It all ends (as it began) in the garden.
Their garden. Their own little piece of paradise. Crowley's pride and joy.
It all ends with a cry and a whisper, a broken promise and a blood-choked plea.
Their carefully constructed happiness. Their blissful togetherness. Their lives. Their dreams.
It all ends…
It's a late afternoon in mid-July. The sun isn't beating down as hard, and it feels pleasantly cool to sit on the wooden garden bench in the shade of a gorgeous apple tree that Crowley had planted four years prior. The pot roast he'd placed in the oven won't be ready for another twenty minutes or so, and in the meantime he can just sit here and read and watch with fond amusement as his darling husband terrifies the plants into shape.
He smiles, a warm, tender smile. Leans back against the bench, pulling open a well-loved (and slightly dog-eared) tome of French poetry. Finds the right page. Louis Aragon, "Nous dormirons ensemble" (We will sleep together). He had first discovered this poem years ago, but only recently did he discover its true significance. Only recently did it begin to speak to him, to sing to him the song of his own heart.
« Dans l'enfer ou le paradis
Les amours aux amours ressemblent »
(In hell or in heaven
One love is like another)
How uncannily perceptive of Aragon, he thinks, glancing back up to where his dearest demon is crouching next to a fearfully fragrant azalea bush. How wise. How true. It had taken Aziraphale several millennia to understand the simple truth that a mere human poet was able to grasp within his short human lifespan. Whether it fills the heart of a demon or an angel, whether it's borne from the pits of Hell or carried down from Heaven, the love of one being for another is… love.
« J'ai renfermé sur toi mes bras
Et tant je t'aime que j'en tremble
Aussi longtemps que tu voudras
Nous dormirons ensemble »
(I wrapped my arms around you
And I love you so much that it makes me tremble.
For as long as you would want to
We will sleep together)
He brushes a trembling finger over the lines of text that blur strangely in his suddenly clouded vision. These words that echo his words, his thoughts – how true they ring, how simply, how desperately, how exceedingly true.
"Angel?"
He raises his head and there's Crowley, standing before him now, brow furrowed in concern.
"You alright, angel?"
He blinks, only now becoming aware of the moisture that drips, unsolicited, down his cheeks. He wipes it away hastily, shakes his head, smiling up at his beloved.
"Perfectly fine, dearest," he assures, and, oh, he can't help but stare. Like this, with the sun at his back, the rays refracting and bending around him, framing the beautiful fiery red of his hair and setting it aflame, with the warm golden glow of its light caressing his freckled, sweat-stained skin, casting in sharp relief the lithe, angular shapes of him – he's a vision, a sight so beautiful and delicate and pure that it takes his breath away, prickles once again at the corners of his eyes.
"You're crying," Crowley accuses as he kneels down in front of him, eyes wide with worry, one dirt-smudged hand reaching for Aziraphale's cheek, where another traitorous tear is making a slow downward trek.
He doesn't dare make contact, however. Hovers a hair's breadth away, unsure even after all this time. And that hesitation, that uncertainty – that's all Aziraphale's fault, his greatest, most unforgivable sin, for which he's vowed to do penance for the rest of his life.
He places his own hand atop of Crowley's, tugs it gently but firmly toward his cheek.
"S'filthy, angel," Crowley protests, chagrined, making a half-hearted attempt to pull away.
Aziraphale doesn't let him. Holds on fast, burrowing into the familiar calloused warmth of Crowley's palm.
"I love you," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss into the fragile point just inside the wrist where Crowley's pulse is skittering like a frightened animal. "I love you," he repeats, looking into those breathtakingly beautiful, achingly vulnerable eyes the color of molten gold. "So much!"
"A-angel…." Crowley's voice cracks. "You don't… you don't have to say it."
Aziraphale sets the book aside, slides down off the bench, knee to knee in front of Crowley. Raises his hands to capture Crowley's face between them. Feels him tremble in his grasp.
"My love," he insists, "my darling, beautiful boy. I haven't said it enough. And I owe it to you to say it, over and over, every second of every day, for every moment I've led you to believe otherwise."
Gently, reverently, he presses his lips to Crowley's, lets the kiss linger a moment before pulling back. Smiles as Crowley's eyelashes flutter with languid pleasure, the naked longing in the honeyed pools calling to him, drawing him back in.
"How pathetically disgusting!"
The disdainful, familiar voice shatters the peaceful quiet, staining the sweetly soft fragrance of their garden with a sharp tang of ozone.
They are on their feet in the next instant, Aziraphale taking a small but determined step forward – away and in front of Crowley. Protect him, protect him at all cost.
"Gabriel." He tries to sound pleasant, tries to contain the shiver of disappointment and trepidation, the scream of "it's too soon, too soon, too soon" that fights to break free from his corporation's lips. "We weren't expecting you."
The archangel lifts a scornful brow, gestures at the two of them with venom-stained contempt. "Obviously."
"What he means," Crowley slides up to stand beside him, the forcefully light mockery of his voice belied by the tension Aziraphale can feel thrumming through his body, "is get lost, douchebag."
Gabriel's mouth twitches, but he shows no other reaction to Crowley's words.
"Aziraphale," he announces with pomp and circumstance, a terrifyingly wide smile frozen on his face, the stingingly cold purple eyes boring into the angel's, "the Heavenly Council has decided to go ahead with the relaunch of our campaign against the Fallen. This time, instead of eliminating the humans, we intend on using them as frontline soldiers in our fight against the forces of Hell."
"Your cannon fodder, you mean," Crowley spits out. Aziraphale reaches out blindly, grips his fisted hand, calling him to silence.
"Humans are… resourceful creatures, as you have so insistently pointed out to us," Gabriel goes on, ignoring the demon's outburst. "And we are confident that they will be able to use that resourcefulness to our advantage."
"Right, well…" Aziraphale forces his lips to do something that he hopes might resemble a smile. "That… that sounds… grand. Jolly good. Why… why are you telling us this?"
Gabriel's answering smile is so wide and so sharp-edgedly plastic, it hurts to look at. "Why, I should think it would have been obvious, Aziraphale," he drawls out in that manner of his that makes Aziraphale feel so very stupid and so very small. "You've been on Earth, living among these creatures for thousands of years. You can help teach us to galvanize them and lead them into this battle."
Aziraphale blows out a heavy, stuttering breath. Feels his lungs catch uncomfortably as he tries to take another.
Gabriel waits, an expression of condescending boredom spilled across his features. It's like he already knows Aziraphale's answer, knows there's only one answer Aziraphale can give, one he was always expected to give. And, no, just…
"No."
"Pardon?"
It was worth the maddening stammer of his heart just to see that surprised arch of an eyebrow that cuts across the normally mirror-smooth forehead. He steels himself, drawing strength from the warmth of Crowley's hand still gripped within his own.
"No," he repeats, firm and sure. Lifts his chin higher. "I won't help you. You were told to leave us alone, so…." He waves his free hand. "Leave us alone."
Gabriel watches him a heartbeat longer, then his face unexpectedly smoothes back out and he shrugs, unconcerned.
"They told me something like this might happen," he says, reaching into the pocket of his perfectly white coat. "So I came prepared."
And then to Aziraphale's open-mouthed shock he pulls out a handgun, aims it in a careless, casual manner, and shoots. Once, and then again and again.
Aziraphale flinches instinctively at the sound, but he doesn't understand what happened. Not until he feels Crowley's hand ripped from his grasp, not until he watches, horrified, as the demon collapses backwards with a pained groan.
"Crowley!"
He drops to his knees beside his beloved, his whole being trembling with rage at the sight of three ragged bullet holes that have torn apart his demon's chest. The desire to rend Gabriel apart with his bare hands burns within him, scorching like the fires of Hell itself.
He reins it in with effort, choosing to focus on what is important first – healing those awful wounds. He places his hands above the narrow chest, lets the healing glow collect at the tips of his splayed fingers, and…
Snap!
The glow fades, instantly, abruptly, and Aziraphale stares at his hands for one stunned, horrified moment, before he whirls toward Gabriel.
"What did you do?!"
The archangel purses his lips, seemingly unfazed by the roared intensity of the question. Slips the gun back into his pocket, insolent and blasé.
"You didn't think I'd let you just… heal him, did you," he asks, his tone mocking, and Aziraphale feels that surge of anger squeeze at his throat. "That would be completely unproductive to my purpose, now, wouldn't it." The purple eyes are watching him, keen, predatory, expectant.
A bargain. Of course. He should have realized.
"What do you want?" He doesn't really need to ask the question, he already knows. But he wants to hear Gabriel say it out loud, wants to look the bastard in the face when he admits the base, revolting truth of it.
Gabriel's face splits into a triumphant sneer. "Like I said, Aziraphale, your Earthly… expertise is needed to help secure our victory. You agree to come along like a good little angel, although you obviously are not, and I will restore your powers so you can heal that slithering varmint. Or…" He sweeps a regal arm out toward the fallen demon. "…You refuse and you watch him die. Well, discorporate," he amends with a careless shrug, "but I'm sure his bosses Downstairs will be more than happy to finish the job."
Aziraphale is fairly sure he understands what that awful acidic feeling that's burning deep in his chest is. Hatred. Black and dangerous and terrifying. And so very different from what a proper, pure angel should feel. But then the angel he's dealing with is anything but pure, and, oh, Aziraphale hates him. So very, very much.
But he can't refuse him, can he. Doesn't have a choice. Not with Crowley's life on the line. Because, bastard or not, but Gabriel is right. Crowley won't survive a return to Hell. Not after Armageddon, not after that mockery of a trial and the murderous, hateful looks in the eyes of those present, the glaring thirst for vengeance and destruction that remained unfulfilled.
Gabriel watches him, an expectant smirk on his lips. No choice, he reminds himself. No choice.
He swallows harshly against a cry of impotent fury. Opens his mouth to respond. And slams it shut an instant later as a cold hand brushes against his own.
"Don't."
He drops his gaze back down to find his demon struggling to prop himself up on a badly shaking elbow, a bloodstained hand splayed across his chest in a futile attempt to stem the gushing flow of blood.
He reaches for him, instantly, anxiously. Wraps his arms around the shaking demon, pulling him up, pressing him against his chest.
"Darling, what-"
Crowley lurches upward in his grip, his eyes screwed shut as his body convulses, shuddering with a harsh, rattling cough that sends a rivulet of dark blood spilling past his lips.
"I've got you, darling, I've got you!" He hugs the demon closer, his own arms shaking with steadily growing panic. "I'll have you sorted here in just a moment." He whips his head toward Gabriel, ready to accept whatever terms necessary, ready to beg, ready to plead.
A feeble tug on the front of his vest stops him short, draws his tear-swamped gaze down to the black-clad figure in his arms.
"Crowley…"
"Don't!" comes another wheezing plea. "Y…you ca…can't…" The words choke off on an awful sounding gurgle that sends more blood spilling from the demon's throat, leaves him gasping for a breath that just won't come.
Aziraphale bites his lip until it bleeds, his throat burning with a silent scream of anguish. Swipes a trembling thumb at the corner of Crowley's mouth, trying to wipe away the blood. Feels more tears spill over when all he manages to accomplish is to smear the blood in macabre pattern across the ashen skin.
"I don't have a choice, darling," he rasps out, the stone-heavy lump in his throat choking him with every breath he takes. "I can't let Hell have you. They'll… they'll kill you, Crowley! I can't!"
"Won't…" Crowley insists, stubborn and fierce. Grips Aziraphale's vest with what little strength he has left. "Come… come back to you. F-find a way. A-always."
He shakes his head. Cups the pale, blood-smeared cheek. "I can't take that risk," he admits, exhaling the truth into the blood-stained air between them. Smiles – a pathetic, crooked little thing, its edges washed out with tears. "Can't lose you."
He looks away just long enough to nod his acceptance to Gabriel. Turns back to anchor himself in the pleading, pain-clouded golden depths. He feels the barrier around his powers snap away, feels them flood back in, filling his essence.
"I can't let you die, Crowley," he says, his voice shaking, his hand still pressed to Crowley's cheek to steady himself. "So I'm gonna… I'm gonna go with Gabriel now, do as he says."
"Ngk…" Crowley strains against him, paws frantically at the front of his vest, leaving bloody smears on the cream fabric. "Don't… don't…."
"Shhh…" He places a gentle finger on the demon's lips, silencing his objections. Presses his hand once again against Crowley's chest, pouring everything he's got into the open wounds. "I need you to live, my love," he whispers into his beloved's ear, urgent, insistent, making sure Gabriel can hear none of it. "I need you to live, and then I need you to find a way to stop me."
And because he knows that Crowley will never let him leave like this, and because he's terrified to even imagine what Gabriel would do to his demon if Crowley decided to confront him now, he does what he swore to himself he would never do without his darling's permission.
He leans in closer, presses his lips to the demon's forehead and with a broken whisper of "Forgive me" kisses him to sleep.