Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aziraphale’s nerves are frayed: not for himself, but for a very special friend. The angel frets, wringing his hands together in concern as he looks over those beautiful nebulas, splashes of color in the night sky. Some angels had started to Fall, and the moment the first ethereal being’s wings turned pitch black before they plummeted down into the unknown, he had felt a gnawing, deep fear in his chest that his beloved friend would eventually suffer the same fate. He had always loved asking questions, after all, and Upstairs wasn’t too keen on having to explain their methods or thought processes; angels were supposed to obey and do Her work, exactly as She intended, and there had never been a suggestions box.

So far, so good, and not even the rumours of his friend’s acquaintance with Lucifer himself had shattered his hopes that the starmaker would remain an angel. He is admiring his friend’s work, those beautiful nebulas and star factories-- gorgeous colors, really, the shape and depth of it all was truly stunning, the other angel really knew how to make these things-- when a sudden sense of wrongness overcomes him, and he turns around to find his friend flying in his direction, only to stumble and fall onto his knees, as if unable to keep himself up for much longer.

And his wings… his wings…

“Aziraphale,” he says, barely managing not to stammer, his name sounding almost pained, so unlike the happy and easygoing way Aziraphale usually hears it. He kneels down in front of the starmaker, his hands already trembling as he cradles his friend’s cheeks oh so gently, as if afraid he would break if he applied the slightest pressure. He tries not to look away from those tear-stained cheeks, he really does, but his eyes stray to the state of his wings, the most magnificent he had ever seen, now becoming a dull grey color, the singed feathers slowly burning away with a quiet hiss, like embers lighting up the dark.

His friend, his beloved starmaker, the most brilliant angel he had ever seen, he’s… He’s…

“I’m Falling,” he whispers, the sound choked out, and Aziraphale looks back into those beautiful eyes then, his own tear ducts responding immediately at the sheer magnitude of what is happening. He’s Falling, he’s Falling, and surely there must be something they can do to revert this and make Her reconsider…? His wings may have turned grey, sure, but only a few feathers have burned as of yet. Maybe if they tried to make Her reconsider, maybe if they bargained and his dear friend promised to never ask any questions ever again…

“No,” Aziraphale replies, surprising even himself with the force of his own desperation, his throat nearly closing up from how vehemently he is trying to keep his tears at bay. The effort is useless, of course: they keep on falling as freely as the starmaker’s. “No, this cannot be. You’re an angel! You’re one of Her best! Surely there is something we can do, someone we can talk to--”

“Aziraphale--”

Too panicked and frantic to even notice his beloved friend’s attempt to stop him, the angel continues, desperate to do something, anything that will make this all stop and go back to how it used to be.

“Upstairs must have made a mistake.” She must have made a mistake, he almost says, but catches himself just in time, certain that that would make him Fall right after. “I’ll ask them, I’ll talk to them right now-- this can only be a mistake, my dear, I--”

“Aziraphale, please--” the other angel says, his voice strained as his feathers burn further and he feels his body becoming heavier, like an unknown force is starting to pull him down. His fingers curl tight against the perfect white of Aziraphale’s clothes, all but clawing at his arms, hoping that holding on will make this moment last as long as it possibly can; that he will stay by Aziraphale’s side for as long as he can. For however long they both still have.

“I’ll ask Gabriel, or even Michael, surely they will tell me why--”

“Aziraphale, stop!”

And Aziraphale does. He goes quiet then, not because his friend told him to, not because he processed those words-- he barely even heard them-- but because of how broken he sounds, how utterly desperate and defeated those words come out as. His chaotic thoughts screech to a halt, and he can finally focus on the starmaker-- he can finally see him-- and the understanding dawning in his expression makes something snap in the Falling angel’s eyes.

"Don't, please," he whispers, holding on tighter to Aziraphale. "I have already talked to all of them, and made every single question I could think of. I… I think that only made things worse, actually," he says with a grimace and a humorless chuckle, remembering that the very reason behind his Fall was asking too many questions to begin with. Aziraphale feels a very strange thing, a most unusual thought indeed, a brand new, disturbing feeling settling in the pit of his stomach and sinking its claws in: guilt. He is the reason his beloved friend even started asking questions in the first place, after all; he still remembers the day they met, and the moment he shattered his joy by telling him Her entire creation-- and his creations, by extension—were meant to disappear in only a few millennia.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in reply, helplessly, uselessly. The powerlessness he feels at the sight of the other angel Falling right before his eyes threatens to overwhelm him, his love for the other ethereal being far surpassing the love that is ever present and inherent to his angelic nature. “But then-- what do we do?” He asks, trying to stop his voice from trembling and failing, his fingers gently caressing through red strands of hair. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet it’s barely audible. “What can I do?”

The other angel, the Falling angel, swallows hard against the tears before finally replying, “Stay with me. For however long this torture lasts.”

And so he does. Nodding shakily, Aziraphale pulls his beloved friend in for a tight embrace, before he has to let him go so he can look at him, trying to commit every detail of his perfect face to memory, as if he could ever forget. Aziraphale is so overcome by emotion that, for a moment, he thinks about kissing the other angel, and a frightening thought forms in his mind at that: maybe it will even make me Fall with him. Would it be so bad, Falling together?

He's brought back from his thoughts by the sound of the other angel’s voice, and by then, Aziraphale is unsure of how long has passed, but his stomach sinks to a bottomless pit when he realizes just how his darling friend’s wings have shifted and changed.

“I’m scared,” the starmaker says as his wings turn fully black, and Aziraphale finally pulls him into a bruising, desperate kiss, tasting starlight and nebulas and salt, and then a strange force seems to break them apart, thousands of times stronger than gravity. They stare at each other with wide eyes, panic and fear written in them, and not even the way Aziraphale is holding on tight to the starmaker’s hands can stop what happens next: the other angel plummets down into the darkness, as if the dark sky has already claimed him, as if Falling has erased him from existence. Aziraphale screams out his name, his desperation both divine and unholy, and he stays on his knees for what feels like eons, staring down into nothingness, his tears blurring his eyes as the scent of charred feathers permeates and clings to his senses.

Several millennia later, Crowley wakes up from his recurring nightmare drenched in sweat, hissing like a snake about to strike, looking wildly at his surroundings as if in self-defense, feeling the heat of burning feathers and the pain of boiling sulphur. In his agitation, he turns into his true form and then back again, knocking a few books off a haphazard pile in the process, and the sudden sound makes a very familiar-- and very concerned-- voice speak up from across the bookshop, before appearing before him and looking down at the well-worn sofa and the demon currently occupying it.

“Is everything alright, my dear? You look dreadfully pale.”

As well-versed in Aziraphale-speak as he is, Crowley could recognize the concern hidden behind those words even if it hadn’t been blatantly obvious in his expression. Without saying a word, he nods a shaky yes and reaches for the angel’s hand, pulling him in closer as he sits up and scoots over to the other end of the sofa. “Stay,” he says, the word barely audible, and the angel simply nods, a small smile forming on his lips.

Unlike what happened eons ago, when white wings became black and the scent of burnt feathers stuck to his senses for centuries, he’ll remain by Crowley’s side for as long as his beloved demon needs him to. For as long as they both need to.