Aziraphale held out his hand.
"Nice knowing you," he said.
Crowley took it.
"Here's to the next time," he said. "And... Aziraphale?"
"Yes," ...
Crowley huffed as dust and broken brush settled across his brand new shoes. He grumbled to himself, picking up his feet a bit higher in the hopes of keeping them in a somewhat presentable state. The bottles clasped in two rounded fingers clanged together at his side, their melody slightly drowned by the cracking and popping coming from behind him. His shadow elongated eerily before him, slithering across Lambeth Marsh hill with the will of the light, resembling more of his serpentine form than this human one.
He paused as he reached the top, finding four horses and an angel already occupying the summit.
"Fancy seeing you here," Crowley grumbled flatly, approaching and using one of the few unoccupied fingers in his left hand to point at the small herd. The bottles sang once more as he did.
"Ride all four of them out, did you?" he asked with a crooked grin. "Bit ironic."
"Oh, don't be flippant. I merely tried to save as many I could," Aziraphale barked, the cracking in his voice tipping Crowley off. He turned slightly, looking on the angel's face.
The flames were reflecting in a shine on his cheeks, his eyes red and pained.
"Oh, you're not weeping for them, are you?" Crowley mused with a hint of pity. Not too much, never too much. Just a hint.
Aziraphale sighed, turning his head away and clearly wiping his face.
"Of course not, it's... meant to be. Ineffable, part of the big plan and all that business. Just... got a bit of smoke in my eyes," he said, turning back to look at Crowley, who raised an eyebrow at his obvious lie.
"You're burning," the angel said simply.
Crowley blinked with the hurried flutter of confused butterfly wings.
"Well... yeah. That's the point, innit?" he asked incredulously.
Aziraphale grinned halfheartedly. "No, I mean... currently. You're on fire."
Crowley looked down, finding the edges of his waistcoat singed and burning upward.
"Ah," he said with the unbothered gusto of an already hoof-flattened turtle. He bent, gently releasing the two bottles of imported French wine from his left hand, followed by the box of Spanish cigars from his right.
He straightened, patting out the flames with a grunt of disapproval.
"Don't cry, Angel," he said in a monotone, bending once more and grasping one of the bottles. "They did it to themselves." He approached, viciously biting the cork from the bottle and handing it to Aziraphale, who hesitated, looking down at it warily before taking it.
Crowley turned away, collapsing into the grass next to his own bottle and watching as London burned to the ground.
"Who builds a city next to a damned river, and doesn't use said river to supply a fire brigade," he mused, popping the cork from his bottle and immediately taking a large swig. "'S their own bloody fault."
Aziraphale sighed as well, approaching and dropping into the grass to Crowley's left. He pursed his lips disparagingly, splitting them with the bottle and drowning his sorrows.
"It started in a bakery, it was an accident," Aziraphale said, jumping slightly as the flames hit a pocket of oxygen somewhere, and a loud pop echoed off the Thames.
"Still," Crowley replied, taking another long, ungentlemanly drink. "I should think the lot of them would have avoided flames for the entire year," he said with a sly grin. "It's 1666. The year of our lord, open flames just see..."
"Your lord," Aziraphale corrected sternly.
Crowley shrugged. "To-may-toes, to-mah-toes," he replied with a grin that he knew would irritate Aziraphale.
The angel turned his head to give him a scolding glare before turning back to face the flames, sipping his wine bottle delicately. If anyone could make drinking directly from the bottle look classy, it was Aziraphale.
Personally, Crowley found it rather beautiful; the city was quiet, aside from the crackling of the fire, and even that was breathtaking if you didn't think too much into it. The screaming had long since died out; after all, it had been burning for three days—everyone had either fled or perished already. And the sight itself was magnificent; brilliant red and orange flames as high as the clouds, sauntering back and forth in a sensual courting dance aimed at their upside-down reflection in the Thames.
"Just..." Aziraphale began, the little inflection at the end telling Crowley that he was already feeling the wine. "Think of what's being lost," he continued, motioning vaguely at all of London. "The lives, the books... the knowledge, the... architecture."
"You're crying for architecture...?" Crowley mused sarcastically.
Aziraphale slapped his arm. "You know what I mean... all of it, just... gone."
Crowley was quiet as he considered. He did enjoy London. You couldn't throw a stone down the street without hitting at least five sinners and a goat.
"Yes, but..." he began, sitting up straighter and crossing his legs in front of him so he could lean on them, lean toward the burning city as he admired it. "Think of what they'll build in its place. They'll be back. Go-... you know they'll be back."
Aziraphale smiled genuinely at him, both of them aware that he almost said 'God knows.'
Crowley squirmed under the smile, turning away and looking back at London. "They're very resilient, these humans. They'll rebuild it. And they'll learn from their mistakes, and they'll make it bigger, better, and safer. Don't you remember Rome?"
Aziraphale smiled even wider. "Oh yes, quite right."
With that, Aziraphale let the current line of conversation die. He turned, eyeing his own pile of treasures he'd managed to smuggle from the city: books, a few more books, and one really big book. He then turned back, studying the bottle in Crowley's hand and the box of cigars in the grass.
"Is this all you managed to bring?" He asked incredulously.
Crowley recoiled, offended. "What else is there?"
Aziraphale rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, I dunno, a few people, maybe some important texts..."
"And why would I do that?!" Crowley asked quizzically. He took another drink of his wine. "Would you ask a fish to waltz?"
Aziraphale snorted. "Perhaps, if he could muster the motivation to stand upright," he said, barely containing the grin slowly spreading his lips.
Crowley stared at him for no longer than a second before he laughed hard, which broke Aziraphale's resolve. It started as a chortle and sprinted into an all-out cackle.
Aziraphale finally caught his breath, sighing and taking a drink from his wine.
"What am I going to do with you?" he said with a nod.
Crowley clapped a hand on his back. "Tolerate me, I suppose, just as you have done."
They were both silent for a very long time. Crowley wasn't sure how long had passed as they watched the beauty and the desolation unraveling before their eyes. The sun had set on the fire's third day, and both the angel and the demon had finished their wine.
"How did it happen, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked quietly.
Crowley furrowed his brows, jutting a thumb at the fire in questioning.
Aziraphale nodded 'no' cryptically, pausing before continuing.
"How did you fall?" he asked even quieter.
A chill washed over Crowley, starting at the tips of his ears, dripping down his spine, and crawling down his extremities to his fingertips and toes. He froze like a statue, staring back at Aziraphale's inquisitive yet worried eyes.
"Five..." Crowley had to stop as his voice cracked and failed. He cleared his throat, breaking the angel's gaze to stare down at the grass beneath him. "Five millennia, and you've never asked me that question..."
Aziraphale nodded almost unnoticeably, looking down as well. "Well, I... just... all this loss, you know..." he stuttered, motioning to the ashes and flames that used to be London. "I maintain that there is good in you yet, and... I just don't understand how..."
"You don't want to understand," Crowley interrupted gruffly.
"No, but I... I... do," he finished, looking back at Crowley.
Obviously his face must have been hellaciously standoffish, because Aziraphale immediately looked away again.
"If you... if you don't want to tell me, that's fine," he added in a racehorse's hurry.
Crowley hissed with frustration. He wanted to answer his... friend. He only wished he'd asked any other question.
He struck at the cigar box like the snake he was, snapping it open, yanking one out, biting off the tip, and spitting it away, all in one fluid yet violent movement. He raised his hand, willing his fingertips to light the damn thing.
He took a measured, slow drag on it, holding the smoke in his lungs for a painful amount of time, then blowing it out equally as slowly.
"It started slowly," he said, his voice shaking like the grass beneath his feet. He took another intentionally slow drag on the cigar to strengthen it.
"You know, all the classical paintings depict the angel literally falling from the heavens, while the clouds split and the sunshine beyond spills over him. It's not like that at all."
Crowley paused, considering if he really wanted to be talking about this. He hissed again, taking another hasty drag.
"Crowley, I've obviously upset you, you don't have to..." Aziraphale reasoned.
"Hush, angel," Crowley snapped, slightly disappointed in his own tone. He sighed, settling himself as he blew out the smoke through his nose.
"On the first day, He created the night and the day," Crowley continued, knocking the ash from the end of the cigar. "And I felt the pang of envy for the first time. I admired what He had created, but it was stronger than that. I wanted it, wanted to have it, to experience it for myself."
He paused again, deliberately avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. He wasn't prepared for the judgement he knew he would find there.
"I knew what I was feeling, recognized my sin. I atoned for it, apologized, and sought forgiveness, which I was granted."
He took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.
"On the second day, He created the sea and sky. And as I looked upon the surface of the great waters, I found my own reflection. I felt pride then, staring back at me with innocent yet naïve eyes. I recognized my folly, sought atonement, and was forgiven.
"On the third day, He created the land and flora, and I set foot on it, tasted of the fruit. I could not stop myself. Gluttony reared its ugly head. I stayed until nightfall, until guilt overwhelmed me, and I returned to seek forgiveness. I was met only with silence."
"Crowley, stop, you don't have to..." Aziraphale begged, his voice weak.
"No, you've opened this box, you'll hear its contents," Crowley said bitterly, ashing the cigar once more, his hand shaking it a bit too vigorously.
"On the fourth day, He created the stars and moon, and I lay on Mount Hermon completely unmotivated to move or speak or act. The proverbial sloth, lying in a wallow of his slowly impending panic."
Crowley could tell in his periphery that Aziraphale was covering his mouth with a hand.
"On the fifth day, I saw as He created the sea-dwelling creatures, and the birds, and I hoarded collections of them. I don't even know why. Admiring the birds, perhaps; their wings so beautiful and refined, like mine. The fish, their graceful movement, also like mine. My greed infected me, and I didn't even bother to return to the heavens.
"When I awoke on the sixth day, I had changed: my body limbless and strange. And that's when He created them. Humans. I became angry. Why would He create such wonders and restrict them from his angels? Why should those flawed, imperfect creatures have it? So in my wrath, I... I tempted her. Drawing her to the tree, spinning webs of deceit to prove just how unworthy of it all she was."
Crowley finally paused to take a shaky breath, finding that Aziraphale had buried his head in his hands. He took a final drag on the cigar, spinning it in the dirt and watching as the embers slowly went out.
"And on the seventh day, while God and heaven rested, I sought comfort as my wings turned black. As my tongue forked down the middle, my pupils shrinking to mimic my... soul. I sought solace in the arms of a fellow angel, whose own struggles, unbeknownst to me, were very much like my own."
Crowley paused, unsure of how much detail he wished to bestow upon poor Aziraphale. Images flashed through his mind of the colliding of flesh, whimpers of pain and unimaginable pleasure.
He sighed, his whole body trembling with the rawness of the memories.
"And that was it. The straw that broke the angel's back, as it were."
He finally looked to Aziraphale, who still had his face buried in his hands.
"You were right, I didn't want to know," he muttered into his palms.
Crowley swallowed hard, wishing he'd grabbed more than two bottles of wine. About... two hundred seemed justified about now.
"Do you hate me?" he asked simply.
Aziraphale sucked in a long breath, sitting up straight, dropping his hands from his face, and turning to look at Crowley.
"Hate you?" he asked woefully. "Hate you?! I could never hate you. I... I pity you."
"Oh, God, that's worse," Crowley drawled, anxiously reaching for another cigar.
Aziraphale grabbed his wrist hard, stopping him.
"Not in a condescending way, my dear," he said, releasing Crowley's hand. "I simply wish... I simply wish things had been slightly different, that someone could have... well, that perhaps you could have been..."
"Careful with that, you're bordering on blasphemy. Hate to lose you in the middle of a conversation," Crowley uttered, retrieving another cigar now that Aziraphale had released him.
The angel sighed, nodding. "I thank you for sharing something so... personal with me. And I apologize for making you."
"You didn't make me do anything," Crowley said, lighting the cigar, removing it from his lips, and offering it to Aziraphale.
He grinned, taking it and enjoying a long puff.
"Oh, that's good, that is," Aziraphale drawled, handing it back.
Crowley tried to take his mind off the visceral images crawling through his brain, the echoes of conversations had with God and...
Not God.
The flames were now approaching Westminster and Whitehall. Crowley's disbelief that they had yet to be extinguished were slightly overshadowed by one simple fact; it had started in a bakery. A place where fire is a necessity, and the people who use it wield it with practiced ease.
"Hold on, how do you know it started in a bakery?" he asked curiously, turning back to face Aziraphale.
The angel pursed his lips, reluctantly beginning to turn his head to face him, his blond brows rising slowly like the tide.
"Noooooo..." Crowley gasped in disbelief, shock washing over him with an impact like ice water.
"You didn't... you did not start this?!" he asked, a smile beginning to spread his lips.
"The man was toying with the unrighteous, following a dark path, I simply thought that if I..."
"One of the biggest, most devastating fires I've ever seen… blazing in the year of the beast, started by an angel! Oh, that's rich..." Crowley said, beginning to giggle uncontrollably.
Aziraphale looked vexed, rubbing his temples as Crowley found merriment in his misery.
"It was just supposed to be a little spark, I never meant... never wanted this!" Aziraphale tried, motioning with his right hand and letting it slap back to his leg.
Crowley caught his breath, willing himself to stop laughing.
"Oh, it's alright, my friend," he said, clapping a hand on the angel's shoulder once more. "To err is... well…"
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him, slapping Crowley's hand from his shoulder.
"You think this is funny, don't you?!" he asked, looking back at the decimated city.
"Well of course I do!" Crowley replied with a genuine smile. "You have got to be the worst angel I've ever met."
Aziraphale tried not to smile, but it happened anyway.
"I may know of one worse," he said with a sly grin, reaching two pinched fingers for Crowley's cigar, which he gladly acquiesced.
"Fair enough," he said, watching the smoke that rose from the angel's mouth and the city beyond.
"Just remember I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."