Okay. Too much coffee. Way too much coffee. You get two chapters today. I had to write this and finish it, mainly because I'm already onto the next one, which I didn't see coming at all!
I blame the coffee in my fridge.
Bad coffee!

xXxXx xXxXx xXxXx xXxXx

IV.

"Somebody killed my best friend! Bastards! All of you!"

The bookshop was gone.

Completely.

Sure, the building was still there. Kind of. Mostly. But everything else?

Not a single page had survived the fire and the subsequent firefighting. Thousands of rare volumes, of personal treasures, of pieces he had personally rescued out of dank cellars and dusty attics… all gone. All his personal knick-knacks, all the little things he had collected throughout the ages, reminders of his and Crowley's adventures… all gone.

As much as Adam had rebooted the world and banished events, erased them from history and the minds of humans, some things hadn't been restored or been undone. He hadn't performed a miracle. He had used his power one last time, though not to completion.

Some deaths had been permanent.

Some losses were real.

And one loss was the corner store bookshop of A.Z. Fell. It was still a ruin. It was still burned out. Empty windows, the glass panes shattered, lined in black soot like cheap eye shadow, gazed out onto the busy street. The door was a charred husk.

Aziraphale had returned a few times already, never stepping inside until today. Until today he had stared at his beloved shop from the outside, gazing at the damage for hours, ignored by passers-by.

He had known about the loss since his happily accidental and random contact with Crowley in that pub, hearing the raw pain and loss in his friend's voice, feeling it, too. Not because of the bookshop. No, that had been a different kind of pain. It had been Crowley's words about losing his best friend.

And everything that had been said in that one sentence.

Now, seeing the result of the fire, a different kind of loss returned.

On some strange level it hurt. He had collected books, had run this shop, since the eighteen-hundreds. He knew it were just material possessions, a building and paper and ink. But emotionally… emotionally it had been part of him.

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh.

It was foolish. As foolish as eating, enjoying the different foods or the different countries. As foolish as so many things…

But it had been his. It was what he had wanted to do, where he had wanted to be. A hobby. An indulgence. A feeling of… home.

Now that home was gone for good.

No one saw the damage.

No one would ever see it.

People tended to ignore what didn't make sense, and the damage didn't make sense because… no one remembered the fire. For the humans busily walking or driving along the street it was just a façade.

Today, Aziraphale entered his beloved shop for the first time.

And it tore at his heart.

All that damage, all that destruction, all that loss.

He felt emotions deep inside. He felt them rise and trying to get free.

"Stupid," he whispered to himself. "Stupid! It's just… matter."

Another presence came inside, well-known, familiar, wanted, and truthfully, it was needed. Very much needed.

Moral support.

Well, something along those lines. Aziraphale had always tried to never actively ponder his and Crowley's relationship, their friendship, in the past.

How it was worrying not to hear from the demon, see him.

Not because he believed Crowley was up to no good. He was a demon. Of course he was up to no good! It was his job! And it was Aziraphale's to thwart him.

They always popped up in each other's back yard. Aziraphale could be certain that his counterpart would be around one day, gloating, taking credit for things he might not even have done, or to talk about their Arrangement.

There was also how it was such a delight to share food, drink and stories when they did see each other.

How it hurt to fight.

How it had felt just before the doomed doomsday, when they had flung all those hurtful words at one another.

Because he did consider them friends.

Because he did need the demon.

Because they were truly only on their sides, were two halves of the same coin. A currency no one else used.

One half had his beloved material possession back. The Bentley had been returned, unscathed, without a dent, good as new. The same mileage, but everything else was perfectly fine. Not a scratch, not a single scorch mark.

Crowley had been ecstatic. Aziraphale had been there to see that light, that happiness, shine through in the yellow eyes. Even if Crowley didn't so much as whoop or run over to the beloved car, the smile, the way his face shifted through expressions, was tell-tale.

And he had shared the happiness.

He knew how much the car meant to the demon, how he cared for it, loved it, cherished it. How he refused to have anyone else ever even so much as touch it. Aziraphale had been honored to ride in it, knew it was a privilege not granted lightly.

And he had seen how much its loss had meant to Crowley, how something of the demon had gone up in flames and died that moment at the airbase.

Like something had gone up in flames and died within Aziraphale when he had first laid eyes on his beloved bookshop.

Which wasn't back.

It hurt more than it should be allowed to.

So when he felt the demonic presence, Aziraphale didn't turn. Crowley joined him, their arms brushing against each other. He had his hands stuffed into the skinny jeans, the lean, lanky frame leaning a little more toward the angel than normal, sunglasses hiding the yellow eyes.

He radiated an air of detached interest, like he was only here to enjoy the destruction, revel in the despair, rub it all in and gloat over the loss. But Aziraphale had long since learned to look underneath the bluster and the acting. Right now Crowley was tense, like he was expecting the worst, even though the worst had already happened.

"It's all gone," Aziraphale heard himself say dejectedly. "All."

"'S was only books, angel."

He winced. Yes, it had been only books. Paper. Lifeless. Ink on paper. But it had been history. The history of mankind. He had collected it, treasured it, made sure it would live on, so to speak. It had been his shop and it had been his shop for such a long time…

Home.

He pushed it away.

How could it be home?

"Listen…. Zira…" Crowley expelled a little sigh. "I didn't mean…" He stopped, then grimaced. "I know you loved those books." Their shoulders bumped briefly. "But they can be replaced."

Aziraphale glanced at his counterpart, heard something between the lines, and then a light went off. Not literally, of course.

But something clicked into place, was a revelation of a different kind. Aziraphale's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh, my… Crowley, I… I am so sor…"

"Don't!" the demon snapped and stepped away, glaring at him from behind the dark glasses.

He did nevertheless. "I am so sorry."

"Don't bloody apologize!"

Long-fingered hands clenched and unclenched.

"I feel I should."

Crowley glared, but it wasn't directed at the angel. He kicked at some burned-to-a-crisp something and it crumbled into ash. He grimaced as the soot settled against his pant leg and over the snakeskin shoes.

"Crowley," the angel tried again.

"You were dead, Aziraphale!" the other entity shouted, voice cracking. "Dead! Gone! I couldn't feel you anymore! At. All!"

"I wasn't…" Aziraphale tried to correct him.

"You were!" Crowley yelled and the glasses slid marginally down his nose, giving the angel a glimpse of burning, all-golden eyes. Desperation and pain. "You were dead! I couldn't bloody feel you! You were gone and there was nothing but fire! For all I knew it could have been hellfire!"

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale stepped closer, his mind filing away a ton of little things.

Words, facial expressions, gestures… emotions. So many little things assailing him, telling him the larger story, and he felt it. He felt Crowley. So incredibly close and intense...

"It wasn't. I didn't die. I'm here. I'm not leaving."

A muscle in Crowley's cheek twitched. His lips briefly pulled back from even, white teeth in a silent snarl. For a moment it felt like he would unfurl his wings, the agitation so strong and snapping close to the surface.

"And I know the books are objects… replaceable…"

Well, mostly. Some had been unique, the last or the only ones of their kind. Aziraphale felt a distant pain, a kind of loss that wasn't like losing a person… a friend… best friend… Crowley.

That gave him a little stab. More than that. It had part of his very soul clench almost painfully.

No. Not almost. That was definitely pain.

"My apologies for scaring you," he said softly.

Crowley was visibly fighting with whatever was going through his head, with the emotions were warring inside him. His lips were thin lines, his whole face more drawn, more rigid, and his wiry frame so tense, Aziaphale feared something might snap or break.

"Dear, I…"

"No!"

"But…"

"You bloody don't get to fucking apologize!"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

Crowley stabbed a finger at him. "You!... don't get to apologize!" he yelled again, the pain now so open and raw. "Ever! I thought you were dead! That they had taken you! And here you are moaning about losing some old, dusty books! Books! They have no essence! No soul…!"

Aziraphale was stunned, that strange sensation twisting through him again. A kind of shared pain. The pain of personal loss, so acutely felt by his demon, mingling with his own loss, which was paling in comparison.

There had always been the little twinges. The echoes of his demon's outbursts deep within Aziraphale's soul. Mostly when Crowley was angry at him, at what he had done or not done.

Now… the twinge was more. It was like someone digging deeper, looking for the source, looking for the last piece, the last wall, the last… puzzle stone.

"I know," he whispered. "Oh, Crowley, I know. And I never wanted to hurt you this way. I never would have subjected you to such cruel, cruel torment…" He stepped closer and Crowley seemed to rock back without physically moving. "It was an accident, my dear. All of it."

He reached out carefully and his fingers brushed over a tense forearm, caressing the tightened fist briefly. Ever so briefly.

It was enough to open the floodgates. It was enough for what had hung unspoken between them to finally flare to life. Unstoppable, powerful life.

It was enough to cement a connection that had been six thousand years in the making, that had been there all the time, growing from a single strand to an unbreakable… something. And now it pushed Aziraphale even closer, to a soul in torment, to an entity drowning in that torment and in his guilt.

Loneliness.

The prospect of the World Ending, of eternity alone. Just one soul. No match. Just Crowley…

The next puzzle piece clicked into place.

xXxXx

Crowley made a noise that was almost too soft to hear, but it was there. That one touch was enough. It was like a blow to the gut, like a gentle caress, like claws burying in his once-divine essence.

His body felt too tight for his soul all of a sudden.

And yes, he had a soul. One of his many failures as a demon. He had arrived Below with a fully intact specimen. Probably because he hadn't really been kicked out, more like gotten the door slammed in his face because the Parent was annoyed about their child's no good friends.

So Crowley had a soul.

Some other demons might have one, too. Fragments. Remains of what had once been divine. Not that they talked about it. It wasn't the topic for social chatter or water cooler niceties. It never came up at company picnics over the Sulphur pits.

It had never done him any good; or bad. At least he didn't think so. He probably would have trodden on so many higher-up toes anyway. It was the entity he was. A troublemaker. In Heaven and in Hell.

Right now, Crowley wanted to spread his wings. He wanted to run. He wanted to touch the angel. He wanted to hold on to him, bury his face in the soft fabric of the ridiculous outdated coat, against the even softer neck, inhale his scent and never let him go.

He wanted…

He wanted so much, and he wanted so very undemonic things.

The noise relayed all that. It was a whimper, a groan, a sigh and a plea. It was so much, grew even more, more than he could contain.

"You were gone," he heard himself say, voice cracking under the strain. "Gone! Gone from this Earth! There was nothing left!"

He was breaking apart. The tiny cracks in his soul that had been there since the close-to apocalyptic confrontation with Lucifer were turning into chasms. It was all falling apart and still it didn't feel like an end.

Aziraphale's expression reflected all the pain and hurt he felt himself, all the suffering.

"I only lost my body."

"You went where I could never follow! I had lost everything! I had lost my best friend!" he blurted, all the anguish leaving him with those words. "The only entity in this fucked-up eternity that even matters!" Words he hadn't meant to say out loud.

Oh G… He…ngh, fuck!

"I missed you, you idiotic angel!" he gasped. "I missed you…"

"Oh…"

The bright blue eyes were wide, filled with understanding, with shared pain, with hope and something Crowley had seen directed at himself before. He denied knowing the emotions and always would.

Well, the denial was weaker now than it had been a mere millennia ago, but he was denying it.

Aziraphale's hands fluttered ceaselessly, the agitation clear to see in every twitch. "I would always come back. I came back. I wouldn't leave you, dear. Never. You are not alone, Crowley."

Crowley felt something shiver through him and it was curling like dread in the pit of his stomach. Though not really his stomach. Deeper. So much deeper. He felt it reach out for the angel, wanted to touch his counterpart, and the demon clamped down on it with vicious force.

It hurt.

So much.

Still a little shell-shocked, Crowley stepped back, needing the distance before he did something very demonic and very much undemonic in one.

Aziraphale smiled at him, so knowing and so… so very him.

Crowley furiously pushed his glasses firmly against his eyes, teeth almost gnashing as he fought instinct.

Aziraphale leaned closer without physically moving and his aura seemed to hum a little more, stretch a little more, radiate a little more, instantly seeping into Crowley's and intermingling. It was soothing, calming, so very much his so very much unique angel.

Crowley shot the other a half-hearted glare and finally surrendered.

Not that he would call it that. No. Nope. Never. Demons didn't surrender. Ever.

"What are you going to do?" he asked almost brusquely, violently throwing the rudder of the MS Sinking Ship around to steer into less turbulent waters.

The angel looked at him for a long moment, seconds ticking by as Crowley was under a scrutiny he had never felt from Aziraphale before. Then his counterpart shrugged, the non-corporeal caresses and touches never stopping. It was addictive. Crowley lo… hated it.

"I haven't thought about it yet."

The tight knot loosened a little and the demon's shoulders dropped.

The words 'you can still stay with me' tried to get over his lips, but he bit them back.

It was hard

Very hard.

Because he felt like he couldn't stand to have the angel out of his sight, like he couldn't breathe, even though he didn't have to.

He needed to know… needed to see… that Aziraphale was healthy and whole, in a physical form, down here on this very Earth.

But Crowley won over his instinct, his need to know the angel was close and wouldn't disappear again. He beat them into submission.

At least he convinced himself that he managed that.

Because he didn't.

Ever since the doomed Doomsday they had been around each other, together, rarely out of sight.

It was getting worse.

So much worse.

xXxXx

For some reason Aziraphale continued to stay at the flat. It was an unspoken arrangement now, never put into any kind of words, but simply gestures. Small, simple things.

Like the bookshelves that filled with old editions.

Like the breakfasts at home.

Like Crowley's favorite coffee in the cupboards where it had never been before.

Like one special corner in the whole flat that was Aziraphale, intermingling with what was Crowley. So very closely.

"If I see a single doily, you're out on your celestial butt!" Crowley told him, mostly for show and to have a final word in.

Aziraphale continued fussing around.

There was no doily.

But the plants were starting to bloom even more.