Work Text:
Crowley was just driving along, minding his own business and going nowhere in particular, when it happened. As he turned the corner onto a narrow little street, a surge of angelic power hit him like a shockwave.
He swerved violently, almost losing control of the Bentley. That had come from somewhere very close by, his suddenly racing mind informed him. And it was too strong to be anything but an Archangel. What the Heaven was one of them doing here? Had they broken the agreement he had forced out of them at the trial? Were they coming for Aziraphale?
Crowley screeched to a halt at the curb, not even bothering to find a No Parking space, and leapt out of the car. He could still feel that power coming from just down the street, and he set off towards it at a dead run. If those bastards Upstairs thought they could go after his angel, his world, they had another think coming.
Partway down the block was a derelict building that looked to have been a church once, all graffitied stone walls and broken arched windows. The power was emanating from somewhere inside, strong enough that Crowley could feel his teeth trying to turn into fangs in an automatic defensive reflex.
He slowed, wondering for the first time what he thought he was going to do if there really was an Archangel in there. Fighting wasn’t exactly his strong point, and his standard trickery and intimidation might not be up to the job this time.
The front door was wedged half-open; he sidled through the gap, relieved to find that the ground had apparently been deconsecrated long ago. The interior was a cavernous dark space, bare of everything but some broken bits of furniture and the occasional empty lager can… and the shadowy figure standing at the far end of the space, where the altar would have been.
Well, now that he was here, he had to do something. Crowley cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Right, you,” he growled in his best demonic voice. “What d’you think you’re doing here?”
The figure gasped and whirled to face him, and at the same moment there was a brilliant flare of light that left Crowley’s eyes too dazzled to see. Before he could even think of groping for the door, someone barreled into him, knocking him flat on his back on the grimy flagstones.
Crowley, winded, scrabbled desperately with one hand for something he could use as a weapon, but his attacker’s hand caught his wrist, pinning it in place.
“Hold still, Crowley, for Heav – for Someone’s sake!”
Crowley knew that voice. Now that he had a moment to collect his wits, he knew the soft hand gripping his wrist, too, and the soft weight holding him down. “’Ziraphale?” he managed. “S’that really you?”
“Of course it’s me, you ridiculous demon, who else would it be?” Aziraphale retorted in the snippy tone that meant he was worried but didn’t want to say so.
Crowley’s vision was beginning to clear, showing him Aziraphale’s face hovering above his, glowing. He blinked hard several times (probably using up his allowance of blinking for the week, but what the Hell), and his surroundings came into focus.
Aziraphale was kneeling over him, one hand holding his wrist and the other planted beside his head. His wings were out, spread to their fullest extent to cover Crowley’s whole body, and they were lit from behind by a brilliant golden glow. Except for the tartan bow tie and the worried expression, Crowley thought fuzzily, Aziraphale looked just like an angel in a stained glass window.
“Wha–” he began.
“Ssh. A moment, please, dearest.” Aziraphale seemed to be listening to something behind him, where the glow was coming from. “It must be almost – ah! There.”
The golden light began to fade, and the sense of Archangel-level power went with it. When they were both completely gone, Aziraphale sighed and let his wings sag. “Thank the Lord,” he murmured, dismissing the wings back to the ethereal plane. “Are you all right, Crowley?”
Crowley sat up carefully. “Ngh. Think so. Probably have some bruises to heal up later, but mostly I’m just confused.” He retrieved his sunglasses, which had fallen off when he hit the floor, but hooked them on the collar of his shirt instead of putting them back on.
Aziraphale looked slightly guilty as he climbed off Crowley’s legs to sit beside him on the floor. “Ah. Yes. I do apologize for knocking you down, but there really wasn’t time to do anything else.”
“What was that, anyway?” Crowley asked. “Felt like there was an Archangel in here.” He extended his senses to check again for any Heavenly lurkers, but felt only the gentle, comforting background hum of Aziraphale’s presence.
“There was, some time ago,” Aziraphale said grimly. “This appears to have been a… a booby trap of sorts, intended for demons. It must have been set here as part of the preparations for Armageddon, since an abandoned church would be a likely spot for Hellish forces to gather. I rather suspect it was Sandalphon’s work; it had the feel of him.” He shuddered in distaste.
Crowley gave an involuntary shiver of his own, trying not to imagine what might have happened to him if Aziraphale hadn’t shielded him from the full force of that light. “So you, what, just stumbled across it?” he asked.
Aziraphale nodded. “I don’t come to this part of London often, or I would have noticed it sooner. But I happened to be in the area on business today, and when I sensed something Heaven-made nearby, I thought I had best investigate.”
He glanced toward the front of the church, and his hands came up to worry at the hem of his waistcoat. “When I realized what that – that thing was meant to do… I had to get rid of it, even if it meant drawing Heaven’s attention. I-I couldn’t bear it if that – if you –” His voice wobbled.
Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s broad waist, pulling him in close. “Hey, hey now. It’s okay, angel. The thing’s gone. You protected me just like the guardian angel you are, even with me waltzing in here at the exact wrong moment.”
Aziraphale gave a weak chuckle and rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Your timing might have been better, dear boy, I must admit. What brought you here just then, by the way?”
Crowley flushed. “Eurgh, well, y’know,” he muttered. “Just driving by. Felt this, this sort of surge, and I thought – I thought it was one of them coming after you.”
Aziraphale drew back a little to look up at him, eyes shining. “And so you came dashing to my rescue, just as you always have,” he said softly. “My demon in shining armor.”
Crowley made a scoffing noise out of long habit, but his face betrayed him with an undemonically soppy smile.
Aziraphale smiled back and kissed his cheek, then settled comfortably against his side again. “I suppose that surge you felt must have occurred when I began tinkering with the booby trap,” he said thoughtfully. “I was trying to work out how to set it off, in order to do a… ‘controlled detonation’ is the phrase, I believe. We can’t have such things lying about where they could be sprung at any time.”
“Huh.” Crowley frowned. “So… did you set it off, or did I trip it when I walked in?”
“A bit of both, I suspect,” Aziraphale admitted. “I’d nearly brought it to the critical point – which was something of a challenge, given that it was never intended to be triggered by an angel – but I think your presence is what tipped it over the edge.”
“And I nearly got myself smited by it,” Crowley said with a grimace. He saw Aziraphale flinch at the reminder and quickly added, “Or is it ‘smote’? ‘Smitten’? Nah, that can’t be right.”
Aziraphale took the bait as Crowley had known he would, sitting up straighter and adjusting his bow tie. “Not ‘smited’, certainly; that may seem the most natural conjugation of the verb, but you won’t find it in any reputable dictionary. ‘Smote’ is the correct form in this particular case. ‘Smitten’ can technically be used in the same way, but nowadays it more often means something rather different.” He raised an eyebrow at Crowley. “For instance, I believe you, my dear, were smitten by an angel long ago.”
Crowley groaned and leaned over to drop a quick kiss on his curls. “Impossible, you are. Don’t know why I put up with you.” He got to his feet, holding out a hand to pull Aziraphale up after him. “C’mon, angel, let’s go home. I’ve got the Bentley outside.”
As Crowley got into the car, he glanced over at Aziraphale in the passenger seat and saw that his eyes were lowered and he was wringing his hands.
“You all right, angel?” he asked, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s knee.
Aziraphale swallowed hard. “It’s – it’s foolish, I know. Everything came out perfectly well, and we’re both here safe and sound, but…” His hands tightened on each other. “I-I-I keep thinking of what would have happened if I hadn’t been quick enough to shield you, or if that thing had gone off even a few seconds sooner, or – or –”
Tears welled under his eyelashes and crept down his round cheeks. “It would have killed you, Crowley. You would have been gone. Not just discorporated – gone.”
Crowley’s chest contracted at the memory of himself screaming in a burning bookshop, but he pushed it forcibly aside. This wasn’t the time.
He scooted closer and took his angel in a tight hug, and Aziraphale twisted awkwardly in his seat to cling to him. “I’m here, angel,” Crowley whispered, rubbing Aziraphale’s shuddering back. “I’m right here. ‘M not going anywhere, I promise.”
Aziraphale buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, repeating his name over and over in a voice that trembled and broke. Crowley held him, combing fingers through his hair and murmuring soothing things, until he was calmer.
“Thank you, dearest,” Aziraphale said with a wavery smile, sitting up. “I really don’t know what I would do without you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Crowley said, touching his damp cheek gently. “So let’s not test it, all right? No more disarming demon traps or challenging potential Archangels without going to get backup first.”
He didn’t need to specify who the backup would be; even before they had broken with their respective sides, there was only one person Crowley would trust to help him in a dangerous situation, and he knew the same was true for Aziraphale.
“I suppose this situation would have been rather less alarming if I’d been able to warn you in advance to keep clear,” Aziraphale conceded. “Very well. If something like this occurs again – though I sincerely hope it doesn’t – I’ll come and find you before doing anything about it.”
“Same here,” Crowley said. He moved back to the driver’s seat and started the Bentley. “How about we stop in at that new café you were talking about yesterday? Seems like you deserve a treat after all that.”
Aziraphale brightened and gave a happy little wiggle. “Oh, yes, that sounds splendid. They say the tiramisu there is simply divine, and –” He broke off with a squeak, clutching at the door handle as the Bentley roared out into traffic. “Crowley! I just finished saving your life! Are you trying to get us both discorporated after all?”
“S’not that fast,” Crowley retorted, slipping easily into the well-worn argument. “See, the speedometer says I’m barely going 70.”
It wasn’t even really about his driving anymore; it was just part of their routine, what they always did when they drove somewhere together, and right now they both needed that comforting familiarity after the recent excitement. When they got to the café Aziraphale would order his tiramisu or whatever, and Crowley would sit next to him and enjoy the blissful expression on his face as he savored it, and that would be comfortably familiar too.
And if, later on, either of them was haunted by thoughts of how today could so easily have turned out very differently… well, reassurance was only an arm’s length away.
Crowley put his left hand down on the seat between them and found Aziraphale’s right hand already there. Long, bony fingers twined with soft, round ones as they drove on.