Work Text:
By nearly any standard, it is not a nice day. It’s storming and wretched on Earth, and it’s cold, sterile, and altogether far too bright in Heaven. Aziraphale has been sitting at his desk, usual prim posture abandoned, staring out the window, watching the roiling storm clouds gather and split open. It didn’t take long for him to decide he’d much rather feel the heavy rain on his skin than be sitting here. The last time it’d stormed like this, he and Crowley had been out to lunch. They’d just left the restaurant when the rain started, and they had run, laughing and half-drunk, through the torrents back to the Bentley, parked several blocks away because his demon had refused to let any valet touch his precious car. They’d bundled themselves up in the backroom of the bookshop, getting themselves absolutely sloshed while they reminisced.
That night had been over two years ago. How on Earth had he gotten himself here? Just two years ago, Aziraphale had been so happy. He’d had almost everything he’d ever wanted– a comfortable home, a comfortable sort of safety, and a comfortable friendship, even if he desperately wanted that friendship to finally evolve into something more. Now he was here, slumped in a distinctly uncomfortable chair, feeling utterly alone as he watched the clouds form and shift. Only She would know where Crowley was now– was he at the bookshop? Would he be lounging across that sofa he loved so much, limbs arranged in a way that made it seem as if having a spine was optional? Would he be with Muriel, teaching them about Earth? Or would he be driving somewhere, or sleeping in his car, or doing all he could do to get as far away as possible from the life they’d had in that bookshop, was he angry or grieving or moved on entirely…
No, Aziraphale couldn’t let himself think on this sort of thing any longer. He was already homesick enough; it was better to push the demon out of his head, try and fail to forget how scared the demon had looked, how shattered he had seemed, how he had looked half-hopeful as Aziraphale had turned back one last time, hoping for one last glimpse… that was it. Aziraphale needed to stop this silly thinking. Crowley had said no, refused to come with him, there was no way the demon would ever forgive him for accepting the Metatron’s offer. No possible way they could go back to the way things were, on the off chance that Aziraphale actually managed to find a way to somehow entirely overhaul millenia of cold, corrupt bureaucracy.
No, Aziraphale would have to settle for quiet longing, shoved as deep into his core as he could push. This sort of thought, about there being some vague possibility where Crowley would somehow deign to love him back, after everything he’d done by now, that would simply distract him from the work he had ahead of him. Or at least he should be working– shouldn’t he be working right now? The Metatron had been oddly quiet when they’d first come up here, simply walking Aziraphale to his new desk and telling him to wait for further instruction. Aziraphale had only seen one particularly low ranking angel so far, and even that was in passing. He certainly hadn’t seen any of the other Archangels, let alone the Voice of God himself. Aziraphale sighs, sinking a little further into his chair, distinctly not thinking about how the curve of his spine resembled the way a certain demon’s had bent as he curled into his favorite armchair.
Aziraphale just keeps staring outside, a twisted knot in his stomach, watching as a particularly dark cloud blows across the sky, a beautiful but stark contrast to the too-bright white of Heaven’s walls, considering letting out another self-pitying sigh, when an utterly obnoxious alarm rang out. It was painfully loud after the silence that had surrounded him for two years, and it startled the Archangel out of his chair, standing alert and looking frantically around and anxiously smoothing the wrinkles out of his waistcoat. His stiff, new white waistcoat that the Metatron had insisted that Aziraphale wear “proper attire” upon his arrival in Heaven. He was now stuck wearing this blasted white outfit instead of his comfortably worn-in vintage ensemble.
He just stands there for a while, knowing that he really should be finding what caused the alarm, step fully into his role, but he just cannot seem to find that sort of confident authority in himself. He never had been particularly brave in Heaven. Something about the endless expanse of light was just so draining and belittling.
It was Saraqael who found him in the end, a grim look on her face.
“There you are, Aziraph– Supreme Archangel. A pressing matter requires your attention. It may be of some special interest to you.” She turns and leaves, clearly expecting Aziraphale to follow. She leads him across the seemingly endless expanse of blindingly white floors and walls to a place where the Metatron has gathered with the other Archangels.
Aziraphale glances at the group, barely taking in the way the Metatron’s impatient expression has shifted to something more akin to forced cheerfulness blended with annoyance over Aziraphale’s lack of punctuality. He stops short, his gaze landing unavoidably on a black-clad figure on the ground, curled up as if in pain. Black wings–this must be a demon, then– had been drawn from the ether, but appeared so crooked and mangled. They’ve been forced together and tied to the demon’s back with pearlescent white rope. The same bindings force the being’s ankles together, and their long, slender arms are tied behind their back so tightly it must be painful. A thick, black, oil-like substance seeps through their torn shirtsleeves, smears the feathers on their wings. Blood, eternally tainted by a Fall. The creature twitches, groans in pain, shifts, and… no. No.
A flash of red hair, the glimpse of a black, sinuous snake tattooed next to a slightly-freckled ear… this is not just any demon; this is Crowley. Panic rushes through Aziraphale’s veins, how could this have possibly happened? Crowley was still alive, still conscious, but only just– what could the demon have done to get himself captured by the highest ranks of the Heavenly Host, what had the Archangels done to him, what, why, when, how—
Nonononononono no no no No NO.
Aziraphale looks back and forth between the bound, curled little parcel of a demon and the other angels, opening and closing his mouth as he gawks. He half-sees the angels glance at each other, barely recognizing the sword in Michael’s hands, the disconcerting smirk forming on her lips. While Aziraphale grasps for slippery words and questions as they rush through his mind, it’s the Metatron who speaks first.
“Ah, yes, there’s the Supreme Archangel himself! You took so long to get here, we had to send Saraqael to ensure you hadn’t fully abandoned your duty to Heaven and run off to Earth!” His tone is uncomfortable– there’s an almost creepy level of enthusiasm in his voice, just like he’d had in his voice the day he brought the newly-promoted Archangel to Heaven, when he’d told Aziraphale that he wouldn’t need to worry about anything from his life on Earth anymore. His casual speech and slightly-wrong cheerful tone set Aziraphale’s skin crawling, but he has more to worry about than decoding the Metatron’s speech. Crowley was still tied and hurt on the ground, just six meters away from him. He was barely holding onto consciousness, if the weakening of his groans is anything to go by.
Aziraphale forces his face into some semblance of neutrality, fiddling with his signet ring behind his back. He speaks with a calmness he doesn't believe in when he says, “Yes, well, I’m here now. What seems to be the issue?” as if a demon being in Heaven, in any capacity, isn’t something warranting the attentions of the Supreme Archangel.
“Hmm, well, as I’m sure you can see, a demon has been found conspiring against Heaven. This one’s suspicious behavior got flagged by some of your associates that happened to be in the area. He struggled, as is in their violent nature, so measures were taken to incapacitate him for now. He seems rather drunk as well.” The Metatron pauses, sighs, and tuts disapprovingly at the curled ball of demon before continuing. “The ropes that bind him are blessed, of course, so none of his villainous miracles can function at the moment. I’m afraid the gag was, well, simply for convenience.” He turns, taking the sword from Michael. Flashes of memory echo in Aziraphale’s mind– so there’s why the sword seemed so familiar. It’s the same one he’d wielded in Eden, he’d given to Adam and Eve, that War herself brandished at the end of the world.
* * * * * * *
“Another round, hic , please!”
Crowley’s words were slurred and interrupted with little hiccups, but a quiet miracle ensured no bartender at the Dirty Donkey was about to cut him off. The quiet young man behind the bar simply slid over another carefully-measured glass of Chateauneuf du-Pape, pretending to not watch out of the corner of his eye as Crowley swallowed the drink down in two gulps. As far as he was concerned, the tall redheaded man dressed in all black had clearly seen some sort of horrific trauma to want this much alcohol– a little collection of empty whiskey tumblers and wine glasses had amassed around him as he drank faster than they could be collected.
Crowley had, in fact, seen some particularly horrific and traumatizing thing to make him crave this much inebriation, just this day six years ago. He’d come face to face with Satan himself and helped stop the apocalypse. He would usually celebrate this day of survival with a fussy, adorably soft blonde, but the last two years had been different. Last year, he’d fully slept through the summer; it was too painful to even think about the events of that day without the angel by his side. This year, he was agonizingly awake, so he’d do everything in his power to get so astonishingly drunk he couldn’t think at all, let alone about the apocalypse-that-wasn’t or Aziraphale or Aziraphale leaving him. He wasn’t exactly succeeding– more than a few unlucky bar patrons had been roped into listening to his drunken rants about a beautiful angel and how he had left him alone and went to Heaven, leaving them with the impression that Crowley had been rather recently widowed. If the redhead occasionally rubbed away a welling tear and whispered, “I lost my best friend,” that only served to confirm their assumptions. Regardless of the public’s opinion of him, his mood was as miserable as the weather had been recently– torrents of pounding grey rain and an uncharacteristic chill for a summer evening.
He lifted his hand to call for another round, and cold, firm hands closed around his bicep. Another set of hands grabbed him by his shoulders. The drunk demon whirled around, shouting– “Oi, knock it off, who do ya think you are?!” – and his eyes widened behind his glasses when he recognized the two beings. Michael and Uriel, Archangels he remembered from before his Fall and from listening to Aziraphale recount his meetings Upstairs. The duo had gotten him in a firm hold and without even a single glance between them, hauled him off of the stool and towards the pub’s back room. Crowley was no match for the combined strength of two determined Archangels, and could barely think straight thanks to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the last few hours. He shouted for help, but was unheard over the din of the crowded pub. As punishment for his attempt, Uriel shoved a rag into his mouth, and he was utterly helpless as they dragged him towards a glowing white elevator that certainly hadn’t been there before.
* * * * * * *
“Proper punishment, of course, for an attempted demonic invasion of Heaven, with believed intention of corrupting members of the Heavenly Host, is death.” Oh, no. Aziraphale is reeling, trying to think of any alternative, of a way to talk the Metatron towards any other alternative. Crowley had always been the better of them at this; he always had some quick cover up handy or could ramble off fictitious bylaws most people were too lazy to actually check. Aziraphale had lied, yes, but never particularly well. He had a habit of getting rapidly flustered and spouting utter nonsense. It really was a miracle anyone had ever believed him. “This duty is typically carried out by the Supreme Archangel.”
“That’s... That’s the only punishment? Isn’t… death”-- Aziraphale pauses, just to let his eyes flicker shut for a moment, take a deep breath– “a little extreme? Permanent? I’m sure this could be just a misunderstanding, perhaps we just imprison him until further evidence can be gathered? I know of a scrivener who should be on Earth, perhaps they were nearby and witnessed the event?”
“No, no, Aziraphale! Are you accusing your colleagues here of lying? Are you denying what they saw and heard before they were left with no choice but to apprehend a dangerous demon? I know you have some rather unorthodox history with the creature, and I think you may have been blinded as to where your true loyalties lie.” The Metatron hefts the sword, setting it alight and extinguishing the orange flame just as promptly, chuckling under his breath. He closes the distance between himself and Aziraphale in a few steps, pressing the sword into Aziraphale’s anxiously wringing hands. “I’m afraid I really must insist you participate here. After all, with all the plans for Heaven’s future, it’s rather important that all involved are very aware of their loyalties to the Divine Plan.”
Aziraphale lets his eyes flicker down to his sword before he steels himself and looks back to the Metatron, just in time to catch the Metatron flex his wrist– a signal only Michael seems to understand as she steps forward, barking at Crowley to kneel before his superiors. As if Crowley could ever be inferior to anybody , Aziraphale thinks. Brave, curious, strong Crowley. He was worth more than all of Heaven combined.
Crowley grunts, squirms, trying to arrange himself upright, but he takes too long. A swift kick to his ribs knocks him down again the moment he makes any progress. Michael prepares to kick again, but with a pointed look from the Metatron, and she sighs and simply tilts her head towards the other Archangels. Saraqael checks her nonexistent watch and mutters something about being late for a meeting, fleeing the scene, but Uriel joins Michael next to the demon, and together they pick Crowley up by his armpits, pulling him to wobbly knees and turning him to face Aziraphale. Michael slaps him across the face, just for the chance to humiliate the demon ever more.
As Michael backs away, Aziraphale gets his first proper look at the love of his existence in two years.
Crowley’s hair is tangled and dirty, long, curling slightly as it reaches past his shoulders. His lip is split and bleeding; more oil-slick blood leaking from a gash on his cheek. Bruises circle his neck, across his face, a red mark forming where he was just slapped. His clothes are wrinkled and torn, blood seeping through each gash and rip. A shining white cloth has been tied around his head as a gag, tamping down his hair. But the worst of it, the absolute worst of it, was his eyes.
Someone had taken his glasses away at some point, leaving Crowley looking almost naked without his trademark shades. They were nearly fully yellow in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen in millenia, the whiskey-gold of his irises bleeding into his scleras. That alone wasn’t awful, but as the demon gained stability on his knees, those eyes connected with Aziraphale’s. For a moment, the angel was faced with the flickers of recognition, love, anger, and resignation as they passed through the demon’s head, but then Crowley twitched, shook his head as if to rid himself of whatever fog had settled in his mind, and his irises shrank, becoming more akin to those of a human. His whole body had been shaking with the effort of staying up on his knees, but it was made worse by the effort of maintaining his eyes’ appearance. Aziraphale nearly recoiled at Crowley's sorry state, overwhelmed at the sight. He couldn’t quite decide whether to run as far as he could or collapse to his knees and beg forgiveness. Tears pricked his eyes, his face flashed through emotions: fear, shock, terror, anger, guilt, panic, then barely-under-control angelic neutrality. Crowley, on the other hand, merely shook, and stared, and blinked with those wide, sad eyes.
“Ta–Take his gag out. He may be…” Aziraphale chokes on his words, stutters. “He may be a traitor to both Heaven and Hell, this villainous beast you claim he is, but he deserves to have his last words heard.” Uriel rolls their eyes, but complies. Crowley opens and closes his jaw, stretching it out after hours of disuse, but says nothing. He just stares, and blinks, and stares again, a hint of disbelief coloring his expression.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, looks back into those wide yellow eyes, tries to ignore the pain and what looks close to resignation shining through.
“Speak, foul fiend.” There’s a flicker of recognition in Crowley’s eyes, the whisper of a hoarse laugh deep in his throat before he stops himself. Aziraphale barely restrains himself from his own hysterical giggle; they’d both remembered the smile in Aziraphale’s voice when he’d last used that title for Crowley. That was seventeen years ago now, the day they’d planned to be Warlock’s godfathers. Oh, but so much has changed.
Crowley looks surprised for some reason, like he hadn’t expected he’d ever be able to speak to Aziraphale again. He swallows hard, then when he attempts speech, it’s quiet, strained. “Angel, I…”
“Oh, come on, now, Aziraphale! Get on with it! You have a duty to Heaven, sanctioned by the Almighty Herself, take up your blasted sword and end the demon! Have you forgotten how the thing was found plotting to break into Heaven?” The Metatron is getting angry now, any mask over his impatience crumbling.
Crowley flinches, withdraws a little bit more into himself.
Aziraphale widens his stance, levels his sword as ordered– this is a direct order from the Voice of God corporealized. What is said to him is said to the Almighty, and Aziraphale knows he would not do well to disobey. He’s shaking, struggling to keep the sword level. Tears that have been threatening to form finally well up, fat and heavy. As the first one falls, Aziraphale turns his head. He needs to control himself, he needs to steady his hand and stop these pathetic tears. He absolutely cannot show any softness now, can’t be seen as this fragile and weak, can’t be seen crying over the death of a demon, for goodness’ sake. If there was to be a Great War, how would the Supreme Archangel be trusted as a leader into battle when he can’t even kill a demon who’s been quite literally tied up and presented to him?
He turns his head back, facing Crowley, those damned yellow eyes. Another tear falls, out of his control, and he whispers two shaky words: “I’m sorry.” He says these words to himself, to Crowley, for what he is being forced to do. He whispers it to the Almighty, apologizing for his weakness, his pathetic softness.
Aziraphale knows he’s stalling, but he can’t help it; how could he possibly be expected to kill this demon, to kill Crowley? He could hardly begin to think about killing the Antichrist himself until left with absolutely no choice. The Metatron’s worn patience is thinning even more, he’s yelling now.
“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, get on with it! Kill this traitor, rid yourself of these damned distractions, and prove your loyalty to Heaven already!”
“Yes… yes Metatron, um, just… making sure I’ll have the angle right. I think we’d all prefer a… cleaner end, hmm?” Aziraphale manages, stuttering and wobbly.
He turns himself back to his demon, his love, looks through his eyes as if seeing Crowley’s most true form. Crowley hangs his head a moment, lifts it back up to bore honey-golden eyes into Aziraphale’s stormy blue-grey-green ones. He opens his mouth, his voice raspy and choked, and so careful.
“It’s okay, Angel.”
Nonono.
“You have to do this. I- I understand.” He says this so very quietly, absolutely no one but Aziraphale could hear him.
Aziraphale can hardly hide the too-fast heave of his breath, the wobble of his lips, the choked gasps and fat tears welling up and ready to overflow if someone dares look at him the wrong way. But oh, Crowley should never look at him like this, should never have to look at him like this. “ No, Crowley… I can’t, I ca- I can’t do this.”
“Angel.”
“No…”
“ Angel. This is what you need to do.” And curse it all, the demon just looks so resigned. He looks like he knows this was inevitable, like he really believes that Aziraphale has it in him to ram this blessed sword through his captive’s heart.
“No, no, Crowley , I can’t–”
Crowley just sighs again, his expression turning the faintest bit pleading . Like he wants Aziraphale to run him through, to watch as inky-black blood seeps from the wound, to let it coat his hands and his heart and stain the crevices of his soul …
He speaks again, his voice shaky but so sure. He knows exactly what he’s about to say, and he really, genuinely believes in it.
“War, or no war, this was always meant to happen. In order for Heaven to win, for this side of “good and light” you’re always talking about to win, this… this was inevitable. Always was meant to be. It… It’s just ineffable, right?” There’s a quirk of a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and Aziraphale fully breaks.
His knees are buckling, and tears pour freely, sobs racking his body.
“Angel. I forgive you.”
Aziraphale falls to his knees, sword held limp in his hands, and he can hardly speak, blubbering and sobbing. “Crowley no, nonononono, I can’t I don’t think I ever could– How could I– How could you– you think that I– I couldn’t, I could never–”
He’s interrupted from his babbling when the Metatron yanks the sword out of his grip, hefting it and stalking towards the demon. “Fine, then. If you can’t do the simplest of tasks to prove your loyalty, I’ll have to dispatch two traitors today. This demon has proven himself, time and time again, to be a danger to everything I’ve built here, and I will not. Let. Him. Ruin. It.” The Metatron is practically spitting the words, his ire boiling out of him in a soft white glow, face contorted with his fury.
Crowley curls in on himself, closing his eyes and tucking his chin towards his chest, bracing for the inevitable bite of steel against bone, the unrelenting sting of a blessed blade as it eats at his corrupted soul– but the only tingle of divine energy comes from somewhere entirely else, and the only noise is a choked, “What?” and the thump of the Metatron’s body falling backwards and crumpling to the ground, not the hideous sound made by the collision of damned bone and consecrated metal.
He cracks open one eye, still half-braced for screaming pain, and is met with the beautifully disgusting sight of the Metatron, impaled on the very sword he’d brandished against the cowering demon mere moments ago, a miracle flung out by a desperate Supreme Archangel changing the direction of the blade. Where the Metatron had planned on using his body weight to drive the steel forward, he simply slotted it perfectly between his ribs, spearing open his heart.
Blindingly gold blood poured from the wound, a blinding and utterly divine, ethereal honey-gold, so diametrically opposite to the sticky oil-slick of a demon’s blood, and Crowley is utterly mesmerized by its beauty. He’d bled that color once– six millennia ago, before the Fall, an experiment gone wrong had taught his naive and idiotically, unrelentingly curious self exactly what beautiful liquid kept him alive. The holy blood was filled with the purified grace of the Almighty, and Crowley didn’t think he’d ever bear witness to its glory ever again. He’d be damned twice if he ever let Aziraphale bleed on his watch.
He was still stunned when Aziraphale collapsed onto him, gathering him in his arms for an embrace, sobbing and delirious with relief. Crowley was alive. Crowley was alive.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Crowley, my love, I’m so sorry, I never should have left you, never should have let him, let them— Oh, Crowley–”
Aziraphale expends a miracle to release Crowley from his bonds– Michael and Uriel are now fawning over the dying Metatron and Aziraphale doesn’t want an inch of himself separated from Crowley long enough to retrieve the sword and cut the blessed rope properly. He uses miracle after miracle to heal Crowley’s wounds, fade bruises and ensure no scars will form. He sobs and pleads forgiveness and whispers “I love you I love you I love you” over and over again.
That’s what makes Crowley absolutely certain that he’s dead– Aziraphale has now killed the Metatron and betrayed the will of Heaven, but he’s absolutely in shock and sits there, frozen, as he listens to Aziraphale call him “love.” If he really is dead, or if this is some sort of dream, he’s not quite sure he’d ever want to wake up.
Aziraphale loves him.
Aziraphale loves him.
Aziraphale loves him.
The Metatron must fade entirely at some point, as the combined rage of the Archangels is suddenly directed towards them. A building of tingling divine energy fills the air as they yell something unintelligible, but Aziraphale, still clinging and crying against his demon, flings out an arm, sending a blast of miraculous power radiating out from himself and practically flinging the Archangels to the far wall.
Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s hair, breathing in his scent.
“I’m never letting any of them touch you ever again. I’m never letting any of this happen again. How could I have ever been so blind , so naive – I love you, I’m so sorry, I love you more than I could ever understand, than I can say–”
Crowley comes back to himself slowly, bit by bit. Maybe this is real, he thinks. He loves me. His own tears start to fall, and he gains enough consciousness to wrap Aziraphale in his arms, hold him like he’s being held, and whisper into the crook of his love’s neck, “I love you too.”
* * * * * * *
Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley is quite sure who really set that last miracle in motion, but in a flash of white light they disappear from the clinical sterility of Heaven and find themselves curled together on the floor of the bookshop that technically belongs to Aziraphale but they’ve each privately been thinking of as theirs for years now, right atop the rug that covers the carefully drawn gateway to Heaven.
They lay there together for a while, weeping and holding and laughing in delirious relief and not saying much besides quiet whisperings of I love you and I’m sorry and never again.
The tranquility must break eventually, and it’s Crowley who speaks first, still desperate to confirm, for absolute, unconditional fact that this is real.
“Aziraphale, Angel, you… you…” His voice is still strained and raspy from being gagged, still ever-so-slightly slurred with the alcohol he’d flooded his system with before his capture.
“I’ll never let any of them touch you again. Not ever.”
“Please tell me this is forever, I don’t think I could bear it if you left again, I couldn’t stand it…” He trails off, and Aziraphale squeezes him just a bit tighter.
“Never again. My dear boy, I promise you I’ll never leave you again, I promise.”
“Good.” Crowley settled back into the comfort of his angel’s arms, emboldened to ask just one more question.
“Angel, can I… can I kiss you? Properly this time?”
“Oh, my love, of course , of cour–”