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There’s something about walking on earth that makes the tension bleed out of Crowley’s shoulders. It’s all so new and different and changing, exciting in itself, but even more so for how rarely he’s visited. The streets here in London are busy, crowded, noisy, and nothing like the wide and empty halls of heaven, much to his delight. He weaves through crowds of people, blends in among the humans like he’s just another one of them moving through their life, and it's like he can suddenly breathe easier. He doesn’t need to breathe, but there’s something comforting in the repetitive action. Inhale. Exhale.
It's not entirely freeing, not a full weight lifted, because there's always been a part of him that sat out of place among his peers and that’s hardly gone away, but he thinks that maybe down here, that part is at least less noticeable; a crack instead of a chasm. This is not the cold and impersonal stretch of whiteness, the stiff smiles and fake cheer, the superiority and conformity and the constant nagging feeling that he doesn’t belong. This is open, easy, alive. Inhale. Exhale.
Crowley meanders his way to a nearby park, curious and bored and wanting to explore. There’s so much to take in among the steel and stone of London, but it's hard and dull, and the greenery is a nice break. He tips his head back as he walks, enjoying the endless stretch of blue above. The air is crisp, summer breaking into fall, but it's still warm enough for the park to be fairly populated and Crowley basks in the life around him and breathes deep. Inhale. Exhale.
Crowley turns a corner, where he finds himself at a bridge in a more secluded area, the chatter and bustle muted and distant here. There’s only a lone figure, standing on the other side, feeding the ducks by the water. As Crowley starts to cross, the figure looks up and their eyes meet, and all the air abruptly rushes from Crowley’s lungs.
Eyes the color of the storm-tossed ocean cut straight through him, painfully bright, piercingly sharp. Crowley freezes, shocked into stillness by the weight in that gaze and how it seems to know him. He is raw, he is vulnerable, torn right down to his core and wrenched open for those eyes to see: everything, nothing, everything . It is overwhelming, confusing, a longing ache that echoes around his ribcage and leaves his head spinning. Sparks along his vertebrae, a pounding in his head. He is pinned against empty air, unable to escape, drowning drowning , and some strange part of him begs for the water to fill his lungs. And then the stranger blinks, and as sudden as it had come, the feeling is gone. Crowley inhales with a gasp. Shakily, he exhales.
Those eyes are still watching him, but they don’t cut like they had been, only a soft sort of concern in the depths now, and Crowley takes a moment to regain his bearings. He straightens and keeps crossing the bridge, eyeing the stranger as he moves closer. Pale blonde hair that’s nearly white with a neatly trimmed beard, laughter lines by his eyes, worry lines by his mouth. He is dressed in an old-fashioned manner, tan waistcoat, black coat over it, round glasses perched on his nose and his hands are clasped in front of him, twisting a silver band on his ring finger. He looks bookish and soft and gentle, and Crowley would absolutely believe he was all of that if not for the distinct demonic aura he can now sense as he steps off the path to stand near him. He keeps a polite distance away, breathes in the scent of tea and parchment and brimstone, and stares hard from behind his own dark glasses.
“Hello.” The demon says, painfully polite.
“Have we met before?” Crowley cuts right to the chase.
The strange demon laughs, and it's quiet and sad, but it's a laugh nonetheless, and flowers bloom between Crowley’s ribs. The sound rings like church bells, pure and sweet, and far too good. It makes something tighten in Crowley’s chest, some sort of fierce longing that doesn’t make sense , nostalgia and deja vu and a familiarity that hurts.
“That is...complicated, my dear.” And the endearment strikes like a sword.
"I don't understand," Crowley chokes out, and he doesn't -doesn't know why he suddenly feels more real than he ever has- "I don't know you, I'm an angel and you're a demon, we're on opposite sides!"
"Yes," the demon murmurs, stormcloud eyes filled with sadness. "that is what we are." and he says it how one might say ' Orpheus turned too soon ’.
He turns his head away, and Crowley can see a scar running across his cheek, half covered by his beard. The sight makes Crowley want to go to war and he has no idea why.
"I should go." The demon says quietly.
"Right," Crowley chokes out, past the sudden tightness in his throat, "sure."
Those eyes turn back to him, and there's a palpable kind of sorrow hanging in the air. A weak smile, a nod, and the demon turns gracefully on his heel.
"Mind how you go."
And he walks away. Crowley watches him disappear, heart aching, and head beginning to pound.
=
Days pass and Crowley aches.
There are empty spaces wherever he goes now, like there’s something missing, something important. He dodges people on the sidewalk, and even this packed city seems so small and trivial now in the face of that last sad smile the demon in the park gave him as he disappeared. Every step feels haunted, like an echo or an overlay, and he finds himself wandering places he’s sure he’s never been, but they feel so familiar that his stomach twists with a guilt he can’t fathom at the thought that he’s somehow forgotten having been here.
Crowley passes shops, cafes, museums; walks past The Ritz four times before he realizes he’s circling the block and changes direction. He’s looking for something, maybe. Answers or questions or both. He nearly walks back into St. James Park before he stops himself, not sure he can handle another encounter with that demon. Instead, he sweeps past, grabs a cab and mutters a random street name, watches the buildings rush by and tries to tell himself he isn’t running away.
When he gets out, absently paying the fare, he stands on the sidewalk and simply reminds himself how to breathe. All of which goes out the window when he finally looks at where he is.
Before him are the ruins of a church. The shell of it still stands, walls and windows fully intact, its tower still rising towards the sky, but vines and ivy curl and crawl across the stone and concrete. There is a path inside, where Crowley can see a garden, a circle of benches, flowers blooming and the last of the day’s sunlight hanging like gold dust. The sight punches the breath right out of his chest.
Crowley wanders further in, the place currently empty and the faint rumble of thunder overhead tells him why. He hadn’t noticed the weather, too caught up in a storm of his own, and he grimaces as the air chills. He walks up what was likely the aisle of the church and jumps at the phantom feel of burning on his feet, brows furrowing in confusion. This was once consecrated ground, but it's only stone now, and neither should affect him, angel that he is. The feeling fades but he can’t quite shake the unease, and the clouds choose that moment to break open.
Crowley swiftly ducks towards the outer walls, seeking shelter, and tries to gain some semblance of equilibrium. Nothing is making sense and it all seems to track back to that demon. He has no idea what to do or where to go from here. Crowley stands beneath an awning, watching the rain pour down, and reaches out without thinking, chasing some fleeting memory. His fingers curl into empty air, and he doesn’t know what he was reaching for, but he’s devastated nonetheless when there’s nothing there.
=
Crowley is sure he’s never slept before, having no need for such a thing, but the aimless wandering around London, the tumultuous feelings in his chest, the pounding in his head, all make him desperate for some rest. He finds a hotel room, crashes into the bed and lets exhaustion drag him down.
.
.
.
.
There is a light beckoning, beckoning. The park stretches in endless swathes in every direction, the kind of hazy warped perspective that can only come in dreams. The sky above is dotted with stars, far more than are actually visible in London, nebulas and constellations spinning out of the firmament. There is a melody like a music box, faint and sweet and slow, and Crowley stands on the path as the pavement shifts and turns beneath his feet, listening. There is a light in the distance, the same direction as the music. Crowley starts to walk.
The pavement shifts and turns like a river, and it feels like walking through molasses. Crowley keeps going, eyes on the light, drawn like a moth and with no idea why. He strains towards it, desperate and wanting, and it remains stubbornly out of reach, until suddenly it isn’t. Crowley blinks dazedly, the light near blinding this close, and he sees he’s now on the steps of a bandstand. The music is coming from this spot, and the light is coming from a figure in the center.
White, Crowley thinks, white and bright and beautiful. White curls and off-white coat, and a smile that steals the air from Crowley’s lungs, even as the deepest sense of loss fills him. Sparkling blue eyes regard him with a gaze so warm and delighted, the space in his chest suddenly feels too tight for all that it's now holding. This figure knows him, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t know them. With a flourish they’re holding out their hand, and Crowley takes it without a thought.
Carefully, clumsily, they begin to move together, hesitant steps that melt into a graceful push and pull, and soon they’re dancing across the bandstand. Starlight catches in that white white hair, and they spin like birds in flight. The music swells around them, the gentle cadence of a lullaby, a waltz, a requiem.
...
Abruptly, Crowley halts.
His partner tilts his head to look at him curiously, and Crowley can’t breathe. There’s something tragic here, sharp and painful and terrible, and grief rises like floodwaters. The figure before him stares for a moment, before he smiles sadly, and the expression strikes like lightning; the same smile that’s been chasing him across London for days. Crowley doesn’t understand everything, but he understands one thing.
“I lost you.” He chokes out.
They only give him that sad sad smile, then fade away like Eurydice.
.
.
.
.
Crowley comes crashing into wakefulness, already crying, and he sobs into his hands until the sun rises, only half knowing why.
=
Crowley stumbles his way outside, not paying attention to where he’s going, all his senses muddied by the memory of his dream. Those eyes, that face, they were familiar and new all at once, and if you took away the beard, he thinks they’d be a perfect match for the demon from the park. His head is well and truly pounding now, a physical pain so intense it only heightens the agony in his chest.
Abruptly he walks face first into something solid and he trips, shakes himself, and looks up. He has walked into a column, fading and cracked, bracketing a door with the paint peeling and chipped away. He backs up a step and peers up at the building he’s collided with. The words are near illegible, but he can just make them out, and he gets as far as ‘ A.Z. Fe ’-, before he freezes.
Like a car crash, a tidal wave, stars colliding, suddenly there’s a flood of memories rushing forth. The whole span of human history spun like multicolored glass in his mind’s eye as he remembers kindness and laughter, hesitant touches and careful meetings, blessings and temptations and rescues and dinners. Nights shared in a backroom. A backroom-
Crowley looses a string of syllables more emotion than words, jerks his hand out and the rundown doors of the bookshop fly open at the snap of his fingers. He flings himself over the threshold and the doors firmly close behind him, as he comes to a stop right inside the entrance, where the air is thick with dust, the shelves in disarray, and the place seemingly abandoned; but this is the bookshop, Aziraphale’s bookshop. His headache is gone.
=
Crowley spins slowly in place beneath the oculus, takes in the papers scattered on the floor, the upturned furniture. It doesn’t look like anyone has been here in a long time, and there’s something distinctly painful about that realization. Years and years of memories spent in this building, this space, these nooks and crannies that hold quiet conversations and stolen glances. He hates to see how it's been abandoned, almost as much as he hated to see it in flames, and the only thing keeping him from truly sinking into despair is the memory of that meeting in the park.
Crowley knows now, with an aching sort of clarity, that the demon had been Aziraphale, that he had forgotten him. He can vaguely recall being dragged off, too much light and too much pain, but the memories are fuzzy and distorted in his head. He thinks that's probably for the best. He’d never wanted to Rise again, and he’d definitely never wanted Aziraphale to Fall, but it seemed that was the fate that had befallen them. He wasn’t sure where Aziraphale was now, if he was even still in London or had simply been in the area, since the bookshop clearly wasn’t where he lived anymore.
There’s a kind of helplessness sitting in his chest now, the realization of what exactly had been done and the not knowing where Aziraphale was. Its suddenly too much and he can’t breathe and he’s a fucking angel now, and Aziraphale isn’t here. His knees hit the floor hard, but he ignores it, just bows his head and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He thinks about crying or screaming or just sitting there forever as the shop decays around him. He thinks about praying.
Crowley isn’t sure how much time passes as he stays like that, or if any time passes at all, but he comes back to awareness at a sudden touch on the top of his head. He flinches, absently wondering if it's some other angel here to collect him, but he catches a familiar scent and freezes. Carefully, he lowers his hands, opens his eyes and takes in the sight of familiar brogues on the floor in front of him. Hardly daring to breathe, Crowley slowly casts his eyes upward, past the trousers, the waistcoat, the watch chain, the tartan ( god he never thought he’d miss tartan ) bowtie.
And its Aziraphale. He is bearded and scarred, his coat a jarring black, and he looks like he’s completely weighed down with sadness and exhaustion, but it’s him. The light streaking in from above settles soft into his curls, longer now than Crowley remembers, and Crowley can taste the demonic presence on the back of his tongue, but he chokes out ‘ Angel ’ nonetheless.
Crowley flings himself forward, wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and clings to the back of his coat, terrified that he’s just a dream. But Aziraphale stays solid beneath him even when Crowley squeezes, and he feels the warm weight of arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as tight.
There are apologies spilling from his mouth before he can even think to form them, face pressed tight beside the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat like they’ll grant him absolution. He’s not sure what he’s sorry for; the forgetting of course, but maybe just in general, that what happened had happened, because maybe if he’d been more careful, more alert, watched Aziraphale’s back just a little closer-
“There’s nothing to forgive, Crowley. I knew you would come back to me, you always do.”
Aziraphale’s voice is soft and quiet and the same as it ever was, and it’s that that finally breaks the dam. Crowley is crying again, somewhere between grief and relief, and he feels Aziraphale pull him up, lets himself be guided onto the old chesterfield. Aziraphale tucks Crowley’s head beneath his chin, pulls them close together, and just holds on.
Eventually, the tears stop and Crowley can breathe easier than he has in a long time, but he doesn’t move beyond a slight turn of his head, pressing his ear to Aziraphale’s chest and hearing the steady heartbeat reassure him that they are both here, alive, and they had found each other again, despite everything. There’s a hand in his hair, gentle and hesitant, like Aziraphale is just as awed to see him as Crowley is. Aziraphale sighs deeply and it rumbles between them.
“I think my Fall was supposed to kill me.”
Crowley winces, but doesn’t interrupt, sensing there was more Aziraphale wanted to say.
“I landed somewhere on earth, not really sure where, but I thought I was going to die there. Instead a human found me, managed to take me back to their home, took care of me, and somehow I survived. I was so angry, Crowley. So bitter and miserable and angry, and I think I was ready to give up. I told that human it was a waste of time to have saved me.”
Aziraphale laughs, but it's an unhappy sound, and Crowley hopes he never hears it again. He doesn’t want to think about Aziraphale going through the trauma of Falling, doesn’t want to think about the horrible landing, the terrible pain of Grace being wrenched out of you. Unconsciously, Crowley tightens his grip.
“They told me that time spent helping someone was never a waste, that they’d rather try and fail than not try at all. And it reminded me of why we bothered trying to save this planet in the first place. There was kindness in the world still, and I thought, even the chance to see you again was worth carrying on.”
At that, Crowley can’t help but sit up, though he leans forward to rest their foreheads together.
“We’re still here.” And there’s something almost awestruck in his voice as he says it. “Armageddon, Hellfire, holy water, and now this. And we’re still here, we have each other. ”
Aziraphale smiles, and there’s a touch of something mischievous in the corners that makes Crowley’s heart lighter.
“Perhaps it's…”
“Don’t say ‘ineffable’.”
Aziraphale huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. It softens the scar across his face that Crowley will maybe be calm enough to ask about someday, and the space beneath Crowley’s ribs suddenly feels like it's too small for his chest.
“...fate?” Aziraphale offers instead.
Crowley wrinkles his nose.
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in us.”
Crowley snaps his head up to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks back steadily, but one hand is reaching into his breast pocket, and Crowley’s eyes widen when he produces a familiar ring. Aziraphale offers it to him and Crowley takes it with a shaking hand, turning the band over and letting it catch the light. The inside shines and he stares hard at the inscription.
“‘ Our side ’,” Aziraphale murmurs, quotes, “remember? It doesn’t matter what we are anymore, my dear, just that we’re together.”
Crowley finds he can’t even begin to speak, throat tight, but he nods sharply, because that’s it, isn’t it? Heaven and Hell tried to tear them apart again and again and again they had failed. He makes a sort of helpless gesture with the ring, and Aziraphale understands immediately, taking it and sliding it back into its proper place with reverence. Aziraphale has been wearing his own wedding band this entire time, and he takes Crowley’s hand, shifts closer so they’re connected from shoulder to knee, and Crowley thinks about devotion, about faith, about love.
There’s a lot they still have to think about, to talk about, to prepare for, but for now, they have this. Crowley has never stopped loving Aziraphale and Aziraphale is watching him now with his heart in his eyes, and it's enough.
“I love you.” Crowley says, insistent.
“I love you, too.” Aziraphale answers firmly, then continues.
”I may not be able to sense love anymore, but that doesn’t mean it left. It’s here.” Aziraphale opens his hands in front of him, palm up. “Here,” he touches one hand to his chest, over his heart. A beat as he pauses, then reaches out his other hand, lays it on Crowley’s chest: a connection. “Here.”
Crowley slides his hand over Aziraphale’s, lets their wedding bands knock together like they used to as he squeezes.
“ Here .” Crowley repeats firmly, and leans in; a planet in orbit, a magnet drawn north.