Chapter 1: I
Notes:
Oh! Before I forget: if you find any grammatical errors, please tell me so I can fix it. Im german and Im not always sure if english words are supposed to word like that. Thank you!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Heaven.
For a while, it had been a home. Before things like Time or Matter or Sound had existed, Aziraphale hadn’t known any other place. He didn’t know whether it was a good home, but without comparison the question became superfluous. Besides — Heaven was always, without any exception, Good.
After Earth had started existing, and Aziraphale had come to know things like sunshine and humans and pleasant social interactions, Heaven had stepped down a level. Not that he’d admit it to himself. But before be knew it, Heaven’s white-cold halls had become the place Aziraphale dreaded going back to for the quarterly meetings.
The guilt came when he realized, of course, but that was a different story. He’d dealt with it, and he’d come to the conclusion that he didn’t owe them what they hadn’t given him, when even a demon could be kinder than Gabriel with ease. And he’d left them without looking back — well, without looking back too much. The occasional glance over the shoulder was a bad habit, born of years of hiding in fear, not of any wish to return.
And now?
Now he had returned. And as time stretched into a row of blinding, weary seconds that weren‘t passing, he wondered, with increasing desperation, how he had ever born even the few meetings his duty as Heaven's Ambassador had required.
Crowley watched him when he stepped into the lift. Aziraphale couldn’t settle on whether it was meant to be reassuring or a final plea to stay. Either way, it didn’t have the desired effect.
Perhaps he would’ve felt reassured if Crowley had said so. Perhaps he would‘ve stayed if Crowley had made an effort to understand what he was saying and an effort to react to it, instead of — instead of what he had done. Perhaps he could’ve convinced Aziraphale if he’d said something, something Crowley-like, something genius, some plan that made it all work out without anybody going to Heaven.
Not that any plan like that existed. Aziraphale knew what he was doing was their best chance.
It didn’t stop the sharpness digging into his chest as the doors closed, that made him take a single, gasping breath, even though the Metatron gave him a strange look for it. It didn’t stop the vertigo when he realized that this might be the last air he would taste at all; air dispersed with the particular taste of almond-y coffee and Crowley’s lips. He felt like he should double over to do damage control. Instead of kissing him, Crowley had torn his ribcage open and laid bare the wriggling, squirming mess that was inside — he had sunk his teeth into him, rather than press his lips to Aziraphale's, and taken a chunk of meat with him when he’d let go.
It might’ve been the worst thing Crowley had ever done to him. Perhaps the strangest part of it was that as soon as Crowley had stepped away, Aziraphale had wanted to make him do it again.
The floors were flying by. The lift’s lights flickered. Aziraphale’s stomach rolled.
It wouldn't take too long, he told himself. A while, until the earth was safe. Then he’d go back, and then he would kiss Crowley until neither of them were able to breathe anymore. The way he had planned to, when they were dancing.
There was no backing out anymore.
Aziraphale arrived in Heaven with the stubborn determination of somebody who had just been told No. It carried him like a wave. It let him smile into the empty, devoid space when the doors opened again, and into Michael and Uriel’s horrified faces as they saw him step out of the lift. It dragged him through the blaring-red heartsickness that he hoped would dim down to a dull throbbing after some time. Through the more literal sickness that he felt at the brightness of everything — he already knew that would not dim down no matter how long he was here. Through being unceremoniously appointed Supreme Archangel in the Metatron’s office, and the clenched-teeth pleasantries exchanged with the other Archangels. Through the first few meetings.
His new rank didn’t feel very different to being a Principality — just a larger supply of miracles and a new halo. He was grateful for the latter. His old halo certainly wouldn't have been useful for a while. But neither of those were what he was here for. He’d come for the insight, for the clearance on important documents, for the opportunity to nip in the bud what Adam the Antichrist had stopped by only a hair’s breadth four years ago.
Still he allowed himself to draw one miracle from his new reservoir, just to restore some of his energy. Of course, that wasn't what miracles were for, but he felt like Crowley’s Bentley had run him over at full speed, while the Metatron expected him to scrape himself off the pavement to come with him. Taking some energy for himself so he didn't break down in front of the Heavenly Host on his first day was very justified, in his eyes.
After an amount of time that on Earth would’ve been classified as a few days, but in Heaven classified simply as a passage of meetings and a frantic reading through documents in the meantime, the erstwhile burst of determination trickled out. It oozed into Heaven’s impeccable glass floor and into the non-material paper with unprinted words that Aziraphale pulled out of the documents the Metatron let him read. He could feel it end right as he was picking up another page, like the snap of a rope under too much pressure.
He calculated how long he had until the next meeting — not long enough. He was late for the first time since his arrival, and arrived with tear-stained cheeks that he hoped the Archangels wouldn't notice.
Since then, if he was to believe his few check-ins on Earth — from a far away sistance, approved by the Metatron, of course — almost two years had passed.
And Aziraphale felt no closer to averting the Second Coming than in the moment he had stepped foot into this place.
"Supreme Archangel Aziraphale."
"Yes?"
"There are more reports of the platoons. Please see them over."
"Yes. Of course. Thank you, Rigiel."
Papers were placed on his desk. Rigiel withdrew, bowing slightly and leaving the room - though Aziraphale could see her walking away. Heaven's cubicles were a funny thing: see-through from the inside, visually impenetrable from the outside. It gave you a sense of loneliness when you were inside, and a constant paranoia of being watched when you were anywhere else.
Rigiel was a Scrivener, thirty-second class. She’d been appointed his assistant together with his appointment to Archangel, and she didn’t seem to hate him, which he rather appreciated. She didn’t seem to like him either, but he had the feeling that her standoffish-ness was more of an act, something like a response to Heaven’s continuous determination to ignore her. She never spoke unless prompted, but he’d seen her hold herself back a few times by now.
He’d gifted her a pen — a real one, miracled here from his very own bookshop — some time after he’d arrived, because seen her practice her writing. He'd hoped that their relationship might warm up a little at the gesture, but she’d only seemed confused.
He massaged his temples. A few months ago, a headache had made a nest in his skull and refused to leave since then. He‘d wondered if it was a universal thing for angels up here to get one, and had even considered talking to another angel about it, but between Uriel and Michael’s verbal shoves and pushes and Rigiel’s professional coldness he didn’t exactly have a lot of friends among the Host. There were the other lower angels of course, who didn’t outright dislike him, but even if somebody could relate, their solution probably was to ignore it or get used to it. They didn’t have anything like aspirin in Heaven.
Though he suspected less bright lights, a blanket and a book might’ve sufficed. Oh, and possibly some air to breathe.
Well, no sense pitying the lack of it now. If he wanted it back — if he wanted it to keep existing at all — then there were documents to read and an Apocalypse to avert. He forced himself to focus on the enochian letters in front of him, deciding to ignore the new documents Rigiel had brought him for now, when his cel-phone buzzed.
He didn’t remember a meeting scheduled for today, but time did interesting things around here. The concept of today was slipping further away from him with every unpassing night. It was only unfortunate that he didn’t get any time to steel himself before he had to talk to people like Michael or Uriel.
He left the documents to fend for themselves.
The meeting's topic was a discussion that reemerged every once in a while — more often, now that he was here, he felt. Tightening the rules for the lower angels. Aziraphale thought of Muriel, so excited to be needed they didn‘t care about being called dim.
„There’s merit to sending Scriveners to Earth", he tried to explain to Michael. „They have to know what they are talking about if if they are to describe what is going to take place, correct?"
„They aren’t supposed to visit Earth", Uriel argued. „It’s not their job to learn."
„But it might help them", Aziraphale tried again, though he doubted Uriel was even listening.
„Besides, we’re not talking only about Scriveners", Michael threw in. „The lower angels also count the Powers, Virtues, Soldiers, Guardians and Messengers. All above the Scriveners, if I may remind you."
„But don’t they also need to get to Earth to do their job?", Aziraphale asked. „The Messengers and Guardians are specifically assigned to humans."
„That doesn’t mean they should get to spent any more time on Earth. They will appear in dreams and send miracles from above."
At the very least, he was able to talk her out of that. Appearing in dreams was a nasty business. After having to do it multiple times during the Middle Ages, he didn't wish it on anyone. He got a Look from Sandalphon when Michael folded, but if it meant that Muriel was able to run the bookshop without constant surveillance, he didn’t care much.
„Let’s wrap this up, for now", he suggested. „There’s still something else you wanted to speak to me about, if I recall our last meeting correctly."
Michael shot him a glare, but a stack of papers appeared before her, which she spread out with one hand. Aziraphale leaned forward in curiosity. The papers showed humans — some older, some barely in their teens. Some just children. All potential candidates: to be the Second Coming of Christ, a new host for His soul.
Aziraphale scanned the papers at the top. There wasn’t anybody he recognized. He felt an absurd sense of relief at it. It would make this far easier.
It’s a bit different when it’s someone you know, Crowley had said, and it still rang true. To know one human in particular was to get protective over them and too much emotional involvement could completely destroy his plans. He had to look as rational as possible, even if he was understandably non-rational about not wanting the world to be destroyed in fire and flames.
„So that’s all of them?", Uriel asked. „That’s maybe fifty documents."
„I’ll admit it isn’t a lot", Michael agreed. „Aziraphale — I believe the worst ones were already voted out?"
„The Metatron and I have taken a look at them", Aziraphale confirmed, „but there have been new entries. They should be at the top."
He’d put all if his energy into that talk with the Metatron. The key was choosing his words. With the Archangels, the right persuasion could make them give in, but the Metatron had to be convinced that he believed every word he was saying. He'd allowed himself a whole hour in the Earth Observation Hall afterwards.
During their discussion, Aziraphale had managed to vote out almost a quarter of the candidates, focussing especially on ones he knew the other Archangels would’ve liked. He didn’t need to spend more time on convincing Sandalphon that a military priest was not the right option for the new body of Christ. Nor did he need to have long discussions about all the actually kind-seeming people, who, if he were actually looking for somebody to take the role of Jesus Christ, even he might’ve deemed a good choice. It was better to give them the choice between all the worse options and tell them „see? Nothing good to be found, seems we can’t end the world after all."
He wished there was another way to do it. He wished he could leave all the best options in the stack and show the Archangels how good humanity could really be. That there was a side to them that was kind and passionate and caring. That they were worth saving, or at least worth not killing by the millions.
Unfortunately, there was no swaying any of them in that belief. Not this way, at least.
„Let’s start with the old entries", he decided. „Michael, could I have the documents?"
She slid them over the glossy table. Aziraphale spread out the first few and turned them around so the Archangels could see them better.
„Now", he said. „What do you think of her?"
He hadn’t talked to Muriel in ages, he thought while he walked back to his cubicle. He probably should, but the last few times he did, he’d had the feeling they were quite content in the bookshop and didn't particularly like to be reminded of Heaven at the moment. He understood that feeling rather well. He didn’t really need them for his plans anyways.
And looking at the bookshop, even from the unfamiliar angle of the summoning circle, made a gash open up in his heart that bled for days. It didn’t do to be reminded of another place that was soft and easy on the eyes and had the kind of silence that calmed the noise in his mind instead of the one that amplified it until he barely heard his own thoughts. It was so terribly inconvenient for concentrating on any of his work, when he got so homesick that he had to physically dig his fingers into the chair’s underside until his bones creaked and his fingers left marks on the smooth white plastic — just so that he didn't get up and leave Heaven for good.
He was getting somewhere, he told himself. It wasn’t anything big, but he had laid the groundwork for change. He’d implemented a suggestion box as soon as he felt like it was appropriate to call in a favour with the Metatron. He knew that his request to tell the whole of Heaven about it and make sure the lower angels knew there was no danger in putting in a slip of paper with some feedback hadn't been fulfilled, even if the Metatron had said so. But that was alright. He'd told Rigiel to tell every soul she crossed. And the delays he’d managed to squeeze into the planning for the Second Coming weren’t anything big so far, but any time was valuable, as he’d learned the last time around. Sometimes, you only needed a week to avert the end of the world.
Rigiels documents were staring at him when he entered his office. He ignored their stare and let himself crumple on the chair for a few minutes instead. He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to be somewhere dark. Back in his shop, he'd had weighed blanket. He wished he could miracle it up, but the alarms would probably show a material object passing into Heaven if it was any bigger than Rigiel's pen.
Heaven's lights shone through his eyelids at a volume that made shutting them entirely unsatisfying. He kept them shut for another minute anyways.
Finally, with a sigh, he tried to motivate his weary corporation to finish with at least three more documents before he would go and stand in the Earth Observation Hall for a bit. He hadn’t gone there in a while.
It wasn’t that he hated everything about his job in Heaven. Reading and organising had been things he’d done in his bookshop just the same, and he’d liked them, as long as nobody else could find anything by the way he organised the books. Heaven didn’t have any regulations on how to arrange his files, and it was nice to know that if anyone ever went snooping through his office, they wouldn’t find a thing.
Heaven wasn’t a place to read for leisure, though. Heaven was silence, so silent it was loud, and devoid of sensations like smell or touch. Even the pages he turned weren‘t entirely real, just miracles. It was why he never miracled his food. He’d always been able to tell the difference.
How he longed for a book that had actual weight, whose pages were soft from turning them so much, whose binding he could run his fingers over.
The read reports, signed, landed in a big file that looked identical to all the others. Aziraphale appreciated them. Their paper was unbleached and brown in a place where everything else was perfect. He was putting away the last of his reports, when Michael stepped into the office.
„Supreme Archangel."
„Michael", he said, wringing a smile out of his face. „What an unexpected pleasure. What are you here for?"
She eyed the office — the papers stacked on top of each other, the messy table, the files lying next to the chair — with something like disgust. Aziraphale felt a bit of a connection to her. She hated it for being too cluttered, he for being too empty. In the end, they seemed to both agree that this place was terrible.
He did not offer her a seat. Not that there was one.
„I wanted to talk about the meeting this morning", she said, returning her eyes to his face. „I feel that there are some things left to discuss."
Of course there were. Aziraphale supposed he’d been stupid to think there wouldn’t be an aftermath to it when he’d left the meeting. He sat up straighter and tried to steel himself for however complicated this conversation was going to be.
„What did you want to talk about?", he asked.
Michael came closer, around the desk, and Aziraphale immediately missed the barrier between them. The way she stood, she was forcing him to look up at her, and blocking his way to the door too. Gabriel had taught her well.
There was nothing to do but to ignore it. If she got any closer, he would be forced to stand up, so instead, he crossed his legs on the chair and tried to look as relaxed as possible.
„You were rather insistent on letting the lower angels keep their permission to go to Earth", she said. „I don’t think I entirely understand why."
„I think I’ve made my reasons quite clear", said Aziraphale. „I think it would benefit the mission of Heaven if they were allowed to both do their job the way it was meant to be done, and learn something in the process."
Michael narrowed her eyes. „Yes. That. What do you mean by learn something? They know what they need to know. Every angel is taught what knowledge they require for their job. There’s no need for them to learn."
„Oh, but there is!", Aziraphale said. „There’s many things on Earth for them to learn. Human inventions for one thing. Our cel-phones are based on what they were always going to invent, aren’t they? We might’ve had an influence on the humans, but humans have had an influence back. Isn’t that fascinating?"
Michael’s face was a blank wall. „Humans have been built in God’s image", she said. „Not the other way around. What you’re implying is blasphemy, Aziraphale. Is this what you wanted the lower angels to learn?"
He felt himself deflate. „Of course, I’m, I’m not implying anything like that. I see how you could, um, draw the wrong conclusions out of what I said, but I — of course before they go to Earth, there could be a… class? On how to conduct themselves, the most important historical events…"
„We’re not realizing another one of your wild ideas, Aziraphale", said Michael sharply. „There won’t be a class. The fact that the Metatron let you have your suggestion box is already unbelievable."
„Ah, well —"
„Why do you really want the lower angels to be able to go to Earth?", Michael asked, stepping forward. Aziraphale stood from his chair. She was taller than him, but this way, at least the height difference was only a few centimeters.
„I can see they like you", Michael continued. „They aren’t afraid of you the way they should be. And I know you’ve been talking to that Scrivener in your shop behind our backs." She was so close, that if this were Earth, and she were human, he’d be able to feel her breath on his face. Her voice was a low hiss. „Have you been working with them?"
Aziraphale stared at her. „Of course!", he said. „We’re all working with them. We’re all of us angels, aren’t we? We’re on the same side."
„You know what I mean."
„I’m afraid I really do not", said Aziraphale primly. „I’ve been getting reports from Muriel the same way I do from all the angels. And they are doing their job quite well, I might add. Their reports tell me that they’ve been guarding the shop from any intruders and distributing a few blessings in the street."
Michael’s eyes narrowed. „Yes, well. Guarding the shop from intruders is exactly what you were supposed to do, yet you let a demon penetrate the embassy for years. If Muriel is loyal to you, I’m afraid their judgement shouldn’t be trusted." Her lips set into a thin line. „I know you, Aziraphale —"
You really don’t, Aziraphale thought with all the contempt he wasn't able to voice.
„— and I know about your sentimentalities in terms of Earth’s… continued existence. If your attachment to the lower angels has anything to do with a harebrained plan like the one you executed five years ago…"
Aziraphale did his best to make an indignant face. „I assure you, Michael, there is no idea like that in my mind. Now, I have work to do. If you were so kind as to leave my office…"
She took a step back, but shot him one last glare. „I will be watching you, Aziraphale", she said. He really wished she would stop saying his name like that. She had a way of making it an insult.
Michael left and Aziraphale let himself fall back on his chair with a quiet „oomph". On Earth, he’d never understood the appeal of sleeping, but ever since he’d gotten here, he’d suddenly understood why Crowley had gotten into the habit of it ever so often. He wished there was a way to drown out the shrill, cold lights by closing his eyes and just… disappearing, for a while. And nobody would be able to bother him, because it was impolite to disturb people while they slept.
He curled his fingers around his signet ring, fingetips gliding over the smooth gold. Only a while now, he reminded himself. He was on the trail of something, with the candidates for the Christly body. He had a Clue. If he was lucky, which he felt like he really deserved by now, he was going to be out of here in a few months. He could take a few months, as long as he was doing something. As long as he had a Clue to work on.
At least don’t pronounce the capital letter, Crowley had said in the pub. His voice had been fond. Aziraphale’s heart spasmed with the memory.
He grit his teeth and turned his chair back to the desk.
If he wanted to see Crowley again, he needed to go through with his plan. However much he hated it. That had been the premise of this horrible trip from the start: go up here, no matter how much the place made him feel like sand was grinding his brain into mush, no matter how small the Archangels made him think he was. No matter how much it hurt that Crowley apparently hadn’t understood a word of what he meant — he was still doing this for the demon. For their side.
When he went to the Earth Observation Hall, it was empty. It almost always was, but now, it felt even emptier, because outside, it seemed to be nighttime.
It was an illusion of course. There couldn’t be nighttime at the same time in all the places the windows were showing. But it was a nice illusion. Aziraphale quite liked looking at it. It was such a nice reprieve from being constantly bombarded with lights.
He’d set a timer. He needed to get back to work in half an hour, before anybody noticed he wasn’t in his cubicle and he needed to justify why he wasn’t doing anything. But until then, he still had some time.
He felt a non-existent shiver crawl up his back. It wasn't a real one because there was no air and no temperature but Aziraphale could still feel coldness creeping onto his skin. He tried to shake it off and draw his clothes tighter around his body, but his new suit was made in Heaven and had Heaven’s coldness imbued into every fiber.
He longed for his old waistcoat. It might’ve been ratty and old, but it had been warm, made of a nice cloth and kept in the exact state he wanted it: just worn down enough to be soft when he rubbed it between his fingers. The horribly uncomfortable thing that was currently on his body made him feel like there were insects crawling out of his bones and biting his skin from the inside. When he rubbed his thumb over it, it didn't give him any comfort.
He took a look at the pyramids, trying to conjure up the heat of the egyptian sun. He’d seen them built, some thousand years ago. He’d stood in the shade of a pavillon, talking to a Crowley wrapped in dark tunics and golden hoops, their beautiful golden eyes framed with khol. They’d been eating grapes — when they talked, Aziraphale had smelled the sweetness of the fruits in their breath. It would be another hundred years before he got tempted into eating anything himself.
They’d liked to reminisce about it the millennia afterward. Crowley had always liked to bask in any available spot of warmth, and he loved to recount how easy it had been to fall asleep curled on a rock in the desert. Aziraphale had listened to his ramblings and watched his arms flail towards the skies and the sun that was hiding behind grey, english clouds, and one time, after the Apocalypse that wasn‘t, he’d gathered all his courage and told Crowley they could purchase a heating lamp, could they not? The humans had invented them now, after all.
So they had, and Crowley had taken a long nap under it as soon as they had assembled it. Aziraphale had sat beside him with a book, feeling, and steadfastly ignoring the sharpness in his chest that came from being so close to the demon, yet unable to be as close as he wished. And then Crowley had opened one sleepy eye, the yellow spreading into his sclera from the relaxation, slitted pupils wide and almond-shaped — and he’d smiled at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale had to get up and make himself tea. He wasn‘t sure what would have happened otherwise. And while he stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to finish heating, he had a quiet realisation.
It had started out as only a thought at the back of his head, millennia before: when Crowley had saved the kids from the Flood, Aziraphale had thought, Oh. You’re a risktaker, aren‘t you? And I‘m roping myself into your adventures. Heaven wont like it. The thought had developed over the centuries, always hiding in Aziraphale’s hind brain, until that night in 1941, when the penny had dropped. He was in love with Crowley, and more importantly, Crowley was in love with him back.
He’d shelved it, then. He’d done nothing about it. Nothing was to be done. He would just have to bear it. But in this moment, in the kitchen, it was knowledge, as pure and plain as the one Eve had gained when she’d bitten into the apple: One of these days, he knew, he was going to look at Crowley while the demon was laughing at something silly he had said on accident, or smiling at him sleepily from the couch, like now. And he was going to know that all the things that made up Crowley, all that beauty, all that painfully open heart, all that kindness that the demon was as adamant about hiding as he was horrible at it, was barred to him forever. And he was going to feel something snap in his chest, and find himself discorporated in Heaven‘s halls.
Back then, his stomach had curled with the thought of returning to Heaven, and he’d quickly sipped some of his tea to calm it. Surely, he’d thought, a discorporation was the only way he would ever step foot there again.
Looking down from Heaven’s halls now, Aziraphale shivered. He was still waiting for the final blow. He felt almost over-stretched. He wondered how much worse a snap could hurt, and if it was going to discorporate him, or just kill him entirely.
He closed his eyes to stop looking at the pyramids and walked out of the Observation Hall almost too afraid to open them.
Notes:
How did you like my portrayal of Heaven and Aziraphale's reasons to go back?
Comments and kudos make my day!
Chapter Text
He felt frantic, the next few days. The meetings grew more frequent, and with each one, the Archangels grew more suspicious. Where in the beginning, they had been the ones to adamantly reject candidates, now it was Aziraphale. And they were beginning to worry. There weren’t many candidates left.
Aziraphale tried to calm them. Perhaps they didn’t need to find the right one, he suggested cautiously. Maybe they could look for another way.
It only brought him glares from Michael and increasingly suspicious looks from the others.
His suggestion box was catching on, though. Aziraphale checked it every day, and yesterday, he’d found a note, lying timidly at the bottom of the box, like it was trying to hide from view. He’d never been this excited over a bright white slip of paper in his entire, long life.
The note asked, very shyly, for more time at the Holy Water cooler for the third-order angels. It wasn’t signed. Aziraphale immediately set about drafting a document.
„We have to show them that we mean it", he tried to explain to Uriel during the next meeting. „This is the first suggestion I’ve found. If the new rule it’s suggesting doesn’t get passed, they might stop entirely!"
Uriel looked like they rather wanted that to happen. Aziraphale knew they did. But what bad could it do? The note hadn’t asked for much. It was just ten more minutes.
The rule wasn’t passed. Aziraphale viciously voted out three more candidates. There were nine of them left now.
He went back to his cubicle to work on the draft and didn’t find another note in the suggestion box.
And while he sat in his office for days on end, the hours began to blend together. They’d always done that, up here, but now it felt like they were going in circles. Dizzying, blinding. He could sit as still as possible, with not even a heartbeat to move, and still feel like he was spinning away into the white light that was grating on his mind, his consciousness, until nothing of him was left.
He held a firm grasp on his documents. He had to keep his focus. It was likely this was just the excitement and the exhaustion settling in with each other. Nothing to lose his mind about, though it certainly felt like he was.
Another meeting spun by. Uriel confronted him when he tried to explain his dislike for the eigth-last candidate: that he was really a demon, like they had all seen at his supposed execution, and only here to sabotage them from the inside out. Aziraphale wished he was. Currently, it felt like he was here to wash himself away in the steady torture of the lights.
He longed for some crêpes.
He didn’t know if he could convince them of his innocence. Either way, the meeting ended with seven candidates left, most of them new entries. Aziraphale took their documents with them to his office, to try and find some wrongdoings, some crack in their armour he could use to reject them. The letters spun on the paper, then off it, then all around him. He rubbed his temples.
He wished, these days more than ever before, that he had Crowley’s optimism.
In all the centuries on Earth, it had always been Crowley who’d somehow found it in himself to go on, and when he did, he could drag Aziraphale with him for years until things got better. While the fourteenth century passed over Europe with them stationed there, and Aziraphale felt like he was sinking deeper in mud and blood and sickness with every step, suffocating — Crowley had opened his mouth, and complained and complained and complained, and occasionally made a pun. And somehow, that had made the next century happen a little quicker. Somehow, behind Crowley’s incessant scowl and horrible wordplays, there had been a spark of hope that was enough for the both of them.
Aziraphale wanted it so badly. Some ever-driving force behind his every move, something to keep him going, to let him believe that things would turn out alright. Instead, he had gotten the bad habit of dithering before his decisions and chasing his worries with a fly swat to keep them quiet.
Did Crowley know? Was he aware how much Aziraphale needed him right now?
Aziraphale buried his face in his hands, desperate for an escape from the bright lights, and shuddered.
Why had Crowley not stayed by his side with him? What rules had the demon been playing by when he'd refused Aziraphale's offer to be safe, to be together while they stopped this all from happening? What had Aziraphale done wrong — said wrong — to be left alone in the place he'd hoped he would never have to go back to?
Even one kind face, scowling or not, would have made Heaven feel less like a prison. Just a presence, someone he was sure he could trust, somebody to fight off that spidery, long-limbed feeling that was crawling into him with every passing day. The human word for it would probably be loneliness. He could admit that he was lonely, to himself, if to nobody else around.
He couldn't admit that sometimes it squeezed his chest so tightly that he felt like he was suffocating, despite the fact that air was so hard to come by, up here. He couldn't admit the dagger-sharp pain that came with thinking about good conversation, in a dimly lit place, with someone who reclined on a sofa like it was made to be sprawled on when really it wasn’t, passing alcohol between them. He couldn't admit the way his stomach was turning itself inside out with emptiness sometimes, even though it wasn't only food he was craving.
Good Lord. He took his hands away, blinked. Wrapped his arms around his middle instead. Their weight, constricting him, felt a bit like he was holding his parts in their places. This thinking wasn’t getting him anywhere, was it? He should take out the fly swat. He had a plan — at least a partial one — and losing himself in his longing wouldn’t do him any good.
But the damage was done. It took him the better part of an hour to get back to his work.
A year after the Apocalypse hadn’t happened, he and Crowley had gone on a walk in St. James’ Park to feed the ducks. They’d stood at the iron fence the way they’d done for centuries, only different, and afterward, they’d sat on the bench the way they’d sat there for centuries, only different.
It would probably do to explain how they had done it for centuries, and why it was different. For most of the park’s history, they’d stood at the fence to feed the ducks with their face’s turned toward the pond, the way the secret agents did. If anybody walked by, they could assume they were only standing next to each other by circumstance. They only turned around when they forgot themselves — when one of them asked the other for the means to be killed, for example.
When they sat on the bench, it was on opposite ends. It gave Crowley an excellent opportunity to sprawl however he wanted, and Aziraphale an excellent opportunity to try not to hope the demon would accidentally go too far and brush his leg or his arm or his knee. But Crowley was just as careful as he, even when trying to look careless.
Habits were hard to break when they were built over the course of more than six millennia. The years had turned them into cowards, Aziraphale supposed. Too much thinking about what might go wrong always ended in hesitation.
There was a fact: Crowley loved him. And there were the thousands of doubts: If it was in the way Aziraphale wanted him to, if Crowley wanted the same things out of it, if it would be too much for the demon to accommodate to Aziraphale’s many needs when he told him just how terribly deep this went, just how hard it would shatter him if it didn’t work out.
„They’re such clever little animals", Crowley was saying, while they were feeding the ducks. „Look at them scampering over the peas. It’s like they know they’re better for them than the bread."
His voice was fond, but Aziraphale knew better than to point it out. He had been looking at Crowley the whole conversation, waiting for the demon to look back at him but Crowley never did. Those caps on the sides of his sunglasses did narrow his periphery, Aziraphale supposed. He didn’t know whether to be glad about it.
„They fought over the bread just the same", he said, glancing down at the ducks. Two were squabbling over a few swimming peas with an intensity as if they were fighting for their lives.
„Well, if you gave them bread now they wouldn’t", Crowley argued. Aziraphale smiled at him as he tossed another few peas into the water, to a different spot. The ducks immediately almost drowned in the fight for who would be first at the new location. Aziraphale smiled at the demon, who claimed to know the inner lives and food preferences of a few ducks in a pond, and wished that Crowley could look back.
Later, when the peas were gone and they were sitting on the bench together, Crowley had stretched his legs out in front of him and looked almost liquid on the wooden planks. If they were human, Aziraphale thought, he would scoot closer to Crowley and lay an arm around him and Crowley would rest his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Perhaps he’d place a hand on Aziraphale’s knee, for any oncoming other humans to get the message. His skin tingled at the thought alone. The last time he and Crowley had touched had been their handshake a year ago.
There were at least twenty centimeters between them, and Aziraphale hated those twenty centimeters in a way he hadn’t hated anything since Gabriel’s pompous „I know what’s best for everyone" voice.
„We should go for dinner", he mused, to dispel his thoughts. „We haven’t been at the Ritz in a while, have we?"
„Hmmm", made Crowley. His head fell back onto the bench’s backrest and rolled around until he was facing Aziraphale. „Don’t really feel like going out. Next week, maybe? We can order takeout to your bookshop tonight, from that Sushi place you like", he added quickly. „‘S on me."
Aziraphale smiled, though the thought of sitting alone with Crowley under the warm, yellow lights of his shop that made the demon’s eyes shine like ambers didn’t do much to calm him. „That sounds wonderful", he said, because it did, even if his damned heart was trying to make things difficult again.
They went back to his bookshop, talking about whether all the bread they’d fed the ducks when they hadn’t known better had ever actually been bad for them or if any effects would’ve been miraculously averted because they assumed it to be nourishing. Crowley wickedly proposed the theory that those few bites could even be the reason ducks had ever sought out bread from humans. Aziraphale fought him about it over the sushi and then they talked over a few glasses of wine that turned into a few more and Crowley hung off the couch like a snakey blanket and when he brought another bottle, he stood right next to Aziraphale's chair. He was so close that Aziraphale would’ve only needed to move a centimeter to rest his head against the demon’s thigh while Crowley filled up his glass. He nearly did, and then he didn’t.
It was three in the morning when Crowley left. Aziraphale retired with a book, happy to know that the demon would be back the next afternoon at the latest.
He had gotten very good, over the centuries, at ignoring the scratching in his chest that longed to keep Crowley there for the night, that shouted at him to take the demon’s hand before he was out of the door and pull him back inside and tell him to make himself at home, there was a bed upstairs that had never been just for Aziraphale…
These days it made itself known in a far more insidious way. It said, quietly, while Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair and reading: Don’t you think there could be so much more? Don’t you want there to be? Isn‘t this what you have been waiting for?
And Aziraphale would admit, at around five, when the sun was already creeping back over the street, that he‘d never felt more helpless about the tightness in his chest than now that he could do something about it.
Of course there had been moments when he hoped. One New Years, they’d spent the night in Crowley’s flat, and they’d been on the balcony to appreciate the fireworks when it had started to rain, so Aziraphale had looked up and, at a loss of wings, had miracled the two of them a bubble of dry air. It had made Crowley smile and the demon had shaken the water out of his hair and taken off his sunglasses and huddled closer, so that his arm was brushing Aziraphale’s.
For as long as the rain lasted and a bit longer, Aziraphale had stopped breathing. He felt like all his molecules had concentrated in the place that Crowley’s arm was warm against his. Even through the layers of thick winter clothing the demon felt like he was burning up, and Aziraphale was the one being ignited. Crowley was smiling and though he was careful not to lean into the touch, he didn’t pull away. Not even when the rain stopped falling.
He kept such a tight grip on himself to not reach out and pull Crowley into himself that when the demon finally stepped away to go inside — it felt like years had passed — and Aziraphale could breathe again, he spent a few seconds alone on the balcony, quietly gasping. Wondering, if perhaps Crowley would want to —
But of course he would want to. Crowley had always been so accommodating, eager to save Aziraphale and buy him dinner afterward, to see him pleased. Aziraphale couldn’t take it if their easy dynamics, their dinners and talks without confessions or touches turned into something that had all the things he wanted but missed the gleam in Crowley’s eyes when he pushed his half-eaten dessert over to Aziraphale and put his chin onto his fist to watch him eat it.
Then Crowley had stuck his head out of the door and looked at him funny. He'd asked: „You still coming inside? I’ve got the champagne open", and Aziraphale had smiled at his confused face and said: „Yes, dear, just a second", to give himself a moment to prepare. Then he’d followed the demon. He’d stayed the night — neither of them slept — and in the morning, they‘d gone to get crêpes, and Crowley had watched him so intently that Aziraphale's hope, so easily smashed last night, had come back a much bigger thing. He’d stayed in his bookshop, away from Crowley, for a week after that, trying to cut it into tiny little pieces.
When they met again, they went for a performance of Hamlet. Crowley picked him up at four and they sat in the dark auditorium, watching a play they had seen hundreds of times before, hearing lines that they already knew by heart, performed by somebody new. Afterwards, they walked back to the bookshop, only stopping at a place that sold overpriced fries, because Aziraphale felt peckish.
„I liked the actor for Horatio", Crowley commented, while Aziraphale ate. „They made him stubborn, but not in an annoying way."
Aziraphale smiled through a fry. „Yes, he wasn’t bad, was he?"
„You just liked it that they made them a couple", Crowley teased. „I heard you gasp when they kissed."
„Well, I do… appreciate love, in all it’s forms", Aziraphale said. „I’ve been meaning to ask. Was it you who put in the subtext of that, or old Will himself?"
Crowley snorted. „Oh, I think we contributed equally", he said. „If it wasn’t in there in the beginning, I might’ve whispered into his ear, but you know how it is. The intention’s gotta be there from the start."
Aziraphale chuckled and let him steal a fry. His chest was already drawing tight again with unwanted hope.
No, he thought at it. If he lost this, lost Crowley doing him favours with a smile and laughing about them for hundreds of years… he would crumble under it. He already knew he couldn’t do away with the depth of his feelings — it would be like ripping out just the roots from a tree and letting the rest of it stand to decay and die. But he needed to do away with this incessant wanting. Frankly, it was getting ridiculous.
He should have known it would be impossible. He'd known he was ravenous ever since he'd taken the first bite of the ox, and he liked to think he knew himself well.
But Aziraphale was a liar, and like all liars, he lied first and foremost to himself.
About three years into their half-official retirement, Crowley got into an accident.
It was nothing big, wasn’t even comparable to what they’d done to Anathema and her bike, but it made Aziraphale’s useless heart stop. All the previous ages, being discorporated had been a possible annoyance, unpleasant all around but easy enough to remedy. These days, if either of them landed back in their respective offices without a body, Aziraphale didn’t know if they would see one another again.
Crowley, for his part, scraped himself off the pavement, flipped off the driver that was already disappearing in the distance and grumbled his way across the street without so much as a limp.
„What an arsehole", he muttered. „He could see me, I swear he could see me, it’s not like there was anything in the way —"
„Are you hurt?", Aziraphale asked, interrupting the steady, grumbling flow. „He didn’t hit you outright, did he?"
And without even thinking about it, he had already shoved Crowley’s hands, trying to wave him aside, out of the way, and taken the demon’s face in his hands. He turned Crowley’s head to each side. There was a small scrape from his temple to his forehead, but no bruising. Aziraphale healed it with a stroke of his finger.
Crowley shuddered and tried to wiggle out of his grasp. „I’m fine", he insisted. „Just a few bruises. I fell when I jumped back."
Aziraphale didn’t entirely believe him. He tried to assess Crowley’s state through his clothes. He wasn’t bleeding as far as he could see, but to spot dark blood on all the black... „Can you walk?"
„I just walked across the street to get to you", Crowley said. „Angel — Aziraphale, look at me. I’m okay."
Aziraphale looked up. The demon had taken off his sunglasses, yellow eyes expectant. Under his annoyance hid a thinly veiled smile, a lopsided, fond little thing.
„See?", Crowley said quietly. „Nothing happened to me."
Slowly, Aziraphale could feel his heartbeat again. It was tripping over itself. Crowley squeezed the hand that was still laying on his shoulder, and suddenly, Aziraphale noticed how close they were — he’d been so worried that he’d thrown all second guessing to the wind when he’d inspected Crowley for any wounds, and now there were mere centimeters between them.
Crowley’s lips were still curled into that tiny smile. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes from them. There were two brightly shining facts in his mind: that he wanted to kiss Crowley like his life depended on it, and that it would be a horrible mistake.
It took all his self-control to uncurl his finger’s from the demon’s coat. For a moment, he thought Crowley looked almost heartbroken at the loss of contact, but then Crowley ran an absent hand through his hair and stared at the street. „To that driver, though…", he carried on, louder. „He’s gonna have the absolute worst week of his life."
Aziraphale managed a small huff of laughter. Crowley turned and held out a hand. „Come, let’s get on with it. They’ll give our reservation away."
They wouldn’t, but Aziraphale said nothing. He took the hand Crowley had offered with a feeling not unlike reverence.
Crowley held on all the way, until they were seated at their table. Aziraphale tried to burn the feeling into his mind. He would’ve happily eaten his meal with only his left hand, but the restaurant wasn’t the Ritz, and they had to move their chairs themselves, so he mournfully let go of the demon’s hand.
The evening continued on cheerfully. The food was good enough that Aziraphale would’ve almost forgotten about the entire incident, if he hadn’t still felt like he was shaking. They went back to Crowley’s flat, which was nearer than the bookshop.
And the entire time, Crowley kept close. Their distance of twenty centimeters was gone — their shoulders brushed as they walked, he draped over the same couch that Aziraphale was using, as if he knew how much the angel needed him by his side. Aziraphale basked in it like a snake in a sunny spot.
It still wasn‘t enough, of course, but it could never be. Really, it was irresponsible of him to let his hunger for Crowley’s touch wake up and rear it’s head like this, but — well, it was rearing it’s head constantly, whether they were touching or not. If this was as much as Crowley could give him, Aziraphale would cherish it with his entire being for as long as it lasted.
He didn’t know why he felt this way. He’d seen it in humans, of course: a kind of craving that they possessed from their childhood on. He’d seen humans throughout all ages wilt like flowers if nobody held them. Aziraphale had always found this design flaw — if it was one — very curious.
But it was integral to their existence, and so he’d eventually accepted it as just another thing the Almighty had bestowed upon them. It was only that this didn’t explain why he was walking home with his entire body prickling and an aching chest after an evening of small touches that did nothing to sate the hunger that went right down to his bones.
Had he gotten so used to being tangible, over the centuries — so used to the few humans who’d held him without knowing what he was — that he had begun to need touch as much as they did? He knew he could get peckish sometimes and that Crowley liked to take naps when he felt exhausted. But in the end, they were in control of what their corporations felt. Crowley rarely even had a heartbeat, as far as Aziraphale could tell, and he knew for a fact that he himself sometimes stopped breathing when he felt his corporation struggle to keep up with everything outside of it.
He couldn’t control this. It scared, as Crowley would put it, the shit out of him.
But unlike Aziraphale had anticipated, Crowley didn’t put a stop to the touching. Even when Gabriel came to the bookshop, he let Aziraphale stay close — walked right beside him to gather the shopkeepers for the meeting, draped himself over Aziraphale’s armchair while he was sitting in it, let Aziraphale put his hand on his chest in the pub. It felt exhilirating, even though Gabriel obviously wasn’t in any position to even think about it.
They danced at the ball. Aziraphale’s mind was running away from him. He imagined sending the shopkeepers away, nevermind Nina and Maggie, and having the phonograph play something for only the two of them. He could send Jim to his room and pull Crowley into a waltz: the close kind that involved resting your head on the other person’s chest and having your arms around them.
He could kiss Crowley.
Then the window broke, and with it, though Aziraphale didn’t know it yet, the bubble of bliss that had lasted them for all of four years. Hell arrived, Heaven arrived, the Metatron arrived, bringing coffee and an offer.
Crowley did kiss him, in the end, though wasn’t the kind of kiss Aziraphale had wanted. It was angry and violent and scorching, it had of all of the demon's front desperately pressed against his, hands almost unable to find Crowley's back to cling on. It was an inferno: benediction and ravenous, bone-gnawing hunger hitting Aziraphale at the same time.
And then Crowley left him and made him walk back into Heaven alone.
His time was up.
The last meeting had happened peacefully. It had almost felt as if they had let him reject the rest of the candidates, which didn’t bode well for the future. When they felt safe, it never meant anything good for him.
Alright, he had to admit. He had been stalling. He hadn’t planned any further than this — had hoped rejecting new bodies for the messiah would give him the time he needed to think of something more tangible.
Now, it was too late.
He got up to walk circles around his desk. If Heaven were a tangible place and its glossy, white floor not just a metaphor for actual ground, there would be footprints in the floorboards by now, like a path in the cage of a wild animal where all the straw had been pushed aside. His office had seen him walk the same circle for over a year now.
A pile of horrible ideas were thought of and immediately discarded. Another pile were shoved down before they could even enter his head.
Footsteps outside of his office caught his attention. Through the walls, he could see Rigiel coming towards him, her expression grave.
„Supreme Archangel?"
He straightened himself. „Rigiel", he said, getting up from his desk. „What is it?"
Her expression did something complicated and painful. „The new Christ", she said. „I’m supposed to inform you that he‘s waking up."
Notes:
Listen I have a headcanon — or tbh i dont know if its a headcanon or just literally canon, i guess it depends on interpretation — that the two of them absolutely knew they loved each other (like. You don’t tell someone „you go to fast for me, Crowley“ if you don’t know they love you and you love them too but arent ready). And i read a lot of fanfics were its like „oh the angst and the pining stem from the fact that they dont know the other loves them too“ and I like reading those but it always feels a little out of character to me. Originally, writing this fanfic I thought „well ive read so many of those, surely i could write something similar for a fic thats supposed to be angsty“ but it just. Man it didn’t make sense. Especially not when I‘m sorta sensitive about classifying types of love; the „oh im in love with them but they see me as JUST A FRIEND“ sort of angst just rubs me the wrong way and i cant make myself write something similar. Even if I made sure not to word it that way it would still feel ungenuine. So this is like the really long authors note about that and why the pining in this fanfic might be a little different than what people are used to: it stems a lot more from Aziraphale’s fears (whether their dynamic would change if they got into a relationship, whether he might want too much and would overwhelm Crowley — that ones very connected to his touch starvation, but obviously not limited to that — etc.) than from any illusions about the other not loving them or „only“ loving them as a friend.
Comments and kudos make my day!
Chapter 3: III
Notes:
You guys have no idea what a whiplash it is to go from editing the next chapter of my other fic "Here you come again" and trying to make the jokes in it work the way I want them to, to editing this angsty mess. Why did I have to post both stories at once? Not even I know that. My brain works in mysterious ways.
Anyways, have fun watching aziraphale have a breakdown :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
„Right", Aziraphale said, shile he followed Rigiel through Heaven. He was fiddling with his ring. The Metatron had told him it didn’t give off the appearance of a leader when he did so, but none of the Archangels were near, and he needed the comfort of the familiar shape, the smooth metal, around his finger. „Um. Well. Thing is, we hadn’t actually — elected a candidate yet? So I’m a bit…"
Rigiel gave him a desperate look. She didn’t know either. „Ah", Aziraphale said quietly.
So that’s why they had been so calm at the meeting.
„Who… sent you to get me?", he dared to ask.
„Saraqael", Rigiel answered. „We’re almost there."
Aziraphale looked ahead, and even he could see the hall in front of them now. It was strangely corporeal for Heaven’s tastes — arches made from something like stone, a door made of a pretty convincing wood-like substance. A miracle from somebody who’d never been in a forest but had almost certainly studied a single branch under a microscope.
Under the heavy scrutiny of Rigiel, Aziraphale pushed it open and stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was that the room, however Heaven had done it, contained air — actual, breathable air, a little stale but filled to the brim with oxygen. Aziraphale instinctively hauled it into his lungs and almost wept at the sensation. He felt like a parched man, taking a drink for the first time in days.
Angels didn’t need to breathe, but he hadn’t even noticed how tight his chest had become. How had it been over a year since he’d last caught his breath?
But the strangest thing about the room was perhaps the bed.
In the middle of the room, Michael, Uriel, Saraqael and the Metatron were standing next to something that looked similar to the door, in terms of what a bed really was. Somebody seemed to have chipped off a piece of a bedframe and then tried to clone the bed from it, creating something that wasn't much more than a white block with something on it that had the shape but not necessarily the feel of pillows. A blanket had been foregone. Aziraphale ventured a guess that the entire thing wasn’t particularly soft.
There was nothing else in the room. Not even a desk, or something for entertainment. Just the garish lights for comfort.
A few times, over the centuries, Heaven had decided that Aziraphale had done his job bad enough — or not at all — to deserve a while in their cells. It wasn’t like Hell, obviously. Heaven was too good to send someone in to torture you, though Aziraphale suspected Sandalphon might have had his fun with that. But no, you did the torturing bits all to yourself, in a room that was bright and angry and seemed to have no walls or ceiling, yet was so small that his wings had always knocked on something and he’d had to sit in a hunched position for whatever time he had to spend inside.
This room, he suspected, wouldn’t be much different to a human, who wasn’t accustomed to the unending white of Heaven's missing interior design.
There was somebody laying on the bed. Rigiel was already walking on. Aziraphale allowed himself one moment to stay where he was and breathe in the cold, stale air, one moment of relief, then he followed her, only to stop again when he got closer. He knew the boy laying on that bed.
„What are you waiting for, Supreme Archangel?", asked the Metatron. „Don't you want to see him wake?"
Aziraphale swallowed and stepped forward, past Michael and Saraqael, to the new Christ's bedside. He laid his hand on the boy's forehead. It was warm - that specific form of warmth that was nearly as relieving as getting to breathe again.
„Wake", he said.
Warlock opened his eyes and Aziraphale tore his hand away, warmth bleeding away into the cool air.
He stared at Aziraphale for a long second, then frowned, and asked: „Brother Francis? Where are your teeth?"
Michael sucked in a sharp breath. Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. But Warlock was already sitting up, groaning and rubbing a hand against his head, over his eyes, as if trying to erase something from his face. His other arm wrapped around his middle like a bad replication of somebody else's hug. „I remember", he whispered. „Oh, God - I remember."
There was pain on his face now, far away from the childish questions of somebody who'd just woken up. It was funny, Aziraphale thought, how human faces were so everchanging and yet their expressions remained the same. The way his upper lip curled and eyes tightened was the same now as it had been when he was five and Aziraphale had helped Miss Astoreth with treating the boy's bellyaches.
Why him? Aziraphale wanted to scream at someone he knew wouldn't answer. He was supposed to be safe! He was supposed to have nothing to do with the entire business!
„It's alright", he said, and Warlock's eyes snapped back to him.
„Where am I?", he demanded. „Who brought me here?"
Aziraphale turned to the Metatron. „I would like to know that as well", he said coolly. How had they gotten the proceedings of this past him? „I thought there would be a process to eliminate the perfect candidate."
„There was", Michael mumbled. „You sabotaged it."
„You have been brought to where you need to be", said the Metatron to Warlock. „To Heaven."
Warlock's eyes widened. „I'm dead?"
„No", said Aziraphale. „You aren't dead. You're just resuming a new role."
He could practically see the layers of reality shifting behind Warlock's eyes - layers of one life and another, laying on each other and weighing each other down so neither was clear to him.
„You are the Second Coming of Christ", announced the Metatron. „You will bring about the Last Judgement when the world ends.“
„And who are you?", asked Warlock. Aziraphale hid a smile at the smidge of Crowley's snark shining through, despite being entirely in the wrong place here. „God, then?"
„I am the Metatron. The Voice of Her."
„No you aren't", said Warlock. His voice was trembling a little. He got up from the bed.
The Metatron, who'd seemed disgruntled at having to explain yet again what his position actually was, now looked rather perplexed at the notion of a human simply not having it. „Child, who else do you think I am?"
„You're not the voice of God, that's for sure", said Warlock, though Aziraphale could see the panic creep in that it might not be for sure — the memories tidying and messing themselves up again behind his forehead at lightning speed. „You're some sort of — cult, that's what you all are. You drugged me, or something. That's why I think that I'm remembering all those things. I'm calling my dad."
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping away at it, then tapping again when it didn't do what he wanted it to.
„That won't work", said Aziraphale. „There's no - what do you humans call it... Wi-fi up here."
„Yeah, I can see that", bit out Warlock, whose phone still wasn't listening to him. His breathing had quickened.
„Metatron", said Aziraphale quickly. „I think it would be best if I were to talk to him on my own. I am out of all of us the one most acquainted with humans, after all."
The Metatron didn't seem to agree. Warlock raised his chin. „You're all crazy", he said, voice shaking. „I'm getting out of here."
When he started walking towards the door, the Metatron gave in. „You may", he said to Aziraphale. „Make sure he does not asphyxiate himself outside of here."
„I will."
A flash of bright light and the Archangels disappeared, along with the Metatron. The door slammed shut. Warlock gasped, as if the airlessness of Heaven had reached him somehow, and whirled around to Aziraphale, backing away. „Who are you?", he repeated.
„I'm Aziraphale", said Aziraphale and nearly added „Principality of the Eastern Gate" to it, as though that had any weight now. „But you already know that."
Warlock shook his head. „I'm on drugs", he said. „Or something. This... what I'm thinking, it's not real. What did you do to me?"
Aziraphale's heart shook at the fear on the boy's face. He had to sit on the mimickry of a bed and feel for the pillow next to him — it didn't feel like fabric, under his hands and he longed for the softness of his raggedy old waistcoat. He rubbed it between his fingers. „It's real", he said quietly. „I can't force you to believe it, my dear, but it's definitely real."
Warlock breathed out shakily. „You're my gardener", he said. „Brother Francis."
„Indeed", said Aziraphale. He smiled. „Though he specifically was a bit of an act, I'm afraid."
„And you're Aziraphale", said Warlock. „I met you when I was getting water for mum. I was eight. I breathed life into a clay dove."
„You did", said Aziraphale.
Warlock shuddered. His knees gave in and Aziraphale jumped to his feet to catch him, but Warlock had already steadied himself and sunk to the floor in a more controlled fashion. He put his head in his hands.
„I'm sorry", whispered Aziraphale, kneeling down next to him. „I hadn't known they were going to do that. If I had, I would've made sure it hadn't been you."
Warlock wiped his hands over his face and sniffed. „Why are you even here?", he asked. „Shouldn't you be down on Earth? Doing your job?"
„This is my job, now", said Aziraphale and he couldn't keep all of the bitterness out of his voice. „I'm Supreme Archangel."
Warlock's head snapped up. „What?"
„It's a rather long story", said Aziraphale. „And as much as I would like to explain, we don't have time. You're supposed to end the world, and if you're here already, then all my precautions have done nothing. The Apocalypse is days away, at most."
Warlock studied his face. „You're serious", he said. „About the Second Coming."
„Of course", said Aziraphale. He got up.
Warlock stayed where he was. He was playing with a crease of his jeans.
„Come", said Aziraphale. It came out like a plea. He supposed it was. Hadn't him and Crowley spent six years raising the boy for this, even though they'd thought him the opposite of what he was? He wasn't sure he could bear it if Warlock ended up being another failure of their work together. „You - you do want to help me, do you? You don't want to end the world."
Warlock stared at the fingers, that were rubbing over the fabric of his jeans. „I… First, I want to know something", he decided.
„Ask it", said Aziraphale.
„You and Crowley - it was her, wasn't it? It was Crowley. Nanny."
Aziraphale fought against what was building in his chest, his throat. He'd almost forgotten that Warlock - or Jesus, back then - had been the first to know Crowley only by her new name. A new, self-chosen identity. „Yes", he said.
„Did you only do it because...?"
He looked so small against the gigantic room. Like the five-year old Aziraphale had once taught the names of animals to.
„No", he said, but that was a lie, wasn't it? He was getting so used to them. „At the start, we did", he corrected himself. „We didn't - well, we thought you were somebody else, your own opposite, really. But we did come to care about you a lot, later."
Warlock contemplated that. „Okay", he said, getting up and stuffing his phone back into his pocket. „I'll help you. What do we need to do?"
Aziraphale sat down heavily on the bed. He took a breath of air - air! He'd almost forgotten there was air around again. His fingers felt like they were trembling but when he looked down at them, they weren't and his hands were empty.
Warlock sat down next to him. „Come on, what is your plan?", he asked, though Aziraphale barely heard it. He was concentrated on the way the bed beneath them gave a little where Warlock sat on it - like he existed, like there was heaviness to his body even though they were in Heaven and his own corporation was entirely immaterial. It made sense; he was human. Carrying the spirit and the memories of the Son of God but still entirely, inexplicably human.
Crowley would've liked it.
„Is it to overthrow the old guy? I bet that's it. Voice of God, my ass."
„The Metatron", said Aziraphale hollowly. He did not reprimand Warlock for his tone like he would've done as Francis - he couldn't find the energy for it. He looked up from his hands. Warlock made a slightly worried face and in a small moment of self-conciousness, Aziraphale straightened a bit. „I don't have a plan anymore", he admitted. „If they're far enough along to bring you here then I'm afraid there are too many things I do not know of."
„How long have you been here?", asked Warlock.
Aziraphale hesitated. It had been a while since he’d checked in on Earth, and he had to admit that he’d lost track of what month it was. The thought made him feel strange. This was what Eternity must feel like - reaching the one-year mark, five-year mark, six-thousand-year mark, of too-white lights that made your teeth ache - and not even noticing because the greedy silence had swallowed the seconds ticking by.
„What… month is it?“
Warlock gave him a surprised look. „It’s August. The first, last I checked, but I’ve no idea how long they’ve had me up here."
Aziraphale blinked. „Two years, then."
Two years.
„I suppose they want to keep you here for a while", Aziraphale mused. „Then bring you back just in time..."
„But why?", Warlock asked. There was some panic to his voice now, to the way he looked around the room like he was imagining two years in this place for himself. „Why me?"
Aziraphale shook his head. „You weren’t on the list", he got out. „I suppose they have gotten tired of my trying to prevent your return."
He hated not knowing things. He very unangelically despised everything about it - the insecurity, the jittery fear of being thrown around by those who knew more, the inability to stop the bad things he didn't know would happen. And in Heaven, there was an overabundance of things he had no clue about, even without the capital letter. He'd been getting by the past years with reading through files, putting the reading skills he'd harnessed during his time on Earth to good use, but now? When it wasn't just his suspicion and good sense that told him the Metatron was hiding things from him — when instead, the living proof of it was dangling his legs from an uncomfortably high and uncomfortably hard bed right next to him?
Crowley would — no, he wasn't thinking about him right now.
They had wanted to start the Second Coming immediately last year when he'd come here but he had managed to convince them it was too soon; that there were too many humans now that Heaven wasn't at all prepared for, that the platoons weren't ready yet, that the cleaning roster needed to be decided upon before the humans arrived. He'd manage to stave off the end with banalities, trying to give himself time to think, while the lights blared at him and the silence ripped his eardrums right out of his skull. And he hadn't gotten anywhere and now there were too many things to do all at once and not enough hands to do them because the only one willing to help was a seventeen-year-old boy. Aziraphale could see his own failure leering at the end of a few-day-long road, to fall apart over his head and take the cruel, kind, screaming, glorious whole of humanity down with it.
There was a knife-sharp pain turning in his chest. He had become awfully good friends with it, the last one and a half year.
„Are you okay?", asked Warlock.
Aziraphale got off the bed. It was excrutiating, hearing somebody talk so close to him. „I'm perfectly alright", he said. „Tickety boo."
Warlock blinked. „Yeah", he said slowly. „Okay."
„We need a plan", said Aziraphale, trying to concentrate.
„Can't we ask Nanny?", asked Warlock. „You're friends, right? Maybe she knows something."
There was air in this room, Aziraphale knew, because Warlock was sitting on the bed, alive and breathing. He supposed it was a good thing that he didn't need to, because no amount of oxygen around him could've made it even near his brain, had he been human. His airways were sewn shut.
„No", said Aziraphale curtly.
That made alarm show up on Warlock's face. Perhaps there had been something wrong with the way he had said it, Aziraphale thought. „Why?", asked the boy sharply. „Is she alright?"
Aziraphale thought of Crowley's face when he had let go of him. The sharp, jagged edges of pain in his jaw, the tightness of his shoulders as he'd walked out of the door without looking back. How his sunglasses had hidden none of his feelings when Aziraphale stepped into the elevator. He imagined Crowley driving away, not to his flat, which he didn't possess anymore, but to the bar that Aziraphale had found him in five years ago, after he'd been discorporated.
A fist tight around the neck of a half-empty bottle, one of far too many. Sunglasses sliding down his nose, tear-tracks visible beneath them.
I lost my best friend.
„No", repeated Aziraphale with a gasp. His hand flew to his mouth - his other one hurt from fingernails pressing into the skin, muscles cramping with how tight he was balling it up into a fist at his side.
„Hey", said Warlock, sounding a little helpless. „What - what happened?"
Aziraphale tried to open his mouth but all that he got out was a sob. He grit his teeth.
„Oh, God", mumbled Warlock. „She isn't - she isn't dead or something, right?"
Aziraphale shook his head vigorously and then realized he actually had no idea. A number of things could've happened to Crowley since he went and he wouldn't been any wiser about it. He’d checked in on Earth. He’d never been brave enough to see what Crowley was up to.
God. What if Hell —
The thought wrenched another sob out of him and suddenly he was sinking to his knees, strength leaving his legs. Warlock was next to him in a second. „It's okay, you don't need to explain", he said. „It's okay. It's - umm. Fuck. It's okay."
The door opened.
„Supreme Archangel?", asked Uriel’s stern voice. Aziraphale wanted to slam the door in their face and make them disappear to Antarctica, the way he used to do with any strange man who came into his bookshop with a black suit and an unusual interest in setting things on fire.
He breathed through his nose, forced himself to get up and turned around with the best smile he could muster.
„I'm sorry", he said, straightening his suit. He made sure that there were no tears to see in his eyes. „I was simply so… overjoyed to see him again."
„Yeah", said Warlock, „we were - umm, catching up?"
Uriel looked at Aziraphale. There was the typical air of judgement surrounding them but not enough suspicion to alert Aziraphale that they had seen through their lies. He decided he could take a risk.
„Uriel", he said, forcing another smile. He wasn’t sure how it looked, but then again, it wasn’t like Heaven had a lot of experience with real smiles. „If you’d be so kind to bring me to the Metatron’s office, I would be very grateful. I believe I have a few things to discuss with him."
Uriel looked annoyed, but they brought him to where he needed to be. Aziraphale threw Warlock an apologetic glance when he left the room. It was supposed to mean I’ll be back soon, though he wasn’t sure if Warlock understood. He really hoped the boy would be alright.
The door closed and Aziraphale could feel the change in temperature as the air disappeared, was sucked out from around them. His knees nearly buckled again. But Uriel was striding ahead, and he had no time to lose.
The Metatron wasn’t doing any work when they arrived. It almost felt like he had been expecting Aziraphale. He waved Uriel away as soon as they’d exchanged a few words. Aziraphale barely heard them.
„So, Aziraphale"m the Metatron said, when Uriel had disappeared from their view. "Come. Walk with me."
Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded. The open, judgemental planes of Heaven stretched out in front of them.
„You knew him when he was human the first time, then?"
„I did", answered Aziraphale, hoping the Metatron wouldn't ask for any details. If he did, he wasn't sure if there was a safe way to explain he'd met Jesus when the boy been barely twenty, less of the Messiah and more of a neat party trick, and very much despairing behind a bar how he was going to actually turn water into wine. Aziraphale had given him a hand, but he doubted the Metatron would understand it as an act of angelic kindness.
„How are your plans to continue, if I may ask?", he tried. "I haven't been told about these new developments and I'd quite like to know where we are going."
The Metatron ignored the question. „And you were friends?", he wanted to know.
His face was a mask. The mask of an old man, kind and jovial and mentoring, to cover up the cunning angel beneath. Aziraphale knew what it was, by now, but that didn't mean he was able to see through it. Not in the state he was in — not with his legs almost giving out from under him, his heart wearily beating against the hurt in his chest.
„Uriel told he you had quite a reaction to seeing him again", the Metatron mentioned.
„We weren't close", Aziraphale answered, deciding to play it safe. „I only reacted to his divinity: there wasn't much of it's kind on Earth, you understand. It was... overwhelming to feel it again after so much time."
He barely knew what he was saying. The words felt thick on his tongue. He was barely able to get them to leave his mouth.
He really had become adept at lying, he thought, when the Metatron only nodded and moved on.
„What do you think of him?"
Aziraphale's head snapped around and the Metatron raised his eyebrows. „Now, don't look so surprised. What do you think of our choice?"
He was smiling, expectantly, like a teacher at his student and Aziraphale knew he wanted to hear something specific that he was supposed to guess, but his head was roaring, his mouth dry and grainy and he didn't know. Maybe at a different time he would've been able to stumble together something satisfactory, maybe at a different time he would've at least been able to think of whether his answer should be positive or negative, but now everything he could recognize was the exhaustion that had been digging it's teeth deep into his bones for two years, the loneliness that Warlock's presence had proven to him more than it had soothed it. His brain was drained of words, sucked dry of everything, white, white, white noise against the unrelenting sting of the lights.
„You don't have an opinion yet?"
Aziraphale shook his head. They stopped walking.
If he could just get his mouth to obey him —
„You did talk to him, though", said the Metatron. His smile had lost grasp of his eyes. „You calmed him. When I left, he was in distress but when Uriel came back, they said he looked perfectly alright."
Aziraphale felt like a piece of paper that had been crumpled up and spread out too many times. There were cracks and small tears in him and at the slightest force they would fray and he would be pulled apart, into tiny pieces with soft edges. He couldn't be written on. The ink sunk into the creases. He didn't know how to answer.
„You've always had an interesting love for the humans, Aziraphale. A debilitating one, if I may say so."
Aziraphale silently stared at him. When had they gone from backhanded criticism to outright insults? Where was the Metatron going with this?
„You should go back to your desk", said the Metatron coolly. „Calm yourself. We will need your assistance for the next steps of our plan."
He turned around, soft shoes sounding harsh on the polished floor as he walked away. Aziraphale stood frozen, unable to move a muscle until more steps, these ones nearing him, shook him out of the torpor he'd fallen into. Methodically, he turned around and walked back to his desk.
He sat down in front of it.
Crowley would know what to do, his mind supplied unhelpfully. He wanted to scream.
Crowley would've known what to say to the Metatron, wouldn't just have stood there staring and unable to move. Crowley, clever, optimistic, quick-on-his-feet Crowley — Aziraphale curled his arms aroud himself as if he could physically hold himself back from falling apart. It was such a strain on his mind to do it mentally.
Oh, he had forgiven Crowley for everything. Of course he had - it was impossible not to. The demon would never leave him out of cruelty, no matter how much it felt like he had. Not when Aziraphale had begged him to come with him. But he feared he might have forgiven him too soon because he could feel his desperation beginning to boil him from the inside.
He needed Crowley and he had told him so, and Crowley had gotten angry and left.
And now Aziraphale was alone on a desk in Heaven, crumpled up like an old piece of paper, arms wrapped around himself to try and keep himself together, and he had failed.
He couldn’t entirely believe he was walking back to the Metatron’s office after that horrendous one-sided conversation.
He’d needed a while to dredge himself up from the black pits of despair he had fallen into. And he still didn’t have a plan, or even something similar to one, but there was one thing he was certain of: Warlock would need his help. Talking to the Metatron and making sure the plan for the Second Coming included Warlock as little as possible was the only way the boy could somehow be relieved of some responsibility.
They could think of a plan later.
He passed the hall they used for meetings. Michael was standing at the window, looking pensive. She turned before Aziraphale could walk on without her noticing. „Aziraphale."
She still said his name like it was an insult. Six-thousand years of habit still had him flinching at it. He straightened, hoped she hadn’t seen. „What is it?"
„Are you looking for the Metatron?", she asked. Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. How did she know? More importantly, why did she care?
„I do believe I am."
He didn’t like what showed on her face. It was a mix between amused cruelty and carelessness. „I don’t think you’ll find him. He’s talking to the Soldiers."
Aziraphale grit his teeth. „I thought they were still working on their formations."
„Not about the Second Coming, Aziraphale."
He lifted an eyebrow. „What else would they be talking about? We are starting soon, are we not?"
She smiled, like she’d heard the resignation in his voice. „Yes. But there’s been trouble on Earth. He’s sending a few of them out to fix it. I believe your friend might’ve had something to do with it."
Aziraphale stared at her. The cogs in his brain were turning faster than he would’ve liked, spinning into scenarios that had no business making him feel like he was going to throw up onto Michael’s perfectly polished shoes.
Crowley. They were sending Soldiers, sending Heaven’s best, after Crowley. Soldiers, with their holy weapons and their flaming swords and their aspergillums full of Holy Water—
There’s been trouble on Earth.
What hare-brained scheme had Crowley come up with that Heaven had taken notice of him? That foolish demon — why couldn’t he have gone to Alpha Centauri alone? He had wanted to run away anyways. Why did he have to put himself in danger instead?
„I believe you have a job to do, Michael", he choked out. „I don’t recall allowing you a longer break time."
She sneered at him as she walked past, but he barely registered it.
Had the Soldiers been sent out yet? Had they already gone to Earth, had they found Crowley? If he was lucky, they were still searching. If he was luckier, the Metatron was still talking to them. But luck hadn’t been on his side much, the last two years.
Without much hesitation, he turned on his heel.
Warlock could wait. The boy was safe for now, though not forever. He’d be back — he hoped he would, at least.
Notes:
What did you think of Warlock's character and how I've introduced him? And, of course, of Aziraphale's state this chapter?
Comments and kudos make my day!
Chapter 4: IV
Notes:
This chapter was not supposed to be that long but it kept growing and growing. This is the version with multiple things and conversations cut out. I'm not sure Im happy with it, might make an epilogue if the mood strikes.
Have fun reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The lift was practically deserted. Which meant absolutely nothing: the Soldiers could just as easily already be on Earth as they could still be on the way. The call button blinked ominously up at him when he pressed it. For the first time, Aziraphale felt the frantic, senseless desperation he’d seen in so many humans hammering it in quick succession as if it would make the lift notice things were dire and that it should jolly well hurry up.
Obviously, the lift ignored it. In fact, the time it took to arrive felt like it took longer than usual — like the celestial, half-existing piece of metal was taunting him by taking longer than it needed.
„Supreme Archangel?"
He turned around and breathed in relief. He'd expected Michael to have followed him, but it was only Rigiel, taking the worst moment to appear. „Where are you going?"
The lift dinged open. Aziraphale didn’t get an answer out before he was stepping into it, but he thought, while the doors closed, that there was something like recognition in her eyes.
„I won’t —", she started, but he didn’t get to hear what she wouldn’t do.
It should probably trouble him more to be caught like this, but he couldn’t bring himself worry about it right now. Not when his mind was doing somersaults, trying to figure out what they might do to Crowley — might be doing to Crowley right this second. The lift raced downwards while Aziraphale's thoughts spiralled in the same direction. He didn’t dare blink — he was used to blinding lights by now, and the inside of his lids showed things worse than them. The pictures of the War had never really faded away. Only now, instead of the hundreds of other demons, it was Crowley, impaled on a spear of light, Crowley’s beautiful face melting under drops of Holy Water. Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. He kept his eyes open.
The lift jerked to a stop.
„Doors opening", said the faceless voice, and —
Sunlight flooded the space. Air, warm and breathable and smelling of home.
Aziraphale thought he must look drunk, stumbling out into Whickber Street on unsteady legs. He didn’t care. The world was bright and loud and colourful, and the sun was warm in a way he hadn’t felt in two years. For a moment, it felt perfect, a blanket of sounds and earthly comforts to wrap himself in and forget the bitter tastelessness of Heaven.
He knew from experience it wouldn’t last. If Heaven was stifling because it was Nothing, then Earth was worse when it got Too Much. But it didn’t matter. If Crowley was out there, attacked by Soldiers, he’d look at the brightest neon billboard to find him.
„Mr Fell?"
He jerked his head around. From the other side of a street, from a building so blue it made his eyes water just looking, Nina was coming towards him. Neither her face nor the hand on her hip suggested she was pleased with him.
„Where have you been?", she started. „For two years your demon has been moping around my shop! Muriel said they hadn’t heard of you in months and he's been worrying his head off —"
„Crowley", Aziraphale slurred, blinking against the drum of sensation and noise that was getting steadily less bearable. „He’s around?"
Nina stared at him, cut off. But she had to see something in his face, because her expression softened a little. Her attacking stance shifted into something more welcoming. „Are you okay?", she asked, the same way Warlock had.
Aziraphale couldn’t answer that question. „I need to talk to him", he said. „Where is he?"
„Are you sure you don’t want to… sit down first?", Nina asked, eyebrows knitting together in worry. „Maybe even lay down? You don’t look very…"
„They’re going to kill him", Aziraphale told her, looking directly into her eyes. „The Metatron has sent Soldiers, they might’ve been there already, I need to know where he is."
Her jaw fell open. „Oh, God", she whispered. „He said he was going to the park, but that was an hour ago or something —"
Aziraphale was already walking away. He knew he was being rude — he’d apologize later, if there was time. If there was any time left at all.
Nina didn’t call after him.
Crowley wasn’t sitting on their bench. That alone was enough to make Aziraphale's stomach turn itself over and into knots, but then he wasn’t at the duck pond either, and that could only mean bad news. Through the haze in his head, he tried to focus on Crowley’s demonic energy, the source that they had always used to find one another throughout the centuries, but the world around him was screaming in colour, the sounds so loud it hurt — so many of them, after Heaven’s cold, focused assault of white, deaf emptiness — that it was impossible to think, even less find their connection again.
He stopped walking in the middle of St James Park. Above him, clouds were rolling in, dark and heavy with rain. Around him, people were hurrying home. The start of the end, he mused. They always did have a taste for big storms and mighty winds from the wilderness.
Where else to look? Where else could Crowley have gone to stop the end of the world in St James Park? Where had he gone last time?
He began walking again. The first raindrops began to fall — the park was emptying quickly. He flinched at the first drop on his forehead, and wiped it away, but many others followed. Before he even made the next turn, he was drenched and shivering.
But none of it mattered. Because on the steps of the bandstand, leaned against a column, legs kicked out in front of him and staring at the sky, was a familiar, red-headed demon.
The ice-cold grip of desperation closed around Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley wasn’t moving. He barely seemed to notice the rain that was drenching his clothes.
Please, he sent Upwards while he sped up his steps, please, if you’re listening at all, don’t let me be too late.
Crowley didn’t move to look up at the rapidly approaching crunch of gravel. But he moved when Aziraphale dropped to his knees next to him: he recoiled like a snake and nearly fell down the few steps with the momentum before he managed to stand up. His sunglasses clattered to the ground. Beneath them, his eyes were wide with shock.
„Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale got to his feet as well, stumbling forward to grasp the demon by the shoulders. „Crowley", he choked out. „Crowley, my dear —"
His mouth wasn’t playing by the rules — he couldn’t get the words „are you hurt?" to unstick from his tongue —, but his hands conducted a shaky, frantic search of their own that he didn’t seem to be in any control of. They patted down Crowley’s shoulders and arms, they shoved aside Crowley’s jacket and ran over his sides to check for anything bloody, anything that indicated that Heaven had left their mark on his demon.
There wasn’t a scrape to be found, but he had spent too long in the lift, thinking up horrors. When Crowley took at step back to escape the examination, Aziraphale almost lurched after him.
He didn’t, because Crowley was staring at him. Unsmiling. Unblinking. He looked confused, if anything. Somewhere, there was anger mixed into the yellow of his eyes.
But he didn’t look hurt. The demon‘s body was coiled like a spring and his clothing was dripping rainwater. His hair had grown, Aziraphale noticed dimly. It was back to it’s usual colour, the deep red dye gone. He looked healthy.
„‘M — fine", Crowley got out. „Thanks for asking." His voice was tight, like his throat was too small to get the words out. His sarcasm sounded too dry. Aziraphale grasped at a column of the bandstand for halt, his head spinning.
Crowley was alright. Unharmed by Heaven. Alive.
He leaned against the column and closed his eyes. Drew in a forced breath. His panic was taking its sweet time with leaving him, but it was taking all of his energy with it. He felt brittle, frayed at the edges. His hands were burning from sensation where he had touched Crowley.
„What are you doing here, Aziraphale?"
This — all of this — was perhaps the harshest welcome Aziraphale had ever received from Crowley. He opened his eyes again and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep himself from saying anything stupid, like .
Please don‘t say my name like that. I’ve had enough of hearing it. Please, please, just call me angel again.
„They’re after you", he heard himself say instead. „They want to kill you. I had to — had to make sure."
Slowly, understanding bloomed on Crowley’s face. He looked down at himself, as if he could still feel Aziraphale’s hands on his sides, as if the touch had branded itself on his body the same way it had scorched Aziraphale’s palms.
„I apologize", Aziraphale mumbled. „You were laying on the ground. I thought…"
„Yeah. No. Get it", Crowley said roughly. He crossed his arms. They wrapped around his torso like in a one-person hug. „You just came here to check?"
Aziraphale’s breath came out shakily. He wanted to step forward, enclose Crowley in a real hug, regardless of how much it hurt. He wanted him pressed along the length of his body so he could feel his heartbeat. He wanted it so much, it felt like his skin was pulling off his bones to crawl over the distance. But judging from… well, everything, Crowley wouldn’t be particularly amenable.
„I suppose I have", he said in a hoarse voice. „I’ve — well, I might have left Heaven in quite the disarray."
The rain had grown into the sound of a war drum on the top of the bandstand. Aziraphale fought against the urge to cover his ears. The sound scratched on his already blank nerves with every sharp droplet. Crowley was still gaping at him as if he couldn’t quite believe he was awake.
He knew what he must look like: hanging out of his stiff white suit like a wet towel, slack with the deep-seated exhaustion of two years in Heaven and his recent dissolve into hysteria. He knew that to Crowley, it must come as an absolute shock to have him standing here so suddenly after not hearing a peep from him for months. Startling him, touching him, for Heaven’s sake.
But surprisingly, Crowley’s face dropped into a bizarre mask of Casual. His shoulders fell from where they’d been drawn up. He shoved his hands into his pockets to find his sunglasses — which Aziraphale was sure had to be miracled up. Crowley shoved them onto his face. „Okay", he said.
Slowly, Aziraphale was catching his breath. „Okay?", he repeated. „What do you — Crowley! Where are you going?"
„Back to Nina’s", Crowley said over his shoulder. „Haven’t had coffee yet. 'Sides, I’m sure you’ve got much more important things to do."
Aziraphale could only watch as he crossed the bandstand. He could watch until Crowley was at the steps, shoes already peeking into the rain.
„You can’t leave, Crowley."
The demon stopped, without turning.
Whenever Crowley rolled his eyes, he did it with his entire body. His head fell back, his shoulders became uneven. Aziraphale could tell he was rolling his eyes now. „Why not? World’s ending anyway. I just want some coffee to go with it."
Until now, Aziraphale had been far too caught up with his panic, and later his relief when he realized Crowley was still alive, to be angry at the demon. Any and all hard feelings had been shoved aside by his worry. But at this — this accusation, the audacity of it — he felt his anger stir again.
„What is it with you?", he asked sharply, loud enough that Crowley instinctively whirled around. He even had the gall to looked shocked at Aziraphale’s tone of voice, at least until he managed to wrangle back some control over his face, formed it into a scowl and crossed his arms again.
„You could have stayed", Aziraphale flung at him and the worst parts of him watched with just a bit of satisfaction how Crowley took a step back as if he’d been shoved. „You could have come with me and made a difference. I asked you to. You could have at least been there, when I — when it all — and instead you complain that I couldn’t do it? When you didn't even try to help?“
He hadn’t planned on shouting, but it felt like something that had been stuck in his throat for months was finally coming lose. He forced his mouth shut, took a few breaths. Crowley’s jaw was grinding defiantly, but beneath his dark glasses, Aziraphale could tell his eyes were blown wide.
„Perhaps if we had worked together, you would not even need to get a doomsday coffee for yourself", he told the demon.
Crowley’s face twisted. „You keep saying that as if you didn’t ask me to become an angel again", he hissed. „You left, Aziraphale. I told you I lo—" His mouth malfunctioned. He made a frustrated, high noise in the back of his throat. „I told you all of it, everything, and you left me for them."
Aziraphale felt nauseous.
For them.
This was your „Something’s wrong“ voice.
Well, it’s the side of Truth. Of Light. Of Good.
The last sentence didn’t sound any more convincing in his head than it had when he’d said it aloud. How had Crowley not picked up on a single one of his clues? He’d practically been throwing them at his head.
„Do you have any idea what the last two years have been like?", Crowley asked, and indignation rose in Aziraphale‘s chest like a rabid animal and clawed at his ribcage.
„Do I —"
How dare Crowley assume their fight hadn’t had a single effect on him? How dare he blame Aziraphale for these last, lost two years when all Aziraphale had been trying to do was save the both of them? How dare he imply Aziraphale had wanted to leave him, when he had been the one to refuse to stay?
„As a matter of fact, I do", he told Crowley. He words cut into his own ears. They tasted of cold, white lights. Even after two years of not seeing the demon, he could tell that Crowley’s eyes narrowed under the sunglasses. Had he even considered it? He must have, he couldn’t really be thinking Aziraphale had somehow been selfish to leave. That was not how he knew Crowley.
„Do you think I spent two years just doing some pesky paperwork and chatting with Sandalphon? I’ve held up the Second Coming for almost two years", he told Crowley. „I’ve given the lower angels missions to Earth. I’ve changed the training for the Guardian Angels. I’ve encouraged them to give their own opinion on new implements."
Crowley looked like he wanted to say something, but Aziraphale was on a row now. „And I did all of it against Michael’s and Uriel’s wishes. If anything, they hate me more than they did when I arrived.
For them", he repeated bitterly. He spat the words out like he couldn’t bear to have them in his mouth. „Crowley, I ask you to think of one angel up there, whom I care about enough to make me go back to that place."
Crowley’s lips had curled. Aziraphale could practically hear him sizzling. „We could’ve stopped it from down here, Crowley ground out. „Or gotten ourselves to safety. They don’t like you? That is exactly my point. And yet you still left."
He shook his head.
„Why?"
If Crowley had Fallen for this question, Aziraphale was rather certain that he would Fall for the answer. But he couldn’t bring himself to care for it. In three long steps he had covered the length of the bandstand between them, had pushed Crowley against a column and kissed him.
Crowley’s yellow eyes widened under the sunglasses. For a moment, his body became rigid against Aziraphale’s. His hands snuck to Aziraphale’s shoulders, grabbing his overcoat, as if he wasn’t sure if he should push him away or hang onto him for dear life. Aziraphale’s stomach turned.
He made to let go of Crowley, to step back and apologize for what he’d done, but before he could, Crowley’s hands had balled into fists in the fabric of Aziraphale‘s coat, as if to say Don’t you dare. The yellow glow of his eyes disappeared as they fluttered shut, and he made a high noise in the back of his throat that raced through Aziraphale’s body with the lightning-heat of an electric shock.
Suddenly, Crowley was everywhere. He was tugging Aziraphale closer by his coat and clawed one hand higher to wrap around the back of his neck and his tongue and teeth were doing something to the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth that he wasn’t sure a human could have successfully achieved. He was inescapable. It was too much, and Aziraphale would burn away under the sensation if he had to bear it any longer. He didn’t stop. He never wanted it to stop.
The edge of Crowley’s sunglasses pressed into his cheek, cold and ungiving. Their second kiss, Aziraphale thought with a sudden pang in his chest, was much more like the first one than he had ever planned.
He let go of Crowley. The demon stumbled back, mouth open in confusion, lips pink and bruised. Aziraphale didn’t give him time to get a word out.
„I was doing this for us", he hurled at the demon. „I’m rather sure now that it was all for nothing. I certainly don’t know how to stop them anymore. But I had to try, Crowley."
The rain hadn’t calmed. If anything, it had gotten worse. Even standing this close to each other, Crowley would have had to raise his voice to get anything across. Aziraphale was staring at him, daring him to do it, daring him to accuse him of something else.
Crowley didn’t. Something happened to his body: all the energy, all that coiled-spring tautness that had clawed into Aziraphale’s shoulders just a moment ago went out of it in a single moment, and left him looking only weary and irritated. His hands twitched indecisively as he righted his sunglasses on his nose. His shoulder drew up to his ears. He stayed silent.
„Go get your doomsday coffee", Aziraphale murmured. He wasn’t sure Crowley could even hear him, through the rain. „I’ll… I will go back. I shall try to fix what I can."
Crowley took a ragged breath and his shoulders straightened. „No", he said firmly.
Aziraphale became aware of a sharp pain in the palm of his right hand, where his nails were digging into the skin. When had he made that fist? He couldn’t remember.
„Crowley", he pleaded. The least the demon could do was let him go in peace.
„Do you know how you look, angel?", Crowley asked. His voice had changed. It was soft now, and Aziraphale almost collapsed where he was standing.
Angel. How long had it been? The last thing Crowley had called him, before he left, was an idiot. And he had forgiven him, as much as he was able to in the moment, but it had still hurt. To hear the demon form the familar endearment around his tongue like he’d never stopped was more intimate than their kiss and a special kind of sting to his tired heart.
„I suppose it must not be good", he croaked. „Nina tried to tell me I should lay down."
If Crowley was surprised that he’d spoken to Nina, he didn’t show it. „You look like they did something horrible to you, up there", he said. „You look like I feel before a decade-long nap, angel."
Aziraphale shuddered.
„You said yourself that you can’t change anything", Crowley said desperately. „So stay."
Aziraphale shook his head mutely, but he was trying to convince himself more than the demon. He could give him a list of reasons why he shouldn’t — starting with Warlock and the note in his suggestion box and ending with the fact that he still wanted to give Michael a piece of his mind. But for once, he was unable to argue. It had been two years of self-control, and his grip on himself was cramping and his fingers were shaking with effort and his chest hurt from the inside out, and he could do nothing but let go.
His head felt like it weighed tons when he lifted it to look at Crowley. „Take off your sunglasses?"
He got a strange look in return, but Crowley did as he asked. His eyes were glowing faintly orange in the rainy dusk. Aziraphale felt a watery smile sneak its way onto his face and stay there. Crowley looked just the same as he had when Aziraphale left: a but more weary, maybe, but no less beautiful.
„Could you say it again?", he heard his mouth ask without his permission. Crowley’s brow furrowed. „Stay?", he said questioningly.
Aziraphale shook his head. „No. I meant…"
This was stupid. How foolish to have such an an attachment to one word. Crowley had to know, by now, what he sounded like when he said it, but he could’ve never meant for Aziraphale to feel so strongly about it.
„What?", asked Crowley. „What do you mean, angel?"
Aziraphale sucked in a breath. Was he doing it on purpose? „That", he whispered. „Please call me that again."
Arms wrapped around him. He wasn’t sure how they had gotten there, he only knew that their warmth, their weight as they held him, felt the same as when he had stepped into Warlock’s room in Heaven and breathed for the first time in two years. Like he had been drowning without even realising it and had only now been pulled up for air. His head sunk on Crowley’s shoulder. The demons jacket was wet from the rain and his hair hung in limp, wet strands into Aziraphale’s face.
„Angel", Crowley said, like it was easy.
Aziraphale’s arms and hands moved of their own accord. They slung around Crowley’s body and gripped his coat so tightly that the fabric creaked. He buried his eyes in the crook of the demon’s shoulder: the darkness beneath his lids felt welcoming. All-surrounding, but by choice. Crowley’s too-slow heartbeat thumped against his chest. It had sped up almost to a human pace.
And from one moment to the next, they weren’t at the bandstand anymore. The air was warmer, the sound of the rain quieter. It smelt of dust and cocoa. Under Aziraphale’s shoes, he could feel the threadbare fabric of a carpet. He didn’t lift his head. He knew where Crowley had brought them, and he couldn’t be more grateful for it.
Crowley’s hand went to the back of his head. His chin came down softly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, a comfortable weight. It held him in place like his arms did, kept him from floating away.
Aziraphale chose that place to let himself fall apart. His horrible suit creaked as he slumped against Crowley. That despised heavenly discipline that he had used like a shield in front of the Metatron or Michael and Uriel and that had wound so tight it hurt clattered to the floor all around him. He forgot he had something other than this corporation. His wings and eyes and halo were gone. If he existed at all, it was only in the places he could feel Crowley’s body against his own.
No place in Heaven would have allowed for him to disappear into his emotions like this and let him come out of it intact. But Crowley was safe. Crowley would keep all the other parts of him where they belonged, secure in the cocoon of his arms.
Time passed, and when everything gained a little more clarity again, he had stopped crying. He felt like a wrung-out old rag. His suit was creased. He found he didn’t care.
Crowley still held him. His hand was lightly stroking Aziraphale’s hair and he was mumbling something soothing that sounded like gibberish, until Aziraphale realized he wasn’t speaking English, but some ancient dialect from just after The Beginning.
He took a step back, reluctantly leaving the hug. He feared he had already taken more than Crowley was willing to give. But when he looked up there was nothing except concern in Crowley’s face.
It was unbearable. Aziraphale had to look away. His eyes found the stain he had left where he had cried into the demon’s shoulder.
„Oh, dear", he managed. „I’m ever so sorry. I’ve soiled your jacket."
Crowley looked down at his shoulder and shrugged. „‘S nothing."
There was the unmistakable sound of a miracle, and then the stain had disappeared and Crowley was holding a handkerchief. Against every expectation, Aziraphale had to laugh when he took it. „Goodness. Where did you find that?"
„Back room", Crowley said sheepishly. „I went through it a year ago. Looking for — uh, a book."
Aziraphale couldn‘t find the energy to give him a suspicious look for that. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose the human way.
„Supreme Archangel?"
Crowley winced. Aziraphale turned around. Between the shelves, holding a cup of half-drunk tea, stood Muriel and stared at them like they had seen a ghost. Before Aziraphale could say anything, they had already opened their mouth.
„You’re back?"
Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat self-conciously. The handkerchief politely went back where Crowley had taken it from. „It seems like I am", he said.
Muriel looked to Crowley. „Will you be staying?"
They sounded so hopeful that for a moment, Aziraphale was really going to. After all, where would he even find the strength to leave again? It had been hard enough the first time, and back then he hadn’t been drained of all his energy already.
But he thought of Warlock. And the certainty on the Metatron‘s face when he’d talked about the end of the world. „I’m afraid not", he got out.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley’s stance go rigid again, but the demon stayed silent.
„Oh", said Muriel, disappointment misting their face. „But… you don’t want to. You were crying."
„No. Yes." Aziraphale swallowed against his windpipe tying itself into a complicated knot. „There is no other way."
„Aziraphale…", Crowley said. Without his sunglasses, every emotion was laid bare on his face. Aziraphale turned to him, feeling desperation claw it’s way up into his throat. „Crowley, please. They’ve chosen Warlock. He’s alone up there. I should’ve never left him alone in the first place."
Crowley’s expression froze at once. „Warlock?", he repeated. „You…"
He stopped himself, but there was no mistaking what he had wanted to say. You let them?
„They did it without my knowledge", Aziraphale said. „But I’m sure they knew I would try to do something about it."
Crowley’s jaw moved. Aziraphale imagined he could hear his teeth crack.
„Those Soldiers you were talking about", he finally said. „They never showed up. You think… they baited you?"
„I’m afraid so", Aziraphale admitted.
Crowley straightened his shoulders and produced sunglasses from nowhere, but he didn’t put them on. They dangled from his fingers like a dead, stiff animal while he looked at Aziraphale. He looked strained. Aziraphale wished to hold him the way Crowley had held him, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be overstepping.
Crowley's teeth were still clenched. Aziraphale watched him make the concious effort to relax, and then again to look Aziraphale in the eyes.
„I’ll wait for you", Crowley told him. „If anything happens, Muriel and I can help."
Aziraphale looked to Muriel, who was smiling shyly. „I’m on your side", they reassured him. „Crowley and I already stole some of Hell’s records together."
„Nyeah", said Crowley uncomfortably. „Never would’ve thought Shax would be the type to — well, let’s just say, they weren’t anything useful."
Aziraphale found himself smiling despite his fear. „I’m glad", he murmured, and then they were staring at one another, both unwilling to end their time together this soon, but uncertain what else to say to prolongue it.
„At the bandstand", Crowley said suddenly, his grip around the sunglasses becoming nervously tight. „When I asked you why you left…"
Aziraphale felt slightly sick. He knew what the demon meant. He wished they could talk about it some other time — preferably never, the way they liked to do — but he was aware that at the moment „some other time" was a nebulous concept that might never come to pass. „I’m sorry", he said. „I shouldn’t have —"
„Do not."
Aziraphale looked up. Crowley had taken a step forward, his face twisted into a snarl. His eyes were gleaming like coals.
„Do not take it back", Crowley hissed. „If you say you’re sorry you kissed me, I’m leaving this bookshop and we’re never finishing this conversation."
He didn’t mean it — he couldn’t — but Aziraphale held himself back.
„How long have you been thinking about it?", Crowley asked. „Don’t tell me you haven’t. I know I have, for the last two years. Longer, for Somebody’s sake. Much, much longer."
Aziraphale stared at him. „I… yes", he murmured. „Me too."
„Then why did we wait?"
It wasn’t an accusing question. There was no anger in Crowley’s voice about the four years they could have spent differently if Aziraphale had been braver. It was just honest confusion and regret.
Aziraphale twisted his ring between his fingers.
„I wasn’t sure you felt the same."
There was a steep line over the bridge of Crowley‘s nose. With his eyes covered, that had always been the first sign to Aziraphale that he had said something wrong, and without the glasses, it was only more obvious. „Don’t lie", Crowley snapped. „You knew what I felt. For Somebody’s sake, I knew what you felt when you didn’t even know. The only reason I held back was because you said I was too fast."
„Yes." Aziraphale breathed through his nose. „I knew. And I‘m sure you knew some of my feelings as well. It’s just — well, the extend of them that I am worried about."
If it was even possible, the line on Crowley’s forehead dug itself deeper into his skin.
„What do you mean?"
Aziraphale‘s heart seemed to try to catch up on all the beats it hadn’t beaten while he was in Heaven. It was sitting uncomfortably high in his throat, and felt like it might start steaming any moment. „I mean", said Aziraphale, „that I am far more in love with you than I should be. And that I know how you like to indulge me, and that it would be terribly unfair to you to have to put up with all of it."
Silence grew. The line disappeared; Crowley’s face had gone slack with surprise. He blinked, which Aziraphale had only seen him do a handful of times over the millennia.
„Angel", he said finally, in a strained voice, „do you even — can you even imagine —"
He broke off and began walking up and down on an imaginary line between the shelves, muttering to himself in an unlikely amount of consonants. Aziraphale watched him, feeling taut like an elastic band. He considered apologizing, then quickly discarded the idea. It was out now — no amount of being sorry had ever been able to change it.
Finally, Crowley seemed to have calmed himself. He took Aziraphale‘s hands, which were still twisting Heaven’s signet ring, and held them in place. „You’re ridiculous", he told Aziraphale quietly. „‘Course I’m… ngk. Of course I will put up with it. Have been putting up with my own feelings for centuries, haven’t I?"
Aziraphale stared at their intertwined hands — Crowley’s thin, nimble fingers and his own, more pudgy and miraculously well-manicured despite the two years of twisting and scratching at them.
„I’m sure, before you ask", Crowley added. „One hundred percent, no backing out, no second thoughts, no regrets."
His thumb was stroking the back of Aziraphale‘s hand. He didn’t even think Crowley noticed he was doing it.
Aziraphale tore his eyes from their hands to look up at the demon. „When I’m back", he said. „Can you convince me then?"
Warm breath blew over his lips when Crowley spoke. „I’ll be sure to think of something."
He leaned forward. Just inches away from Aziraphale’s lips, he hesitated; leaving it to him to close the gap, Aziraphale realized.
He let himself fall forward.
Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure this was the kind of kiss he had been hoping for during his time in Heaven. Or long before that, for that matter. But it was softer, finally, than on their first two fumbled tries: Crowley’s hand had found its way into his hair and was cupping the back of his head to gently reposition it. When he opened his mouth, he held back on the teeth. The tip of his nose poked into Aziraphale’s cheek.
I’ll come back, Aziraphale pressed into the corner of the demon’s mouth. We’ll get to do this again.
I trust you, Crowley’s answering press of lips said. One of his hands lay flat against Aziraphale's shoulder blades. There will be nightingales.
„Um — excuse me, Supreme Archangel, sir?"
Muriel’s voice dragged them out of their kiss. Aziraphale turned around to see the Scrivener look towards the window with a face as if they had seen somebody die. He followed the line of their sight and felt bile rise up in his throat.
Standing on the street and staring into the shop was Michael. And she did not look pleased.
„Fuck", said Crowley, who had spotted her at the same time.
„Indeed", Aziraphale whispered.
Before they could say anything else, Michael was already marching toward the doors. The bell jingled terrifyingly above her head.
„I should have known", she announced, before she had even fully entered the shop. „You’ve always been the first of us to give in to those baser instincts, Aziraphale. You have been working for him this entire time, haven’t you?"
Aziraphale wished he had thrown up on her shoes when he’d had the chance.
„I have not been working for him", he said, instead of doing it now. „The Metatron has explicitly allowed me to work with Crowley. Which I have only done because you so kindly informed me he was being pursued by Soldiers."
Michael scoffed. „It’s too late, Aziraphale. Your attempts to talk yourself out are pointless."
She summoned a weapon into her hands: a spear, two meters of gleaming, polished silver, that Aziraphale remembered a lot better than he liked. She had thrust Lucifer into Hell with it, during the War. It shone like flames in the afternoon sun.
„We have started the Second Coming", she told him. Her voice was reaching critical levels of angelic-ness. He feared she would start flaming soon. „You will come with me, not as Supreme Archangel, but as what you were made: a Principality. You will lead your platoon into battle. We will triumph over Hell. And we will start with this part of it."
The tip of her spear pointed menacingly at Crowley. He took a step back.
„Technically, I don’t work for Hell anymore", he reminded her.
The bell above the door gave a happy jingle.
„We’re closed!", Aziraphale called out.
„Not a customer", said a familiar voice and Crowley’s face lit up. He strained his neck to look around Michael at the teenager who was wandering into the bookshop, hands stuffed into his pockets.
„Put the spear down, please", said Warlock. „You‘ll need it elsewhere."
Michael stared down at him, in all her gleaming glory. He did not turn into a pillar of salt, nor was he consumed by flames. He smiled. „I think the Metatron needs your help", he told her. „Things aren’t looking very good for him, Upstairs."
The spear lowered to the ground. Beside Aziraphale, Crowley let go of a quiet breath.
„Why?" asked Michael.
Warlock did a small shrug and looked in Aziraphale’s direction. „It’s the lower angels", he said. „I think they’re refusing to obey their orders. One of them let me out", he explained.
Michael’s burning gaze fell on Aziraphale. „I knew it", she hissed. „This is your fault. You have commanded them to do this. You have endangered Heaven’s divine order. You are no better than the Serpent."
„Who?", Aziraphale asked Warlock. „Who let you out, I mean?"
Warlock frowned. „A Scrivener. She didn’t say her name. Um, short black hair, pretty tall…"
„Rigiel", Aziraphale said, smiling proudly. His assistant had been just as clever as he’d expected. „I‘m afraid I must disappoint you", he told Michael. „I didn’t command anybody. They’ve done that quite themselves."
She scoffed. „Impossible."
„Is it though?", Crowley asked. „Is it so impossible that your angels would dislike Heaven's divine order so much that they rebel?"
The expression of disgust on Michael’s face as she looked at him was comparable to somebody finding maggots in their pantry. „A demon’s opinion on Heaven is irrelevant.“
„One rebellion makes for a good story, right?", Crowley continued relentlessly. „To have it happen twice makes it seem like there is some sort of… institutional problem."
Aziraphale turned and stared. How had Crowley gotten his fingers on that file? He’d only been able to find it after months of digging through documents that the Metatron would throw him into one of Heaven’s cells for if he found them in his possession.
„I think", Warlock said, and his voice had become sharper, „you should go and help them. Before it’s too late for your divine order. Don’t you?"
Michael’s gleaming, burning eyes turned to him for a long moment. He held her gaze. Then she made a noise of frustration and pulled down power from above. She vanished in a beam of light so bright it shone through their eyelids, no matter how tightly they closed their eyes.
Aziraphale felt his veins freeze up. She was taking him with her. He could feel his senses locking up from the rising panic and his lungs laying down their work in preparation for the the airless vacuum of Heaven. She was taking him back even though he wasn’t ready, he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t ready —
Blindly grasping he found the fabric of a jacket somewhere in his vicinity and clawed his fingers into it. The person the jacket belonged to stumbled and pulled Aziraphale with them. He blinked, hard, and his vision slowly cleared.
He’d grabbed Crowley. The demon had put a hand on his arm and was examining Aziraphale in obvious concern. Aziraphale let go of the jacket with shaky fingers. „I apologize", he mumbled.
Crowley took his hand and linked their fingers together.
When Aziraphale looked up, Warlock was watching them with an unreadable expression. He remembered he’d left the boy to his own devices in Heaven, and swallowed around the rusty tang of guilt on his tongue.
„What really happened?", Aziraphale asked Warlock. „If you saw any of it."
„I did", Warlock said. „I’m pretty sure the Second Coming’s a bust. The last I saw was the Middle Order Angels joining forces with the Lower Angels. And I think I heard somebody suggesting they take the Metatron for ransom." He shook his head. „Michael doesn’t stand a chance."
„What about Hell?", asked someone. Muriel had shown up between the shelves. Aziraphale realized they had been hiding from Michael.
Warlock shrugged and looked at Aziraphale.
„I don’t think we need to worry", he said hesitantly. „I’ve heard little from them during my time as Archangel. They seem to be in disarray under Shax’s lead — I’m not sure they even received our memorandum for the Second Coming."
„Huh", said Warlock. He looked like he was contemplating something.
„I should leave", said Muriel, rubbing their hands in unease. „I should help them."
„That’s —", started Aziraphale, but Muriel cut him off with a look. „Rigiel was in the cubicle next to me. We talked, sometimes. I… liked her." When Aziraphale didn't say anything else, they added: „You had a summoning circle here, didn't you?"
„Over there", Aziraphale answered, painting at the rug. They pulled it away to reveal the circle and Aziraphale did not stop them. „Remember to prepare your corporation", he told them. Muriel nodded absently.
Aziraphale turned to Warlock, just as the runes began to glow silver.
„Did Rigiel look alright?", he asked. „She wasn’t injured, was she?"
Warlock shook his head. „No, she was fine, I think. She asked if you and I had made a plan."
„She saw me leave", Aziraphale remembered. Of course she had assumed he had thought his escape through.
„I think you made quite an impression on the lower angels", Warlock said. „The one who brought me to the lift said something about a suggestion box?"
Aziraphale winced as he remembered the request he hadn’t been able to get through a single meeting.
„They said nobody had ever asked their opinion before. And that they had been trying to think of what to put in because they wanted to be sure it would make a difference."
„Oh", said Aziraphale.
„Rigiel told me you'd been trying to ease the rules on the lower angels", Warlock continued. „That you cared about them. I think many of them only joined because you were kind to them at some point in the last few years."
Aziraphale frowned. Kind? He had made a point of trying to remember names and thanking Rigiel when she brought him what he needed, but that was at best professional etiquette. „I was hardly kind", he said. „I didn’t treat them like they were expandable, that’s all."
„Seemed to be enough", said Warlock with a shrug.
Unbidden, a thought rose in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, like a bubble to the surface. Crowley on the wall of Eden and his dry, sarcastic voice that Aziraphale hadn’t recognized as such. Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.
„It seems like it was", Aziraphale murmured.
Warlock took a breath. „They’re still going to need help", he said. „The whole system’s fucked. The Metatron is going to try everything to get it back in place, and..." He ran a hand through his hair. „They both need help. Heaven and Hell. I don’t think She’s going to do anything about it."
Aziraphale wanted to disagree and found that he couldn’t. He hadn’t heard from Her once during his time in Heaven, even though he had made the effort to search. Perhaps She had left Earth, moved on to other projects.
Then he realized what Warlock meant to say.
„So you’re going to do it?“, Crowley asked Warlock, in the careful tone of somebody trying not to let it show how bad he found this idea. Warlock saw right through him and shot him a dark look.
„I’m going to try", he said. „What else would I do? I have all these — memories, all this knowledge that I shouldn’t have. I’m not even sure I’m still myself or…" He broke off. „I can’t just go back and forget about it. I have to do something with it. And it’s not like I’m more welcome back home."
He said the last bit defensively, as if he was just waiting for the two of them to mention his parents. Aziraphale, who had been about to do that, pressed his lips into a line.
He’d already left Warlock alone in Heaven once. He couldn’t just let the boy walk back into the same place that had almost driven him insane in the last two years. Warlock, whatever memories or abilities of Yeshua were left in him, was human. If Aziraphale had hardly been able to stand Heaven’s environment, how would this child?
Warlock looked at him like he had read his thoughts. „If you’d rather go back yourself, I’m not stopping you", he said and crossed his arms.
Would he? Would he be able to? Aziraphale didn’t know.
„Warlock", said Crowley softly, like he was still sitting at his bedside. „Are you sure?"
Warlock nodded. „I have to." He turned to Aziraphale. „It’s not forever, I’m only making sure they don’t start killing each other."
„That might be harder than you think", Aziraphale said weakly. „And it’s not very rewarding work, do believe me."
Warlock smiled. „I didn’t think so."
„You shouldn’t have to...", Aziraphale tried, but even as he said it he knew he wasn’t going to win. Warlock wanted to go and he was going to go.
„I’m gonna come down here every once in a while, okay?", said Warlock. „I’ll be okay. I promise."
Aziraphale swallowed his distaste. If the boy was sure, then there was no stopping him. Humans were like that, and he had learned over the centuries to listen to them. They did incredible things sometimes, when you let them do what they wanted.
And even though he’d been lying a lot, in the last years, if he was entirely honest, he was very glad not to be the one who had to go back and pick up the pieces. Oh, he was certain it would be very satisfying to see the Metatron’s face now, or Uriel’s, or Sandalphon’s — but he had seen their faces far more than he liked during his time in Heaven. Enough was enough.
„Then I hope you will succeed", he said to Warlock. „I wish you all the luck you shall need."
Crowley grinned toothily. „You’ll do it", he said. „Grind 'em under your heel, and all."
„Yes, Nanny." Warlock rolled his eyes. „You know, I’m not sure why I didn’t clock you as supernatural way sooner. You two are so weird."
Crowley cackled, and when he stopped, there was a moment of silence where none of them were sure what to say. Warlock rubbed his neck. Finally, eyes cast to the ground, he asked: „Could I — um, hug you, before I go? Just for old times' sake."
„Oh", said Crowley. Aziraphale would tease him later about how touched he had looked, just to see Crowley fight tooth and nail to deny it. He wrapped his arms around the boy tightly — tall as Warlock had gotten, he didn’t even need to bend down for it. Warlock briefly hugged Aziraphale as well, and squeezed his arm when he let go. „Rest", he said. „You need it."
They watched him leave. The bell tinkled above the door. Warlock waved at them through the window.
„Well", said Crowley, when they were alone. „He’s right."
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. „I say. Let’s go sit down."
They went into the back of the shop with a slightly awkward air around them. After everything that had happened since they had been in this exact place, two years ago, it felt strange to simply return to normal, to sit in the back and talk about everyday things. Neither of them really had a grasp on everyday things anymore.
Aziraphale let himself sink into his armchair and closed his eyes, letting go of a long breath. He’d forgotten furniture could be comfortable. The thick, soft cushions around him felt like a hug. He could almost feel a book in his hands already. Perhaps a warm cup of cocoa. Oh! He had to make cocoa as soon as possible.
When he opened his eyes, Crowley was watching him from the sofa with his head tilted slightly, as if he was monitoring his every movement, trying to judge whether the shop was still to his liking. Aziraphale looked at his desk, which was cleaner than it had been in decades. Had Crowley tidied the shop?
„You looked after it." His voice felt strangely thin. „This whole time?"
Crowley made a noncommittal noise. „Nngh. Muriel did, at first. I didn’t — come here, for some months."
Aziraphale looked at the carpet, feeling his chest strain. He wanted to take Crowley’s hand, but the sofa was too far away. He wondered if he should sit next to the demon, for a change. There was no reason for their distance anymore, was there?
Before he could think about that for too long, Crowley continued talking.
„Then they started selling books."
Aziraphale’s head shot up. „What?"
„Don’t worry“, Crowley said. „I got them back. But, after that, I… stayed here. Flat was rancid anyway. Shax killed all the plants I left behind."
„Oh", Aziraphale said sadly. He knew how much Crowley had loved those plants. At least he assumed so, with how verdant and green they had been all the times he had visited, and with how often Crowley had gone to water them. „I'm sorry."
„Eh, it's fine", Crowley said, but his wobbly voice betrayed him. „I can grow new ones."
He looked up in shock when Aziraphale stood and went over to the sofa. He sat down closer than he had ever allowed himself to sit before. Their thighs were touching. He took Crowley’s hand and twined their fingers together. The touch didn’t burn, like it had at the bandstand. Crowley’s skin was a feverish, hellish warmth, but one that felt calming.
Crowley hesitated. When Aziraphale nudged him, he let himself slump, and leaned against the angel’s shoulder.
„Well", he said, his voice scratchy like an old record, „we bolloxed that up."
„What, my dear?"
Crowley’s cheeks reddened at the petname. „Everything", he said quickly, as if talking would hide it. „Absolutely everything, since Gabriel showed up on your doorstep. Made a complete mess. Look at us."
Aziraphale laughed, to his own surprise. „We did, didn’t we?"
He could feel Crowley’s head turn toward him. „What’s so funny about it? Two years of you in Heaven, and you’re laughing?"
„Yes", said Aziraphale with a giggle. „It’s just… last time, at least we were present when Adam prevented the end of the world. Now…" He suppressed more laughter. „I go to Heaven to try and prevent it, you and Muriel steal documents from Hell, and who stops it, in the end? The lower angels."
Crowley watched him until his amusement subsided, smiling.
„Warlock said it was you who inspired them."
„Oh, really", said Aziraphale, shaking his head. „I didn’t do a lot. I couldn’t even get their only suggestion through a meeting."
„Which was Michael’s and Uriel’s fault, I imagine“, Crowley pointed out and stretched to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s jaw. „You’re the best out of them all, angel", he murmured. „Soft and kind and smart and… stupidly determined… They’ve got to have noticed."
Something warm flared in Aziraphale’s stomach. He felt himself choke up and quickly looked away.
Crowley immediately sat up and pulled his hand away. His posture had nothing of the usual easy slither. „I’m sorry", he said. „I shouldn’t have —I thought —"
„No", said Aziraphale. „No, no, don’t." He grasped for the hand again and looked Crowley in the eyes, even though the demon's face was turning a bit blurry. „We’re an us. In every way you want."
Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s palm between his fingers, mute. Somewhere behind his back, on a different plane of existence, Aziraphale spread his wings and let them wrap around the two of them. A shaky breath escaped Crowley when they settled around his shoulders.
For a while, the bookshop was quiet. The air shimmered dusty and golden in the afternoon sun. Aziraphale tried to soak the moment into himself like a sponge.
„I'm sorry", Crowley suddenly said into the silence.
„Whatever for?"
„What I said at the bandstand." The sofa cushions shifted as he sat up and turned to Aziraphale, his arms crossing. „I knew why you left the whole time. Just took my anger out on you. I didn't really mean most of it, not that that makes it better."
„Come back", Aziraphale mumbled, gesturing for him to lean back again. Reluctantly, Crowley did. „That place tends to get us to say the stupidest things", Aziraphale remarked.
Crowley's laugh had a bitter note, but he relaxed into Aziraphale's side. „Maybe we should stop meeting there."
„I'm sorry too, on that note", Aziraphale said. „For barging in like that. Touching you."
One auburn eyebrow climbed on Crowley's forehead. „Did you see me complaining?"
Aziraphale lightly swatted his arm. He got a grin in return, that momentarily rendered him breathless. He wondered if he could convince Crowley to never wear his sunglasses again. His eyes were breathtaking when they caught the sun like this.
„Save it, dear", he mumbled. „To clear the matter, what you said is of no importance anymore. And now I would like to talk about something else."
„Mmh", said Crowley, as if he had noticed exactly what effect he had on Aziraphale. Fortunately, he refrained from mentioning it. „We should do breakfast at the Ritz", he suggested instead.
Aziraphale tried to imagine it. Crowley and him at their old table, drinking and eating respectively, surrounded by all those peopled…
„You know, I was planning on that", Crowley admitted awkwardly. „On that morning. After the ball."
„Maybe another time", Aziraphale said. The demon's head turned with sudden worry.
„I do want to", he hastened to explain. „But I’m not sure… I don’t think I’m able to go anywhere for at least a week."
The bookshop was exactly where he wanted to be. He’d been longing for it ever since he had left it behind, and he would stay here and read and drink cocoa until he felt enough like himself again to look at people who weren’t Crowley.
„Oh. Yeah. 'Course", mumbled the demon. He didn’t sound disappointed, like Aziraphale had feared. Instead, he leaned back into the ancient sofa and closed his eyes, like he was perfectly content to stay in this exact spot and wait for him.
God, but Aziraphale loved this creature.
„Ngk", made Crowley and cracked one eye open, when the angel reached up to touch his cheek with careful fingertips. They ghosted over his cheekbone, then his jaw, and briefly over his mouth. Before Aziraphale could do anything else, Crowley took his wrist and pulled his hand away. Aziraphale froze.
„You could just ask, you know", Crowley said. Aziraphale huffed, in that indignant tone he used whenever Crowley said something that he definitely knew better. „Foul fiend", he called him.
„Right", said Crowley in mock annoyance, letting go of the wrist. „One second you’re ever so terribly in love with me and want to be an us, the next I’m a foul fiend. I should just go to Nina now and take her up on her offer of getting to know her cousin who’s into goths —"
„Don’t be daft", Aziraphale interrupted, but he was holding back a laugh. Crowley grinned back at him. „So?"
„I would like you to kiss me again, my foul fiend", said Aziraphale. „Our first kisses weren’t exactly under the circumstances I had imagined."
And Crowley gladly obliged.
Notes:
Ive finished a story! Wahoo!
I'd be absolutely delighted to hear your thoughts about this thing, I don't usually write this much angst, even if the ending was more fluffy.
I hope nobody is disappointed that they dont really talk about and "apologize for" the final fifteen in the end. I didnt really want either of them to apologize for anything, since in my opinion neither have anything to apologize for. They both make their hurt clear to each other during their fight, but in the end, Aziraphale coming back for Crowley and Crowley comforting him are apology enough for them both.
I hope you had had good time!
NullNoMore on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 01:21AM UTC
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masnadies on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 02:55AM UTC
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Fell_Angel on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 07:05AM UTC
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Fell_Angel on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Jul 2025 06:18AM UTC
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Fell_Angel on Chapter 2 Sun 24 Aug 2025 03:17PM UTC
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friendly_neighbourhood_ace on Chapter 3 Mon 04 Aug 2025 07:23PM UTC
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london_fan on Chapter 3 Tue 12 Aug 2025 09:21PM UTC
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Fell_Angel on Chapter 3 Tue 12 Aug 2025 09:47PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 12 Aug 2025 09:49PM UTC
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london_fan on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 09:48PM UTC
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