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The old wooden door groaned on its hinges as hurried footsteps crossed the threshold.
“Got another one! Ginger!” Aziraphale’s voice echoed through the narrow hallway, followed by the dull thud of the door closing and a soft, plaintive meow. “Although, she’s more brown at the moment. Absolutely covered in mud. Poor thing—found her hiding among the piglets in a pen! You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Well, good for her that sows are so tolerant,” Crowley drawled from the main room, barely lifting his gaze from the feather on a string he was twitching for the delight of two squabbling kittens. He tipped his head in greeting as Aziraphale entered, cradling a muddy bundle of fur in his arms. Around Crowley, a veritable sea of cats lounged, sprawled, or prowled about. Twenty-three, if anyone cared to count—not that anyone did.
To count them, to ask questions, or to investigate further was the last thing on anyone's mind. The year was 1345, and Christmas was darker than Europe had known in generations. The Black Death had broken loose, its tendrils creeping through cities, villages, and hamlets alike, leaving death and despair in its wake. Corpses lined the streets—human and animal alike—while the living struggled to bury them fast enough. To those who survived, the air itself seemed to carry death, heavy with the stench of rot and fear.
These were difficult times, even for celestial beings with nearly limitless powers. Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t need to sleep nor eat nor worry about getting sick, but the situation weighed on them nonetheless. They rarely rested, never ceasing their efforts to help people in their troubles. Their sleepless vigilance carried into their roles by day as unlikely plague doctors, clad in the beaked masks and heavy cloaks that lent an air of resilience—or perhaps just mystery.
They brought supplies, tended to the sick, and prayed for the deceased. For the survivors, the angel whispered what comfort they could, sparking hope in places long buried beneath despair. But the pandemic was vast, sprawling across Europe and reaching overseas, its claws sinking into every corner of the known world. Even if they had cloned themselves a hundred times over, they could never cover all the places devastated by the tragedy. Yet, they never stopped trying.
Crowley wasn’t supposed to help, of course. His mandate, as dictated by Hell, was to observe, to revel in humanity’s anguish and maybe nudge it along. But even he had limits. He couldn’t stand idly while suffering spilled out of every corner of everywhere one looked. So, at first, he told himself it was a one-time indulgence, an exception made only because this tragedy was too horrific—even for him. Just this once, he thought.
And then there was a second time. And a third…
Soon, Crowley became the regular silent provider, slipping medicine and bread to those who needed it most, pilfered from the hoards of the wealthy. All his wit, all his contacts, all his mischief, he used for the good cause Aziraphale had initiated. The angel never asked where the goods came from. He didn’t need to. He knew. And though he never spoke the words, he silently rooted for Crowley in every smuggled vial, in every stolen loaf.
Still, Crowley rarely interacted with those they helped. He left that to Aziraphale, leaning in doorways with a posture that screamed detachment yet betrayed something deeper. He avoided the eyes of the ill, as though their suffering was something he couldn’t quite bear to face. Instead, his gaze lingered outside, watching the rats scuttle across the street, his body taut with an emotion hard to name. Aziraphale, ever perceptive, said nothing, though the weight of his worry lingered.
When night fell, their work shifted to a quieter kind of salvation. The animals left behind—the forgotten, the persecuted, the hunted—became their charges. Cats, in particular, bore the brunt of humanity’s suspicion and cruelty. Blamed as carriers of the sickness, they were slaughtered without hesitation, and Aziraphale could not bear it. Each evening, he scoured the streets, gathering every cat he could find to safety: the strong, the weak, the sick, and the dying. Not a single one was left behind.
In their small, drafty shelter, Aziraphale tended to them all. Those with a glimmer of hope for recovery were nursed back to health, carefully quarantined from the rest. For those too far gone, he offered comfort as they passed. Crowley watched, sometimes amused as the angel played with kittens, their small lives a fragile but bright contrast to the dark outside. Other times, he was quietly moved as Aziraphale poured himself into soothing the dying, caressing fevered brows, whispering words of comfort, and guiding their souls to Heaven. Every one of them, without exception, was received above.
They’d found a rhythm: one night, Aziraphale would scour the streets while Crowley stayed back with the horde; the next night, their roles reversed. Tonight, it was Crowley’s turn to stay. He sat at the rickety table, the weak glow of a petroleum lamp casting shadows that danced like specters on the walls. The air smelled of damp wood, feline scent, and a hint of the herbs Aziraphale insisted on keeping for the sickly animals. It was oddly homely. Comforting.
Crowley dangled a feather tied to a string, his wrist flicking idly as the kittens leapt and batted at it, their tiny claws scraping the floorboards. He wasn’t sure how the angel managed to pack so much sentimentality into a single room, but there it was: every corner of the shed whispered a kind of determined care, the kind only Aziraphale could conjure. It made it especially hard to leave it every other night.
“Well,” Aziraphale announced, stepping carefully over a lounging tabby as he set the newest rescue on a worn blanket, “she’ll need a bath.”
“Good luck with that,” Crowley quipped, his smirk curling. “Cats love baths. They’ve been composing odes about it for centuries.”
Aziraphale shot him a look but couldn’t quite suppress his smile. “Honestly, Crowley. Sometimes I wonder why you even bother staying if all you’re going to do is heckle. Why don’t you go wash her? Maybe she’ll sing you one.”
“I’m not heckling,” Crowley leaned back, his chair creaking under the motion. “I’m here for the ambiance. Love what you’ve done with the place—very ‘paradise lost.’”
Aziraphale sighed but didn’t argue. Despite Crowley’s snark, he stayed—every night, without fail. And though neither of them would admit it, their nightly vigil was a defiance against the darkness outside, a quiet declaration that even in a world unraveling, they could carve out a sanctuary. Crowley needed a safe space to return to as much as anyone did.
“By the way, pigs are quite empathetic creatures,” Aziraphale remarked, holding up the bedraggled kitten for Crowley to see. “They truly don’t get enough credit for their complex character. This little one couldn’t have found a safer refuge—well, other than here, of course.” He gave the kitten a fond scratch behind her muddy ears, only to pull back his hand, now smeared with grime.
Crowley arched a brow, unimpressed. “Their character might be inspiring, but their hygiene leaves something to be desired… Hand over the rascal.”
Aziraphale surrendered the kitten with a soft sigh, both sad and relieved to let the tiny, squirming creature go. The girl was just too adorable. Crowley took her, holding her at arm’s length with a practiced air of indifference, though his lips twitched in something akin to amusement. “Lucky for you, kitten, I’ve got a tub of water just for muddy little smudges like you. Better not squirm,”
The ginger kitten blinked up at him, her wide eyes meeting his with an almost knowing glance. She let out a long-suffering meow, the sound more of acceptance than defiance.
“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said warmly, shrugging off his coat with a small shiver as the damp fabric clung to his arms. He hung it near the cozy fireplace, its heat fighting against the chill that lingered in the air, but it was a small comfort amidst the cold, both outside and in.
Already halfway to the back room, Crowley tossed over his shoulder, “Please feed the rest of them, would you? They’ve been gnawing at my boots for the past two hours, and I’d like to keep what’s left of the leather intact. You’re keeping better track of the rations anyway.”
Aziraphale hummed a soft agreement, glancing down at the cats milling around his feet, their tails high with expectant hunger. “Yes, yes, my little dears, dinner is coming,” he cooed, smiling faintly as he reached for the carefully portioned scraps they’d managed to scrounge earlier. Behind him, the soft patter of Crowley’s footsteps faded into the next room, followed by the quiet splash of water and an annoyed meow.
The kittens pawed at Aziraphale’s robes impatiently, their mewling cries blending with the crackling of the fire. For this small moment, surrounded by the warmth and the soft chaos of the cats, he could almost forget the horrors of the world outside.
The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows that stretched across the walls as the night deepened. Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who sat at the edge of a chair, his gaze fixed on the flames, his usual sharpness muted by a deathly stillness.
"Thank you again, Crowley. Really, this has all been a tremendous amount of work," Aziraphale said as he placed the last cleaned bowl on the counter. He glanced around at the spotless surfaces, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I don't know where to look first. It’s so much easier when there’s another pair of eyes to share the load. Yours, especially."
Crowley shrugged, his eyes not leaving the fire. “S’nothing,” he muttered, his voice a little too flat. “Just keeping busy, angel. You know how it is.”
Aziraphale tilted his head, the warmth of his words hanging in the cool air between them. “No, it’s not nothing,” he pressed, stepping closer. “You’ve been remarkable. The animals, the people... you’ve done so much… good .”
Crowley’s laughter came out sharp and hollow “Good,” he said, almost to himself. “Right.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, sensing the weight behind the word. “Are you... alright with all of this?” he asked carefully, his tone measured.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Crowley replied too quickly, too defensively.
Well, yes. Why wouldn’t he be? There were actually countless reasons why. Even Aziraphale could come up with at least ten of them. It made more sense to ask why he would be alright with helping an angel. But Aziraphale didn’t ask.
Crowley shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee, the rhythmic tapping a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. The cats were all asleep, their collective breathing a soft, gentle sound, purring quietly in time with each exhale. They looked so relaxed, probably dreaming of cotton balls and sparrows, or whatever simple things could satisfy a feline. Crowley tried to focus on the calm rhythm of their slumber, but tonight, it was a futile effort. Restlessness clawed at him, refusing to let go. So much so, even Aziraphale noticed.
With a slow sigh, Crowley stretched his leg out and pulled a chair from the corner, setting it near the fire. He gestured toward it in a half-hearted offer.
Aziraphale's gaze softened. Without a word, he moved to sit, letting the flames’ warmth ease his mind for a moment.
“You seem... sad, lately. I mean...more than just the usual.” Aziraphale said quietly, his voice laced with concern. Crowley winced slightly, wondering what 'the usual' even meant, but didn't linger on it. The angel pressed his hands together, the familiar gesture grounding him as he sought to find the right words. “I wonder if this work is weighing on you too much.”
“It’s not the work, angel,” Crowley said, trying to sound calm but coming off as depressed instead. A long pause dragged his words out. “Glad to help, really. It’s just...”
He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t want to.
Aziraphale didn’t catch the cue. Or perhaps he did, but his concern outweighed his politeness. He leaned in slightly, his gaze soft but insistent. “Just what?”
Crowley knew what , but he didn’t answer. He knew it personally, too well, far too well. The damp, nasty smell of it, the cold, dirty paws that crept into every corner, the ever-growing teeth that bite at everything they come across. He knew that tiny thing, the one that brought down the mightiest, the largest of men. And that was precisely why he didn’t want to tell. But it was there, chewing at him from the inside, threatening to spill out every time he opened his mouth.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was low “You ever... think about consequences, Aziraphale?”
“Consequences?”
“For what we’ve done,” Crowley's words were measured but unstable. “The things we’ve been a part of. Things we didn’t mean to happen but… happened anyway.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice grew cautious, his brow furrowing in confusion. He had no idea where this was heading, but he could tell it wasn’t good. And it was probably worse than he could imagine, because Crowley’s voice never shook, never wavered. Not even about the Great Flood in the 5th century BCE. Not even about his fall, when it had been fresh.
Aziraphale assumed, though not always with certainty, that even as a demon, Crowley had a conscience he usually hid well, pretending it didn’t exist at all. Still, it was an angel’s duty to see the good in everyone, no matter how concealed it was. And now, as he watched Crowley, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if he was seeing it right.
Crowley exhaled sharply and leaned back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if searching for a script among the cracks in the beams. He knew it was pointless—no pause, no clever turn of phrase could make this truth any easier. So, he stopped trying.
“It was me, Aziraphale,” he said at last “It’s my fault. The plague. All of it. ”
Aziraphale blinked, momentarily stunned.
…
He exhaled. He breathed in. Then out. Again. And again. Not able to do anything else.
Crowley dropped his head, too afraid to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, and the sky behind the roof as well. It felt as though God Herself were watching from above, disapproving, reprimanding. But really, it was more his own mind scolding him with its wicked imaginings. He avoided the angel’s concerned gaze, more terrified of Aziraphale’s judgment than even the wrath of the Almighty.
“It was me,” Crowley repeated the words, void of any emotion—or rather, full of it to the point that it overlapped in a hush. “I was the one who let the rats loose on the Silk Road .” The trade route... It’s said the disease spread from the harbors. “Lucifer himself gave the order. Said it’d cause some trouble for the sailors, punish a few sinners. I thought… I thought they’d just nibble on some cargo, be a nuisance. Didn’t think they’d carry…” His voice trailed off, and he lifted his hand, hiding his face behind it.
Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He stared at the demon, the weight of the confession sinking in. Images of the suffering he’d witnessed flashed through his mind—the crowded sickbeds, the silent streets, the endless prayers for mercy. And now, this... Crowley. Standing beside it all as he usually did, his look uncharacteristically hollow and guilty. The beak of his mask pointed always down, muttering something, as if he was cursing the ground, or —more likely— the Hell itself. Always waiting outside and never accepting gratitude from the people for the help he offered. Aziraphale remembered the stretching look they both gave to the corpse pits, the demon’s gaze lingering and unflinching a tad bit too long, as if he was trying to absorb it, feel the sorrowful reality of it in all its measure. As a self-imposed punishment.
“I didn’t know,” Crowley whispered “Didn’t know until it was far too late. I didn’t mean for this to happen, Aziraphale. I swear I didn’t. But it did. And it’s all because of me…”
His shoulders were tense as if the weight of countless lives lost was pressing him into the ground, as if he had been counting them every day. He was. In the back of his mind, he was counting right now.
And Aziraphale could see it. He could see Crowley sinking lower in real time, and he was torn between the impulse to comfort and the bewilderment of the confession.
Crowley asked solemnly, more a rhetoric inquiry than an actual question “Do you know how it will end? Based on the prophecies? Based on Hell’s roadmap?”
Aziraphale shook his head faintly.
“It won’t be thousands. Not even hundreds of thousands… It will be millions. Millions .”
Aziraphale exhaled with difficulty “Is-...is it the truth?”
“Yes…”
The truth hung between them, unbearably numerous, searing in the blaze. Yet, no hatred burned in the angel. He stared distantly at the floor, his features cool but not condemning. Crowley didn’t understand. He was ashamed of himself—deeply, irreparably. If he were Aziraphale, he would have pulled a sword, pointed it at his own throat, demanded repentance, and let fury pour from every pore. He was furious with himself; why wasn’t Aziraphale?
“You should hate me,” he said bitterly, his voice thick. “You probably do. And you’d be right to.”
But Aziraphale didn’t. He couldn’t. He chose his words carefully, weighing the enormity of Crowley’s guilt against the tragedy itself, and against his own helplessness. Slowly, deliberately, Aziraphale rose from his chair. He gripped the seat as if uncertain whether he even should, but he stood. Then, almost hesitantly, he stepped forward and lowered himself, kneeling right in front of Crowley. He needed to see him properly, to not let him look away.
Crowley twitched, startled. His first instinct was that this was wrong—completely backward. He should be the one kneeling. He should be the one pleading.
“I don’t hate you,” Aziraphale said softly, sadness threading through his voice.
Crowley scoffed, disbelief coloring his words. “How can you not?” he asked, his voice rising, almost mocking the angel’s stubborn compassion. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale. An untrustworthy, lying, cruel monster. And I did this. Why don’t you hate me for it? Can’t you see what I am?”
Aziraphale exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of it all. Through his outward calm, his mind churned with a storm of conflicting thoughts. Anger at Hell for orchestrating such unspeakable cruelty, sympathy for Crowley for being ensnared in its schemes. Betrayal at the realization that his friend had played a part, yet trust that Crowley would never act with deliberate harm, not to such extent. Grief for what was lost. Hope for what might still be salvaged.
But in the end, he knew there was only one choice to make. The only choice he could make. Not for Heaven’s favor or Hell’s scorn, but because Crowley needed it—and because Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to offer anything else than forgiveness.
“I can,” Aziraphale replied, his voice steady despite the shakiness tugging at his lungs. “And that’s precisely why I don’t.”
Crowley’s heart skipped a beat, then seemed to forget how to start again. Yet somehow, whether out of divine mercy or cruelty, he continued to exist.
“You are not cruel,” Aziraphale said quietly, the conviction in his words steadying his own unease. “You didn’t do this out of malice, Crowley. I know you didn’t.”
Crowley’s jaw tightened, the edges of his features still sharp.
“You were tricked,” Aziraphale continued, his voice softening. “And even if you hadn’t done it, someone else would have. You told me yourself—Hell has its ways.”
Crowley’s lips parted as if to protest, to argue that it didn’t matter—but nothing came out.
Aziraphale didn’t falter “You wouldn’t be here now if you weren’t regretful. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t go out of your way to help me. There is a heart within you that knows remorse, and such heart isn’t an evil one.”
The words hung in the air, almost too much for Crowley to bear. He struggled to hear them, not just because they contradicted what he was supposed to be as a demon, but because a part of him wanted them to be true. And yet, the urge to deny it was overwhelming. To insist he wasn’t doing enough to deserve such recognition. That he’d never do enough—not in a thousand years, not in eternity. Penance didn’t matter to him, not in the way Heaven or Hell might demand. God, sins, divine notions of good and evil—they were irrelevant.
What wasn’t irrelevant, what gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t articulate, was humanity. The lives he’d ruined. He cared about them. Far more than he’d ever admit. Far more than he was supposed to.
Aziraphale’s voice was like a balm to his wounds “You’re allowed to care, you know. Even if you think you shouldn’t.” Since when had the angel been able to read his thoughts?
Crowley opened his eyes but didn’t make eye contact. “Doesn’t mean I can fix it. Any of it.”
“No,” Aziraphale said, his tone simple but unyielding. “But you can try. And you have. That has to count for something.”
Crowley exhaled a long, weary breath. He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to.
“You’re not a monster, Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You’re my friend.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and fragile. Then, Crowley looked up, finally meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. His eyes shimmered with the dancing sparks of the firelight. “You mean that?” His voice was barely audible, but the only one ought to hear it, understood with clarity.
“With all my heart,” Aziraphale said.
Slowly, Aziraphale reached out, his movements deliberate, offering Crowley the chance to pull away. But Crowley didn’t. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, drawing him into a gentle embrace.
At first, Crowley remained rigid in his hold, unyielding—tough and wary, like stone refusing to give way. But then, something within him cracked, a fracture as inevitable as a river wearing down a mountainside. The tension drained from his body, leaving him hollow and raw, and he collapsed against Aziraphale, clutching him with desperation he didn’t know he carried, until it floated to the surface. A shudder rippled through him as the weight of countless millennia seemed to pour out all at once. He could finally let it go. For now, at least, there was someone else to bear it, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Aziraphale held him close, his arms steady, grounding. He began stroking Crowley’s back in slow, comforting motions, whispering soft, soothing words. His lips pressed a feather-light kiss to Crowley’s hair as he murmured a quiet prayer for comfort, for healing. Not just for the world or its wounds, but for the demon in his arms.
Hold me tight,
In the dark, my guiding spark,
A flame that burns with gentle might.
I’ll surrender to you, my bright,
If only just for this quiet night,
Let me drown in your embrace,
As time slips softly, out of sight.
Hold me, hold me tight,
my only firelight.