Chapter Text
"I'm a demon," Azirpahale repeated. He was speaking in a near-whisper, but his voice began to rise as he continued. "I'm a foul...a loathsome... hellbound... demon. I'm damned." He began to twist his hands together in agitation, looking back at his wings every few moments for confirmation. "I'm actually cast out, on purpose, and I never even meant to Fall— why is this—I don't—"
Crowley hesitated. This certainly sounded more like Aziraphale, except perhaps for the 'loathsome' thing – that was a bit much - and though he considered the black wings to be a very bad sign, he didn't feel anything different about the angel. And watching Aziraphale fighting tears was making something with claws begin to struggle inside his chest. Against his better judgment (not to mention his demonic nature), he held out his arms. Aziraphale fell into them, now nearly sobbing.
"I went too far. It was the swearing, I know it was. I shouldn't have called him a fuckwit, should I?" Aziraphale mumbled into his shoulder. "It's so crude." Crowley could feel tears on his neck. He held on tightly and buried his fingers in dark feathers.
"And dismembering Hastur. That seemed a bit over the top, too," Aziraphale continued, between shaky breaths. "I'm an angel, I can't go around making threats like that. And I liked being an angel! What kind of life can I have now? Will I have to hurt people?" Crowley rubbed his hands over Aziraphale's back and tried to pretend he knew how to give comfort. On impulse, he kissed his temple and immediately cursed himself. That certainly wasn't what was required. Aziraphale tensed slightly in his arms.
"Perhaps it's no wonder I Fell," he said, in a very different tone. It sounded small and defeated, rather than panicked. Crowley didn't consider this an improvement. "Perhaps I was wrong about the virtue of certain... wishes." He sighed, and then Crowley felt slow, tentative fingers working their way up his back, making him shiver. "On the other hand, demons... demons can do whatever they like, can't they?" the angel asked. "Without fear of consequences. As long as it's not... not helping anyone. Right?"
Crowley tried to look at him, but Aziraphale's face was still tucked firmly into his shoulder. Or, rather, his neck, and... actually, approaching the jaw, now.
Perhaps that was what was required.
He fought back the hysterical laughter that was threatening to break out of him – really, this, after six thousand years of failed temptation on top of everything else tonight, was too much. But, well, six thousand years was a very, very long time to wait for something only to reject it over a few minor absurdities, and he still wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't all some elaborate deception of the torture roster. Better to act now and hope the illusion would hold off a few minutes before dissolving. He slid his arm closer, intending to brush fingers through the angel's hair until he could be tempted into tilting his head properly, and frowned. The hand he'd pulled back from the downy feathers was heavily smudged with soot.
"Ah," Crowley said, looking at the patch of feathers he'd just been clutching, now a thin and dirty grey rather than black. He hesitated. Aziraphale was still tracing his way across various sensitive places near his ear, then without warning shifted slightly and was now planting feathery kisses that just brushed the corner of Crowley's mouth. Thinking that he had become a demon. Thinking it didn't matter. His lips were very soft.
"Damned if I do...," Crowley muttered, and kissed him.
Kissing was much better with Aziraphale actually participating. In fact, it was even better than 'that one time' next to the duck pond, when Crowley had awakened to find the angel doing contortions with his wing and claiming it was anatomical research. He grinned a little at the memory, which Aziraphale felt and grinned back, becoming rather more enthusiastic.
Crowley completely lost a few minutes in a haze of kisses and feathers and blue eyes, and when Aziraphale finally pulled back, he had a rather demonic glint in his eye. Crowley was impressed.
"Would you like to continue this back at mine?" the angel asked between gulps of air. "I would be willing to bet that it's there. And if not..." he shrugged, "well, we can always convince someone to let us have a room at the Ritz. I hear their suites are quite well-furnished."
"Um," Crowley began. He wasn't used to playing the temptee, and he was frankly a little concerned at how well Aziraphale was doing. He fingered another couple of feathers just in case, and saw the soot brush cleanly off of them at his touch. An unfamiliar knot that may have been vaguely akin to guilt twisted into being in his belly. "Aziraphale, actually, there's, ah, something you should know."
"Mmm," Aziraphale mumbled, letting his teeth graze the place just by Crowley's collar.
"I, uh. Oh. Yes. No. No. Stop," Crowley ground out, and Aziraphale finally looked up, a little hurt. "Your wings. They... they don't seem to actually be black. See?" He held up a soot-covered hand regretfully.
Aziraphale stared, then reached back and dragged his hand across a feather. A dirty white was revealed, and he gasped. Crowley looked down at the pavement and silently cursed everything he could think of, particularly whatever passing fever had seen fit to saddle him with a plague of temporary integrity. The angel began to laugh with relief.
"Oh, this is wonderful!" he choked. "It's all right! I didn't Fall! It's all all right!"
"Yeah," Crowley agreed, looking woefully at his blackened hands. "Great. You can go back to being pure and all. Good to have you back."
"No," Aziraphale whispered, pulling his chin up. "This. It's all right." He beamed, and kissed Crowley again.
They did eventually decide to check on the angel's flat. Very eventually. It was there, with a new delivery of forgotten book orders waiting on the front step. They even discovered the Bentley parked across the street, right where Crowley had left it on Earth. When it came into view he let out a very un-demonlike whoop and ran heedlessly into the street, nearly causing several accidents involving early-morning delivery trucks. He flung himself into the car and leaned back in the seat, writhing a bit to work himself deeper into the leather. He was muttering to himself as Aziraphale approached, and was only coaxed out by a gentle finger tracing down his face and hovering under the top button of his shirt.
They found excuses to spend most of their time together for several days after that, in one place or another, though Crowley liked to complain that it made it hard for him to do his job properly.
"You have no idea how difficult it is to cause havoc and disorder and disillusionment every day when one always wakes up with one's arms full of warm angel," he complained one evening as they stood by the pond in the park.
"Well, I wake up in the clutches of a hell-spawned demon," Aziraphale replied. "I'd say that puts us pretty close to even."
Crowley smiled and tossed the ducks another crust. "I suppose so," he said. He looked around at the couples and businesspeople and children passing by, winding down their days and heading back to safe houses and warm dinners. "It's really very strange how little is different here, you know? It makes you wonder if anything actually happened at all. I mean, what the hell was the point? Is this Earth?"
"Who can tell?" Aziraphale replied. "I really try not to think about it too much, my dear. The ineffable plan is not for us to understand."
"Do you ever wonder whether the ineffable plan is really just a huge practical joke?" Crowley asked, somewhat bitterly. "That was some mess we all went through just to come full circle to where we started."
"Not exactly where we started," Aziraphale reminded him with a small smile. "And yes, I do wonder. Constantly. But you didn't hear me say that."
"Your secret is safe with me," Crowley said. "Until I need to blackmail you, of course."
"Naturally," the angel replied. He looked out across the pond, watching the reflection of the sunset colors while muted traffic sounds rattled on in the distance. "The ducks are going to bed, I think. We should probably be off before the sun's all the way down; really, one of these days I am going to have to open the shop. You're a terrible influence on me, staying in bed until noon."
"I haven't heard you complaining," Crowley grinned. "Yes, I can see a few are already in the Duck Fetal Position, as you call it. All their heads in downy comfort under their wings. How's that envy thing working out for you?"
"I'm not a bit jealous," Aziraphale said. "I have an excellent solution that doesn't involve any dislocated joints, as you should well know."
"Really?" Crowley frowned, turning back toward the park exit and slipping his arm around Aziraphale's waist. "I didn't realize you'd worked that under-the-wing thing out."
"Of course. I just sleep with my head tucked under one of yours. I think that's really much better."
They wandered out of the park, heads together as they talked. Their silhouettes melted in with those of the other Londoners, all the ungoverned crowds streaming gratefully towards home.