Written out of sheer boredom. And I know Susan likes Fallen!Az. So uh- Enjoy. Also, I do think it's better and makes slighyly more sense if you read it while listening to Thistle and Weeds by Mumford and Sons. Trust me, you'll see-slash-hear why.
"This is not right. This is not how it was meant to be." It was Aziraphale's only thought as he sat there alone on his knees, blonde curls tangled and dripping with red water, face smeared with a mix that consisted of blood, dirt, blood and tears. The sky had darkened afterwards, and, as if Heaven itself had been personally victimised, was now crying. Thick raindrops were falling down onto Aziraphale. All he knew was that he had lost. Lost it all. Not simply this. It was all so very complicated.
He had tried. But simply couldn't fight against him. So he had chosen to fight against Him. Proper blasphemy. The angel could feel the weight of his fellow angel's judgements and could hear them whisper in his ears. About him. But they were dying out. Disappearing.
It was turning dark now. If this had been different, Aziraphale would have stopped to admire the bright colours of the last rays of sunlight turning into the darker colours, with stars spread across the sky, like seeds. Spirits, like humans told their kids, planted there to rest. Aziraphale knew better.
For the first time, he knew what it was like to be cold. To feel the wind biting his skin, his clothes nor angelic immunity shielding him. For the first time he could experience pain. To feel pain is something entirely different. It bit him, as if every previous scar got ripped open. Thousands of knives dragging across his skin, hundreds of bullets piercing through his muscles. The feeling of bones snapping. Sanity practically dripping down, forming a mixture with the sweet raindrops and salty tears.
He thought it would have been better. Glorious, even. But, needlessly to say, he had been misguided. Aziraphale felt like he didn't belong here anymore. It didn't feel right. He felt like weed between perfect flowers. Despite the fact that bodies were spread across the field, all creatures living had already fled, but not Aziraphale. The bodies belonged to angels, to their souls, and to demons. They had been smiting and stabbing with angel blades. But the sword in front of him seemed to have given up, just like it's wielder. It was now simply glowing orange, as if it had been laying in a fire, ready to be forged.
And that was when lightning struck. All things happened at the same time. The sky lit up, but the rain didn't stop. They had returned to claim their losses. A hand on the blonde man's shoulder, pulling him up. Flash of yellow, flash of dark hair and the smell of electricity, the smell of strong liquor and leather. And suddenly, he knew that all the remaining purity had been rinsed off of himself and the other one pulled him flush against his chest.
It was okay. He was okay. The whispers that had stopped returned, but the words were uttered by one person. One person Aziraphale knew he loved.
So they were standing there as the rain streamed down, until all the dirt was washed out of the blonde hair, until he could move. Until he had gotten out of shock. Until the world around Aziraphale and Crowley had turned a shade darker, as if he had putten on shades. And for the first time, Aziraphale truly understood Crowley.