Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hands behind his back—as they always were these days; Aziraphale felt it as a chain reaction that began at the base of his spine and strengthened his resolve as well as his posture—eyes like an ocean storm watched the great Heavenly globe as it spun slowly in place. From here it was effortless to track Crowley: the flares of miraculous energy down the center of France, or along the coastline of South Africa, or spottily through the great expanse of China, always leading back to London—back home.

It was quite the relief.

Not that he would have blamed Crowley if his choice had been to abandon not only Britain but the planet entirely. But to think—to know—that he was still moving in his mysterious, mischievous ways made a part deep inside Aziraphale very warm indeed. Crowley had always been brave; louder, bolder, with the unending curiosity that demanded how and why and why not? Able to buck expectations without fear, while Aziraphale stood alone, vibrating down to his very soul from the terror that his carefully constructed façade would crumble under a stiff wind.

He’d not been made for all this…. rebellion and undermining and snide double-talk. He didn’t want to turn the archangels against one another while plastering on a false smile or enacting surprise, but he was a principality, a guardian. And for the promise of Crowley’s future, there was very little he wasn’t prepared to question, to throw away, to go to war for.

Even if to do it he had to rip them—and his own heart—apart in the process.

~*~

The whisky burned all the way down, and Crowley bared his teeth in satisfaction; across from him, lounging on her own sofa, Nina lazily finished the last of her wine. He was beginning to lose the thread of the conversation, but the important bits of it shone in the hazy confines of his mind, a plucked cord vibrating golden wisdom.

“Think about it,” he slurred, making a wide gesture to encompass… more. Nina looked amused. Crowley, finally gearing up for his speech, was anything but. “Some humans don't get over their great love in a single lifetime. Try four hundred lifetimes of this shite.”

Nina smirked as she clumsily placed her glass on the coffee table. “Four thousand years? That's it?”

Crowley snorted. “That's it. Like we don't exist on a timeline your puny human brain can even comprehend.” He jabbed a finger at her, bared eyes dark and narrow. “Love, real love, takes time. Proximity. Conversation. Didn't get much of that near the Beginning.” A pause, reflective. “Was I always intrigued by Aziraphale? Yeah. Lust? Sure, I got eyes. But love?” Crowley shook his head. “No, that came a lot later.”

“We’ve all seen the two of you together, Crowley,” Nina finally said, softly enough to get his hackles up. “Whatever’s going on is more than what he told you.”

“Believe that when I see it,” he grunted. Four more long pulls emptied the Talisker, and he set the heavy container down with a thud. “Thanks for the liquor.”

“Crowley, wait, come on–”

He couldn’t hope. He couldn’t. Hope was too dangerous. So he squeezed his eyes shut against it and snapped himself away, the last notes of Nina’s voice ringing in his ears.

~*~

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers to the point of pain, hoping the overly-bright cheer pulling at his cheeks disguised his discomfort. “Of course I’ll defer to your greater experience,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “As you’ve pointed out, I’ve been away quite a long time. But– but I’m here now, and ready to tackle any challenge!” He punctuated the statement with an awkward little punch.

The Metatron’s wooly brows drew together, regarding him much like a schoolmaster disappointed in an errant student. “And what of your demon friend?” the Voice of God asked pointedly, rapping a hand impatiently against his leg. “We can’t have you distracted, Aziraphale. The coming days are very important.”

“Oh, no, nothing to worry about! My attention is here, where it should be. Nothing left to say.”

Nothing except, perhaps, everything.

We’re not friends.
I don’t even like you.
I forgive you.

Aziraphale absorbed the spoonful of guilt almost without noticing; let it slide down his gullet, into his stomach, to pile amongst the rest. Each denial—each lie—built the cairn of jagged pretenses higher, each addition a wobbling reminder that it could all come spilling out of that hollow space inside, too large and yet too constricting all at once. The love throbbing in his soul caught on the serrated edges of all that he swallowed down, the pain his penance for using Crowlely’s feelings as a means to an end.

Because the end was his world safe and sound and free of threat—and yes, the Earth as well.

He couldn’t say what else the Metatron spoke of before he was dismissed, but as his steps led him back to the globe, Aziraphale could outline, in exacting detail—all bullet points and subheadings and color-coded highlights—exactly what he would say if Crowley allowed him another chance.

~*~

An open bottle of… something, Crowley had been above caring what he pulled out of the cabinet when he’d come storming in, was open on the table between his spread-wide legs, untouched but for the twisted-off cap. He wasn’t used to being so still—arms draped the length of the couch, head dropped back to stare at the ceiling, too despondent to even adjust around the painful twinge in his back—but fuck if he could summon the energy necessary to brood properly. Nina was well-meaning, all the humans were, really, but he always snarled away their platitudes while regretting the lack of his most important piece of armour. And it always led him back here, sitting in this sterile flat, maudlin and alone and not to be arsed about it when tears wetted his lashes.

Was this how it was going to be, then? Trying to hold onto his fury in order to cauterise the fountain of despair? Because it wasn’t fucking working.

The last time he’d had something of this import ripped from him, it was his Grace. He’d screamed as that throbbing, all-consuming Love slowly died, pounding on an invisible, ethereal shield that snapped his tether to Heaven and reattached itself to Hell. Sure, the Fall had hurt—can’t really land in boiling sulphur without a few scorch marks—but even Lucifer had sobbed apologies on his knees while the Light dimmed from his eyes.

Did Aziraphale really think he wanted to go back to that? To the place where he had to toe a righteous line, the place that had, quite literally, tossed him out on his ear?

Crowley bared his teeth. “I know why you did it,” he hissed, clenching his fists in the sofa cushions. “I know why you had to go. Six thousand years, Aziraphale. I fucking knew you couldn’t say no. You think you can finally make those wankers into something they’re not because you’re good and pure and–” He swallowed and finally looked down; at the barely-furnished room and the actually quite-nice red just waiting to pass his lips. Curling into himself, Crowley squeezed his arms around his middle, eyes gone glassy and unseeing. “You’re too good for Heaven, angel. Whole system is working the way it’s supposed to, and we’re the bloody cogs out of order. Wish you could see that.”

And he’d known. He’d known, from the moment that Aziraphale started talking, that he wasn’t being told everything. That Aziraphale was lost to him, taken by Heaven once again. But the hope welling in his chest overrode sense, until he was pulling his angel close, into a kiss borne of desperation and sorrow and goodbye.

Months later, the hole inside him where Aziraphale used to fit felt an awful lot like the saw-edged points of his broken halo, twisted and crushed into an imperfect shape that bled each time that uncontainable love rushed to the surface.

Crowley swiped a thumb under each eye and reached for the wine. He hadn’t gone so far as to shed a tear yet, and he wasn’t about to start now. Aziraphale was going to come back, and they were going to fight about it. Nothing to be done until His Supreme Holiness appeared.

But facing the spectre of sobriety was one hurdle Crowley could overcome, and he did so with gusto.

~*~

“So, that’s… it, then?” A chin scratch.

Uncertainty. “Yes, it appears so.”

“Huh. Seems a bit. Anticlimactic. Don’t you think?”

A loosening of posture. “Well, after all the hullabaloo of the Last Days, one might say we’ve earned our reprieve.”

“‘The hullabaloo’ he calls it, like we stepped into Tesco on Boxing Day.” Exasperated fondness where there should be none. “Aziraphale, sometimes I wonder about your priorities.”

Fidgeting. “That is… actually something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Shoulders hunched. Climbing. Wary. “Yeah? What of it?”

Plaintive. A cry from the soul. “Crowley, I know we’ve hurt one another badly, but can we please… talk? Just to– to clear the air.”

“I–” A deep sigh. “Yeah. Sure, angel. Let’s… talk.”

~*~

“What’s on your mind, angel?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale brought their entwined hands between them—awkward, given how they were lying together—and pressed a kiss to each of Crowley’s knuckles. “Only that retirement looks good on you.”

Crowley chuckled, dragging his mouth across the back of Aziraphale’s hand; less coordinated but full of meaning. “That our outfit for the day, then? ‘Retirement’?”

“Incorrigible,” Aziraphale accused as Crowley began the long trek up his arm, kissing every bit of revealed skin as the blanket fell away.

“Demon,” Crowley murmured against flesh that was soft and warm and starting to flush, grinning as the pink tint coloured Aziraphale from where Crowley was nibbling at his elbow to the sensitive tips of his ears.

“Ah yes, that must be why we’re about to make love at six am on a Tuesday. Your wiles have finally bested me, fiend.”

Aziraphale went easily as Crowley pushed him onto his back—a move that was absolutely not designed to silence one giggling angel—barely able to pull himself out of a soppy smile before their lips met. This kiss was slow and unhurried; a kiss for the sake of a kiss as Crowley propped himself up on an elbow and cradled Aziraphale’s jaw to better fit them together. The taste of Crowley’s mouth still contained the bitterness of that first time, running through each caress like fault lines, and Aziraphale imagined Crowley knew the same flavour as he moved to touch their tongues together.

Yet here they were, Crowley combing those long fingers through his hair and angling his chin and allowing Aziraphale to explore in any way he craved.

A scant handful of years wasn’t much time for an eternal being, and especially not to heal thousands of years of scabbed-over wounds. But as Crowley worked his way south, Aziraphale could feel that the places inside, bruised and battered, knit together, ached just a little bit less.

Crowley placed a playful nip beside the apple of Aziraphale’s throat. “Stop thinking so much. Too early for all that.”

“Oh, yes. My mistake, darling.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley on top of him, blue eyes huge and wide and shining. “Where were we?”

“Little bit west of Eastbourne, if I remember correctly.”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale’s groan, taking advantage of his distraction to pin both arms overhead. Below him, Aziraphale’s expression slowly morphed from sinful to smoldering. Heat in his own eyes, Crowley bent down to claim another kiss, this time pouring the slow-building want into it. Aziraphale sighed as Crowley pulled away, as he scratched his morning stubble along one bared collarbone.

When he spoke, it was low, directly into Aziraphale’s ear. “Left off about here, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale shivered, arousal pumping through his veins, carried on waves of love, love, love.

“Yes, darling, I believe we did.”

~*~