Chapter Text
“I forgive you.”
(I forgive you for thinking you had to kiss me to make me stay, for using it as a weapon wielded by your heart, as an attempt of temptation born from desperation. Our first kiss , my dear. And you've reduced it into a memory of pain, a memory I cannot go back to. I had such big, daring plans for when I finally told you that you have always had my heart. And now, everything is ruined. Maybe everything was ruined right from the start. But I was willing to sacrifice all that I had here on Earth for a chance to be eternally happy and safe in Heaven with you, and you called me an idiot for it. I forgive you.)
“Don’t bother.”
( Please, don’t bother forgiving something that doesn’t deserve forgiveness. I shouldn’t have bothered giving you my love in the first place. Because our love would be a burden; forbidden and wrong and a defect in the system. I lived to love you. I lived to be a home for you. I gave you everything in the hopes to be the one your heart chooses. But no, I shouldn’t have bothered. I should’ve known you would still choose Heaven in the end. Should’ve known that nobody but sinners succumbed to the temptations of forbidden fruit.)
It had been six years.
The apocalypse was coming. And Aziraphale was a useless, useless angel who couldn’t even stop the evil of Heaven from consuming the very goodness that seeped into the souls that inhabited the Earth.
He thinks of crimson hair, the way it would burn under the fire of the sun.
He thinks of sharp grins and even sharper canines, glistening pearly white in the day and reeking merlot in the night.
He thinks of two miniature suns, always in a state of eclipse, trapped in the hollow spaces in his beloved’s skull, hidden further behind silly glasses.
He thinks of tan skin, the way it would shine brighter than the gold Midas would bring forth with a cursed touch.
It made him wonder, sometimes. If he held Crowley with his grubby hands, and made him happy—golden with it even, would that make him cursed just like he always thought he was?
He needs Crowley. Has always needed him. And Aziraphale still can’t believe that he’s spent the last six years without his warm, biting, loving, excruciating presence beside him. He still can’t believe he’s spent every meal during those years in the hollow heart of Heaven, shoveling hollow food into his hollow stomach in an attempt to replicate the warmth of familiarity. Now, it was only ruined because of the freezing loneliness it gave him.
Crowley was always freezing. He would never admit it, but Aziraphale always noticed how he would spend more time in the bookshop ( oh, my bookshop, his whole core sobs out.) when it was winter. How he would pretend he wasn’t wearing more layers than what was strictly necessary even for the humans they both adored so much. His nose and ears would almost glow pink, especially at night.
Aziraphale missed nights on Earth. I mean, of course, he did not sleep. God, why would he? Why would he when he could be consuming a fine piece of literature or listening to peaceful, velvety music? Why would he, when just a few minutes away, he could listen to the soft exhales of Crowley sleeping in his silky-soft bed? Why, Crowley certainly didn’t sleep every night. And on those nights, Aziraphale would refuse, like a child asked are you sleepy now? in the middle of the night, that he was lonely. Only, he was. He was.
He was always lonely when Crowley wasn’t in his presence. It was a selfish sentiment, especially for an angel.
(HA! ANGEL? WHAT YOU ARE IS A HEDONIST .)
But it was why he started tracking Crowley’s essence everywhere he went. Nights were especially delightful and excruciating when his essence would go bare and raw from finally putting his guards down. The closest Aziraphale could describe it was molten, like lava in a volcano. It would slow and breathe with a brightness closer to the sun than melted rock ever could be.
It was such a contrast to how Crowley presented himself. Maybe Crowley was aware of it. Maybe that was why he covered up the suns in the sockets of his eyes with all-encompassing shades of shadow and glass. Maybe that was why he had always chosen to paint himself up with a color that was void of color. Maybe it was because he was aware that demons normally wouldn’t have bright souls like he did.
Maybe that was why Aziraphale had always chosen to wear the color of Heaven’s halls and God’s omnipotence. Because deep down, just as Crowley was covering up his light with black, Aziraphale was covering up his shadow with white.
Exactly as they had surmised back in 1941. Shades of dark gray. Shades of light gray.
The Metatron is the same as always. Bumbling about with his floating head, smiling and laughing, making the angel do what he wants the angel to do and paints it as Aziraphale’s own thoughts rather than the divine order it really is.
“Rest, Sir?”
Aziraphale’s whole corporation beats with the heart he’s refused to part with (if only because it was the only thing to remind him of a certain crimson-haired demon).
“Why, yes! Preparations are almost done, all thanks to you, Aziraphale. The last thing we need is to choose an appropriate family to give the Son to and everything will have been set ahead of schedule. And really, such hard work only deserves to be rewarded with rest. I believe humans call it ‘vacation’. Am I correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Metatron laughs, pleased with himself and Aziraphale’s obedient reply.
“Now then, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. Where would you like to spend your vacation?”
Wait a minute—.
“Sir, you…you’re letting me decide?”
Something blossoms in his chest, something old and forcibly forgotten, tucked away into a seed and buried deep in his core, waiting–oh, always waiting. And always let down in full bloom. Aziraphale shakes, because he doesn't know if he can handle letting it shrivel and rot and die like what happened last time.
(Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Please. )
“Of course! Wouldn’t be relaxing if it's not somewhere you want to be in.”
Crowley. Home , his heart supplies almost immediately.
No. We can’t , his mind refutes.
…
…My bookshop , his heart says instead.
Oh, yes …The bookshop.
“I think my old bookshop would suffice then, Sir. I believe it’s still under management and protection of Muriel, yes?”
(Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Please. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Please. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Home. Crowley. Please.)
The Metatron grins at him, all sharp bones and dry ice.
“Yes. That would suffice.”
(Home. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Home. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Please. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Please. Crowley. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Crowley)
The Metatron and Supreme Archangel stare at each other. The Voice of God’s eyes twinkle with hidden animosity. The Angel of Soho gives back a stiff, close-lipped smile.
“Well then, see you in two months, angel .”
Don't call me that, you floating bubble-head , his mind screams.
Only Crowley can call me that , his heart unhelpfully adds.
(Home. Home. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Home. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Finally. Home. Home. Home. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Home. Home. Home. Finally. Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. Finally. Home. Home. Home. And Crowley. Crowley. Crowley. I’m coming home, dear star. I’m finally coming back home, Crowley.)
Aziraphale turns to leave. The Metatron’s gaze lingers on the back of his head far longer than it should have.
For the first time since the seed was planted, hope stays blooming.
The elevator dings. The metal-wooden doors open, and Aziraphale witnesses the earth’s beauty and life again after years of bare space and frigid stillness.
The first few seconds overwhelm him* as he tries to process everything before him. The cold breeze of the October air, the honks of cars, the twinkling of bikes, the chattering of humans, the smell of coffee, the sun, the clouds, the birds, the shops, everything . He stares at the picture in front of him, not sure which detail to focus on, to drink in, to pull apart and analyze, to weep over.
(* Oh, it’s so good to finally feel like he’s alive again.)
Instead, he shifts his gaze to the bookshop, its facade never-changing and ever-warm. And then he starts to wonder. Would Crowley be inside with Muriel, maybe? Would he be helping the angel manage the bookshop? Would he be teaching them how to live in this brave world humanity inhabits on Earth? Or would he be lounging around in the special nook Aziraphale manifested in the shop just for him? With all its perfect sunlight and warm cashmeres and soft feather-filled pillows?
The front door opens, and a hazel-haired woman glides out of the shop in a daze, likely miracled to leave its premises and not purchase a single thing. Maybe she’d even been miracled to forget the shop existed completely if that wasn’t her first visit. Warmth floods Aziraphale at the knowledge that Muriel was following the instructions he’d given them, even if he knows they must’ve followed them since they were orders from Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.
Or maybe, he thinks as electricity runs through his nerves in spasms, maybe it’s Crowley in there, handling the shop himself just because he’s just that much of a sweetheart that wouldn’t leave it alone. Aziraphale’s hands tremor slightly at the thought; of Crowley being protective of and unwilling to leave behind the bookshop Aziraphale knows they’d both associated more as their home than as a simple line of address, Crowley more or less, practically lives in already.
Oh. Oh, Crowley*.
(* The aforementioned above means: I love you. I miss you. Where are you? I love you. I am here, show me where you are. I love you. Let me feel you and the sun burning inside you. I love you. Lead me to you so that I may mold our souls into one like it was always meant to be since before forever and after forever. I love you. I love you. I love you. But, where are you, my darling star ?)
It’s more than possible the demon has already felt his presence since the moment he was descending from the prison he chose to enter and stay in. Felt it the moment his holy presence stepped foot on the tired ground of this planet. Felt it the moment Aziraphale’s body decided to settle itself back to what it thought it was supposed to be; with all its moving flesh and pulsing organs and flowing blood and gushing hormones*.
(* Aziraphale does not like hormones. In fact, he despises them quite a bit. But unfortunately, this human body he got from Adam was, well, too human. And really, Aziraphale doesn’t blame the boy since he doesn’t even know what the anatomy and/or physiology of an angel is, let alone that they had one. But that doesn’t mean it’s not inconvenient. Aziraphale might be able to remove these… inconveniences in a celestial plane like Heaven, where such humanness is not required to simply exist, but it seems he cannot do the same once here on Earth.
Of course, he’s tried to get a new corporation in Heaven, but he doesn’t get the time with all the bloody paperwork and essence-draining meetings they’ve forced onto him. And besides, he will later on find out that the Earthly Corporations Department wouldn’t let him get a new one anyway since there’s ‘nothing wrong’ with his current corporation.)
He knows Crowley can feel him. He’s certain . He must have. So why hasn’t he come to greet Aziraphale? In some delusional part of his mind, he’d half-expected the demon to come bursting through the bookshop’s doors, desperation and relief on his face as he rushed down the street to jump into Aziraphale’s arms and surround him with the warmth Aziraphale had been craving after being trapped in the cold and empty for so long. And yet; nothing. Aziraphale can’t even feel Crowley’s essence if instead, Crowley wanted Aziraphale to come to him. Nothing. It was as if…
Was Crowley angry at him? Oh, God. Oh, what if he hated Aziraphale? What if he never wanted to see him again? Aziraphale had always thought that six years apart would be enough time for them to reflect on their fight and realize that both of them were right and wrong. And they had gone about talking about so, so disastrously and with so little time. Aziraphale had hoped this was a chance for them to talk properly. Instead, it seemed that Crowley was…hiding from him.
He decides that, maybe, he should check up on the others first.
(COWARD. SOME ANGEL YOU ARE.)
A quick scan of their street tells him that the one most likely to be free would be Maggie. Aziraphale does a quick snap to miracle away his dead-gray pale suit, and don his very-missed creams and browns. Then he crosses the street to Maggie’s vinyl shop and opens the store’s door.
Maggie’s bell is bright, both in color and sound. It shines and glimmers while it twinkles and sings in the air. Somehow, the sunny little thing felt like it was warning him of impending doom. Like he should rue whatever was going to happen to him today.
“Hello, welcome...” Maggie’s greeting trails off into shocked silence when she looks up to see Aziraphale.
“M-mr. Fell! I…” Her pupils dart frantically, to the bell whistling above the angel, to the well-loved and deeply-cared-for shining vinyl and covers around them, and to Aziraphale’s own imploring gaze. She blinks back at him with the aggressiveness of a hurt and shocked bird’s fluttering wings.
“I didn’t think you’d be back here on earth again, if… if I’m quite honest.”
The admission hurts, makes his head pulse with his heart, and his chest twist and constrict like the mangled mess churning in his guts. Because if Maggie didn't think Aziraphale would come back home for Crowley, would Crowley think Aziraphale would come back home for Crowley?
(Oh, Crowley. My dear Crowley. Dear star, I would never leave y–)
(Except you did, didn’t you, ANGEL?)
“I…You didn't really think I’d just…leave Crowley forever, would you?” Aziraphale tries to laugh, but Maggie only stares at him, face gaunt and haunted and crumpling–and oh. Oh dear, she’s crying now. Dread settles itself back home in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach.
“My dear. Please, tell me. Has something happened to Crowley?”
A gasping sob rips out her throat and stabs Aziraphale right in the heart. He does the short journey of closing the menial distance between them.
“ Oh . Oh, Mr. Fell.” Maggie forces out in choppy words and breathy exhales. He grabs both of her plump cheeks, wrapping her face in a warm cocoon of soft hands. “He won't wake up.”
“What?” Aziraphale breathes out. Because she must not mean what he thinks she means. She cannot be. Crowley–he’s slept for centuries at times, but that’s just what he did. He slept. A light sleeper in that matter. Just a few shakes on his lithe frame would be enough to rouse him from his slumber. That doesn’t mean–
“ He won’t wake up. ”
The bookshop is the same as always. Still filled with cluttered books full of dust and ink and millenia of bullshit and knowledge. Still filled with clustered carpets and couches and pillows; rugged and old in their exterior, soft and restful in their interior. Still filled with golden light as the sun rushes through mold-crusted glass and varnish-glistening panes, painting everything it touches holy like its owner.
In the corner, the grandfather’s clock still ticks away the seconds he’s away from Crowley.
(Oh, my darling star, what has happened to you?)
The only thing that has changed is the angel standing in the crater of an ancient mess, terror glued on their eyes and pastel painted on their lips. Muriel is stricken, frozen in place, books and the pages of parchment stuck in between it shaking in their gentle hold.
“Mr. Fe–I mean, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale! To-to what do I owe the pleasure of your holy presence?”
Aziraphale gives them a bitter smile. Behind him, Maggie closes the door, locking them for assured privacy and lack of interruption.
“Please, Muriel. Mr. Fell is fine.”
Maggie joins him, standing on his left, and Aziraphale has the far-away instinct to push her away from his side or drag her to his other. Anything to get her away from the empty mold beside him, from the space that doesn’t belong to her.
“Ah! ‘Ello Ms. Maggie!” Muriel greets once they see her. They raise one hand to wave it in their general direction enthusiastically and, in the process, drop all the antiquarian materials they’d been carrying.
“Oh no.”
Aziraphale's eyebrow twitches a bit as he stares at his lovely books on the floor, some of which are literal museum-worthy artifacts. The archangel snaps his finger, and the mess on the floor settles neat and organized in the plushness of his arms instead.
“Muriel. Please be more careful when handling these.” Aziraphale says, not unkindly. Muriel stiffens a bit again as Aziraphale turns away from them to slowly and very gently put the books down on a nearby table.
“Now, Maggie here has informed me that Crowley is here.” He faces the two other occupants in the room, both of whom flinch at the mention of the demon. Maggie still looks exhausted, cheeks crusted with tears let out in her shop, while Muriel’s face very subtly shifts into one of discomfort and melancholy.
“Oh. Oh, yes! Mr. Crowley is here. It’s just…Supre–...Mr. Fell. Are you quite sure you want to see him? He’s not really…”
“Yes.”
Yes, Aziraphale would like to see what leaving for heaven did to Crowley. Yes, he would like to see the consequences of making a decision for both of them alone without Crowley’s input or knowledge. Yes, he desires to see Crowley again. He has yearned to see Crowley again the moment he set foot on that elevator with a monster masquerading with a mask of innocence and purity. Yes, he very much wants to see Crowley again, no matter the consequences or the circumstances.
There is a brief moment as Muriel very subtly sends a shaky glance to Maggie, likely hoping Aziraphale does not notice*. Maggie just nods her head.
(* He does. He ignores them.)
“...Okay.” Muriel takes a deep breath and starts ascending to the second floor of the bookshop through the stairs. Aziraphale follows with Maggie not far behind.
As they reach the top of the stairs, Muriel starts taking them further into shelves and vintage furniture, until they finally leave the portion of the building regarded as the bookshop, and stand in front of a door.
They step outside the shop, and enter a bare hallway Aziraphale calls his own. This hallway was the only restricted portion of the shop’s building. In it lies the restroom (never used), the bedroom (rarely used, mostly by Crowley), the guest room (inhabited by Gabriel during his stay), and finally, his private office* (the most used room in the hallway).
(* The private office was more for formality. Even if it was the most used room in this hallway, Aziraphale still preferred using his little nook downstairs. Mainly because Crowley loved lounging by his own little nook beside Aziraphale’s. And Aziraphale hardly ever wanted to be apart from Crowley if they were both going to be in the shop anyway.
Although…the little private office was a good excuse to just…not entertain any customers and ward them off if Crowley wasn’t visiting.)
The three of them stand in front of his bedroom. It smells like dew-covered leaves and rain-wet soil ( petrichor , his mind whispers) and fresh laundry with a flowery tinge to it. His room smells like…a garden .
Crowley! , something in him screams, body almost jolting and flinching towards the mahogany. He does not know if it is his mind or heart or something else within him. The part of him that ravishes and devours and takes and takes and takes all that he finds beauty and pleasure in it*.
(* There is only one thing he has found beauty and pleasure in that he cannot take. A tempting little apple, bright red and brilliant with its shine, dangled in front of him for 6,000 years. One that he has had the pleasure of tasting, just once, before he was subjected to the emptiness of High Above. Sometimes, his mind wonders, and he’d think that he’d Fall for a taste of it again. For a chance to just, press it into his mouth and…taste. Devour. )
Muriel opens the door. On his bed, lies Crowley.
Oh, what has happened to my star , his heart sobs out.
Crowley’s hair was long now. It would flow with the air from the open window, almost as if floating underwater, but not really. It was wet-looking. It was greasy, sweaty. It was pretty.
(Aziraphale wanted to touch it, feel its gross tackiness leave an oily feeling in between his fingers. Then, once his hands were covered in nothing but the gunk from his sins, he would wash it away from his hair. But not from his own being. He would let the results of his choice linger like a stain on his soul, but never on Crowley's.)
Even with the cream-and-white tartan blanket covering up Crowley’s pale body, it does not hide the fact that over Crowley’s black henley, is an oversized beige cardigan that would fit perfectly on Aziraphale’s frame. His cardigan.
Crowley is still—unnervingly so. But he is alive, Aziraphale can tell. Can tell with the way he can now finally feel Crowley’s essence within the corporation, bruised and pulsing and weak—so, so weak that it scares Aziraphale to discorporation. Crowley’s body doesn’t so much as move to breathe and Aziraphale finally realizes with a jump in his heart that there is something horribly wrong with his corporation.
Something climbs back into the forefront of his mind with trembling hands, frigid and bleeding from its journey of being treasured but pushed away.
(There was a lot of wine that night—and Aziraphale would remember because that was the night he slept over at Crowley’s flat.
They had just averted Armageddon, after all. It was the perfect night for the both of them to get drunk as fuck with the 1995 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru Crowley had won at an auction for more than half a million US dollars the year before. There were only two bottles at the auction, but that certainly wasn't a problem with their miracles.
They were currently starting on their second bottle and wheezing after bursting out with laughter about…something. Something about horses and Valentino? Or wait, that was last week. It was about planets and Roman Gods, actually, now that he thinks about it.
“You know, I was gonna make Jupiter a star.”
Aziraphale blinks. Stares at the demon sitting on the floor across from him, nursing his glass of wine above criss-crossed slender legs. His glasses aren’t on him at the moment, and Aziraphale…very much appreciates the breathtaking view in front of him*.
(* Yes, the angel is talking about Crowley’s serpentine eyes. Magnificent is what they are. Simply gorgeous.)
“Really?”
Crowley slumps on his side to lay on the floor like a temptation. It makes Aziraphale take in dry air down a dry throat. He places his glass on the floor as well, just in front of his head, and starts swirling it around clockwise, golden eyes pinned on the liquid forming into a vortex that was no doubt a reflection of both of their minds at the moment.
“Yeah. I got approval for it and everything. I’d even started working on it already. It’s why it’s so big. I just… couldn't finish it since I, y’know. Now it’s just this…bulbous gas ball, hanging in space, in some…some forever state of incompleteness. Never complete, just this…crude and half-done thing.”
Crowley’s eyes shift, and Aziraphale has the sudden non-need to breathe as those beautiful eyes shimmer in his direction. He gives the angel a little rue smile, grief and bitterness forcing his lips down, will and determination forcing them up; the result is a wobbly line of lips pressed tightly against one another.
“And now it’s just…a defective almost-star.”
Aziraphale can’t help but stare at the demon, realizing with dread and honor that Crowley has bared something raw and precious to him in abstruse tacit. Crowley gives the angel a single languid blink; a question.
What's on your mind? What are you thinking?
Crowley looks away mere seconds after and Aziraphale almost wants to whimper as those beautiful eyes rip themselves away from his vision.
“You know you can look away right? Not your fault I'm…this.”
Silence.
Aziraphale swallows the wound forming in his throat. And then he stares at his wine like a coward.
(COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN A COWARD .)
“I think it’s unfair to compare Jupiter to the stars.” Aziraphale finally says, a little bit breathless, a little bit strained. “They are two completely different things, after all.”
There’s a hitch of breath in the air, quiet. And damning for what it does to Aziraphale. Crowley always has made him more human than he truly was.
“Jupiter is…beautiful. He protects the other planets because of how great he is. In that way, he’s almost like the Earth’s guardian angel. But in space.” At this, Aziraphale chuckles a bit. He doesn’t notice that Crowley doesn’t laugh with him. Instead, he carries on staring in his wine trying to make his Point.
“He has gorgeous rings, although you have to look long and hard to see them. And he has so many moons orbiting around him. On the other hand…”
Aziraphale takes a sip from his wine.
“The stars come in so many different shapes and forms, even different colors. Nevertheless, they all look beautiful in every single one. They burn themselves to give life and energy. They burn for others. They shine in the sky to guide people* home.”
(* By ‘people’, Aziraphale meant himself. But, of course, said angel does not even realize this is what he meant.)
And oh, God, Aziraphale is rambling…nonsense(!) of all things, but he can’t stop. Because he hasn’t even gotten to his Point and he needs Crowley to hear what Aziraphale wants to say; even if it means hiding it underneath drunken slurs and insane gibberish.
“But there’s also one special star different from every other one in this galaxy.” He pushes on, the brave coward that he is.
“The sun. The sun is a star is it not? But people sometimes forget that. Because we don’t really call the sun a star, do we? And maybe, that can mean that the sun herself would forget that she’s a star. But, she’s not just this…big lonely ball of gas in the universe that burns herself away and…brings light for others.”
Aziraphale swallows again, finally reaching the Point of his messy, uncoordinated monologue.
“She is a star, no matter how many forget. Even if she herself does too; she will always be a star.”
(“You’re my star.”)
An angel says one thing and means another; his demon still manages to get the Point*.
(* Well, not the whole Point, really. Because why would he think Aziraphale would want something as broken as him to be his?)
Crowley burns red with forbidden love.
The next morning, they both woke up with hangovers for the first time, claiming they were just too drunk to miracle themselves sober last night. Aziraphale knows it was an attempt to forget the night before. And Aziraphale knows, deep inside him, that Crowley failed just as much as he did.
They miracle the hang-over away and attend each other’s execution.
Both of them never mention that night ever again.)
“How long has he been…sleeping?” Aziraphale queries. He grips his hands together in front of him, almost wanting to bruise them with his cruel grip on them.
“About…a month after you left.” Maggie answers from behind him.
Aziraphale blinks. Then he turns around to leave the room. It is useless, though. The image of Crowley’s broken* body is already seared into his vision, into his mind. He doubts it will leave him any time soon in the near future.
(* And Aziraphale hates— despises using that word to describe anything that is Crowley. But his body is already failing him and Aziraphale doesn’t even know how much time he has left before…before…)
“I may have an idea of what has happened to him.”
(“And now I’m just…a defective almost-star.”)
You have broken beneath the weight, dear star. Let me help you piece yourself back together.
Crowley melts deeper into Aziraphale’s chest when he feels soft hands cradle his back. The television he’s finally convinced Aziraphale to have makes a quiet noise beside them—ignored but acknowledged. Outside, a nightingale sings.
And then, Aziraphale sighs. Not the content one he usually gives in peaceful pockets of time like these. No, he sounds almost…disappointed. Crowley shivers.
Something in Crowley ripples. Something is wrong; a stone thrown to disturb the calm water’s tranquility. Or well, in this case, the start of an error in his delusion of peace.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Aziraphale mutters. Familiar dread fills Crowley.
He sits up to straddle the angel’s thighs. Aziraphale follows him up, and then promptly pushes Crowley off of his lap. Crowley, for the first time ever, finally manages to stop a wounded sound from leaving his throat after being pushed away by Aziraphale for so many times.
No. No, it was too soon. It hasn’t even been a month, yet. It can’t be the end again.
“I can’t help but think about your words yesterday, dear.” Aziraphale starts to say as he sits up properly on their couch. The angel leans away from the demon.
“W-wot?” Crowley, idiot that he is, says, almost delirious with the impending end this conversation will have.
“Your… joke* yesterday. About still trying to understand why God didn’t just put Earth in the center of the universe for…a better view.”
(* It was no joke. It was a serious comment masked with silly humor and a barking laugh. But yeah, he understands why everyone else would think it was a joke.)
No. Surely this loop isn’t going to end in something as silly as this. Maybe…maybe this really isn’t the end, yet. Maybe this is just…a silly little fight they’ll have before they forgive each other again in the arms of the other tonight.
“Well…I mean it is…kinda questionable. Don’t tell me you don’t, at the very least, wonder what She has planned for the rest of the universe? It’s so huge! And She isn’t even using it for anything. Surely, you wonder, angel.”
“It’s almost as if you’re suggesting that I start questioning my faith for Her.” Is the pointed reply he receives.
“What? No! No, I just…Instead of seeing it as trying to question that faith, why not see it as trying to... understand that faith?”
“Oh, Crowley. Look at it in any way you like, but you're still asking questions aren't you? And where did that lead you?”
Crowley’s body feels cold.
“That's right. You Fell .”
And then, quietly, something cracks inside him.
Aziraphale stands.
“And I will not fall with you.”
Aziraphale grabs him by the arm and drags him to the front of the shop. Crowley helplessly follows him.
“And please. Don’t bother apologizing for trying to tempt me away from Her.” The angel says as they finally reach the bookshop’s entrance.
Crowley miracles himself deaf. It’s a lost cause. The words echo and burst into his mind like a howl in the quiet of the night.
I already forgive you.
The world breaks. Crowley is about to sob when he follows.
Darkness.