Hey everyone,

Weirdly, this one's been written for a while and then I realized it was kind of terrifying to even consider posting it, so I went over it quite a few times and I think I like where it's at. I hope you do too!

Thank you to those still reading!

Without further ado...

Enjoy!

Aziraphale stepped back from the summoning circle but didn't make it much as he wobbled on unsteady legs. Without something to hold onto, stopping was easiest. He hadn't realized how desperately he had hoped to see Crowley until only Muriel appeared before him. He hadn't gathered how anxious he was to be understood until Crowley had rejected his plea. Alone in the silence of the sigil room, he finally allowed the pressing weight of grief to settle squarely on his shoulders as he admitted he had hoped Crowley would have wanted to speak as Aziraphale wanted to talk to him. He felt betrayed and coerced by Heaven, but he felt abandoned by the demon.

Not that it was Crowley's fault. Aziraphale had been the one to suggest Heaven. And even on that day, a part of him knew Crowley would reject it. If he was honest – something he was learning he rarely was – he should have been the one to reject it.

The only small consolation was that Muriel had seen him. It was a small blessing, but a welcome one. Whatever plot the Metatron was working toward hadn't happened. Even still, Saraqael's warning took on a new urgency now that Crowley wasn't in his line of sight. He had hoped for visible anger, had welcomed a chance for the punishment that would result. He had expected a cold shoulder, but a present one. Twisting the ring on his finger, Aziraphale considered his next move, an attempt to distract himself from the worry and loneliness. Never in his six thousand years had he felt so completely isolated. Yet, things were in motion that could not be allowed to continue.

Niggling hints of threats were slowly multiplying but none added up to any real picture. The portents the Metatron had talked about, the reports Andromeda had given him, the hints of destruction hidden in the history of the universe, all of them were generic enough to mean very little – from time to time they had all been used as a warning or a punishment – but he was sure he had heard the order before. Even still, the individual events didn't matter, they would be dangerous to a few, but the culminating event would be a death blow and even those not killed outright, would eventually be claimed. Yet, the panic squeezing his heart focused on Crowley.

A disgraced demon who apparently fit into this…somehow. What could the Metatron possibly want him for? A creeping realization settled in the back of his mind – he was not used to dealing with this level of duplicity. He had never had to; he had always been lucky enough to know who to have faith in.

"Must carry on then." Aziraphale quietly demanded. He took a deep breath and pulled down on his perfectly straight vest before he strode back to his office. He needed a plan because he had a sneaking suspicion there would be no demon to save him this time.

Only three more people, Hannah thought as she clutched her passport against her daughter's beat-up bookbag, hugging both closer to her chest.

To say she was excited was an understatement. To say she was eager or enthusiastic or astonished, none of it would be truly enough to characterize the holy euphoria Hannah was currently keeping contained as she waited in the customs line. She assumed bouncing on her toes would be a good way to guarantee that she would get pulled out of line for a closer inspection. The fact that she had so little with her would probably warrant a closer look as it was, so she didn't want to push her luck.

Two more.

No one at home believed her when she told them she had been visited by the Archangel Uriel. Not even her pastor gave her a second glance, but she would prove them all wrong. Surely, she had shown by now that she was a dedicated mother and wife, what else but a true angel could have made her give up her peaceful existence and fly to England? Her husband had pushed back, of course, but he knew her well enough to know that she had decided, and there was very little that could stop her. Surely, she would be back in a few days, a couple weeks at best. Until then, she would try very hard to find Greenwich.

One more.

As she watched the young man in front of her interact with the grey-haired officer, she was suddenly very thankful that Uriel had sent her to England. Having only travelled out of Iowa once for a missions trip right after she graduated, Hannah didn't have much in the way of language skills and her high school Spanish teacher hadn't exactly been an engaged teacher nor she a promising student. The people here spoke with an accent, but at least she'd be able to understand it.

And blessedly, her passport still had another six months before it expired.

She handed it over as she got up to the window, beaming at the grumpy man sitting behind the glass screen. Hannah couldn't help the jolt of enthusiasm when he returned her smile with a sly smirk of his own. He scanned the picture and turned to face her.

"What brings you to London, miss?" His badge said his name was Hugo, and he looked up at her expectantly, his stamp hovering over the appropriate page.

"Just visiting for a few days." Hannah said, biting her tongue to keep from revealing her actual reasoning to a country that she had long been told placed little value in religion. As the stamp came down next to the faded stamp from Guatemala, she added, "That passport's only got a few more months and I figured I should use it before it expires."

"And where are you staying while you're here?"

Hannah quickly called up her email on her phone. "A place called Zedwell Piccadilly Circus." She turned the screen so Hugo could see the location. "I've always heard good things about Soho, and I wanted to see what it was like." She lied. It had been the cheapest place she could find less than ten miles from Greenwich on such short notice.

"Lively place you picked." He pressed the stamp back into its pad and slid her passport back through the slit in the glass. When she slipped her fingers under it to pull it away, he held onto it. Flicking his gaze up, he said, "Look for Felix in the taxi line, he'll get you where you need to go for cheaper." He let go of the passport and leaned back in his chair. "Happy to have you, miss. Have a wonderful time."

"Happy to be here." Hannah said as she collected it. As she hurried away, she called back, "Have a wonderful day, Hugo!" Without another glance back, she started to pick her way through the airport to the cab line to look for Felix. Surely, this was all a part of the plan.

Red smoke drifted lazily up from the hastily constructed globe – the Americas were slightly too small, Africa too narrow, and the Arctic had somehow connected itself to the southern tip of Australia, but England was the appropriate size – indicating to the staring Archangel that the demon was still in a marginally safe place.

Aziraphale had work to do. Puzzles to unknot and solutions to find, but his free hand was simply resting on the scribbles of half-formed ideas while his mind wandered to the smoke. It would be easy, so easy, to pull his hand from under his chin and press a finger to the general location of Soho. He would be able to sense Crowley then, could find him, wherever he was hiding. Actually talk to him. For three days now, he had spent hours thinking of what he would say if he just got the chance: he would plead for the world. For the humans. Beg for the help of the cleverest being he knew. But even as he worked through flowered words and passionate pleas, he couldn't quiet the feeling that there was another, real reason for his request. It was terrifying to consider, and he buried it as deeply as he could. It did nothing to stop the feeling of hands on his lapels and lips on his, so he kept running back into the relative safety of assured destruction. If all it did was feed his vulnerability, pulling him farther from Her love and from his normally unwavering faith, so be it.

He languished, working when he could and refusing to acknowledge he was on his own. He hadn't uncovered any more useful information. He hadn't seen hide nor tail of Uriel and Michael, Andromeda had been no help, and the multiple requests to meet he had sent to the Metatron had all been returned with the same polite, if cold, message of apology and business. He had found a storage closet of holy relics, many of them with truly awesome power, but no indication of what they were collected for or how they would be used. At one point, he had been so frustrated with the lack of anything real that he had marched to the observation room the Metatron preferred to operate from and was told the Metatron hadn't been seen in days. The frustration of the naivety, or ignorance, of those around him left him feeling like he was screaming uselessly into a void. And that left him leaning back into the sorrow of the red smoke and the increasingly desperate hope of a call. He had gone as far as to miracle a small light on his desk that would alert him if Muriel activated their summoning circle.

A sudden, sharp knock caught his languid attention. Aziraphale scrubbed his hand down his face. "Come in." He had learned, rather by chance, that he was one of the few angels who could, in fact, lock, and unlock, the door to his office.

The swinging door revealed the slight scrivener. "Archangel Aziraphale?" He asked as he clutched a thin stack of files in front of him.

"Yes, Nakir." Aziraphale said hollowly, the hope he had tried to hold onto had burned away. When had that happened?

"I have something you might be interested in." Nakir rushed forward and gently laid the files on Aziraphale's desk.

"What is this?"

"If you'll forgive me, your Grace, I've been looking into the event you were asking about, the Second Coming." He shuffled a few steps back from the desk and gestured toward the stack. "I thought it strange there were files without information, especially those so intimately connected to Heaven, so I started poking around and found that."

"I thought you said there wasn't anything else?" Aziraphale flicked his attention between the file and the angel.

"With the title you used, there wasn't." Nakir said. He gestured at the file. "But what I found wasn't titled 'Parousia' or 'the Second Coming', those records were filed under the name 'Epiphaneia'. It has a different meaning to humans."

"A linguistic difference?" Aziraphale asked absentmindedly, his curiosity piqued. "Why would that affect our records?"

"It happens from time to time." Nakir offered with a shrug. "When documents are heavily reliant on the experiences of humans or Earth, it can mean that the nature of the files take on the human meaning. Sacraments and Ordinances for example. They're similar enough in our eyes, but they have different meanings on Earth so pulling files on them requires knowledge of that quirk. In this case, the words had enough of a distinction that it kept me from accessing the files when I was searching for the event. Essentially, I was searching for the wrong thing."

Aziraphale flipped open the top file, vellum appeared. Shifting a few of the papers, he asked, "What does it say?"

"I'm not sure, your Grace, it is well beyond my ability to read."

Aziraphale slowly looked up. "How did you find out you were searching in the wrong place?" He hated the distrust that coated his tongue and rejected the way it fed the hollowness sitting in his chest.

It didn't help that Nakir flicked his gaze away before answering. "I asked some of the other scriveners if they had heard anything about the events happening on Earth."

"I asked you not to tell them what I was doing." Aziraphale growled, his eyes narrowing as his being crackled with heavenly power.

"I didn't mention you, Supreme Archangel." Nakir hunched his shoulders and tucked his arms into his stomach as he shuffled back a few steps. "I didn't tell them why. I only said that I had heard there were some things happening and that I was curious." He risked a glance at Aziraphale, only to drop it just as quickly. "I found another scrivener who had retrieved a file similar to what I collected for you. When I prodded a bit more, I found out they had found it for Supreme Archangel Gabriel before…" Nakir's voice dropped into the reverent, "before he was killed. Once I knew that, I just asked for the name." He gestured at the open file. "That's what I found when I requested it."

Aziraphale caught himself mid-scoff – in the back of his mind, he had wondered about the story the Metatron had told for Gabriel's abrupt disappearance, but never had the presence of mind to ask – and appropriately fixed his expression. Why keep their secrets? He laid his hand on the file and gently said, "Gabriel's not dead, Nakir. He wasn't killed or destroyed or swallowed by hellfire, or whatever story has been swirling around the clouds."

Nakir's eyes bulged as his gaze snapped up. "But the Metatron said…"

"He lied." Aziraphale said bluntly, holding the startled attention.

"But he said…" Nakir trailed off. "That's why you're here." The pieces of deception clearly fell into place, and he breathlessly asked, "What happened?"

"He left." Aziraphale shrugged. "He left with Beelzebub. No one killed him; they chose to leave together."

"Gabriel chose to leave Heaven? For a demon?" Nakir paraphrased to the floor.

"Yes. He chose a demon."

Nakir's expression crumpled in confusion as he met Aziraphale's gaze. "Why?"

"I assume he realized there is something more to this universe than Heaven and Hell." Aziraphale said softly, his attention slipping to the thin, red trail of smoke rising from the globe. His guts twisted at the admission, but he still had the wherewithal to order, "You cannot tell anyone about this. There are events taking place that could well lead to the end of everything and sharing this with too many could tip the balance."

Nakir's expression pinched and his eyes widened as he quietly considered what Aziraphale said.

Aziraphale felt that fear rising in his throat, but before he could say anything else, the blue light on his desk illuminated and his heart leapt. Spinning back to Nakir, Aziraphale hurriedly said, "I need you to promise that you're not going to tell anyone about this. I can't explain everything right now, but I must leave, and I can't do that until you promise you won't tell anyone."

"I won't." Nakir shook his head. "I promise on Her name that I won't say anything, Supreme Archangel."

"Thank you. I must go." As he reached the door, Aziraphale turned, "And thank you for finding that file. I promise I'll speak with you again." He rushed out the door as quickly as propriety would allow.

Aziraphale materialized facing the back of the bookshop. He took only a moment to breathe in the familiar scents, take in the comforting paint on the walls. At least he tried, but the raising anxiety and nervousness the demonic presence behind him caused made it difficult to focus on nostalgia. It was a presence he hadn't felt in more than a month and an unwanted need flared. His lips tingled at the last horrific memory and his stomach dropped as the promise of his last temptation lingered in the air. The promise of more, of something different, of something Aziraphale was terrified to name. For a brief moment, the urge to disappear slammed into him. He turned slowly.

Crowley had slouched in his old, plush chair; his leg thrown up over the arm as he stared somewhere in the mid-distance. His sunglasses revealed little, but they had known each other for six thousand years, there was little Aziraphale couldn't interpret. His own nerves calmed slightly when he realized how uncomfortable Crowley was. At least we're starting from the same footing, he thought selfishly. Glancing over to the uncomfortable angel, he diplomatically asked, "Muriel, could you please give us some space? Maybe go talk to Maggie or go to the coffee shop?" Most of his attention was on the silent demon.

Muriel nodded quickly and stuttered, "I'll…uh…go to the coffee shop." Absentmindedly snatching a book off the front desk, they hurried out the door.

The welcoming bell rang ominously through the shop. Once it quieted, Crowley flicked his hand up to reveal a shock of red trapped between his thin fingers. His voice was rough, almost exhausted as he asked, "What was this, Aziraphale?" He didn't look up, only slumped farther into the chair.

Aziraphale's stomach clenched at the dispassion in the tone, Crowley should never be so flat. The Archangel took a few steps forward, squinting at the fabric held between them like a shield. So, he opened it. Aziraphale cleared his throat, desperate for some kind of direction. He had been practicing for days and he couldn't recall any of it. He settled for honesty, "It was proof that I was the one asking." For what? It felt like he had spoken a finished sentiment, but as Aziraphale looked at Crowley, he couldn't stop the need building in his stomach. What exactly was he asking for? His hands started to sweat. Instinctively, he knew this conversation would only happen once and he couldn't consider if it went wrong.

"I'm not asking what it is, I'm asking what it was." Crowley clarified with a low growl. Clearly, far more focused than Aziraphale.

"It was a gift. A thank you." It was the sincere answer, but when Crowley's expression darkened, Aziraphale knew it wasn't the right answer. He felt like he wanted to throw up.

"That you never gave me." Crowley snarled, throwing the tie onto the desk beside him. He met Aziraphale's gaze, radiating quiet, controlled rage. Or heartbreak?

"No." Aziraphale bit, pulling the inside of his lip between his teeth for a moment before he confirmed, "I never did."

"Why? Why give it to me now?"

"I needed you to trust it was me." Aziraphale pled, his hands moving with his desperation. "I need your help, Crowley." That's the right angle, Aziraphale assured, keep it focused on the actions of Heaven. They could sort out their own issues later.

The muscle in Crowley's jaw twitched, but his voice dropped into a nonchalance that bordered on conversational. "So, what? You thought to get me to trust you, you would show me how long you've been lying to me?"

"Lying?" Aziraphale sputtered, "What are you talking about?" Oh god.

"That card," Crowley said, his voice dripping with poison, "said always." He snarled as tears threatened in his voice, "But it's never been always, Aziraphale. It's been Heaven. That's it. Only Heaven. They're the always." He shrugged, somehow slithering more into the bend of the chair.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale trailed off as every warning he had ever experienced in his long life flooded back. It set his whole body aflame, and his words caught in his throat as he finally, truly saw a fraction of the pain he had caused.

The silence stretched like a chasm between them before Crowley slapped his hands on the armrests and threw himself to his feet. "I don't know why I agreed to talk to you. Not sure why I came." He stalked to the door, throwing accusatorily over his shoulder, "Think I just wanted to hear you say it."

"I haven't said anything," Aziraphale croaked, thankful when his legs responded to the command to lurch forward, and he managed to call, "Crowley wait, please. I need your help."

The demon's hand closed on the doorknob and his shoulders rose to his ears. He stayed that way as if Aziraphale's words had stopped time.

Aziraphale jumped at the chance. "What I need to talk to you about, it's incredibly important. I just...need to explain. It's world-ending…universe-ending stuff."

"I don't care." Crowley promised with a thick voice.

"Yes, you do. That's why you're here."

Crowley spun back from the door impossibly fast and was in Aziraphale's face in an instant, "Don't you dare try to tell me why I'm here."

"Why are you here, then?" Aziraphale pushed.

Crowley narrowed his gaze behind the glasses and snarled but didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Why me?" He took a step back and looked expectantly at the angel. "Aren't you the Supreme Archangel? Get one of your minions to solve the problem." He raised an eyebrow. "Or I'm sorry, did you manage to fix all Heaven's problems and now none of your angels can stoop to the level you need?" Sarcasm and disdain dripped off his words.

Aziraphale took a step back as if Crowley had slapped him. Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to choke back the potency of that statement. Panic clawed up his throat. They were balanced on the precipice of the highest mountain and any wrong answer would ensure a fall. Some deeply rooted instinct, some long-learned human urge to save the relationship took over; this was the most important thing. Throwing any of the loosely-remembered placations and enticements he could muster off the cliffside, Aziraphale settled on the truth. "I'm so sorry, Crowley." He poured as much conviction into the confession as he could.

"Sssave it," The demon hissed, the dismissal on his tongue just as quickly, "You already forgave me." He took a few steps into the doorway, and his hand fell again onto the doorknob. He pushed it open, with every clear intention of leaving.

Aziraphale's panicked. The last time Crowley had walked out in a fight, their world collapsed. That entrenched desperation took over and he snapped his fingers, forcing the door shut and the lock to engage.

Crowley turned, his jaw working in anger as he snapped, "Is that what this is? Tying up loose endsss?"

Aziraphale had only heard the snake a few times in their long history together. It happened when Crowley was particularly angry…or afraid.

"Bring more holy water, did ya?" Crowley asked, standing to his full height, deceptively straight.

"No." Aziraphale said earnestly, aghast that he would even ask. "But you can't leave again." Panic and fear were clear on his face before he swallowed them back enough to explain, "I asked you to come here so I could talk to you about what Heaven's planning."

Aziraphale waffled on the answer. He could see the precipice and he was desperate to avoid it. "But the truth is, I would have taken any excuse." He swallowed hard. "I miss you, so much." He dropped his gaze. Crowley didn't respond. Aziraphale filled the space. "I gave you the tie to prove what you mean…to me. I wanted to give that to you all those years ago, but before I did, I realized what it could mean. Most demons aren't particularly observant, and most angels are dense but if anyone recognized that tartan, it would be dangerous for you."

"And you." Crowley snarled with slightly less animosity.

"Yes, you idiot!" Aziraphale snapped. "That's the point. I wanted you to know…" He trailed off before admitting what he knew he needed to. Instead, he cleared his throat and calmed his tone. "I would have gotten a letter; they would have tortured you. Again." He stepped forward in his annoyance, "So, I didn't give it to you."

The outburst seemingly startled Crowley enough that he was staring at Aziraphale with a warring expression, somewhere between impressed and nervous. But he was listening. Aziraphale took the opportunity, "I'm here because I need you."

There were so many ways that versatile word could have been deciphered. Had they just been angels or demons, it would have been the straightforward interpretation of aid. The same way a demon needed help holding a whip during a torment, or an angel needed help changing a lightbulb. But having been in the world for as long as Aziraphale and Crowley had and picking up on the nuances, and annoyances, of human speech, Aziraphale's need teetered somewhere between the straightforward and the existential.

Crowley opted for the first, his expression souring. He spat, "Need me to clear up something, then?"

"No." Aziraphale said adamantly, "I need you." Aziraphale emphasized the second meaning.

Clearly, Crowley heard the difference when he shot back, "Well, I needed you." He said it too quickly for the past tense to truly be true. His gaze dropped away from the angel before him, skittering across the floorboards as if he was considering shrinking into the atoms between them.

Aziraphale deflated, "I know." He shook his head, "I know that now." He'd finally heard Crowley's need. A whisper told him it was too late to resolve it. But exigency spurred him on. He was done being told what was happening, not without fighting first.

"You should have known it then," Crowley snapped in a flash of anger, "After everything they've done – to you, to me, to the world – you still can't see it." His brow furrowed. "You can't see them for what they are." But as quickly as the anger appeared, it cooled. Crowley dropped into a chair, and conceded, "What do you need help with?"

Aziraphale stuttered at the abrupt change, "What?"

Crowley passed his hand between them, "Clearly they've done something reprehensible, and you need someone disposable to clean it up."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. He reflexively took a step closer as he muttered, "You don't know the half." Tipping his head, a bit, he added a little louder, "What do you mean disposable?"

Crowley's eyes shined with amused disbelief before he looked away with a sardonic chuckle, "I do know more than half, An…ziraphale." Snarling at something in his own response, he considered a shelf for a long moment. "Did you forget I'm a demon? I'm the bad guy. That's what you said when you left." He met Aziraphale's gaze with a burning one before he twisted the knife, "What else is a demon for than to be thrown away? A stooge for you to use."

In horror, Aziraphale's words flooded back. He hadn't meant it like that, not really. It was just something he always said. Wasn't it? He stilled, in what had to be an awkward silence, as he wracked his brain. Over the years, he had said that. His blood ran cold when he realized he had stopped. After Armageddon. After Crowley had saved him. After he had realized who he could truly trust. His stomach somehow dropped lower as the bitter taste of regret coated his tongue.

Crowley scowled into the silence and then his voice cracked like a whip. "Shall I explain it farther? Alright." He quickly answered his own question with a biting edge. "You hate the fact that I'm a demon. You wanted me to change, to make me an angel again, remember?" Crowley didn't wait for an answer, instead letting the rage and anguish spill out. "After everything I've done to put myself back together again after what they did, you just wanted me to…what? Ignore it? Switch it off? Become something I'm not. All because what I am isn't enough for you."

Aziraphale's eyes widened as if seeing the sun after a lifetime in darkness. His clenched hands twisted as he hurried assured, "I was wrong to ask that of you, I know that now, but I don't think…"

Crowley shook his head and cut him off, "Don't do that."

Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut, the apology dying on his tongue. His foot slipped on the precarious mountain spine.

"Doesn't matter what you say, not anymore. It's done. I know what I am and what I can't be." Crowley worked his jaw for a moment, and his voice dropped into a flat, lifeless draw, "You made that very clear." He looked away as he took a deep breath. "What're they planning?"

"I don't think I'm better than you, Crowley."

"Oh," Crowley barked a humorless laugh and waggled his finger accusingly, "but you do. Remember along with 'you're the bad guys' went 'we're the good guys'. You said that when you offered me your 'promotion'. You've said it repeatedly for six thousand years." He slithered out onto his knee, "You know what that makes me, right? Unnn-worthy." He paused, staring unflinchingly at Aziraphale. "The demon unworthy to even be near the angel." He flicked his hand between them dismissively and exhaustedly added, "But no matter what you pretend, your lot is just hell with a few extra letters."

Aziraphale stared, his hands clenched tightly in front of him, and his attention fixed on Crowley.

Crowley lunged, "What? Silent now? Don't want to talk over me?" The pain and frustration that had been boiling since the nightingale died was on full display.

Tears crawled down his cheeks as Aziraphale dropped Crowley's gaze. He was scrambling for purchase, and it just kept crumbling under his fingers.

Crowley sneered, and twisted the knife, "You know I never told you this because I didn't want to hurt you, but clearly you need to hear it. Remember our trials? Well, Gabriel wanted you dead. And not as a reluctant punishment. He had every intention of taking pleasure in it. Uriel and Sandalphon too. They stood by and they watched as Gabriel ordered you to kill yourself. No trial. No questions. Just hellfire. And they're all like that" He tipped his head to the side, "Well, most of them." His words tightened on the admission.

Aziraphale's head snapped up at Crowley's admission. "What do you mean?" Hope, he secured a handhold.

Crowley took in a deep breath, "You were never like them, Aziraphale." He shrugged, "Until you were." And the heartbreak was back. "Or maybe you were always like them, and I couldn't see it. Maybe I just found it amusing. A challenge."

A tear slipped down Aziraphale's cheek as he quietly said, "I'm so sorry, Crowley. I didn't…I don't…Can I fix this?"

"Nah." He gave a shrug, "Like I said, you already forgave me." He waved his hand noncommittally, before it fell to rest in his lap. He collapsed boneless back into the chair and dutifully asked, "What do yah need?" His gaze flicked anywhere but the angel standing in front of him.

"You." Aziraphale said taking a step forward, his hands falling open in front of him, inviting.

Much like need, the use of poignantly emphasized pronouns could have a profound effect on human speech. Had he been speaking as an angel, this would have simply been a request for help, but with the added emphasis of body language and pointed eye contact, it meant far more. Especially to a demon who spent the first few hundred years being "you" to any handful of higher ups who ordered him to do something and a "you" to a particular bastard angel. Aziraphale's use was the latter.

Crowley's attention snapped into focus, but there was disbelief and fury in his tone, "What?"

"We can run." Aziraphale said, abandoning the last shred world saving pretension. Shifting into a space that Crowley would surely recognize. "Right now. We can forget all of it. Go to Alpha Centauri. Wherever you want. Together. Just us."

Crowley's eyes widened in anger, and he snapped, "That's not how this works! You can't…just …do that." He trailed off on a note of incredulity.

"Why not? You wanted to go before; we could go now." Aziraphale begged.

Multiple emotions flashed across Crowley's face before exasperation won out and he jumped to his feet. Aggressively gesturing between them, he spat, "I don't want to go with you!"

Aziraphale deflated farther, a quiet "oh" escaped.

Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He muttered, "Alright…talk for real." When he opened his eyes again, the haze of anger and pain had been pushed aside for the sorrow of acceptance, "I wanted to be with you, just you. No more Heaven. No more Hell. No more demands from beings who hate us. I wanted us to be…well, an us. Remember? I tried. You didn't want it."

"I didn't understand what you were offering." Aziraphale said, his voice choked with tears.

Crowley's tone instinctively softened, "You could've." But the ire slipped back in a moment later when he growled, "I tried to tell you. But you were so excited to be something you're not, so blinded by their…their idealized arrogance and self-righteous promise that you didn't listen."

"I'm listening now." Aziraphale hurriedly assured.

Crowley shook his head and offered a challenge. "Prove it." Inherent in the test was the promise that failure would not come with a second chance.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale accepted the challenge that could easily throw them over the edge. His words were intentional, "I hurt you when I chose to go back to Heaven. In making that choice, I said things I didn't intend. I was idiotic and selfish, and I never once thought about why you wouldn't want to go back to that world. Even though I knew why. And then when you offered…" Aziraphale took a shaky breath. "When you offered everything I've actually wanted." He bit his tongue and flicked his gaze upward. "I wanted it to sound so close to what I was offering you that I couldn't see why you couldn't take it. I couldn't listen. And I was…terrified to turn my back…to take what I wanted."

Crowley stood, studying Aziraphale like he was the only thing in the cluttered bookshop. His voice was a low hiss when he pressed, "Why?"

"Because I love you." Aziraphale admitted as he finally let the loss, longing, and sorrow make sense. He stopped fighting the war that didn't need to be fought and admitted the feelings he had smashed into the deepest parts of his soul when Crowley had walked out the door. He finally admitted the truth.

Crowley's gaze widened, but he stayed quiet.

It wasn't enough. But Aziraphale was done accepting the situation. He continued, the words he had been ruminating on without realization tumbled free. "I'm an angel that loves a demon; an angel who rather be on Earth than in Heaven." He flicked his gaze up at Crowley. "For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me for that. Every time I considered telling you, it felt like teetering on the edge of falling. It was horrifying." Aziraphale bit back tears. "And then they didn't want us. I was disappointed, but it didn't hurt like I thought it would because you could sit close, come by when you liked, and just…be with me. Just me. For the first time since Eden, we didn't have to pretend, and I liked not pretending." Aziraphale said almost petulantly.

Crowley's attention was fixed, he was barely breathing as he listened to the explanation.

"But then, the Metatron offered something I've been told to want since before the beginning, something that would make me…right. And I've tried so desperately to ignore our reality for so long that when I finally had the chance to choose, when we were finally free to be something different…I… couldn't." Aziraphale broke the stare, and his voice was a quiet apology, "I don't know why I did it, but I know I made the wrong choice." He hung his head.

Silence settled across the bookshop.

Crowley took an unconscious step toward Aziraphale, only to retreat when the angel broke the silence. "For six thousand years, you're the only being I could trust completely. For irony or ineffability, I'm not sure, but it's true. Yet, I never truly returned it. And then with only token hesitation, I threw it all away. I told you that you're not worthy of love when you are the most deserving as you are. I'm incredibly sorry, Crowley. If you let me, I will spend the rest of eternity apologizing. Whatever way you see fit, I would gladly take that penance as long as you're close." He cleared his throat and choked back tears as he admitted, "I hurt you worse than I ever could have imagined and I'm so sorry."

"What are you saying?" Crowley said, pleading desperation on his face. "Just tell me. No more long explanations. Just tell me." He took a step closer and stopped breathing altogether.

Aziraphale gently tugged Crowley's sunglasses off and met his beautiful gaze, "I love you, Crowley. As you are." He shook his head, but didn't look away as he swore, "I'm sorry I never said it." Desperate sincerity rang through his person as he continued, "I want to be an Us. No Heaven. No Hell. I'm done with all of it. I just want to be with you." He ran his hand along his cheek, wiping off the fallen tears.

Crowley considered him for a long time, perfectly still in the quiet creaking of the bookshop. Finally, he swallowed hard and asked, "You love me?" It was a whisper, as if he was praying for the answer to a question he was terrified to ask.

Aziraphale stepped chest to chest as he promised, "I do." He kissed Crowley's cheek. The demon's breath hitched, but he stayed stock-still. Aziraphale took the initiative, recognizing the hesitation. His voice was a soft whisper when he said, "I should have never left." He kissed his other cheek. "I should have stayed and done this." He trailed feathered kisses across Crowley's jaw, enjoying the slight shivers the gentle touch caused. He pulled back and looked at Crowley's half-closed eyes, smiling softly, he said, "I should have done this a long time ago." Tentatively, Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley's.

There was a heartbeat of shock or disbelief before Crowley responded, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders as he pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Both released the bottled desperation, loneliness, sorrow, and let the overwhelming feeling of tender love ease the burn of the still festering wound.

Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's lips, enjoying the reality of what had long been a whisper of desire he had always hastily quieted. The demon's lips were softer than he remembered and tasted of spice, and earthiness. Better than any sweet dessert or human creation he had ever tried. He hovered – finally, blissfully – in that place of love, until a trace of salt tempered the heat. The angel begrudgingly pulled away. When he looked at Crowley, he could see the glistening tears on his pale face. Aziraphale's expression fell. "What's wrong, my love?"

"Don't say that. Please don't say any of that. I can't be loved. Not anymore." Crowley said brokenly, as more tears followed. "But I'm…selfish."

Aziraphale stepped close, and pressed his forehead to Crowley's, "What do you mean you can't be loved?"

"I fell." He abruptly looked away, gathering his courage or controlling his tears, he repeated, "I thought that having you close would be enough, but I can't…" he pulled away, "I can't hurt you like that." He took a few shaky steps back.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale followed. He closed his hands on Crowley's forearms and kept him from retreating any farther before he promised, "You can be loved." Crowley started to shake his head, and Aziraphale stopped him with a kiss to his cheek. He promised, "I know you can because I love you. As you are."

Crowley choked on the words, a few more tears rolling down the established tracks. He finally managed to mutter, "You shouldn't."

Aziraphale's own tears joined, and he laid his hand gently against Crowley's cheek, "Please don't say that."

"I have to." Crowley insisted. "For as angry as I've been at you, I can't hurt you."

"You won't hurt me." Aziraphale insisted. Panic blossomed in his chest as he saw the unexpected reunion crumbling. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"They stripped Gabriel of his position, tried to erase his memories for saying he didn't want to kill the universe. What will they do if they know you've been back here with me?" Crowley whined, his eyes going wide as he insisted, "And you're an archangel, if they know you lo…feel that way…for me. For a demon…Not even Gabriel admitted that…" He shook his head, letting the implications hang in the air before he finished his concerns, "They won't let it happen again. They'll end you. I'd rather you were out of reach than gone."

Aziraphale shook his head, "That won't happen. I've loved you for years, Crowley. Before I could even put words to it, I've loved you. She must know. And that means She doesn't care, so I don't care about the rest of them."

Crowley hiccupped. "That doesn't protect you from them…" he whined.

Aziraphale stepped back into his space and wrapped his arms around Crowley's back, pulling him closer. He muttered, "I don't care. I'm not leaving you again."

Belying his protestations, Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's back and tucked his head into the crook of the angel's shoulder. He muttered, "I can't let them hurt you, Angel. I can't lose you."

Aziraphale smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of Crowley's head. "They won't, dear. Not when I have you to protect me." He wrapped his arms tighter and nearly crumbled when Crowley did the same. "I'm sorry for what I said, for how I hurt you." He said sincerely. "You are the most worthy of love. And I will spend as long as it takes to prove that."

"Ngk." Crowley scoffed into Aziraphale's shirt. Before he mumbled something into Aziraphale's neck.

The angel's skin prickled at the suggestive heat, but he tempered his reaction. "What was that, dear?"

"Love you, Angel."

Like a bolt, and for the first time in their long history, Aziraphale understood the overwhelming sense of love that always seemed to follow in their footsteps. He finally understood the unwavering singularity that wove through Crowley's essence. The love he had had always attributed to something else, from someone else, was at least buoyed in part by Crowley's own. It was such an ingrained part of his being that, in a flash of guilt, Aziraphale realized he had taken it for granted. Feeling it now nearly took him to his knees, might have if he hadn't been held up by comforting arms. He had been a hairs width away from this all along and he had done nothing about it. But for all the emotion hitting him, he could only mutter, "Thank you."

Crowley pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes. "For what?"

"I haven't heard that in so long." Aziraphale smiled, laying his hand on Crowley's cheek.

"What? Angel?" Crowley smirked as he said it, pulling Aziraphale in for another light kiss.

Aziraphale hummed an affirmative against Crowley's lips.

Crowley broke away with a still wounded, but healing, smile, "Then I'll never forgo it again."

Phew! Alright, it's done and I'm sending it out into the ether. I hope you liked it and, as always, feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews.

I hope you all have a wonderful day/night and stay creative!

-Lily