Chapter Text
It was a nice day. Almost all the days had been nice.
There’d been rather a lot of them, and malcontent hadn’t been invented yet. In fact, this place, this particular cottage with the winged-serpent weathervane and the garden surrounding it, could only be described as marinated in nigh-perfect contentment.
It wasn’t the Garden, not quite. It was beautiful and lush, the grass dappled with late afternoon sun, shade and a reasonable number of wildflowers who knew they’d do well to remain as such. There was a blooming, fruit-bearing apple tree in the center, spreading glorious branches. There were beehives in a sunlit corner, buzzing merrily. There were chickens on the other end, plump and dozing in artfully painted little coops, swirling script spelling out names over each one. Asmodeus. Belphegor. Hastur.
…There was a little girl weaseling in through the hedge, shiftily glancing around and giggling to herself as she approached the tree. The fruits gleamed, plump and sweet and awfully tempting.
The sunlight graced the cottage’s flower-laden verandah, but there was no one in sight. The girl crept closer, reaching up.
Unblinking golden eyes beheld her from between flowers and leaves. A sinuous, gleaming black body slowly wound around the branches, iridescent scales rippling over pure muscle.
The girl’s fingers fell just short of the lowest-hanging fruit. She frowned, strained herself, and was just about to pull back –
– when something swift and dark lashed out and the branches shook, and the apple dropped right into her hands.
The girl beamed. Then she abruptly looked up; a figure had moved behind the windows of the cottage. She could just make out a muted voice before she found her legs and darted off, back through the hedge the way she’d come.
Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, strolled onto the verandah with a book under his arm, still adjusting his sun hat. He raised his eyebrows, then quirked a smile. “Up there again, my dear?”
A rustling in the branches, a shifting of sunlight on scales, and a slender shape dropped down with practiced ease. A moment later, Anthony J. Crowley swept back his long fiery tresses and grinned, teeth sharp and eyes bright. “Just encouraging some petty theft, angel. Little Evie’s got some real promise.”
“Everyone calls her Lyn, darling.”
“Evelyn, Evie, potato tomato.” The demon leant against the tree, stretching, and the angel felt himself grow even softer than he’d already allowed himself to become over the past three years they’d spent here, together. “You’re practically a guardian demon,” he chuckled, if only for the pleasure of seeing Crowley falter and sputter in reaction. “I – you take that back – I’m very happy to not be saddled with human-sitting duties, I’ll have you know –”
“Oh hush, you loved raising Warlock and we both love this village.” They rounded the tree and walked back to the cottage, where Crowley dramatically draped himself against Aziraphale. “I know, I know, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Mmh. Of course, dear.” The angel smiled, running gentle fingers through the demon’s long hair. The gesture might appear like idle affection to a casual observer, but it held more significance to the two of them. Crowley’s hair had grown to reach just past his shoulderblades, and Aziraphale knew exactly what that meant. The demon was relaxed enough to not want to change up his entire style every few months; in fact, he hadn’t cut his hair since their wedding. As his husband, the angel couldn’t be happier about the daily reminder of their happy stability.
They’d properly settled into their new shared life over the past three years. Three years of wonderment over their new freedom settling into warm bliss; three years of Crowley learning to properly garden, but still using his demonic influence to keep the mint patch from overtaking the entire cottage grounds like so many faces of Legion. Three years of Aziraphale completely failing to get beekeeping right, but expecting and therefore getting honey from harmless solitary bees in spite of all laws of biology. Three years of evenings spent stargazing on the balcony and the roof, or higher up in the clear night air, free of London’s light pollution, followed by nights sleeping or not sleeping together in their great canopy bed, followed by drowsy mornings and miraculous breakfasts, whether or not actual miracles were involved at all. Three years of getting to know the locals, and growing out of their London habits. When they were alone on a picnic or feeding the birds, Aziraphale still sometimes forgot himself and walked right out onto the surface of the little lake near their house, now there was no fence to stop him like in St. James’ Park, but that was neither here nor there.
Life had gone on all around them in the meantime. Warlock, Adam and the Them were now sixteen and preparing for college to chase their various dreams, though they still put in the effort to keep in touch with one another and their godfathers. Anathema and Newt had gotten married in a wonderful seaside ceremony. The village of Epfield was growing and changing before their very eyes, although not too much; the presence of an angel and demon was bound to have its effects, but they weren’t under any obligations anymore, and they weren’t really trying to influence the cozy country life that just happened to suit them perfectly, either.
In London, their successors, the Principality Nithael and the demon Xaphan, were up to their own schemes and plots. Heaven and Hell had kept a very sharp eye on them indeed in the beginning, but divine vigilance and hellish scrutiny had turned to boredom and indifference rather quickly, even faster than when it’d concerned Aziraphale and Crowley. Head Office seemed to think Earth simply wasn’t worth the energy and resources, aside from their departments of long-suffering guardian angels and petty demons, and a token field agent from both sides. Therefore, just half a year ago, the married couple had ventured to give the other two the address to their cottage so they could come over and visit.
In fact, tonight was to be one of their regular evenings of drink and chat, now alternating between the cottage and the Wolseley[1], the same kind of companionable routine of back-and-forth visits they’d settled into with their human friends. This was the reason Aziraphale had surfaced from his book, and now rested his chin on Crowley’s shoulder to peer down the path leading to the village. “They ought to be here any minute now, Nithael’s always so punctual.”
“Yeah, but Xaphan’s never gonna be.”
“We’ll see.”
Just then, a sky-blue Beetle rounded the bend in the woodland road. Aziraphale broke out in a delighted smile, and felt the rumble of Crowley’s groan beneath him. “Every time I see that thing, every time, it astounds me. He had all the options in the bloody world and he went for that bug of a car.”
“I think it’s sweet. It’s a nice wink to Xaphan, don’t you think? Their bombardier roots?”
Crowley stilled. “Y’know, I hadn’t looked at it that way yet. Now it’s even more disgusting.”
The Beetle joined the Bentley on their shaded driveway, a visual contrast just as great as that between the two beings exiting the newcomer. Nithael was beaming and radiant in his light blue waistcoat and eye-searingly white undershirt with the rolled-up sleeves, his trademark no matter the weather or temperature. Xaphan was clad in dark leather and ripped fabric from head to heel, whirling tattoos crawling up their neck and wrists from underneath. Crowley grinned at the sight of them. “Why the heaven d’you come together? I’d have expected Xaphan to take the Harley, y’know, setting a bad example without the helmet.”
“I do enjoy those delicious fumes, very homey,” the other demon grinned. “But this way I could have a bit of fun clogging up traffic, you see. The M25 is beautiful lunacy right now.” They eyed Nithael. “Also there’s supposed to be a storm coming in tonight and someone didn’t want me driving through it on my own.”
“I hear London’s starting to grow outside the bounds of Crowley’s old handiwork,” Aziraphale remarked brightly, smartly ignoring the latter of Xaphan’s remarks; he’d long since learned not to from Crowley’s reactions to such matters. “Why don’t you tell us all about it.” He greeted the duo, welcomed them in. As they went, Xaphan lugged a hefty package from the car, handing it to the angel who took it with comparative ease. “Here, Cherub. To celebrate.”
Aziraphale smiled at his former title; Xaphan so admired him having been of the most fiery angelic rank. “Celebrate what, exactly?” He peeked inside, widening his eyes at the full case of Beaumes de Venise. “Oh, you scoundrels, you shouldn’t have. This’ll have us all in a stupor before sundown.”
Xaphan eyed the sky. “Sounds good to me,” they grinned.
Crowley half-turned at the door, interested. “What’re we celebrating now?”
Nithael smiled. “The almost three years it’s been since you handed that marvelous city over to us, of course. It calls for a drink, no?”
“I’d certainly say so,” Aziraphale beamed, diving into the kitchen for glasses and something to nibble that matched the beverages. “Come, come, make yourselves at home, you know the way!”
Crowley studied the bottles. “Well, you’ve certainly bought your seats, this is fine stuff. Our lessons on good taste are paying off,” he smirked. He sent the first cork ricocheting off the ceiling, pouring as soon as Aziraphale returned and settled in next to him. “Cheers, you lot. To life on Earth, eh?”
“Cheers!”
It was no mean feat to get four celestial beings to feel the effects of any mere beverage, but the fortified wine did the trick sooner than most. A comfortable buzz made itself at home with both pairs in the late afternoon light as they spoke of their various exploits. Under Nithael and Xaphan’s watch and loose guidance, London was indeed outgrowing the borders of the M25 and the carefully tailored evil influence Crowley had so painstakingly crafted. The demon couldn’t find it in himself to regret that. “Matter of time, really,” he wafted. “They enjoying themselves outside of it?”
Xaphan let out a little cackle. “Oh, they’re celebrating too, even if they don’t exactly know why. The first thing they did was open this massive travesty of a theme park on what used to be factory grounds in Swanscombe. Restaurants, cinemas, pools, the whole shebang. Lightly seasoned by the both of us, of course, we just couldn’t resist even if it hadn’t been an assignment.”
“I’d keep an eye on workers’ conditions and landscaping here, Xaphan would finagle in even more prime circumstances for greed and sloth there, it was a fun little collaboration,” Nithael chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves even with assignments from Head Office,” Aziraphale smiled, fingers already somewhat clumsy around his glass. “I can’t fault you, we’ve had a fair bit of fun the very same way.”
“Still,” Xaphan piped up, leaning forward with a glitter in their faceted eyes. “I can’t imagine taking it as far as you did, taking over eachother’s jobs like that, getting that close to one another.”
“Oh, yes,” Nithael agreed. “The both of us are still too nervous for that, even if the Almighty ultimately didn’t frown on it.”
The ghost of a smile passed over Crowley’s lips, not quite reaching his eyes. “How so?”
“Well, your punishment didn’t stick, did it. That’s how you know. Above and Below must’ve misinterpreted Her Will.”
“Lucky bastards,” Xaphan muttered, taking another swig. They looked up, mischief baring the needle-like fangs they’d let slip without qualms in present company. “I’d have loved to be the one to bring the hellfire Up There, to have seen your glorious display, Cherub. Eric just wouldn’t shut up about the way the Archangels scurried away from you, like cockroaches from light…”
Aziraphale lightly squeezed Crowley’s hand, willing away the demon’s sudden tension. “What a bit of demonic influence can’t do,” he smiled.
Xaphan frowned to themself, seemingly not having heard. “I should’ve been the one, by all rights, I was still head of the department then, but the Lords wanted to send someone disposable.” Nithael patted their ashy hand. “Now you can be indisposable here, right?”
The demon brightened. “Right you are.” And with that, the matter seemed to be forgotten, and Crowley exhaled again. He wished the lie didn’t have to stand between them and their friends, but they didn’t really have a choice.
They drank and talked until the sun sank low, and Aziraphale recalled they’d all forgotten about dinner, rising so abruptly he had to fling out silver-streaked wings to keep his tipsy balance. “We’ll just miracle it done,” Crowley reassured him, to the angel’s instant fussing. “But I’d prepared this whole –”
The demon tapped their most recent bottle. “Unforseen circumstances, angel.”
Xaphan sputtered out a laugh. “You call that unforseen?”
Aziraphale gave a good-natured sigh, snapping his fingers and drawing power downwards to summon his envisioned meal to the table in front of them, not bothering to move to the dining table and not receiving any protests either; they were all highly comfortable just the way they were. Crowley gave a low whistle of admiration, prompting a look from the angel that was meant to be admonishing but came out rather gooey instead. “Oh, stop it.”
He’d prepared a refined selection that wouldn’t be out of place at either the Ritz or the Wolseley, and despite his cheating methods Nithael and Xaphan were appreciative of the refinement of Aziraphale’s miracles. The angel smiled, cheeks tinged with wine and pride. “It’s nothing really, when you’ve been at it as long as I have…”
Crowley patted his arm. “They’re still learning.”
“I suppose they learned the things that really count,” the angel smiled over the rim of his glass.
“We can hear you,” Xaphan remarked.
“Oh, I know, my dear.”
Dinner and drink had loosened their tongues to such an extent the hours slipped by as incoherently as their words as they laughed, told stories and played guessing games, to the point where Nithael was the first to get up and stumble to his feet. The hour was right around the late summer sunset, with the western horizon ablaze and the eastern darkening with the promised storm. “Jus’ need some air,” the angel managed as he rose. “Taking a little walk, ‘s all.”
“Featherweight,” Xaphan slurred after him.
“Sssee you sssoon,” Crowley grinned, more and more patches of skin overtaken by starry black scales. Beside him, Aziraphale was physically glowing, smiling away. Nithael threw back a smile, his own halo all the way out as well, and staggered into the hallway on his way to the front door. Some of that garden air would do him the world of good…
…this wasn’t the right hallway.
The Principality frowned, then shrugged. Good as any. Just walking helped too. He rested a heavy hand on the doorknob and all but tumbled into Aziraphale’s cherished private library.
Oh. Well, he’d been here before, even though he’d never been unaccompanied.
The spines of countless well-loved book gleamed in the muted light of dusk, and the angel marveled at the ceiling for a moment – Crowley had painted it with a beautiful and very accurate likeness of the Milky Way, spanning the considerable length and breadth of the room. Nithael let out a little drunken giggle; this really was just as good as being outside.
Without much conscious thought, he felt his hand brush past a few of the books on the shelves as he wandered around a few corners – this place was more of a labyrinth than the Soho bookshop had ever been. Then his eye fell to a set of two well-worn armchairs and a sofa; this must be Aziraphale’s reading nook.
Outside, the eastern sky was dark, roiling with storm clouds now. But Nithael’s halo was bright, and its light reflected clearly and distractingly off something glassy displayed on the wall above the sofa.
Nithael stumbled closer, gripping shelves and corners for support on the way, curiously cocking his head.
It was indeed glassy; the glass cover of something in a small frame. A single scrap of paper, bearing a single sentence in neat lettering.
5004. When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.
Nithael felt his physical corporation go suddenly, horribly cold.
At first, he didn’t know why. He didn’t understand what it meant, nor why it was displayed here – until, through the warm drunken haze of wine and food and friendship, he found he did.
He raised a trembling hand, snapped, sobered in an instant.
Say what you will, Crowley and Aziraphale had done enough to give him a sense of imagination. Enough to imagine an angel and demon growing close enough to not simply accidentally influence eachother’s alignments to a degree, but to want to risk their own lives to save the other – to take no chances, but provide both Heaven and Hell with a victim that could fully withstand their punishment.
Choose your faces wisely.
The trials hadn’t misfired because Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t deserve their punishment in the eyes of God. They’d lied, to the Archangels, the Lords of Hell, to the Almighty. And then they’d lied again, to him and Xaphan both, for years.
Nithael suddenly became aware of his trembling hands, just as a sense of overwhelming betrayal washed over him. What exactly was their friendship based on? Was it friendship at all, or just a matter of keeping one’s enemies close? Of course he understood the dangers of such a secret, but…
The dangers. Oh. “Oh, Lord –”
“Nithael? You alright there, buddy?”
He abruptly looked up. Xaphan came stalking in between the moonlit bookcases, halting at the sight of him. “…Nithael?”
“Xaphan,” the Principality managed, breathless. “You’d best sober up.”
After following that advice, and the exchange of a few quiet, but very impactful words, Xaphan vehemently shook their head. “We – we shouldn’t. C’mon, we like these guys. There’s no point –”
“They’ll find out eventually, you know they will,” Nithael muttered frantically. “They always do. Better they hear it from us, or we’ll meet the same fate.”
“Nithael…”
“You should report it too! If we do it at the same time, our superiors might not have us end eachother as a reward, but elect to reward both of us with… with something else. Anything else.” The Principality gave a wan little smile, quietly begging his counterpart to understand. “I take it you still miss your fire?”
The demon’s eyes were wide, dark and horrified. That, at least, they had in common.
“Oh – well – this is rather earlier than expected, dear chaps, the sun’s barely set –” Aziraphale went fussing after both their friends as they left the cottage in something carefully constructed to not seem like a hurry. “But if you’re quite sure you ought to be returning to London, then –”
“We are,” said Xaphan, the feverish spark in their eye only escaping Aziraphale because of the haze of wine clouding his own. “There’s been an assignment for both of us for tonight, you… you know how it is.”
“Duty calls,” Nithael smiled, cheeks ashy pale. They both got into the angel’s ridiculous sky-blue car, and Crowley and Aziraphale leant into eachother as they saw them off. Crowley wore the beginning of a worried frown for a moment, but then Aziraphale gave him a sly little smile, snapping his fingers behind both their backs under the full – and equally false – impression he was being sneaky. The angel pecked his husband on the cheek. “Would you check the mailbox, darling?”
Whatever concerned thoughts had occupied his mind, they were all put on hold at once. “Angel, I’m certain today’s round is long over,” the demon spoke as he made it over anyway, finding a single letter. Aziraphale coyly followed. “And I’m certain we have an entire unexpected evening to ourselves.”
Crowley checked the contents, smirking as he turned golden eyes back to the angel. “Sending love letters to your own house, really.”
“I don’t hear you complaining?”
“I’m not. Not at all. It’s a date, you bastard,” the demon chuckled.
They ended up going out for some air themselves eventually, cuddling up on the verandah watching the storm slowly rolling in from the east as Epfield’s faraway monastery bell sounded midnight. Some early rain had started pattering down, and through it they could see the occasional, wisp-thin flash of lightning in the dark mass ahead. Fireflies glowed bright in the grass, and Aziraphale’s halo provided another gentle source of warm light.
“Rain in paradise,” the angel smiled.
“Wasn’t gonna say it,” the demon grouched. “Corny sot, you.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, his gentleness belying the tone of his voice, a small smile on his face as he looked down into that glowing face and those adoring stormy-sea eyes. He quietly blessed to himself. To have this clever, brave, beautiful being in his arms. “I still do a double take sometimes, you know,” he admitted, voice low. “Still can’t believe this is all real. I mean, can you?” He gestured uselessly, as Aziraphale turned to him fully and briefly made him scramble for words. “You’re here,” the demon managed. “World’s here, too.”
“So we are, dearest.”
“Sometimes I wake up and expect to be – well, alone again, is all.”
Soft white feathers brushed his face. “I’m here to stay, dear boy, and so are you.”
Wordlessly, Crowley slipped into his snake form, wrapping around the angel fully. He hadn’t always been this comfortable with his truest shape – try close on six thousand years of Fall-induced self-loathing – but he had found he gave the best hugs if he could put his whole body into it. Aziraphale seemed to agree, letting out a content sigh and melting into it, wings and all, folding warm feathers over starry scales. Crowley let out a hiss, vowing never to get used to this. Warmth and tipsiness and comfort washed over him, and were then joined by Aziraphale’s voice, going deep and velvety the way he could listen to for hours, reciting…
“Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy…”
Next he knew, and he could swear only moments had passed, warm wings were lifting and strong arms were lifting him. “Come on,” said Aziraphale, a chuckle to his voice. “Time for bed.”
Crowley let out a sound of protest. The angel smiled. “You nodded off, dearest. You’d catch a cold if we stayed out for much longer.”
“Did not,” the demon muttered, attempting to hang on tighter, but found both his voice and droopy coils betraying him. “Would never.”
“Case in point,” the angel chuckled. “Come along, now.”
Crowley scarcely noticed being carried upstairs, but he did remember the softness of the bed and the softer warmth of the being he shared it with, be he snuggled in limbs or coils.
He woke at the darkest hour, with the storm rattling at the windows and balcony doors. That, however, wasn’t what’d snapped his eyes open.
Aziraphale was gone.
He knew it with razorlike simplicity, had known it even in his sleep. The bed still bore the angel’s impression and warmth, but there was no one in his arms any longer, and for a moment an irrational pang of fear coursed through Crowley’s body before he managed to calm himself. It wasn’t the first time this’d happened; the angel often got up to read in the middle of the night, sometimes in bed, sometimes in the living room, sometimes curled up in the library’s armchairs. Crowley could almost hear him now. No need to fuss, old boy.
Still, something made him get up. Something told him this wasn’t the everyday, wasn’t the old song and dance of well-worn worries and fears they’d gone through and slowly gotten used to together.
He blinked, realized, pressed fingers to his temples anyway. Something was missing.
He couldn’t sense the angel. Anywhere.
Aziraphale was gone.
No. No, that couldn’t be right, that couldn’t be…
Before his brain had caught up with his body, his legs had carried him out of bed and sent him racing down the stairs. “Aziraphale?” His voice sounded reedy and constricted and he hated it, he hated how fear came slicing up his spine, he hated how empty the house seemed all of a sudden, how meaningless it and everything in it suddenly was without –
No, no, no!
No angel in the living room. No angel in the library. Only the glint of his own wide eyes in the reflection of the framed prophecy, and suddenly all of him knew he wasn’t going to find Aziraphale. He wouldn’t miraculously turn up just as things seemed their worst, not like he’d done in that pub, not like he’d done in all those nightmares he’d turned to sweet shared dreams. This wasn’t a nightmare, this was real.
Horrible understanding washed over him like the cold, inky tide.
Still, he sprinted back up the stairs, tripping over his own feet, in one last delusional hope his angel would be in bed after all, that he’d been mistaken somehow…
He hadn’t, and the demon was left staring at the covers, chest heaving, fists powerlessly clenched.
He strode to the balcony doors and threw them open, stared up into the storm as rain soaked him from head to heel. Clouds came whirling by like a dark sea. Lightning flashed, again and again.
He knew.
With the next flash his wings were out, reaching for those clouds and the heavens beyond in something like yearning.
“Crowley!”
His gaze snapped down.
There was an angel below him, but it wasn’t the one he’d been looking for. Nithael stared up at him, eyes wide and full of anguish.
“You.” Crowley scarcely recognized his own voice.
“I’m sorry,” the Principality cried out, the rain falling in sheets around him, leaving him perfectly dry save for the tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean for this to happen –”
“You!” Rage came boiling up his throat, and he could’ve spat hellfire down at the angel now – but before he could do so, Nithael spoke again, voice choked. “Xaphan went too! Downstairs will soon come for you as well! I’m so sorry –”
Crowley gave a curt, mechanical nod, spread his wings fully, and pushed away from the balcony. Nithael gave a cry as he rose, spreading his own white wings to flap after him. “Crowley, this is not how it works, you’ll never get Up There!”
He knew full well. He didn’t care. For all his imagination and creativity, this was the last and only thing he could think to do.