at guessing."

"I can do that."

Anything. Anything at all if it gets us through this.

"We're not very good at this, are we?" Aziraphale says, a small, trembling smile twitching his lips.

"Nope. Guess we shouldn't be too surprised. This is human stuff after all."

"Oh, I don't know. We're quite good at mimicking humans."

"Good point." Crowley nudges Aziraphale with his foot. "We'll get this one too, eventually. We've got time."

Aziraphale smiles at him. A real smile, soft and trusting and familiar, and Crowley's heart flutters just like it always does, like it's missed that smile just as much as Crowley himself has.

"Cake?" he offers, pushing the plate towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale takes it. "Don't mind if I do."

Yeah, they'll be alright. They always are when they're together. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale and Crowley have shared a love for theatre ever since its invention. Their tastes don't perfectly align, but they enjoy attending shows together despite that. The discussions sparked afterwards are fun, and Crowley's nitpicking about whatever tragic performance Aziraphale has recommended are always entertaining, and their debates about the use of comedy in the plays Crowley drags him to can last for hours. The theatre is one of the places where their differences are more worthwhile than their similarities. 

So for all the difficulties they've had recently, the theatre should be a safe activity for the two of them. No talking is permitted during the actual performance - not that Crowley always obeys that rule, as he seems to find great delight in ticking off other audience members - and they can have as much or as little conversation as they like afterwards, secure in the knowledge none of it is personal and it all comes down entirely to their differing tastes. It's the perfect activity to do together under the current circumstances, and Aziraphale is very, very proud of himself for suggesting it.

He typically keeps a close eye on all the plays that come and go around the various theatres in London, always on the lookout for something he and Crowley can attend together, but with Armageddon and trying to avert the apocalypse, and then his fracturing friendship with Crowley, his focus had admittedly slipped, so he has no idea what their options are. Crowley offered to take a look on his little telephone, but Aziraphale managed to persuade him to take a look in person, instead. Yes, it may take a little longer, but what does that matter? They're not in a race against time with the end of the world anymore, there's no reason to rush.

Still, he wishes his attention on the local theatres hadn't slipped quite so much, because he honestly has no idea what some of these plays are. 

"What's Spongebob the Musical?" he asks, squinting at the poster like that will help him understand it better.

"You won't like it," Crowley says immediately, which doesn't really answer his question, but Crowley is rarely wrong when he says Aziraphale won't like something, so he takes his word for it. "We could try Back to the Future."

If that's what you really want, Aziraphale almost says, but he pauses, and manages to swallow it back just in time.

It's a struggle to not just give in to what Crowley wants. To appease him. Aziraphale has spent so long trying to appease Heaven that some days it feels like he doesn't know how to do anything but appease. Crowley was hurt, and now Aziraphale needs to appease him, to not inflict his own thoughts and wants in a situation on him. Aziraphale is the one who needs to work for atonement, and until he achieves that, Crowley's desires take priority. If he does whatever Crowley wants, he'll please him, and Crowley will be more inclined to forgive him for his transgressions. That's how it's always worked.

No. That's how Heaven always worked. It's never worked like that with Crowley, and it's never going to work like that with Crowley. They don't need Heaven's song and dance to move past this - they'll forge their own way, just like they always do.

Every part of him itches to obey Crowley's whims to stay in his good graces. It's what he knows, what he's always been so sure is the best way to earn forgiveness.

But Crowley doesn't want that. Crowley says he doesn't need to do that anymore, that Aziraphale can just… act like he usually does, even if that involves disagreeing with him. And Aziraphale trusts Crowley far more than he trusts his own instincts about these kinds of things, especially as obedience failed him with both Heaven and Crowley.

So instead, he wrinkles his nose and says, "Perhaps another time."

Another time that will likely be far, far into the future, just like the title of the play itself. He won't go so far as to say never, if only because Crowley has a habit of somehow convincing him to just give these kinds of plays a try, but he's certainly in no rush to watch it. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, but it's good natured, and there's the slightest upward twitch of his lips, the one that means he finds Aziraphale amusing. Turning him down had been the correct call, then.

If only they'd decided to come to the theatre sooner. There was a showing of Assassins just two weeks ago, and Aziraphale has been meaning to invite Crowley to watch it for quite some time, but it appears he's missed his opportunity, as the last show was two nights ago. He'll just have to wait for it to come back to London again.

He's about to suggest they try a different theatre when a poster for one final play catches his eye.

"Oh," he says, "they have a play about Joseph."

"Joseph who?"

"The dream boy."

"Oh. Him. They're still making musicals about him?"

"Apparently." Aziraphale has only seen one musical recounting the story of Joseph, and he was… admittedly less than impressed with it. Crowley had complained the lead's acting was too wooden, and Aziraphale had constructive criticism about the historical accuracy of the costumes; a minor complaint in the eyes of many, he's sure, but it bothered him, considering he still has his clothes from that time safely tucked away in his wardrobe. 

This is a new play, though, one he hasn't seen before. Judging by the poster, it doesn't seem to detail the entire story of Joseph, but rather focuses on those fourteen years of good harvest and famine.

In fact…

"Isn't this when we first met?" Crowley asks, still staring at the poster showing a very loose interpretation of Joseph being handed control of Egypt.

"We first met at the Ark," Aziraphale corrects.

"That doesn't count. We didn't know we were, you know, at the Ark. We first talked properly as us in Egypt."

"It was more you talking than us, considering you shoved a dirty cloth in my mouth for most of that interaction."

"I thought you'd scream. Or try to bite me. Or both. I just wanted you to calm down a little."

"Yes, very effective calming strategy," Aziraphale says dryly.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Crowley whines, looking dangerously close to pouting, "and I took it out once I stopped trying to wipe your memories. Not my fault you still didn't feel like talking once I did."

"In my defence, I was busy being rather taken aback. What did you expect me to say after you started rambling about immortality curses from Heaven?"

"Probably something about being an angel instead of being cursed."

Aziraphale winces. After a second, Crowley winces, too.

"That… came out wrong," he says guiltily. "That was meant to be. Y'know. A joke."

Aziraphale wrings his hands, takes a deep breath around the sting, then smiles weakly at Crowley. "If… if I had said that, you probably would have said they're the same thing."

Crowley chuckles, a little shaky, a little unsure. Cautiously testing the ground just as much as Aziraphale is, trying to refind boundaries they once knew by heart.

It doesn't always feel like it, but things have been better since their meeting at the cafe. Not perfect, Aziraphale would never dare ask for perfect, but better. So much better he's still not entirely convinced it's real. Being able to just… talk to Crowley lifts a weight from his chest he's been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what it's like to not carry it. The pressure of trying to frantically follow orders and guess what he's supposed to do to earn forgiveness is gone, and all of a sudden Aziraphale can breathe easier.

It helps knowing he's not expected to earn Crowley's friendship back. With their friendship secured, Aziraphale no longer feels like he's walking on a tightrope with only sharp rocks instead of a safety net below to catch him. He doesn't have to worry about losing Crowley if he messes up. He can just… try again.

He's never been able to do this without feeling like every slight misstep will have him thrown aside. When Heaven took his wings, he'd immediately noticed he wasn't seen the same as other angels anymore. He was lower, scrambling to keep up and regain his position; only bad angels are put on a warning, and he was in a worse position than that. He was being punished and under observation, practically on the brink of useless in angelic standards. Everything he's done since then has been a balancing act of trying to make Heaven happy while not making himself completely miserable.

He still feels foolish for believing he could ever achieve what he thought they were trying to get him to achieve. 6000 years of working hard to earn their forgiveness wasted, because they were never going to forgive him to begin with. 

It still doesn't feel real. They're angels, servants of the Lord, forgiveness is their whole thing. She forgives, and they're supposed to carry out Her will, so why wouldn't they? Did he just not do enough? Was he not putting in as much effort as he thought he was?

But if that was the case, they never would've promised to give him his wings back, over and over, even though they know it's not possible.

And if he wasn't putting in as much effort as he thought he was, why does less effort seem to be more than enough for Crowley?

He tries not to think about it too much. Heaven and his wings are wounds that have been raw for so long he can usually tune them out, and they're far less pressing for him than the wound that is his fractured friendship with Crowley. Sewing that wound shut is much more important to him. Heaven lying about his wings… it hurts, of course it does, but Aziraphale doesn't know where he's even meant to begin dealing with that. Maybe that will change when he has the time, or the strength, or perhaps the knowledge on how to deal with it, but for now, it's not his priority. Fixing his relationship with Crowley is.

No matter how much the… truth about Heaven's intentions hurts, it's not more important to him than Crowley, and it's not so bad it can't wait.

So he doesn't think about it. Or, at least, does his best to not think about it. Some days he can't help it, can't swallow down the bitter taste of betrayal - it feels wrong to even think that word in Heaven's direction, but it's the only word that comes to mind - but most days, he manages to keep the thoughts at bay. Crowley helps with that. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley even knows he's helping, or if it's just an unintended side effect of slowly spending time together again. 

Either way, it's a blessing. Crowley is a blessing, although he would huff and sulk if Aziraphale ever told him that.

So things have been better. Much better. But still far from what they once were. It's a struggle to remember that, sometimes, just like it's a struggle to remember he doesn't need to quietly comply with everything Crowley says just to make him like him again. It's difficult to be patient when jokes still fall flat and they still keep catching their feet on barbed wire when they least expect it.

"In hindsight, you being an angel makes way more sense," Crowley says at last. Aziraphale glances at him, but his eyes are still firmly on the poster, something Aziraphale is oddly grateful for. Serious conversations are difficult. but they're easier when he doesn't have to worry about eye contact. "'S a much better explanation for why I couldn't wipe your memories than you being a human."

"I'm still not entirely sure how you came to that conclusion," Aziraphale says. "I mean, I know you said back then I don't smell very much like an angel, but having a corporation does that."

"Eh, to some extent." Crowley waves his hand. "Yours is actually fainter than average. Most people don't have a good enough sense of smell to tell the difference, but I do. Normally even angels with a body have a stronger angel smell than you, but you don't, because of the…" He hesitates. "Well. The, uh. The. Wing thing."

"I… see." Aziraphale didn't know that. Odd, he was so sure he was already hyper aware of every little way his lack of wings makes him different. They're normally difficult to miss, especially as Gabriel has always been so keen to subtly remind him of them.

Crowley coughs. "Anyway, uh, it wasn't just that. It's also 'cause you ran."

"Because I ran?" The smell thing at least makes sense, but running? What sensible person wouldn't run from a demon they believe to be extremely powerful when they have very limited options for self-defence?

"Yeah. I mean, I thought an angel would be chasing me, not the other way around. To, y'know, smite me. Most would. It's kinda their whole thing. But humans usually run away when they find out what I am, so when you ran, I just figured… well, it fit the pattern." He folds his arms. "I wondered if I was wrong when I couldn't touch your memories, but I couldn't think of a reason an angel would run instead of smite me on the spot. Between that and the whole smell thing, I just thought to myself, 'well, I haven't been Upstairs in forever, and I'm not exactly in the business of protecting humans from demons, so what do I know about what angels can do to keep their chosen humans safe from my lot?'"

"Heaven doesn't really believe in protecting humans from demons. Not unless they're ordered to. It interferes with-"

"Ineffability?"

"Something like that."

To be honest, Aziraphale has never entirely understood why Heaven does so little to protect humans from demons. Whenever he asked in the past, he just received a speech about free will and choices, which are all very well and good when it comes to resisting temptation, but not exactly a good defence against things like memory-altering demonic magic. Pushing the matter has never gotten him answers, though, and he's always been reluctant to push out of fear doing so could cost him his wings.

"Bastards," Crowley says, familiar contempt creeping into his voice. He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but stops himself with a grimace, then switches tracks. "Like I said, in hindsight the angel thing makes more sense than being a human. I just didn't think an angel could hide that kind of thing from me. Or that they'd want to."

"It's not like I meant-" Aziraphale starts, but he manages to stop himself before he can finish.

No excuses. He promised himself he wouldn't make excuses anymore. He promised Crowley honesty, yes, but he can do that without making excuses. He has to.

Crowley gives him an expectant look, and Aziraphale holds his breath. What he's waiting for, he isn't sure. A scolding for trying to make excuses again? To be gently pressed to continue what he was going to say?

Whatever he's expecting, it doesn't happen. Crowley just turns back to the poster without acknowledging Aziraphale's slip-up.

"I still don't get why you ran," he continues. "I thought Heaven teaches all angels to smite on sight when they spot a demon. If you were running away to try and keep the crowd safe, that would at least make more sense, but you didn't lead me anywhere isolated. You just tried to disappear into more crowds." He gives Aziraphale an awkward smile. "Surely seeing me there wasn't so surprising you forgot all your training?"

Is that an invitation for an explanation, or is Crowley just thinking aloud?

Well, only one way to find out.

"I was never actually instructed to smite you," Aziraphale says cautiously, bracing himself for a silencing look telling him his explanation isn't appreciated. It doesn't come. "Heaven just… warned me you were on Earth, and told me to keep an eye out for you and thwart you, but never make contact with you. They never told me what I should do if I couldn't avoid that."

Which isn't like Heaven at all. Not when they're so meticulous. In hindsight, it's more than a little odd they didn't bother to give him anything to defend himself with, especially when they knew he couldn't simply fly away if he found himself in a spot of trouble. Maybe they just expected Aziraphale to be discorporated or destroyed on the spot; they wouldn't have accounted for an agent of Hell being like Crowley, so it's not like they were counting on a demon's mercy to spare him.

"Still. I thought you'd, I dunno, at least make a speech about it. Or do it on instinct, like a human squashing a bug." Crowley hesitates. "Wouldn't… that make you look good, in Heaven's eyes? Smiting a demon?"

"Possibly. In all honesty, it never really crossed my mind." And what does that say about Aziraphale? "Besides, I already knew you were a demon, so it wasn't as shocking as it could've been."

"You what?" Crowley's voice is disbelieving. Aziraphale turns his attention back to the poster so he doesn't need to see whatever look is on Crowley's face. "Since when?"

"Since the Ark," Aziraphale says, his stomach twisting. He forgot Crowley doesn't know that. Why would he? It's never come up. Oh dear, does this count as hiding things? It shouldn't, surely. This, in the grand scheme of things, is inconsequential. Irrelevant. What does it matter when Aziraphale found out Crowley is a demon? It doesn't impact their relationship at all, at least, not in any way he can see.

But what if Crowley sees it differently? It seems inconsequential to Aziraphale, but his perspective isn't exactly reliable. He's already dropped so many unwelcome surprises on Crowley, what if this is the straw that breaks the camel's back? What if this is the thing that makes Crowley decide once and for all fixing their friendship isn't worth it-

No. That won't happen. That won't ever happen. Crowley said himself he's never considered not being Aziraphale's friend. That's as good as a promise, isn't it?

Heaven made promises, too. Promises they knew they couldn't keep.

But Crowley isn't like Heaven. Crowley is trustworthy. Crowley tells him the truth. Aziraphale knows this, deep in his heart, deep in his very being - he hasn't questioned or doubted this simple fact in millennia, and he's not doubting it now. How can he even dare think the contrary, after all the time they've spent together? 

"And here I thought my disguise was flawless," Crowley says. His voice strains to be lighthearted, but there's an undercurrent of… something in it; what, Aziraphale doesn't know. "What gave me away? Did I not show enough concern over humanity drowning to be convincing?"

"No, no, you were very good," Aziraphale rushes to reassure. "I just… I noticed your eyes. At the last moment, right before you left. That was all."

Crowley grimaces. "Yeah, I should've expected hoping no one would notice my eyes in a crowd that big was too much to ask. All I could really do before humans invented glasses was just will people to not look. I thought I was focusing hard enough no humans would notice, but… well, of course that wouldn't work on you, being an angel and all."

Nothing about his tone implies insult, but Aziraphale suppresses a wince like it is.

Crowley is… carefully casual about referring to his angelic status. His tone is always even, no hint of the malice or contempt that normally taints his voice when he talks about angels. There usually isn't any anger, not anymore, but it's still always a little strained, trying a bit too hard. Like he's trying to learn to say it without ire, and isn't sure how well it's working. It's not meant to be mean - it isn't mean - but Aziraphale still finds himself flinching away from any mention of it. He can't help it. Centuries of trying to hide the truth, and then Crowley's less than positive reaction when he found out… oh, he feels awful about it, but he still expects venom that isn't coming whenever Crowley mentions it. It feels wrong for such information to be out in the open like this and not be met with scorn.

"If you already knew I was a demon," Crowley says slowly, like he's not sure it's a good idea to finish his sentence, "why did you let me talk to you in Egypt? I mean, I can't imagine it was for my charming personality and conversational skills."

"I…" Oh, Aziraphale desperately doesn't want to say. It sounds so ridiculous, now, borderline rude, even. But he promised Crowley his honesty, and the last thing he wants to do right now is break his promises. "I thought you were trying to get information about Heaven's plans out of me. I thought you already knew what I am, you see, and I thought you'd decided talking to me would be worth the risk so long as I didn't know what you are. I figured if you ever found out I knew, it would be a lot more unpleasant to live here."

Even as he talks, he can't help but cringe internally. He sounds so accusing. It's a ridiculous thought, especially now he knows Crowley; he's about as prone to violence as Aziraphale is, and the thought of him causing real, physical harm is ludicrous. Even if he had been taking a gamble like that, he would never fight his way out of the situation upon being caught. He'd talk his way out, or, failing that, flee.

"You thought I knew?"

"It made sense at the time. I thought Hell briefed you about me. I didn't think they'd send you out to battle an enemy without knowing who you were up against." Although maybe he should have expected that, considering it's exactly what Heaven did to him. If Heaven couldn't be bothered to give him a thorough briefing on his opposition, why would Hell? "Besides, what would be the chances of you picking me out of a crowd at random twice without already knowing what I am?" 

"... Okay, you have a point." Crowley concedes. "That is pretty unlikely. It's a miracle it happened anyway."

It's more than a miracle. Aziraphale is intimately familiar with miracles, and the chances of it happening twice by accident far surpasses the power of a miracle. It's almost closer to divine intervention - not that he's going to tell Crowley that. 

"We likely would have bumped into each other sooner or later," he says instead. "Especially when we started cancelling each other out more."

"Yeah, it could've been worse." Crowley pulls a face. "Can you imagine what the sixteenth century would've looked like without the Arrangement?"

"A bureaucratic nightmare," Aziraphale says, wrinkling his nose. "I don't think we would've ever been able to leave the office to spend any time on Earth at all."

"I'd've set paperwork on fire for the next millennia if I'd been stuck at a desk for a century. At least Heaven keeps their paperwork organised."

It's such a familiar conversation, so easy compared to every other conversation they've had recently, and it makes something in Aziraphale's chest lighten. He's… comfortable, in a way he hadn't dared thought he'd ever feel again after Crowley found out the truth.

It gives him hope. The comfort is like its own little promise, curling up in his heart, reassuring him everything truly will be alright.

Just like Crowley said it would.

"Hey," Crowley says. "There's, uh, a viewing of one of that Sondheim guy's plays tonight. Anyone Can Whistle, or whatever. Not at this theatre, but. Not far. About twenty minutes away. If you want to see it."

"It's only twenty minutes away because you drive too fast," Aziraphale says, unable to completely fight the smile slipping onto his face. "Are you sure you don't want to watch this new play about Joseph?"

"Nah, we got front row seats for the real deal. Can't really beat that. Maybe another time."

Another time. Crowley says it with such casual confidence that there will be another time.

It's getting easier and easier to believe that, even when things still aren't quite right.

"Sounds lovely," Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles that familiar smug smile of a temptation accomplished, and Aziraphale's heart - so still, recently, from the fear of standing on an invisible ledge with no way of knowing which move will cause him to fall - flutters freely and without fear as he follows Crowley to his car.

Aside from their trip to the cafe - which was really more of an excuse to get Aziraphale to sit down long enough for them to talk than anything - Crowley has made a conscious effort to avoid suggesting meeting up for lunch or dinner so far. He just hasn't been able to stomach the idea. After their fight, the thought of sitting down at a table together and letting the tense silence slowly crush them until Aziraphale is finished eating is, needless to say, not his idea of a fun time. So he's avoided suggesting any restaurants, new or old, for their tentative meetings, and he isn't sure he's ready to be inside the bookshop with Aziraphale just yet, so that rules out takeaways, too.

Which also puts drinking out of the question, since they always do that at a restaurant or the bookshop, and Aziraphale is weirdly insistent about avoiding the pub. Crowley hasn't had a drink with Aziraphale for months now, and he's amazed he's lasted this long. Sure, he can just drink alone, but that's not as fun.

But things have been better recently. Much, much better. Better enough Crowley finally feels ready to face a potentially awkward meal with Aziraphale, although he's hoping the progress they've made will keep any awkwardness at bay.

So far, his hope is not in vain.

They don't always talk when they dine together. After 5000 years of friendship, you learn to be comfortable around someone without actually talking to them, and Crowley is always more than content to sit and watch Aziraphale eat. There's something about how delightful Aziraphale finds it, the way he visibly relishes each and every bite, that just rubs off on Crowley, even if his face doesn't show it. Maybe part of it is his demonic nature taking delight in watching him indulge himself so shamelessly - it's similar to the pride he feels when he completes a temptation. It does more for him now than it ever did, knowing Aziraphale doesn't have to eat but chooses to do so anyway. A human eating is normal, but an angel eating? It's self-indulgence in the purest form, and the damned part of Crowley basks in being able to successfully tempt such a pure being into that self-indulgence.

It's not all demonic interest; Crowley genuinely does enjoy watching Aziraphale eat. Most humans don't think too much about the action - to be expected when it's such an ordinary part of their routine - but Aziraphale treats every bite like it's a form of art to be admired, cherished, savoured. Crowley's never seen anything like it, and it's fascinating to him. Eating doesn't do much for him, sleeping has always been his thing, but Aziraphale always makes even the simplest of meals look like, for lack of a better description, a spiritual experience.

So talking isn't a requirement when they dine together. Watching Aziraphale eat while downing glass after glass of wine - or whatever his chosen drink is, if a restaurant doesn't serve alcohol - is more than enough for Crowley.

Right now, however, he doesn't really want to risk their usually comfortable silence turning stifled and stale. Doesn't want his stare to be uncomfortable, instead of just observing. So conversation it is.

It's easier than he'd feared. Apparently, Aziraphale's recent spouts of bookshop cleaning - something he hasn't done in a few weeks, now Crowley thinks about it - have attracted the exact kinds of people he detests the most (not that Aziraphale would ever admit to detesting anyone) and thus provided Crowley an opportunity for one of his favourite conversations: Aziraphale's complaints. He'd seen the tight pinch in Aziraphale's face when he picked him up at the bookshop, a look that always means he's just come out of a battle with a particularly egregious customer, and it had taken all his strength to not start prodding the story out of Aziraphale right there in the car. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that saving it for the restaurant would sufficiently dodge any potential bubbling awkwardness between them during their meal. Can't lapse into painful silence when Aziraphale has so much to say.

And the wait has been worth it.

"-and I tell you, in all my years, I have never seen someone handle those books so carelessly!" Aziraphale rants. He doesn't quite stab his fork into the slice of cake he's cut off, but it's the closest he will ever get to doing so; his latest customer must have really agitated him. "Honestly, I have never seen such blatant disrespect for someone else's property. Those books are millennia old, and require the finest care to keep them in tip-top condition. Absolutely no handling without gloves! Why in the world she found it appropriate to try and pull it out from such a high shelf with her bare hands, I'll never know."

"Sounds like a real piece of work," Crowley says, grinning. Listening to Aziraphale rant about customers brings him a similar flavour of joy as watching him eat. "Bare hands, how scandalous."

"Perhaps I wouldn't have minded quite so much if they were only bare," Aziraphale sniffs, which is a lie if Crowley's ever heard one, "but I could see the snot and stains on her hand from across the room. I dread to think what kind of state the pages would be in had that poor book been in her possession for so much as a week."

"Did she leave a mark? When she grabbed it?"

"No, thank goodness. I managed to intercept her before she could touch it. Told her it's high up for a reason, and that the older books need to be handled with care she clearly does not possess. I checked it over when she left, just to make sure, but she didn't leave any marks on it." Aziraphale sniffs haughtily, and brings the cake still skewered on his fork to his mouth.

Crowley snickers. He's seen a customer leave a mark on one of Aziraphale's books only once, and it didn't end well. It was a particularly cherished first edition of some misprinted Bible, and some careless idiot made the mistake of staining one of the pages with a drop of tea. It only smudged one of the words, but Aziraphale was so incensed he gave Crowley full permission to spend the next two months making that man's life an absolute misery.

Okay, so he only heavily implied he would turn a blind eye should any misfortune befall the man, as he would be far too busy in his bookshop repairing the extensive damage to the Bible to notice any demonic deeds, providing they happened outside his line of sight. But that translates into get revenge for me by plaguing that man with every little inconvenience you can think of and I won't even put up a token protest, so it was basically full permission. In a very Aziraphale way.

"So how'd you get rid of her?" he asks once Aziraphale has finished chewing, eager to make him indulge in more petty complaining. "Make her think she left her hairdryer on?" Aziraphale has always been very good at making people question if there's something very important they've forgotten about. Crowley used to think it was some kind of psychological manipulation he didn't understand - not for lack of trying, mind - but in hindsight, it's probably the result of a miracle. Which rankles a bit, but on the other hand, it's delightful knowing Aziraphale is using divine miracles to manipulate humans for such selfish purposes, so it balances out.

"No, I didn't need to resort to such measures, thankfully. Although I will admit, our discussion did get quite heated-" which means the only reason it wasn't a screaming match is because Aziraphale likes having the moral high ground too much to scream at someone- "and it attracted a few looks from the other customers, but she eventually realised cursing at me would not get her anywhere, and she saw herself out. And by then, most of my other customers decided it wasn't worth waiting for her to finish her little temper tantrum, so they had already left. I made certain to close not long after."

Aziraphale looks so damn pleased with himself, and it makes Crowley's chest warm. Angel or no angel, he's still the same bastard he's always been. Crowley knows that, of course he knows it, but it's still nice to have the reassurance, even though it's getting easier and easier to remember that fact with no reassurance necessary.

"Surprised you didn't just boot her out," he says. "Causing a ruckus like that, not proper behaviour at all."

"Yes, well, she was doing an excellent job at scaring away the other customers. I could have asked her to simply remove herself from the premises, but then I would've had to encourage everyone else to leave myself, and I-"

A crack cuts Aziraphale off. Crowley's ears pop, and then a piece of paper is there, fluttering innocently to the table and resting on Aziraphale's nearly empty plate. It's neatly folded, with nothing written on it to indicate where it's come from or what it's about. Not even a name to show who it's addressed to.

Crowley's lot don't send notes.

Across from him, Aziraphale is beginning to pale.

"I'm… so sorry," he says, reaching out with a trembling hand to pick up the note. "I didn't…"

"Not your fault," Crowley says. His fingers twitch, itching to snatch it and set it on fire like he's done for so many years now, but he refrains. "Didn't know Heaven are still…"

"They aren't. Or, at least, they weren't."

The good mood from seconds before has completely vanished. All of Aziraphale's joy over his food is gone, all of his exaggerated annoyance as he recounted his story for Crowley disappearing like it never existed to begin with. He pulls the note towards him like it's a bomb, trying so hard to appear calm and unbothered, but he grips it just a little too tight to be believable.

Crowley stares at the paper. Heaven's first contact since the failed execution. He can almost see a vortex of hellfire spring from it, and just like that, previously dormant rage flares up and burns with it.

He's getting over the angel thing. Slowly but surely, he's getting over it, but every second his anger over it fades, his anger at Heaven grows stronger and stronger. Like it's being redirected. He can normally bury it down - he already does his best to not think about Heaven ever, since it only pisses him off - but a reminder as blatant as a note is enough to bring it all to the front of his mind again. Remind him what Heaven did to Aziraphale, how they treated him in what they thought would be his final moments. How they treated him millennia ago, when they cut off his wings for reasons Crowley still doesn't know - not that he can think of any possible justification for slicing someone's wings off.

Just thinking about what they've done to him makes Crowley feel sick. He can't get those limp, lifeless wings in Uriel's arms out of his head. And the more he thinks about it, the more he ends up thinking about how it must have felt for Aziraphale, and he hates Heaven and all the angels in it even more than he already does. He wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, demand answers, get an explanation for why, why would they do that to one of their own? Why would they do that to him? What the fuck did Aziraphale ever do to justify being treated like that?

He's always hated the bastards for how they treat Aziraphale like a worm on the bottom of their shoe, and in some ways, him being an angel makes it worse. Crowley expects Heaven to not give a shit about humans; the pompous bastards Up There have always viewed the Earth and humans as beneath them, even if they don't say it out loud. In their mind, nothing and no one is equal to angels, and only God is above them, so everything else must be beneath them. Treating a human like dirt makes sense for them.

But to treat another angel this way? They're all selfish assholes, but Crowley thought they'd at least look out for their own.

Maybe that's the problem. They've likely never seen Aziraphale as one of their own. Because he's different, because he's a bastard, because he actually cares, because he's not the perfect, flawless soldier Heaven want him to be, so they think he can't be one of them. And if he's not one of them, that means he's beneath them, so it's okay to treat him like shit. To hurt him and then dangle empty promises over his head to make him jump on their command.

Well, they're right about one thing: Aziraphale isn't anything like them, and thank fuck for that. He's better than them. A terrible angel, but that's why he's better than them. That's why Crowley likes him.

Still. Not being their perfect little soldier doesn't give Heaven the right to do any of what they did. Even Hell have never ripped someone's wings off in punishment for stepping out of line.

And now they have the nerve to contact Aziraphale again? After everything they've done?

He wants to tear the stupid note in half and send it right back up, maybe with a little strongly worded note of his own reminding them to stay the fuck away, just to get that look off Aziraphale's slowly crumbling face. No matter what Aziraphale has done, no matter how much his lies hurt, they will never make Crowley angrier than any of the shit Heaven does.

Aziraphale doesn't unfold the note. He just stares at it helplessly, like if he looks at it long enough it will vanish and take the memory of its appearance with it, letting them return to their peaceful meal together. Occasionally his fingers twitch, like he's going to unfold it, but they always still before they can do more than brush the edges of the paper.

When was the last time a note from Heaven made him react like this? Not in millennia. That was partly down to Crowley; at some point he took to setting the notes on fire to make Aziraphale smile, did it so often Aziraphale would have to wrestle the note from his grasp so he could have a chance to actually read it before Crowley could destroy it. It was almost like a game. Eventually, the notes slowed down to almost a complete stop, and Aziraphale stopped pretending to resist whenever Crowley plucked one out of the air for him.

Crowley forgot how anxious Aziraphale used to get whenever he received a note.

He hates that he's remembering now. Heaven shouldn't be allowed to still have this much power over Aziraphale.

Why are they even contacting him? Crowley thought he'd gotten his point across perfectly when he scared the shit out of Gabriel by spitting hellfire at him: they're to be left alone. No contact, or else. Heaven should be too nervous to even glance in Aziraphale's direction out of fear of being turned to ash. They should be keeping a respectful distance and then some, staying far, far away from Aziraphale, far away enough they can never hurt him again. They shouldn't be mustering up the courage to send him fucking notes, to make him shake and sweat like they used to.

For fucks sake. They're supposed to be enjoying a nice meal together, their first meal since their fight. It's supposed to be a step forward, showing off the progress they've made, how far they've come in their efforts to fix their friendship. And Heaven are ruining it.

Do they make it their mission to piss Crowley off?

"I'll read it," he says before he can think about it.

Aziraphale startles, like he'd forgotten all about Crowley, finally looking away from that blasted note. "It's okay - I mean, you don't have to, I'll just… I'll read it when I get back to the bookshop-"

"And spend the whole time until then getting worked up about it," Crowley says. He holds out his hand. "Not a chance. Give it here."

Swallowing, Aziraphale lowers his eyes, and delicately hands the note to Crowley. It's deceptively light in his hand, like there isn't something heavy carved into the paper that would weigh Aziraphale down should he read it.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. It's meek, and it's wrong. Aziraphale isn't meek, he's never been meek. Not around Crowley.

Crowley opens his mouth to remind him not to thank him, then closes it again - it's not like they need to worry about hiding anymore. He can't think of anything to say to replace his usual words, though, so instead he nods stiffly and unfolds the paper, resisting every urge to rip it into tiny pieces instead of reading whatever bullshit Heaven wants to say.

The note isn't long, only a few sentences at most. Crowley's jaw clenches, bracing himself for some kind of threat. What can Heaven possibly want with Aziraphale after everything that's happened? Are they going to try to manipulate him again? Going to use his wings against him again, somehow? Maybe they're going to try and coax him back with the promise of God returning his wings if he's a good little angel for them, or maybe it's an official termination notice to cut him off from the rest of the Host once and for all, or maybe it's a cryptic message to meet them at a certain time or location, probably somewhere isolated, so they can stab him in the back and try to execute him again. 

But it's nothing like that. It's a reminder about frivolous miracle usage, and to submit his usual full report of all miracles and blessings at the end of the decade. Perfectly clipped and polite, doesn't even call Aziraphale by name like most of the notes he's received have. Professional, with no hint or undercurrent of contempt or disgust. Just clinical and distant, like it was meant for some poor sod they don't care about enough to visit in person.

Maybe Crowley is supposed to be grateful the note doesn't have that passive aggressive tone; if they're being polite instead of daring to slip snide comments into their notes, especially after the two of them thwarted the apocalypse and got away with it, then Crowley must have really spooked them at that execution. For all he knows, maybe the note was sent by accident, and Heaven haven't updated their records yet to stop sending these kinds of messages to Aziraphale.

But he wouldn't be grateful to the bastards for doing the bare fucking minimum even if he wanted to. In fact, no, it's not even doing the bare minimum. The bare minimum would be leaving Aziraphale alone and never contacting him again, like they're supposed to, not trying to act like nothing ever happened. They tried to destroy him, for fucks sake, why would they ever think the appropriate response now is to pretend they didn't and carry on with business as usual? Sorry about trying to put you to death, company policy you understand, but if you could make sure you keep hitting your targets and meeting your deadlines for us after we tried to kill you for the crime of thinking an entire planet shouldn't be destroyed for the sake of an unresolved fight of ours, that'd be swell.  

Well, they can go fuck themselves. They don't deserve even a second of Aziraphale's time, not after everything they've done. They never have. Aziraphale should have told them where to stick it the moment they gave him his first orders after cutting off his wings.

If only.

"What… what does it say?"

Aziraphale's voice, shaky and nervous, breaks Crowley out of his thoughts. He sends one last venomous glare at the note, wishing it would shudder in fear under his scowl like Earthly paper does, then looks back up at Aziraphale, doing his best to look unbothered to soothe the anxiety twitching under Aziraphale's skin.

"It's just asking you to submit some stupid blessings form at the end of the decade," he says. "Nothing to worry about."

"Oh." Aziraphale doesn't slump in relief like Crowley was hoping he would. He fiddles with his fork, pushing the remains of his cake around his plate but not actually moving to eat any of it. Despite the lack of a threat, he still looks troubled.

"You can check if you don't believe me," Crowley says, holding the note out, even though he wants it as far away from Aziraphale as possible. He never again wants to see so much as a fragment from Heaven anywhere near him.

"I believe you. I just… haven't been keeping track of my miracles as well as I normally do. I know I've done more than a few frivolous ones, those are always the hardest to remember…"

Crowley frowns, fighting to not let it turn into an outright scowl. Aziraphale can't seriously be considering doing the report, can he?

Apparently he is.

"You don't need to do it," Crowley says. "You - we have nothing to do with Heaven and Hell anymore. We're basically retired. You don't need to do shit for them."

"We don't actually know if we've been let go," Aziraphale says weakly. Crowley doesn't understand how he can even think about following Heaven's orders when the mere appearance of the note makes him look so ill. "It wouldn't do to-"

"What are they gonna do if you don't?" Crowley says, a bit desperately. "It's not like they can threaten you with hellfire again."

They won't if they know what's good for them, he thinks. If they do, maybe next time he won't stop short before turning those feathery bastards to cinders.

"I suppose," Aziraphale says. He's still looking warily at the note, like it's going to leap out of Crowley's hand and bite him. As if Crowley would ever allow that. "Is it… I don't want to draw their attention if - I mean, if they're really insistent-"

"They aren't. It sounds like they copy and pasted a generic reminder they sent to everyone in the blessings department. They don't even say your name." He leans forward, not to catch Aziraphale's eye, but to keep his attention. "They aren't watching you, Aziraphale."

Tense and quiet, Aziraphale keeps staring at the note, keeps playing with his food but not actually eating it, while he takes in Crowley's words. Crowley holds his breath, already preparing a multitude of counterarguments if Aziraphale tries to defend Heaven again, but abruptly, the tension unwinds, and Aziraphale slouches.

"Okay," he says, and this time, the relief in his voice is thick. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." Infernal fire pulses under his skin, itching to burn the damn note already. "Can I set it on fire?"

"Won't that set off the fire alarms?"

"Not if I don't want it to."

"Are you going to let it set off the fire alarms?"

Crowley considers it for a moment - it would be funny - but shakes his head. "Nah. You haven't finished your cake, and I haven't finished my wine."

"Oh, alright then."

His fingertips spark, setting the note aflame. The fire is small - Crowley wouldn't do this around Aziraphale if the fire was big or could risk hurting him - but it's bright; infernal energy eagerly eats away at the ethereal paper, burning hot in delight at eradicating even a fraction of Heaven's divinity from the universe. The fire fits comfortably in the palm of his hand as the note burns, folding in on itself, and Crowley holds it up like a display for Aziraphale's entertainment. Letting him watch the reminder of Heaven burn away into nothing in Crowley's hand, where it won't bother him any more.

It takes seconds for the paper to finish turning into ash, and the fire dies with it immediately, disappointed. Crowley drops the ashes to the table with a grin. "Gone."

"Thank you." Aziraphale hesitates, then waves his fork at the ashes, and with a barely-detectable whoosh of angelic magic, they vanish. "You really shouldn't just dump them on the table, you know. The poor staff have to clean that up."

"How ever will they cope, cleaning up a tiny pile of ash."

"It's not nice."

"I'm not nice, ange-"

They freeze. Fall silent as they stare helplessly at each other. Crowley's mouth is still half formed around the word, reluctant to backtrack but unable to continue. He stutters a few times, unable to choose which to do, then closes his mouth without committing to either option.

Aziraphale's shoulders are slowly hunching again. He doesn't look hunted like he did when the note appeared, but it's not a relaxed look, either. He stares down at his cake, finally pushing one of the remaining pieces onto his fork and bringing it to his lips. When he chews, he doesn't do it with relish like he normally does, but like he's a soldier on a mission. Trying to distract himself and not call attention to Crowley's near slip-up.

Coughing awkwardly, Crowley fumbles for his glass, tipping his head back and draining it in one go, and then reaches for the wine bottle to fill his glass again. The bottle, previously empty, only pours more because it knows better than to leave Crowley with nothing right now. 

He curses the stupid note again, and desperately tries to remember what they were talking about before it interrupted. Something about Aziraphale's customers? He's not sure, the train of thought is gone. 

Damn it, damn it, if the stupid fucking note hadn't appeared, they'd still be talking, still be in the middle of easy conversation and gentle teasing. Aziraphale would finish eating, Crowley would finish his wine, and they'd be on their way back to the bookshop, where Crowley would walk Aziraphale to the door. Maybe even begin to muster up the courage to go in.

All that is ruined now, and Crowley doesn't know how to fix it.

Once again, Heaven have fucking ruined something for him.

… Although nearly calling Aziraphale angel certainly didn't help.

He lifts his glass to take another sip, and chances a glance at Aziraphale. Worried, withdrawing Aziraphale, who shouldn't look like that. Not with Crowley.

Fuck. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

These hesitant moments are becoming less and less common, but infuriatingly, they haven't gone. And yeah, he knows it will take time - he's spent hours researching ways to fix a friendship to make things less awkward, and every single website reassured him these things take time until Crowley wanted to throw his phone into the damn wall - but that doesn't help right now. Things are better, but that just means whenever an awkward moment like this does happen, it takes him by surprise. At the beginning of all of this, when things were rocky and just being near Aziraphale was so unbelievably painful, he was braced for these kinds of moments. Expected them. And sure, they rained around him like blows, and they hurt like a motherfucker, but he knew they were coming. Now they're unexpected, and come at him out of nowhere, a minefield he keeps forgetting to keep an eye on.

He still prefers where they are now to where they were before, but that doesn't mean he wants to be here. He wants to be further along, where moments like this don't exist at all anymore.

When was the last time they had one of these moments? Two weeks ago, he thinks, when they went to the theatre together, and found that poster for the new Joseph musical. When Crowley stuck his foot in his mouth with his shitty attempt at a joke that made Aziraphale get lost in his head, and then did it again , when he said he didn't think an angel could - or would - hide what they are from him. That one was brief, but it was still there.

Crowley grimaces at the memory, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger.

It's the closest they've ever come to really talking about why Aziraphale lied to him.

It didn't escape his notice Aziraphale never actually explained why he ran. Nor did it escape his notice Aziraphale started to say something, and then backed off. Crowley let it go at the time, reluctant to push for… a multitude of reasons, really, but he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since.

It's not like I meant to- Aziraphale had started to say before cutting himself off.

Right after Crowley said he didn't think an angel would hide their angelic status like Aziraphale did.

Except he wasn't really hiding, was he? Not at first, at least. He thought Crowley already knew, he said so himself, so he had no reason to try and keep it a secret or purposefully conceal his true nature. Crowley was the one who made the assumption, based on evidence Aziraphale clearly hadn't intentionally laid out to mislead him. It was an accident. Aziraphale just… went along with it. For some reason.

Why, though? Why go along with it at all?

There must be a reason. Crowley just… doesn't know what it is. Every theory he's come up with falls flat; they're all so malicious, things a typical angel would do, and therefore nothing Aziraphale would do. But there must have been a reason. It's easy to forget that, sometimes. Crowley couldn't stop thinking about it at first, when he was still trying so hard to make sense of it all, but he hadn't been able to think of a reason that didn't piss him off or feel wrong, so he stopped trying. He hasn't started trying again since he stopped.

But now Crowley has spent enough time with Aziraphale to think clearly again, he knows it wasn't malicious. Couldn't have been. Aziraphale didn't realise he didn't know, after all, didn't even know having his wings ripped away from him dampened his angelic scent. He thought Crowley already knew, and that changes things. It means his deception can't have been a trick purposefully planned from the very beginning, designed to make Crowley look like a fool.

But that doesn't make it clear what the reason actually was. Still doesn't shed light on why he played along with Crowley's mistake for 5000 years, and no matter how hard Crowley tries, he can't figure it out.

It was an accident. So how does an accident turn into… all of this?

He doesn't know, and trying to figure it out will just have him overthinking in circles again, which isn't something he wants to repeat.

But… isn't a much simpler solution sitting right in front of him?

"Tell me why," he says, and hopes he's not making another mistake.

Aziraphale doesn't flinch - he's gotten better at not flinching - but he does wince, the guilt on his face brief but heavy. He doesn't try to play ignorant; he knows exactly what Crowley's asking. "I'm sorry-"

"No, that's not what I mean." Crowley runs his hand through his hair, trying to find the words he wants. It's easier than it was only a few months ago, but that's like saying dragging eight trees through a forest with his bare hands is easier than dragging ten trees through a forest with his bare hands: technically true, but ultimately doesn't mean much. "Just… walk me through it, yeah? Why you… y'know."

It's a question he hasn't dared ask -  hasn't even dared contemplate - for a while now. The last time he asked Aziraphale why, he hadn't gotten an answer, not really, and the answer he did receive just made everything worse. He doesn't want a repeat of that. They're in a much better place now, and he doesn't want to slide backwards and go through this agonising process all over again if he doesn't like the answer he hears this time, either.

But last time was different. Last time he wanted… honestly, he's not even sure. A justification, maybe? Something to wash away the anger and the hurt and the confusion, something short and sweet that would make Aziraphale's decision to lie to him not only make sense, but sound perfectly reasonable.

This isn't the same. Now he just wants to understand how this happened in the first place. Lies like this don't come out of thin air, and Crowley honestly doesn't think he'll ever be able to understand why it came about in the first place unless Aziraphale explains it, step by step.

It's a risky move, perhaps, but for the first time since the bandstand, the ground feels stable enough for the question.

Aziraphale lowers his head, staring at his fork and chewing his lip while he thinks. Crowley doesn't rush him.

"I don't know how to say this without sounding like I'm making excuses," he says quietly, like it's a shameful confession.

"Then do that," Crowley says. Excuses, explanations, they all sound the same to him anyway, and he'd rather have an explanation that sounds like an excuse than nothing at all. He'll take anything so long as it gets Aziraphale talking.

And to his credit, despite the fact he looks like he'd rather get up and walk home right now, Aziraphale steels himself to answer.

"I truly didn't mean to," he says, hesitant, like he's still not sure he's allowed to say the words even though Crowley has specifically asked for them. "I just… well, you know what Heaven are like. They made you sound like such a monster when they warned me about you, and I didn't - we didn't know each other, and I had no reason to - I mean, I didn't know they were…"

Wrong, Aziraphale doesn't say. Crowley aches to say it for him -  he could say a lot of things about Heaven for him - but he bites his tongue and manages to hold it back. He doesn't want to interrupt just in case it breaks Aziraphale's train of thought. He'll be fine once he gets going, but Crowley can't interrupt that process, or they'll never get any further than stumbling apologies and gut-wrenching guilt.

"I didn't know you," Aziraphale says at last. "They told me you were dangerous, and I didn't have a weapon or my wings, so I wouldn't have been able to fight or fly away if anything happened. So when we met in Egypt and you saw I'd seen your eyes, I just… I panicked. So I ran. I thought if things got nasty, I could at least keep the humans safe."

Crowley winces. In hindsight, their meeting in Egypt was… not the best introduction he could have made. Chasing someone down and dragging them into an alleyway would scare the shit out of anyone; it's no wonder Aziraphale bolted.

This shouldn't be a surprise. Didn't he have to reassure Aziraphale back then that he wouldn't hurt him? Didn't Aziraphale kick and scream when Crowley pinned him to the wall and tried to get him to stop struggling so he could wipe his memories?

But that was when he thought Aziraphale was human, and that reaction makes sense for a human. It doesn't make sense for an angel, whose entire job is to roam the Earth and thwart the wiles of Satan's minions, usually by smiting them right out of existence.

It makes perfect sense for an angel who's had his wings taken from him, though. Wingless and weaponless, and Crowley knows Aziraphale now, knows he isn't a fighter any more than Crowley is. With Heaven feeding him bullshit about the dangerous Serpent of Eden, and Crowley chasing him in Egypt… fuck, of course he felt cornered.

No. Not just cornered. Scared.

Crowley scared him.

And yet he still didn't consider smiting him, not even when he thought Crowley was going to hurt him.

"It all just happened so fast," Aziraphale says. He's gaining confidence, words coming faster and stronger than before. "I didn't - I thought you were going to kill me-" ouch, that hurts more than it should- "and the next thing I knew, you were talking about wiping my memories, and then you were calling me a human cursed by Heaven, and I was still too startled to say anything. And then you just let me go, and I thought… I thought you only spared me because you didn't know what I am, and you didn't think a human would be a threat." He fidgets, brows pinched in discomfort. "I figured if you hadn't realised, I wouldn't correct you. Not if that's what was stopping you from-"

"I wouldn't," Crowley says, stupidly desperate. Even though the incident is long behind them, he burns with the need to make sure Aziraphale knows he would never hurt him. "I'd never."

"I know," Aziraphale says, and the relief hits him like a punch. "I just… oh, it all sounds so silly now, but at the time-"

"At the time it made sense." Isn't that the running fucking theme of this whole mess.

"Exactly. So I didn't think it would be wise to say anything." Aziraphale fiddles with his fork. Crowley considers calling a waiter over and ordering another dessert just to give Aziraphale something to do with his hands. "I was worried the truth would change your mind, if you found out, and I was still getting to know you, so I didn't want to risk it. That's why I kept playing along." He gives Crowley a beseeching look. "I really, truly wasn't trying to trick you, or make you an angel again, or any of that. I just-"

"Didn't want to risk it when you didn't know I wasn't dangerous," Crowley says.

"Precisely." Aziraphale looks guilty at the admission. Guilty for wanting to protect himself.

Guilt is quickly becoming Crowley's least favourite emotion.

"I don't… I don't have any excuse for after I got to know you better," Aziraphale says. "It's not like it came up in every conversation, so it was easy to forget you didn't know, and then before I knew it, it had been thousands of years, and I didn't know how to tell you."

"Could've just sent a letter." He tries for lighthearted, but it comes out as bitter instead; as much as things have been better, he still hasn't shaken that lingering anger whenever he remembers Aziraphale kept hiding it from him. Staying quiet out of fear makes sense, but why keep up the charade after that? Did Crowley really scare him that badly?

"I know, but-"

Aziraphale cuts himself off. Crowley raises an unimpressed eyebrow, staring at him expectantly. He knows he should be careful about how much he pushes, as the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to retreat into his shell and start spouting apologies again, but the whole point of this conversation is so Crowley can understand why Aziraphale lied to him for so long. Aziraphale not explaining the reason - the real reason - for doing so completely defeats the purpose.

"But?"

"But I was… worried you'd hate me."

Hate him?

The idea is so ridiculous Crowley almost - almost - laughs out loud, and it's only the pinched look on Aziraphale's face betraying his genuine concern that stops him.

"Why in the heaven would I hate you?"

"You hate angels. You haven't exactly made it a secret. How was I supposed to believe you'd react well to me being an angel when I know how much you don't like them?"

… Fuck, Aziraphale's got him there.

"Aziraphale, I…" His face contorts as he thinks, trying to find words for something he's never tried to vocalise before. Social norms dictate he should probably apologise for unintentionally insulting Aziraphale's entire species to his face, but honestly, he's not really sorry because he hasn't changed his mind. Angels - present company being the exception - are awful, cold and uncaring and constantly turning their noses up at anything and everything in existence that isn't them. They really aren't so different from demons, when you get down to it, and Crowley is uncomfortably aware of what demons are like. If there are other secretly nice angels aside from Aziraphale, Crowley has never met one, and after 6000 years, his odds of that changing don't look good.

Yeah, he hates angels. But damn it, he has good reason to hate them. Angels - again, with the exception of Aziraphale - want him dead just for existing. They'd destroy him without hesitation if given the chance, without so much as a hello or by your leave or an opportunity to say his final words. They think he's the scum of the universe just because he's a demon, as if he ever had a choice in that. That's what angels are supposed to be like, it's what Heaven wants from them, how they're trained to be. He has a million reasons to hate angels, and that's without touching on everything they've done to Aziraphale. He's not going to apologise for an opinion he still has. He won't lie to Aziraphale like that.

But his hatred of angels - a hatred he can't rid himself of even if he wanted to - made Aziraphale feel he couldn't tell him the truth. Oh, sure, he knows Crowley would never hurt him, but he still thought he would hate him, and that was enough to make him keep his mouth shut for 5000 years.

How is he supposed to explain to Aziraphale he hates angels because of who they are as individuals, and he could never hate Aziraphale for being an angel because he's absolutely nothing like those insufferable twats hiding away in Heaven?

He doesn't know. He has to try, though.

"You aren't like them," he says. "I don't - I don't like angels because they treat everyone they don't like like shit, but you aren't like that."

Well, isn't that the most detailed explanation in the fucking universe? Fuck, why does he always manage to say things that either sound stupid or shitty? Why can't an articulate sentence come out of his mouth for once?

"Not being like other angels is what got me in this mess," Aziraphale says, trying for a wry smile and failing.

"I just mean… you care. And you don't look down on people just because they aren't angels. It's just their self-righteous attitude I can't stand, is all."

"I know for a fact you've called me self-righteous before," Aziraphale says, and for a moment Crowley's worried he fucked up again, but the little smile he gives him is teasing instead of hurt.

"Okay, you're not as self-righteous as they are. It's toned down. My point is, I wouldn't hate you just for being an angel, because you don't do most of the angel things that piss me off. The only reason I was mad to begin with was because you lied to me. I - I told you I know you're nothing like the angels in Heaven. That hasn't changed."

They've had this conversation before, haven't they? Years and years ago, so long ago Crowley can't remember when they had it, only that it took place at some point. Aziraphale had prodded him on why he hates angels, and Crowley, eager to try and make Aziraphale realise how shit they are in the hopes he'd eventually tell them to fuck off, was all too eager to elaborate. This conversation feels like a reprise that will take a bat to the friendship they're trying so hard to fix if he doesn't do it right. Crowley's feelings about angels haven't changed and probably never will, but how is he supposed to communicate that to Aziraphale without him thinking he's included in the blanket statement?

It's because you're a bad angel, is the only way he can think to word it, but he doesn't say it. Aziraphale won't take it as the compliment it's supposed to be, and Crowley still doesn't know how to make him understand being a bad angel is a good thing.

"I'm not… I'm not upset with you for hating angels," Aziraphale says, "you've explained it before, I understand they've hurt you-"

"They hurt you, too."

"Yes, you've said that before, too." Aziraphale's face pinches, miserable. "But that was when you thought I was a human. It's one thing for Heaven to… take advantage of a human, like you thought, but that's not-"

"Isn't it? 'Cause from where I'm standing, it doesn't look all that different. You being an angel doesn't mean you deserved what they did to you."

Aziraphale doesn't look comforted by the words, and Crowley feels so incredibly, hopelessly helpless. He doesn't know what else he was expecting; Aziraphale is slow to accept things on a good day, and hearing Crowley say it won't speed up the process. He can make nudges at most, but the second he actually tries to push, Aziraphale digs his heels in and refuses to budge.

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He can't rush this. No matter how much he wants to shake Aziraphale and make him fully realise everything Heaven have done to him, he can't. It won't work. It will just make him retreat, the way it always does, and Crowley can't risk either of them retreating now. Not after they've worked so hard just to get to this point.

The realisation Heaven have been lying to him - using him - is probably already too much for him right now. Crowley longs to list all the ways Heaven have treated him cruelly - the wing thing is probably only a fraction of the list - but Aziraphale won't hear any of it. This is likely already as far as he'll go, already faster than he's willing to move; he simply won't accept any more. Crowley likely won't even be able to float the idea that they did it just to hurt him in his direction for at least another century or two.

You didn't deserve it is such a simple truth, so simple it's impossible to understand how anyone could doubt it. But Aziraphale does. Likely won't even acknowledge it, not right now. Not for a long, long time. He'll probably just deflect.

And he does.

"I… to be honest, Crowley, even had I known for sure you wouldn't hate me, I'm… still not sure I would've told you. It… thinking you would hate me certainly didn't help, but I… well, I had other reasons, I suppose."

"Such as?" Crowley presses, heart sinking. Maybe he should be relieved he wasn't the sole reason Aziraphale kept it hidden, but he isn't - he doesn't like knowing there's nothing he could have done to prevent this from happening. Of course it isn't that simple. Why would it be? That would be too easy. Of course there are a million different threads all tangled together, so many that removing just one would do oh so little to untangle the web of lies unintentionally spun in that split-second decision 5000 years ago. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. "They're stupid. And I - well, they certainly didn't help last time I told you. I do believe they made everything worse, in fact."

Made everything…?

"Is this about that… about your plan to tell me after you got your wings back?"

A pause, and then a hesitant nod.

Oh, he's afraid to say it, especially after it blew up in their faces the last time he said this, but… "Explain it to me anyway."

"I can't. I truly don't know what came over me." And heaven, just saying the words makes Aziraphale distressed. "I wanted to tell you, I dreamed about you knowing the truth and not needing to hide it anymore. I just - when I decided I'd wait, all I could think about was how hurt you got walking into that church for me, how I let you walk out even though you were still injured, and I was so frustrated I couldn't heal you completely without blowing my cover, and all I could think was that none of this would've happened if I'd just had my wings from the beginning. Then you'd already know, and I could heal you the way you deserved." He swallows. "I… I don't know how I got it in my head having my wings would make it any better. I just knew I felt… wrong, knowing I was holding back. Knowing I couldn't give you all of me, because you didn't know all of me, and you didn't know because I don't have all of me. And I thought - oh, it's so stupid, but I thought-

"Having your wings would fix that, somehow."

"That's why I was so excited when you suggested asking Heaven to fulfil their promise if I succeeded in converting the Antichrist. I… I knew the plan was risky, and that we didn't know it would work, but for the first time in my life, I had a deadline for this whole mess. I knew how much longer I had to wait until I could tell you."

And if it hadn't worked, chances are one of them wouldn't have been around long enough for it to matter, anyway.

"I see," Crowley says, and to his surprise, he does.

He really wasn't being malicious. Of course he wasn't, it's Aziraphale, and Crowley can't imagine him being malicious. He was just scared.

The lie still hurts. Knowing Aziraphale felt the need to hide the truth from him instead of trusting him hurts, and even though he can see exactly how Aziraphale stumbled into this situation, it doesn't make the hurt just miraculously vanish, no matter how much Crowley wishes it would.

But it doesn't sting as bad as before, and now he has the whole picture, it's easier to swallow down the pain. To breathe around it. Something deep in his heart has settled, the rough waters that have been so reluctant to calm are finally beginning to smooth and become ripples, hopefully soon to still.

The explanation may not change what happened, but it puts things into context, and it's not a fix, but it helps.

It doesn't seem to be helping Aziraphale, who still looks tense and nervous across from him. 

"Thanks," Crowley says. It takes all his effort to pull the unfamiliar word out of his mouth, but he manages. "For. Walking me through it. It, uh, it makes a lot more sense now. Why you. Y'know."

Aziraphale nods stiffly, not at all eased by Crowley's words. "I… I hope you know I'd take it back if I could. I'd fix it if I could."

"We already are."

"I mean my lying to you. If I could change that, I would. I know we're fixing it now, but I just… oh, I just feel so stupid." His jaw ticks, clenches, and he tightens his grip on the fork. "I've been such a fool, and I don't - I don't deserve you, after everything I've put you through."

This again?

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, trying to push down impatience and take the bite out of his words, "I already told you, you don't need to earn-"

"It isn't that simple for me," Aziraphale says, borderline snapping. Regret flicks across his face, but although his posture softens, he doesn't back down. "I've been trying to earn forgiveness for 6000 years, Crowley. I can't just turn that off. I would if I could, but I don't know - it isn't - I've forgotten what it's like to not do that. I don't know how to not feel this way." He looks mournful. "You said you needed time to adjust to me being an angel. I need time to adjust to… all of this."

Oh.

Crowley didn't think of it like that. And he feels like an idiot for not doing so.

These things take time, that stupid website said, and again Crowley wants to throw something. It's stupid to be impatient when they have all the time in the world, but he's never been good at sitting around and waiting. Not when it comes to things that matter, and Aziraphale matters more to him than anything else in the universe.

He remembers the distress on Aziraphale's face that day on the bandstand, when Crowley spat out he's unforgivable. It's not something that's bothered him in a long time - he's unforgivable, and he doesn't care. He doesn't want forgiveness from Heaven or God any more than he wants to be the one to forgive them for casting him out over a few questions. He'd said it to try and make that point, to show Aziraphale it's okay to be unforgivable in Heaven's eyes, because their forgiveness isn't worth shit.

But how must it have sounded to Aziraphale, who's spent so long working for forgiveness he doesn't know how to do anything else? Aziraphale, who's been carrying a burden for thousands of years - a burden Heaven never intended to take off his back - and doesn't know what to do without it?

Crowley aches to wipe that burden away.

But he can't. He can't fix this for him. Only Aziraphale can do that, and how long will that take? Millennia, probably, maybe even longer. He's an idiot for not realising his words alone won't make a dent in 6000 years wasted seeking forgiveness that will never come.

And what is Aziraphale supposed to do in the meantime? How much will he have to grit his teeth and endure before he finally works through this whole forgiveness shit?

Every time Crowley thinks he's done discovering the details of Heaven's bullshit, something else pops up and makes him burn with fury all over again. Every time he thinks he can't possibly get any angrier at Heaven, the universe throws something else in his face to prove him wrong and piss him off further.

Ironically, this whole conversation is just making him hate angels - bar Aziraphale - even more.

Saying that probably won't help, though. Not that there's much he can say to help.

"Okay," he says, exhaling and pushing down all his flaring rage. It's useless to him right now. Not that he knows when, or if, he'll ever get to direct it at the ones causing it to begin with, but now is definitely not the time. "Okay, that's. Fair."

He probably shouldn't leave it at that, considering they're trying to be better about talking and all. Communication, communication, how the fuck does he do communication? What did the guides say? Fuck all, is what they said. Is it too much to ask for some practical examples?

"Is there… anything I can…"

Aziraphale gives him a strained smile. "I don't think so. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Right. Right." So literally nothing he can do to help, then. He just has to let Aziraphale sit with the agony of feeling like he needs to earn forgiveness. Wonderful. Absolutely fantastic.

Forgiveness is joining his list of least favourite words.

So what now? What does he do now? He can't help Aziraphale with this, no matter how much he wants to. At least, he doesn't think there's anything he can do; he'll keep trying anyway, just in case. Maybe he'll think of something, if not to fix it, then to at least make it easier. To unwind that tension in Aziraphale's shoulders.

But until then, what now?

Wipe away that melancholic look on Aziraphale's face, maybe. He can practically see the apologies for bringing down the mood and ruining their meal swirling around his head, and he's not going to stand for it. This is supposed to be a nice day out, damn it, and Heaven and their bullshit have already ruined it enough. Crowley isn't going to let them spoil it completely. That would be letting them win. He has to salvage it, somehow.

Think. Fucking think.

They could… they could get a drink. Get drunk, proper drunk, they like getting drunk, they usually do it after a meal together anyway. It's fun. Yeah. Aziraphale probably has plenty of bottles stashed away in his bookshop, they can go back there and have a drink or twenty. It will be fun, it always is. Crowley can practically feel the warmth of the bookshop already, heightened by his fuzzy drunken state, easy and relaxed in the safe aura of his ange-

His stomach lurches. Only a little, but it still lurches.

He misses the bookshop. Misses that little back room with the coffee table and the coasters he refuses to use because it annoys Aziraphale. Misses the smell of all the old, dusty books; the bookshop smells unpleasant to humans, but it's always been perfectly fine for Crowley. His standards may just be low, though, since Hell smells infinitely worse.

He wants to go back to the bookshop.

He just… isn't sure he can.

Something else, then. They could… go back to his place, maybe? No, no, he doesn't have anywhere to sit down. Clubs aren't really their scene, and Aziraphale still has his weird hang-up about the pub. Maybe he should just miracle a couple of sofas into his flat? Aziraphale has only been to his flat the once, so the thought doesn't make Crowley's skin crawl - he's really not that precious about his flat for it to matter - but, ugh, will it be weird to go to his place before Aziraphale's? That feels weird, somehow. Not for the same reasons going to the bookshop doesn't feel right, it's just… they never go to Crowley's place. And besides, miracled sofas are never as comfortable as real ones - although Crowley will always argue otherwise, just because he knows Aziraphale will complain about them not being as soft or comfortable as a real sofa-

"Would you - would you like to go to the park?"

His train of thought screeches to a stop.

"There's a brass band performing there today," Aziraphale says, smiling nervously at Crowley. He puts his fork down onto his now empty plate, only to wring his hands together. "It would be lovely to go and listen."

"Yeah," Crowley says, barely hearing the words, too occupied with relief at the suggestion. "Yeah, we can do."

"I just thought it would be a shame to end the day now, like this, so the park… we can have a drink, too, while we're there. If… if you want."

"Sounds good," Crowley says, relaxing in his seat. He finishes the rest of his glass in one gulp, swallowing down the last of his anger, and stands with a flourish. "Lead the way."

Aziraphale beams, just a little brighter than he should, like he's just as relieved Crowley accepted as Crowley's relieved Aziraphale extended the offer. Did he think Crowley would reject it and run away again? Not an unreasonable assumption, he supposes; running away is his speciality.

He doesn't want to run away right now, though. The nagging urge to flee has been getting quieter for a while, and Aziraphale's explanation has done wonders to muffle it even further.

It's surprising, really, how much the explanation helps settle the bitterness in his chest. Surprising, but not unpleasant; it puts him in a good enough mood he actually remembers to pay, for once, as they leave the restaurant to find that brass band and drink away the rest of the unease sent by Heaven's note.

On their way out the door, the backs of their hands brush, and Crowley's heart stumbles.

He doesn't reach out, but he does want to. The thought alone makes him feel… warm.

As warm as the bookshop. Fuck, he really, really misses it.

… Fuck it.

"We can. Go to the bookshop after. If you want."

Aziraphale pauses. Looks at him with hesitant disbelief. "Are… are you sure?"

Not really. His stomach tries to twist again, but Crowley pushes it back into place and firmly tells it to shut up. It did the same when he suggested coming to a restaurant together, and that's turned out fine enough, Heavenly notes notwithstanding, so why should he listen to it now?

He remembers Aziraphale's explanation, and his stomach reluctantly loosens a little.

"No sense in just having a few drinks at the park," he says. "Might as well go the rest of the way."

He doesn't know if he'll stay long, and his stomach is still in knots in protest, but the gentle glow of Aziraphale's elated smile is enough to solidify his conviction and coax a returning smile from his mouth.

It will be worth the apprehension if he can get Aziraphale to smile like that again tonight.

Aziraphale doesn't know who he's more disappointed in: Crowley for once again allowing his demonic mischief to backfire on them, or himself for not anticipating it. One would think he'd know by now to stand well back and let Crowley's evil actions be his own downfall, but apparently not. It's only mildly comforting Crowley has also not learnt this lesson after all these years.

Today's demonic misdeed consisted of Crowley creating a giant puddle on the road specifically to ensure cars have no choice but to drive through it and subsequently soak any nearby pedestrians. He'd taken great delight in detailing driving through the puddle several times throughout the day and subtly encouraging other drivers to do the same, the law be damned.

Two hours later, when they were walking back from a nearby cafe, the puddle was still there and the drivers were still not interested in attempting to avoid it.

The puddle size was admittedly impressive. Getting all his nice clothes absolutely drenched? Less so.

Still, they're supposed to be spending the whole day together, and Aziraphale hadn't wanted to throw that away over a little water. So he invited Crowley back to the bookshop and asked him to wait while he gets into a fresh set of clothes, turning down the offer to just miracle a new set on.

Sighing, Aziraphale grabs a towel and begins drying his hair. His fresh clothes are already hanging on the handle of the wardrobe door; he doesn't want to put them on only to drip water on them again. His wet clothes are in the washing basket for him to put in the dryer later. Crowley whined about just using a miracle to dry them, but it's so much better to dry them the human way. They're warm when they come out of the dryer, and they always feel slightly stiff or stink of bleach when he uses a miracle.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and the door behind him swings open without so much as a knock.

"Hey," Crowley says, "you left your wet coat on top of your-"

He cuts himself off.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, turning to flash him a thankful smile. "If you can put it in the washing basket, that would be lovely-"

He stops short. Crowley's staring at him, frozen in stunned shock - or is that horror? His mouth opens, closes, opens. Barely visible under his glasses, his eyes are wide, and he's still and silent, aside from a few cut-off stuttering noises, like he wants to say something but hasn't yet figured out what.

"Crowley? Is everything alright?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, sure." His voice is strained, and he coughs to clear it as he absently balls up the soaked coat and throws it into the basket. "I'll just. Put the kettle on."

"Three-"

"Sugars, yep, got it, will do, okay bye!"

He slams the door on his way out, and Aziraphale should scold him - really, there's no need to go around slamming doors like that - but he's too stuck on Crowley's shock over… what, exactly? What was all that about?

Oh dear, he's going to have to ask, isn't he? He's still not used to asking, but he doesn't want to just pretend it never happened, either. Crowley isn't easy to surprise, and it's difficult to get a reaction like that out of him.

It can't be embarrassment about seeing him shirtless. Nakedness doesn't mean the same to them as it does to humans - technically they're never naked so long as they're wearing their corporations, and even if they weren't, no part of their true forms are private the way some human body parts are - so it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Aziraphale has seen Crowley shirtless, even entirely nude, countless times during their friendship, and it's never been a big deal, not even after he realised he loves him. And really, Crowley knew he came upstairs to get changed, he should have expected Aziraphale to be in a state of undress before he barged in.

But then what was it? What caused Crowley to look like… that?

Aziraphale finishes drying his hair and begins pulling on his fresh clothes, trying not to fret too much about whatever just happened, scratching absently at his back. It's so itchy today, and it's incredibly distracting. It's been 6000 years, his body should know by now his wings aren't-

Aziraphale freezes as his nails run over the bumps of his scars.

The scars on his back, which was facing Crowley when he walked in.

Ah.

That… might explain it.

He finishes dressing in a hurry and returns to the back room. Crowley is already there, curled up on the sofa and clutching a cup of tea close to his chest. Aziraphale's mug is on the small table, surprisingly on a coaster. Crowley never uses the coasters when he makes them tea.

Well, if that isn't a sign something is bothering him, Aziraphale doesn't know what is.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, picking up his mug and settling into the chair opposite, taking a small sip. It's perfect, like it always is when Crowley makes it.

Should he acknowledge what Crowley saw upstairs? He doesn't want to make anything awkward, not when they've been having such a lovely day together - sans the car and puddle incident, of course - so maybe he should just brush past it and pretend it didn't happen. It's what he would normally do.

But… he's not so sure that's the right thing to do. Not while Crowley looks so… off-kilter.

"Are you okay?" he asks, unsure how else to open the conversation.

A part of him expects Crowley to brush him off, pretend he never saw anything, but that doesn't happen. Crowley doesn't respond at all beyond a vague hum, staring down at his tea blankly, before flicking his gaze up, lingering on Aziraphale's mug. His brow furrows, like he's trying to figure something out, then abruptly smooths out as he tilts his head back and groans.

"I got you the worst mug possible."

"Pardon?"

"The wings. I got you an angel wings mug and I said-" he winces- "I said you could have that since you don't…"

"It's fine," Aziraphale says, and he means it. "I like it."

"You don't have to say that just to spare my feelings."

"I'm not. I-" he starts to reassure him, then pauses. Crowley did say he wanted him to be honest with him, right? "I… will admit it stung a little at the time, but it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known. And I really don't mind anymore, I promise. I wouldn't use it if I didn't like it."

Crowley grimaces, casting one last guilty look at the mug, and says, "If you say so."

Aziraphale looks down at the mug, tracing the ceramic feathers with his thumb. It's been so long since he's thought about the small joke Crowley made that day, he'd honestly forgotten about it entirely. The wings don't sting anymore; he can't remember the last time they did. The mug hasn't carried any painful reminders of what he's lost in a long, long time. 

"Besides," Aziraphale says slowly, giving Crowley a cautious smile, "it's a cute replacement for my wings if nothing else."

Crowley snorts, freezes, then huffs out another laugh when he sees Aziraphale isn't trying to mask any hurt, old or new. The sound encourages an answering chuckle out of Aziraphale, and the tension in the air eases a little as they giggle together - not that Crowley will ever admit to giggling.

These soft, carefree moments are becoming more and more common, and Aziraphale cherishes them. They're sweet, but fragile, and he cradles each moment in his hands with tender care, like it will break if he holds too hard. They're precious, but they never last long, which is why he has to hold them close while they happen.

This moment is no exception. Aziraphale barely has a chance to savour it at all before it's dying, trailing off after their hesitant giggles fade, leaving them in an odd silence that isn't uncomfortable or tense but certainly isn't easy or relaxed. Despite Aziraphale's words, designed to soothe Crowley's worries, the scars linger over them, not intimidating or looming, but quietly waiting for acknowledgement. 

They could simply brush past it, make it settle in the back of their minds to be addressed at a later date, but somehow, Aziraphale doubts that's going to happen. And he isn't wrong.

"I didn't realise you were wearing your corporation when they…" Crowley gestures to his own back. "I thought they'd just… I dunno. On your true form. I didn't notice any differences between your body and mine when I was wearing it."

Aziraphale looks down at his tea, holding the mug a little closer to his chest as he contemplates how he should answer. If he requests it, Crowley will back off and drop the subject, and not mention it again for another thousand years.

Surprisingly, he doesn't want to. He doesn't know how to talk about this, but he isn't… against the idea. He just isn't quite sure what to say.

"I hadn't had it long," is what he eventually settles on. "It was still new when they…"

His back twinges at the reminder, like it's trying to punish him for thinking about it. But Aziraphale has long since grown used to all the little aches and pains, so it's easy to brush past them like they aren't happening.

"I didn't know I had scars for such a long time," he says, absently scratching his back again. "I didn't know bodies could scar, and then I wasn't sure it would apply to me, since I'm not human. My wings weren't actually part of my body, after all, so I didn't think it would leave a mark. I didn't find out anything to the contrary until that witchfinder tried to execute me, when he called them a Devil's Mark."

"Do they hurt?"

"Sometimes. Usually they just itch, but on bad days they ache or sting." At Crowley's distressed look, Aziraphale rushes to add, "It's not as bad as it used to be, and I'm used to it now."

"Shouldn't have to be used to it at all," Crowley mutters, scowling down at his mug. He taps it agitatedly, screwing up his face like he wants to say more but isn't sure he should. He comes to a decision before Aziraphale can prompt him. "When did they… you don't have to answer. 'M just. Y'know. Curious. You know me, can't stop asking questions."

He does know this, and it's the only thing that stops him from wilting completely. He tries not to think about the day he lost his wings too much - it's still painful, even after all this time, and no matter what he tries he just can't get over it - and he knows he can refuse to answer. He's tempted to do exactly that. So tempted, in fact, he's not entirely sure what motivates him to tentatively say, "It was… back in Eden."

"You were at Eden?"

Oh, Aziraphale really needs to learn to remember what Crowley does and doesn't know about him. It feels like he knows everything, now he's discovered Aziraphale's secret, and it's so easy to forget he still doesn't have the full story. Easy to forget him knowing Heaven took his wings doesn't mean he can peer into Aziraphale's very mind and drag out all the memories that accompany that action, pull them close to examine all his exact failures in closer detail.

"I… I left before you arrived," Aziraphale says. "Or. Not before you arrived, exactly. I saw Adam and Eve leave the Garden. But I… left early."

Crowley's brows furrow in thought, then rise with dawning realisation. "You were the angel missing from the wall. The one I wanted to talk to."

Aziraphale nods stiffly, shoulders hunching as he fights the urge to curl in on himself. Every realisation Crowley comes to about him still feels like a potential landmine, one that will make him fall back into that hurt anger they've tried so hard to move past. Every little detail about the things Aziraphale forgot he doesn't know feels like a risk, the final straw that will make Crowley leave for good. It's just as ridiculous as all the other times he's felt like this - Crowley wasn't upset when he found out Aziraphale has known he's a demon since the Ark, so why would he care about this - but he just can't get rid of that fear. He's trying, he really is, but it's so much more difficult than he could have ever imagined. Small, insignificant things like this would have huge consequences if Heaven were in Crowley's shoes.

They aren't, of course, and Aziraphale is grateful for that every day. Crowley has been far more gracious about all of this than Heaven ever were, even though he'd bristle at hearing that. But that knowledge only helps so much.

"What the heaven did they do that for?" Crowley says, failing to hide the contempt in his voice. "The world had just started. They didn't get rid of any of the angels on the other gates, so they can't have been mad at you for not noticing I got in." He pauses, discomfort flicking across his face. "... Were they?"

"No, it had nothing to do with you. It was entirely my own fault."

"If you'd done anything bad enough to warrant Heaven doing… doing that, Hell would've heard about it."

"It wasn't bad, exactly. Not by Hell's standards. I just…" Aziraphale tightens his grip on his mug. It's difficult to get the words out, not because they're painful, but because he's uncomfortably aware he's never been able to fully believe them. "I did the wrong thing."

"Humans had only just invented doing the wrong thing. What could you have done that was so bad?"

Again, Aziraphale is tempted not to answer. His back is starting to twinge insistently, and he's not sure he can fully explain that day. Not when part of him still doesn't understand it.

Again, for reasons unknown even to himself, he does it anyway.

"The flaming sword Adam and his friends used to defeat the Four Horsemen," he says, unsure how else to start. "That was mine. But I… I gave it away."

"You what?"

"I gave it away." He squeezes his eyes shut in shame. "I just… there were vicious animals outside Eden. And I knew Eve was expecting, and I know they were being punished and I shouldn't have undermined God's will by trying to ease their punishment, but I just couldn't bear the thought of-" a lump forms in his throat, and it takes all his willpower to swallow it down- "of them getting hurt. So I gave them my sword. 'Here you go, don't thank me,' I said. I knew the Almighty would know what I'd done, but I thought so long as She didn't say anything, it would be alright. I didn't - I didn't think Heaven would do anything, and I didn't think they'd take my wings over it. I just wanted to help."

He's breathing a little too heavily; this is the most he's discussed the day he lost his wings with anyone. He hasn't even talked about the moment they were taken, but the memory still makes his chest twist and his throat close up. He's barely said anything about what Heaven did to him, only confessed his own sins, and already, that's too much.

He hopes Crowley doesn't ask for more details about the moment they… the moment it happened. If just explaining what he did to deserve it is too much, how can he ever talk about the action itself? The hands gripping him as he struggled, the blank faces approaching him, the stainless steel menacingly reflecting the sun-

He swallows back a noise of distress. He can't do it. He can't talk about it. He promised Crowley his honesty, but if he asks about this… he can't. It's pathetic he still can't talk about it after all this time, but he just can't. Not even with his best friend. 

When he finally glances up, Crowley looks stricken, his grip on his mug so tight his knuckles have turned white. Clenching his jaw, he sets it on the table. "They took your wings over that?"

"I was out of line," Aziraphale says; it sounds robotic. "They said if I love the humans so much, I should be stuck on Earth with-"

"Bullshit. That's bullshit and you know it. You fucking - they - that's nothing. Giving your sword away is nothing." The contempt from earlier twists into venom. "I know they're bastards but… fuck, Aziraphale, you can't believe you deserved it over that."

He should, shouldn't he? No one else in Heaven has ever said otherwise. The Archangels have always deemed it a fitting punishment: stick him with the beings he defied the Almighty to protect, and see how much he likes them then, when he's been stuck with them for millennia. Any good angel would get tired eventually, get sick of the Earthly imperfections and long for the cleanliness and order of Heaven. It was supposed to motivate him to work harder to earn their forgiveness and regain a place in Heaven alongside the Host he's supposed to belong to. Even the other angels involved in his punishment never gave him any sympathy, never looked like they were sorry. They remained the perfect soldiers, just like they should, just like they were created to be. And all the angels after that never questioned any of this. Never even talked to him. The complete lack of acknowledgement from everyone is why he'd assumed Gabriel had at least been merciful enough to keep the whole affair under wraps.

But it wasn't kept under wraps. Everyone knows about it, they've always known about it, and they've always accepted it without question. He did the wrong thing, and he was punished for it. There's nothing more to understand.

It's just another example of all the ways Aziraphale doesn't fit in with the rest of the angels, because he's never been able to understand it. How is he supposed to understand why losing his wings is a suitable punishment for showing mercy? Is that just? Is that right? Is that really what he deserved?

Questions he's never let himself ask before. Questions he longs to stop asking himself now.

"They were just doing what they thought was best," he says, but it's weak and flimsy even to his own ears. He can't bring himself to give any other answer, though; anything else would be shameful blasphemy, and he can't bear to feel shame right now. He's so, so tired of being ashamed.

"Bullshit-" Crowley starts to say, then cuts himself off, grimacing. It's not for lack of something to say - Aziraphale has known him long enough to know he'll never run out of bad things to say about Heaven and the angels running it - but because it's an effort to pull the words back.

Aziraphale could easily work out what they are. He knows Crowley, and if he thinks about it at all, he'll know exactly what he just stopped himself from saying. It wouldn't be difficult.

He doesn't. He makes a point of thinking about anything but the rest of that sentence, because he doesn't know how he'll react to it. He's so used to defending Heaven whenever Crowley talks badly about them, but now the thought of doing so leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he doesn't want to know if he'll defend them again. Worse, he's terrified of what may replace that defence if he doesn't.

"They never should've touched you," Crowley eventually says instead, "not for that. Not for anything. That was out of order."

Aziraphale can't contain the little laugh that escapes him.

"It was. Don't you dare think-"

"It's not that. I just… do you know, I don't think anyone's ever said that to me. Before you."

"That's because everyone in Heaven is an idiot."

"I don't think anyone knew-" 

He stops. They did know, even the Quartermaster said so. Everyone knows he gave away his flaming sword, they must know that's why he was punished. Everyone knows, and no one has ever said anything to him. No one has ever questioned if the punishment really fits the crime.

But can he really blame them for that, when he didn't question it himself? How can he condemn his fellow angels for not doing something he, himself, never did? That wouldn't be fair.

"No one else has had their wings cut off for not doing what they were supposed to," Crowley says, his gaze intense even under his glasses. "You don't see anyone ripping Gabriel's wings out for failing to start Armageddon, do you? By their standards, that's worse than just giving a flaming sword away."

"That wasn't really his fault, though. We're the ones who stopped it-"

"My point is, they know they never should've done that to you. They know it. If they didn't, they'd be cutting off a lot more wings than just yours."

Aziraphale flinches. "They wanted me to repent. That's all."

"By hurting you?"

"They weren't trying to hurt me." Once, those words would have carried defensive weight, but now they're brittle, too weak to hold up the conviction he wants to give them. He says them more on autopilot than anything; he wants to believe them, he really does, but with Crowley here, adamantly insisting he's done nothing worthy of this, it's getting more and more difficult to believe his own argument. "They just… they knew I wasn't sorry for what I'd done. They knew I didn't regret giving it away. That's why they were so angry. Anyone else would be sorry for undermining the Almighty like that, but I wasn't. They were just trying to correct that."

If he tries hard enough, he can almost believe that. And if he believes it, he can almost make sense of the execution: the last severe punishment didn't work, so maybe the next step up would. Maybe the reason they could never forgive him was because they know he will never be truly repentant. A rotten angel down to the core, so bad he can't even muster up enough selfishness to feel bad about giving away a holy artefact to a pair of damned humans when punished for it. After all, if he truly wanted forgiveness, he would be sorry for his actions. And rotten angels don't deserve their wings.

But then why promise to return them in the first place?

He's spent so long trying to find reasonable explanations for why Heaven took his wings over an act of mercy, but now all of them fold in on themselves and crumble when he asks, then why lie about returning my wings to me?  

There is an explanation that answers that question, but he doesn't dare think about it. He doesn't want to think about it, not even long enough to dispute it. He doesn't want to think about the implications and what it might mean for him if he can't dispute it, so it's easier to just not think about it at all. Keep looking for other explanations. If he keeps trying, maybe he'll find one that doesn't hurt. 

Crowley looks pained. He opens his mouth like he wants to argue further, but closes it and turns his head away with a frustrated huff, scowling at the chair opposite. "Right. Just acting on the Almighty's orders."

"I'm not so certain they were." He had believed that, once; it was a source of comfort, of sorts, to believe they were following Her directions, and therefore there must have been a reason for removing his wings beyond just punishment. It's a reassurance that got him through those early years, when he wandered the Earth in shock and pain, clinging to the mantra that there must be a reason, invisible to him but there nonetheless. A test he just had to pass, and then all would be forgiven. But with the knowledge Heaven were lying to him about returning his wings, that platitude doesn't really fit anymore; Crowley may (would) disagree, but Aziraphale can't ever imagine Her asking anyone to dangle false hope above his head like that. "Believing they were acting on Her behalf, maybe, but not… I don't think She asked them to do it."

Crowley wrinkles his nose in disagreement, but reluctantly concedes, "Wouldn't be the first time they've done something in God's name without asking first, I guess. Didn't God say anything, though? To you?"

"I thought She would. I… I was waiting for Her to say something when they found me by the gate, but She never did. I just thought - well, She was so much more vocal back then, I just assumed if there was a problem, She'd tell me Herself. I didn't think Heaven would take matters into their own hands. There wasn't a precedent for it."

"And their first independent decision was to cut your wings off for trying to help someone. Real fucking greater good of them."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, but the snarl in Crowley's voice is so vicious he already knows anything he says will only make it worse. And in truth, he can't think of anything to say. He can't condemn them - the thought of condemning his ex-bosses makes him uneasy - but, strangely, he can't find words to defend them, either.

It's worrying how little that concerns him. Or perhaps it's worrying he's too concerned about it. He isn't sure what he's supposed to feel anymore. Should he be worried he can't think of a way to defend them, even after all they've done? Or should he not spare any sympathy for them? Neither option feels right, and there's no one he can talk to about it, no one to help him figure out how he's supposed to feel. Not even Crowley can help him here; Aziraphale already knows exactly what his opinion will be, furious on his behalf as he is, but if he listened to everything Crowley says about Heaven and angels and God, he would have Fallen by now. He's on his own for this one.

He wishes God would give him some guidance. He's ached for Her guidance, Her reassurance, for a long time, and he could really use it right about now. But he knows how She works enough to know She will want him to figure this out on his own. Make his own decision. Aziraphale can only pray he comes to the right one. 

Goodness, is this how twisted up Crowley felt when he was figuring out if he should forgive Aziraphale for his lies? He longs to ask, but he's afraid of the answer, and Crowley will see right through him anyway. He'll know exactly why he's asking, and he'll launch into a speech about how Aziraphale shouldn't even waste time thinking about Heaven, much less feel bad about failing to defend them. Sweet, but not helpful at the moment.

"Do you regret it?" Crowley says, breaking Aziraphale's thoughts before they can spiral further. "Giving your sword away? I know you said you didn't then, but that was then."

There's a correct answer to this, isn't there? He knows how he should answer, it's the answer Gabriel has been expecting from him for thousands of years now.

It's an answer he cannot give unless he wants to break his promise of honesty, and he never wants to do that again.

"No," he confesses, and wishes there was any shame in his voice. "I've tried, but I just… I can't. If it gave them a chance, if it's the reason humanity continued to live, I'd do it again. Even knowing the consequences."

He's tried so hard to make himself regret it. Tried to convince himself Adam and Eve didn't deserve his help. He knows himself well enough to know he will never regret helping someone in need, and convincing himself they weren't in need was the only thing he could think to do to find his regret. It shouldn't have been difficult; before he escorted them out of Eden, he only really knew them through observation, and by the time he'd pulled himself out of his shock and stopped reaching for wings that weren't there anymore, Adam and Eve were long gone, their descendants the ones roaming the Earth. Not exactly a lot of time to grow attached to them.

But every time he tries to resent them, every time he tries to tell himself they'd only gotten what they deserved, all he can think about is their resigned, frightened eyes, the way Eve had cautiously cradled her stomach, the way Adam's arm trembled around her shoulder. The world was young but they were even younger, and Aziraphale never would have forgiven himself if he'd sent them outside the safety of the Garden unprotected, with no way to defend themselves or keep warm. He's made plenty of mistakes over the years, and he regrets many of them, but giving his sword away is not one of those regrets and never will be.

It would be so much easier if he could hate them, or be indifferent to them, but he's not capable of the effortless apathy all the other angels seem to have. In hindsight, he doesn't know why he ever bothered to try and earn their forgiveness. He's a broken angel, and the things that come naturally to everyone else have just never come to him, no matter how hard he tries to force them. He should have seen his failure coming a mile away.

Even knowing it was the first step down a path that led to hurting Crowley so terribly isn't enough to make him wish he'd done anything different. He'd do just about anything to fix his mistake, to go back and tell Crowley the truth from the start, but not that. Never that.

What does it say about him when even the one he loves is not enough to sway him from his blasphemous conviction? He doesn't know how Crowley can bring himself to even be around him when this is how he thinks. How he feels. Who puts two meaningless humans above the love of their life?

But… that's not fair. It wasn't Adam and Eve's fault. Losing his wings may have contributed to his lie to Crowley - he couldn't have lied about it if he'd still had them, after all - but those are his own sins, and have nothing to do with Adam and Eve. Aziraphale could have told the truth at any time. He could have corrected Crowley in Egypt, or at least told him the truth once he finally realised Crowley is trustworthy. Even if he could go back in time and undo everything, he wouldn't make Adam and Eve suffer just so he never had the chance to hurt Crowley. He shouldn't need to be denied the opportunity to do harm in the first place. He should know better. People cannot be truly holy unless they've had the chance to be truly wicked.

And haven't the opportunities presented to him shown his true colours in a disturbing light?

"You alright?"

"I'm-" fine, he almost says, but bites it back because it feels like a lie. Familiar shame gnaws at his soul, making him want to curl in on himself and hide away from Crowley's concerned gaze. Concern he doesn't deserve, no matter what Crowley says.

What is wrong with him? Why can't he just believe Crowley's word, for once? He trusts him, trusts him more than he ever thought it would be possible to trust anyone other than the Almighty, so why is it so difficult to believe him?

"I just wish we'd had the chance to meet back then," Aziraphale finally settles on, hoping his words will ease the look on Crowley's face. "In Eden, I mean. On the wall, like you wanted to."

"Yeah." Crowley's gaze falls to his abandoned mug, which is surely stone cold by now. He doesn't move to reheat it. "Me too."

If there was any hope of returning to the light-hearted, easy camaraderie from before, it's long gone now. In the place of the warm, achingly familiar atmosphere Aziraphale had been so sure he'd lost forever, there's an odd, stilted melancholy, not quite stifling or heavy or even uncomfortable, but a presence they can't ignore all the same as they stare at their individual mugs, silently mulling over the shared wish together. 

What would have happened if they'd met on the wall? Would their first meeting be as tense as the one in Egypt? Crowley would've undoubtedly stopped by only after Adam and Eve had left the Garden, out of sight of humans potentially seeking revenge on the being who coaxed them away from their paradise. Would Aziraphale have already lost his wings by then, or would he have them for a few more precious minutes?

What if he hadn't lost them at all?

For a brief moment, he lets himself fall into that daydream. Up on the wall, wings fluttering in the breeze of the oncoming storm. Crowley slithering up by his side to join him, his own wings unfolding and brushing against Aziraphale's as he'd make some dry remark about what transpired in the Garden. Heaven would've left him alone if they hadn't come looking for him to take his wings, would've waited for him to make his own way back, so they would have been able to talk for as long as they wanted. Maybe even long enough for the storm to roll over them, catching them in the downpour.

Aziraphale could… with his wings, he could've shielded Crowley. Could have held one wing over him to protect him from the raindrops. He'd probably do it without even thinking; after all, it would hardly be polite to keep himself dry and let his conversational partner get wet, now would it?

It's such a simple action, not even particularly sweet or romantic, but for some reason, thinking about it makes his heart flutter.

But it's nothing more than a daydream as impossible as getting his wings back. In reality, even if they had met on the wall, it would have been after Heaven took his wings. Meeting before then would have put Crowley in danger. He would have been spotted when the other angels arrived to deliver Aziraphale's punishment, and their friendship would end before it would have a chance to begin. 

The thought is agonising. Worse than the agony he felt when he lost his wings.

Still, the knowledge that things could have gone much worse - that he could have lost Crowley before getting the chance to know him - doesn't stop him from wishing they had met on the wall. It would have to be after losing his wings, and Aziraphale doesn't know how he'd get up onto the wall without them, but he longs for it all the same. The timing certainly wouldn't have done his shocked state any good - being approached by a demon, so soon after losing his wings, would have been terrible for his nerves - but the outcome would have been so much better. Crowley would have won him over with time. They would have ended up here, together, no matter the circumstances. There's nothing in the universe that could have stopped them from becoming friends any more than Heaven or Hell could have stopped him from falling in love with Crowley.

They'd be here no matter what.

It's just… here would be so much better if he'd never lied to Crowley to begin with.

He tries not to think about it. He really does. But he can't help it. The possibilities of the what-ifs linger over him, quiet but nagging. Where would they be right now, at this exact moment in time, if they didn't have to repair what Aziraphale broke? Would they still be here, in the backroom of the bookshop, drinking wine instead of tea? Or would they be out somewhere, at a restaurant, or in the countryside? Would they be sitting in silence, just enjoying one another's company, or would they be in the middle of some fascinating debate? They would end up at one another's side no matter what, but where would they be, side by side, right now, if they didn't have to have these terribly awkward and tense conversations?

(Would they be something more? Would Aziraphale have found the courage to finally be more forward with his feelings? Would they have the strength to hold hands now they're free from the threat of repercussions?)

He's never going to know.

It's pointless to dwell on the missed opportunities. He should be focusing on the positives of his situation; they've been doing so well, they've come so far, and to long for what they never had instead of being thankful for what they do, even in spite of everything, feels sickeningly ungrateful. What he has now is so much more than he deserves after how much he hurt Crowley, and he's unbelievably fortunate to get another chance. He's lucky, so what right does he have to mourn the moments he's losing when he's responsible for their loss in the first place?

But it's difficult not to. Knowing they weren't able to have that moment together on the wall, or that he couldn't do something as simple as heal Crowley whenever he was injured… that stings, of course it does. But thinking about what they're currently missing, where they could be if Aziraphale hadn't messed up and ruined everything, hurts so much more. Every second they spend painstakingly repairing their relationship is a second that could have been spent together, happy, maybe even fulfilling fantasies Aziraphale hasn't been able to stop dreaming about ever since Crowley rescued his books from that bomb for him. There may be millions of past moments lost, but he's actively losing moments in the present, and that's much harder to swallow.

He knows these things take time, but the wait is frustrating, and knowing it's his own fault makes it even worse.

"Could've been worse," Crowley says. "We could've not met at all."

Yes. Yes, it could be worse.

But it could be better, too. Could have been better from the start, if he'd just told the truth.

Apologies linger on the tip of his tongue, but what good will they do? He's already given his apologies. Already given his explanations. He has nothing more to give, nothing more Crowley wants, and yet, for some infuriating reason, it's still not enough. He's never been enough. He could repeat his apologies over and over for the rest of existence and it would still never encompass just how sorry he is. Nothing he does will ever be able to express how much he wishes he could take back all his mistakes and try again, be better, be what Crowley deserves right from the beginning.

And yet he aches to try anyway. To do better, be better, to earn it. He should be working for… something. Atonement, of some kind.

It's ridiculous. He shouldn't still be struggling with this. Crowley has given him everything he needs to make this easier, things Aziraphale would have never dared consider asking Heaven for. He isn't even making him earn the right to keep their friendship, or holding the promise of forgiveness over his head to see how long it will take him to jump high enough to reach it. Crowley is being so patient, so generous, so much kinder than Heaven ever were, even if he'd sulk and grumble if Aziraphale pointed that out.

But it leaves Aziraphale without anything concrete to work towards. How will he know when their friendship has been fixed? When talking about his lie no longer makes Crowley's face twitch like he's holding back a glare or scowl? When they no longer feel the need to talk about the lie at all? When will they know, how will they know? How will Aziraphale know? He's never been good at knowing, has never trusted his own judgement, and he cannot afford to judge incorrectly now. The last thing he wants is to assume their friendship is fixed just because he cannot see the cracks in it and cause even more pain. It's true he can always ask Crowley, but Crowley may not know, either - neither of them are exactly good at this. They're both stumbling around, blind when they need light more than ever.

Maybe that's all the more reason to ask, but thinking about it makes him feel slimy, disgusting. Ungrateful. Who is he to ask Crowley to help him fix their friendship? It's pathetic, just another example of how useless he really is. Any good angel would be able to do it without even thinking about it.

Crowley doesn't want him thinking like that.

But he doesn't know how else to think.

Not needing forgiveness is supposed to be easier, this is easier. He shouldn't still be struggling with this.

So why does he still feel like he's failing?

He's grasping at a cliff for purchase, all his usual footholds are gone, and apologies are the only thing he can think to make to keep himself hanging on, even knowing he shouldn't be making them so much.

"Aziraphale?"

"Sorry," Aziraphale says. He forces himself to raise his eyes and smile at Crowley. "I was just… thinking."

"Overthinking, more like," Crowley says, but it's good-natured, tinged with a light air meant to brighten the mood. It's sweet, but not really working. "You're in your head too much."

"Sorry."

"I'm going to get you an apology jar if you keep saying that."

It's a harmless comment. Still meant to brighten the mood.

But for some reason, it makes something in Aziraphale's chest crack.

"I don't mean to. I'm trying to stop myself from saying it, I am, but you don't understand. It's - it's difficult."

Crowley startles, and guilt squeezes Aziraphale's chest; he's overreacting to a simple joke, he knows he is, but he can't stop.  

"I know it's difficult-"

"But it shouldn't be." Frustration wars with the guilt in Aziraphale's chest. "I - you're doing so much to make this easier for us. You're not making me earn your friendship, you aren't testing me, you let me ask what you need instead of making me guess… you're doing so much, and you shouldn't have to. This shouldn't be on you. I'm the one who ruined everything. I should be capable of fixing this mess on my own."

"That's not-"

"I know. I'm not - I'm trying to believe you, Crowley, heaven knows I'm trying, but I just - if I apologise, you tell me not to, and I feel like I sound insincere or like I'm pressuring you into being okay with being around me, but if I don't apologise, it's like I'm just… ignoring what I've done. But if I say it anyway, it's not enough, and I just - I don't know what else to do."

He hates that he can't stop himself from talking. They're supposed to be moving past this, and how can they do that when he keeps mentioning it, but a dam has burst and he can't stop himself. He can't move on. He can never just move on. He couldn't move on from his wings, and he can't move on from this. He's so slow, always so stuck on his mistakes, and it's always Crowley who has to deal with the fallout, because he's too useless to do it on his own.

"You're already doing-"

"But it doesn't feel like I am." His leg bounces. His grip on his mug threatens to tighten further; he has to set it on the table so he won't risk shattering it. Still the anxious energy refuses to dissipate, and he stands, pacing restlessly. "I feel like I'm just - just waiting, when I should be doing something, and I know you said we're doing it together, but I just… I can't help but feel like I still haven't done anything."

"Aziraphale, hold on-"

"I can't! I can't stop, I'm trying but I can't. I don't know how." His hands flex, useless and aimless by his sides, just like him. "I know you said - I know I don't have to - I don't know why it isn't helping. It should be helping, but I just - I still feel like I need to keep trying to - to-"

"Hey."

Cool hands grab his, freezing him in his tracks. Crowley is in front of him, preventing him from pacing; he hadn't even noticed Crowley stand up and walk towards him.

When… when was the last time Crowley casually touched him like this?

The bandstand. When he had his hand around his wrist, right before Aziraphale ruined everything.

His breath catches in his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know I keep saying it, and I know you told me not to, but I am. I don't know what's wrong with me, and I don't know why I can't stop saying it. I just - I just feel like I should be doing something. Something more than fixing our friendship."

"We're already doing everything we can."

Aziraphale swallows. He slowly tightens his grip on Crowley's hands. Searching for grounding, for an answer, an explanation for why he can never just be grateful for the blessings he's been gifted. "Then why doesn't it feel like enough? Why do I still feel like this?"

"It's just… just stress, I think, from… everything. It'll fade."

"We don't know that. We don't know anything about how all this works." Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to focus on Crowley's cool hands wrapped around his, instead of the lost, confusing buzz in his heart. "What if I don't stop feeling this way, even after we've fixed everything? Am I meant to simply pretend I don't? I may not regret giving my sword away, but I'll always regret hurting you. I don't know how to stop."

Crowley lets out a breath. It ruffles Aziraphale's hair. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

"But I still did. And I-" he tries not to say it, he really does, but Crowley is holding his hands so tenderly and speaking so softly, and Aziraphale's chest aches because he doesn't deserve it, he's never going to just be grateful for it, not when he still feels like he needs to reach for something- "Crowley, I'm so, so sorry."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, lost and helpless, and Aziraphale hates that he's making Crowley feel this way. Hates that he can't just keep his apologies to himself.

But then the helpless look fades, replaced by something that almost looks like determination.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says again, like he's about to go into battle. "I-"

He stops. Huffs. His face twists, grimaces, like there's an unpleasant taste in his mouth he's dying to spit out. It's the same look he gets when he's gearing up to do something particularly nice, like it's taking every ounce of his strength to push aside his demonic instinct and go through with it.

Crowley releases one of Aziraphale's hands. His own hand hovers by Aziraphale's shoulder, uncertain, like he's debating if he really wants to touch Aziraphale again.

He doesn't touch Aziraphale.

Instead, he takes his glasses off, and Aziraphale's heart stumbles and flutters.

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeats, and he still looks pained, but his eyes are sharp and intense and honest as they bear into him, and Aziraphale can't look away. "Angel." He takes Aziraphale's hand again, and holds tight. "I forgive you."

The world stops spinning. Aziraphale stares in disbelief, his heart pounding in his ears, loud but unable to drown out the phantom echo of what Crowley just said.

The words can't be easy, not for a demon, but he says them like they are.

Have… have they always been that easy to say?

… Oh.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. His voice cracks. "Oh."

His next breath in is shaky, and his next breath out is a sob.

"Oh shit," Crowley mutters, squeezing his hands tighter. "Aziraphale-"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to - to protest, to insist he's done nothing to deserve those words, to do anything - but the words get caught in the bubble in his throat, and another sob escapes him. He clings to Crowley's hands with all his strength, trying desperately to swallow back the tears - tears he has no need to shed, Crowley is forgiving him, so why is there a dam in his chest? - and say something in response to the words Crowley fought so hard to get out.

The words Heaven had no intention of ever giving to him.

The world restarts abruptly; it's tilting, spinning faster than it's ever spun before, and Aziraphale is lost in a space not meant for him, with no solid ground under his feet and only Crowley's hands for guidance.

Hands that slip from his grasp, gone for only a second before arms wrap around him, holding him tight against Crowley's chest, and it's only then he realises he's been swaying dangerously.

"I got you," Crowley says. "We're alright, angel."

Angel.

Aziraphale clutches Crowley's shoulders, digging his fingers into the familiar fabric, and sobs openly into Crowley's chest.

It hurts. His cries are violent, built up over thousands of years, and his body shudders under the force of them, so harsh he's almost certain his corporation is going to crack and crumble, leaving him bare in his true form for anyone to see. His cries scratch his throat, sting his eyes, swell in his chest until he can barely breathe, and it hurts. Hurts as much as his back, as his heart, pain seeping through wounds he'd hoped wouldn't ever hurt like this again. The hole in his chest aches with the agony of 6000 years. It claws at him, desperate for release, and no matter how hard he cries, it's not escaping fast enough.

He didn't even cry like this the night he lost his wings.

It hurts, but Crowley's arms are around him, holding him tight like he's physically holding Aziraphale together. One hand runs up and down his back, right above the spot where his scars lay, and the cool, firm touch is a balm to the burning behind his eyes.

So even though it hurts, Aziraphale lets himself cry harder. Lets himself stain Crowley's shirt with his tears, clings to Crowley with all his strength, like he can use his body to hide away from how very exposed he feels. And maybe Crowley can hear his unspoken, ridiculous desire, or maybe he just knows Aziraphale so well, because there's a quiet flutter, and then darkness wraps around him, shielding him from view and sheltering him in a curtain of dark feathers.

All the while, Crowley's hand never stops, and when he shifts and Aziraphale clings harder, terrified he'll let go and leave, he hushes him and runs his soothing hand down his back again.

"'M here, angel," he murmurs, wrapping his wings tighter around them. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tears hot on his cheeks, Aziraphale chokes out another chest-rattling sob. It hurts, it's hard to breathe through his sobs, and he's shaking so much it aches, but Crowley holds him tight and doesn't let go. It hurts, but knowing he's in Crowley's arms, underneath Crowley's wings, listening to Crowley call him angel with affection instead of disgust, is enough to make it worth it. He'd feel like this for a thousand years so long as Crowley holds him like he loves him the whole time.

Under Crowley's hand, the place where his wings should be aches and itches and stings and burns. As raw and painful as the day he lost them.

Under Crowley's hand, an open wound slowly, painstakingly, stitches itself shut and finally begins to heal.

"We're here, angel," Crowley says, switching off the car and swinging his legs out the door. He's trying to conceal his eagerness, but he's doing a very poor job, considering the excitement in his voice and the way he saunters over to Aziraphale's side and opens the door for him before he has a chance to get out himself. Amused, Aziraphale takes the offered hand and lets Crowley help him out of the car.

He hadn't known what to expect when Crowley burst into the bookshop hours earlier, swinging a picnic basket and ordering him into the car with some snacks and blankets, but it certainly wasn't to be driven out of London and into the countryside to a random hill in the middle of nowhere. He's not complaining, though. This isn't how they typically spend time together, but he's always up for trying new things, and a late night picnic sounds lovely. The late hour may not be standard, but it gives them an extra shred of privacy with all the humans asleep instead of sharing the hill with their own picnic baskets.

The night air is cool but not cold; the barely present breeze keeps the temperature up pleasantly, and Aziraphale is perfectly warm under all his layers, although he isn't sure if Crowley can say the same for himself. The stars are beautiful and sprinkled all across the night sky, bright and plentiful in a way he hasn't seen since they moved into the city all those years ago. Perhaps he should look into getting a little cottage somewhere. It would be nice to have somewhere outside of London to stay and look up at the stars. Extra storage for his books and other little trinkets wouldn't hurt, either.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley drops the rolled-up blanket to the ground, dumping the picnic basket onto it the second it finishes obediently unrolling, and dramatically gestures for Aziraphale to sit. Together, they unpack the picnic basket, unloading an extraordinary amount of food that really should not have been able to fit inside such a small basket but did because Crowley expected it to. 

"You'll like this," Crowley says, pulling the third pie so far out of the basket; he really has gone all-out. He's even forgone his glasses. "There's a meteor shower tonight. Thought this would be a great place to stop and watch."

"I don't remember the last time I watched a meteor shower," Aziraphale says, moving the flapjacks out of the way to make space for the pie. "I always forget when they are, so I always end up reading in the bookshop and missing them, and I never find out until a few days later."

"I can remind you. I track them."

"I'd like that." Aziraphale can already see it: Crowley dropping by unannounced, borderline bouncing around the bookshop as he invites Aziraphale to watch a meteor shower with him, buzzing with a delighted energy he so rarely lets himself express. And Aziraphale will say yes, of course he will, because seeing Crowley so excited about something never fails to warm his heart. "When does this one start?"

"Soon. Patience, Aziraphale, patience. Sandwich?"

"I don't think I'm the impatient one right now. You keep wiggling and nearly knocking the fruit over."

"I missed the last one," Crowley complains, handing the sandwich to Aziraphale. "My stupid alarm didn't go off when it was supposed to, so I overslept. Sue me for looking forward to this one."

Situating himself more comfortably on the blanket, Aziraphale takes a bite of the sandwich and looks up. The night sky is clear; it really is the perfect night to watch a meteor shower.

Next to him, Crowley rolls his shoulders again. The fourth time today.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah, fine. Just a little stiff from the car ride, is all."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrow expectantly. Crowley crumbles within seconds.

"It's… just my wings," he says, a little hesitantly. "They're a little cramped, is all. I'll take them out and stretch them when I get home."

Ah.

Well, that makes sense, at least. Neither of them talk about their wings much. They never have; he suspects Crowley saw no reason to do so when he thought Aziraphale was just a human, and now he knows the truth… well, it's not exactly the kind of topic one goes around discussing. Not after… everything. Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley's wings since that day in the bookshop, when Crowley held him close and curled them around him. There just aren't many opportunities to stretch them these days, what with all the cameras and the internet. It's probably habit that keeps them tucked away even while they're cramping.

Habit, and perhaps the heavy knowledge of what happened to Aziraphale's own wings.

A few millennia ago, perhaps the sight of Crowley's wings, out so freely and twitching and responding to his every mood, would have hurt. Maybe it still will. Aziraphale doesn't know. He's only ever seen Crowley's wings twice, and neither of those were particularly opportune times for jealousy.

But that's no reason for Crowley to hide them away when it's just the two of them. There are already so few opportunities for him to stretch his wings in day-to-day life, there's no reason he should deny himself when he does have a moment to do so.

"You can always stretch them now, if you'd like," Aziraphale says. "It's just us."

"'S fine. They're not that bad, they can wait."

"Crowley." He waits until Crowley catches his eye; eye contact has been a little easier, recently, for a reason Aziraphale can't quite explain. Only with Crowley, and not all the time, but it is easier. "I don't mind."

"... You sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

And within a blink, Crowley's wings are there, stretching up towards the sky. His feathers flutter in the wind as he flaps them, shiny with the glow of the moon reflecting off them. His wings are gorgeous, now Aziraphale has the opportunity to really look: they're pristine and organised, neatly groomed in the way Aziraphale's wings never were. Sleek, and nothing like the mess of feathers Aziraphale has seen from the other angels up in Heaven. Already a beautiful picture of model wings, Crowley's fingers drift to them as he brings them back down, smoothing down and adjusting wayward feathers Aziraphale didn't even notice were crooked, as meticulous with how they look as he is with his CD collection in his flat.

Aziraphale's hands itch to reach out and groom alongside him. He doesn't, because that would be inappropriate to do, especially without asking, but he wants to. He hasn't preened anyone in so long; communal preening isn't really done in Heaven anymore, to his knowledge. If it's done at all, it's likely done in private, and nothing like the relaxed, casual display of affection it used to be back before the War. Even if it is still done, Aziraphale isn't exactly close to any other angels, so he would never be invited to such a thing. And it's not like he has his own wings to groom anymore, so he hasn't done it in… well, not since before Eden.

Is communal preening a thing in Hell, or is it looked down on? When was the last time Crowley let anyone other than himself preen his wings?

Again, Aziraphale itches to reach out and ask.

Another time, perhaps, in a few years. Maybe then he'll have the courage.

"Better?" he says instead.

"Mm. Much." Crowley sighs in content, stretching his wings one last time. Aziraphale can't help but stare, transfixed; he looks so at peace like this, in the softness of the night, with his wings free and proudly shimmering in the moonlight. It's so mesmerising Aziraphale couldn't look away if he wanted to, so he catches the exact moment Crowley's eyes light up as he straightens, staring up at the sky.

"It's starting."

It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze away from Crowley, but Aziraphale manages. Tilting his head up at the sky, he can't contain the little gasp of wonder that escapes him. The sight is gorgeous; streaks of light cut through the dark sky, one after the other, a beautiful sight against the starry night. He counts them, one, two, ten, twenty, until he loses track, caught up in the breathtaking awe of marvelling at the Almighty's creation.

Next to him, Crowley has gone almost completely still. Only his wings give anything away, fluttering in excitement, nearly knocking the food over on multiple occasions. The feathers brush against Aziraphale's arm every now and then, and he mourns the fact he chose to wear so many layers. He could have survived wearing short sleeves if it would mean he'd get to feel Crowley's soft feathers against his skin.

The shower is beautiful, but it still can't completely capture Aziraphale's attention. He can't help glancing at Crowley, again and again, to drink in the beautiful delight on his face, the sparkle in his eyes that outshines all the stars in the sky at once. 

He knows Crowley loves the stars, but he so rarely gets to see that love.

Perhaps he really does need to watch more meteor showers if this is what he's missing out on.

"Did you know humans wish on shooting stars?" he says.

"Eh?"

"The meteor showers. Humans call them shooting stars. They believe if they wish on one, their wish will come true."

Crowley looks away from the shower just long enough to wrinkle his nose at Aziraphale. "That's stupid. They aren't even stars, they're meteors. Completely different things. Humans know this, why do they call them shooting stars when they know they're not stars?"

"Habit, I suppose. From before they knew they weren't stars."

"And why do they think wishing on one will do them any good? What do they think a hunk of rock in space can do for them? It's not like it has powers."

"I think it's nice humans try so hard to find magic in the universe. Even if it's… not entirely logical."

"There's no logic to it at all, angel. It's complete bullshit."

"The belief is sweet, though."

"Of course you would think that." Despite his words, there's affection in Crowley's tone.

Aziraphale looks back up to the shower. The meteors are still plentiful, like an invisible ink brush is painting them across the sky, burning hot and bright just to allow those on Earth the privilege of viewing their beauty. It's wondrous; he understands why humans seek magic in them, even knowing they don't actually hold any power. If he didn't know any better, if he hadn't been there during the very creation of the universe, he'd believe such a shining sight is brimming with magic, too.

"What would you wish for?" he asks.

"I wouldn't wish for anything, because meteors don't work like that."

"But if you believed they did, or if they did work like that. What would you wish for?"

Crowley rolls his eyes, but humours him. "I'd wish for the Bentley to stop turning my CDs into Queen."

"You know, I'm sure if you asked nicely-"

"Ask nicely? It's like you don't even know me." Crowley huffs in mock outrage. "Besides, I've already tried threatening it, and it didn't work. I don't think asking will make a difference."

"Just miracle them back the way they should be, then."

"I've tried. I've tried everything, and nothing works. The Bentley won't budge."

"Oh, I'm sure it can be persuaded if you try long enough."

"Did that. It just fights me the whole journey."

"Maybe you just weren't driving for long enough."

"Not driving for - I was driving for four hours, and it still didn't stop!"

"What were you driving for four hours for?"

"Needed to get to Manchester for a minor temptation. I thought that would be long enough to get the Bentley to behave, but it's stubborn."

"Well, it does take after you."

"If it took after me, we'd listen to something other than bloody Queen for once."

Despite Crowley's words, there's no real irritation in his voice. Unsurprising. Aziraphale knows for a fact Crowley listened to Queen's albums on repeat when they just started out. He really shouldn't wonder where the Bentley's love for them came from when they were all it heard for two years straight.

"What about you?" Crowley says. "What would you wish for?"

Aziraphale hums, head tilted back to continue to watch the shower as he thinks. It's a good question. What would he wish for? If he could ask for anything, and it would come true, what would he want? Some new misprinted bibles, perhaps, or to get his hands on the only copy of Agnus Nutter's book once and for all? But half of the fun of book collecting is tracking them down himself, or being surprised by Crowley gifting them to him. Wishing for them would take away the fun of it.

He knows what he would have wished for after they thwarted the apocalypse: Crowley's friendship and forgiveness. But he has that now, has had it for a while, and he didn't need to wish or pray for it. Crowley simply gave it to him, out of the goodness of his… well, of his own free will. As dark as those initial days were, as much as Aziraphale feared they would never be able to repair their friendship, it's hard to imagine permanently ruining what they have now they're on the other side of their rough patch. Sometimes he'll worry things will get worse again - he can't help it, he's been worrying for 6000 years - but those moments are few and far between, getting fewer and farther the more time goes on. He's secure in their friendship; he doesn't feel the need to wish for its restoration any longer.

He knows what he would have wished for before the apocalypse, too. His back itches at the thought but… he's gone so long without his wings he no longer remembers what it's like to have them. The promise of regaining them has caused him so much pain. As agonising as it was - still is - to realise Heaven lied to him about returning them, having the pressure of getting them back off his shoulders has slowly but surely allowed him to breathe better.

If he wished for them back, would all the stress and worry return with them? Would he have to carry the weight of far more than just his wings? Would he be willing to do it, now that he's finally rid himself of it?

No. The thought is incomprehensible, even to him, but… he isn't so sure he wants his wings back, anymore. Even if he could wish for them. He misses them - he'll never stop missing them - but he can no longer bring himself to believe they're worth the pain they cause.

The stars twinkle above him, outshined by the meteor shower but no less beautiful despite not having the spotlight tonight. The clouds are sparse, leaving the sky mostly clear, like curtains held open for the spectacle of the shower.

"To go flying again," he says softly. "I'd like to see the Earth from above, for once. Just one more time."

He can live without his wings, but he misses being able to fly. It's the thing he misses the most, and he doesn't know if it's a loss he'll ever get over. He likes being on Earth, likes walking to places and being surrounded by people, and yes, even being in Crowley's car, despite the absolutely outrageous speeds, but just once he'd like to return to the sky. Breathe in the air, marvelling at its thinness from so high up - such things don't bother him the way they would a human, his body sturdier than most - and take a moment to observe the beauty of the world below from a distance. See a larger part of the picture, rather than mere chunks. Feel the wind in his face, alone but not lonely, taking a moment to himself, a special moment few get to experience the way he does.

His wings aren't worth the trouble they've caused him. But flying… oh, he'd give just about anything to go flying again.

Crowley glances at him, face pinched into something almost thoughtful, then abruptly stands.

"Hey," he says, tugging on Aziraphale's hand. "Get up."

"Shouldn't we pack everything away if we're leaving?"

"We're not leaving yet. C'mon, up."

Aziraphale lets Crowley pull him to his feet, following him as he leads him away from their little picnic. Crowley's hand is colder than normal; absently, Aziraphale runs his thumb over Crowley's knuckle, like that will bring any warmth to it.

"Arms around me," Crowley says when they stop, spreading his arms out wide.

"What-"

"Trust me."

Bewildered, Aziraphale obeys, wrapping his arms around Crowley's waist, trying not to flush. This is the closest they've ever been, and the lovesick part of his mind whispers Crowley has never asked for a hug before. But does it really count as a hug? Crowley didn't say it was a hug. He just asked for Aziraphale's arms around him, which sounds like a hug, and feels like a hug, but isn't necessarily one.

Crowley rearranges him, shifting his arms to wind tight over his shoulders instead, then loops his own arms around Aziraphale's waist. "Link your hands together. Yeah, like that. Hold tight - no no, tighter, there you go. Ready?"

"Ready for what?"

Crowley grins his little mischievous grin, and it's almost enough to make Aziraphale let go - but Crowley asked him to trust him, and Aziraphale has never trusted anyone more.

"Don't let go," Crowley says. His wings flare, and it's the only warning Aziraphale gets before they flap, strong and powerful and familiar-

And the ground disappears from under their feet. Wind buffets his hair, his clothes. Aziraphale gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, clings to Crowley even tighter, legs flailing for ground, and Crowley's only response is to laugh at him and hold him closer.

"Eyes open, angel," he says.

Hesitant, Aziraphale cracks open one eye. He doesn't need any encouragement to open the other as he gapes, staring at the gorgeous deep blue surrounding them.

The sky. He's in the sky.

The wind is more noticeable up here. Colder, too, just like he imagined it would be; it cuts through his clothes to reach his skin, passes through him to make him shiver lightly, but it's not unpleasant. It curls around his cheeks like an embrace, as if it's unable to believe he's up here with it, joining it at long last after 6000 years. Around them, the clouds drift closer, curious. Clinging tighter to Crowley, Aziraphale cautiously unwinds one arm from around him and reaches out to one, hand trembling. The cloud feels of nothing, of course - it isn't a solid object, so his hand merely passes through it - but oh, oh, just having the chance to do it makes him giddy. He wouldn't be able to suppress his smile even if he wanted to as he watches his hand disappear into the mist of the cloud.

The lack of ground under his feet isn't so terrifying, anymore. It's freeing.

With a disbelieving laugh, Aziraphale runs his hand through the cloud again.

"Crowley," he whispers. "Crowley."

Crowley looks far too pleased with himself, his grip around Aziraphale even tighter to accommodate for Aziraphale not clinging to him with both hands. He doesn't tell Aziraphale to pull his arm back, or grumble about how he'll drop him if he won't hold on. There's a shimmer of delight in his eyes as he watches Aziraphale, and genuine happiness nestles in the corner of his smug grin. His wings, strong and powerful, beat a steady tune behind him to keep them in the air; if it's a struggle to hold up both himself and Aziraphale, he doesn't breathe a word of complaint, and there's no visible strain in his face.

"This what you were hoping for, angel?"

Aziraphale nods, breathless, running his hand through another passing cloud.

"Wanna go higher?"

Crowley's wings flap harder without waiting for an answer, launching them higher into the air, and Aziraphale is giddy with the sensation. He looks down as Crowley flies, and his head spins at the dizzying sight of the grassy fields below them, stretching out. The details of the ground shrink into mere pinpricks, and as they fly higher, glimmers of lights appear in the distance from nearby towns; maybe, if they fly high enough, they could see London. Aziraphale runs his hand through one more cloud before they're out of reach, drifting over the land and making the prettiest picture.

This. This is what he's been missing for so long. Seeing it now feels unreal when he was so sure he'd never get to see it again.

"Hey," Crowley says, squeezing tighter to get his attention, "look up."

Aziraphale loathes to look away from the sight below him, but he obeys, mouth falling open at the sight of the sky. Unmarred by clouds, the stars above them are endless, scattered beautifully across the night, almost glittering, like they're thrilled to be seen. Aziraphale hasn't seen the sky look like this in so long; his eyes are far better than a human's, which is why he can see this many stars at all, where a human's eyes would still miss most of them, but there's so much light in London even he can't see the way the stars are supposed to look through it all, and he's lived there for so long he'd honestly forgotten he was missing anything.

He can't forget now. He can't believe he ever forgot. The stars are far away, out of reach, but they seem so close, like it would only take minutes to reach them if they kept flying.

Another meteor - shooting star - streaks across the sky. If Aziraphale didn't know any better, he'd think it was winking at him. 

"Looks even better from up here, huh?" Crowley says.

Aziraphale can only nod again, still speechless.

He loses track of how long he's there, Crowley's body pressed against his, holding him high in the sky as they watch the stars together. His heart is pounding - he can't tell if it's from the exhilaration of being so high, the joy of the illusion of flying again, or from Crowley's arms around him holding him so tight - and his smile is so uncontrollably wide it hurts his face. The meteors above them fly by in beautiful streaks of light; like this, high in the sky, with every beat of Crowley's wings a background tune, the meteors seem every bit as magical as the humans believe them to be.

With every breath, with every heartbeat, Aziraphale prays that every human who wishes on these shooting stars tonight has their wish granted, just like his.

Eventually, the frequency of the meteors begins to die down. He tries not to be too disappointed. He'd hoped so dearly the shower would last longer than this; it feels like it's barely begun, and now it's already coming to a close.

Still, perhaps it's for the best. Crowley must surely be getting tired, and although Aziraphale yearns to stay up here just a little longer, he wouldn't ask Crowley to do such a thing for him. Any minute now, they'll return to the ground.

But when he finally tears his eyes away from the sky, shifting his grip to better hold Crowley for their descent, he finds Crowley giving him a familiar mischievous grin.

Alarm bells immediately start ringing.

"Crowley," he says, "whatever you're thinking-"

Crowley's wings snap closed, and they plummet to the ground.

Aziraphale screams, clinging to Crowley so hard it will surely leave bruises and burying his face in Crowley's neck. His legs kick and flail, instinctively trying to stretch out wings he no longer has to catch him-

And just as abruptly as their fall started, it stops.

It takes a few terrified breaths to realise Crowley is laughing.

"Crowley," he hisses, pulling back with a scowl that does absolutely nothing to dampen Crowley's spirits.

"You should've seen your face," Crowley snickers. His wings are out again, keeping them up without a care in the world, like they didn't nearly splat onto the ground and get discorporated.

"You could've killed us-"  

"Relax, I had you." The mischief in his grin hasn't faded, and playfulness starts to glimmer in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't really let you fall."

Aziraphale huffs, more for show than anything. What else can he do? Crowley's right. He wouldn't let Aziraphale fall. He never has. 

"C'mon, don't tell me you've never done a little diving and free falling before."

"... A little warning would have been nice."

"Yeah, yeah." Crowley rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on Aziraphale and takes them higher into the air once more. "Consider yourself warned, angel. See if you can keep your eyes open this time."

His wings snap closed again, but Crowley's words are warning enough, so when they tumble down this time, Aziraphale shoves down the instinctive panic with a deep breath. Watching the ground grow closer is terrifying, plummeting through and past the clouds is heart-stopping, but Crowley's grip on him is sure and certain, never faltering, and that's all Aziraphale needs to know he's in perfectly safe hands.

Sure enough, before they can get dangerously close to the ground, Crowley's wings fly open again, flapping hard to halt their fall and rocket them back into the air, amongst the clouds once more.

They don't have time to adjust to being so high; Crowley twists in the air, wings stretched as he angles towards the ground in a dive. The bite of the wind whipping his face and hair with its sharp fingers is icy, Aziraphale's heart jumps in his mouth, but the dive smooths into a glide soon enough, and the breeze becomes more forgiving the moment they're no longer cutting through the air so sharply.

Then they shoot back into the clouds and beyond, only to do it all over again.

Unlike before, Aziraphale doesn't dare let go as their flight continues; he holds Crowley like his life depends on it - it does - and although he manages to keep his eyes open, it doesn't stop his stomach from swooping or his heart from leaping into his mouth every time they drop. He did a few daring tricks when he had his own wings, but none like this. No sharp turns, sudden dives, loops in the air. Behaviour no proper angel would ever dream of engaging in.

But Crowley is smiling, making delighted whoops, and every move he makes is so confident, so carefully controlled, and despite every part of his body screaming he's in danger, Aziraphale has never felt more safe.

If the flight they took before was freeing, this is exhilarating. 

Another loop, which ends in a dive. Crowley laughs at Aziraphale's startled squeak, and Aziraphale finds himself breathlessly laughing along.

It feels like the flight goes on forever, a daredevil's dance in the sky for just the two of them, guided by Crowley. The longer it goes on, with every swoop and turn, the more Aziraphale relaxes in Crowley's arms, his body finally catching up to what his brain already knows: he's safe, Crowley has him, won't ever drop him or let him fall. Occasionally, when Crowley folds his wings in and they drop, Aziraphale finds his eyes turned upwards to the sky to see a meteor falling along with them.

Finally, though, Crowley reaches his limit; they slow to a stop, the clouds brushing over their feet, Aziraphale breathless, Crowley panting hard. Still, despite the physical exertion, his eyes are bright, shining beautifully in the moonlight, and his wide grin is brimming with self-satisfaction.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he says.

It was wonderful. Aziraphale has never felt like this before in his life. He wants to praise Crowley, wants to compliment him on his wonderful flying skills, thank him, but he's still too breathless to say anything, so all he can manage is a smile and hope that's enough.

From the pleased gleam in Crowley's eye, it is.

"Let's get you down, then," he says. "We should probably pack up the rest of that picnic."

Their descent is gentle, this time, nothing like the thrilling dips and drops of their flight. They reach the ground slowly, still wound tight around one another; neither let go until both of them are certain the other is firmly back on solid ground.

As Aziraphale unwinds his arms from Crowley's neck, he aches to wrap them around his waist, instead. His chest feels cold now it's no longer pressed against Crowley.

It's hard to believe he once thought he'd never be allowed to see Crowley again. Never be allowed to touch him ever again. At the same time, knowing they've just spent… goodness, what feels like hours, up in the sky, holding one another close, closer than they've ever held each other before… it's surreal. Like one of those dreams Crowley talks about so fondly.

Aziraphale doesn't have much experience with dreams, but he's certain one could never hold a candle to what just happened.

"Thank you," he says at last, the first thing he's said since Crowley dropped them out of the sky the second time. His heart isn't racing, exactly, but it's still pounding hard.

"Anytime," Crowley says. His grin hasn't left, his eyes are still shining, and his hair is windswept. It would be so easy for Aziraphale to reach out and run his fingers through it, and it's a fight to not follow through with the urge.

"I mean it. Thank you."

The words feel so inadequate for everything they mean. Thank you for doing this for me. Thank you for not letting me fall. Thank you for not giving up on us.

Crowley stiffens, the way he always does when Aziraphale says anything nice to him; he's still getting used to accepting it when someone says thank you. Aziraphale worries, just for a moment, that maybe he should take the words back for Crowley's sake, no matter how much he wants him to hear them.

Crowley softens - subtly, but still noticeable, at least to Aziraphale - before he can do so.

"I mean it, too," he says. "I'll be your wings anytime you need."

Aziraphale's throat tightens. Crowley says it so casually, like it's no big deal, but he knows as well as Aziraphale does the weight his promise holds. What it means. He says it easily, not because he doesn't grasp its significance to Aziraphale, but because he's more aware of that significance than anyone else in the world. And he doesn't mind.

It's sweet and earnest. A promise with the sincerity Heaven never gave him.

Aziraphale reaches for him before he can stop himself.

His fingers brush Crowley's shirt collar, his neck. Crowley inhales sharply, even though Aziraphale's arms were around that very neck mere minutes ago, but he doesn't pull away. His own hands absently reach for Aziraphale in turn, and Aziraphale is all too eager to return to that dear, safe embrace.

They were pressed chest to chest earlier, objectively closer than they are now, but somehow, this feels more intimate. Aziraphale is hyper aware of every breath Crowley takes; their faces are so close it dances across his nose, his cheeks, his lips. Crowley's fingers are curled in his lapels, one hand pressed directly over his heart. Can Crowley feel it pounding? Does he know it hasn't stopped pounding since they first took one another in their arms? Does he know why it hasn't stopped?

Their feet are firmly on the ground. Aziraphale taps his foot three times to make sure. But he feels like he's in the air again, swooping and gliding with Crowley, untethered and free.

He hasn't been flying in a long, long time. It's difficult to remember exactly how the wind felt beneath his wings, what it was like to soar through the air, even with his flight with Crowley to remind him. But right here, right now, feels more like soaring than any flight he's ever taken.

He wants to look down just to be certain his feet are still on the ground - but no, he doesn't want that. Because Crowley's eyes are wide and disbelieving and every bit as beautiful as they were that day in Egypt, and they look… Aziraphale dares to dream, dares to want. They look hopeful. And Aziraphale never, ever wants to look away.

Those beautiful, hopeful eyes flick down to his mouth. It only lasts for a second, but close as they are, it's impossible to miss it.

His heart is racing again, faster than it's ever raced before. The sensation of plummeting to the ground was less nerve-wracking than this, even when it took him by surprise. He's dreamed about this moment for so long: of pulling each other close, Crowley taking him by the chin and drawing him in. The braver of the two of them, always the brave one, the one willing to risk taking the next step.

But Aziraphale doesn't want to leave it all on Crowley's shoulders anymore. He hasn't for a long time, but especially not now.

His hands are shaking, it must be noticeable, but with a deep breath - a breath so similar to the one he drew in the air, when he trusted Crowley to catch their fall - he closes his eyes and pulls Crowley in and kisses him.

Crowley grips him tight the second their lips touch, returning the kiss with a shaky sigh of his own. It's so simple; lips against lips, nothing fancy or raunchy like Aziraphale has read about, no fireworks or sparks. Their noses squish together uncomfortably, but they barely manage to pull away from each other enough to correct the angle. Aziraphale is desperate for this, he's been wanting it for so long but never dared to dream it could actually be a reality; for all his daydreams, he's always been too scared to think about how they would realistically play out, uncomfortably aware such thoughts would lead to a spiral of rejection and the belief Crowley could never possibly love him the way he loves Crowley.

But the kiss, for all its simplicity, chases away the anxieties Aziraphale has been so desperate to avoid all this time.

And if the way Crowley holds him is any indication, the desperation is mutual.

Aziraphale holds him closer - or, he tries to, at least - and keeps kissing him, aching to soothe those worries the same way Crowley has always soothed him.

How long they stand there, he can't say. It lasts forever and momentarily, stretches on for aeons and mere seconds. Nothing in the world exists. Not Heaven, not his wings, nothing that isn't Crowley, in his arms as much as he's in Crowley's, matching his every kiss like their lives depend on it.

It's nothing like Aziraphale has ever read or dreamed about. It doesn't meet a single expectation he may have had about what kissing is like. But it doesn't need to when reality surpasses expectations. Kissing Crowley is easy, and nothing has ever felt so right.

It ends as softly as it started. They part, but don't step away; the moment is too tranquil for that. An air of contentment hanging over them like a spell. Aziraphale doesn't want to open his eyes, irrationally worried the spell will break and the moment will fade once he does.

"Angel," Crowley murmurs. They're still so close Aziraphale can feel his lips brush against his own as he speaks, tempting him to lean back in and kiss him again.

Still, they probably shouldn't stand here all night. Especially not with Crowley's wings still out. That could cause issues, if someone notices, and the night is really not warm enough to stay out here, even if it feels unfair to separate now.

"We should tidy up our picnic," he says, reluctantly opening his eyes. The moment doesn't break, and he's rewarded with the sight of Crowley's eyes gazing softly into his own.

Crowley snaps his fingers without looking away from Aziraphale. In his peripheral vision, the remains of their picnic vanish, tidied neatly into the picnic basket, and the blanket they were sitting on obediently rolls itself back up. There was still some food left when they stood up for their impromptu flight, and on an ordinary day, Aziraphale would insist on finishing it before they leave, so it won't go to waste.

Today, he couldn't care less.

They step out of each other's spaces with reluctance, finally averting their eyes to feign interest in retrieving their things. Crowley scoops up the blanket and basket while Aziraphale miracles away any remaining crumbs. They head back to the car in dazed silence, Crowley only remembering to tuck his wings away when they've brushed against Aziraphale's back for the third time. The boot of the Bentley opens for them as soon as they get close so Crowley can put away the basket and blanket, and the doors open for them immediately after.

They sit in silence. Crowley makes no move to start the car.

An anticipatory weight is in the air. It feels familiar. Like another night in a car, with a thermos full of holy water traded between their hands, and an offer for a lift Aziraphale refused.

He swallows. Everything had been so tense that night, pulled taut between his heart and his fears.

It's not tense anymore. They're better at that now.

"Would you… like to stay at the bookshop tonight? It would be easier than driving home."

The air has shifted, like it did so long ago. This time, Aziraphale knows what it is. This time, he knows it's nothing bad.

"Yeah. I'd. I'd like that. Thanks, angel."

Aziraphale nods. Tries to tell himself it's not a big deal. Crowley has visited the bookshop so often, staying the night is simply the most natural next step. The bookshop has considered itself Crowley's home for a long time, after all.

Still, as Crowley puts the car in gear and finally starts to drive, Aziraphale looks down at his hands and can't fight his smile. Something has clicked into place. Something that has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.

They should… probably have a conversation about this, shouldn't they? That's the promise they made to each other, and they've been getting better at it. Honesty, talking things through. Not letting assumptions go unspoken anymore. They should talk about the kiss, what it means to them. He should tell Crowley exactly how much he means to him.

The thought is simultaneously not as nerve-wracking as he thought it would be, and more nerve-wracking than he ever thought possible.

Next to him, Crowley's fingers twitch on the steering wheel. They grip tighter and tighter, until he huffs in determination, and reaches out with his left hand to cover one of Aziraphale's. His skin is as cool and smooth as it was the day they made their Arrangement.

Holding his breath, Aziraphale turns his hand over to hold Crowley's. Crowley holds his hand back with a reassuring squeeze. 

And just like that, the upcoming conversation isn't nerve-wracking anymore.

They'll still talk about it. Even if they don't need to, they will. Habits are good to keep, and they're determined to make talking to each other a habit.

But for now, this is enough. Aziraphale is enough.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's hand, and all the wings in the world couldn't make him feel lighter than he does when Crowley tugs his hand over to press a kiss against his knuckles in return.