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“They were going to come after us again eventually, you know.” Aziraphale is the first one to break the silence that has followed them from the outside. “The archangels at the very least aren’t one’s to just let something like this slide.”
They are in his bookshop, seated a few feet apart from one another, Crowley splayed thoughtfully and Aziraphale sitting properly, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Though the original idea of drinking the night away has gotten away from them in the somber reminder of their current situation after spotting a demon lurking on the corner of the street, they still have hot mugs of tea available that Aziraphale had no memory of making, physically or meta-physically.
Sometimes miracles got away from you. If one is in a situation of higher emotion and isn’t thinking about it, it's easy to end up having miracled up a warm cup of whatever you may fancy at that moment, or your way into a chair three meters away from you, or even to France a few hundred kilometers away. Not that Aziraphale has any experience in these facts.
Several times over.
Crowley nods, sunglasses having been thrown somewhere, face pinched, and long fingers clenching the plush ends of his armchair.
“Beelzebub isn’t either.” He mutters, tapping his foot violently before springing to his feet to pace with all the intentions of wearing a rut in Aziraphale’s floor. Normally, he’d make a fuss, pull the demon back into his seat, stuff a glass of something in his hands, but not tonight. It has been one month and three days since the Not End of the World and already Heaven and Hell were having them tailed.
Some pacing was to be expected and wholly warranted.
“What’s even the point of coming after us? We didn’t do anything, not really.” Aziraphale shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, well I wouldn’t say that.” Crowley grimaces at that, meeting Aziraphale’s tired gaze and pupils dilating as he gets more worked up. “We were, at the very least, influential. Directly in front of the people we report to.”
“Alright, yeah, but what else can we do? What do they think we're going to do?”
“I don’t think it would be a matter of what we can do, but what’s been done.” His hands tighten around themselves. “They’ll need to find some way of making an example of us, especially after the first time didn’t work.”
“Even still. It's just one lowly demon and a Principality.” He jabs a finger into the air, all wound up nervous energy. Despite himself, Aziraphale’s spine grows tight at the title, unnecessary breath catching in his chest. He’s hot and cold in the worst of ways, yet Crowley continues, unaware. “So I talk myself up a bit. Who doesn’t? You’d think they’d turn a blind eye on us still. S’not like we’re all that impor-”
Crowley pauses, whether noticing his audience has become unfocused, their attention no longer on his wild gesticulating and general whinging, but fixated on something else. Something thousands of years ago.
"Aziraphale?"
He honestly hadn’t meant for Heaven to, for lack of a better term, forget he was a Cherub.
The interesting thing about bureaucracy, though, whether under mortal rules or divine grace, is that with enough time, even the most important details can become lost to the annals of Things Deemed More Important. And it just so happens Aziraphale's true title comes into question right as a long list of More Important Things begin to take place.
It started a decade or so after the whole Garden of Eden event. Aziraphale was summoned back to Heaven to check in, wholly expecting all sorts of metaphorical Hell to be raised at the missing sword and the general habit he had formed for leaving his post at the Garden for more entertaining activities that didn’t involve standing at a gate for weeks on end to keep out the entirety of no one from entering.
Humans were more important, he felt. He liked watching over them.
Ever since the First Holy War, Heaven had been under a sort of restructuring in the wake of losing 99% of its people to either the competency of Lucifer’s ‘forward thinking’ or to the general tragedy of fighting in a Holy Conflict wherein one side is out-numbered and the other is overpowered. Jobs were moved around, positions consolidated, and generally everything was just kind of a mess. The hierarchy was still intact; no one moved up or down in the Spheres, but there was an unholy amount of paperwork being sorted through and lost juxtaposed with a complete inability to keep everything straight.
In the past, when Aziraphale had returned for his reports, one of the Seraphim greeted him in blinding fiery radiance and indifference, ready to listen and ignore a rundown of his most recent Earthen-based heavenly endeavors. This would absolutely end in a pattering off of not-very-much-done on his part and chastisement for any transgressions deemed too grand to ignore on their part, not that there had been any in the past, really. The sword may change that…
Instead of the insistent holy chanting and the feathery burning grace of a Seraph, an archangel greets him with a smile made of go-getter confidence and masking a clear unfamiliarity with the angel now standing in front of him that was absolutely mirrored in Aziraphale’s own expression. They are not one Aziraphale had ever known, as the First Sphere tended not to mingle with those in the Third. Couple that with his aloofness and disinterest in attending any of the meetings even within his own peers, and it wasn’t all that shocking Aziraphale had no idea who was giving him a confused once-over.
And it is here the finer details begin to fade. Aziraphale remembers moments before the archangel opens his mouth that he had not dropped the human form when he had returned to Heaven, all too comfortable in that skin than his own meta-physical truth. It's just inconvenient in general to have that many eyes and who really needs four faces for a debriefing, honestly?
Which makes the archangel’s next words all the more appropriate.
“You’re a… Principality, right?” Aziraphale blinks, then blinks again. And then a third time. He really should be offended at the notion. He is after all quite a bit higher than that and this archangel is just barely granting him grace above themselves.
But the angel also seems so confident in their assessment and, really, why correct them? Its just awkward and who knows why they've decided to not at the very least look up who Aziraphale is. He just wants to finish the meeting, go about the next few decades not guarding the Garden, and doesn't want to get anyone in trouble.
Later, Aziraphale would find out that there was a new initiative, wherein a few archangels, now without so many battles to be fought but quite a few gaps to fill, were being placed in charge of reports and general movement of the flock; making sure the right people were in the right places and doing the right things. Gabriel, at the time a brown-noser with a lot of ‘upward motivation’ had taken it upon himself to personally know everyone now under his supervision without the help of external sources such as lists or records or even perhaps a superior to keep him on track.
It’s hard to tell if someone is a Cherub when they hold a human form even in heaven, have just the singular face, and only have two wings out because really it's all he needs. Four is just ostentatious. It also didn’t help that in response to the assumption that was very much wrong, Aziraphale merely smiled, nodded, and introduced himself.
“Aziraphale.” and the archangel beamed, less out of the enjoyment of surprising his new constituent and more in line with self-pride at misidentification taken for correct title placement. Gabriel, as the archangel called himself, listened to his wanderings about the New Earth with rapt faux attention and instructed him to just keep doing much the same.
“Big things are going to start happening soon.” Gabriel said with a sense of all too much excitement, staring at the spinning facsimile of Earth. Plans were already in motion, and though the next conflict wasn't for an eon, the archangels had to be salivating at any excuse to battle. “How many are there now? Three?”
“Four, actually." Aziraphale had wondered when it would be best to bring up the whole 'not actually a Principality' thing. At what point is it beyond angelic social convention to correct Gabriel? Does this angel have any capacity to report such a misunderstanding? Would that actually get him in any trouble if the Seraphim found out? If he seems distracted, Gabriel does not notice or care.
"And we already have a principality down there?" He wonders aloud, eyeing Aziraphale over his shoulder.
He has a chance to correct him. It'd be so simple. Just a quick 'well not really no, I'm just quite bad at my job and I like seeing what the world is like'. And really, this is where bureaucracy, in all its infallibilities, begins to forget Aziraphale the Cherub. Because, in all honesty, all Gabriel has to do is check. Call in a record keeper, if they even still have those, look through a few lists to see through Aziraphale’s non committal non lie.
All he has to do is look it up, but he doesn't and in response to this affirmation of who he is, all Aziraphale does is shrug.
"Well, who are we question the Almighty?" Gabriel decries with a forced laugh and another smile in which he dismisses Aziraphale back to the handful of humans to continue his new job.
And really, it's not a lie if he didn't say the words himself, now is it?
It's not that he dislikes being a Cherub. There's nothing wrong with a few more faces, a few more wings, a few dozen more eyes. It's the standing around waiting for nothing to happen that gets him. It's the expectation that come of higher power and reporting the same thing, decade in and decade out to uninterested superiors. It's the fear in the humans that he brings when in his true form, how they scream at his unknowable presence.
It's the fact that things are happening and Eden is slowly slipping into myth and the rest of the Cherubim are being reassigned (so he's heard) to guard the Throne and as long as Gabriel and the archangels believe he is meant to be watching over humanity and not a forgotten paradise or the Almighty's favorite chair, he can be there to see those things happen.
It’s not like he’s seen or heard from anyone in his actual Sphere in quite a while to reprimand him anyways.
"Angel?" Crowley is standing before him, all lean lines and tight clothing. He's close enough that if Aziraphale had any want to, (and truly, he did), he could rest his cheek upon the demon's flat stomach, wrap his arms around his protruding hips and forget for a while his own transgressions.
"You went somewhere just then." His words are all but whispered into the silence of the room and he reaches to stroke Aziraphale's cheek. His yellow eyes are warm with concern, and Aziraphale cups his hand closer to his skin, leaning into the cool touch, his own eyes fluttering closed. The Cherub nonsense didn't matter now, did it? Not when he has this.
“It’s nothing, my dear.” He assures quietly, whether it's for his own sake or Crowley’s is yet to be determined. There’s so much he wants to say, to do, and when he looks at Crowley again, there’s is so much adoration pouring from him that Aziraphale is frankly drunk off it.
Crowley's other hand comes to frame his face, soft genuine smile beset upon the demon's lips and Aziraphale is lost to the swell of heat and want that comes from the sight of it. He begs, no prays that Crowley will kiss him, finally, take the decision from him, because one cannot spend 5940 some odd years ignoring this and then 6 decades repressing it to make the first move.
He's not brave enough to close that gap.
Blessedly, Crowley leans in determined and Aziraphale does the same, helpless to his whims-
The swoon of orchestral violins has them all but jump away from each other as if touched by a live-wire. Aziraphale immediately is lost without Crowley as the demon spins to glare at an ancient record player presumably neither of them have seen before just feet behind them.
Crowley marches over and lifts the needle from where it was scratching on nothing, the unidentified sonata fading into the quiet of the evening. He is visibly taken aback, as puzzled as Aziraphale. "Was that you or me?"
Aziraphale's answer is a shrug, relieved by the distraction and perfectly bitter about it as well.
It becomes a lie, an actual measure of deceit a few millennia later. Heaven being restructured and no other angel really wanting to spend so much time on Earth has meant Gabriel and the rest of the self important archangels have relied on Aziraphale and a few others like him to keep things going smoothly and to keep events and dates on time and with the right people involved.
There is a Plan after all, for the next war, and someone has to make sure the humans don't free will themselves out of it. And when you have someone as eager to spend so much time with the riffraff as Aziraphale without the need for coercion or pressure, you don't really question why. A good employee should never reprimanded or looked into if they are more than content to do what you don't want to.
Its Crowley that finally gets the word out of him. Of course it had to be the demon who wrings the lie finally from his mouth into the world. Like many things with Crowley, it comes about due to a conversation about work.
Temptations here. Blessings there. Upper level management sticking their noses where they don’t belong. That sort of thing.
“You know, for a bog-standard angel, they have you doing a lot.” it's not an insult, but it pings in him like one. Crowley is practically defending him, complaining on his behalf, but all creatures, even those directly under the light of Heaven are capable of Pride, and what little Aziraphale affords himself is hurt at the implication of being even less than Principality. He didn't spend immortality as a being whose visage strikes fear into Heaven, Hell, and Earth alike, take an unofficial demotion to skirt around guard-and-terror duty, and not get a little wounded at the idea of a further knocking down the ladder.
He can happily deal with being a Principality. At least then, he still out-ranks the self-aggrandizing Gabriel and his archangels, and like Hell is he letting a demon whom he barely even likes, imply he is any less.
“Principality, actually.” At least that’s what he tells himself when he realizes he’s blurted out the damn thing. He freezes, astounded that the cup of wine in his hand is still intact and not turned to dust under the pressure of how hard he’s squeezing it. Though he hadn’t said it much above a murmur, the words still ring in his ears.
For a few terse seconds, Aziraphale is convinced that he is about to be very suddenly and very violently brought into Heaven. That any moment now, he’d be face-to-face with those same Seraphim who he once reported to, now damning him for his lies, for his deceit. He’s left the Garden No One’s Seen in Years, he’s lost his sword to the humans he was meant to be scaring away, he’s masquerading as a lower sphere for millennia in order to shirk his duties as a Cherub. What kind of foul perversion must as angel be capable of-
But, those moments pass. The patrons of the tavern are not blinded by the radiance of his superiors, he is still on Earth in the body they had side-eyed him for requesting and eyed him more when he seemed to enjoy being in it. He’s still holding his cup of mediocre wine next to a demon whose intentions have been less in 'tempting an angel to fall' and more ‘my work is usually complaint worthy and this angel is the only one around to complain to’.
Much like how many things happen, nothing has changed. No one’s listening. No one seems to remember. No one cares.
Save for Crowley, who seems to suddenly care a whole lot, evidenced by how pale he’s gone, and how quickly he excuses himself from the conversation and the country in general. If the idea of being a lowly angel had hurt in any way, this immediate disappearance from someone he’d almost regarded as...well at the very least a rival co-worker, stung infinitely more.
It's a few years later when they see each other again and he receives an explanation for Crowley’s sudden exit.
“It’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it?” he starts, and when Aziraphale stares at him blankly, he continues. “It’s a bit different whinging to low level angel, but if Upstairs saw someone like me palling around with someone like you-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but instead smacks his hands together loudly, sending birds from nearby trees shooting off into the night, and that gets the point plenty across. Aziraphale scoffs either way.
“I’m not that important.” And that lie rolls off the tongue so much easier. Because it’s not really a lie. He hasn’t been important in ages. No one from the First Sphere has even tried to contact him and he's beginning to wonder if they forgotten him entirely. It's more shocking how fine he is with that notion than anything else. “Besides, doesn’t it look good on your end, ‘tempting’ a higher up angel or whatever?”
Crowley seems taken aback by that notion, a sly smile growing on his mouth which opens to say something, and Aziraphale blinks at his own admission.
“Oh, why am I even defending this. I don’t even want to talk to you!” He turns to leave Crowley and continue his walk, rolling his eyes fondly and fighting back a smile when Crowley calls back with a ‘yes you do!’.
Once again, nothing changes, and Aziraphale couldn't have been more relieved.
"Well, I suppose I should head off for the evening…" Crowley says it less as a declaration and more of a question, swaying slightly on his feet and peering coyly at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. He makes no move for the door, instead choosing to keep his hands loosely in his tight pockets, waiting.
Aziraphale knows his game, knows what the slight pout is for, the cock to his hips, the hopeful look in his eyes, the temptation he's trying to facilitate. He wants to say it. He's practiced it in his head dozens of times now since the Almost Armeggedon, no, why don't you stay-
"Yes, well," Aziraphale stands, that heat and anticipation once boiling within him now curdling at the bottom of his stomach as he steps up to show Crowley out. "I suppose you shall."
Crowley ducks his head in acquiescence, blessedly patient and so much more than Aziraphale could be deserving of.
“Lunch tomorrow?” Crowley asks when Aziraphlae opens the door for him, glancing at him over his shoulder as he steps out onto the landing. His hands are still firmly in his pockets, as if waiting for a rejection that Aziraphale could never dream of giving. “We can figure out where to go from there. Might be a little too distracted tonight, yeah?”
Aziraphale nods, eager for every excuse to spend time with Crowley. Their meetings had obviously increased a great deal since the Almost Apocalypse, and, really, he had no intention of letting that slip again. “Around 1, preferably.”
Crowly beams as though the Aziraphale had promised him the sun and the moon and within a stride, he’s placed a soft kiss to the angel’s cheek, just to the side of his mouth. Its simple, sweet, and Aziraphale has to clench his fists horribly to keep from pulling Crowley in more.
“There’s no rush. World's not ending anymore, is it?” Crowley tells him, full of confidence he had no business having considering their potential predicament. Aziraphale nods all the same as Crowley pulls away for a final time. They say their good nights, Crowley saunters to his Bentley, and Aziraphale fights the want to call him back.
Aziraphale decides that if being a Principality was enough to almost scare off Crowley from being begrudgingly mutual conversationalists, that he’d keep the truth for if he ever needed to keep him away for good. Its not as if he ever told the demon he was a Cherub masquerading as a Lower Sphere angel in an effort to keep things the same, that anyone in Heaven would ever believe said demon.
But, time passes, as it is wont to do and they meet more, and have more conversations, less about work and more about interests and life in general. Crowley brings up the Arrangement, which he shuts down, and then brings it up again and Aziraphale agrees. They’re strange companionship morphs into an partnership, then a friendship. Crowley helps him out of a few sticky situations and makes time to remember his strange hobbies and always shows up at the right time and place and suddenly Aziraphale has to wonder if maybe Heaven would be more apt to damn him for the transgression of finding himself very much in love with a demon then pretending to be a Principality.
The thought of anyone Upstairs realizing his thousands of years of skulduggery begins to weigh less and less on him in the wake of the potential for Crowley never finding him again, never wanting to speak to him again for fear of that clear imbalance of power that puts a nice shiny target on his backside should anyone get wind he's been even looking at a Cherub.
Aziraphale decides it's better to just never bring it up. It's not like he's hurting anyone, especially if they are none the wiser.
They don’t talk about it much throughout the years, this idea of Aziraphale’s ranking in the Angelic Order. With demons, it's a bit simpler. You have the Lords of Hell, and then where Crowley sits with everyone else. There’s no posturing, no real assigned roles, just the demonic freedom of inciting sin, evil, and general malaise. So long as a demon is doing any of those things, they are well within the green.
That was where he and Crowley shared a similarity in deceit, albeit for different reasons. Crowley’s general chicanery was claiming the human’s tendency to be cruel and unusual as a product of his tempting in order to seem more important and Very Good (Bad?) at his job. It kept his superiors off his back and allowed for a lifestyle Crowley had clearly become accustomed to.
Much the same, Aziraphale’s trickery was to seem less important, something he had gotten very, very good at over the years. No one batted an eye at his fondness for humans and their culinary proclivities. They didn’t mention his bookshop. They didn’t care about the plays he attended or the clubs he joined. He’s a Principality after all. Humans are his business, and so long as he reported good deeds and no one checked the records, which they never did, he was free to continue life as it was.
He could have lived this lie for a thousand millennia more. Had even almost forgotten about it.
Unfortunately, the Apocalypse happens. Or rather it doesn’t. The Antichrist free-willed his way out of it, humanity was shaken but mostly none the wiser, and the collective blaming fingers of both Heaven and Hell are pointed solely at Crowley and Aziraphale. As much as they would love to believe that their little stunt would keep them safe, there’s simply no way for that to be true.
One sleight of hand did not fool an audience for long.
It’s not so much the fact that Crowley is late that alerts Aziraphale to any immediate danger. One does not find companionship with a demon for 6000 odd years and not know he has a propensity to sleep in when stressed. It's more that at 1:15pm sharp, the locked door to his bookshop chimes and when Aziraphale turns to chastise whoever had just bypassed his minimal security, he finds an unfamiliar 'bog-standard' angel standing alone and prim.
“We’re closed.” Aziraphale still says curtly. “You’ll have to come back at another time. Or never, in fact.”
“I’m not here for books, traitor.” The angel spits, sneering. Aziraphale has enough sense to look at least a little offended.
“Well, that’s a bit harsh.”
“Shut it. You’re to report to Heaven immediately,” the angel draws a sword, shining and sharp. “And I’m here to make sure you do.” They're all but leering, puffed up at the chance to get a good word in with a certain archangel.
“I don’t really think that’s-” he gestures to the sword, “Wholly necessary." He turned his back to the angel, beginning to walk away. "And if Gabriel wants to speak to me, he’s well capable of coming here himself.”
“They told me you might say that." The angel calls to him, gleeful in a way that has Aziraphale pause. "I’m supposed to inform you we’ve got your little demon pal in an Internment Room, and if you want to see him before they spend the rest of the year tryn’ to figure out how-”
The angel doesn’t get to finish his statement.
Aziraphale has never really feared true death in his own right. Being a higher echelon angel affords some comforts in term of one’s immortality. You’re huge, frightening in an unspeakable way, blinding in your holy light, generally on fire in some way, and even lower Sphere’s cannot look upon you in your true form without some pain on their end. There’s a reason Cherubim protect the Lord’s Throne, why Ophanim carry it, and Seraphim accompany it.
They are God’s last line of defense, her personal envoy. Aziraphale never felt it was appropriate to worry about truly facing non-existence when he’s been afforded every capability and protection against it.
But he does fear it for Crowley. It's one of the few things he’s come to realize he's truly feared. The idea of Crowley being truly gone.
It’s simple to discorporate a lower Sphere angel; all it takes is a touch and just the briefest of sighs of the Holy Light. It's a gesture that reminds of painful yester-eons, before Eden, before the Great Plan, before the first Holy War, when dissent from God’s Orders involved a great deal more pain and nonexistence and a great deal less falling.
He crosses the room without a thought and grants the angel before him this touch, as gentle as he can, delivering a soft apology for this reprieve from the mortal realm. He watches with a grimace as the angel gasps, surprised and terrified, form disappearing in a burst of light, their sword clattering to the hardwood in a deafening way that leaves a definitive sour taste in Aziraphale’s mouth. The bookshop is empty save for him once again.
With a blink, the sword is in his hand, unfamiliar in its specific dimensions but a weight he had not wished to know again so soon after sending his own away. He wants nothing more than to throw it out but it stays firmly in his fist. Just in case.
For a moment, Aziraphale closes his eyes and just waits. He's about to do something extremely foolish and needs a brief moment to come to terms with that.
He knows, when he opens his eyes again, he will be in Heaven. He knows what he will have to do. There’s a slim possibility to come out of this unmasked; that the way to Crowley will be miraculously unguarded and Aziraphale will be able to pop in and out without anyone being the wiser. But even his higher capabilities do not afford him that kind of miracle, and he is faced with the certainty that he will have to show his true face for the first time in an eon.
Outside, birds chirp, vehicles putter, mortals go about their collective unassuming business, but inside his little bookshop, surrounded by the material possessions he’s filled his life with, an angel opens his eyes, ready to find the one thing he’s coming to realize he’d leave it all behind for.
Heaven changes things slowly, having little to motivate a speedy renovation of any kind, but it's still jarring to find nothing at all has even so much as moved since Aziraphale all but renounced the place. There may have been some part of him expecting to find the bright white emptiness more sinister now, but it just isn’t so.
Aziraphale’s accidentally crafted veneer of ‘please ignore me’ in relation to other Heavenly beings comes in handy as he crosses the almost completely vacant floors of Heaven, the few lower angels that he passes pay him no mind. Uncontested, he heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time down to the lower levels.
He knows precisely where they have Crowley, and the two archangels guarding the old Internment Room have approximately 7 seconds of posturing and shouting before time itself halts and Aziraphale shoves past them to the innocuous door. He can feel them fighting his will with their own, attempting to out-miracle a miracle, but unfortunately for everyone, he outranks them by several degrees.
The door is a simple white thing, unblemished as the rest of the metaphysical walls it is set in, but as it swings open at his behest, it reveals what the archangels have tried to paint over. Everything appears as is at the will of the angels, but some things cannot be changed. Some things are left to the Will of God herself to keep around as a reminder of what used to be.
When it was just one or two angels questioning every now and then, they used these rooms for a punishment in permanence. In non-existence. It took Lucifer’s rally call pulling the angels down in droves and God’s decision to let them fall for the room to become a distant if not horrific memory.
The room beyond the door is dark, lit only by the light of Heaven shining in from the doorway upon the contrasting slate gray stone that makes up the walls, floor, and ceiling. The space is empty, save for a single simple chair in the middle of the room upon which is seated a very beaten, very much under the room’s oppressive effect to keep him complacent and incapable of utilizing anything beyond what a mere mortal could accomplish.
Aziraphale nearly trips over himself to get to Crowley, letting the sword fall to the chair’s feet in his haste to touch and feel that, yes he is there. He barely registers the beginning's of that aura starting to bury him in its weight. The door remains open even as he hears the shuffling of guards beyond it and the light from the rest of Heaven is enough to let him tip Crowley’s limp head back to examine him. Cuts, bruises, possible broken nose; the particular properties of this room keep them from healing, but once they left, if they left-
“Aziraphale?” Crowley opens his eyes blearily, staring hard at the angel before him as if he can’t actually believe what he’s seeing. “Well this is a turn of eventssss.” He attempts a cheeky grin, but it's lost to a sharp intake of breath and his teeth grit in pain. “Oh that smarts. ‘S better when I’m not awake”
Beside himself, Aziraphale pulls him into a fierce embrace, overwhelmed by the joy at his continued existence and bitter regret at himself.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he pleads. If he hadn’t sent Crowley away, hadn't been so hung up on the finer details, on the useless opinions and judgments of beings who were not him and not Crowley, he could’ve saved them both this punishment. If he had just an ounce of the same confidence Crowley all but oozed-
“Nothin’ to apologize for.” Crowley grunts, unable to even bring his own arms up to return the hug. He hisses when Aziraphale squeezes a little too tight. “‘Cept this. Hurtssss.”
Aziraphale lets go as if burned, horrified at his own lack of inhibition, and Crowley slumps boneless and helpless back into the chair. “Dear, we should get you out of here. Before they come back.” He moves, gently putting Crowley’s arm over his shoulders so they can get him to his feet together.
“Good plan.” For his part, Crowley is mostly a skinny sack of potatoes, pliable and awkward to carry, but Aziraphale can manage. He's wobbling on his feet, and has to lean heavily on the angel. It'd would take more than a miracle to get them out unmolested at this rate. “Not much help. Sssorry."
"It's fine, my dear." He takes a first step, watching Crowley carefully and then another when he's certain the demon won't collapse completely on him. "Its not too far, now, there's a good-"
“And there he is! Just the angel I wanted to see.” Startled, Aziraphale looks up, having forgotten the entirety of the rest of Heaven beyond the door where Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, and the two guards now stand. At his side, there’s a muttered ‘shit’, and Aziraphale pulls Crowley tighter to him.
Gabriel peers around, unimportant puzzlement on his annoyingly handsome face. “Wasn’t he supposed to be brought upstairs first?”
“Seems like something happened to the angel we sent to fetch him.” Uriel observes apathetically, giving Aziraphale a disapproving glare. Aziraphale does have the good sense to appear at least a little bit ashamed. He really doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
“What?” Gabriel exclaims, a surprised laugh punching out of his as he levels Aziraphale with an almost proud expression. “I didn’t think you were capable of anything like that. But then again," His voice lowers, attention directed entirely at Aziraphale. "I don’t think any of us really know you at all.”
Aziraphale swallows a sudden lump in his throat. What does he know? What did he prepare? “What do you mean?”
“I went back after that little stunt you pulled. With the fire? Great stuff. Don’t know how you survived that. But," and he clasps his hands under his stomach, furrows his brow, and he tilts his head ever so to the side. "I went back and checked the records for Principalities, and you know what I found?”
“I can only imagine-”
“Not a single fucking one named Aziraphale.” He can feel Crowley freezing at his side, the words catching the demon off guard. He notices the sword has found its way back into his hand and Aziraphale straightens as much as he can while keeping Crowley at a comfortable angle. Michael steps back with a gasp as they notice he is now armed and Uriel is quick to become so as well.
“I’m going to need you to move now, Gabriel.” His voice is steadier than it's ever been, and he wonders if that, like the sword and the record player, is a miracle too.
Gabriel laughs in disbelief, absolutely not moving and grinning in that self-assured manner of someone who’s been in an improper position of power for too long. “I don’t think so. Not until we get some answers out of you, and even then-”
“We're leaving.” Aziraphale all but shouts, and that grins falls from Gabriel’s face. In a much more leveled volume, he adds, “Now.” He nods to the door. “Please.”
“After what you’ve done?" Gabriel is shaking, hands unfolded and jabbing an accusatory finger at Aziraphale. He feels Crowley begin to crumple at his, the strength leaving him like a deep wound left unchecked. "After what you could do? We don't even know who you are! What makes you think we’re letting you leave here alive?”
The thing about being a Cherub is that they have a specific job, which is to guard and which they will do very well and will do forever. Once they have been instructed or have found on their on volition an object or a garden or a planet, or even a demon to protect, there is little that exists that can come between the Cherub and whatever they are meant to keep safe. It's their job after all.
And it helps with the whole guarding business if one is difficult to behold in the first place.
It's the wings that unfold first, all four of them unfurling and stretching after such little use. He doesn’t so much feel the eyes lining them blink into existence as he begins to see through them, dozens of perspectives once again slotting into place until he knows every possible direction and a few impossible as well. As the three extra faces unfurl and shape along his head, eagle on his left, lion on the right, oxen coming from the back, his own Light begins to shine, flooding the room and the doorway in slowly pulsating waves.
He is radiant. He is blinding.
He is hopeful Crowley is lucid enough to close his damned eyes.
Gabriel and the archangels are gaping at him, mixed expressions of fear, betrayal, and awe, and Aziraphale, emboldened, levels the sword at those blocking his path as dozens of eyes snap to attention.
“You will let us leave.” He states, four mouths speaking in unison. They echo in the room, reverberating endlessly into a low hum that will not leave for ages to come. “And then I,” he gestures at Crowley at his side, “We won’t see you, any of you, ever again.”
No one moves. All of them have averted their gaze for the sake of their own sight save for Gabriel, whose face has turned an interesting shade of puce. His mouth opens and closes, thousands of years of supervising a strange aloof angel upended and quite suddenly making too much sense. Aziraphale silently pleads he just move, that Gabriel will not make this end violently. If the room hadn't been weighing him down, he'd move Gabriel himself.
The longer the silent standoff takes, the more Aziraphale becomes aware of the horrid thought that they would call another Cherub. Or a Seraph. Or God herself would come down and end them with a thought. They already have him in a room where he is too weak to fight back, and honestly, he's little match for anyone at or above his pay grade.
He waits, praying to no one in hopes they don’t show up.
The guards are the first to move, swords gone, and heads bowed in deference. Next is Michael, and then Uriel who's own sword clatters to the ground from shivering hands. Finally, finally, as Aziraphale begins to all but float towards the door, head held high and right wings wrapped protectively around Crowley, Gabriel slinks back. There is hatred in the thin line of his mouth and rage in the way his back straightens. His cornea’s are red and inflamed from staring directly into his Light and, as Aziraphale passes him, he looks away.
The oppressive properties slide off as they exit, the weight lifting as divine capabilities flow back into him. He hadn't realized how much it had seeped into him in such a little time until he was finally free of that damnable room.
“Upstairs will be hearing about this.” Michael hisses in his direction as he reaches to bring himself and Crowley back to Earth. Gabriel is still oddly quiet, pressing his hands to his eyes and turning as if to leave. Aziraphale waits just a beat, just long enough to let his faces fold back into the ether and for Gabriel to begin walking towards the stairs.
“If you can find them.” And with that, they’ve gone from Heaven. For the last time, with any luck.
Its evening. They’re in Crowley’s flat, said owner tucked neatly into his expansive bed, sleeping through the injuries incurred from the angels, the minor burns from being so close to Aziraphale's true form, and the still lingering effects of the Internment Room. He couldn’t have been in there for more than an hour but the adverse aura wasn’t made for angels to leave alive; he had no doubt it would be even worse for a demon.
He would heal, but it would take time.
Likewise, Aziraphale is resting, though for different reasons. While the short moments in and out of the room were stifling, its folding himself back into his human body that has taken it out of him. Slipping out is the easy part; maintaining the corporeal form and then stuffing himself back in is another story. He hadn’t even been fully undressed, just his top half, and even that had been muted for Crowley’s sake. On top of that, going from two eyes to four dozen, and then back again leaves one with at the very least a migraine.
It was a lot like riding a bike after a long absence from doing so: he remembers how to do it, but it’s harder than he remembers and muscles he forgot he even had burn from the effort. And though he’s never one to sleep, finding the complete loss of time very much a waste, he’s dozing lightly in an armchair which looks suspiciously like one from his shop that was neither in the room before he came here nor does he have any real recollection of bringing with him.
It seems recent events have made him a bit loosey-goosey with his miracles.
He’s not aware he’s being watched by familiar tired yellow eyes until a scratchy slurred voice shocks him out of his light nap.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Crowley is laying on his side, eyes half-lidded, mouth set in a firm line that he mostly wants to seem neutral but belies the actual pain he’s in. Aziraphale wants nothing more than to approach him, offer comfort, pet his hair, and tell him it’ll be fine, go back to sleep, you’ll be fine in the morning-
Something tells him that won’t be appreciated in this moment.
“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, quite unsure of where to go. He’s fidgeting, folding and unfolding his hands, looking this way and that, bouncing his foot erratically. He can only assume his expression has gone through several iterations of uncomfortable and unfortunate, settling on absolutely guilty. He looks in Crowley’s direction, not so much at him but around him. “Can’t we have this conversation later? We did just go through a whole ordeal an-”
“Aziraphale.” He finally glances at Crowley, who has sat up and is leaning on his elbows, ever patient with him, expectant of an explanation that he rightfully deserves. Aziraphale looks away again, sucks in a deep breath and-
“It wasn’t my fault really. No one ever checked after Eden, and Gabriel just sort of assumed I was a Principality.” He smiles sadly to himself at that. “Well, I suppose its was somewhat my fault; I never corrected him but it was easier if they thought I wasn’t a Cherub considering my predilect-”
Crowley is on the move, sliding out of his bed with well-practiced grace that is muted by the pained noise he makes in the back of his throat when his feet hit the floor. Aziraphale starts to stand to help him, but doesn’t have the chance as the demon comes to his knees before his chair, taking the angel’s restless hands in his. Its then Aziraphale looks at him, really looks at him as Crowley presses a kiss to his knuckles.
It's not fear Aziraphale finds in his familiar yellow eyes but hurt. Genuine hurt that he’s caused and Aziraphale had not imagined how infinitely more terrible that is than fear. He never wants to see it again.
“I honestly couldn’t care less about what Gabriel and his cronies thought you were,” Crowley’s face softens as he mutters, and he kisses another knuckle while keeping their gazes locked. “I just want to know why you didn’t tell me.”
Aziraphale nods, taking in a great shuddering breath before forcing the words out.
“You were afraid.” Aziraphale states faintly, finally, twisting his hands so he can hold onto Crowley’s. He can't meet his eye at this, instead observing the way his fingers clutch at at the demon's. “You left so quickly that night and were so upset at the thought of me being just a Principality, I-” He swallows, letting his thumbs circle the top of Crowley’s wrist, smoothing over battered skin in the gentlest way possible. The light burns heal under his ministrations and though its draining to do so after all he’s done today, it's the least he can do considering how they came to be. “I didn’t want to give you any more of a reason to never speak to me again.”
Crowley watches his skin heal for a moment as if hypnotized by the slow simple pattern of Aziraphale’s touch before he looks back up at the angel’s face, the sheer adoration and love pouring off of him threatens to overwhelm Aziraphale with the force of it.
“I’m still speaking to you now.” Its offered so quiet, barely above a whisper with such conviction and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to kiss him.
And, to everyone's surprise, including his own, he does.
Its chaste, just the lightest of touches as he leans downs presses their lips together for a few short glorious seconds, but it’s there and it’s real. Like they are still, in this room together, despite the best efforts of Heaven and Hell. When he pulls away, Crowley’s grinning at him in a surprised yet goofy manner that almost has Aziraphale kissing him again.
In fact, he was absolutely planning on it, but those plans fall through as Crowley grimaces again, hissing as the pain of the day returns to him.
“My dear, let me help you up.” Aziraphale frets, and with their combined effort, they get Crowley back into his ostentatious bed under his silken sheets with little more trouble. Once Crowley is effectively tucked in, (despite his halfhearted protests), Aziraphale straightens, standing awkwardly at the side of the bed. He's at a loss of what to do, trying very hard not to look at Crowley's very empty bed or at Crowley's very inviting everything.
He could go back to his chair, but after all that’s happened, it just doesn’t seem appropriate.
“I suppose I should be off.” He finally says, stepping back, the irony not lost on him. He glances to Crowley for affirmation, where the demon is peering at him curiously from under his forearm which is draped over his eyes. “You need your rest, and I need to do some cleaning, I think…”
Crowley groans, closing his eyes and rolling onto his side to pat the expansive space next to him. “Just get in the bed already, angel.”
Aziraphale smiles all too fondly, ducking his head as warmth brushes pink into his cheeks. “Well, if you insist.”
Nothing much happens of course, which, at the moment, is all he really wants. Crowley sleeps with his hand held loosely in Aziraphale’s, and the angel guards over him despite knowing both Heaven and Hell would be avoiding them for a good long while. At this point, it's just the principle of the thing, really.
They weren’t completely in the clear as it was, and Aziraphale had no idea when or what the next scheme would be, but he wasn’t particularly worried. They could move, or they won't. They'll fight, or they won't have to. They'll leave everything behind, or they'll stay just as they are.
Come what may; they’d figure it out together.