Chapter Text
Aziraphale turned the lock by hand. He didn’t need to, of course. Nothing could get past the wards he’d painstakingly woven into the walls and doors and floorboards of the bookshop. Not without his express permission.
Nothing, of course, except certain occult and ethereal forces to which a human-made locking mechanism meant less than nothing.
Still, turning the deadbolt and hearing the solid thunk of the metal sliding into place was a ritual, just like flipping the bookshop’s sign to the closed side and fluffing the cushion on his chintz armchair as he passed by. The process helped to settle him, somehow attuning the angel to the business of the evening.
Snow fluttered onto the streets of Soho, a light powdering that would likely turn to slush with the morning sun. But now, in the cocoon of night, with the buzzing streetlamps casting their golden sodium vapor glow, Whickber Street was calm. Peaceful. It would be a perfect evening to gather a stack of well-thumbed volumes and wile away the hours til dawn poring over words he already knew by heart. Perhaps a cup of cocoa would be in order, as well.
Yes, that was a very good plan. Cocoa and books would fill the hours nicely, blocking out any thoughts of…well, any distractions that might be lingering in the back of his mind. The angel sighed and the sound was heavier than he’d expected. He was weary and, if he were being entirely honest, a bit lonely. It had been so long since he’d spent time with Cr—with anyone of his own disposition. Anyone who wasn’t bound to mortality. Anyone who wasn’t an angel.
Or a demon.
Crowley hadn’t darkened his doorway for months. Not that Aziraphale had harbored any expectation that the demon should appear in his bookshop. He was an agent of Hell. More than that, Crowley was a hereditary enemy and not someone Aziraphale should be worrying about as he tidied his cash register, moving dust from one surface to the next.
A light tapping on the front window derailed his train of thought.
He was certain he’d turned the sign to “Closed,” and it was well past business hours.
There was another rap upon the glass, fainter this time.
With a huff, Aziraphale opened the door.
“Crowley?”
The being before him, dressed in black from the tips of his sharp shoulders to his snake-skinned boots, grinned wickedly, one half of his stunning lips curving upward, before slumping into Aziraphale’s arms.
“Hey, angel,” muffled the demon, his mouth pressed against Aziraphale’s shirt.
“Crowley, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Probably dying,” the ridiculous being slurred.
“Don’t be preposterous,” chided Aziraphale, any previous thoughts of loneliness shoved away as he negotiated the armful of demon, bracing Crowley and pulling him over the threshold. The wards let him pass, as they always had. “You can’t die.”
Crowley chuckled incongruously. “Might be wrong about that one.” His head lolled against the angel’s shoulder.
Aziraphale hoisted Crowley’s corporation, half-dragging him along. For his part, Crowley managed to tangle his legs behind them, hardly carrying any of his own weight. By the time he gentled Crowley down onto the sofa, the demon’s pallor and his labored breathing were beginning to scratch at a sense of genuine concern in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach.
Crowley couldn’t die. Demons didn’t die.
And yet, here was his demon—no, not his demon—wincing and moaning faintly as though he were actually at Death’s door.
“Don’t want to be dramatic,” Crowley growled. His fists tightened and he drew his knees toward his slender chest.
“That would certainly be a first, my dear.”
“Angel, please…” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale doubted that he’d ever heard Crowley’s voice more strained or more sincere.
He pressed a hand to Crowley’s forehead. He’d not had much cause to touch Crowley, not in nearly six thousand years, but from what he’d gathered over the millennia, the demon had always maintained a human temperature or else something leaning more toward hellfire. But not now. No. Now, Crowley’s skin was cold as a pond in winter.
Demons didn’t die, Aziraphale reminded himself, banishing the thought of Crowley blinking out of existence. He knelt on the rug beside his adversary, who was looking more drawn by the second.
Crowley groaned, sweat glistening on his brow. “Might have overstepped,” he growled.
Aziraphale waited.
“Was playing a game…” Crowley grimaced. He paused to breathe heavily again. “Making wagers… y’know… demonic stuff, yah?”
Aziraphale nodded, having no idea what Crowley meant.
“And Hastur bet I’d never tempted an angel.”
Aziraphale balked. Of course Crowley had tempted an angel! He’d tempted one very particular angel time and time again to indulge in the tastes and smells and ecstatic wonders of a world that wasn’t meant for the enjoyment of an ethereal being. Was Hastur, the slimy frog who’d never tempted the boots off a department store dummy, suggesting that Crowley’s temptations hadn’t been up to snuff?
Crowley, the Original Tempter.
Crowley, the Serpent of Eden.
Crowley, the sinuous trickster who used to slither into the bookshop every Thursday afternoon with the express purpose of frustrating Aziraphle into dinner at the Ritz. A demon far more charming and more captivating than all the fallen angels on Hell’s fifth through seventh floors combined.
What a ridiculous notion to think that Crowley had never tempted an angel!
But if that were the case, if Crowley had been so successful in his temptations, why on God’s green earth was he lying here writhing in pain? Why hadn’t he immediately won the idiotic wager? It didn’t make sense. There had to be some missing piece.
Aziraphale brought his hand to Crowley’s forehead once again, this time to brush a stray hair back into place.
“So, I thought…” the trembling demon choked, leaning into the touch… “I thought back to that ox rib—and, angel, I thought I’d—” He paused to swallow—“thought that would have counted. But…” he trailed off, closing his eyes behind his dark lenses.
“I see,” said Aziraphale, his voice holding steady. “So you came here to try again?”
“Ngk.”
“I’m afraid I’m all out of oxen.”
“Guess I’m fucked.”
“What will you do?”
“Got about…a few hours left,” Crowley breathed. “Maybe I can just stay here with you.”
“Stay here with me until what?”
“Til it’s over.” Crowley curled into a tighter shape, whimpering against his fist.
Was it possible that his demon—yes, his demon—was about to be spirited away to some plane of existence where the angel could not follow?
“You’re not dying, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice shook even as he worked to articulate the words, pulling a blanket down off the back of the sofa and draping it gently around Crowley.
“Think you can stop me?”
“I think it’s always been my vocation to thwart you, you wily thing,” said Aziraphale, tucking in the edges of the blanket.
“It’s no use, angel. ‘S fine, tho. I’ll just recorporate in the Pits until…”
“Until?”
“Dunno, really.”
Crowley whined and it wasn’t a pretty sound. His whole body shuddered, his eyes rolling back then shutting tight against what looked like unbearable agony. He let out a hollow groan before going still and slack.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered.
There was no response.
***
Crowley struggled toward the surface. The surface of what? He didn’t know. Only knew he had to get back. Somewhere. Somewhere he couldn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite reach.
Aziraphale.
Must have been. The angel was always just beyond his fingertips, so close…and yet…
He floated further. Didn’t really know where. Didn’t really care. If he couldn’t reach Aziraphale, did it even matter? Crowley swam through black fog, nothing there to support his body as he floated, trying to push against something…anything. Forward. Backward. Didn’t matter. It was worse than being held down.
He kicked his legs against…what? Space? Emptiness? Creation? He could see nothing. Hear nothing. Feel nothing. An endless miasma of…
Hastur. He was here because of Hastur. He’d done something so stupid and now here he was cashing in his idiot chips. Wouldn’t be good. Wretched God in her wretched Heaven knew he was in for a world of pain because of what he’d done. How stupid—fuckin’ stupid—he’d been. Should’ve been more careful. Should’ve read the footnotes.
Maybe he was already in the Pits? He’d been there before almost two hundred years ago. After Elspeth. Hadn’t been like this, though. That torture had been visceral. He’d felt it in every cracked bone and burst blood vessel.
Hadn't been quite as bad as falling, but it was a close second. The worst…fuck him…the worst part had been wondering if the angel had somehow been found out, as well. Maybe by Heaven. Maybe by Hell. Crowley didn’t know which would have been better, but he'd prayed to a God he knew wasn’t listening that he'd been the only one caught that night in the graveyard.
When he’d returned to earth, first thing he’d done was check to see that the angel was still in his bookshop. He hadn’t been stupid enough to visit, of course. He’d done everything he could to stay away for decades, refusing to fraternize, doing his best to protect Aziraphale from being seen with a demon, but even there he’d failed.
It had been October and the leaves had only just begun to turn. A bad omen to fall so late. The angel had gotten it into his head that he was going to trap some Nazi spies. Crowley had paced scorch makes right into the concrete floors of his flat trying to come up with a plan to rescue Aziraphale without having to be seen with him. He’d botched it in the end, hopping into that church on burning feet to save the angel from discorporation.
After that, he'd not had the willpower to stay away. If anything, he’d let himself become a near-permanent fixture in the bookshop.
Until six months ago.
Crowley felt the sea of fog jostling him, like hands pressed against his heart.