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“It’s alright, you did your best, Crowley.”
It bloody wasn’t. The flood still swallowed so many. Shivering against a gust of cold wind, he closed his eyes. It wouldn’t do to cry here in this cave, where the rain couldn’t hide his tears. Suddenly he felt warmer, white wings surrounding him.
“Things will get better again.” Aziraphale’s eyes were watery, but he had a small smile on his face. “You did your best. They’re now migrating to warmer places, aren’t they?”
A small nod, and now arms around him too.
“You did good.”
“The angel you knew is not me.”
Aziraphale had all the reasons not to trust Crowley. He was a demon, and he had orders to destroy. Yet.
“Are you sure, angel?”
“Quite sure.”
Aziraphale had looked into his eyes, gaze as unwavering as his faith – not faith in the above, but in the demon in front of him.
These blasted humans. Crowley was tired, and grumpy, and sour. All things bitter and unpleasant. Still, Aziraphale approached, and smiled upon seeing him.
“What else could I be, an aardvark?!”
It was infuriating. He shouldn’t be allowed to beam like this. Crowley wanted to bite, snarl, and swivel around the black tar in his heart, and yet…
“Oh no. No, that's your job, isn’t it?”
…he smiled.
“You said trust me.”
“And you did.”
How could he not? Trusting Aziraphale was easy. Things would always be alright if he had him to his right. He could do anything, even fire a miracleless gun.
“You really are quite a nice…”
And there was Crowley, pressing him against the wall, soaking up all the warmth that emanated from the angel’s body. He could never accept Aziraphale’s praises. It was dangerous; at any moment he could be sucked into the depths of hell for them, and they were in a satanic coven. Damned ground and all that. The praises would always be there one way or the other; a dear boy here, a very good there. Aziraphale always saw something deep in him that should be kept hidden.
Nothing much to fight for anymore. The bookshop caught fire, taking away the only place on this earth that had felt like home; the only being that could make any place feel like home.
“Oh, look, there’s Lucifer and the guys…”
Crowley didn’t mean to fall. He also didn’t mean to be friends with someone he had to keep distant, only to lose him. This was hell. He considered how much alcohol he needed not to witness the last of the world crumble, when…
“Aziraphale?”
… It was him.
Everything would be alright. He could drive through a ring of fire and face Satan himself, but things would end up alright.
Metatron looked down at him, Crowley curling on the ground, holding the still-hidden book in his jacket.
“Tell me where The Book is, demon.”
Demon. Fiend. Why did these words hurt now? They never did when it was Aziraphale saying them. He whined as a pain flared up from the center of his spine towards the end of each one of his nerves.
“TELL ME.”
Crowley gritted his teeth, arms tight around himself and the lives of each being to ever exist. It had been hard to trust Aziraphale this time, but he couldn’t let go. He had to believe.
“Stop.”
Crowley grinned.
Long limbs stretched over the tartan fabric. Golden light poured from the windows, the sun gracing the cottage once more. There was nothing to be done today. Crowley was made for days like this.
Bleary, he reached for the other side of the bed, not finding the warm body that had joined him the night before. He sat up with a little jolt, only to find those fluffy white curls hidden behind a book.
Aziraphale sat in his armchair, all cosy and soft. When he noticed Crowley, he smiled as if he’d seen the best thing in the whole world.
“Good morning, darling.”
Aziraphale was the sun.