Chapter Text
“How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?” He asks, and the other angel– Aziraphale, he’d said– offers a reluctant smile.
Aziraphale is holding his own hand, left in right, and looking out into the universe. His full cheeks sweetly pink, his eyes a baleful blue, reflecting the newly born nebula seeping across the void all around them. His pale brows are knitting together and his chest is rising and falling in the strangest way.
His hands flutter apart for a moment, fussing smooth an imagined wrinkle in his robes, and then rejoin. He’s squeezing his plump fingers against each other, they’re shaking ever so slightly. He’s squeezing them, and his chest is rising strangely, and his eyes are shining with no help from the starlight and–
“Why do you do that?” He asks Aziraphale, tipping his head towards the knot of his hands. Aziraphale startles a little, he wonders if he’d forgotten he was still beside him.
“Oh, uh, this?” The hands break apart, resting uneasily at his sides. Aziraphale looks down, he must have been chided for the action by someone before. His hands trained apart, unwilling to even flex his fingers now that attention has been called to it, doing nothing to quell the way they shake. “It’s nothing, I just–”
“You don’t have to stop.” He shrugs, the nonchalance might put him more at ease. “I was just wondering is all.”
Aziraphale flashes a little smile once more, it makes the lines by his eyes crinkle charmingly, and then his chest rises and falls again. It’s shakier this time, he can hear the way the air stutters out uneasily.
“What about that, I’ve never seen that before? Y’know the whole…” He tries to emulate the movement, but his chest won’t lift the same way, there’s no air to push out. “Whoosh.” He sweeps his hands in lieu.
“Ah, yes. That. It’s called breathing,” After all the business with the nebula just now he thinks Aziraphale looks a little bit pleased to share the new knowledge with him, “It’s something that the humans are going to do. Keeps everything working properly. In fact, I’m told it’s a rather important part of it all.”
“All sorts of strange mechanics with humans, I guess.” That was certainly true, everything he’d heard about the plans for them so far had been nothing short of baffling. He was happy to be stationed out here with the stars, where things made sense. “But why are you doing it?” He watches the way the shimmering white fabric of Aziraphale’s robes shift when he does the breathing thing again, tries to emulate the motion himself and fails.
“I suppose it just calms me down. All this talk of…well, just a bit of anxiety. It’ll go away.”
“Anxiety! Haven’t had that one yet, is it any good?” He crows. “Doesn’t look like much fun.” Building the universe was busy work, he hadn’t gotten around to feeling all of the emotions yet. Lots of excitement, mostly. And wonder–big fan of that one. Little need for anxiety though, not for him, not here in Heaven.
“No, I daresay it’s not. Doesn’t seem to stop happening, but the breathing helps, I think.” He turns back out towards the vastness.
The universe rumbles, and groans, and out of the firmament molten stars race by, brilliant and blinding. A newbie angel like this probably has no idea how hot the stars can get– don’t want to be nicked by one of those, that's for sure. He extends a wing up, the shadow of it a grey veil over Aziraphale’s white-blond curls,and he almost feels guilty for hiding them from the shine of the stars.
Aziraphale’s hands are folded together again, but the shaking has stopped. The breathing looks easier now, almost natural.
“Ah, well. I’m sure it’ll be alright,” He offers a smile to Aziraphale whose eyes are wide and shining as more stars barrel past, “It’ll be fine.”
⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆
Aziraphale wrings his hands on the wall of Eden.
“I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing.” He dithers. He’s taking jittery little breaths, and squeezing the bones of his knuckles together, and looks like he’s having a terrible time of all of it.
Crawley has half a mind to take his hands in his own to see if he’d stop wringing them for just a moment, or perhaps more likely, if a demon reaching out would make him shake worse instead. They look satin-soft and pale, little patches of pink in the spots where he’s worried over them too much. He takes another measured breath. Trying to calm himself, Crawley remembers, and–Oh! That was the other thing.
He’d wanted to tell Aziraphale he’d gotten the hang of the breathing thing finally. It’s much easier like this, human corporation and all, the breathing happens largely without him telling his body to do it. Lungs filling instinctively, aided by little things like oxygen and atmosphere. The effort it must have taken then, for Aziraphale to do all of that breathing up there in the void.
Breathing on earth wasn’t the first time though. The first time was an anguished gasp, sputtering and spitting boiling sulphur as his white feathers disintegrated clean off his wings. It had been fire in his lungs, his eyes, his heart, and agony all the way through. His first breath was a wail, a plea, a child desperately reaching for its mother in the midst of a nightmare.
He frowns. Maybe Aziraphale needn’t know about the breathing bit after all.
Probably doesn’t remember a one-off conversation with a traitor anyways. Crawley sure can’t remember it all, he wonders if he hit his head in the fall, wonders if the sulphur burned spots in his mind like it burned away his grace.
He turns back to Aziraphale and they chat, trading philosophical musings.
Crawley knows by now Aziraphale is a worrier. That much isn’t hard to work out after speaking to him for any amount of time. Crawley’s not much of a worrier, himself. It's hard to be, really, when the one thing worth worrying about has already happened. Turns out, when the worst thing imaginable happens that life carries on,maybe slightly worse [1], a little [2]dark grey on the other side.
Crawley also is starting to suspect Aziraphale is a bit of a dark horse. He didn’t see the sword thing coming, that’s for sure. He supposes it's just as well, he looked no happier with a sword in his hand than he does now with them clasped together, trembling slightly.
He notices that he’s breathing slow again, making his chest rise and fall on purpose. Crawley knows because he’s been breathing on purpose too. Stealing a glance to the side to see if he can match the angel’s pace. They inhale together, it feels like they hold it a second too long, and then exhale. They inhale–on the horizon thunder cracks. Crawley releases the breath in surprise, disappointed to have fallen out of sync. Aziraphale must have exhaled too because he’s making a displeased little noise and pursing his lips.
“Looks like rain.” He flits his eyes away from the clouds, down over the edge of the wall. “I do hope they’ve got enough to keep warm out there.”
Crawley reckons they do. Says as much.
The next crash of thunder is enough to make him wince–it’s all far louder than necessary, frankly–and beside him Aziraphale extends his wing in an elegant arc over his head. In the next moment the rain begins, and he slithers a little closer, close enough to tell that the angel is warm. Practically radiating heat, in fact. Would probably be warm too, if Crawly had reached out and taken his hand like he’d wanted to.
His chest feels tight, looking at Aziraphale, and he thinks maybe he hasn’t gotten the hang of this breathing thing quite yet after all.
⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆
God could, as it turns out, kill as many kids as she felt like with a righteous, merciless flood.
Crawley knows this. Crawley had known this before the rain came, and hoped (stupidly, desperately) that it wasn’t true.
They had tried to whisk as many onto the arc as they could carry when the waters rose high enough that the people began to panic. Crowding around the arc with their little ones aloft, begging, ‘save them, please, God, deliver them’. They had brought as many children on board as they thought they could without being noticed, as many as could be fed. At some point, they’d had to stop. They couldn’t take everyone, and how the heaven were they supposed to choose one innocent to live over another? How could they ever look at a mother and turn her child away with the surety both would die?
As the arc began to drift out the crowd was still gathered there, Crawley could see them from way up on the deck. They didn’t know if they ought to watch or avert their eyes from the misery below. They watched. They made themselves look and look, eyes straining until the crowd dispersed, floating up into nothing more than grim specs of colour in the abysmal ocean.
And only when the waters rose so high that nothing could be seen but slate grey water in every direction, did Crawley hunch over the rail of the deck and retch, stomach empty, and sobbing.
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Aziraphale is somewhere on board. They know this because Aziraphale tends to appear where there’s trouble, and that’s exactly what Crawley was supposed to be doing here.
They know this because earlier Crawley had dipped below deck to check on the little ones where they’d been hidden away, huddled together in a dark cabin, on a vessel with too many rooms. Aziraphale had been there waiting for them to return, telling the children a story with grand gestures of his hands[3]. Crawley hesitated by the door, letting him finish. At the end, Aziraphale had walked over, more furious than Crawley had seen him yet. It had been a reckless thing to do, they agreed with that much. And yes, it was against God's word, but what else was new?
For all the admonishment, Aziraphale did not run to tell Noah. For all the ire, he never once entertains sending the children away.
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The arc heaves uneasily between bitter-black ocean waves, spraying salt and making a right mess of anyone stupid enough to still be above deck. Crawley, as it seems, is the only one around. They’ve been the only one on deck for hours, soaking wet and freezing, knuckles white around the sodden rail. They should go back to the children, bring them something to eat.
They can’t seem to stop staring down at the water, stomach turning tumultuously with the ocean below.
“They’re scared,” Aziraphale had said. “They’re asking about their parents.”
Crawley’s whole corporation heaves again as it tries in vain to empty its stomach over the side of the arc. The crashing waves disguise the sound; there’s no tears when it’s whipping rain. Every inch of them is trembling from the wind, and the sea, and the sorrow of it all.
It had been a stupid plan, there had been too many they couldn’t save. There had been too many tiny little faces in the floodwater. Crawley had made themself look, they’d bet anything God had averted her eyes.
“Are you alright?” Crawley jumps. They’d been too lost in thought to notice Aziraphale sidle up beside them.
“M’fine, just all the rocking on this thing. Takes some getting used to.” Crawley lies, trying to will the hoarseness in their voice away. They grip the rail impossibly tighter.
Beside them, Aziraphale looks timid, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Hands clenched and–worried, then. Worried for them, and it’s a strange feeling to have those blue-grey eyes fixed on them in genuine concern. In anything other than what they deserve (disdain, disgust).
“I’m fine.” They try to be more convincing this time. They get the feeling Aziraphale sees right through it.
The angel politely ignores the obvious lie, turning instead out towards the water. “The rain is letting up a bit,” He starts conversationally, “They’re sending a raven to check.”
“That’s nice.” They’re looking down at the water. Down, down. Distracted, away.
Aziraphale puts a hand on their arm, a little nudge to bring their attention back to him. It hits Crawley like a lightning strike, the contact reminding them suddenly they’re still wearing a corporeal form. Aziraphale removes the hand as quickly as he’d put it down, but the spot on Crawly’s arm feels heated through.
They’d let go of the rail in their surprise, unmoored, the rest of their body trembles; realizing the chill all at once, accustomed to the heat of the angel’s hand far too soon. Aziraphale is looking at them, eyes wide and pitiful. Crawley is a thing to be pitied, sure, but hell, he doesn’t have to do it while they’re standing right there.
“Don’t look at me like that,” they turn away from him, they can’t bear to look, “I know I fucked up.”
“Actually,” Aziraphale peers around Crawley’s shoulder, trying to look at their face once more, “ I rather think you did the right thing.”
“That’s worse.” Crawley whips around, “Don’t pretend that’s not worse.”
“They’d be dead without yo–”
“Plenty more down there dead with me being right here. All I’ve done is draw it out, not to mention they’re orphans now, because of me and–” Aziraphale catches both of their hands in his.
His hands are improbably, miraculously, dry. And warm–god, he must be the warmest thing on the whole planet right now. Steady and sure, and squeezing Crawley’s fingers so tightly they’ve got no choice but to focus on him. They shut their mouth with a snap. Aziraphale is staring intently, eyes stormy [4].
“Crawley, I think you’re a bit overwhelmed, you need to calm down.” They laugh, and sputter, deliriously, trying to think of something to say. ‘Everyone on earth’s just been killed and you want me to calm down?’, ‘you didn’t look at them, you didn’t see’[5] , they imagined that wouldn't help much.
Calming down did sound nice if it didn't feel so impossibly out of reach. They were drowning right along with everyone else. They’d been drowning for weeks.
“Take a breath, demon, I’m right here.” Aziraphale ducks his head, trying to follow Crawley into their spiral, “I’ll do it too, see?”
Aziraphale takes a big breath, showing Crawley how to do it, and after a beat lets go. On the next one Crawley tries too. It feels shaky, heavy. They thought the heart was different from the lungs, but the beating in their chest is so fast they can’t seem to tell which is influencing which. Aziraphale exhales, Crawley exhales. Again. They peer up through their lashes, stuck together with salt, and offer a watery smile. ‘I’m doing it, see? I’m fine’.
They breathe together for a while, the rain thinning out to a drizzle, the flood waters quieting down for a spell.
“Thanks.” Crawley croaks, “I’m alright now.” Reluctantly, they pull their hands out of the angel’s, not one to be found holding on too long.
“It’ll be alright,” Aziraphale assures, Crawley can’t be sure he’s not saying it for his own benefit too. Crawley can see his own terrified tremor. “The children will be fine. And it will be well.”
Crawley commits the sound of his comfort to memory. It will be well, they repeat in their head for the long days after. In a little while, the breathing comes easy again.
⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆
“I’m a demon, I lied.” And he had. The only thing lonelier than being a demon had been being an angel, and the only thing lonelier still was the amorphous in-between where he and Aziraphale sat.
It was easy in a way, lying to Aziraphale. Aziraphale had a certain naivety that made him want to fool him, and an undeniable intelligence that made him hope he’d see through it every time. An unsuccessful lie nearly always had him embarrassingly delighted, a successful one always made him feel more guilty than he really ought to, made him want to fess up, show the angel he wasn’t a filthy demon in the way the others were. As he’d said, it was easy, not fun. Cheap,actually. Lying to Aziraphale felt cheap.
They sit there together in silence for a little bit, watching the sun meander lower in the sky. Aziraphale sniffles every once in a while, eyes red-rimmed, eyelashes stuck together in a way Crawley finds sickeningly fetching.
“It’s not so bad being lonely,” he starts optimistically, when it’s clear Aziraphale has no intention of speaking anytime soon, “At least not now that it’s you too.”
“Me too?” Aziraphale asks, he sounds small, he looks tired. Crawley’s got his attention, at least.
“The two of us, down here being lonely together. At least you know there’s someone around who gets where you’re coming from.” He tries to sound casual, he tries not to sound overly pleased about the implication that Aziraphale gets him too.
Aziraphale frowns and looks down at his lap. “I may have avoided ruin today, but what about next time?”
Oh and that notion was delicious. Next time, he says. Next time! The angel was already picturing how he might lie to heaven again. Not as an intention, no, but as an inevitability.
Crawley shuffles a little closer on the great stone slab they share.
“Next time you’ll know the right things to say.” He shrugs. Just lie a little to God, that’s all. No big deal. Easy. “Next time it won’t feel so scary.” Might even feel good, he doesn’t say.
“Next time I won’t be so lucky.” Aziraphale snaps, irritated at the demon’s nonchalance. “Next time I may…” He falters, eyes welling up anew, “fall.”
Aziraphale hides his face in his hands, shoulders trembling and Crawley knows he’s crying properly again. Poor thing. He’s not sure he knows the right thing to say, his last attempt at comfort led to the crying in the first place. And besides, it’s hard to focus on a coherent sentence when the angel is sniffling, teeth worrying his pink little lips, dabbing daintily at his cheeks with the sleeve of his pristine robes.
He’d seen Sitis comfort Job in such a way: a gentle brush for reassurance, simple pressure enough to say ‘you’re not alone’. He remembered how it felt to be calmed by Aziraphale’s touch on the arc. The heat of his hand warding away the icy sting of remorse. Crawley reaches out carefully, places one hand on the doleful hunch of Aziraphale’s shoulders.
The moment Aziraphale registers the sensation he jolts up to stand, stumbling a little on the edge of the slab. Crawley recoils too, hand snapping back down to his side.
“I think I’d better go. Dark soon, best be, er…well, going.” Aziraphale’s talking fast, avoiding Crawley’s eyes [6], and brushing off the backside of his robe before turning to go without another word.
Crawley turns away too, looking down at his hands in his lap, not bothering to watch him leave; choosing instead to listen to the sound of his feet displacing sand until it fades into nothing and he’s completely gone.
Crawley sits by himself on the big stone slab, a single dark figure staining the horizon. He looks down at the water, he looks out at the sun, and when the two meet he wanders off alone.
⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆