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Crowley appears to be fucked.
All of their carefully laid out plans, all of the effort of hiding holy relics and the Book of Life from both Heaven and Hell, all of the subtle hints from books laying open in Crowley’s flat – books that he definitely had never purchased – with clues on where to find their next target; all of it came unraveling at the seams at an alarming rate from the second Crowley took his first steps back into Heaven.
And it had all been because of Muriel.
Sweet, naïve, gullible Muriel, so malleable to Heaven’s manipulations, had stolen the Book of Life from right under Crowley’s nose and taken it back to the Archangels…under the Supreme Archangel’s orders.
Now, Crowley is being manhandled by Uriel, his attempt to siege Heaven and get the Book back thwarted. She throws him to his knees in front of a stark white table to look up at stark white angels in the middle of stark white Heaven, his hands bound behind his back with celestial grace that sears into his skin in rope-shaped burns.
Heaven’s too-bright, too-cold light stings at his eyes, exposed after Uriel had smashed his glasses while apprehending him.
It doesn’t stop Crowley from immediately locking gazes with Aziraphale, teeth bared, glare heavy.
“Good work, Uriel,” Michael says, standing next to Aziraphale behind the table. Metatron, hopefully, is still incapacitated. Saraqael and a platoon of foot soldiers are off dealing with Gabriel and Beelzebub. The pair are going to need a lot of luck to get out of that one.
At this time, it seems like Crowley’s luck has all but run dry.
“It was easy to catch him,” Uriel intones, her voice steady and flat, “with Aziraphale’s intel.”
“You bastard,” Crowley grits out through clenched teeth, pouring into it as much vitriol as he can rip out from the I forgive you burning in his gut, never breaking eye contact with Aziraphale.
Aziraphale doesn’t so much as blink.
On the table separating Crowley from where he kneels and the Archangels, there is only one item: the Book of Life – and it is open.
Uriel takes her place at Aziraphale’s unoccupied flank, her hands linking behind her back, and she looks down her nose at Crowley.
“Demon Crowley,” Michael begins, haughty yet ruffled, always the corporate suck-up. “For your crimes against Heaven, you are found guilty –”
“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have my solicitor for this,” Crowley interrupts, just to watch Michael fume.
“All judgements in Heaven are just and righteous.” It’s Aziraphale, speaking for the first time since Crowley was dragged here. Aziraphale’s voice has lost all of its warmth, his face void of emotion. There is no sparkling mirth behind those blue eyes, no tiny quirk on that perfect mouth that seemed to appear any time Crowley was around.
He sounds empty inside, a shell of his former self.
It makes Crowley want to shudder, but he manages to suppress it, unwilling to show how that voice affects him.
“No solicitors needed,” Aziraphale continues, still pinning Crowley down with that hollow gaze.
“You may not be in Hell, Aziraphale,” Crowley bites out, sneering, “but you have definitely fallen.”
Aziraphale’s lip trembles, just the slightest, a tiny reaction that disappears before it becomes anything more.
“And for your crimes,” Michael loudly continues, frustrated with being interrupted, “you are hereby sentenced to Extreme Sanctions, to be carried out immediately by the Supreme Archangel.”
So, this is it. The End, for him. Not technically an end, though, if Crowley thinks about it. Being removed from the Book of Life means he wouldn’t just die; it will be made as if he never existed – and something that never existed can’t have things like A Beginning or The End.
Aziraphale leans forward, placing both hands down on the pages of the open Book, bracing his weight on it.
“Do you have any last words, demon?” Aziraphale spits out the last word like he’s taken a bite out of an apple and found it hollowed out and filled with maggots.
Crowley lets out a dark howl of laughter.
“Not one for speeches, me,” Crowley says, working his jaw. “But if you’d be so…benevolent, I have one last question for you.”
“What makes you think you have any right to—” Michael starts, but Aziraphale speaks over her, silencing her.
“Ask your question.”
Crowley smirks, reminded of watching an angel through a bookshop window ring a frustrated bell at the rulers of Heaven and Hell, commanding them to fall into line in a deep, stern voice.
“Well, my question is…” Crowley sucks at his teeth. Aziraphale’s empty, grey eyes bore into him, but his smirk does not falter. “Did you find it? What you were looking for?”
For a long moment, there is silence. If Crowley looks over, he would see confused expressions cast over Michael’s and Uriel’s faces.
But Crowley only has eyes for Aziraphale – has only ever had eyes for him.
For that long moment, Aziraphale watches him, blank and empty and unmoving. Something in Crowley’s chest twists, a bubble of panic beginning to push up into his diaphragm with each second that ticks by.
Until, Aziraphale’s eyes begin to soften, the sparkling light that Crowley has craved to stare into for six thousand years returning, blue mingling with grey once again, bright and beautiful.
Until, Aziraphale’s empty expression begins to shift, his mouth shakily quirking up on each end into a watery smile.
Until, Aziraphale shakes his head once, slowly, his voice thick as he answers, “No.”
“I’m sorry, angel. I really am.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It never was.” Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembles slightly, the harsh light of Heaven reflecting in eyes wet with unshed tears.
“That’s enough,” Michael cuts in, stern and impatient. “Get on with it, Aziraphale. Erase the demon from the Book of Life.”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, voice soft, and he swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “Get on with it, angel. Make my day.”
Aziraphale exhales heavily through his nose, unnecessary especially in Heaven, and nods. “Okay.”
Crowley misses the approving looks on the other Archangel’s faces. He’s too busy watching Aziraphale – always watching Aziraphale, always. Aziraphale watches him back, a deep-buried pain written all over his face, and Crowley knows he is already mourning.
He wants to tell Aziraphale that everything is going to be all right, that it’s okay. Crowley doesn’t blame him anymore. He might not understand everything completely, but he knows enough now to look up at his designated executioner – his dearest friend, the only being Crowley has ever truly loved of his own free will – with comfort in his gaze and a single nod.
Then, the Book of Life erupts into flames.
***
“I’m going to speak to God.”
Crowley scoffed, took a drink from his glass of whisky.
“What, Metatron’s giant head peering down his nose at you ain’t cutting it anymore?”
“I don’t think Metatron speaks for God anymore. Or to Her.”
A snort. “You think?”
“Come now, Crowley.” Aziraphale frowned, sitting across the living room of Crowley’s Mayfair flat, several feet away. He looked exhausted, heavy circles darkening his eyes, the immaculate grey suit doing nothing for his sickly complexion. He hadn’t taken a single sip from the glass of red that Crowley had poured him, nor even the tiniest nibble of a biscuit. “If Metatron did something, if God is—”
“Don’t go saying you think the Almighty Herself is in some sort of trouble,” Crowley groans.
“But—”
“Even Metatron has no power over an omniscient, omnipotent God, angel.”
Aziraphale sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t feel Her. In Heaven. Not like before.”
“Maybe She left.”
Aziraphale’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Crowley!”
“Wot?” Crowley shifted out of his position, draped over his precious throne of a chair, to plant his feet on the floor. He rested his elbows on each thigh, letting his drink dangle precariously from his fingertips. “Think about it! She used to be a chatty busybody—”
“Crowley!”
“—for millions of years! And then, what? All of a sudden, She just stops talking? Only goes through Metatron? Locks Herself away from all of Her creations, doesn’t wanna talk, leaves no presence behind in Heaven? Do you think that’s what She’s really doing?”
Aziraphale was distressed. His face was crumbling at an alarming rate, resignation and despair wrestling for dominance in his brow.
“I think She left.” Crowley watched Aziraphale like a hawk. Three months ago, Aziraphale showed up on Crowley’s doorstep, telling him to hide the Book of Life away, asking Crowley to trust him. Even though alarm bells had gone off in every corner of his head, he’d taken the Book and did what Aziraphale asked. Now, this was the third time in as many months that Aziraphale had graced his doorstep.
Each time he came back looking wearier than before, from the slump in his shoulders to the haunted look in his eyes. And each time, he told Crowley a little more of what was going on. When Aziraphale wasn’t around, Crowley still seemed to find open books lying around his flat, opened to a page with hints about a place that would end up being a location for a holy relic. Or, he would watch as the letters on an advertisement rearranged themselves into a message indicating where the next Seal would be broken.
They didn’t talk about why Aziraphale was doing this. They didn’t talk about anything besides the Second Coming, and how to stop it. They didn’t talk about how Aziraphale was withering away, right in front of Crowley’s eyes. They didn’t talk about the distance between them, the yawning chasm separating them, in the way Crowley stood as far away from Aziraphale as he could at all times, or how Aziraphale still wasn’t being completely honest with him.
“But…why?” Aziraphale sounded broken, desolate, and if Crowley paid close attention, he could also hear the flames of anger licking at his words. “Why would She leave us?”
“I’dunno.” Crowley shrugged, hiding his mouth behind a sip of whisky so that Aziraphale couldn’t see how his distress made Crowley’s jaw clench in rage on his behalf. “Maybe She finally got tired of being the Mother to a bunch of squabbling brats.”
Aziraphale bit at his lips and let his eyes fall to the floor, his hands twisting and untwisting together in front of him. He was silent for long moments as he fidgeted nervously, and Crowley just sat there and watched.
“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale finally said, almost too quietly for Crowley to hear. “Even if She is…if She is gone, or in trouble, or any other ineffable reason. I still have to try.”
“You tried that once, and it got you discorporated.”
“I didn’t speak to Her, I spoke to Metatron. I have a feeling he wasn’t speaking for Her back then either.”
“Well then,” Crowley said, a brow cocking above his glasses. “You got a plan?”
“I do, but…” Aziraphale looked back up at him, directly into Crowley’s dark lenses. He looked nervous but hopeful behind those tired eyes. “I’m going to need a distraction.”
Crowley grinned.
“All right, angel, tell me about whatever clever little plan you’ve concocted.”
***
Crowley rubs at his wrists, the burns from the celestial bindings slowly beginning to fade. It itches.
On the other side of the table, Aziraphale stands with his back to Crowley, his head bowed. The fire that had erupted on the table had migrated into Aziraphale’s hand, forming into the shape of a sword. This sword is different than the one God had given him in the Beginning. It was larger, completely made of flame – fit for a warrior.
Aziraphale had used it against Michael and Uriel before they’d had time to act. It wouldn’t have killed them, but they would definitely be floating around the firmament in pieces no bigger than atoms for a while, and Crowley can’t help the smugness he feels at knowing that.
He also can’t forget the rush he’d felt watching Aziraphale defend him, blocking Uriel from firing off the arrow she’d knocked the instant she saw something going awry, aimed directly at Crowley’s head. Aziraphale had pulled the sword out of the flames that had engulfed his hands and thrust it into Uriel’s ribs, watching as her form burst into a thousand pinpricks of stardust and scattered in all directions.
Michael only got two blocks in with her own sword before she suffered the same fate as Uriel.
Crowley hasn’t seen Aziraphale wield a weapon in a long time. Longer, still, since he’d wielded a holy weapon. And he’d done it to protect Crowley.
He swallows thickly.
He should be happy. There’s a small part of him that is celebrating this victory. Their plan had gone off without a hitch. Let Heaven think they’d taken the Book of Life back. Let them think Muriel was still one of theirs, too dimwitted to question them, none the wiser that Muriel had only brought the most elaborate of fakes instead (they were one of the brightest angels Crowley had ever met, and he told Muriel that before they’d rode the lift back to Heaven, and they’d beamed so brightly it made his eyes water). Let Crowley and his ragtag bunch of holy and infernal rejects have a reason to storm Heaven and create the distraction.
Let Aziraphale try to find God.
Crowley can hear the flames of Aziraphale’s sword crackle in the distance. Aziraphale hasn’t moved, and Crowley doesn’t know what to do next.
Crowley has been unsure what to do around Aziraphale for months now. Their meetings had started off short, concise, and businesslike. Aziraphale would show up, give Crowley the barest amount of intelligence, and ask him to stop the Second Coming. He kept his eyes averted and always left a sizable distance between them, and Crowley’s broken heart had thought that was all okay. There had been no grand apologies or ugly rows or tearful confessions. They just didn’t talk about it, not after that first night, and Crowley just accepted that this was just how it was going to be.
Except, Crowley had noticed the heavy sadness swim to the surface of Aziraphale’s muted-gray eyes when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking.
Except, Crowley had noticed how Aziraphale always clenched his hands into fists when he was close to Crowley, as if he was holding something back.
Except, Crowley had noticed how exhaustion creeped into everything Aziraphale did, and that Aziraphale never ate or drank anything Crowley gave him during his visits.
Something jagged had twisted in his chest every time he saw Aziraphale out of his flat, because Aziraphale had always looked back over his shoulder just as Crowley was closing the door, and it was always with a pleading look that Crowley refused to understand.
Even when Aziraphale’s visits grew longer and longer after they’d discussed the plan to find God, even when Aziraphale took his first sip of wine and sighed pleasantly, soothing the lines of worry that had etched themselves into his face, even when Aziraphale had smiled at him for the first time in years – they still didn’t talk about it.
And when the heartache had finally calmed down from inferno to embers, when the bigger picture started to become clearer than mud, he had realized that nothing had changed. He would still do anything for Aziraphale, even help him find God, if it meant he would smile in Crowley’s direction just one more time.
“I couldn’t find Her.”
Aziraphale’s voice is just a whisper, but Crowley hears every word on hitched breath.
“I looked. Pretty thoroughly, I might add. I even found Metatron’s hiding place, but She wasn’t there.”
Crowley can see Aziraphale’s shoulders begin to curl up to his ears, can see how white his knuckles are around a sword made of flame.
“She wasn’t on Earth. She wasn’t in the stars. I kept calling out to Her. I begged, I pleaded, I genuflected.”
Crowley’s feet are taking him around the table to stand in front of Aziraphale, a few long strides away. He doesn’t remember telling them to do that. He can’t see Aziraphale’s full face, lowered as it is, but he can make out the lines of despair.
“She’s gone.”
Crowley swallows just for something to do as every atom in his body screams at him to do something, to do anythingto make the heartache in Aziraphale’s voice go away.
Alarms are going off in the distance somewhere, signaling trouble.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley manages to choke out, grateful his voice doesn’t waver. He wants to ask the angel to run away with him again. He wants to ask Aziraphale to take his hand and get out of here, fuck off far away from Heaven and Hell so they can’t hurt either of them ever again.
Instead, he says, “They’re coming for us, angel.” A beat, then, “Tell me what you want to do.”
Aziraphale still doesn’t look up.
“Anywhere you wanna go,” Crowley continues, trying to keep the desperation out of his words. “I’ll take you.”
There are a few more long moments of nothing but alarms getting closer, moments where Crowley’s panic threatens to suffocate him. They need to leave quickly, but he refuses to force Aziraphale to do anything anymore. He also won’t leave him behind.
“Angel, we—”
“I’m tired, Crowley.” Aziraphale sounds like a human who hasn’t slept in a week, and when he finally looks up, Crowley looks at wet eyes threatening to overflow and the weary face of the most exhausted being in the universe.
“Anywhere, angel,” Crowley repeats, soft and gentle, sincere. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I want to go home.” Aziraphale’s face begins to crumple, and Crowley is already closing the distance between them before Aziraphale has stopped talking. “Take me home, please.”
“Of course,” Crowley says, and he’s extending his hand toward Aziraphale; an offer. Aziraphale takes it.
“Let’s go home.”