Archive of Our Own ^beta

i. woke up in a safehouse

Under a full moon, a second-floor window of a modest home in Terni unlatches with a creak and a wince. Through the panels, a crude rope is thrown out, made of tied pieces of faded bed sheet and moth-bitten curtains, leftover reminders of better days. Wrapped in a threadbare cloak, a small figure crawls through, hands trembling as she does her best to lower herself in a quiet descent to freedom.

At that moment, clouds drift by to curtain the silver light, bathing the town below in a momentary lapse of darkness.

Crowley waits beneath that window. She watches the scrambling figure, too preoccupied with finding proper footing to notice a tear forming in the fabric. Then another. She waves her hand. They mend as if the damages were never there, and the lifeline becomes incapable of ripping for the time being. When she nears the ground, Crowley steps closer to support the sudden drop of weight, gravity pulling on the slight, malnourished frame that collapses into her arms with a sob.

“I know,” Crowley murmurs. “We are leaving now. You’re safe.”

For such a blessed house, it carried nothing but damnation. At least he'll be there, along with the many others before this, when she returns Below.

The figure draws back, face hidden in the shadow of the hood, but with Crowley’s inhuman eyes, even covered by her spectacles, she can see the young woman as clear as if they were in the sun at high noon. No more than twenty, but she looks beyond her age. Dark bruises and cuts litter her hollow cheeks and neck, with her pale countenance making the marks much more startling. Wide, fearful eyes ringed with shadows peer back at her.

But it isn’t Crowley she’s afraid of.

Her expression is one Crowley’s all too familiar with, no matter what corner of the world she’s sent to. Crowley never asks for names, nor does she give one, but she never forgets a face.

But they will forget hers, like one only seen after a disturbance in a pond's surface, features and colors blended, marred beyond recognition, and fading into a distant memory.

She lifts a hand, movement slow, to hover in the space between them.

"May I?"

She stares at the offering before nodding, a jerking uncertain motion.

Crowley waves her hand. The young woman flinches but in a mere blink, the injuries vanish. Shocked, she touches her cheek, now unblemished. The moonlight reflecting in her eyes trembles.

“Let’s go.”

She faintly nods, leaving with nothing but the clothing on her back and a budding sense of hope that Crowley could feel in the hand clenching her tightly. Crowley navigates them through the dark looming buildings, bending their silhouette to shield and soften their movement, putting more and more distance between themselves and that cursed house until they slip through rusted gates, left slightly opened from earlier in the night, and pass by the two sleeping guards.

They rush down the main path, veering off until a grazing horse tied to a tree becomes visible.

Quickly, Crowley helps the young woman up onto the saddle, checking the small provisions in the bags on the side before untying the rope to create a makeshift rein.

“She’ll know where to take you," Crowley says, gesturing to the horse. "And your aunt will be waiting for your arrival.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice low and hoarse from disuse. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“And you’ll never need to. Understand?”

She hesitantly nods, leans down to place a soft kiss above Crowley’s brow, and whispers a small blessing, one that Crowley curiously found she could accept. With a nudge, she urges the horse forward. The animal and rider are quickly swallowed up by the large trees and their hanging branches. The night is fraught with danger but no harm will come to them.

Crowley made sure of it.

When Crowley arrives at the clearing where she left her own horse, she finds another woman already there, back turned to her as she feeds the black mare sugar cubes and brushes a hand down her neck, softly humming an old folk song. Her white hair is tied neatly into a low bun, but wisps of curls still escaped, tucked behind her ear and brushing against the collar of her sensible and modest dress, layered with a muted blue cloak to ward off the night chill.

It has been a little more than half a century since she's seen Aziraphale, the lands then freshly marked with the Plague and still festering with religious wars and land disputes that she was delegated to influence, each task clawing at Crowley's form as though discorporation was at her doorstep; the last visit had been a blessed night of endless alcoholic offerings to cope with, well, everything. She still remembers Aziraphale's drunken, somber expressions simmering to the surface, threatening to spill over with each bottle joining the growing line on the table. They had been in Sicily, then.

Crowley has never been more eager to leave a century behind.

She's a moment away from calling out the angel's name when a horrible realization kills the barely uttered syllable. Her last trip to the Down Under. Why Aziraphale might be showing up now.

The blasted commendation.

As though she heard Crowley's intention, Aziraphale glances back. “I hope you are taking care of her. She is quite cross with you. Something about not appreciating her speed and willingness to follow your strange schedule.”

“I spoil her,” Crowley says distractedly. “Listen, Aziraphale. If you’re here for the reason I think you are, I swear on—”

The angel turns. There’s a careful expression, clear of the righteous fury or disgust she was expecting, but it is still tense. Uneasy. Crowley hates that she's the one on the receiving end and the reason for it.

Aziraphale says, cautiously, “It’s not true.”

She rushes to answer. “No. Never.”

Aziraphale nods, wariness easing out of her posture, and she accepts Crowley’s promise as easily as water rushing through an open dam. Her trust, though delicate, is something she has never gotten used to even after all these years as their relationship, if one could call it that, had tumbled awkwardly away from “hereditary enemies” into something of an alliance, and then a tentative friendship.

At least to Crowley. She has no idea what Aziraphale has labeled… this.

“Let’s go somewhere safer to talk about it, then. My place?”

“Sure,” Crowley croaks out. Reins in hand, she follows Aziraphale out of the darkness.

A black kettle whistles over the small fire, wood crackling and snapping to feed the orange flames, its light bathing the room in a warm, homely glow. Crowley watches the curling crests, tries to trace the pattern of its tendrils without much success. There is a subtle hiss as a small twig sinks into the fiery pile. It's a little mean, this version of burning, but it is much nicer than the Holy Fire they sometimes used Below.

Her view is blocked when Aziraphale steps in front of the hearth to remove the kettle, pouring steaming water into a teapot filled with dried flowers and tea leaves before setting it back onto its hook.

When they first arrived outside the cottage, she had asked where Aziraphale kept her liquid beauties, assuming it would be their normal routine. But to her surprise, the angel shook her head firmly and said, with a gentle expression, 'Not tonight.'

So they'll be sober for this exhilarating conversation. Already, Crowley's skin itches at the thought, scales threatening to manifest. She's certain she's already lost the white of her eyes to her more infernal nature. Casually, Crowley pushes her glasses to settle more firmly on the bridge of her nose.

Sprawling across the small sofa, she raises her eyebrow at Aziraphale, who returns to the weathered armchair across from her. "Where did you manage to find this place?"

"The son of a woman I blessed two months prior," Aziraphale says, the two white teacups clanking as she places one in front of Crowley on the stout table between them and one closer for herself. "It was theirs before he moved away to marry. Speaking of marriages…"

Crowley sighs, "You already know I didn't cause those. Not purposefully, anyway."

"Right."

"But… the first time was slightly my fault," Crowley concedes, wincing internally as she recalls the incident. "Her husband pursued me and when I refused, the oaf took his anger out on her. Didn't want to risk ruining my pretty face."

Aziraphale stays quiet, hand twisting in the fabric of her dress, so Crowley continues before the other gets the brilliant idea to smite her. "I got her out. Then it just—just kept happening. I must have gotten careless, or it was just poor luck, but some other demons managed to track me down around those areas and reported the situation. Luckily they didn't know about the other part of it. Management was delighted. 'Keep up the good work. Lots of infidelity and violence to go around.' They didn't care about which, as long as I could condemn some souls and spit on the unions blessed by Her."

"But you weren't," Aziraphale acknowledges softly.

"No," Crowley confirms, slumping slightly with something akin to relief, not that she deserves it, and she flicks at a loose thread. It makes her queasy every time she remembers how they congratulated her, and the commendation had felt like a slap to the face.

"That was all the humans' doing. But I had to make them believe it. Guess it got bad enough that it alerted you lots."

Aziraphale nods. "They don't know who it is, but they ordered me to investigate and halt any demonic actions."

"Figured," Crowley says uneasily. "At least it's you. I—I hoped it would be."

"Why?"

Crowley shrugs, but her eyes shift to a spot above Aziraphale's head, unable to look at her.

There are so many questions contained in that one word. She picks the safest one to answer.

"Obviously for wicked reasons."

"Oh?"

She nods vigorously. "Lots of wasted souls. Overlooked potential, you see. I free them so they may be nudged away from the Right path. Take the Left one instead. All according to my devious plan."

There's a half-smile on Aziraphale's face. "Of course. How clever."

"Thank you."

The smile fades into a grimace when she says, "But it does make you vulnerable to my side… and your own."

"Urgh—yeah. Haven't thought that far."

"What if…" Aziraphale asks, slowly. Contemplatively. "What if I were to accept the, ah, proposal from before?"

Crowley blinks, understanding immediately. "The arrangement."

"Correct."

Why now?

"I—I had some time to think over it. And you're right."

"What was that last part, angel?" Crowley asks with delight, sitting up a little.

"Oh dear, I do believe you need your hearing checked," Aziraphale says, cooly. At Crowley's pout, she rolls her eyes. "As I was saying, you could be in those areas for your evil deeds to foil us. If they raise suspicion, you may use your reasoning, but if you don’t think they’ll buy it, then you can put me down as the reason. No more worrying about me or some other angels constantly interfering.” Her lips quirk up but the mirth doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Besides, I'm sure you're tired of seeing me by now."

Never, Crowley thinks instantly, and it unnerves her how much she means it. You're one of the good things out of this mess.

She doesn't say that, instead choosing to amend the assumption in a different way. "Well, as I’ve said before, the same would go for you. Sprinkle a temptation here, a blessing there. That'd save us time better spent for a more agreeable rendezvous. Maybe I'll pop by more often for a meal or two?" With a smirk, she can't help but tease, "Or perhaps you'll tempt me to one?"

Aziraphale's growing smile quickly drops into a scowl, but Crowley knows it's more so to hide the embarrassment as the memory of Rome is brought back. Not exactly her best day, especially the aardvark bit, but…

"If you keep at it, I will retract my agreement," Aziraphale threatens, to Crowley's amusement.

"Sure you will. Shall we shake on it before you change your mind then?"

Grumbling, Aziraphale grasps her outstretched hand, grip strong and warm against Crowley's much colder one.

"Now don't you think of starting anything wicked with this."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She mourns the loss of contact when Aziraphale retracts her hand to take a sip of the cooled tea that miraculously heats up to the perfect temperature. The same goes for Crowley's cup when she picks it up.

As she regards it, though, a thought slithers its way forward. A curiosity demanding to be satiated, a question at the tip of her tongue. One she'll probably regret asking, but she thinks she'll regret it even more if she didn't.

"Aziraphale, doesn't it tear you apart? To see them take Her name, create something that could have been for love, and twist it into something unrecognizable?"

That sounded… bad.

Perhaps if Crowley had been a proper demon, that would have been a cruel, cheap shot taken with a wide knowing smile and hungry eyes. She'd circle the angel, taunting her in silence, and time her strike so that it would hurt the most.

Even if that wasn't her intention, the heaviness in Aziraphale's eyes and the miserable frown tugging at the corner of her mouth made it feel as if it was.

"It's…" A small frustrated noise slips out. "What they choose to do is their prerogative. We are only here to guide them to make better choices. All part of Her Ineffable Plan." The last part is accompanied by the familiar practiced but slightly uncertain nod.

"That doesn't answer my question," Crowley responds tersely.

"Of course, it does," Aziraphale snaps. A gust of energy echoes out and the fire flickers out entirely for a moment, but the burst of anger is hastily reigned in. She looks stricken at her outburst. "Oh, Crowley. I’m sorry. I—I didn't mean to be cross with you."

"No, no. My fault.

“It is not.”

“Well,” Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “ I didn't mean it that way."

"I know, my dear girl. And I wish it wasn't so but…" Aziraphale clears her throat. "Anyways, aren't you happy about that though, being a demon and all?"

"Nah. Not really my thing, I guess." Isn't it? Funny. Here she is, confessing and apologizing to a creature of Hers.

The conversation trickles into a tentative silence.

Then, Aziraphale sets her tea down. "Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"It truly wasn't your fault, my dear. Any of it."

Her breath hitches and she almost drops her cup.

Aziraphale could be quite dangerous without meaning to be. Fatal, even.

So many things to consider and push away. Too much forgiveness that she doesn't deserve. Too much certainty. And the endearment. She wishes she could swallow this moment whole like the great Serpent she is to rid the world of it.

But, like all the other prey she's consumed, it would only eat at her from the inside.

So Crowley makes a noncommittal sound and focuses on her tea, letting the faint honeyed taste coil on her tongue and wash away her nerves.

Aziraphale doesn't push it, and for that, Crowley is grateful.

By the time she finishes, her breathing has evened out, eyes fluttering closed until she is oblivious to the world. She would not see the thoughtful gaze from Aziraphale, or the way she miracles a comfortable blanket to drape over Crowley's body and sprawling limbs before carefully removing the spectacles and placing them on the short table in front within arm's reach.

Instead, she would be held sweetly in the arms of sleep, and for once in a long time, no nightmares would plague her.

It’s been a few months since she left Aziraphale’s cottage without so much of a goodbye. She had tried to quietly gather the pieces of herself before slipping out in the early morning, as though she was the robber guiltily fleeing.

But Crowley knows she’s missing a few fragments.

During that time, she spends most of it avoiding main roads and busy town squares, trying to spot a glimpse of snow-white hair so that she may spin on her heels and disappear into a small alleyway, making a note to avoid those areas for a while. There had been a couple of close calls.

A tactical retreat, she tells herself.

Coward, another voice hisses. She’s chosen to ignore it.

And now, she probably will be discorporated without so much as a note to explain where she's gone.

The pyre stands there mockingly. At least in the twilight skies, her death will look holy.

She’s jerked from her thoughts with a harsh tug of her scalp from the man towering above. She tries to lunge at him again but he’s stronger, keeping her on her knees as he lands another blow. Spitting out blood, Crowley shifts in her restraints, scowling at the wooden cuffs locking her arms behind. She’s certain that the man doesn’t know they were Blessed, for he's unaware of her true nature, but it has made this situation much more inconvenient.

The swelling around her left eye is becoming more painful, and she winces from both the tenderness and the reminder of how she landed here in the first place.

He drags the bucket closer and Crowley only gets a second to suck in a hurried breath before he shoves her head underwater. Crowley tries to hold out, but she’s essentially mortal now, and her lungs begin to ache fiercely. Just as she's beginning to panic, thrashing in his grip and vision flickering out, the man yanks her upright again and shoves her against an ash tree as she splutters, wincing as the rough bark scratches her arms and back. He draws out the knife from his belt.

“Where’s my wife? Where’s that wrench?” The man snarls, fingers squeezing Crowley’s neck, the blade in his hand digging into her ribs. “That fucking good-for-nothing—”

“Watch your words, boy.” Crowley hisses. “Before I cut that vile tongue out myself.”

“As if you can do anything,” he grins, slamming her against the tree again as if to prove his point. “Where is she?”

Crowley doesn't answer. Instead, she lets her mask fall, ignoring the radiating pain throughout her form as her features shift into something less human. Her sharp smile reveals pointed fangs and a split tongue, brown scales crawling up her neck to the side of her face.

She hopes her bluff works.

The man's eyes widen in horror. “What—what are you?”

Before she can respond, a voice echoes throughout the woods.

LET HER GO.

Speak of the angel.

The man spins around. Crowley winces at the Holiness emitting around her, the trees parting to reveal a form in front of them overtaken by bright Heavenly light. Only the outline of white wings is visible but even that was difficult to look at. Yet Crowley’s not afraid. Never been. She knows who it is, and has come to the realization that she has memorized every celestial part of her without even meaning to.

The man, jaws slacked and terrified, drops his knife. He stumbles back, tripping on the tree roots, before running into the thickets behind them. The blinding shape flits by and is immediately upon him. There is a hoarse scream, and then silence.

Crowley’s knee buckles and she leans heavily against the tree, wincing when the movement smarts the bruises on her neck and makes her shoulder twinge.

A twig snaps in the distance and she straightens up, peering around the trunk.

Aziraphale emerges, brushing off some leaves tangled in her dress and hair, a slight frown gracing her features when she sees Crowley. It borders on a dangerous kind of anger when she notices the pile of wood nearby. She snaps, a piercing sound, and both the pyre and cuffs disintegrate.

The effect is instantaneous. Crowley breathes a sigh of relief as the overwhelming pressure is lifted. Her eyes drift to where red marks encircle her wrists. She won’t be able to heal herself for a while.

The shuffling of feet and dried leaves grow louder until Aziraphale stands in front of her, hesitant, hands hovering between them for a moment before they drop to her side.

“Sorry about that. I hope I didn't hurt you. That wicked man deserved a firm talking-to but I didn’t overdo it, did I?” Her tone is light, conversational, but there’s a hidden undercurrent of power behind them as she glances to where she appeared from. Crowley doesn’t ask where the man went. Doesn’t care enough to.

“Er—no. But I was perfectly capable of handling that myself, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shifts her steely gaze to Crowley and it softens. “I know. I just—Well, it is my job to destroy evil.” Her eyes burn a little brighter as they take in her injuries, an angelic presence seeping through her voice. “And not to mention he was being terribly rude. No one is allowed to harm you.”

There is an implication in Aziraphale’s words and Crowley suddenly finds herself with the peculiar sensation of falling all over again. It hurts, it always does, but she latches onto the pain despite the wretched voice in her head screaming at her to let go, to burn it in Hellfire, or let it rot in this forest. But she doesn’t listen. She was always defiant, and she must have been right about something if it had led her here.

Crowley swallows and says, voice cracking, “Suppose you’ve done it properly.”

“I do hope so,” Aziraphale offers a slight smile that wrinkles her eyes, blossoming lines that Crowley wants to kiss reverently. She shivers at the thought and Aziraphale makes a disapproving sound. She miracles a large, white cloth and moves closer to wrap it around Crowley’s shoulders, murmuring, “You’ll catch a cold. Who else will I thwart if you’re out of commission?”

“Ngk,” Crowley responds cleverly. She feels a familiar featherlight sensation that passes over her but is too distracted by the closeness to comment on it. Instead, she allows herself to sway into Aziraphale’s warmth, reminiscent of the many summer months she has lived through, and those memories of sunlight dissolve into the shape of wings above, shielding her from the first rainstorm way back when they first met. Does Aziraphale remember? She’s never really been able to parse out why Aziraphale did that, but it made her realize she was different from the others Upstairs. Crowley reached out first, Aziraphale responded in kind, and the rest is history.

“You know we can’t really get sick.”

“It’s the principle of things.”

“You Principalities and your principlesss.”

“Oh, hush Crowley.” Aziraphale rolls her eyes. If Crowley was more of a fool than she already is, she thought it might have sounded affectionate. “I will get tired of your terrible jokes one day, you old Serpent.”

“Not today?” She smiles, lips curling wickedly.

“Fortunately for you, no,” Aziraphale huffs. “Let’s get out of here. I do believe I have a wonderful homebrew wine in one of my cupboards. Delightful to the senses, especially on a cold day like this. I was quite worried when you left…” Aziraphale trails off uncertainly, eyes darting around, and she draws into herself a little.

Crowley tries not to be too disappointed, used to the sudden shifts of inclination from the angel, and understanding the reason behind it.

But Aziraphale continued on, letting out a hollow laugh. "Or maybe you got what you needed that night."

Crowley stills.

Aziraphale backpedals, looking abashed. "Of course, you wouldn't. I tru— I—" She leaves the comment hanging in the air, visibly wincing at the aborted sentiment.

“I—” Crowley swallows, trying to find the words and push down the small pang in her chest. “Aziraphale, you know it's not like that."

"No, of course, not! But—well, demons and such. And you left so—You're busy, of course, you'd leave. How silly of me."

"I didn't leave you because of that, I swear. I meant it—the lunches and such." Crowley wants to hold her, show her how much she meant it, but she wills herself to stay. "I—merely had business to attend to. I promise." That wasn’t entirely false. She did receive a summon soon after fleeing.

“I believe you,” Aziraphale softly whispers. “I apologize for the assumption.”

Crowley waves a hand. “Nothing to forgive. It was a fair one. The wine sounds wonderful, angel, but I cannot stay now…There’s someone I need to get back to before I’m leaving for the Americas. New orders from Below.”

“I see. So soon…” Azirpahle says with a rueful expression that quickly disappears into a concerned curiosity. “Someone? Is it another…?

“Yes. But she doesn’t have anywhere to go. I need to find a place.”

Aziraphale squeezes her arm. “I think I can help with that.”

Crowley miracles them to her own significantly larger cottage (it took several tries, but Aziraphale didn’t comment, only waited patiently as Crowley internally cursed) and after a brief introduction, the woman, whose name is Giulia, takes an immediate liking to Aziraphale.

The angel quickly explains that she works with a certain nun who had opened the doors of a monastery in Casica, a shelter for anyone who needed a safe place to stay, no matter how long.

Giulia agrees immediately. “I trust any friends of—of Crowley, was it?”

Aziraphale stammers, but before she could correct the technicality, Giulia runs off to retrieve her meager belongings. Crowley sees Aziraphale looking at her from the corner of her eyes but she stares resolutely ahead.

When Giulia returns, they are teleported to the woodland borders surrounding the monastery, the closest Aziraphale can take them without Crowley experiencing the excruciating side effects she just hopped out of. Crowley uses a small demonic miracle of her own to convince Giulia that Crowley’s home was much closer than she thought and that they had ridden on horseback here.

“I’ll let you say your goodbyes first. Crowley, I’ll take her in but could you wait after? I’ll return in a moment.”

"Sure."

Aziraphale walks ahead to give them some space.

“It must be nice to have someone by your side like that,” Giulia murmurs suddenly.

Crowley starts. “We—We’re not—”

“Oh! My apologies. It’s just…” she says, sighing wistfully, “The way you look at her. It’s very much—”

“No.” Crowley hoarsely interrupts, wincing at the harshness. “I—no. ”

“Ah,” The woman comments. “I can’t expect to understand but… you’re allowed to. You deserve it.”

Crowley doesn’t want to chase down that thought. Instead, she shakes her head and says hurriedly, “Take care.”

The woman looks at her for a moment longer. “Thank you, again. And good luck.”

She approaches Aziraphale and, together, they both head towards the monastery.

It's nightfall by the time Aziraphale returns.

"Thank you for waiting. I just needed to give you this."

From the side of her dress, Aziraphale draws out a slim wooden box and places it in her hands. Crowley pretends the brush of their thumbs is merely an accident. “For what you gave me the other night.”

To others, it may seem like a box for a luxurious quill or a fan, but Crowley knows what it is without even opening it. Can feel the Divine energy. It's a precious thing that she silently swears to keep safe forever.

"I appreciate it,” she swallows nervously. “And for the—er—rescue and everything else." It comes out all jumbled. She wishes she was better with her words. With this.

“Of course, my dear. If you do ever get in trouble, you know how to get a hold of me."

Crowley's grip on the box tightens. "Same to you."

Aziraphale wrings her hand. "Well, I—I expect this is goodbye, then.”

They're both stalling. Though they would never confess to it, she knows neither of them are particularly good at farewells, either resorting to disappearing without a word or overstaying the moment before leaving.

Crowley nods, but she can’t think of a response. She only has questions.

She wants to ask, What will you do now, angel? Where will you go? When can I see you again?

And, lastly, Will you think of me? Miss me?

Instead, she gives her signature lazy wave, and says, “See you around, Aziraphale.”

“And you, my dear.” Azirpahale softly responds, sounding almost…disappointed. With one last nod, she returns for the second time.

Crowley stays at the border and watches her amble towards the building. She should go.

But she doesn’t leave, not even after Aziraphale closes the door behind her with one last look back.

Instead, she stays gazing at the lights illuminating the many windows, hoping to catch a glance. Crowley wonders if this may be her true punishment. To choke on her own medicine, the taste of apples in the form of a lone figure up on the Eastern wall. An innocent (hah!) curiosity that turned into a strange fascination, keeping her tethered to the angel over the centuries. She had told herself it was a desire for entertainment, but deep inside, Crowley knew it was the companionship she longed for. To be understood in some way, and to understand.

And maybe it was a chance for her to be in the presence of something wonderful and not fuck it up.

But Satan forbids she gets anything right.

Because now, of all things, she thinks about enduring vows and broken promises, soured by foul and violent influences that are impossible to keep count. She thinks of risks, of homes carved from hands clasped together, and the possibilities that tempt her.

A sanctuary. A safe haven. Something so, very sacred. And everything she cannot have.

It must be nice to have someone by your side like that.

She would try to do it properly, better than some of the beloved creatures She made. If Crowley could choose to spend the rest of her immortal life with another. If someone would allow her to…

A bell tolls in the distance.

Crowley looks up at the church to the side of the main building, a solitary looming structure in the grove, and buries the thought there.

ii. starlight and starcrossed

Wherever Aziraphale is, she now can’t help but look over her shoulder or squint into the crowds for a certain demonic presence.

After their interactions in Eden, after being appointed Heaven’s representative on Earth, Aziraphale thought that was that.

Then, Crowley approached her with a wide smile at what now is the middle of the Sahara Desert and proclaimed to be Hell’s own representative.

How wrong she had been.

What followed after were centuries of seemingly impromptu meetings and coincidences. Perhaps some of them were, but Aziraphale has her doubts about the others.

Even worse, Aziraphale found herself enjoying Crowley’s company… and even worrying about her.

And it makes her uneasy, realizing how much the demon occupies her thought as she pours tea for herself and Wu Tsao.

"You look like you're missing someone. Who is it that occupies your mind and your heart?"

Nervous laughter bursts out of Aziraphale and she almost drops the teapot. "My heart?"

"Is that not what your sigh was for? The lines between your brows?"

"Hah! These are worry wrinkles, carved by my time with her."

"So there is someone," Wu Tsao muses.

"No! Well—not the way you're imagining. The person I speak of, she's, erm, a colleague. A fellow scholar."

"Does she irk you?"

"Immensely," Aziraphale huffs, but there's a sharp pang in her chest.

A knowing smile tugs at the poet's lips. "Where is she now?"

Aziraphale doesn't know. It's not the first time they haven't spoken in years, but something about this makes her uneasy. She can feel her presence. Crowley's not quite on the opposite side of the globe, but far enough that the connection is vague and faint, as if deliberately muffled and made difficult for a random angel or demon to find. The feather she has tucked in her sleeves would help, and the urge to use it is always strong, but when she thinks about the lengths Crowley has kept to stay hidden, she hesitantly retreats from her concerns.

Worry resettles heavy in her chest anyways. Aziraphale frowns.

But maybe Crowley's in danger? What if she's hurt?

Sensing her distress, Wu Tsao tilts her head. "Is everything alright?"

"We've… lost contact," Aziraphale admits reluctantly. "We both travel so it's hard to stay in touch. The last time we spoke was …"

Before the turn of the century. Almost thirty years ago, after the debacle in Bastille.

Time never really mattered, but now it demands her attention.

"A few summers ago."

"And you miss her," the poet repeats. "Worried, even."

"I—Well, that's a bold statement. I certainly don't—"

Wu Tsao rolls her eyes. "Dear scholar, do you mistake me for an idiot?"

“Far from it!”

“Then why do you treat me as such?”

“I’m not. There really is nothing of that sort between me and her.”

Wu Tsao does not respond. Instead, she stares out beyond the pavilion, gaze fixed on a figure walking the garden path and onto the bridge. She pauses at the peak of the arc, back turned, as though to gaze at the magnificent scenery beyond, splattered with vibrant hues of autumn-turned trees and orchids and peonies and magnolia, all framed with various heights of bamboo stalks. Or perhaps she is gazing down at the water below decorated with lotus flowers and perfectly timed water ripples.

Aziraphale remembers the poem Wu Tsao shared with her just an hour before.

One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.

“Is she…?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told her?”

“She knows. But this era is not kind to us.”

Aziraphale winces. “I’m… sorry.”

Wu Tsao finally turns away, taking a sip from her cup. “It is as it is. I only hope the future will be different.” She sharply gazes at Aziraphale. “What about you?”

Aziraphale remains silent, the conflict always twisting and turning like the painted dragons on the side of porcelain but never settling. Never knowing what the truth is.

"Well, matters of the heart take time I suppose.” Wu Tsao sighs, a wistful and sad sound, memories breathed in and respired out, as tangible as the morning mist and just as easy to vanish. "As much as I desire to be the dashing folk hero of this tale, I know I will be the sun-seeking archer cursed to forever stare at the moon she has lost."

"This could change," Aziraphale says helplessly.

"A lovely thought." Wu Tsao smiles and lifts her teacup. "I'll drink to that. But for now, I will give her what I can, and hope it will be enough."

Wu Tsao receives a commission a week later and Aziraphale leaves her to her work.

She travels through the villages and cities quickly, only stopping every so often to peek at bookshops and libraries, or to try her hands at various treats in between her real purposes for each destination.

As the sun sets a little later and the air turns colder, much to Aziraphale's detriment, she finds that celestial beings can get sick.

Aziraphale shivers, curling into herself tighter.

What started as a neglectable spell of fatigue turned into a dangerous fever.

The bitingly icy wind was not helping.

Winters are always the hardest. With humans so prone to disease and various illnesses and conditions, she tended to spend too many unregulated blessings and miracles to spare a hasty healing or a peaceful departure to whoever she can find in the village she finds herself in.

It wasn't necessarily an issue before. But after what happened in the fourteenth century, especially with Heaven's orders to not interfere…

Well, she can justify it. Maybe.

A vicious cough tears through her, shaking up the thin straws of withered hay into the air, and she swallows dryly, embers burning her throat. The seams of the thin, scratchy sheet rip a little more as she adjusts to huddle for any scraps of heat. She can barely feel her fingers or toes, rivers of cold sweat soaking her pathetic blanket and clothes, and she knows she needs to change, to get food and water in her system, but the last time she tried to sit up, she had thrown up her meager dinner. And that took a painful miracle to clean up.

Aziraphale groans. She can't discorporate now. The headache it will cause to acquire a new body will be another mark against her, another reason for Gabriel or Michael to disapprovingly glance at her, their annoyance overlaid by false pretense of encouragement or patience.

And Crowley…

Aziraphale's incompetence would hurt her.

But the unwavering heat burning her head, the aches buried deep inside her sore muscles, and the terrible loneliness she's finally allowed herself to feel makes her want to end it. She can deal with the explanations and the humiliation and begging after.

Another miserable wave of coughing fits drowns out the thought, lungs desperately heaving in air. A creeping dread shakes her body when she sees red on the ground.

The wind howls, and the door and shutters rattle ominously.

A few hours later, more splatters of red cover the dirty wooden planks when she opens her eyes. She cannot make out anything more than a few centimeters away from her, vision blurry as she tries to heave a breath out, mucus and copper clogging up her throat. In her haze, she realizes she’s clutching something in her hand.

The feather.

She squeezes it slightly. The infernal nature emanating from it would have made her wince slightly any other day, but now its warmth serves as a comforting presence.

Just for a moment more…

…With a pained and regretful sigh, she uses the feather and the last of her strength to pinpoint the demon’s location as best as she can, and hesitantly miracles it back to Crowley

As soon as it's gone, the numbness overtakes her body, and she sinks into the quiet darkness.

The next time she wakes, Aziraphale is wrapped in soft blankets and lying on a thick mattress. Her dirty clothes are replaced with a simple cotton shirt and pants, socks covering her feet, and a cloth on her forehead. She breathes in, noticing her lungs are clearer, but her temperature is still higher than what is normal. Aziraphale blinks, sitting up and absently grasping at the gray sheets, wondering if she actually did get discorporated and is currently back in Heaven. Maybe someone noticed. Maybe Gabriel had sent another angel to check on her, seeing that she's overdue on her report. Then the doorknob turns.

Crowley steps through. Aziraphale inhales sharply, taking in the wild copper curls and sharp cheekbones and serpentine eyes, and the relief is so overwhelming that she tilts forward, eyes closed so she can reign in the tears before they fall.

"Woah, angel. Easy there."

Hands firmly grab her shoulders to steady her, and before she can think of the consequences, the implications, Aziraphale's hand grasps the one on her right. Warm, solid. Real.

Crowley yanks her hands away as if burnt.

Her stomach drops.

"Sorry," Aziraphale chokes out, her own falling to clutch at the sheets once more. "Sorry I didn't mean to—I was just—I—"

"S'fine," Crowley says gruffly. “You just surprised me.”

Shame burns through Aziraphale. Ashamed of what?

Of everything.

"What happened?" Aziraphale asks, voice garbled, and she winces at the sound and the uncomfortable scratchiness in her throat. Crowley materializes a glass of water and hands it to her.

You're here. You're okay. I was so worried. I missed you.

"What happened?" Crowley asks disbelievingly as Aziraphale greedily drains the cup. "I should be the one asking you. You were sick. Really sick. On Death's door, ready to pop back up to bureaucracy and boring white offices while your mortal body rots in that little hut. And slow down. You're going to throw up."

The cup is already empty by then, but she's still so thirsty. Crowley snaps her fingers and the cup refills.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says softly, sipping it slower.

Crowley huffs, before settling on a chair that wasn’t there before. “Thought you said we don’t get sick. Why didn’t you call for me sooner? You know the Arrangement isn’t gonna work if it’s just me around.”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks slightly at the comment despite knowing it wasn't what Crowley really meant. Her insecurity and worries gnaw away at the past, leaving holes in memories and certainties to be filled in with a festering, relentless doubt.

From his last visit, Gabriel had warned her, again, that the infernal army would do anything for Heaven's downfall.

"The worst is when they'll pretend to be a friend, an ally. Poisoning your thoughts, weakening your defenses so they can slip through the cracks. You'll think you can trust them, that you can help them, but that's when they strike. You understand, Aziraphale?"

She laughs nervously. "Right. Of course. Wily old fiends and such."

"Exactly." He pauses, then beams, as though sharing a particularly amusing inside joke.

"But of course, based on your reports, we don't have to worry about that. Not like there's anything about you even worth pretending to care for… to a demon."

He adds the last part as an afterthought.

"Aziraphale."

She blinks, snapping back to the present. The glass is gone from her hands, relocated to the top of the nightstand.

"Erm, what was it, my dear?"

"Why didn't you call for me sooner?"

She tries to remember the reason. "You… your presence. I could sense it, but it was faint. Like you were trying not to be found. I didn't want to disturb you." Aziraphale furrows her eyebrows, frowning. "Are you alright? What made you go into hiding? Did an angel try to…"

She trails off, the thought making her nauseous.

Crowley suddenly looks very embarrassed.

"Ha, nothing of the sort. I was, uh, I was actually just… sleeping."

Aziraphale stares.

"Sleeping," she repeats.

"... Yes."

"Why?"

"...I was tired, I suppose?"

"For how long?"

The demon scratches the back of her neck. "Well, I think right after Bastille. I was planning on sleeping through the century but I had to wake up to, er, use the bathroom. Lucky timing."

Bewildered but relieved, Aziraphale can't help but bark out a laugh. "How did you find me then?"

“You sent it back.” Crowley pulls out the top drawer of the nightstand and retrieves the black feather, twirling it. She’s completely forgotten about that until now. “I was definitely not alarmed when this appeared out of thin air and smacked me in my face, but I just wanted to check-in. Good thing I did.”

Aziraphale smiles faintly. “Good thing, indeed. I appreciate it. Sorry to trouble you."

"Eh, nothing to get so bent out of shape for. Just think of it as a favor I owe you."

"But you don't."

"A future one then," Crowley says dismissively. She tilts the feather in Aziraphale's direction. "So…"

"I can have it back?"

"If you want."

Of course she does. "I only returned it because I thought I was about to be discorporated. Didn't want someone else to get their hands on it."

"What?" Crowley asks, puzzled. "Hold on, you mean to say that you didn't intentionally send it to get my help?"

"That wasn't exactly the reason. It… would have been smart but, again, I didn't know exactly what was happening on your end. I only returned it because I couldn't bring it back up to Heaven. They'd be suspicious, or worse, use it." She laughs dryly. "I don't think I was entirely lucid when I miracled it back to you."

Crowley stares at her.

Now Aziraphale's the embarrassed one.

"What?" she asks defensively.

"It really was just lucky timing," Crowley mutters.

"Yes?" Aziraphale says, confused.

"You're—augh. Nevermind." With a wave of her hand, Crowley produces a box, not unlike the one Aziraphale used, but is dark gray rather than mahogany. She places the feather inside. “Take it with you when you leave.”

Glancing around the small bedroom, at the stark change in architecture and furniture style, Aziraphale realizes she’s somewhere in Europe rather than a village in China. Another closer inspection reveals there were multiple wardings around the building. This must be where Crowley has been staying.

And where Aziraphale is taking up more of her time.

“Right. Sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep now.”

Aziraphale sidles over to the other side, mourning the loss of the just-right mattress and warm blanket as she sits up, her feet sinking into the soft, dark red, and very expensive-looking carpet. The second she tries to stand, the room spins and she stumbles back down onto the bed.

Crowley appears in front of her. “I didn’t mean right now, you fool. You’re still sick.”

“I’m fine. I can go.”

She tries to get up again but Crowley steps closer, crowding her space until she has no choice but to clamber on the bed.

“Crowley!”

The demon responds by grabbing the blanket and throwing it over her head.

Pulling the cover off, Aziraphale huffs. “I said I’m—”

A ragged cough cuts her off as if to prove a point.

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley shakes her head exasperatedly. “Just stay for another night, alright? You still have a fever and you haven’t eaten. It’s really no bother.”

“If…If you say so.”

Her condition worsens. Aziraphale drifts in and out of consciousness at the fierce onslaught, the hours simultaneously slipping through the universe as easily as sand and freezing in place like a bug in amber. Her consciousness is privy only to brief flashes of the silver fire coursing through her mortal and angelic form, a frantic voice calling to her like a ship caught in a turbulent storm, and then an intrusion of another presence in the Other plane, both familiar and wary and desperate.

Then there is a blinding pain and she loses consciousness again.

It's early morning when Aziraphale wakes once more, finally cleared of the illness and feeling a semblance of her normal self. It is still dark, but there's enough light from the not-yet-risen sun for her to make out vague shapes around the room, her vision hazy. There is no one in the room but her.

“Crowley?” She calls out weakly, struggling to sit up, wincing at the soreness in her… well, she was sore everywhere. Something catches her eye. A piece of paper on the nightstand, next to a glass of water and a book.

She picks up the note.

Went to get something. Will be back.

A faint smile graces her lips and she heeds the order, the glass immediately refilling when she placed it back on the nightstand. Aziraphale picks up the book next. It’s small, about the size of her hands, bounded with a white silk string, its dark brown cover strangely blank. Aziraphale opens it.

Ah. A rarity indeed. The familiar calligraphy strokes on the first page bring up a wave of surprise and amused disbelief.

To the wise scholar,

Thank you for your company and grand tales. It was an honor to experience them as though they were my own. I do hope your friend finds a fraction of enjoyment from reading these humble poems as much as I did writing them.

Your friend,
Wu Tsao.

"You know her?"

"Yes," Aziraphale murmurs, gently turning the pages. "We met briefly. It seems you did, too."

Crowley hums. "Brilliant writer. It was lovely tempting her with fanciful adventures."

“Have you seen her since?”

“No…last I heard she went to a temple and stayed there.”

Aziraphale glances up, a question about what kind of stories Crowley imparted, when she notices the wrinkles in her forehead and the strain around her eyes, even with the glasses on, and her mouth tugging down in a grimace.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Crowley stumbles backward as though Aziraphale's question stung her.

"Are you—"

"You were poisoned," Crowley blurts out. "Demon's blood and a complicated ritual. I don't know if you remember or notice when, but can you recall any encounters with a demon?"

"I—what?"

"My side might have grown suspicious," Crowley hisses, suddenly pacing from one end of the room to another, a hand running through her hair, then waving them frantically. "Oh Satan, I was gone and they might have thought you did something. I need to make an appearance soon. Throw them off your scent."

"Wait—Crowley, hold on." Aziraphale's head is spinning. She holds out a palm, then gestures for her to come back and sit on the bed. The demon hesitates for a moment before doing so. "Slow down, dear. Could you please explain everything first? I'm afraid I'm quite…"

Aziraphale trails off when she catches sight of the hastily wrapped bandages around Crowley’s hand.

She grasps the arm, eyes darting up, wide and guilty.

“What happened?”

Crowley only wryly smiles. “How did you think I cured you?”

Oh Heavens. Aziraphale’s gaze drops back to Crowley’s hand, heart hammering in her chest. If only she had been more careful.

Crowley tries to pull her hand away but Aziraphale holds it tightly. Sparing what little strength she has, Aziraphale heals the injury.

“Don’t,“Aziraphale stumbles over the fear tangled in her voice. “Don’t ever do that again. Never at my expense.”

The demon huffs. “Sorry angel. Can’t promise that.”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I. Don’t worry your little pretty head about what I do.”

Aziraphale scowls. “I am your adversary. Everything you do is my concern.”

“Oh,” Crowley hums. “Sounds like you care.”

“I’m—Stop changing the subject!,”Aziraphale scowls, tampering down the urge to affirm her statement. “How did you even acquire it? Holy water—”

Crowley rolls her eyes. “I know. I took the risk. Whatever outcomes the wheel landed on, I accepted and it went well and dandy.”

“It won’t be next time!”

“Maybe not. Maybe it will. I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

Frustration climbing, Aziraphale inhales sharply. So many things to say, so many tangents unfinished, but she needs to leave. She’s already forced Crowley to risk too much for her.

Shoving away the blankets, Aziraphale stands and miracles the appropriate attire, then remakes the bed.

Crowley takes a halting step closer. “Where are you going?”

“I have duties I need to attend to,” Aziraphale says.

“You’re—”

“I’ll be fine. I’m very grateful for your help Crowley. Thank you, again. I’ll leave you to your nap.”

Crowley considers her disapprovingly for a second, before shrugging. “Just don’t kneel over anytime soon. And take these.”

She hands Aziraphale the grey box and the book and Aziraphale can’t help the familiar tenderness wrapping around her as she gingerly accepts it.

“I’ll…I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, angel.”

Aziraphale nods and vanishes. Before she does so, another warding weaves itself into the existing ones, glimmering for a fraction of a second before it, too, disappears.

iii. i know it's bad when we look out
It’s Eden. It’s Athens. Karnataka. Hiroshima. Ethiopia. Honolulu. Manila. Paris.

Everywhere, every time. Spin a globe and take out a sundial. Place a finger to pause their rotation. There are too many to keep score but wherever, or whenever, you’ve landed, chances are they’ve been there, following the bloodshed as best as they could for different reasons since the Beginning.

Against their better judgment, they often find them wandering amongst the remains as much as time permits. Sometimes they meet, standing in the aftermath together, sinking slightly in sandy dirt or eroded earth where weeds and wildflowers poke through mud bricks or wooden beams or concrete and steel. But most often they do not.

At this moment, they let themselves linger.

“Did you know them?” Crowley asks softly, gazing at the intertwining puzzle. Femurs tangled, the lower leg bones bent at the knee. The humerus, ulnar, and radials drape across the two figures, skulls facing each other as though they were curled together in their final moments. Small purple flowers have made their home where their hearts would have been.

“No,” Azirapahle responds, equally quiet. “Did you?”

“No,” Crowley admits. “Just happened to… stumble upon them.” That was a lie.

“I see.”

“What about you?”

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, brilliant blue eyes flitting to the first to find the other woman staring, dark lenses covering her eyes as usual. She’s used to deciphering her expression without them.

Nonchalance masking grief. Earnest curiosity. A fragile weariness. Her heart breaks a little.

“Love. I felt it strongly.”

“Love, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it foolish to? When it’s all blown over and nothing remains?” Crowley hisses, tone hardened to protect the wavering rhythm in her chest, a silent plea to be opposed.

“No. To love and be loved is the greatest thing.” Aziraphale responds firmly, her confidence hiding that small secret voice in her that begs to be reassured. “Besides, it never really goes away.”

The sun sets just a little lower and, as if to make a point, its golden light catches something in between the corpses.

Rings. Simple but immortal. Somehow, it survived the destruction. A little scratched, a little faded and dirty, but still gleaming.

It’s not always rings or just rings. Sometimes, they find ancient swords. Ceramic beads and old vases with bouquets of dried flowers on top of once beautifully dyed fabrics. More recently, they uncover edges of burnt photos beneath shattered glass and secret letters, or find themselves stuck in the haunting, crackling loop of half-broken phonographs.

Sometimes, there is nothing but the echoes of that warmth, soothing the damage until there's enough distance away from the devastation for life to grow again.

“See?”

“I suppose.”

And for now, that is enough.

Time returns again and lets them know they’re almost late for their departure.

“See you around, Aziraphale.”

“Don’t go looking for trouble, Crowley.”

They leave: one towards the billowing smoke rising from the smoldering remains of a city torn apart by War, senses invaded by the tangy taste of old metals, gunpowder and, later, nuclear shadows; the other swept away with the entropic collision of bodies desperate to find each other, covered in bloodied gauzes stained by falling ash and grimy tears.

Both are left with images of lavender and heliotropes blooming between interlocking rib cages, reminding them of their own where a feather that does not belong to the wings on their back rests.

And both are always praying to something—Someone—out of reach from their respective sides to meet again.

iv. don’t wanna walk alone or run away
Their plan worked for five minutes before it all went to Hell. Of course it did. It would have been too easy. God forbid anything peaceful lasts for more than seven seconds.

The Earth cracks, the monstrous vibration blurring the landscape, scales tipping towards DANGER as something foul is on the verge of bursting like a nasty boil, its presence scorching her True form, confirmed by Crowley's hunched figured even before she numbly asks what is happening.

The fear brings Aziraphale back to Soho.

That night still haunts her. She doesn't sleep, not like Crowley does, but in the lull of time or in the brief moments that Morpheus gives to her, Aziraphale is sent to the bright neon lights of 1967, colors flashing off black-tinted lenses as the demon gingerly holds the tartan thermos, warded so that only Crowley can open it. Her adversary, for once, looked slightly off-kilter. Aziraphale would have teased if she hadn't felt the same.

She was hesitant about what she had done, concerned for the other's safety still, but Crowley was right. Something was bound to go amiss and she was always one step ahead. Aziraphale couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it earlier.

A memory flitted by the second the thermos left her hand. It was their argument about the very thing she had just given away. She remembered the concerned look Crowley threw at her when she sharply inhaled because the panic she felt on that sunny day in St. James's Park, for a brief moment, returned. The neat, straight-edged writing on a piece of unassuming, ordinary paper. Aziraphale never imagined it would frighten her to see that request, especially coming from a demon.

(Because she’s seen Crowley hurt because of Aziraphale's carelessness, the guilt still haunts her. Because if Aziraphale fulfilled her request, the effects of an error would be permanent. Definite. One wrong move…)

So Aziraphale got worried, got angry, threw the paper into the pond like a confused, petulant child throwing a tantrum, and left with her mortal heart threatening to leap out of her chest and the bitter taste of lies heavy on her tongue.

Then, Crowley showed up in the church almost a century later, feet burning, saving Aziraphale with a snap and a bomb, only having been there in the first place to look for what Aziraphale denied her.

And the books. At that moment, among the rubble of the church, watching Crowley's slowly retreating silhouette through the dust clouds, it felt right to want.

She followed her back to the Bentley.

On the car ride home, she had time to think. Aziraphale didn't know the reason why Crowley would need Holy Water, but it must be dire enough that she'd risk meeting the very same end if she had it. If only she knew the lengths Crowley would go to for it beforehand. She hadn’t given up trying even since then, sauntering back from a heist planning before Aziraphale teleported into the Bentley’s passenger’s seat.

The domino effect spilling its way into a sacrilegious exchange, followed by a fumbling, awkward expression of gratitude that trickled into:

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

It was meant to be a resignation. Five glasses of bourbon and an hour later, she had a horrible epiphany that it sounded like a rejection.

She drank herself blind. Why would it be a rejection if her feelings weren't returned.

Another idiotic thought drowned out by the burn in her throat, racing its way to another, more recent moment in the same park.

Crowley called her clever. That wasn't true. Aziraphale always knew Crowley was the more clever one. She was light-years ahead, racing across countries and centuries, adapting to whatever curious environment she found herself in while the world passed by Aziraphale and her bookshop, a little pocket of time that she carved for herself to not be so overwhelmed by the changes.

Crowley had found a way to fulfill her demonic responsibilities without truly hurting others, despite the adamant denial about that being her true goal. She was the one who had come up with the plan to become guardians over Warlock.

And the Arrangement. Nearly 6000 years of blessed encounters with Crowley, though each visit never as long as Aziraphale now wished they could have been.

All wonderful, brilliant plans and loopholes and runaway trains that Aziraphale let herself get swept away in until they realized they made a mistake. When the Apocalypse was at their doorstep.

‘You messed up,' a voice emphasized nastily in her mind, sounding too much like the ones who were supposed to be her allies and comrade-in-arms, and fear had reared its ugly head. Her gaze remained on Crowley’s nearing form as the hazy late afternoon sky appeared as though it was burning already.

If Crowley was the solution, then Aziraphale was the mistake.

She sharpened her old weapon because Crowley, wonderful Crowley, would flip off the universe and find a way to escape and take Aziraphale with her. And, in a heartbeat, she’d let Crowley do that. But Aziraphale also knew that it would only delay the inevitable, that no matter how far they flee, they will one day plummet back to Earth to face the repercussions. She’s had enough of Wars and losses already.

I can't bring her down with me.

So she finds those hurtful words she's repeated every decade, dragged them up her throat, and spat them at Crowley.

Except…she couldn't hide the tremor in her voice. Her tone came out wrong, more desperate than apathetic or angry, and she knew the deep wrinkles between her furrowed brows gave away how much she wishes she could take everything back.

Crowley, caught in her own turbulent whirlwind of emotions, didn’t notice. With a snarl, she spun and sauntered away. When her presence faded until it became almost undetectable, Aziraphale breathed out a sob of relief and tried not to run after her.

The farther the better.

But of course, Crowley came back, the Bentley screeching to a halt in front of Aziraphale so the demon could rush out, copper hair blazing in the sun to apologize. To beg her, again, to make a run for it. Together.

Alpha Centauri.

It was always Crowley reaching out first, or circling back, while Aziraphale stayed anchored to something she knew, deep down, never really mattered.

She wanted to. Desperately.

Her visit to Heaven rattled her. Crowley was being hunted. But Aziraphale was still clinging on to the hope that if she could reach Her, could convince Her that the War isn’t necessary, then they wouldn’t need to leave. For now, Crowley can run to Alpha Centauri, and stay safe, while she tries to right things here.

So Aziraphale said, "I forgive you" and stayed.

And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!

Aziraphale’s heart broke a second time in less than a day.

The world’s ending.

She’s been selfish.

She’s been discorporated, found out that her bookshop, her real home, was burnt down, and was wrung dry from Gabriel’s presence. But she’s been reunited with Crowley. Now, sword in hand, as the world shakes and collapses before them, she will be selfish once more. Just this once. And when they are done with all this world-ending business…

"Think of something or—or I'll never talk to you again."

It's a truth as much as it is a threat and a promise. If Hell prevails, she couldn't imagine the atrocities that would be unleashed, and she would be worse than discorporated. If Heaven is victorious, if Crowley was disposed of in a snap…

Well, Aziraphale couldn't imagine she'd stay long.

She's walked this path before. A piece of parchment. A tartan thermos. A lonely, terrifying night in 1967.

Holding Crowley's gaze, she silently urges the clever Serpent of Eden to perform a miracle.

When they get out of this, she’ll make a different promise.

And time stops.

v. i know that it’s hard enough to love me
After The End, it all comes crashing down.

After the Swap, the Garden, and the Ritz.

There weren’t any more attempted kidnappings or summons or disturbances. They both held their breaths, waiting as a day, then a week, and then a month passed by peacefully: and as if an unspoken permission and agreement was handed down, Crowley uses her newly earned freedom to spend as much time together with Aziraphale as possible.

Mostly, Crowley stalks the bookshop, her Bentley parked outside while she scares away customers by looming ominously over their shoulders and spouting vaguely threatening nonsense as they scurry between the aisles.

(Aziraphale later asks her to tone it down because apparently “Some people are into that and it’s increasing loiters.”)

Appointments are made, dinners are scheduled, and all is well.

Except it isn't.

With the Apocalypse, Crowley has managed to compartmentalize it, along with everything else in her long, long life, in less than neat little boxes, energy spent in waiting for the other shoe to drop and the world to end. But now that it’s over, and the Arrangement is no longer necessary, it catches up to her one night after dropping Aziraphale at her bookshop.

They'd just returned from dinner and dessert ( the chè thái was too sweet for Crowley but she indulged the few spoonfuls Aziraphale held in front of her), and when the car stopped neatly outside the door, Aziraphale stayed in the passenger seat instead of rushing in like she usually did pre-Armageddon, laughing as Crowley recalled the wicked deeds she committed that morning. Since she's been officially kicked out of Hell, it was unnecessary to fulfill those old quotas, yet, there was something cathartic watching a gaggle of uptight businessmen suddenly faceplant, knocked over like inverted bowling pins as their shoelaces were miraculously tied together. And to see their faces lose color as their oversea bank accounts were drained in front of their eyes, the money anonymously donated to various nonprofits and hospitals around the world.

She can still feel the weight of Aziraphale hand on her arm as her laughter faded into a wide smile.

The night, like most things, had to come to an end. Aziraphale stepped out of the car with a fond wave. Crowley watched her enter through the car window, and once Aziraphale was gone, the easy contentment slipped off and shuddered into an emptiness that was quickly filled with regret. She took a moment to drop her head onto the steering wheel and tried not to scream half the city awake.

And now, she sits on her throne feeling like a fraud.

Demons don’t know love. They know trades. A favor for a favor. A contract that could be discorporated with a knife through the chest before you get to raise yours. They operate on obsession, greed, and ownership.

Somehow, Crowley was in love, and it's been this way for eons. At least, that’s what she thought it was those centuries ago (though refusing to say the word, even to herself), before the horrid realization occurred that maybe her feelings were something less… honest. It frightened her that, in one ill-fated moment, she would hurt Aziraphale in some unimaginable way. So she left.

Crowley would leave, and then she would come back.

So she tried to be careful, lingering on this uncertainty even as their proximity increased in almost every way possible, her feelings spiraling until Crowley had to bury them in blessed grounds so she wouldn’t be tempted to find it again.

Jokes on her, it found Crowley instead. Tailed her in the form of wayward appointments and rainstorms and old books.

In secrecy and faux ignorance, she allows it to stay and fester. Allows herself to believe that Aziraphale enjoys her company and that it wasn’t so Crowley could bask in her presence for just one more day.

All those pleasant memories now dipped in an ugly, yellow light. The luncheons and dinners and alcohol-heavy truces. The Arrangement.
All for her own satisfaction and pleasure.

But Aziraphale agreed, a part of her argues back. She seemed happy to spend time with you.

Did she? She was just being nice. Selfless. Something you wouldn’t know.

She sleeps with that sentiment haunting her dreams.

Aziraphale wasn’t at the bookshop.

This was new. Crowley frowns at the ‘Closed’ sign and the lack of angelic presence before returning to the Bentley. She reaches into her jacket and takes out a white feather.

Azirapahle’s around. Maybe about a few kilometers away. Crowley concentrates, tracing the unseen line that twists its way through the city. The hook catches. There.

Crowley vanishes, only to show up in front of an alley west of the bookshop.

“Come on, little lady. Why don’t you entertain us!”

“I’m afraid I must return home. As should you, gentlemen. It is quite late. Now please—”

Blue eyes meet hers.

“We’ll gladly accompany you,” another voice crows.

Crowding around her, the men start to reach out, emboldened by their numbers and perceived strength, completely ignorant to the fact that Aziraphale was infinitely more powerful than them, and is only refusing to lash out by her own morality and Heaven's orders.

But Crowley wasn't. Crowley could—

"My dear! There you are! Please excuse me, gentlemen. I'm afraid my ride is here."

Aziraphale briskly pushes past them, etiquette and niceties on the verge of falling off along with her polite smile. She loops an arm around Crowley.

"Let's go, dear."

She allows herself to be numbly steered around by the angel, a "let's not start anything, alright?" whispered in her ears before Aziraphale is harshly jerked back, losing her balance. Crowley catches her.

"What's the matter? We just want to play! Your man wannabe can join in." The men hoot and laugh, faces red from the liquor they must have had before this. One of them has a grip on Aziraphale’s other arm.

Crowley doesn't let go. She glares at the man, teeth bared as she reaches over and pries his fingers off, cracking bones. He howls in pain, stumbling back and nearly toppling over the rest of the group. Their amusement breaks. They take another step closer.

Crowley sneers, tightening the hold around Aziraphale's waist. She feels the angel stiffens and alarm bells ring in her head. She wants to step back, to put some distance or leave because this isn't something Aziraphale consented to, but she went too far, and now—

"Leave," she hisses. "She's mine."

Not hers, she wants to say. Not hers because Aziraphale is her own being and she isn't Crowley's to own, to control, to flaunt. And she's not hers in the way different from that, in the way that Crowley wishes for—but what would that even mean? In what way other than the one she knows as a demon?

Crowley sees an arm reaching for a holster on the side. Enough.

With a harsh snap, she banishes them to the middle of a lake in Satan-knows-where, their clothes waiting for them on the shores in tattered pieces.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice shakes her out of her anger, and Crowley retracts her embrace as though she was doused with holy water

“What happened to staying out of trouble, angel?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “That wasn't my fault.”

Ngk. Not what she meant. “I'm not saying it was. But you didn’t do anything. You could have teleported yourself out of there. Put them to sleep. Anything!”

“I was in the process of asking them to move.”

Crowley snorts. “How was that working out for you?”

"Just fine," Aziraphale sniffs.

"Sure, angel."

Aziraphale glares. “Look, it wasn’t my place to interfere.”

“It’s not interfering when you’re protecting yourself!”

“That’s not how the others see it!” Aziraphale eyes widen and a hand jerks up to cover her mouth.

Crowley inhales sharply. “What? You mean the bastards upstairs would rather you be discorporated then—”

“It’s—it’s for the best. No more frivolous miracles. No more causing a scene for them to waste their time cleaning up or filing paperwork for. Dreadful things.” Aziraphale crosses her arms, looking away. "It's more convenient to just let it happen.”

"Has anyone…" She can't even finish the sentence, throat dry as though she's been breathing plumes of ash and sulfur.

"No. There's been close calls but I managed."

She's managed. How many times, how many different situations did Aziraphale 'managed' because of some stupid arbitrary rule that—that—

That Aziraphale broke for her. Again and again.

No. Not just her. Others. Everyone else but herself.

Crowley closes her eyes, running her hand through her hair as she lets out a choked laugh that sounds more like a broken cry.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Let's just drop it. How about we get out of here for now? I’ll give you a lift?”

Aziraphale pretends to not consider it.

“Fine.” She steps closer to Crowley. “Thank you, by the way. That was very—”

“No,” Crowley warns, eyes darting to the shadows crisscrossing the pavement, relieved to find no other hellish compatriots. “Don’t say it.”

Aziraphale stares at her, as if she’s trying to understand why Crowley reacts this way every time. She doesn’t stick around to find out what Aziraphale discovers.

“Car’s this way.”

Staying away is hard in post-Armageddon. It's always been difficult because she doesn’t want to. And especially not now, not after everything that they defied against.

So she's left on the precipice, like a deflated lead balloon hanging off the edge of a cliff.

It's a nice evening in Soho when Aziraphale says it.

“You love me.”

She stops breathing. Her eyes widen and panic claws at Crowley’s chest, heart hammering because there’s the last piece of the puzzle, the last ripple before the water stills to reveal the truth.

“What?”

Aziraphale says it again. Crowley stares.

"What prompted this?"

The angel waves her hand vaguely as if Crowley can deduce it from the motion alone. "It's strong. It's everywhere. When I’m with you. I thought—I don't know. Do you?"

“Of course not!” Crowley sputters out. “ I'm a demon! Obsession, lust, passion. Sure. Not love. ”

The angel tilts her head. “Is that what you feel?”

Just thinking about it makes her want to gag.

(Listen, sex is fine. Unlike what some humans make it out to be, it’s not a sin. But she has had since the beginning of time to realize it’s not for her. It’s not something she’ll ever share with someone, never wants or need. In her early days, Crowley really had to bend the rules and twist several complicated loopholes to avoid those assignments.)

Crowley shrugs, suppressing the shaking in her hands. “We’re all the same.”

Liar, liar, liar.

Isn’t it true? It’s her nature, isn’t it? She's reminded of her selfishness in every ugly rise of emotions when she sees Aziraphale leaning in close to another human, strands of hair curtaining her profile as she delightedly converses with them, in the twitch of Crowley's fingers when someone places a lingering hand on her shoulder or back, and in her own self-satisfied smiles when flirtatious advances goes unnoticed or ignored.

She's reminded every time she wishes Aziraphale's laugh and steady touch could last a little longer for her, when Crowley's frustration about Aziraphale's stubbornness changed into understanding, and she finds herself asking more and more questions about the possibilities…

… Maybe in a different life…

She’s a demon and she’s in love but it’s not love and Aziraphale—

Aziraphale gazes at Crowley, with something like adoration and gentleness but that’s not right. Why isn’t she forcing Crowley out? Banishing her from the bookshop and to another dimensional plane?

“My dear, you're not like them.”

“I am. I guess you were right all along, angel,” Crowley miserably snaps back, coiled tight, ready to spring from the sofa and out the door and to another continent.

This, again, has the opposite effect. Before Crowley can move, Aziraphale removes herself from her armchair and stands in front of Crowley. She turns away, staring at the floor and trying not to flinch. Not from fear of Aziraphale.

“Crowley. All I ever felt was love from you.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because demons don’t do love. Like they don’t do nice."

From her peripheral, she sees Aziraphale sink down to her knees. Crowley startles, panicking at this sudden change in position because it’s a little too blasphemous, but before she can pull the angel up, Aziraphale hands find Crowley’s fingers, tightly intertwined and, eyes bright, she leans in.

“I can sense it, remember? I know the difference."

She scoffs. "Maybe your celestial detector is out of order."

Aziraphale tsk playfully, undignified, and lovely all the same. "Are you saying I'm broken?"

Crowley's eyes widen, stammering out an explanation that’s stopped by Aziraphale's dry chuckle.

"I was kidding. Awful joke, I suppose." She squeezes her hands before letting go, and Crowley has to stop herself from leaning in, from following her. Aziraphale ends up only moving to sit next to her, smoothing down her vest as Crowley tries not to stew in her embarrassment and guilt. For wanting.

For being too much.

Aziraphale freezes.

Oh. She said that last bit aloud.

"Crowley." Aziraphale's voice has gone all hushed, cracking as though that statement somehow hurt her. "You are never too much.'"

"I have absolutely no clue what you mean." Crowley licks her lips, desperate for this topic of conversation to drop but she already knows Aziraphale will not because she has this look in her eyes, invisible spools of yarn surely connecting the pins to reveal another answer Crowley doesn't know herself, and she's terrified to know. "If we're doing this, I think I remember you had some old—"

"No," Aziraphale says firmly.

"No?" Crowley weakly repeats back.

"We're having this conversation sober. No more excuses or blaming it on inebriation or anything like that. We will be sober or we're—we’ll have this conversation another time. When you feel more ready to." Aziraphale looks… rattled. Determined. Gentle.

Still so gentle.

"Okay," Crowley says.

"Okay?"

"Another time?"

"Of course."

Aziraphale waits. Crowley goes to her still.

But it’s different. There's been a shift, a tip in the scale. Not to overtake but to balance. It's been happening, Crowley realizes, but now she really sees it.

When Aziraphale first called her after that night, she didn't think anything of it. They don't spend all their time together. They still meet, of course. Not as much as they had when the Apocalypse was just averted (as if they were living on borrowed time), but it wasn't as scarce or borne out of necessity as prior conditions required. And it's not like Aziraphale never reached out first. But a few weeks in, Crowley notices: the angel called to inquire about her day, if she would like to meet up, wine recommendations, and new ways to discourage customers from entering her bookshop. Less "no-nonsense, straight to business, keep-it-to-a-maximum-of-two-minute conversations" and easier, passing remarks or acknowledging hums as they do their respective things and let time slip by.

She has also stopped by Crowley’s apartment every so often since then. That, Crowley, was taken aback by. The first time, she brought over a small tree, arms barely straining as she cheerfully greets Crowley around droopy leaves and flowers. The next time, it was a more reasonable houseplant. A small angel trumpet tree now hogs the sunniest spot in her apartment, and a new pot of Devil’s Ivy hangs next to it, basking in both the shade and the light provided. A little too on the nose, she thinks, but she catches herself tending to them the most (with minimal yelling).

In her closet, she has new silk pajamas in various shades of black and gray, and some blues. There's a tartan one, given with a playful wink and a compliment about “how distinguished she'd look in the pattern.”

Later, Aziraphale had somehow taken up crocheting, which ended with Crowley housing a large snake plush on her bed, and she had to buy a new bookshelf for the collections Aziraphale excitedly shoved into her arms over the course of several evenings.

It's different and bewildering. But it's… nice. It doesn't feel forced. Not the sort of impatient grand acts demanding an answer, but the tentative gesture of reciprocation. Aziraphale gives her space when she needs it and doesn't push for anything more.

(When Crowley drinks herself into an arrogant, careless confidence and smiles with half-formed confessions filling up her thoughts, Aziraphale pries the bottle from her hands and sends her to bed. Sometimes she sits nearby, reading, on nights when Crowley feels the phantom flames licking her sleeves and scorching the resurrected walls.)

She observes the lack of tension in Aziraphale's shoulder when Crowley appears. The comforting touches without its previous hesitancy. A lightness to her voice.

The gifts and time and moments are given as if to reassure her that they’re in this together.

As if to say, "Let me care for you the way you cared for me."

And she wants it. Every day, for the rest of their lives.

"What if it is as you say it is?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale lifts her head up.

"The whole, er, love thing?"

She immediately closes the book on her lap, placing it next to her on the sofa.

"If it's true that you love me?" Aziraphale asks, slowly, as if to make sure she isn't misunderstanding.

"Yeah."

"Well, then I'd say I love you, too."

"Really?"

"Undeniably," Aziraphale says fondly, a little regretfully. "I'm sorry that I kept pushing you away. That I twisted who you are to protect myself because I was afraid, and if that has made you believe that you are incapable of love, then I have wronged you immensely. I would understand if your sentiments have changed."

"That's not true," Crowley replies. "You did it to protect me, too. How many times have you saved me?"

"But—"

"I know the reason you did it, angel. At the moment? I was hurt, sure. Frustrated. But after being up there I—I get it. You didn't even mean it, did you?"

"No," Aziraphale says quietly. "Not for a long time. Doesn't make it right, though."

Crowley leans forward, grasping at a familiar moment. "I forgive you, even if there's nothing to forgive."

Aziraphale smiles shakily. "Thank you."

"There… there is something, though. The other night."

"Is that so?" Aziraphale murmurs, a touch of concern gracing her features. "It's alright Crowley. You don't have to talk about it now if you do not wish to."

"No, no it's alright. Just feels a bit silly, after all, but…" Crowley rubs the back of her neck as she turns away, fumbling for her next words. "I was just reminded of some of our past encounters where I felt… Jealous? When someone was there with you, a chance for them to be more. We've seen our fair share of awful relationships. And with me being a demon and all… I was scared of hurting you or—or someone else."

Aziraphale is by her side in an instant, a quiet question asked before her hand is grasped, and the angel leans against her, head tucked on her shoulder.

"I think I know what you mean," Aziraphale says after a while. “Intimately. I felt that way about you sometimes, seeing how you interacted with humans at those dances and celebrations or in daily passings. How I wished I could be in their place, to be the one you could look at like that. To—to want you and hold you and not be afraid of what could happen to you all the damn time. It was terrifying."

Crowley sits in stunned silence.

"Yeah," she finally says, voice thick.

"And you being a demon… Well, we know just because one is an angel, doesn't mean they are necessarily good in every way, so we can’t definitely say a demon is irrevocably bad. At least, I have the insight to admit it now. You always knew all along, clever serpent."

"Ack," Crowley replies. "No use dwelling in the past. We've done that for too long."

"Agreed."

The silence prolongs. Crowley fidgets.

"Well," Crowley hems awkwardly. "Good talk."

Aziraphale laughs and pulls away, enough for Crowley to see her amused expression.

"Wonderfully summarized, dearest. Thank you."

"No need to sound so—whatever. You're the one stuck with this old Serpent now."

"That's acceptable. I am rather fond of her, and I'd be happy to have her for company."

“You make it sound easy.”

“If it’s you, it is.”

Crowley hides her face in her hands. “I’m going to crawl into a hole and perish.”

Aziraphale laughs again, loud and carefree, and Crowley loves it. “Well, of course, it’s not always going to be easy but you are worth it. And I hope I am, too. I know I can be fussy and uptight and a ‘bastard,’ as you described me once so affectionately.”

“Of course you are." Aziraphale grumps and Crowley smiles cheekily. "Worth it, I mean. All of it.”

"Well then. Seems we have reached an agreement."

And Crowley grins back, hand reaching out to hold without shame.

vi. “honey, let’s get married”

They have a cottage in South Downs. And their own garden.

That's where they find themselves now.

Crowley grumbles as she tackles the weeds, dressed in a plain white shirt and dirty overalls, and Aziraphale cannot help but think how much she loves her.

"Dearest, I think you've demolished them enough already."

Crowley scowls, stabbing the dirt with the spade and yanking out more of the invasive roots. "You and I both know that's not true." She holds up the offending plant as proof.

"Yes, yes, but I think our garden will look more like a tossed salad if you keep huffing at it. You've already done a lovely job. Come take a break."

"Tossed salad? Huffing? I'll show you huffing," Crowley threatens half-heartedly but concedes, peeling off her gloves and wiping the sweat from her face. She plops gracelessly on the other chair. It's the throne-shaped one from her old flat. Crowley placed it on the small porch with a self-satisfied smile when they first moved in. Aziraphale merely rolled her eyes and moved her favorite armchair to the other side of the table.

Aziraphale hums, pouring a glass of lemonade and handing it to her. Crowley murmurs her thanks and drains it quickly, sighing.

"Come closer, dear."

She leans in and Aziraphale wipes away the dirt on her cheek, but before she can move her hand away, Crowley gently places her own over it and kisses her palm.

Aziraphale rolls her eyes, grinning. "You flirt."

"You like it."

"Yeah," she says, tucking a stray lock of copper hair behind Crowley's ear, who’s moved on to make idle comments about picnics and scavenger hunts for Adam and his friends tomorrow, tips Anthanema shared about pest control and the dinner plans for tonight.

It's serene. It's lovely. It's not eternal, and it's not promised, but she knows with Crowley by her side, there's nothing else she could ever ask for.

Two silver feathers rest on their interlocked hands. They glimmer in the afternoon sun, and it's all the proof they will ever need.