Chapter Text
Crowley stumbled down the dark alleyway, cobblestones scraping the soles of his stocking-clad feet. His heels dangled from his right hand. Even with his feet flat on the ground, he listed from side to side. He could instantly sober up, sure, but where was the fun in that? The alcohol made everything fuzzy. Funny. Bearable.
As he got to the mouth of the alleyway, he could hear the sounds of traffic and people rushing past. He paused, leaning up against the side of the nearest building. He wasn’t ready to reenter the world yet.
The deafening beat from the club was still pounding in his ears. He stopped, breathed in the night air, and looked up at the sky.
Light pollution. One of the real downsides of modern civilisation. He couldn’t see any of his stars from here. Only the moon, and even that was imperfect. The night sky was criss-crossed by telephone wires running up and down the street. It looked like the moon had been sliced into pieces.
Crowley heard the noise before he saw it. The snap-smack-hiss made him jump and take an instinctive step backwards. A wire had snapped- it sparked white-hot, the sudden brightness stinging his eyes. It jerked and spasmed through the air, slamming repeatedly against the wall above his head.
Crowley frowned. Wires didn’t just break like that, these days.
Another wire popped, sending a shower of sparks down over where Crowley was standing. He lifted an arm to shield himself, the toes of his heels scraping against the brick wall.
He felt a sensation, then, that was baked into his bones. The hair on his arms stood on end. He’d never forget what it felt like: the sickly, syrupy, electric feeling of Heaven’s grace.
Crowley quickly pushed all the alcohol out of his system. Sobriety didn’t help, exactly, but it would make him more precise.
With his free hand, Crowley summoned a small kernel of fire, fed by the seething mass of pain always eating at him from the inside, like acid.
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was living on borrowed time. But whatever angel had decided to come after him would have their work cut out for them.
“Come on!” Crowley shouted, his voice echoing down the alleyway. “Show yourself!”
It was almost a relief to be contacted after so many months of radio silence. He knew they would come for him eventually. He just honestly hadn’t been sure which side it would turn out to be. Now, he finally had the chance to direct all that adrenaline towards something.
Crowley was no match for the forces of Heaven, especially on his own. But he’d get the chance to release some of his age-old and ever-present anger on whatever lackey had been sent to rough him up. At least he’d find some measure of peace before they exterminated him for good.
A voice spoke. “Crowley.”
Every muscle in Crowley’s body froze. His heart, just an unnecessary feature of his corporation, stopped pumping blood through his veins.
Like the coward he was, Crowley screwed his eyes shut.
“What are you doing here?” he croaked out.
A hand— warm, smooth and soft from centuries of weekly manicures— cupped his cheek.
A strangled sound escaped from Crowley’s throat, like it had been punched out of him. His eyes cracked open.
Under the light of the moon, Crowley could clearly see the pale blue eyes looking steadily at him. Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed slightly, the way it always got when he was about to make a rash decision.
“What—?”
Aziraphale kissed him. Crowley stumbled backwards, his shoulders hitting the wall, and Aziraphale followed him, pressing him up against it with his hands and his body and his lips.
The flame extinguished in Crowley’s fist. His fingers found their way in between cloud-like curls, against a sturdy, buttoned-up neck.
Aziraphale was the first to pull away. There were still dozens of points of contact between them, and every one burned.
“Angel,” Crowley whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale breathed back.
Bookends, Crowley thought. It’s always about forgiveness with you.
He gripped onto the angel’s collar, opened his mouth to speak, and then Aziraphale was gone.
Crowley’s hands dropped back down to his sides. He slid down the wall until the cobblestones dug into his knees and started to weep.
“This isn’t going to work,” said Michael.
Silently, Uriel agreed. Aziraphale had been fearsome to behold during the War: he’d led angels into battle with honour, he’d laid waste to demonic troops without a second thought. But ever since he’d been assigned to Earth, he’d refused to show an ounce of that bravery ever again. He’d become nothing more than a coward.
He had no passion for the Second Coming. No desire to smite their enemies or triumph over the Earth. He was nervous and distracted, and often so quiet that Uriel could only wonder about what he was thinking.
From the Earth Observation Files, it was clear that Aziraphale was silly. Insipidly so. He liked pretending to be harmless. The absolute last quality needed in a military leader.
“We are faithful servants of the Supreme Archangel,” Uriel droned.
Michael scoffed under her breath. “Not even a duty officer, that one.”
Aziraphale was soft. Pliable. Before Gabriel lost his mind, he’d commented extensively on the use they could get out of him. He was simple to manipulate, Gabriel explained: withhold praise from him, and he’ll trip over his own feet to do what you want. But Aziraphale also required almost constant supervision. Putting him in charge of not only Heaven, but the entire end of the world, was a disaster waiting to happen.
“Him being the choice is…”
“Inconceivable.” Michael spat. “But you know why he was chosen.”
Uriel did. Michael or Uriel themself would’ve run this whole operation deftly, cleanly, and without remorse. But neither of them would have listened to the Metatron if his own interests went against their thirst for blood.
Aziraphale, however, wore his heart on his sleeve. Aziraphale liked food and drink, he liked pretending to be English, he liked to pretend he was kind and selfless when interacting with humans, and he liked leading that demon around on a leash. A quick costume change, a cup of coffee, and a few English phrases were all it took for the Metatron to get Aziraphale back in line. (The demon, however, remained an open question).
Not that Uriel would ever admit it, but power had gone to the Metatron’s head. He had his own agenda that often eclipsed his devotion to the Great Plan.
If the Metatron continued to keep Aziraphale’s attention right where he wanted it, nothing would ever get done.
“He wastes time in the Earth Observation Room,” Uriel commented. “Hours of it.”
“Watching the demon,” Michael agreed. “Speaking to him. Flitting down to Earth and back, like he thought no one would notice. Plotting.”
Uriel turned to look at them, skeptical. “Plotting? To do what?”
“To keep it all going!” Michael gestured with her hand, exasperated. “To stop what must be done!”
Uriel frowned. “You’d accuse the Supreme Archangel of treason?”
Michael looked one more word away from burning a hole in Uriel with her eyes.
“Well.” Uriel sighed. “Only one thing to be done, I suppose.”
Michael’s lips thinned into a slight smile. “I quite agree.”
Crowley had to give Shax some credit: she’d been nothing but courteous to his flat.
Well, there were a few floorboards and cushions that had been burned with acid, but that was just par for the course. His paintings, his statues, the whole space still felt like it was his.
With a wave of his hand, his plants left his car and appeared in their old room. The size of the space dwarfed the handful of plants he’d managed to take with him. It made the room look even more barren than it was. Lonely.
The lights began to flicker.
Crowley frowned, and turned to glare up at the ceiling. The lights didn’t stop flickering. That was odd– usually, they were appropriately scared of him.
That meant something else was going on.
He realised what was about to happen a split second before it actually did. Crowley dropped his eyes to scan the room, and then Aziraphale was standing next to him.
He was quiet, like he was waiting for Crowley to speak. Crowley set his jaw and stared.
Aziraphale coughed into his fist. “I wondered if you’d come back here.”
Crowley clucked his tongue. “Yeah.”
“You’re the cleverest person I know–”
Crowley scoffed. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his side against the doorframe.
Aziraphale regarded him for a long moment. “You always change. You always have. How do you do it?”
“What?” Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I don’t.”
He’d been orbiting Aziraphale for as long as he’d existed. That had never changed— it never would, no matter how much he wished otherwise, sometimes.
“I thought I was static,” Aziraphale mused. “Traditional, certainly. But they are…”
“Unfeeling.”
His stormy eyes darted upwards to lock with Crowley’s own.
“Precisely,” he breathed. “How could they— can’t they see—"
“Of course not,” Crowley snapped. “They don’t want to. Why would they ever give a shit about any of it? It doesn’t affect them. They’re not—"
From here, he wanted to say. But he and Aziraphale weren’t from here, either.
“I want to help them,” Aziraphale said. “All this time, all I wanted was to help them.”
Crowley pushed off the doorway and headed into the sitting room. He could feel Aziraphale at his back. He sprawled onto his old throne, one leg tossed over the arm of the chair. Aziraphale stood, awkward and out of place, a few paces away.
“You could have listened to me.” Where Crowley’s voice would’ve once been furious, reproachful, it was just quiet. “I wouldn’t’ve led you wrong.”
Aziraphale made a noise, and Crowley knew he was biting back the instinct to say something along the lines of, you’re a demon, that’s what you do.
“I can’t leave them,” Aziraphale said instead. “You wanted me to leave them.”
“Would it be so bad?” To be with me?
“I need to help them,” Aziraphale repeated.
Crowley’s eyes, greedy, drank Aziraphale in.
Aziraphale made a habitual movement to worry at the hem of his waistcoat, but flinched, minutely, when he grasped the starched, brand-new fabric. His hands settled at his sides, unmoving. Seeing that, seeing the way Aziraphale’s shoulders were practically at his ears, made Crowley want to scream. Throw something. Do anything to stop this while he still could.
“And they’re going to let you?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale ducked his head. “I just wanted to say… Even if you won’t help me. Even if you won’t do the right thing. I always thought you were wonderful. I didn’t tell you often enough, but I always thought so. You are the brightest spot in a cold universe.”
Crowley squeezed his hands together, hard. He watched his knuckles turn white.
“What do you want?” he asked.
He waited for a moment, and then two, but Aziraphale didn’t reply.
When Crowley looked up, he was alone in the flat. He didn’t know what else he had expected.
Michael approached a keypad on the wall and typed in a password she’d memorised several millennia ago.
The cabinet opened, revealing hundreds and hundreds of bottles and tins. Her brother’s apothecary. It had been gathering dust for all these years (metaphorically, of course).
Michael reached for a small bottle she could have found blind. It glowed faintly green and radiated malice into the air.
Her brother may have Fallen, but his collection of drugs and poultices could do one final act for the side of Good.
Michael would give the Supreme Archangel the chance to do the right thing, but if he refused… Michael would clean up his mess. That’s what she’d always done.
“Incoming Call: Aziraphale.”
Crowley nearly choked on his own tongue. In the backseat, the plants shook a little, responding to his alarm.
It took him another second, but he realised: it was the phone from the bookshop, that was all. His traitorous heart pounded hard enough to make his ribcage tremble.
“Bless it.” Crowley swiped the answer button. “What?”
“Mister Crowley!” greeted Muriel’s tinny voice through the Bentley’s speakers. “I’m calling to–”
“I gave you a list of conditions, kiddo,” Crowley said. He wagged his finger, even though Muriel couldn’t see it. “You only ring me up if–”
“Oh yes, I have it right in front of me!” Muriel giggled. “I can only call if, ahem, ‘you’re about to kick the bucket, the world’s about to end, or the bookshop’s on fucking fire.’ Now, I haven’t verified anything for myself, but he told me that the world was ending, so now I can talk to you!”
Crowley froze. “He?”
“Er… a Mister Adam?”
Crowley was subsumed with relief, which soon cooled and hardened into dread. “Adam Young? The Antichrist Adam?”
“Let me see…” The sound of rustling paper came over the line. “He said to tell you that something’s wrong, and it’s like last time.”
When they paused for a beat too long, Crowley prompted them. “And?”
“And that’s it! I hope that’s helpful.”
Crowley rubbed his eye underneath his glasses. “You’re certain. That’s all he said.”
“Well, he didn’t remember your name, but I helped him piece it together! He said that he was looking for his godfathers, and they had wings, and a flaming sword, and one of them wore black and the other wore white. And that when he last saw both of them together he thought the two of them were so in love that he could taste it. And I figured out he meant you!”
Despite not ingesting any food in living memory, Crowley felt an abrupt onset of nausea.
Muriel was still chattering on. “That’s what he said. And then I asked him what love tastes like, and he said it’s different for everybody, but yours tastes like this fancy bubbly drink his mum has sometimes? He sounded a little disgusted, but I think he was just being a boy. I’ve read about them! They love insects and playing in the dirt and pulling on a pig’s tail—”
“Alright!” Crowley barked, half-desperate. “Got it. Message delivered.”
“Oh, good!”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Crowley cut them off in the middle of another sentence. There was only so much one demon could take.
So. The Antichrist.
“Bookends,” Crowley muttered to himself.
Reluctantly, Crowley revved the engine and started towards Tadfield. He tried to push down the feeling that he was heading towards something awful.