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Crowley doesn’t notice the book sitting innocently in the back of his Bentley until he’s already back at his flat, just returned home from dropping Aziraphale off at the bookshop.
“Huh. That bike girl must’ve left it,” he mutters to himself when he spots it, turning it over in his hands and skimming the excessively long title: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.
Normally he’d just incinerate the thing and call it a day, but it looks ancient enough that Aziraphale would almost certainly like it. So, with a put-upon sigh, he brings it into the flat with him.
“Ruins my whole aesthetic,” he grumbles as he carries it towards his desk, which he keeps empty save for a few artifacts that have suitably unpleasant auras.
With a final scowl, he settles the book between a sleek wooden gavel once used by a corrupt judge and a statue of two angels doing something particularly unangelic.
“What do you think you’re looking at?” He snarls when he catches one of his plants twitching judgmentally. It immediately begins to tremble, and he gives a satisfied nod.
He hisses at a nearby fern for good measure– it hasn"t done anything objectionable, but it’s important to keep them all on their toes so they don"t go getting ideas. “That’s right. Know your place.”
Finally he heads off to bed, making a mental note to remember to grab the book next time he visits Aziraphale.
~
“Oh, for Someone’s sake–” Crowley snaps the second he walks into Aziraphale’s bookshop the next day. “I forgot the blasted book.”
“What book?” Aziraphale asks, perking up instantly.
“Bike girl left it the other day. You know, the one who hit my Bentley,” he explains grumpily.
“I rather think most people would describe it the other way ‘round.”
“Then most people are idiots,” Crowley waves him off. “She was biking in the dark, she knew the risk she was taking. Anyway, she left a book– looked old, thought you might like it. Called ‘Agnes Nutter’, something something, ‘Nice and Accurate.’”
“Dear boy, you don"t mean to tell me you’ve happened upon a copy of ‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch’?” Aziraphale exclaims, eyes flying wide.
“I… suppose?” Crowley hedges, feeling his eyebrows raise practically to his hairline. “Is it important?”
“Terribly important, yes!” Aziraphale says, wriggling with excitement. “Why, I’ve been trying to get my hands on one for centuries! It’s considered the most accurate book of prophecy in all of history. It might very well help us locate the Antichrist!”
“Right, then! Thank you, bike girl,” Crowley calls vaguely into the universe as he leaps to his feet. It’ll find her, if she deserves it. “I suppose we’d best head over and get your book!”
Aziraphale, who’d been in the process of heading out the door, freezes. He turns shining eyes on Crowley. “My book?” He echoes hopefully.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley says uncomfortably, glancing away from Aziraphale’s delighted face so he won’t be tempted to do something humiliating, like smile back. “Not like I’d know what to do with it. Besides, it’s an eyesore. Can"t have the plants thinking I’ve lowered my standards.”
“Oh, but do you think that poor young lady will notice it’s missing?” Aziraphale frets, his joy dampened by that nasty angelic habit of selflessness.
“Nahhh,” Crowley assures him immediately. “If it were important, she wouldn’t’ve left it, now would she?”
He very carefully does not mention the concussion– however temporary– she’d sustained, or the potentially disorienting effects of colliding with a semi-sentient car and then being chauffeured home by two immortal beings who had vastly overestimated the initial quality of her bike.
Aziraphale doesn’t seem too inclined to mention these extenuating factors, either, and that brilliant smile returns to his face. “Well, off we pop, then! Oh, you don"t mind driving, do you?”
“Course not, long as you don’t mind Queen,” Crowley grins, opening the bookshop’s door for the angel to step through.
Aziraphale slumps. “But what about that lovely Vivaldi we listened to just the other day?”
“Hit the two week cutoff, I"m afraid,” Crowley informs him regretfully. “Now it’s the critically acclaimed concerto ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ in F minor.”
“An awful shame,” Aziraphale sighs, waiting patiently while Crowley opens the passenger’s side door for him. “You know how I feel about bebop.”
“Bebop, he calls it,” Crowley mutters incredulously under his breath as he walks towards his own side of the Bentley.
As if in solidarity, the Bentley begins blaring Beethoven’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now,’ and not even Crowley can coax it into lowering the volume.
~
As soon as they pull up to Crowley’s flat, he can tell something’s not right. There’s the barest hint of a smell that he’s certain he recognizes, but can’t quite place. When he moves to let Aziraphale out of the car, the angel notices his tension instantly.
“Is something the matter, dear boy?”
Crowley keeps his eyes up, glancing around for anything suspicious. “Not sure. Just… Y’know. Move with caution,” he says vaguely.
“Well, what on Earth is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale huffs. “‘Move with caution.’ Should I be walking a bit more quietly than usual, or preparing for an imminent ambush?”
“I don’t know! If I knew, I’d have said!” Crowley snaps. “Something’s just… off.”
Aziraphale sobers. “Has someone been here who shouldn"t be?”
“Well,” Crowley mutters, making a low, considering noise, “S’pose we’ll just have to go inside and find out.”
They creep cautiously up the stairs, and with every step, the smell seems to grow stronger. Tauntingly familiar, but still lingering just out of reach– it’s a bit earthy, but also salty, but also rotten. Crowley lets out a quiet growl of frustration, and Aziraphale places a calming hand on his arm.
“If there’s someone in there, we’ll face them together,” he assures bravely.
Crowley tries not to look too shocked. It’s not good for his brand of being utterly cool and suave and unaffected. Still, he has to ask, “You mean that?”
“Of course I do!” Aziraphale insists, sounding vaguely affronted. “What, did you think I was coming up with you just to grab the book and then bugger off while you fought an intruder?”
Crowley, who had been assuming exactly that, decides he’d best remain silent. His brand, you see.
As they approach the flat’s door, they exchange a loaded look. Crowley grasps the handle, unlocking it with a quick miracle to avoid the noise of the key.
“One… two…” He mouths to Aziraphale.
“Three!” He swings the door open, and they both burst in at once, bristling and battle-ready.
The flat welcomes them, stubbornly empty.
“Well,” Crowley inhales. “That was anticlimactic.”
“Yes, it rather was,” Aziraphale agrees absently. His gaze is locked on the statue of the fornicating angels.
Crowley’s gaze, however, immediately locks onto the empty spot next to it, where a certain book is conspicuously not. In the same instant, his mind finally places the scent.
Earthy… salty… rotten… Swamp.
“Damn,” he hisses. “Hastur.”
~
“Oh, you don"t think he’s destroyed it, do you?” Aziraphale panics, his hands clasped anxiously in front of him.
“Nahh, Hastur’s not that stupid,” Crowley reassures him, though he’s by no means confident in that assessment. “He wouldn"t go to all the trouble of stealing a famous book of prophecy from under my nose just to get rid of it.”
If anything, Aziraphale looks more concerned. “Oh, dear. What if he’s read the book and realized we’ve been tracking the wrong Antichrist? Or, worse, he’s already found the real one himself?”
“He’s too stupid to get very far with interpreting prophecies,” Crowley dismisses, before realizing how that conflicts with his previous statement. “I mean– he’s not stupid. Well, he is. Well. He’s sort of the exact right amount of stupid that we aren"t in any trouble in either direction, so. Y’know. No need to worry.”
Aziraphale looks less than reassured. “Why would he have stolen it to begin with? Is it possible that your bosses discovered you had it, and sent him to collect it?”
Crowley makes a wishy-washy gesture with his hand. “Hard to say. It"s certainly possible that Beelzebub knew, and Hastur took it on their orders. But he’s a demon, so really, it’s equally as likely that he just broke into my flat and stole the first thing he saw because he felt like being a bit of a dick. I mean, his idea of fun"s about as subtle as a brick through a church window.”
“Well, do you know where he might’ve gone?” Aziraphale presses.
“I can try to track the scent,” Crowley suggests. “I’ll have to go rather… snake-y for my senses to be sharp enough, though.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright!” Aziraphale chirps, abruptly cheerful. “You can ride on my shoulders!”
Crowley blinks. He doesn’t strictly need to, but sometimes it feels like the right thing to do. “I actually more meant that my tongue would just turn a bit forked for the moment.”
“Right,” Aziraphale says, looking strangely disappointed. “Of course. Whatever you think is best.”
“But, I suppose, it would be most effective if I were… Y’know. As snake-y as possible,” Crowley tries, “So perhaps I will just use my full Serpent form. Good thinking.”
Aziraphale brightens, outstretching an arm invitingly. “Lovely! Go on, then!”
Crowley stares at him for a moment, trying very hard not to blush. Turning into a snake is… Well, it’s a bit embarrassing. Like getting undressed in front of someone. Which, as a demon, is exactly the sort of thing that shouldn’t bother him at all, really, so he can’t very well come out and ask Aziraphale to turn around. Instead, he settles for standing awkwardly in place, silent and rigid, and hoping that a sinkhole spontaneously opens up beneath him.
Aziraphale looks perplexed, before his eyes abruptly widen. “Oh! I suppose I’ll just… go check on your plants, then. They could do with a kind word.”
“Don’t you dare,” Crowley snaps, hoping his relief isn’t as appallingly obvious as it feels. “You’ll spoil them.”
“Nonsense!” Aziraphale objects, already retreating from the room. “I’m sure you’re more than scary enough to compensate for anything I might say.”
Well, now Crowley can’t very well tell him not to be all mushy with the plants, or else he’s practically admitting to not being sufficiently scary. That angel is damned clever, he thinks with equal parts irritation and fondness as he shrinks down to the size of a large rat snake.
Immediately all of his senses are muted except for scent, which is dialed up to a thousand. The swampy smell of Hastur becomes almost overwhelming, and he lets out a loud, unhappy hiss, shaking his head instinctively to banish the scent from his nostrils.
“Oh, dear, are you ready?” Aziraphale calls, peeking his head back through the door. His smile brightens considerably when he spots Crowley. “You look positively darling!”
Crowley can practically feel his plants losing respect for him, minute by minute. Speaking isn’t easy in this form, so he settles on hissing in a way he hopes conveys his disapproval.
“Scary, I meant,” Aziraphale corrects himself quickly, so the message seems to have come across.
Satisfied, Crowley slithers up the angel’s body and settles on his shoulders, darting his tongue out to taste the air. He can still taste Hastur’s swampy odor, of course, but it’s now dampened by the familiar, woodsy scent of Aziraphale. Much better, he thinks.
“Well, then,” Aziraphale says, his voice pitched a bit high. “Off we pop! I suppose you can just… point the way with your lovely– frightening, sorry– little head?”
Crowley despairs.
~
After a brief trek out of the flat and through a nearby park– interrupted by one extremely concerned passerby, who informed Aziraphale in a rather shaky voice that there was something on his neck– they land on a small duck pond that’s positively soaked in Hastur’s distinctive smell, mingled with something a bit more infernal.
Crowley quickly scans for onlookers, and finding none, slithers down from Aziraphale’s body back into his own human-shaped form. “Here’s where the trail ends,” he explains, sighing. “Hastur has always been fond of using swamps as his portals back to the Pit. This was the best he could do, I suppose.”
“So he’s taken the book to Hell?” Aziraphale asks, eyes wide. “Oh, dear.”
Crowley grimaces. “It certainly isn’t ideal. So, I suppose I’ll have to pop Downstairs and fetch it back. Let’s hope he wasn’t acting under Beelzebub’s orders, but if he was… Well. I might not make it back anytime soon, but I’ll burn the book, if I can. Better that, than it ending up in their hands."
Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s suddenly started speaking in tongues. “Crowley, honestly, what goes on in that head of yours? I’ll be going with you, of course.”
“What.”
“Just think about it!” Aziraphale insists. “I can dress as a demon, and no one will suspect a thing– it’s not as though they’d know who I am. And if we run into a spot of trouble, I can always summon holy water. No one would see it coming.”
“You want to come with me. To Hell,” Crowley emphasizes. “And just… melt any demons who bother us?”
Aziraphale huffs. “And I suppose you think your plan of being captured and tortured is better?”
Crowley feels his whole body stiffen. “You don"t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don"t I?” Aziraphale demands, with a rare hardness edging into his tone. “So when they sucked you down after Edinburgh, they just gave you a nice, firm talking-to, did they? A rude note, perhaps?”
“Angel,” Crowley growls warningly, his thoughts racing.
“A note so rude that as soon as you returned, you asked me for holy water as insurance?” Aziraphale’s voice has gotten a bit gentler, but no less firm. “I’ll thank you not to treat me like an idiot, Crowley. You aren’t going alone. We both know you’re safer with me there.”
“And you’re safer here!” Crowley snarls, feeling his hands clench into tight fists at his side. Aziraphale was never supposed to know about what happened after Edinburgh. He wasn"t supposed to worry.
Aziraphale looks offended, of all things. “Dear boy, you do know that flaming sword She gave me wasn’t decorative. I"m not exactly helpless.”
“I know you aren"t,” Crowley relents, chastened. He forgets, sometimes, that just because he likes rescuing Aziraphale doesn"t mean the angel has ever truly needed it. "Doesn"t mean I"m happy to watch you waltz into the Pit, mind."
“I hardly think you can stop me,” Aziraphale returns, raising an eyebrow. When Crowley doesn’t immediately object, he smiles, clearly sensing his victory.
Still, Crowley lets it hang in the air another moment, as a matter of principle. “Yeah, alright, fine,” he agrees finally, crossing his arms.
Aziraphale swells triumphantly. “Wonderful! Well, I suppose I’d better miracle up something suitably demonic to wear, then, shall I?”
At this point in the conversation, Crowley should say, "No, angel, I’ll miracle the clothes for you. After all, you have no idea how the average demon dresses." However, he’s still feeling a bit stung from the last few minutes of conversation. So, what comes out instead is, “Go on, then, let’s see.”
Aziraphale makes a tiny cross with his hand, and his prim and proper outfit vanishes, replaced by… a mirror image of what Crowley is wearing at that exact moment. Snakeskin boots, leather trousers, and a dark button-down, with a thin black tie and blazer thrown overtop.
“Oh,” Aziraphale blushes, glancing down at himself. “I… suppose I didn’t have a clear picture in mind when I performed the miracle.”
“Looks pretty clear to me, angel,” says Crowley, who’s gotten a bit distracted by the sight of Aziraphale in leather. He swallows rather hard. “Right. D’you mind if I make some adjustments?”
“Oh, please do,” Aziraphale says, still blushing. “I feel terribly silly.”
“You don"t look silly,” Crowley says, because Aziraphale is still in leather and Crowley is still a miserable bleeding idiot. He speaks again quickly. “But you focused too much on what I would wear. Here–” He breaks off, snapping his fingers.
Instantly, Aziraphale’s outfit is replaced by a more formal ensemble, composed of a black turtleneck and vest, and a dark, thick trenchcoat overtop a pair of black formal trousers that look like they’ve been ironed within an inch of their lives. Dark and severe, but overall quite similar to what he’d normally wear, besides the color and the lack of a bowtie.
“This is much better,” Aziraphale sighs in relief, running a hand appreciatively down the front of the coat. Then he frowns. “Though, without an accessory–” his hand comes up to pointedly clutch his barren neck– “It"s missing something, don"t you think?”
Crowley sighs. “Angel, if you show up in one of your ridiculous bowties, they’ll kill us both–”
“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off a bit tetchily. “I didn"t mean that. I thought perhaps… eyeliner?" He fidgets, glancing up hopefully. "I’ve seen you wear it, now and again.”
Crowley’s brain briefly short-circuits. Given the circumstances, he feels he can"t be entirely blamed for it. “Right. Sure. ‘Course,” he says, and they both politely pretend his voice comes out at its normal pitch, rather than two full octaves higher.
“Then, if you wouldn"t mind…” Aziraphale gestures towards his face, blushing.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Though, if you do it with a miracle, it won"t look right,” Crowley lies, like the lying liar he is. “Comes out too tidy. If you really want Hell-approved eyeliner, s’best if you let me do it. Y’know. By hand.”
“Well,” Aziraphale nods quickly, “If that’s what you think is best.”
“I do. It is, I mean,” Crowley stammers, then decides to quit while he’s behind. He summons some eyeliner, then searches for a bench, gesturing towards it when he finds one on the opposite side of the pond. “We should sit down for this, so I don’t kebab your eye by mistake." He pauses, considering. "Then again, an eye patch would fit right in Downstairs.”
Aziraphale glares at him briefly before making his way over, sitting down and turning his face up expectantly.
“Right. I’ll have to touch your face for this bit. For balance,” Crowley says, suddenly feeling rather terrible about the whole thing. Aziraphale might dislike the contact, and since Crowley had lied about it being necessary in the first place– Well. It feels a bit dick-ish. “No one will notice if you’re not wearing eyeliner, angel, honestly. We don’t have to–”
“No,” Aziraphale interrupts, in a tone Crowley can’t begin to place. “No, it’s quite alright. Go on.”
Slowly, Crowley reaches out a hand to brace gently on Aziraphale’s cheek while he leans in to do the eyeliner. His heart, infuriatingly, begins to race at the slight touch, because he’s really quite a pathetic demon. Taking impossible care– and still flagrantly wasting power on a miracle to ensure he can"t actually take the angel’s eye out– he begins to draw on the eyeliner the way he occasionally does his own, thick and dark. After a moment of contemplation, he gently rubs the line with the pad of his finger to smudge it, and Aziraphale exhales shakily. Crowley’s hand stills on his temple, feather-light.
“Alright?” He asks softly.
“Alright,” Aziraphale confirms, though he sounds a bit breathless.
Crowley shifts and begins repeating the process on his other eye. He takes a bit longer than strictly necessary, which is impossibly stupid given that they’re on a bit of a time crunch, what with the whole ‘world-is-ending-in-a-few-days-and-we’ve-lost-the-Antichrist-as-well-as-the-book-to-locate-him’ business, but then again, he never claimed to be good at prioritizing.
Finally, reluctantly, he pulls back. “Done,” he says, and tries not to appear too hopelessly enamored by Aziraphale’s overall look.
And because Aziraphale is apparently more sadistic than Crowley has ever given him credit for, he immediately sighs and says, “I suppose I must look ridiculous.”
“You don’t,” Crowley says, and it comes out too sharp. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Just... you look great. Suits you.”
Aziraphale looks startled, and the wide eyes paired with the liner is not helping Crowley think clearly at all.
“Now, we’ll need to disguise that scent of yours,” Crowley says quickly. “You smell too... Y’know. Angelic.”
“Well, I am an angel,” Aziraphale points out defensively. “It can hardly be helped.”
“Still. They’d sniff you out in a second down there,” Crowley insists.
“And what do you propose? Shall I go roll around in a sewer?” Aziraphale asks, looking miserable.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Crowley waves him off. “Just thought I’d miracle my scent onto you. Cover up all that holiness.”
Aziraphale’s eyes have gone a bit wide. “Your scent? That won’t attract attention?”
“Nah,” Crowley dismisses. “Won’t be out of place like yours is.” After receiving a cautious nod, he snaps his fingers, nose twitching as the familiar scent of divinity and old books vanishes from the air.
Once it’s done, Aziraphale inhales deeply, looking… well, pleased. “I’m not sure how my normal scent would be too angelic, when this is what you smell like,” he says almost chidingly, before flushing slightly.
Crowley, who had rather been expecting miserable complaints and a wrinkled-nose, stares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Aziraphale huffs out an embarrassed breath, but soldiers on. “It isn’t exactly unpleasant.”
Crowley tries not to think about that too much. Tries, and fails. “Unpleasant isn’t the point, angel. It’s about blending in. Your scent is too… Clean. Calming.”
Aziraphale sniffs again, then nods grudgingly. “Yes, I suppose I see what you mean. Yours is a bit more… rugged.”
Crowley blinks. He does that a lot around Aziraphale. “Right.”
“Are we ready to set off, then?” Aziraphale asks, fidgeting.
“Not quite,” Crowley shakes his head. “One last thing– you’ll need an animal aspect. All demons have one. Hastur’s a toad, I’m a snake, blah blah blah.”
Aziraphale looks unaccountably eager. “Oh, and what shall I be, then?”
“I figured you could be a poodle,” Crowley shrugs, “Cause– y’know. The hair.”
“I most certainly do not know,” Aziraphale says, affronted. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing!” Crowley backtracks instantly. “Nothing at all. It’s wonderful hair. Just. Y’know. A bit poofy. Which is great! Big poofy fan, me,” he finishes pathetically, and then wonders if the duck pond next to them might spontaneously transform into holy water for him to jump into.
But Aziraphale is merciful, because all he says is, “...I see. Will the ‘poofy hair’ be sufficient, do you think?”
Crowley considers for a moment, and his mind provides a helpful image of Eric’s rabbit aspect. Without thinking, he reaches out to form Aziraphale’s hair into… whatever poodle ears look like, but the angel jerks back.
“Were you going to pet me?” He asks, sounding like he’s trying to decide whether he should be confused or offended and settling firmly on both.
“No!” Crowley snaps, snatching his hand back, his face burning. “Sorry, I– I was gonna try to shape your hair into poodle ears. Another demon I know presents his aspect the same way. I should’ve said.”
Now Aziraphale looks embarrassed, which seems silly, since he isn"t the one who just petted his friend. “Of course. Well, please, go ahead.”
Crowley very pointedly does not think even a little bit about how soft the hair is beneath his fingers while he forms the ears, because he’s been incoherent enough for one day, thank you very much.
“Might need to use a bit of a miracle,” he says in as business-like a tone as he can muster. “To make the hair longer for the ears. Just temporarily.”
“Oh, if you must,” Aziraphale sighs, looking as though he’s headed for the gallows.
“Doesn’t look bad,” Crowley assures him a moment later as he finishes up, having lengthened the hair on either side of Aziraphale’s head and twisted it gently into something poodle-adjacent. “Promise.”
“If you say so,” Aziraphale despairs.
Crowley"s lips quirk up slightly, but he quickly schools his expression and looks at Aziraphale as sternly as he’s able (which, as it turns out, isn"t all that sternly). “Right, then. Your name is Azazel. You’ve been working in Admissions for the past few centuries, but you’re getting bumped up to Temptations soon. I nabbed you so I could show you around the joint.”
Aziraphale nods seriously. “Hm. Azazel… I rather like that.”
“I prefer Aziraphale,” Crowley says stupidly, then quickly shifts his focus back to the duckpond that will serve as their portal to Hell. “Well, then,” he says, inhaling sharply. “Down we go.”
~
When they land in Hell, Crowley breathes in deeply, taking in the familiar odor of stomach acid and moldy bread, with just a hint of pus-filled wounds to even out the scent profile. It’s not as though he likes Hell, but… It’s been his home for longer than Heaven ever was. He’s developed a certain level of appreciation for it, he supposes.
He looks over his shoulder to see Aziraphale visibly struggling not to gag, and sighs.
“Sorry, I forgot to warn you about the smell,” Crowley says quietly, glancing around to make sure no one’s paying any attention. They’d been lucky to land in an area that seems relatively isolated– Hell portals spit you out in a new place every time. (On one memorable occasion, Crowley had been deposited directly on top of Beelzebub’s desk. Needless to say, they had not been amused). Still, he knows better than to let his guard down. Demons are a sneaky bunch– just because he can’t see any doesn’t mean they aren"t there.
“You forgot?” Aziraphale hisses, looking a bit green. “How could you forget something so vile?”
“You get used to it.”
“I can’t imagine how,” Aziraphale says wretchedly.
Crowley sighs. He shouldn’t offer this. He really shouldn’t, but, then again, he’s already brought the most fastidious angel he knows down to the grimy bowels of Hell with very little coaching, so it’s not like his decisions can get much worse. “If you really don’t think you’ll be able to adjust, I could… summon a scented gel, or something. You can put right under your nose, block out the worst of it.”
“Oh, that’d be just lovely– but why do you sound so grim about the idea?” Aziraphale asks nervously.
“There’s a good chance some other demon will notice it, and it’d be hard to explain why a denizen of Hell smells minty-fresh,” Crowley admits. “So it’s an option, but… Not a great one. Still, if you’re gagging every other minute, you’d blow our cover anyway.”
A look of shame crosses Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley immediately regrets his phrasing. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear boy. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“No, hey, this one"s on me,” Crowley says firmly. “I didn’t warn you. It is what it is.” Then, reluctantly, he adds, “And… you can’t call me ‘dear’ down here. Anything that isn’t at least vaguely insulting will... probably raise some eyebrows.”
“Goodness,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Not a very welcoming place, is it?” A bit of color is returning to his face.
“Not really,” Crowley agrees, grimacing. “Sort of the point of Hell.”
Aziraphale tentatively begins to straighten up, then doubles over again. “Terribly sorry,” he gasps out. “That odor…”
Crowley feels like a bit of a bastard for not having anticipated this problem. “No need to apologize, angel,” he says quietly.
Aziraphale nods his acknowledgement, before suddenly straightening up slightly, turning hopeful eyes on Crowley. “Perhaps you could summon a gel that smells like you? That shouldn’t attract attention, should it?”
Crowley stares. “And that"d be… pleasant enough to overpower the Hell stench, d’you think?”
Aziraphale blushes, but nods. “Yes, I rather think it would.”
“Right, then,” Crowley agrees slowly, keeping his expression carefully blank as he summons the gel and tosses it over.
As soon as Aziraphale applies it under his nose, his features go slack with relaxation. “That’s much better,” he sighs.
“Right. Good,” Crowley says stiffly, turning away so his face doesn"t do something embarrassing without his permission.
“Crawly!” A familiar voice suddenly calls, and he groans internally. “Is that you, you old fiend?”
“Fenrir,” Crowley turns to greet him. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Fenrir agrees unpleasantly, smiling with a mouth full of needle-sharp piranha’s teeth. Without warning, he darts out a hand and slaps Crowley on his shoulder blades in exactly the spot it’ll most hurt, over the gnarled scars left behind from where his wings were broken in the Fall.
Crowley doesn’t so much as blink, even as his scars howl in protest to the familiar pain.
Fenrir barks a laugh. “You always were good at that,” he sneers approvingly, his breath blowing hot onto Crowley’s face. It smells like dead fish.
Crowley can practically feel Aziraphale’s confusion prickling at his back, but he doesn’t dare turn to check on him. Instead, he fixes Fenrir with a thin smile.
“And who’s this little specimen you’ve got with you?” Fenrir asks, licking his lips appreciatively.
“Name"s Azazel,” Crowley says, maintaining a careful mask of indifference. Doesn"t answer any question he hasn’t been asked, though he’s got Aziraphale’s fake backstory perched readily on his tongue. Can’t seem too eager, or too defensive.
“Mmm, and where have you been hiding him?” Fenrir practically purrs. Despite the words, his unblinking gaze is fixed on Crowley, not Aziraphale– Fenrir isn’t flirting; he’s testing.
“Get your own plaything,” Crowley retorts coolly, keeping his tone just the right amount of territorial. It wouldn"t do to let a challenge like that go unchecked, but neither can he do anything to imply that Aziraphale matters to him as anything more than a prize. “Found this one skulking about down in Admissions. Shax didn’t even notice I’d snagged him.”
A spark of grudging approval flares in Fenrir’s eyes, and he finally takes a half-step back out of Crowley’s space. “Spoilsport,” he hisses.
“Vermin,” Crowley returns, his eyebrow twitching up by a practiced degree.
Fenrir grins sharply, backing up further. “Well, I’ll leave you and your pet alone.”
“Don’t wait up,” Crowley calls drily.
And Fenrir, the idiot, turns his back fully while still in Crowley’s arm-range. It’s stupid enough that it might well be a test, so Crowley obliges him; his hand darts out with practiced aim and slaps Fenrir’s back, right over the wing scars. Fenrir jerks forward, hissing loudly in pain and shooting Crowley a look of disdain over his shoulder. But he doesn’t retaliate. He"s a slimy bastard, but he knows when he"s beaten. Instead, he finally slinks away, muttering darkly under his breath.
As soon as he"s out of range, Aziraphale exhales, long and shaky. “Goodness. He was rather unpleasant.”
“He’s a demon,” Crowley mutters. “Sort of in the job description.”
A strange look crosses Aziraphale’s face. “Yes, I suppose so. What was that backslap about?”
“Oh,” Crowley blinks. “It’s a demon thing. We slap right on the area where all us Fallen have scars, try to catch each other off guard with it. You get points if you can make someone really yelp.”
Aziraphale looks momentarily horrified, but he quickly wipes the expression off his face with what seems like great effort. His tone is carefully neutral when he finally says, “You didn’t react at all.”
“Can’t afford to,” Crowley explains gruffly. “I technically invented sin, with the whole apple business. That gets me a certain amount of respect, and I’ve got to make sure I keep it. You, though– no one’s seen your face before. You don’t want to stand out in either direction. Too weak, and they’ll all wanna get their claws on you; too strong, and they’ll start asking questions.”
Aziraphale swallows. “What shall I do, then? If the ‘backslap’ is done to me?”
“Stiffen up, and exhale,” Crowley instructs seriously. “Like it hurts, but not too badly.”
“How badly does it hurt?” Aziraphale asks after a pause, too gently for comfort.
Something sour churns in Crowley’s gut, and he turns away, fighting the urge to roll the lingering ache out of his shoulders. “Doesn"t much matter, does it? You’ll never feel it.”
There’s a long moment of silence where Aziraphale tries to catch his eye and Crowley blatantly dodges it before the angel seems to finally get the message. “Why did you tell him that you’d stolen me from… Shax, was it?” he asks instead, though still a fair bit more softly than necessary. “That wasn’t the story we"d planned.”
“I"m a demon,” Crowley shrugs, carefully nonchalant. “I lied to him so he’d back off. Shax is highly ranked around here. Like as not, he doesn"t believe me to begin with. But he knows I could steal from Shax, and that gets me enough respect that it doesn"t much matter whether I actually did.”
Aziraphale swallows. “It all seems rather… political.”
“You could say that. We did invent politics, after all,” Crowley points out wryly. “Anyway. Let’s keep it moving. We should aim for Hastur’s office.”
He darts out a forked tongue and immediately begins walking in the right direction– one of the few nice things about being down here is that his Serpent is always closer to the surface, making it easier to follow scents. A good thing, too, since it isn’t like there’s any roadmap. Though it"s more shadowed than he remembers, harder to see details...
With a jolt, he realizes that he hasn’t yet removed his sunglasses. Cursing quietly, he reaches up and swipes them off with no small amount of aggression. Blasted things could’ve gotten him killed if he’d caught the wrong demon at the wrong time.
“What, are accessories not permitted down here?” Aziraphale’s tone is lightly teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity in his voice.
“No, they are,” Crowely tells him distractedly. “But wearing anything that covers a part of your animal aspect isn’t a good idea. Comes across as weak. Lucky we didn’t run into anyone more important than Fenrir, or it’d’ve looked bad for me.”
“Then, if anyone asks about mine…” Aziraphale grimaces.
“Yep,” Crowley confirms, smirking. “You’ll have to be loud and proud about your… Y’know. Poodle-ness.”
Aziraphale visibly sulks. “And how, exactly, do you suggest I do that?”
“I don"t know, pant? Chase a ball? Be creative, angel.”
Aziraphale growls at him in answer, then immediately looks mortified.
Crowley valiantly stifles a startled laugh, his chest aching with the effort. "Right. Ngk. Good."
“How do you sleep, when you"re down here a long time?” Aziraphale asks suddenly. “Do you have to ask someone to guard you?”
Crowley glances over his shoulder at him, trying hard not to look as puzzled as he feels. “I don’t. No one sleeps in Hell, ang- Azazel.”
“But… You love sleep,” Aziraphale says, looking oddly stricken.
“Not as much as I love waking up,” Crowley scoffs. “Not likely to happen if anyone catches you unconscious down here. At best, you’ll be discorporated, and it takes ages to get a new body. Not that you’d qualify, if Head Office found out you were stupid enough to fall asleep in Hell. It’d be a waste to give you a new one.”
Aziraphale looks terribly upset by this, and Crowley feels a stab of guilt, though he doesn’t entirely understand why the angel’s so bothered by this of all things. It"s not as though he actually needs sleep.
They make their way down a long, decrepit corridor, harsh overhead lights flickering as they venture through what seems like an endless, dimly lit office building.
“You don’t madder?” Aziraphale breaks the slight tension by reading a sign aloud, tilting his head in confusion.
Crowley makes a vague noise of acknowledgement. “Matter, they meant– M-A-T-T-E-R. Demons can"t spell worth a damn.”
“Hm. Rather bleak.”
“Well, you know. Gotta keep morale low,” Crowley shrugs.
His serpent’s tongue darts out reflexively, and he freezes, tasting something new in the air. It smells sour, like sickness. Listening carefully, he catches the faint sound of something scrabbling, tiny claws against stone.
He rolls his eyes. “Alastor, stop lurking and get out here, you slimy bastard.”
A skinny rat with patches of fur missing darts out from a crack in the wall, winding briefly around Crowley’s ankle before backing up a few steps and growing into a tall, gangly demon.
“C’mon, now, sugar. That’s no way to greet an old friend,” Alastor drawls. When he smiles, his two front teeth stick out like a rodent’s. His eyes are a clouded yellow, the color of bile.
“Let me know if you find one, and I’ll whip out the pleasantries,” Crowley returns flatly. In truth, he’d normally be pleased to see Alastor, but with Aziraphale here he’d rather keep the conversation to a minimum.
“Oh, lighten up, Crawly,” Alastor hisses irritably. “You can’t possibly still be sour about the 1840s… That was ages ago.”
In truth, Crowley had entirely forgotten that Alastor had briefly been part of his torture team following Edinburgh. It isn’t the sort of thing one can afford to take personally, down here. Alastor’s mostly just winding him up, but Crowley can read the shadow of a genuine question in his body language.
“Oh, were you there?” Crowley asks, feigning a yawn. “Suppose you didn’t make much of an impression.”
Alastor’s eyes narrow– being bad at torture is a rather serious failing, for a demon– but his posture relaxes marginally nonetheless. “Careful, Crawly, or I might be more imaginative next time.”
Crowley scoffs. “There won’t be a next time. You’d have to kiss arse for centuries to rank highly enough for my torture team again, especially after that stunt you pulled in the 60’s.”
Aziraphale inhales shakily next to him. Oops. Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought up Alastor’s role in torturing him in such clear terms. He silently curses his own loose tongue.
Alastor bares his teeth at Crowley briefly before sniffing the air and shifting his foggy eyes in Aziraphale"s direction. “Friend of yours?”
Crowley snorts, like the idea is ridiculous. “Some grunt from down in Admissions.”
“Azazel,” Aziraphale introduces himself in a low, rumbling voice. Crowley’s eyes widen slightly.
“Azazel,” Alastor repeats salaciously, raising his eyebrows in pleased surprise. “Lovely to meet you.” His voice is warm like a sunburn, sweet like cough syrup.
Unlike Fenrir, who’d only flirted with Aziraphale to try and get a reaction from Crowley, Alastor’s interest is clearly genuine. Crowley tries not to bristle.
Suddenly, Alastor darts forward and slaps Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale, clearly too shocked to remember his coaching, lets out a startled yelp.
Alastor looks positively gleeful. “Blimey, you’re brand new, aren’t you? Must be all sorts of fun things you haven’t learned yet.” He reaches out a hand, trailing a sharp fingernail lightly down Aziraphale"s coat sleeve. “I’d be happy to teach you.”
“Paws off, Alastor,” Crowley rolls his eyes. They’re friendly enough that Crowley can afford to seem a bit more territorial without it setting off any alarms, but he still has to toe the line. “He’s not into rodents.”
“Oh, just look at him. I doubt he’s ever tried it,” Alastor returns, giving Aziraphale a dubious once-over, but he obediently takes a step back. Crowley rolls his eyes. Alastor"s more than half blind, but of course that doesn"t keep him from making jabs about appearances. Typical.
A thought occurs to Crowley. “You noticed Hastur lurking around anywhere?”
Mischief glimmers in Alastor’s clouded eyes. He does know something. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s the difference between you walking away with your tongue in your mouth or on the floor,” Crowley growls, stepping forward threateningly. They’re friends, or as close to friends as demons can get, but Crowley outranks him by a wide margin, and they both know it. Alastor was only allowed to torture him the one time as a reward for good service. Slicing up the Original Tempter looks impressive on a demonic resumé, after all.
“No need to flirt,” Alastor sneers testily. “I’ll tell you what I know. Hastur passed through here not too long ago. He was holding something that smelled like you, and something else that reeked of holiness. That’s why I was tailing you in the first place,” he adds, grinning lewdly. “You know me. Never can resist a bit drama.”
Alright. So Hastur hadn’t destroyed the book, at least. Good to know. But what holy thing might he have been holding? Crowley tries to remember if the eagle lectern he’d stolen from the church in 1941 had been in his flat when they’d left, or if that might have been missing too. Wouldn"t be surprising if Hastur had swiped more than one thing.
Either way, it’s useful information. Crowley gives Alastor a nod of acknowledgement.
Alastor blinks coolly back, which is as diplomatic as demons get. Then, between one breath and the next, he’s shrinking back down to a mangy rat and scurrying away.
“I"m sorry you had to speak with him, dear,” Aziraphale says quietly once he’s gone.
Crowley startles. “What?”
“He tortured you,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a low, simmering fury in his voice that might be hot if it weren’t so completely misplaced.
“Well, yeah, he did,” Crowley acknowledges. “But he’s a friend. No hard feelings.”
“How can you say that!” Aziraphale bursts out, before glancing around anxiously and lowering his voice. “How can you call him a friend when he–”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Crowley dismisses, shifting uncomfortably. “I wasn"t lying when I said I’d hardly noticed him. Didn’t remember he’d been there at all ‘till he brought it up. And trust me, if he’d wanted me to remember it, I would’ve.”
“So he tortured you politely, did he?” Aziraphale snaps, some of his anger turning on Crowley. “And that makes it alright?”
“Hop off your high horse, angel,” Crowley growls. “It’s not like he chose to, anymore than I chose to get tortured. It was a reward for him, and a punishment for me. We happened to be on opposite sides of management’s favor that decade. But we were both just doing what we were told.”
Aziraphale looks vaguely ill. “Torturing other demons is considered a reward down here?”
Crowley hedges. “Depends on the demon.”
“But torturing you is a reward?”
“No, hang on– not me, specifically. But torturing a higher ranking demon is, well… it’s a feather in the cap, so to speak,” Crowley explains. He’d really, really rather not be talking about this, but then again, he’d rather not be in Hell with an overbearing angel in the first place, so it just goes to show you can’t always get what you want.
“And you’re a high ranking demon,” Aziraphale says flatly.
“Well… I suppose. By some standards. Y’know. Comparatively.”
“Compared to what?”
Crowley winces. “All other demons?”
Aziraphale"s eyes narrow, and he looks like he’s about to ask more questions, but Crowley cuts him off with a hiss.
“Look, not that this conversation isn’t thrilling, but perhaps we can save it for when we’re…” he cuts off, glancing around them pointedly, “somewhere a bit more private.”
Aziraphale nods slowly, letting it drop, but it’s clear he won"t forget it. Crowley groans internally at the thought of having to go over the demon hierarchy with him. It’s all rather boring, really. Maybe he"ll be able to distract him with dinner plans? A nice evening at the Ritz?
They keep walking in rather weighted silence. Crowley tries to break it by pointing out more spelling errors on some of the signs they pass, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem in the mood.
Finally, they arrive at Hastur’s office. The door is ajar, and the lights inside are buzzing.
“This is it,” Crowley tells Aziraphale in a low voice. “Follow my lead.”
Creeping up slowly, he peeks through the gap in the door– plenty wide enough for him to look in, but not enough for him to slip through.
“Is he in there?” Aziraphale asks anxiously from behind Crowley, leaning to peer over his shoulder.
“No,” Crowley mutters back. “But the book is.”
~
“Well, what are you waiting for!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Let’s grab the book and be done with it!”
Crowley stops him when he tries to move forward. Thinks back to what Alastor had said, about spotting Hastur with something that smelled holy. He darts his tongue out, but there’s a ward on the door, and he can’t smell anything beyond it. “No. This is too easy.”
Whirling around, he spots Eric creeping around a corner. “Oi! You! Get over here!”
Eric jerks up in surprise. “Me?” He squeaks.
“No, the invisible demon behind you– Yes, you!” Crowley snaps, gesturing him over. “On you get. I don"t have all day.”
“What, uh,” Eric giggles nervously. “What can I do for ya?”
“Walk through that door for me, would you?” Crowley instructs, waving towards Hastur’s office.
Eric blinks. “That’s all? Just walk through?”
“Easy as that,” Crowley agrees easily, backing up to give him space.
Looking baffled, Eric takes a few steps forward, pushing cautiously through the door– and instantly, a bucket falls from above, dumping liquid on him. Eric screeches, but it’s too late. It’s holy water. Within seconds, he’s a pile of bubbling sludge, and then even that’s gone, sunken away into the floor as if he’d never existed.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale cries after a moment of heavy silence, looking appalled, “You’ve killed him! And you– you knew–”
“Chin up, angel,” Crowley rolls his eyes. “He’ll be back in a tick.”
“He’s dead! Melted!” Aziraphale insists, aghast.
“Ah, actually I"m alright,” Eric pipes up cheerfully from behind them. “But I appreciate the concern, mate! Good looking out!”
He prances over and claps Aziraphale on the back– not in the spot that’s meant to hurt, but in a genuinely companionable way. Eric is weird.
“What– but–” Aziraphale stutters. He turns back to the doorway, but there’s nothing there– no indication that anything had happened at all.
Eric puffs up importantly. “I’m the Disposable Demon around here. DD, I’m called. Kind of a big deal, me.”
“Yes, right, thank you Eric,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his temple. “I owe you one.”
“Really?” Eric asks, perking up even further.
“Ehhh… No,” Crowley winces. “Not really. Sorry. But, how’s this– you can tell everyone I owe you, and I won"t say otherwise.”
“Seriously?” Eric asks gleefully. “That’s even better than if you actually did owe me! Thanks, Crawly!”
He scurries off, more pep in his step than seems fitting for a demon.
“He came back from holy water,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking shell-shocked.
“Yep,” Crowley agrees, popping the "p".
“That shouldn’t be possible.
That sort of power–” Aziraphale breaks off with a gasp. “If holy water can’t do it… Can he even be killed at all?”
“Probably not,” Crowley admits. “I’ll tell you one thing, we’re lucky he’s so bone-dead stupid, or he"d be running Hell by now.”
“Shax!” Eric’s voice calls delightedly from down the hallway. “Did you hear Crawly owes me a favor? No, really! He said so!”
There’s a sound rather like something sizzling, and then the scent of burnt hair wafts down the hall.
“She strikes him down with lightning whenever he gets to be too much,” Crowley explains.
“Right,” Aziraphale nods absently, processing. Then he frowns. “Why didn’t you just have me walk through the door, if you were worried about holy water?”
“You"re supposed to be a demon. Can"t exactly have you publicly surviving holy water, now, can we? ‘Sides, if I’d done that, we’d still have a nasty, lethal holy puddle to clean up.” Crowley gestures at the spotless floor beneath the doorframe. “Nice thing about Eric– when you dissolve him, he takes the mess with him.”
“You melted him,” Aziraphale says slowly, “Because you’d rather not mop.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it just sounds rude,” Crowley grumbles. “Anyway, the office should be safe now. And, the good news is, that idiotic booby-trap means Hastur probably wasn’t working under orders. Just wanted me dead.”
“Oh, Crawly,” a slimy voice says from behind them. “Why can"t it be both?”
~
“Hastur,” Crowley spits, turning to face the demon. “There had better be a damn good explanation for this.”
“Oh, there is,” Hastur assures smugly. There’s a bit of skin peeling off his face, and he scratches at it idly while he speaks. “I’m operating under orders from Beelzebub themselves.”
“Beelzebub asked you to try to kill me?” Crowley asks incredulously. He doesn’t buy it. Beelzebub isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, but they aren’t careless, and Crowley’s too highly ranked to kill without good reason.
“Not quite. That bit was a spark of my own genius,” Hastur grins. His teeth are rotten. “But they did ask me to spy on you.”
“Why?” Crowley demands, stalking forward.
Hastur looks at him almost pityingly. “What, did you think we just handed you the Antichrist and left you to do as you please?”
‘Yes, obviously,’ doesn’t seem like the right answer, so Crowley just hisses instead.
“I’ve been keeping tabs, now and then. And you’ll never guess who I saw you hanging around the other day,” Hastur grins unpleasantly. His gaze shifts to fall pointedly on Aziraphale. “Hmmm. That demon looks awful familiar.”
Crowley’s blood runs cold. Well, colder than usual– snake, and all. If he’s in trouble, that’s unpleasant, but manageable. Nothing new, really– he’s on Hell’s bad side more often than not, these days. But if word reaches Heaven that Aziraphale had associated with a demon…
He knew he should never have let the angel come.
“I saw you bring that book inside after you were with him,” Hastur continues. “When I broke in, it positively reeked of all your mushy emotions, and I knew you’d come running for it. You’ve gotten so soft, these days. I was hoping the holy water would kill you, but it’ll be just as good, telling Beelzebub all about the company you keep. They’ll melt you themselves without me ever having to dirty my hands.”
Crowley opens his mouth to retort, already working out how to spin this- but before he can utter a word, he feels a strong arm shove him aside. He stumbles to the ground just as a scream erupts. By the time he looks up, Aziraphale is wiping his hands distastefully, and there’s a pile of melted demon goop under the office’s door frame.
“Well, that’s quite enough of that,” Aziraphale huffs, stepping over the mess primly and grabbing the prophecy book from the desk. “Rude creature.”
“You killed him,” Crowley says, stunned. “With holy water.”
“Oh, don"t tell me he was your friend, too?” Aziraphale scoffs, though there’s a mild undertone of anxiety, as if he’s truly not sure. “I know you forgave Alastor for the torture, but really, Crowley, there has to be a line–”
“No,” Crowley laughs, giddy. “That was brilliant. And the mess! It’s in the exact right place, as if he’d walked in through his door– and Alastor saw him with the holy water earlier, and the bucket is still right there–” He breaks off, delighted. “This is perfect! They’ll all think he put up the holy water, and was so stupid he forgot about it and killed himself!”
Aziraphale’s smile is growing with each word. “Well! That does wrap up rather neatly, doesn"t it?”
Crowley doesn’t know what comes over him. One second he’s purely, perfectly overjoyed– it’s all worked out, and Hastur is dead, and the angel is a genius and he still looks unfairly beautiful in that eyeliner. And before Crowley’s body can consult with his brain, he’s surging forward, locking Aziraphale in a kiss.
Aziraphale makes a startled noise against his mouth, and that’s all it takes for Crowley to freeze, suddenly perfectly, horribly aware of what he’s just done. He stumbles back like he’s been burned.
“I"m sorry,” Crowley manages, aghast. “Angel, I–”
“Dear,” Aziraphale interrupts, “this isn’t the place to discuss it.” His face is doing something Crowley doesn’t recognize, and it’s unnerving– the idea that after six thousand years, he might still have expressions that Crowley can’t name.
Shame and dread flood through Crowley’s body. He doesn"t know what he was thinking, of course the angel wouldn’t want–
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his voice has gentled. “Let’s go home.”
~
The journey back is suffocatingly awkward and utterly silent. Crowley grips the Bentley’s steering wheel tightly enough that his fingers leave indents in the leather. When “Somebody to Love” starts blaring from the radio, he slams the off switch so hard that it cracks. In what must be a final act of mercy, Aziraphale doesn’t comment on it.
By the time they arrive outside the bookshop, Crowley’s stomach feels like it’s been replaced with a lead weight. Aziraphale steps out of the car and begins to make his way towards the shop, and Crowley has a terrible, awful feeling that it’ll be the last he ever sees of him. No less than he deserves, of course– he doesn"t know what’s wrong with him–
“Aren"t you coming in?” Aziraphale’s voice breaks him from his thoughts. The angel is standing a few paces away, book in hand, staring back in bewilderment.
Quickly, Crowley gets out, but doesn’t move away from the Bentley. “Am I invited in?” He asks, cautious.
Aziraphale’s face does that thing where he looks equal parts fond and completely annoyed. “Goodness. You’re so clever, that sometimes I forget how utterly stupid you are–” He breaks off, grabbing Crowley’s hand and beginning to drag him forwards. “You are always invited here, dear boy.”
Stunned into silence, Crowley follows. He’d follow anywhere Aziraphale led.
As soon as they’re past the door, Crowley pulls his hand back. “Angel, what–”
He’s cut off by a pair of warm lips on his mouth. His eyes widen, and he stands frozen for an embarrassing few seconds before his brain reminds him, kiss back, idiot! And then he’s gasping, grabbing onto Aziraphale like he’s the only thing that’ll keep him from drowning. Distantly, he hears a thud that sounds suspiciously like a one-of-a-kind, utterly invaluable book of prophecy hitting the floor as its owner drops it without a second thought.
Finally, Aziraphale pulls away, panting slightly. His eyeliner is smudged, and his lips are red, and he looks entirely beautiful. “The bookshop is still one of Heaven’s Embassies,” he says raggedly. “No demons can get in without permission. I wanted to be sure we wouldn"t have any unexpected guests when I did this.”
“So– you wanted to do this?” Crowley asks, rather stupidly.
Aziraphale’s face softens. “Well, of course. Didn"t you know? I’d always thought I was rather pathetic in my affections for you.”
“Wh–” Crowley makes a sound that’s incomprehensible even to his own ears. “No! I had no idea! I was the pathetic one!”
Aziraphale looks almost offended. “I rather think not! Really, Crowley– I asked you for a gel of your scent to fill my nose.”
Crowley’s mouth drops open, feeling an absolutely inexplicable urge to prove himself the more hopeless yearner. “A demon who loathes me was able to tell how I feel just because the book I intended to give you reeked of all my ‘mushy’ emotions!”
“I allowed you to draw eyeliner on me!”
“I offered to draw eyeliner on you!”
“I suggested that you transfer into your Serpent form so that I could carry on you on my shoulders!”
“I called you a poodle and then petted you!”
“So you were petting me!”
“Well, no, not intentionally– but still!’
Aziraphale’s face, now flushed from all the arguing, freezes. Then he laughs, loudly and joyously. “Oh, my dear, I think we’ve both been rather blind.”
“Yes, I suppose we have,” Crowley agrees, blissful. He surges forward and kisses the angel again, gently, just because he can.
Aziraphale sighs contentedly, smiling. Suddenly, his half-lidded eyes fly wide open. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?” Crowley demands, adrenaline surging. “What’s wrong?”
“Eric!” Aziraphale despairs, twisting his hands anxiously. “He’ll know that Hastur wasn’t killed by the holy water in his office.”
Crowley giggles slightly. Aziraphale glares, looking terribly stressed, but he can’t help it. “Angel…” He says slowly. “Who would listen to Eric?”
And suddenly they’re both collapsing in a fit of laughter, holding onto each other.
The book lies forgotten on the floor next to them, open to one particular prophecy:
Prophecy 3216: Winged one and scaled beaste shall venture into hell’s fiere to retrieveth these words of mine. From fiere and water they will emerje; and not until the hellish journey"s ende shall truthe be seen, and the angel and demon"s harts maye enjoin as one.