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Armageddon was over, and life was good.
There was no threat of impending doom, no all-powerful child to influence this way and that. No need to go against God Herself.
Now that he had cut ties with Heaven, Aziraphale didn’t have to deal with angels coming through constantly to ‘check up’ on him. He could focus on his bookshop in peace, and business was booming. He had been able to stock up on several more obscure fantasy series that his regulars had requested, and even set up a better organisation system so customers could find what they were looking for – apparently the old system had been a little too complicated for the human brain to follow properly.
Best of all, he needn’t worry about Heaven discovering his and Crowley’s friendship. They didn’t need to have clandestine meetings in St. James’ Park. There was no need for their code of secret rendezvous points that Aziraphale could never remember anyway – not when they could meet spontaneously wherever they wanted without fear of being seen. They didn’t need to be constantly looking over their shoulders.
It was a real weight off of Aziraphale’s shoulders. He had never admitted it out loud, but he had been absolutely petrified of being found out. What would the demons do to Crowley? What would the angels do to him? What could the pair do, when it happened, except wait for their imminent destruction?
He supposed they had found that out, hadn’t they? He shuddered to think what would have happened without Agnes Nutter’s warning.
Aziraphale had been expecting the demons of Hell to issue a cruel punishment to him-as-Crowley, to leer and jeer and cackle at his execution. He had been prepared to deal with that, to act suave and unbothered by it.
He hadn’t expected such malice from Heaven. The other angels had never once been kind to him. But even after harsh words, constant degradation, and an angelic assault in the middle of the street, Aziraphale had hoped that they would be forgiving. They were supposed to be family. Or friends at least.
Why did they hate him so much?
Aziraphale had always tried to please them, always tried to do the right thing. All he wanted was a little kindness every now and then, like he gave so freely to every being he came across.
And even if that had been too much to ask, he had thought that maybe, his status as a principality would offer him some protection. Maybe not exactly kindness, but at least neutrality.
Crowley had avoided telling him much about what had happened when he took the angel’s place for his execution. When he eventually related what happened, he did so with as little detail as possible. Even so, there was a haunted look in the demon’s eyes as he recounted how Gabriel had smiled his usual passive-aggressive smile while sentencing him to death.
They might not have been friends, but surely one wouldn’t send their colleague to their death so gleefully?
They were angels, they were good. They didn’t delight in needlessly harming God’s creatures – with weapons or with words.
So Aziraphale must have done something to deserve this. To make it necessary.
If only he could figure out what.
It wasn’t because he… fraternised with Crowley. Heaven had been spiteful towards him long before that – thank God. If that had been the reason, Aziraphale would have had to question Crolwey’s place in his life. And he would never have the strength to properly cut ties with the demon as he should have, even if it was so unholy.
Aziraphale just couldn’t bear the thought of a life without Crowley in it.
His one friend. The only person who could ever truly understand everything that had happened in his life – that story was far too long to ever tell. He could never explain it.
But with Crowley he’d never need to explain. Crowley had been there nearly every step of the way, at first as his antithesis and then as his… partner of sorts. Crowley just knows.
Usually.
Armageddon was over, and life was good. Or rather, it should have been.
***
Aziraphale and Crowley had taken to regularly spending Sunday afternoons together. Well, they spent most of their free time together, but they’d started to spend Sunday afternoons in a particular way together. They wouldn’t go out for dinner, or anything like that. No, dinner was for other times, when they wanted to feel part of humanity.
Sunday afternoons were for existing as they were, together, at the end of a long week. This was relaxing in the afternoon sunlight, sprawled out over Crowley’s sofa, or sitting among the mountains of books in Aziraphale’s little shop. This was calm and peaceful. Lazy, soft.
Aziraphale was always busy, balancing the bookshop and his supernatural double-life. It was nice to just relax, with no pressure, no deadline. Everything else ceased to exist for a little while. If Crowley used his ability to slow time to make the moment last longer, well, Aziraphale wasn’t complaining.
Countless hours were spent simply basking in each other’s company. Sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting quietly. Occasionally one of them would break the silence with a little comment, or a sudden exclamation, or maybe interrupt the conversation with a musing about a topic entirely unrelated to the current discussion (inadvertently revealing that they had dozed off while the other spoke).
Sometimes one of them would put on music, and Crowley would find himself humming along quietly – much to his embarrassment if Aziraphale pointed it out. Sometimes one of them would bring a new dessert to try, but the sweet taste would be nothing compared to the atmosphere in the room.
Today, they were reading.
Most of the time they would sit in the bookshop and each read separately, no sound but the soft turning of pages and the occasional chuckle in reaction to the stories.
But recently, the angel had begun a mission to spark a love of Shakespearean tragedies in Crowley. The demon always grumbled about how gloomy they were, but Aziraphale disagreed. He had always found that there was just as much meaning in the pain brought by a story as there was in laughter – something he’d learned in his many centuries of reading. Now he just needed to get Crowley to see that too. Even just one tragedy that he enjoyed would satisfy the angel.
So, this time they were reading aloud from the same book. In order to see the pages, they were forced to sit so close to each other that Aziraphale’s arm was pressed against Crowley’s, making it infinitely more difficult for Aziraphale to focus on the words in front of him.
Crowley had reacted to this new goal with great amusement. He insisted that nothing could make him enjoy a story so depressing, fully aware that this would only fuel Aziraphale’s determination.
So far, they had only read two plays together. Crowley hadn’t seemed too interested in ‘King Lear’, but Aziraphale was certain that he’d been warming up to ‘Romeo and Juliet’ by the time they had finished it.
This time, it was ‘Macbeth’, one of Shakespeare’s less complex plays, but very emotionally intense. It also had the added bonus of the idea of watching the corruption of a seemingly good man, which Aziraphale thought would intrigue the demon.
It seemed to be going well, thus far. Crowley was taking to his role as Lady Macbeth like a duck to water, sprawled out across the chaise lounge in his apartment like he was already a queen. He had even seemed disappointed when they finished last week’s reading session.
They were at Act 1, Scene 7, when Macbeth debates whether he ought to go through with his wife’s plan to assassinate the king.
“He’s here in double trust: first, as I am his kinsman and his subject, strong both against the deed.” Aziraphale read as dramatically as he could, making Crowley huff in amusement, “then, as his host, who should against his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself.”
Aziraphale could see Crowley gazing at him out of the corner of his eye, face open and soft, entirely absorbed in his friend’s words. The angel’s face turned pink at the attention.
But Aziraphale steadfastly refused to get flustered. “Besides, this Duncan hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been so clear in his great office,” he continued, “that his virtues will plead like a-angels.”
Crowley frowned at the stutter in his speech, sitting up a little straighter. Aziraphale tried to just move on, pretending that nothing had happened, but the demon interrupted.
“Are you okay, Angel? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you stumble over your words like that.” The demon smirked, but Aziraphale could hear the concern in his voice.
He cleared his throat, “Of course I’m alright!” Aziraphale brushed it off and tried to just move on, pretending that nothing had happened, “like angels, trumpet-tongued, against the deep damnation of his taking off; and pity, like a new-born babe, striding the blast, or-”
Aziraphale’s voice choked to a stop, like an unseen hand had gripped his throat, before he could say the next word: Heaven.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but flinch at the nickname.
Heaven. His home. His family. And he had betrayed them. He had gone against God, and the other angels, all for what? A trivial fondness for humanity? Because a demon had asked it of him?
Aziraphale was no angel. He never had been.
“Aziraphale, what’s wrong?” Crowley sounded tense. Distressed.
That wasn’t right. Crowley was supposed to be happy. This was supposed to be their day.
Crowley was supposed to drawl all his lines, unable to keep the grin off his face, and playfully bemoan how dreadfully dreary the whole story was.
Despite what the demon might claim, he enjoyed these little reading sessions, and Aziraphale was ruining that for him. Just as he had ruined Armageddon. Ruining what the people around him loved was seeming to become a pattern for him.
No. He wouldn’t let that happen.
“Aziraphale!”
His head snapped up from where he had been gazing soullessly at the open book. He smiled an artificial smile and said, “I do believe it’s your line, my dear.”
Crowley’s brow furrowed. “What? No it’s not. You never finished the soliloquy.”
What? Aziraphale looked back down, to see that he hadn’t actually finished it. “Oh, yes. My mistake.”
“And what was that?” Crowley continued, “you just zoned out! Not interesting enough for you, am I?”
“Oh, now you’re just being silly!” Aziraphale shot back, trying desperately to pretend that everything was fine. Because everything was fine. “Now, where was I?”
“Heaven’s cherubin,” Crowley replied helpfully.
Aziraphale coughed slightly to banish the lump in his throat and continued reading. It was like he was in a trance, sentences spilling from his mouth without him really registering them. He read them on the page, and then the words escaped into the air without even asking his permission.
Words were funny things, weren’t they? Aziraphale had spent centuries of his life curating his collections of books and enjoying words in all their different mediums. He loved words. They guided his mind through different times, different worlds, different lives. They guided his heart through passion and pain, joy and anguish and every other emotion imaginable. They comforted him.
Words had also hurt him.
Hours spent practicing precisely what he would say, over and over, to avoid Heaven’s wrath. Stuttering through his sentences, always adding in ‘maybe’ or ‘hypothetically’ to soften the blow.
Aziraphale vaguely registered Crowley speaking his line as Lady Macbeth entered. His friend’s voice felt distant, as though there were a wall between the two that muffled all sound.
Yes, the other angels had never attacked him physically – at least not until Armageddon. But the pen is stronger than the sword.
No, that wasn’t fair to them. Angels were good – inherently. Sandalphon and Michael and Uriel were good. All of them. Aziraphale had done something wrong, that was why they hated him, why they attacked him with their words. They were just doing their job, of course.
Of course.
The next line Aziraphale spoke stood out to him, enough to shake him out of his daze. “We will proceed no further in this business.”
A voice loomed out of the static of his mind.
What you are doing is praise-worthy, Aziraphale, but obviously doomed to failure.
He shook his head, trying in vain to shake Gabriel’s words from his head.
Then the Metatron’s voice jumped into his thoughts.
The point is not to avoid a war. The point is to win it.
Just as Macbeth tried to make Lady Macbeth forget her ideas of treason, the other angels had tried to stop Aziraphale from betraying the Great Plan. It was for the Greater Good, after all.
But Aziraphale had done it anyway. He stopped Armageddon. He went against divine orders. He had forsaken Heaven, and God, and all that was right.
No wonder he had been sentenced to death.
You really think upstairs will take your call? You’re ridiculous.
An image flashed across his vision along with the words: Uriel’s face twisted into a sneer as the trio cornered Aziraphale in an alley.
It hurt. It hurt to never be taken seriously. It hurt to know that nobody really cared when you needed help.
It hurt to realise that you probably deserved that.
Aziraphale’s mouth stopped moving.
Rather abruptly, he realised that he was going to cry.
“Terribly sorry, Crowley,” he said, throat closing up. “But I- I’m afraid I need to cut our time short. I just remembered that I need to rearrange the science-fiction books before tomorrow.”
“The sci-fi books? Didn’t you do that last Wednesday, Angel?” Crowley sat forward, frowning. “What’s going on, Aziraphale? What’s wrong?
His voice was so soft and caring, in a way that it never was around other people, but Aziraphale could not cry here, now, in front of him.
“Oh, uh, well. I changed my mind! I liked them how they were before, actually, so I, um, really should be getting back now so I can fix that! I’ll make it up to you, Crowley, I promise, goodbye!”
Aziraphale turned sharply to hide the redness of his eyes and ran out of Crowley’s apartment.
The demon followed, wanting to drag the angel back inside and figure out what was wrong. But by the time he got outside, the busy street was empty of anyone who mattered. There were only faceless people with their hoods up against the rain as they went about their business.
Aziraphale had vanished.
***
Aziraphale stumbled into his shop, and practically collapsed by the front door the moment he got inside. Tears were blurring his vision. He didn’t need to hide them anymore, and suddenly it was as though he couldn’t if he tried.
His eyes streamed salt water, leaving cold, wet trails down his round cheeks where they passed and dripping from his chin, making a tiny puddle on the wooden floor. Soon enough, Aziraphale’s breathing turned to hitching sobs.
Lately it had felt like all he ever did was cry. Like as soon as he had a moment to himself, the tears would already be welling up.
Despite his suddenly inconsolable bawling, Aziraphale felt mostly relieved. It had been a near go, but he had gotten out of there before Crowley could stop him.
He’d never had such a close call. Over the recent months Crowley had definitely been noticing that something was off, but he’d never actually come this close to seeing Aziraphale cry. That might become an issue in future – the demon was too stubborn to just let it go – but it could be dealt with later.
It felt like something that he should be worrying about, but honestly? All Aziraphale felt was miserably numb. He was sobbing his eyes out, but he felt removed from the world, like nothing could really reach him.
The most important thing was that Aziraphale never truly cried in front of Crowley. Today was a close call, and he could never let himself get that far again. He could never break down and weep in front of his friend like he was doing now in the isolation of his home. Under no circumstances could he let that happen.
Because, despite all his protests to the contrary, the demon was kind. Too kind. Crowley would gather the angel up in his arms and hold him, comfort him, protect him from the world. On some level, Aziraphale was beginning to realise that there was very little Crowley wouldn’t do for him – and lord, did that terrify him.
The angel’s heart ached to be treated with such tenderness, to be loved cared for like that. But he could never have that. No matter what he so selfishly wanted.
Because Aziraphale was a holy being – his current estrangement from Heaven notwithstanding. As such, his whole body was sacred: every hair, every cell.
And that included his tears.
Crowley was kind. Too kind. He would scoop up the dolorous mess that Aziraphale had become and wipe the tears from his watery eyes. But Aziraphale’s tears were holy water – just one droplet would destroy the demon forever.
He would never let that happen. Crowley might be the one who would physically perish, but Aziraphale would never recover.
Sniffling, Aziraphale rose shakily from the floor. If he was no longer able to spend the time reading with Crowley, then he should get on with some work. That’s what he had told the demon he would be doing after all.
He really should feel worse about lying to his friend than he did. Just another example of what a useless angel he was.
He let out an emotionless chuckle, wiping a hand down the side of his face.
Just as he was about to shuffle away to get to work, a knock came from the door. He froze.
The knock came again, followed by a voice. “Aziraphale? It’s me!”
Aziraphale’s heart dropped. He knew Crowley was dubious about the lies, but he hadn’t expected to be chased down. What should he do? He couldn’t just turn his friend away, that would be more suspicious. But he couldn’t let Crowley in and just let him see him like this either.
Heart thundering, Aziraphale held his breath and prayed – no, not prayed, why should anyone bother to answer his prayer – hoped that the demon would get bored of waiting and leave.
Crowley knocked again, more insistent this time. “I know you’re in there, Aziraphale. Can I come in.”
Well, it looked like he had to face the music.
“Um, yes, I’m here,” he called. “I- I don’t have time to talk right now, apologies!”
“That bakery you like has started selling éclairs. I’ve got some here, we can try them together. Just open the door.”
Even amid his panic, Aziraphale couldn’t help but half melt at the sentence. He hadn’t said it explicitly, but Crowley had clearly gone out of his way to find something he’d like, as a peace offering of sorts. Too bad he couldn’t open the door – he could really do with some good food right now.
“I, er, really am very busy, Crowley,” he replied. “Lots of books to, um, do. Look, can we reschedule for another day?”
“Tell me what’s wrong, Angel, I can help.”
“Nothing’s wrong!” Aziraphale cried, far too quickly. “I, um, don’t know what you mean.”
“Please don’t lie to me, Angel. Not about this.”
And maybe it made him weak, but Aziraphale couldn’t help his shoulders sagging, like a puppet cut loose from its master. How could he refuse Crowley, especially when he begged in that heart-wrenchingly broken voice?
After a long pause, Aziraphale sighed and slumped onto his sofa, snapping his fingers. “The door’s open. You can come in.”
Crowley burst through the doorway, immediately casting his gaze about the room. His eyes landed on Aziraphale, and his face softened. Relief shone clear on the demon’s face, and Aziraphale’s heart ached for making him worry.
“Angel.” His friend said, and Aziraphale shut his eyes against the panic and nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. It was safer, in the darkness.
It was silent for a long time. A clatter came from another room – the kitchen, it was the only room in that direction – and the muffled sound of Crowley cursing. Aziraphale still couldn’t bring himself to look.
“Aziraphale,” the demon was in front of him now, murmuring his name with such gentleness that the angel had to hold back a sob.
He opened his eyes to see a plate being held out in front of him, an éclair sitting in the centre.
He took hold of the plate with trembling hands, glancing up at Crowley and quickly back down to the dessert. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Crowley sat in a squishy armchair with his own plate, very obviously being careful not to take the one opposite Aziraphale and make him feel interrogated. They ate quietly, no noise but the soft sounds of them enjoying their food. The dessert was sweet, chocolatey. A nice reprieve from the salt of his tears. It was…peaceful. Strangely.
It felt like a cruel parody of what they were supposed to be doing now – sitting in near silence and enjoying each other’s company. And while he loved having Crowley there, the tension in the room wouldn’t let Aziraphale relax. His friend’s worry and curiosity were palpable, and dread laid heavy in the angel’s stomach.
Crowley’s sunglasses left only two blank voids where his eyes should be – it was impossible to make out his expression behind them. Even so, Aziraphale easily recognised the tension that accompanied his friend’s every movement. It only made him more terrified in turn.
Finally, Crowley spoke up, breaking that suffocating serenity. “What’s going on, Aziraphale?”
Dismay filled the angel. He just wanted to go back a few seconds, and sit in that timeless space again, when the question hadn’t yet been asked and everything was fine.
“And don’t say it’s nothing,” Crowley continued, “because I know that something is wrong. I’m beginning to suspect that you haven’t been… okay for a long time.”
Some distant part of Aziraphale was panicking. There was a tiny version of him banging on the walls of his own skull with tiny fists and crying tiny cries. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to have this conversation.
But he didn’t have much of a choice anymore. There was no avoiding this any longer.
“I’ve just been… thinking about things, that’s all.”
“What things?” The demon continued to press.
“Just… things. It’s, well, it’s not a big deal, Crowley, really.”
“Whatever it is, we can deal with it together. You just need to let me in.”
Aziraphale forced an empty smile to your face. “Well, I already opened the door for you! What more do you want?” He gave a small chuckle, hoping to cover his discomfort.
Crowley didn’t return his smile. He just continued to gaze at the other, solemn and concerned. The serious expression felt so unnatural on his face, it deeply unsettled Aziraphale. His weak attempt at joking trailed off into a pathetic silence.
“Please.” Crowley pleaded softly. “Talk to me, Angel.”
“Don’t call me that,” Aziraphale snapped without thinking.
“What? I- okay,” Crowley said, a frown on his face and a wounded waver in his voice. “But- what’s wrong with ‘Angel’?”
It hurt, to see the pain that Crowley was so clearly trying to hide from him. Crowley had always called him that, it was a special nickname just for him and Aziraphale. Of course he wouldn’t like to hear his friend reject it so harshly. But the words were out in the air now, and no matter how much he regretted it, Aziraphale couldn’t take them back.
He just couldn’t bear iit. He just couldn’t handle hearing such a fond nickname said in such a fond tone and knowing how deeply wrong it was. How little he deserved it.
Aziraphale sighed. He wasn’t getting out of this – and maybe it was time he spoke about these things anyway. “I just… I don’t understand how you can still call me that.” He replied.
“Because… it’s a term of endearment? Because I,” Crowley swallowed, “I care about you.”
“Well, yes, of course,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle despite the pain in his chest. “But I’m not really an angel any longer. I doubt that I ever was one, in actuality.”
“What?” his friend demanded, utter disbelief in his voice. “Of course you were! You still are!”
“You’re wrong, Crowley.”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong, Ang- Aziraphale. I know a thing or two about Falling.” The demon argued. He pushed his sunglasses up his forehead, and fixed his friend with an acute stare. “You never Fell, so you’re still an angel. Besides, you’re not exactly very demonic in the first place.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I could be a demon if I wanted to.” Aziraphale false pouted, hoping to draw Crowley back into their usual banter.
“No, you really couldn’t. I mean, look at you! You’re like a giant teddy-bear, definitely not cut out for the whole temptation and damnation thing.”
Aziraphale huffed. “Maybe you’re right. But I’m not really an angel either. I was rubbish at it! First, I gave away my flaming sword – Heaven was not pleased about that, let me tell you. So I lied about it – to God! And that’s another thing – I’m always lying! Anytime I don’t want someone to know something, I’ll just lie. Lying is sin, I’m not supposed to lie! I lied to the other angels constantly, especially about Armageddon. Don’t even get me started on Armageddon,” Aziraphale cried while Crowley looked on, frozen at the sight of his best friend’s agony. “The work of six-thousand years and I managed to ruin it in less than a week! I was supposed to fight, I was supposed to be a soldier, but instead I was a traitor,” His voice cracked. “Working with the- the opposition to betray my own people. I never should have been put on Earth.”
Finally, Crowley spoke up. “That’s not true. You were put on Earth to protect it. That’s exactly what you did. There’s nothing ethical,” he spat, throwing his hands in the air, “about destroying a whole planet just to settle an archaic argument. You did the right thing. God has no right to complain, not when you saved countless lives of Thons own creatures.”
“Oh Xe certainly does have the right!” Aziraphale insisted. “God dictates what should happen in the universe, and I just went against the Great Plan like it was just a rough draft and not the destiny of the entire world! All because I, I allowed a demon to tempt me.”
There was a beat. Aziraphale didn’t dare breathe.
“Tempt you? Is that what you think I did? Tempt you? Tempt you into what, friendship?”
Silence.
There it was. That was the heart of the matter. Long before Armageddon had even begun, Aziraphale had always had that niggling doubt that maybe his companionship with Crowley was not as innocent as he liked to pretend. He had even gone so far as to tell the demon that, multiple times. Because demons were supposed to be evil, and while it was easy to forget it in the moment – when just being near Crowley softened the world’s edges and made his heart light up – the fact of the matter was that Crowley was a demon. He didn’t have the mental strength to end their sacrilegious friendship, but he certainly felt the sting of shame when he was alone.
Even so, this was only supposed to be a quiet but malevolent voice in the back of his mind. An echo of a guilt that only he knew of. After that day at the gazebo, when he cried “we’re not friends”, after hearing the pain in Crowley’s voice when he said “I lost my best friend”, Aziraphale had vowed to keep that thought to himself.
He couldn’t just leave it there. He needed to say something. “I. Crowley. We were never supposed to be friends.”
“And why not?”
“You know why!”
“I thought we’d gotten past this, Aziraphale! The whole ‘your side, our side’ thing was bullshit. Why should we distance ourselves over such an arbitrary distinction as angel and demon? Heaven and Hell, they were just as bad as each other, but in different ways. We both know this! And then there was you, who saw all the beauty that this world had to offer, and you might have taken some convincing, but deep down you knew that you couldn’t just let it be destroyed,” Crowley was speaking so softly, in voice that nobody else ever got to hear, and Aziraphale suddenly became aware of the warmth pooling behind his eyes. “Heaven and Hell were both evil, Aziraphale, they both only wanted to win, with no care for who they hurt. You’re far more angelic than any of us could ever hope to be. How could I not want to get closer to someone who shines and burns and loves as deeply as you do? That’s why we were always going to be friends, whether we ‘should’ be or not.”
“But… I’m not angelic, Crowley. Don’t you understand that?” Aziraphale blinked hard to clear his blurring vision. “I wasn’t angelic enough, and I was- I was thrown out for it.”
“I’ve known you for over six millennia. They didn’t even bother to get to know you.” Crowley smirked. “Why trust their judgement over mine?”
“Because you… you’re wrong.” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped, suddenly tired. “You’re just wrong.”
“Why? What is this dastardly, awful, un-angelic thing that you’ve done to make you worse than those Heavenly dickheads? Whatever it is, just tell me and I’ll show you why it’s not bad at all.”
“I, um,” Aziraphale cast around, looking for a way to explain to Crowley, to make him understand. He just needed to find something he’d done that Crowley hadn’t already explained away. But there wasn’t much left for him to grasp at. “I… I sully the temple of my celestial body with… gross matter.”
Crowley made a sound of disbelief. “With what? ‘Gross matter’? You mean food?” Aziraphale nodded. “Where did you hear that?”
“It was just… something that Gabriel said once.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous. You’re allowed to enjoy food, Aziraphale. What’s the point of being given a body if you don’t use it to enjoy the world?” Crowley huffed, clearly imagining all the terrible kinds of revenge he could enact on Gabriel – eternal starvation, maybe, like Tantalus. The punishment should always fit the crime, after all. “Besides, I’m not sure I would listen to anyone going on about ‘celestial bodies’,” he said the phrase in a mockingly airy voice, “when their face looks like a cat’s arsehole.”
Aziraphale spluttered. His laughter slowly grew tearier – which was bad, for some reason, but he just couldn’t remember why – until he was weeping openly.
“Oh,” said Crowley, his voice gentle and oh so achingly tender. “Oh, Angel. I mean- Aziraphale.”
“It’s okay, you can,” he took a breath. “You can call me Angel if you want.”
Crowley beamed, bright and joyful, and something inside Aziraphale’s heart beamed with him despite his tears.
“Alright, Angel. Now, c’mere.” Crowley slid out of the armchair and knelt before his friend.
He reached a hand out to Aziraphale’s face and the angel found himself unconsciously leaning towards his palm, tears still streaming down his face.
Then he remembered: he could not let Crowley touch his tears.
He jerked back from the demon’s outstretched fingertips just in time to avoid a real life tragedy.
Crowley frowned. “What’s wrong, Angel?”
“You can’t- my tears, they’re holy water.” Aziraphale hiccuped through an explanation, still sobbing and heart pounding at the near disaster. You mustn’t touch me, Crowley, it would destroy you!”
“Oh, is that all?” Crowley chuckled and snapped his fingers. A pair of yellow dish gloves appeared on his hands. He frowned, “not exactly my usual style, but they’ll do the job.”
This time, when Crowley’s gloved hand met his face, Aziraphale pushed his cheek into it. His tears, which had all but dried up after the sudden shock of adrenaline, soon began to leak from his eyes once again.
Crowley’s thumb swiped away each and every droplet, gentle and diligent, painstaking in his task. He murmured comforts and sweet nothings, soothing the ache in his angel’s heart.
“You’re too kind to me, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered.
“No, ‘m not too kind, Angel. I’m a demon, remember? It’s just that everyone else in your life has been far too cruel to you.” Crowley smiled sadly. You deserve to have a friend who cares for you, Aziraphale. And I’m more than happy to be that.”
Aziraphale’s heart practically melted at the warmth in those words. He surged forwards to embrace his demon and held him tightly.
The couple found themselves on the sofa together. Crowley had gingerly peeled off Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and laid the angel’s head in his lap. The demon was reading quietly from a random poetry book that he found on the shelves. The words themselves didn’t matter, just his soft murmuring tone, but he tried to choose calm poems anyway, happy poems, ones about nature and joy and the open air. His long fingers teased gently through the angel’s hair, a soothing reminder of comfort and safety. Golden slitted eyes switched between tracking the words on the page and watching over his angel protectively. Aziraphale let Crowley’s soft voice and softer fingers in his hair lead him by the hand into a deep sleep.
For a moment, he could believe it. That he was not a bad angel, just too good of one. That Heaven’s treatment of him was a fault in them, not himself. That this was the path the Almighty had always planned for him, that when Fae looked down on him, They were not disappointed, but proud.
Aziraphale found comfort in Crowley's steady presence, and the love he found in it. And perhaps that wasn’t so bad anyway. What could be so wrong about this quiet support, this undying devotion between them?
This strange, emotional security wouldn’t last. Doubts could easily crawl back in and poison his thoughts. But Aziraphale didn’t need to face them alone. Because now, he had his best friend by his side.
He had Crowley.