Chapter 2
New Zealand, 1949
It was far too white.
The odour of antiseptic was strong, attacking his lungs, gagging. Humans had been attempting to mask the stench of death ever since their frail bodies were pulled away from God's mercy. It never worked, not truly. Decay and rot found a way to linger, to slip behind the senses and fill it up, until nothing good remained.
The woman beside him was no exception. Thin chest rattling with every sharp, shallow breath. A forged will on her bedside, a selfish son of hers a little too greedy, poked and prodded into sin by Crowley's charm. Halfway across the world, stuffed into this sterile hospital, all at Hell's command.
He should be in London. Every second away snapping back at him, marking his skin. Heart unspooling in his chest, frayed threads seeking deft and caring hands to be made whole again. He had once drawn deep pleasure from sin, that dizzying intoxication that propelled him to god-like heights.
The forged will hollow in his hands, a soulless temptation. What good was power when it was the reason for this moment, alone and empty on a tiny island?
He did not stop watching the woman, had not stopped for three days. Stubborn, clinging to her mortal coil until the bitter end. He could easily finish her. A snap of his fingers, a machine malfunctioning. No one would think twice, would be grateful even, to have the bed vacated once more.
Crowley didn't. He had killed enough. Necks snapping and rifles firing and bombs dropping all to claim one of God's creations for himself. Now but a husk, happiness scraped out, leaving nothing in its place. He had not felt warmth in four years.
And so, he waited.
A gasp, eyes flying open, hands scrabbling for one last shred of life. Crowley watched her, leaning forward, muscles rigid and locked into place. She shuddered, whimpered, and breathed no more. And at long last, that chill, that old familiar friend, caressed his skin, wound around his body and whispered that his patience had paid off.
"Death. So good to see you again." His voice was hoarse, rusty from disuse. Speaking only when necessary, short and clipped. Death had not changed from the moment God placed it on Earth. Black robes and empty eyes over pearly bone. Crowley's chest constricted with phantom pain, and he stood, ignoring the twinge from his back.
Death did not answer, clutching the soul in its skeletal grasp. Pure and lovely; this one would not be a soul Crowley ever saw again. Strange guilt washed over him at the will on the table. These four years had taken their toll. He squared his shoulders, a caricature of strength. There was no time for pleasantries, not with Death.
"Where is he?" The waver in his voice gave him away, but he did not dwell on wounded pride. His heart had lodged itself into his throat, a soft smile and softer voice playing out in his mind. "It's been four years, he... it can't take that long."
There was only one being in the universe who slipped freely between Heaven and Hell. Who stared into the face of God and conversed with Satan. Crowley did not fear much, not after thousands of years on Earth. He had shaped the stars, could bend reality to his will; an unstoppable force with boundless imagination.
He shouldn't fear Death, had never feared Death.
But, in this moment, seeking answers in the darkness of empty eyes, he was afraid.
Death turned, its job was finished. Panic pulsed through Crowley, knocking the chair aside. If he touched Death, he would be joining the woman, forced to explain to Hell why he was suddenly down there once more from a routine temptation. His hands quivered and itched, too many limbs and too much sorrow.
"Just tell me! One fucking sentence, I know you can talk!"
Death was fading out of sight. It did not feel angry. Did not feel slighted. Crowley had once been sure it felt nothing at all, only a strange sense of duty, a punishing task only it could carry out. He had talked to Aziraphale about their mysterious counterpart many times, waxing philosophical about what it all meant. He and Aziraphale rarely agreed on the finer points of morality. Hereditary enemies and all.
But, Death. They both felt Death was an entity beyond their understanding, above interfering in affairs it had no concern in.
Except...
"I know that you know!" One last desperate shot. This was dangerous, speaking this to life. You never knew who was watching. He could not be sure of Death's plan, but it had been four aching years, and Crowley could wait no longer.
"I know it, alright! I saw your report, that's right, I saw it. I didn't even know you gave demons goddamn Final Reports."
Death stopped, turning to face him fully and Crowley swallowed. "Final words: Take me, Master, and kill them all? Those weren't my final words. So-so just fucking tell me already. Where. Is. He."
Heaven.
The voice came from nowhere. It was everywhere. From deep inside Crowley, ice filling his veins, subsuming him in a frozen lake, gasping, struggling to draw in breaths. He nearly sunk to his knees, muscles seized up from the chill, that aching chill, a permanent scar on his flesh.
It wasn't enough. Crowley needed to know more, needed to know, let go, darling, weren't the last words he'd ever hear from Aziraphale. Death was facing him, still like always, and Crowley dared to look into those bottomless eyes.
"Why is he taking it so long? When is he coming back?" He could not bear to ask the true question that his heart despaired over. A cursed thing like him, speaking those words, and it was bound to happen, bound to incite God's wrathful gaze to turn on him and punish him once more.
Death tucked the soul out of sight, lingering for one moment longer before slowly disappearing. Crowley charged forward; he would not let it escape, the only thing that had seen Aziraphale, the only thing with answers.
"Wait! Just bloody wait! Do they know? Don't you dare leave! Hey!" Only a shadow remained, reality shimmering at the edges as Death journeyed into a place not even Crowley could go. Hand reaching out, willing his voice to be heard in the abyss, that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale would hear him calling.
"Tell him I'm waiting!"
No answer came. Death was gone, and Crowley was alone.
Britain, 1951
The sun was low in the sky, painting everything in a soft, orange hue. Tiny nooks danced with playful shadows, the gilded words on ancient spines glinting in the dying day. Nothing was out of place, not a speck of dust dared to remain. Everything still, a bated breath, each tinkle of the bell filled with hope and promise.
Long black limbs stretched out, clashing with the warm oasis. Crowley waited, as he did every day, a spider resting in the corner, eyes seeing everything, piercing and unrelenting. A radio softly sang, because the silence was unbearable, and Crowley could not be alone with his thoughts.
He rarely moved. He sometimes circled around the shop, spindly hands running over books, books that had once been lovingly caressed by Aziraphale. A vase of daffodils atop the desk, plucked four years ago, still fresh and vibrant. Crowley did not much care for daffodils, but Aziraphale did. They were bright, and cheery, and hid little bumblebees in their soft petals. Sometimes he moved the daffodils to the window; a lighthouse in foggy London, beckoning Aziraphale back down to Earth.
Sometimes he drank. He had once drank one of Aziraphale's rarest wines, in a fit of anguish and rage at the whole blasted world. He had never been able to find another, guilt corroding away at him, selfish, always so selfish. He replaced it with one of his own rarities, tucked away in Aziraphale's bedroom, a black ribbon from centuries ago tied around the stem.
But, mostly he sat. Leaving only when forced to, ripping up Hell's accolades upon his return. A red X marked every day in purgatory, 1, 523 days in total. He had not slept, he had not eaten. He moved from the couch to the calendar, crossing off another day, and sat once more.
The bell clanged gently, footsteps picking their way across a floor that had begun to creak and groan as all old bookshop floors should. Crowley sucked a breath through his teeth, pulling crumbs of hatred from his barren heart. "We're closed." His voice filled the building, creeping shadows and distorted figures out of the corner of human eyes. He was in no mood for company today.
The footsteps did not stop. No, they increased their pace, faster, faster, and Crowley's mind, half lost in fog and memories, shook itself from its slumber, something beautiful tugging at it, something familiar...
"Crowley?"
Aziraphale.
Crowley did not move at first, staring dumbly in disbelief; six long years since he had last seen him, heard his voice, and there he was, shrouded in the halo of the setting sun, close enough to touch, to taste. His clothes were starched and colourless, hair longer than normal but still white blond and curly, framing rosy cheeks and blue eyes and he was there, he was alright.
Aziraphale shifted, hands clasped in front of him. Crowley was on his feet, limbs protesting at the sudden movement, the dull ache in his back a searing reminder. Mind still sluggish, not entirely convinced this wasn't him finally cracking under years of yawning emptiness. Aziraphale's eyes followed his every movement, closer, and closer, chest rising and falling.
Alive.
He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways, and now, standing mere inches apart, Crowley's normally nimble mind was blank. Gold flecked Aziraphale's cheeks, dusted across his nose, oh he had been in Heaven a long time, and Crowley should be repulsed by it, but his hands longed to touch.
"Took you long enough," he finally forced out, mouth dry, limbs trembling, Aziraphale's final cries echoing in his ears. What a stupid thing to say, and Aziraphale ducked his head, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Yes, I suppose it did. When did you-"
"1947." Hell was easy to manipulate, to expedite paperwork with some well placed bribes and forged signatures. Two years Below was two years too long, and Crowley had not rested until he was stuffed back in a body, all wrong, too short, hair a ghastly brown, but he didn't care. He had rushed to the bookshop, willing his vessel back to its proper glory, only to find an empty shell staring back at him.
"Oh."
The silence strung out, the final notes of a song warbling in the air, off key and unsettled. Aziraphale was still fidgeting, sneaking glances at him, and Crowley's hands were balled into fists, and this was wrong, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not when foreheads had been pressed together, lips marking brows, feathers guarding hearts. A crossroads before them, and they were tripping their way down the path where nothing happened and let's go back to normal.
We have a lot to discuss, I think.
Right. He should have known. Wars were wars, and this was peacetime. Aziraphale had made it clear back then, and now would be no exception, not after bathing in Heaven's glow for six demon free years.
Not after dying again because of Crowley.
"Are those daffodils?"
"H-huh?"
Aziraphale stepped past him, picking up the vase as carefully as he would his treasured books. The yellow petals stretched towards that golden face. Aziraphale stroked them, an intimate expression, and Crowley felt a surge of jealousy.
"Uhhh yeah. Yeah, looks like it." Aziraphale turned to him, and that intimate expression didn't waver, lips turned upwards, eyes soft. Crowley's hands twitched again, begging to broach those impossible inches between them.
"Are these from you?"
"No." A little too quickly. A little too defensively. Aziraphale saw right through him.
He caught the hesitation, the eyes flicking upwards for the briefest of seconds. A sudden shift, a change of direction, rushing back towards the crossroads, it wasn't too late. Hands reached out, tentative, loosely grasping Crowley's. He was still smiling, but it was taut with worry, and fear, and so much unspoken from the past decade.
It had been this spot where Crowley had gathered Aziraphale to his chest, where he had kissed his head and wrenched the world off its axis, hurtling it somewhere else, somewhere no one could find them.
Crowley laced their fingers together, tightening his grip, a squeeze of reassurance, a silent apology. The worry melted away, bit by bit, until all that was left was Aziraphale in all his splendour, travelling further and further down this new, unmarked path, and Crowley couldn't let him go, not now.
"You promised me tequila." Crowley sounded breathless. He couldn't stop staring. Aziraphale's hands were warm and soft, just as he remembered, and he was close to folding his wings around him once more. He pulled him closer, and Aziraphale did not resist, touching his forehead to Crowley's shoulder.
"I did, didn't I? An angel breaking their promise would be a terrible thing. Shall we then... darling?"
Darling.
The words were quiet, a tad uncertain. Spoken too loud and the wrong sort might hear, might get ideas, and rip asunder what had barely begun (what had begun, Crowley wasn't sure, but he did not want to chance it with too many questions, wouldn't make that mistake twice). Crowley tilted his head, resting his cheek against the hallowed temple, let the curls tickle his nose. Aziraphale's breathing was uneven, and so was Crowley's. Too many words might shatter this, and so they let the silence speak.
He screwed up his eyes, throat constricted, thankful for the glasses, thankful that Aziraphale's head still rested against him. Six years the world had been silent. Worthless. He allowed his essence to bleed out, ghostly fingers pricking between their interlaced hands, up, and up, and up until he found Aziraphale's heart and heard it beat its steady rhythm in his ears once more.
That heart had stopped because of him. Once. Twice.
Never again.
'You waited for me." Twilight had descended, the sun long since out of sight. They had not moved, hands still clasped together, too scared to push much further.
"I told you I would." He wondered if Aziraphale remembered the minutes before the bomb hit, before Crowley had been too weak to save him. We have a lot to discuss, I think. Did he still think that? Was this moment just that? A moment? Never to be repeated, a closing chapter?
Aziraphale inhaled deeply, pulling away, making Crowley's heart constrict. He gazed at him a long moment, solemn, thoughtful. He was no less beautiful lacking a smile, but it often spelled trouble, spelled resistance, and devotion to a place Crowley was no longer welcome.
He expelled a sharp breath, gave Crowley's hands a final squeeze. A tequila bottle graciously made its appearance on the table, and Crowley felt faint pinpricks of foolish hope. "You have a lot to catch me up on, I'm afraid. You know how news rarely makes it to our head offices."
Crowley took his usual place, downing the tequila and reaching for more. It burned the entire way down, an old friend. Aziraphale was examining the daffodils once again, running his fingers along the soft petals, a gentle smile on his face. Crowley planned on filling his neglected flat with daffodils, as many daffodils as he could get his hands on.
He expected Aziraphale to sit across from him. London was quiet; no sirens, no bombs, no old buildings tumbling down. Aziraphale paused by his armchair, lovingly worn in and faded, favourite sweater still hanging on the back. A strange look crossed his face, before he was shuffling out of his drab jacket, tossed to the ground, and tugging his sweater around his frame.
And when sat, he sat beside Crowley. Legs touching, beaming smile, but with haunted eyes, searching Crowley's face, still unsure, still fearful of those once entrenched boundaries.
Crowley dared to lay a hand on his, still in disbelief himself, half-convinced God would smite him down at any second. Aziraphale's gaze flicked to their hands, shutting his eyes briefly, but he remained.
He remained.
Britain, 1959
Snowflakes fell silently, invisible but for the blazing lights from the building in front of him. They dusted his hair, ran rivulets down his jacket, and he willed one to land atop of his finger, perfectly pristine and intact.
There was music spilling out onto the quiet streets, voices blending together and rising to the heavens. A certain tranquility, alone on the darkened boulevard, shimmering lights strung along barren trees and wound around angelic figures. Any moment now and the peace would be disturbed, goodness saturating the air and making his instincts fester, itching to corrupt, itching to consume.
He touched the snowflake to his tongue, felt it melt; beauty subsumed, part of him now, forever.
The doors burst open, men, woman, children filled with peace, even if they hardly believed anymore, even if the world's misery weighed them down and crushed their hope. It was almost wonderful, Crowley couldn't help but think. These humans and their resiliency, even when forever stained by what he had done.
Aziraphale was in the distance, chatting away, touching blessed hands to sickly heads, soothing touches to anxious youngsters. Crowley stood straighter, drinking him in, beautiful, the most beautiful creature God had ever thought to life. Donned in a black jacket and blacker gloves, the only splash of colour atop his head.
Aziraphale felt his eyes, and the smile that overtook his face was not the one he bestowed on his Earthly charges. Crowley's arms readied themselves, breathing hard through his nose, as Aziraphale picked his way through the crowd, grin stretching from ear to ear.
"I thought you weren't coming back until the New Year!" He tangled their hands together, tucking them away safely between their dark jackets. No hesitation, no eyes roving around for who might be watching. Crowley squeezed the hands hard, pulled them closer to his chest, so that his heart could be reassured of its company.
"Ah well, you know how it is. They only really need a prod in the right direction and then they sort of... do the rest of the work themselves." Aziraphale gazed at him, radiating undisguised joy, the gold spattered across his face only enhancing his perfection. "Finishing up your yearly quota as usual?" He nodded to the little church, the faint stirrings of the organ singing in the air. "Should I... see you tomorrow then?"
He quirked an eyebrow, tone light, careless, but something cold slithered into his stomach anyway, because even now, after eight years, now could be the day Aziraphale turned his back on him.
"Oh stop. It's after midnight, anyway. And who's to say a little good cheer wouldn't do you well, darling?" He pressed closer, beaming up at him, and Crowley suddenly began to rather question his disdain towards this holiday.
"Well, what sort of demon would I be if I turned down an angel so willing?" There was the faintest flicker, a hairline fracture in both their smiles, but Crowley would not let him go, and Aziraphale would not pull away. "Lift home? An angel shouldn't soil their feet on this holy day."
There was a gentle hit on his arm, Crowley opening the door and mock bowing, ducking his head to hide the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as Aziraphale tipped his checkered hat at him.
Even Crowley could admit London was stunning at Christmas. The garland hanging from every lamppost, fat Father Christmases (which he took full credit for) dotting the shop windows, tempting little children to consumerism and vapidity. Aziraphale was humming, hand firmly intertwined with Crowley's free one. Crowley let this wash over him, that he had this, whatever it was, it didn't matter.
He had Aziraphale.
Aziraphale had hung a wreath on the door, candles illuminating the windows, persuaded gently from burning down to the wick and wreaking havoc on his shop. It was warm, and cozy, and he knew Aziraphale would likely invite him in to tuck into wine and the Christmas treats he always seemed to get for free from nearby bakeries.
He didn't want that. The Bentley was cold and shrouded in shadows, and perhaps it was the faintest stirrings of what he truly was making themselves known, but he wanted Aziraphale here for just a little bit longer.
"Listen, before you head out spreading more goodwill towards Man, I have something for you."
As expected, Aziraphale lit up, curls poking out from underneath his hat, perfect ringlets around his forehead and cheeks. He had kept the longer hair from this new vessel, hardly noticeable to the dull human eye, but Crowley could tell. He despised that Heaven had gotten something right, that Aziraphale with longer curls was more glorious than Crowley could have ever imagined.
"You did? Oh, what is it?" He wiggled in his seat, shutting his eyes tightly and holding out his hands. Crowley lingered on the image for the briefest of moments, memorizing the way the flickering candlelight highlighted the round cheeks, the plump lips.
"You don't need to shut your eyes, it's in a box." He curled Aziraphale's fingers around it anyway, snatching every opportunity to touch, bold and unhindered, let them fucking look. Aziraphale carefully unwrapped it, tucking the red ribbon into his jacket, and Crowley forced himself to continue watching, forced his expression into haughty indifference despite his pounding heart.
"Crowley..." Breathless, holding up the mug. Golden angels framed the edges, blowing trumpets, announcing peace to the world, a church reaching towards the sky in the middle. "Oh... oh it's magnificent."
"Kipped into Nuremberg on my way back. I know you're into that sort of rubbish." It was expensive and hand painted and Crowley had spent hours scouring the market for the right one.
Aziraphale did not say anything for a long moment, turning the mug round and round, delicate fingers sweeping over the painted angels. He looked at Crowley, eyes shining, lips wobbling just the slightest. "I don't have anything to give you."
Crowley nearly recoiled at that. This was the holiday he felt his weakest, felt his veneer of fondness towards humanity bleed away and Hell's fire lick at his essence. He shut his eyes, centring himself on Aziraphale; his smile, the power that radiated from himon this day, pure and faultless. "Don't need anything, you know I bloody hate Christmas."
Aziraphale considered that, brows furrowed as he regarded the mug, and then Crowley. He set it carefully on the dashboard, eyes lingering on the car for a strange little moment, before he turned to Crowley, a shy smile lighting his lips. "Well, perhaps you'll indulge me anyway and let me give you a hug?"
They did not hug, had not hugged since that moment nearly twenty years ago. Hands were held safely in cars and under pale moonlight, telephone numbers exchanged and long distance calls across the yawning oceans, and sometimes daring fingers filled with liquid courage found their way into strands of hair. It was simple, more than Crowley had ever dared to hope for, and not a day passed that he didn't pinch himself that this was the decade he had been living.
But, Aziraphale had spoken the words and now it didn't seem enough, hands clasped together or heads laid on shoulders. He wanted more.
Aziraphale crossed the space between them and slotted himself into Crowley's arms, fitting as perfectly as he did all those years ago, head tucked into his neck, breathing a sigh of relief. Crowley's grip was tight, unapologetic, tangling in those soft curls. Aziraphale's cologne filled his lungs, sank into his blood, worming into all that was destructive and bursting into angelic light.
Both slow to pull away, Aziraphale looking at him, beatific and shining, and Crowley did not resist allowing all those things he should find revolting to wash over him. He should not touch, should not soil something so splendid, but his hand ghosted across the gold flecked cheeks anyway, lips parted, Aziraphale's eyes shutting.
He did not feel like himself, filled up with Aziraphale, drunk on it, swaying. Aziraphale was strength and power, chipping away at a gruesome core with gentle hands and gentler words. It was Christmas, and he was allowed to sail towards the Divine; Aziraphale so close he could see every eyelash curled against his face. The windshield was covered in snow, a hidden world for two, a touch of darkness despite the light.
"Would you have stayed?" The words quivered, crashed upon rocky shores. Two decades stretched before them, and still that question remained, lingering over them both, a moment, a linchpin filled with regret. Aziraphale reaching out, a rare, impossible feat. Crowley forced to turn away, no matter how reluctant, no matter how critical it was to their very survival.
And now, Aziraphale was reaching out again. Dangling on the precipice once more, scared, unsure, but yearning to step off. He remembered that stricken expression as the bookshop had faded behind him, remembered the unadulterated relief that had greeted him ankle deep in snow as Russia wept around them.
He cradled his face as he had back then, Hell felt so very far away. "You know I would have." He could feel Aziraphale's breath fanning across his cheeks, touching his lips, a whisper, a prayer. "For as long as you would have needed."
The world was paused, but they were moving, something unfurling between them; a newborn star, pulsating and brilliant to behold. Their lips touched, a second of tension, high and unsure, before Aziraphale was melting against him, and Crowley was catching him, swallowing the burning, acrid holiness.
This couldn't be happening. Not to him. A damned, infernal thing sunk deep in ethereal light. But, Aziraphale hadn't pulled away, Crowley's heart soaring high into a Heaven he didn't believe in anymore. He could taste vestiges of cinnamon and wine; soft lips that silently begged to be handled with care. Too much, too soon, and Aziraphale would retreat. Crowley could not lose him again to the winds of time, not when so much of themselves had been stitched together.
He cupped Aziraphale's neck, gave himself away to absolution, and Aziraphale responded in kind.
Crowley was hardly there as they broke apart, dazed and dizzy in a way sin had never provided. He wanted another, and another still, to pull Aziraphale in his orbit fully, where no one else could touch him.
But, there was a tinge of fear in Aziraphale's eyes, in the way he licked his lips; for a moment, teetering on the edge of fleeing back to his world of comfort and simplicity. Crowley did not pull his gaze away, urging him to stay, a starry sky full of promise, if only Aziraphale would take that final step.
They let out a breath in time, and Aziraphale's lips quirked, shy and uncertain, but it was a smile and Crowley was smiling too, raw and unending, just this once. "What- what does this mean?"
"Whatever you want it to mean." Careful steps, delicate, like crouching in front of little ducklings and tempting them with old bread. He could not fuck this up with reckless abandon, not now, not when he was so close at last. Thousands of years of envy and hopeless patience and lies, lies that he could be content with simply being around Aziraphale.
"Well," he took a breath, and then another, eyes straying to Crowley's lips and back to his eyes. Crowley's heart fluttered in his chest, aching to take flight. "Perhaps it means you could... come inside?"
It was a slowing down, a pause, a silent plea for just a little more time. Crowley could wait, had been waiting as the world spun year after year and dangled the untouchable in front of him. The door was not closed, Aziraphale sinking just that bit further into his embrace, trembling and shaking, but he was there.
"Course. Course, angel." Voice cracked, something pleasing and hopeful and nearly pathetic in its longing, but it made Aziraphale's smile grow and that was all that mattered to Crowley in that moment. A gentle tug on Aziraphale's hat, setting it back in place, as soft as it had been two decades ago. "Nobody is ever going to find out. I promise."
A promise he had repeated every year. When they had first twined their hands together. When Aziraphale had dared to lay his head on his shoulder after a long separation. When Crowley had brushed a stray hair back, impulsive as always.
When Aziraphale had returned to him from Heaven, soaked in Grace, and chosen to fall into his arms.
Aziraphale's eyes did not flick upwards like normal. Instead they sauntered downwards, swallowing thickly, tugging Crowley closer, a gleam of righteous fury.
"They won't."
Cuba, 1962
It was never a good thing when their assignments matched.
For two sides, sworn enemies, bleating on about thwarting and wrangling over souls, they were remarkably terrible at countering each other. A twisted wreckage of conflicting desires; Aziraphale in Argentina, a mission of absolute importance to hinder Hell, while Crowley was in Japan, the exact same orders in hand. Both sides were fuck ups, lazy ones at that, and Crowley had no qualms about exploiting that over and over.
But, sometimes their orders lined up, Crowley forced to face Aziraphale down, a stark reminder of what they were and what was at stake.
They had missed the advent of nuclear weapons, the horror humans had unleashed on their pitiful world. Not even Hell had anticipated the raw, destructive power the humans were capable of. Crowley had been pestering for a body when Hell itself quaked, an evil, potent and deadly and nothing like they had ever experienced before, swept over all of them. Crowley had tried to resist, tried to stop collapsing into its toxic ecstasy, nearly spilling Aziraphale's name in desperation.
Nuclear war hung over their heads, a Sword of Damocles they refused to address. Perhaps that was the true reason Aziraphale had drawn so close to him, no second chances anymore, a journey with Death was final. Humans wrung their hands and gnashed their teeth at what they had wrought and Aziraphale and Crowley tucked into each other, counting down the minutes to Earth's expiration.
They had become good at pretending the humans had not changed. Each scare blew over, and another day dawned. Crowley loathed God, but not even She would ever allow Her beloved creations to permanently destroy themselves.
Well, he had been wrong about God before.
Aziraphale was beside the radio, knuckles white and clasped to his lips, listening to the frantic Spanish that filled the suffocating room. White washed walls and white washed beds and Crowley was tired of white, white, that hid nothing, that exposed everything. Dreadful anticipation pricked at him, the choking fear of the island a drug in its own right, stretching his spine, coiling around his heart.
He paced around the room, another lap, the carpet was going to start fraying. "What are they saying?" His Spanish was rusty, the Inquisition bitter on his tongue.
Aziraphale didn't answer, merely leaned closer, a passing car illuminating the dark circles under his eyes.
"Well?"
"Hush, Crowley! I can't hear!"
Thirteen days had never felt so long, hanging on the knife's edge, slipping and sliding and slick with blood. Aziraphale fluttered about Cuba, whispering in diplomat's ears, calm, calm, a soothing presence, an olive branch bridging an impossible chasm. The world waited with bated breath, Heaven and Hell drawing their lines in the sand, their human chess board stuffed full of pawns and nothing more.
At the centre of it all Aziraphale, one solitary Earthly guardian, wings stretched out from Washington to Moscow, blessings trickling down souls, willing goodness into a world that sought damnation.
Crowley hated them all.
His own wings hovered close to the mortal plane, rigid, coiled tight. Mind focused on the stars, Alpha Centauri, crystal clear in his mind as the day he had breathed it to life. God may decide to turn Her gaze from Earth, but Crowley owed Her nothing, and he would not allow them to burn with Her creation.
Never again.
A sudden silence. Aziraphale shook the radio, eyes blown wide and Crowley was there in an instant, ready to grab, to tuck Aziraphale into his heart and take flight. Aziraphale resisted, Crowley snarled, and then the radio crackled to life, breathless.
Even Crowley could discern what had just happened. Could feel the fear snap, a high pitched whine, before joy rushed into the empty space, relief and tears and thanks to God cascading over the island. Aziraphale stared at the little device, mouth hanging open. He had done it, he had saved the whole fucking lot of them, and Crowley suddenly felt himself be twirled around, kisses raining down on his cheeks, his eyes, his lips.
"Crowley! Crowley! It's over, it's really over!"
It was over and lead lined Crowley's stomach. The air shimmered, a Heavenly accolade landing on the pristine bed, long and filled with praise, a golden sigil marking the highest recognition an angel could receive. Aziraphale read it once, twice, kissed it greedily, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Crowley stood there, heart constricted, breath uneven.
Crowley.
The radio flicked to life again, a soft voice slipping between the speaker, punctured with venom. Aziraphale stared at it, then back to Crowley, paper still clutched to his chest.
"Ligur, what a pleasure!" His voice swaggered and swung, face nonchalant, but Aziraphale's eyes were wide, inching closer to him. Crowley stepped away.
Why are you not in Washington, Crowley?
Aziraphale's mouth fell open, and Crowley stammered, laughing as if this were any old day and any old temptation gone slightly awry.
"Oh-oh well... well you know how it is, need to be where... where the action is. I was in Washington, but the humans were... they were doing alright and..."
Liar. He could picture Ligur's face, the eyes deepening to red, rusty and bloody. Our operatives tell us you were never there. Now why would that be, Crowley? You had an order. From our Master himself.
The colour flooded out of Aziraphale's face, a spark of anger in the twist of his mouth, that steely gaze. Crowley kept his eyes firmly on the radio, throat tight, vision swimming, all he could do to stay upright and maintain this crumbling facade. "Well... well I'm sure he'd... our Master would understand... just explain it to him and-and all."
A fine idea. A soft laugh, a thousand cuts inflicted simultaneously. Why don't you come back and tell him yourself?
The air cracked with a sudden electricity, and the radio short-circuited, sparks flying, singing the desk and Aziraphale's clothes. He was breathing heavily, eyes blazing, and Crowley shrank despite himself, the full onslaught of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate bearing down on him.
"You told me you were meant to be in Cuba, too."
"No, no, I never said that," Crowley's voice snapped like a whip, that damned pride, needing to defend himself, especially to Aziraphale. "I said I was assigned to this stupid, fucking human event just like you and-"
"And you ignored a direct order?" Crowley clenched his fists, body quivering. Aziraphale looking at him like one of the Dukes of Hell would, filled with shock and rage, a tainted thing that did not belong on such a perfect face. He inhaled sharply, this was Aziraphale, remember, remember. He had done this for him, only for him.
"Oh, what, what you would have wanted me to carry it out?! Do you fucking realize what they were asking me to do, Aziraphale? Tempt the President into pushing the button, launching those fucking nukes! Is that what you want?" Aziraphale grabbed his arm, Crowley's eyes narrowed in response, slits, deadly slits.
"You should have trusted me to handle it! A direct order, Crowley! We have never disobeyed orders, not even with the Arrangement, you know that! It's too dangerous, how,-how could you?" The faintest tremble among the fury, and Crowley allowed it to slice open his skin.
"I can't save you from a nuclear weapon!" The truth, unvarnished and raw, plunked between them, Crowley's voice cracking from the weight of it. "If those bombs started flying I wouldn't have time to fucking sweep in and rescue you, you bloody idiot, don't you get that?! I couldn't- I wouldn't let you-let you burn."
Aziraphale's eyes were watery, he could never sustain his anger for long, soft edges and forgiveness. The room shook, darkness seeping into the cracks, clawing at Crowley's very essence. He captured Aziraphale's face, memorized the round cheeks, the bouncy curls, the plump lips that marked stars along his freckled skin.
"You listen to me, you bloody listen to me, Aziraphale. You keep that head attached to your body, you got it? Huh?" He shook him slightly, cut off the protest, the questions, the fear. "You put yourself first, above all else, understand?"
"Crowley-!"
He swallowed the sentence, crashing their lips together, desperate and needy, tongue flicking inside the warm mouth and relishing in the taste. This was not how he wanted this to happen, content with the gentle steps at Aziraphale's pace, but there was no time for guilt. Aziraphale flinched in surprise, but he did not resist, arms wrapping around Crowley's thin frame. He poured whole worlds into the kiss; forbidden desires and unspoken confessions.
"Don't come looking for me," he whispered into his ear, the siren song from Below gathering strength, any moment now, time slipping like sand between their fingers. "I'll come back to you. I promise."
He gathered the last tendrils of panic, pictured London, Aziraphale secure among his books and treasures, warm and untouchable. Aziraphale was still holding onto him, shaking his head, urging him to flee, that he could protect Crowley too, to please just trust him.
"Sorry, angel." A snap. The room was empty, Aziraphale's last words hanging in the air. Just enough time for sunglasses to hide his eyes, the truth spelled out too clearly. An arm wrapped around his neck, pungent stench of rot and dripping flesh, cigarette smoke and black eyes.
"Time's up, Crowley." Hastur laughed, squeezed, and squeezed until Crowley let out a strangled sound. "Been waiting to get my hands on you."
A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, and put this story on alerts! You all have been such inspiration in writing this story, and make me so glad I came back for a sequel.