Chapter Text
It all comes to a head — because of course it does — in the good old United States of America (“It’s pronounced the You-Ess of Ehh, angel,” Crowley insists, always more in touch with the slang, lingo, and fashion of the day than Aziraphale ever has been.).
Just northwest of the Decatur Municipal Airport, the forces of good and evil amass on adjacent hillsides. There are rather less than ten million in either faction, testament to the work of the angel and demon who stand back to back in the valley between them. Really, it’s only the most zealous among their ranks: Sandalphon and Michael, the Metatron and a handful of others representing Heaven; Hastur and Dagon and bloody Furfur on the side of Hell, not an Eric in sight.
“A bit on the nose, that, eh, angel?”
Aziraphale turns his head, follows the line of Crowley’s gaze to the black and silver historical marker on the edge of the would-be field of combat.
“Battle of the Knobs,” Aziraphale reads, a laugh sputtering out between his lips before he can catch it, and for the first time, he feels more than a forced hope. It feels like a sign — from Her, from the universe, from something ineffable — that today is not the end.
He leans back just enough to feel the ragged slide of Crowley’s feathers interlacing with his own. The demon has his crank. Aziraphale has his sword. Come Hell or high water, as they like to say here in Texas, they are in this together.
When all is said and done, Christ and Antichrist walk off together, Adam slinging his arm over Jesus’s shoulders as he tells the Messiah how the world has changed in the past two thousand years.
“An’ you can get practically anywhere in the world in a day or less by flying on a plane. No need to worry about camels or horses or donkeys or anything.”
“What does a woodworking tool have to do with flying?” Jesus asks, ever the carpenter, and Adam grins, explains about aeroplanes, and talks about his gap year in Australia and how long it took to get there.
“And the Bible always talks about you liking wine, but let me let you in on a secret: margaritas. In a can. Just pop the top and you’ve got a margarita ready to drink. No messin’ about with bottles or blenders. Just one pull tab away from a good time.”
“I do like a good time,” Jesus agrees, and without further ado, Adam’s calling them a rideshare, asking the driver for dive bar recommendations (“There’s a Chili’s off 287,” the driver offers.) and dragging the rest of the Them to join the Son of God and the ex-son of Satan for a night that promises to be remembered — or possibly not…Aziraphale isn’t sure how celestial or infernal parentage might influence alcohol tolerance.
Technically, the Them are under the drinking age in this country, and he’s fairly certain Jesus doesn’t have any form of identification, but does it really matter in the face of one young man who can apparently still bend bits of reality to his will and another who can turn water into wine?
Once the men who were meant to face off and end the world have departed and the powers-that-remain have been sufficiently cowed by a dressing-down fit for a teenager who’s been caught sneaking out to smoke a joint with their mates in the middle of a field for-what-had-better-be-the-last-time-do-you-hear-me-or-so-help-me-you-will-be-grounded-until-you’re-thirty (a dressing-down delivered by, it should be pointed out, the actual voice of God, not that fucking liar, the Metatron), Aziraphale stands side by side with his hereditary enemy cum best friend cum love of his eternal life and sighs.
“You look tired, angel,” Crowley says, so tenderly Aziraphale could cry, and perhaps he does cry when Crowley leads him to the Bentley which is bright yellow for the joy of seeing him again, which lets out an undignified beep-beep when he fondly strokes the dashboard, which immediately pops open a hidden compartment filled with his favourite lemon and ginger travel sweets.
“Yes, alright, I’m glad to have him back too,” Crowley says as he shifts into gear and points them southeast, and Aziraphale is too tired to ask where they’re going, too tired to grouse about the speed, too tired to do anything but lean back and enjoy the ride with his favourite man-shaped being at the wheel.
When next he opens his eyes, it’s a quarter of an hour later and the demon is pulling into a small town’s equivalent of the Ritz — a rundown Motel 6 whose sign boasts “COLD A/C, TRUCK PARKING, FREE WI-FI.”
“We’re not going back to London?” Aziraphale asks blearily.
“Not yet,” Crowley says. “You need a break. And if you go back to the bookshop, it’ll just be business as usual. Muriel’s got it handled for now.”
Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, but the words sputter out at the pleading look on the demon’s face. He doesn’t say that he needs to spend time with Aziraphale, just the two of them, that he needs to look after the angel for a little while, that he needs to make sure — even after the events of the past week — that they really are on the same page about Heaven, Hell, the Earth.
That they are on the same page about each other.
He doesn’t say the words, but Aziraphale reads them in his eyes anyway, and he waits while Crowley finds out if there’s an available room (which, of course, there is, though he’s not sure if it was his miracle or Crowley’s that ensured it or if it’s just that no one else has reason to visit this tiny town).
When Crowley comes back, a key and diamond-shaped plastic keychain in hand, Aziraphale follows him to the room, and he’s certain when they open the door that while it’s on the right side of small, it should be significantly shabbier than it is. He doesn’t mention it.
Instead he sits on the edge of the bed with its three thousand thread count sheets and marshmallow fluff duvet.
He watches as Crowley kneels and unlaces his Heaven-issued Oxfords, pulls them from his feet, digs his thumbs into Aziraphale’s arches, drawing from his lips a moan filthier than any heard on the motel’s thirty-six pay-per-view channels.
Until he’d shown up on Crowley’s Mayfair doorstep a week ago, they hadn’t seen each other in four years, and though they are eternal beings, there are changes.
Aziraphale knows his corporation is a little thinner. Not slimmer, which to a human might hold connotations of a healthy diet, exercise. No, he is thinner — stretched out, worn down, malnourished.
In Crowley, the most obvious change is his hair. He hasn’t seen it like this since when? Golgotha? Oh. The demon’s hair tumbles halfway down his back in soft waves, hides his face from Aziraphale as he kneels, a miracled basin before him, his hands gently lowering angelic feet into the steaming water.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps and reaches out, his unnecessary heart pounding so hard he’s afraid it will beat out of his chest. “You needn’t– you kneel for no one and especially not for me.”
But Crowley catches his hands and sets them back on his thighs, cups his fingers and pours out an oil Aziraphale hasn’t smelled in two millennia, woody-sweet and herbal, something animalic in it that lingers in the air.
He massages Aziraphale’s feet and rinses them clean, and when his crimson locks slide around Aziraphale’s ankles, under his heels, between his toes, at last he looks up, gold coin eyes bright.
“Angel,” he says. “I would only kneel for you.”
With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, basin, water, and oil are gone.
“Come to bed,” he murmurs.
And Crowley does.
When Aziraphale blinks awake, whipcord arms are banded around him at chest and waist, legs that have gone scaly at the knees and ankles are tangled with his. Damp breath warms the nape of his neck, and he shivers.
An unconscious Crowley seems to take that as a sign that he should be snuggled closer.
He goes back to sleep, and the next time he wakes, Crowley is gone.
Aziraphale barely has a moment to wonder after him — just enough time to notice that the clothes carefully folded on top of the bedside chair are his own: his Balmoral boots, his worn velvet waistcoat, his butter soft shirt — before the demon is strolling back through the door, a paper bag in one hand and two cups in a cardboard holder in the other.
“Brought us some breakfast,” he says, setting his bounty on the nearby table.
“I see that,” Aziraphale says, already reaching for the cup that says Tea, Earl Grey, Hot in black marker on the side. “Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley takes a long sip of his coffee and then begins removing items from the bag.
There are three small plastic containers of salsa: green, red, and nearly purple.
After the salsas come several foil-wrapped cylinders.
Aziraphale takes one of them and peels back the foil. There’s a tortilla inside, filled with scrambled egg, cheese, smoked beef brisket. He watches as Crowley selects the green salsa and dribbles it onto his own food. Aziraphale follows suit.
“When in Rhome,” the demon says, smirking, as he picks up the taco and taps it against Aziraphale’s in some semblance of a toast.
Aziraphale takes a bite and nearly discorporates. The tortilla is warm and fluffy, the eggs soft and melded with the rich creamy cheese, the brisket smoky and savoury, the salsa spicy and tangy. It might be the best breakfast he’s ever had — next to crêpes, of course.
“Thought we could go on a little tour,” Crowley says around a mouthful, and Aziraphale should scold him for the poor manners (teasingly, lovingly), but he doesn’t, too focused on devouring a second taco, a third.
“Oh?”
“See all the sights, eat all the foods.”
Aziraphale looks up at the last word. “The foods?”
“Y’know. What each state is best known for. There are lists online. In Texas, for example, it’s brisket.”
He holds up the breakfast taco. “Check.”
Aziraphale stares at him. “A tour?”
Crowley shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “A road trip. If you like. Just thought it might be fun. Haven’t been over here since the sixties, have you?”
“I haven’t,” Aziraphale affirms.
“Well then,” Crowley says.
And apparently that settles it. Because the next thing he knows, they’re back in the Bentley (still yellow, by the way, and Crowley has said nary a word about it) and headed west.
They pass a school, a church, a Dairy Queen, a church, the police station, another church — this one with one of those changeable signs that usually says something trite and not at all in keeping with the teachings of the actual founder of the faith.
Oddly, this one seems to be advertising “PEN¡S BENEDICTIONS” which Aziraphale is fairly certain aren’t a thing, but this is America, so who knows?
“Where are we headed?” he asks.
“New Mexico,” Crowley says, removing his left hand from the wheel to pick up the map sitting on the seat between them. He glances at it briefly, though they’re both aware that the best car in the world will take them wherever they want to go. When he puts the map back down, he leaves his hand there on the seat.
They pass a McDonald’s and another church, this one with only the service times listed on a wooden sign. As they merge onto the highway, Aziraphale curls his pinky around Crowley’s. The demon smiles.