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The trouble begins when Aziraphale decides to treat himself to a nice pain au chocolat.
Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have any readily available in Heaven. They don’t have much of anything available in Heaven, actually. Manna aside, consumables have no place in the blindingly white corridors of paradise.
Which is perfectly understandable, of course! The Good Lord, as always, provides—which is to say, She provides what is absolutely necessary, and not a drop more. Here, there is nary a soul that goes without. The concepts of desire, of want—of unidentifiable, nameless, bone-deep longing—simply do not exist!
Thus, it cannot possibly be any of these things that motivate Aziraphale to embark on a jaunty little excursion back down to Earth. Ah, did he say excursion? It’s more of a stroll than anything else, really: just a quick jog to the store to grab a single item and head straight back. He’s popping in and immediately popping back out. It barely warrants mention. A total non-event.
It is also, as far as he knows, not in direct violation of any of the rules. There is nothing that explicitly forbids him from returning, nor from returning to the specific dot on the globe that he had called his own for the past however many centuries. He was not specifically told that he could not take his time soaking up the sights and sounds and smells as he walked down the very street he’d traversed hundreds, thousands, millions of times before. No one instructed him not to try and peer into the windows of his old bookstore in an attempt to catch a glimpse of—oh, of anything. And if he is technically allowed to do any of these things, then it seems wholly reasonable to conclude that walking into the Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death café, exchanging a quick “hello” and “how do you do” with the store owner, Nina, and sitting down to enjoy a delicious chocolate confectionary are all entirely above the board, according to the terms of his employment.
Unfortunately, the precise moment that he thinks to himself that he might have gotten away with it, is the exact moment that he winds up being caught. It’s not by one of his supervisors, however. Which is regrettable, since that actually might have been preferable to being caught by, of all possible options, Crowley, who is his…
Well, nevermind what Crowley is or isn't.
Ugh. He didn’t even get a chance to get properly situated before the lights flickered off and back on again, and the entire occupancy of the building proceeded to vanish into thin air. Well, all except for Nina, who is naturally dismayed and alarmed by this development. Aziraphale did get the sense that Crowley had taken a bit of a shine to her and her friend—what was her name?—towards the end of all that hullabaloo regarding Gabriel. Which is too bad for the two of them. Any mortal in regular proximity to an ethereal being finds themselves at an elevated risk of being dragged into all manner of misadventure and/or commotion.
This incident is rapidly shaping up to be one of the latter. What else could Crowley possibly intend to achieve by bursting through the front door, haphazardly taking a seat in the chair facing his opposite, and outright attempting to stare Aziraphale into submission. As if he ever could.
Lord, but if Aziraphale knew that this is where his day was going to wind up, he would have remained right where he was. It’s always, always dramatics, when it comes to dealing with him and his moods.
"Look,” Aziraphale asserts, finally breaking through the eerie quiet that has descended upon the room—or putting a decently sized crack in it, at least. “If you are expecting an apolog-"
Crowley interrupts him with the first words he has spoken to Aziraphale since their catastrophic falling out, only months prior. They are… bitter. "I’m not."
"Well!” Aziraphale remarks, thrown entirely off balance. “Ahem. That’s good, then." Because he will not be getting one! Not with that attitude, that’s for certain.
Crowley does not visibly react. Instead, he continues to glower, and simmer, and glare, and the uncomfortable silence begins to take hold again.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” Azriaphale asks, growing uncomfortable. His only answer is continued stonewalling. He pinches his nose, knowing what has to happen next, but reluctant to give in. “Alright,” he grumbles, hoping to just get this over with as quickly as possible and return to his pastry, “we’ll do it your way.” If Crowley wants a proper greeting, then a proper greeting he shall get. He takes a deep breath. “Why hello, Crowley!” he exclaims, with as much annoying pleasantness as he can muster. Truth be told, he’s been mustering quite a lot of it ever since his relocation. Corporate culture, and all that. “Whatever is it that brings you here, today?"
Crowley proceeds to shift into attack mode. “You set foot into my office,” he says, laying right into him, “and you have the gall to demand me explain my presence?”
And they’re off to the races. “Your office?” Aziraphale parrots back, bewildered. “Crowley. You can’t just go around laying claim to random territory in my absence and expect me to know what you’re talking about.” Or to care. But that seems secondary.
“No? Why not? I don’t see what there is to be confused about,” he says, about to return fire. “Seeing as how I’m certain that I was awarded the entirety of Earth in the divorce.”
The divorce, he says. Hilarious. “I see you've come prepared with jokes.” You’ll have to pardon Aziraphale if he is less than enthusiastic about being subjected to this. “Do spare me, please.”
Crowley is not laughing. “Not a joke at all, now is it. Got the irreconcilable differences and everything,” he points out. “Now, allow me to inquire as to what, exactly, brought you here.” He smirks, but his heart isn’t fully in it. “Felt a tug on the old earthly tether, did you, Aziraphale?”
No. Maybe. It’s not really any of Crowley’s business why he felt the impulse to drop by their old stomping grounds again. Aziraphale has his reasons. And these reasons have absolutely nothing to do with him, and far more to do with the forgotten pain au chocolat sitting on the table, being horribly neglected. “I’m afraid calories are in shockingly short supply upstairs.”
“Yes, I’m certain that all you were feeling the absence of,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes. “Calories.” Aziraphale can’t quite see his eyes, of course; not with the way his gaze is hidden behind his glasses. Still: he can tell when he’s being subject to scrutiny. “But let’s not get sidetracked. You wanted to know why I'm here, didn’t you? Why I'm still hanging around, wasting my time on this godforsaken rock?” Aziraphale didn’t actually care, but alright. “It's because I have a life here. We both did, if you recall. In fact, for a while there, I was suffering from the delusion that we might have been sharing one."
Aziraphale politely pretends to not hear the second half of that spiel. "I meant here, Crowley." As in, the coffeeshop, not the planet. "Doesn't seem like you stopped by because you were stuck with a craving for espresso."
"Ah. Yes,” Crowley pretends to contemplate. “Here here. As in, here—before you, Aziraphale, everyone's favorite up-and-coming Archangel. Is that what you meant?" The condescension is almost palpable. "Well, it’s not to exchange pleasantries, I can tell you that much.”
“That’s a shame,” Aziraphale says. Two can play at this game. “And here I was hoping we might be able to take a moment to catch up.”
“Eh, no need. I should be able to get you back up to speed rather quickly.” Airily, Crowley says, “if you absolutely must know, I’ve been keeping myself fairly busy as of late. Watering the plants. Tampering with the mail. Musing over my endless, undying adoration for someone who is thoroughly incapable of returning the sentiment.” He shrugs. “Squeezing in a nap where I can.”
Aziraphale blinks, unsure if he heard that correctly.
Crowley takes umbrage at this. "Oh, I’m sorry," he sneers, although there’s no real heat behind the action. Aziraphale has seen his (one-time) companion muster some truly venomous delivery at times, throughout the course of their many years spent in approximation. This particular instance ranks at about a 2 out of 10. "Did you happen to think that just because you’ve regressed, that I would too?" Instead of anger, there lies something closer to exhaustion in his voice—it sounds oddly like defeat. "No. No, I don’t think so. I understand why you might have assumed otherwise, angel,” he adds, “but I think I’m quite done pretending for your sake."
Ahhhh. So that’s how it is. Aziraphale’s wise to what’s going on here. “I see.” A certain somebody’s misery has dearly missed its company. And now he intends to rub Aziraphale’s nose in it as reparations. How juvenile. “And am I correct in thinking that you’ve moved onto accosting me the second I step foot on the planet in some sort of misguided attempt to enact punishment on me, instead?” It’s so very predictable of him. He’s never known the demon to pass up a chance to engage in the time-honored tradition of tit for tat. “Doesn't sound like the most productive use of your time to me, dear boy. What with your packed schedule, and all.”
Judging by his expression, Crowley thinks him an idiot. But what else is new. “If you think that this is punishment,” he says, frowning that much harder in an effort to properly convey his utter disappointment, “then we are in far worse shape than I thought.”
Aziraphale frowns right back at him. “Then what, pray tell, would you say that you are trying to achieve with all this?”
“What I am doing,” Crowley says, leaning forward in his chair and leveling an accusatory finger at his chest, “is holding you accountable.”
Psh. Potayto, potahto. “How lovely for you.” He can call his little crusade whatever he likes. Aziraphale wishes him well with that effort. “Now that that’s settled, if you’re quite finished holding me to account, as you put it, then I think I’d like to return to enjoying my pastry in peace, please.”
Crowley smiles. Aziraphale knows exactly what that particular smile means: this is what he’s been waiting for. “Not. A. Chance.” He speaks slowly and calmly, as though he is explaining something to a child. “Currently, you are on Earth.” So they’ve established. “And, I’m deeply sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but we’ve been fresh out of peace for some time now. You want law and order? You want everything sorted neatly into its proper place? You want to leave well enough alone? Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go elsewhere.” The unyielding edge to Crowley’s voice makes it clear that this is not a suggestion, nor is it a threat—it is a promise. “You forget the reason I was assigned here in the first place, Aziraphale. From the start, I was tasked with ensuring that peace not be allowed to prosper on this planet. And I can be very effective at doing exactly that, when I decide to be.” His grin widens. “As you’re about to personally discover.”
It’s an impressive little display. Very fierce. Unfortunately, Aziraphale has never allowed himself to be intimidated by Crowley, and he’s not about to start now. “Really,” he retorts, droll. “You know, you have some nerve to lecture me on the particulars of your job after–”
“I am not talking about our fucking jobs.” Now that got him riled up. “Do you think any of that shit matters to me? Do you truly, honestly, think that I care anymore? That I ever cared?” Not particularly. But a jab is a jab, and Aziraphale isn’t about to pass up a chance to give as good as he gets. “Because I don’t. I don’t give a good goddamn about any of it; never did. If the boys downstairs pulled a hostile restructure and offered me a seat on the throne with some stock options thrown in for good measure, I’d tell them to eat shit. And I sure as hell wouldn’t care if every last angel prancing about up there spent this eternity and the next yucking it up around the water cooler about how you drag me about on a leash, like I’m your little pet." He crosses his arms, sourly admitting, “frankly, I don’t think I’m in any position to dispel those allegations, anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale is positively affronted.
“Oh?” Crowley is equally affronted in turn. “It seems I’ve misread the room! Was pet too much for your delicate sensibilities? Maybe you’d suggest something more along the lines of accessory, or perhaps plaything? Please, enlighten me: exactly how wrapped around your little finger would you prefer that I be, right now?”
“I would prefer,” Aziraphale hisses, “that you conduct yourself with even a modicum of dignity! ”
For this, Crowley gives Aziraphale an absolutely withering look. “Come now. You mean to tell me that after all this,” he makes a sweeping arm motion, apparently gesturing to whatever this is, “you somehow mistook me for an entity to whom the notion of dignity means anything?” For a moment, it almost feels like he’s on the brink of breaking into hysterical laughter. “Aziraphale. Angel. I departed that station several millennia ago. And I’ll give you exactly one guess at exactly whose behest I threw it away for.”
Now Aziraphale can hardly be blamed for that. “I don’t recall ever requesting anything of the sort from you.”
“Of course not,” Crowley shouts, exasperated. “I’m supposed to read your mind and act accordingly, after all! Really, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve forgotten the way things work around here, Angel!”
Aziraphale buries his head in his hands. Theoretically, he should be incapable of experiencing a migraine. And yet. “You are being incredibly dramatic,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh, I assure you, I’m just getting warmed up,” Crowley snaps—both with his tone of voice and with his raised hand. Nina, who had been making herself as scarce as possible in an attempt to escape notice, suddenly snaps to attention and promptly produces a bottle of wine from behind the counter.
Aziraphale shoots an apologetic glance her way as Nina places a single glass of cheap zinfandel in front of the demon, and then blinks repeatedly at her surroundings, confused. His glance is then turned towards Crowley, and grows quite disapproving indeed. “You said you wouldn’t–”
“I said a lot of things, if you’ll recall,” Crowley interrupts, swirling the liquid around in the glass angrily. “Let’s stick to the things I said to you, shall we?”
Nina, her autonomy returned to her, has wisely chosen to flee back to a safe watching distance. “Alright,” Aziraphale allows. “Fine. Let’s relitigate the entire blessed matter, then. Endlessly, if you’d please! See where that takes us!” They are surely both aware by now that this has gotten entirely out of hand. But they are also both aware that the other will do anything to secure the last laugh. And, so, it continues. “I should warn you, though, that you are highly unlikely to get the apology dance out of me this time around.” He huffs. “I do hope you’ve been practicing. Your form has been getting sloppy as of late.”
Crowley is quiet for a moment before responding. “Angel,” he says, voice low. “I don’t think the apology dance is getting us out of this one.”
Which Aziraphale knows, of course. He just didn’t want to address it outright. That only makes it more real. “No,” he admits, deflating. “It isn’t, is it?”
Crowley continues to watch him, patiently allowing the severity of the situation to fully set in. Which is by far the cruelest thing he’s done yet. It was vastly preferable when he was on the attack—at least then, Aziraphale could expect to be able to defend himself. The silence, on the other hand, closes in on all sides. It stretches on, and on, and on, mercilessly.
Oh, but the two of them have made a right mess of things this time, now haven’t they?
“But,” Aziraphale argues, since it’s what comes easiest. “But… I mean… you and I have argued over everything this planet has to offer!” Which is true. You name it, and they’ve taken up opposing stances on it. Quarreling comes second nature to them—it’s like there’s an element of security they can access through engaging in it. “It stands to reason that we should be equally adept at reconciling, then, too.” They really should be, shouldn’t they? “So… so we’ll surely think up some way to resolve this.” Somehow. Eventually. Right…?
“Sure,” Crowley says, dismissive. “That would be a reasonable enough conclusion to reach, if our current situation at all resembled even a single disagreement we’ve had in the past. Which—I’d just like to state for the record—it doesn’t. This isn’t the best dive in Babylon we’re bickering over, this time.” Now that one was quite the row. Outlived the city itself, even. “We’re dealing with something else entirely, here. There’s been a paradigm shift.” Crowley’s eyes become barely visible over the rim of his glasses, for the first time since they got into it. “The old ways are not going to cut it anymore.”
Aziraphale has to look away. “Maybe, for now, we can just…” He casts about. “Just… put all this on the shelf. Just for a tad?” A year or ten, maybe. They surely have some time to spare, yet—if Heaven can be relied upon for anything, it’s tying up their own aspirations in a veritable cocoon of red tape. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before!” The two of them have been through it all, over the course of their prolonged association. Light-hearted debates have turned to bona fide spats have turned to outright declarations of animosity have turned to decades-long estrangements, with each party holed up on opposite sides of the planet. And still, on the other side of each and every conflict, they’ve found themselves able to come together to share a good laugh and an even better bottle of wine. Sometimes, even, they’d discover that all the situation ever called for in the first place was a period of mutual disarmament. Aziraphale has no illusions about that being the key to solving this particular nightmare, but… but it would be a nice break, if nothing else. After all, he misses his best friend. He always does, whenever they find each other at odds like this. “We should just drop this, for now. Pause the clock. Let the air clear.” Yes, yes, that sounds splendid. Lord, but is Aziraphale tired. “What do you say?”
Crowley’s position—strongly against—is self-evident, even before he opens his mouth to respond. “No,” he states, simple and direct.
“No?” Aziraphale frowns. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Crowley confirms. “That’s it. Or do you need me to break down, point by point, why climbing inside Pandora’s box and drawing shut the lid is not an acceptable thing for you to ask of me?”
“Well…!” Of course. Just like him to be stubborn. Of all the times to die on a hill. “I don’t see you proposing any other paths forward!”
“Forward.” Crowley sighs. “Right.” Suddenly, he looks exactly as tired as Aziraphale feels—of this conversation, of this dilemma, of Aziraphale himself. “Okay. How’s this for a proposition: from here on out, do not expect to be able to talk to me,” he says, “unless you are prepared to talk about us. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, that is the only outstanding business remaining between you and I.”
There’s that word again. Us. “I was under the impression that us no longer existed.” It had certainly felt that way when the dust settled, in any case. “Or, perhaps, it’d be more correct to say that it never actually existed in the first place?” Aziraphale still feels sick when he thinks about it, about how close they’d gotten. Everything could have been perfect! They could have had it all! But noooo. Crowley just had to choose to be obstinate. “Seeing as how certain parties were uninterested in giving us a proper chance!”
It is an unfair accusation. Crowley would be completely within his rights to retaliate with something similarly below the belt. That is how this sort of thing usually goes.
Instead, what follows is much worse.
“Angel,” Crowley says, “It has always been us.”
Which makes no sense at all. “No,” Aziraphale starts. “No, it… what?”
“Always,” Crowley reiterates. “The entire time. When I met you on that wall—the very moment I saw you—that’s when it became us.”
Aziraphale furrows his brow, but finds himself otherwise unable to respond.
“And, hey, you know what? What the hell. I’m on a bit of a roll right now. So! May as well add, that, er.” Crowley falters. Aziraphale has heard his voice sound like this precisely once before. He has yet to find the words to properly describe it. “That there always will be an, um. An us.” He swallows. It looks painful. All of this looks painful. The merciful thing to do would be to stop it. “In my eyes, if nothing else.”
Nothing moves, for a long moment.
“So yeah,” Crowley finishes, completely out of steam. “I fold.” He holds his empty hands up in display. “All out of cards to play.” Another long pause, and he sighs. “Look, you’re going to have to say something at some point, because I’ve done about all I can do.”
And so Aziraphale opens his mouth, and ruins everything. Because that is what Aziraphale does.
“But,” he protests, and proceeds to watch as Crowley’s entire demeanor shifts back into immaculate indifference. Even now, in this very moment, there is the inescapable knowledge that Aziraphale has done this to him. Once, countless eons ago, there was an angel whose face he will always remember—they were grinning from ear to ear, alight with joy and practically radiating wonder as they watched the dawn of their creation unfold. The demon sitting across the table from him now sports an expression that he couldn’t rid his memory of if he tried—he is shut down, closed off, more impenetrable than all the walls of Heaven and Earth combined. Aziraphale can hardly reconcile the two. How did they get here? And how do they get back? Lord, but they were so close. Aziraphale knows he isn’t capable of returning that awe to Crowley, of bringing that stolen innocence back. There is but one being in the universe with the power to restore that which has been lost. There is, and only ever will be, one lone path to redemption—there is no way forth, but that which leads through Her. All other roads serve only to further deprive Crowley of the light that illuminates every corner of the universe, yet shines not for him. To stray from the path would be as selfish as it would be unforgivable. Settling for anything less is a course of action that Aziraphale cannot bring himself to be a part of. He cannot, and will not. It will never be an option. “But I’ve told you. There is one scenario in which we can be us—one, Crowley, exactly one—and you…” Aziraphale shakes his head. “You told me n–”
“For the love of–” Crowley shouts, slamming the until-now forgotten wine glass on the table as though it has personally offended him. “What the hell did you serve me?”
Nina peeks up from her hiding spot when she realizes that it is her that Crowley is addressing. “What did I–? You’re the one who served it to yourself! You just used my body to do it, is all.”
Crowley huffs. “Well, whoever served it, it’s rubbish. May as well be vinegar.” He slides out of his chair and marches over to her, ready to personally investigate what swill Nina has deemed fit to serve to the poor unsuspecting denizens of London. “The hell do you keep this behind the counter for, anyways? This what you give customers when they ask for death instead of coffee?”
Aziraphale lets it go on for much too long—long enough for Nina to explain that the wine’s intended purpose is to kill fruit flies around the shop, and for Crowley to launch into a rant about Beelzebub’s disgusting little creatures—before he finally puts his foot down. “Excuse me,” he announces, louder than is strictly necessary.
You’d think Aziraphale was intruding on something important, the way Crowley turns to look at him. “What?” he barks.
What does he mean, what? “Were we not in the middle of a discussion just now?”
“Oh,” Crowley replies, quickly returning to his previous engagement. “No. We weren’t.”
“Wha- Oh, yes we were!” Aziraphale cries. “I wasn’t finished sp–”
“Well, I was.” Crowley doesn’t bother to turn back around. “And last I checked, Angel, we requires two participants.” Nina looks more and more uncomfortable the longer this goes on with her trapped smack dab in the middle of the blast radius. “So, no,” Crowley concludes, matter-of-factly, “We were not discussing anything.”
And that, at long last, does it.
“Fine,” he declares. “Fine!” If Crowley wants things done his way, then who is Aziraphale to object. “You don’t want to talk? Then that’s just fine with me.” He abruptly stands up to leave, finding that he no longer wishes to finish the pastry he came here for in the first place—in fact, he finds he’d like to get as far away from it, and everything else that came along with it, as quickly as he possibly can. “I don’t need this,” he grouses, unable to stop himself from one last helping of discontent. “And I most certainly do not need you,” he finishes.
“Not what you said last time,” Crowley alleges, still facing the opposite direction. “When you make up your mind, you know where to find me.”
But Aziraphale has already stormed out the front door, down the street, and off the celestial plane entirely. The only other creature remaining in the store now is Nina, who blinks at Crowley dazedly, like an owl. She looks positively stricken.
“What,” Crowley sniffs, “No applause?”
She shakes her head slowly.
“Eh. Fair enough.” Though, in his opinion, he thinks he deserves a standing ovation. That was one for the history books. “I imagine some feedback would be a bit too much to ask for too, then.”
She frowns. Ah well. After a moment, the shock fades. “I… could offer you some scotch I keep in the back office, if you’d like?” Now we’re talking. “Should be better than the wine was, at least.”
“Please,” he rasps, leaning heavily onto the counter. He does her the courtesy of letting her go fetch the bottle and pour him a glass without any miraculous intervention, which he throws back immediately—and not a moment too soon. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to thank you for before,” he says, upon slamming the empty glass back down. Gratitude is not his forte, to say the least, but he’s completely gone and lost his mind, anyways, so what the hell. Why not? “That was solid advice you and your not-girlfriend gave me.”
Nina grimaces, and goes to refill his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she says, struggling to remain civil.
“No?” Huh. And here Crowley thought that went about as well as could be expected, all things considered. “Well. I suppose I do have a few complaints.” Another swig of liquor later, and he clarifies: “Been driving me insane for eons, actually. You’d think, after 6000 consecutive trips around the sun, that he’d have developed even the slightest ability to tell a lie. But no. He’s exactly as abysmal at it now as he’s ever been!“ It’s truly a shame. Especially considering that Crowley rather thinks he’s been making some progress with the whole “honesty” thing, as of late. He was hoping Aziraphale would be able to keep pace, albeit in the opposite direction. You know, just to keep them on even footing. Make things that much more interesting.
But no. Apparently not. Where Crowley has been able to advance, Aziraphale has either stagnated, or reverted to form.
“...Uh-huh,” Nina mutters. She sounds unimpressed, to say the least. “Listen. I gotta tell you, as someone who just got out of a similar situation… that right there might have been the single worst conversation I’ve ever watched two people suffer through. Just a complete trainwreck from top to bottom. No offense.” None taken. Crowley disagrees with her, of course—both on her appraisal of recent events and on her assertion that the two of them are in any way human. But, he’s gotta give credit where credit is due: she’s got guts to say that to his face. No denying that. “And here I thought my situation was hopeless,” she adds, shaking her head, before she returns to the back room to retire the liquor bottle—a little prematurely, in Crowley’s opinion, but, well. He did subject her to an unnecessary miracle for the purposes of a melodramatic stunt. So he’ll just have to let it go, for now.
“Hm. Looks that bad, does it?” Crowley muses aloud, though at this point, he’s speaking purely for his own satisfaction. There’s no one around to listen, aside from he, himself, and… well, God, presumably. Would be extremely rude of Her to tune in on him like that, however. Eavesdropping: not very righteous at all, no ma'am.
But then, on the other hand, it might actually be a point in Crowley favor, were She to hear this. Then, at least, She wouldn’t be able to say that he didn’t warn Her.
“Hopeless,” he repeats, swirling his remaining scotch around in the glass. “Well, that makes sense. After all,” he adds, “I’ve been told that the long game tends to look that way, viewed from the outside,” Crowley turns his gaze upwards and out—pointed towards a fixed point in the distance, one that lies beyond the ceiling, and the sky, and even the stars. “Wouldn’t You agree?”