Archive of Our Own ^beta

The next time Crowley sees Aziraphale after the day he broke his heart, entered a blinding white lift, and left him behind, it’s in almost the exact same place.

Three interminable months later.

That awful day, driving aimless and slow in a silent Bentley, Crowley wasn’t sure if he would ever see Aziraphale again, let alone so soon, considering the way they left things. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care if he ever clapped eyes on his white blonde curls, steel gray eyes, and ridiculous tartan bow tie ever again, but the tears threatening to spill out from behind his sunglasses betrayed his true feelings. 

(Not to mention the random but persistent spots of bright yellow paint on his car’s otherwise pure black sheen, ruthlessly rubbed out with an index finger the temperature of an open flame.)

He certainly didn’t think he would ever return to the bookshop either, the place where it all happened - but also very much didn’t happen - the one spot on this big green and blue planet that holds the majority of their memories.

He was wrong about that, too.

It only takes a few weeks for Crowley to leave his newly regained flat where he’d dedicated himself with aplomb to a second retirement of drinking, crying, and sleeping in equal measure, re-emerging into daylight with a fierce hiss and an intense distaste for anything pleasant. He doesn’t think he would have left at all, if not for the frankly miraculous phone call from Muriel, frantic and distraught, over the realization that they do not, in fact - despite their boundless enthusiasm and zest for learning - know virtually anything about running a bookshop or conversing with humans in a manner that could be considered normal.

But it’s not their fault that Heaven assigned them to the embassy without a single bit of preliminary training, helpful advice, or an opportunity to ask any questions.

Typical.

Sitting in the motionless Bentley, glaring viciously at the speedometer resting at zero and trying to muster the fortitude to turn the key, Crowley sighs in defeat. He feels a certain obligation to Muriel, mostly borne from pity (he pointedly ignores the little voice in his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like a certain angel, whispering four-letter words like nice and good), but he’s also loath to admit that Nina simply serves the best espresso in Soho and he’s in dire need of caffeine, if nothing else out of a half-hearted effort to avoid having to miracle himself a new liver. That, and he wouldn’t say no to a listening ear and a kind, sympathetic face that looks something like Maggie’s.

Gritting his teeth and shoving aside his misgivings as he’s been doing for longer than he’d care to admit, Crowley starts the car and makes the short drive to Whickber Street in record time.

(And he supposes it’s to be expected that he would return to the scene of the crime, as it’s only natural to look for what has been lost in the last place it was seen, although he knows his heart has been with Aziraphale for much longer than the few measly months he’s been in Heaven.)

He goes to the coffee shop first, knowing he’ll need his traditional big cup with six shots before he has the energy to deal with Muriel, where he’s promptly accosted by a worried, fussing record shop owner and a waspish, reluctantly interested barista.

“Where the hell have you been?” snaps Nina, her furrowed brow disguising what Crowley knows is genuine concern.

“We’ve been worried sick, you up and disappeared without a word!” cries Maggie, close by her side, her hands fluttering anxiously around Crowley but thankfully falling short of actually landing anywhere. “And where on earth is Mr. Fell, we haven’t seen him either, it’s been ever so strange these past few months -”

Crowley barely suppresses a snort. Understatement of the century, that.

Before he knows it, he’s being pushed firmly into his seat at the table he used to occupy with Aziraphale, a fact that makes his throat tighten absurdly while he protectively shoves his glasses further up his nose, and his big cup is being set in front of him along with two expectant and impatient shopkeepers.

Brilliant.

With a world-weary sigh, Crowley tells a shortened version of the truth, or as much of it as he can, knowing there’s no sense in lying to them. They seem to have taken his other-worldly existence more or less in stride and, after all, they were the ones who encouraged him to come clean with Aziraphale. And they seem genuinely interested in how things turned out.

(And Crowley supposes he would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to get it off his chest, to offload some of his aching, ever-present heartbreak to someone, anyone who will listen, even if it’s these two humans who seem to have taken as much of an interest in him and his love life as he’s taken to theirs.)

He can’t handle too much of their pity-filled gazes though, as they struggle fruitlessly to console him and offer reassurances - Maggie in particular seems unwilling to believe things are over before they’ve even begun - and it’s less than half an hour before Crowley is gulping down the last of his espresso and making hasty excuses. It’s only once he mutters something about popping in on Muriel that they relent and see him to the door, wrangling hasty promises out of him to not wait so long before coming back again.

And the oddest part is that Crowley thinks he may actually keep them.

When he opens the door to the bookshop, he only has a moment for the pain of the last time he was here to wash over him, heavy and crippling, before he’s nearly scared out of his skin by an overjoyed cry of his name.

(One that’s not anything like the dulcet, soothing tones he would give anything to hear again, just like old times.)

“Mr. Crowley! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come! I desperately need your help!”

Muriel stops short of throwing their arms around him in relief, thankfully just as uncomfortable with physical contact as Crowley is, but he still keeps a wide berth as a precaution. It takes the better part of an hour but Crowley painstakingly explains to them that some bookshops don’t exist so much to sell books as they do to display them, like works of art. And, Crowley patiently explains, at any rate, Muriel could perhaps benefit from learning more about the human world before they attempt daunting tasks like completing transactions and taking inventory.

Looking somewhat relieved by this news, Muriel nods seriously and firmly agrees that Crowley’s suggestion of reading their way through at least half the books in the shop before doing anything else is the wisest way to proceed, and they follow him gratefully to the shelf where he knows the encyclopedias and other educational tomes are stocked.

(And if Crowley keeps his eyes firmly averted from the last place he stood with Aziraphale, their lips pressed together and the angel’s hands warm on his back for the briefest instant, cupping just under his human shoulder blades as his wings trembled on another plane…well, that’s what his sunglasses are for.)

If their wide, fascinated eyes and twitching fingers are any indication, the books in the shop should keep Muriel busy for a while and get some of their endless questions answered to boot. It takes Crowley longer than he would like to wave off their emphatic thanks, already itching to leave. By the time he exits the bookshop and returns to the Bentley, he’s utterly, nonsensically exhausted.

Crowley collapses into his car, pulling the door shut with effort and immediately slumping into the driver’s seat with a heaving sigh. He hangs his head and reaches up to slowly remove his sunglasses, tossing them onto the dash carelessly and feeling every one of his six thousand plus years. 

Returning to the Bentley from the bookshop in this manner feels far too reminiscent of the day Aziraphale left him three months ago and Crowley’s heartache - which never left in the first place, of course, only migrated to the backseat of his mind until he was alone again and it could leap happily back to the forefront - hits him full force once again.

He’s blinking rapidly, trying to make a preemptive strike on the tears he can feel fast approaching, his serpentine eyes starting to smart with an all too familiar sting, when his demon senses perk up, the back of his neck tingles, and all of a sudden he’s certain that he’s being watched.

By another celestial entity.

Other than tensing slightly in his seat, Crowley doesn’t move a muscle, only flicking his unguarded eyes upward to look sharply into the rear view mirror toward The Dirty Donkey and see -

Aziraphale.

Crowley’s heart leaps traitorously in his chest at the same instant his stomach feels as though it’s attempting flight inside him, his lips parting on a ragged inhale at the dual sensations, and their gazes lock in the mirror as he realizes that Aziraphale is staring right back at him.

The angel is standing inside the bright white elevator to Heaven, the doors of which are wide open and waiting patiently for him to exit onto Whickber Street, but Aziraphale seems quite frozen to the spot, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape in an expression similar to Crowley’s.

In the span of a second, Crowley’s muscles unlock and he moves without thinking, driven by some unseen force that propels him to throw open the door of the Bentley - ignoring the angry car horns that sound in response - and heave himself out onto the pavement, gripping the top of the car for support and whipping around to look at the elevator, not caring that his yellow eyes are uncovered and desperate for all to see.

But the elevator doors are already sliding closed over the familiar form of his angel.

Again.

It doesn’t get easier with time to be back in the bookshop but, as with most things that he finds difficult and painful, Crowley does it anyway.

(Even though it tears at his heart a little more each time he walks through the door, Crowley thinks there’s a tiny part of him that is still comforted by the place, all their memories - as bittersweet and tainted as they are now - surrounding him like a blanket along with the constant, endless expanse of books, quiet, and dust.)

Besides, Muriel desperately needs his help and showing up every few days keeps Maggie and Nina off his back.

So, after a month of this routine, this is once again where he finds himself, alone in the bookshop while Muriel spends a crucial hour or two over the road with Maggie receiving some socialization lessons. He’s currently balancing on the top of a rickety old stepladder that Muriel found somewhere in the depths of the shop, using his tall, lanky corporation to reach the books up on the high shelves to which Muriel will not venture, having solemnly declared a crippling phobia of heights after reading an entire medical dictionary in two days.

(It was only with a patience born of six thousand years that Crowley refrained from pointing out that they are, in fact, a winged entity capable of flight and therefore impervious to the dangers of ladders, small or large.)

Despite his suppressed grumbling, Crowley doesn’t mind the task, feeling something similar to calmness - but duller, muted, and more painful - to have something to do and a reason to be back here in the bookshop.

That is, until the door opens.

He knows in an instant that it’s Aziraphale, feeling a familiar spike in angelic energy that’s a distinctly different flavor than Muriel or any of the other angels that have deigned to descend from Heaven and into his presence.

(And it’s simply a cold hard fact that he knows Aziraphale’s aura like he knows all the stars and constellations in the sky, intuitively and without question, like they were once a part of his very soul and the intimate knowledge of them couldn’t be rent from him with anything sort of divine intervention.)

Unfortunately, he’s perfectly visible on his step ladder from the front of the shop, facing away from the door and pulling volumes from the front shelf, and - in his haste to prepare himself or turn around or simply run away as fast as he can - Crowley stumbles stupidly over his own large feet on the too-small step, grabbing for the shelf just in time to right himself and avoid an embarrassing tumble to the floor.

(And why, oh why, is his existence nothing but a series of spectacularly pathetic falls? Falling from grace, falling from ladders, falling in love - )

Crowley manages to turn around just in time to see Aziraphale - with his white curls and new suit and earnest expression - hurry forward a few steps with a hand outstretched, instinctively moving to help him.

“Oh, are you quite alri–”

Crowley’s skin prickles angrily at the genuine concern in his voice.

“M’fine,” he manages to hiss, despite the glaring lack of sibilant consonants in the word. “What do you want, then?”

Crowley watches Aziraphale blink in shock, taken aback at the blatant hostility in his voice, and Crowley ruthlessly quashes the automatic flash of guilt he feels. In the time it takes Aziraphale to process the question, retracting his outstretched hands to wring anxiously in front of him instead, Crowley descends from the step ladder with the small stack of books he managed to collect before he was interrupted. With a snap, Crowley sends the stack flying neatly over to the desk for Muriel to peruse later and - at the same - brings his sunglasses whizzing across the shop from wherever he’d set them down out of pure habit.

Aziraphale watches him shove them firmly on his face with an inscrutable expression before finally answering his question.

“I’m…I’m meant to be checking in with Muriel but -”

“They’re not here,” Crowley interrupts rudely.

“Yes, I can see that,” Aziraphale says primly, finally appearing to respond to Crowley’s foul attitude, and Crowley smothers the sense of bitter satisfaction that he’s finally taking the bait.

(Because the hurt he inflicted upon Crowley the last time they stood in this shop is roiling anew inside him and he feels his inner snake uncoiling and snapping its jaws and itching for a fight -)

“Would you be so kind as to tell me where -”

“Over the road. At Maggie’s.”

Aziraphale’s jaw clenches at being interrupted again but he simply nods tightly.

An intensely uncomfortable silence falls between them.

(And - as angry as he is - Crowley can’t help but stare at Aziraphale, greedily drinking in his familiar form in a way he hasn’t been able to in months, forced to quit cold turkey after literal years of seeing his best friend every day, and Aziraphale shifts restlessly under his attention, avoiding his gaze, an awful furrow carved between his angelic brows, his visage so very different from the smiling, adoring face that asked him to dance -)

“Finally made it out of the lift, did you?”

The cruelty of his statement - wrenched out of him involuntarily with an internal snarl in an effort to avoid breaking down in tears and throwing himself at Aziraphale’s feet - is evident in the way it burns on its way out of Crowley’s mouth and sends Aziraphale’s gaze flying back to his, shock, guilt, and hurt clear as day on his face.

“Evidently,” he snaps, after he gathers himself. “And seeing as you’re here and Muriel isn’t, I wonder if we couldn’t take a moment to talk -”

But Crowley is already shaking his head.

Aziraphale cuts himself off like Crowley has verbally interrupted him again, his mouth setting in an expression Crowley recognizes as deeply unsatisfied.

“May I ask why not?” he gets out, forcibly patient.

Why not?

Crowley barely refrains from gaping at him, blown away that he could ask such a question in seemingly good faith, and redirects his efforts into trying to appear aloof and detached.

“Tried talking,” he growls, not quite succeeding in his mission. “Didn’t work very well, did it?”

Aziraphale huffs quietly, visibly getting frustrated, but apparently unable to deny the truth of Crowley’s answer. 

“Well, then,” he says, with the air of offering up a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “What about listening instead?”

Angry flares up hotter than ever inside Crowley and he bares his teeth out of instinct, the clear implication that he didn’t hold his confession inside himself like a flaming meteor whilst Aziraphale relayed his wonderful new job offer rankling him like nothing else.

“I tried that, too, if you’ll recall,” he hisses, his hands clenching into fists. “Listened before I talked, in fact, and it didn’t make a fucking bit of difference.”

This seems to finally push Aziraphale over the tenuously held edge of his control and suddenly they’re both yelling.

“Well, maybe I have different things to say this time!” Aziraphale barks.

“Well, maybe it’s too late for me to want to hear them! ” Crowley spits.

“- why are you being so stubborn -”

“- how could you be so blind -”

“- why can’t you just listen -”

“- because you broke my fucking heart, Aziraphale!”

Time grinds to a halt.

If not for the steady flow of people still passing by outside the window, Crowley might think one of them had performed a miracle, but there’s a stark lack of divine influence around them. It’s simply in the aftermath of Crowley’s words, spewed into the air between them and echoing horribly around the empty bookshop. He can only stare at the awful way Aziraphale’s jaw is hanging slack, looking equal parts flabbergasted and horrified by Crowley’s admission.

(And it’s far too reminiscent of his expression right after their lips had broken apart, his mouth agape and eyes wide and watery, looking so disgusted with him that Crowley had wanted to shed his own skin -)

When Aziraphale speaks again, his voice is soft and devastated, no longer angry and fraying at the edges with impatience, instead pleading with Crowley for something he doesn’t understand or know how to give.

“You asked me to make an impossible choice, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley blinks slowly, feeling his traitorous, serpentine eyes becoming moist with tears he refuses to let fall.

“I asked you to choose me,” Crowley whispers back, quiet and broken. “If that’s so impossible to you…then I guess you chose right.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip trembles.

“That’s not fair, Crowley,” he gasps. “I’m - I’m an angel! You asked me to give up my faith! I’m sorry you lost yours when you Fell, but…but you can’t expect the same thing from me!”

Crowley recoils, feeling Aziraphale’s words sting his skin like holy water.

“Lost?” he repeats incredulously. “I didn’t lose my faith! It was taken from me! By the same people you’ve gone back to! Don’t you remember?”

“But that’s exactly it! I do remember! And I can change them!” Aziraphale says, ever the foolish, infuriating optimist. “I can do it!”

“How?” demands Crowley, wanting to hear a justification, a plan, anything to explain Aziraphale’s foolhardy, self-appointed mission.

“I’m going to teach them!” Aziraphale blurts, a sickeningly familiar burst of determination energizing him at the same rate it abruptly exhausts Crowley. “I’m going to show them, help them understand about Earth, about humanity! All the things they can’t see from up in Heaven, everything that makes humans so remarkable to you and me! I’m going to open their eyes to what needs to change, what could be made better -”

“What, like, putting a note in a suggestion box?”

Aziraphale falls abruptly silent.

(Because in six thousand years, they’ve never talked about when they met before he Fell and - while there’s things he doesn’t remember about that time - there’s also things he will never forget. And it hurts more than he’d care to admit that Aziraphale thinks he can do what Crowley was punished for without repercussions. Almost as much as it scares him to think Aziraphale could Fall by making the same mistakes he did and not even see it coming -)

“Angel,” he whispers, fervently and with a profound ache in his chest, the endearment torn from him for the first time since Aziraphale shattered his heart. “Your goodness and light and love are not theirs. They don’t want what you want. And, no matter how hard you try…you can’t change them.”

But Aziraphale’s mouth is tightening, his eyes are hardening, and he’s already shaking his head, and the whole thing is just a repeat of that awful day four months ago but Crowley can’t stop, ignoring his heart keening in his chest to not be ripped away once again when Aziraphale gets back into that elevator and takes it with him -

“You’re too good for them,” Crowley whispers hopelessly, trying to tell him what he’s always known to be true, trying as he always has to save him. “You’ve always been better than Heaven, angel.”

It’s so quiet in the shop in the wake of Crowley’s blasphemy that he can hear Aziraphale’s breath trembling from across the room and he watches his chin wobble violently before he sums up all their problems in one short sentence, driving the final stake through Crowley’s heart with four easy words.

“…I don’t believe that.”

(And Crowley wills himself not to burst into tears on the spot, telling himself to just hold on until he can scream and cry and drink himself into oblivion in the privacy of his flat, just as he’s been doing for the interminable weeks since Aziraphale did this the first time and just as he’ll undoubtedly be doing for the rest of his miserable eternity because the system is rigged and his angel can’t see it and all it means is that Aziraphale will never choose him.)

“Then I can’t help you,” Crowley says, deadpan and emotionless and just so damned tired.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, tears audibly clogging his throat. “Please, come back with me - without you - I can’t - I need y–”

“I’m not an angel anymore, Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts him off firmly, because he has to, because he can’t hear him say the word ‘need’ like that again without self-destructing. “And I don’t want to be one ever again. So, you can keep your forgiveness to yourself…”

Aziraphale lets out a choked sob and Crowley hates himself for what he knows he has to say next.

“And stay away from me.”

Aziraphale whirls around and all but runs out the door.

But not before Crowley spies the tears finally running in rivulets down his cheeks, sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dusty, once-comforting sanctuary of their bookshop.

Tears that mirror his own.

Crowley doesn’t go back to the bookshop after that.

He ignores calls from Muriel, Nina, and Maggie for a solid month in favor of regressing, holing up in his flat and trying valiantly to drink himself into oblivion, just the idea of returning to their twice-scorned place and accidentally seeing Aziraphale again filling him with nausea and fear and a terrible, self-destructive yearning that creeps up the back of his throat like acid.

So, he washes it back down with alcohol.

As he drinks, sprawled messily across various surfaces of his flat, he mourns. He mourns the fact that Aziraphale can’t love him for who he is, a fallen angel, a demon, a serpent, all harsh angels and hissing tongue and yellow slitted eyes. And he mourns the fact that he ever tried to ask him to at all because, after all, Aziraphale was right about one thing: he is an angel and loving a demon could cause him to Fall.

And Crowley knows deep in his wounded, aching heart that - even if Aziraphale was willing to Fall for him - Crowley wouldn’t let him because being an angel, a being of truth and light and good, is what makes Aziraphale…Aziraphale. It’s everything that Crowley loves about him and he would never want him to change for the sake of a dark, despised snake who could never stop asking questions.

(Which makes it even more painful that Aziraphale asked him to do just that, change into something he’s not, because Crowley simply isn’t enough the way he is.)

More so than all that, Crowley mourns the loss of his best friend, his single constant companion of the last six thousand years, the most fulfilling, trustworthy, loving relationship he’s ever had since he pitched downward from the heavens and lost everything. He mourns the loss of the ever-present possibility of more, that near-tangible something that has been teasing them for millennia, that little sliver of hope inside him that whispered words like maybe and someday.

Crowley mourns his stupidity in stepping out of their comfort zone and pushing for more when Aziraphale so clearly wasn’t ready, willing, or able to give anything else, so flustered and upset and not at all in the same place as Crowley’s heartsick pleading.

(And most of all, he mourns the death of his millennia-old quest, his life’s goal, his sole purpose, of trying to be enough for his angel.)

Crowley seriously considers circling the drain of these thoughts until another apocalypse inevitably comes around, seeing little point in anything else, and finding respite only in small snatches of unfulfilling sleep. He only lets himself succumb to these naps when he’s so spectacularly drunk that he can’t see straight and even then only for a few hours at a time, otherwise tortured by his unconscious with dreams of Aziraphale and pain and more longing than he can stand. 

(Their ill-fated kiss features heavily in these visions, usually ending as it did in reality, sometimes even worse, and only once progressing into something so explicit, beautiful, and loving that Crowley wakes with fresh tears on his face.)

It’s amidst one of these all too brief bouts of oblivion that he’s unexpectedly awoken, draped over his uncomfortable black leather couch with a half-full bottle dangling from his lax fingers, by a soft knock on the door of his flat.

Odd.

Crowley squints at the door in confusion and forces his muddled mind to consider his options which, as far as he can tell, boil down to ignoring who is most likely an ignorant salesperson standing impatiently in the hall, hurling his bottle at the door with an incomprehensible yell, or simply getting up to answer it.

Something niggling at the back of his brain tells him he should at least see who it is before slamming the door irritably in their face and another soft knock finalizes his decision for him.

With a groan, Crowley heaves himself unsteadily up off the couch, depositing his bottle reluctantly on the coffee table and snapping his fingers to perform a quick, half-hearted miracle to clean himself up, straightening his clothes, retrieving his abandoned sunglasses, and sobering up just enough that he can perhaps form a coherent sentence with a little effort.

(Anything more will allow his ever-present heartache to creep stealthily back into his chest and hurt, so he has to draw the line somewhere, and besides, he knows there’s nothing even a miracle can do about the gauntness lingering in his lanky frame, the dark circles under his dull yellow eyes, and the general apathy that’s taken residence inside him and refused to leave.)

A third soft knock manages to make itself heard while Crowley stalks across the flat and he grits his teeth in growing irritation, finally reaching the door and throwing it open with a snarl, thinking that whoever is so intent on disturbing his eternity of misery better have a damn good reason -

Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses.

There’s no one there.

He leans out the door to peer in confusion down the hall, still seeing nothing and no one, before a shuffling from below him draws his attention and he looks downward, inhaling sharply to see -

Aziraphale.

He’s slumped against the wall on the floor next to Crowley’s door, hunched over in an odd, unfamiliar posture that makes Crowley freeze, unsure and confused and worried -

“…Crowley…”

And then Crowley sees the golden blood soaked into the back of his suit jacket.

With several muttered, colorful swears, Crowley snaps to sober himself completely and is down by Aziraphale’s side in an instant, crouched on the carpeted hallway of his building and placing his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face without hesitation, trying to gently tilt his head up so he can look into his eyes.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley hisses. “What the Hell -”

Crowley’s own blood runs cold as he gets a good look at Aziraphale’s face, unblemished but extremely pale with brows creased in pain and eyelids fluttering in a way that tells Crowley he’s teetering dangerously on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Fuck,” Crowley mutters.

And then Crowley’s eyes stray downward to investigate Aziraphale’s odd posture, hunched over to no doubt shy away from the pain of whatever injury is on back, but his arms are folded in front in of him as well and it almost looks like he’s holding something close and protectively to his chest, something like an oblong bunch of pink blankets, and Crowley leans further down to see better because it almost looks like it could be a -

A baby.

“Jesus Christ…”

Aziraphale huffs an unexpected laugh.

“Yes…quite.”

It takes a moment to grasp his meaning from those two oddly significant words but - when it hits him a millisecond later like an extremely prejudiced ton of bricks - Crowley’s mouth falls open in shock. He reaches out a trembling hand to brush one of the blankets aside to reveal a tiny, round face peering curiously up at him, large blue eyes wide-awake and shining with a strangely purple-ish hue.

Fantastic.

A door slamming down the hall startles Crowley out of his shock and he hunches instinctively over Aziraphale and the little bundle of joy, an intense wave of protectiveness flooding through him as his body curves over the angel’s prone form, barely suppressing a defensive hiss from escaping between his teeth.

He needs to get him inside. 

Moving quickly now, Crowley slides one arm under Aziraphale’s already bent knees and the other around his lower back, trying to avoid the large splotch of golden blood for fear of aggravating whatever unseen injury lies underneath. Lifting Aziraphale’s solid form with a demonic strength hidden in his angular limbs, Crowley carries him - and by extension the child in his arms - quickly inside the flat and miracles the door shut and locked behind them. Once inside, he flounders, unsure of the best place to set down Aziraphale in his unknown condition, when the angel in his arms suddenly croaks his name again.

“…Crowley?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answers quickly, giving up and simply dropping to his knees in the middle of the living room floor, lowering Aziraphale carefully to sit in front of him on the rug. “I’m here, Aziraphale. Can you talk? What happened? Where are you hurt? Here, give me the kid…”

With more resistance than he expects of someone likely suffering heavy blood loss, Crowley pries Aziraphale’s clenched hands away from the bundle of blankets and carefully extracts it from his death grip. The tiny human inside starts to fuss with the change of hands, gurgling and cooing quietly, and Crowley hesitates before performing a quick series of miracles, snapping once to put the child into a deep, peaceful sleep and then again to summon a small pink crib. Crowley stands and gently deposits the sleeping baby in it, hesitating a moment to make sure she doesn’t wake, before whipping off his sunglasses, tossing them carelessly away, and hastily dropping back to his knees next to Aziraphale.

Crowley’s anxious hands itch for him, fluttering slightly before landing on his arms where he hopes there’s nothing unseen to cause him pain, and the angel doesn’t move away. Unexpectedly, he does quite the opposite, leaning heavily into Crowley the moment he feels his touch, and - close enough to greedily inhale his scent - Crowley can now hear how heavy and labored his breathing is.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tries again, panicked and insistent. “What happened?”

“Heaven…” Aziraphale rasps, his voice so low and hoarse that Crowley has to strain to understand him. “Caught onto me…Tried to kill me…I got away…but not quite, uh…scot-free, as it were…”

Anger starts to simmer next to the worry and fear that has been bubbling inside Crowley from the second he found Aziraphale outside, making him bite back a snarl with difficulty, and settling for pulling Aziraphale closer with one hand and performing a few miracles with the other to add some protections to the flat, ensuring that no one from Heaven will be able to find Aziraphale here.

He’s just finishing with this when the angel in his arms lets out a pained groan through gritted teeth and recaptures Crowley’s attention in an instant.

“Right,” mutters Crowley, returning to the most urgent matter at hand. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

With his heart hammering in his chest, Crowley begins to pull Aziraphale’s stupid Heaven-issued suit jacket off his shoulders, carefully peeling away the large section soaked with golden blood and murmuring hasty apologies every time the movement makes him wince or whimper. Finally getting it off and throwing the stained jacket aside, Crowley snaps his trembling fingers to undo the first few buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt and gently tugs the collar down over his shoulders, peeling the blood-soaked fabric down to his mid-back and leaving it drawn around his elbows to see -

Nothing?

Crowley frowns, blinking and turning his gaze from the clearly wet, golden fabric hanging off Aziraphale to his oddly pale, unblemished skin, unable to resist ghosting a cool, dry hand over the smooth expanse to ensure his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, confused. “There’s nothing on your back, what - where are you bleeding from - I don’t -”

“Not my back,” grits Aziraphale. “My - my wings.”

Oh .

Oh, those fuckers tried to smite him.

(And the mess of tangled negative emotions twining and writhing in his chest solidifies into solid, red-hot rage, burning and nearly uncontrollable, and it’s only the feeling of Aziraphale clutching his arm and rocking slightly back and forth in pain that keeps him grounded, so unlike the moorless solitude that has plagued him since his angel returned to the beings who have now tried twice to destroy him forever.)

Crowley grinds his teeth with a force that would have reduced them to dust had they been human and manages to wrestle himself under control with great difficulty.

“Right,” he mutters again, nodding to himself. “Right, okay, you need to get your wings out, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale is already shaking his head. “I can’t…” he pleads desperately. “Could barely put them away…Crowley…It hurts…”

“I know, angel, I know,” murmurs Crowley, the endearment instinctively slipping out with his bone-deep need to soothe him. “But I can’t heal what I can’t see, Aziraphale, so you have to, okay? Take a deep breath. On three, now.”

Aziraphale wails softly in despair but Crowley feels his sides expand as he reluctantly inhales in preparation.

“Okay, good. Ready? One…two…three!”

Aziraphale lets out a scream of agony that pulls awfully at Crowley’s heartstrings, and he quickly leans back as much as he can without letting go of Aziraphale to avoid being hit in the face as a pair of wings burst forth out of his back to expand into the living room. Holding his breath, Crowley brightens the lights with a snap so he can better see, hoping against hope that he won’t see what often features in his nightmares, and then nearly keeling over in relief to find -

They’re still as white as snow.

(And Crowley has to blink several times in quick succession to banish the moisture abruptly gathered there, his throat clenching and stinging in relief, because he has known since long before Aziraphale slumped outside his door that he would stop at nothing to tear Heaven down from the sky if they dared to cast him out.)

“Well done, angel,” Crowley whispers, panting nearly as hard as Aziraphale is. “Hardest part’s over. Now let me get a good look…”

Willing himself to stay calm, Crowley turns a discerning eye on Aziraphale’s newly revealed limbs, and his gaze is instantly drawn to the right one. It’s immediately clear from the way he’s holding it that Aziraphale’s right wing has sustained substantial damage, the bone out of which his primary feathers sprout twisted and bent at an unnatural angle, the feathers smeared and matted with golden blood. Crowley’s gaze follows the twisted wing inward toward where it connects to his shoulder blade and his eyes widen to see a large rend in the skin, spanning the bottom wing joint, scapula, and a portion of his mid-back.

So, that’s where he’s bleeding from.

Badly.

Swearing softly again to himself, Crowley spares a cursory glance to Aziraphale’s left wing to affirm it’s unharmed before returning his clinical gaze to the damaged one.

“Okay, okay,” Crowley mutters to himself. “Stop the bleeding, have to stop the bleeding…” 

Swallowing dryly, Crowley snaps to bring an ottoman zooming across the room to a stop next to the angel. “Here, Aziraphale, lean on this. I need both my hands…”

Crowley gently tips forward a moaning Aziraphale to rest against the ottoman and rubs his newly freed hands together, mentally preparing himself. As a demon, he can only do so much to heal angelic injuries like this, but he thinks he can at least close the wound, which is the most important thing. Crowley impatiently bats away the nerves fluttering in his stomach at what he’s about to do, all too aware of how unhelpful they are. 

He needs to focus.

(And not think about how this is the most important miracle he has ever and likely will ever perform.)

Summoning all his not inconsiderable power, Crowley takes a deep breath and holds his hands inches from the gaping wound in Aziraphale’s back, willing the muscle and tissue and skin to knit itself back together. He holds his breath and watches in tense scrutiny as the wound beings to heal itself in fast-motion and Aziraphale writhes underneath him, moaning quietly at what is surely an unpleasant process, but Crowley only ceases the flow of his power when the skin spanning the angel’s back and wing looks as good as new. Aziraphale says nothing but Crowley can hear his breathing ease, less labored now, and his posture loses much of its pained tension, relaxing into the ottoman in an exhausted slump.

Shaking out his suddenly clammy hands, Crowley turns to what looks like the broken bone of Aziraphale’s primary wing joint, and nods to himself.

“Okay, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, not sure if he’s even still conscious. “Just gotta mend this bone. Then you can rest, I promise…”

Aziraphale gives a little mumble that Crowley chooses to take as consent. With another deep breath, Crowley rests his fingertips gently on the broken bone and closes his eyes in concentration, letting his power flow through him once again until he hears a loud crack and Aziraphale’s answering shout. Crowley quickly opens his eyes to see the wing, trembling faintly and still slathered in quickly drying golden blood, but properly shaped once again.

(Thank someone.)

“Okay, all done, all done,” Crowley breathes, his hands returning softly to Aziraphale’s body without thinking, now instinctively trying to comfort instead of heal.

Unfortunately, he can’t do anything about the extensive blood loss, demonically incapable of replenishing ichor as he is, which means that Aziraphale will have to recover the rest of the way through human methods.

Which means some good, old-fashioned rest.

Gathering himself, Crowley scoops up Aziraphale once again, holding him out from his body at arm’s length to avoid jostling his newly healed wing, and carries him further into the flat to his bedroom, firmly ignoring his confused mess of feelings that spring up at the thought in favor of getting him settled to rest. 

When they enter the bedroom, Crowley stands at the side of his bed with his hands full of angel, glaring at the black silk sheets until they bend to his will and fly backward of their own accord. Crowley then plants a knee carefully on the edge of the mattress and leans forward to place Aziraphale gently on his stomach in the middle of the bed, his wings - unable to retract - limply spilling over the mattress on either side of him. 

Aziraphale moans softly as he registers the change and his head automatically turns to rest his cheek gratefully on one of Crowley’s pillows, inhaling deeply against the fabric in a way that makes Crowley’s chest tighten in yearning. Pushing his distracting feelings away, Crowley makes quick work of tugging away Aziraphale’s soiled shirt where it was still halfway tucked in his waistband. He banishes it carelessly back to the living room with the matching ruined suit jacket - the ichor stains unremovable even by miracle - and gently pulls the sheet up to rest just under Aziraphale’s sensitive wing joints.

Stepping back, Crowley takes a deep breath.

That’s about as much as he can do for him for now, other than let him rest, and Crowley feels his racing heartbeat finally start to slow now that the angel is out of immediate danger, so much so that it takes him a minute to realize that Aziraphale is mumbling something incoherent into his pillow.

“What’s that, angel?” Crowley asks, leaning closer to catch the muffled words.

“…M’sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley frowns at the unexpected apology.  “Sorry? What for?”

“Coming back…” Aziraphale whispers, guilt audible even in his weakened voice. “Told me to stay away but…nowhere else to go…m’sorry…”

Aziraphale slips into unconsciousness then, his mouth falling slack and his body going limp as he finally passes out from pain and blood loss and exhaustion, and Crowley can only stumble backward and collapse into an armchair by his bed, reeling inside.

(Because - despite his still very broken heart - being anywhere other than right at Aziraphale’s side right now is simply unthinkable.)

Until Crowley hears a high-pitched wail from the living room.

“…Shit.”

The amount of energy needed to heal Aziraphale’s substantial wounds - much more than Crowley’s typical trivial miracles - takes it out of him, but he refuses to sleep, instead watching stubbornly over the sleeping angel with aching sore eyes and his feet propped up on the bed.

It occurs to Crowley a few hours into his self-imposed watch that he’s never seen Aziraphale sleep before. He’s actually not sure if the angel has ever indulged in his entire existence - much more prone to the sin of gluttony, unlike Crowley, who favors sloth - and Crowley tries to ignore the tingles in his chest at likely being the only one to have ever seen the angel in such a vulnerable state.

With his eyes fixed to the steady rise and fall of Aziraphale’s back and the way his wings tremble occasionally in his sleep, Crowley also takes time to consider his feelings for the angel in his bed, which are no less complicated than they were before he arrived here. He feels no regret or shame in helping heal and hide Aziraphale because - as they are both well aware - Crowley is incapable of not rescuing him whenever he has the means to do so, something that will never change regardless of their status.

(But this simple truth doesn’t change the fact that nothing else has changed either, that they are still very much estranged and at odds, and Crowley’s heart still lies bleeding and throbbing at Aziraphale’s thankfully-still-divine feet.)

As it is, the only thing that pulls Crowley from Aziraphale’s bedside is the child.

Predictably, the few-months-old reincarnation of the Lord is a well-behaved baby. She rarely cries, sleeps deeply, giggles when Crowley miracles her diapers clean, guzzles formula with minimal spitting up, and gazes happily up at Crowley when he holds her.

After the first twelve hours of looking after them both, splitting his time as best he can between the angel and the infant while thinking hard about what to do, Crowley makes a decision to leave the flat for a swift half hour, embarking on an errand which has become unavoidable and remains the only thing capable of dragging Crowley from Aziraphale’s bedside.

He takes the baby to the bookshop.

While the wards he’s placed on his flat should hide him and Aziraphale without a problem, Crowley worries they won’t be enough to hide Jesus Christ herself, potty-trained or not, but he recalls how well the bookshop hid the former Supreme Archangel from the heavenly host who came there specifically looking for him. That, and Crowley figures that the bookshop - still an angelic embassy, for Somebody’s sake - is the last place they would think to look for Christ reincarnate. He is hesitant to trust Muriel with such an important charge, still adjusting to Earth as they are, but - as much as the irony makes him grind his teeth - Crowley forces himself to have a little faith in the inexperienced angel, who has proven nothing but well-meaning and generally reliable.

Luckily, Muriel is ecstatic.

They coo and fawn over the tiny human, never having seen one up close before, as they stand in the middle of the bookshop holding her in the same manner some would handle a particularly temperamental bomb. Crowley fusses more than he would ever admit, nearly changing his mind and taking the child back to his flat, but trying to quickly but thoroughly explain everything that human babies need to the starry-eyed angel, chiefly diapers, food, and sleep. But, halfway through his oral dissertation on appropriate formula temperatures, Muriel happily informs him they have just finished reading the small selection of childcare manuals that apparently exist somewhere in the bookshop and, as such, they are in fact well-prepared to care for the baby Jesus.

Crowley is naturally skeptical and stubbornly plants himself in Aziraphale’s armchair to watch through his sunglasses in increasing awe as Muriel - against all odds - rapidly becomes both confident and capable with the child. He watches as they make short work of all the crucial tasks, seeing them hold the child properly, miracle her diaper clean, and feed her a bottle before he starts to relax. He’s even further reassured when he witnesses Muriel expertly burp the baby and lay her down in a miracled crib in the upstairs flat, clean, dry, on her back, with no loose covers or pillows.

Completely by the book. 

Crowley shakes his head in awe, baffled by the fact that an entity who can’t bring themselves to consume a pleasingly hot beverage sweetened with cream and sugar or climb more than one foot into the air on a ladder, can also somehow take to childcare like a duck to water. 

He’ll never understand angels.

(Or…well, at least, two of them.)

Reasonably satisfied that Muriel can handle the child, Crowley moves on to his next task. Firmly pushing Muriel down by the shoulders to sit in Aziraphale’s armchair, Crowley slowly and clearly explains that the child must be kept secret and safe in the upstairs of the bookshop until Muriel hears from either Crowley or Aziraphale. Crowley explains he does not know when that will be, but that the child is extremely important and must be hidden from Heaven at all costs, and that if any other angels come around asking questions about it, Muriel is to pretend they’ve never seen it.

As Crowley expected, Muriel is visibly uncomfortable with the idea of lying but, once he explains that pretending is not the same as lying - it’s simply using their imagination, which is something humans love to do, and most importantly, it’s for the greater good which is something Muriel should be in favor of as an angel - they seem much more at ease, happily agreeing not to tell a soul about the baby, even Maggie or Nina.

The last thing Crowley does before he leaves the bookshop is perform a miracle, similar to the one he and Aziraphale did to hide Gabriel, but this time with Muriel. It irks him slightly to have to do such a thing with his angelic replacement but - as Aziraphale is indisposed - he supposes needs must. Standing over the crib, he and Muriel each take one of the baby’s tiny hands and perform a careful half a miracle each. Crowley even reaches into the ether and uses some of Aziraphale’s lingering power from their Jim miracle to reinforce it, providing the best cover he can for the child.

Then, after helping Muriel devise an excuse for using the excess power in case any angels come investigating the source - some purposefully confusing bookseller emergency about restoring old tomes to their original state, which Muriel takes great pleasure in memorizing, happy to pretend that they’re a human actor in a movie giving the performance of their career - Crowley heads back to his flat at top speed, hoping against all hope that Aziraphale hasn’t woken in need of something during the short time he was gone.

Luckily, Aziraphale is just as Crowley left him.

In total, the angel sleeps - peaceful and unmoving - for a full day before Crowley decides to wake him up to drink some tea and eat a slice of buttered toast, thinking that a form of sustenance his body is used to - however bland and uninteresting - will help him regain his strength.

It takes several tries to rouse him, as deeply asleep as he is, but Crowley continues to say his name in a voice that grows steadily in volume until his eyelids begin to flicker and finally pry themselves open to reveal his colorful irises, bleary but unmistakably his.

(Crowley stomps viciously on the heartsick thought of how much he’s missed them and quickly snaps to miracle his sunglasses onto his face.)

“Here, angel,” he mutters from his perch on the very edge of the bed, a steaming mug in one hand and a warm plate in the other. “Sit up. You should eat something. Might help.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Aziraphale asks, his voice raspy from disuse in an unfamiliar and incredibly alluring way.

“A day.”

“Goodness…that long?” the angel murmurs, leaning on his elbows and blinking blearily before suddenly freezing and looking around the room in a frenzy. “The child. Oh, no, no, no. Where is she -”

“Relax, angel,” Crowley interrupts before Aziraphale can work himself up, placing the mug and plate on the nightstand for the time being. “I took the kid to the bookshop. Muriel’s going to keep her safe and hidden. Surprisingly competent with the little thing, that one.”

Unexpectedly, Aziraphale’s eyes widen in horror. “The bookshop?! Crowley, what are you thinking, it’s a heavenly embassy! I was trying to hide her from Heaven and you took her to their doorstep?! I can’t believe -”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says firmly, trying his best to remain patient. “Do you not remember what happened with Gabriel? After all that nonsense, do you really think they’ll believe you went right back to your favorite place with Christ reincarnated? Think about it, it’s the last place they’ll look…”

Aziraphale stares at him with his mouth agape, looking like a particularly flummoxed fish, but - with the gears in his clever head almost visibly turning - he seems to see his point, before Crowley clears his throat and awkwardly adds the part he feels for some reason unwilling to share.

“Besides, Muriel and I performed a miracle to hide her,” he mutters gruffly. “Like we did with Gabriel. Point is, they won’t be able to find her. She’ll be much safer there than she was here.”

For some reason, this seems to irritate Aziraphale even more as he closes his mouth abruptly, the corners pinching in what Crowley recognizes as the disapproving and peevish expression he adopts when he sees customers manhandle his books.

“You…you performed a miracle with Muriel?” he repeats curtly. “I thought…I thought that was something we did together…”

It’s Crowley’s turn to stare with his mouth open, in complete disbelief that Aziraphale is choosing this moment to become jealous. 

“You were recovering from near-fatal blood loss, Aziraphale,” Crowley deadpans. “I hardly think you were up to doing your half of our usual twenty-five Lazrii miracles, don’t you?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, merely pursing his lips and quirking his eyebrows moodily.

Crowley gives a world-weary sigh. “I used the residual angelic power from our miracle to beef it up a little,” he admits reluctantly, pretending not to notice that Aziraphale looks slightly mollified to hear this, finally letting go of most of his disapproval. “The kid will be safe until you figure out what to do with it next.”

(And Crowley valiantly ignores the way Aziraphale frowns anew at his use of the word ‘you’ instead of ‘we’, his head swiveling back to stare at him almost comically fast, the surprise and hurt in his eyes making Crowley’s heart throb painfully.)

“How do you feel?” Crowley asks quickly, hoping to distract them both.

Aziraphale allows it after a moment, wincing as he shuffles his wings slightly where he’s still laying on his stomach, pulling them closer to furl them into his body but only making it so far. 

“Certainly better than I was…” he muses, pain still evident in his voice. “Sore, though. I don’t think I can put my wings away yet…”

“Don’t try, then,” Crowley shrugs. “Might do more damage. Just leave them folded up.”

Aziraphale nods in agreement and grasps the bedsheet, pulling it all the way up to his chin with both hands as he gingerly turns over and scoots up the bed to lean his back against the headboard. He gets settled with a few winces, adjusting his wings into the least painful arrangement, and finally heaves a heavy sigh as he slumps back into the pillows. He squeezes his eyes closed for a brief moment before re-opening them to see Crowley taking the miracle-warmed mug and plate from the nightstand.

“Here,” Crowley mutters, offering him both. “Tea and toast.”

“Oh, thank you…” Aziraphale murmurs, his brow creasing slightly in sincerity, as if he didn’t expect such a kindness from the demon. “Erm…”

But, suddenly awkward, Aziraphale makes no move to take the proffered items, wringing his hands in the bedsheet still held protectively to his chest while Crowley stares at him in confusion, until he finally realizes that the angel is self-conscious about the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Oh, for somebody’s sake, Aziraphale…” Crowley snaps impatiently.

Rolling his eyes in frustration, Crowley sets the mug and plate back on the nightstand with a clatter and hastily miracles himself a white cotton t-shirt underneath his black button-down. Aziraphale stares with wide eyes as Crowley’s long, dexterous fingers move swiftly to unfasten the row of tiny buttons on his black shirt until he can tug the soft material off his shoulders and toss it begrudgingly at the angel. Crowley scowls at the foot of the bed, waiting as Aziraphale hesitates ever so briefly before picking up the shirt, and by the time he murmurs a soft thanks and Crowley turns back to look, the angel has tugged it on backwards to avoid his wings and cover up his chest at the same time.

(And it doesn’t occur to Crowley until Aziraphale is already wearing his clothes, no doubt still warm and smelling like him as he finally accepts his tea and toast and tucks in gratefully, that Crowley could have simply summoned the clothes Aziraphale arrived in - still stained with his golden blood and lying somewhere on his living room floor - or even simpler still just miracled a new shirt altogether instead of stripping off his own.

But the twisted, possessive, in love part of Crowley very much prefers the sight of Aziraphale in his shirt instead of his pale, plain, Heaven-issued garb.

And Aziraphale didn’t protest.)

It’s a testament to what bad shape Aziraphale was in that he savors the bland tea and dry toast like it’s a course at the Ritz, sighing happily and closing his eyes in pleasure with every bite. Crowley lets him finish, staring firmly at the opposite wall and not giving in to his deeply-ingrained urge to watch him eat, before he finally speaks.

“So,” he begins once the empty dishes have been replaced on the nightstand and Aziraphale has leaned back once again against the pillows, starting to look sleepy. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Aziraphale glances down at his lap, worrying the crisp edge of the bedsheet between his fingers, clearly anxious and uneasy. “What did I say when I arrived?” he asks finally.

Crowley frowns at him. “You don’t remember?”

“It was all I could do to stay conscious, Crowley,” Aziraphale points out dryly. “So, no, I don’t remember.”

(And Crowley supposes that means he doesn’t remember apologizing before he passed out either, which he knows is neither here nor there, although it does make him feel oddly cheated.)

“You said Heaven caught onto you and tried to kill you,” Crowley summarizes bluntly.

Aziraphale winces. “Ah, yes,” he mumbles. “Well, that about sums it up.”

“Caught onto you doing what, Aziraphale?” Crowley hisses, trying not to lose his patience.

Aziraphale sighs again, clearly unwilling to reveal details, a fact that Crowley tries to pretend doesn’t needle and prickle at his heart.

“Aziraphale, what -”

“The Second Coming!” the angel blurts, exasperated and giving in. “The Second Coming. That’s what the Metatron brought me on for. I was to organize the Second Coming.”

Crowley gapes at him for a long, silent moment, struggling to digest this unexpected piece of information. He’d heard of the plans during his little jaunt to Heaven, of course, but he didn’t expect Aziraphale, of all angels, to be put in charge of it.

“You…” he says slowly. “The angel Aziraphale - lover of the Ritz, Jane Austen, and all things Earth - were going to bring about the second apocalypse?”

“No, of course not, Crowley!” snaps Aziraphale impatiently, his voice going high in his irritation. “I was doing my level best to delay it!”

“And, out of morbid curiosity,” Crowley drawls, trying to sound nonchalant. “When can we expect the end of the world this time around?”

Aziraphale gazes down at the bedsheets belatedly. “I’m not entirely sure but…I expect it’s any day now.”

Crowley swears softly.

“I didn’t know that’s what I was going to be tasked with until I’d already accepted, of course,” Aziraphale admits quietly. “And, well…I thought I could stop it. From the inside. You know, like a double agent.”

Crowley blinks at him, unimpressed.

“But, they caught onto me, as I said,” Aziraphale sighs, deflating. “Trying to sabotage paperwork and corrupt the plans. They tried to…smite me down in punishment. But I escaped just in time. Or…well, almost.”

Aziraphale shuffles his furled wings with a self-deprecating chuckle and the casual way he refers to the injuries that almost left him lifeless on Crowley’s doorstep makes the demon grit his teeth in frustration, equal parts infuriated with the angel’s foolhardiness and completely unsurprised that he would trivialize his own suffering in such a way.

“You almost died, Aziraphale,” snarls Crowley. “Not ‘inconveniently discorporated’, mind you. Died. And if you hadn’t made it here in time, you would have.”

Aziraphale lowers his head again, appearing chastised, before opening his mouth. “Thank y-”

“I don’t want your thanks, Aziraphale!” Crowley barks, suddenly furious with him for managing to strike such fear into his thoroughly broken heart. “You scared me, showing up here like that! I thought you were de-”

Aziraphale glances sharply up at his face and Crowley’s words dry up in his throat, whatever emotional, ill-fated confession he was about to make evaporating before it’s even spoken, and - as Crowley often does in the face of vulnerability - he turns to accusations instead.

“You shouldn’t have gone to Heaven and you shouldn’t have tried to stop the Second Coming!” he says forcefully. “It was ridiculously stupid and risky and almost cost you your life! You - you idiot!”

Aziraphale’s face hardens in an instant and Crowley remembers a second too late the last time he called the angel that, feeling dread drop like a stone inside him and regretting his choice of words instantly.

(And he wonders if that day in the bookshop will continue to haunt them both for the rest of their respective existences.)

“I will do whatever I have to do to save Earth,” states Aziraphale, and Crowley recognizes the sound of his inner strength, the voice of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, the entity that he knows better than anyone shouldn’t be underestimated and he resents the rush of heat that flows through him in response. “And you’re the one person in the world who I thought would understand that.”

His suggestive tone rankles Crowley, the implication that the demon should be on his side in this - as in all things before - as if nothing at all has changed between them and he’s the one in the wrong for being stubborn.

(And all that tells him is that, while Aziraphale is worried about losing the Earth, he still doesn’t understand that Crowley already lost his entire world when Aziraphale left him.)

“Well,” Crowley hisses, standing abruptly from the bed. “As soon as you’re well, you can be on your way to continue your fool’s errand. I certainly won’t be a part of it. And besides, I’m sure you’d rather not have to rely on my help anymore anyway…”

Crowley heads for the door. “I’m just an unlovable demon.”

He gets a hand on the doorknob before Aziraphale’s voice sounds behind him.

“Crowley.”

And, as much as he doesn’t want to, Aziraphale’s tone stops him in his tracks in the doorway, something strong that rings with a previously unheard Archangel power and tells Crowley that - if he had the strength - Aziraphale would be up out of bed and physically stopping him from leaving the room. As it is, Crowley only turns his head slightly to one side, indicating he’s listening but refusing to face him. 

Aziraphale speaks again in a softer tone of voice. “…Do you honestly believe I don’t love you?”

All the air leaves Crowley’s lungs at once and he’s suddenly fervently glad that he’s facing away from the angel as his eyes fill with tortured tears. 

He takes a bracing breath before answering. “I believe you think you can’t,” he mutters harshly over his shoulder. “Which is basically the same thing.”

And he leaves the bedroom, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

Crowley doesn’t go back to his bedroom, leaving Aziraphale to rest and keeping himself confined to the living room to sulk, returning gratefully to his alcohol, albeit begrudgingly keeping to slightly lower levels of intoxication than before, just in case Aziraphale needs him again.

(And he waits as long as he can before silently easing the bedroom door open a crack, peering inside to check on the angel, finding him sleeping heavily on his stomach once again, face turned away from the door with slow, even breathing and wings folded close to his back.)

About twelve more hours pass before anything changes.

Night has fallen outside, creeping its way slowly across the flat, and Crowley has once again neglected to turn on any lights in the living room, preferring to stand at the wide window leaning his shoulder against the wall and staring out into the growing darkness, his customary bottle clutched in his hand. The only light in the flat comes from the secondhand glow of the street lamps down below outside, giving the room - several floors up - a dim, otherworldly feel with dingy, dark corners.

It matches Crowley’s mood.

He hasn’t bothered miracling himself a new version of his typical black top, not caring enough to change the white, cotton t-shirt he conjured in his bedroom, leaving the hem tucked into his standard black jeans. The short sleeves of the shirt let the chill of the flat get to his bare arms but Crowley keeps warm with the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat and into his belly.

(Besides, it doesn’t matter. Snake or not, he’s been cold every day since Aziraphale left.)

A sudden, unexpected shift in angelic energy from the back of the flat shakes Crowley out of his miserable musings and, a moment later, the quiet creak of a floorboard makes his head turn.

Aziraphale stands in the doorway to the kitchen watching him.

He looks better already, some color in his face now chasing away the lingering paleness, and Crowley notes that his wings are finally gone, healed enough to be tucked away on another plane. Shoving away the immediate pang of sadness, telling himself it’s stupid to miss them, Crowley’s eyes run further down the angel’s form until his betraying heart suddenly skips a beat to notice that Aziraphale has fully donned his black, button-down shirt. It’s the right way round this time - now that his wings are out of the way - with the too-long sleeves rolled up and the buttons secured down his chest, and it contrasts beautifully with his pale blonde hair. With a start, Crowley sees that he’s tucked the ends of it loosely into his Heaven-issued slacks and the black-and-white ensemble is so shockingly different to his tartan and beige suit of the last hundred years that Crowley can barely take it in.

It’s a stunningly good look.

(And Crowley has to work hard to stifle the unexpected flare of heat inside him that comes from seeing Aziraphale properly done up in his clothes.)

Lost as he is in his blatant appraisal, Crowley still doesn’t miss the fact that Aziraphale is staring right back at him, not saying a word as his eyes appear to roam over Crowley’s exposed arms, an odd look on his face. After a moment of tense silence between them, Aziraphale seems to make a decision and moves into the room, slowly approaching Crowley where he’s still standing motionless at the window. As he gets closer, Crowley gets a better look at his face in the dim light and - taking in his expression - suddenly recognizes what he sees there.

Intent.

Intent like an ox.

Oh.

It’s one thing to know on a clinical, theoretical level that Aziraphale may appreciate his corporation, but it’s completely another to see it written so clearly all over his face. Crowley can feel his body reacting instinctively to the attention, the unbelievable thought that Aziraphale wants him, in ways that he has been repressing for millenia. Suddenly, his body is no longer chilly in his white t-shirt as the room grows warm, the air turns drugging, and Aziraphale’s nearing and familiar scent becomes intoxicating.

Aziraphale stops in front of him and Crowley turns to face him, his back to the wall next to the window, and they stare at each other wordlessly. Then Aziraphale slowly reaches out to take his bottle, putting it aside on the window sill without breaking eye contact, and places a warm palm on his chest.

It isn’t until then that Crowley remembers his sunglasses lay abandoned on the coffee table across the room.

And Crowley knows he should push him back or run away or at least try to save himself from getting hurt again but, quite without warning, all the fight drains out of him because he’s just so tired of being angry. Their first kiss wasn’t what it should have been, wasn’t at all like what he’s always wanted, and he wants so dearly to replace the awful memory of Aziraphale reeling backward away from him and his desperate lips before it haunts him for the rest of eternity. And the look on Aziraphale’s face now is so different, something dark and brooding and hungry, and heat sparks low in Crowley’s stomach, because - despite it all - he never doesn’t want Aziraphale. 

(That particular bone-deep longing has been keeping him warm for millennia, burning bright inside him like a star approaching a supernova, caught in eternal brilliance, unable to extinguish or explode, a constant companion of heat and light and yearning waiting to combust.)

So, when Aziraphale leans forward to kiss him, Crowley doesn’t stop him.

It starts with mere brushing of lips, soft and tentative, an almost imperceptible ghosting, but the tiny point of contact still sparks brightly between them and they both stop breathing in surprise. Aziraphale waits for a beat before doing it again, with slightly more pressure this time, pursing his lips in more of a kiss against Crowley’s for a moment longer than the first time before pulling back again. Crowley stares fixedly at his mouth until he does it for a third time, pushing his mouth firmly against Crowley’s in something more reminiscent of when they stood in the bookshop together, a plea for some kind of reaction, a response, a reciprocation.

With the tiniest hint of a warm tongue pressing to the seam of his lips.

Want pulses through Crowley.

(And he takes the briefest moment to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, finding them dark and wanting and desperate in a way they’ve only ever been in his dreams and that’s all it takes for Crowley to fully and completely give in.)

With a ragged exhale, he surges forward, his mouth falling open, to push his tongue into Aziraphale’s waiting mouth, and the moan the angel lets out at the first taste of him sends a thrill soaring through Crowley’s chest. His hand comes up to cup the back of Aziraphale’s neck, holding him close as he plunders his mouth greedily and leans into the warmth of Aziraphale’s palms - both of them now - still pressing urgently to his chest through his thin white shirt. 

(And Aziraphale tastes like tea and light and home and Crowley wants to unhinge his jaw and consume him.)

Their tongues tangle and stroke as they indulge in deep, licking kisses, exploring one angle to the fullest before pulling back just enough for one of them to tilt their heads and then they’re diving back in again. Crowley’s jaw aches pleasantly from the force with which he works his mouth against Aziraphale’s, and Crowley can feel the bones and muscles of the angel’s jaw flexing erotically under the hand that has risen to cradle him there. Heat flows warm and drugging through Crowley, sluicing through his veins like lava and setting him aflame with every unthinkable, undeniable caress of Aziraphale’s lips.

Crowley’s hand moves upward through Aziraphale’s curls, nails lightly scraping his scalp, and the angel moans again, loud and low, and a shiver runs through him so intense that Crowley can feel it in his body. Suddenly, Aziraphale moves his hands, sliding down Crowley’s chest to loop under his arms and around his back, gripping just below his shoulder blades. It’s shockingly close where he so briefly touched him in the middle of the bookshop, and Crowley suppresses a shudder at the unpleasant memory, but Aziraphale’s touch is blessedly different this time. It’s so much more firm and unyielding, pulling him forward into Aziraphale’s body as he presses him back against the wall at the same time, crushing their chests together greedily and trapping Crowley there in his arms, and there’s absolutely nowhere else Crowley would rather be.

Aziraphale breaks away from his mouth with a gasp, evading Crowley’s lips teasingly when he chases them insistently for more, moving instead to press wet, warm kisses to his jaw and down his neck. He licks and sucks as he goes, making a meal out of Crowley like the finest food at the Ritz and Crowley can’t help but let his head fall back to hit the wall with a thunk. He lets out a deep groan that Aziraphale presses even closer to feel, tilting his head to give him better access and closing his eyes to revel in the pleasure of it.

Arriving at his shoulder, Aziraphale noses the loose hem of his t-shirt out of the way to scrape his teeth against the taunt skin between Crowley’s neck and shoulder, and Crowley hisses in response, biting out Aziraphale’s name. The angel presses their lower bodies closer in answer and suddenly Crowley can feel him hard and straining against his thigh and need explodes within him like hellfire. Then his body is moving without his permission, his hands flying down to Aziraphale’s waist to hold him close as he pushes off from the wall, using his momentum to flip their positions, inserting a skinny thigh in between Aziraphale’s warm, plush ones just as his back hits the wall and Crowley presses him there hard -

Aziraphale’s sudden cry of pain - easily recognizable and shockingly different to his increasingly familiar sounds of passion - freezes Crowley where he stands. In his lust-fogged brain, he’d completely forgotten about Aziraphale’s still-healing wings, hidden on another plane, and his no doubt still-sensitive back. Worried and uncertain, he immediately pulls back and appraises Aziraphale’s face in concern, but before he can start to panic or try to untangle them - 

Aziraphale is turning them back around in a display of his hidden strength that is so wildly arousing that it brings Crowley right back to where they were before his thoughtlessness interrupted them. But, with considerable effort, Crowley remains motionless, still hesitant and unwilling - as always - to hurt his angel, wondering if he should speak up and put a stop to this when Aziraphale beats him to it.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale murmurs, actually speaking for the first time since their argument in his bedroom, his voice low and pleading, and he brushes his lips over Crowley’s - soft, like the thing that started all this - in a silent plea to continue. “Please…”

Unable to resist, Crowley succumbs with a growl, tugging insistently on Aziraphale’s hips until Crowley slots a thigh once more between his and Aziraphale groans from the pressure right where he wants it. Crowley quickly captures his mouth again to eagerly swallow the noise before ripping away to move to Aziraphale’s neck, nipping and biting sharply before licking each little hurt with the flat of his tongue. Aziraphale gasps at the dueling sensations and subtly starts to rock his hips, grinding into Crowley’s thigh and Crowley’s never been more aroused, his hands moving restlessly over Aziraphale’s hips and ass, pulling and tugging and encouraging him to move.

And he does, moving faster and more insistently until - overcome - Crowley sinks his teeth into his neck, pressing his tongue to his warm, delectable skin at the same time before he sucks hard, and Aziraphale lets out a low groan and stops moving all at once, warm wetness blooming at Crowley’s thigh that he can feel even through their combined layers, and he twitches desperately in the confines of his jeans in sympathy.

Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck, and Crowley holds his ardor in check with difficulty, tense as a bowstring against the wall as Aziraphale leans heavily against him, his hot breath washing pleasingly over his skin. But he presses soothing kisses that calm them both into Aziraphale’s sweet-smelling hair as the angel comes down, and Crowley revels quietly in the brief respite of peace between them. He continues until Aziraphale seems to return to himself and suddenly the angel wastes no time in snaking a hand between them, deftly undoing Crowley’s jeans and slipping a hand inside to wrap warm fingers around him. 

And then Crowley is lost to pleasure - lost to Aziraphale - as he rocks desperately into his hand and listens as the angel whispers loving praise interspersed with beautiful utterances of his name, the angel’s tone of voice like something out of Crowley’s most longing, yearning dreams until he finally comes undone between them, and Aziraphale cradles him through it, tucking Crowley’s head to rest underneath his chin as he slumps boneless against the wall.

It isn’t until several blissful moments later that the warmth starts to drain out of him, the chill of the flat and the last few months returning to invade his extremities, and Crowley gently but firmly disentangles himself from Aziraphale, snaps a miracle to clean them both, and tucks himself away, refusing to look at the angel until he’s set back to rights.

(At least on the outside, because there’s no way his insides - his brain and his heart and his soul - will ever be the same again.)

Because with the cold slithers the unwelcome memory of their painful arguments and vast differences, the things that brought them to this point to begin with, and - with a violent jolt - Crowley realizes that, despite the gaping chasm of a boundary they’ve hurdled over together in the last few minutes, there’s still so much ground they’ve yet to cover.

So, gathering his courage and looking up into Aziraphale’s beautifully bright eyes and flushed cheeks, his skin full of love bites, his - Crowley’s - clothing deliciously rumpled, and his expression unfairly, torturously hopeful, Crowley regretfully murders his heartfelt wish to whisk his angel off to his bed and forget everything and instead says four words that he knows are the last thing Aziraphale wants to hear.

(And breaks his own heart all over again in the process.)

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“…I know.”

Their next fight is bright and early the following morning.

After spending one of the longest nights of his life on the sofa angrily wiping away tears and pondering the meaning of his cursed existence, Crowley pulls himself together in time to watch the sunrise. With it, arrives Aziraphale, who emerges from the kitchen in a miracled recreation of his usual attire, healed and returned to near full strength, to find Crowley sprawled on his throne and drinking his breakfast, also done up in his typical all-black ensemble.

Including sunglasses.

(And Crowley pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale’s gaze is instantly drawn to the leg he has thrown over the left arm of the chair, the resulting dry swallow audible from across the room, before he visibly gathers himself and speaks.)

“I need you to help me save the world.”

Crowley drains what’s left in his bottle before snapping to miracle it to the kitchen, working hard to not laugh sarcastically out loud at the ridiculous statement, striving for vaguely disinterest instead. 

“I thought you were going to change Heaven,” Crowley remarks, his tone decidedly mocking on the last two words.

Aziraphale’s jaw tightens. 

“I was wrong,” he says simply, and Crowley tries not to appear shocked at the unexpected admission, merely raising an eyebrow instead. “And you were right,” Aziraphale adds in the same factual tone, stunning Crowley once again.

(And there’s no dance accompanying the words but Crowley wouldn’t want to see one anyway, their stupid tradition far too trivial for this, the most monumental shift in their six thousand year relationship that’s still currently underway.)

Aziraphale continues to talk before Crowley can respond. “You were right,” he repeats. “Heaven and I don’t align. And they can’t be changed. But I had to try.”

Crowley works his mouth, wanting to disagree with his last statement but knowing deep down that he’s right. It’s in Aziraphale’s nature to try and, at the end of the day, he had to see for himself that it was pointless. Nothing Crowley could say would have convinced him otherwise and - as much as Crowley may loathe to admit it to himself - that tenacity, determination, and dedication to good are some of things he loves most about him.

“But that’s exactly why we need to save the world. We’re the only ones who will,” Aziraphale continues, firm and decisive until his next sentence, where he wavers just slightly. “But I can’t do it alone and I…I need your help.”

Crowley stares evenly at him through his sunglasses, thinking.

(Because while that wasn’t exactly an apology, it was an admission of guilt, which is better than nothing, but Crowley is still nursing his broken heart, made only more so by the events of last night, and he doesn’t plan on letting go of that pain anytime soon.)

“Why would I want to help you?” he asks bluntly.

Aziraphale looks as though he was expecting the question, answer ready on his lips. “Because you love the world as much as I do.”

Crowley purses his lips and tilts his head back and forth in exaggerated thought, taking a perverse sort of pleasure in being difficult. “Not sure I do anymore, to be honest,” he muses, bitterness layering his voice. “Lost a lot of appeal over the past few months, you know…Besides, nothing lasts forever, does it?”

Aziraphale’s lower lip trembles at that but he remains stoic. “Crowley, please,” he pleads. “You have to help me.”

“Why?” Crowley demands nastily.

“Because we can’t be an us without a world to call our own!”

Crowley’s jaw snaps shut and he swears internally, feeling a ruthless tug on his injured, bleeding heart, and a familiar resignation that means he’s about to surrender and give the angel anything he wants.

(And Crowley pretends like he hasn’t known it all along, deep down, since Aziraphale showed up with golden-stained wings and a baby in his arms.)

“Fine,” Crowley snarls, exploding off his throne and scowling at Aziraphale’s barely smothered smile. “But this doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you!”

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale murmurs, calm and soothing now that he’s gotten his way. “I’m happy to wait.”

And he follows dutifully behind Crowley as he stalks angrily to the door, snapping to summon the keys to the Bentley.

“As long as it takes…”

Within the hour, they’re striding through Soho toward the bookshop, jostled by the throngs of people typical of a weekday mid-afternoon. Crowley parks the Bentley a street over out of precaution, not knowing who besides Muriel will be at or around the bookshop at this hour, and cautious of other angels coming down from Heaven to pay an unwelcome visit.

Especially those who want to hurt Aziraphale. 

(Because, while he has no doubt Aziraphale would forgive the angels that tried to smite him if they asked, Crowley will never forget how helpless he felt as he screamed and writhed in pain in his arms.)

The angel in question walks ahead of him, oblivious of the protective instincts skittering along the surface of Crowley’s skin like an electrical current, happily leading the way to his beloved bookshop and chattering non-stop over his shoulder to Crowley all the while.

“- and while I’m sure Muriel is doing a marvelous job with the child, I should like to get her back to her family as soon as possible. I performed a little miracle so that they won’t miss her, of course, but I still feel terribly guilty -”

They turn the corner onto Whickber Street and Crowley’s keen snake eyes flit restlessly over the familiar area, carefully scrutinizing the people walking in every direction while keeping close behind Aziraphale, hovering protectively mere inches behind him, and his eye is quickly drawn to The Dirty Donkey to see -

A group of white-clad supernatural entities exiting the lift.

“Angel!” Crowley hisses.

“- and I think after we check in and figure out what to do next, we should probably -”

His sentence is cut short as Crowley reaches out to grab his elbow and haul him backward down the nearest side alley, gathering two fistfuls of Aziraphale’s lapels - an act quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes - and pushing him into the relative darkness against the brick wall behind a large dumpster.

“A host of angels just came out of the lift, heading for the bookshop,” Crowley explains in a hissing whisper, remaining pressed firmly against Aziraphale while leaning sneakily around the dumpster to watch them. “We have to hide here until they leave…”

“All right.”

Scowling at the backs of the angels walking down Whickber Street, their clothes pristine white and would-be pure, Crowley feels his rage from the night Aziraphale showed up roaring back to life inside him, his fingers tingling with unreleased power where they’re still tangled in Aziraphale’s lapels.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he growls, almost to himself, watching carefully as they reach the door of the bookshop. “I won’t let them hurt you again…”

Crowley bares his teeth fiercely, considering how exactly he could get away with performing a particularly nasty miracle in retribution, perhaps a grand piano falling on them from above or a sinkhole opening up to swallow them from below or even -

“Oh, you’re quite wrong, my dear,” Aziraphale says unexpectedly, pulling Crowley out of his daydreams to stare at him in confusion, struck to find a slight purple sheen taking over Aziraphale’s gray eyes along with an dark grin that he’s never seen before. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

(And Crowley swears he can feel a thrum of power roll through Aziraphale’s body where they’re pressed together and he realizes all at once that he’s gravely underestimated the Former Supreme Archangel and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, who wields his naturally unassuming corporation and the resulting conclusions drawn about him as a valuable weapon, an angel who needs Crowley’s protection about as much as Muriel needs access to power tools, a fact which fills Crowley with pride and awe and no small amount of arousal.)

And despite the clear sentiment that he’s more than happy to take care of the both of them, Aziraphale currently seems more than happy to relax, apparently having complete faith in Crowley to keep him safe, the thought sending waves of protectiveness and adoration crashing through Crowley, and he knows nothing in Heaven or Hell will stop him from throwing himself between Aziraphale and danger if necessary.

(And he’s reminded distinctly of the first time he hauled Aziraphale against a wall - in an old nunnery before the first apocalypse - when his goal had been to scare and intimidate the angel, teeth bared and eyes flaring, while Aziraphale had simply looked at him, eyes drifting from his lens-covered glare to thin lips stretched over sharp teeth, not bothered in the slightest that he was being threatened by his hereditary enemy. Because he knew deep down that Crowley would never hurt him. And despite everything that’s happened, they both know that will never change.)

Ripping his eyes away from Aziraphale’s - which are fading slowly back to his normal color - Crowley peers back toward the bookshop to see the door swinging shut behind Uriel. Retreating behind the dumpster and relaxing a little now that they’re out of immediate danger of discovery, Crowley feels Aziraphale shift ever so slightly against him - pressed together as they are from head to toe - and the pleasing sensation suddenly reminds him of last night when he pressed the angel against a wall under entirely different circumstances.

And the resulting pained cry that had clawed ruthlessly at Crowley’s insides.

Whipping around to face the angel once more, Crowley reacts instinctively at the idea of Aziraphale in pain, prepared to leap backward and apologize profusely, check his back for any aggravation of his injury, curse himself once again for his unending stupidity -

But Aziraphale just looks pleasantly back at him, no evidence of pain or discomfort on his face, his warm gray eyes roving happily over Crowley’s panicked features.

In fact, he looks quite content here completely surrounded by Crowley, gazing up at him with complete trust and affection, and Crowley suddenly becomes aware of Aziraphale gripping his thin waist firmly, his hands warm even through his clothes, grounding himself against him.

“Are…are you all right, angel?” Crowley whispers anxiously, watching Aziraphale’s eyes immediately move to watch his lips as he speaks. “Your back? I’m not hurting you?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale assures him easily. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, dear boy, thank you.”

And Aziraphale’s hands tighten imperceptibly around Crowley’s waist, pulling him just a tiny closer into the plush give of his body, Aziraphale’s lips twitching into a smile at the sensation, and he slowly rests his head back against the brick wall with a content sigh, holding Crowley’s gaze all the while.

Crowley feels heat flare deep in his stomach once again. 

“Angel,” he growls warningly. “Now is not the time.”

But Aziraphale simply twitches his eyebrows, his mouth pulling upward in a teasing grin.

(And Crowley has to work very hard not to be drawn in by the clear challenge in his eyes, the fact that Aziraphale’s mind has apparently gone to exactly the same place Crowley’s has, with a whole-hearted invitation written in every relaxed line of his body against his, and Crowley takes a few deep breaths, fiercely pushing away his arousal.

They can’t afford to be distracted right now.)

Sensing a shift in angelic energy, Crowley rips his gaze away from Aziraphale’s with difficulty and cautiously peeks around the dumpster once more to see the host of heavenly entities leaving the bookshop and heading swiftly back to the lift.

“They’re leaving…”

Crowley waits until the doors have closed over the lift and it’s transformed back into the unassuming pub it normally is before he finally releases Aziraphale’s lapels and reluctantly steps back and away from him, pretending not to notice the angel’s sad little sigh and pouting lips at the loss of contact.

“Come on, let’s go…” Crowley mutters.

He goes first this time, stalking out of the alley and across the street to the bookshop, yanking open the door to the pleasant jingle of the bell and crossing the familiar threshold with Aziraphale on his heels. Crowley glances over his shoulder to see Aziraphale carefully close the door behind them, lock it, and flip the sign to ‘closed’. Nodding in approval, Crowley turns to peer into the shop and - seeing no smiling face peeking out from behind a shelf to greet him - calls out for the absent angel.

“Muriel? Are you here? Where are you?”

A muted thump sounds from above before Muriel’s voice floats down the stairs.

“Mr. Crowley? Is that you? I’m upstairs, please hurry!”

Exchanging an alarmed look with Aziraphale, they head immediately for the black spiral staircase leading to the upper floor, Crowley taking three steps at a time with his long legs and Aziraphale following slightly behind him. Reaching the landing, Crowley heads right for the bedroom where he and Muriel set up the crib for the child and, as he gets closer, he passes through the shimmering energy of their miracle, keeping a protective divine bubble around the Christ reincarnated. The sound of Aziraphale’s footsteps following close behind him - not hindered at all by the barrier, just as Crowley intended - is almost drowned out by the suddenly ear-splitting cries of a very unhappy baby.

Bursting into the bedroom, with Aziraphale peering over his shoulder in concern, Crowley finds Muriel anxiously pacing the wooden floor, frantically bouncing a screaming bundle of blankets with tears tracking down their own cheeks.

“Mr. Crowley!” Muriel cries over the disproportionately loud sobs coming from their arms. “And Former Supreme Archangel Aziraphale! Oh, I’m so thankful you’re here! I can’t - I can’t get her to stop crying!”

Crowley huffs a sigh, trying to slow his pounding heart, relieved that there’s no imminent danger, just an extremely cranky baby.

“Give her here,” he grumbles, striding forward and holding out his arms.

Muriel puts up no argument, unceremoniously plopping the wailing bundle of blankets into his arms. 

“I’ve changed her diaper, fed her, and burped her, just like the books say to!” Muriel hiccups. “But - but she just won’t calm down! What have I done wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, my dear,” Aziraphale speaks up from the doorway. “Sometimes babies just cry. It’s a…human thing. The books wouldn’t be able to tell you about that, you see?”

Crowley pays no attention to the two angels, focusing instead on calming the baby. Hefting her tiny body in his arms, he pulls one of the blankets down where it’s ridden up over her face in her distressed thrashing and brushes the back of his finger lightly over her cheeks to wipe her tears away, pulling her close to his chest and starting to rock her gently.

“Right,” he murmurs to her softly. “What’s all this, then?”

The wails decrease slightly in volume but don’t let up, so Crowley makes quiet shushing noises and shifts the little bundle to rest upright against his chest, tucking her face into his neck and rubbing her back. Swaying slightly back and forth, Crowley continues to whisper to her.

“Time to calm down now, little one,” he murmurs softly to her, keeping his voice low and deep in his chest. “You’ll feel much better after some sleep, trust me…”

Slowly, the cries begin to wane in volume and frequency, soon turning into half-hearted whimpers and sniffles as Crowley rocks the baby gently and pats her back, continuing to shush and talk softly to her. It’s only a few minutes more before the child quiets entirely, falling into an exhausted, deep sleep on his shoulder, as Crowley paces slowly back and forth across the room, lulling her further into unconsciousness with the repetitive motion.

(And on his turns around the room, Crowley doesn’t miss the fact that Aziraphale is staring fixedly at him, the look on his face a odd mixture of awe and adoration and yearning, and Crowley does his best not to meet his gaze, all the while selfishly soaking up the attention like a plant starved for sunlight.)

“- do you, Former Supreme Archangel Aziraphale?” Muriel is saying to apparently no one, Aziraphale’s attention still fully occupied by Crowley and the sleeping child on his chest. “Excuse me, Former Supreme Arch-”

“Angel…” mutters Crowley, interrupting Muriel, unable to listen to the entire title in full once more.

“Oh!” Aziraphale snaps out of it at the sound of his voice, shaking himself slightly, and turning himself forcefully away from Crowley. “I’m ever so sorry, my dear, what did you say? And just ‘Aziraphale’ is perfectly fine, please.”

“Oh, all right. Um, Aziraphale,” Muriel repeats, obedient to fault, if slightly awkward. “I said that some archangels were just here. Do you want to know what they said?”

“Oh, yes, we do, rather,” Aziraphale hurries to assure them, speaking for Crowley. “That is, if you’d be willing to tell us. I, uh - I assume they weren’t able to detect the child’s presence?”

“Oh, no!” Muriel says happily. “The miracle Mr. Crowley and I performed worked like a charm!”

“Oh, how marvelous…” Aziraphale says with slightly less sincerity, casting a sideways glance at Crowley and narrowing his eyes at the smug expression he sees there, before turning back to an oblivious Muriel. “What did they have to say, then, dear?”

Crowley listens quietly as Muriel tells him and Aziraphale about the surprise visit from the archangels, rocking back and forth slightly on the spot out of pure instinct, even though the baby in his arms sleeps deeply through it all. Muriel tells them that, between Aziraphale’s well-intentioned kidnapping and Crowley’s off-the-cuff cover-up, they’ve successfully hindered Heaven’s plans for the Second Coming. And the angels that were in the shop - unknowingly mere feet from the baby Jesus they were so desperate to find - were quite displeased that Muriel couldn’t offer any help or information, dedicated to their acting role as they were.

“But, on the bright side, that means they didn’t think anything of discussing their plan right in front of me!” Muriel says brightly, their watery, expressive eyes betraying their true feelings. “I may be minding a heavenly embassy on Earth but I’m still a thirty-seventh order scrivener, after all…”

(And Crowley feels his eyes narrow behind his glasses at the obvious hurt Muriel tries and fails to hide, his ever-present resentment toward Heaven and those should-be-damned, holier-than-thou angels flaring hotly in his chest, and he spies Aziraphale’s brow furrowing in warm sympathy too, as well as a slight twitch in his shoulders that tells Crowley he’s thinking of everything those very angels are capable of.)

“What’s their plan, then?” Crowley speaks for the first time in a long while, keeping his voice low and even so as not to wake the child.

“They’re going to war with Hell.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a horrified look.

“Why?” 

“When?”

They speak at the same time and Muriel looks anxiously between the two of them before answering Aziraphale first.

“Without the Messiah to bring about the Final Judgement, Heaven wants all the human souls for themselves, but…so does Hell,” Muriel explains haltingly. “So, they’re going to war…tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? ” Aziraphale gasps, alone this time as Crowley starts pacing again behind him, faster and more anxious than before.

“Yes, the Second War,” says Muriel, sounding distraught. “In a place called…Tadfield?”

Crowley snorts. “Nothing if not predictable, your lot,” he snarls, still stalking about the room, holding the reincarnation of Christ close to his chest protectively. “Creatures of habit, you are…”

He hears Aziraphale inhale and exhale shakily for a few moments before he gathers himself and addresses Muriel. “Thank you, my dear,” he says sincerely. “I realize the risk you’re taking in telling us this. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” they say dutifully, before shifting uneasily on their feet. “I’m not sure why…but I think it was the right thing to do. I know I haven’t spent much time here but…I - I love Earth, too.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softens even further and Crowley has to turn away from the angelic love radiating from him, so pure and powerful that even he can see it.

(But Crowley thinks despite himself that there may be more than one decent angel that came down from Heaven and landed in a bookshop.)

“Why don’t you take a break, Muriel?” Aziraphale suggests kindly. “You’ve been working so hard taking care of the child. We’ll watch her for an hour or two. How about you pop over to Nina’s for a nice, hot cup of tea? You don’t have to drink it, of course, but it can be soothing all the same.”

Looking slightly relieved, Muriel nods quickly in agreement and wastes no time hurrying out of the room. Crowley and Aziraphale listen to them tread down the spiral staircase before the sound of the bell jingling above the door floats up the stairs. Crowley continues to prowl about the room, unable to slow his gait with the roiling paranoia and fear that started churning in his gut upon hearing Muriel’s report, anxious and on edge and scared -

“Crowley?”

Crowley whips around to face Aziraphale, reacting defensively even to the familiar sound of his voice, his instincts screaming at him to take the angel and run to the nearest star system, hiding them both there in an effort to avoid the pain that befell him the last time angels and demons decided to start a war.

“You’re practically smoking, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him gently, his tone of voice almost as quiet and soothing as Crowley’s was when he was shushing the baby. “You’ll wake the child. Why don’t you give her to me?”

Aziraphale steps forward tentatively and holds out his hands and, with a defeated sigh, Crowley carefully eases the sleeping baby off his shoulder and into the angel’s arms. She barely stirs in the hand-off, snuggling easily into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm and the angel smiles down at her unconscious form, unable to stop himself from cooing softly at her.

(And the sight of Aziraphale, with his familiar white curls and tartan bow tie, cradling a sleeping baby with love nearly seeping out of his pores, embracing that instinctive, angelic urge to guard and protect that is so uniquely him, is abruptly so precious to Crowley that he feels something calm and settle deep inside him, and he knows that when this war comes tomorrow, he’ll be wherever Aziraphale is.)

“Angel,” he murmurs quietly, pulling Aziraphale’s attention reluctantly away from the baby. “Come here…”

Feeling suddenly exhausted, Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to follow him and trudges over to the sizable, rarely-used bed pushed up against the wall, complete with tartan quilt. He removes his glasses, tosses them onto the small nightstand, and crawls to the middle of the mattress, sitting up with his back against the headboard, and nods to the quilt next to him in invitation.

Aziraphale just stares at him in surprise.

“If we’re going to babysit for the next few hours, we might as well be comfortable,” Crowley says matter-of-factly.

The angel huffs a quiet laugh and then nods in agreement, climbing carefully onto the bed beside Crowley, managing to mimic his position against the headboard without jostling the sleeping baby too much. He leaves a few inches of space between them and sits rather stiffly, seemingly afraid that his touch - however inadvertent - won’t be welcome.

Crowley sighs again, feeling something in him uncoil and give in.

With a feeling like sinking into a warm bath after sitting outside in the freezing cold, Crowley slowly but surely eases his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. He hears a quiet intake of breath in response but - when he leaves his arm where it is and waits - Aziraphale slowly starts to relax, the tension melting out of his body as he sinks into Crowley’s, snuggling in until his head rests on Crowley’s shoulder.

(And, sleeping or not, Crowley feels he could rest here forever.)

Eventually, Aziraphale breaks the warm, domestic silence. 

“I suppose you want to head for Alpha Centauri?” he whispers, his tone easy and free of judgment, simply asking a question he thinks he already knows the answer to.

Crowley smiles sadly to himself over the top of Aziraphale’s head. “No, angel,” he murmurs, pretending not to feel the angel stiffen against him in surprise.

“No?” Aziraphale repeats, shocked. “Why on Earth not? If there ever was a time…”

Crowley hums quietly, considering. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” he muses. “I’d still like to visit someday but…no pastries there, are there? Or cakes. And we both know how peckish you get around teatime…”

(He feels rather than hears the little hiccup of Aziraphale choking back tears and Crowley has to work hard to refrain from pressing a kiss into his white curls, the many unspoken words still lingering between them taking up too much space to allow it.)

“So,” Aziraphale says after a long moment. “We stay and fight?”

“Yeah, angel,” Crowley whispers. “We’ll fight. But not ‘til tomorrow.”

Silence falls between them then as they watch over the small, special being cradled in Aziraphale’s arms, her tiny face lax and peaceful in sleep, no doubt dreaming of love.

When Muriel returns from the coffee shop - happily bearing gifts from Nina of six shots of espresso in a travel cup and a paper bag of Eccles cakes - the baby has woken up, been fed a bottle by Crowley, and is being given a tour of the downstairs of the bookshop by Aziraphale, who is taking great pleasure in explaining the differences between Austen and Brontë while Crowley watches in amusement from the armchair.

They take their leave shortly after that, Aziraphale pressing a gentle kiss to the baby’s forehead before handing her back to Muriel and Crowley miracling a green snake plushie which - when offered - is promptly grasped in a tiny fist.

The Bentley very nearly drives itself to Tadfield, knowing the way as it does, but Crowley grips the steering wheel tightly for something to do with his hands as he and Aziraphale ride in silence. They arrive in the familiar little town in the early evening, the sun just beginning to set over the hills, and Crowley parks the Bentley in the grass on the edge of a large clearing that already thrums with distinctly celestial energy and a dismal sense of foreboding.

And they settle in to wait.

They continue to sit in silence as the sun goes down, twilight creeping into the Bentley’s front seat to keep them company, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Crowley sits as sprawled out as he can manage in the limited space, his long legs stretched out next to the pedals and his elbow propped up on the door so he can rest his head against his closed fist. He can’t help but let his eyes dart over to Aziraphale every now and then, his gaze as attracted to the angel as it’s always been, and Aziraphale sits calm and motionless in his typical posture, knees together and legs bent at perfect ninety degree angles with his hands clasped in his lap.

The space between them feels very wide.

When he’s not glancing at Aziraphale, Crowley stares out at the empty field through his sunglasses, stubbornly refusing to take them off, the darkness that’s fallen slowly being re-illuminated by a rising full moon that seems almost as bright as the sun in the inky black sky. He thinks of the impending war and the very real possibility of the world as they know it coming to an end tomorrow. Crowley doesn’t regret being here again with Aziraphale before the potential destruction of their favorite planet, once more teetering on the knife’s edge of an apocalypse, and - as is his custom - spending it with the only being that’s consistently made his incredibly long life worth living.

(After all, he’s known for a long time that the only reason Earth is his favorite place is because that’s where Aziraphale is.)

But the possibility of their destruction does bring to mind everything that is still unresolved between them and, by the time the moon has risen to its zenith in the sky, Crowley chooses to speak, his voice hoarse from hours of disuse and and coming back to life to gently fill the space between them in the front seat of the Bentley.

“Did you ever think about what you were asking me to do?”

Out of his peripherals, Crowley sees Aziraphale turn to look at him in question, and Crowley takes a steadying breath before turning to meet his gaze, whereupon the beauty of Aziraphale’s inquisitive face and white-blond hair illuminated in the pale moonlight nearly takes his breath away all over again.

“You said I asked you to give up your faith,” Crowley clarifies quietly, not aggressive or accusing, simply stating a fact as a preface to his question. “Did you ever think about what you were asking me to do?”

Aziraphale just frowns in confusion, sensing that his question is more rhetorical than anything and that he has more to say, and waits patiently.

“Asking me to come back to Heaven…acting like it was such a…a gift…” Crowley works his mouth, trying to speak past the emotion starting to clog his throat. “I know it may seem that way to you, angel, because that’s all you’ve ever known but…”

Crowley’s throat spasms, clenching as if trying to prevent his next words from being spoken, the sharing of such intensely personal truths so unnatural for him that it borders on painful, and he is forced to look away from Aziraphale and down into his own lap instead. 

(But if he wants them to put what happened that day in the bookshop behind them, he has to open up, go out on a limb, and expose his soft, scaly underbelly to the angel’s discerning gaze, however much it goes against his well-honed instincts of self-preservation, because this is Aziraphale and he wants so desperately to feel safe with him again.)

“Falling…falling was the most painful, horrendous thing that’s ever happened to me,” Crowley whispers, his voice coming out more broken than he expects. “I know it seemed inevitable to you, angel, but I truly didn’t understand why. I still don’t. I just…I just asked questions. I didn’t mean to Fall. I loved God just as much as you do - just as much as all angels do - and She cast me out, rejected me, threw me down to Hell, and took away the only love I’d ever known.”

With a strength pulled from somewhere within him, Crowley turns back to look Aziraphale in the eyes and finds them swimming with tears.

“One moment I was making stars,” he whispers. “And the next…I was crawling out of a boiling pool of sulfur with black wings and a broken heart.”

And Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s eyes overflow, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“From that moment onward, I knew I would resent everything Heaven stood for,” Crowley breathes, like a secret between them. “All the things I wasn’t deemed worthy enough for and all the angels who looked down their noses at me for being Fallen, nothing but a worthless, unlovable demon - a snake - who Fell from grace along with all the despicable ones who truly enjoy pain and suffering. But that’s how everyone treated me, Heaven and Hell both…so I figured I must have deserved it.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispers, his brow furrowed in pain and sympathy, tears still sliding down his cheeks at a steady rate.

But Crowley isn’t done. 

(He needs him to understand.)

“But then there was you,” Crowley murmurs, once more unable to look him in the eye as his most precious confession pours out of him. “You stood on the wall at Eden and looked past the yellow eyes and shielded me from the rain, and showed me the first bit of kindness I’d seen since God took Hers away, and I knew right then I was a goner…”

He hears Aziraphale choke back a sob and resents what he has to say next.

“So, when you were so excited to tell me I could go back - back to that place and those angels - to make me back into something that I will never be again…it felt like you were so happy you could finally fix me. That all this time I’ve been something broken and in need of saving and…and you couldn’t truly love me unless I changed. And it felt like Falling all over again because you were saying I’m not worthy of love the way I am…”

Crowley looks back to Aziraphale’s watery gray eyes one final time.

“…and that I could never be loved by the only person in the universe that matters to me. You. And that’s what broke my heart, Aziraphale.”

(And Crowley hates this, he hates seeing the angel cry, the knowledge that he’s causing him such pain grating so completely against his every instinct, but he knows these truths need to be shared, that they need to drain the wounds they inflicted upon each other before they can scab over and begin to heal.)

Aziraphale wipes his eyes with a trembling hand and takes a moment to breathe, trying to stem the flow of his tears and steady himself enough to respond.

“Crowley…” he manages after a long moment. “Crowley, I didn’t know…I just wanted to see you smile again. I’ve never forgotten how beautiful you were up there in the stars, how happy you were. I didn’t think…I didn’t know about everything that came after. You’ve…you’ve never talked about your Fall before…”

Crowley looks down at his lap again, a bittersweet pang of pain lancing through his chest at the idea that when Aziraphale looks at him, he sees him as he was at the very beginning, fresh-faced and white-winged with no idea what horrors his future would bring, while Aziraphale remains to this day untouched and unsullied by the centuries, as pure as he was at the beginning of time.

Because he didn’t fail.

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters, knowing that on some level, Aziraphale is right and it’s unfair for him to expect the angel to know about things he’s never spoken of. “Yeah, that’s my fault -”

“No.”

Crowley’s head snaps back up at Aziraphale’s tone, suddenly firm and sure, to find him staring determinedly.

“No, Crowley,” he repeats, stunning him. “You were under no obligation to share those things with me. And as much as I may selfishly wish you’d trusted me enough to…the fact that you didn’t should have been a clue in and of itself. I should have been more sensitive to your feelings…”

Crowley blinks in shock, unused to such a clear and thorough admission of guilt from the angel.

“…and I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

And Crowley has to look back down at his lap out of necessity, lest the tears now gathering in his serpentine eyes behind his sunglasses follow suit and fall, the explicit apology - words he’s not sure he’s ever heard Aziraphale say - feeling better than he ever imagined they would.

“Thanks, angel…and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too,” he mutters, before huffing a watery laugh. “Ngk. Communication…Six thousand years and we still haven’t quite got the hang of it, have we?”

Aziraphale chuckles quietly with him before they lapse into a slightly more comfortable silence.

(And the space between them on the front seat of the Bentley feels considerably smaller than it did before Crowley took the plunge and dove back into his pain, pulling out all his long-repressed trauma to finally share with his best friend.)

When Aziraphale speaks again, it’s to Crowley’s intense surprise and words he never expected to hear, but he knows instinctively that it’s in an effort to reciprocate.

“When you told me I couldn’t leave the bookshop…and I said ‘nothing lasts forever’…I didn’t mean you and me.”

A confession for a confession.

“I meant…well, everything except you and me. We’ve lasted for six thousand years, haven’t we? And - if we get the chance - I’ve no doubt we’ll last for six thousand more…”

Crowley feels warmth rush through him at the conviction he hears in Aziraphale’s voice, reveling in the confidence he shares in the strength of their bond, but Crowley remains silent, knowing the angel well enough to know he’s not finished making confessions, and there’s a long pause before he continues.

“I meant that…well, the world changes around us - we can’t stop that - and sometimes we have to adapt, as loath as I am to admit it. And someday ‘adapting’ may very well include leaving the bookshop,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice filled with sadness at the idea, but he pushes forward in his speech. “But, no matter what changes, the one constant we have is…us. Because I think we’ve proven time and time again that there’s nothing we can’t accomplish together. And as much as I love my shop and everything it represents to us…It’s just a place, Crowley. Filled with things. And you matter to me so much more.”

(And, despite the fact that they’re sitting outside in the dead of night, Crowley feels as though he’s never been able to see more clearly, reliving that awful day in the bookshop in a new and glorious light with Aziraphale’s desperation-fueled truth-telling lighting the way, as he sits, letting the warmth of the angel’s words wash over him, and wonders why the Hell they didn’t do this sooner.)

“Later, I…I thought you kissed me as a last resort…” Aziraphale suddenly murmurs into the silence, extracting Crowley gently from his revelations, the words full of guilt in a way he can’t make sense of, and he frowns.

“…I did.”

“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head and turns to look at him, and Crowley suddenly gets the feeling that, once again, their identical words mean two completely different things. “A last resort to - to further twist the knife of your rejection…and show me what I was missing.”

“What?”

Crowley gapes, horror sweeping through him at the impressively acrobatic miscommunication, more scattered pieces of that day starting to come together with horrifying clarity as he grapples with exactly how Aziraphale could ever think he would do that and how hurt he must have been to actually believe it.

“I didn’t understand what you were trying to tell me. I couldn’t fathom why you were so mad and it made me so upset because I was just trying to protect you. I had been working up the courage for weeks - well, years, honestly - to tell you how I felt and it all went so horribly wrong at the last moment,” Aziraphale is saying, speaking quickly now, hurrying to get all his feelings out in the open between them now that he’s started. “I thought you were rejecting both Heaven and me at the same time and I was so crushed, but that kiss was everything I’ve ever wanted and I couldn’t stop myself from reciprocating, if only for a moment. But I thought it was just a cruel taunt to get the last word in and I was so hurt to be losing you before I even had you, while not even really understanding why…so I did what I always do when someone hurts me…I forgave you.”

All the air leaves Crowley’s lungs at once and he sits there breathless, feeling distinctly as though he’s been punched in the throat, the statement hitting him with more force than a meteor would if one sailed down from the night sky, crashed through the roof of the Bentley, and landed directly onto his head.

“It was a last ditch effort, angel,” Crowley manages, once he’s gathered up the tattered shreds of his sanity. “But not - not like that. It was a last ditch effort to convince you we were worth fighting for! And - and I thought you forgave me because you felt I should be sorry. For kissing you. For - for loving you.”

Aziraphale stares at him in identical horror.

“And that’s one thing I refuse to do, angel.”

(And Crowley could scream and rage for all their stupidity, their maddening tendency to speak in half-statements and aborted confessions, a necessary habit borne of centuries of fear and a bone-deep instinct to keep the other safe, and - all at the same time - Crowley could laugh at the absurdity that their love for one another is the exact thing that’s keeping them apart.)

“So. It seems we’re both idiots, then, doesn’t it?” Crowley sums up dryly.

Aziraphale just shakes his head in disbelief, visibly reeling as much as Crowley is, and then opens his mouth once more, emboldened by the truth-telling and discovery swirling inside the Bentley around them, because apparently he’s not done cleaving Crowley’s heart in two with unexpected confessions.

“I went to Heaven to try and make it better -”

“For humanity, yes, I know,” Crowley interrupts carelessly, apparently having learned nothing from the last ten minutes of open and honest conversation, and he’s immediately reprimanded by Aziraphale.

“No, Crowley!” he snaps impatiently, managing to look both exasperated and fond at the same time. “Not for humanity! For you! Because without you, I had no reason to stay on Earth and I thought that maybe…if I succeeded in changing Heaven…you would take me back.”

Crowley sits there, his mouth falling open once more, yellow eyes no doubt huge in his face, feeling as though God herself could sail by the window on the back of a flying pig and he would be no more shocked.

Idiots, indeed.

“I don’t love you despite the fact that you’re a demon, Crowley, or because you used to be an angel,” Aziraphale whispers, staring deep into his eyes, his voice fervent and heartfelt, and Crowley thinks he can feel the words imprinting themselves on his very soul. “I love you for exactly who you are. I would never change you. I wanted to change Heaven, so that they could never do what they did to you to anyone else ever again. So they could be worthy of your curiosity and your ingenuity and your creativity…your love.”

And Crowley doesn’t even try to stop his tears now, feeling them spill out from under his glasses and pour freely down his face as he gazes at Aziraphale, his angel, feeling so hopelessly in love with him, and - more than that - more loved by him than he ever dreamed he would be.

Aziraphale’s cherished face blurs as he cries and Crowley hears him whisper his name, soft and sweet, and feels a gentle tugging on his arm, insistent and encouraging, until he gives in and pitches sideways, fiercely ripping off his sunglasses to throw them on the dash before his head lands softly in Aziraphale’s lap. His angel’s plush thighs feel like Heaven to Crowley and he turns his nose into the soft, worn fabric of Aziraphale’s slacks and inhales deeply, pulling his scent into his body with something like reverence. A whimper escapes him as he suddenly feels gentle fingers start to stroke tenderly through his hair, comforting and loving, and the sensation helps to dry the last of Crowley’s tears so that he can gaze upward toward the faint light of the stars he helped hang in the sky until his heavy eyelids finally drift closed.

And he sleeps the rest of the night, peaceful and loved, in Aziraphale’s arms.

The Second War arrives with the sun.

To the residents of Tadfield, it looks like nothing more than an oddly overcast day, with a thick, puffy layer of white clouds obscuring the presumably blue sky and the occasional strange flash of sunlight that makes any passerby peer upward in confusion, shrug, and continue on their way.

Above the clouds, the fight between Heaven and Hell rages.

The sky is full of angels and demons, blurred shapes rendered black and white by the color of their streaking wings, figures spiraling and tumbling through the air as the clangs of weapons and yells of battle and bloodlust pierce the otherwise silent heights. The dead plummet downward, their useless wings whipping in the wind around their lifeless bodies, until they breach the cloud cover and disappear, never to emerge, permanently discorporated by celestial weapons.

Amidst it all, there flies an angel and a demon on their own side.

Crowley stays close to Aziraphale, covering his back, and hissing fiercely at anyone who dares come near. His angel’s eyes glow purple as he wields his flaming sword once again, summoned with the power of a Former Supreme Archangel, and he brandishes it aloft like no time at all has passed since Eden, threatening anyone who eyes his demon with ill intent as his pure white wings beat ceaselessly around him. Crowley, for his part, holds a black sword, ice cold and miracled from the depths of Hell by a demon who could have been a Prince if he so desired, and his black wings span hugely in the sky, blocking out the sun completely to anyone who passes underneath.

They cut down anyone who attacks them, undiscerning between black and white wings, as just as many angels try to cut down Aziraphale as demons try to fell Crowley. They call warnings to one another as needed, being the other’s eyes as they fight for survival in the skies. It’s one such warning from Aziraphale, as he grapples with Uriel and her curved dagger, that instantly grabs Crowley’s attention.

“Darling! On your right!”

Shoving a dead demon off his sword, Crowley whips around to see Furfur glaring at him from several meters away, aiming a bow and arrow at his chest. Hissing, Crowley tucks his wings and pitches into a dive, avoiding the arrow Furfur fires with ease and swooping toward him from below before he can load another, and - before he can do as much as yell - the butt of Crowley’s sword connects hard with his thick head and he drops out of the sky into the clouds below.

Yellow eyes darting sharply around the sky, Crowley scans for more enemies but sees no one in the vicinity. Breathing hard, he twirls around in the air to see Aziraphale easily overpowering Uriel. And then something catches his eye that freezes the blood in his veins.

The Metatron.

He’s sneaking up behind Aziraphale, the old man’s wrinkled, yellowing wings carrying him closer and closer as he hefts a two-handed claymore as red as blood, an ugly sneer contorting his face in hatred.

No.

“Angel!”

Crowley doesn’t have time to think, moving by instinct alone, beating his massive wings with a force that buffets the angels and demons fighting as far as a kilometer away, soaring through the air faster than he ever has before toward Aziraphale, who turns in response to his call as if in slow motion just in time to see the Metatron’s scowling face, his incoming red sword, and the familiar form of Crowley sailing between them -

And taking the sword thrust meant for Aziraphale right through his middle.

For one endless moment, everything stills around the three of them, the high altitude pressing on Crowley’s temporarily deaf ears as he gapes in shock, and he watches the Metatron’s cruel mouth twitch once in satisfaction before time seems to kickstart and the old man shoves him viciously off his sword, all the air leaving his lungs as pain - searing and white-hot - explodes through him.

Crowley feels himself hang motionless in the air for the briefest instant before his old friend gravity takes over - tried, true, and unavoidable - and his hearing returns just in time to catch Aziraphale’s blood-curdling scream.

And then he’s falling again.

(Some small part of his brain - likely the one permanently draped over the armchair back in their bookshop, his legs slung over the side with a tumbler of something dangling from his hand - considers this with a certain amount of morbid humor: at least he’s falling for much better reasons this time - all-encompassing love instead of unanswered questions - and even the incredible pain is worth it because he knows it would hurt six thousand times more to watch Aziraphale run through with a sword and disappearing into the clouds.)

As he falls, Crowley ponders to distract himself from the pain, and he decides that his only regret is facing the wrong way round and not getting a final glimpse of his beautiful angel before he started plummeting toward their lovely Earth. But, as he pitches downward, the wind tosses him this way and that, his black feathers fluttering noisily all around him as his sunglasses are flung off his face, and he ends up flipped onto his back where something above him catches his waning attention. Frowning lightly, Crowley squints upward through streaming eyes to see what looks like a white blur streaking toward him, somehow moving even faster than he is.

With a miraculously flaming sword.

Aziraphale.

Before Crowley can do more than blink, Aziraphale crashes into him with a loud cry, multiplying his pain exponentially by wrapping the arm not holding his sword around Crowley’s falling form and tucking him in close to his body. The force of the collison spins them around in the air and, as he rotates, Crowley catches sight of the cloud cover fast approaching and he doesn’t even have time to yell out a warning before they’re both careening through it. Crowley closes his eyes as they hit, expecting to die instantly like the other celestial beings he’s seen fall to their deaths and cursing Aziraphale for being so stubborn to follow him through it.

But, seconds later, he can still feel the wind whipping around him and Aziraphale’s arm holding him tightly.

Forcing his eyes open once again, Crowley looks up to see that they’ve passed through the cloud cover, leaving a man-shaped hole punched out of the puffy white layer through which he can see the battle raging onward overhead, and they’re continuing to fall toward Earth. Crowley barely begins to anticipate a painful crash landing before he both sees and feels Aziraphale’s wings expand above them with a whoosh, pumping hard against the wind to slow their fall, the Herculean effort wrenching another awful strained cry from him. 

In awe, Crowley watches as he beats his wings relentlessly, easing their way through the air just in time to float to them gently to the ground, landing them in what looks like the center of the grassy clearing, the edge of which they sat on in the Bentley last night, baring their souls to one another. Crowley smiles softly to himself at the pleasant memory, his eyes slipping closed as his head finally, blessedly lands softly on solid ground.

“Crowley! Dearest, can you hear me?”

Crowley’s eyes fly open once again at Aziraphale’s distressed cry to find his angel leaning over him, his flaming sword abandoned in the grass and his hands cradling Crowley’s bleeding form to his body. High above them, Crowley can see the hole they left in the white clouds and what he thinks is the faint outline of the Metatron hovering underneath and glaring down at them. Crowley’s eyes leave him without another thought and return instinctively to the only angel that matters, beautiful even with bloodied scratches on his face and salty tears leaving clean tracks through the dirt and soot on his cheeks.

“Angel,” he murmurs, his voice faint and weak, but no less loving. “Look at you…you’re gorgeous…”

Aziraphale lets out a broken sob.

“Crowley,” he cries, cupping the demon’s face in a gentle, reverent palm. “Why? Why did you do that? Why did you sacrifice yourself for me, you stupid serpent?”

Crowley huffs a painful, wet laugh, using what remains of his energy to raise a shaky hand, brushing it tenderly over Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Silly angel,” he breathes. “S’not a sacrifice…I was made to be yours…”

Aziraphale wails in agony and Crowley aches, wishing so desperately that he could better comfort him, when suddenly the tall grass around them starts to move and sway as the wind picks up speed, spontaneous and unnatural. Looking over Aziraphale’s hunched shoulders once more, Crowley sees the clouds start to morph above them, the pure white pillars rapidly being covered by dark, foreboding masses, as thunder rumbles and booms out of nowhere and lightning streaks threateningly through the clouds. Bright sparks of angelic energy then catch his eye, arcing all around his angel’s form as tears continue to fall from his now shining purple eyes, and Crowley realizes with a shock that Aziraphale is conjuring the storm - unintentionally and unknowingly - his distress and fear and pain so potent that the elements can’t help but commiserate.

Nearly forgetting the agony pounding through him, Crowley marvels silently at Aziraphale’s strength and power, the depths of which are likely unknown even to the angel himself, and he smiles with pride as Aziraphale continues to cry.

“Oh, Crowley!” he wails. “No, no, no! God, please, no! Don’t leave me!”

“It’s okay, angel,” Crowley whispers, meaning it with every fiber of his being, coughing wetly and wincing at the stab of agony it causes before he forces out the last three words he absolutely must say.

“…I love you.”

Raindrops start to fall along with Aziraphale’s tears, dripping onto Crowley’s face as the angel leans down to press their foreheads together.

“Oh, Crowley…I love you, too.”

And Aziraphale kisses him, sweet and perfect, their lips wet with rain and tears.

(And Crowley thinks deliriously that this is a lovely way to die, wet and staring into each other’s eyes, sharing one last fabulous kiss in Aziraphale’s arms.)

And then quite possibly the only sound that could rip them apart from one another pulses in the air around them, vibrating the very molecules that compose them, and turning both their heads upward toward Heaven.

The voice of God.

Not the paper-thin, wispy voice of the Metatron - the actual voice of God - thunders down from the sky.

“Stop!”

All at once, the storm clouds part, taking the rain with them and evaporating completely to reveal a blue sky, blinding sun, and the black and white shapes of all the angels and demons that have stopped their fighting to turn and stare in awe at the figure materializing out of nothingness, descending from somewhere unknown high above them all.

The figure of God herself floats down past all the celestial beings, hovering with their weapons forgotten at their sides, to stop in front of the Metatron. The old man stares stupidly at Her with his mouth open and gaping like a fish but She ignores him, casting an imperious gaze around the battlefield of the sky, viewing it all with disdain before She speaks to him, Her voice booming for all to hear.

“This was not the plan.”

And, with a simple flick of Her wrist, She smites him. 

He vanishes instantly without a trace and the Metatron - along with his sword, red with Crowley’s blood - is no more.

Unbothered, God continues Her descent to Earth and - in the span of one of Crowley’s lazy blinks, long and slow, his strength fading fast - She is suddenly standing beside them, surveying a dying Crowley cradled in Aziraphale’s arms.

(And Crowley clutches desperately at Aziraphale’s hand, getting the sense through the near blinding haze of pain that - if he weren’t bleeding copiously from his abdomen - he would be distraught and overwhelmed to be in the presence of the one who cast him out, brimming with questions and fighting against demanding an explanation, and he instinctively seeks the support of his love to help him through the tumult he expects to feel.

But, as it is, he has no room in his head for that, simply yearning for the pain to stop.)

Aziraphale has no such qualms, squeezing his hand back, and speaking directly to God herself with no fear as Crowley watches in awe.

“Lord, please,” Aziraphale pleads, his tone reverent but beseeching. “Please heal him. He took this blow for me. And I cannot live without him. Tell me what must be done.”

God stares at Aziraphale, Her face impassive, before She asks one simple question.

“Would you Fall to save him?”

Crowley’s instant cry of protest gets trapped somewhere in the bleeding wound in his stomach but Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate.

“I would do anything.”

There’s an unfathomable beat of silence.

And then God’s face breaks into a beautiful smile.

“Then, my angel, nothing need be done.”

She waves a hand once more and Crowley gasps as tingling warmth quickly overtakes and drives out the pain in his abdomen, and he writhes in Aziraphale’s arms through the uncomfortable sensations of his corporation repairing itself, until it all stops and - apropos of nothing and barely able to believe it - he feels miraculously good as new.

Nodding to herself in satisfaction, God turns to address the forces of Heaven and Hell still decorating the sky, Her voice booming forth to be heard by all. She raises a hand toward Aziraphale and Crowley and speaks eloquently about how this love should be the example they all live by, that this love is what She intended for all Her creations, and that the ineffable plan has always been love like this. She finishes Her speech and dismisses all the angels and demons back to their domains in peace to await a new plan.

She says all of this with the most powerful voice in the universe…

And Crowley doesn’t hear a word of it.

Because he’s staring at Aziraphale’s beloved face and Aziraphale is staring right back at him, love pouring off him in waves as they both cry tears of utter happiness, and he doesn’t care about anything else.

(Because he’s known since the world was brand fucking new, when he slithered up a wall to stand on two feet at Aziraphale’s side, that the angel was the only thing he needed to feel complete.)

Returned as he is to full strength, Crowley wastes no more time in surging upward from the ground to throw his arms around his angel, feeling Aziraphale wrap his arms tightly around him in return as Crowley tucks his face into his neck and inhales deeply, thanking his lucky stars and -

Well, God.

And then the entity in question clears Her throat above them.

Aziraphale and Crowley hastily separate and turn to look up at Her.

“You saw the truth of my plan when no one else did. You fought to save my creations when others would not; this planet, these humans…my children. I thank you,” She states, warmth clear in Her voice. “Therefore, I have one question for you: will you return to lead Heaven in love?”

Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other in shock, still kneeling in the grass and blinking owlishly, their mouths agape as God waits patiently for a response. At length, Aziraphale turns to God and speaks, hesitant and disbelieving.

“Even…even Crowley?”

Wondering the same thing, Crowley swallows thickly, slowly turning to face Her as well, and freezing in place to find God staring directly at him with a loving smile.

“But, of course,” She says kindly, unexpectedly, impossibly. “For what is Heaven without its most beautiful Starmaker?”

(And, in that instant, something blooms warmly inside Crowley’s heart, giving life to a place that’s been cold since he toppled down from the heavens, something that somehow feels like answers, and he suddenly understands everything, how his questions led him to Fall because - without that - he never would have found his way to Aziraphale and in that moment he knows peace.

Because it was all worth it.

And he would do it all over again for his angel.)

“I think it would be…ineffable,” he murmurs to God, speaking to Her for the first and last time.

Her answering smile feels like love itself and Crowley thinks he can see his stars sparkle in Her eyes.

“Well, then?”

Crowley simply turns to look at Aziraphale, his partner, his love, who - this time - doesn’t even need to think about it, taking his hand and looking deep into Crowley’s eyes as he answers the Lord.

“Actually, I think we…we’d rather like to retire,” Aziraphale murmurs happily. “Here at home.”

Aziraphale turns to smile at God.

“On Earth.”

(And Crowley falls in love all over again.)

God simply smiles and nods like She expected nothing different, like this was Her plan all along - and maybe it was, Crowley thinks deliriously - before She disappears in the blink of an eye, Her voice lingering behind Her like a soft summer breeze.

“And so it shall be…”

They find themselves alone once more in the clearing, the sky looking blue and sunny and every bit like a beautiful day in Tadfield, and Crowley rises slowly to his feet, pulling Aziraphale up with him by the hand. Crowding close to his angel, Crowley cups his face with his free hand and presses their foreheads together with a content sigh, breathing his scent in deeply before whispering the words he’s been waiting six thousand years to say.

“Let’s go home, angel.”

The day they move into the cottage is a nice day.

In fact, all the days since The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives have been nice.

They leave the bookshop - for the time being - in Muriel’s increasingly capable hands, to be used once more at their discretion as an embassy for a reformed Heaven.

The reincarnated baby Jesus - now more or less an ordinary baby - is back with her family, who are none the wiser concerning her brief absence or anything unusual about her at all, aside from a green snake plushie they can’t seem to remember purchasing.

Nina and Maggie - along with most of the other residents and shopkeepers of Soho - are pleased to see the return of their favorite bookseller and his dark shadow, especially now that they’ve taken to holding hands everywhere they go, sporting matching gold bands. The first time they walk into the coffee shop with their fingers intertwined, Nina abandons her customers in favor of hurrying over to point at their clasped hands with a triumphant yell, while Maggie simply presses her hands to her face and squeals in delight. The two women make them promise to visit often, if nothing else to continue consuming Nina’s supply of espresso and taking records from Maggie’s without paying, although Aziraphale tells her he’ll now be requesting Queen albums to accompany his classical favorites.

Whickber Street will always be special to Aziraphale and Crowley, and they plan to return often, but they easily agree between the two of them to begin their retirement in a new place that’s only theirs, one with no painful or bittersweet memories of denial and longing.

And so they follow their hearts to a seaside cottage in the South Downs.

The drive there from Soho is not long, but it is made rather painstaking for Crowley with the way Aziraphale’s hand can’t seem to let go of his thigh, and he tries unsuccessfully to distract himself by thinking of all the flat surfaces in the cottage that will need christening.

By the time they arrive to see their cottage for the first time - bought sight unseen over the phone - Crowley is ready to lock them inside for at least a straight month, but something holds him back as he climbs out of the Bentley, tucks his sunglasses into his pocket, and watches Aziraphale gaze in awe at their new house, happy to enjoy this first with him, one of many to come.

The cottage is small, as expected, although Crowley gets the feeling it will be miraculously larger than it looks on the inside. There’s already beautiful flowering foliage lining the front walk and charming ivy creeping up the stone front. It’s two stories and Crowley remembers from the listing that there’s a spacious kitchen, an upstairs office that he already knows will quickly become a mini bookshop, a decadent master bedroom with a view down their private stretch of beach, and a large garden in the spacious backyard with room enough for a small greenhouse. If Crowley concentrates, he can hear the faint sound of waves crashing on the beach.

It’s perfect.

(And he doesn’t even know yet about the personal touches Aziraphale has miracled inside as surprise house-warming gifts, the loveseat by the fireplace that’s an exact replica of the one in the bookshop, the matching mugs tucked in the kitchen cabinet, and the small vases of pretty, yellow tulips scattered lovingly about the cottage.)

Crowley rounds the car to take Aziraphale’s hand.

“Oh, Crowley,” sighs Aziraphale blissfully. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Sure is, angel,” Crowley agrees, looking nowhere but at him.

Aziraphale notices and scoffs, batting at his chest playfully, before pulling him in by his silver tie to plant a kiss on his ready and willing lips, soft and loving and perfect.

“Well,” Crowley prompts, once they’ve broken apart, feeling stupidly, idiotically in love. “Can I tempt you to eternity, angel?”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale breathes, love shining from his whole being. “Temptation accomplished.”