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It's a clear November evening, the sort that bites at exposed fingertips and holds the promise of frost in the morning. Crowley pulls his scarf up under his nose, burying his face into the thick merino wool coaxed into a wonky garter stitch by a pair of angelically inept hands, and shivers.
Despite the chill, the entire village green is alive with activity. People line up at food stalls and gather in clusters out on the field, while some tediously upbeat Christmas music thumps through the base of Crowley's skull. For the sixth time in the span of twenty minutes, he ponders why on Earth they hadn't just stayed at home in the peace and quiet of their living room, when Aziraphale clutches at his arm, beaming so brightly he might as well be glowing.
Ah yes, that's it.
"Oh, I'm so glad we're finally doing this!" he says, breath freezing in little puffs on the night air.
They pass a man standing next to a small grill and handing out sausages to a red-cheeked family.
“I remain baffled as to why,” Crowley replies. “I mean, Bonfire Night, really? Would’ve thought the original spectacle was enough to last an eternity.”
He feels Aziraphale shudder through layers of tweed and velvet, an involuntary response he suspects isn't entirely from the cold. "Yes, well… as ghastly as that whole thing was, I've always been rather fascinated by the traditions that followed. Should be jolly good fun, I think!"
" Jolly good fun… " Crowley mutters with fond exasperation, but can't find it in him to protest any further.
They weave through the small crowd milling around the vendors on the edge of the green and stroll out across the damp grass to join the gaggle of humans looking for a good spot to watch the fireworks. All around them, people are chattering amongst themselves, while a few children chase each other, laughing wildly as they tear down the field. There’s a current of excitement on the air, some crackle of electricity that Crowley finds disconcertingly familiar. He pushes the notion to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the solid unwavering warmth at his side.
They come to an abrupt stop as they reach the center of the field. It’s dark this far away from the main crowd, but Crowley’s snake eyes have no trouble discerning the ominous shape in front of them; crates and pallets and long wooden beams stacked high into a pyre. At the top is a rather garish figure constructed from papier-mache and sporting the sort of wide-brimmed hat that went out of fashion centuries ago.
An uneasy silence passes between the two of them.
“I suppose that’s the, erm, effigy,” says Aziraphale.
“Certainly looks that way.”
The smell of sausages searing on a grill wafts gently on the air, and something unpleasant tugs at Crowley’s stomach. He swallows and looks back over his shoulder at the throng of vendors on the edge of the green.
"Tell you what, why don't you keep our place here, and I'll go get us some food, eh?"
Aziraphale looks briefly puzzled before he smiles, eyes somehow managing to twinkle even in the dim light.
“That sounds splendid, darling.”
Crowley plants a quick kiss into his hair and heads back in the direction of the food stalls, trying to maintain some semblance of a cool and collected exterior whilst absolutely power-walking as fast as he can away from the unlit bonfire.
It’s not as though a demon should be afraid of fire; he is, after all, a creature forged of flame and smoke. It can’t hurt him (no more than it already has, anyway). He’s seen plenty of things burn; cities, forests, empires. Humans, both at the hands of Hell and each other. It’s been five years since the incident with the bookshop. Five years since they packed up their lives in London and moved to a seaside village, near the safety of the lapping waves of the English Channel.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
One of the children from earlier shrieks with laughter as another slips on the wet ground, and Crowley realises he’s been wandering about aimlessly for the last several minutes. He sees the man still cooking sausages, hears the casings sizzle, and his jaw clenches.
No meat, he decides, and ends up instead with a bag of roasted chestnuts from a stall run by a friendly woman with a round face. He loiters around the edge of the field for a bit, absently tearing at the paper bag in his hands, before it occurs to him that Aziraphale has probably started wondering where he’s got to. He begins walking back in the direction he came, and pops a chestnut into his mouth. It’s warm and soft and slightly sweet, comforting in a way can’t quite put his finger on.
As he gets further out onto the green, he notices that the crowd has grown. The smell of spent fireworks hangs on the air; gunpowder, sulphur with a metallic tang. It’s a scent he’s only recently stopped associating with blood and death and battlefields. With Hell, both literal and figurative.
A hot rash prickles at the back of Crowley’s head, and he clutches at the chestnuts in his hands. The paper bag crumples loudly. He swallows, tries to take a breath but finds it suddenly feels like trying to suck air through a straw. He can’t hear the voice on the loudspeaker over the sound of his pulse hammering at his ears, doesn’t see the man holding a torch approach the stack of pallets.
There’s a distinct whoosh, followed by a wave of heat and a cheer from the crowd.
Bright orange flames leap high off the pyre, spitting sparks towards the sky. People shout and clap, his nostrils burn with the smell of ash and charred flesh. The heat claws at his neck and bites at his palms.
It’s too hot. He’s too hot.
The fire bellows and cracks, the sound of wood popping as it strains under the high temperatures. The sound of shelves collapsing, of books disintegrating, of old floorboards caving in.
Terror seizes him completely, roots him to the spot.
Aziraphale. He has to find Aziraphale.
Frantically, he scans the crowd and sees a tuft of blonde hair amongst the flames. A golden outline, warped in the heat-distorted air.
His heart tries to escape out of his mouth.
It’s too late. He’s too late.
He shuts his eyes. It’s been five years. Five years since his entire world crashed down around him, the conflagration of everything he had ever held dear. He dawdled too long. He’s too late.
Smoke scalds the back of his throat. It’s acrid and bitter and carries a lace of sulphur on it. His ribcage contracts.
They know.
They know about the Antichrist, and the Arrangement, and everything else, and they killed Aziraphale, and they’re coming to kill him too, and the world is still ending, and he’s alone now, and he’s too late, and--
"Crowley?"
Aziraphale.
A disembodied voice. His best friend. Gone. Alone.
"Crowley darling, can you take a deep breath for me?"
He breathes in, and tastes soot and cooked meat. People are shouting, screaming. Someone is burning. His stomach twists.
“That’s right, my love. And out now. You’re doing a marvelous job.”
His glasses come off, and something cool soothes his hands, loosens the stranglehold around his neck. His face meets with something solid.
“Another deep breath, that’s it. I’m right here, Crowley.”
He breathes in. Warm. Soft. Slightly sweet. Something vaguely comforting. It reminds him of their living room.
Their living room.
It’s been five years. Five years since they unpacked boxes of old books and picked out wallpaper patterns. Five years of making dinner together and holding hands in the park and waking up in the same bed.
It’s been five years, and they’re safe now.
Another breath in and out.
A hand runs up and down his spine. A voice rumbles next to his ear. Aziraphale’s voice, coming from his body, whole and solid against his cheek.
He opens his eyes and sees a beige overcoat, behind that the night sky tinged orange. He’s on the ground, knees soaked from the damp grass beneath. His scarf sits in a crumpled heap next to him along with the bag of chestnuts. Humans walk past chattering excitedly, and pay him no mind.
Another breath in and out.
Aziraphale has him pressed against his chest, speaking calmly into his hair and rubbing at his back. Crowley remains where he is, a jumble of shaking limbs held together by Aziraphale’s arms, breathing in and out.
He's on the village green. They went out for the evening. It's fine. He's fine.
They're both fine.
Slowly, panic loosens its grip and his body feels under his control again. Eventually he pulls himself upright while Aziraphale watches him with watery eyes and gives him a weak smile. Crowley feels the dread in his chest drain away, replaced with something warm and golden.
"Are you alright, darling?"
Crowley clears his throat and nods. "Think so, yeah." His eyes drop to his lap. "Sorry, I just--"
"None of that, please," Aziraphale says gently. "You needn't apologise for anything. I should have been a bit more thoughtful about tonight." He reaches out and wraps one of Crowley's hands in both of his. "Shall we go home then?"
"But you wanted to…" he starts, but Aziraphale shakes his head.
"Turns out I haven't really got the stomach for it after all." He gives Crowley's hand a squeeze. "You were right, I think we've both seen enough burning to last us another six thousand years."
In a blink, the village green disappears, and suddenly they’re surrounded by old bookshelves and twee wallpaper, sitting on an old leather sofa that once called a bookshop in Soho its home. Aziraphale settles himself back against the armrest, pulling Crowley with him until they’re lying down, Crowley’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest.
"There we are, much better."
The air tingles with a miracle, and a tartan blanket materialises over the top of them. Crowley hears the sound of an old book spine cracking above him. He sighs and burrows his face into the warmth under Aziraphale’s chin.
“Told you we should’ve just done this from the start.”
“I know,” Aziraphale says with a note of exasperation. “You were right.”
Crowley feels the remaining tension in his limbs begin to dissolve, and a tiny smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth.
“That’s the second time you’ve said I was right in five minutes.”
An amused hum vibrates through Aziraphale’s chest. “It is, and I expect once you’ve got more of your wits about you I shan’t hear the end of that.”
Crowley wants to say something pithy in response, but sleep weighs him down. He drifts off to the smell of lavender and old paper, to the reassuring sound of waves hitting the shore, to the deafening silence of an empty fireplace. It’s fine.
He’s fine.
They’re both fine.