XIV — An Unanswerable Question

A/N: Me? Go out of my way to resurrect SPN!Crowley because after years of him being dead I'm still unable to cope? Never. How dare you accuse me of such things.

Otherwise known as: the point in the story where the Authoress tries to make it clear who is speaking when she now has two characters with the same name running around.

Well well well.

Back again.

Almost like he'd never left. But those laugh lines on Squirrel were looking deeper than they used to, and Moose(1) had a few more inches on his hair. And Cas, of course, looked the same as ever. Vaguely constipated but steadfast.

Crowley looked down at them and tried very hard to hide the immense wave of fondness rising traitorously in his chest. He still very much needed caught up on how and why he was alive, but clearly, the Winchesters had deemed him fit to save. If he had a heart, it would be full. But he didn't have one, so he settled for a smirk aimed in their general direction instead.

"Group hug?" Crowley offered, leaning on the railing. "Don't everybody start crying at once."

Dean and he locked eyes for a few moments too long for it to not have homoerotic subtext (at least in Crowley's humble opinion) before the elder Winchester redirected his attention to Castiel. "How's he look to you?"

Cas trained his gaze on Crowley. Crowley gave him a little two-fingered salute.

"He's as he was when he died."

"Which, by the by—how long ago was that?"

"Almost two years now," Sam said slowly. "You...do you feel...okay? Feel like yourself?"

"No nasty souvenirs from the Empty, if that's what you're asking," Crowley replied mildly. "You lot may have done it—actually managed to resurrect someone without world-ending consequences." He flicked his eyes to the newbies, the Nephil, the angel, and the...snake. For lack of a better descriptor. "Or at least, sent someone of a higher pay-grade to do it for you."

The Nephil, he had no idea what to make of, other than that it was damned powerful—literally. Definitely the product of a fallen angel. He had a feeling who, but Sweet Hell, he'd hoped that he was wrong. Getting pulled out of the fire by Lucifer's son...there were certain things his pride just wouldn't stand for. As for the other two. Well. A bookish, posh angel and a demon-adjacent creature with the eyes of a serpent. He knew this story.(2) The Winchesters had been crossing universes again. He was far gladder to see Aziraphale and Anthony J. Crowley than he had been to see the Wicked Witch of the West, most certainly.

Aziraphale waved cheerily, and Anthony shot him a tight, sardonic smile.

"About that," Dean said slowly.

"Oh. Is this the consequences part? Suppose we do need a set-up for next season," Crowley settled his chin on his hand, waiting for the inevitable and unavoidable plot twist.

"We actually don't know about any consequences, but, we didn't try to resurrect you. That was all these three," Moose informed him, gesturing at the new members of Team Ill Will.

"And we went out of our way to stop you from being resurrected by your mother," Cas added.

"Twice," put in Dean.

"My m—Rowena?" Crowley repeated numbly. "I thought the bitch was dead."

"Yeah, not so much," Dean informed him with all the elaboration Crowley expected.

Crowley just shook his head in disbelief. "Resurrect ME? She detests me. I detest her. Why would she of all people want me back? Surely she should have been dancing on my grave, musical number included."

"She kinda had a change of heart after you died," Sam informed him. "That's how we ended up with this Crowley," Sam pointed at the Serpent. "Your mom was trying to bring you back again, but she ended up with him instead. Demonic name mix-up."

"And it's just been non-stop fun ever since," said the demon in a monotone. Aziraphale shot him a chastising look.

"Ah yes. Anthony J. Crowley. Your reputation precedes you."

Anthony squinted at him. "It does?"

"Not very well-read in regards to our Gaiman and Pratchett, are we, boys?" Crowley asked the room at large. "You've a book about you here," he directed the comment to Aziraphale and Anthony.

"A book," Aziraphale breathed, delighted.

"Just the one? The Winchesters have dozens." Anthony crossed his arms, looking properly put out.

"So, skip the backstory. I'm all caught up. What's with the brat that bears such a stunning resemblance to our dear Castiel? Been seeding clouds, have we, Kitten?"

"My name's Jack," the Nephil began carefully. He glanced at Castiel, as if looking for a sign it was okay to continue. Cas gave him a brief nod. "I'm, um. Lucifer's son."

Crowley wasn't sure how to react. "Awfully tall for a two year old."

Jack shrugged, seeming self-conscious. "I...I made myself what I needed to be."

"With Castiel as your fake daddy. Adorable. And did you pop out this wholesome and altruistic?"

Jack smiled softly. "I had my family to help me out along the way."

Crowley returned the smile. "I may vomit." He pushed away from the railing in favor of heading down the stairs to the others. "My my. What a delightful turn of events. So glad someone deemed me worthy of being forced back into this absolute hellhole of a universe. Kindness of strangers, bla bla bla."

"Don't be an ass," Dean said tersely.

"Oh, I fully intend on being an ass about this, darling. Castiel nearly blows up the world how many times and still has endless free tickets back home. Me? I selflessly sacrifice my life to keep this blasted rock turning, and not only do you lot NOT try to bring me back, you actively STOP me from being brought back." Crowley halted in front of Dean. "But the real question is why oh why did I expect anything different?"

"I prayed, dickbag. For you. Prayed to Chuck, for you. Begged him to bring you back. So shove it. I tried the only thing I knew how. Not like there's a goddamn precedent for bringing demons back to life," Dean shot back, and Crowley was surprised by that little tidbit of information. Fancy that, a Winchester praying to the Almighty Absent Father Figure on his account.

"My hateful skank of a mother managed to find a way. Say what you will about Rowena, but I certainly got my ingenuity from her."

"Yeah, and what would be the point of bringing you back if you were—" Sam began, but Crowley cut across him.

"As I once was? The apex predator that set hearts aflutter rather than the abject mess I've been since you two decided to make a science experiment out of me?"(3)

"Would you have preferred it that way?" Castiel asked, with a slight narrowing of his eyes.

Crowley couldn't begin to answer that, but for the sake of appearances, replied: "Obviously, you dense bird. But no use crying over the tattered remnants of my demonic nature."

Anthony yawned loudly. "Well, seems like there's a lot to catch Other Me up on, Aziraphale and I will just...ah, let you have a moment, here..."

The angel and demon practically ran out of the room, desperate to escape the melodrama that neither of them were remotely accustomed to.

Dean decided this was not a family conversation. He flicked his eyes to the others. "Give us a second, alright?"

Cas, Sam, and Jack exchanged a look, but they did as they were bid and let them be.

"Is this the part where we hug? Or are you going to try to kill me again?" Crowley asked as soon as the others were out of the room.

"Depends on what you say next," Dean said, crossing his arms.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Still on trial as always, I see."

"Shut up. Okay? Can you just shut up for five seconds?"

"Not likely."

Dean sucked in a deeply annoyed breath, and Crowley pretended that he hadn't missed irritating the hunter on an existential level. "So...you remember what you said before everything went sideways?"

"I said a lot of things."

"You said you were giving up the throne. Closing the Gates of Hell."

"Rings a bell. That was around the time you threatened to kill me, then impaled me, yeah? Most recent time, that is."

"Oh, what, like we were supposed to let that stunt with Lucifer slide?"

"Do you know how many stunts of yours I've let slide?" Crowley snapped, inserting himself into Dean's personal space. "Want to put my apocalypse count against yours? I'll win."

"Look," Dean held out his hands, taking a deep breath. "I...it doesn't matter now, anyway. It doesn't."

Crowley tilted his head up and stared evenly at Dean. "Then what are you saying, Squirrel?"

"I'm saying that we're good. You. Us. Clean slate. You...you put your chips down in Apocalypse World."

"Finally done second-guessing my loyalties? If only I'd known that all I had to do to earn your trust was die."

Dean deflated. "Jesus, what do you want? A handwritten apology?"

"Oh, that's a start."

"Dick."

"Moron."

Dean swallowed with difficulty, seeming to struggle to find his next words.

Crowley put a stop to the silence for him. "I'll do it."

The hunter blinked, as if he hadn't heard him quite right. "What?"

"Close the Gates. Have to get the throne back first, but...I've become rather good at that, over the years."

Dean leveled a scrutinizing look at him. "Shit. You really mean it, don't you."

"Want to make a deal?" Crowley had a sparkle in his eyes. "Know for sure I'll keep it?"

"Barking up the wrong tree, Crowley."

The demon snorted. "Only because Castiel's already marked his territory on the trunk."

"Don't be gross." Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, so, here's the big question: what are you gonna do when Hell's sealed up? What are you if you're not the King of Hell?"

Well, there it was, wasn't it? The unanswerable question. Years ago, he would've said he was made for that throne, might as well have an imprint of his particularly well-formed ass engraved upon the literally godforsaken thing. How much had he risked to get it? How many bodies had he stepped over? How many dominoes had he aligned so perfectly to lead him there, exactly where he had always felt he belonged?

The corner office. The big chair. In control, now and forever.

If only.

But he wasn't that Crowley anymore, no matter how often he wished he was. Hell knew it had been a simpler time, a better time. But it was a time long past.

So, Crowley merely said, "I'm me."

Dean's expression was difficult to read. "And who are you?"

A small smile played on Crowley's lips, an almost involuntary response. "I suppose that's the thing to find out, isn't it?"

"Well...you're always welcome here," Dean ventured. "If you don't wanna just fuck off on a beach somewhere."

Crowley sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Maybe we could all use a vacation."

Dean found himself nodding. "Whole planet isn't about to blow up for the first time in a long time. Maybe we've all earned some time off. Thanks to Az and AJ, we might actually get some."

"They really did swoop in and save all our hides, didn't they?" Crowley smirked. "Beautiful, ineffable bastards."

"So there's a book about 'em here? Would've been helpful to know that when AJ first showed up. Goofy ass walking out of a devil's trap, blowing up a demon bomb in his hands like it was nothing. We thought we had another Lucifer on our hands."

"Far from it. Our dear Anthony is harmless. I'd say Aziraphale warrants more caution than his demonic better half."

Dean deadpanned. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dangerous bloke when he sets his mind to something, I tell you."

Dean just shook his head. "I'll take your word for it." Running a hand through his hair, he asked, "So...what now?"

"Now," the demon said, twirling his fingers. A bottle of Glenncraig appeared on the library table. "You and the rest of the Little Rascals catch me up on the two years you let me rot in the void."

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief when Crowley shut the door to the spare room behind them. "I did so feel like we were intruding," he admitted, and Crowley's weary nod seemed to imply he felt the same.

"We'll let them all simmer down for a bit. Not big on the high tension situations right now. Had enough of those to last the rest of eternity." Crowley carded a hand through his hair, and Aziraphale noticed a slight tremble to the movement, a concern all on its own. "And I thought the End of the World was bad. That...place..."

"Dreadful," Aziraphale agreed, fidgeting nervously with his pinkie ring. "I've...never been to Hell, but...to spend forever, in nothing...I..."

"It's worse," Crowley confirmed. "I, yeah. I think it'd be worse."

Silence fell on them, heavy and stifling. They were used to silences, of course, they'd had hundreds if not thousands over the course of their long friendship, but what had so separated Crowley from any other being he had ever known was that their shared moments of quiet were comfortable. Aziraphale sat at his desk reading, Crowley napping on the couch. A shared train ride to Glasgow, a shared bus ride to London, an evening on the banks of the Tiber with an excellent vintage. So many times they had lapsed into a space where words weren't needed, and they'd both existed before language, so it had never seemed so strange, not to them. They had the rest of eternity to talk, yes? There wasn't always a call for it.

But this particular silence was different. Something new and uncomfortable and thick with the weight of far too many words spoken, and far more yet waiting unspoken.

He feared very deeply that it was Time, and he still, after running over it innumerable times in his head since the Not-Rapture, had no earthly idea what to say to Crowley. The emotions were there. The feelings. They had always been, for both of them. Aziraphale was a being of love, and there were certain things Crowley couldn't hide from him even if he wanted to, and Crowley's love for him was something so overwhelmingly enormous Aziraphale had lived in something akin to fear of it since he first realized what it was. He had written it off for centuries, assuming he and Crowley just happened to be meeting in particularly well-loved places, but around the seventeenth century there was truly no denying the source of this radiant and inescapable love: it was Crowley. Definitively and irrevocably, Crowley.

So bright as to be blinding. So massive he could feel the demon from hundreds of miles away.

Unceasing.

Miraculous.

And Aziraphale had done very little in the interim but run screaming from it.

"You're staring, angel," Crowley noted listlessly, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I suppose I am. Are you...quite alright, my dear?"

"I'm not the one who just almost died."

Aziraphale frowned. "All of our lives were in great danger..."

"You were the one it wanted to take. Or rip apart. Didn't seem like it had that all the way figured out." Crowley took off his sunglasses and sat them on the night stand, rubbing furiously at his eyes. "If Jack wasn't technically a toddler, I would've flayed him alive."

"No," Aziraphale said with a sad but knowing smile. "You wouldn't have."

Crowley glared at him. "Shut up."

He was actually trying to do the opposite of that, but from mind to mouth the flow was so broken he hadn't the courage to speak. Tolstoy occurred to him in that moment, a distantly remembered line: "Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?"

Hundreds of thousands and then some of love stories he'd read surged through his thoughts, from erotica written in hieroglyphics in Early-Dynastic Egypt to A Thousand Splendid Suns, Persephone and Hades to the poem that inspired Shakespeare to write Romeo and Juliet. Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist, Paris and Helen, Benedick and Beatrice.

Another line hits him: "I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes."

Maybe Crowley would like that. He did always like Shakespeare's more comedic attempts.

Humans were so telling when they wrote. One could look at the entire discipline of fiction as cleverly told lies, and Aziraphale supposed, in an objective sense, that was true. But beneath those lies and tales and plots and plans, nothing spoke truer to the nature of humanity, the intrinsic desire for love, for companionship, for being understood and tied so deeply to another as to give their own life, and then some. Love, eternally. A common thread through so many stories, and he'd read them all.

And his love for Crowley was not just eternal in the purplish prose sense, but so entirely literal. Six thousands years. And now, with the End Times (or at least the first attempt at them) behind, who knew how long would come after? And Aziraphale saw and knew nothing of the future, not one speck, except for Crowley. Crowley would be there, orbiting him, a faithful planet bound to him, forever. For as long as Aziraphale would have him. Unspoken, but true all the same. Aziraphale was not nearly so ignorant as Crowley thought him to be.

A coward, perhaps. But ignorant? No. If only he could be so lucky.

He could ruin this all in an instant, should he say the wrong thing, and he was so good at that, wasn't he?

"We're not friends. I don't even like you!"

"You're a demon, I'm an angel, we're hereditary enemies."

Crowley interrupted him from his bout of self-loathing reflection. "Twice. In less than two months. Almost lost you. Could do without that."

"Twice...? Oh yes. The bookshop. I'd almost forgotten, to be honest."

The look on Crowley's face told him that the demon very much had not forgotten. "Right."

Aziraphale pinched his eyes shut, so damnably frustrated but still so damnably quiet. "Crowley..."

"Let's just...I'm gonna take a nap. You should too. You're looking all pale and—" the demon gestured vaguely. "You lulled the thing to sleep. Must've taken a lot out of you." Crowley eyed the bed. "I can, uh. Go have a lie down on the couch, if you want the bed."

Aziraphale steeled himself. "I rather think there's room for both of us. On the bed, that is."

Crowley eyed Aziraphale suspiciously. "You don't...have to do that."

Aziraphale was already taking off his coat, folding it neatly before placing it on the dresser. "Do what?" he asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

"I know you don't...want..." Crowley growled in open frustration, and Aziraphale wondered if he wasn't the only one struggling for words at the moment. "Just, ignore what the Shadow said, alright? We don't need to talk about it, and you don't need to try to...fix, anything."

"I'm not trying to fix anything," Aziraphale argued, going for the buttons of his waistcoat. His dexterity had fled him in favor of trembling, so he dropped his hands with a huff of irritation, and asked, "Would you help me out of this?"

"Just miracle yourself out," Crowley said immediately, avoiding eye contact.

"I've rather overexerted myself on that account."

Crowley buried his face in his hands for a few moments, but did eventually rise and approach Aziraphale. "Yeah, because this turned out so great last time," the demon muttered, enormously bitter. But he set about clinically undoing Aziraphale's buttons anyway, keeping a forced distance.

You could end this pointless dance once and for all if you just bloody said something, he thought furiously at himself.

But they only got one chance at this. The Time would only come once, and he could muck it up so badly that...

Oh, he couldn't bear to lose Crowley.

That had been the fear all along, hadn't it? One word out of place, one spotted lingering touch, and they'd find themselves burning in Heaven and drowning Hell. It had never been worth the risk. To have Crowley, to truly have him...even that was not worth the demon's life.

But Heaven and Hell had washed their hands of the both of them. There were no prying eyes, no infernal or celestial consequences hanging over their heads. No sides.

Just their side.

So why was he still so afraid?

"The Shadow lied. I need you to know that."

Crowley just shook his head. "Pity doesn't look good on you, angel."

"Who said anything about pity?"

Crowley swallowed with evident effort as he removed Aziraphale's waistcoat and deposited it on top of his jacket. He made to draw away, but Aziraphale called him back with, "My shirt sleeves too, if you would be so kind."

Looking like he'd prefer discorporation, Crowley returned to him and reached up to Aziraphale's collar, haphazardly undoing his bow-tie before carefully reaching for the top button of his shirt. "You're not thinking straight. You were almost killed twenty minutes ago. Let's just, sleep. And then try not to think about anything that happened in this bollocksed universe."

"I meant what I said."

Crowley's hands stilled halfway down Aziraphale's shirt.

Aziraphale had never been so scared in his long life.

"You and I..." Aziraphale struggled, floundering, "well, it's always been you and I, hasn't it?"

Crowley stared at some indistinguishable point on Aziraphale's chest, jaw working. "Whatever you're about to say..." He waited desperately for Crowley to finish the statement, and eventually, he did: "Don't say it if you don't mean it. Don't—don't you dare, angel. I swear to Somebody. Don't you dare."

He heard the underlying implication: if you do this, there's no turning back. For either of us.

"I've said many things to you I haven't meant. Hundreds. And I'd take them all back if I could."

Crowley continued unbuttoning his shirt, hands woefully unsteady. Still keeping a militant gap between the two of them.

The shirt came off, joined the rest of Aziraphale's layers. Aziraphale gently set his hands on Crowley's shoulders, then pushed at his jacket.

"I don't—"

"I'll never lie to you again, Crowley," Aziraphale promised with such force he felt a give in his chest.

In a panicked rush, Crowley blurted out, "Just say whatever you're going to say because I'm going to fucking discorporate if you keep dancing around—"

Crowley's jacket thumped quietly when it hit the floor.

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley.

Light. Feather-light. Barely a pressure, barely there at all, and then he pulled back.

"I don't know what to say to you, my dear, to make you understand...how completely and utterly in love with you I am, and have been, for so very long," Aziraphale admitted, viciously proud that he not only spoken the words into being, but said them with conviction, said them without a single break in his voice.

Crowley stared at him, mouth agape, serpentine eyes so wide they would've looked comical in any other situation. "Aziraphale," he choked.

"I'm going to kiss you again, if that's quite alright," Aziraphale said, not trusting himself to say more, because he was very sure he felt tears building in his eyes and he feared ruining the moment by bursting into hysterics.(4)

Crowley didn't let him get that far. He grabbed Aziraphale by the face and pulled him in with near desperation, crushing their lips together, the hesitant tenderness they'd shared seconds ago gone in an instant. Aziraphale was so lost in the sensation of Crowley's mouth against his and the heat rapidly building between them that he didn't initially realize what Crowley was gasping out in the brief breaks between lip contact.

"I love you, I love you, angel, always, always..."

He continued the mantra as he pressed Aziraphale back against the cold concrete wall, bodies flush against one another.

Eventually, Aziraphale broke away, head swimming, just as Crowley's hands had begun soldiering down his bare chest, nearly at his hips when they paused. "My dear," Aziraphale said thickly, then corrected: "Dearest. I think perhaps we should..."

"Bed," Crowley agreed. "Now."

The lights in the bunker flickered a few times, and Sam was half-sure the building was subtly shaking around them.

Sam looked at Cas. "I'm not imagining that, right?"

Cas's head was tilted in picture perfect confusion. "No. You're not."

"Are you sensing anything bad?"

"No," Cas said again, slowly.

"Well...what is it then?"

Sam could've sworn Cas blushed, before he hesitantly replied, "Just a...small earthquake. Nothing to worry about."

1. What he wouldn't give for five minutes alone with Moose, and a pair of sharp scissors.

2. Let it never be said that the King of Hell didn't keep up on his urban fantasy.

3. Aziraphale leaned over to his Crowley. "Have you any idea in the slightest what they're talking about?"

Crowley shook his head, struck by the overwhelming urge to nap. "Not the foggiest."

4. Though judging by the look on Crowley's face, the demon might beat him to the sobbing.