Crowley has never been very good at keeping track of time. It's not uncommon for him to spend days rearranging his flat, or realise he's been wasting away in a pub for weeks on end, or for him to take a quick nap only to find whoops, would you look at that, a whole century has passed. He thought that would change once the Antichrist arrived, because surely he'd want to remember how long he has left until he loses his freedom, but nope, he was just as blissfully unaware of time as he's always been.

Still, he'd half expected to be painfully aware of it this time. An internal stopwatch of some kind, telling him 13 hours, 37 minutes, and 19 seconds since his fight with Aziraphale or some dramatic shit like that.

Instead, it feels like time has gotten even blurrier. Forget down to the second, Crowley doesn't even know how many hours it's been since he and Aziraphale talked. Which really shouldn't be hard to keep track of, since there's not many hours left on Earth to remember.

He honestly doesn't even know why he's still here, driving aimlessly through the streets of London. Earth could implode at any second. A blink is all the time it takes for the war between Heaven and Hell to start, and Hastur is after him, and it's in his best demonic interest to book it to the other end of the universe as soon as he can. The sooner he runs, the further he gets, and the further he gets, the less likely they are to find him.

But he's still here. He's still here, even though Hell has caught on, even though Hastur is on his way to "have a chat" with him. Even though the safest option is to leave while he still can, because Hastur won't waste time looking for him when the war is so close.

Even though there isn't really anything - or anyone - to leave behind like he thought.

But for some reason, he can't do it. Not yet. Something urges him to stick around, stay for just a little bit longer, find the Antichrist and… somehow stop everything. He doesn't know how, but he feels he owes it to the humans to at least try. Their lives are on the line just as much as his.

It feels impossible, especially without Aziraphale by his side.

Crowley grits his teeth and presses harder on the accelerator. Cars miraculously (it's not a miracle, not really, only angels can do miracles, but he picked up the habit of calling them miracles from Aziraphale, and he can't think of a different word to use instead) swerve out of his way. It's weird, watching his speed creep up and up without a fussy huma- angel in the passenger's seat screeching at him to slow down.

Weird, but better. Yep, definitely better. Now he can drive however the fuck he likes without conforming to anyone's standards. Not only does he not need Aziraphale, he doesn't even want him. Who wants a pissy agent of Heaven in their car telling them how to drive? Not Crowley, that's for sure.

He glances at the empty seat beside him and ignores the pang in his chest.

Damn it, damn it, Aziraphale should be here. This is just as much his fault as it is Crowley's. He's not stupid, he knows Aziraphale is hiding something from him. He's a terrible liar, and far easier to read than any of those stupid books he has piled to the ceiling in his bookshop. He probably knows exactly where the Antichrist is, and is hoping Crowley won't be able to tell he's lying to his face about it. As though he hasn't learnt how to pick up on that kind of thing after 5000 years.

Wasn't enough to realise he's an angel though, was it?

A furious hiss escapes him before he can stop it. His face burns hotter than all the hellfire in, well, Hell.

In all his years, he's never felt so humiliated. Thousands and thousands of years of calling him, checking up on him, making sure he eats and sleeps and fulfills every last human need, and now it turns out it's all a lie because he's just an angel.

An angel that made a complete fool out of him. Strung him along for millennia, duped him into thinking someone in this shitty universe actually gave a fuck about him for once, and probably had a right old laugh at his expense with his bastard angel friends up in Heaven.

Satan, he's so stupid. How has he never realised Aziraphale's an angel? His sense of smell is so sensitive, it should be impossible for an angel to hide from him. In fact, it should be impossible for Aziraphale to not smell like an angel. Sure, over the years even the hint of angel that's always been there has been drowned out by the scent of pastries and parchment, but even when they first met, an angel smell should have been much stronger than it was. He should have known what he was dealing with the second he contemplated approaching Aziraphale in Mesopotamia. How has Aziraphale managed to mask the invasive smell of bleach so much? Has he been planning this lie for longer than he's known Crowley?

What else has he lied about? What else has Crowley missed? Is their entire friendship just one big hoax? But Aziraphale is a terrible liar, and it's almost impossible to keep up that kind of ruse for thousands of years. Some of the truth must be in there somewhere. Crowley knows better than anyone the best lies always have a hint of truth to them.

But. Perhaps Aziraphale is a good liar after all. So good he managed to fool Crowley into thinking he's terrible at it. A misdirection, just like those stupid fucking magic tricks he can't do.

How much can be a lie, though? He knows so many little things about Aziraphale, things no one would bother to fake, not even a clever little human. He hums to himself when he's tidying the shop and doesn't realise he's not alone. He fiddles with his hands to stop himself from picking at his nails because he wants them to look nice and neat. He hates throwing away clothes he has no intention of wearing anymore because they're sentimental to him. And there's thousands of other tiny details just like those stored in his mind like a personal Aziraphale encyclopedia.

True, the small details are just… small details. But combined they paint a picture of his best friend, who cares about him and trusts him enough to let him see all these small details. He's cherished these details, things no one else knows about Aziraphale, for thousands of years.

And now he doesn't even know which ones are fake and which are real. Because some of them must be fake. Why else would the picture he thought he knew by heart not match up with the Aziraphale he saw yesterday?

Why else is his best friend a complete stranger all of a sudden?

Crowley slams his head against the steering wheel and groans. The one constant he's had throughout his time on Earth is Aziraphale, and he doesn't even know if he can call them friends anymore.

Logically, he shouldn't. Aziraphale lied to him, and friends don't lie about things like this. The only ones who lie about things like this are angels who decide manipulation is their new favourite form of play and have found a nice, gullible demon they can use as their new toy.

But that doesn't sound like Aziraphale at all. Aziraphale can't manipulate his way out of a paper bag, much less pull off a long con like this.

(Can't he?)

No. Some of it must be genuine. No one can forge a friendship for so long and not come out the other side at least a little fond. Crowley just… doesn't know how much is real. And he's trying to figure it out, he really is, but it's hard. He's run through every interaction with Aziraphale he can remember, searching desperately for deception, but he comes up empty handed almost every time. Even knowing he's an angel, he can't pinpoint any moments where Aziraphale's affection seems fake no matter how hard he tries. Yeah, in hindsight Aziraphale has always seemed to get nervous whenever Crowley calls him a human. But beyond that, he can't think of anything that feels off.

Is he still blind to Aziraphale's lies? Is he still missing something, still refusing to see something? Or have they always been friends after all, and Crowley's just paranoid now he knows Aziraphale isn't a human?

But then why did he lie to me?

Fuck, fuck, how is he supposed to figure this out? He can barely make sense of yesterday, never mind 5000 years of (possibly fake) friendship. When they'd been arguing, he'd figured Aziraphale was just being paranoid again, pushing him away in an effort to protect them. He's always done that, always been the first to cut ties and run at the first sign of danger and hope laying low will protect them.

But now Crowley's not so sure. After all, no angel would truly care about protecting a demon like him.

But what else can it be? He can't think of another reason Aziraphale would go to such lengths. Was he worried someone would see them and get the wrong idea? Accuse him of conspiring with a demon and take care of him? But it would be so easy to just explain the interaction away as a method of lowering Crowley's guard. Tolerating a demon's presence for information, a personal sacrifice in the name of the greater fucking good. It's the exact kind of shit Heaven would eat up. Aziraphale would get off scot free for his selfless deeds, and Crowley would be smote on the spot. Nothing lost, not for Aziraphale.

No, fear for their safety - for his safety - is the only thing that makes sense. But why would an angel care about that? Why would an angel care if Crowley gets hurt or caught by Heaven? And it must be Heaven, because Aziraphale always glances upwards, never down, never fearing what Below would do if they got their hands on him. Why else would Aziraphale frantically push him away, if not out of fear of what Heaven might do to him?

It's the only explanation, but it's an explanation that crumbles under the fact that Aziraphale's an angel, and leaves Crowley with nothing. It doesn't make sense. The pieces don't fit together and Crowley can't figure out where he's going wrong.

Maybe it was all part of his ruse to stop him discovering the truth. Maybe he wanted the illusion to last all the way up to the war. Show concern for Crowley's wellbeing, so if they saw one another on the battlefield, Crowley would be blinded by affection and not strike him down. Hell, maybe that's why he kept up the ruse once he exposed himself as an angel. An attempt to salvage the situation and calm Crowley down so he could flee unharmed, even without using his wings.

(Does he not know Crowley could never hurt him?)

Actually, maybe it's related to the wing thing. Not that Crowley knows what the wing thing even is. "They have my wings?" What the fuck does that even mean? How can Heaven have his wings? Aziraphale clearly can't use them, but how the fuck did Heaven manage that? Did they put some kind of fucked up enchantment on them to prevent Aziraphale from using them, and made him agree to do their bidding so they'd eventually remove the enchantment? Or did Aziraphale decide to be a good little angel and work hard and try to convert a demon so he can negotiate with Heaven to remove the enchantment?

But why go to such lengths? Why not come to Crowley? Surely he has to know Crowley would never leave him at Heaven's mercy like that. Crowley has spent more time than he can count tracking down books and materials and minor Earthly indulgences just to make Aziraphale smile. Aziraphale has to know Crowley would turn Hell upside down looking for a way to break such an enchantment for him. All he'd have to do is pout and ask.

Why didn't he ask?

Is… is he really that untrustworthy? Did he spend 5000 years with Aziraphale and never gain even a sliver of trust? What more could he possibly do if everything else he's done wasn't enough?

Crowley slams his head on the steering wheel again, ignoring the blaring of the horn and the irritated honks he receives in return. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Actually, no, scratch that. All of this makes sense for an angel. It's just like an angel to use something like friendship to hurt someone. A very risky tactic, but one that makes sense. Of course an angel would do something like this. Of course an angel would lie and manipulate and deceive him, and then push the blame onto him. Of course an angel would act like a demon and then see nothing wrong with their actions, because the only difference between angels and demons is false moral high ground.

It makes sense for an angel to do this. Unlikely, and tricky to pull off, but it makes sense.

But it makes no sense for Aziraphale to do it.

It's like his mind has split Aziraphale in two. There's his best friend Aziraphale, who goes to lunch with him and gets drunk with him and knows exactly how he likes his tea. And then there's the angel Aziraphale, who lied to him and refuses to tell him where the Antichrist is and acts exactly like Crowley expects an angel to act.

It hurts, knowing he doesn't know which one is closer to the real Aziraphale.

Even now, with the information he has, he can't see the two as the same. An angel wouldn't clean and bandage his feet to heal the holy burn of consecrated ground. An angel wouldn't let him curl up in the corner of their bookshop whenever he ditches a meeting and has to hide from Hastur. An angel wouldn't give him holy-

Crowley's head shoots up. The car, which has apparently been on autopilot for quite a while, swerves violently to the left.

Hastur.

The holy water.

He can use the holy water to get rid of Hastur.

Crowley jerks the wheel and makes a sharp right, narrowly avoiding hitting a pedestrian, and slams his foot on the accelerator with new purpose. Hastur first. He'll set up a trap for Hastur, and once he's taken care of, he can make one last desperate rush to find the Antichrist and put a stop to all this at last. It's cruel, sure, but hey, it's not like he's supposed to be nice. And if it's between him or Hastur, well, he's not supposed to be selfless either.

Fuck, why didn't he think of this before? Stuff like this is exactly why he wanted holy water in the first place. Why he'd begged Aziraphale to-

He catches a familiar flash of creamy white on the pavement and slows down instinctively.

Speak of the angelic devil.

Aziraphale hasn't noticed him. He's got his head down, fiddling with his hands, and his brow is probably creasing the way it does when he's anxious about something. It's such a familiar look, one he's seen thousands of times, one he always itches to smooth away.

He should probably stop. Tell Aziraphale Hell knows about the mix up. Just to warn him about his departure, if he can't find the Antichrist in time.

Nearby, a pram starts to roll away from a distracted mother. There's a tiny, almost impossible to notice, wave of angelic magic, and the pram miraculously rolls back to her before it reaches the road.

Crowley's hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

He keeps driving.


It was the right thing to do.

It was.

Aziraphale's been repeating that to himself over and over ever since the argument. He was up all night muttering to himself, telling himself there was no other way, pushing them apart was the safest option for both of them, it was the right thing to do.

It still feels like the biggest mistake of his life.

He can't get Crowley's hurt face and flat voice out of his mind. He's tried everything to make it stop. But eating at the nearby cafe makes him remember the lunch he shared with Crowley three months ago. Rearranging his shop makes him linger on every book Crowley scoured the Earth to find for him. Playing music reminds him of the concert they'd attended together in 1762. He's even tried sleeping, but every time he closes his eyes all he can think about is how much Crowley loves to sleep.

He'd decided to take a walk first thing in the morning, and his feet had led him straight to the bandstand. He'd stood there frozen until Gabriel showed up, with an unintentionally pointed reminder to prepare for the war and what he's at risk of losing if he doesn't, and even that couldn't break through his mood for more than a minute.

No matter how badly he wants his wings back, it's hard to care when he's already lost so much.

He's taking the long way back to the bookshop. He doesn't know what else to do. He's not ready to leave Earth, likely never will be, but there isn't much left to be done. He can't bring any Earthly possessions back to Heaven with him, for that would be selfish and very ungrateful, presuming Heaven cannot fulfill all his wants and needs. He's an angel, he's not supposed to covet such meaningless Earthly indulgences.

He's never felt less like an angel than he does now. And after the way Crowley reacted to his confession yesterday, he can't even bring himself to want to feel like an angel.

He doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He doesn't want to give up his life and all his petty, meaningless Earthly indulgences. He doesn't want to win the war and spend the rest of eternity in "paradise." All he wants is to spend his last day with Crowley. And he can't do that, because he ruined everything.

He's the worst angel that's ever roamed the Earth, and he's not even miserable about that for the right reasons.

Goodness, can't he do anything right?

Perhaps he was too hasty in his decision to push Crowley away. Surely, if this was the correct decision, it would not be so unbearably painful?

No, there was no other way. Pain does not mean it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing is often the most painful thing, he should know that by now. No other angel has this problem. Why is it still so hard for him to understand what the right thing to do is?

There's little point dwelling on it now. Not that he can make himself stop. He knows it's pointless to continue to think about what else could have happened yesterday. He made his choice, and now Crowley is mad at him, most likely hates him, and Aziraphale can't even blame him because he's a horrible angel (he doesn't know what's worse to Crowley, the horrible part or the angel part) and a worse friend-

"Hello, Aziraphale."

His head snaps up and his blood runs cold.

Michael.

No, not just Michael. Uriel and Sandalphon are here, too. They're crowding around him, uncomfortably close enough to invade his personal space, and it takes all of Aziraphale's strength to not cower away.

He shouldn't be so afraid of them. They've done nothing wrong.

But three Archangels on Earth instead of one - especially when Armageddon is mere hours, if not minutes, away - most likely means he's done something wrong.

Still, it's best to be polite. He's messed up enough without being disrespectful to his superiors. "Oh, Michael. Uriel. Sandalphon. Hello-"

"We've just been learning some rather disturbing things about you," Michael interrupts. The Archangels crowd even closer, guiding him forcefully away from the main street and into the wall of a nearby shop.

Oh. Oh no.

"You've been a bit of a fallen angel, haven't you?" Michael continues casually, like the words don't stab a spear of fear into his chest.

No, no, no, no, no-!

"Consorting with the enemy?"

"I-I haven't been consorting-"

"Don't think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell," Uriel cuts in before he has a chance to defend himself. He feels like he's been punched in the chest. "He's in trouble, too."

No.No!

This is exactly what he's been trying to avoid! Exactly why he pushed Crowley away! It was supposed to work! Why hasn't it worked?

"Aziraphale, it's time to choose sides," Michael says. "I'm sure it's a simple enough answer, even for you."

Aziraphale swallows, tries to ignore the pounding of his heart. Maybe… maybe if he distracts them, they'll forget about the whole "friends with a demon" thing. "I've… actually been giving that a lot of thought. The whole… choosing sides thing-"

Sandalphon punches him. Hard.

The blow takes him by surprise. He doubles over, wheezing, hand moving to cover his stomach in a too-late effort to protect himself.

"You think too much," Uriel says. Neither of them reprimand Sandalphon. "You should have realised by now thinking you know better than us is what got you into this mess."

Before he has a chance to recover, Uriel grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up, pinning him against the wall.

It's not like when Crowley pinned him to the wall in the old hospital. It may have seemed violent to an outsider, but Crowley had been gentle. He hadn't been harmed, hadn't even knocked his head against the wall. Crowley was in his personal space, so close their noses were touching as he pinned him with his whole body, but it had never been a threat, not a real one. The worst that had happened was his coat lapels getting all bunched and wrinkly in Crowley's hands, which barely even touched him.

This isn't like that. Uriel's hands press into his shoulders to the point of pain to compensate for being pinned from a slight distance instead of with a full body. Like he's too disgusting to be touched more than necessary. He's raised oh-so-slightly off the ground, low enough he can still reach the ground if he goes on his tiptoes, but high enough he can't pull away easily if he wants to.

Between the two wall pins, this shouldn't be the one that feels like a threat.

But Crowley hadn't hurt him.

"You… you mustn't!" Aziraphale gasps. He's certain Uriel can feel his heart hammering through his chest. Even though the distance is intimidating, he can't help but lean away further, like he can fade into the wall to avoid that sharp gaze.

How could you do this? he wants to ask, but he knows how. They're looking at him the same way they did all those years ago. Back when they took his wings.

He doesn't want to think they'll hurt him again. But they've already punched him, and he doesn't know if he trusts them to not do more.

Stall, stall, he needs to stall until-

Stall until what? It's not like anyone is coming. He's so used to stalling for time when he's in trouble, stalling to give Crowley time to rescue him, but that's not an option, wouldn't be an option even if Crowley didn't hate him. And so few angels come to Earth, and even fewer would dare step in and stop an Archangel from disciplining a subordinate as they see fit.

No, if anything he needs to change their minds. Convince them hurting him isn't the way to deal with this. Will that work? Will they even consider listening to reason if they think he's betrayed them? Or will they just see manipulation?

Intimidate them back, he can practically hear Crowley hiss. Don't let them walk all over you. Threaten them back.

"We're the good guys," Aziraphale rambles. He's barely aware of what he's saying. "I have to warn you that - that I'm going to take this entire interaction up with…"

Uriel's neutral stare makes him hesitate. But the words are already halfway out of his mouth.

"... with a higher authority," he finishes. He feels as foolish as he probably looks.

"You really think Upstairs will take your call?" Uriel says, sneer in voice but face carefully blank. "After everything you've done? You're ridiculous."

Michael watches passively, not stepping in to intervene, face just as blank as Uriel's. Sandalphon, however, has a smirk Aziraphale wants to call cruel, even though angels can't be cruel.

"Clearly his second chance was a waste," Michael says. Like he's not there, not being pinned and threatened by his own side. "A shame. Gabriel was so hopeful he'd redeem himself."

His wings.

No.

"An additional punishment will be required for this. It is unfortunate, but we cannot allow others to believe they can act out as they see fit without consequence."

Aziraphale's heart stops.

Additional punishment?

They still have that look. The one from 6000 years ago. The one they'd worn right before they took a heavenly blade and… and took-!

But what else can they take? They've already taken his wings, something he thought they'd never take. What else is there? He has nothing left, nothing more to take. His wings, his best friend, his whole life. What more can they possibly-

A horn sounds. All four of them freeze, glancing to the sky on instinct. None of the humans walking by react.

"It's starting," Uriel states. It's not directed at him.

Finally, Michael's expression changes. A sharp smile, one he should find reassuring, but instead fills him with dread. "New plan. The War is more important than your little rebellion. And the greater good is our highest priority."

Aziraphale doesn't move. His breath is frozen in his throat. Uriel still hasn't let him go.

"So. If you return to Heaven and fight in the war, we will overlook this little… incident. And once we win, we will return your wings to you."

Aziraphale nods. His legs tremble. "I-I understand."

At last, Uriel lets him go. The three of them take a synchronised step back so they're standing in a row, away from him and his personal space. Aziraphale doesn't dare move.

"And Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale swallows.

"This is your last chance."

A flash of light, and the Archangels are gone.

Aziraphale remembers how to breathe just as his knees give out. He slides down the wall, gasping for air he doesn't need but finds reassuring, unable to care that he's getting his clothes dirty. His whole body shakes with delayed adrenaline, too late and too useless to do anything against three Archangels. His heart is still trying to beat its way out of his chest.

He hasn't felt this way since his second meeting with Crowley in Egypt.

Stupid. Stupid! What was he thinking, trying to threaten his superiors? And threatening to call a higher authority? What kind of bluff is that? Who in Heaven would go against an Archangel and tell them how to do their job?

He'd panicked. He'd panicked and didn't think, and blurted out the first words that came to mind. It was all too much. The punch, being pinned against the wall, the threat of losing his wings for good…

His wings. His stupid, stupid wings.

Once we win, we will return your wings to you.This is your last chance.

Does he even want them anymore? After all the trouble they've caused him? After they've hurt Crowley?

No, of course he still wants them. They're his, they're a part of him, why wouldn't he want them? He's being ridiculous again, and he needs to calm down and be rational.

Aziraphale runs a shaking hand down his face. His lungs still shudder, but his breaths are deep and even, if slightly too fast, so he doesn't need to worry about hyperventilating so long as he doesn't think too much. Like he's ever been able to do anything but think too much. It's the only thing he can do, aside from not think at all.

What now? He technically has orders to return to Heaven, but that's the last thing he wants to do right now. Is it really reasonable to take orders from those who just cornered and threatened him? What else can he do? Who else can he go to? It's not like there's anyone above the Archangels he can-

A higher authority.You think Upstairs will take your call?

Aziraphale jolts.

Unless the Almighty Herself steps in, there's no stopping Armageddon.

Oh. Oh. Goodness, he's an idiot for not thinking of this earlier.

Aziraphale pushes himself to his feet. His legs are still trembling, but it's easier to ignore now he has a goal in mind. He needs to work fast. The horns have sounded, so who knows how long he has until Armageddon begins?

The circle under his rug should still work; he takes great care to make sure it stays enchanted with divine magic. And he's sure there's candles in the back room somewhere. Yes, on the third shelf, if he remembers correctly. The scented ones Crowley got him as a souvenir after he came back from holiday.

Perhaps if he does a good enough job, the Almighty Herself will return his wings.

Most importantly, if it works, he can begin to make up for what he's done to Crowley.

Desperately clinging to a determination he hasn't felt in millennia, Aziraphale heads back to the bookshop and ignores his still shaking knees.


Crowley doesn't like travelling through telephone lines. Sure, it's convenient and quick, but it's also disorienting and extremely easy to get trapped. Back when telephones were first invented, he used to get stuck more times than he cares to admit, and would have to wait patiently until someone called again to get free. Aziraphale lectured him many times about how he shouldn't be jumping through telephone lines in the first place, because "you simply can't trust all this newfangled technology, Crowley!"

Crowley had assumed that was just human jealousy talking, because really, who wouldn't want to jump through telephone lines? But, well, that theory's gone out the window now, hasn't it?

Anyway, the point is, once he figured out how to do it, the novelty quickly wore off. Finding more creative things to use the rapidly developing telephone technology for, like shutting down the internet or inventing popup ads, was far more interesting than risking getting trapped in a telephone line or feeling dizzy and nauseous from a less than perfect exit just for a few extra minutes to talk to-

Besides, that's what his car is for. Crowley hasn't kept his Bentley in perfect condition for 90 years to just ignore it in favour of convenient but irritating telephone transport.

"Where are you, you little runt? I heard your voice! You and your best friend Aziraphale, you're dead meat!"

But using it to trap Hastur in his answering machine makes it all worth it.

Grinning to himself, Crowley tunes out Hastur's complaints and name calling, if it can even be called that. Because, snake? Really? Bit on the nose, and not even in a funny way. 3/10, score is only so high because for once he came out of the phone in a better mood than he went in. Hard not to, when the plan he pulled out his arse went off without a hitch for once.

So, now what? Should he leg it to the other side of the universe? It will certainly be easier without Hastur chasing him. He'll need to decide what he's taking. The Bentley, for sure, maybe some of his plants. He doesn't know how they'll survive off Earth, but he's sure he'll figure it out. No point in bringing his CDs, the Bentley will just change them to Queen anyway, he might as well leave them. A shame, he worked so hard on that collection…

He doesn't have to leave anything if he stops Armageddon.

Ugh. It's no use. He can't think about leaving Earth without that nagging feeling coming back. The one that tells him to stay, just a little longer, just for a bit, tugging him to remain on Earth to stop Armageddon. But how is he supposed to do that if he doesn't know where the Antichrist is? The only person who knows that is Aziraphale, and he-

He called him.

Aziraphale called him.

I know where the Antichrist is.

That's what he was saying, wasn't it? Before Crowley cut him off to deal with Hastur?

Crowley stares at the answering machine. Aziraphale always calls him until he picks up, or at least finishes saying whatever he has to say.

It's taking him an awfully long time to call back.

Despite himself, worry gnaws at him. He can't hear Hastur anymore.

It could be a trap.

But that's not Aziraphale's style.

Isn't it?

He could have changed his mind about calling. Taken Crowley hanging up on him as a refusal to talk, although why he would think Crowley would refuse to talk to him about something as important as the Antichrist's location, Crowley doesn't know.

Or… or he could have tried again. Tried calling Crowley's answering machine, because he refuses to learn Crowley's mobile number when there's a perfectly good answering machine in his flat.

The answering machine Hastur is-

You and your best friend Aziraphale, you're dead meat.Your best friend Aziraphale.They know about Aziraphale.

Crowley's heart stops.

If Aziraphale calls again, Hastur will be able to get out. And he'll know, he'll know what hurting Aziraphale will do to him. Take out an angel and get revenge for Ligur all in one hit. Two birds with one stone.

Oh satan, Ligur. Ligur wouldn't have come if they were just mad about the Antichrist. They came because of Aziraphale, too.

And if Hell knows about him and Aziraphale, then Heaven…

No.

Crowley forgets. As he runs out of his flat and down the stairs, he forgets he's mad at Aziraphale, forgets Aziraphale is an angel, forgets their whole friendship might have been a ruse. None of it matters.

Aziraphale might be in danger.

And damn it, even if Aziraphale doesn't care about Crowley, Crowley can't stop caring about Aziraphale.

He throws himself out of the building and blindly punches Aziraphale's number into his phone as he wrestles with the Bentley's door. He needs to warn Aziraphale. Heaven finding out about them has been his biggest fear for as long as Crowley's known him, and fake friendship or not, Crowley will never forgive himself if Aziraphale gets hurt or worse because he failed to warn him to hide. Even if Heaven won't do anything, Hell certainly will.

Ring.

The door opens only because he wants it to.

Ring.

He slips into the driver's seat.

Ring.

He turns the car on. The keys are still inside his flat.

Ring.

He slams his foot on the accelerator and peels away from the pavement he illegally parked on, heading straight for Aziraphale's bookshop.

On and on the phone rings, and every ring makes Crowley's heart pound in his throat.

Please pick up.

Ring.

Please.

Ring.

Please.

Ring.

Please.

Aziraphale does not pick up. With a yell of frustration, Crowley tries again.

He can't be too late. He can't.

Cars swerve out of his way as he tears down the road, half of them moving out of self preservation, half because of a miracle or two. Crowley takes turns and swerves faster and more violently than he's ever done before, foot pressed completely to the floor as he urges the Bentley to go even faster.

Aziraphale still isn't picking up.

Maybe there's a reasonable explanation. Maybe he decided to take a walk, or pack up his things. Maybe he couldn't wait for Crowley and set off to deal with the Antichrist on his own. Aziraphale can only answer his calls if he's home, and there are a million normal, non-occult (or ethereal) reasons for him to not be home. But there's a biting feeling in the back of his mind telling him something is wrong, and Crowley has spent too long listening to his gut to ignore it. No matter how badly he wants it to be wrong.

The sound of sirens makes his heart leap into his mouth. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to not panic. This is London for crying out loud, there's sirens every two minutes. Just because Crowley is halfway to discorporation doesn't mean the sirens are related to his own personal emergency.

No. Not an emergency. Emergency implies something is wrong. It's just an… urgent situation. He just needs to nip in, warn Aziraphale, and get out. But it's not an emergency because nothing is wrong. Aziraphale is fine. He has to be. Crowley can't accept anything else.

Has the drive to the bookshop always taken this long?

Maybe he'll walk in and see Aziraphale doing… whatever it is he does when the world is ending. And he'll forget to be afraid once he sees Aziraphale is fine, and his anger will come back from being drowned out by mind-numbing terror.

Part of him wants to focus on that anger, but he can't. Not when his mind is running in circles, blaring that "Aziraphale's in danger" alarm he's grown so used to over the years but never feared more than he does now.

He hopes Aziraphale is safe. He hopes desperately, channelling every last scrap of optimism he has into believing Aziraphale is safe, because he's willed plenty of things into existence and this shouldn't be any different. But what if that's not what he finds? What if Hastur is there, trying to hurt him? What if angels are there, come to strike him down in the name of their twisted divine justice? Crowley's not a fighter, how is he supposed to help if someone else is there?

What if he doesn't find Aziraphale, but a pool of blood and Aziraphale's-

No. Stop. It won't happen. Aziraphale's fine. If anything, Heaven would come after Crowley for corrupting one of their precious angels. He's fine, he's fine, he's-

The sirens are getting louder.

And there's smoke up ahead.

No.

Crowley turns the last corner to the bookshop. It's not far now. He's wrong, the smoke is just a bad coincidence, a stupid joke set up by someone Above or Below so they can laugh at the stupid demon losing his mind over the angel he isn't supposed to care about. It's just someone prodding at his emotions, pulling strings to make him dance, look at Crowley, stupid little snake, running to the rescue of the angel that doesn't need him and probably doesn't care about him…

The bookshop comes into view, just a second later than usual. A second that's obscured by the smoke and the fire engines surrounding the building.

No.

No no no no no.

Crowley's mind goes blank. Static screams in his ears and his vision narrows down to the smoke pouring out of the windows.

The Bentley parks on its own and Crowley throws the door open, pushing past the crowd of people that won't get out of his way. Aziraphale isn't in the crowd, Crowley would recognise him a mile away if he was, so they're not important enough to acknowledge.

The concerned murmurs still reach his ears.

"It just went up, no one knows what happened."

"They've not been able to get in."

"Is Mr. Fell okay? I didn't see him come out."

"A neighbour had to report it."

"Mr. Fell's so protective of this old place, no way would he let this happen."

Crowley bites back a scream as he ducks under the arm of a firefighter yelling at him to stay out. Distantly, he can hear another asking him if he's the owner of the bookshop, which is the stupidest question he's ever heard, obviously he's not the owner, everyone in SoHo knows Aziraphale and his little bookshop.

He ignores them all. None of them are worth his time.

He stumbles through the doors that open obediently for him, and burning heat immediately hits his face. The smoke makes it hard to see, especially with his dark glasses, and it creeps under the frames to sting and dry out his eyes. Even though he's not human, it still burns his lungs, although they continue to work as they should, protected by a thin layer of demonic magic. Fire can't kill him, unless it's holy fire, but the smoke still hurts.

Aziraphale isn't the same. It's one of the few true differences between angels and demons: being vulnerable to all fire. Hellfire will kill him instantly, Earthly fire will destroy his corporation, and holy fire will burn him alive and cremate his remains. No matter what kind of fire this is, Aziraphale is vulnerable to it.

He spins on the spot, desperately scanning the room just in case Aziraphale is huddled in a hidden corner, but either his eyes fail him or Aziraphale is not there.

Fuck, please no.

"Aziraphale!" he calls out, halfway to screaming. He needs something to work with. Some kind of proof Aziraphale is still here, still unharmed, still alive. He just needs Aziraphale to answer him.

But he doesn't.

No, no, no, this isn't happening. Aziraphale is here, he has to be, Crowley can't - won't - accept anything else. He needs to be here so Crowley can chew him out for scaring him, for being reckless enough to let his precious bookshop burn, for having the audacity to make Crowley worry about his safety when he's still so angry-

He tries to reach out, tries to find Aziraphale's presence, but he can't. Even when his tongue flicks out to taste the air, all he can detect is ash and the burning bleach of recent ethereal magic. But no Aziraphale. The bookshop is covered in Aziraphale's scent, his angelic scent that has always been so faint, wrapped up and concealed in that corporation of his. Crowley has spent millennia training himself to pick up on that weak smell, but it's still hard to detect when the rest of the bookshop can cover it up so easily. Between that and the fire, it's impossible to detect his presence. He can't even tell if the fire itself is angelic or demonic in nature; what little air is left is thick with both demonic and angelic magic, both of which could have easily come from Crowley and Aziraphale themselves.

"Aziraphale! Where the heaven are you, you idiot? I can't find you!"

5000 years, and Crowley's never not been able to find him.

He spins around desperately again, hoping, almost praying his senses are just failing him, that the fire is confusing him, that Aziraphale will call out to him any minute. Because he is here, there's nowhere else he could be, he'd never let his bookshop burn.

(If he's here, why isn't he stopping it?)

"Aziraphale for go- for sata- argh! For somebody's sake, where are you?"

Nothing, nothing, nothing, there's nothing, Aziraphale would never ignore him like this-

A burst of pressure punches him in the gut and knocks him on his back. Water, he realises a second later than he should, a desperate attempt to put out the possibly infernal, possibly ethereal fire that just keeps burning and burning and burning…

Crowley struggles to sit up, and through the smoke and the flames and the paper, he catches sight of a circle of marks etched into the floor. A circle he knows for a fact is almost always covered by a rug. A circle he already knows is the source of the bleach of recent magic even before his tongue flicks out to confirm it.

Heaven knows.

If Aziraphale contacted Heaven (he did, of course he did, he's an angel and any good angel would report back to Heaven, and Aziraphale is always so concerned with being good) after trying to call Crowley, when they know about their friendship, then…

Through the flames he can make out Aziraphale's telephone. The receiver is lying broken and burnt on the floor, a state Aziraphale would never allow unless… unless Hastur…

"You've gone."

The words are pulled from his mouth without his permission. His chest caves in without their support. His eyes, previously completely dried out, are suddenly wet.

"Somebody killed my best friend," Crowley chokes. Rage attempts to burn in his chest, rage that's been burning all day and all night since Aziraphale's confession, but it's smothered by the smoke of the flames that stole the being he cares about more than the Earth itself. He wants to scream and cry and lash out, but it's already taking all his energy to stay upright.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't get the Antichrist's location. He didn't save him from the one thing Aziraphale feared the most. And he's not even going to get to avenge him, because he has no idea who did this. Someone killed Aziraphale and destroyed all his beloved Earthly possessions in cold blood, and he's never going to know who.

How is he supposed to live the rest of his life not knowing which face is the face of Aziraphale's murderer?

His head drops. He's too tired to hold it up anymore, and he can't keep looking at the fire. If he does, he'll think about where Aziraphale might have been standing, which flames surround his ashes, and Crowley will never sleep again if he thinks about that for even a second.

A book catches his eye, and Crowley picks it up numbly to inspect it. It's surprisingly intact, considering all the other books are curling in on themselves like they're trying to escape the fire eating them alive. He wipes the ash off the cover to read the title, blinking hard to get rid of the blur in his vision.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter.

Oh. This must be Book Girl's book. It must be, because this is the only book missing from Aziraphale's collection, the only one Crowley has never been able to track down, and Crowley would know if Aziraphale found it any other way because Aziraphale would have called him.

He'd hate it if the fire destroyed the only copy of the rarest book in existence.

Somehow, Crowley pulls himself to his feet, the book tucked safely under his arm. The doors open for him again as he staggers out, unsteady on feet that are in no position to keep holding him up but somehow do anyway. At some point between the bookshop and the Bentley, he removes his broken glasses and drops them to the floor, but he can't pinpoint when, exactly.

The Bentley pulls away from the kerb without Crowley pressing his foot on the accelerator. One of the bookshop's windows explodes as he passes, and even with his windows up he can still feel the heat. One final slap in the face that mixes seamlessly with the pain already boiling him alive from the inside out.

He doesn't think he's going to register anything as he lets the Bentley drive him away, but he does. He recognises the street he last saw Aziraphale on, when his head had been down and he'd been worrying about something. When Crowley drove past him without stopping.

If he'd stopped, if he'd warned him, would Aziraphale still be alive?

A sob chokes him. Clenching his eyes shut, he fumbles for a second pair of glasses; the less of the world he has to see, the better. It's not worth looking at without Aziraphale anyway.


"You! You're late!"

The words grab Aziraphale's attention and the tone pulls a response from him before he's even reorientated himself. Heavenly gateways are confusing at the best of times, and although none of the other angels ever have a problem with them, Aziraphale always needs a few minutes to prepare himself to step into one, so entering one unexpectedly is… less than ideal, to say the least.

At least he landed the right way up this time, even if he did stumble. Portals always twist and turn him so, and he's had many embarrassing landings that involved him falling flat on his face or backside. It's not a good look, especially when he's supposed to be more graceful in Heaven than anywhere else in the-

Oh. Oh dear, he's in Heaven.

What a ridiculously silly and foolish thing to do, entering the circle like that. Since when did he become so unaware of his surroundings?

"I, ah, I actually didn't mean to be here yet," Aziraphale says. He winces when he takes a step forward, unusually unsteady on his feet. He's had rough landings before, but they very rarely impede his ability to walk, and when they do, they usually make him heavy. For some reason, it's not like that this time. He feels… free?

No, no. Exposed, somehow. Almost naked.

It's an issue he'll have to sort out in his own time, when he's not under the glare of another angel. Right now he needs to be strong and confident. A little difficult when he's limping so obviously, but perhaps if he pretends he isn't, the other angel will be generous enough to not point it out-

His hope flickers and fades when he finally looks up and realises who he's talking to.

The Quartermaster. Oh joy.

This situation really can't get much worse, can it? Arriving in Heaven in the Quartermaster's office, late and in poor physical condition. And for Armageddon no less. The Quartermaster will definitely report this, and a mark on his record is the last thing he needs right now.

"Still sorting things out on Earth," Aziraphale continues, trying not to wince. The Quartermaster isn't unfair, angels are never unfair, and he'll listen if Aziraphale gives a good reason for being late, but it's doubtful he'll consider this a good reason.

The Quartermaster tsk's as he approaches, frowning at him for only a second before he glances back down at his papers. It's not a scowl, he knows it's not, because no angel would ever scowl at him, not even when he's messed up. But it feels like one anyway.

"Aziraphale," the Quartermaster says, scanning the paper. "Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate…" He pauses, eyebrows twitching upwards by a fraction. "Under careful assessment of the Archangel Gabriel due to misconduct."

This time Aziraphale can't hide his wince. The Quartermaster isn't quiet, and while the angels passing down uniforms are polite enough to not stare, he still knows they're listening intently. It's hard for angels to mess up badly enough to be under assessment, especially for an Archangel to oversee it.

"An angel like you really should know better," the Quartermaster says. He picks up the uniform sitting on the desk and dumps it into Aziraphale's arms. "It's unacceptable for you to be late like this. Keeping your platoon waiting won't look good on your assessment."

He has a platoon?

Aziraphale swallows thickly. Platoons are a great honour. Being trusted to lead one, especially for Armageddon, is the closest Heaven gets to handing out awards, and he should be overwhelmed with gratitude. Platoon leaders are targets, after all, and being gifted with leadership speaks of a great amount of faith in his ability to not only lead his platoon, but to stay alive and work under the pressure of being swarmed by attacks. It's a much higher position than he deserves, especially since he's under assessment, and although he doesn't know why he's been given such an important position when he's in so much trouble, he should be grateful.

Instead, he's nauseous.

Perhaps he's misunderstood. Maybe he's just part of the platoon. That would certainly make more sense than leading one.

But they wouldn't wait for him if he's supposed to be just another soldier.

Well, it's too late to ask for clarification now. Not knowing his exact role in Armageddon is not something he's willing to admit to the Quartermaster, especially not if he is the leader, because that's admitting he hasn't been spending the last 11 years planning out strategies and tactics like he should have, and the Quartermaster will definitely not forgive that.

Perhaps he should have actually read the letter Heaven sent him 11 years ago instead of allowing Crowley to set it on fire to torment some teachers.

Oh, he's been silent for too long. He should respond, most likely apologise, but it'll probably come across as insincere, what good angel takes so long to apologise-

But the Quartermaster isn't looking at him. He's frowning down at his papers again and muttering to himself.

"Aziraphale… why is that name so familiar?"

Oh no.

"Aziraphale," the Quartermaster repeats, flipping through his papers, voice sterner than before. "You were issued with-"

"A flaming sword, I know," Aziraphale cuts in, desperate to explain himself. The Quartermaster doesn't appreciate it when things go missing, and if the Archangels took his wings for it, the Quartermaster will have his head. "It's not my fault! She was having a very bad day-"

"Not that," the Quartermaster snaps. "Everyone knows about that."

Aziraphale's stomach rolls. He'd hoped so desperately Gabriel would keep it discreet, at least until he got his wings back. But if everyone knows about the flaming sword, they must also know about his punishment, and now they all know he's still under assessment, that he still hasn't earned Heaven's forgiveness after 6000 years…

"You were issued with a body! Where is it?"

What?

What does he mean, where is it? Aziraphale's wearing it, where else would it be, it can't just poof away like a human magic trick-

He looks down at his hand.

His distinctly non-human hand.

Ah. So that's why he feels so exposed.

Apparently the situation can get worse.

"I… I'm afraid I hadn't actually prepared to step into the transportation portal," Aziraphale explains. Something cold curls in his chest (his core? He's had his corporation for so long he's forgotten what non-human terms he's supposed to use, and isn't that another mark against his ability to be a good angel, when chest feels more natural to him than his real body parts) and he desperately tries to ignore it. It's not fear. It's not. "So the body… discorporated."

"Discorporated," the Quartermaster repeats.

"It was 6000 years old."

Maybe he should keep his mouth shut. Explanations are supposed to help, not make things worse, and he's definitely making things worse, if the Quartermaster's face is any indication.

"I count them all out," the Quartermaster begins, walking around his desk - oh no, he's leaving his desk, this isn't good- "and I count them all in again. And then you turn up, late for Armageddon, already injured, and with a discorporated body?"

Aziraphale swallows. His eyes lower until they meet the floor.

"You had one thing to take care of," the Quartermaster continues. He's not in Aziraphale's face, not like the Archangels were earlier, but the spit he sprays as he talks still hits Aziraphale's cheek. He doesn't apologise. "And you couldn't even do that?"

It's not my fault, Aziraphale wants to repeat. But his throat tightens, refusing to let the words pass. Perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps his body is finally protecting him from saying something stupid by taking his ability to talk altogether.

"You are, without a doubt, the most pathetic excuse for an angel I've ever met! No wonder the Archangels took your wings!"

Aziraphale hunches in on himself. His eyes sting, and he can't bring himself to look up from the floor. His throat tightens even more, but really, what can he say? He's known he's a pathetic excuse for an angel ever since he made Crowley cry. He doesn't deserve to be here, and he deserves to be on Earth even less.

"You get into position right now," the Quartermaster isn't shouting anymore, but his voice is still dangerous, "and I won't say anything more about the body you discorporated. Count yourself lucky you've found me in a generous mood."

He is lucky. Normally the Quartermaster would demand a full report, a century's worth of punishments, and his wages brought to a complete halt until he's paid for both the old corporation and the new one. Being offered a chance like this is unheard of, and if he has any sense of self preservation, he should take it immediately. Should report to his platoon and do his job, be a good angel and stop trying to challenge the Great Plan to save the Earth.

The Earth Crowley is still on. Still fighting to save, even though all of Hell will be after him if they find out.

"I have to go back," he says instead. He knows he should be firm, should demand instead of plead, but he still can't lift his head, and his shoulders are shaking. "I was in the middle of something important."

He didn't get to tell Crowley the Antichrist's location.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Quartermaster scoffs. "Nothing is more important than Armageddon."

Crowley is.

"I have to go back," he repeats, firmer this time. "I… I demand to be returned."

"Without a body?" the Quartermaster sneers. "What are you going to do? You can't possess them."

Crowley can.

"Demons can," Aziraphale says without meaning to. He lifts his head even though he still can't look at the Quartermaster. He's not trying to look at him anyway.

His eyes fall on the spinning globe.

"You're not a demon, you're an angel. Surely you don't need your wings to remember that."

Aziraphale flinches, away from the Quartermaster, towards the globe.

Crowley never said anything about Aziraphale's wings. Never used them to hurt him, never used anything he's overly sensitive about to hurt him. Not even during their argument, when Aziraphale deserved it the most.

He keeps retreating towards the globe. He's going to be in so much trouble for this, but...

"What are you - where are you going?"

Aziraphale doesn't respond, but he does walk a little faster, just in case someone tries to stop him. He can't let that happen. He needs to get to Crowley.

"Get away from that! Make yourself useful for once, for god's sake!"

He's far more useful on Earth than he is here. Even if Crowley doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him, he has important information. He's useful to Crowley.

If he's lucky, if he's useful enough, Crowley may give him a chance to earn his forgiveness. And if he doesn't, if he never wants to see Aziraphale again, at least it won't be because Aziraphale abandoned him when he needed him most.

"I'll report this to Gabriel! This will go straight onto your assessment!"

He doesn't doubt it. Nor does he doubt that such a report will destroy any chance he has of getting his wings back.

Fuck the assessment.

He takes a deep, trembling breath, and only hesitates for a second.

Fuck his wings, too.

Aziraphale taps the globe. He has no idea how to navigate it, but he's confident he can figure it out as he goes.

Hold on, Crowley. I'm coming.


The door to the flat closes with a soft click that echoes loudly through the almost empty room. The tired silence that's clung to them since the bus stop has followed them in, but Aziraphale doesn't know how to break it and Crowley doesn't seem interested in breaking it for him, so for now he just has to allow it.

He's never actually been in Crowley's flat before, and it's somehow simultaneously nothing like he expected and exactly what he'd expect from Crowley. He's admittedly never thought Crowley's flat would have such a minimalistic style, but looking at it now, it makes sense. Crowley's always been surprisingly uptight about neatness and organisation, so the decoration style isn't as much of a surprise as Aziraphale would have thought. He almost wants to compare it to Heaven, but Crowley's flat, while lacking the cozy and homely touch Aziraphale's bookshop has - had - isn't nearly as cold and uninviting as the searingly white walls of Heaven.

It's nice, Crowley trusting him enough to let him into his home, even if the circumstances are… less than ideal, and certainly not what Aziraphale envisioned for his first visit. It's more than he deserves after what he did yesterday.

"Thank you for letting me stay the night," Aziraphale says. He's been meaning to show more gratitude for Crowley's constant generosity for quite some time now, and without the excuse of Heaven finding out about them to stop him, there really is no better time to start than now.

"'S no problem," Crowley says. "Couldn't just fuck off and leave you without somewhere to stay after the day we've had."

He could have. London is littered with hotels, and it would've been easy to book a room in one, even without the use of a miracle. But Crowley invited him anyway.

"Bathroom's down the hall and to the left," Crowley continues, gesturing vaguely in the general direction of the hall. "Don't have a guest room, so you can just use mine, it's not like I… need it…"

Crowley trails off, face making a complicated expression Aziraphale can't interpret. Still, he knows what Crowley's thinking, and he can't fight back a wince.

"Do you… sleep?" Crowley asks. He's tense, like he can't decide if the situation is awkward or uncomfortable. Personally, Aziraphale thinks it's both.

"Not really," he admits. "I've tried, but I just…"

"Right," Crowley says. He clears his throat, raises a hand to rub his eyes, then lowers it when he realises his glasses are in the way. "Right. Guess that makes this easier. Uh. We can just. Stay out here then, I guess."

"We? You aren't going to bed?"

"Nah."

"But…" Aziraphale tugs on his waistcoat. "But you love sleep. You never… unless you're working, you always…"

"Figured you probably don't want to be on your own in my flat all night. I can stay up. It's not a problem."

Except it is. Crowley looks dead on his feet, and his swaying isn't like his normal swaying. It's unsteady, he keeps jerking himself back upright, instead of his usual hypnotic sway of left to right. He was unsteady when walking earlier, too, and he'd stumbled into a wall on his way up the stairs. His back is to the hall Aziraphale assumes leads to his bedroom, and Aziraphale knows he only turns his back on things like this when he's trying to resist some form of temptation.

Once again, he's sacrificing for Aziraphale, even though Aziraphale has done nothing to deserve it.

"Crowley…"

"It's fine. I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me."

"Like you lied to me?"

Aziraphale flinches.

"Sorry," Crowley mutters after a beat of silence. He sounds exhausted. "That… I didn't mean to say that. That was too far."

But was it? After everything Aziraphale's done, after everything he's put Crowley through, surely he deserves to let it out. It's only fair.

"Just… just leave it. I'm fine, so leave it."

And maybe Aziraphale should. He doesn't have the right to boss Crowley around and he certainly doesn't have the right to insist Crowley take care of himself. It's a level of care demons are prickly about at the best of times, and one Crowley has only ever allowed because they're friends - were friends, because Aziraphale honestly doesn't know if they are anymore, and he doesn't want to presume. Crowley may want nothing to do with him, which is perfectly understandable no matter how much it hurts, and he doesn't have the right to express that care anymore.

But Crowley is sacrificing himself for Aziraphale again, is putting aside his discomfort to help Aziraphale again, and he loves Crowley too much to allow him to do this to himself. He might have, once, because he's weak and selfish and constantly craves Crowley's presence, but he wants - needs - to do better, to put Crowley above himself for once in his life. It's the least Crowley deserves.

So instead he says, "You're tired. You should sleep."

"Come on, you said there's one last prophecy," Crowley says, completely ignoring him. "Get it out, then, let's see if we can figure it out."

"You should sleep."

"Shouldn't take too long, I'm not great at decoding prophecies but I know some stuff, and you've been breathing prophecies since writing was invented, so between the two of us we should-"

"Crowley, please."

Crowley stops.

"Please go to bed," Aziraphale begs. "It's been such a long day, and you've already done so much. You deserve to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"We stopped the apocalypse. We faced off against Satan and two agents of Heaven and Hell, and-"

"Stop it." Crowley's voice is strained. "Just… stop."

Aziraphale falls silent. He picks absently at his nails for a moment, then remembers he's not supposed to do that and fiddles with the chain of his pocket watch instead.

"Why do you care? Why does it matter if I sleep or not? I don't need sleep. I'm a demon."

Aziraphale's throat tightens. This isn't about the sleeping, and not even he is foolish enough to think it is.

"Because you…" Aziraphale struggles for a moment. They've never vocalised this, any of this. For 5000 years things have been left labelled but unsaid, friends without any acknowledgement of what that word means. Aziraphale has always had a fondness for words, but not even he can fit thousands of years worth of feelings into a sentence. He probably couldn't do it even if he was given infinite sentences and a million years to prepare. Doing it now, under pressure and with the knowledge that expressing most of those feelings now of all times is inappropriate, is impossible.

But he has to try. For Crowley.

"Because you're… you matter to me."

The hesitation is less than ideal, especially for such an important conversation. He can't even meet his eyes. But it's the best Aziraphale can do after saying nothing at all for so long.

Crowley's face is carefully blank. "Do I?"

"Yes."

He could call out the hesitation. He could point out the nervous fidgeting, the way Aziraphale won't look at him, or a million other things he's probably aware of that tells him he has reason to doubt Aziraphale is telling the truth.

Instead he says, "Then why did you lie to me?"

Aziraphale flinches. The silence grows heavy between them, but Crowley doesn't take the words back or continue to talk.

"I didn't mean to," Aziraphale says at last.

"That's not the defence you think it is."

"I know."

Crowley huffs. He raises a hand again, bumps into his glasses, and tries to play it off by running his hand through his hair. "Just… tell me this. Were you ever going to tell me?"

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. It's cowardly, but he can't look at Crowley. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apology. I want you to answer me."

He expected that, but expectations don't stop the words from stinging.

"I did want to tell you," Aziraphale says. "I swear I was going to. I just didn't know how, and I could never find a way to word it right, and then Armageddon happened…"

"And what? You didn't think that was the most important reason you should tell me? Even knowing we didn't have much time?"

"We didn't know that," Aziraphale says weakly. "That was the whole point of our plan."

Crowley looks unimpressed.

"I… I didn't tell you because we had a plan," Aziraphale tries to explain. It just sounds like an excuse. "I thought… well, it was such a good plan, and when you said I could use it to get Heaven to lift my… to deal with my problem, I thought for sure it would work. I thought if we could pull it off, Heaven would give me my wings back."

"So your wings were more important to you than telling me the truth," Crowley says flatly.

"That's not what I mean!"

"Then fucking explain it! I'm trying, Aziraphale, I really am, but I can't see what the fuck else I'm supposed to get out of this!"

His throat tightens even more. Aziraphale fights to take a deep breath to loosen it so he can answer.

"I wanted to wait until I got my wings back," he says. "I promise I was going to tell you. I just wanted to wait until I had my wings. I… I knew it wouldn't be easy to tell you, but I just thought… well, I thought everything would be okay once I had my wings back."

"How?" Crowley asks. He sounds desperate. "How would having your wings make any of this okay?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer… and realises he can't.

He… he doesn't know. He's been so focused on getting his wings back, because getting his wings means Heaven's forgiven him, and then everything will be okay. It can't be okay if Heaven is angry with him, because that's a bad thing, so if they've forgiven him, everything must be okay again.

But Crowley has nothing to do with Heaven. If anything, having wings - physical proof of his angelic nature - would make it worse. He's a fool for thinking his wings would do anything to make up for lying to Crowley for thousands of years.

Aziraphale risks a glance up. He can't see Crowley's eyes, but he doesn't need to. The stressed crease of his brow is enough to tell Aziraphale everything he needs to know; Crowley is just as desperate for an answer as him, to hear something, anything, to justify his actions.

"I don't know," Aziraphale whispers. It's just another disappointment to add to the long, long list of times he's let Crowley down. Only now he can see his lack of wings aren't the reason he's unable to be what Crowley needs. "I thought… I don't know."

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. His fists are clenched at his sides, but he doesn't seem angry. Aziraphale can feel Crowley's gaze picking him apart, digging into his eyes and face and body language to search for an answer Aziraphale doesn't have. It makes his chest ache, knowing he won't find what he's desperately looking for.

Finally, Crowley's shoulders slump.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

Aziraphale's stomach squirms unpleasantly. "I'm sorry."

"Okay. The prophecy?"

"Crowley-"

"The prophecy, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale's lower lip trembles, though he tries desperately to stop it. He pulls out the scrap paper with the final prophecy on it.

"You should sleep," he says even as he hands the paper to Crowley. "I'm sure I can figure it out."

"It's just deciphering a prophecy. That's nothing compared to what we've done today."

"But you've already done so much."

"It's fine. I can do it."

"You shouldn't have to."

Crowley glances up at him. He grips the paper a little tighter.

"Don't you trust me?" he asks.

Aziraphale gapes at him. "Of course I trust you!"

"Do you?"

His voice is wobbling. A knife slices Aziraphale's heart in two, and he wants to look away, to hide from what he's done. But that wouldn't be fair to Crowley, so he forces himself to meet his eyes, so he can see how genuine, how truthful, he is.

"There's no one I trust more than you," he says, and the strength and conviction in his voice surprises even him.

It catches Crowley off guard, too, but it makes a little tension drain from his face.

"Then why won't you let me help?" he asks quietly.

"Because you've done enough." Aziraphale dares to take a step forward. Crowley doesn't step away. "Crowley, you've done so much. You came up with the plan to raise the Antichrist together. You were the one to suggest looking for him and thinking of a new plan when we realised we messed up. You drove through the M25 when it was on fire and kept your car together until you got to the airport. You stopped time, for Heaven's sake."

"I killed Ligur, too," Crowley says absently. "He was here earlier. With Hastur. When you, uh, called. That's why I put the phone down."

Aziraphale's chest twists. He didn't know Hell found out so early…

"Well," he says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "There you go, then. You've done so much for the Earth, Crowley. Stopping time alone is enough to exhaust any celestial being, and you deserve to rest."

"The prophecy-"

"I'll do it," Aziraphale says. He reaches out to hold Crowley's hands.

Crowley pulls them away before he can touch them.

Right. Okay. They're not there yet. Or possibly ever again. That's… fair, even if it does feel like Aziraphale is disintegrating from the inside out.

"Let me figure out the prophecy," he continues. He doesn't mention the failed touch. "Please. It's the least I can do."

Crowley stares at him for a long time. Long enough Aziraphale thinks he intends to stand there all night, or perhaps has fallen asleep already.

Eventually, though, he gets a soft, "Alright."

The prophecy is carefully pushed back into his hands. Their skin doesn't brush as he's handed the paper.

Aziraphale's shoulders slump. He hadn't even realised they were tense. "I'll have the answer by morning. Ah… have a nice sleep."

"Mmm." Crowley runs a hand down his face, yawning, and turns to the hallway. "Goodnight ange-"

They both freeze. Crowley's hand is hovering awkwardly in the air from where his arm was dropping down to his side, and Aziraphale's breath is ice in his lungs.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says. "Goodnight Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods, even though Crowley isn't looking at him and can't see it, and pushes back the tears in his eyes. He doesn't deserve to cry over this. "Goodnight."

Crowley disappears into the hallway. Aziraphale's vision is too blurry to make anything out, but a door closes, so Crowley must have retreated to his own room. He'll be asleep in seconds, most likely.

Aziraphale allows himself twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to collect himself, to feel the pain in his chest and find a way to breathe around it, to let the tears prick his eyes like needles until the burn becomes unbearable.

Then he pushes it all away, sets the prophecy on the desk, and gets to work.


Crowley's memories of Heaven from Before are hazy at best. Satan did his best to wipe everyone's memories of their time in Heaven after they Fell - something about lingering loyalty to the opposition, severing former ties to loved ones to show obedience to him, not needing to be held back by feelings for those who stabbed them in the back and will use those feelings against them, blah blah blah - so trying to think about his life before he Fell is like pushing through thick jello to gaze through a frosted window and stare directly into fog.

He's been back for all of five minutes, and Crowley honestly doesn't think he needs those memories. All his mind can conjure is white, and, well, that definitely still holds true. Nothing but white as far as the eye can see, glaring and sharp and endless without even any furniture to break it up. Crowley normally appreciates minimalism - Hell is always so crowded and it makes his skin crawl - but this is a bit much, even for him.

So, yeah, apparently he's not missing much.

And the current circumstances aren't exactly encouraging him to change his mind.

The ropes around his wrists are tight; carefully loose enough to avoid being labelled cruel but excessively tight enough to cause unnecessary pain. He wonders if he's supposed to be grateful they're not tighter. Bad luck on their part if he is, because demons don't do gratitude, and Crowley sure as fuck doesn't give it to asshole angels who cover their bullshit with flimsy "generosity." He can think of a dozen smart comments to make about this situation, and it really is a shame he has to hold them back for the sake of their plan. A plan that was, surprisingly, Aziraphale's idea, one he'd apparently spent all night mulling over before he woke Crowley at the ridiculous time of half 7 in the morning.

It's a good plan, he has to admit. Wearing one another's corporations to give them immunity to hellfire and holy water respectively will both spit in Heaven and Hell's faces and cause a little chaos, if they play their cards right.

Still. What a waste of snark. Looks like the 6000 years worth of insults he's been carefully crafting will have to wait for another day.

The footsteps behind him are his first warning. Gabriel's obnoxiously smug voice is the second.

"Aziraphale. So glad you could join us." Gabriel claps him on the back twice, hard, in a mock example of a friendly pat. The force of it is enough to make Crowley lurch forward, gritting his teeth as he fights to keep his wings from reflexively flaring out of Aziraphale's corporation. Trading bodies didn't allow them to trade wing colours, and besides, Aziraphale's wings have been confiscated or whatever. If he lets his wings out, it's game over.

Strange, though, he thought whatever bullshit miracle or enchantment they put on Aziraphale would be on his corporation. Or maybe for the body to be too tight, so his wings have no way to get out. But it's just a normal corporation.

Hmm. It must be on his true form, then. An enchantment like that will be a pain to break, could take centuries to find a way to destroy it. Maybe that can be his new project once he gets back to Earth, give himself some time to calm down and relax, and it has the added bonus of giving him an excuse to avoid Aziraphale. Avoid him in person, that is, since Crowley will still be thinking about him during his search, how can he do anything else when his research will be for Aziraphale…

Crowley's fists clench and he has to bite his tongue to hold back a furious hiss.

Okay, maybe doing anything Aziraphale related isn't a good idea. Maybe he needs to spend the next few centuries focusing on himself and only himself like a proper demon.

Shit, Gabriel's talking, and Crowley hasn't been listening at all. Fuck, he needs to pay attention if he wants his half of the plan to work. He doesn't know how well the angels know Aziraphale, how many slip ups he can afford, but he can't take risks right now. He's already working on potentially false assumptions, already working against angels that may know Aziraphale better than he does. No need to make it worse.

Focus. He's not Crowley right now. Right now, he's Aziraphale, his best friend(?) of 5000 years, the person he knows better than anyone, the angel who lied to him-

No. The angel who's currently in a lot of trouble with the bosses he fears. That's the only angelic thing he needs to remember right now.

Focus.

"-to like this. I really do." Gabriel leans in uncomfortably close, a gritted smile frozen on his face. Satan, Crowley wants to punch him. But Aziraphale wouldn't want to punch him. Aziraphale would stay perfectly still, refuse to shy away from Gabriel, be the good little angel who won't give his bosses any reason to think he thinks of them in even the slimmest negative light. So that's what Crowley does. Sits perfectly still, spine stiff, face and body language as neutral as he can manage in the presence of an angel.

"And I bet you didn't see this one coming." Gabriel's smile drops, just for a moment, and although that probably means bad things for Crowley, he still basks in the satisfaction coiling in his chest at an angel like Gabriel temporarily dropping his act out of fury.

He keeps his face blank, though. Aziraphale would never smile at making his boss upset, so Crowley can't either. At least, he thinks Aziraphale would never smile at such a thing. Satan, please let him know Aziraphale would never do that. Please let just enough of his Aziraphale knowledge be real enough to get through this.

Gabriel is wrong about one thing. He's pretty sure he knows what's coming. If Aziraphale's interpretation of the last prophecy is correct, and it should be, because Aziraphale is so, so clever, and he's never been wrong about a prophecy before - fuck, please let Aziraphale be right-

"Don't get this view down in the basement," a familiar voice says, and Crowley has to bite back a whoop of victory. He knows that voice, if only vaguely, that very demonic voice…

Yep, sure enough, that's a demon carrying that… bucket? Pan? Crowley can't tell what it is from this angle, and he doesn't dare twist to look, because he needs to keep his eyes on Gabriel, just like Aziraphale would. Whatever. He doesn't need a proper look anyway. He knows what's in it. There's only one reason the Archangels would let a demon sully their beloved heavenly floors with their presence, and that's…

The circle of stones light up, a vortex of hellfire shooting up towards the ceiling.

Yep, there it is.

Aziraphale, you brilliant, brilliant bastard.

The demon scurries away without another word, leaving Crowley with two angels and an on-track plan.

"So! With one act of treason, you averted the war."

Treason? Didn't know you were the bloody Queen, Crowley wants to say. But Aziraphale wouldn't be so disrespectful. Aziraphale would meet Gabriel's eyes, push past his obvious fear to defend his actions, his belief in doing the right thing. This, at least, Crowley knows. He saw it during the confrontation at the airport, when he was terrified Aziraphale would cower and abandon him when faced with his superior and ordered to stand down. When Aziraphale, trembling and swallowing every ten seconds, continued to stand by Crowley's side and gently reminded them all of the Ineffable Plan.

Crowley doesn't know how to feel about Aziraphale. Doesn't know if they're friends or acquaintances or neutral coworkers, doesn't know if Aziraphale cares about him or just wants to save his own skin. Over the last two days he's been emotionally fucked six ways to Sunday, thrown from anger to terror to grief to relief to anger again to numbness, and he's watched as Heaven and Hell tried to burn the Earth to the ground while trying to shoulder the knowledge that he doesn't know his best friend as well as he thought he did, might not know him at all.

But he does know this: Aziraphale cares about the Earth and would never apologise for saving it. Would never apologise for doing what he really, truly believes to be the right thing.

So Crowley won't.

"Well, I think the greater good-"

"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel," Gabriel snaps, and oh wow, Crowley didn't think he could get him to snap, this day just gets better and better. "The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all."

Crowley bites back a smile. If only they knew the opposition is right in front of their-

Gabriel comes closer, leaning on the arms of the chair he's tied to - oh look, he's not above invading Crowley's personal space, isn't that fantastic-

"But then again," he says lowly, eyes sparking dangerously, "you're already settling with the opposition, aren't you?"

Crowley swallows. Gabriel is right in his face, and it takes all his willpower to not spit in his eye. He leans away instead, shoulder blades digging into the backrest of the chair.

Be Aziraphale. Be Aziraphale.

"And I could forgive that. I really could," Gabriel continues. He doesn't lean closer, but he doesn't move away, either. "I can see why someone like you would be tricked into… fraternising with the enemy."

Oh, you hypocritical bastard.

"It's no surprise you've been unable to earn our forgiveness for so long. It must have been hard, trying to repent for your sins with a demon like Crowley corrupting you. That's why I wanted to give you one last chance. I knew a weak angel like you couldn't stand a chance against a cunning demon's charms."

Oh. Oh fuck no.

Crowley ducks his head, biting his lip hard to stay quiet, and hopes the action will be read as shame or fear. He doesn't know what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak, but he knows it will blow his cover. But fuck, what he would give to give Gabriel a piece of his mind right now. Because, weak? Aziraphale is far from weak. Over the last two days Crowley has had several scathing thoughts about Aziraphale - liar, manipulative, typical bloody angel - but not weak. Never weak.

How dare this bastard say otherwise?

Crowley takes back all his earlier doubts. He may not know Aziraphale like he thought he did, may not know him at all, but he definitely knows him better than these bastards do. They don't know a damn thing about him if they truly believe he's weak.

"But your task was very simple. All you had to do was return to Heaven and fight for us." Gabriel leans in closer. He's not quite breathing on Crowley, but it's a near thing. "And you couldn't even do that. There's only so many chances we can give you until you prove yourself unforgivable, you know."

Crowley freezes.

"It really is a shame," Gabriel says, stepping away at last. "I really hoped you would change, but I see you're just as selfish as always. It's not like we didn't warn you."

Warn him of what?

Crowley's heart rate spikes. This isn't just a punishment for stopping Armageddon. It's not even a punishment for being friends with a demon. There's something else going on, something Crowley doesn't know about, and he has no idea how he's supposed to handle it, not as Aziraphale.

Maybe that's the point? Maybe they know he's not really Aziraphale, and they're trying to get him to mess up so they can call him out? But how could they find out? They were so careful when they swapped bodies, there's no way they could have been caught.

Unless Aziraphale…

No. He wouldn't. Even if he doesn't care about Crowley, he wouldn't tell Heaven anything. His life is on the line just as much as Crowley's is. Unless he was never in danger, and it's a trap to-

No! Hell has Aziraphale, they wouldn't care! And Aziraphale would never-

Wouldn't he?You don't know for certain. You don't know him. You don't know-

More footsteps.

"Ah, Uriel! Right on time." Gabriel's plastic smile is back. His eyes never leave Crowley. "I think you know what this is about."

He doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue.

Something is in Uriel's arms. Something soft and white and smells like…

Aziraphale-!

Crowley lurches forward, straining against the ropes to-

Oh. It's not Aziraphale. It's just some… wings…

… Angel wings that aren't attached to an angel.

Crowley desperately wants to flick his tongue out, but that will give him away. So he just has to inhale deeply as Uriel passes him, hoping desperately he can catch a scent. And he does. It's an old scent, thousands of years old, and it's missing the tinge of human comforts and indulgences he knows so well, but it's still familiar. It's still Aziraphale's scent.

They took my wings.

Crowley's stomach drops. No. They… they wouldn't…Oh, but they would.

"I really didn't want you to ever see this," Gabriel says. His sad frown is so exaggerated and fake it makes Crowley feel sick. "I wanted to do it before you got here. But demons can't be trusted, and we do need to test the fire, so…"

Crowley doesn't respond. He can't, he can't stop staring at the wings in Uriel's arms, dusty and dull and grey from millennia hidden away.

Nothing in Heaven is dusty or dull or grey. Crowley knows this for a fact.

But the wings - Aziraphale's wings - are.

"I really am sorry, Aziraphale." Gabriel says. His face is sad, but his eyes are smirking. "I really did hope you'd earn them back, but what's done is done. You have no one to blame but yourself."

Earn them back? For what? They've been ripped off, they're useless, it's not like they can-

Uriel throws the wings into the fire, and they're alight instantly.

Crowley watches, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, as Aziraphale's wings burn. The smell is awful, bleach with a sharp, bitter edge corrupted even further by something acidic and rotten. Crowley's stomach churns, and it takes all his willpower to not throw up right there. The wings are gone within seconds, feathers blackening and disintegrating, ashes catching alight and vanishing the way only hellfire can achieve. It's over before he knows it, but the smell… the smell lingers, the only reminder of what's just been destroyed.

And with the smell, buried under the bleach and the acid, is the very, very faint scent of burnt parchment and pastries.

Crowley can't breathe. Scattered scraps of burning paper flash through his mind.

That's what Aziraphale would smell like if he…

"Excellent, it works." Gabriel's tone is far too jolly for the situation. Like that's not a part of Aziraphale they've destroyed in cold blood. Like Aziraphale wouldn't be devastated and shattered if he was here.

Uriel approaches, nose wrinkled, and flicks the ropes around his wrists off. "Up."

The smell must bother the Archangels. No angel would want to know what an angel destroyed by hellfire smells like.

But they're planning to go through it again anyway. They want to make the smell worse by making Aziraphale walk into the fire after his wings.

His lungs draw in air more on instinct than any actual need, and Crowley clings to the sensation as he rises. He has to. If he focuses on anything else he will personally make the smell worse. If he looks at Uriel for too long, or listens to Gabriel too much, this room will be tainted forever, and no amount of bleach will be able to remove the stench of three extinct Archangels.

Crowley is no stranger to hate. Or he thought he wasn't, at least. But this? This boiling rage, clawing at his being and blinding his vision and threatening to set his borrowed corporation alight? It's the second most intense thing he's ever felt, and so much more powerful than he ever dreamed of. He wants to drag Uriel and Sandalphon into the vortex, hold them tight in his arms as they scream and writhe to get away in the eight seconds it will take for them to burn up completely. He wants to wrap his hands around Gabriel's throat, watch his eyes widen and hear him beg for mercy as his own, personal infernal fire that licks at his veins sears a scar into the smug bastards neck before consuming him, turning him into a candle in Crowley's palms.

Crowley's never been violent. Even in his worst moments, even when facing down Satan, even when Aziraphale lied to him, he never wanted to be violent. He's not a fighter and he knows it, knows he'll get much further with his words than his fists.

But this is an exception. They burned a part of Aziraphale, and want to burn the rest of him, and Crowley wants to murder them with his bare hands. His fingers twitch with the urge, infernal fire dangerously close to sparking in his hands.

But Aziraphale is Down There. Surrounded by demons who won't hesitate to destroy him if they know what he is.

If Crowley kills them, he not only destroys their plan and blows their cover, he kills Aziraphale. And that is something he can't allow.

He can feel the heat of the hellfire even from here, beckoning him closer, rich with temptations. Aren't you cold up here, little demon, with these ceramic angels and freezing, flawless walls? Don't you want to be warm? Do you not feel the power before you, don't you want to hold it? Let it surround you, consume you until it's part of you, ready to be manipulated, under your command as much as a chaotic fire can be controlled? Step closer, step closer, let the flames ignite your rage. Get revenge for what these angels have done, light them up and make them hurt like you hurt, give them what they deserve, show them their sins are just as heavy as your own.

Crowley knows temptation like the back of his hand. It's what he does. He knows how to wield it, takes comfort when he's completely surrounded by it, just waiting for him to reach out and touch. He's the master of temptation, and he knows the best way to control it is to allow it to take control and manipulate it from there.

He also knows how to ignore it. Whether it's from his experience working with it or the millennia he's spent with an angel rubbing off on him, he can be completely surrounded by wonderful temptation and never lay a finger on it.

He'll ignore the temptations today. For the sake of their plan, for the sake of Aziraphale. He will not burn the Archangels no matter how much the hellfire at his fingertips whispers to him.

But even if he can't touch them, he's going to make damn sure they regret every single second they've ever spent in Aziraphale's presence.

He's an opportunist, after all, and, well, what demon can say no to the chaos he has available in the cards in his hands?