"Really now, this is quite unnecessary," Aziraphale huffs. The witchfinder ignores him, yanking on the ropes tying him to the stake to make them tighter. A crowd of people surround them, chanting "burn the witch" over and over.
This is ridiculous. All he did was defend a young lady being chased by witchfinders, and now he's tied to a stake and being accused of being a witch. Him! An angel, of all people, accused of being a witch and making pacts with the Devil! Aziraphale would laugh if it weren't such an inconvenience.
At least they released the young lady. He just wishes they'd dropped the accusations altogether, instead of shifting them onto him. The paperwork alone will be a nightmare to deal with.
He sighs in exasperation as the witchfinder addresses the crowd, boasting about how he managed to "courageously confront and expose the witch" by finding the "Devil's Mark" on his back. Well, it was a nice body while it lasted. He only hopes his next one is just as comfortable as this. Ideally, he'd like to have the same one back, but the angels in the corporation department don't really like him, so-
"Snake!"
The screech cuts through the chatter of the crowd, replacing the chanting with screaming. The humans Aziraphale assumes are closest to the snake push and shove one another in their attempts to get away, and the ones further away are almost trampled in the confusion and panic. Several people trip or fall and struggle to climb back to their feet. Some look confused by the chaos and incoherent yelling, but they either slip away once they decide they don't want to take their chances, or join the hysterical panic. Even the witchfinder pauses, unsure if he's supposed to continue now he's quickly losing his audience. Aziraphale furrows his brows. One tiny snake can't possibly cause this much chaos, can it?
Then he catches a glimpse of it, and he understands. The snake is enormous, far bigger than any snake he's ever seen. It's seemingly unbothered by the crowd threatening to trample it, and swiftly slithers directly towards them.
The witchfinder pales as the snake gets closer, slowly backing away. The snake slithers between Aziraphale and the witchfinder, hissing quietly.
"A familiar!" the witchfinder cries. He brandishes the torch towards the snake as if to show it off, but the crowd is gone, no longer interested in the execution or how their "courageous" witchfinder will deal with this.
The snake hisses louder, rearing up and baring its fangs. Sweat drips down the witchfinder's face, but he sets his jaw and raises the torch again.
For a long moment, both of them are very still.
Then the witchfinder swings.
The torch never finds its target. The snake strikes just as it starts to come down. Aziraphale expects it to bite the witchfinder, but it clamps its jaws around the wood instead, inches from the witchfinder's fingers. He lurches back, letting go of the torch as he stumbles over his own feet to get away. When he looks up, his jaw drops at the sight of the snake wielding his torch.
The snake hisses again, and flings the torch back at the witchfinder. It lands by his feet, and there's a familiar sliver of magic as the flames on the torch flicker and sets the witchfinder's trousers alight.
The witchfinder screams, stumbling away from the torch and frantically patting his trousers to get the flames to go out. He shoots one last terrified look at the snake, then flees like the crowd already had the sense to do, still trying to put out the flames.
"Good riddance," Crowley says, shifting back into her human shape. She folds her arms and glares after the witchfinder, scowling.
Aziraphale stares, just a little. She's a mess. Her dress is crumpled and covered in grass stains, and her hair is tangled, the clumps of mud stuck in her hair large enough to be visible even from where Aziraphale is standing. She looks like she clawed her way out of the ground, and yet he can't take his eyes off her. As filthy as she is, she still looks mesmerising. Must be her demonic charm.
"Was setting his trousers on fire really necessary?" Aziraphale says at last.
"He had it coming. He'll face much worse in Hell." She turns to Aziraphale. She's still wearing the glasses she had at the Globe Theatre, so he can't see her eyes, but the rest of her face visibly softens when she looks at him. "Let's get you out of there, yeah?"
"Please do. These ropes aren't exactly comfortable."
Crowley snorts. She clambers up the pile of wood and starts to untie him. "Sorry I took so long. Got discorporated. Only just got back."
"Discorporated?" How on Earth had Crowley managed to be so careless she got discorporated?
"What happens when demons get killed on Earth," Crowley explains. Oh, that's right, he's not supposed to know about discorporation yet. "This body isn't my true form, y'know. Demons working on Earth get a body to help us blend in, and if it gets destroyed, we get sent back to Hell until we get a new one."
"Well how on Earth did you manage to get discorporated? You're normally so careful to cover up the whole… demon thing."
"Same way you nearly went, actually. Got called a witch by some arsehole who couldn't take no for an answer. They hung me, though. The whole 'burning me alive' thing didn't really work out for them." She unties the last of the knots, and the ropes fall away. "There."
"You should have called me," Aziraphale says, rubbing his wrists to try and get the blood flowing again. "I would have tried to help."
"Call you how? Can't exactly teleport a message to you, and even if I could, you'd've never got there in time."
"I-I don't know! You're the demon, I'm sure you could have figured something out."
"How noble." Crowley grins at him. "Next time I'm in trouble, I'll try to think of something."
"See that you do," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's offered hand and letting her help him down.
"You can be my own personal guardian angel," she says teasingly.
Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat. He stumbles over the wood, barely registering Crowley catching him and telling him to be careful. Does she know? Has she figured it out?
"A-angel?"
"Yeah. 'Cause, y'know, you work for Heaven. You're like, I dunno, an honorary angel."
"O-oh." He lets out a breath. She doesn't know, thank goodness.
"Why? Do you not like it?"
"No, no! It's fine! It just… took me by surprise is all. I don't mind."
"Okay, if you say so." She grabs his wrist, and his heart jumps again. "Come on, angel. I saw this new restaurant on my way up, I think you're gonna love it. I've heard it's to die for."
Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the grin she shoots him, but allows her to pull him along anyway, still trying to calm his racing heart.
In hindsight, his current predicament is probably at least a little bit his own fault. He'd heard rumours about the things happening in Paris, of course, and had he taken the time to really think about that, he likely wouldn't have bothered making the trip until things calmed down.
And yet here he is, chained up in a little cell listening to the cries and screams and cheers of the people outside, as the executioner in front of him talks about the honour of dying at his hands, and has the audacity to try and touch Aziraphale's clothes. Just touch them, with no regard for how expensive they may be!
"Animals," Aziraphale huffs in frustration.
"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only your lot do that."
Aziraphale smiles involuntarily at that lovely, familiar voice, warmth blooming in his chest. "Crowley." He turns eagerly - it's been quite a while since he last saw his friend - and stops short. "Oh, good lord."
It isn't the way Crowley is lounging dramatically, as though he's trying to impress someone. It isn't the hair, although that certainly isn't the most flattering style Aziraphale has seen on him. It's the clothes, hideous in such a way that no one should look good in them, and it's completely unfair that Crowley does. It has to be the result of some kind of miracle. Aziraphale will accept no other excuse for those clothes - if they can even be called that - looking good on Crowley.
"What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?" Crowley asks, slightly irritated. "I thought you were opening a bookshop."
"Well, I was. I got peckish."
"... Peckish."
"Well, if you must know, it was the crepes," Aziraphale says, sitting back down on the stool. "Can't get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche."
"So you just popped across the channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble?" Crowley's voice is thick with judgement. "Dressed like that?"
"I have standards," Aziraphale huffs, eyes flicking over Crowley's clothes once more. He really, really wishes he could change his outfit. It's distracting.
"I'm almost impressed you even managed to get over here in those clothes," Crowley says. "How long did it take until they dragged you here?"
Aziraphale purses his lips and doesn't answer. It was an embarrassingly short amount of time, but he doesn't want Crowley to know that, even if he does think Aziraphale is a human.
"Heaven really needs to give you a raise," Crowley continues. "You wouldn't be in this situation if they just let you have more miracles. Surely replacing you if you kick the bucket will take more effort than just giving you more magic."
"Yes, well, they believe scarcity is a good thing, with these kinds of things," Aziraphale says. "Stops people taking things for granted, and all that."
In truth he'd been reprimanded just last month for performing too many frivolous miracles, and he'd decided he would rather avoid receiving another note from Gabriel about the issue if he can help it. He does need to keep his superiors happy if he wants to get his wings back, after all. But Crowley doesn't know about that.
"Well, you're lucky I was in the area."
"I suppose I am. Why are you here?"
Crowley shrugs. "Hell sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance."
Aziraphale gapes at him, shooting to his feet. "So all this is your demonic work?"
"No! Your lot thought it up themselves. Nothing to do with me." Crowley rolls his eyes behind his infernal glasses. "What is it with you humans and blaming everything on demons? You do enough evil on your own, you don't need any help."
Aziraphale softens, feeling slightly guilty about the accusation already. He knows this kind of thing isn't Crowley's style, but one can never be too sure what Hell will assign him.
Crowley snaps his fingers, and the shackles around Aziraphale's wrists fall to the ground. Aziraphale rubs his wrists, casting Crowley a grateful glance. Warmth blossoms in his chest again.
"Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the... rescue."
"Don't say that," Crowley warns. "If my people hear I rescued an agent of Heaven, I'll be the one in trouble. And trust me, you don't want to know what Hell does to demons that are in trouble."
Aziraphale's stomach twists uncomfortably, but he tries to ignore it. "Well, I'm very grateful, either way. What about if I buy you lunch?"
"Not looking like that, you're not," Crowley says, and Aziraphale just knows he's rolling his eyes again. "Come here, I'll just-"
He gestures vaguely, and Aziraphale's clothes change to the same outfit as the executioner. When he turns back, he sees the man being dragged off by two Frenchmen, now wearing the clothes that got Aziraphale captured in the first place.
"Dressed like that he's asking for trouble," Crowley says
Aziraphale stares mournfully after the man. "I liked those clothes. It took me hours to find something that looked good on me. Now it's all gone to waste."
"Relax, you look fine. What's for lunch?"
Aziraphale brightens almost instantly. "What would you say to some crepes?"
The knock at the door surprises Aziraphale; the grand opening to his bookshop isn't for a few hours, and he wasn't expecting many people to turn up, anyway.
"I'm afraid the shop won't open until Friday," he says as he opens the door. "But if you'd like to pop back after lunch-"
"Relax," Crowley says, grinning widely at Aziraphale. He's clutching a package and a small box to his chest. "It's only me."
"Oh!" Aziraphale smiles and opens the door wider. "In that case, please do come in. I have a lovely little back room where we can sit and chat."
Crowley saunters inside and heads straight for the back room, sprawling on the first sofa he spots like he owns it. Aziraphale takes the seat opposite him, still smiling to himself. He's been meaning to show Crowley around his new bookshop for a while, but he's never managed to get a chance, since both of them are so busy with whatever tasks Heaven and Hell assign to them. Miracles and blessings combined with the organisation of opening a bookshop have meant Aziraphale hasn't had nearly as much time to spend with Crowley as he'd like, no matter how excited he's been to show Crowley the shop before its grand opening. And the few times he has had time to spare, Crowley was off doing his own tasks, or performing some of Aziraphale's blessings.
He really should get Crowley a "thank you" gift, now that he thinks about it. He's been taking on more than his fair share of the Arrangement lately, in order to give Aziraphale more time to work on the bookshop, and his gratitude alone doesn't feel enough. Perhaps he'll take Crowley out somewhere, or help him set up his own place. He's incredibly grateful Crowley was thoughtful enough to help in his own way, the least he can do is return the favour.
"Got you a little something," Crowley says. He holds out the package and the little box to Aziraphale. "Just a couple of housewarming gifts."
Aziraphale's heart flutters as he accepts the gifts from Crowley, a familiar warmth curling in his chest. "You didn't need to."
"Eh, saw them on my way here, thought you'd like them," Crowley says, waving his hand dismissively. "Not a big deal."
Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley's flippant act. He opens the large package first and gasps when his eyes fall on the large box of chocolates. "Oh, Crowley! These are my favourite! How did you know?"
Crowley shrugs wordlessly, but he preens a little at Aziraphale's words.
Aziraphale pops one of the chocolates in his mouth, a noise of delight escaping him. "Oh, these are delicious. Crowley, you must try one."
"Nah, I'm alright. Too bitter for my taste." He waves a hand at the smaller box. "Go on, that too."
Aziraphale sets the chocolates aside, promising himself he'll finish them later, and begins to open the small box. He can feel Crowley's eyes on him the whole time, carefully watching his reaction. Waiting to see if he likes it. The knowledge that Crowley cares about Aziraphale's opinion makes Aziraphale's stomach flip pleasantly.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale gasps as he peers inside the box. He pulls out a white mug, with feathered angel wings as a handle. "It's adorable. Where on Earth did you find it?"
"Just saw it in a shop," Crowley says casually, although he looks extremely pleased with himself. "Reminded me of you."
A smile spreads across Aziraphale's face at the words. It's not the first time Crowley has brought Aziraphale something that reminds him of him, and it likely won't be the last, but hearing the words makes him feel warm and fuzzy every time. It's nice, knowing Crowley thinks about Aziraphale even when they're apart.
"Well, it's lovely," Aziraphale says, running his thumb over the wings. "It was very thoughtful of you to give me this."
"Ah, shut up," Crowley scoffs, although there's no heat in his words. "Just an impulsive buy, really, thought you might like it." He grins at Aziraphale. "It's fitting, with you being an agent of Heaven and all. Since you haven't got any wings yourself, figured these would do, instead."
The smile freezes on Aziraphale's face, and he fights to keep it in place. An irrational pang of pain fills his chest at the words, and his back twinges slightly.
He doesn't know, Aziraphale reminds himself, trying to keep the hurt off his face. He didn't mean it like that, it's not his fault, he doesn't know.
Crowley frowns at Aziraphale. Apparently he isn't doing a very good job at trying to hide his hurt. "You alright?"
"Yes, of course," Aziraphale says, forcing himself to sound bright. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Just now, you looked… I dunno, sad?" Crowley leans forward in his seat, brow creasing in concern. "Was it something I said?"
"No, of course not, what could you have possibly said, that's ridiculous." Aziraphale laughs nervously. "Just… something that crossed my mind, is all. Nothing important, you needn't worry, it's nothing to be concerned about." He rushes to cut Crowley off before he can press any further. "This is such a lovely mug. I'd hate to put it in the cupboard straight away. I think I'll pop the kettle on, make us some tea. Would you like some?"
Aziraphale doesn't wait for Crowley to answer, already out of his seat and rushing to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He puts his new mug on the counter, and reaches into a nearby cupboard to grab Crowley's usual mug. Behind him, Crowley gets up from the sofa and follows him.
"Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale turns to see Crowley leaning on the door frame, still looking concerned. He forces himself to push away the pang of guilt about making Crowley worry.
"Yes?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Of course," Aziraphale says, voice as chipper as he can manage. "Perfectly fine. Never better. Do you still only take one sugar?"
Crowley regards him suspiciously, but to Aziraphale's relief, he drops the topic. "Yeah, just the one."
Aziraphale hums, letting the familiar motions of making tea soothe the unintentional twinge of pain in his chest. He pours Crowley's first, then his own, using the new mug Crowley gave him. The angel wings don't make a very comfortable handle, he quickly realises, and it takes a moment to figure out how to best hold it.
He passes Crowley his tea once he's done, and settles back down in his chair, cradling his own mug close to his chest. They sit in silence for a long time, each taking small sips.
"Is it the mug?" Crowley asks finally. His voice is oddly quiet.
"What do you mean?"
"The mug. Is it because I got you an angel mug?" Crowley leans forward, trying and failing to hide his worry. Aziraphale can feel his eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. "You know I'm just teasing, right? I know I talk shit about angels a lot, I just… you work for them, I thought it'd be funny. I didn't mean to - to insult you, or whatever, I know you're better than them-"
"Crowley, calm down. It's not the mug," Aziraphale assures. It is the mug, but not for the reasons Crowley thinks. "You didn't insult me. I'm fine."
Crowley looks doubtful. "I've known you for thousands of years, angel. I know when something's wrong."
Aziraphale's chest warms a little at that. "I know. Honestly, though, I'm fine. Just an… unpleasant memory, is all. Nothing that you caused, just something that crossed my mind."
"You sure?"
Aziraphale nods firmly. "I'm sure."
"Do you… want to talk about it?"
Memories of the harsh glint of the sunlight on a blade, searing pain clawing down his back, white robes damp and sticky with blood, flash through his mind. "Not particularly."
"Okay."
They sit in silence again. Crowley leans back against the sofa until he's sprawled across it, head occasionally shifting as he takes in more of the room. Aziraphale keeps his gaze fixed on his mug, searching for something to say to distract him from the memories trying to make their way to the surface.
"Why do you hate angels so much?" is what eventually comes out of his mouth, although Aziraphale doesn't remember deciding to ask that.
"They're pricks," Crowley scoffs immediately. "Bunch of self-righteous bastards who think they're better than everyone else just 'cause they're licking the Almighty's arse, even though half the time they're no better than my lot."
Aziraphale tries not to wince at the harsh words. Crowley has never hidden how he feels about angels, so he doesn't know what answer he was expecting. "How do you know? Have you ever talked to one?"
"Well, no. But I don't need to. Just look at the way they treat you."
Aziraphale swallows and says nothing. Crowley's casual defence would be flattering, if it weren't for the fact Aziraphale is an angel, and that their treatment of him is his own fault.
"I almost did, once," Crowley says, almost casually, but a bit quieter than before. "Talk to an angel, that is."
Aziraphale lifts his head, but Crowley isn't looking at him. "You did?"
Crowley hums. "Back in Eden. You know, the garden Adam and Eve got kicked out of? There were some angels there, guarding the walls. Trying to make sure no one got in or out." He snorts. "Fat lot of good they did."
Aziraphale winces.
"Anyway, I was gonna talk to one of them, after I got Eve to eat that apple. Got bored, figured, why not? Might be interesting to get an angelic perspective on the situation. See if any of them had anything interesting to say."
Crowley falls silent, head tilted back against the sofa, obviously lost in the memory. When it doesn't look like he's going to continue, Aziraphale clears his throat and prompts, "So why didn't you?"
Crowley shrugs. "Only saw one angel who didn't look like he'd smite me on the spot, and I didn't see him again after the whole eat-the-apple business. Think he was meant to be guarding the Eastern Gate, but by the time I got up there, he was gone."
Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat.
"Never did find out what happened to that angel," Crowley continues. "Kinda strange that he just disappeared like that, took ages for the other angels on the wall to go."
"Yes," Aziraphale says faintly. "Very strange, indeed."
"Never saw another angel, after that. Just assumed they decided humans were too sinful to associate with."
"Oh. Sinful. Yes."
"Probably why they got you to do their work for them, now that I think about it. Bastards can't even be bothered to do their own dirty work."
Aziraphale stands abruptly. "Yes, well, it's been lovely chatting with you, Crowley, but I should probably get back to work. Lots to do before the grand opening, after all."
Crowley looks startled. "You alright?
"Perfectly. Just busy, is all."
"Okay… do you want any help?"
"No, no, that's quite alright." Aziraphale plucks Crowley's mug from his hands and heads to the kitchen to wash it. "You must have things to do, yourself. I wouldn't want to keep you."
For a moment, Crowley is silent. Then he sighs and trudges towards the door, calling out, "See you later, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale doesn't respond, just stands by the sink and feigns cleaning his mug until the door closes behind Crowley. He sighs and shuffles back into the back room, sinking into the sofa and resting his head in his hands.
He could have met Crowley in Eden. If he hadn't given away his sword, he could have met Crowley on the wall surrounding Eden, and Crowley would know. He'd know, and Aziraphale wouldn't have to lie to him.
It didn't have to be like this.
Aziraphale's back aches for the rest of the day.
Crowley calling to ask Aziraphale to meet him at St. James's Park isn't an unusual occurrence. They've had their Arrangement for so long it's become common to occasionally drop in on one another to ask if the other has any assignments that need taken care of. And with Heaven and Hell sending them more local jobs now they've both settled down full-time in England, the chances of having assignments in similar places have greatly increased. Still, as he approaches the agreed meeting spot, Aziraphale can't help but notice that Crowley looks… tense, somehow.
"You said you wanted to speak with me?" Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley out the corner of his eye. The ducks gather around them, quacking expectantly. Aziraphale absently takes off his hat and starts throwing bread to the ducks to placate them. He's made the mistake of not feeding them once. Never again.
"Yeah. I've been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?" Crowley isn't looking at him, which Aziraphale can't help but find odd. He's always had Crowley's undivided attention. "We have a lot in common, you and me."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Aziraphale says. "You're a demon, after all, and I'm…" He trails off, unwilling to outright lie to Crowley even after all these years.
"You know what I mean," Crowley says, and this time there's a hint of playful exasperation in his voice, but it's gone as soon as it arrives. "I need a favour."
"We already have our agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other's way, lend a hand when needed."
Crowley still won't look at him. "This is something else. For if it all goes… pear-shaped."
"I like pears."
"If it all goes wrong." Crowley's voice sounds tense, then goes quiet, as though he's afraid of being overheard. "I want insurance."
Aziraphale turns to face him properly now, confused and a little worried. Aziraphale has always been the worrier between the two of them. Never, during their entire friendship, has Crowley shown the same concern for their safety as Aziraphale does. "What?"
"I wrote it down," Crowley says. He passes Aziraphale a small piece of paper. "Walls have ears."
Aziraphale unfolds the paper, frowning in confusion.
Then he reads what's on the paper, and his stomach drops.
The words holy water glare up at him, burning in a way he never expected anything holy would. He looks in horror back at Crowley, who still won't look at him, and goes over every interaction they've had that he can remember.
"Well, not walls, trees have ears," Crowley rambles. "Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do, that's how they hear other ducks-"
"No." Aziraphale's chest feels tight. "Out of the question."
"Why not?"
Why not? Why would he?
"It would destroy you." He shoves the piece of paper back into Crowley's hands. "I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley."
"Not what I want it for," Crowley hisses, pushing the paper back. "Just insurance."
Aziraphale looks back down at the paper. He feels sick. Insurance to do what? Take out any demons who may come after him, without bothering to get protection against any angels who might arrive on his doorstep to smite him once and for all? Or take himself out of the picture, so no one can hurt him, demon or angel?
And why now? Crowley's never cared about the possible consequences of their friendship! He's always brushed it off with a laugh and a joke about how little Heaven and Hell care about them. What happened since the last time they saw each other that made Crowley change his mind?
No. No, he can't. He won't give Crowley the means to destroy himself. And even if Crowley's telling the truth, even if that really isn't what he wants it for, giving him holy water would just make things even more dangerous for both of them. It would be real, physical proof of their connection, and there would be no way to talk their way out of that.
"I'm not an idiot, Crowley," he says at last. "Do you know what trouble I'd be in if-" he glances up at the sky once, then twice, as though just thinking about Heaven would make them appear and see Aziraphale willingly talking to a demon- "if they knew I'd been… fraternising."
It's the wrong thing to say, and he knows it the second it comes out of his mouth, but he doesn't take it back, even when Crowley finally, finally, turns to look at him.
"Fraternising?"
"Well, whatever you wish to call it," Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. "B-besides, how would I even get it? I can't…"
He can. He can, but he won't.
"You can go into churches. I can't. And churches always have holy water." Aziraphale can feel Crowley's glare, even through the dark glasses. "This might be life or death, Aziraphale. I need it."
Aziraphale swallows thickly. He can't back down on this. "I said no. That's my final word on the matter."
"Fine, then. I'll find some other human to fraternise with.
Hurt twists in Aziraphale's chest, but he pushes it down. "Of course you will."
"I don't need you."
"And the feeling is mutual!" Aziraphale snaps. "Obviously!"
He snatches the paper from Crowley's hand and tosses it into the water before storming away, not daring to look back. He doesn't want to see if Crowley looks hurt, not if it might make him change his mind.
It's too dangerous. They're already too dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and Aziraphale can't - won't - be responsible for any of it. Won't be responsible for the death of the first being who's been kinder to him than anyone else has since Eden, even though Aziraphale doesn't deserve that kindness.
He'll find a way to keep them both safe. If that means staying away from Crowley, then so be it, even though the mere thought hurts his very soul.
Crowley dying because of Aziraphale would hurt more than staying away from him ever could.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yes." Mr. Glozier's smile is sharp and promises unpleasant things in Aziraphale's very near future. "Killing you."
"You can't kill me," Aziraphale pleads, trying desperately to think of a way to talk himself out of this. The last thing he needs is to explain to Gabriel why he got discorporated by Nazis. "There'll be paperwork."
None of them look confused or even slightly phased by his words - which is a shame, it's usually such a good tactic for buying him time to get out of sticky situations - but the sound of a heavy door closing makes them pause. Aziraphale is just as confused. He doesn't remember anyone else who's supposed to be here tonight. Certainly no one who would keep gasping like the newcomer is doing, as though they're in pain-
Oh. Aziraphale recognises the figure hopping down the aisle. He'd recognise him anywhere.
His heart flutters.
"Sorry, consecrated ground," Crowley grits out. Oh, it's been so long since he's heard his voice. "Ohh, it's like... being at a beach in bare feet."
"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the way his stomach is suddenly doing flips. Their fight the last time they met was simply awful, so why is Crowley-?
"Stopping you getting into trouble," Crowley replies, like it's supposed to be obvious, as though walking into churches and making absolute fools of themselves to save gullible angels is something demons do every day.
But how did Crowley know he's...
"I should have known," Aziraphale says. "Of course. These people are working for you."
It's not true, he knows it's not true the moment he says it.
Crowley denies it anyway. "No! They're a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want you to get killed and get left with some boring, stuffy angel as your replacement."
Despite the less than ideal situation they're both in, Aziraphale's lips twitch upwards. It's such a Crowley response, pretending he's doing this to benefit himself in some way, while his ridiculous prancing about says otherwise.
"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley," Mr. Glozier interrupts. Aziraphale almost forgot he was here. "Your fame precedes you."
"Anthony?" Aziraphale repeats.
"You don't like it?"
"No, no, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it." Crowley's name is his business, after all, and Aziraphale's opinion really doesn't matter that much. If Crowley likes it, that's enough for him.
Warmth curls in his chest at Crowley's question anyway.
"The famous Mr. Crowley?" Greta seems almost awed, although not enough to lower her gun. Her eyes run over Crowley's body, and Crowley tips his hat in her direction. "That's such a pity you must both die."
"What does the J stand for?" Aziraphale asks, just to get Crowley's attention off her.
Crowley makes an odd sound. "It's just a J, really."
Aziraphale suppresses a smile. Of course Crowley didn't think any further than that. He's not even surprised-
"Look at that," Crowley says, distracted. Aziraphale follows his line of sight, and his heart sinks. "Whole fontful of holy water. Doesn't even have guards."
Oh. Of course that's what Crowley is really here for. Why would it be for anything else, after the fight they had?
Wait. Guards?
Does… does Crowley think holy water needs guards?
Aziraphale bites back a laugh.
"Enough babbling, kill them both," Mr. Glozier says dismissively, and just like that, Crowley's attention is on them again.
"In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here," he says. "If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely won't enjoy what comes after." He mutters the last part out the side of his mouth to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale has to suppress a smile.
"You expect us to believe that?" Mr. Glozier sounds smug again. "The bombs tonight will fall on the East End."
"Yes." Crowley leans on one of the pews, trying to balance on the tip of one foot. "It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course."
Last-minute demonic intervention?
"You're all wasting your valuable running-away time," Crowley continues, pushing off the pew. He sends Aziraphale a pointed look. "And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would be very difficult for my friend and I to survive it, even if one of us shielded the other."
"Shielded?" Is Crowley actually…?
"Kill them, they are very irritating." Mr. Harmony doesn't seem concerned about Crowley's generous warning, but then again, it isn't for them. Not really.
Crowley stops fidgeting long enough to point up dramatically, just as air whistling can be heard overhead. Aziraphale looks up too, searching for something, and as the whistling gets closer, he can feel it - Crowley's magic, impossible to sense if Aziraphale weren't looking for it, wrapping around him like a protective cloak. He glances at Crowley, who's completely unprotected, eyes wide in panic. If he's discorporated… if Hell finds out he killed some Nazis just to save Aziraphale…
Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and instinctively reaches out to cover Crowley with a miracle of his own just as the bomb hits.
When he finally opens his eyes, the ruins of the church surround him, the Nazis buried almost entirely under the rubble. Crowley is still alive, thank goodness, the destroyed ground no longer burning him. He's cleaning his glasses, frowning down at them, and Aziraphale should be worried that he's given his biggest secret away, but he's too relieved that Crowley is alive.
"That was very kind of you," Aziraphale says at last, once it becomes apparent Crowley isn't going to break the silence.
"Hmm?"
"What you did just now."
"Oh. Yeah. That." Crowley's frown deepens. "Wasn't expecting to get out of there myself. Didn't think I'd be powerful enough in a church."
"Perhaps you, ah, shielded yourself unconsciously?"
"Maybe. Preserving my own self interest and all that, seems pretty demonic, I guess." Crowley slides his glasses back on, then looks Aziraphale up and down. "You alright?"
"Not a scratch," Aziraphale assures, exhaling quietly in relief. "Thank you."
"Ah, shut up." Crowley grins at him, and it's oh so familiar. Aziraphale's missed that grin. "Can't have you dying on my watch. I'd hate to have to break in a new agent of Heaven if you bit the dust."
Dust. Aziraphale's smile falls. "The books! I forgot all the books!"
"Hey, calm down. They're probably just under the rubble somewhere," Crowley says. He struts over to the rubble and begins digging through it.
"As a pile of dust, perhaps. Oh, how could I forget them? It took me forever to collect those," Aziraphale moans.
Crowley grunts behind him.
"They were first editions, too! Oh, they'll all be blown to-"
"You mean these books?"
Aziraphale turns to see Crowley holding out a bag to him, a satisfied smirk on his face. The bag the Nazis brought with them.
The bag they'd put his books in.
His heart stutters.
Aziraphale reaches out to take it, staring blankly at Crowley. His fingers brush against Crowley's cool hand. His pulse spikes at the second or two of contact that seems to last an eternity. Crowley pulls his hand back, his thumb gently running across one of Aziraphale's fingers. He's still smirking, but it's… soft, somehow, not smug like one would expect a demon to be. Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat.
"Figured you'd want these shielded, too," Crowley says, and Aziraphale swears he can see him wink playfully behind those dark glasses. "Lift home?"
He brushes past Aziraphale and walks away, casually stepping over the piles of broken stones like the last few minutes never happened. Like he didn't rush into a church just to save Aziraphale. Like he didn't drop a bomb on them to kill the people who were threatening him. Like he didn't protect Aziraphale and his books from the explosion and never even attempted to protect himself.
Aziraphale looks down at the bag like it isn't quite real, like it will crumble to ashes the way it should have done when Aziraphale forgot to grab it.
Crowley didn't forget. Crowley remembered, and cared enough to save them, even though he didn't bother to save himself.
Oh, Aziraphale thinks. I love you.
"Aziraphale? You coming?"
Aziraphale's head snaps up. Crowley's stopped, looking over his shoulder at him, waiting patiently.
"Yes. Of course. I'm coming."
Aziraphale stumbles over the rubble, dazed, still clutching the bag tightly to his chest, the contents far more precious than they were minutes ago. Crowley steps forward to meet him, grabbing him by the arm to help stabilise him when he nearly trips. His heart pounds.
"Careful." Crowley grins down at him. "I forgot you can't see as well in the dark as I can."
I love you, Aziraphale thinks as he lets Crowley guide him over the rubble and away from the church.
"I finally got one of those cars everyone's been so obsessed with," Crowley says. "Picked her up brand new in 1935. You'll love it. So much easier to get around."
Crowley tugs Aziraphale towards a black car parked up on the road, practically impossible for mortals to see in the dark. He never lets go of Aziraphale's arm, even when he reaches out to pull open the door on the passenger's side.
Aziraphale climbs into the car without a word, the bag of books resting on his lap. Crowley closes the door for him, then slides into the driver's seat a moment later. He turns and gives Aziraphale a grin.
"Still got that old bookshop?"
Aziraphale can only manage a nod. Crowley makes a sound of affirmation, puts the car into gear, and sets off.
Aziraphale glances down at the bag in his lap, then back at Crowley. His heart is still pounding in his chest, so loud he swears Crowley must be able to hear it. He barely registers the speed at which they're driving, the image of Crowley handing him the bag looping through his mind again and again.
Crowley must sense Aziraphale staring at him, because he takes his eyes off the road to look back. He smiles, and it's the most beautiful smile Aziraphale has ever seen.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he teases.
I love you, Aziraphale thinks. It's the only thing he's capable of thinking right now.
The two of them fall silent, Crowley keeping his eyes on the road while Aziraphale returns to staring at the bag on his lap, the words I love you circling his mind every time he thinks about the way their hands brushed together when Crowley handed over the bag.
The realisation, Aziraphale reflects, doesn't feel new. It doesn't feel like it's come out of nowhere, startling him the way Crowley likes to do to humans. It feels like it's been there for a long time, a warm presence standing right behind him, waiting patiently for him to turn around and see it. It's… not as scary as he would have assumed. It's comforting. Familiar. Soft.
He's a being of love. Loving things and people is in his nature.
But he's never imagined this is what it feels like to be in love.
"Aziraphale?"
Crowley's voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Yes?"
Crowley's looking at him instead of the road again, concern shining in his eyes. "You okay? You're quiet."
"Yes. Of course."
Crowley makes a noise of disbelief. He reaches over to press his hand against Aziraphale's forehead, and Aziraphale has to take a moment to remember how to breathe.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking you're alright. You're not normally so quiet. Are you in shock? Shock is a bad thing, isn't it? I did just drop a bomb on your head, I guess that could be a shock to anyone…"
A small smile spreads across Aziraphale's face. "A hand on a forehead is for checking for a fever. Not for shock."
"Oh." Crowley retracts his hand. "Yeah, that makes sense. Are you in shock?"
"No, Crowley." Warmth curls in his chest at the concern, blanketing his body. "I'm fine, I promise."
"Okay. Good." Crowley lets out a breath. "That's good. Can't have you collapsing on me after I just saved you. I never know what's going to take you humans out. It's so hard to tell."
Just like that, the warmth vanishes. It shouldn't. Crowley's called him a human countless times throughout the years, this should be no different. Yet, for some reason, it is.
"Yes," Aziraphale says quietly, turning to stare out the window. "It is."
They fall back into silence. Aziraphale tries to keep his eyes on the window and watch the world fly by, but he can't stop his eyes from drifting back to Crowley. Crowley doesn't look back, seemingly content that Aziraphale isn't in danger of dropping dead at any moment.
As they pull up to the bookshop, Crowley slams his foot on the brake, and Aziraphale catches a slight blink-and-you'll-miss-it wince. It's gone before Aziraphale can even think about mentioning it.
"We're here," Crowley says. He gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, opening the door for Aziraphale and holding out his hand to help him out. Aziraphale takes it.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
They stand awkwardly together on the pavement. Aziraphale wrings his hands, trying desperately to think of more to say. When he doesn't come up with something quick enough, Crowley moves to get back into the car. He winces again, just slightly, and Aziraphale grabs his arm before he can think about what he's doing.
"Wait."
Crowley pauses and turns back to Aziraphale.
"I… you don't have to go yet," Aziraphale says. He hopes he doesn't sound desperate. "You can come in, if you'd like. Have some wine."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Wine, angel? Really?"
Relief floods Aziraphale's body at the familiar nickname. He'd been so afraid he'd never hear it again... "It's just… it's been so long since I last saw you. We should catch up."
He expects Crowley to make some kind of snarky comment. For him to remind Aziraphale exactly why they haven't seen each other for so long. For him to say this meeting is a one off and drive away and never, ever come back.
Instead, Crowley shrugs and says, "Yeah. Alright."
Aziraphale lets out a slow breath. He reluctantly releases Crowley's arm and enters the bookshop, relieved when Crowley follows him. The two of them head for the back room, the one that had started to become their room before that awful fight. Crowley flops onto the sofa, his hiss of pain nearly inaudible. Aziraphale doubts he would have caught it if he wasn't listening for it.
"Your feet."
"S'fine. They're fine."
"Crowley."
"It's fine. It'll go away in a few days. Heal quicker than you humans do, remember?"
Aziraphale swallows thickly. He knows that's not true, not when it comes to holy injuries, but he can't say that. He's supposed to be human, he's not supposed to know these things, and he can't do anything about it. No matter how much he wants to.
"At least take your shoes off," he says at last. "That might make you feel better."
Crowley huffs, but obediently kicks off his shoes, failing to stifle a sigh of relief. He doesn't touch his socks, but he doesn't need to - the church grounds apparently ate away at his shoes and socks like acid, because the bottom of the socks are almost completely burned away. The soles of his feet are an angry red, already beginning to swell and blister, and even though he's seen far worse injuries, the sight still makes Aziraphale feel a little sick.
"Oh, Crowley…"
"It's fine," Crowley says, even though it's so blatantly not fine, and the proof is right in front of him. "You said you had wine? Could do with some wine. Bet it would hurt less if I had wine."
Aziraphale suppresses a sigh and nods, retreating to the kitchen without another word. Crowley hisses quietly behind him, and his heart aches.
He retrieves a bottle of wine and a glass, then pauses, biting his lip. It's his fault Crowley is in this situation. If he hadn't been so foolish, so naive, Crowley would have never come anywhere near that church. He never would have gotten hurt for Aziraphale's sake. The least he can do is try to make Crowley feel better.
Faintly, Crowley mutters a curse in the other room, and Aziraphale's mind is made up.
Right. First thing's first: cool water. It's been a long time since he's had to treat a burn, but he's almost certain he's supposed to start by cooling the burn with water. If nothing else, it should hopefully take some of the pain away.
He rummages through the kitchen until he manages to find a bowl just large enough for Crowley's feet, and fills it with cool water, running his hand through it to make sure it's the right temperature. He sets it gently on the side, careful to make sure none of the water spills out.
Okay. Next, first aid kit. He's sure he has one lying around somewhere, although he can't remember what's in it, or even what's supposed to be in a first aid kit. It's been such a long time since he's had to use onel. He'll just have to hope everything he needs is in there. The burn will need bandaging, right? Surely it should have bandages, if nothing else.
He finds the first aid kit shoved to the back of a cupboard, and sure enough, there's bandages in it, although that's about it. The only other thing in the kit is two old pieces of cloth. He could use one to clean the burn, perhaps? And another to dry it once he's done, so the bandages won't get soaked? He's heard cloth tends to stick to burns, but Crowley's a demon, so it should be fine. It's all he's got, so two cloths it is.
Is there anything he's forgetting? Is there something else he's supposed to apply to Crowley's feet, or is this everything? He can't remember, it's been so long-
"Satan, angel, how long does it take to get a glass of wine?"
Aziraphale glances down at the supplies he's gathered. It will have to do. He doesn't want Crowley to be in pain much longer.
Carrying all his supplies is harder than he expects, but he manages. He carefully staggers back into the living room with the bottle tucked under his arm, first aid kit and glass clutched between his fingers in one hand, and the bowl balanced on his other.
Crowley looks up when he enters, pretending he wasn't nosing through the stack of papers Aziraphale had left dumped on the table, and raises an eyebrow. "Why couldn't you leave some of that in the kitchen and go back for it when your hands are free like a normal person?"
He reaches out to "helpfully" take the bottle and the glass from Aziraphale, and takes another look at the first aid kit and bowl in Aziraphale's hands. "That stuff won't work, you know. It's a holy burn. It won't heal it."
"No, but it might help with the pain," Aziraphale says. He kneels down beside Crowley's feet, setting the first aid kit and bowl beside him.
"I told you, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt that bad."
"I don't believe that for a second."
Crowley waves one hand dismissively, popping open the wine bottle. "I've had worse."
"Still, I would like to try treating it. To ease the pain, if nothing else."
Crowley sighs dramatically, pouring the wine into the glass. "Fine, fine. Knock yourself out."
Aziraphale sighs in relief. He'd been afraid Crowley would fight him on this, and he doesn't have the energy to argue tonight. He gently lifts Crowley's left foot by the ankle, peeling the sock off and lowering his foot into the bowl. Above him, Crowley hisses and takes a long, noisy sip of his wine.
He repeats the process with the right foot, placing the socks aside to dispose of them later, and retrieves one of the cloths from the first aid kit. He dips the cloth in the bowl, then lifts one of Crowley's feet and begins to clean.
Crowley flinches. He takes another noisy sip and digs his fingers into the sofa, but he doesn't pull away. He lets Aziraphale clean the burn without a single complaint, even though he doesn't think it will do anything.
Aziraphale's heart aches. Even when he's in pain, Crowley's willing to indulge him.
He keeps his eyes fixed on Crowley's foot. Washing and cleaning the burn won't help it heal, he knows that. The only thing that could help it heal would be a miracle, and Aziraphale isn't supposed to do that. He's supposed to be a human with a limited amount of miracles, miracles he certainly can't afford to waste on a demon. Using one now could raise suspicion, especially after the one he used earlier.
He shouldn't heal him. He shouldn't.
Crowley hisses again.
It's not fair.
Aziraphale risks glancing up. Crowley isn't looking at him. He's staring determinedly at the wall to his left, trying desperately to hide the way his face is scrunching up in pain. Pain that wouldn't even be there if it weren't for him.
Aziraphale lowers his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
And puts the tiniest miracle on the cloth.
Crowley inhales sharply.
Aziraphale tenses.
Then Crowley lets out a slow huff, like he usually does when he's trying to hide the fact he's in pain, and Aziraphale relaxes again.
Good. He didn't notice.
It doesn't take long for the miracle to take effect. It's nothing big, just a little something to ease the pain and speed up healing slightly, but it seems to make a difference. Crowley sighs in relief, relaxing against the sofa, and he sips at the wine more leisurely. When Aziraphale switches to his other foot, the most he does is tense his leg slightly, before going limp again as the miracle takes effect.
Aziraphale's glad it's helping, he really is.
But he can't bring himself to be happy about it. How can he, when he knows he has the power to heal him completely?
"Well, what do you know?" Crowley says at last, while Aziraphale is patting his feet dry with the second cloth. "It did help."
He smiles down at Aziraphale with a kindness he doesn't deserve.
Aziraphale's mouth goes dry. "I'm sorry I can't do more," he says.
"Eh, just don't go ambushing any more Nazis in churches. That'll probably help." Crowley must see the look on Aziraphale's face, because he quickly adds, "I'm kidding."
Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise and bandages Crowley's feet silently.
Neither of them say anything else. Aziraphale finishes bandaging Crowley's feet, snatches up the socks before Crowley can attempt to fix them with a miracle, and packs away his supplies while Crowley slips his shoes on. If he notices how quiet and tense Aziraphale is, he's generous enough to not mention it.
"You should probably think about heading home," Aziraphale says eventually. He rises to his feet, first aid kit in one hand, bowl in the other. "It's getting late."
"Yeah. S'pose I should." Despite his words, Crowley hesitates, like he doesn't want to leave. Aziraphale swallows.
"Well, goodnight then. Drive safe."
"Yeah. Night."
It feels awkward and stilted, so unlike their usual farewells, but Aziraphale can't think of a way to change that, so he doesn't try. Crowley heads for the front door, says goodbye once more, and leaves Aziraphale standing alone in the back room, still holding the first aid kit and bowl.
He silently heads back to the kitchen, putting the bowl back where he found it. He glances out the window, even though he can't see a thing, then stares down at the first aid kit still clutched in his hands. Outside, a car - Crowley's, most likely - tears away, screeching down the road until it presumably turns a corner, and the ungodly noise disappears.
The bookshop is left in silence.
Aziraphale slams the first aid kit onto the counter.
He's the reason Crowley got hurt. If Crowley knew the truth, Aziraphale would have been able to heal him properly. He wouldn't have had to let him walk away, still in pain, still with a lot of healing to do. He'd be able to return Crowley's favours, give back as much as he gets, instead of sitting and silently taking everything whilst giving nothing in return.
But he can't. He can't, because Crowley doesn't know the truth, and Aziraphale has no idea how to tell him after so long. Crowley hates angels, he's made that crystal clear over the thousands of years they've known each other. What would he say if Aziraphale told him the truth? It would destroy their friendship. Crowley would never talk to him again. And it's selfish, he knows it's selfish, but Aziraphale can't bear the thought of that happening.
He doesn't want to go another century without his best friend ever again.
Aziraphale sighs, fiddling with the edge of his waistcoat in an attempt to keep himself from picking at his nails. His last manicurist kept telling him off for doing that, and he's been doing his best to heed her advice.
None of this would have happened if he hadn't lost his wings. Crowley would know what he is, he'd be able to freely use his miracles in front of Crowley, be able to heal him, and, most importantly, he wouldn't have to lie. The lying is the worst part
But what is he supposed to do? He has no idea how to begin explaining the truth to Crowley, but he can't keep it a secret forever. Armageddon will arrive eventually, and Crowley will see him on the battlefield, on the side of the angels, and he'll figure it out. That would be far, far worse than just telling him himself.
But if he tells him, Crowley might-
Aziraphale takes a long, deep breath.
Maybe… maybe he'll wait a little longer. Just until he gets his wings back. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. He'll earn Heaven's forgiveness, get his wings back, and everything will be alright. He'll tell Crowley everything, explain the misunderstanding, and they'll hopefully laugh it off and remember it fondly in a few millennia. Yes, that's what he'll do. It will give him time to plan exactly how he's going to explain everything.
Aziraphale puts the first aid kit back in the cupboard he found it, a lot more at ease now he has an idea of what to do.
Everything will be okay once he gets his wings back. He's sure of it.
He just has to have faith.
He's waiting in the car when Crowley finally returns. His entire body is tense, and he has to rub his hands on his trouser legs to avoid picking at his nails. His stomach twists over and over at the thought of what he's about to do, but he has no choice. Anything is better than risking losing Crowley.
It takes Crowley a moment to realise he's there. He does a double take when he sees Aziraphale sitting in the passenger's seat. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed a word with you."
"No, I mean, how did you get in my car?"
Shoot. He forgot he's not supposed to be able to miracle himself into Crowley's car. "I, er… you left the car unlocked."
Crowley frowns. "I did?"
"Well, you didn't unlock the car when you got in just now, did you?"
Crowley glances back at the car door, as though just looking at it will verify Aziraphale's claim. "Huh. I guess I didn't."
Aziraphale lets out a quiet breath. Thank goodness.
"Go on, then. You broke into my car for a reason-"
"I didn't break into-"
"-so what's so important you couldn't just call?"
Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "I work in SoHo. I hear things. I hear that you're setting up a… caper... to rob a church."
Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses, as though this isn't important, as though doing this won't put his very life in danger. And while this isn't the first time Crowley has shown little to no concern over his own wellbeing, this time his dismissal makes Aziraphale sick to his stomach
He'd planned to be logical about this. To give a reasonable argument as to why Crowley should reconsider. But watching him roll his eyes at Aziraphale's words, like they don't matter, he can't help but beg. "Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely."
"You told me what you think," Crowley says bitterly, "105 years ago."
"And I haven't changed my mind. But I can't have you risking your life." Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat at the mere thought. "Not even for something dangerous. So…"
With shaking hands, Aziraphale pulls out the tartan thermos. He can barely bring himself to touch it, as though he would be the one destroyed if so much as a single drop spills.
There are so many ways robbing a church can go wrong. So many ways it could endanger Crowley. From the humans being a little too careless with the precious contents, to catching the attention of the wrong people, both Above and Below.
Forcing his hands to still, he holds out the thermos.
Crowley's eyebrows raise.
"You can call off the robbery," Aziraphale says, trying to control his trembling voice. "Don't go unscrewing the cap."
He promised himself he would never give anything so dangerous to Crowley.
But he'd rather make sure he receives it safely and without any unwanted attention than allow him to risk his life trying to obtain it himself.
Slowly, Crowley reaches for the thermos, as though it will disappear if he moves too fast. He holds it as gently as Aziraphale did as he takes it. Every tiny movement makes the water inside slosh, and every time Aziraphale's heart threatens to stop. But the cap is screwed on tight, Aziraphale made sure of it, and no water leaks out.
"Is this the real thing?" Crowley asks, eyes fixed on the thermos.
Aziraphale swallows. "The holiest."
"The holiest?" Crowley's attention snaps back to Aziraphale. "As in, an angel…"
Aziraphale nods.
"You stole holy water from Heaven?" Crowley's voice is soft, awed. "For me?"
He didn't. Even thinking about stealing from Heaven makes Aziraphale's back sting. But he can't tell Crowley that. Can't say he blessed that water himself, praying frantically that Crowley will never have to use it, and if he does, that no harm will come to him. So instead, he nods again.
Crowley stares at him, mouth slightly agape, and something in the air shifts. Aziraphale almost always has Crowley's full attention, but this feels different, somehow. His eyes widen behind his glasses, and he shifts in his seat until his entire body is facing Aziraphale.
Something has changed, shifted ever so slightly. Aziraphale has no idea what. He can only hope it's nothing bad.
"Should I say thank you?" Crowley asks breathily.
They've known each other for over 4000 years, and Crowley has never once said 'thank you' to him.
"Better not," he says.
"Well, can I drop you anywhere?"
Crowley's offer means more. Although he doesn't know how, he's sure he knows what Crowley's really asking.
And he knows he can't accept it. Not now. Not while he's like this.
"No, thank you."
Crowley's face falls.
"Oh, don't look so disappointed." Aziraphale tries to smile at him, but it feels weak. "Perhaps one day we could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz."
He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.
"I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go," Crowley repeats, more insistently. The offer makes the air heavy. Whatever it is that has shifted will shift even further, depending on his answer, and Aziraphale desperately wants to say yes.
But he can't. Not while he's like this, wingless and unable to give as much as he takes. It wouldn't be fair. And it's too dangerous, anyway. His friendship with Crowley is a big enough risk as it is, and if Heaven finds out, he'll be in so much trouble, and he'll definitely never get his wings back. What is he supposed to do if that happens? He can't expect Crowley to be okay with settling for a damaged angel.
He thinks about the night at the church, when he let Crowley walk away, knowing he had the ability to heal him fully.
Crowley deserves better than that.
He deserves someone whole, someone who's not desperately trying to regain a piece of themselves they've lost. He deserves someone who can put just as much in as he can, who has all of themselves to give, instead of just pieces. Someone who can heal him when he's hurt.
Aziraphale can't be any of that.
Not until he gets his wings back.
He wants to say yes. Desperately. But it's too soon, too fast. Aziraphale can't give him what he deserves yet.
No matter how much he wants to, he cannot say yes.
"You go too fast for me, Crowley," he says instead.
The weight in the air settles reluctantly back into place.
Aziraphale doesn't wait for a response. He gets out of the car and begins to walk home. Every step that takes him further away from the car feels painful. It takes all his strength, every ounce of his willpower, to keep walking, to wait until he can be what Crowley deserves.
He can only hope Crowley decides to wait with him.
And that he'll still want him once he sees the truth.
He thought he had time.
Every time he worries about Crowley finding out the truth, he tells himself the same thing: he has time. He'll get his wings back, get Heaven off his back, and tell Crowley everything. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but eventually. It doesn't matter when. He has time.
And then Crowley calls him, and suddenly he doesn't have time.
Because Armageddon is finally approaching.
