Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley was driving the Bentley at a normal speed. That is, a normal speed for any human who didn’t wish to spend the next five years in a small, dark prison cell. For Crowley, this was an extremely abnormal speed, and the semi-sentient car probed at his mind, a gentle nudge of concern and love and sympathy that it could only have picked up from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale.

He really should have been angry at the angel. For Satan’s sake, when Aziraphale let Gabriel stay in the bookshop, Crowley had become so enraged that he’d summoned lightning. But now, after having six thousand years of friendship thrown back in his face and losing the only person he’d ever loved, he didn’t feel anything. No anger, no sadness, not even a niggling desire to tie some CEO’s shoelaces together and watch him faceplant onto concrete. There were simply no emotions inside of him. Like he was empty.

It took him a while (three times as long as usual, due to his complete lack of disregard for speeding laws), but he made it to his flat. His sanctuary, away from angels and demons and annoying white-haired bookshop owners who smiled too much and saw the best in everyone, even when it wasn’t there. He kicked his shoes off, if only for the satisfaction of sending them catapulting into the corner of the room with a loud thud. Usually he enjoyed this petty show of overdramatic-ness, putting on a performance for nobody but himself, but this time it felt empty. He glared at his shoes as if they were the reason for all his woes and then moved on.

He was entitled to a rest, he decided. A quick sleep, just until things felt better again. Engaging in the sin of sloth was exactly the kind of thing a demon should do, after all. Not that he was a demon anymore. Then again, it wasn’t like he was anything else either. He could have been.

“We can be together. Angels.”

But no, that wasn’t… he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Heaven had discarded him like he was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a stone in their holier-than-thou shoe, and six thousand years later, Hell had done the same thing. It had broken him, completely and irreversibly, and he didn’t have the strength to go through that all over again. Not even for Aziraphale.

He grabbed the first pyjamas he could find and quickly got changed, trying hard to keep his mind from going anywhere painful. Which meant he was trying hard to keep his mind from going anywhere at all. Thankfully, his mind stayed blessedly blank. Or damned-ly blank. Or just blank.

He padded out of the bathroom, and he was hit with a strange sensation on his bare feet.

Cold floor.

And his brain stopped.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Crowley’s floors were cold, and they always had been. It soothed him, most days, being reminded that he was far, far away from the burning fires of Hell. But Aziraphale’s floors were never cold. In fact, nothing about Aziraphale had ever been cold, the angel seemed to radiate warmth and love like some kind of good-vibes radiator that was stuck on the highest setting. And now, the floor was cold.

Crowley laughed. He laughed at the ridiculousness of being upset by the cold floor. He laughed at Heaven and Hell, at how he’d escaped, and he laughed for every moment he’d stolen with his precious angel right under their noses. He laughed and laughed so much that it hurt, so much that there were tears in his eyes and his throat felt tight and his entire form was trembling, then violently shaking, then a collapsed heap on the ground. He couldn’t stop, the raw emotions that had been on hold for hours suddenly finding a release and leaving him wrecked, clinging to his knees as tiny hysterical noises bubbled up his throat and out of his mouth. He was fairly sure this wasn’t actually laughter, but if he wasn’t laughing, it meant he was sobbing on a cold concrete floor in human pyjamas, and he had an image to maintain that was almost exactly the opposite of that.

He didn’t know if it was minutes, hours, or days later when he came back to himself. He was laying on the floor, curled up so his knees pressed against his chest. His entire body was damp with sweat and tears and, rather disgustingly, snot, and his limbs felt like they were nailed to the ground. His eyes hurt, his throat hurt, and his pride was curled up in some corner of his mind, bleeding and broken and limp. He didn’t have the energy to get up. He didn’t have the energy to do anything.

He let sleep claim him.

He dreamt. It was, in Crowley’s opinion, rather unfair that he should have to experience things whilst sleeping. The whole point of sleeping was to not experience things. Alas, it seemed that the universe hated him, and he was dragged through his memories of Aziraphale, his feelings towards the angel, and his fears and desires twisted up into some terrible, tempting package and dangled just beyond his reach.

“Get thee behind me, foul fiend”

“I’ve always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice —”

“Let me tempt you”

“None of this would have worked out if you weren’t, at heart, just a little bit a good person”

“I forgive you”

Crowley startled awake, gasping for air and stumbling over apologies all at once, eyes frantically wide searching the impossibly dark space for the only person he’d ever loved in six thousand years. But he wasn’t there. He’d never be there again.

“Deep breaths, Crowley,” he said aloud. To himself. Talking to yourself was the first sign of madness, that’s what the humans always said, but it wasn’t like there was anyone else for him to talk to.

“Why do you forgive me?” he asked. Was it still talking to yourself if you were technically talking to someone else but they just happened to not be there? Or was that even worse than talking to yourself?

“Why do I need forgiveness?” His voice cracked, and he stubbornly wiped his eyes. “What did I ever do?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sorry.”

…

“Please, don’t throw me away again.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was a Principality.

It was not as far as anyone knew, a talent of Principalities to be able to see what was happening on Earth when they were busy doing paperwork in Heaven. It was also not a documented talent of Principalities to be able to feel what others felt after being quite deliberately moved a full dimension away from said others to prevent said feelings leaking through. It was most certainly not supposed to be a talent of a mere Principality to just decide that actually, they had more far more important things to do than their new job, thank you very much, and simply leave when the fuck ever they decided to.

Aziraphale, as it turned out, was not your usual Principality.

Crowley’s pain had been leaking through to him since they parted ways. It started off as sadness but had soon dulled down to something a less optimistic angel might call numbness, but a more desperate one might call peace. And Aziraphale had always been very desperate when it came to Crowley. He let out a smile at the lack of distress and got to work.

Several hours of very boring forms later, a full-on meltdown had hit the back of Aziraphale’s head like a particularly unforgiving crowbar. Also his feet were cold. But mainly, there was a meltdown happening in his brain, about Heaven and Hell, about how he and Crowley and escaped, and about every moment he’d stolen with his precious demon right under their noses.

It wasn’t his meltdown. But it still hurt.

Eventually, sleep claimed his other half. A fitful, restless sleep, but a sleep nonetheless. It gave Aziraphale enough breathing room to do some hurried yet meticulous plotting; forms that had been ever-so-slightly modified before being signed, rules having new conditions woven neatly into them, and promotions being finalised with a small print that only the most experienced bookseller in all of Soho, London would ever pick up on.

Plan A had been to stay in Heaven. To save the humans whilst sending comforting nudges to his dearest Crowley, keeping them both strong until they could be together again. The humans needed saving once and for all, and Aziraphale would suffer Heaven for as long as it took to grant them an eternity of peace from the forces Above and Below. Crowley, he understood, could not do that, but he didn’t need to. Aziraphale would carry the burden for the both of them for as long as it took, and would do it a thousand times again for his demon.

He thought Crowley had understood this. But it seemed that he underestimated how much damage Heaven and Hell had done to his friend (a foolish oversight that he’d reprimand himself for at a later date), and it became necessary to use every single trick Crowley had taught him to weasel his way out of Heaven and back home. It was the riskier of the two options, but it was also the more appealing. He missed Crowley.

Aziraphale knew the second that Crowley woke up. A sharp pain shot through his temples like a twin snake bite, then slithered downwards to wrap itself around his heart and stay there, growing ever tighter. The pain had words behind it this time, clearly spoken words in a voice the angel would know anywhere.

“Deep breaths, Crowley,” said the voice. Aziraphale made his own breaths grow deeper, holding onto the voice with all his might and grounding it as best as he could. He didn’t know if it had worked, but he had to try.

“Why do you forgive me?” asked the voice, directed at him.

“Because,” he replied, words too muffled by Heaven to ever reach their target, “you deserve forgiveness. You always have.”

“Why do I need forgiveness?” The voice cracked, but pushed on. “What did I ever do?”

Aziraphale felt his heart shatter. “I thought you knew,” he whispered back. “I thought you understood, that there was only one person who needed to forgive you, and I hoped my words would make them realise that you were worthy of the forgiveness that you so desperately need. Not my forgiveness, Crowley. Never mine.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I, my dear. But I will fix this, I swear.”

“Please, don’t throw me away again.”

Aziraphale actually flinched back at this plea, so desperate and so broken and directed towards him, because he was the one who had done this. He glared at the paperwork in front of him, the paperwork keeping him away from Crowley, so hard that it set itself on fire (that… was a new ability, but no time to contemplate it now), then he reached out to the voice, held it tight, and pulled.

And then he was gone.

Crowley was alone. And then something pulled, and he was on his ceiling, and then Aziraphale was in a heap on his floor. Which was. Unexpected.

It took Aziraphale a moment to get his bearings, and a moment more to locate his friend. But when he did, his entire face broke out into a huge grin, eyes lighting up like God Herself had just announced she was restoring every first edition ever lost to the world.

“Crowley!” he beamed, before hopping up to the ceiling and reaching out his arms. Crowley felt himself freeze. He’d been crying a moment ago, alone on a cold floor, asking the universe for answers and expecting none and wishing for Aziraphale to come back. And now he was on the ceiling being offered a hug. And Aziraphale was on the ceiling, which Aziraphale didn’t do, the angel simply had too much respect for gravity, and he was being offered a hug, and nothing made sense, but bless it, he wanted that God Forsaken hug.

“Zira,” he mumbled back, his voice gravelly and hoarse, and then he was launching himself into warm, waiting arms and burying his face into his friend’s jacket, able to breathe fully for the first time since he’d driven away from the bookshop.

“I will never throw you away,” Aziraphale told him, gently but firmly, rubbing soothing circles into his back. Had he heard Crowley talking? How had he heard? He’d been in Heaven, hadn’t he?

“How’d you get here?” Crowley asked absentmindedly. It was the easiest of the many, many questions he had, so seemed a good place to start.

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied, in that tone of voice that meant he’d done something Terribly Bad and didn’t want to admit to it. “I’m, well, I’m rather afraid I, we, may have accidentally done something… not bad, but… unconventional?”

“Unconventional?” Crowley pulled back so he could look his friend in the eyes, knowing he’d see his eyes pointedly looking somewhere else in a display of innocence and remorse that was entirely fake but nonetheless hilarious, as well as that little spark of mischief that all the other angels seemed blind to. He drank in the image, unable to help the smile that crept onto his face at how much of a bastard the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale truly was.

“Well, dear boy, it seems that we may have. Um. There may be a little bit of you inside of me.” Crowley choked on air at the implication, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. “A little bit of me inside you, as well. I’m not entirely sure that we’re separate entities anymore.”

“I could feel you,” Crowley offered. “When you left. I knew you were in Heaven, because I could feel you.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I could feel your pain,” he admitted. “You were suffering. And your feet were cold.”

“Because the floor was cold,” Crowley added.

“Because you weren’t in the bookshop,” finished Aziraphale. “And I knew I couldn’t leave you.”

“But you did. You did leave.” The accusation hung heavy in the air between them, and Aziraphale sighed heavily before dropping back down to stand on the floor. Crowley followed, eyes searching him for… something. He wasn’t sure what. A hint of regret? An explanation? Some reassurance that his angel never actually meant to leave him?

“I’m a Principality,” Aziraphale stated, as if that explained everything. It was a non-sequitur, and it wasn’t even true anymore, but it seemed important, somehow. Like it carried more weight than anything else either of them had said so far.

Aziraphale was the Supreme Archangel. But he’d started off as a Principality, the protector of the apple tree, then the protector of the Earth, and finally the protector of the humans he’d grown to love. Crowley supposed that, after six thousand years, it would be difficult to let that go. But that was why he’d suggested the pair of them leave Heaven and Hell far, far behind them. They wouldn’t be free as long as they were still an angel and a demon. They wouldn’t be safe as long as the forces Above and Below could reach them.

And neither would the humans.

Understanding hit him like a flaming sword through the stomach. Aziraphale had been unwilling (unable?) to leave Earth to the mercy of Heaven and Hell because he stood as the humans’ protector, their Principality, and he would hold that position until the day he was permanently discorporated. No matter what happened, if he was demoted, if he Fell, or even if he became the Supreme Archangel, he would always be a Principality. He would always protect his precious humans. And Crowley could never hold that against him.

“I forgive you, Angel,” he said, distantly aware of the irony of the words but knowing they needed to be said anyway.

“Crowley?”

“You were protecting the humans. I didn’t even think, I just saw you leaving and I thought—”

“It’s okay, dear boy. Thank you, for forgiving me. But I believe that you are also in need of forgiveness.” Crowley flinched, but Aziraphale pressed on. “Not mine, my dear. Never mine. You have my love and forgiveness no matter what, and you always have.”

“Then… who needs to forgive me?”

“You do,” Aziraphale told him, the words so soft they were almost a plea. He reached for his demon’s hands and held them tightly, looking into his eyes as if he could reach into his soul and make him understand. “Please, Crowley. Whatever it is you’ve been blaming yourself for, these last six thousand years, please know you deserve forgiveness.”

“Zira—” He was cut off as the angel pulled him into a tight hug, and he felt himself being flooded with love and forgiveness and all that Heavenly Goodness nonsense he’d always imagined would hurt so much for a demon. Instead, it felt like coming home. Like sitting by a warm fire, like the smell of old books, like finishing a bottle of whisky and relishing in the way it burnt a trail down his throat as he laughed his worries away, basking in the smile of his closest friend as they rambled nonsense until the sun came up.

This was what forgiveness, true forgiveness, felt like. And he was being gifted it freely, from one part of himself to another.

He accepted it.

He forgave himself.

Crowley allowed himself several moments to just bask in the pure bliss that was Aziraphale’s love until something occurred to him, and he reluctantly pulled back. He couldn’t let his angel sacrifice humanity, sacrifice a part of himself, for a demon.

“You should be in Heaven.”

“My dear?”

“You can’t abandon the humans. You’re their Principality, they need you.”

“I’m also your Principality,” Aziraphale told him gently. “First and foremost, my dear, I am yours. I thought I could protect them and you, but you need me so much more than they do. The humans are strong, they can survive without me if they need to. But I don’t believe you can, and I don’t believe I could survive without you either. My place in this universe is by your side, wherever you choose to go.”

Crowley found himself blinking back tears for the second time in ten minutes, but for a very different reason. He thought he’d lost everything, and now he had even more than he’d ever dreamed of.

“Angel, you need to protect the humans. And I can help. You and me, yeah? On our own side, on the humans’ side, until the end.”

“Crowley, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, Aziraphale. More than anything.” He sighed, taking a look around his dreary apartment, thinking of the bookshop and the Ritz and his beautiful Bentley. They would never come close to being as wonderful as his angel, but he’d miss them anyway. “Do you reckon we can pop back down once in a while, go out for a meal?”

“Pop back down?” Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, his eyebrows furrowed adorably in a way Crowley would never get bored of seeing.

“From Heaven,” he clarified.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part!” Aziraphale gave an excited little wiggle, looking thoroughly pleased with himself (what on earth had the fabulous bastard done now?) before summoning some paperwork into his hand and thrusting it towards Crowley, who made no attempt whatsoever to read it.

“Angel. I do not read. Ever.”

“Of course my dear,” Aziraphale replied blandly, having walked in on him with his nose buried in some astronomy book one too many times to believe him, but choosing to let the lie slide. “I altered my Heavenly contracts. Only a little bit, so that I could… what’s that delightful human expression? Ah yes, ‘Work From Home’.”

“Home as in your bookshop?”

“Home as in wherever you happen to be, my dear.”

“The bookshop has warmer floors,” Crowley stated, and that was that.

The two of them ended up curled up in the back room of the bookshop thirty minutes later, looking over the plans for the Second Coming and thoroughly ruining them with little changes and additions, weaving a protection for themselves and their planet throughout. Also the odd swear word, just for flavour, and the occasional distasteful comment about the other Archangels. Well, you can’t blame two part-demons for causing a little chaos every now and then.

“Oh, did I tell you I can create Hellfire with my mind now?” Aziraphale commented offhandedly.

“You can what?”