Mae Govannen everyone,

I have my one friend to blame for getting me into Good Omens, but now I am too much in love with it to do without it so...

DISCLAIMER: I own none of these gorgeous characters

Title is taken from Sinners by Lauren Aquilina

Namarïe

Crowley's in the nightmare.

There's a voice, rich and deep, echoing through his bones, shaking him to the core of his True Form. It is like the sound of a thunderstorm. Bright as lightning. As deep as the endless sea.

And it tells him he has failed.

He Falls, feathers trailing out behind him in a veil of shattered grace. They smoke and burn, incense to the desperate prayer scorching his lips. His plea for mercy. For his salvation.

But his world is silent. He is scorned. Alone.

She isn't coming.

Not for him.

"To the world," says Aziraphale, tilting his glass to meet Crowley's. the crystal flutes make a short, sharp tink, the sound clear of malice. The champagne bubbles in a liquid gold, the same color a halo might make when dimmed.

Crowley tries to smile through the itch in his skull. Something is wrong- rattling around loose up there. Something he feels is important, if he could just get a firm enough grip on it… then everything will make sense.

Except, it already does. Why would he think otherwise? Here they are, sitting together at a table in the Ritz, toasting to a successful aversion of the long-awaited end of the world. It should all be fine!

Except… Crowley can't quite help but have the feeling that something is terribly wrong.

"Are you quite alright, dear boy?"

Crowley looks up to find concern shining like gemstones in Aziraphale's double-pupiled eyes.

No… not Aziraphale… Azirafell.

Because it always has been and always will be. The soft-spoken demon's name is Azirafell, not… Crowley blinks and shakes himself. "Wh- oh, yeah, yeah. 'm fine." He quirks a grin, taking a sip of his champagne. "Never better."

Azirafell watches him closely for a moment, then relaxes. "Drifting again?"

"Mmnnyeah." Crowley shrugs his apology, waving a hand. "Sorry. Happens."

"My dear, I am quite aware of that," says Azirafell with a small laugh. "You don't need to apologize. It doesn't bother me."

Crowley's smile settles into something real and warm. "I know."

No one knows him, nor understands him the way this demon does. And maybe it's a bad thing, but it doesn't feel like it.

Azirafell blinks, a flash of eerie blue, then rests his chin on a hand- almost dreamy. "And we have the world to look forward to…" He sounds delighted. He really is a terrible demon. Crowley's still not sure how someone like him could have Fallen. But Azirafell doesn't like to talk about it, so the angel never asks.

He remembers another angel, a little like his demonic friend, back before the beginning had really begun. A kind-faced, anxious angel, with messy hair the same pale blond as Azirafell's. His faith in Her. How his goodness had shone in his smile like the light of a thousand stars.

Crowley had wanted to show him the universe, newborn as it was back then. All the wonders that he had created. To take him soaring through the nebulae until the glowing dust had painted their white wings into molten art.

After he had asked his questions, of course.

On their seventh meeting, however, the angel had convinced Crowley to let him be a go-between. Something about repercussions being less serious if he was the one doing the asking of Her. Crowley had been ever so grateful. After all- he had a few more nebulae to finish off.

He'd never seen the kind angel again.

He couldn't remember if he had cried. He had wanted to. Had felt something in his chest give a painful wrench.

Now, Azirafell's cheeks are dusted with a faint pink in the glow of the lights, warm against the dusky greys of his waistcoat and trousers. He reaches to settle a hand over Crowley's and the angel cannot help but interlace their fingers.

Their eyes meet, blue on gold, and then the demon says,

"To us."

"Here's to us," echoes Crowley, and puts the feeling of unease from his mind.

Crowley had once asked Aziraphale why he bothered to learn magic tricks when he could simply snap one of his fingers. He didn't understand why one would choose to fumble his way through life, struggling and failing constantly before they finally managed to get something right.

It become quite clear at this point that that Crowley was no longer really referring to the subject, but rather something deeper.

Also, that he was drunk.

Aziraphale had sat him down, taking care to relieve Crowley of his glass of whisky, and had let the demon lean against him- head tucked under the angel's chin. Aziraphale smelled like home. Warm and safe.

"You helped save the world, Crowley," he had murmured softly. "That's not failure."

"It is 'n the eyes of Hell." He'd caught one of Aziraphale's hands in his, half mad with desperation and exhaustion. "'s not supposed to happen. 'S… not…" His tongue struggled to catch up with the words swirling in his mind. It stuttered. Stumbled. Crowley let out a hiss of frustration.

"Try again, my dear," coaxed Aziraphale, ever understanding, ever patient.

"Ngh," said Crowley, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he felt. "'s… 's mistake. We both… ngk, both messed up. Should feel glad about it, but… nnnnh… don't. Not entirely."

"It's quite alright not to."

"'xept it's not, angel." Crowly narrowed his yellow snake's eyes in an attempt to focus on Aziraphale's concerned face. "'s not. Arm'geddon was bad… needed to stop… Ngh, shit. I'm drunk, aren't I?"

"A little," said Aziraphale gently. "You did have most of the bottle."

Crowley mumbled to himself, hiding his face in the angel's shoulder. He was so tired. Hell, the darkness was stinging at the corners of his eyes. Or maybe those were tears. He couldn't tell anymore.

In the nightmare, Crowley is hanging suspended in the air.

Around him, the sky is Falling, Falling, Falling, in a dizzying slew of stars.

"You never sell your books," comments Crowley one afternoon, feeling better than he has all week. The strange sensation of being displaced, of looking at Azirafell and seeing… someone else, has faded like an old coffee stain. Rain splashes in arcane patters on the windows, sliding down in trailing tears of Heaven Above as he shrugs out of his coa

Azirafell looks up from dusting a shelf with a frown. "Whyever would I?"

"Because you're the owner of a bookshop. Not a library."

The demon snorts. "Know-it-all archangels."

"Humans would say the same thing." Crowley shifts his concerns back to the little spider plant drooping on the desk. It looks sad. Lifeless. Greens and whites faded like old china. "Have you been menacing my plants again?"

"I would never!" Azirafell looks affronted. He really is a terrible demon. He joins Crowley to inspect the life form in question. "Perhaps some water? Or maybe it's lonely?"

Crowley sighs but carries the pot over to the one on the windowsill. He mists it with his spray-bottle, choosing to ignore how the little bundle of leaves perks up almost instantly.

Damn.

Azirafell beams. "There! All it needed was some love!"

"Demons aren't supposed to understand that."

"Tsk."

Crowley grins, dropping a soft kiss on the demon's cheek. "Thanks."

Azirafell gives him a small, soft smile, filled with the things they try to avoid saying. Once said, some things can only serve to hurt you. Or the ones you love. They do try to show each other, sometimes, but it's not the same.

"Hell's up to something."

From the armchair, Aziraphale lifts one pale eyebrow, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. They only serve to make his beautiful eyes look bigger. "Don't you mean down to something?"

"Haha." Crowley seats himself on the small counter of the angel's kitchenette, long, lanky legs swinging to an unheard beat. "Seriously, angel. 's something bad."

"It's always something bad when Hell gets involved." Aziraphale tucks a bookmark between the pages and sets his novel aside on the chipped table. Beside it steams the angel-wing mug, half full of cocoa. No… tea- Crowley can see the tag hanging over the rim of the mug.

He sniffs surreptitiously. Earl Grey. Definitely tea.

"I don't see what you want me to do about it, dear boy." Aziraphale sits forward, glasses sliding down his nose. "Do you know what they're planning?"

"Nghhhhh," grunts Crowley, glaring with all his yellow-eyed might at his knees. He picks at a loose thread. "No. Not yet. 's got something to do with Gabriel though." He forces himself to swallow. It feels like something is caught in his throat. Something with far too many jagged edges. He tries not to think about it too hard.

Or how it eases somewhat when the angel smiles at him.

"Then all we can do is wait," reasons his friend. If that is still what they are. If he tries hard enough, Crowley can still recall the burning of the angel's lips on his. How warm his hands had been, framing the demon's face.

Was it even real?

Or was it a dream?

He's been having a lot of dreams, lately. Some that feel wrong, twisted and strange. Almost what he would wish for… if they could end up different.

He blinks, glancing up at Aziraphale, and for a moment he sees double-pupiled eyes, a face paler and slightly harder around the edges than it should be. Disturbed, Crowley leaps down off the counter and leans forward to peer at the angel's visage.

Aziraphale frowns. "Crowley? What's the matter?"

And then it is gone. A ghost, haunting the backs of his eyes every time he tries to close them. That dream… that twisted reality.

One where they can never say how they feel.

He sighs, resting his brow against that of the angel. Aziraphale's soft hair tickles his skin, and he breathes in the calming scent of peace and goodness. Warm hands come up to cradle his face, fingers trailing points of fire on his cheeks.

"It will all be alright, my dear," says Aziraphale softly. "We will figure it out."

Crowley cannot help but smile. Of course they will. "'f you say so."

"I do." Aziraphale tilts his face up and gently kisses Crowley, all soft and chaste and comforting. It eases the pain in his tense shoulders, lungs drawing a full breath he didn't even know he was missing. "After all," he adds, in a warm breath against the demon's ear. "We did stop Armageddon, didn't we?"

Crowley huffs a laugh, ducking in for another kiss. Part of him is telling him that they shouldn't be this open while there's an archangel sleeping above their heads, even if said archangel cannot remember what an arsehole he was before all of this. But he can't bring himself to care anymore. Not when he's this close.

Damn this ridiculous, wonderful angel. "Yeah. I guess we did."

It doesn't end well, after all.

In all honesty… Crowley had been expecting it. They had stopped Armageddon once, that was no guarantee that it wouldn't happen again. And thinking otherwise had made him a fool.

Maybe Azirafell had underestimated just how cruel She really was. Maybe She simply didn't care. The world bleeding with living creatures; the skies, his skies, filled with the flash and gleam of celestial war. Flaming swords tearing gaping wounds in his nebulae. The colors swirled together in a gruesome artwork of the end.

Armageddon come again.

The do-over.

Crowley's red hair flames, his knuckles white on the hilt of his blade, chest heaving as he ducks into the bookshop. Outside, all he can hear is the blazing of hellfire, the shouting of angered celestial beings. It makes his head pound, his skin crawling like snakes. He can't quite manage to breathe, his lungs aching with smoke- the hellish taste like sandpaper to his raw throat.

"Azirafell!" he shouts, spinning. Desperation bleeds into his voice, a plea for the world to return to how it had been three hours ago. For this all to be a bad dream. The sense of being displaced thickens into a pull in the air. This can't be real. Why was this real? Aziraphale is safe. He's…

He's…

He's Azirafell. Not Aziraphale. Azirafell.

Crowley shakes his head, crying out mad with fear. "AZIRAFELL!"

And then he is there, kneeling with his hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed on Crowley. They are full of so many things, things they should have said. Should have said before all of this went to shit. Now all they will have are regrets.

Gabriel smiles brightly, sword to the demon's throat, and Crowley forgets to breathe. Azirafell's beautiful grey wings are sprawling broken across the floor, feathers torn and smoldering. There is pain deep in those beautiful eyes, in the thin set of his mouth. Even as he offers Crowley a small, tired smile.

And that's when the angel knows it's truly over.

Gabriel's voice is curious and devoid of judgement when he speaks, but it sends a shudder of fear through Crowley. He cannot think. Not with that blade so near to Azirafell's fucking throat.

"Consorting with a demon… for some reason, I'm not surprised that it's you." Gabriel lets out a sigh. "Still, bit of a shame. Even a weak angel is still an angel. Really could have done with another soldier. But you know the rules! Treachery is a no-no." And with a wave of a finger, the archangel flashes a smile.

Crowley falls to his knees, screaming as his wings burst into the Physical Plane, feathers curling and turning black, like paper soaked in ink. His body shakes with agony as the deadly cocktail of the damned courses through his veins. His sight blurs, spine arching as a horrible shriek tears from between his teeth, bones splintering, cracking.

His eyes burn, tears of blood and fire coursing down his cheeks. His hands sear from the grip of his sword and he hisses, dropping it. His palms are raw and blackened, tongue forked like that of a snake.

"Crowley!" Azirafell's voice is distraught as he watches the angel spasm in pain, weeping his caustic black tears. "CROWLEY!" It curls upward into a scream as Gabriel's sword runs him through from behind, the flames spreading over those soft grey garments. A high, keening wail.

Gabriel laughs as the ground shakes, rending with great chasms. A swirling sea of nothing curling at the bottom of them. He tosses Azirafell's thrashing body aside and advances, calm. Purple eyes full of what might be an apology, if there were a little bit less arrogance to war with it.

"Traitor," he says pleasantly, before his boot finds Crowley's burning chest and he is thrown back into a void.

It crushes him, wings trailing out behind him in banners of broken dreams. The wind gashes his face, his shimmering blood whipping into trails of ichor.

In the nightmare, Crowley is Falling. And he does not know up from down.

In the nightmare, Crowley hears a thin wail, laced with pain. It calls to some place deep inside him, pleads for his return.

In the nightmare, he Falls past a tapestry of stars, their light cold and distant. His feathers gleam like the space between them, dark with the stains of his soul.

In the nightmare, he is Falling, and he knows now why Azirafell never spoke of it.

In the nightmare, Crowley weeps for all he has lost, drowning in a sea of torn feathers. He Falls and Falls and Falls, and no one is there to catch him.

In the nightmare, when he strikes the ground and sinks into bubbling, burning sulphur, his heart breaks along with his back.

When Crowley wakes, from the dream of a world where a demon wears his angel's face, he can't stop the scalding tears from tracing his cheeks. He shakes and shudders, sobbing into the form that enfolds him. Holds him close.

He wakes to a vision of soft white feathers, tucked into Aziraphale's side. The angel's magnificent wings tented over them. Safe. Warm. Shining softly in the dim lamplight. Outside thunders a storm, drumming the small window in a beat of raindrops.

Upstairs, in the small guest-room, an archangel is sleeping.

Somewhere, out in the gloom of the howling night, Heaven and Hell are scheming.

But then Aziraphale presses a kiss to his temple, and hugs his shaking body close.

And all Crowley can think is,

I'm home.