Let Me Be Your Wings

by BambixRonno

As punishment for giving away his flaming sword, Heaven takes Aziraphale's wings, with the promise to return them once he has earned their forgiveness. But that's difficult to do when you're in love with a demon like Crowley. Especially when Crowley doesn't even know he's an angel. Ineffable husbands, T for language and offscreen violence

6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale and Crowley have shared a love for theatre ever since its invention. Their tastes don't perfectly align, but they enjoy attending shows together despite that. The discussions sparked afterwards are fun, and Crowley's nitpicking about whatever tragic performance Aziraphale has recommended are always entertaining, and their debates about the use of comedy in the plays Crowley drags him to can last for hours. The theatre is one of the places where their differences are more worthwhile than their similarities.

So for all the difficulties they've had recently, the theatre should be a safe activity for the two of them. No talking is permitted during the actual performance - not that Crowley always obeys that rule, as he seems to find great delight in ticking off other audience members - and they can have as much or as little conversation as they like afterwards, secure in the knowledge none of it is personal and it all comes down entirely to their differing tastes. It's the perfect activity to do together under the current circumstances, and Aziraphale is very, very proud of himself for suggesting it.

He typically keeps a close eye on all the plays that come and go around the various theatres in London, always on the lookout for something he and Crowley can attend together, but with Armageddon and trying to avert the apocalypse, and then his fracturing friendship with Crowley, his focus had admittedly slipped, so he has no idea what their options are. Crowley offered to take a look on his little telephone, but Aziraphale managed to persuade him to take a look in person, instead. Yes, it may take a little longer, but what does that matter? They're not in a race against time with the end of the world anymore, there's no reason to rush.

Still, he wishes his attention on the local theatres hadn't slipped quite so much, because he honestly has no idea what some of these plays are.

"What's Spongebob the Musical?" he asks, squinting at the poster like that will help him understand it better.

"You won't like it," Crowley says immediately, which doesn't really answer his question, but Crowley is rarely wrong when he says Aziraphale won't like something, so he takes his word for it. "We could try Back to the Future."

If that's what you really want, Aziraphale almost says, but he pauses, and manages to swallow it back just in time.

It's a struggle to not just give in to what Crowley wants. To appease him. Aziraphale has spent so long trying to appease Heaven that some days it feels like he doesn't know how to do anything but appease. Crowley was hurt, and now Aziraphale needs to appease him, to not inflict his own thoughts and wants in a situation on him. Aziraphale is the one who needs to work for atonement, and until he achieves that, Crowley's desires take priority. If he does whatever Crowley wants, he'll please him, and Crowley will be more inclined to forgive him for his transgressions. That's how it's always worked.

No. That's how Heaven always worked. It's never worked like that with Crowley, and it's never going to work like that with Crowley. They don't need Heaven's song and dance to move past this - they'll forge their own way, just like they always do.

Every part of him itches to obey Crowley's whims to stay in his good graces. It's what he knows, what he's always been so sure is the best way to earn forgiveness.

But Crowley doesn't want that. Crowley says he doesn't need to do that anymore, that Aziraphale can just… act like he usually does, even if that involves disagreeing with him. And Aziraphale trusts Crowley far more than he trusts his own instincts about these kinds of things, especially as obedience failed him with both Heaven and Crowley.

So instead, he wrinkles his nose and says, "Perhaps another time."

Another time that will likely be far, far into the future, just like the title of the play itself. He won't go so far as to say never, if only because Crowley has a habit of somehow convincing him to just give these kinds of plays a try, but he's certainly in no rush to watch it.

Crowley rolls his eyes, but it's good natured, and there's the slightest upward twitch of his lips, the one that means he finds Aziraphale amusing. Turning him down had been the correct call, then.

If only they'd decided to come to the theatre sooner. There was a showing of Assassins just two weeks ago, and Aziraphale has been meaning to invite Crowley to watch it for quite some time, but it appears he's missed his opportunity, as the last show was two nights ago. He'll just have to wait for it to come back to London again.

He's about to suggest they try a different theatre when a poster for one final play catches his eye.

"Oh," he says, "they have a play about Joseph."

"Joseph who?"

"The dream boy."

"Oh. Him. They're still making musicals about him?"

"Apparently." Aziraphale has only seen one musical recounting the story of Joseph, and he was… admittedly less than impressed with it. Crowley had complained the lead's acting was too wooden, and Aziraphale had constructive criticism about the historical accuracy of the costumes; a minor complaint in the eyes of many, he's sure, but it bothered him, considering he still has his clothes from that time safely tucked away in his wardrobe.

This is a new play, though, one he hasn't seen before. Judging by the poster, it doesn't seem to detail the entire story of Joseph, but rather focuses on those fourteen years of good harvest and famine.

In fact…

"Isn't this when we first met?" Crowley asks, still staring at the poster showing a very loose interpretation of Joseph being handed control of Egypt.

"We first met at the Ark," Aziraphale corrects.

"That doesn't count. We didn't know we were, you know, at the Ark. We first talked properly as us in Egypt."

"It was more you talking than us, considering you shoved a dirty cloth in my mouth for most of that interaction."

"I thought you'd scream. Or try to bite me. Or both. I just wanted you to calm down a little."

"Yes, very effective calming strategy," Aziraphale says dryly.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Crowley whines, looking dangerously close to pouting, "and I took it out once I stopped trying to wipe your memories. Not my fault you still didn't feel like talking once I did."

"In my defence, I was busy being rather taken aback. What did you expect me to say after you started rambling about immortality curses from Heaven?"

"Probably something about being an angel instead of being cursed."

Aziraphale winces. After a second, Crowley winces, too.

"That… came out wrong," he says guiltily. "That was meant to be. Y'know. A joke."

Aziraphale wrings his hands, takes a deep breath around the sting, then smiles weakly at Crowley. "If… if I had said that, you probably would have said they're the same thing."

Crowley chuckles, a little shaky, a little unsure. Cautiously testing the ground just as much as Aziraphale is, trying to refind boundaries they once knew by heart.

It doesn't always feel like it, but things have been better since their meeting at the cafe. Not perfect, Aziraphale would never dare ask for perfect, but better. So much better he's still not entirely convinced it's real. Being able to just… talk to Crowley lifts a weight from his chest he's been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what it's like to not carry it. The pressure of trying to frantically follow orders and guess what he's supposed to do to earn forgiveness is gone, and all of a sudden Aziraphale can breathe easier.

It helps knowing he's not expected to earn Crowley's friendship back. With their friendship secured, Aziraphale no longer feels like he's walking on a tightrope with only sharp rocks instead of a safety net below to catch him. He doesn't have to worry about losing Crowley if he messes up. He can just… try again.

He's never been able to do this without feeling like every slight misstep will have him thrown aside. When Heaven took his wings, he'd immediately noticed he wasn't seen the same as other angels anymore. He was lower, scrambling to keep up and regain his position; only bad angels are put on a warning, and he was in a worse position than that. He was being punished and under observation, practically on the brink of useless in angelic standards. Everything he's done since then has been a balancing act of trying to make Heaven happy while not making himself completely miserable.

He still feels foolish for believing he could ever achieve what he thought they were trying to get him to achieve. 6000 years of working hard to earn their forgiveness wasted, because they were never going to forgive him to begin with.

It still doesn't feel real. They're angels, servants of the Lord, forgiveness is their whole thing. She forgives, and they're supposed to carry out Her will, so why wouldn't they? Did he just not do enough? Was he not putting in as much effort as he thought he was?

But if that was the case, they never would've promised to give him his wings back, over and over, even though they know it's not possible.

And if he wasn't putting in as much effort as he thought he was, why does less effort seem to be more than enough for Crowley?

He tries not to think about it too much. Heaven and his wings are wounds that have been raw for so long he can usually tune them out, and they're far less pressing for him than the wound that is his fractured friendship with Crowley. Sewing that wound shut is much more important to him. Heaven lying about his wings… it hurts, of course it does, but Aziraphale doesn't know where he's even meant to begin dealing with that. Maybe that will change when he has the time, or the strength, or perhaps the knowledge on how to deal with it, but for now, it's not his priority. Fixing his relationship with Crowley is.

No matter how much the… truth about Heaven's intentions hurts, it's not more important to him than Crowley, and it's not so bad it can't wait.

So he doesn't think about it. Or, at least, does his best to not think about it. Some days he can't help it, can't swallow down the bitter taste of betrayal - it feels wrong to even think that word in Heaven's direction, but it's the only word that comes to mind - but most days, he manages to keep the thoughts at bay. Crowley helps with that. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley even knows he's helping, or if it's just an unintended side effect of slowly spending time together again.

Either way, it's a blessing. Crowley is a blessing, although he would huff and sulk if Aziraphale ever told him that.

So things have been better. Much better. But still far from what they once were. It's a struggle to remember that, sometimes, just like it's a struggle to remember he doesn't need to quietly comply with everything Crowley says just to make him like him again. It's difficult to be patient when jokes still fall flat and they still keep catching their feet on barbed wire when they least expect it.

"In hindsight, you being an angel makes way more sense," Crowley says at last. Aziraphale glances at him, but his eyes are still firmly on the poster, something Aziraphale is oddly grateful for. Serious conversations are difficult. but they're easier when he doesn't have to worry about eye contact. "'S a much better explanation for why I couldn't wipe your memories than you being a human."

"I'm still not entirely sure how you came to that conclusion," Aziraphale says. "I mean, I know you said back then I don't smell very much like an angel, but having a corporation does that."

"Eh, to some extent." Crowley waves his hand. "Yours is actually fainter than average. Most people don't have a good enough sense of smell to tell the difference, but I do. Normally even angels with a body have a stronger angel smell than you, but you don't, because of the…" He hesitates. "Well. The, uh. The. Wing thing."

"I… see." Aziraphale didn't know that. Odd, he was so sure he was already hyper aware of every little way his lack of wings makes him different. They're normally difficult to miss, especially as Gabriel has always been so keen to subtly remind him of them.

Crowley coughs. "Anyway, uh, it wasn't just that. It's also 'cause you ran."

"Because I ran?" The smell thing at least makes sense, but running? What sensible person wouldn't run from a demon they believe to be extremely powerful when they have very limited options for self-defence?

"Yeah. I mean, I thought an angel would be chasing me, not the other way around. To, y'know, smite me. Most would. It's kinda their whole thing. But humans usually run away when they find out what I am, so when you ran, I just figured… well, it fit the pattern." He folds his arms. "I wondered if I was wrong when I couldn't touch your memories, but I couldn't think of a reason an angel would run instead of smite me on the spot. Between that and the whole smell thing, I just thought to myself, 'well, I haven't been Upstairs in forever, and I'm not exactly in the business of protecting humans from demons, so what do I know about what angels can do to keep their chosen humans safe from my lot?'"

"Heaven doesn't really believe in protecting humans from demons. Not unless they're ordered to. It interferes with-"

"Ineffability?"

"Something like that."

To be honest, Aziraphale has never entirely understood why Heaven does so little to protect humans from demons. Whenever he asked in the past, he just received a speech about free will and choices, which are all very well and good when it comes to resisting temptation, but not exactly a good defence against things like memory-altering demonic magic. Pushing the matter has never gotten him answers, though, and he's always been reluctant to push out of fear doing so could cost him his wings.

"Bastards," Crowley says, familiar contempt creeping into his voice. He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but stops himself with a grimace, then switches tracks. "Like I said, in hindsight the angel thing makes more sense than being a human. I just didn't think an angel could hide that kind of thing from me. Or that they'd want to."

"It's not like I meant-" Aziraphale starts, but he manages to stop himself before he can finish.

No excuses. He promised himself he wouldn't make excuses anymore. He promised Crowley honesty, yes, but he can do that without making excuses. He has to.

Crowley gives him an expectant look, and Aziraphale holds his breath. What he's waiting for, he isn't sure. A scolding for trying to make excuses again? To be gently pressed to continue what he was going to say?

Whatever he's expecting, it doesn't happen. Crowley just turns back to the poster without acknowledging Aziraphale's slip-up.

"I still don't get why you ran," he continues. "I thought Heaven teaches all angels to smite on sight when they spot a demon. If you were running away to try and keep the crowd safe, that would at least make more sense, but you didn't lead me anywhere isolated. You just tried to disappear into more crowds." He gives Aziraphale an awkward smile. "Surely seeing me there wasn't so surprising you forgot all your training?"

Is that an invitation for an explanation, or is Crowley just thinking aloud?

Well, only one way to find out.

"I was never actually instructed to smite you," Aziraphale says cautiously, bracing himself for a silencing look telling him his explanation isn't appreciated. It doesn't come. "Heaven just… warned me you were on Earth, and told me to keep an eye out for you and thwart you, but never make contact with you. They never told me what I should do if I couldn't avoid that."

Which isn't like Heaven at all. Not when they're so meticulous. In hindsight, it's more than a little odd they didn't bother to give him anything to defend himself with, especially when they knew he couldn't simply fly away if he found himself in a spot of trouble. Maybe they just expected Aziraphale to be discorporated or destroyed on the spot; they wouldn't have accounted for an agent of Hell being like Crowley, so it's not like they were counting on a demon's mercy to spare him.

"Still. I thought you'd, I dunno, at least make a speech about it. Or do it on instinct, like a human squashing a bug." Crowley hesitates. "Wouldn't… that make you look good, in Heaven's eyes? Smiting a demon?"

"Possibly. In all honesty, it never really crossed my mind." And what does that say about Aziraphale? "Besides, I already knew you were a demon, so it wasn't as shocking as it could've been."

"You what?" Crowley's voice is disbelieving. Aziraphale turns his attention back to the poster so he doesn't need to see whatever look is on Crowley's face. "Since when?"

"Since the Ark," Aziraphale says, his stomach twisting. He forgot Crowley doesn't know that. Why would he? It's never come up. Oh dear, does this count as hiding things? It shouldn't, surely. This, in the grand scheme of things, is inconsequential. Irrelevant. What does it matter when Aziraphale found out Crowley is a demon? It doesn't impact their relationship at all, at least, not in any way he can see.

But what if Crowley sees it differently? It seems inconsequential to Aziraphale, but his perspective isn't exactly reliable. He's already dropped so many unwelcome surprises on Crowley, what if this is the straw that breaks the camel's back? What if this is the thing that makes Crowley decide once and for all fixing their friendship isn't worth it-

No. That won't happen. That won't ever happen. Crowley said himself he's never considered not being Aziraphale's friend. That's as good as a promise, isn't it?

Heaven made promises, too. Promises they knew they couldn't keep.

But Crowley isn't like Heaven. Crowley is trustworthy. Crowley tells him the truth. Aziraphale knows this, deep in his heart, deep in his very being - he hasn't questioned or doubted this simple fact in millennia, and he's not doubting it now. How can he even dare think the contrary, after all the time they've spent together?

"And here I thought my disguise was flawless," Crowley says. His voice strains to be lighthearted, but there's an undercurrent of… something in it; what, Aziraphale doesn't know. "What gave me away? Did I not show enough concern over humanity drowning to be convincing?"

"No, no, you were very good," Aziraphale rushes to reassure. "I just… I noticed your eyes. At the last moment, right before you left. That was all."

Crowley grimaces. "Yeah, I should've expected hoping no one would notice my eyes in a crowd that big was too much to ask. All I could really do before humans invented glasses was just will people to not look. I thought I was focusing hard enough no humans would notice, but… well, of course that wouldn't work on you, being an angel and all."

Nothing about his tone implies insult, but Aziraphale suppresses a wince like it is.

Crowley is… carefully casual about referring to his angelic status. His tone is always even, no hint of the malice or contempt that normally taints his voice when he talks about angels. There usually isn't any anger, not anymore, but it's still always a little strained, trying a bit too hard. Like he's trying to learn to say it without ire, and isn't sure how well it's working. It's not meant to be mean - it isn't mean - but Aziraphale still finds himself flinching away from any mention of it. He can't help it. Centuries of trying to hide the truth, and then Crowley's less than positive reaction when he found out… oh, he feels awful about it, but he still expects venom that isn't coming whenever Crowley mentions it. It feels wrong for such information to be out in the open like this and not be met with scorn.

"If you already knew I was a demon," Crowley says slowly, like he's not sure it's a good idea to finish his sentence, "why did you let me talk to you in Egypt? I mean, I can't imagine it was for my charming personality and conversational skills."

"I…" Oh, Aziraphale desperately doesn't want to say. It sounds so ridiculous, now, borderline rude, even. But he promised Crowley his honesty, and the last thing he wants to do right now is break his promises. "I thought you were trying to get information about Heaven's plans out of me. I thought you already knew what I am, you see, and I thought you'd decided talking to me would be worth the risk so long as I didn't know what you are. I figured if you ever found out I knew, it would be a lot more unpleasant to live here."

Even as he talks, he can't help but cringe internally. He sounds so accusing. It's a ridiculous thought, especially now he knows Crowley; he's about as prone to violence as Aziraphale is, and the thought of him causing real, physical harm is ludicrous. Even if he had been taking a gamble like that, he would never fight his way out of the situation upon being caught. He'd talk his way out, or, failing that, flee.

"You thought I knew?"

"It made sense at the time. I thought Hell briefed you about me. I didn't think they'd send you out to battle an enemy without knowing who you were up against." Although maybe he should have expected that, considering it's exactly what Heaven did to him. If Heaven couldn't be bothered to give him a thorough briefing on his opposition, why would Hell? "Besides, what would be the chances of you picking me out of a crowd at random twice without already knowing what I am?"

"... Okay, you have a point." Crowley concedes. "That is pretty unlikely. It's a miracle it happened anyway."

It's more than a miracle. Aziraphale is intimately familiar with miracles, and the chances of it happening twice by accident far surpasses the power of a miracle. It's almost closer to divine intervention - not that he's going to tell Crowley that.

"We likely would have bumped into each other sooner or later," he says instead. "Especially when we started cancelling each other out more."

"Yeah, it could've been worse." Crowley pulls a face. "Can you imagine what the sixteenth century would've looked like without the Arrangement?"

"A bureaucratic nightmare," Aziraphale says, wrinkling his nose. "I don't think we would've ever been able to leave the office to spend any time on Earth at all."

"I'd've set paperwork on fire for the next millennia if I'd been stuck at a desk for a century. At least Heaven keeps their paperwork organised."

It's such a familiar conversation, so easy compared to every other conversation they've had recently, and it makes something in Aziraphale's chest lighten. He's… comfortable, in a way he hadn't dared thought he'd ever feel again after Crowley found out the truth.

It gives him hope. The comfort is like its own little promise, curling up in his heart, reassuring him everything truly will be alright.

Just like Crowley said it would.

"Hey," Crowley says. "There's, uh, a viewing of one of that Sondheim guy's plays tonight. Anyone Can Whistle, or whatever. Not at this theatre, but. Not far. About twenty minutes away. If you want to see it."

"It's only twenty minutes away because you drive too fast," Aziraphale says, unable to completely fight the smile slipping onto his face. "Are you sure you don't want to watch this new play about Joseph?"

"Nah, we got front row seats for the real deal. Can't really beat that. Maybe another time."

Another time. Crowley says it with such casual confidence that there will be another time.

It's getting easier and easier to believe that, even when things still aren't quite right.

"Sounds lovely," Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles that familiar smug smile of a temptation accomplished, and Aziraphale's heart - so still, recently, from the fear of standing on an invisible ledge with no way of knowing which move will cause him to fall - flutters freely and without fear as he follows Crowley to his car.

---

Aside from their trip to the cafe - which was really more of an excuse to get Aziraphale to sit down long enough for them to talk than anything - Crowley has made a conscious effort to avoid suggesting meeting up for lunch or dinner so far. He just hasn't been able to stomach the idea. After their fight, the thought of sitting down at a table together and letting the tense silence slowly crush them until Aziraphale is finished eating is, needless to say, not his idea of a fun time. So he's avoided suggesting any restaurants, new or old, for their tentative meetings, and he isn't sure he's ready to be inside the bookshop with Aziraphale just yet, so that rules out takeaways, too.

Which also puts drinking out of the question, since they always do that at a restaurant or the bookshop, and Aziraphale is weirdly insistent about avoiding the pub. Crowley hasn't had a drink with Aziraphale for months now, and he's amazed he's lasted this long. Sure, he can just drink alone, but that's not as fun.

But things have been better recently. Much, much better. Better enough Crowley finally feels ready to face a potentially awkward meal with Aziraphale, although he's hoping the progress they've made will keep any awkwardness at bay.

So far, his hope is not in vain.

They don't always talk when they dine together. After 5000 years of friendship, you learn to be comfortable around someone without actually talking to them, and Crowley is always more than content to sit and watch Aziraphale eat. There's something about how delightful Aziraphale finds it, the way he visibly relishes each and every bite, that just rubs off on Crowley, even if his face doesn't show it. Maybe part of it is his demonic nature taking delight in watching him indulge himself so shamelessly - it's similar to the pride he feels when he completes a temptation. It does more for him now than it ever did, knowing Aziraphale doesn't have to eat but chooses to do so anyway. A human eating is normal, but an angel eating? It's self-indulgence in the purest form, and the damned part of Crowley basks in being able to successfully tempt such a pure being into that self-indulgence.

It's not all demonic interest; Crowley genuinely does enjoy watching Aziraphale eat. Most humans don't think too much about the action - to be expected when it's such an ordinary part of their routine - but Aziraphale treats every bite like it's a form of art to be admired, cherished, savoured. Crowley's never seen anything like it, and it's fascinating to him. Eating doesn't do much for him, sleeping has always been his thing, but Aziraphale always makes even the simplest of meals look like, for lack of a better description, a spiritual experience.

So talking isn't a requirement when they dine together. Watching Aziraphale eat while downing glass after glass of wine - or whatever his chosen drink is, if a restaurant doesn't serve alcohol - is more than enough for Crowley.

Right now, however, he doesn't really want to risk their usually comfortable silence turning stifled and stale. Doesn't want his stare to be uncomfortable, instead of just observing. So conversation it is.

It's easier than he'd feared. Apparently, Aziraphale's recent spouts of bookshop cleaning - something he hasn't done in a few weeks, now Crowley thinks about it - have attracted the exact kinds of people he detests the most (not that Aziraphale would ever admit to detesting anyone) and thus provided Crowley an opportunity for one of his favourite conversations: Aziraphale's complaints. He'd seen the tight pinch in Aziraphale's face when he picked him up at the bookshop, a look that always means he's just come out of a battle with a particularly egregious customer, and it had taken all his strength to not start prodding the story out of Aziraphale right there in the car. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that saving it for the restaurant would sufficiently dodge any potential bubbling awkwardness between them during their meal. Can't lapse into painful silence when Aziraphale has so much to say.

And the wait has been worth it.

"-and I tell you, in all my years, I have never seen someone handle those books so carelessly!" Aziraphale rants. He doesn't quite stab his fork into the slice of cake he's cut off, but it's the closest he will ever get to doing so; his latest customer must have really agitated him. "Honestly, I have never seen such blatant disrespect for someone else's property. Those books are millennia old, and require the finest care to keep them in tip-top condition. Absolutely no handling without gloves! Why in the world she found it appropriate to try and pull it out from such a high shelf with her bare hands, I'll never know."

"Sounds like a real piece of work," Crowley says, grinning. Listening to Aziraphale rant about customers brings him a similar flavour of joy as watching him eat. "Bare hands, how scandalous."

"Perhaps I wouldn't have minded quite so much if they were only bare," Aziraphale sniffs, which is a lie if Crowley's ever heard one, "but I could see the snot and stains on her hand from across the room. I dread to think what kind of state the pages would be in had that poor book been in her possession for so much as a week."

"Did she leave a mark? When she grabbed it?"

"No, thank goodness. I managed to intercept her before she could touch it. Told her it's high up for a reason, and that the older books need to be handled with care she clearly does not possess. I checked it over when she left, just to make sure, but she didn't leave any marks on it." Aziraphale sniffs haughtily, and brings the cake still skewered on his fork to his mouth.

Crowley snickers. He's seen a customer leave a mark on one of Aziraphale's books only once, and it didn't end well. It was a particularly cherished first edition of some misprinted Bible, and some careless idiot made the mistake of staining one of the pages with a drop of tea. It only smudged one of the words, but Aziraphale was so incensed he gave Crowley full permission to spend the next two months making that man's life an absolute misery.

Okay, so he only heavily implied he would turn a blind eye should any misfortune befall the man, as he would be far too busy in his bookshop repairing the extensive damage to the Bible to notice any demonic deeds, providing they happened outside his line of sight. But that translates into get revenge for me by plaguing that man with every little inconvenience you can think of and I won't even put up a token protest, so it was basically full permission. In a very Aziraphale way.

"So how'd you get rid of her?" he asks once Aziraphale has finished chewing, eager to make him indulge in more petty complaining. "Make her think she left her hairdryer on?" Aziraphale has always been very good at making people question if there's something very important they've forgotten about. Crowley used to think it was some kind of psychological manipulation he didn't understand - not for lack of trying, mind - but in hindsight, it's probably the result of a miracle. Which rankles a bit, but on the other hand, it's delightful knowing Aziraphale is using divine miracles to manipulate humans for such selfish purposes, so it balances out.

"No, I didn't need to resort to such measures, thankfully. Although I will admit, our discussion did get quite heated-" which means the only reason it wasn't a screaming match is because Aziraphale likes having the moral high ground too much to scream at someone- "and it attracted a few looks from the other customers, but she eventually realised cursing at me would not get her anywhere, and she saw herself out. And by then, most of my other customers decided it wasn't worth waiting for her to finish her little temper tantrum, so they had already left. I made certain to close not long after."

Aziraphale looks so damn pleased with himself, and it makes Crowley's chest warm. Angel or no angel, he's still the same bastard he's always been. Crowley knows that, of course he knows it, but it's still nice to have the reassurance, even though it's getting easier and easier to remember that fact with no reassurance necessary.

"Surprised you didn't just boot her out," he says. "Causing a ruckus like that, not proper behaviour at all."

"Yes, well, she was doing an excellent job at scaring away the other customers. I could have asked her to simply remove herself from the premises, but then I would've had to encourage everyone else to leave myself, and I-"

A crack cuts Aziraphale off. Crowley's ears pop, and then a piece of paper is there, fluttering innocently to the table and resting on Aziraphale's nearly empty plate. It's neatly folded, with nothing written on it to indicate where it's come from or what it's about. Not even a name to show who it's addressed to.

Crowley's lot don't send notes.

Across from him, Aziraphale is beginning to pale.

"I'm… so sorry," he says, reaching out with a trembling hand to pick up the note. "I didn't…"

"Not your fault," Crowley says. His fingers twitch, itching to snatch it and set it on fire like he's done for so many years now, but he refrains. "Didn't know Heaven are still…"

"They aren't. Or, at least, they weren't."

The good mood from seconds before has completely vanished. All of Aziraphale's joy over his food is gone, all of his exaggerated annoyance as he recounted his story for Crowley disappearing like it never existed to begin with. He pulls the note towards him like it's a bomb, trying so hard to appear calm and unbothered, but he grips it just a little too tight to be believable.

Crowley stares at the paper. Heaven's first contact since the failed execution. He can almost see a vortex of hellfire spring from it, and just like that, previously dormant rage flares up and burns with it.

He's getting over the angel thing. Slowly but surely, he's getting over it, but every second his anger over it fades, his anger at Heaven grows stronger and stronger. Like it's being redirected. He can normally bury it down - he already does his best to not think about Heaven ever, since it only pisses him off - but a reminder as blatant as a note is enough to bring it all to the front of his mind again. Remind him what Heaven did to Aziraphale, how they treated him in what they thought would be his final moments. How they treated him millennia ago, when they cut off his wings for reasons Crowley still doesn't know - not that he can think of any possible justification for slicing someone's wings off.

Just thinking about what they've done to him makes Crowley feel sick. He can't get those limp, lifeless wings in Uriel's arms out of his head. And the more he thinks about it, the more he ends up thinking about how it must have felt for Aziraphale, and he hates Heaven and all the angels in it even more than he already does. He wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, demand answers, get an explanation for why, why would they do that to one of their own? Why would they do that to him? What the fuck did Aziraphale ever do to justify being treated like that?

He's always hated the bastards for how they treat Aziraphale like a worm on the bottom of their shoe, and in some ways, him being an angel makes it worse. Crowley expects Heaven to not give a shit about humans; the pompous bastards Up There have always viewed the Earth and humans as beneath them, even if they don't say it out loud. In their mind, nothing and no one is equal to angels, and only God is above them, so everything else must be beneath them. Treating a human like dirt makes sense for them.

But to treat another angel this way? They're all selfish assholes, but Crowley thought they'd at least look out for their own.

Maybe that's the problem. They've likely never seen Aziraphale as one of their own. Because he's different, because he's a bastard, because he actually cares, because he's not the perfect, flawless soldier Heaven want him to be, so they think he can't be one of them. And if he's not one of them, that means he's beneath them, so it's okay to treat him like shit. To hurt him and then dangle empty promises over his head to make him jump on their command.

Well, they're right about one thing: Aziraphale isn't anything like them, and thank fuck for that. He's better than them. A terrible angel, but that's why he's better than them. That's why Crowley likes him.

Still. Not being their perfect little soldier doesn't give Heaven the right to do any of what they did. Even Hell have never ripped someone's wings off in punishment for stepping out of line.

And now they have the nerve to contact Aziraphale again? After everything they've done?

He wants to tear the stupid note in half and send it right back up, maybe with a little strongly worded note of his own reminding them to stay the fuck away, just to get that look off Aziraphale's slowly crumbling face. No matter what Aziraphale has done, no matter how much his lies hurt, they will never make Crowley angrier than any of the shit Heaven does.

Aziraphale doesn't unfold the note. He just stares at it helplessly, like if he looks at it long enough it will vanish and take the memory of its appearance with it, letting them return to their peaceful meal together. Occasionally his fingers twitch, like he's going to unfold it, but they always still before they can do more than brush the edges of the paper.

When was the last time a note from Heaven made him react like this? Not in millennia. That was partly down to Crowley; at some point he took to setting the notes on fire to make Aziraphale smile, did it so often Aziraphale would have to wrestle the note from his grasp so he could have a chance to actually read it before Crowley could destroy it. It was almost like a game. Eventually, the notes slowed down to almost a complete stop, and Aziraphale stopped pretending to resist whenever Crowley plucked one out of the air for him.

Crowley forgot how anxious Aziraphale used to get whenever he received a note.

He hates that he's remembering now. Heaven shouldn't be allowed to still have this much power over Aziraphale.

Why are they even contacting him? Crowley thought he'd gotten his point across perfectly when he scared the shit out of Gabriel by spitting hellfire at him: they're to be left alone. No contact, or else. Heaven should be too nervous to even glance in Aziraphale's direction out of fear of being turned to ash. They should be keeping a respectful distance and then some, staying far, far away from Aziraphale, far away enough they can never hurt him again. They shouldn't be mustering up the courage to send him fucking notes, to make him shake and sweat like they used to.

For fucks sake. They're supposed to be enjoying a nice meal together, their first meal since their fight. It's supposed to be a step forward, showing off the progress they've made, how far they've come in their efforts to fix their friendship. And Heaven are ruining it.

Do they make it their mission to piss Crowley off?

"I'll read it," he says before he can think about it.

Aziraphale startles, like he'd forgotten all about Crowley, finally looking away from that blasted note. "It's okay - I mean, you don't have to, I'll just… I'll read it when I get back to the bookshop-"

"And spend the whole time until then getting worked up about it," Crowley says. He holds out his hand. "Not a chance. Give it here."

Swallowing, Aziraphale lowers his eyes, and delicately hands the note to Crowley. It's deceptively light in his hand, like there isn't something heavy carved into the paper that would weigh Aziraphale down should he read it.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. It's meek, and it's wrong. Aziraphale isn't meek, he's never been meek. Not around Crowley.

Crowley opens his mouth to remind him not to thank him, then closes it again - it's not like they need to worry about hiding anymore. He can't think of anything to say to replace his usual words, though, so instead he nods stiffly and unfolds the paper, resisting every urge to rip it into tiny pieces instead of reading whatever bullshit Heaven wants to say.

The note isn't long, only a few sentences at most. Crowley's jaw clenches, bracing himself for some kind of threat. What can Heaven possibly want with Aziraphale after everything that's happened? Are they going to try to manipulate him again? Going to use his wings against him again, somehow? Maybe they're going to try and coax him back with the promise of God returning his wings if he's a good little angel for them, or maybe it's an official termination notice to cut him off from the rest of the Host once and for all, or maybe it's a cryptic message to meet them at a certain time or location, probably somewhere isolated, so they can stab him in the back and try to execute him again.

But it's nothing like that. It's a reminder about frivolous miracle usage, and to submit his usual full report of all miracles and blessings at the end of the decade. Perfectly clipped and polite, doesn't even call Aziraphale by name like most of the notes he's received have. Professional, with no hint or undercurrent of contempt or disgust. Just clinical and distant, like it was meant for some poor sod they don't care about enough to visit in person.

Maybe Crowley is supposed to be grateful the note doesn't have that passive aggressive tone; if they're being polite instead of daring to slip snide comments into their notes, especially after the two of them thwarted the apocalypse and got away with it, then Crowley must have really spooked them at that execution. For all he knows, maybe the note was sent by accident, and Heaven haven't updated their records yet to stop sending these kinds of messages to Aziraphale.

But he wouldn't be grateful to the bastards for doing the bare fucking minimum even if he wanted to. In fact, no, it's not even doing the bare minimum. The bare minimum would be leaving Aziraphale alone and never contacting him again, like they're supposed to, not trying to act like nothing ever happened. They tried to destroy him, for fucks sake, why would they ever think the appropriate response now is to pretend they didn't and carry on with business as usual? Sorry about trying to put you to death, company policy you understand, but if you could make sure you keep hitting your targets and meeting your deadlines for us after we tried to kill you for the crime of thinking an entire planet shouldn't be destroyed for the sake of an unresolved fight of ours, that'd be swell.

Well, they can go fuck themselves. They don't deserve even a second of Aziraphale's time, not after everything they've done. They never have. Aziraphale should have told them where to stick it the moment they gave him his first orders after cutting off his wings.

If only.

"What… what does it say?"

Aziraphale's voice, shaky and nervous, breaks Crowley out of his thoughts. He sends one last venomous glare at the note, wishing it would shudder in fear under his scowl like Earthly paper does, then looks back up at Aziraphale, doing his best to look unbothered to soothe the anxiety twitching under Aziraphale's skin.

"It's just asking you to submit some stupid blessings form at the end of the decade," he says. "Nothing to worry about."

"Oh." Aziraphale doesn't slump in relief like Crowley was hoping he would. He fiddles with his fork, pushing the remains of his cake around his plate but not actually moving to eat any of it. Despite the lack of a threat, he still looks troubled.

"You can check if you don't believe me," Crowley says, holding the note out, even though he wants it as far away from Aziraphale as possible. He never again wants to see so much as a fragment from Heaven anywhere near him.

"I believe you. I just… haven't been keeping track of my miracles as well as I normally do. I know I've done more than a few frivolous ones, those are always the hardest to remember…"

Crowley frowns, fighting to not let it turn into an outright scowl. Aziraphale can't seriously be considering doing the report, can he?

Apparently he is.

"You don't need to do it," Crowley says. "You - we have nothing to do with Heaven and Hell anymore. We're basically retired. You don't need to do shit for them."

"We don't actually know if we've been let go," Aziraphale says weakly. Crowley doesn't understand how he can even think about following Heaven's orders when the mere appearance of the note makes him look so ill. "It wouldn't do to-"

"What are they gonna do if you don't?" Crowley says, a bit desperately. "It's not like they can threaten you with hellfire again."

They won't if they know what's good for them, he thinks. If they do, maybe next time he won't stop short before turning those feathery bastards to cinders.

"I suppose," Aziraphale says. He's still looking warily at the note, like it's going to leap out of Crowley's hand and bite him. As if Crowley would ever allow that. "Is it… I don't want to draw their attention if - I mean, if they're really insistent-"

"They aren't. It sounds like they copy and pasted a generic reminder they sent to everyone in the blessings department. They don't even say your name." He leans forward, not to catch Aziraphale's eye, but to keep his attention. "They aren't watching you, Aziraphale."

Tense and quiet, Aziraphale keeps staring at the note, keeps playing with his food but not actually eating it, while he takes in Crowley's words. Crowley holds his breath, already preparing a multitude of counterarguments if Aziraphale tries to defend Heaven again, but abruptly, the tension unwinds, and Aziraphale slouches.

"Okay," he says, and this time, the relief in his voice is thick. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." Infernal fire pulses under his skin, itching to burn the damn note already. "Can I set it on fire?"

"Won't that set off the fire alarms?"

"Not if I don't want it to."

"Are you going to let it set off the fire alarms?"

Crowley considers it for a moment - it would be funny - but shakes his head. "Nah. You haven't finished your cake, and I haven't finished my wine."

"Oh, alright then."

His fingertips spark, setting the note aflame. The fire is small - Crowley wouldn't do this around Aziraphale if the fire was big or could risk hurting him - but it's bright; infernal energy eagerly eats away at the ethereal paper, burning hot in delight at eradicating even a fraction of Heaven's divinity from the universe. The fire fits comfortably in the palm of his hand as the note burns, folding in on itself, and Crowley holds it up like a display for Aziraphale's entertainment. Letting him watch the reminder of Heaven burn away into nothing in Crowley's hand, where it won't bother him any more.

It takes seconds for the paper to finish turning into ash, and the fire dies with it immediately, disappointed. Crowley drops the ashes to the table with a grin. "Gone."

"Thank you." Aziraphale hesitates, then waves his fork at the ashes, and with a barely-detectable whoosh of angelic magic, they vanish. "You really shouldn't just dump them on the table, you know. The poor staff have to clean that up."

"However will they cope, cleaning up a tiny pile of ash."

"It's not nice."

"I'm not nice, ange-"

They freeze. Fall silent as they stare helplessly at each other. Crowley's mouth is still half formed around the word, reluctant to backtrack but unable to continue. He stutters a few times, unable to choose which to do, then closes his mouth without committing to either option.

Aziraphale's shoulders are slowly hunching again. He doesn't look hunted like he did when the note appeared, but it's not a relaxed look, either. He stares down at his cake, finally pushing one of the remaining pieces onto his fork and bringing it to his lips. When he chews, he doesn't do it with relish like he normally does, but like he's a soldier on a mission. Trying to distract himself and not call attention to Crowley's near slip-up.

Coughing awkwardly, Crowley fumbles for his glass, tipping his head back and draining it in one go, and then reaches for the wine bottle to fill his glass again. The bottle, previously empty, only pours more because it knows better than to leave Crowley with nothing right now.

He curses the stupid note again, and desperately tries to remember what they were talking about before it interrupted. Something about Aziraphale's customers? He's not sure, the train of thought is gone.

Damn it, damn it, if the stupid fucking note hadn't appeared, they'd still be talking, still be in the middle of easy conversation and gentle teasing. Aziraphale would finish eating, Crowley would finish his wine, and they'd be on their way back to the bookshop, where Crowley would walk Aziraphale to the door. Maybe even begin to muster up the courage to go in.

All that is ruined now, and Crowley doesn't know how to fix it.

Once again, Heaven have fucking ruined something for him.

… Although nearly calling Aziraphale angel certainly didn't help.

He lifts his glass to take another sip, and chances a glance at Aziraphale. Worried, withdrawing Aziraphale, who shouldn't look like that. Not with Crowley.

Fuck. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

These hesitant moments are becoming less and less common, but infuriatingly, they haven't gone. And yeah, he knows it will take time - he's spent hours researching ways to fix a friendship to make things less awkward, and every single website reassured him these things take time until Crowley wanted to throw his phone into the damn wall - but that doesn't help right now. Things are better, but that just means whenever an awkward moment like this does happen, it takes him by surprise. At the beginning of all of this, when things were rocky and just being near Aziraphale was so unbelievably painful, he was braced for these kinds of moments. Expected them. And sure, they rained around him like blows, and they hurt like a motherfucker, but he knew they were coming. Now they're unexpected, and come at him out of nowhere, a minefield he keeps forgetting to keep an eye on.

He still prefers where they are now to where they were before, but that doesn't mean he wants to be here. He wants to be further along, where moments like this don't exist at all anymore.

When was the last time they had one of these moments? Two weeks ago, he thinks, when they went to the theatre together, and found that poster for the new Joseph musical. When Crowley stuck his foot in his mouth with his shitty attempt at a joke that made Aziraphale get lost in his head, and then did it again, when he said he didn't think an angel could - or would - hide what they are from him. That one was brief, but it was still there.

Crowley grimaces at the memory, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger.

It's the closest they've ever come to really talking about why Aziraphale lied to him.

It didn't escape his notice Aziraphale never actually explained why he ran. Nor did it escape his notice Aziraphale started to say something, and then backed off. Crowley let it go at the time, reluctant to push for… a multitude of reasons, really, but he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since.

It's not like I meant to- Aziraphale had started to say before cutting himself off.

Right after Crowley said he didn't think an angel would hide their angelic status like Aziraphale did.

Except he wasn't really hiding, was he? Not at first, at least. He thought Crowley already knew, he said so himself, so he had no reason to try and keep it a secret or purposefully conceal his true nature. Crowley was the one who made the assumption, based on evidence Aziraphale clearly hadn't intentionally laid out to mislead him. It was an accident. Aziraphale just… went along with it. For some reason.

Why, though? Why go along with it at all?

There must be a reason. Crowley just… doesn't know what it is. Every theory he's come up with falls flat; they're all so malicious, things a typical angel would do, and therefore nothing Aziraphale would do. But there must have been a reason. It's easy to forget that, sometimes. Crowley couldn't stop thinking about it at first, when he was still trying so hard to make sense of it all, but he hadn't been able to think of a reason that didn't piss him off or feel wrong, so he stopped trying. He hasn't started trying again since he stopped.

But now Crowley has spent enough time with Aziraphale to think clearly again, he knows it wasn't malicious. Couldn't have been. Aziraphale didn't realise he didn't know, after all, didn't even know having his wings ripped away from him dampened his angelic scent. He thought Crowley already knew, and that changes things. It means his deception can't have been a trick purposefully planned from the very beginning, designed to make Crowley look like a fool.

But that doesn't make it clear what the reason actually was. Still doesn't shed light on why he played along with Crowley's mistake for 5000 years, and no matter how hard Crowley tries, he can't figure it out.

It was an accident. So how does an accident turn into… all of this?

He doesn't know, and trying to figure it out will just have him overthinking in circles again, which isn't something he wants to repeat.

But… isn't a much simpler solution sitting right in front of him?

"Tell me why," he says, and hopes he's not making another mistake.

Aziraphale doesn't flinch - he's gotten better at not flinching - but he does wince, the guilt on his face brief but heavy. He doesn't try to play ignorant; he knows exactly what Crowley's asking. "I'm sorry-"

"No, that's not what I mean." Crowley runs his hand through his hair, trying to find the words he wants. It's easier than it was only a few months ago, but that's like saying dragging eight trees through a forest with his bare hands is easier than dragging ten trees through a forest with his bare hands: technically true, but ultimately doesn't mean much. "Just… walk me through it, yeah? Why you… y'know."

It's a question he hasn't dared ask - hasn't even dared contemplate - for a while now. The last time he asked Aziraphale why, he hadn't gotten an answer, not really, and the answer he did receive just made everything worse. He doesn't want a repeat of that. They're in a much better place now, and he doesn't want to slide backwards and go through this agonising process all over again if he doesn't like the answer he hears this time, either.

But last time was different. Last time he wanted… honestly, he's not even sure. A justification, maybe? Something to wash away the anger and the hurt and the confusion, something short and sweet that would make Aziraphale's decision to lie to him not only make sense, but sound perfectly reasonable.

This isn't the same. Now he just wants to understand how this happened in the first place. Lies like this don't come out of thin air, and Crowley honestly doesn't think he'll ever be able to understand why it came about in the first place unless Aziraphale explains it, step by step.

It's a risky move, perhaps, but for the first time since the bandstand, the ground feels stable enough for the question.

Aziraphale lowers his head, staring at his fork and chewing his lip while he thinks. Crowley doesn't rush him.

"I don't know how to say this without sounding like I'm making excuses," he says quietly, like it's a shameful confession.

"Then do that," Crowley says. Excuses, explanations, they all sound the same to him anyway, and he'd rather have an explanation that sounds like an excuse than nothing at all. He'll take anything so long as it gets Aziraphale talking.

And to his credit, despite the fact he looks like he'd rather get up and walk home right now, Aziraphale steels himself to answer.

"I truly didn't mean to," he says, hesitant, like he's still not sure he's allowed to say the words even though Crowley has specifically asked for them. "I just… well, you know what Heaven are like. They made you sound like such a monster when they warned me about you, and I didn't - we didn't know each other, and I had no reason to - I mean, I didn't know they were…"

Wrong, Aziraphale doesn't say. Crowley aches to say it for him - he could say a lot of things about Heaven for him - but he bites his tongue and manages to hold it back. He doesn't want to interrupt just in case it breaks Aziraphale's train of thought. He'll be fine once he gets going, but Crowley can't interrupt that process, or they'll never get any further than stumbling apologies and gut-wrenching guilt.

"I didn't know you," Aziraphale says at last. "They told me you were dangerous, and I didn't have a weapon or my wings, so I wouldn't have been able to fight or fly away if anything happened. So when we met in Egypt and you saw I'd seen your eyes, I just… I panicked. So I ran. I thought if things got nasty, I could at least keep the humans safe."

Crowley winces. In hindsight, their meeting in Egypt was… not the best introduction he could have made. Chasing someone down and dragging them into an alleyway would scare the shit out of anyone; it's no wonder Aziraphale bolted.

This shouldn't be a surprise. Didn't he have to reassure Aziraphale back then that he wouldn't hurt him? Didn't Aziraphale kick and scream when Crowley pinned him to the wall and tried to get him to stop struggling so he could wipe his memories?

But that was when he thought Aziraphale was human, and that reaction makes sense for a human. It doesn't make sense for an angel, whose entire job is to roam the Earth and thwart the wiles of Satan's minions, usually by smiting them right out of existence.

It makes perfect sense for an angel who's had his wings taken from him, though. Wingless and weaponless, and Crowley knows Aziraphale now, knows he isn't a fighter any more than Crowley is. With Heaven feeding him bullshit about the dangerous Serpent of Eden, and Crowley chasing him in Egypt… fuck, of course he felt cornered.

No. Not just cornered. Scared.

Crowley scared him.

And yet he still didn't consider smiting him, not even when he thought Crowley was going to hurt him.

"It all just happened so fast," Aziraphale says. He's gaining confidence, words coming faster and stronger than before. "I didn't - I thought you were going to kill me-" ouch, that hurts more than it should- "and the next thing I knew, you were talking about wiping my memories, and then you were calling me a human cursed by Heaven, and I was still too startled to say anything. And then you just let me go, and I thought… I thought you only spared me because you didn't know what I am, and you didn't think a human would be a threat." He fidgets, brows pinched in discomfort. "I figured if you hadn't realised, I wouldn't correct you. Not if that's what was stopping you from-"

"I wouldn't," Crowley says, stupidly desperate. Even though the incident is long behind them, he burns with the need to make sure Aziraphale knows he would never hurt him. "I'd never."

"I know," Aziraphale says, and the relief hits him like a punch. "I just… oh, it all sounds so silly now, but at the time-"

"At the time it made sense." Isn't that the running fucking theme of this whole mess.

"Exactly. So I didn't think it would be wise to say anything." Aziraphale fiddles with his fork. Crowley considers calling a waiter over and ordering another dessert just to give Aziraphale something to do with his hands. "I was worried the truth would change your mind, if you found out, and I was still getting to know you, so I didn't want to risk it. That's why I kept playing along." He gives Crowley a beseeching look. "I really, truly wasn't trying to trick you, or make you an angel again, or any of that. I just-"

"Didn't want to risk it when you didn't know I wasn't dangerous," Crowley says.

"Precisely." Aziraphale looks guilty at the admission. Guilty for wanting to protect himself.

Guilt is quickly becoming Crowley's least favourite emotion.

"I don't… I don't have any excuse for after I got to know you better," Aziraphale says. "It's not like it came up in every conversation, so it was easy to forget you didn't know, and then before I knew it, it had been thousands of years, and I didn't know how to tell you."

"Could've just sent a letter." He tries for lighthearted, but it comes out as bitter instead; as much as things have been better, he still hasn't shaken that lingering anger whenever he remembers Aziraphale kept hiding it from him. Staying quiet out of fear makes sense, but why keep up the charade after that? Did Crowley really scare him that badly?

"I know, but-"

Aziraphale cuts himself off. Crowley raises an unimpressed eyebrow, staring at him expectantly. He knows he should be careful about how much he pushes, as the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to retreat into his shell and start spouting apologies again, but the whole point of this conversation is so Crowley can understand why Aziraphale lied to him for so long. Aziraphale not explaining the reason - the real reason - for doing so completely defeats the purpose.

"But?"

"But I was… worried you'd hate me."

Hate him?

The idea is so ridiculous Crowley almost - almost - laughs out loud, and it's only the pinched look on Aziraphale's face betraying his genuine concern that stops him.

"Why in the heaven would I hate you?"

"You hate angels. You haven't exactly made it a secret. How was I supposed to believe you'd react well to me being an angel when I know how much you don't like them?"

… Fuck, Aziraphale's got him there.

"Aziraphale, I…" His face contorts as he thinks, trying to find words for something he's never tried to vocalise before. Social norms dictate he should probably apologise for unintentionally insulting Aziraphale's entire species to his face, but honestly, he's not really sorry because he hasn't changed his mind. Angels - present company being the exception - are awful, cold and uncaring and constantly turning their noses up at anything and everything in existence that isn't them. They really aren't so different from demons, when you get down to it, and Crowley is uncomfortably aware of what demons are like. If there are other secretly nice angels aside from Aziraphale, Crowley has never met one, and after 6000 years, his odds of that changing don't look good.

Yeah, he hates angels. But damn it, he has good reason to hate them. Angels - again, with the exception of Aziraphale - want him dead just for existing. They'd destroy him without hesitation if given the chance, without so much as a hello or by your leave or an opportunity to say his final words. They think he's the scum of the universe just because he's a demon, as if he ever had a choice in that. That's what angels are supposed to be like, it's what Heaven wants from them, how they're trained to be. He has a million reasons to hate angels, and that's without touching on everything they've done to Aziraphale. He's not going to apologise for an opinion he still has. He won't lie to Aziraphale like that.

But his hatred of angels - a hatred he can't rid himself of even if he wanted to - made Aziraphale feel he couldn't tell him the truth. Oh, sure, he knows Crowley would never hurt him, but he still thought he would hate him, and that was enough to make him keep his mouth shut for 5000 years.

How is he supposed to explain to Aziraphale he hates angels because of who they are as individuals, and he could never hate Aziraphale for being an angel because he's absolutely nothing like those insufferable twats hiding away in Heaven?

He doesn't know. He has to try, though.

"You aren't like them," he says. "I don't - I don't like angels because they treat everyone they don't like like shit, but you aren't like that."

Well, isn't that the most detailed explanation in the fucking universe? Fuck, why does he always manage to say things that either sound stupid or shitty? Why can't an articulate sentence come out of his mouth for once?

"Not being like other angels is what got me in this mess," Aziraphale says, trying for a wry smile and failing.

"I just mean… you care. And you don't look down on people just because they aren't angels. It's just their self-righteous attitude I can't stand, is all."

"I know for a fact you've called me self-righteous before," Aziraphale says, and for a moment Crowley's worried he fucked up again, but the little smile he gives him is teasing instead of hurt.

"Okay, you're not as self-righteous as they are. It's toned down. My point is, I wouldn't hate you just for being an angel, because you don't do most of the angel things that piss me off. The only reason I was mad to begin with was because you lied to me. I - I told you I know you're nothing like the angels in Heaven. That hasn't changed."

They've had this conversation before, haven't they? Years and years ago, so long ago Crowley can't remember when they had it, only that it took place at some point. Aziraphale had prodded him on why he hates angels, and Crowley, eager to try and make Aziraphale realise how shit they are in the hopes he'd eventually tell them to fuck off, was all too eager to elaborate. This conversation feels like a reprise that will take a bat to the friendship they're trying so hard to fix if he doesn't do it right. Crowley's feelings about angels haven't changed and probably never will, but how is he supposed to communicate that to Aziraphale without him thinking he's included in the blanket statement?

It's because you're a bad angel, is the only way he can think to word it, but he doesn't say it. Aziraphale won't take it as the compliment it's supposed to be, and Crowley still doesn't know how to make him understand being a bad angel is a good thing.

"I'm not… I'm not upset with you for hating angels," Aziraphale says, "you've explained it before, I understand they've hurt you-"

"They hurt you, too."

"Yes, you've said that before, too." Aziraphale's face pinches, miserable. "But that was when you thought I was a human. It's one thing for Heaven to… take advantage of a human, like you thought, but that's not-"

"Isn't it? 'Cause from where I'm standing, it doesn't look all that different. You being an angel doesn't mean you deserved what they did to you."

Aziraphale doesn't look comforted by the words, and Crowley feels so incredibly, hopelessly helpless. He doesn't know what else he was expecting; Aziraphale is slow to accept things on a good day, and hearing Crowley say it won't speed up the process. He can make nudges at most, but the second he actually tries to push, Aziraphale digs his heels in and refuses to budge.

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He can't rush this. No matter how much he wants to shake Aziraphale and make him fully realise everything Heaven have done to him, he can't. It won't work. It will just make him retreat, the way it always does, and Crowley can't risk either of them retreating now. Not after they've worked so hard just to get to this point.

The realisation Heaven have been lying to him - using him - is probably already too much for him right now. Crowley longs to list all the ways Heaven have treated him cruelly - the wing thing is probably only a fraction of the list - but Aziraphale won't hear any of it. This is likely already as far as he'll go, already faster than he's willing to move; he simply won't accept any more. Crowley likely won't even be able to float the idea that they did it just to hurt him in his direction for at least another century or two.

You didn't deserve it is such a simple truth, so simple it's impossible to understand how anyone could doubt it. But Aziraphale does. Likely won't even acknowledge it, not right now. Not for a long, long time. He'll probably just deflect.

And he does.

"I… to be honest, Crowley, even had I known for sure you wouldn't hate me, I'm… still not sure I would've told you. It… thinking you would hate me certainly didn't help, but I… well, I had other reasons, I suppose."

"Such as?" Crowley presses, heart sinking. Maybe he should be relieved he wasn't the sole reason Aziraphale kept it hidden, but he isn't - he doesn't like knowing there's nothing he could have done to prevent this from happening. Of course it isn't that simple. Why would it be? That would be too easy. Of course there are a million different threads all tangled together, so many that removing just one would do oh so little to untangle the web of lies unintentionally spun in that split-second decision 5000 years ago.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "They're stupid. And I - well, they certainly didn't help last time I told you. I do believe they made everything worse, in fact."

Made everything…?

"Is this about that… about your plan to tell me after you got your wings back?"

A pause, and then a hesitant nod.

Oh, he's afraid to say it, especially after it blew up in their faces the last time he said this, but… "Explain it to me anyway."

"I can't. I truly don't know what came over me." And heaven, just saying the words makes Aziraphale distressed. "I wanted to tell you, I dreamed about you knowing the truth and not needing to hide it anymore. I just - when I decided I'd wait, all I could think about was how hurt you got walking into that church for me, how I let you walk out even though you were still injured, and I was so frustrated I couldn't heal you completely without blowing my cover, and all I could think was that none of this would've happened if I'd just had my wings from the beginning. Then you'd already know, and I could heal you the way you deserved." He swallows. "I… I don't know how I got it in my head having my wings would make it any better. I just knew I felt… wrong, knowing I was holding back. Knowing I couldn't give you all of me, because you didn't know all of me, and you didn't know because I don't have all of me. And I thought - oh, it's so stupid, but I thought-

"Having your wings would fix that, somehow."

"That's why I was so excited when you suggested asking Heaven to fulfil their promise if I succeeded in converting the Antichrist. I… I knew the plan was risky, and that we didn't know it would work, but for the first time in my life, I had a deadline for this whole mess. I knew how much longer I had to wait until I could tell you."

And if it hadn't worked, chances are one of them wouldn't have been around long enough for it to matter, anyway.

"I see," Crowley says, and to his surprise, he does.

He really wasn't being malicious. Of course he wasn't, it's Aziraphale, and Crowley can't imagine him being malicious. He was just scared.

The lie still hurts. Knowing Aziraphale felt the need to hide the truth from him instead of trusting him hurts, and even though he can see exactly how Aziraphale stumbled into this situation, it doesn't make the hurt just miraculously vanish, no matter how much Crowley wishes it would.

But it doesn't sting as bad as before, and now he has the whole picture, it's easier to swallow down the pain. To breathe around it. Something deep in his heart has settled, the rough waters that have been so reluctant to calm are finally beginning to smooth and become ripples, hopefully soon to still.

The explanation may not change what happened, but it puts things into context, and it's not a fix, but it helps.

It doesn't seem to be helping Aziraphale, who still looks tense and nervous across from him.

"Thanks," Crowley says. It takes all his effort to pull the unfamiliar word out of his mouth, but he manages. "For. Walking me through it. It, uh, it makes a lot more sense now. Why you. Y'know."

Aziraphale nods stiffly, not at all eased by Crowley's words. "I… I hope you know I'd take it back if I could. I'd fix it if I could."

"We already are."

"I mean my lying to you. If I could change that, I would. I know we're fixing it now, but I just… oh, I just feel so stupid." His jaw ticks, clenches, and he tightens his grip on the fork. "I've been such a fool, and I don't - I don't deserve you, after everything I've put you through."

This again?

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, trying to push down impatience and take the bite out of his words, "I already told you, you don't need to earn-"

"It isn't that simple for me," Aziraphale says, borderline snapping. Regret flicks across his face, but although his posture softens, he doesn't back down. "I've been trying to earn forgiveness for 6000 years, Crowley. I can't just turn that off. I would if I could, but I don't know - it isn't - I've forgotten what it's like to not do that. I don't know how to not feel this way." He looks mournful. "You said you needed time to adjust to me being an angel. I need time to adjust to… all of this."

Oh.

Crowley didn't think of it like that. And he feels like an idiot for not doing so.

These things take time, that stupid website said, and again Crowley wants to throw something. It's stupid to be impatient when they have all the time in the world, but he's never been good at sitting around and waiting. Not when it comes to things that matter, and Aziraphale matters more to him than anything else in the universe.

He remembers the distress on Aziraphale's face that day on the bandstand, when Crowley spat out he's unforgivable. It's not something that's bothered him in a long time - he's unforgivable, and he doesn't care. He doesn't want forgiveness from Heaven or God any more than he wants to be the one to forgive them for casting him out over a few questions. He'd said it to try and make that point, to show Aziraphale it's okay to be unforgivable in Heaven's eyes, because their forgiveness isn't worth shit.

But how must it have sounded to Aziraphale, who's spent so long working for forgiveness he doesn't know how to do anything else? Aziraphale, who's been carrying a burden for thousands of years - a burden Heaven never intended to take off his back - and doesn't know what to do without it?

Crowley aches to wipe that burden away.

But he can't. He can't fix this for him. Only Aziraphale can do that, and how long will that take? Millennia, probably, maybe even longer. He's an idiot for not realising his words alone won't make a dent in 6000 years wasted seeking forgiveness that will never come.

And what is Aziraphale supposed to do in the meantime? How much will he have to grit his teeth and endure before he finally works through this whole forgiveness shit?

Every time Crowley thinks he's done discovering the details of Heaven's bullshit, something else pops up and makes him burn with fury all over again. Every time he thinks he can't possibly get any angrier at Heaven, the universe throws something else in his face to prove him wrong and piss him off further.

Ironically, this whole conversation is just making him hate angels - bar Aziraphale - even more.

Saying that probably won't help, though. Not that there's much he can say to help.

"Okay," he says, exhaling and pushing down all his flaring rage. It's useless to him right now. Not that he knows when, or if, he'll ever get to direct it at the ones causing it to begin with, but now is definitely not the time. "Okay, that's. Fair."

He probably shouldn't leave it at that, considering they're trying to be better about talking and all. Communication, communication, how the fuck does he do communication? What did the guides say? Fuck all, is what they said. Is it too much to ask for some practical examples?

"Is there… anything I can…"

Aziraphale gives him a strained smile. "I don't think so. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Right. Right." So literally nothing he can do to help, then. He just has to let Aziraphale sit with the agony of feeling like he needs to earn forgiveness. Wonderful. Absolutely fantastic.

Forgiveness is joining his list of least favourite words.

So what now? What does he do now? He can't help Aziraphale with this, no matter how much he wants to. At least, he doesn't think there's anything he can do; he'll keep trying anyway, just in case. Maybe he'll think of something, if not to fix it, then to at least make it easier. To unwind that tension in Aziraphale's shoulders.

But until then, what now?

Wipe away that melancholic look on Aziraphale's face, maybe. He can practically see the apologies for bringing down the mood and ruining their meal swirling around his head, and he's not going to stand for it. This is supposed to be a nice day out, damn it, and Heaven and their bullshit have already ruined it enough. Crowley isn't going to let them spoil it completely. That would be letting them win. He has to salvage it, somehow.

Think. Fucking think.

They could… they could get a drink. Get drunk, proper drunk, they like getting drunk, they usually do it after a meal together anyway. It's fun. Yeah. Aziraphale probably has plenty of bottles stashed away in his bookshop, they can go back there and have a drink or twenty. It will be fun, it always is. Crowley can practically feel the warmth of the bookshop already, heightened by his fuzzy drunken state, easy and relaxed in the safe aura of his ange-

His stomach lurches. Only a little, but it still lurches.

He misses the bookshop. Misses that little back room with the coffee table and the coasters he refuses to use because it annoys Aziraphale. Misses the smell of all the old, dusty books; the bookshop smells unpleasant to humans, but it's always been perfectly fine for Crowley. His standards may just be low, though, since Hell smells infinitely worse.

He wants to go back to the bookshop.

He just… isn't sure he can.

Something else, then. They could… go back to his place, maybe? No, no, he doesn't have anywhere to sit down. Clubs aren't really their scene, and Aziraphale still has his weird hang-up about the pub. Maybe he should just miracle a couple of sofas into his flat? Aziraphale has only been to his flat the once, so the thought doesn't make Crowley's skin crawl - he's really not that precious about his flat for it to matter - but, ugh, will it be weird to go to his place before Aziraphale's? That feels weird, somehow. Not for the same reasons going to the bookshop doesn't feel right, it's just… they never go to Crowley's place. And besides, miracled sofas are never as comfortable as real ones - although Crowley will always argue otherwise, just because he knows Aziraphale will complain about them not being as soft or comfortable as a real sofa-

"Would you - would you like to go to the park?"

His train of thought screeches to a stop.

"There's a brass band performing there today," Aziraphale says, smiling nervously at Crowley. He puts his fork down onto his now empty plate, only to wring his hands together. "It would be lovely to go and listen."

"Yeah," Crowley says, barely hearing the words, too occupied with relief at the suggestion. "Yeah, we can do."

"I just thought it would be a shame to end the day now, like this, so the park… we can have a drink, too, while we're there. If… if you want."

"Sounds good," Crowley says, relaxing in his seat. He finishes the rest of his glass in one gulp, swallowing down the last of his anger, and stands with a flourish. "Lead the way."

Aziraphale beams, just a little brighter than he should, like he's just as relieved Crowley accepted as Crowley's relieved Aziraphale extended the offer. Did he think Crowley would reject it and run away again? Not an unreasonable assumption, he supposes; running away is his speciality.

He doesn't want to run away right now, though. The nagging urge to flee has been getting quieter for a while, and Aziraphale's explanation has done wonders to muffle it even further.

It's surprising, really, how much the explanation helps settle the bitterness in his chest. Surprising, but not unpleasant; it puts him in a good enough mood he actually remembers to pay, for once, as they leave the restaurant to find that brass band and drink away the rest of the unease sent by Heaven's note.

On their way out the door, the backs of their hands brush, and Crowley's heart stumbles.

He doesn't reach out, but he does want to. The thought alone makes him feel… warm.

As warm as the bookshop. Fuck, he really, really misses it.

… Fuck it.

"We can. Go to the bookshop after. If you want."

Aziraphale pauses. Looks at him with hesitant disbelief. "Are… are you sure?"

Not really. His stomach tries to twist again, but Crowley pushes it back into place and firmly tells it to shut up. It did the same when he suggested coming to a restaurant together, and that's turned out fine enough, Heavenly notes notwithstanding, so why should he listen to it now?

He remembers Aziraphale's explanation, and his stomach reluctantly loosens a little.

"No sense in just having a few drinks at the park," he says. "Might as well go the rest of the way."

He doesn't know if he'll stay long, and his stomach is still in knots in protest, but the gentle glow of Aziraphale's elated smile is enough to solidify his conviction and coax a returning smile from his mouth.

It will be worth the apprehension if he can get Aziraphale to smile like that again tonight.

---

Aziraphale doesn't know who he's more disappointed in: Crowley for once again allowing his demonic mischief to backfire on them, or himself for not anticipating it. One would think he'd know by now to stand well back and let Crowley's evil actions be his own downfall, but apparently not. It's only mildly comforting Crowley has also not learnt this lesson after all these years.

Today's demonic misdeed consisted of Crowley creating a giant puddle on the road specifically to ensure cars have no choice but to drive through it and subsequently soak any nearby pedestrians. He'd taken great delight in detailing driving through the puddle several times throughout the day and subtly encouraging other drivers to do the same, the law be damned.

Two hours later, when they were walking back from a nearby cafe, the puddle was still there and the drivers were still not interested in attempting to avoid it.

The puddle size was admittedly impressive. Getting all his nice clothes absolutely drenched? Less so.

Still, they're supposed to be spending the whole day together, and Aziraphale hadn't wanted to throw that away over a little water. So he invited Crowley back to the bookshop and asked him to wait while he gets into a fresh set of clothes, turning down the offer to just miracle a new set on.

Sighing, Aziraphale grabs a towel and begins drying his hair. His fresh clothes are already hanging on the handle of the wardrobe door; he doesn't want to put them on only to drip water on them again. His wet clothes are in the washing basket for him to put in the dryer later. Crowley whined about just using a miracle to dry them, but it's so much better to dry them the human way. They're warm when they come out of the dryer, and they always feel slightly stiff or stink of bleach when he uses a miracle.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and the door behind him swings open without so much as a knock.

"Hey," Crowley says, "you left your wet coat on top of your-"

He cuts himself off.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, turning to flash him a thankful smile. "If you can put it in the washing basket, that would be lovely-"

He stops short. Crowley's staring at him, frozen in stunned shock - or is that horror? His mouth opens, closes, opens. Barely visible under his glasses, his eyes are wide, and he's still and silent, aside from a few cut-off stuttering noises, like he wants to say something but hasn't yet figured out what.

"Crowley? Is everything alright?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, sure." His voice is strained, and he coughs to clear it as he absently balls up the soaked coat and throws it into the basket. "I'll just. Put the kettle on."

"Three-"

"Sugars, yep, got it, will do, okay bye!"

He slams the door on his way out, and Aziraphale should scold him - really, there's no need to go around slamming doors like that - but he's too stuck on Crowley's shock over… what, exactly? What was all that about?

Oh dear, he's going to have to ask, isn't he? He's still not used to asking, but he doesn't want to just pretend it never happened, either. Crowley isn't easy to surprise, and it's difficult to get a reaction like that out of him.

It can't be embarrassment about seeing him shirtless. Nakedness doesn't mean the same to them as it does to humans - technically they're never naked so long as they're wearing their corporations, and even if they weren't, no part of their true forms are private the way some human body parts are - so it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Aziraphale has seen Crowley shirtless, even entirely nude, countless times during their friendship, and it's never been a big deal, not even after he realised he loves him. And really, Crowley knew he came upstairs to get changed, he should have expected Aziraphale to be in a state of undress before he barged in.

But then what was it? What caused Crowley to look like… that?

Aziraphale finishes drying his hair and begins pulling on his fresh clothes, trying not to fret too much about whatever just happened, scratching absently at his back. It's so itchy today, and it's incredibly distracting. It's been 6000 years, his body should know by now his wings aren't-

Aziraphale freezes as his nails run over the bumps of his scars.

The scars on his back, which was facing Crowley when he walked in.

Ah.

That… might explain it.

He finishes dressing in a hurry and returns to the back room. Crowley is already there, curled up on the sofa and clutching a cup of tea close to his chest. Aziraphale's mug is on the small table, surprisingly on a coaster. Crowley never uses the coasters when he makes them tea.

Well, if that isn't a sign something is bothering him, Aziraphale doesn't know what is.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, picking up his mug and settling into the chair opposite, taking a small sip. It's perfect, like it always is when Crowley makes it.

Should he acknowledge what Crowley saw upstairs? He doesn't want to make anything awkward, not when they've been having such a lovely day together - sans the car and puddle incident, of course - so maybe he should just brush past it and pretend it didn't happen. It's what he would normally do.

But… he's not so sure that's the right thing to do. Not while Crowley looks so… off-kilter.

"Are you okay?" he asks, unsure how else to open the conversation.

A part of him expects Crowley to brush him off, pretend he never saw anything, but that doesn't happen. Crowley doesn't respond at all beyond a vague hum, staring down at his tea blankly, before flicking his gaze up, lingering on Aziraphale's mug. His brow furrows, like he's trying to figure something out, then abruptly smooths out as he tilts his head back and groans.

"I got you the worst mug possible."

"Pardon?"

"The wings. I got you an angel wings mug and I said-" he winces- "I said you could have that since you don't…"

"It's fine," Aziraphale says, and he means it. "I like it."

"You don't have to say that just to spare my feelings."

"I'm not. I-" he starts to reassure him, then pauses. Crowley did say he wanted him to be honest with him, right? "I… will admit it stung a little at the time, but it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known. And I really don't mind anymore, I promise. I wouldn't use it if I didn't like it."

Crowley grimaces, casting one last guilty look at the mug, and says, "If you say so."

Aziraphale looks down at the mug, tracing the ceramic feathers with his thumb. It's been so long since he's thought about the small joke Crowley made that day, he'd honestly forgotten about it entirely. The wings don't sting anymore; he can't remember the last time they did. The mug hasn't carried any painful reminders of what he's lost in a long, long time.

"Besides," Aziraphale says slowly, giving Crowley a cautious smile, "it's a cute replacement for my wings if nothing else."

Crowley snorts, freezes, then huffs out another laugh when he sees Aziraphale isn't trying to mask any hurt, old or new. The sound encourages an answering chuckle out of Aziraphale, and the tension in the air eases a little as they giggle together - not that Crowley will ever admit to giggling.

These soft, carefree moments are becoming more and more common, and Aziraphale cherishes them. They're sweet, but fragile, and he cradles each moment in his hands with tender care, like it will break if he holds too hard. They're precious, but they never last long, which is why he has to hold them close while they happen.

This moment is no exception. Aziraphale barely has a chance to savour it at all before it's dying, trailing off after their hesitant giggles fade, leaving them in an odd silence that isn't uncomfortable or tense but certainly isn't easy or relaxed. Despite Aziraphale's words, designed to soothe Crowley's worries, the scars linger over them, not intimidating or looming, but quietly waiting for acknowledgement.

They could simply brush past it, make it settle in the back of their minds to be addressed at a later date, but somehow, Aziraphale doubts that's going to happen. And he isn't wrong.

"I didn't realise you were wearing your corporation when they…" Crowley gestures to his own back. "I thought they'd just… I dunno. On your true form. I didn't notice any differences between your body and mine when I was wearing it."

Aziraphale looks down at his tea, holding the mug a little closer to his chest as he contemplates how he should answer. If he requests it, Crowley will back off and drop the subject, and not mention it again for another thousand years.

Surprisingly, he doesn't want to. He doesn't know how to talk about this, but he isn't… against the idea. He just isn't quite sure what to say.

"I hadn't had it long," is what he eventually settles on. "It was still new when they…"

His back twinges at the reminder, like it's trying to punish him for thinking about it. But Aziraphale has long since grown used to all the little aches and pains, so it's easy to brush past them like they aren't happening.

"I didn't know I had scars for such a long time," he says, absently scratching his back again. "I didn't know bodies could scar, and then I wasn't sure it would apply to me, since I'm not human. My wings weren't actually part of my body, after all, so I didn't think it would leave a mark. I didn't find out anything to the contrary until that witchfinder tried to execute me, when he called them a Devil's Mark."

"Do they hurt?"

"Sometimes. Usually they just itch, but on bad days they ache or sting." At Crowley's distressed look, Aziraphale rushes to add, "It's not as bad as it used to be, and I'm used to it now."

"Shouldn't have to be used to it at all," Crowley mutters, scowling down at his mug. He taps it agitatedly, screwing up his face like he wants to say more but isn't sure he should. He comes to a decision before Aziraphale can prompt him. "When did they… you don't have to answer. 'M just. Y'know. Curious. You know me, can't stop asking questions."

He does know this, and it's the only thing that stops him from wilting completely. He tries not to think about the day he lost his wings too much - it's still painful, even after all this time, and no matter what he tries he just can't get over it - and he knows he can refuse to answer. He's tempted to do exactly that. So tempted, in fact, he's not entirely sure what motivates him to tentatively say, "It was… back in Eden."

"You were at Eden?"

Oh, Aziraphale really needs to learn to remember what Crowley does and doesn't know about him. It feels like he knows everything, now he's discovered Aziraphale's secret, and it's so easy to forget he still doesn't have the full story. Easy to forget him knowing Heaven took his wings doesn't mean he can peer into Aziraphale's very mind and drag out all the memories that accompany that action, pull them close to examine all his exact failures in closer detail.

"I… I left before you arrived," Aziraphale says. "Or. Not before you arrived, exactly. I saw Adam and Eve leave the Garden. But I… left early."

Crowley's brows furrow in thought, then rise with dawning realisation. "You were the angel missing from the wall. The one I wanted to talk to."

Aziraphale nods stiffly, shoulders hunching as he fights the urge to curl in on himself. Every realisation Crowley comes to about him still feels like a potential landmine, one that will make him fall back into that hurt anger they've tried so hard to move past. Every little detail about the things Aziraphale forgot he doesn't know feels like a risk, the final straw that will make Crowley leave for good. It's just as ridiculous as all the other times he's felt like this - Crowley wasn't upset when he found out Aziraphale has known he's a demon since the Ark, so why would he care about this - but he just can't get rid of that fear. He's trying, he really is, but it's so much more difficult than he could have ever imagined. Small, insignificant things like this would have huge consequences if Heaven were in Crowley's shoes.

They aren't, of course, and Aziraphale is grateful for that every day. Crowley has been far more gracious about all of this than Heaven ever were, even though he'd bristle at hearing that. But that knowledge only helps so much.

"What the heaven did they do that for?" Crowley says, failing to hide the contempt in his voice. "The world had just started. They didn't get rid of any of the angels on the other gates, so they can't have been mad at you for not noticing I got in." He pauses, discomfort flicking across his face. "... Were they?"

"No, it had nothing to do with you. It was entirely my own fault."

"If you'd done anything bad enough to warrant Heaven doing… doing that, Hell would've heard about it."

"It wasn't bad, exactly. Not by Hell's standards. I just…" Aziraphale tightens his grip on his mug. It's difficult to get the words out, not because they're painful, but because he's uncomfortably aware he's never been able to fully believe them. "I did the wrong thing."

"Humans had only just invented doing the wrong thing. What could you have done that was so bad?"

Again, Aziraphale is tempted not to answer. His back is starting to twinge insistently, and he's not sure he can fully explain that day. Not when part of him still doesn't understand it.

Again, for reasons unknown even to himself, he does it anyway.

"The flaming sword Adam and his friends used to defeat the Four Horsemen," he says, unsure how else to start. "That was mine. But I… I gave it away."

"You what?"

"I gave it away." He squeezes his eyes shut in shame. "I just… there were vicious animals outside Eden. And I knew Eve was expecting, and I know they were being punished and I shouldn't have undermined God's will by trying to ease their punishment, but I just couldn't bear the thought of-" a lump forms in his throat, and it takes all his willpower to swallow it down- "of them getting hurt. So I gave them my sword. 'Here you go, don't thank me,' I said. I knew the Almighty would know what I'd done, but I thought so long as She didn't say anything, it would be alright. I didn't - I didn't think Heaven would do anything, and I didn't think they'd take my wings over it. I just wanted to help."

He's breathing a little too heavily; this is the most he's discussed the day he lost his wings with anyone. He hasn't even talked about the moment they were taken, but the memory still makes his chest twist and his throat close up. He's barely said anything about what Heaven did to him, only confessed his own sins, and already, that's too much.

He hopes Crowley doesn't ask for more details about the moment they… the moment it happened. If just explaining what he did to deserve it is too much, how can he ever talk about the action itself? The hands gripping him as he struggled, the blank faces approaching him, the stainless steel menacingly reflecting the sun-

He swallows back a noise of distress. He can't do it. He can't talk about it. He promised Crowley his honesty, but if he asks about this… he can't. It's pathetic he still can't talk about it after all this time, but he just can't. Not even with his best friend.

When he finally glances up, Crowley looks stricken, his grip on his mug so tight his knuckles have turned white. Clenching his jaw, he sets it on the table. "They took your wings over that?"

"I was out of line," Aziraphale says; it sounds robotic. "They said if I love the humans so much, I should be stuck on Earth with-"

"Bullshit. That's bullshit and you know it. You fucking - they - that's nothing. Giving your sword away is nothing." The contempt from earlier twists into venom. "I know they're bastards but… fuck, Aziraphale, you can't believe you deserved it over that."

He should, shouldn't he? No one else in Heaven has ever said otherwise. The Archangels have always deemed it a fitting punishment: stick him with the beings he defied the Almighty to protect, and see how much he likes them then, when he's been stuck with them for millennia. Any good angel would get tired eventually, get sick of the Earthly imperfections and long for the cleanliness and order of Heaven. It was supposed to motivate him to work harder to earn their forgiveness and regain a place in Heaven alongside the Host he's supposed to belong to. Even the other angels involved in his punishment never gave him any sympathy, never looked like they were sorry. They remained the perfect soldiers, just like they should, just like they were created to be. And all the angels after that never questioned any of this. Never even talked to him. The complete lack of acknowledgement from everyone is why he'd assumed Gabriel had at least been merciful enough to keep the whole affair under wraps.

But it wasn't kept under wraps. Everyone knows about it, they've always known about it, and they've always accepted it without question. He did the wrong thing, and he was punished for it. There's nothing more to understand.

It's just another example of all the ways Aziraphale doesn't fit in with the rest of the angels, because he's never been able to understand it. How is he supposed to understand why losing his wings is a suitable punishment for showing mercy? Is that just? Is that right? Is that really what he deserved?

Questions he's never let himself ask before. Questions he longs to stop asking himself now.

"They were just doing what they thought was best," he says, but it's weak and flimsy even to his own ears. He can't bring himself to give any other answer, though; anything else would be shameful blasphemy, and he can't bear to feel shame right now. He's so, so tired of being ashamed.

"Bullshit-" Crowley starts to say, then cuts himself off, grimacing. It's not for lack of something to say - Aziraphale has known him long enough to know he'll never run out of bad things to say about Heaven and the angels running it - but because it's an effort to pull the words back.

Aziraphale could easily work out what they are. He knows Crowley, and if he thinks about it at all, he'll know exactly what he just stopped himself from saying. It wouldn't be difficult.

He doesn't. He makes a point of thinking about anything but the rest of that sentence, because he doesn't know how he'll react to it. He's so used to defending Heaven whenever Crowley talks badly about them, but now the thought of doing so leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he doesn't want to know if he'll defend them again. Worse, he's terrified of what may replace that defence if he doesn't.

"They never should've touched you," Crowley eventually says instead, "not for that. Not for anything. That was out of order."

Aziraphale can't contain the little laugh that escapes him.

"It was. Don't you dare think-"

"It's not that. I just… do you know, I don't think anyone's ever said that to me. Before you."

"That's because everyone in Heaven is an idiot."

"I don't think anyone knew-"

He stops. They did know, even the Quartermaster said so. Everyone knows he gave away his flaming sword, they must know that's why he was punished. Everyone knows, and no one has ever said anything to him. No one has ever questioned if the punishment really fits the crime.

But can he really blame them for that, when he didn't question it himself? How can he condemn his fellow angels for not doing something he, himself, never did? That wouldn't be fair.

"No one else has had their wings cut off for not doing what they were supposed to," Crowley says, his gaze intense even under his glasses. "You don't see anyone ripping Gabriel's wings out for failing to start Armageddon, do you? By their standards, that's worse than just giving a flaming sword away."

"That wasn't really his fault, though. We're the ones who stopped it-"

"My point is, they know they never should've done that to you. They know it. If they didn't, they'd be cutting off a lot more wings than just yours."

Aziraphale flinches. "They wanted me to repent. That's all."

"By hurting you?"

"They weren't trying to hurt me." Once, those words would have carried defensive weight, but now they're brittle, too weak to hold up the conviction he wants to give them. He says them more on autopilot than anything; he wants to believe them, he really does, but with Crowley here, adamantly insisting he's done nothing worthy of this, it's getting more and more difficult to believe his own argument. "They just… they knew I wasn't sorry for what I'd done. They knew I didn't regret giving it away. That's why they were so angry. Anyone else would be sorry for undermining the Almighty like that, but I wasn't. They were just trying to correct that."

If he tries hard enough, he can almost believe that. And if he believes it, he can almost make sense of the execution: the last severe punishment didn't work, so maybe the next step up would. Maybe the reason they could never forgive him was because they know he will never be truly repentant. A rotten angel down to the core, so bad he can't even muster up enough selfishness to feel bad about giving away a holy artefact to a pair of damned humans when punished for it. After all, if he truly wanted forgiveness, he would be sorry for his actions. And rotten angels don't deserve their wings.

But then why promise to return them in the first place?

He's spent so long trying to find reasonable explanations for why Heaven took his wings over an act of mercy, but now all of them fold in on themselves and crumble when he asks, then why lie about returning my wings to me?

There is an explanation that answers that question, but he doesn't dare think about it. He doesn't want to think about it, not even long enough to dispute it. He doesn't want to think about the implications and what it might mean for him if he can't dispute it, so it's easier to just not think about it at all. Keep looking for other explanations. If he keeps trying, maybe he'll find one that doesn't hurt.

Crowley looks pained. He opens his mouth like he wants to argue further, but closes it and turns his head away with a frustrated huff, scowling at the chair opposite. "Right. Just acting on the Almighty's orders."

"I'm not so certain they were." He had believed that, once; it was a source of comfort, of sorts, to believe they were following Her directions, and therefore there must have been a reason for removing his wings beyond just punishment. It's a reassurance that got him through those early years, when he wandered the Earth in shock and pain, clinging to the mantra that there must be a reason, invisible to him but there nonetheless. A test he just had to pass, and then all would be forgiven. But with the knowledge Heaven were lying to him about returning his wings, that platitude doesn't really fit anymore; Crowley may (would) disagree, but Aziraphale can't ever imagine Her asking anyone to dangle false hope above his head like that. "Believing they were acting on Her behalf, maybe, but not… I don't think She asked them to do it."

Crowley wrinkles his nose in disagreement, but reluctantly concedes, "Wouldn't be the first time they've done something in God's name without asking first, I guess. Didn't God say anything, though? To you?"

"I thought She would. I… I was waiting for Her to say something when they found me by the gate, but She never did. I just thought - well, She was so much more vocal back then, I just assumed if there was a problem, She'd tell me Herself. I didn't think Heaven would take matters into their own hands. There wasn't a precedent for it."

"And their first independent decision was to cut your wings off for trying to help someone. Real fucking greater good of them."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, but the snarl in Crowley's voice is so vicious he already knows anything he says will only make it worse. And in truth, he can't think of anything to say. He can't condemn them - the thought of condemning his ex-bosses makes him uneasy - but, strangely, he can't find words to defend them, either.

It's worrying how little that concerns him. Or perhaps it's worrying he's too concerned about it. He isn't sure what he's supposed to feel anymore. Should he be worried he can't think of a way to defend them, even after all they've done? Or should he not spare any sympathy for them? Neither option feels right, and there's no one he can talk to about it, no one to help him figure out how he's supposed to feel. Not even Crowley can help him here; Aziraphale already knows exactly what his opinion will be, furious on his behalf as he is, but if he listened to everything Crowley says about Heaven and angels and God, he would have Fallen by now. He's on his own for this one.

He wishes God would give him some guidance. He's ached for Her guidance, Her reassurance, for a long time, and he could really use it right about now. But he knows how She works enough to know She will want him to figure this out on his own. Make his own decision. Aziraphale can only pray he comes to the right one.

Goodness, is this how twisted up Crowley felt when he was figuring out if he should forgive Aziraphale for his lies? He longs to ask, but he's afraid of the answer, and Crowley will see right through him anyway. He'll know exactly why he's asking, and he'll launch into a speech about how Aziraphale shouldn't even waste time thinking about Heaven, much less feel bad about failing to defend them. Sweet, but not helpful at the moment.

"Do you regret it?" Crowley says, breaking Aziraphale's thoughts before they can spiral further. "Giving your sword away? I know you said you didn't then, but that was then."

There's a correct answer to this, isn't there? He knows how he should answer, it's the answer Gabriel has been expecting from him for thousands of years now.

It's an answer he cannot give unless he wants to break his promise of honesty, and he never wants to do that again.

"No," he confesses, and wishes there was any shame in his voice. "I've tried, but I just… I can't. If it gave them a chance, if it's the reason humanity continued to live, I'd do it again. Even knowing the consequences."

He's tried so hard to make himself regret it. Tried to convince himself Adam and Eve didn't deserve his help. He knows himself well enough to know he will never regret helping someone in need, and convincing himself they weren't in need was the only thing he could think to do to find his regret. It shouldn't have been difficult; before he escorted them out of Eden, he only really knew them through observation, and by the time he'd pulled himself out of his shock and stopped reaching for wings that weren't there anymore, Adam and Eve were long gone, their descendants the ones roaming the Earth. Not exactly a lot of time to grow attached to them.

But every time he tries to resent them, every time he tries to tell himself they'd only gotten what they deserved, all he can think about is their resigned, frightened eyes, the way Eve had cautiously cradled her stomach, the way Adam's arm trembled around her shoulder. The world was young but they were even younger, and Aziraphale never would have forgiven himself if he'd sent them outside the safety of the Garden unprotected, with no way to defend themselves or keep warm. He's made plenty of mistakes over the years, and he regrets many of them, but giving his sword away is not one of those regrets and never will be.

It would be so much easier if he could hate them, or be indifferent to them, but he's not capable of the effortless apathy all the other angels seem to have. In hindsight, he doesn't know why he ever bothered to try and earn their forgiveness. He's a broken angel, and the things that come naturally to everyone else have just never come to him, no matter how hard he tries to force them. He should have seen his failure coming a mile away.

Even knowing it was the first step down a path that led to hurting Crowley so terribly isn't enough to make him wish he'd done anything different. He'd do just about anything to fix his mistake, to go back and tell Crowley the truth from the start, but not that. Never that.

What does it say about him when even the one he loves is not enough to sway him from his blasphemous conviction? He doesn't know how Crowley can bring himself to even be around him when this is how he thinks. How he feels. Who puts two meaningless humans above the love of their life?

But… that's not fair. It wasn't Adam and Eve's fault. Losing his wings may have contributed to his lie to Crowley - he couldn't have lied about it if he'd still had them, after all - but those are his own sins, and have nothing to do with Adam and Eve. Aziraphale could have told the truth at any time. He could have corrected Crowley in Egypt, or at least told him the truth once he finally realised Crowley is trustworthy. Even if he could go back in time and undo everything, he wouldn't make Adam and Eve suffer just so he never had the chance to hurt Crowley. He shouldn't need to be denied the opportunity to do harm in the first place. He should know better. People cannot be truly holy unless they've had the chance to be truly wicked.

And haven't the opportunities presented to him shown his true colours in a disturbing light?

"You alright?"

"I'm-" fine, he almost says, but bites it back because it feels like a lie. Familiar shame gnaws at his soul, making him want to curl in on himself and hide away from Crowley's concerned gaze. Concern he doesn't deserve, no matter what Crowley says.

What is wrong with him? Why can't he just believe Crowley's word, for once? He trusts him, trusts him more than he ever thought it would be possible to trust anyone other than the Almighty, so why is it so difficult to believe him?

"I just wish we'd had the chance to meet back then," Aziraphale finally settles on, hoping his words will ease the look on Crowley's face. "In Eden, I mean. On the wall, like you wanted to."

"Yeah." Crowley's gaze falls to his abandoned mug, which is surely stone cold by now. He doesn't move to reheat it. "Me too."

If there was any hope of returning to the light-hearted, easy camaraderie from before, it's long gone now. In the place of the warm, achingly familiar atmosphere Aziraphale had been so sure he'd lost forever, there's an odd, stilted melancholy, not quite stifling or heavy or even uncomfortable, but a presence they can't ignore all the same as they stare at their individual mugs, silently mulling over the shared wish together.

What would have happened if they'd met on the wall? Would their first meeting be as tense as the one in Egypt? Crowley would've undoubtedly stopped by only after Adam and Eve had left the Garden, out of sight of humans potentially seeking revenge on the being who coaxed them away from their paradise. Would Aziraphale have already lost his wings by then, or would he have them for a few more precious minutes?

What if he hadn't lost them at all?

For a brief moment, he lets himself fall into that daydream. Up on the wall, wings fluttering in the breeze of the oncoming storm. Crowley slithering up by his side to join him, his own wings unfolding and brushing against Aziraphale's as he'd make some dry remark about what transpired in the Garden. Heaven would've left him alone if they hadn't come looking for him to take his wings, would've waited for him to make his own way back, so they would have been able to talk for as long as they wanted. Maybe even long enough for the storm to roll over them, catching them in the downpour.

Aziraphale could… with his wings, he could've shielded Crowley. Could have held one wing over him to protect him from the raindrops. He'd probably do it without even thinking; after all, it would hardly be polite to keep himself dry and let his conversational partner get wet, now would it?

It's such a simple action, not even particularly sweet or romantic, but for some reason, thinking about it makes his heart flutter.

But it's nothing more than a daydream as impossible as getting his wings back. In reality, even if they had met on the wall, it would have been after Heaven took his wings. Meeting before then would have put Crowley in danger. He would have been spotted when the other angels arrived to deliver Aziraphale's punishment, and their friendship would end before it would have a chance to begin.

The thought is agonising. Worse than the agony he felt when he lost his wings.

Still, the knowledge that things could have gone much worse - that he could have lost Crowley before getting the chance to know him - doesn't stop him from wishing they had met on the wall. It would have to be after losing his wings, and Aziraphale doesn't know how he'd get up onto the wall without them, but he longs for it all the same. The timing certainly wouldn't have done his shocked state any good - being approached by a demon, so soon after losing his wings, would have been terrible for his nerves - but the outcome would have been so much better. Crowley would have won him over with time. They would have ended up here, together, no matter the circumstances. There's nothing in the universe that could have stopped them from becoming friends any more than Heaven or Hell could have stopped him from falling in love with Crowley.

They'd be here no matter what.

It's just… here would be so much better if he'd never lied to Crowley to begin with.

He tries not to think about it. He really does. But he can't help it. The possibilities of the what-ifs linger over him, quiet but nagging. Where would they be right now, at this exact moment in time, if they didn't have to repair what Aziraphale broke? Would they still be here, in the backroom of the bookshop, drinking wine instead of tea? Or would they be out somewhere, at a restaurant, or in the countryside? Would they be sitting in silence, just enjoying one another's company, or would they be in the middle of some fascinating debate? They would end up at one another's side no matter what, but where would they be, side by side, right now, if they didn't have to have these terribly awkward and tense conversations?

(Would they be something more? Would Aziraphale have found the courage to finally be more forward with his feelings? Would they have the strength to hold hands now they're free from the threat of repercussions?)

He's never going to know.

It's pointless to dwell on the missed opportunities. He should be focusing on the positives of his situation; they've been doing so well, they've come so far, and to long for what they never had instead of being thankful for what they do, even in spite of everything, feels sickeningly ungrateful. What he has now is so much more than he deserves after how much he hurt Crowley, and he's unbelievably fortunate to get another chance. He's lucky, so what right does he have to mourn the moments he's losing when he's responsible for their loss in the first place?

But it's difficult not to. Knowing they weren't able to have that moment together on the wall, or that he couldn't do something as simple as heal Crowley whenever he was injured… that stings, of course it does. But thinking about what they're currently missing, where they could be if Aziraphale hadn't messed up and ruined everything, hurts so much more. Every second they spend painstakingly repairing their relationship is a second that could have been spent together, happy, maybe even fulfilling fantasies Aziraphale hasn't been able to stop dreaming about ever since Crowley rescued his books from that bomb for him. There may be millions of past moments lost, but he's actively losing moments in the present, and that's much harder to swallow.

He knows these things take time, but the wait is frustrating, and knowing it's his own fault makes it even worse.

"Could've been worse," Crowley says. "We could've not met at all."

Yes. Yes, it could be worse.

But it could be better, too. Could have been better from the start, if he'd just told the truth.

Apologies linger on the tip of his tongue, but what good will they do? He's already given his apologies. Already given his explanations. He has nothing more to give, nothing more Crowley wants, and yet, for some infuriating reason, it's still not enough. He's never been enough. He could repeat his apologies over and over for the rest of existence and it would still never encompass just how sorry he is. Nothing he does will ever be able to express how much he wishes he could take back all his mistakes and try again, be better, be what Crowley deserves right from the beginning.

And yet he aches to try anyway. To do better, be better, to earn it. He should be working for… something. Atonement, of some kind.

It's ridiculous. He shouldn't still be struggling with this. Crowley has given him everything he needs to make this easier, things Aziraphale would have never dared consider asking Heaven for. He isn't even making him earn the right to keep their friendship, or holding the promise of forgiveness over his head to see how long it will take him to jump high enough to reach it. Crowley is being so patient, so generous, so much kinder than Heaven ever were, even if he'd sulk and grumble if Aziraphale pointed that out.

But it leaves Aziraphale without anything concrete to work towards. How will he know when their friendship has been fixed? When talking about his lie no longer makes Crowley's face twitch like he's holding back a glare or scowl? When they no longer feel the need to talk about the lie at all? When will they know, how will they know? How will Aziraphale know? He's never been good at knowing, has never trusted his own judgement, and he cannot afford to judge incorrectly now. The last thing he wants is to assume their friendship is fixed just because he cannot see the cracks in it and cause even more pain. It's true he can always ask Crowley, but Crowley may not know, either - neither of them are exactly good at this. They're both stumbling around, blind when they need light more than ever.

Maybe that's all the more reason to ask, but thinking about it makes him feel slimy, disgusting. Ungrateful. Who is he to ask Crowley to help him fix their friendship? It's pathetic, just another example of how useless he really is. Any good angel would be able to do it without even thinking about it.

Crowley doesn't want him thinking like that.

But he doesn't know how else to think.

Not needing forgiveness is supposed to be easier, this is easier. He shouldn't still be struggling with this.

So why does he still feel like he's failing?

He's grasping at a cliff for purchase, all his usual footholds are gone, and apologies are the only thing he can think to make to keep himself hanging on, even knowing he shouldn't be making them so much.

"Aziraphale?"

"Sorry," Aziraphale says. He forces himself to raise his eyes and smile at Crowley. "I was just… thinking."

"Overthinking, more like," Crowley says, but it's good-natured, tinged with a light air meant to brighten the mood. It's sweet, but not really working. "You're in your head too much."

"Sorry."

"I'm going to get you an apology jar if you keep saying that."

It's a harmless comment. Still meant to brighten the mood.

But for some reason, it makes something in Aziraphale's chest crack.

"I don't mean to. I'm trying to stop myself from saying it, I am, but you don't understand. It's - it's difficult."

Crowley startles, and guilt squeezes Aziraphale's chest; he's overreacting to a simple joke, he knows he is, but he can't stop.

"I know it's difficult-"

"But it shouldn't be." Frustration wars with the guilt in Aziraphale's chest. "I - you're doing so much to make this easier for us. You're not making me earn your friendship, you aren't testing me, you let me ask what you need instead of making me guess… you're doing so much, and you shouldn't have to. This shouldn't be on you. I'm the one who ruined everything. I should be capable of fixing this mess on my own."

"That's not-"

"I know. I'm not - I'm trying to believe you, Crowley, heaven knows I'm trying, but I just - if I apologise, you tell me not to, and I feel like I sound insincere or like I'm pressuring you into being okay with being around me, but if I don't apologise, it's like I'm just… ignoring what I've done. But if I say it anyway, it's not enough, and I just - I don't know what else to do."

He hates that he can't stop himself from talking. They're supposed to be moving past this, and how can they do that when he keeps mentioning it, but a dam has burst and he can't stop himself. He can't move on. He can never just move on. He couldn't move on from his wings, and he can't move on from this. He's so slow, always so stuck on his mistakes, and it's always Crowley who has to deal with the fallout, because he's too useless to do it on his own.

"You're already doing-"

"But it doesn't feel like I am." His leg bounces. His grip on his mug threatens to tighten further; he has to set it on the table so he won't risk shattering it. Still the anxious energy refuses to dissipate, and he stands, pacing restlessly. "I feel like I'm just - just waiting, when I should be doing something, and I know you said we're doing it together, but I just… I can't help but feel like I still haven't done anything."

"Aziraphale, hold on-"

"I can't! I can't stop, I'm trying but I can't. I don't know how." His hands flex, useless and aimless by his sides, just like him. "I know you said - I know I don't have to - I don't know why it isn't helping. It should be helping, but I just - I still feel like I need to keep trying to - to-"

"Hey."

Cool hands grab his, freezing him in his tracks. Crowley is in front of him, preventing him from pacing; he hadn't even noticed Crowley stand up and walk towards him.

When… when was the last time Crowley casually touched him like this?

The bandstand. When he had his hand around his wrist, right before Aziraphale ruined everything.

His breath catches in his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know I keep saying it, and I know you told me not to, but I am. I don't know what's wrong with me, and I don't know why I can't stop saying it. I just - I just feel like I should be doing something. Something more than fixing our friendship."

"We're already doing everything we can."

Aziraphale swallows. He slowly tightens his grip on Crowley's hands. Searching for grounding, for an answer, an explanation for why he can never just be grateful for the blessings he's been gifted. "Then why doesn't it feel like enough? Why do I still feel like this?"

"It's just… just stress, I think, from… everything. It'll fade."

"We don't know that. We don't know anything about how all this works." Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to focus on Crowley's cool hands wrapped around his, instead of the lost, confusing buzz in his heart. "What if I don't stop feeling this way, even after we've fixed everything? Am I meant to simply pretend I don't? I may not regret giving my sword away, but I'll always regret hurting you. I don't know how to stop."

Crowley lets out a breath. It ruffles Aziraphale's hair. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

"But I still did. And I-" he tries not to say it, he really does, but Crowley is holding his hands so tenderly and speaking so softly, and Aziraphale's chest aches because he doesn't deserve it, he's never going to just be grateful for it, not when he still feels like he needs to reach for something- "Crowley, I'm so, so sorry."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, lost and helpless, and Aziraphale hates that he's making Crowley feel this way. Hates that he can't just keep his apologies to himself.

But then the helpless look fades, replaced by something that almost looks like determination.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says again, like he's about to go into battle. "I-"

He stops. Huffs. His face twists, grimaces, like there's an unpleasant taste in his mouth he's dying to spit out. It's the same look he gets when he's gearing up to do something particularly nice, like it's taking every ounce of his strength to push aside his demonic instinct and go through with it.

Crowley releases one of Aziraphale's hands. His own hand hovers by Aziraphale's shoulder, uncertain, like he's debating if he really wants to touch Aziraphale again.

He doesn't touch Aziraphale.

Instead, he takes his glasses off, and Aziraphale's heart stumbles and flutters.

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeats, and he still looks pained, but his eyes are sharp and intense and honest as they bear into him, and Aziraphale can't look away. "Angel." He takes Aziraphale's hand again, and holds tight. "I forgive you."

The world stops spinning. Aziraphale stares in disbelief, his heart pounding in his ears, loud but unable to drown out the phantom echo of what Crowley just said.

The words can't be easy, not for a demon, but he says them like they are.

Have… have they always been that easy to say?

… Oh.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. His voice cracks. "Oh."

His next breath in is shaky, and his next breath out is a sob.

"Oh shit," Crowley mutters, squeezing his hands tighter. "Aziraphale-"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to - to protest, to insist he's done nothing to deserve those words, to do anything - but the words get caught in the bubble in his throat, and another sob escapes him. He clings to Crowley's hands with all his strength, trying desperately to swallow back the tears - tears he has no need to shed, Crowley is forgiving him, so why is there a dam in his chest? - and say something in response to the words Crowley fought so hard to get out.

The words Heaven had no intention of ever giving to him.

The world restarts abruptly; it's tilting, spinning faster than it's ever spun before, and Aziraphale is lost in a space not meant for him, with no solid ground under his feet and only Crowley's hands for guidance.

Hands that slip from his grasp, gone for only a second before arms wrap around him, holding him tight against Crowley's chest, and it's only then he realises he's been swaying dangerously.

"I got you," Crowley says. "We're alright, angel."

Angel.

Aziraphale clutches Crowley's shoulders, digging his fingers into the familiar fabric, and sobs openly into Crowley's chest.

It hurts. His cries are violent, built up over thousands of years, and his body shudders under the force of them, so harsh he's almost certain his corporation is going to crack and crumble, leaving him bare in his true form for anyone to see. His cries scratch his throat, sting his eyes, swell in his chest until he can barely breathe, and it hurts. Hurts as much as his back, as his heart, pain seeping through wounds he'd hoped wouldn't ever hurt like this again. The hole in his chest aches with the agony of 6000 years. It claws at him, desperate for release, and no matter how hard he cries, it's not escaping fast enough.

He didn't even cry like this the night he lost his wings.

It hurts, but Crowley's arms are around him, holding him tight like he's physically holding Aziraphale together. One hand runs up and down his back, right above the spot where his scars lay, and the cool, firm touch is a balm to the burning behind his eyes.

So even though it hurts, Aziraphale lets himself cry harder. Lets himself stain Crowley's shirt with his tears, clings to Crowley with all his strength, like he can use his body to hide away from how very exposed he feels. And maybe Crowley can hear his unspoken, ridiculous desire, or maybe he just knows Aziraphale so well, because there's a quiet flutter, and then darkness wraps around him, shielding him from view and sheltering him in a curtain of dark feathers.

All the while, Crowley's hand never stops, and when he shifts and Aziraphale clings harder, terrified he'll let go and leave, he hushes him and runs his soothing hand down his back again.

"'M here, angel," he murmurs, wrapping his wings tighter around them. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tears hot on his cheeks, Aziraphale chokes out another chest-rattling sob. It hurts, it's hard to breathe through his sobs, and he's shaking so much it aches, but Crowley holds him tight and doesn't let go. It hurts, but knowing he's in Crowley's arms, underneath Crowley's wings, listening to Crowley call him angel with affection instead of disgust, is enough to make it worth it. He'd feel like this for a thousand years so long as Crowley holds him like he loves him the whole time.

Under Crowley's hand, the place where his wings should be aches and itches and stings and burns. As raw and painful as the day he lost them.

Under Crowley's hand, an open wound slowly, painstakingly, stitches itself shut and finally begins to heal.

---

"We're here, angel," Crowley says, switching off the car and swinging his legs out the door. He's trying to conceal his eagerness, but he's doing a very poor job, considering the excitement in his voice and the way he saunters over to Aziraphale's side and opens the door for him before he has a chance to get out himself. Amused, Aziraphale takes the offered hand and lets Crowley help him out of the car.

He hadn't known what to expect when Crowley burst into the bookshop hours earlier, swinging a picnic basket and ordering him into the car with some snacks and blankets, but it certainly wasn't to be driven out of London and into the countryside to a random hill in the middle of nowhere. He's not complaining, though. This isn't how they typically spend time together, but he's always up for trying new things, and a late night picnic sounds lovely. The late hour may not be standard, but it gives them an extra shred of privacy with all the humans asleep instead of sharing the hill with their own picnic baskets.

The night air is cool but not cold; the barely present breeze keeps the temperature up pleasantly, and Aziraphale is perfectly warm under all his layers, although he isn't sure if Crowley can say the same for himself. The stars are beautiful and sprinkled all across the night sky, bright and plentiful in a way he hasn't seen since they moved into the city all those years ago. Perhaps he should look into getting a little cottage somewhere. It would be nice to have somewhere outside of London to stay and look up at the stars. Extra storage for his books and other little trinkets wouldn't hurt, either.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley drops the rolled-up blanket to the ground, dumping the picnic basket onto it the second it finishes obediently unrolling, and dramatically gestures for Aziraphale to sit. Together, they unpack the picnic basket, unloading an extraordinary amount of food that really should not have been able to fit inside such a small basket but did because Crowley expected it to.

"You'll like this," Crowley says, pulling the third pie so far out of the basket; he really has gone all-out. He's even forgone his glasses. "There's a meteor shower tonight. Thought this would be a great place to stop and watch."

"I don't remember the last time I watched a meteor shower," Aziraphale says, moving the flapjacks out of the way to make space for the pie. "I always forget when they are, so I always end up reading in the bookshop and missing them, and I never find out until a few days later."

"I can remind you. I track them."

"I'd like that." Aziraphale can already see it: Crowley dropping by unannounced, borderline bouncing around the bookshop as he invites Aziraphale to watch a meteor shower with him, buzzing with a delighted energy he so rarely lets himself express. And Aziraphale will say yes, of course he will, because seeing Crowley so excited about something never fails to warm his heart. "When does this one start?"

"Soon. Patience, Aziraphale, patience. Sandwich?"

"I don't think I'm the impatient one right now. You keep wiggling and nearly knocking the fruit over."

"I missed the last one," Crowley complains, handing the sandwich to Aziraphale. "My stupid alarm didn't go off when it was supposed to, so I overslept. Sue me for looking forward to this one."

Situating himself more comfortably on the blanket, Aziraphale takes a bite of the sandwich and looks up. The night sky is clear; it really is the perfect night to watch a meteor shower.

Next to him, Crowley rolls his shoulders again. The fourth time today.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah, fine. Just a little stiff from the car ride, is all."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrow expectantly. Crowley crumbles within seconds.

"It's… just my wings," he says, a little hesitantly. "They're a little cramped, is all. I'll take them out and stretch them when I get home."

Ah.

Well, that makes sense, at least. Neither of them talk about their wings much. They never have; he suspects Crowley saw no reason to do so when he thought Aziraphale was just a human, and now he knows the truth… well, it's not exactly the kind of topic one goes around discussing. Not after… everything. Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley's wings since that day in the bookshop, when Crowley held him close and curled them around him. There just aren't many opportunities to stretch them these days, what with all the cameras and the internet. It's probably habit that keeps them tucked away even while they're cramping.

Habit, and perhaps the heavy knowledge of what happened to Aziraphale's own wings.

A few millennia ago, perhaps the sight of Crowley's wings, out so freely and twitching and responding to his every mood, would have hurt. Maybe it still will. Aziraphale doesn't know. He's only ever seen Crowley's wings twice, and neither of those were particularly opportune times for jealousy.

But that's no reason for Crowley to hide them away when it's just the two of them. There are already so few opportunities for him to stretch his wings in day-to-day life, there's no reason he should deny himself when he does have a moment to do so.

"You can always stretch them now, if you'd like," Aziraphale says. "It's just us."

"'S fine. They're not that bad, they can wait."

"Crowley." He waits until Crowley catches his eye; eye contact has been a little easier, recently, for a reason Aziraphale can't quite explain. Only with Crowley, and not all the time, but it is easier. "I don't mind."

"... You sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

And within a blink, Crowley's wings are there, stretching up towards the sky. His feathers flutter in the wind as he flaps them, shiny with the glow of the moon reflecting off them. His wings are gorgeous, now Aziraphale has the opportunity to really look: they're pristine and organised, neatly groomed in the way Aziraphale's wings never were. Sleek, and nothing like the mess of feathers Aziraphale has seen from the other angels up in Heaven. Already a beautiful picture of model wings, Crowley's fingers drift to them as he brings them back down, smoothing down and adjusting wayward feathers Aziraphale didn't even notice were crooked, as meticulous with how they look as he is with his CD collection in his flat.

Aziraphale's hands itch to reach out and groom alongside him. He doesn't, because that would be inappropriate to do, especially without asking, but he wants to. He hasn't preened anyone in so long; communal preening isn't really done in Heaven anymore, to his knowledge. If it's done at all, it's likely done in private, and nothing like the relaxed, casual display of affection it used to be back before the War. Even if it is still done, Aziraphale isn't exactly close to any other angels, so he would never be invited to such a thing. And it's not like he has his own wings to groom anymore, so he hasn't done it in… well, not since before Eden.

Is communal preening a thing in Hell, or is it looked down on? When was the last time Crowley let anyone other than himself preen his wings?

Again, Aziraphale itches to reach out and ask.

Another time, perhaps, in a few years. Maybe then he'll have the courage.

"Better?" he says instead.

"Mm. Much." Crowley sighs in content, stretching his wings one last time. Aziraphale can't help but stare, transfixed; he looks so at peace like this, in the softness of the night, with his wings free and proudly shimmering in the moonlight. It's so mesmerising Aziraphale couldn't look away if he wanted to, so he catches the exact moment Crowley's eyes light up as he straightens, staring up at the sky.

"It's starting."

It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze away from Crowley, but Aziraphale manages. Tilting his head up at the sky, he can't contain the little gasp of wonder that escapes him. The sight is gorgeous; streaks of light cut through the dark sky, one after the other, a beautiful sight against the starry night. He counts them, one, two, ten, twenty, until he loses track, caught up in the breathtaking awe of marvelling at the Almighty's creation.

Next to him, Crowley has gone almost completely still. Only his wings give anything away, fluttering in excitement, nearly knocking the food over on multiple occasions. The feathers brush against Aziraphale's arm every now and then, and he mourns the fact he chose to wear so many layers. He could have survived wearing short sleeves if it would mean he'd get to feel Crowley's soft feathers against his skin.

The shower is beautiful, but it still can't completely capture Aziraphale's attention. He can't help glancing at Crowley, again and again, to drink in the beautiful delight on his face, the sparkle in his eyes that outshines all the stars in the sky at once.

He knows Crowley loves the stars, but he so rarely gets to see that love.

Perhaps he really does need to watch more meteor showers if this is what he's missing out on.

"Did you know humans wish on shooting stars?" he says.

"Eh?"

"The meteor showers. Humans call them shooting stars. They believe if they wish on one, their wish will come true."

Crowley looks away from the shower just long enough to wrinkle his nose at Aziraphale. "That's stupid. They aren't even stars, they're meteors. Completely different things. Humans know this, why do they call them shooting stars when they know they're not stars?"

"Habit, I suppose. From before they knew they weren't stars."

"And why do they think wishing on one will do them any good? What do they think a hunk of rock in space can do for them? It's not like it has powers."

"I think it's nice humans try so hard to find magic in the universe. Even if it's… not entirely logical."

"There's no logic to it at all, angel. It's complete bullshit."

"The belief is sweet, though."

"Of course you would think that." Despite his words, there's affection in Crowley's tone.

Aziraphale looks back up to the shower. The meteors are still plentiful, like an invisible ink brush is painting them across the sky, burning hot and bright just to allow those on Earth the privilege of viewing their beauty. It's wondrous; he understands why humans seek magic in them, even knowing they don't actually hold any power. If he didn't know any better, if he hadn't been there during the very creation of the universe, he'd believe such a shining sight is brimming with magic, too.

"What would you wish for?" he asks.

"I wouldn't wish for anything, because meteors don't work like that."

"But if you believed they did, or if they did work like that. What would you wish for?"

Crowley rolls his eyes, but humours him. "I'd wish for the Bentley to stop turning my CDs into Queen."

"You know, I'm sure if you asked nicely-"

"Ask nicely? It's like you don't even know me." Crowley huffs in mock outrage. "Besides, I've already tried threatening it, and it didn't work. I don't think asking will make a difference."

"Just miracle them back the way they should be, then."

"I've tried. I've tried everything, and nothing works. The Bentley won't budge."

"Oh, I'm sure it can be persuaded if you try long enough."

"Did that. It just fights me the whole journey."

"Maybe you just weren't driving for long enough."

"Not driving for - I was driving for four hours, and it still didn't stop!"

"What were you driving for four hours for?"

"Needed to get to Manchester for a minor temptation. I thought that would be long enough to get the Bentley to behave, but it's stubborn."

"Well, it does take after you."

"If it took after me, we'd listen to something other than bloody Queen for once."

Despite Crowley's words, there's no real irritation in his voice. Unsurprising. Aziraphale knows for a fact Crowley listened to Queen's albums on repeat when they just started out. He really shouldn't wonder where the Bentley's love for them came from when they were all it heard for two years straight.

"What about you?" Crowley says. "What would you wish for?"

Aziraphale hums, head tilted back to continue to watch the shower as he thinks. It's a good question. What would he wish for? If he could ask for anything, and it would come true, what would he want? Some new misprinted bibles, perhaps, or to get his hands on the only copy of Agnus Nutter's book once and for all? But half of the fun of book collecting is tracking them down himself, or being surprised by Crowley gifting them to him. Wishing for them would take away the fun of it.

He knows what he would have wished for after they thwarted the apocalypse: Crowley's friendship and forgiveness. But he has that now, has had it for a while, and he didn't need to wish or pray for it. Crowley simply gave it to him, out of the goodness of his… well, of his own free will. As dark as those initial days were, as much as Aziraphale feared they would never be able to repair their friendship, it's hard to imagine permanently ruining what they have now they're on the other side of their rough patch. Sometimes he'll worry things will get worse again - he can't help it, he's been worrying for 6000 years - but those moments are few and far between, getting fewer and farther the more time goes on. He's secure in their friendship; he doesn't feel the need to wish for its restoration any longer.

He knows what he would have wished for before the apocalypse, too. His back itches at the thought but… he's gone so long without his wings he no longer remembers what it's like to have them. The promise of regaining them has caused him so much pain. As agonising as it was - still is - to realise Heaven lied to him about returning them, having the pressure of getting them back off his shoulders has slowly but surely allowed him to breathe better.

If he wished for them back, would all the stress and worry return with them? Would he have to carry the weight of far more than just his wings? Would he be willing to do it, now that he's finally rid himself of it?

No. The thought is incomprehensible, even to him, but… he isn't so sure he wants his wings back, anymore. Even if he could wish for them. He misses them - he'll never stop missing them - but he can no longer bring himself to believe they're worth the pain they cause.

The stars twinkle above him, outshined by the meteor shower but no less beautiful despite not having the spotlight tonight. The clouds are sparse, leaving the sky mostly clear, like curtains held open for the spectacle of the shower.

"To go flying again," he says softly. "I'd like to see the Earth from above, for once. Just one more time."

He can live without his wings, but he misses being able to fly. It's the thing he misses the most, and he doesn't know if it's a loss he'll ever get over. He likes being on Earth, likes walking to places and being surrounded by people, and yes, even being in Crowley's car, despite the absolutely outrageous speeds, but just once he'd like to return to the sky. Breathe in the air, marvelling at its thinness from so high up - such things don't bother him the way they would a human, his body sturdier than most - and take a moment to observe the beauty of the world below from a distance. See a larger part of the picture, rather than mere chunks. Feel the wind in his face, alone but not lonely, taking a moment to himself, a special moment few get to experience the way he does.

His wings aren't worth the trouble they've caused him. But flying… oh, he'd give just about anything to go flying again.

Crowley glances at him, face pinched into something almost thoughtful, then abruptly stands.

"Hey," he says, tugging on Aziraphale's hand. "Get up."

"Shouldn't we pack everything away if we're leaving?"

"We're not leaving yet. C'mon, up."

Aziraphale lets Crowley pull him to his feet, following him as he leads him away from their little picnic. Crowley's hand is colder than normal; absently, Aziraphale runs his thumb over Crowley's knuckle, like that will bring any warmth to it.

"Arms around me," Crowley says when they stop, spreading his arms out wide.

"What-"

"Trust me."

Bewildered, Aziraphale obeys, wrapping his arms around Crowley's waist, trying not to flush. This is the closest they've ever been, and the lovesick part of his mind whispers Crowley has never asked for a hug before. But does it really count as a hug? Crowley didn't say it was a hug. He just asked for Aziraphale's arms around him, which sounds like a hug, and feels like a hug, but isn't necessarily one.

Crowley rearranges him, shifting his arms to wind tight over his shoulders instead, then loops his own arms around Aziraphale's waist. "Link your hands together. Yeah, like that. Hold tight - no no, tighter, there you go. Ready?"

"Ready for what?"

Crowley grins his little mischievous grin, and it's almost enough to make Aziraphale let go - but Crowley asked him to trust him, and Aziraphale has never trusted anyone more.

"Don't let go," Crowley says. His wings flare, and it's the only warning Aziraphale gets before they flap, strong and powerful and familiar-

And the ground disappears from under their feet. Wind buffets his hair, his clothes. Aziraphale gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, clings to Crowley even tighter, legs flailing for ground, and Crowley's only response is to laugh at him and hold him closer.

"Eyes open, angel," he says.

Hesitant, Aziraphale cracks open one eye. He doesn't need any encouragement to open the other as he gapes, staring at the gorgeous deep blue surrounding them.

The sky. He's in the sky.

The wind is more noticeable up here. Colder, too, just like he imagined it would be; it cuts through his clothes to reach his skin, passes through him to make him shiver lightly, but it's not unpleasant. It curls around his cheeks like an embrace, as if it's unable to believe he's up here with it, joining it at long last after 6000 years. Around them, the clouds drift closer, curious. Clinging tighter to Crowley, Aziraphale cautiously unwinds one arm from around him and reaches out to one, hand trembling. The cloud feels of nothing, of course - it isn't a solid object, so his hand merely passes through it - but oh, oh, just having the chance to do it makes him giddy. He wouldn't be able to suppress his smile even if he wanted to as he watches his hand disappear into the mist of the cloud.

The lack of ground under his feet isn't so terrifying, anymore. It's freeing.

With a disbelieving laugh, Aziraphale runs his hand through the cloud again.

"Crowley," he whispers. "Crowley."

Crowley looks far too pleased with himself, his grip around Aziraphale even tighter to accommodate for Aziraphale not clinging to him with both hands. He doesn't tell Aziraphale to pull his arm back, or grumble about how he'll drop him if he won't hold on. There's a shimmer of delight in his eyes as he watches Aziraphale, and genuine happiness nestles in the corner of his smug grin. His wings, strong and powerful, beat a steady tune behind him to keep them in the air; if it's a struggle to hold up both himself and Aziraphale, he doesn't breathe a word of complaint, and there's no visible strain in his face.

"This what you were hoping for, angel?"

Aziraphale nods, breathless, running his hand through another passing cloud.

"Wanna go higher?"

Crowley's wings flap harder without waiting for an answer, launching them higher into the air, and Aziraphale is giddy with the sensation. He looks down as Crowley flies, and his head spins at the dizzying sight of the grassy fields below them, stretching out. The details of the ground shrink into mere pinpricks, and as they fly higher, glimmers of lights appear in the distance from nearby towns; maybe, if they fly high enough, they could see London. Aziraphale runs his hand through one more cloud before they're out of reach, drifting over the land and making the prettiest picture.

This. This is what he's been missing for so long. Seeing it now feels unreal when he was so sure he'd never get to see it again.

"Hey," Crowley says, squeezing tighter to get his attention, "look up."

Aziraphale loathes to look away from the sight below him, but he obeys, mouth falling open at the sight of the sky. Unmarred by clouds, the stars above them are endless, scattered beautifully across the night, almost glittering, like they're thrilled to be seen. Aziraphale hasn't seen the sky look like this in so long; his eyes are far better than a human's, which is why he can see this many stars at all, where a human's eyes would still miss most of them, but there's so much light in London even he can't see the way the stars are supposed to look through it all, and he's lived there for so long he'd honestly forgotten he was missing anything.

He can't forget now. He can't believe he ever forgot. The stars are far away, out of reach, but they seem so close, like it would only take minutes to reach them if they kept flying.

Another meteor - shooting star - streaks across the sky. If Aziraphale didn't know any better, he'd think it was winking at him.

"Looks even better from up here, huh?" Crowley says.

Aziraphale can only nod again, still speechless.

He loses track of how long he's there, Crowley's body pressed against his, holding him high in the sky as they watch the stars together. His heart is pounding - he can't tell if it's from the exhilaration of being so high, the joy of the illusion of flying again, or from Crowley's arms around him holding him so tight - and his smile is so uncontrollably wide it hurts his face. The meteors above them fly by in beautiful streaks of light; like this, high in the sky, with every beat of Crowley's wings a background tune, the meteors seem every bit as magical as the humans believe them to be.

With every breath, with every heartbeat, Aziraphale prays that every human who wishes on these shooting stars tonight has their wish granted, just like his.

Eventually, the frequency of the meteors begins to die down. He tries not to be too disappointed. He'd hoped so dearly the shower would last longer than this; it feels like it's barely begun, and now it's already coming to a close.

Still, perhaps it's for the best. Crowley must surely be getting tired, and although Aziraphale yearns to stay up here just a little longer, he wouldn't ask Crowley to do such a thing for him. Any minute now, they'll return to the ground.

But when he finally tears his eyes away from the sky, shifting his grip to better hold Crowley for their descent, he finds Crowley giving him a familiar mischievous grin.

Alarm bells immediately start ringing.

"Crowley," he says, "whatever you're thinking-"

Crowley's wings snap closed, and they plummet to the ground.

Aziraphale screams, clinging to Crowley so hard it will surely leave bruises and burying his face in Crowley's neck. His legs kick and flail, instinctively trying to stretch out wings he no longer has to catch him-

And just as abruptly as their fall started, it stops.

It takes a few terrified breaths to realise Crowley is laughing.

"Crowley," he hisses, pulling back with a scowl that does absolutely nothing to dampen Crowley's spirits.

"You should've seen your face," Crowley snickers. His wings are out again, keeping them up without a care in the world, like they didn't nearly splat onto the ground and get discorporated.

"You could've killed us-"

"Relax, I had you." The mischief in his grin hasn't faded, and playfulness starts to glimmer in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't really let you fall."

Aziraphale huffs, more for show than anything. What else can he do? Crowley's right. He wouldn't let Aziraphale fall. He never has.

"C'mon, don't tell me you've never done a little diving and free falling before."

"... A little warning would have been nice."

"Yeah, yeah." Crowley rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on Aziraphale and takes them higher into the air once more. "Consider yourself warned, angel. See if you can keep your eyes open this time."

His wings snap closed again, but Crowley's words are warning enough, so when they tumble down this time, Aziraphale shoves down the instinctive panic with a deep breath. Watching the ground grow closer is terrifying, plummeting through and past the clouds is heart-stopping, but Crowley's grip on him is sure and certain, never faltering, and that's all Aziraphale needs to know he's in perfectly safe hands.

Sure enough, before they can get dangerously close to the ground, Crowley's wings fly open again, flapping hard to halt their fall and rocket them back into the air, amongst the clouds once more.

They don't have time to adjust to being so high; Crowley twists in the air, wings stretched as he angles towards the ground in a dive. The bite of the wind whipping his face and hair with its sharp fingers is icy, Aziraphale's heart jumps in his mouth, but the dive smooths into a glide soon enough, and the breeze becomes more forgiving the moment they're no longer cutting through the air so sharply.

Then they shoot back into the clouds and beyond, only to do it all over again.

Unlike before, Aziraphale doesn't dare let go as their flight continues; he holds Crowley like his life depends on it - it does - and although he manages to keep his eyes open, it doesn't stop his stomach from swooping or his heart from leaping into his mouth every time they drop. He did a few daring tricks when he had his own wings, but none like this. No sharp turns, sudden dives, loops in the air. Behaviour no proper angel would ever dream of engaging in.

But Crowley is smiling, making delighted whoops, and every move he makes is so confident, so carefully controlled, and despite every part of his body screaming he's in danger, Aziraphale has never felt more safe.

If the flight they took before was freeing, this is exhilarating.

Another loop, which ends in a dive. Crowley laughs at Aziraphale's startled squeak, and Aziraphale finds himself breathlessly laughing along.

It feels like the flight goes on forever, a daredevil's dance in the sky for just the two of them, guided by Crowley. The longer it goes on, with every swoop and turn, the more Aziraphale relaxes in Crowley's arms, his body finally catching up to what his brain already knows: he's safe, Crowley has him, won't ever drop him or let him fall. Occasionally, when Crowley folds his wings in and they drop, Aziraphale finds his eyes turned upwards to the sky to see a meteor falling along with them.

Finally, though, Crowley reaches his limit; they slow to a stop, the clouds brushing over their feet, Aziraphale breathless, Crowley panting hard. Still, despite the physical exertion, his eyes are bright, shining beautifully in the moonlight, and his wide grin is brimming with self-satisfaction.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he says.

It was wonderful. Aziraphale has never felt like this before in his life. He wants to praise Crowley, wants to compliment him on his wonderful flying skills, thank him, but he's still too breathless to say anything, so all he can manage is a smile and hope that's enough.

From the pleased gleam in Crowley's eye, it is.

"Let's get you down, then," he says. "We should probably pack up the rest of that picnic."

Their descent is gentle, this time, nothing like the thrilling dips and drops of their flight. They reach the ground slowly, still wound tight around one another; neither let go until both of them are certain the other is firmly back on solid ground.

As Aziraphale unwinds his arms from Crowley's neck, he aches to wrap them around his waist, instead. His chest feels cold now it's no longer pressed against Crowley.

It's hard to believe he once thought he'd never be allowed to see Crowley again. Never be allowed to touch him ever again. At the same time, knowing they've just spent… goodness, what feels like hours, up in the sky, holding one another close, closer than they've ever held each other before… it's surreal. Like one of those dreams Crowley talks about so fondly.

Aziraphale doesn't have much experience with dreams, but he's certain one could never hold a candle to what just happened.

"Thank you," he says at last, the first thing he's said since Crowley dropped them out of the sky the second time. His heart isn't racing, exactly, but it's still pounding hard.

"Anytime," Crowley says. His grin hasn't left, his eyes are still shining, and his hair is windswept. It would be so easy for Aziraphale to reach out and run his fingers through it, and it's a fight to not follow through with the urge.

"I mean it. Thank you."

The words feel so inadequate for everything they mean. Thank you for doing this for me. Thank you for not letting me fall. Thank you for not giving up on us.

Crowley stiffens, the way he always does when Aziraphale says anything nice to him; he's still getting used to accepting it when someone says thank you. Aziraphale worries, just for a moment, that maybe he should take the words back for Crowley's sake, no matter how much he wants him to hear them.

Crowley softens - subtly, but still noticeable, at least to Aziraphale - before he can do so.

"I mean it, too," he says. "I'll be your wings anytime you need."

Aziraphale's throat tightens. Crowley says it so casually, like it's no big deal, but he knows as well as Aziraphale does the weight his promise holds. What it means. He says it easily, not because he doesn't grasp its significance to Aziraphale, but because he's more aware of that significance than anyone else in the world. And he doesn't mind.

It's sweet and earnest. A promise with the sincerity Heaven never gave him.

Aziraphale reaches for him before he can stop himself.

His fingers brush Crowley's shirt collar, his neck. Crowley inhales sharply, even though Aziraphale's arms were around that very neck mere minutes ago, but he doesn't pull away. His own hands absently reach for Aziraphale in turn, and Aziraphale is all too eager to return to that dear, safe embrace.

They were pressed chest to chest earlier, objectively closer than they are now, but somehow, this feels more intimate. Aziraphale is hyper aware of every breath Crowley takes; their faces are so close it dances across his nose, his cheeks, his lips. Crowley's fingers are curled in his lapels, one hand pressed directly over his heart. Can Crowley feel it pounding? Does he know it hasn't stopped pounding since they first took one another in their arms? Does he know why it hasn't stopped?

Their feet are firmly on the ground. Aziraphale taps his foot three times to make sure. But he feels like he's in the air again, swooping and gliding with Crowley, untethered and free.

He hasn't been flying in a long, long time. It's difficult to remember exactly how the wind felt beneath his wings, what it was like to soar through the air, even with his flight with Crowley to remind him. But right here, right now, feels more like soaring than any flight he's ever taken.

He wants to look down just to be certain his feet are still on the ground - but no, he doesn't want that. Because Crowley's eyes are wide and disbelieving and every bit as beautiful as they were that day in Egypt, and they look… Aziraphale dares to dream, dares to want. They look hopeful. And Aziraphale never, ever wants to look away.

Those beautiful, hopeful eyes flick down to his mouth. It only lasts for a second, but close as they are, it's impossible to miss it.

His heart is racing again, faster than it's ever raced before. The sensation of plummeting to the ground was less nerve-wracking than this, even when it took him by surprise. He's dreamed about this moment for so long: of pulling each other close, Crowley taking him by the chin and drawing him in. The braver of the two of them, always the brave one, the one willing to risk taking the next step.

But Aziraphale doesn't want to leave it all on Crowley's shoulders anymore. He hasn't for a long time, but especially not now.

His hands are shaking, it must be noticeable, but with a deep breath - a breath so similar to the one he drew in the air, when he trusted Crowley to catch their fall - he closes his eyes and pulls Crowley in and kisses him.

Crowley grips him tight the second their lips touch, returning the kiss with a shaky sigh of his own. It's so simple; lips against lips, nothing fancy or raunchy like Aziraphale has read about, no fireworks or sparks. Their noses squish together uncomfortably, but they barely manage to pull away from each other enough to correct the angle. Aziraphale is desperate for this, he's been wanting it for so long but never dared to dream it could actually be a reality; for all his daydreams, he's always been too scared to think about how they would realistically play out, uncomfortably aware such thoughts would lead to a spiral of rejection and the belief Crowley could never possibly love him the way he loves Crowley.

But the kiss, for all its simplicity, chases away the anxieties Aziraphale has been so desperate to avoid all this time.

And if the way Crowley holds him is any indication, the desperation is mutual.

Aziraphale holds him closer - or, he tries to, at least - and keeps kissing him, aching to soothe those worries the same way Crowley has always soothed him.

How long they stand there, he can't say. It lasts forever and momentarily, stretches on for aeons and mere seconds. Nothing in the world exists. Not Heaven, not his wings, nothing that isn't Crowley, in his arms as much as he's in Crowley's, matching his every kiss like their lives depend on it.

It's nothing like Aziraphale has ever read or dreamed about. It doesn't meet a single expectation he may have had about what kissing is like. But it doesn't need to when reality surpasses expectations. Kissing Crowley is easy, and nothing has ever felt so right.

It ends as softly as it started. They part, but don't step away; the moment is too tranquil for that. An air of contentment hanging over them like a spell. Aziraphale doesn't want to open his eyes, irrationally worried the spell will break and the moment will fade once he does.

"Angel," Crowley murmurs. They're still so close Aziraphale can feel his lips brush against his own as he speaks, tempting him to lean back in and kiss him again.

Still, they probably shouldn't stand here all night. Especially not with Crowley's wings still out. That could cause issues, if someone notices, and the night is really not warm enough to stay out here, even if it feels unfair to separate now.

"We should tidy up our picnic," he says, reluctantly opening his eyes. The moment doesn't break, and he's rewarded with the sight of Crowley's eyes gazing softly into his own.

Crowley snaps his fingers without looking away from Aziraphale. In his peripheral vision, the remains of their picnic vanish, tidied neatly into the picnic basket, and the blanket they were sitting on obediently rolls itself back up. There was still some food left when they stood up for their impromptu flight, and on an ordinary day, Aziraphale would insist on finishing it before they leave, so it won't go to waste.

Today, he couldn't care less.

They step out of each other's spaces with reluctance, finally averting their eyes to feign interest in retrieving their things. Crowley scoops up the blanket and basket while Aziraphale miracles away any remaining crumbs. They head back to the car in dazed silence, Crowley only remembering to tuck his wings away when they've brushed against Aziraphale's back for the third time. The boot of the Bentley opens for them as soon as they get close so Crowley can put away the basket and blanket, and the doors open for them immediately after.

They sit in silence. Crowley makes no move to start the car.

An anticipatory weight is in the air. It feels familiar. Like another night in a car, with a thermos full of holy water traded between their hands, and an offer for a lift Aziraphale refused.

He swallows. Everything had been so tense that night, pulled taut between his heart and his fears.

It's not tense anymore. They're better at that now.

"Would you… like to stay at the bookshop tonight? It would be easier than driving home."

The air has shifted, like it did so long ago. This time, Aziraphale knows what it is. This time, he knows it's nothing bad.

"Yeah. I'd. I'd like that. Thanks, angel."

Aziraphale nods. Tries to tell himself it's not a big deal. Crowley has visited the bookshop so often, staying the night is simply the most natural next step. The bookshop has considered itself Crowley's home for a long time, after all.

Still, as Crowley puts the car in gear and finally starts to drive, Aziraphale looks down at his hands and can't fight his smile. Something has clicked into place. Something that has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.

They should… probably have a conversation about this, shouldn't they? That's the promise they made to each other, and they've been getting better at it. Honesty, talking things through. Not letting assumptions go unspoken anymore. They should talk about the kiss, what it means to them. He should tell Crowley exactly how much he means to him.

The thought is simultaneously not as nerve-wracking as he thought it would be, and more nerve-wracking than he ever thought possible.

Next to him, Crowley's fingers twitch on the steering wheel. They grip tighter and tighter, until he huffs in determination, and reaches out with his left hand to cover one of Aziraphale's. His skin is as cool and smooth as it was the day they made their Arrangement.

Holding his breath, Aziraphale turns his hand over to hold Crowley's. Crowley holds his hand back with a reassuring squeeze.

And just like that, the upcoming conversation isn't nerve-wracking anymore.

They'll still talk about it. Even if they don't need to, they will. Habits are good to keep, and they're determined to make talking to each other a habit.

But for now, this is enough. Aziraphale is enough.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's hand, and all the wings in the world couldn't make him feel lighter than he does when Crowley tugs his hand over to press a kiss against his knuckles in return.