Monaco, 1970
There was always music in a place like this.
Songs drifted in with the nightly breeze, steady with the gentle waves lapping against the boat. Those fleeting human dreams made immortal, timeless. They wound around Crowley, whispered in his ear, soothing, soft, it was all going to be alright.
Wings outstretched to their full glory, moonlight peaking in through the open window, this little sliver of impossible paradise. Voices joined the swell of noise and he could picture them perfectly. Their sin, their triumphs, their never-ending ambitions. Spilling out onto the streets under glittering lights and promises of a better tomorrow.
Focusing on the humans, on the music, as his feathers twitched with dreadful anticipation. A soft sigh of admiration behind him, and Crowley shivered.
There had been hands held tightly together. There had been kisses stolen under drops of rain. Unspoken apologies, tears brushed away, aching, aching hearts crying out for another in the darkness. And still, Crowley had nearly refused Aziraphale. His request, tinged with uncertainty, with a wasted decade of fear and Hell still hanging over them. A hand on his back, pressed against his shoulder blade, longing to touch, to push the boundaries ever further.
I haven't seen your wings since... well, since that night at my bookshop. I'd very much like to see them again, darling.
His mind raged its rejection. His body silently slid into the bedroom.
A moment of hesitation, tense limbs, second-guesses. 5000 years had come and gone, and they had never done this before. What had possessed Aziraphale so suddenly Crowley could not be sure. What had possessed him to save a pile of prophetic books all those years ago? To extend his hand just that once more, and have Aziraphale reach out in return?
Perhaps the same reason they found themselves here now, forgotten memos to Hell half-filled out among empty bottles and sugar spun sweets. Not here for business. Not here by coincidence. Choice, deliberate. Humans called it a vacation. Aziraphale called it a treat.
Crowley called it a second chance.
Seven years was a long time to waste these days.
Fingers traced the edges, delicate, careful, bone and feather seamlessly blended together. His pride and joy, the few offerings from Hell he had any fondness for. A sharp inhale, Aziraphale heard it, paused, before continuing his journey. Up along the radius, towards the outer vane, nothing overlooked, nothing neglected.
"Goodness, you are beautiful, Crowley."
Forbidden words, it was all forbidden, but they had disposed of such notions long ago. The fingers trailed downwards now, ghosting over the sensitive feathers, a spark of warmth from deep inside. He fought against it; even now, old habits die hard. There had been other hands in his feathers, yanking and tearing with glee, stripped bare over and over. His back had been turned then, too.
"Not supposed to find me beautiful. I'm a demon, remember?" Bitter words, cutting his tongue, blood running down his chin and onto clenched fists. All forbidden and they could not forget, the world would never let them forget. Eyes glanced over to the memos; they were keeping track ever more closely since his return. Not enough to skate by on the ingenuity of human destruction.
Aziraphale did not pause this time, still trailing over his feathers, straightening one there, plucking a bent one here. His other hand was there now, just as soft, just as attentive. A lump crawled into Crowley's throat, a bundle of pleasure, he should not dwell on it.
Oh, how he wanted to dwell on it.
"I know what you are." Something else laced there, those seven years weighed down with eternity. Crowley nearly stopped this, put an end to doors being pried open with keys that had been freely given away. Something kept him rooted to the spot, unfurling inside, warmth spreading up to flushed cheeks. Aziraphale was not like them. Not ever like them.
Perhaps it was their faces looking away from each other. Easy to pretend, even for a moment, that words spoken would not be heard. Or, perhaps it was those seven years, a man on the moon, a flickering television, a guttural scream. Aziraphale halted, hesitation drifting over the back of Crowley's neck.
"I have to admit, for a moment there, at the church... I thought Hell had succeeded. I thought... well, I had lost you."
Raw, unvarnished truth, and guilt bloomed in Crowley's chest. They had not talked about it, content as always to bury the past with all their other ghosts. Crowley couldn't forget the way Aziraphale had looked at him in those few seconds. Wide-eyed. Fearful. He had never looked at Crowley with fear before.
Crowley never wanted Aziraphale to look at him like that again.
The hands had resumed, deeper now, where downy feathers lay, tucked away from the world, soft edges and innocence. Goosebumps pricked up his arm, a curious, delicious sensation that cascaded over his chest and into his gut. Crowley's eyes shut of their own accord, and this time he did not fight it.
A new decade, a second chance.
"You hadn't." A quiet confession, but it was there, for Aziraphale to hear, to be reassured. Lightness overcoming him as Aziraphale roamed further still, every bit of resolve crumbling, muscles unwinding. An extension of his soul, laid bare, only for one.
"I know, Crowley." Equally quiet, but filled with conviction, a tinge of fondness. "You always come back to me." A hand dared to crawl up his neck, coil around the thick curls. Boneless, he was boneless now, lips parted, head tilted back. Aziraphale was here, he was not alone; drunk on matted carpets and lost in delirium. "Sometimes I wonder..."
"Wonder what?" He was breathless, a pool of liquid, unspooled, but bound together still. The voice that raged and screamed was distant now, easy to ignore, powerless. Fingers on his scalp, massaging little circles, gentle. It made his eyes sting, made his throat constrict. He had resisted this for far too long.
Aziraphale did not answer and Crowley was too lost in the stars to dwell on it for long. A soft sound escaped from him, but shame felt very far away. Aziraphale captured it in those deft hands, kept safe and secure, lips pressed against the back of his neck, he swore he felt a confession be mouthed.
Time was meaningless, and Crowley was consumed entirely. Every inch caressed, rejuvenated under the guidance of something soft and holy. A hand running along his spine; for a moment Crowley even considered telling Aziraphale the gruesome truth underneath his jacket. The raucous sounds of laughter had dwindled, and Crowley could sense Aziraphale in front of him now, eyes flickering open for a heartbeat before pulling him down for a kiss.
Gentle and languid, a mouth opening up without fanfare and letting Crowley's tongue flick inside. There was still so much time to make up for, thousands of apologies would never be enough. They had kissed like this before, laid down upon Aziraphale's sofa, arms wrapped around each other, stale scotch still on Crowley's breath. Needing to touch, to taste, to reacquaint with what had once been lost. Crowley's thumb rubbed along Aziraphale's cheek, plump and supple, smile lines in all the right places.
They kissed, unhurried, reclaiming time for themselves. Kissing, and kissing, hands in each other's hair, stroking and tugging. Tugging again. And again.
And something was changing.
Reassurance morphing into desire, oh this was new. Urgency now, ferocity as their tongues rolled together, hands gripping faces, a moan into Crowley's mouth. This was new. All that warmth from before transformed into an inferno; it had always existed for Crowley, always hovered on the fringes of every lingering touch and lingering kiss. He had not dared to indulge, to jinx what he had unthinkingly been granted.
But, it roared to life now, and Crowley could not ignore the passionate way Aziraphale was kissing him, the gasps for air as they broke apart before pulling each other close once more. Body warm and flush as a summer day, Aziraphale just as demanding, hands running down Crowley's chest. He yanked at Aziraphale's bow tie, fumbling fingers, mind speeding ahead of him in a frenzy and-
A hand came up and grabbed his own.
"Crowley, wait." He was panting, red cheeked and glorious. Staring at Crowley, filled with longing, eyes conflicted. He brought a hand up to his cheek, to reassure, they could go slow, Crowley could wait, wait forever if he had to. "I... we..."
And Aziraphale's eyes flicked upwards.
Oh.
It had been years, decades even, since Crowley had seen those eyes seek solace from above. We're in this together. Two stars orbiting each other, pulled closer and closer, neither willing to budge, until they were indiscernible to the naked eye.
Or, so he had thought.
But, of course, there were limits. There were always limits. And could Crowley truly fault him? To throw away his Divinity for carnal pleasures, something like this, that transcended simple kissing and hands seeking each other out. Even as jealousy welled up, destroying all the fragile beauty from before, he couldn't blame him.
Falling because of Crowley. He could not bear it. Not ever.
"S'alright, angel. S'alright." Aziraphale was looking at him, a helpless, lost expression that compelled Crowley to shoulder the burden once more, a quick kiss to his knuckles that rang hollow. Aziraphale did not belong in Hell. The tendrils from the Pool of Sacrilege still coiled around his heart, a searing reminder, he could never, would never, ask that of him.
"It's-" But, Crowley waved him away, wings pulled in, turning back to the memos to Hell, the feel of Aziraphale's racing heart under his fingertips impossible to forget. Swallowing the bitter, horrible truth, just like always, an acrid, poison filled cup he was condemned to drink from over and over.
Angel. Demon.
Hereditary enemies.
And the world would not let them forget.
"S'alright. Don't worry about it. Look, these memos aren't gonna fill out themselves. Grab us some more wine, will you?"
But, Aziraphale did not move towards the little fridge. He made his way out to the deck instead, gazing out at the endless sea, and remained there until the morning dawn broke across the horizon.
Britain, 1978
It never ceased to amaze Crowley, not even after all the millennia that had passed, Aziraphale's ability to argue while absorbed in a book.
A lazy afternoon, a stickiness heavy in the air, despite the open window. The bustle of London soothing and familiar; children chattering, teenagers gossiping, jostling and moving and living and breathing. Crowley spread eagle on the well-worn couch, a sheen of sweat visible on his chest, gazing over at Aziraphale, proper and poised in his beloved chair.
"It's a preposterous invention."
He hadn't moved a muscle, eyes never leaving the page, and Crowley was tempted to yank the book from his grasp. He couldn't remember how they had gotten here, somewhere between reminiscing over Japanese tea ceremonies, and arguing over the true Renaissance Man. But, there they were, both dug in, a dance they knew by heart.
"It is not. It's brilliant! I'm getting one myself as soon as they release it, it's only a matter of time, angel. The technology's already there, as soon as they fine-tune it, it'll be just like cars and airplanes. Change the world."
A bored flick of the page, eyes still racing over words from dead men's hands. Layers upon layers, even in the sweltering sun, the tight little bow tie bobbing against his neck with every swallow. "The phones we have now do their job perfectly well. What use is there for a phone to take with you everywhere? Pure silliness."
Crowley was on his feet, limbs begging for relief from laying in one place for so long. He circled Aziraphale, could see his eyes still for just a moment, a bated breath, waiting for a kiss, a caress, and Crowley complied with the silent request, burying his lips in the mess of curls. "Not everyone is a century behind, Aziraphale."
He bit down on a smirk as Aziraphale huffed, sauntering towards his record collection. "What the fuck was it that you called that Queen song the other day? Bop-bop?"
"Bebop, darling, because that's what it was."
"Right, right. Bebop." He flipped through the records, tsking the entire time, determined to get Aziraphale out of that blasted chair. "Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Bach, of course, how typical." A pause, an eyebrow quirked in unmasked surprise. "The Righteous Brothers? That's awfully modern."
"You were the one insisting I was stuck in the past, not I." He still did not deign to glance his way, and Crowley knew he couldn't let such a rare opportunity pass him by. A snap of his fingers and the record creaked to life, Crowley holding out his hand to Aziraphale, forked tongue darting between shiny teeth.
"Dance with me, angel."
At long last, Aziraphale met his gaze, a crease between his brows, hesitation and excuses on his lips. He could see the unspoken questions, why Crowley suddenly felt this need, another step, another boundary crossed. Crowley could not say himself, only that it had lodged itself in his mind, unwilling to be shaken loose and tossed aside. Dancing with Aziraphale. Was such a request so taboo?
There was unmistakable longing there, eyes drifting up the length of Crowley's arm to his unguarded face, inviting, tempting, sunglasses lost somewhere in the chaos of books and memories. "Angels don't dance."
He wanted to say that angels did not kiss demons, either. Did not braid their hair, or tuck themselves into their arms until their racing hearts marched in perfect harmony. Too close for comfort, and he pushed it aside like always, pulling Aziraphale to his feet. "Just one dance. Our little secret."
Their hands slotted together, Aziraphale's faint protests crumbling into fine dust, a tilt of his head and the tender notes of Unchained Melody filled the shop with a swell. Uncertainty in every step, as though touching for the very first time. Crowley's hand at his waist, and Aziraphale's at his shoulder, too loose, too rigid, a foot squashed, a table knocked into.
The novelty had never worn off, even now, decades and decades of firsts and milestones behind them. Crowley drank Aziraphale in as warmth radiated from his shoulder into his aching limbs. Every crack in his lips, every fleck of brown and green in his eyes. Smoother now, a rhythm found together, and there, at last, a tiny smile curving at Aziraphale's mouth.
Closer and closer, noses touching, gentle little kisses, dipped in sweetness, more alluring than the most seductive caress. Contentment, a rare feat for a demon. Crowley could live like this. Aziraphale here, in so many ways, more than he had ever dared to dream. It did not matter what lines were drawn in the sand, what cold truths still stood in their way.
This was enough.
It would always be enough.
The air suddenly shimmered, time and space collapsing in on itself, reality bent to some unseen will. Something here now, bold and endless, imbued with righteous fire, thrown into every corner and crevice with its holy presence.
"Aziraphale."
Thousands of years since he had heard that voice, the distinct musical lilt, wind chimes in the evening breeze. The same voice that had cast him out of Heaven, ignoring his pleas for mercy, down, down, down, the barest hint of guilt etched on that beautiful face.
Michael.
Time at a standstill, eyes wide, heart hammering in his throat, fuck, fuck! Centuries of preparation, calculated steps, plans and plans and back-up plans, and now the moment had come. Not a nightmare, not a hypothetical. Aziraphale's lips were white, he had stopped breathing, staring at Crowley with unadulterated terror.
Snap himself away, and she would hear it, would sense the lack of other-worldly presence that for now Aziraphale might cover. Stuck in front of this roving predator, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, their deepest fears coming to pass. She had not spotted them yet, somewhere in the front of the shop, but time was slipping through their fingers. She would come, and she would see.
"C-coming!" Crowley squeezed his hand, Aziraphale's pounding heart deafening in his ears, no, no, not yet. Not today. He had not crawled his way out of Hell, lash marks still stinging his flesh, only to be caught today. Aziraphale smoothed down his jacket, deep breaths, deep breaths, one last, long look at Crowley before walking to his doom.
The music still crooned, Crowley tucking himself into a corner, unwilling to even blink. Could she know? Is that what brought her here, now of all times, smashing their precarious happiness into tiny, irreparable fragments? Mind lurching from one misstep to another; they had been careful, so fucking careful, with Hell breathing down his neck, with the memories of Cuba still piercing their flesh.
He struggled to hear over the soft melody, muscles rigid, ready to spring. He would not simply roll over and die, no, not now, not after everything. He dared to inch closer, silent, deadly, two hearts fighting to be heard, but he only cared for one.
He would not let that heart stop again.
"...received your letter, and I must say, we are disappointed in your request."
"My letter?" Nervous, he could hear it dripping from every syllable, could imagine him twitching, his smile stretched too big and too tight. "I... I wrote that over-over 30 years ago. Why are you-"
"It had to be processed, of course, Aziraphale." Sharp words, poisoned barbs, and Aziraphale was being reeled into whatever trap she had laid. Clever then and clever now. Crowley had trusted her once upon a time, to understand, to hear him out. He would not make that mistake twice.
Aziraphale was still talking, words morphed, lost in the music, something about hoping she understood. Michael would never understand, Crowley knew that well.
Aziraphale didn't.
But, Crowley had been preparing for this a long time.
A long, slow breath. A demon she had made, and a demon she would meet. Hellfire cracked up his arms, redder than a dying star, an ecstasy like no other. Senses honed and sharpened, those memories normally sealed tight an accelerant to his fury. He would not let her do to Aziraphale what she had done to him.
Never.
He was ready. If this was the moment, so be it then.
"If you are still sure of your request, then we'll take it into consideration, Aziraphale. Your comfort is important to us."
"Oh, thank you, Michael. Thank you so very much."
The air shimmered, and a peace settled over the shop, Aziraphale's heart slowing, slowing, he could taste his relief even from here. Relief, he should be relieved too. Crisis averted, by the skin of their teeth, but no matter. They had lived to see another day.
But, Michael's face swam in his vision, triumphant and powerful as his Grace had been snatched away. Hellfire an intoxicating friend, difficult to quell, her fault he was like this, he could not forget. Too close, too close, he had missed his chance to repay the favour. She would be back, he could feel it in his very essence. She would be back, and they might not be so lucky.
Focus, focus. Aziraphale was here, he was safe. Nothing else mattered. Another breath, slow and careful. Aziraphale. Think of Aziraphale. Crowley did not want him to see him like this, another reminder, another ugly truth.
Aziraphale came around the corner, and he was... smiling. Not from relief, not even from seeing Crowley. No, it was genuine. One that made eyes glitter, made splendid smile lines crinkle, perfection, utter perfection, that only Aziraphale could accomplish.
Euphoric.
Because of Heaven. Because of Michael. Euphoric. The angel who had smote him, would have smote Aziraphale had they been caught and he was euphoric!
Crowley could only stare, something brutal and harsh bubbling up. A split second, and a lifetime unfolded, dizzying in its speed. Their eyes met, trailed downwards, matching betrayal, matching outrage.
"Is that Hellfire?!"
There was no denying what was there in front of them, and he was in no mood to sugarcoat for Aziraphale, not now, not with that smile that before was reserved only for Crowley. He did not look away, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Yes."
Silence, the kind filled with white, shrieking noise, chests rising and falling, unsure who would blink first. But, even now, with jagged anger clawing down his throat, Crowley forced the Hellfire away. Too dangerous, too risky. He would not let even a spark near Aziraphale, no matter what.
"You were going to kill her." Aziraphale stared at him, an inscrutable expression despite the wide eyes and slack mouth. He could not understand, could not get that damned smile out of his mind. They had almost been caught, and Aziraphale was beaming as if Michael had given them her blessing.
"Yes. And?" Clipped sentences, perhaps that was wrong, after so much, so many close calls, hearts shattered all throughout the 60s. How could Aziraphale fault him? Thirty years together and he knew the risks, knew them well, and he dared to act as if Crowley had sinned? "She nearly caught us!"
"But, she didn't! You can't killher! She's-she's still my family!"
Family. Even after everything they had done, everything they had shared. A small voice reminded him that Aziraphale was still an angel, still very much on Heaven's side. He had never promised Crowley he wouldn't be.
It stung nonetheless.
"You were the one who said you wanted to protect me, too!" Harsh words, unflinchingly in their resentment, and he knew he landed his mark as Aziraphale's face blanched. "You're telling me you wouldn't kill a demon who caught us?"
Aziraphale's mouth opened. And closed. A heartbeat, a teetering moment as he groped for words, not wanting to look at Crowley. A linchpin, so much resting on his next sentence, Crowley sick at the thought at what cold water Aziraphale might pour over them. "That's different."
That's different.
Oh.
He would kill a demon to protect Crowley. Always implied, but never spoken, and now, here it was. His eyes spelled out the truth, fierce and scared at what he was willing to do. No denial, even as he obfuscated, a balm against the stinging hurt he had inflicted against Crowley.
Michael was his family. But maybe, just maybe, Crowley trumped that.
It did not dissipate his ire entirely, but Crowley relented, a step back, a breath expelled. Too close, yanked back from the precipice the both of them, the music now an unwelcome enemy. Aziraphale seemed to sense it; a snap and the record ceased. Silence fell, and Crowley wasn't sure it was any better.
"What did she want, anyway?"
Aziraphale did not answer right away, smoothing his jacket, drawing his bow tie even tighter around his throat. Distance, still so much distance, those few feet between them. Mere minutes and the world dissolved into nothing, their dance a lifetime ago.
"Acknowledging a request I put in a few decades back. She was actually being very compassionate." He stared hard at Crowley, and Crowley had to bite back his venom.
"Request, what request? You never told me about that." Aziraphale didn't have to reply for Crowley to already see he would not get the truth. His eyes darting away, his mouth twisted between his teeth. A request too holy for demons, apparently, and Crowley had just about had his fill of Heaven today.
"It was nothing special. Hardly important."
Right.
Glasses snapped back onto his face, jacket buttoned up. Aziraphale had the gall to look crestfallen, and Crowley did not let it sow seeds in his heart, content to lick his wounds a little longer. Perhaps he would kill for Crowley, but thirty years later and secrets were still being kept, still looking down at Crowley from his higher plane.
"I'll leave you to it, then. Got deeds to do, memos to fill. Demonic things, won't bother you with the details."
It all felt sickeningly familiar, him walking away this time, leaving Aziraphale staring at his retreating form. Hadn't they learned? Hadn't they fought and bled and cried to stop this from ever happening again? He should turn, he should stay, but his feet carried him regardless.
"Crowley."
He was halfway to the door when the voice called out, and he stopped. He would not look, still wounded, still thrown off course, but he stopped, just like always.
"Are you sleeping, then?"
A hesitant question, weighing heavily even now, and Crowley nearly crumbled despite himself. He turned, enough to see Aziraphale's expression, and he softened, just a fraction. Relief there, despite the misery, that he was not the only one thinking to a certain park, to a certain time.
"No, Aziraphale."
It was enough. Tension thick in the air, but they could breathe, hearts still welded together. Aziraphale nodded once, and Crowley left, eyes flicking above for who might be watching.
Because Aziraphale had been right all those years ago.
Cuba would happen again.
A thermos full of Holy Water and arms full of Hellfire would not be enough to stop it.
Britain, 1983
Aziraphale had been gone awhile.
The living room shrouded in comforting shadows, Crowley hidden under a hand-made quilt meant for two, heady with scents from ages long passed. Crumb filled plates scattered about his table, all that remained of the Halloween treats Aziraphale had brought from his shop: No trick or treaters again this year, I'm afraid. A shame to let them go to waste.Sounds of The Exorcist a gentle lull in the background, an ode to Crowley's favourite holiday, far enough removed from reality to stomach. Sometime during the infamous crucifix scene Aziraphale had wandered off in search of more rum and sweets.
Cozy. Quiet. A night in locked away from the world. Able to pretend, for a few precious hours.
15 minutes had passed. Nothing to worry about, surely. Perhaps Aziraphale was cooing over his plants, thwarting the militant regime he had cultivated the last few years. Perhaps he was stealing more of his daffodils, bright little faces sticking out of his pocket each time they kissed good-bye.
But, the enduring silence was uneasy, fraught with something Crowley could not put his finger on. Memories of Michael still fresh in his mind, no harm in checking, just to be sure, just to be safe. Aziraphale would greet him with a too-knowing smile, an offer to kiss the rum he had been sneaking off his lips, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in, all would be well.
Except, all was not well.
He could see it as soon as Aziraphale came into view. Standing in the halo of his kitchen light, far too still, staring straight ahead, a paper clenched in his fist. He did not acknowledge Crowley, did not even flinch.
"Angel?"
No answer still. His hands were shaking, barely noticeable, but enough that shrill alarm bells sounded in his ears. A golden sigil marked that paper, holiness pungent even from a distance. For a horrifying moment, Crowley thought they had been found out.
"Ypres."
One word. One word and Crowley was hurtled back four decades, vivid, sharp memories of a church, of humans, of an Aziraphale who had been shattered beyond recognition. He could still taste the smoke, the feel of Aziraphale's heart, too fast, panic filled, even as Crowley had desperately tried to slow it. He floundered for words, not knowing what was happening, dread flooding through him.
"What about it, angel?" Soft words, soft, soft, trying and failing to capture Aziraphale's gaze. He slid the paper out of his hands, cradling a bomb, careful, careful now. At the top, Aziraphale's name, in a language he no longer spoke, and he forced himself to read those damned words from Above.
In response to your official request (30/05/1940) in regards to being relieved of all duties and assignments pertaining to the human nation BELGIUM:
After careful consideration of your reasons given, we hereby regret to inform you that your request has been denied on the following grounds:
In regards to your official discorporation (22/04/1915), the "emotional turmoil" you have outlined has been deemed irrelevant, given that a new, exact replica body was issued, and you were returned to your Station two years later (09/04/1917),
Your repeated use of the terms "death", "dying", "died" are summarily rejected outright as death is a state reserved exclusively for humans and is not reason enough to fulfill your request,
The references to ongoing "trauma" and "nightmares" have been wholly dismissed after careful study, as such concepts have no relevant application to any ranking of ANGELS.
As such, your request will not be granted, and no further consideration will be given on the matter.
Therefore, we expect you to resume your duties in regards to BELGIUM immediately. Enclosed, you will find an outline of your next miracle, to take place in YPRES, BELGIUM. Failure to complete this assignment within three months (31/01/1984) will result in immediate revocation of your status as GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE and you will be reassigned to a new Station in HEAVEN.
The pieces suddenly fell into place, and Crowley had never felt so sickened.
He couldn't believe the words he had just read. Emotions fighting for dominance, unsure what to think, what to feel. Disgust. Hatred. Rage. He had always known his side was malicious; able to destroy and hurt and make him feel unimaginable pain. That was Hell. Malevolence baked into its very DNA.
But this. This. Cruelty wrapped up in the guise of righteousness. Breaking Aziraphale without ever touching him, and relishing in it. Why else send him to Ypres, the very place he had breathed his last breath, and dangle a demotion over his head, throw his nightmares and anguish back in his face.
He could not speak, could only stare at Aziraphale. Sick at the empty look in his eyes, lost and hollow, betrayed by this so-called family. Nothing had changed since his Fall. No loyalty among the ranks of Heaven, the purge they had been so convinced would root out the rot had changed nothing. He dared to touch his arm, Aziraphale's skin cold and clammy, diminishing before Crowley's very eyes.
"I thought they understood." Even his voice was smaller, a faint whisper, lost in the vastness of Crowley's tiny kitchen. "When Michael came, I thought she wanted to understand. I was so happy. For once, I thought we connected. That she cared."
He looked back at the paper, at the strange signature in spidery gold ink that he could not decipher. Hard to swallow the loathing that welled up, he should have ended her when he had the chance. He had sworn to protect Aziraphale from Death, to make sure Hell never made one mark on him.
He had never anticipated it would be Heaven that would strike the killing blow.
Aziraphale finally looked at him, wide, glassy eyes that seemed to unable to recognize Crowley.
"They don't give a damn about me, do they."
An instant, tense and taut, before the air snapped. Aziraphale's placid face cracking and breaking, and Crowley scooped him up without a second thought. Aziraphale protested that he was fine, fine, just fine, crumbling once more in Crowley's arms, and Crowley would not let a single piece fall to the ground. A snap, and they were in his bedroom, wings shaken out and wrapping around him, soft feathers against his skin. He was here. He was here.
It wasn't enough. But, it was all Crowley had.
Hot tears splashing against his arm, a sickening replay of history, as if nothing had changed, nothing at all. His fault this had happened in the first place. Heaven's sadism paled in comparison to his neglect, to leaving Aziraphale to fight a war alone. The guilt, never-ending, worse than the empty void in his heart that once contained his Grace.
"You don't u-understand." He pulled Aziraphale closer, his own throat constricted as Aziraphale forced words between his trembling lips. "I've tried to go to Belgium, Crowley. I've tried. I used to l-love Belgium. But, every time... I just see... yellow... everything is yellow... and I can't breathe..."
His hands clawed at his throat, Crowley gently removed them, kissing the knuckles. Essence bleeding out, darkness wound around his frantic heart. It felt futile, but it had once soothed Aziraphale in the ruins of a bombed out church, and Crowley had to try. One beat, two, that's it, angel.
"They're right. It was 69 years a-ago. I'm an angel-"
Crowley cut him off, forcing their eyes to meet, ferocity in every word.
"They are not right." He had to make him understand, he would not let Heaven obliterate what was left of Aziraphale. Out of touch and full of tainted morality. They had never fought and laughed and marvelled at these splendid humans, a taste of a God who had long since vanished.
"I should never have asked for another a-angel to take care of Belgium. But, it was during the War, and I was... I was scared, Crowley. I couldn't... not again..."
He hated them all. He hated himself. He would sooner soak in the Pool of Sacrilege until the end of time than be responsible for Aziraphale's pain.
"You are the bravest, cleverest bastard I know." Echoing words from decades past, so much more imbued in them now, all of Crowley, all of him, only for Aziraphale. "Not despite Ypres, because of Ypres. You understand me, Aziraphale? You get it?"
Aziraphale torn and broken, looking at Crowley like he desperately wanted to believe him, but couldn't. He cradled his face, thumb swiping the steady stream of tears away. He was not good with words, at letting his heart speak freely, and he could only hope his clumsy attempt was enough. "You aren't weak because of this. You... you did die, and... and it doesn't matter if it was fucking yesterday or seven decades ago."
"But... what if it never goes away?"
There it was. The crux of it all. Words that Aziraphale had been toiling over but never dared to speak aloud. Their eyes never broke apart; this was so much worse than during the War. Back then Aziraphale had crumbling walls still in place, even as his heart leaked out, even as it begged to be held securely. There were no walls now, no masks. His worldview torn to shreds, the foundation he rested so much of himself on pulled out from under his feet.
Crowley tightened his essence around his heart, soothing, soothing, so that Aziraphale knew his next words were sincere. "Then it never goes away. And you're still the bravest, cleverest bastard I know. Doesn't change a thing how I think about you. Ever."
Disbelief, but there was hope there, fragile though it was, eyes flicking over Crowley's face for any signs of deception. A long silence, weighed down and suffocating, hands still clasped tight. He had begrudged him for never being able to look away from Heaven's light, always second best, a lowly demon after all. Unable to understand what Aziraphale still saw in them, they who cared nothing for Aziraphale, when Crowley was there, arms outstretched, able to feel things no demon should, devoted completely to him.
He had been so furious five years ago that Aziraphale still considered them family. Entertaining even for a moment that Aziraphale thought himself superior, even when he knew better, knew that they had always been equals. Selfish, always so selfish, blinded by his own exile, unwilling to step outside himself to understand the one who was more important than anything else in the world.
God must be punishing him once more, to witness the veil being ripped off Aziraphale's eyes, to see the true face of Heaven. The thing a dark little part of himself had always wanted.
Seeing it now, Crowley wished desperately to take it all back.
A breath drawn in and released in tandem, Aziraphale squeezing his eyes shut with his fingers, still unsteady. "I don't know how I can go there, Crowley. I cross the border and I'm back to 1915 instantly, and it's like my lungs are being corroded inside out. I can feel the gas. Like I'm d-dying all over again..."
"I'll come with you." He had already decided, from the moment he had read the paper. He had left Aziraphale alone in 1915. He would not leave him alone again.
"No!" Panic bubbling up again, eyes wild for a different reason now. "This isn't a minor blessing, Crowley, this is a miracle. It's saving someone's life! I can't risk you going back to Hell, not when they're watching so closely!"
Crowley gathered his hands together, kissed them once, kissed them twice, lingering and loving. "You... you let me take care of Hell." Mind already planning, sick with what he might have to do to distract them, to pull from the instincts that always whispered in his ear. "You really think I'm letting Heaven take you?"
Aziraphale was still trembling, voice wavering, seeking the steady ground Crowley always offered. Falling, falling, against his will, but Crowley would be there to catch him.
Always.
"It's too dangerous. I can do this alone, I n-need to do this-"
"Because they say so? Fuck what they say, Aziraphale. You're... you're more of an angel than they'll ever be."
He was not supposed to believe in goodness. Not supposed to protect it, to encourage it, to wrap it in tender hands and give himself away to it. There was no goodness in Heaven, not anymore. It was here, in the darkness of his room, a sliver of light tucked among blackened wings.
"We're in this together, angel."
Something broke over Aziraphale's face, some realization that threw the shadows away, little glimpses of light in those sullen eyes. He looked above, then to Crowley, tears still glistening on his ruddy cheeks, hand fiddling with his ring.
"I...I have been so wrong about so many things, haven't I." He was not looking at Crowley, voice soft, and Crowley wasn't sure if he should respond. A betrayal like this would lurk forever in Aziraphale's mind; he knew firsthand what rejection from his side meant.
Hours passed in silence, Aziraphale lost in thought, eyes firmly fixed on the ground, twisting his ring round and round. Crowley did not dare ask, not even as Aziraphale made to leave. The one burden he could not take from Aziraphale, condemned to watch him shoulder it alone.
Demons were unforgivable. Crowley had accepted his fate long ago.
He had never deserved it more than now, kissing Aziraphale good-bye, tasting the last vestiges of his mourning. Heaven may have plunged the dagger into his heart.
But, it was Crowley who had handed it to them.
He locked himself away in his vault that night, and as the grainy images surrounded him once more, he wept.
Belgium, 1984
The Arrangement had always been dangerous.
Their flimsy excuse to slip in and out of each other's lives over the centuries, swapping duties, all in the name of convenience. Punishment would be severe, they both had known, their very existence on Earth in jeopardy. Easy to convince themselves they could spin their way out of trouble, exploit the laziness of their Head Offices. Danger shoved to the back of their minds; no need to be paranoid.
The last four decades had been more dangerous still. Tempting fate each day, unwilling and unable to stop what had been finally allowed to come alive. Death rang in every kiss, in every smile. Paranoia their new reality, looking over their shoulders, never able to settle, not anymore. Sharks circling, slow and steady, how much longer their luck would truly last neither could say.
This, however, was perhaps the most dangerous thing they had ever done.
The Arrangement and them married together in this moment, this elevator, with the deadly word Ypres staring down at them. Intertwined hands, open and brazen, watching the red numbers tick upwards. Accompanying Aziraphale on an assignment, and one so critical as this, where eyes could be everywhere. This was stupid. Reckless. Daring their sides to swoop down and put an end to this once and for all.
Aziraphale was white and trembling, and Crowley did not care how reckless and stupid and fucking dangerous this was. He would not leave Aziraphale alone, not now, not ever. The thermos tucked into his jacket, Hellfire pictured clearly in his mind. Let them come. Let them try.
He'd destroy them all before they could ever lay a finger on Aziraphale.
"Five minutes. In and out, angel." A squeeze of their hands, the darkness ever present in Aziraphale's soul, ensuring his heart still beat as it should. Nothing would ever be enough to absolve his guilt, but this, at least, he could do.
The hallway was endless, even as human eyes slid past them unseeing, Crowley making sure they would not be bothered. Aziraphale staring straight ahead, everything rigid, drawn in, a shadow of himself. Plans to sweep him away afterwards, far away from Belgium, from Europe. To stitch him back together as best he could. They found the room, as white and sterile as all the others, a small child with too much machinery sunk into her body.
Her parents looked up, Crowley knew the miracle demanded they be seen. Aziraphale's hand at his throat, breathing erratic, and Crowley cursed Heaven once more. "Come on, angel, almost there, almost there." Guiding his trembling hand to the child's heart, and though Crowley despised what they had done to Aziraphale, this at least was a worthy miracle.
A spark of colour returned to Aziraphale's face, able to concentrate for just a moment, to breathe life back into one who deserved a second chance. A few minutes and Aziraphale could be free.
They could do this.
Until a familiar chill crept into the room.
Pain rocketed up Crowley's spine as Death there stood in all its terrible glory, empty eyes surveying them. What little colour had come to Aziraphale's face drained, staring at the intruder, free hand at his throat once more.
It was all Crowley could do not to foolishly fight it; to scream, to condemn, to ask Death what the fuck it was playing at, and who the fuck had sent it.
Aziraphale was quivering beside him, unable to tear his gaze away. Time was running out; if Death was here, Michael could be next, and Ligur could come soon after. This needed to be done, he could not lose Aziraphale. Once they took him, they would not give him back. He had spent too many years without Aziraphale, he would not spend a single second longer.
There was only one option left. The most dangerous one of all.
He pulled from the forbidden feeling deep in his core, where stars twinkled and Aziraphale rested. A hand over Aziraphale's, the lightness frozen in place, half finished, unable to move.
He could feel the weakness of the child's heart, a few beats away from Death's embrace. He shut his eyes, imagined it new, imagined it perfect. Darkness joined the light, a gentle nudge, mixing in perfect harmony. Fluid and effortless, winding together around the damaged organ, almost there. Tendrils of Aziraphale, distilled down to his very core, achingly beautiful as it flowed in and out of his own tainted essence. Tears sprung to his eyes and he forced them away. Goodness, what goodness should be, filled with a Love he no longer could claim.
He did not imagine Hell. He did not imagine what his fate would be if he was caught. Eternity of torture, no mercy of an execution. He only imagined Aziraphale, and the child, and all their humans gathered on Earth.
Together. As they always had been. As they always would be.
The child's eyes fluttered, opened, a deep breath inhaled.
"Mama... Papa..."
Her parents broke into sobs of utter relief, Crowley breathing hard through his nose. Blessings had never come easy for him, miracles even more taxing. Instincts puncturing him, he drowned them out as he had always done before. Her parents looked at them both; hope and awe and reverence, things Crowley should not be looked at with.
"What... what are you?"
Crowley waited. This was it. The closing act of the miracle. Once Aziraphale spoke these words the job would finally be at an end. He waited. Waited.
Aziraphale did not move. Entranced by Death, lost in some unseen horror, chest rising and falling with shallow, painful breaths.
Fuck.
He swallowed. Burning. Excruciating. Everything on fire, everything. He forced the words out through gritted teeth, forced himself to believe in them, for Aziraphale's sake.
"Angels of the Lord. Go now in peace."
It was easy to hate Heaven. Easy to fixate on their corruption, on their hypocrisy. Easy to pretend the void in his heart did not ring hollow with those words, even as his blackened soul screamed for vengeance, promised to punish him for daring to step out of line.
He had once been filled with Love. Indescribable, pristine Love.
He had once been an angel of the Lord.
He could have been like Aziraphale. Could have been together without needing to hide. No need to linger in the shadows, to cling in secret, always wondering when the day would come that the final bell tolled.
Melancholy filled him, too strong, too visceral to force away. He took Aziraphale's hand, ignored the look on his face, pulled away from Death's visage in shock at Crowley's words. A wave of his hand and they disappeared from the humans' view. He could not be here any longer. He needed a drink, he needed sun, and fire, and heat.
Away from this chill that was getting closer.
And closer.
He tried to move. He tried to snap away. Death was approaching, fathomless eyes keeping them in place. He pulled Aziraphale tight, warm skin, warmth, the cold was extinguishing his fire, his sin. He would not let Death take him, not again. Strength vanishing, drowning in darkness, no sound could escape, fear there now, fear, fear.
The hospital was gone. Aziraphale was gone. Darkness all he could see, worse than Hell, no sense of himself any longer. Drowning, drowning, ripped asunder, skeletal hands cradling his core. A blinding white light, crimson and gold running through his fingers, something piercing his heart, he couldn't breathe.
Heed my words, Demon Crowley, Principality Aziraphale.
You cannot hide forever.
A/N: Thank you so much once again to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, and followed. I was stunned at the feedback from last chapter, and am so glad you're all enjoying it so far. We're at the halfway point in this story now, and new enemies and dangers are unfolding. After Hell featured so prominently last chapter, it was fun to switch gears to exploring both their complicated relationships with Heaven, particularly Aziraphale. I thank you all for your patience with this chapter: being the transitional chapter between the first half and the second, there was a lot of important groundwork and themes to lay.
And a special thank you for Jafryn: You have been one of my most loyal readers, not only for this story, but for all of my Good Omens works. I absolutely love getting your reviews and hearing your thoughts, and each time I see your name in my inbox, it makes my day.