Chapter Text
66AD. Pompeii, Italy.
“Goodbye, angel.”
“Goodbye, Crowley.”
Dinner had been eaten, wine had been drunk, dessert had been bickered over. They had lingered at the table until the restauranteur had frowned, hovering for long enough for them to get the message. It was time to leave.
Outside the little eatery the customary neutral goodbyes were shared and a beat passed while an angel and demon looked at each other, neither making the first move to leave. Crowley nodded then, as he always did, reinforcing the finality of their farewell as he turned away from Aziraphale and walked, head down, until he was out of sight. Then, and only then, did he pause in the street, leaning back against the dusty wall and letting out one long exhale.
“Go. Home.” He hissed the words aloud, biting them out through gritted teeth as he pressed the back of his head to the stone and looked up towards the heavens. He heard footsteps echoing towards him, straightened up and reached over his shoulder to brush dust from his back. “Aziraphale?”
A woman and a young child rounded the corner, both parties casting darting glances in Crowley’s direction as they approached. It must have been unnerving to run into a solitary figure lurking in an alleyway, Crowley knew that, took a step away and turned to walk in the other direction, making himself as small as possible, as unthreatening.
As the mother moved to sidestep him she caught her foot against her little girl’s and sent the child tumbling to the ground. There was a second of silence, then red bloomed on the girl’s knee and she descended into panicked wailing. In a flash Crowley was kneeling beside her, one hand sweeping over the graze and leaving nothing but unblemished skin behind. It felt good, for once, to be able to heal somebody instead of being the one causing pain. How long had it been, he wondered, since he had felt the simple touch of healing another? Too many years. Centuries, he suspected. At the same time there was the wrench of a knife in the guts, a reminder of all he could have been, of everything he had lost.
The mother tugged at the little girl’s hand, hauling her to her feet and dragging her away from Crowley, fixing him with a look that started as anger but dissolved into fear by the time she met his eyes. The girl’s face was wracked with terror as he stared up at him, at the tall man with the narrow shoulders and the flames in his eyes. Of course. As he’d knelt down it would have given them the perfect angle to see his eyes, his true eyes. A snake to his core. And they were terrified, as any human who came into contact with him was. As they shied away, backs flat against the wall, dust staining their white robes, Crowley opened his mouth to say something, to apologise, but fell silent, lowering his head and slinking away, shame blooming in his chest.
A demon that heals? It should have been an impossibility. And it was, really. What good was healing physical pain if the very touch of a demon left behind an emotional scar, a twist of evil that was far harder to take away than a simple graze? There was no pain a demon could heal without leaving something far more insidiously damaging in its wake. It was the beauty of sending a demon to Earth, as far as hell was concerned, that their very existence above ground would leave misery stretching behind them like a shadow of despair.
***
Crowley sat by the window in the little house he had been living in off and on for the past three decades. He cradled a glass of claret wine in one hand, resting his cheek against the other as he stared up at the night sky and sighed.
He looked up at the stars. He looked up at the stars that he had made, at the stars he had watched Raphael make in those early years. He closed his eyes and thought of Alpha Centauri, one of the last creations he blessed the sky with, two stars so close that, from a distance, they could be a single entity.
How far would I get? How close would I get to escaping before they caught me? And, if they did, what punishment would befit a demon on the run? Would they send me back into the darkness? Would they take me back down there so I could never see the sky again? Would they take me away from the brightest star in my sky, the only light I’ve known since I fell?
He turned away. It was a temptation he was growing too weak to resist, the idea of escaping into the night, dreams of stardust and rebirth. Would they know, he wondered, if there were others out there, if I made it that far, would they know that I belong to hell? Or would it be a second chance, a better chance, an opportunity to be who I should have been? Somebody like you, angel. Because I could have been like you, I should be standing in your shoes. I should be good, I should do good. I could have been, I could have been so good, if only I’d had patience.
But I didn’t and I’m not. I’ll never be like you.
Crowley sank down on the edge of the bed he took to when he needed to escape into dreams, when even the forests wouldn’t let him forget. He folded over, head buried in his hands, thoughts of his wicked, wretched soul filling his mind until it felt like a dam was creaking to burst.
On the days when he felt at his bravest he dreamed of giving up, of returning to hell, of sparing the Earth from his cursed soul poisoning everything he touched. Was it possible, he wondered, to transform somebody’s very soul by giving them a new name? Had something inside him turned from good to evil in that moment heaven had decided he no longer deserved the title of angel, that he was to become a cursed thing bound to hell for eternity?
He didn’t feel evil. He felt as he always did, as he had before he fell. He still saw all the beauty on Earth, every precious secret he saw in the earliest days when he had walked by Raphael’s side and helped the archangel bring the Almighty’s plans to life. He still felt his soul soar when he walked among the flowers, felt their leaves curl towards him if he stretched out his fingers to stroke their soft petals. They still turned to him, the flowers, the trees, remembering who gave them life, the only things he didn’t poison with his presence.
He might not have felt evil but he did evil, left evil in the world around him as if it was his thumbprint, his calling card. Evil was to be, at the end of everything, his legacy. And that was a punishment that cut deeper than hell’s torture ever could. Scars faded. Guilt burned for eternity.
There was, of course, besides the flowers, one other thing that had never shrunk away from him, had never looked at him as if he was anything other than himself, maybe even something that was enough. Aziraphale. The angel. The forbidden. Crowley sighed, raked a hand through his hair. His very opposite, one of heaven’s purest examples of divinity, his loyalty unwavering since time immemorial. Everything an angel should be. The one he had been sent to destroy. The one he had spent the last four thousand years quietly falling in love with.
Whenever the darkness felt overwhelming, when giving in and walking open-armed into the endless night felt inevitable, he thought of his angel. It was the little things, the way he would roll his eyes at the notion of sharing dessert, a moment before brusquely telling Crowley to eat the final bite. The sad smile that would flit across his face whenever they said goodbye, hovering there for a heartbeat before he shook it away. It was something, at least, to hope for. That next surprise reunion, that next impromptu dinner that consisted of the angel sampling everything on the menu while he observed him with a glass of wine, happy to watch his only companion so freely enjoy all the pleasures Earth had to offer. And, of course, the next goodbye, the next unspoken promise of until next time, because, Crowley had begun to realise, there would always be a next time with them. There had been four thousand years of next times and that night had promised one more.
It was hard, saying goodbye to Aziraphale. There was always the feeling of dusk when they parted ways, of the sun leaving the sky for another day. In the angel’s light is when he felt the most. The most guilt, for the things he had done, for the things he knew he would do soon enough. But the most human, too. In those stolen moments by Aziraphale’s side he would see flowers growing through cracks in the paths in front of him, feel the racing heartbeats of people falling in love two tables away from where they ate dinner. It was bittersweet, the way each moment in the angel’s company soared with all the light and darkness that made up Crowley’s fractured existence. He preferred it, that intensity, from the numbness that took hold when they were apart, the dull emptiness that stretched around him like all of the colour had drained from the world. He wondered sometimes if he wasn’t unique at all, if that’s how every soul felt that was lucky enough to cross paths with an angel, or if it was only the fate of a wretched soul who had been foolish enough to fall for the enemy.
In the lonely darkness of the night, Crowley raised his glass to his lips and tried to forget.
***
Aziraphale paced the streets of Pompeii. He had long since given up trying to navigate a path that made any sense at all. Fitting, he thought, with a humourless smile. He should have left the moment he had said goodbye to Crowley. He was already late by the time they’d left the restaurant, by the time they had entered it, in fact. Still, he hadn’t seen the demon since that day in Rome when he’d introduced Crowley to the seductive world of oysters by means of his very first successful temptation. He could understand why Crowley thrived on it, tempting people. It had felt like sharing a delicious secret, sitting opposite him and watching as he upended the thick shell and swallowed the oyster whole, his throat jumping as the salty brine hit him. He’d had a second, and then a third, so they must have gone down well. Temptation accomplished indeed, Aziraphale smiled at the memory, and that time his smile was genuine.
The thing about running late is that even if he hurried away right at that moment it would accomplish nothing, he would still be late. Late was late, as far as heaven was concerned, and he would likely get a tap on the wrist from Raphael, though Aziraphale was confident the indiscretion wouldn’t make it onto any official paperwork. They called Raphael a soft touch in heaven but Aziraphale thought of them as something else, perhaps a kindred spirit. It was impossible, though, to know anything at all about the quiet archangel and the wistful look they would get sometimes when the sun began to rise and the last stars faded from the heavens. Aziraphale had long thought of Raphael as the buffer between the angels and Gabriel, those who were lucky enough to fall under their management, at least. It had been a stroke of good fortune, borne out of tragedy, that he had been transferred to the kind archangel’s management after…well, after Raphael had found themself with certain vacancies in their team after the Fall. A pang of guilt caught in his chest at the recollection and he shook his head. It wasn’t becoming to find a silver lining in the aftermath of what had been heaven’s darkness day and, as he now knew, the day Crowley’s path would be forever changed.
That blush of guilt rose in Aziraphale’s cheeks like an old friend, like a comfortable story he returned to time and time again. There was comfort in guilt, he had always thought, the idea of that remorse making amends for whatever rebellion had caused it, as if the very act of his suffering wiped the slate clean. He felt it every time he walked away from Crowley, every time he wanted to stay, every time he returned to heaven and stood there, in heaven’s warm light, and lied as if he was a demon himself.
Even a three course meal shared with Crowley, where they talked about nothing of consequence, felt like a rebellion the depths of which he could barely conceive. Breaking bread with the enemy, listening to him talk about the new wine he’d discovered on his travels, watching the way his fingers curled neatly around the stem of his glass, the way his lips glistened blood red after every sip.
Could they smell it on him as he stood there and lied to them, told them he hadn’t crossed paths with that most evil of demons since the first day in Eden? Did he reek of desire? Could they smell the lust dripping from him, something wicked and wrong? Did it smell the same as shame, he wondered? Sometimes they felt like the same thing.
Lust and shame, hand in hand, one blooming a heartbeat after the other. Was it possible for the former to exist without the latter rearing its head? Crowley was everything he should have hated, everything that he had been sent to Earth to stamp out. The very sight of him should have sent disgust coursing through Aziraphale’s body and yet he felt nothing but relief when he saw him again, whether it was after a century apart or five minutes after one of them had taken a trip to the bar for another bottle of wine. He could breathe easily around him, as deeply as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff peering out across the endless expanse of the ocean, sucking in a lungful of salty air.
How many hours, he wondered, had he spent thinking about…what, exactly? Aziraphale sighed, there was not enough time in eternity to list all of the ways Crowley occupied his thoughts. To lay a hand on his skin, to press his lips to the smooth, pale arc of the demon’s throat, to look up into those eyes and say please, lead me where you will, I’ll follow, I want it. I want you.
It was madness, and on the darkest nights it felt a lot like a death wish. How could this unspoken desire lead anywhere except standing before a jury of his divine peers and confessing to that ultimate sin of falling for the forbidden? And yet, despite the fear, the danger, the guilt that threatened to take him apart, Aziraphale found himself following that forbidden path back to the demon who had haunted his thoughts since the very first day of all.
***
Crowley listened to the sound of raised voices in the street outside. He backed away from the window as if putting distance between himself and the outside world might take away some of the misery that followed him step after step. He had watched the leaders of empires destroy the lives of thousands, had seen wickedness radiate out from every place he touched, had seen fire and flood and plague tear countless lives apart, had seen humans inflicting pain on each other with gleeful smiles stretching their faces into grotesque masks of cruelty. Sometimes it felt as though the beautiful world he had helped create was nothing but a playground for hell, that perhaps he didn’t need to do anything at all to cause such suffering, that his mere existence on Earth had been enough to lead it into temptation.
He had fallen all those years ago in the fight for a better world, for something bigger than what he saw before him, for something better than all of them. He laughed bitterly, taking another swig of wine. Is this the better world I fell for?
He thought of the little girl and her mother he had crossed paths with earlier that evening, the horrified look on their faces as they shrank back from his touch, as if the evil in him might be contagious. How long had it been, he wondered, since another soul had touched him without recoiling in fear? Raphael. It had been Raphael, pulling him into a hug, telling him they were proud of him. Days later, he had fallen, with Raphael watching as Gabriel sentenced him to eternal exile.
Had Aziraphale been there? Had the angel watched him fall? He must have. They had all been there. Rows and rows of white-robed angels watching as the rebels stood on stage in heaven, awaiting their punishment. Had he looked scared, he wondered, in the moments before the only home he had ever known turned away from him? Had the angel felt pity as he’d watched them fall? Or only disgust at their betrayal, relief that he would never make the same mistake?
A rap at the door came then, pulling the demon from his reverie.
“What?” he sighed, tugging the door open to find Aziraphale standing there, a weak smile on his face and a bottle of wine in one hand. “Oh, angel. I thought you’d already left.”
“Oh, I, er…well, I had. Then, er, old silly that I am I remembered I’d brought this very fine bottle of wine with me and it, well, it seemed selfish to keep it all to myself. I wondered if you might care to join me for a nightcap?” The angel held up his hands, a faux-apology. “I’ll be on my way after that, you have my word, no more showing up unannounced.”
“I don’t mind you showing up unannounced,” Crowley drawled, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice. He ushered the angel inside, looked sharply up and down the street before closing the door. “Not as long as you bring wine.”
Aziraphale set the wine down on the table below the window, looked around the little house for hints of Crowley. He found them, sure enough, in the flowers reaching up towards the sky on the shelf above the bed, in the twisted bedsheets that hinted at another month-long nap, the moonbeams that danced on the dusty floorboards. Crowley had always felt like nighttime. Secrets. Starlight. Hidden beauty. The angel shook his head, casting the temptation away. No. No more of that.
“Why are you here, angel?”
Aziraphale jumped at the sound of the demon’s soft voice, had forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t alone in the room, that more than just the memory of Crowley stood behind him. He turned back to face him, voice stammering as he searched for an excuse that might just be believable, something safer than because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to you. “I…have some questions about our latest arrangement.”
Crowley inclined his head, urging the angel to continue. As Aziraphale dithered for the right words, the demon crossed the room in three languid steps and sank down on the edge of the bed, waiting for the words he knew would be coming, one way or another: I don’t believe you can do it, I don’t trust you to do good.
“Was it frustration or bewilderment that I’m supposed to be causing? And that business with the boars, I don’t think I quite took it all in. I know I’m supposed to be the brains of the outfit but I just don’t have your memory, old chap.” Aziraphale paused, eyebrows raised as he waited gleefully for Crowley’s retort. It was one of his favourite ways to wile away an evening, indulging in some good-natured sparring with the demon who had become something of a friend over the centuries. When no barbed response came, the angel’s brow furrowed and he reached out to touch Crowley’s forearm.
The demon sprang back, shrinking away from his touch, eyes trained to the ground as he hunched over in despair. “Don’t.”
“Don’t…what?” Aziraphale asked, perplexed. Was the joke in poor taste? The angel’s heart sank. He’d gone too far, just like he knew he would one day, had let his affection for the demon swirl too close to the surface. “I’m sorry, Crowley.”
Crowley shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. When he spoke again his voice wavered, dangerously close to breaking. Was it the stars, he wondered, that had left him feeling so vulnerable, that secret blanket of nighttime that made it feel safe to set the truth free. “Don’t touch me, angel. There’s darkness in me. I don’t want you to see what they see. I don’t want you to see the evil in me. Not you.”
“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale’s whisper trailed into silence as he sat down next to the demon, waiting for his thoughts to settle before he spoke again. Why had he wanted to reach out and touch him? Why did every second he spent with Crowley override his instincts, do away with everything heaven had taught him about sin and evil and treachery? He didn’t see evil when he looked at Crowley, he never had. He only saw his friend, fire-eyed and free, the only one who had never judged him, who had never made him feel small.
And then Crowley looked back at him, eyes shining in the darkness. “I never wanted to fall, you know. I don’t feel evil, angel. But I must be, I must be. Why else did they make me leave? Why else did hell want me? Why else do I do the things I do? It follows me everywhere, every step I take, it’s like a shadow. They see it, the humans, I know they see it. Do you know what it’s like, angel, for every soul on this planet to be afraid of you? I could have been like you, Aziraphale. I could have been just as good, if only I could have been better, if only I could have been patient.”
He stopped speaking then, looking away as he fought to keep his voice steady. Aziraphale had listened to him speak, had watched the pain on the demon’s face, and suddenly he was reaching out to wrap his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him close and sliding one hand up to rest on the nape of his neck.
Crowley froze, arms going rigid as he felt the angel’s skin against his own, and then he felt a rush of safety, of protection, and he felt himself lean into Aziraphale. A hug. It was so simple. It was nothing at all, really. Just a gesture. But in that moment, after all of those long years of loneliness, it felt like a miracle. When was the last time he had felt a pair of arms hold him close, stroke his hair and silently promise that things might just work out okay? It was Raphael, of course it was, the only other soul who had ever made him feel safe, the only family he had ever known. He thought of Raphael, of that kind archangel who had shielded him from so much, who had quietly taught him what it meant to create, to dream. He thought of everything he had lost in the Fall, how one foolish decision to trust in Lucifer’s belief of a better world had been all it took to curse him to this half life of solitude, of danger and darkness. He thought of all he had lost, of the price he had paid on that day, of how much he had missed the simple feeling of another soul holding him.
When they finally broke apart Crowley felt tears on his cheeks and when he looked at Aziraphale, found those pale blue eyes swimming with emotion, he couldn’t tell which of them had been crying.
Aziraphale’s heart thrummed in his chest, fear pounding to be heard, screaming that it was a mistake. It was dangerous. It was wrong. What if he looked too closely, what if he saw something in Crowley that ended that unspoken secret between them? What if he saw what humanity saw? What if he ruined it all? The angel closed his eyes, shook his fears away, he had gotten rather good at handling fear, after all. He slowly pressed one hand to the demon’s chest, felt a rush of warmth beneath his palm. He felt something golden, something peaceful, that familiar beat, beat, beat of life against his skin. There was no darkness to be found there in the demon’s heart, only Crowley, only the same soul he had quietly yearning to touch for so many years. Aziraphale sighed with longing, cupped Crowley’s jaw with his other hand. The demon looked back at him with fear in his eyes, chest rising and falling under the angel’s hand. Please don’t walk away from me, angel, please don’t look inside my heart and then leave. Please don’t hate what you see. Please don’t hate me.
And then Aziraphale met his eyes, risked a smile, and that was the moment the demon knew he would love the enemy, hopelessly, until the end of everything. He felt the angel’s thumb tenderly stroke his cheek, watched his lips form words so beautiful they felt like a prayer, like a blessing after all that time, words that sounded very much like a beginning.
“There is no darkness in your heart, Crowley. There is only goodness in you, my love.”