Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley throws a copy of Pride and Prejudice out of the window of his parked Bentley. His estimation of one Ms. Jane Austen has absolutely plummeted in recent days. Mostly because he’s discovered that one of the main characters of what is apparently the foremost romance novel of the past couple centuries is a poorly-disguised caricature of himself.

Most ardently—pah. Rubbish. Bunk! Crowley wouldn’t be caught dead saying such cliché tripe.

It’s a damn shame, really. He’d truly thought the two of them had a good thing going, back in the day. They’d shared some laughs, gone in on a high-stakes burglary or two… they’d respected each other, you know? But Crowley sees now that good ol’ Jane from Hampshire wasn’t the person he thought she was. It all just goes to show: you think you really know someone. You go out on a limb and extend a bit of trust, and how do they decide to repay you? By making an absolute fool out of you. By throwing years of friendship back in your face. By betraying you in the worst way possible. And then, when they’re finally done doing all that, they–

…Ahem. Anyway. Crowley’s taking the breakup rather well, he thinks, binge-reading outdated romance novels aside. He’s got plenty of other things going on in his life. Like screaming at the plants. And driving in circles around the English countryside. And drinking.

Lots and lots of drinking.

And, if at some point, Crowley just so happened to spend two entire days curled up in the back seat of his car blasting Bonnie Tyler on repeat… then that’s his own bloody business. No one else’s. What’s 48 hours, anyways? Barely even makes up a fraction of a percent of the past eight months. So it doesn’t count. Nothing more than a blip on the radar.

Which means it really wouldn’t be a big deal if he ran the score up a little more, Crowley thinks, turning to dig around the contents of his passenger seat area. However, before he can begin scrounging around for another bottle, he pauses.

The previously mentioned copy of Pride and Prejudice, which should be laying face down in a muddy puddle outside of his automobile, has returned. It sits there, amongst a pile of random junk, looking polite and pristine in comparison. Sure enough, when Crowley picks it up, a note slips out. It reads, in an elegant, familiar script: “Usual table at the Ritz, 15 minutes.”

Crowley has half a mind to rip the damn thing up and light the scraps on fire. But that wouldn’t make any difference, now would it? His gentleman caller is very, very persistent when he deigns to call. There is no such thing as leaving Aziraphale on read. Satan knows Crowley has tried.

And so he heaves a long-suffering sigh, jerks the Bentley into drive, and tosses his keys at the valet attendant on duty outside the Ritz—all in under 10 minutes.

Sure enough, when he storms in, Aziraphale spots him immediately. He smiles expectantly and waves him over, as though this is an entirely standard encounter among friends, and all that lies between them is well and good.

In retrospect, this should have tipped Crowley off as to how disastrous the coming events would prove to be.

Alas.

"I thought I told you," Crowley opens, pulling up a chair and plopping himself into it with a petulant thud. "I'm not talking to you about anything. Not until you’re ready to talk about-"

"About us, yes, yes," Aziraphale says, also choosing to forgo a proper greeting. “I made sure to give that particular subject priority on the list. First order of business: The Matter of Our Indelible Mutual Romantic Interest."

Crowley just stares at him for a long moment, dumbstruck. Aziraphale continues to look quite pleased with himself.

"...Alright," he eventually manages, both confused and alarmed. "Where the fuck is this all coming from, then?"

"The agenda?" Aziraphale answers, gesturing to the piece of paper he’s holding in his hands. "I thought having one might come in handy. After all, we have quite a lot of ground to cover."

“No, no, wait,” Crowley says, raising a hand to signal him to stop. He feels like he needs to grab onto something, lest the speed at which the Earth is suddenly spinning throw him off balance completely. “Wait one goddamned second.” Aziraphale regards him with disapproval over taking the name in vain, but waits as requested while Crowley attempts to put himself back together. “Look, the last time I tried to tell you–” He falters. “The last time we talked,” he corrects, “you didn’t have much interest in this particular subject.” Which is putting it lightly. Crowley’s tactic of shouting his feelings at him as loudly as possible was cathartic, and Aziraphale needed to know that he wasn’t going to be let off the hook, but that was about all that went down. No real dialog emerged from the effort. “You’ll have to forgive me for asking, but what’s changed?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Aziraphale quips. “I did some thinking, and I realized that, despite all the time we’ve spent together, you and I have somehow never communicated openly.”

Crowley has to stop himself from flipping over the table. “That just occurred to you!?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale frowns at him in warning. “Did it not just recently occur to you?”

Crowley decides not to try and counter that.

“As I was saying. I had a bit of an epiphany the other day.” Aziraphale huffs, annoyed. “You would not believe how difficult it is to get a small team of what should be reasonably capable professionals to work collaboratively with each other. It’s nigh impossible to get everyone on the same page! If someone hasn’t neglected to RSVP for a meeting they’ve been sent multiple invitations to, then they’re forgetting to correctly cc all the stakeholders in an important email, or failing to provide enough information when delegating tasks!” He pouts, clearly put out. “Honestly. They may as well change my job title to Senior Cat Herder.”

Somehow, Crowley finds it difficult to summon much sympathy for his plight. “Is this going to be more than you venting about the office at some point, or…?”

“The point is,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring his little outburst, “is that I’ve realized misunderstandings cannot possibly be resolved until all involved parties are fully informed of the relevant facts. Furthermore, there are several things that I suspect you and I are not quite in alignment on.”

Crowley crosses his arms, encouraged by this development but still unwilling to appear as such. “Hell of a revelation.”

“Divine inspiration would be a more apt description, I think.” He can call it whatever the Hell he wants. So long as Aziraphale’s willing to play ball, Crowley supposes he’ll hear him out. “In any case, if we might table that for a moment… I think there was something we didn’t finish thrashing out, as it were, back at the bookstore.”

Crowley coughs. “Think I said my piece already.” He’s not sure if he’ll survive repeating it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “You did. I fear that I didn’t.”

Crowley does not become nervous of what comes next. He does not start sweating, nor does he start fidgeting, nor does get a lump in his throat. Would be very unlike him to do anything of the sort.

“Or,” Aziraphale says, carefully, “is that perhaps not necessary at this time?”

“I mean…” Crowley mutters. He’ll be the first to tell you that Aziraphale has a naughty little mean streak hidden deep down inside that he pretends to never indulge—but he’ll also be the first to tell you that the angel is not, on any level, prone to cruelty. Unlike Crowley, he knows when to ease up on the gas. He possesses enough awareness to sense when it might be best to, you know… take it easy on him. “Probably don’t need to go into detail, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Thankfully, Aziraphale decides to be magnanimous, and spares him. He still, however, regards him with a knowing look when he says, “That’s a relief. I was beginning to think I might have been too subtle…”

“Subtle,” Crowley laughs, rather shakily. “Not sure I’d use that word. Whole mess with the Children’s Crusade wouldn’t have made much sense, otherwise, now would it?” It’s not a happy memory, that’s for sure. But it’s still an important one—at least in his book. ¹

It is now Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. “Oh, my dear,” he says, looking a bit embarrassed on his behalf. “I’m afraid this goes much further back than the 13th century.”

Crowley chokes.

"Please don’t misunderstand," Aziraphale says, gently, when it becomes evident that Crowley is not in a state to carry the conversation forward. "I don’t intend to request anything of you that you are unable to readily supply," he adds, playing coy. "I do, however, think it's high time to dispel with the pretense that there is nothing larger at play between us. I think that yarn has just about run its course by now, don’t you agree?"

"Right,” Crowley repeats, still somewhat dazed, “just about.”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale scratches something off his list. “Glad that’s sorted.”

So… that’s it, then. An eon of pining, dragged out into the open. Just like that. “Jesus Christ,” Crowley mutters.

“Yes, actually,” Aziraphale says, growing noticeably less relaxed. “That brings us to the next order of business: The Matter of My, ah…” He looks about as uncomfortable now as Crowley felt only moments prior. “My Current Assignment, let’s say.”

He has a bad feeling about this. “Which is what, exactly? ”

Aziraphale twiddles his thumbs. “The second coming.”

“What did I bloody tell you,” Crowley hisses, only barely managing to not outright shout in the middle of the restaurant. “You see now? Damn it, Aziraphale, I tried to warn you, it was obvious they were planning something, how much more clear could I have been, I can’t believe you walked right into–” Now that they’re onto the bad news, Cowley finds he is feeling much more in control of the conversation. Which is a nice change of pace! Unfortunately, he is not nearly as in control of himself—in fact, he is so angry that he is approaching incoherency. “I fucking knew it!!”

“No, you very much didn’t,” Aziraphale says, impatiently. “At least not the particulars. And neither would I if I wasn’t in direct contact with Heaven. You realize that, yes?”

Oh, bullshit. Like this whole ordeal was all some kind of spy mission. Crowley’s not buying it. If that were actually the case, he would have made a big fuss about getting into character and changing into some stupid kitschy costume. “Alright, 007,” Crowley sneers, beginning to simmer down. “So what exactly does Apocalypse 2.0 entail, since you have everything completely figured out?”

Aziraphale backs down. “Yes, well. I… I don’t know that yet! In fact, I… don’t know much of anything yet.” He coughs. “It seems, despite supposedly being the designated lead of this project, that I am decidedly out of the loop. First they dragged out the onboarding process beyond all comprehension, and now I find myself charged with all manner of tasks well outside of my supposed purview…” He sighs. “Assuming positive intent is all well and good, but it doesn’t explain why I’m being kept under an obvious information blackout.” Aziraphale’s expression darkens. “There is, however, one possible explanation that I can think of.”

Crowley’s blood runs cold. “They’re holding you hostage.” Shit. Fuck. This is bad. But, at the same time, it explains a lot. “Angel, this is a perfect example of the kind of thing you’re meant to tell me up front.” He could have made his predicament clear much earlier, given some kind of signal, or a sign, or… augh, he could have done something! Damn, they really do have a problem on their hands with this whole communication business, don’t they?

Aziraphale tuts. “Well it hardly seemed necessary! This is a corporate superstructure we’re talking about, mind you. Of course it’s holding me hostage! That’s only the basic framework of the entire enterprise.”

After a bit of thought, Crowley reluctantly finds that Aziraphale has a point. He himself has described his experience being employed by Hell in very similar terms: specifically, he said it felt like having the sword of Damocles dangling above his head 24/7. And he’s always maintained that Hell is no different from Heaven, hasn’t he? Their outward appearances could fool you—the hostile grind of a corporation certainly seems to contrast with the mind-numbing monotony of a bureaucracy—but the soul-crushing natures of each are identical. These organizational structures were always intended to function as two sides of the same coin; while they may seem to operate in opposition, in actuality they mutually rely on one another to exist. 

Hilarious, really. Marx most certainly was right.

“So, wait,” Crowley says, again finding himself struggling to keep up, “what are you doing here right now if they’re keeping tabs on you?” He can’t be that stupid, could he? Err, no, strike that: he absolutely could.

Aziraphale is sporting the kind of look that indicates he currently regards himself as exceptionally clever. “That’s simple, dear: meetings. I went through all of the higher ups’ calendars and found the longest continuous section of time in which everyone’s availability was blocked out!” Upon seeing Crowley’s skeptical expression, his face falls. “Listen. You haven’t had to deal with these maniacs. They are adamant about maintaining very precise schedules. When they set their status to busy, they are actually busy. Much too busy to respond to emails about time-sensitive issues, in any case,” he grumbles. “Besides, as I said, I don’t currently know anything of any great importance. Now, if that were to change—if I were to find myself entrusted with any actually sensitive information… Well, I imagine my ability to come and go more or less freely would become strained.” Aziraphale looks very serious indeed when he says: “For all I know, this might be our last, best chance to share notes.”

Crowley frowns, also taking in the seriousness of the situation. This is the feeling he dreads the most: when he can feel their remaining time together slipping through his fingers, grain by grain. “Best get a move on, then.”

“Oh, yes, we should still have about…” He pulls a watch from his pocket. “Forty minutes! Plenty of time to get through the remaining affairs. I’ve yet to go over on a single meeting, I’ll have you know!”

“Yeah? They ought to give you a performance award,” Crowley remarks, sarcastic.

“They really should,” Aziraphale agrees. “Now, in light of all this, I think it might be a good idea to circle back to the idea of you returning to–”

“No.” Crowley is not having this discussion again. There’s no point. “Not happening.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows in that adorable, infuriating way of his. “You’re not even thinking about what I’m asking you.”

“Correct! I’m not. And I don’t intend to.” Crowley crosses his arms, slouching back in his seat. It might be a immature display, but fuck it. He’s not going to budge. “Because it is not happening. I’m not going backwards just because you are, and I’m not going to up and leave my life here behind, and I’m sure as Hell not getting the both of us tied up in a hostage situation with no blasted plan.” The fact that Azirphale continues to think that this is a proposition he would ever accept still stings. But it’s stung for long enough now that being reminded of it no longer makes him fly into a rage. If anything, it just makes him feel tired.

“Thankfully, that’s not at all what I’m proposing,” Aziraphale answers, completely unmoved. “I said I have no information, I didn’t say I have no plan. You and I hold them hostage right back—that’s the plan.” He leans in, conspiratorially. “I know how Heaven works, Crowley. They’re not like you and I. None of them—not a single soul in C-suite—is capable of trusting anyone else. We would run circles around them.” Something must have gotten into him. Normally, he dons a certain air of reluctance whenever they find themselves forced to sit down and formally conspire behind their bosses’ backs. But there’s no hesitancy here. He actually wants to do this. “Frankly, it would be easy.”

Crowley thinks it over, and finds that he agrees: it would be easy. In fact, he suspects that it would probably even be fun. He already managed to waltz on into Heaven and take exactly what it was he was looking for, nearly sight unseen, before waltzing back on out again, accompanied by nothing more than a bottom-rank no-name drone. It would be very, very different if he were to go in under the protection of the queen bee herself. The task of disrupting the Heavenly order would amount to child’s play. They'd turn the entire place upside down like it was nothing. Those uppity assholes would have no idea what hit them until it was too late.

But, then again… naaaah.

Crowley doesn’t have to say anything for Aziraphale to understand that his answer hasn’t changed. “No? And what is your solution? Sit this one out and hope it goes away? Crowley, you can’t walk away from this any more than I can.” Ah, but if Aziraphale thinks he can’t walk away from whatever he damn well pleases then he’s in for quite the surprise. “I meant what I said before,” he says, all the fight suddenly dropping out of his voice. “I need you. We outsmarted them last time, and I know we can do it again, but I can’t do it on my own. You were right: we’ve always been able to rely on each other. We’ve always had each other’s backs.” His tone is imploring. Crowley hates when he implores. “I would very much like for that to be the case here, too.”

But it wouldn’t be. It fundamentally could not be. In this fantasy, the angel that stands by Aziraphale’s side throughout his little corporate caper stunt is not Crowley. Because if Crowley were to go along with this, he would cease to be himself.

And no matter what Aziraphale thinks he wants from Crowley, that is just not a sacrifice he can make. He refused to go along with his request for holy water back in the day because he thought Crowley intended to off himself with it. Little does he know this is explicitly what he is asking Crowley to do for him, here and now: if he had his way, he would lead him into self-destruction.

It's easy—far too easy—to see only what we wish to see. To get caught up in what we represent to each other, and to lose sight of the Real. And it is difficult—so, so difficult—to understand one another in our totality. To recognize, to perceive, and, ultimately, to accept what lies before us.

It’s not for a lack of trying that Aziraphale is unable to understand him, to understand why he cannot do this. It doesn’t come naturally to him, or to anyone, really: after all, how could anyone think it better to stand outside the warmth of God’s light, only to lurk in the shade? What kind of idiot would forgo the carrot in favor of the stick? The customers at the café across from the old bookstore never order death, because, well, they’re not supposed to. Why would anyone choose to live a life not in accordance with God's will?

Duh: because they can.

"You must know that I-" Aziraphale says, and then stops. "I need you to understand," he corrects. "I don't want you to be wrong. I truly wish you weren't."

Crowley really doesn’t have anything to say to that. This would be so much easier if he weren’t coming at him in complete sincerity.

When all he’s met with is further stonewalling, Aziraphale grows frantic. “I don’t understand why you insist on making this so difficult. Can you not set aside your pride just this once?” It’s a stupid question: of course he could. He’s tossed his pride aside for Aziraphale’s sake a million times over. But this is about much more than something as trivial as pride. “The whole living in the car situation was one thing, but this? What is this meant to prove?” Nothing! This isn’t about proving anything! “Do you honestly think I don’t remember how–” Aziraphale wavers, like he knows what he is about to say is out of bounds. Crowley narrows his eyes at him, waiting for him to screw up. “How you were before,” he reluctantly finishes.

Yup. Extremely out of bounds. Crowley hopes his voice is sufficiently dripping with disdain. “That depends. Mind sharing with the class exactly how, in your estimation, I was?”

Crowley expects him to bring out his least favorite four letter word: nice. Or perhaps kind. Or maybe even good. Something that attempts to reimagine him as the compliant, naïve, obsequious little angel he never was. But these are not the words Aziraphale chooses to use. After much hesitation, Aziraphale opens his mouth and says, “you were happy.”

Well, fuck.

“That’s not what I remember,” Crowley says, looking away.

This is not the desired response. “Oh, come now. I was there, Crowley, I remember it like it was yesterday, I know what I saw–”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts, cursing himself for letting this continue. But he’s been following Aziraphale’s lead for ages now. Old habits die hard. “For once, I need you to listen to what I am saying: I do not remember it that way. ” If they’re going to start being honest—if the solution to the mess that they’re in now is full disclosure, as Aziraphale seems to believe—then he needs to not just hear Crowley out; he needs to listen. “As in, I have no memory of what you’re talking about. None.” He either understands what he’s saying, or they’re done here. Aziraphale is too damn smart for Crowley to have to piece together every little thing for him. “Sound familiar?”

Aziraphale picks up on what Crowley is saying immediately, but if the series of expressions that pass over his face are any indication, the ramifications of what he has just learned take a minute to sink in. Crowley can track the thoughts as they appear: “oh,” followed by “just like with Gabriel,” followed by “but how could that be,” followed by “what reason could they have had to do this,” followed by “why didn’t you tell me,” followed by “this explains everything.”

“No wonder you refused to come with me,” Aziraphale mumbles, reaching the exact incorrect conclusion from this newfound information. “You really didn’t have any idea what I was offering you, did you?”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course Azirphale takes this knowledge and finds a way to wander even further off-base with it. Always finding brilliant ways to make things harder than they have to be. That’s his angel.

“It makes so much sense,” he continues. “I always thought that your status as a demon didn’t make sense.” His hand is hovering over his mouth now, like he’s trying and failing to hold back words that have been struggling to escape for a long, long time. “You.. you never deserved to fall.” 

You know, the term fall, as it is used in this particular context, has never sat well with Crowley. It’s a cowardly euphemism—one that makes the whole affair sound accidental, completely erasing the agency of the parties involved. As though God had simply stuck Her foot out as a prank, only unintentionally causing half the population of Heaven to take a long fiery tumble down into the inky depths. Which is very much not how it happened. Crowley, for one, would have never let himself be embarrassed like that. When he moves, he does so with style, thank you very much. Taking his first trip downstairs would have been no different. He sure as Hell wouldn’t have slipped.

Least, he doesn’t think he would. He can’t be 100% sure, after all. There are things that he remembers, and there are things that he does not. And then, beyond that, there are the things that he can reasonably estimate—the places where the furniture used to be. Bare patches in the dust where one can infer that something used to exist, if not quite the full shape and nature of the thing-that-once-was.

He remembers a war, and he remembers fire, and he remembers a landscape alight with chaos and upheaval. He does not remember picking up a weapon, but he does remember putting one down. He remembers waking, after it was all over, to discover that he had fallen… yet he is unable to remember the actual fall itself. He remembers standing at the border of Heaven and watching his defeated brothers and sisters being cast into the pit, kicking and screaming and burning and suffering. He remembers accepting the fact that he would soon be joining them. He remembers peering down into the abyss whilst awaiting his judgment, letting his feet dangle over the edge, wondering what would happen if he leaned just a little further forward—what would happen if he met his fate of his own accord? He remembers questioning whether it would still hurt. He doesn't remember what happened next, but he doesn't need to. Whichever way it happened, he knows it was very painful indeed.

And, as with all things, that pain eventually faded.

So no—he does not long to return to being an angel, in the same way that butterflies don't long for the good old days of being a caterpillar. Sure, he can stop time, but even he cannot make it flow backwards. There’s no old self to go back to. There's a graveyard littered with headstones with each of his former names emblazoned on them, yes—but there's no bodies to be found inside any of the caskets. There's nothing to resurrect.

What’s there to mourn, then? Crowley’s right here, alive and well. Still the same old ethereal being he ever was.

The only difference being that now, he's free.

“Has it ever occurred to you, angel,” Crowley says, feeling like he would like nothing more than to take a nap for the next couple of eternities, “that I might not be quite who you thought I wa–”

“No, it has not,” Aziraphale says, interrupting again, “because you are.” He is no longer arguing with him. That was a declarative statement he issued, just then. “You are. You are exactly the being that I remember. That is precisely what I am trying to tell you!” Aziraphale puffs himself up all indignant like. Crowley instantly knows that whatever words come out of his mouth next are going to piss him off. Unfortunately, what he winds up saying turns out to be much worse than he could have possibly imagined: “And that is why I refuse to let you settle.”

This is the moment in which Crowley realizes that they are doomed. “Settle,” he repeats dumbly, certain he could not possibly have heard that word correctly. “Settle?”

“Yes, settle!” It makes less sense the more he repeats it. “That is exactly what you are asking me to help you to do, when you ask me to give us a chance.” The words tumble out of Aziraphale, aggrieved and self-righteous. “And I can’t let you. I won’t.” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

“Oh.” Crowley finds himself shaking his head too, as though it will clear his mind of the absolute lunacy that he has just been subjected to. He feels ill. “Oh shit, Aziraphale,” he says, bereft. “Oh my God.”

Aziraphale watches him, and grows visibly confused, clearly unable to figure out what the big deal is.

Here is the deal, and make no mistake—it is a biggy: The Principality known as Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, possesses not only a good heart, but a pure one. He wants what’s best for everyone, and he thinks that this is a goal that is possible for every single soul across the universe to achieve simultaneously, without coming into conflict. He believes in things like make-believe, and fairy tales, and lucky charms, and promises whispered as you cross your heart. He believes, like a child, that there will come a day when all suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdities inherent to beingness will vanish like a pitiful mirage, that something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, for all the blood that has ever been shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive, but to justify all that has come to pass. Aziraphale believes in silver linings. He believes that the sun will rise again tomorrow, and he believes in skies forever blue. He believes in the power of laughter, and of songs, and of magic. He believes in second chances, third chances, fourth chances, and on and on. He believes in forgiveness unrelenting. He believes God is on their side. He believes God is on everyone’s side.

And, above all else, he believes in Crowley. He believes that Crowley deserves better.

He believes that Crowley deserves better than him.

“Fuck.” Crowley buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–”

“Is the cursing really necessary?” Aziraphale asks, because he just so happens to also be a pig-headed, arrogant moron. A pure-hearted one, but one all the same.

“It very much fucking is,” Crowley moans. “Now if you don’t mind, I am trying to wallow in despair, here.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Aziraphale says, in his ignorance. “Not exactly conducive to achieving alignment on this issue, I have to say.” He really doesn’t understand how bad things are. Just no idea at all as to how hopelessly lost he is. Nary a clue. He is, as always, so, so smart, and so, so, so stupid.

And if all that wasn’t bad enough, there is also the fact that Crowley knows there is nothing he can do to save him. Because no one has ever been capable of saving anyone else, not from themselves. That’s why they have to send The Good Lord’s only begotten son down here a second time, in order to once again break the yoke of sin burdening the collective back of humanity. And, hey, who knows—maybe it’ll actually take this time around! Anything’s possible. But let’s just say that Crowley has his doubts. Everything he knows tells him that it’s an exercise in futility. The best we can do is save ourselves, and hope that in doing so we set a good enough example for anyone that might be watching to do the same. 

Crowley knows that he cannot save Aziraphale any more than Aziraphale can save him. He cannot fight his inner demons for him—or his better angels, as it were. The conditions of our egress from the nest necessarily color our future perversions and rage. Which is to say that a clean exit makes for less baggage; Crowley made a conscious decision to leave his past behind him, whereas Aziraphale never did. ² Thus, unless the moment arrives in which he is able to free himself of his own chains, he will remain subject to Heaven’s pull. Until then, he is on his own. There are paths in life we must navigate solo, leaving behind a single trail of footsteps in the sand. And, damn it all, Crowley knows he can do it. He trusts him to walk through the valley of the shadow of Death and make it to the other side. It’s just that Crowley knows it’s going to hurt him. After all, he himself has first hand experience—he has spent a long, long time walking through this world alone.

Not that he regrets that. In fact, Crowley could thank God for allowing him to fall when he did. He just wishes Aziraphale might have been brought down to Earth a little bit sooner, that’s all.

"They sure did a number on you up there,” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else, “didn't they, Angel?"

“Ah, well…” Aziraphale frowns. "I admit I might be overdoing it a bit with the office jargon…"

Crowley's not talking about the jargon. "To devastating effect," he says, mournfully. “Single-handedly redefining culture capture.”

“There’s no need to be dramatic,” Aziraphale chides.

Oh, but there is. Crowley could sit here and explain to him in harrowing, excruciating detail the viciousness with which Gabriel sentenced him to annihilation, the glee with which they threw him to the wolves. He could mention the sanctions, the Book of Life, the callous swiftness with which they disposed of the previous Supreme Archangel. He could make an entire scene over it, plead for him to open his eyes to how backwards this all is, rage against the worthless machine that he insists on subjecting himself to. He could do all these things, and still his efforts would amount to nothing. Aziraphale would hear him out, frown, sigh to himself, perhaps. He would then resolve to forgive those who trespass against him, both in the past and in the future. He would do this because forgiveness is his strongest defense mechanism. It makes the pain go away, wipes the slate clean, dulls the bite of his cognitive dissonance. It is selflessness to the point of self-denial—the final trick Aziraphale keeps tucked up his sleeve: his infamous vanishing act. Now you see him, now you don’t.

Well, it’s not going to work this time. Because Crowley is about to say something completely unforgivable. “Angel,” he starts, “do you really want me to tell you why I will never—never—agree to your proposal?”

Aziraphale glowers, clearly unappreciative of Crowley’s combative wording. “I think an explanation is the least you could offer at this point, yes.”

“Alright. Then allow me to ask you another question: What is the one thing we actually have talked about for the past six thousand years?” He really doesn’t want to have to do this. Why does Crowley always wind up stuck doing the dirty work? “The one singular topic we keep returning to.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Well, I suspect you’re not referring to the weather.”

“No,” Crowley replies, thoroughly unamused. “I was referring to free will.”

Aziraphale falls silent.

“We’ve gone over everything there is to say on it. There’s no angle you and I haven’t tackled the subject from. Examined who knows how many cases studies. Left not a single word unsaid. And, despite all that, I have completely failed at getting you even an iota closer to understanding my stance on the matter. What could I possibly say in the next–” Crowley checks his watch, “in the next fifteen minutes that will clear up what I have been trying to convey to you for eons? ”

Aziraphale remains silent.

“I don’t want you to be wrong either,” Crowley finishes, unhappily. “You just are, Aziraphale. I’m sorry.”

And Crowley really, truly is. Because none of this has to be this way. Either of them could, at any point, change their minds. But they won’t. Furthermore, Aziraphale can’t; Heaven itself saw to that. They put something in that bright, beautiful head of his that simply does not allow him to see the bigger picture. Whatever fucking poison pill they fed him took hold a long, long, long time ago—before the invention of time, even. It is too late. It has always been too late.

The horrible truth is that love does not overcome all. It can most certainly endure all! However, it possesses no special ability to overcome. Intimacy, passion, commitment: these three things combine to create something incomparable—under ideal circumstances, they transform into something sacred, something consummate. Unfortunately, this time, these components alone are not enough. The conditions haven’t been met. The two of them cannot move forward together. When we imagine love, the picture we conjure tends to be one of peacefulness, or of joy. But love manifests itself in an endless variety of forms. There are times when it looks like two lovebirds driving off into the sunset, hand in corresponding hand. Other times, it looks like taking a rabid dog out behind the shed and shooting it square in the head. The words of that infernal song were true all along: love is not a victory march. God, does Crowley wish Cohen were burning in Hell for that one. ³

For a long moment, they both fall quiet, and nothing is heard save for the chatter of the other various patrons of the Ritz enjoying their evenings. On all sides they are surrounded by couples holding hands, locking eyes, schmoozing, etcetera. Fools, the lot of them. Somehow, no one around appears to have any idea that, just a few tables away, the whole damned world is coming to an end.

“It’s just that…” Aziraphale finally breaks the silence, sounding utterly hopeless, “I thought this would work.”

Of course he did. Crowley has long observed that Aziraphale has a… not a problem, per se, but a tendency. This tendency has set the tone of how things work between them for as long as he can remember, since the very beginning. And that tendency is this: Aziraphale, above all else, is solution-oriented. When he encounters an obstacle, he wants it handled. It does not matter if he is faced with a minor annoyance or a full blown crisis of faith—either way, he would like it dealt with and dismissed, as soon as inhumanly possible, thank you very much. Crowley accepts that he deserves some of the blame for this; there’s no denying that he enabled this pattern of behavior. Somewhere along the way, he found himself swooping in to play the knight without even needing to be asked. Even worse—he found he actually enjoyed doing so. It used to be all the rage, back in the days when chivalry reigned, laying down your jacket upon a puddle so as to preserve a fair lady’s comfort, and all that jazz. There was something profoundly appealing to him about that little routine.

And Aziraphale might occasionally fuss over receiving this treatment, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take pleasure in it. If anything, he’s come to expect it; in his heart of hearts, he probably believes himself entitled to it. This conviction reveals itself in odd ways—most notably, in the way he forgives. He does it reflexively, without thinking, anytime he needs an inconvenient feeling to disappear. It even tends to work, for the most part! There’s only one, admittedly major, drawback to this trick: it is fundamentally unhealthy. Forgive only when necessary, and no harm is done. Forgive more frivolously, and it turns into a bad habit. Forgive compulsively, and it morphs into a full blown addiction. And make no mistake: an addict will sacrifice anything in order to get their fix.

But he will not be getting that this time. Because there is no fixing this.

It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t make Crowley want to walk into oncoming traffic. They finally got their shit together—sat down like reasonable adults and talked it all out, carefully peeled away the layers of miscommunication—and what do they discover lurking underneath? A fundamental conflict of interest; the two of them on other sides of an uncrossable impasse. A real fucking showstopper. There's no compromising on this one, not that either of them are especially inclined to compromise anyway. They can’t. Not on something this big. At long last, they have arrived at the finish line, only to find it a dead end.

So that's how it is then. The two of them are incompatible.

Hell of a thing to realize, six thousand years in.

Aziraphale looks... actually, Crowley isn't sure how to sum it up. He's pale. Visibly scared. Blinking rapidly, like he just got slapped in the face. The humans have this thing called a panic attack. This appears similar, if not quite the same. He looks bad, is the point. "I’m afraid," he murmurs, following another uncomfortable stretch of silence, "that I may have wasted your time."

"Don't say that," Crowley replies, feeling somewhat numb himself. "Was worth a shot, anyway."

"Not this," Aziraphale says, shakily ripping his agenda up into neat, uniform little pieces. "I meant..."

He meant all of it. 

The entirety of their association. 

Everything.

Once again, he is wrong.

Look. Here’s the thing. Crowley wasn’t operating under the impression that their happy ending was hiding right around the corner. He’s not… ugh, okay, okay, fine. He's been trying not to wait for something to happen, alright? This isn't to say that he's been trying to move on—quite the opposite, in fact—just that he's learned it’s smarter to keep his expectations low. In so many ways, the waiting game isn't one worth playing. It's that old call and response: "How’s about now?" and "No, no, not now," echoed back and forth, over and over and over and over again, ad nauseam. It gets draining, after a while. You have to have a lot of courage, for lack of a better term, to keep yourself open to that kind of denial—to learn how to accept defeat in perpetuity.

It’s funny: Crowley has always thought the compelling thing about the formation of stars lies in how incomprehensibly long the process takes. How, for millions and millions of years, nothing happens. And then, in an explosion of noise and light and violence, everything does. Where before there was naught but a swirling cloud of dust and gas, a mass of pure, concentrated energy materializes, lighting a fire in the vast darkness of the cosmos. There's absolutely nothing like it, being there at the moment of creation, the moment things lock into place, the moment of becoming, the moment shit finally goes down.

But it means nothing, removed from its context. If you want to take in the full scope of the magic, if you want to soak up every last drop of wonder… then you have to be patient. You must allow the universe to take shape on its own, to determine its own destiny. And there’s no real guarantee that it’ll play out exactly the way you want it to.

The humans have these sappy little sayings they like to repeat to each other. The journey is more important than the destination. We are all just walking each other home. Neatly packaged tidbits of sentimental crap.

And, loathe though Crowley is to admit it, they’re really not too far off. Humans can be shortsighted, sure, but they’re a lot smarter than anyone gives them credit for. Maybe someone else'll see the big picture the same way he does, one of these days: in truth, the journey and the destination are the same damn thing—to be walked home is to already be there.

Anyways, the point is… is that Crowley would have been perfectly satisfied with things continuing just the way they were before, indefinitely. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been happy, necessarily, but… eh. It would have been fine. He’d have managed. He’d tell himself it was enough. The pining and yearning and waiting and wanting could have dragged on forever, and he wouldn’t have objected one tiny bit. His love has never been one founded in virtue, after all, but in potential. That applies to humanity, and it applies to Earth, and it applies to the Universe writ large. Obviously, it applies to Aziraphale, too. How could it not? He is a fundamental part of all these things; he has always been present at each of their cores.

Sadly, the situation has changed. Outside elements forced his hand, and Crowley went for broke, and what they’re left with now is shattered into a million pieces. Maybe they could have found a way to reassemble the remains and return to the status quo, if only they’d had enough time. But they don’t have that luxury. What they have, instead, is approximately seven minutes.

Aziraphale’s hand is resting on the table, clenching and twisting the tablecloth, like he’s unmoored and searching for something, anything, with which to ground himself. In spite of everything, Crowley feels the impulse to do something to help him, to offer up a gesture to signify that he’s not shouldering this burden alone. He has an idea of how he could achieve this. It is, unfortunately, a bad idea. In fact, it is a bloody awful idea! 

But, oh, is it tempting.

Still, Crowley knows better. He knows that if he gives in—if he reaches out and takes Aziraphale's hand, like he so clearly wants him to, lets him twine their fingers together and run his thumb along the edge of his palm—if he sits here and soaks up every last futile second for all it's worth until time is finally up and Aziraphale sighs and frowns and bats his eyelashes, bullying Crowley into being the one to have to let go first—then it is going to hurt. The both of them, yes, of course… but him especially. And no one actually wants to get hurt. It's an impulse that resides in every living creature, essential programming coded into us somewhere deeper than the DNA: when you realize that you are about to experience pain, you avert course.

We spend our entire existence learning to identify sources of pain. When you are a child, you are supposed to put your hand on a hot stove, and you are supposed to feel your flesh blister and sear, and you are supposed to come away from the experience more knowledgeable than before. You are supposed to learn. And Crowley has never been a child, but he has been around for long enough to identify exactly which parts of Aziraphale are soft, and which parts cut like knives.

He knows the rules. Don't stand too close. Don't let him touch you. Don't read into the compliments. Don't accept the invitations. Don't make plans, don't get invested, don't imagine a future.

Don't want for more than the little you've been given.

He's not an idiot. He has learned all these lessons, and he's got the burns to prove it. At some point, he had to come up for an explanation as to why he never stopped placing his hand on the stove. And, gosh, wouldn't you know it? In what can only be referred to as a grand cosmic coincidence, it turns out that the reason he keeps dancing this doomed dance with Aziraphale is, in fact, the exact same reason why he fell in the first place. You’ll never guess what it is—it’s a real shocker! Ladies and gentlemen, theys and thems, let’s hear it for the topic of the hour:

Free will.

Five minutes left. Aziraphale hasn’t moved.

Yes, yes, dammit, yes, Crowley knows. He learned this lesson a long, long time ago. He doesn't need to be reminded of the consequences that await him should he choose to extend his hand. He is of sound mind and body; he is in full possession of his faculties. He’s not bloody stupid, alright? He is well aware that if he does this, if he reaches out—if he chooses to take the fall—then it is going to hurt.

Three minutes.

It's… it’s going to hurt.

Two.

Oh, God—it's going to fucking hurt.

He does it anyway.

It hurts.

1. You hang out on this planet long enough, you wind up watching a few children die. And for Crowley, it has been more than a few. It has never gotten any easier for him to be forced to witness this. It’s not even that children are somehow purer than their adult counterparts, is the thing; plenty of children are conniving little shits, to be certain. No, it’s the waste of resources—the sheer disregard for human potential—that eats away at him. Like watching a fledgeling tumble, unsupervised, out of its nest and onto the cold hard ground, helpless to do anything but writhe around until it expires. Something put a lot of time and effort into bringing that forsaken creature into the world. And for what? So it could be snuffed out as an afterthought? Ah, but God so loved the little children of the world that She broke their wings before they ever had a chance to take flight!
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2. Tidy, no? return to text

3. He’s not, of course. return to text