Take Flight While Angels Sing
A/N: Here it is! The sequel to "Dance with Darkness" that nobody asked for, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. I've had a couple comments and private messages speculating about what would happen after such a pivotal moment, specifically what would happen with Crowley. And, well, my muse took off and created its own little universe, because I realized it would change everything. (And I did promise some Crowley angst). Canon will be woven in when it's right, otherwise, we're in our own territory now from 1941-2019. This is a direct sequel to "Dance with Darkness", so it might not make much sense without reading that one.
Content Warning: Temporary character death and depictions of war. Any potential triggers will be clearly spelled out before each chapter. This might get kicked up to M later on, but for now, the descriptions are vague and not gratuitous; this focuses more on Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
Though truthfully, Crowley hadn't known what to expect when he walked into that church, Aziraphale's terror reverberating in his ears like a shrill alarm. 79 years since their falling out; Crowley withdrawing into a fitful, melancholic sleep. He hadn't been able to escape the angel even in slumber, dreams of harsh words and a retreating figure plaguing him at every turn. He had awoken under a pile of hair and dust, still seething with betrayal. Buying his Bentley and holding to it tight, driving ever faster to drown out the deadly whispers that tempted him to London Soho for just one glimpse.
He had swallowed the way his traitorous human heart leapt into his throat at seeing the cherubic face staring back at him after 79 long years. Send a few deserving humans Below, save Aziraphale, easy enough. He had done it plenty of times before. Aziraphale would bestow on him a nervous thank you, and he would ground out his rejection; a rusty record, shuddering to life. Perhaps in a decade or two their song would play, warped from what it once had been, but still there. Still there.
Somewhere along the way, everything went pear-shaped.
Aziraphale was different. The way his eyes darted around the church, frozen agony etched on his face at a gun being jammed against his skull. Incapable of acting, of moving; staring at Crowley as if he wasn't really there, and fuck, this was beginning to disturb him. This wasn't the same Aziraphale who would tut in annoyance whenever a human got over-zealous, where Crowley would sweep in and "rescue" him, a smirk masking thousands of years of unspoken desires.
This was an Aziraphale who allowed him to close a gentle hand around his wrist, and will his racing heart to slow. Who followed him into his car, staring at him wide-eyed as the searchlights threw everything into sharp relief, driving in silence through rubble-lined streets. Who gazed at him with a dark hunger, leaning closer and closer, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette like a lifeline, and making thoughts Crowley had kept fastidiously hidden away bubble forth.
An Aziraphale pressed against his chest, crumbling, and Crowley could scarcely hold the pieces together. All because of him. His stupidity. His selfishness. His damned, fucking pride and now the rotten seeds he had sown bloomed their ugly flower. Aziraphale's tears soaking through to his skin, clinging to him. Accusations ripped deep with every shuddering breath and broken sob. He had done this.
He had done this.
And he had no idea how to even begin fixing it.
He held him. It didn't feel like enough. Wings sprung forth then, without a second thought, cocooning Aziraphale as best they could, and Aziraphale had flinched, nearly pulling away, before he caught sight of the sleek feathers and sank deeper into his embrace. His hand came up, tentative, cupping his neck, pulling him closer, and Aziraphale nearly melted at the contact.
Fuck.
Crowley could hardly breathe, mind torn between crushing guilt and a sense of twisted wonderment that Aziraphale was here. In his arms. His most ridiculous, heart-stricken fantasies coming to pass. After eight decades of severed ties, of Aziraphale dying because he was lost in dreams, and Aziraphale still hung on, as if letting go might cause him to die a second time.
How could this be? How the fuck did Crowley remotely deserve to even touch him?
Aziraphale trusted him.
It came to him suddenly; cresting over his mind and stopping everything in its tracks. This was an angel, and he was a demon, and a demon who was the sole reason for the steady stream of tears marking his flesh, at that. And still, Aziraphale trusted him.
The realization nearly knocked Crowley off his feet. The trembling angel cradled in his arms, face buried in his shoulder, had never allowed such raw vulnerability to show before. Not with all the horrors time had inflicted on them. The Flood. The Black Death. The Spanish Inquisition. Humans killing each other over and over, a relentless, churning slaughterhouse that did not deal in mercies.
Crowley had always trusted Aziraphale. Foolish for any demon, but he was drawn to him. Watching the first humans, marked with sin, stumbling in the desert, and only being able to think of the angel beside him who shielded him from the first storm. He had never dared to allow himself to hope the trust was reciprocated. Aziraphale constantly prattled on about sides, and Heaven, and the goddamn Ineffable Plan. He knew where they stood.
He thought he knew where they stood...
This was deeper than the Arrangement. Deeper even than their sometimes fragile friendship. He looked down at the white blond curls tucked against his chest, a hesitant hand cradling his neck, and suddenly felt his throat go very dry.
A trust like this. It wasn't something that should even happen between them. Millennia of Aziraphale keeping him at an arm's length, making Crowley earn every last inch closer to him. And now, Aziraphale freely gave it away, holding out his heart to him, cracked, and battered, and silently pleading for Crowley to keep it safe.
A demon worth his salt would pounce at such a rare opportunity. To drive the sword in one final time; to claim, to kill, it wouldn't matter. An image of Hastur floated through his mind, Crowley's lips curled in a sneer at the mere thought. Hastur, not particularly intelligent, but brutal enough to make up for it. He would make Aziraphale suffer, laughing the entire time.
But, no. Aziraphale would never let a foul thing like Hastur close to him. Hastur did not play the long game. A rat, constantly hitting the pleasure button, invested in Wrath and not much else.
Hastur's face was replaced with Ligur. Soft, deadly Ligur. A clever demon, quiet and calculating. Who slunk among the humans with careful whispers and deft hands. There was no obvious rot upon that handsome face. Only enticing eyes, and a voice that caressed. Ligur would spin his web, trapping Aziraphale, and use that precious trust to strike. He imagined Ligur holding Aziraphale, stroking his hair, nails growing longer and sharper, until it was too late-
Hell could have sent any demon up on Earth. It could be Ligur here instead of him, and Ligur would not have crossed the lines Crowley had crossed, would never have turned his back on Hell because of the forbidden feeling that stained Crowley's soul.
And Hell still could send something like Ligur up here. If they ever grew tired of him. If they ever thought he was shirking his duties and going rogue.
Crowley could feel Aziraphale's heart pound against his chest, a steady tat-tat-tat that said far more than words ever could. It was his hand that downy curls tickled. His wings that shielded Aziraphale from the entire, wretched lot of them. Thousands of years of careful steps, of Crowley agonizing over every missed moment to tell Aziraphale the truth, and it could all be over tomorrow if the powers in Hell changed their minds.
This might be his only chance.
"It won't happen again." Force was behind the words, and the air shimmered with the weight of what he had just done. A sacred vow, dangling between them, pulled from neither Heaven or Hell, but the very essence of Crowley's blackened soul. He held his breath, eyes trained for the slightest movement, wondering if he hadn't colossally fucked everything up once more.
Aziraphale didn't pause. Didn't recoil. He simply held on tighter, every inch of Crowley claimed. A shudder rolled through them both; he shouldn't be trembling, it was not he who had died, and yet Crowley was having trouble staying upright.
He hesitated, the briefest of seconds, a gesture like this would be impossible to come back from. Lowering his head as if in prayer, and sealing it with a soft kiss to Aziraphale's head. Something wound between them, around them, tangling them together, quicker than a blink, faster than lightning.
And Aziraphale didn't pull away.
USSR, 1941
The world was quiet, save for the crunch of snow underneath his boots.
Demons hated winter. Cold, unrelenting. The starkest difference imaginable to the stuffy furnace that could scarcely contain untold millions of souls. They performed their temptations and scurried back Below, rotten teeth clattering in their jaws and shoving each other aside to get closer to Hellfire.
Not Crowley.
Crisp, frigid air stabbed at his lungs and chased away the smoke and sulphur that always lingered, a forceful cleansing that Crowley drank in greedily. He admired the stillness, the quiet, the effortless beauty of freshly fallen snow. This wasn't the stark white of Heaven, sterile and lifeless.
Soft. Like white blond curls sliding through his fingers, a steady rhythm, invited to touch.
It had been well over a century since he had last been here, a different name, a different time. It was hard to keep track of humans these days; their constantly shifting allegiances and ideas. He had nearly slipped up and earned a one-way ticket back to Hell. Best to keep his mouth shut, then. Focus, focus. He was not here for humans, anyway.
The stench of iron was pungent, and Crowley's steps grew faster, until the tiny dots between the trees became human shaped. Fury and fear crashed together and Crowley sucked it up, drew strength from these humans who had damned themselves without him even lifting a finger.
"What's all this then?" he sauntered towards the captain, whose icy eyes flicked over Crowley, sensing he didn't belong, but not quite sure why. Mud spattered across the sea of white, haphazard, a jagged hole scarring the Earth. There was terror here, filling Crowley's veins with its splendid poison.
"Collaborators." There were six in total, lined up neatly like wooden ducks at a carnival. An elderly woman with a shock of grey hair shivered at the end, threadbare blue dress whipping around skinny calves in the chilled evening air.
"Naturally, naturally," Crowley agreed. A pile of clothes sat near the soldiers, each claimed and ripped apart for treasure. A beige coat lay at the feet of the youngest. Crowley's body went rigid, wiry, ready to lunge. "Making them dig their own grave in the winter, very commendable."
The captain grunted, gesturing to his men and causing a scramble for guns and courage. A deep breath, then another, forked tongue slipping between pearly teeth and close to the captain's ear.
"You've found someone I've been searching for a long, long time." A glance at the man in the middle, stripped down to his undergarments, strong arms lashed behind his back. "You'll let me take care of him personally, then."
So soft, so slippery; that strange, musical lilt that floated in ears and sent everything into delicious chaos. The captain's brows furrowed, glancing at Crowley and back again, a steely resolve that refused to crack.
"You can watch." Crowley hissed, low, a warning, pulling all the sin towards himself and filling his chest.
"He is mine."
Temptations were meant to be just that: temptations. Compulsions took the fun away. Not free will, not true damnation. But, the man in the middle was shaking, Crowley could feel his heart searching for sturdy ground, and his patience had worn thin. The captain's eyes glazed over, mouth slack, and he nodded, holding up a hand to pause the execution.
A dirty rag was wrapped around his eyes, old blood crusted into the worn cloth, and Crowley's hatred nearly consumed him. A gentle hand on that forearm, too cold, much too cold, and he could see Aziraphale's mouth open, before he squeezed a warning. He steered him away, into the quiet woods with unblemished snow and bare black branches. Aziraphale tripped, still shaking, and Crowley steadied him, something tightening in his chest at seeing the dirt caked into his hair.
"C-Crowley?" he dared to ask, voice trembling and Crowley had to convince himself it was just from the cold. A snap, and the rope and blindfold were gone, and Aziraphale hugged himself, eyes wide as he gazed at Crowley.
"You came..."
A sense of wonderment. Disbelief. Hope.
Aziraphale had worn the same look six short months ago, as Crowley left him in the back of a warm and cozy bookshop, hands clutching a black feather to his chest. The air was heavy then too, fraught with dissolving boundaries and half-formed realizations.
Crowley desperately wished for a cigarette. Hands a jangled mess, and he shoved them deep into his jacket. "Was only here checking up on things, s'all." Aziraphale's lips were blue, matching his eyes, and with a start Crowley realized he wasn't wearing shoes.
Rage flooded through him, sucked through a sharp breath, the cold a sudden, unwelcome enemy. Demonic instincts urged him back, to maim, to seek what he rightfully should. Aziraphale folded in on himself, seeking a last shred of warmth, and Crowley pushed the darkness to the back of his mind.
Soon. Soon. There were more important things to worry about.
"In the middle of the woods?" Even like this, where Crowley could still taste his fear on his tongue, Aziraphale couldn't help himself, eyebrow raised, picking apart Crowley's half-truths. A tale as old as time. It might have pulled a smile from him in London, with a glass full of vintage wine and a comfy chair at his back. Instead, he snapped his fingers, a dark coat materializing in his hands and he gestured for Aziraphale to come closer.
"Didn't stop you from getting shot so you could choke from hypothermia. Come on, angel, don't have all day."
But, Aziraphale didn't move, still staring at him, there in a state of undress that Crowley was definitely sure he had never seen. The fine white hair covered his arms and legs, nearly invisible, so light, so radiant. He was going to make Crowley reach out, just like always, even teetering on the edge of being beyond saving.
And Crowley stepped forward, like always. Guided the arms into the sleeves, willing it warm, like dying embers of a flame. Aziraphale's sound of relief hung in the air, breath ghosting upwards, reminding Crowley of the cigarette all those months ago that had drawn Aziraphale closer and closer.
He could have miracled the jacket on. Could have spun an entire outfit with the barest flick of his wrist. Yet here he was, buttoning him up, slow and deliberate, desperate to control his breathing, the winter air hid nothing. Aziraphale's gaze was heavy, and he was still, so very still. Gloves were next, tugged onto those perfectly manicured hands that had seen better days. Crowley cursed his own gloves, the sliver of fabric standing in his way.
His feet were turning a waxy grey, a sure sign of frostbite, and Crowley imagined those rifles turned against the captain, the sin of rebellion, well, that's how he would spin it, anyway. A scream, 4 shots, and silence once more. Fur lined boots, tucked under wool trousers black as night, and Crowley watched as the wool suddenly turned a pale brown.
"Really?" His throat was nearly closed tight. A huff was the reply, something about not letting Crowley choose everything, and Crowley shut his eyes, forcing himself to finish this, forcing himself not to give into the seductive voice that had taken over every thought and dream.
And he acquiesced. The hat was beige and blue checkers, tucked over those soft, soft curls, that tempted him to glide his hands over flushed cheeks. He expected Aziraphale to flinch at the least, pull away like always, eyes skittering about for who might be watching. Aziraphale swallowed, pursed his quivering lips, but stayed put, never blinking, staring at Crowley as though trying to convey some important message.
Don't go.
Those words had haunted Crowley. Mocking him. Turning the possibilities over and over in his mind about what would have happened had he given in. Selfish, as always. Not enough that he had held Aziraphale (for hours, more than he had ever dared to imagine). No, no, he needed more. A taste, and the hunger roared to life, and now here he was, ankle deep in fresh snow, Aziraphale donned in black and checkered cloth and looking up at him the way he had looked at him all those months ago.
Crowley's hands were still on his cheeks. He had not touched those cheeks then; they had been tucked away safe in the crook of his neck. They burned through his gloves, euphoria, plump and ripe like a fresh picked apple.
Six months was nothing for them. Not compared to the eight decades preceding this fleeting moment, deep in war-torn Europe. He had not slept at all in that time, wasn't sure he had even allowed his eyes to close longer than necessary. Aziraphale had vanished mere hours after he left; panic stricken, he had cast about the globe for that ethereal light, not breathing until he felt him in Berlin, heart still beating.
Bastards. All of them. He should have stayed.
"Are they dead?" He could feel the vibrations, fingers sliding down further to the dip of his throat, and Aziraphale swallowed once more, thick and unsure. Too much, too much, Crowley just had to push it, and he stepped back. How cruel God was, how much She must hate him, to allow him the time to memorize the curve of that round body against his own, and dangle it, untouchable, in front of him for the rest of eternity.
"One of them is. He's in for a pleasant surprise. Should I even ask how the heaven you ended up like this?" His hands were twitching, mad that they were so far away. Did Aziraphale think of that moment, too? Did he slow down the seconds, every beat, every breath, and memorize the way the particles of dust had danced around them?
Aziraphale flushed, setting his chin and tugging at the inky gloves (he tried not to notice how good he looked in black, dashing and alluring, and fuck, this wasn't the time for this). "I don't need berating from you, too. Gabriel will already chastise me enough for failing my assignment."
Unusual testiness, and Crowley immediately regretted it, another step back, trying to squash memories of another time where pointed words had been unthinkingly hurled. Gabriel, bloody Gabriel. Crowley had never liked the self-righteous prick, even before he Fell. Aziraphale worried his lip between his teeth, before inhaling sharply, attempting a smile.
"I'd like to see if my clothes are still there. I had a pocket-watch with me gifted from Arthur Conan Doyle, and I certainly don't need it falling into the wrong hands."
He shouldn't escort him. Shouldn't bring him anywhere near that foul place, so he could see the humans Crowley had so callously thrown away to save him. He walked beside him anyway, fists clenched, nearly splitting the leather. He hadn't been sure how their first meeting would go; wars did not make for good debriefs. Tension rife, hands seeking to wander, it was all too much.
The clothes were there, blood spattered against them. The air suffocating; thick with murder and anguish, a demon's bread and butter. Aziraphale examined them, sighing softly, making Crowley's heart clench at the devotion those bolts of cloth were looked at with.
"Thank you-"
"Don't." It was hard to look at Aziraphale. Too many things to say. To ask. Had things changed? Were they pretending like nothing had occurred? "Just don't make a habit of it. Can't be everywhere at once. Got my own shit assigned to me, too." A lie. He rarely lied to Aziraphale. It burned through his chest and into his stomach. Aziraphale deflated at that.
"Of course. It won't happen again."
Italy, 1943
Chaos.
Bullets flying. People screaming. Explosions raining dust and debris around him. Crowley was at the zenith of his power; death and destruction infusing into him like a drug. Head spinning, on top of the world, no one could touch him.
He was not here to soak in human sin. This dizzying power served one purpose, hurtling through the unsteady building, riddled with bullet holes and forgotten treasures. He heard his own name, torn from a hoarse throat, filled with terror, with desperation.
He screamed his reply, the holy name bouncing off the empty walls. Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Something fell with a thud above him, and he was kicking a door in moments later, hardly aware of how he had gotten there, wrath white hot, searing his blood, nearly blinding him.
They were no match. Three necks snapped simultaneously with the violent flick of his wrist, dropping in succession and staring at him with empty eyes. He cursed them, stained their damned souls, ensuring they would suffer in the deepest pits of Hell.
"O-oh... it hurts..." There was blood everywhere. Aziraphale was holding his stomach, face ashen already, trembling, and Crowley was kneeling in front of him, nearly shaking him.
"Why didn't you stop them?!" He picked up one of the daggers and threw it against the wall, snarling and spitting, and there was so much blood it made him want to gag. "Fuck, Aziraphale! Who gives a-"
"I can't." Crowley held his face, forced their eyes to meet. His nails were leaving marks, he should relent, be gentle, like always, but he was losing control, this was too close.
"Why the fuck not?!"
"I'm not allowed." Quiet. Apologetic. This was no game, this was not Paris all those centuries ago, flirtation taken a little too far. "Miracles..." A grunt of pain, eyes screwed up tight. "Miracles can't be used to prevent... my death. Did it once during the War... and I was informed it was disobedience. Sin of pride, I suppose."
A moment, and Crowley nearly leapt out of his earthly vessel. A rage, a towering inferno unlike anything he had ever felt, swept over him. They dared, they dared?! To send Aziraphale into a war, where humans had perfected killing in a way Hell had never anticipated, and take away his only defence? Even his side allowed him self-preservation, if only to spare themselves the paperwork.
Had it not been for the red staining his fingers he would have. Torn into Heaven, a one man army, filled with vengeance, and finished what Hell had started.
He made short work of Aziraphale's many layers, propping Aziraphale against the cold brick wall, forcing himself to breathe, inhale, exhale, it wasn't too late. Four stab wounds in all, clumsy, jagged. Aziraphale had fought back, at least. Bought himself a few precious minutes of life.
"You..." Aziraphale breathed suddenly, but he wasn't looking at him. A chill seeped into the room, and Crowley froze. He knew that sensation anywhere, the only other being on Earth as ancient as them. He felt the souls of the damned be collected, crying out for mercy. He would visit them next time in Hell. He would make them pay.
But, Death did not leave. It was waiting. Empty eyes boring into them, patience, endless amounts of it. Fear grabbed hold of Crowley, strangled him, a voice that sounded like the Lord of Hell taunting him he was too late.
"We won't be needing your services today," he spat through gritted teeth. He put his hand on one of the wounds, willed the skin to sew up tight, no scarring, perfect, just like Aziraphale. He would let the monstrosity the humans had unleashed on the world fill him up, would use this power to save the only pure thing left in the universe.
The wound was dealt with, hands and eyes skated upwards, and as Crowley set to the next one by Aziraphale's liver he stopped.
A feather rested on Aziraphale's chest, right over his heart. Inky black, sleek, and sharp. To a human eye, it looked like a tattoo, but Crowley could see the threads of rust red, the glimmer of diamonds dotted along the edges. Trembling, blood stained fingers ghosted across, felt the softness catch under his nails. Miracled into place, warm, sunk into his very skin.
Aziraphale's breathing was erratic. Their eyes met, even behind the sunglasses, Crowley knew his gaze burned. There was no apology or shame in the pale face. A hint of defiance, a plea for understanding, something else, something no demon should ever have cast their way.
Oh.
His mind was in a frenzy. Horror and panic crashed together with hope, desperate and filled with longing. He could not linger on what this meant, and he again wondered what God was doing with him, why She constantly saw fit to toy with what was left of his heart when he was doing everything in his power to keep one of Her own alive. He tore his eyes away, forced himself to keep Aziraphale tethered to this Earth.
Death still lingered, just out of the corner of his eye, scythe an unnatural gleam in the darkened room. Another wound stitched up, another one followed. He could do this. He wasn't too late.
Something brushed against his temple, running through the short hairs by his ear. Crowley swallowed, knees protesting from kneeling on the hard floor. Everything was tilted, the room was swimming, murky and out of focus. Aziraphale's hands continued their journey, winding through the red tresses, pulling with surprising strength.
"Beautiful." Filled with reverence. Awe. He sounded almost drunk, slipping away from Crowley as his blood ran through his fingers. Crowley could not bring himself to look up, throat constricted, everything aching. A part of him said he ought to slap that hand away. A part of him yearned to tilt his head and ease the exploration.
He did neither.
The last one was healed, hands smoothing over the swell of stomach, wiping the blood clean. Aziraphale's hand had dropped to Crowley's shoulder, expelling a sigh that still sounded much too dazed. Death was still there, closer now, the chill seeping into Crowley's bones. He cursed, swore, threw another dagger aside. "I healed him! Fuck off!"
His trousers were soaked; looking down and feeling the blood against his legs, against his arms, it was sticky, it was everywhere. Aziraphale's head lolled to the side, eyes glazed over, breaths rattling with every rise of his chest. Crowley was desperate, considered stretching his wings and shielding Aziraphale from Death's unrelenting gaze. Why wasn't he getting better?
"Too much... blood loss," Aziraphale supplied, voice high and reedy. "Let me see you, Crowley... dear."
Crowley obliged, helpless, as always, to the pull of that siren song. His mind was too strung out, feverish with all that had happened. Blood loss. Of course. He needed to focus, fixate on the ripples of his original temptation, spin evil into good, only for one.
A deep breath, exhaled slowly. Aziraphale's hand remained on his shoulder, supple fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his neck. Crowley could almost trick himself; Aziraphale was close to- close to leaving. Nothing more. Hardly aware he was doing it.
Right?
There was steel forged in those eyes, despite the haze, the slightly goofy smile, as if this was funny, meeting Death again and his blood staining Crowley's clothes. Something welled up in Crowley, daring, reckless, thousands of years of charging ahead alone, Hell and Heaven be damned.
He propelled himself forward, and placed his tainted lips on that holy brow. Fierce and forceful, willing all that damned blood back where it belonged. This was not the kiss of so many years ago, gentle and reassuring. This was needy, hungry. Aziraphale gasped, as he had back then, something else laced there, that made forbidden feathers lay across an angel's heart. He held that kiss, held it with all his might, until his trousers were dry, stiff and uncomfortable.
When he pulled away, Death was gone.
Crowley was shaking as he stood, lips tingling. He wanted to lick them, tattoo it on his tongue. Aziraphale was equally slow to stand, hands running down his torso, pristine as if nothing had occurred at all. The second time Crowley was seeing him undressed. It felt lewd, and he turned his eyes away, giving one of the dead men a swift kick.
"I cannot apologize to you enough." Crowley clenched his jaw. Apologies and thank-yous. He had had his fill from Aziraphale. "I told you this wouldn't happen again." There was so much self-doubt in those words, and Crowley turned, despite his better intentions. "I underestimated them."
"What were you doing that was so-so goddamn important?" He didn't mean to sound so angry. The blood was gone but the stench of iron remained. He needed a drink. He needed several. It was too close.
"Well... ah... they were stealing. Artifacts." He gestured to a sack Crowley hadn't registered before. Books and jewels and goblets spilled out on the floor. "I couldn't let them! Profiteering off a war like this, I had to stop them!"
Crowley had never hit Aziraphale. Never. In 5000 years he hadn't dared lay a violent hand on him. Hearing this now, hearing how Aziraphale had nearly given up his life for artifacts made Crowley consider it.
He forced such thoughts away. Too steeped in hatred, the atmosphere thick with it. He ran a hand down his face, it was wet, he hoped it was from sweat. Aziraphale was wringing his hands, trembling like he had in the church, like he had in the woods, curls in disarray, and that feather was all Crowley could see.
"Just... get dressed. We're leaving." He smoothed his voice of the rough edges, an impossible task, all for one bloody Principality. "There's a town not far, no bloody war there yet."
A snap, and Aziraphale was clothed once more. Crowley fastidiously fixed his tie, picking imaginary lint that dared to fall. Aziraphale gathered up his treasures, slung over his shoulder, edged to his side. His usual attire, the feather out of sight except-
The coat was brown. A dark, rich brown, the colour of chocolates and old oak trees. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale wear something other than light, effervescent colours. In 5000 long, long years. Whites and beiges and pale creams. He was looking at him again, a shy smile twitching, and he dared to press his arm against Crowley's.
"You'll come with me?" Crowley was finding it difficult to breathe. The air was dusty. Aziraphale's bashful smile piercing the darkness, a fatal stab.
He placed his hand against Aziraphale's chest, made sure his heart still marched, traced a feather like shape over the vest.
"I'll come with you, angel."
Germany, 1945
Millions were dead, and the war churned on.
The bombs were relentless. His ears hadn't stopped ringing, even when the world was silent, stretched out and sickly. This wasn't the longest war Crowley had endured, not even close. But, it felt like it.
It's different. Aziraphale had muttered to him, sitting too near, trembling after another close call. The last one was, too. They're changing, Crowley.
Crowley's mind and spirit were in constant battle. He had never felt so unstoppable. Rome came close. The colonial conquests, greed and pride smashed together in a toxic brew, oh that had felt good, too. But now, in this war, this time, Crowley could do anything. The commendations were often, glowing, even by Hell's standards.
His soul quivered with each human sent Below, each heart stopped, each city fallen. Hell and Heaven did not pick sides in human wars. It was people they fought over. A German could be saved. An American could be damned. It mattered not to Hell that the tide had turned, and the Axis was on its back. Humans still murdered in cold blood, still stole, still fucked, a euphoria they never wanted to end.
But, his mind retched. He wanted out. Aziraphale was weary, so tired. Less souls being saved, more tetchy notes, more failures. He had returned the favour to Crowley one year ago, the beaches of Normandy. Crowley had nearly drowned, never did well in water, sent to tempt a few boys from duty to vengeance. Aziraphale had pulled him from the frothing sea, strong arms cradling him, wiping spittle from his lips, hair brushed back. A protector, and Crowley had nearly wept.
He had missed his assignment to make sure aid got into an occupied village by saving him. Crowley still hadn't forgiven himself.
"A royal flush, my dear. You lose again." Crowley scowled, pushing a pile of coins and treats and cigarettes over. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in expectation, and Crowley pulled a face, reluctantly handing over his prized Russian vodka as well, smuggled out 4 years ago.
"Christ. How the heaven does an angel get so good at poker?" Aziraphale merely shrugged, far too innocent looking, as he popped a chocolate in his mouth, examining the cigarette brand carefully.
"Hardly fair. Half of these are water-logged. That's cheating, putting destroyed property in the pot." Crowley snatched them back, miracling them dry and sticking one in his mouth. German sirens sounded like British ones, he realized. He could almost believe they were in London once more. He wondered if his Bentley would punish him for being away so long.
The room was cozy. Warm, and that was hard to come by these days. Every resource stretched, scarce. Crowley had a hand in the comfort, willing the chill away, imagining Aziraphale safe, and happy, and secure. Small victories, when the misery seemed unending. Aziraphale was looking at him, hands clasped together, lips caught between his teeth.
Never a good sign.
"They say it should end soon." Crowley inhaled deeply. A part of him would miss this power. That low, demonic, ugly part that he kept locked away from the being in front of him. He honed in on Aziraphale, that light, that beauty. It was hard not to let the darkness win, at times.
"Who says? My side says dick all."
"Well... the humans." Crowley scoffed. He wasn't feeling too fond of God's creatures these days. He was itching for another sleep.
"The humans say a lot of things." Aziraphale's face crumpled, and Crowley reached out a hand before he could stop himself. He felt the tension unwind, a curious, intoxicating sensation. Touch was coming easier these days, far too easy. They had been so careful for so long. Only when drunk. Only when they were hidden. Not like this; in inns stuffed full of soldiers and civilians, where anyone could be disguised, could be their downfall.
And even then, touch was fleeting. Enough plausible deniability to coat the bitter truth, make it go down easier. Crowley was selfish and reckless and all the things a demon should be. That he craved the warm skin under his palm was a cross he had borne for thousands of years.
But, Aziraphale? Drawing closer and closer, pulled towards him, staring at him with eyes full of trust, full of steel? Crowley didn't know what to make of it. Made his head spin, made his heart collapse on itself, sick with feverish hope.
"When it is over, we need to finish that tequila, yeah? Tempting me with something like that and then getting your arse hauled to Germany." He tutted, looking over his sunglasses, Aziraphale seemed to calm when he saw his eyes. "Don't tell me you drank it yourself."
Aziraphale was quiet a moment, and Crowley had the unsettling sensation of being thoroughly examined. Blue eyes flicked to the hand on his arm, to the tendrils of smoke drifting upwards, brow furrowed.
"We should. We have a lot to discuss, I think."
Crowley's heart nearly sank right out of his chest and onto the bloody floor. He schooled his expression into indifference, tried not to think of all the things that had transpired over this war that they could discuss.
"Not much to discuss. The usual bullshit from humans. Think I'll take another nap after all is said and done." That was low. He regretted the words, loathed himself for speaking them to life. He didn't want to discuss things. Talking made it real, made this sanctuary carved out among blood and ash firmly relegated to the past. He knew Aziraphale, better than anything on Earth.
Talking meant it was over.
Aziraphale frowned, but he didn't turn away. "Really, Crowley? Nothing at all?"
He didn't get a chance to respond.
It caught them off guard. A whistling overhead, eyes flicking upwards, a table knocked aside, chests pulled together. In their haste to protect, they had forgotten to stop. And the bomb hit its mark.
Aziraphale screamed. Crowley did too.
He felt every lick of pain. Crushing. Oh, it was unbearable. Legs snapped like twigs, arms too, he couldn't feel his body anymore. He screamed, and screamed, and willed all that fucking power into keeping their heads untouched. Keep him alive! Keep him safe.
It was over even before it began, suffocating, just like Hell, where Crowley had no sense of himself. His neck and head were pinned, the space so small he could barely move.
Focus. He was a demon. Sin was everywhere. Just had to tap into it. Just like before. He called for Aziraphale. He couldn't see him, he couldn't see him. "I'm here," was the shaky reply, and Crowley did not hide his sob of relief.
He tried to remove the building that had collapsed on top of them, rock and cement all mashed and tangled together, where to even begin? Dust was in his throat, in his lungs. Aziraphale was trying to help. He could feel the angelic energy intermix with his own, fluid and seamless. He couldn't stop picturing Aziraphale's soft body crushed, irreparable. His heart still sang in his ears, but it was quiet, oh so quiet.
"It's not working." His voice was faint, but it was there. He could feel his breath against his cheeks. Crowley tried again, but each time he got close, he felt their bubble of oxygen drain, more rubble fall onto their cheeks.
The realization sank in. Squeezed his heart tight, made it burst.
He couldn't do both.
Aziraphale realized it as well. There was a cry of pain, a nose scraping against his cheek. "Crowley. It's not going to work."
"Yes it will." His eyes were burning, sunglasses hanging off his ears, somewhere around his chin. "Just... just give me a second."
"Crowley-"
"Fuck off! Fuck off, I can do this!" His voice broke. His cheeks were wet. "I swore I wouldn't let you die!"
There was another silence. Aziraphale tried one last time. His energy was weak, faint, like it was in Italy. A familiar chill settled over them, felt even beneath the rock and debris. It always knew where to go, uninhibited, relentless.
"Crowley. Darling." That was new. Crowley clung to it, nevermind it wasn't the right time, nevermind that they hadn't properly addressed this growing thing between them. "You can let go. I'm okay."
"No! No." He wasn't bothering to hide the tremble in his voice. The failure. The weakness.
Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together, one last reassurance. Crowley wondered if those cheeks were wet, too. "Tequila, when all this is over." Their noses touched. Salty tears pooled in his mouth. "Let go, darling."
The pain was excruciating. He was so tired. He held on as long as he could, the warm skin against his own, breath mingling together. "Come back to me," he pushed out, desperate and broken. "I'll wait for you."
A final cry. The rocks caved in. His world went black instantly, and Death claimed two more.