Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been ten years, four months, two weeks, and two days since Crowley had died.

Aziraphale knew that because he had been keeping track. Like in Rome and Berlin, Paris and Venice, at the sight of Crowley getting dragged shouting away, the clock had started once again.

And, this time, there would be no stopping. No chance of meeting in a theater, no prison rescue, no church, no sandwiches, no warm afternoons, no dining at the Ritz. No ducks, or homefront gardens, or bad magic, or anything of the sort.

And Aziraphale knew this because he had changed. As a matter of principle, Aziraphale did not change. But here he was, ever so different, as time ran on unbound until he could no longer see Crowley’s crooked little smile in the distance.

But he was being good about it.

How did one deal with a loss so massive? A loss like a rip in the chest, like one’s soul had been torn off, leaving such a catastrophic emptiness until the end of time?

As both he and Anathema found, in the long, lazy autumn afternoons he’d spent in Jasmine Cottage, Aziraphale dealt in memories - he left not a single scrap of him untouched.

“I wish I could see his eyes, again,” he'd say, sitting forlornly by the windowsill, cocoa once again sitting congealed in his hands while Anathema watched.

“I never asked how he managed to sleep for an entire century,” he once reminisced, running his hands over an old copy of Mrs. Dalloway. And then, quieter, he amended, “It was my fault, wasn’t it? Don’t tell me, my dear girl.”

Even further on, he got even more desperate and weary. “I never apologized,” he’d repeat, as a scared Newt resisted the temptation to hide in the attic, “I never apologized.”

Mainly, he sank, ever so slowly. Like a submarine through the water, every year, patrons of A.Z. Fell & Co watched his eyes dim, his cheeks sink, and his mouth thin into a sharp line, as the never-aging man slowly wilted with grief. He hadn’t eaten in about seven years - the last time he tried to, it tasted like ash. In contrast to this, however, he seemed to lightheartedly try to keep the memory of the old friend alive in occasional casual conversation.

“I always thought he should grow his hair out again,” he would say, to anyone who would listen.

“I simply cannot bring myself to take walks at night anymore, you know,” he’d say, with a shaky smile, to a passing woman peeking at an astronomical series.

And though it’d always be accompanied by a friendly lilt or a sheepish shrug, the hollow echo of his eyes laughed with a symphony of unhuman sorrow.

If the passing of time had anything to say about it, it spared no word for the angel and found him in the morning, quite awake.

The day arrived sweet, warm, and pale, with a timid golden Tadfield sunrise peeking through the blinds of the cottage. Aziraphale hardly processed it. Since the previous morning, he had been staring straight ahead into the mirror opposite him. It had quickly become one of his preferred ways of spending eternity.

Because that was it, right? Eternity. There was nothing left for him. The one thing, the one good thing he’d ever had…was gone. There was no end to Aziraphale, nor his grief - he would continue forever. He'd exist far beyond the graves of the entirety of Tadfield, of England, of the foreseeable universe. When there was no universe left, he’d have no choice but to float alone in space, never-ending. When he thought of that, there was always an end to those thoughts, but he was facing eternity, and there was no end to that.

There was a cavern in his chest. In the mirror, he saw his hand lift to his collarbone as if moved by a ghost. The mirror was cracked at the sides, the walls a dim green, and his dress shirt a light gray. The shirt rippled and pillowed around his hand with a slight sound, but the inside of Aziraphale was the angelic equivalent of a whistling, cold, empty wind.

In his mind, it brushed across the rotted carpet and crashed-in windows of a defiled house, wherein the very last of humanity had perished from the earth thousands of years prior. Now, all that was left was dust, which once there were lovingly sewn curtains and a kitchen where young children played. And Aziraphale felt it all and then nothing at all. His was the house, his was the wind, his was the endless marching of the seasons.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It had dulled, he could’ve sworn. “Oh, dear,” he breathed. In and out, in and out. “I really should call up that barber.”

He didn’t. He sat there for the rest of the week, staring at himself, an angel in a dying, empty world. Once the week ended, he relented. On the back of his eyelids, he gazed upon a living death. He didn’t blink when he was alone—just stared on ahead, gazing on towards eternity.

“And how was your week, Adam?” He asked, on Saturday or Sunday night, when Adam, home from college, loaded his plate with Anathema’s vegetable skewers.

Adam looked up, golden curls bouncing in his eyes. “Alright,” he considered. “College is fine, but I love being home. Seeing our old haunts, the Them and I. Like the quarry, and the treehouse. I suppose you’d have a lot of those.”

“‘Course he does,” said Pepper, who was very good at picking up details, though a mouthful. “‘E’s an angel, Adam.”

“Ah, yes,” said Aziraphale, whose mind had drifted away slightly after ‘home.’ “Er, but never alone, you see.”

“Oh,” said Adam, awkwardly. “Right. Sorry.”

Aziraphale smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. And soon enough, Newt called for dessert, and that was that. Neither Adam nor Pepper nor Wensley nor Brian remembered as long as he did the extent of his grief, but in the dark and dim of the dusky morning, staring in the mirror, he did.

“Aziraphale,” Anathema asked, later, when the warm blanket of sunset hummed with fireflies, “Newt and I were thinking of going to a nearby town next weekend. They have a nice old hill and the weather’s good. Would you like to go stargazing?”

And, as the angel clung to the phone in the lamp-lit bookshop, Crowley asked too.

He leaned against the Bentley in the slight chill of the SoHo night. “Say, angel,” he asked, smile glinting, spinning the keys on a single, slim finger, “could I tempt you?”

Aziraphale, who had a few drinks in him, was feeling braver and had more bravado than usual. He chuckled. “Foul tempter, just what do you hope to achieve?”

Crowley shot him a bright, leering smile in return. “It’s a clear night tonight, eh? Was thinking we could go out.”

Aziraphale’s stomach flipped. “Sorry?”

Crowley quickly amended. “Stargazing,” he said. “I was hoping…well, you know. It’s a perfect night for it, you know, and I’m never one to skip an occasion I can use to my advantage.”

He paused, for a second, and lit up. “You could thwart me,” He chuckled. “I could pretend to, I don’t know, plan to blow up a spaceship, or something.”

“Blow up a spaceship?” Aziraphale, halfway to the car, raised an eyebrow. “Come now, my dear.”

“I’m serious!” Crowley persisted. “Serious business, that. All those astronauts, floating in space. You could come along. Stop it from happening.”

Aziraphale exaggerated a sigh. “Oh, alright. But only because you asked, you wily thing.”

So they took the Bentley up to a forgotten glade outside the city, and spread a picnic blanket under the cosmos.

Laying together in the field was just as Aziraphale imagined. The grass was soft and scratchy against his neck, and sheep bleated in nearby pastures as crickets chirped in the trees and as a gentle, warm wind brushed lightly through his hair. A bonfire wafted in from somewhere far-off, all woodsmoke and laughter.

Crowley was silent, his eyes full of unexpected wonder, as he gazed up, locks of hair trailing across the grass. To Aziraphale, he looked for all the world as if he were truly happy. And he was beautiful there.

Suddenly, he spoke. “Look up there.”

Aziraphale was shaken out of his reverie. “Where?”

Crowley grasped his wrist and gently lifted it, pointing his gaze to a star towards the north. “There, see? I helped make that one.”

“You - ” Aziraphale struggled to grasp the concept, the back of his coat wet with mist. “You mean, made made? Created?”

Something shifted in Crowley’s face, his clear, uncovered eyes softening with regret. “Yep,” he murmured. “So many little stars, they’re all mine. ‘Course, Gabe wouldn’t tell you that, but,” and here, he turned and stared deep into Aziraphale’s eyes, “I’ll never forget. How it felt to be creating something good.”

Aziraphale hummed, stomach still fluttering with butterflies and alcohol. “Well then, tell you what. I won’t forget, either.”

Crowley, flushed and warm beside him, bashfully grinned against the grass. “Thanks, angel,” he muttered.

“Of course, my dear.”

“Aziraphale?” Anathema asked, again. Aziraphale picked the phone up off the floor.

“Yes, yes, terribly sorry, I -” He paused. “I don’t think I can make it,” he finished, deflated. “I do hope you and Newt have fun, though.”

As he and Anathema said their goodbyes, he barely processed it. The bookshop was strung with lights, an impulse purchase, and they glowed light upon his brow as he sank to the floor. Outside, the world moved on, and a man on the street corner played his cello to any who would listen. He was acutely aware of the song, but he could not place it.

He clutched at his wrist, habitually trying to find a pulse that had stopped years ago, his thumb sliding up and down the perfect, unaged skin. His eyelashes weighed heavy, and he seemed very far away, untethered from his body as if floating once again in space.

The cello became discordant, all warped and off-pitch and his breath came in short little gasps. It was ridiculous, ridiculous, really, but stamped on his eyelids was a vision of Crowley, laughing slightly as he drunkenly spun in a star-lit field, under the bright unseeing heavens. His hair was brilliant, though lit only by the stars, and his eyes were alight with symphonies of a thousand years, all bitter sardonic awe and deep devotion. His smile quirked up at the end, and his eyebrows crinkled like they always did, large eyes open wide, wide, wide.

This was how he had come to Aziraphale tonight, as he crouched by the receiver, hands trembling. Big and vibrant and beautiful, dew resting on his eyelashes, sliding in a mist down his face. Oh, how the angel wanted to reach out, reach out and touch, make his praises known. He looked almost holy, like the strange angel forever resting in the corners of Aziraphale’s mind.

He was gone, melted to the floor. Aziraphale couldn’t even fool himself into thinking Crowley was a sunset, or a river, or all of the stars in the night sky. For humans, that might’ve been true, but Crowley…Crowley wasn’t anywhere. He was really and truly gone, for the rest of eternity. And it was Aziraphale’s fault, he knew that. He had killed those soft hands and gentle laughs. He was floating in space with a corpse.

There was no more of Crowley for him - even his scent was gone. And Aziraphale knew that for sure.

A week after Crowley died, he had ravaged through his flat for signs of a life. He had dug through his belongings for everything he could’ve missed - his favorite coffee, his shampoo, anything he’d left behind. He’d found letters to him, and memorized every word, every stray drop of ink. He’d spent hours in his greenhouse, preserving it perfectly in his mind.

And then, when he was done, he’d buried himself in his closet until he wasn’t sure where Crowley’s lingering scent ended and his began. That was all he had left, holding himself among the dark and the occasional scarf - the smell of him. The warmth and the gentle lilt of bergamot wrapped in the husk of past summer days as he desperately crushed his face into the last of his beloved demon. It was Crowley, Crowley, Crowley all around him - Crowley, laughing in the park, Crowley, eyes downcast in a Roman restaurant, Crowley, young and innocent at the dawn of humanity.

If he tried hard enough, Aziraphale could pretend that he was simply on vacation - that any minute, he’d walk in the door holding a bag of croissants. He’d see the angel’s shaking body, the bags under his eyes, and he’d run to him, take his face in his hands, and proclaim his loveliness, all the curves and dips and weary hours of him. He’d kiss him and tell him that everything was -

After a few weeks, the last of Crowley faded, and he was gone. There was no mark of Crowley left on the entire earth. Even his body was gone. There was only Crowley in the stars, and those were far too high, far too painful, far too bright. The flat was a graveyard, a hollow skull. Nothing held any sign that he’d ever been there anymore, save for the empty wine glass next to the bed and a single empty tartan thermos.

Aziraphale didn’t even have the strength to cry. He just laid on Crowley’s floor, in Crowley’s flat, in the world made of the colors Crowley had made for him, and he had slept.

When he woke up, six months had passed, and Crowley was still gone. He had hundreds of missed calls from various people, his coat was covered in dust, everything was gray, gray, gray, and Crowley wasn’t ever coming back.

That night, years ago, he dreamt of the strange angel for the first time.

Aziraphale did not know the strange angel. The angel laughed and smiled in his mind, though he had never done so in practice. Perhaps Aziraphale just wanted to think of him kindly. His hair was so bright it blazed, his lips and hands slim and perfect. He never spoke, but appeared like a mirage, here, and there, and then gone.

He wasn’t stupid, though. He knew the angel was one of Her carrier pigeons, and he knew that meant She had a message for him. The angel was just biding his time, he knew, he knew, he knew.

And when the day ended in the present gray, and Aziraphale found himself asleep, the angel was there again. And this was it, Aziraphale knew, as he faded from waking and dimmed his surprise. This, of all days, was when he was going to ask for the message.

He found the angel again on the sidewalk by a streetlight. The pavement was slick with rain, and it caused ripples when he stepped through the puddles. In them were reflected neon signs from the red-brick buildings, deep and crimson against the night, bright greens and yellows like halos. And as he parted little seas through the hard concrete, there was the angel, glowing even brighter than the signs, then the stars. He was beautiful, Aziraphale supposed, but ever so blank.

Aziraphale stared at the angel.

The angel stared at him. His eyes were a beautiful blue, his hair a rich, indulgent gold.

“Ahem,” said Aziraphale.

The angel did not reply.

“Where have you been, all these years?” Aziraphale asked, feeling quite foolish in the uninterrupted silence of the street.

The angel shook his head. He pointed a single slim finger to a flashing green sign. As Aziraphale watched, the sign’s letters, which were advertising an unfamiliar bar, morphed and rearranged themselves. Try another question.

Aziraphale, rather impatient, had a sudden vision of ravens on chamber doors, and scowled slightly.

“Whatever you’re here for, I’m sorry.” He shuffled his feet. “I can’t help you. I am quite thoroughly…” he took a breath, “retired.”

The angel pointed to the sign again. Wrong, try again, it flashed, in purple now.

“If Crowley were here, he’d say something like ‘what a load of bollocks,” he murmured.

The angel turned back to him. His lip twitched almost imperceptibly. Who? the sign asked, in blue.

“My friend,” Aziraphale said, gazing at the puddles. “My best friend. He’s not here anymore, and it was my fault. Six thousand years, we knew each other, and then he was…gone. I checked, you know. I did my best. I was strong and diligent and good. I did everything right, but he still died. They…took him from me. If you ever see Her, make sure to tell her that. I tried to do well.”

“He was everything I had, see.” Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off the puddles. “Even before I knew who I was, he was always there. And now he’s not.”

“Oh,” said the sign. And then, on several multicolored billboards, “Did you love him?”

In his mind’s eye, Crowley murmured something too soft to hear, his face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder, his hands warm on his back. The angel was stifling his laugh. They were lying on the floor of the demon’s flat, and he smelled like pine and salt. Aziraphale’s hands were tangled in his dark hair like they truly belonged there, and he was the happiest he had ever been.

Aziraphale glared. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” He demanded, rather upset.

“There we go,” whispered the angel.

Aziraphale took a step back. His voice was so soft, a slight musical whistle in the warm hushed tone. It sang of warm summer nights, bonfires, and teasing little smiles.

“I’m here to pass on a letter,” said the strange angel. “That is my purpose.”

“S-sorry?” Aziraphale took another step back.

“A letter,” murmured the angel. “A very strange one indeed. I’d follow it if you’d like to avoid an eternity alone. Mind who you trust.” And he took from his robes a manila envelope, placed it in Aziraphale’s hands, and was gone.

The dream shifted to a night he knew far better. This time, it came in little shards, broken on the floor - thin, pale hands, the clinking of silverware, the near-unhearable click of a smile, the buskers on the street below.

“Still, I keep wonderin’ what Agnes meant with that prophecy,” Crowley murmured, as he lay awake. “It’s odd, eh?”

Aziraphale rolled over, smiling softly in the night. “Don’t worry about that now,” he reassured, tucking a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear. “We have time.” His eyes were glowing in the dark.

“Whatever you say, angel,” the demon muttered. The night lay warm and silent around them, fireflies glowing in the SoHo night.

“When you really think about it,” Aziraphale propped himself up on one shoulder, “We have the rest of our lives.”

Crowley smiled so fondly that Aziraphale swore he would combust, his golden eyes crinkling at the edges, flushed with the twilight.

“Yeah,” he said, face against the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, “we sure do.”

Crowley was alive for roughly sixteen more hours,

and Aziraphale never slept by his side again.

--

There was no substance to his days, and Aziraphale knew this.

Aziraphale knew this because it had been ten years, four months, and three weeks, and it was two in the afternoon and he hadn’t done a thing but lie in bed. Some days were like this, he knew, and that was okay, he knew. Nothing could bring Crowley back, he knew, he knew, he knew, he knew, but he couldn’t do anything to convince himself of any of it.

So when the letter dropped straight on his face, it was clear that the one who wrote it knew that as well.

It was a manila envelope, and when Aziraphale stopped sputtering in belated surprise, he picked it off the faded bedsheets and inspected it. It didn’t look suspicious, bathed in the mid-afternoon shadows from the dusty corners of the room and beyond. It seemed perfectly normal.

Aziraphale put it on the dresser and forgot about it for a solid week.

That was his first mistake.

Chapter Text

Five years and three days after Crowley decided that he’d never go back to Earth ever again, he’d decided that space was an absolute bust. It was beautiful, yes - in his time, Crowley had seen thousands of stars be born and die - but oh, was there anything else to look at? He loved his stars, of course he did, but Crowley would give anything to see a duck, or a nice bottle of wine, or a street corner again.

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. Crowley would give anything, anything, anything, anything - the stars in the sky, the dirt on the ground, the skin off his back, the sunlight through SoHo windows, the Bentley and her James Bond bullet hole stickers, all the ducks in the world - anything, anything, anything, (he promised, he really, really did,) to just, just for one desperate little second -

But he wasn’t thinking about that today. Day number 3,793, (he had been counting,) was not a day to think about that. Somewhere around Year Two, he had hung a sign up in the flat - “Don’t you dare think about him.”

It didn’t work and was down by the end of the week.

See, Crowley liked to think he was strong and capable, mysterious and independent. And the angel liked it when he was punctual, so in his absence, he had taken up a schedule. Laundry was on Saturdays, grieving days were on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and trash collection was on the fourth of every month. He liked to think he kept to it well.

Truthfully, there hadn’t been a day in which he hadn’t thought about Aziraphale. At least, not since somewhere in March of Year Four when he had drunk himself into such a stupor at three in the morning that he didn’t wake up until one o’clock the next day.

And when he had woken up, he was staring at the same wide-open sky that he was blinking at on the morning of day 3,793.

“Kinda stupid, eh?” He asked, raising the bottle to the stars. “Me, out here all alone like this? Not like I have anything better to do.”

Crowley talked to the stars a lot. When he didn’t, he spoke to the walls of his flat or the meager little plants he didn’t have the strength to yell at anymore. It didn’t matter if he did, anyway. He’d stay the same. Nothing would ever change.

“Hey, don’t look at me that way,” he glared. “I made you! I…I did.” He sat down on the star’s surface. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. It’s not like I want to go anywhere else. Great big universe out there, and this is the best I can do.”

So, that was the truth of it. Crowley was punishing himself. He could go back to Hell, if he wanted, just to have somewhere to belong, but he didn’t. He could go up to Heaven, if he wanted, to put an end to it all, but he didn’t. No, that would be too easy. He could go back to Earth if he wanted, but every little thing there was filled with so many passionate, warm memories that stung like little needles all over his skin. Everything would remind Crowley of him. So he didn’t. He remained in numbness, day after day and year after year. This was his eternity, and he had - he had chosen it, he told himself over and over and over.

This was his choice. His choice. There was no one left to make it for him. There was no one left. No one, no one, no one.

No bright eyes or careful smile or carefully placed fondness just lying underneath a protective veil of animosity. No walks at the park, dinners at the Ritz, late-night rescues, meetups at concerts, chocolates, soft hands, or even a whisper of ‘Don’t you worry, my dear, we’ll be alright. You’ll see,’ - Crowley was alone, and Aziraphale was dead.

Not just dead - gone. There wasn’t even a body, just an empty grave by where the ducks raised their young every spring and soft snow never froze through in the winter. He hadn’t put his body in a box and carefully picked out posh clothes for it, or even held a service for the spirit inside. It was no proper end for six millennia - there was nothing, and Aziraphale was gone.

“It’s stupid,” he said, to the stars. “We were this close, really, we were.” He held up his hand. His hair had grown long and tangled, and he swept it away from his face. “After six thousand bloody years, we only had one day. Really fuckin’ unfair, right?”

The stars didn’t answer. They were bright and cold. In Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale lay on the grass, smiling contentedly as he gazed up at the sky, his hand a fraction of an inch away. He looked the same as he had back in Eden, and if you’d given him another thousand years he would still have the same sparkle in his eyes. He was beautiful, shining as he lay in the dew and the dirt, a glow to which even Adonis could not compare, against which Apollo would never dare to compete.

It didn’t matter what they said, didn’t matter what they did, they inevitably kept coming back to each other, helpless against the tide. Whether Crowley slept for 80 years, or Aziraphale had a mound of paperwork, they returned to each other once again, just as birds flew south for the winter, just as winter inevitably passed into spring and spring into fall and fall into winter again. There was no anger, not for very long. A human lifetime, maybe, or just for a few years, but both were just drops in the ocean of time. There was no fragile anger, but in the face of eternity, it was all void.

Ten years wasn’t much at all. Crowley had lived six hundred decades and would live infinitely more. Surely he had lived more without Aziraphale, but it was different now. There was no Aziraphale, and would never be any more of him. He was gone, and eternity stretched out without him.

“I won’t forget,” Crowley whispered when the night came. “I won’t, I won’t, I really bloody won’t.” Oh, how he wanted to, sometimes - wanted to forget all the love he could’ve had, all the memories unmade and words left unsaid, melting like snowflakes in bright plumes of flame against the enveloping night.

Instead, he turned to the dusk and let himself be swallowed.

“Hey,” the strange angel raised a hand in greeting. He was sitting on a plush red chair in the middle of a hurricane. All around them, the wind screamed, and debris exploded and broke against the sides of the glass box. Crowley wished he could see beyond the hurricane, see the world outside. A spare bit of packaged meat squelched as it hit the glass. A metal chain slapped with a loud clang. An old book ripped apart, and Crowley could hear the death cries of every last bit of ink as its fibers were torn apart. Gearboxes and old clocks and overripe mangos and great pools of water and docking ships and paradoxes inside boxes and vials of blood and little gems swirled and swirled and swirled inside his mind.

“Fuck are you playing at?” Crowley, bleary and tired, shook his hair away from his face. “‘S all this hafta do with me?”

The strange angel, who Crowley had named Wanker, only smiled. Crowley hadn’t seen him for five years. Crowley had raged at him, and apparently, he said something right, because Wanker had started talking.

“Ah, Crowley,” Wanker sighed. “You really need to get out more.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Crowley responded. “What, you invaded my dreams to tell me to get out more?”

“Just this past weekend, you were talking to a rock that looked like it had a face on it,” Wanker said, folding his hands.

“Hey -”

“Now, I believe you mean to ask why I’m here,” Wanker smirked. “I must be here for some reason, right? The Lord Herself sent me down to talk to you. Or, up, if you prefer.”

“Yeah, well, dear old Mum can -” Crowley stopped. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He thought of Her sad little smile, Her hand on his cheek, and felt something deep in his chest weigh him down. The wind roared like a tyrant in his ears. Thus always.

“Crowley, you don’t like being alone,” Wanker said. He wasn’t very pretty, Crowley thought. There was no charming, stubborn grace about him. He was as cold and far-off and shiny as a star. Crowley might have thought him beautiful if he had made him like a star, but he hadn’t, and that was kind of weird to think, anyway.

Crowley shrugged. “‘S fine. Nothing’s perfect.”

Wanker shook his head. “Be serious. You’re wasting away up here. You’ve been sitting in your grief for ten years now, replaying the same night in your mind.” The hurricane whipped around him, chaotic and free.

Aziraphale leaned into his shoulder, eyelids heavy. Lamplight shone on his pale hair, and he looked at Crowley through thick eyelashes. He put down his drink and ghosted his fingertips over the side of Crowley’s face, smiling in wonderment. He said something softly, but Crowley was too focused on his hands.

He’d never figure out just what it was that Aziraphale said, and Aziraphale would never say anything ever again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley droned. “I’ve got stamina. Tell you what, you come back in a hundred years, and I’ll tell you how I’m doing then.”

And I won’t even think about you.

Wanker sighed. “And just how do you intend to live for all eternity? Wallowing alone in your misery?”

“It’s not my fault!” Crowley burst out. Against the glass, a bottle of wine splashed, and the glass erupted with red. “I just can’t forget him. If there’s no one around, I won’t forget him.”

The strange angel’s eyes softened. “Oh, Crowley. You really think you’ll forget that easily?”

The demon seethed. “Of course, I bloody will! Can’t let him die like that, now can I? ‘Cause once I go back, I let go, and then he’s…he’s…” He stopped, his breath coming choked and fast, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“Like it or not,” the strange angel said, leaning forward, “that’s not how it works.”

Crowley lifted his head, not strong enough to protest.

“For better or for worse, you’ll never forget him. I promise you that.”

Crowley snorted. “Why would I trust you? You’re an angel.”

The strange angel looked surprised. “You trusted Aziraphale.”

Crowley would have objected to the use of the name and would’ve raged about it, but Wanker’s voice was so calm and sure that he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. “He was different. Plus, it was angelic bastards like you who killed them.”

Wanker shook his head. “I am…so sorry about Aziraphale. But I was made specifically for this, Crowley.”

“What?” He asked, sarcasm leaking through his veins. “Impromptu therapy sessions?”

The strange angel’s lips quirked up into a wry smile. “Unfortunately not.” He held out a large manila envelope. “Here.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. Outside, several objects - a black coat, a thermos, a statue - hovered around the glass, as if watching, or asking permission to crash into dust. “Sorry?”

The strange angel held it out further. “Take it. It’s a letter.”

Crowley gulped. “It…hasn’t got a bomb in it or anything, right?”

The strange angel shook his head.“Crowley, do you really want to spend your eternity here?”

Crowley, stunned, shook his head. His hands shook.

“Then take the letter.” The strange angel smiled. “It’s time for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t want to leave him,” Crowley said. “I don’t want to forget.”

The strange angel pursed his lips. “Do you really think you’ll ever forget him? Answer me honestly, now. You loved him more than anything - do you really think you’ll ever stop?”

Crowley blinked rapidly and shook his head. He held out a shaking hand and took the manila envelope.

“Very good,” the strange angel said. “This has been a very productive conversation, I think. At least I’m not ‘Wanker’ to you anymore, huh?” He gave Crowley a wry smile. “Have a good time, Crowley. I would tell you to ‘mind how you go,’ but I suppose that’s rather on the nose, isn’t it? I don’t mean that cruelly, but - ” the strange angel regarded him, “Oh, who am I kidding? You’re not listening. You’ll see what I mean.”

Crowley, who had indeed not been listening, nodded numbly.

The angel let him go, and he floated back down through the hurricane.

Crowley woke up with a manila envelope in his hand. Once again, he blearily swept his tumbling hair back from his face. The starlight - and there was only ever starlight - stretched across his bedroom.

He looked at the envelope. He poked it. He thought about what Aziraphale might say, but he didn’t know. Maybe it had been too long, maybe he never knew in the first place. He didn’t know what he preferred.

He opened the envelope. “Crowley,” it said.

The paper of the letter was thick and sturdy. He took a deep breath and began to read.

Crowley,

I trust this letter has found you in due time. I would’ve delivered it myself, but I doubt you would’ve wanted to see me again. That’s alright. Either way, I’d like to invite you on a little trip I’ve planned. Your current state is hardly a way to spend eternity. Hopefully, this will lead to some respite, if you’ll ever learn to look for it. If you choose to go, Rome is waiting for you. I trust you know where.

G

“Wot?” Crowley blinked three times, and peered closer at it, raising his eyebrows. “‘Scuse me?” He read it again and looked up at the sky. “This your idea of a joke?” He brandished it. The Almighty Herself was sending him back to Rome, of all places?

Crowley sighed. “This is bullshit. Fine. Fine! You win!” He gestured wildly up at the sky.

The sky did not respond.

He blinked rapidly, suddenly feeling very, very alone. “Don’t know what I did wrong, anyway,” he muttered, voice all foggy and far off. “I just loved him. We had only just made it.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And, what, you send me a worthless life and a road trip as an apology? How am I supposed to live with this?”

“We were this close, this close, after six thousand goddamn years, and you, and you -” He gulped, forcing down the lump in his throat. “I just wanted to hold his hand. Just properly, just once. And I did, and he wouldn’t stop talking about eternity together. We talked and talked about how he’d been wanting this for hundreds of years, and how we could get a cottage and have a kitchen garden that grew up the house, and a cat, a-and take long walks on the seafront and have little picnics near the hills that grew heather in late summer.”

He was crying now, alone and floating in space, and his cheeks were cold. “He added that last bit, you know. He…said it would be nice.”

He took a deep breath and glared at the sky. “And it was beyond all of my wildest dreams, and - and something good was finally happening, and you - you decided that was enough happiness for poor old Crawly.”

“His hands were soft, a-and he smiled like he always did, but it was different. ‘Cause he loved me. For one goddamn night, he loved me. Me! After six thousand - do you - could you even know what that felt like?”

He shook his head hard as if to shake off the memories. “When you got me, held me, told me it was alright, you said my death wasn’t supposed to happen! So what then, Mum?” He paused in the center of the room, breathing hard, struck with a realization. When his voice came out, it was soft and unbelieving. “Was I - was this always meant for me? Was I always meant to go on without him?”

He stared down at his hands. They were dry and the pads of his fingers were cracked. “How’s that for an eternity, eh? Stupid old Crawly, floating alone in space. ‘Aw, sorry, Aziraphale, guess I went up to the stars and left you alone after all.’”

He laughed quietly through his tears, and it was the most defeated sound the stars had ever heard. “God, what a stupid, daft old angel. Going off and getting truly and properly killed like that. As if that little stint with the bookshop didn’t worry me enough. ‘S not like I can tell him off about it, huh?”

“I was so relieved, you know when he came back okay.” The sky still didn’t respond, but Crowley was far beyond hope. “Cried about it, too, you know. Right there in his arms, when he asked if he could hold me. Didn’t know what I was doing - was just s-so glad he was…” Crowley trailed off, too choked to finish. “Yeah. Lost him again not even a day later, and that was it.” He pursed his lips and tried to shrug noncommittally. “Was the first time that anyone had hugged me like that, at least for a good long while.”

“It’s nothing,” he resolved. “So, fine. I’ll go to Rome, whatever. Nothing’s gonna change, you know.” There was a glass of water on his dusk-washed desk, and the last of the ice cubes quietly melted. Crowley sighed. “You’ll see.”

-

It was summer, and Rome was hot. Stepping off of a brightly lit tour bus, Crowley wiped peeling paint scraps from his sleeve and ran a hand through his hair. The sky above was clear and bright, and the large brown buildings all around glistened with summer light. Power lines ran to and fro, birds singing from the rafters and window boxes. Cars and buses and motorcycles flew past in a picturesque blur.

Crowley took the letter from his pocket, and, looking over the top of his sunglasses, read it for the fifth time in two hours. Little bits of green grew in the sidewalk cracks, and the words were still the same. He furrowed his brow and glared up at a blue jay that dared to look at him the wrong way.

“Whole lot of good you’re doing,” he spat at the paper. From a window across the street, an old folk song began to play. The demon groaned and rolled his eyes. “‘You’ll know the place’ - it could be anything! Great bloody load of trouble, you. Should’ve stayed in space. Don’t have to do anything up there.”

He kicked the dust on the sidewalk. The sun above made spots in his vision.

“I mean, I’ve been to Rome,” he continued, monologuing to the air, “I’ve been to tons of places! Whataya want, the colosseum?” A passerby gave him a strange look, opened their mouth as if to say something, and closed it again.

“So, gotta find a letter or something, huh?” He shrugged and looked around. “Yeah, that’s probably it. Be a real shame if I couldn’t find it by the time limit.” Crowley had given himself a whole day for this operation. He was currently five hours into it and tired already. He had checked parks, theaters, and major landmarks in the area. It was not, to his dismay, in any of those places.

It wasn’t on the ground either, in the sky, or on top of any of the local rooftops. He had even tried pretending to give up - he made a great big show of it, too - but no letter appeared, and here he was.

Crowley groaned again. The little man peddling the cart of supplì gave him a curious look but found himself too scared to speak to the frustrated foreigner.

The woman next to him - his daughter, maybe - had no such reservations. She called out to him, the shawl around her shoulders blowing in the light breeze.

At the sound, Crowley turned around. Through his sunglasses, he narrowed his eyes. “Wot?”

The woman smiled. “Are you hungry? We have a selection here if you’d like.” She gestured to the cart.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally and glared at the paper again.

“Unfortunately, the fresh oysters don’t come in ‘till Thursday, but -”

Crowley’s head shot up, and he fixed her with a pointed gaze. “What did you say?”

The woman gave the little man a wry look. “Unfortunately, the fresh oysters - ”

“Yes! Yes, that!” Crowley pointed, jumping forward. “That’s it! The oysters, Crowley, you -” He cut himself off and nodded at the woman. “Sorry. Er, yep. Bye.”

And without another word, he sprinted off down the street. The woman sighed. Tourists, really.

Crowley barreled through near-empty city streets, dodging hanging laundry and wayward plants as he went. The wind hissed gently in his ear like the old shells of a forgotten sea. His hair strained against the thin hair tie, flowing and tangling in the breeze. Every time his bounding feet hit the ground, he felt it in his bones, as he flew down block after block after street after street in the hazy Italian afternoon.

There was so much movement and sound on Earth that it shocked Crowley to the bone. There was no grand silent starscape, but there was this.

As he made his fifth left turn onto an unassuming side street, windchimes tinkled in someone’s window. Crowley whipped around at the sound, nearly avoiding an old Honda going three miles over the speed limit. The buttons of his coat kissed cold to his skin, and he stopped.

The building, if it could be called that, was old, barely standing at the edge of the city. What once had been bright red paint had peeled and faded hundreds of years ago. Weather and construction had hit it hard, to the point where it was an abject miracle that the ancient thing was still standing.

Well, ‘standing’s’ pushing it, Crowley thought. There are barely two walls to speak of. He wrinkled his nose. Despite his fondness for old Petronius’, he didn’t want to be unceremoniously injured by a falling plank on his return trip to Earth.

He ran a hand through his hair. “So, what’s the deal?” He asked the paper. “An old trip down memory lane? That’s pretty cruel, even for you.”

He stepped through the wreckage. Inside, there was a small table, and on the table, a letter.

Crowley sat down on the floor. His shoulders were heavy, and his back hurt. He looked around, and up to the sky. “The oysters were fine, if you wanted to know. I just watched him eat. Coulda sat there all night and just watched him eat.”

“When he asked me, I was alone. Heaven didn’t want me, and Hell treated me like a dirty plastic bag or something. I was the scum of the earth, unclean. I was nothing, and I had nothing, and no one loved me anymore.”

He laughed, soft and echoing.

“And - and here comes this angel, who doesn’t smite me, who goddamn shelters me, even though we couldn’t be any more different. So he finds me, washed up and alone, drinking myself to conformity in a Roman bar, and talks to me, despite all that, and -”

Crowley shook his head, and swallowed, whispering to the empty air, “And he tempts me to lunch.”

He let the line echo - if echo it could - as if it could reach the very firmament glittering beyond the veil of daylight immemorial.

He remembered the day the sun had been created.

A few days later, he met what would become a corpse. When the day had begun, he had been alive, but here Crowley was, six thousand years later, in the wreckage of an old restaurant, holding an old letter.

And Crowley was, six thousand years later, fully and truly alone.

He ran a hand through his hair again and sighed. After this, he was going to sleep for a week.

Chapter Text

As a matter of principle, Aziraphale did what he was told. That, of course, was why he was standing there, in the middle of the old restaurant, shivering in the cold of the Roman night. The sky outside was shining with little stars, and crickets hummed through the cracks in the floor. It was suspiciously free of dust on certain surfaces, but the angel didn’t notice.

He was ever so weary. The journey had taken hours, the bus had broken down, and the lady behind him had played reruns of Golden Girls through her headphones for three hours straight. He was exhausted. His feet ached and all he wanted to see was a small smile, a crinkle of a demonic laugh line.

But he had to keep going, tired as he was. There was no use in going, but it was better than standing around. Neither would bring Crowley back, but Aziraphale always did what he was told.

He picked up the letter.

Aziraphale,

If you’re reading this, (which, naturally, you will be,) then you’re probably wondering why I’ve sent you out on such a venture, hm? It bereaves me that I cannot tell you - if this all goes to plan, it’ll ruin the surprise. You should find the following letter in Venice. It’s nice this time of year, I assure you - they say these things heal the heart.

Either way, child, heed the angel’s words - mind who you trust.

G

Aziraphale fell back on his heels and stared up into the sky. The stars stared back down.

“Venice,” he murmured. “Should be nice, I suppose.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice. There was none of that, had been none - he had even turned down the nice man selling Sfogliatella. All food tasted like dirt, and all food had for quite a while.

He had tried to mourn it - he really had, but all drops of water were inevitably swallowed by the vast sea. He had tried to mourn so many things - the circles under his eyes, the aging of his books, the closing of his favorite play, the slow unraveling of his jacket - but he didn’t feel anything.

He was buried in it, closed in a room bare to the sea, the walls all gray, unable to move from the bed. Somewhere around Year Three, he had gotten the gray all over his hands, and it had spread. Now, he couldn’t scrub it off - he didn’t even have the strength to try. It was easier to just let it lie there. The gray was terrifying, once - now it was just home. Even the bright Roman sky was dimmed by the lack of lightness in his eyes.

It would have scared him if he had noticed. But he didn’t notice much anymore. He just did what he was told.

And so he left the letter and walked back up the road.

Around the evening of the next day, he caught a bus. It was a bright blue thing, with stickers put on the back by someone’s daughter. The tires were worn, but they still traveled well. His hand nearly stuck to the bar on the way up the stairs, but he found his seat. The material was green and had a garish diamond pattern that was almost charming.

“Hey, mister?” A voice chimed up next to him.

He looked down, and a little girl with brown pigtails was looking up at him.

“Yes, my dear?” He mumbled. There was something about her that brought back memories of Warlock. Crowley had looked so happy, chasing him around, that Aziraphale forgot to stop staring, forgot everything but the sparks in her eyes as she hiked up her skirts and jumped over the garden wall.

“Can I sit with you?” She asked. “‘’M going to my aunt’s but I don’t have anywhere to sit.”

“Of course, you can,” Aziraphale forced a smile and offered her the seat next to him.

The little girl hopped up next to him. She had bright flowers stitched on her overalls.
“Thanks, mister! That’s a really nice coat you’ve got.”

Aziraphale touched the coat instinctively. “Oh, thank you very much,” he said. “I got it a long, long time ago.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t have a coat like that. I have a yellow raincoat, though. Mom always gets mad when I get it dirty, but then she laughs.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said. “I believe that’s what it’s made for.”

The girl nodded her head in agreement, and her pigtails bobbed along with her. “My name’s Flora, by the way, an’ I came all the way from America. What’s your name, mister?”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale. “I’m traveling from England.”

Flora’s eyes gleamed. “Whoa! I’ve always wanted to go there. An’ Ireland, and Germany, and France, and -” she cut herself off and took a breath.

Aziraphale let out a weak chuckle. “You like to travel, then?”

Flora nodded. “I want to go all over, but my Mom said that I should try Italy first.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Your mother is very wise. I’ve been to many places, but it’s good to go with people you trust.”

Crowley, still lying on the floor in the twilight, smiled like Aziraphale was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

“Have you been to France, mister?” Flora interrupted his memory, eyes alight.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale responded. “I got into quite a pickle, you know. An old friend helped me out of it, thank goodness.” He hadn’t wanted to talk about Crowley, but the girl’s eyes shone so bright, he was almost talking to little Warlock again about Brother Snail.

Flora kicked her feet against the back of the seat in front of her. “Oh, like with a bunch of birds? That’s what happens in the comics, you know.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the smallest smile. “No, no, not with the birds. It was far more in-depth than that, I’m afraid. But I did have some lovely crepes. When you go, Flora, you should certainly try some. They were scrumptious.”

Flora tilted her head. “What’s a crepe?”

“It’s like a thin pancake,” the angel responded. “They put all kinds of fresh fruit on it.”

“And your friend, did he like them?”

Aziraphale was taken a little aback. Did Crowley? Or did he just like spending time with him?

He smiled a little sadly. “Yes, I suppose he did.”

“Oh,” said Flora. “Are you okay, mister Aziraphale?” She looked up at him with genuine worry, all kinds of colorful barrettes in her hair, all childhood excitement and concern.

“I’m alright,” Aziraphale attempted another smile. “Don’t worry about me, my dear. My friend just isn’t here anymore, that’s all.”

Flora fiddled with her hands. “Oh,” she said again. “D’you think you’ll find him where you’re going?”

The angel shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s not coming back. I miss him terribly, but there’s no use in it. He’s gone forever this time, you see.”

A shaft of sunlight fell through the window and lit upon him like a ray from God. He didn't feel blessed. He felt cold.

“I don’t know,” Flora looked up pensively. “My mom says that you can find little bits of people everywhere, even after they’re gone.”

Aziraphale smiled down at Flora, trying to feel light. “Your mother certainly knows a great deal.”

“Yep!” Flora met his gaze. “Dad says she knows everything.”

“He’s probably right, young lady,” Aziraphale responded. “Mothers tend to.”

There was a notable moment, in the early days, Crowley had raged at ‘Mother.’ Just once, on the ark, when they were tired and drunk and cold. He almost cried, then, and when he turned his head away, Aziraphale, wrestling with the strength of all of those emotions, hadn’t the strength to reach out for him.

“‘S no one left for me, angel,” he had said, leaning into a hay bale against the current, the tidal wave. “You see?”

Aziraphale’s arms had ached with the urge to reach out and hold him, hold him tightly, and never, ever let him go.

How beautiful he was, how gone forever, never to walk through his doorway ever again.

“Maybe everything except raincoats,” he amended. Maybe everything except -

“I think you’re right,” she yawned.

She then straightened up suddenly, and her eyes glinted. “Hey, wanna play War?” No sooner than she asked, she produced from a pocket in her embroidered overalls a pack of cards. On every card, Aziraphale saw, along with the colored suit, there was a country capital.

“I also have German, Spanish, and Italian suited-ones,” she offered.

Aziraphale chuckled. “You’re quite knowledgeable,” he said, accepting the cards as she dealt them out. “You know, I have a Spanish deck from the 15th century, and isn’t that something?”

Flora fumbled a card. “No way. You mean Moorish cards?”

He nodded. “As such as they come. I’m a bit of an antiques collector, one could say.”

Flora shook her head, rather sagely. “My mom says fate doesn’t exist, but this is a real coincidence.”

Aziraphale took the last of his cards. “Some meetings are ineffable,” he smiled, scanning his cards. “Ineffable indeed.”

They played until Flora won and talked about everything from playing cards to rivers in Germany.

Somewhere in the night, Flora fell asleep, and Aziraphale stayed awake. He’d miss her when she was gone, somehow, though they had only talked for an hour or so, give or take. At least this would only be drowned. At least it wasn't something that lingered.

-

In his fraught, Venice-bound mind, he was in his bookshop, on a night long past, and he was drowning.

He was drowning - surely he’d open his eyes underwater. Or worse, in the bleak, calculated, pristine whiteness of Heaven under Gabriel’s cruel meticulous ambition.

Or Crowley would. Or Crowley would, and Aziraphale would be forced to watch his friend writhe under the terrible words he had learned to withstand.

But that wasn’t true, he remembered, grasping at the red velvet - Crowley didn’t have that chance.

He was dead. He had died. It didn’t exist. This wasn’t then, this was now, and there was no Crowley.

No dinners at the Ritz or plays at the Globe or meetings in Eden or afternoons in sunlit living rooms or any of the chronicle of experiences so close in his heart. No laughter or sweet sorrow or bitter partings or sunlit eyes or picnics or bus rides or joy - Crowley was dead and gone ten years now.

He was alone. Alone, alone, alone. Weightless and worthless, with no companion to make sure he survived the grand horror of eternity - alone. He would live forever with part of him always withered in some cenotaph, somewhere.

Oh, he needed him like the sun.

How could one recover, after six thousand years? How could one go on, leaving all that history behind in pursuit of eternity?

Could one go on with half a wretched soul?

And so Aziraphale stayed there, in the hollow dampness of the night. The blue glow from the lamp in the corner shone upon his creased brow, as he breathed in and out.

In and out.

In and out.

And yet there was still tension in his body, even though Crowley couldn’t be hurt anymore, wound tight like a spring - constant in his arms, his legs, his gut, his mouth - like any moment, someone would knock down the door and everything would be over. It was never an itch he could scratch away, never a wound he could fully heal. And yet, it had never been this bad, as he existed, fading in and out of past and present realities, ten years apart.

Ten years ago, it was like a spill, sweet water to be sopped up with a sponge. Dread to be sated with a walk in the town or Crowley’s hands strong and sure on a glass of red wine, swaying ever so gently to Sinatra on the radio.

But now that Aziraphale was alone, it lurked and grew, bringing him to this night as it wallowed, hurtling like a bullet train from the corners of cabinets. It raged from the grand shadows on the wall that he was staring at, blank and near-paralyzed with apprehension.

Dusk weighed heavy on Aziraphale’s eyes.

And the dream memory changed, and he was empty.

Empty - what a funny concept. Aziraphale had been alone before - he had been perfectly lonely, in fact. He had dissolved into walls and made friends with snails and tadpoles and praying mantises and all the pretty little lonely things.

But he had always been perfectly whole. What was there to be empty about? The sun shone and the birds called and even if he was lost in a maze there was still unseen sunlight around every corner. Every moment would pass, and he’d come out the other side. That was his job.

And he wasn’t sad, as he floated through his dreams. No - no sadness touched him, smoothed her gentle caged fingers upon his brow like little drops of music, sweet with the scent of the living.

He was empty - empty like the first shred of dawn before it poked through misted clouds, empty like the hollowness of a people-less, well-lit hotel, empty like a children’s playroom before the walls had been covered with baby food and fresh paint. Empty like three fog machines still running in the basement where a stage has been set up, even after the company has gone home and all the lights are dimming. Empty like radio broadcasts where no one is listening. Empty like the man who cried, finally, finally, as he found himself sanatorium-bound.

Sometimes Aziraphale also wondered if non-resistance was a sin, but -

He found that he no longer knew thought. Not of happiness, not of anger, not of grief - although, he had a sense that there was certainly something he should be grieving.

For as long as Aziraphale had known his purpose, there was life. But of course, he was something without it. Of course. No matter how much of a shell a principality, albeit a retired one, was without humanity, it still existed.

And on the eighth day, everything ended.

Aziraphale knew this wasn’t true, even as the single thought crossed his mind like an oasis, but he was but a train station, misty and unfilled, with no train cars in sight. Ever so suddenly, he was all the lonely, forgotten things in the world, from old, decaying sanctuaries in the desert, to a discarded button on a child’s shirt.

And then the bubble popped, and Aziraphale existed again.

And somehow nothingness was nicer.

“Aziraphale!”

A voice sounded, sending ruptures through his consciousness. And somehow, in his misted state, he knew in his bones the deep despair of flowers that closed when night arrived.

“How nice to see you,” Gabriel stated, just a little flatter than friendly, just a little more dead than human speech should’ve been. He floated over, sliding on the white tiles of Heaven like they weren’t burned into his memory as if they were flames.

But Aziraphale supposed they weren’t, weren’t they?

“Now, Aziraphale,” he pouted, staring down at the frozen body that could conjure itself to life, “Greetings really are standard, aren’t they? I’m sure you wouldn’t want to come across as rude for our reunion.”

His voice echoed in the room, which felt all as solid as television static.

Aziraphale blinked and tried to feel the dread deep in him, almost as deep as the salt in his nonexistent blood. But at the same time, he didn’t feel anything. A passing shadow, a requiem for something that should’ve mattered.

“Yes, Gabriel,” he replied, still getting his bearings, still stunned and clouded over. “Good to see you. Hope you’ve been well.”

“Oh, now, none of that, Aziraphale. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gabriel snapped his fingers in front of his face, and Aziraphale crashed into reality in an instant.

And on the first day, She made fear.

Oh, why?

From the marrow of his bones, it erupted. If it were solid it would’ve combusted him, eaten him through in a bloody explosion upon Heaven’s floor. It heated him, froze him, drove him, drove him, drove him, stilled him, wired and wound him like he was nothing more than a child’s play radio. Aziraphale was a supernova, every neuron exploding neon in purple, gold, blue, red, red, red, orange, green. Blood raced like their little hearts would burst, burst, burst, breath clogged and exploded in silent starry deaths, sprinting to his pulse points. If Aziraphale had atoms, there was never, ever, ever a single one who told him to stay. He was everything and nothing, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing, and then there was -

Crowley.

Aziraphale burst forth in silence, in silence from his mold, in silence from his gilded cocoon. Wires and webs snapped around him, and he felt himself shift. Bright clouds of anger and fear no longer blinded him - everything was quiet.

And then it all came roaring back.

“What did you do with Crowley?”

The question rang out, and the driving force nestled inside him since Genesis sprayed bright colors in murals across Heaven’s walls. It was angry, terrifying, loud, and vindictive, and - Gabriel, what of Gabriel?

He’s going to punish me, Aziraphale thought, all anger evaporating in the face of that long-endured apprehension. Oh dear lord, he’s going to hurt me.

Aziraphale was strong, far stronger than any human, and could put up a fight, but against an Archangel, against Gabriel -

Gabriel…only stood.

“Would you like to rephrase that, Aziraphale?” He asked, mouth dripping with sickly-sweet understanding, maybe, or condescension, at best.

Aziraphale bit back an apology, clenching his jaw. He couldn’t afford to screw up now - not for Crowley, although, for some reason, he felt he ought to mourn him, but in the haze of the dream he couldn’t quite figure out why.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, and dread swooped like a raven upon Aziraphale, her pretty little carcass.

“Well, since you’re so determined,” he deadpanned, his voice crackling at the edges as if with a fiery vendetta, “You’ve given me no choice. This is your fault, after all.”

And then he remembered - yes, how could he have forgotten? Crowley was dead, and it was all his fault.

And before Aziraphale could say anything else, Heaven disappeared in a spiral, and everything went black.

-

The dream changed once again, and he was warm, and nothing else mattered.

He lay there, in that warm, savoring the slip of sleep that tried to overwhelm him, until he could open his eyes.

Crowley was lying next to him, sunlight glowing like honey on his face, his hair blazing, eyes warm and golden. A smile lazily flickered across his face, lighting in his dimples, the crow's feet in his eyes.

He propped himself slowly up on one elbow, his hair flowing and draping over his shoulder. “Mornin’, angel,” he yawned.

Aziraphale blinked and blinked again. He remembered the events of the last night as if they’d been years ago. “Good morning, Crowley.”

He plucked a bit of fluff from his hair and traced a line down Aziraphale’s jaw. His hand was warm, and Aziraphale reddened at the touch. Crowley snorted at that, his eyes crinkling. He was dazzling, all golden and lovely in the morning’s fire, and Aziraphale told him so.

“Ngk,” said Crowley, dropping his hand to the sheets, “I am not.”

“Don’t be stupid, you silly old snake,” Aziraphale murmured, absentmindedly running his hands through a lock of his hair, “I think you’re just beautiful. A true marvel of a serpent.”

Crowley laughed, ever so softly, and laid his head on Aziraphale’s chest as if he belonged there.“Angel, what did I do to deserve this?” It was asked lightheartedly, but something broke through, and Aziraphale’s forehead creased.

He hardly knew what to do, so he bent down and kissed his forehead. Crowley’s eyelids fluttered shut, just for a fraction of a second, twin butterflies in the gold.

“You know,” Aziraphale started, “you’ve always been so kind.”

“‘M not-” Crowley started.

“Don’t go cutting me off, now, dear,” he said “Every single time I’ve ever needed anything, you’ve been right next to me. You saved my books, remember? That meant the world to me, Crowley. The whole world. You’re the only one who’s ever been good to me.”

He almost stopped there, but he couldn’t afford to. He had the strangest feeling that this would be the last time.

“From the very beginning, I swear, you were always there when I needed you. When I got into trouble in France, when the apocalypse started, when you walked into that church for me.” He took a breath.“Consecrated ground, Crowley. You hurt yourself for me. And oh, I had been so cruel. Always being such a coward, so scared of anyone hurting you, but inadvertently hurting you myself.”

“Angel, please don’t blame yourself,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around him and held him gently. A bird called on a dogwood tree in the yard. “It wasn’t a problem.”

He shook his head. “I’m so sorry, I really am. I loved you so much that it scared me. You’re lovely, you know - all funny and kind and wonderful. I was terrified of losing you. I never thought I’d love anyone that much, really.”

He looked down at the demon again, and in the quiet, he could hear his breaths. “I'm here, now. I'm not leaving.”

Crowley lowered his head. “Love you, angel,” he whispered. “It’s just so much. I mean, I thought I lost you, last night, and now - ” He gestured to the room - the empty wine glasses on the table, Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, his shirt on the floor.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I know.” He chuckled, softly. “I believe this is what the kids refer to as ‘making it,’ hm?”

Crowley shook his head. “Aziraphale, people have been saying that since the bloody dawn of time.”

Aziraphale smirked. “Therein lies the joke, darling. I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but we are both very, very old.”

Crowley had a look on his face that clearly communicated that if Aziraphale were to call him ‘darling’ one more time, he would spontaneously combust.

“Of course, you’re older than me,” he said, his voice growing distant.

Aziraphale tilted his head. “And why is that?”

Crowley met his eyes, and they had started to grow milky at the edges. “I’ve been dead for ten years now,” he said.

Aziraphale stared straight ahead at him. “What do you mean? You’re right here, you silly old serpent. A-Aren’t you?”

A discordant key sounded in his head, and Crowley’s hair began to disintegrate. “No,” he said, quite properly. “I’m dead, angel. You killed me.”

Aziraphale scrambled backward, his heart coming fast to life and clawing at his throat. “What? No! No, I swear, I just -”

The skin on Crowley’s face moved and revealed the dark muscle beneath, little tracks of blood falling and staining his bare skin. Plip-plop, plip-plop. On his arms, Aziraphale could see the flesh begin to scar as if being burned. He blinked, and Crowley’s tattoo was gone.

“You killed me,” he leered, his smile wide and stretched too far. “You said ‘we have enough time, Crowley.’” His voice raised in a mocking tone.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, I didn’t - '' He choked. His breath came in little gasps. The back of the wall, once lit with sunlight, was cold and damp behind Aziraphale’s shaking back. “I really didn’t know.”

“‘Just come to bed, dear,’” he continued, his voice a high falsetto as what used to be his hair withered and died and his skin turned ashen and cold. “‘We have the rest of our lives to figure it out.’ ‘There’s no need to worry ourselves now.’ ‘Just rest here, for now. We’ve done enough.’”

“Please -” Aziraphale raised his hands over his face, unable to face the grotesque frame of the thing which was once Crowley. “Please, please stop -”

And suddenly Crowley’s voice was low and high and screaming and laughing and it surrounded him, howling, crying, wailing, giggling, in every artifice of Aziraphale’s bones, ripping meat from defiled bones like a vulture. And even as he came through like demented radio static, his face melting from his bones, he did not stop his chant until it all blended into one. A cloud of miasma surrounded him, tendrils stretching the length of the room.

Aziraphale, head buried among his knees, bit his tongue so hard it bled and even then did not stop.

“Angel,” said a thousand screams and howls and skeletons of Crowley, his voice low and gravelly and high and panicked, “Did you know, he cried for you the whole way to the fire? Even when you came, he didn’t stop. Even when he was just a pile of clothes, there was still an echo. Would you like me to tell you why he was screaming?”

The angel was shaking so hard he couldn’t talk, blood running down his chin, splattering on his clothes. He imagined his body being split apart, into bones, viscera, atoms. Everything was spinning and there was blood on his clothes. Everything was spinning and there was blood on his clothes. Everything was spinning and there was blood on his clothes.

“He loved you so much, he did.” Crowley kicked him in the stomach with his beautiful shoes. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale didn’t feel it, his eyes opening and closing over and over and over without his permission. “That night was the best he’d had in a long time. He was so sure it would finally, finally be okay. Six thousand years, he waited. And do you know what happened?”

Aziraphale let out a tiny, pitiful sound, and curled in on himself against the inky black terror of the room. The blood was bright and smelled of heat and holiness. He must’ve been dead - he couldn’t be alive, he was dead and nothing remained, not a single thing. ‘There was no life,’ the vultures cried, as they split skin from skin from skin from bone.

No life,
No life,
No life no life no life at all.

“You killed him!” The ghost of Crowley gleefully sang. He held in his hands the bird from the dogwood tree. It flew right through his grasp.“You put him in the grave, ‘cause he trusted you! Doesn’t that make you feel just - ?”

His voice cut off as quickly as it had come, and Aziraphale sat there and shook still.
“Aziraphale?” Through the haze, a voice called.

The angel, disconnected from everything, tried to open his eyes.

“Are you alright?” The voice asked. It was a deeper voice, vaguely familiar. Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to recognize it.

He made a noise - he couldn’t tell you what it was. Maybe he screamed, maybe he just sat there and whimpered into his hands.

“Well, well,” the voice reached out a cold hand, and he flinched away. “I knew those demons weren’t to be trusted. This is what happens, you see. Minor business error.”

Aziraphale looked up. “...Gabriel?” The world beyond his eyes was dirty and bloody and misty with sweat and tears, a great gray streak bending down to him.

The sharper angel nodded, offering Aziraphale a hand. He was too weary to find it strange, too scared and out-of-place to find it any more than a hand.

“We’re terribly sorry, Aziraphale,” he said, putting a towel around his shoulders. “This was an oversight on our part.”

Aziraphale, still shaking, felt very, very small, but started to wipe the gore off his face nonetheless. “Wha- I - sorry?” He managed, his voice dry as leaves at the first lick of cold.

Gabriel pursed his lips. “Hell is still angry at you, you understand. They’re uncivilized creatures, obviously, and would do anything to get the revenge they think they deserve. So they attacked you, see, brought that thing, ” here, he wrinkled his nose quite distinctly, “into your psyche.”

“You - stopped it?” Aziraphale managed, still feeling quite ill.

He nodded. “Heaven takes care of our employees, ” he wrinkled his nose again, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, “past or present.”

“Oh,” mumbled Aziraphale. There was something not quite right with Gabriel’s shockingly violet eyes, but he was looking through clouded glass.

“Now,” said Gabriel, “As this is a business trip, so to speak, I’m going to give you my card.” Into Aziraphale’s trembling hands, he placed a thin paper card.

And there was something Aziraphale should be remembering, but he just - he just couldn’t. He had a suspicion that Gabriel had done something bad - something unforgivable, even - to him, but why? Gabriel was respectable. He was a dutiful angel. He wouldn’t do anything like that, especially to someone as inconsequential as himself.

“There we are. You’re all set,” Gabriel said, quite primly ignoring the fact that the angel nearly hyperventilating next to him was not, in fact, all set.

Aziraphale could only nod - that was all. Gabriel looked him up and down.

“Come with me,” he said. “Just for a minute. I’ll fix you up, get you on your feet, okay?” He held out his hand. “Call it a…business investment.”

If Aziraphale were looking any closer at Gabriel, he would’ve seen the grimace on his face as he tried very hard to appear kind. It wasn’t very convincing.

But he didn’t, so the tired angel reached out and shook Gabriel’s hand.

- 

When Flora, who had also fallen asleep, would wake up, Aziraphale would be gone. There would be no trace of the angel anywhere.

Time would hardly spare a glance, moving along in her eternal cycle. The world would move on.

Only Aziraphale would remain.

Chapter Text

Oh, how Crowley hated the cold. It permeated his bones, gnawed at the snake in him, and left him bare. As he watched the gondolas on the river, it was undeniable that he wanted nothing more than to drink himself to sleep in a crappy motel somewhere to the south, maybe near Lido. A beach would be nice, even if he got sand in his hair.

But more than all that, he wanted to forget. Venice sang of bustling joy and excitement, and every shop at every corner would’ve made Aziraphale’s eyes spark as only a quaint little secondhand store or bakery could. It ached, and there was nothing more than that to say.

The wind whipped cold around him to the stone lattice high above. Even the cobblestones seemed to swim and lap like the river. The entire city seemed to swim, as Crowley’s weary eyes strained to see. He had picked up an old wallet from an antique shop three days ago, and there were twenty dollars left. He had stopped making schedules for his trips the second he saw Venice, draped in iridescent puddles like mirrors. He was so tired.

He didn’t even know where to go. He doubted the letter would follow him, anyway. Maybe it would, God hardly cared. He needed to go - it was in his bones.

So, of course, he found himself still standing there on the bank of the river a half-hour later. There was a street piano a few feet away, and a little boy was swinging his feet against the board behind the pedals, the rainbow blanket on the bench fluttering in the wind.
Crowley sighed, and shoved his hands in his pockets, kicking stones on the cobblestone, wracking his brain for options. He had gone through every tourist brochure he could find on the street, but he and Aziraphale had been in Venice so briefly that he couldn’t think of anything. Maybe it didn’t matter where they were - maybe God didn’t care. They’d been everywhere, and it had been all over them.

He could, he supposed, go to the Gallerie dell'Accademia - they had seen the Vitruvian Man there, back in 1852. Aziraphale had marveled at it for ever so long, while Crowley had slouched a few feet away, looking as mysterious as possible as to strike a little fear in the hearts of the guards.

A decade later, he’d asked for the one thing Aziraphale couldn’t give - a suicide pill, he’d said. Crowley had slept for a century and missed him like the world. If only he’d known.

So he could go there, he supposed, as he played with a strand of runaway hair and watched the wind whip up little flurries in the water. Or, he could get blackout drunk in the nearest motel, and trudge there hungover and miserable in the morning.

He didn’t often think of Future Crowley, especially with Aziraphale so fresh and painful in his mind. He just walked and walked like a puppet with cut strings. It wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. Someone just decided to take away the color. It was fine. He didn’t care. How ever could he?

The answer flew through the dusky Venice sky and trickled through his hands like a prayer. The sky above was splashed with a gray-tinted orange, and the light seemed to drip down the buildings from the clouds.

Crowley walked among it, weaving through the sparse walking paths until his legs ached. Mist formed as the sun slowly set, and he supposed it would’ve been beautiful, ten years earlier.

He stopped at the side of an old bakery and looked up.

“Some city this is,” he grumbled. “Why does it have to be water?” He shivered, sitting down on the stoop to watch the sunset, letting his mind go hazy and calm.

And just as quickly, he was thrown back to reality, shaking his head and blinking. It couldn’t be, it really couldn’t be, but -

Just a flash of blond, really, that was all it was, a hint of a three-piece suit, but -

Crowley shot up, and sprang out into the street, into the crowd, into the loud whirl of color on the cramped path. The road smelled like fresh dirt and a thousand conversations clamored to life all at once with the river. His heart roared to life, he felt his hands pulsing with it as surely as his coat blew in the wind. Surely, surely it had to be, surely She wasn’t this cruel -

“Aziraphale!” It might’ve been a tiny little whisper, but he hardly cared. If he woke up in the morning as simple atoms in the grand expanse of time, he was so close now, at least he would -

The Aziraphale-like figure disappeared in the crowd, and all the sound in the world dimmed to a hum.

That’s right, Crowley remembered. It’s just you, now. He mourned the broken parts of his liver, torn out by the most beautiful, terrible eagle he had ever seen.

And all he could do was keep walking. After all, even if he had turned around, he wouldn’t have seen Aziraphale anyway.

He took a gondola to the nearest bar, grateful when he stumbled out onto the footpath. The twilight glittered above him, his head swimming with times long ago. Shaking the bright lights away, he looked up at the bar.

The sign, for some reason, was in Russian and flashed in black and white. Crowley sighed.

“Not the most intriguing establishment, eh?” He posed the question to a cat licking her paws on a fence post. She looked up at him with her bright yellow eyes and said not a word. Crowley realized how odd it was, then, to look into eyes so similar, even if they might not understand sarcasm. He then shook it off, tugged his coat onto his shoulders, and stepped inside.

If there was one word Crowley could think of to describe the dimly lit bar, it would’ve been strange. A sign on the left wall, which he noticed when he looked for a coat hook, read “20% off for -” and was followed by several bold words in at least three different archaic languages.

The patrons were all dressed darkly, most scowling into their cups, as if they’d rather be in many other places, most probably gone. It smelled of smoke, and the majority of the noise came from the oldies radio playing from somewhere in the rafters.

Crowley immediately felt at home.

Slinking in with a saunter like he owned the place, he approached the woman at the bar, dodging a stray glass, which contained a mystery liquid he decided he would be avoiding, in the process.

She finished speaking to an old woman to her right and turned to him. Her hair floated around in white wisps, and there was something deep in her face. She was wrapped in crimson and regarded him with very old eyes indeed. Behind her hung a charm - a small gray planet.

“You’re here to order, aren’t you?” When she spoke, it was in a thick European accent, deep and powerful.

Crowley, suddenly not as confident, shivered and nodded.

She sighed and began to fill a mug from the tap. “We don’t often get many of your kind here,” she said. “Lucky for you, that doesn’t matter.”

“Demons don’t tend to like the water,” Crowley said.

The bird-like woman turned back to him, a small smile on her lips. “Clever,” she said. “Here’s your drink.”

What she handed him was thick and honeyed and sweet, and he could hardly place it. He swallowed, and asked, rather tentatively, “That cat out front - is she yours?”

The woman shook her head. “No, she’s here on a business trip. Showed up two days ago from Illinois.”

Crowley wasn’t awake enough to think too deeply about that, so he nodded and put it off until later. The woman saw and acknowledged this, and gazed at him somewhat sorrowfully.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “And, by the way, if you meet an old man in the back who asks for a friendly game of chess, say no. We don’t need another god mad at us.”

“Huh. Got it.”

She nodded one more time and left him alone for the rest of the night.

By the time Crowley checked into a motel, it was almost morning. His hands hung heavy like bricks, his mind a drunk swim of blurred memories. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to sleep on the sidewalk, he mused, pushing open the door to a mid-grade motel. The cold would be good for him, after everything.

He slurred something to the clerk and somehow made it to his room. His head hurt like anything, like everything. The rest of the evening had been a blur, but he distinctly remembered the cat watching him when he left.

He collapsed on the bed, with its plain white bedspread in the plain white room. The TV was black, the shelf was brown, and the bathroom tiling was green. It smelled like fresh laundry.

“R-really missed this,” he managed. “N’ver…‘s like my flat, eh?”

His tongue was bleeding.

He curled in on himself.

“‘S real adult of me, right? “M fuckin - I’m -” He sighed, and rolled over. “Dunno whatta do.” He looked over at the bottle of red he didn’t know he was holding. “D’you know ‘bout anything? Betcha don’t. Yer just…”

He stopped, somehow realizing he was talking to a bottle of wine. The demon sighed. “So stupid, just wish it wasn’t so rainy. Today. I mean, today. Dunno if it’s like this every day. Don’t wanna know.”

“I wish he was here. I never stop.” He laughed, though it was dimmed against the peaceful fall of drop after drop. It was beautiful, joyful, a rebirth, even - but Crowley wouldn’t see it.

“Ten fuckin’ years,” he sighed, sobering up some despite himself. “And I realized - I did, a week after, when I really knew he wasn’t coming back - I’d never get to hold him ever again.”

He chuckled, darkly, into the bedspread, falling over into the little bits of warmth he could search for within the fibers of polyester. “I mean, it was one time, but…”

He sniffed. Bit his lip.

“I thought we’d have more, that’s all. And suddenly, after everything, there was nothing left to be done.”

He gazed up at the light, filtering through the window panes, iridescent on the ceiling. It twinkled there, multicolored and finite. He thought of the Ark, of the rainbow, of the unicorns, of the inevitability of such a life.

“Hey, that was it. I was lucky to have so much, eh?” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s give the Serpent a playmate. That’ll be a - a fun experiment.”

He blinked rapidly into the bedspread. “All I did was get a little nicer. Much good that did for me.” He was very much aware that he was talking to a pillowcase, but he was just drunk enough not to care.

“I mean, if I were a proper demon -” He chuckled, a choked sound, and breathed in the laundry detergent. “I wouldn’t feel anything at all.” His voice broke, only softly, like mist in the morning. “Would be nice.”

“Wish there was someone to tell me what to do,” he said. “To write a grocery list, to do my laundry, or some shit like that. You can’t do that, can you, Mum?” He turned over and stared up at the ceiling, touched his forehead. “Nah, you’re just up there doing your…space stuff. Don’t have time for any of that.”

“How much longer do you want me for, anyway?” He scoffed. “You don’t care. But I keep holding onto the…the fantasy of you coming down and telling me when it’s over. Like you’re still holding onto me for something you need. And when it’s done, you’ll tell me to rest. Don’t have much else, y’know. ‘S just me and…me.”

“Dunno how I’ve lasted this long, anyway. Even after all this time, I still have no fucking idea how I’m supposed to live out all of this alone. I mean, I can’t do it, but there’s little else other to do.”

Crowley looped his tie around his finger and felt his eyelids weigh with sleep and sorrow. “I keep telling myself that I’ll see him if I just keep going. Like he’s…asleep, or something. Like he’ll come back if I’m good enough, if I make him - make him proud.” His voice cracked, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I-I can’t help it, y’know?”

He swallowed the memories clogging in his throat. “And you knew! That’s one of the worst things about it, y’know. You knew this was everything, and you still - ”

He choked on the words, biting on the recollection, and went silent, digging his palms into his eyes as his breath continued its frantic cycle of a forlorn decade.

“I fucking hate you,” he said. “I do, I really fucking do!” His body jerked without his say-so. “I just…I really wish - ”

In his mind's eye, he saw Her, pulling him in, holding him there, warm and safe in the cosmic tide. She whispered to him as he shook, told him She loved him more than anything. She loved all Her children, but She had been watching over him for such a very, very long time, and so She figured she’d do something about it.

She ran Her hands through Crowley’s hair and wiped his cheeks with Her soft thumbs, uncalloused by anything but eternity. She told him She was sorry, ever so sorry, but some things needed to happen and that didn’t mean he was anything less for it. She was very proud of him, and he still had a mother in Her, if he’d accept it, because he was good and kind. She had told him more things than that, but Crowley was too enveloped in Her sure embrace like a child that he had forgotten most of it.

“I wish you were here,” he whispered, biting his lip so hard it bled, eyes wet. “I wish - I wish he was here. I wish I’d never asked questions.” He took a drink from the bottle and dropped it on the ground. “Ngh, what do you care?”

“It’s not fair,” he resolved, a soft sound, almost a cry. “It’s not fair, I’m so -”

What, He bit back at himself, young? Stupid Crowley. Time ate itself at his table. He had picked the napkins and arranged the plates to the fancy of the clocks. He didn’t think it would eat, but it did. He told it to stop, but it didn’t.

Time is a glutton, and he was the voyeur.

“Still not fair,” he said, again, his heart hardly in the words. “I’m fucking stuck here again.”

He shook his head and felt himself stand up and walk to the window. The pale dawn stretched over the canals, and boats were beginning to take flight from the docks and alleys all over the city. Venice would’ve been lovely if Crowley had known what he wanted. Venice would’ve been lovely if Aziraphale had been there.

But he wasn’t, so Crowley left the window, and fell asleep in a cold bed.

At the moment of his death, everything was calm. One moment, there he was, kneeling before a dirty porcelain bathtub, the next, he was nowhere.

There was a ringing in his ears. Gasping, spitting water across the endless floor of nothing, he fell onto his side. At the same time, there was no action - just nothing and no one, forever and never at all.

Crowley coughed and coughed and shook and ran his fingers over his face. All he heard was the evaporation of water and the crying of a bird in a far-off memory.

Lying in a pool of holy water, he curled in on himself and covered his face with his hands. He was, and he wasn’t at all, and he shook with all of it. He felt everything and nothing at all - all wonderful and brilliant and gray and nihilistic. He was all of it and he was null. He was a void of silence and every word ever spoken. This was the fabric of his divine being, every chord of the eternal song, and it overwhelmed him to the point where any reaction whatsoever could never be known but by him alone. He was the bird and the cage and the bright blue sky, and he was sobbing into his hands on the cutting-room floor of creation.

There was a slight sound, like the wave of a dress in the spring, and a hand touched the side of his face, ever so tenderly. He flinched at the touch, and the hand retracted ever so slightly. It was warm, warm like a star in collapse, warm like a hearth at night. In his addled mind, he wanted nothing but it back, and it ran softly through his hair, brushing it just the way he liked it.

Almost on instinct, he turned over, and warm hands gently lifted him until his shaking body lay soft and dry. He buried his face in soft cloth and clung to whatever had saved him, the same hands rubbing his back and wiping the wetness and hurt from his face until he fell out of consciousness again.

When he woke up, he was no longer nothing or everything. He was lying in the lap of someone he had not seen in a very long time, and there was a thick blue blanket around his shoulders. He was warm and safe, and for a moment, everything was okay.

“Good morning,” God whispered, Her voice sweet and soft.

Crowley blinked twice, shaking himself mentally. Her hand was on his shoulder, grounding him.

He was lying - and there was -

He jerked up and flew a few feet away in an instant, chasing sleep from his mind with a pitchfork. His breath came fast and gritty as if there was water still burning in them, and in front of him was -

She was there, dressed in a soft pantsuit and slippers. Her hair was as pale as he remembered, and Her eyes crinkled at the edges ever so softly. He found himself trying to soak up the details as fast as he could because this was -

“Mother?” His heart was beating in his chest and he felt it like an old wound, a world within.

“Hello, Crowley,” She smiled. “That’s far too formal, don’t you think?”

“Why the hell are you here?” He demanded, his voice weak in Her glow. He was tired, so tired, so confused. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

She sighed, Her eyes dropping to the ground. “Something happened, Crowley,” She murmured. “Something I never thought would ever happen.”

He froze, still blurred between the waking and the sweet silence of sleep. “Eh? Whattaya mean, something happened?”

She sighed and shook Her head. The stars around it twinkled, flickered, and resumed their eternal shine. “I’m sure you know of the Plan,” She said, fixing him softly in Her gaze.

“The Ineffable one?” Crowley asked. His mouth was a desert of long-buried bones, the sky above him still wide and unfaltering. “Quite something, eh?”

She walked over and sat next to him, cross-legged on the floor. Crowley was rather taken aback - it was such an informal gesture for God Herself. But, no matter how long he fought against the concept, Her hands were soft, Her slippers were pale blue, and Her eyes were kind.

“It went wrong, Crowley,” She murmured, swaying ever so imperceptibly from side to side. “For the first time since the dawn of creation, something happened that I hadn’t planned for.”

A sharp slice of dread pierced through Crowley, punctured his lungs, and ran straight through his heart. “Is that why I’m dead?” It was a stone-cold fact, as he sat there, he hadn’t even thought about it yet. But, oh, it was true, wasn’t it?

She nodded, Her eyes growing ever so sad. “Crowley, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t your fault. You were supposed to figure out the prophecy, but you didn’t have enough time. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley stayed still. If he didn’t have to move for another thousand years, if he could have dissolved into salt and sand, he wouldn’t have cared. He had failed. He had loved, and like all the stories that had come and gone in his very, very long life, he had failed. Everything always ended.

God put Her arm around him. “I’m so sorry,” She said again. “The Plan said you would, but - ”

“Fuck the Plan,” Crowley spit, voice hoarse, barely able to speak. “You abandoned me! I loved you, and you abandoned me, and now you’re back, and telling me that - that I fucking died because you made a mistake?”

She didn’t reach for him again. A moment passed in silence.

“Crowley, listen to me,” She said. “I want you to know this.”

“I couldn’t give a shit about anything you have to -”

“Crowley, I made you,” She said. “I carved you from starlight with my own two hands. I saw you take your first steps and pronounced you Good. I knew everything that was going to happen, and I still loved you, like I loved every angel I made.”

He shook his head. “You can’t say that, that’s not -”

“It’s been a long time since you made the stars,” She responded, looking up. “Could you not love them, even after all this time? I’m still your mother, whatever that may be. No matter what happens, I don’t blame you, or hate you, or love you any less. What happened, I’m so sorry. The Plan is hardly fair, and some things have to happen. That doesn’t mean I don’t regret them, but even I have rules.”

Crowley swallowed, shook his head. God did not reach out to him, but he was still warm.

“I’m so proud of you, Crowley,” She said, smiling softly. “You’ve come so far, and you’re still so good. I know you don’t believe me, and I know you don’t forgive me, but I’m so proud of you.”

Crowley didn’t respond for a while.

“Mum -” His voice broke. He took a breath. She just waited, patient like a still river.

“So, that’s it, eh?” He laughed, none of it even daring to reach his eyes. “I’m dead? Gone?”

She drew him closer, and he fell against Her like a stone, too weak to protest, not sure if he would. The sky raged in its silence overhead, only Her between him and a white, senseless world.

She folded Her hands over his back and held him like a child. “Oh, Crowley,” She murmured. “It’s not over yet, please don’t be afraid.”

“‘M never afraid,” he mumbled. “What’s the worst you could do? Make me Fall a second time? Un-fucking-likely.” He laughed again. It was a thin sound, self-pitying.

Her lips pursed, but She did not look disappointed. She just looked a little sad, Crowley thought.

“This wasn’t meant to happen,” She said. “Therefore, it has to be made right, you see? Your death was never meant to happen, so I’m sending you back.”

Crowley blinked twice, snakelike eyes opening in awe. “What? You’re what?”

God nodded. “You deserve a second chance, kiddo.” She reached over and ruffled his hair. Crowley wondered if this was what it was like when he was first born. He wondered if She had loved him so proudly, then.

“What - what about Aziraphale?” he asked, mourning doves calling warnings in his head. “Is he okay? Is he - ”

God shook Her head. Crowley’s heart stopped beating completely.

“I don’t know,” She said. “As I said, this wasn’t supposed to happen. And I could only be here.”

“Why didn’t you choose him?” Crowley tried to yell, he really did, but it came out small and trembling. “He’s an angel! He’s yours, isn’t he?”

God lowered Her head. “I believe in Aziraphale,” She said. “He’s far better than any of the others - we both know that. I believe in you, too, but I wanted to apologize.”

“What, so you left him because you felt guilty?”

“I didn’t leave him, Crowley.” She said, “He’s a good, strong angel, and he has you. He’ll be alright.”

(Crowley believed Her for about an hour longer, when he checked and couldn’t find him anywhere for the second time in two days. He thought it was fine, at first, and surely She wouldn’t lie to him. That was the first day. Later, he learned that there were some things even She couldn’t control.)

“Then what about everything else? Sodom and Gomorrah? The ten plagues? Noah’s arc? What about all those people?” He hadn’t yet realized what he was saying, his hands gone all numb. “Millions died because of your fucking plan - what about Cain and Abel? What about Issac, or Jesus, or any of those fucking kids? You can’t kill kids! It’s not fair!”

Love never fails, He thought, dryly. Unless you draw the short end of the Great Plan stick.

God hesitated, really, truly hesitated. “I cannot clean the blood off my hands,” She said. Her voice was darker, now, regretful. “My job is to see that the Great Plan is enacted, but I will not claim to be guiltless. This is what I have to do, and I must not fail. If everyone lived, nothing would happen. If you didn’t fall, the prevention of the apocalypse wouldn’t have happened, much less anything with Aziraphale. Sacrifice is required, always - call it balance, call it sating the maw of the universe. But as long as those cogs turn, innocent people die, and I can do nothing to stop it.”

She bit Her lip. “Truth to be told, I wish the angels did more about it. They really tend to interpret our roles in the Plan as imitations of each other. The God and the shadow. The truth is so complicated, Crowley.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, his voice rough with anger and pain. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“If I were to help, something would go wrong,” She said. “More people die, or don’t, and something bad happens because they do so. It’s not fair. It’s never fair, I know. Make no mistake - I am not as bitter as I used to be - I have just become too reserved to do anything. But if I move even a single piece, thousands of events unravel. It’s for the better, but it’s not, but it has to be."

She sighed, and with it, the world shook;

“That is the hardest thing - to keep the balance, to resist saving everyone. There is nothing I can do without a price. Everything has to be. ”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He felt like a child, asking big and terrifying questions of his mother. “Why couldn’t you just write a Great Plan that wasn’t so intertwined? Where the right people lived, and the wrong died?”

“There is none,” She replied. “There is love from grief and grief from love. One cannot exist without the other. Death is not kind, but Death is good. One day, you’ll see.”

(Crowley did not see. Crowley would scream later, for a long time, remembering this conversation. He would sob and howl and put his hand through a window and curl around the wound like he was protecting a child, cold on the floor of a lonely star. Crowley would not see.)

“I love you, Crowley,” She said. “I always will. Go, now, and promise me something.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked. A part of him didn’t want to promise Her jackshit, but he was still leaning against Her like a child.

“Promise me you won’t give up,” She said. “Even in the face of eternity, there are always second chances.”

“Fine,” Crowley said. “Got it, Mum.”

She smiled down at him and pressed Her fingers into his forehead, and he was gone.

He floated to consciousness for a second, feeling his body rising.

At least, until it was unceremoniously knocked down again.

The dream was short and dark.

In his mind, a voice spoke, soft and clear.

“I need your help,” it said. It was strained, but so familiar, achingly so, but in his delirious dream state, he couldn’t -

“I’m afraid I -” The voice coughed. It sounded weak and wet. “ - need someone - help me.”

It made a small sound, and it was gone.

And then, another voice. “Not a fucking chance, sunshine,” it said. And Crowley knew that voice, so much he nearly woke himself with shock and disgust.

“Gabriel!” He shouted to the blackness.

Nothing responded.

The darkness leered on.

When he awoke, the world was different. It wasn’t a terribly big chance, he noticed, as he rubbed his eyes and blinked in the dim sunlight. The white sheets were still the same, and the green-tiled bathroom. Outside, the streets and canals smelled like salt and there was bread baking through the window of a shop outside the hotel.

He hadn’t expected to dream of Her, especially of a memory ten years past, but he was awake, and something was different. Shaking his head, he miracled a pair of slippers and opened the mini-fridge. There was nothing different there, except for the lingering smell of citrus. In the same vein, there was nothing in the shower, behind the TV, or anywhere else Crowley could think of, except -

On the table, there was a letter, and Crowley remembered.

Crowley flew across the room and grasped it so hard it tore at the edges. In his scramble to get it open, he almost ripped it.
The letter was short.

I need your help, Crowley, it said. “Just this once.”

“There are always second chances. Take the other escalator.”

He sank onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve really lost it now, eh? I’ve really bloody lost it. I can’t - ” He laughed, strained and afraid. “I can’t do this! Whatever you want me to, I…can’t. I-I won’t.”

“Need someone - help me,” echoed through the small room, there and not, real and a wisp in Crowley’s mind. It didn’t matter. He was hardly good enough to help, not anymore.

He ripped up the letter and went back to bed, covering his face from the morning.

Aziraphale was gazing out the window, illuminated by the sweet dusk, and Crowley was soaking in the view of him - the softness of his skin, the curve of his shoulder, the sweep of his eyelashes. There was one on his cheek. Crowley reached out and touched, because he could do that now, and, starlight in his voice, told Aziraphale to make a wish. The angel laughed, warm and bubbling beneath the sheets.

“Why would I?” He murmured, a hand drawing circles on Crowley's side. “I already have everything I want.”

Crowley scoffed, gazing into the shadows. “You could wish some goodness into me, angel. According to you, I’m severely lacking.” It’s a falsehood - he knows it is - Aziraphale whispered all of it into the cracks and angles of his body. It’s a joke - they both know it is, tinged with humor.

Aziraphale smirked, and caught him fast in his embrace, knocking him softly down, hands clasping sure around his back. He pops up quickly, scrunching his face into a teasing little shrug. “You know,” he said, ghosting a chaste kiss on Crowley’s lips, tasting of honeysuckle and wild grass and old books and morning, “I’m convinced you’re my guardian demon. If that doesn’t prove your goodness, I don’t know what does.”

He paused and looked down at Crowley’s face, who knew he looked like he was seeing the dawn for the first time. “And if She doesn’t accept that, then…” he trails off, “I’ve got enough love to spare, dear heart.” He pressed his face into Crowley’s neck, and he felt his smile imprint there, never to be erased.

Crowley hummed, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You really think so?” He doesn’t need to ask, he knows he doesn’t but he couldn’t resist.

“That you’re a good person? Yes.” His voice is full of humor, but something worried flickers in his eyes. “Would it make you feel better if I didn’t?”

Crowley shook his head. “Say whatever you like, I - ”

“You’re a good person.” Aziraphale fixed him in his unwavering gaze, tracing a finger over the lines in his palm.

"Angel -"

“You’re a good person.” He reached up and brought Crowley’s face closer, cupping it with his hands.

“I can’t get a word in, can -”

“You’re a good person.”

Crowley finally broke, and his laugh ran full and melodic about the room. “Okay, okay! I get it, alright!”

“Good.” Aziraphale kissed his forehead. “Whenever you need it, I’ll be here, my dear.”

“Seems like you’re my guardian angel now, huh?” Crowley grinned.

“Always tried to be,” the angel whispered.

“You damn well succeeded, love,” he whispered back.

Crowley woke up for the second time a half-hour later, hair askew and cheeks wet, feeling significantly worse than he had the first time.

He sighed and scrambled around on the nightstand for a tissue. “Such a good person,” he grumbled, voice cracking at the words. “So very good indeed, th - ”

He froze. Sitting on the table, just where it had been before its untimely demise, was the letter.
Upon inspecting it, there wasn’t a scratch to be seen - not a single tear. There wasn’t any more message than there was before - just those lines, almost taunting - “I need your help. Take the other escalator.”

He sighed, again, again, again. He really couldn’t escape, couldn’t stay and mourn in his silence. So left, with the letter in his hand, and he didn’t even tell Her he was going.

She already knew, after all.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, only that he had just regained clarity, and he was very, very cold. Breathing through his nose, his addled mind ran through the list.

One: Crowley is dead. Very, very important. Must not forget.

Two: Gabriel is not to be trusted. No matter what he says, he only means to deceive.

Three: You will survive this.

Aziraphale took another breath. His arms hurt, hurt so bad. He looked down, wishing the room had any lights at all. No - the room only had lights when Gabriel needed them.

There were scratches up his arms, there, like some great beast had attacked them. They were deep, and he was very cold. His head swam. His breath hurt. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the decaying face of God. He wasn’t sure it was God, but it certainly wasn’t Crowley. But it couldn’t be God, could it? She hadn’t done anything. No, this was -

He hurt all over. He ran through his list again. The room was dark, and he was so cold. The countdown kept ticking in his mind. On average, Gabriel left him an hour or two. Never more, and never long enough to get much sleep. There was blood in his hair.

He closed his eyes and pictured everything Gabriel hadn’t touched yet. The Bastille, the Arc, the Crucifixion. The church, the Ritz, the very last night. That Crowley, he knew, was real. That Crowley was his - he wouldn’t decay, wouldn’t leer at him with a mouth full of dark blood, wouldn’t tell him such terrible things.

That Crowley couldn’t - wouldn’t - hurt him.

That Crowley was dead.

Four: Don’t let the decay touch you.

He made that mistake last time. Now, he grimaced as he tried to move his arm. Was it broken? Had the decay broken it, too? He couldn’t tell. There wasn’t anything he could do. It wasn’t like Gabriel was kind enough to allow him the decency of bandages. At least it healed quickly.

Five: Keep breathing. Sleep, but not for long.

Six: None of this matters once Gabriel comes back.

How long had it been? Aziraphale couldn’t recall. Apart from the time he spent in reality, Gabriel’s tricks could last hours or minutes, for all he knew. He couldn’t see anything in the room. There were no windows, no doors. But he knew it was Heaven - the faint smell of antiseptic made its way to him every so often. At least he knew where he was.

But oh, he was ever so cold. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his knees. Already, the cuts were starting to fade. They weren’t real, so they never stayed for long. And Aziraphale didn’t make as many mistakes, even under Gabriel’s forced amnesia. Even if he forgot that Crowley was dead, even if he forgot that Gabriel wanted him dead, he wasn’t stupid.

Gabriel always came back. He lured him into a false sense of forgetful security, so fleeting and beautiful, up until it wasn’t. And then Crowley would start to decay. He’d spit blood and yell at Aziraphale, over and over, tell him it was his fault, that he was unworthy and cruel and disgusting. He’d said many things, told Aziraphale that he had hurt him beyond repair, that She was disappointed in him, that he was a terrible friend and the demon had only been nice to him out of pity until Aziraphale took advantage of his kindness.

But Gabriel, of course, had overlooked one thing. Aziraphale had asked those things of Crowley dozens of times over, in between tears and laughter, dread and fretfulness. When it was all over, Aziraphale could remember that none of it was real, and there was nothing Gabriel could do about that.

That didn’t help much en-scene, but in the downtimes, he survived. He went over his list, walked around listening at the walls, and survived. He compartmentalized and went on. Because, of course, none of it was real, at the end of the day. He’d go on. Rule three.

He was so cold.

The truth was, he could put on a brave front all he wanted, but surviving was hard. He hurt, he hurt, he hurt. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Gabriel’s leering face. If he stopped for a minute, he heard Crowley again - You killed me, you killed me, you killed me. He didn’t have time to stop. He was perpetually breaking down. His breath came in little gasps. His arms hurt. He was so cold.

He wondered, when he could, why Gabriel hadn’t come with the hellfire yet.

Maybe we deceived him, He’d think, over and over, and cling to it, and then he’d realize.

Maybe he intends to torture me forever.

Rule Three.

But he couldn’t keep this up forever. Sometimes he felt the walls getting smaller. No matter how much stamina he had, he’d eventually give up. He didn’t even know what Gabriel wanted. Did that mean there was a way out at all? He didn’t know. He didn’t have enough energy to ask. He’d yelled, screamed it as loud as he could - at the Crowley, at the real Crowley, even at the walls, cycles ago, when he was angry.

He had loved him, he had, he had! It wasn’t fair that he had to go on like this, all alone! He deserved better - hadn’t Crowley said that himself? And then what had he done? Gone off and died, and left Aziraphale with endless years of apathy and grief. It wasn’t fair. He…he deserved…

Now, he was just cold. He couldn’t spare anger. He had to stay alive. If he gave up, he was as good as dead. Maybe next cycle, he’d think of a plan. A good one. One that would really get him out.

Yes, he thought. Everything will be okay.

That was it, survival - lying to himself. He was caught in an in-between state - in between cycles, in between states of truth.

Never not hurt, never not cold. Sometimes, he could swear he saw eyes in the walls, though that was probably just whatever Gabriel did to him. They looked so real, but he could never reach high enough to touch them. He wondered if Gabriel was watching him try. He wondered if he was laughing. If he was wrinkling his nose when Aziraphale was once again tricked into believing in Crowley. If he laughed low in his throat when the false demon started to fall apart.

Aziraphale, who was curled up on the floor, shut his eyes tight and shivered. His head raced with billions of needle-sharp thoughts, and none at all. Maybe if he did something right, Gabriel would let him go. Maybe he could -

Rule Two. There was no escaping that way, he knew that. He didn’t know what to do.

Oh, God, why have you forsaken me? He remembered the plea, remembered the cry for truth. He’d heard it thousands of times but never believed it. But now, curled in a heap in a dark room in Heaven, he wondered how he could be so close and yet so far. It was excruciating. Obviously, someone should have found him, it was heaven. He was an angel. An ex-employee, sure, but She still saw everything.

Oh, God…

Rule Seven: Don’t stay still for too long. Don’t wallow.

Legs aching, he got up. He got up and paced around the room. It was 15 by 20 feet. He had measured it. He couldn’t stop for anything - he had to keep going. So he walked. His feet were dirty, though the dirt was fading with the scars, and as he trudged he left unreal footprints in his stead. He wished there was more to see. He wished he wasn’t so tired.

Ten minutes passed. Then another ten. Then another. Time sludged on, and he felt every minute. His bruises cleared. He went over the checklist twice. He walked the length of the room three times. He went over the checklist again.

He fell asleep.

He didn’t dream.

He was cold.

He woke up.

It was still dark, but it was different. There was something in the air - a faint, clinical scent. He knew that scent, that harbinger. That could only mean one thing.

“Oh,” he sighed, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Hello, Gabriel.”

Gabriel flicked the lights on, blinding him. As he blinked in the light only accentuated by the bright white of the room, the senior angel smirked.

“Ready for another round?” He asked. “I want to see if it ends like last time. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Aziraphale did not respond.

“I need your help,” Gabriel imitated, his voice high and mocking. “Somebody help me, oh dear!”

Aziraphale did not respond.

Gabriel frowned. “Right. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

He was so tired. He gave up on keeping his eyes open.

“Oh, now we can’t have that, can we?” He heard Gabriel say. “No falling asleep on me now, Aziraphale. Course, I couldn’t give a shit, but we need you awake for this.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes harder, so he saw blotches where the lights were.

He heard Gabriel scoff. “Now, that’s just fucking pitiful.” He kicked Aziraphale in the stomach. It wasn’t a hard kick and didn’t deserve a reaction, but the angel winced anyway, opening his eyes.

Gabriel, blurry above him, smiled. He leaned down, and in his hand was a needle. Aziraphale knew what was inside, but found he couldn’t move.

He was so cold.

The needle went in, and the angel was unraveled.

And wasn’t it wonderful, the feeling? Forgetting, wasn’t it beautiful? There was nothing else outside his body. He was free, and he was nothing.

Then he became warm. But there was something he needed to remember - what was it? As it appeared, only a strange tingling sensation in the back of his mind. It whispered something soundless, and the whispering lulled Aziraphale into delirium, and then he saw sleep - a chariot pulled by horses stronger than the sun.

When he awoke, there was a loneliness that lingered there. He was warm, and he lay softly, as if upon a bed of clouds, but there was that feeling, as if he had just dreamt such a terrible dream. He blinked and looked around.

He was alone in his bedroom. He wondered, for a second, why he was in his bedroom - it was hardly used - Aziraphale hardly slept. Then, he remembered, and smiled to himself. That’s right.

Running a hand through his curls, he slid off the side of the bed into his slippers. They were silky and soft. It wasn't a dream - the sensation was real. He could have this. They had vanquished the evil, and he had fallen asleep, and now he was up, and he could have this.

He slipped on a robe and looked about the room. Then, satisfied, he stepped out into the hallway. The loneliness was gone. All he was, all he knew he’d ever be - was warm.

The floorboards creaked as he walked down the hallway - how infrequently he used his flat! It was much more practical to be down among his books - that was all he’d ever want for. He had no shortage of food or money - it was silly to think he’d need a living space. But he had one anyway, for practical human purposes. For that, today, he was grateful. At last, it had come to use.

When he turned into the kitchen, he was met by a smell that made his stomach ache with hunger - pancakes, of all things. Aziraphale truly was a hedonist. It bloomed, it seemed, with the strips of sunlight lying across his wake. It hummed with the little particles of dust floating in the glow, buzzed with the birds just beginning to fade, the mourning dove on the telephone line.

And, at the center of it all, shining as if he still held the stars in his hands, was Crowley. His back was to Aziraphale, and he was humming something, the ties of his apron fluttering free with the sway of his body. On the table, he had stacked two boxes of pastries. He had gotten something Aziraphale loved, but he was also cooking.

The thought floored the angel, stuck him to the tiled floor like glue. They were free. The disaster had passed.

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, how the feeling was. It felt nothing like Heaven - if he could call that love. Even all he knew of love - Her’s - had been so different, a constant background song. This was a symphony, fully focused on them, in the sunlight of his kitchen. And wasn’t it beautiful? The constant motion of things, the constant grace of companionship. He knew he’d never get used to it. Somewhere, somehow, he got the feeling that he'd never had the chance.

“Hello, Crowley,” he spoke, unsticking himself from the off-white tiles and moving through shafts of shadow and dying sunlight like water. It struck Crowley’s as he turned around, setting his hair alight, blazing in his golden eyes - warmth, warmth, warmth. He wanted to reach forward, cup his face, and stare into his eyes until he drowned in them. Oh, he was beautiful.

Live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thine eyes indeed, he laughed to himself.

Crowley blinked, and Aziraphale could’ve sworn that the light still glowed orange-red through his eyelids. Then, he smiled and raised a hand holding a spatula, keeping one on the skillet's handle. “Afternoon, angel,” he said. “Sleep well?”

Rule One.

Rule One?

What…was Rule One, again? He didn’t have a Rule One.

“Best I’ve slept in centuries,” the angel responded, stepping closer in his slippered feet. “Mind you, dear boy, I haven’t slept in centuries, so it’s a low bar.”

The demon grinned back at him, and Aziraphale’s heart warmed. “I know. Still, hope it was nice. You deserved that, after what went down this afternoon.”

“Rest assured,” he winked, “it was lovely. ”

Crowley leaned over. “Good. You’ve made good time, too, the pancakes are almost ready.”

Aziraphale peered over his shoulder all basked in the saturated light, and smiled. Would’ve rested his head there, if he could, but he didn’t. He ought to tell him. “They look positively scrumptious, my dear.”

Crowley sighed. “I’ll take it,” he teased. “But ‘scrumptious?’ Really?”Aziraphale could hear the rumble of his voice resonate, feet the way he moved as he finessed his way to perfectly-flipped pancakes. He wondered what it would be like to move like that himself - to be, to understand, to exist within the demon. Then, he discarded the thought. They’d definitely explode. But oh, how he loved him.

He stuck out his lip, faking a pout. “Yes, scrumptious, Crowley. It’s not my fault you don’t appreciate a sophisticated vocabulary.”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley laughed, handing him a pancake. “I can be sophisticated. Just because I wasn’t all buddy-buddy with Oscar Wilde, doesn’t mean I’m not. I can prove it!”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, knowing full well of Crowley’s poetic capabilities. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure, hung out with Will all the time,” he smirked, leaning in close. “But since she pricked thee out for -”

Aziraphale snorted. “All right, all right. I get it. No need to delve into Shakespearean eroticisms this early in the morning.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Angel, it’s four o’clock.”

“Well, excuse me if I’m a little disorientated,” he responded, looking longingly at Crowley’s eyes, his lips, his hands. “I don’t have much experience sleeping, after all.”

“Aziraphale -” Crowley looked like he was going to say something, then pursed his lips. “I’m glad you tried it.”

The angel smiled, a finality, and they retired out to the couch. After the pancakes were praised and done, they sat there. Aziraphale tried very hard not to stare at the demon with a great deal of unrestrained wanting, with him splayed across the couch like an old homoerotic statue and all, and Crowley existed in the silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, and then stopped, having put the cart before the horse once again. A fantastic way to start off a love confession, all things considered.

“Yeah?” Crowley turned towards him, kicking his feet up, folding those slender hands over his chest. “What’s up, angel?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I…er. If I - If I asked you to forgive me, would you?”

Crowley blinked a few times and scoffed. “That’s new,” he said, his voice light, unburdened. “An angel asking a demon for forgiveness. What, pray tell, could I ever absolve you of?”

He had to tell him, one way or another.“If I were to be so terribly selfish, would you forgive me?” Outside, a dogwood tree brushed its branches through the window. They caught between them. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the tree found its way out the window again.

“What would you want that would be selfish, Aziraphale?” His eyes were bare and wide, bright like the hue of the dogwood tree, bright like nothing else in the great big world. Oh, how it ached, to worship such loveliness in such careful silence. Oh, how Aziraphale wanted to kiss those eyes, touch those hands, bestow worship upon that brow. Oh, how he wanted to make the old poets proud with his gentle rebellion.

“I don’t - I’m sorry, I…” He took a breath, shaky, and took another. “I shouldn’t be asking you for anything. It shouldn’t be this way. I’m sorry, Crowley.” He sniffed. He didn’t want to fail any poet worth their salt, but oh, he was so scared.

“Hey, no - ” Crowley reached out his hands, then retracted them, and settled on scooching closer. “Hey, hey, Aziraphale. Look at me.”

Aziraphale looked at him, and it was like looking at the moon. He wouldn’t dare to burn him, but oh, he was beautiful all the same.

“Angel, you deserve something good, after all of this. I’ll be damned if I tell you I don’t want to give it to you.” He smelled like fresh lemongrass and golden summer sun. The tilt of his body and the warmth of his hand held Aziraphale’s universe in place with meticulous strands. The world continued to spin on its axis.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I can’t stand to not reciprocate your kindness,” he said. “I really - I want to, so much, I’m just…afraid it’s too late, that’s all. That I’ve been too cruel, been too cautious. Thus, I’m asking you to forgive me. Forgive me for being such a coward in the first place, my dear.”

“Oi, none of that.” Crowley flicked his shoulder. “From here on out, you’re not allowed to feel guilty at all. You’ve had enough of that with those bastards up above - we both know that.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You can’t absolve me of all that so easily! I was terrible to you, I was! I-I told you we weren’t friends!”

“Aziraphale, I know you.” Crowley said. “I know. I wish it hadn’t gone that way either, believe me. But you were doing what you could, weren’t you? Doing all you could to keep me with you, to keep Heaven away from me. ‘S not an easy balance, huh? And I know - I mean, I know you care for me. You don’t need to convince me of that.

Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t want to agree, he wanted to fight more, make Crowley understand, but he was looking at him with an expression so pure and understanding that he couldn’t help it. He shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, still looking at him so beautifully. “You can tell me, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale took a breath and pictured the vast cosmos in his mind. Crowley had made those stars. “It’s nothing, really,” he said. “I just want to be near you. Would you forgive me for the sin?”

There was a pause, in which mountains could have grown and sprouted dogwood trees of their own, and he wouldn’t have noticed. Crowley bit his lip in the same place, brow crinkled in tandem. Aziraphale felt like he might cry.

“Angel - hold on.” Crowley laughed, once he was able to. “Why would I forgive you for that? Why would - Why would you think I wouldn’t want that?”

Aziraphale let out a breath he had been holding for a very, very long time. “I don’t - I don’t know, now. It seems silly, in retrospect.”

“It should,” was what Crowley said. “I’d love to stay with you, Aziraphale.”

And this - this was where Aziraphale would say it. This was where he did, but -

Crowley’s frame had begun to slip.

No, Some un-deceived part of his mind cried, No, no, please, just a moment more with him.

Aziraphale did not speak. The world dimmed, closed in on him, the buzzing in his head liminal and alone.

Crowley smiled at him, his lips seeming to melt, to fray. “Feeling alright, angel?” His voice buzzed, rang in his ears. White noise filled his head, minor keys, broken wind chimes, and a thousand dirty pebbles kicked across the floor as Crowley’s voice grated. Clocks burst, wires and cogs exploded from their faces, and boats broke their celestial anchors and floated peacefully into black holes. Horses ran with feet of iron, on towards the enduring end. Fingers screeched down a chalkboard, blindfolds were pulled over eyes, and old portraits shifted ever so slightly in the decaying dust.

He came to recognition, and stumbled back, falling off the couch onto the floor, twisting his ankle. He was not present in his body. He was spread-eagled on the ceiling, he was -

“Crowley?” He whispered, holding his hands out as if he could heal him. “M-my dear?” He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. He understood perfectly. He was not himself, but nothing existed outside of him. The lights flickered.

All of a sudden, the Crowley-figure jumped - full-on sprang from the couch like an animal, and landed in front of him, limbs elongated grossly, teeth large and dull. Over them, in the rafters, piano wire hung in demented patterns. “Hey, hey, hey, angel,” Crowley smiled, “wanna hear about the stars?”

Aziraphale yelped, and jumped away, hands shaking. His fear response had begun to kick in, and oh -

The figure raised itself to its full height, and this time (this time?) it was just around nine feet tall.

Aziraphale blinked. He didn’t have it in himself to scream. That was it. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t. It wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t. He wasn’t here at all.

The thing was a shadow now, eyes glowing, red hair tangled and wild. It let out a scream, every so often, and it felt like a cry. It made a cracking noise as it moved.

“Azzzzziraphale,” it asked, leaning towards him, “here’s the secret.”

CRACK.

CRACK.

It moved without bone, splintered without reason.

“Crowley! Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale felt himself shake and didn’t recognize it as a movement. He was speaking, speaking, speaking. “Crowley, please! Whatever it is, I -”

CRACK.

It leaned in closer, and Aziraphale could smell its breath. “It’sssss all you.” He giggled, and the glass broke, the windows crashing in. Blood spilled from his mouth, dark and smelling of iron. All over Aziraphale’s hands, dark, dark, dark. He wasn’t, he wasn’t. He buried his face in his legs and got blood all in his hair. This wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t.

“It’s your fault!” The thing laughed gleefully. Grating notes banged in off-key chords, all at once, spreading, spreading, loud, loud, overwhelming. “You never loved him! How could you? So terrible of you, Aziraphale! What a bad angel you are!” Plaster fell off the ceiling and fell around Aziraphale and he stared up at himself on the ceiling and said a thousand things and pleaded to a thousand gods and it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t.

The thing’s grotesque face frowned, mocking. “Yes, yes, such a bad, bad angel.” It let out another laugh. Springs popped out of the couch and turned into a thousand little shadows and died, died, died, and piled up in bright neon and dark red. “You knew how much he loved you, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale clenched his hands over his ears, hitting whatever he could reach. His foot connected with the thing’s leg, and it only laughed louder. “Stop, stop, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m - ”

“It hurt, that hellfire! And he swore you’d come and save him, right to the end! He pleaded, he really did! It was pitiful, and it was for you! Doesn’t that make you ever so sad?” The thing’s eyes were large and yellow, and dirty hair hung down its face in dark red.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

As the angel scrambled backward, the room seemed to shrink with his panic, smaller and smaller, until there was nowhere he could go, and yet it extended, so the creature could walk ever further towards him.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Aziraphale shook, burying his head into his knees. This was the end - he could sense it. This was his end. His guilt had finally caught up with him.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRA -

The sound stopped, and everything was silent.

He waited.

And breathed.

And breathed.

And breathed.

The being once - currently - always - known as Aziraphale raised his head, and found that the monster never known as Crowley was gone.

Crowley was gone. Primally, encompassingly, tragically, he wanted even an illusion of him back. He had been so warm, so warm when he had woken up. So happy, so alive - but he couldn’t exactly dwell in what was gone.

He had to turn forward - he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t contemplate the insurmountable loss. Couldn’t let it kill him. Couldn’t let Crowley’s attempts go to waste. He had to go on. He had to live. Just a bit more, and then he could lie to himself about resting. If he stopped, just for a minute, then everything Crowley did would go to waste. Crowley had loved him. He had laid in his arms and cried. He had trusted him, adored him, so the angel had to -

“Aziraphale? Are you alright?” Gabriel. He knew it was Gabriel. It had to - of course, it would be.

He braced himself, unconsciously. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what was coming. He was nothing.

“Well, well,” Gabriel said. His voice was dark. “I knew those demons weren’t to be trusted. This is what happens, you see. Minor business error.”

He was wrong. Factually, that was incorrect. Aziraphale knew there was something else. But Gabriel, Gabriel couldn’t be wrong.

Aziraphale looked up. “Gabriel.” He was sure he had done this before. He was covered in sweat and tears and blood and he knew this wasn’t right.

The sharper angel nodded, offering Aziraphale a hand. It smelled like antiseptic, and if Aziraphale could move, he would have scampered back.

“We’re terribly sorry, Aziraphale,” he said, putting a towel around his shoulders. “This was an oversight on our part.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He wondered if the towel was the only kindness Gabriel had scheduled for that day. It was a raggedy thing - he hadn’t recognized that in earlier times. Earlier times? The fumes were getting to his head. He really was a bad angel. He should be grateful.

Gabriel pursed his lips. “Hell is still angry at you, you understand. They’re uncivilized creatures, obviously, and would do anything to get the revenge they think they deserve. So they attacked you, see, brought that thing, ” here, he wrinkled his nose quite distinctly, “into your psyche.”

“You - stopped it?” Aziraphale asked. Better to play dumb, just for a bit. What was he playing dumb from? He didn’t want to know what was outside those walls. He didn’t want to count his rules again. He knew them, vaguely, as if they were behind a wall.

Rule Two.

He nodded. “Heaven takes care of our employees, ” he wrinkled his nose again, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, “past or present.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. Gabriel’s eyes were sharp, and there was something malicious there. Aziraphale was no longer scared of the false Crowley, in the afterward it was all an -

“Now,” said Gabriel, “As this is a business trip, so to speak, I’m going to give you my card.” Into Aziraphale’s strong hands, he placed a thin paper card.

Gabriel had done something bad, that he knew. For a second, he thought to deny it. Of course Gabriel wouldn’t, Gabriel was good. He had the best in mind for everyone! But Aziraphale had seen those eyes, that hatred and disgust as he had looked down on him. At that moment, Aziraphale didn’t care that Gabriel could think of him poorly. Even trapped in his sick game, Aziraphale was better than him. He would survive.

“There we are. You’re all set,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale tried not to retch.

Gabriel stared at him, again with that gleam in his eye, as if he were a wolf, staring down an especially enticing piece of meat.

“Come with me,” he said. “Just for a minute. I’ll fix you up, get you on your feet, okay?” He held out his hand. “Call it a…business investment.”

He didn’t believe it. Gabriel had such an obvious grimace that any other conclusion was immediately forgone.

But he didn’t have anywhere else to go. What could he do, run into the dark of whatever Gabriel had put him in? No. Better to play the fool than die a fool’s death.

And Aziraphale could not die.

He took Gabriel’s cold hand.

And, for another day, he survived.

Chapter Text

Crowley knew the way back to Heaven. Of course he did. The stupid escalator was right next to Hell’s, anyway. It taunted him, it did - whispered, every time he stood on the other side of it - “Reach out and take it, reach out and take it.”

He rather would’ve died. He missed being an angel, sometimes, sure, but that was before everything changed. When everyone was good and kind and never asked, never doubted, just went along in peaceful oblivion. But Crowley had seen the lines in Gabriel’s face, the cold unwavering hatred in his eyes. Those days were over. There were no more new stars to make.

He was standing in front of that past now.

He did not know what to do.

As he went up, he leaned into the illusion, just for a moment. He was an angel, good and pure like he used to be. His hair flowed down as the stars went up, as he pulled them on invisible strings and swayed with their kisses on his brow. He was starlight itself - brilliant and moving, a visual representation of all the invisible cogs in the universe, every single color that ever went into the explosion of death as it waves to creation. He was the shockwave and the graceful dance of the universe, and the light of every sunrise. He was good - no, he was above all morals! Behold, the angel in flight!

He was the world, the benefactor, and the warm of the hand. He was the constant drumbeat, the constant sound of time, existing as much as a hand catches the rhythm on the back of one’s cello, one’s strike of pizzicato. He was every breath and every cry and every kiss and dream and every story within a constellation - Artemis and Orion and Andromeda and Callisto and all the others, even the ones that didn’t exist yet, the ones that would exist long after his cognizant life. He was love and devotion and the dew on the apple - the apple - the apple -

The reflective walls mirrored his face, lined and scarred with years and grief, and there was no longer any time for delusions of grandeur. He may not have known what his mission was, but he was determined. Not for any outward, cause, mind, but he needed to make the ghost in his head proud. He had to do good by Aziraphale. He had to go on.

With every beat of his heart, every minute of silence from the space to his left, he had to keep living. For what, he didn’t know, but, standing on that escalator, so bleak and alone that it must have been at the very end of time, Crowley needed to go on. He didn’t want to - he wanted to lie in dirt and stardust forever, his agoraphobia evolved to the homeless fear of everything. He hardly had anything, anyone, save for the thought - Aziraphale wouldn’t want this. He would want to see Crowley smile, to keep living in his absence, to keep tending his garden, to keep listening to loud music and driving fast.

But there’s no one to disappoint anymore, his face in the reflection said. He’s not around to be proud of you.

But Aziraphale, he knew, thought he was a good person. He had to be good - he just had to be.

He stepped off the elevator. No more memories - he was doing this for a dead lover, and a dead lover only. He would keep going, and he would be good.

Heaven was bright and exposed, the sky above as pale as the floors, as pale as the light, as bleak as the fading glints in the angels’ eyes. Crowley instinctively kept his head down and pulled up his hood - if need be, he had a whole disguise planned - but it seemed nobody was around. He was alone in a liminal expanse, as empty and haunted as a pristine hallway or a line of endless hotel rooms, painted in pastels and aged memories, completely devoid of any life.

All he had to do was find the angel - he assumed it was an angel - and miracle them out. Pity he couldn’t miracle himself there.

He shivered and kept a hand on the small dagger he kept at his side. It wasn’t special, and certainly wouldn’t do any lasting damage against an Archangel, but it couldn’t hurt.

Well, it could, but that was the point, now wasn’t it?

For someone’s sake, that was terrible. Aziraphale would’ve -

Crowley cut the thought off at the throat and hurried along across the great white expanse. Not knowing where to go, he inched along the walls until he stood before an inconspicuous white door. It creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a similarly-colored hallway, wide and occasionally covered with piles of beach chairs and paperwork.

Cautiously, he stepped out, and, crouching low to the ground, made his way across it. It was too closed, too secluded, and it smelled musty and stuffy and vaguely like wet paper. He gritted his teeth.

“With my luck, the paperwork is blessed or something,” he muttered, under his breath. “For someone’s sake, all this work for - ”

He could hear voices getting closer, his invisible hackles raising on end. Before he could truly comprehend it, the door was cracking open, and he was a snake in the blink of an eye, diving headfirst into a box of assorted papers.

From the dark and humid interior of the space between one bundle of discorporation forms and another, Crowley cursed his luck. Stupid, stupid, stupid. For someone’s sake, he was so stupid.

“Have you heard what Gabriel’s doing?” One of the angels asked, with a light sway to her words. “He’s always guarding that room on the top floor like he’s - I dunno, like he’s got something big in there.”

The other angel made a speculative noise. “Not sure,” he said. “I heard a rumor from one of the Virtues - not sure what their name was - that he’s got, like, another angel in there. They said they heard someone crying, but when they went to him to ask about it, he got all…mad.”

Crowley didn’t dare breathe. That miserable fucker, he thought, straining his ears.

The first angel stopped, rifling through a box a few feet away. “Yeah, do you think it’s something to do with - with Her?”

There was a considerable silence as the other angel thought.

“No,” he finally decided. “There’s no way She would authorize anything like that. Gabriel’s just…” he lowered his voice, “Cruel. He likes to believe he’s all high and mighty, but I worked in his department, and he’s just mean.”

“Hush," chided the other,“hush, now. I believe you, but walls have ears.”

Crowley smiled to himself. Snakes. Snakes have ears. And thanks to the angels, who were making their exit, unaware of his presence, he knew exactly where to go. It had been a very long time since he had been in heaven, but, as he reflected, slithering down the rest of the hallway, he still knew how to use an elevator.

The hallway opened up to a bigger room, in which a couple of angels were milling about a world map, holding cups of complimentary coffee. As he slithered through, undetected, his keen tongue caught the faintest trace of antiseptic, far above him. He smiled to himself, practically flickering out of the room without a trace. It was good, being small. It was very, very good.

The snake, victorious, continued his perpetual slither. He nearly got stepped on by an angel who was pushing a cart, and almost got spotted by a guard in front of a predictably-colored door, but, after a while, he was slinking along cold white tiles, looking up at two elevators that looked very, very large.

He whipped his head around, retreating to a corner with quite impressive dexterity as he did so. Curling up, he breathed a sigh of relief. No angels.

However, he realized, not a second later, that means I don’t have a blasted ride. He fumed at the prospect. He was too deep in now, he couldn’t change back, couldn’t risk it. This far, and he was stuck in place by the prospect of angelic security and an elevator door.

He shook his head. “This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “Charged in here with a half-assed plan and now I’m camped out in front of an elevator like an idiot. Some demon I am.”

He waited. Then, he waited some more, watching the faint light change in its mesmerizing ordinariness on the wall across from him. It was beautiful, but pale and commonplace.

There were still no angels in the room.

Even one of these obedient little angels would have more forethought than this.<\em> He sighed.

He wondered what Aziraphale would say. “You’ve really got yourself in a bind now, you silly old snake,” probably. And then he’d smile, and let Crowley wrap himself warm around his neck, and everything would be okay because Aziraphale was there to help him. Aziraphale was smart, and kind, and could solve anything with world enough and time.

Something deep in Crowley’s throat ached. He kept looking at the sunlight. He had nowhere else to look, nothing else to admire, now. Nothing to compare, nothing to gaze at but the sun on the wall. He missed those eyes - those eyes that changed color in the light, glowed from within and exploded with little flecks of hazel and blue and gold. Never hidden, never something to be ashamed of. Oh, and he had thought Crowley’s were so beautiful, hadn’t he? How could he ever have -

The door to the room creaked open, and Crowley, always one for fast reflexes, curled up tighter and trusted that the shadows of the sun would hide him.

An angel crossed the floor, flats clicking on the tile, coat rustling with movement. Again, the existence of sound, struck Crowley hard, in the silent moments. But that wasn’t important. The important part was getting on the blasted elevator.

And so he, pausing every few inches or so, carefully followed the angel into the elevator at last. They were dressed in gentle, sharp off-white, and held themselves up tall, a little waver in their step. Thank someone, for they seemed so punctual that they didn’t even glance around the elevator

Crowley found himself thanking, just for a second, the discipline of the agency, though this was the first time in 6000 years that it had ever been in his favor. Because, if the angel’s eyes did wander to the corner of the elevator, they certainly wouldn’t react kindly to even as small a snake as he currently was. But they didn’t. They pressed the up button and stood stock-still.

The metal floor of the elevator was cold. Heaven didn’t have the decency to put a carpet in. All for the aesthetic, he figured.

Although Aziraphale, he thought, Aziraphale, who has a whole bookshop that doesn’t sell books, does it better.

Had. Did.

He stared straight ahead, caught in an elevator inside a building he had left long ago, on a planet he had left long ago, spinning in a universe that was far too small to hold the weight of time. A soul inside a demon inside a machine inside another machine inside a world that had been leeched dry of color like a t-shirt left in a closet too long, gathering dust.

Oh, how the grief he carried was not a mantle. No - he didn’t carry it on his shoulder, nor like a crown. It was worse than weight - it was in his blood. It was his blood - the terror and sorrow and hope and monotony of it all - and he was the same as he had been when he had laid on the floor of his star and screamed into a paper bag.

It fucking sucked, really. But time moved on.

The elevator doors opened, having reached the top floor, and he swayed a little as Heaven’s air conditioning hit him full in the face. What season was it, anyway, on Earth? He hardly cared.

He waited until the angel was a little ways ahead, and slithered out behind, taking a right where they took a left. He tested the air. The antiseptic smell was almost overwhelming - but, if he tried hard enough, he could pinpoint its location.

Watch out, Gabe. He smiled to himself. At the very least, he wouldn’t see this one coming. Crowley just had to get it right. Just had to sneak in, grab the angel, and leave. That was all.

So, he continued down the hallway. Unsurprisingly, the highest floor seemed to have even fewer angels than the conference room-infested first one. He knew these hallways, he knew these rooms and doors and shitty coffee makers. He knew the route he took, buried in his mind, from his lodgings to the room where he could touch stars. The room he had first learned to heal, to be good, to do good. The path to the garden, the staircase that always creaked, the abandoned room with the whiteboard that always had rude words written on it - this was his home, once.

It was different now. Clinical. Angrier, more upright. He wished he’d never come back - his heart ached so much, seeing it like this.

It was beautiful once, he thought, brushing his way past six other rooms and down yet another hallway, always following that scent, I was beautiful once.

In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale wrapped a lock of Crowley’s hair around his finger and smiled.

Crowley had revisited that particular memory thousands of times. He didn’t need to finish it to know what Aziraphale said next.

It didn’t matter. He pushed open a sliding door and took his fifth right. All the mazes and great whitenesses of heaven blended together, crossed wires in his head, but they couldn’t outsmart him. He was getting closer. In the end, he had already lost the greatest thing. He was bound to succeed in everything else - that was what he was owed. The universe was always repaying its debt.

That wasn’t true, of course, the great and massive universe couldn’t give a shit about something as frugal as debt. And it wasn’t like it kept Crowley going - there wasn’t anything that could repay him. But he liked to think that something up there was sorry.

And, just like that, he was in front of the door. At least Gabriel wasn’t behind it - he knew that much.

“Wonder what angel got on his bad side this week,” he muttered,

and pushed open the door.

The antiseptic smell was less potent, somehow, but the sense of rot still permeated his senses between one blink and the next. Besides that, the room was just as cold and pristine as anything else.

There was an angel in the corner.

There was an angel in the corner, and they were not pristine at all.

Crowley wavered and swayed, and reached out to steady himself. He was only a few feet from a body on the floor. Was it a corpse? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted to go. His hands shook. That fucker.

There was an angel in the corner, and they - it? - they were covered in something dark. Maybe dirt,
maybe blood, Crowley couldn’t tell.

He got a little closer. Their head was away from him, and they looked fast asleep, dead if not for a small shiver and rise and fall in their chest. Their hair was a curly gray, though if it was from ash or dust or natural coloring Crowley could not tell.

Crowley swallowed, walking even closer and crouching down beside them. Did She expect him to take care of this angel when he couldn’t even manage himself?

It didn’t matter. He’d burn that bridge when he came to it.

Reaching out, tired and weighed, Crowley touched the angel’s shoulder. They were still warm, but he could hardly tell what color they were wearing - gray, tan, or brown, maybe. Everything was muddled together, like watercolors that bled into each other until everything was a monochromatic mess.

There was a sound from the hallway, and Crowley’s head shot up. Footsteps. There were heavy footsteps, and they were coming closer.

Oh, someone, he hoped this worked.

Crowley muttered a curse under his breath, and, with a quiet apology to the angel, who still did not move, picked them up and miracled the both of them to his old place without a second thought.

And there he was. Standing in his flat, for the first time in ten years, with a knocked-out angel in his arms. It was different than he remembered. Messier, as if someone had desperately run through it. There were a couple of wine bottles on the floor that he could’ve sworn he didn’t put there.

But it had been ten years. And the angel was heavy. He had more pressing matters to worry about. He couldn’t stall in the past, not now. He had to be a good person. He pushed aside the lump in his throat and carried the angel to the spare bedroom.

The room was covered with dust, the blinds up and curtains open, bleaching the furniture. Crowley sighed.

“Pretty fancy, eh?” He muttered. “Sorry ‘bout it, this is the best I can do.”

The angel kept breathing, at least.

Crowley put him down.

It was a good thing he did.

He stumbled backward, hitting the wall. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t breathe. Whatever he was seeing - it was some sick joke, it had to be. It was Gabriel, that was it. Gabriel was playing a trick on him. It had to be. He felt bile rise in his throat. It had to be a fucking joke. It wasn’t real.

He could see the angel’s face, laid out on the bed.

He tried to stand, but his legs weren’t working. There was something in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. The angel was covered in ash, but he wouldn’t mistake that face for anything. If he had eaten anything in the past decade, he would’ve thrown up. The hair on his arms stood on end. There was a breeze from the window. He was cold. He perceived through the bottom of a shot glass.

No no no no no. That sick fuck. That sick fuck. That sick fuck. This isn’t fair. Isn’t fair. It was a prank. It must have been. There was no way -

The beautiful face that he was staring at swallowed. He could see the movement in the throat. It certainly looked real. But that wasn’t right, Crowley knew. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be, he was dead and gone. He knew it was over. There was no more time to be spent with him, and Gabriel couldn’t fool him.

He looked at the fake and looked down at his hands. Those hands would have ripped stone from every mountain sacred to the Lord if it would have brought the real one back. He wasn’t moving, but he reached a hand out across the brink, gently brushing the angel’s face.

He sucked in a breath. He didn’t dare move, his arm reaching frozen and aching to his cheek. He was warm - warm as if struck with fever, warm like when he laid with Crowley in his bed, warm like the day he went away forever.

Crowley reached his other shaking hand to his face, drawing it away wet. The weak sunlight from the windows lit the angel’s soft cheekbones, his eyelashes speckled with dirt and dew.

Crowley choked around a sob. This wasn’t happening. He was drowning. He was kneeling on the dirty carpet of his guest room floor and beholding the most beautiful corpse he had ever seen. It wasn’t, couldn’t be true, but oh, he was beautiful in the pale light, like a face touched by Midas, frozen forever in loveliness and time.

There was blood on his arm, dried and flaking, the red and the brown and the veins and the sharp cupid’s bow of his lips were all glowing. Even the hair on his arms, standing in the chill breeze, caught the light, haloing his hallowed body in syrupy light. He was flaming, brilliant in the glow, and for a moment Crowley, weeping passively on a dusty floor, could see him smile.

Crowley buried his face in a nearby pillow and screamed. The sound never reached the sleeping angel, but he wailed with all the dignity of a small child, dirt and blood and tears washing away the last of it. He was messy and undone, and hell if he didn’t deserve it. To hell, to hell, to hell with it all. His whole body was shaking, his teeth were chattering. He swayed back and forth, over and over and over and over again, and if the whole world were to end at that moment, he would feel no different. He had lost the world once, and here it was.

He shook. He could do nothing but shake and wail at some absent god. It was a howl - it wasn’t dignified. Through his raucous misery, he thought that clearly. He should be better by now. He was a demon.

He bit his tongue until it bled. He covered his ears and rocked like a child. He was covered in dirt and earthworms. He could feel his bones cracking, decaying. He didn’t have bones. He was screaming into a pillow before the body of the only holy thing in the universe.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed there, on the floor, but eventually, he stopped shaking long enough to pick his head up and blink through bleary eyes. He was so tired, how was he supposed to pick himself up? If he was dead, if this was one last laugh at his expense before Gabriel was rid of him forever, he certainly wouldn’t be surprised.

He took an inhale of air and stared up at the angel. From where he was, the bed was a foot away, but it seemed to be separated by a veil of now-fading sunlight and a thousand years. Crowley lifted his head up towards the angel, gazing through a few wavy tangles of hair. His breath came roughly, and his eyes were far too dry. He shivered.

He wished the angel would open his eyes. Then, he’d know. Those eyes - he’d know those eyes anywhere. If, by some miracle, Aziraphale was - was there, there, on his guest bed, in a flat he had deserted for ten long years - he would surely know. Gabriel could copy his face and his clothes as much as he wanted, but those eyes were the very last thing Crowley had seen as the angel was ripped away.

In sickness or in health, he knew that for certain.

Chapter Text

When Aziraphale awoke, he was in another room. He knew this from the moment he woke up. He was warm. There was morning sunlight on his face, he was buried under a quilt, and he was warm.

Slowly, the room around him came into view. The clock on the wall, the chair in the corner, the soft layer of dust over everything.

He blinked, and then he blinked again. He touched his face - it was clean. He was sure it hadn’t been clean when he had gone to sleep. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t soft - they hadn’t been soft for a good long time - but they were clean.

He was so warm.

Sorrow spread outward through his body, there on that strange bed. It came over him blind, before he could even think of escaping it. He stared out through his eyes from beyond, out through the window, out through the walls. Of course.

Of course, this was just another of Gabriel’s sick jokes.

Just his luck.

Aziraphale sighed, too weary to lift his shoulders. He settled back into the warm bed. He didn’t have to confront it now, at least. He could make himself some time. Then he’d recite his rules, and go on.
When Aziraphale awoke again, it was with a pounding headache.

Blearily fumbling around, he pressed his fingers to his temples and groaned something indistinguishable. Good lord, was it ever enough? Would it ever be over? He could barely see the white room - no, the warm room - in front of him.

He whimpered and bit his lip. Gabriel wouldn’t like that.

All of a sudden, a glass was pushed softly into his fumbling hands.

“Here, drink this,” said a voice he didn’t recognize, “It should help.”

He muttered a quiet thanks, which was more sound than word, and drank the water. He couldn’t do anything else.

Whatever it was must’ve worked. His headache dissipated, and he blinked.

“Er - thank you,” he managed, looking suddenly and alarmingly into the eyes of the woman sitting in a barebones chair next to his bed.

“No need to thank me,” said God, setting aside the daily sudoku on Her lap. Her jeans were splattered with paint, and when She spoke it was with the humor of a best friend from the school days Aziraphale never had. He could see the lines and divots on Her face - the wrinkles in Her forehead, the crow's feet around Her eyes.

Shocked, he pressed himself against the wall, blinking rapidly. “Oh! I, er - Sorry, I mean -”

She waved Her hand, and smiled at him. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Aziraphale,” She said. “You were out for quite a while.”

Aziraphale squinted at Her. “What do you mean? I’m - I’m still asleep, I’m afraid. This is just another of his - well, I’m sure You know.” He chuckled to himself. “Goodness, I’m really going through it now. I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m afraid I haven’t had anything for myself for quite some time.”

She only waited patiently until he was done. “What makes you think this is Gabriel?” She asked.

Aziraphale could hardly believe he was having this conversation.

“Well,” he wrung his hands, “I very much don’t remember leaving, so it would be foolish to believe that I was anywhere else. And why would I - why would I be in - in Crowley’s flat, of all places, if this wasn’t a dream?”

She tilted Her head to one side and looked at him inquisitively. “Would you do me a favor?” She asked.

Aziraphale bit his lip. He was retired - whatever would She ask of him? Wordless, he nodded.

“Recite your first three rules for me,” She said, hands folded serenely on Her lap. She was wearing a single gold earring in the shape of a tiny functioning pocket watch. As She spoke, Aziraphale watched the seconds tick by, over and over.

When he had comprehended Her words, he nodded. An easy task. “Rule One,” he said. “Er, Crowley is dead.” He fidgeted with his hands. It ached, dully. Why had he chosen that as his first one?

She nodded, smiling encouragingly. “Exactly. Go on.”

“Rule Two. Gabriel is not to be trusted.” He muttered.

“Yes,” She acknowledged.

“Rule Three,” he said, his voice growing in confidence just at the end. “You will survive this.”

She smiled, gazing at him ever so fondly. “Very good, Aziraphale. It was really clever of you, you know, to keep these.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly back, warmed. “If I may, Lord, why would you have me repeat them?”

God smiled as if hearing a funny joke. “That’s the thing, Aziraphale. Could you ever remember anything in those hallucinations?”

Oh.

Oh.

Aziraphale gulped, pushing the lump of realization down. “So this - so this is real life? I’m - I survived?” His hands were warm, his feet solid on the ground. The quilt that had been wrapped around him at some point was the one he had gotten in Edinburgh years ago. He was alive. He was alive. He had survived, and everything was just a little less gray than he remembered. He wondered if Flora had gotten to her destination safely.

She sat down next to him on the bed. “You lived through it, Aziraphale. I am so proud of you.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.” He paused, and then, “What happened to Gabriel?” He didn’t know what he wanted.

She waved Her hand again. “Don’t you worry about it. He won’t hurt anyone again.”

Aziraphale nodded. There was no way he would pry. His hands were real and warm, his arms, his legs - for the first time in a long time, he almost felt good. Maybe he would never be complete, but he felt…okay.

God picked up Her sudoku puzzle. She stared at it for a minute, biting the end of Her puzzle, and then She turned it towards Aziraphale. “Do you think a seven goes here, or a three?”

Aziraphale blinked. And then blinked again. And then looked at the paper. After a minute of deliberation, he figured it out. “Seven, I believe. There’s a three in the row.”

“That’s just tickety-boo, then,” She said, with a pointed, almost exaggerated wink. Aziraphale chuckled.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Aziraphale got his bearings and God did Her sudoku puzzle. A bird landed on Crowley’s windowsill, and Aziraphale watched it with tired but willing eyes. She sharpened Her pencil with a sharpener labeled “Property of Sandalphon,” and started on the crossword.

A few more seconds passed, and then it hit him like a truck.

“Lord, I have a question,” he ventured. For a second, he feared it might’ve been a cruel joke. Was She that cruel?

She nodded. “Go ahead. No need for such formality.”

He considered this. After all, She was quite literally doing a crossword puzzle right next to him. That significantly lowered the probability of getting struck down.

He bit his lip and stared at the floor. “Why are we in Crowley’s flat?” Oh, how he hoped that wasn’t the wrong question. He knew every single inch of this room, had tossed it around searching for the last scent, last moment, last memory of Crowley. He had devoured it - and now there was nothing.

But he couldn’t think about that. He wrenched his gaze back to Her. She wore a small smile like a cloak.

She stood up, walked to the door, and held it open with a cloud of dust. With his hand clasped in front of him and his feet unsure, he followed a few paces behind.

“I have to go, now,” She said. “I’m sure you’ll find your answer soon enough.”

Aziraphale’s heart stilled, hardened. “Please - please don’t,” he managed. If She left, he’d be alone again.

She only hugged him, gently ruffling his hair. She was warm, and when She pulled away, he was still. “It’ll be alright, Aziraphale,” she said, and was gone, just like that.

It was quick, unfair, and left him wanting, still so confused. There he was, standing in front of the door, lit by the midafternoon sun amongst the bleached furniture. It was his fault. All of Crowley’s beautiful furniture was ruined because he didn’t close the blinds ten years ago.

He wiped at his eyes. There was no use dillydallying. He had to get home and dust his books. How long had it been since he had done that? He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t survive if he stayed here.

He walked through the door.

Crowley’s living room was almost the same as he had left it. The clothes pile was gone, and there was no longer a dustless outline in the shape of his body. No, that was ten years ago, and dust left nothing holy.

He heard something clatter in the kitchen. Maybe She was still here? It was better if he didn’t care. He’d start up again, once he got out of this godforsaken flat. He missed Crowley, but he had to keep going. He couldn’t stop.

He sat down on the couch, looking down at his hands. Open and close, open and close, they were still the same. Endless and perfect and blistered and old. They would keep on existing, as would he. This empty expanse of life would be his own. Nothing could come close to the overwhelming presence of light.

Of course, he’d never ask for more.

All of a sudden, a crash from the doorway shot him forward from his reverie. Aziraphale jumped, up off the couch, up off the deathbed, away from the memories.

There was bright blue china broken in the doorway, robin’s egg and the smell of spiced tea. The first sign of a life he had seen in years, and standing there, holding a trembling tea tray with eyes as wide as the sun was -

Was -

His hair was longer, more unkempt, and the dark circles around his eyes were the worst Aziraphale had seen since the 14th century. His face was gaunt, deep and sorrowful guilt woven into his bones.

He was beautiful. Beautiful, even as Aziraphale’s mind struggled to keep up - no, this was all a dream, it couldn’t be - but oh, he was beautiful.

He snapped back to reality, stumbling backward, clapping a hand over his mouth. Wailing. Not wailing. He couldn’t tell. His eyes were fixed on towards eternity. And there he was, in his cheap black shirt and dingy pajama bottoms.

Crowley.

Aziraphale shook with it, with ecstasy and fear as if bowing before an old temple. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was all a dream. It was ever so real. He was alive and dead and dead and alive. He was the nebula, the last song of the star, the very first word, the very first proof of heavenly grace, of guilt, of pain, of death and birth and life and passion and genuine sorrow - and there he was. Standing there.

“Oh,” said the single most important thing in the universe, wiping his hands on his pants. His voice shook like a universe in motion. His voice was weighed, clogged with emotion, weight, and years. “You’re awake.”

Aziraphale bit back a scream. His tongue bled. The room moved around him in slow motion. He couldn’t deal with it - all of the hurt and anger and joy and grief. He was watching from his vantage point on the ceiling. He shook and shook and shook. His voice came through in gasps, big heaving sighs. He was moving, he was moving, he was sitting still. Someone was screaming out in pain. He was on the ceiling.

“Hey, hey, hey hey hey.” There were hands on his shoulders, catching him, steadying him as he sank to the floor. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. Just breathe.” Aziraphale breathed in and smelled bergamot and ginger and spice and warmth and light. This wasn’t happening. He was a crashing car, a bird in flight, an imploding time bomb.

“No, no, you’re not real -”

His forehead was covered in sweat. Cymbals banged in his head, warning signs flashed as he drove off the road. He clung tighter to whatever was holding him and watched the ceiling fan, watched the bookshop, watched the plain white room, watched the invisible body in the empty grave. Wailing. The screeching of tires. Banging, crashing, breathing, breaking. A gentle hand on his back. Seven days and not one more. He was wailing. He couldn’t hear it.

He breathed out.

“I don’t - ” He managed, “I can’t - I - ” He was buried in Crowley’s shirt. Crowley was buried in the ground. He couldn’t see his face. He didn’t know if he had one.

“I know,” the not-face above him murmured. “I know, it’s okay. Take your time.”

He shook his head. “I don’t - I don’t understand. I don’t. I can’t. What - I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.” He lifted his head, slightly. He couldn’t see the face above him. “I just - this isn’t real. This - I’m dreaming. This isn’t real.”

“Shh, angel. I know, I know.”

“But you don’t, you - I’ll wake up and you won’t be here.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

He laughed. Of course. “How silly of me. For a second there, I thought you were my best friend.”

Lying against his chest, Aziraphale could hear the intake of breath. He knew Crowley’s breath - how it stilted, the rise and fall. He had to admit, even in his state, that this was frighteningly similar. It hitched and stuttered, and he felt it do so, over and over. The hand on his shoulder tightened ever so slightly. If he reached up, he knew the face would be damp. He feared it would be cold.

They sat there, but for months or for hours, he couldn’t tell, until his breathing stilled. There was a breeze coming in from the window, as night fell, but he barely felt it.

“You’re warm,” he managed. And it was true - he was wrapped in it. He had only known warmth from a single person, but -

“Thanks,” The voice was choked, cut off in his hair.

For the first time in ten years, Aziraphale allowed himself to hope.

He pulled back and looked him in the face.

Crowley’s eyes were tired and stained, but he smiled anyway. “Hey, angel,” he murmured.

“I don’t - I don’t understand,” Aziraphale whispered. “It’s you?” He knew, of course, it wasn’t, but -

Crowley nodded. He didn’t speak. To Aziraphale, it didn’t look like he could. He looked for all the world like he was about to break.

“‘M sorry,” he said, at last. “I went away. Would’ve been much easier if I stayed. My fault. So sorry, angel.”

“But you,” Aziraphale blinked rapidly, “but you died.”

Crowley chuckled wetly. “Still here, aren’t I?” He sniffed. “Tell you the truth, I only held on this long because you’d hate it if I didn’t.”

Aziraphale clung to him, getting tears all over his shirt until his breathing stilled.

“This - this doesn’t feel real, Crowley,” he said. “I don’t - I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair. “Imagine how surprised I was.”

Aziraphale sobbed. He couldn’t do anything but lie there, couldn’t move. “It wasn’t fair, I can’t - it wasn’t fair.”

“It’s okay,” Crowley whispered, his voice all cracked, his hair brushing the sides of his face, “It’s gonna be okay, angel. I’ve got you.”

Did he? Did he really?

They stayed like that for about another half an hour, until Aziraphale got the lump out of his throat, and his hands felt steady again, his breathing calm. Though it all, he just took it in. Looked at his face, all the lines and weight and lightness of it. Absorbed the concept - the idea of Crowley being - of all things - alive. He didn’t know if he believed it.

“I was so alone,” he whispered, at the very end of it. “I thought it might kill me, I really did. There was none of you, Crowley. You were gone.”

“I know,” He managed, the words hardly getting through. “I know. Couldn’t bear it, really. ‘S like…like we got a few hours, and that was it, y’know?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m so sorry. It was - it was my fault, that we didn’t come up with anything. I distracted you.” He knew that was true. Crowley was dead, so none of this was -

Crowley stared him right in the eyes. His eyes were as luminescent and beautiful as they used to be. “Absolutely not. None of that, now. You had -” he gulped. “You had no way of knowing.”

“But I did!” Aziraphale bit out. “I did, and - and I lost you! It was all my - my fault.”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured. “No, angel, no. I don’t blame you at all, you hear? And trust me,” he laughed. “I’ve done a lot of thinking these past two weeks.”

Aziraphale reeled back a bit. “I was out for -”

Crowley nodded, worn and beautiful. “Yeah. Carried you home myself. Had a whole breakdown on the floor, you know. And then God shows up on my doorstep? Geez, angel, I was shaken.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and stopped. “Did She…tell you what he did?”

Crowley pursed his lips and nodded tentatively. “What She could. You don’t have to think about it now, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale settled back against his chest. He had a lingering headache, and he felt ever so washed out, but he was good. He could put on a face, and maybe if he tried hard enough, it’d be okay. “I’ve more pressing matters, my dear.”

Crowley let out a choked sound, and buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, clutching at him like a drowning man trying to restrain himself.

Before that day, he had never cried more in front of Aziraphale than the first and last night. Aziraphale remembered it. His shoulders had shaken all over and he whispered about fire and told him how much he loved him.

Aziraphale held him tighter. If only he had known. If only both of them had known. What would they have done?

Probably still kissed on that couch anyway, He smiled to himself. Crowley seemed to have stilled, Aziraphale’s hand rubbing circles in his back.

“Crowley? I say, you haven’t fallen asleep on me, have you?” He brushed his hair away from his face. How beautiful he was, even after all these years.

“Mm, nope,” he whispered. “Sorry, ‘s stupid. Real stupid reason.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale chided.

“It’s just - ” He choked. “I never thought you’d call me that ever again.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I just can’t believe it,” he whispered. “Ten bloody years, ‘ngel. Thought you were gone gone, for real. Lost ‘m best friend, an’ everything.”

“I’m here now,” Aziraphale responded. “I think.” Probably not.

Crowley raised his head. “Are you haunting me?” His unblinking gaze was clear, but as to whether it was a joke or not Aziraphale could not tell.

“Pardon?” He smiled. He didn’t feel happy - not the overwhelming happiness that should come. Moreso, he felt light. Unbelieving, all-seeing, and light. The passivity and apathy that the weightless state allowed was all he was. At least he could stay in it, just a little longer.

“Prove to me you’re not a ghost,” Crowley said, eyes ever so slightly unfocused. He stared at him, past him, above him up to the unfaltering sky.

Aziraphale didn’t even know if any of them were real. “Well, I…” he gulped. “My clothes don’t fit as well as they used to,” he said, pulling at his shoulder, at the loose threads and gaps. “I haven’t eaten in quite a while, you see.” He muttered this as if he could hide it.

Crowley’s eyes focused and softened. “Oh, angel.” Thin, slim hands cupped his face. They trembled, trembled like anything. “‘M sorry. Sorry, so sorry.”

“Why - why are you sorry, Crowley?” It felt odd, to speak his name. Aziraphale couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He just kept going forward - just a few more minutes, at best.

Crowley shook his head. “If I had just stayed, and looked for you, it - ” He bit his lip. “See, She didn’t even say you’d died, really.” And here he laughed, dryly. “Just mentioned She couldn’t come to us both, and I figured, well…nothing comes without a price, y’know. Real stupid of me.”

“I missed you,” Aziraphale said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. “I couldn't find you anywhere. I mourned you.” His voice cracked, and he gulped. “And now you’re - here? I can’t even begin to -” He chuckled, all misted over. “But I know, Crowley, that you’re not to blame. I loved you so much. I knew you from the very first day - how could I blame you, hm?”

Aziraphale was an excellent pawn. He was excellent at making the best of things. He had to. He could say everything in these few precious minutes, collapse into this solitary, fleeting comfort.

The demon shrugged, his shoulders weak. “I can’t - ” He buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel, don’t - don’t say things like that. I ran off to the stars. Don't say that.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “If this is all a fantastical dream, I just need you to know.” He held him tightly and found he could do nothing else. “I’m sure I’m going to wake up soon,” he murmured, “and this is the most real you’ve ever been. So if you start decaying, at least I’ll have this.”

Crowley stiffened. “If I - what, now?”

“If you start decaying,” Aziraphale repeated, manner-of-factly. “You always do. Because this isn’t real, Crowley. You’re still dead, you can’t fool me. I was wondering why it felt so warm. It’s obvious - don’t you see?”

Crowley pulled back. “So all this time, you’ve been -”

“Conveying my feelings to a hallucination?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Everything made sense, now. He hardly needed to think. “Of course. I suppose I knew it from the start - how silly of me to think otherwise. My weakness has always been you, you understand - even if you’re not real, I miss lo - er, comforting you. I never did it enough when you were alive.”

“Hey, wait -”

“But I understand now. You’re just as gorgeous as you were back then, you know. Just as kind. Seems I did know you perfectly. So perfectly that you don’t even have the decency to stop haunting me.”
He chuckled. He felt light, but in a head-spinning way, close to asphyxiation. “Goodness, my dear, I’m so tired of this. How embarrassing I was, going in circles like I did back when you were alive. I’m sorry.”

“Angel, please listen -”

He was crying - he could feel it. He knew why, but he was only lovely for a moment, and he had to savor it. “It hurts,” he managed, so very small. “It hurts to leave, over and over. But at least I forget what I did to you. I love you, I love you, I do. Even after all these years. At least I can tell you that, now, before I have to go.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley almost shouted it, tensed with freight. Aziraphale hardly flinched, never breaking his gaze.

The demon’s eyes flitted back and forth from him, wide with panic and helplessness. “I’m real, angel, I am. I swear it.” Even that was weak, but he persisted. “Didn’t She tell you as much? She said She would. I didn’t get much, but I got that.”

“Why would God be here? No one’s seen Her for ages,” was Aziraphale’s retort. “Much less wearing jeans and doing the daily sudoku.”

Crowley nearly cracked a smile. “I’m afraid so. You’re just that important.”

“There’s no way you’d know that,” Aziraphale protested, his voice weak. “Gabriel - you don’t know what he can do, Crowley. He’s so dangerous.”

“Did you ever know that? I mean, when he did those things?” Crowley said, “Or did he make you forget?”

“He did,” Aziraphale said. “Always. But, you see, this is all just another layer. It’s only a matter of time until - ”

“Until I go all spooky on you?” Crowley asked, eyes wide and genuine, yet vaguely glimmering with the humor of ten years past. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don't think that’s happening.”

“How am I supposed to know that you’re not the one haunting me?” Aziraphale asked, feeling somewhat lightened. “You’re everything to me - isn’t this how it works? I’d do anything to have you back with me, but there’s no getting you back. Nothing’s that kind, Crowley.”

Devotion was never a strong enough word, but Crowley was dust. If Aziraphale could, he would stop the rotation of the planet and chase down time as it ran from him. He’d cough his heart up through his throat if it meant that he could spend a moment with the Starmaker with the gentle eyes, and how funny was that? He was right there, and oh, he was beautiful, but there was no way he was here.

Aziraphale wanted to be proved wrong. The dust lit on his face like a pattern of stars, spun with ethereal thread from the birth of the golden universe. He glowed in it, as he gazed at Aziraphale, swept the tears from his cheeks like it was the easiest thing in the world. Oh, how he made beauty out of the angel’s grief just by being, as if he wouldn’t eventually drown in it, a figment.

How Aziraphale wished he’d never learned to eat what he loved. How Aziraphale wished his anger was gentle and sorrowful. He had dimmed Crowley with it far before his death, rotted him with slights. Of course, it was all forgiven, but the angel was a war. He never meant to ache, never meant to prey. He only ever wanted to keep Crowley safe, and where had that gotten him?

Crowley thought for a moment. “Tell me something, then,” he said. “What would I never do, in those moments?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Why would I - why do you want to know?”

Crowley took his hand. “I’m right here. Flesh and blood. Let me prove it to you.”

The angel - and he was still an angel, wasn’t he? - bit his lip. He wanted this so much it ached. It couldn’t hurt to prove him right, one last time. “You’d never stay. A-and I don’t know if this is some crueler dream, but that’s one thing you’d never do.”

Crowley nodded. “I’m here. I’m staying. Don’t plan on - ” and here his voice shook, “don’t plan on leaving any time soon.”

“But you don’t get it!” Aziraphale burst out. “This is new, this hasn’t happened before! I’m scared, Crowley!”

Crowley seemed to break as he reached a hand across the tense gap to lightly brush Aziraphale’s shoulder. His eyes were searching, searching, bright golden lights against the night. “I waited. Two weeks, and I didn’t leave your goddamn side until She showed up. And I’ll give you time, all the time you need, but - ”

He swallowed and took three deep breaths. Aziraphale counted them. “I didn't even get to bury you, Aziraphale. So at least lend me some grace when I tell you that I'm not going anywhere. I spent ten years in the middle of blasted nowhere ‘cause everything - everything reminded me of you. I lost everything I had to live for and didn’t even have the courage to punch a ticket for my execution. Do you think Gabriel would simulate that?”

His voice shook, thick with bitterness as he plodded ahead, speaking the words like they were carved into his flesh. Unflinching, he stared straight ahead into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And if you think he’s trying to kill you, angel, I assure you it’s impossible,” he said, in a matter-of-fact way that almost indicated rehearsal behind his words. Aziraphale didn’t know what to think. “Do you really think an archangel could replicate God Herself? With Her sudoku book and clearance jeans? He wouldn’t have the balls. And, if he’s moving on from memories, then how would he know everything about me?”

“He could’ve - could’ve made up - ” Aziraphale tried, but Crowley shook his head.

“In Rome, you tempted me out to oysters, and I damn near fell for you on the spot,” Crowley said. “At the convent, you got paint on that coat of yours and had me miracle it away. When we were taking care of Warlock, you were terrible at gardening, but I wanted to be the nanny,” he chuckled. “And the Bastille - don’t get me started on those shoes.”

“You gave me a gift in 1967, and I got overeager. Rushed you. I wanted so badly to keep you close to me, but you knew it wasn’t safe. You always knew.” He didn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Crowley, you don’t - ”

Crowley shook his head. “Just before doomsday, I wanted to run away with you. I thought it was all over, but you, you clever angel, you - ” He took a breath. “You had already figured everything out. And of course, you couldn’t leave. It was stupid of me, stupid, but angel - ”

He cut off, turning fully from him and pressing his palms into his eyes.

Aziraphale took his hand and counted the seconds. Crickets sang out into the deep abyss of space between the flat and the rest of the world, and it could’ve been a million-light-year difference, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have cared.

Crowley breathed. “From the minute I saw you, you were like the stars. I wanted to take you far away, where no one would ever be able to hurt you, but you loved, angel, and you loved like me, and more than me. I’d give you the world, but that was all you wanted to protect. They couldn’t take more than you from me, and if fucking Gabriel can replicate that, then I’ll go up to Heaven and let them have me because I’m damned if I’m losing you all over again.”

A minute passed, and Aziraphale could only stare at him. “Crowley?” He finally managed.

Crowley smiled, tears in his eyes, shoulders shaking like leaves. “Hey, angel,” he said. “That went down like a lead balloon, eh?”

Aziraphale crashed into his arms, ten years’ worth of missed days in every breath. As Crowley was knocked back against the couch, he grabbed hold of him tight, fingers digging into his shirt. He was laughing - laughing despite himself, sobbing into his jacket, not even trying to figure out where he ended and Crowley began. The night was warm and flowers grew in gardens all nestled around the world that was beautiful again.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, like a prayer, into the space between his neck and his shoulder. “Oh, angel.”

“Crowley, I - ” Aziraphale started, looking him in the eyes, running his thumbs over his cheeks, and then realized he didn’t know how to finish. So, he said what he knew - what he had known all those long years. “I love you.”

“I know,” he smiled, like he always did, “I know.”

“I never stopped,” Aziraphale said, taking his hand. “I need you to understand. I never let you really die.”

It was true - like cups of tea and bargain deals and mist on the water and heavy rain and rocks in your shoe and bright red popsicles melting in the summer heat, he had loved him like something that could never die. It was quaint and soft, and he had carried it on like an old friend. He had adored and nourished and hated that gentle love that was left after it all, but -

“All that - I can give it to you, now,” Aziraphale said. “All of it, it’s yours, my dearest. I’ll give you the world.”

Crowley sat up. He made a move to wipe at his eyes but stopped. “‘S all I’ve ever wanted,” he said. “But, angel, I don’t want to push you - hell, I’m kinda scared that I’m still dreaming, myself. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Aziraphale cracked a smile, a little crafty smirk sneaking through. “Want me to pinch you?”

Crowley snorted. “I’ll process it. Eventually. Just, could I - ”

He cut himself off, and shook his head.

“What, now?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s nothing, it’s - really, I don’t want to rush you, angel,” he managed. “Sorry.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pointedly, softly, in that voice that he knew coaxed the demon out of the cave of his fears.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, eyed cast down, shadowed moonlight on his face.

And oh, how Aziraphale wanted to - wanted to kiss him all bumbling and unsure, and laugh like teenagers in love. How he wanted it to be the first time, all over again, wrapped softly in his comforter and unaware and unafraid of death.

He had a skeleton lying invisible where they had killed him the first time, so heavenly it could be a constellation of grief in the big night sky - but how he wanted to touch gently, unmarred and unafraid.

And he’d get there, he knew. The time would pass regardless.

“Angel?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale had been spacing out. “If you don’t want to, it’s -”

Aziraphale caught his face in his hands and kissed him. Their teeth clacked together, and he smiled. Crowley’s hands clenched and pulled on his jacket, his hair splayed out over the pillow, weaving itself between Aziraphale’s fingers and getting stuck to his clothes. His lips were warm and the kiss tasted of salt. Everything was enough.

He could hardly say anything meaningful to Crowley to express his love as strongly as he wanted to. He could hardly say anything more than expressions of disbelief. Oh, he could try, but the weight in his chest had to come out in pieces.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, and drew back ever so slightly to offer his hand.

Aziraphale took it. “Yes?”

Crowley swallowed. “I love you too.”

Lamplight framed his face, glowing on the deep lines under his eyes, and Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him again. He laughed into it, lightheartedly, like a human did, like someone unafraid of loss.

The thought struck him as he did, but he couldn’t find it in him to be bothered. The night had a thin breeze and the neon lights were shining all across SoHo, and he could fear death here and hold Crowley’s face in his hands anyway. His hands were big and warm and here, Aziraphale could believe in the fragility of existence and still kiss him senseless despite it all. He could be frantic and scared and angry and terrible and warm at the same time.

He surfaced from his thoughts and slowly kissed a line down Crowley’s neck. “I’m sorry it’s not going to be the same,” he whispered. “I know you wanted a good life, my dear.”

“Eh. Doesn’t matter how it comes,” Crowley responded. “Not worth my salt if we don’t get there eventually.”

“As a demon?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Crowley responded, simply. “Maybe there’s a good life for us yet.”

“With a cottage,” Aziraphale said. “And a cat.”

“A kitchen garden, and hills that grow heather in August.”

“A picnic.”

“A picnic indeed,” Crowley grinned. “You said you’d give me the world - you’re certainly making good time.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, “to the world.”

“To the world.”

Chapter Text

And, like it was proclaimed six thousand years ago, the time passed. Slowly, gently, the minutes swept along, followed by the hours, and then the days, lazy and heavy, leaving only words in their wake.

The day after the Very First Day was quiet, as was the day after that. They lay there like children in the grass - they bathed in the quiet little slivers of peace and didn’t say a word. Coffee machines whirred and birds called and acorns fell from trees and they lay there, trying to become young enough to accept the second coming of the dawn. It was a slow process, but the days passed despite it all. After all the time that had been lost, it was a privilege to lie and be silent with something other than sorrow.

The sun rose and fell, and rose and fell, and rose and fell again, and it was the same color every time. Crowley watched it bathe Aziraphale’s face and swept a stray curl behind his ear, admiring the red glowing on his face, lighting there like a rich explosion - an ode to skin, to warmth, to gold.

And so, in this way, they continued.

“Do you…still take your coffee the same way?” Aziraphale asked, one morning, motioning to the coffee machine.

Crowley shook his head. “I drink more cocoa, these days,” he said, and watched as Aziraphale swayed where he stood, eyes softening, carrying his shoulders like an oath.

“Cocoa it is, then, my dear,” the angel - his angel said, and of all the wonders of the world, Crowley treasured that little sparkle in his eyes the most. Oh, he was like a star - beloved, beloved, beloved, for as long as they both should live.

“I mean it, now,” Aziraphale said, weeks later, sitting on the floor, his back to Crowley’s legs, looking up at him. Crowley was scrolling idly on the housing market and paused only to inquire what he meant.

“Eternity,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “We have it, now. It’s not a big thing, I think. Not if we just take it one day at a time, hm?”

Crowley abandoned his phone and sat next to him on the floor. “Sounds good to me, angel.” He could only whisper it - he feared it would do no good if he spoke it regularly, casually, and it wasn’t like he could, anyway. There was a nightingale perched in the tree behind them, the long branch on which it sat curving over Crowley’s head.

Two weeks later, they finalized their purchase for a cottage in the South Downs, and moved in, to the realtor's surprise, the very next day.

Within days, it was bursting with greenery - ivy, nasturtiums, monstera, the whole lot. You name it, Crowley had yelled at it. The kitchen garden, and all gardens forthwith, were promptly scared spotless.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, wrapped in his bathrobe, over his second cup of tea for the day. The cat, who didn’t have a name yet, (though Crowley frequently threatened to name it Cat, in honor of a certain ex-Antichrist,) seconded his chiding, yowling it’s disgrace far too loudly for the hour.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled, but he put away the pruning shears anyway. “What do you know about taking care of plants?”

“I took care of yours,” Aziraphale murmured, and he wasn’t lying.

Crowley stilled and swayed where he stood, all the humor of begrudging compliance lost. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” the angel said, standing on his tiptoes, kissing his forehead. “I wouldn’t dare let them go to waste.”

As these things go, however, it wasn’t always easy.

There would be long nights spent pacing in the living room, nights spent fuming in the upstairs bathroom, and nights spent staring numbly up at the big wide-open sky. There would be nights spent wrapped in blankets, in arms, trembling, grasping, unwilling to let go for the fear of the unknown that lay seconds around the corner. There would be lists made, and routines put in place, and Aziraphale would get a cell phone he was never, ever allowed to turn off.

(“At least, not for a while,” Crowley would say, later. “I was being dramatic.” )

There would be days where Aziraphale didn’t get out of bed and didn’t eat or speak, just sat petting the cat. Crowley would go to the bookshelves he had violated several housing policies to make room for and select a book at random. He knew Aziraphale better than anyone, so he didn’t stop reading until the last wisps of mist were gone from the angel’s eyes, and he’d slump against him and hold him tighter than anything.

And the angel would wake screaming, sometimes, clawing at the sheets, eyes filled with visions of tangled hair and sharp teeth. Dutifully, gently, Crowley would run him through the motions, fetch his angel down from the sky, and curse the disposed Archangel until he nearly started smoking.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, late one night. “I’ll talk about it, I will. Just not - not right now.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Crowley returned. “I know, Aziraphale, I know.”

“I’m sorry, I really am. You’ve been so good to me. I hardly deserve half of it.”

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley teased. “Who else would I be good for? It’d be wasted on anyone else. Angel-assigned goodness, this.”

Aziraphale paused and picked at a loose thread on his nightshirt. “I’ll take it,” he said, finally, and placed his head back on Crowley’s chest.

There would be sorrow, and anger, and joy, and in between the rain would fall and they’d tramp through the garden, mud caking their boots, the cat following behind, the sun not daring to hold a candle to any of it.

The crocuses came up eventually, and the carrots a bit later, and so it came to pass that Aziraphale made salad in a flowering house. Crowley yelled at the lettuce, just so the angel would laugh and swat him away from the counter.

“If you frighten it too much, my dear, it won’t taste good,” Aziraphale had said, dew on the reading glasses perched on his curls.

Crowley snorted. “I wouldn’t worry. It wouldn’t dare.”

And late in the summer every year, the South Downs’ hills grew white heather, and, like clockwork, they’d pack a picnic basket and go to where the heather swam around their feet like clouds. They’d sit there, in the wild, gentle expanse of pale flowers, and not think about anything - not what was for dinner, not what Adam was getting up to, not the great expanse of time stretching out in front of them.

It was the only thing Crowley ever had scheduled - Aziraphale would bring a book, and they’d lie down in the sea of clouds, and everything would be okay.

“We deserve some goodness, you and me,” he’d murmured, one particular afternoon, running his hands through Crowley’s hair. “After all this time, we’re owed some grace.”

“Damn right,” Crowley mumbled into his shoulder, soft grass leaving stains on his jeans, “Damn right you are, angel.”

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale returned, smiling.“I’m always right.”

Crowley swatted at his shoulder. “I wouldn’t go that far. Can’t have you getting a big head on me.”

“Me?” Aziraphale gasped, tipping his head up towards the sky, “Never!”

“As if the hedonism wasn’t bad enough,” Crowley grumbled. “Now I’ve got to deal with your dramatics.”

“You love it,” Aziraphale said, a truly shit-eating grin on his face. “You know you do.”

“As long as you don’t get thrown in the Bastille again, I couldn’t care less,” Crowley said, throwing a rock from hand to hand.

Aziraphale opened the picnic basket and rifled through it. “I suppose I can manage.” He pulled out a bottle of red Crowley had found in the basement. “Here. Let’s have a toast, darling.”

Crowley snapped and set down two glasses. They clinked in his hands. “What are we toasting?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were just slightly downcast, and his eyelashes caught the light as it glowed like a halo upon his curls. He bit his lip. “It’s been eleven years, hasn’t it?”

Crowley stilled, hands positioned over the cups, reaching for the bottle. “Oh. It has.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was solemnity there - or weight, maybe - but he treasured it all the same. He didn’t have to voice what that stretch of time meant - it was okay if he didn’t. It was right there in front of them, in every moment they had. But he did say it, he said it in everything - every gesture, every word, every smile. And they both knew it.

“Are you happy?” Aziraphale asked.

And Crowley thought about everything he loved.

The mid-morning sun above the telephone lines, Aziraphale’s old record player, and how gently he smiled. How Adam and the cat were inseparable when he came over, how they left footprints in the mud that somehow remained for weeks. How the angel looked when asleep, the way he fawned over the kitchen garden. How he loved him like he was the most precious thing he had, and always made such a fuss when he tracked dirt through the house. How the sun flowed through the leaves in late August. How simple it was to live, to tramp through the garden, to scour the supermarket shelves for Aziraphale’s favorite brand of tea. How he would hold Crowley up when he was shaking and brush his hair until he was calm again. How sadness was no longer infinite, how he was allowed to be happy.

“Of course,” he said, taking the angel’s hand. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“You sure are, you old snake,” Aziraphale murmured, resting against his shoulder, hands brushing against flowers. “I’m afraid I’m keeping you this time.”

“If you must,” Crowley smiled. “Let’s have that toast, hm?”

And they did, and they toasted the only thing they ever did, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, century after century. Even thousands of years later, the sun was still the same in Aziraphale’s eyes - it glowed and sparkled in them like it, too, worshipped him.

And, later, when Crowley awoke in darkness akin to a starless sky and knocked over a glass of water in the resulting panic, there were those eyes, still beautiful in the dark. Soft and gentle, Aziraphale’s strong hands wrapped around his chest and lifted him out of bed, drawing the pads of his fingers reverently over the back of his neck.

“My darling, my darling, my darling,” he murmured, brushing back the hair from his face, the haze from his eyes.

He drew a blanket over his shoulders, his hands still knowing the perfect amount of pressure, his lips still murmuring those same private adorations. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, he drew Crowley from his shadowed tomb, led him to the bathroom, sat him down, and cleaned the blood from the back of his hand.

“It’s hardly anything to worry about, my dear,” he whispered, (knowing damn well that wasn’t the problem, but saying it anyway, because he knew it helped.) “It’s just a little cut.”

“‘M sorry,” Crowley said, trembling more than a leaf in the garden, the bandaid cool on his skin. “Should be better by now. For you.”

“Oh, confound the thought,” he said. “Would you tell me the same?” And he smiled, there, in the blue-tiled bathroom that might just have been floating in space, the only thing to ever exist in the entire galaxy. He smiled, and it was as if he had made Crowley a lantern with his own two hands, wrapped light in copper wire and wood and metal, and given him a piece of his heart, all aglow, all aglow.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered, with as much grace as he could, and Aziraphale leaned up to him and kissed him like he was kissing something worthy of as much worship as the sun. Light to light and dust to dust, they would remain.

And he said, as if they were exactly the same, as if there was no distance, no difference between them, as if they had been one since he had watched him make the stars, “I love you too, my dear.”

They would stay illuminated there, anointed, almost, in the dusky moonlight thrown across the bathroom, floor speckled with the pebbles and leaves they had brought in from the garden and the sea. And it would be beautiful. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be beautiful.

If one put one’s heart in one’s hands, one could only hope to be regarded just as beautifully, even with hands scarred with blood and age. They had gone on alone for far too long, after all. To live - to touch, gently, this time around, was far more than enough. But still, boats in the current only went on, and with time, miracled ivy grew up on Aziraphale’s bookshelves, just because they could make it so, and it was beautiful. They could have more and more - they could eat from time’s table like when they were young, and still make something good.

They had made the stars together, once, though Aziraphale had only stood and believed in wonder. They had stood at the cusp of the universe and reveled like children, and had loved so much it ached, over and over and over again, throughout all of space and time.

They had loved, and loved enough to call fate to her grave, and the resonance would continue on far after all the stars in the universe had gone out. And then maybe they would become the stars - Crowley often said as much about Aziraphale, anyway. They were owed something poetic, the angel would respond. What an oath to take, what a shattering proof of existence - to become the most beautiful thing ever to exist.

And sometimes Crowley would make a joke just for the hell of it when the weariness got too loud and they could hear the traffic from outside. But on the warm summer nights when the lush jungle outside dripped dew and supple apple boughs swayed and rustled in the wind, the fruits of their labor round and red, the two would be silent, and listen to the nightingales somewhere far off, a simple song just for the two oldest beings the world had to hold.

“Well, that’s something,” Crowley would say. “The nightingales are singing.”

And Aziraphale would say, “I love you too, Crowley.”

And there, in their lush, green little nook of the world, with its heather and stone walls and puddles and telephone lines and bicycle spokes and lazy little melody, they would smile, softly, secretly, and lay side-by-side in the grass together, clasped hands losing calluses, faces growing old, hair growing slightly greyer, (by choice, just for the hell of it,) and they would be warm.

And there, at the end of all things, in the place where the grass was soft and love ran like water, they would stay, eternally, and everything, finally, would be beautiful once again.

It would end, as it began, in a garden, worn with time and grace and grief that found its place.

And, of course, there would always be nightingales.