IX.
"You can't judge the Almighty, Crawley. God's plans are…"
"Are you going to say 'ineffable'?"
There had never been any talk about what being free meant. Well, never really in-depths. They knew that neither faction could officially give them any assignments or summon them. There would be no orders to do and not do anything. They could stand by and watch or they could interfere.
Basically, they knew what they were. Cast out of Heaven and Hell, one not Fallen, the other still… well, kind of Fallen. No longer a demon or an angel. Yet, they were. A demon and an angel. Nothing had changed in that regard.
Crowley had checked.
Wings still black as night? Yep. Snake eyes? Definitely. Hard to ignore. So, demon.
Aziraphale had been almost hesitant to show his wings, the fear clear to see.
"I'm not going to laugh," Crowley teased.
The scowl was enough to make him grin more.
Neither was he going to do anything else. Well, he might be very much tempted to run his palms over the celestial feathers.
Angel wings, despite their delicate look, were more resilient than human legend and lore gave them credit for. They were strong, could deal out blows that ended up breaking demonic bones, and despite the vulnerable appearance, they were anything but. It would have been a major design flaw to make the wing joints an angel's weak spot.
Angels had no weak spots. Neither had demons.
You either quickly got rid of the Enemy with hellfire or holy water respectively, or you simply discorporated them. Some more ingenious humans had developed binding spells and objects to trap and imprison a celestial or hellish creature, but it could never kill them.
Though it did hurt.
Crowley could attest to it ever since the embarrassing incident in 1971.
Best not talked about.
But angel wings were like any other limb on a divine form. Crowley simply thought that his angel's were rather… pretty.
"They are regular wings," Aziraphale muttered. "Nothing special."
Crowley scowled. "Nothing special? They are your fucking wings, Zira! Your wings! They are bleeding special alright!"
That got him a slightly dazed but still happy smile.
"C'mon," he said, ignoring what that smile did to him. "Out with them. Like a band-aid: rip it off in one go."
Aziraphale grimaced at the analogy, but he did manifest his feathered appendages.
The relief when the pristinely white wings had unfurled had been like a living thing, pushing away the anxiety, and Crowley had felt the same. And there was the fond exasperation as he watched Aziraphale touch his wings, face reflecting marvel and joy.
"Told you, Zira. You're still very angelic and all, right down to the white wings. Dead giveaway, remember? So, still an angel."
"Yes."
Crowley peered at him. He didn't like that tone of voice. "Yes and?"
"Uhm…" Aziraphale twisted his hands. "We can't be sure."
"What? Not sure? We can't be sure you're a freakin' angel?! There's no doubt at all! You're an angel. Even if you're a terrible angel, angel," Crowley added with a teasing smile. "Really terrible at your job."
Aziraphale gave him an affronted look. "I'm certainly not!"
"Hey, terrible demon here. I know." He spread his arms.
The other entity's shoulders sagged and he looked defeated. "I am terrible, aren't I?" the angel sighed.
Good G…H… fuck it! Okay, his angel was truly mopey today.
Crowley cupped the pale face and made the divine entity look into his eyes. "You, Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, current Guardian of Earth, are a terrible angel and that's a good thing. A very good thing! They want to tell you that it's terrible to be compassionate, loving, invested and emotional, to be invested in this little world, your Boss' pet project. It's terrible to be so connected, to love what perishes so quickly, and to oppose its destruction. It's terrible to feel, angel. So you're terrible. Terribly good. And I wouldn't want you any other way!"
Aziraphale's face shifted through several emotions and finally the smile slowly crept back. "That makes you a good demon then, my dear."
Crowley winced and his eyes narrowed as he stepped back with a glare. "Take that back!"
"That would be a lie then. I don't lie."
He laughed, eyes filled with mirth. "Since when?"
Aziraphale grimaced. Then he blinked. "Did you call me Guardian of Earth?"
Crowley shrugged. "Well, it kinda fits."
"I haven't been reassigned to any kind of guardian duty, dear."
"Still fits."
"It should it us."
"Uhm, I'm not guarding anything, Zira. I'm a demon. We don't guard. We tempt, we do fiendishly evil things, we are the vile span of the deepest pits."
Aziraphale took his hand and drew the demon closer.
"You guard me, dear," the angel whispered when they parted. "You always have."
"Yeah, well," Crowley mumbled, not looking at his counterpart. "You have a penchant for getting into a lot of trouble. High maintenance, your lot. You especially." And no, he wasn't shuffling his feet.
Aziraphale smiled at the muttering. "And I won't let anyone harm you if I can help it."
A soft kiss landed on the demon's lips and Crowley almost sighed with pleasure at the pure sense of light and warmth that enveloped him. Aziraphale was radiating and that was a good thing. A very good thing.
Even if the shadow of their new existence hung over them, leaving them in a limbo neither entity liked.
There were no assignments. No superiors visited. There was no supervision, no reprimands, no commendations, nothing at all.
Crowley missed nothing of it. It had been quite a bother and he had never looked forward to his chats with either Ligur or Hastur or both. He had slithered through the ages, taken credit for things not his doing, presenting ingenious plans set into motion by him that no one Down There really understood, the backwards bastards, and he had tried to stay under the radar.
Aziraphale had muddled by in the same and still different manner. His superiors were just as backwards as Hell, maybe even more so, despite their fancy gear and get-up. They were narrow-minded, had single-tracked goals, and as long as Aziraphale delivered blessings and performed minor miracles, all was well.
None of the high and mighty bunch had given the angel the time of day on the best of days. They had finally resorted to threats, insults and even personal violence.
The latter had made Crowley's demonic blood boil.
Angels were supposed to be holy and good. You expected physical violence from demons. You expected psychological torment, too. Never from angels. Least of all archangels.
Fuckers.
Aziraphale wasn't just some plain foot soldier. He had been the Angel of the Eastern Gate. But he had never been in a single battle, actually. Sure, he wasn't the fierce warrior type; smite first, ask questions later. No, he had never been or Crowley would never have made it to this point in his existence.
Now they were free of it all and both beings had yet to fully understand what it meant.
Well, yes, it meant free will, free choices, no affiliations, and just them. Sure. Their side. Only them. Crowley loved being only them. He lo...
The sensation was back. The capital L wanted to come back. Crowley snarled at it.
He could finally freely feel what he wanted, though the words never left his lips. There was a part of him, the demon, the darkness, that was distrustful. Not of Aziraphale. He had trusted the angel for a long, long time now. Longer than he would ever admit out loud.
No, he didn't trust… his own emotions. Because demons didn't have them. They had been swimming around his demonic soul for eons and now… that sensation that had been festering and growing, that single, sole, one emotion always associated with Aziraphale, had started to… manifest.
He cared for his angel. So very, very much. Desired him. There was passion. Adoration. A whole lot of protective feelings. And the other one, too. The other one he couldn't say.
Aziraphale knew, though. It was that weird connection between them, that invisible band that was wrapped around their very essence, made them one.
It wasn't a chain. It wasn't a restriction. It was a freedom he had never experienced before and one he wanted to hold onto with all his power. He would fight everyone and everything not to lose it; ever.
The sex was just a small part of it all, one he enjoyed, one Aziraphale enjoyed, but the overall sense of belonging was by far greater.
He belonged.
To Aziraphale.
And the angel belonged to him.
Him alone.
xXxXx xXxXx xXxXx
His wings were white.
Pristine white.
Angelic. Marvelous. Well-kept, full of divine energy, and no different than the day he had come into existence.
Well, maybe… He thought they looked… bigger.
Aziraphale stood in front of the mirror in his bookshop, turning this way and that, checking each feather from every angle. He curled a wing forward, running his fingers over the primaries as he had done when he had checked the first time.
And the second.
And countless times after that.
He still had white wings.
Of course he hadn't Fallen. How positively ridiculous! Crowley was right.
But he had been cast out, so to speak. Well, terminated. He had been kicked out of the company. Head Office had sent him the strongly worded letter with all the legalese they could cram into the parchment, and that was that.
Not even a cake.
Or a voucher for his favorite restaurant.
Nothing.
So here he was. On his own. Truly… on his own. He could do whatever he wanted and it was somehow… frightening. He had skidded by for so long, hiding the truth, that being able to act just as he wanted, as he desired, continued to confuse and slightly terrify him.
Was it real?
Crowley seemed to take it in a stride. He was as laid-back and absolutely disinterested as always. He had burned the cancellation letter, had brought out the alcohol, and they had gotten smashingly drunk.
"What is your Plan?" he whispered, not even looking heavenwards.
He knew God didn't listen to him.
And there was, as always, no answer.
They had been set free. Unchanged, he had believed, but they had changed. Aziraphale knew it, felt it in every pore of his essence. He felt Crowley with him, tightly interwoven on levels unknown to anyone but probably the Almighty. He felt the divine in the cracks of Crowley's demonic essence. And he knew there was just a little bit more of a bastard in him, too.
Aziraphale shook out his wings, felt their divine power, watched them glow softly. They were energy, always there, manifested as wings, able to take on shape and form as he wished. Throughout his existence, Aziraphale had seen them change, until they were two white, large limbs that humans saw as a true angelic trait.
There was a surge of familiar darkness behind him and Aziraphale met the yellow eyes in the mirror as Crowley sauntered closer.
"What's the occasion, angel?" he drawled, the gleam in his eyes as unholy as it was divine to behold. "Shaking out the mothballs?"
A slender finger ran over the edge of one wing. It tingled pleasantly.
He gave his other half a slightly shaky smile. "Yes, well, yes, the mothballs. Shaking them out."
Crowley's teasing smile vanished, the frown almost angry. "No."
"What?"
"Please don't tell me you're at the whole 'Am I still an angel' bit again! Please!"
"Uh, okay, I'm… not?"
And he wasn't. Not really.
Black wings unfurled, blocking out the light creeping through the lowered blinds of the store. They were just as large as Aziraphale's and just as magnificent. The angel couldn't see a difference to his own, despite the obvious color change, and he felt Crowley's energy running through them. It was amazing, awe-inspiring, and he enjoyed their presence. As well as their ebony color.
He loved his demon's wings. He loved to touch them, feel their power, feel them entangle with his own.
"Black!" Crowley declared and almost viciously gestured at his wings. "White!" Another gesture at Aziraphale's. "Demon. Angel. Not so hard to tell apart! Even the densest angel gets it after the first try! And this!" He stabbed a finger toward his eyes. "This, too! You want to see my serpent form? I still got it! Not so hard to forget, right? Get it into your stubborn skull!"
"I know," he said. "I know it's… It's just… it feels like there is no purpose to my existence… I am jobless, Crowley!"
The demon's head dropped back with a low groan that turned into a frightening growl.
"Angels! You lot drive me insane! You're not jobless! You're not unemployed! You don't get to stand in line to collect benefits! You can do whatever you want! You run this bookshop! You collect the written word in every form and shape. No one will ever force you not to be who you want to be ever again!"
Aziraphale folded his wings, just like he folded his hands, wringing them a little. Well, his hands, no his wings. That would be painful.
"Do you need a purpose to stay here?" Crowley demanded. "To run a bookshop? To thwart customers from buying your precious little dust collectors?"
"I do not thwart. Really, Crowley…!"
"Yes. You're an angel. You don't thwart." The glint was very demonic now, driving the point home. "Do you need a divine purpose to enjoy life as you always have? Eat? Drink?"
"I… no…"
"Do you need a purpose to stay with me?" The last was almost whispered.
Aziraphale's features softened, the smile warm and loving, and the nervous hand-twisting stopped. "No, Crowley. Of course not! Never. I never needed a purpose to stay with you."
The demon was now so close, his wings extended a little forward and brushed over Aziraphale's arms.
"I never needed a purpose either. Only a cover story," Crowley murmured. "I always found you. I always will find you, angel. Always."
Yes. Like he had developed a certain… awareness over the centuries. Awareness of Crowley. He had downplayed it, had never let on that he caught small pings of him.
That had grown into an almost physical sensation.
And by the time he had had his ill-fated encounter with some Nazis in a church in London, Aziraphale could no longer deny that the small ping, that whisper of an awareness, had become a full-blown announcement.
The angel reached up, delicately tracing over the snake tattoo. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the caress like the cat he wasn't.
"That's your purpose then, Zira. Be what you want to be. Be with whoever you want to be."
"Thank you, dear."
"Don't thank me!" was the knee-jerk reaction and Crowley pulled back like he had been doused in holy water.
Aziraphale smiled, putting all his fondness, his love, his understanding in it. Crowley looked almost disgusted.
"Then I won't."
"You better not."
He still let the touch linger once again, eyes closing briefly.
"Silly angel," he whispered after a while, his lips moving against white-blond almost-curls.
Crowley had no idea how he had ended up so close again, face almost buried in the angel's hair. Angel hair. Hn. Funny. But true.
"Am I?"
"Yes," he muttered. "As usual. Silly, silly angel."
Aziraphale chuckled and suddenly the white wings extended around them, sliding over Crowley's black ones.
It was a heady feeling. They seemed to spark against each other, creating frission of heat.
"Maybe I am."
"No maybe about it. Always told you."
"Yes. Yes, you did."
xXxXx
Crowley said nothing about the wings again. Not even that he thought they had grown larger in volume, more impressive, an almost ethereal white at their deepest.
His own had filled out the same way, though they didn't feel heavier. They were darker, gave him more presence, but he wouldn't have been able to tell until he had seen them.
Something was still changing.
In both of them.
Crowley couldn't say he feared it; not really.
xXxXx
They ended up on the bed in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, wrapped around one another, auras meshing together, becoming indistinguishable from one another. Being one.
Aziraphale's fingers played with the demon's hair, exploring the fascinating strands, listening to Crowley's even breaths as the demon slept the sleep of the… well, the demonically tired.
He looked beautiful. Almost divine. Like a dark angel. Crowley couldn't be anything but dark, and he was handsome and wonderful and gorgeous in that darkness.
Aziraphale liked to watch him sleep. The angel didn't think it made him a pervert. He observed, yes. Like he observed humanity. Like he enjoyed humanity, adored them for their ingenuity, their warmth, their love, their free will and freedom. Their choices, their inventions, their potential to be good and bad and all the shades in between. And for their ability to surpass perceived limitations and grow.
Crowley was so many shades of gray, not good, not bad, not nice, not evil. He was all, like a human could be, and he was more. He had surpassed limitations, grown into so much more. Beyond Heaven or Hell.
Crowley was for all intents and purposes not a true demon. There was a core of niceness that had always been there. All his supposedly bad deeds, all the commendations he had gotten, had not been done by him. Crowley was a troublemaker, loved mischief and small temptations. He had never been the Big Bad Demon.
Not that Aziraphale would ever tell him.
There was a snuffle next to him.
Aziraphale smiled affectionately.
A grumbling sigh came from the demon whose face was mashed into the fully clothed side, a puff of air evaporating into the antiquated vest.
"You. Think less loudly. Sleeping here," he muttered with not a shred of viciousness.
"I apologize."
"And don't apologize either!"
"I am sorry."
Yellow eyes cracked open and glared. Aziraphale knew that his expression was a reflection of his soul. He was completely enamored with this being. He Loved him. So very dearly and absolutely.
Crowley groaned, a long-suffering sigh that was muffled by the soft clothes.
The angel chuckled and tugged gently at the messy strands. Crowley would probably have another fit at how undone he looked.
"I really am, dear," he said when those demonic eyes met his own angelic ones. "I did not want to interfere with your nap."
"Then stop thinking."
"You are not telepathic."
"I can still hear you, Aziraphale. Loudly. You… broadcast."
"Oh."
Long fingers dug briefly into the waistcoat. Crowley was starting to relax again, managing to align himself even more closely with his other half.
Aziraphale went back to petting the fascinating hair, drawing gentle fingers over the long neck.
