This chapter's full title is: The Difference Between Angels and Demons

xXx

The bookshop isn't quite in ruins like he thought it'd be, Aziraphale can't help but notice as he looks at the damaged flooring and ashes coating his shelves. Some of the books have survived the onslaught, of course; the shelves along the back walls are intact, but the shelves nearest the couch and chair where they usually sit—well, what remains of the shelving is charred and broken, but still standing, while the books which rested upon them are nowhere to be seen, though there is a fine layer of ash on the ground and atop the shelving. The couch and chair have been burned as well, which churns somewhat painfully in his stomach. That's where he and Crowley have spent so much of their time, after all; talking about anything and everything, joking, laughing, and drinking their time away.

A window is also busted and there are a few water stains in the flooring. Some of the books survived the fire only to be hit with water and destroyed in a completely different way. This is his home, he thinks—this has been his life for a long time now, for centuries, and he has cherished all of his first editions and all of his precious books, perhaps more than he should. An angel shouldn't feel such attachment to earthly things like this—he shouldn't horde books and he shouldn't covet books and he definitely shouldn't cherish books. He also shouldn't sully the temple of his holy body with gross matter, and he definitely shouldn't be consorting with a demon of all things…

He's not sure what he thought he'd feel when looking at his damaged bookshop, but this mess of emotions coiling and whirling through him like a vortex of doubt—well, he didn't expect that.

He's spent a veritable lifetime collecting everything inside this shop. Scrolls, books of prophecy signed especially for him—first editions kept in mint condition through so many years. Most of the older texts he keeps secluded away from prying hands inside the bookshop, in his study, which have remained untouched by the fire thankfully. The rest… Well, they're gone. There's really no changing that, angel or not.

At least Crowley is alright, he thinks. They both managed to survive the fray, against all odds, and his bookshop is still standing. When Crowley told him about the fire Aziraphale pushed down any emotions regarding it, focusing instead only on the demon clutching at him, as Crowley will always be more important than material possessions. Still, he feared his shop would be burned down as it had been in the past—life correcting itself, perhaps.

It's still standing. He can fix this ship; it's by no means destroyed. It will take work to fix it, and time, but it can be done.

Somehow, he doesn't feel the urge to do so.

Looking among the shambles of what was once his life—perhaps it's better left in the past. This bookshop is a remnant of a time where he lived a rather secluded life—not part of Heaven, exactly, but not fully committed to Crowley and Their Side, either.

Things change.

Maybe it's best if he leaves the past in the past. If he leaves the bookshop as fate seems to want it—burnt and broken.

He doesn't have to fix it up right now anyway, he reasons. He is here to see the damage for himself and pack a few things to take to the cottage. He still has another stop to make at Crowley's flat before returning to the sleeping demon. Oh, he does hope Crowley is still sleeping. He placed another blessing on him before leaving, to keep the demon sleeping soundly. Crowley is still ever so tired, after all, and he more than deserves a couple more days of relaxing and regaining his strength, as well as his bearings.

The past few days have been nice, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley has mostly slept the time away, and Aziraphale has mostly hovered nearby, keeping watch on the demon—but images of his bookshop burning kept assaulting his mind, impossible to ignore in the long run. Even if it burned to a crisp, destroyed completely by hellfire as he himself almost was—well, seeing is believing, and it just didn't feel real until he saw it for himself.

The bookshop still stands, of course.

Right, he tells himself, exhaling slowly, you don't have time to dilly-dally. Can't let Crowley wake up alone or he'll be worried.

He's certainly caused the demon more than enough worry for a lifetime, he thinks.

He putters around the bookshop, ash twisting beneath his feet, and gathers a few books and other items he might want at the cottage—like his kettle, and his usual mug with the angel wings as the handle. Small, familiar things he doesn't really need, but they have become totems of comfort to him in the centuries spent in this bookshop, building a life for himself. They are little pieces of himself, and he takes them with him.

He pops by Crowley's flat next.

Grabs a few plants he thinks Crowley might enjoy—Crowley seems to enjoy taking care of them, and they are so very verdant and luxurious, healthy. Putting a couple of these inside the cottage might help ease the demon's mind and let him relax—make it feel more like… well, like home.

Home.

A troublesome word, really. Aziraphale doesn't really have a home anymore, does he? The bookshop certainly doesn't feel like it anymore, and Heaven never really has.

Focus, he tells himself. What would Crowley like?

The flat is rather empty. Crowley lives sparsely, and the only things he seems to devote any time to are his plants. Even so, there are a couple of books strewn about the place—even though Crowley claims he doesn't read—and they cover a variety of topics; works of nonfiction, a book about the stars and galaxies, a book about planting, etc. Aziraphale gathers them all up, and collects some of Crowley's more expensive alcohol as well.

Then with a snap of his fingers, he appears back at the cottage.

Crowley is still sleeping quite soundly, and Aziraphale sighs in relief as he goes about putting the books from the flat on the coffee table in the living room. Crowley should see them when he wakes up; he's taken to sleeping out on the couch even though there's a perfectly good bed down the hall as well as upstairs.

He puts a potted plant in the living room, near the front door, and two in the kitchen, and one in the bedroom on the bottom floor—in case Crowley ever wants to return to it and get some proper rest. That couch can't be good for his neck.

Then he sets about to make himself some tea, and sits at the kitchen table with a book in hand to read the time away.

xXx

Crowley wakes sometime later, when the sun is setting and the moon is rising. It's a rather clear night, and Aziraphale can see the moon from where he sits in the kitchen; the window above the sink has the perfect view of it rising across the water of the lake outside. There's the sound of footsteps approaching, and then Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen, and Aziraphale gives him a warm smile.

"Sleep well, my dear?"

Crowley grunts in response and trudges over to sit at the table next to him. The chair scrapes as it drags across the floor and he drops into it, then his gaze catches on the potted plant on the counter next to the sink. "What's that doing here?"

"Oh, well, I popped over to yours to grab a few things," Aziraphale says, taking a sip of his tea as he shoves a bookmark into place and puts the book down on the table. "I thought a few of your plants would… brighten the place up a bit."

Crowley stares at the plant for a long moment. "You didn't praise them, did you?"

"Ah, no," Aziraphale says, shaking his head. "I just brought them over, but they should be praised, shouldn't they? They really are quite beautiful, my dear. You've done an excellent job with them."

"Don't tell 'em that," Crowley huffs, looking back at him. "It'll go to their heads."

"They're plants, Crowley; they don't have heads."

"You know what I mean."

"Mm," he says, taking another sip of tea. "How are you feeling, dear?"

"Me?" Crowley frowns. "I'm fine, angel. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Well, you still look like a block of Swiss cheese," Crowley mutters distastefully, nose scrunching somewhat. "Still charred, too."

"Crowley, I assure you, I am fine. Regardless of what it looks like."

Crowley is still frowning, which really won't do.

"Can I tempt you to a spot of dinner?" Aziraphale asks, pushing to his feet.

"Dinner?" Crowley echoes.

"Is there anything in particular you're hungry for? I also brought over some of that fancy alcohol from your flat, if you'd rather have some of that."

Anything to get him to relax, Aziraphale thinks.

He looks much better now that he's had some decent sleep, of course, but both of them need some time to sit back and breathe normally. To forget about the past few days—the past few weeks.

Crowley just stares at him, mouth slightly agape, before he snaps it shut and smiles slowly. "You're going to cook for me, are you?"

"Well, I have cooked in the past," Aziraphale says, shrugging slightly. "So if there is something in particular you want, I could whip it up for you. It's certainly no trouble."

Crowley nods and sits back in his chair, a small smile on his face—and it's the best thing Aziraphale has seen in a while now, he thinks. That smile—easy-going and relaxed. "Surprise me, angel."

Challenge accepted.

Azirpahale spends the next hour puttering around the kitchen, moving from a pot on the stove to a dish on the counter where he tosses a salad together, and then in the oven some dessert bakes. He has cooked in the past, of course; he has several cookbooks in his bookshop, after all, and he gets peckish now and then. Sometimes he wants to cook things at home like normal humans do—sometimes he just wants to pop into a restaurant and eat with Crowley, of course. The demon doesn't exactly have a favourite dish, as he rarely eats when they go out, but he seems to enjoy anything seared or grilled, so Aziraphale grills some vegetables along with a side of chicken for the salad.

Crowley spends the time watching him cook. Just sitting back in his chair, yellow eyes tracking him, and as the minutes pass his shoulders seem to relax more and more, and there's definitely a smile on his face, a lightness to those eyes which has been worryingly absent lately.

Once the food is finished, he piles everything onto a couple of plates and puts them on the table in front of the demon. As he walks past, he can't help but let his fingers trail across the back of Crowley's neck—just a light, feathery touch, the barest press of fingers into skin, and Crowley leans into the contact for just a moment, before Aziraphale's hand drops and he sits next to him at the table.

Crowley stabs a piece of diced chicken with his fork and pops it into his mouth. A pleased hum escapes him and he glances at Aziraphale, the corner of his mouth turning upward briefly. "Not bad, angel," he says. "Puts my try to shame."

"Nonsense," Aziraphale says. "Your food was delicious and appreciated."

The two eat together quietly—a comfortable, peaceful silence wrapping around them. As they eat and the silence around them remains so relaxed and pleasant, Aziraphale feels decidedly more himself. And it's not just because he's happily forking some dessert into his mouth; it has little to do with the food, really, and more to do with the contented demon next to him.

He's missed this calm, almost lazy posture Crowley is now sporting as he lounges in his chair, one arm thrown over the back of it as he twists to look at Aziraphale.

"Fancy a game of cards?"

Aziraphale smiles. "That sounds lovely."

Crowley snaps his fingers a deck of cards appears in his hand. "What'll it be? Rummy? Euchre? War?"

Those all sound more complex than Aziraphale is willing to tolerate at this particular moment. He wants something mindless, something easy he can lose himself in. "How about Go Fish?"

Crowley stares at him for a moment. "Go Fish? Are you serious?"

Aziraphale quickly back-pedals. "Oh, yes, of course we don't—"

The demon is already dealing. "Just messin' with ya, angel. Go Fish it is."

Warmth nestles somewhere in Aziraphale's chest, close to his heart, he thinks. The demon really is rather kind, even if Crowley absolutely will not tolerate hearing any such words.

Aziraphale picks up his cards, holding onto that feeling of warmth, of safety, of—home.

Oh, he thinks as clarity seeps through him.

Home isn't a place at all. It never was.

"Right, stop smiling at me like that," Crowley says, looking pointedly down at his cards, but his lips quirk in the corner, betraying the hints of a smile. "Got any threes?"

"Go Fish," Aziraphale says quietly. "Surrender your sixes."

Crowley scowls but tosses down two sixes. "How in Heaven did you know I had sixes?"

"You have a tell, dear."

"Bloody hell, I do! Even if I did, how does that tell you which number I have?"

"You only do that tell when you have sixes in your hand, Crowley."

Crowley stares at him. A chuckle slips out of Aziraphale's mouth. "What's the tell?"

"That would be telling, now wouldn't it, my dear?" Aziraphale hums back. "Got any nines?"

Crowley tosses one over, scowling back at him. "I feel like this is an unbalanced game. How the bloody hell do I have tells but you don't?"

Aziraphale just smiles back at him. "An angel never reveals his secrets."

"Bloody unfair."

"Now, now, Crowley."

Crowley snorts, rearranging the cards in his hand. "Do you know how much flak I'd get from Hell if they knew an angel had a better poker face than me?"

"I imagine quite a lot."

"It's embarrassing, is what it is. How'd I not know this about you?" A pause. "No, wait. How did this even happen? Don't tell me you've always had a poker face."

"Of course not," Aziraphale says. "I spent some time in a casino playing some high stakes poker back in the early 1900s. I was low on funds and didn't want to miracle up some cash, so I thought I'd take a gamble at a casino and, well, I got rather good at it. Earned enough money to buy half an estate sale I went to."

He managed to get quite the collection with that money, as well. And somehow it felt better to earn his money this way and buy things with his own funds rather than to miracle up money as needed with Gabriel keeping track on how many frivolous miracles he used. He's always been rather fond of doing things the human way, and he found this to be no different.

Crowley laughs—loud and sudden, a sharp bite of sound which rings pleasantly in the air between them. "Oh, angel—you never cease to surprise me. We'll have to go to a casino sometime; I bet we could wipe them out."

"Yes, we'll have to do that," Aziraphale says, mind whirling with the image of himself and Crowley in a casino, huddled together at a slot machine or sitting at a card table. He an already picture Crowley messing with the dealers in some way, as it wouldn't be any fun otherwise. "And it's not as though you have a terrible poker face, my dear. You really do have a good one—I just know how to read you."

I've spent a lot of time watching you, is what he keeps back. He's watched Crowley for 6000 years now; studied every little movement, every word and inflection in his voice, wondering what it could all mean. And in the days before he got his bookshop, when he was between blessings and left alone with his thoughts, he spent a lot of time pondering what every little thing meant, dissecting every phrase and use of particular words versus the use of others… and eventually, when they spent more time together, he happened to notice how Crowley would slightly—unconsciously—run his index finger over the top edge of a card if it happened to be a six. Maybe something demonic drawn to the number of the beast, or something, but he did it three times in Aziraphale's presence, and Aziraphale catalogued the use of it away for further study.

It's not exactly a tell, perhaps, it's just that Crowley—unconsciously—seems to gravitate toward the number of the beast. Perhaps all demons do. Angels aren't associated with numbers, not really, though some call the number seven lucky, which could coincide with something angelic… but it could just as likely be associated with a demon. Luck of the devil, and all.

"Do you have any ones?"

"And you just… don't have any tells? At all?" Crowley asks. "Go Fish, angel."

Aziraphale draws a card and slots it into his deck. "It comes with the job."

"Job," Crowley repeats, confusion marring his brow. "What job? Oh, um, got any tens?"

Aziraphale hands over a ten. "Angels aren't supposed to feel emotion."

Crowley freezes where he's accepting the card from Aziraphale's hand. It takes a half-second before he jerks back into motion, adding the card to what's in his hand. "You all sure have a funny way of showing it."

"Well, perhaps I'm not the best example."

Yellow eyes roll. "Not you. I meant Gabriel, and Sandalphon."

"Oh."

"They were smug bastards during your trial," Crowley says. "Gabriel especially. That's emotion."

"They just aren't used to having physical human bodies," Aziraphale says quietly. "So maybe they just came off that way—as emotional. They aren't used to hiding it in that form. I've had quite a while to get used to it." He swipes his thumb briefly across the top edge the card closest to that appendage, feeling somewhat thoughtful. "In any case, when under pressure, we are to remain calm. We don't—we don't give way our hand, so to speak. Granted, I'm a poor excuse of—"

"Stop that," Crowley cuts in rather sharply, eyes narrowing into a quick glare. "You're the best of them."

"Oh, thank you, my dear—but I assure you I am not."

"You are," Crowley says firmly. "God wouldn't have you cover for Her if you weren't."

"That's not—Oh." Well, Crowley does sort of have a point there, doesn't he? If Aziraphale really is covering for Her. If She really does have that much faith in him.

It's at least something to think about. Maybe he's not such a lousy angel after all.

Feeling lighter, Aziraphale sits up a little straighter. "Do you have any jacks?"

Crowley blesses under his breath and flicks a card from his hands. Aziraphale catches it and stuffs it into his own palm. "If angels aren't supposed to be emotional, grace under pressure and all that—then I don't see how they're any better than Hell."

"It's simply different," Aziraphale says. "Your lot are allowed to be emotional—it's even expected."

"Expected?" Crowley hisses back, frowning. "Demons aren't supposed to care about—"

"Your demonic cores come from passion."

"Passion? Demons aren't passionate, angel."

"You can't be filled with bitterness and rage if you don't feel things, Crowley."

Crowley scowls back at him, yellow eyes sharpening. "We're not bleeding romantics, Aziraphale."

"Of course not," Aziraphale says, frowning. "What does romance have to do with passion?"

"Don't play dumb, angel, it does't suit you."

Aziraphale smiles, exasperated. "Passion means 'a strong and barely controllable emotion', my dear. Or, failing that, it can be used as a term for suffering or pain. Hence the expression with a passion. Now, strong and barely controllable? Does that sound anything like demonic fury to you?"

Crowley's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. "Ngk," he manages.

"Angels, on the other hand—our cores are tranquility," Aziraphale says, absently thumbing the corner of an edge card. "A sense of calm, or maybe indifference. Does that sound like passion, to you?"

Crowley remains silent. Just staring at him—yellow eyes burning and wide.

"Well, or something like that," Aziraphale finishes lamely. "It's not an exact science. My point is, my lot aren't supposed to feel things, so comparing Heaven and Hell based off these cores isn't… well, it just doesn't work. We are different, down to our cores. Got any queens?"

For a moment, Crowley doesn't move or even open his mouth—just watches Aziraphale, unblinking. Aziraphale shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Then Crowley expels a quick breath of air and waves his hand. "No queens, angel. This whole bit with the cores—this is common knowledge to angels?"

Aziraphale frowns. "I don't see why it wouldn't be."

"Think very carefully, angel. Has Gabriel or Michael or literally any other angel ever mentioned anything like this?"

Aziraphale thinks back. Combs through his array of memories, picturing them like files in a cabinet, thumbing through them searching for a key-phrase. "No," he settles on finally. "Perhaps not."

Now Crowley is grinning. "Clever angel."

"It's not really clever, Crowley, I just—"

"Clever bastard," Crowley says, still grinning, eyes burning with something like mirth—warm and light. "You're bloody brilliant, angel. How long did it take you to figure this out? Fuck, I can't believe I didn't even realise it myself. It all makes so much sense, you know?"

"It's really nothing," Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks burn as he looks anywhere but at the demon across from him. He's really not as clever as Crowley thinks; he's just had a lot of time to ponder the meaning of angels and demons—spurred on by that conversation they had atop the wall surrounding Eden, where a demon mentioned something about knowing the difference between good and bad. "I've simply had a long time to think about it—6000 years, thinking on it."

"Just accept the compliment," Crowley says. "I mean—Someone, that explains why I'm such a mess."

Aziraphale looks back sharply. "You're not a mess!"

"I thought there was something bloody wrong with me, being so…" His face twists distastefully, nose wrinkling slightly like he's smelled something bitter. "Emotional. Wait, if demons are passion, why don't the others care about anything?"

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment. Surely he's not that dense.

"They do care about things, my dear."

Crowley snorts. "Yeah, pull the other leg why don't you."

"Crowley. If they didn't care about anything, how on Earth are they so angry and full of rage? Enough to summon hellfire?"

The demon's mouth shuts with a snap again. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"Your lot don't like to show it, of course—I mean, you've certainly denied feeling things plenty of times—but it's how you tempt someone, by playing into their emotions and pulling on them. It's how your lot deal out miracles. Did you think you just snap and it just happens?"

Crowley bares his teeth briefly, but remains silent.

"My miracles come from that tranquility; I feel calm and tap into that power. Your lot, meanwhile, well, they—What do you think about to summon your magic?"

For Aziraphale, it's that sense of calm—he calms his soul, and pulls out a tendril of that sensation when he snaps or does some other gesture to perform a miracle or a blessing. It took some time to realise this about himself, of course, so perhaps Crowley isn't quite there yet, or maybe he just simply never thought about it—the action of doing it is so ingrained, so instinctive, it doesn't bear mentioning or even thinking about as a passing though most of the time.

But Aziraphale got fairly bored in the past, before he had a mound of books to sink his teeth into, and dissecting exactly how he performed miracles—how it felt in the air when Crowley did miracles—well, it was a challenge to him, something to turn about and unwind, and he found it satisfying when he finally came to a conclusion.

Crowley chokes out a quick breath, then coughs as he clears his throat. "Right, yeah, don't mind me—just a lot to deal with, is all. Fuck, angel." He shakes his head, lips twitching upward again. "You're a bloody genius, you know that? Oh, if I could see the look on Beezlebub's face if I ever told them this…"

"So, wait," Aziraphale says, frowning, "you really had no idea? None of you demons knew how you drew your own power?"

Did the angels in Heaven not know, either?

It all seemed so blatantly obvious to Aziraphale. Of course, he had to get around to thinking about it first, which required at least a little imagination… something demons and angels aren't necessarily known for, except Crowley—and, maybe, himself as well.

"Right," Crowley says again, grinning, "got any sevens?"

Aziraphale curses and drops two from his hand, sliding them across the table to the demon.