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“Fuck,” Aziraphale swears, for the first time in about two thousand years, but then trips on the edge of a book and goes sprawling away from Shadwell’s circle, a little confused and more than a smidge baffled, discorporation mercifully avoided.
“You,” He croaks, levering himself up on one elbow in a way that is more than a little bit annoyed, “have some explaining to do.”
Shadwell just looks at him for a moment, blinks, then runs away out of the shop, leaving all his tools and pretty little candles behind.
“But- wait!” Aziraphale stumbles to his feet and out the door of the bookshop, determined to get something in the way of answers, but he’s too late. Shadwell’s just a speck in the distance by the time he’s straightened his lapels.
“Humans.” He shakes his head with a sigh and returns back inside to start cleaning up the Witchfinder’s mess. He gets halfway through blowing out three candles when he, “Crowley?!”
Because Crowley said, well, no, he’d implied that he was getting some visitors from Below, and that those visitors had wanted nothing good, and he- “I have to go and check on him,” Aziraphale mutters, mostly to himself. “Because I can’t-”
And he stops, and he just runs, because he remembers the tartan flask, and he remembers the Holy Water.
And he mightn’t know first-hand what Hell can do, but he’s heard enough stories from Crowley to know that they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.
He’s given Crowley something in the way of a suicide pill, and he doesn’t want to know what would happen if it got into the wrong hands.
He sprints, leather shoes flapping on the concrete beneath his feet, because he’s not even sure if he’s got the strength to miracle himself there.
The candle on the edge of the Witchfinder’s circle tipping over and setting the floor of his bookshop alight doesn’t even stop him on his way, but then again, he’s too caught up in the worry to notice it.
Meanwhile-
Hastur, Duke of Hell, is now trapped on a tape inside Crowley's antique telephone answering machine.
Crowley pats the answering machine, smooths the dust off it with the edge of his thumb. “You’ve never let me down, have you?” He says, in a way that is more than a little pointedly towards his plants.
They shiver in response, though he doesn’t see it.
“Aziraphale.” He breathes, suddenly remembering the news. “The Anti-Christ-”
He takes off out the door of the flat and doesn’t even clean up as he goes. His phone lies dead on the table, shorted out after the demon v demon battle inside it, and he doesn’t even grab his sunglasses.
Aziraphale stops running after a bit, because his current body is not one for prolonged bouts of cardio and much prefers long walks along charming stone paths and the occasional picnic. He miracles himself to Crowley’s flat instead.
And falls straight to his knees in shock.
Because there’s an empty plant mister, a puddle of demon goo, a pair of sunglasses, and a tartan thermos flask, all lying in a heap on the floor by the door.
And Crowley is nowhere to be seen.
Crowley would never leave without his sunglasses. He’d never let himself be that vulnerable.
It does not take a genius, or even an all-seeing eye of God to make sense of it all. Crowley has been discorporated, and Aziraphale must prevent the apocalypse, all on his own.
But he can’t be steely-jawed, can’t just go forth and fight for the planet, because Crowley is gone. He’ll never be let back up from Below considering the state of things, and he just-
Aziraphale knows he will never see Crowley again. The realisation hangs somewhere painfully low in the pit of his stomach, and he writhes his hands in anguish, tears dripping down his face.
He will never see Crowley again,
And as much as he loves the Earth, adores the pastries, and the fashion, and the little shops it has, he doesn’t think it’s much worth it without his demon by his side.
On the Other Side of Town -
Flames explode out one of the windows of the bookshop as Crowley skids out of his car and onto the pavement. He can’t breathe, isn’t used to the feeling, can’t take in air under the screaming in his head.
He’s used to fire. He can handle fire.
Aziraphale… can’t.
He barges into the bookshop, ignoring the yells of the firemen - does he look like a bookshop owner? He would never look like a bookshop owner - but that’s not a slight, not really - and yells out for Aziraphale.
There’s no reply.
Nothing under the crackle of flames and the smash of exploding glass.
Bloody Queen is playing on the gramophone - bloody Queen is always playing, and he can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears. “AZIRAPHALE?” He yells, over and over, until the punishing spray of water from the fire hoses outside knocks him to the ground and he collapses onto his back, alone among the detritus.
He’s never felt so alone.
“For God’s- for Satan’s- for Somebody’s sake, where are you?” He screams, but his voice is hoarse and his throat is numb and nothing really matters because Aziraphale is gone, discorporated, dead, what have you, and even if he can come back he won’t be the same, won’t feel the same, won’t have the tang of history and the sweetness of patisserie, and it’s just too-
Much.
He stumbles out onto the road, angry tears leaving clean paths down his soot-stained face, and vows to fight until he gets Aziraphale back. “Somebody killed my best friend!” He yells, to the sky, to the city, to Below, to anyone who’s listening, because it doesn’t matter anymore who knows.
“Bastards, the lot of you!”
Grief makes him irritational, makes him furious, makes his eyes glow with all the fires of Below, but he doesn’t care who sees.
He just wants Aziraphale back, because a world without his angel is one that he’d never- can’t ever- ever think about.
Later -
St James Park has never seen such grief.
If it weren’t for the powers of the demon, maybe a stray bobby would have stopped by and asked the red-haired man if he was alright, but Crowley had just enough strength to make him unnoticeable.
The damp grass is his liferaft, the bottle of whiskey his oar, but he’s far from floating gently amongst the waves of his discontent. It feels sour, and pained, and bitter, tastes like burnt coffee on the tip of his tongue.
Crowley is really and truly sad.
It hangs, thick and black and heavy, like the dampness of the air before a storm around him, and he could probably miracle it away, make himself feel better with a snap of his fingers, but why bother?
Crowley is also really and truly drunk.
“I… don’t even know why we’re friendsss?” He slurs, to the ducks, who really don’t give much of a shit. “Sworn enemies- we are. Mortal friends? No. That’s… not right. I- just wish… I could have been there. With him. I could have helped?”
That’s probably not true, but he doesn’t actually know the circumstances of the fire, so it’s nice to hold out the hope.
He peels the label off the bottle of whiskey and squints at it, as though it holds all the wisdom of the universe, but it just says the name and brand of the booze and that really doesn’t help.
Crowley flops onto his back, draws meaningless patterns in the sky with a finger, doesn’t find the solace he needs.
“I just want him back.” He whispers, clutching the bottle to his chest like a lifeline. “That’s all… I wan’? I’ll be a goOd friend, I’ll… take care of him… I just want- I want him… to know… how MuCh he matters to-”
But the ducks scatter before he can finish his sentence, and he’s suddenly engulfed in a pile of well-tailored fabrics, fluffy white hair, and the scent of pastries and old books and home.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and rolls off him, taking his hands in his. He’s beaming, positively glowing, bright blue eyes shining, in a way that he’s never seen before. “I thought you’d-”
“Gone.” Crowley echoes, because he might be drunk, but Aziraphale’s here, and that feeling can cut through any man-made stimulant a demon could buy and he’s feeling a bit better almost immediately. Is it a dream? It surely can’t be a dream. Aziraphale feels real, and alive, and in his true body and- “...Your bookshop’s…”
“Burned down. I know, I know and it’s just- Look - I-” Aziraphale replies, and he’s sad about it, really, but nothing can stop the joy in his face. “I went to your apartment, Crowley, I saw the water and I thought you-”
“Never, I would never, and I went to your bookshop and I saw the fire and I thought I would never see you again-” And he bites off a sob, because he’s just so relieved, the joy leaping about inside his chest. He wants to hold Aziraphale, feel the softness of his skin and the buttons on his clothes forever and never let him go, “I thought you’d die-”
“Discorporated-” And Aziraphale cups his face in his hands, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks, “I very nearly just.”
And then they’re woven together again, two parts of the same whole, Aziraphale’s hands on his back, his face, clutching at his hair, and he just feels like pure joy, all the same. The angel drops kisses on his forehead, his eyelids, his lips, damp and triumphant and vulnerable, all at the same time.
They’re both trembling, too caught up in the sheer relief of the moment to moderate things, to resemble humans, to try. It’s a little like Heaven, this - or at least the good parts of it.
“Let’s never do that again.” Crowley groans, his head pressed into Aziraphale’s neck. They’re still close together, too close for their worlds, held together in the muddy grass. Aziraphale clutches tightly to his collar, fingers pressing lightly up against his neck, and he doesn’t want to move away for the world.
For the world.
“I-” Crowley opens his mouth to speak, looks up at Aziraphale and isn’t even sure what he wants to say. The air tastes content, satisfied, home and homely, of comfort and pastry and tea at the Ritz, and he just- doesn’t know how to take all of those things and put them into words, show his gratitude outside his upbringing, articulate his thoughts and his feelings and his soul and his love -
He just doesn’t have the words to try.
“I know, dear, I know.” Aziraphale says, almost calmly, though his pulse still shudders beneath his skin where it’s pressed against Crowley’s own. “I understand. Me too.”
Crowley just sighs again, breathes his relief and his humanity into Aziraphale’s jacket, as they stay pressed together on the damp grass of St James’ Park, and it’s enough.
Though the humans who walk past can’t see them, there’s no denying there’s a particular joy coming from one spot of lawn, just in front of a crowd of ducks.
Later, the angel and the demon will go back to the ruins of the bookshop and find a book lying on the floor, seemingly untouched - Agnus Nutter won’t be ignored that easily - then they’ll go on to save the world. They might even have a drink together in an overpriced pub afterwards to celebrate.
But right now, they’re together, and that’s all that matters.
In a tree above, a songbird warbles the first few notes to Somebody to Love, in a way that’s rather unheard of for its species.
It’s fitting, really.