Title: Resonance
Author: Macx
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Note: Slightly AU. Altered some small events from the end, just so you know.
Okay, this fandom hit me harder than expected. I was on vacation when the mini-series came out, so I watched all episodes just a few days ago.
Then read some fic.
Went over my old fic.
Decided that no, I wouldn't get back into that AU, but I wanted, needed, to write those two loveable idiots again. I have positively fallen in love with the on-screen portrayal of both Crowley and Aziraphale. I have watched all their scenes together so many times now and can still watch them again. Kudos to the actors! Really!
This fic is a little different from what I usually do when a fandom hits me like a freight train (and I go into writing frenzy, which is not pretty and has me all hyper and binge-writing). I attempted snippets and ended up with one growing story anyway, just in pieces.
Hope you enjoy!
Summary: They had been friends for six millennia. They had been on their side. There had only been their side. Of course, they had never known it until it was all supposed to end. They had stood against their respective sides, had been hurt, had suffered, had felt desperation, fear and terror. Now it was suddenly over and both Crowley and Aziraphale have to deal with the consequences. Not just those of Up Yours and Down There. They have come a long way at a very slow pace. They have come so much further in just within day. And they were still going incredibly fast, changing, evolving, becoming something that might be part of the Ineffable Plan...

***

I.

"Come up with something or I'll… I'll never talk to you again!"

 

He was exhausted.

His body hurt in places it had never hurt before. It had never ached like this. It had never burned down to his very soul.

Not even when he had Fallen.

Well, Crowley hadn't really fallen-Fallen.

He had hung around the wrong crowd, had asked too many questions, and when everyone had been cast out, Crowley had sauntered after them. Vaguely downwards. One way street.

But he hadn't Fallen, had only taken a mildly downward incline. He hadn't plunged head-first into the abyss in an uncontrolled descent.

None of that had been painful per se. It had been… weird. Like trying on new clothes that didn't really fit but everyone insisted you looked positively magnificent in. And he hadn't liked the new scenery, the décor, nor the crowds. There had been no style. There had been no sophistication.

The black wings were rather cool and nifty, though.

Now, today, after so much time had slowly passed since then… he was at the end of his physical, metaphysical and even emotional rope. His very soul felt raw, abused, as if he had used up all his power.

And maybe he had.

Something trembled deep inside him. Something desperately needing a rest, needing to simply shut down and recuperate.

Needed to heal from the blow it had taken just feeling the Lord of Hell himself.

Demons were resilient bastards. Crowley was even more so. He was a right bastard, tenacious and hard to pin down. He had made it to this point in one piece, right? He had defied the odds and he had survived.

But Crowley had been through the emotional wringer, had been physically pushed to his limits and then past them, and he had taken on Lucifer personally. He had never been in his personal presence, so feeling the endless power, that well of infinite energy of All Hell, the rage and the wrath, had seared him, had almost broken his soul into pieces.

It had brought him to his knees with a cry of pain torn from his lips.

He would never forget that pain, the seconds of utter terror burned into his mind.

Excruciating. Single-minded. Destructive. One snap of a finger, just one look, and he would have been no more.

And then there had been that feeling of steel shooting through his spine, of endless support, of hope, of faith and despair, of… love.

Crowley had looked into the eyes of his counterpart on Earth, non-flaming flaming sword raised over his head, and he had known where it all came from.

Aziraphale.

His angel.

His backbone, his shield, his sword…

The one he could always count on, who would never betray him. The one who was ready to be obliterated with him in defense of not just humanity but the whole of Creation.

The one demanding he do something or he would never talk to him again. He. Anthony J. Crowley.

And what Crowley had done had surpassed his limits as a lower demon, had leeched him of everything. Absolutely everything. It had sucked him dry, left him vulnerable, without shields, without a single snap left. He would have been easy prey.

Not that he had shown it. Not that anyone would be the wiser.

Except…

Except the one being in the whole of creation who knew Crowley better than anyone; maybe even better than the demon knew himself.

Soft hands touched him without startling the exhausted entity. Calm, reassuring, directing him toward an unfamiliar bed. Crowley knew he should be alarmed, but as long as he felt Aziraphale's presence, he knew he was safe.

Safe.

His body shuddered and he almost heard his bones creak. His soul felt empty, his power levels non-existent.

Maybe there were cracks in his demonic soul now. Tiny, tiny cracks that were responsible for the exhaustion, the feeling of imbalance and vertigo; the unchecked emotions.

He was such easy prey, even for the lowest of demonic or angelic life-forms.

Just one strike.

Probably just a push.

With one finger. Little finger.

"Relax," Aziraphale said.

He was trembling. It was embarrassing. His hands were shaking and he didn't even have the energy to make them stop.

The mattress was unfamiliar, too. Everything was. He wasn't in his own flat, nor in the bookshop. Which was a burned-out husk anyway. So where…?

"We're in a safe place, Crowley. Very safe."

He groaned.

Not his flat. Not anywhere near his flat. A safehouse. He almost laughed.

"Dear," Aziraphale murmured and there was a rustle.

Warmth. A clean smell. Angelic. Heavenly. And still not so much. Unique and known.

He might have whimpered and maybe he was even turning into the soft, pliable angel as wings folded over them, but Crowley would deny doing any of it to his last day in this existence.

Gentle fingers ran through his hair, along his neck, stroking and caressing.

"You ran yourself ragged, my dear. You fell asleep in the bus."

Face mashed into the angel's jacket, soot and grime smudging all over it. Crowley knew he had looked like a mess, was still a mess, and would probably continue being a mess.

"S'vn t'wrld," Crowley mumbled into the pristine clothes that smelled less like Heaven and more like pure Aziraphale.

Who was an angel. Who should smell like Heaven.

And didn't.

He smelled just like his angel. Only his.

And Crowley himself currently smelled of fire, ash, sweat and grime, but not brimstone and damnation. No, it was soot and probably some a lot of less desirable things.

Long fingers held on tightly to the soft fabric of Aziraphale's so hopelessly outdated clothes like a drowning man. His lifeline. His anchor. Grounding his fluctuating senses and realigning his energy with the bruised and battered form it should inhabit.

His balance.

"I know," Aziraphale whispered. "I know. Thank you. For everything. Saving the world and all Creation."

"…nh… welcome," he managed, voice raw, filled with emotions he would refuse to name.

Aziraphale continued his petting caresses, carding infinitely gentle fingers into the dirty, unruly strands of his hair. Uncaring of the dirt. Uncaring of so many things.

"Stay the night. Here. It's safer than the flat. They might be looking there."

"Nh."

"No one knows of this place."

Crowley heard himself sigh as knots untangled. Not just physically, but also on a more metaphysical level. His very aura grew, though it was far from strong in any sense of the word. He felt Aziraphale's all around him, a protective shield, feeding him strength.

An aura that could smite him. An aura that could just crush him right now.

He was defenseless. More than even a baby bird.

But Crowley trusted him. Absolutely.

"…zira…"

"Sleep, my dear. Just rest and sleep."

So he did.

"Tomorrow will be a lovely day."

Because Aziraphale was there.

***

II.

 

 

"You can stay at my place. If you like."

"I don't think my side would like that."

"You don't have a side anymore."

 

 

Staying with Crowley was… interesting. To say the least.

The flat was interesting.

The meagre but rare and exclusive décor, and the less than lived-in feel, was interesting.

And the plants. Aziraphale had never seen such wonderfully luscious plants.

Crowley had simply sneered at them and there had been a terrified rustle of leafs.

The angel had carefully explored his temporary living space, this new kind of arrangement – no capital a – and Crowley had let him, though he had, without wanting to, hovered around. Like awaiting judgement.

Aziraphale had never really been to his counterpart's place before. He knew where Crowley lived, of course. He had been outside the very modern, glass and steel building. It was cold, cool, all sharp lines and distance. It was expensive, exclusive, with little character of old.

He had never ventured inside, though.

Now he had.

Ventured inside.

And it was a new experience.

Aziraphale was all for new experiences. He loved them. He had immersed himself in humanity, wanted to experience this world, this Earth, and all its small wonders. He had always learned, studied, questioned, and documented. He collected books, scrolls, papers, encyclopedic knowledge, preserving and expanding it.

Now here was a new kind of new experience: a demon's flat. His demon's flat.

And it wasn't really all that demonic. There was the darkness, yes, but there was also a lot of light. The walls were high, higher than should physically be possible in such a place. And the skylight let in the natural light that also fed the plants.

"This is… really nice…"

Crowley huffed and closed the door after them. He slipped out of his black jacket, revealing the skin tight black shirt underneath. If Aziraphale didn't know any better, and did he really?, he could almost think of Crowley's behavior as a cover for being nervous.

Every move was… controlled. Sometimes aborted. Steps halting. Jerking forward only to stop and do something else. He was still wearing his shades.

"The plants are magnificent," Aziraphale tried.

"They're no-good slackers who are too slow to grasp onto the concept of no leaf spots, growing without crooked stems and flowering when they are bloody supposed to!"

"Oh. Right."

Crowley muttered to himself and the plants shuffled out of his immediate line of glare. He stalked over to where a bottle of scotch sat. He studied the label and pulled a face. His aura fluctuated, blustering more than actually being demonic, then settled around him like a black cape.

Yes, nervousness. For some odd reason.

Aziraphale smiled a little uncertainly at him, then continued his exploration, hands clasped together, moving around.

He didn't expect something bad to happen. Yes, Crowley was a demon. It should be troublesome to be in a demon's, well, den, but this was Crowley. His de… demonic, well, not so much… more troublesome… counterpart. The entity who had helped save Creation. Everything Aziraphale treasured and loved.

The demon who had actually actively pushed, coerced, begged, pleaded and downright cursed Aziraphale into helping him, because he enjoyed Earth as well.

The demon who had been aghast at God's plan of the Flood, who had been shocked to hear that the Good Guys could simply stand by as children were killed in an unnecessary temper tantrum.

The demon who wouldn't kill a child, even if that child was the Anti-Christ.

The demon who had stood by his side, against Lucifer himself.

No, Aziraphale didn't feel threatened, in danger, or bad. Actually, what he sensed was rather positive.

Until he caught a whiff of something different.

 

 

The stain of holiness on the ground hadn't been interesting. It had been alarming. It had shaken Aziraphale to his very core.

"Crowley, what…? What did you do?!"

It got him a shrug as the demon slouched against the wall. "Self-defense."

The angel anxiously stared at the remains, felt the divinity, and he knew that this area, still soaked in holiness, was dangerous for the demon. Like walking on consecrated ground.

Crowley gave it a wide berth anyway, almost instinctively.

"Angel, don't fret," came the lazy drawl.

"Don't fret! Don't fret?! This is Holy Water, Crowley!"

"I know."

"I blessed it personally."

"And I know."

"And it's now in the very ground you walk on!"

"I know, angel. I very much know."

He glared at the other being, but it glanced off the demon as usual. Well, maybe never usual. Crowley wasn't truly immune to Aziraphale's glares and the angel saw it in a twitch of a finger, in the thinning of the other's mouth.

"What did you do?"

"Like I said: self-defense."

"Can I… may I… ask who?" Aziraphale asked haltingly.

Another shrug, but there was a different kind of tension there. "Duke of Hell. Ligur. Nasty bastard."

"Ah."

"Brought it upon himself. It was either him or me."

"I…see… I'd rather much prefer it was him."

"So do I, angel," was the light quip, but the tone was all wrong. There was a rough sliver of emotions there, something Aziraphale was unprepared for to understand or interpret.

And Crowley disappeared somewhere in the labyrinthine flat.

 

 

The topic was dropped.

Never forgotten, though.

Aziraphale did his best to undo the damage done by the Holy water without using too obvious miracles, but it did little good. Or bad.

It was always there.

Crowley avoided it.

Aziraphale stared at the invisible spot, feeling reminiscent of Lady Macbeth. His brows twitched a little.

There was no danger of Crowley seriously injuring himself, being permanently hurt or disfigured, but it held a certain menace.

It made Aziraphale, an angel used to such blessed things, incredibly nervous and even more anxious than he already was.

Yes, the demon was resilient. Tough. A true bastard, yes. But he was also too proud to admit to needing help, and Aziraphale was clueless as to how to offer that help in any other way than he already was.

The worry about Crowley's health and existence were always on his mind, so he continued with scrubbing the spot as clean of divinity as he could.

Crowley watched him with an expression that shifted from bemused to exasperated to something entirely. He clamped down on the latter.

Firmly.

 

*

 

Aside from the obvious, very divine area in the otherwise rather neutral flat, nothing changed about the place. Or the building. Or the street. There was no influx of niceness, friendly chatter, flowers blooming, sniffles and coughs dying down. Rats and pigeons were abound, though they were wise enough to avoid going anywhere near Crowley's place. People bickered and fought, there were car horns honking, yelling and threats, the usual hubbub.

There was no general feeling of… angel.

"Just what do you think you're doing, angel?" Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale looked up from the newspaper. "Doing? I am not doing anything. What are you talking about?"

"That. Just that!" The demon gestured sharply at the world around them.

They were in the only street café near his place. One of those American chain stores popping up everywhere, with fancy, overpriced drinks, trying to attract the cool and hip crowd.

And it was crowded, but as usual they had gotten a table. One patron was demanding his bill be adjusted because he hadn't eaten that slice of cake. It had only been a small coffee. Another was typing away on his phone, sexting his mistress as his wife was near-by and looking at expensive sandwiches with artistic names and stickers like 'eco' or 'vegan' all over the display.

Aziraphale's brows knitted together and he surveyed their surroundings. "I… don't follow?"

Crowley blew out a breath, staring at him as if Aziraphale was a particularly stubborn and very stupid child.

"You're holding back."

Aziraphale blinked.

Another general gesture. "The whole angelic stuff. You're keeping it in. With an effort. Lots of effort. You feel wrapped up tighter than a steel ball, angel."

"Oh."

"It's wrong."

"I… didn't think you'd notice."

Crowley leaned forward in a flash, startling the angel into nearly dropping the newspaper. Snake eyes glared at him.

"You didn't think I'd notice? Notice you not… radiating?!"

"Uhm, yes?" was the rather meek reply.

Crowley's mouth opened, then snapped shut again. Finally he shot up from his chair and stalked off.

"Oh. Oh my," Aziraphale murmured and hurried after his best friend. "Crowley, please…"

"How stupid do you think I am?" the demon demanded furiously.

People moved out of his way without knowing why, without even knowing he was there. They simply felt the sudden need to be somewhere else.

Aziraphale gave them apologetic looks.

"I don't think you are stupid, my friend. I just didn't want to… change things… where you live?"

Crowley did a full stop, so sudden that Aziraphale nearly crashed into him. He rounded on the angel and his hands clenched and unclenched.

"So you change yourself?!"

"Uhm."

"Don't."

And with that Crowley was off again, heading God knew where. Aziraphale stood there, people moving effortlessly around him, not seeing the principality in their midst.

Don't. Don't change?

Be himself?

"Oh," he murmured and tugged the newspaper under one arm. "Oh!"

 

 

Living together was strangely… normal and… familiar. They fell into a rhythm. It was new, but somehow also a routine. They had known each other for so long, knew the other's quirks, mannerism, preferences.

It should have been a clue. A bright, obvious, 'look at me here I am' clue. Neon bright. And flashing. Probably animated and with sound, too.

Aziraphale was clueless.

Crowley wasn't, but he wouldn't touch the subject with a pair of Hellfire-forged tongues.

Too much made sense. Too much added up. Too much complemented the other, swaying back and forth, meshing together.

Aziraphale rarely if ever slept. He used the spare room to accumulate books to read. He talked to the plants, much to Crowley's growing chagrin and upset. The buggers were starting to preen! He would have a bloody time getting them back into shape after his angel had moved out.

And wasn't that a thought that had him want to tear out his feathers and never think it again…

Crowley loved sleeping, but he didn't really eat. Drinking was more up his alley.

So he made his angel breakfast as he enjoyed insanely strong, black coffee that some ingenious human had invented. It was fittingly named Death Wish and shared cupboard space with another lovely brand called Insomnia. Crowley loved the taste. Not that it did anything to or for him. It was a brief zing, a shock to the system that was quickly gone, but he enjoyed it.

Aziraphale delighted over breakfast. His eyes lit up, his mouth curled into that bright, loving smile, and Crowley had to fight down his own smile of delight.

"Where did you get crepes?" the angel asked as he primly tugged the napkin into his collar. "They are marvelously heavenly!"

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses at the gesture and refilled his mug a third time.

"Just eat, angel," he grumbled.

Another exasperated look and Crowley sank deeper into the chair, mumbling unintelligibly.

He would have a look around for some brioche tomorrow. And there was a new French café not far from here. He would drop by and see what selections they offered.

Yes, his angel enjoyed human food. He enjoyed life. Humanity. Earth.

Crowley would never say it out loud, but he did enjoy humanity, too.

And Earth. He liked it here.

It was why he had saved it. It was why he had coerced, tempted and downright bribed and blackmailed Aziraphale into helping him. He didn't want to be anywhere else – unless the angel was in the other place with him. Armageddon would have been the end of everything, except Heaven and Hell, and Anthony J. Crowley couldn't imagine life in Hell anymore.

It meant a life without Aziraphale.

He enjoyed Aziraphale most of all. That one of a kind angel, so different, so unique in a way Crowley couldn't begin to describe, and so… so very much Aziraphale.

Yes, he enjoyed him.

In a very undemonic way.

Gulping down the scalding hot coffee, the demon was glad his counterpart was busy perusing the newspaper.

***

III.

 

 

"We are meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake."

"Well, for Heaven's sake we are meant to make examples of traitors."

 

 

He had been to Hell and back. Figuratively speaking. And literally. Thankfully, the latter had only happened once. That had been enough.

It hadn't really been him. Not completely. Only his soul in a demon's body. There was no other way to enter undetected, to run under everyone's radar, fool even the highest of demons, and make it out alive.

Slightly traumatized, but alive.

That poor, poor demon.

Aziraphale knew he wasn't an innocent, but he hadn't committed any kind of good deed or even sin to be… obliterated like that. A guinea pig. Just because they hadn't trusted an archangel to deliver the real stuff.

Well, demons…

The angel shuddered.

He would never be able to forget the brief, violent death of the hellish creature. Nothing had remained. There had been only clear, unblemished water after that. A whole tub of it awaiting the next victim.

This could have been Crowley, he thought faintly. Not as a guinea pig, but as the actual victim, the one sentenced to die by his superiors.

For…

Because of…

Because they had…

He shook his head.

Aziraphale found nothing wrong with what they had done. If the Apocalypse should have happened as planned, it would have happened. It was the Ineffable Plan. It was, as it said, ineffable. It was the Almighty's plan, God's. It would have happened if it should have.

It hadn't happened. So it shouldn't have.

An angel and a demon shouldn't be able to save humanity and prevent the War To End All. They weren't powerful enough. No power in Creation could stop the Ineffable Plan if the Plan was to be executed.

But they had stopped it.

And they had been very bad at it anyway. Really, really bad and quite incompetent,

Now they were called traitors by their own kind. Traitors!

To be executed.

The bath in holy water had done the borrowed body no harm at all. The angelic soul had taken care of that, had protected the host shell.

It had been strangely refreshing and also exciting, acting like Crowley, watching the demons whisper in fear and horror, stare at him like he was… neither demon nor anything of the like any more.

At the time, it had been true.

Aziraphale had come back from Hell, waiting for his best friend, his counterpart, the one being who meant the world, the universe, to him. Patiently. As always.

Crowley wasn't late; well, not really. There had been no time set when to meet. There had been no telling their crazy plan would work and who would get released when.

When Crowley did show up, wearing Aziraphale's body, a demon's soul inhabiting an angel's human form, Aziraphale couldn't help smiling widely, happily.

Crowley pulled a face as he slouched down on the bench. "Don't do that, angel," he grumbled.

"Be happy?" Aziraphale asked, unable to stop the smile.

The demon grunted. "Looks wrong."

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is my face you're wearing, angel! It looks wrong. Absolutely wrong!"

Aziraphale smiled more once again. Seeing himself glare at himself was almost as amusing.

"How are you?"

Another grunt. "I'm here."

"I can see that, my dear."

"Nothing's missing. All fingers and toes accounted for."

"I should hope so!" Aziraphale replied, body stiff, bringing across affront in a way that Crowley wouldn't have been able to; especially in that body.

"You look ridiculous," Crowley muttered.

"I am you."

"You're you, angel. No matter what body you wear."

The bright smile was so not Crowley and the demon grimaced again, clearly showing his disdain.

"Do you think they'll leave us alone now?" Aziraphale asked, sounding hopeful.

"At a guess, they'll pretend it never happened."

The switch-back was easily accomplished and should it really feel easy? Aziraphale had wondered before, when they had done it the first time, but he had tried no to linger on it. It was a demon's body he had inhabited. A body issued by Hell.

Why had it felt… smooth and like simply switching to a new corporeal form? He hadn't needed much time to feel very much like he knew the lanky form, using the longer legs as if he had always been this shell. Copying Crowley's way of moving had come to him like a gift.

And had Crowley felt the same ease?

"They sentenced you to death."

Aziraphale looked up, his contemplations pushed aside.

"To death!" Crowley spat. "Because!"

"I know. I expected it. We expected it, didn't we?"

"With hellfire!"

"The only way to dispose of an angel, yes."

Crowley's eyes narrowed dangerously at the simple words.

"Angels don't kill," he spat. "They just don't!"

Aziraphale's lips thinned a little. "About that… We might."

The demon grimaced. "Your lot doesn't. You might do it indirectly. By not doing things. By withholding a blessing or a miracle."

The lips thinned more.

"But you don't go about killing your own!" Crowley snarled. "They wanted to make an example of you, the traitor! Because we averted the War? Because of some stupid Plan?" he went on, eyes burning with a fire Aziraphale rarely saw in there. "He asked you to die already! Like you meant nothing, angel! Nothing at all!"

"Gabriel."

"Of course it was that bloody moron! Hasn't changed in six millennia! High horse and all! As if he rules Creation on his own, the useless git! And the others just stood by! Like good little soldiers!"

Aziraphale smiled a little at the explosion of words and emotions. "He never will change. None of them will."

"You did!"

"I was a good little soldier, too."

The demonic eyes were now all-encompassing. Crowley's aura was sharp, snapping about him, and his face was twisted with an anger Aziraphale hadn't seen throughout their history together.

"You were never like them, Zira. Never!"

"In the beginning, maybe."

"You gave those humans your sword! No one else would have!"

"Well, I…" Embarrassment rose. It was still a sore spot. "Yes. And got thoroughly reprimanded for losing it."

He knew he had changed, that his views had changed, his priorities. Earth had changed him. As had Crowley.

At the thought, Aziraphale looked at his demon and smiled a little more.

"What?" the other spat, still not ready to give up on his anger.

"We both changed. Now, in their eyes, we have changed even more. They tried to kill you, too, Crowley. With holy water. Delivered by Michael personally. They went out of their way to get rid of us, and now they think they never will be able to."

There was a devilish glint in Crowley's eyes and his mouth twisted into an almost cruel smile.

"Let them."

"They might figure it out one day."

Crowley looked like he couldn't care less.

 

 

They were in their usual park twenty minutes later, surrounded by a loyal following of ducks and ducklings that were brought into the rite of Feeding.

Neither spoke for the whole time, though it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Crowley simply had nothing to say, but a lot to think about, and Aziraphale kept him company. It was nice, it was normal, and it just felt good.

 

 

If, deep down inside, Aziraphale thought he felt the echoes of the Hellfire, he chalked it up to his imagination. To the visit in Hell. To inhabiting a demon's body with his angelic essence.

 

 

If Crowley had the strange sensation of holiness permeate his very core, he did likewise. His body had been subjected to holy water, just like Aziraphale had burned in hellish fire, but their souls had protected the vulnerable body, briefly making each into the other.

And a very long time ago, he had been an angel one. A reluctant, contrary angel, but celestial.

 

 

Marks remained.

Unseen. Unlike any kind of scar.

Traces of each clinging to the other, mingling with the already present traces that had accumulated over six millennia.

***

IV.

 

"Somebody killed my best friend! Bastards! All of you!"

 

 

The bookshop was gone.

Completely.

Sure, the building was still there. Kind of. Mostly. But everything else?

Not a single page had survived the fire and the subsequent firefighting. Thousands of rare volumes, of personal treasures, of pieces he had personally rescued out of dank cellars and dusty attics… all gone. All his personal knick-knacks, all the little things he had collected throughout the ages, reminders of his and Crowley's adventures… all gone.

As much as Adam had rebooted the world and banished events, erased them from history and the minds of humans, some things hadn't been restored or been undone. He hadn't performed a miracle. He had used his power one last time, though not to completion.

Some deaths had been permanent.

Some losses were real.

And one loss was the corner store bookshop of A.Z. Fell. It was still a ruin. It was still burned out. Empty windows, the glass panes shattered, lined in black soot like cheap eye shadow, gazed out onto the busy street. The door was a charred husk.

Aziraphale had returned a few times already, never stepping inside until today. Until today he had stared at his beloved shop from the outside, gazing at the damage for hours, ignored by passers-by.

He had known about the loss since his happily accidental and random contact with Crowley in that pub, hearing the raw pain and loss in his friend's voice, feeling it, too. Not because of the bookshop. No, that had been a different kind of pain. It had been Crowley's words about losing his best friend.

And everything that had been said in that one sentence.

Now, seeing the result of the fire, a different kind of loss returned.

On some strange level it hurt. He had collected books, had run this shop, since the eighteen-hundreds. He knew it were just material possessions, a building and paper and ink. But emotionally… emotionally it had been part of him.

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh.

It was foolish. As foolish as eating, enjoying the different foods or the different countries. As foolish as so many things…

But it had been his. It was what he had wanted to do, where he had wanted to be. A hobby. An indulgence. A feeling of… home.

Now that home was gone for good.

No one saw the damage.

No one would ever see it.

People tended to ignore what didn't make sense, and the damage didn't make sense because… no one remembered the fire. For the humans busily walking or driving along the street it was just a façade.

Today, Aziraphale entered his beloved shop for the first time.

And it tore at his heart.

All that damage, all that destruction, all that loss.

He felt emotions deep inside. He felt them rise and trying to get free.

"Stupid," he whispered to himself. "Stupid! It's just… matter."

Another presence came inside, well-known, familiar, wanted, and truthfully, it was needed. Very much needed.

Moral support.

Well, something along those lines. Aziraphale had always tried to never actively ponder his and Crowley's relationship, their friendship, in the past.

How it was worrying not to hear from the demon, see him.

Not because he believed Crowley was up to no good. He was a demon. Of course he was up to no good! It was his job! And it was Aziraphale's to thwart him.

They always popped up in each other's back yard. Aziraphale could be certain that his counterpart would be around one day, gloating, taking credit for things he might not even have done, or to talk about their Arrangement.

There was also how it was such a delight to share food, drink and stories when they did see each other.

How it hurt to fight.

How it had felt just before the doomed doomsday, when they had flung all those hurtful words at one another.

Because he did consider them friends.

Because he did need the demon.

Because they were truly only on their sides, were two halves of the same coin. A currency no one else used.

One half had his beloved material possession back. The Bentley had been returned, unscathed, without a dent, good as new. The same mileage, but everything else was perfectly fine. Not a scratch, not a single scorch mark.

Crowley had been ecstatic. Aziraphale had been there to see that light, that happiness, shine through in the yellow eyes. Even if Crowley didn't so much as whoop or run over to the beloved car, the smile, the way his face shifted through expressions, was tell-tale.

And he had shared the happiness.

He knew how much the car meant to the demon, how he cared for it, loved it, cherished it. How he refused to have anyone else ever even so much as touch it. Aziraphale had been honored to ride in it, knew it was a privilege not granted lightly.

And he had seen how much its loss had meant to Crowley, how something of the demon had gone up in flames and died that moment at the airbase.

Like something had gone up in flames and died within Aziraphale when he had first laid eyes on his beloved bookshop.

Which wasn't back.

It hurt more than it should be allowed to.

So when he felt the demonic presence, Aziraphale didn't turn. Crowley joined him, their arms brushing against each other. He had his hands stuffed into the skinny jeans, the lean, lanky frame leaning a little more toward the angel than normal, sunglasses hiding the yellow eyes.

He radiated an air of detached interest, like he was only here to enjoy the destruction, revel in the despair, rub it all in and gloat over the loss. But Aziraphale had long since learned to look underneath the bluster and the acting. Right now Crowley was tense, like he was expecting the worst, even though the worst had already happened.

"It's all gone," Aziraphale heard himself say dejectedly. "All."

"'S was only books, angel."

He winced. Yes, it had been only books. Paper. Lifeless. Ink on paper. But it had been history. The history of mankind. He had collected it, treasured it, made sure it would live on, so to speak. It had been his shop and it had been his shop for such a long time…

Home.

He pushed it away.

How could it be home?

"Listen…. Zira…" Crowley expelled a little sigh. "I didn't mean…" He stopped, then grimaced. "I know you loved those books." Their shoulders bumped briefly. "But they can be replaced."

Aziraphale glanced at his counterpart, heard something between the lines, and then a light went off. Not literally, of course.

But something clicked into place, was a revelation of a different kind. Aziraphale's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh, my… Crowley, I… I am so sor…"

"Don't!" the demon snapped and stepped away, glaring at him from behind the dark glasses.

He did nevertheless. "I am so sorry."

"Don't bloody apologize!"

Long-fingered hands clenched and unclenched.

"I feel I should."

Crowley glared, but it wasn't directed at the angel. He kicked at some burned-to-a-crisp something and it crumbled into ash. He grimaced as the soot settled against his pant leg and over the snakeskin shoes.

"Crowley," the angel tried again.

"You were dead, Aziraphale!" the other entity shouted, voice cracking. "Dead! Gone! I couldn't feel you anymore! At. All!"

"I wasn't…" Aziraphale tried to correct him.

"You were!" Crowley yelled and the glasses slid marginally down his nose, giving the angel a glimpse of burning, all-golden eyes. Desperation and pain. "You were dead! I couldn't bloody feel you! You were gone and there was nothing but fire! For all I knew it could have been hellfire!"

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale stepped closer, his mind filing away a ton of little things.

Words, facial expressions, gestures… emotions. So many little things assailing him, telling him the larger story, and he felt it. He felt Crowley. So incredibly close and intense....

"It wasn't. I didn't die. I'm here. I'm not leaving."

A muscle in Crowley's cheek twitched. His lips briefly pulled back from even, white teeth in a silent snarl. For a moment it felt like he would unfurl his wings, the agitation so strong and snapping close to the surface.

"And I know the books are objects… replaceable…"

Well, mostly. Some had been unique, the last or the only ones of their kind. Aziraphale felt a distant pain, a kind of loss that wasn't like losing a person… a friend… best friend… Crowley.

That gave him a little stab. More than that. It had part of his very soul clench almost painfully.

No. Not almost. That was definitely pain.

"My apologies for scaring you," he said softly.

Crowley was visibly fighting with whatever was going through his head, with the emotions were warring inside him. His lips were thin lines, his whole face more drawn, more rigid, and his wiry frame so tense, Aziaphale feared something might snap or break.

"Dear, I…"

"No!"

"But…"

"You bloody don't get to fucking apologize!"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

Crowley stabbed a finger at him. "You!... don't get to apologize!" he yelled again, the pain now so open and raw. "Ever! I thought you were dead! That they had taken you! And here you are moaning about losing some old, dusty books! Books! They have no essence! No soul…!"

Aziraphale was stunned, that strange sensation twisting through him again. A kind of shared pain. The pain of personal loss, so acutely felt by his demon, mingling with his own loss, which was paling in comparison.

There had always been the little twinges. The echoes of his demon's outbursts deep within Aziraphale's soul. Mostly when Crowley was angry at him, at what he had done or not done.

Now… the twinge was more. It was like someone digging deeper, looking for the source, looking for the last piece, the last wall, the last… puzzle stone.

"I know," he whispered. "Oh, Crowley, I know. And I never wanted to hurt you this way. I never would have subjected you to such cruel, cruel torment…" He stepped closer and Crowley seemed to rock back without physically moving. "It was an accident, my dear. All of it."

He reached out carefully and his fingers brushed over a tense forearm, caressing the tightened fist briefly. Ever so briefly.

It was enough to open the floodgates. It was enough for what had hung unspoken between them to finally flare to life. Unstoppable, powerful life.

It was enough to cement a connection that had been six thousand years in the making, that had been there all the time, growing from a single strand to an unbreakable… something. And now it pushed Aziraphale even closer, to a soul in torment, to an entity drowning in that torment and in his guilt.

Loneliness.

The prospect of the World Ending, of eternity alone. Just one soul. No match. Just Crowley…

The next puzzle piece clicked into place.

 

 

Crowley made a noise that was almost too soft to hear, but it was there. That one touch was enough. It was like a blow to the gut, like a gentle caress, like claws burying in his once-divine essence.

His body felt too tight for his soul all of a sudden.

And yes, he had a soul. One of his many failures as a demon. He had arrived Below with a fully intact specimen. Probably because he hadn't really been kicked out, more like gotten the door slammed in his face because the Parent was annoyed about their child's no good friends.

So Crowley had a soul.

Some other demons might have one, too. Fragments. Remains of what had once been divine. Not that they talked about it. It wasn't the topic for social chatter or water cooler niceties. It never came up at company picnics over the Sulphur pits.

It had never done him any good; or bad. At least he didn't think so. He probably would have trodden on so many higher-up toes anyway. It was the entity he was. A troublemaker. In Heaven and in Hell.

Right now, Crowley wanted to spread his wings. He wanted to run. He wanted to touch the angel. He wanted to hold on to him, bury his face in the soft fabric of the ridiculous outdated coat, against the even softer neck, inhale his scent and never let him go.

He wanted…

He wanted so much, and he wanted so very undemonic things.

The noise relayed all that. It was a whimper, a groan, a sigh and a plea. It was so much, grew even more, more than he could contain.

"You were gone," he heard himself say, voice cracking under the strain. "Gone! Gone from this Earth! There was nothing left!"

He was breaking apart. The tiny cracks in his soul that had been there since the close-to apocalyptic confrontation with Lucifer were turning into chasms. It was all falling apart and still it didn't feel like an end.

Aziraphale's expression reflected all the pain and hurt he felt himself, all the suffering.

"I only lost my body."

"You went where I could never follow! I had lost everything! I had lost my best friend!" he blurted, all the anguish leaving him with those words. "The only entity in this fucked-up eternity that even matters!" Words he hadn't meant to say out loud.

Oh G… He…ngh, fuck!

"I missed you, you idiotic angel!" he gasped. "I missed you…"

"Oh…"

The bright blue eyes were wide, filled with understanding, with shared pain, with hope and something Crowley had seen directed at himself before. He denied knowing the emotions and always would.

Well, the denial was weaker now than it had been a mere millennia ago, but he was denying it.

Aziraphale's hands fluttered ceaselessly, the agitation clear to see in every twitch. "I would always come back. I came back. I wouldn't leave you, dear. Never. You are not alone, Crowley."

Crowley felt something shiver through him and it was curling like dread in the pit of his stomach. Though not really his stomach. Deeper. So much deeper. He felt it reach out for the angel, wanted to touch his counterpart, and the demon clamped down on it with vicious force.

It hurt.

So much.

Still a little shell-shocked, Crowley stepped back, needing the distance before he did something very demonic and very much undemonic in one.

Aziraphale smiled at him, so knowing and so… so very him.

Crowley furiously pushed his glasses firmly against his eyes, teeth almost gnashing as he fought instinct.

Aziraphale leaned closer without physically moving and his aura seemed to hum a little more, stretch a little more, radiate a little more, instantly seeping into Crowley's and intermingling. It was soothing, calming, so very much his so very much unique angel.

Crowley shot the other a half-hearted glare and finally surrendered.

Not that he would call it that. No. Nope. Never. Demons didn't surrender. Ever.

"What are you going to do?" he asked almost brusquely, violently throwing the rudder of the MS Sinking Ship around to steer into less turbulent waters.

The angel looked at him for a long moment, seconds ticking by as Crowley was under a scrutiny he had never felt from Aziraphale before. Then his counterpart shrugged, the non-corporeal caresses and touches never stopping. It was addictive. Crowley lo… hated it.

"I haven't thought about it yet."

The tight knot loosened a little and the demon's shoulders dropped.

The words 'you can still stay with me' tried to get over his lips, but he bit them back.

It was hard

Very hard.

Because he felt like he couldn't stand to have the angel out of his sight, like he couldn't breathe, even though he didn't have to.

He needed to know… needed to see… that Aziraphale was healthy and whole, in a physical form, down here on this very Earth.

But Crowley won over his instinct, his need to know the angel was close and wouldn't disappear again. He beat them into submission.

At least he convinced himself that he managed that.

Because he didn't.

Ever since the doomed Doomsday they had been around each other, together, rarely out of sight.

It was getting worse.

So much worse.

 

 

For some reason Aziraphale continued to stay at the flat. It was an unspoken arrangement now, never put into any kind of words, but simply gestures. Small, simple things.

Like the bookshelves that filled with old editions.

Like the breakfasts at home.

Like Crowley's favorite coffee in the cupboards where it had never been before.

Like one special corner in the whole flat that was Aziraphale, intermingling with what was Crowley. So very closely.

"If I see a single doily, you're out on your celestial butt!" Crowley told him, mostly for show and to have a final word in.

Aziraphale continued fussing around.

There was no doily.

But the plants were starting to bloom even more.

***

V.

 

"What are you?"

"I'm… I'm soft…"

 

 

"Do you think I'm soft?"

Crowley looked up from where he had been fiddling with his latest smartphone, brows drawing down over yellow eyes. "What?"

"Do you think I'm soft?" Aziraphale asked firmly, hands clasped over his, yes, decidedly soft belly, hidden underneath the ever-present vest with its gold chain and the watch and the so very used look. The fabric around the buttons was scuffed and bare. And it stretched.

Gabriel had been right. He had indulged. He had sullied the temple of his celestial body with… Well, it hadn't been gross matter. It had been wonderfully prepared, tasty food. Humans were such ingenious creatures, invented such amazing variations of food matter…

But it had changed him. Made him… soft. No longer a warrior a God…

"You're an angel," Crowley drawled, long legs crossed at the ankles as they hung over the armchair's arm. "Of course you're soft!"

Aziraphale froze. Time froze. He didn't even breathe.

"I… see…" he said slowly after a very long moment. He bit his lower lip. "Thank you."

Crowley's expression shifted from playful to serious and his feet came to the ground with a thud as he sat up straight.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," Aziraphale answered quickly.

Now those very perceptive eyes narrowed dangerously, studying the angel in a way that had Aziraphale start to squirm.

"Aziraphale…"

"Nothing is going on!" he blurted. "Nothing at all!" And why was his voice always rising when he grew anxious.

"Try it again. Without the lies."

"I'm not lying!"

Crowley snorted. "Demon here. I know lies. And that's lying. Very bad lying, but lying."

"Angels don't lie!"

"Ohhh, they don't, do they?" Crowley smirked. "What do you call it then? Obfuscation? Circumventing the truth? Fabrication?"

"Crowley… please…" he begged.

"What. Is. Going. On."

Not even a question mark. That was bad. So very bad. He shouldn't have brought it up, but it had been preying on Aziraphale's mind since… well, since Gabriel had so carelessly told him he was… not in shape.

"Nothing!" he exclaimed again, nervousness spreading. "Like I said, nothing! It's just… the truth. I'm soft! I know! Foolishly soft. I'm not…"

"You're not what?" was the menacing question.

"A lean, mean fighting machine!"

Crowley stilled. His mouth hung open, his eyes were wide orbs, and he made a sound that could only be described as a very undemonic wheeze, almost a squeak.

"What?!" he finally managed. "Who…? Since when…? You never were!" he finally cried out, amusement bleeding into the words. There was laughter. "You never were a fighter, angel! You were so bad at just keeping your weapon on your person! You're a big old softie!"

Aziraphale swallowed and tried not to feel hurt. Angels didn't feel hurt by words. Not by his former superiors, not by a demon's. Never.

But it did hurt.

Crowley stopped abruptly and that intense sensation was back, the way he looked at Aziraphale and saw more than anyone ever had.

"Who …" And then he bared his teeth. His latest technological acquisition was placed accurately and perfectly gentle onto the black desk top. "Gabriel!"

Aziraphale knew he flinched and he closed his eyes for a moment.

NO. No, no, no!

There was a quiet explosion of demonic energy, washing over his own angelic aura, rushing through the flat and making the plants shiver.

Oh, please, no…

 

 

Crowley wanted to kill him.

No. No, that would be too good. Too clean. Too quick. Death was far too… merciful.

Render him limb from bloody limb! Start with his wings. One feather after another. Then watch the wings heal and start all over again.

And again!

Sell the feathers to some Chinese factory to make gaudy décor with them.

"Useless, freaking lame-brained, arse-headed bastard!"

Hang him by his fingertips. Cover him in honey and watch the ants have fun. Chocolate. Yes, chocolate was good, too. Tar. Tar and then reattach the feathers.

"Crowley," came the chastising scolding.

It didn't stop the demon. The curses grew worse, the aura spiking sharply, buffered by the softness of the angel so very close to him and still too far away. Each violent strike was caught and rendered ineffective. It was like a game, hitting one of those soft punching bags at a gym as it cushioned each blow and moved with the swings.

"Dear, please… this is highly unnecessary."

The demon rounded on his counterpart and perfect match. He took in the slightly shorter and rounder form, as always so primly dressed in his favorite waist coat over a pristinely white shirt, with the pressed trousers and the Victorian style coat. He lo… liked it. He liked it all.

He couldn't say it, but he enjoyed it very much.

The way his angel dressed. Had dressed throughout the ages and all the styles. The way he insisted on wearing glasses when reading a book without needing them. The short-cropped, still kind of curly hair that had been Aziraphale's only hairstyle since the walls of Eden. Always dressing completely out of date for these modern times, but with an elegance that was so much Aziraphale. The prim and proper outside, a little run down, very much not bespoke, that hid a little bastard that sometimes broke through.

Yes, he adored it. Needed it. Liked it so very much that not being around Aziraphale had become torture to a certain degree.

He had always sought him out throughout the ages.

Had needed to know he was okay.

Had teased him, had enjoyed the banter, the word plays and verbal fights, the crinkle of skin around his eyes, the fluster and bluster, and the moments when Aziraphale broke out all warm smiles, directed only at him.

Only him.

Crowley had wanted those moments to last. Had needed them as much as he had never needed anything before.

Now, hearing about that bloody wanker, that prick, that bastard of an archangel…

"There is nothing at all wrong with you!" he growled, temper boiling so close to the surface. "Never bloody was! Never fucking will be!"

Aziraphale gave him a slightly too shaky smile, hands nervously clasping and unclasping before he caught himself.

"I really beg to differ there, my dear. I have come to know my many faults. Some of them rather… distressing."

Crowley snarled and stalked over to the other being, all lanky grace and deadly litheness. There was no swagger, no playfulness. This was the demon, the hellish fiend, the creature of Hell. One out for a hunt and a kill.

"Nothing!" he insisted, glaring at the fidgety angel. "Nothing at all, do you hear me?!"

Aziraphale clasped his hands together again, a little off kilter. "He spoke the truth. I have become softer. I indulged. The books. The food. The drink. Humanity… I indulge… I changed."

"Of course you changed!" Crowley snapped, throwing out his hands. "You and I both! It's this place! Earth! Earth happened to us!"

The angel eyed the sinewy form.

Crowley stared furiously at him, the snake eyes all-encompassing, a burned golden, and he hissed in exasperation. He felt a headache coming. Why were divine creatures so hard-headed? So stubborn?

"Do! Not! Compare us, angel!"

"Why shouldn't I? You didn't change. I did. I let myself go! I eat! You don't eat! You don't… delight in sushi rolls and perfectly baked little cakes and pastries!"

He pushed his repressed idiot of a perfect match against the wall, drawing a slightly startled noise. Eyes wide, Aziraphale stared at him. It wasn't fear. His angel had never been afraid. Maybe a little apprehensive in the beginning, never letting his walls down, but there had been moments back then, too. Lots of them. Lovely moments that had Crowley come back again and again.

Like the stammering. The not-smiting. Like those shy, goofy smiles. The way he doubted the Big Boss without ever saying it in those clear words, more in an endearingly growing waterfall of words, paraphrasing what had been taught to him, and immediately doubting once more.

All that. And then again, not.

No, these were a dozen mixed emotions playing over his features and Crowley loved them all.

"You, Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Bearer of the Fucking Flaming Sword… wherever you bloody misplaced it this time… maybe you gave it away again, so like you… Well, you are not soft. You are not less than any of them. You are perfect. You always were. This body is… a physical form issued by bureaucrats, and it's not you. You are… perfect, angel. My match! I wouldn't want any of those boring do-gooders. They feel wrong. They are wrong. They're copies of each other, with no individuality, with the personality of a rock – and that would be insulting the rock!"

Crowley's hands clenched and unclenched next to Aziraphale's head and he was so close, so very close… And still there was eternity between them.

"The softness is… not bad, okay? It's you. It's not the physical, it's… your whole form, Zira. All of you. That soft, pure love and that hard-edged stubbornness. Whatever those arseholes say, they no longer matter. Ever again. It's us. Just us. You and me, angel."

And you matter to me, came the unspoken thoughts. What I think matters. What you want matters!

Aziraphale looked so hopeful, it was almost painful to perceive.

"We're both perfect imperfection," the demon whispered, smiling wickedly. "Neither of Above nor Below anymore."

"I always enjoyed your form," the angel said in a low, hesitant voice. "Whatever it was. Even with the ridiculous hairstyles you insisted on favoring."

"I went with the times." Crowley tugged playfully at some of the white-blond strands before he caught himself. "You, on the other hand, are a traditionalist."

"I'm not wearing white robes anymore."

"Too bad."

"Oh, you are terrible!"

"I'm a demon," he whispered silkily. "It's what I do." A wicked light shone in those inhuman eyes. "And I'm very, very good at it."

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, you are."

The demon smirked even more. "I always try my very best for you, angel."

Aziraphale shook his head, a fond smile reflected in his eyes, in the little lines around them.

"But my point is," Crowley told him, "you are more than… than those bureaucratic wankers ever saw in you! You are so much more."

"You believe that?"

"I wouldn't have hung around otherwise. You were the most interesting celestial I had ever met until that day."

"Ah."

"And you proved to be more and more interesting afterwards. That little talk. Demon to angel. Evil versus good and all." Crowley smirked, letting playfulness creep into the smile. "And you said you always enjoyed all of my forms?"

"Uhm…"

"All?"

"Well, you are lovely to look at."

The grin was unholy.

And the demon felt himself preen. Unconsciously. Because of the compliment freely given by his angel. His perfect little mess of an angel. Soft, soft angel.

The tension was there, between them, as they stood as close together as they physically could.

Crowley looked into the bright eyes, saw the hope and the softness in them, in the way they crinkled at the corners, and he forced himself to push away.

Too much.

Too fast.

Heading down a one-way street with no chance for a U-turn or take an exit.

He shot Aziraphale a careless smile and draped himself over the armchair again. The angel smiled back, relief and warmth in those familiar eyes.

And something else.

So much of something else…

It gave Crowley a rush like nothing else.

He should be tormenting the angel, should rejoice in his misery, should stoke the flames of doubt and self-recrimination. That's what any respectable demon worthy of his trade would do.

But he wasn't. Wasn't taunting, wasn't tormenting, wasn't stoking anything. And Anthony J. Crowley had never been respectable. He also couldn't stand by and watch the angel suffer. Never had been. Ever.

 

 

They had dinner at one of those new fusion places. Aziraphale delighted over all the little treats and Crowley watched him, mesmerized… needily.

***

VI.

 

"They'll leave us alone… for a bit."

 

 

It wasn't like Heaven and Hell held quarterly or even annual meetings. Normally there was hardly any contact, at least officially.

That had changed with the doomed Doomsday.

There had been a lot of paperwork. More than in six millennia before. There had been memos running back and forth, bringing down whole networks as they ate up bandwidth and requested priority over everything else. Phones never still. Email folders exploded with forwarded mails. Chat announcement flooded the system.

Gabriel had found himself seeing his hellish counterpart more than before the Fall, and neither side was happy. Not because of the meetings; more because of the daily agenda to discuss, the topics that needed to be crossed off. Not to mention the paperwork, the diplomatic nightmare of such get-togethers, and the tedious department meetings back Above and Below after each time.

And then there was the bitter fact that there was no neutral ground left. On top of all the other problems they had faced, Earth was… no longer neutral.

It was no longer a battle ground upon which the War would be decided. Earth was now that gray area where Crowley and Aziraphale were allowed to… continue their traitorous existence.

Gabriel had gotten an earful for his attempt to execute the traitor. The Metatron hadn't been happy, so that meant the Boss wasn't happy with how matters had been handled.

Gabriel was an archangel, the second-in-command. He should have known better.

Well, he thought he had known better. Made an informed decision. For the best. For the best. Like sending Michael Downstairs with a jug of holy water.

That had not come across well with the Almighty.

Beelzebub, while never saying it out loud, had been subjected to a similar, strong-worded reminder that overstepping one's boundaries would not be tolerated a second time. Lucifer had already been smarting from Adam's denial of any kind of kinship; now there was also the very active rumor mill about Crowley.

Hence, the meetings.

"Well," Gabriel said, eyes tracking around the desert wasteland. He flicked an unseen particle of dust off his light gray coat.

Beelzebub looked just as out of place and like they didn't want to be there. "Our Lord and Master has decided."

"So has the Almighty. It was… not pretty for all parties involved."

"It never izzzz."

The buzz was quickly smothered and Beelzebub looked annoyed at the loss of composure.

Ever since Adam had renounced his father, Lucifer had been a bit… sulky. It hadn't helped that a condolence card had arrived shortly after the Incident. It was one thing to be told by your own offspring that they didn't want to follow in your footsteps, didn't want the job you had so painstakingly selected for them, had no aspirations at all. It was quite another to get one's own parent involved, who more or less reminded their renegade son that yes, that's how it felt like.

No, Lucifer hadn't been in a good mood.

Gabriel clapped his hands. "Well, let's get this over with."

"It will not be over."

The frown was almost comical. Gabriel looked at the second highest Hellish Fiend. Beelzebub twitched a humorless smile, those pale, almost colorless pupils reflecting mirth. Then it was gone.

"They are going to be dangerous. To morale. To discipline."

"For your lot, maybe. We don't have a problem."

Another buzz. "Suit yourself. But this isn't over. This will change nothing."

"Oh, we will be fine."

"Crowley has been on Earth for too long. He is a demon with an imagination," Beelzebub said. "Flexible. Able to adjust fast to any new situation."

Gabriel suddenly looked like he had stepped into something vile and disgusting, and it was going to stick to his expensive shoes for the rest of the day.

"And the angel is no better."

Gabriel's nose wrinkled in disdain. "That won't be our problem any longer after this."

Beelzebub rolled their pale eyes as if the archangel had something particularly stupid. And well, he had. Then the second-in-command of Hell disappeared.

Gabriel pursed his lips, then did the same, just into the other direction.

 

*

 

Ever since the Doomed Doomsday Affair neither of their respective bosses had called on them again.

Not a peep.

Nothing.

No memo, no messenger, no broadcast, no personal visits.

They had been left alone after the failed execution attempts, forgotten, in this corner of the world.

Breathing space.

Their sides had apparently needed it as much as Aziraphale, as Crowley.

For the first time in millennia Aziraphale found he didn't really care. He had averted a disaster and he knew that Above couldn't possibly be happy about not being able to make an example of him. Just like Below was probably seething that one of their own was unpunishable.

But he didn't care.

And nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Forgotten? No. Ignored, was more like it.

No one wanted to associate with the outcasts, the ones who were different, who were no longer of either Realm.

Going native, Beelzebub had called it. Aziraphale had wanted to laugh at the comment, but stay in character, he had simply sneered and taunted them more.

 

 

"I was a perfectly fiendish fiend of Hell before I met you!" Crowley complained drunkenly. They had gone back to the flat after their scrumptious dinner, going through a collection of very expensive alcohol.

"You were," Aziraphale agreed sagely.

"Kept my head down, my nose clean…"

The angel snorted inelegantly.

"Oi! I was a model demon!" He spread his arms. "Now look a'me!"

Aziraphale squinted. "You're a demon!" he proclaimed as if he had just solved all seven Millennium Math Problems. "Fiendish fiend. Always have been!"

Crowley burped. "Right! I was perfectly fiendish in my fiendishness. Foul beast o'hell 'n all. Gold stars. Always. All of them. Commendations. Loads of 'em. Framed. 'N you changed me, angel!"

"I am an angel."

"Just said so."

Aziraphale smiled lopsidedly. "Cheers!" He raised his glass and emptied it.

Crowley refilled his own.

"I was the Angel of the Eastern Gate," Aziraphale slurred proudly.

"Hn."

"And I wasn't really good at it."

Crowley snickered.

"But it was a job."

"Yep."

"Not that it paid well."

"Figures. 'N you lost your flamin' sword."

"'N I lost my flamin' sword," Aziraphale agreed.

"Gave it away," Crowley corrected him and let the last drop of the tasty liquid fall into his glass. "Like… a raffle prize. Here, guys! Take this. Flamin' sword. Off you go. Thanks f'playin'!"

Aziraphale sighed. "They needed it. They were all alone," he waved a hand.

"You're such a soft-hearted angel, angel."

"Not soft."

Aziraphale's whole posture drooped and he slid sideways, leaning against the demon. Crowley nuzzled into the white-blond hair, eyes closing on their own accord.

"Soft," he slurred. "So soft."

 

 

They woke up with a hangover and Crowley's head on Aziraphale's lap, face actually buried against the angel's stomach.

The angel's fingers were in his hair.

He stayed absolutely still, breath barely there, and his whole essence seemed to reach for the other entity.

The fingers twitched and Aziraphale woke.

The moment was broken.

Neither spoke about it.

 

*

 

The letters came no twenty-four hours later.

Both delivered by messengers that couldn't make a faster exit even if they had tried to.

For Crowley it was while he was doing some minor mischief as he browsed through a mobile store, messing up the apps and wireless connections. Nothing serious; nothing that would require a thwarting.

There was disgust, mixed with a healthy dose of fear and a smidgen of terror, in the lower demon's eyes as it handed over the sealed letter and quickly got out of there with a squeak.

Yeah, well, it had been a big smidgen of terror.

Word had spread through Hell. Crowley was immune to holy water, had bathed in the deadly liquid, and no one wanted to tangle with such a creature. Of neither realm and still of both.

Crowley smirked and broke the seal.

 

 

Aziraphale's messenger was an angel who wouldn't so much as look him in the eyes, nor move a facial muscle. But the flicker in his eyes that wouldn't meet the other angel's was clear: apprehension. Maybe even… fear?

Now, that couldn't be. No one had been afraid of Aziraphale ever since, well, his creation. He wasn't a soldier, had never been more than a guardian, and as a field agent he had been… soft.

Still, there was that; the fear.

But there was also Judging. The way the angel looked at Aziraphale's current lodgings there was no mistaking that he was Judged.

Aziraphale just took the letter, signed that he had received it, then the other angel was gone without a word uttered.

But he had looked incredibly relieved.

Slightly flummoxed, he broke the seal.

 

*

 

"I'm fired."

Crowled peered over the rims of his sunglasses, which sat at the tip of his nose as his lanky frame took up most, well, actually all of the two-seater sofa that hadn't been at his flat before the angel had moved in. His feet hung over one arm rest while his head was on the other.

Many things had started to move into the demon's place. Even now, even after things had cluttered up the small guest room that seemed to expand without physically taking up more space. It was like walking into another dimension sometimes.

Crowley often just hung around, like now, sharing the small quarters, even while he could have been anywhere else in the wide expanse of his home.

Aziraphale would rebuild his bookshop. It was more than a hobby. It wasn't just a fancy. It was part of Aziraphale. Crowley had just given him that fond look and remarked on knowing a shady character or ten who might just get him those rare, sought-after copies in time. He would reopen, would move into the warm, homey atmosphere of before, but for now… for now there was this warm, homey place in Crowley's flat.

"Fired?" the demon repeated, chuckling. "From what? The Book Collectors of Greater Britain? The Society of the Extraordinarily Nerdily Dressed Gentlemen?"

Aziraphale gave him a slightly reprimanding look.

Crowley didn't look reprimanded at all. He just grinned, showing even white teeth.

"This arrived by messenger this morning," the angel said and held up the old-fashioned parchment.

"Huh."

"From the head office. It's a termination notice. Of my services."

"You. Got fired. From Heaven? You?"

Aziraphale nodded, twisting the letter in his hands.

"You?!"

"Yes. We knew something was coming. I didn't expect… that." The angel sighed and it sounded a little miserable. "I am an angel, you know. Even if they didn't really want me anymore, I am…"

Crowley sat up in a snap, long legs taking him over to where Aziraphale stood looking miserable.

"You didn't Fall, Zira."

"I know."

"Doesn't look like it. Are you moping?"

"No!" Affront crept into the voice. "No, of course not! I do not mope!"

"Could have fooled me."

Crowley plucked the letter from unresisting hands. It was elaborate, with calligraphed letters and fancy words, run-on sentences and endless, bureaucratic and legal nonsense.

"You got fired," he translated. "All benefits revoked. What benefits? Do angels retire? Do you have a fund? No more celestial wages. Hey, wow, you lot get paid? And you can't come running home. Huh. As if you ever would. Not after what they tried to do, right? No job, no back-up that you never had or needed, and no idiots checking up on you. You were given the boot. Big deal. So was I."

Aziraphale blinked. "You?"

Crowley pulled out a crumbled letter, slightly smoldered at the edges, and chugged it at the angel. Aziraphale smoothed it a little.

"Status of the demon Crawly: revoked and terminated. Don't show you worthless ass Down Here ever again," he read.

Crowley smirked. "So much for my own retirement benefits. I'm a free agent now. As are you." He snatched the letter out of the angel's hands and wadded it up again. "Like I said before, there's only our side now."

Aziraphale was silent.

"Angel?"

"Our side," he whispered.

"Yeah. Our side. You and me. Just like we have been for six millennia. They never cared about us and now it's official." He grinned. "Look at the positive side, Aziraphale: no more assignments, no more surveillance, no more bureaucracy. I know how much you hated writing those reports. The paperwork. No more of that, eh?"

The angel was silent again. His thoughts were racing, his very soul churning. This was like a blessing and a curse in one.

It was only them now. Like it had always been.

They no longer had to hide their friendship, though. They didn't have to be sneaky. They could openly meet, sit together, enjoy each other's company… Go out. Have lunch. See a terrible theater play. Or a musical. Crowley hated musicals, but he couldn't take credit for their invention.

The blue-grey eyes met the reptilian ones.

"Angel…" Crowley said, voice suddenly dropping into a softer tenor. "Aziraphale…"

"I'm perfectly fine," he interrupted.

"Liar."

He shivered. "I am absolutely okay."

Crowley snorted. "You're not. You didn't Fall, if that's what you're worried about, okay? They gave you the boot, set you free, washing their hands of your past and future actions. That's all."

"It's… new."

"And we'll run with it. Like we've done in the past."

"We."

"Yes, angel. We. You and me. A team. Our team. Our side."

Crowley was close now, very close, no room between them.

"Just us. We know how that works. No more overseeing what we do. No more sudden visits and calls. No more shackles and chains. Only you and me, angel. You and me."

Aziraphale looked into the amazing eyes, so unique, took in the the widened pupil, felt the warmth of the other body, and he was reminded of the countless but still counted and remembered times they had been this close before. All those times they had come for each other, had had each other's backs, had rescued one another. Well, Crowley had done a fair share more of those rescues.

"…you and me," he echoed faintly.

As it had always been.

Together on this Earth.

He remembered the miracles he had performed to save his demon, to help and not thwart. He remembered giving him the holiest of water, because Crowley had asked. Just because his friend had asked and Aziraphale couldn't bear the thought of his counterpart truly doing himself permanent harm because he was planning some stupid caper.

They were free.

No more hastily cobbled together explanations. No more pleasing a superior. No more excuses.

No more lies…

Lies between them.

Him. And Crowley. His demon. Not just any demon; his. Angels possessed nothing, wanted nothing, but Aziraphale had always been different.

Food. The books. The shop. Crowley.

He could go without everything but the demon. He needed him. Not because that was how it worked: angel, demon, blessing, temptation. Thwarting the evil as it rose. Crowley had never been evil. Just… Crowley.

The ever-present danger of their discovery was gone. Nothing new could be revealed to their superiors. The Arrangement… everything was safe.

They were safe.

And free.

He looked into the demonic eyes. "…you… us…"

"Angel?" came the tentative question.

Crowley looked a bit confused, almost worried, but also more than a little apprehensive.

The light bulb moment was like an explosion, like the Apocalypse of a different scale, like everything resetting. A revelation.

Free choice. He could finally do what he wanted, without fear of sanctions or repercussions. No more reprimands or strongly worded memos.

No mortal peril for his counterpart because Aziraphale, sad, soft excuse for a Warrior of the Lord, wanted… so, so much. So very much, only for himself, because he couldn't think of ever not beign with Crowley.

The kiss was almost… anticlimactic.

And very human.

Well, yes. They had both been part of this world for too long not to be just a little bit human. In so many, many ways.

Like a kiss.

It was a contact that had been initiated by neither and both of them at the same time.

It was brief and endless in one.

Arms slid around the angel's waist, holding on, pulling closer, needing the contact, and energies mingled. Neither fully divine, nor fully demonic, a core of niceness and a sprinkle of bastard. Not cancelling each other out, no. Making the other more than his perceived standing in Heaven or Hell.

This, between them, had been there for millennia. Slowly developing, evolving, ever-changing into something again new, yet still familiar. It had been patiently waiting, hungry, needy, longing. It had been intimacy before they had even touched. It had been protection, freedom, a bond.

A bond like nothing else.

Not one of enslavement. Not one of servitude. Not one of shackles and clipped wings. It was a bond of two souls that were so different from all other angels and demons that Heaven and Hell feared them now.

They were of neither realm.

They belonged on Earth.

Aziraphale's aura grew, enveloped them, and Crowley's eyes widened as he saw it all, saw his own, saw them together. Then they closed with an expression of almost-bliss on his features. His own aura freely interwove with the angel's as it had longed to do since… since so very, very long. Achingly long.

"Angel…" It was a sigh, expelled like a groan.

Crowley didn't burst into flames.

And Aziraphale didn't Fall. Actually, his smile was more radiant than it had ever been before.

The demon kissed that smile.

Aziraphale didn't protest. At all.

***

VII.

 

"Well, I'll be damned."

"It's not that bad when you get used to it."

 

 

They had spent six thousand years among humans. Integrating themselves in societies in a way no other demon or angel ever had. Those with brief assignments on Earth stood out like sore thumbs and were mostly responsible for all the apparently paranormal, supernatural and even extraterrestrial sightings. Many had been quickly recalled, even though their temptations had gathered them bonus points.

Crowley had always been subtle. So subtle that not even his superiors had understood the ingenuity of what he had accomplished.

Stupid buggers. All of them.

Humanity had started to rub off in so many small ways, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that the way of human intimacy had, too.

Angels, for all their benevolence depicted in mankind’s tales, were nothing but uppity bastards in Crowley’s opinion. They had no compassion, held no interest in God’s creation, be it Earth or any other world in the whole wide universe. They looked down upon humanity, pitying them their short lifespan, their inability to comprehend the divine, and they only acted when sent an assignment.

Aziraphale had been different from the earliest moment of their very first encounter: he had given his flaming sword away. Crowley had listened to the stammering explanations about the dangers of the world outside the walls, of Eve expecting, of their need for protection now that they were no longer within the walls of Eden.

Crowley had been struck almost speechless; had been amazed. Actually, and that was hard to achieve, he had been shocked. By an angel.

It kept on happening as they shared millennia together, but never as much as the moment the kiss happened.

Because angels weren’t touchy-feely, no matter the stained glass window representations and works by great artists where one embraced a suffering human or blessed one with a kiss.

His angel was.

Had been that way from early on.

Crowley had been, honestly, astounded. An angel voluntarily touched a demon, even if it was only briefly, momentarily, and then, longer. Right down to sitting drunkenly on the same couch and leaning against each other.

But it had never resulted in a kiss.

Now it had.

And it progressed.

 

 

Palms slid over the sinfully tight designer shirt, over Crowley's ribcage, exploring, not even the slightest bit hesitant. It was actually quite a firm, goal oriented touch that had Crowley's brain stall and crash, desperately trying to reboot. The traces of the touch were made of pure angelic energy, wriggling and shivering against his hellish form, and it didn't hurt.

At all.

It was the opposite. And so much more.

There were a thousand and one legends, myths and old wives tales that a demon couldn't touch an angel without rather painful consequences. Rashes, boils, burns, bursting into flames… those were the fan favorites. Crowley had always found it rather amusing, though Aziraphale had been mostly exasperated.

Angelic energy wasn't harmful to demons and demonic energy didn't hurt angels. They didn't explode, nor implode. Actually, right now, it was…

"Nghn."

"Are you okay, dear?" Aziraphale asked, light brows drawing down over those inquiring eyes.

"Hng," he managed, sounding a little strained, then almost jumped back as Aziraphale's explorations landed him on a patch of bare skin.

There were no sparks, no tingles, nothing. Just skin against skin, and that was worse than anything before.

Okay, they had shaken hands before. Bare hands. But it had never been… this. So intense and so incredibly intimate, it blew apart Crowley's defenses one by one

"Is this okay? Am I hurting you? Oh, Heavens, I'm hurting you!"

And the hands were gone.

"I didn't handle any blessed objects or holy water," Aziraphale rambled on. "But maybe I overlooked something. Oh dear, I'm sorry…" His hands fluttered nervously, as if he wanted to touch and stopped himself just in time.

Crowley's reaction was faster than he would have thought himself able to move. He grabbed onto the retreating form and clasped almost desperate fingers around one wrist.

"No!" he exclaimed. "No, angel! You're not hurting me! Never have. You feel good. All the time. Really good!"

Aziraphale stilled, wide-eyed. "Oh. Then… why…?"

"Didn't expect… that. It was… intense."

The angel looked endearingly confused, then his eyes widened as realization hit. "I… I thought… I thought you wanted to," he finally said and fuck, he sounded dejected.

"Aziraphale… angel… I…" Blessed grief, he was stammering. "I didn't think you would consider going this far. With me. Uhm, well, now. Right now. Or ever…" Crowley clamped his mouth shut and felt his teeth grind.

"Why wouldn't I?" was the almost innocent question.

Crowley looked into the surprised eyes, a million and one thoughts forming and dying again.

Why wouldn't he?

Why would he even kiss a demon?

And then? Go a step further. A human step.

"You said I was going too fast for you," Crowley heard himself say.

"I think I finally caught up," Aziraphale told him, voice soft, intense, relay things… things! "I'm not naïve, my dear," the celestial entity added.

He cleared his throat. Aziraphale gave him a mild glare.

His silly little angel. All rainbows and sunshine and candy-colored unicorns frolicking in a sea of sunflowers. Crowley felt a burst of something and it was disgustingly gooey and warm. It had been there throughout time. It had reared its beautiful little head when his angel had smiled at him, when he had uttered his thanks or apologies, when he had given Crowley those looks.

"Well, you know where the babies come from," the demon teased, on safer ground that way. "It's not like your Boss could cut them all out of each other's ribs. Messy stuff, that."

The glare intensified for a moment, became a scolding scowl.

"So, sex, yes. Happens. Humans do it. All the time. Rather inventive bunch."

Aziraphale gently freed his wrists and Crowley released them. He hadn't been aware of holding on to the angel like the entity would just up and vanish if he didn't.

"Humans," the demon repeated.

Not angels and demons. Especially not together.

"I was around. I know."

Crowley's default reaction was a leer and a devilish glint in his eyes. "Ohhh, you watched! Angel, I'm scandalized!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took his hands again, threading their fingers together. Crowley swallowed.

"Crowley, dear…" he started.

"I might burst into flames after all," the demon interrupted, stuttering slightly.

"You won't," was the calm answer and Aziraphale was there again. So close. "I would like to explore this with you."

Crowley had been dreaming of this sometimes. Day-dreaming. Fantasizing. Calling himself all kinds of names.

The hands were on his skin again.

His mind stalled, sputtered, then got with the program.

"So would I, angel. So would I."

Aziraphale's smile was radiant.

 

 

Sex with an angel was… well, different.

Not because of weird anatomy or the simple fact their physical forms were nothing but a shell containing a celestial essence.

No, sex was… not something anyone had ever given a single thought about. Demons were, as a whole, a rather unimaginative bunch. It was humanity who had come up with all those naughty little tidbits about demons luring the innocent angels into a tryst, sullying their holiness, taking their virginity, making them Fall.

That's not what happened.

Actually, nothing had ever happened. At all.

Angels were just as unimaginative in many ways, and sex was not something that came up in celestial staff meetings or the weekly memos. It hadn't come up in any angel's brain ever.

And even if one demon or one angel had mused over it, they wouldn't have known what to do.

Well, Crowley was a demon with quite an imagination and he had been among humans, tempting them, whispering in their ears, something downright pushing a stupid bloke onto the right path to Hell. He had picked up quite a lot of things along the way.

As for Aziraphale: he loved humankind. He loved God's creations in a way that was beyond an angel's limited capacity to love, and he had an imagination as well.

So the whole thing about expanding the kiss into something more had been born out of both their quite stimulated and active minds.

Crowley wouldn't have thought it was possible, but this was Aziraphale.

His angel. The one being he had known since the beginning. Back then, without actually knowing each other as more than a demon and the Angel of the Eastern Gate, there had been a connection.

No smiting. No cursing. Just watching the first humans walk into an unknown future, wondering who had done the right thing and who had done the wrong. He had enjoyed the conversation with the slightly flustered angel. So very different from all his other kind, from Crowley's former brethren.

Not so high and mighty, looking down on the demon, barely giving him the time of day. No, it had been equals meeting and that, all on itself, should have been the very first clue. Quickly followed by the second as a white wing had extended over the demon's head, sheltering him from the first rain in Creation.

It had been a selfless, sweet gesture. Angelic. But no other angel would have done it.

After that, it had been, as the humans said, history. It had been them throughout the ages. Just them. The field agents. The only of their kind to go with the times. Really go with the times.

Learning.

Evolving.

Becoming… this.

Crowley looked at the pale-skinned, perfect, so unholy divine being he couldn't exist without.

He had lied when he had told Aziraphale that he didn't need him, had others to 'fraternize with'. It had been a big, fat, bold lie. A desperate lie, lie, lie.

And it had been an even bigger lie there in the park, merely a day away from The End.

Because he needed him.

Aziraphale smiled and the demon was suddenly aware that he had said it out loud.

"I know, dear," was the soft answer. "You were in pain back then."

"I wasn't," he growled automatically.

The patient smile was nearly too much. That fondness, that serenity. "We were about to lose everything."

I was about to lose you! he screamed in his head, far from serene or calm himself.

Aziraphale soothingly caressed one temple. Crowley closed his eyes and sank into the connection, into the energy all around him. Everything around him was soft, calming, without a single edge or any pressure.

It was completely against the nature of any self-respecting demon. Against all their kind stood for, were blamed for. Still, Crowley had never conformed.

Not in Heaven and surely never in Hell. It had gotten him into trouble every single time. First he had been kicked out the Pearly Gates on his scaly behind. Then he had been booted from one department to the next until Beelzebub had had enough and sent him to Earth.

Where he had set up a flourishing business of temptations and mischief, causing minor trouble here or there, and taking credit for the wickedness of humanity.

Aziraphale ran a so very loving and gentle caress over his cheek, his thumb brushing over the softer skin underneath the golden eyes. The touch brought him out of his reverie, and Crowley knew he had done a lot of undemonic stuff, simply to see those lips turn up into a happy smile, the eyes light up with relief, thankfulness, and… yes, love.

Back then he had scoffed at it.

Now…

Now they were here. At this point in their eternity. And sex.

No, the sex hadn't been part of the vague idea… notion… shooting through Crowley's head. He also hadn't thought about what it would be like should it happen. The kiss. And the rest.

Not that he had much to compare it to. Had never slept with an angel before. Hadn't kissed one either.

Huh. Did that make him a virgin?

Demons did temptations, but they rarely got involved.

Crowley had done his share of temptations in that regard, but he had had no desire to try it personally.

Unless it involved a certain principality. He hadn't really giving it a deeper thought, because chances of it happening were not even close to a snowball's chance in Hell. Depending on where the snowball ended up, it actually had a really good chance to spend the rest of its frosty life in Hell.

Again their auras mingled, each seeping into the other, like waves gently lapping at a new shore. The edges were now tightly interwoven, the divine undiscernible from the demonic. Now and then there was a flare. Never painful. More like a rush.

Crowley dropped his head on one pale shoulder, hearing a soft sigh leave his lips. Aziraphale's hands were on his back, his neck, sliding into his hair, then down again, drawing gentle lines that meant nothing and everything in one.

Demons and angels didn't mingle.

Nor did either Side procreate. Sex wasn't needed. Their energies were on the opposite side of the spectrum.

They didn't have Arrangements. Angels didn't do temptations, demons didn't do blessings or perform miracles.

They didn't look out for one another, starting with sheltering a demonic entity from the very first rain touching God's Earth. Smiling that stupid, shy little smile.

Didn't share lunches. Didn't hang out in the other's bookshop for hours without feeling bored, just watching the other half do what he loved so much. They didn't soak up an angel's delighted smile; didn't want to see more of them directed at them. They didn't save books from certain destruction. They didn't thank demons for a rescue or felt relieved to see aforementioned demon in a personally tight situation that would mostly likely get one discorporated. Just like demons didn't rescue angels from discorporation on a regular basis.

And their energies and auras were surely not so infinitely compatible, flowing together naturally, pleasantly, eternal and infinite.

Aziraphale's fingers repeatedly ran over the areas where Crowley's wings sat when they manifested and he groaned softly. Who knew that touch could be so deeply felt? It shivered over his whole form, corporeal and demonic. It seeped into his skin, swallowed up greedily like water on desert ground. It soaked into his essence and made up a home.

Human bodies were… well, his wasn't a human body, just shaped to resemble one, but it did have its perks when needed. Like reflecting certain demonic and angelic traits. Like being sensitive in areas where he had never been sensitive before.

It was all about energy. Energy lines. Their essence freed and mingling.

Yeah, mingling was fun. A lot.

The next wave had him shudder. In a very good way.

"Angel…"

"I think… no, I know… I love you."

The words raced through him, fiery hot, leaving scorch marks on his very core; his demonic soul. They ignited something, cemented a fact, and Crowley bowed his head against the warm neck, hands digging into the perfect skin of this perfect being.

Aziraphale loved him.

Of course he does, you idiot! a nasty part hissed. He's an angel! He fucking loves everything!

Something expanded around him, warm and caring. Only directed at him. This was not an angel's love. This was Aziraphale's. He knew it.

It was a Fact. Cemented between them, ingrained in their very cores now.

Not like an angel was supposed to love everything in Creation. And not every angel had room for such emotions anyway. Few were such do-gooders as humanity made them out to be. No, it wasn't like that.

It resonated inside him, found that grain of divinity, but he couldn't say it. It was stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard.

The caresses and petting never stopped.

He started to tremble with the build-up of unspoken emotions.

It made no sense. He couldn't… he just couldn't.

But he had.

In oh so many ways.

It was why he had done all of those things, had wanted the Arrangement.

Crowley had suspected it had been one of God's jokes, one of those hiccups in Creation itself. A demon falling for one of the purest beings. An angel; a principality. It had to be a joke. Really!

But over the centuries, the millennia, he had stopped believing that. Over the time he had fallen; no capital f. Just fallen. For an angel whose energy resonated perfectly with Crowley's.

Aziraphale made a little oh-ing noise.

That joyful energy that was his angel rose. The knowledge moved between them, those emotions, those sensations, and Crowley felt the… the want and need, the very real desire.

Crowley shuddered again, pressing his closed lips against the desirable skin. So much meant so much more now.

He refused to dig any deeper into it.

They were already way in too deep, had crossed borders that had been happily in place for so long. Here they were, naked, in human forms, their supernatural energies netted together more intimately than human physical intimacies was capable of, and Crowley couldn't… he just couldn't…

Aziraphale's palms rested on his back, over his wing spots.

No more words were spoken.

***

VIII.

 

"The world ending. That's where it's gonna happen. Quite soon now."

 

The bookshop reopened on a sunny Friday afternoon, unexpectedly, without flourish, and it seemed to have always been there.

No one could remember a time it hadn't been. Always run by a new generation that had inherited from the original proprietor, the old Mr. Ezra Fell, what a nice gentleman. Just like his sons and grandsons were nice.

There was no mention of the fire, of the bookshop closing for such a long time. There had been no talk about there once being a bookshop and suddenly there wasn't.

Nothing had changed in the eyes of humans.

So much had changed in Aziraphale's eyes.

It had taken more than a miracle to get his shop back. He couldn't have replaced his books with a snap of his fingers. He couldn't recreate the small souvenirs collected over time. All he could do was slowly, over days and weeks, restore the building and watch the shelves reshape themselves.

"Why not do one blessed miracle and be done with it?" Crowley asked as he inspected the empty room.

It looked cavernous, far from the cozy, warm space it had been before and might not be for another two centuries to come.

Aziraphale had no answer for it. It wasn’t his penance. He had nothing to atone for. It wasn't a lack of power or the fear of a strongly worded letter about frivolous miracles. He would never get such letters again. He could do whatever he wanted. He still had all his angelic power, could do all the miracles he wanted…

It was…

Strange.

Because a miracle couldn't undo the emptiness, couldn't recreate the lived-in feel, of time passing in this place. A little over two hundred years. A fraction of eternity, but still time.

This had been his place. He had shaped it through his presence within the stone walls. He had known every nook and every cranny. He could vividly, very vividly, remember the stab of… sadness?... pain?... loss?... when Crowley had told him about the shop's demise. It had been like losing… something important in his life. Objects, yes, but still important.

He ran a hand along an old desk, feeling the ancient wood under his fingertips. Flakes of old paint peeled off.

Crowley paced along the empty shelves, scowling at them, almost glaring them into obedience to be filled with the books they had once contained. The lifeless shelves seemed to shiver.

"Dear," Aziraphale just said, not even looking at his counterpart. "It will take time. Some things need time; more than others. It's… personal. Going fast is not the answer here."

The demon stilled, almost froze, and then slowly straightened. The unshielded eyes were reflecting something. Something… something quickly hidden as sunglasses were slipped on.

Aziraphale didn't see it. He was still inspecting the new old furniture.

"How about lunch?" he finally asked, face a reflection of cheerful lightness. "There is this reopened corner restaurant I have been wanting to try. It's not far and has delightful little tapas platters to share."

Crowley brushed non-existent dust off his jacket. "Lead the way, angel."

Aziraphale beamed at him.

 

*

 

Aziraphale continued to, well, live for lack of a better word, at Crowley's flat.

The guest room was by now a cozy library of sorts, complete with old wooden shelves, antique reading lamps and a stuffed armchair. Crowley denied all knowledge as to where it had all come from.

Aziraphale wisely never commented on it.

That the fridge was by now absolutely confused as to what all the food was doing inside it was a minor matter. Aziraphale was fond of midnight snacks, of such small delights and treats whenever he fancied them, and Crowley did really not feel gooey and warm whenever his angel hummed and crowed over a specific treat.

Aziraphale didn't take up sleeping, but he would join Crowley on the king-sized bed, let the demon curl close to him, run idle fingers through the auburn hair, and read.

There would be a different kind of gentle touches sometimes. Exploring the newly found intimacy.

Aziraphale loved to explore. It was his nature, that curiosity, and where it had been about humankind, it was now about Crowley, too. In an oddly gentle, non-provocative and absolutely harmless way. It never set the demon on edge. Ever. His skin, his clothes, his hair. And the wings…

Crowley’s brain had gone on a very brief vacation to la-la land when Aziraphale had first touched the dark wings, stroking them reverently.

The wings weren't particularly sensitive. They were energy. They could be visible or invisible. They weren't anything but tools. A connection to the Divine, the Presence.

Crowley had lost that connection a long time ago.

He had never missed it.

He had never given his black wings a second thought; the first had been that they were rather impressively cool.

Never in six millennia…

“You are one of the few demons I’ve ever seen with wings.”

“Hngn…”

Never in six millennia had anyone touched them.

"Actually, I have only seen yours twice in the whole time we worked together."

The demon tried to rally his treacherous brain back into working order. How could touch be so… so much? How could it be this intimate, deeply felt, like Aziraphale touching his essence, his very soul?

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley slowly moved the wing out of Aziraphale’s reach. “Yeah.” Even his voice betrayed him, sounding rougher; almost raw.

He had no idea why he had spread them, made them real. He couldn't recall thinking about it, consciously making an effort. One moment Aziraphale had been idly drawing his perfectly manicured singers over his shirt-covered back, the next found the angel with black feathers everywhere, looking startled and delighted in one.

The brow furrowed. “Crowley.”

“Demons generally have no use for wings. Too angelic. No bloody function than to remind us…” He stopped. “Some changed them. Big, whooping, scaly wings. Impressive. But get in the way in a crowded room. And demons don’t fly. I think it's more a fashion statement since the boss has them, too.”

“But you have use for them?”

He shrugged and the wings disappeared. There was a flurry of disappointment crossing Aziraphale's features.

As if he wanted them to stay…

“Never gave them much thought.”

Yet they had unfurled like a dark cape behind him when he had first met the angel on the walls of Eden. It had also been the last time he had been a snake. Then again when he had used all his power to stop time for just a moment.

“Oh. Well, they are splendid.”

And if he would have allowed himself to blush, he would have glowed a bright shade of crimson. And he didn’t preen either. No. Demons didn’t get complimented by angels and they sure as blessed fuck didn’t preen!

“Are you sure you’re okay, dear?”

He could be so clueless, so naïve, and yet such a hard-headed, stubborn, relentless… adorable… loveable…

Crowley stopped himself.

“Fine.”

Aziraphale was silent, just looking at him. Instead of turning away he just looked.

Crowley blew out a breath.

“It’s not a topic that comes up in lazy chats at after work parties,” he snarled.

“Ah. I understand. I would apologize, but…”

“Don’t,” he said.

Aziraphale nodded and closed the distance. “Your wings are nothing to be ashamed of,” he said softly.

“I’m not.”

And he wasn’t. He hadn’t been before, because he never showed them openly around another demon, and he sure as Something-or-other wasn’t now. He didn’t care now!

“Good.” Aziraphale’s smile was warm. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them more often.”

He stared at his counterpart, eyes wide, then caught himself.

“Don’t count on it, angel.”

It got him acceptance and love. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

 

The sex was… not really necessary. It was fun. Lots of it. Quite exciting and exhilarating. It was… heavenly, really, though Crowley refused to say it. He enjoyed it because it was Aziraphale. His brilliant, wonderful, amazing little angel. The amazing little angel who was far from timid, prim and proper when it came to their encounters.

There would be weird little spikes in their energies when things got heated and Crowley's senses tried to adjust to the rightness he felt when Aziraphale's whole being encompassed them. When his own demonic aura rose like ethereal wings and was caught, then threaded through the divine that was his angel. The release was like a silent explosion of those two different and still so similar energies.

It never hurt.

It was just right.

Perfectly alright.

 

*

 

Aziraphale regarded the so much smaller selection of rare books, first editions, valuable tomes and silly little one-edition wonders.

So much was still missing.

Sometimes it turned up unexpectedly, on his desk, wrapped in old paper, stuffed in a box, contained in a suitcase that looked like it had been stowed in a dusty attic for decades or longer.

There was never a note attached, but Aziraphale knew where it had come from.

He never spoke of it, but he gave Crowley brilliant smiles and thanked him.

"What are you going on about, angel?" the demon growled as he once more stalked around the bookshop, eyes running over the pristinely restored backs of countless books, smirking at some of the more romantic titles. The book shelves had the appropriately scuffed look, the floor appeared like a thousand people had walked them before, and the lights were soft, dimmed, and as antique as the whole shop.

"Tea, my dear?" he offered.

Crowley huffed something that could be interpreted as a yes and had a delicate cup in his hands moments later.

"It's a lovely day," Aziraphale said as he peered over the superfluous reading glasses he insisted on wearing to complete the ensemble.

Crowley pulled a face. "It's sunny."

"Yes. Marvelously so. I was thinking about leaving early. Maybe having a picnic." He beamed happily.

The demon moved restlessly, fingers skipping over a geography book of Very Old, one that still had chunks of the Earth missing and misplacing a few continents.

"Sounds… fun."

"Would you like to come?" Aziraphale invited.

"To a picnic?"

"Yes. I distinctly remember owing you one."

Dark brows rose and the glasses slipped a little, revealing the fully demonic eyes. Aziraphale gestured at the room.

There was a stubborn line forming between Crowley's eyes and he purposely ignored the angel, shuffling through loose papers and inspecting a recent anonymous donation. It had been an extremely hard to track down collection of Da Vinci's and wherever Crowley had found it, and Aziraphale knew it had been his demon doing all the anonymous donating, it was so very much appreciated.

Aziraphale waited. He was radiating enough for a whole dozen of his kind and it was setting Crowley even more on edge.

"Fine!" the demon finally hissed. "Fine! A picnic!"

It got him an even warmer smile, calming him unconsciously as the angel’s aura enveloped him. He relaxed a little and grumbled under his breath. But he also leaned into the invisible touch.

"Brilliant," the angel exclaimed and bustled off. "I'll prepare the basket."

Crowley stared after him, drawn between fondness and something else. Something very intensely else. Something that sometimes came over him and gave him a rush and doused him in cold water at the same time.

His fingers clenched.

 

 

They took the Bentley.

Aziraphale clutched at the handle. "Would you mind terribly slowing down?" he squeaked.

Crowley shot him a wide grin. The Bentley defied all laws of physics, as well as all the laws of traffic, as he wove it through rush hour traffic.

"You are going to hit someone one day! You already hit someone!"

"I didn't hit her," Crowley drawled. "She hit us. On purpose. Because it was…", he made air quotes, "foretold."

"And don't take your hands off the wheel!"

"You're no fun, angel."

"I am plenty of fun," Aziraphale scoffed.

"Since when?"

The sparkle in Crowley's eyes was delightful to see and Aziraphale shone with it, with the feeling of what was between them. All the old, and all of the new as well. It was like it had always been and still so very new, so very much changed. Not fundamentally. Without a foundation there would be no building on that. Their foundation went back to the beginning of Humanity.

No.

This was different.

"I've always been fun," he argued, suppressing another outcry for an innocent cyclist about to get clipped.

Crowley evaded the man in the last second and the human would never know what had just passed him by. Car horns blared.

"Yeah," the demon acquiesced lazily. "In a way. It was fun watching you flounder around, ignore fashion and technology, and get yourself into a bind here or there. Sometimes, well, mostly, almost literally."

Aziraphale huffed. But he knew he owed his counterpart a lot. Mostly a lot of paperwork he didn't have to do because of another inconvenient discorporation, because he had been on the black list for superfluous miracles. Then again, saving oneself's physical form wasn't a superfluous miracle, right?

The Bentley tore out of London, heading for greener pastures, so to speak, and Aziraphale hung on for dear existence.

 

*

 

The picnic was fun.

Crowley refused to label it as such, though.

He also refused to let the soft smile that was fighting to get out show.

Aziraphale was leaning against a tree, book on his lap, but his eyes were on the rolling hills and blooming trees, on the clouds dotting the perfectly blue sky.

Crowley, lounging in the sun, soaking up the warmth, didn't give a blessed fuck about the perfectly fine day. He surreptitiously watched the angel, took in the more relaxed posture, the bright eyes, the soft smile. Everything was soft around Aziraphale. Simply everything.

And it was perfect.

He was adorable. And loveable. And his.

The demon felt like stabbing himself in the eye and get it over with.

That proprietary feeling, that need, the possessive surges, the lo-ngh!

Heavenly. Yes, Aziraphale was heavenly. Heavenly was… neutral. Heavenly was what Aziraphale was underneath all that outdated clothing.

He liked it. Just as neutral. No other L-word required.

Since that first shy smile, since that first halting laugh, that wide-eyed look. Back then he had labeled it as interest in this new kind of angelic encounter. The non-smiting part. An angel who was as different as Crowley was from demonkind.

The word 'adorable' hadn't been invented yet.

Maybe he had invented it.

Because of Aziraphale.

Like he had come to…cherish…like…lo… ngh!

The strange ebb and flow between them strengthened for a moment, and Crowley refused to make a noise, draw attention to the way he felt his angel closer than he physically was.

The traitorous connection grew, aligned their essences, their souls. Made them receptive; and not in any human way.

He had been aware of his divine counterpart on Earth for more than a few years. Almost back to the B.C. era. He could find the sometimes so clueless and danger-prone angel, pull him out of the firing line – or off the head-chopping machine. Throughout the next centuries that ability had become that of a cruise missile finding a target.

Crowley knew. He simply knew. And now it was getting worse.

Emotions flowed freely, unchecked, rolling forward, around, sinking into the angelic soul and washing back into the demonic one.

"…oh…" came the soft exclamation of surprise. "Crowley…"

The sensation brightened, became one single emotion. Love.

Well, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He clamped down on it. Hard. Kicking it in the nuts and making it whimper and run.

At least he tried.

The emotion strengthened and for a moment it was like a tightly strung wire, ready to snap.

Please, no, he thought desperately. Angel, please. Not here. No… Don't…

Aziraphale looked at him, eyes wide, aura growing, and it was painful and amazingly intimately wonderful in one.

It was Love. Capital L. And Crowley felt it. Couldn't hide it. It was there and it was…

Beautiful. Marvelous. So very much Aziraphale. It was his angel and it was Crowley. It was them together. It was eternal and new. It was absolutely impossible to have ever existed. They had formed it, nurtured and grown it. They had created it…

He pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the perfect sky. Not a rain cloud in sight. Traitor!

"Crowley…"

He couldn't deal with this. It was too much too fast. It was everything he had hoped for and all he had feared. His body burned with the unreleased energy of the emotion, with something he had been ill-equipped to handle and had always denied himself.

"Gotta go. Tempting to do."

"But… we no longer have assignments…"

He didn't care.

He couldn't handle this. He couldn't… it as too much…. Too fucking much! He had been created an angel, but had Fallen, and demons didn't feel the capital L. Demon's didn't… just didn't… Demons were vile, evil creatures of the hellishest Hell. They were unforgivable. Couldn't be loved or love. Especially not with a capital L.

That Crowley had already gone past all misconceptions didn't register with him.

All he felt was panic.

And demons didn't panic.

Aziraphale gathered the basket together and hurried after him.

"Crowley…"

"No."

"Dear, please…"

"No!" he shouted. "Shut up! I… I can't…!"

Aziraphale looked at him, face reflecting so much understanding, Crowley wanted to claw his own eyes out.

He couldn't. Too fast. Too much.

 

 

They didn't talk on the way back, but it hung between them. That sensation. The way their auras still teased at each other, gently lapped closer, unconsciously testing the water.

Aziraphale was wrapping himself more and more around the demon's presence, his eternal core, and the demon in question was helpless. He could have pushed the angel away, but he didn't want to.

He wanted this. Craved it. Like a starving man. He wanted it so badly and shied away from it the next step. This was way outside his area of expertise. He was so far outside his comfort zone, it was no longer funny.

Crowley wanted to tear his very soul out, chug it back into the deepest pits and be done with it. He wanted to yell at the principality riding shotgun to just bloody stop radiating it!

He couldn't.

Everything was stuck in his throat.

 

 

Not talking about Things was what they were both good at.

Pros, really.

Gold medal, six millennia in a row.

But it was there. It wasn't just an elephant in the room. It was the whole of Creation.

Aziraphale was patient, gave his counterpart room.

Crowley wanted to yell at him, wanted to scream and rant. He also wanted to never leave the angel's side, wanted to touch him, feel his fingers on his own skin. He wanted… And he was terrified of wanting so much more.

***

IX.

 

"You can't judge the Almighty, Crawley. God's plans are…"

"Are you going to say 'ineffable'?"

 

 

There had never been any talk about what being free meant. Well, never really in-depths. They knew that neither faction could officially give them any assignments or summon them. There would be no orders to do and not do anything. They could stand by and watch or they could interfere.

Basically, they knew what they were. Cast out of Heaven and Hell, one not Fallen, the other still… well, kind of Fallen. No longer a demon or an angel. Yet, they were. A demon and an angel. Nothing had changed in that regard.

Crowley had checked.

Wings still black as night? Yep. Snake eyes? Definitely. Hard to ignore. So, demon.

Aziraphale had been almost hesitant to show his wings, the fear clear to see.

"I'm not going to laugh," Crowley teased.

The scowl was enough to make him grin more.

Neither was he going to do anything else. Well, he might be very much tempted to run his palms over the celestial feathers.

Angel wings, despite their delicate look, were more resilient than human legend and lore gave them credit for. They were strong, could deal out blows that ended up breaking demonic bones, and despite the vulnerable appearance, they were anything but. It would have been a major design flaw to make the wing joints an angel’s weak spot.

Angels had no weak spots. Neither had demons.

You either quickly got rid of the Enemy with hellfire or holy water respectively, or you simply discorporated them. Some more ingenious humans had developed binding spells and objects to trap and imprison a celestial or hellish creature, but it could never kill them.

Though it did hurt.

Crowley could attest to it ever since the embarrassing incident in 1971.

Best not talked about.

But angel wings were like any other limb on a divine form. Crowley simply thought that his angel’s were rather… pretty.

“They are regular wings,” Aziraphale muttered. “Nothing special.”

Crowley scowled. “Nothing special? They are your fucking wings, Zira! Your wings! They are bleeding special alright!”

That got him a slightly dazed but still happy smile.

"C'mon," he said, ignoring what that smile did to him. "Out with them. Like a band-aid: rip it off in one go."

Aziraphale grimaced at the analogy, but he did manifest his feathered appendages.

The relief when the pristinely white wings had unfurled had been like a living thing, pushing away the anxiety, and Crowley had felt the same. And there was the fond exasperation as he watched Aziraphale touch his wings, face reflecting marvel and joy.

"Told you, Zira. You're still very angelic and all, right down to the white wings. Dead giveaway, remember? So, still an angel."

"Yes."

Crowley peered at him. He didn't like that tone of voice. "Yes and?"

"Uhm…" Aziraphale twisted his hands. "We can't be sure."

"What? Not sure? We can't be sure you're a freakin' angel?! There's no doubt at all! You're an angel. Even if you’re a terrible angel, angel,” Crowley added with a teasing smile. "Really terrible at your job."

Aziraphale gave him an affronted look. "I'm certainly not!"

“Hey, terrible demon here. I know.” He spread his arms.

The other entity's shoulders sagged and he looked defeated. “I am terrible, aren’t I?” the angel sighed.

Good G…H… fuck it! Okay, his angel was truly mopey today.

Crowley cupped the pale face and made the divine entity look into his eyes. “You, Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, current Guardian of Earth, are a terrible angel and that’s a good thing. A very good thing! They want to tell you that it’s terrible to be compassionate, loving, invested and emotional, to be invested in this little world, your Boss’ pet project. It’s terrible to be so connected, to love what perishes so quickly, and to oppose its destruction. It’s terrible to feel, angel. So you’re terrible. Terribly good. And I wouldn’t want you any other way!”

Aziraphale’s face shifted through several emotions and finally the smile slowly crept back. “That makes you a good demon then, my dear.”

Crowley winced and his eyes narrowed as he stepped back with a glare. “Take that back!”

“That would be a lie then. I don’t lie.”

He laughed, eyes filled with mirth. “Since when?”

Aziraphale grimaced. Then he blinked. "Did you call me Guardian of Earth?"

Crowley shrugged. "Well, it kinda fits."

"I haven't been reassigned to any kind of guardian duty, dear."

"Still fits."

"It should be us."

"Uhm, I'm not guarding anything, Zira. I'm a demon. We don't guard. We tempt, we do fiendishly evil things, we are the vile sparen of the deepest pits."

Aziraphale took his hand and drew the demon closer.

"You guard me, dear," the angel whispered when they parted. "You always have.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley mumbled, not looking at his counterpart. “You have a penchant for getting into a lot of trouble. High maintenance, your lot. You especially.” And no, he wasn’t shuffling his feet.

Aziraphale smiled at the muttering. “And I won't let anyone harm you if I can help it."

A soft kiss landed on the demon’s lips and Crowley almost sighed with pleasure at the pure sense of light and warmth that enveloped him. Aziraphale was radiating and that was a good thing. A very good thing.

Even if the shadow of their new existence hung over them, leaving them in a limbo neither entity liked.

There were no assignments. No superiors visited. There was no supervision, no reprimands, no commendations, nothing at all.

Crowley missed nothing of it. It had been quite a bother and he had never looked forward to his chats with either Ligur or Hastur or both. He had slithered through the ages, taken credit for things not his doing, presenting ingenious plans set into motion by him that no one Down There really understood, the backwards bastards, and he had tried to stay under the radar.

Aziraphale had muddled by in the same and still different manner. His superiors were just as backwards as Hell, maybe even more so, despite their fancy gear and get-up. They were narrow-minded, had single-tracked goals, and as long as Aziraphale delivered blessings and performed minor miracles, all was well.

None of the high and mighty bunch had given the angel the time of day on the best of days. They had finally resorted to threats, insults and even personal violence.

The latter had made Crowley's demonic blood boil.

Angels were supposed to be holy and good. You expected physical violence from demons. You expected psychological torment, too. Never from angels. Least of all archangels.

Fuckers.

Aziraphale wasn't just some plain foot soldier. He had been the Angel of the Eastern Gate. But he had never been in a single battle, actually. Sure, he wasn't the fierce warrior type; smite first, ask questions later. No, he had never been or Crowley would never have made it to this point in his existence.

Now they were free of it all and both beings had yet to fully understand what it meant.

Well, yes, it meant free will, free choices, no affiliations, and just them. Sure. Their side. Only them. Crowley loved being only them. He lo...

The sensation was back. The capital L wanted to come back. Crowley snarled at it.

He could finally freely feel what he wanted, though the words never left his lips. There was a part of him, the demon, the darkness, that was distrustful. Not of Aziraphale. He had trusted the angel for a long, long time now. Longer than he would ever admit out loud.

No, he didn't trust… his own emotions. Because demons didn't have them. They had been swimming around his demonic soul for eons and now… that sensation that had been festering and growing, that single, sole, one emotion always associated with Aziraphale, had started to… manifest.

He cared for his angel. So very, very much. Desired him. There was passion. Adoration. A whole lot of protective feelings. And the other one, too. The other one he couldn't say.

Aziraphale knew, though. It was that weird connection between them, that invisible band that was wrapped around their very essence, made them one.

It wasn't a chain. It wasn't a restriction. It was a freedom he had never experienced before and one he wanted to hold onto with all his power. He would fight everyone and everything not to lose it; ever.

The sex was just a small part of it all, one he enjoyed, one Aziraphale enjoyed, but the overall sense of belonging was by far greater.

He belonged.

To Aziraphale.

And the angel belonged to him.

Him alone.

 

*

 

His wings were white.

Pristine white.

Angelic. Marvelous. Well-kept, full of divine energy, and no different than the day he had come into existence.

Well, maybe… He thought they looked… bigger.

Aziraphale stood in front of the mirror in his bookshop, turning this way and that, checking each feather from every angle. He curled a wing forward, running his fingers over the primaries as he had done when he had checked the first time.

And the second.

And countless times after that.

He still had white wings.

Of course he hadn't Fallen. How positively ridiculous! Crowley was right.

But he had been cast out, so to speak. Well, terminated. He had been kicked out of the company. Head Office had sent him the strongly worded letter with all the legalese they could cram into the parchment, and that was that.

Not even a cake.

Or a voucher for his favorite restaurant.

Nothing.

So here he was. On his own. Truly… on his own. He could do whatever he wanted and it was somehow… frightening. He had skidded by for so long, hiding the truth, that being able to act just as he wanted, as he desired, continued to confuse and slightly terrify him.

Was it real?

Crowley seemed to take it in a stride. He was as laid-back and absolutely disinterested as always. He had burned the cancellation letter, had brought out the alcohol, and they had gotten smashingly drunk.

"What is your Plan?" he whispered, not even looking heavenwards.

He knew God didn't listen to him.

And there was, as always, no answer.

They had been set free. Unchanged, he had believed, but they had changed. Aziraphale knew it, felt it in every pore of his essence. He felt Crowley with him, tightly interwoven on levels unknown to anyone but probably the Almighty. He felt the divine in the cracks of Crowley's demonic essence. And he knew there was just a little bit more of a bastard in him, too.

Aziraphale shook out his wings, felt their divine power, watched them glow softly. They were energy, always there, manifested as wings, able to take on shape and form as he wished. Throughout his existence, Aziraphale had seen them change, until they were two white, large limbs that humans saw as a true angelic trait.

There was a surge of familiar darkness behind him and Aziraphale met the yellow eyes in the mirror as Crowley sauntered closer.

"What's the occasion, angel?" he drawled, the gleam in his eyes as unholy as it was divine to behold. "Shaking out the mothballs?"

A slender finger ran over the edge of one wing. It tingled pleasantly.

He gave his other half a slightly shaky smile. "Yes, well, yes, the mothballs. Shaking them out."

Crowley's teasing smile vanished, the frown almost angry. "No."

"What?"

"Please don't tell me you're at the whole 'Am I still an angel' bit again! Please!"

"Uh, okay, I'm… not?"

And he wasn't. Not really.

Black wings unfurled, blocking out the light creeping through the lowered blinds of the store. They were just as large as Aziraphale’s and just as magnificent. The angel couldn’t see a difference to his own, despite the obvious color change, and he felt Crowley’s energy running through them. It was amazing, awe-inspiring, and he enjoyed their presence. As well as their ebony color.

He loved his demon's wings. He loved to touch them, feel their power, feel them entangle with his own.

"Black!" Crowley declared and almost viciously gestured at his wings. "White!" Another gesture at Aziraphale's. "Demon. Angel. Not so hard to tell apart! Even the densest angel gets it after the first try! And this!" He stabbed a finger toward his eyes. "This, too! You want to see my serpent form? I still got it! Not so hard to forget, right? Get it into your stubborn skull!"

"I know," he said. "I know it's… It's just… it feels like there is no purpose to my existence… I am jobless, Crowley!"

The demon's head dropped back with a low groan that turned into a frightening growl.

"Angels! You lot drive me insane! You're not jobless! You're not unemployed! You don't get to stand in line to collect benefits! You can do whatever you want! You run this bookshop! You collect the written word in every form and shape. No one will ever force you not to be who you want to be ever again!"

Aziraphale folded his wings, just like he folded his hands, wringing them a little. Well, his hands, no his wings. That would be painful.

"Do you need a purpose to stay here?" Crowley demanded. "To run a bookshop? To thwart customers from buying your precious little dust collectors?"

"I do not thwart. Really, Crowley…!"

"Yes. You're an angel. You don't thwart." The glint was very demonic now, driving the point home. "Do you need a divine purpose to enjoy life as you always have? Eat? Drink?"

"I… no…"

"Do you need a purpose to stay with me?" The last was almost whispered.

Aziraphale's features softened, the smile warm and loving, and the nervous hand-twisting stopped. "No, Crowley. Of course not! Never. I never needed a purpose to stay with you."

The demon was now so close, his wings extended a little forward and brushed over Aziraphale's arms.

"I never needed a purpose either. Only a cover story," Crowley murmured. "I always found you. I always will find you, angel. Always."

Yes. Like he had developed a certain… awareness over the centuries. Awareness of Crowley. He had downplayed it, had never let on that he caught small pings of him.

That had grown into an almost physical sensation.

And by the time he had had his ill-fated encounter with some Nazis in a church in London, Aziraphale could no longer deny that the small ping, that whisper of an awareness, had become a full-blown announcement.

The angel reached up, delicately tracing over the snake tattoo. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the caress like the cat he wasn't.

"That's your purpose then, Zira. Be what you want to be. Be with whoever you want to be."

"Thank you, dear."

"Don't thank me!" was the knee-jerk reaction and Crowley pulled back like he had been doused in holy water.

Aziraphale smiled, putting all his fondness, his love, his understanding in it. Crowley looked almost disgusted.

"Then I won't."

"You better not."

He still let the touch linger once again, eyes closing briefly.

"Silly angel," he whispered after a while, his lips moving against white-blond almost-curls.

Crowley had no idea how he had ended up so close again, face almost buried in the angel's hair. Angel hair. Hn. Funny. But true.

"Am I?"

"Yes," he muttered. "As usual. Silly, silly angel."

Aziraphale chuckled and suddenly the white wings extended around them, sliding over Crowley's black ones.

It was a heady feeling. They seemed to spark against each other, creating frission of heat.

"Maybe I am."

"No maybe about it. Always told you."

"Yes. Yes, you did."

 

 

Crowley said nothing about the wings again. Not even that he thought they had grown larger in volume, more impressive, an almost ethereal white at their deepest.

His own had filled out the same way, though they didn’t feel heavier. They were darker, gave him more presence, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell until he had seen them.

Something was still changing.

In both of them.

Crowley couldn’t say he feared it; not really.

 

 

They ended up on the bed in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, wrapped around one another, auras meshing together, becoming indistinguishable from one another. Being one.

Aziraphale's fingers played with the demon's hair, exploring the fascinating strands, listening to Crowley's even breaths as the demon slept the sleep of the… well, the demonically tired.

He looked beautiful. Almost divine. Like a dark angel. Crowley couldn't be anything but dark, and he was handsome and wonderful and gorgeous in that darkness.

Aziraphale liked to watch him sleep. The angel didn't think it made him a pervert. He observed, yes. Like he observed humanity. Like he enjoyed humanity, adored them for their ingenuity, their warmth, their love, their free will and freedom. Their choices, their inventions, their potential to be good and bad and all the shades in between. And for their ability to surpass perceived limitations and grow.

Crowley was so many shades of gray, not good, not bad, not nice, not evil. He was all, like a human could be, and he was more. He had surpassed limitations, grown into so much more. Beyond Heaven or Hell.

Crowley was for all intents and purposes not a true demon. There was a core of niceness that had always been there. All his supposedly bad deeds, all the commendations he had gotten, had not been done by him. Crowley was a troublemaker, loved mischief and small temptations. He had never been the Big Bad Demon.

Not that Aziraphale would ever tell him.

There was a snuffle next to him.

Aziraphale smiled affectionately.

A grumbling sigh came from the demon whose face was mashed into the fully clothed side, a puff of air evaporating into the antiquated vest.

"You. Think less loudly. Sleeping here," he muttered with not a shred of viciousness.

"I apologize."

"And don't apologize either!"

"I am sorry."

Yellow eyes cracked open and glared. Aziraphale knew that his expression was a reflection of his soul. He was completely enamored with this being. He Loved him. So very dearly and absolutely.

Crowley groaned, a long-suffering sigh that was muffled by the soft clothes.

The angel chuckled and tugged gently at the messy strands. Crowley would probably have another fit at how undone he looked.

"I really am, dear," he said when those demonic eyes met his own angelic ones. "I did not want to interfere with your nap."

"Then stop thinking."

"You are not telepathic."

"I can still hear you, Aziraphale. Loudly. You… broadcast."

"Oh."

Long fingers dug briefly into the waistcoat. Crowley was starting to relax again, managing to align himself even more closely with his other half.

Aziraphale went back to petting the fascinating hair, drawing gentle fingers over the long neck.

***

X.

 

"You're not a demon. You're an angel."

 

 

His angel loved going to museums, galleries, exhibitions, libraries. He had done so over the centuries, delighting in rediscovering what had been believed lost, smiling to himself when he read an anecdote, a translated text, or the remains of an old, almost lost ode to an unknown person.

Crowley simply tagged along with an air of someone who might have better and more important things to do, but indulging his companion. Or radiating disinterest, lips twisting a little as he regarded the old masterpieces, many of which had only become great, known artists because of a certain angel or a demon.

Like Aziraphale, he had been there for most of their greatness, or even not such greatness, achieving that only after death. The after-death stuff had been Aziraphale’s work. It had been one of the many assignments and he had excelled at them. It had been a labor of love, of dedication and compassion, and while Crowley never openly said so, he had enjoyed watching the angel do his good deeds.

“I wish I could give them their dreams while they are alive to enjoy the fruits of their labor,” Aziraphale had told him one warm summer evening in Italy after another burial of a poor painter who had been mocked, living only from what others handed him, and generally a soul with no future. But he had been talented. What he had been missing was a sponsor.

It had been one of those perfect days, balmy, soft winds, flowers everywhere. Crowley had lounged around in bars, drunk his share, enjoying his time off after a few successful temptations.

And suddenly Aziraphale had been there.

As usual. Whenever they were in each other’s vicinity, they tended to seek out the other. Crowley would never, ever, under torture or threat of permanent obliteration, say he did it on purpose. That he looked for the angel. He blamed gravity, the way evil was attracted to good to thwart their influence without getting thwarted in turn.

And they had talked. About Aziraphale’s assignments, about blessing the work of dead artists, of turning the poor bastards into masters of their time.

Sometimes sooner, sometimes so much later after their time of passing.

It really sat on the angel’s soul like a lead weight. His assignment were very clear. Some humans would be famous throughout life; some many years later. And a select few would need almost a generation to reach that goal.

Crowley had no idea what Heaven’s endgame was. He only knew that Hell desired lost souls to end up on their side, so he prodded some into the right direction.

“At least they achieved something, even after death,” Crowley now answered easily. “Some never will.”

Because some so-called artwork was simply the doodling, amateurish work of a drunk who had been discovered and sponsored, sometimes kept like a pet by a rich family, and he would forever be known in the annals of history. And with the drunkyards success another, more talented artist had never had a break-through.

Aziraphale sighed into his wine and Crowley wanted to reach out and pat one shoulder. He just about kept himself in check.

“It’s an assignment, angel. That’s all.”

“It’s a human life.”

A short, unimportant life. One of thousands. Millions.

They got piss-pour drunk that evening, commiserating over their respective head offices.

 

 

Crowley had never had a thing for museums or exhibitions, unless it was a place to tempt someone into a little thievery, vandalism or just mixing up a million and one tiny pieces that had been laboriously sorted. That was fun. It always left him in a good mood.

Aziraphale cooed over some particular old book, prattling on about how well-kept it was, how rare, how wonderful and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

Not that Crowley listened.

Well, he did. He always listened to the angel, loved the way he radiated, the appreciation he had, the love, the reverence.

A smile came unbidden over the demon's lips and he viciously clamped down on the softer emotions, hands deeply stuck in his pockets. He leaned back against the wall, uncaring what priceless moth-eaten rug hung there, glaring at nothing.

Bloody radiance!

Aziraphale turned away from the book, smiling that soft, loving smile, clearly aware of what was going through his counterpart. Then suddenly that smile dropped like it had been cut loose from a string. His eyes widened and his hands fluttered.

"Crowley!"

His brows dipped down. "What?"

Aziraphale gestured almost wildly at something behind him, around him, above him, and Crowley turned, expecting some demon-thwarting angel or hellish assassin. Instead there was… a whole bunch of old stuff. Relics. Made of wood and stone, some religious, some almost arcane. And, of course, the rug. It was a display that encompassed the whole back of the room, currently encasing him in holiness.

"It's holy, Crowley!”

“Of course it is. That thing is ancient and probably moth infested.”

“Blessed! Very old and filled with belief and divinity!" the angel rushed on. “Holy!”

Aziraphale's hands were moving around him, not even touching, almost like he wanted but didn't dare, even though they were absolutely alone in here. For some reason no human was to be found in this room.

Well, the reason was dressed in black and was currently a little bemused.

"Angel, what are you going on about? It’s an old rug. And that is a fleamarket of things you’d find in a countryside yard sale!”"

"The items behind you! They are blessed objects! They are holy! Taken from consecrated ground! One was bathed in holy water!"

Now Aziraphale did touch him and Crowley felt the divine energy, felt it mingle with his own demonic one, weaving into his aura, checking and rechecking.

He frowned and studied the relics. None of it hurt. There wasn't a single burn or itch. Almost absent-mindedly he reached out and touched a piece of what had probably been a vessel containing holy or blessed water.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, grabbing for his hands, but he was too late to stop the contact.

There was a slight tingle.

Nothing more.

"Huh," Crowley made.

The glasses slid down his nose, revealing stunned, yellow eyes.

"Dear?" Aziraphale sounded shaken. "What… how… Are you okay? Crowley?"

"I… I'm fine." His fingers slid along the roughly hewn rim. The tingle stayed, but there was no burn, no blistering, nothing. "Are you sure about this?" he heard himself ask, voice sounding far away.

"Sure? About blessed objects?" His angel sounded almost close to hysterics. “Of course I am sure! That bowl once contained holy water and it is still potent enough to burn a demon! The cross above it was made from blessed wood! It is filled with belief and was used to thwart evil, keep the devil away!”

Crowley finally let him pull his hand away, inspecting it closely, well-manicured fingers stroking over the long digits. Aziraphale shook his head, clearly unable to comprehend.

"How can this be?"

"I don't know, Zira. Maybe I developed antibodies," the demon joked.

Gray-blue eyes snapped up, glaring at him. "This is not the time for jokes!"

"I'm not joking." And he wasn't. He really wasn't. His mind was racing, trying to understand what was happening here.

Crowley, like all demons, didn’t bust into flames at the sight of a cross or when walking into a church. It was a matter of the strength of belief. His own and that of the humans who had made the object.

Crowley, unlike any other demon, had an imagination, and he usually imagined he was doing fine. That helped to a degree, though he had burned himself walking into churches. He had never tried entering St. Paul’s Cathedral. That would be suicide. And he could tell when an object would give him a migraine, but he had never been in danger of actually discorporating. Severe physical reactions, yes. Temporary loss of one’s boy? Nope.

Aziraphale's mouth opened, then snapped shut again. He shook his head, still holding Crowley's hand.

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me," Crowley suggested, the leer holding only half the power it usually had. And even then it looked forced.

"That is impossible!"

"Just as impossible as us together? A demon and an angel? Hereditary enemies? Consorting? Doing the nasty human style?"

Not to mention how their very auras now overlapped, how their core essence seemed to be interwoven on some basic level. Crowley felt it. All the time now. It was… comforting; nice. And demons sure as Hell didn’t do nice!

Unless they weren’t real demon material. As evidenced in one lower demon who had never fit.

Aziraphale clasped his hands over Crowley's and cradled it against his chest. He looked so flummoxed, so lost, it was endearing. Crowley closed the last inch of distance and pressed a kiss against the white-blond hairline.

Even now, still standing next to the blessed display, he felt nothing. Not even a tingle of unease.

"I like you rubbing off on me, angel," he murmured into one ear.

Aziraphale's expression turned from lost to flustered and embarrassed. How he could still be so easily teased when they had been evolving into this for thousands of years was beyond Crowley. He loved it nevertheless.

"Want to test this a little more?"

"Test?"

Crowley smiled toothily. "There's a whole exhibition we avoided because of my… condition. How about we have a look around, test the limits?"

"You are not going to be a test subject!" Aziraphale immediately vetoed. "I won't allow it! You could get seriously hurt!"

"You'll be there."

"Which is why it won't happen!"

"Angel, we need to know how far this goes."

"It has gone far enough!"

He pressed another close-mouthed kiss against the temple, lips moving against Aziraphale's ear as he spoke. "Not yet. This is new. We need to know."

"I don't like it," came the petulant reply.

"Neither do I. Well, it could be helpful." Crowley stepped back, gazing into the distressed eyes. "And you'll be there."

His anchor, his guardian, his angel.

Aziraphale chewed on his lower lip. Such a human and endearing gesture. Finally his face switched from pained to decisive.

"We will test this on my terms."

"Aziraphale…"

"My terms, Crowley! I'll decide when enough is enough!"

He shrugged lazily. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p'.

The relief was almost like a physical thing between them. Aziraphale smiled and finally released his hand.

Crowley smirked, pushing his glasses firmly up his nose, and then sauntered off to find the exhibition they had avoided thus far.

 

 

He might have overestimated the tolerance level. He might have underestimated the power of such an amount of blessed, holy and otherwise religious artefacts. He might even have obfuscated how much it had started to bother him after a while. How the tingle had turned into an itch. How the slight burn was now a full-blown fire on his skin, and how he felt like he was blistering in a lot of places.

Not to mention the headache.

Migraine.

Nail driven between his eyes.

Eyes that were extremely sensitive to light and squinted painfully behind the dark glasses.

He must have made a noise, maybe just a tiny, tiny one, because suddenly there was a hand on his wrist, strong fingers curling around it.

"Oh dear."

And with these words the divine aura rose. It was careful, quizzical, but still so very protective. When Crowley's own aura didn't lash out, the angel's washed over him like a cool blanket, dampening the input, threading through his own, slightly frayed one. It should be searing into his essence, hurt like blazes as the divine touched the hellish, but it didn’t. Unlike the divine energy of the multitude of relics, Aziraphale wasn't harmful.

Perfect match, something whispered through him.

Crowley refused to believe he whimpered in relief.

He absolutely refused to believe that he was leaning into his angel and seeking more physical contact, trying to bury himself in that coolness, that softness and essential warmth.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale sighed. "You incorrigible dear thing."

Crowley snarled, but was gently shushed.

Fingers carded tenderly into his hair, caressing him. They dragged through the longer strands, brushing over the shorter ones on the back of his head, and he groaned. His angel's aura had expanded all around him, sheltering him, and both men stood inside that bubble of safety, left alone by the humans walking around the exhibition.

Crowley had his face buried in the soft shoulder of his soft angel, surrounded by his soft shield. Everything was soft. And warm. Loving. Protective. He had an arm wrapped around the other's waist, molding their bodies together, hanging on for dear life.

He didn't care about weakness or undemonic behavior. He needed it. He could stay here forever. Like that. Just like that. Better than anything in the whole of Creation.

"You overdid it, dear," Aziraphale murmured, lips moving against one ear. "You didn't have to. You have a certain… resistance. Do not test it more."

Crowley dug his fingers into the softness that he needed so badly, had always needed. And underneath all that softness was a core of steel, so strong and unbreakable, so incredibly powerful, the reflection of what Aziraphale had been before becoming Heaven's field agent.

He could feel it whenever they were this close. Fire and steel, forged in a fire that wasn’t Hell, and it was the root and backbone, it was the center of his angel. It supported them both now and he let himself just… be.

Trust in Aziraphale to protect him against whatever might have a go at them.

Absolute trust.

There was a thrum of power, a pulse that echoed through his very soul, and he soaked it all up. His own core responded, weaker than normal.

Aziraphale continued to just be with him, caressing him, giving him something to focus on as the harmful divinity was driven from his system, only Aziraphale's remaining.

 

 

They left after a long time.

Crowley unconsciously sighed a breath of relief. He felt like himself again, everything washed from his essence that wasn't his angel.

Aziraphale looked almost as relieved.

"So…" the demon said after a while of just walking around until they had ended up at the duck pond. "Tolerance, hm?"

"Of a kind. With surprising levels."

"How?"

Aziraphale watched the ducks that expectantly swam closer. "I… don't know. Maybe I did rub off on you."

Crowley snorted. "Not how it works."

Except that there was this thread of divinity snaking through him, those fine lines of celestial power that harmonized with his own demonic ones. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was. He felt them, was quite aware of the tendrils touching his core essence and shoring up his defenses.

"No. No, I believe it isn't."

They fell silent again.

"It is a good thing," Aziraphale finally said, voice firm.

Crowley made a non-committal sound.

"You, tolerating divinity. It is a good thing."

"I tolerate you, so yeah."

The angel's face lit up with amusement and exasperation. Crowley smiled, yellow eyes partially visible as he peered over his glasses. Aziraphale's smile grew even warmer now, more loving.

He curled his fingers into the black jacket and drew him closer. The kiss was thrilling, sending little shivers along every cell.

I tolerate you, Crowley thought.

And the words meant so much more, were filled with everything he couldn’t say but still felt.

“I tolerate you, too,” the angel answered. “Very much.”

 

 

Dinner wasn’t at one of the fancy places tonight.

It was fancy place take-out, eaten in the back room of the bookstore, sitting on the old couch and enjoying each other’s company.

If Crowley ended up with his head on the angel’s lap, dozing off, and Aziraphale reading one of his countless books, it just happened. Neither talked about it. Nor about the continued caresses of the angel’s fingers over Crowley’s form, or the radiant shield around him that was maintained by Aziraphale alone.

***

XI.

 

"It's time to choose sides."

"I've actually given that a lot of thought."

 

For all their rather analog bureaucracy, the lack of computers – they had a few stations, but they had stopped being modern in the Seventies -- or anything more modern than a pen and a piece of paper, though even that was questionable most of the time, demons had a rather good inter-departmental communication. No one dialed up a modem that screeched, sparked and smoked when they could use messengers.

Fast, agile demons that knew paths through Hell not even Beelzebub was aware of. They went in and out of departments and their respective offices, dropping and picking up messages or packages. They were reliable, complete discrete and impossible to bribe, threaten or coerce.

That was rare in a demon.

It was also a position that quickly weeded out the unqualified.

And then there was the grapevine.

That worked best of all. It worked incredibly fast, faster than any office memo, and it was accurate.

Well, mostly.

Some tended to exaggerate.

Like in the case of the demon Crawly, now known as Crowley.

In Crowley’s case it worked to his absolute favor as his resistance to holy water, the most blessed of them all, was not only exaggerated beyond what had been witnessed. It was embellished to a point where nearly everyone believed him to be something as equally terrifying as Lucifer himself.

Well…

Maybe he was.

He was consorting with an angel. He was immune to holy water. He had stopped the Apocalypse.

So Crowley was absolutely off limits. Hands, claws, tentacles, whatever, off! Anyone so much as plotting to gain extra bonus points with their respective boss by so much as thinking about offing the demon was looking for a load of trouble. A load!

Persona non grata. Do not touch with a long, long stick. Do not even think about touching a long, long stick.

Should any demon encounter the traitor, change the side of the road, head down, keep on walking. Do not touch, do not talk to, no eye contact.

As for Heaven, matters were… less openly communicated. There were rumors. There was hushed talk. The grapevine was halting and consisted mostly incomplete fragments of even worse fabrications. The upper management tried to push events under a big, sturdy rug.

Angels, like demons, had no imagination, but were demons were crafty and Hell understood the necessity of spreading news that worked in its favor, Heaven tried to suppress all the unwanted rumors, declared them lies, or refused to comment.

It was one political ball of yarn that had become nothing but knots, frayed ends and undesirable mishmash.

For all their nifty technology and pride in being on top of everything shiny and new, they had no clue at all how to effectively use emails, text messages, the newly acquired celestial social media portals, and anything else that would have smoothly informed all heavenly bodies that the angel Aziraphale was to be left alone.

Instead, the head office turned its back on the events after the doomed Doomsday, pretended nothing of the like had ever happened, and left their employees talking hush-hush amongst themselves.

That created a rumor mill that didn’t work in anyone’s favor. Actually, it created a few idiots who thought climbing up the career ladder meant getting rid of head office’s unwanted ex-employees.

 

*

 

Crowley had never brandished a weapon before, aside from a tire iron. Well, and a bucket of Holy Water. And a plant mister. But aside from that, no, never a weapon.

He had never had use for a weapon. Not even as an angel. Neither before his downward saunter, nor afterwards had he needed one. Some of his former colleagues had tried out swords, maces, spears, maybe a dagger or an ax. There had been rather unfortunate accidents when the wielder was absolutely incapable of holding their weapon and suddenly finding themselves with that weapon stuck inside a body part. Their body part.

Now he held the Fucking Flaming Sword, wings spread like a dark veil behind him. Black as night, an unholy gleam to their edges, and giving the slender demon a lot more size. They were no match for Azrael's. The fucker had the most imposing black wings Creation had ever seen.

Okay, sure, he was Death; cool job, really. But Crowley's own weren't slacking. He was menacing. Demonic. He was a demon with a mission and that mission was to protect an angel.

"C'mon," he taunted the entity hesitantly moving back and forth in front of him. "Give me one more reason to end you."

Because this would happen. He could end the bloody idiot and be done with it. He had no qualms to send the wanker back with a few well-placed stabs and slices. Crowley had never felt so murderous before; ever.

"Crowley, no," came the soft order from behind him.

"Ohhh, he's asking for it," the demon sang, waving the sword a little. "Asking for it!" he yelled at his opponent. "The bastard has it coming!"

His opponent, an angel to boot, scrambled back, looking left and right to find out where his companions had gone.

"It's just you," Crowley hissed, twirling the sword with an impressive ease for someone not a warrior. "You and me. Your little friends have turned tail and whimpered off! So, what's it gonna be? You angel enough to smite the big, bad demon?"

The wings seemed to spread more, fanning out. Something crackled along the tip of each feather, celestial blue and hellish red.

"I, uh…" And then he was gone, too.

"Loser!" he yelled, brandishing his sword. "Bloody loser! Run back home, lowlife! And never come back!"

The flames shut off like a switch had been flicked and Crowley dropped the weapon without another thought. The sword clattered to the ground. He rounded on the one angel remaining, took in the muddied, bloodied clothes, and cursed up a storm.

"Dear, please," Aziraphale sighed as he palpated his injuries.

Blood was sticking to his fingers. Blood was everywhere.

Crowley fell to his knees in front of his angel with a soft thud. "Let me see that!" he demanded brusquely.

His gentle gesture as he pushed Aziraphale's fingers aside to check on the wound belied his words.

"I am alright, my dear. Perfectly."

"That's not perfectly alright, angel! That's blood! Your blood! Your blood is never alright!"

"About that, yes. Dreadful to get out of the fabric. Dreadful. And look at that tear," Aziraphale babbled. “It’s a complete loss. Such wonderful craftsmanship. I won’t get another one like it.”

Crowley detected a slight tremor in Aziraphale's voice and he looked into the too pale face with the too large eyes.

Shock.

Simple and complicated as that.

Angelic weapons used on an angel. Angels attacking angels. Even former, still very much divine entities who hadn't Fallen… Three against one. Ambushing a fellow angel…

Demons were another matter. You expected it. Crowley knew there had never been any love lost between him and, oh, about ten million of his kind. Give or take one or two who might not be interested in kicking him in the proverbial nuts.

But angels?

Bloody wankers!

"I think…" Aziraphale continued faintly, "I think this requires a little more help than I thought."

He growled and brushed his fingers over the wound, pouring energy into it. Aziraphale winced and a small sound of pain came over his lips. Crowley couldn't help it. It was a deep wound and it needed immediate attention, so the quick first aid pulled at both their reserves a little more than it should. He curled his wings around the injured entity and whispered softly to him; words that would never make it to another's ears.

The words that would make it to another's ears were quite different and he would take it up with a Higher Authority.

Angels did not attack angels! Aziraphale was a neutral party now! He didn't belong to any Side!

Aziraphale leaned into his embrace, seeking… not protection. The angel was so much stronger than anyone would ever believe him to be. He would have been able to take those three on if they hadn’t ambushed him, using whatever it had been to shock the angel, and then started to have a go with swords and daggers.

Crowley was livid. This was even more sneaky and back-stabbing than Hell’s creatures could be. No demon worth their name would stun their opponent and then attack. Sure, Hastur and Ligur had been ambushed by him, but it had been a fair fight. They had announced themselves, broken into his flat, and they had been stupid. They could have just skewered him in a dark alley, but that wasn’t how it worked. There was something like an honor among demons left.

Angels? Not so much!

He growled continuously in his chest.

Aziraphale reached out, a hand placed over Crowley's chest, their rather unnecessary breathing starting to synchronize, just like their celestial and hellish energies did.

He felt the ripples of shock coursing through his counterpart. Angelic weapons used on angels didn’t kill, but they were painful and more torture than a death threat. They were powerful, they were nasty, and they shouldn’t be used on their own kind!

The divine threads inside Crowley shivered and expanded, reaching for that what was essentially Aziraphale, and it hummed softly. They knitted together, twirling and weaving, leaving only unbroken flesh and healthy divinity behind.

Crowley placed a kiss on the bowed head, without even being aware of the intimate gesture. His hand was still pressed over the now gone injury, but he could still feel it. It was like a searing heat against his senses, pulsing furiously in his mind.

White wings unfolded, raised high, then flowed over the midnight black ones.

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said after a long, long time.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks. Crowley wouldn't have cared if it had taken that long.

As it was, only minutes had passed.

The divinity inside him had dimmed a gentle quiver, was almost undetectable. But it was there. Would continue to be there.

Crowley framed the too pale, so very ashen face, thumbs brushing over the soft skin. The blue eyes were awash with a myriad of emotions and he had never seen Aziraphale so wide open, so vulnerable.

He kissed him, a gentle contact of lips against lips.

“I would have killed them.”

“I know. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’m not.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Yes, you are. Can we go home?”

 

 

He drove them home at an almost sedate pace.

Aziraphale looked wrung out, exhausted in a way the angel had never looked before, and Crowley's expression was frightful at best. Their connection was still open and strong between them, like it had never been before. Their energy refused to separate, woven together, supporting Aziraphale, calming Crowley. It was almost a symbiotic connection, both drawing what they needed from it.

It also meant the angel got the spikes and surges of anger.

"Crowley…"

"Who were they?"

Aziraphale sighed and refused to comment on the distressing amount of traffic laws his demon was breaking. He simply leaned into the safety net that was Crowley, infusing as much calm as he could offer, trying to prevent road rage of a demonic kind.

"No one."

"Angel…" There was a warning there. A strong warning.

"Really, no one. Foot soldiers, if you will. One of millions of the unnamed and unwritten about."

"So they what? Wanted to make a name for themselves?" Crowley spat.

"Maybe," was the quiet reply.

"By what? Attacking you? What was it? A dare?"

"Maybe."

Crowley's fingers clenched around the steering wheel and he parked with such abruptness outside the bookshop, a lorry barely managed to avoid a collision. The driver later wouldn't remember a thing about a Bentley. For now he was cursing up a storm, giving the Bentley the finger as he continued on his way.

Aziraphale found himself in his shop with a mug of his favorite tea in his hands and a demon pacing the length of the sales floor not a minute later. A demon who was radiating so badly, the books were starting to shuffle.

"Crowley, dear, please," he begged. "Calm down."

"I. Am. Calm!"

"Ah. I see."

The eyes were fully demonic now, almost glowing with fury. Crowley’s face was twisted with anger, with the residue adrenaline spike of the fight. He had never seen him like this before, had never felt such powerful waves of emotions that were all over the spectrum, and Aziraphale carefully channeled them into a less volatile direction. He really didn’t want to clean up the mess should Crowley release that energy.

"My lot. I would understand my lot coming after any of us just for the brownie points! But yours?!"

"Well… As you mentioned before, not all celestial beings are… heavenly."

Lips pulled back from even teeth. "Really?"

"And there is a certain… one-upmanship involved in the lower ranks." Aziraphale smoothed his hands over his waistcoat. His perfectly restored waistcoat. "Head Office encourages… rising through the ranks…"

"Better than getting the boot, hm?" was the sarcastic reply.

"Well, yes."

"So they attack you? You're no longer part of that uppity bunch!"

"It might not have been in the weekly memos?" Aziraphale hazarded a guess.

Crowley snorted inelegantly at that. "Get real, angel! They know you're persona non grata Up There! You know what one of my bunch would get for kicking me around? Nothing! The only reason why no one's tried! We're out of the picture! Off the map! Lepers!"

"Well, why, I wouldn't go that far…" Aziraphale muttered, a little flustered.

Crowley stalked over to his counterpart, leaning over the seated angel, hands clenching into the arm rests. Aziraphale noticed how the wings were still out, spread like a dark canopy, protective and threatening in one.

"Dear," he murmured. "That posturing is rather unnecessary."

He also noticed their increased size, the intensity of the energy they harbored, and the hellish and divine whispering along the feathers. It was intriguing.

The demonic eyes bore into him, filled with so many emotions, with so many unspoken words, Aziraphale reached up and cupped one sharply cut cheek.

"It was a dare. A stupid, adolescent dare, Crowley."

"They hurt you."

It sounded like every letter in that sentence hurt. Like chewing on broken glass and barbed wire.

"I am fine. Divine weapons cannot hurt an angel.”

“Well, they could discorporate you and then what?!” Crowley hissed, sounding a little too close to hysterics now. “You go back up there! They don’t want you, they have no body for you, and then?! What then?!”

“I don’t know.”

Crowley was drawing in deep breaths and Aziraphale wondered of a demon could hyperventilate. He didn’t want to test that theory and stroked over one tense arm, infusing energy into the tightly-strung body.

“You were marvelous with that flaming sword," he murmured.

Crowley's wings quivered a little and suddenly he leaned even further down, catching Aziraphale's lips in a rare display of open, desperate, almost needy but loving affection. Human affection. Because humanity had rubbed off on them and it had become part of their very being.

It lasted only a moment; as long as the moment in the field. Maybe a tad longer.

Aziraphale's aura expanded, felt the energy of his demon as sharply and revitalizing as before, and if he was curling his perfectly manicured fingers into the lapels of the sharply cut suit jacket, neither mentioned it.

Nor did they think about the second kiss, deeper than before, relaying everything that had not been said.

 

 

He wouldn’t let this just rest, like Aziraphale was about to do. He couldn’t ignore the attack, nor could he brush it off as a dare.

It had been a hit. Those three had been very much intent on killing his angel. With heavenly weapons, since hellish ones didn’t work on Aziraphale. Thankfully that was still a rumor that continued to grow.

The heavenly weapons would have hurt him enough to probably discorporate and then what? Crowley seethed silently. Send Aziraphale back to Gabriel and his lot? To be held in Heaven until the End of Creation itself?

“Crowley.”

He looked into the gray-blue eyes, saw the silent plea, and he exhaled sharply.

“Too bad they ran away,” the demon hissed. “I would have wanted to test their own weapons on them.”

Aziraphale stroked over the ebony wings, making his demon shiver as energy fed and sparked off energy.

“It would have meant a lot of paperwork.”

“For them.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You should get some rest, Zira.”

“I am fine. And I have work to do. There is this new shipment of scrolls…”

“Which can wait. You’re wrung out,” Crowley commented sharply.

It got him one of those looks where Aziraphale could read perfectly between the lines, understood just what was going on, and decided not to call the other out on his caring, protective side.

Crowley’s hand was still caressing the injured side where no trace had remained. The long fingers were incredibly careful and gentle.

“I suppose tea wouldn’t be such a bad idea. And maybe one of those deliciously fruity tarts.”

Crowley grinned. “Alessia’s?”

“It would be a treat.”

And it wasn’t far, could be reached easily on foot, and they truly had marvelous tarts.

“My treat,” he decided.

Aziraphale beamed. “How lovely.”

Anything for you, he thought, then caught himself.

 

 

They came back an hour later, mostly because Aziraphale had been almost starting to list sideways. The leftover pastries had been wrapped up, with two additional ones for enjoyment at home, and Crowley had added a package of Aziraphale's favorite tea. Then he had just put a whole lot of money on the table and ushered him back home.

Aziraphale did a rare thing and actually nodded off while Crowley used his latest smart phone acquisition to mess up Wikipedia entries as he guarded his angel.

He wouldn’t forget what had happened and he couldn’t forgive. For now he could play along, but he wasn’t a demon only by name. His mind was already digging its teeth into the situation and he would act.

Sooner or later.

***

XII.

 

"It's not for us to understand. It's ineffable. It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words."

 

Crowley stalked into the church, a demon on a mission. He felt the natural barriers around the consecrated ground bend, expand, then let him through as if they had had to think about it for a moment. As if they had been confused as to why this entity belonged and yet didn't belong here.

It hadn’t been more than a tingle. Like a faint static whisper. His feet didn’t burn as he stalked deeper into the cool interior. There was no ache in the back of his head, no adverse reaction to being here.

Crowley had been in his share of churches throughout the millennia. He knew they weren’t his favorite place to be. Temples, sure. Temples were fine. Churches were another matter and they either left him itchy, moody or with a headache that wouldn’t go away for a week.

The church was empty, except for the usual relicy stuff. And the smell of Old. And the Holiness.

Nothing of it touched him.

Crowley tore off his glasses, staring at the cross, took in the saints gazing down at the congregation from the stained glass windows, the vessel containing the holy water, and he sneered as he raised his eyes to the roof far above.

"Well, hello!" he shouted. "Long time no hear!" He spread his arms. "I know you don't listen. I know you don't give a flying bloody fuck about any of us. You made that abundantly clear when you slammed the door in my face! Because I asked questions, right? Well, let me ask you a question today: what the Hell?!"

His voice echoed in the empty building.

Crowley couldn’t really logically explain why he had come to a church of all places. He could have just stayed at his flat and yelled at the ceiling. Or the Mona Lisa for all it mattered.

No, he had sought out a church. Ancient, one that had weathered through the ages, the wars, the Blitz, and the growth of the metropolis around it.

"No answer?" Crowley laughed roughly. "I wouldn't have one either. First you kick out a few rebellious children. You don’t sit down and talk to them, no! You just swiftly give them the boot. And if there’s one who just happens to be caught between the lines, one who’s not the perfect little angel you thought you had created, you just ignore them, too!”

Nothing. Not a blip.

“Then you drown your own Creation! You get tetchy with Humanity and throw a tantrum! And you sit idly by as your precious Earth ends up as the chess board in a stupid playground altercation!"

He paced up and down in front of the altar.

"And now? Now you let one of those brain-retarded angels attack my angel?!"

Something shivered through him and it wasn't anything from Above. Crowley felt… pain. Emotions. His emotions concerning his angel.

His!

Aziraphale was his! Aziraphale loved him! Not like an angel loved everything, or was supposed to love everything, the Almighty had ever created. No, it was something solely reserved for one entity. For Crowley. For a demon. And Crowley loved him in return.

He would fight for him. He would go through Heaven and Hell for him. No questions asked.

"How dare you?!" he screamed. “He is mine! You left him! You abandoned us both! Why are you still meddling?!”

The next thrum was a little less him and a little more Holy.

He gritted his teeth. "Yeah, right. Push me down. Hurt me like you hurt so many of us! You gave Aziraphale this freedom, right? You made it Happen! What is he? A pet project?"

The thrum had him gasp and he locked his knees, refusing to kneel. He would never kneel. Ever!

He knew his resistance to churches was rather good. He had managed just fine about eighty years ago. Sure, a bomb had blown it to piece within three minutes of his arrival, but hey! Small miracles, right?

And he had developed a tolerance.

But that was waning fast as the sensation of Holiness increased. As if something was pushing into the very walls of this building, making it… more.

"You cast me out! You sacked Aziraphale! Let us finally be!"

The next thrum was like a glowing nail driven down his spine and Crowley couldn't hold back a gasp. He doubled over, fingers grabbing on to the nearest bench, clawing at the old wood.

"No," he hissed. "NO!"

He wouldn't kneel. Ever!

The pain was getting worse, but his anger was overpowering everything else.

Wood splintered under his fingers as he clawed at the pews.

"I love him," he hissed. "You hear me? I love him! Me! A demon from Hell! Unforgiveable! Vilest of the vile and spawn of no-good! I love him! I love Aziraphale! He is and always was my saving grace! He's my angel, not yours anymore! Mine!"

The emotion expanded inside him, grew warmer, encompassing his soul.

"I love an angel," he whispered roughly. "The unspeakable happened. Unforgiveable, right? It's why you let them hunt him… because the first attempt backfired. Did you ever love him?" he cried at the emptiness around him, voice echoing. “Why did you let your fucking archangels execute him? With Hellfire, you bloody bastard!”

There was Light. Inside his head, all around him, going through every cell of his body. Crowley groaned in pain, curling both arms around his middle.

Dear G… hng!

It burned.

His teeth ground against each other so hard, he might just break them.

But he had had worse in the past. He wouldn't kneel and he wouldn't give in.

"You let them hurt him," he managed. "Words. Gestures. More words. Demotion as you kicked him just for good measure after he had already fallen! Always hurt him! Like you hurt even human children on your precious Earth!"

And the next spike of Light was driven through his physical form, right into his once divine soul, and his scream was on a plane no human could hear. It was a pain he had never felt before.

It was too much.

He couldn't take it, even with his tolerance.

Crowley fought it. He fought against the overpowering force tearing into his physical body and right into his essence. A broken cry left his lips as his wings were forced out of his back and the sheer force of it pushed him to his knees. The black wings exploded out of his back in a display of raw magic and it was the most painful manifestation ever.

They opened above his back like a canopy of feathers and gleaming energy, full of such life it was almost too hard to bear. He felt their existence like never before, powerful, indestructible, an integral part of him.

And large.

Rivalling Azrael’s in size, but not reflecting every star in the universe and the depth of Creation and Death itself.

They sparked with hellish fire and divine light, bathing him in energy that would be enough to destroy lesser creatures than him. Of both realms. It was as if the lid was suddenly off, giving him access to something that had always been there, out of his reach, but integral to his core.

There was a sensation, a Presence, and Crowley all but gasped, unable to move, to think, to speak, to do anything but exist. And even that was becoming problematic.

The Presence was too much for a single soul to bear, even if that soul belonged to a tenacious bastard of a demon, who hadn't even really Fallen. Not properly anyway.

The Presence moved, endlessly powerful, so very much more than even Lucifer could ever become, and it whispered straight into his soul.

The Light lessened, but it was still painful to perceive. It took on shape, but it was nothing any language could describe. Crowley felt his face taken in a gentle hold and something brushed over his brow.

Everything became softer, the pain turning into more of a rough scratch over his core, and he moaned in relief.

~Child~

It wasn't a voice. It wasn't a memory. It just… was.

Crowley gave a broken sob, drawn between tearing out of the loving caress and leaning into it. He barely remembered the time before his not-Fall. Except for this…

~You were always different~

~Your love was different~

Crowley screwed his eyes shut, emotions ripping through him, unveiled by a power he couldn't fight. Loss. Raw pain. Fear. Terror. Loneliness. Need. Love.

~Love is an emotion~

~Different for everyone~

~Love comes from many places and is for many things. ~

~Sometimes loss brings forth love. Sometimes love demands loss to flourish. ~

~And sometimes, just sometimes, there is a special bond between two sides that shouldn't be possible. ~

His body was no longer under his control and shields crumbled like brittle paper under a gust of wind.

Aziraphale. His angel. The love he had for him. The powerful need to protect him, to show himself worthy of the angel's affections, and the happiness.

Crowley was happy. Ever since meeting the awkward Guardian of the Eastern Gate, he had felt… happy. Different shades of happy, but still… happy.

~Love him. ~

~Let yourself Love him. ~

~Everything else no longer matters. ~

~What you have been given was always there~

~It needed time to grow, to evolve~

~It is now time to take off the safety~

~You are on your own, Child~

~Love him, let yourself be loved, and protect it~

And then there was nothing.

Nothing but harsh gasps. His own. His lungs expanding and deflating in spasms. As useless as they were, right now Crowley had no idea if stopping to breathe was a good idea.

Actually, he had no ideas at all.

Laying on the church ground, his body aching, wings limp and useless, he tried to just breathe.

 

 

He must have lost consciousness.

Somehow. Sometime. He had no idea.

His body hurt. His head hurt. Everything was a mass of agonizing signals. The pounding behind his eyes was bad enough to make his teeth ache in sympathy. Every breath seemed to be a massive effort, burning his lungs. He had no idea if he even had hands or feet, let alone arms of legs. He only knew that he existed, even though it was in sheer agony.

"…"

It sounded like a moan. A pitiful sound. Weak, pathetic, and very much him at the moment.

And then there was darkness again.

 

*

 

He came to in a cocoon of white feathers.

Warm, angelic white feathers. Ethereal and almost translucent in places, pearlescent and silver, so very much different.

Hands brushed over him. Ran over his arms, his face, along his neck. A voice asked frantic questions.

"…ngh…"

"Crowley? Oh thank you, Lord…"

He shuddered. Demons didn't throw up as a rule; right now he was all for breaking that one.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Crowley, what…"

"Angel…shuddup," he grated.

"Oh. Oh, okay. I… shutting up…"

The demon coughed a laugh and cracked his eyes open, gazing into the wide eyes of his angelic counterpart. Wide, wide eyes, reflecting everything Aziraphale had ever felt, had ever said and wanted to say, reflected pain and fear, almost terror, and a deeply raw emotion that left Crowley gasping for unneeded air.

"Dear…"

His dug his fingers into the light material of the coat, stilling the words.

"What happened to you?" Aziraphale managed after a whole second of silence.

"I had words. With your former boss."

The angel stared at him. "I-in a church?"

"Where else?" he muttered.

"And you talked to… Gabriel?"

"Hu-hn, no."

Aziraphale cupped his face, his wings still hovering over them like a beautiful, feathery canopy. Crowley wanted to get lost in the sight of them. They had never looked like that before.

"Dear, what did you do….?" He whispered shakily.

"Like I said. Had words. With your ex-boss."

"You… talked… to…"

"Hn."

"Crowley…"

"Wasn't like you think. More like kicking me where it hurt and showing me who's boss."

"Crowley…! You really talked to… God?!"

"Well, it wasn't that bloody fucker Metatron."

He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the pain that raced through every fiber of his essence had him gasp, his vision fading for a moment.

Aziraphale's aura expanded, grew strong, powerful, so pure it should hurt a demon, but it only helped in easing the pain. Like a living, breathing shield. Passive and protective. A web of carefully woven lines, protecting the fragile soul, keeping guard over the demon. It soothed his soul, quieted the spikes, and Crowley relaxed into the heavenly embrace.

The threads of divine inside him expanded, soaked up the healing energy, and he felt his body respond in a way it shouldn't, if he was still a demon. Well, true demon. Whatever he was now, it was mostly demonic with a sprinkle of whatever.

"You talked to God," Aziraphale whispered and it sounded to Crowley's ears like he had said the words a few dozen times already.

"Well, there were no words. Aside from mine. Well, ranting. Lots of ranting. Some cursing."

Aziraphale winced. "Oh my…"

His eyes narrowed and he tried to sit up once again. This time the vertigo didn't happen, but he still felt weird.

"How did you get here, Aziraphale?" he asked.

There was a blush creeping up those fair features.

"Angel?"

"I… felt a summoning."

There was a moment of complete stillness, then the demon erupted from the ground, upsetting the balance of the angel, who suddenly sat very unceremoniously on his behind.

"A summoning?" he roared. "A summoning?! How dare they…?!"

"Crowley…"

Aziraphale got to his feet, wings gone, his normal form looking a little disheveled, but none the worse.

"Dear, please."

"You are not part of the whole shindig anymore!" Crowley yelled. "They have no right!"

"I was Called. Because of you, dear."

The wide, demonic eyes were filled with a million emotions. Crowley felt them all, most of all the disgust, the fear, the bone-deep terror that… that God…

"They Called upon you," he whispered roughly.

"Because of you. Only because of you. It was… a request. Like texting me your location."

"Tex…" He broke into desperate laughter. "Texting? Oh, angel…"

"I found you here. I thought…" Aziraphale wrung his hands.

Crowley stilled, taking in the other being, then deflated. "Oh, Zira…"

"You walked into a church and yelled at God, Crowley. She could have…"

"She didn't."

Aziraphale exhaled sharply. "No. Instead I was called."

His fingers were caught and intense eyes met his. "Zira."

"Please don't do it again!"

"I won't."

"I want your word."

"You have it," the demon replied easily. "My word." He pressed his lips against Aziraphale's hand.

 

 

Aziraphale knew that a word was not given lightly by either Side. And Crowley had never lied to him. Never directly, never when it was something important. He might have obfuscated things a little, had talked around the truth, but he had never lied.

Now he had Crowley's word. It was like an oath.

The angel shivered a little, dredging up a brave smile. Crowley's aura was weak, but it was still intense, inserting itself into Aziraphale's soul and weaving them together.

He felt something inside him unknot, something that had been wound so tight ever since he had been summoned to the church and had found the demon inside. Curled up, features slack, clearly unconscious, and his wings had been forced out.

In a church.

Huge, black wings, spread out over Crowley and over the floor, like a feathery cape, and inside a church!

Aziraphale had a hard time coping with the imagery, and now he knew what had happened.

It terrified him to no end.

 

*

 

The bookshop was toasty warm, the lights spreading diffusely to play with the shadows, and the world outside moved past behind lowered blinds. There was muted noise, the chatter of voices, the honking of car horns, but nothing really made it past the invisible barrier that lay right behind the thick, old walls of the corner building.

The ‘sorry we are closed’ sign had been there the whole day. No one had really bothered knocking on the windows or rattling at the door knobs. No one had called to inquire about opening times either.

There was only the cozy bookshop world existing invisible inside the world of humankind.

Aziraphale raked gentle fingers through auburn hair, enjoying the soft feel, the caress of each strand against his skin.

The demon whose hair he was petting was asleep, exhausted beyond the worst state of exhaustion he had ever witnessed; right after the thwarted Last Day. Crowley looked immensely pale, face more drawn than Aziraphale had ever seen him.

“You walked into a church and yelled at God,” he whispered. “At God…”

The facts were still hard to swallow for him. What Crowley had done no sane demon would have even thought of. Not even an angel would scream at their Boss in a church.

There was a restless twitch and he hushed his counterpart softly.

Crowley had yelled at God. He had gone into a church and…

His thoughts were whirling around those two facts.

A lot of humans yelled at the Almighty and nothing ever came of it. No one, not even Gabriel, had ever had a conversation with the Big Boss directly. There was always the Metatron. The Voice.

But God had… in a way… talked to Crowley? Well, ‘talked’ was…. wrong. Crowley had tried to explain it, in a halting, stammering, shell-shocked manner, but Aziraphale only got one thing out of it: God had been in touch with a lower demon. Aziraphale’s demon. The demon kicked out of Hell, the one who had assisted an angel kicked out of Heaven.

Yellow eyes cracked open and Aziraphale smiled radiantly. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

It got him a scowl and the angel ran an apologetic caress over the pale features.

“A very superfluous question. My bad.”

He ran his fingers up and down the slender back, along the spine, feeling warmth and sinewy strength hidden underneath the skintight, black material. Crowley wasn’t weak; had never been weak. He had surpassed his own, perceived limitation, had evolved into so much more.

He wouldn’t have survived this otherwise.

His palm came to rest between the shoulder blades and he let his own energy seep into the exhausted being.

Crowley’s whole body relaxed, all muscles loosening, and he groaned.

“Zira…”

“Shush.”

It got him a half-hearted glare and grumble.

“You didn’t have to do that, dear,” Aziraphale said after a long, long moment of silence between them.

“I had.”

“You…”

“Ranted. Yelled. Cursed.”

The angel winced.

“Didn’t think anyone would listen. Maybe some lowly intern. Not… the Boss.”

“But She did.”

“Hn.”

“Did you get an answer?” he asked tentatively.

“Kinda.”

The angel felt tension creep into his frame. “The Almighty… spoke?”

“Nah. Not really. It was more like a nail into the brain.”

“But She replied…” Aziraphale felt his voice tremble.

“Hng.”

"God is watching us," he managed.

The demonic eyes widened a little, then grew harder. "Let Her."

Aziraphale looked pale, terrified. "She talked to you, Crowley. She has never talked to anyone directly. The Voice of God is the Metatron. Not even Gabriel has direct contact."

"So I'm a special snow flake. Yay me," Crowley said wryly.

"You don't understand…"

The demon got himself in a sitting position, even though his face took on an unhealthy shade of gray and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Aziraphale just increased the flow of divine energy that was channeling into his counterpart.

"I understand," Crowley said as he squeezed his angel's hand. "Very much. I didn't think anyone would listen. I'm no one to your lot. And God doesn't even listen to Her own."

Aziraphale shivered.

"Now we got Her opinion on the matter. I think we'll be in the clear."

The angel expelled a desperate laugh. "Blessed by God Herself?"

"Yeee-ah, maybe not Blessed. More like a kick in the nuts for me, some scolding, and then I got thrown out of the whole chat. There might have been a pat on the head, but I can’t be sure. Might have been a slap."

Aziraphale looked drawn between consternation, outrage and laughter. He decided to smile. He had to unlearn a lot, change his view of matters, and he needed the most important soul in his life.

He grabbed the narrow face and pressed their lips together in a kiss.

Crowley's eyes flew open wide, then closed with a soft sigh. He answered the kiss.

"We'll be fine," Aziraphale whispered against the dry lips when they parted. "We will be absolutely fine."

It sounded like a prayer. Maybe it was.

***

XIII.

 

"Just wondering, is that the Ineffable Plan as well?"

 

 

If you looked at it, and not even from a skewed angle or through rose-tinted glasses, Heaven and Hell were nothing but two very different business concepts. Not opposing forces but rival companies vying for customers. One was run by the founder, the other by the founder’s wayward son, who had taken a share of the disgruntled employees and opened his own business not too far away.

Down south, where it was warm year round.

The business model of each was rather simple and not too far from the other’s, hence the easy transition from one to the other for the respective future customers. Both offered a product, both wanted their consumer to want it, get invested, desire the offer.

They weren’t oppositions, really. They were in the market for similar products that were more or less user friendly, depending on the requirements of the consumer.

So it was normal for the department heads to meet.

Somewhere.

Sometimes even on each other’s turf.

Gabriel tugged a little on his bespoke suit jacket, moving his head from left to right as if to get a crick out of his neck.

Beelzebub shot him an unimpressed look. While the angel wasn’t in full celestial form, wings and all, he did make an effort to appear imposing. Lost cause, the Prince of Hell mused. They had known each other since before the invention of ‘the beginning of time’, so there was nothing either didn’t know about the other.

Beelzebub had simply taken their old pal Lucifer up on his little rebellion offer and Fallen. Gabriel was the right-hand angel of God and with it had a stick up his ass that was a firmly lodged there to stay.

“This got a little bit out hand,” the archangel said.

The unimpressed look doubled. “You should be more in control of your underlings.”

“Interns,” he scoffed.

“They were angels. No matter their position. They went against your Boss’s orders.”

Gabriel grimaced. “We had words.”

Beelzebub snorted at that. In Hell, there wouldn’t have been words. Or scoldings. Hell was rather straight-forward in such matters.

“This could have started an Incident,” the Prince of Hell told him.

Gabriel’s lips turned into a fine line. “It’s not even close to a diplomatic incident. Neither of those two are affiliated with either Side anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter. Lucifer pitched a fit. You have no idea. I received not just a few sharp-worded memos. I got a personal call."

Gabriel had the good manners to wince in sympathy.

"A perzzzonal call," Beelzebub repeated, the buzz showing their irritation. "I think the network went up in flames. Angels trying to assassinate anyone are no light matter. It’s a serious matter of interdepartmental problems you need to address unless it blows up in every direction. Angels attacking one of their own to make an example? That's another End to come.”

Gabriel shifted from one foot to the other, rolling his shoulders like trying to settle his wings.

“They’ve been nothing but trouble since the Beginning! Now they’re so-called independent agents and nothing has changed! She should just have let him Fall!"

Beelzebub's face underwent an almost comical transformation from indifference to sheer horror.

"Be done with it," Gabriel went on. "Your lot Fell for less of a rebellion than what Aziraphale has been doing since he failed as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate!"

"She wouldn't dare!" Beelzebub snarled. "No angel has Fallen since the rebellion!"

"Well, I wish the Almighty would have made an example out of him!"

"No vacancies left," the Prince of Hell hissed.

"Oh come on!" Gabriel rolled his eyes. "You have plenty of room!"

"Human souls. We covet human souls, archangel! We don't need more of your sorry arses."

Gabriel snorted.

"How would you feel about letting Crowley Rise?"

The horror in the violet eyes had Beelezbub snicker

"Demons do not Rise!"

"And Angels no longer Fall. It's a myth you keep spreading, fear within the ranks. I approve."

The archangel glared.

"You want Crowley as much as we want that bothersome angel," Beelzebub went on. "We'd send him back should he ever turn up on our doorstep."

Gabriel laughed humorlessly. "Once Fallen there is no return."

"Oh, angel, you have no idea. There are ways. Not pretty ones, but there are ways."

The archangel's brow furrowed comically, but he decided to ignore it.

"Just like there are ways to handle those two. Your angels made a mess, Gabriel. A real mess. You wouldn’t get this kind of insubordination Below. They know what happens when someone goes against explicit orders. Crowley is Hands Off. Capital letters, exclamation mark, underlines and bold.”

Gabriel looked briefly like he wanted to throttle something, then painted a smile on his face. “According to our books, Aziraphale has been declared a…” he grimaced again as if he had bitten into something truly disgusting, “a neutral entity, of no affiliation, his actions not reflecting back on either Heaven or Hell. Any actions unsanctioned by head office taken against him are punishable.”

Beelzebub shrugged. "Crowley was never really one of ours. Never. Yours didn’t fit the angel mold either. One has to wonder if it was… an accident.”

“It wasn’t by design!” he growled.

“Really.” Beelzebub didn’t even make it a question.

The archangel opened his mouth, then shut it again, glaring. Beelzebub just loved riling him up. It was almost entertaining.

“The Lord wouldn’t… that would mean… No! Crowley truly Fell! He lost his divinity. He lost his grace!”

“Not like all the others did.”

“He Fell!” Gabriel looked like a small, petulant child about to stamp his foot to emphasize his opinion.

Beelzebub just gave the obstinate archangel an exasperated look. “And he tolerates blessed objects and holy water. What demon is capable of such? Your angel has as much Hell in him as Crowley has Heaven.”

Gabriel snarled softly. “Hence giving them the boot. Trouble from the first day!”

“Now they are on Earth together. I would have called it exiled before, but I’m not so sure anymore. Especially since your Boss actually did communicate with one of Her former children. Directly, archangel.”

“I know.”

And it didn't really sit with the second-in-command of Heaven. Gabriel pulled an envelope out of his light gray coat. He gave it a look of disgust.

“Now I’m a messenger. Demeaning.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes and held up a similar envelope, the sigil of Hell burning brightly on it. Gabriel huffed.

“Do your job, angel,” the hellish entity told him without sympathy. "You're to blame in the first place."

"I'm not…"

"Oh, shut it!" Beelzebub looked absolutely annoyed, the pale eyes starting to glow an interesting shade of red. "They were exiles, then neutrals, and now? Now they're off the fucking grid! They are autonomous, Gabriel! Another Side!"

The archangel's expression was sour and furious in one.

"The Almighty decided and Lucifer actually signed it off!" Beelzebub drove their point home. "Now do your work and let's get this over with! I'm not looking forward to the bureaucratic nightmare this is going to create Below!"

Or Above.

Aziraphale was off the payroll, had disappeared from the list of active angels, had actually disappeared completely. As for Crowley, there wasn't a single mention of him in any of the past records.

Beelzebub raised their eyebrows and then he popped out of existence.

Gabriel ground his teeth, then disappeared as well, heading for a bookshop in SoHo.

 

 

The weather had been abysmal the last few days and it had culminated in thunder, lightning and the flood gates opening from above. Well, not the Flood flood gates. God had promised.

It was simply raining. A lot. With some hail mixed in. Generally unpleasant weather that had people flee from the streets.

Aziraphale's shop wasn't a harbor for the rain-drenched. It was open, yes, but no one really hurried inside to escape the weather. It was as if there was a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door.

Maybe there was.

 

 

Aziraphale was in the middle of sorting through a shelf full of obscure math books and a curious collection of 20th century cook books he hadn't known he possessed when he felt the arrival of a divine entity

His hackles rose.

His defenses flared and he almost manifested his wings in a threatening manner.

He frowned, puzzled by himself. It was an atypical reaction for him. He had always timidly accepted a visit, nodding along to whatever his superiors had said, then breathed a sigh of relief when they had been gone.

Not today.

Not anymore.

He felt a surge of steel and fire, entwining with his more gentle essence. His face slipped into a neutral expression, eyes shielded, and tension crept into his frame. His shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet into a well-balanced, rock-steady stance without thinking about it.

“Gabriel,” he greeted the archangel.

“Aziraphale!” His former superior spread his hands like they were old friends. “How has it been?”

Aziraphale felt the tension rise even more. It was like an alarm bell ringing constantly now.

“Good, I see,” the archangel continued, oblivious to everything but his own presence and existence, it seemed. “Still enjoying human food.”

The wings trembled underneath the human guise, wanting to flare. He wanted to posture and threaten. It was so not Aziraphale and still it felt good.

The angel fought back the reaction. What was going on with him? He wasn't a warrior. Well, technically he was; a warrior of God. He just hadn't fought for real in a very long time; like, forever. Never. He knew how to wield a sword, he knew how to smite, but he wasn't usually this attack-happy or base-line aggressive.

“And you are still a feathery prick on a stick.”

Gabriel turned and scowled at the dark-clad figure leaning deceptively relaxed against the frame of the door.

“Demon.”

“Ass.”

“Vile creature.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Aziraphale felt a smile slip over his lips. “Dear,” he sighed.

“What?” Crowley asked innocently. “Nothing but the truth. So what does Mr. High and Mighty want?”

“It seems there was an incident,” Gabriel said jovially. “Slight misunderstanding, I believe.”

Crowley sneered. “Angels trying to assassinate one of their own? Sure. Small incident. Swipe it under the rug. How about a collectable mug and some warm words?”

Gabriel’s expression grew harder and Aziraphale felt the build-up of something not good. It was a protective instinct he had never felt more intensely, never more violently, and he wasn’t a violent person to start with.

“Do not threaten me, demon!”

“Who’s threatening? Just stating a fact. So, what’s up, messenger boy?”

Gabriel's aura was like frozen shards of water, harsh and cold and cutting into everything.

Aziraphale knew something was about to blow and it wasn’t just because of Crowley’s smart mouth. Gabriel was too old and too well-versed in the world of bureaucracy and one-upmanship to just blow the lid.

So something else had happened to have him on such a short temper.

The archangel had barely raised his hand to miracle Crowley into a worse state when black wings unfolded with a snap that seemed to echo in the small bookshop. Feathers gleamed with energy, outlined in dark silver, and for a second the archangel froze, eyes widening.

“What the fuck…” he started.

“Do not threaten me!” Crowley snarled. “I’m not one of your lackeys! I’m not part of the whole outfit! Neither of us is!”

Gabriel hissed, hands clenching into fists, crumbling the letter he had been clutching. His own wings were barely perceptible shapes, like illusions, winking in and out of existence behind him.

Crowley smirked. “Hard time manifesting something?” he asked sweetly.

The archangel looked ready to smite something… someone… Crowley.

Aziraphale felt another surge of fire and steel, his own wings unfurling without a second thought, and he spread them in a menacing way, clearly posturing. He couldn't care less.

"Gabriel." His voice was cold, hard, matter-of-fact.

Something inside of him curled and reacted to the proximity of the archangel, even more now than before. It hissed softly, spoiling for a fight.

His former superior actually took a step back, eyes darting between the two entities, both of them displaying a level of power that hadn't been with them before. Aziraphale knew they had started to change, had evolved from their simple existence of before, and until today he hadn't been aware of how it also showed in the physical display of celestial wings.

And yes, Crowley's were celestial. He wouldn't ever call them anything else. They were still of heavenly origin and the Fall hadn't destroyed them, nor turned them into a hellishly macabre version of before.

"Why are you here?" Aziraphale asked, sounding pleasant, reserved, and very polite.

"What happened to your wings?" Gabriel snapped instead of answering.

"Good long wash and perm," Crowley snapped back, spreading his own more in a very impressive way.

Aziraphale felt a spark. It came from across the bond between them, igniting something inside his own essence, and his core energy shivered. In a good way. In a very good way.

"I ask again: why are you here?"

Gabriel looked torn between having a go at Crowley and just get done what he had been sent here to do. There was no doubt he had been sent; ever since the failed execution, there hadn't been a peep from anyone of Above.

"You truly are no longer of us," the archangel had to fire a last volley. He placed the rather crumbled letter onto the desk and it smoothed magically.

"Messenger," Crowley snorted.

"Watch it!" Gabriel hissed. "Or I'll find a way to end your useless existence!"

"Good luck with that. I know how to get rid of your big arse."

Power spiked and there was a flare of ethereal wings behind Gabriel, not completely manifesting, but threatening nevertheless. Gabriel's eyes flared a bright purple.

Crowley responded in kind. It was an unusual reaction from him. Crowley wasn't a confrontational, aggressive demon. He evaded altercations, didn't head into a brawl but rather danced out of reach, and he had never responded to aggression with posturing in any way.

This time he wasn't backing down. His muscles were coiled, eyes narrowed, and there was a mixture of Hell and Heaven roiling off him. Long fingers flexed and he bared even, white teeth that could just as well have been fangs.

Aziraphale had no idea if Crowley could actually take on an archangel and walk away. Or limp. Maybe crawl. Both he and Crowley were off the charts, were a category of their own, and he knew they had grown power-wise, but he didn't really want to test it.

"Enough! Both of you! Enough!"

Both entities looked at Aziraphale one stunned, the other with an approving smirk. Crowley's slender form relaxed a little, though not completely, and the smirk was downright nasty.

Gabriel blinked, the light in his eyes dying down. His aura diminished. It shrank, it grew less, and finally it levelled. The ethereal wings popped out of existence and his mouth twisted into a grimace of perplexity and mystification.

"Thank you," Aziraphale added, voice calm again.

He smoothed his palms over his waistcoat.

"This is my shop," he primly told the archangel. "We talk like civilized people."

"We are not people," Gabriel snarled.

"Well, you're not, jackass," came a lazy drawl. "You're a pompous, overdressed idiot with a complex big enough for all Creation."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley, shooting him a look. Crowley smiled unrepentantly in return.

Gabriel's expression was close to murderous for an archangel.

"I don't know why the Lord chose to ignore your foolery, but it is Her command."

"Good boy."

Aziraphale suppressed a groan. Crowley was very much intent on getting more than just a rise out of Gabriel. He wanted him to give Crowley an opening.

"Dear," he warned him softly.

"Hey, he started it."

"And I'm ending it. It's my bookshop," Aziraphale repeated in a tone of voice reserved for stubborn children and annoying customers. He turned to Gabriel. "Please be kind enough to leave now."

The purple eyes were hard, the higher angel bristling at the words. "I am still an archangel," he said icily.

"And I am no longer yours to command."

Aziraphale had no idea where the strength came from, the backbone and the grit. He faced a so much more powerful entity and there was no fear.

Only determination.

He didn't cower. He didn't wring his hands. He stood his ground. Something crept up his spine; something powerful, pissed off, very dangerous and spoiling to break the archangel's nose. Aziraphale was no longer in the mood to listen to threats against Crowley or insults against his own person.

It was enough.

"Please leave my property."

Gabriel raised a finger. "This will have consequences!"

Crowley snickered. "Yeah. For you, you angelic prick. You already sacked him."

Aziraphale picked up the letter, noting how Gabriel stepped away. The angel still had his wings out, but despite the small size of the bookshop, the size of them in comparison, they weren't a hindrance.

"Leave," he repeated flatly and power thrummed in every letter.

Crowley stared at him, eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open.

As if on command, the archangel popped out of existence within the blink of an eye. Not even a good-bye.

Silence descended, only broken by the fizz of dispersing energy and the sizzle of Crowley's still rather active aura. His wings folded with an almost harsh rustle.

"Wanker!" he hissed. "That stuck-up, presumptuous, pompous wanker! Good riddance and never show your bloody arse here ever again!"

For a moment there was only harsh breathing and the faint sizzle of energy.

"Tea?" the angel finally asked.

The demon rounded on his counterpart. "Tea isn't the solution unless it's made with hellfire and he drinks several pints of it!"

Aziraphale shot him a scolding look. "Dear…"

Crowley just glared again and the angel disappeared, only to come back a few minutes later with two mugs of tea – made the easy way; a tea bag and hot water.

The demon had opened the letter, no sense of privacy as usual, and his brows had almost disappeared underneath the auburn hair.

"This is enough legalese to send the toughest lawyer into a coma! And Hell has the best anyway. Wow. They were probably loaned to Gabriel's lot just to draw up a watertight release form. And I thought the last one was bad. This is worse. In a good way."

Aziraphale took the letter back and read over the words, surprise registering in him. It was a… kind of apology. Then there was a settlement offer.

He would be a neutral entity. Of divine origin, but without an affiliation. He would be entitled to make decisions concerning supernatural activity on Earth if necessary, though such activity wouldn't be forbidden. Angels and demon still walked among humanity. He would be a protector, a kind of guardian, but with no superiors. Aziraphale could be an arbitrator, a sentinel, a defender; whatever he decided and whatever the situation called upon.

Crowley leaned in. "You get to keep your body. Indefinitely. It won't discorporate. Cool stuff."

"Ehm, yes. This body."

The demon frowned. "Zira… c'mon, not that again!"

Agitation rose, whispering through the angel as his mind raced through endless possibilities, all the problems he might encounter, the trouble, the… the paperwork. Well, maybe not the paperwork. That was gone and wouldn't come back. But… he was stuck with this body. Not that he had ever had a different one; not since Eden.

Crowley's presence moved along their bond like an inky cloud, cool and soothing and so very, very solid. Aziraphale shuddered a little and his mind relaxed under the touch. It had become second nature to be able to touch like this, to have the other soul so close. It calmed him, balanced them both.

"I won't ever be issued another," he heard himself say, undecided whether to feel despair or happiness.

"Which is a good thing."

He gave his counterpart an almost hopeful look, accompanied by a rather wobbly smile. "Is it?"

"Hey, you already got it all broken in. No more hiccups to expect. You know it inside out." He slid even closer. "I know it inside out. I like it very much." Crowley looked into the bright eyes. "I love it very much," he whispered hoarsely. "I…" He inhaled deeply. "I love you very much, Aziraphale. I love you, angel. It's nothing I can stop feeling, nothing I ever want to stop. I can love you. I can freely love you."

Aziraphale stared at his best friend, his so very demonic counterpart, and the flood of words seemed to burn into his very soul. It was the first time Crowley had said them out loud. To him.

And from the way Crowley looked, he was just as shocked by his own daring nature, by his bravery, as Aziraphale.

"Oh, Crowley, dear," he managed.

"Don't make me repeat it," the demon added a little shakily, pleading. "This can only happen once."

"I know."

Aziraphale had always known, had felt it, had been so very much aware of the emotions that flowed freely between them, but Crowley had never managed to say it.

"I love you," the angel told him.

That very love was between them, bright and alive, like nothing else anyone had ever felt.

Long-fingered hands framed his face and Crowley pressed their lips together, relaying so much with just a gesture.

"At least now I don't have to run around and pull your bacon out of the fire," he murmured. "You won't discorporate, conveniently or inconveniently. Death won't send you anywhere but back here. Azrael will be cranky."

Aziraphale chuckled. "It does have its perks. Well, not about Azrael. He is a fellow angel with a very difficult job as old as Creation."

"And you were magnificent, you know," the demon murmured, voice low and almost seductive. "All fire and flames, ready to smite, not even a flaming sword at the ready."

Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat up. "Well, yes, that. It was…"

"Powerful."

"Too much."

"Not enough."

"I was posturing, Crowley. It's not me. And it's unbecoming of an angel!"

"Hn. Very becoming for you." Crowley grinned devilishly. "My angel."

Aziraphale's face flushed again and he felt the heat everywhere. He cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

"So," he exclaimed brightly. "A settlement. I wouldn't have thought it possible."

"They tried to kill you, Zira," came the furious growl. "Nothing is enough to settle that!"

He wrapped his arms around the slender form and pulled Crowley in, unfolding his wings to encase them. His aura grew, the wings relaying energy that soaked right into their souls. Crowley groaned and buried his face against Aziraphale's neck.

"You don't play fair, angel," he moaned.

Aziraphale chuckled, just holding him. "I know, love."

The wings were soft and warm, their divine energy heady and very real. Crowley's own aura grew, responding as strongly as it did gently, and Aziraphale closed his eyes, holding on to his demon.

He felt the resonance of each molecule, reached out and caressed the familiar form, took joy and pleasure in the solid body. He reaffirmed the bond, felt the pulse, the heartbeat, the very breath in the lungs. He caressed his essence, merged deeply, entwined their very souls.

"We can make this work," he murmured into Crowley's ear.

"We bloody made it fucking work for six millennia. We're pros at making it work."

The yellow eyes were all-encompassing, fully demonic, and Aziraphale felt the thrill of having Crowley so close to the surface of his human shell.

"Yes, we are. Incompetently so."

It got him a toothy smile. "Like I said: pros."

 

*

 

Crowley found a similar letter nailed to his door when he returned to the flat the next morning, still tingly all over from a very pleasurable night. The sigil of hell glowed brightly as he took it down and opened it. Sparks crackled along the edges of the envelope and sigil turned to dust. The dust disappeared before a single particle had hit the ground.

"Hn," he muttered and read over it.

Similar settlement. Worded a little more strongly. The letters seemed to be burned into the parchment under great duress.

He would have his body indefinitely. Self-repair included. No more danger of discorporation. Lucifer himself had decreed that he was off limits.

"Fuck… me…" he muttered.

That was as good as getting a blessing from the Almighty. Any misconduct by a denizen of Hell, an affiliate of Hell, or anyone who thought he was doing Hell a favor would be punished. No exceptions. Heaven and Hell would make sure that their former field agents would not be the reason for a diplomatic incident that might start a war.

He crumbled up the letter and it burst into flames.

***

XIV.

 

"Angel, what if the Almighty had planned it like that all along? From the very beginning."

 

"Could have. I wouldn't put it past Her."

 

Gabriel's visit had been mere weeks ago: The life-changing letter was nothing but a memory, though he could recall it word for word. Aziraphale had watched it self-destruct just an hour after the archangel's departure. Nothing of the celestial visit lingered in the cozy bookshop, which was just as well. Crowley had looked like he wanted to Febreeze the living daylights out of the shop for the rest of the day.

"It stinks of stuck-up messenger angels in here," had been his growl.

Well, the 'stink' had been aired out within a short amount of time. There wasn't a trace of the celestial visit to be found.

As for Crowley's own message, it had been only too clear as well. The demon had told him about it in a rather careless, off-hand manner. At least no one had stuck around his flat to go on about his relationship with an angel, his past failures and trying to make nice after trying to execute him.

Demons didn't make nice as a rule.

Unless one was a demon named Crowley. He had always defied the cookie cutter mold.

 

 

The shop was closed, the blinds were down, the lights turned low enough that the street lamps shed much brighter lights. Now and then a passing car's headlights swept over the covered windows. Outside, people walked by, chatting, coming from or going to restaurants, theaters, or their homes. No one would bother to try and sneak a look through the blinds.

Aziraphale had his wings out again, regarding the impressive appendages that sprung from his back and took up so much space, they should be bumping against the bookshelves, the stacks of books everywhere, the statues and boxes, and yet they didn't. They seemed to bend space around them, making room where there wasn't room. He didn't feel any kind of weight on his back, just like before, but they were…

Very impressive, he thought with faint hysteria rising inside him.

Their size, their sheer energy… he could feel it. It was running through him, took up room where there hadn't been room before either, and something inside of him had expanded as well.

Was this how higher angels felt? Was this like an ascension to another rank? He had never given it much thought and right now those thoughts seemed ludicrous. He hadn't ascended. He had been kicked out, all benefits revoked.

Well, he still had the flaming sword. Somewhere. Wherever it was right now. But he still had it.

There was an almost translucent edge to the individual feathers. If he looked hard enough he imagined he saw ethereal shadows of the very same wings just behind the very solid ones.

Wings were parts of an angel. Regular parts. Nothing special. Every angel had them. White, regular wings.

He ran a hand over the primaries, felt them tingle against his hands, brimming with energy.

Wings also represented power.

Aziraphale had never been a heavy hitter power-wise. He had been trained as a warrior. He knew how to wield his sword. He wasn't a clutz and he wasn't as stupid as many thought. He had never misplaced the sword. He had never lost it accidentally.

That said, yes, he had lost it on purpose.

He also had magical abilities, like every angel or other supernatural entity. He had been, still was, maybe… or not… a principality, but archangels like Uriel, Michael, Gabriel… name any of them, were so much stronger and more impressive.

And he had never cared.

He didn't need power.

Now he had it.

His wings spread and energy sizzled over the edges. Some of that energy looked faintly reddish-orange, mingling with the glacially white-blue.

Aziraphale knew he had changed and he knew he a little more of a bastard than before, had a little more of Hell in him. Just like his counterpart carried enough Heaven inside his demonic form to tolerate the divine.

There was a slight surge of demonic energy, like an announcement, and the web of hellish lines inside him responded with an almost imperceptible hum. It didn't hurt. It was like an echo, recognizing his perfect match, his counterpart.

"All grown up, hm?" came a lazy drawl. "Suits you, angel. Very pretty."

He turned and looked at Crowley, the demon's eyes resting on the white wings that almost glowed in the gloomy interior. There was an expression of wonder and admiration briefly flitting over the narrow features.

"What happened to us?" Aziraphale asked softly.

"No idea, angel. Going native apparently becomes you."

"And you. Your wings have grown, too, accumulating power. I can feel it. It's magnificent. Amazing, really. Gabriel feared it."

Crowley's smile was nasty. "Good. Bloody messenger boy deserved it."

"Show me," Aziraphale requested, voice low.

Crowley's brows rose over the dark glasses, which slid down his nose. Demonic eyes met bright blue ones.

"Please?" the angel added.

"Alright. But seeing them changes nothing. We know they are there."

He did indeed feel their power like they were already out. He had no idea why, but their connection had developed in leaps, was growing in strange ways, and Aziraphale didn't want to miss the sensation of Crowley close to him.

The demon manifested his wings and Aziraphale was drawn to them like a magnet. Crowley bent a wing forward, the feather's full, healthy, and gleaming.

Aziraphale reverently touched the ebony feathers and opened his senses to the massive energy coiling inside. It flowed around them, weaving into his own, tendrils snaking together and becoming one. Crowley had never harbored this much, always shackled by his employer, always just bottom rung. A lower demon.

Like Aziraphale had been no one. Not after the Eden disaster. Just a field agent, doing his best, enjoying humanity, enjoying Earth, and having an Arrangement…

"Angel?"

Crowley sounded a little strangled and when Aziraphale looked up from his study of the amazing feathers, he met wide, golden eyes.

He closed the distance and kissed the tempting lips, almost laughing at the thought of temptation. That ship had sailed and crossed the wide, wide oceans already.

"You feel incredible, dear," he whispered.

He could feel the gentle energy waves that made up Crowley's essence. It was intoxicating, it was addictive, and Aziraphale knew he needed it, that it was part of him for eternity.

Something curled in his stomach. Warm and longing and intense.

Crowley swallowed, clearly overwhelmed. "So do you," he managed.

His fingers were clenched into Aziraphale's knit vest, holding on for dear life. The energy was wild around them and Aziraphale tried to soothe it.

Another shudder ran through Crowley and he kissed Aziraphale again, hungrier this time.

"What are you doing to me, angel?" he asked roughly.

"Nothing."

"Everything."

Aziraphale smiled. "You do just as much to me. You feel limitless, dear. So very much."

"As do you.

He felt it in himself.

He felt it in Crowley.

And they were now so tightly bound together, it was like an endless loop of energy that was of neither Realm, but also not far removed from either. The golden eyes, fully demonic, reflected that power.

"We have become something new," the angel stated as he sank his fingers into the incredible wings, the energy licking over his finger. There was no pain; just softness.

Crowley inhaled sharply at the gesture and Aziraphale pulled back. The demon caught the retreating hand.

"No! No, it's not… it's okay! It's just… tingly. In a good way. A really good way."

Aziraphale blinked, then smiled brightly. "Oh! Oh, okay!"

They lost themselves in gentle caresses and kisses, not pushing it any further, though Aziraphale felt the waves of desire coming from Crowley that were hard to ignore.

He slipped a hand under the tight black shirt, encountering hot skin and hard muscle. The physical form was just that, a form, but it was exciting, wonderful, and very, very attractive. Aziraphale felt the power in every cell, felt Crowley's essence everywhere, and it had him want to do things he would have been horrified of just mere centuries ago. Maybe even decades.

"Don't start something you don't intend to finish, angel…"

"I have every intention to finish it."

Energy spiked. Golden eyes seemed to take on an unholy glow. And Aziraphale just smiled and stroked over the warm, smooth skin he encountered.

"Every intention…"

 

*

 

The bookshop remained closed for the day. No one actually noticed as everyone who had intended to visit suddenly had something very important to do.

Aziraphale enjoyed the privacy, the time alone with his demon, who was intent on testing the limits of their energetic encounters. So far, the limit hadn't been reached.

They hadn't relocated to the flat. Aziraphale had a private flat above the bookshop, even if it was never used for anything but… well, personal time.

"Hm, this was fun," the demon remarked lazily, looking still a little undone despite being completely dressed. "More than ever."

Aziraphale smoothed his palms over his waistcoat. "Because we changed."

"Well, wings aside, you still look like your old proper self. Every part of you," Crowley added with a leer. "I checked. Thoroughly."

Aziraphale moved his wings and they whispered through the ether, barely manifested and still so very present. "That's new. As are yours."

"They are wings. Nothing more."

"They are a conduit of power. For archangels they are a connection to Everything."

"You're not a bloody archangel, angel!"

"I know," Aziraphale replied, holding the heated gaze. "Both of us are free now. Free of even the slightest connection. No limits, no chains. Nothing pushing us into a handy category anymore. I think… I think this is the result."

Crowley shrugged. "They are wings, Zira. Just wings. Don't fuss over them. No fretting either. We haven't used them in millennia and I don't intend to flaunt them around. Well, unless you want to get your hands onto them again." He wriggled his eyebrows.

"You are incorrigible."

Crowley spread his arms wide. "Demon, love. Demon."

Aziraphale smiled. "I am very much aware of it, my dear."

"I don't intend to do much energy channeling either," Crowley went on. "This is only us. About us. Us together, on our side, on this planet. If we're lucky we won't see another hair of the fucking archangel Gabriel or any single one of the lot ever again. And if we do, you can count on my boot so far up his arse, that stick will have company."

Aziraphale was drawn between laughing and scolding his counterpart. He settled on smiling and slightly shaking his head.

"We don't need a name," Crowley added as he got up and walked over to him. "You're an angel. I'm a demon. Nothing else fits."

"Yes. Yes, we are."

Crowley pulled the angel close again. Aziraphale smiled into the little kisses, wrapping an arm around the lean waist.

"So, what do we do now?" Crowley asked, eyes filled with a mischievous light.

"No more and no less than before."

"You're no fun, angel!"

"I'm plenty of fun!" he protested.

"Hm, yes. The last few hours were really fun." He buried his face against the warm, soft neck, nipping at the delicate skin.

Aziraphale briefly closed his eyes, exhaling. "Crowley, dear…"

"Dinner?" Crowley purred. "My treat. Whatever you want, angel."

"I'd like to stay in. With you," Aziraphale answered softly.

"Mhm, sounds just fine."

The next kiss wasn't a nibble. It was downright filthy.

 

 

Dinner came late.

Neither entity was truly hungry; their bodies didn't require nourishment of the conventional kind. Aziraphale simply liked the taste and texture of food and drink, as well as the general rush of happiness, appreciation and satisfaction it gave him.

Crowley always wore that indulgent look, at most sharing one bite and preferring to drink.

Food was delivery.

Aziraphale promised himself to try the new restaurants he had discovered or heard of another day. Tonight he wanted to dine in, with Crowley.

 

 

They went out to a small, exquisitely good restaurant two days later, after a leisurely stroll around St. James Park, followed by a loyal gaggle of ducks.

Aziraphale had a delightful lobster and a mango parfait that was a dream. Crowley simply had coffee and a lot of expensive wine, smiling as he watched his angel eat.

I love you, he thought.

Aziraphale looked up from his parfait and met the demon's gaze, hidden behind dark glasses, and he smiled.

I love you.

Together, balanced, one. In need of the other but still very much independent and strong.

He would never give this up. Never willingly.

***

XV.

 

"Makes you wonder what God's really planning."

"Best not to speculate."

 

 

Their lives didn't change abruptly or actually at all.

Both still had their own places, as it had always been. Crowley was more or less living in the bookshop, but he did return to the flat on a regular basis. The plants needed a good talking to – nature and nurture. In Crowley's case he was misting them, feeding them first class nutrients, watering those that needed more – and he ordered them around like the best of drill sergeants in any military.

The plants were actually the only reason for him to return to the building. There was nothing else for him there.

Aziraphale never commented on it. Neither did he offer for Crowley to move the small jungle of luscious foliage into the bookshop's flat. And he only smiled to himself when the first small, potted plants made an appearance in Aziraphale's place.

Crowley also still enjoyed sleeping, while Aziraphale still didn't really sleep. A nap here or there, mostly out of curiosity or because it was comfortable to join his counterpart, but he saw no need. He would rather read through the night or walk the quiet streets, observing the people around him, and if someone needed his help, he would assist.

When Crowley was at his own flat, the angel sometimes migrated there, too, and spent the night, or sometimes the afternoon, with him in bed, reading. Crowley would wake to the celestial presence, to fingers stroking his hair, his neck, his back, or just holding one hand.

It was nice.

Yes, he did nice now. Just like he did love. It was a wonderful thing to do and he finally allowed himself to do it fully. Four letter words be damned.

When the demon was at the bookshop, he usually dozed off on the sofa or in the chair. Aziraphale would wake him gently, that affectionate, soft and very… angelic… smile on his lips, and usher the sleepy entity into the back where there was a bed for them.

If Crowley was more awake he would be scowling at the other entity, brows drawn down and lips a thin line at being coddled. As it was, he liked coddling and cuddling when his brain was too much powered down to catch a clear thought.

Eating was another matter that didn’t change. Crowley had no need for it, didn’t enjoy it like Aziraphale did, but he would be there, watch the angel indulge, their conversations about whatever came to mind. He would find new restaurants, cafes and tiny little take-outs with heavenly food for the angel to try and start to like.

Surprising Aziraphale with food made him happy. Because it had the angel smile brightly, that smile bestowed only upon him. It had him go all warm and weirdly gooey inside. He would bring sweets and pastries sometimes, would smile as Aziraphale lit up with the prospect of something inspiring new to taste.

Crowley enjoyed it all. The affection, the softness, the warmth that had always been there with Aziraphale and always would be.

That hadn't changed at all and it never would.

Neither would Crowley's feelings for this unique angel lessen. For millennia he had fought those softer emotions, the need to be close and closer. He had found excuses to drop in on Aziraphale, to be in the vicinity, and it had gotten so much more difficult. Being cut lose had changed them. Crowley had learned to express these feeling, show Aziraphale what it meant for the demon, and he had opened up to the bond between them completely.

It was a heady feeling to be with the angel. No sex necessary.

Well, that was nice, too. Crowley wouldn’t have thought it would ever come to that, but now that it had, and repeatedly, he quite liked it. Loved it. Wanted it Wanted Aziraphale. Loved Aziraphale.

There it was again, the warmth. Something he cherished and now even more so.

And he didn't have to fear it anymore.

 

 

There were no more assignments, but that didn't mean Anthony J. Crowley couldn't go out and do some mischief. He was a demon after all. It was in his very soul to do mischief.

Mischief, not bad deeds. Disabling the electronic lock on a shop that sold hideously expensive phones and that had a new edition coming out that morning was not too bad. He enjoyed the clamoring masses, the demands of being let in to get their reserved and paid-for devices, and he smirked as the employees struggled to get the doors open before the masses did it for them.

No one was hurt. No one was ever hurt. For all his past commendations, none of the violent ones had been his. Even demonic minds couldn’t come up with all the horrible stuff humans did to themselves in the name of religion, science or politics.

Scrambling a streaming service and messing with a popular gaming app was more up his alley of things to do. Tempting thieves, encouraging parking or traffic violations. Encouraging adultery. Yes to all of it. All in a day's work. He drew a line at mass murder.

Aziraphale in turn wouldn't be the angel he was if he didn't bless someone here or there. He didn't need an official order. Like for Crowley, it was in his very essence, and Crowley wouldn't want him any other way. None of the blessings or miracles were even above minor. They were gentle deeds, barely perceptible as such in the grand scheme of things, and Crowley had to day he enjoyed watching Aziraphale work.

Sometimes he caught himself performing a demonic miracle as well, which earned him that soft, soft smile from his angel.

"Not a word," he grumbled as Aziraphale bestowed that very smile upon him as Crowley showed his nice side once again.

He just couldn't help it. Children were… innocents. Well, up to a certain age. Then they became devilish little brats. The kid Crowley had… well, not blessed because he didn't bless even now that he was no longer truly of Hell… had been through enough already, so getting some small help, even from a demon with only good intentions in mind, wasn't really bad.

Not that anyone kept score anymore.

They could do whatever they wanted.

Aziraphale gently bumped their shoulders together as they continued past the children's hospital and toward their latest lunch location.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Crowley didn't respond, but inside he preened as he always did. The little girl would be fine. He hadn't miraculously healed her from a deadly disease. It had been something very small, a little push, and she would have a happy life.

That was enough.

They balanced each other, just like they always had, ever since Eden.

That was enough, too.

 

*

 

Aziraphale continued to hunt for and collect rare books, first editions, and books of prophecy. It took him out of the country, too, so Crowley simply tagged along. Travelling the world that was now safe from an impending End and theirs to explore and protect was something they had always done. Still, it was also new.

Europe was a treasure trove of books and while Aziraphale cooed over the rare pages, Crowley tempted someone here, accidentally blessed someone there, and sometimes just spent his time sunbathing and doing absolutely nothing at all.

Fun time.

That their short trip happened to last five years was… of no consequence. Time didn't matter in the grand scheme of eternity and immortality. The bookshop would always be there, as would the flat.

 

*

 

Aziraphale ran into a little snag in Budapest. Actually, the snag was a blast of very dark magic, able to truly hurt even a divine being, and sealed into the book by a human over four hundred years ago. It hit the angel as he opened the rare edition of ancient folk tales.

Crowley sensed the blast the second Aziraphale lifted the book's cracked leather lid, but by then it was too late.

"Zira!" he exclaimed as the shard of darkness hit his angel.

Aziraphale opened his mouth in shock, eyes wide, then the darkness shattered into a million pieces and dropped harmlessly to the ground.

Crowley was by his side in a flash, hands running over the slightly trembling entity, calling his angel's name.

"I'm okay," Aziraphale breathed tremulously. "I'm okay. Why am I okay?"

The demon framed the ashen features and looked into the too wide eyes, seeing nothing but confusion in there. No pain, no ill effects of the magical blast.

The spell had shattered to ashes. There was truly not even a slight trace left.

"Uh, hi?"

The voice startled them both and they turned, coming face to face with a young man with dark, tousled hair, lanky, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, looking a bit apprehensive. He had a backpack slung around his shoulder.

They were in a locked bookshop, the owner deceased months ago, with no heirs and no one interested in handling the massive volume of books and whatnot. Aziraphale had found the shop almost accidentally while browsing the web, but by the time he had tried to contact the bookseller about this specific book, he had already passed on.

A locked bookshop.

It was in the middle of the night.

And here he was, a young man, speaking English, and looking kind of familiar.

Crowley tensed and Aziraphale tilted his head curiously.

"How may I help you?" he asked politely as if finding strange young men in a locked bookshop in Budapest was quite alright.

"Hey, guys," the young man said and smiled almost sheepishly. "It's been a while."

Crowley's jaw dropped, golden eyes widening, and there was shock and denial warring for dominance. "Aw, bloody…Ngh…, no! Fuck no!"

"May I ask…"

"You're Adam!" Crowley hissed. "Adam Young! The fucking Antichrist!"

Aziraphale's eyes widened in barely concealed alarm and his aura rose, strengthening a little more than necessary.

"Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble, okay?"

"Then why are you?" Aziraphale asked calmly.

"School trip? Five cities in Europe in five days, that kinda thing. Budapest is number three. I was in Paris and Berlin, too. I'm finishing school in a few months and this is the last trip together, so…"

"Seven years. It's been seven years…" Crowley murmured. "Seven… years… Eleven and seven is…" The golden eyes widened, now fully demonic and no white left. "He's come of age, angel."

"He came into his powers with eleven, dear. Eighteen is hardly a new milestone."

Crowley looked at him as if Aziraphale was deliberately daft. "He is human. He's eighteen now."

"Age means something different in different parts of this world. The definition of when you are an adult depends on culture, part of the world, religious belief…"

"He is eighteen," Crowley interrupted. "In this part of the world! This! He grew up with human parents, was raised human, and now he is officially an adult! On paper! He can drink, buy porn and vote!"

"Oh."

Despite the mildly uttered word, Aziraphale's core energy rose and strengthened his aura even more. He felt the wings trembled. Crowley's aura wove into his, sharp and twitchy, coiling around them both like the snake he was.

"Yeah, well, yes, I'm eighteen. Have my driver's license. Didn't get to vote yet. Didn't buy porn -," Crowley snorted in disbelief. "- and I had a great party with my friends." Adam shrugged, not the least bit perturbed by their words. "Got cool gifts. And a card from abroad."

He dug into his backpack and took out a slightly crumbled greeting card.

Crowley hissed as a well-known sigil could be seen. "Bloody great! Gets better and better!"

"Oh no," Aziraphale whispered. "I thought… you were human again."

"About that… no?" Adam said slowly, looking rather sheepish. "I altered reality, but I couldn't alter me, despite everything. Turns out telling off your hellish… uhm… father… parental unit… whatever, it doesn't change your heritage or where you come from."

"We never felt it," Crowley stated tonelessly, hands clenching and unclenching. "Because of the camouflage. The protection system no power can pierce."

Adam did look and act like the typical teenager, but there was something underneath and it had always been, from birth to now.

"You had all your powers all the time?" the angel asked, voice trembling a little.

Another, almost careless shrug. "Not all. I can do a few things. Nothing bad. I talked to Anathema. She says hi, by the way. She and Newt are married now. Well, she helped me a little here or there."

"What things?" Crowley demanded.

"You stopped the dark magic curse," Aziraphale stated before the teenager could answer.

Adam smiled brightly; proudly. "You're welcome."

"Oh, how nice! He can stop dark magic! And now he's eighteen," Crowley snarled, waving his arms. "Great! Just great! It's going to start again! I knew it! I fucking knew it was too good to be true!"

Adam held up his hands. "No! No, no, no! Listen, there's no new End! None at all! I just came here because…. Well, the card said so."

The angel and the demon exchanged both wary and alarmed glances.

Aziraphale gingerly took the card held out to him. It didn't feel hellish, just a little tingly. He opened it and almost winced at the squirming, rather hellish in origin letters.

"Happy Birthday, Son."

And then a whole flood of words appeared before his eyes and the wording sounded familiar.

Adam was neither of Hell, though born in its fiery Pits, nor would Heaven ever claim him. He was without affiliation, not bound to any Realm, and if he had any questions, talk to a certain angel who owned a corner bookstore, and a demon who probably hung around that bookstore. But first, please visit another bookstore while in Budapest, if you would be so kind. Spending money would be on his credit card. Best wishes and all.

The signature looked like chicken scratch, but it was clear who had scrawled their name under the words.

Crowley was getting really twitchy now. Aziraphale reached for him over the strong connection and he held on to that anchor with all he had.

"Well, so here I am."

"Oh. Oh dear," Aziraphale managed, looking at Crowley again, who had been reading over his shoulder.

"Bastards!" the demon growled, radiating his displeasure.

Adam was one of them now. Exiled. Neither from Hell nor from Heaven, but very much of Earth and with enough humanity in him to pass as one.

"Bloody fucking great!"

Aziraphale briefly touched one wrist and Crowley muttered something uncomplimentary, but his surge of temper quieted. Adam studied them like he would a math puzzle, then he suddenly grinned.

"You finally figured it out!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I didn't know what it was seven years ago, but I was only eleven, so what do I know about relationships? The two of you simply pinged back then. I got this really strange ping from you. Now I know what it was. You figured it out!" He waved a hand at the two of them. "You two. Together. Balanced. I don't go around reading auras. Anathema said it's impolite and makes you lazy and too contend. Well, I kinda just read yours and you look… so much better."

Crowley's face was a cold mask, eyes hard and deeply golden, the color all-encompassing, and his lips drew back over his teeth in a parody of a smile.

"Tread lightly, kid." His voice was low, cold, a warning.

Aziraphale just blinked, slightly befuddled, hands fluttering a little.

"You two look amazingly strong, too. Like you're finally one unit where there were two individuals before. And you're still individuals, too. There's this connection, like a web of connections really, and it's everywhere, right down to your core! Rad!"

"Rad?" Aziraphale echoed quietly, wide-eyed and more than a little overwhelmed.

"Your wings are bigger, too! You channel a lot of power… Hellish and divine." Adam almost squinted. "It looks like you connect into everything."

"Stop it!" Crowley hissed. "Stop it right away!"

Ethereal wings flared, not manifesting, just shadows of energy that briefly crackled through the otherwise quiet bookshop. Crowley knew he should be unnerved by the display, that it had never been like that before, but then there had never been a former Antichrist looking at him like a bug under a microscope before either.

He had no idea how to handle this new situation and Crowley was nothing if not extremely adaptable. In a world like this, where humanity changed the set-up every few centuries, one had to be.

Now there was Adam.

Again there was the touch. Calming and grounding. Aziraphale was doing it unconsciously. He sought for the gentle press of the anchor against his mind and caught it, feeling a lot better just for Aziraphale's steadying core.

Adam had the manners to look chastised. "Sorry. I… don't tell Anathema?" he blurted. "I promised her not to go around freaking people out by reading auras and stuff…"

The former Antichrist afraid of a human witch? Crowley wanted to laugh, but the sound was stuck in his throat. Reading an aura was personal, yes. Angels and demons could do it second nature, so for them it was normal, but to see the hidden wings? That required a little more power.

"Oh, she also gave me this. She said I'd definitely meet you here, so… here."

Aziraphale gingerly took the white envelope and opened it. Inside was an ancient piece of paper that had been part of a bigger page once. It had been ripped apart and Aziraphale was holding the lower half.

Crowley's senses flared in alarm as the angel blanched, his own aura expanding in shock, and for once it was the demon who soothed the frazzled energy lines.

"What?" he demanded.

Aziraphale swallowed dryly.

It was the name of the bookshop they were currently in, including the city, all in ancient handwriting, and it mentioned a demon and an angel who no longer were what their names suggested.

"What is this?" Azirphale breathed.

"Anathema got a box not long after the Apocalypse was averted," Adam explained readily. "From Agnes Nutter."

Crowley cursed colorfully, and not all was meant for young ears. Adam didn't even blush.

"Dear, please," Aziraphale tuttet. "There is a child present."

"He's not a child!"

"I'm not a child anymore," Adam said simultaneously.

"A young human," Aziraphale corrected himself.

"It's not the worst I ever heard," the young human in question piped up.

Crowley made a 'see there?' gesture, eyebrows rising over reptilian eyes. Aziraphale pursed his lips, clearly judging, then he turned to Adam.

"You said Agnes Nutter sent Anathema a box?"

"Yeah. It was a second prophecy book. She burned it."

"What?!" Aziraphale exclaimed, hands covering his mouth in shock. "Why?!"

"Good for her," Crowley mumbled, looking furious.

Adam shrugged. "I didn't hear about it until a few days before I left for Paris. Anyway, she got another package two weeks before that. With a copy of the book. Apparently Agnes was that good. She knew her heir would burn the first one."

Crowley closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn't prone to headaches, unless he overdid it with exposure to holy stuff. Or having to talk to God Herself. Now he felt one massive ache coming and it was hammering right behind his eyes.

"Anathema had it delivered to your bookstore, Aziraphale."

"I-it's… in London?" Aziraphale squeaked looking like he was falling from one shock into another without being able to recuperate.

"Yes. Absolutely safe. She said she read it all and knew when to send it to you. Agnes foresaw a lot." Adam grinned.

"Fuck!" Crowley snarled. "Fuck you, Nutter! We don't need to go chasing after… whatever she predicted!"

Aziraphale was gripping his demon's wrist, holding on like for fear life. Crowley knew his counterpart was absolutely excited to have such a precious prophecy book in his shop, even if it was clear across the continent right now. But he was also afraid to see what it contained.

"Did you read it?" he finally asked tremulously.

"Nope. Anathema said it's for you and him." He gestured at Crowley. "And to tell you it's nothing bad."

"Define bad," the demon growled.

"Not another End."

"Well, that's kind of… reassuring." Aziraphale shot his counterpart a quick look.

Crowley just glared at Adam.

"I'm, ah, kinda starting at the U of London soon," the former Antichrist, now newly unaffiliated not-human added. "Got my own flat and all."

"Of course he has!" Crowley threw up his hands, dislodging Aziraphale's hold. "Great. Great! So you're our problem now? I don't think so! I'm not babysitting anymore!"

"I'm not anyone's problem," Adam replied, a frown on his forehead. "The card said to talk to you if I have questions."

"And you have," Aziraphale finished softly. "Of course you do. And we are willing to answer them all."

"We are?!"

"Yes, dear, we are." He gave his counterpart a pointed look. "Adam is like us now."

Crowley muttered curses under his breath, stalking over to a cabinet to pull out a bottle of scotch. He had no idea how long that had been there, but he didn't care. It was alcohol. He needed it right now.

Aziraphale gave the young non-human a slightly strained smile. "I think we should sit down, have a cup of tea, and then start from the beginning."

Adam's brows drew down a bit. "I know the beginning. I've been there from day one to the almost-End. What I want to know is what you guys are, because really, you feel very different than before."

"Well, yes, ehm, a lot has happened."

Crowley emptied his glass and refilled it. "A lot!" The second glass was quickly downed.

"Where are you staying?" Aziraphale inquired.

"The school group's staying at a hostel. Rather upscale one. No privacy, though."

"We could go to our place."

Crowley grimaced. "Really, angel?"

"Do you really want to talk about everything in here?"

Another grimace.

So Aziraphale ushered their visitor out the bookshop. The book he had come for was stowed away and he locked the tiny shop behind them.

 

 

Adam left before sunrise, needing to be back at the hostel before anyone found out he was gone.

Crowley paced their suite hotel room, radiating nervous energy. Aziraphale stopped him with a gentle gesture and drew the agitated demon into a soft kiss. The spiking energy deflated a little, wrapped around Aziraphale's essence, seeking strength and giving it in turn.

White wings unfurled and wrapped around them, drawing a soft sigh of appreciation from Crowley, who looked a little constipated a little later. Aziraphale kissed the look away, smiling as the kiss turned into a hug and Crowley burying his face against the angel's neck.

They separated after a long while, Crowley's fingers trailing over the feathers. Sparks danced around where his fingers touched the whiteness and he smiled reverently.

"We're fucked," he said softly. "Absolutely fucked."

"Adam isn't the Antichrist anymore, dear."

"How do you know?" he demanded, golden eyes flaring with anger and fear.

"He's a nice kid, Crowley. He has lived with these powers for seven years now and nothing had happened. Anathema would have called us if something had been terribly wrong. She is knowledgeable and has a good head. Now Adam has us, too."

"Us? We wouldn't be able to stop him if we wanted to! Bastards," Crowley snarled again, looking unsettled in ways Aziraphale had never seen him before. "Fencing the kid off to us to do what?"

Long fingers clenched into one wing. Aziraphale felt no discomfort, despite the agitation radiating from his counterpart. All he sensed was the fear, the rising terror that Crowley felt at the prospect of Adam… doing what? He had been a supernatural creature all his life, had been triggered seven years ago, and he had made the right decision. He had chosen humanity and Earth.

"Let him study, learn, grow up," Aziraphale answered calmly. "Be there in case of questions."

"I'm not his father!"

The angel interlaced their fingers, meeting the golden eyes calmly. "No. He renounced his real father, grew up in a loving surrogate family, and he made the right choice seven years ago."

"Now big ol' Dad sends him back to us again?"

"He is like us, Crowley. Without connections to either Side. Neutral."

The demon huffed, but he didn't disentangle himself from Aziraphale's hold.

"We can make this work," the angel echoed what Crowley had said not too long ago. "We are pros at making the impossible work."

It got him a tired snort. "Yeah."

"And he's on our Side. He saved Earth."

"Yeah," was the more quiet reply.

 

 

They returned to London with the precious book safely in Aziraphale's cabin trolley.

The bookshop was the same as before. Aziraphale inhaled the scent of old books and home. Yes, home. There was an energy in this place that was both him and Crowley. From day one of the opening over two hundred years ago, the place had soaked up both of their radiance, hellish and divine, and it had become something of a sanctuary.

Now it was home.

For as long as Aziraphale could have it, the shop would be here.

As he entered and Crowley waved at the door to automatically close behind them, he immediately saw the package. It was on the desk, wrapped in brown paper, looking innocent and not the least bit dangerous.

"You really want to open that?" Crowley asked warily, eyeing the package like he would a bucket of Holy Water.

"No," Aziraphale said.

"Liar."

He gave him a brief smile. On one hand he wanted to look into the box and read the prophecies; on the other he was afraid of what he might read. He ran careful fingers over the packaging, then finally removed it.

Crowley was there, sharp eyes on the box, expecting the worst.

There was a letter on top of it. From Anathema.

It explained how she had burned the first book when it had arrived, but this box had come anyway. Because Agnes had known. She had read the prophecies and she had multiple copies. Just in case. The original was for Aziraphale to keep and, if he wanted, to read.

Aziraphale folded the letter and met Crowley's eyes.

"I think I have the perfect spot for it," he said softly, voice wavering only a little.

 

 

The box was placed in the back room storage.

Aziraphale was curious, but he was too apprehensive and not inclined to really dig into the book.

Not yet.

And Crowley really just wanted to incinerate it.

 

 

Adam started university three months later.

He kept dropping by the bookshop, browsing along the shelves, quietly doing homework, or reading one of the many text books he was apparently required to.

He also sometimes just watched the angel, eyes holding either an intense or faraway expression.

"You look weird sometimes," he told Aziraphale.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sometimes you glow. Radiate. All over the spectrum. And then you're just… the same angel I met seven years ago."

Aziraphale blinked, looking slightly confused. "I was always an angel, Adam."

"Yeah, well, you're now… more intense. Singular. Solid."

The angel put down the book he had been holding. "That is a rather… interesting description. And I thought you shouldn't read auras?"

Adam's lips twisted a little. "I'm not reading your aura. It's… you. Just you. Not your aura. It's the same about Crowley. You're both very… unique and just there."

"Ah." Aziraphale tilted his head. "Like you are not there?"

Adam smiled. "Probably. Anathema said no one can see me as anything but human, which is cool, but I'm very much real and there."

"And unique."

"I'm pretty sure my real dad won't send up another son. Or daughter."

"Hopefully. One near-End was enough." The angel looked slightly perturbed.

"Wasn't cool."

"No. It wasn't… cool." Aziraphale brushed his fingers over the books on the table. "I'd rather avoid another incident."

"We all want that. I'm not going to conquer the world. I want to get through Uni, get a job, see what happens next."

Aziraphale met the earnest eyes. He had no idea if the Antichrist was like Christ. Jesus had been a regular young man and he had died a horrible death, no intervention from Her. He had been made into an example and into a revered figure. Aziraphale would rather not have history repeat itself.

Was Adam like his divine counterpart? Was he mortal? Immortal? Unlike Jesus he had magical abilities. He didn't go around preaching or teaching. He was a young man planning his life like other young humans his age, which meant: not at all. He had no idea what he wanted to do.

"Yes, let's see what happens," the angel echoed.

 

*

 

It took a while for Crowley to relax enough around the boy to not watch him the whole time. The demon was close to staking out his territory, which was the bookshop and Aziraphale. Adam was in no way threatening, but Crowley felt threatened.

This was Lucifer's son. He had powers.

It bothered him to no end, grated on his nerves, seemed to rub over his skin.

Sure, the kid had renounced his father, but the heritage was there. Maybe Big Ol' Dad would decide to drop in for a visit, see how the spawn was doing? Or Heaven might decide to try and smite the kid for the fun of it. Not that Crowley saw much of a success in that. For one, Adam Young didn't blip on anyone's radar, though he made Crowley's teeth itch and his skin crawl.

Aziraphale never commented on it, but whenever it got too much, his aura extended, enveloped his agitated demon, soothed frazzled nerves and calmed spiky waves of emotions. Sometimes he would simply touch Crowley and things quieted down.

It was a slow process.

But it was getting better.

 

 

"You can sense me," Adam stated one quiet evening in the bookshop. He had been busily typing away on his hideously expensive laptop until a moment ago; when he had stopped and just looked at Crowley. "You know what I am."

"Of course I know what you are," was the sharp answer. "Pretty hard to ignore."

"No. Yes. What I mean is, you can sense it, even without knowing me. I'm not invisible to you."

Crowley, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, silently stared at the young man, face impassive. He didn't so much as twitch.

"…fuck…" he finally murmured.

Because he could. He was aware of another entity in the room, someone with more than a little bit of magical talent and a lot of hellish nature in them. It had been there since the moment in Budapest, when he had identified their visitor, and now it was like a sledge-hammer to the head.

He could see Adam Young as he was.

Just like he could see Aziraphale as an angel and not just a bumbling, sometimes timid, sometimes clueless bookseller with a love for sweets and good food.

"Cool," was Adam's comment and he went back to typing.

Crowley was too stunned to really process the fact that Adam was visible to him.

 

 

Aziraphale gave him that mildly confused look when Crowley finally mentioned it to him three days later. It had taken him this long to get his brain back into the game. He had spent two of those days hopelessly drunk or driving around.

The angel hadn't inquired into his absence, preoccupied with unearthing old book crates and going over his little treasures as he catalogued them and gave them appropriate shelf spaces.

"That's quite… interesting," he finally said.

"You think?! He's the blood Antichrist, Zira! He is naturally camouflaged against whatever wants to find him!"

"He no longer is the Antichrist, dear. He is human."

"No. No, he isn't. He never was and never will be!"

Aziraphale's expression shifted from confused to determined. "It's not a bad thing, Crowley."

Crowley opened his mouth, then stopped and shut it again. It wasn't bad. Not really. Knowing where the kid was might actually be helpful.

Aziraphale regarded him calmly, waiting patiently.

The demon finally stalked over to the primly dressed angel and pulled him into a kiss, right in the middle of the bookshop that was still open for business. Well, there was no business in it at the moment.

Crowley snapped his fingers at the door and it locked tightly.

 

 

Arms closed around him and Crowley snuggled into the embrace. Warm eyes regarded him, the depths of the emotions taking his breath away. Possessive.

Mine.

Won’t let you go.

Ever.

And he wouldn’t go. Ever.

"You know we will deal with whatever comes our way, dear," Aziraphale said, carding his fingers gently through the auburn hair.

He grunted. "Hate curveballs."

"Nothing has changed. It can be a good thing, Crowley. A very good thing."

That would remain to be seen, but for now, curled up in bed with his very desirable angel, Crowley forgot about Adam Young for a while.

 

*

 

Aziraphale delighted in helping with assignments, reading over papers and actually delving into the topics discussed in class. He let Adam stay as long as he wanted, sometimes falling asleep in an armchair or the sofa when it was too late. Adam never complained about stiff necks or waking up in unnatural sleeping positions. He just grabbed his books, headed for a coffee shop in the morning, and then to the university.

And yes, Aziraphale could sense Adam, too. It was a curious change to before and both entities finally decided it might be because of all the other changes, being released from the Realms, so they were an oddity. Something even Adam's defenses hadn't taken into account and couldn't adjust to.

 

 

"You could make a lot more out of this place," Adam commented once after Aziraphale had thwarted another sale of his beloved books to some shady customer he wouldn't trust with his lovelies for any kind of money.

"Make more…?" the angel echoed. "Why would I?"

Crowley, lounging in one of the armchairs pushed into a corner, lowered his phone. He had been playing an online game.

"Get a coffee corner," Adam went on. "Free wifi is always good for business. Maybe have book readings."

"Good for business?" Aziraphale squeaked.

"Extend opening hours. Or make them more regular. You could sell accessories. And there's always online shopping."

Aziraphale had started with befuddled and had his expression and general state of mind had morphed from that to confused, shocked, and finally horrified.

Crowley was snickering silently to himself and met Adam's eyes over his dark glasses. The kid didn't understand at all.

"Accessories… online…" Aziraphale was truly struggling.

"Kid, getting a phone line in here was a hard fight already," Crowley drawled. "Getting Aziraphale to sell a book is a mountain that won't ever be conquered."

The angel shot him an affronted look. "I sell books!"

"Once every leap year. If someone strong-arms you into it."

Adam was smiling at the banter and Aziraphale's look of offense at Crowley's teasing.

"You should make this a library," he told the celestial entity.

"Then people would borrow my books!"

And that sounded even worse. Crowley unsuccessfully tried to hide his snickering.

Adam dropped the subject and shook his head. Aziraphale bustled around the shop and checked on his precious books with even more fervor, making sure nothing was amiss. Crowley raised his eyebrows in silent commentary and Adam sighed.

"You guys are weird," he muttered.

 

 

Adam also brought food. Take-out or just pastries, sometimes ice cream. Aziraphale was positively charmed and made tea, though Adam preferred either fancy coffee or hideously sugary soda.

Crowley proudly told him that the whole coffee hype had been one of his ideas. Not that head office Below had appreciated it at the time, nor had they truly understood. His ingenious ideas had never been understood.

They started to settle into this new routine, never touching the prophecies, aware of their existence but not inclined to find out what Agnes had written down.

Anathema had a copy and she was the descendant. Not their problem.

Just like Adam wasn't their problem, but he was hanging around, was actually a nice kid, studied, got good grades, and he didn't do any evil magic. Not even miracles to get better grades.

Aziraphale was proud like an uncle. Crowley just rolled his eyes at the angel.

 

 

London would never be the same again.

 

*

 

"It's done."

"And this is part of the Plan?"

"Yes."

"The Ineffable Plan?"

There were no words, just a kind of humming rumble, like very distant thunder.

"Well, I hope you know what you're doing. Last time didn't go so well."

There was a benevolent hum. "It went just like I wanted it to go."

The other snorted. "Right."

"And you learned a lesson."

"Would you stop with that crap?"

The Presence rose, the shape all and nothing in particular.

"A child cannot be bound. It will explore. It will make up its mind and go with it, even as the parent tries to guide and shape it."

He scowled. "Yes. Yes, I get it. Like father, like son. You've been rubbing it in since the failed End."

"It didn't fail."

Dark eyes turned ruby red as a flash of anger raced through him. It was quickly squelched.

"Sometimes you need to let your offspring go, explore the world, grow on their own. Whatever you say or do will be met with resistance. So you step back and let them go."

He snorted. "Adam's not yours."

"I beg to differ."

"What? You think you're a grandparent? Are you developing human views?"

"Maybe I never had different ones."

The Presence coalesced into a vaguely humanoid form. It approached the other entity, who was a little more than vaguely humanoid and rather solid and real in its shape. Tall, slender, dark-haired, wearing a human form like it was absolutely natural, he was a far cry from the demonic battle form that had last been seen.

There were times to impress the natives and scare his too good creation into obedience. And there were times when diplomatic meetings with one's parent required a more moderate appearance.

"I always have a plan, Lucifer. Never believe otherwise."

"This whole set-up might just implode."

There might have been a smile, there might not even be a face at all. It felt like a smile. Lucifer had always hated that about Her. She was all and nothing, was all shapes and none at all. She had given them shape and form, but Herself was unfathomable.

"They will do well, exploring this new stage of their lives together. As will Adam."

And then the Presence was gone.

Lucifer threw up his hands and shook his head. Eons. Eons and it was always the same!

This would never change. Ever.

Not like one particular angel and one particular, pain-in-the-ass demon. Or one stubborn off-spring who seemed to come too much after his father.

He should have taken that into account, he now mused. Like father, like son indeed. Rebellion was in the blood, so to speak.

Adam would always be of Hell, but he was also very much human. He was on Earth, he had a purpose, and he had enough of his powers left to be protected.

"Well, interesting times ahead," the ruler of Hell muttered as he sauntered vaguely downward toward his Realm. "Interesting times indeed."

***

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• Aziraphale/Crowley