Chapter Text
Crowley was going to off himself. Truly.
His sunglasses weighed heavily on his nose as he grimaced with distaste, swatting away a stray fly that buzzed haughtily around his ears. Being sat inside his beloved car curbed his annoyance, albeit only slightly.
"What," he ground out, "do you want?"
"Nothing much," Beelzebub said, scratching a spot on their chin that oozed a suspicious green liquid.
Crowley decided he was glad that he wasn't driving; the temptation to smash the car into a building would be too inviting to ignore. "Just popped round for a catch-up, then?"
Beelzebub curled their lip, unamused. "I have a mission for you."
"I have a pretty busy day," Crowley drawled, his body attempting, but failing, to splay haphazardly in the restricted car seat. "I'm fully booked. Temptations all day, actually. I'm meant to be enticing a farmer to start sacrificing their animals right about now."
Several flies buzzed ferociously at him, and a small swarm began to accumulate around his head.
"I'm kidding," Crowley protested, flapping his hands around in a vain attempt to ward off the attack. "Sacrifices are so last-millennia. I'm really tempting them to start a demonic cult. Much more modern."
Beelzebub did not look impressed.
"You people really can't take a joke," Crowley muttered, somewhat to himself. He settled back as the flies dispersed, his head lolling back against the headrest in casual laziness.
"We have intel of unrest," Beelzebub continued, ignoring the redhead. This was, in fact, a skill accumulated over a near six-thousand-year tolerance of his Crowley-ness. It was not a skill easily accomplished.
Crowley's eyebrows performed an elaborate arch over his sunglasses.
"You know," Beelzebub said, looking upwards distastefully. "Up there."
"Ah," Crowley said, his interest only slightly piqued. He debated closing his eyes behind his sunglasses to have a quick power nap.
"I want you on the case," Beelzebub said, shifting in their seat to face him. "You know the ins and outs of Earth. I want you to understand the importance of this case, Crowley - this could be a triumph for us."
"Well, I'm flattered," Crowley said, his mind running through a million different ways to get out of this job. He fingered a loose coin in his pocket and considered placing a toss with Aziraphale on who could take the work. No doubt he had been approached by his people up in Heaven about this, too.
"Angels have been turning up dead," Beelzebub said.
Crowley's mind stopped running. His fingers dropped the coin. "Dead?"
"Mmm," Beelzebub replied, picking their teeth with a deadly fingernail, sharpened into a curved point.
It was rare, but not unheard of, for an angel to die. Both angels and demons often experienced discorporations, where their earthly bodies would be destroyed and their true beings would be sent back to Heaven or Hell. Dying was different. Dying was being burned with hellfire, staked with brimstone, drowned in holy water. There would be no returning to Heaven or Hell if their true selves were destroyed.
"One of us?" Crowley asked, fingers tapping a staccato on the steering wheel.
"I don't know," Beelzebub admitted, a dark tone slipping into their words.
"You don't know?" Crowley said, incredulously. He turned to give Beelzebub a very fierce, somewhat teacherly, glare over the top of his sunglasses. Either Beelzebub was lying, which wouldn't be a surprise, or Beelzebub was telling the truth. Which would make it a very interesting ordeal, indeed.
Beelzebub bared their teeth. Fierce points that hadn't been there before were now glinting dangerously in the light.
"You don't know," Crowley drawled, the hint of a dangerous smile at the edge of his words. "There's someone running around on a religious murdering spree. And you have no idea who it is."
"Which is why I've come to you, as much as I loathe to admit it," Beelzebub bit. "You were not first on my list, Crowley, to come to for help. But we need to rule out the fact that it's not one of ours doing this. None of us particularly want a war. Yet."
"What information have you got?" Crowley asked. "Wait. Yet?"
Beelzebub handed him a slip of mouldy paper and ignored his second question. "Three dead so far. Bodies all found on Earth."
"Anything else?" Crowley muttered, scanning the paper.
"You've been given everything you'll need," Beelzebub said with finality. They pointedly rolled up the window of the Bentley. The fresh air was making them want to sneeze.
"That's not much to go on," Crowley said pointedly.
"That's why I've appointed you on the case," Beelzebub said, again, fiercely. "Find out who is doing this, and why."
Crowley flicked the ignition on, and his car rumbled to life. "Just give me my police badge and handcuffs and I'll be good to go."
When he looked back at his passenger seat, Beelzebub was gone.
With the radio playing music by Johann Sebastian Bach, vocals by the talented F. Mercury, he pressed his foot down and tore through the streets of London. Despite the three dead angels he had just been shown, there was only one angel in particular on his mind.
Aziraphale hummed contentedly as he sat down in his favourite armchair. Content. Aziraphale was decidedly content. The afternoon rays of sunlight cast enough of a warm glow to illuminate the pages of his book. He had poured the perfect amount of milk into his tea. The bookshop was bereft of customers, quiet and peaceful.
He was content.
Opening the cover of his book, the spine creaking happily, he gently placed his favourite worn bookmark aside and began to read.
That was, until the front door opened and two angels strode in.
Aziraphale closed his eyes in an attempt to control his frustration. He considered his alone time a very precious gift, and was perturbed when it was interrupted by unwelcome company.
"Aziraphale," Michael said, her posture similar to that of a person with a metal rod shoved up their behind. Aziraphale considered this, and decided that her face was suggestive of the same thing.
"To what do I owe the pleasure," Aziraphale greeted her politely, placing his teacup on a nearby table with the gentle clatter of china. He kept his book in his hands, if only for a small comfort.
"Aziraphale!" Gabriel said, his voice booming through the small shop. The books on the shelves rattled uncomfortably.
"If you don't mind, we are in a bit of a hurry," Michael spoke from a taut mouth, peering around the cluttered bookshop with disdain.
"Of course," Aziraphale said, swallowing back a small sigh of relief.
"Hell is rising up against us," Gabriel announced, his purple eyes flashing as he regarded Aziraphale. "They have formed together and have decided to attack us."
"Indeed?" Aziraphale said, in a way in which he hoped sounded concerned. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea?"
Michael wrinkled her nose. Gabriel looked around and said loudly, "I would love some 'cupoffty'. As a human, it is my favourite— uh, ingestible material."
Aziraphale felt his eye twitch. "There are no humans currently present, Gabriel."
"Ah, what a shame," Gabriel replied, almost looking put out. "I always find I do such a great job at playing human."
Aziraphale gave Gabriel what he hoped to be an encouraging nod, borderline impressed. (In reality, this was not what he accomplished. His face took on a look that one would give a child when performing a trick that was not that impressive at all. Crowley was well versed in this look. Aziraphale was not.)
"You were talking about Hell revolting?" Aziraphale offered pleasantly, steering the conversation back on track.
"Hell, as it turns out, are up to no good," Michael said. "Aziraphale, we are appointing you as head of this mission. Demons are acting against us in an effort to overthrow us. It's up to you to figure out who is doing this, and why."
"Might I ask what exactly they're doing?" Aziraphale asked, stepping forwards slightly. "Do excuse me, but to me, it doesn't sound awfully dissimilar to their usual behaviour."
Michael and Gabriel exchanged a Look. Gabriel opened his mouth, but Michael interrupted him swiftly. "They're gathering troops," she said. "We've set a few angels on the case, but they've been caught in the crossfire and have had to be— ahem, removed from the mission. As an angel here on Earth, Aziraphale, we thought we could rely on you to do some digging. Find out which demons are involved. Find out what they want."
"Certainly, Michael." Aziraphale placed his best, most welcoming smile on his face. "I'm happy to be of service."
"Hmm," Michael said, and turned to stride out of the bookshop.
"Any leads, or— um, information, you can divulge with me?" Aziraphale asked quickly, hurrying along after her.
"Sully," Gabriel declared. "That's where the last incident happened. You can start there."
"Surrey," Michael corrected, and handed Aziraphale a slip of paper. "Here's the address. We'll expect a full report after you check it out."
"Ah," Aziraphale said, taking the paper and slipping it carefully inside his book. "Thank you."
Within moments, Michael was gone, the bookshop bell tinkling after her.
"We'll be in touch," Gabriel said broadly, giving Aziraphale an overly-friendly pat on the back. "Or, perhaps you'll be in touch. Well, whichever happens first!"
"Yes, quite," Aziraphale said distractedly, straightening his waistcoat.
And then he, too, was gone, and Aziraphale no longer felt content.
He tugged at his waistcoat again with a quiet little harrumph, and moved to take a sip of his tea. Alas, it was now cold, and Aziraphale placed it back down with a little more force than necessary. What a mundane task to bore him with. With a few calls he could send in a report and be done with it.
There was a crash as his front door opened again, the bell swinging wildly. Aziraphale turned around to less-than-politely tell the stranger they were closed for lunch, but his words fell short.
"Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, as the demon in question burst into his shop.
"Ah, there you are," Crowley said by way of greeting, his voice tight with relief.
"Of course I am, dear," Aziraphale replied, confused. "Wherever else would I be?"
Crowley's lip curled. "Ngk," he said in response.
Then, with a snap of his fingers, the curtains over every window of the shop swung closed, and the room was swallowed in darkness.
Blinking through the gloom, Aziraphale exclaimed, "Crowley! What on earth are you doing?"
Crowley said nothing, bustling through the room and flicking on lamps as he went. He tripped over towers of books a few times in his haste, limbs flailing, and a few ripe words echoed through the darkness. Peeking behind a curtain, he closed it again, and turned to face Aziraphale.
"Right," he said. "Your shop can be closed for the next few days. Away for personal reasons, whatever. Have your angel friends filled you in yet?"
"Well, yes, they have," Aziraphale replied. "You just missed them."
Crowley glanced around, closing windows and latches with a few deft flicks of his wrist. He gave an extra click of his fingers in Aziraphale's general direction, which made the angel step back in surprise.
"What's the matter, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, stunned at the demon's fractious behaviour.
"What's the matter?" Crowley exclaimed, slipping his sunglasses off with one hand and using them to point dramatically at the angel. "What's the matter is that you don't seem to care."
"Care about what?" Aziraphale pressed gently.
"Christ, angel," Crowley said wildly, "you'd've thought that you'd have some sense of self-preservation."
"Crowley," Aziraphale placated. He stepped forwards, gently taking the sunglasses from the hand of the demon (lest he poke someone's eye out). "Tell me what's happening."
"You know what's happening," Crowley said, flapping his arms about frantically, losing control of his words. "Y— you know— y— ngk— Heaven came to tell you."
"What, that?" Aziraphale replied, astonished. "My dear, do excuse me when I say I don't see how that warrants such a reaction. It's just a little general upset. It's hardly out of the ordinary."
"What? Out of the ordinary?" Crowley sputtered, his arms flailing madly again. "Yes, Aziraphale, this is completely out of the ordinary!"
"Well, we'll find the demon and hand them in," Aziraphale said, doing his best to calm Crowley down.
"A demon? Is that what they— well," Crowley broke off with a sardonic scoff, "of course they would've said that."
"Well, yes," Aziraphale frowned. "A demon. A few of them, perhaps. Forming a sort of coup against the— well, us."
"It's not been confirmed that it was a demon," Crowley said, shaking his head and wagging his fingers. "It could be anyone. Anything."
"It's only a slight disruption," Aziraphale said. "My dear, what is the matter?"
Crowley stopped then, and turned to face Aziraphale with an odd look on his face. "You don't know?"
"Of course I know," Aziraphale said defensively, only slightly uneasy. "I just told you."
"What did the other angels tell you?" Crowley demanded, stalking towards Aziraphale in a way that possibly meant to come across as gentle, or perhaps threatening.
"Well— I— just that there were a few demons acting out," Aziraphale said, mightily unsure now. "You know. The usual. That's all."
Crowley was already shaking his head. "No, angel. That's not it."
"I don't understand," Aziraphale admitted, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat as he hugged his book closer to himself.
Digging in his pocket, Crowley unearthed a crumpled piece of paper spotted with green mould, and handed it to him wordlessly.
Ah, and there it was. The odd look on his face - it was pity.
Aziraphale opened the paper.
And then he calmly closed it again.
Crowley was looking at him through arched eyebrows, yellow eyes bright and searching.
Handing Crowley back his piece of paper, Aziraphale readjusted the grip on his book.
"Well," Aziraphale said. "They didn't mention that."
Crowley made an odd noise of affirmation.
"Those poor souls," Aziraphale murmured, the lines on his forehead growing tenfold as he recalled the sketches on the paper. Three angels, dead. Very dead, by the look of it.
Crowley was doing something odd with his jaw. "They didn't tell you?"
Aziraphale said nothing, attempting to rid the images from his mind. Angels, dead? But why? And how?
"And of course they told you it was a demon," Crowley was muttering now, scoffing as he sauntered across the room, flopping down onto his favourite armchair.
"Who else could it be?" Aziraphale asked, walking softly over to the seated demon.
Crowley looked at him through his eyebrows. "Oh, we—well— I don't know - anyone?"
"I suppose you're quite right in widening your assumptions," Aziraphale said hesitantly. His eyes wandered anxiously over to the window as he took a seat on the sofa opposite Crowley.
Crowley sat up straight all of a sudden, leaning forwards towards the angel. Aziraphale realised again, how utterly piercing his eyes were. Shining golden yellow, they searched through his own with a quiet yearning that Aziraphale couldn't quite place.
"You haven't seen anything out of the ordinary, have you, angel?" Crowley asked, his voice hard.
"No, not at all," Aziraphale said.
"Mmh," Crowley said. "That's good. Means you're out of trouble for now."
"Me? Why would I be in trouble?"
"In case they try to come after you!" Crowley said, his eyes glistening and hard. His jaw ticked again, and he shifted even closer to the angel. "We don't know why they're doing this, or who they're targeting. All we know is that angels are dying, which means until we can confirm otherwise, you are at risk."
"I hardly suppose I'd be on someone's hit list," Aziraphale said. "I'm not at all that interesting."
"Aziraphale," Crowley said, holding his gaze firmly. "As far as I am concerned, you could be their next target. Which means that until I've figured it out, you can lay low here to stop them from finding you."
"Until you've figured it out?" Aziraphale said, affronted.
"Ye— well, y—yeah," Crowley said, sitting back slouchily and hooking one leg over the other. "You can't expect to go out and track down someone trying to kill you."
"Possibly trying to kill me," Aziraphale corrected helpfully.
"Nyeah," Crowley said vaguely.
"Well, absolutely I can," Aziraphale said, and went on to say proudly: "I know where to start. I've got a location."
"Yeah? Where?"
"Well, I shan't tell you," Aziraphale said. "Otherwise you'll go off without me."
"Wha— I would do no such thing!" Crowley objected, his voice raising an octave in his indignation.
"Really, Crowley—"
"Alright, yes, I would," Crowley said grumpily, "but I still think you should tell me."
"I can hardly step away from the mission now that there's lives at risk," Aziraphale said. "It's my duty to help."
Crowley munched on words that ached to spill out of his mouth. Turning them around on his tongue, they tasted bitter, and sharp. They'd been fermenting for a while, you see - and it was getting increasingly more difficult to keep them to himself.
They saw Aziraphale as expendable, using him to do the dirty work that they didn't want to do. They used him; they were bullying him, and distorted the truth behind the murky waters of faith and religion. Aziraphale knew of this, Crowley was sure, and Crowley wanted to tell him again. To speak the words into the harsh truth of reality. But Crowley did not want to burn Aziraphale with the face of this truth. The angel was balancing on a precipice, a narrow one at that, and one nudge could make him topple over the wrong side and fall and fall and fall.
Crowley was well-versed in the cascade of these inescapable dominoes. A mere thought could push the first one over, and it was a cold and bitter waiting game until the final one fell. Crowley did not want to be the hands that pushed Aziraphale. And thus, he did the unthinkable thing that he should've done six millennia ago: he held his tongue.
For now.
"What is it you wish to say, dear?" Lovely, insightful Aziraphale probed gently, sensing the shift in Crowley's thoughts. "I won't mind."
"Ngk," Crowley said, as he held his words inside. He waved a hand aimlessly towards a bookshelf. "Your tea'll get cold."
"Oh," Aziraphale said, noting the tea that he had previously put down, deflating again at the reminder. "I'm afraid it's already cold."
"Nah," Crowley shook his head, glancing away to hide the slight reddening of his cheeks.
Aziraphale reached forwards and took the tea, and with a start, realised it was piping hot. Cupping the teacup in his hands, Aziraphale relished in the warmth that seeped through his body, and a large smile graced his face. "Oh, thank you!" He exclaimed, his twinkling eyes crinkled with happiness.
Crowley remained looking resolutely in the other direction. If Crowley had been watching the angel, he would have seen the shine of adoration in Aziraphale's expression directed toward him, like the sun sending warmth to a cold and desolate wasteland.
If Crowley did take a look, if he had taken so much as a glance at Aziraphale and saw the insurmountable, effervescent sunlight pouring out of him, Crowley would have crumbled. He would have crumbled like a starved man seeing sustenance for the first time.
And Crowley was a starved man.
"Where are you going?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale stood up all of a sudden, reaching for his coat.
"Well, off to find the culprit, of course," Aziraphale said, sunlight still radiating from him, a smile gracing his face as though he were going on holiday, rather than traipsing head-first into a murder scene. He gathered himself, and fixed Crowley with a knowing smile. "Are you coming with me?"
Crowley didn't even have to answer. They both knew that the demon would brave the very edges of the universe to stay with his angel.
"Come on, then," Crowley said, wearily. "Let's go catch us a bloody angel-murderer."