Chapter Text
Crowley had once believed that one fabulous kiss had the power to fix everything. He was wrong and now he spent his every waking second reminded of his mistake. The streets of Soho, streets he had once loved, reminded him of Aziraphale. As did the bookshop. And libraries generally. And London.
It took the demon far too long to realize that it wasn’t the city that was cursed with memories, or even the country– it was the world.
So Crowley left.
He did what he thought he’d never do: he went back to Hell.
Being a traitor put him in a strange position where he was feared, yes, but not respected. He was no longer put into temptations but rather was assigned the entry-level job of processing new arrivals.
He had just clocked out of his shift at the sinners’ check-in desk, a demon screeching something disparaging after him, when he heard a sound he feared he would never hear again: he heard Aziraphale’s voice.
“C-crowley?”
The demon whipped his head around at the sound, a flurry of emotions flooding him only to find no renegade archangel at his side. He could have screamed at Aziraphale. He could have begged him to come back. Instead all he managed to do was croak out, “Where?”
“Here, right by your ear. You haven’t noticed that your snake is slimmer?”
My snake is –
Crowley blinked. He had noticed that the other day, glimpsing in some slime-encrusted mirror at his tattoo and noticing it was looking a little bit thin. Of course, he had other things to worry about and assumed it was a reflection of his own tempestuous emotions or something along those lines.
“It’s Sli.”
“... Sli?”
“You’ve had that tattoo for thousands of years and never asked the poor thing for its name? Well, no matter. I’m speaking to you through him. Or his counterpart, rather. He split himself when we…” the angel’s– and he would always be the angel to Crowley, fancy new title or no– voice wobbled. “When we kissed. He gave part of his essence to me, slithering up my sleeve to hide himself away. I must say, it’s such a darling creature. It’s ever so fond of me.”
Crowley blinked, caught between anger at the reminder of Aziraphale’s kiss and subsequent betrayal and adoration. In the end, Crowley’s love won out. For better or for worse, it always did.
“Of course he is, silly angel. Like my Bentley, he’s part of me, and there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t adore every part of you.”
Aziraphale went silent at that. Then Crowley heard a sniffle. Then, seconds later, the angel was crying. He was trying his best to keep quiet– a choice which sparked all sorts of terrible questions in the demon.
Questions like: Are you safe up there? Have they hurt you? They don’t like it when you feel, do they? They don’t care. Not about your pain. Only about what you can do for them.
The sobs grew stronger and the next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale was babbling in his ear, words flowing out faster than anything.
“I tried to get them to change, to stop. I couldn’t. They won’t stop Crowley, I know that now– that you were right. But I just– I just had to try . I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. If I ran instead, suspecting but never knowing they were truly lost. Truly unsalvageable. Do you understand?”
The angel’s voice fluttered.
“Hate me for my choice, if you must, but I need you to understand.”
Crowley swallowed. Because he did. Really, he did. He had when the angel left too. He had that same fatal stubbornness. That same blind optimism. Those same unrelenting questions that insisted on being asked. It had driven him out of heaven just as it had dragged Aziraphale to it.
“Oh, Aziraphale, I could never hate you. And I understand it too. Why you did it. I understand and I forgive you .”
Crowley ran a hand through his hair, unsurprised when the ache inside him dulled but did not vanish. The scar on his heart would take time to heal; he would be foolish to expect anything different.
Aziraphale was silent for a long while after that.
“I love you, you know. I have since the beginning.”
“Me too.”
“I think we were Her plan all along, Crowley. The Serpent and the Sword. They’re working on the Second Coming now– they’ve put me in charge of the project– and I know what we need to do to stop it. This won’t be like last time. We can’t merely avoid the war; we need to end heaven and hell for good. To do that, we need to destroy the leverage they have over us– the blade they dangle over our bowed heads.”
“The Book of Life,” Crowley whispered.
That was followed by a pause– likely the angel nodding fervently.
“It’s real, my dear boy. I’ve seen it. And it’s true what they whisper– it has the power to destroy us all.”
“So what can we do?” the demon asked.
“Remember my flaming sword?”
“Yes. It was repossessed after Adam reset the world and Hell managed to get a hold of it and– Oh, angel.”
Aziraphale exhaled shakily.
“I wouldn’t ask if there were any other choice. You know that.”
“I know.”
Crowley swallowed, letting his snake tattoo– Sli– slither down from his face, running over his trembling fingers.
“I have to go to the Basement, don’t I?”
Chapter Text
The Basement was, obviously, not merely a basement in the earthly sense. Ethereal and occult creatures alike called it that for the same reasons why monsters are often given silly names. It’s easy to snicker at a creature called the Boogeyman; it’s much harder to laugh at a monster that devours dreams, hunting children in the night and feasting on their bones, draining them until there’s nothing left to give.
It was hell. Original hell. A floor plan that had been created and scrapped millennia ago, replaced with the more bureaucratic, through no less cruel, system.
Hell had redesigned the layout because it was too dangerous , but it had made its way into humanity’s collective unconscious somehow, sticking to the mortals’ imagination like a particularly gooey sap.
Crowley knew all this from hearsay, but Aziraphale knew it the way he knew most things– from books . He had spent the past six months practicing his apologies, yes. Sobbing, yes, nearly every night, like Crowley had, but also researching.
Plotting.
Planning.
Scheming .
For all the pain Heaven had caused him, Aziraphale had only become more of a bastard now that he was supreme Archangel. If that was even possible.
“It’s the same layered system envisioned in Dante’s Inferno , except the levels aren’t organized anymore. They’ve unraveled, become an ouroboros– a sentient labyrinth that devours itself,” Aziraphale had explained in an anxious whisper. “It will want to hurt you, Crowley. Or worse, it will want to keep you.”
“I’m sending Muriel down,” Aziraphale had insisted when Crowley implied he was considering entering the Basement alone. “I’ve spoken with them and they see the truth now. And I’m sure there are others down there who will join you. Eric and the other clones. Even… Even Hastur.”
“Hastur?”
“He’s not loyal anymore. We have… sources on that. And as much as he hates you, he hates Hell more. He will help you. Begrudgingly, sure, but you need the support.”
—
That’s how, a week later, Crowley ended up in front of the door to the Basement with a crew of seventy disposable demons, one angelic scrivener, and Hastur.
He had spoken to each member of his crew individually, checking their loyalty, their devotion to the mission. This had been admittedly tedious when it came to the Erics, but Crowley found he actually enjoyed speaking with Muriel. They had a bright smile that reminded him of Aziraphale’s. A similar shine in their eyes when they were amused and wrinkle in their brow when they were faced with a new challenge.
Satan, Crowley missed his angel. He missed him so much.
His discussion with Hastur had been… different.
“We were friends, you know,” the demon had grunted. “Me and Ligur. Just like you and that pretty angel of yours. We were friends and you took him from me.”
Crowley had swallowed, his stomach twisting at the implication, before shaking his head. He already had so much guilt inside his heart; he would not add Ligur’s fate to his list of wrongs.
“That was self-defense,” he had finally whispered.
“I know.”
“Will you come with me to retrieve the sword?”
“I will.”
And so Crowley stood at the entrance to a deeper, darker hell than the one that had tortured him for six thousand years. He opened the door and descended, step by step, unwavering, into the darkness.
Chapter Text
Twenty years.
Well, nineteen, technically. That was Aziraphale’s timeline. He had built it for himself, hoping it would be long enough.
Unlike with Adam, the second Christ child was not born with supernatural powers or conceived through metaphysical means. Instead, a select group of human children would be monitored, as per Aziraphale’s request, for the next two decades until they came of age. Then the child deemed the holiest would become the host of the divine spirit.
Of course, humans made all sorts of errors, and Aziraphale swore to himself that one of the candidates, Isabella Device, would never qualify for godhood. Not even if she was the picture of a perfect child. Anathema had been through enough, after all.
So excuses would be made. Timelines would be delayed. Crowley would return with the sword and the apocalypse would be averted once again.
When he did, the world would be theirs not to own or to rule, but rather to live in and learn from.
Aziraphale’s first strategy was the PowerPoints. Crowley had invented the despicable things himself. Every day the archangel would give a presentation with all sorts of unnecessary context and poorly cropped photographs that ‘just wouldn’t do’ and slides filled top to bottom with writing.
Aziraphale would call breaks in between slides, and when he was finished with one presentation, claim that it was insufficient and that the angels of heaven would have to sit through yet another series of infographics.
Crowley would be so proud of him. He hadn’t called in a few weeks, but that was alright. It probably didn’t mean anything. The wily serpent was focusing on the task at hand. Or at least, that’s what Aziraphale told himself.
He had already been pulled aside once by the Metatron after a pointless meeting, who urged him with faux sympathy to appoint a second-in-command he could delegate part of the organizational work to, since, ‘a promotion could be a difficult adjustment’.
Aziraphale had remembered, guilt and anger pooling low in his stomach, how the Metatron had suggested that Crowley be his second-in-command. How he should bring the demon up to Heaven. How, if necessary, he should use force.
Aziraphale had never told Crowley that part of the story– the way Heaven never truly wanted him back. How if he followed him up in the elevator that day, he would not be the archangel’s partner. No, the man Aziraphale loved more than anything would be little more than his pet.
You do know, the voice of God had said conversationally, that a halo can be used as a collar. That ethereal essence can be used to fashion manacles. Or even a leash.
Demons are wicked; they deserve everything you do to them. Yet they can be so sweet when you make them obey.
Aziraphale– who at one point truly thought the Metatron was good– despised him for that. And of course, he hated himself a little too. After all, hedonist that he was, he had thought about it before. Connecting with Crowley on a metaphysical level… Tethering him to his ethereal essence… The angel thought it could be special, like the way wedding rings were for humans.
But he would never do such a thing without Crowley’s consent the way the Metatron was suggesting. Never to control him.
“I’m working methodically. Carefully. That means going slowly,” Aziraphale had declared yesterday to a panel of skeptical angels. “If we wish for this to go successfully, we must be diligent.”
Successfully unlike last time was the implication. And yes, the angels had thought of Aziraphale as a traitor for his role in stopping the first apocalypse, but they couldn’t hold on to that line of thought for long. Not when it meant one individual and his wily companion had the power to bring down an institution imbued with divine might. After all, such a traitor couldn’t be promoted, woudn’t be rewarded , so it only made sense that there had been an error and the former Principality had never actually been a traitor at all.
It was difficult, recognizing the layers of doublethink Aziraphale had surrounded himself with– engaged with– for so long, but it brought home the meaning of his mission with Crowley all the same.
Heaven could not be changed any more than it could be escaped. So the celestial kingdom, like the dreaming souls it had cast out so long ago, would have to fall.
There had been times when Aziraphale went centuries without seeing Crowley. What was a few months compared to those lonely slices of eternity?
The angel could wait.
He would have to.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale’s warning stuck in Crowley’s mind: do not stray from the path.
The stairs leading down to the Basement brought Crowley and his band of allies into a field. There was a road of chipping brimstone leading forwards as far as the eye could see. On one side of the road was a forest filled with shadows. The other side was a home to a barnhouse that just didn’t feel right.
“We don’t leave the trail, understand?” Crowley snapped, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
The demons and Muriel nodded and Crowley gestured towards the road ahead.
“I will lead you. We stay close and we stay together. Let’s go.”
Aziraphale had spent months learning how to navigate the Basement’s labyrinth It would not be safe– would never be safe– even on the trail Crowley’s predecessors had carved for him, had paved for him, but if they left the trail it would be far more difficult for them to escape unharmed. That is, if they were able to escape at all.
On the path there would be dangers, but at least they would be contained.
“When there’s a fork in the road you look at Sli, dear,” Aziraphale had instructed him, gently yet firmly. “He won’t lead you astray. He’ll use that clever serpent’s tongue to point you in the right direction.”
So Crowley walked on while Sli ran over his fingers, comforting him.
“We love him,” Crowley whispered to the little snake when he was sure the others couldn’t hear. “We love him so much, Sli. We’re going to take him out of Heaven. We’re going to take him home.”
Home .
Crowley had one with Aziraphale, in his heart. The angel and the demon had carved out a precious, peaceful, fragile existence for themselves in stolen moments and daring rescues and quiet dinners at the Ritz. Heaven may have cast Crowley aside, but he would always have a place in Aziraphale’s arms.
And Crowley wanted to hold the angel. Wanted to hold him properly. Not like the way he had shoved him up against the wall, or pulled him in by his lapels for a frantic kiss. He didn’t want desperate. He wanted soft. And sweet. And romantic. He wanted Aziraphale like he had all the time in the world to savor him. For the first time in his immortal life, Crowley wanted to go slow .
His angel deserved nothing less.
Yes, if anyone deserved love, deserved a happy ending, it was Aziraphale. After six thousand years of watching and waiting and wanting–
“We didn’t have to wait,” a voice hissed near Crowley’s ear.
When the demon whipped his head around, Beelzebub and Gabriel were next to him, holding hands and gazing at each other with a silly lovesick expression Crowley knew all too well.
“A few years were all we needed. And we were true enemies.”
Crowley shook his head, anger flooding him. Because that was– That was–
“It’s not fair,” he groaned.
“Aziraphale thought so too,” Gabriel drawled, his soft smile curling up into a sharper smirk. “Remember the way he reached for you when he saw us? The way he clung to your arm like he would do anything to keep you? He touched you like he would never leave you and then… And then he did.”
Crowley swallowed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He had spent the past six months trying– trying oh so hard– not to think about this.
“We ran away together. We did the thing you’ve been dreaming of doing since you saw that pretty angel on the wall of Eden and decided you wanted him all to yourself. Your greatest struggle, that celestial knife forever carving at your soul, stripping you down layer by layer? We never had to worry about that. For us, it was easy .”
Crowley sunk to his knees, his vision blurring as Gabriel and Beelzebub– true hereditary enemies, both crueler than he or his angel ever could be– leaned forwards and kissed.
Oh, and Crowley was so angry .
Angry and miserable and envious–
“Envious,” the ginger gasped, staggering to his feet. “This isn’t real; this is envy .”
Crowley had expected to run into danger but he hadn’t expected these visions stolen away from his innermost thoughts. His secrets and shame put on display for him to drown in.
The demon waved a hand, screaming.
“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real!”
With that, Gabriel and Beelzebub disappeared, along with the world around them. Crowley blinked, opening his heavy eyes. How had he gotten so sleepy? Where was he anyway and–
And why couldn’t he breathe?
There was a plant down the demon’s throat, its tendrils spreading across his chest, curling around his neck. Crowley clawed at it, tearing it out and leaping up. The rest of his crew was similarly incapacitated, Hell plants down their throats, wrapping over their eyes. Some were fully covered.
Without thinking, Crowley ran, clawing at thorny vines until his fingers bled.
A half-lucid ridiculous thought popped into his head before he could stop it.
I was far too cruel to my plants in Mayfair.
“What should we do, Mr. Crowley?” Muriel cried.
“Save them. Save them all.” Crowley swallowed, glancing at the demons that were now almost fully covered in the plants. His optimism, which had saved him from his fall and convinced him that he could drive a Bentley through a wall of fire, failed him in the face of the horrors before him. He amended his order. “Save the ones you can.”
In the end, they were able to save fifty, including Crowley, Muriel, and Hastur. They rest were trapped, consumed by the plants.
“At least– ” Muriel’s voice trembled as they blinked, holding back tears. “At least it didn’t hurt.”
Crowley shook his head, his face pale. He didn’t have the heart to tell the scriviner that it did. That it hurt more than anything.
“What now, Crowley?” Hastur asked.
The demon closed his eyes, regaining his strength before turning to face his former enemy. He wanted nothing more than to lie down until the ache in his heart went away. He wanted– needed– to talk to Aziraphale. But the plants he had clawed apart were twitching now, green tendrils creeping their way towards his feet.
As much as he wanted to rest, he simply couldn’t afford to.
“We keep going.”
We need to .
“Onwards. The only way out is through.”
Chapter Text
They had been walking for hours now, the landscape of the Basement shifting every few miles. The crew traveled in silence, thinking of those they had lost. And they would lose more. Crowley knew it with a terrible certainty.
Eventually the terrain changed from flat to unbearably mountainous. Really, it seemed as if the hill they were climbing wouldn’t end until their legs gave out and broke.
Hastur, who was walking slowly by Crowley’s side, stopped suddenly, squinting at something on the horizon.
“Do you see that?”
“See wh–” the question died on Crowley’s lips because a moment later he was no longer on the hill. Somehow, impossibly, he was back in Heaven. He was there as a witness .
The angel was tied to a chair just the way he had been when Heaven tried to punish him after the thwarted Armageddon. Except this time… This time they hadn’t swapped. This time Aziraphale was really trapped.
And this wasn’t like the Bastille or even 1941 when the angel had been a silly, fussy Principality in distress. No. This was real. And Aziraphale… Aziraphale was crying .
“Crowley, please ,” he sobbed. “I’m scared. I’m so scared!”
“Let him go!” Crowley snapped, turning to Gabriel, who stood, grinning in front of the bound angel.
“Oh, I don’t think I will. I’m going to kill him and you’re going to watch.”
“You won’t. You won’t, you won’t, you won’t .”
“And why’s that, demon?”
Crowley looked down at the blade of fire he was clutching in his hands.
“Because I’m going to fucking destroy you.”
With that, Crowley was lunging forwards, taking the flaming sword his angel had given away and plunging it through Gabriel’s chest, watching the monster fall to his knees and fade away. And then–
And then he was back .
“I’m going to make you watch, demon. I’m going to make it hurt,” Gabriel snapped, walking forwards and reaching out a hand to strike Aziraphale.
“Oh, Crowley!” the angel sobbed. “Oh, Crowley, please!”
The second killing was easier, as Crowley remembered not only this instance of Gabriel’s cruelty, but all the injustices that had come before it. Every time he came to the bookshop only to find Aziraphale’s voice a little too wobbly, his eyes a little too red, his smile a little too faint.
“You’re not going to hurt him,” Crowley swore, lifting his sword and killing Gabriel over and over and over again. “You’re never going to hurt him again.”
There was a point, somewhere between the fiftieth and hundredth iteration of the loop where Crowley realized he wasn’t so much using the sword as the sword was using him. It was bringing the demon forwards to kill Gabriel, sometimes before the Archangel even began his monologue.
With every leveled blow, the weapon tightened its hold on him.
“If this keeps going,” Aziraphale whispered from where he was tied, “you won’t be able to escape. You know that.”
“I know, I know,” Crowley snapped, striking Gabriel down again.
“Crowley.”
The demon shook his head. He knew what Aziraphale was about to ask him. He didn’t think he could take it.
“My dear,” the angel whispered in an impossibly gentle voice, “you have to let me go.”
“I can’t. Angel, I can’t .”
“Crowley, please. Save me.”
There was something about the angel’s whisper, so soft and quiet, lost to the raging emptiness around them, that broke Crowley. When Gabriel reappeared, taunting, Crowley cast the flaming sword aside.
He watched the Archangel kill the love of his life.
He listened to Aziraphale pleading, screaming.
In the end, he closed his eyes. He wasn’t strong enough to watch.
When the horrible sounds faded away and Crowley blinked, Heaven was gone. Instead he was back at the top of the hill with Hastur and the rest of his crew. Muriel was shaking him, sighing with relief when he wriggled his way out of their grip.
“What– What happened?”
“We thought you were gone,” the angel whispered. “The others are– Well, we got stuck in some sort of trance. I broke out. So did Hastur and most of the others but some of them... They got stuck , Mister Crowley.”
“You can’t wake them up?”
Muriel shook their head.
“We’ve tried. We’ve tried everything.”
Crowley trembled, thinking back to that loop of misery that had ensnared him.
“Well you must have missed something. Maybe we could–”
“Crowley,” Hastur snapped. “They’re gone. We’re leaving. Now. Continue forwards and keep your eyes on the ground. No one look at the horizon until we’re down at the bottom of the mountain.”
Crowley looked up at Hastur. There was something about the way the demon was looking at him. Something about the thinly veiled malice in his voice…
“Hastur,” he started slowly, “what did you see in your loop?”
Hastur stepped forwards, sneering before shoving his way past Crowley.
“What do you think ?”
—
It felt like eternity had passed before Crowley reached the bottom of the mountain. When he did, he sat down and stared at the ground for a very long time.
“We’re staying here,” he ordered when one of the Erics mustered up the courage to approach him. “Taking a break. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to move forwards.”
After he felt a little more grounded he brought a hand to his jawline, touching Sli.
“I need to talk to him. Please, can you– Can you tell him I need to talk to him?”
The little serpent wriggled, tickling Crowley. Then a moment later, the demon heard a hushed, hopeful voice in his ear.
“ Crowley .”
“Aziraphale.”
“I didn’t know–” the angel started, his voice coming out in a week croak. “I thought you were hurt and you didn’t call and I didn’t know –”
Crowley swallowed. Of course Aziraphale would worry. The angel always worried. But he had no idea of the horrors Crowley had faced in just a few hours. Unless…
“Aziraphale, how long have you been waiting?”
“What do you mean? It’s been two years, Crowley. And I tried to use Sli to talk to you but it wouldn’t work. He kept writhing around, and the poor thing was crying at one point, and he’s an extension of you, so I feared– I thought you were gone, love.”
“Two years.”
Two fucking years.
“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley babbled, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “it’s been two years for you? I’ve only been down here for a few hours– half a day, at most.”
That was followed by a pause. A long pause. Then a groan.
“I should have known,” Aziraphale muttered, frustrated at himself. “It’s not just the landscape down there that’s been distorted. It’s time. I would have pieced that together if I hadn’t been so blind–”
“It’s okay, angel,” Crowley pleaded, because really, he couldn’t bear to hear Aziraphale cry again that day.
“It’s not. At least tell me it hasn’t been dangerous. That Sli was just being silly when he was squirming around and nuzzling against my cheek and sniffling away. Tell me you haven’t lost anyone, Crowley.”
I lost you.
I let you go.
I let Gabriel destroy you and I think it ruined me.
“I–” Crowley inhaled sharply. He wouldn’t lie to Aziraphale. The Principality wouldn’t want that. “I can’t. I can’t lie to you, angel.”
That was met with a long silence. Then ragged breathing.
“Tell me something, angel,” Crowley begged, his voice wavering. “Something good. Please .”
Tell me you haven’t been hurting for these past two years all alone .
Tell me you were able to steal some joy for yourself, even in my absence.
Tell me you’ve smiled, laughed. Tell me they haven’t harmed you past what can be healed.
“Do you know Sli’s full name? It’s Slinky. He shortened it so it would sound cooler. The clever thing’s so very like you, my dear. I want to hold you close and I pet him since I can’t.”
“ Angel ,” Crowley murmured, feeling his heart fill with fondness, hope, and a small twinge of jealousy for his own snake tattoo.
(Which was ridiculous, he knew, but what he felt couldn’t be helped. If anything, it was the plants he should be worried about. They had a tendency to be rather… handsy around Aziraphale. It had happened more than once that the demon had come home to his flat in Mayfair only to find his angel all tied up, wrapped head to toe in vines. Aziraphale had found the cuddling adorable, but Crowley knew it the way the Principality had been offered up to him like a pretty little present was far from innocent. If his tattoo and Bentley represented the part of him that wanted nothing more than to care for his angel with astonishing gentleness, then his plants manifested the other side of his overwhelming love. The part of him that wanted to take and taste and touch. Of course, Crowley was a gentleman; he pushed those desires down and punished his plants for every transgression.)
Every part of me loves every part of you.
“My love, if only I could take your suffering. We should have swapped like we did before. You could have used my body, stayed up in Heaven in my place– Oh, but if they caught you–”
Aziraphale cut himself off and Crowley wondered once again what the past two years had been like for him.
“They would not be kind, Crowley. Not to a demon.”
“I know. So I go on.”
“You go on and I keep waiting.”
And he would. Crowley knew that. Aziraphale would wait as long as it took for him to come back.
“I love you, angel,” Crowley confessed. “I love you so, so, much.”
“Oh, my darling demon. I love you too.”
Chapter Text
The next few days of travel had been suspiciously uneventful, giving Crowley the opportunity to speak to Aziraphale several times. There wasn’t a strict time conversion, the angel had discovered during his illicit research sessions in the celestial library. Rather, time in Heaven simply passed at a consistent pace while time in the Basement… didn’t.
That meant an hour under Hell could be a whole day in Heaven.
Or a week.
Or longer.
Crowley was trying very hard not to think about longer .
Aziraphale had warned him about what lay ahead. The layers of the Basement overlapped, yes, but they could also be predicted, and according to the angel’s sources, Crowley was headed straight for the lust ring.
“There will be shadows,” Aziraphale had explained. “Incubi eons old that were lost before the war, tucked away down here. They are creatures of temptation, not force, but still, it may be difficult to resist their thrall. You may struggle to say no. You may not… want to.”
In the end, the answer had come through Sli. Aziraphale found that, with care, he could delicately send ripples of ethereal power out to Crowley through the living snake tattoo. It wasn’t guaranteed protection– far from it– but it would keep the demon alert and aware.
It would help him remember why it was important to say no.
Why it was essential.
Crowley had a lot of experience with restraint. With going slow . But Aziraphale said he should not underestimate the ancient incubi.
“They will take on a form you like. Tell you things you’ve been dying to hear. Offer up what you never knew you were allowed to want.”
Crowley had swallowed at that, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh falling flatly from his mouth.
“Can’t possibly be more tempting than you, angel.”
“ Exactly .”
That ‘exactly’ was still ringing in Crowley’s head, along with all of its delicious implications, as the path twisted and turned, leading his crew into a large building that appeared to be an unassuming office from the outside. On the inside, it was jarringly familiar: it was the convent of satanic nuns turned paintball arena. There were those same ceilings, with their chipping paint. That same bright light coming through the windows, even though there was no sun in Hell. That same spot where Crowley had snatched up Aziraphale by the lapels and slammed him against the wall, all while the helpless angel had stared at him with wide-eyed naked want.
The demon recognized the lovesick expression for what it was now. He had gone over it countless times in his head, after all.
Aziraphale had wanted to kiss him then.
Desperately.
He had wanted to kiss him before the beginning when the first stars sparked into the empty expanse humans would later call the cosmos. He had wanted to kiss him up on the wall of Eden. He had wanted him in Job’s cellar and in the Bastille and in the ruins of that bombed church in 1941.
The angel had wanted to kiss him for thousands of years and Crowley had to get home so he could please him (the demon was denying his love with every second he squandered away in the Basement). He had to get home so he could kiss him again. Kiss him properly .
“Mister Crowley,” Muriel called, getting Crowley’s attention. “I’m stuck.”
The smitten demon whipped around at that, bracing himself as he prepared to see the scrivener hurt or trapped, only to see that the angel was fine.
“Me too,” another voice cried from the crowd of demons.
“Stuck how– Oh.”
Glancing down, Crowley saw that there were shadows pooling around the feet of his crew, keeping them stuck to the ground. There were shadows near him too, but they kept their distance. They had to– Sli was slithering around his feet, keeping him protected in a tiny circle of ethereal energy.
“That would be me, I’m afraid,” a voice drawled, echoing through the hall.
Crowley turned instantly to meet it. He had known that voice, trusted that voice, loved that voice, for as long as he could remember.
It was Aziraphale. And it wasn’t.
The man in front of him had the angel’s body but was dressed head to toe in white clothing tailored to flatter his figure. His hair, usually so fluffy, was neater than Crowley had ever seen it. And his beard…
He had a beard, salt and pepper and neatly cut and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel against his neck. Would it hurt too much? Or just the right amount?
“Hello, Crowley.”
And oh god– Satan– Somebody–
“Y-your horns,” the demon managed to stammer breathlessly.
Aziraphale laughed at that, raising a hand to touch those two black spikes peaking from the crown of his head.
“Like them, do you?” he teased, his voice low.
Crowley nodded helplessly. He never could lie to his angel, after all. When he did, the man stepped closer, looking the ginger up and down with a mixture of hunger and fondness.
“I knew you would. You’ve always wanted me like this, even if you couldn’t admit it to yourself. A demon like you who doesn’t need to follow the rules. Who doesn’t care for them. A demon,” Aziraphale continued, stepping close enough for Crowley to feel his warm breath against his face, “who can take what he wants. I can be greedy now. Selfish. I am wicked for you, my dearest.”
“I– I–” Crowley stammered.
And really, it was overwhelming. Because he had wondered. Curiosity was his fatal flaw– of course he had wondered. If they were on the same side– If Aziraphale’s hedonism was encouraged rather than shamed– If Heaven could no longer hold him back– If they were together like that, it would be scandalous, yes, but not dangerous. Not really.
The demon Aziraphale smiled, amused by Crowley’s flustered state.
“Already so riled up. Silly, silly snake. Are you wicked for me as well?”
“You’re not wicked. You’re good. You’re an angel. You’re– You’re holy, Azi–”
Crowley never got to finish his sentence. Not before Aziraphale was slamming him up against the wall, one hand grabbing his chin, the other sliding under the folds of his jacket to tug at his necktie, making him meet his eyes.
“I am not holy,” Aziraphale snapped, his lips so painfully close to Crowley’s. “I have fallen. Will you waste my squandered divinity, Crowley? Or will you take what you have wanted for so fucking long?”
“Angel–”
“ Demon ,” Aziraphale corrected him, giving his necktie a harsher tug. “It’s so much easier like this, isn’t it? You’ve always wanted me meaner. Less restrained. Not because you hate my kindness, my gentle touch, but rather because we could have been happier so much sooner if I had broken their rules. If I had put you before Heaven. Well now, my dearest, darling Crowley, I have.”
An electric pause passed between them.
“So will you kiss me, love?”
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. Another breath from the angel– the demon – and he would lose this game. One more word– A single whispered ‘ please ’...
Aziraphale chuckled, bringing his hand from Crowley’s necktie to his collarbone.
“Ple–”
“I can’t,” Crowley forced out, vaguely aware of Sli running over Aziraphale’s fingers, slithering up to linger by his lips.
Traitor .
With those two words, Aziraphale released him instantly, snapping his fingers and calling back his shadows. Crowley watched him absorb the dark things, his beard and hair turning black as he did.
“Very well. Leave then.”
“L-leave?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied primly. “A gentleman doesn’t take what isn’t enthusiastically offered and I do not like being teased. So unless you’ve changed your mind…”
Crowley almost sank to his knees at that, but somehow managed to shake his head.
“No. I’m going and taking my crew.”
“And I suppose you want this clever creature back then?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to Sli who was slipping over and under his fingers because Crowley so desperately wanted to hold his angel’s hand–
The incubus extended his hand, brushing it against Crowley’s gently, and Sli returned– albeit begrudgingly slowly. The touch, so light and fleeting, was the first time Crowley had touched Aziraphale since he returned to Heaven. And it wasn’t even Aziraphale. Not really.
The desperate reckless thrill that had gripped the demon moments ago vanished at that thought, leaving him hollow.
“Farewell, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, not unkindly, as Crowley left. “If you ever do change your mind or simply need a bit of comfort, retrace your steps and I will make myself known.”
—
There had been one casualty that day. One of the Erics had grown infatuated with his shadow and refused to part from it. He spent an hour giggling to himself, lost somewhere pleasant in his mind, before straying from the path, climbing to the top of a nearby shed, and stumbling off the roof.
When Crowley closed his eyes, he could still hear the sound of his neck snapping.
That and the false Aziraphale’s honey voice teasing him with everything he had ever wanted.
The demon called his real angel that night. He had no choice.
“How long?” he asked. That was how they had started opening their conversations. Better to clear up quickly how long his love had languished without him.
“Ten years,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice hoarse. “It’s been ten years since I could hold you.”
“You’ve gone longer than that before, angel,” Crowley offered with a laugh. But the joke wasn’t funny. Not really.
“Yes,” the angel replied with a sad sigh that the demon never wanted to hear from him again, “but you’ve spoiled me, my dear boy.”
“I’ll come home soon, angel,” Crowley whispered to him the way he always did. “I promise.”
It was a vow he made every time he called his angel, but today, for the first time since he entered the Basement, it was a lie.
Crowley promised and didn’t believe it.
Notes:
Good Omens Circe saga! Can I get a wahoo?
Ten points if you caught my Elpenor reference :}
Chapter 7
Notes:
cw: angst and a brief mention of vomiting
Chapter Text
Pride should be coming up next in the circuit, if Aziraphale’s research proved correct. It was a prediction the angel made without much evidence, but still, his word was as good as gold to Crowley.
Sure enough, the next morning as the the demon and his crew made their way down the path, some were distracted by visions of glory. Of conquest and recognition. Crowley and Muriel were quick to rouse each member of the crew from their trance and for the next three days, no men were lost.
With that minor victory under his belt, Crowley started to feel better. Or as better as he could. He had lost people, and while that hurt him with every breath he took, he hadn’t let the full brunt of it hit him yet. No, he was saving that pain for when he was safe. For when he was home.
Because in his darkest moments, when Crowley was lost in memories and was tempted– oh so tempted– to stay in the Basement, to surrender, he thought of Aziraphale. He thought of him waiting for thousands of years. He thought of what would Heaven would do to him if they discovered his treason. He thought of what other demons would do to him if they found him helpless and alone.
So he pushed through.
He had to.
Crowley followed the path until he reached the dock. And yes, this was truly the Hell that humanity had envisioned– the image of the afterlife they couldn’t quite seem to keep out of their heads.
There was a reason for that, of course. Aziraphale had read up on it.
(Of course he had. Adorable angel.)
The Basement had embedded itself into the human psyche. Because of the way it had been designed, it had imprinted on humanity, rendering its legacy inescapable and immortal.
There were two boats tied to a dock and past them, a lake of flames. This wasn’t hellfire. It was something much darker. A fiendish insatiable force that Crowley knew would kill indiscriminately, destroying the ethereal and the occult alike.
“How should we do this?” Hastur grunted, gesturing to the twin boats.
He had been quiet ever since they escaped from the lust ring and Crowley felt a twinge of guilt prickle in his stomach as he remembered the demon’s words from right before their voyage.
I killed his Aziraphale .
Yes, it was self defence. Crowley knew that just as well as he knew he would do it again if he had to, but still – To lose a partner you had been working with for thousands of years, whether that be a platonic partner or romantic partner or some other type of companion entirely… It was devastating. Unthinkable.
Was it like the bookshop fire for him? When he looks at me does he see a man or a monster?
“We split up,” Crowley finally replied. “Hastur, you and I and six of the Erics will go on ahead. That way if there’s danger we… We lose less people. Muriel, you’re in charge of the rest. Got it?”
Muriel nodded, saluting before leading the other demons onto the boat.
“Oh, and don’t look directly at the water. Er, fire. It will call to you. Tempt you to jump in.”
“Like a siren?” one of the Erics asked, waving a frantic hand in the air.
Crowley shook his head, closing his eyes and recalling Aziraphale’s warning.
“Worse. Sirens ensnare you with kindness; the creatures that live within these flames… They use pain. They don’t just want your surrender– they want your spirit. Your soul.”
Crowley spent days out on the sea of flames. He walked the deck of his ship and tried to avoid looking at the fire. It was difficult since he could turn away from it, could close his eyes to it, but not his ears.
It taunted the demon in his own voice, telling him all the mistakes he had made. All the ways he had hurt Aziraphale. All the reasons he should give up, give in, and sink beneath those black waves.
Crowley fought it the only way he knew how: he held Sli, letting the little snake crawl over his fingers to comfort him. He tried to call Aziraphale but the angel did not answer, which was all too concerning.
The first day on the ocean was one of anxiety.
The second was one of suffering.
On the third day, the fiery sea split open and Crowley faced a being he thought he had defeated years ago.
The figure loomed over his ship and Muriel’s, screeching.
“Satan,” Crowley whispered, the breath torn from his lungs. “How? I killed– I destroyed–”
The figure screeched again, and Crowley realized it was just a vessel. Or mainly just a vessel. Satan’s soul had left this monster, save for a small scrap.
“What do we do?” Muriel called from the neighboring ship.
“Keep going forwards,” Crowley called back. “He’s just a vessel, just a body, for Heaven’s sake–”
The Serpent of Eden realized his mistake far too late. To cite the celestial in the presence of a demonic husk… It was stupid. Ruinous. A tragedy in the making.
With those two words Satan growled, that little spark of slumbering soul rising to the surface.
“You did destroy me,” he growled, growing impossibly larger. “You stole my son and foiled my infernal plans so now if you wish to pass, you must pay. Tell me, snake, how can I best hurt you?
Crowley made a terrible error then. A mistake worse than referencing Heaven in front of the corpse of Lucifer himself: he flitted his eyes to Muriel.
“I see,” Satan crooned. “It’s time you learn your lesson, demon. Time you understand where compassion gets you. If you had fought the war, if you had won in Hell’s name, you could have had your angel and no one would have had the strength to oppose you. Do you understand yet, Crowley? That ruthlessness is mercy?”
“I– I– I chose to be kind,” Crowley whispered, his words swallowed by the flickering flames and their taunting cruelty.
“And I,” Satan responded with a gleeful grin, “chose to be strong.”
With that the devil lifted his hand and–
No.
“No!”
The black flames around Muriel’s boat shifted, rapidly morphing into a whirlpool. It grabbed their vessel and pulled it down, down, down . Crowley watched the flames seize each demon on board, dragging them below the surface, gone forever. He watched his scrivener friend drown, a torrent of fire tearing at their throat until they went still and silent.
He was vaguely aware of an anguished, inhuman cry echoing through the air. It was only when his throat began to ache that he recognized the scream for what it was: his own.
His pain.
His loss.
His tragedy.
His fault .
“And now,” Satan continued as the boat vanished, “it’s your turn to die.”
No. Nononono. No, no, no!
“Do something!” Hastur shrieked, grabbing his captain and shaking him. “Fucking do something, Crowley, or we’re all going to die!”
Do something, do something, do something –
“Sli,” the demon managed to croak. “Save us, please. Please, Sli.”
With those words the snake tattoo leapt from Crowley’s face onto the floor of the boat. Then it started glowing, shifting from black to gold, the ethereal energy that Aziraphale had poured into him etching its way into the wooden boards of the ship, compelling the boat to go faster and faster and faster until Satan was gone.
Crowley couldn’t think as he disembarked with Hastur and the six Erics.
That’s all that were left.
He had come down here with what? Seventy? More? Such a loss was– Was–
The Serpent of Eden crumpled over and despite not having a human stomach or having eaten any sort of food, threw up on the bank of the fiery sea.
He needed to sleep for a hundred years.
A thousand.
He never knew a heart could hurt this much.
Crowley was seconds away from curling up into a ball and sobbing until his lungs gave out. Until the tide of flames came in and washed him away.
That was when Aziraphale called.
Sli, drained from his help with the escape, limped over to Crowley, slithering onto his face all too slowly.
“Crowley? Hello. I’m so sorry but my earlier calls weren’t going through and then when they were you didn’t pick up and– Oh right. Fifteen years now. I forgot to ask during our last conversation, but how are the others holding up, love? How’s Muriel?”
Crowley couldn’t answer that. He couldn’t possibly answer that because he could not speak . Instead he sat helplessly frozen and let the terrible silence extend, confessing all the things he could not.
There was a shaky breath and then Crowley knew. He knew Aziraphale knew.
A minute later there was a whisper over the phone– a frantic, fleeting thing– and the Serpent of Eden, who had learned last last year in his angel’s bookshop what a heart sounds like when it breaks, learned what a soul sounds like when it shatters.
“ Oh .”
Chapter Text
Aziraphale knew a heart could break many times. It was a lesson he had learned over and over again during his time in Heaven and his time on Earth. His time with Crowley and his time without him.
The angel’s heart broke with Job and Jesus and the flood. His heart broke with his dearest friend asking him– begging him– for the one thing that would guarantee his destruction. His heart broke when Crowley asked him to run away and he couldn’t. When Crowley kissed him and loved him and promised him everything he had ever wanted and he couldn’t .
The pain of Muriel’s loss was not a new thing; that didn’t mean it hurt any less.
Aziraphale leaned into his job, delaying and distracting to the best of his ability. He switched up his slideshows and subcommittees, changing tactics and then changing them again.
When Aziraphale went down to Earth to check on the celestial candidates, as he and the other angels were calling the children– well, teenagers, now– who could be imbued with the spirit of Christ, he wasn’t expecting it.
The feelings.
There was something about being there again, surrounded by mortals who were living and loving and hurting that broke him. Heaven, Aziraphale realized dully, had been numbing his emotions. Not a lot, but enough. Enough so that the losses he had heard of weren’t completely devastating; enough so that Crowley’s absence would wound him, but not ruin him.
And now he was truly ruined.
He walked the earth for a month as a sickly, broken thing. He visited his bookshop and all the memories within. Then the pub.
“Is this what it felt like?” he asked the empty air. “When you were here all those years ago, crying that you lost your best friend? Is it always this agonizing, drowning in love and loss?”
The angel went to Crowley’s Bentley and spoke to the plants stored away there. He remembered all the times he had conspired with the wily things, asking them to wrap him up like a pretty present for his darling demon. He didn’t do that now. Instead he just held the plants, crying quietly and whispering sweet things to them the way Crowley never would.
The Bentley turned yellow when it first saw him.
It turned black when he left.
And Aziraphale wondered. He wondered how long he would have to feel like this. How long he would have to wait. How long it would be until Crowley called him again and he got to hear his beloved demon’s voice.
The angel visited his bookshop one last time before he took the elevator up to the place he despised. He found a pair of Crowley’s cherished sunglasses abandoned on a shelf and took them, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket that sat right above his heart.
He held them.
Held Sli.
It kept him afloat.
He would survive this. They would both survive this. All he had to do was hurt a little longer.
Chapter 9
Notes:
cw: angst, brief mention of vomiting
Chapter Text
There was another week of walking, of wandering, before they found the feast. The landscape of the Basement had shifted again in the night, changing so Crowley and his allies that remained woke up in a warehouse. The path ran through the building, upstairs and downstairs, twisting and turning and coiling over itself.
Hastur walked next to Crowley in silence, stopping to grunt when he saw it: right next to the path was a table, wide and decadent, and covered with food. Sushi and sweets and all sorts of delectable things were arranged in the elegant sort of spread Aziraphale would enjoy.
Crowley remembered Job’s ox ribs.
He remembered the Ritz.
He remembered his angel and the taste of his lips and what true greed felt like.
“Crowley,” Hastur whispered.
“We can’t,” Crowley growled in response.
Because he was hungry – oh, so hungry. He had been ever since he’s entered the gluttony ring. The stomach he didn’t have was rioting inside him, screaming to be satisfied. Crowley did his best to ignore it.
Aziraphale told him about this. How he shouldn’t stray from the path. How, no matter what, he should not eat the food.
And the demon was about to tell Hastur and the Erics as much when he saw it– something sharp and bright in the corner of his eye. Something at the center of the feast-to-be, plunged into the heart of the table.
It was Aziraphale’s sword, glowing with bright celestial fire.
What was he supposed to do? Stepping off the path would be dangerous, but not deadly. Aziraphale had told him that much. It would merely deepen the Basement’s claws in him. Make it harder to leave, like when he had been in that loop of wrath, tempted to kill Gabriel over and over and over until there was nothing of himself left.
“We need to wait,” he found himself saying. “We need to assess. We need to call Aziraphale–”
“No.”
Crowley blinked, looking up only to find Hastur looming over him.
“No?”
“No. I’m so fucking tired of hearing you call Aziraphale . You brought us down here, Crowley, and now look– there are only eight of us left. There’s nothing for us in Heaven. Nothing for us in Hell. And we’re not,” he shuddered, “natives like you.”
Crowley gasped, hit by a sickening realization as the Erics stepped forwards, surrounding him.
“So what?” he managed to croak out. “You’re just going to stay here?”
“We’re going to eat and then we’ll talk about what comes next,” Hastur snapped.
With that the Erics grabbed him, pulling him off the path to a door in the corner of the warehouse.
A closet, Crowley realized in an instant. They were going to lock him inside. They were going to leave him there and he would be stuck, trapped forever. He would die in the Basement and never see his angel again.
“Please, you can’t do this–”
“How many have died under your command, Crowley?”
“Hastur, I–”
“How many?”
Crowley never got to answer that question. Not before six pairs of hands were on him, opening the door to the darkness and shoving him inside.
He was never going to see Aziraphale again.
They slammed the door and Crowley banged on it, fighting for his life, fighting for his angel, all while his corporation reminded him that he was starving. That he could starve down here in this ring.
Outside the door he heard laughter. Then screams. Then the sound of something feasting. Tearing at flesh. Devouring. But he couldn’t even panic about that because as he toppled over, his hand hit something soft. Something feathered .
Crowley stood with a start, taking in the horrific sight behind him
He was surrounded by charred wings .
That’s where they must have ended up after the rebellion. After the pools of boiling sulfur. Of course the manifestation of shattered dreams would make a home for themselves in Crowley’s personal labyrinth of nightmares.
And Crowley could feel it– the pain etched into the broken bones and frayed feathers. They were screaming silently. When the Serpent of Eden crumpled to his knees, vomiting on the ground, this time he didn’t saunter; he fell.
The wings– his wings, the wings of all those who dared to question, dared to dream– were burning again and Crowley, angel that he was and demon that he is, had no choice but to burn with them.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale was in a meeting with the Metatron, actually doing his job for once and conferring with the Voice of God about starting to narrow down the choices for Christ candidates, (albeit very slowly and incompetently) when he heard it– felt it, really– a small muffled cry.
It was Sli, writhing against his wrist under his glove. And Aziraphale knew from the frantic whimpering noises it was making that something was horrifically wrong.
So the angel stumbled to his feet, clearing his throat and excusing himself with detached professionality. He walked down the halls of Heaven slowly, not daring to raise suspicion. It was only when he was safely sequestered away inside his celestial office, the door closed and locked with a miracle that was far from frivolous, that he tore off his glove, looking at Sli and–
And Sli was racing over his fingers, darting his tongue in and out and in and out and making that soft anguished hiss.
“Oh you poor dear. What’s happening? What’s wrong. Is it–” Aziraphale swallowed, his knees buckling with barely-contained anxiety. “Is it Crowley?”
The little snake nodded at that, freezing its thrashing for a moment before continuing to flail helplessly, slipping from the angel’s hands onto the desk.
Aziraphale was panicking now, slumping over in his chair, his body limp but his hands restless, tapping against the table in a way he knew risked raising attention from the neighboring offices, but he just didn’t care .
Finally he scooped the small serpent up in his hands again because he didn’t want to know, but he had to.
“Show me,” the angel whispered, clenching his eyes shut before blinking them open to look at Sli.
The little whorl of living ink flicked out its tongue in a fleeting protest before dipping its head, offering itself to Aziraphale. And Aziraphale knew exactly what that meant. Over the past seventeen years he had used the celestial library to research not only the Basement, the Second Coming and ways to avert it, but also extensions of the ethereal and occult.
Like most things related to his feelings for Crowley, it had been something that he had avoided examining for thousands of years: angels and demons, being supernatural beings, had the power to grant sentience. Strong emotions could manifest themselves in cherished objects. It explained why Crowley’s plants were always so eager to go along with Aziraphale’s courting schemes (silly things, really). Why his Bentley was always so pleased to see him. Why the bookshop had a habit of conveniently conjuring up a spare bedroom fit with black sheets and soft silk pajamas every time a certain Serpent of Eden was feeling sleepy.
Sli, who had likely become sentient during his first dreadful kiss with Crowley, was the strongest of such manifestations. It wanted to stay with Aziraphale. To protect him. To be with him, just like Crowley had so badly.
That was why it had given him the ability to communicate with his beloved demon– because it came to life at a time when Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t talking . Still, contacting Crowley was one thing, but to see him– To glimpse into his eyes and see what he saw– It would push the limits of the granted sentience. It would mean…
It would mean potentially losing the ability to get in contact with the demon entirely.
The little snake inched closer to Aziraphale and the angel sighed, bringing his thumb to caress the creature’s head and letting their essences merge.
The flashes the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate saw were enough to bring tears to his eyes.
He saw Crowley broken, lying on the floor in pain, somewhere dark. Somewhere cold. Crowley hungry not the way the angel sometimes was at the Ritz, but hungry in a crueler, more punishing way. Crowley surrounded by burnt wings, haunted by memories from his fall.
Save him , Sli begged him as their souls were joined. Please, angel, you need to save him.
Aziraphale gasped as the connection severed, Sli hissing softly, curling into himself on the office table.
Please,” the angel stammered to himself, tearing at his hair. “Let me take his pain. Let me take his suffering away. I’ll do anything, I’ll–”
The answer hit him at once.
He had transferred angelic power to Crowley before. It had saved him from Satan even if… Even if it hadn’t been able to save the others. He had managed to get that much out of the demon the last time they had talked. If he could somehow transfer even more energy–
And he could.
He had something.
A fragment of his soul that could be wielded as a weapon. A piece of himself that could save Crowley from his suffering, just as Sli had saved him from his solitude.
The guardian of the Eastern Gate took a deep breath, bracing himself. Then he lifted his hands to his temples, summoning .
“My divinity, my darling, it’s yours,” he whispered, wincing as he felt his halo shift from the divine realm where his wings were tucked away back to the physical one.
It hurt to remove, just as it had back when demons had attacked his bookshop all those years ago. Still, a moment later the means of Crowley’s rescue was in his hand, shining with the glow of a thousand suns.
“‘You know a halo can be used as a collar,’” Aziraphale sneered, echoing the Metatron’s words as he turned the golden disc over in his hands reverently. “And to think I once thought Heaven was a place of love.”
The angel shook his head.
He didn’t want to own Crowley or hurt him or make him obey. He wanted him safe. Wanted him happy. And that was something his ethereal peers would never understand.
“I need you to bring him this power, Sli,” Aziraphale commanded.
The snake darted forwards, looking at Aziraphale with wide eyes because he had accompanied the angel on all of his illicit library visits. He knew what this meant.
“You go to him,” the angel continued, his voice wavering. “You go to him and you bring him back to me.”
Sli nodded, bobbing its head up and down and Aziraphale reached out to pet him one last time.
“Protect him, please protect him. Bring him home,” the angel babbled as the snake curled itself around the halo, stretching itself thin, turning from black to golden and glowing and glowing and glowing until it was gone.
He was in the Basement now, Aziraphale knew. He had rejoined his other half to protect Crowley. And he would protect Crowley. He would . Of course, the glimpse into the demon’s vision along with the transfer of angelic energy meant the poor little serpent would be drained beyond all comprehension. He would be weakened. Sleepy. The sentience would falter after being strenched so far and–
And Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to hold Sli anymore. Wouldn’t be able to talk to Crowley through him or have him race over his fingertips. Sli was the only piece of Crowley’s love he had been able to keep close and now– Now his only ally in Heaven was gone.
The angel sank to the floor, shoving his chair over in fury before remembering to snap his fingers, conjuring up a quick soundproofing miracle because god forbid they hear you cry in Heaven.
“I should have left. We should have ran like you asked me to, Crowley. But it’s too late. Why is it always too late?”
Chapter Text
Crowley was falling. He was falling and burning and hurting over and over and over again. His bones were breaking and he was bleeding, sinking into boiling sulfur and–
And there was a light?
No, that wasn’t right.
As Crowley laid on his back, the world in flames around him, the sky filled with the sound of screams, there was something shining brightly. The glow was gaining strength, growing closer and closer. And was that…? There was a little serpent of gold. He could hear it hissing in his head, soothing him as the impossibly bright light crashed over him, reminding him he had to live. Had to get back to Earth. Had to get back to Aziraphale–
Crowley shot to his feet, blinking.
“Where am– Oh.”
Behind him was the pile of wings. In front of him, the closet door, blown off its hinges. And on the side of his face…
“Sli,” he gasped in realization. “You saved me.”
The little serpent was back where it had spent most of its life, a bit thicker than it had been before. Crowley brought a gentle hand to the creature and it twitched. It was alive, but weakened. Sleepy.
“You need to rest, don’t you?”
Sli shivered under his finger, hissing a hushed apology and Crowley sighed as the snake slowly went silent, slipping into a sweet slumber much different from the one he had just been saved from.
“No, it’s okay. You did good, protecting him up there. He gets… lonely.”
And Aziraphale did. How many times after all did he put himself in situations wher he needed to be ‘rescued’? As much as the angel loved his books and his quiet and his classical music, he hungered for companionship even more than he did for sweet treats. And Crowley knew how much he loved those.
Crowley stepped into the light, wincing as he adjusted to the sensation, then recoiling at the sight in front of him. Hastur and the Erics… They had been killed. No, worse: they had been killed years ago. Now the Erics were decaying, flowers blooming from their broken bones, sprouting up from cracked ribs. And Hastur… Hastur was half on the path, half off. Half skeleton and half rot. Something had ruined him while Crowley was locked away. Had torn his face and split him open. But his hands, bloodied things bent the wrong direction, were clutching the hilt of the sword.
Aziraphale’s sword.
So as much as Crowley didn’t want to look at Hastur, didn’t want to think about the way he was twisted and mangled and wrong , he closed his eyes, taking the blade from his hands. He thought of the sword not the way it was now, but of the way it was then.
He thought of Eden and all it meant to him. Of that sudden feeling that hit him when he was up on the wall with the first creature who– despite being something of a prissy bastard– had treated him with kindness.
He thought of himself holding the crank handle and the angel holding the sword and almost holding his hand. Then him actually holding it that evening on the bus ride home after the end of the end of the world.
He thought of Aziraphale trusting him with his safety, with his body, with his soul– and knew he had to get home even though it was easy, so unbearably easy, to give up. To give in and let the labyrinth keep him.
Sli wiggled against the demon, hissing softly in his sleep.
It was a string of consonants, really. It didn’t mean anything. But Crowley wanted it to. Needed it to.
Who do you fight for? Sli whispered before falling into true, deep sleep.
Aziraphale .
“I’m coming, angel, I promise,” Crowley swore, clutching the sword. “Please just hold on a little longer.”
Chapter Text
Nineteen years. Two years without Sli. Two years without word from Crowley. Two years completely and painfully alone.
It wasn’t a long time by an immortal’s standards, true, but Aziraphale doubted any other immortal had ever felt the way he did. Gabriel and Beelzebub may have gotten a taste of it, sure, but Aziraphale has been in love with Crowley since before the first stars sparked into the night sky. He spent every day drowning in it.
And the others were growing impatient, the angel could tell that much. There were more pointed questions after his meetings. More times the Metatron had pulled him aside to talk about timelines and picking a second-in-command. More times his office door, which the angel had always been sure to miracle shut, creaked open.
Today was exceptionally hard. Aziraphale had gone down to Earth again to check on the the Christ candidates, but this time he wasn’t able to visit his bookshop or Crowley’s plants– the other angels had come down with him, forcing him to be professional. They decided what he knew they would. What he dreaded they would.
The spirit of Jesus Christ would be transferred into the body of Isabella Device, come her twentieth birthday next year. Anathema and Newt were so happy together, living with their daughter and getting her ready to send her off into the real world.
They had no idea that her life was about to be stolen by a war they wanted no part in. A war that had already infringed on their lives in countless unforgivable ways.
Saraqael pulled Aziraphale aside when he was about to retire to his rooms for the evening. He had started sleeping, as of late, and understood now why Crowley liked it so much– it’s a wonderful escape, falling into that blissful emptiness. And sometimes, when Aziraphale is exceptionally lucky, a sweet dream will come his way. Flashes of auburn hair. A glint of a smile. Lips on lips and hands intertwined.
“They’re not stupid, you know.”
Aziraphale blinked.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You’re stalling. Have been for years. You don’t want the Second Coming to succeed. Even after all the second chances we’ve given you, you still haven’t changed. You’ve been tempted. Corrupted. By him .”
Aziraphale swallowed down words laced with rage because really ? Corrupted? Crowley did not corrupt him or tempt him. He taught him. He helped him. He saved him.
He saved him time and time again, in bold and obvious ways but also in gentle secret ones.
“I’m the supreme Archangel, Saraqael,” Aziraphale warned. “I was chosen for this job and I am doing it to the best of my ability.”
Saraqael’s eyes widened and Aziraphale realized his mistake: he lied. He lied in Heaven. He looked at the angel across from him warily, hands clenched at his side.
“Do you really believe that?” Saraqael finally asked.
Aziraphale pointedly didn’t answer.
“Give in. Give in and fight . This is inevitable, Aziraphale. You know it is.”
Aziraphale shook his aching head. And really, he shouldn’t get headaches in Heaven. He was an angel– he shouldn’t get headaches at all. But it seemed there was only so much pain a soul could hold before some of it spilled out, manifesting itself through physical symptoms.
“Think about Crowley,” Saraqael whispered, the name slicing through the angel’s heart like a knife. “If Hell wins, he would find a way to keep you safe. I know him well enough to know that he would be gentle with you. He’s a poor sentimental excuse for a demon, but it works out in your favor.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes, sighing. Because yes, that was true. And he would be lying to say he had never thought of it. How much pain he could have spared Crowley if he fought. If he intentionally lost the war and let himself get captured. They could be together–
But Earth would be destroyed. They would never be able to go on walks through St. James’ park or have picnics or plan dates at the Ritz– because all those centuries of lunch excursions had been dates. That was what it was called when two people who loved each other made a point of setting time aside to be together.
And besides, they wouldn’t be happy like that. Not really. Crowley would hate playing the role of his jailer, treating him like some sort of pet. And it wouldn’t be safe being down in Hell with the other demons. Especially since they knew Aziraphale was an Archangel.
“And if we win you could still have him. You could use your halo to–”
Aziraphale snapped his eyes open, the Metatron’s phantom voice in his ear.
Make him sweet .
“Enough! I don’t want to hear it, Saraqael.”
“They’ll kill you,” Saraqael continued, quietly while Aziraphale shoved himself past them, “if you don’t back down now. I hear whispers. They will make you pay for your careless caution in battle. They will hurt you however they please and write it off as a casualty.”
“Crowley will–” Aziraphale started, bringing three fingers to his lips and catching himself.
“Crowley will not save you. He’s gone. You lost him years ago. You did that to yourself. You will have him as a prisoner or you won’t have him at all.”
“He’s– He’s–”
“Your hereditary enemy,” Saraqael cut him off. “This never could have ended any other way. This warning was a kindness, Aziraphale. I’ve said my piece; do with it what you will.”
Aziraphale was proud of himself– he managed to wait until his office door was slammed shut before the sobs started.
“My love,” he gasped, clutching the spot above his aching heart. “My love, my love, my love .”
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As impossible as it seemed, Crowley was almost free. He could feel it: the occult essence of the underhell, so overwhelmingly present before, slowly slipping away. He felt lighter now, even though his heart was still heavy.
The things he had seen down in the Basement– The things he had survived–
He knew with certainty they would haunt him for several human lifetimes.
Crowley walked and walked and walked, clutching the flaming sword in his hands some days while letting it drag behind him on the ground on others.
A week after he escaped the closet of burned wings, Crowley could see it: at the top of a nearby hill was the door out of the Basement; the escape he had craved and longed for and dreamed of for so long.
He walked faster now, a phantom’s smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he dared to hope. He thought of how Azirpahale would look at him when he came back. The way his eyes would widen with glee. The way the angel would pounce on him, pulling him into a tight embrace and kissing him over and over again. It was a thought that had kept Crowley going for a long time.
Now the door was close, roughly an hour’s walk away, when Crowley noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
“A cottage?” he whispered aloud, glancing at the quaint home a few paces from the path. “In the darkest layer of Hell?”
But no, it wasn’t merely a cottage– it was their cottage. The one from Crowley’s most daring dreams where he and his angel were married and deeply in love and lived together in the South Downs without a care in the world. Aziraphale would cuddle with him every night, reading to him in bed– their shared bed. And every morning, the angel would make exceptionally delicious tea and Crowley would teach him how to bake because wouldn’t that be a fun thing to do together? To watch the love of his life giggle and learn and lean forwards to snatch a spoonful of something sugary from his hands, stealing a taste Crowley would then lick off his lips and–
“It will want to keep you,” Aziraphale had warned him all those years ago at the start of his journey.
“I want you to keep me,” he breathed in a hopeless, broken whisper. “Please.”
Crowley knew he should keep going. Keep walking. He was so close and he had the sword and he should not– should never– stray from the path.
So he took a few steps forwards, determined to keep placing one lonesome longing foot in front of the other. To keep waiting, just as he had for six thousand years. But then–
Then he heard a laugh coming from inside the cottage. A laugh he had loved for millenia. A laugh he hadn’t heard since Sli saved him and went silent.
In the end, Crowley stepped off the path and went inside. Like Orpheus heeding the call of his lover, the demon resigned himself to his fate. His husband was there, tucked safely away in the cottage he had wanted for so long, and Crowley… For all of his optimism and imagination and resilience, Crowley was just a man.
Notes:
Hehe it's Calypso time :)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale should have seen it coming. It was the twentieth year, after all. Isabella Device’s birthday had come and gone and he had done nothing. Heaven did not like that. No, Heaven wanted action. Wanted results.
So when a knock sounded against his office door in the middle of the night and Aziraphale had just woken up from the first pleasant dream he had had in months, he didn’t think. He opened it. He opened it and let the Voice of God in.
“I know what you’ve been doing, Aziraphale,” the Metatron drawled. “We monitor the celestial library very carefully, you know. Did you think we didn’t know about your little snake friend? Or your reading habits? Do you think we were never going to find out that you’ve sent your pet demon down into the darkest pits of Hell, praying that he’ll find the sword you were foolish enough to lose? To give away ?”
Aziraphale swallowed, panic flooding him. So they knew. They knew everything. And yet–
“You’re not going to kill me,” he said flatly. “You would have done so already. And you only found this out recently– I’ve gotten away with it for the better part of twenty years. So what now, Metatron?”
The Metatron glared, then laughed aloud.
“You mistake me: this is not a stalemate. You will be punished for your transgressions but there are… procedures in place. We have an image to maintain. Can’t make it seem like we have an institutional problem on our hands.”
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale hissed in a way his husband– because that’s what Crowley was, really– would be oh so proud of. “We can’t have that.”
The Metatron unclasped his hands from behind his back, revealing glowing ethereal chains.
“What– What is this?” Aziraphale asked, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain calm. To be brave. To be strong.
“This is to control you and stop any pesky miracles you might think of performing. Tomorrow you will tell the other angels that you are stepping down from your position as Archangel. I will give you one year to pick a replacement and if you delay, god help me, I’ll kill you myself.”
“They’ll know you made a mistake. They’ll doubt. This will ruin your whole plan.”
“No, it won’t. It’s just an unfortunate setback. You have been such a disappointment, Aziraphale,” the Metatron tutted, his voice filled with the harsh derision that would have hurt the angel years ago, back when he was still desperate for Heaven’s approval. Back when their reprimands still stung.
“What will you tell them about Isabella? She was supposed to be graced with the Christ spirit this year and now you’re the one putting things off.”
“I need not tell them anything; it’s not as if they’ll ask questions. Sleep tight now, Aziraphale. You won’t be able to dream with those on. And yes, we’ve seen your dreams. We investigated you quite thoroughly and really– an angel in love with a demon? Of all the vile sinful things to adore, you picked him? If it was lust alone, I would understand– they’re such tempting things, after all– but no. You truly care for him.”
“I do,” Aziraphale snapped.
“Yes, that’s quite clear. I was considering having you killed in battle or privately executed, but this presents far more thrilling possibilities. You sent your precious Crowley to the most dangerous place in the cosmos, but on the off chance that he makes it out alive… I’m going to lock you up, Aziraphale. I’m going to lock you up and hurt him in front of you, I swear it.”
“And I swear,” Aziraphale cried as the Metatron smirked, locking the cuffs onto his wrists, his bones stinging at the sudden exposure to ethereal energy, “that he will come back and I will fucking kill you before you so much as layer a finger on him.”
The Metatron laughed again, cold and cruel as he left.
“You and your silly threats. Good night, Aziraphale.”
—
Aziraphale refused to cry that night. Not when he knew they were watching and could feel him through the chains. Instead he started scheming.
He devised a system. A contest. His position was a coveted one, after all, and he would not just give it away. He had learned from his mistake with the sword, hadn’t he?
So in the morning Aziraphale sat down on the divine throne: the same one She had sat on back when there were no angels or demons and the universe was nothing but void.
“Tempt me,” he commanded.
And the angels did, kneeling before him day after day, telling him all of the strengths they could bring to the position. How efficient they would be. Aziraphale found flaws with all of them and invented failings for those with none.
“This will end soon,” he whispered at the end of the first day. “It has to.”
He had three hundred and sixty-four days left until the Second Coming would begin; at least Aziraphale had bought the world he loved so dearly a little more time.
Chapter Text
It was like a dream. Well, it was a dream, but Crowley felt himself forgetting that day by day.
He had entered the cottage off the path a blissful eternity ago, and had been greeted by a blond reading on the couch, humming to himself and gesturing for Crowley to come in. To make himself comfortable. To sit on his lap.
Crowley did, reveling in the closeness he had never allowed himself to have with his angel. And it was so gentle, so unimaginably tender, the way Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair, holding the ginger close before he dozed off.
There was no Ritz here. No St. James’ park. None of the hustle and bustle of Soho. Really, it was as if they had run away together the way Crowley had wanted to for so long.
And Aziraphale’s company was the only company Crowley needed. He would spend some days in snake form, coiling himself up in his husband'scarf as the angel kept him safe and protected and warm. Other days, he would saunter around in his usual corporation.
Aziraphale had plants in the living room; Crowley taught him how to care for them. How to discipline them. The balance worked well: it turned out that having a good cop and a bad cop was very effective for the flora.
And the baking was even better than Crowley imagined it would be. There was something so impossibly beautiful about the delicate way Aziraphale’s fingers worked, tying on his apron with a pretty little bow. The way he cracked eggs was adorable. The way he reached for Crowley’s hand while the blueberry muffins rose in the oven was nothing short of divine.
And the kissing–
The kissing was everything their first kiss wasn’t. It was soft. Gentle. Romantic. Aziraphale would giggle in between brushes of their lips, pulling away playfully before darting closer and closer and closer. There were the kisses where Crowley would whisper all his secrets into Aziraphale’s ear, telling him how long he wanted him. How desperately. How it had both saved and destroyed him, loving an angel for his whole immortal life.
It was such a soft way of existing. So unbearably wonderful. The thing Crowley had wanted for eternity was now safely within his grasp.
He lived that way for years. Spent his days laughing with Aziraphale, loving him, and holding him close.
And every day he stayed, the little voice in the back of his mind whispering, ‘this isn’t real. Your husband is waiting. He’s waiting for you,’ grew a little quieter.
One day it faded entirely, and the demon woke up clutched in his sleeping angel’s arms. He untangled himself from the protective hold, stumbling groggily to the cottage bathroom. Crowley looked in the mirror, amused by his messy hair and his sleepy smile.
“I’m cheating on Aziraphale with Aziraphale,” he whispered, giggling.
Then it hit him.
“I’m cheating on Aziraphale with Aziraphale .”
The demon brought his hand to his cheek, touching Sli who was sleeping soundly. How long had he stayed in the cottage, caught up in this false paradise, while his real angel– his true love– was up there waiting? How long had he left Aziraphale to suffer?
As if on cue, Crowley heard his husband rouse in the bedroom, making his way into the bathroom where he nuzzled against the demon, pulling him into a hug.
“Come back to bed, my love,” the angel whispered, leaning against him.
Crowley couldn’t respond to that. Couldn’t protest. Because how could he deny this sweet creature anything? But of course, Aziraphale being Aziraphale noticed the tension. They way his husband didn’t completely surrender to his grounding touch.
“Something’s upset you, my dear,” the angel murmured, lifting Crowley’s hand and kissing each knuckle reverently. “Would you like to talk about it?”
Oh, Crowley didn’t. He really didn’t. What he wanted was the first thing the angel had offered– to slip back into his bed, back into this glorious phantom life.
He never knew he could fall like this.
Aziraphale dropped his hand, moving instead to lift Crowley’s chin, prompting the demon to meet his worried gaze. And Crowley knew in a heartbeat that his false angel was not a demon’s trick. The Aziraphale he had been living with for years now was nothing like the incubus he met while he passed through Lust. No, this was something more like Sli– some form of occult energy that understood Crowley’s feelings and knew what he needed well enough to become it.
Aziraphale looked concerned with him not because he was trying to trick Crowley into staying, but rather because he cared for his husband. He cared for him so very, very much.
“My sweet snake, I can feel you hurting. Let me help you?”
That was what did it. Crowley crumpled, clinging to Aziraphale for dear life, as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. All the while, the angel whispered lovely, soothing things to him, acting as his anchor in the storm.
When Crowley could no longer cry, he finally pulled away, taking a step backwards. When he looked down, he found a flaming sword in his hands and could deny it no longer: it was time to go.
“Crowley, my dearest– ” Aziraphale murmured, his lower lip wobbling.
Crowley forced himself to take step after step out of the bathroom and downstairs to the door of the cottage. The angel followed him– here, he always would.
“What are you doing, my dear boy? Why are you leaving me?”
Crowley closed his eyes. He stepped out of the cottage and back onto the path. Even with his vision blurred from tears, he could see the house flicker and vanish, Aziraphale standing in the doorway wide-eyed and betrayed as he faded into oblivion.
“I’m not leaving you; I’m saving you,” Crowley croaked out. “Angel, I’m so, so sorry.”
Chapter Text
It was the last hour of the last day of Aziraphale’s allotted time to pick a replacement supreme Archangel. He’d done well, he thought, delaying as long as he could. Now the ethereal chains around his wrists burned– a constant reminder that his luck was slowly but surely running out.
The never ending line of angels advanced towards Aziraphale, who always greeted them with the same command: Tempt me.
“Tempt me,” he ordered a scrivener too nervous to meet his gaze.
“Tempt me,” he drawled at a trembling Principality.
“Tempt me,” he snarled as the same angels who mocked him in his younger years stood before him, eager for his praise. Eager to be chosen .
Aziraphale was gazing off into the distance, wincing as the sting of the manacles grew stronger, the pain they caused shifting from a mildly distracting sensation to a sharp, fresh anguish.
Angels cannot be tempted so Aziraphale will not be tempted. There was only one person in all of Heaven and Hell and Earth who had the power to do that to him. The one man he would burn everything for. The man he loves. The man who swore he would save him.
“Make a pitch,” he snapped. “Plead your case.”
A voice responded to his harsh words with astonishing gentleness.
“Oh, I’ll plead. I’ll beg. I’ll do anything for you, angel.”
It was a voice Aziraphale had known for generations. A voice he adored. A voice he had been forced to live without– rot without, really– for twenty-one years now.
“Crowley,” he breathed, going still as he saw the demon before him drop to his knees, flaming sword in hand.
“ Aziraphale ,” the sweet creature whispered before using the sword to free Aziraphale from his torment, slicing through his celestial chains, leaving them broken and mangled on the floor.
And Aziraphale had forgotten his power. His miracles. The way divine energy flowed so naturally within him, filling his bones with strength and flooding his veins like blood.
Crowley was still kneeling, gently kissing the angel’s wrists where they were sore.
“I came back,” the demon cried over and over again as he moved to bring his lips to Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I fought my way through it. I found the sword. I came back home . Came back to you.”
“It’s been twenty-one years–” the angel started, the words coming out in a choked sob.
“I know, I know,” Crowley replied, bringing up his hands to hold his husband’s face, wiping his quiet tears away.
Meanwhile something moved, flickering in Aziraphale’s periphery. The line of angels parted and the Metatron was sprinting forwards, clutching the Book of Life in one hand. His other was tugging at his forehead as it shimmered with the hint of something golden. Something holy.
And–
And he was going to erase Aziraphale. He was going to hurt Crowley.
The angel leapt to his feet, snatching the flaming sword from his husband’s hands at the same time the Metatron removed his halo, slipping it around Crowley’s neck. The demon’s eyes went wide, then half-lidded as he slumped over, his lips twitching into a sleepy smile.
“Oh no you don’t. I made a promise, Metatron. I said I would fucking kill you if you touched him, remember? I am not the angel you wanted, but I am an angel of my word.”
With that, Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. He lunged forwards, running the sword through the Metatron. Then through that blasted book.
The Voice of God fell, clutching his chest before going limp. And Aziraphale didn’t even care because he needed to get that halo off Crowley’s neck . He was slicing at it as Crowley nuzzled against him, the demon’s eyes glowing purple as he giggled and giggled until the angel finally cut through the ethereal bonds, careful not to harm his husband.
As Crowley blinked, coming to, an angel in the crowd screamed.
“What have you done? What have you done?! You’ve doomed us all.”
Aziraphale shook his head.
“No. No, we didn’t doom you. We–”
“We saved you,” Crowley croaked, sitting up in a daze. “We saved you all. You’ve spent your lives in Heaven blessing and cursing and smitting. Now it’s your turn to learn how to live .”
Chapter 17
Notes:
Excited for tonight's EPIC livestream!
Chapter Text
Crowley was back in the bookshop. It had been one year since the second time the world almost ended. One year since Aziraphale killed the Metatron and destroyed the Book of Life. One year since Crowley was caught with an archangel’s halo around his neck.
“It didn’t hurt,” he explained to Aziraphale, “but it was scary. With it… You can’t say no. You don’t want to. It’s like a sweet dream you don’t want to end.”
“Saw a few of those downstairs, did you?” the angel had asked, his voice teasing before his face paled as he remembered Muriel and Hastur and all the souls lost to the realm buried beneath Hell.
“Yeah,” Crowley admitted, licking his lips. “There was you, of course, tempting as always: an incubus who pretended to be you in demon form.”
Aziraphale smiled at that, grateful for his husband’s response.
“Oh my. How scandalous.”
Crowley shook his head. Because yes, that had been quite tempting but–
“Yeah, he was… a lot. But he wasn’t the one that made me stray from the path. That was later. I got to have you like this, to have our own world, I don’t even know how long I stayed there…”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened at that.
“You left the path?! Crowley, you could have been killed or trapped or– Or–”
“Angel, I left because I saw us sharing a home. Sharing a life. You would hold me as I slept and wake me up with kisses and it was everything I had ever wanted. I let it go eventually but…”
The demon trailed off.
“I almost let it keep me. Almost let you keep me.”
“I’ll keep you here,” Aziraphlae whispered.
“And I’ll keep you.”
Crowley wasn’t ready to talk about the rest of his time in the Basement. He suspected he wouldn’t be for a long time, but that was alright. After all, Aziraphale had proven to be quite good at waiting and they had all the time in the world.
In the meantime, the husbands grew used to their new way of living. Without the Book of Life as a threat, Heaven and Hell had been willing to hear them out. Azirphale and Crowley explained to the crowds of demons and angels that yes, they could stay where they were if they wished, but Heaven and Hell was obsolete– and had been for a long time now.
Most of them ended up leaving, and occasionally, Aziraphale and Crowley would see them wandering the Earth. Angels trying food for the first time… Demons learning how to love… There was something beautiful about the humanity of it all.
And six months ago Sli had woken up again. Now the creature could be found slithering around the bookshop, often winding itself between Azirphale’s fingers while he was reading, flitting its tongue against the palm of his hand. Meanwhile Crowley would sit in his husband’s lap, planting soft kisses against his forehead every time the angel finished a chapter.
“I would do it again,” Crowley confessed one night after they had banished Sli from the bedroom, (The little snake had been amused as it knowingly sauntered off, adjusting impressively well to the transition from cherished confidant to third wheel.) “if it meant I could have you. To have this, I would do anything.”
Aziraphale nodded.
“As would I. I would wait until the world was naught but dust. Until the galaxies burned away. Until creation undid itself.”
“Well, I have you now.”
Aziraphale smiled– a soft, secret thing that only Crowley was allowed to see– before kissing his husband.
“And I have you.”
“I want forever with you.”
“Have it then.”
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