Memory of Eden!Book!Aziraphale: I’ve been in love with you since the Apocalypse, but I’ll keep quiet because I know you don’t love me that way.
Memory of Eden!Book!Crowley: You’re my f— fr— colleague.
TV! Aziraphale: You know, I think I might be friends with you after all!
TV!Crowley: It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I fell in love with you. It was somewhere between when I found out you gave away your flaming sword and when you protected me from the first raindrops. Somewhere in there.
Not that there was a lot of air to begin with, seeing as this was Hell and all, but what there was was opaque with thick, dark smoke.
Crawly huddled further into the crevice he had found. The hooting and screaming of the celebrating demons echoed off the stone, but he was far enough from the main point of revelry that he could hide here, unnoticed in the dark haze.
The cacophony died down for a moment, before raising to new heights in a shower of cheering, and Crawly knew one more of the newly minted demons had thrown the remains of his white plumage into the bonfire.
Another wave of dark smoke wafted past his hiding place, the magic sunk into the quills giving the smoke an acrid quality unfound in the remains of mortal feathers. Crawly squeezed himself further into the crevice, choking on smoldering divinity.
His own wings twinged, new pin feathers making his existing plumage itch. Normally, Crawly would pull out the old, ragged feathers, making way for new, sleek ones to grow and unfurl. At least, he assumed that’s what he would normally do. Angels may have had wings, but none had molted until now - they appeared to be following the examples of the birds that roosted in the Garden.
This wasn’t an annual ritual to renew worn feathers, however. This was divine retribution. Angels had never molted, but it appeared now that demons might.
Another burst of cheering and wave of dark smoke pushed Crawly back against the wall again, bringing his attention sharply back to the itch in his wings. He had long prided himself on his neat wings, but couldn’t bring himself to comb through and pull out the battered feathers.
The ones he would be pulling out were white. And the ones that were growing in behind them were black.
Crawly hadn’t meant to Fall. He hadn’t. And he wasn’t sure he could bear the eternal reminder that he’d thrown his lot in with a bad crowd. Every time he caught a glimpse of his wings now, the dark stain across his feathers would drive the point home yet again that he had Fallen from the sight of his Father. If he had his way, Crawly would keep his existing feathers, agonizing itch or not.
A sudden shout went up and Crawly jumped. As his wings brushed the rough rock he was pressed against, loose feathers fell free of their neighbors, leaving gaps in his wings and white littered across the dark stone floor.
Crawly hesitantly reached down and picked up his wayward feathers. Two primaries and a pair of secondaries, each nearly as long as his arm. The edges of the vane were worn and frayed, the once-brilliant white faded and stained. But they were still white, and had once gleamed with ethereal divinity. Now, Fallen and fallen, the feathers were dull and matte, with no hint save their size that they were anything other than the feathers of any Earthly bird.
As the cheering grew louder, a thought suddenly occurred to Crawly. He had heard a rumor that the Morningstar would soon be sending a demon up to "cause some trouble." If he made sure he was that demon... He turned one of the primaries over in his hands, absently fingering the ragged edge. These feathers were nearly indistinguishable from ordinary ones, so as long as he never told a soul...he could, maybe, perhaps...keep one of his.
His hands clutched the feathers tighter reflexively, the quills flexing under his fingers. He would have to make sure to never breathe a word to anyone. The other denizens of Hell would shred his being to nothingness if they knew how tightly he was clinging to any traces of divinity. He would never be able to hide of his primaries effectively: the flight feathers were among his longest and would never pass for those of a normal bird.
Crawly cast a critical eye over one of his wings, the gaps from loose white feathers easier to ignore with his new plan in mind. The secondaries were also long, but one of the tertials might work... He ran his free hand over the short row of tertials until he found one high on his wing, close to the joint and slightly awkward to reach. It wasn't new by any stretch, but it had been partially protected by its neighboring feathers, so it wasn't nearly as ragged as its fellows. It was small enough to tuck away in a discreet pocket, but not too small. It was perfect.
Crawly ran his fingers reverently over its symmetrical length before grabbing it gently and tugging, hoping it was loose. It wasn't. Another wave of noxious smoke filtered its way into his hiding place, and Crawly knew he didn't have the time required to wait for it to fall out naturally. He gritted his teeth and gripped the quill firmly before pulling in a sharp tug.
He gasped, the stabbing pain shooting deep into the bone, where the feather was still rooted. It hadn't budged. Crawly let his breath out in an aggravated hiss, then shifted his grip and tried again, yanking as hard as he could. The feather tore loose, leaving a dark throbbing pain in the flesh of his wing. Crawly hissed, breathing sharply through his teeth. After a few seconds, he straightened, leaning back against the wall as much as he dared with his damaged wing.
He examined his prize. The feather hadn't been damaged, but there was blood at the tip of the quill where he had uprooted it. He cleaned it with a miracle and conjured a small clean cloth, which he used to gently wrap the feather with shaking fingers. He tucked it carefully into his clothing, just over his heart, triple checking that it wouldn't fall loose or become accidentally visible if he shifted.
Then Crawly sank down to sit at the bottom of his crevice, hugging his knees tightly in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking. He wrapped his ragged wings around himself, trying to block out the sounds of delighted demons and the scent of burning feathers. In a moment, he would have to start combing through his wings to pull free any loose feathers. He would need to saunter to the bonfire and throw his white feathers in, renouncing his angelic past irrevocably. He would need to inveigle his way into Lucifer's good graces, enough to get the mission topside. He would need to be, in short, in top form. But first he could sit here and mourn the loss of something he didn't know he could lose.
Just for a minute.
2.
Crowley frowned and rolled his shoulders. Something didn’t seem right. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something felt...off.
He rolled his shoulders again, but it didn’t seem to help. There was just something...an itch—
“Crowley, are you even listening to me?” The angel almost looked exasperated, which was odd, since Crowley’d gotten used to him looking angry at this point in the proceedings.
“Sorry,” Crowley apologized, lying badly. “Where were we? Up to the smiting already? Or were you still working on listing my sins?” He bared his teeth in a salesman’s smile.
The angel sighed. “Well now it hardly seems worth it.” His bronze sword slumped, until the tip was pointed harmlessly at the ground.
The angel Aziraphale had been Crowley’s on-and-off nemesis for a thousand years, give or take. If the demon had to pick an archenemy, he supposed “overly fussy angel” would do.
Crowley had first met Aziraphale during the whole snafu with the Garden. After that, he hadn't seen him for almost two hundred years. Crowley had been trying to encourage a little greed by convincing merchants that just under six talents of grain was the same thing as six talents of grain, so really, there was no harm in charging the same for both. Aziraphale had shown up out of nowhere and taken umbrage at it for some reason, and that had been that. (Crowley still thought longingly of the sleek dark hair of that corporation. Hell had never quite gotten the same shade since.)
He'd run into the angel a dozen times since then. Each time, Aziraphale had managed to thwart Crowley's latest bit of creativity (which was irritating), but had only successfully discorporated Crowley six of those (which was much less so). This was their fourteenth encounter since the Garden and Crowley had hopes of keeping his 50-50 survival rate intact.
Of course, that would only work as long as Crowley could keep Aziraphale's sword pointed firmly away from him.
"Sorry," Crowley said easily, slightly more genuine this time. As much has he hated running into the angel, he had to admit that he made things more interesting. "I've just got this damnable itch between my shoulder blades and it's distracting as Somewhere."
Aziraphale brightened. "You too?" he asked. "I've been wondering if I've been imagining it. No matter how much I scratch, it doesn't seem to help." He looked a little distraught at that.
Crowley just gaped. Whatever he'd been expecting from engaging Aziraphale in conversation, it wasn't that. The angel almost seemed...companionable. A far cry from how he had looked with a blade to Crowley's throat.
Crowley resolved not to bring up the Babel thing again, just in case Aziraphale would happen to remember how angry he was supposed to be right now. (Crowley'd gotten slightly squashed when the Tower came down and everything, so it's not like he hadn't been punished for it already.)
He cleared his throat. "It sort of feels like it's itching inside of you," he offered. "Like it's not on the skin at all."
"Exactly!" Aziraphale exclaimed. By now, he was leaning on his sword as if he'd forgotten it was there entirely. "Like it's somewhere else altogether."
"Sort of feels like when I was molting," Crowley said absently, keeping a close eye on the sword. The tip was beginning to sink into the soft ground under Aziraphale's weight, and if the angel had to pull it loose, he might remember it was there. Crowley was trying to figure out a way to support the tip with a miracle without the angel noticing, when he realized what he had said.
He froze. He hadn't meant to say that. He had resolved to never mention that month again. Aside from checking every century or so that his single white tertial was still safely hidden in a hollow under a rock outside Eden, he hadn't thought about it since. He had kept his dark wings out of sight as much as possible and tried to forget they were ever any other color.
Aziraphale didn't seem to have noticed his panic. "That's it!" he shouted, snapping his fingers in delight. "You're right, my dear demon; this is just like molting!" Aziraphale looked relieved to have figured it out. "I can't believe I hadn't realized," he told Crowley conversationally. "It seems so simple when you say it."
Crowley just nodded numbly. Did...did the angel just imply he'd also molted? That it hadn't just been the demons who had been stripped of their original feathers? ...and had the angel just called him dear?
There were way too many parts of this conversation to digest right now, not least of which was that he was apparently molting. Again.
"I have to go," he blurted. Aziraphale looked taken aback, but before he could stop him or say anything, Crowley had turned and darted off, trying to get as far from the angel as he could. He could have turned into a snake and slithered away, but he wasn't keen on reminding Aziraphale of the Garden thing. And the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was pull out his wings.
So he turned and ran. No, it wasn't the most dignified of responses, but sometimes a demon doesn't have a lot of options.
3.
Crowley didn't see Aziraphale for two hundred and fifty-seven years after the Babel Incident, as he had taken to calling it in his head (both for the Tower and the unsettling conversation that had ensued). In that time, he had pointedly avoided the subject of molt, even in his own mind. After he ran into Aziraphale again in Uruk, he pointedly avoided it there too.
Aziraphale didn't mention the exchange either, though Crowley's survival rate had increased from 50-50 to 70-30 and he was even edging into 80-20 territory by the end of the millennium.
The word "dear" did not make a reappearance.
A thousand years after the Babel Incident, Crowley was convincing the newest Mentuhotep that a temple to Montu-Ra in Thebes wouldn't necessarily anger Thoth when a slight twinge that he had brushed off revealed itself to be more of an itch than a twinge, and an ethereal one at that.
He locked himself in his chambers at the pharaoh's palace. When he emerged, four weeks later and freshly molted, he refused to tell anyone what he had been doing or what the smudge of dark, acrid ash was from in the center of his floor.
4.
"I'm not sure David quite has the stones for this," Crowley said idly.
Next to him, Aziraphale sighed. "Hush," he admonished. He paused. "And that was a terrible pun."
Crowley snorted gently. "It's as good a pun as you could hope to find and you know it."
Aziraphale just sniffed primly, which Crowley took as agreement.
The pair were perched on a bluff just above the main show: David v. Goliath. Nominally, Crowley was there to support the Philistine, but Aziraphale had this whole thing with a slingshot planned and the kid was kinda cute, so Crowley decided Hell was going to gracefully fold on this one.
The crowd was really starting to get revved up when Crowley broke the companionable silence that had fallen. "Hey, angel," he started casually.
"Hmm?" Aziraphale asked, only half listening, his focus on the figures below them.
"I--" he broke off. "Do you--" He stopped. How did he want to put this? He was about to give up on the whole thing entirely - what on earth had he been thinking, bringing it up at all - when the angel turned to him with concern across his face.
"Crowley?" he asked gently. "Is everything alright?"
Behind Aziraphale, Crowley could see the boy leaning back and readying his slingshot.
"I--"
The boy let loose and a great cheer went up, deafening both angel and demon for a moment as Goliath fell dead to the ground.
"My wings are itching," he managed at last through the cacophony.
Aziraphale looked relieved. "Oh, is that all, you silly dear. I was worried it was something serious." He turned back to the center of the action and frowned. "Is it over already? No matter," he turned back to Crowley. "Are you sure that's all that's bothering you, my dear?"
"Yes," Crowley said after a moment of difficulty. It had taken a minute for him to recover after both Aziraphale's unconcerned response and the word "dear" reappearing. Twice. "I just, er, wanted to let you know," he said awkwardly.
This had gone much smoother in his head. He silently blessed himself for thinking the angel's response would be - what? Gracious? Sympathetic? It's not like Aziraphale knew what molting meant to Crowley or how much it had taken for him to make the admission.
They watched the armies for a moment, but Crowley could feel Aziraphale still mulling over their conversation in his mind. The Israelites were still cheering and a few had actually lifted David up on their shoulders in glee. But as they watched, the Philistines turned and fled, the majority of the Israelite army in hot pursuit.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said slowly. "Was there any particular reason you wanted me to know?" The that you've started molting again went unsaid.
"No," Crowley croaked. Then he cleared his throat. "No reason, Aziraphale. Just making conversation." He stood up quickly and started making his way down the bluff. "Gotta get going, you know, need to tell Hell what went down with the Philistine thing," he called back, not looking at the angel.
"Right," he heard Aziraphale say softly. Then, louder, and almost tentative, he added "I'll see you later?"
Crowley paused at the bottom of the hill, only a few stragglers left now from the large crowds that had gathered. He looked back up at his archenemy. Aziraphale was still perched on the edge where he and Crowley had been sitting. The angel's hands were folded neatly in his lap, but his shoulders were stiff. "Yeah." Crowley's throat was dry. "I'll be around. Just," he added, "don't count on me for the next six weeks or so, there's a chap."
Aziraphale looked relieved and the tension bled out of his shoulders. "I'll see you later," he repeated, firmer this time.
Crowley just gave him a wave of acknowledgement and walked away, letting out a slow breath. That could have gone much worse. Now he just had to find a nice, isolated corner of Hell to hole up in for a month. Easy peasy.
5.
Crowley could feel the tell-tale itch in his wings.
He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench in Samaria's finest drinking establishment. He tried to tune back into what Aziraphale was saying.
"--upid law, stupid census. Who even needs to know how many - hic - many people there are? Jus' gonna keep moving around anyway." The angel was ranting about that census-thing, Crowley recalled. Something about having to move everything 70 miles just after he'd gotten everything in place.
"I'd just finished with the star," Aziraphale exclaimed. "Now I have to move it because Someone," he glared at some indeterminate point across the bar, "decided to move everything. Bloody Quirrr'nius," he muttered.
"Bloody Quirinius," Crowley agreed. Then something occurred to him. "Wasn't it...whatsssit...foretold that it'd be Bethlehem?" He squinted at Aziraphale across the table.
The angel glared at him. "Didn't think they'd follow through with it," he groused. "Not after the carpenter was living in bloody Nazareth," he said loudly, raising his voice and slamming his cup on the table. A few of the other patrons glanced over, but it was loud enough in the bar that their conversation when mostly unnoticed. Everyone else was complaining about having to travel for the census as well.
Crowley nodded absently, his wings itching. He rolled his shoulders, but it didn't help. "Angel," he said abruptly. "How do angels molt?"
"Hmm?" Aziraphale hummed, thrown by the sudden topic change. "Molting? Like with the wings and feathers and things?" he clarified.
Now that he'd started this line of questioning, Crowley realized he really did want to know. "Yesss," he hissed firmly. "With the wings and feathers and things. Molting," he added again, in case that would help clear things up.
Aziraphale leaned heavily on one elbow, propping his head in his hand. "'S same as birds," he offered. "It gets all itchy, then the old feathers fall out and new ones grow in. Damnably uncomfortable," he confided in Crowley. "Hurts like Somewhere."
Crowley shook his head impatiently. "I know that, Azzzir'phil," he slurred. "What I mean 's how do angels do it? How d'you, y'know." He gestured expansively with his cup, sloshing date wine sloppily across the table.
"Ohhh," Aziraphale nodded loosely, almost knocking his arm over. "How do angels--" At Crowley's enthusiastic nod, he continued. "I'm sure 's a lot like Hell," Aziraphale informed him. "'Cept maybe without Raphael hovering," he said thoughtfully. "She worries," he told Crowley. "Not that she needs to," he continued without waiting for a response. "Gabriel kee - hic - keeps a close eye on us, since we're posted to - hmm - to Earth."
Aziraphale rambled on, not noticing the way Crowley had crumpled slightly at the angel's words. "Most of the Earth-angels molt in Heaven, though," he commented. "They all have - hmm - mates up there. Mates molt together. So I don't see them much. 'Specially not during molting." He shook his head. "Wouldn't want to see them anyway," he muttered. "Then I wouldn't get to see Crowley. Crowley!" he said, as if suddenly remembering the demon was there. "Crowley! What were we talking about?" He frowned. Before Crowley could say anything, the angel slammed his palm on the table in realization. "Molting! That's it! Crowley, is Heaven a lot like Hell?"
In the face of Aziraphale's beaming smile, Crowley wasn't sure how to break the news to him. "Yeah, angel, just like Hell," he said weakly, thinking that that wasn't like Hell at all. Not with the four-thousand-year-old smell of burnt feathers still lingering in the stone. Not with Hasturs and Belials waiting around corners to break the wings of molting demons at their most vulnerable. Not with the memory of watching the last traces of his divinity vanish in hellfire.
Aziraphale's smile faded slowly, a confused frown replacing it. "Crowley?" he asked. "Are you alright?"
He cleared his throat. "'Course, angel," he said, decided that he really hadn't wanted to know after all.
Aziraphale blinked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "'S not alright at all. I should sober up."
Before he could, Crowley stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Don't."
Aziraphale frowned at the hand on his arm. "Why not?" he asked slowly. "'S obviously not alright."
"Becaussse," Crowley said, the truth tripping off his tongue before he could stop it. "If you sssober up, then I have to. And I don't want to remember thisss conversssation."
He kept his eyes on his cup, not wanting to see the pity in Aziraphale's eyes.
He heard the angel clear his throat roughly. "Crowley," he started. Then "my dear." Then a moment later, he patted Crowley's hand and stood up, pulling out of his grip and leaving Crowley sitting alone at the table.
Crowley had just resigned himself to leaving the bar a sad drunk when two thunks sounded on the table in front of him. He quickly looked up to see Aziraphale sitting down across from him again, two new cups of wine on the table and a look of steely determination in his eye.
The angel lifted one cup in a toast. "To not remembering this," he toasted firmly.
After a moment, Crowley fumbled for the other. "To not remembering," he echoed.
They didn't talk about it again. Crowley molted alone.
6.
There were feathers all over the floor. All of them were Crowley's. Long, dark primaries and secondaries; smaller, symmetrical tertials; and dozens and dozens of short, fluffier coverlets.
He groaned and rolled over on the bed. It had been a long, difficult month, but at least it was over now. Molting on Earth was more painful than molting in Hell or, presumably, in Heaven, but he hadn't been able to face going back again. Not after the last time.
Regardless of what he had told Aziraphale that night, there wasn't enough alcohol in Samaria to drown out that conversation. When the itching had gotten unbearable, he had dutifully returned to Hell.
In a word, it had been, well, Hell. Ensconced in a small crevice once again (a different crevice, of course, so as to reduce the risk of someone finding him), he had spent the month waiting for an archdemon to track him down or Hastur to find him. He had nearly regrown all his feathers when he had heard a commotion from around the corner, which had turned out to be Gamigin and Astaroth holding down an imp and ruthlessly yanking out newly regrown flight feathers, rendering the small demon flightless for the next thousand years.
So no, Crowley couldn't face one more molt in Hell.
Especially after hearing Aziraphale go on about Heaven last time. Angels molting in pairs? Under the watchful eye of not one, but two archangels, both with only the well-being of their charges in mind? Yeah, Crowley wasn't going back to Hell after that.
The angels have mates up there. Mates molt together.
Aziraphale's drunken words had been haunting Crowley for a millennium. He had wanted, oh he had wanted, so so badly when Aziraphale had said that. Crowley had been a demon for four thousand years, but even he hadn't known he was capable of such jealousy.
He had seen the angel a dozen times since Bethlehem. At first, the question hovering on the tip of his tongue had been Will you molt with me?
Then the thought had occurred to Crowley, sometime around the crucifixion, that perhaps Aziraphale would say no, not because he didn't like Crowley, but because he already had someone to molt with. The thought had nestled in the back of his mind and wouldn't let go.
It became so distracting that Crowley accidentally blurted it out while Aziraphale was telling him about some new history of the Franks that was being written. "Do you have a mate?"
Aziraphale had blinked strangely at him and said "Of course not, my dear, don't be absurd." And that had been that.
It had taken another two hundred years for the demon to realize that the relief he had felt at that response hadn't been because Aziraphale might still be willing to molt with him, but because it meant Aziraphale didn't have a mate. And Crowley was very happy that Aziraphale didn't have a mate.
Three decades after that, it occurred to Crowley that the reason he was happy Aziraphale didn't have a mate was because Crowley wanted to be his mate.
By the time the Carolingians realized they weren't actually speaking Latin anymore, Crowley had resolved to ask Aziraphale to mate with him and molt with him.
The next time he saw the angel, however, had been just after the testimony against Pope John XII at the Synod of Rome. Crowley had known that Aziraphale hadn't been happy with the direction of the papacy as of late, and Crowley had to admit he had played a small part in that. He suspected that the last straw for the angel had been the multiple accusation of the pope "toasting the devil with wine."
Aziraphale had traveled down to Rome specifically to meet with Crowley. He had only stayed for five minutes.
"I thought you had changed." He hadn't looked at Crowley. "Perhaps I was wrong." Before Crowley could defend himself, it's just business shaping itself in his mouth, Aziraphale had continued. "I'm not so sure we should see each right now, Crowley," he had said delicately.
The word "dear" had not made an appearance in the entire conversation.
That had been forty years ago.
Just before his molt truly began, when the itch was just beginning to appear in the roots of his longest feathers, he had gone to the abbey at Cluny, where Aziraphale had been holed up for the better part of the century, working on monastic reforms that Crowley could see now were a reaction to his own actions with the papacy.
When he had asked for Aziraphale, the monks had told him quite firmly that their brother was not receiving any visitors. "Especially," the monk had said with a pointed look, "not any from Rome."
"Maybe," Crowley said aloud now, the only audience his own fallen feathers and newly molted wings, "we should put something in writing. Because," he told the ceiling vehemently. "It was just business. Nothing personal. Aziraphale should have known that," he added quietly.
Maybe in another decade or so, Aziraphale would be more receptive. In the meanwhile, Otto owed him a favor and a beautifully illuminated gospel book in the latest fashion could never go awry with Aziraphale.
+1.
Crowley winced at the ache in his wings. He stretched them in an attempt to ease the pain, but it only served to reawaken sections he had managed to forget about. As he stretched them, though, another pair of dark secondaries dropped to the bedspread behind him.
A moment later, Aziraphale came into the room, handing Crowley a cup of tea and reaching around him, picking up the pair of fallen feathers and setting them neatly on the floor next to the bed. "Drink that, my dear," the angel told him. "It'll be good for you."
Bemused, Crowley took a drink, coughing a moment later as the alcohol hit his corporation's throat. "Really, angel?" he asked weakly.
Aziraphale nodded firmly. "Tea with brandy is supposed to put 'hair on your chest,'" he quoted. "So I figured it might help put feathers on your wings."
Crowley just smiled and shook his head, setting the cup aside on the nightstand. "Thanks, angel, but I think I'm alright."
Aziraphale clasped his hands nervously. "Sorry, my dear. I've just never done this before."
"Never helped anyone through molt before?" Crowley asked.
"Never molted with anyone," Aziraphale corrected. "I'm afraid I don't really know what will help."
Crowley ignored the warm feeling in his chest and patted the bed behind him. "I think there are a couple tertials that got stuck," he offered. "It would help to have someone sort of comb through and pull out the loose feathers."
Aziraphale looked relieved at the task and sat down heavily behind the demon, reaching quickly for his wings, though his fingers were light.
Crowley closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Aziraphale gently combing through his wings. It was, he reflected, not all that different from the angel's fingers running through his hair or along his scales.
Aziraphale quickly worked the pair of loose tertials out, setting them neatly beside their fellows on the floor, before returning to his work.
Crowley's eyes wandered over the worn tertials, remembering another, just like them, which was still safely stowed just outside a Garden in Iran. Maybe he'd show it to Aziraphale. He had a feeling the angel would understand what it meant.
They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before a thought occurred to Crowley.
"Angel," he said slowly. "Didn't Gabriel help you with your molt?"
Aziraphale's fingers paused for a moment before resumed motion. "Only once, my dear," he said easily. "And there were many other angels molting at the same time, so he didn't have much time for me."
"Once?"
"It was just after your Tower of Babel, my dear. When we had our first real conversation since the Garden."
Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. Then, "Aziraphale, do you mean you've been molting alone?" Crowley could barely ask the question, not really wanting the angel to confirm his suspicions.
"Yes," Aziraphale said quietly after a beat of silence.
Crowley turned around, careful not to hit Aziraphale with his wing, the angel's fingers slipping easily from his feathers. "Angel," he breathed. "Are you alright?"
Aziraphale looked surprised by the question. "Of course, my dear. I should be asking you the same thing. After all," he added gently, "it's nothing more than what you have been doing."
Crowley waved away his comment impatiently. "Yes, yes. But I'm a demon, Aziraphale. I'm supposed to be alone. You--"
But Aziraphale interrupted him. "My dear," he breathed, reaching out and holding Crowley's face in his hands. "No, no, no, my dear," he whispered, leaning in and tipping his head so their foreheads were leaning against each other. "Never, my dear." His voice was quiet, but vehement. "You are never supposed to be alone, my dear Crowley."
Crowley wrapped his hands around Aziraphale's wrists, holding his angel close. "You shouldn't be alone either, angel," he said, his voice rough.
"Never again," Aziraphale vowed.
"Never again," Crowley echoed.
They sat like that for nearly half an hour before Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, breaking contact.
"Are you alright?" Crowley asked, sitting back slightly, scrutinizing his angel.
"Fine, my dear," Aziraphale soothed him. "Just an ache in my wings." He rolled his shoulders and winced. "It'll pass in a bit. It usually does."
Crowley gave an amused snort and motioned with a finger for the angel to turn around.
Aziraphale looked confused and didn't move.
"C'mon, angel," Crowley told him, amusement still evident in his tone. "Turnabout's fair play, after all. And that goes double when you're in molt too."
Aziraphale still looked confused, but he began turning. "I'm not in molt, my dear. They just ache sometimes."
"Angel," Crowley told him, "we molt every thousand years, angels and demons alike. Trust me, you're molting."
"Really?" Aziraphale asked, a strange note in his voice.
When he manifested his wings, Crowley could understand why. They looked like they hadn't been groomed in centuries, dull, worn, white feathers sticking out haphazardly at every imaginable angle.
"Angel," Crowley said, concern strangling his voice to the point that the word was almost unrecognizable. He immediately began combing through Aziraphale's wings, loose feathers dropping around him like snowfall.
Crowley cleared his throat. "When was the last time you looked at your wings, Aziraphale," he asked, dreading the answer.
Aziraphale cocked his head and Crowley could almost see the wrinkle between his eyebrows as the angel tried to remember. "Just after Bethlehem," he came up with finally. "Because you reminded me of them so I took a peek. There were feathers everywhere," he told Crowley. "So I put them back away quickly."
The demon finally let loose with the sigh that had been building since the angel's first words. "Angel," he said firmly. "There were lots of loose feathers because you've been molting without them manifested. When was the last time you properly molted?" He didn't want this answer either.
"Israel," the angel answered, more firmly this time. "Just after the Goliath debacle."
Aziraphale turned slightly, meeting Crowley's eyes. "I'm sorry if I made you worry, my dear," he said quietly. "I just couldn't stand doing it again, on Earth or in Heaven."
Crowley nodded roughly, and Aziraphale turned around again, settling himself back on the bed and relaxing into Crowley's ministration.
"Why didn't you want to molt in Heaven?" Crowley asked, a shower of longer coverlets brushing past his wrists on their way to the bedspread. He cleared his throat. "It sounded nice."
Aziraphale laughed lightly. "I wasn't sure you would remember that," he said. "But, Crowley--" He didn't turn this time, but he did reach back to touch Crowley gently on the side of his knee. "I was telling the truth; I didn't want to see any of them, even during molt. I'd much rather have been seeing you, even if my wings itched like nothing else."
Crowley laid his hand across Aziraphale's for a moment and squeezed gently before returning his fingers to the angel's wings.
"I'm glad you're here now, angel," he said quietly.
"I'm glad as well, my dear," Aziraphale said, the smile evident in his voice.
Soon, the white feathers would be stacked just as precisely next to their matching black fellows on the floor next to the bed. The bed itself would be occupied by an angel and a demon, both with freshly molted wings, as closely entwined as two beings could be.
And neither would molt alone again.
A/N: For my sister. May you never (metaphorically) molt alone.
Prompt: Man Accidentally Ends Business Call With "I Love You" (x)
Fandom: Good Omens
Worlds: 799
The Arrangement was established in AD 1020. Even before that, Crowley and his angelic counterpart had been on vaguely friendly terms, but hadn't really had any need to contact each other with any regularity.
Once the Arrangement was in place, the pair settled on meeting for drinks every century or so (to keep up with favors owed, and the like). This quickly evolved into meeting for frequently for drinks and gossip, then for dinner and existential discussions, then walks through the park and the sort of mundane details that occupied the majority of any long-term relationship.
As their meeting frequency and purpose evolved, so too did their communication methods, both to arrange physical meetings and to pass on tidbits of gossip about new purchases (Aziraphale), new inventions (Crowley), and new acquaintances (both). They mailed letters back and forth, then sent telegrams, then started exchanging phone calls. Aziraphale hadn't quite worked up to texting or email yet (which suited Crowley fine, as he was mostly bluffing when he said he knew what "emoticons" were), but Crowley had eventually pressed a mobile on him for ease of frequent contact.
There were quirks to their communication. Aziraphale always signed his letters with whatever human pseudonym he was using at the time. Crowley's always held mention of something he would tell or bring the angel the next time he saw him. Aziraphale always abbreviated Crowley's name in written communication with a C ("It saves space, my dear!"). And Crowley...well Crowley had a silent addendum on every conversation since 1793.
It was a perfectly ordinary day in June, about six years after the Business They Didn't Talk About Out Of Fear Their Superiors Might Remember To Punish Them. Aziraphale had called to schedule tea at the Ritz (as if they didn't already have a regular schedule). Crowley had hemmed and hawed about his availability, but ultimately agreed to the suggested date (as they both knew he would). Crowley ended the phone call the same way he had every letter, telegraph, and phone call for the last two centuries. A snarky send-off and an I love you, angel. It was only after he hung up that he realized he'd actually said it out loud this time.
This cued ten minutes of hyperventilating while he stared at his mobile waiting for Aziraphale to realize what he'd said and call back, followed by forty-five minutes of failing to convince himself that Aziraphale hadn't even heard him and two hours of drinking himself into an eleven-hour coma. He checked his messages when he woke up; Aziraphale hadn't called. Crowley got drunk again.
Fourteen hours later, as he miracled away the most blessedly awful hangover known to man, Crowley admitted that Aziraphale wasn't going to call him and ask about it. He mournfully contemplated the empty bottles (which obligingly refilled themselves), but decided that was probably a terrible idea.
Two days later, he and Aziraphale met at the Ritz, the same way they had every week for six years. Aziraphale greeted him warmly and proceeded to talk about a first edition of Children's and Household Tales that was coming up for auction later in the month. Crowley tentatively responded to each point his counterpart brought up, but Aziraphale didn't mention his uncharacteristic hesitance.
The topic of the Grimm brothers lasted through a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches, two trays of scones, and three glasses of champagne apiece while Crowley waited for the other conversational shoe to drop. A third tray of scones with clotted cream later, and the pair gathered themselves to leave.
"Would you care to take a turn through St James'?" asked Aziraphale as he straightened his jacket over a tartan vest.
Crowley, who had had enough of slinking his way over eggshells for the day, thank you very much, demurred with "I don't think so, angel. Not today."
"Ah, well," Aziraphale looked slightly disappointed at that, but not enough for Crowley to change his mind. "Perhaps another day."
"Perhaps so," Crowley echoed. They were outside the Ritz on the pavement by now and Crowley was about to set off in the opposite direction from Aziraphale in order to make his way back to his Mayfair flat. "I'll see you later, angel."
"Of course. I love you, my dear," Aziraphale said in parting as he turned away towards the bookshop.
Crowley missed a step or three, but by the time he had turned back, Aziraphale was a block away, strolling blithely back to his bookshop. Crowley stared after him for a good minute and a half, long enough for Aziraphale to disappear around a corner and then some, before turning towards Mayfair again and slowly walking away.
If Crowley had a distinct bounce to his step the rest of the way home, no one mentioned it.
The Derision of Sartorial Speculation - March 27, 2019
Part of my Resolution19. Read it on AO3.
Prompt: Imagine person A of your otp is reading a book late at night and person B can’t sleep so they ask person A to read to them so person A starts reading out loud and a few minutes later person B is completely knocked out and person A gives them a kiss on their forehead. (x)
Fandom: Good Omens
Words: 734
Like everything else, the clothes angels wear correspond, and since they do correspond they truly exist. Their clothes reflect their intelligence, so all the people in heaven are dressed according to their intelligence; and since one will surpass another in intelligence, one will have better quality clothing than another.
Aziraphale snorted, belatedly throwing a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. The figure next to him on the bed grumbled and rolled over.
The most intelligent wear clothes that gleam as though aflame, some radiant as though alight. The less intelligent wear pure white and soft white clothes that do not shine, and those still less intelligent wear clothes of various colors. The angels of the inmost heaven, though, are naked.
He couldn't help the chuckle this time. Beside him, the dark-haired being grumbled some more and sat up against the headboard, so they were shoulder to shoulder.
"C'mon, Zira," Crowley groaned. "It's hard enough trying to get to sleep without you giggling over there."
"I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale said, though his sincerity was belayed by the smile on his face. "I just can't help it."
"You could stop reading," Crowley interjected sourly.
"It's this Swedenborg chap," Aziraphale continued as if Crowley hadn't interrupted. "He has very...peculiar thoughts on angels."
"Swedenborg..." Crowley squinted as he tried to remember. "Swedish chap, alchemist, thought Jesus told him to stop stuffing his face?"
Aziraphale sighed. "An accurate, but limited summary, my dear."
"Well how would you put it?" Crowley asked crossly.
"A Swedish anatomist and metallurgist who believed he could talk to angels and demons and spirits and wrote a book that includes a chapter on what angels wear." Aziraphale started with a straight face and the best of intentions, but by the end he was gesticulating wildly, barely managing not to clip Crowley on the head with the thick volume he was holding.
Crowley scowled in recognition. "Was he the wanker who said the Serpent of Eden was a metaphor for the senses?"
Aziraphale pursed his lips. "And the Guardian of the Eastern Gate was a metaphor for the way self-absorption keeps you from considering doubting."
Crowley snorted in derision. "So what's he got to say that's got you in stitches? Or is it a laugh-or-cry scenario?"
"No, no, nothing like that, my dear. He just..." Aziraphale searched for a way to properly convey the sheer ridiculousness of the text. He came up empty. "Just listen."
Aziraphale cleared his throat, turned the page, and began reading, the Latin flowing cleanly and easily from his tongue. "Because angels’ clothes correspond to their intelligence, they also correspond to what is true, since all intelligence comes from divine truth."
Crowley huffed a laugh and began to sink down on the bed, relaxing into the pillows. "He obviously never saw your tartan, angel."
"Hush. So it amounts to the same thing whether you say that angels are dressed according to their intelligence or according to divine truth. The reason the garments of some angels gleam as though aflame, while the garments of others shine as though alight, is that flame corresponds to what is good, and light to what is true because of that good."
"Flaming sword," Crowley mumbled, his eyelids drooping.
"Quite. The reason some garments are pure white and soft white and do not shine, while others are of various colors, is that divine good and truth are less dazzling and are also differently accepted among less intelligent people."
The expected comment from Crowley did not emerge, and Aziraphale looked down to see the demon fast asleep. He paused in his reading and watched Crowley sleep for a moment, a soft smile spreading on his face. "Good night, my dear," he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Crowley's forehead. The demon mumbled something back that might have been "G'night, angel."
Aziraphale turned back to his book, but hesitated. It seemed quite impossible to read Swedenborg with a straight face, and Crowley had just dropped off. Besides, Aziraphale decided, the next section was on angelic housing, and Crowley was sure to enjoy listening to that.
The angel closed the book gently and set it on his nightstand. His reading light obligingly found itself dimmed, and Aziraphale settled down into the bed, curving towards his demonic companion, who curled himself into Aziraphale's warmth like the snake he once was.
If there was one thing Aziraphale hadn't expected from a brisk fall day in 1967, it was meeting Anthony J. Crowley.
He'd been doing his usual afternoon stroll through Soho, feeling somewhat more lonely than perhaps he customarily did, when he decided, on some whim that he would be forever grateful for, to pop into St. Patrick's for a brief visit.
Like all holy sites, he felt a pleasant warmth as soon as he set foot on the hallowed ground. Surveying the sanctuary with all the satisfaction of a job well done by someone else, he noticed a particularly striking man by the basin of holy water.
He was dressed in what Aziraphale had come to suppose must be the fashion of the day: an overly tight outfit in a somber black that looked out of place in the brightly lit church. With dark, round sunglasses and heeled boots to be precise. He found it a bit ridiculous, but was quietly aware that they must find him equally ridiculous for his own, more old-fashioned, apparel. Not that the thought made him anxious to match the current trend. Aziraphale had determined long ago that he would only bend to the latest fad if it was no longer the latest. It would hardly be worth updating his wardrobe for any style that lasted less than at least three decades.
Though most trends in human fashion were perplexing and often downright distasteful, Aziraphale couldn't help but note that this man seemed to wear the clothing with ease. The dark jacket flexed easily around his body as he carefully held a glass jar in the water to fill it. His black leather gloves were likewise somewhat jarring when compared to his otherwise brilliant surroundings, Aziraphale noticed. But, he admitted, to the contrary, they also seemed to fit him just as well as the rest of his ensemble, regardless of how out-of-place they seemed in context.
As he watched, the man pulled the bottle cautiously out of the water and held it nearly at arms' length, as if struggling to figure out what to do with it. Unbidden, Aziraphale felt a smile slip onto his face.
It quickly vanished, however, when the man seemed to discover an itch in the most inconvenient place, giving what could be overestimated as a full-body flinch. The general effect, however, was that the glass bottle slid against his leather gloves and began to fall.
Before he knew it, Aziraphale had reached out and caught the jar. He wasn't out of breath, which meant he must have employed a minor miracle to have made it so quickly. Hopefully Gabriel wouldn't audit his miracles any time this century. Either way, he didn't regret his slip in the slightest, as it made the man's face light up in the most relieved smile he'd seen in decades.
"Here you go," he told the man, surprised to find himself a little breathless after all. "Careful that you don't drop it again," he cautioned. "That glass would be quite a bother to clean up."
The man took the bottle back with a dazed nod, holding the bottle gingerly, close to his body this time. Good deed done, Aziraphale began to turn away, ignoring the hollow feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. There was no reason for it, after all. He'd only just met the man.
"Would you like to grab a drink?" the man blurted, and Aziraphale halted in surprise. "As thanks," he finished.
The hollow feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a warmth that Aziraphale couldn't quite attribute to the church, no matter how much he wanted to rationalize it away. "I would be delighted," he told the man.
The man adjusted his grip on the bottle, tucking it close to himself and reaching out with his free hand. "I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley."
Aziraphale smiled and shook Crowley's hand, the leather of his glove soft under Aziraphale's fingers. "Ezra Fell," he said, introducing himself by his current pseudonym. "I sometimes go by Zira," he added on impulse. He wasn't sure why it mattered to him that this human, who he had never met before and likely never would again, address him by even a portion of his true name, but he could not deny that it did matter.
Crowley grinned at him, a wide smile of delight, and for a moment, Aziraphale was so distracted he couldn't have said if he was standing in a church or on the moon.
--
Anthony Crowley turned out to be the most fascinating person Aziraphale had ever met, and he'd spent time with everyone from Virgil to Arthur Doyle. They seemed to click instantly, almost as if Crowley had been made as his mirror, a perfect foil. If Aziraphale hadn't known, deep in his corporation's bones, that his Creator had never been so generous and would never forgive him for his arrogance, Aziraphale might have wondered if Crowley had not been made just for him.
He could picture Crowley everywhere, at every point in his own history. Cutting a dashing figure through ancient Rome, rescuing him when he'd been discorporated in France during the Revolution, even standing next to him at Eden as he watched the first thunderstorm. Even now, looking back at his memories, Aziraphale could nearly taste the empty spaces around him where Crowley would have stood, slotted in so neatly it would be impossible to tell he hadn't been there the entire time, warping the emptiness around his own solitary figure into a pair of companions, two partners, a binary star system in perfect balance.
--
"Packing is exhausting," Crowley proclaimed, flopping back onto Aziraphale's bed. Though, as of today, it was their bed, really. Aziraphale felt a flutter of joy at the thought. He'd only known the man a month, but already he knew that he wanted to spend as much of Crowley's life with him as the human would allow.
"It was mostly unpacking today, my dear," Aziraphale told him in amusement. "The packing was yesterday." He flitted around the room, tucking away more pieces of his solitary life that he hadn't quite managed to get out of the way yet.
"I don't care," Crowley told him firmly. "Packing, unpacking, it's all the same to me. Moving is exhausting, angel," he declared with a wide gesture in front of him. That he happened to be gesturing at the ceiling did not seem to put him out at all, Aziraphale noted with a burst of affection.
"Well, then," Aziraphale said lightly. "Maybe you should just never move again." He didn't pause, stuffing the detritus of the 1930s into the corner of another drawer. He also didn't look at Crowley.
"Maybe," Crowley echoed, and Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice.
He chanced a look over at the bed, and Crowley was watching him with something like wonder and something like love in his gaze. "Maybe," Aziraphale repeated more firmly.
"C'mere, angel," Crowley said softly, sitting up and holding out a hand. Aziraphale went to him effortlessly, allowing himself to be pulled down next to Crowley on top of the quilt. "Zira, I--"
"What is it, my dear?" Aziraphale prompted when Crowley faltered. He reached out and gently tucked a lock of Crowley's hair behind his ear.
"I--" And Aziraphale had only known Crowley a few short weeks - though it felt like a thousand years already - but he'd never seen the man so vulnerable. "Zira, I've been alone for a long time," he said quietly, closing his eyes for a moment, and Aziraphale's heart broke a little at seeing the tears well up around his eyelashes. "I never thought I'd meet anyone who would want to spend a month with me - me, as I truly am - much less a lifetime. And I just..." he fell silent, overcome with emotion.
"I know, my dear," Aziraphale whispered to him, cupping Crowley's cheek with his palm and pressing their foreheads together until their noses brushed and their breath mingled and Crowley's face was too close for Aziraphale to see the tears in his beautiful, golden eyes. "I know."
He held Crowley close until the man's breathing evened out and Crowley fell asleep. Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to move if God themself had appeared and ordered him to. Instead, he expended a few small miracles on switching off the lights and repositioning them under the blankets instead of on top of the covers.
Aziraphale carefully lifted one of Crowley's hands from the sheets, kissed it gently, and held it, all night long. He didn't sleep.
The cool October winds whistled at the windows that night, but inside an angel kept watch over his slumbering partner and vowed to never let the man be lonely again for all the days of his life.
--
Sometimes Aziraphale wondered bleakly what he thought he was doing. Playing house with a human was never something that could be forgiven or overlooked by his superiors. It was only a matter of time before they found out. Even if his time with Crowley was long past by the time they discovered his infraction, it wouldn't stop them from issuing punishment.
Even if he managed to slide under the radar for another century, it wouldn't matter in the long run. Crowley's soul was bound for Heaven; Aziraphale refused to contemplate otherwise. But angels and human souls were strictly separated. Even if he discovered Crowley's location and broke a thousand rules and laws, he still wouldn't be able to find his beloved.
Somehow, though, when he watched Crowley coax another stubborn bromeliad into blossoming, a small, genuine smile on his face, he had to admit that it was worth it. If he lost Crowley sooner than anticipated, if he was demoted, if he Fell, if he was plunged into a column of hellfire, if he searched fruitlessly for all eternity... It would all be worth it for ever smile he could put on his dear Crowley's face.
--
They had just gotten back from Warlock's birthday party when Aziraphale got the message from Gabriel. It was clunky and awkward, the way Aziraphale could only imagine his own would have been if Crowley hadn't patiently dragged him into the twenty-first century.
"Aziraphale," Gabriel demanded. "What is the meaning of this? Was it not the point of adapting Heaven's communication system so that you could be easily reached at all times? We should have kept scrolls. I liked scrolls. Uriel liked scrolls too; I know they did. Michael liked telephones, though, so we had to switch. Ugh." It was around that time that the answering machine had run out of space and cut him off.
Aziraphale frowned at the telephone, but was distracted by Crowley's announcement that he was going out on an errand.
"That sounds fine, my dear," Aziraphale told him. "I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me," he lied. It was his standard lie for the Heavenly business he was still called upon to complete. He would have worried about how often he needed to be gone, but Crowley traveled around the country as well on technological consultations, so they could align their absences to each other's.
Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how he felt about the fact that his bookshop, once a comfortable home for one, now felt empty without two. He settled on being very thankful for Crowley's entire existence.
Once Crowley was gone, Aziraphale locked up the bookshop and walked a few blocks over to his favorite sushi restaurant. Well, third favorite sushi restaurant and his favorite to go to without Crowley. Crowley adored the conveyor belts in Aziraphale's first and second favorite restaurants, but Aziraphale preferred the chirashi from the third. The other two never seemed to get it quite right.
"Aziraphale!" Gabriel boomed. Also, Aziraphale's third favorite sushi restaurant was the only one Heaven knew about. Which was why it was so ideal for these sorts of meetings.
"Gabriel," he greeted, not quite meeting the same level of excitement as the other angel. "Why did you need to meet with me so urgently?"
And then Gabriel told him about the Apocalypse.
It was all he could do to nod in the correct places as Gabriel extolled the virtues of the coming End of Days. "Right, right," he agreed at the end. "And what's my role in all this?" He was desperately hoping his role was to tuck himself into a corner somewhere and come out when it was all over. At least that, he could do with Crowley.
"You are to take up arms alongside the rest of Heaven!" Gabriel told him cheerfully. "Come back with me and prepare for the Great War!"
No! Aziraphale's brain screamed at him. "I've got a couple things to talk care of," he prevaricated. "Earth things, you know. Principality duties and the like. I'll pop up when I've got a minute," he promised.
Gabriel didn't seem to like that very much, but he did accept it, and a moment later, he vanished.
Aziraphale immediately collapsed back into his seat as if all his strings had been cut. "Oh my," he whispered to himself. "Oh my word."
Aziraphale had once been a Guardian of Eden, with the sword, rank, and title to go along with it. He had seen six millennia of human history unfold before him and had held his beloved in his arms for fifty years. He had anticipated watching human history for another six millennia and holding his beloved for as many years as he had left.
So now, to see the world dwindle, that future history cut short, was devastating. But not as devastating as realizing he wouldn't have the millennia after that he had planned on.
Human lifespan was limited by design. But just as Aziraphale had imagined Crowley beside him for the first six thousand years of his life, he had hoped to imagine him by his side for the next six thousand. That once he'd lost Crowley standing beside him, he would still have the painful, bittersweet memory of Crowley as his companion for the rest of time, lingering in the space around him, in the empty spot that Aziraphale knew he would now reflexively compensate for for the remainder of his existence.
Which now seemed lingeringly brief. His breath caught in his throat as he had sudden visions of Crowley cut down by flaming swords or beset by hellhounds. "No," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it. There were more casualties of war than the loss of his eternity, Aziraphale knew.
He threw a few bills on the table and rushed back to the bookshop, abruptly desperate to retreat behind her familiar walls. Maybe Crowley would be home soon, he thought longingly. Then he could hold his dearest partner tight and pray and try not to become swamped by the despair he could already feel rising inside himself.
There was nothing he could do to stop the Apocalypse. It was ineffable, after all.
--
Every once in a while, when Crowley seemed surprised to find another birthday at hand, or when he cursed under his breath at the arthritis creeping through his joints, Aziraphale would excuse himself and sit in the corner of their bookshop, staring at his own hands until they stopped shaking and his vision had cleared again. Then he could wipe his face, breathe for a few minutes, and go find Crowley, a smile on his face.
His hands were never the aching, swollen mess that Crowley's became as they aged. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of his hands hurting too much to hold his books, so he had simply introduced weaknesses into the bones, sapped the strength from the muscles, allowed the skin to thin and age until it was almost like the vellum pages of his favorite tomes. He had hoped Crowley wouldn't think it an unusual sign of age.
Once, when they were younger men, when Aziraphale had found the first of Crowley's grey hairs, curled just above his ear, when Aziraphale's stomach had dropped for the first time at the inevitability of time, of aging... Once, Aziraphale had sat next to Crowley on a park bench in St. James and remarked quietly on the shortness of the human lifespan and then, quieter, on how happy he was to have the opportunity to spend any of it with Crowley.
Once, Crowley had frozen, then abruptly curled closer into Aziraphale's side and had asked Aziraphale in a rough voice to emphatically "never bring it up again, please, angel." And Aziraphale had simply curved himself over his dear, dear friend and carded a hand gently through Crowley's still-mostly-dark hair and assured him gently that he never would. It had broken his heart enough to say it the first time.
--
There was a book. Oh, thank his Creator, there was a book.
Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure where it had come from, given that he had an encyclopedic knowledge of his collection and The Nife and Accurate Prophefies were decidedly not in it, but he had elected not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Maybe the appearance of the book was itself ineffable, he thought giddily. Maybe it was a sign.
Crowley had been wound tighter than a particularly high-pitched harp string the past few days, but Aziraphale couldn't blame him. He knew he had been fraught with tension himself ever since the conversation with Gabriel. Even the tender moment with Crowley that evening hadn't dissipated his lingering dread.
He had finally deciphered the identity of the Antichrist and the location of the Apocalypse's commencement, when Aziraphale's thrill of discovery trailed off into hesitant contemplation. What was he going to do with the information? If there was anyone else he could trust to definitively wish to halt the Apocalypse...
Crowley sprang to mind instantly, but Aziraphale discarded him just as quickly. Crowley was the love of his existence, a deeply sarcastic man with a heart of gold, but he was still only human. In a battle of angels and demons... Aziraphale had to keep him safe.
The next best option was Heaven itself. Surely the angels would want to stop the Apocalypse. Surely they would. And then Aziraphale and Crowley could have the remainder of their happily ever after. So he called them.
Unfortunately, it appeared Heaven itself did not have quite the same view on Heaven's role in halting the Apocalypse as Aziraphale did. He had only just managed to extract himself from his conversation with the Metatron when the Witchfinder Sargent himself burst into the bookshop. Aziraphale only had a fleeting moment to be thankful that Crowley was out before he vanished in a beam of white light.
--
The next few hours were harrowing for Aziraphale. He had needed to get to Tadfield as quickly as possible, and so had ended up riding shotgun with Sargent Shadwell's - ahem - lady of the night. All the while, he had fretted to himself about whether Crowley was alright and how frantic he was going to be when he returned to the bookshop to find Aziraphale missing and he'd left a chalk circle on the floor, oh dear, and was he going to call the police and file a missing persons report or was there a minimum amount of time Aziraphale had to be missing for that?
So he was understandably a little distracted from the actual Apocalypse itself. Once he was himself again, it took him a moment to realize the vision of Crowley running towards him was not actually a stress-induced hallucination. For one, Crowley's skin was pale under dark soot and when he hugged Aziraphale, he smelled of smoke. For another, even Aziraphale's imagination couldn't accurately conjure up the feel of Crowley's arms around him, no matter how many times he tried to memorize it.
Then he and his partner had to introduce themselves to the Antichrist. And what a bombshell was dropped. It did oddly remind Aziraphale of a bomb strike. Or perhaps one of those grenades he'd found himself on the wrong end of once or twice. The inciting event. A moment of ringing silence. And then an explosion.
Only this explosion didn't bring rubble or fragmented metal shards. It brought--
"Me, too," Crowley said, eyes wide in astonishment.
And that didn't make sense. "What?"
"I'm immortal too," Crowley said with hushed awe. "Neither of us is going to die."
Aziraphale's world ground to a halt. "What?"
"I get to keep you," Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale could see something like wonder and something like love in his gaze, just the same after so many years together.
Then they were rudely interrupted by the attempted continuation of the Apocalypse. After a spot of encouragement, Adam sent Gabriel and the accompanying demon away, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone once more.
"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Aziraphale said, excitement bubbling up. Crowley was immortal. He wouldn't have a shade of Crowley, he would have Crowley by his side for the rest of eternity. All that was left was to discover the shape that eternity would take.
"My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate," he told Crowley, holding out a hand. "I have been stationed on Earth since Eden, and I am desperately in love with you," he added, just in case it needed saying. And now, laid bare with words, he stripped off the layers of miracles that had been keeping him aging apace with his so-called human partner.
Crowley reached out and took his hand. Aziraphale gripped as tightly as he dared. The arthritis was still running through Crowley's hands, but Aziraphale needed Crowley to understand one thing: he was not losing Crowley. Not now. No matter who Crowley was, angel or demon or other, Aziraphale was not losing him.
"Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter," he said, losing layered illusions as well. Aziraphale could feel the fingers beneath his strengthening, straightening, and slimming, and he gripped all the tighter. "I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."
All Aziraphale's half-recalled stories of the Serpent of Eden vanished abruptly. For a heart-stopping moment, all he felt was cold terror at the thought that Crowley might have died the day they met, that Aziraphale might have lost Crowley before he ever really got him.
If Crowley had needed circulation, Aziraphale might have been concerned by how tightly his was holding his partner's hand now. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"
Crowley looked surprised at his concern. It was the same look he got when Aziraphale reminded him point-blank to take his medications, and that more than anything told Aziraphale that Crowley-the-demon and Crowley-the-human were still the same fundamental Crowley.
Then Crowley told him about Ligur, which he seemed to think would be reassuring. Aziraphale was most definitely not reassured. Spine-chilling terror was not, in fact, more fun to experience for the second time in ten minutes.
Fortunately for Crowley, Lucifer decided to show up shortly afterwards, saving him a long, twenty-seven point lecture on personal safety.
At long last, however, it was over. Finally. For good. The Antichrist and his friends went their way; the young couple went theirs; and Shadwell and Madame Tracy set off for London as well.
In the light of their escape from certain doom, Crowley seemed to have forgotten how he'd come to arrive at the air base. He stuttered to a halt outside the gates, and Aziraphale was going to ask him what was wrong until he caught sight of the same thing and stopped just as abruptly.
"Is that..." he trailed off, because he knew exactly what it was. "Oh, my dear," he murmured, putting a comforting hand on Crowley's shoulder. The demon swayed into the contact, so Aziraphale slid his hand around his back to his other shoulder, pulling him into a half-hug. "What happened to her?" He knew as well as anyone who had ever met Crowley, that the Bentley was his most treasured possession.
"I--" Crowley faltered. "I thought Hell might have gotten you. And then the M25 was on fire, and..." he trailed off. "This," he finished, gesturing half-heartedly toward the shell of his precious Bentley.
Aziraphale couldn't begin to touch on all the ways that made him feel. "I love you," he told Crowley firmly. "Wait here."
It didn't talk too terribly long to track down the Antichrist, even if he did have to invoke a minor miracle or two to catch the bicycles. After a rambling explanation and a tentative question, Adam looked surprised and fixed the Bentley with a thought. Apparently he'd thought he'd undone everything already, and the car must have slipped through the cracks.
Aziraphale thanked him politely and went to find his partner.
When he arrived back at the Bentley, it was to find Crowley already tucked inside the cabin, running his hands over the steering wheel and cooing at the dash. "All right?" he asked.
Crowley looked at him. "I love you," he said. "So very much, angel." And then he kissed his hand and his cheek and his forehead and drove them back to London, holding Aziraphale's hand the entire way and using miracles to compensate for being a hand down during shifting.
The drive itself was quiet, as if neither could bring themselves to give voice to the revelations surround their, well, revelations.
At last, Crowley broke the silence. "So many years, angel," he said quietly. "So many years we could have known each other."
"I like to think we made up for it," Aziraphale said lightly. "Quality, not quantity, my dear. I can't imagine we would have been as we are if we had met as ourselves."
Crowley hummed. "You may have a point there, Zira."
"Besides," Aziraphale continued, ignoring the fluttering in his belly at the nickname. Zira was something of himself that only Crowley had. No one else called him Zira. He found he was quite content with that even now, when Crowley had the option of his full name. "It's hardly as if our paths never crossed. The Tower of Babel was yours, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Crowley admitted, glancing at Aziraphale before turning back to the miraculously reconstructed M25. "I was quite proud of that one, actually. Got me a commendation for original thinking."
"I can't say I enjoyed it as much," Aziraphale told him. "All those new languages meant more rules to learn. And the translations!" he exclaimed. "I had never imagined they could be so terrible."
Crowley snorted. "Should I be apologizing for doing my job?"
"Never," Aziraphale told him warmly. Then, "I pictured you there, you know," he said quietly, holding Crowley's hand tightly. "With me. Every lifetime, every city. You slotted into my memories as if you had always been there."
Crowley exhaled. "I never could," he confessed. "Not because you're so modern, angel," he teased, "but because I couldn't imagine you having lived and died so long ago."
Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just held Crowley's hand. "I'm here," he settled on. "Now and for always, my dear."
"I know," Crowley said, meeting his eyes again. They were full of warmth and love. "I'm so glad for it, you have no idea, Zira." Then he continued, lighter this time, with a familiar, curious smile. "I've been wondering. Did you ever met Virgil?"
"It's a beautiful day outside, isn't it, my dear?" Aziraphale asked Crowley cheerily.
Crowley just hummed in response and leaned in closer to inspect the leaves of the little fern sitting on the desk. Ever since the Apocawhoops, small green plants had been mysteriously migrating over from Crowley's Mayfair flat to A. Z. Fell Books.* Now that they were out of his carefully controlled environment, Crowley took great pains to examine each subject every day for brown spots or drooping.**
This particular specimen had begun gaining a slight yellow tinge to the underside of his leaves. Crowley had been in the middle of attempting to determine if it was a trick of the light or a sign of the fern undermining his authority, when Aziraphale had interrupted him with a chipper comment on the weather.
Aziraphale didn't seemed phased by Crowley's lukewarm response. He just cleared his throat and repeated, "It's quite beautiful out. The sun is really very warm, I'm sure. Makes you almost want to bask," he tried when Crowley didn't react.
The last entreaty gave the game away, but Crowley kept his gaze fixed firmly on the fern, even as he could feel his lips turn up at his angel's behavior.
"I couldn't possibly go anywhere, angel," Crowley said, straightening up and giving Aziraphale his best wide-eyed, beseeching look. "I'm afraid this poor soul needs me," he said, picking up the small fern and clutching it to his chest.^*
"Oh," Aziraphale's face fell comically. "Are you sure?"
"Oh yes," Crowley said, nodding emphatically. "No matter how tempting it may be outside."
Aziraphale scowled at him. "There's no need to mock me, my dear. I was simply enquiring--"
"You were trying to tempt me, angel," Crowley said, delighted. "Me. The Serpent. The Original Tempter. You were trying to tempt me with the promise of a few hours sunlight on a London afternoon. The idea is so ludicrous in and of itself that it must be mocked to the fullest extent."
Aziraphale drew himself up primly. "I was only--"
"You needn't bother," Crowley continued over Aziraphale's protest. "It's not as if spending time with you is a hardship, fall sunlight or no."
Crowley could feel his face flush at his own words, but carried on. "Besides," he said, plopping the fern back down on the desk, "It's not as if any temptation is complete without an offer of tea at the Ritz." He wrapped his fingers around Aziraphale's wrist and pulled the angel's unresisting arm around and through his own. "So, shall we?" he asked, ignoring the flush he could still feel on his face.
Aziraphale's other hand came up and gently squeezed Crowley's arm affectionately. "Of course, my dear. I thought you'd never ask!" He was beaming.
And two man-shaped beings took themselves out into the afternoon sunshine, and for a spot of tea at the Ritz.^^
--
* This, of course, had nothing to do with how Crowley had been spending more time than usual in the company of the angel who happened to own the bookstore. Of course not. It must have been some sort of dastardly, Hellish plot to unsettle him that had his beloved greenery hitching rides in the backseat of the Bentley. Crowley was willing to swear up and down that it had absolutely, positively nothing to do with the way the angel beamed at him when he saw Crowley's plants populating the bookshop.
** One could not overestimate the effect of angelic presence on the disruption of carefully ordered demonic systems.
^* Normally, Crowley would never dare to let his hair down - so to speak - so much around his plants. One never knew when they would take a mile when given the metaphorical inch. However, this particular fern had been keeping to standards - it turned out the lighting in the bookshop was much different than in Crowley's hyper-modern flat - and Crowley had been unable to find signs that the fern had let himself go, so he figured that, just this once, he could give the metaphorical inch.
^^ The fern was left behind to watch the bookshop, as early-twenty-first-century human society wasn't accustomed to two men taking their plant out for tea with them. It was also remarkably difficult to hold hands while holding a plant, and that may have posed some difficulties later on their excursion. Never fear, however, the fern well understood his place in the bookshop and in Crowley's carefully ordered hierarchy of greenery. Ferns are notoriously well-behaved plants, and while any other species may have taken Crowley's actions as a sign of weakness, this fern knew the rare gift that he had been given in being able to see Crowley this emotional. When the clematis started gossiping about Crowley and the angel, they didn't get it from the fern. It probably had something to do with how Crowley had kissed Aziraphale by the poetry books. They didn't hear it from the fern.
They'd met at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Soho Square, London in 1967.
Crowley had been very carefully wrapping up a long-planned heist to acquire a bottle of holy water. It sounded like Hell was making big plans, and a demon on his own couldn't be too careful.
He'd just turned away from the font, the nearly-full bottle carefully sealed and held gingerly in two gloved hands, when the divine heat radiating from the floor became too much and he'd winced, pulling one foot up slightly and off-balancing himself enough that the bottle had slipped against the leather of his gloves and fallen out of his reach.
Crowley had watched in horror as the glass jar fell, absently calculating the trajectory of the splashing liquid when the bottle broke. How much of his trousers would get wet? Was enough of his ankle showing for him to be instantly dissolved, or would it take time for the water to soak through the fabric of his trousers?
Just before the jar hit the marble floor, however, a hand caught it and Crowley looked up to meet the eyes of a slightly shorter man wearing tartan, a bow tie, and a jacket cut in a style popular when Victoria had been queen.
"Here you go," the man said, handing the bottle back to Crowley. "Careful that you don't drop it again; that glass would be quite a bother to clean up."
He had the warmest blue eyes Crowley had ever seen. He was suddenly struck by the insane desire to see those eyes for the rest of his unnatural life.
He blankly nodded his thanks, reeling from the realization, and the man turned to go. Before he could stop himself, Crowley had blurted out "Would you like to grab a drink? As thanks," he clarified when the man looked surprised.
"I would be delighted," the man said slowly, as if he was surprised to find himself delighted at all, but not at all unhappy about the realization.
"I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley." He cradled the sealed glass bottle carefully against his body to prevent any unforeseen breakage and held out his other hand.
"Ezra Fell," the man said. "I sometimes go by Zira."
He shook the offered hand and smiled. It was a warm smile, full of good humor, and for an instant, Crowley didn't even notice the temperature of the floor.
--
One drink had turned into several drinks which had turned into dinner and then an invitation back to Zira's bookshop. Three drinks in, Crowley had accidentally let his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, but Zira's only reaction to his unnatural eyes had been a murmured "beautiful." Crowley had blushed to his toes. The evening hadn't gone further than two bottles of wine and a conversation about misprinted Bibles, but Zira hadn't seemed interested in anything more.
Crowley wasn't sure if he was relieved (because no matter how much he liked the man, "making an effort" always seemed like too much effort to bother) or disappointed (because he did very much enjoy spending time with the man and platonic relationships rarely had the intimacy or longevity that he was daydreaming about).
He needn't have worried. Crowley had given him the telephone number for his Mayfair flat, and Zira had called the next day, asking if he'd be interested in a turn about St. James Park and perhaps a spot of tea at the Ritz.
A walk and tea had turned into another evening spent at the bookshop. Crowley ordered take-out, and the pair spent the evening comparing all the places they had been. Zira seemed remarkably well-traveled for a man of his age, and Crowley was hard-pressed to name locations neither of them had ever been to.
Wine made another appearance, but Crowley was careful not to over-imbibe this time. Miraculous sobriety would be difficult to attain with a witness and he needed to stay on his toes. Zira was deceptively easy to talk to, and Crowley was finding it hard to keep censoring himself. He had to, though; it would be impossible to explain to a mortal how he'd watched the Romans paint their statues and then convinced the amateur archaeologists that really, scrubbing the paint off wasn't so bad fourteen hundred years later.
"I was at the Hanging Gardens once," Crowley reminisced. Then he remembered himself. "Er, where they think the Hanging Gardens were," he corrected. "They had seventeen different kinds of dates," he said wistfully. "According to this archaeology article I read in a magazine once," he added.
Zira didn't seem to find this at all odd.
"I was in Normandy around 10--er, 10 years ago. Took a good look at the Bayeux Tapestry," Zira told him. "It's aged pretty well. Shame about the missing bit at the end, though." He frowned. "I'm certain the last section was very lovely."
"Can I hold your hand?" Crowley blurted out. Then, appalled at himself, he flushed both hot and cold at once.
Zira looked startled, but not upset, which was much better than the alternative. Crowley had only just met the man the day before, but he was a kindred spirit of a sort he'd never found before, and Crowley was captivated despite himself. The last six thousand years had been much, much too lonely without anyone like Zira to spend time with. He would happily spend the rest of Zira's life with him, if that was what it took to memorize the way the bookseller's nose crinkled when he laughed.
"I'm sorry," Crowley said miserably, already berating himself for his impulsiveness. Just because England had just decriminalized homosexuality and Zira wore a bow tie and smiled at him didn't mean this was going to end in anything but tears. "Please don't be mad. Forget I asked."
"Not at all, my dear," Zira said, and rested his hand on top of Crowley's where it was curled loosely around the stem of his wineglass. "I'm not sure why you think I would be angry at you. It may be the 1960s, but I spent a lot of time with Oscar Wilde, er, Oscar Wilde novels when I was younger." He smiled then, and it crinkled his nose and the skin around his eyes, and Crowley was suddenly very, very glad that his corporation didn't need oxygen to survive, because he was finding it very difficult to breathe.
"Er," and Zira hesitated then, starting to draw back his hand. "You should know, though, that I've never...with anyone. I've just never felt the need to, and it's not that I don't like you, my dear, but it would be disingenuous to--"
He broke off. Crowley had reached his hand out and grabbed Zira's before it could fully withdraw, lacing their fingers together. "Me, too," he said simply. "Me, too, angel." And he wasn't sure where the nickname came from, but it made Zira smile again, wide and happy, so Crowley resolved then and there to use it as much as possible for the rest of all the eternity they could have.
"I'm glad," Zira said quietly. He lifted their joined hands and gently kissed the back of Crowley's fingers. Then he cleared his throat and told Crowley about his trip to Indonesia about "oh, fifteen years back, I believe." The whole time, he rubbed his thumb absently across the side of Crowley's palm.
They didn't let go all evening. It was the best night of Crowley's very, very long life.
He moved into Zira's bookshop a month later.
--
The pair had been living together quite happily for just over forty years when Crowley came home one late night, white as a sheet.
"Are you alright, my dear?" Zira asked, obviously concerned, closing his book and setting it quickly aside. He hadn't even glanced at the page number, and that more than anything told Crowley how awfully he must look right now.
"I..." Crowley didn't know where to start. How did he explain to his partner that the Antichrist had just been delivered into his hands and the Apocalypse was at the door? Not for the first time, Crowley found himself tracing wrinkles and grey hair, marveling at the man who had spent half his mortal lifespan in Crowley's company and found it not at all lacking. Zira was still spry at eighty, but how could Crowley articulate the way that two, three, or even four decades had just been compressed into a mere eleven years?
Zira took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Cup of tea, I should think," he decided. "With a splash of brandy." Crowley trailed after him into the kitchen, not wanting to lose the comfort of the man's company.
Zira settled Crowley in his usual chair, set the water to boiling, and pulled out some digestives that had been sitting in the cupboard. "There you go, my dear," he comforted, running his hands soothingly along Crowley's shoulders. "Have something to eat." He dropped a kiss on the top of Crowley's head before the kettle whistled and he pulled away.
By the time the pair were comfortably settled at the table, each with a cup of tea (though Crowley's was more than half brandy) and a couple digestives, Crowley had decided on the best way to tell the man he loved about what was going on.
"You know how I said I had a work thing?" Zira nodded encouragingly. Crowley sighed and rubbed his forehead, breathing in the fumes from his spiked tea before taking a sip. "Well it got a little complicated."
Zira might have stumbled into Crowley's existence and changed the fabric of his eternity forever, but Crowley was still a demon. Traditional temptations had never appealed to him, but even the most inventive nuisances had lost their charm after he'd met Zira. Unfortunately, he was still a demon, and Hell had quotas to fill.
He'd told Zira that he was independently wealthy, but still consulted on the side for tech companies. (Zira could barely turn a computer on, much less anything else - Crowley even kept the books for the bookstore - so he didn't worry about Zira asking too many questions about his profession.) That allowed him to travel around England, and sometimes even farther afield, getting up to the sort of mischief that Hell would find acceptable. Zira traveled quite a bit as well, meeting up with various rare book collectors across the world, so it wasn't a big deal. They tried to line up their schedules so as to be gone at the same time, though. Neither one of them liked staying in the bookshop by themselves.
He'd been summoned to a late meeting, he'd told Zira. Just a quick pop over to the west side of London, he'd be back before bedtime, he'd promised. It was now considerably later than their customary bedtime and a "quick pop" to Slough had turned into a hair-raising trip past Amersham with Lucifer's child in the backseat.
"One of my...colleagues just had a child," he improvised. "I'm...concerned about his parenting techniques."
Zira frowned and covered one of Crowley's hands with his own, mimicking their second night together. As always, Crowley threaded his fingers through his partner's. He had to be more careful about it these days: Zira's hands were fragile with age and Crowley had let arthritis creep into his own. But the feel of Zira's fingers warm around his never failed to make Crowley's breath catch in his chest.
"Can you call the NSPCC?" Zira asked, drawing Crowley's focus back to the problem child in the metaphorical room. "Aren't there people for this sort of thing?"
"I don't have anything concrete," Crowley admitted. The idea of setting the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children on the American ambassador and his family was amusing, but Crowley shuddered to think of the punishment that would await him Below for the idea. "Just a feeling that they're going to raise him...wrong."
Zira sipped his own tea, his forehead furrowed in concentration. This was why Crowley loved him. Because he would stay up too late on a Wednesday night and give his full attention to any odd problem, just because Crowley need him to. Again, Crowley traced his eyes over wrinkled features that were more dear to him than he'd ever thought possible. He'd shied away from imagining what his life would be like after Zira was-- The one time he'd attempted it, he'd had a terrible panic attack and Zira had had to coax him out of bed with tea and sugar cookies.
Now, with the horror of the looming Apocalypse still quickening the blood in his veins, he let himself think of a world that would end in eleven years. That would cut short Zira's life, yes, but might also end his. The Apocalypse didn't look nearly as bad with the promise that he wouldn't have to keep living for centuries after Zira's-- But Zira would never forgive him for that kind of thinking. Not his beloved Zira, who adored such human mundanities as dusty first editions, tea at the Ritz, and sushi restaurants.
Zira put his teacup down softly. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said gently. "I'm not sure what we can do. It's not as if we could raise the child ourselves. I'm sure the parents would object if nothing else, and-- My dear?"
Crowley loosened his grip from where he had suddenly clenched tightly around Zira's fingers in realization. "Angel," he breathed, excitement and hope blossoming in his chest.
"What is it, Crowley?" Zira asked.
"We--" Crowley stopped. He looked back down at where their fingers were intertwined. At the age spots on the back of Zira's hand and the way the skin was loose around his partner's delicate bones. He looked at Zira's face and saw the wrinkles that each year had painted on his features. His heart sank. He couldn't ask such a thing of Zira. Not after so many years of putting up with Crowley. He had earned every evening sitting with his books by the fire. He carefully lifted their hands and settled a gentle kiss on Zira's thin skin. "Nothing, angel," he murmured.
Zira hrumhphed and sharply pulled his hand out of Crowley’s grip, using the hand to lift Crowley’s chin until he met Zira’s eyes.
"Anthony James Crowley," Zira began, scolding Crowley. "I may be old, but I am not infirm. Whatever you have in mind, I promise it's not going to put me in the ground." Crowley’s wince must have been obvious because Zira's voice softened and his grip turned into more of a caress. "I promise you, my dear," he said gently. "It would take much more than whatever scheme you've concocted to get rid of me. Now tell me," he demanded. "Or I’m going to eat all the raisins out of your cereal."
And he would do it, too. That was another reason Crowley loved Zira. He might be the best of humanity and the best person Crowley had ever met, but he was also just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.
Crowley relented. He folded both his hands around Zira's. "We could--and I know this sounds crazy, angel, I do--but we could help raise the kid. The family's wealthy and I've never actually met either of the parents. We could be, I don't know, surrogate grandparents, nanny and gardener, tutors, I don't know."
Zira didn't respond right away, and Crowley's shoulders drooped a little. "It sounds crazy. I know. There's no real reason to, and..."
"It does sound a little...extreme," Zira said carefully, not moving his hands from Crowley's hold. His blue eyes were searching. "It means this much to you?"
Crowley didn't know how to explain how much, so he just nodded.
Zira pulled one of his hands loose so he could place it on top of Crowley's and pat them gently. "Then that's what we shall do, my dear."
--
Raising Warlock Dowling with Zira was like nothing Crowley could have predicted. He hadn't anticipated how animated Zira would become when working with such a small child.
Crowley had taken the role of gardener, keeping an eye on the family from a distance and making sure his effect on the boy would be lessened. It wouldn't do to have unbalanced infernal influence on the Antichrist, after all. He'd made sure Zira got the nanny job, ensuring him plenty of shade and rest. Zira had given him a knowing look when Crowley had returned from the Dowlings' estate and announced that he'd found them both employ, but hadn't protested, which Crowley had taken as grudging acceptance.
Crowley had never had the inclination to imagine other lives with Zira. Why would he, when he had everything he'd never known he needed right in front of him? He'd never imagined meeting Zira during the Roman Empire or the French Revolution, because that would mean he would already be living in a post-Zira world, and that was unacceptable, no matter how much he thought Zira might have enjoyed meeting Virgil. He never allowed himself to imagine a universe where Zira was as immortal as he was. Another demon, or maybe an angel. Even a horseman or some other entity. He never let himself imagine, because that was far too painful.
He'd never imagined raising children with Zira. For one, he was a demon. For another, when they met, Zira had been a bachelor in his forties and Crowley had been a bachelor who appeared to be in his forties. There had been no space in their relationship to consider marriage and no chance of anything approaching adoption. Don't get him wrong, Crowley didn't need anything other than what he had. He had Zira, despite all odds, and that was more than enough for him.
Watching Zira with Warlock, though...Crowley began to realize the sort of shape that daydream might have taken.
Warlock's eleventh birthday eventually came, bringing with it two dozen of the most spoiled children in London, Zira's grand reveal that he'd practiced stage magic in his early twenties, and an overall increase in Crowley's stress to a severely unhealthy level.
Crowley's attention had been fractured by so many different things that he didn't realize until his partner had taken the stage that he'd yet to actually see Zira do any sleight of hand. It was so disheartening to see the man he loved being ridiculed by a gaggle of pre-teens, that Crowley turned all the agents' guns into water pistols and let the kids at it. He'd waded through the mess to find Zira and subtly corralled him back to the Bentley. It wasn't until they were both seated in the front seat and Crowley was cleaning cream cake off of Zira's lapel that he realized it was ten after eleven. The hellhound had never shown.
He must have frozen, because the next thing he knew was Zira gently prying his hands free and squeezing them gently, calling his name. "Crowley?"
Crowley blinked and shook his head. "What is it, angel?" he asked, slipping a hand free and wiping off the last smudge of cream on the light fabric.
"I was about to ask you the same question," Zira said in amusement. "Where's your head at, my dear?"
Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the lapel under his fingers, brushing away nonexistent crumbs. "I--" he broke off. "I think our work here is done, angel."
"What makes you say that, Crowley? Just last month you were insisting we stay through his birthday and maybe longer." Zira rubbed his thumb across the hand still in his possession.
How was he supposed to respond to that? Oh, angel, sorry that I didn't tell you, but we were supposed to be looking after the Antichrist for the last decade, but, whoops, I think it was the wrong kid? He could never say that. Even if Zira did believe him, it would take admitting that he was a demon, and that wasn't ever something Crowley wanted Zira to know about him.
"We couldn't leave before his birthday," Crowley settled on. "Birthdays mean something to boys of that age. But I think it's time we move on, Zira." He met his partner's eyes and tried for a warm smile. "I've missed spending time just with you."
His smile must have worked, because Zira relaxed and smiled back, tucking one hand around the side of Crowley's face and gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. "I've missed you as well, my dear. It's just not the same now, is it? Why don't we go home, and we can spend as much time together as we like."
At that, Crowley had to lean forward to rest his head against Zira's shoulder to hide his expression. As much time together as they'd like. What a cosmic joke. They had maybe, what, four, five days before Armageddon kicked off in earnest?
"I'd like that, angel," he said, his voice muffled by Zira's jacket and his grip tight on Zira's lapel.
Zira just wrapped his arms around Crowley, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his back soothingly with the other. "Then let's go home, my dear."
--
Crowley could feel the final countdown of the universe ticking away in the back of his head. Tick, tick, tick. It was driving him mad. He stole every second he could get to rememorize Zira's features over and over again, knowing that those last memories might be the only things he would have to comfort himself during the Great War and whatever came after.
He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Most of him desperately wanted to wrap himself up in Zira and just wait for the world to end, cherishing every last moment he could get. That bit included the quiet voice that told him that Zira was over ninety now, and wouldn't make it too long even if the world didn't end. Another part of him knew how important the Earth and humanity were to Zira and wanted to keep trying to avert the Apocalypse for as long as possible, if for no other reason than to have something to remember him by. A more pragmatic portion of Crowley's consciousness reminded him that Hell would not be pleased by the realization that Warlock Dowling was not the Antichrist after all. That they would come for their vengeance and blow through whatever stood in their way, Zira included.
It was this last bit that Crowley listened to. "Angel, I'm going to pop out for an errand quick," he told Zira after they'd returned to the bookshop that Wednesday. "I should hopefully be home by dinnertime."
Zira, who had been listening to their telephone messages with a steadily deepening crease in his forehead, nodded absently. Then he looked up and gave Crowley a quick but warm smile. "That sounds fine, my dear. I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me."
By the time Crowley returned to the bookshop, sometime after dinner, he was working hard to dampen his temper. It wasn't Zira's fault that his journey to the Satanic convent in Tadfield had taken longer than expected and had been ultimately fruitless, after all. Despite the best of intentions, he hadn't been able to find anything he could use to placate Below. Instead, he'd gotten lost a few times, accidentally hit a cyclist, and finally found the convent only to discover it was now some kind of extreme team building center and all the records had burnt a decade previous.
He parked the Bentley in her customary spot in front of the bookshop. Just before he got out, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and spotted a book in the backseat that Zira must have left there during one of their previous trips. He grabbed the book without looking at it and let himself into the bookshop.
"Angel?" he called softly. "I'm home."
There was a warm glow coming from the back room, but the tranquil scene he had expected was the opposite of what he found. Zira was sitting in his chair in front of the fire, but he wasn't looking at any of his books. Instead, he was staring at the fire unseeing, and it didn't seem as if he'd even heard Crowley come in.
"Angel? Zira?" Crowley asked more urgently, setting the book in his hand down on the nearest flat surface and moving to kneel in front of his partner, blocking Zira's view of the fireplace.
Zira blinked and his eyes focused on Crowley. "My dear," he said hopelessly. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.
Crowley's heart sank. "What's wrong, angel?" he whispered, pulling the cuff of his shirt up over his palm as much as possible and using it to carefully dry Zira's face.
Zira tried to give him a smile, but it ended up rather crooked. "I must seem a hopeless mess. The person I was meeting with gave me some news I wasn't expecting and...well, it just feels a bit like the end of the world."
Crowley gave a huff that might have been a laugh in another life. "I know the feeling," he said, giving in to the urge to wrap the fingers of one hand around Zira's where they were shaking slightly in his lap and pressing a gentle kiss to the tips of his fingers. "It'll be all right, angel," he lied.
Zira didn't look comforted. Instead, he stared at Crowley with a wondrous desperation that he recognized from his own face - the look of a man memorizing something precious he thinks he's going to lose.
The look broke Crowley's heart, but he didn't know anything he could say to comfort his partner. He just held his hand as - tick, tick, tick - the End drew nearer.
--
The next two days were some of the longest Crowley could recall. It seemed almost as if the clock was pausing for breath between each - tick - and every - tick - beat - tick - just to - tick - make sure - tick - that Crowley - tick - was paying - tick - attention. Tick, tick, tick.
Zira's melancholy hadn't dissipated, but it had lifted slightly when he'd found the book Crowley had brought in for him. He almost seemed surprised to see it. Thursday morning found Zira at his desk hunched over the book with a pad of paper, though the paper was usually buried under a few pages when Crowley stopped by with tea or a reminder to eat, so he wasn't sure what was so fascinating about the book.
For himself, Crowley placed a discreet call to the Witchfinder Sergeant, requesting assistance in locating the real Antichrist. After that, he'd focused on realphabetizing the pair's collections of CDs and vinyl records, as well as Zira's personal (well, more personal) collection of rare books. Once that was done, he set to reorganizing the entire bookshop, all the while waiting for any sign that Hell had wised up.
By the time Saturday hit, Crowley was so wound up he could have passed for a grandfather clock himself. Tick, tick, tick.
"My dear," Zira said with exasperation mid-morning when he surfaced for tea and biscuits. "You're wearing a hole in the rug. Why don't you go for a drive or something? Get out of the shop for a bit."
Crowley didn't want to leave Zira, but by this point he was sure the strain and stress of the last eleven years - much less the last three days - would have given him a heart attack for sure if it hadn't been for his occult conditioning. He begrudgingly agreed with Zira's assessment.
"I won't be gone long," he said, pressing a kiss to Zira's forehead. "Just a few hours. I have my mobile if you need to call me for anything. And I mean anything at all."
With a second and third glance back, Crowley left the bookshop.
He was trundling aimlessly down the streets of Soho (watching for pedestrians and stopping at crosswalks and everything), when the radio kicked on in a way it hadn't done for a decade, interrupting Bach's "Under Pressure."
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, CROWLEY? WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?
It continued on as expected from there. Crowley had been waiting for this particular moment, after all. Warlock had gotten to take a trip to the Middle East, but all that had come of it was Hell's discovery that the Antichrist Crowley had planted hadn't been the actual Antichrist at all.
STAY WHERE YOU ARE, CROWLEY, the voice trailed off ominously. YOU WILL BE...COLLECTED...
And wasn't he twelve shades of overjoyed that he wasn't at the bookshop right now, literally bringing Hell home with him? His fingers tightened on the wheel to the point where the leather creaked and he had to consciously relax before his arthritis flared up.
They were coming after him. Where could he go that Zira wouldn't be put in jeopardy? That Crowley had a snowball's chance of defending? Where--oh.
It came to him, and Crowley swung a left turn through a yellow light, giving only a cursory glance for pedestrians. He turned the nose of the Bentley towards Mayfair.
--
Crowley had never bothered to pay rent on his Mayfair flat, because rent was a thing that happened to other people and he hadn't given the flat a second thought since he'd met Zira. Fortunately, the glass jar of holy water was still tucked safely behind the Mona Lisa. Unfortunately for Hastur and Ligur, Crowley was ruthless when it came to protecting Zira.
Now, deed done, he got back in the Bentley and turned her back towards the bookshop. It had been too long since he'd left Zira and with the Apocalypse imminent, he couldn't be too careful.
He was nearing the bookshop and starting to contemplate which sort of take-out would best lure Zira away from his book, when the sky - which was already full of dark, rain-heavy clouds - became even darker with plumes of thick, black smoke. Crowley got a very bad feeling. He dropped his foot heavier on the accelerator and urged the Bentley onward. Surely...no. It couldn't be--
It was.
The bookshop was on fire.
Crowley threw the Bentley in park and scrambled out of her. One of the firemen was trying to ascertain if he owned the building, and Crowley just shouted an affirmation over his shoulder as he burst through the door of Ezra Fell's Rare Books.
"Zira!" he screamed. "Zira! Where are you, angel?" There was no sign of his partner. Crowley rushed through the fire-lit bookshop, taking care to squint at the floor through flickering flames for any spot Zira might have fallen. There was no sign of Zira in the bookshop or in the back rooms. The kitchen was empty, as was the sitting room. The flames were almost too dense to see through and a human who needed to breathe - a human like Zira - would be unconscious from the smoke by now.
He hurried toward the stairs to the upper floor, but a sharp crack signaled the building's imminent collapse. "Zira!" A jet of water flew through one of the open windows, hitting Crowley and knocking him to the floor. One hand landed on something flat and hard and he reflexively grabbed it before hurrying out from under the collapsing building. The bookshop settled into place with a loud crash.
The firemen still surrounded the building, trying to keep the fire from spreading to the nearby buildings. One of them tried to grab Crowley to pull him to safety, but Crowley wrestled free and staggered back towards the shop, trying to see if Zira had been on the top floor. "Zira!" he yelled as loud as he could. "Zira!" He picked his way through the brick and wood, but all he could see was the remains of the life they had built.
"No, no, no, no," he chanted. "No, no. Zira!" His trousers kept catching fire, but Crowley just impatiently put them out. He had to be here somewhere. He had to be here and Crowley had to find him and pull him out and Zira had to be okay, because if he wasn't-- If something happened to Zira because Crowley was a demon-- Zira had to be okay.
"Zira," he called hoarsely, choking on smoke. "Zira!"
There was another ominous crack and the last brick wall that had remained more or less vertical began to topple, the rest of the structure following. Crowley had to backpedal, tripping over loose bricks, to keep from being inconveniently discorporated by falling masonry. With a great final crash the bookshop crumbled, until all that was left of the last five decades of Crowley's life was a pile of smoking rubble.
It started to rain.
The firemen were still rushing about him, but it seemed as if they'd gotten the worst of the fire under control. None of the neighboring buildings had been badly damaged and Crowley felt a rush of anger at the adult bookstore next door, where even the neon OPEN sign was still cheerily lit. But just as quickly as it had appeared, his fury drained away.
His knees gave out and he fell, catching himself on one palm. Crowley stared unseeing at his hands for a moment. They were old, wrinkled, bent with age and disease. They had grown this way steadily, year after year, as a way to keep pace with--
His eyes wandered over each finger, tracing its imperfections and recalling the years of miracles he had needed to layer over his appearance. When his gaze reached his second hand, he stopped.
He'd almost forgotten the object he had picked up from the floor of the bookshop. Crowley turned over and sat gingerly on the wet pavement. The rain dripped off his hair and trickled down his ears, but it didn't touch the book he held in his hands.
He held it carefully in his hands and recognized it as the book that-- The book he had grabbed out of the back of the Bentley. The cover was blank, but it was an old book and the title page gave it all away: The Nife and Accurate Prophefies of Agnes Nutter, Being a Certaine and Prefice Hiftory from the Prefent Day Unto the Endinge of this World, Containing therein Many Diuerse Wonders and precepts for the Wife.
Crowley's chest hurt and his eyes lingered over "Endinge." How had-- Crowley closed his eyes against the lump in his throat and took a shaky breath. How had Zira managed to find this book in the first place? He couldn't have possibly known what it was. The bookshop's collection had held many books of prophecy, but this book, this one, the one that Crowley held in his hands, was the only one that was completely accurate.
Crowley had spent the first six thousands years of his life on Earth completely and utterly alone, isolated from the rest of Hell and separated from mankind by his very nature. Yet somehow, sitting in the cold rain at the end of the world watching as the last curls of smoke issued from the bookshop, he had never felt more alone.
He held the book up to his nose and took a deep breath, hoping for any traces of...there it was. Beneath the smoke and ash was the scent of old paper and long-dry ink. A smell Crowley was more familiar with than his own name. It smelled like home and it smelled like Zira.
Something brushed against his wrist and Crowley looked down to find a note had slipped free of the book's pages. How it hadn't gotten lost in Crowley's frantic searching he didn't know. The handwriting on it looked familiar, but then again all copperplate looked vaguely alike and this script lacked the rough edges that had begun to characterize Zira's writing in recent years. It laid out the events of the last days, including the name of the Antichrist (Adam Young) and the location of Armageddon (the Lower Tadfield Air Base).
Until he'd returned to find the bookshop engulfed in flame, Crowley had still been stuck between warring impulses to hold Zira and watch the world burn or to do his best to halt the Apocalypse, futile as the effort might have been. Now, though...now he just wanted the world to end as quickly as possible. Absently, Crowley noted that the notes on this slip of paper would have been very important information to him a scant hour before, when he was trying to find any scrap of information that might keep Zira out of Hell's reach--
He froze, then, unbidden, his eyes slid back up to trace the rubble. He hadn't found Zira. He hadn't even found Zira's body. In a rush, he scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Bentley. Her door flew open before he'd even reached her and he swung nimbly into the cab. The book was dropped in the seat next to him and the slip was held in his hand as Crowley slammed his foot on the accelerator and headed for Tadfield.
If Zira hadn't been there...if Zira hadn't been in the ruins at all, then there were a finite number of reasons. One, he had gone out on an errand. Crowley knew this one was merely wishful thinking. Zira had been happy as a clam in the shop when he'd left and there was no reason to think he would have gone out. Two, Zira had-- Crowley swallowed roughly. Zira had died in the shop and either Crowley hadn't found him or he'd been incinerated beyond recognition before Crowley had gotten there. Three - and this was the one Crowley hoped for and feared in equal measure - Crowley's patient and caring partner had been found by the forces of Hell and snatched as part of Crowley's promised torment.
If it was the second, Crowley would make sure the Apocalypse ran as expected. There was no point to an Earth if it didn't have Zira in it. If it was the first, the world was expected to survive much longer anyway. If it was the third...well then, Crowley would just have to get his Zira back from Hell, no matter what it took. Luckily, he knew exactly where they were going to be.
The clouds rumbled ominously as Crowley pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboards, headed toward the M25. Tick, tick, tick.
--
When Crowley was younger, he hadn't cared much for traffic laws. Those were meant for mortals, after all, and he was anything but. After he'd met Zira, he'd become more circumspect. Zira was mortal, with all the soft, easily squished bits that came with the condition.
Now, with Zira's life and the world's fate in the balance, Crowley did one hundred and twenty miles an hour down Oxford Street.
--
The Lower Tadfield Air Base was quiet when Crowley got there. No one ran out when the Bentley died in front of the gate and when Crowley stumbled out he realized that the reason for it was that the guardhouse wasn't manned. The gate opened easily at his touch.
Crowley kept an eye out, but didn't see any people as he walked into the base. He rounded a building and stopped in his tracks. It looked like he'd missed the main event. Only one of the Horsepersons was still there and as Crowley watched Death vanished in a flash of dark wings. That left a quartet of pre-teens, Sergeant Shadwell himself, and a woman that Crowley vaguely recognized as one of Shadwell's friends.
One of the children was a boy with golden curls who looked to be in charge of things, if Crowley was any judge of body language. He was surveying the adults imperiously and said something Crowley couldn't quite make out. Then, suddenly, instead of there being two adults standing there, there were three, and the third was--
"Zira," Crowley breathed, his feet moving before he could give them conscious direction, propelling him towards his partner. "Zira!" he called louder.
Zira turned at his name and yes it was Zira. Still wrinkled, still with grey-streaked hair, wearing the jacket, vest, and tartan bow tie he'd worn that morning without a spot of soot on him. He was the most gorgeous thing Crowley had ever seen.
"Crowley?" he asked in surprise.
Before he could move, Crowley had reached him and wrapped his arms tightly around Zira in the same motion. "Goodness gracious, angel," Crowley said faintly, holding Zira tightly and breathing in the familiar scent of his hair. "I thought I'd lost you."
"Oh, my dear," Zira said, returning Crowley's hug. "I was so worried about you, too." Then he paused and tried to pull back. After a moment Crowley relented and loosened his grip just enough for them to make eye contact.
Zira was frowning in bewilderment. "But, my dear," he protested. "How on earth did you get here?"
Before Crowley could begin to attempt to explain the mess with the book and the Bentley and the M25, the boy - Adam Young, if Crowley's guess was correct - broke in. "'Ang on," he said. "What are the two of you on about?"
"This is Zira," Crowley explained. He didn't step away far, but he did drop his arms and fold his hands ever-so-carefully around Zira's. Go--Sat--Somebody, he'd never thought he'd have this again. "He own--er, has a bookshop in central London." That bookshop is now a loosely piled stack of bricks, Crowley added silently, but there was no telling whether or not Zira knew that, so he kept mum. "We've been living together for just over fifty years."
Zira leaned into Crowley. "This is--"
But Adam interrupted. "He's also an angel," the boy told Crowley bluntly.
Crowley would have just dismissed his words, but Zira froze next to him, his fingers spasming slightly in Crowley's hold. "Angel?" he asked the man next to him. Well, he meant it as a term of endearment, but as an interrogation it worked just as well.
Zira didn't meet his eyes. "It's nothing."
Crowley didn't let it go. His heart was starting to beat faster and his mouth went dry. "Are you really an angel?"
"Yes," Zira admitted quietly to Crowley's shoulder.
"Angel," Crowley breathed in awe.
Zira raised his chin to look Crowley in the eye. He looked miserable. "It's not as entertaining as it sounds, my dear," he said. "It means that I'm immortal and I'm just going to have to watch you--"
"Me, too," Crowley blurted out.
"What?" Zira looked puzzled.
"I'm immortal too," Crowley told him, stunned by the realization. "Neither of us is going to die."
"What?" Zira asked breathlessly, eyes wide.
Crowley understood exactly how he felt. "I get to keep you," he said with wonder in his voice.
A bolt of lightning struck the pavement, cutting short their conversation and drawing everyone's attention. A moment later, a dark figure rose up from churning earth. That one Crowley recognized. It was Beelzebub.
He quickly pulled his hands free of Zira's and hoped the Prince of Hell hadn't noticed.
What followed was a conversation that Crowley had a slow start wrapping his mind around. It sounded like Heaven was also rooting for the Apocalypse? He shot a sideways glance at Zira. He at least seemed to think they did. It was starting to sink in just how much he and Zira had missed about each other's lives and how much more they could have helped each other. Wednesday, Crowley realized. When they'd gotten back from Warlock's. That must have been when Zira found out about Armageddon. He remembered the way Zira had trembled. I could have helped, he thought.
Adam seemed to be holding his own against the two entities, but just as Crowley was beginning to think it would all be wrapped up soon and he could get back to his angel - angel in truth - the boy hesitated, and the pair began to circle like sharks smelling blood in the water.
And that was when Zira, his beautiful angel, spoke up. After a moment, Crowley realized where he was going with his line of questioning and added comments where he could. It felt good, like one of their late-night debates on dolphins or an obscure point of ancient history that both of them somehow happened to know about. Archaeology Monthly, my foot, Crowley thought giddily. Every so often, Zira would glance at Crowley, excitement and love brimming in his gaze.
At last Crowley and Zira seemed to have introduced enough doubt into the equation for Adam to reassert his position. Beelzebub and the Heavenly representative disappeared in a cloud of mumbled excuses, and the Air Base began to breathe again. Another pair of humans had shown up and a conversation kicked off, but Crowley ignored it all in favor of focusing on his partner.
"That was brilliant," Crowley told him.
Zira blushed. "It really wasn't much of anything."
"That's a lie," Crowley said firmly. "It was amazing. I only wish I'd gotten to see you in action more, angel."
There was so much unbridled affection in Zira's eyes that Crowley was worried for a moment that he'd spontaneously catch fire. One of Zira's hands came up to rest briefly on his cheek before he straightened and cleared his throat.
"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Zira said and held out his hand primly in the small space between them. "My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I have been stationed on Earth since Eden and I am desperately in love with you." As he spoke, the years fell off of him, leaving him the same man Crowley had run into in a Soho church in 1967.
Crowley shook his hand, then held on, reveling in the last moments he might have to hold it. Once he revealed who he was... He let the last five decades melt away as well. "Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter. I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."
Zira's - Aziraphale's - eyes grew wide, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he held Crowley's hand more tightly. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"
Crowley blinked at the line of questioning - hadn't he just told Aziraphale that he was a demon? - but then realized that Aziraphale wasn't angry at him for existing, Aziraphale was scared for him, scared of the one thing that could have taken Crowley away forever.
A warm, sunshine-y feeling took up residence in Crowley's chest. "It was for protection," he explained. "Below was getting loud and that usually comes with consequences." Aziraphale didn't looked reassured. "If it makes you feel better," Crowley tried, "I don't have it anymore. I used it on Ligur this afternoon."
Aziraphale definitely didn't look reassured now. If anything, he looked alarmed, running his eyes and hands over Crowley, checking for any damage he'd somehow missed.
"I'm fine, angel," Crowley said, trying to sound exasperated through his smile. He caught Aziraphale's hands and brought them to his lips, kissing first one hand, then the other. He marveled at the differences between the hands he held now and the ones he'd been holding just a few minutes before. He rubbed a thumb across the supple skin on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "I'm perfectly fine."
A deep rumbling interrupted Aziraphale's reply. The angel shot Crowley a worried look and he sent one back. That wasn't a good sign.
A burning smell wafted past and Crowley's eyes widened in realization. Aziraphale wound one hand more tightly around Crowley's and let go with the other so he could get a better view of the entire scene.
"It's Him," Crowley said, fear making his voice flat. "It's Adam's Father."
Aziraphale leaned down as far as he could without letting go of Crowley and picked up a sword on the ground that must have been left behind during some of the earlier excitement. It looked a bit familiar.
"Haven't used this in a while," Aziraphale murmured, waving it through the air before whump it caught on fire. Now Crowley recognized it. The Guardian of the Western Gate had had a sword very much like this one.
There wasn't much left for Crowley to grab, but he spotted a Jeep nearby and let go of Aziraphale's hand just long enough to catch hold of the first thing he could find. Tire iron in hand, Crowley returned to his angel and threaded his fingers through Aziraphale's, holding him close.
They didn't say anything, just glanced at each other, but Crowley knew they were on the same page. Adam may have successfully averted the Apocalypse, but that didn't mean the danger had passed.
Crowley had just gotten his eternity back and he was damned if Lucifer was going to take it away from him.
