Slight angst and A/C undertones. Characters belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. This one was named White Horizon because it has nothing to do with the story itself and because that's what they sing in the (The Real) Tuesday Weld song I was listening to. Feedback DEMANDED.
White Horizon
Crowley had never meant to fall.
Aziraphale knew that. Crowley also never talked about his fall, at least not with details. And the angel never asked. But he wondered. He'd met his share of demons during his existence, and he knew that Crowley wasn't your regular demon. He knew Crowley hadn't fallen as much as tripped. Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong questions and wrong friends. But that wasn't all of it. Aziraphale knew his own anger and his own fear. Was it just? And he knew he was slipping closer to the edge. Mind the threshold, the hole in the ground.
And the longer the angel was with Crowley the more he learned to know him. And the more he knew Crowley, his quirks and his weaknesses, the more he felt that Crowley had not deserved what he got. And Aziraphale felt bouts of uncontrollable wrath towards his creator which singed the love and the trust and the admiration.
…
Aziraphale stumbled.
"Mind your step," laughed Crowley and caught him by the arm.
Aziraphale smiled sheepishly and wondered whether the demon would grab him when he fell.