Disclaimer: In case it isn't blatant enough, people who own rights to the work don't go around writing fanfiction. I have no claim on anything recognisable within the story.
Summary: An angelic loss of temper leads to a plethora of questions. But the most important one is, what does it mean to belong? A story involving an angelic overreaction and musings on the nature of emotional support (also a few traumatised humans but they had it coming).
A/N: A big thank you to ArcticRose for her help with the story.
Dies Irae
This was shaping up to be an unmitigated disaster.
Not that that in itself it had to be a bad thing. A number of Crowley's plans over the years required a significant bit of meticulous planning to result in rather spectacular disasters. Only those had been, you know, deliberate. And involved a lot less potential for collateral damage. Both very, very desirable things as far as the demon was concerned. He could really use a plan and no potential collateral damage right now.
Which is not to say that he had never been known to improvise when his plans took an unexpected turn or two (or two dozen as the case often was, but who's counting). The thing was, this had never really been a plan per se. More of a spontaneous idea for amusement, really. And then things spun a bit out of control.
He took in a cautious breath. Yeah, the air was still thick with divine energy, making it rather close to what humans experienced while trying to breathe on a scorching day in the desert. He wasn't sure if the sparks flying around were really there or if his senses were starting to play tricks on him. To be fair, the last time he witnessed this level of heavenly wrath had been around the time of his Fall so some flashbacks were almost to be expected.
He forced himself to focus on the blurry shape in the corner of the room, looking very much like an angel exuding too much energy to have it contained by a physical shape. This was- less than optimal.
And it had supposed to have been such a pleasant afternoon.
III
It was the leaflet that gave him the idea. That is, he was always more than happy to send some misery the bigoted idiots' way, no additional incentive necessary, but when someone had the bright idea to actually touch the Bentley's windscreen wiper, without permission, to place the accursed piece of paper there, they had guaranteed the demon wouldn't let it slide.
Of course the subject matter of the thing only added fuel to the fire. What kind of homophobic plank thought it a good idea to distribute information about a meeting of similarly minded idiots by bothering cars peacefully parking in Soho, doing their own thing?
The meeting was being held in a pub known for the outdated and sad gatherings of men's rights activists. He absently noted that if this was the representation of its patrons, he just might go check it out the next time his demonic nature was itching for some exercise. Still, the meeting. He couldn't have people spreading hate like that. Of course, in theory, that would possibly be exactly something a demon was supposed to want but- it was a matter of protecting the brand, really.
Of course the simple thing to do would be to make their lives miserable. Provide a proper highlight for their darkest secrets on their social media, maybe ensure that some instigator gets caught fleeing a rather embarrassing party via a drainpipe. Thing was, as fun as all those were, a bit of hands-on approach - possibly in the form of some mayhem at the meeting itself - certainly added some flavour to the experience for the demon.
In retrospect he could see how from there, things started on the path that brought them to the current situation.
It seemed almost natural to invite Aziraphale along. This was one of those situations where Crowley's demonic need for chaos aligned perfectly with the angelic need for justice. And, given the Bible quote on the leaflet and Aziraphale's not-quite-that-angelic delight in displaying his academic superiority, he was almost certain he could expect nothing less than a good dose of 'I'm afraid you've taken that dreadfully out of context', 'that doesn't quite reflect the dual connotation in original Aramaic' and 'oh, dear, you seem to have confused the meaning entirely'.
For whatever reason, nothing worked quite as well in sending the bigots in a sputtering rage as someone very politely undermining what they thought to be the cornerstone of their superiority (it was for that reason Crowley made a conscious effort to familiarise himself with the text. While touching a holy book could be a bit tricky - not unlike touching a cup of a hot tea and thinking it was fine until you fully registered the accumulated heat and could barely hold it any more - he quickly discovered that when it came to misprints it was possible to handle even up to a chapter at a time. The hard part was convincing the owner of said misprinted Bible to actually allow you to touch the book in question. Still, his hard gained familiarity with the source could never quite beat the casual experience of a bibliophilic angel).
Which was more or less when things started to go wrong. Not Aziraphale's erudition, mind. That was as impressive as ever, even as he was passionately (but, politely, of course) debating with the group more unworthy of his presence than anyone since the angel's unfortunate attempt at playing a spy (and yes, Crowley remembered the still too recent for his liking instance of Aziraphale debating the nature of the Ineffable Plan with Beelzebub and Gabriel - one doesn't go forgetting things responsible for one's regular nightmares. The point still stood. At least you could say they were a product of their environment. The human idiots had a choice ). The thing was, he might have let his guard slip for a moment as he was observing the chaos brewing from the angel being overwhelmingly polite and competent. He might have also been giving Aziraphale a look a bit too fond not to raise suspicions of the surrounding crowd.
He still didn't know where one of the group got the - literally - blessed paraphernalia. Honestly, he didn't have much time to contemplate it. It's just, one moment he was sitting there admiring the way the angel very concernedly put to doubt the cognizant skills of the author of a certain homophobic pamphlet and the next he heard shouting and felt something stinging pressed against his skin.
That's when all Heaven broke loose. Unfortunately in a much less metaphorical sense than Crowley would have liked.
In theory, he knew that Aziraphale was a guardian. He knew him as that before he knew him as anything else. In the time they knew each other, he had also seen Aziraphale (very reluctantly) showing the combat skills that should put chill in any demon present in the vicinity (as it happened, this particular demon usually was instead mentally bracing himself for an evening of assurances of 'they really gave you no choice' and, on one occasion, 'maybe with a limb missing he'll look into a change of occupation and really turn towards the ugh, good. Not that I encourage it, I despise the very thought, of course'). Thing was, Crowley knew that as much as Aziraphale disliked the notion, he could be dangerous. He also knew of numerous instances when the angel would overreact (even if the overreaction was usually much more internalised).
But there was dangerous, there was overreacting and then there was the full power of heavenly wrath erupting in an enclosed space, disintegrating random items between the angel and his targets and insisting that a group of humans should occupy the same space as a thick brick wall, no matter what the laws of physics had to say about it (given the raw divine power at play, the laws of physics were leaning towards a cautious agreement by this point).
This was an extremely bad place to be a demon right now. That, however, wasn't what was on the forefront of Crowley's mind. What was on the forefront of Crowley's mind, currently, was 'Aziraphale is going to be extremely upset with himself when he calms down and discovers he broke those blokes'.
The air around them was vibrating with divine energy. Crowley stopped breathing just in case. Where Aziraphale's eyes should be on his face, there were currently two sources of quasar-bright light, while all around him reality seemed to be cracking into small shards, each of their facets reflecting a very angry looking angelic eye. The angel's wings seemed to be filling half of the room and still unfurling.
Aziraphale was going to be extremely upset with himself, Crowley amended, when he calmed down and discovered he broke London .
Which meant, of course, that he should probably do something about the situation, before it spiralled completely out of control. Problem was, it seemed to be pretty well spiralled out of control already. At this point it would seem like a safe bet that Aziraphale was no longer fully aware of his surroundings. Which, incidentally, sounded a lot like, in order to do something about it, he would need to get through to an avenging angel who, depending on how far gone he was, could register his presence as nothing more than a demon sneaking up on him.
What could possibly go wrong?
Crowley took in a cautious breath. The air was even more thick with blessing. It made the demon a little dizzy.
"Uh, Angel? Not to put too fine a print on things, but while I completely understand the appeal of being able to do what you feel like without looking to the head office, wouldn't you say that limiting the aggressive manifestations to a minimum sounds like a reasonable working rule until we figure some things out?"
There was no indication the angel even heard him. Crowley looked around the room in search of some inspiration. He found none. Then he stood up shakily (after all, one wouldn't want to startle the angel who might smite the first person to jolt him) and took a step towards Aziraphale. Then another. After four more he was finally close enough.
"Aziraphale?" Very, very cautiously the demon extended his hand to place it on the angel's shoulder. All angelic eyes simultaneously focused on him. It was a tad unnerving.
The power swirling around the room seemed to intensify for a moment, making the demon's eyes widen. And then, suddenly, it was gone.
"Crowley?" the angel blinked slowly. When he opened his eyes again, they looked like they usually did. His body seemed to solidify in its usual form as well, give or take the very atypical shaking. "Oh, Crowley!"
The angel seemed genuinely surprised to see him and the demon wouldn't dare to interpret the myriad of feelings crossing Aziraphale's face at the moment.
There was a thud, distracting him from the angel, from the direction where the humans were cowering in the corner. Evidently someone's psyche wasn't as strong as they'd hoped and they collapsed to the ground as soon as the perceived threat was gone.
"I think," Crowley said, looking at the group, still irritated by the distraction, "that you really want to get out of here, have something to drink and remember this only as a disturbing nightmare that was very likely brought on by your guilty conscience and finally acknowledging that you were terrible people."
He didn't need to tell them twice. He had a feeling they would be willing to march through an active volcano if that meant never needing to meet Aziraphale again.
And speaking of the angel, he was still shaking, in what was starting to resemble sobs, still repeating Crowley's name. Not knowing what else to do, the demon cautiously pulled the angel toward himself. Aziraphale went willingly into his embrace, the dam of tears finally breaking.
Confused by the situation more than anything, the demon started rubbing circles on the angel's back.
Finally the sobs subsided somewhat. "I thought-" Aziraphale started softly. "When they brought out that cross and you cried out in pain, I was so afraid…"
He couldn't finish.
"That? It was more of a sound of surprise than anything else. That thing is barely even blessed, really. Somebody's Great Aunt Maureen probably bought that in a souvenir shop in Guadalupe, realising on the last day of her trip to Mexico that she was supposed to bring something back."
(As it happened, Crowley wasn't entirely correct on that point. It was Great Aunt Susan and she was returning from her lovely Croatian vacation via Medjugorje).
"Still, the very thought-"
"Hey, no harm done. Except maybe some property damage and a couple traumatized humans."
Only now the angel seemed to look around and register his surroundings. "Yes, it seems I might have been a bit excessively dramatic about it."
Crowley snorted. "That's one way of putting it. It seems to me that we both could use a drink right now. How about we get out of this place and crack open that Quinta do Vallo Adelaide that we were supposed to try?"
"I'm not sure I would appreciate it properly right now, my dear. But the idea isn't bad on principle."
"Excellent."
III
Aziraphale, as it turned out, was quite correct in that he wouldn't be able to appreciate any fine wine. Possibly because it was generally rather difficult to appreciate any drink while sitting motionlessly, staring unseeingly at the wineglass in one's hand.
A few times he seemed almost ready to say something only to withdraw within himself again.
Finally Crowley couldn't stand it any more.
"Are you all right, Angel?"
"Oh, yes, quite all right, thank you. No need to concern yourself about me."
"Things today turned out a bit differently than I thought they would."
"Yes, rather."
"You had me worried for a moment there, Angel."
This finally seemed to get a reaction.
"I had you worried? Crowley, I…"
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly. I'm afraid I rather mishandled the situation and blew it out of proportion."
"Yeah, just a bit."
"In retrospect there were more appropriate ways to deal with it. It's just, when they attacked you-"
"Inconvenienced at most."
"When they attacked you- You are- You must realise you are all that I have left."
Crowley sobered immediately, the reality of the situation suddenly sinking in. An angel, as a general rule, was never alone. Even without any other angels present there was always the feeling of being part of the Host. Feeling of belonging. Having that connection torn from you was one of the more terrifying aspects of Falling and even then, those that did, fell together, being able to forge a new connection, born of their anger and rage. Not a perfect substitute by any means but something to fill the void.
Aziraphale didn't even have that. For his entire existence he had the comfort of knowing he belonged until suddenly he was forced to give it up. And all he was left with was Crowley.
The demon never suffered from a particularly low self esteem but even he could see that it was a disproportionate exchange.
"I have no intention of leaving you, Angel. You must know that."
"I do hope that is the case. But you have to admit today was a rather sobering reminder of how- Oh, I'm terribly sorry. It is exceptionally selfish of me to even concern myself with my own comfort in such matters when it was you who were in danger. I'm afraid the whole experience left me rather more shaken than I expected if I lost sight of how it concerns you more than me."
"I was not in danger," Crowley said emphatically. "There was nothing even remotely danger-y about it. And I'm sorry you're hurting right now, that you no longer feel the support of Heaven you knew you could rely on, but we're in this together. Our own side, remember? We watch out for each other. But we also know each other well enough to know what we both can handle. And a roomfull of idiots is definitely not something any of us couldn't handle with our eyes closed."
"If you say so."
"Also, just to clarify something. Don't you ever dare to apologise for thinking of yourself."
"Really, Crowley. You do not have to coddle me. I am very much aware how inappropriate that was."
"Aziraphale, you are well within your rights to think of yourself. I expect you to be a little selfish." The angel still looked doubtful. "You could say, all that selflessness is downright impolite when dealing with a demon."
"If you say so, my dear."
Crowley studied the angel for a moment before reaching out and taking his hand.
"And for the record, I'm sorry you lost their support. I know it sounds hollow but I genuinely wish you could still have that."
Aziraphale frowned, looking at their joined hands.
"I suppose," he managed eventually, "one could say that to have somebody's support one would have to be certain they have one's best interests in mind. And that they can be relied on to offer understanding and help in a moment of need. All that time I wanted to believe I could rely on that from Heaven but I'm not certain any more. What I am certain is that I could expect those from you."
"And I have no intention of ever changing that." Crowley assured, looking Aziraphale in the eye.
In a quiet bookshop in Soho an angel was mourning no longer feeling the support of the Host. But at least he didn't feel alone.
The End