Chapter Text
‘Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.’
– Ophelia, Hamlet
It was the first day, the first day there had ever been, and Aziraphale, the newly-appointed Angel of the Eastern Gate, was taking a stroll through the Garden of Eden.
The warm sun held the angel in a golden embrace, long blades of grass tickling at his ankles, the scent of flowers not yet named filling his nose with their sweetness, and oh, it was glorious. All of his new corporation’s senses were overflowing, his whole being overwhelmed with new senses, with feeling, and it was with a dizzying euphoria that he examined every sight, every sound, every sensation. It was as unsettling as it was wonderful, and Aziraphale pointedly chose not to wonder at what places inside him had to have been empty in order to be filled like this.
As he rounded the corner of a patch of beautiful trees, close to the tree he was supposed to be keeping an eye on, a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye grabbed his attention.
There, standing in dappled sunlight, was a creature so beautiful it almost took his breath away. The figure was tall and slender, a long-fingered hand stretching up to touch to a blossom on one of the trees, pale bare feet peeking out from beneath the swathes of fabric as dark as the night sky. Long rivulets of carmine hair fell in ringlets down the stranger’s back, a colour so vibrant and vivid even amongst the beautiful blooms of Eden, a colour that reminded him of…
Aziraphale let out a gasp as the blossom withered, blackened, beneath the creature’s touch, and fluttered to the ground.
The figure turned, and something inside Aziraphale’s new corporation malfunctioned horribly, twisting painfully, as his eyes landed on the familiar face of an angel he was sure he would never see again.
Baraquiel.
Only… not. Not at all. This… this demon (he made himself think the word, loudly) had unnatural, slitted yellow eyes that had locked onto him. A cold, slow horror swept over Aziraphale as the demon raised a lazy eyebrow at the angel’s wide-eyed stare. The hint of a smirk played at the edges of a mouth Aziraphale remembered well, a mouth that used to beam, to giggle, to squeak with excitement – but it beamed no more. The demon turned towards him, moving with a sinuous, fluid motion as he cocked a hip and leant back against the tree, those wicked, devilish eyes never leaving Aziraphale for a moment.
Oh God, it’s really you, thought Aziraphale, desperately.
Flashes of the moments before Baraquiel’s Fall punched into his mind, each snapshot more horrifying and blinding than the next – Baraquiel’s eyes, wide with horror, pleading… eyes that were gone now, gone forever.
Something was definitely wrong with this corporation’s heart, Aziraphale decided, and perhaps its mind too, because the only thing he wanted to do right now was take this damned, Fallen creature in his arms and apologise for letting him go, for allowing him to Fall, to promise him that he’d do whatever he could to right that wrong. And… well, he was sure there were rules against that sort of thing. But he could at least apologise. It was the very least Baraquiel deserved.
But before he could say a word, the demon interrupted him.
“Hello,” said the demon, elongating the final sound as his mouth curled into a grin. “You must be the angel, then.”
The… the angel.
The angel?
“I… I suppose I am,” said Aziraphale, hesitantly, feeling something much, much worse beginning to claw itself up his spine.
“Yeah, was told you’d be here. Ready to thwart my evil plans.” The demon chuckled, but Aziraphale failed to see a single funny thing about this. He felt as though all the warmth had been drained from him for good. “Nothing personal, of course. Just doing the job.”
“R-right,” said Aziraphale, trying to get a grip on the twisting, sick feeling that burned like fire in the pit of his stomach. Distantly, he remembered that he’d been given a flaming sword.
“Nice to have met you, anyway,” said the demon, casually, and before Aziraphale could say or do anything else, the demon collapsed into a writhing, slithering mess of coils.
With a cry that he would never admit to being more grief than horror, Aziraphale leapt back, and the Serpent slithered past him with a flash of shining black scales, heading into the centre of the Garden, towards the apple tree, towards where Eve was sat.
He doesn’t remember.
Wetness seemed to be appearing in his ocular region, for no fathomable reason, and he wiped it away with a trembling hand, his breaths suddenly shaky and uneven. He was caught like a fly in the delicate gossamer of his grief – it had been terrible enough to have lost his only friend once, but to lose him again? To have to see the hideous thing that had infested his friend’s body smirk at him, unknowingly mocking him?
He didn’t even register the serpent whispering in Eve’s ear, and only realised what had happened when he heard the devastating crunch of the apple.
It seemed to echo, throughout the garden, fracturing Aziraphale’s inner thoughts.
The demon was nowhere to be seen, in either form, and Eve let out a sound Aziraphale would never, ever forget as the juice from the fruit ran down her chin, covering her skin with its sweet, sticky juices – it rang of something deep and unknowable, something far beyond angelic understanding, and it rippled like honey down Aziraphale’s spine. It was a sound filled with want, with need, with lust.
Aziraphale bit his lip.
He didn’t know how he was going to explain this to Upstairs, but that wasn’t what was truly troubling him, wasn’t the thing that was weaving a ribbon of terror through him and pulling tightly.
No, what was bothering him were the bubbling up of questions, curiosities, pushing their way into his consciousness without his permission (really, there had to be something wrong with this corporation, he must remember to check with Gabriel when he reported back to Heaven); was it a coincidence that the one demon who could have distracted him was the one sent to tempt Eve? Was it such a bad thing for Eve to have tasted the apple (she seemed rather happy with it, after all)? And (although Aziraphale was pretty sure he knew the answer to this one) was it bad that, ever since hearing Eve’s decadent moan, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps there were other things, other missing spaces, inside of him, that he would never know, never fill?
With a sigh, Aziraphale did the only thing he could.
He went back to his post at the Eastern Gate, and tentatively held his sword in his hand as he watched flashes of copper and ebony move through the garden, forcibly reminding himself of what befell those who did not obey, and trying, desperately, not to wonder what it might be like to taste that apple.
Morning came too quickly.
The sun’s rays began to tease above the horizon, the sky shot with violent bursts of vermillion and streaks of slow, sultry sienna, the whole sky aflame. The first tentative notes of birdsong had begun to chirrup from the hedgerows, the sleepy world gradually waking up, greeting the new day as if it were something to be welcomed, to be celebrated.
Aziraphale hadn’t slept a wink.
He'd spent the entire night watching over the demon who slept soundly in his arms, trying to impress upon his memory the slow rise and fall of Crowley’s chest as he slept, the flutter of his eyelashes as he dreamed, the warmth of the demon’s breath into the crook of his neck, the clinging tangle of limbs clamped around him that reflected everything Aziraphale was feeling inside; a desperate, crying urge to never let go. He let his eyes linger over the jutting angles of the demon’s body, the jut of his hips, the curve of his shoulders, committing them to memory along with the sounds Crowley had made when Aziraphale had pressed his lips and tongue along them, remembering how Crowley had felt beneath his hands, beneath his body, as he’d moaned, trembled, come apart.
Aziraphale felt a delicious shiver tingle through his body, an echo of the night before.
He had always wondered how it would feel, if he and Crowley ever crossed that line – Aziraphale was a reader, after all, and had read all manner of… well. He had imagined plenty. He had also known, instinctively, that it would be wonderful, and it had surpassed every expectation, even as clumsy and fumbling and new as it all had been – but Aziraphale had always worried that it would make him feel like less of an angel, somehow, to have given in to that final temptation, to give into his want. To his surprise, he found that instead, he felt (it made him smile to think of it) like a snake who had shed its skin – softer, and more vulnerable on the other side of it, but glad to have left what no longer served him behind.
Crowley gave a gentle snore, and Aziraphale felt his heart swell painfully. He wanted to remember this, every bit of it, even if it hurt, because no matter how beautiful or perfect it had been, he knew he could never allow it to happen again.
I should never have let it happen at all, thought Aziraphale guiltily, knowing even as he thought it that there could never have been any other ending, any other choice he would have made, than this. The very moment Crowley had slammed him against that wall and kissed him with fire blazing in his eyes, the instant Crowley had uttered his name, like he knew, like he remembered, Aziraphale had known he was on a collision course speeding towards heartbreak, towards disaster, and had been utterly helpless to prevent it from happening.
He'd finally tasted his apple, gorged on its sweetness, and although far from sated, it would have to be enough. Enough to know, enough to remember.
Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, which was slightly damp with sweat – he had wondered in the night if perhaps the demon was too warm, being wrapped around Aziraphale, but every effort to give the demon some space had resulted in a very petulant whine, followed by a vice-like grip from those long limbs. It was going to make extricating himself from their embrace without waking the demon very difficult – but he had to try. The thought of Crowley waking up naked in bed with what he would assume was a total stranger and no memory of it felt… wrong. For a whole host of very valid reasons.
Even this – holding him tightly, watching his slow, even breaths – knowing that upon waking Crowley would have no idea who he was, felt like crossing an unspoken boundary of consent.
Aziraphale blinked back tears for about the twentieth time that night as he tore his eyes away from his sleeping lover to gaze blankly up at the ceiling, his throat tight with the pain of holding back sobs. He would let them come later, once he had locked himself back away in the basement, with his books and his memories. He would need to make a journal to record what had happened last night – he wanted to remember every action, every emotion, every second of what had happened between them, even if just to convince himself that it had actually happened, that for a small, very brief moment in time, Crowley had known how much Aziraphale loved him, that they had been happy.
Happy.
The word triggered something in his mind, and it dragged unwillingly to what Crowley had said, right before the demon had drifted off to sleep.
“Jus’ leave. Go ‘n be happy. Y’ can leave me here.”
Biting his lip, Aziraphale allowed himself to contemplate it for the first time.
Could he? Could he leave?
His heart immediately started a wild flutter of protest, slamming so loudly against his ribcage that he half-expected it to wake Crowley. It was unbearable to think of leaving him, leaving his demon here in this life he had expected them to share together, but… was he being selfish, staying? Isn’t this exactly what he’d done to Crowley after Eden? Aziraphale had spent six thousand years knowing about Baraquiel, that Crowley had been so much more to him, never telling him, just stepping away, pushing him away but never able to explain why and never being able to completely let go of him, either… Was this any different, really?
Only this… this was worse. Especially now. After… after everything.
Because not only had he loved Crowley physically, Aziraphale had finally spilled the words he’d been trying to hold back for as long as he could remember, words he had been sure would be his undoing, the damning of him. I love you, Crowley.
Angels weren’t supposed to love demons, but he did. He had.
He always would.
Even if he wasn’t here to do it.
Aziraphale pulled Crowley closer still, the demon’s sharp angles melting into his softness like he belonged there, like his body had been made to accommodate him. He closed his eyes and breathed in Crowley’s familiar scent, earthen and spiced and warm, and wished that time would slow down. But the universe, seeming to mock him as much as it ever had, seemed to trickle the minutes and hours away like sand through fingers, and before he knew it, the skies outside were pale blue, spotted with white, fluffy clouds and sunlight streamed in, glaring on the bed like an accusation.
“I… I really ought to go,” breathed Aziraphale, hoping if he spoke it aloud, perhaps there would be a sign, a reason to stay.
Crowley’s face remained impassive, his face relaxed, the smallest of smiles curling at the edges of his mouth. Aziraphale wondered if the demon was dreaming, and if, at least in dreams, perhaps was granted some reprieve from the terrors that seemed to linger like ghosts behind those trepid amber eyes.
Carefully, he extricated himself from Crowley’s embrace and shuffled himself towards the edge of the bed, being careful not to dislodge the demon as he planted those gorgeous freckled limbs one by one around the duvet instead of around him, trying to forgive himself for how long his fingers lingered on the slight indent above his hip, remembering how it had tasted under the slow drag of his tongue the night before. No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t, stay. He was weak, and a fool for love, and Crowley was his ultimate temptation.
Swallowing down the razorblades that seemed to have materialised in his throat, Aziraphale pushed himself to standing from the soft, springy mattress and, without giving himself a chance to think, snapped his fingers to miracle himself clean and dress himself in a fresh set of clothes. It felt wrong, to erase all traces of Crowley left on his skin, to cover up with as many layers as possible, but it was easier this way, it was.
He ignored the trembling of his hand, the way his stomach felt like it dropped through the floor, plummeted, as he reached for the door handle.
“Goodbye, Crowley,” he whispered, without letting himself look back. “I… I do love you. So very much.”
His hand closed around the cool brass handle as he closed his eyes, taking in a lungful of air and holding it as if wanting to take some part of this room with him, carry the particles of this moment and let them flood his body, become a part of him always.
“Angel?”
The word was mumbled from a cotton-wool mouth, drowsy with sleep.
For a moment, Aziraphale was certain that he’d imagined it. It can be cruel, the tricks the mind plays when one wants something badly enough, and he has never wanted as much as he has wanted this, not ever.
But then there was a rustle of sheets. The unmistakeable sound of a lazy yawn.
Aziraphale turned slowly, his heart in his throat and his breath catching as he laid eyes on the perfect sight of Crowley, still wrapped up in snowy white cotton, his hair spilling like heart’s blood all over the pillows, eyes closed but lifting up an arm, reaching out…
“’M cold, come back to bed.”
Something akin to a thousand fireworks exploding simultaneously was happening inside Aziraphale’s brain, and it took him several gasping, ragged breaths to stammer, “W-what did you just say?”
Crowley opened one eye, blinking, then closed it with a growl. “I said come back to – ngk!”
Suddenly, Crowley sat bolt upright, his slender frame straighter and more rigid than Aziraphale had ever seen it. Both his serpentine eyes were wide open now, bright pools of liquid gold staring at Aziraphale in total disbelief.
For a few moments, nothing happened, golden eyes locked with blue, their hearts beating erratically, loudly, into the silence.
Aziraphale wondered, again, if this was some kind of trick, or a dream; perhaps he’d drifted off into sleep, and he was going to wake up any moment now. He clutched the door handle that sat cold and solid in his hand, his knuckles turning white, hardly daring to breathe, to blink, to speak, in case this shining, hazy, dreamlike moment should shatter, disappear, be gone for good.
Then, all of a sudden, he had an armful of Crowley.
An inarticulate string of consonants choked from the demon, still wound in white cotton, as he buried his head into the angel’s shoulder, his long fingers clutching desperately at the soft suede of Aziraphale’s jacket as the demon’s legs collapsed and Aziraphale caught him, easily supporting Crowley, his hands pressing firmly into that fragile, freckled skin, whispering soft reassurances into Crowley’s ear even as his own were ringing with shock and with sheer disbelief.
“Shhh… I’ve got you,” he murmured, lifting the demon easily into his arms, clutching him close, breathing in his scent, losing himself in the mane of red that concealed Crowley’s face. Have I? Do I finally, actually, have you, my love?
“What – what happened,” Crowley finally managed, his words muffled from where his head was still buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “How… how…”
“I don’t know,” replied Aziraphale.
Aziraphale was barely taking in Crowley’s words, completely overwhelmed and flooded with what felt like a thousand conflicting feelings all clamouring for attention. He should feel happy, he knew, elated, even, but… well, it had taken six thousand years and a lot of disappointment for him to finally accept that hope was a dangerous thing for an angel – or a demon – to entertain. Every time a flutter of happiness rose, every time Crowley clutched at him and he breathed in the warm, intoxicating scent of his beloved demon, panic and fear seemed to rise in equal, sickening measure.
“Is this… this real?” Aziraphale’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Real?” repeated Crowley, pulling back but keeping his arms looped around Aziraphale’s neck as he put his feet back down on the ground, the bedsheet slipping slightly so that it barely covered his modesty. Crowley didn’t seem to notice, or care. Wetness had clamped some of his wild red curls to his face, and Aziraphale lifted a hand to gently push them back, taking his time to register the sensation of Crowley’s skin beneath his fingertips. “Yes, yes, angel, of course it is… I’m here…”
Angel. Angel, angel, angel.
It was as if a choir was singing, a light had been turned on in the dark, a lifeline had been thrown.
“You… you remember me?”
The words spilled out of Aziraphale before he could stop them, fragile, fearful words that quivered on his tongue with barely-concealed hope.
Crowley’s face creased with pain.
“Yes, angel, I remember you,” said the demon, in a low, soft voice, reaching out a hand to touch Aziraphale’s face before reconsidering. His eyes glimmered softly. “I’m… I’m so sorry I ever forgot.” Crowley swallowed as he stepped away from him, and Aziraphale felt his heart twist painfully as he saw the guilt etched in every line on his face. “I can’t believe I… I’m so, so sorry, angel, please, I… fuck.”
Crowley looked down at the floor, crossing his arms over his chest, fingernails pressing into his own flesh punishingly.
“No!”
Aziraphale gently put his hands either side of Crowley’s head and tilted it up so that he could look into the demon’s eyes – he needed Crowley to know, to understand. “Crowley, it wasn’t your fault. Please don’t ever think you need to apologise for this.” Crowley didn’t say anything, his wide, amber stare roving slowly, warily, over Aziraphale’s face. Eventually, the demon gave him a small smile, and a barely perceptible nod, and Aziraphale leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on his forehead. “But you… you do remember… truly?”
“Yup. Everything.”
Aziraphale must have looked doubtful, because Crowley gave him a slightly watery smile and said, “C’mon then, angel, test me. What d’ya wanna know?”
Swallowing, Aziraphale knew he only had to ask one question, to be sure. The one he’d never written about, the night they had risked the most and in doing so, almost lost everything, including each other. “1941.”
Crowley’s face broke out into a genuine smile, and the demon let out a shaky laugh as he closed his eyes and leaned in, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s, his hand gently cupping the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat. “Nightingales. You tried to tempt me, angel. And I… I let you.”
“Yes,” breathed Aziraphale, finally admitting to his eighty-year old misdeed, and before he knew what was happening, Crowley had melded into his arms, and their lips met in a blistering, hungry, kiss.
Aziraphale tugged Crowley towards the bed, but they overbalanced, and toppled over onto the soft, furry rug on the bedroom floor, where Aziraphale landed with a bump. He sat up and let out a giggle, embarrassed, until he caught sight of his demon and the blazing, almost predatory look in Crowley’s eyes. He felt his breath hitch in his chest, want crashing over him like a wave. Aziraphale pulled the demon into his lap, and was immediately rewarded by Crowley wrapping his long legs around the angel’s waist, the sheet covering him barely covering anything anymore, and the demon’s hands sliding up into Aziraphale’s curls with a soft, appreciative sigh as their lips met once again.
All of a sudden, there was a ringing hum and without any kind of warning whatsoever, Jophiel and Furfur were suddenly stood in the corner of the bedroom.
For a fraction of a second, they all just stared at one another.
“Fuck!” exclaimed Crowley, wriggling himself out of Aziraphale’s embrace and scowling at the intruders. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first?”
Jophiel flushed and immediately turned away.
“S-sorry, er, Aziraphale, I, er, I didn’t think – it’s, um, rather an urgent matter,” stammered Jophiel, as Aziraphale tried to collect himself. He straightened his bow tie as calmly as he could, trying to ignore the blush that he could feel heating his own cheeks. Frankly, he considered himself rather lucky to be clothed at all – a few minutes later and he was fairly certain that wouldn’t have been the case. His blush deepened at the thought.
Crowley, by comparison, didn’t seem to give two figs about being half-naked in front of the other two, simply irritated at the intrusion, and was smirking at Furfur, who was staring with wide grey eyes.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” hissed Crowley with a wicked glint in his eye, but Furfur just turned to Jophiel with a slight frown.
“That’s not how we do it, are you sure we’re doing it right?”
A horrified silence rang out.
“Fur!” exclaimed Jophiel, his cheeks blooming several shades darker as Crowley howled with laughter and Furfur shrugged, unbothered.
Even Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile, his own blush fading slightly as he stood, smoothing down his clothes.
“Why don’t you get dressed, my dear,” said Aziraphale to Crowley. The demon looked up at Aziraphale from where he was lounging back on his hands, and quirked a single brow. Aziraphale smiled fondly at Crowley’s obvious reluctance to give up the moment they’d been having, and received a very dramatic eye roll in return. With a rather theatrical sigh, Crowley eventually agreed, mumbling something under his breath about interruptions.
“Find us downstairs in a bit, alright?” said Aziraphale, ushering Jophiel and Furfur out of the room – Jophiel couldn’t leave fast enough. “And Crowley…” Aziraphale paused in the doorway, glancing back at the demon, bathed in the rays of sunlight that streamed in through the window, dust motes dancing all around him like the magical, divine creature he was. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered, fear clenching it in its icy fist again. “Don’t… don’t be too long, okay?”
Crowley’s eyes softened, full of understanding. “I won’t, angel. I promise.”
Aziraphale nodded tightly, and left the room, ignoring the wild flutter of panic that gripped him as he left the bedroom and left Crowley behind.
Downstairs, Jophiel and Furfur were waiting in the living room, talking in undertones. They both turned as Aziraphale reached the bottom of the stairs, their faces serious. In all his flustered embarrassment, Aziraphale had forgotten that Jophiel had said he was here on account of an urgent matter… he’d barely registered the words at the time, too busy trying to reclaim whatever was left of his dignity, but it suddenly struck him as ominous, and almost certainly unwelcome.
“Right. Shall we pop through to the kitchen?” Aziraphale plastered on a smile, and showed the two through the small kitchen at the back of the cottage.
The kitchen seemed even smaller than usual with three of them in there, Jophiel and Furfur taking the two chairs at the kitchen table whilst Aziraphale rattled about making drinks. The thing was, Aziraphale had never really contemplated having visitors before, so the kitchen had seemed perfectly adequate when he’d first bought the property – after all, it had been purchased with the intention of it being somewhere he and Crowley could run away to, to hide from everyone, not invite them in.
The pair at the table were silent, Jophiel’s cheeks still faintly glowing from earlier as he stared down at the table top, whilst Furfur’s eyes wandered with obvious curiosity over the little kitchen. They seemed to be in no rush to offer information, and, if Aziraphale was being honest, he was in no rush to start the conversation.
Aziraphale finished making the drinks and handed them out. He'd remembered their meeting in the café, so had taken a gamble and handed Furfur a large mug of hot chocolate and Jophiel a cup of tea. He left Crowley’s espresso cooling on the side.
“Well?” he asked, forcing the words out from his mouth even though he was certain he wouldn’t want to hear whatever was about to follow. What was it Crowley had said to him, on the rooftop? Something about how every time it looked like they were close to being free, something would come along to rip them apart? He had to admit – Crowley hadn’t exactly been wrong about that, historically speaking.
Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “You, ah, said there was something urgent to discuss?”
“Yes. Yes,” said Jophiel, shaking his head slightly. He glanced at Furfur before looking back at Aziraphale. “I was alerted this morning that the Lake of Fire has been completely emptied.”
Silence hung in the kitchen for a moment. Aziraphale shook his head, slowly, trying to process what Jophiel had just said.
“Emptied?” Aziraphale managed. “But… how?”
This time, Furfur spoke. “Nobody knows, nobody saw anything.” He shrugged. “It’s just… gone. Saw it myself, with my own eyes.” Furfur seemed to puff up a little, his eyebrows rising. “They came to get me as soon as they heard. And all that’s there now is a massive cavern. But no lake. And no fire.”
Aziraphale took a slow sip of his drink and frowned into his teacup. How could an entire lake of acid engulfed in flames suddenly vanish? He recalled only too vividly the cavern in question, the hissing liquid and roaring flames that had left him undamaged – but he had seen what it could do, had seen Sandalphon be consumed by it, knew that Baraquiel had been lost in it.
With a shiver, Aziraphale glanced at the clock on the wall. He hoped Crowley would come down soon.
Jophiel was watching Aziraphale, an obvious question in his eyes. “Aziraphale…” He cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat a little. “Can I ask… I mean, Crowley… he seems… you seemed, er… different. Does he…?”
Aziraphale decided to take pity on him. “It, ah, it appears that Crowley remembers everything, or so it would seem.” Aziraphale’s voice trembled slightly, his hope still so fragile and tentative, heart fluttering as he spoke. “It… it happened overnight. He woke up this morning, and… he… he knew me. But… he had started to remember some of it yesterday, too. I got home after meeting you, and he had managed to access some of my, um, personal records. I think they helped him begin to remember.”
Jophiel frowned. “Hadn’t you tried something like that before?”
“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale, “but it never worked. I’m not sure why it did yesterday, or why he seems to suddenly recall everything this morning.” He paused, not sure he wanted to ask the next question. “Do you… do you think there might be a connection between that and whatever happened to the Lake of Fire?”
Jophiel tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “Likely. I don’t tend to believe in coincidences.”
Aziraphale’s heart sank.
A few precious minutes, they’d had, that was all. Just a few precious minutes together this morning, unburdened by Heaven or Hell, wrapped in each other’s arms, finally together, on their own side – and now here they were again, presented with another problem to solve, another wedge threatening to slice its way between them.
Honestly, Aziraphale didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
Furfur suddenly let out a delighted gasp, breaking through Aziraphale’s melancholy thoughts. The demon had just taken a long sip from his hot chocolate and – oh, goodness, was winding a very long, forked tongue around the rim of his mug, grey eyes lit up. “Oh, this is good, this is. Whassit called?”
“Hot chocolate,” said Aziraphale, not missing the sideways look Jophiel gave Furfur, full of fondness.
He suddenly remembered something Crowley had said the night before.
“Actually, Crowley did mention someone being here yesterday, when he recovered some of his memories – his description was a tad vague, but it seemed as though it might be–”
“Muriel.”
Aziraphale’s heart leapt as he turned to see Crowley stood in the doorway, dressed as he always was, head to toe in black, hands shoved deep into his pockets and his unruly red waves pulled up into a messy half-bun. Aziraphale tried to calm the anxious flutter of his heart, trying to quash the sudden desire to protect him, to keep him from all of this.
The demon’s eyes were serious as they glanced over the kitchen, not landing on any one particular thing or person, and full of an emotion Aziraphale couldn’t quite identify.
“It was Muriel. I remember now.” Crowley gave a too-casual shrug and leaned against the doorway. “They… did something to my mind, I think. Helped me see parts of what was missing. But I didn’t know who they were, I didn’t recognise them, I… I thought… I thought they were a monster.”
Guilt.
Of course. It was guilt, written all over Crowley’s face, curved into the hunch of his beautiful, slender shoulders and the turned-down edges of that perfect mouth.
Not knowing what to say, Aziraphale picked up Crowley’s mug and handed it to him, pausing in front of him to give his arm a reassuring, gentle squeeze. Crowley met his eyes briefly, a glimmer of gold, and gave a small smile. “Thanks, angel.”
“You’re welcome,” said Aziraphale, softly.
And it was a small thing, the tiniest moment compared to everything else they had seen and done together over the years, but the simple exchange caught like a thorn in Aziraphale’s chest, a tender ache – this was the life he had wanted to give Crowley. He wanted to make him his coffee every morning, watch the demon tend his garden, make dinner for him, share a bottle of wine, laugh together, exist, together. They’d traversed the entire planet, seen the stars, saved the world… they only thing they’d never done, was this.
“Muriel?” Jophiel’s surprised voice dragged Aziraphale’s attention away from Crowley. The archangel was shooting a meaningful look at Furfur across the table. “We’ve been looking for Muriel ever since the world didn’t end – above and below both had people on it. Muriel vanished completely, without a trace. We thought…” Jophiel stopped talking abruptly as Aziraphale gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a warning, at Jophiel.
Aziraphale knew Jophiel had suspected that Muriel was responsible for what had happened to Crowley, but Aziraphale had known in his heart that whatever Muriel was, whoever they had once been, they would never have willingly harmed Crowley. Of course, for many of the angels, the alternative to that theory was a lot harder to accept, even in light of all that they had heard and seen.
No one understood that better than Aziraphale.
“Yeah. ‘S’my fault.” Crowley leaned against the doorway, clutching the black mug in his hands. He flicked his gaze back up to Aziraphale. “When it… when you… died… I sort of… I didn’t…” Crowley trailed off helplessly before giving a frustrated growl. He looked away, throat bobbing with the effort of trying to speak. “I didn’t handle it very well. I mean, obviously. And Muriel… I pushed them away. Like, literally. I shoved them over into the mud, told them to fuck off. I… I didn’t mean it, I just… I wished it had been them, and not you.”
“Muriel would forgive you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, gently, but Crowley just rolled his eyes.
“You angels and your bloody –”
Suddenly, Crowley froze, his mouth dropping open, eyes wide. The mug dropped from his hands, landing with a loud smash on the floor, hot, dark liquid spattering all over the kitchen cupboards and the terracotta tile.
Aziraphale jumped back in surprise. “Crowley! What on earth?”
Without answering, Crowley flew to the back door and threw it open, sprinting out into the garden and leaving Aziraphale blinking in confusion at the open door. Jophiel and Furfur looked equally as perplexed by Crowley’s strange behaviour, and Aziraphale felt an unwelcome shiver of fear as he looked down at the shattered mess all over the floor.
He waved a hand that absolutely was not trembling, and the mess disappeared.
It felt as though time slowed down, somehow, as Aziraphale walked, heart hammering, to the wide open door – the sunlight was too bright, almost blinding, as he stepped out into the garden, and it took a second for his eyes to adjust to the light.
The garden, which had laid bare and brown for months despite Crowley’s best efforts, was now bursting with life, exploding in a riot, a rainbow of colour; the tall bushes and hedgerows that surrounded the garden had sprouted delicate blossoms of white and pink, the trees laden down with heavy, ripe fruit, and all the flowers reached up towards the sun, their fragile petals fluttering in the gentle spring breeze. It was as if they entire garden breathed, exhaled, with every step he took – it felt alive.
Crowley was a few steps ahead of Aziraphale, and had come to an abrupt stop.
“Crowley?” began Aziraphale, then followed Crowley’s gaze.
There, in the middle of the garden, was Muriel.
They had their back to the cottage, but it was unmistakeably them – their long patchwork coat was frayed and worn around the edges, with scorch marks along the bottom, and their short, dark curls glistened in the gentle sunlight as they tipped their face up towards the sun.
“Muriel?” Crowley’s voice was tentative.
Muriel’s head snapped around.
Their huge, onyx eyes gleamed darkly, a snarl on their lips, and threw out a clawed hand, and Aziraphale felt an invisible force punch into him, sending him skidding backwards, towards the open door of the cottage. His body collided with a soft oof right into Jophiel and Furfur, who had been attempting to exit the cottage at the same time, and dazedly tried to untangle himself from the mess of limbs, feeling more surprised than hurt.
What is happening? he thought, head swimming, as he tried to right himself.
It was then that he saw Crowley on his knees, trying to push past the invisible barrier that, for whatever reason, was keeping them from coming any closer.
“Muriel! Please!” yelled Crowley. “What are you–”
Crowley broke off, and Aziraphale suddenly noticed the strange shimmering in the air, the way the leaves on the tops of the bushes surrounding the garden seemed to be rippling, melting, turning to liquid – the sky crackled with a sudden strange, thick, pulsating heat, and the bottom of his stomach seemed to fall away as he heard a familiar, distant, ringing, a distinct hum… a voice that wasn’t a voice… disembodied, and muffled, like he was hearing it from several rooms away.
Oh, God.
“Is – is that…” stuttered Jophiel’s voice from somewhere behind Aziraphale.
“Yes,” answered Aziraphale, tightly, without turning around. His stomach had turned to lead.
“But… we can’t… I mean, I can’t… hear Her… can… can you?”
Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly before replying. “No.”
He turned around.
Jophiel’s brow was furrowed. “But… but why…”
“Because she doesn’t want you to.”
It was Crowley who replied, the comment thrown in a disparaging hiss over his shoulder. Aziraphale didn’t miss the angry inference that simmered, sharp as a knife’s edge, beneath the demon’s delivery. Because you’re not worthy.
Aziraphale clenched his jaw, and turned his eyes back towards Muriel, whose face was tilted upwards, their grey skin dazzling like silver in the celestial light. Their dark eyes were blazing, fixed on some point above them that Aziraphale could not see – was no longer permitted to see.
The not-voice, the hum, the din, rose suddenly and audibly, chaotic and grating, like a song played in only sharp chords and all in the wrong order.
Hairs stood up on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. The sound of Her voice rising in unmistakeable anger, even when muffled, filled the angel with terror, his whole body flooding with fear in an instant, as if it had been primed, waiting for this very moment. Without even thinking, his hands began reaching out for Crowley, who was still in front of him, only to find that Crowley’s hand was already extended, waiting for him. The demon looked back over his shoulder, blinding light surrounding all his sharp angles, softening them. Aziraphale saw all the love and terror he felt reflected right back at him as Crowley’s long, slender fingers slid into own, and intertwined.
The ground seemed to rumble, and Aziraphale gripped onto Crowley tighter, anchoring himself.
Muriel’s hands were now up in the air, and the sky seemed to ripple, throb, before a strong burst of wind shrieked through the air like a banshee, and lightning flashed from clouds that weren’t there. It momentarily illuminated a strange, many-limbed silhouette that seemed to shift and dance in awkward, juddering movements, towering in the sky above them.
Muriel’s mouth moved, but it was impossible to hear if any sound came out over the howling of the wind. It whipped Muriel’s curls violently around their head, but they ignored it, chin still tilted obstinately up in the air. Beside them, a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky – but Muriel was too quick, and managed to blink themselves to another location in the garden as the lightning struck the ground, scorching it.
“Muriel!” cried Crowley, but Muriel either didn’t hear, or didn’t listen.
With gritted teeth, Muriel raised their hand, patchwork coat billowing behind them, drawing up power from Below – and the ground slowly opened up as two figures rose from below in a cloud of dark, curling smoke.
One was Eric, who winced against the howling, raging storm, his dark eyes quickly seeking out Muriel, relief evident across his face the moment his eyes landed on them.
Aziraphale sucked in a horrified breath at the same time as Crowley’s legs gave out from beneath him.
The other figure was Satan.
He was on his knees, wrists and ankles cuffed in heavy and, Aziraphale presumed, enchanted, chains. His long, dark hair was matted, and caked with mud, and his porcelain skin was streaked with dark stains of unknown origin. There were claw marks around his collarbone that looked to be self-inflicted, and the way he held his body reminded Aziraphale of a leashed jungle cat, waiting for his opportunity to pounce. His emerald eyes were wild, glowering with anger before they finally settled, narrowing – on Crowley.
Aziraphale felt something in his gut burn white-hot, tighten, with anger.
The wind suddenly stopped. The garden fell silent, eerily so – so quiet that Aziraphale could hear the low, guttural groan of Crowley beside him, of his own heart beating wildly in his chest.
“This is our counter offer!” said Eric, looking up into the still sky, then glanced at Muriel, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Take him, and… and go. Leave.”
Eric’s voice wavered, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame the demon – his own legs seemed to be rooted to the spot. All he wanted to do was comfort Crowley but he was frozen, paralysed, terror pulsing through his veins like poison.
Muriel’s eyes landed on Crowley, who was cringing on the ground, and their expression hardened, onyx eyes glaring with anger as they turned their face upwards once more.
Their silver lips curled into a snarl. “And I’ll be locking the door behind you.”
Muriel’s voice rang out, a voice Aziraphale had never expected to hear again, but he barely had time to react to it before the sky rippled, and for one terrifying, breath-taking moment, Aziraphale caught the silhouette of a figure with too many limbs and a yawning, gaping maw looming over them all. Behind him, Aziraphale could hear Jophiel’s sharp intake of breath, and Furfur let out a string of very colourful expletives.
Crowley didn’t look up. His eyes had never left the figure in chains.
Satan had fallen backwards, eyes wide with horror.
“Don’t – you can’t seriously think you can just…” Satan hissed, stammering, whirling around to look at Muriel. “I’m – I’m the King of Hell!”
Muriel blinked slowly at him, then smiled. Sweetly.
“Not anymore.”
A bolt of lightning shot down at the ground, hitting Satan directly in the chest – with a hiss, he shook, and shuddered, his body beginning to rise from the ground, shaking and sparking wildly. He screamed as he was slowly lifted from the earth, a hair-raising, inhuman howl.
“No… no… please…” Satan begged, his words barely audible over the sizzle of the volts that danced viciously across his skin. He thrashed in the air, his wild-eyed stare eventually falling on Crowley. “Crowley… my… my pet, my love, please…”
White-hot rage swept through Aziraphale, but before he could say or do anything, Crowley’s head had snapped up, red hair cascading over his shoulders like a wild mane and burning fire in those gleaming, yellow eyes.
“Don’t you dare,” Crowley growled, visibly shaking but his voice coming out strong and steady. “It’s time you finally paid your price, Lucifer.”
And with a sudden burst of sparks, a final scream, and an explosion of blinding white light – Satan was gone, and a strange ringing sound vibrated through the air, like a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, the kind of sound that haunts the bedrooms of scared small children, and it echoed, eerie and haunting, before fading into silence.
The thick, unbearable heat that had hung heavily in the garden dissipated slowly, the cool air returning on a fragrant, floral spring breeze. Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath before finally dropping to his knees in dizzying relief, carefully wrapping an arm around the demon who was crouched on the grass, still trembling.
“Crowley, are you…”
“’M fine, angel.” Crowley’s voice was soft, but tired. “’S it over?”
“I… I think so.”
Aziraphale glanced over at the other side of the garden, where the small, dark figure of Muriel was still standing, their forehead indented with obvious concern as they watched Crowley.
As soon as Muriel noticed Aziraphale looking their way, they shoved their hands deep in the pockets of their long patchwork coat and looked away, a darker grey flushing along their cheeks. Despite the fact that only moments ago, they had been wielding enough power to hold back God Herself from infiltrating the garden, Muriel now looked as though they were little more than a teen waiting to be scolded, scuffing their boots in the dirt awkwardly. It was oddly endearing, and Aziraphale held back a smile.
Crowley lifted his head to follow Aziraphale’s gaze. A range of emotions flickered in quick succession over his face.
“Muriel?”
It was a shredded sound, weary and broken, but it was loud enough for Muriel to lift their gaze, huge dark eyes wary and unsure. One corner of Muriel’s mouth twisted up into a nervous grin and they lifted a hand in an awkward wave.
“Oh, fuck… Muriel…” Crowley tried to stand, and Aziraphale immediately slid his arm under Crowley’s, helping him to get to his feet.
Together, they began to cross the garden, walking towards Muriel and Eric. Muriel’s face split into a wide, fanged grin, black eyes glittering, as they began to move forward to greet them – almost in unison, they began to run, Aziraphale slipping his arm away as Crowley regained the use of his legs, and Aziraphale stood and watched, his heart full to bursting, as Crowley scooped Muriel up in his arms and enveloped them in a spine-crushing hug.
“Muriel, I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he heard Crowley say, mumbling it into their hair.
“What are you sorry for?” Muriel sounded genuinely surprised. “Everything’s fine now!”
Crowley released Muriel. “Yeah, but… what happened that day, after Aziraphale… I didn’t mean it, you know, what I said that day, I just…”
“Oh, I know,” said Muriel simply, with a shrug and a smile.
Crowley blinked.
“What do you mean, you know?”
Aziraphale tried to suppress a smile at Crowley’s obvious indignation.
“I told you before, everything would be alright in the end! And if it wasn’t alright yet –”
“- then it wasn’t the end, yeah, yeah, I remember.” Crowley was trying his best to sound annoyed, Aziraphale could tell, but couldn’t wipe the grin that was creeping across his face. “It… it really is so good to see you – and to hear you.”
Muriel beamed. “I missed you too, Mr Crowley.”
Crowley snorted with laughter, and pulled Muriel into a hug with one arm, and turned to reach for Aziraphale with the other, gesturing for him to join them with a wide grin. “Kiddo, I think we’ve been through enough together that we can drop the ‘Mister’ now, don’t you?”
Muriel giggled. “Okay… Crowley.”
For no reason whatsoever, this sent the pair of them into fits of giggles, and it was like some kind of weight had been lifted, a spell broken – Aziraphale felt joy bubble up inside him, golden and shining and irrepressible, and before he knew it, he was doubled over with laughter, too.
It was as if somebody had switched the world back on – birds were singing, the sun was warm, and the plants and flowers around them were brighter and more beautiful than ever.
The incandescent peals of laughter were more than just a sound, it was a feeling, a joyous sensation that rippled through the garden; it wasn’t magic, nor miracle, but powerful and pure, unfiltered happiness that spilled from a demon who had seen such precious little of it in his six thousand years on this earth. It was all Aziraphale had ever wanted for him. And it was contagious; Eric’s mouth was crooked into a grin, Furfur’s mouth curled at the edges before he schooled it back into its usual grimace, and even Jophiel’s usually impassive face split into a smile, the angelic equivalent of sunshine through clouds on a grey day.
And Aziraphale allowed himself the thought, for the first time, that maybe, just maybe, everything might be alright.
* * * * * * * * * *
We might need a larger living room, thought Aziraphale, some time later, as he bustled in with a tray full of drinks and placed it on the coffee table.
Muriel and Eric were snuggled up at one end of the cosy, crimson sofa, Muriel sat with their legs crossed underneath them and Eric resting one hand casually on Muriel’s knee. At the other end of the sofa, Furfur was sat as far away from the pair of demons as possible, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Crowley was stoking a fire that Aziraphale knew he had only made because he was anxious and wanted to do something with his hands, and Jophiel was hovering next to Furfur, his glacial eyes fixed on Muriel.
Aziraphale took his usual spot in his armchair, Crowley instantly abandoning the fire to come and sit at his feet, lounging back against Aziraphale’s legs as he had done so many times before, only this time, this time, when Crowley leant his head back the demon’s eyes weren’t filled with clouds or questions but with warmth, with fire, with heat.
He pulled his eyes away from the beautiful creature at his feet.
“Right,” said Aziraphale to Muriel with a calm smile, fortified with a cup of tea in his hands and the demon he loved within arm’s reach. “Tell us everything.”
Muriel glanced at Eric, who gave their knee a squeeze as he nodded, and Muriel took a deep breath and started to tell them what that had happened from the moment they had vanished from St James Park; how they had been sure everyone else would blame them, as Crowley had done, for what had happened to Aziraphale, so they ran away to hide, to try and work out a way to undo what had been done, and bring Aziraphale back.
Aziraphale felt Crowley’s shoulders tense as Muriel spoke, and laid a reassuring hand on the demons shoulder as Muriel continued. “I thought that if I learned my new powers properly, I might be able to help – you know, maybe unlock wherever Aziraphale had gone to? But then when I went to the bookshop to try and get some more information, Eric was waiting there for me.”
Aziraphale swung a surprised look at Eric – this must have been after he and Crowley had already relocated to the South Downs. “You were at the bookshop?”
Eric looked sheepish. “Well. Figured Muriel might turn up there.”
Muriel smiled, a delighted little grin. “You were right. Anyway, that’s when Eric told me what had actually happened. To… to Crowley.”
“Yup,” said Eric. “And then they got super angry.”
Muriel shot Eric a warning look, but Crowley snorted. Aziraphale grinned too, though he tried to hide it by taking a sip of his tea – now that he’d seen what Muriel was capable of, he could well imagine the rage with which Muriel had received the information that God had tampered with Crowley’s memories. He found himself feeling suddenly incredibly fond of the little demon.
“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve been with them for months?” Furfur asked Eric. “This whole time we’ve been trying to find them, and you didn’t even think to report it?”
Eric’s face fell a little. “You… you didn’t notice I was gone?”
Furfur huffed. “Well, there are a lot of you, mate, how was I supposed to know?”
“How does the Lake of Fire come into all of this?” Jophiel cut in across the tension, his tone laser-focused and calm. “I’m assuming that was you. What does that have to do with returning Crowley’s memories?”
Muriel turned to look at Jophiel, and Aziraphale could see that they were less comfortable with answering Jophiel’s questions than his own, their large dark eyes wary. He wondered how well Muriel had kept tabs on Heaven and Hell’s investigation into their disappearance. “Um, well, at first, it… it didn’t, really – I just thought that, if the plan we were working on went wrong, She might punish everyone, and…” Muriel hesitated, their hands twisting anxiously in their lap. “Well, I didn’t want anyone else to have to Fall, ever again. It… it wasn’t very nice.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Crowley leaned forward from his spot on the floor and offered his hand to Muriel, who took it – their eyes locked as they gripped onto each other, having a silent conversation, something Aziraphale understood the shape of but knew he could never truly understand.
Jophiel’s face visibly softened, almost an apology in and of itself. “I see.”
Crowley let go of Muriel’s hand and settled back against Aziraphale’s legs, but Aziraphale could see that his jaw had tightened, his eyes full of barely concealed pain.
“So I had already planned to get rid of the lake, but then Eric and I were talking one evening and I started thinking about what the lake does, what it takes from angels who fall into it, and I started to wonder if it could be, maybe, reversed.” Muriel’s huge, dark eyes lost their uncertainty, suddenly dancing with secrets. “Then I realised something about Eric’s power – do you know what it is?”
Jophiel shook his head, and Furfur furrowed his brow. “He… er, he dies a lot?”
“No – he comes back,” corrected Crowley.
“Yes! Well, sort of.” Muriel smiled. “See, he thought his power was useless – but then, everyone thought I was useless too, right up until I wasn’t, and then I realised… Eric’s power is the power of restoration!”
Eric puffed up his chest, proudly, as Muriel curled their hand into his, beaming at him.
Aziraphale blinked, trying to follow Muriel’s train of thought. Surely they couldn’t mean…
“Muriel,” said Aziraphale, unable to keep the note of incredulity from his voice. “Are you trying to tell us that you – well, you and Eric – are able to restore the memories that were taken by the Lake?”
Muriel beamed. “Yep!”
Eric opened his mouth as if to say something, but Muriel nudged him, shaking their head slightly before turning back to Aziraphale. “Well, only if they want them, though, I wouldn’t want to… I mean, I know it can be…” Their eyes kept darting over to Crowley. “Um… difficult, to remember that sort of thing.”
Furfur was staring at Muriel, his grey eyes wide, for once his veneer of irritation completely vanished. He looked disarmed. “You can really do that? Give everyone their memories back?”
“Sure,” said Muriel, with a shrug, like it was nothing.
“Fuck,” said Crowley, under his breath, as Furfur and Jophiel exchanged a shocked glance.
“So that’s how you gave Crowley his memories back?” asked Aziraphale, before he could stop himself. He had to know, had to be sure that whatever had happened to Crowley’s mind was permanent – he didn’t think he could bear it to have everything he had ever wanted, ever dreamed of, ripped away from him again just when it seemed as though it was finally within his reach.
“Er, no, actually – I mean, I did unlock his mind to allow the memories to come back in,” said Muriel, with a tentative smile, “but whatever She did to him, it was big. Really big. Beyond what we could get past. But then Eric remembered that the witch had said something about a prophecy… um, about you.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Me?”
He racked his brains, trying to recall the events of that night. It wasn’t easy, because he’d actually put a lot of effort into not thinking about what had occurred, and his memories of that fateful night were genuinely very fuzzy now, like recalling a bad dream. But he did remember Anathema’s vague, half-remembered prophecies, fat lot of good that they had been. “Oh, there was something about a principality, yes, yes, I do recall. About speaking the truth… but wasn’t that about the end of the world?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “I had assumed it was talking about when I admitted to God that I’d given away my flaming sword.”
Everyone in the room winced at Aziraphale’s use of the G-word.
“Yes, but it also said that it would set you free, Aziraphale,” interrupted Jophiel. “And mentioning the sword definitely didn’t do that.”
Aziraphale shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand, what…”
Muriel looked at him with a knowing smile, their beetle-black eyes glistening with something soft.
He looked down, and saw Crowley turn around, eyes wide and shining with realisation. “Oh, angel,” he breathed, a slow, unusually soft smile spreading across the demon’s face.
And in an instant, Aziraphale realised the truth he had spoken – the truth he’d held back for thousands of years, the words that had been welling up inside of him, words he had almost drowned himself in rather than spill them, let them free. ”I love you, Crowley – and I always have.”
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, his eyes filling with tears, at the same instant that Crowley turned back to everybody else, his tone suddenly cheerfully abrupt. “Right. Well, all that matters is, I’ve got my memories back, we don’t need to know all the answers right now, do we?”
Aziraphale was grateful for Crowley distracting everybody as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes.
Crowley leapt to his feet. “I mean, Muriel saved the day, right? Banished him and Her to some other fucking place, right? They… they’re locked out, or whatever?” Muriel nodded in confirmation, and Crowley shrugged. “Well, what else is there to say? I’m sure you two have to head off to your respective offices to pass on the good news…”
Crowley gave a pointed look at Furfur and Jophiel.
Jophiel paused before shrugging with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose we ought to explain what has happened, both sides were in a state of panic about the Lake of Fire and we’ve been gone for some time.” Jophiel looked over at Aziraphale, slight concern on his face. “I’ll be in touch soon, Aziraphale, but I’ll… I’ll give you some time to…” his eyes wandered to Crowley, “…recuperate.”
Aziraphale managed a watery smile.
“Great. Maybe call before you turn up next time?” drawled Crowley with a wicked grin, and Jophiel flushed immediately, the red a vivid contrast against the angel’s pale features and platinum blonde waterfall of hair.
Furfur had stood up ready to go, but had frozen, mouth slack. His face became suddenly apoplectic as he pointed a shaking, accusatory finger at the single photograph that sat on the shelf. “What the f-”
“Come along, Fur,” said Jophiel, quickly, taking Furfur’s arm, and the pair of them disappeared in a plume of teal smoke.
“Come on, Muriel, we should go, too,” said Eric. “Leave these two lovebirds to it.”
Muriel looked puzzled. “They’re not birds. And we only just got here!”
Eric gave Muriel a smile as he slid his hand around Muriel’s slender shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “They’re being polite, but they want to be alone right now.”
“Oh…” Muriel smiled apologetically. “Whoops. Are you going to do the kissing thing again?”
Aziraphale let out a chuckle.
“Hey, kiddo, don’t worry – we’ll see each other again soon.” Crowley held out a hand and hoisted Muriel up, wrapping them in a tight hug. “Promise. Right, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale smiled. “Of course. Perhaps we could show you around the village?”
Eric stood up from the sofa and stretched. “Sounds good. Might take a walk around there now, actually, before we go – Muriel said they wanted to go see the ducks before they go downstairs and claim their place as the new leader of Hell.”
Aziraphale blinked, utterly unsure how to parse that sentence. “Er. Yes. Quite.”
Crowley clicked his fingers, and handed Muriel the lumpy, wet bag that had just appeared in his hand. “Here you go – frozen peas. The ducks’ll love it.”
They walked Muriel and Eric to the door, Muriel’s corporation changing as they crossed the living room floor so that by the time they reached the cottage front door, Muriel looked more or less as they had done when they had been an angel – only the slightest hint of fangs and their wide black eyes remained, their skin warmed to a honey brown and no tail or claws in sight.
“Thank you, Muriel,” said Aziraphale warmly, giving the demon’s shoulder a squeeze. “For bringing him back to me. I… I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“Oh, well that’s easy,” said Muriel, earnestly. “Look after him.”
Aziraphale smiled, vaguely aware of Crowley muttering under his breath indignantly about not needing to be looked after. “I most certainly will, my dear.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Muriel suddenly turned around, giving a significant look to Eric. The other demon nodded in understanding, and in unison they raised their hands and briefly touched Crowley’s forehead, either side of his temples.
“What did you just do?”
“One last gift.” Muriel smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.”
And with that, Muriel and Eric wandered off hand in hand, down the cottage path and through the white wooden gate, walking into the village, talking and laughing as they went.
Aziraphale turned around to see Crowley leaning against the doorframe of their cottage, one side of his mouth pulled up in a tiny grin, his eyes gleaming and golden.
“So,” said the demon, his voice low. “This is where we live, then.”
Something swooped in Aziraphale’s stomach as he looked at Crowley, lounging in the doorway of their home, in their village, for the first time looking at Aziraphale from that doorway knowing him, seeing him. So many times he had been stood on this doorstep, but Crowley would look at him with lost, scared eyes, and it had torn him apart every time, so sure that Crowley would never truly see him again…
“Yes, this is where we live,” breathed Aziraphale. It was very hard to concentrate when Crowley was looking at him like that. “Do you… uh, do you like it?”
Crowley pushed himself away from the doorframe, coming closer to Aziraphale. It only took a couple of steps and suddenly Crowley was right there in front of him, those golden eyes somehow absorbing every bit of light, glimmering like sunlight on the crest of a wave. “It’s perfect,” the demon murmured, and then all of a sudden Crowley’s lips found his, not burning and urgent but certain, unhurried, a gentle promise of more to come.
When Crowley finally pulled back, Aziraphale felt his head spin slightly, dizzy with feeling.
“C’mon, angel… let’s go home,” breathed Crowley, the demon’s voice cracking with tenderness over the last word as he gently pulled Aziraphale back through their front door and closing it behind them.
In the sudden silence of the living room, no sound but the gently crackling fire, Aziraphale felt like they suddenly had room to breathe, to relax, and he let out a slow exhale. Crowley seemed to feel it too, the demon’s expression soft around the edges as he sighed and slumped into the sofa, lifting up an arm for Aziraphale to join him. Without hesitation, Aziraphale sat and slid into the crook of Crowley’s arm, amazed at how easy it was, how perfectly he fit into the space the demon held for him.
Crowley’s eyes were fixed on the fire.
“Y’know, it’s funny, I’ve spent – what, six months, maybe – here,” said Crowley, his tone thoughtful. “And it became familiar to me, but it always felt like something was missing.” Crowley’s long fingers were tapping anxiously on his jeans at the memory. “I’d look around like I was searching for something… can’t count the number of times I put the kettle on, or got out two glasses of wine instead of one. I lived here, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t home.”
Aziraphale nodded, understanding exactly what Crowley meant. “And now?”
Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, his tumble of red hair glowing in the firelight, his eyes honeyed and warm. “You’re here,” he said, his arm pulling Aziraphale in closer, kissing him.
Aziraphale lost himself in it, the soft graze of lips against his; it was almost too much, after so many years of denying himself everything. He had to remind himself that there was no need to rush, to need to speedrun their way through loving one another with nobody on their tail anymore. He allowed the kiss to unfurl, soft and delicate and absolutely brimming with love, trusting that there would be more to come.
With a contented sigh, he eventually broke away, enjoying the slight flush that dusted Crowley’s gorgeous angles and the hitch in Crowley’s breathing.
“I’m glad you like it,” said Aziraphale. “I know I’ve decorated it more to my taste, perhaps, but you weren’t really… It was difficult, before. So if there’s anything you want to change…”
“Nah, I like it,” said Crowley, waving a dismissive hand. Aziraphale smiled fondly, but was sure that in the due course of time, Crowley would think of something he wanted. Plants, probably. Or some sort of gaming console – Crowley had mentioned having a hand in creating them, so it wouldn’t surprise him if the demon might want one.
“So, tell me, angel…” said Crowley, a mischievous glint in his eye, “Does our cottage have some kind of wanky name? Blue Tit Bothy or something stupid like that?”
Aziraphale hesitated. “Er…”
Crowley froze. “Oh, shit, I was only joking. What is it? You haven’t called it Angel’s Rest or Gateway to Heaven or something, have you? Ugh, angel, seriously…”
“Er… well, n-no, I haven’t named it, not yet, well not technically,” Aziraphale said, awkwardly. “It didn’t feel like a home before, really, like you said, so I didn’t think… B-but I had thought… I mean, before everything happened…”
Crowley raised a brow. “Go on.”
“Well… it’s not exactly in keeping with the theme of the rest of the cottage names in the village, I know, but I rather thought… this might be appropriate for us.” Aziraphale made a motion with his hand, and a thick wooden plaque appeared in his hand, with two words scorched onto it in looping, elegant script.
He offered it to Crowley, his heart in his throat.
Crowley took the plaque, hesitantly, and stared at it for a moment before tracing a finger over the pyrographed letters.
Aziraphale watched him intently.
“S-see, I… I once made a promise that I would return to you. And I’ve spent thousands of years wondering what would have happened if only I had kept that promise and not… not left you there.” Aziraphale swallowed, wondering if it was the fire or the mortifying thought that Crowley might not understand that was heating his face right now. “I’d like a chance to right the wrong I made all those years ago, to keep that promise now. Because I promise you, Crowley, I… I will always come back to you, to our home, no matter what. I won’t ever let you fall away from me again.”
Crowley didn’t move, didn’t say anything, his long curtain of crimson hair shielding his face from view – but his finger, now trembling, continued to trace along the letters. It stopped on the final letter, the dot of the i, and pressed there for a moment.
When Crowley turned to Aziraphale, his eyes were glistening, lips pressed together as though afraid of what he might say if he opened his mouth.
“Is… is that okay?”
Crowley nodded, slowly, placing down the plaque on the coffee table with care. “Yeah, angel,” he eventually said, his words hoarse, choked with emotion. “’S’okay.”
Aziraphale’s eyes lingered over the words on the plaque, the name of the place where, for him at least, everything had begun.
“Alpha Centauri?”
Crowley sniffed, and nodded. “Alpha Centauri.”
Aziraphale moved to close the distance between them before he could even think about it, hopelessly pulled into Crowley’s orbit, drifting into his arms, his warmth, as helpless to resist as he had ever been. They had revolved around each other, dancing in ever-decreasing circles, for thousands and thousands of years – it was a blessed relief to finally allow themselves to collide, to crash, to become one.
Aziraphale traced the gorgeous, infinite constellations of Crowley’s freckles, first with his fingers and then with his lips, desperate to map this new land, to learn it, etch it into his heart. He memorised the contours and sharp angles of Crowley’s jutting hips and shoulder blades as his hands moved over them, relishing in the demon’s involuntary shiver at the lightest of touches, pressing kisses. He catalogued every salacious sound that dropped from his mouth, every scintillating shudder of his body, tried to commit to memory the taste of salt and sex as it slid like sulphur over his tongue.
Crowley came apart more than once, under the firm care of his hands, trembling and shaking, and begged Aziraphale not to let him go, hands clutching desperately into his soft cloud of blonde curls. “Never, my love, never,” whispered Aziraphale, meaning it with his whole heart. “I’ve got you.”
When Aziraphale finally chased his own release, so entwined with Crowley that he had no idea where he ended and Crowley began, he saw stars.
* * * * * * * * * *
“So… what do we do now?”
Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. He was still in a post-coital haze, even hours later, the whole world golden and perfect in the afterglow of their love, and was having trouble getting his mind to come back into focus. They’d gotten dressed again and were curled up watching some Richard Curtis film, but Aziraphale had been more interested in running his fingers through Crowley’s curls, watching the way the demon’s expressions changed as he watched the film.
“Hmm?” said Aziraphale, dreamily.
Crowley grinned, and pressed a quick kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.
“Well… I was just wondering, what happens next? I mean, are you going to…” Crowley looked slightly uncomfortable, almost as if he was wishing he hadn’t brought this up. “I mean, Heaven isn’t awful anymore, is it? You said Jophiel and Jesus are running things for now, yeah?” He paused, interrupting himself as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Whatever happened to Metatwat, anyway?”
Aziraphale gave a coy little smile. “You mean Mithriel, Junior Scrivening Angel, 38th Class? He’s doing well, very eager to please indeed.”
Crowley crowed with laughter, and Aziraphale smiled to himself. Heaven had changed the laws about wiping memories – but only after the Metatron had been dealt with. It had been a far kinder punishment than the Metatron had deserved, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but his thoughts about the matter had been far from angelic.
“And as for Heaven… I have been working with Jophiel in an advisory capacity only.” Aziraphale had no desire to return to Heaven, no inclination to invite anything that might disrupt the fragile, peaceful life he was trying to carve out for themselves here. “I suppose you could say I am officially retired.”
“Retired?” Crowley stared, thoughtful. “Huh. Well… I mean, the question still stands, though, doesn’t it? What do we… do?”
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, remembering all the years the demon had spent looking over his shoulder, circling Aziraphale protectively, always waiting for the next thing, the next disaster, the next threat. It was like a live wire that had hummed beneath the demon’s skin, painful and violent and never allowing him a moment of rest.
All he had ever wanted was to see that guard down, to see Crowley truly at peace. He’d seen a glimpse of it in the garden earlier, a glimmer of it in the demon’s relieved laughter, and a ghost of it when Crowley had trembled and sighed in his arms… but he wanted more than a fleeting moment of vulnerability and release for him, he wanted Crowley to understand, to know, that he was free.
“Well,” said Aziraphale, measuredly. “We do whatever we would like, I suppose.”
He watched Crowley’s eyebrows slip upwards, his eyes widen, the drop of his shoulders. The realisation dawning, slowly.
“No rush to make any big decisions, though,” urged Aziraphale gently, knowing instinctively that Crowley would take time to adjust to the idea of being free from the constraints of Above and Below. “For now… what would you say to opening a bottle of wine?”
It was obvious from Crowley’s smile that he felt on much safer ground here, shooting Aziraphale a grateful smile. “Sounds perfect, angel.”
Perfect.
It was a concept Aziraphale had always struggled with – perfection had been an expectation, a demand, in Heaven, and he’d always felt that he had fallen short of it, rarely helped by Gabriel’s cheerful comments about every way in which Aziraphale did not make the grade. It had seemed forever out of reach.
But this, Aziraphale thought as he poured out the wine, watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye (would he ever feel safe enough again to let him out of his sight?), was pretty close to it.
“Here you go, my dear,” said Aziraphale, walking back into the living room and handing Crowley one of the glasses.
“Thanks.”
Crowley’s voice was quiet as he took the glass.
“Crowley? Are you alright?”
Crowley looked up. “Yeah, yeah ‘m fine.” He took a sip of wine, pausing for a moment. “Angel, d’you mind if we go outside?”
“Of course, my love,” Aziraphale replied, understanding instantly. He had seen, over the past six months, how being in the garden had somehow helped to ground Crowley in a way that nothing else had been able to. On bad days, when Crowley had been frantic and wild-eyed, his only moments of relief had been with his fingers in the soil, burying his confusion and panic amongst the fragile life he cradled so tenderly between his hands.
It made sense, now that Crowley had been handed everything he had ever wanted but never felt like he deserved, that he needed to be in his garden right now.
The evening was rolling in, the sky above smoothed over in shades of deep, dusky pink as the couple emerged into the garden. Aziraphale held back, sipping his wine and taking a seat on the small wooden bench under their kitchen window, as he watched Crowley pace up and down the flowerbeds with his, occasionally stopping to reach out and touch a leaf, or a petal, hesitant, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Watching him, Aziraphale was reminded painfully of the first time he had seen the demon in the Garden of Eden – Crowley had looked exactly like this, the same focused interest on his beautiful, angular face, the only difference being that in Eden, the plants had withered beneath his gentle touch. He hadn’t registered at the time the disappointment on Crowley’s face, too entangled in his own disappointment and despair to notice anything except every way in which he hadn’t been the angel he once knew.
Aziraphale wondered what had prompted Crowley to persist in trying to make things grow rather than wilt, why a demon had felt the need to dedicate so much time to something that repelled against him, against his very nature.
Crowley glanced up, eyes locking with Aziraphale’s, and his frown melted into a smile. In the dying light, Crowley’s eyes were like fireflies, two pinpricks of beautiful light.
“All present and correct?” asked Aziraphale, as Crowley sauntered over to the bench, those glowing eyes fixed on him in the way that always turned his insides into something liquid and warm.
“Yup,” said Crowley, sliding into the opposite side of the bench with his usual slouch before straightening, and inching over next to Aziraphale. An arm was slung casually over the back of the bench, inches away from the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and it was ridiculous, preposterous, that Aziraphale’s neck should still tingle like this, should burn with anticipation, after having been far more intimate only a few hours ago.
“It… it is beautiful out here, you know,” said Aziraphale, admiringly. “You’ve done an excellent job.”
“S’pose. It’s alright. But… there’s… there’s flowers in my garden,” Crowley muttered, clearly annoyed.
“You did ask for them, dear,” said Aziraphale, amused.
Crowley snorted, and tipped his head back, a reluctant grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.
“Mmm. Yeah, well, I wasn’t myself, was I – oh, shit!”
Crowley suddenly leapt to his feet, his wine sloshing dangerously in his glass.
Panic and fear, sharp and electrifying, shot through Aziraphale, stuttering his heart in short, violent bursts. A thousand thoughts whirled around in Aziraphale’s mind, exploding violently, each one more terrifying than the last.
“What? Crowley! What is it?”
Crowley didn’t respond, didn’t even look back at Aziraphale – his face was tipped up to the sky.
“Crowley?”
For one horrible, spine-tingling moment, Aziraphale was sure he was going to look up and see a many-limbed figure, a mouth so wide it could swallow them and their cottage, too – but all he saw when he looked up was a vast, velvet sky, sprinkled with stars, an almost-full moon hanging low and bright in the sky. There was nothing there, so what was Crowley –
Wait.
What was it Muriel had said earlier…?
One last gift.
Aziraphale almost dropped his wine glass. He gasped, lifting a trembling hand to his mouth.
“Oh! Can you –”
“Y-yeah.” Crowley’s voice was tremulous, his eyes wide, drinking in the night sky. “I can see them.” He turned to Aziraphale, shaking his head incredulously, a smile breaking across his face like a crack in ice, revealing the depths beneath. “Aziraphale, I can see them!”
“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale’s heart felt like it was going to burst, to explode from joy.
Crowley let out a shaky laugh, and turned his face back upwards, amazement etched into every line of his face. Aziraphale wanted to remember this, to collect it like he had collected so many wonderful moments today; the memory of his beautiful starmaker, reunited with the precious thing that had been torn away from him so unjustly.
Aziraphale made a mental note to take Muriel to feed as many ducks as they possibly wanted. Maybe he could take them to the zoo. And definitely at least one dinner at the Ritz. Hell, Muriel could have whatever they wanted, after this.
“Angel…” Crowley was still grinning, his whole face alive, as if he’d been lit from within. He pulled Aziraphale towards him. “I was right – we are gonna be so happy here.”
With a sigh of contentment, Aziraphale nodded. They were.
“And I was thinking… that I think I know what I want to do, now.”
“What?”
“Well… this. Just this.”
Crowley gestured around, at the garden, the cottage.
“The – the thing is, we’ve been everywhere, we’ve done so many things, right… I’ve seen most of the world already, and so have you. The only thing I feel like I haven’t done… is this.” Crowley shrugged, awkwardly, his eyes roving over the garden, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Seems boring, maybe, but… it’s… it’s something I never thought I could have – th-that we could have. And… I feel… nngh.” Crowley’s throat bobbed, struggling over the words. “I… feel safe here. I don’t…” Crowley swallowed. “I don’t know if I’ve ever, um…”
Aziraphale’s hand was cupping Crowley’s face before he could stop himself, the slow brush of his thumb against the demon’s cheekbone intended to soothe, to reassure.
“That sounds wonderful, my love.”
Crowley finally met Aziraphale’s gaze.
“Are you sure?”
Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips.
“Yes,” he murmured, more sure of this than he had ever been in anything else. “I’m quite sure.”
Crowley smiled, clearly relieved, and Aziraphale wondered if he would ever be able to love the demon enough for him to feel that he was enough, that he was everything to Aziraphale, that this quiet, small life with him was nothing short of a dream come true, not some consolation prize but something he’d battled six thousand years’ worth of personal demons to finally permit himself to have.
“I love you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.
“I love you too, angel,” murmured Crowley, “so fucking much.”
The stars above winked in the gathering darkness as an angel and a demon kissed, and laughed, and drank, and toasted – first to the world, then to themselves, then to Muriel, then (for a reason they could not fathom) to ducks. Happiness wound like an invisible thread around them, an invisible and unbreakable line that would never separate them, not ever again.
And in the darkness, a nightingale sang.