Chapter 3
Crowley would not scream.
His corporeal form was destroyed. There was only so much trauma flesh and bone could endure before it simply could not go on anymore. Crowley had felt it slide from him, piece by piece, ripped to shreds before his eyes. Skin that had touched Aziraphale, lips that had kissed him, hair that had been stroked by soft fingers. His true form forced free, a hideous thing, scarred flesh, and gaunt cheeks, and spindly limbs forged from pure malice.
It suited his tormentors just fine. Their weapons were meant for souls, to leave permanent scars, torn deep, deep, deep into his core. Words equally as cutting, there in the dark, where there was no time, was no space. He was soft. Weak. Human. Laid there, exposed, no body to hide the truth anymore. Crowley had changed.
And Hell was determined to change him back.
Hastur came often. His words were clumsy. His weapons were not. Ligur was just the opposite. He caressed him, wondered where it had all gone so wrong. Circling around the truth, round and round, tasting Crowley's terror. A hand laid over his skeletal chest, fingers tapping, searching for what ailed this demon, this once proud son of Hell.
And still, Crowley would not scream.
! ! ! ! !
Aziraphale was touching his chest again.
He hardly seemed aware of it. Huddled over a fragile copy of Daemonolgie, a cup of tea long since gone cold. Crowley observed him from the sofa, the way his fingers slid along his vest, over and over, restless. He counted the seconds, the minutes, and still the fingers continued their strange journey.
"You alright?"
Aziraphale jumped, glasses askew, as if he had quite forgotten he had company. Crowley pushed his own glasses further up his nose, head tilted back in feigned nonchalance, but gaze never wavering. They had not spoken for hours, the silence comfortable and familiar. Crowley rarely broke a silence like that, not even now, with so much changed between them.
"Whatever do you mean?" A chance to back out. To carry on as normal. It dangled in front of him, no need to pry open locked doors. Aziraphale's expression was shy, but sincere. Crowley could reach out and his touch would be received. Welcomed. A dinner date suggested, ordering in perhaps, the hot new thing among the humans.
But, Crowley's curiosity tugged at him, unrelenting, and the words spilled out before he could stop them.
"Your chest. You keep touching it. You have been ever since you got back."
Aziraphale flushed, and immediately Crowley regretted bringing it up. Only a year and half since Aziraphale's return, something growing between them, delicate as daffodils. Uncertainty lingered, clung to their clothes and between interlaced hands. A reckless fuck-up and it all could come crashing down, Aziraphale scurrying back to sterile halls and self-righteous words.
"No! No, I don't." A titter of nervous laughter, eyes darting everywhere except Crowley. He was a horrible liar, always had been. Part and parcel of an angel. Crowley had long understood, long taken this burden upon himself, circling around Aziraphale, a snake seeking out other predators. He would never allow Aziraphale to have to stick his neck out, risk incurring Heaven's wrath because of what they had done.
Aziraphale stood, face a dark red, highlighting the gold like a setting sun. "Ah, my tea's gone cold! Drat! I'll have to brew a new one, you don't mind, right?"
He was gone before Crowley could answer, and Crowley could only stare, mind awash in doomsday scenarios. Heaven must have done something to him. The bastards. Not enough to infuse gold on his face and adorn his head in cherubic curls. No, no, they had to mark him, and claim him, and Crowley would not let their deeds go unpunished.
He was halfway to the tiny kitchen before his eyes fell on the book. King James had always been obsessed with the occult, paranoid and pious, never a good mix in a human. Crowley had gotten a right laugh when it had been first published; the idea of him being beholden to God was a comedy in of itself.
Aziraphale had been reading the classifications of demons, fine little notes from a time long passed scribbled in the margins. Aziraphale knew better than anyone the whole treatise was rubbish, but perhaps he found it quaintly amusing as well...
Oh, oh, oh.
No. It couldn't be. Aziraphale wouldn't long for that. Why would his fingers seek that out? A damned thing, a mark from Below, where angels could never tread. Crowley's mind had been too far gone in what possibilities lay before him with holding hands and soft touches. Ridiculous, ridiculous. He needed to snap out of this.
But, oh. No, it had to be. Aziraphale had been the one to claim it in the first place. To miracle it into his very skin, right over his heart. And of course it was no longer there, buried somewhere in Germany, too far gone to retrieve.
It was hard to breathe. Crowley's skin pricked warm and cold all at once, creeping over his neck and stinging his eyes. If he was wrong about this, he would never be able to look Aziraphale in the face again. Exposing himself was dangerous. The first time was an accident, easy to explain. Wings held out for hours, only natural one would fall. But, this...
His wings were out before he could think, slender fingers plucking a near identical twin from the plumage. The same rust red, the same glimmer of cursed diamonds, sending little rainbows across the pages as it caught the light. Crowley stuck it in the book and slammed it shut, near running to the exit, ignoring Aziraphale's calls.
He drove, and drove, and drove, mind screeching at him for what he had done. He did not stop until he reached the coast, and sat there, hands clenched around the steering wheel, watching the sun set and come once more. Slow to drive back, half-convinced Aziraphale was around every corner.
There was something on his floor as he entered his flat. An envelope, no markings, no postage. Slid under his door by the looks of it. Crowley made sure not to receive mail, an annoyance he never wanted to deal with. Postmen always mysteriously skipped over his box on their rounds. A fellow demon perhaps. They had become quite accustomed to radio communication, but perhaps, one stuck far in the past, like Hastur.
He nearly dropped the envelope as he lifted the flap. Shaking fingers held it up to his eyes, hardly daring to believe, and he sank down to his knees, letting his glasses clatter to the ground.
Soft. Beautiful. Interspersed with threads of gold and hints of silver.
A white feather.
! ! ! ! !
"What's this?"
A hand ran along his spine, digging deep the entire way down. Crowley hung there, staring into the great nothing before him. He could not see who it was, but he knew the voice, knew the sadistic fingers clawing down his back.
There was not much left of him. Pain unending. How long had he been here? A desperate, dangerous part of him wished for Aziraphale. To see the white wings burst across his vision. Smiting them all mercilessly. Pulling Crowley up into the stars.
"What's what?" Scraps of arrogance, all he could muster. Hastur was so vile it came easy with him. He tried to picture his old form. Red hair. Deep voice. Clothes draped over a lanky frame. Beautiful, an angel would sometimes whisper. He had that over Hastur. He had that.
"Got like a scar or something." Another pass, one slimy finger, tracing it, and Crowley went rigid.
He should have suspected. It had never been part of his human body. Too deep, too filled with sorrow and brokenness and reminding, always reminding him. He forced his body to remain still, sluggish mind feverishly weaving something together. Blow this and he would have more to worry about than mere cruelty.
"You did that. Don't you remember?" It was hard to keep his voice from trembling. "You said you'd make sure I'd never forget."
A long pause, Crowley trying to gather up faint tendrils of strength in order to run, before a harsh laugh rang out.
"Oh yeah. Yeah, now I remember. Got you good, didn't I?"
Hastur was circling him now, the only sound the shuffling of his feet. Crowley had long since stopped trying to make out his figure in the void. "Might just leave you here for good. See, Ligur's been going up there in your place. Doing a real fine job of it, too."
Crowley froze.
"Says the angel they got up there is real stupid. Real pathetic like. What was his name again?"
Crowley could not answer. Panic clawed down his throat and into his chest. Ligur had seen Aziraphale. Knew he was in London. Knew what he looked like.
No, no, no.
He would eliminate him over, and over, and over, and over, and no, no, Crowley could not let him touch Aziraphale. He had left him up there, defenceless, expecting Crowley to come back, any day now, any week, any year (had it already been so long?). Crowley had promised to always keep him safe and where was he? Here in this void, this gaping, empty darkness, while Ligur tightened his grip around London and Aziraphale, memorizing his patterns, his delights, his routine.
Ligur would not stop at discorporation. A never-ending game of oozing venom, barbed words, careful cruelty. To see if he could break Aziraphale.
To see if he could Fall.
"Ah, it don't matter. You'll miss out on the fun, but don't worry." He gave Crowley a firm shove. "We'll fill you in on all the details."
Hastur's laugh echoed in the abyss, and Crowley nearly screamed.
! ! ! ! !
Aziraphale's lips were soft.
Crowley had come to crave them, pressed against his own, gaining confidence, gaining hunger. Dusted with sugar, seared with alcohol, and always impossibly plump, fitted perfectly, as if God Herself had designed them just for Crowley.
The flickering lights of the cinema danced across their faces, Crowley's hand curled around Aziraphale's neck, resisting the urge to tug at the curls, turn sweetness into seduction. Aziraphale so rarely initiated kisses, had caught Crowley off guard when he tilted his face, eyes shining, and pulled him close. He could not spoil it with his own desires, that dark little voice that begged for more.
"We're missing the movie." An eyebrow quirked, face schooled into displeasure as they broke apart. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow right back, a delicious smile spreading across his face, and Crowley's skin tingled, pricking up to his throat. He tilted his neck ever so slightly, let Aziraphale's eyes feast on the stubbled skin. Two could play this game.
"Why, I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience."No anxious wiggle, no paranoid eyes. Alone in the darkened cinema, all other humans willed away. He had never seen a movie with Aziraphale before, the novelty making his heart flutter. No pretext of business, never fully allowed to relax. No, this was pleasure, plain as the day broke.
"Didn't say that." He brushed his hand against the cheeks, felt the dim vestiges of Heaven as he dd so. The gold remained, and Crowley had come to enjoy it, a perverse reminder of the forbidden fruit he had unbelievably stolen away. "Is this your very indirect way of telling me you prefer the theatre?"
A far too innocent shrug, leaning into Crowley's touch, eyelids slipping shut for the briefest of seconds. Crowley could not get enough, that moment in the car unleashing something he had never dared hope would spring to life. "Well, the theatre is far superior, you must admit."
"Shut up." And they were kissing again. Crowley sought heat, sought fire, but Aziraphale resisted. A slowing down, an exploration. Hands wandering to his hair, a soft little sigh into Crowley's mouth that made shivers race down his spine, almost enough to quell the never-ending ache.
The mischievous expression had melted into fondness this time, Aziraphale still stroking the short hairs at the back of his neck. Crowley allowed his own eyes to shut, hidden behind his glasses. Gentle touches and gentle words and Crowley never wanted this decade to end. Tumbling into the 60's, a sense of foreboding deep in his stomach.
Good things never lasted for him.
"I suppose we should watch the movie. We did come all this way." Aziraphale adjusted his bow-tie, smoothed down his jacket, and just as Crowley was about to kick up his legs, an arm slid around him.
He was falling. Pulled down towards something, old terror bouncing around his brain, before he realized what was happening. Tucked against Aziraphale's shoulder, safe and secure. Feeling every breath, heady cologne swarming his senses.
"What-what're you doing?" No. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't how it should be. Voice choked, laced with outrage, with anger. Aziraphale frowned down at him, the hand that had been winding through his hair stilled.
"I-I..." scrambling for words, they did not do this, did not dredge up plain truths and force them into each other's faces. Both content with their dance, the song only they could decipher, despite not getting it right at times. "Well... well, I'm holding you. You hold me all the time, darling, and-"
Crowley struggled away from him. This was not them, had never been them. Crowley held as if he were small and weak. Aziraphale stared at him, utterly at a loss, and only that tempered the harsh words laying on Crowley's tongue.
"Don't need to be held, Aziraphale."
"Crowley, what on Earth is the problem?" But, Crowley was already standing, heart pounding against his throat, this was Aziraphale, this was who he had just been kissing, been caressing, calm, calm.
"Need a smoke." He ignored the questions, the stunned expression. He tempted the ticket taker to steal from the till, tempted the young woman outside to cheat on her husband, tempted a passerby to pick up gambling, and it still wasn't enough.
Their arms remained folded for the rest of the movie. And neither could remember what it was about.
! ! ! ! !
Hundreds of eyes stared down at him, Crowley spread on the ground, long limbs outstretched, face deep in a reverent bow. He could not remember when he had last seen light, even the dim, flickering bulbs of Hell too much for his eyes. The ground cold, slick with slime and blood, but Crowley took solace in it, for it was not his blood. Not this time.
"Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, I come to you, this lowly servant, to confess to my failure and my disobedience."
Beelzebub high in their twisted throne of bone and souls, unpleasant buzz a constant reminder of their power, their eyes lurking around every corner. Crowley did not dare look up, not yet, every movement must be perfect, every note hit.
"The nature of your crimes is well-known, demon Crowley. Why else have you requested to speak in my presence?" A deceptively soft voice, flat and drawn out. How many arrogant human souls had mistaken boredom for weakness, that this Prince was easy to sway. How many of them forced into that very chair, a close listen, and the pleas could still be heard.
"I have earned my punishment. I revel in my punishment." Somewhere to his left, Hastur let out a peel of laughter. "And I believe I am ready to return to my duties, to carry out our Master's wishes."
"Your failure to carry them out is the very reason you are here," and there was the slight buzz, the lilt of faint delight. Crowley dared to raise his head, take in the awe of the ugly monstrosity that was Beelzebub.
"I understand. But, Lord Beelzebub, we shouldn't forget my history of deeds and accomplishments. The Spanish Inquisition."
Dagon scoffed.
"100 million people killed in the two world wars."
Murmurs of begrudged appreciation.
"Doubt and longing for sin in every corner of the world."
Agreement now in the crowd, but Crowley did not falter, eyes locked with Beelzebub, careful, careful, almost there.
"And of course, Eve. The Original Sin. Winning more souls for our Master even to this day."
Beelzebub considered this, slouched on their throne, flies dancing around their head and picking at the festering rot. "I alone know the humans, better than anyone. Our Master needs me for the modern world, to make sure the Opposition doesn't get ahead."
"Your accomplishments are... notable." Crowley never broke eye contact, his neck hurting from the bow, limbs crying out from being held so still. Deliberate steps, this fly on the wall, this all seeing entity that flitted through small cracks and buzzed and buzzed until madness set in. A hand closing around it, slowly now, slowly.
Crowley lowered his head once more, palms turned upwards, every scar on his body exposed for Hell to see. "And as a show of unwavering loyalty... I request a cleansing."
Excitement rippled through the weary crowd, electricity charged in the air, palatable, singeing Crowley's paper thin flesh. The throne creaked, the Damned souls weeping, as Beelzebub descended. A firm hand under his chin, tilting it upwards. Beelzebub rarely showed emotion. They were not Hastur, expressive and moody and easy to fool. But, in their eyes, a flicker of glee, despite the placid face.
"Arise, demon Crowley. Your request is granted."
There was a scramble towards the hallway, demons and humans alike shoving each other aside, knocking into tables, scattering papers, light bulbs bursting from the anticipation. Crowley in the middle, staring straight ahead, ignoring the jeers, the promises of pain.
He looked inwards. Deep, deep, right down to his very core. Aziraphale was there. Spun like fine gold, stitched throughout every facet of his essence, a complex pattern, thousands of years old. A million pinpricks of stars upon an inky sky, twinkling merrily, timeless.
Crowley had once made the stars. Breathed life into nebulas. Poured mystery into black holes. Slung comets into the cosmos, carrying countless wishes. Every step taken, he plucked another star from his soul, one by one.
Aziraphale trying on his glasses, tugging his bow-tie around Crowley's neck, and laughing at their reflections in the mirror.
Hastur and Ligur were beside him, nails piercing his arms, hatred raw and red, marking him one last time.
Aziraphale practising his magic in front of him, trying and failing for the fifth time to guess his card correctly, a sly little pout flashed every time Crowley tried to get up and leave.
Deep into Hell now, all traces of modernity vanished. High, cavernous walls, coated with old misery, a steady drip, drip, drip of black acid.
Aziraphale popping a chocolate into his mouth, a blissful moan escaping, before blushing lightly and shyly thanking Crowley for the gift.
Sulphur hung in the air, the roar of the fire, and the demons huddled behind him as Beelzebub beckoned him forward with a pointed finger.
Aziraphale's laughter...
He looked down from the cliff. The Pool of Sacrilege. Where fallen angels were reborn, where humans had the last remnants of goodness seared away. Dancing and twisting before him, the flames where Crawly himself had struggled out of, a blasphemous birth.
Aziraphale's smile...
He spread out his arms, head held high.
Aziraphale's kiss...
Crowley had once made the stars. They were gathered now, bright and beautiful to behold in his hand. He balled them into a fist, tinier, and tinier, and tinier, until they were no bigger than a mustard seed. Tucked deep into his heart, untraceable. Heaven could not find it.
Hell could not touch it.
He wobbled for one moment, a hollow, barren thing, before he stepped off the cliff, wings outstretched.
He was falling.
Falling.
Falling.
The first time Crowley had Fallen, he had screamed the entire way down. Anguish. Begging for mercy. Crying for his Mother, oh it hurt, it hurt, he hadn't meant to, he wouldn't do it again, just one more chance.
This time, Crowley did not scream.
Britain, 1965
The bell tolled twelve times, an endless echo across the shadowy grounds, tucked behind overgrown trees. The lights of the village were lost in this place, fallen prey to the thick fog and grey stone that had borne witness to endless human misery.
A black shape emerged, silent, dark, save for the wink of cigarette embers. The demon Crowley was still, yellow eyes watching, and waiting. The priest had been easy to sway. The old, simpering fool. Tithe money pocketed, to be spent on booze and women. No Christmas tidings for the needy this year.
A heartbeat sang in his ears, steady as the waves of the ocean. He had not heard that heartbeat for many years, a thrumming reassurance of life and pristine purity. There was no time to dwell on it, pushed aside, until it was nothing more than a faint press against his temple.
The silence was broken by the roar of an approaching engine, headlights flickering three times to let Crowley know of their arrival. Crowley had barely lifted a finger before they tripped over themselves, revelling in their greed. Power, such power. 300 pounds to keep their silence, sworn to take it to the grave.
Perhaps that was the right idea. Dead men told no tales, after all. A faulty brake, a careless driver. Easy.
A quiver in his heart, the size of a mustard seed, pleading and tugging at him. Something beautiful, something filled with softness; blue skies and ancient texts. A gold thread, seeking and turning until it found its mate, the heartbeat soaring back to the forefront, tat-tat-tat, a gentle reminder, a call to go back home.
Not now. Not yet. This had to be done.
The heartbeat grew louder, faster. Crowley took a deep drag, patience worn thin. Bloody humans, dawdling, wasting his precious time. The holiness pungent, Crowley could hardly bear it even from this distance.
But, the headlights switched back on, the car turning around, and Crowley dropped his cigarette in surprise. "Hey! Get back here, you useless pricks!" Anger surged through him, the heartbeat shrill, a deafening thunder.
"You have some nerve, Crowley."
He turned. Slow. A high-pitched whine from deep inside, slick with seething rage. Hereditary enemies, or so he had been told.
He turned, and it was over.
A supernova exploding in his chest, the mustard seed blooming to life and sending the stars hurtling back through him, unrelenting and powerful, even after being squashed and folded and hidden away. Millions of blinding lights, seeking out what was rightfully, eternally theirs. Trailing down well worn paths, antidote to the vile, poisonous darkness, all consuming.
Crowley's knees nearly buckled, and he only held himself upright by the hood of his car, filled up and overpowered in an instant.
"Aziraphale." The word cracked, a faint whisper.
Four days since he had been dumped back on Earth, drenched in renewed malevolence, strict instructions for it to never happen again. Cradling his plan, Ligur's image branded into his skull. And now here was Aziraphale, destroying everything, ethereal and beautiful, with red-rimmed eyes and sallow cheeks.
"Care to explain yourself?" Visceral pain, sharp, despite the curtness. A battle raged on in Crowley's heart. He knew who would emerge victorious, who always emerged victorious.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was still warped, saturated in the unholy fire, and Aziraphale flinched. He forced himself upright, eyes roving in the dark for who might be watching. Aziraphale could not be here, far too dangerous, his plan more urgent than ever before.
"What am I..." He trailed off in disbelief, staring at Crowley, all those decades stretching before them, mocking them. A step forward and Crowley took a step back, despite aching to reach out, to feel soft skin against his own once more. He couldn't, not like this, Aziraphale should not touch him like this.
"Two and a half years, Crowley. I spent-" his voice broke, and he cleared his throat loudly, struggling to carry on. Another piece of Crowley fell victim to the countless stars. "I spent waiting for you. I kept thinking you were-were... And now, I find you at some church with a group of humans, planning this foolish, deadly caper?!"
Crowley inhaled sharply, squaring his shoulders, even as everything unspooled within him, the light chasing out every dark crevice and shadowy intent. He knew. The one thing he had wanted to avoid, and Aziraphale had found out anyway. "I needed those humans. I needed them!" Panic bubbled up, a violent bile, skin itching, tempted to tear it off. "Because you made it very clear that you wouldn't-"
"Because it's dangerous!" And there they were, St. James Park all over again, dropped between them and releasing its toxic fumes, just as potent, just as fatal, as all those centuries ago. "Holy water will destroy you! And after you-you forced me back to my shop-"
"Because Hell was coming!" The war of wills still waged in Crowley's heart, Hell would not give way so easily, not after his baptism of fire. "Dangerous, you want to talk about dangerous. If they had seen you-"
"I asked you to trust me." Aziraphale took another step forward. Crowley caught a whiff of his cologne, still the same, so much of his willpower wobbling, the urge to fall into Aziraphale's arms nearly consuming him. "You could have just talked to me, and we could have figured something out, I could have protected you."
"I don't need your protection!"
Hell's final hurrah, clashed together with infernal pride, a venomous hiss, even as the darkness sank further and further beneath the sea of moon and stars. Aziraphale was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Crowley should pause, a moment, just one. This wasn't how he had wanted it to go, how he had planned, but the words wouldn't stop. "What I need is holy water, and I'm going to get it."
There was a long, suffocating silence. Aziraphale mere feet in front of him, still impossibly far away, staring at Crowley as if seeing him for the first time. He should apologize, hit the reset button. Aziraphale, this was Aziraphale. Who had kept the last vestiges of light alive in his heart even as Hastur and Ligur carved away at him. He shut his eyes, a breath, another, but when he opened them Aziraphale was gone.
"Fuck, fuck!" It was all too much. Shaken and stripped bare, emotions strung out and forced into place, his body still carrying the scars of his punishment. He nearly stumbled into his car, every intention of going to the bookshop and setting things right, when the church doors opened.
Aziraphale strode towards him, a thermos in his grasp, adorned with something suspiciously like tartan. Stopping before he got close, eyes suspiciously wet, piercing what was left of Crowley's fragile heart.
"You promised you'd come back for me."
Hell was at last sliding fully away, forced out and pooling around his feet, no match, never any match for the countless stars etched back into Crowley's soul. He sank against the hood of his car, the cold steel a familiar comfort, guilt worming in his gut.
"I was. After I got this. I needed this. For... for us." Aziraphale had to understand, surely he must, what Crowley had endured, what he had to do to come back to him, to keep his promise. Boiling sulphur that had burned and burned and nearly snatched away everything he held dear, focusing on keeping the little mustard seed tucked away from the corrupting flames.
"What did they do to you, Crowley?" And oh, did Crowley want to tell him. Did he want to sink into Aziraphale's embrace like Aziraphale had sunk into his two decades ago. Aziraphale's lips were trembling, voice steeped in melancholy, but Crowley couldn't, he couldn't be weak, never, never.
"Doesn't matter. It's over now."
Something seemed to deflate in Aziraphale, face crumpling, a hard swallow. His steps were slow and deliberate, placing the thermos beside Crowley, careful not to touch him. Foreboding settled over Crowley, the sickening sensation of careening over a cliff, jagged rocks below, powerless to stop it.
"Crowley." He inhaled a shuddering breath, moving away now, further and further. Crowley's hands twitched, but he was frozen. "These last twenty years have been," tears slid down his cheeks, Crowley's throat growing smaller and smaller, "well, they've been the happiest years of my life. But, I can't- I can't go through this again. If Hell comes for you-"
"They won't. Cuba will never happen again. That's the whole point of this." He gestured to the thermos, staring at Aziraphale, who was rocking back on his heels, chewing his lip, and Crowley could scarcely breathe. Ribs constricting, this couldn't be happening, they had come so fucking far.
"You don't know that," he whispered, still not looking at Crowley, fixated on his twisting hands. This was worse than St. James Park, so much worse. Crowley would give anything for Aziraphale's anger, he could work with anger, knew it well. But this, this grief, raw and stricken, puncturing every word, he couldn't respond, a slow moving car wreck, nothing surviving.
"I can't have a hand in your destruction."
The world was spinning rapidly, violently. Crowley could not hold on, fingers sliding, slick with sweat, and he could only stare. "Aziraphale-"
But, Aziraphale was stepping back again, and again, a growing, aching chasm between them, no bridge big enough to ever connect them again. "I'm sorry, Crowley. But, I can't..."
He couldn't finish the sentence, turning his back to Crowley, an image that had taunted Crowley since their hands first clasped together. It was happening now, this was real, Aziraphale walking down the path and into the shadows until Crowley could see him no more.
Gone.
Crowley's knees gave out, slumping further against his car, the one last thing he had, the thermos emanating holiness against his skin. Alone, alone in the shadows, the church staring down at him, accusatory, triumphant.
This couldn't be real. Any minute now, Aziraphale would come back. Realize his mistake. Cup his face, a gentle touch, loving, loving, he had been so fucking sure. A kiss, another, surely he would, would not leave Crowley, after all he had done, only for him, for him, for him!
He sat. The night wore on. Silent. Memories, vivid, sharp, too loud, too much, and still Crowley could not move, staring into the bleak, gaping nothing. Nothing again, the nothingness in Hell, nothingness on Earth, he was nothing, he had always known.
Aziraphale was true to his word. He always had been. An angel, to the bitter, fucking end.
He wanted to scream.
But, no sound would come.
USA, 1969
Night had fallen, and a nation was riveted. Around the continent, around the globe, millions of people glued to their televisions, these newfangled inventions that had altered the course of humanity in ways not yet fully understood.
Air stale in the too tiny room, gaudy paintings lopsided, itchy blankets tossed aside, soaked with alcohol. Bottles, and bottles, and more bottles still littered the ground, cigarette butts illuminated by the flickering screen, the only light among the shadows.
Sometime during the night, Crowley had fallen to the ground, and there he remained, slumped against the bed, scotch dribbling down his lips and onto his jacket. Walter Cronkite's dulcet tones his only company, a frayed thread of reality.
He was part of something, something few had thought possible. Hell and Heaven with all their blasted miracles and aloof superiority, they could not match these humans, their ingenuity, their boldness to dream. God had imbued creativity in all Her creations, an everlasting gift, a taste of the Divine. It remained in humans alone now, demons and angels, oh so similar despite their rhetoric, too good for imagination, they had decided.
Aziraphale hadn't. He had imagination. Soaked in it, all his books, his little worlds splashed over the pages, hours and hours spent with the majesty of humans, the best of them.
Crowley once had imagination. He once had a lot of things.
"That was my idea, Walter," Crowley slurred, a hand gesturing to the man before him. "You-you've got me to thank for that moon. You're welcome, no, no, s'alright." Another swig, another bottle tumbling out of his grip and onto the carpet.
A thermos laid against his chest, rising and falling with every shallow breath. Idle fingers stroked the lid, tempting, tempting, but he didn't dare, one last promise to keep among his ruins of failure. "See, angel. See, 'm here, 'm still here."
No answer came. There was only Walter.
He should tell Aziraphale. Perhaps he was wondering. Crowley was not in London. Maybe he had gone to his flat, apologies on his lips and longing in his heart, and found that Crowley was not there. Yes, yes, he should. Reassurance, even now, he owed that to Aziraphale, surely that at least would not be refused.
Bleary eyes struggled to focus on the numbers, the telephone cord somehow much longer than it rightfully should be, cradled in Crowley's lap as Walter excitedly narrated history in the making. It rang,
and rang,
and rang,
and rang...
"I am afraid we're most definitely closed."
Crowley's breath hitched; for a moment he couldn't go through with it. The tired voice, thick with something, (sleep, was Aziraphale sleeping now?) so achingly familiar, a glimmering light at the end of an endless tunnel, had so many years passed so quickly?
"Angel." There was no point in hiding the agony. Mind a haze, years upon years of bitter liquid to quell the memories, a futile exercise, all he had left. "Or-or nah, nah you don' want me to call you that anymore, huh. A-Aziraphale."
Walter was still speaking, breathless amazement, the voice at the other end of the line had fallen silent, save for heavy breathing. Crowley could picture him, crystal clear, close enough to touch, long curls and dazzling eyes, and that awful beige suit he clung to throughout the decades.
"D'you know what's-what's happening? S'history, ang- Aziraphale. You heard? Big day today. Clever, clever little humans."
"Crowley." He sounded pained, reverberating through the Earth and straight into Crowley's chest, a twist of the blade, and Crowley leaned into it, deserved it.
"Landing on the moon! I made that, I did that, did you know that?" The simulation's image was sideways, that miraculous machine only humans could piece together. He clutched the thermos tighter to himself, something warm and wet sliding down his cheek, what was that?
"I know."
"And-and you said we would watch it together! 'Member that? 'Member? When they launched Sputnik we said, we said we were gonna watch it together. Our humans, look at them go." Aching, everything ached, every limb heavy and filled with woe and Crowley could not keep upright, could not breathe.
"I should go." He was leaving again, and again, there were no second chances, not with Aziraphale. Crowley choked, on what he wasn't sure, his cheeks were wet, the ground was wet, it was warm and stuffy, perhaps he was in Hell.
"'M gonna watch it." There were more voices joining Walter's now, beamed down from above, more endearing than God, and Crowley longed to touch them, these humans, warm flesh and dizzy dreams and full of love, love for what he had created. "Just wanted to let you know that-that 'm still here. Gonna go join them though, okay Aziraphale? Okay? Up there in the stars..."
"Where's the holy water?" Aziraphale sounded strange. Fading from his ears, a distant echo, a forgotten song. The phone slid from Crowley's grasp, fixated on flickering screen. Yearning to join them, to fill this empty void, gaping and endless. "Crowley? Crowley!"
Once there had been no Crowley. No Crawly. He could not remember his old name, snuffed out from the world like everything else, dust behind him as he Fell, through his swirling nebulas and magnificent creations. A moon for the Earth, because nothing should be alone, a companion until the universe was no more.
He shut his eyes, imagined he was back up there, stars upon his skin instead of freckles. He would dance as he once had, and maybe this time Aziraphale would join him.
He did not notice the phone shaking, groaning under the weight of something, breathing wet and ragged. There were shoes in front of him. Brown. He touched them, felt the smooth leather, cracked with aged.
"Give-give me the thermos." Crowley clutched it tighter to himself. Breath caught again, eyes moved back to the screen. They were close now. Any minute. Humans would touch what he had brought into existence. Not God. Him.
"Crowley." The voice cracked. Crowley refused to look. Looking made it real. Shards of his heart, Aziraphale had them all, nothing left to give. His lips tasted of salt, he licked them, wet, the image was black and grey now, grainy, unclear, but Crowley knew where they were, could still picture it clearly.
"You left." Naked truth, a hideous thing, unseemly, but what did it matter anymore? Hands now reached for the thermos, they were quivering, they looked thinner than before. Crowley shrank further into himself. "Not gonna use it. Said I wouldn't. Just want to-to be up there with them."
"Crowley." The voice definitely sounded strange. Instincts urged him upright, to comfort, that was his job. He remained in place, an unwanted beast, tossed aside, eyes only for humans. He must have spoken aloud, for the voice continued. "You are not unwanted, goodness, Crowley, do you have... do you have even the faintest idea..."
He must be far into the stars, or far into the bottle, words falling from his lips he had not intended. "You left. I jumped into the-the Pool of S-Sacrilege for you, so they would let me back, and-and you left."
Something sat beside him, knees creaking, a splash of beige and Crowley's eyes snapped back to the television. Armstrong was talking, and so was Aldrin, oh they were brave, Crowley should visit them, just to see the moon-dust in their eyes. "I didn't want to leave. Especially after... after I thought I had lost you forever. I encountered that other demon they sent in your place."
"See! See! Needed holy water. Ligur he-he knew. Knew what you looked like! S'dangerous, Aziraphale." Thermos still in his hands, this damned thermos, worse than his Fall, damned to do wrong, even when trying to do good. "Had to protect you. Had to." Vision blurry, but he refused to look away from the grainy image. "Couldn't see you until-until I had... could kill that fucker..."
Armstrong had appeared. He was descending the ladder. Crowley struggled upright, breathless, hands scrabbling for support. Something steadied him. A sob stuck in his throat, he tried to swallow it. He couldn't, he couldn't.
"Crowley, this..." a struggle for words, nothing ever defined, too risky, too dangerous. Easier to simply drift, to let things unfold, careful steps, hidden hearts, even when fused together. "This will never work if you don't let me protect you, too. I meant what I said. I can't... I can't have a hand in Hell destroying you. I couldn't bear it. You always being the one to risk it all... Cuba will happen again, holy water or not."
Armstrong was at the foot of the ladder now. One step, one step and he and Crowley would be bound together until the end of time.
"We're in this together. Let me be there for you. Let me. Please."
Crowley was falling.
But, this time, there was something there to catch him.
Strong arms wrapped around his spindly frame, cocooning him, every inch claimed, protected. He shouldn't. This was not right. This was not what they did. He had no energy to fight it. A gentle touch, loving, no one had touched him in so many years. Not there to inflict pain. There to soothe. To trail over every limb, a steady dance of smooth fingertips.
That's one small step for man...
Wings emerged. White. Glorious. Threaded with gold and hints of silver. Enclosing them, no shadows could overcome the holy light. Holiness at his back, and holiness at his chest, and holiness at his sides, and he only had eyes for Armstrong, there on the moon, his moon, his.
One giant leap...
Crowley was shaking. Head light, woozy, cheeks wet. Arms were wrapped around him, the back of his neck was wet, too. He dug his nails into his forehead, clenched his jaw together. Hastur and Ligur had taken, Beelzebub had taken, everyone had taken. A pile of loose threads all unravelled and torn to bits. A sob escaped, lips kissed his head, rocked back and forth, gentle, gentle.
For mankind.
And Crowley finally screamed.
A/N: I'm floored at the response the last chapter got. A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, and put this on their alerts! I'm having a blast writing this, and hope you're enjoying the ride too!