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Disturbingly, Aziraphale's first reaction when he encounters the demon on the Ark is a small surge of pleasure at seeing a familiar face. Which is ridiculous. He's already surrounded by faces that are no doubt going to become entirely too familiar over the next forty days and forty nights.
Of course, it's also ridiculous because, well, demon. Obviously.
His second reaction, hard on the heels of the first, is to want to ask, Are you all right? Because Crawly looks like he's been through... Well, through the wrath of God. His wings are out, and a bedraggled, sorry mess they are. His hair is plastered chaotically to his face, dripping limply onto his already sodden robe. He looks exhausted. Aziraphale knows how much it takes to make an angel feel exhausted. He wonders whether it's very different for demons. He wouldn't have thought so.
His third reaction is to quickly get hold of himself. "What are you doing here?" he says. "Some terrible, wily plan, no doubt. Well, I will not allow you to torment what remains of humanity here. They've been through quite enough!"
Crawly only looks at him, a expression in his wide yellow eyes that makes him feel unaccountably ashamed. (Yes, surely unaccountable. There can be no good reason for shame. He is an angel. He is doing the right thing. Somehow.)
And then, despite himself, he's saying it anyway. "Are you all right? You look like... like..." Like a drowned rat, he's about to say, but a memory less than a day old seizes his mind, of small, furry forms struggling and stilling and sinking in the waves, and he hasn't the heart to finish.
"Well," says Crawly. He gathers the hem of his robe and wrings it out. It accomplishes very little other than adding to the puddle of water at his feet, and he gives up with a grunt of annoyance. "Divine vengeance rain, isn't it? It's not exactly holy water, thank Satan--"
"Hardly," Aziraphale mutters, meaning Satan, of course, but Crawly ignores him.
"--but it doesn't exactly agree with me." He gives his wings a shake. Droplets of water spatter the walls, and Aziraphale's clothing. Several small, scraggly black feathers drift sadly to the floor. And his wings were so nice in Eden. It must distress him, having them in this state.
"Is... is it very bad out there?" Aziraphale says, knowing he shouldn't ask the question if he doesn't want the answer. Knowing that he already knows the answer.
"Bad enough."
"I'm sorry." He doesn't know who he's apologizing to, or for what.
The demon says nothing, and Aziraphale realizes, with a pang, that he'd been waiting for Crawly to say, not your fault.
"Well," he says, briskly, into the silence, "I'm afraid you can't stay here." And he waits for Crawly to point out that there is plenty of room in the Ark, thanks to some -- rather deft, if he does say so himself -- miracle work. That if there's room for this cozy little cabin of Aziraphale's, far from the noise and smell of the animals, there's surely room for one thin demon. That, perhaps, it's better for Aziraphale to be able to keep an eye on him here, rather than letting him loose into the drowning world to wreak more chaos or attempt to thwart God's will. Or even that he just needs to dry off, and will be gone in a moment.
Aziraphale hasn't quite decided what the moral or logical answer to any of these arguments ought to be, but it turns out not to matter, at least not yet, because what Crawly says instead is, "Why not? Supposed to be two of everything here, right? Well, now there's two of us."
Which gets a startled laugh out of Aziraphale. "Oh, I hardly think that's--"
But he doesn't get any further, doesn't get to any replies about how they're not two of a kind, thank you very much, or about how the reason for having two of each animal hardly applies to them, because suddenly the door to the little cabin is opening, and there's a human on the other side, letting out a cry of surprise at the sight of the disheveled, black-winged, snake-eyed creature in front of him.
And then things happen very quickly. Aziraphale calls down a hasty miracle to convince Shem that he isn't seeing what he sees, to give him instead a vision of something pleasant and mundane, of everything as he wishes it to be. To make him feel that all is well, and he is safe.
And, at the same time, Crawly says "Fuck," and snaps his fingers and stops time for the human.
Or he tries to.
Aziraphale can feel the demonic miracle, the fizz and the warp and the sizzle of it, can feel the strain and the exhaustion behind it. Can feel it sparking and tangling with his own miracle, can feel it all go wrong. Can feel something happening to the world, to time, to him...
Then it all goes away. Everything.
Aziraphale knows what it's like to exist outside of time. He did so once, before Time was invented. It felt natural then. It feels wrong now. It feels like drowning, like spiraling out, like being nowhere, being lost. He reaches out, searching for something familiar something safe, searching for... for...
There is a thunk. It is the sound, he realizes belatedly, of his body hitting a floor.
He looks up, blinking. The face that looks down at him with an expression of shock is familiar, and so is the voice that says, "Aziraphale? What the heaven?"
But nothing else is. Nothing at all.
The clothes that Crawly is wearing, form-fitting and finely woven, are like nothing Aziraphale has ever seen before. They're certainly not what he was wearing a moment ago. (If it was a moment ago. He has his doubts.) The room they seem to be in is full of strangely designed furniture and objects he can't identify made of materials he doesn't recognize. A fair amount of the décor is snake-themed, he notices. Perhaps this is a lodging place of Crawly's? Although the color scheme hardly seems like his sort of thing. Too many beiges and various shades of cream, some of them woven intricately with patterns Aziraphale instantly takes a liking to.
Has there ever been any place quite like this on Earth? Or in Heaven or Hell, for that matter? Is this...?
"Angel?" Crawly says, and Aziraphale abruptly realizes three things. First, that he's been sprawled on the floor gaping around him in stunned silence long enough for it to have become quite rude of him. Second, that the demon is looking at him with not just confusion, but genuine concern. And, third, that he isn't speaking any language Aziraphale has ever encountered before, and his by now almost instinctive use of the miracle of tongues is the only reason he's able to understand it.
"I'm sorry," he starts to say, "I..." But he isn't at all certain how to finish the statement. I believe I may have just accidentally traveled through time? It sounds rather ludicrous when he tries to put it into words, no matter what language he might be using.
Crawly reaches a hand down to help him up, and for a moment, he can only look at it, startled. "Angel?" Crawly says again, a worried crease wrinkling across his forehead.
Aziraphale takes the offered hand and lets the demon pull him up. "Thank you." He tamps down an irrational urge to ask to see Crawly's wings, to make sure they've recovered from their drenching.
The furrow in Crawly's forehead deepens. "What just happened?" he says. "And what are you wearing?"
"I might ask you the same thing," Aziraphale mutters. He is, after all, fairly certain that whatever's just happened, it was at least half Crawly's fault.
"Aziraphale, what the fuck is going on?"
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, trying to marshal his thoughts into some kind of coherent order, but he doesn't get very far, because they're interrupted by a voice, calling out from another room. "Crowley? Is something the matter? I was just--"
The owner of the voice appears through a doorway, and goes still, and stares.
So does Aziraphale. Because it's him. Himself. Strangely dressed, speaking the same unknown language, but him.
"Oh my," both of them say at once. The harmony is downright eerie.
"I can explain," Aziraphale says. "At least, I think I can explain. A bit. I confess, I don't entirely understand..."
He trails off. They're both staring at him now. Crawly's expression is curious, intrigued, but the other Aziraphale's is suspicious and hard. It's a disturbing expression to see on his own face.
The other Aziraphale turns to Crawly. "Is it some kind of trick? Was he--" He waves an agitated hand in Aziraphale's direction. "--sent by Hell? Or..."
Crawly interrupts him. "Nah, don't think so." He tilts his head back and forth, considering Aziraphale from different angles. "He's not a fake you. I think he's you."
The other Aziraphale blinks. "But I'm me."
"He feels like you, angel."
"It's possible to fool demons about that sort of thing." The other Aziraphale is giving Crawly a look that's full of some meaning Aziraphale doesn't quite understand.
"Not me," says Crawly, and his voice is strangely quiet. Gentle, even. There's something in it, some emotion that Aziraphale finds frightening, not because it's hostile to him, not at all. Quite the reverse. "I'd know you anywhere."
The other Aziraphale appears to believe him. No angel should ever look that trustingly at a demon. Just what kind of future is this? Maybe it is some kind of trick. A trick on him. Maybe Hell has... Maybe Crawly has... He doesn't know what.
But he thinks of Crawly on the Ark, bedraggled and exhausted and offended, he knows, on humanity's behalf. He doesn't believe that Crawly was there to set up some elaborate illusion to trap him. He can't believe it. Perhaps he's too trusting, as well. Perhaps that's where his future self gets it from.
"I believe," he says, pleased that he mostly manages to keep his voice steady, "that I may be from... well, from the past. At least, it would be the past from your perspective. It's the present for me, obviously. Or was." He's only beginning to confuse himself, now. He stops.
The other Aziraphale is giving him a look of puzzled incomprehension. Fair enough. Aziraphale is fairly certain he'd feel the same way, if he hadn't just lived through the experience. Crawly, on the other hand, is looking him over appraisingly, taking in his water-speckled robes. "When?" he says.
"About one thousand years after Eden. I was on the Ark. That is, the vessel built by Noah to--"
"I know what the bloody Ark is," snaps Crawly. "I was there."
Aziraphale nods. "Yes, you were. A human found you there. You tried to stop time as I was trying to alter his perceptions, and well... Something happened, and here I am." And now he can't stop himself from adding, "Are you feeling better, now? You were in such a terrible state."
"I'm fine," Crawly says. His voice has gone softer again. "It was five thousand years ago."
"Five..." Aziraphale swallows. "...thousand? Goodness." He feels a bit dizzy. Although perhaps that's an understandable aftereffect of spinning out of control through time. Or from suddenly finding yourself on dry land after you've got your sea legs under you. Yes. Probably that. "I'm sorry, do you think I could sit down?"
A hand takes his elbow. Crawly's hand. The gesture seems terribly over-familiar, but Aziraphale is grateful for it. Enough so that, embarrassingly, he misses it when it's gone, once Crawly's guided him to an impossibly plush chair and allowed him to sink into it.
There's a window across from him. Outside, he can see trees, ones, he thinks, that belong to some northern climate. He can see buildings. He can't even tell what some of them are made of. In the distance, he can see the faint line of the sea. The sea, in its proper place. Drowning nothing.
"Ah," says the future Aziraphale. "Well, a great deal has happened since the Ark. For one thing, we finally had the apoc--"
"Angel," Crawly snarls.
"What?" The other Aziraphale blinks at Crawly. "I was only going to tell him about--"
Crawly cuts him off again. "You were going to tell him about his future! Like you're Agnes bloody Nutter or something. What about the, you know, the..." With an effort of will, Aziraphale drags his gaze away from the window and looks at Crawly. He's waving his arms around now. Five thousand years, and he still moves like the Crawly Aziraphale knows. "...the time... things. Timelines. Continuity and paradoxes and things."
The other Aziraphale makes a clicking noise with his tongue. Oh dear, is that what that sounds like from the outside? "Darling, you have been watching entirely too many of those scientific fiction television shows."
Miracle of tongue or no miracle of tongues, he doesn't understand most of those words. But...
Darling?
That feeling is back again, that suddenly-finding-yourself-on-land feeling. It's disorienting. It's frightening. He doesn't know quite what to do with it.
"Maybe you haven't watched enough of them," Crawly is countering.
The other Aziraphale tsks again. "They're ridiculous, Crowley. So utterly implausible."
"Implausible? You're an angel, Aziraphale. You're literally the least plausible thing in existence."
"I do think," says Other Aziraphale, "that we're getting rather off the track."
Aziraphale looks back at the window, at the undrowned world. There is a small table of some sort next to it, he notices. And on the table...
He leans forward to get a better view. The others pay no attention to him, wrapped up in their own bickering conversation.
Yes. It is what he thought it was. A picture. Not a painting. A snippet of captured reality, the kind only Heaven has the ability to produce. Or did, at least, in his own time. Who knows what the humans might be capable of by now?
It's framed with a silver frame. And it shows him, the future him, and the future Crawly. They're holding hands. They look... They look...
"Well," Crawly is saying, "do you remember this happening?"
"I remember the Ark," says Other Aziraphale. "I remember finding you there. I remember how ragged you looked. I wanted to reach out and groom your wings." He touches Crawly's shoulder, as if he's attempting to reach across the years, to touch that other, younger Crawly.
...they look like humans in love. They look happy. They look...
"But I certainly don't remember this," Other Aziraphale is saying. The odd piece of cloth he has tied around his neck, Aziraphale suddenly realizes, is woven with the same agreeable pattern he's seen scattered about the room. "And since I don't remember it, doesn't that mean he won't? It seems very simple to me."
"Ehhhhh," Crawly says. "Maybe? Humans don't usually remember time stopping after it happens. So, all right, maybe. But--"
"You two," Aziraphale says, "you... live here. Together." It comes out as not quite a statement, but very much not a question.
They both look at him.
"Hope you're right, angel," says Crowley.
"Would it be so bad," says Other Aziraphale softly, "if we did change it? If we were able to have this sooner?" He moves towards Aziraphale, and rests a hand on his shoulder.
Aziraphale has made this same gesture before, to comfort humans. He has never felt it from this side. Inexplicably, he finds himself wanting to cry. "I don't understand," he says.
"I know," says his future self, and squeezes his shoulder.
"If we change things," says Crawly, and there's a desperate edge, now, to his voice, "we might not have it at all. It isn't safe. You know that, angel. You've spent six thousand years knowing it. Even he knows it." He gestures towards Aziraphale.
"I don't understand," Aziraphale says again. He ought to say, You're supposed to be enemies. He ought to say, Me, succumbing to the temptations of a demon? I would never! He ought to say, I don't even like you! In fact, I detest everything you stand for.
He looks out the window again, at the distant sea. At the land. "What about Heaven?" he says instead.
"To Hell with Heaven," says his future self. His hand squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder again. The compassionate gesture ought to feel out of keeping with the words. Somehow, it doesn't. "If you were on the Ark, if that's the moment you've come from, then you do understand a little. I know you do. I might not remember this, but I do remember what I felt then. If I'd felt free to protest, I would have. If I'd had the courage to do anything other than tell myself that it must all be for the greater good."
That stings. But not because it's false. "And you feel free to, now?" he manages to say.
"Yes," says Crawly. "He is. We both are."
"How?"
"You'll find out," says Crawly. And suddenly there is a hand on his other shoulder, too.
Crawly's touch is gentle. Friendly. But when, really, has Crawly ever been anything else to him?
He thinks about a future of hands on his shoulders, hands holding his. Of reaching out and grooming bedraggled wings. Of standing together with another being, independent of Heaven or Hell, and refusing to accept the world being punished with destruction ever again. "Crawly..." he says, and his voice almost breaks on the name.
"Crowley," the demon replies. "It's Crowley, now. I changed it, ages ago. Hell doesn't get to tell me who I am."
"Crowley," he says. "All right." He looks at his other self. "And are you still Aziraphale?"
His future self smiles. "Oh, yes," he says. "Still very much Aziraphale." He moves his hand from Aziraphale's right shoulder to his left, and rests it atop Crowley's.
Slowly, hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches his own hand up and touches theirs. "I'm not sure," he finds himself saying, "that I want to go back."
"You do," says Aziraphale, the future Aziraphale. "Trust me. You have a great deal to go back for."
He starts to say something in reply, starts to ask how it's even possible for him to return, but even as he does, he can feel it happening again. The swirling, fizzing feeling, the sense of something beginning, of something calling him back.
He wonders if the timing is coincidental, or inevitable, or part of some ineffable design.
And then he's... falling? Rising? Neither. Neither. He is spread across the Earth, across the ages, he is everywhere...
He is on the Ark.
He is on the Ark, and there is a demon with him. And a human, unfreezing now, looking vague and confused, turning around, going back to his animals and his family and his place in the future of the world.
He was just somewhere else, wasn't he? He can remember... He can remember...
"Aziraphale?" says the demon, in a language he knows. "What the heaven just happened? Are you all right?"
He can remember that he wanted to reach out and put Crawly's wings to rights. A silly thought. "Yes," he says. "Something went a bit odd there, I think, with the miracles. But I'm fine." He smiles. "You, on the other hand, still look awful. Here. Let me."
He waves a miracle over the demon. Just a small one. A miracle to dry out clothes and hair and feathers, in the middle of a flood. No one will notice. It's nothing at all like grooming your enemy's wings.
"Thanks," says Crawly. And he's looking at Aziraphale as if... As if...
"Don't mention it," says Aziraphale. At least, he thinks, not yet.
What was he just thinking? He isn't at all certain.
"Well," says Crawly. "Suppose I should go?"
There is so much hope in his voice that Aziraphale can only give him the answer he clearly wants.
"Oh," he says. "Perhaps not just yet."
"All right," says the demon.
And, so, for the next forty days, they sit together and watch the waters rise, and wait for the new world to come.