It's odd, seeing Aziraphale with a sword.
Crowley knows, on some level, Aziraphale knows how to use the sword. He was a soldier in Heaven, after all, and God gave him that sword specifically for his assignment on Earth, so She clearly thought he knew how to use it. So he knows Aziraphale is probably good with a sword, but the image of Aziraphale actually wielding said blade in a fight fails to connect in Crowley's mind.
He can't reconcile this warrior angel with the book-loving, peaceful angel in front of him.
Aziraphale stares down at the blade, shadows in his eyes. He doesn't appear fond of the idea of holding the sword, either, just as Crowley doesn't like the thought of Aziraphale having to use it.
The angel twirls the blade with a flourish and Crowley takes a small step back, watching the fluid movements. It's odd seeing Aziraphale like that, but he does make it look like a dance. Crowley can use a sword if needed, but he hasn't ever been overly good with it. In Heaven, he was a creator; he helped make the stars. He had no need for a blade until he fell in with the wrong crowd.
Aziraphale, meanwhile, was created to be a soldier. A weapon.
It boggles the mind, really. The fact God created warriors when, at the time, there was no need for a fight. Did she see the Great War coming?
Aziraphale stops his movements, holding the blade limply at his side as he glances at Crowley. "You never really forget how to use it," he hums. "Oh, but it feels odd to have it! Why would She give it back to me when I gave it away?"
I gave it away, the angel atop the wall surrounding Eden had told him that day.
They were among the first words Aziraphale ever said to him and they have stuck with him all this time.
Aziraphale gave away his weapon to protect the first humans out in the darkness, and then the sword wound up in War's hands. When they returned the blade to Heaven that should have been the end of it, but here it is, taunting them.
Crowley shifts from foot to foot, prowling quietly as Aziraphale turns to put the blade on the table. "So, who are we fighting?"
"Fighting, my dear?" Aziraphale turns toward him, confused.
"Well, yeah, She sent you a sword, Aziraphale."
She gave him a weapon. There's only one reason She would give him a sword, right? Something is clearly wrong, as Aziraphale has been saying, but She seems to think he will need this sword, of all things. She could have sent him anything, but She sent a weapon.
Aziraphale's expression crumples. "Oh, dear. I don't wish to fight anyone."
"Might have somethin' to do with these urges you're having."
"Perhaps. They are getting… very strange."
"Strange? Strange how? Did you have another one?" Crowley itches to circle, filled with agitation, but Aziraphale is still standing next to the table so instead, he paces back and forth, coiled and ready to strike. "What was it? Why didn't you tell me? When?"
Aziraphale holds a hand up. "Slow down, Crowley."
Slow down.
It's too close to you go too fast for me, Crowley for his liking.
His pace quickens. "Well? Tell me."
"While you were sleeping, I felt an Urge. I helped someone down the street, that's all," Aziraphale says calmly.
"How was it strange, then?"
Aziraphale frowns. "It felt different, is all."
Crowley wave this hand at the letter on the table behind Aziraphale. "Say anything about these urges?"
"Not at all. It just says I might need the sword."
Well, that's telling, isn't it?
Crowley isn't certain he can handle more conflict right now. He feels decidedly more himself after waking up—not that he'll give that angelic bastard any thanks for knocking him out like that—but he still feels out of sorts, still wrung out mentally. He certainly doesn't want to think about fighting anyone.
Who would they even be fighting, anyway?
He's the only demon stationed permanently on Earth, after all.
Unless Hell chose a replacement for him.
Well, that's a thought. Maybe Hell has chosen someone else for their Earth agent since Crowley cut ties with them. But Aziraphale, to his knowledge, is still the only angel stationed on Earth for any length of time. Heaven doesn't seem to have found a replacement.
Perhaps his replacement wants to do what demons usually do to angels.
"Dear. The pacing. It's quite dizzying."
Crowley stops his prowling, but it takes a bit of effort on his part. He's never been good at standing still. Especially when something is wrong. Especially when this whole bloody universe is out to get them, it seems.
"Let's have lunch," he says, suddenly desperate to get out of the bookshop. They've been cooped up here for weeks now, after all, with Aziraphale fading in and out of consciousness. A change of pace sounds nice, and Crowley needs time to think.
"That sounds wonderful, my dear. I'll grab my coat."
xXx
They eat at the Ritz and drink champagne. Aziraphale happily eats his dessert and Crowley sits with his chin in his hand, holding his head up as he watches Aziraphale wiggle happily in his seat.
It reminds him of their first night of freedom, when they ate at the Ritz after their respective trials, though he's not certain Aziraphale's in Heaven counts as one. It was the first day of the rest of their lives and they finally free to be together, to do whatever they wanted, to be out in the open. To be everything they never could be before because of rules and fraternisation.
It was a new beginning.
It should have been a new beginning.
Crowley wants to rage at the unfairness of it all, but he isn't a child and Aziraphale wouldn't appreciate the tantrum. It's just… frustrating. Frustrating how life seems to be dead-set against the two of them being free. Aziraphale severed his ties to Heaven, chose to help Crowley and side with Crowley when push came to shove, and that was supposed to mean something. Now it just feels like Heaven is dragging Aziraphale back in, and there's little Crowley can do about it besides internally scream with frustration.
So much for new beginnings.
"What now?" Aziraphale asks as he wipes his mouth, dessert gone.
It reminds him of the night they ate together before they hatched the plan to be 'godfathers' to the Antichrist. Crowley was desperate to get Aziraphale to see reason and thought he had a chance to do so when the angel was drunk, as he seemed far more open to prodding then, so he'd suggested alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol.
"Fancy a walk in the park?" Crowley asks.
"Oh! Yes, that does sound nice."
The last time they went to their usual park, Aziraphale had dove headfirst into a river to save a drowning child, and had then promptly proceeded to pass out on him. Maybe the park is a bad idea.
Too late to change it now, though. Aziraphale likes the park, he likes the scenery and the people and nature, and his eyes have already lit up happily at the thought of going there.
Crowley pays for their meal and the two leave the restaurant.
It takes a couple moments before Crowley realises the angel is no longer following behind him on the way to the car. He stops and turns around, but Aziraphale isn't there.
Before he can panic, he spots the angel back at the start of the parking lot, turning in a slow circle like he can't decide which direction to go. Crowley stomps back toward him.
"Something wrong?"
"Hmm?" Aziraphale asks absently.
"I thought we were going to the park."
"The park, yes…"
He doesn't like that tone, he decides. It's distant and distracted.
And then Aziraphale turns right and starts walking. Toward the street. Away from the direction of the Bentley.
Crowley follows after him. "Hey, where you going?"
Aziraphale doesn't answer him.
A chill slips through the demon. "Is this an Urge?"
"Mm…" Aziraphale hums absently.
Crowley manoeuvres in front of the angel, holding his arms out to stop him. "Aziraphale?"
The angel's gaze is glazed, he thinks, looking into those familiar eyes. At least, they should be familiar. But when looking into them now, what stares back at him isn't quite Aziraphale.
Oh, he's there alright, but he's not at the forefront of his mind. Looking back at Crowley now is something else entirely, and ice hits his veins. He hisses, snagging at Aziraphale's shoulders.
"Are you in there?" He demands.
Aziraphale blinks back at him, and for just a moment, clarity fills his gaze.
For just a moment.
Then he shoves past Crowley, briskly walking away from him, and Crowley scrambles to chase after him on legs which feel rather weak, suddenly.
Now, legs and Crowley have never really gotten along. His True Form in Heaven never had any such nonsense as that's not how true forms work, exactly, but when he Fell the beast he transformed into was a snake. Snakes didn't have a name back then, they were just some squirmy, cold-blooded thing that slithered across the ground with no arms and no legs. It swayed back and forth on the ground to move forward. When he took on a more human appearance that day on the wall surrounding Eden, he experienced having legs for the first time. He just stood there, then, uncertain how to move with them, as he'd only ever slithered across the ground before.
He knows how to walk now, obviously, but he still sort of slithers when he walks, swaying widely when he doesn't need to, but his legs just don't want to work properly even on the best of days, it seems.
Walking around in Aziraphale's body during their little swap, it felt different. Or, rather, he moved differently, because he had to. It felt like taking on another persona, the way he walked, pretending to be Aziraphale for a day. But he knows his body and he knows his own legs, and his legs have always hated him.
It's no wonder they want to weaken now.
"Angel!"
He catches up to Aziraphale, who hasn't slowed his gait in the slightest, and keeps moving forward. It's like that day in the park all over again, Crowley thinks, looking around for who might need saving now. There are very few people out and about this afternoon, but it is a weekday and people do need to work.
The point is, he doesn't see anyone in need of rescue.
When Aziraphale steps out into traffic as the light turns green, Crowley blesses under his breath and charges forward.
He just manages to snag the angel's arm and yank him back onto the sidewalk as a truck comes careening past.
"Aziraphale, the bloody hell was that? You could of discorporated!"
And they still don't know what's going on with Heaven, or what will happen if Aziraphale is, in fact, left without a body.
Aziraphale says nothing, but he does wait on the edge of the sidewalk for the light to change again.
"Oi," Crowley says, snapping his fingers in front of the angel's face. "What's going on? Can you even hear me?"
Aziraphale inclines his head slightly—perhaps an acknowledgement of Crowley's words—but he still says nothing.
"Aziraphale!" He hisses through clenched teeth, feeling his fangs sticking into his tongue momentarily. What the bloody hell do I do now? How do I stop this? "Angel, I need you to—"
The light turns red and traffic stops.
Aziraphale runs.
Crowley gives chase, growling low in his throat at the absurdity of this.
He chases Aziraphale for two whole minutes of straight running, which is an ungodly amount of running, to be honest.
If you're in such a bloody hurry, why not just miracle yourself there?
Aziraphale stops just outside a back alleyway, and turns to head inside it.
Oh, yeah, sure, this is fine. Just going into a dark alley, no big deal, not like anything ever happens in dark back alleys…
There's a man on the ground next to a dumpster.
Red blood coats his stomach, oozing from some sort of stab wound. He has one hand weakly pressed against it but even so, he's fading fast.
Aziraphale crouches next to the man, mutters something in a calm, soft voice which is too quiet for Crowley to hear as he comes up behind the angel, and the man wheezes as Aziraphale's hands press over the wound, pushing the man's hand away.
Crowley can feel the grace spilling off him as the angel mends the wounds.
Oh, that's not really allowed, he thinks almost numbly.
It's just overshadowed by the whole that's not what your grace usually feels like.
It's powerful, and warm and soothing, of course, but there's just the slightest edge to it which doesn't exactly feel like Aziraphale.
And Crowley would know, because he's been studying Aziraphale for 6000 years.
Is this because of what happened to him? Because of… whatever that was, in the Main Entrance?
It did cut at his form and at his grace. Shredded some of him, even. It's much better than it was, but not as good as it used to be before attempting to go to Heaven, he thinks, which might be enough to account for that edge wrong wrong wrongthat's slithering up his spine currently.
Might be.
The glow stops and Aziraphale snaps his fingers.
The man disappears off the ground, probably deposited to a nearby hospital where a nurse or someone is about to get a rude awakening when a bloody man just appears next to them.
The thought would be amusing if he wasn't so concerned, he can't help but think.
A shudder runs through the angel. Aziraphale pushes to his feet, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides, like he can't quite decide what he should do with them. Then he slowly turns around and faces Crowley.
The look of recognition in those eyes is suddenly very grounding.
Crowley exhales sharply. "With me now, angel?"
"Oh, did I go somewhere?" Aziraphale asks. He looks down at his hands, at the blood coating them. "I healed someone. He's safe now."
"Yeah, you did," Crowley says briskly. "What in Hell was that all about, then? You weren't yourself, Aziraphale."
"Oh, I know," Aziraphale sighs. "As I said, they are getting… odd. Very strange indeed."
"Wait, this has happened before?"
"If this is your version of strange then I'm bloody concerned, angel. That was…" Unsettling. Bizarre. Worrisome. "… very odd."
Aziraphale's expression crumples. "Crowley, I don't know what's happening to me."
Oh, fuck me, Crowley thinks. He actually sounds worried.
Aziraphale has been bothered by this whole mess, of course, but this is the first time he actually sounds worried about it all. When it could only be classified as 'odd' it was, at least, somewhat tolerable. Now, this is something more dire, which needs righted immediately.
"How are you?" He asks, and steps forward to circle the angel, glancing at him from every direction. He knows already there won't be any obvious signs of change, any sign of injury or anything, but he still looks anyway.
"Oh, I'm quite alright, my dear." The smile Aziraphale gives is rather forced and doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm just tickety-boo."
Tickety-boo.
"Right, this isn't something I'd call tickety-boo, angel." He continues circling, unable and unwilling to stop himself, agitation flooding through him. He needs to do something. He hates all this being useless business. "Flare your grace."
Aziraphale frowns at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Flare," Crowley bites without really meaning to. "Your grace. Flare it. I need to sense it real quick."
"Whatever will that—"
"Just flare it!"
Stop snapping at him. Stop it.
Aziraphale sighs. "Very well, then."
There isn't a physical movement to it, not really. To project it to something in specific or onto someone, there needs to be some accompanying movement to guide it, but just to flare it briefly there doesn't need to be anything done except ignite his core a little. It's nothing physical at all, but on another plane, Aziraphale's True Form ignites with holy light.
It's blinding and burning but Crowley has long since developed a tolerance to this particular grace.
And it feels the same, he thinks, that knot in his stomach loosening somewhat. It feels like Aziraphale. It's how he's always felt—bright, warm, a version of the sun Crowley likes to bask in, as a snake.
"Right, you're you," he says.
"Well, of course I am," Aziraphale says. "Is something wrong?"
"Nah," Crowley says, and resumes his circling. "Just didn't feel like you, for a second there."
"What did I feel like, then?"
"Hard to explain."
Not hard, he thinks, but impossible. Words can't accurately describe how Aziraphale's grace and presence really feels, as it's never needed to be put into words, so there is really no way he can explain any of it to the angel.
"You were in a daze," Crowley says. "Almost walked into traffic, you did. D'you remember?"
Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. "It's a little foggy," he admits. "The walk here, I mean. It's like… a dream."
"A dream."
"Odd, isn't it?"
"Odd."
Stop repeating what he says, he thinks, but it's a bad habit he has. Whenever he gets nervous or overwhelmed, he will start repeating words said to him sometimes. It's frustrating.
"Do you still want to go to the park, dear?" Aziraphale asks.
The park. Right. That's where they were headed before this whole mess started. Crowley was reluctant to go before, but now he's steadfastly refusing it as he shakes his head.
"Let's go drink at…" Home. "… the bookshop."
"Oh," Aziraphale says, and then nods. "Very well then. Lead the way. I'm afraid I don't rightly know where the car is."
Because you weren't yourself, Crowley bites back and leads the way out of the alley.
xXx
It eats at him.
The glazed look, the edge to the grace, all of it. It all eats at him.
The problem is people, Crowley decides. They're the issue here. They get into trouble nearby and Aziraphale is called to them to help out, however that works. He certainly doesn't know what it's like from Aziraphale's perspective, but to Crowley, it's all rather upsetting. Off-putting. Totally and completely bizarre, and absolutely unacceptable.
People are the issue, but it's not like they can't be around people. Even in this bookshop, people bustle out on the street and still summon the angel outside.
People are the problem, so isolation might be the answer.
"Let's get out of the city," he says.
Aziraphale pours himself another glass of wine. "Out of the city?"
"Yeah. Let's take a vacation."
"Oh, I don't think that's very wise right now."
"It's perfectly wise," Crowley huffs. He downs the rest of his wine and gestures for the bottle. Aziraphale hands it to him and he refills his glass. "Look, Heaven's being fixed, right? Restructured. And you don't like these Urges anyway, so why not get out of the city for a bit?"
"Those are exactly the reasons I can't just up and leave, Crowley," Aziraphale says, exasperated. "It would be foolish to—"
"Ssso let'sss be foolisssh," Crowley hisses back. He slams his glass down on the small table next to the couch. A bit of wine sloshes out at the aggressive movement, coating the edge of his fingers. "Staying here isn't helping, obviously. We could use a break. Doesn't have to be long, angel. Just a couple days, is all."
Aziraphale looks into his wineglass, pondering. "It would be nice to relax a little…"
"Right!" Crowley jumps to his feet and claps his hands together. "Start packing, then. I'll be back in a bit to pick you up; just gotta pop by my place and water the plants and pack."
Aziraphale sighs. "Very well, but it is only for a couple of days, Crowley. Nothing more."
"Of course, angel."
A few days isn't enough, he thinks, but at least it's a start.
For at least a few days, his angel can be safe and maybe Crowley can finally start to unwind from the tight knot he's made of himself.
It'll have to be enough.