This chapter's full title is: It Happens in a Blink (Happens in a Flash)
xXx
Cooking isn't something Crowley has ever tried to do before, in his entire life—and that's a very long time. He's never felt the need to do so; if they want food, they go somewhere and eat. It's been a big part of their relationship since the very beginning; inviting each other to lunch. Sometimes it was the only way to spend time together at all, because the rest of the time it was all work related; a temptation here, a blessing there. Sometimes those paths crossed, of course, and they canceled each other out, but sometimes it took them far away from each other, and Crowley could only speculate on what Aziraphale was having for lunch that day, or how his day was going at all, or, well… any of it.
He's spent an inordinate amount of time speculating on the angel through the centuries.
Lunch is a big part of their lives, just as much as drinking together is, and the angel definitely has an appetite for such earthly things. Aziraphale took to food like a moth to a flame, and to be honest, Crowley quite likes how sinful that can look to an outsider. Gabriel certainly would never understand; he compares food to gross matter which isn't fit to be in his heavenly body, and he will not be sullied by it. But Aziraphale enjoys food immensely, and Crowley likes watching him eat.
Aziraphale always does this little happy wiggle when he's enjoying his food, and there's always this twinkle in his eyes, and Crowley just likes witnessing it, is all.
So, here they are, in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anyone and anything else—and going to lunch isn't an option. It defeats the whole purpose of being out here, so Crowley leaves Aziraphale reading in the living room and makes his way into the kitchen to attempt to make something.
After all, how hard can it be?
Apparently very difficult, he thinks, because whatever he tries to make seems to burn instantly. A sandwich, grilled on the stove? Yeah, burnt. The blackened bread tossed in the trash. Some pasta? Overcooked. Boiling over and splashing onto he stovetop, sizzling like anything.
Eventually Aziraphale comes to see what all the fuss is about and Crowley miracles the scent of burnt food out of the cottage and all but forces the angel back out of the room. He's going to make the angel lunch if it kills him.
It's all very frustrating.
He miracles up a cookbook, stubbornly refusing to give up and admit defeat. Aziraphale probably knows how to cook, he thinks. The angel enjoys food so much, he's most likely tried his hand at it in the past. Plus he has all those books in his shop, there's probably a cookbook in there somewhere.
He refuses to ask for help. Refuses to admit his struggle at all, and if Aziraphale gets ushered back out of the kitchen every single time he tries to enter and see what is burning or what Crowley is muttering about, well, he doesn't want the angel to see how truly awful he is at cooking.
People on TV make this look so easy.
People in restaurants make it look easy. Just order what you want and there it is! Right in front of you.
He could snap his fingers and miracle up some food. He could do it right now and claim it was cooked to perfection by himself. But Aziraphale would know better; he claims food cooked the human way simply tastes better than food whipped up out of the aether.
No, he can do this. He can fix some lunch for his angel.
It takes two hours, but he does it.
When he steps out of the kitchen with a plate of grilled vegetables and breaded chicken, he knows he has a stupid grin on his face but he can't wipe it off now, not when Aziraphale is smiling at him so happily.
The angel does his little wriggle of pleasure, accepting the plate from the demon. "Oh, Crowley! You really didn't need to do this."
Yeah, he really didn't. They don't have to eat, and he certainly didn't need to buy food, and he really had no place trying to cook himself, but he did it anyway—to see that smile right there.
Brighter, and warmer, than the sun, that smile.
"Should I say thank you?" Aziraphale asks.
"Better not," he replies smoothly.
"You really are quite a nice—"
"Oi, knock it off," he says with a scowl, dropping down next to Aziraphale on the couch. "So what's on the agenda today?"
"Hmm. I thought we might spend the day outside, since the weather is still nice."
Right. Fresh air and all that. Of course. Aziraphale goes to stab a carrot with a fork, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the two are suddenly outside, sitting on the grass on a small hill overlooking the lake. Azirpahale steadies himself at the sudden change in location, and then sits back with another bright smile as he takes in the view.
"Oh, this is quite nice, dear."
"A picnic, is all," Crowley says, and waves his hand. A bottle of wine appears from the aether, along with two glasses which he fills with the red liquid.
Aziraphale accepts his glass. "Would you like a bite?" He asks, glancing down at his food.
"Nah, angel. 's all yours."
Crowley has never enjoyed food too much himself, but will eat occasionally, mostly for appearances when they frequent a restaurant or something and people start looking at him oddly for never eating. He much prefers watching Aziraphale enjoy his food.
And the angel does.
"This is delicious, my dear," Aziraphale says.
That stupid grin is back on his stupid face. "Yeah, well… was nothing."
Aziraphale likes his cooking. He actually got it right.
Aziraphale is taking in the view, but Crowley takes in the angel. He's missed this, he realises—how relaxed Aziraphale is now, how calm everything is. It's like it was after their trials, when they were finally free and alive and together, after 6000 years of missteps and hiding and—it was perfect, Crowley thinks.
Things have taken a turn lately, and he's missed this easy silence between them. He's missed the relaxed set to those shoulders, the calm glow in those eyes, and he wishes they could stay like this forever.
Haven't they earned such a thing by now? They did help avert the apocalypse. They got through their trials. They got through 6000 years of not truly fitting in, of loneliness so deep and sharp it cut at them bit by bit until they were different people than when they'd started, and he thinks they've bloody well earned the right to relax and be free.
For at least a thousand years.
Apparently the world—and God—have other plans.
This peace will end soon. It has to.
Aziraphale gave him a couple days. That's the timeframe they're working with. It's not enough.
It will never be enough.
They've only had a couple months of the good life, he thinks, glancing back at the angel. Aziraphale is happily munching on his food as he looks out over the glimmering water, and Crowley suppresses a sigh and looks out with him.
Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. Still a couple hours away, he thinks, but on the way nevertheless.
It feels like more than just a physical storm is gathering.
xXx
Rain patters off the windows in a soothing rhythm, the fire place is crackling with orange flames licking upward, and there's a book in Aziraphale's hand and a demon in his lap.
The perfect recipe, he thinks.
Well, not all of the demon, of course. Crowley is sprawled on the couch again with his head on Aziraphale's thigh, even though there is a perfectly good bed upstairs and also just down the hall with a perfectly good bed for him to use which will be more comfortable than said couch, surely—but the demon is here.
They've never been overly big on touch, Aziraphale can't help but remember, even as his fingers brush through the fine auburn strands. Touch is a language neither are overly familiar with, having not been allowed to display such nonsense in the past—but it's a language he finds he would rather like to learn. These simple touches—brushing through hair, soothing an ache, holding hands—have become quite grounding to him, and something he would like to explore further.
Not that it needs to escalate or anything at all. Just these small, simple yet intimate touches—a sort of I'm here said with actions rather than words.
Crowley is snoring softly, turning his face more into Aziraphale's thigh, and Aziraphale settles his hand to rest amidst those strands as he returns his focus to his book.
In this moment, life seems perfect.
The next moment, the door to the cottage is bursting open with a loud crackling sound, and there's fire curling into the living room.
Crowley snaps awake and is on his feet immediately, and Aziraphale looks on calmly at the fire, wondering if perhaps he imagined the whole thing. It certainly doesn't make any sense for this to be happening right now, does it? Perhaps he dozed off and is dreaming…
But there's a figure in the flames, and the scent of sulphur hits him suddenly.
It's not just fire, he thinks. That's a demon in the flames, walking through like it's nothing, and that's hellfire. Some part of his core, his very being, his soul, shies away from the heat of it, some primal part of him aware of what this could mean for him should the flames touch him—should he even inhale too much of the fumes.
A demon steps into the cottage.
Crowley lunges forward with an ungodly snarl, radiating fury and aggression, there's the infernal scratch of two demonic souls colliding, a discordant melody, disturbingly off-key, striking the air as Crowley's form tackles the other, and then they are both surrounded in unholy flames.
Aziraphale inches a little closer—wanting to help, wanting to keep Crowley safe, but ever so worried about the hellfire.
Did they figure it out, then? Do they know he isn't really immune to such a thing? Has that news even gotten to Hell at this point? Why is there a demon here now, at the cottage of all places?
So many questions circle through his head, dizzying in their need to be answered. He raises a hand, twirling his index and middle fingers together for the briefest of moments, and a holy breeze sweeps through the cottage, materialising from the aether like a sudden storm, the sharp winds pushing the flames back, back, away from himself and the rest of this peaceful cottage.
Well. Perhaps it isn't so peaceful anymore, he thinks numbly.
Crowley is slashing at the demon on the ground, his hands sharp with blackened claws which he rakes across the demon's face, but even so, this demon is laughing. It's this twisted, almost gleeful sound, and it leaves a cold fury dawning within Aziraphale's core.
The next instant, Crowley is sent flying as an infernal line of red twists around him, summoned from the other demon's twisted core. It coils around Crowley, flickering like lightning for the briefest of moments, and flings his demon backward, where he hits the couch hard and goes toppling over the back of it.
Aziraphale doesn't even have time to worry for Crowley, as instinct pushes him urgently backward and to the side, and hellfire cuts through where he previously stood.
"Why are you backing up, angel?" The demon sneers, lurking forward. Their eyes are purely black holes, void of anything resembling the human form he's taken. "Thought you were immune to hellfire."
"I am," he manages, and is rather proud of himself for sounding so calm despite how much he wants to drop down next to Crowley and hurry them both out of here. He can't even look at his demon, keeping his gaze focused on the threat in front of them as the other demon stalks forward menacingly, prowling from side to side—searching for an opening to attack. "We didn't cause you any harm. What is the meaning of this?"
The demon laughs. "Hell wants you dead."
"No surprise there," Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale nearly sinks with relief at hearing the demon's voice, but he can't look over now. There's the sound of Crowley regaining his footing, shifting closer. Aziraphale feels his presence like a physical force near him—pushing, prodding, getting closer, and he fights back the rush of relief his core feels at such a thing.
Crowley is here, his core tells him. Everything will be okay.
"Get the fuck out of here, Hastur," Crowley hisses at the demon.
Well, of course they know each other. Aziraphale has heard mention of Hastur on multiple occasions, but this is the first time he's meeting the demon face-to-face, and he rather wishes this meeting never occurred.
"But Crowley, where are my manners? I'm not here for you." Hastur's gaze lands on Aziraphale again, and the grin which splits his face is cold and cruel. "I'm here for you."
"What does Hell want with me?" Aziraphale can't help but ask. He hasn't done anything lately to piss off Hell, has he? Other than averting the apocalypse, of course, but they already gave Crowley his 'punishment' for that, and Aziraphale had left Hell only after making certain that Crowley was, in no uncertain terms, to be left alone.
But they aren't here for Crowley, they're here for him.
Why?
Crowley snarls, low and angry, and then he's flinging himself at Hastur again.
Hastur waves his hand; there's a shimmer in the air, oozing awful energy, and Crowley cries out as something red, like lightning, twists around him once more. He's flung back again, this time out a window, which he shatters as he flies through it and out of Aziraphale's sight.
Then Hastur lunges at him, and the blade in his hand is certainly a surprise.
Aziraphale doesn't even have time to fully register the gleam of the blade as he twists away, drawing his hand up and around in a quick gesture, summoning a shield of pure light energy, which the bade bounces off of with an unholy clang.
The shield disperses as quickly as it appeared, quickly summoned and weakly banished after the attack, and Aziraphale quickly back-pedals. Hastur hasn't lost any of his momentum, using his dislodged strike to swing round the other way, and there's a hellish fury radiating from the blade as it crosses in front of his eyes, slicing where his face was just a second ago, before he reared back.
With a flick of his wrist, the sword given to him by God flies into his hand, summoned to his core. It takes a fraction of a second to ignite the blade with holy fire, and he brings it up to meet the next swing Hastur makes. Their blades connect with an awful scraping sound, flames swirling together briefly before they rush away like oil and water.
Hastur snarls, snaps his fingers, and disappears.
Aziraphale ducks.
The blade swings over his head from where Hastur has appeared behind him, already attacking.
There's a burst of demonic energy and the blade flies from Hastur's hand. It sails across the room in a zip of dark red light before it lands in the outstretched hand of one snarling Crowley.
"Get the fuck away from him!"
Crowley holds the blade wrong, but it's in his grasp nevertheless, and he he stalks forward—everything about him, from the sneer on his face, the burning yellow of his eyes, and his demonic essence screeching as it careens across the room… it all radiates a cold, deadly fury.
For a moment, Aziraphale stares at him, transfixed.
Hastur laughs, holds his hand out, palm pointed at Aziraphale, and shoots a jet of hellfire.
For the briefest of seconds, his life flashes before him—images of himself and Crowley, all that time they spent apart, the little time they got with each other until now, when it will all end—
No. It can't end.
Aziraphale cuts his hand through the air in an upward thrust, something deep in his core crying out at the unfairness of it all, igniting with his own brand of fury. A swell of that fury is pulled from the ground as a wall of holy fire sweeps upward to meet the jet of hellfire, a fraction of a second before it would have slammed into him.
The resulting explosion of energy sends himself and Hastur flying in opposite directions as the hellfire and holy fire smother themselves out.
In the next fraction of a second, Crowley is at his side, hands clawing desperately at him, tugging him—
There's a quick snap of fingers, and the air swirls into nothing before they crash down rather violently into cold, wet grass, with rain pelting down from above. The sudden change from heat and flames and fury to cold and wet leaves Aziraphale's head swimming.
"Aziraphale?" Hands scrape against his shoulder, clawing into him in a bruising grip as Crowley hovers over him, wide yellow eyes peering down at him. "Oh, fuck, fucking shit—are you—you're not—Aziraphale—" The demon bites back a hiss, seemingly noticing for the first time Aziraphale is, in fact, alright.
Aziraphale smiles up at him tiredly. "It's alright, my dear. You got us out of there."
The sound which escapes Crowley's mouth is this low, keening whine, and his hands are still clutching at him desperately. "You—you stupid—that was hellfire, Aziraphale!"
"It was," he replies, and moves to sit up.
Crowley almost doesn't let him. There's the slightest hesitance, a weight pushing him back down, before the demon scrambles back to let him sit up, but doesn't let go. Aziraphale rolls his neck, wincing as something twinges painfully, and then he looks around for the flaming sword which seems to have fallen from his grasp.
It's not flaming anymore, of course. Now it's dark and wet, just a blade gleaming with water. Aziraphale's fingers reach for it, and a sigh of relief escapes him once he pulls it toward him.
What if She hadn't sent me this?
A shiver slips through him. He could have died tonight. Died forever.
He could have left Crowley completely alone tonight.
"Are you alright?" Crowley hisses at him, fangs showing in his mouth.
Aziraphale reaches up to pat one of the hands curling into his shoulder. "Yes, Crowley—just a little shocked. What have I done recently to anger Hell so much?"
Crowley releases a ragged exhale. "We'll get him, angel, don't worry. I'll fucking kill him."
"Crowley, no. He is… quite powerful."
Powerful enough to fling Crowley around like he was nothing. And Crowley is by no means weak in his power.
"He's a Duke," Crowley bites back. "But he's dead, do you hear me, angel? I am going to kill him."
Aziraphale sighs and looks around them. "Where are we, exactly?"
"Not sure, I didn't really think about a location when I thought you were burning—"
Aziraphale looks back at him sharply. "I'm fine," he says firmly. "Crowley—I am alright."
Crowley chokes back some sort of aborted sound—perhaps a whine, a hiss, or a groan—and bares his teeth. He says nothing, but he doesn't need to.
Aziraphale isn't the only one who is scared of what could have happened tonight.
For a moment, the two simply sit there, looking at each other—taking the briefest moment to breathe, to take stock of their small measure of safety here with each other.
Then Crowley releases him. "We should, uh—we should get out of here. Somewhere… safe."
"Safe from Hell?" Aziraphale asks quietly.
Crowley hisses under his breath. "A church."
"What?"
"We need to put you in a church. He'll at least have trouble getting you there."
"I will be perfectly safe back at my bookshop."
The snarl flung at him doesn't quite surprise him. "The hell you will. You're going to a church if I have to stuff you there myself."
"It will hurt you," Aziraphale says quietly. "It's consecrated ground, Crowley."
"I'll survive a few burns."
"I'm not letting you get hurt just because—"
"You could have died!" Crowley snaps at him, the yellow of his eyes flaring into a burning flame momentarily.
The words hang between them. Aziraphale looks down at his hands as they wring together in his lap. He feels quite useless, if he is being honest. Hastur almost killed him tonight, permanently, even with God's flaming sword to help him. Some pathetic guardian he is—some pathetic principality. He was caught off-guard tonight. He could have gotten himself killed.
Crowley could have gotten killed.
"You could have died," Crowley says again, weaker this time. The again hangs between them, unspoken but present.
Aziraphale really is a poor excuse for an angel.
"We're going to a church."
"No."
Crowley hisses through clenched teeth. "No? No? This isn't up for debate, you stupid, reckless angel!"
Aziraphale looks back at the demon, gaze narrowed stubbornly. "I'm not going to hide away somewhere, Crowley! And I'm not going to have you getting hurt just because—"
"Forget about me!"
"Never," Aziraphale hisses back vehemently.
Crowley falls silent, the flame dying in his eyes—reduced to a smouldering yellow wetness, a burn like holy water. For a moment he simply stares back at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing as he struggles and makes a few unintelligible sounds, before he finally just hisses.
"I'll be fine," he finally says quietly.
"And so will I, back at my bookshop."