Heaven has been sterile and clinical for as long as he can remember. All blank walls and pure white floors that are constantly scrubbed within an inch of their lives. Not out of concern for cleanliness, for anything less than spotless physically can not be achieved, but simply to give the lower angels something to do. There are no pictures or paintings on the wall, no murals or fountains, not even a stained glass window like the Catholics are so fond of. Such material things are beneath angels. The only angels with any possessions of their own are those that require desks for their jobs, and the desks and chairs are all they own.
It's a far cry from what humans picture when they talk about Heaven. Mostly because angels and human souls are kept separate. There's an infinite garden - although it looks more like a city these days - outside for the humans to roam in, to play and laugh and get messy, and, most importantly, to keep them away from the terribly busy angels and their tight, precise schedules. An angel or two stand guard by the doors to ensure no humans slip inside, but aside from that, they are completely separated. Humans get their paradise, angels get their neat and organised workspace. A system that works for everyone.
Aziraphale has never liked it. It's one of the reasons he guiltily enjoys Earth and all the delightful colours that come with it, why he always hopes he'll be assigned to the doors once The War is over. Heaven always feels too cold and hollow. Not like life has been sucked out of it, but like life never dwelled there in the first place, suffocated by the stiflingly tidy air before it had a chance to flourish. Crowley says angels and anything divine smells like bleach, and although Aziraphale can't smell it himself, he can certainly understand why that might be the case whenever he walks down the empty, sparkling corridors.
He wonders, sometimes, if Heaven was different Before. Like most angels, his memories of Before are fuzzy, a defensive measure to protect them from wasting time mourning what they lost, or worse, trying to restore it. Demons lost all love for their former friends when they Fell, but angels did not, and were left shouldering the burden of empathy and love for those that stabbed them in the back. And, well, one can't fight a war when the other side is full of people one loves. Hence, the fuzzy memories. So no one is weighed down by something as trivial as emotions, and so no one will be tempted by nostalgia to try and recreate whatever feeling they had Before with another being.
That's the idea, at least. But, surprise surprise, it hasn't been working very well for Aziraphale at all. It's disappointing, but not unexpected. He's always been the odd one out, affected by things that don't bother anyone else.
But. Perhaps it doesn't work very well for other angels either. Perhaps their emotions peek through too, shining through the cracks of the carefully constructed wall they were forced to build to keep themselves safe.
Perhaps he can use that to his advantage, if he can find that empathetic crack.
Aziraphale hopes so. It's the only plan he has. He'd spent hours pacing back and forth in his bookshop, frantically rehearsing how to phrase his proposal to Gabriel. If it wasn't for Crowley pushing him out the door and manhandling him into the Bentley, he'd likely still be there now.
He keeps his hands behind his back as he stands in the corridor and waits for the Archangels to arrive. They're not late, they never are, but he is early, and they have a lot of duties to fulfill. And they certainly won't appreciate it if they see him nervous and fidgety when they have so graciously taken time out of their busy schedules to hear his suggestion. A nervous and fidgety angel is an angel who stutters and wastes time, and Aziraphale does not want to be dismissed as a waste of time before he's even had a chance to speak.
He hears them before he sees them, the brisk, impatient tap of their shoes echoing through the corridor. The sound makes a band of anxiety squeeze his chest, trying to crush his lungs and heart. He tries to fight back the nervousness when they approach, clenching his hands like that will stop them sweating. It's only Michael and Gabriel today; Uriel is busy providing Archangel training for Sandalphon, and thus is unavailable for meetings until further notice, according to Gabriel. He's had thousands of meetings just like this. There's no need to be nervous.
"So! Aziraphale." Gabriel smiles at him, although it feels… plastic. "You said you had some big news for us?"
"A-ah, yes, I do indeed." Aziraphale swallows. He tries to stand straighter, but he's already as straight as he can go. "You asked me to keep an eye on the demon Crowley, and I have come to report I have done one better. I have found the Antichrist."
The smile never wavers, but he doesn't look as pleased as Aziraphale was hoping. "So?"
"So - so with this information, we can keep a closer eye on Crowley, and better observe his movements. Perhaps even uncover a few of Hell's plans, see if there's anything we could… do about them?" He tries not to shrink under their piercing gazes. "J-just a suggestion. I just thought it would be useful to have a chance to-"
"Yes, I suppose so," Michael concedes.
"Excellent work Aziraphale," Gabriel adds, clapping politely. The tightness in his chest loosens a little at the praise. "I trust you will use this opportunity to discreetly obtain information about Hell's plans, especially information about the upcoming war, and bring it directly to us. Who knows, there may even be a reward for you if you do well enough."
Aziraphale lets out a quiet breath. Good, it's going well. They are receptive to his information, and hopefully that means they will be open to his suggestion.
"If I may, Gabriel. I have a… proposal, of sorts."
"Fire away, fire away! But make it quick. We have a meeting in five minutes, and it's imperative we catch up with Uriel to see how Sandalphon's training is coming along."
"I… I would like to try to convert the Antichrist."
The silence is frigid. Their expressions never change, but they stare at him, unblinking, for a long time, long enough to make him want to squirm.
Oh dear, what part of that sentence was enough to upset them now?
Finally, Gabriel speaks past the smile frozen on his lips. "Beg your pardon?"
"W-well, I just think it could be beneficial. For the greater good," Aziraphale scrambles to explain. He desperately tries to remember what he and Crowley rehearsed. "Our mission is to rescue souls from Hell's evil clutches and bring them into God's light. If we could convert the Antichrist, it would be a blow to Hell's forces, and be extremely beneficial to our cause. You know, show them Heaven's light is stronger than them?"
And perhaps Armageddon won't have to happen. Billions of human souls will be saved if this plan succeeds. But for some reason, he can't get that point out. The way Gabriel and Michael are looking at him grips his throat, strangling his words so they wither away before they can pass his lips.
He finds himself holding his breath. He doesn't mean to, but he is. The band that had loosened is tight again, squeezing harder and harder with every second they stare blankly at him.
Oh dear, this is a bad idea, isn't it? Of course the Archangels aren't interested in his suggestion, everything is already laid out, how could he possibly hope to try and change the ineffable plan-
"Well, you have ambition, I'll give you that," Gabriel says. "You know what? Why not. Go ahead."
The tension lifts slightly. "Really?"
"Really really! We're the good guys after all, and good guys give second chances. You're certainly familiar with them."
The words jab him in the chest. He ignores it. Gabriel isn't trying to be mean.
Despite Gabriel's words, Michael doesn't look so sure. "It is an impossible task. The Antichrist is not fully human, and it is Written-"
"Ah, what's the harm in letting him try? What's the worst that could happen, the Antichrist rips him apart from the inside out for trying to meddle?"
The words are light, but they make Aziraphale's stomach clench anyway. They shouldn't, it's only a joke, but they do. He's always been too sensitive.
"I will be careful," Aziraphale says quietly. "I will make sure neither the Antichrist nor the demon Crowley discovers what I'm doing. I'm rather good at avoiding demonic detection."
Which isn't exactly a lie. He is, from an angelic point of view, very good at keeping his ethereal presence under wraps. Crowley still doesn't know he's an angel, after all.
"Besides, I have faith the Lord will keep me safe from harm," he adds for good measure. Praising Her always helps smooth any ruffled feathers up here.
"That's the spirit!" Gabriel claps him on the shoulder. Hard. Aziraphale has to fight back a wince. "Anything else? Make it quick, we only have one minute."
Aziraphale swallows. "There is one more thing," he says quietly.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow.
"If I… if I succeed, may I have my wings back?"
Gabriel's smile twitches.
It takes everything in Aziraphale's power to not take the words back or try to laugh them off as a joke. He doesn't want Crowley's careful coaching to go to waste, no matter how much Michael's stare makes him feel sick. They've been practicing, Crowley drilling tips and tricks on how to ask for this into him.
"Converting the Antichrist is no easy task," Crowley had said. "If anything should get them to break your curse, it should be this. If they say no, you can always ask for a raise!"
His advice wasn't entirely practical; Aziraphale had to cut out more than a few insulting lines. But the majority of it was surprisingly helpful, and Aziraphale doesn't want it to go to waste.
The worst they can do is say no, Aziraphale reminds himself firmly. They won't do anything else. All they will do is say no.
"You know what, Aziraphale?" Gabriel's smile is as cold as Heaven's corridors, but it's a smile nonetheless. "You've got yourself a deal. If you successfully convert the Antichrist, you can have your wings back."
His heart leaps. For a moment, he's breathless and fuzzy.
"Gabriel," Michael says. "The meeting."
"Of course. I trust that's all, Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale manages a nod. "Yes, that's all. Thank you."
It's the first concrete goal he's had in a long time.
They don't bid him farewell. That's understandable, they are very busy, and Aziraphale has taken up more time than they were likely expecting, so he doesn't take offence. He turns and heads back to Earth, a spring in his step - or as close to a spring as a proper angel can achieve - and a genuine smile on his face.
At last, things are starting to look up.
The size of the Dowling estate is one he hasn't seen in a long, long time. Aziraphale has spent so long curled up in his beloved bookshop in central London he almost forgot what houses look like when they aren't cramped in with goodness knows how many other buildings. Admittedly, this is his own fault. He doesn't leave London much anymore, citing Crowley's increased activity as the reason. And, well, Heaven doesn't give him many assignments these days, so there's been no reason to leave.
In some ways, it's nice. He hadn't realised how much he missed being surrounded by so much flora until he first set foot on the Dowling estate and breathed in the fresh air one cannot find in London. Being able to smell the freshly cut grass and find a variety of wildlife outside the rats scurrying along the streets and the underground is refreshing.
On the other hand, he now has to actually take care of the aforementioned flora, because he foolishly decided on the role of the gardener instead of the nanny. He doesn't know why he talked Crowley into agreeing with that decision. Playing nanny would surely be better for his cause, since there's only so much interaction a small child can have with a gardener compared to a caretaker, and Crowley does adore gardening so.
But for some reason, allowing Crowley to be the nanny was the first thought in his mind. Perhaps it's his unwillingness to deal with such a small child for such a long period of time. He doesn't dislike children, and Warlock is a wonderful boy, but he's not very good with them at all. Crowley has always been far better with children than he.
Either way, he's managed to get himself stuck in quite a pickle. It's far from his worst pickle - as far as pickles go, this is so minor it's practically a cucumber - but it is a pickle nonetheless.
Because even though he - for reasons unknown to even him - decided a gardener is the best possible disguise for him, he doesn't actually know how to garden.
It's not for lack of trying. Crowley certainly did her best to give him as many lessons on how to properly garden before they even officially took their respective jobs. But her method is just so mean, and he can't bring himself to do it. Why would he want to insult Her creations, after She put in so much work to make them beautiful and unique in their own ways? No, he will not resort to threats and insults. If the plants do not grow, that is down to his own shoddy care.
"Sure angel, whatever you think is best," Crowley had teasingly sneered when he told her that.
He'd also considered picking up a few botany books, but he simply doesn't have the time to dedicate himself to learning a new skill. At least, not the way he likes to, spending days on end pouring over a book and absorbing every last drop of information like a sponge. It's his favourite and most effective method of learning, but it requires time, and time is a luxury they don't have, so with a heavy heart, he'd been forced to forgo the books.
Blast it all, if only he could use miracles without blowing his cover! Then he could sit in the sunlight and enjoy the summer breeze whilst the garden bloomed and flourished around him. But no, he must do it manually, and it's frustrating how much more difficult it is than he was expecting. He can never tell the difference between weeds and desired plants, and always ends up giving them too much or too little water.
He's also apparently not supposed to welcome slugs and snails in the garden, but he likes them, so he's going to conveniently not hear that particular bit of advice. Twenty seven times in a row.
With a sigh, he once again attempts to even out the branches for the shrub he's trying to trim. Crowley lectured him extensively on the importance of even branches, and although he doesn't see the point, he trusts her advice. To a certain extent. It is possible she's just messing with him.
Only a few more years of this, and it will all be over. He is so close, so close he can practically feel the weight of his wings on his back. Just a few more years and Armageddon will (hopefully) be averted, he'll have his wings back, and he'll be able to tell Crowley the truth. Won't have to lie by omission every time they talk.
Oh, he's been waiting for this for so long, and finally there isn't much longer to wait. His chest lightens every time he thinks about all the things he'll be able to do. He'll be able to fly again, spend hours grooming his feathers until they're nice and sparkly - and oh, he can't believe he ever took that for granted, can't believe he used to hate grooming his wings, he's never going to stop once he gets them back - and he'll be allowed to use his miracles as freely and as openly as he likes. He'll be able to let gardens bloom with a few miraculous nudges, instead of struggling to keep them alive or relying on Crowley to revive them.
Not that he minds Crowley helping with the garden. It's quite sweet, actually, how often she steps in to offer her assistance. She says it's because she doesn't like seeing the garden in such a sorry state, and that they can't afford to let Aziraphale lose his job, but by this point he's relatively sure she just likes doing things for him. It's amazing how often the smallest hint of her fond smile gives away her true feelings.
Still, he'd like to be able to return the favour. It's something he's wanted for a while, being able to do just as much for her as she does for him. In fact, he's wanted it for so long it's grown from a simple desire to a fantasy.
It will be nice, being able to miracle up alcohol for the two of them. Or surprise her with an impromptu dinner at her favourite restaurant, which miraculously has a table free. Or remove pesky stains on her clothes by simply brushing his hand over them.
Or maybe he could heal her hands when they get small scratches from the thorns on her flowers. That would be nice. He could hold her hands in his own, let his touch heal her wounds. Or press a kiss against her palm and feel the cut obediently close under his lips-
"Making a mess of the garden again, are we, Brother Francis?"
Aziraphale jolts sharply at the voice. He glances over his shoulder, where Crowley is staring down at him, Warlock balanced on her hip, an amused smile on her lips.
"Ah, forgive me, Ms. Ashtoreth. I was in a world of me own."
"Clearly," she says dryly, though not unkindly. She sets Warlock on the ground, patting his head with a fond look one wouldn't normally expect from a demon. "Why don't you run off and play, hmm? See if you can annoy those pesky guards."
"Do not do that," Aziraphale cuts in. "They work hard to protect you, young master, and it's important to respect yer elders-"
"- which you can do by respecting my suggestion-"
"-or by simply talking to them," Aziraphale continues. "Why don't you go ask them about their day? I'm sure they'll appreciate the company."
"Ask them what their seventh favourite lizard is," Crowley suggests. "In fact, go get a whole list of their favourite lizards. Include as many questions as you can. And make sure you ask them why. Grown-ups love it when you ask them why."
Warlock grins widely at them, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. His front tooth is missing, knocked out from an incident last week involving a sled and two footballs that Aziraphale had definitely not been involved in, thank you very much, Crowley. Warlock loves watching them go back and forth, and has spent literal hours watching them in the past. He says it's like watching his parents, only much more fun since they're never actually angry with each other, which makes Aziraphale's heart ache strangely.
"Go on, shoo," Crowley says playfully, shooing him dramatically enough to make him giggle. "Brother Francis and I have boring grown-up things to talk about."
"Okay Nanny. Brother Francis, will you tell me about the caterpillars later, like you promised?"
"Of course I will," Aziraphale says, something warm curling in his chest. "You go play now. If you find out that guard's seventh favourite lizard, I'll see what I can tell you about it, hmm?"
Warlock nods eagerly, eyes shining at the prospect of learning about even more animals. He takes off without even saying goodbye, charging over to the guards' usual station to get that seventh favourite lizard name.
"Remember, be nice!" Aziraphale calls out.
"Remember, give 'em hell!" Crowley calls out at the same time.
"Okay!" Warlock yells back. It's unclear who he's talking to, but that's nothing new.
"Caterpillars, angel?" Crowley says quietly as soon as Warlock is out of earshot. "Tell me you've not been letting those pests near the plants again."
"They're not pests," Aziraphale says. Dropping the accent is always such a relief. "They just want to eat, like everything else."
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to let them eat these plants."
"Oh, I doubt anyone will notice. It's just a few little holes."
"Hmm." Crowley inspects his work on the shrub with narrowed eyes. He can almost feel the judgement rolling off her. "You don't know what you're doing, do you?"
Aziraphale slumps. "No."
"Give me the shears, I'll even it out."
Aziraphale hands them over gratefully, stepping back to admire Crowley as she works. It's fascinating, how she knows exactly what she wants the shrub to look like and how to achieve that before she's even made the first snip. Within seconds snippets of branches are littering the ground around her feet, and the shrub is already looking much neater.
She works for maybe a minute, fiddling with the leaves to hide any gaping spots even she can't fix. Finally, she steps back, and the shrub looks far prettier than it did when Aziraphale had his hands on it, with only a few patches noticeably bare.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Really, don't. You were just making a pig's ear of it." She squints more suspiciously at the shrub. "It looks a bit pathetic. And there aren't any flowers. Have you been complimenting it again?"
Aziraphale sniffs indignantly. "I simply think positive reinforcement is far more beneficial than-"
"Grow better!" Crowley screams at the shrub, completely ignoring Aziraphale. "Do you want to be thrown into a shredder? Huh? You're lucky you're not one of my plants, I'd've ripped your roots out long ago, but that doesn't mean you can slack off. If I catch you looking so sad again, not even Aziraphale will be able to save you, do you hear me?"
The shrub shudders. A flower springs from one of the branches.
"Much better," Crowley says, nodding in satisfaction. "Keep that up. If you don't, you won't like the consequences."
Aziraphale sighs, running an appreciative thumb over one of the petals of the newly formed flower. "Don't listen to her. You're beautiful just the way you are."
"You're too soft on them. My plants never get in such a state. When they do-"
"You go out and plant them in a nearby park," Aziraphale says, smiling cheekily at her when she splutters in indignation. "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know you can't bring yourself to destroy them."
"That's not true!" Crowley squawks. "Don't undermine my authority!"
"Oh, of course, what was I thinking? You are the cruelest plant mother that has ever walked the Earth. My apologies."
"That's more like it." She points a threatening finger at the shrub. "You. Don't get any wrong ideas. Aziraphale is a filthy little liar and I will grind you into dust if I catch you slacking."
Aziraphale's smile falters at the words. He tries not to think too hard about Crowley calling him a liar. He knows she's only joking, but it makes his stomach churn anyway. Makes him think about all the possible less-than-favourable reactions she may have when he finally tells her the truth, and that's one of his least favourite things to think about. He doesn't know how he'll bear it if his confession goes badly.
Crowley, thankfully, doesn't notice his reaction, and he manages to get his expression under control before she turns back to him.
"Go keep an eye on the little hellion," she says, nudging him playfully. "He needs a bit more heavenly influence, he's spent too much time with me this week. I'll whip this garden into shape for you."
"Thank you," Aziraphale says. The churning in his gut eases, and his heart warms.
A few more years. Just a few more years.
"Whatever. Go spend time with the brat."
Aziraphale does.
"No dog."
"No dog."
"Wrong boy."
"... Wrong boy."
The look he exchanges with Crowley is one full of dread and resigned horror. Everything - everything - has been riding on this boy, and they got it wrong.
Aziraphale almost doesn't dare to breathe. He tries desperately not to think too hard about what this means, about how badly they've screwed up, but he can't help it. The fate of the whole world is riding on their shoulders, and they've gone and misplaced the Antichrist. Worse, if the Antichrist isn't here, Aziraphale has no clue where he might be. They've had no reason to suspect Warlock isn't the Antichrist. According to Crowley, the whole plan had gone unusually smoothly. They were both confident they had the right child, had no reason to suspect otherwise.
Well, that's all gone out the window now, hasn't it? The Antichrist is missing, Armageddon is days away, and they're sitting in the car outside the wrong boy's birthday party with absolutely no clue where the real Antichrist is.
No, no, no. He was so sure this would work. This was supposed to save the planet he loves so dearly, was supposed to spare all the innocent lives that wander the Earth so they could enjoy their lives for just a little longer. It was supposed to - supposed to-
His wings.
Oh lord, his wings.
Aziraphale's breath hitches. Converting the Antichrist was supposed to be his ticket to getting his wings back. He was going to report back to Heaven once Warlock sent the dog away and declare his mission a success. From Heaven's perspective, the Antichrist converting would be the only possible explanation for Armageddon's sudden rescheduling. This was his one chance to get his wings back, the one time in 6000 years he's had a solid end date.
And now his one chance is gone.
Crowley is saying something, he's vaguely aware, but he can't hear him over the sound of his own laboured breathing. What now? What is he supposed to do now? He can't possibly lie to Heaven about this, he'll never get away with it, and if they find out he lied to them-!
His back twinges sharply, wrenching a gasp from his lips. A painful reminder of what he's lost, what he's lost the chance to get back, as though he could ever forget what is missing from him, what two appendages should be protruding from his shoulder blades but aren't.
Think, think. He has to do something, he can't just sit and twiddle his thumbs. His wings aren't the only thing at stake, the whole Earth is. Billions of innocent lives. His pile of favourite books stacked beside his armchair, that little bakery across the street he visits for breakfast every morning, his drunken nights with Crowley - oh no, Crowley, he's going to lose Crowley-
"-ngel. Angel!"
There's a hand on his shoulder, shaking him harshly away from his thoughts. He manages to snatch in a breath, eyes darting to meet Crowley's.
"Breathe," Crowley desperately commands, worry etched into his face. "Calm down, we can't do anything if you pass out."
"The - the Earth," Aziraphale stutters out. "The humans, oh Crowley, my-!"
"Your curse, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley murmurs. He squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder, grounding him. "Come on, only one of us can freak out at a time. It's gonna be alright, yeah? You'll get another chance. Right now we gotta calm down and focus. We'll figure something out, but we have to put our heads together, and we can't do that if you're conked out in the passenger's seat."
His voice isn't quite as calm and soothing as Aziraphale suspects he'd like. There's a distinct tremble in his voice, barely concealed panic he's desperately suppressing for Aziraphale's sake. Trying to calm him and help him get back under control, even though between the two of them, Crowley has the far better reason to be panicking.
Goodness, what has he done to deserve Crowley?
With a great amount of effort, he sucks in a deep, shaky breath. He counts to five in his head and exhales, perhaps a bit too quickly.
"That's it," Crowley says, giving Aziraphale's shoulder another reassuring squeeze. "Just breathe, just like that. Damn, angel, you really make the one guy who doesn't need to breathe walk you through breathing, huh?"
Aziraphale laughs weakly. He takes another stuttering breath, and this exhale is stronger than the last.
They sit together in silence for maybe five minutes as Aziraphale breathes. The panic clutching his chest doesn't fade entirely, but his breathing does calm.
With an exhale that looks more like a sigh, Aziraphale leans his head back against the headrest.
"Feeling better?" Crowley asks at last.
"Much. Thank you."
Crowley waves the gratitude away, just like he always does. "You're still pale. Have you eaten today?"
"Well, I-"
"Okay, that settles it. We'll get you some food, and we can talk about all this over lunch."
Aziraphale sucks in another breath. He's calmer, but still fighting to maintain that calm. "I don't think I'm up to a restaurant right now."
"We'll go to the bookshop and order takeaway, then. Yeah, that's a better plan. Your bookshop has alcohol. You get takeaway, I get alcohol. Win-win. Chinese or Italian?"
"Chinese, please."
"Done."
Crowley puts the car into gear and slams his foot on the accelerator, speeding away from the party and completely ignoring Aziraphale's frantic yells of "the pedestrians, Crowley!"
Crowley's own panic still hasn't faded. Aziraphale can see it in the hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, the sharper than normal turns, the too-high pitch in his voice when he rambles about the new Chinese place he found last week that he's, like, pretty sure do takeaway, and if they don't, they do now, isn't that convenient?
But he holds it back. He keeps his panic under wraps for Aziraphale, even though his mind must be swimming with all the terrible things Hell will do to him once they find out.
Aziraphale can't decide between feeling grateful and feeling guilty.
His back aches for the rest of the car ride.
The words have started to blur together. He's been staring at them for so long, the only reason he knows what they say is because he's memorised them. Still, he keeps staring at them, as though they will miraculously twist and rearrange themselves if he looks away for even a second.
He still can't believe it. He's found the missing Antichrist.
He hadn't known what to expect when he picked up the book. Some insight, perhaps, on the events relating to Armageddon he cannot see or experience himself. Maybe even a clue as to how, exactly, he can stop it.
But finding the Antichrist? That's more than he ever expected.
He has no idea how long he's been cooped up in his bookshop, hunched over the book. Perhaps it's been days, although he doubts it. He only remembers Crowley calling once, asking if he's found anything and reminding him to eat and sleep, and if he'd been here for days, Crowley surely would have called more than once. Even if Aziraphale had simply not heard the call, he would have popped round to check on him, concerned with making sure he's taking care of himself. He would have-
Crowley.
He needs to tell Crowley.
Aziraphale scrambles for the telephone, starting to dial Crowley's number before the thought finishes registering in his brain. This is the information they've been waiting for, it's imperative he tells him so they can-
Can what?
Aziraphale pauses, right before inputting the final digit. What exactly are they going to do with this information? They've been so focused on trying to find the Antichrist, he doubts either of them have bothered to think about what they'll do once they find him. So what will they do? What can they do? The boy has the dog, Armageddon is goodness knows how many days away, and by this point there's not much they can do to stop it. Not unless they-
Aziraphale banishes that thought from his mind. He won't consider it. He's an angel, he doesn't kill people. His purpose is to protect, not cause harm.
Besides, didn't Crowley say the whole point of the hellhound is to guard him from all harm? No, trying to kill the boy is not a productive method. They will have to find another way.
Perhaps Crowley has an idea. He's always been so clever, so creative, coming up with so many unique ways to thwart both divine and diabolical plans. Hell, he was the one who came up with the plan to raise and influence the Antichrist. How hard could it be to come up with another plan to thwart Hell?
Yes, Crowley will be able to think of something. He should-
Should he?
Aziraphale's finger continues to hover over the telephone. Crowley has risked enough for this plan. He's already going to be in deep trouble with Hell, and asking him to risk even more is unfair.
Besides, this is information he ought to give to Heaven. Heaven, whose entire job is to thwart the plans of Hell. That's why he agreed to attempt to convert the Antichrist 11 years ago, wasn't it? So… so Heaven is much better suited for this. They'll be able to think of a way to stop the Antichrist. The other angels are so much smarter than him, they'll think of a way to do it that won't involve killing the boy.
Yes, the best thing to do in this situation is to bring the information to Heaven. They will take care of the boy, nip this nasty business in the bud quickly and efficiently.
He should tell them. Right now. Leave his bookshop and head straight for Heaven.
He stays hovering over the telephone.
He told Crowley he'd call as soon as he knew anything, didn't he? He doesn't like breaking promises, especially not to Crowley. He lies to Crowley enough without adding to the pile. So… he really should call him.
No, no, what will that accomplish? Crowley won't agree with his decision to get Heaven involved, he hates them too much, and any further plans on his part will put him at risk. It will be better to take care of it and tell Crowley the good news afterwards. Perhaps they can go out for lunch to celebrate.
But… Heaven won't be happy. They may be extremely angry with him for losing the Antichrist in the first place. He'd been hoping to find him before they find out about the little mix up, so he can take care of the problem before they realise anything is wrong. If he tells them, they will be furious to hear they have to clean up his mess again, and he will certainly not get his wings back. If he tells Crowley, they can do something, and Heaven will be none the wiser.
Aziraphale lets out a frustrated huff. He steps away from the telephone and starts to pace, fiddling with his fingers like that will help him think. He doesn't know what to do. There are pros and cons to each possible action, and he's always had terrible judgement with this sort of thing. Never been good at it, really. It's almost pathetic how much he relies on Crowley to be a second pair of eyes, to "peer review" his judgement. And maybe that's a stupid decision, since it gives a demon so much power over him, but Crowley's proven trustworthy so far, and has never hesitated to tell him when his judgement is good and when it's lacking. He trusts Crowley, perhaps more than he should.
He should trust Crowley with this, too.
But Heaven…
Aziraphale squeezes his hands. He hasn't felt so lost in a long, long time.
Perhaps he should tell them both? That way, no matter which choice is the correct one, he will have made it. Yes, that is the safest option. The problem is dealt with no matter what.
But what if they both decide to do something? Or worse, what if they decide to do something at the same time? Crowley may go charging after the Antichrist alone, with only Aziraphale for backup, and Heaven will likely send a whole army of angels to deal with the Antichrist in whatever way they see fit. And once they've taken care of the Antichrist… well, one demon can't do much against an army of angels, even if he is the famously powerful Serpent of Eden.
Not to mention Heaven will certainly notice his… alliance with Crowley. And then they will definitely be angry with him for consorting with the enemy. He will lose his best friend and his wings all in one fell swoop-
No! This isn't about his wings! Aziraphale shakes his head harshly, banishing the thought from his mind. He can't believe he's being so selfish. Worried about his wings, of all things, when the Earth itself is at risk of complete destruction! What kind of angel is he?
He ought to tell Heaven. That's the correct thing to do. He doesn't know why he's still dithering. Of course Heaven is the correct option, they're the good guys. The good guys can always be trusted, especially with sensitive information like this.
But what if they kill the boy? What if they decide the best way to get rid of the Antichrist is to smite him where he stands? Aziraphale may have a weak stomach, but the other angels do not. He doesn't want Heaven to have that blood on their hands. They already have enough of that from the blood they were forced to spill when they removed his wings.
(What if they do nothing at all?)
He should tell Heaven. But he doesn't want to.
He wants to tell Crowley.
Doesn't he?
Aziraphale takes a deep, trembling breath.
And what if he's wrong? What if he's somehow misunderstood the prophecy? What if he tells someone - Crowley, Heaven, it doesn't matter who - and they target the wrong boy? An innocent human child, who would not deserve whatever fate would be bestowed upon them. Aziraphale would never be able to forgive himself.
He can't ask Crowley's opinion. Crowley will jump on the first lead they have, desperate to do something. And Heaven is out of the question. To ask for someone to tell him he's right is to admit he's learned nothing during his 6000 years on Earth. It will prove he's useless, a waste of time, unworthy, and a million other things he cannot be to Heaven right now.
And if he goes with his gut and the information is incorrect… the consequences are unthinkable.
Letting out a breath, and desperately resisting the urge to pick at his nails, Aziraphale glances back at the telephone.
More information. He needs more information before he can make a decision.
"Oh Lord, please guide me through this," he prays desperately under his breath as he dials Sergeant Shadwell's number.
Predictably, he receives no response.
"You can't leave, Crowley. There isn't anywhere to go."
His voice cracks as he says the words. He tries not to think too hard about what he's saying, but it's impossible. No matter how hard he tries, he can't banish the reality of their situation from his mind. They're out of time, out of options, out of chances. There's nothing more either of them can do, and continuing to try only puts them both in danger. Unless the Almighty Herself steps in, there's no stopping Armageddon. Not unless Heaven strikes the boy down, which they can't do, because they're the good guys.
Their only option is to distance themselves from one another, so they are not targeted by their own sides as well as the opposition when the Great War begins.
And once again, Aziraphale is the one putting in the work for that distance, because Crowley just does not seem to get it, even though he, of all people, should know how dangerous their respective sides can be to them.
"It's a big universe," Crowley says, turning around with a sweep of his hand. "Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together."
There's a certain vulnerability, a certain tenderness, in those last three words that makes Aziraphale's heart thump.
"Go off… together?" He can hear the longing in his own voice, can't possibly hide the hope that makes it quiver. Crowley's offer plays out like a play in his mind: both of them curled up in some unknown corner of the universe, unnoticed by Heaven and Hell, basking in each other's company for the rest of eternity.
He wants it. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything.
Why is it the things he must reject are the things that hurt the most?
"Listen to yourself," Aziraphale says. He almost wants to hope Crowley can't detect the tremble in his voice, but they've known each other too long for that to be a reality. "We couldn't possibly hide for that long, and I-"
"I could hide you," Crowley says. Aziraphale pretends he can't hear the desperation in his voice. "I'll take care of anything you need. Whatever it is, I'll take care of it."
Aziraphale swallows. His chest twists. "We… we can't."
"Of course we can." Crowley presses. "How long have we been friends? 5000 years!"
"We're not friends!" It's a lie, it's a lie and it hurts, but he forces the words out anyway, because they need this distance. What's one more lie, after the thousands he's forced Crowley to unknowingly endure? "We have nothing whatsoever in common, I don't even like you!"
He never should have allowed things to go this far. They never should have become friends in the first place. They're an angel and a demon, and the only reason they're friends is because Crowley doesn't know what he really is. If he knew the truth, he never would've approached Aziraphale in Mesopotamia.
Ironic, really, that between the two of them, he's the diabolical one. What kind of angel lies to and misleads their friend for 5000 years?
"You do," Crowley says. His tone is slightly teasing. It's the voice he uses when he's trying to lighten the mood and calm Aziraphale down.
Hearing it now, with Armageddon approaching so rapidly, makes his hackles raise. This isn't a game. It's not something Crowley can wipe away with a wave of his hand, not something he can protect Aziraphale from with a well-placed miracle. This is reality, and damn it, he's never been able to protect Aziraphale from reality. He can't. There's too much to protect him from, and the only reason he tries is because he thinks Aziraphale is a human.
"Even if I did know where the Antichrist was," Aziraphale snaps, "I wouldn't tell you! We're on opposite sides!"
"No we're not!" Crowley snaps back. "Just because Heaven has you under their thumb doesn't mean they're on your side. They don't see you as one of them. Damn it angel, can't you see by now they don't care about you?"
Aziraphale flinches. "Yes they do."
They must do. If they didn't, they wouldn't give him so many chances to redeem himself. They would have cast him down to Hell a long time ago. The fact that they've kept him around, given him chance after chance to earn forgiveness, has to mean they care about him. No one goes to such lengths for people they don't care about.
Right?
"If they cared, they would've broken your curse a long time ago," Crowley says. "They don't care about you, and they don't care about your kind. They're not on your side. I am."
Except he isn't, because Aziraphale has done nothing but lie to him their entire friendship. They're not on the same side, and they never will be, no matter how badly Aziraphale wants that to be the case. The only reason Crowley thinks otherwise is because Aziraphale has tricked him into thinking he's a third party instead of the opposition.
"Not anymore," he forces out. "It's over."
Crowley's face falls. Aziraphale's stomach churns, and he has to turn away, because if he looks at Crowley for too long he may break and take it all back. He takes a step away, and it's so much worse than when he walked away after he gave Crowley that holy water. At least then he knew he was coming back.
But now…
"So that's it, then?" Crowley says, voice flat. "You're just gonna throw all this away? Your home? Your people? Me?"
"They're not my people." It's the only part of Crowley's statement he can refute.
"Like hell they aren't! Just because you got cursed doesn't make you any less human. So why the fuck are you turning your back on your own kind to help Heaven?" Crowley spits the last word, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe it does.
"I… I can't tell you," Aziraphale whispers. He takes another step, refuses to turn around. "You wouldn't understand."
"Then make me understand!" Crowley must have started chasing him, because he's close enough to grab Aziraphale's wrist, holding him in place.
He could break away. Crowley's grip isn't very tight - it never is, he's too worried about hurting the fragile human - and it would be easy to yank his hand away.
He doesn't.
"Please, Aziraphale," Crowley begs. He never begs. "Please talk to me. I don't - I don't wanna rush you, but if you really think we're out of time-"
"What do you want me to say, Crowley?" he snaps. Every muscle in his body is tense. His chest twists and constricts, a band of elastic simultaneously crushing his lungs and stretching so far it may snap.
He still doesn't pull away from the fingers coiled around his wrist.
"I don't know! Something! Tell me why you're choosing that lot over your own side. Over me!"
"Because they'll do the right thing!"
"That's bullshit and you know it! They can't even treat you right! For Satan's sake, it's been 5000 years. The apocalypse is literally days, if not hours, away! If they haven't given you salvation by now, they're never going to do it."
"I just need to work harder!"
"They're using you, angel!"
The word stings. It stings like it never has before, mocking him, mocking his lies. Mocking Crowley, and how close, yet very far, he is from the truth. The band pulls tighter.
His back burns.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale hisses. "You - you have no idea what Heaven is doing, what their plan is! You don't-"
"Then explain it!" Crowley demands. "You can't! You know just as well as I do that those stupid fucking angels aren't the ones who give a single flying fuck about you! I do!"
He tugs on Aziraphale's wrist for emphasis, and Aziraphale still doesn't pull away. Because he's selfish, he's so selfish, and he wants Crowley to keep touching him for just a few moments longer, even though he'd hate him if he knew the truth, knew that he's one of those detested angels, and such a horrible one, too, because only a bad angel would do this to their best friend.
Something is crushing him, and he can't tell if it's the ever tightening band in his chest, or the weight of his own sins on his shoulders.
"Even if that was true, I still wouldn't choose you over them!" The words are like knives as he forces them past his throat, slicing him up and letting him bleed out from the inside and drown in his own lies. It takes everything he has to continue to force the knives out. "You don't - I need-"
"Need what? What could they possibly have that I don't-"
"They have my wings!"
Oh.
He didn't mean to say that.
Crowley goes still behind him. His fingers don't release his wrist, but they loosen ever so slightly, and that alone is enough for the band in his chest to constrict, tighter than ever.
Faintly, Aziraphale wonders if time itself has stopped. He can't tell if the dull roaring in his ears is the distant sound of London traffic, or something else, something coming entirely from him.
The weight in his chest and on his shoulders doesn't lift. Doesn't lessen or shift, or do anything to make him believe his words have lightened the load he's been carrying for so long. It still hangs over him, teetering on the edge, its fate entirely dependant on Crowley's response.
"... What?" Crowley eventually manages. He's disbelieving, and Aziraphale can't blame him. "What are you talking about? Humans don't have wings."
Aziraphale swallows. His explanation, the one he still hasn't finished perfecting, sticks in his throat.
"Is that what this is about? Did they promise you wings?" Crowley tugs on Aziraphale's wrist again, but it's half-hearted at best. It's a flimsy interpretation of Aziraphale's words, and they both know it. "They can't do that, you know that, right? They can't give a human wings. They're lying, Aziraphale, I-"
"They didn't promise me wings," Aziraphale chokes out. He tries to ignore the flash of steel in his mind's eye. "They took my wings."
He doesn't turn around. He can't bear to look at Crowley, and he doesn't need to. He knows Crowley is gaping at him, mouth opening and closing the way it always does when he's struggling to find something to say. He wishes with all his heart he had something to offer, something to give Crowley to cling to, but he doesn't. He never has.
"Humans don't have wings," Crowley repeats at last. It's a statement, not a correction.
And Aziraphale - Aziraphale still can't bring himself to tell Crowley the truth. Still can't force the words past his lips, even though they're right there.
He doesn't need them. Crowley has always been clever. Far cleverer than Aziraphale himself.
"You… you're an angel?"
Aziraphale's throat tightens. He manages a nod.
Crowley drops his wrist like he's been burned.
"That… you - no. No. You don't - I would've…"
Aziraphale's hands curl uselessly into fists. Air nips at his wrist, right where Crowley's hand was moments before, and it feels so much colder than the rest of him. Lighter, and not in a good way, without Crowley's cool skin grounding him.
He has nothing to say to make this better. He can't even bring himself to look at Crowley.
He tries anyway.
"Crowley, I-"
"You lied to me?"
Yes.
"Technically, I didn't lie," Aziraphale says. His stomach churns. "I never said I was a human. You just assumed-"
"Oh, and that makes it better, does it?" Crowley says lowly. "You just let me think you were a human this whole time, and you never bothered to tell me, but because you didn't technically lie, that makes it okay?"
"Oh, like you've never told a fib or two over the last 5000 years," Aziraphale huffs with an irritation he doesn't feel.
"Not to you! I've never lied to you!"
"I don't believe that." It's a lie, it's a lie, why can't he stop himself from lying to Crowley? "You've probably done it countless-"
"Name one," Crowley hisses. "Name one time I've lied to you."
Aziraphale can't even open his mouth. His stomach rolls. He feels sick. He can't remember Crowley ever outright lying to him. Between the two of them, Crowley has always been the most honest, and they both know it.
"What else have you lied about?" Crowley demands. "Was our whole friendship just - just one big joke to you? Oh, look at Crowley, the stupid demon that can't clock an angel when he sees one!"
That makes Aziraphale whirl around. "No! I would never-"
"Wouldn't you?"
Turning around turns out to be a mistake. Crowley's hands are balled into fists, his shoulders are hiked up to his ears, and he's almost snarling at Aziraphale. Watching him like this, Aziraphale can't hide from the damage his words are causing.
5000 years, and Crowley has never been this angry with him.
"Of course I wouldn't," Aziraphale chokes out. He desperately scrambles for some kind of anger to make this easier, anger he must have suppressed long ago, but he can't find any. "I'm an-"
"An angel," Crowley spits. He's spat that word so many times over the years, but it's never felt like an insult the way it does now. "I shouldn't be surprised. This is exactly the kind of thing an angel would do."
There's a tremor in his voice. It makes Aziraphale take a jolting step forward out of pure instinct alone, before he pulls himself to a stop. The light of the setting sun shines in such a way he can see through Crowley's glasses-
Oh. He's crying.
Crowley jerks backwards, just a second too late. The glasses are shrouded by shadows again, but Aziraphale's heart has already stilled.
Crowley doesn't just look angry anymore. He looks hurt.
Aziraphale's heart clenches. I did that.
"Was it just a game to you?" Crowley forces out. His voice doesn't stop shaking, and every furious breath feels like a knife in Aziraphale's chest. "Was I just some - some pet project you were using to kill time down here? Or some kind of stupid bet?"
"No-"
"Did you want to save me? Is that why you were prattling on about being forgiven earlier? Did you want to try and make me an angel again? To what? Get a raise? A promotion?"
"No! I'd never use you like that!"
"Then why the fuck did you lie to me?"
Aziraphale flinches.
It's deathly quiet. There's no birds chirping, no wind blowing, even the ever present rumble of traffic has stopped. Either that, or Aziraphale has blocked it all out, because all he can hear is Crowley's pants.
His shuddering, uneven, hitching pants.
He half expects Crowley to surge forward, to punch him in the face. For his wings to flare and for hellfire to curl around his hands, for the argument to come to blows as he takes his rightful anger out on the one who hurt him in the first place.
Except he doesn't expect that at all. Not from Crowley. Another demon, perhaps, but never Crowley. He knows Crowley, and he knows no matter how angry he gets, he isn't the violent type.
Not even when he deserves to be.
Crowley deflates. His shoulders slump and he looks down at the floor like his head is too heavy to hold up as the fight leaves him.
"I don't know why I expected anything different," Crowley says flatly. "Of course an agent of Heaven would pull some shit like this."
The words hurt more than any blow ever could. Aziraphale makes another aborted attempt at stepping forward. "Crowley-"
"Forget it. It's whatever."
"But I-"
"I said forget it."
Aziraphale's hands clench and unclench. His gaze drops to Crowley's hand, the one that was so trustingly curled around his wrist mere minutes ago.
How has everything gone so wrong so quickly?
Aziraphale swallows. He looks back at Crowley's face, but Crowley won't look at him. He aches to say something, but what is there to say? Nothing can make any of this okay.
He should be used to having nothing to offer Crowley, by now.
"I can't go against Heaven," he whispers, so quietly he can't tell if he wants Crowley to hear or not. He almost forgot that's what sparked this in the first place. "I'm sorry."
It's the wrong thing to say. But there's nothing right to say. This final nudge to separate them, to keep them safe from their own sides, is all he has.
"Yeah, that's no surprise," Crowley says. "That's exactly what an angel would say."
Aziraphale flinches again. His back burns, and yet somehow, the stinging in his eyes hurts more.
"It's fine," Crowley says before Aziraphale has the chance to ruin things even further. "Whatever. I don't care anymore."
He turns on his heel and walks away. Every step feels like he's pulling Aziraphale's heart further and further out of his chest.
He's losing him, and it's all his fault.
"Crowley-"
"Have a nice doomsday."
Aziraphale closes his eyes, trying to will the stinging away. Tears slide silently down his cheeks.
The weight of his lie that's balanced on his shoulders for so long doesn't lift. It crumbles, like a boulder splitting apart and sending rocks tumbling into him, bruising his very soul. Every breath he takes feels like a strike as the life and friendship he's managed to craft for himself falls apart.
Without the lie pinning him down, he feels untethered, and for once Crowley isn't here to keep him grounded.
His back burns like it's never burned before, and yet somehow, it's nothing compared to the pain in his chest.
By the time he opens his eyes, Crowley is gone.
