Earth was littered with bodies of angels, of demons, and humans alike. The blood had rained from the heavens and covered the grounds such that nothing would grow and no one could tell at a glance who was wounded and who had just been showered upon. The seas had boiled and marine life had choked, had floated upwards and coated most of the surface.
There Aziraphale had stood, in front leading an army of men, when finally the clouds parted and the Earth swelled and God and Satan came to take his call.
Well, not specifically his call, but that is precisely how it felt at the time.
They called for a truce, and the Almighty had stood as a figure, small as a human but glowing with absolute heavenly radiance, and shook one large, red hand that was bigger than her whole body.
Exhausted, relieved, Aziraphale hobbled over to a familiar-looking suit of armor, and leaned up against it, loosing his sword to the ground.
Crowley didn'tlike War. He didn't like it for a multitude of reasons----not the least of which is that he was an incredible coward. But now, watching Aziraphale leading armies, it was a different sort of cowardice. A fear of watching his best friend die, of watching something horrible happen to him and being unable to do anything about it.
It wasn't easy. Hellfire in the hands of humans was vicious, though. Many of them, inspired by the news and the other humans, threw it at the angels without a second thought. Thousands of them, brandishing fire. And when he was with the fire-brandishing humans he couldn't be anywhere near Aziraphale. When Aziraphale was blessing the rainclouds he couldn't be anywhere near him either. All he could do was fight, and worry.
Try to do what Aziraphale would do. He watched as a blessed rain approached. It wouldn't hurt any of humanity, but as that column of water came down, it would destroy him instantly.
"Is that your armor?"
Hastur. Of course he would find Crowley here. Crowley held out the flamethrower, but it was useless against the demon.
"I should have known. They said the humans started fighting back. Only you would cause them to rise up. Traitor!" Hastur swung with his crowbar, hitting Crowley squarely in the stomach, the force of which was mostly taken by the armor. He struck again, this time in the leg, which wasn't covered with any sort of protection. Hastur twisted, and a curse ran through it, hitting Crowley in the thigh. Pain ran through him, the kind that you only get from the deeper levels of Hell.
"It's not only me this time, Hastur," Crowley hissed back. No, not just him. He had Aziraphale. He had the blessings of angels on his side. The blessed raincloud approached, and Crowley gave a solid kick, sending the demon back into it. He hobbled away at top speed, as fast as he could move with the curse radiating through his leg. He ran, ran as fast as he could, but his leg hurt too much, he wasn't moving fast enough, the rain was coming too quickly---
And suddenly, just like that, it stopped. The rainclouds, the fire. The angels and demons stopped. Crowley limped towards where they were all looking. Something was happening. A truce?
Oh, Crowley didn't trust truces. He'd tempted too many generals to break them during times of war.
"Aziraphale?" he called out as his friend approached him.
"Crowley," Aziraphale responds, hands reaching out for his armor and lifting his visor, thinking better of it and instead lifting the whole helmet, dropping it to the ground. "Are you hurt?" he asks, clutching his face, because he can't tell at all. Aziraphale is covered in blood, though most of it not his own. He'd miracled away all the water on him in case any of it was holy, which was just as well because he was smearing blood into Crowley's lovely hair.
"We have to get you inside somewhere," he says, ignoring all the humans around him who are confused whether or not it's over, or who are nervously celebrating and hugging each other. Someone falls to their knees to pray, and others stop to mourn their dead.
Eventually, they come into agreement that it's over, and that they were spared from judgment. Aziraphale wants to yell at the top of his lungs that that's not how it works, but he's too exhausted at the moment and manages just to roll his eyes instead.
Uriel comes on over with a sneer on his face, looking mighty holier-than-thou, and despite how he is feeling at present, Aziraphale whips around and takes the sword up again, assuming a fighting stance and standing bodily between him and Crowley. Seems as if he didn't trust generals during times of truce, either.
"You've chosen unwisely, Aziraphale. Heaven won't look kindly on this."
"Heaven decided not to look too kindly on Earth either," Aziraphale responds, one eye shut because blood has trickled down with the sweat from his brow.
"Your judgment is coming," he says, and then turns to Crowley. "Don't forget that yours is, as well, demon."
As soon as Uriel is gone, Aziraphale relaxes his position. "He's always so disdainful."
"Seem a great bit of fun, your lot," Crowley says. One thing is for certain. The War might be over for the moment, but the angels will be coming back for Aziraphale. Maybe Crowley----probably not Crowley---definitely Aziraphale. And Crowley has to stop them. He picks back up his flamethrower.
He lets out a noise of pain, gripping his leg and dropping the weapon. This could be bad, it could be very bad. He wants to tell Aziraphale he's fine, that it's nothing, but Hastur never let anything be nothing. He always liked to make things as bad as possible. He straightens up, trying to push it down. Can't let Aziraphale see it, not right now. Crowley can imagine it's fine and it will be fine until he's ready to deal with it.
"Is it over like that?" he says through gritted teeth. "Just like that? Shake hands, bugger off? Act like it's just---that that's it? All these people dead and that's it?"
"I don't know," he says, "I don't know." God works in mysterious ways, but Aziraphale can't even conjure up the strength to comfort himself with those words. "But let's get you inside now, please, Crowley."
He, very belatedly, noticed that Crowley is lying to him about his pain, and attempts to find where it is he's hurt. He discovers he can't tell where it is, but unlike with Anathema's bike, he knows exactly how Crowley is supposed to be, and so very easily performs a restorative miracle. Once he's sat Crowley inside, he'll have to come back out and do a few more of them, make sure everyone alive is in working condition.
Honestly, he can't believe it's over just like that either, and with so many dead. It's like they don't even care, like everyone around them was just a pawn. Aziraphale has never felt more faithless than in this moment, and focuses in on Crowley because he doesn't want to look back at all the carnage behind them; he seems to be on the verge of collapse.
Another rain starts, to wash this all away. It isn't blessed, since there are a few demons who get hit with it and haven't melted, but Aziraphale instinctually unfolds his wings from his back, and lifts one gingerly over Crowley's head.
Crowley feels the miracle, feels the muscle and fracture to the bone mend instantly. Aziraphale has always been excellent with restorative spells like this, in the times that Crowley has needed them. Some of the pain is healed instantly, but when he puts weight on his leg, he feels whatever Hastur has done to him is deeper than just a wound. A demonic curse of some sort. Pity the other demon went into a cloud full of blessed rainwater. It would have taken an actual miracle for Hastur to have survived.
He leans against Aziraphale as the wing goes over his head. The angel looks tired, shaken. And, really, very dirty. It would take no more than a little miracle to clean him up, to make things at least look right, but it would take a lot more to make things better. All the same, he waves his hand over him, removing the blood, the damage from his suit. Restoring something to him.
"Ineffable Plan," Crowley says. "The Plan. We can't have been a part of it."
"Damn the plan, Crowley," he says in a panic, voice breaking. Even though they've won, or at least, they've drawn, he can't help but feel the loss. It's bedlam around them, and he's stood by all this time as people have died around him in the most horrific, terrible of ways. The young have died before ever really living, and some people just lead miserable lives all the way through, and he abided by all of it for the Plan.
He hardly thinks it was worth it, at the moment.
Aziraphale puts his arm around Crowley, turns his face into his shoulder, and lets his cries be muffled by the armor. He has never felt his faith slip quite like this before, and he doesn't know presently which direction to place his anger.
He has to pull himself together, partially because the two of them are technically sort of supposed to be the leaders of the human army, but as people disperse to take shelter from the rain, he lets himself take a little longer than a moment.
[ It’s a wonder that Aziraphale keeps going back to the 1950s, because they’re some of his fondest memories of the 20th century. Considering he’d spent the previous decade without, and sometimes whole centuries without seeing Crowley, their meetings were gaining frequency. Even with just a year or a season in between, it was never enough, and all sorts of romantic notions started filling the voids of his heart where there were left gaps in the spaces when they were apart.
As the flame burned brighter and brighter, Aziraphale had started to reconsider, not their love, but their proximity. They would both burn up like this, in each other’s hubris of thinking they could get away with betraying their respective offices; the length of the Arrangement has made them comfortable. The depth of their affection has made them foolish. And sometimes, though his heart aches to do so, he turns to Crowley and when he feels that he might move both Heaven and Hell for him, instead tells him that he has business to attend and perhaps he should be making his way home.
He’d put out of his mind the conversation that they’d had about the holy water, because at the time, Aziraphale had naturally assumed that Crowley had had enough of this being tied to a master he didn’t want to serve, and perhaps he had grown weary of the offerings on this Earth. It wasn’t until one of his men mentioned offhandedly of a heist involving holy water that his heart leapt up into his throat and he’d abruptly ended their conversation to go hatch his own plan.
Which is how he finds himself in Crowley’s car, half wanting to apologize for assuming that he would ever have chosen to leave the angel bereft of him, and half wanting to admonish him for something so unbelievably stupid as a holy water heist. Honestly, the humans he was working with didn’t even know what this meant and what it would do to him, and their carelessness would yield devastating results. ]
You can call off the robbery. Don’t go unscrewing the cap.
[ In his hands, the holy water—beside him, Aziraphale, both of them to be carefully handled. Crowley most definitely did not unscrew the cap, holding the thermos with the wary reverence it deserved, and then looked over at Aziraphale with much the same expression. The last time he’d seen him had been—was it a year? Maybe two now? It might have been a little longer than the time in between their last meeting before that, Crowley needing a little more time to nurse the wound of being told—gently, kindly, but quite certainly, as is Aziraphale’s way—that he should go.
As if his angel didn’t feel the same fire, the same soul-lighting joy and fierce longing of coming together again, losing themselves entirely in one another. As if he could be at peace when they were apart, denying how much they needed one another. Perhaps he did deny it, Crowley had thought, a little bitterly. While Crowley threw himself into his temptations and felt as though his heart would shred itself apart with yearning, while he ached with the physical need for Aziraphale that only burned brighter every time they met, perhaps Aziraphale comforted himself in the knowledge that it was righteous and holy to abstain from the love of a demon.
He had thought these things, from time to time; now he didn’t know what to think. It seemed like the purest declaration of love, sitting there in his hands, as raw and unguarded as it felt when they were entwined with one another, bodies, wings, souls: Crowley felt his fingers tremble a little, the urge to drag Aziraphale to him consuming his thoughts. Should he thank him? Kiss him? Tell him how much he loved him, missed him, longed intolerably for him— ]
I’ll give you a lift home. [ He offers softly. They should talk, he and Aziraphale, somewhere they can take their time. ]
[ As it turned out, being in love with a demon was tricky business, as Aziraphale had feared it to be. For one, he knew Heaven would not approve, and he kept Crowley as his secret, close to his chest, careful never to mention him at all. And when asked about him directly, he may have protested just the slightest bit too much; leaving a conference with Heaven left his heart pounding and always sucking in breath like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it in.
Not to mention that his dearest had an excess of courage, always jumping right into the deep end. There he was sat with the only thing that could physically destroy him, with the only love that would endanger his very person. And he had already risked life and limb for Aziraphale, several times, most recently in a very church bouncing around like his feet were on coals; the more he thought about it, the guiltier he felt. And he knows that Crowley wants to talk, wants to take him back to the bookstore and ask him what’s really on his mind, and he is much too scared to have this conversation right now. He’s even more terrified that he won’t be able to resist, with the two of them alone again in the place he loves most where they first confessed their love and Aziraphale had felt, in the moment, the happiest and most invincible he’d ever felt. No, he knows he will take it all back, undo all the distance he’s tried to maintain these last ten years, find himself where he wants to instead of where he should be. What he says is: ]
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
[ And that’s part of it, but only because he feels so confronted now, by what took six thousand years but now feels as if it’s teetered suddenly over the edge. The truth is, he may never come around for fear of being found out, but he’s also too much a coward, too selfish a person to give up on this friendship. It tears him apart, breaks his heart cleanly in half to say this, to see the look on Crowley’s face. God, why is he so expressive, even when Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes? No, he has to leave the Bentley, look away and stand tall, even as his legs shake and his head spins and his whole person rebels against itself.
He shuts the door, his face dispassionate, unmoving. He’s never felt like such a liar. ]
[ Crowley watches Aziraphale closely, unmoving, without adding pressure to his quiet offer, but tenderly, inflexibly, ready to go to war. For him--damn him, bless him, would Aziraphale always turn away from this, denying what they were to one another? How could there be any denial now that he'd given him this, this gift that Crowley asked for only once and never again, wishing never again to put Aziraphale in a position to have to refuse him and break with him for nearly a century--after Aziraphale made the choice himself, perhaps to save Crowley's life? And after all that had passed between them in this last decade, there was no more doubt to Crowley's mind that either of them could be for any side but their own. He knew very well that he would defy Hell for Aziraphale. That no temptation, no petty demonic aim meant half as much as he did.
In many ways his devotion made the holy water all the more necessary. There might very well be a time when Crowley would have to stand against his demonic brethren, and it was all the more likely now that he had fallen so completely, painfully in love with an angel.
But the words Aziraphale speaks leave him without answer. Too fast? Too fast? After everything--he feels the pain of it deep within, the bewildered, stunned kind of agony at hearing their love denied, and Crowley can do nothing but watch in silence as Aziraphale turns away and opens the door and lets himself out. Then, after the car door has shut behind him, Crowley looks at the thermos of holy water, fingers passing over it as though to pick up a hint of the warmth of Aziraphale's body. A numbing sensation settles beneath his ribs. What is he to do now? Go home, he supposes, squirrel away his treasure for when he should need it, and put the angel from his mind. It would be best, he supposes. It would be what Aziraphale wants.
With a motion made abrupt by resolution, Crowley opens the glove box, letting a pile of sunglasses spill out wherever it will and scooping out more to make room, then gingerly turns the thermos on its side and slots it into the space, closing the box up again and locking it with a scowl for good measure. Then he opens the driver's side door and unfolds himself from the car. ]
Aziraphale!
[ His voice is fraught with a tangle of fury and love. Scowling, Crowley forces down the emotions, transmuting them to mere impatience. ]
Where are you going? For Heaven's--ugh--for Hell's sake, angel, come back.
[ Oh no. This was not in the plan, this was very much not in the plan and Crowley will honestly be the death of him. All that Aziraphale had ever wanted to do was the right thing, and he has landed himself in the mess just because he gave into his own base wants and desires. In the intimate folds of their wings, on the tips of Crowley's fingers and the very core of him, he had found a personal Eden. There they both had been, and Aziraphale had reached for the apple and held his hand out for Crowley to have a taste.
It was nothing short of damnation, and how is he supposed to explain that to Crowley without placing any blame on he, cause of the original sin? ]
I don't--
[ He forcefully closes his eyes shut and then slowly turns around to face Crowley; how could Aziraphale possibly face him at a moment like this? He's rooted to the spot, but he lets Crowley approach, trying very hard not to let any of his emotions stray onto his face. ]
Yes, Crowley, did I forget something?
[ Often, he thinks about Crowley and panics. His heart seizes, his lungs frozen, and damn his brutally honest eyes; they look as if they might have beheld the greatest treasure in all the world and told the world to keep it. His words are tight, veering close to giving up the whole ghost, and he bites his tongue and wishes he had just run away. It could be that Crowley is angry with him, and he has every right to be, and Aziraphale can only hope it were so easy, that they could both walk away from this and he could just be, for once, the villain. ]
[ Well, at least that stopped him. Crowley'd like to erase all pretense between them, he'd like to take that look from Aziraphale's eyes when he turns to face him, something close to panic, but at least he's stopped. Crowley walks around the car towards him, hands in his pockets, not bothering to answer that question. Of course Aziraphale hasn't forgotten anything, unless one counts a certain quality of truth which may be owed, after the intimacy they've shared. Surely even a demon might ask for that much. Oh yes, Crowley is angry, though he hates the look on Aziraphale's face and would do just about anything to banish it. He tips his head a little to the side when he stands in front of Aziraphale, studying him, considering. ]
Come on, now, what's all this about?
[ His voice is pitched low, and it's gentled considerably now, because if there's anything Crowley dislikes worse than seeing Aziraphale in distress, it's being the cause of it. And he gave him the holy water. That very act is still resonating within his soul like some divine music. It makes him want to fall to his knees and kiss Aziraphale's hands; it makes him want to manifest his wings and fold them around him and make them both part of the dark night, out of reach of anyone who might seek to come between them. ]
You don't think I'd let you walk away like this, do you? Go off all alone with yourself, thinking very stupid thoughts about how we can't be together.
[ His voice trembles just slightly on those last few words. Doesn't Aziraphale love him, long for him too? Crowley knows he does. He touches Aziraphale's hand, tangling his long fingers with his. ]
With some miracles performed at customs, and a blessedly shorter plane ride than anticipated, Aziraphale is now sitting in the passenger's side of the Bentley, somehow now flipped to the other side. He smiles as he looks out the window and sees the vast expanse of the Pacific off the coast of Malibu, just like it had been in his dream.
In fact, there he was, wearing a souvenir t-shirt they'd bought at a gas station somewhere, eating an ice lolly (they call those "popsicles" here, how fascinating) and having put on one of those ridiculous bucket-y fishing hats that seem to be present on all American tourists.
He even tried out the accent, though after having greeted a diner waitress with a very embarrassing "Howdy," he hung up his hat and decided not to continue.
Fitting, that most of the hotels they've sauntered into have so far believed them to be on a honeymoon and sent up gifts for them. But throughout all the care packages, the ones he likes most are the little bottles of shampoo; somewhere, in the back, he has a whole bag full of them.
All in all, he was having a good time, turns to his driver and looks at him like he lights up the entire world instead of the sun.
Crowley had, of course, been to California before. Some of his best temptations took place in Los Angeles. Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Justin Beiber. He'd even tried to tempt Ed Sheeran at one point, but that turned out to be a fantastically bad idea, the ginger was just too nice for his own good.
This is different. This is a proper holiday after the apocalypse. It was a miracle the planes were flying, and then another miracle they got a seat together. And landing at LAX, he was astounded to see how fast humans were rebuilding. Of course, Los Angeles and the surrounding areas were pretty affluent. He imagines other parts of the world won't have it so lucky.
"When was the last time you were on this end of the planet, angel?" he asks. It was a quick miracle to get the Bentley here. He could have had it transported, of course, but he's feeling a bit loose with his abilities. Eventually, the demons will come after him again, and that's when he can be concerned about it.
Aziraphale is a bit lost in his thoughts so he doesn't quite acknowledge that he's been asked a question first. And then he notices and thinks about it. "Hmm, probably turn of the century, whenever the Fitzgeralds were hosting parties. Lovely people, Francis and Zelda."
He misses them quite a bit, but it has been some time since he's gone to one of their soirees.
"What about you? I'm assuming you've visited more often, dear," he says. He supposes he should have, but the religious seemed to be holding the fort and then when he actually checked up on them, of course, he hadn't realized how bad things had gotten.
"Oh, a few times," he says, by way of understating it. "Never long, though. Don't really need it in some of the areas there. Los Angeles, for example. Last time I had a temptation there it took less than two hours. Can't even cook a decent risotto in two hours, but you can claim a desperate person's soul."
Crowley shakes his head and turns the Bentley towards the north, up towards wine country. Somewhere to eat, somewhere to drink, somewhere to just relax. Maybe Aziraphale can try to pretend he's American again, which is embarrassing as anything but also fairly adorable.
"You can't cook a risotto in two hours?" he asks, bewildered. "But they always make it in twenty minutes at the restaurants. Oh, it's superb at Osteria Francescana, have you been? Of course, it is a tasting menu, so I don't think they'll have it again, but maybe you'll get lucky. Ooh, but all of it was so good, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think I had one bad bite--"
He's rambling again.
"--Anyway, dreadful about Los Angeles but they just seem all so desperate and hopeful there, it's hardly fair. Oh!" he exclaims, suddenly. "We must eat at Spago. I hear wonderful things."
"Is that the one in Beverly Hills?" He's driven past it, but he never had a reason to go in by himself. He would, with Aziraphale. He might even try to eat something, just to have the experience of eating something with his companion----best friend---lover---whatever they were, he wold love to do that, with him.
"Have you worked out what kind of ring you want?" he asks, turning the corner. "Are we doing rings? Figured you'd want to do rings."
It doesn't take long for Crowley to come slinking out of the bedroom, avoiding eye contact with the angel as he shoos the human man out of his flat, ignoring all pleas to "call him later" and whatnot.
Look, it's on George if he thinks Crowley's interest was anything more than fleeting.
"Right," he says, when the door is finally closed behind the hapless male. Clears his throat. Probably thinks don't make this awkward - oh, too late.
"What? No, I told him it was just a bit of fun, I'd never lead one on," Crowley says, flustered and trying to hide it by turning back into the kitchen to poke at whatever the fellow left in his sink.
For some reason he feels guilty, though. Not about George, perhaps, but guilty in the angel's general direction. Why? Ugh, why are feelings.
"I suppose it's not your fault if you're upfront with them," he replies, "but I really do think he wanted to change your mind. He's taken quite a liking to you."
Aziraphale situates himself on a barstool and watches while Crowley fusses with the sink.
"If you had waited any longer, I thought he might try to offer fighting me for your hand."
"He'll get over it," Crowley says, trying to be dismissive, trying not to look put out or uncomfortable, but it's difficult to do so around the angel. It's bad enough never knowing if the things he'll say will keep Aziraphale around or push him away for a few decades or what, without this extra tension.
"That'd hardly be a fair fight, Mister Guardian of the Eastern Gate," he adds, trying to make it into a joke, snapping his fingers to miracle away the dirty plate in the sink.
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for sauntered_downward / cw: graphic violence
There Aziraphale had stood, in front leading an army of men, when finally the clouds parted and the Earth swelled and God and Satan came to take his call.
Well, not specifically his call, but that is precisely how it felt at the time.
They called for a truce, and the Almighty had stood as a figure, small as a human but glowing with absolute heavenly radiance, and shook one large, red hand that was bigger than her whole body.
Exhausted, relieved, Aziraphale hobbled over to a familiar-looking suit of armor, and leaned up against it, loosing his sword to the ground.
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It wasn't easy. Hellfire in the hands of humans was vicious, though. Many of them, inspired by the news and the other humans, threw it at the angels without a second thought. Thousands of them, brandishing fire. And when he was with the fire-brandishing humans he couldn't be anywhere near Aziraphale. When Aziraphale was blessing the rainclouds he couldn't be anywhere near him either. All he could do was fight, and worry.
Try to do what Aziraphale would do. He watched as a blessed rain approached. It wouldn't hurt any of humanity, but as that column of water came down, it would destroy him instantly.
"Is that your armor?"
Hastur. Of course he would find Crowley here. Crowley held out the flamethrower, but it was useless against the demon.
"I should have known. They said the humans started fighting back. Only you would cause them to rise up. Traitor!" Hastur swung with his crowbar, hitting Crowley squarely in the stomach, the force of which was mostly taken by the armor. He struck again, this time in the leg, which wasn't covered with any sort of protection. Hastur twisted, and a curse ran through it, hitting Crowley in the thigh. Pain ran through him, the kind that you only get from the deeper levels of Hell.
"It's not only me this time, Hastur," Crowley hissed back. No, not just him. He had Aziraphale. He had the blessings of angels on his side. The blessed raincloud approached, and Crowley gave a solid kick, sending the demon back into it. He hobbled away at top speed, as fast as he could move with the curse radiating through his leg. He ran, ran as fast as he could, but his leg hurt too much, he wasn't moving fast enough, the rain was coming too quickly---
And suddenly, just like that, it stopped. The rainclouds, the fire. The angels and demons stopped. Crowley limped towards where they were all looking. Something was happening. A truce?
Oh, Crowley didn't trust truces. He'd tempted too many generals to break them during times of war.
"Aziraphale?" he called out as his friend approached him.
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"We have to get you inside somewhere," he says, ignoring all the humans around him who are confused whether or not it's over, or who are nervously celebrating and hugging each other. Someone falls to their knees to pray, and others stop to mourn their dead.
Eventually, they come into agreement that it's over, and that they were spared from judgment. Aziraphale wants to yell at the top of his lungs that that's not how it works, but he's too exhausted at the moment and manages just to roll his eyes instead.
Uriel comes on over with a sneer on his face, looking mighty holier-than-thou, and despite how he is feeling at present, Aziraphale whips around and takes the sword up again, assuming a fighting stance and standing bodily between him and Crowley. Seems as if he didn't trust generals during times of truce, either.
"You've chosen unwisely, Aziraphale. Heaven won't look kindly on this."
"Heaven decided not to look too kindly on Earth either," Aziraphale responds, one eye shut because blood has trickled down with the sweat from his brow.
"Your judgment is coming," he says, and then turns to Crowley. "Don't forget that yours is, as well, demon."
As soon as Uriel is gone, Aziraphale relaxes his position. "He's always so disdainful."
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He lets out a noise of pain, gripping his leg and dropping the weapon. This could be bad, it could be very bad. He wants to tell Aziraphale he's fine, that it's nothing, but Hastur never let anything be nothing. He always liked to make things as bad as possible. He straightens up, trying to push it down. Can't let Aziraphale see it, not right now. Crowley can imagine it's fine and it will be fine until he's ready to deal with it.
"Is it over like that?" he says through gritted teeth. "Just like that? Shake hands, bugger off? Act like it's just---that that's it? All these people dead and that's it?"
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He, very belatedly, noticed that Crowley is lying to him about his pain, and attempts to find where it is he's hurt. He discovers he can't tell where it is, but unlike with Anathema's bike, he knows exactly how Crowley is supposed to be, and so very easily performs a restorative miracle. Once he's sat Crowley inside, he'll have to come back out and do a few more of them, make sure everyone alive is in working condition.
Honestly, he can't believe it's over just like that either, and with so many dead. It's like they don't even care, like everyone around them was just a pawn. Aziraphale has never felt more faithless than in this moment, and focuses in on Crowley because he doesn't want to look back at all the carnage behind them; he seems to be on the verge of collapse.
Another rain starts, to wash this all away. It isn't blessed, since there are a few demons who get hit with it and haven't melted, but Aziraphale instinctually unfolds his wings from his back, and lifts one gingerly over Crowley's head.
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He leans against Aziraphale as the wing goes over his head. The angel looks tired, shaken. And, really, very dirty. It would take no more than a little miracle to clean him up, to make things at least look right, but it would take a lot more to make things better. All the same, he waves his hand over him, removing the blood, the damage from his suit. Restoring something to him.
"Ineffable Plan," Crowley says. "The Plan. We can't have been a part of it."
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He hardly thinks it was worth it, at the moment.
Aziraphale puts his arm around Crowley, turns his face into his shoulder, and lets his cries be muffled by the armor. He has never felt his faith slip quite like this before, and he doesn't know presently which direction to place his anger.
He has to pull himself together, partially because the two of them are technically sort of supposed to be the leaders of the human army, but as people disperse to take shelter from the rain, he lets himself take a little longer than a moment.
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for temptational
As the flame burned brighter and brighter, Aziraphale had started to reconsider, not their love, but their proximity. They would both burn up like this, in each other’s hubris of thinking they could get away with betraying their respective offices; the length of the Arrangement has made them comfortable. The depth of their affection has made them foolish. And sometimes, though his heart aches to do so, he turns to Crowley and when he feels that he might move both Heaven and Hell for him, instead tells him that he has business to attend and perhaps he should be making his way home.
He’d put out of his mind the conversation that they’d had about the holy water, because at the time, Aziraphale had naturally assumed that Crowley had had enough of this being tied to a master he didn’t want to serve, and perhaps he had grown weary of the offerings on this Earth. It wasn’t until one of his men mentioned offhandedly of a heist involving holy water that his heart leapt up into his throat and he’d abruptly ended their conversation to go hatch his own plan.
Which is how he finds himself in Crowley’s car, half wanting to apologize for assuming that he would ever have chosen to leave the angel bereft of him, and half wanting to admonish him for something so unbelievably stupid as a holy water heist. Honestly, the humans he was working with didn’t even know what this meant and what it would do to him, and their carelessness would yield devastating results. ]
You can call off the robbery. Don’t go unscrewing the cap.
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As if his angel didn’t feel the same fire, the same soul-lighting joy and fierce longing of coming together again, losing themselves entirely in one another. As if he could be at peace when they were apart, denying how much they needed one another. Perhaps he did deny it, Crowley had thought, a little bitterly. While Crowley threw himself into his temptations and felt as though his heart would shred itself apart with yearning, while he ached with the physical need for Aziraphale that only burned brighter every time they met, perhaps Aziraphale comforted himself in the knowledge that it was righteous and holy to abstain from the love of a demon.
He had thought these things, from time to time; now he didn’t know what to think. It seemed like the purest declaration of love, sitting there in his hands, as raw and unguarded as it felt when they were entwined with one another, bodies, wings, souls: Crowley felt his fingers tremble a little, the urge to drag Aziraphale to him consuming his thoughts. Should he thank him? Kiss him? Tell him how much he loved him, missed him, longed intolerably for him— ]
I’ll give you a lift home. [ He offers softly. They should talk, he and Aziraphale, somewhere they can take their time. ]
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Not to mention that his dearest had an excess of courage, always jumping right into the deep end. There he was sat with the only thing that could physically destroy him, with the only love that would endanger his very person. And he had already risked life and limb for Aziraphale, several times, most recently in a very church bouncing around like his feet were on coals; the more he thought about it, the guiltier he felt. And he knows that Crowley wants to talk, wants to take him back to the bookstore and ask him what’s really on his mind, and he is much too scared to have this conversation right now. He’s even more terrified that he won’t be able to resist, with the two of them alone again in the place he loves most where they first confessed their love and Aziraphale had felt, in the moment, the happiest and most invincible he’d ever felt. No, he knows he will take it all back, undo all the distance he’s tried to maintain these last ten years, find himself where he wants to instead of where he should be. What he says is: ]
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
[ And that’s part of it, but only because he feels so confronted now, by what took six thousand years but now feels as if it’s teetered suddenly over the edge. The truth is, he may never come around for fear of being found out, but he’s also too much a coward, too selfish a person to give up on this friendship. It tears him apart, breaks his heart cleanly in half to say this, to see the look on Crowley’s face. God, why is he so expressive, even when Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes? No, he has to leave the Bentley, look away and stand tall, even as his legs shake and his head spins and his whole person rebels against itself.
He shuts the door, his face dispassionate, unmoving. He’s never felt like such a liar. ]
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In many ways his devotion made the holy water all the more necessary. There might very well be a time when Crowley would have to stand against his demonic brethren, and it was all the more likely now that he had fallen so completely, painfully in love with an angel.
But the words Aziraphale speaks leave him without answer. Too fast? Too fast? After everything--he feels the pain of it deep within, the bewildered, stunned kind of agony at hearing their love denied, and Crowley can do nothing but watch in silence as Aziraphale turns away and opens the door and lets himself out. Then, after the car door has shut behind him, Crowley looks at the thermos of holy water, fingers passing over it as though to pick up a hint of the warmth of Aziraphale's body. A numbing sensation settles beneath his ribs. What is he to do now? Go home, he supposes, squirrel away his treasure for when he should need it, and put the angel from his mind. It would be best, he supposes. It would be what Aziraphale wants.
With a motion made abrupt by resolution, Crowley opens the glove box, letting a pile of sunglasses spill out wherever it will and scooping out more to make room, then gingerly turns the thermos on its side and slots it into the space, closing the box up again and locking it with a scowl for good measure. Then he opens the driver's side door and unfolds himself from the car. ]
Aziraphale!
[ His voice is fraught with a tangle of fury and love. Scowling, Crowley forces down the emotions, transmuting them to mere impatience. ]
Where are you going? For Heaven's--ugh--for Hell's sake, angel, come back.
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It was nothing short of damnation, and how is he supposed to explain that to Crowley without placing any blame on he, cause of the original sin? ]
I don't--
[ He forcefully closes his eyes shut and then slowly turns around to face Crowley; how could Aziraphale possibly face him at a moment like this? He's rooted to the spot, but he lets Crowley approach, trying very hard not to let any of his emotions stray onto his face. ]
Yes, Crowley, did I forget something?
[ Often, he thinks about Crowley and panics. His heart seizes, his lungs frozen, and damn his brutally honest eyes; they look as if they might have beheld the greatest treasure in all the world and told the world to keep it. His words are tight, veering close to giving up the whole ghost, and he bites his tongue and wishes he had just run away. It could be that Crowley is angry with him, and he has every right to be, and Aziraphale can only hope it were so easy, that they could both walk away from this and he could just be, for once, the villain. ]
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Come on, now, what's all this about?
[ His voice is pitched low, and it's gentled considerably now, because if there's anything Crowley dislikes worse than seeing Aziraphale in distress, it's being the cause of it. And he gave him the holy water. That very act is still resonating within his soul like some divine music. It makes him want to fall to his knees and kiss Aziraphale's hands; it makes him want to manifest his wings and fold them around him and make them both part of the dark night, out of reach of anyone who might seek to come between them. ]
You don't think I'd let you walk away like this, do you? Go off all alone with yourself, thinking very stupid thoughts about how we can't be together.
[ His voice trembles just slightly on those last few words. Doesn't Aziraphale love him, long for him too? Crowley knows he does. He touches Aziraphale's hand, tangling his long fingers with his. ]
Come on, come have a drink with me.
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i forgot he was even still wearing pants LMAO
what are miracles for?
definitely getting rid of your husband's pants
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for sauntered_downward
In fact, there he was, wearing a souvenir t-shirt they'd bought at a gas station somewhere, eating an ice lolly (they call those "popsicles" here, how fascinating) and having put on one of those ridiculous bucket-y fishing hats that seem to be present on all American tourists.
He even tried out the accent, though after having greeted a diner waitress with a very embarrassing "Howdy," he hung up his hat and decided not to continue.
Fitting, that most of the hotels they've sauntered into have so far believed them to be on a honeymoon and sent up gifts for them. But throughout all the care packages, the ones he likes most are the little bottles of shampoo; somewhere, in the back, he has a whole bag full of them.
All in all, he was having a good time, turns to his driver and looks at him like he lights up the entire world instead of the sun.
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This is different. This is a proper holiday after the apocalypse. It was a miracle the planes were flying, and then another miracle they got a seat together. And landing at LAX, he was astounded to see how fast humans were rebuilding. Of course, Los Angeles and the surrounding areas were pretty affluent. He imagines other parts of the world won't have it so lucky.
"When was the last time you were on this end of the planet, angel?" he asks. It was a quick miracle to get the Bentley here. He could have had it transported, of course, but he's feeling a bit loose with his abilities. Eventually, the demons will come after him again, and that's when he can be concerned about it.
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He misses them quite a bit, but it has been some time since he's gone to one of their soirees.
"What about you? I'm assuming you've visited more often, dear," he says. He supposes he should have, but the religious seemed to be holding the fort and then when he actually checked up on them, of course, he hadn't realized how bad things had gotten.
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Crowley shakes his head and turns the Bentley towards the north, up towards wine country. Somewhere to eat, somewhere to drink, somewhere to just relax. Maybe Aziraphale can try to pretend he's American again, which is embarrassing as anything but also fairly adorable.
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He's rambling again.
"--Anyway, dreadful about Los Angeles but they just seem all so desperate and hopeful there, it's hardly fair. Oh!" he exclaims, suddenly. "We must eat at Spago. I hear wonderful things."
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"Have you worked out what kind of ring you want?" he asks, turning the corner. "Are we doing rings? Figured you'd want to do rings."
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for goodtobebad
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Look, it's on George if he thinks Crowley's interest was anything more than fleeting.
"Right," he says, when the door is finally closed behind the hapless male. Clears his throat. Probably thinks don't make this awkward - oh, too late.
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He doesn't judge Crowley on his choice of sexual partners, but he does judge him on his crass mannerisms in dealing with rejecting them.
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For some reason he feels guilty, though. Not about George, perhaps, but guilty in the angel's general direction. Why? Ugh, why are feelings.
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Aziraphale situates himself on a barstool and watches while Crowley fusses with the sink.
"If you had waited any longer, I thought he might try to offer fighting me for your hand."
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"That'd hardly be a fair fight, Mister Guardian of the Eastern Gate," he adds, trying to make it into a joke, snapping his fingers to miracle away the dirty plate in the sink.
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