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“If you would be so good as to—”
Crowley cuts him off, “I'm not good!”
Aziraphale levels him with a look. “Please. Lie to the world. Lie to all of creation if you so choose, but do not insult me in such a way as to imply that I do not know your character. That you, whom only myself I know better, are so foreign to me that I would be capable of misunderstanding the very foundation of your person. I can not bear to have you believe it of me a moment longer.”
“Believe it of you?” Crowley hisses, “How can I not believe it of you? Your parting words to me, the culmination of your “knowledge” of my character, were that I am a villain.” His eyes narrow at Aziraphale. “Surely your opinion now cannot be so different than it was then. You perjure yourself, sir, professing my goodness with the same tongue that condemned my wickedness.”
He searches Crowley’s face. “Your virtue is known to us both, my dear. How often you have acted in ways both good and right in the face of censure or outright punishment.” Aziraphale exhales and his shoulders slump. “While I have had the benefit of being called good all my life, you have had the will to be so. I have all the components of goodness, to be sure. All the desire and moral leanings, but without a catalyst to spur action, I find I am rendered inert. If I am guilty of any one sin above another, let me own that it is inaction. Time and again it was your kindness, your bravery, that inspired my own.” He goes to step forward but stills, not willing to push Crowley. “I lied. Those words were not mine, but I needed them to be. If there had been any doubt in you toward the sincerity of my ire, there would have been no force on Earth that would stay your hand in coming to my aid.”
Crowley’s eyes widened, and he bit back a sneer. “And you find me so deficient that you could not have explained yourself in a satisfactory manner? No. You chose to act cruelly instead. Pray— even if I did believe you. Even if I had not scoured my own heart of any lingering affection toward you, what could possibly tempt me to accept you back?” Even as he tastes the words on his tongue Crowley knows that they are false. That his love of Aziraphale is such that it can never be wholly banished. Like roots that dig deep into the earth so that the remaining stump long outlasts any attempt at removal or, worse still, like vines that climb and choke out the tree. Looking at Aziraphale, he feels his own ribcage be similarly crushed. He steps forward, their faces now close. “Lord Fell, you seemingly come and go at the whims of the wind as is the freedom of your station, of your designation, but the rest of us are not so happily situated in life.” He glares into the other's eyes, “What is to prevent the next tempest from whisking you away? Or even the slightest breeze from turning your affections once more?”
Aziraphale bites his lip and forces himself to meet Crowley’s piercing eyes. “You have every reason to believe me fickle, my dear, to assume my heart can be easily changed. However, I assure you it can not. It was not a whim that rendered my leaving necessary; I was called home on unpleasant business. Was made to answer that call via threats. Had it only been my well-being, I could have ignored my family well enough. They threatened you, Crowley, and I could not sit idle while a proverbial axe hung over your head."
Crowley’s brows furrow. “And now you return? Am I to assume your business has concluded?”
Gravely, Aziraphale nods, “The whole affair has reached its natural end. Enoch is dead. His influence along with him. I loathe to even speak his name so that too may fade from memory.” He says, a slight growl in his voice.
Crowley wrestles with his conflicting feelings: “What happy accident led to such a conclusion?”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow meaningfully, “Our world is rife with happy accidents, but it would be remiss to credit chance. Though, who can really say? Old men succumb to ... sudden... illness so readily these days; one need only wait them out.”