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Crawly hardly had a chance to draw breath before his view was obscured by blindingly white feathers, and a pair of gentle arms embraced him, shocking him into silence. Nobody touched Crawly usually, he didn’t encourage it, most of those he encountered being people he really didn’t want near him. This was different though, this was Aziraphale.
“What the fuck?” he managed, before Aziraphale pulled him even closer, drawing his wings about them both. All he could see over the angel’s shoulder was the luminous feathers, and his senses were filled with that soft fragrance he remembered so well. He revelled in the feeling, despite himself.
Crawly had been in Admah for a while, loafing, napping, sampling the local wine, which was particularly toothsome. The people here were just as mixed as usual: some annoyingly righteous, some so sickeningly awful that they required no help from him to damn themselves. So he claimed the credit for their worst excesses, and relaxed, filing his reports on time to keep the likes of Hastur off his back.
The appearance of Aziraphale at his door had been a shock. The angel’s initial expression was complicated, a rolling mixture of anxiety, guilt and determination, lightened by a flash of pleasure that washed over his features briefly when Crawly hailed him by his name. Crawly’s immediate impulse was to ask if he wanted to join him over a glass or two, but before he could say anything, the angel had grabbed him by the arm and was hustling him away, pulling at him with a polite insistence that almost made the demon smile. Then there had been a sharp snap and now they were folded together on the mountainside.
There was a rending noise that split the quiet of the night, then a huge, percussive report sounded, making the ground beneath them quake, then another, and another until the noises ran together in an acoustic maelstrom that drove all thoughts from out of Crawly’s head. Aziraphale’s breathing quickened and there were hitches in each intake of breath that almost sounded like bitten-off sobs. The angel’s hand smoothed up and down his spine as they trembled together, and Crawly found himself wondering who was comforting whom as they continued to hold each other through the cataclysm.
In the silence that succeeded the storm, there was the susurrus of feathers folding, and Aziraphale loosened his grip, stepping away smartly. Crawly felt his jaw drop as he took-in the view. The plain, once teeming with life, was a barren wasteland, the pall of smoke drifting over it the only sign of the divine razing of life from its surface that had just taken place.
“Angel,” began Crawly.
“Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t…”
Aziraphale looked away, the conflict written clear across his features. Crawly reached out and took hold of his hand, feeling the warmth of it, and how the angel trembled still. They stood together, silent, hand-in-hand until the first sliver of sunrise touched the horizon.