Chapter Text
They’ll barely be gone a month, but Aziraphale still embraces Ana and Adam and even Newt for far too long. Squeezes them each a little too tight. The last light of dusk is still illuminating the desert and as they step onto the surface, Aziraphale closes his eyes and follows Crowley with a palm on his shoulder. It’ll be a week until they make it to the underground places Crowley’s spoken of. They might as well be travelling to the moon as far as Aziraphale is concerned. He’s never dared go so far.
The packs they wear are heavy, loaded down with dried vegetables and seeds. Textiles and lumps of soap fragrant with mint. Payment for dens and water and a warm meal every now and again along the way. Crowley says he needs to make the journey for something called a lentil. The books say it's nutrient-dense. Rich in energy for a community that seems to grow a little more every day. Aziraphale wonders, though, if Crowley doesn’t just want to show him the world. Give him what Eden never would.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. His hair is tucked up under his hood and for once Crowley hasn't given him any grief for it.
"They'll be fine, Angel. Newt won't let anything happen. You've seen the way he dotes on her."
Ana's belly is round and her ankles are swollen and though she's fiercer than she's ever been, everyone in the system dotes on her.
"I'm not worried."
Crowley's lips brush Aziraphale's knuckles as they tromp across the sand and Aziraphale loosens his grip on Crowley’s shoulder. "I don't need to hear inside you to know you're lying."
"I'm not worried about that."
"You needn't be worried about what lies ahead either. Ana isn't the only one doted upon."
Crowley does dote. More than Aziraphale feels is necessary. But his lungs still don't work quite as well as they should and every now and again his vision swims, and Tracy says the storm may always live inside him, so if doting makes Crowley feel better, who’s Aziraphale to stop him?
"I've seen you with a dagger. It doesn't put my mind at ease."
"What I lack in practical skills I more than make up for in imagination."
There’s a tiny tug in Aziraphale’s belly. Gratitude, he thinks. He doesn’t know what his life would be today without Crowley’s imagination. “That you do.”
Aziraphale listens to their feet crunching through the desert crust. And then to the tiny stutter in Crowley’s chest. The same tiny stutter he always gets when he’s thinking creatively.
“What’s on your mind, fiend?”
Crowley’s fingers follow the curve of Aziraphale’s forearm all the way to his armpit to tickle until Aziraphale yanks his hand away from Crowley’s shoulder. There’s a scurry of feet in sand, Crowley dipping away from Aziraphale. “How vulnerable you are right now.”
Aziraphale gropes for Crowley. Follows the sound of his pulse but can’t seem to get a hand on him again. He peeks open one eye but can’t focus through the light. He huffs. Stops flailing and clenches his fists at his sides.
“Not funny, Crowley.”
“How easy it is to take advantage of you in such a state.” Crowley’s palms settle on Aziraphale’s waist and skim around to grab his arse.
Aziraphale doesn’t return Crowley’s embrace, but he doesn’t pull away either. “We have hours and hours of journey in front of us.”
“Of course. I was only thinking… perhaps our den at the next outpost may be too bright for you.” Aziraphale’s head tilts to the side as Crowley’s lips connect with his throat. “Perhaps… you might be vulnerable there too. Anyone might wander in and have their way with you.”
Aziraphale can’t keep the smile off his face as he finally raises his hands to Crowley’s hips and walks forward, pushing Crowley along blindly. “And what might they do to me?”
“I expect they might tie you up.”
Aziraphale chuckles as Crowley turns in his arms and guides his palm to rest on his shoulder again. “Is that so?”
“I think they’d have to, strong as you are.” Aziraphale hums in agreement as they continue forward. “I can’t imagine they’d be gentle with you.”
“Not even if I’m sore from a long night’s journey?”
“Well… they might at least bite a bit.”
“Oh, well, naturally.”
“They might take their fill or… maybe they’d offer you up to their king.”
Aziraphale’s face scrunches in the middle. “Outposts don’t have ki-”
“As a tribute.”
“Ah.” There’s a tingle in Aziraphale’s groin. Those fantasies of that first day have never quite left him, though he’s still not found the courage to tell Crowley. “I see.”
“If… you know. It’s just a thought.” Crowley mumbles as he speaks. If the uptick in his pulse is to be believed he almost seems… embarrassed.
Aziraphale stops once again and tugs Crowley to a halt along with him. Steps close and finds Crowley’s wrist to guide his hand down his belly until it hits the bulge in the front of his trousers. “Sounds dreadful. I do hope it isn’t too bright in our den.”
A shiver works its way down Crowley’s arm as he turns and sets off across the desert once again, his pace quicker than it was before.
It would be easy enough to break his binds. To toss Crowley to the floor and reverse the situation. And perhaps one day he will, but for now, with his feet and his shoulders tight and aching from a long night on the surface, Aziraphale’s happy to pretend he’s immobilised. He gives a show of flexing his arms, pulling against the fabric scrap Crowley had used to tie his wrists together at the small of his back.
“Go ahead, tribute. It only makes it better when you struggle.”
The words might be more convincing if Crowley weren’t opening Aziraphale up so carefully with his fingers, making sure he’s slick and ready for whatever he feels like giving him.
“Please…” It’s supposed to sound like fear, but Aziraphale can’t keep the desire out of his voice.
Crowley’s tongue traces the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. Rough hands push his thighs wide. Aziraphale can hear the smirk in Crowley's voice. “Don’t worry, tribute. I’ll go slow… To start.”
Crowley does go slow. Eases his cock in all the way to the hilt and then, somehow, presses himself even deeper. It pushes a groan out of Aziraphale’s lips. Makes him want to dig his knees into the thin sleeping mat beneath him and push back against Crowley.
“You like it, don’t you?”
Aziraphale shudders as Crowley drags his cock out and pushes it back in just as slowly. “N-no.” He turns his face into the mat to muffle his groan as Crowley bottoms out again. “Of course not.”
“You’re as good of a liar as you are a Guardian.” Crowley’s fingernails dig into Aziraphale’s hips and he hauls him up so that Aziraphale has to scramble to get his knees beneath himself. His chest and face press into the mat. He doesn’t even have his balance when Crowley thrusts into him again, fast this time.
Aziraphale gasps against the single threadbare blanket the den came outfitted with. “Savage.”
“You haven’t seen savagery yet, tribute.”
Crowley’s cock is angled exactly how Aziraphale likes it. As he sets into a punishing rhythm it rubs against that spot inside Aziraphale that he’s already spent the last five minutes massaging with his fingertips. Aziraphale forgets their game and thrusts his hips back against Crowley.
“Behave and I might just let you come too.” There's a quiver running through Crowley’s voice. A tremble in his hands that’s mirrored in his pulse. The slap of his hips against Aziraphale’s arse feels like it fills the whole outpost. Aziraphale’s sure everyone this side of the system can hear but he’s too overwhelmed to care. His untouched cock throbs where it hangs between his legs. He longs for any stimulation at all. Any relief.
Crowley doesn’t give it to him. Not yet. He takes Aziraphale’s bound wrists in his hand and thrusts harder. It's exactly the fantasy Aziraphale spent his days in before Crowley finally touched him. He wonders if perhaps Crowley has a bit of the prophets' gift. Maybe he knows without knowing. Or perhaps the two of them are simply more alike than Aziraphale thinks.
“Fuck you feel good, Angel.”
The words are soft and sure. Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets them seep all the way to his very core. One low satisfied groan from Crowley and it happens without warning. All that pressure and tension in Aziraphale's body tips over and he’s coming, cock drooling and body quaking.
“Oh gods, Crowley.”
Crowley’s hips slow. His hand slips up Aziraphale's spine to the base of his skull to thread into the baby fine curls lying there. “Aziraphale? What’s wr-”
Aziraphale whines. Pushes his hips back. The pulsing and throbbing and shivering haven’t eased. He's never had an orgasm last so long. “Don’t stop.”
“Oh. Oh.” There’s a chuckle that sounds further off than it actually is and then Crowley’s thrusting into him again, pushing his pleasure up to the brink until Aziraphale isn’t sure how much more he can take of it. He’s willing to test the limit, let Crowley fuck him until it’s so good it hurts, but Crowley’s already coming with a growl. Aziraphale can’t tell if it’s satisfaction or frustration spilling out of him. He can't focus on much of anything. He feels like he’s in a fog, drifting on the edge of something warm and sweet.
Aziraphale blinks and he’s on his belly. Blinks again and Crowley’s kissing the places his wrists are rubbed red.
“S’never happened before.” Aziraphale’s smile feels woozy. Drunk. His body is buzzing.
“You ok?” Crowley’s lips feel like silk as they travel the length of his arm.
“I’m… wonderful.”
“You’re still shaking.” The lips reach his neck. Then his jaw. Then finally the corner of his mouth. It takes some effort for Aziraphale to roll onto his side to kiss Crowley properly. It's worth it though. He grins against Crowley's lips.
“Can still feel it.”
Crowley runs his hand up and down Aziraphale’s waist. He stares down at the mess they’ve made. “I can’t decide…”
“Can’t decide what?”
There’s a tilt to Crowley’s lips as his finger trails down to the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh. He lifts a brow at Aziraphale. “Which one of us was born with the gift.”
The nights are long. Sometimes the days are even longer. Every step takes Aziraphale further than he’s ever been before. The landscape starts to change. The cliffs and ridges give way to a valley that stretches out long in front of them.
“Luke said there was a river. In the beginning. Said the gods drained the entire northern aquifer to settle here.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I know the aquifer is empty. S’why this place is empty.” The last three nights of the journey weren’t punctuated with outposts, just abandoned systems filled with bats and spiders. There aren’t any signs of travellers here either. No rings of stone that once held a hearth. No scraps from the old world, scavenged and tossed at the end of their second lives. As they walk the sand gets softer too. No hardened crust crunches beneath their feet. Instead they sink with each step as if the desert is trying to swallow them whole. Aziraphale imagines that’s what happened to whatever used to be here, if there was ever really anything at all.
It’s slow-going. Aziraphale’s legs burn. Their packs aren’t as heavy as when they started out their journey, but they carry two water bladders each. Enough to get them to this valley and back to the outpost that lies at the edge of this lifeless hell.
Hopefully.
Aziraphale stops to catch his breath and gazes out at the horizon. Dawn is starting to light up the place the earth touches the sky and he tries his best not to let his worry show. “What lies beyond?”
“The ocean, eventually. If it’s still there. And if the stories are true, on the other side, a place you can walk on the surface during the day.”
“Balderdash.”
Crowley chuckles. “Garden of the gods. S’what they say.” Crowley gazes around with his brow furrowed. Stomps his feet and sighs. “I know it’s around here somewhere…”
“What’s around here somewhere?”
“The entrance.”
Aziraphale swings his head side to side. There are no rocky outcrops. No man-made gates. Nothing but open desert for miles in any direction. “You can’t be serious. Crowley, there’s nothing here.”
Crowley shuffles his feet in one direction then turns and shuffles the opposite. “There is. I promise.”
“Crowley, look around. There’s nothing.”
“Just trust me.”
Aziraphale shrugs his pack off his back and drops it with an aggravated sigh.
It hits the ground with a hollow clunk and Crowley pauses his shuffling. Aziraphale narrows his eyes at his pack. Parts his lips to speak, but before he has a chance Crowley is already at his feet, hands dug into the sand up to his wrists.
“Told you.” There’s a crunch. A metallic groan. “Help me with this.”
When Aziraphale kneels and plunges his own hand into the sand he finds a warm, solid ring and when he pulls the earth begins to sink and then rush into a void that opens up beneath.
Aziraphale stares down into the darkness. It’s a perfect black square in the middle of the desert floor. He’s never seen anything like it. Not a hint of light escapes. He peers closer and listens and not a sound comes from within. His heart thunks in his chest. The absolute emptiness is throwing him off balance. He feels blind.
“I don’t know about this Crowley…”
A scratch of metal interrupts the silence and Aziraphale only barely looks away before a spark catches on the torch Crowley’s put together of fabric and a dollop of tallow too rancid to eat.
“Sun’ll be up soon. Don’t have much of a choice.” With that he starts down into the darkness and Aziraphale has no option but to follow him.
Crowley closes the metal flap they’d wrenched open as they descend into the abyss. With the light from Crowley’s torch, though, it’s clear that the space isn’t empty at all. There are man-made steps that lead down to a surface flatter than any floor Aziraphale’s ever seen before. There’s a spill of sand all down the stairs but beyond that the floor is shiny and smooth.
The torch illuminates a winding knot of tubes and pipes that disappear into the ceiling and walls. All those perfect curves and junctures remind Aziraphale of the machines he’s seen. The rusted-out bits that the desert hasn’t entirely eaten. Remnants from before.
“Crowley, what is this place?”
Crowley shrugs and the movement makes all the shadows dance. “Hell if I know.” The steady beat of his heart reassures Aziraphale even though the silence of the place makes his own race.
“It’s not natural.”
“Of course it isn’t. Man-made. Just like your gates.”
“They aren’t mine anymore.”
“I know. I know, I’m sorry. I only mean… There are a lot of unnatural things in our world. Doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with them.”
“Eden might not be the best example-”
“The record player. Not natural.”
“Certainly not natural. Dark magic.” Aziraphale still can’t figure out how it works. The sewing machine, Beatrice had opened up and explained to him. No matter how closely he prods at the record player, though, he can’t figure out how the music comes out of those discs. He’s beginning to worry there are souls trapped inside them somehow.
“But you like it.”
Aziraphale harrumphs. He does like it. Even if they are trapped souls.
“You’re gonna like this too.” Crowley pushes open a gate that’s perfectly rectangular and Aziraphale gapes as they come through the other side. It’s huge. The size of the garden. A towering ceiling the height of the cathedral but perfectly flat and level. There’s a flying machine suspended above them. A wall covered in artefacts Aziraphale’s never seen before.
There are letters emblazoned on the wall above the mouth to another part of this strange system.
“A his-”
“No! No, let me try. I’ve never…” Crowley hurries forward and holds the torch aloft. “I’ve never been able to read it before.”
“Luke never-”
“Luke liked to be in control. He only gave what he felt like giving. What would come back to benefit him. He liked having this secret to himself.”
Aziraphale puts a palm on Crowley’s shoulder and looks up at the letters with him. “Go on then.”
“A… A hi-story.” He tilts his head to the side. “O-off?”
“Of.”
“Of. A history of old…” His head tilts all the way in the opposite direction and Aziraphale can see the wheels turning. It isn’t a combination of letters they’ve had much time to work on yet. Aziraphale can tell the moment he unravels it. Can see it in the way he scrunches the middle of his face up. “Earth?”
“A history of old Earth.”
Aziraphale’s eyes flit across the smaller text beneath. From humble beginnings we rose. A history of the birthplace of mankind from the stone age through the technological renaissance of the thirtieth century and the development of the hyperspace drive.
“The gods really did make this place, didn’t they?”
Crowley raises his eyes to the roof, but Aziraphale knows he’s looking to the empty sky above. Just the sun and the moon and eternity stretching out in all directions.
“Do you think they’re still up there? Do you think they’ll come back for us?”
Aziraphale takes Crowley by the hand and in a single step they’re 28 billion light years away on the last world that wasn’t good enough for the gods. He wonders if they left a little bit of themselves there too.
“I hope not.” The gods may have abandoned this place, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth something. Aziraphale knows that now. He squeezes Crowley’s hand and listens to the way it makes his heart sing. “I rather prefer keeping it to ourselves.”