It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Granted, Crowley wasn't quite sure how it was supposed to happen, but he'd always maintained the hope it wouldn't be for a long, long time, and he would find out about it from a third, otherwise unrelated party. But the Lower Downs had called the shots and the Higher-Ups had pulled the strings, and now he was paying the price for refusing orders the first time around.
The week after the Apocalypse that never happened was bright, cheerful, and calm. Crowley got his Bentley back; Aziraphale, his bookshop. The pond at St James was still intact, and the ducks were as hungry as ever. It was warm, sunny, another week in the same old routine. Crowley got back to work corrupting souls. Aziraphale got back to work saving them. The only difference was that they met up for lunch every Wednesday, and everyday they walked the pond and fed their ducks.
It was the week following the week after the non-Apocalypse that Crowley became aware of something wrong with his angelic counterpart. Despite the cheery weather and return to work, Aziraphale was distracted and almost as dark as the humans he lived among.
"What's your bloody problem?" the demon demanded at lunch that Wednesday. The angel blinked, dragging himself from his thoughts with obvious effort. He smiled brightly at the demon.
"The chicken just tastes a bit off," he lied poorly. Crowley was about to argue, but something in the angel's expression stopped him. Instead, he leaned forward and took a bit of the poultry Aziraphale was about to devour, grinning deviously and trying to ignore the angel's blush.
"Tastes fine to me."
Aziraphale forced a weak smile. "I guess this means no more lunch," he choked out in a voice so broken the demon hardly recognized it.
"No, it doesn't," Crowley replied, desperation making his unnecessary heart beat unnecessarily quickly. "Your ass better be in that restaurant Wednesday or I swear to G- to S- to someone I'll—"
He was drowned out by the cries of Heaven's militia as they launched a renewed attack on the forces of Hell.
It was another few decades before the plans for Armageddon were revisited. This time, Hell didn't leave the Antichrist with Crowley. Instead, they put him under house arrest while they found the devil child a safe place to hide. For a month Crowley was stuck in his flat, threatening his houseplants, watching daytime TV, and wishing he could be somewhere else, somewhere away from his demonic babysitters and with a much kinder set of eyes.
Crowley had no idea why he missed the angel so much. It annoyed him.
Crowley couldn't hear anything else his angel may have said over the roar of the battle behind them. He had dragged himself and Aziraphale into the ruins of an old warehouse a few hundred yards from the main battle, hiding them within the shattered remains of some sort of closet.
He leaned against the wreckage, holding his angel tightly. When had he started calling Aziraphale his, he wondered vaguely. It had to have been sometime between their meeting and the day he was called back for the War, but he couldn't remember clearly.
"Angel," he called over the roar of the battle, "you still alive?"
There was a brief moment of silence in which the demon thought that, perhaps, the angel was really dead this time. But then his eyelids fluttered open, and he smiled again, muttering something the demon couldn't quite make out.
"What was that?" Crowley asked, leaning forward. The angel watched him for a moment.
"I'm here, love," he repeated, barely audible. Crowley felt something twist within him, and he held the angel tighter.
"You besssssssst ssssssstay that way, angel," he muttered darkly, pushing Aziraphale's hair out of his face. "Or elsssssssssse."
At the end of a month, Crowley was contemplating drinking a flask of holy water out of sheer boredom. Finally, the Antichrist was hidden, and so, when the demon had almost forgotten what enjoying something meant, he was released from his flat, and the demons vanished.
He was surprised to find Aziraphale at the pond, tossing bread to the dam-bles- the ducks, calm, relaxed, just enjoying a routine activity. Crowley watched him for a moment, confused. Aziraphale looked fine, but he kept glancing around as if looking for someone. Grinning wickedly, the snake waited until the angel had returned to the ducks to slip up behind him and casually wrap his arms around the small form's waist.
"Having fun?" he asked. The angel tensed, pulling himself free and stumbling into the pond. Crowley laughed as he sat there, completely drenched, but the angel just stared at him, surprised.
"Crowley," he said after a moment, and his tone caused the demon to smile, reaching forward and pulling him out.
"Miss me?"
"Don't you dare," the demon hissed, pressing their foreheads together so he could glare more effectively. "The only one allowed to die here isssssssssss me, you basssssssstard."
Aziraphale stared back. No, his eyes pled. No, you most certainly are not allowed to die here.
Crowley smirked. "Why not?" he challenged. The angel forced a small smile, and forced his mouth to work.
"Because," he gasped, "you stu…bborn old snake, I…"
It was almost a decade before Crowley finally realized why he was so attached to his routine. It took another year and a half to admit it to himself.
They had six months before Armageddon. So he arranged everything very, very carefully.
For once, they didn't go for lunch at a restaurant. Crowley managed to convince Aziraphale into agreeing to come to his flat instead. He wasn't much of a cook, but he wasn't planning on them doing much eating after a certain point, anyway.
Everything was set up. His houseplants were at their terrified best. The food was edible. He wasn't acting like a fifteen-year-old boy on his first date.
Aziraphale was late, but that was normal. Crowley had purposely given him a time forty-five minutes before the food was supposed to be finished, so it was still hot by the time he arrived, flushed and carrying a book.
"I do apologize for being so late," he said, putting down the book and testing the air. "Spaghetti?"
Crowley grinned. "Hell's greatest achievement," he replied proudly. Aziraphale smiled, following him into the kitchen.
"I'm fairly certain Heaven came up with noodles," the angel pointed out as Crowley scooped an inordinate amount onto both their plates and covered them in a thick, red sauce.
"Yeah, but Hell invented spicy sausage," the demon shot back, handing him his plate. Aziraphale laughed again, taking a seat at the table, and Crowley mirrored him, carefully mixing the meal together. It was a small table, no more than a couple feet wide. He forced himself to focus on his food as he shoved the fork into his mouth, and then glanced up, watching his angel carefully.
Aziraphale smiled while they ate in silence, carefully removing the meat and tossing it onto his companion's plate. Not that Crowley minded, of course. He was rather fond of spicy foods. Well, he was fond of food in general, but spicy was always better, in his opinion. A little taste of Hell away from Hell, he supposed.
Crowley was silent as he willed the dishes away, watching his companion carefully. "So," he said.
"So," the angel echoed.
Crowley looked at his hands, at his houseplants, and then back at his angel. "This time it's for real, I guess," he muttered. "Six months and the brat turns eleven. World won't last long after that."
"No," Aziraphale agreed, "it won't."
The demon leaned forward slightly. "No more Bentley," he realized painfully. "No more telemarketers."
Telemarketers had been his best idea, in the demon's opinion. More and more corrupted souls a day, and he barely had to do anything. He was proud of how the industry had grown over the years. Before he knew it, they were practically doing his job for him.
"No more books," his angel sighed. "No more St James, or feeding the ducks."
Crowley nodded slowly, leaning forward a bit more. "No more lunches out," he pointed out. "In fact, no more getting together at all. No more Earth."
Aziraphale leaned forward on his elbows, and they were only a fraction of an inch apart. "No more saving souls, or tempting them."
Crowley smiled devilishly. "There's only one soul I'm working on tempting at the moment," he breathed, watching with wonder as his companion shivered. Interesting.
"And pray tell," Aziraphale replied. "Who would that be?"
Crowley grinned, showing his teeth. "I'll give you one guess," he hissed, and then the angel leaned forward and kissed him.
Crowley frowned as the angel trailed off, running a hand over his forehead. "Aziraphale?" he called softly, not wanting to alert any remnants of either army to his whereabouts. There was no reply, just empty, oppressive silence, the kind that fills a graveyard at midnight after a funeral when there are demons lurking about. Crowley could feel his pointless heart slowing to a stop.
"Aziraphale?" he tried again, shaking him slightly. "Dammit, you bastard, answer me!"
There was a slightly worrying noise nearby, like someone forcing themselves to their feet despite countless greious injuries, but Crowley ignored it, trying to find some form of life from the body he held. "Aziraphale! Dammit, you dirty bastard, answer me!"
A shadow fell across him, and he disregarded it, holding the lifeless body of his angel tightly. Somehow it seemed surreal, almost like a joke, a prank Satan was playing to teach him a lesson. Like a dream.
A nightmare.
"Angel," he sid again, and finally looked up as he felt something cool press itself against his neck.
"Not quite," Hastur said, and poured the flask of holy water down the demon's back.
Crowley stared at Aziraphale as he pulled away, startled. "Good guess," he said hoarsely. "Would you like to make another?"
His angel flushed bright red, by far the demon's favorite color. "I hope you realize," he said warily, "that you're stuck with me now."
Crowley smirked, leaning forward so their lips were almost touching, but not quite. "You know," he murmured, grinning as a shiver shot down his companion's side, "I doubt I'd enjoy eternity for long if it were any other way."