Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

God’s a bit tetchy, Aziraphale once said. 

Back when the Earth was new (or, at the very least, newer) She had wiped out humanity (or at least a fraction thereof, in the region in question) simply because She was angry with them and they needed to be erased and have a new beginning. She did that a lot; something went wrong, and She tossed out the rough drafts, as it were, and started fresh.

Lucifer and his friends were getting uppity? Strike them from Heaven, no forgiveness. No second chances. Not even a warning.

Adam and Eve ate a forbidden apple? Kick them out of Eden and into an unforgiving world. 

Trouble in Gamorrah? Smite everyone and turn them to salt. Throw Sodom in there as well.

Noah’s Ark? Drown everyone else in the nearby area and put up a rainbow once it was finished, as a not-apology—as a promise not to drown them all again.

God’s a bit tetchy, and She always has been.

She has, perhaps, mellowed with time. She hasn’t erased anyone or anything in such a long time now, not because they aren’t doing bad in the world—humans have free will and can choose darkness, after all, that is the entire point of having choices—but because She has, perhaps, mellowed. Or, at the very least, She understands better now what irritated Her so very much in the Beginning.

Human authors have such struggles, She thinks, when creating their own narratives. Their characters—beings created from their mind and breathed into life by their careful wording—can be awfully disobedient, and She has heard of the struggles of writers for eons. This has helped Her to realise how wrong She might have been, in the Beginning. 

She breathed life into the angels. She breathed life into the universe—into everything. Before Her, there was nothing but an empty expanse of darkness, wide and never-ending, and from Her, all was created. She put Her grace into everything as She made it so, and when Her creations disobeyed Her or doubted Her, She cast them out or deleted them, and tried again.

Lucifer and his band of followers Fell and Hell was created as their punishment. Then She created humanity, Her greatest creation yet, and they too disobeyed Her. 

But according to all the writers whom have passed through Heaven, all the best characters gain a life of their own. They disobey their authors because they have become real, in their own ways.

This gave Her much to think about, and perhaps She has been rather quiet lately, speaking very seldom to any angel despite how much they try to reach Her. Time has no true meaning in Heaven, as it is for eternity, and while She was locked away thinking on the meaning of Life and how Her creations might have become Real, time ticked away steadily.

Suddenly it is time for Armageddon. She starts paying attention again and quickly gets caught up on what has occurred, and what is currently happening. She is all knowing, after all, even if She wasn't paying attention before—She has perfect recall.

Angels without feeling. Without care for humanity, Her greatest creation, that which She instructed them to Love above all else. Angels were meant to watch over and protect humanity, just as the demons found meaning in tempting them away from Her plans.

She does not like what She sees. What She hears and feels from Her angels.

Gabriel’s attempt at bringing a demon into Heaven to kill a fellow angel with hellfire is the last straw, really.

Heaven needs rewritten and revised. The characters are not Real, have not come into their own, and this is unacceptable. 

She starts, as She will end, with Aziraphale.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale is an angel—that’s been his identity the entirety of his life thus far, and it’s not something he ever thought could change. It hasn’t changed, really; he hasn’t Fallen, somehow, but he doesn’t quite feel like an angel anymore, either. Angels report to Heaven, after all; he does not. Angels don’t caught up in silly things like emotions; he does. Angels don’t disobey; he did.

He’s still an angel, technically; his feathers are still white as ever, he still has his angelic powers and grace, and he can still feel Her love nestled inside of him, ceaseless and never-ending. He can still feel good things happening around him; can still sense when someone is bursting with love, can still feel the energy of certain places, can still sense demons if they get close enough. 

He’s still an angel.

This does not make him feel better. He is something which he does not feel he deserves, and he isn’t sure why he hasn’t Fallen yet. He didn’t question Her, not really, so he hasn’t Fallen. He didn’t doubt her, just the need for some silly war which would literally destroy Her creations. She told the angels to love humanity as they had loved her, and Aziraphale did. So he did not think She truly wanted the humans erased from existence, whatever might have been written. If it was a plan which was known, then obviously it couldn’t be the ineffable plan as well, now could it? Because to be ineffable means it can’t be understood or known, so therefore, this war didn’t need to happen. 

It’s a roundabout way of telling himself he did the right thing. If you do Right, you are Good. And if you do Wrong, you are Bad—those are the basics for what separates angels and demons, right? He didn’t do wrong, he did what he thought was right, and hopefully it really was the Right thing to do. It must have been, because he didn’t Fall.

Even after tricking Heaven and Hell as he and Crowley did, he still didn’t Fall. Somehow, he thought that might have done the trick—fooling Heaven, as it were. He was lying outright at that point; he let a demon stroll into Heaven unsupervised. Said demon was walking in his angelic corporation, even. He lied to the Heavenly host. To his superiors. To everyone.

And yet he did not Fall.

He can’t help but worry about what this means. He is still an angel, filled with Her grace and love, still connect to Heaven and everything that entails. He’s also not still an angel—he doesn’t report to Heaven anymore, he lied to his fellow brothers and sisters, and he has spent 6000 years fraternising with a demon. The demon who tempted humanity to sin in the first place, even. Angels and demons are hereditary enemies, but Crowley has never been dangerous to him. He’s never been dangerous to Crowley, either, despite how much a part of him knows he should have been. He is an angel, after all; angels smite demons and demons hate angels. 

Except that’s not always the case. The demon who slithered up onto the wall next to him and took a human form to speak with him was not a threat—not then, not now, not ever. Crowley has never been a threat to him, and he has never once felt the urge to smite the demon, despite the fact he knows, deep down, that if his superiors knew then of his inability to rid the Earth of the first demon to poke their head up onto solid ground, they would have cast him out there and then. Maybe they wouldn’t have killed him—they didn’t have access to hellfire at the time, and were unwilling to cooperate with their sworn enemies—but they certainly would have recalled him to Heaven and not let him leave again until they were certain of his loyalty. Until he could smite a demon on sight.

It’s a worrisome thought. It didn’t happen, of course; Heaven had no reason to distrust the sole agent assigned to watch over Earth and spread peace and love amongst the humans. Loyalty was never in question because those who doubted Her word had already Fallen. They never checked in as they should have; not until he made the mistake of questioning orders. Then they looked through the Earth observation files and figured out he was fraternising with a demon and had been all along, and they said he was a Fallen Angel. 

Except, he didn’t Fall. He still hasn’t Fallen.

And he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t want to Fall, of course. Crowley rarely speaks of the Fall himself, but Aziraphale knows it was a dreadful occurrence, and he can’t imagine a life where Her love is ripped away from him and he’s cast out from the only home he’s ever known. He doesn’t know what he is if not an angel, a being of peace and love. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than what he’s always been, and the thought of Falling has always horrified him—but now he finds himself checking his feathers regularly, searching for any hint of darkness, any hint of burnt feathers, anything which might point to him Falling. Heaven wants little to do with him, but it appears he’s still an angel.

What does it mean? Is She okay with what has happened? Was it part of Her ineffable plan all along? Did She want the war to be stopped? Or did She want it to continue? No one has spoken with Her in such a long time; the closest he himself got was speaking with the Metatron, the only one who has heard Her voice in so long. Is She angry with them all? Is She disappointed in him?

His is familiar with being a disappointment, of course. Gabriel has made that quite clear through the millennia. Aziraphale was too nice, too gullible, too stupid—and a slew of other words with negative connotations. He was never good enough, and he is quite familiar with being a disappointment. But the thought of Her being disappointed in him as well… It eats at him. 

He’s still an angel, so She can’t be too upset with him, can She? She would have tossed him out, same as the others, if he was truly a lost cause. 

Lost cause.

Are any of Her children really lost causes? Crowley certainly still has good in him, despite how much he believes ‘nice’ to be a four-letter word which can never, ever, apply to him. Crowley has certainly been kinder to Aziraphale than the other angels, at the very least—but maybe that’s a flaw within himself, and not the other angels. If Aziraphale was simply better, if he was simply more, they wouldn’t be so disappointed in him all the time, now would they? So why, then, did Crowley Fall and Aziraphale has not?

It gnaws at him, this question, this worry. This guilt. 

Crowley asked too many questions and Fell—that’s all he really says on the matter, whenever it is brought up. He doesn’t speak of Falling, not really, but he is Good and deep down, he is kinder than most of the angels Aziraphale has known, and even perhaps kinder than Aziraphale himself, who is still, somehow, an angel.

Crowley cared for kids even if God determined them a lost cause, after all. He saved who he could when Noah’s Ark rose in the waters, and Aziraphale… didn’t.

He wasn’t told to save them. And good angels did as they were told.

But it’s best to not question Her. She chose for Crowley and the others to Fall, and She must have decided to keep Aziraphale an angel despite his lies and treachery, and that must mean something. 

He’s not sure what it means—but everything happens for a reason. It must. He clings to this fact.

It’s just not enough.

He doesn’t doubt Her. It’s never been about doubting Her. He just doubted orders sometimes and had his own questions, which he never outright asked or anything—he just felt them, in his soul. Why did the kids have to drown when the desert flooded? Why did Jesus have to die in such a way? Why did Gomorrah have to happen? Why did the world need to end?

He had so many questions, but he didn’t give voice to them. If there’s one thing he knows about Upstairs, it’s that they do not like questions. So he never outright questioned anything which was said to him—never disobeyed orders, never doubted Her, or anything like that. At least, not intentionally. He might have doubted some orders or decisions, but he never thought She was wrong. She was all knowing, after all; She knew best. She always did. She still does.

And She must want him to remain an angel, or he would have Fallen by now. 

It doesn’t stop his circle of questions—and doubts—in his mind. 

Why am I still an angel, when Crowley Fell? 

It gnaws at him—the guilt. He doesn’t deserve this position, he doesn’t deserve the title of angel. Crowley has good inside of him, and apparently his only real sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and asking questions. Yet She still cast him out with the others, and Aziraphale can only imagine the horrors Crowley faced on his way down, and what came after. Demons weren’t known for being friendly, after all, and Crowley must have been so dreadfully lonely—lonely enough to strike up a conversation with an angel atop a wall surrounding Eden, after all. 

It gnaws at him. It haunts him. 

He is unworthy.

Monday dawns like any other day. It’s a dreary morning, rain pelting the windows with little patters of sound, cars splash water as they drive through the streets, and all in all, it’s a perfect day to sit around and read a good book. Normally, this is what Aziraphale would do on rainy days. He’d huddle in his favourite chair with a blanket draped around him and a cup of tea at his side, and he’d read the day away. 

He has no such aspirations today.

Rainy days are best spent indoors, but today he has a rather sudden urge to leave the bookshop. It’s not a nice day by any means, not really; most humans hate rainy days. Or, rather, they detest being outside in the wetness, but enjoy spending the time indoors, and it’s a trait Aziraphale has come to enjoy himself. 

But not today.

He’s not sure why he wants to stretch his legs today of all days. He could miracle himself into anywhere he truly needs to be, but he just doesn’t feel the urge to do that. He also doesn’t feel the need to call a taxi. He just… feels the urge to take a good walk. Just a couple blocks. 

Yes. A couple blocks. 

He’s not sure what is so important about the building at the end of that block down the street. Maybe it’s the way the dreary gray sky catches against it, or the way the rain falls off it, or maybe Aziraphale just has an interest in architecture today. It’s been known to happen occasionally. Sudden spurts of interest, that is. Sometimes curiosity gets the better of him. But there is something about this building which calls to him, and he doesn’t know why.

He leaves his shop at half past ten and strides into the rain. A few people are out and about, though they have umbrellas and are hurrying through the rain, eager to get out of the wetness. Humans don’t seem to enjoy being wet from the rain, which has always baffled Aziraphale at least to some degree. After all, they enjoy showers, baths, and swimming, but they detest getting rained on? It boggles the mind, really.

Rain pelts him from above and soon his hair is a wet mess but that’s the least of his worries. The closer he gets to the building a couple blocks down the street, the more… urgent everything feels. He quickens his pace, and is soon running toward the building. Something inside the building is screaming—not physically, but there is a cry all the same, and Aziraphale can’t let it be. He can’t let any suffering continue.

He’s uncertain if the door was unlocked or if he miracles it open—maybe it doesn’t matter, as his mind is already elsewhere. It’s a mostly abandoned building; boarded up windows, empty flooring. Perhaps it was a factory at some point, but now it feels cold and lifeless—save for a spark of pain up ahead. 

Angels can sense certain things. Aziraphale has been on this Earth for a very long time—since it was created, even—and he has trained himself to sense love, happiness, peace—all those good things which warms him from the inside out. He’s also grown accustomed to feeling negative sensations as well—such as fear, pain, and grief. He tries not to think of those feelings, though, as they weigh in him quite heavily and he can’t always fix those issues. Grief is born from loss, and he can’t bring back the dead. He can only heal someone from so much pain before Upstairs gets upset with him. 

Something in this building is terrified.

Something. Someone.

It’s a person. A human. A soul. 

It’s wailing with its suffering. A single keening cry, low yet so very loud at the same time. It drowns out all other sound until it becomes a beacon in its own right. Aziraphale flits through the empty floors of the building, but he knows, somehow, that his destination is up. Now that he’s sensed a suffering soul he can’t just leave, after all. The soul is up.

It doesn’t take long to climb to the roof of the building. It is four stories high and rain patters against the partially opened door leading to the roof. Aziraphale pushes it open, looking around for the wailing soul, and finds a young girl standing there—at the edge of the roof. Looking ready to jump.

Aziraphale steps forward slowly. “Um, excuse me,” he says, worried the poor thing will fall if she’s not careful. “Can you… step away from the edge, please?”

“No,” the girl says. She can’t be more than twenty, barely out of her teens, and she eyes the ground below. “I have to do this.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer. She shifts at his approach and he stops just long enough for her to relax again, not wishing to spook her. “No one has to do anything like this.”

“I want to do this.”

“That’s a lie, my dear,” Aziraphale tells her gently, stepping just a little closer. Another step or so and he can grab her, but she’s coiled and ready to jump and he can’t let that happen. Her soul is screaming at him—all twisted pain, grief, agony, heartache, despair, hatred, just end it already— “Oh, my poor girl. No. This is not the way.”

A sob wrenches from her throat. It sounds akin to the metaphysical wailing which is still ringing in his ears. “I just—j-just need to—”

She slips.

Aziraphale surges forward with supernatural speed and wraps his arms around the girl, yanking her back on the edge of the roof. She huddles against him, sobbing and shaking so violently, and Aziraphale’s arms come around her as he shushes her. His hands card through her tangled hair and trace small, soothing circles on her back until she stops crying enough to speak.

She pulls back and wipes at her red eyes. “I—I—I have no home,” she says tearfully, gaze flickering back to the edge. “I’ve been… b-been crashing here, an-and I just… I just wanted it to stop…” She screws her eyes shut, tears streaming down her cheeks from the corners of them.

Aziraphale lifts his hand to press to her forehead. She flinches, but only momentarily—his soothing magic calms her, and a sense of peace washes over the both of them. Now that her soul isn’t screaming at him so much, he pulls back and offers his hand to her, smiling gently. 

“Hello, it is very nice to meet you,” he says softly, like if he speaks too loud, this soul will shatter. “Although I wish it could have been under better circumstances. My name is Aziraphale.”

“ ‘Ziraphale,” she repeats. She blinks at him slowly, like she’s about to doze off, but her tense muscles have relaxed and the tears are starting to stop, which he hopes is a good sign. Then she seems to realise he’s waiting for something. “Oh, uh, my name’s Allie.”

“It is very nice to meet you, my dear. Now, can you tell me why you thought… ending your life was a good idea?”

Life is sacred, after all. All life. She poured a bit of Herself into everyone and everything and Aziraphale cannot imagine a world where killing oneself is the only answer. 

Allie’s brown eyes skitter away and start to water again. Oh dear. 

He waves his hand, twitches his fingers. “Yes, that’s it, nice and calm. Yes, there we are. No tears necessary, not today.”

She swallows and her expression relaxes again. “How… do you do that?”

I’m an angel, is what he should say, but currently his status with Heaven is rather complicated, so he simply says, “I’m only here to help. I sensed you were in some trouble up here, dear girl, and I was right! Could you have imagined if you’d jumped or fallen?”

“That was the point.”

Aziraphale huffs. “First of all, this is a rather poor choice of building for a jumping attempt, and—wait, no, I’m not giving you ideas, forget I said anything about that. Secondly, would you like some tea?”

She stares at him for a moment. “T…Tea?”

“Yes, my dear. Do you like tea? Oh, terribly sorry, I should have asked. I have other things as well, at the shop, and—”

“Shop?”

“I am going quite fast right now, aren’t I?” He doesn’t wait for her nod. All he knows is his feet really want to take him home right now, and he’s more than ready to put this meeting, and this morning, out of his mind. He still doesn’t know what dragged him here, to this building or to this soul, but he is very glad that he came across her before she could end her life. He pushes to his feet and holds his hand out to the dear girl still on her knees, trembling as she looks up at him. “I have a bookshop around the corner,” he tells her. “A. Z. Fell—”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, yes! I’ve seen it. You must be the owner.” She nods slowly, like something connects in her mind. “Yes, that must be why you seem… familiar. I’ve never gone inside, mind you, but I thought it looked a lovely shop, and—” Here, she stops, her cheeks reddening slightly. It is certainly a better look than the pallor of before, as some life returns to her eyes and she stands as well, accepting his hand. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“No need to thank me, my dear,” he tells her. “I couldn’t very well leave you suffering here, now could I?”

“How did you know I was here?” She asks softly.

I’m an angel, he thinks again, but still holds his tongue on that regard. “I’m here to help,” he reminds her, and allows just a little more of his grace to slip around and inside of her, calming her fears. She leans toward him unconsciously, sucked in by the warmth, and he smiles at her, patting her hand. “Would you care to join me in my shop?”

She nods almost absently, eyes half-lidded and near dozing. Angels can have that effect on people sometimes, especially if they exude nothing but calm energy, which he has been doing to ease her troubled mind. It is a skill he hasn’t used in many, many years, since he was actively defending someone or protecting someone. Lately, he’s been rather tied to his bookshop and his life, such that it is, in Soho, when not reporting back to Heaven. 

Heaven. The thought twists his stomach as he recalls Crowley’s words of his trial, or lack-thereof. He did not get a trial, really; it was a hidden execution at best, and at worst it was outright murder of a fellow angel. He honestly didn’t think the angels had it in them to do such things, as that is something more expected from Hell and its denizens rather than the Heavenly host. Shame twists his stomach then. Just because they were cast out of Heaven, it does not mean all demons are bad, or that they are prone to murder.

Crowley, for example, is anything but Bad. 

And Aziraphale, for all that he is of Heaven, is not inherently Good. Not always. 

Thinking of Crowley’s sham of a trial in Hell, he knows he has a Bad side, for all that he fights it. It gnaws at him.

Allie does not need to know any of this right now, though. She might not know she is in the presence of an angel (or, at the very least, a facsimile of one), but she does know she is Safe. And Loved. Aziraphale lets his core fill with his love for this poor troubled soul, and lets the calm energy seep out of him and into her, surrounding her like a thick cotton blanket, protective and warm. She smiles as they leave the run-down building and head toward the bookshop.

As she steps over the threshold into distinctly angel territory, the last of the tension bleeds form her shoulders and she stops there, just inside the shop, eyes falling shut as she turns her face skyward and just breathes. The pain slips from her face, her soul stops twisting and aching, and Aziraphale moves to catch her as she turns back toward him, eyes full of tears once more.

“Oh, dear,” he says without thinking. “That should have worked. I am so sorry. Here, let me…” He pours more love toward her, against her, everything he has left to give, and her tears come faster. That’s certainly never happened before. What am I doing wrong? 

She clutches at him and sobs into his shoulder. “Thank you,” she wheezes. “Thank you.”

“My dear, you don’t need to thank—”

“There’s just… so much… love…”

Oh, Aziraphale thinks, as he holds onto her. These must be happy tears. 

This still has never happened before. He has all the grace and love of an angel, but humans don’t sense all of it. They can’t. Angels love everything around them, as they are told to, but humans shouldn’t be able to sense it as such. They should just feel a calm settle over them, a sense of safety. 

They shouldn’t feel the Love.

“What are you?” She asks after several moments, pulling away enough to wipe at her red eyes. “An angel?”

Aziraphale doesn’t have words to answer her, then. She certainly shouldn’t be able to tell he’s an angel. He is an angel, but not much of one. “I… My dear girl, I’m just—here to help.”

“You saved me,” she says, smiling warmly at him. “You care.”

“Of course I care,” Aziraphale says, astonished at the thought that he might not care about a soul crying out to him. He cares about all of humanity, the good and the bad, as he has done for millennia. That is his job, but somehow, it’s more than that as well.

He just… appreciates humanity. The simplicity, yet complexity, of their free will. The freedom to choose. They aren’t inherently Good or Evil, they simply are, and somehow, that is lightyears better than anything else.

“Are you an angel?” Allie is nothing if not persistent, it seems, and now there’s determination blazing in her eyes, and it so much better to see that present in her gaze than the empty void of before. 

“I suppose I am,” he says finally. To say no would be an outright lie, and he can’t do that to this poor girl. Even if he doesn’t feel like an angel half the time these days, he still is one. A poor example of one, surely, but he still has all the grace of an angel. He presses his palm to her forehead. “Sleep, dear one, and dream of whatever you like best.”

She drops instantly, and guilt gnaws at him for it, but humans aren’t supposed to know that at least one angel walks among them. He catches her before she falls, and, using a little of his grace, easily glimpses her surface thoughts. 

She was kicked out of her home two weeks ago. Since then she’s been staying in that run-down building, slowly losing all hope. She’s been suffering in that building for weeks now, so close to his shop, and Aziraphale hasn’t once noticed her presence, until today.

Until he got the sudden urge he desperately needed to be somewhere, that it was vitally important, and he went walking in the rain. A chill flits through him at the thought of being too late to save this poor soul, and he carefully places her on his couch.

This poor girl needs a home. She can’t stay here, obviously; she can’t even remember meeting Aziraphale, really. He’ll leave the memories of love and peace behind, but let her forget the rest. Aziraphale is just a feeling in her mind now—a sense of safety without a name, without a bookshop, without anything. As it should be, because really, he can’t be this poor girl’s first experience of angelic divinity and love. 

He is a poor excuse for an angel, after all.

“Now, where to put you, dear girl…”

He leaves Allie with a women’s shelter across town. They help victims of abuse and help them to get back on their feet, which is certainly what she needs right now. They will understand her position and will help her through it.

Aziraphale will be a memory—not a person, not even a concept, just a feeling of safety. She will forget about their encounter and will wake up in the shelter, assuming she, in her desperation, found her way there herself, because she is so much stronger than she thinks. 

And that, as they say, will be that.

It is not, in fact, that. 

Allie has found faith. And she prays to the one who saved her.

She prays directly to Aziraphale. Angel she should have absolutely no memory of, and she certainly shouldn’t remember his name of all things. And she most definitely shouldn’t be praying to him.

Oh, dear.  

Chapter Text

Being free from Hell means Crowley is free to do whatever he wants, and what he usually wants is to slither inside the bookshop in Soho and curl up on that old couch and drink the time away with Aziraphale, now that they are on Their Side and report to no one.

Too much of their time has already been spent hiding away from each other, shying away from every little forward step of their relationship, because of fear of what their respective sides would think and do to them if they were to find out. They were always going to find out, though, and to be honest that is what always scared Crowley the most. 

My lot don’t send rude notes. 

If the demons caught wind of the fact he was hanging around an angel and not fighting them, not trying to destroy said angel, he would of course be recalled to Hell and punished. Perhaps an eternity in the deepest pit or something of the like, something to hurt him, yet he still risked this very thing happening time and again to rescue the angel.

His angel.

Demons are possessive by nature—it’s a flaw in their design, really, wanting things they can’t possibly have. Or maybe that’s just part of their eternal punishment. They become possessive of things and people—oh that, that’s my target, that is, they’re mine, bugger off. That’s my seat in Hell, thank you very little, and how dare you even think of stealing my temptation?

In Crowley’s case, he’s only ever been truly possessive over one thing. His job doesn’t quite matter to him, never has, except in that prideful sort of way. He’s the one who tempted humans to the first sin, after all, and that’s a lot to live up to, that is. It is a matter of pride. He is Hell’s sole agent on Earth and that, as they say, is that.

Some demons tried to change this. They failed. They always failed.

The job was his. But more than that, the angel was his. And he would not tolerate other demons trying to get their grubby hands on said angel, could not fathom a world where they were the sole agent on Earth, stuck there with Aziraphale until the end of time. No, that was his job, and that is his angel, and Crowley can finally say all of this out loud at long last. 

His angel.

Because they’re on their own side now. Their Side. Not aligned with Heaven or Hell, but simply with each other, and it is the greatest freedom of all.

So Crowley spends the majority of his time at the bookshop, or at the park with Aziraphale, or at the Ritz with Aziraphale, or—well, anywhere with Aziraphale. Because they have that option now. To not be alone, to finally be together in a way they were never allowed to be before. 

They’re finally free.

So when he pulls up outside the bookshop and sees the closed sign and the lights off in said bookshop, he doesn’t immediately panic. At least outwardly. Aziraphale is free, after all, and is allowed to do things without Crowley. It’s just that the angel is typically the epitome of a home-body and rarely leaves his shop. And when he does take leave of his precious shop, he makes sure to tell Crowley of his plans and why he is being pulled away so Crowley can keep an eye on his precious books. 

There’s been no such call, no exchange of plans, but again—Aziraphale is free to do as he pleases. Maybe he got peckish and nipped over to France for some crepes; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

So Crowley lets himself into the bookshop. It’s not miracled shut, after all, which means he’s at least invited inside, despite the angel’s absence. If Aziraphale really wanted to keep him out, he could. He’s an angel after all. It’s not terribly hard to ward his shop against demons—he just doesn’t, because he enjoys the company of a demon.

Guilt gnaws at him then. Flashes of the bookshop in flames play behind his eyes and he takes in a slow, steady breath as he passes through the rows of books within the shop. He thought it was hellfire then—it wasn’t, of course, but in that moment he thought it was, and he was certain he’d mucked things up enough and lost the angel for good. In the worst way possible. And it was made all the worse because Aziraphale’s shop should have been protected against demons, but it wasn’t because Crowley popped in too often and Aziraphale would never want to hurt him.

Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not unless strictly necessary, and only to protect someone else. 

And in that moment, as he stood in a burning bookshop, it had been completely his fault that the angel was gone. If he’d just stayed away… if he’d stopped showing up and let Aziraphale put up wards… if, if, if.

The door opens behind him and a familiar, soothing presence sweeps over him. Crowley blinks away the memories of fire and turns to face Aziraphale, who has just entered the shop. The angel doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet, which is rather odd. Crowley is, after all, a demon, and Aziraphale should be able to sense his presence. If that’s not enough, his Bentley is parked outside.

Aziraphale seems to notice none of this. There’s a worried crease to his brow as he turns and hangs his coat on a hook, and looks down at the floor with this glazed expression as he trudges through the bookshop, seemingly dragging his feet. 

All of this sets warning alarms off in Crowley’s head.

He quickly steps toward the angel. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale rears back at his sudden voice, gaze snapping from the floor toward Crowley’s face, blue-grey eyes blown wide for just a moment before Aziraphale manages to reign in his expression, turning it carefully neutral. A timid smile slips across his face. “Crowley, my dear. How nice it is to see you.”

“What’s wrong?” Crowley demands, circling the angel. Looking for any injuries or signs of a scuffle. He sees nothing, just a dreadful exhaustion weighing heavy on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Is it Heaven? Did they do something?”

“Heaven?” Aziraphale blinks, seemingly returning to himself. The exhaustion flits away from his expression and he smiles reassuringly at Crowley, holding his hands up placatingly. “No, dear boy, nothing like that. I haven’t heard from them since… well, since the trial.”

The trial. Or lack-thereof.

But thoughts of said trial are better left in the dark corners of his mind, because if he ever sees the Archangel fucking Gabriel again, he’ll rip him apart himself. 

“So what’s wrong then?” Crowley asks, still circling. He must be missing something.

Aziraphale holds a hand out, intercepting the next round of his turning. “I assure you, I am perfectly fine. I’ve just had rather an odd day.”

“Odd how?” He fidgets where he stands, fighting the urge to circle once more. 

Aziraphale shakes his head, walking past Crowley toward the back of the bookshop, where they usually drink their time away. “Can I get you anything?”

“Angel, don’t change the subject,” Crowley says sharply, but follows after him anyway. “Odd how?”

Aziraphale enters the small kitchenette of his shop, through a door in the back. He scarcely uses the kitchen except to make some tea, as he steadfastly refuses to miracle it up and prefers to ready it the human way, which takes time, a kettle, and a stove. Crowley impatiently waits as Aziraphale pulls out what he needs to make whatever tea he wants, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep from circling again.

It’s a demon thing, circling. Kind of marks a target—this here, this target, yeah this is mine, so bugger off. This angel here? Yeah, also mine. He circles to target and mark, but also to protect. Not that Aziraphale needs his protection or his circling, of course; the angel has too many eyes in his True Form, he doesn’t need a demon watching his back. 

But still. He circles, because he doesn’t know how to stop.

Aziraphale kindly tolerates it, and always has.

Crowley circles, and Aziraphale turns to keep watch on him, or kindly says nothing of the circling except that, sometimes, it makes him dizzy.

The kettle is on and now it’s a waiting game for it to finish, and Crowley is not nearly so patient as to wait however minutes for that. So he clears his throat until Aziraphale finally sighs and glances back at him, and he hates the dejected look he finds in the angel’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He asks again. “And don’t tell me nothin’, ‘cause something’s clearly off with you.”

“The past couple of days, I…” Aziraphale wrings his hands together nervously. “I’ve felt… this urge.”

“Urge?”

Okay, Crowley’s confused. He knows about urges as a demon, but Aziraphale has never felt any such urges before. He’s an angel, after all.

“It’s hard to explain,” Aziraphale continues. “But it led me to this… poor girl the other day, suffering as she was, and I helped her.”

Crowley nods because that certainly makes sense. Aziraphale can’t leave well enough alone when someone is suffering. “And?”

More wringing of his hands. Not good. “I gave her good dreams and sent her on her way. But she…”

“She… what?”

Aziraphale has never hesitated so much in saying something. He might sidestep certain topics, but if asked directly, he will always answer whatever questions Crowley has. It’s what he likes about Aziraphale—or, at least, one of the things he likes. He was cast out of Heaven for asking too many questions, but Aziraphale always has time to answer him. 

The fact he’s hesitating now is rather worrisome.

“My powers are failing,” the angel tells him.

And Crowley’s blood runs cold. “Wha’d’you mean, failing?” He steps forward, circling the angel again, looking for anything… out of place. He Looks with his true eyes and sees the glimpse of Aziraphale’s angelic presence, but it’s still just as bright and there as always… maybe even a little brighter than usual. Crowley blinks the light away, afterimages burning his eyes. “You’re still an angel, right?”

You’d tell me if you were Falling, wouldn’t you? 

Aziraphale can’t Fall. He’s too good to be a demon. Too good to be an angel, too, but he definitely can’t be a demon. It’s unthinkable. 

Aziraphale, thankfully, nods. “As far as I know, yes, I am.”

“So… why do you think your powers are failing?”

The angel seems just as strong as ever, after all. Just as bright with his grace and warmth. 

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, troubled, “I erased that poor girl’s mind so she wouldn’t remember me, but she did. She remembered my name and…” Here, his lips purse into a thin white line, which definitely leaves ice in Crowley’s veins, because Aziraphale just doesn’t frown like that. “She prayed to me, Crowley.”

Crowley’s breath leaves him in a rush, then. A quick exhale, a hiss between his lips, and he Looks at Aziraphale again. Looks despite how much it blinds him, how much it hurts his Eyes, because Aziraphale is still so very bright to him. But any shade of light is bright to a demon, and just because Aziraphale is still Bright to him, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t started Falling. 

Angels aren’t supposed to be prayed to directly, after all. At least, not middling angels like Aziraphale. If an angel is prayed to, which is still very unlikely, it is usually an Archangel or the Metatron, since it is written that they are closest to God. Still, most prayers are sent to God Herself, or, failing that, some pray to Jesus.

But not to random angels when they shouldn’t remember said angel’s name.

Aziraphale has always wiped everyone’s memory of his name, Earthly or otherwise, when he helps them. It’s protocol, because if humanity found out angels literally walked among them, well—all hell would break loose, so to speak. The fact someone remembered him after he wiped their memory, and even went so far as to pray directly to him—well, it shouldn’t happen, ever. 

But Aziraphale is still so Bright.

“And you’re not Falling?” He asks sharply, still circling. He must be missing something—if he could just find it… 

“Not that I am aware of, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him honestly.

The truth in his words leaves that knot in Crowley’s stomach loosening, but he still feels coiled and ready to strike. Ready to stop Aziraphale from Falling, even if it’s hopeless, because Aziraphale is the epitome of angel, and he simply can’t Fall. Crowley won’t let him. 

“But someone prayed to you instead of Her,” Crowley says, frowning.

The kettle on the stove whistles sharply, startling them both. Crowley stops his circling and lets Aziraphale approach the stove to pull the kettle from the burner. Silence wraps around them as the angel pours himself a cup of tea, then glances at Crowley inquisitively. Crowley shakes his head—he is certainly not in the mood for any sort of tea, at the moment. Whiskey, maybe. Scotch, definitely. 

“Is that… all, that’s happened?”

He’s not certain what he will do if the answer is no, if there’s more uncertainty to be thrust on him. 

Aziraphale hums as he sips his eat, leaning his hip against the counter next to the stove. He looks at the floor thoughtfully. “She knew I was an angel.”

“She knew… what? Did you tell her?”

Telling is strictly not allowed, after all. Humans can’t be influenced directly like that—they need to be tempted, either toward the light or toward darkness, but telling humans angels and demons walk among them like that is strictly against the Rules. Not that Crowley himself cares much for rules; demons break them everyday, it’s sort of their own rulebook, but angels simply Do Not. 

They don’t disobey. The last time they disobeyed…

But Aziraphale isn’t Falling.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Aziraphale says with a flourish of his hand, blue-grey eyes sharp and expressive in that moment. “I’m not an idiot, Crowley. But she sussed it out anyway, and… she felt my Love.”

Okay, that—that definitely shouldn’t be happening.

“Oh?” He manages, his mind racing.

He can’t circle with Aziraphale leaning against the counter like that, and he’s certain the angel knows it. So he shifts his feet uselessly, prowling from side to side in front of Aziraphale, keeping his gaze focused on the angel. In that moment, he’s grateful for his sunglasses, even though he’s usually tossed them aside by this point, not having to wear them in the safety of the bookshop.

Aziraphale hums again, brows furrowing together again, creased in worry. He takes another sip of his tea. “I calmed her,” he says, “but she felt the Love. She outright said it, and then she… She thanked me for it. And called me an angel.” He hesitates then, gaze shifting sideways. “She asked me outright about it, and I told her I was.”

Crowley hisses again. “Angel.”

“I know, Crowley. But I couldn’t lie to her, could I? She was so troubled. Oh, if you would have seen her… her soul was so… vulnerable.” Aziraphale tilts his head thoughtfully. “I sent her to sleep and wiped her memories, but left the care behind as usual, but she prayed to me that night. To me, specifically. My name.”

Silence follows his words. Aziraphale sips his tea, avoiding looking at Crowley, and Crowley fidgets where he stands, prowling back and forth like a caged predator. 

“So what’s it mean?” He finally asks, spitting the question through his teeth. “She prayed to you and you’re still an angel, far as I can tell, but she remembered you.”

“It is very odd,” Aziraphale says. He turns to refill his mug of tea. “Can I get you anything, dear?”

Crowley scowls, but Aziraphale’s back is to him. “I don’t want any tea.”

“I could go for something stronger, myself.”

Crowley hums in the back of his throat. It’s better than hissing, at any rate. “You and me both, angel.”

Aziraphale waves his hand and a bottle of whiskey appears in his grasp.

“Powers seem to be working fine now,” Crowley comments as he pulls out the glasses from the cabinets.

“Now,” the angel echoes softly. 

Uncertainty surrounds them, and Crowley doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Aziraphale pours two glasses of whiskey and hands one to Crowley, who quickly downs it and plops the glass back on the counter for a refill, which Aziraphale obliges him with. Aziraphale, meanwhile, looks down into his own glass, sloshing the liquid around.

“We’ll figure it out,” Crowley offers weakly. He does’t know how they’ll figure it out, what there even is to figure out, but he won’t stop until they find some answers. “We always do, don’t we?”

“We do, at that.” Aziraphale finally takes a drink. “Although I am not certain getting plastered is going to help very much in that regard.”

“Can’t hurt.”

“Very true.”

Crowley downs another glass and refills it. “So what happened today?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you said it’s been an odd couple’a days,” the demon says. “So what happened today?”

Aziraphale frowns down into his glass. Crowley decides he absolutely hates that crease in his brow. “I felt the urge again today.”

“The urge,” the demon repeats. “Uh. What’s the urge?”

“I don’t rightly know. I just… felt I should take another walk. Same as before.” Aziraphale finishes his glass and refills it. “It was a little boy this time. Lost, just down the street. Wandering in traffic.” He sighs, leaning against the counter again, which is honestly odd, Crowley realises.

Aziraphale doesn’t lean. His posture is always prim and proper, and he just doesn’t lean like that. Crowley remembers the exhaustion weighing on the angel’s shoulders when he first entered the bookshop. 

“And I s’pose you helped him,” he says.

Aziraphale nods. “Of course I did. I couldn’t leave him there, like that. He was so… lost. And crying. I helped him and calmed him down and got him back to his mother.”

“See? Sounds perfectly normal.” Perfectly like you. 

Aziraphale frowns again. “We’ll see, I suppose. I wiped their memories of me, but we shall see.”

They’re halfway through their fourth bottle of whiskey, completely sloshed, and Aziraphale has finally started relaxing and smiling again, when he suddenly goes completely stiff and looks around like he’s heard some hidden voice.

“Oh, dear,” he says.

Crowley’s lounged on the couch like always, completely sloshed himself, and glances over at the angel. “Whassat?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are decidedly sober in that moment as he meets Crowley’s gaze. “The mother just prayed to me.”

And just like that, Crowley’s sober himself, and his veins are once again turned to ice.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t panic. It would be unseemly for an angel to panic. However, he does fret and worry over what is happening. Twice he has felt the Urge, and twice he has failed at erasing someone’s memory. Twice someone has prayed to him directly, and twice he has not Fallen. He doesn’t feel like he’s Falling, at the very least, and he believes Falling is certainly something he would notice, should it start to happen. 

He isn’t panicking, as that would be bad. Panicking is Bad. Angels don’t panic; they certainly don’t hold the emotional capacity for such a feeling, and it is most definitely beneath them to feel such a thing. Everything is in God’s capable hands, after all, and there is no reason to panic.

This hasn’t stopped Aziraphale from panicking in the past, of course. But that’s his own flaw to bear. He panicked when the world was certainly going to end and he shied away from Crowley then, mostly for the demon’s own safety. If Heaven found out he was fraternising with a demon it could be very Bad for said demon, should the war commence. They were on opposite sides, after all, and Aziraphale felt the noose tightening around his neck, as it were, and he might have panicked a little. More than a little.

It is unbecoming as an angel, but he is, of course, a poor excuse for an angel. Perhaps he always has been.

It’s been two days since he spoke of his fears to Crowley and no further Urges have arrived since. Last night, as he sat in his chair reading while Crowley dozed on the couch, he heard Allie praying to him again. She said such kind, wonderful things, but it pains him that he was the recipient of said prayer and not the Almighty. She still remembers him, which is still just as concerning now as it was the first day it happened. 

However, he hasn’t felt further Urges, so maybe—hopefully—whatever was causing them has stopped. He has never felt such a thing in the past and to have it happen twice in only a couple of days is certainly worrisome, but maybe their pain was simply so strong it just called out to him. Since it had never happened before, maybe that was just his grace’s way of answering said call, by giving him the urge to go for a very specific walk. 

He tries not to think on it further. It’s been two days and it hasn’t happened again, so he will chalk it up to a fluke and attempt to go about his life. That’s what freedom is all about, is it not? The freedom to worry over it or to not think about it again. To be or not to be, as it were, and he chooses not to panic. 

This is, of course, easier said than done.

“Anything recently?”

Aziraphale looks over the edge of his book at the demon who lays sprawled across his couch. Crowley certain does seem to enjoy that couch despite the fact his long frame doesn’t exactly fit on it perfectly, his legs hanging over the edge. “Nothing, dear.”

“Good, that’s good,” Crowley says somewhat absently. “And how are your powers doing?”

“Just fine,” he says. He hasn’t tried doing too much, of course, but when he does use a miracle or a blessing, they seem to work fine. 

“So maybe it was just a fluke, then.”

“Perhaps.” He lowers his gaze back to his book, rereading the paragraph he’s been stuck on for roughly ten minutes now. He just can’t quite seem to concentrate on it, his mind racing. This has happened before, when he was fretting about something in particular, but he still hates that it is happening now, as he certainly doesn’t wish to focus on his worries. 

He just wants to sit here and read his book. He likes books. They’re calming in a way little else isn’t, and for a long time, they were his only escape from Heaven and, occasionally, his duties. Not that he wished to escape his work, of course, but sometimes he just wanted to sit back and let himself drift. This led to him sometimes getting so immersed in his books he would read for days at a time without noticing the passage of time. 

Usually, that’s when Crowley would pop over and distract him. 

Crowley sits up then. “What do you say we get out of this bookshop, angel? We’ve been here for days.”

“I told you it was alright if you left, if you’re feeling antsy,” Aziraphale says, refocusing on the same paragraph as before. “I know how you get when you’re cooped up too long.”

The demon huffs under his breath. “ ’s not what I meant ’n you know it.” He pushes to his feet then, stretching his limbs.

He has been plastered to that couch for the better part of the past couple of days, after all; he must be dreadfully sore. Then again, Crowley can sleep for centuries at a time and would happily do so if Hell would let him get away with it. Now that he’s actually free to do as he pleases, though, he hasn’t spent much time actually sleeping, come to think of it. 

“Come on, angel. Let’s go do something.”

Aziraphale sighs and puts his book down. He’s not getting anywhere with it anyway. “Very well,” he says, standing as well. He brushes down the front of his clothing, smoothing the rumples. “Where would you like to go, dear boy?”

“We haven’t been to the park in a while,” Crowley says.

“A very good point. Very well, to the park it is.”

The park is a usual haunt for them, after all. For a while, it was the only place they could inconspicuously meet up and discuss the Arrangement. Since they got their freedom from their respective sides, they have certainly frequented the park, but it is no longer their only haunt. The Ritz has become quite popular as well.

Aziraphale waves his hand, locking the bookshop behind them as he strides toward the familiar Bentley parked outside. Crowley isn’t technically supposed to park right outside the building but he does it anyway, and no on ever seems to notice his illegal parking. 

Aziraphale slides into the passenger seat. Crowley is already pulling away from the curb, speeding away from the bookshop. Aziraphale presses a hand to the roof of the car, holding on for dear life as the demon speeds through traffic. 

Queen is playing quietly in the background. The car is always playing Queen; anything left in the car too long will turn into Queen. The car isn’t exactly alive, not truly, but being possessed by a demon for so long, filled and protected by magic all this time, it has certainly come alive in its own way. 

They arrive at St. James Park in record time, as usual when they take the Bentley. Aziraphale is quite certain Crowley speeds so much simply to annoy him, because the demon has always been a bit of a menace. 

The two approach their usual bench and sit down. The park is, as always, lively yet peaceful at the same time, and Aziraphale feels the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he sits watching the people, and the river, and the ducks. 

“Thank you, dear,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “I quite needed this.”

Crowley hums, miracling some food for the ducks as he tosses it at them. “Thought some fresh air might do you some good, is all.”

“You always know just what I need.”

Crowley shifts. He’s always been uncomfortable with compliments, but he has always been so very good at taking care of Aziraphale and seeing his needs before Aziraphale does himself.

Aziraphale stands up, and isn’t quite sure as to why. He blinks and he is suddenly standing, moving away from the bench. Crowley looks after him. “Something wrong, angel?”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says as his feet lead him away from the bench.

He has this sudden desire to walk along the river’s edge. For at least a couple of minutes, he thinks. The water is lovely, the sun glistening overhead, and he can almost convince himself he wants to do this for the sheer pleasure of the view, and not because he has this sudden, uncontrollable Urge to do so.

“Angel?”

Crowley walks just behind him, confusion ebbing from him like a physical force.

Hmm. This walk certainly won’t do, Aziraphale decides. No, he needs to quicken his pace. There’s something just around the corner, he thinks. 

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

“Hey, angel, stop.”

A hand grabs his arm, slowing his gait. No, that won’t do. He twists free of Crowley’s grip without thinking of the movement, and breaks into a run. 

“Angel!”

He hears the splash before anything else. He rounds the corner and sees the toppled stroller, the mother having twisted her ankle at the worst time and, accidentally wrenching her hold as she fell, launched said stroller off the edge of the riverbed. It’s already in the water by the time Aziraphale arrives.

He doesn’t think. Simply reacts.

He’s in the water before he registers the movement. This part of the river is deep, and it seems the child wasn’t strapped in properly, as the stroller he finds just beneath the surface is empty. 

But there’s a presence just down, somewhere in the darkness beneath him. Aziraphale is an angel, and glowing is certainly part of the job sometimes, so he lets his grace flood through him, lighting the way down, down, down—

Just there.

HIs fingers curl around the child’s arm and he yanks upward sharply, shooting toward the surface. He doesn’t quite swim, as he doesn’t need to, and time is of the essence. The child has already been under for too long, he thinks, because he wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t run the moment he felt the Urge. 

He bursts out of the water, jetting upward and onto dry land with the child in his arms. The child is limp in his grasp, but he taps two fingers to their chest, letting his grace flood over them, and then the child is coughing up water and crying. 

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” The mother sobs as she runs to him and takes the kid from his arms. He hands the child over, feeling decidedly… cut loose, it seems. Like a puppet suddenly getting their strings cut. Whatever Urge controlled him dissipates.

Oh, he thinks, as exhaustion floods through him. He bows at the waist, hands on his thighs as he catches his breath—which he shouldn’t need to do. He isn’t human and doesn’t technically need to breathe. That is unpleasant. 

“Aziraphale!”

Ah, that would be Crowley. He’d recognise that presence anywhere. 

He lifts his head to look at the demon as Crowley rushes toward him. Even behind his glasses, his eyes are glowing yellow. The demon stops just short of him, hands outstretched as though reaching for him, before he seems to think better of the movement and drops his hands to his sides.

“Are you alright?”

“Just… tickety-boo,” Aziraphale says as he straightens back up.

The mother is still crying, brushing damp bangs from her child’s face. She turns her gaze toward Aziraphale, eyes gleaming with unshed tears, and something else entirely. “You’re an angel,” she says breathlessly.

Aziraphale stares back at her. How do you know? 

“What?” Crowley asks.

“Please, what’s your name?” The mother asks.

Aziraphale simply shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my dear. I was just in the right place at the right time.” He presses a hand to the top of her head as he walks past her, calming her with his presence, and her quiet cries stop. She blinks back the tears and smiles at him as she holds her child close.

If he doesn’t tell her his name, she can’t remember him and pray to him. 

“Happy to help, my dear,” he says, and then walks away. Already a small crowd has started to gather, and he has never done well in crowds. 

Crowley hurries after him, expression twisted into something Aziraphale can’t quite decipher—not right then. His head throbs behind his eyes, which is a terribly new feeling. He doesn’t often get headaches, and when he does, it is because he has overtaxed himself by doing too much healing or too big a miracle for someone such as himself.

He hasn’t done much here, he knows; just a little magic to find the child, and more to get back to the surface, and… oh, perhaps also some healing to get the child breathing again. Hmm. Perhaps he has overdone it after all.

“Angel, what in Heaven was—”

“Wait!” 

Aziraphale stops and turns at the sound of the mother’s voice. She jogs toward him, cradling her child close to her chest, and her eyes are glimmering again. “My dear, there really is no need to thank me,” Aziraphale starts.

“You’re Aziraphale,” she says.

And Aziraphale snaps his mouth shut, staring back her, completely flabbergasted.

“How do you know that?” Crowley demands, seemingly inflating as he pushes in front of Aziraphale, blocking the woman’s view of him momentarily. She sidesteps him, still keeping her gaze focused on Aziraphale. “Hey, lady, how—”

“Thank you,” she says again, softly, and then she turns and leaves.

Aziraphale steps after her. His head already aches, but he has to at least try. He steps in front of her path and presses a hand to her forehead. “This will appear as a dream. You will remember the calm, but you won’t remember me.” As he finishes the blessing, he staggers back a step, pain throbbing sharply behind his eyes. Well, that’s certainly new.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, and he’s suddenly next to him, hands grabbing at his shoulders to steady him.

Steady him.

Oh, dear. He does feel terribly off-balanced, like his legs are numb. Are they working properly?

The mother blinks at him and smiles again. “Aziraphale,” she says once more.

Well, that’s not a good sign.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? A book?”

The words rush over him, and he knows he should answer, but he is so dreadfully tired. He slumps in his usual chair as Crowley sets him down, and was he leaning against the demon? Since when does he need to lean against anyone? Why is thinking so difficult?

“Angel? Aziraphale?” Crowley snaps his fingers in front of Aziraphale’s face. “Can you hear me?”

“Mm,” he manages, eyes falling shut as he leans back in his chair.

“Whoa, hey,” the demon splutters, and there’s a hand patting his cheek. “Angel, you don’t sleep. What are you—? Aziraphale!”

Crowley does sound dreadfully worried, and Aziraphale should really be answering him—but forming words, or opening his eyes, is really rather difficult. He doesn’t sleep, but sleep does sound very nice right now. 

Very nice…

“—gel, wake—”

Sleep takes him with gentle yet firm hands, guiding him into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Crowley is decidedly not panicking. He’s not. That would be absurd, panicking in the middle of an intact bookshop just because an angel decided to take a bleeding nap midday when he never sleeps. Right. He’s not panicking, because everything is absolutely perfectly fine.

Aziraphale just… passed out on him, is all. 

And whatever happened in the park… happened. Crowley isn’t quite sure what it is that happened. One moment they were sitting on the bench like always, perfectly fine, and Aziraphale had finally started to relax after radiating concern for days, and then the next moment, the angel stood and started moving. 

Just… out of nowhere. So very suddenly.

It all happened so fast. Crowley tried to stop him but Aziraphale wrenched free of his hold and then took off running, and by the time Crowley realised this be some kind of Urge overtaking him, the angel was already diving into the river after some stroller. When he emerged with the child in tow, he looked… radiant.

For a moment, at least. He shined so brightly, though perhaps not physically. But Crowley still could see the brightness, until it suddenly stopped and Aziraphale bent over like he couldn’t bloody well breathe, and that’s when the fear set in.

Funny thing, fear. Demons are meant to cause fear, to spread dread and terror and all that nonsense, but they aren’t supposed to actually feel it themselves. They are the danger, after all, they do not fear other things. But Crowley has always been different and the one thing he does fear…

Well. It’s better left unsaid, better left unthought, because if he doesn’t picture it then it can’t happen, now can it?

Which brings him back to Aziraphale, suddenly paling and bending over like that, then the staggering that came after, and finally, the whole ‘passing out’ bit. Because he did do that. That happened.

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep but he’s asleep now, and Crowley tried to snap him out of whatever doze was overtaking him but he just—went to sleep anyway. 

And he’s been asleep for twelve hours now. Without moving. Without making a sound—he just stays there all limp in that chair, expression completely lax, and he’s barely breathing. Angels don’t need to breathe, but he can’t chase away the image of Aziraphale bent at the waist, inhaling so shakily like he actually needed to breathe, and now this. 

Crowley isn’t panicking, but he’s close.

He Looked at Aziraphale again, but the angel still shone as bright as ever, despite the fact he’s completely knocked out there in his stupid chair, when he should be sitting there reading in it, and none of this is right. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, so why is he asleep now?

Crowley paces.

Debates going out and looking for help, but there’s no help to find. They’re free agents, after all, so it’s not like he can run to Heaven for help. Hell is absolutely out of the question. There is no help—it’s just the two of them out here on their own, and Aziraphale is… not well.

But it’s fine—he’s fine. Everything’s fine. Aziraphale just did a lot today, magic-wise, and he’s not used to doing so much at once anymore. Once upon a time, he used to do a lot all at once when they were marching all over the place and only had a short amount of time to do their work in before they had to move onto the next person, the next town, the next job. He’s just… out of practice now, is all. He’ll be fine.

He has to be fine.

Crowley checks on the angel’s breathing once again. Still the same. Soft and quiet, barely there. He growls under his breath, low in his throat, and spins away from the angel, clawing at his hair in frustration. 

What do I do, angel? What can I do? 

He’s already tried miracling Aziraphale awake. 

It didn’t work.

He tried fixing whatever might be damaged, too, but he’s no healer. He’s a demon worrying about an angel and he has no bloody idea what to do to fix this. But he said they would fix this together, and he can’t help but think he failed. Today was supposed to be about easing Aziraphale’s mind, about getting him out of the bookshop, about releasing all that built up tension—and now this.

By hour fourteen, he’s a right mess. Pacing back and forth, prowling, unable to look away from Aziraphale’s sleeping form.

Well, let’s call it what it is, he thinks. Aziraphale isn’t sleeping. He’s unconscious. 

This is an involuntary sleep. 

Aziraphale was just… exhausted. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. 

Just before hour fifteen is up, the angel finally shifts. Turns his head slightly, brows furrowing together, and Crowley hovers over him, staring down at him so intently the heat of his gaze should certainly wake the angel up—but Aziraphale’s brow smooths back out, expression going lax once again, and panic rears its head.

“Wake up,” Crowley says, patting Aziraphale’s cheek. “Hey, you hear me, angel? I need you to wake up.”

Nothing.

He hisses and turns away, prowling back and forth again. He can’t circle the chair, so he prowls, and he paces, and he wants to rip something to shreds. Fear gnaws at him, but demons don’t feel fear. 

He’s fine, he keeps telling himself. 

By hour seventeen, Crowley is scouring through any and all of Aziraphale’s books on theology. Maybe he missed something. Maybe something has changed in the 6000 odd years since he was an angel. Something here has to help them. Something here has to wake Aziraphale up.

By hour twenty, he sits next to the chair on the floor, books strewn across the floor from where he flung them away in frustration and panic when they failed to help him. There are no answers to be found here in this bookshop; no book is going to have the answers.

Well. Maybe one book does.

It’s as he’s pushing to his feet to find his phone that Aziraphale shifts again. The movement leaves Crowley hovering over the angel once more, and this time, when those brows furrow, Aziraphale’s eyes open. 

Oh, thank Someone. 

“Aziraphale? Can you hear me?”

Aziraphale blinks at him for a moment, and then his eyelids shut again.

Panic clogs Crowley’s throat. His hands curl around the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt, wrenching him froward slightly, shaking him. “Wake up—Angel, I…” I need you to wake up. I need you to talk to me. I need you to stop sleeping. “Aziraphale?”

“Mm…” Aziraphale says.

“Don’t sleep, angel, wake—”

“ ‘m not sleeping,” Aziraphale says tiredly. “Just… resting my eyes, dear.”

“Well, stop resting them,” Crowley hisses back. “You’ve been asssleep for a day now.”

“A day?” Aziraphale’s eyes open again.

There’s more clarity in them this time, like he’s actually lucid, and Crowley holds onto that gaze. “You don’t sssleep, Aziraphale. What isss going on?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t know, dear. I just felt very tired.” He sits up further, no longer slumped in his chair, and Crowley rears back to give him space, reluctantly detaching his fingers from Aziraphale’s clothing. Aziraphale rolls his neck, wincing. “Terribly sorry, I’ve been such a terrible host. I should—”

“If you try to get up and make some tea right now, I swear to Someone, I will punch you,” Crowley says sharply.

Aziraphale blinks at that. “You wouldn’t.”

“Aziraphale,” he says, exasperated. “What is going on?”

Aziraphale wrings his hands together in his lap. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “I shouldn’t be so tired from what little I did. I don’t sleep. I don’t need to sleep.”

“How did that woman know your name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d she know you’re an angel?”

“I don’t know.”

“She knew your name, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s gaze snaps toward him sharply. “I already told you, I don’t know. I am just as confused as you are, my dear.” His hands wring together again. “That Urge was… different.”

“How so?”

“Well, I felt rather compelled.”

“Isn’t that the same for the others, too?”

“Not as much. I felt…” Aziraphale’s lips purse together into a thin white frown. “I felt controlled. Possessed. Not myself.”

Crowley growls low in his throat, unable to wrangle that part of him in in that moment. Whoever was controlling Aziraphale, whoever was doing this to him—Crowley was going to find them and kill them. 

He paces. 

“I’m calling Anathema,” he says. “Her book might help.”

Aziraphale tilts his head thoughtfully. “I don’t believe it will help, dear. It was only for the events leading up to Armageddon, remember? The last prophecy was…”

“Well, any other ideas?” Crowley snaps back without really meaning to. Aziraphale is the last person he wants to bite. “You passed out, Aziraphale. As in unconscious. You were unconscious. What is happening?”

“I think I need to contact Heaven.”

Crowley hisses, unable to stop himself. He prowls in front of the couch, scowling at Aziraphale. “Absolutely not.”

“Crowley, be reasonable. They might have answers.”

“Yeah, or they could be doing this to you.”

Oh. Oh, that’s something he hadn’t thought of yet.

He stops where he stands, a sudden lump in his throat. A cold panic spreads through him, and it must show in his eyes because Aziraphale’s own eyes widen as he frowns back at Crowley.

“My dear, what is it?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. “Tea. I’ll get you some tea.”

He flees the room, unwilling to see that worried look in Aziraphale’s gaze any longer. He entered the kitchen and just stands there for a moment, attempting to calm his rampant emotions. He’s a demon, after all, he shouldn’t be so out of sorts like this, and he definitely shouldn’t be this worried.

He’s not panicking. He’s not.

He pulls down the kettle and starts making the tea. Tea always makes Aziraphale feel better. 

If his hand shakes as he’s filling the kettle with water—well, he’s just tired. He’s been up worrying about the angel for twenty bloody hours, he’s allowed to be tired after that. He stamps down on the panic threatening to overtake him.

The excuse of tea will only give him a couple of minutes.

Crowley is usually good at compartmentalising. Or, rather, he’s really not very good at it. He panics, he worries, he flees, he’s honestly a mess emotionally. It’s a wonder Aziraphale puts up with him, but he’s the only who ever has put up with him, and right now, Crowley’s fear might be coming true. 

Aziraphale is awake, though, and that has to be enough. It has to be enough to hold him together, to keep him from raging at the unfairness of it all.

They were supposed to be free.

Now, as he waits for the tea to finish, he can’t help but wonder if this is Heaven’s doing. If this is their plan, since their last one failed. They tried to execute Aziraphale with hellfire and it didn’t work, so is this their back-up plan? Whatever this is. It’s an odd plan, but it definitely seems to be draining on Aziraphale. He’s still as Bright as ever when Crowley Looks, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, but he was unconscious.

And this might be Heaven’s revenge.

Alright, off with it, he tells himself. Stop. Aziraphale is perfectly fine. Everything is fine. 

Even for Heaven, whatever is happening to Aziraphale is odd. Bizarre. Worrisome. 

The kettle whistles. Crowley takes it from the burner with numb fingers. At least his hand isn’t shaking anymore. 

He pours Aziraphale a mug, takes a breath to steel himself, and exits the kitchen.

Aziraphale isn’t where he left him.

Crowley spins in a slow circle, searching for the angel, and finds him at the centre of the shop, pulling a table aside to reveal a summoning gateway underneath.

He strides forward, glaring at the angel. “What the Heaven are you doing? Told you not to get up.”

“And yet you haven’t punched me,” Aziraphale says absently as he starts lighting candles with a wave of his finger.

As the flames flicker, dread stirs in Crowley’s stomach. “What are you doing?”

“Contacting Heaven,” Aziraphale tells him. “I thought it rather obvious.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. It is unlikely they’ll take my call, but we do need some answers.” Aziraphale takes the tea from his lax fingers. “Thank you.”

The angel presses the flat of his hand against Crowley’s chest and gently shoves him backward a couple of steps, so he is out of the range of the circle. The holiness when it is active shouldn’t hurt him, but Aziraphale is always worried about such things, Crowley thinks idly as his body moves of its own accord and he steps away from the circle.

The angel takes a sip of tea and then puts it down on the table he moved. Then he presses his hands together in prayer, eyes falling shut as heavenly light escapes him briefly.

“Hello,” he says gently, “this is the Principality Aziraphale. I know everyone must be dreadfully busy, but I really do need to speak with someone.”

Time passes. The circle is glowing a dull blue, but it hasn’t fully activated—the call hasn’t been connected, so to speak. After a moment, it fizzles out to white, then to nothing.

“Uh,” Crowley says intelligently. “That’s not s’posed to happen, right?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, frowning at the circle. He holds a hand out in front of him, lips pursed together again. “Hmm.”

“Hmm? What ‘hmm’?” Crowley demands, sidling up to the angel again. 

“Do stand back, dear. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“Well, it’s not that they simply didn’t take my call,” Aziraphale says worriedly. “It’s more like it didn’t connect at all. Like there was no circle to receive it.”

“And that’s odd, is it?”

“Very,” the angel says. “It should work for all angels.” He looks back at his hand. “I still feel like an angel…”

“Oh, you’re definitely still an angel,” Crowley tells him adamantly. “Still so bright and showy. And angel-y.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What?”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens. “Well, if the problem is not with me, then it must be on their end. Oh, I do hope everything is alright.”

Only his angel would worry about those who tried to murder him. 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he says flatly. “Any other ideas?”

“Just the one.”

“What’s that, then?”

“I need to go to Heaven.”

Crowley stares at the angel for a moment. Aziraphale is insane if he thinks he’s letting the angel anywhere near Heaven. “No,” he says sharply. “Nope. No. Not happening, angel.”

Aziraphale picks up his mug of tea and takes a small sip. “Crowley,” he says.

“No. Nuh-uh.”

“Be reasonable.”

“Be reas—did you forget the part where they tried to kill you? Because I certainly haven’t!”

“And they learned they were unable to do so,” Aziraphale reminds him gently. “We need answers, and they are likely to have them.”

“If you think I’m letting you go anywhere near those… those asshats, then—”

“Oh, dear. I wasn’t asking.”

Crowley splutters. “Ngk,” he manages. “Nggh. No. Absssolutely not.”

The look Aziraphale levels him with might as well be made of stone, immovable and unchangeable, his mind already made up. Aziraphale, as nervous as he can be sometimes, doesn’t waffle once he’s made a decision. Once the choice has been made, it is absolute, and he follows through on it whole-heartedly.

Which was great, when it concerned the Arrangement. Or fraternising with a demon. Or enjoying said demon’s company.

Not so great, when it means he’s determined to march up to the beings who tried to outright murder him.

“I thought we left our respective sides to have the freedom to choose our own path?” Aziraphale asks calmly, sipping at his tea like he hasn’t just metaphorically stabbed Crowley in the chest.

“You play dirty,” Crowley hisses back. “Damn you. Fine. Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

The smile the angel gives him is patronising. “You know you can’t do that.”

“Like Hell I do! I’m not letting you—”

Aziraphale’s expression twists apologetically. “Terribly sorry, dear, but I wasn’t asking.”

He snaps his fingers and vanishes. Just pops out of the space of the bookshop.

Crowley stares at the empty space for two whole seconds, his mind unwilling to comprehend what just happened. Aziraphale really did a fairly large miracle to pop over to the Main Entrance, did he? Is he that desperate to see the people who want him dead?

Cold dread coils in Crowley’s stomach. 

He snaps himself there a second later, gaze scouring for the familiar blond curls as he materialises at the front of the Main Entrance.

Aziraphale is already on the escalator up.

Crowley moves to follow—he always follows Aziraphale. “If you think I’m not coming with you, then—”

He stops, then. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t physically move forward. He looks down at his feet and sees the demonic ward placed at the bottom of the escalator, keeping him from stepping onto it. Panic coils in his stomach so tightly his breath leaves him in a quick rush, and he stares up at Aziraphale climbing ever higher, out of reach.

“Angel,” he tries, but his voice chokes on the word, sound escaping him. “Ngk.” He inhales sharply, snapping his fingers to will the ward away, but it’s a fairly large one for that it is. 

The best wards are the simplest ones. The ones with a single, solitary purpose.

They can ward against evil, or good, or those who would do others harm, such as a horseshoe above a home. 

This particular ward has one singular purpose: Keep Crowley Out.

No. No. No. 

The word reverberates through him, steady as his heartbeat. He snaps his fingers again, with only one Intent: Break This Ward.

It doesn’t break.

“I will be back, Crowley,” Aziraphale promises from up above.

“Aziraphale, angel, you can’t—stop—”

“I’m sorry,” the angel says.

And then he disappears from view.

Chapter Text

Using the Main Entrance to Heaven never bothered Aziraphale much in the past. It was the fastest way to Heaven save for being discorporated, taking him right to the Gates. He used to detest the need to report to Heaven, but understood why it was part of his job, of course. He never questioned his orders to report in occasionally, as it was a perfectly reasonable request. The last time he took this escalator Up, he was attempting to persuade the Archangels that Warlock Dowling was not, in fact, the Antichrist. When they asked where the Antichrist was, Aziraphale outright lied to them and said he didn’t know, but he could find out, if given time. 

He knew exactly where the real Antichrist was at the time, but he told them otherwise. Sometimes, he wonders why he didn’t Fall right then. Why he still hasn’t Fallen. 

But more than that is a nagging fear: What is wrong with me now? 

The Urges are getting progressively worse, it seems. He slept for quite some time—though, the way Crowley puts it, he was unconscious, not merely asleep. He doesn’t know the difference himself; he doesn’t sleep casually like Crowley does. Unconsciousness and sleep are very similar in his mind; they contain a period of time he is unmoving and silent, and which he does not recall upon awakening. The few experiences with unconsciousness he has experienced thus far are part of the reason he doesn’t sleep normally; it has never been a ‘pleasant’ experience. 

Oh, but I do hope Crowley is alright. 

The ward was a last second decision. Crowley always follows him into danger—the church in 1941 taught him that. He was on consecrated ground and the demon still followed after him and saved him from discorporation. He’s always appreciated Crowley’s loyalty, but the demon can’t follow him into Heaven right now.

Heaven is a dangerous place for a demon to be. Crowley would surely think of it logically if it were the other way around. He’d see that Aziraphale is, in fact, in the right here. If their roles were reversed and Crowley needed to report back to Hell, he certainly wouldn’t let Aziraphale follow after him. And Aziraphale can’t let the demon follow him into Heaven, where fonts of holy water exist everywhere and are surrounded by holy magic, which is dangerous to a demon.

No. Absolutely not.

So he put up a last second ward. A simple snap of his fingers and it was placed, covering the entirety of the lower power of the escalator, with a sole purpose to keep one single demon out, in particular. It worked, as Crowley didn’t follow after him.

The way Crowley’s voice shook when he told Aziraphale to stop… it will haunt him, he thinks. He hates hearing that note of fear in the demon’s voice, but this is necessary. He will remove the ward once he returns, and explain things calmly to the demon. Crowley can’t be angry with him once he realises the logic in Aziraphale’s decision, after all. Or, rather, he could be angry, but he would be a hypocrite, because Crowley would keep Aziraphale out of Hell if their roles were reversed.

Still, he feels dreadful for doing that to Crowley. 

I will come back, he thinks. He won’t leave Crowley to suffer long, the poor thing. He will just go into Heaven, have a quick chat, and leave again. Simple as that.

He wrings his hands together nervously. He hopes it will be that simple. 

Truthfully, he is worried about returning to Heaven, but knows he needs answers more than anything. Passing out like that isn’t something that normally happens to him, even after a strenuous miracle, and the last thing he wants to do is worry Crowley further. But he needs answers, and Heaven will have them.

The escalator stops.

He’s not at the top, but it’s stopped nevertheless.

Aziraphale frowns. That is peculiar, indeed. He snaps his fingers, but the escalator just stays where it is, with him halfway between here and there. 

“Well, that won’t do.”

He starts walking up the broken escalator, now simply steps.

He will get to Heaven one way or another.

Except, the further he goes, the more his head throbs.

The more his vision blurs.

The more his soul cries out in agony.

It feels like he’s being ripped in half, if he’s perfectly honest. Like his True Form is being shredded. He stops where he stands, panting for breath he doesn’t need—shouldn’t need—and looks up the rest of the steps, vision blurring in and out.

“What is… wrong with me?”

He’s still an angel. Even so, demons can take the escalator to Heaven. 

Why isn’t it working? Why can’t he keep going?

I… must keep going. 

He takes another step, then another, and another. Each step is pure agony ripping through him, and he can’t stop himself from crying out with his True Voice—single note of white-hot pain as it spears through his head. On another plane, his True Form stutters, wheels stalling where they turn.

He staggers to his knees, blood dripping from his nose and his ears. It’s terribly hard to see anything at all, the way his vision darkens and lightens, blurring in and out. He can’t control with Eyes he sees through; one moment he’s staring at the escalator stairs, frozen in place, and the next he’s on another plane, reeling in agony.

He crawls down a step, then another, and another. With each movement downward, the pain stalls momentarily, lessening. He takes a moment to simply breathe and regain his bearings. His lungs ache—each breath hurts, and it really shouldn’t. It shouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t need to breathe.

You’re alright, he tells himself. You’re perfectly alright. You can do this, Aziraphale. 

Going to Heaven shouldn’t hurt so much. Not even for a demon.

He eyes the steps warily. He really, really wants to turn back, head back down to Crowley—but he needs to press on. This is all very worrisome. What has happened to Heaven? What is happening?

If something is happening with Heaven itself, it might explain his weird fluctuations in powers. 

All those angels up there could be suffering right now. Worse than him.

He needs to know what is happening.

He needs to keep going.

Getting back to his feet shouldn’t feel so exhausting, but it makes his vision blur as he sways where he stands, balance off-set by something in his head. He shakes it away and takes a step forward—another… another…

Oh, he’s definitely being shredded now.

A wheel stops turning completely on his True form. Just hangs there limply, doing nothing, and in his human form, his heart stutters in his chest. Threatens to just… stop beating. 

A wail of agony escapes him. He bites down on the side escaping human lips, but his True Form still cries out as he takes another step forward. The pain is white-hot and intense, and there’s something metallic tasting in his mouth. It’s dreadfully awful. He brings his fingers up to his lips and then pulls them away, eying the… blood?

No, blood isn’t golden.

Is it?

Oh, he’s dreadfully tired.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

His eyes open. Oh, when did they close? When did he go to his knees?

“AZIRAPHALE, STOP!”

“Crow…ley?”

Oh, why is it so difficult to speak?

Everything is so dark. He can’t see a thing.

He falls forward, body going slack against his will. The stairs rush to meet his face, and his eyes fall shut.

He’s just… so… tired…

“No, no, no.”

Hands pat his sides before grasping his shoulders, wrenching him up and turning him so that his back presses into the frozen escalator stairs. A hand pats his cheek.

“No, no, hey, you’re okay, you’re alright—you’re alright—”

Crowley…? Crowley definitely shouldn’t be here. Right?

Oh, sod it. Crowley’s here. Aziraphale can sleep. The demon will keep watch.

“—phale—angel—angel…”

Darkness gives way to nothing.

Crowley heard Aziraphale’s scream, and really panicked.

He bashes against the ward, crying out when it sears against him, keeping him in place. He thought it odd when the escalator seemingly stopped moving, but hey, maybe that’s what happened when angels reached their destination, he really didn’t know because he’d never paid it that much attention before. Why would he?

And then Aziraphale screamed.

Screamed. With his True Voice.

A wail of agony, and Crowley is stuck here.

He throws himself at the ward again, screaming a wordless rage himself when he is still unable to break through. Come on, come on, COME ON—Aziraphale needs you, you blasted idiot, why can’t you—just—break through—

And then the wards just… vanish. Into nothing.

And Crowley’s breath leaves him in a quick rush. Aziraphale, he mouths, voice lost to him in that moment. Wards like that only disappear like that when… when…

He dashes up the escalator.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

He runs. As fast as he can, even going so far as to miracle himself halfway in his mad dash forward. There’s a flickering presence ahead, a presence which isn’t allowed to flicker like that, and Aziraphale, the idiot, is still trying to move forward—

“AZIRAPHALE, STOP!”

Aziraphale is on his knees, and he’s falling forward. Collapsing. And that presence is—

“No, no, no,” he croaks as he falls down next to the angel, grabbing at him, turning him so the angel is on his back and he can see the damage. Red-gold blood dribbles from Aziraphale’s nose, mouth, and ears, and all of this is not happening— “No, no, hey, you’re okay,” he all but babbles, patting the angel’s cheek as eyelids twitch, but don’t open. “You’re alright—you’re alright—” 

He Looks at the angel, sees the shredded wheels, sees the golden light seeping from them, sees—

“You’re alright,” he says again—or tries to. His mouth forms the words but again, they have no sound, like someone has cut the volume. “You’re… Aziraphale. Angel.” His hands twist in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt, wrenching him upward when the angel’s breath stutters. “Angel—you… you can’t—you’re not—you’re not allowed,” he hisses, panic clawing at him ruthlessly.

Something is still slicing through Aziraphale’s angelic form. A new wound forms, seeping golden light.

“No, no, stop—stop,” he manages, curling around Aziraphale protectively. 

Another slice. 

Why is Aziraphale being attacked, but not Crowley? It just slips through Crowley, despite his attempts at shielding Aziraphale. Whatever this is, it doesn’t care about him at all. 

Slice.

Crowley wrenches Aziraphale to him. No, stop, you have to stop, he wants to shout, but he’s too busy Looking at Aziraphale’s form, seeing the new wounds. Blood bubbles in Aziraphale’s mouth, dripping down the corner. Red-gold blood. Celestial blood.

That presence flickers, flickers, flickers…

Slice.

Crowley screams wordlessly and snaps his fingers.

A second later, they’re back in the bookshop. The change in level and scenery is disorientating, and that’s a lot of magic used for one day. Crowley blinks away the blurred edges of his vision, Aziraphale flat and still beneath him as Crowley hovers over him, hands still twisted in the angel’s clothing.

“Come on, come on—heal, you stupid—you stupid…”

A sob catches in his throat. No. No. He’s not sobbing. He’s not panicking. Aziraphale’s not dying. No. No. No. It’s not happening. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay, Aziraphale, you’re fine, you’re not—just heal, why aren’t you healing…”

Aziraphale’s form isn’t sustaining more damage, at the very least, but he’s still seeping golden energy, golden light, golden life. He’s still bleeding. Still flickering. 

Crowley grasps at that presence with everything he has. “Don’t you dare flicker, you absolute bastard! Do you hear me? You’re fine, okay, you’re fine. Just heal. Stop flickering, just stop flickering--Aziraphale, angel, stop flickering!”

Why isn’t he healing?

Why isn’t it stopping?

Why isn’t it stopping?

Crowley’s hands press against Aziraphale’s chest, palms flat, fingers outstretching. He pushes his essence against Aziraphale’s, willing him to heal, just heal, you stupid idiot, just heal already—

Slowly, so slowly, the wounds on his True Form stop seeping golden light. Red-gold blood stops dripping from his mouth and nose. Crowley’s hands are shaking but he still presses them against Aziraphale’s chest, keeps urging his own power into the angel, urges his form to heal. He can’t heal the angel himself, but he can tempt the essence to just stay alive, please just stay alive, just heal, just heal, JUST HEAL…

Aziraphale’s eyelids twitch. His brow creases. A low groan escapes him.

A sob escapes Crowley. Just rushes out of his mouth on a choked breath. His fingers brush into Aziraphale’s hair, pushing strands away from his face. “You’re alright,” he says. “You’re alright. You… You’re gonna be fine, angel.”

He stays there, like that, staring down at Aziraphale, hovering over him with his hand pressed against Aziraphale’s forehead. Feels Aziraphale’s presence slowly—so very slowly—strengthening, no longer flickering as it was. Feels Aziraphale stirring. 

And when blue-grey eyes pry open, Crowley chokes on an exhale and lowers his head, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s, listening to the angel breathe. His hand is still pressed against Aziraphale’s chest and the the-thump of his heartbeat is grounding. 

“Crow…ley…?”

The angel’s voice is oh so weak, and Crowley squeezes his eyes shut tight as a shaky breath escapes him. You’re okay, you’re alright, you’re okay, angel, you’re fine. You’re fine. 

“Wha… hap… pened…”

No, don’t slur. You never slur. Don’t slur. Crowley focuses on those breaths, that heartbeat, that presence. “You’re okay,” he says weakly. “You’re… you’re just fine, angel.”

“Mmm…”

Crowley lifts his head, staring down at the now-slack face, those eyes shut again. “Angel?”

“Mhm…”

“Stay awake,” he hisses, lifting his hand to pat Aziraphale’s cheek again. “Ssstay with me. Ssstay…”

Aziraphale doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t say anything. 

He’s unconscious again.

Crowley Looks again, but Aziraphale is healing. Slowly. So slowly. But those wounds are closing. They’re actually closing, Aziraphale is healing, he’s not dying. Not dying.

He’s okay. He’s alright. He’ll be alright.

Another sob sneaks its way out of his mouth as he lowers his head back down. 

This close, he tells himself. You came this bloody close… 

He doesn’t know what attacked Aziraphale or what happened, but it can’t ever happen again, he decides. It won’t happen again. He won’t let it. He’ll chain Aziraphale to the bookshop if need be, but Aziraphale isn’t going anywhere near that Main Entrance ever again.

So close…

So close to being alone for eternity.

A shudder rips through him. He can’t stop shaking.

Why can’t he stop shaking?

He pushes to his feet. It takes all he has to tear himself away from the angel, but Aziraphale needs help. He’s healing, but it’s slow, and Crowley can’t just sit there and watch him. He needs to be doing something.

He knew going to Heaven was a bad idea.

Chapter Text

Waking up, Aziraphale decides, is a rather dreadful experience, truth be told. He doesn’t recommend the experience and doesn’t understand how Crowley can enjoy sleeping if this is how it feels awaken. 

When consciousness returns to the angel, he opens his eyes to a quiet, dark room. His bedroom, he realises belatedly. His flat at the bookshop has a bedroom, of course, it’s just scarcely used unless Crowley really needs to sleep off a bender or something and doesn’t want to miracle himself sober for whatever reason. Aziraphale has only ever lied on the bed when reading, as he sometimes gets tired of the seated posture when reading, but that is the only time he has ever used this bed.

Now he is using it as, well… a bed, it seems.

And he feels absolutely awful. Everything hurts—literally everything. HIs core, his wheels, his human body—it all aches. His head aches. Everything aches. Even opening his eyes hurts, and that has certainly never happened before. He tries to remember what happened but keeps coming up blank; his mind is exhausted, his head throbs, and being awake is just… exhausting, right now.

The door to the room opens as he’s closing his eyes again. He forces them back open, peering up at Crowley, who looks—

“Oh, dear,” he says quietly.

Crowley stops where he stands, halfway to the bed, head snapping up from where his gaze was focused on the floor, it seems. He’s not wearing his sunglasses and his eyes look absolutely dreadful, as does the rest of him, if Aziraphale is being honest. Seeing Crowley in pain has never been a pleasant experience, hereditary enemies or otherwise. 

“Angel.”

A second later, Crowley is at his side, and there are warm fingers grasping his own. Oh. Oh, that feels nice… a cool presence slithering through him and around, shielding him from the agony of his body. His eyes fall shut again.

“Stay awake.” Oh, that tone is simply awful. Why does Crowley sound like that?

It’s terribly hard to open his eyes, but he does it nevertheless, because something is clearly wrong with his demon, and that simply won’t do. Those reptilian eyes are ever so wide, and oh so yellow, no hint of white showing. Crowley’s fingers crush his own, and that presence washes over him again. The cool touch is a relief to his aches and pains, and he fights the urge to close his eyes again. He needs to know what’s wrong, first.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley splutters for a moment—incomprehensible sounds escaping his lips. “You—you just worry about yourself, you stupid idiot.”

Stupid idiot. Oh, they do need to work on Crowley’s vocabulary…

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale tries again. 

A muscle jumps in Crowley’s jaw. “What do you remember?”

“Remember…?”

Is he supposed to remember something? Is there something to remember?

Well, there must be, he reasons. He was sleeping again. And Crowley certainly looks like he was put through a wringer, which leaves Aziraphale more than a little concerned. Was Crowley fighting? Was Aziraphale? Did they win? Well, they must have. They’re still alive.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he says to Crowley’s hopeful expression, “I don’t recall what happened. Were we fighting? Were you hurt?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. 

His thumb rubs across the top of Aziraphale’s knuckles, almost absently. Those yellow eyes still stare down at him, and he still looks absolutely dreadful. Paler than usual, eyes so very yellow, and he looks so… so… 

Upset, his mind supplies. Distraught. Ruined. 

No, not ruined. They’re both alive, so they must have escaped whatever they were fighting.

Heavens, his head hurts.

His eyes slip shut again.

“Don’t sleep,” Crowley says sharply. There’s a crushing vice around his hand. “Angel, stay awake. You’ve—you’ve been asleep for days.”

Days?

He’s been asleep for days?

And he can’t even remember what happened.

Some angel he is.

“I’m… very tired,” Aziraphale murmurs. Speaking the words is almost too much effort. Why is he so tired?

“Can you just…? For a few minutes, stay awake?”

Oh, he hopes he never hears that tone again. That… that desperation. That panic. That uncertainty. Crowley shouldn’t have to ever ask him for anything, and especially not like that. The fact he’s basically just asking him to stay awake a little longer is rather telling, he thinks, if he could just remember what happened.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice is a soft whisper. 

“ ‘m awake, dear,” he manages. It is increasingly hard to speak, but he’s awake—for now, at least.

A shaky breath escapes the demon. That won’t do. No, that won’t do at all.

He forces reluctant eyelids open. Squeezes Crowley’s fingers. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley’s eyes fall shut. “Nothing, angel. Everything’s fine. You just… need to finish healing, is all.”

“Healing…?”

“You… You got hurt, angel.”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Was it… bad…?”

That muscle ticks in Crowley’s jaw again. “Yeah,” he says roughly, like it’s hard for him to speak as well.

Maybe their throats got singed or something? 

“And you?” He asks, because that’s what is most important. He clearly got hurt himself, and he will worry about that later when he can think straight and hopefully remember what happened, but Crowley looks wretched, and that won’t do. “Were you… hurt?”

“No,” the demon says. “I wasn’t… hurt.”

Crowley is alright, then.

“Tha’ss… good, m’dear…”

Crowley’s eyes shoot open. “Angel? Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s eyes close once more. He’s so dreadfully tired, and Crowley is okay. Maybe he can just… take a little nap… just a short one…

“Azira—”

But he’s already gone.

The next time he wakes, the experience isn’t much better, except everything doesn’t hurt as much. He thinks. He can’t remember if he dreamt such pain, if angels can even dream, or if it actually happened. Has he woken in this bed before now?

Hmm. He’s in bed. 

Waking up again.

Sleeping is the absolute worst experience, he decides. How can Crowley stand it?

Speaking of the demon, he is nowhere to be seen. Well, he had to get rest himself sometime, surely. Hopefully he’s sleeping somewhere, since he enjoys it so much and looked… hmm. Crowley looked so wounded before. So tired. Or was that a dream too?

His head hurts.

Sitting up takes actual effort, which strikes him as wrong, but nevertheless the manages it and throws his legs over the side of the bed. The world spins around him, vision blurring in and out, and for a moment he just sits there. Spinning while sitting still. 

Oh, come on now. It’s not that bad, surely. Come on.

He takes in a slow, steady breath, and forces himself to stand up. 

And lurches sideways instantly.

He barely manages to catch himself before he trips over his nightstand, and after a few staggered steps he seems to have found his balance at long last.  He smiles, proud of himself, and makes his way toward the door. Right, you can do this. One foot in front of the other. Come on now. Move. 

He pries the door open and steps into the hallway. Ah. Stairs.

Stairs. 

Something slams into him, then. Something about stairs…

And then he’s lurching sideways again.

This time he hits the wall hard and slides to the ground. The world spins around him—it’s too much. He closes his eyes.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs. 

“Angel? Aziraphale?” Warm hands grab at him, and he blinks his eyes open to see Crowley’s twisted expression peering own at him. 

“Oh,” he says. “There you are.”

“What? What are you doing out of bed?”

“Hmm…? Oh, bed.” He blinks sluggishly. Oh, why is he so tired? “I’m tired of waking up.”

“What?”

“Sleeping is awful. I don’t know how you do it.”

The sound Crowley releases isn’t a laugh—it’s too… something, for that. Too broken? No, not broken. Crowley has never been broken. Hands grab at his arms and haul him back up, and the world is spinning again. Crowley presses him against the wall, holding him steady.

“You alright?” The demon asks.

“Once everything stops spinning, I will be,” Aziraphale says, somewhat irritably. Why must everything keep spinning. Why does he feel so… so… “What happened? Did we get completely sloshed?”

“No, we didn’t drink,” the demon says quietly. His hand presses against Aziraphale’s shoulder, warm and soothing as his thumb presses in against Aziraphale’s collarbone. Oh, that feels nice. Yes, there is an ache there, and Crowley’s cool essence soothes it.

“Mm, that’s nice,” he says sleepily. Oh, why is he standing in the middle of the hallway? Wasn’t he trying to go somewhere?

“Can you…”

“Hm, dear?”

Crowley’s expression twists. Crumples, it seems. “Would you like to go downstairs? You’ve been asleep quite a while.”

That should worry him. It stirs at something inside of him, but he’s too busy nodding at Crowley’s suggest. “Yes, downstairs, please.”

Stairs. He looks at them again. The world tilts. Something about stairs.

“Stairs…” he murmurs.

“Whoa—angel, easy.”

Hands right him when he lurches sideways again. 

“Something about… stairs,” Aziraphale says, eyes falling shut.

And then he drifts away again.

The third time he wakes up, he’s decidedly done with sleeping. Forever. 

His mind is far more clear than before, he thinks, and this time when he stands up from the bed, he doesn’t immediately lurch sideways. It takes a single step to get his bearings and then he’s striding out of the room because if he never sees that blasted bed again it will still be too soon. 

He stops at the top of the stairs. Stairs. Something about stairs. No, not stairs. An escalator, maybe? A stopped escalator?

A broken escalator can only become stairs, he can’t help but think.

He doesn’t want to step foot on the stairs. Something screams at him from deep within, at his core. Don’t go there, it says. Please don’t go there again. It hurts so much.

Stairs that hurt? What does that mean?

Regardless, he will step on these stairs. He needs to go downstairs; he doesn’t know where Crowley is and he’s tired of sleeping. Tired of waking up. 

He can’t decide which one is worse. 

One by one, he makes his way down the stairs and is decidedly proud of himself once he reaches the bottom. He’s not sure why stairs bother him, but he made it down them anyway. Somehow, that feels like progress. He’s been here before, he thinks. 

Yes. Something about the hallway. Crowley. 

Crowley. He needs to find the demon.

Was that a dream, or did Crowley look awful last time?

Last time. How many times have there been now?

Well, at least he’s made it down the stairs. Baby steps, he tells himself. 

Crowley isn’t in the kitchen, which is where the stairs lead down to. He stops at the counter near the stove and leans against it for a moment as the world spins, but it’s not completely awful. He remembers spinning before—always spinning, and falling. 

He pushes away from the surface once he feels more steady, and makes his way out of the kitchen. 

Crowley sits on the couch, hunched forward with his head in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking.

For a moment, the scene fails to register in Aziraphale’s mind. Why on Earth would Crowley ever look like that?

He steps closer to the demon.

Crowley stiffens and lifts his head, whipping around to face Aziraphale. Wide yellow eyes meet his, and he can’t help but think that Crowley looks absolutely exhausted. The demon is on his feet in the next instant, and then suddenly in front of him, hands reaching out. This feels familiar, he thinks.

“You’re awake,” Crowley says quickly, “tell me you’re awake.”

“I’m awake,” he says, frowning. “What happened?”

Crowley doesn’t answer him. He just yanks Aziraphale forward into his arms, wraps his own arms around the angel, and squeezes for all he’s worth. It knocks the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs but the demon is shaking again—trembling, it seems, and that seems far more important.

His arms come around the demon as well. “Oh, my dear. Whatever is the matter?”

A wretched sound escapes Crowley’s mouth, followed by a shaky inhale. “You… Are you alright?”

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale tells him. “But what’s the matter with you, dear?”

“What… what do you remember?”

Aziraphale frowns. That also sounds familiar. He should remember something. Something about stairs…

“Stairs…” he says quietly.

Those arms around him tighten. Aziraphale’s legs feel rather shaky and his body drags downward somewhat, but Crowley crushes him tightly, face burning into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “No, stay awake,” the demon hisses. “Just ssstay awake.”

“I am awake, dear,” Aziraphale says. “My legs just… ache.”

“Oh,” Crowley says quietly. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away, just seems to hold on tighter, like Aziraphale will wither away if he loosens his hold. “You ssshould sssit down.”

“Perhaps I should.”

But neither of them move.

Aziraphale can’t move even if he wants to, which he doesn’t—not with how upset Crowley seems. It doesn’t appear that the demon is injured, but he’s still trembling and that is worrisome. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Crowley is either shaking his head or trying to bury his face more into Aziraphale’s shoulder, he’s honestly not sure which at this point. Either way it’s worrisome, because if he’s not hurt, then why is he behaving this way? Something must be wrong. And if he’s just burrowing closer, that is also worrisome. 

The two don’t touch very often, if at all. They just… don’t. They are not normally very physical in any way. They share presences, and speak to each other, but physical contact has never been something they do very often. A light brush of a hand there, a touch of fingers here, something like that is fine, but this? The way Crowley is literally crushing him right now? What on Earth brought this on?

“Crowley—what is going on?”

Crowley releases a shaky exhale and finally releases Aziraphale. Pulls away from him and looks at him. “What do you remember? And don’t mention stairs.”

Aziraphale frowns. “But… all I remember are stairs… I think…”

Something about stairs. Something at the edge of his mind. Something…

The world spins around him.

There are fangs in Crowley’s mouth, he thinks. 

“No, no, no,” the demon is chanting, and when did he get so tall? “Aziraphale?”

Oh. He’s on the floor. When did that happen? Why does his head hurt so much…

“Stay awake,” Crowley says, eyes wide and fangs protruding. “Ssstay awake, Asssziraphale, ssstay—”

The world is spinning. Why is it always spinning? 

Something… about… stairs…

Darkness.

The next time he wakes up, he is ready to smite something or someone.

Hesitates at the top of the stairs. Something gnawing at him, nagging at his mind. Something…

Makes his way down the stairs without staggering or tripping. His head doesn’t even hurt, he thinks, and for some reason that seems important. 

He’s just not quite sure why. 

Oh, what happened? Why can’t he remember? Where is Crowley?

The demon is on his couch, it seems. Completely sloshed, if the empty bottles around him are anything to go by.

Oh. Maybe they drank too much last night and that’s why he can’t remember much of anything. For whatever reason, maybe they didn’t miracle it away like usual. 

If that’s the case Aziraphale is going to be terribly cross with Crowley for making him worry. 

For making him sleep.

He debates waking Crowley, but one look at the demon’s face tells him Crowley really needs the sleep. He looks utterly exhausted. But there’s a crease to his brow Aziraphale will not tolerate, no matter how cross he might be with the demon for being this drunk.

Crowley tosses his head to the side, a low keening whine escaping him, and Aziraphale’s blood runs cold. No. Crowley can’t ever sound like that again.

He presses his hand to Crowley’s forehead. “Enough of that, my dear. Dream of whatever you like best.”

The blessing settles over Crowley, who is too exhausted to even think about fighting it, and that crease smooths in his brow. Aziraphale nods to himself; that is much better. 

He looks around his bookshop then, now that Crowley is settled. There’s a thin layer of dust over everything.

How long has…?

He remembers caring for the bookshop yesterday. It was yesterday, right?

Stairs… something about…

Something inside of him wails. Screams. No. Stairs are Bad. Stairs hurt. Don’t think about the stairs. 

The world spins around him. He sways, catching himself against a bookshelf. Everything in him screams to Stop Looking. Don’t Look. Just Don’t Look.

He looks.

Chapter Text

When Crowley wakes from a sleep he never truly meant to have, he lies there on Aziraphale’s couch for a long, long time, just staring up at the ceiling. He knows he should get up to go check on Aziraphale, but if he has to hear Aziraphale ask about stairs one more time before passing out and keeling over yet again—well, he isn’t certain what he’ll do. Nothing good.

What day is it? Thursday? Friday? He doesn’t know. They all sort of blur together at this point. For nearly two weeks, Aziraphale has been in and out of consciousness, and just when Crowley thinks he’s finally awake for real, he keels over again, mumbling about stairs, and Crowley hates bloody stairs. Stairs were invented by Hell, he decides, they have to have been, because stairs shouldn’t make him so… so…

Right. I should get up. 

He vaguely remembers getting absolutely plastered after Aziraphale passed out again. He’s earned the right to drink, he thinks, because he’s the one stuck here watching his best friend keel over again and again and again, after the sodding idiot very nearly died on him. He doesn’t know what else to do at this point to keep Aziraphale awake, and doesn’t know if Aziraphale will even truly be awake again.

His True Form sustained damage, after all, and his memories are… tied to it, it seems. He’s stuck in a loop of forgetting and trying to remember and asking the same questions over and over—what’s wrong, Crowley, and what happened, Crowley, and are you hurt, dear and Crowley doesn’t know what he’ll do if Aziraphale asks them again. He just… doesn’t.

Sometimes Aziraphale seems more lucid than others, but sometimes he just babbles about stairs, and wails as if in agony again, and Crowley Looks at his True Form over and over to make sure there aren’t any new wounds, but sometimes… sometimes they start seeping again, not fully healed, and he honestly doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

Aziraphale, that is. How much more Aziraphale can take. Crowley is perfectly fine, of course. He’s not panicking. He’s not. He didn’t break down the other day and crush Aziraphale against him, constricting him like the snake he is. Nope, that never happened.

And when Aziraphale collapsed again, he certainly didn’t scream or want sob or anything nonsensical like that. Not him.

Crowley blinks at the sting of his eyes. Right, not thinking about any of that. Aziraphale is on the mend, slowly but surely, and this can’t happen forever. This can’t be the loop they’re always stuck in from now, with stolen moments of lucidity and consciousness and stairs—

Something… flickers.

At first Crowley thinks it’s just the lights in this bookshop. They’ve been on for quite some time and he doesn’t remember Aziraphale ever changing any bulbs; he probably miracles them to perfection again when they start to dim, but he can’t quite do that right now. 

But it’s not the lights.

He rears up, panic settling over him like a second skin. 

No, no, no, don’t you flicker, you bastard— “Don’t even think about it,” he hisses as he lurches from the couch.

Aziraphale isn’t upstairs, though.

The angel is on the floor a few steps from the couch. Books surround him, like he caught himself on a shelf and dragged them down onto him. 

Crowley stares down at the sight for two long seconds, unable to comprehend it in that moment. Aziraphale was awake again, it seems, and lucid enough to make his way downstairs, and Crowley was—sloshed. 

He drops to his knees next to the still form, hands hovering over the downed angel, uncertain how to fix this. Finally he settles on grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder and shaking him. “Angel? Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s head tosses to the side, brow furrowed in pain, and he mumbles something under his breath, something Crowley doesn’t quite catch.

“What was that, angel?”

“St…airs…”

With a hiss, Crowley hovers over the angel, hands pressed tightly into both shoulders, fingers pressing into skin with a bruising grip, and he Looks to see that Aziraphale’s form is—

No, no, you’re not doing this to me again, Aziraphale, you bastard—

Old slices have ripped open in the astral form, and golden light seeps through, and that presence is flickering.

“Stop,” he chokes, “don’t think about the stairs, Aziraphale, there aren’t any stairs! We just—we… we drank too much and passed out and that’s all that happened, I… Stop flickering, you bastard—”

“There were… stairs,” Aziraphale says, and oh, Someone, his eyes are open. “Heaven…”

“Stop,” Crowley says again, shaking his head firmly. “Stop, angel, you can’t think about it. You can’t remember. You have to stop.”

Blood drips from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. A whine catches in Crowley’s throat and he bites it back, pressing his hand to Aziraphale’s forehead. He wills his essence into the angel, picturing himself slithering in a circle around that flickering essence, and he holds tight to it. 

“Oh…” The word spills from Aziraphale’s bloody mouth and he has the audacity to smile at Crowley. “I remember, dear.”

“Don’t you bloody remember, Aziraphale, if you don’t stop—stop flickering—ssstop it, ssstop—”

He circles tighter to that essence, pressing in on all sides. The golden, holy light is blinding and painful, attempting to push him back and away from that holy essence, but he won’t do it. It’s like holding onto shards of glass, cutting at him in every way, but he won’t stop. 

“You’re… hurting yourself… dear.”

Flickering… flickering…

Then it stops. It stops flickering.

For one horrifying moment, Crowley thinks he’s lost him. This is it. He failed the one person he wanted to protect, and he’s alone. He’s alone. He’s alone and he should never be alone, they’re eternal, why is he alone—

But Aziraphale is still Bright. Still warm and soothing.

He stopped flickering, but not because he faded away.

Crowley still curls in tighter around him, both physically and metaphysically, circling that presence, watching as the flames within are stoked and rekindled, watches as they form stops seeping. His forehead is pressed against Aziraphale’s again and his eyes are screwed shut tight and there’s a sob lodged in his throat but Aziraphale is alive. 

“It’s alright, my dear.”

A hand lands at the back of his neck, simply holding on and ebbing warmth and radiance. That sob slips past his lips and his shoulders—his entire body, actually—are trembling and shaking as he bites back the rest of the sobs, because he will not—will not cry—because Aziraphale is alive. He’s alive. There is no need to panic and no need to fall apart because—

A flood of calm calm calm safe I’m here I love you I Love you calm safe ebbs into him from the pressure at the back of his neck, Aziraphale pushing his presence back against Crowley’s, and while it does calm his rampant thoughts and ease his fears to some degree, he can’t be calm. Not really. Not right now.

“Shh, dear. Shh. I have you.”

There are fingers in his hair, toying with the strands at the base of his neck where his hairline meets skin, and Aziraphale keeps pushing out with his presence while Crowley’s own circles him, nudging against the entity. What was was once white-hot pain, akin to shards of glass slipping through his hands, the presence is now a warm fire in a sea of darkness, and that light is everything to him. 

“It’s alright, Crowley. Shh. I’m here now, and I am ever so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

A sob, in his throat again. He swallows it back, circling, circling—

Keep this safe, he tells himself. Keep this spark safe. Don’t let it flicker again. Don’t ever let it flicker again. 

“You…” he wheezes, once he’s found his human voice, “are not allowed to flicker. Not ever.”

“Everything’s alright, my dear. You grounded me.”

You grounded me. The words flit through his mind, crashing against rampant thoughts, but never really connecting. Not truly sinking in. He keeps circling the warmth and light that is Aziraphale. Warmth and love and a sense of calm is still ebbing into him from that hand on the back of his neck, and slowly, so slowly, Crowley lets himself sink into the offered comfort. 

He’s too wrecked to even try to shy away from that sense of safety, like any good demon would do. Any self-respecting demon wouldn’t be caught dead accepting such Love from an angel. 

He’s always been a poor excuse of a demon, though.

A ragged breath escapes him, but he thinks he finally feels steady enough to pull back. To give Aziraphale a little space. He lifts his head and stops circling, thought a part of him wants to keep circling forever. “You…” His voice sounds awful even to his own ears, like he’s been gargling nails or something. Aziraphale’s eyes are watching him, half-lidded, but there’s not a pained crease to his brow and the blood has stopped dribbling down from the corner of his mouth. 

Crowley’s hand moves on its own, and his thumb brushes away a stray drop of blood. Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut at the touch, and while his hand fell away from Crowley pulled back and sat up properly, his other hand has caught hold of Crowley’s and gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze. 

“I had to remember,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “There was no way not to think about it, my dear. I am sorry for worrying you, though.” Those eyes open again and the angel frowns at him. “You look absolutely dreadful, by the way.”

A shaky laugh escapes him. Oh, how long has it been since he laughed? Two weeks at the very least. “I look dreadful, he says. Clearly you haven’t seen yourself in the mirror, Aziraphale.”

“All in good time, I suppose.” A pause. “My hair and clothing must be a mess.”

Oh, of course. Of course. Yep, that’s what the angel’s worried about, his appearance not—

Another laugh escapes him. It doesn’t feel as weak or fragile as the first one, somehow. His thumb smooths across the top of Aziraphale’s knuckles and he is grateful for the contact—grateful Aziraphale seems to recognise his need for it in this moment. He doesn’t know if Aziraphale truly knows the extent of what happened, or how close he came to slipping away, but in this moment Crowley needs the physical contact. Any contact. 

But circling that presence forever is… something he’s not allowed to do. It would be wrong of him, to sully an angel like that. Especially Aziraphale.

“How long has it been?”

Crowley frowns at the question. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for two weeks now, angel. It was… a long time.”

“Two weeks,” Aziraphale all but moans, but the irritated note to his voice leaves Crowley feeling strangely relieved. “Oh, I won’t ever sleep again. That was truly awful. I don’t know how you sleep, dear.”

“That… that wasn’t sleep,” he says, and then shakes his head. “Never mind. Sleep isn’t for you.” And I’ll be happy if you never sleep again, angel. 

“On the… bright side,” Aziraphale says, ever the optimist, “I clearly haven’t had any Urges in the past two weeks.”

Crowley groans. “That’s not a silver lining, Aziraphale. You were unconscious.” But he smirks anyway, and Aziraphale smiles back at him like he’s the sun, and fuck, I almost lost this. 

That panic tries to rear its head inside of him again. 

“No, dear, none of that.”

Warmth presses against him, a light touch of Aziraphale’s presence, and Crowley’s eyes fall shut.

Right. None of that.

Aziraphale is alive, and Crowley is going to keep him that way, no matter what it takes.

He won’t let that presence ever flicker again.

“I am worried about Heaven,” the angel says.

Crowley hisses, glaring down at said angel. “Heaven’s fine. Okay? They’re fine, they’re probably up there throwing some sort of party for… Look, angel, they don’t are about you.” They never have. “Don’t worry about them.”

“Crowley, that… event on the escalator was clearly a Do Not Disturb sign.”

“Oh, a sign, he says,” Crowley mutters, “yes, ‘course, it was a bleeding sign, how silly of me to think otherwise.”

“Something is clearly wrong with Heaven.”

“That’s their problem,” Crowley hisses. “Not oursss. Not yoursss.”

“Well, it seems it is my problem, dear. People are remembering me and praying to me.”

Right. That. Almost forgot about that with the two-week long nightmare. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he say sharply. “Jussst… not right now.”

He can’t think about all of that right now, and Aziraphale shouldn’t either. He needs to recuperate, to finally—finally—heal.

“Very well,” Aziraphale says.

And then they just linger there—connected by a hand, with Crowley on his knees next to the angel, and Crowley takes in every curve of his face, every dimple in his skin, that warm look in his eyes—he takes it all in, because he came so very, very close to losing this forever. 

He and Aziraphale have been friends for 6000 years, and he doesn’t know how to go back to being alone. He won’t ever go back to being alone. 

It’s a thought he’s had for a while now—deep, deep down inside of himself. But losing Aziraphale is a fear he’s never spoken into existence, tries hard not to think about, because should anyone catch wind of what the angel means to him, then it’s all over. 

They’re on Their Side now, and that should have meant the freedom to be open about everything, but now it seems just another way to cut at him, little by little. He’s spent two weeks watching Aziraphale wither and recover, two weeks losing the angel to unconsciousness no matter what he tried, and he simply can’t go through any of that again. Not any of it, not ever again. 

If Aziraphale had flickered out and left him alone…

If Crowley hadn’t gotten past that stupid ward…

If he hadn’t had the strength to miracle them both off that escalator…

If, if, if. 

Life is fragile, but Crowley is only just now realising this fact. He’s only had to worry about losing Aziraphale a handful of times, most of them rather recently, but the past two weeks have put things in stark perspective.

The thing about loving someone, though, means they are suddenly something you can lose. 

“Dear. Stop.”

Crowley blinks his eyes, noticing they are rather wet and burning. He swipes a hand across his face, wiping away the grittiness, and refocuses on the angel frowning up at him. Aziraphale’s lips are pursed into a thin white line and his brow is creased again. “Sorry,” he says. “ ‘m sorry, m’ not trying to… I just… it’s been a long two weeks.”

“Well, it’s over now,” Aziraphale tells him. “And I won’t have you punishing yourself.”

A weak smile flits across his face. Oh, when was the last time he smiled? “ ‘course, angel. Whatever you say.”

Aziraphale shifts, then, to sit up. Crowley presses a hand flat against his chest, pushing him back down with a low hiss, but Aziraphale’s warmth spreads through him again and he finally relents, letting the angel sit up. Aziraphale doesn’t sway like he has so many times before and doesn’t look like he’s about to keel over again, so Crowley tries to be hopeful.

This time, he thinks, this time he’s awake for real. It’s over. 

“I feel I would like some tea,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Right, yeah, I’ll get it. You just sit tight.”

“I am quite alright to—”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. “Stay put. There.”

He pushes to his feet. It’s difficult to leave Aziraphale there on the floor, but remnants of his presence are still pressed into Crowley’s skin and he carries that with him to the kitchen. The fact Aziraphale has made it down to ask for tea is a blessing, he tells himself. He’s tried to lure Aziraphale into staying awake with tea in the past, with a book, with anything, and it hasn’t quite worked out. But this time… this time will be different.

Shaking hands pull down the kettle. 

Stop. Stop shaking. 

Aziraphale is awake. It’s over. It’s over.

It’s just… going to take some time, to adjust back to normal. After living in constant fear for two long weeks. Demons aren’t supposed to feel such fear, they aren’t supposed to panic and wail and get totally sloshed because an angel might be dying upstairs, and they aren’t supposed to care.

If Crowley was a good demon, he’d not be feeling so shaken right now. So out of sorts, so… so broken.

He’s always been broken, though. Too dark to be an angel, too… nice, to be a demon. No matter what he does, he’s just… broken.

Pull yourself together. Come on. Aziraphale wants tea. 

Right. Tea.

He exhales slowly and fills the kettle with water.

Tea. This is something simple, he can do this.

He can do this. He can…

I almost lost him. Oh, fuck, he almost—

“Crowley, stop.”

He whirls around. Aziraphale stands just inside the kitchen, leaning against the small table at the edge of the room. “Tea will be done in a minute, angel,” he says, almost numbly, because it’s all he can focus on right now.

Everything else is just… too much.

“Oh, dear.”

Aziraphale steps toward him. Warm arms come around him, tugging him closer, and he can’t help but melt into that warm, soft body. He all but crumples against Aziraphale, legs refusing to hold him up any longer, and Aziraphale accepts his weight and just—holds on. Holds him. 

“My dear, you are exhausted.”

He is. He really is. Demons don’t need to sleep any more than angels do, but Crowley has always enjoyed sleep and his body is rather used to doing it occasionally. At least once a month. He hasn’t really slept since Armageddon, hasn’t felt the need to do so since he was enjoying his freedom, but the past two weeks have drained him completely. He just… can’t. It’s all too much. All of it.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep? The bed isn’t awful.”

A shaky exhale escapes him. He shakes his head but says nothing, still pressed into warmth and comfort and safety. 

“Crowley. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’ be,” he manages. “ ‘m fine.”

“You’re exhausted. Just get some sleep, dear. I’ll be here.”

He really should, he knows. He might feel better once he’s not mentally and physically exhausted, and actually be able to process what’s happened, but he can’t. He won’t.

“ ‘m fine,” he says again, and forces himself to push away from Aziraphale. He wants nothing more than to sink heavily into that embrace, but that presence is too inviting, and if he stays there, he’ll sleep. He turns away from Aziraphale, back toward the stove as the kettle whistles. “Tea’s ready.”

Aziraphale sighs behind him. “I can’t make you sleep. Alright. But please take care of yourself. Your well-being is vitally important.”

His well-being? No. He doesn’t matter. 

Well. He does matter to someone.

Aziraphale has always looked after him.

“ ‘course, angel. I’ll be fine. Just… tickety-boo.”

He pours Aziraphale a mug and conjures a bottle of scotch for himself. He won’t get completely plastered, but the numbing alcohol will help. It has to. Something has to help this… this feeling. This ache. 

“So…” He takes a long swallow from the bottle. It burns all the way down, but it’s a pain he can tolerate. “Heaven is a no-go. Any other bight ideas?”

“Oh, I have a few. I’m just not certain you want to hear them.”

Of course. Crowley takes another long chug from the bottle. “Right. Lay it on me.”

“Not right now, dear. I think we both just need a moment to relax.”

“Just… just get it over with.”

“Crowley.”

Crowley slams the bottle down on the corner, whirling to glare at the angel over his shoulder. “Tell me.”

Aziraphale sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “There is… another way, to get to Heaven.” He sips at his tea, carefully avoiding Crowley’s gaze.

“The Hell there is,” Crowley hisses back. “There’s just… just the entrance, the circle you already tried, and—and…” The panic is back in full force. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t say it was a good idea. Just that it was an idea.”

“You are no being discorporated, are you—are you absolutely mad?”

“It’s an option,” Aziraphale says calmly, sipping his tea. “One I’d rather not resort to, of course, but it is an option.”

“It’s not an option at all! We don’t even know if the Entrance was the issue, Aziraphale. What if it’s Heaven itself? What if…”

What if you get discorporated, and are immediately shredded to nothing? 

Oh. That is an unpleasant thought. One he hadn’t thought of before.

Aziraphale is suddenly so very, very human. Discorporation wasn’t an option before, of course; getting sent back to Heaven meant he would likely be stuck there, as they would not issue him another body, but at least Aziraphale would be alive. 

Now, though…

“Crowley, my dear, I am right here. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

Warmths spreads over him and through him as Aziraphale’s presence nudges at him, a sense of calm ebbing through him. 

“Shh, that’s it, my dear. You are ever so exhausted. Why don’t you just sleep…”

The recognises the blessing a little too late.

“No, wait—” he manages, and then he sags downward, Aziraphale catching him easily. 

He’s… so… tired…

Why is he still awake?

Sleep sounds… amazing…

“Shh, that’s it, love. Dream of whatever you like best.”

His eyes fall shut and darkness takes him.

Chapter Text

Crowley is softly snoring when Aziraphale leaves the bedroom after having deposited the demon in his bed. The lines and creases in the demon’s brow have faded and he appears to be having a pleasant sleep, if the lax expression and slight bit of drool coming from the edge of his mouth are anything to go by. For a moment, Aziraphale watches his demon sleep, peace settling his heart.

Crowley will forgive him, he thinks, for putting him to sleep like that. The fact the blessing worked at all is telling of how exhausted Crowley truly was, as it never would have worked otherwise. The fact it took him down so quickly is also rather telling, and he wonders how the past two weeks have really been on Crowley.

They can’t have been easy. Aziraphale tries to imagine himself in Crowley’s shoes, with the demon injured and knocked out for so long. It doesn’t bear mentioning, because it is a very unpleasant thought. Aziraphale can’t fix the past two weeks or wipe them from Crowley’s mind, but he can help Crowley now that he is awake, and that’s just what he plans to do.

Crowley will most likely sleep for at least a day, perhaps longer. Since it was an involuntary sleep, he doesn’t imagine Crowley sleeping for too long, despite the fact he once slept almost an entire century, mostly to avoid an awkward conversation between them. 

Aziraphale slips out of the bedroom and makes his way downstairs. 

He starts cleaning up by picking up and disposing of all the empty bottles lining his bookshop floor. Once that is taken care of, he sits in his chair and ponders what he should do next.

What other options can he look into while Crowley sleeps?

The Main Entrance was the best way into Heaven. Arriving via gateway isn’t pleasant, Aziraphale knows from experience. Plus, the circle isn’t working properly thanks to whatever might be happening in Heaven. Discorporating won’t help him much either; he doesn’t wish to lose his body again. He’s filled this form for over 6000 years and he has grown rather attached to it; it just… feels like him. 

Form shapes nature.

Aziraphale remembers what it was like prior to receiving said body, of course. He remembers Heaven how it always was: pristine, white, and filled with Love and grace. Her grace. Her Love. The angels within were all connected in a way; they all thought alike and they all behaved alike, and it was a utopia. 

Or, rather, it should have been.

It was supposed to be utopia. The perfect place, filled with perfect beings, created from Her loving grace. That’s how it should have been.

In reality, however, there was clearly dissent in the ranks. Lucifer rose up, rebellious and stubborn, full of pride and certain of his victory. He had his own group of followers who flocked to him like ducklings and all he wanted, it seemed, was the ability to choose for himself. To make his own path, to break the rules and be free.

Aziraphale can’t help but notice the similarities between himself and the devil. It certainly took him much longer to accept these… temptations within himself, and even longer to finally act on them, but to be fair, Aziraphale had no reason to question anything about Heaven until the humans left the garden and a demon struck up a conversation with him atop the wall surrounding it. Looking back now, he can see himself as he used to be: a mindless drone in an endless sea of soldiers, all without their own thoughts or ideas or aspirations. A good little soldier, as it were. He was a good soldier. He was powerful, he fought in the Great War, and won accolades enough that he was stationed as the sole agent on Earth for 6000 years, because somehow, he had earned that right.

Now, he is certainly no soldier. Guarding the humans was like waking up for the first time, and it is the only experience of waking up that he didn’t find unpleasant. The thought of returning to the mindless void of heavenly grace… It shakes him to the core, and he can picture himself as he used to be: empty. So very empty.

So, he doesn’t wish to lose his body and be forced back to Heaven that way. Certainly not. Also, he highly doubts he will be granted a new corporation should that happen, because he isn’t exactly popular Up There at the moment. 

He doesn’t want to discorporate, but it is an option. A poor one, but present nevertheless. If he really wants to get to Heaven, he will have that option.

Heaven.

He worries for the angels. He isn’t sure if the Entrance works both ways or if it is only any angels trying to enter Heaven which suffer whatever happened on those stairs, but either way, he feels stuck out here, lost in the cold, set adrift in a storm. And maybe the angels in Heaven feel trapped, too. 

He shouldn’t care so much. Crowley is right, there. The angels don’t care about him, at least not in any meaningful way. He was a mindless soldier and they appreciated the fact he followed orders, he thinks, if they felt anything at all, but now he is certainly a thorn in their side. He helped avert the apocalypse, after all. And Heaven tried to kill him for it.

So he really shouldn’t care what happens to them, but turning his back on his fellow angels like that is not something he can fully commit to, even if he isn’t aligned with Heaven anymore. He can’t just sit bak and let them suffer, whatever is happening Up There.

This is, of course, assuming that the issue really does rest Up There, and not down here with himself. For all he knows, he is the problem at hand. He’s getting the Urges, he’s being prayed to, it’s his powers which are on the fritz, and it was him who was attacked trying to get to Heaven. Is this to be God’s punishment, then? Not to have him Fall, but not to accept him as an angel, either? A twisted sort of limbo?

Whether or not he’s the problem or it’s Heaven, it doesn’t really matter. He still needs answers.

He just—

Needs to stretch his legs.

He stands from his chair and strides toward the front of the bookshop. His hand is already pushing the door open and he has one foot out of the shop before he wrenches control of himself again and stops in his tracks.

“No,” he says. He doesn’t need to stretch his legs.

He won’t.

There’s a clawing feeling his chest, something scraping to break free, but he will not give into the Urge. He won’t leave Crowley alone like that, won’t leave him here defenceless. What if Crowley wakes up while he is away? What if someone, or something, attacks the shop while he’s sleeping upstairs, unprotected?

He can’t leave.

But he’s already out the door. It closes behind him with a sharp report, and he turns left and starts walking down the sidewalk.

Stop this, he tries to tell himself. Stop this, you can’t leave Crowley. 

Oh… but it really would be nice to stretch his legs. He’s been cooped up in that bookshop for weeks according to Crowley, and a breath of fresh air never hurt anyone.

He only needs to go a short distance—he can pace himself. He won’t get tired and he will be back shortly. Just a quick walk around a couple of blocks.

Yes. It all sounds rather lovely.

He walks for roughly ten minutes. It really is a nice day out, the sun shining brightly in the sky, not a cloud in sight. For all that he’s been cooped up in his beloved bookshop, a breath of fresh air is really what he needed.

There is a bus stop just down the street. He uses it from time to time when he needs to travel and doesn’t wish to miracle himself somewhere. When he goes clothes shopping, for starters, he will take the bus. At least the bus driving doesn’t speed through traffic like a certain demon.

He lingers at the bus stop for a moment, uncertain where he should go. Where he wants to go. He doesn’t really want to be anywhere, but he doesn’t want to leave the bus stop and go back to the bookshop, either. 

A bus pulls up and stops. Its doors open.

People spill out. One of them is wheezing, hiding their mouth behind a handkerchief, and Aziraphale steps toward them.

“Oh, my dear,” he hums thoughtfully, frowning at the person in front of him. They stop and stare at him, something like recognition sparking briefly in their eyes, even as their troubled soul cries out for help. It is a beacon, a call to action he can’t ignore. 

The man is still wheezing.

Allergic reaction, Aziraphale gleans from the man’s surface thoughts. Panic. Fear. I don’t have my epipen. It’s getting hard to breathe. 

No. That won’t do.

Aziraphale waves his hand in front of the man’s face. “All is well,” he says.

The man stops wheezing. His lungs expand with his first deep breath in the past few minutes, and then the man is reaching for him.

Hands clutch at his shoulders. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” the man says gratefully. “Was a goner, I was. Thought I was. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale didn’t tell the man his name, but he knows it all the same. He feels like this should spark some worry within him, but it makes sense the man knows his name. Aziraphale is the Principality, the protector and guardian of Earth, after all; why should the man not know him?

“No need to thank me, good sir,” Aziraphale says with a nod. “Just happy to help.”

Then he turns and heads back to his bookshop.

The further he gets from the bus stop, the more awareness slips through him and he looks around, utterly confused as to why he is out here in the first. Oh, he thinks as he remembers. Some sort of Urge brought him out here, and Crowley is at the bookshop all alone and unprotected.

Aziraphale rushes back to the bookshop, pushing past people and sliding around them. He can be quite agile when necessary. He pushes into the bookshop and quickly goes upstairs to check on the sleeping demon.

Crowley is still where he left him in bed—peaceful and softly snoring. Relief floods through Aziraphale and he leans against the doorframe momentarily, just watching Crowley sleep. 

Then he goes back downstairs.

He needs answers. He needs to know what is happening with these Urges and he needs to know what is happening with Heaven. 

He might have cut ties of Heaven, but that doesn’t mean doesn’t care for its denizens. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry about them or what might be happening to them. 

In the past, he’s gone centuries without hearing from his superiors. Orders were received with a thought, passed down directly to him, and he knew what was expected of him. Come to think of it, it felt similar to the Urges he’s getting now, except for the fact he has no control over himself now. Before, it was simply downloaded into his mind, what he needed to do, where he needed to go, and why. He made his way there of his own free will.

Now it feels like something is possessing him and dragging him somewhere. He’s thankful to have helped those poor troubled souls, but does not like being used as such. He cut ties with Heaven so he could have free will, after all.

He moves the table from the circle in his bookshop and relights the candles, then steps back to activate it.

He presses his hands together and prays. 

“Hello again,” he says gently. “This is the Principality Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern gate and humanity, and I’m afraid I really need to speak with someone.”

The circle hums with energy, but it doesn’t flare up as it should. It doesn’t connect like he really needs it to.

He purses his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer. This is dreadfully important and concerns the safety of Heaven.”

The humming energy intensifies, but still it does not connect.

Blast it. I really need this to work. 

“I’m willing to take this all the way to the top.”

Energy twists around the circle, bright and overwhelming. It swirls to life and there’s a sudden breeze in the room which wasn’t there before, and a couple books fly off their shelves due to the sheer force of it and crash to the ground with loud thuds. Aziraphale winces at the noise and at the pressure of the room. This doesn’t quite feel right.

A voice echoes amongst all the noise, like a bit of static over the phone.

“… need help… God…” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “I can’t quite hear you. Can you repeat that?”

“… restructuring…” 

“Re… structuring?” Aziraphale repeats, confusion flooding through him. What on Earth does that mean? “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is happening in Heaven?”

“… need help… God…” 

“… restructuring…”

“… need help… God…”

It is an echo, repeating itself over and over. 

Aziraphale frowns and holds his hands out, angelic energy gathering in his palms as he tries to strengthen the connection, his grace surrounding him like a physical force. His energy feeds into the circle, amping it as much as he is able, and the world starts to spin around him. 

“… hear… can anyone… trouble… need help…” 

It seems like some kind of repetitive, general broadcast. Perhaps it is channelled to all gateways; it might explain how impersonal it feels. 

“Come on…” Aziraphale mutters, “just a little clearer, please, and I can hear you…”

He feeds more of his energy into the gateway. The swell of wind circling him in response threatens to throw him from his feet. Books fly across the room, caught in torrents of energy as they are flung this way and that. The lights flicker dispassionately above him. The building shakes.

“… we’re in trouble… God is… restructuring… need help if anyone… hear…”

A jet of holy magic shoots from the gateway, up into the ceiling. It doesn’t mark the ceiling or damage it, as it isn’t a physical force, but it exists nevertheless. Aziraphale fights the urge to reach out and touch that tendril of power, of holiness. A shiver flits through him when he realises why this feels so very wrong.

Normally, when the gateway is active, he can feel Her grace and Love flooding through him. There is no such energy now. 

Instead, the impressions he gets from the energy surrounding him is… anger. 

God’s a bit tetchy, he once told Crowley. 

Not anger, he thinks. Disappointment. Impatience. Frustration. Not outright anger, but a complex series of emotions he can’t quite decipher. God has been rather absent for a long time now, and the only one who has frequently heard Her voice is the Metatron.

Why has her energy changed? What is happening to Heaven?

And why is she so angry?

“Angel, stop!”

Just like that, the thread connecting him to the gateway is cut as he looks over his shoulder at Crowley, who has come darting into the room. He hovers at the edge of the energy field, hands outstretched and burning, red and raw from that touch of holiness eating away at him.

Aziraphale’s veins turn to ice. “Crowley!” 

He stops the connection immediately. The energy field disperses and the gateway’s light fizzles into nothing as he rushes toward the demon. Aziraphale reaches for the demon’s hands, his own hands trembling as his fingers run across the damage. He summons a healing miracle and pushes it at the demon, but angelic magic doesn’t exactly work the best on demons, especially on wounds made by something holy. 

Crowley snarls under his breath, wrenching his hands away from Aziraphale’s. “Stop that,” he says. “I’m fine. What the Heaven were you doing?”

“Trying to reach someone,” Aziraphale says, reaching for Crowley’s hands again. “Let me heal that, dear. I am so sorry.”

“Nggh, it’s fine,” Crowley says. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Crowley, please.”

The demon sighs and offers his hands. Aziraphale carefully runs his fingers across the damaged skin, pushing his healing thoughts at the demon’s essence, soothing the ache as best he can. The skin itself should heal quickly enough as it is superficial damage, but he still hates that he injured the demon. He didn’t think the gateway could emit such a strong angelic field.

“Something is wrong with Heaven,” Aziraphale says as he works. “There was a message, like static. It wasn’t all that clear, but I got a few bits of it. Something about restructuring, and God is… a bit tetchy.”

“Tetchy,” Crowley repeats. “Tetchy. Of course She’s bloody tetchy! Look, angel, the problems of Heaven aren’t yours, okay? If She’s restructuring, then… Look, if they made her mad they can bloody well deal with the consequences on their own.”

“This goes beyond ‘mad’, Crowley. Those angels were asking for help.”

“Yeah? Well, doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I can’t just ignore them.” 

“They’ve never helped you, Aziraphale, not once! You don’t owe them anything.”

Crowley has a point, deep down, but Aziraphale simply can’t ignore someone when they ask for help. He can’t ignore their suffering. For all he knows, right now, every angel up in Heaven is suffering.

“What do you suppose ‘restructuring’ means?” Aziraphale asks.

“Dunno,” Crowley mutters. “Could be anything. But if it’s happening to the Archangel fucking Gabriel, I say let it happen.”

Aziraphale winces at the sharp bite to those words, but understands why Crowley thinks such a thing. He’s not fond of the Archangels either, especially Gabriel, who had always rubbed him wrong, as it were. The Archangels did try to go ahead with Armageddon anyway, even though there really didn’t need to be a war, and Gabriel even so far as to come down here himself and attempt to tempt Adam into restarting the end of the world.

If God is angry with Heaven, maybe Aziraphale should leave well enough alone. He broke away for a reason, after all.

But he can’t simply ignore this.

He wishes Crowley could understand. He used to be an angel once; surely he remembers what that was like? Hell doesn’t seem to have much loyalty to one another, but surely he remembers Heaven and being an angel. 

It was, as Crowley said, a long time ago, though.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” He asks, to change the subject. Crowley’s hands are healing nicely now, and he doesn’t appear to be in pain, so Aziraphale drops his hands and steps past him, toward the kitchen to make himself some tea. Tea always helps calm his nerves.

“Oh, I’m right pissed at you,” Crowley says, following him into the kitchen. “You put me to sleep, you bastard.”

“You needed it. And it wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t been exhausted.”

Aziraphale refuses to feel guilty for it. Crowley needed it and was refusing to do so, so he had to act himself. Needs must.

A fierce banging sound erupts from the front of the store.

Crowley, wily serpent that he is, darts out of the kitchen first to see what all the noise is about. Azirpahale quickly follows after him.

Someone is banging on the door to the bookshop.

Right. He must have locked it when he returned earlier.

With a wave of his hand the door swings open and a delivery man walks in.

“Neat trick, that is,” the delivery man says cheerily as he carries a long package toward them. “Package for you, sir.” He hands the box directly to Aziraphale.

“I didn’t order anything,” Aziraphale says even as he accepts the package offered to him. It is only polite, after all.

“Right, I need you to sign here for it.” The deliver man holds out a clipboard. Aziraphale accepts the pen almost numbly; he can’t quite feel it in his hand, but gets the sensation he really does need to sign for this; he wants this package, whatever it is. “Thank you, sir.”

And then, as suddenly as he arrived, the delivery man leaves.

“Well, that was bloody bizarre,” Crowley says. “What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale tears off the tape sealing the long, thin box, and a sword drops into his open palm. A familiar sword, in fact.

Crowley stares at it. “Is that…?”

“I do believe it is, my dear.”

It’s his sword. The one gave away when the humans left Eden. The one War had when the world didn’t end. The one he returned to Heaven… he’d given it to that very same delivery man, come to think of it.

“Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

A single white letter falls out of the box as well. It flutters to the ground, shimmering and shining all the way, aglow with such holy grace. Crowley hisses, backing up a step from it, shielding his eyes from the brightness. Aziraphale bends down to pick it up, turning it over to unfold it.

“Well? What’s it say, then?”

Aziraphale—Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate

You might need this. Leave Heaven be.

That’s it. That’s all it says, but even so, he knows exactly who it is from.

“Angel? What is it?”

“It’s a message,” Aziraphale says quietly. “From God.”

Chapter Text

As an Archangel, Gabriel has never felt fear. 

Demons posed a threat, or at least they would have if Armageddon had gone through as planned, but other than the occasional run in with a demon, angels did not have much to fear apart from Falling. Gabriel was an Archangel, though, and he did not worry about Falling. He never betrayed God, not like those who were cast out of Heaven, and certainly not like Aziraphale.

Archangels don’t have much emotion regarding other angels, save for occasional disappointment at failed tasks, but Gabriel has been Aziraphale’s direct superior for 6000 years. The angel stationed on Earth, isolated down there, was a disappointment on occasion. Aziraphale was an anomaly, Gabriel thinks, and right from the start he’d made some questionable choices.

Perhaps it is not surprise Aziraphale became tainted with… humanity. The word alone leaves Gabriel frowning, a deep-seeded sense of disgust burning through him momentarily. Angels don’t have feelings like humans, as they are more controlled than that and feeling such things is obviously beneath them, but if Gabriel did have feelings about something, it was about Aziraphale’s dissent into what should have been a Fallen Angel.

Yet, somehow, Aziraphale has not Fallen.

He survived a spout of hellfire, too, and Gabriel still doesn’t know how he managed that one. Certainly it wasn’t God intervening; what did She care about a middling angel who kept disobeying and rebelling against all her plans? She’d cast out Lucifer for the same things, after all; so surely she wouldn’t have intervened on Aziraphale’s behalf.

No, he survived some other way. Gabriel just doesn’t know how. Yet.

So he does feel disappointment, and frustration, just like anyone else. Disappointment in Aziraphale for 6000 years as the angel seemed to pull more and more away from Heaven, bending but never outright breaking the rules, and he’s been skirting that line for millennia. Frustration, because if he did want anything at all, he wanted to duke it out with the demons. Over 6000 years ago they were cast out but nothing was really settled; he wanted to fight them. They wanted to fight the angels. Armageddon should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Because of one disobedient angel.

After that, Gabriel felt anger. It burns hotly inside of him in a way nothing else ever has and it is, perhaps, more confusing than anything, but the feeling is there all the same. And he isn’t sure what to do with it. He already tried punishing Aziraphale and it didn’t work. It didn’t work.

And then God broke Her silence.

For millennia She’s been silent, speaking only to the Metatron, leaving Her Archangels to run things. Gabriel is proud to have been one of said Archangels, running Heaven for so long now. Surely if God disapproved of any of their moves, She would have shown Herself and corrected things immediately, so everything was going perfectly according to plan.

At least, that’s what they thought.

Gabriel has never felt fear, but as he stands there (in so far as he can stand, at least, in his True Form) frozen and unable to move as God picks away at him little by little, rearranging entire pieces, he’s never felt more terrified.

It hurts.

He hasn’t felt pain since the Great War as he fought his brethren. Strange, how you can forget how such a thing feels, because this pain, he thinks, is worse.

She’s ripping out pieces of his soul, making whatever adjustments She sees fit, and shoving them back in a new place. She isn’t unkind about it, of course; She is always kind unless pushed to be something else, but She leaves the pain. She could take it all away if She wanted; could destroy them and start anew, but She doesn’t.

She just…

Makes adjustments.

And they’re all frozen in place, unable to move, perfectly placid as She does so. 

God is angry, and Gabriel is terrified.

She is angry as She looks at Her Archangels.

They’ve all become tainted, She thinks, ripping out several sins to observe them. 

They have consorted with demons while shunning one of their own for the same thing.

They tried to temp a child toward ending everything.

They fully expected to kill an angel in a hidden area of Heaven.

Oh, how Her angels have fallen from grace.

She toys with the idea of tossing out such sins, cleaning the slate entirely. Each angel will begin anew. What is it humans call it? Oh, yes. A factory reset, to make them work like new.

She doesn’t do this.

In the past, She has tried similarly by wiping out areas on Earth when the humans disappointed Her so, and in the end, history merely repeated itself. Those methods don’t work.

So She leaves the sins. She leaves the pain. She rearranges but never throws anything out. 

She will make do with what She has to work with, She decides, and all will be well.

This would be easier to do if Aziraphale would stop trying to interfere.

Oh, that angel. He is, perhaps, the best of Her angels. He has become Real in a way the others simply have not, and he did it all on his own. 

Be kind to everyone, She had spread to the angels and humanity. 

Aziraphale was kind to a demon even when God Herself could not tolerate them, but could not find it in Herself to destroy them entirely. She cast them out instead, changed them fundamentality, ripped away her Love and grace and filled them with something bitter and unkind, but even knowing this, Aziraphale was still kind to a demon.

The Right Thing isn’t always the Easy Thing, She also spread.

Her Principality had accepted this as well, for his road certainly hadn’t been easy but he has saved and preserved so much life despite everything. 

Love me, She had also said, but above all else, love humanity, my greatest creation.

Aziraphale sacrificed everything to protect the humans.

She chose correctly when making him a Principality.

He can handle things while She is busy with the other angels. 

Someone needs to cover for Her while She is busy rewriting the Heavens, after all.

Things are afoot.

Hastur likes when things are afoot. It means chaos, it means danger, it means the thrill of a fight.

The fact it involves Heaven and that angel the traitor Crowley seems to fancy, well, that just makes it all the better in his opinion. 

He has a score to settle, after all, and what better way than to… what is the human expression? Kill two birds with one stone?

Hell has sensed a fluctuation in power, they said, and it seems centred on this one particular angel. No other angels have been spotted on Earth since Armageddon and there are rumours that the escalator at the Main Entrance to Heaven isn’t working.

His job: Snuff out this last angel on Earth.

If this job coincides with his own grudge against Crowley, well, that only helps things, doesn’t it?

Crowley took his partner in crime, and now he will take the traitor’s.

The only issue, he thinks, is that there are rumours said angel is immune to hellfire.

Oh well.

There’s more than one way to kill an angel.

Chapter Text

It’s odd, seeing Aziraphale with a sword.

Crowley knows, on some level, Aziraphale knows how to use the sword. He was a soldier in Heaven, after all, and God gave him that sword specifically for his assignment on Earth, so She clearly thought he knew how to use it. So he knows Aziraphale is probably good with a sword, but the image of Aziraphale actually wielding said blade in a fight fails to connect in Crowley’s mind.

He can’t reconcile this warrior angel with the book-loving, peaceful angel in front of him. 

Aziraphale stares down at the blade, shadows in his eyes. He doesn’t appear fond of the idea of holding the sword, either, just as Crowley doesn’t like the thought of Aziraphale having to use it.

The angel twirls the blade with a flourish and Crowley takes a small step back, watching the fluid movements. It’s odd seeing Aziraphale like that, but he does make it look like a dance. Crowley can use a sword if needed, but he hasn’t ever been overly good with it. In Heaven, he was a creator; he helped make the stars. He had no need for a blade until he fell in with the wrong crowd.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was created to be a soldier. A weapon. 

It boggles the mind, really. The fact God created warriors when, at the time, there was no need for a fight. Did she see the Great War coming? 

Aziraphale stops his movements, holding the blade limply at his side as he glances at Crowley. “You never really forget how to use it,” he hums. “Oh, but it feels odd to have it! Why would She give it back to me when I gave it away?”

I gave it away, the angel atop the wall surrounding Eden had told him that day. 

They were among the first words Aziraphale ever said to him and they have stuck with him all this time.

Aziraphale gave away his weapon to protect the first humans out in the darkness, and then the sword wound up in War’s hands. When they returned the blade to Heaven that should have been the end of it, but here it is, taunting them.

Crowley shifts from foot to foot, prowling quietly as Aziraphale turns to put the blade on the table. “So, who are we fighting?”

“Fighting, my dear?” Aziraphale turns toward him, confused.

“Well, yeah, She sent you a sword, Aziraphale.”

She gave him a weapon. There’s only one reason She would give him a sword, right? Something is clearly wrong, as Aziraphale has been saying, but She seems to think he will need this sword, of all things. She could have sent him anything, but She sent a weapon.

Aziraphale’s expression crumples. “Oh, dear. I don’t wish to fight anyone.”

“Might have somethin’ to do with these urges you’re having.”

“Perhaps. They are getting… very strange.”

“Strange? Strange how? Did you have another one?” Crowley itches to circle, filled with agitation, but Aziraphale is still standing next to the table so instead, he paces back and forth, coiled and ready to strike. “What was it? Why didn’t you tell me? When?” 

Aziraphale holds a hand up. “Slow down, Crowley.”

Slow down.

It’s too close to you go too fast for me, Crowley for his liking. 

His pace quickens. “Well? Tell me.”

“While you were sleeping, I felt an Urge. I helped someone down the street, that’s all,” Aziraphale says calmly. 

“How was it strange, then?”

Aziraphale frowns. “It felt different, is all.”

Crowley wave this hand at the letter on the table behind Aziraphale. “Say anything about these urges?”

“Not at all. It just says I might need the sword.”

Well, that’s telling, isn’t it?

Crowley isn’t certain he can handle more conflict right now. He feels decidedly more himself after waking up—not that he’ll give that angelic bastard any thanks for knocking him out like that—but he still feels out of sorts, still wrung out mentally. He certainly doesn’t want to think about fighting anyone.

Who would they even be fighting, anyway?

He’s the only demon stationed permanently on Earth, after all.

Unless Hell chose a replacement for him.

Well, that’s a thought. Maybe Hell has chosen someone else for their Earth agent since Crowley cut ties with them. But Aziraphale, to his knowledge, is still the only angel stationed on Earth for any length of time. Heaven doesn’t seem to have found a replacement. 

Perhaps his replacement wants to do what demons usually do to angels.

“Dear. The pacing. It’s quite dizzying.”

Crowley stops his prowling, but it takes a bit of effort on his part. He’s never been good at standing still. Especially when something is wrong. Especially when this whole bloody universe is out to get them, it seems. 

“Let’s have lunch,” he says, suddenly desperate to get out of the bookshop. They’ve been cooped up here for weeks now, after all, with Aziraphale fading in and out of consciousness. A change of pace sounds nice, and Crowley needs time to think.

“That sounds wonderful, my dear. I’ll grab my coat.”

They eat at the Ritz and drink champagne. Aziraphale happily eats his dessert and Crowley sits with his chin in his hand, holding his head up as he watches Aziraphale wiggle happily in his seat. 

It reminds him of their first night of freedom, when they ate at the Ritz after their respective trials, though he’s not certain Aziraphale’s in Heaven counts as one. It was the first day of the rest of their lives and they finally free to be together, to do whatever they wanted, to be out in the open. To be everything they never could be before because of rules and fraternisation. 

It was a new beginning.

It should have been a new beginning.

Crowley wants to rage at the unfairness of it all, but he isn’t a child and Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate the tantrum. It’s just… frustrating. Frustrating how life seems to be dead-set against the two of them being free. Aziraphale severed his ties to Heaven, chose to help Crowley and side with Crowley when push came to shove, and that was supposed to mean something. Now it just feels like Heaven is dragging Aziraphale back in, and there’s little Crowley can do about it besides internally scream with frustration. 

So much for new beginnings.

“What now?” Aziraphale asks as he wipes his mouth, dessert gone.

It reminds him of the night they ate together before they hatched the plan to be ‘godfathers’ to the Antichrist. Crowley was desperate to get Aziraphale to see reason and thought he had a chance to do so when the angel was drunk, as he seemed far more open to prodding then, so he’d suggested alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

“Fancy a walk in the park?” Crowley asks. 

“Oh! Yes, that does sound nice.”

The last time they went to their usual park, Aziraphale had dove headfirst into a river to save a drowning child, and had then promptly proceeded to pass out on him. Maybe the park is a bad idea.

Too late to change it now, though. Aziraphale likes the park, he likes the scenery and the people and nature, and his eyes have already lit up happily at the thought of going there. 

Crowley pays for their meal and the two leave the restaurant.

It takes a couple moments before Crowley realises the angel is no longer following behind him on the way to the car. He stops and turns around, but Aziraphale isn’t there. 

Before he can panic, he spots the angel back at the start of the parking lot, turning in a slow circle like he can’t decide which direction to go. Crowley stomps back toward him.

“Something wrong?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asks absently.

“I thought we were going to the park.”

“The park, yes…”

He doesn’t like that tone, he decides. It’s distant and distracted.

And then Aziraphale turns right and starts walking. Toward the street. Away from the direction of the Bentley.

Crowley follows after him. “Hey, where you going?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer him.

A chill slips through the demon. “Is this an Urge?”

“Mm…” Aziraphale hums absently.

Crowley manoeuvres in front of the angel, holding his arms out to stop him. “Aziraphale?”

The angel’s gaze is glazed, he thinks, looking into those familiar eyes. At least, they should be familiar. But when looking into them now, what stares back at him isn’t quite Aziraphale.

Oh, he’s there alright, but he’s not at the forefront of his mind. Looking back at Crowley now is something else entirely, and ice hits his veins. He hisses, snagging at Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Are you in there?” He demands.

Aziraphale blinks back at him, and for just a moment, clarity fills his gaze.

For just a moment.

Then he shoves past Crowley, briskly walking away from him, and Crowley scrambles to chase after him on legs which feel rather weak, suddenly. 

Now, legs and Crowley have never really gotten along. His True Form in Heaven never had any such nonsense as that’s not how true forms work, exactly, but when he Fell the beast he transformed into was a snake. Snakes didn’t have a name back then, they were just some squirmy, cold-blooded thing that slithered across the ground with no arms and no legs. It swayed back and forth on the ground to move forward. When he took on a more human appearance that day on the wall surrounding Eden, he experienced having legs for the first time. He just stood there, then, uncertain how to move with them, as he’d only ever slithered across the ground before. 

He knows how to walk now, obviously, but he still sort of slithers when he walks, swaying widely when he doesn’t need to, but his legs just don’t want to work properly even on the best of days, it seems. 

Walking around in Aziraphale’s body during their little swap, it felt different. Or, rather, he moved differently, because he had to. It felt like taking on another persona, the way he walked, pretending to be Aziraphale for a day. But he knows his body and he knows his own legs, and his legs have always hated him.

It’s no wonder they want to weaken now. 

“Angel!” 

He catches up to Aziraphale, who hasn’t slowed his gait in the slightest, and keeps moving forward. It’s like that day in the park all over again, Crowley thinks, looking around for who might need saving now. There are very few people out and about this afternoon, but it is a weekday and people do need to work. 

The point is, he doesn’t see anyone in need of rescue. 

When Aziraphale steps out into traffic as the light turns green, Crowley blesses under his breath and charges forward.

He just manages to snag the angel’s arm and yank him back onto the sidewalk as a truck comes careening past. 

“Aziraphale, the bloody hell was that? You could of discorporated!”

And they still don’t know what’s going on with Heaven, or what will happen if Aziraphale is, in fact, left without a body.

Aziraphale says nothing, but he does wait on the edge of the sidewalk for the light to change again.

“Oi,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers in front of the angel’s face. “What’s going on? Can you even hear me?”

Aziraphale inclines his head slightly—perhaps an acknowledgement of Crowley’s words—but he still says nothing. 

“Aziraphale!” He hisses through clenched teeth, feeling his fangs sticking into his tongue momentarily. What the bloody hell do I do now? How do I stop this? “Angel, I need you to—”

The light turns red and traffic stops. 

Aziraphale runs.

Crowley gives chase, growling low in his throat at the absurdity of this. 

He chases Aziraphale for two whole minutes of straight running, which is an ungodly amount of running, to be honest. 

If you’re in such a bloody hurry, why not just miracle yourself there? 

Aziraphale stops just outside a back alleyway, and turns to head inside it. 

Oh, yeah, sure, this is fine. Just going into a dark alley, no big deal, not like anything ever happens in dark back alleys…

There’s a man on the ground next to a dumpster. 

Red blood coats his stomach, oozing from some sort of stab wound. He has one hand weakly pressed against it but even so, he’s fading fast.

Aziraphale crouches next to the man, mutters something in a calm, soft voice which is too quiet for Crowley to hear as he comes up behind the angel, and the man wheezes as Aziraphale’s hands press over the wound, pushing the man’s hand away. 

Crowley can feel the grace spilling off him as the angel mends the wounds.

Oh, that’s not really allowed, he thinks almost numbly.

It’s just overshadowed by the whole that’s not what your grace usually feels like. 

It’s powerful, and warm and soothing, of course, but there’s just the slightest edge to it which doesn’t exactly feel like Aziraphale.

And Crowley would know, because he’s been studying Aziraphale for 6000 years. 

Is this because of what happened to him? Because of… whatever that was, in the Main Entrance? 

It did cut at his form and at his grace. Shredded some of him, even. It’s much better than it was, but not as good as it used to be before attempting to go to Heaven, he thinks, which might be enough to account for that edge wrong wrong wrong that’s slithering up his spine currently.

Might be.

The glow stops and Aziraphale snaps his fingers. 

The man disappears off the ground, probably deposited to a nearby hospital where a nurse or someone is about to get a rude awakening when a bloody man just appears next to them.

The thought would be amusing if he wasn’t so concerned, he can’t help but think.

A shudder runs through the angel. Aziraphale pushes to his feet, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides, like he can’t quite decide what he should do with them. Then he slowly turns around and faces Crowley.

The look of recognition in those eyes is suddenly very grounding.

Crowley exhales sharply. “With me now, angel?”

“Oh, did I go somewhere?” Aziraphale asks. He looks down at his hands, at the blood coating them. “I healed someone. He’s safe now.”

“Yeah, you did,” Crowley says briskly. “What in Hell was that all about, then? You weren’t yourself, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale sighs. “As I said, they are getting… odd. Very strange indeed.”

“Wait, this has happened before?”

“If this is your version of strange then I’m bloody concerned, angel. That was…” Unsettling. Bizarre. Worrisome. “… very odd.”

Aziraphale’s expression crumples. “Crowley, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Oh, fuck me, Crowley thinks. He actually sounds worried. 

Aziraphale has been bothered by this whole mess, of course, but this is the first time he actually sounds worried about it all. When it could only be classified as ‘odd’ it was, at least, somewhat tolerable. Now, this is something more dire, which needs righted immediately.

“How are you?” He asks, and steps forward to circle the angel, glancing at him from every direction. He knows already there won’t be any obvious signs of change, any sign of injury or anything, but he still looks anyway.

“Oh, I’m quite alright, my dear.” The smile Aziraphale gives is rather forced and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just tickety-boo.”

Tickety-boo. 

“Right, this isn’t something I’d call tickety-boo, angel.” He continues circling, unable and unwilling to stop himself, agitation flooding through him. He needs to do something. He hates all this being useless business. “Flare your grace.”

Aziraphale frowns at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Flare,” Crowley bites without really meaning to. “Your grace. Flare it. I need to sense it real quick.”

“Whatever will that—”

“Just flare it!”

Stop snapping at him. Stop it. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Very well, then.”

There isn’t a physical movement to it, not really. To project it to something in specific or onto someone, there needs to be some accompanying movement to guide it, but just to flare it briefly there doesn’t need to be anything done except ignite his core a little. It’s nothing physical at all, but on another plane, Aziraphale’s True Form ignites with holy light.

It’s blinding and burning but Crowley has long since developed a tolerance to this particular grace. 

And it feels the same, he thinks, that knot in his stomach loosening somewhat. It feels like Aziraphale. It’s how he’s always felt—bright, warm, a version of the sun Crowley likes to bask in, as a snake. 

“Right, you’re you,” he says.

“Well, of course I am,” Aziraphale says. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah,” Crowley says, and resumes his circling. “Just didn’t feel like you, for a second there.”

“What did I feel like, then?”

“Hard to explain.”

Not hard, he thinks, but impossible. Words can’t accurately describe how Aziraphale’s grace and presence really feels, as it’s never needed to be put into words, so there is really no way he can explain any of it to the angel. 

“You were in a daze,” Crowley says. “Almost walked into traffic, you did. D’you remember?”

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. “It’s a little foggy,” he admits. “The walk here, I mean. It’s like… a dream.”

“A dream.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Odd.”

Stop repeating what he says, he thinks, but it’s a bad habit he has. Whenever he gets nervous or overwhelmed, he will start repeating words said to him sometimes. It’s frustrating.

“Do you still want to go to the park, dear?” Aziraphale asks.

The park. Right. That’s where they were headed before this whole mess started. Crowley was reluctant to go before, but now he’s steadfastly refusing it as he shakes his head.

“Let’s go drink at…” Home. “… the bookshop.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then nods. “Very well then. Lead the way. I’m afraid I don’t rightly know where the car is.”

Because you weren’t yourself, Crowley bites back and leads the way out of the alley. 

It eats at him.

The glazed look, the edge to the grace, all of it. It all eats at him.

The problem is people, Crowley decides. They’re the issue here. They get into trouble nearby and Aziraphale is called to them to help out, however that works. He certainly doesn’t know what it’s like from Aziraphale’s perspective, but to Crowley, it’s all rather upsetting. Off-putting. Totally and completely bizarre, and absolutely unacceptable.

People are the issue, but it’s not like they can’t be around people. Even in this bookshop, people bustle out on the street and still summon the angel outside. 

People are the problem, so isolation might be the answer.

“Let’s get out of the city,” he says.

Aziraphale pours himself another glass of wine. “Out of the city?”

“Yeah. Let’s take a vacation.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s very wise right now.”

“It’s perfectly wise,” Crowley huffs. He downs the rest of his wine and gestures for the bottle. Aziraphale hands it to him and he refills his glass. “Look, Heaven’s being fixed, right? Restructured. And you don’t like these Urges anyway, so why not get out of the city for a bit?”

“Those are exactly the reasons I can’t just up and leave, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, exasperated. “It would be foolish to—”

“Ssso let’sss be foolisssh,” Crowley hisses back. He slams his glass down on the small table next to the couch. A bit of wine sloshes out at the aggressive movement, coating the edge of his fingers. “Staying here isn’t helping, obviously. We could use a break. Doesn’t have to be long, angel. Just a couple days, is all.”

Aziraphale looks into his wineglass, pondering. “It would be nice to relax a little…”

“Right!” Crowley jumps to his feet and claps his hands together. “Start packing, then. I’ll be back in a bit to pick you up; just gotta pop by my place and water the plants and pack.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Very well, but it is only for a couple of days, Crowley. Nothing more.”

“Of course, angel.”

A few days isn’t enough, he thinks, but at least it’s a start.

For at least a few days, his angel can be safe and maybe Crowley can finally start to unwind from the tight knot he’s made of himself.

It’ll have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The tension bleeds out of Aziraphale the further they get from the city. He didn’t realise how coiled he’d gotten until he could finally breathe again as the city disappeared behind them. Yes, getting out of the city is just what he needs, and he knows it will be good for Crowley too.

The thing about Crowley is he gets overwhelmed, sometimes, and starts to shut down. If he’s unable to shut down and sleep it all away, then he gets more wound up and starts lashing out. 

This isn’t a flaw, necessarily, to be emotional. Emotions are a very good thing, Aziraphale has decided, but too much emotion can be completely overwhelming and poor Crowley can get rather wound up about something, especially if he’s worried. The demon might not mention that he’s worried and will steadfastly avoid any conversations surrounding those words like the plague, but Aziraphale can always sense his worry—it circles the demon like a dark cloud overhead, and that essence cries out for him. He’s not sure if this is because he’s an angel and can sense heartache and strife, or if it’s just because he’s so familiar with Crowley’s presence, but either way, he can see how tense the demon has become since this whole mess started.

He tries to picture himself in Crowley’s shoes, and finds the whole thing unthinkable. To know Crowley was hurt, that his True Form, his very essence, was damaged and to be unable to do anything about it except wait while he healed… Yes, that is feeling Aziraphale can’t let himself think too much about right now. 

Angels aren’t as emotional as demons. Emotions are for the humans, is the general motto among the elite in Heaven, which Aziraphale thinks is a bit odd, if he’s being honest. Angels are meant to be filled with Love, after all, and to spread all those warm feelings, stoke them to life within humanity. Yet Heaven is filled with emotionless angels who mostly look down on humanity as something beneath them, despite still being filled with Her Love and grace. 

Demons, on the other hand, are bitter and full of rage, and rage comes from passion. You can’t be furious if you don’t feel anything, so they are filled with emotions. Usually darker ones, like the desire to hurt, destroy, and this sense of bitter rage, but sometimes they feel other things. Nicer things.

Granted, Aziraphale’s experience with demons is rather limited, despite the fact he’s spent the last 6000 years toying with a friendship with one. Crowley is more familiar to him than any of the angels in Heaven, but Crowley also isn’t a typical demon. He stands out from the rest, which is what drew Aziraphale to him in the first place. For all the things he’d been told about demons after the Great War, he thought they’d all be the first to attack an angel, or anything or anyone, but Crowley broke all of those expectations when he simply stood next to him and started a conversation about the merits of good and evil.

Demons are emotional, and Crowley is that times ten, Aziraphale thinks. He is rather melodramatic at times, and when he worries, he does so with his entire being, winding himself into knots, and he won’t admit he needs help. He will never admit to what’s actually bothering him, but that’s okay, because Aziraphale can usually guess.

This time away will be good for both of them. 

They pick out a little cottage in the South Downs which has miraculously become suddenly available. There’s not another house for miles, which is good news. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t want to deal with further Urges, especially if he is going to keep losing himself little by little when they happen.

It worries him in a way little else ever has.

Angels can’t be possessed any more than demons can be possessed, and when humans are possessed it’s always demons doing it—save for that time Aziraphale road around inside Madame Tracy’s head for a couple hours during the end of the world, but even then he didn’t have full control, not even a little. The thought of something pulling his strings and marching him around like that is actually terrifying, if he’s being honest with himself. 

He doesn’t like it one bit, even if he’s grateful to be helping people. The Urges are always dire, a matter of life or death, and he is happy to help, but he doesn’t appreciate being yanked around like that. 

The cottage has two bedrooms, a rather large kitchen, and a cozy living room. The couch in it is much newer than the one at the bookshop, but it does look comfortable. There’s even a small fireplace in the living room. No one around for miles and it will just be the two of them in this cozy cottage, living a rather domestic life for at least a couple of days.

It’s everything Aziraphale didn’t know he wanted. 

A quiet life with Crowley. Just the two of them.

Suddenly, he wonders why they are even living in different flats, considering the fact they are always together anyway. 

Crowley takes the room downstairs while Aziraphale takes the one upstairs—the master bedroom, with its own private bathroom. Not that angels need to sleep or use the restroom, of course; but the bed looks like a lovely place to read for a while.

The kitchen has marble countertops and several large windows with a nice view of the lake outside. If Aziraphale listens very closely, he can just make out the sounds of waves lapping at the edge of the water, churning under a small wooden bridge. 

It’s all very peaceful and quiet, and just what he needs.

Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen. “I’m gonna make a run for some food, do you want anything?”

“I can go with you, if you like,” Aziraphale offers. “We can—”

“That kinda defeats the purpose of bein’ out here, though, doesn’t it?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley scowls, though most of it is hidden under his sunglasses. “The Urges, angel. We’re avoiding them.”

He deflates. “Oh. Right. Yes, that makes sense. I’m not craving anything in particular, my dear. Whatever you get will be fine.”

He doesn’t need to eat, of course. Neither of them do, and Crowley usually doesn’t, even though a large part of their relationship has revolved around getting lunch or dinner together. Crowley prefers the alcoholic beverages at restaurants and will occasionally munch on something, but normally he simply watches Aziraphale eat.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, enjoys food immensely. The simple comforts on Earth are the best. Such flavours wouldn’t exist if they weren’t meant to be savoured and eaten, now would they? 

“Right, back in a second,” Crowley says, and leaves the kitchen.

The front door opens and closes, signalling Crowley’s departure.

A moment later, the hum of the Bentley’s engine announces its leave of the driveway. 

Aziraphale goes outside. It is a sunny day, the sky dotted with clouds, and the temperature is nice. He doesn’t need to worry about things like temperature, usually—unless it’s fire, of course. Angels are rather weak to flames. A human fire won’t do much to his True Form, but it will still burn and hurt, and will destroy his human body, while if he’s out in the snow too long, nothing happens. His body doesn’t feel the cold, but it does feel the warmth.

Still, he has it better than Crowley, he suspects. Crowley was originally a snake, after all, and snakes are cold-blooded. They can’t control their own body heat. Temperature certainly bothers demons—though fire doesn’t seem to do anything, human or otherwise. They are, however, susceptible to the cold.

Maybe God has a sense of irony, or poetry.

He walks down the path leading to the small wooden bridge, and stands there just over the water, looking out at the lake. The waves ripple the sun’s reflection and somewhere nearby, a bird hoots from a tree. 

Aziraphale likes nature. There is beauty in absolutely every part of the world, down to the grains of sand or as big as a mountain’s peak. She really outdid Herself when She made the Earth.

It is all so very peaceful, and Aziraphale can breathe here.

That’s where Crowley finds him later, on the bridge overlooking the water as the sun moves across the sky and clouds darken along the horizon, signalling a coming storm. Aziraphale likes storms just as much as he likes sunny days, for there is beauty in the bad weather just as there is beauty in the light. Rainy days are spent with a book in hand, and it always rather relaxing to hear the patter of rain on his windows.

He follows Crowley back inside and they sit down for some food. Empty bags line the counter and Aziraphale quirks a brow at the demon.

“I, uh… got some stuff,” Crowley says.

“Stuff?” Aziraphale repeats.

“For… the refrigerator. We can’t be going into town all the time when you get hungry, angel, that defeats the whole purpose of this little outing. So I thought—I thought I’d stock up on… stuff.”

Crowley apparently got groceries while he was out.

Aziraphale smiles. “That was nice of you, dear.”

Crowley mumbles under his breath, probably something about how he’s absolutely not nice. 

If only you could see yourself the way I do, Aziraphale laments. 

The two eat in relative silence, and it is comfortable and warm, like a cotton blanket on a cold winter’s day. 

It can’t last forever, staying at this cottage—but in this moment, Aziraphale is content. There is nothing to worry about—not Heaven, not the angels, not these Urges, nothing. 

It’s just him and his demon, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

This cottage is a little too cozy, Crowley thinks.

It’s certainly nice, don’t get him wrong, but it lures you into a false sense of security. They haven’t even been here a day yet and as the sun sets over the cottage and the lake sparkles with purples and oranges, reflected from the sky, and as he joins Aziraphale out on that bridge, he can’t help but feel like this is where they belong.

Away from the bustle of the city. Away from prying eyes. Away from everything and everyone—just alone, together.

It’s nice.

For too long, they’ve been surrounded by so many prying eyes. Humanity, angels, demons—they’ve all been suffocating to deal with, on some level, despite how much Crowley enjoys humanity. There’s just so many people, he thinks, and it’s customers all day in the bookshop which Aziraphale keeps turning away when they actually try to buy something instead of simply browse the shop. It’s people in the building Crowley lives in, bustling in and out of the building, kids running down the halls. It’s the people Aziraphale feels compelled to save.

It’s the demons and angels looking over their shoulders for millennia, forcing them apart.

It’s all been suffocating. Crowley didn’t see it that way until now, of course, but this cottage is rather nice. 

He’s downright giddy at the thought of being all boring and domestic with Aziraphale. He can picture their life here now, if they were to move here and never leave the cottage. He’d put up a garden in the back, along the path to this lake. His plants would be luxurious and verdant, the best in all of England. Aziraphale could move his books here; they could add on, if needed, and build him a library if he wants one.

He can picture quiet nights sitting on the couch together, with the fireplace aglow and a book in Aziraphale’s hands, and Crowley sprawled on the couch as much as he can with the two of them sitting on it. He pictures going to sleep feeling safe, and waking up to something domestic and peaceful.

He’s never been for the whole domestic life before, but then he’s never really given it much thought until now. Now it all seems so bloody perfect, and it tries to lull him into a false sense of belonging.

They can’t stay here. 

Aziraphale would never go for such a thing—away from his precious bookshop and the park and the people and everything he’s built for himself for so many years now. Aziraphale loves Soho, and he only agreed to come here in the first place because… 

Well. Crowley’s not really sure why Aziraphale caved.

The angel can be quite stubborn. It’s why Crowley slept for almost a century after their spat at Saint James’s Park all those years ago, over holy water. He didn’t want to deal with Aziraphale’s silent treatment, because when the angel wants to avoid something or someone, he just—does. Call it divine intervention, call it whatever you like, but Crowley had hated the thought of the distance between them after his request, and he’d slept the time away. 

It took 105 years for Aziraphale to change his mind. Well, perhaps change is the wrong word. He still disagreed with Crowley having access to holy water, but nevertheless handed over the tartan thermos anyway. But it came after 105 years of stubbornness.

Again, once Aziraphale sets his mind on something, it’s set in stone for the most part. Can be very annoying, sometimes. 

The point is—Aziraphale caved and they are here now, but it won’t last. It can’t last. 

As much as Crowley wants to extend their vacation forever, he knows Aziraphale won’t allow it. Not while there’s this mystery concerning Heaven to solve. 

She gave him a bloody sword, for Someone’s sake. A sword. 

Obviously, She expects there to be some sort of conflict. A confrontation. 

It leaves Crowley’s stomach twisting, thinking about it. And today isn’t about that; this trip isn’t about that. 

So he forces such thoughts from his mind for the time being. This trip is about relaxation, and keeping Aziraphale safe.

Because Crowley really, really needs him to be safe for a few days, at the very least. 

He’s never come so close to losing the angel before. Sure, Aziraphale could have been discorporated in the past, but they’d never had reason to fear one of them dying permanently. Not until Crowley brought up holy water in that park that day, at least—then Aziraphale stubbornly walked away to keep such temptations away from the demon. But Crowley had never worried about losing Aziraphale—not in that way, at least. Oh, sure, he worried about losing him all the time to discorporation and what if he doesn’t come back, what if they don’t send him back, what if he gets reassigned, but he was usually the only demon stationed above ground, and hellfire was the only thing that could kill an angel outright. 

How does he know this?

He’s seen it happen before. Once. A long, long time ago. 

After the Fall but before Eden, he’d watched a demon summon a spout of hellfire and kill an angel. The way the angel screamed still haunts him some days—a twisted sort of wail, piercing and agonising, something he never—ever—wants to hear again. He watched as it ate the angel’s essence and dispersed them into nothing.

Just poof, and then they were gone. Just wiped out of existence. Destroyed completely. 

He only saw it the one time himself, but he’s heard stories of it happening a lot more than that. Demons can be quite proud of destroying an angel, after all. 

Still, he never had to worry about hellfire too much in the past. Aziraphale, for all his non-combative nature, does have a lot of eyes on him, and he can certainly look after himself. Plus, Crowley made it his business to know if another demon was topside ever. He’d usually pop in and lure Aziraphale into having lunch with him or something, until said demon returned to Hell.

Then came the bookshop fire on the day the world was supposed to end. 

Since then, hellfire has been a rather constant thought in his mind. 

And now this—Aziraphale getting shredded out of nowhere, on his way up to Heaven. Sleeping and waking for days, for weeks, slipping in and out of lucidity with wounds which kept randomly reopening and seeping that precious light. 

So, yeah. He’s never come so close to losing Aziraphale before, and it terrified him. 

This freedom isn’t worth it, he thinks, if Aziraphale isn’t there to share it with him. 

“Deep thoughts, dear?”

Crowley glances over at the angel next to him on the bridge. Aziraphale’s gaze is out over the water, and he looks so relaxed and peaceful in this moment. The setting sun causes the blue in his eyes to shimmer somewhat, reflecting the splash of purple across the sky, and for a moment, Crowley is mesmerised. 

“Just thinking,” he says finally, and looks out over the water as well.

“Well, this vacation isn’t about thinking,” Aziraphale tells him idly. “It’s for relaxing.”

“Point taken.”

Aziraphale glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Crowley catches the slightest movement and looks back over himself. “I appreciate you taking me here,” the angel says quietly, with a soft smile. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Ngk,” he says. “Was nothing, angel. Just thought we needed a getaway.”

“This cottage is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

“It’s… nice,” Crowley settles on. Best not to get too attached to this place, after all. It can’t last. It won’t.

“What would you like to do now?”

Crowley rolls his shoulder in a small shrug. “Not sure. Was thinking I’d take a quick nap on the couch, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “You get some rest.”

“The uh… the couch looks comfy for reading.”

“So it does.”

“So you could, uh… read, while I sleep. If you want.”

Aziraphale’s smile could rival the sun, he thinks. “Lead the way.”

Crowley grins and turns to leave the bridge. They enter the cottage as the sun sets behind them.

Aziraphale waves his hand, summoning a book out of the ether, and sits at the edge of the couch to read. Crowley waves his hand as well, starting the fire in the fire place. It casts a soft warm glow across the rustic room, and it’s like the walls are burning golden brown. He sits on the couch and eyes the length of it. 

Well, this might pose a problem. 

He doesn’t think he can scrunch up enough to fit with Aziraphale sitting at the edge, but he’s not going to ask the angel to move. Nope. Aziraphale needs to be sitting with him right now, so Crowley can relax and unwind after the past couple of weeks. 

Aziraphale seems to sense his hesitation.

“Come here, my dear.”

He wraps his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and gently tugs him sideways. Crowley stretches out on the couch, his head in the angel’s lap, and Aziraphale’s fingers give a single stroke through his hair—the briefest of touches, an assurance that this position is perfectly fine, and Crowley shuts his eyes.

Finally, he can breathe.

He wakes up later, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. 

He keeps his eyes shut, though, and doesn’t move. Aziraphale is quietly humming to himself, and there’s the faintest sound of his finger turning the page of his book, and his other hand is nestled in the strands of Crowley’s hair—just lightly grasping, a reassurance he is there, and Crowley’s throat burns slightly.

Aziraphale might never know how much he appreciates these little things, but Crowley will never take them for granted. Never again. 

I love you, he thinks, but he’s never said those words aloud. He’s kept them nestled deep inside his mind for the same reasons he never gave voice to his fear of losing Aziraphale—once you put that into the universe, it has the power to break you. If he admits to these things, it all suddenly becomes real.

For now, at least, he will just linger here in this moment, where he knows he is loved, and hopes Aziraphale knows he loves him, too.

Chapter Text

Cooking isn’t something Crowley has ever tried to do before, in his entire life—and that’s a very long time. He’s never felt the need to do so; if they want food, they go somewhere and eat. It’s been a big part of their relationship since the very beginning; inviting each other to lunch. Sometimes it was the only way to spend time together at all, because the rest of the time it was all work related; a temptation here, a blessing there. Sometimes those paths crossed, of course, and they canceled each other out, but sometimes it took them far away from each other, and Crowley could only speculate on what Aziraphale was having for lunch that day, or how his day was going at all, or, well… any of it. 

He’s spent an inordinate amount of time speculating on the angel through the centuries. 

Lunch is a big part of their lives, just as much as drinking together is, and the angel definitely has an appetite for such earthly things. Aziraphale took to food like a moth to a flame, and to be honest, Crowley quite likes how sinful that can look to an outsider. Gabriel certainly would never understand; he compares food to gross matter which isn’t fit to be in his heavenly body, and he will not be sullied by it. But Aziraphale enjoys food immensely, and Crowley likes watching him eat. 

Aziraphale always does this little happy wiggle when he’s enjoying his food, and there’s always this twinkle in his eyes, and Crowley just likes witnessing it, is all. 

So, here they are, in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anyone and anything else—and going to lunch isn’t an option. It defeats the whole purpose of being out here, so Crowley leaves Aziraphale reading in the living room and makes his way into the kitchen to attempt to make something.

After all, how hard can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he thinks, because whatever he tries to make seems to burn instantly. A sandwich, grilled on the stove? Yeah, burnt. The blackened bread tossed in the trash. Some pasta? Overcooked. Boiling over and splashing onto he stovetop, sizzling like anything. 

Eventually Aziraphale comes to see what all the fuss is about and Crowley miracles the scent of burnt food out of the cottage and all but forces the angel back out of the room. He’s going to make the angel lunch if it kills him.

It’s all very frustrating.

He miracles up a cookbook, stubbornly refusing to give up and admit defeat. Aziraphale probably knows how to cook, he thinks. The angel enjoys food so much, he’s most likely tried his hand at it in the past. Plus he has all those books in his shop, there’s probably a cookbook in there somewhere. 

He refuses to ask for help. Refuses to admit his struggle at all, and if Aziraphale gets ushered back out of the kitchen every single time he tries to enter and see what is burning or what Crowley is muttering about, well, he doesn’t want the angel to see how truly awful he is at cooking. 

People on TV make this look so easy.

People in restaurants make it look easy. Just order what you want and there it is! Right in front of you.

He could snap his fingers and miracle up some food. He could do it right now and claim it was cooked to perfection by himself. But Aziraphale would know better; he claims food cooked the human way simply tastes better than food whipped up out of the aether.

No, he can do this. He can fix some lunch for his angel. 

It takes two hours, but he does it. 

When he steps out of the kitchen with a plate of grilled vegetables and breaded chicken, he knows he has a stupid grin on his face but he can’t wipe it off now, not when Aziraphale is smiling at him so happily.

The angel does his little wriggle of pleasure, accepting the plate from the demon. “Oh, Crowley! You really didn’t need to do this.”

Yeah, he really didn’t. They don’t have to eat, and he certainly didn’t need to buy food, and he really had no place trying to cook himself, but he did it anyway—to see that smile right there. 

Brighter, and warmer, than the sun, that smile.

“Should I say thank you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Better not,” he replies smoothly. 

“You really are quite a nice—”

“Oi, knock it off,” he says with a scowl, dropping down next to Aziraphale on the couch. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

“Hmm. I thought we might spend the day outside, since the weather is still nice.”

Right. Fresh air and all that. Of course. Aziraphale goes to stab a carrot with a fork, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the two are suddenly outside, sitting on the grass on a small hill overlooking the lake. Azirpahale steadies himself at the sudden change in location, and then sits back with another bright smile as he takes in the view.

“Oh, this is quite nice, dear.”

“A picnic, is all,” Crowley says, and waves his hand. A bottle of wine appears from the aether, along with two glasses which he fills with the red liquid. 

Aziraphale accepts his glass. “Would you like a bite?” He asks, glancing down at his food.

“Nah, angel. ’s all yours.”

Crowley has never enjoyed food too much himself, but will eat occasionally, mostly for appearances when they frequent a restaurant or something and people start looking at him oddly for never eating. He much prefers watching Aziraphale enjoy his food. 

And the angel does.

“This is delicious, my dear,” Aziraphale says.

That stupid grin is back on his stupid face. “Yeah, well… was nothing.”

Aziraphale likes his cooking. He actually got it right. 

Aziraphale is taking in the view, but Crowley takes in the angel. He’s missed this, he realises—how relaxed Aziraphale is now, how calm everything is. It’s like it was after their trials, when they were finally free and alive and together, after 6000 years of missteps and hiding and—it was perfect, Crowley thinks.

Things have taken a turn lately, and he’s missed this easy silence between them. He’s missed the relaxed set to those shoulders, the calm glow in those eyes, and he wishes they could stay like this forever.

Haven’t they earned such a thing by now? They did help avert the apocalypse. They got through their trials. They got through 6000 years of not truly fitting in, of loneliness so deep and sharp it cut at them bit by bit until they were different people than when they’d started, and he thinks they’ve bloody well earned the right to relax and be free.

For at least a thousand years. 

Apparently the world—and God—have other plans.

This peace will end soon. It has to. 

Aziraphale gave him a couple days. That’s the timeframe they’re working with. It’s not enough.

It will never be enough. 

They’ve only had a couple months of the good life, he thinks, glancing back at the angel. Aziraphale is happily munching on his food as he looks out over the glimmering water, and Crowley suppresses a sigh and looks out with him.

Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. Still a couple hours away, he thinks, but on the way nevertheless.

It feels like more than just a physical storm is gathering.

Rain patters off the windows in a soothing rhythm, the fire place is crackling with orange flames licking upward, and there’s a book in Aziraphale’s hand and a demon in his lap.

The perfect recipe, he thinks.

Well, not all of the demon, of course. Crowley is sprawled on the couch again with his head on Aziraphale’s thigh, even though there is a perfectly good bed upstairs and also just down the hall with a perfectly good bed for him to use which will be more comfortable than said couch, surely—but the demon is here.

They’ve never been overly big on touch, Aziraphale can’t help but remember, even as his fingers brush through the fine auburn strands. Touch is a language neither are overly familiar with, having not been allowed to display such nonsense in the past—but it’s a language he finds he would rather like to learn. These simple touches—brushing through hair, soothing an ache, holding hands—have become quite grounding to him, and something he would like to explore further.

Not that it needs to escalate or anything at all. Just these small, simple yet intimate touches—a sort of I’m here said with actions rather than words.

Crowley is snoring softly, turning his face more into Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale settles his hand to rest amidst those strands as he returns his focus to his book.

In this moment, life seems perfect.

The next moment, the door to the cottage is bursting open with a loud crackling sound, and there’s fire curling into the living room.

Crowley snaps awake and is on his feet immediately, and Aziraphale looks on calmly at the fire, wondering if perhaps he imagined the whole thing. It certainly doesn’t make any sense for this to be happening right now, does it? Perhaps he dozed off and is dreaming…

But there’s a figure in the flames, and the scent of sulphur hits him suddenly.

It’s not just fire, he thinks. That’s a demon in the flames, walking through like it’s nothing, and that’s hellfire. Some part of his core, his very being, his soul, shies away from the heat of it, some primal part of him aware of what this could mean for him should the flames touch him—should he even inhale too much of the fumes.

A demon steps into the cottage.

Crowley lunges forward with an ungodly snarl, radiating fury and aggression, there’s the infernal scratch of two demonic souls colliding, a discordant melody, disturbingly off-key, striking the air as Crowley’s form tackles the other, and then they are both surrounded in unholy flames.

Aziraphale inches a little closer—wanting to help, wanting to keep Crowley safe, but ever so worried about the hellfire.

Did they figure it out, then? Do they know he isn’t really immune to such a thing? Has that news even gotten to Hell at this point? Why is there a demon here now, at the cottage of all places?

So many questions circle through his head, dizzying in their need to be answered. He raises a hand, twirling his index and middle fingers together for the briefest of moments, and a holy breeze sweeps through the cottage, materialising from the aether like a sudden storm, the sharp winds pushing the flames back, back, away from himself and the rest of this peaceful cottage.

Well. Perhaps it isn’t so peaceful anymore, he thinks numbly.

Crowley is slashing at the demon on the ground, his hands sharp with blackened claws which he rakes across the demon’s face, but even so, this demon is laughing. It’s this twisted, almost gleeful sound, and it leaves a cold fury dawning within Aziraphale’s core.

The next instant, Crowley is sent flying as an infernal line of red twists around him, summoned from the other demon’s twisted core. It coils around Crowley, flickering like lightning for the briefest of moments, and flings his demon backward, where he hits the couch hard and goes toppling over the back of it.

Aziraphale doesn’t even have time to worry for Crowley, as instinct pushes him urgently backward and to the side, and hellfire cuts through where he previously stood.

“Why are you backing up, angel?” The demon sneers, lurking forward. Their eyes are purely black holes, void of anything resembling the human form he’s taken. “Thought you were immune to hellfire.”

“I am,” he manages, and is rather proud of himself for sounding so calm despite how much he wants to drop down next to Crowley and hurry them both out of here. He can’t even look at his demon, keeping his gaze focused on the threat in front of them as the other demon stalks forward menacingly, prowling from side to side—searching for an opening to attack. “We didn’t cause you any harm. What is the meaning of this?”

The demon laughs. “Hell wants you dead.”

“No surprise there,” Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale nearly sinks with relief at hearing the demon’s voice, but he can’t look over now. There’s the sound of Crowley regaining his footing, shifting closer. Aziraphale feels his presence like a physical force near him—pushing, prodding, getting closer, and he fights back the rush of relief his core feels at such a thing.

Crowley is here, his core tells him. Everything will be okay. 

“Get the fuck out of here, Hastur,” Crowley hisses at the demon.

Well, of course they know each other. Aziraphale has heard mention of Hastur on multiple occasions, but this is the first time he’s meeting the demon face-to-face, and he rather wishes this meeting never occurred. 

“But Crowley, where are my manners? I’m not here for you.” Hastur’s gaze lands on Aziraphale again, and the grin which splits his face is cold and cruel. “I’m here for you.”

“What does Hell want with me?” Aziraphale can’t help but ask. He hasn’t done anything lately to piss off Hell, has he? Other than averting the apocalypse, of course, but they already gave Crowley his ‘punishment’ for that, and Aziraphale had left Hell only after making certain that Crowley was, in no uncertain terms, to be left alone. 

But they aren’t here for Crowley, they’re here for him.

Why?

Crowley snarls, low and angry, and then he’s flinging himself at Hastur again.

Hastur waves his hand; there’s a shimmer in the air, oozing awful energy, and Crowley cries out as something red, like lightning, twists around him once more. He’s flung back again, this time out a window, which he shatters as he flies through it and out of Aziraphale’s sight.

Then Hastur lunges at him, and the blade in his hand is certainly a surprise.

Aziraphale doesn’t even have time to fully register the gleam of the blade as he twists away, drawing his hand up and around in a quick gesture, summoning a shield of pure light energy, which the bade bounces off of with an unholy clang. 

The shield disperses as quickly as it appeared, quickly summoned and weakly banished after the attack, and Aziraphale quickly back-pedals. Hastur hasn’t lost any of his momentum, using his dislodged strike to swing round the other way, and there’s a hellish fury radiating from the blade as it crosses in front of his eyes, slicing where his face was just a second ago, before he reared back.

With a flick of his wrist, the sword given to him by God flies into his hand, summoned to his core. It takes a fraction of a second to ignite the blade with holy fire, and he brings it up to meet the next swing Hastur makes. Their blades connect with an awful scraping sound, flames swirling together briefly before they rush away like oil and water.

Hastur snarls, snaps his fingers, and disappears.

Aziraphale ducks.

The blade swings over his head from where Hastur has appeared behind him, already attacking. 

There’s a burst of demonic energy and the blade flies from Hastur’s hand. It sails across the room in a zip of dark red light before it lands in the outstretched hand of one snarling Crowley.

“Get the fuck away from him!” 

Crowley holds the blade wrong, but it’s in his grasp nevertheless, and he he stalks forward—everything about him, from the sneer on his face, the burning yellow of his eyes, and his demonic essence screeching as it careens across the room… it all radiates a cold, deadly fury.

For a moment, Aziraphale stares at him, transfixed.

Hastur laughs, holds his hand out, palm pointed at Aziraphale, and shoots a jet of hellfire.

For the briefest of seconds, his life flashes before him—images of himself and Crowley, all that time they spent apart, the little time they got with each other until now, when it will all end—

No. It can’t end.

Aziraphale cuts his hand through the air in an upward thrust, something deep in his core crying out at the unfairness of it all, igniting with his own brand of fury. A swell of that fury is pulled from the ground as a wall of holy fire sweeps upward to meet the jet of hellfire, a fraction of a second before it would have slammed into him.

The resulting explosion of energy sends himself and Hastur flying in opposite directions as the hellfire and holy fire smother themselves out.

In the next fraction of a second, Crowley is at his side, hands clawing desperately at him, tugging him—

There’s a quick snap of fingers, and the air swirls into nothing before they crash down rather violently into cold, wet grass, with rain pelting down from above. The sudden change from heat and flames and fury to cold and wet leaves Aziraphale’s head swimming.

“Aziraphale?” Hands scrape against his shoulder, clawing into him in a bruising grip as Crowley hovers over him, wide yellow eyes peering down at him. “Oh, fuck, fucking shit—are you—you’re not—Aziraphale—” The demon bites back a hiss, seemingly noticing for the first time Aziraphale is, in fact, alright.

Aziraphale smiles up at him tiredly. “It’s alright, my dear. You got us out of there.”

The sound which escapes Crowley’s mouth is this low, keening whine, and his hands are still clutching at him desperately. “You—you stupid—that was hellfire, Aziraphale!”

“It was,” he replies, and moves to sit up.

Crowley almost doesn’t let him. There’s the slightest hesitance, a weight pushing him back down, before the demon scrambles back to let him sit up, but doesn’t let go. Aziraphale rolls his neck, wincing as something twinges painfully, and then he looks around for the flaming sword which seems to have fallen from his grasp.

It’s not flaming anymore, of course. Now it’s dark and wet, just a blade gleaming with water. Aziraphale’s fingers reach for it, and a sigh of relief escapes him once he pulls it toward him.

What if She hadn’t sent me this? 

A shiver slips through him. He could have died tonight. Died forever. 

He could have left Crowley completely alone tonight.

“Are you alright?” Crowley hisses at him, fangs showing in his mouth.

Aziraphale reaches up to pat one of the hands curling into his shoulder. “Yes, Crowley—just a little shocked. What have I done recently to anger Hell so much?”

Crowley releases a ragged exhale. “We’ll get him, angel, don’t worry. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Crowley, no. He is… quite powerful.”

Powerful enough to fling Crowley around like he was nothing. And Crowley is by no means weak in his power. 

“He’s a Duke,” Crowley bites back. “But he’s dead, do you hear me, angel? I am going to kill him.”

Aziraphale sighs and looks around them. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Not sure, I didn’t really think about a location when I thought you were burning—”

Aziraphale looks back at him sharply. “I’m fine,” he says firmly. “Crowley—I am alright.”

Crowley chokes back some sort of aborted sound—perhaps a whine, a hiss, or a groan—and bares his teeth. He says nothing, but he doesn’t need to.

Aziraphale isn’t the only one who is scared of what could have happened tonight.

For a moment, the two simply sit there, looking at each other—taking the briefest moment to breathe, to take stock of their small measure of safety here with each other. 

Then Crowley releases him. “We should, uh—we should get out of here. Somewhere… safe.”

“Safe from Hell?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley hisses under his breath. “A church.”

“What?”

“We need to put you in a church. He’ll at least have trouble getting you there.”

“I will be perfectly safe back at my bookshop.”

The snarl flung at him doesn’t quite surprise him. “The hell you will. You’re going to a church if I have to stuff you there myself.”

“It will hurt you,” Aziraphale says quietly. “It’s consecrated ground, Crowley.”

“I’ll survive a few burns.”

“I’m not letting you get hurt just because—”

“You could have died!” Crowley snaps at him, the yellow of his eyes flaring into a burning flame momentarily.

The words hang between them. Aziraphale looks down at his hands as they wring together in his lap. He feels quite useless, if he is being honest. Hastur almost killed him tonight, permanently, even with God’s flaming sword to help him. Some pathetic guardian he is—some pathetic principality. He was caught off-guard tonight. He could have gotten himself killed.

Crowley could have gotten killed.

“You could have died,” Crowley says again, weaker this time. The again hangs between them, unspoken but present. 

Aziraphale really is a poor excuse for an angel.

“We’re going to a church.”

“No.”

Crowley hisses through clenched teeth. “No? No? This isn’t up for debate, you stupid, reckless angel!”

Aziraphale looks back at the demon, gaze narrowed stubbornly. “I’m not going to hide away somewhere, Crowley! And I’m not going to have you getting hurt just because—”

“Forget about me!”

“Never,” Aziraphale hisses back vehemently. 

Crowley falls silent, the flame dying in his eyes—reduced to a smouldering yellow wetness, a burn like holy water. For a moment he simply stares back at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing as he struggles and makes a few unintelligible sounds, before he finally just hisses.

“I’ll be fine,” he finally says quietly. 

“And so will I, back at my bookshop.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale stares up at the church. It towers over him, a heavenly beacon seen from afar with it’s large cross resting atop its massive roof, and there’s a low-grade level of warmth ebbing off the property. Churches are meant to be pure and filled with love—Her love. Her grace. Her beauty. It’s been a long time since Aziraphale stepped foot in a church.

He has never quite felt at home in them. Some part of him clung to Heaven in the past, and he thought churches might offer some semblance of a home he rarely saw anymore, but the truth of the matter was it was never really his home. So it never felt quite right, standing in a church. 

Feeling Her presence was everything, of course, but he always felt a bit like a fraud, standing there. He had lied directly to her when asked a pointed question about where his flaming sword was, he spent time in the company of a demon on a semi-regular basis, and he’d even done temptations himself. He felt like a lousy, pathetic angel, and felt as though he were living a lie, standing inside a church like that.

So he hasn’t gone near one in a long time now. Not since 1941, at the very least. Contrary to popular belief, it hadn’t been his idea to meet in the church. It had been those Nazi’s idea, and Aziraphale hadn’t argued, even if his skin had crawled as he stood there within those confining, loving walls which reminded him of some distant version of himself he could never, ever be again.

He doesn’t want to step inside another church. Especially not after tricking Heaven and severing ties with them.

Crowley insists, though, and short of warding the bookshop against demons, he doesn’t quite know where else to go which might be safe. He doesn’t want to be here, at this church, but he knows he can’t go back to the bookshop, either. Hastur surely knows of it, after all, and it would be recklessly idiotic to return there and expect things to turn in their favour. Hastur found them in the middle of nowhere, in a cottage they’d never been to in the past, and if he could do that so easily he would surely know if they showed back up at the bookshop or Crowley’s flat.

This doesn’t mean the church is the first option Aziraphale would choose, but Crowley basically herded him here nevertheless, driving like a bat our of hell toward the sanctuary of the church while ignoring Aziraphale’s complaints and wishes to go somewhere else. 

So now here they stand, just outside church grounds. Crowley prowls next to him, eying the church then Aziraphale then back again, and Aziraphale tries to ignore the twisting of his stomach as the church towers over him, some heavenly light calling to him in a way he’s learned to resist.

He feels torn between the allure of Heaven and the demon beside him.

“Well, get on with it, then,” Crowley huffs.

“You can’t go in,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“I can,” Crowley insists, as he has been for the past hour they’ve been driving. They popped back to the cottage to get the car, and then quickly fled the place. They hadn’t seen Hastur there when they went back, but that doesn’t mean the demon wasn’t waiting around for them. 

He might have followed them, even.

Hesitating outside like this could spell certain doom. 

But still, Aziraphale simply stands there, unable and unwilling to take a single step forward. He whirls to face Crowley instead.

“Crowley, this is ridiculous,” he says firmly. “I am not hiding out in some church! And it will hurt you if you go in there.”

“Done it before,” Crowley says calmly, despite how he prowls like a caged animal. “Can do it again.”

“Yes, and it burned you! You still have the scars,” Aziraphale reminds him, frustration seeping through him. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says very slowly, stopping his movements as he rips his sunglasses off his face, yellow eyes boring into his, “you are going into that church. Hastur wants to kill you!”

“Precisely! If he wants to end my life so badly, a church won’t stop him. You can tolerate it, and so can he.”

Crowley snarls and resumes his prowling. “He’s a Duke,” he says, “it should hurt him more to step foot in there. That’s what churches are bloody for, angel. To keep demons out!”

Maybe, since Hastur is higher up in the demon hierarchy, churches will hurt him more—but maybe the opposite is true as well. Maybe it will do nothing to him. 

“This is absolutely absurd!” Aziraphale says.

“Don’t care! You’re going in there!”

“I’m not,” he snaps back, glaring at the demon. He doesn’t raise his voice or speak harshly often, and it gives Crowley at least a little pause. The demon’s mouth snaps shut, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and Aziraphale continues. “I didn’t leave Heaven to be bossed around by my best friend, Crowley.”

The demon hisses. “Low blow.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going in there. We’ll just have to think of something else.”

“There isn’t anything else! There’s just Hastur coming for you, and I need—” Crowley breaks off with a snarl, whirling away from Aziraphale. He stomps several feet away before he turns back to close the distance, prowling again, the lines of his body taut with tension. “There’s holy water in there, Aziraphale. If Hastur shows up, you can end him.”

“I,” Aziraphale repeats, squaring his shoulders, “am not. Going. In there.”

“Stubborn bloody angel!”

“Stubborn demon.”

“Graahh!” Crowley growls and spins away from him again. He paces. He prowls. He hisses beneath his breath.

But when he turns back to Aziraphale, his shoulders slump in defeat.

“I don’t know where else to go,” he says, very quietly. The wind ripped from his sails, so to speak.

Aziraphale quietly approaches him. Crowley watches him, guarded and cautious, and Aziraphale reaches out to gently grasp those long fingers and give them a soft squeeze. “We’ll get through this, Crowley. Together.”

They always do.

The church doors burst open, then. The sound is so sudden it leaves the two jumping apart and whirling toward the disruption, Crowley with a snarl and Aziraphale with a small gasp of surprise. 

A priest stands there, clothed in holy garbs. His gaze focuses first and foremost on Aziraphale, and there’s a flash of recognition there which really shouldn’t be present. The two have never met, Aziraphale is quite certain. He doesn’t spend time around priests these days, and he avoids churches if at all possible unless he needs to do a blessing in one—which, thankfully, hasn’t happened in a long, long time.

“Aziraphale,” the priest says quietly, but the words carry over all the same—a soft prayer, his name.

“How do you know me?” He asks, unable to stop himself even as he steps forward to approach the human. 

The priest moves to meet him halfway. His eyes never leave Aziraphale’s face, and the look present there makes Aziraphale distinctly uncomfortable. Reverence, he thinks. Awe and reverence. For him.

“She said you would come,” the priest says.

“She?” Crowley asks sharply, coming up behind Aziraphale.

The priest merely blinks, not looking away from Aziraphale as he answers. “The Most Holy, of course.”

Hmm. Most assume God to be a him, though God isn’t truly any gender. She did make humans in Her image, though, and genders must mean something, but to Aziraphale She has and always shall be a her, even if such things like male or female don’t strictly apply. She is the Heavenly Mother, even if most call Her the Heavenly Father, but this human seems to have gotten it just right. 

This in and of itself is odd.

“God spoke to you?” Crowley asks in disbelief. “About Aziraphale?”

The priest finally slips his gaze away from Aziraphale and toward Crowley. He immediately rears back at the yellow eyes, since Crowley has yet to put his sunglasses back on after ripping them off in their fit earlier. “Demon,” the man hisses, and holds up his holy cross. “Back! I will send you back to Hell!”

Crowley hisses and backs away, eyes flashing with unholy radiance, and Aziraphale quickly steps between them, holding his hands up placatingly.

“There needn’t be any of that,” he says quickly. “Crowley is a… a good demon, he wouldn’t—”

The priest starts reciting an exorcism. 

Crowley snarls, and Aziraphale snaps his fingers.

The priest vanishes. 

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” Crowley asks briskly.

“He tried to hurt you,” is all Aziraphale says, tone rather flat even to his own ears. The priest knew him and immediately tried to send Crowley packing, which is simply not allowed. Crowley will return to Hell over Aziraphale’s dead body, so to speak. It’s not happening. Not while he’s still around to say something about it, anyway.

“He might have answers for you,” Crowley says quietly. 

“He could.”

But he tried to hurt Crowley. And that isn’t going to happen. Not tonight, not ever.

He looks back at the church. Now that the doors are open, there is a heavenly flow of energy circling him, it seems—gently urging him forward, to the sanctuary within. 

He doesn’t want to go, he thinks, even as his feet move of their own accord.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale enters the church and the doors slam shut behind him.

Crowley throws himself at the doors again.

They won’t budge, and where his shoulder knocks against the wood, it burns. It hurts so much worse than walking on consecrated ground all those years ago, and a wail slips past his lips before he can bite back the sound. 

He hits the door again, and again, but it still won’t move—still won’t open, and Aziraphale is somewhere inside and he’s not answering.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale, open the bloody door!”

His shoulder and arm connect with the door and he cries out as the burns worsen and renew, his skin steaming. Tears prick his eyes and he stops for a moment, his other hand holding onto his throbbing, searing arm even as his eyes scan over the door once more.

The church was supposed to be safe.

It was supposed to keep Aziraphale safe. 

Instead, those doors slammed shut behind Aziraphale and they just won’t open, no matter how many times Crowley snaps his fingers or sends demonic energy at them. Heavenly energy locks the path, and there’s a tingle of familiarity to this magic, he thinks—something off which he can’t quite place at first.

When it hits him, he throws himself back against the door. “Aziraphale!”

Maybe it’s God’s doing, or something else entirely in Heaven, but it’s the same off-ness he felt when Aziraphale healed the man in the alleyway. That edge of wrongness, of not-Aziraphale, and it’s currently focused on keeping the demon out of the church, and Aziraphale spent all this time telling him he didn’t want to go in the church—and then he just walked in anyway, and it all screams wrong to him.

The door flings him back this time—another burst of holy energy, and he nearly sobs at the pain coursing through him. His arm hangs limply at his side, steaming and smoking and burning, and he thinks it is rather a miracle he’s not actually on fire. 

He moves around the building, searching for a window to look through, anything to let him see inside, see Aziraphale, but the windows reflect only darkness back at him. Even in this, he is locked out and alone. 

He growls low in his throat, frustration and desperation mingling together inside of him. For all he knows, Azirpahale is being hurt. For all he knows, whatever attacked Aziraphale at the Main Entrance could be hurting him now, and Crowley is stuck out here being useless—

The doors open.

The energy fades—the heavenly light, the sharp burning pain at the back of Crowley’s mind as the building hums with that holy energy—it all fades away and the doors open and there’s Aziraphale, safe as can be, and his eyes lock on Crowley and he has the nerve to smile. 

“What the bloody fuck was that?” Crowley snarls, stomping toward the angel.

Aziraphale’s eyes land on his arm and shoulder, hanging limply and still steaming. “Oh, Crowley! You’re hurt!” 

And then the angel is right there in front of him, and his hands are up and there’s this warm, soothing glow and the wounds slowly start to mend. At least the burnt skin parts; they start to mend, turning into what they might look like three months down the road, all puckered and jagged lines of upturned red flesh, but the searing within him still remains, and it will take much longer to fade. 

“What,” he tries again, “the Hell. Was that.”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale admits, still fretting over his arm and shoulder. “It was another Urge, I think.”

“And what did you do in there? Was someone dying?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Aziraphale frowns and drops his hands, the holy light fading. “It seems there has been a new addition to the bible.”

“The… bible?” What the bloody hell does the bible have to do with anything? It was written by man, after all, and isn’t exactly an accurate retelling of anything at all. Some things are correct, but others exaggerated or just flat-out wrong. “What is it? What’s been added?”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the bible appears in his hand. He flips to a certain page without looking, seemingly aware of exactly where it is—the end of the bible, like an actual add-on, Crowley can’t help but think.

He should know the words, he thinks, but they are so bright—slivers of heavenly light melded with paper, and he can’t read them. He squints. “What’s it say?”

Aziraphale exhales slowly. “The Book of Aziraphale.”

Chapter Text

The Book of Aziraphale. The words flit through Crowley’s mind, ultimately failing to register as they do not make sense, he decides. They don’t make sense because the bible was written by man, by the word of God, and Aziraphale was never once anywhere near any of that nonsense, and the bible hasn’t been updated in… a very, very long time. He certainly feels like he would have heard some sort of rumour about such a thing, or it would have made the nightly news, if such a thing happened. Anything concerning religion seems to be high news, after all. 

But he’s heard nothing of this, and combined with everything else that’s happened, it leaves a cold knot of dread nestled in the pit of his stomach, and doesn’t like it. Not one bit. Not at all.

He itches to snag the book from Aziraphale’s hands and set it ablaze with hellfire, but it’s just a book, he reasons; surely it can’t be worth all that trouble, and Aziraphale would be cross with him, and he just can’t do that.

So he settles for glaring at the book. 

They linger outside the church for a long time, which is decidedly not a wise idea, as Hastur could be lurking anywhere, at the edge of the church somewhere. While all of the ground is supposed to be consecrated, it’s mainly the structure itself which gives demons trouble, not invisible property lines. An intact church can be a strong repellant of demonic entities, but it’s also just that: it has to be intact. Bombing the church, after all, certainly doesn’t leave the structure intact.

Perhaps the church isn’t as safe as he thought it was. 

To be fair, though, he’d been slightly out of his mind, picturing Aziraphale disappearing into a spout of hellfire, because that almost happened tonight. Just a couple hours ago, it almost happened. The cottage was supposed to be safe, was supposed to be a breather for them—a chance for him to wrap his head around the idea of Aziraphale safe and alive, after slowly losing his mind with the thought of him flickering, but the cottage now seems like such a blatant lie, luring him into a false sense of safety. 

Perhaps nowhere is safe. Hastur is a Duke of Hell, and could probably venture inside a church if he really desired to do so—demons can do almost anything if they’re angry enough, and Hastur has always been bent the wrong way, even by demonic standards. 

But there is holy water in the church and that might keep Aziraphale safe.

Of course, Hastur could simply torch the whole place with hellfire. Their little show at the cottage might have dissuaded him of the notion that Aziraphale is, in fact, immune to such a thing. He could report this back to Hell, and then it is only a matter of time before more demons come sniffing around with hellfire…

“Does that fancy book of yours tell us where we should go?” He asks bitingly, pacing back and forth in front of Aziraphale, too much negative energy coiled inside of him. 

Aziraphale flicks through the pages. A soft glow emanates from the book and Crowley fights the urge to squint and bare his teeth. That book hums with that edge of wrong which has been circling Aziraphale since he healed that bloody man, and Crowley really wants to bite something. 

Aziraphale’s gaze catches on the last page and his breath stutters to a halt before he quickly snaps the book shut and looks at Crowley. “Nothing of interest,” he says briskly.

“You’re lying to me? Really, angel?”

“This… this is all nonsensical,” Aziraphale says, and then starts walking away. Toward the parking lot. Toward the Bentley. “I want to go home, please.”

Oh, he said please and everything, Crowley thinks numbly. Must be bad, then. 

He doesn’t want to know.

Or, rather, he really needs to know, but knowing makes it real, and he isn’t certain how much more of this he can handle. 

He hurries after the wayward angel.

“Aziraphale, tell me what it says!”

“It’s really nothing, my dear.”

“Stop lying to me,” Crowley hisses, snapping his fingers to keep the Bentley’s doors from opening when Aziraphale pulls at the passenger door. The angel huffs—actually huffs—and spins to face him, and the look in his eyes is cold hard steel. Crowley stops mid-step, frozen in place. Absently, he notes that this really doesn’t look like Aziraphale. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me!” Aziraphale snaps back, which is, again, really unlike him. Angels can certainly be wrathful, hence all the smiting, but Aziraphale has been more out of sorts the past couple of days than ever before, and Crowley really doesn’t know what to do with this new side of him. 

Well, he haggards, maybe it’s not so new, just hidden until now.

“I want to go home, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and turns back to the car. He doesn’t try to open the door again, but he doesn’t seem to want to face Crowley, either. Then, very quietly, he adds on, “please.”

Crowley’s fingers rub together, the middle and the index, scratching against each other in the briefest of movements, and the doors audibly unlock on the Bentley. Aziraphale pries his open and slips inside, and he sits so tense and rigid, uncomfortable in his own skin. 

Is it his own skin? 

Crowley drops into the driver’s seat but doesn’t key the ignition. Just sort of sits there, numbly, his mind whirling. 

The silence drags on, tense and unyielding, and then Aziraphale snaps his fingers. The car revs to life, and Crowley manages a scowl as he hisses at the angel riding shotgun.

“Hey, we don’t do that to poor Bentley.” He means for the words to be sharp and biting, a reprimand—but instead they come out more soft and whispered, as it’s too much effort to find his voice in this moment, with his mind swirling with the unthinkable.

“Home,” Aziraphale says again, briskly.

Crowley Looks at the angel. He’s still bright and unyielding, but there’s a shadow cast over that brightness, or perhaps sprung from the sheer amount of it, he’s not certain. But it’s there, and it’s wrong, and Aziraphale might be just a little too bright.

This isn’t Aziraphale, he thinks, breath stuttering in his chest, not really. 

There’s been something off about him since he exited the church, and if this church has hurt him, changed him in some way when it was all Crowley’s idea to come here—

The engine dies. Crowley kicks the door open and slips out of the vehicle. He’s on his way to the church doors before he can fully register his own movements, but something happened in there and he needs to know what it is. 

The passenger door slowly opens. “Crowley?”

Oh, that sounds much more like his angel—but he won’t be deterred. 

There’s a wave of divine energy, the sting of it distinctly Aziraphale, and then the church doors snap closed once again, right in front of him. He snarls and whirls to face the angel, who has quickly come up behind him.

“My dear, whatever are you doing? It will hurt you, going in there.”

“I need to know what’s wrong,” he says back, somewhat calmly. 

“Crowley, nothing is wrong. I’m just…” Here, that tense expression crumples, and the steel melts from those eyes, and that’s just Aziraphale looking back at him with that broken expression. “I’m tired, and I have a part in the bible now, Crowley—none of this makes any sense to me, and I am tired.”

He’s overwhelmed, is what he isn’t saying. Overwhelmed by all that is happening, and he just needs the peace and quiet of his own space to ground him, but he could have just said that. Crowley would have understood—of course he’d understand, he feels the same way after all, but Aziraphale chose to lie to him instead… and that edge of wrong to his presence…

Crowley Looks again. Still bright, still powerful, still warm and Aziraphale—but the shadows are gone. 

They’re gone.

“You’re… alright, then?” He manages rather weakly, the confused rage dying away from him as quickly as it overtook him. 

“I was never not alright, my dear. Just… thinking.”

“What’s the book say, then?”

Because that’s he issue, he thinks. That’s what ignited that cold hard steel in Aziraphale’s gaze, what set the shadows into motion.

The lines of Aziraphale’s face harden again. “Forgive me, my dear,” he says flatly, “but I really don’t wish to speculate on it right now.”

Fuck me, it’s really bad, isn’t it? 

Crowley makes a mad grab for the book in question, clutched limply in Aziraphale’s fingers which dangle near his hip. He snags it from those fingers and snaps his fingers, miracling himself back in the Bentley with the doors locked as he opens the bible.

Aziraphale knocks on his window. 

The bible was written by man, so Crowley has, of course, been able to read it in the past. That hasn’t changed now; he can read the bible just fine, but that new addition at the end of it? The words appear as silver glowing particles of light, and try as he might to focus on them through that blinding brightness, he simply can’t. 

The Book of Aziraphale is only two pages long, he notes. 

Two pages, and that’s it. 

Something at the end of it got Aziraphale’s attention—if he could just… squint… through the light…

Aziraphale miracles himself into the passenger seat. A hand snags the edge of the book and Crowley snarls and holds on tightly, attempting to decipher that brightness, burning eyes be damned. 

“Crowley, you must stop! You’ll blind yourself!”

A whine escapes him as his eyes squeeze shut tight, the burn too much. Aziraphale takes the book from him.

“Oh, my poor dear. Are you alright?”

“Tell me what it says,” he hisses, white spots dancing and bursting behind closed eyelids. Afterimages of a bright burn. “Jussst tell me what it sssaysss, Asssziraphale.”

“It’s a new assignment,” the angel finally says. “That’s all, Crowley.”

“New… assignment?” He forces his eyes open but it’s hard to make out Aziraphale sitting next to him with his eyes burning and watering like that. “What kind of new assignment?”

“Apparently, I am meant to cover for the Almighty for a time.”

Cover for…?

“So you’re basically God now?!” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all, my dear. Certainly not! She simply expects me to care for the humans while she is… otherwise preoccupied, it seems.”

None of this really wants to sink in, Crowley thinks, wiping at his traitorous eyes. “And that sent you into a bleeding mess, did it? The fact the Almighty… likes you?”

“Crowley! She likes all of us,” Aziraphale says very calmly. “She loves every single one of us.”

“Not me, she bloody doesn’t.”

“She loves all living things,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley bites back the urge to snap. Aziraphale is having a bad day, and Crowley can cut him some slack. Don’t snap at him, he tells himself. Just don’t snap at him. “What does this… new assignment… entail?”

“Oh, I am not quite certain.”

“It doesn’t bloody say?”

“It’s not instructions, Crowley.” A brief pause. “And it was written by man, though guided by Her, so we shouldn’t take it as scripture. It could be wrong.”

“What has you so worried?”

Aziraphale looks away, turning his gaze forward. “I would like to be home now, if you would please, my dear.”

“Angel,” the demon says quietly, “we can’t go back there, remember? Hastur knows about it. He could be there waiting.”

“Yes, I expect he might be.”

He says this calmly, almost flatly, and keeps his gaze straight ahead.

Fear twists Crowley’s stomach again. “Well, so we should go somewhere else.”

“No. I would like to go home.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, “what the bloody fuck is wrong with you?”

“I am to fight the Duke.”

“You what?”

A thin smile slips across the angel’s face. “ ‘And lo, the angel did smite the unholy, with twin fires aligning.’ ” 

Crowley stares at the angel for a moment, spluttering sounds which can’t be words. “What in the name of Satan is that supposed to mean? She bloody—? She wants you to fight him?”

“So it would seem.”

“But—” You’ll lose! 

Except, according to whatever is written this stupid book, he won’t lose. 

Crowley himself has bested Hastur in the past—surely he and Aziraphale together can at the very least discorporate him and send him packing. 

He just.

Doesn’t want to see Aziraphale anywhere near hellfire, is all.

Not ever again.

“The bookshop, please,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley starts the car absently and pulls out of the parking lot. 

Crowley doesn’t speed back to the bookshop in his usual manner. This is perfectly okay, Aziraphale decides, as he doesn’t particularly want to fight anyone. There is nothing saying Hastur will be there waiting for them the moment they arrive, but the bookshop isn’t safe by any means. Crowley is no rush to take them to the bookshop, and Aziraphale is certainly in no hurry to arrive, and the drive is a moment to catch his bearings.

The addition of his part in the bible is certainly overwhelming, but the last words of it are what made Aziraphale rather numb to it all. If he thinks on it too long, he thinks he might burst into tears, and that certainly won’t do right now, now will it? He doesn’t have time to fall apart. He doesn’t have time to mourn.

Don’t think about it. He dashes the worries from his mind. Now really isn’t the time.

Even if those words haunt him. Taunt him. 

He tries to think of the other things he read. God seems to have faith in him, specifically, and that is touching and awe-inspiring as much as it leaves his stomach twisting with guilt and shame. The Almighty has put Her trust in him, a poor excuse for an angel, and he really isn’t worthy of her Love and faith. 

He’s not worthy at all.

She didn’t say why She felt the need to have a middling wayward angel ‘cover for her’ while she is otherwise preoccupied with Heaven. Aziraphale doesn’t know what ‘restructuring’ really means, and if the event on the escalator is anything to go by, he really doesn’t ever want to find out, he thinks. 

But for some reason, She put him in charge of humanity in her absence.

He’s been helping humanity for 6000 years, but now it feels more… substantial. More official. He was just supposed to observe and lead mankind toward the light with blessings and miracles, nudging them in the right direction but never outright interfering. 

Now, it seems, he is blatantly interfering. Saving people from certain death, healing them in dark alleyways, and now this mention in the bible.

Well, perhaps mention isn’t the right word. There’s a whole new portion just for him, even if it’s only two pages long. 

And even if it ends with the words—

No. Don’t think about it. You can’t do this if you’re worrying about that. 

Even if those words make him cold all over. Even if they tempt him to preemptively comfort the demon next to him. 

No. Not thinking about it.

When they finally arrive at the bookshop, two sit there in the car for a long moment.

The bookshop appears perfectly normal, and just how they left it. It’s not aflame as Aziraphale feared it might be, Hastur having torched everything in his absence. The doors and windows aren’t broken or busted in or anything of the sort. It all looks perfectly normal. 

They slip out of the car. 

Crowley leads the way toward the front door, snarling at Aziraphale when the angel tries to slip past and lead the way himself. The demon shoulders him aside, miracles the door open, and slowly steps inside.

Nothing happens. 

Crowley sniffs the air and flicks a forked tongue out to taste it.

He prowls through the shelves and through every room, and Aziraphale remains at the door simply because Crowley is radiating infernal threat and he doesn’t want to startle the poor thing if he accidentally comes up on him. 

Finally, the demon returns to him. “No one here,” he says.

Aziraphale nods and enters the bookshop.

Chapter Text

Strained silence circles the inside of the bookshop. It doesn’t exactly feel like the home it’s been to Aziraphale the past odd 200 years or so. Normally these walls put him at ease, and the scent of old books and dusty pages are always relaxing because this place is his. It’s his little corner of the world, his home, his life—it’s everything he’s wanted to be, he thinks, and now it just feels… wrong. 

It was wrong of him to take on such a human role, he thinks. A bookshop. Honestly, what was he thinking? That he could blend in and lose himself to humanity? Perhaps he blended too well and lost himself along the way, because he is and has always been an angel, not a human. If any part of him should feel like a lie, it should be the human part, because it is the lie—but somehow, it got all twisted around, didn’t it? Got twisted so much he saw himself as more human than angel, and being inside a church felt like lying to himself and to God.

But he is an angel, and that will always come with duties. He’ll never truly be free; he can see that now.

And now it’s too late, he thinks, to do anything else.

The future is written, and So It Shall Be. 

At least he knows how it will end—though this certainly doesn’t make him feel better. He’s not certain when the end will occur, or what events will lead up to it, if it will be tonight or a thousand years from now—but it is written, spelled out for him by Her hand, and he will simply have to accept that. The knowing should bring him comfort.

It doesn’t.

The bookshop has never felt so foreign to him. 

Crowley prowls back and forth, from one shelf to another, his steps agitated and quick. His essence leaks out of him like a mess of winding darkness at the edge of Aziraphale’s vision, and he knows not to get too close lest that darkness attempt to suffocate the light inside him. He knows demons can feel oppressive in their infernal essences, but Crowley has never felt like such a demon to him until now. 

Crowley has always appeared as a shadow across his vision—not extinguishing the light, but seemingly pulling it out more. There cannot be shadows without light, and the very existence of light casts a shadow, however faint. It’s always felt like a back and forth between them—something invisible, yet substantial, drawing them together indefinitely. Now, though, the darkness radiates something dangerous, something hellish, and it is hard to reconcile this pacing demon in front of him with the one he knows Crowley to be—a fun-loving, even if a little chaotic, demon who loves alcohol, Queen, and causing mischief wherever he goes. 

That mischievous edge has faded, Aziraphale thinks. That’s what’s changed. This is Crowley as a predator—as something he’s always been, but Aziraphale has simply forgotten or failed to notice.

Aziraphale sits heavily in his chair, closing his eyes. He can still hear the pacing, can still feel that edge of darkness moving back and forth, and this bookshop still feels so very wrong to him. Unpleasant, even. This place has never felt so unkind to him, and he really doesn’t know what to make of it all. 

“Perhaps She doesn’t mean the fight to happen here,” Aziraphale says.

“He’ll come,” Crowley says sharply. “Trust me, angel, he’ll turn up.”

He seems so certain. He would know, of course; he’s dealt with Hastur long enough. 

“We could still leave,” the demon suggests, and his pacing stops. “We don’t have to sit here waiting around for some sort of fight. We could—”

“It needs to happen,” Aziraphale cuts in briskly. 

Crowley, for all his dramatics and aggression, has always shied away from actual confrontation. Fighting the humans is one thing, but when it comes to fighting someone else? Someone more powerful than a basic human? He won’t outright fight them. Not that he is weak by any means, he just chooses to fight differently—with something creative like disintegrating a Duke into nothing in infernal flames too hot for demons to handle, but Crowley was creative enough to survive the onslaught himself and hold his car together. Crowley has always fought creatively and not aggressively; not physically. 

When it looks like he might have to fight physically, he tends to run the other way. Hence the whole ‘let’s run off together to Alpha Centauri’ during the would-be apocalypse. 

This can’t happen now. 

Well, Crowley could leave, he supposes. Nothing in the text mentions the demon’s presence during this confrontation, and perhaps it would be best if Crowley was not around to accidentally get dragged into something dangerous, but Aziraphale knows if he mentions this to the demon, it will get ugly fast. 

Crowley, for all his faults, is loyal. Hard to believe of a demon, sometimes, and certainly not what one would expect to look at him—snakes are associated with something treacherous and untrustworthy, after all, but Crowley has always been the most honest person Aziraphale knows, and he is unfailingly loyal.

Even when they are having a spat, he shows up to help Aziraphale. Even when the world was ending, he still didn’t run away despite how he said otherwise. He stayed around to help out and didn’t leave Aziraphale there alone at the end of it all.

Now if only Aziraphale could say the same of himself…

Don’t think about it. 

He can’t afford to let those words linger in his mind right now. It’s too distracting—the way it brings tears pricking his eyes, a burn in the back of his throat, the way his breath catches in his chest as he pictures—

Stop it. Don’t. 

Crowley has resumed prowling. Aziraphale sighs and looks over his books—collections from through the millennia he’s been here, watching humanity grow into its own, stuck here through the ages in a way that’s never felt so much like being ‘trapped’, as being free. He’s always felt more free here among the humans than he ever did in Heaven, and after the world failed to end, he thought he might finally get to enjoy the freedom and embrace the idea of actually running a bookshop in Soho, since it would finally no longer be just a cover, but his actual life.

A pity that won’t be in the cards. 

“This is ridiculous,” Crowley huffs, and approaches the couch and the chair. His gaze is hidden behind his sunglasses but even so, there’s a hint of yellow burning eyes shining through the darkness as he glares down at Aziraphale. “Stuck here waiting like this, it’s ridiculous! We don’t need to fight him.”

“We don’t,” Aziraphale agrees quietly, hands folded in his lap. “I do.”

Crowley’s teeth bite together with a snap. “If you think I’m leaving you here—”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says. Crowley is far too loyal for such a thing, even if it might be in his own best interests. 

“This is stupid.”

“It is unpleasant, yes.”

“We don’t have to do this! At least not right now.”

“Better to get it over with.”

Crowley growls low in his throat, running a hand through his hair, mussing the strands even further. “Just because it says you’ll smite him doesn’t mean you’ll win, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale is quite aware of that. Tonight could very well end with them both destroying the other—it would align with those words, after all. It could happen tonight. Or a thousand years from now. 

“Best to get it over with,” he says again. 

“Stupid,” the demon hisses, and resumes his pacing. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, watching the demon momentarily. “When… the fight does start, I need you to do something for me, dear.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Stay out of it.”

A snarl is his response, first and foremost. “Like Hell I will! You’re out of your bloody mind if you think I’m leaving you to fight him alone!”

“I can fight him,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “But not if I’m worrying about hurting you because you get too close. I was a soldier, Crowley, I’m certain I can handle the likes of him. But not if… I don’t want to hurt you, my dear.”

He can’t stand the thought of ever hurting Crowley, in any way, sharp, or form. If Crowley gets too close and gets hit with holy fire, or if Hastur tires of his interference and decides to deal with Crowley personally—Aziraphale would never forgive himself. 

“I’m not leaving you to fight alone,” Crowley says firmly. “Nuh-uh. Not happening, angel. Think of something else.”

Think of something else. 

There is nothing to think about, really. There is to be a fight—it is written, and it is written that their fires will align, and Aziraphale can see how this all might play out in the end. Crowley does not need to be stuck in the middle of all that. 

He will need a plan.

He sighs heavily.

“What is it?” Crowley asks.

“I am simply tired, my dear. I wouldn’t turn down some tea…”

The demon snaps to attention. “Tea. Right, that. Yeah, I’ll get you some, no worries.”

Crowley leaves the room, and Aziraphale starts to plan.

Aziraphale is hiding something, Crowley is certain of it. 

The angel is always hiding something, it seems. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Crowley, because Crowley knows for a fact the angel has chosen his side instead of Heaven’s on more than one occasion and that requires a certain level of trust in him—but he still keeps things from Crowley. Dangerous things, he thinks. Things Crowley probably doesn’t want to know, but probably should know. 

Aziraphale read something very troubling in that stupid bible, and while it might be related to this new assignment, so to speak, and his apparent need to fight Hastur despite how much Aziraphale seems reluctant to fight anyone, ever—he’s certain that’s not all of it. There is something very specific Aziraphale is keeping from him.

Crowley doesn’t want to pry—of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale is entitled to his secrets and he certainly doesn’t poke his nose into Crowley’s private life if Crowley makes it known he doesn’t wish to discuss something, but that’s because Aziraphale is a kind angel who cares about privacy and is willing to back off when needed. Crowley isn’t so nice, and if something is troubling Aziraphale this much, it’s something he really needs to know. He has to know. 

He just doesn’t know how to ask.

How to get Aziraphale to see reason and tell him.

Tea.

Right, he’ll make some tea. Aziraphale has been tense since they returned to the shop and his inability to relax in his own home has Crowley twitchy with his own worries and frustrations. 

He feels like he’s always shaking when he grabs the blasted kettle from the high shelf. 

Stupid thing, this kettle, his hand—all of it. This whole mess is absolutely ridiculous.

The door behind him opens. He looks over his shoulder to find Aziraphale standing just outside the kitchen, holding the door open to peer at him. There’s some twisted expression on his stupid face, and Crowley’s heart lurches in his chest.

“Something wrong?” He asks, unable to bring himself to move in that moment—he just watches the angel, trying to force a sense of calm back into his being.

“I would really appreciate it if you would stay out of the fight, Crowley.”

Crowley hisses. “Not happening, as I said.”

Aziraphale is out of his blessed mind if he thinks Crowley is just going to sit by and let him go toe-to-toe with a Duke of Hell. With Hastur of all demons. Absolutely bloody not. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I wish you would reconsider, dear.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

“Then I am sorry.”

Dread bursts through him. “Sorry?”

The door closes. There’s the vibration of angelic energy—a pleasant melody striking the air somewhere in the back of his mind, and a chill flits through him as he darts toward the door.

Bashes himself against it.

It doesn’t open. He’s flung from the door for his efforts, away from that divine energy, and a snarl rips his throat.

“Don’t you bloody do this to me, Aziraphale,” he howls as he throws himself back against the door. 

“Terribly sorry, dear boy!” Aziraphale calls to him from the other side. “But I can’t have you getting hurt on my behalf. I need to do this alone.”

“No, you fucking don’t! Aziraphale, open this door right now, you stupid—you reckless—open this door!”

“The ward won’t last forever, Crowley. You’ll be free by morning.”

“Aziraphale, open this fucking door or I swear I’ll bloody kill you myself!” 

“Oh, you won’t do that, dear. You would never hurt me.”

The certainty of Aziraphale’s voice leaves Crowley snarling as he throws himself once more at the blasted door. He’s flung back yet again, his arm throbbing in pain as the holy radiance seeps through, and he fights back the wave of desperation which tries to cling to him and drag him down into an icy darkness. 

Aziraphale can’t do this to him again. Not again. Images of the last time he put up a ward to keep Crowley away from him dance tauntingly behind his eyes; it had been a bloody nightmare. Aziraphale nearly died, permanently and forever, and soon he will be near Hastur and hellfire and—

He snarls and throws his hands up, tossing a wave of demonic energy at the door, at the wards outside of it keeping it closed, put there by the very angel he’s trying to protect. The very angel who simply won’t let him protect him. 

“Aziraphale, angel—don’t do this again—you blasted idiot—You idiot, Aziraphale—open this fucking door! Open it!” 

His hands drop as energy fades him. It’s been a long, long day so far, first with them relaxing at the cottage where everything was perfectly fine, and then Hastur showed up, a fight broke out, and they made it out and went to the church… now this.

He’s honestly exhausted at this point and probably close to being miracled out, his pool of demonic energy rather low, but he can’t stop. He can’t stop trying to break out. Not if means Aziraphale will be facing Hastur alone. 

“We left Heaven and Hell to have the freedom of choice!” He reminds the angel through the door. “Remember, angel? This is you, taking away my freedom.” 

There’s an awful silence at the other side of the door.

Then there’s a wave of energy, and the door cracks open. He throws himself at it before Aziraphale can change his mind or stop him, and breaks through, snagging handfuls of the angel’s clothing as he all but tosses said angel to the side, slamming Aziraphale’s back into a bookshelf. Books topple off the edge and hit the ground but the sound is lost in the ringing of Crowley’s ears as he snarls a wordless rage, yellow eyes boring into Aziraphale’s blue-grey ones.

Aziraphale looks back at him, calm in the face of a demon’s rage, and it just makes Crowley angrier. 

“I am sorry,” the angel has the audacity to say. “I know we… want the freedom to choose. But I can’t have you risking yourself, Crowley.”

“Stop locking me away!” Crowley snarls, yanking Aziraphale forward to slam him back against the shelf. Aziraphale winces at the movement but doesn’t even try to break away, which somehow makes this worse. “Stop locking me out, you stupid angel! We’re in this together!”

“This is my fight, Crowley. Not yours.”

“You’re my fight!”

Oh. Oh, fuck. 

He really didn’t mean to shout that, to give voice to such a thing and make it real—but now the words are out there, and they hang between them in a stunned silence. Aziraphale’s eyes have blown wide, electric blue with their shock, and Crowley’s own eyes must be impossibly wide—he can see the faintest reflection looking back at him, gleaming off Aziraphale’s eyes. 

He’s not certain when he lost his sunglasses, probably in one of his attempts at dashing himself against that bloody door, but now all the rage has left him and he’s left standing there, clinging to the angel, holding him against a bookshelf—pinning him there, like everything depends on it. And in a way, it does.

“I just… There’s no Our Side without the two of us, is all,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet and soft—even fond. Fond? A hand comes to rest on the top of Crowley’s hand, fingers lightly tugging his own from their white-knuckled grip on the angel’s clothing. “My dear, I would never want to leave you. I have every intention of winning this fight.”

“Glad one of us is so confident,” the demon says weakly, and shuts his eyes. 

“Please stay out of the fray, Crowley.”

I can’t. I can’t do that. 

There’s no way he can see Aziraphale fighting and not help him, no way he can sit back and do nothing while Hastur tries to get his grubby mitts all over his angel. 

This angel right here… yeah, this is mine… bugger off… 

“For me?”

Low blow, angel. 

There is little Crowley won’t do for Aziraphale. Not when he asks directly, not when he says please…

“I can’t.”

This is not one of those times. He can’t sit idly by and do nothing.

He looks back at the angel. “Don’t… Don’t lock me out again. Don’t ward me…”

Aziraphale’s brows knit together as his expression twists into something fractured. “Oh, my dear—I am sorry—”

Crowley shakes his head. “Just… not again. Okay? Alright?” He swallows around the sudden lump in his stupid throat. “We’re in this together, yeah? Alright?”

“Very well, my dear. Together.”

“Well, isn’t this touching.”

The new voice leaves the two jumping apart, with a snarl already settling in the back of Crowley’s throat. He fights the urge to run forward and meet Hastur, to keep him away from the angel and out of this bookshop, but the demon is already there, just inside the shop and watching them with this malicious twist to his lips—some botched version of a smile. 

“Hastur,” Crowley greets as menacingly as possible. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Behind him, Aziraphale’s sword flickers to life, held in the angel’s grasp. Just whoosh and Crowley can feel the heat of those holy flames. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley knows Azirpahale wants him to step aside and just let them duke it out, but he really, really can’t do that. He just—can’t. Aziraphale isn’t immune to hellfire and Hastur probably has realised this by now, and he just can’t stand by and let this happen. 

“You can’t take us both on,” Crowley tells the demon. “I mean—you couldn’t even take me on back at my flat, now could you? And you fizzled out in the ring of fire back there—pity, that. Bit of a bummer for you, isn’t it? What did Beezlebub say when you turned up because of infernal fire? Were they pissed? I bet they were pissed.”

“Crowley,” Azirpahale hisses.

Hastur snarls but stops himself from charging forward like Crowley knows he wants to. “Sorry, traitor, but my fight isn’t with you tonight.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to get through me to—”

“Ah, but I brought a friend.”

A burst of infernal energy slams into Crowley’s side, flickering strings of darkness twining with his soul in an unacceptable way, and Crowley snarls and flings a burst of his own energy right back at the new demon who emerges from around a shelf. He doesn’t recognise the face, but the energy feels vaguely familiar. Some demon from some middling rank, he thinks, and this is perhaps their first corporation, hence why they seem so unfamiliar. 

“Where are my manners?” Hastur sneers. “Crowley, you remember Seigle, don’t you?”

The demon, Seigle, says nothing and charges straight at them. Crowley darts out to meet him—which is exactly the wrong move.

Hastur closes in the second he’s away from Aziraphale, and there’s this god-awful clang as their blades meet in an unholy swipe of fire and rage. Crowley can’t look over his shoulder to see how Aziraphale is doing, though, because Seigle’s hands have transformed into talons of some sort and they are raking at his face, right for his eyes. 

Crowley dips back and falls into a crouch, then whirls around with a swing of momentum, striking his leg against an off-balanced heel. Seigle isn’t exactly familiar to him, but he remembers what it was like to take on a newly human form for the first time. He still has trouble walking, so he knows the legs can be a weak point.

The demon howls as his leg gives way and he’s sent toppling, but he scratches at Crowley with his essence and talons all the same, snagging the front of his shirt, clawing briefly at his chest with those sharp things nicking the skin and dragging downward—and Crowley hisses as he scrambles back with a wheel of his arms, jerking free of the toppling demon. Infernal fury radiates from that cold, dark essence in front of him and there’s dark tendrils shooting toward Crowley’s face. He brings his arms up quickly, his own auburn tendrils rising to meet the black ones, and there’s a discordant clang as their two conflicting souls intertwine for the briefest moments. 

Throwing one’s essence at another isn’t the most difficult thing in the world, but to turn that prodding into something dangerous and sharp, something damaging to another, well that’s another matter entirely. Crowley is rather out of practice in fighting, if he’s honest with himself; he’s never been a fighter. He was a creator, in Heaven, helping to make the starts and everything. He was an artist then, and he never did catch onto fighting exactly, but even a cornered animal will lash out with a raging fury when cornered.

With Aziraphale somewhere behind him, fighting Hastur, Crowley certainly feels cornered. He won’t let this demon break through and overwhelm the angel behind him. 

There’s another twang of holy energy mixing with demonic behind him—a ripple of displaced radiant air which burn his skin and leaves his teeth gnashing together painfully, but he’d rather feel that energy than Hastur’s twisted, demonic essence any day. As long as he feels that holy energy, everything is fine. 

Seigle lunges from his position on the ground, arms outstretched for Crowley’s middle to tackle him physically. Crowley’s had this body a long time now, though, and it is thin and agile, like a snake—he quickly twists out of the way and bashes his open palm into Seigle’s shoulder as the demon passes him, forcing the demon back onto the ground with a small burst of demonic energy. A twinge of pain shoots up his arm from the use of the energy, and he’s reminded of the fact he’d rather exhausted himself prior to this confrontation. 

The faintest hint of sulphur on his tongue is the only warning before a wave of hellfire crashes over him, shooting through him toward—

No, NO—

Crowley snarls and summons a wave of air to circle behind him, a wind wall forcing those hellish flames back toward himself. He can be surrounded in flames but the area behind him cannot be covered in flames and even if he has to hold this wind wall forever, he will do so. Sparks of auburn flicker at his hands, just faintly visible over the orange-red flames of the hellfire surrounding him, and it burns, he thinks—the flames eat at him slowly, as tired as he is, and he can’t fail.

He throws the force of those flames back at the demon in front of him until they both surrounded in a swirling vortex of hellfire, and his fingers twitch at his sides as he summons spurts of that infernal energy within himself—picturing his rage, his fear, his desperation all mingled into something nasty and feral, something coiled and striking, something—

A snake of auburn energy slithers around him briefly before it lunges at the demon in front of him. Invisible teeth clamp down on Seigle’s arm and wrench the demon toward himself, where his hands come up, already waiting for that presence to slam into his own, and he bids his snake aberration larger, into something worse, something with burning yellow eyes and sharp auburn fangs the same colour as its ghostly form, and he wills it bite. Kill. Maim. BITE. 

His hands, physically touching the demon, burn with hellfire as he wills all of his fury and desperation into heating the demon’s physical form. Demons are rather immune to hellfire, but it doesn’t mean their forms can’t burn away if it’s hot enough—hence Hastur dispersing in that infernal ring of satanic fire. Sometimes a demon’s internal flame can run hotter than simple hellfire and can burn away a form easy as anything. He’s witnessed Hastur do it to other demons occasionally, after all. 

Crowley himself has never quite managed it before, and he knows it wouldn’t work on someone like Hastur, someone much higher up the chain, so to speak—but Seigle is middling like Crowley. 

Just not as creative, he thinks.

And Crowley has had a lot of time to get creative with his demonic energy. 6000 years, give or take. 

6000 years of honing this particular skill to perfection, because nudging humans requires finesse and craftsmanship sometimes, and Crowley is the best at his job, he thinks—otherwise he would have been recalled to Hell a long, long time ago. 

Seigle screams as his core overheats, as flesh starts to melt away and fade into ash as that snake of energy circles tighter, crushing the form with unholy pressure until—

Seigle’s form gives way to ash which falls to the ground around him. But the hellfire remains, as hellfire has never quite been tame.

He steps out of the wall of hellfire, toward Aziraphale and Hastur.

There’s just one problem: no one is there. 

Chapter Text

Hastur, as Aziraphale feared, kept trying to route his anger toward Crowley in an effort to throw Aziraphale off-balance, so to even the playing field, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and took himself out of the equation, leaving behind a tendril of his essence for the demon to follow. Hastur follows as he knew he would, and now it is just the two of them on this lonely hill somewhere near the cottage in the South Downs, and Aziraphale reignites his sword. 

“Clever angel,” Hastur sneers. “But it won’t save you.”

“My dear, I don’t need saving.”

Hastur surges forward with a wave of demonic energy—bright red strings which flicker around him, like red lightning, and the demon’s wings spring from the aether, flapping behind him to give him speed as he flies at Aziraphale, his blade hissing with demonic power and burning with hellfire, specifically. 

Aziraphale can’t let it touch him. Even a single swipe will ruin him, will cling to his essence and destroy him completely, while it’s flamed up like that. HIs own blade should, in theory, do the same to the demon, though that’s never been tested. This is the only flaming sword that he knows of, but demons can ignite many things with their hellfire, as hellfire seems alive in its own right—unable to fully be controlled, easily summoned, and rather hard to disperse. 

Holy fire, in theory, should be as powerful as hellfire, but it’s very nature isn’t to destroy. Hellfire clings to such radiant things and destroys them completely, while holy fire burns at the essence, but perhaps not enough to outright destroy a demon, not like the use of holy water. 

Aziraphale’s holy essence swirls around him with rays of yellow-white light. The exact colour doesn’t exist on the human spectrum, and so there is no real name for it, but the closest it might come in human terms is to simply compare it to the sun, though that is perhaps too yellow, too deep a colour. The energy surrounds him, hot and radiant, and his own wings appear behind him from the aether, flinging him backward sharply with a quick flap of those white wings, and he’s suddenly several lengths away from the demon lunging at him.

Hastur’s strike lands in empty air and he snarls, low and menacingly, and rushes at Aziraphale once again. The demon is rather aggressive, and perhaps he can use this to his advantage, if he could just find a way to use that raging momentum against the demon. 

He draws his sword up to meet the clash of the demonic blade, hellfire swirling with holy fire briefly before the flames quickly disperse apart, repelled from one another by their very natures. Hastur growls and brings himself back around, using his cast off momentum, and swipes upward with his blade, and Aziraphale is just barely able to meet it in time with his own sword.

A flick of the demon’s wrist and there are tendrils of red igniting around him, circling tighter and tighter, crushing him. Pain streaks out through his entire being, and it is just enough of a shock that the next strike manages to land directly on his shoulder—though the hellfire has slithered away from that particular edge of the blade, thanks to how it met the holy fire and peeled away a second earlier. 

Aziraphale rears back in pain, raising his own hand, palm open, igniting a burst of holy energy in a spurt in front of him—yellow-white tendrils jutting out sharply at the demon, forcing him back and away to give him just a second to regain his footing.

And a second is all he has.

Hastur is fast, he thinks, as the demon springs back at him with a flap of dark wings. His palm twists and opens, and a jet of hellfire spits toward him, and he has only a fraction of a second to bring his sword up, slicing with an arc through the hellfire, forcing it apart down the middle, leaving space barely for himself as he twists sideways to make himself a smaller target. The heat of the flames brushes against his wings but doesn’t ignite, and in the next second Hastur is swinging with his blade again. 

He doesn’t have time to block.

Instead he shoots upward with a burst from his wings, raises his palm into open air, and lets heavenly light flare from his core and shoot through his palm, yellow-white light blazing down onto the demon beneath him. Hastur snarls and flinches back in pain, skin searing and burning from the radiance forced down on him, and parts of his skin begin to melt away.

Hastur doesn’t seem to mind the pain, though. 

Instead of running, of backing off and letting Aziraphale catch a breather, he instead flings himself upward with a flap of his own wings, into that heavenly energy, and even as his skin starts to sear off revealing the mangled muscle beneath—he takes another quick swing at the angel, and Aziraphale goes to meet the blow with his sword.

Hastur quickly changes his trajectory, though, swinging back the other way as he drops a little lower—

Oh, Aziraphale thinks, numbly, as that blade tears through his arm right at the wrist, cutting through skin and blazing against his soul, and his sword drops from suddenly limp fingers, the tendons controlling them cut. 

The sword drops through the air to land somewhere on the ground below. 

On another plane, a wheel ignites.

White-hot pain blots out his mind momentarily, and he drops. Just drops out of the air, overtaken with the pain and shock of it all, and hits the ground hard. The breath forced from his lungs, he’s left wheezing as he lays there on the ground, and a second later, Hastur flies above him, rushing downward with his blade pointed at Aziraphale’s chest—

No! He can’t let this happen, can’t do this to Crowley—

He’s supposed to win—

HIs hand moves on its own, instinct and panic driving him to stretch the fingers of his free hand, the one not injured, and he summons his blade to him, but not hilt first like usual.

Everything happens in slow motion for a moment. Hastur bearing down on him, his hellish blade getting closer and closer… and his own blade, igniting in the distance, flying toward them blade first…

Hastur and his sword seem to get there at the same time.

The tip of his blade spurts out the front of Hastur’s chest, and that hellish blade drops a fraction of a second before it can strike his own chest. For a moment, everything seems frozen in place—Aziraphale on the ground, Hastur suspending in air—

Then the demon drops on top of him. The tip of the blade stabs into Aziraphale’s chest, but it’s not the demonic blade—just his own blade which had previously skewered the demon, sticking out enough that the impact leaves a rather impressive wound, if he is being honest. It knocks the breath from his lungs even further, and for a moment, he lingers there—fighting the darkness at the edge of his vision, fighting to remain conscious even as the demon fizzles away into nothing, fading into ash atop him. 

The hellish blade has landed at his side, and it stops burning with hellfire, extinguished as the demon’s willpower ebbs away, with little to sustain it in the wet grass. 

It takes a moment to regain any semblance of breath.

On another plane, a wheel is burning. 

Oh… 

He was touched with hellfire when the blade cut his wrist, after all. The pain should remind him of this fact, but he’s grown rather numb to everything at this point—numb to the end of everything. 

Is this how he is to die? Alone on a hill after defeating the enemy? Because of a measly nick?

It doesn’t seem fair. 

Oh, Crowley isn’t going to like this at all. The poor dear. Aziraphale doesn’t know what this all must look like to the demon—if he thinks something awful happened at the bookshop or if he is still fighting the other demon and is too busy to notice, but what will he do when… Aziraphale just… doesn’t come back?

His eyes fall shut. Golden blood seeps from his wrist onto the grass below, and red blood drips from his chest thanks to his own sword poking at him with such ferocity when the demon crashed into him. He doesn’t have the energy to heal that particular wound, even if his blade did drop out of him and land on the ground at his side when the demon faded into ash. 

Crowley. 

He can’t do this to Crowley. Oh, what will happen when he doesn’t come back? When he simply fails to return to the bookshop, return to anywhere?

What would he do, if the same had happened to Crowley and their roles were reversed? He’d be a right mess, he knows instantly. He’d be absolutely distraught, because what is the point to all of this if he has to go on alone? If Crowley isn’t there to—

No. He can’t do this Crowley.

His eyes open. The world is burning, and even thinking hurts, but he manages to lift a hand and snap his fingers. 

The miracle it takes to get him to the church is almost too much. A sob of pain escapes him as that flame inside of him grows as though fed by his flare of heavenly power, and he doesn’t even know if this will even help but it’s the only thought he has—the only possible chance of extinguishing that flame. 

The font of holy water is just a couple steps away. Just a few steps and he’ll be there. 

Moving is pure agony. Pieces of the wheel stutter and break off, golden light particles flitting off into nothing, and the pain of it all threatens to drag him to his knees.

He remains standing simply because he refuses to do otherwise. He will make it to that font if it kills him, he decides, because if there is even a chance he can stop this and stay here with Crowley—he has to take it. 

He staggers toward the font. Just a couple steps, he tells himself. Just a few more… Just… a … few…

A breathy whine slips from his mouth. The pain blots out his vision momentarily, and he staggers into the font. Yes. There it is. There. 

He submerges his wrist, hand, and part of his forearm into the water.

There’s a burst of energy—radiant and glowing, and a sharp stab of searing pain straight into his very core. A wheel stutters to a halt, burning, burning, burning—and Azirapahle forces that holy essence from the holy water to appear like actual waves of water over the burning flames. 

The hellfire eating at his very being isn’t anything physical, at this point. In this human body, it appears as a simple cut to his wrist, and it certainly isn’t flaming, just oozing blood like a cut wrist would, even if the blood is golden. The golden blood swirls in the water, and suddenly it’s a foggy brown color instead of the clear font it had been. The hellfire isn’t real fire, and holy water doesn’t act as actual water—but he pictures it like that in his mind, anyway. Crowley can make things twist and bend to his reality simply by imagining them, right?

Surely Aziraphale can do the same.

Because if this fails… if this fails…

I am so terribly sorry, Crowley. 

So he pictures the radiant light of the holy water—a blessing so strong and pure, given to humans by the very Heavens, by Her Love—as actual water dousing flames of agony, even if nothing is actually, truly on fire, not in a way which would make sense to humans, anyway. 

He pictures it, and he believes in it. He believes it will work.

“You’re not dying here,” he hisses through clenched teeth with all the conviction he can muster, even if his voice trembles and shakes as ripples of pain echo through him. “You are not leaving Crowley. You’re not. You’re not!”

The last words in that new part of the bible don’t matter, he tells himself. It won’t happen, it can’t happen, he won’t allow it to happen—

Slowly, he can feel the flames dying down—extinguished by the water. 

Extinguished.

Oh. Oh my dear Lord. 

A ragged, shaky breath escapes him. He drops to his knees, his arm slipping out of the font, and for a moment he just sits there, eying his injured wrist.

Slowly, the golden blood gives way to red. He can’t move his fingers and he might lose the hand if he doesn’t heal it—but it’s not bleeding celestial blood anymore. 

He’s done the impossible, he thinks. 

He was touched by hellfire, and he survived. 

A wheezing, somewhat delirious laugh escapes him. And another, and another. Before he knows it he’s laughing hysterically, because he survived. He lived. He lived. 

By the grace of God, he lived.

He didn’t leave Crowley here all alone. 

But he is still bleeding.

He’ll take care of it in a moment, he thinks, and leans against the font, letting his eyes fall shut at long last. 

Just a moment. He’ll just rest for a moment, let himself catch his breath, so to speak, and then he will work on the seemingly impossible task of fixing himself up, miracling back onto that hill for his sword, and then finally back to Crowley. 

Crowley. 

Oh, he hopes his demon is alright. 

He will have to trust that Crowley can hold his own. He always has in the past, and Aziraphale is simply in no condition to go flying through the aether to wind up at another place entirely right this second. 

No… he’s just going to rest here, just for a moment. 

Just a moment.

Hellfire is burning away at the inside of the bookshop, but the demon Crowley is on his knees somewhere in the middle of the shop, staring at some empty space which shouldn’t be empty. Aziraphale should be standing right there, fighting with Hastur, and the bookshop shouldn’t be empty. 

Aziraphale is gone.

Perhaps not destroyed, not dispersed into nothing, his body and very being destroyed in that burst of hellfire which Crowley struggled not to let get past him—he stopped it, he stopped it… come on, he bloody stopped it—but the angel is absent all the same, and so is Hastur.

It’s the lack of Hastur which leaves hope clinging to life somewhere deep inside his chest. 

If Aziraphale had been destroyed behind Crowley’s back like that, Hastur would surely be there, grinning smugly at the pain he’s caused his nemesis. Hastur has never liked him, and his part in stopping the world from ending was the final straw. Hastur wants to make him suffer, and perhaps going after Aziraphale specifically is his way of doing that. 

It’s more than that, though. Hastur seems to be targeting Aziraphale for a different reason, although Crowley is certain destroying Aziraphale to take a stab at Crowley is just the icing on the cake for him. No, Hastur seems to be under orders to take out Aziraphale for some other reason than as punishment for Crowley.

Even so, the absence of Hastur and the fact he doesn’t see a pile of ash on the floor—even as the bookshop burns around him—leaves some part of him eager to believe Aziraphale is, in fact, alive. He’s out there somewhere right now, fighting Hastur alone, and Crowley has no bloody idea where he went. 

He was too busy fighting another demon. Too busy to look over his shoulder. Too busy to sense Aziraphale leaving like that. 

He pushes to his feet and looks at the burning fire around him. Hellfire is wild and rampant, and it licks at the books, igniting entire shelves so easily. It’s definitely not that blazing inferno he’d walked into the day the world didn’t end, but it’s going to turn out that way if he doesn’t stop it.

Crowley snaps his fingers, forcing his essence over the hellfire in the shop and willing it to suppress, to suffocate and smother. Hellfire is difficult to put out once it gets going, as it likes to destroy things down to its very nature, but some part of it still seems to listen to demons—it’s why they can summon it at will, igniting a part of themselves to bring it forth. By that very logic, he should be able to smother it.

He held a burning pile of metal and rubber together and told himself it was a car fit to drive around in, after all—he can surely put out some flames in a bookshop. 

Aziraphale will be right pissed with him if he lets all his precious books burn.

Not to mention the fact if the angel miracles himself back into the bookshop, unaware it is on on fire and decidedly deadly to him—

Smother the fuck out, you stubborn flames! 

He pictures his essence as a thick fire blanket, the kind firemen use to smother flames so they can move around a burning building to save people, and puts the remainder of his power into it. “You are not going to burn,” he hisses at the disobedient curls of flame still struggling to rise, “you are not going to burn.”

The flames smother and die out, eventually. It takes a long time for them to finally die off, and there are sirens blaring outside and jet of actual water shooting through the window, nearly crashing into him where he stands, and—

Suddenly he’s back in the bookshop on that day. The day he lost everything, for the briefest of moments. The day they stopped Armageddon. 

HIs vision blurs. His legs, traitorous things that they are, stop holding his weight and he drops to his knees, and the world is spinning around him and there isn’t enough air in this stupid bookshop and he doesn’t need to breathe but in this moment if he can’t take a decent breath he is going to—

“Sir! Sir, are you alright?”

A human lands next to him. Hands brush his shoulders.

Crowley whirls from the touch, hissing as his face transforms for the briefest moments into some sort of snake-like monster, and the human rears back in alarm. The flames are out, the fire is gone, and this man needs to get the fuck out of this bookshop before Crowley decides to bite him.

He must force this temptation onto the human, because the fireman blinks and backs away slowly, out of the building. 

Then Crowley snaps his fingers and disappears from the bookshop. 

He goes to the cottage, because that’s the only other location he can think of in that moment. His flat could be dangerous considering Hastur knows of its location, and Aziraphale surely wouldn’t go there when fighting the demon. He might go to the cottage, he can’t help but think, but even then that’s not the reason he made the split-second decision to wind up here. 

He just… needed to get out of that smoking bookshop.

And chose the cottage.

The living room is still burnt and broken, the door still bashed in and charred almost into nonexistence. Stubborn bits of the door remain spread across the floor, crunching under his feet as he steps into the cottage. His core is nearly completely empty and he can feel the tug of sleep on his mind, but knows he can force such thoughts away. He didn’t always sleep, after all. He just can’t be very useful for the next day or so, while he regenerates his pool of energy. 

Aziraphale isn’t here.

Somehow, he didn’t think he would—but some small part of him hoped that maybe, just maybe, this is where the angel disappeared to. It’s one of their most recent locations, and would have been a fairly quick miracle to return here. 

But the cottage is empty. 

Aziraphale isn’t here, and Crowley feels cold all over. Maybe it’s shock from the battle, shock from emptying himself and managing to snuff out those hellish flames in the bookshop, or shock from thinking, for a brief moment, that he’d failed and Aziraphale was, in fact, charred into nothing because he failed to hold back that hellfire. 

But Aziraphale is alive, he reasons.

He’s alive because the alternative is unthinkable. Unacceptable. 

His legs give out on him again. This time when he hits the ground, he lets himself drop all the way forward, landing on his chest on the ground. The breath is knocked from his lungs but he just lays there, not even trying to get up. Too wrung out, physically and emotionally, to even think about moving.

Aziraphale is alive.

He’s alive.

He has to believe that or he might just go insane. 

There’s a burst of lightning in the distance. Well, not far into the distance. Just outside, really—on that hill overlooking the lake. 

Crowley knows because he and Aziraphale spent some time out there, just enjoying each other’s company.

Except this isn’t an ordinary strike of lightning. 

He knows this because there’s the faintest hint of ozone in the air, which could mean angels. 

Aziraphale. 

He staggers to his feet, vision blurring as he nearly collapses on his first step forward, but he manages to catch himself against the doorframe and push out of the cottage.

Traveling via lightning like that is something only angels do—something only they can do, as it spits them out of the sky fields only angels can flit through due to their connection with the Heavens. The last time he saw it used was by the Archangel fucking Gabriel when he tried to restart Armageddon, but there’s nothing saying it can’t be Aziraphale. 

After all, the other angels would have no reason to come to this particular spot. How could they possible know about it? Heaven is on lockdown, anyway, right?

So it has to be Aziraphale. 

Each step seems to sap more energy out of him, but he presses forward anyway. Some deep, desperate part fo him urges him forward, that part of him which always—always—urges him to Aziraphale. To home. 

He just wants to go home. 

And bless it all, there he is! The angel. His angel. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley tries to shout, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper instead. Nevertheless, Aziraphale hears him as his head snaps up from where he was looking across the dark, wet ground, and Crowley surges forward. 

Legs threatening to give way, he all but lunges the rest of the way—pushing off the ground with his feet and diving through the air at Aziraphale.

He crashes into the angel and knocks them both to the ground, Aziraphale toppling backward. He hits the ground hard with Crowley crashing on top of him, just holding onto that familiar body for dear life. He dips his head, burying his face into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck, and breathes. 

The scent of his angel has always managed to calm some feral part of him. The aura around Aziraphale, his very presence, nudging against his own is grounding in a way nothing else has ever been, and he bites back the urge to whine or something equally as ridiculous. 

Aziraphale is here. He’s alright. He’s here. He’s alright.

One arm comes around him, holding him as well. “Oh, my dear. It’s alright. Everything is perfectly alright.”

This time a whine does escape. He presses his face into that soft skin, feeling the the-thump of Aziraphale’s pulse as it beats across the edge of his nose. “I turned around and you were gone,” he says pathetically. He must sound like some pathetic child right now, but he can’t help it—when he’d turned around and realised Aziraphale and Hastur weren’t there… “What happened?”

“There, there, my love. It’s alright.”

Love.

Crowley’s breath stutters in his throat. 

“Where’s Hastur?” He asks, keeping his face right where it is even if it does muffle his voice and slur some of his words together. 

“I, um…” A low, rumbling chuckle vibrates in Aziraphale’s chest. The sound of it tickles his nose, still pressed into delicate skin. “I think I might have—that is to say, I—Well, I stabbed him.”

“You… stabbed him?”

“I don’t know if he was simply discorporated or if I managed to actually destroy him, but yes, I stabbed him.”

A shaky laugh scrapes out of his mouth. He pulls back, moving to sit next to the angel and give him the space to breathe. Aziraphale slowly sits up with a wince, and Crowley notices for the first time the red blood coating his tartan clothing. 

“You’re hurt,” he says intelligently. 

“It’s fine, dear,” Aziraphale says. “I healed most of it.”

“What happened?”

A scent catches his attention then. Something he didn’t notice under all his panic the first time, even with his nose pressed into that skin as it had been. The distinct scent of sulphur, of hellfire burning. It could be because Aziraphale was fighting Hastur and obviously he’d be around hellfire—and yeah, that has to be it. 

Because Aziraphale isn’t—

Golden flakes stain the sleeve of Aziraphale’s shirt. There’s a nasty tear in the clothing there, like a blade had—

“Let me sssee,” he hisses, clawing at that hand. “Lemme sssee—” 

“Crowley, no,” Aziraphale says sharply, yanking his hand away. “I am fine, I promise you!”

Crowley Looks. 

And instantly feels a wave of cold hard panic, of searing dread, wash over him. 

Chapter Text

There are entire chunks of Aziraphale’s True Form missing, and what remains of that wheel are charred, evidence of a recent burning—and the only thing Crowley can think of which would cause such burning on an angel’s essence like this is hellfire, and this thought struggles to connect in his mind. 

Aziraphale and hellfire should never be in the same sentence. 

That essence should never look charred. It looks like burnt Swiss cheese with little pieces missing along that one wheel. 

But that doesn’t mean it was hellfire, he thinks desperately. No, not hellfire—hellfire won’t stop, it will keep eating at the angel until there’s nothing left, and Aziraphale is right here in front of him, warm and solid and real, not writhing in pain. So it can’t be hellfire. Aziraphale isn’t burning away to nothing. 

But he was. 

At some point tonight, he was burning away to nothing. Pieces of him are outright missing. Just poof, they’re gone and they’re not coming back, and this is just what’s left of Aziraphale’s form—of Aziraphale. 

A sob catches in the back of his throat—this low, keening whine he won’t let release from his mouth, because Aziraphale isn’t burning. He’s not dying in this moment; but he was earlier. Earlier he was burning away to nothing, and Crowley had absolutely zero idea about any of this. Was it because of what happened back at the bookshop? Did he fail so badly that he let that hellfire hit Aziraphale, and the angel left so he wouldn’t notice?

Is this because of me? 

He throws himself back at the angel—arms wrapping around tightly, so very tightly, as he holds on like Aziraphale will reignite if he lets go. Panic scrapes up his throat and peels out of his mouth with this strangled whine as he fights to keep it back, and Aziraphale could have died, he could have burnt away to nothing—

“What happened,” he wheezes through clenched teeth. The angel is crushed so tightly against him, and when Aziraphale hums low in his throat it vibrates through Crowley—an audible reassurance the angel is, in fact, still very much alive and not a writhing mess withering away bit by bit. “Jesus—fuck—what the bloody hell happened, Aziraphale?”

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly—either because Crowley is crushing him too much and he can’t breathe properly or because he simply doesn’t want to startled the demon, he’s not sure—and he brings his own arms up around the demon in return, clutching back at him. “I’m alright, love. I promise you—I’m alright.”

Warmth and a sense of calm flood through him, ebbing off Aziraphale in waves so potent they almost rock Crowley back physically, but he just holds on tight to the angel. Crushing and constricting like the absolute snake that he is, but he can’t let go. He can’t let go because Aziraphale might actually fade away if he does—he might wither away into nothing and that can’t ever happen. Not ever. 

The love rolls off Aziraphale as a near-physical force, sending shivers across Crowley’s body, goosebumps across his skin. A twisted whine escapes him despite everything, and he closes his eyes and lets that warmth and calm wash over him like a safety blanket. 

I can’t keep doing this, he thinks. I can’t keep almost… almost losing you. 

“Oh, my dear. Crowley. It’s alright.”

He shakes his head, burrowing closer to the angel, to that sense of safety and warmth and love that is just for him—that is so very, very precious to him. This angel is mine. You can’t have him. And perhaps he’s being too possessive, considering Aziraphale as some prized, precious object—but he can’t stop. He can’t stop curling tighter around the angel, can’t stop the fear burning deep in the pit of his stomach, can’t stop the burning of his eyes even though they are tightly shut…

Aziraphale just holds him, and Crowley sinks into him and everything he is and everything he’s offering, and for a moment it’s just the two of them who exist in this world. There aren’t humans, there aren’t angels or demons or Heaven or Hell—it’s just the two fo them, circling and circled, touching and touched, and that’s all that matters. They’re all that matters. 

A shudder slips the demon. Exhaustion flits through his mind, a heavy weight settling within him and over him as Aziraphale keeps pushing that sense of calm and safety at him. Aziraphale must be as tired as he is, if not more so since he was actually burning—but he gives all he has to Crowley. He’s always done everything he can to help Crowley, to keep an eye on him, to keep him out of trouble and safe, and Crowley can’t seem to return the favour. 

He can’t even keep Aziraphale’s bookshop from burning down. 

His eyes snap open wide. “Oh, your bookshop,” he says roughly. “Aziraphale, it caught fire. I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop the hellfire in time—”

And you burned. You burned, Aziraphale. 

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly. What ebb of warmth and love doesn’t stop filtering for even a fraction of a second as the angel takes his words in stride. “As long as you’re safe, that’s alright.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. 

And holds on a little longer. Wonders if he could get away with holding on forever—if Aziraphale would have the patience to tolerate him, if he’d let him just circle and crush him forever…

“How…” He clears his throat and tries again, a little stronger this time, letting that sense of calm safety settle over him like a second skin. “Was it… Was it hell—”

No, he can’t say it. Saying it makes it real. 

And it can’t be real, he thinks. Because hellfire doesn’t stop, and if it’s real then Aziraphale will burn away forever—

And that panic is rearing it’s head again. 

“Shh, my dear—I promise it’s alright. We’re both alright.”

He’s pathetic, he thinks. Weak and pathetic. Can’t seem to stop breaking down like this, constantly on the edge of losing Aziraphale, and instead of fighting to protect the angel, here he is—crushing him, seeking comfort, repeatedly falling apart again and again. Every time he thinks he’s started to build himself back up someone takes a hammer to his form again and shatters him, and it gets harder and harder to pick up the pieces and fit them back into place. Entire shards are missing now, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be the same. 

Doesn’t know how to get past this point. Doesn’t know how to get over this overwhelming sense of this is my angel, you can’t bloody have him and for the love of everything, please don’t take him…

He’s a demon and certainly never says please or anything weak like that, but deep in the confines of his mind, he allows the word to exist. To slip across his thoughts as a plea, a prayer, as he holds the angel tight to him. 

Punish me however you see fit, just please—leave him be. Not him. 

And those thoughts don’t make him feel even the slightest bit better. Admitting this fear to himself, inwardly expressing a plea, none of this makes it any better because they aren’t out of the woods yet, and he could still lose Aziraphale, after everything. No matter what he tries, it’s like Aziraphale is slipping away despite his efforts—sand in a sieve, slipping through his fingers no matter how much he struggles to hold on. 

You’re being absolutely pathetic, he tells himself. What kind of demon sits around whining like this? 

A poor example of one, clearly.

“Was it hellfire?” He finally manages to push out of a reluctant mouth. Snakes can unhinge their jaws to devour food in its entirety, but in this moment his doesn’t want to open enough to even speak properly. “The… burning? What happened?”

As much as he doesn’t want to hear the answer, to hear his fears confirmed, he needs to know what happened. He takes in a slow, steady breath and forces himself to pull back from the angel, despite the fact this is the very last thing any part of him wants to do in that moment. Aziraphale lets him go, arms dropping away from him, and Crowley carefully avoids his gaze as he sits back on his haunches.

“Hastur got a little cut in,” Aziraphale says. “I mean really, it wasn’t anything—just a nick, to make me drop my sword.”

“But… hellfire?”

“Yes, well, his blade was burning, you see. When he cut my wrist.” The words come together faster now, nerves overtaking the angel. “And I guess there was some burning then, but I managed to—ah, that is to say, I defeated him and put the fire out.”

Put the fire out. 

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, fear churning in his stomach once more. At this rate he’s honestly surprised he hasn’t upchucked all the contents of his stomach—which would be very little at this point, considering he hasn’t eaten and even consumed alcohol. It’s been a very long night. “You put the fire out,” he repeats flatly. “You just… put it out, did you? Jussst like that?”

“Well, it took more effort than that,” Aziraphale says weakly, and now the angel is looking at he ground, avoiding his gaze. “I popped over to the church we left earlier and dipped my wrist in the font of holy water.”

Crowley growls under his breath—a low, vibrating hum in his throat. “That won’t put out hellfire, angel,” he says sharply. 

“No, I didn’t think it would,” Aziraphale admits, “but it was all I had to work with at the time. The alternative was to, ahm—well, I didn’t much prefer dying tonight.”

The fear struggles to turn back to panic, but that lingering sense of calm is still hovering over his skin. Aziraphale is very obviously not burning anymore, so the holy water must have worked, even if that seems utterly impossible. He’s never heard of holy water stopping hellfire like that before; he’s certain if it worked like that then the angels would be taking some with them everywhere they went on Earth to avoid such trouble with demons, and demons wouldn’t be nearly so cocky or eager to fight angels.

“Aziraphale, just tell me what happened.” He desperately needs to know what took place tonight—how the angel stopped the burning and is alive next to him. 

Aziraphale’s hands wring together in his lap. A large, heaving sigh escapes him and his shoulders droop with exhaustion. “I just… sort of pictured the holy water as actual water putting out the flames of hellfire, and it just… worked.”

“It just worked,” Crowley repeats. “You just believed really hard that it would work and it did, is that what you’re telling me right now?”

“That is what happened, yes,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I’m as confused by it as you, of course, but it was the only option I had and I needed it to work, and it just—sort of did. Work, that is.”

“Hellfire doesn’t just stop,” Crowley mutters, then looks skyward. Looking ups the stars he helped create is better than seeing Aziraphale look so out of sorts right now, better than seeing his True Form with those holes in them. “You’re missing chunks, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I am quite aware.”

He says it so calmly—oh, it’s no big deal, my dear. Yes, I was dying earlier, you see, but now I am quite well. Sorry to trouble you. 

He’d known, when he saw the charred wheel and the missing pieces—he knew it had to be hellfire as he couldn’t think of anything else which could do such a thing to an angel’s essence like that. He knew. So why is it still hitting him so hard? He’d prepared himself for the strike, had steeled himself when he managed to finally ask the question—but there’s little he can do to prepare himself for the onslaught of I almost lost you tonight which crashes into him, rocking him back slightly. 

Aziraphale is alright.

He’s right there in front of him—no longer burning. He’s just fine.

And that lingering sense of calm is still floating over him, and he’s not going to think about it right now. He just doesn’t have the mental capacity to go down that hole again.

“And it… it’s out, then?” He asks, looking back at the angel. “The hellfire. It’s out?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “And I should heal.”

Should heal.

They both know he might not ever heal—those missing pieces are gone, and that wheel is charred, and it might stay that way forever. This might be Aziraphale’s new normal when it comes to his form. Maybe, if they’re lucky, the charred parts will heal over if given enough time, but those missing chunks will most likely never return. They’ve already blinked off into nothing, destroyed by the hellfire. 

Don’t panic, Crowley tells himself. Whatever you do, just don’t panic again. 

Because Aziraphale is fine. He’s alive, and yeah, chunks of him are absent when they definitely shouldn’t be, but he’s still alive and in the end, that’s all that matters. 

“My dear, you look absolutely exhausted.”

“I am,” he admits. He’s more than exhausted—he’s dead on his feet. Walking out here was an issue, really, staggering about like that. Every single part of him whispers of his exhaustion.

Aziraphale pushes to his feet. “Come now, let’s get back to the cottage.”

He holds a hand out for Crowley and drags the demon to his feet. The world spins and Crowley shuts his eyes on a wave of dizziness at the change in altitude. 

The walk back to the cottage is a blur, but suddenly he’s pushing through the doorway with broken bits of wood crunching under his feet, and he looks around absently. 

Earlier today, this place felt cozy and warm and safe. It was just him and Aziraphale, together on the couch, and all was well. Funny how quickly things can change.

It’s really not funny at all.

Aziraphale takes his hand and pulls him out of the living room, down the hallway toward the bedroom on the first floor. Crowley follows in a daze—aware of the bed approaching but not quite connecting the dots just yet. 

Warm hands push at his shoulders to get him to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits.

“Sleep, my dear,” Aziraphale says quietly. “You’ll feel better, I promise you. And I’ll be right here with you.”

Sleep.

A shudder slips through him. “Can’t sleep.”

“Of course you can, Crowley. There’s nothing stopping you, and I will keep watch.”

He makes it sound so simple…

He blinks the sleep from his eyes. When did they close? “No. Can’t.”

What if something happens the moment he closes his eyes? He was sleeping soundly on the couch earlier when all Hell broke loose, after all. He needs to be prepared for anything. 

“Crowley, I’m sorry, my dear—but you really need to sleep…”

The blessing settles over him, Aziraphale working his sneaky magic once again, but Crowley doesn’t fight it this time—just lets himself slip into it willingly, because sleeping will be infinitely better, he thinks, than having to think about Aziraphale burning.

That being said, he knows what he’ll dream about.

He struggles to open his eyes.

“Shh, my dear. Dream of whatever you like best.”

Aziraphale knows. He always seems to know how to help him. 

The second blessing, small thing that it is, settles over him as well, and Crowley gives into the allure of sleep.

Crowley took to the blessing immediately, the poor thing—he must be dreadfully tired, and that’s Aziraphale’s fault, really. Crowley shouldn’t have been anywhere near that fight, as Hastur was coming for Aziraphale, but he is grateful for the demon’s help. He certainly doesn’t think he could have taken on the two at once—Hastur was more than enough of a challenge for him, and he barely escaped with his life. 

He watches the demon sleep for a moment—just drinking in the sight of him safe and sound, softly snoring with that crease disappeared from his brow finally. Crowley should have a pleasant slumber, he hopes, and turns to leave the room.

He doesn’t go far—just outside the door, really. He closes it softly behind him, not wishing to wake Crowley who clearly needs the rest, and then he turns so his back presses into the door, and he lets himself slide down to the floor. 

Oh, dear. That really happened. Today really happened. 

If someone told him a month ago that he would survive hellfire, he would have thought them utterly insane. What happened in Heaven during his trial was a trick, after all, and he is decidedly not immune to hellfire, not in the slightest. A single blaze of it could destroy him completely.

But tonight…

Tonight he was touched by that infernal flame, and he didn’t die. 

He got it to stop burning. 

Somehow, it worked out. He still reeling from it all, his body trembling as he sits there on the floor and quietly starts to panic. His breaths leave him in a rush, expelled from reluctant lungs as invisible steel bands seem to tighten around them, constricting them much the same way Crowley had been constricting him earlier. 

He got the hellfire to stop burning. 

That actually happened. 

To his knowledge, no angel has ever been able to stop burning once they were been ignited like that. It’s what made hellfire so potent, so feared among the angels. But tonight, he managed to do the impossible. 

He’s not certain if it’s because of his quick thinking or if it’s because of whatever role he is to play in the journey ahead. 

A part of him is certain he should have died tonight.

It’s there in the Book of Aziraphale.

That last line. 

The angel will burn, and all will be well. 

He’s supposed to burn. He thought it meant hellfire, but perhaps that isn’t what it means at all. He can’t think of any other way he could possibly burn, but the Almighty plays an ineffable game of Her own making and maybe it’s not for him to truly understand. 

Either that, or he outright rebelled against the divine plan again. 

Honestly, that wouldn’t surprise him if that’s the case. It’s not like he hasn’t already been a disobedient angel. What’s another rebellion if it keeps him here with Crowley?

Maybe it was Her will for him to burn, but he stopped the burning in that church. And surely She meant for that to happen, as She would have stopped it from working if it wasn’t part of Her plan, right?

Maybe this can all be over. Maybe it is over. 

That was the last line in his book, so maybe he narrowly avoided death and everything can now go back to normal. He’ll take the random Urges over a day like today, thank you very kindly. He’ll happily help people all day long if it will keep today from repeating. 

If it will keep him here with Crowley. 

A shiver inches down his spine. Neither of them are built to be alone, he thinks—not when their essences have gotten so used to being near one another. He can’t lose Crowley just as much as he can’t leave the demon.

No. He will have to find some way to make everything better. To fix things, to make them okay again. And he will hope this was the last of his book in the bible, and though he did burn briefly, he did survive and all was well.

He won’t accept the alternative.

The demon wakes two days later.

Aziraphale is sitting in the living room on the couch, reading a book as the sun sets outside. The room is intact once again, fixed with a couple miracles; he couldn’t fix the door since it was destroyed by hellfire, but he was able to miracle up another door of the same making and fit it into place. The cottage is once again nice and cozy, when the demon steps out of the bedroom and joins him.

Crowley says nothing as he steps toward the couch. Aziraphale looks up and smiles at the demon, who sits heavily next to him, and then immediately tilts sideways to sprawl out on the couch with his head once again in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale’s hand comes up automatically, fingers combing through tussled, tangled strands of auburn hair.

Crowley’s eyes fall shut and a small sigh escapes him—small, but contented. Relaxed.

“Sleep well, my dear?”

“Mmfh,” Crowley says, and then blinks his eyes open. “Sneaky angel, with those sleep blessings.”

“You very much needed it.”

Crowley chuckles. It is so wonderfully good to hear that sound. “Yeah, s’pose I did. But I’m not thanking you.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, smiling down at the demon in his lap.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days,” he says. 

Crowley frowns. 

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear—I kept watch and everything was perfectly fine,” Aziraphale assures him. “I even fixed up the cottage, see?”

“Yeah, saw that. Nice job. And nothing has… happened?”

“No Urges,” Aziraphale tells him. “No demons. Nothing has happened, my dear. For now, we are safe.”

Safe. 

It’s a four-letter word which has never quite been allowed in their vocabulary. With Heaven and Hell looming over their backs, they were never truly safe in the past, constantly looking over their shoulders, waiting for the moment either side realised they’d been fraternising and would come for them.

Now, it can be added into their vocabulary. Safe. Safety. The safety might not last, but they do have this—little stolen moments where they are safe and together, and Aziraphale cherishes these moments. 

Hastur might have simply been discorporated and not destroyed, and he certainly knows of this cottage and will come looking for them soon, but Aziraphale also knows how frustrating it can be to be issued a new body. So they, at the very least, have a little time to catch their breath. 

Aziraphale has never killed anything before, but in that moment, he actually hopes Hastur is dead-dead, forever. Glancing down at the demon in his lap, he doesn’t even feel guilty for such a thought, such a hope. 

Chapter Text

The bookshop isn’t quite in ruins like he thought it’d be, Aziraphale can’t help but notice as he looks at the damaged flooring and ashes coating his shelves. Some of the books have survived the onslaught, of course; the shelves along the back walls are intact, but the shelves nearest the couch and chair where they usually sit—well, what remains of the shelving is charred and broken, but still standing, while the books which rested upon them are nowhere to be seen, though there is a fine layer of ash on the ground and atop the shelving. The couch and chair have been burned as well, which churns somewhat painfully in his stomach. That’s where he and Crowley have spent so much of their time, after all; talking about anything and everything, joking, laughing, and drinking their time away.

A window is also busted and there are a few water stains in the flooring. Some of the books survived the fire only to be hit with water and destroyed in a completely different way. This is his home, he thinks—this has been his life for a long time now, for centuries, and he has cherished all of his first editions and all of his precious books, perhaps more than he should. An angel shouldn’t feel such attachment to earthly things like this—he shouldn’t horde books and he shouldn’t covet books and he definitely shouldn’t cherish books. He also shouldn’t sully the temple of his holy body with gross matter, and he definitely shouldn’t be consorting with a demon of all things…

He’s not sure what he thought he’d feel when looking at his damaged bookshop, but this mess of emotions coiling and whirling through him like a vortex of doubt—well, he didn’t expect that. 

He’s spent a veritable lifetime collecting everything inside this shop. Scrolls, books of prophecy signed especially for him—first editions kept in mint condition through so many years. Most of the older texts he keeps secluded away from prying hands inside the bookshop, in his study, which have remained untouched by the fire thankfully. The rest… Well, they’re gone. There’s really no changing that, angel or not. 

At least Crowley is alright, he thinks. They both managed to survive the fray, against all odds, and his bookshop is still standing. When Crowley told him about the fire Aziraphale pushed down any emotions regarding it, focusing instead only on the demon clutching at him, as Crowley will always be more important than material possessions. Still, he feared his shop would be burned down as it had been in the past—life correcting itself, perhaps. 

It’s still standing. He can fix this ship; it’s by no means destroyed. It will take work to fix it, and time, but it can be done. 

Somehow, he doesn’t feel the urge to do so. 

Looking among the shambles of what was once his life—perhaps it’s better left in the past. This bookshop is a remnant of a time where he lived a rather secluded life—not part of Heaven, exactly, but not fully committed to Crowley and Their Side, either. 

Things change.

Maybe it’s best if he leaves the past in the past. If he leaves the bookshop as fate seems to want it—burnt and broken. 

He doesn’t have to fix it up right now anyway, he reasons. He is here to see the damage for himself and pack a few things to take to the cottage. He still has another stop to make at Crowley’s flat before returning to the sleeping demon. Oh, he does hope Crowley is still sleeping. He placed another blessing on him before leaving, to keep the demon sleeping soundly. Crowley is still ever so tired, after all, and he more than deserves a couple more days of relaxing and regaining his strength, as well as his bearings. 

The past few days have been nice, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley has mostly slept the time away, and Aziraphale has mostly hovered nearby, keeping watch on the demon—but images of his bookshop burning kept assaulting his mind, impossible to ignore in the long run. Even if it burned to a crisp, destroyed completely by hellfire as he himself almost was—well, seeing is believing, and it just didn’t feel real until he saw it for himself. 

The bookshop still stands, of course. 

Right, he tells himself, exhaling slowly, you don’t have time to dilly-dally. Can’t let Crowley wake up alone or he’ll be worried. 

He’s certainly caused the demon more than enough worry for a lifetime, he thinks. 

He putters around the bookshop, ash twisting beneath his feet, and gathers a few books and other items he might want at the cottage—like his kettle, and his usual mug with the angel wings as the handle. Small, familiar things he doesn’t really need, but they have become totems of comfort to him in the centuries spent in this bookshop, building a life for himself. They are little pieces of himself, and he takes them with him. 

He pops by Crowley’s flat next. 

Grabs a few plants he thinks Crowley might enjoy—Crowley seems to enjoy taking care of them, and they are so very verdant and luxurious, healthy. Putting a couple of these inside the cottage might help ease the demon’s mind and let him relax—make it feel more like… well, like home. 

Home.

A troublesome word, really. Aziraphale doesn’t really have a home anymore, does he? The bookshop certainly doesn’t feel like it anymore, and Heaven never really has. 

Focus, he tells himself. What would Crowley like? 

The flat is rather empty. Crowley lives sparsely, and the only things he seems to devote any time to are his plants. Even so, there are a couple of books strewn about the place—even though Crowley claims he doesn’t read—and they cover a variety of topics; works of nonfiction, a book about the stars and galaxies, a book about planting, etc. Aziraphale gathers them all up, and collects some of Crowley’s more expensive alcohol as well.

Then with a snap of his fingers, he appears back at the cottage. 

Crowley is still sleeping quite soundly, and Aziraphale sighs in relief as he goes about putting the books from the flat on the coffee table in the living room. Crowley should see them when he wakes up; he’s taken to sleeping out on the couch even though there’s a perfectly good bed down the hall as well as upstairs. 

He puts a potted plant in the living room, near the front door, and two in the kitchen, and one in the bedroom on the bottom floor—in case Crowley ever wants to return to it and get some proper rest. That couch can’t be good for his neck. 

Then he sets about to make himself some tea, and sits at the kitchen table with a book in hand to read the time away.

Crowley wakes sometime later, when the sun is setting and the moon is rising. It’s a rather clear night, and Aziraphale can see the moon from where he sits in the kitchen; the window above the sink has the perfect view of it rising across the water of the lake outside. There’s the sound of footsteps approaching, and then Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen, and Aziraphale gives him a warm smile. 

“Sleep well, my dear?” 

Crowley grunts in response and trudges over to sit at the table next to him. The chair scrapes as it drags across the floor and he drops into it, then his gaze catches on the potted plant on the counter next to the sink. “What’s that doing here?”

“Oh, well, I popped over to yours to grab a few things,” Aziraphale says, taking a sip of his tea as he shoves a bookmark into place and puts the book down on the table. “I thought a few of your plants would… brighten the place up a bit.”

Crowley stares at the plant for a long moment. “You didn’t praise them, did you?”

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “I just brought them over, but they should be praised, shouldn’t they? They really are quite beautiful, my dear. You’ve done an excellent job with them.”

“Don’t tell ‘em that,” Crowley huffs, looking back at him. “It’ll go to their heads.”

“They’re plants, Crowley; they don’t have heads.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Mm,” he says, taking another sip of tea. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Me?” Crowley frowns. “I’m fine, angel. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Well, you still look like a block of Swiss cheese,” Crowley mutters distastefully, nose scrunching somewhat. “Still charred, too.”

“Crowley, I assure you, I am fine. Regardless of what it looks like.”

Crowley is still frowning, which really won’t do. 

“Can I tempt you to a spot of dinner?” Aziraphale asks, pushing to his feet. 

“Dinner?” Crowley echoes.

“Is there anything in particular you’re hungry for? I also brought over some of that fancy alcohol from your flat, if you’d rather have some of that.”

Anything to get him to relax, Aziraphale thinks. 

He looks much better now that he’s had some decent sleep, of course, but both of them need some time to sit back and breathe normally. To forget about the past few days—the past few weeks. 

Crowley just stares at him, mouth slightly agape, before he snaps it shut and smiles slowly. “You’re going to cook for me, are you?”

“Well, I have cooked in the past,” Aziraphale says, shrugging slightly. “So if there is something in particular you want, I could whip it up for you. It’s certainly no trouble.”

Crowley nods and sits back in his chair, a small smile on his face—and it’s the best thing Aziraphale has seen in a while now, he thinks. That smile—easy-going and relaxed. “Surprise me, angel.”

Challenge accepted. 

Azirpahale spends the next hour puttering around the kitchen, moving from a pot on the stove to a dish on the counter where he tosses a salad together, and then in the oven some dessert bakes. He has cooked in the past, of course; he has several cookbooks in his bookshop, after all, and he gets peckish now and then. Sometimes he wants to cook things at home like normal humans do—sometimes he just wants to pop into a restaurant and eat with Crowley, of course. The demon doesn’t exactly have a favourite dish, as he rarely eats when they go out, but he seems to enjoy anything seared or grilled, so Aziraphale grills some vegetables along with a side of chicken for the salad. 

Crowley spends the time watching him cook. Just sitting back in his chair, yellow eyes tracking him, and as the minutes pass his shoulders seem to relax more and more, and there’s definitely a smile on his face, a lightness to those eyes which has been worryingly absent lately. 

Once the food is finished, he piles everything onto a couple of plates and puts them on the table in front of the demon. As he walks past, he can’t help but let his fingers trail across the back of Crowley’s neck—just a light, feathery touch, the barest press of fingers into skin, and Crowley leans into the contact for just a moment, before Aziraphale’s hand drops and he sits next to him at the table.

Crowley stabs a piece of diced chicken with his fork and pops it into his mouth. A pleased hum escapes him and he glances at Aziraphale, the corner of his mouth turning upward briefly. “Not bad, angel,” he says. “Puts my try to shame.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says. “Your food was delicious and appreciated.”

The two eat together quietly—a comfortable, peaceful silence wrapping around them. As they eat and the silence around them remains so relaxed and pleasant, Aziraphale feels decidedly more himself. And it’s not just because he’s happily forking some dessert into his mouth; it has little to do with the food, really, and more to do with the contented demon next to him.

He’s missed this calm, almost lazy posture Crowley is now sporting as he lounges in his chair, one arm thrown over the back of it as he twists to look at Aziraphale. 

“Fancy a game of cards?” 

Aziraphale smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

Crowley snaps his fingers a deck of cards appears in his hand. “What’ll it be? Rummy? Euchre? War?”

Those all sound more complex than Aziraphale is willing to tolerate at this particular moment. He wants something mindless, something easy he can lose himself in. “How about Go Fish?”

Crowley stares at him for a moment. “Go Fish? Are you serious?”

Aziraphale quickly back-pedals. “Oh, yes, of course we don’t—”

The demon is already dealing. “Just messin’ with ya, angel. Go Fish it is.”

Warmth nestles somewhere in Aziraphale’s chest, close to his heart, he thinks. The demon really is rather kind, even if Crowley absolutely will not tolerate hearing any such words. 

Aziraphale picks up his cards, holding onto that feeling of warmth, of safety, of—home.

Oh, he thinks as clarity seeps through him.

Home isn’t a place at all. It never was. 

“Right, stop smiling at me like that,” Crowley says, looking pointedly down at his cards, but his lips quirk in the corner, betraying the hints of a smile. “Got any threes?”

“Go Fish,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Surrender your sixes.”

Crowley scowls but tosses down two sixes. “How in Heaven did you know I had sixes?”

“You have a tell, dear.”

“Bloody hell, I do! Even if I did, how does that tell you which number I have?”

“You only do that tell when you have sixes in your hand, Crowley.”

Crowley stares at him. A chuckle slips out of Aziraphale’s mouth. “What’s the tell?”

“That would be telling, now wouldn’t it, my dear?” Aziraphale hums back. “Got any nines?”

Crowley tosses one over, scowling back at him. “I feel like this is an unbalanced game. How the bloody hell do I have tells but you don’t?”

Aziraphale just smiles back at him. “An angel never reveals his secrets.”

“Bloody unfair.”

“Now, now, Crowley.”

Crowley snorts, rearranging the cards in his hand. “Do you know how much flak I’d get from Hell if they knew an angel had a better poker face than me?”

“I imagine quite a lot.”

“It’s embarrassing, is what it is. How’d I not know this about you?” A pause. “No, wait. How did this even happen? Don’t tell me you’ve always had a poker face.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says. “I spent some time in a casino playing some high stakes poker back in the early 1900s. I was low on funds and didn’t want to miracle up some cash, so I thought I’d take a gamble at a casino and, well, I got rather good at it. Earned enough money to buy half an estate sale I went to.”

He managed to get quite the collection with that money, as well. And somehow it felt better to earn his money this way and buy things with his own funds rather than to miracle up money as needed with Gabriel keeping track on how many frivolous miracles he used. He’s always been rather fond of doing things the human way, and he found this to be no different. 

Crowley laughs—loud and sudden, a sharp bite of sound which rings pleasantly in the air between them. “Oh, angel—you never cease to surprise me. We’ll have to go to a casino sometime; I bet we could wipe them out.”

“Yes, we’ll have to do that,” Aziraphale says, mind whirling with the image of himself and Crowley in a casino, huddled together at a slot machine or sitting at a card table. He an already picture Crowley messing with the dealers in some way, as it wouldn’t be any fun otherwise. “And it’s not as though you have a terrible poker face, my dear. You really do have a good one—I just know how to read you.”

I’ve spent a lot of time watching you, is what he keeps back. He’s watched Crowley for 6000 years now; studied every little movement, every word and inflection in his voice, wondering what it could all mean. And in the days before he got his bookshop, when he was between blessings and left alone with his thoughts, he spent a lot of time pondering what every little thing meant, dissecting every phrase and use of particular words versus the use of others… and eventually, when they spent more time together, he happened to notice how Crowley would slightly—unconsciously—run his index finger over the top edge of a card if it happened to be a six. Maybe something demonic drawn to the number of the beast, or something, but he did it three times in Aziraphale’s presence, and Aziraphale catalogued the use of it away for further study.

It’s not exactly a tell, perhaps, it’s just that Crowley—unconsciously—seems to gravitate toward the number of the beast. Perhaps all demons do. Angels aren’t associated with numbers, not really, though some call the number seven lucky, which could coincide with something angelic… but it could just as likely be associated with a demon. Luck of the devil, and all. 

“Do you have any ones?”

“And you just… don’t have any tells? At all?” Crowley asks. “Go Fish, angel.”

Aziraphale draws a card and slots it into his deck. “It comes with the job.”

“Job,” Crowley repeats, confusion marring his brow. “What job? Oh, um, got any tens?”

Aziraphale hands over a ten. “Angels aren’t supposed to feel emotion.”

Crowley freezes where he’s accepting the card from Aziraphale’s hand. It takes a half-second before he jerks back into motion, adding the card to what’s in his hand. “You all sure have a funny way of showing it.”

“Well, perhaps I'm not the best example.”

Yellow eyes roll. “Not you. I meant Gabriel, and Sandalphon.”

“Oh.”

“They were smug bastards during your trial,” Crowley says. “Gabriel especially. That’s emotion.”

“They just aren’t used to having physical human bodies,” Aziraphale says quietly. “So maybe they just came off that way—as emotional. They aren’t used to hiding it in that form. I’ve had quite a while to get used to it.” He swipes his thumb briefly across the top edge the card closest to that appendage, feeling somewhat thoughtful. “In any case, when under pressure, we are to remain calm. We don’t—we don’t give way our hand, so to speak. Granted, I’m a poor excuse of—”

“Stop that,” Crowley cuts in rather sharply, eyes narrowing into a quick glare. “You’re the best of them.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear—but I assure you I am not.”

“You are,” Crowley says firmly. “God wouldn’t have you cover for Her if you weren’t.”

“That’s not—Oh.” Well, Crowley does sort of have a point there, doesn’t he? If Aziraphale really is covering for Her. If She really does have that much faith in him.

It’s at least something to think about. Maybe he’s not such a lousy angel after all.

Feeling lighter, Aziraphale sits up a little straighter. “Do you have any jacks?”

Crowley blesses under his breath and flicks a card from his hands. Aziraphale catches it and stuffs it into his own palm. “If angels aren’t supposed to be emotional, grace under pressure and all that—then I don’t see how they’re any better than Hell.”

“It’s simply different,” Aziraphale says. “Your lot are allowed to be emotional—it’s even expected.”

“Expected?” Crowley hisses back, frowning. “Demons aren’t supposed to care about—”

“Your demonic cores come from passion.”

“Passion? Demons aren’t passionate, angel.”

“You can’t be filled with bitterness and rage if you don’t feel things, Crowley.”

Crowley scowls back at him, yellow eyes sharpening. “We’re not bleeding romantics, Aziraphale.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “What does romance have to do with passion?”

“Don’t play dumb, angel, it does’t suit you.”

Aziraphale smiles, exasperated. “Passion means ‘a strong and barely controllable emotion’, my dear. Or, failing that, it can be used as a term for suffering or pain. Hence the expression with a passion. Now, strong and barely controllable? Does that sound anything like demonic fury to you?”

Crowley’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Ngk,” he manages. 

“Angels, on the other hand—our cores are tranquility,” Aziraphale says, absently thumbing the corner of an edge card. “A sense of calm, or maybe indifference. Does that sound like passion, to you?”

Crowley remains silent. Just staring at him—yellow eyes burning and wide.

“Well, or something like that,” Aziraphale finishes lamely. “It’s not an exact science. My point is, my lot aren’t supposed to feel things, so comparing Heaven and Hell based off these cores isn’t… well, it just doesn’t work. We are different, down to our cores. Got any queens?”

For a moment, Crowley doesn’t move or even open his mouth—just watches Aziraphale, unblinking. Aziraphale shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Then Crowley expels a quick breath of air and waves his hand. “No queens, angel. This whole bit with the cores—this is common knowledge to angels?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“Think very carefully, angel. Has Gabriel or Michael or literally any other angel ever mentioned anything like this?”

Aziraphale thinks back. Combs through his array of memories, picturing them like files in a cabinet, thumbing through them searching for a key-phrase. “No,” he settles on finally. “Perhaps not.”

Now Crowley is grinning. “Clever angel.”

“It’s not really clever, Crowley, I just—”

“Clever bastard,” Crowley says, still grinning, eyes burning with something like mirth—warm and light. “You’re bloody brilliant, angel. How long did it take you to figure this out? Fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t even realise it myself. It all makes so much sense, you know?”

“It’s really nothing,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks burn as he looks anywhere but at the demon across from him. He’s really not as clever as Crowley thinks; he’s just had a lot of time to ponder the meaning of angels and demons—spurred on by that conversation they had atop the wall surrounding Eden, where a demon mentioned something about knowing the difference between good and bad. “I’ve simply had a long time to think about it—6000 years, thinking on it.”

“Just accept the compliment,” Crowley says. “I mean—Someone, that explains why I’m such a mess.”

Aziraphale looks back sharply. “You’re not a mess!”

“I thought there was something bloody wrong with me, being so…” His face twists distastefully, nose wrinkling slightly like he’s smelled something bitter. “Emotional. Wait, if demons are passion, why don’t the others care about anything?”

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment. Surely he’s not that dense. 

“They do care about things, my dear.”

Crowley snorts. “Yeah, pull the other leg why don’t you.”

“Crowley. If they didn’t care about anything, how on Earth are they so angry and full of rage? Enough to summon hellfire?”

The demon’s mouth shuts with a snap again. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Your lot don’t like to show it, of course—I mean, you’ve certainly denied feeling things plenty of times—but it’s how you tempt someone, by playing into their emotions and pulling on them. It’s how your lot deal out miracles. Did you think you just snap and it just happens?”

Crowley bares his teeth briefly, but remains silent.

“My miracles come from that tranquility; I feel calm and tap into that power. Your lot, meanwhile, well, they—What do you think about to summon your magic?”

For Aziraphale, it’s that sense of calm—he calms his soul, and pulls out a tendril of that sensation when he snaps or does some other gesture to perform a miracle or a blessing. It took some time to realise this about himself, of course, so perhaps Crowley isn’t quite there yet, or maybe he just simply never thought about it—the action of doing it is so ingrained, so instinctive, it doesn’t bear mentioning or even thinking about as a passing though most of the time.

But Aziraphale got fairly bored in the past, before he had a mound of books to sink his teeth into, and dissecting exactly how he performed miracles—how it felt in the air when Crowley did miracles—well, it was a challenge to him, something to turn about and unwind, and he found it satisfying when he finally came to a conclusion.

Crowley chokes out a quick breath, then coughs as he clears his throat. “Right, yeah, don’t mind me—just a lot to deal with, is all. Fuck, angel.” He shakes his head, lips twitching upward again. “You’re a bloody genius, you know that? Oh, if I could see the look on Beezlebub’s face if I ever told them this…”

“So, wait,” Aziraphale says, frowning, “you really had no idea? None of you demons knew how you drew your own power?”

Did the angels in Heaven not know, either? 

It all seemed so blatantly obvious to Aziraphale. Of course, he had to get around to thinking about it first, which required at least a little imagination… something demons and angels aren’t necessarily known for, except Crowley—and, maybe, himself as well. 

“Right,” Crowley says again, grinning, “got any sevens?”

Aziraphale curses and drops two from his hand, sliding them across the table to the demon.

Chapter Text

Adam looks up at a clap of thunder from where he sits in his bedroom, peering out his window. Dog lays at his side, snoring softly, and there are magazines scattered across the bed around the dog. 

There’s something different in the air, Adam thinks. It’s not something he can quite put his finger on, but something feels distinctly different. He denounced Satan as his biological father so that should have been the end of his abilities and reality warping powers, but sometimes, if he feels things strongly enough… well, he can still make some things happen. The powers, and memories, are still there.

And it is because of these memories that he knows that edge of wrong reeks of Heaven. 

Hard to explain why, but something has changed. He can feel it deep inside himself—a whisper against his thoughts, some demonic part of him itching to get out there and cause some trouble because no one is keeping score. 

He doesn’t do this, of course. He might have been a troublemaker in the past, when the world always seemed to listen to him, but he’s tried to curb that part of him since that Sunday the world didn’t end. An angel and a demon helped him, along with Anathema and her boyfriend, Newt. 

Adam still sees Anathema quite frequently, of course; she lives down the road at Jasmine Cottage, so he passes by there when he takes Dog for a walk sometimes, and he needs someone to talk about this whole apocalypse mess with, doesn’t he? He’s a kid and he doesn’t quite understand exactly what happened, even if the memories are there and his powers are muted, and Anathema seemed willing to speak with him about such things.

He would prefer, he thinks, to speak with the angel and the demon, though. They would certainly know more about the events of that day and would understand his frustration with his abilities and the fact they are still present. Perhaps they could even explain to him what all this means—the fact he still has powers despite declaring himself the biological kid of two perfectly normal humans. 

Soho is a bit far from Tadfield, though; his parents won’t take him there on a whim and it’s too far to bike it, and the angel and the demon never did give him their phone numbers or anything like that. He doesn’t exactly know how to reach them other than to steal some money from his mom’s purse and hop a bus to Soho. 

As the days go on and that sense of wrong continues, though, this idea is becoming more and more likely. 

Then comes the dream. 

It starts with fire, blazing and bright, and somewhere a disembodied voice is screaming. When he wakes covered in a cold sweat, most of the dream is lost to him, but that scream remains, always. Something is wrong, and he needs answers.

He needs to speak with an angel and a demon.

There is something very strange in the air tonight, Anathema can’t help but ponder as she sits at the kitchen table in her cottage, watching Newton fix dinner for her. He isn’t the best cook, she thinks, but it’s very sweet how he wants to dote on her, and she certainly isn’t going to say no to such a thing. 

She looks back down at the tablet in her hands, scrolling downward. She’s made plenty of notes the past couple of weeks, detailing every odd little thing she’s sensed or felt or experienced, such as strange auras or vibrations around her, or just this foreboding sense of wrongness which seems to suffocate her sometimes. 

She isn’t sure entirely what’s wrong, doesn’t even have the faintest inkling which direction to look, but something is definitely amiss. She’s not certain if it’s just in this area of Tadfield or if it’s all over, but her senses are all screaming at her that there is certainly something very wrong in the air tonight. 

What that something is, of course, she simply doesn’t know. 

It’s not something she can look at and say, Yes, that’s the issue right there! Or anything like that. It’s not something physical she can see, just a change in some auras around people in this area, a different background hum to the energy of this place, and she is tired of feeling on edge all the time because of it.

She needs answers.

There is an angel and a demon in Soho, she thinks, so perhaps she will head there and see if they can tell her anything. 

It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, that there’s an angel and a demon literally walking among humans, and they apparently have been for quite some time—since the literal Beginning. This simple fact threatens to overwhelm her sometimes; here she thought the world was 4.5 billion years old, according to science, but apparently God is actually quite real, if a bit prone to violence. 

The day the world didn’t end feels like a dream most days; fuzzy, unreal, but it sticks with her anyway. Of course it sticks with her; they were all this close to having the world end. Nuclear Armageddon. If Newt hadn’t been with her that day… if Agnes had been wrong… If Anathema hadn’t listened to her prophecies so intently, studying them her whole life…

Well. The day could have gone very differently. 

Guilt twists in her stomach at the thought of Agnes’s prophecies. She still has the original book, but that second manuscript Agnes sent her? She burned it, unable and unwilling to be led around by nearly 400 year old prophecies when she had just started to embrace the idea of carving her own path forward. It all made perfect sense at the time, burning the papers like that. 

Looking back, of course, she wonders if she made some sort of grave mistake. 

Agnes surely would have known she would burn the manuscript, she tells herself. She seemed to know absolutely everything, even the fact they would ultimately win and save the world considering she scripted her new manuscript as ‘for the world that comes after’. Surely she knew Anathema would glance at the manuscript, but ultimately destroy it.

Or maybe she thought her descendant would do the right thing and keep the pages.

Hard to tell what the right thing is, really—if she even has free will or if Agnes always knew which option she would choose. 

It gnaws at her. 

It is much too late to worry about such things now, of course; those pages burned to ash in that fire and there is no getting them back. She just hopes there wasn’t something vitally important in there, rapidly approaching.

She can’t help but wonder if those pages would tell her what is happening in the world right now—this strange energy, these fluctuations. 

She needs answers.

The angel and the demon are her best shot at getting them.

As She reworks Her Archangels, She can’t help but notice a void around Her. 

Something is missing. Some sort of power, perhaps, or a title. Something.

She has been working nonstop on Her angels, safe in the knowledge Earth should be in good hands for at least the time being, though this position can by no means become permanent; Aziraphale, as he is, isn’t meant to withstand all that grace and power. In short bursts, it should be fine, of course; but it will eventually burn him out if this lasts too long, in the form he’s in now.

She will have to rewrite him as well, though that, of course, will have to come last. She has entirely too much work to do here, and breaking away even for a moment feels like betraying Her angels, Her children. No, they need guidance and restructuring, and She will not stop now.

The main issue, She thinks, is the hierarchy of Heaven. And this brings her back to that void.

There will need to be a new role, She thinks. There is currently a vacuum of power, and She is unwilling to relinquish control back to Her Archangels after the mess they made last time. No, there needs to be something above Archangel but below Herself. A new sort of authority. 

A Higher Authority.

Hell is getting uppity, She’s heard. They seem to have sensed Aziraphale’s fluctuation in power and have noticed Heaven’s absence. She should have known they would sense such a thing, of course; they are bitter about Heaven and the angels, and would certainly notice a lack of angels on Earth, save for the one who has been there since the Beginning.

Aziraphale can handle himself, of course, but She does worry, in the back of Her mind when She isn’t focusing on another angel. She is not unkind, and She knew thrusting him into a such a position would eventually raise a few… what do the humans call them? Yes, would eventually raise a few red flags, which is why She sent him the sword, in case he had need of it. 

She will feed him a little more power, She decides. Enough to keep him safe, but he will need to use it sparingly, or it will burn him away bit by bit, like fuel in a car. She will fix this once She is finished with the angels in Heaven, as Aziraphale will need to be recalled before She can break him down into his basic parts and rearrange him as needed, and She simply needs him on Earth for the time being. 

She will just have to have faith her principality can look after himself and stay ahead of Hell’s nefarious plans.

Even if he does keep company with a demon. Even if said demon seems to be rather fond of her principality. Well, perhaps that will work in their favour, then.

Only time will tell if the demon can prove to be the bodyguard Aziraphale might need. 

Having Aziraphale get destroyed before She recalls him to Heaven could prove rather problematic, after all—it would certainly complicate things. It is best if the angel and demon can work together toward a common goal, while She finishes up in Heaven.

And then She will set Her sights on Aziraphale.

Deep in the bowels of Hell, the demon Abaddon’s slumber has ended.

There’s an angel which needs dealt with—a seemingly powerful, wily one, enough to defeat a Duke of Hell in one-on-one combat. 

A rookie mistake.

You don’t send a Duke to do a Prince’s job.

Chapter Text

Crowley lays on his back in the grass, the warm midday sun beating down on him. He still hasn’t found the perfect sun-bathing spot, but this spot is rather nice. The warmth of the sun is pleasant on his face and his eyes are closed as he basks in the sunlight, arms folded behind his head to cushion himself against the press of the grass and hard ground.

Next to him, Aziraphale hums happily to himself, flicking to the next page of whatever book he is reading, and occasionally, there will be a hand in Crowley’s hair, lightly petting through the strands—and in this moment, he knows life has never been better. 

This cottage is peaceful and quiet, and Hastur hasn’t returned. Perhaps he was actually destroyed, and good riddance, too. It’s been roughly five days since the battle with Hastur and Siegle in the bookshop, and neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have made any real effort to pack up and return to their lives. Aziraphale has popped into the bookshop twice to check up on things and fix his window to preserve the books inside from the weather, but beyond that, he has made no move to leave this cottage permanently, and Crowley starts to let himself wonder.

What if they just… never leave? What if they just stay here at this cottage?

Surely they’ve earned a rest, after all. And this cottage is calm and peaceful and the more time they spend here, the more Crowley itches to pop over to his place, snag the rest of his plants, and bring them here. Just toss his flat keys to his landlord and be done with it. 

Aziraphale would never go for this, of course. The angel seems to be tolerating the distance from the bookshop for now, perhaps for Crowley’s sake because his angel is caring like that, but it can’t last. It won’t. Best not to speculate on ‘what-ifs’. 

Still, he’s rather enjoying himself. 

Snakes like to find good sun-bathing rocks to warm themselves through the day, and Crowley is no different. There was a rock in the Garden of Eden which was perfect for such a thing; sometimes he lingered there, as a smaller snake, wrapped up in on himself since the weather was always so nice--rain hadn’t even been invented yet. Ever since the day he tempted human into sin, though, he hasn’t been able to find such a rock again.

But this backyard to the cottage? Well, it’s a close second.

And it surely has nothing to do with the angel at his side. 

These past few days have been wonderful. Domestic bliss and all that nonsense Crowley never thought he’d enjoy, had never given much thought to—but he can see himself here, him and Aziraphale, with a white picket fence and boring domesticity. He itches to snap his fingers and make it real, but knows he can’t. 

Why haven’t we ever done this before? 

They’ve been around for 6000 years, which is a rather long time. And yet they never took any sort of vacation together; why would they? According to Aziraphale, they were colleagues or acquaintances at best, and certainly not friends, and they simply didn’t have the luxury to spend quality time like this together. They barely had time for a quick lunch here and there, or a couple hours of drinking in the back of the bookshop—but something like this? Going away together, living together, enjoying each other’s company like this?

It’s so boring and domestic.

He wants to be utterly boring with Aziraphale.

Yellow eyes open and he looks up at the blue sky. Clouds are rolling in, dotting the horizon, and he knows a storm is on its way. There’s a tingle in the air that whispers of a thunderstorm. He stretches, removing his arms from behind his head, and then glances briefly at the angel next to him.

Aziraphale looks lovely in the sunlight, Crowley thinks. He’s always had light hair, but it seems to glow with the sun beating down on him, forming a halo of light around the top of his head. The angel sits cross-legged next to him, book in hand, humming quietly to himself as his eyes scan across a page—the picture of relaxation. 

For a moment, Crowley simply watches him. He’s always liked watching Aziraphale, but he especially likes watching him enjoying things and relaxing as he is right now. 

Aziraphale seems to feel the gaze on him and looks down at Crowley, a warm smile breaking out when they meet eyes. “Have a nice nap, my dear?”

“Just dozing,” Crowley says. “How’s the book?”

“Oh, it’s quite lovely.”

“ ’s good.” He sits up, stretching again. “You hungry, angel?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to some food.”

Crowley hops to his feet. “Right, I’ll fix something real quick. You just wait here.”

Aziraphale chuckles, low and warm. “Yes, dear.”

Crowley makes his way inside, looking over his shoulder briefly to catch one last glimpse of the angel as he goes back to reading his book, and then he slips inside the cottage. 

He miracles up a cookbook and flips through the pages, eying the various dishes. Aziraphale has a blatant sweet tooth, but dessert should be served after the main course, so Crowley focuses on meals instead of desserts. Once he’s decided on a dish, he miracles up the ingredients and gets to work.

Every now and then, as he cooks, he looks out the window to watch the angel outside. Aziraphale looks so comfortably peaceful out there. The storm clouds are rolling in quicker now, but they should have plenty of time for a picnic before they have to head inside for the night. 

Cooking shouldn’t make him feel so damn giddy, he thinks, fighting back the urge to smile as he returns to stirring what’s in a pot on the stove. He’s a demon; it’s unbecoming to feel giddy. Cooking is a perfectly boring affair which they certainly don’t need to do, but it’s calming to the mind, he thinks. Something easy to focus on which will make his angel happy, and Crowley even finds himself beginning to hum under his breath to the tune of Somebody to Love by Queen. 

He feels much lighter than he has in a while now. Being in this cottage has done them both some good, and with Hastur behind them and no further Urges popping up, he can almost relax again and believe this whole mess has just been some twisted dream. 

The stolen bible on the counter robs him of this illusion, of course. 

Just because things are calm right now doesn’t mean they will stay that way. If the past few weeks have taught him anything, it’s that peace—tranquility—is temporary. 

It threatens to sour his mood, but he steadfastly refuses to be brought down by thoughts of the future. Yes, they will have to leave the cottage eventually, of course they’ll have to—Aziraphale has a bookshop to be getting back to, and Crowley will help him fix it back up to its former glory. But just because this cottage and the peace it brings can’t possibly last, that is no reason to ignore the feelings stirring inside of him in the present moment.

The last time he asked Aziraphale to run away with him, the angel outright refused. It was under different circumstances, of course, but there’s no reason to suspect Aziraphale will agree to go do so this time. No, Crowley will simply enjoy the time they spend here for now, and deal with the rest later. 

Once the food is finished, he grabs a blanket to take outside and miracles the food to levitate behind him and follow him outside, along with a bottle of red wine and two wine glasses.

Aziraphale looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps and that smile could truly rival the sun, Crowley thinks. 

“Why, thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and stands to help him pace the blanket on the ground. Then he retakes his seat and accepts the food offered to him. Crowley has made a plate for himself as well, taking a seat next to the angel.

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley huffs. 

“Of course not.” Aziraphale fills a glass with wine. “Shall we toast?”

Crowley fills one as well and knocks it against Aziraphale’s glass. “Uh, to this cottage.”

“Yes, it is rather peaceful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, and then takes a sip of his wine. “I’ve been thinking about that, my dear.”

“About what?”

“The cottage.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Yeah?”

He knew it couldn’t last. He just hoped they’d get at least another couple days before Aziraphale decided he was done with this place.

Aziraphale swirls his wine around in his glass, looking down into the red contents, hesitating ever so slightly. “Well, it’s been so nice here. Very calming, and relaxing, and you do seem to enjoy it as well.”

“…yeah?” What’s his point?

“Well, I suppose I was just thinking… it would be nice to stay here. If you’d like.”

Crowley stares at the angel, uncomprehending for a moment. “You… want to stay here? You mean permanently?”

Aziraphale’s gaze flitters away. “It’s silly of me, I suppose, but I’ve grown rather fond of this place, and a change of scenery could be nice—I mean, don’t you like it here as well?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says slowly, “are you saying you want to live here? With me?”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “Silly of me. You have your flat and, well, I have my bookshop, so—”

“Yes.”

“—I understand if… wait, yes?” Aziraphale’s gaze snaps back toward him. “Did you say yes?”

“Yes,” Crowley says again, and knows he must be ginning like a mad-man, if the way his cheeks hurt is anything to go by. There’s a warmth in his chest which has nothing to do with demonic cores or hellfire. Yes, I’d love to move here with you. Yes. 

Aziraphale breaks out into his own grin. “Oh,” he says, “well, good! I was worried you might not want to leave your flat…”

“Nothin’ for me there, angel,” Crowley tells him honestly. Just the plants. I can get new plants. I can move them here. Everything else in that flat is absolutely, 100% replaceable. “But what about your bookshop?”

Aziraphale’s expression falls. “Yes, that. I’ve been giving it some thought. I think it’s time I sold it.”

“Sold it?” Crowley repeats, frowning. “You love that place, Aziraphale.”

“I do. It’s been home for quite some time. But maybe this is God’s way of telling me I shouldn’t have a bookshop—it keeps trying to burn down, after all.”

Crowley scowls. “Don’t let a couple fires keep you down. You can patch it up, no problem.”

“Or I could simply move everything here.”

Here. Move things here. That warmth in his chest explodes.

“We can add on,” Crowley says. “Add an entire library if you want.”

“That sounds lovely, my dear. And we could make a garden back here for yourself.”

Crowley can see it now, clear as day—this backyard filled with plants, a garden full of them, and he’ll spend his days outside tending to them and Aziraphale can spend time in his future library, and—

It all feels so perfect.

He jumps to his feet, nearly dropping his glass of wine in the process. He throws the entirety of his glass back and drops the glass on the ground. “Right, I’ll just pop over to my place and get the rest of the plants. Do you need anything else from your bookshop at the moment?”

“Nothing immediate,” Aziraphale says, smiling at him. “No rush, dear.”

Right, no rush. No rush. 

A shiver slips through his body—one of eagerness, he thinks. Aziraphale actually wants to stay here just as much as he does, and well—he never considered this possibility when thinking about the cottage. He just wants to nip over to his place and bring everything over and be done with it all.

He snaps his fingers and disappears.

He stops by the bookshop first and puts up a quick ‘closed until further notice’ sign in the door, then pops over to his place. 

He’s never taken much time to decorate his place or collect items. He has a few statues and paintings, all of which he doesn’t need but would like to take to the cottage as he’s grown used to seeing them in his place. His plants, of course, need to head over to the cottage. He snaps his fingers and miracles everything over, hoping it doesn’t startle Aziraphale if things suddenly start appearing inside the cottage, but Crowley will arrange them as necessary when he returns.

He goes through his flat quickly, picking and choosing what will make the journey to the cottage. His flat has always been so sparse, but he likes his throne-like chair, so that will head over as well. He takes a couple books he’s collected despite himself through the years, and all of his alcohol and glasses for it. His safe has been empty since Armageddon, since it only had that thermos of holy water in it. HIs couch has never been comfortable and the couch at the cottage is perfectly fine. Clothing has never truly been important to him, but he does have a couple of outfits for when he wants to mix things up sometimes. With a snap of his fingers, these, too, appear at the cottage. The phone and answering machine make their way there as well—that answering machine has served him well, after all.

Plus—and he will never tell anyone this, of course—there are a couple voicemails on there he has never had the heart to erase. Aziraphale rarely leaves messages if Crowley doesn’t answer, but on a couple occasions he has—just to call and talk about something random, it seems, and hearing the nervous babbling has calmed Crowley more than once when things got too frustrating in the past. He hasn’t the heart to leave those messages behind now, even as he’s looking forward to making more memories with the angel.

Once he’s finished, he takes one more walk through his apartment, making certain he hasn’t missed anything. Then he finds his keys and pops on down to his landlord’s office, nearly giving the poor guy a heart-attack as he thrusts his keys at the man’s face with a quick, “I’m out of here.”

When he reappears at the cottage, Aziraphale has already moved his things around, putting everything in their proper places. When the angel notices him, he smiles brightly. “There you are, my dear. Do you have a preference on which room you want?”

“Room?” Crowley echoes.

“Yes, dear. I’ve been putting some of your books in the one just down the hall, but if you prefer the upstairs one, I can certainly move them.”

“Uh, no,” Crowley says haltingly, “that’s, ah—perfectly fine, that is.”

He hasn’t given any thought to which room he wants. Honestly, he was perfectly fine sleeping on the couch, with Aziraphale warm beside him and a hand in his hair. But it makes sense that they each have their own rooms, of course. It’s not like Aziraphale even sleeps, so sharing a bedroom would be… odd. 

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, I hope you didn’t rush, my dear. There’s no need for that. We have time.”

We have time. 

The words rush through him, and Crowley’s shoulders relax even though he didn’t even realise he was slightly tense until now. They do have time. They have all the bloody time in the world now, don’t they? Hastur seems to be gone, Aziraphale has agreed to stay at the cottage, and God is restructuring Heaven. 

They have time.

“No rush,” Crowley assures his angel.

“Good. I put the alcohol in the kitchen on top of the cabinets over the refrigerator. If you would like them elsewhere, feel free to move them.”

“Nah, that’s fine.”

Outside, a storm is brewing.

But inside, Crowley feels warm—warm and whole, he thinks, for the first time in a long, long while. 

There’s something caught in his throat. 

He swallows around the sudden lump and turns away from Aziraphale, clearing his throat. “Right, well, I should tend to the plants real quick, then.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to it.”

Aziraphale slips out of the room and Crowley turns to his plants.

“Alright, you lot. You better grow perfectly, do you understand me? You make the angel happy and we won’t have any problems.”

His plants shiver in response.

“Don’t even think about getting any spots. I will not tolerate it.”

More shivering.

He nods once, sharply, and then looks around to make sure he’s still alone—before he sinks down onto the couch and lightly pinches the skin atop his wrist. The sharp sting of it leaves him grinning.

Right. This is all real. This actually happened. 

Aziraphale actually wants to live with him. He wants to stay here at this cottage with Crowley. He wants to be boringly domestic with Crowley just as much as Crowley aches for such a thing as well. 

This is happening.

He slithers out of the living room and down the hall toward his bedroom. His bedroom. Like he actually belongs somewhere, for once. He pushes the door open and steps inside. As Aziraphale said, there is a small stack of his books on the nightstand next to the bed, and even a small potted plant on the floor on the other side of the bed. The color scheme is wrong, he thinks, but that can easily be fixed.

He and Aziraphale can pop into town tomorrow and pick up a few things for their new place. Their cottage. 

It doesn’t matter that the cottage is only for renting—a miracle can easily change that, and it will be theirs. Permanently. 

A home where he won’t have to slither out after a night of drinking, and return to his own flat which has always felt rather cold and barren in comparison to the bookshop. He won’t have to worry if he’s troubling Aziraphale or overstaying his welcome, because they will both live here and he’s well within his right to stick around as much as he pleases. 

Crowley has never exactly belonged anywhere before, but this—well, he can get used to this.

Maybe this can finally be home.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t know what is wrong with the couch or the beds at the cottage, but when Crowley insists they need to go furniture shopping, Aziraphale all but jumps at the chance to be human for a little while. They pile into the Bentley and drive into town, and it is all so wonderfully domestic and human, Aziraphale can’t fight the smile spreading across his face.

Even if Crowley does drive like a maniac.

They reach the furniture store in record time and head inside. Rows upon rows of beds, couches, recliners, and other furniture await them, and they make their way through the store, stopping to check prices and sit on the cushions occasionally. Crowley happily plops himself down on a large couch with soft, thick cushions and sinks into the material. 

“Oh yeah,” the demon sighs, “this feels nice. Take a seat, angel.”

Aziraphale sits next to him, and yes, the couch is rather comfortable. “This is expensive, my dear.”

“We’re an angel and a demon—it’s not like money is an issue.”

He has a point, of course, but Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s wrong with the couch currently at the cottage. He simply nods and pushes back to his feet, and Crowley makes his way toward a king-sized bed. 

There are two perfectly good beds at the cottage. Queen-sized, of course, but they seem comfortable enough. Even so, he smiles while he watches Crowley sit on the beds in question, testing the mattresses before he scowls and hops to the next one. Aziraphale happily follows after him; it’s incredibly good to see Crowley so relaxed like this, he thinks, and he wonders why they haven’t done this before.

He didn’t quite know what to think prior to asking Crowley about the cottage; surely it was silly of him to believe the demon would want to move into the cottage and abandon their lives in Soho and Mayfair, respectively. But the demon surprised him when he said yes, and Crowley actually seems quite happy about the whole thing, which is wonderful to see. 

It’s been a long time since he’s really seen the demon truly happy about anything. Too long, really. 

“What do you think of this one?” Crowley asks, plopping onto another large bed.

Aziraphale humors him and sits on the edge of it. “Yes, that’s quite nice,” he says. The bed sinks beneath him, melding to the curve of his body, and it does feel quite comfortable. “I feel you would be using it more than me, of course. And we have two perfectly good beds at the cottage, my dear.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley says, “but I thought… well…”

“Thought what, my dear?”

Crowley scowls and looks away. “Nothing.”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says patiently. 

“Well, I just thought… ’s a big bed, and… well, you could read on it. While I sleep. If you wanted.”

Warmth blossoms in Aziraphale’s chest. Oh, this must be what the humans mean when they say their hearts flutter. “That does sound quite lovely.”

Crowley wants him to sit next to him while he sleeps in bed, does he? Well, that is certainly something Aziraphale can do—quite happily. 

“You think so?”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says, smiling fondly. “Is this the bed you want?”

“Not sure,” Crowley says, frowning down at the frame. “Maybe a different frame.”

“Well, what would you like?”

Crowley shrugs. “Haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well, give it some thought, my dear. I’m going to go look at the recliners, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Aziraphale leaves the demon looking at beds and makes his way over to the recliners lined on the back wall. He was rather fond of the one in his bookshop, the chair he sat in most days and nights whenever Crowley was over, but it burned in the fire. It was tattered and old anyway, he thinks, so it’s just as well he’s searching for a new one.

He could put it in the living room or in the library they are going to make. Either way, he will have somewhere to sit while he reads, and Crowley can sprawl out on the couch to his full length without having to squeeze in with Aziraphale sitting at the end of it. 

Most are too wide, he thinks, eying them carefully. Too big. He doesn’t need something huge with obnoxious cushions, just something which will fit him and be fairly comfortable, if he is to be sitting in it for any length of time while he reads or something. He’s never exactly picked out furniture before, and this feels new and exciting and perfectly domestic. 

He sits in several chairs before he finally finds one which seems to fit him just right, and reminds him of the chair in the bookshop. He nods to himself as he gets to his feet, eying the price. For what it is, it’s not a bad price. And like Crowley said, they don’t really need to worry about such things like money. Money has never been an issue for either of them, not since it was invented. 

Satisfied with his choice, he flags down a retail worker to purchase the chair. They will deliver it in the next couple of days, they tell him. He could just snap his finger and miracle the chair there, but that takes the fun out of it, he thinks. If they are going to be shopping and purchasing things like normal humans, he might as well let things be delivered the human way as well.

Crowley is laying atop a bed when he circles back to the demon.

“This frame,” Crowley says. “But that other mattress.”

Aziraphale peers at the frame—a stylish wire headboard design and two tall cylindrical footrest end pieces at the bottom of the bed, all of it black and sleek looking. Yes, he thinks, it does suit Crowley. “Very well, my dear. I found a chair I liked as well.”

Crowley sits up. “Now we just need a couch.”

Again, Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s wrong with the couch currently at the cottage, but he nevertheless follows Crowley toward the couches. 

“Anything in particular you are looking for, dear?”

“Not sure,” Crowley says. “Something comfortable, but big enough for both of us.”

There’s a dark brown one at the end of the line of couches which seems to match this description. It’s not overly wide, with huge cushions or anything gaudy like that, but it is long and slender, long enough for Crowley’s spindly legs and possibly with enough room for Aziraphale to sit and read as well. The end of the couches are both also recliners, it seems, so he can stretch out if he feels like it even while Crowley is asleep on the couch next to him.

It seems perfect.

They flag down a worker and purchase the couch. It, too, will be delivered as soon as it can, hopefully within the next few days, but it might take a week or two otherwise. This is perfectly fine. 

“Fancy a spot of lunch?” Crowley asks as they exit the store.

Aziraphale smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

“Right, lunch it is.”

Crowley pulls out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell and Aziraphale holds on for dear life. 

Maybe Aziraphale has a point, about things not being as fun unless you do it the boring human way, Crowley can’t help but think as he watches Aziraphale eat. They’re in a small diner, a mom and pop shop really, but the atmosphere is cozy even if the restaurant is loud. There are things Crowley has never let himself fully embrace or even think about, and being so disgustingly human with Aziraphale is at the top of that list. 

In the past, Aziraphale has always stopped things from escalating, from moving forward. You go too fast for me, Crowley and out of the question, not another word, Crowley. Every time Crowley managed to screw it up, he had to wait for the two of them to reconnect and then just be grateful for the time they did spend together—as colleagues, but never quite as friends.

Friends implied fraternisation, which was Bad. 

Didn’t matter that Aziraphale was his best friend—his only friend. The only person—being—who has ever come close to earning such a title, a place in his life. For whatever reason, he preferred Aziraphale’s company to that of the other demons, and Aziraphale seemed to prefer his company to that of the other angels, and he thought maybe it could all just… work out.

As long as he kept his big mouth shut. 

But now, after a failed apocalypse, here they are—ready to settle down together and be pathetically human. If someone told him a couple of months ago this was what life would have in store for him, he would have laughed and then bitten their face off, because such a thing was absolutely ridiculous.

Now, though…

It all seems so very real.

He’s never smiled so much, he thinks. HIs face hurts. 

The thing about being happy, though—it can blind you. Make you drop your guard.

Crowley turns around from paying their check to find the table empty. For two seconds, the scene fails to register in his mind, then his gaze snaps around the entirety of the restaurant, searching for the angel. A flash of tartan just outside the window has him darting outside.

Aziraphale stands next to the Bentley, palms splayed on the hood of the car as he hunches forward, wincing. 

“Angel?” Crowley quickly approaches the angel and the vehicle. 

Aziraphale meets his gaze with wide blue eyes—filled with panic. “I’m being—”

And then he just… disappears. Just winks out of vision. Poof, gone.

Crowley stands there, hand outstretched as though reaching for the angel, and he carefully retracts his hand as he spins in a slow circle, looking around. 

Right, don’t panic, he thinks. Aziraphale up and vanished, but don’t panic. 

And definitely don’t picture that look in the angel’s eyes right before he did so. No, don’t think about that at all. Don’t panic.

Panicking won’t help.

Crowley is definitely putting some sort of tracker on Aziraphale after this. Yep, just as soon as he finds the bloody angel. A microchip, GPS, something—this is becoming too common an occurrence for his liking. 

I’m being— Aziraphale had said. 

Being what?

Urged?

Crowley’s stomach twists. Recalled? 

No. God seems to have plans on Earth for Aziraphale, She wouldn’t just up and recall him, would she? Not with whatever is happening in Heaven. Not with whatever it was that all but shredded the angel…

He pools his essence into the area previously occupied by the angel, searching for any hint of where he went. Sometimes they can leave behind trace amounts of themselves in order to be followed, unless they use a miracle to cover up any trace of them. 

There.

There’s the faintest hint of Aziraphale’s essence left behind, an afterimage on the metaphysical plane, and Crowley jabs his fingers into the that part of the air, prying edges apart, opening himself to the destination.

And then the air swirls into nothing around him as he jumps. 

He lands with a stagger, ankle threatening to twist and give way beneath him as he catches himself. He turns in a quick circle, struggling to recognise where he is—a bookshop? Wait a minute.

Rows of books greet him, some of them charred from a recent fire. Some rest on the floor, damaged by the water which jolted through the window. The remaining scent of smoke and sulphur. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

What the bloody hell?

“Aziraphale!” His voice seems to echo through the quiet bookshop as he turns in a slow circle—easing his essence out into a pool of air around him, searching for that familiar presence. “Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you—”

“Oh!” Says a voice—somewhat familiar. 

He whirls to find Book Girl standing there. Anathema, he mentally corrects himself. Her name is Anathema, a silly, odd name, but one which Aziraphale prefers he use instead of Book Girl.

Aziraphale.

“Where is he,” he hisses, stomping toward the woman. 

Anathema frowns back at him. “Aziraphale,” she calls.

Crowley looks over to find the angel standing in the that glowing ring of an angelic gateway. The sigils are glowing a dull yellow instead of the usual blue-white light, and Aziraphale stands in the centre of it as the glow fades down, then he steps out of it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says weakly. 

He’s alright. He’s alright.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says, offering him a small smile. 

“What the bloody fuck is going on?” Crowley demands. “Someone better tell me right now or—”

“I was looking for you two,” Anathema says. “But I noticed the fire damage to this shop and the closed sign in the door and I just—I guess I got a little worried.”

“She summoned me,” Aziraphale says. 

“Summoned you,” Crowley repeats flatly. “How is that possible?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, if you know what you’re looking for,” Anathema says primly. “Or, rather, who you’re looking for. I can sense and see your auras so it wasn’t hard to focus and—”

“You summoned a bloody angel?”

Anathema blinks at him. “Yes, keep up, please.”

That shouldn’t be possible. Angels aren’t like demons, they can’t just be summoned all willy-nilly like that. It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, Book Girl is a witch, and Crowley doesn’t know the extent of her reach or her abilities. Agnes Nutter was her ancestor, also a witch, and she accurately predicted nearly 400 years of the future, so really—maybe anything is possible for the humans. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks, looking back at Aziraphale.

“Quite alright,” Aziraphale says. “It was rather an odd experience, though, and I did not know what was happening at the time. I am sorry if I worried you.”

Worried. Right. 

Crowley exhales slowly through his nose, then glares back at Book Girl. “What was so bloody important you had to summon an angel?”

“Something is happening,” she says quickly. “Something strange. I can feel these… fluctuations of power. I’m not the only one feeling it, either. Adam came to me, worried about it as well. So I said I’d drop by the shop and see if you guys knew anything… but when I saw the damage, I was worried something happened to you.” Her gaze falls on Crowley. “I stopped by your flat as well but they said you’d moved out.”

His flat. She shouldn’t know anything about his flat. The bookshop, sure, Aziraphale is a nice guy who probably told her about it in case she needed anything—but his flat shouldn’t be on her radar. She is a witch, though, and maybe she just knows a few things like that, he really doesn’t know. So he settles for huffing in acknowledgement even as he scowls behind his sunglasses.

“So, what is going on?” The witch asks pointedly. “Adam says it’s something to do with Heaven.”

Aziraphale spares Crowley a quick glance. “God is… fixing things, I think,” the angel says haltingly. 

“Fixing things? What’s that supposed to mean?” Anathema asks.

“She’s restructuring Heaven,” Crowley says. “Aziraphale’s in charge in Her absence.”

Oh, it feels good to say that. His angel is covering for God. He’s always had faith in Aziraphale, but now God does as well, and it just feels like validation. 

Anathema stares at him. “What?”

Chapter Text

Anathema seems overwhelmed, the poor girl. Aziraphale flits into he kitchen to make some tea with his spare kettle, listening as Anathema peppers Crowley with questions just outside the door. Crowley answers as best he can, rather bluntly if anything, and Anathema struggles to take it in. Once the tea is finished, Aziraphale brings a mug to her.

“Here you are, my dear.”

She accepts the mug absently, blinking down at the steaming contents. “This is all just… a lot to take in. What does it even mean, to restructure Heaven?”

“We’re not entirely certain ourselves,” Aziraphale answers calmly. He shuffles near the remnants of the couch and chair he’d been so fond of, wishing he had somewhere to offer Anathema a seat as she looks like she needs it. “It’s been rather confusing, this whole mess.”

“Is, um… God, restructuring just Heaven itself or the angels? Or both?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t quite know for certain.” It is something to think about, though. 

“Well, what does that mean for you guys?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asks. 

“Well, for Hell and demons and everything,” she says, frowning at them. “Surely Hell has noticed? I mean, Adam noticed. I noticed.”

Which is, all things considered, rather bizarre, if Aziraphale is being honest with himself. He didn’t think the two had the capacity to notice such things, but humans are always surprising him. Even the Antichrist. 

“Oh, they’ve noticed,” Crowley says with a grimace. “Sent a Duke after us.”

“After me,” Aziraphale corrects him. “He didn’t care about you.”

“Same thing,” Crowley says.

“Why you, specifically?” Anathema asks.

Oh, dear. It seems they are going round in circles. “As Crowley said, I am… covering for Her Grace, I suppose. In a way.”

“He’s being modest, he is,” Crowley huffs. “He got a part in the bible and everything.”

Anathema is staring at him again. “You what?”

“Oh yeah, first update the bible’s gotten in… how long, angel? And it’s about him.” Crowley sounds entirely too proud of this fact.

Aziraphale shoots him a quick glare. Not helping. “It’s really nothing, my dear. She is busy, and has… in a way, left me in charge, so to speak. Not much has changed, really…”

“ ‘cept for the Urges,” the demon says helpfully.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hisses.

Crowley shrugs, unapologetic. “He gets these weird urges to be somewhere and, well, he kinda acts possessed. Kinda freaky, it is.”

Freaky. Only Crowley would choose such a childish word, thought it is a rather apt descriptor, Aziraphale must admit. Feeling ‘possessed’ like that is rather ‘freaky’, that this word only covers half of it. It’s downright upsetting, is what it is, but he will happily tolerate it as long as things can go back to relatively normality, after the issue with Hastur and the bible and… surviving hellfire.

Yeah, he’s still not quite wrapped his head around that one. Sometimes it still shocks him and he has to remind himself that, although he was burning in the past, he isn’t anymore. He managed to stop it. Somehow.

“I think I need to sit down,” Anathema says quietly.

“Of course, my dear!” Aziraphale miracles a chair from the kitchen table to appear just behind her. “Have a seat.”

Anathema blinks at the sudden appearance of a chair but sits heavily in it nevertheless. “I’m not gonna ask,” she says, shaking her head. “So these—urges… what are they for, exactly?”

“Well… I will get an urge to be somewhere specific,” Aziraphale says, frowning. It’s rather hard to explain it, really; it’s more than just knowing where he needs to be, as sometimes it just manifests as ‘I should go for a walk, shouldn’t I, and stretch my legs’ and then he’s suddenly where he needs to be, without knowing the destination beforehand. “And I help people. Who are otherwise dying.”

“So you’re literally going around being some sort of angelic saviour?” She asks, quirking a brow incredulously. “Sorry, but is that kind of thing even allowed by your people? I was under the impression you weren’t allowed to interfere.”

“We’re not supposed to,” Crowley mutters distastefully. “But apparently God decided it’s a grand idea to puppet Aziraphale around to do Her dirty work.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale bites, “it’s not dirty work. I’m helping people!”

“Because She won’t.”

“Crowley, you must stop! It isn’t like that at all.”

“People are literally praying to you, angel,” Crowley says, though it’s hard to tell what emotion is twisting his voice when his sunglasses cover his eyes like that, masking half of his expression. His mouth twists into a sneer, teeth bared. “Also strictly not allowed! God’s kicked angels out of Heaven for a lot less and you know it. But She likes you, and is dragging you around like a puppet, and you can’t tell me you’re bloody okay with it!”

Well, he’s not okay with it. But he knows his duty, as an angel. And he’d thought Crowley understood that part, at least. He used to be an angel, after all. He looks back at Anathema, smiling fragilely. “Everything is perfectly fine, my dear. I know my duties. And it won’t last forever, I’m certain.”

“What will happen when She’s finished… restructuring Heaven?” Anathema asks, frowning tightly. “I mean, you’re part of Heaven, aren’t you? Are you being restructured too?”

That is the question, Aziraphale thinks. He doesn’t truthfully know will happen to him once she’s finished with Heaven. “I suppose I will go back to being how I was before this whole mess started,” he says.

“Ngk,” Crowley bites. 

“Oh, my dear, that’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale says, shooting the demon a quick glance. “I won’t ever return to Heaven! You know this. We’re on Our Side, my dear, I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says again, prowling back and forth slowly, sprung into movement suddenly. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides, lengthening and tightening together, unable to keep still. 

“I simply meant I would go back to how I was before these Urges started,” Aziraphale explains calmly, looking back at Anathema.

For a human, she is taking all this talk of Heaven, Hell, and God very well. Remarkably well. Humans have always been sturdy, Aziraphale thinks. Grace under pressure, indeed.

“Do you know that for sure, though?” Anathema asks. “Restructuring Heaven sounds like she’s restructuring all the angels, to me, and that includes you.”

“Oh, the Almighty doesn’t care about me,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself. The thought is truly absurd.

“Angel,” Crowley hisses, “stop being daft, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Crowley is right,” Anathema says. “God seems to have faith in you. I take it that is rare?”

“No! The Almighty cares about each and every one of—”

“ ’s rare,” Crowley interrupts. 

“Sounds like you’re getting a promotion,” Anathema says, but she’s frowning when she says it. “Just be careful, Aziraphale. If you don’t want to return to Heaven… well, She might want you back there, when this is over.”

She might recall me. 

It’s not the first time the thought has attempted to cross his mind, but it’s the first time he’s let himself really think about it. Being recalled! It is utterly ridiculous. The angels don’t want him Up There any more than he wants to be Up There himself, after all, so why would She recall him?

She would be able to do it, though. Just summon him, and he wouldn’t be able to resist. 

Not when it’s Her calling him. 

“Well, that’s not happening,” Crowley bites sharply. His pacing has quickened, agitation in his movements. “He’s not going back Up There, not ever. Even if he wanted to—there’s this thing, guarding the Main Entrance.”

“Thing?” Anathema repeats.

“Oh, it’s really nothing to worry about, my dear,” Aziraphale says instantly.

“It nearly killed you, Aziraphale,” Crowley reminds him harshly. 

“What did? What happened?” Anathema asks.

“He tried to go to Heaven, fool that he is,” Crowley mutters, “and nearly got shredded for it. Actually, he did get shredded.”

“Oh, my! Are you okay?” 

Aziraphale smiles at her reassuringly. “Of course, my dear. I am perfectly fine.”

Other than the missing holes in a wheel. Other than said charred wheel. Yes, other than that, he is perfectly tickety-boo. 

“Okay,” she says slowly, “why don’t you both just start at the beginning…”

“In the Beginning, he was a wily serpent—”

“Not that far back, you idiot—”

“Tea, my dear?” Aziraphale asks once all is said and done.

The lines around Anathema’s eyes are tight and rigid, brows pinched together. She remains silent for quite some time, and Aziraphale moves back to the kitchen.

“I’ll get you some tea, my dear.”

“She doesn’t need bloody tea, Aziraphale,” Crowley groans, but lets the angel stalk off anyway.

Once the angel is out of the room, Crowley steps forward and snaps his fingers in front of Anathema’s glazed expression. “Oi, Book Girl!”

Anathema blinks and focuses on him, shooting him a quick scowl. “That is… a lot to take in. If it’s true.”

“If it’s true,” Crowley huffs, glaring down at her behind sunglasses, “look, Book Girl, I need your help in this, yeah?”

“My help?” She repeats the words, a frown overtaking her face.

“Right, don’t let it go to your head. I don’t like this whole ‘let’s puppet the angel around because we can’ nonsense, yeah? And you don’t look like you do either.”

Which is a bit odd—surprising, but not necessarily bad. Looks like Aziraphale has made another friend. This shouldn’t really surprise him; the angel is a friendly guy, after all, and the sense of peace and calm he can ebb off even without meaning to—well, humans are attracted to such things, even if they don’t know it at first. Of course Book Girl is concerned about him. 

Crowley is, too, after all.

“You need my help,” Book Girl repeats again, eying him incredulously. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“Look, I don’t want to need your bloody help,” he says, scowling down at her, “but this is a big job, keeping an eye on Aziraphale, and things have gotten… complicated.”

“Complicated.”

Oi, stop repeating my words. 

That’s his schtick when he’s overwhelmed, after all, she can’t bloody take that from him. He glances back at the door leading into the kitchen; the angel will only be preoccupied a couple of minutes.

“Do you have any, y’know, witchy spells that might help?”

“Against God?” 

Crowley hisses. “Don’t say it like that! God’s just—some boss micromanaging his life, is all, okay, don’t get all holy on me—” She folds her arms across her chest and glares at him, and he whirls away from her in a huff. “Oh, don’t act all stubborn, Book Girl, we need to work together here!” He turns back toward her, eying the door behind her again briefly. “Work with me here, yes?”

“You’re worried,” she says.

“Of course I’m bloody worried,” Crowley bites back, “what the bloody hell do you think—”

“Of course I’ll help,” she says, smiling widely. “It sounds like he’d be miserable, up in Heaven.”

Crowley’s shoulders slouch in relief just as Aziraphale appears from the kitchen, pushing through the door with two mugs of tea. He hands one to Book Girl and sips at his own—though it’s not that usual mug with the angel wings on the handle. That’s at the cottage, Crowley remembers, fighting the urge to smile.

Their cottage.

It still fills him with warmth, this thought—but now isn’t the time. 

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks Book Girl. “That must have been a lot to take in all at once…”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says, smiling at him. “I might know a spell or two… but I’ll have to research it thoroughly, to make sure it’s… safe, for angels and demons.” She shifts in her seat, gaze flickering away briefly. “I never actually thought you guys were real, you know. As a kid. Or even before Armageddon. It’s kind of surreal.”

“Of course it is, my dear,” Aziraphale says understandingly.

“Right,” Crowley says, “so you’ll research some spells. Off you go, then, Book Girl.” No time to waste. 

He grabs her arm and hauls her to her feet, shuffling her toward the front door of the bookshop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sharply, “don’t rush the poor girl out! That’s rather rude of you, isn’t it? At least let her finish her tea!”

“Take the tea with you,” Crowley says, all but shoving her out of the shop. Anathema twists toward him with a glare, then smiles when she catches sight of Aziraphale over his shoulder and waves at him—before glaring back at the demon. “And hurry it up, won’t you?” He hisses at her.

She rolls her eyes, nods once, and then leaves the shop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says bitingly. “Was it really necessary to chase her out like that? I mean, honestly!”

“Don’t be angry with me,” Crowley says, turning to face the angel, “ she’s the one who bloody summoned you!”

“She meant well, my dear.”

“And I’m sssure it felt like it.”

Aziraphale’s lips thin in a frown and he turns away from the demon, taking a sip of his tea. “She was worried.”

“Ssso that makesss it alright, then?” Crowley circles in front of the angel. “I’ve been summoned, me—demon and all—and it doesn’t bloody feel good, does it? It hurts.”

“She didn’t know—”

“Oh, she didn’t know, of course! So it’s alright, then, is it?”

“You’re being unnecessarily harsh on her.”

Perhaps he is. Book Girl did agree to help out and will be looking into some spells, so maybe he should cut her some slack—but she can’t just summon Aziraphale like that and not expect him to be angry about it. It hurts, being yanked somewhere like that—like you’re being ripped down the middle, pulled in two places at once, and Aziraphale has had enough of being shredded, he thinks. 

“Can we go, then?” Crowley asks. “We left poor Bentley like that…”

Aziraphale sighs, puts his cup down, and turns to face him with a nod.

Crowley snaps his fingers and they both appear in that parking lot outside the diner, next to Bentley. A couple jumps in alarm, staring at them in wide-eyed horror at their sudden appearance, and Aziraphale twists a finger in the air like a hook, pulling said hook from the couple in front of them. 

Their eyes glaze but then they blink, probably having lost the past couple minutes, and turn away from them to head inside the diner. 

Crowley pats a hand on the hood of his car. “Sorry ‘bout that, Bentley. Didn’t mean to leave you like that.”

He pries open the driver’s side door.

“Get in, angel.”

At the edge of the parking lot, masking his presence, Abaddon lurks, watching an angel and a demon get inside an old car. 

This angel is supposedly immune to hellfire, but he’s never needed hellfire to destroy an angel before. No, he thinks, watching as the car revs to life and pulls quickly from the lot—infections are a much nicer touch. 

Hellfire takes all the fun out of killing an angel. 

When he comes for the angel, he will make it linger.

Chapter Text

The demon in the garden isn’t the only one nearby, Aziraphale notes idly as he watches Crowley through the kitchen window. His demon is tending to his plants, flitting from one spot to the next, pressing them into the Earth to ensure they are solidly in the ground, no roots exposed. By all accounts, it is a beautiful day outside, perfect weather for such a thing, and Crowley looks almost radiant out there—a crooked smile on his face when he turns to look over his shoulder and catches sight of Aziraphale in the window. Aziraphale raises his mug to the demon, smiling back at him, and Crowley looks so at ease and like he belongs there, in the garden, it leaves a pleasant ache somewhere inside Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale sips absently at the remainder of his tea, watching as Crowley goes back to tending his plants, emptying them from their pots to implant them in the earth. A demonic presence burns at the edge of his metaphorical field of vision, however; on another plane, it brushes against his grace, a simple touch noting that a presence is, in fact, nearby, and it is not coming from the demon in the garden—the demon he’s grown rather attuned to, over the course of 6000 years. Aziraphale has been carefully scanning the nearby area every couple of hours since they returned to the cottage after speaking with Anathema two days ago, unable to shake the paranoia of Hastur potentially returning to surprise them. He was caught unawares before, and it could have had deadly consequences; he won’t allow himself to make such a mistake again.

There is more at stake here than his mere life, he thinks, a pang in his chest as he watches Crowley whirl on a plate and snag at a leaf, his mouth moving as he shouts at the poor thing. The plant invariably starts to tremble, and this is the part where Aziraphale should intervene, he feels, but he feels frozen in place, his essence reaching outward—pooling like an invisible fog as he scans the area again. That presence gnaws at his mind. 

The presence is there, but only just. Aziraphale only senses it because he is actively searching for such a thing, but the demon in question seems to be masking their exact location. Perhaps they aim to mask themselves completely, but Aziraphale was once a Cherub, before falling into the role of Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate. That means eyes. Lots and lots of eyes. Angelic eyes aren’t used the human way—to physically see something. It’s more like a stretch of senses, really; he can feel things around him more keenly, when he is actually actively looking. 

Aziraphale has spent the better part of the past 6000 years familiarising himself with the demonic presence lurking in the garden outside, which is how it is so easy for him to differentiate Crowley’s essence from the higher-tier demonic presence which exists somewhere nearby. A lesser angel, or more inexperienced one, might have simply decided the demonic essence lurking at the edge of their sense of self was, in fact, the one within their actual line of sight, but Aziraphale has been at this a long time and he simply knows better. Somewhere, out there, a demon is trying to hide themselves. Either the demon in question is inexperienced in hiding themselves from angels, they simply failed to take into account Aziraphale’s potential strengths when searching out a sense of a presence, or they are too highly ranked a demon to properly conceal their sullen menace.

Perhaps even higher up in the demonic hierarchy than Hastur, who is a Duke. What is the next step up? Oh, yes. A Prince. Perhaps it is a Prince attempting to conceal themselves—or perhaps a lesser demon who is not properly trained, or, again, someone who has failed to take into consideration the fact Aziraphale used to be a Cherub. 

Well, there really is no ‘used to be’ about it. He was created a Cherub, and that never really goes away, does it? His title and rank might have changed, but his classification of angel has not, and will never change. This is how he was made, and perhaps demons are unaware of this fact—that the sole angelic agent on Earth is technically a Cherub, and can sense things they otherwise might wish covered up. 

He is a Cherub deep down, and he has spent a great deal of time these past 6000 years Looking for demonic presences, attempting to weed them out due to his friendship with Crowley, unable to accept harm coming to the demon because said demon failed to take the threat from Hell seriously. Aziraphale always cautioned against Hell finding out about the two of them—he spoke of how they would destroy Crowley completely, if they were to ever find out. Crowley always seemed to shrug off such suggestions, so Aziraphale took it upon himself to always be on guard whenever they were near each other. 

Demons can, of course, still mask themselves, if they have proper training and have enough raw power to put into such an effort—but again, it’s hard to mask themselves completely from a Cherub. And Aziraphale will admit he’s grown rather complacent these past few years, working together with Crowley to avoid the end of the world, and then of course spending more time with the demon—quite freely, as well—since the aftermath of the world’s failure to actually end…

Yes, he has grown rather lax in his duties. He will be the first to admit this. Perhaps he assumed they had no further worries with Heaven and Hell, after their trials. He stopped searching for those demonic presences. He stopped looking over his shoulder as much. 

Hastur got the drop on them in this very cottage, and that is entirely his fault. 

He can feel that presence—that burning hatred, that demonic passion—burning at the edge of his scope of vision, out of sight but certainly not out of mind, yet he cannot pinpoint the exact the location. 

Numb fingers all but drop his empty mug onto the top of the counter. He glances briefly away from the garden to focus on his mug, reassuring himself he hasn’t chipped it or broken it in any way. His fingers twitch at his side, stretching outward before curling inward, then stretching again—and the hilt of his sword presses into his palm, summoned to his hand instinctively. 

Fighting has never been a pleasurable experience by any stretch of the word and he has certainly never enjoyed such a thing, but he will admit to feeling a touch calmer with the weight of the blade pressed into his hand like this. Crowley lingers in the garden, seemingly giving his plants a dressing down of some sort, all sharp angles and quick movements as he slithers from plant to plant, and all seems relatively normal. 

Save for that burning presence at the edge of his grace, somewhere nearby.

‘Nearby’ is perhaps misleading. Nearby could potentially mean anywhere within a ten mile radius of this cottage, or it could mean somewhere on the actual property itself. Aziraphale can’t be certain. Stretching himself out further feels a little like ripping himself along pre-existing lines, shredding himself into different directions—spreading himself perhaps too thin.

It hurts. In a way, he’s not solid at all—invisible air stretched among the molecules. He’s spent 6000 years inhabiting this body, and he’s rather grown used to gravity pressing down on him in this human form; the sudden fear of the wind feeling like it might very well drag him away from this earthly plane is rather unsettling.

A hand slips around his wrist—sudden and jarring, and he comes crashing back into himself. Even behind the dark frame of those familiar sunglasses, burning golden eyes watch him carefully. In Crowley’s other hand, a small planting shovel is held in a white-knuckled grip. 

“Aziraphale?” 

Crowley’s voice is too loud, Aziraphale thinks, but perhaps that is because he still feels rather frayed from his brief journey outward. Snapping back into his corporation is just as jarring as it was to spread himself out like that in the first place.

Crowley hisses as his gaze slips downward to land on the sword held in his grasp. “Why the fuck do you have that? Aziraphale?” 

Oh, dear. 

He’s worried Crowley again, it seems. This really wasn’t his intention at all! “Oh, my dear,” he says, calmly, even as his fingers grip the hilt of his sword tighter, “everything is alright.”

“Liar,” the demon bites back. “Is this an Urge?”

An Urge.

Well, not exactly. He certainly feels possessed, in a way—by some older version of himself, someone far more inclined to use a weapon and fling themselves into battle than he is. But it’s not an Urge, not like that. This is just some primal instinct at the back of his being—a core memory, perhaps. 

“Nothing like that, dear boy,” he says, shaking his head. Crowley’s fingers are a steel band around his wrist still, and he glances downward at the continued pressure. Crowley’s grip tightens as he’s reminded of the contact, before he carefully retracts himself, releasing his wrist.

“What’s wrong, angel?”

“My dear, I am quite alright!” Aziraphale assures him quickly, eager to wipe that look off the demon’s face. Oh, he much prefers the happy Crowley he’d seen just a couple of moments ago in the garden. He’d been so relieved to see the familiar, casual slouch to those shoulders as the stress ebbed away, but now it’s back tenfold, he thinks as he eyes those rigid lines to Crowley’s shoulders. 

“Then what’s with the sword, Aziraphale?”

Right, the sword. Aziraphale glances down at it—holds it out to his side, eying the weapon briefly. He can’t bring himself to put it aside, despite how much he knows he should, to ease the demon’s worrying. Crowley watches the movement behind his sunglasses.

“Please don’t panic,” Aziraphale sighs, glancing back at his demon.

“Panic,” Crowley snarls back, teeth bared. He prowls in front of Aziraphale, like a caged animal watching an aggressor. “You tellin’ me not to panic isn’t exactly helpful, you know! If that’s meant to be calming—”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says, frowning at the demon. “There is nothing to worry about!”

“Why do you have the sword!” 

“Please don’t worry,” he says as calmly as he can muster, “but there is a demon nearby, and it’s not you. I mean, it is you, but not just you. Oh, dear. There is another demon nearby, I think.”

The shovel clatters to the floor, dropped from slack fingers as Crowley stares back at him, a flash of yellow burning briefly behind those dark frames. Aziraphale eyes the forgotten shovel detachedly before his gaze snaps back to the demon as Crowley rears forward and snags Aziraphale’s arm again—a hand twisting around the curve of his elbow, pushing and pulling in equal measure, like the demon isn’t quite sure what movement is more pressing. 

The wave of fear rolling off his demon is nauseating, Aziraphale thinks. 

“Oh, my dear, don’t do that,” he says quietly, bringing his own hand up to lightly press over the curve of Crowley’s own, warming white knuckles. “Please don’t worry! There is absolutely no reason to believe the demon is even here for us, of course, it could just be a coincidence—”

“A coincidence?!” Crowley snaps back. This close, Aziraphale can see the yellow bleeding in his eyes even through the dark veil covering them. “Where are they, Aziraphale?”

“I am not quite certain, I’m afraid. They are attempting to mask themselves.”

Crowley splutters for a moment. His grip tightens on Aziraphale’s arm, clawed fingers pressing into tender skin. Oh, that is going to bruise. “What do you mean, attempting?”

“I can sense them, but just at the edge of… well, my field of vision, I suppose you would call it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Crowley,” he says quietly. “Somewhere within ten miles from here, I believe, but I cannot pinpoint exactly where—”

Crowley snaps his fingers, then. 

The world spins to nothing around them, the cottage vanishing. A second later they are in the bookshop. 

Aziraphale looks around the familiar shelves, but instead of feeling relief as he usually does within these walls, he spins toward Crowley and yanks his arm away, scowling at the demon.

“That really wasn’t necessary, my dear,” he says stiffly.

Crowley is already stalking away from him. “Wards,” the demon mutters, “we need wards.”

“Oh, dear boy—no.”

Crowley whirls toward him. “Yes,” he spits back, stalking back toward Aziraphale. He circles him once, twice—then rips the glasses from his face, levelling the full force of his golden glare on the angel. Aziraphale stares into those bleeding yellow eyes, seemingly held hostage under the intensity of it in that moment. “You will put up wards against demons. Right now.”

“I will do no such thing! It would hurt you.”

And he’s warded Crowley enough the past few weeks, he remembers. Taking the demon’s free will from him, as Crowley told him.

He won’t do it again. Crowley asked him not to do it again.

So he won’t.

“It’s Hastur,” Crowley says in a rush, circling Aziraphale again in another prowled loop, “it has to be. He’s here to kill you, Aziraphale! You can’t just—say no—”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale urges, holding out his free hand to catch Crowley’s arm and halt his circling. “For all we know it could be a demon who just got out on day release or—or something else! We have no way of knowing if they’e there for us.”

“Of courssse they’re there for usss,” Crowley hisses back at him. “You’re ssso clever, Asssziraphale! You can’t honessstly be thisss ssstupid!”

“No need to be rude, my dear.”

“Take thisss ssseriousssly—”

“I am!” Aziraphale shoots back, hefting his blade up a little to wave it briefly in front of those yellow eyes. “Crowley, I am taking this seriously, I assure you! But we can’t live in fear like this, I will not live in fear like this—we have no reason to believe that presence is dangerous to us! It’s a lovely countryside, they could simply have been—”

Crowley hisses something unintelligible in response and steps forward quickly. Aziraphale’s grip falls away even as Crowley’s own hands come up to snag at his clothing and urge him backward, where his back presses into a shelf uncomfortably—and this is becoming a rather familiar position, he thinks belatedly as burning yellow eyes flash in front of him, the sclera bleeding over. 

“Yesss, no need to worry,” the demon snarls, “that’sss why you have a bloody sssword in your handsss, Asssziraphale!”

The sword really seems to be bothering Crowley, and Aziraphale’s grip on the weapon falters. It clangs to the ground with a startlingly abrupt sound and Crowley flinches away from the noise even as his grip on Aziraphale’s clothing tightens, clawed fingers ripping through the fabric easily. A part of Aziraphale mourns the holes in his clothing even as the rest of him is focused on the look in Crowley’s eyes.

“It was instinctive,” he says quietly, broken down by the weight of that gaze. “To hold the sword, I mean. Just in case.”

Crowley blinks back at him—something snakes don’t do, Aziraphale recalls. They don’t have the ability to blink their eyes like that. There are fangs in Crowley’s mouth as he bares his teeth at him, snarling low in his throat, before he releases his fistfuls of tartan clothing and takes a half step back, away from Aziraphale, no longer crowding him against an uncomfortable shelf. 

“Ngk,” he says, and then snarls again. “The demon’s a threat and you knew it. You know it.”

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he says, somewhat weakly, even to his own ears. There’s little conviction in the words. His eyes fall shut as a heavy sigh escapes him, dragging his shoulders downward as the weight of it all hits him like a physical wave. “I don’t wish to fight anyone… I didn’t like fighting…”

“… ‘m sorry, angel,” Crowley says, his voice just a soft. “Know you don’t like it, fighting—but that’s why they call it fight or flight response, you know? Lizard brain, and all.”

There’s a self-deprecating tone there, Aziraphale thinks, and opens his eyes to frown at the demon in front of him. Crowley’s gaze as slithered away from him and is now focused on the floor. 

“Flight, that’s me,” the demon mutters distastefully. “All I do is run.”

“That’s not true at all,” Aziraphale says sharply. He will not stand for Crowley belittling himself like this. No one undercuts his demon like this, not even the demon himself. “You’re very brave, my dear. If all you did was run you’d leave me to fight alone… how it should be.”

Those yellow eyes snap back toward his face. “I wouldn’t leave you!”

“Of course you wouldn’t. My thoughts exactly.”

Crowley hisses under his breath. “ ‘m not brave, angel. World’s ending, what do I do? Try to run away with you, that’s what.”

“Hell was coming for you,” Aziraphale reminds him, “and what did you do? You came to get me instead of running. I pushed you away, of course—but you still didn’t run, Crowley.” He reaches a hand out, lightly patting the curve of Crowley’s cheek just briefly. “You’ve always been brave. Never forget that.”

He pushes away from the bookshelf and rolls his shoulders, stretching out tense back muscles. 

“Now, let’s get back to the cottage.”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley says sharply. “There’s a demon waiting there for—”

“If they know about the cottage, they surely know about the bookshop, my dear.”

Crowley bares his teeth. 

Aziraphale smiles. “It will be alright, Crowley.”

“You don’ know that,” Crowley huffs, looking away. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides, an unconscious movement as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It’s probably Hastur.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale agrees quietly, summing his sword to his hand again. “Let’s go destroy him, shall we?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale brings his hand up and snaps. 

The world twists around them and then they are back in the cottage, standing in the living room.

Aziraphale stretches his senses outward, searching, searching…

The only demonic presence he senses is that of the demon standing oh-so-close to him.

He frowns. “I don’t feel it anymore, my dear. They seem to have gone.”

Crowley’s whole body snaps loose—a string pulled too taut, a band breaking under the pressure,  and he all but collapses onto the couch. 

“Sssatan, angel. Maybe it… really was a random demon.”

Somehow, Aziraphale doubts this. But he nods nevertheless and sits next to the demon on the couch. “Yes, it was nothing.”

And maybe it was nothing. There’s nothing saying it was Hastur, or someone worse. Perhaps Aziraphale has simply become a little too paranoid, in his eagerness to rectify his past mistakes of not noticing the demonic presence until it was too late. 

Maybe—

The doorbell rings.

Doorbell. Aziraphale looks up, frowning, because he didn’t realise this cottage even had a doorbell. He’s never looked for it before.

Crowley springs to his feet with a menacing hiss and slithers to the door. 

Aziraphale snaps himself to it first, sword raised and ready as his other hand grabs the handle first and pries it open.

A delivery man stands there, but not the one Aziraphale has grown used to seeing, when it concerns matters of Heaven. No, this one is female with blonde hair and bright eyes, and those eyes flicker nervously to the sword in his hands.

Aziraphale drops the weapon immediately. “Oh! Hello, my dear!”

Crowley hovers over his shoulder, yellow eyes burning, and the delivery woman makes a startled gasp as she all but drops the package in the doorway before she turns and flees toward her vehicle. 

Aziraphale lifts a hand, twirling his finger around a strand of air—pulling her fears from her, pulling that memory away. By the time she reaches her car, she is walking and not at all panicked.

She drives away, and Aziraphale bends to pick up the package. 

Oh. 

“Angel? Aziraphale!”

The sword clatters from his hand as his grace screams at him a second too late. He doesn’t notice the dark energy thrumming through the package until his outstretched hand has already touched it. The second they make contact, a wave of nausea pitches him sideways. On another plane, thousands of eyes fall shut. Something sticky and greasy throbs at the edge of his mind and clings to his fingertips—clutches at his grace. At his core. 

It’s like being ripped apart all over again.

“Aziraphale, no—”

The world rips away from him.

It all goes dark.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale is flickering again.

Crowley’s hands hover over the angel’s still form, trembling in the air, uncertain as to what to do in this moment. It all happened so fast. So fast. One minute Aziraphale’s Grace was flaring out of nowhere, then the angel pitched sideways, and now he’s unconscious.

And he’s flickering.

Flickering.

“Aziraphale…?”

There’s something dark shadowing Aziraphale’s True Form when he Looks. The damaged wheel is barely visible at all, and that core, the light in the centre that is Aziraphale, it’s flickering wildly—brightening then darkening, repeating the process over and over. 

“Nonono,” he says quickly, the words slipping out of his mouth as one breath, “stop flickering, you have to stop flickering, you’re not allowed to flicker—”

His hands land on the angel’s shoulders, fingers bearing down into skin so hard he knows he leaves bruises, but he can’t stop himself. Everything was fine a moment ago, he recalls hazily. Just a minute ago—not even sixty seconds, really—Aziraphale was perfectly fine, there was no demonic presence nearby, and there was just a delivery girl at their door…

The delivery girl. The package.

His gaze snaps toward it, even though no part of him wants to look away from the downed angel at the moment. His pulse stutters in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing a loud ringing in his ears, and now he can feel the malice emanating from that innocuous package. He didn’t feel it before—didn’t even think about searching for it before—but now he feels it in spades. 

This package was created in Hell, he thinks, fear circling his heart. He snaps his gaze back toward Aziraphale when the body beneath his hands twitches, and watches as Aziraphale’s brow creases, sweat dampening his fluffy curls, and a stuttered breath escapes his mouth.

“Aziraphale? Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothes instantly, even as panic swirls through his mind. “Aziraphale, stop flickering! You’re just fine, you stupid—you… you stupid…”

He Looks again. 

Something is eating at the angel. He watches, petrified, as more holes form across another wheel entirely, entire pieces of the holy presence just tearing away and blinking into nothing. Poof, just gone. Just gone. Parts of Aziraphale are just gone. 

With a whine, Crowley’s own presence surges forward, attempting to circle the entirety of Aziraphale’s True Form, to hold onto those pieces blinking away into nothing, to keep them there and safe and—

Something forces him back. Something demonic.

He flings himself back at that grace—hands clinging to broken shards of glass as they rip through his fingers, metaphorically speaking, and he’s wrenched away again with a cry of pain. A wave of something angry and intense washes over him, threatening to send him into a cowering mess.

A Prince, he thinks.

This is the work of a Prince of Hell.

“No,” he manages, “nonono, stop, get away from him—”

But he can’t get close enough to do anything. He’s kept at the side by that invasive demonic presence which eats away at his angel bit by bit, and more pieces are snapping off and fizzling out into nothing, and Aziraphale won’t stop flickering. If anything, the flickering has increased—and it’s dimming. It keeps darkening even as it brightens briefly, a push and pull of sensations, but it’s still darkening, flickering—

Crowley wrenches Aziraphale toward him. “AZIRAPHALE!”

It’s been a long time since he’s used his True Voice like this, he thinks, feeling something beastly stirring within him—and there are sharp fangs in his mouth nearly biting through his lip, scraping against his tongue, and his hands aren’t hands at all anymore—not really. They're claws, and they're tearing into Aziraphale’s shoulders—but the pain doesn’t bring him back.

Soon, nothing will bring him back.

At the sound of his True Voice, though, the angel’s brows furrow together again and his head twists to the side briefly. 

“Aziraphale, open your eyes! STOP FLICKERING!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open so suddenly for a moment all Crowley can do is stare into them, lost in the relief of seeing them again. They’re glazed and unfocused, he thinks, but they’re open. 

“Aziraphale, hey, ssstay with me,” he wheezes, breath caught somewhere in this throat, panic threatening to consume him in his entirety and leave him a hissing mess, “focusss, Asssziraphale, look at me!”

Aziraphale tries, the blessed bastard. Crowley can feel him struggling to focus on him, can see those eyes narrowing as they try to make sense of whatever the angel is seeing. A hand snags at the edge of his shirt, Aziraphale struggling to find some sort of purchase on reality. “Crow…?”

“It’s me, yeah, I’m here,” Crowley says quickly, “I’m here, angel, focus on me, just lisssten to me…”

Aziraphale’s expression crumples. “Hu…Hurts…” 

Crowley’s eyes are burning, he thinks. “I know it hurts, but it’s nothing, okay? It’s nothing, Aziraphale, just focus on me, alright? I need you to flare your grace. Just… just as bright as you can, as strong as you can.”

“… hurt you…”

“Don’t worry about me!” Crowley bites back, unable to stop himself. “Just do it!”

Aziraphale’s eyes close.

“No! Don’t sleep, angel, you—you’re flickering, Aziraphale! You have to stop flickering! Flare your grace!”

It’s all he can think of that might actually help. Crowley can’t get through because the invasive presence is stronger than him; it’s like throwing himself against a brick wall, he just can’t break through and will only succeed in injuring himself. He would continue doing this anyway if he thought it might actually help, but he knows it won’t. He doesn’t know what else might get that presence to stop eating away at the angel, save for a massive flare of grace which will send demonic essences packing.

He doesn’t even care that it will probably discorporate him. 

He Looks again.

No, no, no—stop, you have to stop! 

Most of that damaged wheel is just… gone. It’s not there anymore. And the others are breaking away as well, bit by bit, hole by hole, something dark and twisted and relentless tearing through it like it’s nothing—

“Aziraphale! Please!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes inch open, if only just. “… can’t…”

“Yes you can! You have to! You’re dying, Aziraphale, just flare your fucking grace!”

Aziraphale blinks once, slowly. “I… can’t,” he says again.

The words slam into him this time—realisation slipping through him. “You… You can’t flare your grace, is that what you’re bloody telling me right now?”

Aziraphale blinks again—acknowledgement of his statement.

No. 

His veins are ice; they have to be. He’s frozen solid.

No. No.

If he can’t flare his grace, that means he’s too far gone to do so. Too far gone. 

And his eyes are shut again.

Crowley flings himself back at that demonic essence eating through that light which is so precious to him—bashing with everything he has, clawing metaphorically at it. More of Aziraphale blinks off into the aether, gone forever, and Crowley reaches for those precious particles popping off into nothing. Tries to snag them, keep them tethered to this place, to his form, but they burn as they land on him, fizzling away into nothing anyway. 

He’s going to lose him.

Aziraphale is dying.

He’s going to lose Aziraphale. Forever.

A sob wrenches free of his corporeal lips, and his lungs are burning, panic a tight pressure around them refusing to let them expand correctly. A hand raises to Aziraphale’s face where he presses it to the curve of his cheek and jaw, his thumb shakily smoothing across a cheekbone. Aziraphale is cold.

“Pleassse,” he manages quietly, his voice scraping out of him. “I can’t… I can’t lossse you, Asssziraphale, don’t make me do it, you—you bassstard—”

What do I do? What can I do? How do I stop this? Because he has to stop this; this isn’t happening. It’s not. Aziraphale can’t die, he’s not allowed to die, Crowley won’t let him. He won’t. He won’t!

He just… doesn’t know how to stop it. 

Aziraphale isn’t conscious—he knows he’s not—but his hand is still clinging to Crowley’s shirt, fingers seemingly stuck there. Crowley glances down briefly, something nagging at his mind, and see’s something dark coating the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers. It’s what’s making his hand stick to Crowley’s shirt. 

What is…? 

There’s something on him. Something from the package. Something that let this demonic presence slip under any defences he knows Aziraphale always has active, and get close enough to begin literally eating him alive. 

A snarl scrapes out his throat as he snags Aziraphale’s hand and pries it from his shirt to look at those fingers. They’re burning, he thinks, but the blood is black and sticky. That’s what’s sticking to his shirt—black blood. Angels don’t bleed black like this, their ichor is golden. None of this is right.

Holy water,  he thinks distantly. Once the words float through his mind, driven into existence from some distant, hopeful part of him, he can’t help but cling to it.

“Hold on, Aziraphale,” he says shakily, and snaps his fingers. 

He can’t miracle himself into the church directly, or he would have done so in 1941 to get to Aziraphale instantly and drop the bomb so he didn’t have to suffer walking through it like he did. But he can’t miracle himself into somewhere holy like that; he can only walk in willingly, burning himself willingly. 

So they appear just outside the church. The doors are closed and all is quiet, the church closed for the day. It looks peaceful, save for the demon now at the front doors. 

The demon and the downed angel.

Crowley’s afraid to Look again, but forces himself to do it anyway. Teleporting can be damaging if you’re weakened, after all, especially if you’re unconscious and can’t prepare yourself.

So he Looks.

Aziraphale’s not flickering anymore.

No, no, don’t you fucking do this to me! You’re not allowed to do this to me! 

It’s just… dark.

It’s dark.

Why is it dark?

“AZIRAPHALE DON’T YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD—” 

He’s not gone. He’s not. Crowley couldn’t just… miss that. Teleporting was a risk but surely he couldn’t have slipped away in the half-second it took to appear here. 

No.

Not happening. It can’t happen. 

It’s not real.

He flings himself at that presence—or what should be that presence. It’s dark, he thinks, but the fact it’s dark and not black or empty should mean Aziraphale is still there. There aren’t wheels in this darkness, there aren’t closed eyes or anything like that—but there’s something. 

There. 

A sob escapes his human mouth and he wrenches Aziraphale to his chest, pushing to his feet with the angel in his arms. Aziraphale is still there, he’s just very muted and nearly hidden by the shadow of that demonic presence eating at him, keeping Crowley out. But he’s still there, somewhere in the background—not flickering, because he’s too Dark to flicker, not Bright as he should be, but he’s still there.

He flings the church doors open and walks through. 

His feet burn instantly. It’s a raging fire at his feet, opening old scars, and he can’t help but lift his feet awkwardly as he moves forward. But he ignores the sting as best he can, because none of that matters. 

All that matters is that presence, too dark to flicker, but still burning somewhere within. Somewhere. 

Stay with me, Aziraphale. Please stay with me. 

There’s a font of holy water near the front of the church; there always is. He knows there’s one here because Aziraphale supposedly came to this church after his battle with Hastur. 

The holy water helped then.

Surely it can cleanse him now. Save him now.

It has to save him now. 

The alternative is unacceptable. Unthinkable. There is no alternative.

He carries Aziraphale to the font and staggers next to it, peering down into the clear, unsuspecting liquid. He juggles the angel in his arms, leaning him against the wall next to the font, and then takes his wrist to dip his hand into the holy water.

“Come on, come on, please, angel... Aziraphale…”

The blackness steams as soon as it connects with the water, bleeding off in corrosive waves. It’s blinding as it withers away from Aziraphale’s fingertips, purified, and somewhere on another plane that darkness shutters and breaks away; Crowley can feel the presence slithering off into the aether, banished by the holy water but not destroyed.

Crowley’s legs shake. He drops to his knees, Aziraphale dropping with him, back against the wall and head tilted to the side limply. His hand slips out of the holy water and drips at his side as it crashes to the ground next to him, on Crowley’s other side. Trembling hands raise and cup Aziraphale’s stupidly lax face. He’s so cold.

Or maybe that’s just Crowley.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s too still, he thinks belatedly. His chest isn’t rising or falling anymore. He doesn’t hear those shaky, stuttered breaths. 

Angels don’t need to breathe. It means nothing. 

"Aziraphale...? No, c'mon, you're--you're alright, Aziraphale, you're--don't you fucking do this to--" A choked breath escapes him, a shiver tearing through his body that has nothing to do with the physical pain of the consecrated ground. He's swallowing air like it will somehow save him from the fact there isn't enough air in this god-forsaken church. "You're not gone, okay? You're not. I won't... I won't accept that, ssso jussst..." A heaving breath slips free, choking him momentarily. "Stay with me, angel. You're in there, yeah? You're not bloody gone, I won't fucking allow it. You're not gone."

If he's not gone, then why isn't he moving? Why isn't he healing? Why can't Crowley feel him at all?

For a brief moment, his mind is in the past, amidst rows of burning books. Can't find you, he said then. 

And now...

His vision blurs. Everything burns. Not just his legs and feet from the holy ground but also in his chest, a raging inferno of white-hot agony. Of frantic denial and unspoken promises. He's too weak, too fractured and splintered, to worry about moving away from the ground, to jump around on his feet or quickly leave the church or anything like that. The pain eats at him, burns slinking up his legs and into his body, but he doesn't care about any of that. Hardly notices it, really, compared to that hollow, burning feeling in his chest. 

He Looks. 

The space formerly occupied by heavenly sunlight, filled with wheels and eyes and holy grace, filled with Aziraphale--it's empty. So empty. 

Aziraphale is still Dark.

Why is he still Dark?

Crowley fixed it, he got him here and that stuff off his hands and he should be fine now, right? Right? 

A sob wrenches free. He leans his head forward, forehead pressing against Aziraphale's as a shaky, stuttering breath escapes him. His eyes fall shut. "Just give me a sign, Aziraphale. Just a... a little one. Doesn't have to be big. Fuck, are you there?"

Nothing. Emptiness and darkness.

"Please," he whispers into the still silence around him. "You're alright, Aziraphale. You're not gone. You're not gone, okay, you're not allowed to just--God, are you listening? He needs you and I can't--please, okay, just--"

Not him. Anyone but him. 

Not Aziraphale. He's everything good and right in this world, the only one to ever give a flying fuck about some lowlife demon, and this world just isn't worth it without him. So he has to be okay. This has to work.

Aziraphale must be healing, he tells himself. He's just... exhausted. He's Dark but that's okay, because shadows imply light and if there's light then Aziraphale isn't gone. Can't be gone. 

It can't end like this. 

"I know you hate me and--and--and I fucked up your Great Plan to end the world but just--he doesn't deserve this, alright, he doesn't--he--he's good and kind and everything an angel should be, okay, he's what you wanted out of your blasted angels and--and--just not him, alright, please..."

'Please' isn't part of a demon's vocabulary. It's never been part of his save for mocking someone. Oh, please, he might say, while rolling his eyes. Otherwise, 'please' is primarily used for prayer, and demons don't pray. They don't beg. 

But he'll beg for the next 6000 years straight, he thinks, and say please until the word loses all meaning if it gets God listening. If it brings Aziraphale back. If it keeps him from being absolutely and utterly alone. 

Please just come back. Stay with me. 

"He doesn't deserve this, God, are you listening? Can you hear me? He's supposed to cover for you and he can't do that if he's g--... if he's d--... fuck, just help him, okay? He's..." The one good thing you've ever made. The only good angel there is. The only thing I have. "He's mine," is what spills from his mouth, the words wrapped in desperation. "He's mine. Aziraphale, he's my best friend, alright, and I just--Angel, just wake up, okay?"

But Aziraphale is still utterly silent, motionless, Dark. 

He swallows a ragged breath. The pain burning through him should worry him, should urge him to move, to lift off the floor and get out of this agony--but the only true pain is that nestled in his chest, growing worse by the second as there is no reaction in Aziraphale. He watches that too-still face closely, desperate to see a change, a sign, anything--but there's nothing. 

A ragged exhale slips from his mouth. Fuck, he hurts. It hurts. Why is his chest so hollow? How can he feel cold as he's being burned alive? How can Aziraphale sit there and ignore Crowley's pleas? His words, his tone, his pain as he stays on consecrated ground... It should all spring Aziraphale into action because his angel has always tried to protect him, shelter him, care for him--

"Come back," he chokes, a sob lodged in his throat. His thumb traces over the curve of Aziraphale's cheekbone, lingering and desperate. "It's alright now, Azirpahale, so just--are you there? Can't feel you."

Can't find you, he'd shouted that day in the bookshop. 

"Punish me," he says, "just, fuck, just not him. He's only ever wanted to help, I'm the on who twisted everything and--not him, okay? He's mine. I--" ... love him so much more than you do, God, than you ever could. "I need him. I need you, Aziraphale, can you fucking hear me? Are you there?"

Silence wraps around him. Too much silence in this blessed church. 

No wheezing breaths. No 'are you alright, my dear'. No stutter of movement beneath his palm on Aziraphale's stupidly lax face. Nothing. 

"Aziraphale, please," he whispers into the stillness. "I'm sorry, alright, I should have--should've known what was--fuck, angel, not like this."

Please not like this. Not because of me. 

Because he failed. 

Silence roars in his ears. 

No breaths. No movement. No light in the darkness.

Just an endless sea of nothing. 

Too late. The words circle his mind, taunting and burning him with their truth. You were too late, Crowley. You fucked it up, just like always. You failed. He's gone because of you. 

One job. He had one fucking job and he failed. Failed to protect the only thing that matters in this stupid life. 

Aziraphale is Dark because he's gone. 

He's gone. Slipped away before they even entered the church, the second Crowley blinked and looked away. Crowley was lying to himself before, when shadows meant light. Aziraphale's cold and Dark and gone. 

He's gone. 

Crowley's frame shakes. His thumb smooths once more over that curve along Aziraphale's face. A face so intimately familiar to him, but one he's never truly touched before. Not in any meaningful way. Cowardice always stayed his hand. A sob tears through him and he drops his head lower, pressing it to Aziraphale's chest, where a heart should be beating. A chest too still. His hands drop as well, curling in the fabric of Azirpahale's clothing, clinging to denial. To bargaining. 

Come back, Aziraphale. Just come back. 

The burning inching up his body should be agony, and it would be, if it were any other day. Any other situation. Anything but this. But today it is this, and he welcomes the pain. 

"I fuckin' lost you..." The words slip from trembling lips, spluttered into existence around a choking sob. 6000 at Aziraphale's side whenever the angel would have him, and this is how it ends. I actually fucking lost you. How could I lose you? "I'm ssso sssorry, 'Ziraphale... oh, fuck, I lost you. I actually fucking lost you. You're gone."

Heaving sobs wrack his body. He can't blame the burning of his eyes on the steam anymore. Aziraphale would be so unhappy with him to see the state of his shirt, all damp and crumpled like this. 

He rears back from the angel, dropping his head into his hands, fingers splayed to cover his face from the truth in front of him. More burns lick up his body and a part of him whispers to just give into it. Give into that burning, just let it happen. Let it all end here and now. 

There's no point to anything without Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale is gone.

Crowley might as well be, too. 

It's all his fault, after all. Aziraphale is gone because of him. He should have realised. Should have sensed what was on the package, noticed what was happening earlier. Should have brought Aziraphale here the second he dropped but instead he lingered. He lingered and wasted precious time. 

His fault. All of it. 

All his fault. 

He can almost taste the burnt flesh in the air. The scent should be nauseating, but instead he's grateful. 

Just let it all burn away, he thinks. Burn away to nothing. 

Fingers hook beneath his chin and lift. Crowley gasps, hands falling away as he stares at the sight before him. 

For one fleeting moment, he wants to cry for a different reason. Aziraphale's moving, animated again. 

But it's not Aziraphale. 

Those burning white eyes aren't his angel. 

“Crowley,” She says with his angel’s voice. 

Chapter Text

For a moment, all Crowley can do is stare at the familiar figure in front of him. It’s not Aziraphale, he knows, but it looks like him. It’s moving—not breathing, but moving, when it was so still before. His facial expression is wrong, too flat to be much of anything, but it’s not that horrible slackness of before, either. And Crowley stares at him like a man lost in the desert, finally having found some sort of oasis—and he eyes every dimple and curve of that face, memorising every detail with those eyes blessedly open, even if they are glowing white.

Aziraphale is so alive in front of him it hurts. 

But it’s not him. Not really.

Rage burns through him and he surges forward, slamming Her against the wall. “Get out of him,” he snarls. “You don’t deserve him. Get the fuck out of him!”

Aziraphale would chide him for snapping at God like this. Give him that exasperated look and everything. But he's not here to check Crowley's foul mood and God is not allowed to wear that familiar face. Aziraphale deserves so much better. 

He deserves everything. More than that, though, he deserves to be alive. 

Alive. 

God made Aziraphale; she can do it again, right? She can surely fix this. 

"Bringhimback," he breathes, a tiny spark of hope igniting in the hollow centre of his chest. His fingers twist in the fabric of that familiar clothing. How many times has he been in this position lately, pressing Aziraphale against something, wrinkling his shirt? His eyes burn again, cheeks damp from breaking down earlier and losing all hope. But now God is in front of him. "D'you hear me? Bring him back." 

“Oh, Crowley,” She says calmly. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, I really did. I was in the middle of some very important work. I’d hoped he’d last longer.” 

A snarl bubbles up his throat and he bares his teeth. “You have the audacity,” he seethes, wrenching Her forward to slam her back again, “to say that about him? Where were you? He needed you! He’s your bloody angel, your coverage, you’re supposed to help him! You’re supposed to care about him—”

“Of course I care about him. I care about all my children.” 

“Don’t give me that bullshit! He’s the best you have, you hear me? He…” The vehemence leaves him then. Aziraphale is a familiar form in front of him, animated and moving and everything he’s supposed to be—but it’s not him. A weight settles in his stomach. “Of all your blasted angels, he’s the best. He’s the only good one you have. He’s sacrificed everything for your precious humans—for you!” 

His fangs prick at his tongue and his mouth, cutting into his gums slightly, but he doesn’t care. Belatedly, he realises he’s stopped burning at some point in the past minute or so; the steam is gone, and while he can’t feel his legs, they hold steady and let him stay there on his knees, with Aziraphale—God, he corrects—pushed against the wall like this with his own body holding them there. 

“Just… give him back,” he says, so quietly, the words a mere shaky breath of air expelled from reluctant lungs. There’s a pit in his stomach threatening to devour him completely. “He has work to do for you still, he’s not done yet, and you obviously need him here, don’t you? Ssso jussst… bring him back.”

“Aziraphale earned a reward,” She says evenly. “It is why I left him in charge in the first place.” 

“This isn’t a reward,” Crowley says roughly, averting his gaze from that familiar face with that edge of wrongness to it. “This is… wrong. He didn’t want any of this!”

Aziraphale never asked for any of this. He never wanted Urges or demons hunting him or anything of the sort. An ideal day for his angel is spent lounging somewhere with a book in hand, preferably a first edition. Or it's spent enjoying new desserts. He never wanted any of this nonsense God flung at him without warning. 

“That’s why I gave it to him.” 

“He’s… He was…” 

Past tense.

Aziraphale is past tense now.

Oh, fuck. His eyes fall shut against the onslaught of tears. His shoulders tremble as he pulls away from that familiar clothing. Lets go of his handfuls and turns away, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes as he expels a shaky, tremulous breath. Despite everything, his lower lip betrays him and quivers like the pathetic human he is in this moment. He’s useless in this stupid church. The lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow, hard to breathe, but he still chokes out, “Give him back, just give him back.”

She has to give him back. Bring him back. Aziraphale still has work to do here on Earth for her, and She has to bring him back.

Crowley just wants him back.

“Please,” he adds weakly. He’ll keep saying it, he thinks. If that’s what it takes to get Her to listen, to hear him, to understand how much he can’t possibly do any of this alone… He’ll keep saying please. He’s not above begging for Aziraphale’s life. “Just bring him back.”

“Crowley, I didn’t take him.” 

“Like Hell you didn’t! Give him back to me!”

“Crowley, Look at him.” 

The words are quiet and calm, perfectly even, bordering on flat. Aziraphale never sounds that empty. There's always been something so animated about him, ever since the beginning. In that way he wrung his hands together there atop the wall surrounding Eden. His voice is no exception. A whine catches in Crowley's throat, stuck on that damn lump trapped there. Humans cry so easily; crying wasn't a thing before he took the Eden assignment, but it's never been such a problem until recently. Until Armageddon. Until a bookshop burnt around him. Now he doesn't know how to stop; can't bring himself to try and pull himself back together or regain any semblance of composure. Not with the world around him so empty and void. 

It would be better, he thinks, if he at least had the pain to hold onto. But God took that away, too, just as She stole everything else from him once again. Has he not suffered enough? There's no pain, but right now he needs the agony of burning in a church. Anything is better than this. 

This hollow, cold feeling in his chest, tight and constricting. 

Shaky hands cover his face again, hiding him from the world, from God, from the utter lack of Aziraphale. From that empty void opening up before him, a life without sunlight or warmth or--

"Please," he says again, inaudibly. His mouth forms the word but the sound gets lost in his throat, choking him momentarily. He clears his throat, inhaling shakily. "He doesn't deserve this. Give him back."

“Look at him.”

A strangled breath slips out of his mouth. He's Looked at Aziraphale; that's the whole bloody problem, he thinks. There's nothing to see because Aziraphale is gone. There's just darkness. He's gone when he should be blessedly present, and Crowley is alone when he shouldn't be. Aziraphale's Dark when he should be so very Bright, cold when he should be warm, and Crowley doesn't know what to do if God won't give him back. 

Can she even do it?

Aziraphale wasn't discorporated. He was destroyed... and that means nothing left, right? Utter obliteration. 

She can't give him back, can she? 

A heaving breath stutters out, a low keening whine stuck in his teeth as he bares them. There's not enough air in this stupid bloody church, which doesn't even have the decency to burn him anymore. It's too small and there's no air and even though he doesn't need to breathe he just can't pull in enough oxygen because something is constricting his lungs and Aziraphale is gone and Crowley is alone--

"Pleassse jussst give him back," he chokes out, a sob lodged in his chest. "I know I'm a demon and you don't give a ssshit about me but not him, okay? I can't fucking breathe..."

And apparently he doesn't have a thought-to-mouth filter anymore, either. That's just great. 

A demon begging God for something, that's rich. If Hell could see him now they'd be quite upset with him; eternity in the deepest pit wouldn't even begin to be punishment enough. 

But it’s Aziraphale. And he’d do anything for that stupid, blessed angel. 

“Crowley. Of course I care about you, my child.” 

Crowley's lips curl into a sneer as he drops his hands from his face, whirling to face Her before he can think better of it. Seeing Aziraphale's face right now is too painful; he averts his gaze to the font of holy water instead, fingers suddenly twitching at his side. "Don't give me that bullshit," he says flatly. "You've never given a shit about me or any other demon. You gave up on us a long time ago when you threw us out without even a conversation." He hisses through clenched, bared teeth. "I didn't mean to Fall, you know. But you didn't care about any of that. I only ever asked bloody questions and I still got the boot, and you jussst... threw usss out..."

Tossed the unwanted out of Heaven without a second look. He never even went directly against Her like most of the others did; he just asked a few stupid questions. She's never cared about him or any other demon.

But Aziraphale did. 

A pang in his chest leaves him sucking in a sharp breath. Aziraphale sheltered him from the very first storm that day in Eden, even after all Crowley did to ruin his job. He still cared about some random, lowlife demon named Crawly. 

He cared about Crowley. 

But it's all past tense now. 

How is he supposed to exist in a world where that precious light has been snuffed out? Where there's no one left to give two shits about some lowly demon?

Movement leaves him flinching. His gaze slips back toward Aziraphale, who is standing up now, looking down at him with those burning eyes. Oh, it hurts to look at him. Hurts somewhere deep inside Crowley's chest, like someone is shredding his very core, and he forces himself to look away again. Swiping an arm across his face he stands as well, on trembling but not burning legs. It's nearly too much effort to stand, but he clings to the last vestiges of hope. Hope She will listen and have mercy on him. Surely he's suffered more than enough for whatever he did in Heaven.

“I have always cared about all of my children.” 

That voice is so very familiar to him. In a way, it soothes his shredded core to hear it, even if the tone is all wrong. A part of him aches to lurch forward, throw himself against the familiar warmth and listen to that voice rumble under his ear like he has so many times in the recent past--but it's all a lie. It's not him. It's not him. 

"That's rich," he mutters distastefully. "Guess that's why you ripped your Love out of us when you gave us the boot, huh?" He exhales sharply. "Look, I don't care, okay? That doesn't matter. Can you just..." He swallows and looks back at Her. "I just... I jussst want him back, alright? You want me to beg? I'll do it."

“I don’t want you to beg, Crowley.” 

“Then what do you want? I’ll do it. Anything! He… He’s kinda all I have, you know? And I jussst… pleassse.” He swallows a gulp of air, feeling rather lightheaded despite the fact he shouldn’t need to breathe. “Can you do it? Can you… is it possible…?”

“Crowley, I never took him.” 

She’s said those words before. He doesn’t understand the meaning—except that Aziraphale can’t be brought back because he’s been destroyed. There’s nothing left to bring back—not even God can do it. She made Her own rules a long time ago, and destroyed is destroyed is destroyed. 

Crowley eyes the holy water. 

“Look at him.” 

He exhales sharply. "Can't."

“Yes you can.” 

“I can’t,” he hisses back, still staring at the holy water, refusing to look upon that face filled by a stranger. It hurts too much, taunting him with something that doesn’t exist anymore. His fingers twitch again at his sides, aching to reach out, to dip his fingers into the water. 

To maybe rip the font from the floor and dump it over his head entirely.

It’d be quick, he thinks. Ligur went quickly. He screamed the whole time it was happening, but it was over in a handful of seconds.

I can’t. I can’t do this without you. Why the fuck aren’t you here, you bastard…

He can’t do this alone, he thinks. He can’t exist alone. 

“Look at him.” 

A whimper erupts from his throat. He lifts a hand. “I can’t, what do you not get about that? I’ve Looked!”

He’s Looked, and Aziraphale isn’t there. He’s Dark, and still, and gone.

He steps forward, fingers outstretched for that font. Just a step, he thinks. A step and he’s there.

There’s a quiet gasp, and then a whir of motion as the church spins away to nothing around him. He lunges forward anyway, eager to reach the holy water—but his fingers close on empty air before he crashes over the back of a couch and hits the floor hard.

Ears ringing, he jumps to his feet and looks around the room he’s now in. A living room. No, not just any living room—he’s at the cottage. The place he shares with Aziraphale. Shared. A quick glance assures him the front door is still open and it’s dark outside, having been close to sunset when everything… happened. That brown package still sits just outside the door, the thing that started this whole bloody mess.

Aziraphale moves toward him.

Not Aziraphale, he reminds himself. Angel's gone. Not coming back.

“What the fuck was that?” He forces himself to remain looking at Her, even as a part of him sobs somewhere deep inside his mind. That expression is all wrong, he thinks; Aziraphale doesn’t ever look that flat, that calm, that empty. But he’s moving, which is still miles better than that stillness of before… 

Crowley wants it to be him. So badly.

It’s just not.

“You wanted to hurt yourself,” She says calmly, watching him carefully. At least, he thinks She is. It’s hard to tell where exactly Her gaze is with those glowing, burning white eyes. 

“You can’t bring him back,” he says flatly, finally looking away from that wrong face, those wrong eyes. “The least you could do is let me end it on my own terms.”

Don’t you owe me that, at least? 

“Crowley, Aziraphale wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. It would destroy him if something happened to you.” 

Aziraphale. 

Fuck, it hurts hearing his name, too. It all hurts. All of it. The face, the body, the eyes, his voice, his name—his absence is everywhere. Why the fuck does it hurt so much? How is this worse than a million lightyear dive into a pit of boiling sulphur?

“He’s already gone!” Crowley snaps back at Her. “He doesn’t fucking get a say!” Hellfire flickers briefly at his fingertips, summoned from the depths of his… passion. His fury, his pain, his despair—his desperation. He needs to get out of here. He needs to destroy something—preferably himself, for failing so horribly.  For actually losing that blessed angel. For letting him slip away like that, just poof, let him slip through his fingers. “And you can’t bring him back. Can you.”

It’s not a question. A question implies the hope of him being wrong.

There is no hope.

“I cannot.” 

There it is.

His eyes fall shut. This isn’t news, he tells himself. He’s known this, so why does it wash over him like a physical wave, threatening to drown him inside? He steeled himself for it, knew it was coming, so why the bloody hell does it hurt so much? “Yeah, exactly. So I’ll just be going, then…”

He snaps his fingers.

There’s no whir of motion like there should be. When he opens his eyes, he’s still standing in the living room. Aziraphale shifts in front of him, back in his line of sight, and his damaged hand is raised. Holy magic lingers in the air between them, canceling out Crowley’s snap so easily.

“How dare you,” he snarls viciously, rage propelling him forward. He snags handfuls of Aziraphale’s clothing and slams Her back into the wall with enough force the drywall splinters and cracks, bits of it breaking off to drop to the floor below. “How dare you!”

“I am sorry, but I cannot have you hurting yourself.” 

Panic ensnares him, drudged up somewhere from the very depths of his twisted soul. Does She plan to keep him here, then? Safe? Unharmed? Alone?

She can’t expect him to be alone. 

Hasn’t he suffered enough?

He snaps his fingers again.

She waves Her stolen hand, canceling it.

A tremor slips through him. His legs shake and give way, dropping him to his knees as he stares up at Her. A sinking horror fills his chest, leaving him rather numb. "I'm still being punished," he says dully, "aren't I?" His mind whirls. She plans to keep him here; safe. Unharmed. Alone. Panic twists in the pit of his stomach, rising like a lump in his throat, and now there's not quite enough air in this cottage, either. "Rather have the holy water," he wheezes, the words pouring out of him. "Y'can make it ssslow, f'you want. Jussst a drop at a time, 's fine. Rather have that."

“Crowley, I am not punishing you!” Aziraphale’s voice sounds horrified, now.

Well. It’s, at the very least, an inflection. Something Aziraphale might have said, a tone he might have used, if Crowley ever spoke to him about his worries, about his plan for if the impossible ever happened. Because he’s never planned on living alone. He doesn’t know how, can’t fathom that empty abyss waiting for him in the world. Another 6000 years, but without that comforting presence at his side. Another 6000 years, but alone. Alone. 

She wants to keep him here. Safe. Unharmed. Alone. 

He falls back into a sitting position, instead of balanced on his knees. It’s too much effort, he thinks, being on his knees. Keeping himself up at all. He just wants to lie down—just lie down, close his eyes, and never wake up. He can’t be alone if he never wakes up, now can he? He knows he can’t sleep for eternity, but for at least 100 years or so, he could exist in some in-between sort of state where he’s not entirely alone. Oh, they’ll be filled with nightmares, he’s certain, but at least Aziraphale will be there, he thinks, before the nightmares fully start. It’s something. Something other than this.

He’s a pathetic demon and he knows it, but he just wants to go home.

"Feels like punishment," he says quietly. "I'll take oblivion over... this. Didn't mean to lose him." Would never want to lose him. Fuck, I lost him. 

How could he fail so spectacularly?

All this time, he's had one job. One bloody job. Keep Aziraphale safe. Keep him safe, keep him from being discorporated, definitely don't let him get destroyed under any circumstances. Don't lose him. Whatever you do, don't fucking lose him. 

He failed. 

“Interesting,” hums that voice. Taunting him. “You wish to destroy yourself because you believe Aziraphale is gone?” 

A shudder slips through him. “You can’t expect me to do this alone, you fucking—wait.” His mind locks onto the wording. His eyes open and he looks up at Her as She stands above him. “Believe?” Believe Aziraphale is gone. “What do you…? What’s that…? What?”

No. He can’t do this. He can’t hope. Aziraphale is gone and he’s never coming back and Crowley can’t go through this shit again. He just can’t do it. He can’t hope and have it crushed when it turns out She is simply toying him, because this is to be his punishment. She hates him, after all. She hates demons, no matter what She says; Her words are lies. They’ve always been lies.

Aziraphale’s lips quirk into a smile. Not warm like it should be, he thinks, but it’s there all the same, stilted and wrong. God isn’t used to having a body at all, or using those muscles or smiling, and She certainly doesn’t know anything about Aziraphale or his typical movements. The smile is robotic and cuts at something deep inside of him, but She is smiling.

“I can’t give him back to you because I never took him, Crowley.” 

“You… what…” Those words don’t want to process in his mind. He stares up at her blankly, fighting the hope which threatens to surge in his chest. He stomps it down once, twice, three times—unwilling to let Her punishment cut him this way. It’s cruel of Her, he thinks. So needlessly cruel. 

“Aziraphale is hurt. He hid himself away to protect himself until you could save him. He had faith in you, Crowley.” 

Faith in him. Aziraphale had faith in him. In some lowly demon not worth his time. Faith in Crowley. 

Hid himself away. 

She wants him to Look at Aziraphale.

A low, keening whine escapes him. “He’s…?”

Aziraphale nods, still smiling.

Crowley Looks.

It’s Dark. The shadows over everything threaten to send him spiralling back into a pit of despair, a pit where holy water is the only way out, and he wants to rage at himself for daring to trust Her again. She’s never cared about him and this is just a cruel trick, a joke to Her. She doesn’t think he’s suffered enough and is doing this to him now, the ultimate punishment—letting him believe there’s even the slightest chance Aziraphale can be saved, before ripping it away from him.

It’s Dark, and it shouldn’t be Dark. It should be Bright, but it’s not.

But there are shadows, his mind supplies.

Shadows imply the existence of light, don’t they? You can’t have shadows without light causing them. The very existence of them demands some source of light, or it’s all just black.

This is what he thought before entering the church—what he told himself before carrying Aziraphale inside. Clinging to hope, fool that he was.

But he was wrong then. Aziraphale is gone.

But what if…? 

He slithers forward, circling that darkness, searching for that familiar ebb of light and warmth which has always called to him, always grounded him. Searching for home.

He just wants to go home.

Everything is Dark and quiet and unmoving—so very still. It shouldn’t be still, he thinks, remembering the turning wheels and that brightly glowing presence, warmer and brighter than the very sun. Pictures this place aglow like it should be, not Dark and empty as it is now.

But it’s not empty. It can’t be. There are shadows.

“He hid himself away…” 

When something is eating at you and need to protect that last spark of life, what do you do with it? You hide it in the last place they would look. Right in plain sight.

And suddenly Crowley can sense that warmth, that glow, all around him.

Aziraphale is in the shadows. There are shadows because there is light scattered within the darkness, nearly invisible, but still somehow there. There’s nothing to see, but something is there. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, like a prayer. 

“He is there, Crowley; he never left you.” 

He never left.

You clever, incredible bastard. 

Aziraphale is alive. He’s Dark, but not gone. Not destroyed forever, and Crowley isn’t alone. He’s not alone. Aziraphale is alive. Just hurt, and hiding.

Fractured.

“What happens now?” Crowley asks quietly, looking back at Her. This time, seeing Her wearing that familiar face doesn’t cut at him like before; instead he’s rather numb with relief, and seeing Her in those eyes is rather grounding. “He’ll heal, right?”

“He was hurt very badly, Crowley. Had he not thought as quickly as he did and hidden himself, giving you time to get to the holy water…” 

She leaves Her statement open-ended, but he understands nevertheless.

Aziraphale is a right clever bastard, and Crowley loves him for it.

He couldn’t flare his grace to save himself, but he could destroy himself enough to hide in plain sight, which ultimately did let Crowley get to the font of holy water and dislodge the invasive demonic presence. 

“But he’ll heal?” He asks again. “He won’t… just… stay like that, right? He’ll… come back?”

“That will be up to you, and up to him,” She says cryptically. “I need to be going.” 

“Why did you… come?”

God has never cared about him in the past, after all. Why did she come, if Aziraphale was alive?

Aziraphale’s lips twitch into a sad smile. “He prayed for you.” 

Crowley’s breath leaves him in a rush. “For me?”

“He was afraid you’d do something stupid. His words, not mine. His last thoughts were a prayer for your safety, and for me to stop you from doing anything… stupid. His prayer was rather loud.”

Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t have words. There’s just a warmth bursting in his chest, and fuck, he really wishes this was Aziraphale talking to him right now. He needs to hug the bastard, crush him until the hurt stops, until he can breathe again.

“He loves you, Crowley. It is… good, to see.” 

“Good,” Crowley repeats. 

“Take care of him.” 

“Care.”

“Talk to him. Let him know it’s safe. And Crowley?”

“Talk,” he echoes. “Safe. Wait. Yes?”

“Don’t lose him again.” 

There’s a burst of light flaring around Her then, too bright for Crowley to keep his eyes open. He closes them against the burning bright pain and then there’s the thud of something hitting the floor. His eyes open and there’s Aziraphale, limp and dead on the floor.

He crashes to his knees next to the body, hands hovering just over his still chest, afraid to shatter this dream entirely if he makes the wrong move. This was all real, he tells himself. All of this happened. Yeah, the bad parts, but also the good ones. Aziraphale’s not gone. He’s just locked inside himself somewhere, hiding and trying to survive, and he obviously doesn’t have the energy or the thought to breathe. 

Angels don’t need to breathe.

“Aziraphale…”

He finally places his hand, there along the curve of that familiar face, and tilts the head toward him. There’s a lingering warmth in the body, echoes of Her grace and Love, and Crowley’s eyes fall shut as he sits there, exhaustion weighing through him. 

Aziraphale is alive.

He’s not alone.

Today he lost absolutely everything but then got it back just as suddenly. 

How is he supposed to cope with any of this? Process any of it?

He can’t stop shaking.

For a long time, he sits there, seemingly frozen in time. Then he stirs, looks at the still-open door and that horrible package outside. He snaps his fingers and the package disappears, and it will appear in the deepest pit in Hell, locked away from this world for probable eternity. Then he looks back down at the still angel.

Rubs his thumb along the curve of that cheekbone, as he did before. Aziraphale is cold again.

“I love you,” he says, very quietly, afraid to shatter the moment, shatter everything.

A rush of breath escapes him. He’s never said these words out loud, because speaking them makes them real, and loving someone means there’s suddenly something very precious to lose—but that’s already happened. He lost Aziraphale today.

He bows over the body, touching his forehead to the angel’s, and closes his eyes once more. “Shoulda told you. But I am now. It’s safe, and you can come out whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here, and I love you.”

He should probably get Aziraphale off the floor, put him to bed or something. He should close the front door and ward this place as best he can. 

There are many things he should do right now. Many things to be done.

He does none of them.

Just lingers here with Aziraphale, unable and unwilling to let go.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale comes back to himself very slowly.

It’s not quite like waking up, but it’s rather disorientating nevertheless, an unwelcome feeling. 

For a time, he drifts in a state of nonexistence. No thoughts, no pain. There’s just nothing. 

Slowly, things begin to reform. There’s a spark somewhere and he is aware of himself—aware of existing, at the very least. He has no name, no thoughts or feelings or anything like that, but he exists, and he is mildly aware of the space around him. He doesn’t know the term ‘darkness’, not in this state of being, but that’s what surrounds him.

A little while later, he realises there is space around him. Empty space.

After that, there’s a nagging thought at the edge of what might be considered a mind, finally forming; this space shouldn’t be so empty. Something is wrong here, in that instinctual, primitive way. 

There is no identity, no memory, no real thoughts. Just some sort of basic, primal instinct that this empty space around him is wrong. Perhaps it should be filled with something. Something.

At some point, he becomes aware of himself. Not as a person, or an entity, but he can differentiate himself from the area around him, knows he is separate from it, and on some level, can register his aversion to the area around him. The emptiness of it. The darkness. 

Still nameless, he eventually realises this place around him should, in fact, be Bright. It’s always Bright. He’s Bright. At least, he should be. This is what’s wrong. This void shouldn’t be empty or dark or anything like that at all, and he doesn’t know how to make it right again.

Somehow, something is cold. Distantly, he thinks it should be warm. Something should feel warm around him; should he feel warm? How does one feel things? What does it mean to feel? He has no point of reference, really, but the term strikes him nevertheless. What does it all mean?

What is he? Who is he? Why is he here alone?

Should he be alone?

As he begins to reform and the shadows recede, the area beginning to brighten if ever so slightly—a darkness slithers toward him. It’s nothing he can actually, truly see, he thinks belatedly, but it’s there all the same. A… presence, at the edge of his mind. At the edge of his awareness. Just outside himself. It circles around him, over and over and over again, and when it finally nudges at him—

Asssziraphale… 

Aziraphale. That’s his name, isn’t it? That’s him. That’s him specifically.

He prods back at that slithering entity, unable to stop himself. The reaction is instinctual; something about that dark, sleek presence intrigues him, calls to him in a way the shadows from before never did, and he can’t help but reach out. 

Something downright… warm? Happy? Eager? Are these things? Something flits through their tremulous connection. Something he should know, he thinks, but he can’t quite realise fully.

Asssziraphale, come baaack. 

Come back. What does that even mean? How does one come back?

I am Aziraphale, he tells himself, over and over when the shadows threaten to return and consume everything he is, everything he’s started to reform and build back up. I am Aziraphale, and that entity there… that’s mine.

It is his, right?

Perhaps not part of him, not really, but it’s his all the same. In some ways it feels more his than the sparks of light struggling to reignite around him. That entity is still circling, a never-ending loop spinning around him, with no gaps in the circle. In this space, Aziraphale can… stop struggling.

Reforming becomes easier, with that presence around him.

Protecting him, he realises one day. The word springs on him with sudden clarity, and he knows this is protection. This is safety. He is safe.

He’s not sure when he was ever not safe, as he has no experience with danger or being unsafe, but here, he is most assuredly safe. 

One day, he becomes aware of the fact he is an angel. 

It comes out of nowhere, this knowledge, but it feels right. He is an angel, and his name is Aziraphale, and that entity circling him is warmth safety protection love. 

Love.

Love is a concept, but that presence is the definition. 

That’s all he really knows about it in this moment.

Slowly, the area around him brightens. That circle grows larger to keep him within its net of safety even as he continues to grow and brighten. The shadows disperse completely, save for that sleek black presence with the… no, it’s not just darkness, is it? There’s a flare of color there as well.

Color is a concept which takes a while to form in his mind, but when it finally does, he realises there’s a touch of red in there as well. As the concept solidifies, he learns this color is actually auburn, and it is very familiar. Some part of him feels a connection with this color, with this presence, and he prods outward again, just to say hello. 

Asssziraphale, there you are. 

The voice isn’t anything physical. That is a word, isn’t it? Physical. Words are meant to be spoken, aren’t they? But not here. That concept doesn’t quite exist here, but it’s there at the edge of his awareness anyway, and he’s almost… giddy, at the thought of deciphering it. In time, he will understand. Just as he has come to understand everything else around him, bit by bit. So very slowly.

But this presence is so very patient with him. 

Here I am, he manages a while later, pushing the words outward to connect with that circling form. I am here. Hello, there. 

That presence around him is giddy as well, it seems. That’s the word he couldn’t find earlier—giddy. Happy. Eager. Spurts of color ignite from that circling presence, brushing against him briefly, and it is pleasant. Familiar. Safe. 

Home, some distant part of him whispers. 

This is Home. 

He is Aziraphale, and this presence is Home.

Names aren’t a thing in his mind yet—but identifiers are something. His identity is Aziraphale, which isn’t a word which actually means anything, and this presence is Home. 

But then one day, Home leaves.

The circling stops. Aziraphale is alone. 

Oh. That is rather unpleasant, actually. Is that a word? A feeling? Not good, he thinks. It doesn’t feel good. For a while now, he’s inhabited this space with Home, even if he didn’t realise it at the time, and now he is alone. There aren’t any shadows, there is no darkness, and the area around him is only Bright.

Somehow, this feels wrong. 

He drifts.

The last thing Anathema expected when she finished her summoning circle was an enraged demon literally lunging at her the second he appeared. But maybe she should have expected it; this is Crowley, after all.

Still. She didn’t think he’d be so quick to attack her.

He slams against an invisible wall at the edge of the circle, and he looks distinctly not human. His skin has bled black, scales coating what’s shown of his face and neck and hands as curled fists slam against the invisible barrier. His eyes are burning yellow embers with extremely slitted pupils and there are actual fangs in his mouth as he bares his teeth at her, snarling again like some sort of… animal. 

He’s more animal than man at this point, she thinks.

No, she corrects herself, more demon than man. 

“Crowley?” She asks quietly. 

“Sssend me back,” he hisses with a deep undertone to his voice—something beastly, demonic and inhuman, “let me out right thisss sssecond, Book Girl—”

She folds her hands over her chest, quirking a brow at him. “Excuse me, but you’re the one who asked for my help! For Aziraphale, remember?”

At the mention of the angel’s name, Crowley throws himself against the barrier again with another ungodly hiss. She flinches at the sound and the sudden movement, even as she glares back at him, frustrated.

“Where is he, anyway?” She asks. “I tried to summon him but it just… didn’t work.”

It worked before, she knows, back at the bookshop. But when the angelic circle fizzled out like that, she felt a chill slip down her spine and she quickly left the bookshop to return home and read up on demonic summoning. Once she got the symbols and sigils right, and figured out the appropriate way to summon a demon in particular if she knew their name—well, she eventually managed to do it but it certainly wasn’t easy. She’s not certain Crowley is even his real name.

“Let me outtt,” Crowley spits back at her. “He’sss alooone, you ssstupid girl!” 

She sighs heavily. “I’m not letting you out until you stop this nonsense and actually talk to me. I can sit here all day, you know. I’ve got time!”

She really doesn’t. Maintaining this spell is difficult, and she certainly didn’t mean to keep the barrier up once she summoned Crowley. She meant to let him out the second he arrived, as this was the only way she knew of to get a hold of him when reaching out to Aziraphale failed, but the second he spawned in that circle he was already snarling and flinging himself at her aggressively. She had no choice but to keep it up for her own safety.

Crowley snarls back at her, teeth snapping at air, fangs so sharp and angry. Anathema waits him out. She doesn’t have all day, but she has more time than Crowley, it seems, because there’s a desperation around him. His aura is out of control, honestly; blacks and reds flaring up every couple of seconds before dying down again as he tries to control himself. 

Eventually, those fangs recede and the burning of his gaze stops being so potent. 

“Let me out,” he says, without hissing like a snake this time. “You don’t understand what’s happening.”

“So tell me.”

“Let me out!”

“Tell me. Where is Aziraphale? Is he alright?”

“No, he’s not alright!” Crowley bites back. “He almost… He…” A snarl slips free. “I lost him, okay? But he’s getting better and you just tore me away—”

Anathema sighs and crouches at the edge of the circle. Smudges out a sigil with the palm of her hand, dispelling her connection with the old magic. There’s a shimmer to the air and suddenly Crowley staggers out of the circle and immediately brings his hand up.

He snaps his fingers and then he’s gone, just like that.

Anathema stares at the empty space.

“Well,” she says. “Shit.”

It takes 10 days for Aziraphale to even begin stir, metaphorically speaking.

12 days for him to start to Brighten.

17 days for him to prod Crowley. 17 days before he feels that presence wash over him, if only so briefly. 17 days before Crowley could start to breathe again.

21 days before Aziraphale manages a quick, I am here, hello. 

A month before he physically starts to stir.

Day 29, his chest stutters into movement, rising and falling as he breathes for the first time in so long. 

31 days after everything happened, Aziraphale’s eyes twitch. Crowley hovers over him, unwilling to leave or even blink for a half-second. Just watching. Waiting. 

He talks to Aziraphale—babbles, mostly. About anything and everything. Any stray, idle thought, just to keep talking. Asks him to come back, tells him about the weather outside, even reads to him aloud from the collection of books Aziraphale has brought over to the cottage already. Anything to keep talking. He speaks until his voice is hoarse and sore and he’s aching for a drink, but to get a drink would mean moving from this spot and he absolutely refuses to do so. 

There’s a layer of dust over everything, but not Aziraphale. Crowley snaps away the dust whenever it tries to form, because Aziraphale will be unhappy to see his clothes in such a sorry state when he wakes up, and Crowley doesn’t want to hear him complain.

[He very much wants to hear him complain.]

Crowley isn’t summoned again. Book Girl doesn’t dare. He would snap her head off if she tore him away again like that. Aziraphale isn’t summoned either; she said something about it not working, but Crowley refuses to think about that thought as he sits here, waiting for Aziraphale to stir. 

There will be time for that later.

By day 39, he’s ready to tear his hair out. Aziraphale has been stirring for a while now, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s Bright and not dormant and Dark like before, but there’s still no form to his presence. There aren’t wheels or eyes or anything like that; nothing like there should be, and Crowley has zero idea what this means for him. Distantly, he just hopes it’s not bad. 

Change isn’t always bad, he reminds himself. 

And he waits.

And waits.

Sometimes he breaks down. Sometimes it becomes too much for him and he sits in the corner of the room, watching the bed as he sinks to the floor with his back against the wall, and he huddles there, curling in on himself, and he lets himself fall apart. 

Sometimes, you can’t go home. Sometimes home is just gone.

He doesn’t let himself feel this way very long, of course. Just enough so this tight feeling in his chest can get enough relief, enough elasticity, to allow him to breathe again. Then he collects himself off the floor and joins Aziraphale on the massive king bed in Crowley’s room, and he waits.

He’ll wait forever if he has to. It won’t be pleasant, but he’ll certainly do it. 

The alternative is unthinkable.

Aziraphale will eventually wake up. 

One day.

Hopefully soon. 

It’s already been over a month of silence, of talking to himself and hoping against all odds She didn’t lie to him. He waited two weeks before, which seems easy in comparison. At least then Aziraphale was waking up occasionally, even if he did keep keeling over and losing consciousness every time. At least he would wake up and would talk to him. 

The silence is slowly driving him mad. It’s sad, he thinks. Pathetic, really.

They used to go years, decades, centuries—without speaking to each other. Without seeing each other.

It wasn’t fine, but at least it had been tolerable.

Now, though…

He waits.

On day 52, Crowley sits in an almost stupor as those eyelids twitch again before finally opening. They’re open. 

Blue-grey eyes peer up at the ceiling, confusion marring his brow, before Aziraphale’s gaze flits sideways and lands on the demon sitting so very still next to him.

For a second, there’s just a blank confusion in those eyes, and Crowley’s breath stutters to a halt in his chest.

Then clarity fills the gaze, and Aziraphale smiles at him. “Hello, my dear.”

A sob wrenches free and Crowley jerks into motion as he flings himself at the angel, wrapping his arms around that familiar form so very tightly, squeezing for all he’s worth. Ribs creak beneath his hold but Aziraphale merely hums under his breath, the vibrations warm and familiar and inviting. Grounding. 

His face is buried in Aziraphale’s chest, which rises and falls it should have been doing all along, and he breathes in the scent of home. He’s finally home.

Hands come around him as well, and then there are fingers in his hair, pushing through the tangled mess of strands. “Oh, my dear. You look awful.”

A shaky laugh escapes him, just bubbles up out of his throat as he listens to the the-thump of Aziraphale’s heart. “Ngk,” he manages, voice muffled. “Nggh. Ssspeak for yourssself.”

That hand pets through his hair, and tears slip from tightly closed eyes. Aziraphale says nothing about the display, just holds onto him.

Maybe you can go home again, he thinks absently, with Aziraphale warm and solid and real beneath him, crushed in his grasp. 

“I am so terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says quietly, sometime later. When the shaking of Crowley’s shoulders have stopped and they’re just sitting there, tired and frail together. “I couldn’t warn you. There was no time.”

A trembling breath escapes Crowley’s mouth. He’s laying on the bed at this point, sprawled across it with his head on Aziraphale’s chest and fingers still combing through the tussled mess of his hair. Occasionally fingers snag on a knot and Aziraphale carefully works through it before smoothing through the strands again. 

“ ’s okay,” Crowley tells him.

“I hope you didn’t do anything… stupid.”

Crowley smiles tiredly, turning his face more into that chest and the familiar rumble under his cheek. “Yeah, well, y’know me. Stupid is my middle name.”

“You don’t have a middle name,” Aziraphale reminds him. “It’s just a J.”

“Did nothin’ stupid,” Crowley tells him quietly. “You made sure of that.”

That hand stills in his hair. “Oh?”

Crowley frowns, but doesn’t move. Can’t bring himself to do so. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what, my dear?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I just… didn’t do anything stupid, is all. ‘Course not.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to know about God walking around in his body. He doesn’t need to know about Her telling Crowley of his prayers. That seems… private, he thinks. 

Maybe he’ll tell him everything later, of course, but for now…

For now, he’s more than happy to just linger here, forever.

Chapter Text

A guilty serpent is, perhaps, the worst thing in the world, Aziraphale thinks as he watches Crowley cook at the stove. He’s sat himself at the table, watching the demon cook, but there’s a murky darkness oozing through the room, and its presence is rather suffocating, truth be told. The room feels stuffy, the air thick and oppressive, and it’s emanating from the demon at the stove. Guilt is a powerful feeling, and Crowley has never worn it well. 

While Aziraphale doesn’t quite remember or understand all that happened 61 days ago, he knows it was bad. Really, very bad. A near-disaster. He can’t remember the details but perhaps that is a blessing. All he really recalls is a fleeting sense of pain, a being unable to access his power to flare his grace, and wide, burning yellow eyes. He thinks he might remember hearing a deep, rumbling voice—a True Voice, perhaps? But he’s not entirely certain of that either. All he knows is it was bad, and he very nearly died.

And for some reason, Crowley seems to believe it is his fault. 

Aziraphale isn’t certain how to broach the topic. How to bring up what actually happened. Every time he tries, Crowley either tenses so much Aziraphale drops it altogether, not wishing to upset his demon further—or Crowley busies himself with some other urgent activity which has suddenly sprung up out of nowhere.

Tonight, he decided dinner was vitally important and scurried off so quickly it almost gave Aziraphale whiplash. 

Other than running off to avoid a topic of conversation, Crowley has been rather tied to his side in a nearly very literal sense. Crowley keeps touching, or prodding if he can’t physically do the touching, and while Aziraphale certainly won’t deny him this small comfort, it is becoming a bit much for him. Crowley might be touch-starved, but Aziraphale feels touch-full; the repeated brushes are slowly starting to grate on him in a way he never imagined.

He’s never been overly fond of touch; he spent a lot of time avoiding it altogether unless strictly necessary for a job or something, and while he and Crowley occasionally touched hands or something small like that, it is a far cry from what is happening now. None of it is untoward, of course. He knows if he told Crowley to stop and leave him be, the demon would do it. But it wouldn’t be helpful for Crowley, so Aziraphale bears the touches and tries to offer as much comfort as he can.

He’s just not used to it, he thinks. They’ve gone from very little physical contact to the demon practically living partially in his lap, and not in any… deviant way, really. No, there’s nothing sexual in the touches or anything like that. He doesn’t think either of them care about any of that nonsense. They’re just… small bits of comfort for the demon. And Crowley has certainly earned them.

It is just going to take some getting used to. Aziraphale doesn’t like change; he avoids it if at all possible. This is why his clothes are still so very outdated, why he’s worn the same thing—the very same outfit—for roughly 200 years now. It’s why his bookshop looks so antiquated on the inside. He doesn’t handle change very well and will seldom make the first move toward it himself, so of course he is having trouble adjusting in the moment. 

It will all come together soon.

He just wishes Crowley didn’t feel it was all so necessary. 

They need to have a discussion about what happened and he needs to make it very clear that none of it was Crowley’s fault. His demon is a stubborn one, of course, and doesn’t handle guilt very well. It ties him up in knots and Aziraphale prefers his demon laidback and easy-going, thank you very much.

Aziraphale watches Crowley cook and tries to come up with some sort of plan in his mind. He will have to just corner him, he thinks, and get the demon talking to him about what happened. Crowley has never done well when bottling up his emotions; and Aziraphale can’t possibly let that guilt emanate from him any longer. It’s too thick and suffocating.

Crowley finishes at the stove and turns to bring a plate of food to the table, which he sets down in front of Aziraphale. Aziraphale peers down at the chicken Alfredo and then smiles at the demon who sits across from him.

“This looks delicious, my dear. Thank you.”

“Nggh,” Crowley says, nose scrunching. “Stop that.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “One day you are going to let me thank you.”

“Not today.”

“Very well then. I rescind my thanks.”

“How angelic of you.”

Aziraphale takes his first bite and wriggles happily in his seat. Oh, it’s been a while since he’s had pasta, he thinks, and Crowley is becoming quite the little cook. It takes him some time to get things correct when he’s cooking, and he’s certainly tossed out enough burnt or overcooked food, but when he’s finished the meal is still delicious. 

“Mmh,” he sighs happily, savouring the bite of food before swallowing it. “This is delicious, my dear.”

“Nnyeah, no problem.”

Aziraphale takes the time to watch Crowley as he eats. The demon can’t quite sit still; he keeps fidgeting in his seat and his eyes keep darting all over the kitchen, landing anywhere but on Aziraphale. This is decidedly odd, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley, for whatever reason, has always watched him eat. It has earned them more than a few strange looks at restaurants over their long lives but has certainly never deterred the demon, and Aziraphale is rather used to him watching.

“Something wrong, Crowley?”

“Wha—? No, ‘course not,” Crowley says quickly, glancing at him finally. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, but then he usually doesn’t when he’s somewhere he feels… safe. He so seldom wore them at the bookshop, and now the habit has followed them to the cottage. “Why d’you ask?”

Aziraphale pops his fork into his mouth, savouring the Alfredo. He watches Crowley a moment longer before he sighs and stabs his fork back into his plate, piercing a diced piece of grilled chicken. “You seem… troubled.”

“Troubled,” Crowley repeats.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? I’m afraid I don’t fully remember it.”

Crowley knows this, of course; Aziraphale has certainly said as much on numerous occasions now, since he first woke up. Even so, Crowley’s gaze skitters away again and he shifts his weight in the chair. 

“I took you to the church. Dunked your hand in holy water. The end.”

“My dear, I know there is more to it than that.”

He doesn’t like the thought of Crowley keeping things from him, especially things which makes him feel so utterly guilty, but he doesn’t quite know how to broach the topic of guilt. 

“Tell me what happened,” he says calmly, putting his fork down. 

Crowley eyes his plate. “You’re not even half done, angel.”

“The food can wait,” Aziraphale says, somewhat sharply. “Tell me what happened.”

Crowley’s eyes flash briefly. “I already told you, angel.”

“There’s something you’re keeping from me.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. “Not hiding anything.”

Aziraphale huffs, sitting back in his seat to fold his arms across his chest, food forgotten. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to my face.”

“ ‘m not lyin’!” Crowley says, eyes wide. “Honest!”

“A lie by omission, then.”

“Aziraphale, there’s nothing.”

The chair scrapes across the floor as Aziraphale pushes it back and stands. Crowley freezes at the sudden movement, eyes locked on the angel, and Aziraphale turns to leave the room.

Crowley’s chair clatters backward, nearly toppling over by the sound of it, and then hurried footsteps chase after him. Aziraphale spins back around, levelling the demon with a glare, which stops Crowley mid-step. 

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” Aziraphale says flatly. “Alone.”

The dark energy bursts outward from Crowley’s body, then. It sweeps over him like a physical wave, rocking him back a step, but he manages to hold his ground even as the demon surges forward, eyes still locked on him, unblinking. 

“You can’t,” Crowley says quickly, “there’s still a demon out there somewhere!”

“Right,” Aziraphale says with a nod. “How silly of me, forgetting something like that. I must be losing my mind. Why else would my best friend be lying to me?”

Crowley flinches back like he knew he would, and Aziraphale feels horrible for doing this to the demon. 

“ ‘m not… ‘m not lying,” Crowley says again—or, rather, mumbles. 

“Right,” Aziraphale says briskly. “A walk sounds nice, then.”

He turns on his heel again and strides out of the room. Footsteps hurry after him and Crowley follows him outside with a low hiss.

It’s a rather gloomy night, all things told. Cloudy, moonless, and the air is beginning to turn frigid. Sometimes he forgets it’s been months since they came here; of course the weather is changing. A dark, suffocating vortex of negativity follows behind him and it takes all he has not to turn around, yank Crowley close, and push all the calmness he can at him. 

“This is ssstupid,” Crowley mutters.

It is, Aziraphale silently agrees. He walks around the cottage toward the garden, neglected in the back. 

He’s never seen Crowley’s plants so lifeless. Of course, this could be attributed to the time of year it is becoming; most plants shrivel and die in the cold months, after all. But Crowley’s have never suffered things like normal deaths; he miracles them to survive despite the weather, but normally they aren’t so limp and forlorn.

Aziraphale tuts. “Oh, my dear, your poor plants.”

He’s seen them from inside the cottage, of course, but Crowley has been rather reticent to let Aziraphale wander outside until now. Aziraphale has missed the fresh air, even if it is a dark, cloudy night.

Crowley hisses behind him, striding toward one of them. His hand snags at a limp leaf. “Is that a spot?”

“You haven’t been out here much with them,” Aziraphale says quietly, “have you?”

He knows the answer, of course. But he wants to hear it from Crowley himself.

Crowley hesitates, eyes scanning the leaf again. “No,” he finally says.

“Well, why don’t you wait here and do a little gardening? Your plants look like they miss you.”

Crowley huffs a quick laugh. “Yeah, right, angel. They don’t miss me. But clearly they need to be taught a lesson.” This is said with a glare at the surrounding plants, which begin shivering.

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course. I’ll just be up ahead on the bridge.”

The demon’s gaze shoots toward him. “Ngk,” he says.

Aziraphale nods; they aren’t there yet. “You know, I think I’ll sit here and watch you. See a master gardener at work.”

“Not a master,” Crowley huffs, but visibly relaxes as he turns back to his plants.

Aziraphale picks a spot of grass and sits down. 

Crowley has never worn guilt well. A conversation can’t be had outright about it, not yet, but Aziraphale can do what he can to help ease the demon out of the fit he’s gotten himself in.

It’s a start.

He watches Crowley in his element. The demon seems gradually more himself as he flits from plant to plant, giving them a stern talking to about having leaf spots or appearing so sad and tired when they should be proud to be his plants.

After roughly thirty minutes of this, Aziraphale rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, sighing. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Crowley stills, hand frozen mid-reach for another leaf. Snakes do frozen very well, Aziraphale thinks idly. “Ngk,” says the demon. “Nuuh. It was a Prince of Hell, Aziraphale. Kinda bloody obvious! I wasn’t even thinking…”

“Neither was I,” Aziraphale reminds him gently.

“Nnyeah, but you wouldn’t have been able to sense it before touching it anyway,” Crowley mutters bitterly. “That was the whole point of it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts slowly, “if you’d sensed anything demonic on that package, would you have let me touch it?”

Crowley whirls toward him, snarling, teeth bared. “ ‘course not!”

“Then you couldn’t have sensed it either, until I touched it. It was masked to you as well, my dear.”

The demon growls, but says nothing. Silence lingers between them, but it’s not the oppressive, suffocating type from before, Aziraphale can’t help but notice. Something in Crowley’s mind has started to unravel.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aziraphale tells him again. “None of it.”

Crowley’s mouth opens, then shuts again. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides and his gaze flits away. “I shoulda gotten you to the holy water sooner.”

“My dear, you took me there within a couple of minutes of touching the package. I don’t think you could have possibly acted quicker. I had complete faith in you.”

A tremor slips through the demon’s wiry frame. 

He’s always had faith in Crowley, even when he sometimes doubts everything else around him. Crowley has always been there, he thinks. Ever since that day in Eden, the demon has always shadowed him and it’s never once felt like he was being stalked for some hunting party. Crowley can be quite brilliant when he puts his mind to something, and Aziraphale knew he would figure something out, just as he always did.

He just had to buy a little time.

Crowley stands there, silence wrapping around them, before he huffs out a shaky breath and nods once. “ ‘kay,” he says.

It’s all he’s going to get, Aziraphale knows; the only sign of acknowledgement that Crowley has thought his words through, and he might not agree with them entirely, but he will, at least, accept them.

Baby steps, Aziraphale thinks.

“My dear, your plants have stopped trembling.”

Crowley curses and spins back toward them.

Chapter Text

Crowley waits impatiently for Anathema and Aziraphale to finish talking. He prowls at the edge of the witch’s kitchen, eying her lanky boyfriend who sits awkwardly in the living room, obviously listening in on the conversation happening in the other room. It’s not even hidden eavesdropping at this point. Crowley would normally be proud of eavesdropping, but today he wants to bite something, so he refrains from moving closer to the twirl of mischief this brings. 

This conversation is pointless, he thinks. Anathema asked how Aziraphale was doing, they chatted about some old book, Aziraphale made some tea, and Anathema finally brought up magic and her inability to summon Aziraphale earlier, before she stole Crowley away from him for that short amount of time. 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale says reassuringly. “I am certain it had nothing to do with your powers and everything to do with what happened to me.”

Obviously, Crowley wants to bite back. Aziraphale hadn’t had enough of himself to be summoned at all. Aziraphale had explained it as drifting, half-asleep but struggling to wake. He was in no state to be summoned as he did not quite exist himself, just then. 

“I found some spells that might be helpful against angels,” she says.

“Problem is demons,” Crowley mutters despite himself. The look Aziraphale levels him with leaves him hissing under his breaths as he prowls away, then stomps back just as quickly, pacing at the edge of the kitchen. 

“I found some for demons too,” Anathema says, “but most of them are for banishing them back to Hell, which I thought you’d rather avoid. But I can make an exception, if you want to keep biting my head off.” This is said with an icy glare tossed over her shoulder toward the demon in question.

Crowley bares his teeth back at her but says nothing.

“That won’t be necessary, my dear,” Aziraphale says quickly. “We appreciate your help, don’t we, Crowley?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says.

“That’s serpent-speak for Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale says. “I’m afraid his plants have been wilting and he’s had a hard time getting them back into shape. Don’t take it personally.”

Anathema sighs heavily. Crowley’s movements quicken, agitated. 

It’s not about the bloody plants and Aziraphale knows this. 

“May I ask, why were you looking for protection from angels?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Anathema shrugs. “Ask your demon. He seemed worried about it.”

“Nggh,” says the demon.

Book Girl looks back at him calmly, brow raised expectantly.

Crowley huffs. “Listen, I’m not apologising. I did nothing wrong here!”

“Have I missed something?” The angel asks.

“He was very rude to me,” Anathema sniffs, “when I summoned him to see how you both were doing.”

“Rude,” Crowley repeats. “Wasn’t rude, Book Girl, I was murderous.”

This, at least, earns him a very small flinch. It’s not much, but it’s something. Book Girl might have nerves of steel but she’s still only human. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chastises with a tut. “Why would you want to murder this poor girl? She was only trying to help.”

Anathema juts her chin toward Aziraphale, triumph in her eyes.

Oh, yes, get the angel to side with you. That doesn’t mean you win. 

“I had other places to be,” is all he says on the matter. “So those protections, Book Girl?”

She sighs again, heavy and frustrated. She wants an apology, he thinks, but she isn’t getting one. Crowley doesn’t apologise. Well, he does, but only if he’s very wrong and only to the angel. He’s certainly not apologising to some Book Girl with an itchy summoning finger.

“The trouble is trying to find something that works on both, but that won’t hurt either of you,” she tells them. “You guys sure like to make things difficult.”

“But you’ve found something, yes?” Crowley asks.

“Well, yes and no.” She shifts in her seat. “I’m close. Now that I understand the situation a little better, I should be able to find something eventually… it’s just, most books on witches are nonsense, and my family hasn’t had to worry about, er… Heaven and Hell, exactly. Mostly just Witchfinders.”

“So you’ve got nothing,” is what Crowley gleans from this.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, sharply. “Thank you, Anathema. I’m sure this was difficult to find in the first place, and we appreciate your help.”

“Useless,” Crowley mutters under his breath.

“Hey, leave her alone,” Newt finally speaks up from the living room, done with pretending not to eavesdrop. He stands from the couch and moves toward Crowley, all lanky limbs and no finesse. 

Crowley supposes it’s meant to be threatening, but Newton Pulsifer—or The Boyfriend—has never and will never be intimidating, especially not to a demon. Crowley stares him down with a low hiss and Newt has the audacity to stand his ground anyway.

What is this world coming to? Has he lost his edge?

“Thank you for the update, Anathema, but I’m afraid we must be going.” There’s the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Lovely to see you again, my dear girl.”

“Any time,” Anathema says. “Can I have a phone number or something? Summoning you guys is… troublesome.”

“Oh, yes, of course! I’m afraid I don’t have a mobile, but Crowley does. Crowley?”

Crowley hisses again and finally looks away from his staring contest with Newt. This doesn’t mean the human wins or anything silly like that; Crowley just has other things to do. He sighs and waves his hand at Anathema.

“Number should be there,” he says.

Anathema frowns then checks her phone, nodding. “Alright, thanks.”

Aziraphale gathers up the papers Anathema had printed out and scribbled on earlier to show him what information she had gathered already. It’s not much, but it’s a start, Crowley thinks. Maybe he should thank Book Girl, but that an wait until she actually has something helpful.

And he’s still rather miffed about the fact she yanked him away so suddenly when Aziraphale was recuperating. Maybe he overreacted a little, he thinks in retrospect, but at the time he’d been desperate to stay at the cottage and keep circling that growing presence. 

Suddenly being ripped away from it had been devastating. 

Anathema places a hand on the curve of Aziraphale’s elbow, catching the angel’s attention. Crowley stares at the offending hand, eyes narrowed. “Are you alright?” Book Girl asks. “How bad was it?”

“I am perfectly fine, my dear,” Aziraphale says, patting her hand with his own briefly. “It seems Hell doesn’t like my new position, is all. And I really shouldn’t go touching things delivered by strange people, I suppose.”

Anathema frowns. “I don’t get it.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” the angel assures her. “But we wouldn’t want to drag you into danger just because you’re helping us. If you find anything or need anything, feel free to ring Crowley.”

Crowley grimaces. He doesn’t like that plan. Book Girl looks back at him and scowls as well.

“Why don’t you have a cellphone?” She asks, looking back at Aziraphale. “It’s 2019.”

“He’s getting one,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale gives him a withering glare. “I am not.”

“You are. For sure.”

Aziraphale has needed one for a while now; Crowley just didn’t have the patience, in their rush to raise the assumed Antichrist, to teach him how to use it or nag him until he kept it on him at all times or anything like that. Adjusting Aziraphale to something new is a process. But ever since the bookshop burned, Crowley has been thinking about insisting Aziraphale get a cellphone; it’s just never quite come up since this whole mess started.

But he does need one. 

Crowley certainly isn’t going to be the point of contact between the angel and the witch.

Aziraphale smiles at Book Girl. “We will be seeing you around then, my dear.”

Then he steps away and moves toward Crowley.

“Shall we be going, then?”

Crowley nods once, sharply, and leads the way out of the house. The Bentley is parked out front, against a curb it has no right being near, and there’s a man hovering around it, writing down notes in a small notebook as his tiny brown dog barks at Crowley.

The man is too close to his car, Crowley thinks.

“Oi!” he calls sharply. “What’re you doing?”

The man quickly looks up. He seems familiar, but Crowley can’t quite place why. “Is this your car?”

“ ‘course it is,” Crowley says. He snaps his fingers and the car revs to life, causing the man to flinch away from it, giving his baby some space.

“This is not a parking spot, young man!” The guy says.

“Tch,” says Crowley.

“We are terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says.

“No we’re not.”

Aziraphale glares. Crowley grins.

He’s missed this back and forth, he thinks. Bickering with Aziraphale is his favourite pastime. 

“What is your name, young man?” The old guy continues. “I’ll have words with the police, I will!”

Crowley snaps his fingers. The man freezes in place.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Aziraphale huffs.

Crowley smirks at him. “Oh, come on, angel. It’s fun.”

“Not for this poor man.”

“So you admit it’s fun for you?”

Aziraphale scowls. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.”

The angel snaps in front of the man’s face. “In a moment, you will wake having had a dream of whatever you like best.”

There’s a stutter of divine energy in the air. It settles over the man, but it’s not as fluid as it usually is, Crowley thinks, mirth fading. Aziraphale’s powers aren’t quite back to normal, and neither is his True Form, or his grace, or… well, anything. He’s just Bright, but there’s no image. 

If Aziraphale notices the delay in his powers activating, he doesn’t even blink or say a word about it before he turns away from the man and moves toward the passenger door of the car. He slides in and Crowley takes a moment to glare at this unpleasant man before he, too, gets in the car.

Aziraphale presses a hand into the hood of the car to steel himself as they speed away from Jasmine Cottage.

“There was no need to be rude to Anathema,” Aziraphale says after a few minutes.

Crowley’s nose wrinkles in a scowl. “She summoned me,” he mutters distastefully. “You know I hate being summoned.”

“She was worried, dear. She didn’t do it out of malice.”

A part of Crowley understands this, of course. She didn’t know how else to contact them as she didn’t know about the cottage and the bookshop has been closed until further notice. Crowley should have given her his number before shoving her out the bookshop the last time, but his mind was otherwise occupied. 

While he understands her reasons for summoning him, he can’t forgive her for tearing him away from Aziraphale like that in the angel’s vulnerable time of need. Anything could have happened once he’d been pulled from the cottage. Anything.

So he just bares his teeth in response and says nothing.

Aziraphale sighs. “She is only trying to help, Crowley.” He looks out his window. “It’s a sunny day; what would you say to a stroll in the park?”

Normally, Crowley is all for strolls in their usual park. Now the thought of all that open space leaves his hands curling tightly around the wheel. “Ngk.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Aziraphale says immediately. “A walk around the cottage would be much nicer. The lake is beautiful in the sunlight.”

Crowley exhales slowly, forcing his fingers from their white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Aziraphale is really too good for him, he thinks, keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead.

Chapter Text

She still has much work to do, but perhaps it is time for a brief break. The Earth wasn’t created in a single day, after all, despite some rumours. These things take time, and Heaven has nothing but time. It is eternal. The passage of time has never truly concerned Her, save for when She was discouraged that Her humans lasted so few days before disappointing Her and breaking the Rules.

Her angels are disappointing as well. She shouldn’t have to take the time to fix them like this; why could they not become Real on their own? One angel managed it, and at least one demon seems to have managed something like it…

She isn’t quite sure what to make of Crowley, if She is perfectly honest with Herself. She wiped her hands of demons when She cast them out in a fit of rage, but perhaps She misjudged them. She might have overreacted, unused to Her creations disappointing her so. She gave them everything, after all; why would they possibly want to rebel? To go against Her as they did? Lucifer had been her favourite angel, the best of them all, Her finest creation—before he chose to rebel against Her Love. 

She cannot fully fathom the why of it all. In the moment, She’d been so unspeakably enraged with them She didn’t want to look at them anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. They wanted out, so She would send them out. They Fell, and that was that.

It wasn’t.

From time to time, She came to think of Her Fallen again and again. Never willing to admit She was in the wrong, of course; she is tetchy, but they caused War in Heaven, which should have been a peaceful haven. Then again, She reminds Herself, She did create soldiers… why would there be a need for them, if not for an upcoming war?

So perhaps some part of Her knew of what was to come. She is all-knowing, after all, even if She doesn’t want to look too closely at Her own actions or motivations sometimes. She can admit, after over 6000 years, that perhaps She made a mistake that day She cast the angels out, cursing them to a life as demons. 

To err is human. While She is not human, She did create them in Her image specifically… and perhaps that meant flaws and all. 

It doesn’t bring comfort, but it is something upon which to think about as She rewrites the sins of her past mistakes.

One cannot grow until they first admit to their mistakes and their flaws. 

Maybe, in some way, She has yet to become Real Herself.

It is something to ponder. 

If an angel can come to love a demon so purely, so deeply, that in their dying thoughts, they think only of the demon’s safety… Well, it is something She has struggled with Herself in the past. It is truly humbling, She thinks, that Aziraphale has managed something She didn’t realise was missing from Her own existence. 

She didn’t make Aziraphale like this, She knows. He was created a Cherub and was meant to be one of Her loyal soldiers. When he chose to become a Principality and stay on Earth to watch over Her flawed creations, She thought nothing of it, really. It was his job, his duty, to love the humans, and someone had to do it. No one else was volunteering. It was noble.

Somewhere along the way, though, Aziraphale seems to have changed. He became Real, and it is fascinating to see Her creation take life like this. Crowley is perhaps another example, even if he is a demon. He was an angel once and is still one of Her children, and She never truly stopped loving them. Ripping Her Love from them was a punishment; they didn’t want Her Love, so She took it away. This was, perhaps, the wrong move. 

She cannot change the past. 

But She can rewrite the future.

Gabriel gasps as he’s released from whatever hold he was in, frozen feet spurring into startled movement. There’s a tingle across his human form and the light of his True Form feels wrong, he thinks; perhaps darker. 

“I’m free?” He asks.

You are no longer frozen, is the response God gives him. She isn’t a physical entity by any means but she surrounds him nevertheless, and her touch is soothing and gentle but he still fights the urge to flinch away.

She hasn’t been unkind while ripping out pieces him to observe with disdain. She still loves Her angels; but she is disappointed in them, it seems, and that hurts most of all. She is everything and he never wanted to upset her; he thought he was doing the right thing.

Hasn’t he been doing the right thing?

She has rearranged pieces of himself. His memories remain, but now he feels shame for his actions. Shame for thinking himself above reproach. Shame for attempting to deal out heavenly justice without first consulting Her. 

To be fair, though, She hasn’t spoken to any of them in so very long. How was he to know She didn’t approve of how he was running things? How he and the other Archangels were running things? She never spoke up, never did anything to convey Her displeasure with them. 

I have a job for you. 

“A job?”

Pride fills him. She has a job for him specifically, over the other Archangels and all other angels in Heaven. He alone is fit for the task. He stands up straighter and smooths down any wrinkles in his suit.

“Ready and willing!” 

You will protect the Principality on Earth.

“Aziraphale?”

This is about Aziraphale? His enthusiasm wavers instantly. 

“But he’s a traitor. He sided with a demon!”

You will protect him, God says firmly. 

“He doesn’t need protection,” Gabriel reminds her. “He’s immune to hellfire, remember?”

She remains silent on this point.

Perhaps he’s not as immune as he’d like us to think… Gabriel muses.

“Why does he need protection? Can’t handle it on his own?”

He is healing, She says. You will be his sword in the meantime. 

An image of the burning sword flickers behind Gabriel’s eyes. The flames crackle, reminiscent of the hellfire which should have killed the wayward Principality. 

He smiles.

“When will I be leaving?”

“And you’re certain the angel was destroyed?”

Abaddon looks over his shoulder and scowls at Beezlebub. “I told you he was,” he says sharply. “My specialty is infections, and I am very good at killing useless angels. Granted, he sensed me fairly quickly, but that’s all finished now.”

Concealing a part of himself on the outside of a box, waiting for the time to strike when the angel’s defences were low—that was the easy part. The fun part was ripping the angel away bit by bit until there was nothing left but darkness where once there was a bright, heavenly light. 

Snuffing out heavenly lights is the best part of the gig. 

Abaddon loves snuffing out pesky angels.

Being immune to hellfire doesn’t mean you’re immune to death, after all. Angels have a very specific weakness, other than hellfire, and that is their cores. Tear into them by getting close enough to latch on, slip under their defences because they’re too trusting of their precious humans… well, the job is done.

He’s a little disappointed it happened so quickly, so easily.

He thought it would at least be a struggle, a challenge.

Principalities have never been a challenge, though—immune to hellfire or not.

“Might want to make sure,” Beezlebub says. “This angel izzz troublesome.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Abaddon reminds the other Prince. They hold the same rank, the same title, the same prestige. Just because Abaddon would rather linger in the background instead of dealing with demonic politics doesn’t make Beezlebub his boss. “I don’t answer to you.”

With Lucifer gone at the moment, he technically doesn’t answer to anyone.

Oh, he realises.

Oh, he didn’t think about that before.

He grins. 

He can do whatever he wants now, can’t he? No Lucifer, no angelic guardian on Earth, no rules. 

He’s free.

Chapter Text

The fireplace crackles as the flames sputter within the confines of it, and Aziraphale glances toward it nervously. The flames are getting low and he will need to either let them die out completely, drowning the room in darkness, or he will need to get up and reignite them with more kindling. The only issue with this, he thinks, is the demon sprawled across the couch, head in his lap, who steadfastly refuses to sleep even though his eyelids keep drooping downward. 

Moving will only wake Crowley further, which is not what Aziraphale wants at all. Why the serpent must shun sleep like this all the time is beyond the angel, but he finds it frustrating because Crowley clearly needs the sleep. Well, perhaps need is the wrong word. He is a demon, after all, and doesn’t actually need to sleep like humans do, but he’s grown so accustomed to it and it is a way to unwind and turn his mind off for a bit… which is sometimes just what the demon actually needs. Not the sleep, but the quiet. 

Aziraphale is just guessing, but he doesn’t think Crowley has slept since… well, it happened. They don’t speak of it, not really. It’s taken weeks now for the demon to finally start tending his garden again and agreeing to driving somewhere to get out of the cottage. Visiting Anathema was a challenge in its own right; Crowley becomes somewhat territorial when he’s hurting, mentally or physically, and will hunker down until he feels better. Since he hasn’t been able to shut off his mind, though, he hasn’t exactly been able to heal himself, which is the whole issue.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to bless him with sleep again. It feels wrong, and Crowley doesn’t desperately need sleep this time as he has in the past—but the quiet will help him. Just turning his mind off for a bit will do him some good, Aziraphale is certain, if only the demon would listen. 

So the angel tries to remain perfectly still as he reads his book, with the sound of the fire crackling softly in the background, the warm glow of the flames casting a sleepy sort of radiance across the room. Slowly, Crowley has been starting to doze over the past couple hours, but now the flames are beginning to die and the absence of the background noise might be enough to have the demon springing back into motion, and that certainly won’t do.

It won’t do at all. 

He could miracle the flames to keep burning, he thinks distantly, but his miracles have been a bit… off, as of late. Oh, they still work, of course; they just perhaps don’t work as he originally intended. They are slow to start, sluggish in settling, and it takes a great deal more effort than it ever has in the past. 

This is because he is healing, he knows. A part of him wonders if he will ever recover from what happened—if he will ever regain his form, regain his full power, regain his grace. He is still an angel, and definitely still alive, but his powers are still off, and it worries at him. He just hopes Crowley hasn’t noticed anything; the demon has enough on his mind without adding Aziraphale’s own worries on top of it all.

So while he could attempt to miracle the fire to keep burning—he won’t. What if he tries, and it fails? What if he reaches for that power—his inner tranquility—and there’s just a well of emptiness? He hasn’t tried many miracles in recent days, not since he first came back to himself and woke up with Crowley an awful mess in front of him, but the one time he did try anything remotely substantial… it almost didn’t work.

That human could have simply remembered them. The blessing almost didn’t settle over them. Aziraphale could sense its hesitation in creeping around the man. Add to it Anathema’s inability to summon him in the recent past…

Well. It all paints a sort of picture, one he rather dislikes. 

So he can’t miracle the flames, but getting up will obviously rouse the demon. He feels rather stuck. 

Stuck between a demon and a fireplace. 

He turns a page in his book. 

He’s read this particular novel before, which is the only reason he can even think about turning the page when he hasn’t fully read the last paragraph he’s been trying to focus on for the better part of the past ten minutes. It’s not that he can’t focus, he tells himself; his mental faculties are all present and accounted for. It’s just that a part of his mind doesn’t wish to settle, torn between the book and the demon and the fire—and, at the back of his mind, a nagging fear. 

Bless it all, he thinks sourly, and glances down at the demon in his lap. 

Crowley’s eyes have lost the battle and have finally closed. Aziraphale smiles, allowing an ebb of calmness to settle over the demon. It is a simple matter, he thinks; not a miracle at all, not even a blessing, just a slight sharing of energies. 

His head throbs in protest nevertheless.

Well, that’s unfortunate. 

Frustration creeps through him as he returns his gaze to his book. He really is a poor excuse of an angel, he thinks bitterly, if this is what he is reduced to. A single attack from a demon left him a nearly destroyed mess and it’s been two months since it happened… and he is still not recovered.

Awake, certainly. Mentally sound, probably.

But not recovered. Not fully. 

And maybe he won’t ever fully recover. Pieces of himself are missing, and it has little do with the shape of his form on that other plane. He is just Brightness there currently; a presence aware of itself, but without a mirror to see. There aren’t wheels or eyes or anything like that. He has no form. He is just light. 

Light isn’t a form, not really. It’s a level of intensity, he thinks. Brightness. Not a shape. More of a concept. Light is not a shape, and the lack of a shape means he doesn’t have edges—no clear distinction of where he begins and the empty space around him ends. What if he just flickers off into nothing, untethered?

A shiver slips down his spine. He rereads the last paragraph of his current page, struggling to focus on the words. There’s a tightness in his chest which leaves his breath catching in his throat momentarily, but the stifled sound is all it takes for Crowley’s eyes to snap open.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale clears his throat and smiles. “Everything is fine, my dear. Afraid I just had a tickle in my throat. Sorry to bother you.”

“A tickle?”

“Ah, I am a little thirsty,” Aziraphale admits, and now that he knows Crowley won’t slip back to sleep so easily, and carefully nudges the demon off him so he can stand up. Crowley sits up and Aziraphale pushes off the couch. “I’m going to make me some tea. Do you want anything, dear?”

“Scotch,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods and enters the kitchen. 

Crowley won’t leave him alone for long, he knows. 

He takes the moment to flatten his palms down on the smooth surface the countertop and bow his head forward, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. Worrying about things which are beyond his control is, to be honest, rather absurd of him. He needs to focus on the here and now, on himself and Crowley, still at the cottage where two demonic entities have attacked them within a rather short amount of time of each other.

It isn’t safe here. Maybe it’s not safe anywhere.

But especially not here, when demons seem to be hunting him specifically for whatever reason—and he truly wishes he knew why—and he is stuck here feeling so… so… 

Useless.

His fingers curl into the smooth surface, finely manicured nails scraping slightly against the countertop.

Poor, unless, pathetic angel Aziraphale. 

He grimaces and reaches for the kettle at the top of a cabinet, hearing footsteps pad toward the room. Well, saunter, really.

“You good, angel?”

“Perfectly fine, my dear,” Aziraphale says evenly, filling the kettle with water. He can feel eyes on him but remains standing at the sink with his back to the demon.

Once the kettle is filled he puts it on the stove and turns on the heat. A watched pot never boils, is how the saying goes, but Aziraphale eyes the kettle anyway, unwilling to turn around just then. Those footsteps saunter closer.

“You know I can sense all your stupid negativity, don’t you?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Mind your business.”

Crowley goes silent for a moment. Then he sighs heavily. “What’s bothering you?”

“Crowley, not right now.”

“Fine, alright.” A pause. Footsteps shuffling behind him. A drawer opening. “How about some cards, then?”

Aziraphale exhales slowly, relief flitting through him, and he nods before turning to face the demon finally. Crowley’s yellow sclera is stretched wide across the whites, but there’s a timid smile plastered on his face which is more than enough for Aziraphale to smile back.

“What’re you in the mood for?” Crowley asks, moving toward the table.

“Whatever you wish,” Aziraphale answers. He has no preference right now.

“Right, Go Fish it is, then.”

A soft smile spreads across the angel’s face. Crowley really is too good to him, he thinks as he nods gratefully, and Crowley settles at the table to shuffle the deck in his hands. Nimble fingers split the cards into separate decks before melding them back together with a flick of his wrist, and Aziraphale turns back to the kettle to add his tea. 

A few minutes later, he sits at the table, takes a sip of steaming hot tea, and picks up the cards lying flat on the table in front of him. 

Crowley idly smooths a finger across the upper edge of card, eying him thoughtfully. “Got any threes?”

“Here you are, my dear.” Aziraphale flicks his three over. “I claim your six.”

Crowley huffs, scowling, but surrenders the card. “You’re scary sometimes, angel.”

“Just observant,” he corrects the demon.

Said demon shifts in his chair, a slight crease to his brow. “How’s the um… the grace.”

Aziraphale frowns, shoulders tensing somewhat. “My grace is fine.”

“You still, ah—you still don’t look…” Crowley trails off with a sigh. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know.”

He doesn’t look like anything. Just a light. Not even enclosed in something to keep him contained, to keep him from drifting off…

The fear stirs in his belly again. He sips at his tea, hiding the worry on his face.

“I am alright,” he says as he puts the cup down. “How was your nap?”

Crowley looks at him sharply. “Didn’t nap,” he says quickly. “… did I?”

“You dozed.”

“Ah. Well.” The demon shifts in his seat, looking back down at the cards in his hand. “Got any nines?”

“Go Fish, my dear.”

Crowley snags a card from the deck between them and slots it into place. 

A couple of minutes pass in relative silence, save for the game progressing. The round finishes with Aziraphale the victor, and Crowley grumbles as he shuffles the deck again.

Aziraphale slowly relaxes as the demon shuffles. When the next hand is dealt, he picks it up calmly and eyes his cards. 

666, he thinks idly. 

An omen, perhaps.

Or just a game, he corrects himself. 

“We should check in with Anathema tomorrow,” Aziraphale says, to break the silence as well as his train of thought. “Has she reached out to you at all?”

“No,” Crowley says. “She can call. No point driving all the way over there for something that can be said over the phone.”

Yes, but it would be nice to get out of the house, Aziraphale thinks. “Do you have any fours?”

“Go Fish, angel.”

Aziraphale takes a card from the deck.

“We could go to the park,” he offers.

Crowley tenses. “The ducks are probably missing us.”

“Of course they are! Oh, the poor dears. I wonder who has been feeding them in our absence…”

“Spies,” Crowley says. “Probably. Anyway, it’s, uh… supposed to rain tomorrow. I think.”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

The demon shifts in his seat. “True.”

“My dear, is there a reason your are avoiding the park?”

Yellow eyes snap toward him. “What? Me, avoid the park? Nuuh. Just don’t want to get wet, is all.”

“I do have an umbrella.”

Crowley sighs, looking back down at his cards. “Alright, angel. We’ll go to the park tomorrow. Got any twos?”

Aziraphale flicks a card over. “Any sixes, my dear?”

Crowley smirks. “Not this time. Go Fish.”

Aziraphale snags a card. “How are your plants doing?”

“They’re fine. Spots have cleared up. Any threes?”

“Go Fish. That’s nice, that they’re looking better. They must appreciate the time you put into them.”

“They’re plants,” Crowley huffs. “They don’t appreciate anything.”

They’re living things, Aziraphale thinks. They might not be sentient, but they are alive, and they probably appreciate that fact. 

“Sensing any other, ah…” Crowley hesitates, shoulders tense. “… presences?”

Aziraphale stares at him blankly. Right, he should probably be checking the area around them for presences. The demon from before could attack them again. But what if he spreads out his grace—or, what’s left of it—and it doesn’t work?

“Aziraphale?”

He exhales slowly through his nose. Looks back down at his cards. “One moment.”

He reaches inward, metaphorical fingers stretching for some inner tranquility, just as he’s always done.

There’s nothing.

Nothing to touch. Nothing to grab hold of and yank into existence. 

There’s nothing to spread out around him, to search for presences.

Just a yawning void of nothing. A hole where there should be something.

“Whoa, Azira—angel?”

Fingers snap in front of his face.

He blinks, unaware there are tears in his eyes until then. He pushes to his feet, his chair scraping backward quickly. Crowley’s eyes are wide and startled, and Aziraphale can’t look at them right now. 

He flees the room. 

“Aziraphale, wait!”

Footsteps give chase. 

Aziraphale darts up the stairs toward his bedroom. Well, what should be his bedroom. He laid claim to it that first day at the cottage but hasn’t thought about it since; hasn’t needed it for any reason, and when he first woke up, he was in the downstairs bedroom on the new bed Crowley purchased. Now he enters the room coated in a fine layer of dust, and slams the door closed behind him, twisting the lock in place.

It won’t keep Crowley out, he knows. But it will, perhaps, buy him a couple seconds to collect himself.

He turns and rests his back against the door. The demon hits it from the outside, twisting the knob briefly.

“Aziraphale? What’s going on?”

“Just a moment,” he says, mostly to himself as he sinks to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest in a move that’s all too human. He wraps his arms around his legs and buries his face in the darkness offered by them. “Just need a moment. Please.”

Silence from the other side.

A scratch of nails against the doorframe.

Then a grumbled curse before the lingering sense of magic filters through the room, evidence of a miracle.

Crowley crouches in front of him. Hands grab hold of his shoulders, steadying in a way nothing is in that moment, and Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath from somewhere in the darkness offered by his curled arms.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale just shakes his head, burying his face further, hiding from this conversation. This reality. Crowley. Everything.

Hiding from everything.

“What’sss wrong?”

And now he’s worrying Crowley, he thinks bitterly. He just can’t do anything right, can he?

Some angel I am. 

Well. Perhaps not an angel anymore.

There shouldn’t be a gaping hole inside of him. Minor miracles he seems to be able to do—or, at least, sometimes. But spreading himself out to search for things? Tapping into that uniquely angelic power, that part of him that’s been there the entirety of his existence?

It’s just gone.

He doesn’t know what he is if not an angel.

Is he Falling?

Is this what Falling starts with?

He’d check his wings, but he doesn’t know how. Can’t access that power at all, to switch forms, and on another plane he’s just light particles…

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, “you’re ssscaring me. Talk to me.”

“I’m…” Why is his voice so rough? Why does his throat burn like this? “I’m alright.”

“You’re really not.”

No, he silently agrees. He’s not.

“What’s wrong?” The demon asks, grip tightening on his shoulders. “Hey, can you look at me? Aziraphale?”

Oh, he really doesn’t want to worry Crowley. His demon doesn’t deserve this. Slowly, he raises his head, blinking back the wetness of his eyes, mentally cursing himself for being so pathetically human in this moment. Crowley’s eyes are wet too, he realises belatedly, the image failing to connect with his mind. 

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asks, frowning at the demon. 

Crowley bares his teeth. “You’re freaking me out,” he says sharply. “Just freaking talk to me, okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, my dear.”

“Stop lying to me!”

Oh. Those are claws sticking into his shoulders now. He winces at the bite of the nails.

Crowley rips his hands away, snarling under his breath. “Fuck. Sorry. Just—talk to me, yeah?”

Aziraphale looks away. “I can’t feel my grace.”

The demon sucks in a sharp breath. “But you… you said it was fine.”

That tone really won’t do, Aziraphale decides. “I’m sure it will be fine, given time. I just… am not used to feeling so… human.”

“But you’ve done miracles,” Crowley insists. “How can you do that without grace?”

“Obviously I have some, somewhere,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I just… can’t feel it, is all. Not right now. And when I tried to reach out…” HIs arms wrap tighter around his knees, yanking the limbs closer to his chest. “There was nothing.”

Crowley is silent for a moment. Aziraphale keeps his gaze locked across the room, on the spiderweb in the corner. A hand—lacking claws this time—snags his fingers and gently pries his arm from around his knees. His gaze snaps back toward the demon to find Crowley eying him worriedly, pulling him gently forward…

Oh, Aziraphale thinks, as Crowley pulls him into a tight hug. 

The demon’s essence slips through him, a comforting presence surrounding him.

On another plane, something dark slithers forward and circles the field of light.

Encasing it. 

Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut as his breath leaves him in a rush. He sinks into the embrace, in the safety and surety. Thank you, my dear. 

“We’ll get through this together,” Crowley assures him quietly, and there are fingers in Aziraphale’s hair.

This is different, he thinks. He might, occasionally, untangle the knots in Crowley’s hair with his fingers because the demon seems to have never heard of a brush… and he might occasionally pet the demon’s head… but having their roles switched like this is certainly new. 

It’s not unpleasant, he thinks, a shudder slipping through his body as the tension snaps. He buries his face into Crowley’s bony shoulder and inhales deeply. 

“Together,” the angel murmurs quietly. 

“It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Crowley tells him.

His mind is still a whirlwind of unpleasant, twisting thoughts and fears—but in this moment, he is grounded. He is safe. He is loved.

And in this moment, it is enough.

Chapter Text

Don’t panic, Crowley tells himself. Whatever you do, just don’t panic. 

Aziraphale is on edge; his little breakdown last night was upsetting on a multitude of levels for the demon, and Crowley needs today to be perfect. They’re at the park getting some fresh air, and the rain hasn’t started yet. It’s chilly outside and Crowley fights the urge to huddle his jacket closer to himself. He’s not cold-blooded, per se, but he doesn’t like the cold either. Even just a light breeze annoys some distant part of his mind and he usually tries to sleep the cold months away, though that hasn’t quite been an option for 11 years now, since they decided to raise Warlock…

Fat lot of good that did, though. The kid is a prick, spoiled all his life, never wanting for anything. It’s what happens with rich kids, Crowley thinks, and it’s probably only Aziraphale’s good influence which has even attempting to balance out the life Warlock would have had without their presence. Well, perhaps that isn’t quite being fair, Crowley muses. He was the nanny, after all, and he certainly seemed to spend more time with the kid than his own parents.

Which is just sad, really. 

Crowley knows what it feels like to be abandoned by a parent.

Aziraphale tosses some bread to the ducks. In the distance, an infant starts wailing, and the mother rushes to shush them while looking apologetically at the man on the bench beside her. An elderly couple walks past the bench occupied by an angel and a demon, bickering about what to have for dinner, and it all feels strangely domestic, being here like this.

They’ve been here a lot in the past millennia, of course. But this is their first foray out after it happened.

That’s what Crowley has started to refer to the incident as in his mind, at least. It. Certainly better than that time Aziraphale went Dark and I maybe lost my mind for a minute. 

Maybe.

Okay, so he’s somewhat ashamed of his behaviour. He would have destroyed himself and Aziraphale would have reformed and would have been alone. He acted rashly, and if not for God’s sudden interference…

He shudders to think of what could have happened. 

They are, perhaps, too codependent on each other… but that’s what happens when you circle someone for 6000 years and they are somehow the only constant in your ever-changing life. Funny, how his enemy became more comforting, more familiar to him, than his own kind. 

Well, it’s really not funny at all.

Ironic, perhaps, but not funny.

It certainly brought with it a lot of danger.

Crowley eyes the angel again. Aziraphale’s shoulders have started to loosen and that broken expression from last night has vanished, which is a relief. Seeing Aziraphale break down like that had been… horrifying, if he’s being honest. He didn’t know what to do, what was happening, or how to fix it. 

Aziraphale seems more stable today. Today is about taking his mind off things, and this is why today has to go perfectly.

Which is why Crowley can’t panic.

Even if his mind is a twisted mess of semi-panicking thoughts and what-ifs. What if his grace doesn’t come back. He said he felt human now, what if he is? He’s still Bright so that has to mean something. He did a few miracles. What if we can’t fix this? What if his grace doesn’t come back… 

And on and on it goes, circling.

Circling.

He grits his teeth and looks away from the angel beside him. Instead he focuses on the ducks mulling around in the grass nearby, before flicking his gaze toward the painfully obvious spies. Secret agents are sought after by the ducks, who have grown used to their presence in this park, but even if there weren’t ducks milling around at the pair’s feet, Crowley can spot them anyway. They try to hand over a briefcase discretely and he stifles a snort. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky is beginning to darken and the clouds are rolling in, heavy and dark. Crowley sighs and pushes to his feet. “You ready to go, angel?”

Aziraphale hesitates, looking out over the park again. Crowley will stay if he asks, but he’d rather not get wet if he doesn’t need to. It’s cold enough as it is without adding moisture to the mix. 

Finally, the angel sighs and gets to his feet, smoothing down his clothing. “Very well, my dear. What would you like to do next?”

Crowley just wants to return to the cottage, but he knows that won’t go over well. Aziraphale has been denied his usually walks which he used to take daily outside the bookshop, just to get out and do something and break up the monotony inside. Lately he’s been more of a homebody than usual, mostly to appease Crowley, the demons knows.

So he shrugs and says, “tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale smiles, warm and light. “That would be lovely.”

“What about the Ritz?”

“An excellent idea.”

Reservations are things that happen to other people, in Crowley’s experience, so he’s not terribly worried about there not being a table. Demon or not, he can do miracles as well, and even some blessings as long as they aren’t anything huge that require specifically divine energy. 

It’s as they’re leaving that a chill seeps down Crowley’s spine and all his muscles snap taut, nostrils flaring at the sudden scent in the air. Aziraphale stops at his sudden halt and looks over his shoulder at the demon inquisitively.

“Crowley? Is something wrong?”

Don’t panic, Crowley tells himself. Whatever you do, just don’t panic. 

But that’s kind of hard, when there’s a freaking Prince of Hell somewhere in their very near proximity, for him to have caught a whiff on the breeze without intentionally searching for the scent. 

A Prince of Hell. Probably the same one who…

He hisses and snaps his fingers.

Immediately, he and Aziraphale are back at the cottage. 

He can’t seem to stop shaking.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s worried face hovers in front of him as warm hands take his shoulders. His heart beats frantically in his chest as he quickly looks around the room, stretching his senses as far as possible, but he’s a snake-demon, not built for sensing things at range like Aziraphale. All he can do is scent things, for the most part, or feel negative energies sometimes… but there’s no demonic scent in the cottage that’s not his own. 

The Prince knows about this cottage already. Probably knows about the bookshop as well. 

We’re fucked. 

Aziraphale is in absolutely no condition to fight and Crowley himself doesn’t have a hope of beating a Prince. 

“Talk to me, my dear,” Aziraphale says quietly, frowning at him. His hands squeeze Crowley’s shoulders tightly despite his calm words. How can he be so calm all the time?

Well, not all the time, Crowley reminds himself. 

“Prince,” is all he manages to say, as his gaze scours the room again. It’s just their living room, and they are the only two in it. 

“Prince?” Aziraphale echoes, confused.

“Smelled a Prince.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s voice falls nearly silent as shadows cross his face. He releases Crowley’s shoulders and turns away. “I should have sensed them…”

Don’t panic, Crowley tells himself yet again. Just don’t panic. 

“Ngk,” he says, intelligently.

You stupid serpent. 

Aziraphale looks around wildly. “Where is my sword?”

Sword?

Crowley’s mind blanks. “Uh.”

“Crowley, where is the sword?”

He searches his mind, struggling to think of what he did with the sword, but the image of Aziraphale with a flaming sword threatens to send him spiralling within his own mind, panic creeping along the edges. “My room,” he says finally. “In the closet.”

It’d been dropped unceremoniously when Aziraphale had pitched sideways just outside the front door of the cottage on that day, and Crowley had eventually managed to find the strength to pick up the blade and stow it away, out of sight and out of mind. Aziraphale could always summon it if he needed it, so he hadn’t really thought much about it lately.

Until now.

Aziraphale can’t summon it. He can’t really seem to access his grace, if there’s any even there at all… He’s painfully human, and there’s a Prince of Hell tracking them.

Aziraphale darts toward the bedroom in question. Crowley remains where he is, frozen in place as he tries to force his lungs back into action.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Whatever you do, don’t panic. 

He needs to think.

Aziraphale is basically human in this moment and even if he could access his grace correctly, he would still be in no condition to even think about facing a Prince of Hell. Crowley needs to get them both out of this.

Book Girl, he thinks.

The angel returns to the room, sword in hand, though it isn’t flaming. 

Crowley grabs his hand and snaps his fingers.

The world swirls around them before they appear in Book Girl’s living room.

Newt gasps wildly and flings himself over the back of the couch at their sudden appearance, which summons Anathema from the kitchen. When her gaze lands on the two of them, a concerned frown flits across her face.

“What’s happening?” She asks.

“That wasn’t necessary, Crowley,” Aziraphale says stiffly, regaining his balance.

“We need that magic now,” Crowley says, moving toward Book Girl quickly. She backs a step away before scowling and holding her ground. He can imagine what he looks like to her right now, but at least he has his sunglasses on. It’s probably best she can’t see his eyes. “No time to explain, need that magic now!”

“What’s happening?” This time she directs the question over his shoulder at Aziraphale.

“Apparently there is a Prince of Hell prowling about,” the angel says darkly. “Crowley, you know I didn’t want to drag this poor girl into this.”

“No time,” Crowley says sharply. “Spell. Now.”

“I need to know what’s going on first,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.

Crowley hisses but she doesn’t even bat an eye.

Crowley respects her as much as he hates her, in that moment.

A hand touches his shoulder. He stills instantly, feeling the ebb of that familiar presence, even if Aziraphale can’t access his grace or his powers correctly. He can still manage to calm something inside of Crowley by just being himself. 

“We need something that will keep a Prince of Hell out,” Crowley tells the witch, as calmly as possible—which isn’t really very calm at all. “They almost killed Aziraphale last time.”

Her wide eyes shoot toward the angel. She knows something happened; Crowley let that slip enough, but she doesn’t know exactly what happened. 

Aziraphale smiles at her. Crowley isn’t looking at him, but the angel is still beaming and he can feel it, can see how it seems to calm Book Girl instantly. “I am quite alright, dear. I am just not quite up to my usual standards.”

“And he can’t fight a Prince of Hell anyway,” Crowley finishes quickly. “So could you just?”

She sighs heavily and pinches at the bridge of her nose. “I’m still looking,” she admits. “But I might have something.”

“What is it?”

“Well, you’re worried about being tracked?”

Crowley and Aziraphale share a quick look. Crowley nods. “Do you have something that could hide us?”

“Question,” Newt says shakily from behind them. “Why do you have a sword?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Aziraphale says, turning to face him. “You see, it all started in—”

Crowley growls under his breath, glaring at Book Girl even if she can’t feel the heat of his gaze due to his sunglasses. “Spell, now.”

She glares back at him. “I might have a spell which will sort of… erase an area. In the sense that no one will know you’re there. It won’t last forever, of course, but might buy you a day. And if the demon gets too close he’ll spot you, but it will keep them from sweeping over you to find you…”

It’s all they’ve got at the moment. Crowley nods.

“What’s the spell then?”

Abaddon hums to himself as he watches people walk through the park. He thought he sensed a demonic presence earlier but when he Looked there was no one there, so perhaps it was his imagination. Either way, he doesn’t answer to anyone anymore and the other Princes aren’t going to come after him if they know what’s good for them. 

He has nothing to worry about.

He sets his gaze on a group of humans and smiles.

This is going to be fun.

Chapter Text

The cabin isn’t quite in the middle of nowhere, but it’s close enough. In the woods near a lake, conjured from nothing into sudden existence due to a rather powerful miracle which leaves Crowley’s body feeling rather numb. The cottage isn’t safe; this Prince clearly already knows about it and will surely look there for them, which defeats the purpose of trying to hide. 

“Crowley.”

Crowley ignores the call of his name as he flits through the inside of the small cabin. The living room is rustic and tiny, which makes it easy to sear the sigils into the surrounding walls. 

“Crowley.”

A day.

The witch’s words swirl through his mind, taunting him. This spell will only last a day, the magic will burn out in roughly 24 hours, and this is not nearly enough time. He knows it’s not; a day is a drop in a well at this point. Aziraphale needs more time to heal, which means they need more time to hide, and this is something Crowley simply can’t give him. Give them.

The panic from before threatens to seep back into his bones. It flits through his veins, freezing ice, and he expels a sharp breath as he sears another set of sigils into the fourth wall of the living room. Aziraphale stands in the centre of the cozy little room.

“Crowley, my dear.”

Crowley finally tears his gaze away from the wall with a low growl ebbing up his throat. Aziraphale is watching him calmly. Irritation flits through his body. How can Aziraphale be so blessedly calm at a time like this? Then again, that’s what he’s always loved about Aziraphale: grace under pressure. The world can be falling apart around them, Satan can literally be clawing his way to the surface, but the angel will stand firm. Protective. Shielding. 

Oh, sure, the angel is an anxious mess some days and the way he putters around so fretfully sometimes is honestly endearing, but when the shit actually hits the fan? When things go pear-shaped? Aziraphale won’t run. He will remain as calm as he possibly can, and some part of Crowley has always hated this aspect of the angel, just as much as he loves it.

It’s great, when you need an angel on your side. Great, when said angel is helping you. Being friends with you. Tolerating you. Working with you.

Not so great, when Crowley just wants to force him to run and hide.

“Is all this really necessary?”

Crowley hisses. “Yesss, ‘courssse it isss.” He growls, attempting to get his hissing under control. He hates feeling so out of sorts like this. “It’s a Prince of Hell, Aziraphale.”

And you’re in no condition to fight them. 

Neither of them are, of course. Crowley is just some middling demon who has found various way to shirk his hellish duties by being creative—and Aziraphale almost died very recently and is still piecing himself back together. Neither of them are in any position for a confrontation right now. 

The panic settles in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. Images of something Dark when it should be Bright flash through his mind. 

“A cabin in the middle of nowhere, Crowley?”

“It’s safe,” Crowley says.

Well, safer, he corrects himself. Nowhere is really ‘safe’ right now. Not really. Not for long. 

They only have a day, once the spell is activated. 

It will buy them some time. A few precious hours. 

That will have to be enough. 

What if it’s not enough? 

Icy, steel bands clench his lungs. His breath staggers to a halt as he whirls away from Aziraphale, back toward the sigils he just put on this wall, and he raises a hand to press against the wood.

The incantation Anathema gave him is simple enough. He whispers it under his breath, nearly inaudibly, and flares his hellish power to amplify the spell. There’s a pulse of energy through the walls, only visible to his snake eyes because it’s his own power thrumming through the walls, and then the spell settles like little wooden ripples.

He removes his hand, a breath falling from his lips. 

A warm hand lands on his shoulder suddenly. He blinks, unaware of any movement behind him until then, too focused on the sigils and the ripple of power lingering in the room. He looks over his shoulder to find Aziraphale entirely too close to him, though this isn’t a bad thing. His eyes fall shut as he sucks in a steady breath, the familiar scent washing over him, calming some beastly part of him.

A day. They have a day. 24 hours.

It’s not enough. 

But it will have to be.

“My dear.”

Aziraphale’s voice is quiet and soft. Fingers curl into his shoulder, pressing but not biting into his skin through his clothing. It’s not nearly enough pressure to be grounding, Crowley thinks, aching for something more substantial. He draws in a quick breath and tries to force the tension from his shoulders.

“How… are you?” He finally manages to ask.

“Me?” Aziraphale sounds confused. “I am perfectly fi—”

“No, you’re not,” Crowley bites back, eyes snapping open as he whirls toward the angel. Aziraphale’s hand falls away at the sudden movement. Crowley’s fingers curl and uncurl at his sides; a part of him aches to grab handfuls of clothing and shake some sense into the angel. “You’re not fine, Aziraphale! Stop saying you are. Ssstupid.”

Aziraphale frowns back at him. “We both know a day isn’t going to change any of that,” he says, very quietly.

The breath leaves Crowley in a rush. “I know,” he says weakly. “I know. But…” But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t do this. I can’t lose you again. “I didn’t see you coming up with any better ideas.”

“If a Prince is really coming after us again, this won’t stop them, Crowley. Not if they’re determined. What if they just track your aura?”

A shiver slips down Crowley’s spine. “Book Girl said this should cover it.”

“Yes, but you activated it with your power, my dear. How do we know they can’t sense it anyway? The use of it?”

“ ‘sss not how it worksss,” Crowley says.

Is it, though? 

He doesn’t really know. He’s never had to really worry about this in the past, not until Armageddon. Not until they realised they were being godfathers to the wrong boy. Not until everything fell apart.

But they survived that mess, by the skin of their teeth.

And now this.

“I just…” He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. Bares his teeth in a grimace. “I need you to be sssafe.”

Aziraphale watches him calmly. His eyes crinkle at the edges, the only sight of his distress, and then his hand is lightly brushing against Crowley’s. Fingers entwine and give his own a squeeze. “And I need you to be safe, my dear.”

“Ngk.”

“We’ll stay the day. But you know we’re going to have to go home, don’t you?”

Home. The word crinkles Crowley’s nose, the taste of bad coffee in his mouth. Home is supposed to be safe. They’re supposed to be safe. Aziraphale is supposed to be safe. 

What a joke, he thinks.

“Can you… feel anything?” Crowley asks around reluctant lips. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth but he presses forward anyway. “Do any miracles? Feel your grace? Anything?”

Aziraphale shrinks back, away from him, gaze skittering to the side as his fingers leave Crowley’s. “No. Not yet.”

Not yet.

Maybe never again. 

The panic creeps through him, a persistent stalker hunting him. Chasing the breath from his lungs.

Aziraphale sighs and sits where he stood. Crowley watches him drop to the floor, on crossed legs, before he goes still and his eyes fall shut. 

“Angel?”

“I am praying. And meditating.”

Meditating. Praying. 

None of this will help. 

But maybe it will, he thinks. God seems to have faith in Aziraphale. She cared enough to follow his wishes and at least keep Crowley from doing something insanely stupid while he was in that church. Maybe She will listen. 

Maybe She will help.

Crowley sits in front of Aziraphale, watching the angel carefully. 

It is incredibly hard to focus with Crowley hovering as he is, but Aziraphale endures nevertheless. Crowley has been through a lot recently—they both have—so he understand where the worry and panic are coming from, from Crowley’s perspective. He knows he would be in a similar state, if an archangel was hunting his demon. 

As it stands, though, he is the one being hunted, and he really despises how he’s dragged Crowley into this whole mess. Disentangling their lives now won’t help anyone, though; they’re too intertwined at this point for that to even be a hint of an option. 

So he sits there on the floor, attempting to focus on what little heavenly power he can feel thrumming through him. He knows he can do a few small miracles, but nothing truly substantial, and when he reaches specifically for his grace or essence, there’s a void where there should be everything. It’s a hole in the core of his being and it still rattles him when he reaches and comes up empty yet again—but he must focus. 

There will be time to worry and fret about everything later, but right now, he needs to attempt to regain some semblance of his powers. If not for his sake, then for Crowley’s. 

Meditation usually helps clear his mind, lets him feel Her love and grace flowing through him, and he tries to picture this now.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, trying—but he feels as though he’s been scooped empty, a gaping hole somewhere inside of him, too big to see properly, devouring him completely. It’s nauseating, and while he isn’t human, he does feel as though he might vomit whatever contents might be in his stomach. He spins himself into circles in his mind, reaching through the void, but there’s still nothing to latch onto. 

He can feel the panic rising and pushes it back, attempting to flood his senses with calm tranquility. Yes, he missing a rather large part of himself at the moment, and this gaping void is raw and wounded, but it will come back. In time. He just needs time to heal more and then he’ll be back in tip-top shape in no time.

Patience is a virtue, after all.

Looking more inward, he can sense where the power is trying to pool together; small drops of grace in the very back of his presence, too small to form anything remotely substantial—but there all the same. Yes, he just needs time.

Once he’s found even the slightest hint of grace within him, he begins to pray.

This is the Principality Aziraphale speaking… I can’t seem to feel my grace very well at the moment, and it is bothering me… I just need a sign this will all work out, please. That I’m still an angel…

This is, perhaps, a ridiculous notion. Of course he’s still an angel! He can still feel tendrils of angelic power deep in his core, fractured but present, and he hasn’t Fallen. He must still be in angel.

But sometimes… when he reaches for that void… he doesn’t feel like an angel anymore. It’s more like he’s something… other. 

Something different.

Aziraphale isn’t a fan of change. Especially when it’s something this big, about himself.

He waits in his meditation and praying for quite some time, but never manages to get a clear sign of what he is meant to do now without his power, or if God even hears him. Surely She must, right? If he is to be Her coverage here on Earth in Her absence…

Maybe She is upset with him. Disappointed in him. He’s disappointed in himself for failing so spectacularly, so he can only imagine how She must feel. Perhaps this is to be his punishment. 

He let Her down.

He had one job—cover for Her—and he failed. Nearly got himself killed in his ineptitude.

And now this.

Surely this must be a punishment. Will She give his power back to him? Or will this become the new normal?

A flicker of terror ignites in his chest. Surely this can’t be the new normal. He won’t know what to do with himself if it is, if this is to be his life from now on, moving forward. If he must continue through life feeling… less than himself.

Perhaps he will get used to it, one day, he thinks—far into the future, when his old self is but a memory, same as before. Once upon a time, he was different person entirely—back when he was a mindless soldier in Heaven, before being stationed on Earth. Sometimes that life feels like some foggy dream, perhaps a nightmare—real, but not anymore. Fake, in a way. That’s not him. And maybe the version of himself he became will once again become some distant memory, given enough time in this new existence.

I am sorry for failing you, he thinks. It was never my intention to let you down, Lord. If this is to be my punishment… He will accept it, is what he wants to say. But he can’t bring himself to lie to himself, and to the Lord, right in this moment. I won’t like it, Lord, but I will tolerate it if I must. I just need a sign… Anything at all. 

He doesn’t expect an answer, but it’s still disappointing when he doesn’t get one. Just silence wrapped around him, a suffocating blanket of shame and guilt. 

He really is a poor excuse for an angel.

He’s thrust out of his own mind when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. He’s jerked back into awareness and opens his eyes to find Crowley only a few inches from him, face hovering so closely to his own, the sclera of his eyes stretched wide.

“My dear?”

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, frowning. He looks around the cabin, noticing how dark it has become. It was still daylight out when he started this process but it looks as though night has fallen without his notice. “Oh, dear. I didn’t realise I was away for so long.”

“Tried calling your name,” Crowley mutters, dropping hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders to sit back, giving the angel some space. “You didn’t answer. And it was hours.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says quickly. “Meditation praying is… lengthy, sometimes.”

It is a process. Sometimes it is quicker than others, but not when he can barely feel any grace.

Barely.

Well, that’s an improvement, at the very least.

“I can feel some of my grace,” he tells Crowley. “Just barely, but it’s there.”

Which is certainly more than he had before.

Crowley smiles tentatively. “Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?”

“It is. How much more time do we have?”

Crowley glances at his watch. “Uh… nuuh. 19 hours left.”

They’ve squandered five hours waiting for Aziraphale. He sighs. “Then we should make the most of it.”

“What do you want to do, angel?”

“I should practice some simple blessings and miracles, I should think,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “But doing miracles might alert the Prince of Hell of our whereabouts, which defeats the purpose.”

Crowley frowns as well. “Could try very small blessings. Oh gather your power like you’re going to do something, then stop. I mean, you’re just trying to pull your grace out enough to notice it, right?”

Aziraphale nods. “Something like that, my dear.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, we have 19 hours. And then…” Crowley’s lips curl, revealing bared teeth.

“Let’s not waste the time, then.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale is exhausted, if he’s being honest with himself. If he didn’t hate waking up so much he might actually attempt to sleep, but they don’t have time for that nonsense right now. As it stands, he feels sore somewhere inside—using a metaphorical muscle to summon his grace and disperse it just as quickly, training his mind to pull it from the dredges of his core. He never manifests anything; not wings, not an object summoned via miracle, and he doesn’t even summon his sword to his palm. It’s just practice, using his power this way.

It doesn’t feel normal, but at least he can access it, if need be. How helpful or powerful it might be is another matter entirely, but at least he’s not completely helpless. 

Crowley has sat with him the whole time, encouraging him onward when he gets frustrated and wants to stop. The hours pass and Aziraphale feels as though he is going to explode at some points—some tight pressure building in his temples—but in the end, he is able to briefly ignite his flame, once Crowley hands it to him. 

Progress. Baby steps of progress. He can work with this.

He’ll have to work with this.

He doesn’t remember having to learn how to do this before; when he was created, he already had the knowledge of how to work his powers ingrained in his mind. It was instinct. Intrinsic. Now it feels like he’s learning how to tap into it for the first time, and it is mind-numbing in a way. Perhaps that is for the best, though; his head certainly aches right now, and being numb would be preferable, he thinks. 

When he finally decides to stop for the time being, they have roughly 3 hours before the spell wears off. It’s not nearly enough time, he thinks, but at least he knows his grace is still there, somewhere inside of him. It’s hard to tug it out as the power seems reluctant to manifest, but it’s still there, waiting. 

He opens his eyes and rolls his shoulders, wincing at the tension built up in his neck, pain spiking upward into the base of his head. He is an angel and can obviously sit in one position forever if needed, but he’s grown used to moving around here and there, and being nearly motionless for so many hours leaves him aching and sore. 

Crowley eyes him carefully. “Better?”

“I don’t know about ‘better,’ but it’s getting… not exactly easier, but I can access my grace a little faster.”

“That’s something, at least.”

Aziraphale looks down at the sword held in his palm. The flames have died away. “I am done for today.”

“We still have three hours,” Crowley tells him.

“Yes, but I am… tired.”

“Tired?”

He rolls his shoulders again. “It is… a process. I am tired. Oh… tea sounds lovely right now, but there isn’t any here, is there?”

“Nuuh. No.”

“That’s alright.”

He doesn’t need the tea, but it’s been his comfort drink for so long now. Sometimes it’s hard to tell himself he doesn’t need it. Human habits can be hard to break, it seems. 

“How are you feeling? Besides tired, I mean.”

“I am fine,” Aziraphale assures him.

The demon scowls back at him. “Don’t lie to my face. How are you?”

Aziraphale sighs heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. “Frustrated,” he admits finally. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t like feeling so… so…” His lips purse. “Human.”

He’s lived among humans since the beginning of time, and of course he likes the humans; but he doesn’t want to be human. Not completely. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than an angel, and this sudden shift has left him… frustrated.

“ ‘m sure you’ll be just ‘tickety-boo’ in no time, angel.”

Aziraphale nods. “Thank you, my dear. It will just take some practice, and some time.”

But he’ll make it work. Make it happen. 

It’s just going to be a process.

“What would you like to do for the last three hours?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley frowns. “Not sure.”

“What all do we have here?”

Aziraphale hasn’t even really looked around the cabin yet. They appeared in the living room when Crowley teleported them here, and since then he’d been shadowing the demon as Crowley went around the room, marking sigils into the wood. Beyond that, he doesn’t know what all exists in this cabin Crowley manifested.

“Eh, not much,” Crowley says. “Could play cards but I’d have to miracle a deck.”

“Better not, then,” Aziraphale says. They don’t want to reveal their location before their time is up. That defeats the purpose of the spell, after all. “How about you tell me what happened after you got me to the holy water?”

The reaction is instantaneous. Crowley’s entire form goes rigid, spine snapped taut, and his wide eyes stare back at Aziraphale, the yellow stretched all the way across. “Ngk,” says Crowley. “Nuuh. Why?”

“You’ve been keeping something from me, my dear.”

“Haven’t.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’d prefer if you didn’t lie to my face, Crowley. Give me some credit here; I know you. I know you’re hiding something. So just tell me what happened.”

Crowley bares his teeth.

“No time like the present,” Aziraphale says. “We have three hours to talk.”

“Nothing happened,” Crowley insists. “I got you to the holy water and got that stuff off you, and then miracled us back to the cottage.”

“See, that already doesn’t make sense, my dear.”

“Nuuh. Why not?”

Aziraphale eyes him calmly. “You expect me to believe that after I nearly died, you immediately took us back to the scene of the incident? I know you, my dear. You wouldn’t do that.”

Crowley winces; his nose wrinkles slightly and there’s a crease to his brow now which wasn’t present before. Aziraphale hates doing this to his demon, but he needs to know what happened. Maybe it will explain why his powers are so… diminished. 

Other than the attack, of course.

Because something happened. Something Crowley hasn’t told him yet, and seems reluctant to even begin to talk about, which is exactly why Aziraphale needs to know.

“So tell me,” Aziraphale says.

“Ngk,” says Crowley. His lips pull back, baring his teeth again, before he says sharply, “She happened.”

“She?”

“She,” the demon snaps.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh…! You mean…?” He points upward.

Crowley gives a stiff nod. “Yeah, Her. She uh…” He hisses, baring his teeth again. “You were dead.”

Alarm shoots through Aziraphale. “Dead?”

“Well, not… not dead-dead,” Crowley says, looking away. “But I thought… I mean you just… you were ssso ssstill. And you were Dark. I thought…”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, and reaches out to snag hold of one of Crowley’s hands, intwining their fingers. Crowley’s gaze snaps down to their hands then up to Aziraphale’s face. “I am so sorry. I knew it was bad and I nearly died but I didn’t know how… real, it was, for you.”

When he’d scattered himself into a million small particles, hiding in the shadows surrounding his presence, he’d had faith in Crowley being able to see that he was still there and that the demon would get him the help he needed. He had faith in his demon.

He’d also prayed, rather desperately, that the demon wouldn’t do anything stupid while he was… away. Crowley said he didn’t do anything. Aziraphale believed him. But he’s still hiding something.

“She possessed you,” Crowley finally mutters.

Aziraphale stares at the demon. “She… what?”

“Took control of your body,” the demon says roughly. “Had a little… conversation. Then She took us to the cottage and left, and I put you to bed.”

“The Almighty spoke to you?”

Crowley’s gaze skitters away again. “Briefly. But yes.”

This is all a lot to wrap his head around. “What did She say?”

“She, uh… She told me you were alive. Jussst hiding.”

“She possessed me… to tell you I was alive? That’s it?”

Sure, Aziraphale is her coverage for the time being, but that seems rather extreme, to possess Aziraphale in order to speak with Crowley and tell the demon he is still alive somewhere inside himself. He’s grateful Crowley wasn’t alone, he supposes, but it still seems… odd. 

Crowley pushes to his feet. “I’m gonna… check the perimeter. Yeah. Sssee you sssoon.”

Aziraphale stands as well. “Crowley, wait—”

The demon slips free of his grasp and makes for the door. Aziraphale moves to follow.

Then crashes to his knees at the sudden searing pain in his head. 

Oh, dear. The pain crashes through his head, scattering his thoughts so easily. There’s a loud ringing in his ears, and a voice on the wind, whisper thin.

“Help… me… someone… help…” 

He jolts back to his feet. Distantly, he is aware of hands clawing at his arms, but they are an idle nuisance and won’t stop him. He moves toward the door; those hands try to jerk him back, but he wrenches free with a flare of angelic power, and steps outside.

“Someone help me… please, God… help…” 

The words in the wind call to him. He runs.

“Angel, wait—”

Another attempt at stopping him. He once again jerks free and doesn’t even spare the nuisance a fleeting glance, just keeps running. There’s a treeline in the distance; a wooded area, great for hunting or camping, perhaps even hiking. Hiking. The thought solidifies in his mind and he pictures trails, paths worn down by frequent footsteps across them. 

He turns down a path immediately upon entering the trees. 

“Someone please help me! Please, God! Aziraphale! I don’t want to die!” 

The words perhaps aren’t spoken so much as wailed, but he doesn’t think they are verbal. Perhaps a thought? No, a prayer. It’s a prayer. 

Almost there now, he thinks, taking a turn down another path. Distantly, he is aware of footsteps stumbling behind him, but that is unimportant right now.  

He crests a hill and there he is.

A man, caught in a small ravine. His leg is broken and he can’t climb out, and he is in agony. There’s a cut on his temple from where he probably hit his head falling down. Aziraphale slides down into the ravine, landing with grace, and then touches a hand to the shattered leg.

Heal. With a pulse of angelic energy, the leg mends itself before his eyes. The bones snap back into place and the skin mends itself, the bleeding stopped. The man stares at him in wide-eyed wonder for a brief moment, and Aziraphale taps the man on the forehead, healing the head wound as well. 

His own head throbs sharply in response, but that isn’t important right now. 

“You’re Aziraphale,” the man says, awed. “You… you healed me.”

Aziraphale holds out a hand. The man takes it and is pulled to his feet by the angel. Steadily, they both climb out of the small ravine and back onto safer ground. The man twists his leg this way and that, eying it from every angle he can, and then grins toothily at Aziraphale.

“Thank you so much! I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing,” someone says.

Someone. Oh, wait. He says. 

“This trail is dangerous,” he says. “You shouldn’t hike here this time of year.”

“I thought it’d be fine,” the man says despondently. “Good thing you were here to help me. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

“You are welcome, Thomas.”

Thomas is all smiles until he looks over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “What is that?”

Aziraphale is aware of the presence behind him, but doesn’t turn around or acknowledge the question. Instead he presses a hand to the man’s forehead and wills him back to the safety of his truck. 

The man vanishes instantly.

Aziraphale slumps, the strings which were animating him suddenly cut.

Something catches him before he hits the ground. 

A voice hissed in his ear. A word, his name. A breath.

Burning golden eyes peering down at him.

Aziraphale’s eyes shut. Darkness takes him.

He wakes sometime later, pain throbbing sharply behind his eyes even before he reluctantly pries them open. The room is dark save for the sunlight dying just outside the window, and there’s a demon sat next to him on a small bed. Yellow eyes watch him sharply.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, mind hazy. “What happened?”

Sharp fangs bared. “You tell me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t… remember.”

Everything is blurry and foggy in his mind. It’s like moving through molasses. His eyes fall shut as he struggles to concentrate, but sleep tugs at him still. He remembers being in the living room of the cabin, meditating… then talking with Crowley… then…

Nothing.

“I remember talking to you,” he finally says, opening his eyes again, “then nothing. What happened?”

“You had an Urge,” Crowley says distastefully. “Left the cabin and everything. Wandered off into the woods to help some sorry fuck who fell down a ravine.”

Aziraphale blinks, memories filling in the gaps briefly. It all feels like an odd dream to him, not something which actually happened, which is worrisome. He frowns. “I see,” he says. 

“You used your power a lot, too,” the demon says. “To heal him, and get him out of there. Then you kinda… toppled over. Again.”

Aziraphale winces at the forced nonchalance in that voice. “I am sorry, my dear. I could hear his prayers and I had to go to him. I don’t know how I used my powers…”

He focuses on his core, on his grace. It’s there, perhaps more present than before. Brighter. More substantial. A grin slips across his face.

“On the upside,” he says cheerily, “I can feel my grace better now.”

Crowley huffs. “Oh, sure, all you had to do was pass out again.”

“I’m sorry for that. I don’t mean to worry you.”

“I know,” Crowley says. “What the bloody hell was that guy doing way out here in the middle of nowhere anyway?”

“Hiking,” Aziraphale says. “It was a hiking trail.”

“Yeah, but this time of year?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t foolish.”

Crowley shakes his head. “How do you feel?”

“My head aches,” Aziraphale admits, “but other than that, I am fine.”

“Good, because our time ended two hours ago.”

Chapter Text

Crowley steps into the cottage, forked tongue out, tasting for anything strange in the air. He doesn’t smell or sense anything out of the ordinary; the cottage smells only of the two of them, no unfamiliar scents or anything like that, and he can’t sense any other presences nearby. This doesn’t mean there aren’t any nearby; Aziraphale would be a better judge of that than himself, but with his powers still on the fritz…

The angel enters the cottage behind him, despite his warning to stay outside until he gave the all-clear. Crowley tosses a quick glare at the angel, who smiles back sheepishly, and then the demon continues prowling through the cottage. He goes upstairs to check on the room up there; it is empty save for some of Aziraphale’s things, like a few stacks of books and a couple tartan blankets.

Heading back down the stairs, he checks out his own room, then the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary; it doesn’t seem as though anyone has been here since they left that day. Slowly, his shoulders start to relax, but he keeps his guard up nevertheless. 

Just because he can’t scent any Prince of Hell here doesn’t mean they’re safe. That package last time certainly proved otherwise. 

Unable to relax completely, he returns to Aziraphale in the living room. “Don’t sense anything,” he tells the angel.

Aziraphale nods. “Perhaps the Prince wasn’t even after us.”

“ ‘course they were,” Crowley says, scowling. “Why else would they be at the park of all places? Where we frequent?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Any number of reasons. Maybe we are being paranoid.”

“Paranoia keeps you alive.”

“Yes, but it can be exhausting.”

“Point,” Crowley says. “Do you sense anything?”

Aziraphale has been practicing, after all. Maybe he can sense things now. 

The angel’s expression shutters before his eyes fall shut and he stills, seemingly listening to and sensing things around him. Crowley waits impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep from circling his angel. Aziraphale seems agitated enough without adding that to the mix.

Finally, Aziraphale sighs and opens his eyes. “It’s difficult, but I don’t sense anything in the cottage.”

“What about the surrounding area?”

Aziraphale’s lips purse together, a frown overtaking his face. “I can’t sense that far out yet. Just the cottage.”

Crowley nods. “It’s progress, though.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

It is progress, and Aziraphale is slowly getting better. Some knot in Crowley’s stomach starts to unwind; maybe things will be okay after all. Aziraphale will come back to his full power and maybe they won’t have to worry about this Prince of Hell so much.

Maybe the Prince thinks they killed Aziraphale already. With Aziraphale’s reserves so low, he might not even show up on their unholy radar. Slowly, Crowley’s spine loosens and he feels like he can breathe again.

“ ‘m gonna put up some wards,” Crowley says. 

“I should do that,” Aziraphale says. “Better to keep demons out. No offence, dear.”

“I know, but you look… tired.”

He’s pale and there are bags under his sunken eyes. Today has been exhausting for the angel. Crowley is quite familiar with exhaustion. He’s just not used to seeing it so obvious on the angel’s face. 

Aziraphale does have a point, though; as a demon, he can’t quite block out other demons. He can block out angels, but that could potentially hurt Aziraphale, and he won’t risk that. Besides, it doesn’t seem like it’s the angels they have to worry about right now, not with God restructuring Heaven, whatever that means. It’s demons they have to worry about, and Crowley can only put down a couple alarming wards which will notify him the second something crosses them. It will, at the very least, buy them a couple minutes should the Prince of Hell try to attack them directly.

“How about some tea?” Crowley offers, leading the way into the kitchen. Aziraphale trails behind him.

“Oh, that sounds lovely.”

“Coming right up.”

He reaches for the kettle, grateful that this time his hands aren’t shaking. Baby steps, he thinks. Don’t panic. Everything is alright. Aziraphale’s powers are coming back, slowly but surely, and they will deal with this mess together. 

Now if only he could rid his mind of the images of Aziraphale being entirely too Dark…

He shakes the thoughts away, filling the kettle with water. Once it’s on the stove, he turns to find Aziraphale sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, eyes closed as he hunches forward slightly. He looks run down and exhausted, and Crowley hates the image. 

“You can lie down, if you want,” he offers. “My bed is comfy enough.”

“I’m alright,” Aziraphale says, straightening up as his hands fall from his face. 

“The bags under your eyes beg to differ. Drink your tea then get some sleep, angel.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Well, you need it.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says, somewhat sharply. “Angels don’t need to sleep.”

Crowley sighs, shaking his head. Sleeping isn’t something Aziraphale wants to do, ever; the few times he’s done it, apparently waking has been nightmare of an experience, so he can’t really blame the angel for not wanting to sleep. Add to it how exhausted he must feel, and the fact he might actually need to sleep might be considered a sign of weakness, which Aziraphale won’t tolerate in himself. 

Once the tea is finished, Crowley pours some into Aziraphale’s winged mug and hands it to the angel before sitting across from him at the table. Aziraphale accepts his cup with a nod of thanks and takes a sip, eyes falling shut as the steaming liquid hits his mouth. He swallows slowly and then opens his eyes to peer at Crowley.

“Would you like something, my dear?”

Crowley shakes his head. “ ‘m fine,” he says. “Drink your tea.”

Aziraphale does.

Crowley stands once the angel has finished his first cup. He refills the mug for him and then walks around the table. “I’m going to set up those wards now. Enjoy your tea, angel.”

Then he strides out of the room before Aziraphale can object.

The air outside is wet and frigid. Crowley shivers as the wind blows against him as he makes his way to the farthest reaches of the property line. He keeps his senses stretched out as he goes, just in case someone is lurking nearby, waiting for the angel to be alone.

He senses nothing out of the ordinary, though.

With a wave of his hand, he puts down the first of several wards. They glow red in the earth despite the dampness to the air and greenery to the grass. He marks it with his true name and then moves on to do more along the property lines. 

By the time he is finished, the rain has really started pelting down and he is soaked as he returns to the cottage.

Aziraphale is waiting for him at the door, a towel in hand which Crowley uses to dry his hair and wipe off his face. He’s still shivering, unable to keep warm in that moment, and Aziraphale grabs his arm and guides him to the fireplace. They both sit in front of it, on the floor—Crowley because it’s warm and Aziraphale because it’s where Crowley is. 

Crowley glances at the angel out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale is staring deeply into the flames, absently stroke a finger over the curve of Crowley’s knuckles from where their hands rest between them, close enough to touch. Warmth slips through him at the contact and he lets his eyes fall shut as he tilts his head back, a contented sigh escaping him. 

This is how life should be, he thinks. Just him and Aziraphale around a cosy fire in their new home. Life together, how it always should have been. 

For just a moment, Crowley can release his hold on his inner panic and just be, with Aziraphale. Safe. Together. Warm.

“My dear, you’re shivering.”

A warm hand hooks around the curve of his neck and gently guides him sideways, into that warmth and safety he craves so much. He sinks into the embrace willingly, resting his forehead on the angel’s shoulder, not daring to open his eyes and shatter this moment.

A wave of angelic energy vibrates in the air between them, and suddenly Crowley’s clothes are dry. He opens his eyes and looks at the angel, who smiles sheepishly.

“Been practicing,” the angel says. “While you were putting down wards.”

Crowley smiles. Baby steps, but they are making progress. 

Maybe they’ll be okay after all.

Yeah. Right. And I’m not Fallen, he thinks distastefully, nose wrinkling at the thought. He knows better than to let his guard down again; he did that last time when they arrived at the cottage and everything seemed fine, until that delivery girl arrived on their doorstep. He won’t forgive himself for his ineptitude then, for his thoughtlessness and lack of awareness. He can’t change what happened in the past, but at least he can stop it from happening again.

If anyone arrives at this cottage unannounced, he will be the one to answer the door. He’ll fight Aziraphale back if need be, but his angel isn’t going near anyone or anything suspect again.

“Are you warm, my dear?”

Crowley blinks, refocusing on the angel beside him. Against him. Right, they are sort of cuddling, aren’t they? His pulse stutters in his chest and he nods once, quickly. “Yeah, ‘m warm.”

Aziraphale nods but doesn’t pull away, for which Crowley is grateful. Not so long ago, casual touches like this were completely unheard of; he’d thought about them from time to time, of course, but never acted on them. Never thought that would acceptable, and in any case, they had Heaven and Hell watching them from time to time, so the more distance between them, the better. Things are different now, though.

This is suddenly something they can do as much as they want.

And Crowley wants. 

Aziraphale shifts next to him, against him—pulling Crowley in a little closer, and Crowley goes willingly. The tension which has been hiding in his spine slowly disperses, allowing him to relax against the angel. His angel. They’re on their own side now, and live together, and can cuddle as much as they want. Once upon a time, Crowley would have shunned the idea and banished it from his mind, declaring it utter nonsense. Now, though…

Well. Now it’s different. Everything’s different.

But a good different, he thinks.

He doesn’t realise his eyes are shut until Aziraphale hums contentedly. The sound vibrates through the demon and he pries heavy eyelids open. Oh, he is rather tired, isn’t he? He’s been on high alert for a long time now; at least a day. Over a day. More than a day. He can’t sleep now, not with a Prince of Hell out there searching for them. 

So he reluctantly pushes away from Aziraphale. The angel lets him go, though does frown at him.

“Is something the matter?”

“Nuuh. No,” Crowley says. “Just… shouldn’t be sleeping.”

“I don’t mind.”

That’s not the point, Crowley thinks, but shakes his head as he pushes to his feet, stretching momentarily. Sitting so close to the fire, with Aziraphale pressed against him and holding him like that—it felt good, felt better than good, but he can’t relax right now. Can’t lose focus and let his guard down.

He did that before and nearly lost Aziraphale for it.

Never again, he vows to himself. 

“Play some cards?” He asks the angel.

“You’re changing the subject,” Aziraphale says, getting to his feet as well. “But yes, we can play cards.”

“Fancy some rummy?”

“Oh, yes.”

Crowley leads the way into the kitchen and miracles up the cards. 

While they play, he keeps his essence pooled out over the entirety of the cottage, waiting and searching for any hint of danger. And keeps a close metaphorical eye on his wards beyond the walls of the cottage, along the property lines. 

No Prince is getting the drop on them again.

They’re halfway through their third game when Aziraphale suddenly pushes to his feet. Crowley eyes him warily. “What’s up, angel?”

Aziraphale rolls his shoulders, wincing as something pulls in his neck. “Not sure,” he says quietly, looking around as though he can’t quite see the walls around them. “There’s… trouble.”

“Trouble?” Crowley repeats, frowning, as he pushes to his feet as well. He moves toward the angel, reaching out to grab his shoulder—when Aziraphale twists away.

“A lot of trouble,” Aziraphale gasps, doubling at the waist suddenly, like he can’t breathe properly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, hovering nearby, afraid to reach out and touch again in case that’s what caused the issue. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Aziraphale hisses and snaps his fingers.

Suddenly Crowley is alone in the kitchen, a tight knot of dread coiling in his stomach. 

Chapter Text

The pain shooting through his body is mostly an afterthought, once Aziraphale arrives wherever he’s being pulled. It’s an odd sensation to be sure; one minute he was happily playing cards with Crowley, and the next he felt this ice cold feeling of dread wash over him, sharp and insistent, which left pain coursing through his veins as well as he was seemingly frozen from the inside out. Then there was this tugging sensation in his mind—a persistent, nagging thought that he really, desperately needed to be somewhere, right now. And he snapped his fingers.

What he arrives to is chaos, pure and simple. A waking nightmare, perhaps. There are bodies strewn across the ground. No one was spared a gruesome death; there is blood everywhere, and the acrid taste of it in the air leaves him gagging even as despair grips at his core, threatening to suffocate him, leaving him unable to drag air into his lungs in his shock and horror at what is waiting before him. 

Some are torn in half; entire body parts are completely missing. Perhaps eaten, if the jagged marks along the missing limbs are anything to go by. Perhaps an animal did this? But no, there’s the lingering stench of sulphur and brimstone in the air. A demon did this.

Bodies everywhere—teenagers, adults, elderly, even kids. Aziraphale eyes the kids despondently, a pang of loss sweeping through him as his legs move of their own accord, forcing him to walk through the carnage laid out before him. There’s a hazy aura over this whole area, and along the edges there is yellow police tape. A few officers linger at the edges, seemingly waiting for something before they move closer to the bodies. Perhaps forensics, Aziraphale thinks, struggling to remember anything about the homicide investigation process.

This is a complete massacre. 

Aziraphale has seen many wars in his lifetime, has fought in them as well—but seeing slaughtered kids, slaughtered innocents, never gets any easier. Bile rises in his throat, a completely human reaction to the scene around him, and he forces the bile back down. He walks through the carnage, offering a small blessing of rest to the departed as he goes. It’s too little too late, but he can at least ensure their souls find even the slightest bit of peace. They deserve it after what they endured.

Some bodies are shredded. Some are mostly whole, with a slice from sharp claws to their stomachs or throats. Sightless eyes stare up at him. The youngest victim looks to be about three-years-old, cradled in the arms of her mother, also slain. Aziraphale stops just over them, staring down in horror at the senseless loss of life, before he snarls deep in his throat.

It’s dragged up from some inner dredges of power. A fury he hasn’t felt in so very long. A distant memory, really. But he pulls from that furious power and with a wave of his hand, his sword is in his grasp, flaming like the day he first obtained it, and his wings have appeared. He doesn’t remember summoning them or the blade, but some instinctual part of him knows what to do, even when logic fails him.

It’s not hard to lock onto that demonic presence. It’s not very far away, and it’s ebbing dangerously; a twisted sort of laughter on the breeze. The demon had fun doing this to all these innocent people. In this moment, Aziraphale can’t think of a reason why Hell would demand such a thing. Perhaps they didn’t, but killing viciously like this isn’t very ‘behind the scenes’ like Hell usually wants things to be. On that, at least Heaven and Hell can agree on something. No blatant display of carnage or powers; just tempt humans to do the dirty work. Easier for everyone that way, and keeps their existence safe. 

The last thing Hell wants is everyone spiking their drinks with holy water or something similar, aware of the existence of demons. It’s why one of the very first rules is not to reveal yourself unless it’s under a very specific set of guidelines, such as an angel revealing oneself to a prophet. 

This is different. 

This is malice personified. 

And Aziraphale will destroy them.

The wrath flowing through him should alarm him, he thinks on some distant level—but it is justified. This is an unholy massacre of innocents, of children, of people who should never have been cut down in the prime of their lives. The human police won’t be able to do anything. This is more serious than just a simple massacre, no matter how bloody or horrible it seems.

This is a demon on a rampage. A demon ignoring the Rules. 

And it cannot be tolerated.

“Aziraphale!”

The voice is sudden and jarring. A familiar, welcome voice juxtaposed with the bloody mayhem around him, and for a moment, Aziraphale freezes, two sides of himself warring against each other.

On one hand, he needs to destroy this demonic entity, the one who did this to all these people. 

On the other… that’s Crowley, and Aziraphale has never been found of fighting. 

“Aziraphale! You idiot, you can’t just run off like—Oh no…”

Aziraphale’s entire body shudders at the startled tone in Crowley’s voice as the demon notices the chaos around them. The carnage. Aziraphale’s grip on his sword tightens, the flames spiking higher with holy, furious radiance. 

“What happened?” Crowley asks quietly, stopping next to the body of the little three-year-old cradled in her mother’s arms. 

Aziraphale bares his teeth, unable to stop himself. “A demon happened.”

“Aziraphale, this is… This is St. James’ Park.”

A jolt spikes through the anger encircling his mind, and he finally looks around at the scenery around the massacre. It is indeed St. James’ Park, where they have spent so much of their time. It looks and feels so very different now, covered in blood with crime tape everywhere, and the lingering essence of demonic laughter on the breeze. 

It’s all very nauseating. Bile rises in his throat again and he swallows it back down, moving toward the lingering ebbs of that demonic presence. Crowley jerks into movement a second later, following after him. 

“This was the Prince of Hell,” Crowley mutters darkly. “They did this.”

A Prince of Hell. Of course. Aziraphale should have known immediately from the stench surrounding this place, but he’d been rather preoccupied with the victims. It is his job as Principality—as Her coverage—to dispose of this murderer before they can harm another life. 

“Why would they do this?” He asks quietly, despite the flames of fury threatening to consume him. “It’s agains the Rules. Why would they risk it?”

“Well… Satan kind of evaporated,” Crowley says. “Maybe they think no one is in charge anymore?”

“Hmm…” It is a thought. Perhaps an accurate one. It doesn’t make him feel any better, knowing why the demon thought this would be an acceptable idea. “We should have been here.” A pause. “I should have been here.”

“Aziraphale, no,” Crowley say sharply. “Don’t do that yourself. You couldn’t have known. Neither of us knew.”

“We knew a Prince of Hell was in this area,” Aziraphale reminds him sourly. “And we fled. I should have stayed.”

“And done what, exactly? You couldn’t even access your power at that time, Aziraphale! You would have been killed.”

“But there’s so many people…”

“Hey, that’s not your fault, okay?” A hand lands on his shoulder. It takes all his willpower not to shrug off the tentative hold. “None of this is your fault. If you want to blame someone, blame me, for teleporting us out of here like that. But don’t blame yourself, because it wasn’t your fault.”

Aziraphale sighs. There is no way, in any world, he can condemn Crowley. And it’s not like Crowley knew what the Prince was planning on doing here; he assumed the Prince was after them, since they’d already attacked Aziraphale once. So he can’t blame Crowley for wanting to get them both out of there, damn the consequences.

He still should have known, himself, though. He should have stayed because that is and has always been his duty: to protect humanity. To guide them toward the light. To thwart demons. Yet he was too weak to fight, to even summon his own grace, and now look what happened…

No matter what Crowley says, this is entirely his fault. 

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley says, tugging lightly at his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, yeah? Police are moving in.”

They are, Aziraphale registers distantly, but that demonic presence went this way, and he must follow the trail. He doesn’t even question how he knows this for a fact; doesn’t question the sudden sharp return of his powers, in a way that feels nearly overpowering to him. Maybe it’s an extension of the Urges, he doesn’t know; he doesn’t care in this moment. 

The humans don’t notice everything; it’s reality, as Crowley once said. What their minds can’t comprehend, their brains spare them from truly seeing. So while Aziraphale’s wings are out and exposed, giant and white as always, the humans pay them no mind. Be it a miracle over the area, that dark hazy edge to the whole place—most likely curtesy of the Prince of Hell covering his tracks—or something else entirely, the humans pay him no mind. 

“Angel?”

“This way,” Aziraphale says tersely. “The Prince went this way.”

Now that hand is tugging rather insistently on his shoulder, yanking him to an abrupt halt. “Whoa, wait, hold on,” Crowley says quickly. “You can’t be serious right now. You’re not hunting them, are you kidding me? That’s suicide.”

Aziraphale wrenches his arm free and says nothing. There’s a tug in his mind, a pull in a certain direction, toward that sense of fire and brimstone, and he needs to do this. He is a Principality; Earth’s only one, and as Her coverage, this is his job. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses sharply, and the demon moves to block his path quickly, hands splayed out and open to stop him should he try to manoeuvre around the obstruction. Burning yellow eyes search his own. “Lisssten, thisss issn’t you! You’re being Urged.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “But I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t!”

“Look how many they killed! Look at those kids!”

Crowley flinches. “I know, I know, angel. But not like this, okay? We’ll get him. Just… not like this.”

Aziraphale quietly seethes for ten seconds, counting up the time in his head before he releases a slow, steady breath. It is incredibly hard to turn away from the temptation to press forward, but deep down, he knows Crowley is right. While his powers seem to be working again, there’s still a sharp pain in his head and a deep-seeded weight within himself—exhaustion and fatigue, making his limbs feel heavy. He is in no position to face off against an angry, adrenaline-fuelled Prince of Hell right now, and he knows it.

So he reigns in his flared temper. 

“Fine,” he says sharply. He doesn’t like snapping at Crowley but can’t bring himself to stop; it’s hard enough to keep his feet from moving in the direction he knows the Prince wandered off in, probably laughing all the way, licking blood from their claws…

Hands grip his shoulders tightly. “Okay?” Crowley repeats. “You’ll come with me?”

Aziraphale looks again at the carnage around them. Feels that fury rise in his throat once more, a burning lump threatening to choke him, suffocate him. Then he closes his eyes and gives a small, barely perceptible nod.

A second later the world spins to nothing around them, and when he opens his eyes, they’re back in the cottage. 

A full-body shudder rips through his body. His hands won’t stop shaking. Everywhere he looks he can’t help but picture those mangled bodies and all the blood. He thinks he can even still smell it, even though he knows there aren’t any bloody bodies in the cottage. 

Crowley’s hands grip his arms tightly, rubbing soothing circles into his flesh. “Angel? You with me?”

Aziraphale blinds at him, attempting to focus his vision. It’s all so foggy. “All those people…” he laments quietly.

“I know, angel,” Crowley says, equally as quiet. “I know. We’ll get them, but you look like you’re about to fall over. Tea?”

Aziraphale nods, unable to find his voice in that moment.

Crowley takes him by the arm and gently guides him into the kitchen. Aziraphale slumps into his chair and drops his head into his hands, elbows digging into the wood of the table. Behind closed eyelids, he sees those shredded people. So many of them. Kids, teenagers, adults, elderly. The Prince killed indiscriminately. 

And it’s all his fault. He should have been there. Should have sensed the Prince himself. Shouldn’t have let Crowley spirit them away as he did. 

It’s his job, after all. He’s supposed to protect humanity.

He’s supposed to cover for Her.

And he failed.

“Aziraphale?”

He sighs heavily and drops his hands from his head. Slumps back in his chair as he eyes Crowley, who stands about a foot away, watching him carefully. Aziraphale smiles tiredly, hoping it doesn’t look as forced as it feels. 

“I’m fine,” he tells his demon. “It’s just… been a long day. And all those people…”

“We’ll fix it,” Crowley says.

“We can’t fix it,” Aziraphale mutters. “All those people are dead, and they’re going to stay dead.”

“We’ll get the bastard who did it.”

“We will,” Aziraphale says coldly. 

I will destroy them. 

The kettle on the stove whistles shrilly. Crowley jolts into movement, springing back a step to approach the stove and remove the kettle from it. He pours a cup and then brings it to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale accepts the mug with shaking hands. 

For a moment, he just stares down blankly into the steaming liquid. 

“Why would they do that?” He asks quietly. “Why would they break the Rules like that? Surely there are consequences, even for a demon…”

“There are,” Crowley says. “Like I said, though, maybe they’re calling their own shots.”

“So how do we stop him? He could involve innocents…”

“Hey,” Crowley says firmly, waiting until Aziraphale’s gaze slips toward him. “We’ll fix this. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale breathes, and then takes a sip of his tea. 

But then how do they stop a rogue demon? A literal loose cannon?

Because they can’t let them get away with this. If Aziraphale is the only angel on Earth right now, and the others seem trapped up in Heaven for ‘restructuring’, then it’s up to him alone to stop this demonic monstrosity from claiming more lives. 

“We’ll let the police clean up the place, get the bodies sorted,” Crowley says softly, “and then we’ll go back, okay? When it’s clear. Safe. And we can think of what to do then.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple, angel. We’ll fix it.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles faintly. 

Together, they can do this. Together. They’ll have to be enough to take down a Prince of Hell. 

Aziraphale will destroy the Prince for what they have done.

Chapter Text

Abaddon licks the gore off his clawed hands and grins to himself. Killing dozens of useless humans is appetising. 

Wasn’t allowed before, he remembers. Something about Rules.

There aren’t any Rules anymore. No one is keeping score. Apparently something is happening in Heaven and God is preoccupied, and Lucifer is… gone.

There’s a power vacuum, he thinks. He’s never been one for politics, but playing at Lucifer could be entertaining. At the very least he won’t have to abide by anyone’s poor concepts of rules. 

It’s a thought, at least. Not prominent, but not idle either.

The subway system is dark and quiet. A few lights flicker here and there in response to his demonic energy spooling around him. It’s been a long, long time since he cut loose like this—since he let himself enjoy the carnage he can create. 

Lucifer and Beezlebub kept them on a rather tight leash. No revealing yourselves to humans, no outright murder which can be seen as questionable to rouse suspicion…

But all that’s done now.

A train car stops near him, lighting the tunnel. The doors open.

Abaddon grins and steps forward, claws extended. The few who see him start to scream, but there is nowhere to run.

Aziraphale sips at his tea, watching Crowley meander around the kitchen, throwing a few vegetables in a boiling pot of water on the stove. It’s fascinating, watching his demon cook. Crowley talks idly as he cooks and Aziraphale responds in kind, and it all feels so wonderfully domestic. 

If only he could forget the churning in his stomach. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to eat this food with the way that knot weighs hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, but he will try, for Crowley’s sake. He’s not hungry in the slightest, but something familiar upon which to focus is at least a distraction. 

Even so, every time he closes his eyes all he can see are those poor, mangled bodies. The rage stirs within him again and he pushes it down harshly. It’s only been a couple of hours; the police are most likely still milling around, and in any case it’s the middle of the night.

This Prince of Hell doesn’t seem to care about any of the Rules. They could strike again.

The churning in his stomach continues.

“All done,” Crowley says, presenting him with a plate of steamed vegetables. It’s not much, but Aziraphale is grateful for the meager amount. “Eat up, angel.”

Aziraphale picks up his fork and stabs absently at a carrot. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Don’t need to thank me,” Crowley says. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” Aziraphale admits. 

It was throbbing rather sharply earlier, but now it’s died down to a dull ache. He ignores it for the most part. 

“ ’s good,” the demon says. “And your grace?”

“I can still feel it.”

Although tapping into it feels rather like tossing salt into an open wound—raw and burning. But at least it’s there, at his fingertips, should he need it. 

And he will need it, he reminds himself grimly. He will need every bit of power and grace he can get when dealing with a Prince of Hell. Hastur was only a Duke and gave him more than enough trouble. It was only pure luck which saved him in the church that day, after coming into contact with hellfire. 

Somehow, he knows battling a Prince will be that much harder. 

There’s a sudden shiver across his skin—a shift in the air. The faintest whiff of ozone.

Crowley snarls and jerks to his feet, stalking out of the kitchen, radiating a cold fury. Aziraphale stands as well and follows after him. 

There’s a loud knock on the door. 

Crowley hisses and approaches the door. Aziraphale moves to intercept him but the demon throws him such a raw glare he stills his hand and lets the demon open the door.

Gabriel stands there, a large grin on his face. “Aziraphale! Hey, you! Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Crowley snarls and lunges at the same instant the sword fits into Aziraphale’s hand, the blade igniting instantly. His demon snags a handful of that sharp grey clothing and throws the Archangel several feet back. Gabriel manages to land on his feet, glowing as holy radiance ebbs off him.

Crowley shrinks back with a hiss. Aziraphale steps in front of his demon, wings splayed out behind him, shielding him from view and from that heavenly light. 

“What do you want, Gabriel?” He asks icily.

“Get the fuck out of here,” hisses the demon behind him.

“But it’s your lucky day, Aziraphale!” Gabriel claps his hands together cheerily, with that infuriating smug grin on his face. “God has granted you leniency for your discretions! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Leniency,” Aziraphale repeats flatly. “What do you want?”

“The Almighty has tasked me with returning you to Heaven, where you’ll be safe.”

Aziraphale’s entire body stiffens. Behind him, an enraged screech. Dark wings fill his vision as Crowley is suddenly in front of him, shielding him from view. 

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” the demon snarls, “and especially not back to Heaven, are you kidding me?”

“You should really leash your demon, Aziraphale,” Gabriel chides after a little ‘tsk’. “Or at least teach him to know his place.”

“I’ll show you place, you stupid—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sharply. “Enough.” He sidesteps those wings and glares at Gabriel, who just grins back at him, unflinching. Of course he’s unflinching, Aziraphale thinks; he’s and Archangel, after all. He has nothing to fear from Aziraphale. “I’m not going back to Heaven,” he informs the Archangel. “Not now, not ever. So sorry, but it looks like you’ve wasted your time.”

“God seems to think you can’t hack it down here,” Gabriel says smugly. “Something about you… hurt? And healing?” His grin widens, showing his perfectly white teeth.

Shame stirs in Aziraphale’s stomach. “How do you know about that?”

“Don’t listen to him, angel,” Crowley says. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

Aziraphale knows this, of course. Still, he can’t help his gut reaction at having failed the Almighty. At being so hurt he allowed a demon to stroll through Saint James’ Park and murder all those innocent people…

“She sent me to round you up,” Gabriel explains, unaware of Aziraphale’s inner turmoil. Or maybe he does know, but doesn’t care. Gabriel has always been rather unfeeling, even for an angel. “For your safety.” He spits the word out distastefully, the grin on his face finally wavering. “Although why She’s worried about a traitor like you, I’ll never know.”

“Out of the loop, are you?” Crowley bites. “Must rankle your feathers, that. Even I know what’s going on.”

Gabriel’s smile fades to a sneer, purple eyes flashing dangerously as his gaze lands on Crowley. “You might be immune to holy water, but I can still smite you back to Hell.”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale says sharply. “You come to our home and threaten us? We weren’t causing you any harm. Why are you really here, Gabriel?”

“I told you already,” Gabriel huffs. “Being earthbound has really mangled your mind, hasn’t it, Aziraphale? You’re but a shadow of what you once were.”

Crowley snarls. The only thing keeping him back right now is Aziraphale’s hand suddenly circling his wrist, gripping forcefully. Aziraphale lets calm energy flow into the demon through their contact, but it does little to smooth the fires of rage, he knows. At least Crowley isn’t lunging forward again.

“Since I am covering here for the Almighty,” Aziraphale says primly, “I highly doubt She wants me back up in Heaven right now. Try again.”

“Covering?” Gabriel splutters, staring at him. “What do you mean covering?”

“Out of the loop,” Crowley says again. “She must not trust you.”

This time it’s Gabriel who lunges forward. Aziraphale steps in front of his demon, wings raised defiantly, and the Archangel stops scant inches from him, teeth bared in a look that seems not even remotely angelic. Aziraphale brandishes his weapon, the sword flaming. 

“I suggest you leave,” he says, very calmly. “And don’t come back.”

Gabriel glares at him for a couple tense seconds, before he sighs heavily. The burning to his gaze flees, and he seems to shrink back into himself. “She sent me here to protect you,” he finally murmurs, nose wrinkling sourly. 

Crowley barks out a laugh. “You? Protect Aziraphale? That’s rich.”

“Surely you must be joking,” Aziraphale says, blindsided.

“I’m supposed to… be your sword, while you recover.” The words are spat out like acid in Gabriel’s mouth. 

“She really want you to… protect me?” Aziraphale asks, mostly to ensure he’s understanding this properly. The very idea seems ludicrous to him. “Is this another trick?”

“No trick,” Gabriel says. “It’s the truth. She seems to think you need help.”

“So why’d she send you?” Crowley demands. “Literally anyone else would have been better than seeing your stupid face again.”

“Again?” Gabriel smirks. “Were we ever face-to-face before?”

Crowley hisses. Aziraphale’s entire body freezes in place.

Gabriel looks between them, smug again. “I knew it. I knew it. You’re not immune to hellfire at all, are you, Aziraphale?” He laughs loudly. “I should have known. What did you do, switch bodies?”

“Me? Switch bodies with an angel?” Crowley says bitingly. “As if I would ever stoop so low! No offence, angel.”

“None taken,” Aziraphale says flatly. “My thoughts are rather mutual.”

“You did something,” Gabriel presses. “Neither of you are immune at all, are you?” His gaze lands on Crowley again, who has sidestepped the safety of Aziraphale’s wings to face the Archangel. “So if I were to fling holy water on you right now…” His hand twitches, and suddenly there’s a vial of the liquid in his grasp, uncorked.

Aziraphale charges forward, wings flapping angrily behind him, spurring him into sudden movement. He collides with the Archangel before Gabriel can even think about flinging the liquid at Crowley, and the two crash to the ground with a rather painful thud. The vial slips from his hands and shatters on the ground. 

Fury sends a red curtain over Aziraphale’s gaze. “You will leave him alone!” He says in his True Voice, screeching it at the angel pinned beneath him. A part of him wonders how he is strong enough to even think about pinning an Archangel, and the look on Gabriel’s face seems just as shocked, but the thought is lost in his rage. “This demon belongs to me!” He pauses as the words smack into him. “With me,” he corrects tentatively. “He’s under my protection. Do you understand?”

Gabriel stares up at him, purple eyes wide. There’s a pulse of holy energy between them, meant to fling him off and away from the angel, but Aziraphale holds firm. He returns his own pulse of energy, and watches as it washes over the pinned Archangel, a shudder slipping through the corporation. 

“What… are you?” Gabriel finally manages.

This gives Aziraphale pause. He’s suddenly very aware of the second set of wings behind him. Four wings, protruding from him. Four, not the usual two. They are heavier and should throw him off-balance, he thinks, but instead they just feel… right. There’s also a strange light blue glow over Gabriel’s petrified face, and when Aziraphale blinks, the glow dims. Are his eyes glowing so radiantly? What is this?

He scrambles backward, off and away from Gabriel, looking down at his hands. The sword is still in his grasp, though he hadn’t stabbed the Archangel. The flames are blue now, not the usual orange and yellow mixed with white. Blue flames encircle the sword’s blade and lick at his hand, gripping the hilt. On the back of his said hand, there are multiple eyes poking through the skin—blinking blue orbs of light. Staring up at him. 

He drops the sword in shock. It clatters to the ground with an unholy clang, and Aziraphale steps back a couple steps, peering down at his hands and the extra eyes seemingly running up his arms. 

What is this? What’s happening? 

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice is timid and careful. A tone Aziraphale never wants to hear from his demon ever again. 

He can’t bring himself to look at the demon, though. Too worried of the fear, or disgust, he might see etched into the familiar features. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. A shadow moves next to him and he flinches away from it, still staring down at his hands and arms. “Aziraphale, look at me.”

It’s a simple enough order to follow, and in that moment where he doesn’t know what he is or what to do, it’s almost a relief when he follows the command. He drags his gaze up from his hands to instead focus on the demon beside him. The sclera of those eyes is stretched all the way across, the cooler a burning golden amber instead of the usual yellow. 

“Alright, angel?” Crowley asks, taking a tentative step forward.

Is he alright? Not really, he thinks. How can he be alright when he doesn’t understand what’s happening, or why? And Gabriel…

He looks sharply where Gabriel last was. Gabriel is standing now, transfixed on the sight before him, staring at Aziraphale. The gaze makes him feel oddly vulnerable.

A hand gently grabs his shoulder, brushing lightly against exposed feathers. A chill sweeps down his spine and he shudders at the light contact, focusing his gaze back on Crowley.

“Aziraphale? Can you hear me?”

He nods once, barely. Yes, he can hear and understand Crowley just fine.

Relief flits across the demon’s face. “Good, that’s good. Can you… put your wings away? Maybe that will help?”

Put his wings away.

He frowns.

Does he need to put his wings away?

He should, he thinks. He should put them away. They’re unnatural.

It takes a great deal of effort and focus, but he does finally manage to put his wings away. They disperse as another shudder slips through his body.

“What is going on?” Gabriel demands sharply. 

Aziraphale flinches at the loud sound and looks back toward the Archangel. 

“Fuck off, Gabriel,” Crowley snaps back, tightening his hold on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel, don’t listen to him. Just look at me. Focus on me, okay? Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale drags his gaze back to Crowley, attempting to calm himself. Everything is perfectly alright, he tells himself. So he has an extra set of wings; other angels have had more. His True Form had more, he recalls, but he hasn’t been able to picture his True Form in a while now, not since the attack that fateful day. Every time he Looks or tries to feel it, there’s just brightness and nothing else. Now, this. Eyes on his skin, an extra set of wings when this human corporation usually only has the one pair… glowing eyes, apparently…

What is wrong with me? 

Is he Falling? Is this how it starts?

“I don’t know what you two are playing at,” Gabriel seethes, “but I’ve had enough of it! Aziraphale, you’re coming with me this instant. As your superior—”

“You’re not his boss anymore,” Crowley snaps. “Get out of here you ssstupid prick!” Then those golden eyes land on him again and his voice is gentle. “Angel? Are you with me?”

He manages another small, barely perceptible nod. Exhales slowly through his nose and looks back down at his hands. 

The eyes have vanished from his skin, at the very least. He can breathe easier now. Deep, heaving breaths. 

“Aziraphale!”

Is this panic? Is he panicking? Why is he panicking?

Then there’s a tug in his mind—stealing the panic away. Clarity seeps into its place, along with a raw, desperate fury. 

The Prince of Hell has struck again, he thinks, raising his hand.

“Aziraphale, no, don’t—”

He snaps his fingers. 

Chapter Text

That’s it, Crowley thinks, staring at the spot previously occupied by Aziraphale, I’m putting a damn tracker on him. 

Then he reaches into the small tear in reality created by the sudden angelic teleportation, a lingering sense of Aziraphale’s aura, and plunges into it. The world spins to nothing around him once again, and he comes to a sudden jarring halt when his feet suddenly slip on a pool of something sticky. 

Blood, he realises distantly. He’s standing in a pool of blood, still wet, not coagulated. Still fresh blood, very recently spilled. He looks around his settings and finds that he’s in a dark tunnel. A lone subway train car sits on the tracks, the doors bent open, smears of blood all along the mangled metal. 

Aziraphale is stepping into the train car, expression flat and icy. A shiver flits down Crowley’s spine as he quickly steps forward, mindful of the blood coating his boots so he doesn’t slip.

“Aziraphale!”

The angel doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, focused instead on whatever awaits him in the train car. There’s a stir of air behind Crowley, followed by the sharp tang of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, but he doesn’t spare the bastard a glance, too focused on getting closer to Aziraphale.

There’s a thick, suffocating presence all through this area. Not unlike at the park, he knows, which means this is the Prince of Hell’s work. Again. More slaughter, more innocent lives stolen. 

Aziraphale doesn’t have his sword, he notes absently. The angel dropped it on the ground outside the cottage after tackling Gabriel. 

Gabriel.

Said Archangel is approaching behind him.

“What happened here?”

Well, Crowley thinks, at least that smug tone is gone from his voice now. Instead, there’s a note of fear in his voice; apprehension and concern. Despite the situation, knowing Gabriel feels like that is enough to leave a feral grin spreading across Crowley’s face, even if only momentarily.

He enters the train car after Aziraphale and stares at the mangled mess waiting for them inside. 

More dead kids, he thinks sourly. 

Much like the last scene, some bodies are cut in half by jagged claws; something which wouldn’t have been quick, and would have been extraordinarily agonising. Dead kids line the floor, adults slumped in the chairs or splayed over their children, clearly having intended to protect them.

A sour knot twists in Crowley’s stomach. He gags at the scent of all that human blood, thick and heavy in the air. Suffocating, just like that demonic presence.

The presence.

“They’re ssstill here,” he hisses.

Aziraphale nods once, sharply. He holds his hand out to the side, palm open, and with a flash of movement his hand ignites with blue flames, much as the sword did earlier. Crowley flinches back a step; he can feel the heat of those radiant flames from where he’s standing, that rush of holy energy enough to leave him baring his teeth. 

“Oh, Lord,” Gabriel breathes as he steps inside the train car as well. His sudden voice right behind Crowley leaves the demon whirling toward him with a quick snarl. Gabriel, for his part, doesn’t flinch, merely eyes Crowley flatly. “Who did this, Aziraphale?”

“Not sure,” Aziraphale says tersely. That sounds nothing like his angel’s usual voice, and it leaves a shiver slipping through him once again. “Some Prince of Hell. This is the second attack like this today.”

Today. 

The word floats through Crowley’s mind. It hasn’t even been a day since they found the last massacre, and here’s another one already. It’s only been a few hours. This Prince is clearly on some sort of rampage, with no regard for innocent life or the Rules. 

Does Beezlebub know about this? Is this a direct order from them? Was this Prince ordered to come do this or are they acting of their own volition?

Crowley’s not certain which option is more terrifying. 

“This is blatantly against the Rules,” Gabriel says. “Surely Beezlebub wouldn’t allow something like this to happen.”

“Maybe they don’t know,” Aziraphale says. 

Then his angel looks over his shoulder, frowning momentarily. 

“The presence is getting stronger.”

Closer, then. The Prince is coming closer. 

Aziraphale moves to get out of the train car, and Crowley quickly steps aside to let him pass, mindful of the blue flames still licking up Aziraphale’s wrists. Gabriel follows Aziraphale out next, with Crowley bringing up the rear, glaring at the back of Gabriel’s head. 

“How are you doing that?” Gabriel asks idly.

“Hmm…?” Is Aziraphale’s response.

“With your hands,” the Archangel clarifies. “The blue flame.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer him. Instead he whips his head to the right and bares his own teeth. Angry, furious Aziraphale is a sight to behold, Crowley thinks. It’s certainly not a sight he sees often, and it’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. 

“Show yourself,” Aziraphale orders.

A deep, guttural laugh answers him. From the shadows down the tunnel behind the train car, a human figure emerges. It’s not human, though; those burning red eyes are a dead giveaway, as is that suffocating presence. The demon—the Prince—steps toward them, eying Aziraphale with a grin.

“You survived,” he says. “Interesting. Maybe you’re more of a nuisance than I thought.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Aziraphale mutters.

“Oh, I’m not disappointed! I like a challenge.” His gaze slides toward Crowley and Gabriel. “Ah, the traitor Crowley and an Archangel. How… quaint.”

“Who are you, demon?” Gabriel demands, stepping forward. 

The demon in question grins—wide and toothy, revealing sharp rows of teeth. Every single tooth is sharpened, not just the canines like Crowley’s. Those burning red eyes flash with something malicious as the demon steps forward, hellfire sparking to life at their fingertips. “Why, my name’s Abaddon,” the demon says, “and I’ll be the one killing you all today.”

Then he lunges forward, sharp and sudden, clawed hands outstretched, hellfire circling them. He lunges at Aziraphale first, and Crowley barely manages to shove the angel away in time. Claws rake down his arm in response, hellfire burning his skin and he grits his teeth before he’s flung back due to the momentum of the impact. He topples over his feet, knocked off-balance, and hits the ground hard.

For a moment, the world spins as his head hits the ground. Then he pushes himself back to his feet to find Aziraphale batting away a swipe at himself, blue flames meeting hellish red ones. There’s a spurt of untethered energy, forcing the two back and apart from each other momentarily. Abaddon slides back two steps, snarling, before he flings himself sideways, at Gabriel.

Gabriel’s wings are out now, large and white feathers beating wildly, a gale of holy wind forcing Abaddon back a few more steps, though he remains standing, leaning into the wind. When it suddenly stops, Aziraphale is there to meet the demon, swiping with burning hands.

Abaddon jerks away easily enough, all quick, lithe movements, and ducks beneath another swipe from Aziraphale before kicking his leg out, knocking into Aziraphale’s ankle. 

The second Aziraphale hits the floor is the second Crowley is there, just over him, dark wings out blocking the angel from view as he claws back at the Prince of Hell. Abaddon swats at him in response, and blows out a spurt of hellfire right in Crowley’s face. It burns, but doesn’t sear. Hellfire from a Prince is more potent than the others, but Crowley is still a demon at heart and is mostly immune, or at least highly resistant, to hellfire. 

Crowley draws his wings up high to block the flames from sneaking past him. What’s behind him is too precious to let that fire get near them at all. Abaddon snarls furiously and jet black wings rip from his own back. With a mighty flap, waves of burning hellfire spring at Crowley as Abaddon flings himself back, out of range of the demon.

Aziraphale has made it back to his feet; one of his four wings brushes ever-so-slightly against Crowley’s before the angel surges forward to meet the Prince. Crowley snarls and follows suit, sprinting after his angel. 

Abaddon waves fiery, clawed hands in a complicated motion, swirling faintly with this index finger, and suddenly something hard and fast slams into Crowley, pummelling him to the side. It’s the doors to the train car, he realises idly, as he slams into the wall with burning pieces of metal warping around him, stabbing into the wall to pin him there. He snarls and jerks forward, struggling to break through the obstruction holding him in place.

“Gabriel, do something!” Crowley roars. You useless excuse for an Archangel! 

Gabriel lingers back, somewhere just behind Aziraphale, as his angel meets Abaddon blow for blow with burning blue hands. Crowley isn’t sure how he’s not catching fire due to the hellfire, but whatever is in those blue flames, it had better keep working. 

He snaps his fingers, desperate to get away from this wall and back into the fray. Nothing happens; his miracle bounces off the stronger one from the Prince of Hell, and Crowley hisses. He pushes against the metal pinning him to the wall, wrapped so snuggly around his waist and pressing into the wall behind him. 

With a snarl, he wills himself to change shape. It only takes a few seconds to morph completely, but those seconds seem to last an eternity as he hears the sounds of combat and is unable to participate. As a snake, he slips out of the bend in the metal and drops to the floor, where he wills himself to grow larger—a massive black and red snake, which quickly slithers forward, toward the confrontation.

Every single part of him is screaming to get away, to flee, to yield to this Prince of Hell—but that would mean leaving Aziraphale here, and he simply can’t do that. He won’t. The only way he’s leaving this fight is if Aziraphale is with him. 

Aziraphale jumps back from a burning swipe of hellfire claws but then is left open for the sudden tail attack, as the tail seems to grow from nothing behind the demon, thick and heavy, to strike him. It leaves Aziraphale staggering just enough that the next strike will—

No! 

Crowley flings himself forward with all the strength he has, willing himself to move faster, and rams into Abaddon, knocking his aim off just enough that Aziraphale is able to duck beneath is blow and jerk back a step, out of the range of those claws. 

The claws which immediately rake down Crowley’s long back. The pain is immediate and searing, and as he gets flung to the side from the massive strike, he hits the wall hard and bounces off it, folding in on himself once he hits the ground.

“Crowley!” 

He can’t see, he thinks idly.

But it’s not darkness around him.

It’s light. Pure, bright, radiant light which burns at his retinas and leaves him flinching in on himself, hissing. He tucks his head under a coil and tries to breathe through the holy energy flooding the tunnel, and then it’s over.

Silence lingers around him, and darkness blots out his vision, afterimages of that bright light. 

Then Abaddon gives an unholy screech. 

Crowley pops his head out from the ring of coils he’s become and finds Abaddon’s wings charred and burning, aglow with holy blue flame. Aziraphale lunges then, punching the demon in the gut with those burning blue hands, and Abaddon rears back with a wail as his wings burn away to nothing. 

“You… You! What have you done! What have you done?!” 

Then he screeches again—an unholy, desperate wail, and a surge of demonic power swallows the air in the tunnel. With a snarl, the demon lunges at Aziraphale, a feral fury etched across his face, and Crowley snarls as he rears forward, morphing out of his beastly snake form halfway to the angel, but he knows he won’t be fast enough. 

No, no, don’t—

Aziraphale holds an open palm out and blue flames erupt in a jet of holy fire, searing toward the enemy. Abaddon howls with an unholy rage and bursts through the flames, skin melting as he does so, revealing muscle and sinew beneath. His eyes are burning red embers and with a screech, he slams into Aziraphale, tackling the angel to the ground.

A burning claw rises into the air to strike down—

Crowley slides between the two the second that strike hits, pushing the angel out of the way. Pain rips down his back, searing and infinite, as demon energy pulses up his spine.

“Crowley!” 

He doesn’t remember crashing to his knees. Doesn’t remember falling sideways, the strings of awareness cut. 

Barely registers hands catching him. 

Numb, he thinks. Everything feels so very numb. 

“No, no, you’re fine, Crowley, you’re—”

Crowley pries heavy eyelids open, unaware they’d closed. Aziraphale looks so worried; he tries to open his mouth and say something, but all that comes up is a gurgle as blood coats his lips. 

Oh, he thinks. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are so very wide. A shadow lurches behind him.

Panic snares Crowley’s chest. “Zira,” he manages. 

Aziraphale’s wings come up then, sharp and suddenly, wrapping tightly around both of them. There's a flare of holy energy behind him, a spark of burning flame, before the white wings cover them both and shut out everything else. Aziraphale’s hands are pressed into Crowley’s back just behind him, as he holds the demon in a semi-upright position. 

Crowley isn’t aware of much, but something is smoking, he thinks. He doesn’t like smoke. Does he?

His eyes fall shut again. Then struggle to open once more. 

“Stay with me, you foolish serpent,” Aziraphale says sharply, and something warm and calming ebbs through him. The pain hasn’t been much of a thought since the second the strike happened, and Crowley only now realises why.

Oh. Spine severed. 

That make sense, he thinks. Would kill a human normally. He’s not human… though he certainly feels like one right now.

Aziraphale’s eyes are wet and gleaming, he thinks, which isn’t how he ever wants to see his angel. 

Aziraphale snaps.

The world spins around them.

Then Crowley drifts, thoughts dispersed to nothing. 

Aziraphale abandoned the fight, Gabriel notes idly, as Abaddon’s gaze sweeps toward him. The mangled, half-melted pipe in his hands feels rather foolish an idea now, with the Prince of Hell’s wrath solely focused on him in that moment. Nevertheless, he brandishes it, as it’s all he’s got at the moment. 

Aziraphale really fled like a coward, he thinks again. That traitorous angel! 

His demon got hurt and he just flees? It’s his duty to protect humanity! It’s his duty to deal with this Prince of Hell! And he just left? Because some demon might discorporate?

It’s not like Crowley will even die; it was a claw to the back, mixed with some hellfire, which he is immune to as a demon. His human body was damaged which might have led to discorporation, but not death. Not real death. And Aziraphale still teleported them both out of there and left Gabriel here to fight. 

I’m going to kill that traitor, Gabriel thinks with a sneer. 

Then, just as suddenly as he left, Aziraphale pops into existence beside him.

The angel is very white, and sweating, but the look he settles on Gabriel is firm and unyielding. 

"Let's finish this."

Chapter Text

Panic rests at the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind as he deposits Crowley safely onto the king-sized bed in the demon’s room. Something coils within him, tight and icy, willing him back into the fray. It takes all he has not to give into that urge and snap himself back to the subway tunnel. A part of him knows he should be there; leaving like this is a risk, and if Abaddon gets away to massacre more people it will be entirely his fault.

But he can’t just let this happen to Crowley. He can’t let his demon discorporate.

He lingers at the edge of the bed and forces himself to remain calm and present, keeping his fingers from snapping as he presses his hands into Crowley’s back. He wills his heavenly grace into the wounds, with the intent to heal and not harm. 

He doesn’t know if it will even work. He’s never tried healing a demon before like this; a few scrapes and bruises here and there are one thing, but bones are stubborn bastards, especially the spine. Especially when it is attached to a demon. But Crowley isn’t allowed to discorporate on him like this. He’ll be trapped in Hell for eternity, as they won’t give him another body. If he discorporates here, he’ll be lost to Aziraphale forever, and he simply can’t allow that to happen. Won’t allow it to happen.

What’s the point of this world without the company of his demon? They’ve spent 6000 years together, and he won’t let it come to an end now. 

It’s difficult, forcing energy into a body which rejects the very nature of his power on this level, and as the strain starts to get to him, sweat begins dripping from his forehead. His jaw clenches shut tightly, and he thinks he might have chipped a tooth in the process. It’s distracting, this pain as he struggles to hold onto the stream of power flowing into the demon beneath his hands. He can’t afford distractions right now.

His eyes fall shut and he wills Crowley’s spine to mend; to knit itself back together. Bones are stubborn bastards and of course they fight him. The spine is snapped right in the middle due to a long, jagged cut from sharp burning claws, and the wound is enflamed and burnt along the edges, slowing the flow of blood thankfully. In a way, it seems Crowley was lucky, as the wounds were immediately cauterised thanks to the hellfire in on those claws. If Aziraphale can fix the spinal column, everything else will be fine. Everything else is just cuts and deep gashes, which are sluggishly oozing blood still. They will need to be bandaged and kept an eye on for infection, but once the spine is fixed Crowley should start to heal on his own. And he won’t be in such danger of discorporating. 

Heal, Aziraphale wills into the limp body under his hands. HEAL. 

His power snaps, the link breaking suddenly, and a sob tears free of his throat—either from desperation or frustration, he’s not sure which—and he forces shaky hands back onto the torn flesh just over the demon’s spine. He can see the bone from this angle. 

“Heal,” he breathes. “Please, you have to heal…”

Another snap of power, fizzling to nothing under his fingertips. 

A snarl lodges in his throat. “Let me heal him,” he snaps with a glance skyward. “You don’t understand what they’ll do to him down there… He won’t be able to come back…”

And I need him here, with me. Please, you have to let me heal him. 

He focuses again on the still body beneath him. Changes the placement of his hands somewhat, fingers biting into the raw wounds to press against the bone itself, and he sends a wave of healing energy straight into it.

“Heal!” 

The bone snaps back into place so suddenly it leaves him reeling backward, hands jerking away from the wound. A bone-deep shudder rips through his body as relief flits through his mind.

Crowley’s breathing certainly sounds better now, he notes. He’s still oozing blood sluggishly, but at his spine isn’t broken anymore. The demon is still unconscious, though, but perhaps that is for the best. He needs the rest, after all.

And he doesn’t need to be anywhere near Abaddon when he returns to the fray. He left Gabriel there on his own. Hopefully the Archangel isn’t dead, though why Aziraphale still cares at all about what might happen to Gabriel specifically is beyond him. 

“You’ll be just fine,” he says quietly, combing shaking fingers through the demon’s mess of auburn hair. Crowley turns his head into the touch, brows knitting together faintly, and Aziraphale filters a soothing energy into the demon. “Rest now, my dear. And dream of whatever you like best.”

Then he pulls away from the demon. He doesn’t want to; everything in him wants to stay and keep watch on his demon, but there’s another part of him which demands he return to the fight. And if Abaddon gets away because he left the scene and another massacre happens, Aziraphale will never forgive himself. 

He summons the sword to his hands and gives one last glance at Crowley. Then he straightens his shoulders and snaps his fingers, and the air around him disperses into nothing before he’s suddenly back in the subway tunnel. Gabriel stands next to him, holding onto a mangled pipe of all things.

Gabriel eyes him warily.

“Let’s finish this,” Aziraphale says grimly. 

Abaddon lunges the second Aziraphale appears. The unholy fury in his gaze is for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone, most likely for destroying his wings. Aziraphale summons his own wings again, having banished them when he appeared at the cottage so as not to knock anything over accidentally. With a thought, the sword in his hand ignites and he uses it to meet the next clawed blow Abaddon throws at him.

Gabriel maneuvers behind Abaddon, already swinging with his pipe. A burst of holy energy sweeps over Aziraphale’s face at the gale force wind Gabriel’s wings create as he flaps them wildly, sending that energy into the back of the demon. 

Abaddon snarls and throws his hands up and out, palms open. Twin jets of hellfire surge around him, moving to circle his form as a sort of unholy shield all the way around him, burning and flickering as the tongues of flame reach out toward the angels.

Aziraphale rears back with a grimace, and Gabriel jumps back with wide purple eyes, dropping his pipe. There’s a loud clang as it hits the ground, and Abaddon rears toward him with a snarl.

“Foolish Archangel,” the demon spits out, “in way over your head. Is this all the power an Archangel has? Even the Principality is more damaging than you!”

This isn’t praise, Aziraphale thinks. No demon would praise an angel for hurting them, for disintegrating their wings like he did. This is just something to get Gabriel furious enough to do something stupid. But this demon clearly doesn’t know Gabriel, because he does stupid things all the time, unprovoked. 

Gabriel sneers and charges the demon, which is exactly the wrong move to make. Aziraphale watches as Abaddon grins maliciously and his mouth forms an ‘o’ as he exhales, breathing a jet of something dark, dark purple mixed with red at the Archangel. As soon as this mist makes contact with Gabriel, the Archangel rears back with a howl of pain, something black and tainted coating his wings and face. Something black and sticky…

Aziraphale grimaces. This is what was on the package that day, he thinks. This mist-like substance. Only a few scant particles, not enough for him to notice until they touched him, but this is a full-on mist breathed out by a demon, coating an Archangel.

Gabriel screams.

And sinks to his knees. His coated skin and wings start steaming, burning.

Abaddon turns to Aziraphale, grinning. “Where were we?”

Aziraphale spares Gabriel a quick glance. A few particles threatened to eliminate him within a minute or two; Gabriel has been exposed to a lot more. He doesn’t have minutes.

Save Gabriel, or end this with Abaddon? 

Why is this a choice he has to make?

How can he possibly decided an Archangel’s fate?

Gabriel did try to murder him in Heaven. Crowley hasn’t given him all the specifics, but he can guess enough to fill in the blanks. Gabriel also threatened Crowley with holy water before this confrontation took place. Aziraphale’s number one priority should be Abaddon, murdering innocent humans in droves.

Gabriel seems to fold in on himself, collapsing into a motionless heap. 

Aziraphale grits his teeth. “I’ll be back,” he snaps at the Prince of Hell.

Then he snaps his fingers and both he and Gabriel vanish from the subway tunnel.

They arrive in a church; a familiar one. The one Aziraphale has used in the past. Gabriel is a motionless heap on the ground, not even breathing, though Gabriel has never cared about breathing. Still, the absolutely stillness leaves him grimacing.

With a wave of his hand, a jet of holy water spurts up from the font, gliding through the air to splash down on Gabriel, soaking him. Something thick and black like tar reluctantly slides off his skin and wings, steaming as it fizzles away to nothing, burned away by the holy water. 

He Looks at Gabriel’s True Form. There’s barely any substance there at all; everything has burned away to nothing already, save for a few scant particles of his core. He’s still Bright, but only just. That core flickers dangerously, and Aziraphale curses under his breath as he drops to his knees next to the prone form.

Gabriel needs help. Help Aziraphale can’t possibly give him.

Aziraphale is just a principality. He can’t heal Gabriel’s True Form. 

In theory, Gabriel should eventually be fine, he thinks. He survived, after all, and he was further gone. He shattered himself into a million tiny particles to hide in the darkness, to survive until Crowley could help him. All things told, he got Gabriel here within thirty seconds of the Archangel being exposed to that horrid mist, so he should be fine. Right? Shouldn’t he?

What do I even care? This is Gabriel. 

That feels wrong, though. Yes, Gabriel has wronged him in the past, and he was such an irksome superior to deal with as Aziraphale never seemed to measure up to his ridiculously high expectations… but he’s still a fellow angel. 

Aziraphale sighs and places his hands on the burnt wings. He wills healing energy into them, or at the very least, wills them to regain some strength and jump-start Gabriel’s own healing process. Archangels heal faster than the other angels, after all. As the supposed last line of defence to God, it is a perk of their designation.

“Heal, you annoying idiot,” Aziraphale mutters, closing his eyes as he concentrates. Heal. 

At this point, his core is mostly spent, he thinks, sweat beading his brow once again. Gabriel isn’t fighting him like Crowley’s essence did earlier, but it’s still a massive strain on an already fragile system. At this point Aziraphale is numb with exhaustion and the world seems to tilt at odd angles around him, despite the fact his eyes are closed. 

The burnt feathers fall off the wings, and the skin on Gabriel’s face knits back together, but it’s a human corporation—of course it can be healed by a fellow angel. It’s the True Form that’s the issue, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do about that. He opens his eyes and glares down at the still Archangel.

“This is ridiculous, you know,” he mutters. “Me, healing you. After what you tried to do to me. After 6000 years of…” He huffs under his breath and shakes his head. “I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to you.”

He cuts the healing connection and nearly topples backward himself, the world spinning around him, dark spots flashing in his vision. Numb fingers scrape across the ground for his sword, closing around the hilt. He pushes to his feet and almost immediately pitches sideways, but manages to regain his footing and steady himself.

He snaps his fingers and Gabriel vanishes from the floor. He will arrive on the living room floor in the cottage, Aziraphale notes idly.

He has a job to finish himself.

When he snaps again, he’s back in the subway tunnel. His vision blurs so it takes him moment to realise he’s alone. Alone with a bunch of bodies.

Abaddon is gone.

Chapter Text

Beezlebub doesn’t like the rumours they’re hearing. 

A Prince of Hell, running amuck amongst humans. Two massacres so far. The humans are starting to question things; what could have caused wounds like this? What are the surveillance tapes showing? How is that possible? These are the kinds of questions which can lead to a dangerous road if they’re not careful.

The last thing any demon needs are humans spiking their drinks with holy water, or carrying it around on their persons at all times. If word about demons gets out to the humans, and the literal existence of Heaven and Hell, it will lead to mass destruction—specifically against demons. Humans seem to like angels.

Abaddon has been missing for the entirety of these massacres. He always did have problems listening to authority. With Lucifer gone, Beezlebub has had to step up, but King of Hell isn’t a title they particularly want. They liked things how they were before, thank you very little. 

Abaddon is becoming a problem.

“Dagon,” Beezlebub says.

“Yes?” Dagon replies, stepping forward from the shadows. 

“We need to eliminate this problem. I want Abaddon brought back to me.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Alive,” Beezlebub says. “He needz to be punished.”

“Who would you like me to send?”

“Send Nihasa and Moloch.”

“Are you sure? They don’t work well together.”

Beezlebub smiles. “They will when they learn it izz Abaddon they’re hunting.”

Abaddon made an enemy of Nihasa back in the early 13th century. Something about the target clearly being Nihasa’s, and Abaddon overstepped his bounds. Demons can hold grudges for the smallest thing sometimes, and they are very good at holing onto those grudges for centuries or more. Moloch, while not a fan of Nihasa’s… lack of finesse, has a similar score to settle with Abaddon, ever since Abaddon wounded him in the 16th century and left him with a chunk of his left wing missing. 

Moloch, at least, understands his duties as a Prince of Hell. Nihasa, as a Duke, should adhere to Beezlebub’s orders, with the added bonus of getting back at Abaddon.

Abaddon will soon learn that you don’t cross the reigning Prince of Hell.

Aziraphale is eating a lot of power.

It isn’t quite worrisome, because She knows he’s using it for a specific reason. They wouldn’t have been unlocked within him if it were not for a valid reason, so clearly he must need them to combat a threat on Earth. Still, it leaves Her focus slightly divided as She continues Her work in Heaven and tries to keep an eye on the situation brewing on Earth.

A Prince of Hell has been a rampage, it seems. 

Gabriel should be an asset to Aziraphale for that confrontation, though he hasn’t ever really been a fighter. She wonders, idly, if Gabriel has noticed the changes she made within him before sending him off.

She will keep a close eye on the events happening on Earth, but She should not need to intervene. It is not Her place, when Earth has a protector already. Besides, She really needs to wrap things up in Heaven.

Seven million angels down… three more to go.

It is a process. Some are easier than others and only need a few small tweaks here and there to nudge them in the right direction, but others, like her Archangels, seem to need entire pieces ripped out and modified before being shoved back into place. 

Truly, She only has Herself to blame for this mess. She should have paid attention sooner. What is it the humans say? Don’t put off things for tomorrow which can be done today. If She’d started fixing issues long before this, they wouldn’t be so extensive now. 

Oh, well. A learning lesson, She supposes. Even She can learn new things. 

Still, it is quite frustrating, having to do this tedious work over and over on so many angels. Where did She go wrong before?

Why is Aziraphale different? More like the angels She intended?

Speaking of Aziraphale…

Annael, She says calmly.

The angel hovering to Her left, freed from her constraints, perks up at the address. “Yes, my Lord?”

Use the Summoner again. Aziraphale needs a warning.

“Yes, Lord, at once!”

She flies off and God turns Her focus back to the angel frozen in front of Her.

Her work is never done.

And Aziraphale needs to be prepared. He will need to be recalled soon for adjustments and modifications. A simple enough process, She thinks, as She doesn’t expect trouble from him. Unlike those Archangels of Hers, needing so much attention to be rewritten and restructured. 

She is almost finished with Heaven’s angels. And once that is complete, it will be time to set Her focus on Aziraphale.

Soon, She thinks.

That blasted angel destroyed his wings.

Abaddon growls under his breath as he tries to reach for where his wings should be, but they’re no longer there. Just jagged wounds in his flesh at his back, and try as he might to summon them—nothing happens. They’re just gone.

That angel really hurt him.

And managed to survive his previous attack.

How the fuck did he manage that? 

Abaddon is a poisoner, a disease bringer in Hell. He knows his infections very well, and has enjoyed destroying angels in the past whenever one was stupid enough to get too close or even came down from Heaven at all. 

The principality, though; he’s never come into contact with them before. Now it’s all left his mind spinning. 

How could a principality have such power?  Why did the principality seem more radiant than an Archangel, of all things?

Abaddon grins to himself, despite everything. It was a good fight. 

And he hasn’t had such a good fight in so very long…

Everything is too easy to kill these days. Just a flick of his wrist, an exhaled breath—and poof, competition is gone. Just like that. Always like that. So very simple, the act of killing has left him rather bored for millennia.

Now, though…

This principality might be a challenge.

Aziraphale, he tells himself. It has a nice ring to it, he decides. And the holy radiance which surrounded him did make him look rather dangerous, and Abaddon has always like a little risk.

It was a good fight.

And he can’t wait to do it again.

Moloch has been itching to get out of Hell for a long time now. Every time he broached the topic with Beezlebub he was turned away and told he was needed here, to deal out punishments for the guilty. 

They’re demons; they’re all guilty. And he punishes them all.

He finds them guilty in judgement, and then when they are sentenced to an existence of torture in the deepest pits of Hell, that is where he has his fun. Oh, how he cuts into them, again and again and again. Their wails of agony turn to pleas soon enough, which is disgusting in a demon. Demons should not plea like that; it is something those blasted angels would do. 

Angels. 

In his opinion, the only good angel is a dead one, but he hasn’t been able to get out of Hell to annihilate any of them in so very long. He’s itching to get back out there. According to rumours, there is only one angel on Earth at the moment; the wayward principality who’d rather talk things out than fight. A peaceful sort of angel. 

An easy mark.

One Moloch would enjoy sinking his teeth into.

Sadly, there are rumours Abaddon already eliminated this angel. A pity, that. He could have had so much fun making the angel scream and beg for mercy. 

Yet another thing Abaddon has stolen from him.

He will hunt Abaddon down for that alone; dropping him at Beezlebub’s knees only to take him away for his own brand of punishment later, that’s just a bonus, really. 

Moloch steps onto the escalator leading out of Hell and grins to himself.

Oh, yes. This will be fun.

Chapter Text

Consciousness is not kind when it comes for Crowley. Being flung suddenly into awareness after being in a vast, empty nothingness leaves him springing upright into a sitting position, eyes quickly opening to look around the room. For one brief moment, he doesn’t recognise his surroundings and his heart stutters in his chest. Then he blinks and realises he is, in fact, in his room at the cottage. 

His room. He hasn’t exactly been using it very much, though; he prefers to sleep on the couch with Aziraphale reading a book and fingers combing through his hair. It’s a small comfort he holds close to his heart. But he is currently in his room, in his massive bed, and his back twinges painfully. Reaching around, his fingers brush lightly against a jagged wound, coagulated but not scabbed over yet. 

What happened? 

His mind is filled with a blank fog. Something happened, but what? 

Gabriel showed up. He remembers that much; kind of hard to forget when all he wants to do is punch that stupid, smug face in. Shut your stupid mouth and die already play on repeat in his mind too frequently for him to ever even attempt to have a civil conversation with that blasted Archangel. The fact he showed up on their doorstep is nauseating; how did he find them?

And he said he came to take Aziraphale back to Heaven. 

Baring his teeth, Crowley slips his legs off the side of the bed. As his feet lightly touch the floor, a wave of dizziness washes over him and he’s left closing his eyes until it passes. Groaning, he pushes off the bed and catches himself against the nightstand when the world spins around him. 

Gabriel was here, at the cottage. Then something else happened… Something about a subway tunnel, he thinks.

Right, a subway tunnel.

A Prince of Hell. Abaddon.

A fight.

Pain down his back—a severed spine. Numbness, then nothing.

Aziraphale. 

Panic claws at his throat as he swings his bedroom door open and takes off toward the living room. “Aziraphale!”

If he was hurt as badly as he thinks he was, with a severed spinal cord, Aziraphale wouldn’t leave him alone like this. He’d be sitting right there waiting for Crowley to wake up, just like all the others times Crowley has gotten himself into trouble and passed out on Aziraphale’s couch. He wouldn’t leave Crowley alone, so where is he? Aziraphale wouldn’t just abandon him like this. 

He stops at the sight of a pair of legs poking out from around the couch. Motionless legs, clad in off-white clothing, a similar shade to his angel’s. For a brief second, Crowley’s mind blanks and he’s frozen there.

Then he jerks into motion and stumbles forward, rounding the couch, a lump already present in his throat. 

But it’s just Gabriel.

Relief floods through him and he sits heavily on the couch, the strings animating him cut suddenly. Gabriel is here, unconscious on the ground, utterly still, not even breathing—but Gabriel never cared about keeping up human appearances, according to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale. 

Where is Aziraphale? Surely he had to be the one to bring both Crowley and Gabriel to the cottage, which means they at least won the battle or made the Prince flee—so where is Aziraphale? Why isn’t he here?

Ice seeps into his veins.

He pushes to his feet.

“Aziraphale? Angel?”

Silence wraps around him, thick and suffocating. That lump threatens to close off his throat entirely, and is next inhale is ragged and shaky. He heads into the kitchen, but it’s empty there too. No sign of his angel anywhere. 

“Aziraphale! Where are you?”

He spreads his essence out over the cottage, struggling to pinpoint even a hint of Aziraphale’s presence—but the only angelic essence he senses is that of the Archangel passed out on the living room floor. 

Don’t panic, he tells himself firmly. He got you both here so he must be okay. He might have gone to help clear the subway or something. Stupid angel.

Aziraphale must have healed his back, too, because he certainly wouldn’t have been in any condition to even attempt to heal himself. He should have discorporated, but he’s still here so that means Aziraphale must have healed him. So where is the angel?

I’m putting a tracker on him, Crowley thinks once again. Aziraphale has a bad habit of disappearing on him.

Sighing, he goes back into the living room, though he’s loathe to be in the same room as the Archangel Fucking Gabriel. He peers down at the motionless angel, scowling. Gabriel’s head was turned away from him before, due to the angle Crowley entered the room and sat on the couch, but now he has a better view of it.

Half of Gabriel’s face is melted and burned. Puffy red skin, faintly oozing something, leaves Crowley baring his teeth.

He Looks at Gabriel’s True Form.

And wishes he didn’t.

What remains of Gabriel’s form is a very dim brightness, lacking an actual shape. Just faint light, not flickering, but a mere shadow of what it should be. 

And it looks familiar.

Nausea and panic twist in his stomach. 

Aziraphale. 

It’s the same thing that happened to Aziraphale before, when he touched that package. There is no black, sticky substance on Gabriel’s body, and he is still alive, so Aziraphale must have gotten him to some holy water. 

So where is Aziraphale?

He had time to bring them both here, to take Gabriel to some holy water no less, but he isn’t here now? How long has it been since the battle? 

How long have I been asleep? 

A cold dread seeps through him. His body feels numb, but not because of an injury this time. 

Where are you, angel? 

Crowley scrubs a hand across his face and then tries to remember where he put his glasses. If he is going to go to the subway tunnel to look for Aziraphale, he will need them. That place is probably swarming with people, with police officers, right now and the last thing he needs is someone questioning him about his eyes. 

He honestly doesn’t know where his sunglasses are. There are spare pairs in the Bentley, though, which is just outside the cottage.

He moves toward the door, opens it, and—

Runs right into some invisible wall.

What the…? 

He looks down at the ground. There’s a ward there, just outside the door, and plenty on either side of it as well. Stomach churning, Crowley abandons the front door and moves through the cottage toward the back door in the kitchen. 

Opens the door.

And runs into another invisible wall.

More ward sigils greet him. They probably circle the entire cottage, keeping him in and other demons out.

A choked breath escapes him as he stares at the ward. 

Aziraphale said he wouldn’t ward me anymore. 

For Aziraphale to break such a promise, he would have to be rather desperate. Does this mean they didn’t defeat the Prince of Hell?

And Aziraphale is out there alone with them right now?

With a snarl, Crowley throws himself against the barrier. 

“Aziraphale, you sorry fuck, I’m going to kill you,” he seethes, pouring some demonic fury into his next shoulder slam into the barrier.

“A bit uncalled for,” sniffs a voice behind him, “don’t you think?”

Crowley whirls around, staring at his angel who leans agains the doorframe to the kitchen. For a moment, that’s all he does—stare, frozen in place. Then he snarls and strides toward that stupid angel. 

Aziraphale quirks a brow at his approach. “Going to kill me, my dear?”

“Nuuh, you warded me again!”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “I am sorry for that. But you were both unconscious and I needed to know the Prince would at least have a hard time getting in here, and I would be alerted if any demons tried to pass through.”

“What the fuck happened?” Crowley demands, stopping just in front of Aziraphale. Every part of him wants to crowd closer, sink into an embrace, and breathe in the calming scent of his angel, but he manages to keep still. Barely. “Did you heal me? What happened to Gabriel?”

“Yes, I healed you,” Aziraphale says. “You tried to fight me, let me tell you. How are you feeling?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “What happened?”

“I thought that was rather obvious, my dear. You were hurt, so I brought you here and healed your spine. Then I went back to the subway tunnel to fight, and Gabriel was… nearly destroyed.” Aziraphale looks down at the floor, seemingly finding a tile very interesting. 

“Explain,” Crowley says tersely. “It looked like… what happened when…”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “It was the same, I suspect. I got him to holy water fairly quickly, but he was exposed to more than I was…” He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “I’ve done all I can. He’s not flickering, at least.”

At least.

“What happened with the Prince?”

Aziraphale’s expression crumples and his eyes fall shut. “He got away.”

Crowley sighs. Of course Aziraphale would blame himself for such a thing. Noble, stupid angel. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “We’ll get him next time.”

Aziraphale flinches and Crowley realises too late his wrong choice of words. “Next time means another massacre,” the angel says quietly, opening his eyes as he glances up at Crowley. “There can’t be another massacre.”

“We’ll get him, is what I meant,” Crowley mumbles. 

“I have been looking for him,” Aziraphale admits, “but I haven’t found any sign of him yet.”

So that’s where he was. Out hunting for someone who very nearly succeeded in destroying him. Anger burns in Crowley’s stomach, but he stifles it for now. What would you have done if you found him? Fight him alone? He’s a fucking Prince of Hell. 

“Well, now we can both look,” is what he says. 

Aziraphale sighs and nods once, then suddenly spurs into motion as he snags the front of Crowley’s shirt and tugs the demon toward him. Crowley, startled, sinks limply into the embrace, before his own arms finally come up and wrap around the angel in return. And if he buries his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder and breathes deeply… well, who could blame him.

“I almost lost you,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

“Nuuh,” says Crowley. “Didn’t hurt me, me.”

“Discorporation might as well be actual death,” the angel tells him. “You know Hell wouldn’t grant you another body.”

“Ehh, I’d pester them so much they’d be throwing bodies at me for the sake of their sanity.”

Aziraphale chuckles, low and warm, and it vibrates against Crowley’s ear. He tries to stifle his smile, but fails. “Yes, they would have no choice but to give you back to me, should you annoy them so.”

“Damn straight,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale’s grip on him loosens and he reluctantly pulls away, taking a small step back, out of Aziraphale’s personal space. He clears his throat, swallowing around that blasted lump in his throat. 

“Are you alright?” He asks.

Aziraphale nods. “Just tired. It’s been a long couple days.”

Couple days.

Crowley hisses. “How long have I been out?”

“47 hours,” Aziraphale answers immediately. 

“Ngk.”

He was out for two days, and Aziraphale was out there hunting Abaddon all alone. 

“I have bandages for your back,” Aziraphale says after a moment of silence. He snaps his fingers and said bandages appear. “If you would let me wrap them.”

“ ‘course,” Crowley says, and sits at the kitchen table. He pulls his shirt off over his head and winces as the fabric slides against the raw wounds. 

Aziraphale moves behind him. First there’s a cold liquid on the wound, which stings like a bitch—antiseptic, he knows. Then there’s the soft lining of the bandages as they are pressed into skin and stuck in place. It takes several long moments for all the wounds to be patched, but Crowley rather enjoys feeling Aziraphale’s fingers sliding across his skin.

Then Aziraphale steps back. “All done, my dear.”

Crowley nods, rolling his shoulders, testing his movement with the sticky bandages. It’ll have to do, he decides. Nothing for it.

Aziraphale moves away, and Crowley looks over to find him leaving the kitchen, entering the living room. He gets up to follow.

Aziraphale crouches next to Gabriel’s prone form. He touches a hand to the Archangel’s face and a wave of healing angelic energy flits through the air. 

Sorry bastard doesn’t deserve it, Crowley thinks.

The puffy red skin turns to a puffy pink, slowly healing. 

“His wings are the issue,” Aziraphale says as he lets the healing flow into Gabriel. “His face is just superficial damage, but his wings…”

His wings are actually a part of his True Form, which is what was being attacked by whatever Abaddon is using or doing. Gabriel should count himself lucky to be alive right now, and he has Aziraphale to thank for that. 

Crowley suddenly can’t wait for the bastard to wake up so he can realise it was Aziraphale who saved his stupid life. It’ll be nice to rub into his smug face.

“Speaking of wings,” Crowley says, eying Aziraphale warily. “Any idea why yours are… different?”

Aziraphale stiffens, hands stilling on Gabriel’s face. The healing magic fizzles out and he drops his hands to his sides. “No,” he says quietly. 

“Does it have something to do with your Urges?”

“I don’t know.”

Crowley sighs. Pressing for further answers will only upset Aziraphale, so he changes the subject. “I saw you damage Abaddon’s wings.”

“Yes, I destroyed them,” Aziraphale says simply. 

“… Destroyed them? He’s a Prince of Hell,” Crowley says, confused. Aziraphale shouldn’t be able to damage his wings so much they are destroyed entirely. An Archangel, perhaps, but a middling angel like Aziraphale?

“It’s been a long couple of days,” Aziraphale murmurs, pushing to his feet. “Do you mind if I keep the wards up? I would like to lie down.”

Crowley bares his teeth, staring at the angel. “Sleep,” he says flatly. “You?”

Aziraphale hates sleeping. 

It’s only then, as he’s carefully watching his angel, that he notices the tremor to Aziraphale’s hands, the rigidity of his shoulders. Aziraphale certainly looks very tired.

“Where are you hurt?” Crowley demands, crowding into the angel’s personal space as his hands smooth down familiar sides. No tears in clothing, no wincing from his angel. No damage to his corporation, at least. 

“My dear, I am—”

That just leaves his True Form, then.

Crowley Looks.

And immediately stumbles back a step, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as white spots dance in his vision. “Fuck,” he hisses, pain throbbing behind closed eyes. 

“Crowley! Are you alright?” 

Warm hands snag his shoulders, fingers curling in slightly, and Crowley takes a few quick breaths. Tries to open his eyes again, but can’t see anything with all those white flashes.

“You’re so fucking Bright,” he says, stunned. 

“What? What happened?”

“Aziraphale, Gabriel isn’t even that Bright,” Crowley says, struggling to comprehend this sudden change. “How the holy fuck are you so Bright?”

“Really, my dear,” sniffs Aziraphale. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“Why are you so Bright?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley blinks several times, willing the white spots away. Finally his vision clears enough he can make out Aziraphale and that defeated slump to his shoulders. Fuck, that’s not what I wanted. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” the angel continues quietly.

Crowley growls under his breath. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says firmly. “Are you listening to me, angel? Not a thing. But maybe this is part of the whole… restructuring thing?”

“I’m not in Heaven, though. She wants me here.”

“Yeah, and She gave you all those Urges and everything. And sometimes…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Sometimes your grace doesn’t feel like… you.”

“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know what’s happening but I’m sure She has Her reasons.”

Blind faith in the Almighty is something Crowley gave up a long time ago. Nevertheless, he nods, for Aziraphale’s benefit. His angel certainly looks exhausted. The fact he admitted to wanting to lie down and potentially sleep is alarming enough without adding on this extra Brightness.

A Brightness which still doesn’t have a form. It’s just light.

Aziraphale sighs and steps away from Crowley. “I’m going to go lie down,” he says softly, and then moves down the hallway toward Crowley’s room.

For a moment, Crowley stares after him, something warm in his chest because Aziraphale picked his room over his own upstairs. Then he hurries after the angel, just in time to watch Aziraphale collapse onto the bed.

“Might as well take your shoes off, at least,” Crowley says, entering the room.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer.