Chapter Text
Five weeks since the nonstarter Apocalypse (Crowley had been running through a few nicknames, including “Armagedon’t,” “Armagadidn’t,” and “Apoca-what?”, but nothing seemed quite right), and Crowley had spent fewer than seven nights outside the company of Aziraphale.
Not that they slept together. They didn’t, except on the occasions they both dozed off on Aziraphale’s couch after drinking far too much. Even then, they didn’t touch. Or at least, they didn’t mean to touch. Once, Crowley had woken up with his head resting on Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale’s fingers buried in his hair, with a vague memory of someone stroking his fingers through Crowley’s now chin length mane as he had fallen asleep. That memory had not been quite enough to keep him resting on Aziraphale’s chest, and he had carefully extracted himself and slipped out of the bookshop just as his angel began to stir. The next time the two saw each other, both had pretended it had never happened.
Most of the time, Aziraphale sent Crowley up to his rarely used bed in the flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale wasn’t much of a sleeper—he only ever slept by accident—and Crowley fancied the angel was satisfied to see that his investment in a quality mattress wasn’t going to waste. And the next morning, Crowley woke up to a mug of coffee on the bedside table, and he could come downstairs to Aziraphale shoving breakfast dishes in his face, urging him to eat. And then he got to wile the day away, frightening customers and making Aziraphale laugh. He loved it when Aziraphale laughed. It was the best sound in the world.
Most of the time, he could deal with the fact that he wanted more. He could lie awake in Aziraphale’s bed, trying to urge his overwrought, desperate body to sleep despite the fact that he could hear his angel moving around downstairs. He could handle the reality that Aziraphale would never love him the way he loved Aziraphale. He could face the fact that Aziraphale’s loyalty had limits.
Every now and then, however, Crowley reached his limit. He wasn’t an angel, after all. He was a demon. And he had a temper.
__________
“See, you just aren’t getting it, angel, are ya?” Crowley gesticulated wildly with his almost empty wine glass, and a splash of what was left flew over the couch. Aziraphale frowned pointedly, and Crowley waved his other hand to erase the stain. “You couldn’t know this up in Heaven, but it’s not like Hell was Hell for us! I mean, it was, it was Hell. But it was supposed to be bad only for the humans who ended up down there. For the rest of us, it was just… I don’t know. A place.” Aziraphale looked incredulous, and Crowley added quickly. “It was dark and smelly, obviously, but not all that bad!”
“My dear, you must remember, I was there for a bit!” Aziraphale pointed blearily at the floor, emphasizing each word with another vague gesture. “And ‘not bad’ is not the description I’d employ. I found it to be quite unpleasant indeed. Rather menacing, in fact.”
“Sure, for you!” Crowley laughed. “You were being executed! Or I was being executed… whatever, you get it. You know how freaky Heaven was?”
“Oh come now.”
“No, really! All white and sterile and overly lit!” Crowley screwed up his face in disgust. “Not like here. Here it's all warm and cozy.”
“Well, thank you, my dear.”
“And Gabriel, fucking Gabriel.”
“Yes, he was never my favorite either. Though I had Michael with me downstairs, and she is quite unpleasant as well.”
“Face it, angel!” Despite his teasing, Crowley’s tone was jocular, and the word “angel,” as it always did, sounded like an endearment rather than a title or a label. “Heaven is bollucks.”
“Crowley! Good lord. You can’t seriously claim that Heaven is less pleasant than Hell!”
For some reason, that struck Crowley the wrong way entirely. “You’ve never fully explained to me how they are so very different, Aziraphale.”
Had Aziraphale been sober, he might have picked up on the change in Crowley’s tone and made an attempt to appease him. As it was, he stuck to his conversational guns with drunken obstinacy. “It’s in the label, Crowley! Heaven vs. Hell! Paradise vs. torment! Angel vs. demon!”
Had Crowley been sober, he might have picked up on the sarcastic edge to Aziraphale’s words. As it was, he flushed hot with anger. “I see. You think you’ve lost more than me, Angel?” This time, the word was intended as a title. “And no doubt gained less.”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice sounded both chastising and repentant, but Crowley’s angry mind focused on the chastising part of the equation.
“I guess I’m not much of a prize,” Crowley snarled. “Not much of a friend. I get it, Aziraphale. Fair enough. Appreciate the honesty.”
“I never said that, Crowley, please, sit down!” But Crowley was already throwing on his coat, staggering on alcohol-laden legs. You don't have to love me, but just once, could you trust me? Or better yet, maybe choose me?
“Just listen to this, Angel,” Crowley said, winding his scarf around his throat. “Hell might not have been a vacation in the sun, but I could have belonged there. But I never did. Instead, I sided with you. I’ve picked you over Hell more than once. And saved your ass in the process. And you never once gave me one bit of that.” Crowley finished preparing himself for the cold outside and faced down the angel, who was looking at him, stricken.
Something that might have been the beginnings of guilt stirred inside him, but he refused to acknowledge it.
“Keep that in mind, when you put yourself above me.”
“Never, Crowley, I don't, I couldn’t, please wait…”
Crowley was already shouldering open the door and racing to the Bentley, clumsily sobering himself as he went. Just as he slammed the driver’s side door shut, he heard the bookshop door burst open and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Aziraphale race out into the street. But he was revving the engine and speeding away before Aziraphale could locate the car.
__________
Aziraphale called him multiple times a day for the next three days, and once a day for many days thereafter, but Crowley refused to answer either his landline or his mobile. Instead, he focused on his latest side project—the creation of his safehouse.
The image of somewhere safe and warm and theirs had sprung to mind the day he and Aziraphale had returned from Heaven and Hell, respectively. They had dined at the Ritz and retired to the bookshop, jubilant but also emotionally exhausted. Neither had wanted to be alone. Neither had wanted to admit what they were feeling. They ended up sitting by the fire, sipping brandy more quickly than they should have and staring into the flames, with Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley had kissed Aziraphale once. Aziraphale had returned the kiss happily, or at least it had seemed so to Crowley. They hadn’t had the energy to pursue those feelings any further that night. And Crowley hadn’t had the courage to discuss it the next day. He'd thought he'd seen Aziraphale eyeing him searchingly over the oversized mugs of coffee, but he told himself it must have been his imagination. If Aziraphale loved him, he would have known by now. And Aziraphale must have felt the love coming off of Crowley in waves. Didn't that put the romantic ball in Aziraphale's court?
Having some of Aziraphale was better than none at all. So Crowley had shoved that moment by the fire into the back of his mind, where it only troubled him in dreams and when drunk.
All the same, Crowley had started to think musingly that the two of them needed a new place. The bookshop and his flat were known. They needed a safehouse. Somewhere safe, that neither Heaven nor Hell could find. A cottage sounded nice, in the South Downs. Aziraphale would like the country. And you can see the stars down there…
Crowley hadn’t used any demonic means to find and purchase the little cottage. He’d created a new identity and done everything by the book. He hadn’t wanted to leave a paper trail for either Heaven or Hell to follow. The cottage was waiting for them, on the outskirts of a small town near the Seven Sisters cliffs. Crowley had been looking forward to showing it to Aziraphale and getting his help warding it from unfriendly eyes. Now that he was no longer speaking to the angel, he would just have to form the wards himself.
Spells to conceal any miracles that occurred inside the cottage. Spells to hide the cottage from anyone looking for him, through angelic, demonic, or even human means. Spells that would prevent anyone from entering without his permission. Including his angel. Since Crowley was doing all this himself, without help from his supposed best friend, he would make himself the master of it.
(Crowley was aware of how little sense this made—how could he be angry at someone for failing to help with a project he had intentionally kept secret? But rationality wasn’t ever his strong suit, most especially when he was angry and hurt.)
The cottage took a month to fully shield; Crowley took a moment to move in (perhaps because the only items he felt the need to bring from his flat were his plants and his exquisite copy of the Mona Lisa). He snapped his fingers and suddenly, the living area was furnished tastefully, with a contemporary-looking sectional that was littered with velvet pillows and throw blankets (making it attractive and comfortable, unlike the living room in his Mayfair flat), a painting on the wall whose style might be modern but whose colors were warm, a mounted flatscreen TV (remove the threat of demons speaking to him from the screen, and he liked television), and a whole wall of bookshelves crammed with books that were absolutely not Aziraphale’s favorites, damn it! The kitchen was filled with the most modern appliances, an enormous espresso machine, and a homey little tea pot. The small bedroom was mostly taken up with an enormous bed, piled high with Egyptian cotton sheets and alpaca wool blankets.
The blanket on the end of the bed was tartan. What the fuck?
Crowley looked around his space and stormed to the new, suddenly stocked bar in the kitchen. He needed a damn drink.
Three drinks (or seven, but who’s counting?) later, Crowley admitted to himself and the first editions on the bookshelves that he may have overreacted a bit. Yes, Aziraphale had always clung to Heaven in a way that made Crowley go a bit mad, but he wasn’t wrong to fear Falling. Crowley could refer to it as “sauntering vaguely downward” all he wanted—Falling was rough. Falling hurt. And it tied you to the Devil. Made the Devil your deity. That was a whole new level of ugly. Aziraphale was right to want to avoid that.
And honestly, Crowley may have overstated things when he said that Aziraphale had never shown him loyalty over and above his loyalty to Heaven. True, he’d never directly told Gabriel to go shove something long and pointy up his tight, bleached posterior, but he had snuck around and bent the rules for Crowley on multiple occasions. Once the Arrangement was formed, Aziraphale had performed temptations just as Crowley had performed blessings, and he had more than once warned Crowley off a certain course of action when the demon had strayed too close to real danger. Aziraphale always worried about Crowley being in danger, actually.
“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry. They’ll destroy you!”
“I’m not giving you a suicide pill, Crowley.”
“I can’t have you risking yourself.”
He understood all of that. He appreciated the motives behind it. It was what was said at the bandstand that was digging its teeth into his psyche.
“There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley! Not anymore. It’s over.”
That had hurt.
But was he being fair? Could he really blame someone for a kneejerk reaction on the eve of the Apocalypse? Wasn’t exactly the best moment for sound decision-making.
Fuck that, I’m a demon. No one looks to me for fairness. Crowley poured himself another drink.
Two (five?) drinks later, and Crowley was watching the ceiling of the cottage twirl and spin with interest, thinking increasingly disjointed thoughts about nebulas and Edinburgh and Holy Water, and how it was all so connected. He started saying some of this out loud, waiting to hear an appreciative hum and an exclamation of, “Do carry on, my dear,” when he paused for breath. Of course, there was nothing.
At this point, Crowley was starting to feel that he was cutting off his own nose to spite his face.
It had been about two months since he’d seen Aziraphale (actually, it had been 64 days, not that Crowley was keeping track). Aziraphale had called Crowley at least once a day for 40 of them. The messages left on the first day had been verbose and deeply apologetic, as had the ones left on the second. The third day messages were tinged with asperity—a sentiment that increased as their time of separation lengthened. By day thirteen, Aziraphale had been fed up, but his irritation had eventually descended into despair. The messages became shorter and sadder. The last message had been comprised of only five words.
“Please, Crowley. Call me. Please.”
Crowley hadn’t heard from the angel since.
Crowley woke the next morning on the floor of the cottage, having failed to sober up the night before. His eyes were sticky, his stomach unsettled, and for Satan’s sake his head… But he’d made up his mind. Whatever point he thought he’d been making was certainly made by now. Aziraphale was (he could admit it, if only to himself and only when insanely hungover and still a bit drunk) the love of Crowley’s life, and what’s more, he was his best friend. He couldn’t just walk away from his best friend.
He shook off his hangover with a snap of his fingers. Within a quarter of an hour, he was in the Bentley, hurtling back towards London.
__________
Something was very, very wrong.
The sign on the door of the bookshop clearly said “Open,” but the shelves were coated with dust, and the light bulbs in the lamps had all burnt out. Obviously, no one had been there for days. Even more frightening was the abandoned cup of cocoa sitting by Aziraphale’s armchair, tepid beneath the sticky skin that had formed on its surface. Aziraphale’s waistcoat was hung neatly on the coatrack by the door—since when did the angel go anywhere without his waistcoat? Wherever Aziraphale had gone, he had done it without preparation or thought.
The owners of the shops nearby had nothing helpful to say, even when snapped into a dreamlike state of complete honesty. Though plenty of people in the neighborhood knew of the delightful (if demanding) proprietor of A.Z. Fell’s, no one had seen or heard from him in almost a month, and no one had any clue where he might have been. Aziraphale had simply disappeared into the aether.
Crowley was walking down the streets of Soho, wondering whether to be angry at his angel or desperately worried for him, when he heard the sounds of children screaming. His head snapped to attention, and he looked down an alley to see a group of boys who had only a moment ago been kicking a ball back and forth amiably now shouting at each other in anger, crying “It’s my turn!” and “Back off!” with the sort of passion children’s games truly didn’t require. Behind them, in the shadows, Crowley thought he saw a familiar face.
Crowley stormed down the alley without thought, snatching the ball up and holding it above the boy’s heads. “You want it that bad?” he asked. The boys looked at him with their mouths open, their eyes clouded and confused. In the shadow, Crowley could now clearly see Hastur’s clammy face cocked to one side. “Do either of you think it’s worth losing your mate over? How you going to kick a ball when there is no one to kick it back?”
The boys looked vaguely guilty.
Crowley tossed the ball back to the boys, waving away the last traces of wrath and envy from the air. “Go on boys, fast,” he said under his breath, then turned away from Hastur as they scampered away. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” He started back up the alleyway, disgusted, calling over his shoulder, “Pathetic excuse for a temptation, Hastur!”
“Crowley, you still at large?”
Crowley stopped and looked back at Hastur. “What the Heaven is that supposed to mean?”
Hastur opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, stymied. “Well… I mean… I thought you’d have been taken by now.”
Crowley eyes narrowed in automatic suspicion. “Taken. By. Whom?”
“Well, the angels, of course.”
Crowley’s mouth dropped open without his volition. “The blessed angels?”
Hastur shrugged. “I guess your little angel hasn’t broken yet. A bit surprised, if I’m honest. Tougher than I gave the wanker credit for.”
In one fluid if vicious motion, Crowley slammed Hastur against the wall of the alley. “You need to tell me what the fuck you’re on about right now.”
Hastur didn’t seem particularly perturbed. He was a duke of Hell, after all, while Crowley was a simple demon. All the same, Hastur answered quickly enough. “Take it easy, Crawly. Heard from the source of a source that the Heavenly Host was after you, particularly.”
“Why? I’m under Hell’s jurisdiction,” Crowley asked.
“Oh, Heaven cleared this with Beelzebub. Apparently, the thinking changed—after the stunt you pulled, the aim is towards damage control, and you’ve always been a wildcard.” Crowley felt a bit of pride at that description, and Hastur, obviously seeing something of that betrayed in Crowley's face, sneered. “Couldn’t find you though. You’ve been lying low. So they went after that angel friend of yours. The one with the stupid name.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley supplied woodenly.
“Yeah, him. They were thinking that if they could keep tabs on him, he wasn’t likely to cause any more problems. So they went to him and offered him clemency and a place back Upstairs, in exchange for your location. Oddly enough, he wasn’t interested.”
Crowley felt another bit of pride, this time in his wildcard angel. Heaven always misjudged him.
“So they took him. Took ten angels apparently to do it. He put up a good fight. But they brought him down eventually, and then took him up there and got to work on him. That’s been a couple weeks ago now, at least. I assumed they’d have gotten him to talk by now. Guess not though.” Hastur cocked an eyebrow at Crowley and pushed him back with a rough shove. “Good enough?”
Crowley let Hastur push him back passively. He felt cold. Went after that angel… they took him… got to work on him… “Is he alive?” he asked through numb lips.
“How should I know? Why should I care?” Hastur shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything about him dying. But I haven’t been listening.” Hastur stalked down the alley. “Want my advice, Crawly? You run and run hard. If anyone comes for me, I’m not keeping my mouth shut when the thumbscrews come out. Not for your sake.”
Crowley’s legs gave way beneath him, and he slumped to the side of the alley. Heaven had Aziraphale. Heaven wanted Aziraphale to tell them where Crowley was. But Aziraphale didn’t know about the cottage. So if he’d told them where Crowley’s flat was, and the angels had shown up to find it abandoned…
They would have assumed Aziraphale was lying to them. And Heaven wasn’t forgiving of liars.
Satan… God… Someone. What did I do?