Chapter Text
They let their guard down.
Three years had passed since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, the Apocalypse they helped prevent. Three years since their narrow escape from the clutches of Heaven and Hell, avoiding torturous deaths at the hands of their respective employers thanks to one of Agnes Nutter’s eerily accurate prophecies.
And over those three years, he and Aziraphale managed to grow much closer to each other than in all the millennia that came before them. The stress of nearly losing one another in the end-of-the-world maelstrom couldn’t help but lead to certain revelations, and for Crowley, at least, it was the realization that living in a world without his angel was no living at all, that an eternity spent in the sulfur pits of Hell was preferable to spending even a day on Earth with the knowledge that he would never see Aziraphale again.
He loved his angel. Loved him with every cursed, miserable particle of his being. And he was done trying to deny that to either the angel or himself.
So he told him. That same day after the Ritz, as they strolled side by side down their favorite alley along the pond in St James’s Park.
To his enormous surprise (and relief), the angel didn’t reject him, didn’t shoot him down with a politely dismissive, “you’re a demon, Crowley, you can’t possibly know what love is.” Instead, Aziraphale turned toward him, those beautiful blue eyes swimming with tears, and told him in a trembling, quiet voice that he felt the same, had felt the same for centuries, in fact, and that he was sorry, so, so sorry for not saying anything sooner, for being a coward, for pushing Crowley away with such cruel, needless words, for…
Crowley didn’t let him finish. Surged forward, hands grasping the angel’s tear-stained cheeks with all the roughness, all the desperation of a drowning man. And he kissed him.
And almost lost what little was left of his hold on reality when he felt the angel kissing him back.
That day whatever barriers that were left between them had shattered and crumbled away into nothingness. They became more than an angel and a demon, more than reluctant colleagues, more than unlikely friends. They became one.
They left London. Moved into a small cottage on the outskirts of Tadfield; a cozy turn-of-the-century place with room enough to house all of Aziraphale’s books and a quaint little garden outside for Crowley to terrify into a verdant paradise.
It was just the two of them. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was perfect.
They should have known it wouldn’t last. Crowley should have known. Should’ve been prepared for it. Should’ve protected their little newfound paradise somehow.
He failed.
***
It’s late in the evening when it happens. They are in the sitting room, snuggled together on the dark leather couch, Aziraphale dozing on Crowley’s shoulder, a book he’s been reading lying forgotten on his lap. Crowley, with his arm draped around the angel’s shoulders, is fighting the pull of sleep, wanting to savor the familiar warm comfort of his lover’s relaxed, sleep-heavy weight against his side. It’s a near-impossible task, his eyes sliding closed on their own accord even as he struggles to force them open again. The battle is useless, he knows – another moment, and he will succumb same as his mate. Yet, still, he resists.
It is the only reason why he gets to be awake to witness the exact moment when their idyllic existence comes to an end.
There’s a flash of light – blinding and inexplicably painful and sudden. Too sudden – a mere pinprick of warning, a chill across his skin is all the warning he gets.
And then… nothing.
***
He wakes abruptly – a sharp lurch of one fighting his way to the surface, sputtering and gasping as he comes up for air.
Instinctively, he jerks forward and gasps again, in pain this time, as red-hot fire lances through his wrists. His eyes fly open, gaze snapping to the side, to where his right hand lays flat against the wall, pinned there by a golden chain that sends spikes of agony through his wrist every time he so much as shifts. A quick glance at his left wrist reveals the same. He’s stuck, shackled against his own living room wall with a pair of holy chains, his arms spread out to the sides in some twisted parody of the crucifixion of Christ. (And, oh, when he gets out of this, he’s gonna rip whatever sick angel that’s responsible for this to shreds; pluck the little bastard’s feathers right off.)
Speaking of angels….
He looks out into the room, frantic gaze sweeping across the night-darkened space, and feels his heart stutter in worry as he spots his angel’s crumpled form on the floor beside the couch, dwarfed by three archangels that stand in a half-circle around him. Gabriel, Sandalphone and Uriel. The three that were present at that mockery of a trial that Crowley got to live through as Aziraphale. The three that wanted Aziraphale dead.
Aziraphale’s face is turned away from him, and all Crowley can see is a tangled mass of blond locks. The angel isn’t moving.
Unconscious, Crowley thinks. Then begs, please, please, please, dear G… S… somebody, let him be unconscious.
“Do you think it worked?” Sandalphon nods disdainfully at the motionless figure.
Beside him Gabriel shrugs, unconcerned. “Only one way to find out,” he says, motioning to the third archangel, Uriel. “Wake him up.”
Uriel inclines his head obediently, places the tip of a glowing staff against Aziraphale’s temple, and steps back instantly as Aziraphale’s whole body shudders violently in response.
Crowley jerks forward at the display, hissing when the chains remind him viciously of his predicament; snarls in protest. Across the room Gabriel turns his head toward him, an unkind, predatory smirk twisting his lips.
“Awake, I see,” he acknowledges in a near-purr of satisfaction. “Just in time, too.”
There’s an undertone of menace in Gabriel’s words. Crowley ignores it. Growls out, teeth bared, “What did you do to him?”
Gabriel cocks his head to the side, surveying him like a bug on display. Remarks, amused, “I would worry more about your own fate, if I were you.”
And then he turns back to where Aziraphale is slowly pulling himself up off the floor, blinking dazedly at his surroundings.
“Principality Aziraphale,” he drawls out, “nice of you to join us.”
“Archangel.” The acknowledgment is accompanied by a submissive bow.
“Do you know this demon, Principality?”
Slowly, the angel follows the direction of Gabriel’s outstretched hand, his gaze sliding carefully up Crowley’s chained form, and Crowley feels a gaping ice-cold chasm open up within his chest at the blank, indifferent look in the normally warm, sparkling blue eyes.
“I do not.”
Gabriel’s lips twitch in triumph. “This demon, Crawly, tried to tempt you, Principality,” he provides, “tried to make you Fall. Oh, but do not worry,” he adds, placing a mockingly reassuring hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder when the angel’s eyes widen in alarm at his words, “we managed to contain him before he could do any real damage.”
Gabriel’s gaze shifts in Crowley’s direction once again, and, oh, Crowley has never hated anyone more than he hates the archangel at this moment. Would give his right arm to be able to wipe that gloating smirk off the bastard’s face.
“It’s up to you now, Principality.” Gabriel’s hand squeezes Aziraphale’s shoulder, his cold, cold eyes still trained on Crowley’s. “You know what you have to do.”
A flaming sword materializes in the angel’s hand, and he grips the handle tightly, a look of determination sharpening his features as he takes a calm, steady step forward.
“I do.”