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“Stay away from the portal!”
“And deliver us from evil-”
“You stupid, stupid man!”
“Returning nevermore!”
Aziraphale looks down, and all of the color drains from his face. As soon as he sees it, he feels it too; the power of the portal rippling through him, the call to heaven, to war , burning at all of his nerve endings until they turn to nothing. He can feel himself, atom by atom, being ripped away from his human form, the thrumming of his angelic energy propelling him homeward. But to Aziraphale, home is down below.
On principal, angels aren’t supposed to be beings of hatred. Sure, they were about to start a war to literally end the world on a matter of principle, but on a personal level, hatred was frowned upon. However, as he looks at Mr. Shadwell, face blank and fingers still curled in an empty victory, he can't help but feel something a little stronger than distaste. It’s typical of Her, he thinks, to do this right when he’d finally figured himself out.
In all his 6,000 years, he’d never been discorporated, not once, and now on the eve of the end, he was being taken from Earth when it was the only place he had any business being. Maybe it was retribution for infringing on the Divine Plan. Maybe She had decided was too soft, that he’d gone native. Maybe he had. But none of those things were crossing the Principality Aziraphael’s mind in his last moment in his body. Instead, he was thinking about Crowley. And in true angelic fashion, he sends out a prayer to the one being he truly believes in.
Come to the bookshop. Find Agnes Nutter. Find the boy. And Crowley dear, I-
“Oh fuck! ”
And with that, the angel known as Aziraphael is taken from the earthly plane.
Several miles away in his Mayfair apartment, a demon was just stepping over the gooey remains of his colleague.
Come to the bookshop.
The demon Crowley stiffens, and then, he shudders. Earth suddenly feels unimaginably cold .
Find Agnes Nutter.
He straightens. “Aziraphale?”
Find the boy.
“Aziraphale, I’m coming to get you.”
And Crowley dear, I-
The squealing tires of the Bentley drowned out anything else Aziraphale has to say. But it doesn't matter. Crowley would be with him soon.
In all his years in the Witchfinder Army, Shadwell had never actually performed an exorcism. Witches, of course, were to be believed in. They were real and flammable and could be easily identified if you knew what to look for (Nipples, cats, the like). But demons, on the other hand, Shadwell was a bit more skeptical of. Of course, he knew they must exist. It was the devil that turned women to witchery, after all, but Shadwell had never known himself to keep the company of a demon. Witches were easy, one lived just across the hall and made pork roast so tender it couldn’t be anything but dark magic. Demons, though, were tricky, so you can imagine Sergeant Shadwell’s immense delight when his first exorcism went so smoothly.
The demon’s body was suspended in the air, bathed in blue light as Shadwell’s retribution washed over him. Then, his eyes rolled back, the light vanished, and the body fell.
Shadwell leaps back in surprise. The man lies splayed out in the circle, his head to an unnatural angle. Shadwell knows that devils only stayed trapped as long as their circles were complete, but the head of the man is leaking an astonishing amount of blood, enough to bite through the chalk of the circle in a river and keep going still. No devil was leaving the circle. Shadwell steps inside.
“Hello?” he called down to the man, nudging his head with his boot. The white, lively curls of Mr. A.Z. Fell were quickly becoming limp and brownish-red. Shadwell sincerely hopes no demon blood has gotten on his boots. These are his favorite pair, after all.
“Hello?” he tries again. Mr. Fell does not move. A smile splits Shadwell’s face. If only Witchfinder General Smith could see him now. “Aye! That’ll keep you from seducing women for your evil will!”
It was not lost on Shadwell that perhaps the exorcism wasn’t entirely successful. Generally speaking, it was thought to be more polite to save the hosts of demons after the removal of evil, but really, in this case, it couldn’t be helped. A part of him wondered what to do with the body. He couldn’t just leave it here, and Mr. Fell had been quite kind to him while he was alive, but Shadwell couldn’t be sure if that was demonic charm or if the poor man had been possessed since their last meeting. Additionally, what kind of a service would Mr. Fell even have? He couldn’t imagine giving him a good Christian burial after what had just happened, but he knew the man didn’t have any family in the area to take care of all the messy business.
The harlot that lived across the hall might know, Shadwell thinks to himself. As a witch, there must be a kind of code as to how to deal with the aftermath of exorcisms. So it was settled. He would leave the bookshop and the body just as it was, and bring the witch to see for herself.
Mr. Shadwell was practically giddy with pride, so much so he barely heard the bookshop door swing open.
“Angel?” A voice calls into the shop. Shadwell looks down at the prone body at his feet. The bleeding has stopped, for the most part, but the pesky thing about civilians was that they didn’t quite understand sacrifices had to be made to deliver this world from evil. Things didn’t look good for him. He crouches down next to the remains of Mr. Fell and drags them both behind a few large stacks of books.
“Sorry,” Shadwell calls in his best southern lilt. “We’re closed.”
“Angel, where are you?” the voice asks again. Shadwell is quite certain he’s heard it before, but his old brain is too occupied to run through a list of acquaintances. “And who’s with you? I know that’s not your voice.”
The footsteps are closer now, and Shadwell knows if he doesn't distract the intruder, he’s only moments away from being found out. And Shadwell of all people knows that the police were not as concerned about witchery and the devil as they ought to be.
“Shite.” Shadwell spits and finally stands, his knees creaking more than he’d like to admit. “Aye, lad. Es not. Mister Fell’s out for the moment, and the shop’s closed. Please see yerself out.”
He looks out across the room. A dark pair of sunglasses meets his eyes, and for a long moment, they just stare at each other, only the sound of breathing and the rain outside filling the bookshop.
“Mr. Crowley?” Shadwell finally asks. “What a surprise to see you here, Mr. Crowley.”
And then, all Hell breaks loose.
Crowley had really been looking forward to a nice, quiet Doomsday.
If this really was to be his last day on Earth, he’d’ve liked to have spent it curled up on Aziraphale’s couch, a bottle of the best wine they could find between them on the coffee table, soaking in the warmth of his angel before they were parted forever. Maybe they would read Hamlet again, for old times sake. He may not have cared for Shakespeare much while he was alive, but he was damn good at writing down all of the lovestruck things Crowley had never been bold enough to tell Aziraphale to his face.
There were many nights through the centuries when Crowley was lulled to sleep by Aziraphale reading to him from the pages of Hamlet. Aziraphale never liked the ending, if they ever got that far, when Horatio offers to kill himself to be with Hamlet, but Crowley had a soft spot for it. Something about a love that defied even the fear of death. Even the end of the world. Maybe today was the day Crowley would tell Aziraphale that he understood Horatio. Maybe.
Or maybe not. Aziraphale had said he knew where the Antichrist was, and against his better judgment, Crowley was allowing himself to hope. Even though there was a coldness still lingering in his bones and Aziraphale’s strange summons in his head, he was hopeful for the first time since Warlock Dowling’s birthday.
Crowley pulls up to the bookshop. The rain had never really bothered him. He had met his best friend when it had been invented, after all, but something sinister was hanging around A.Z Fell and Co. Something that had nothing to do with the imminent end of the world.
He stops at the shop door. The sign is, as usual, turned to ‘closed’, but the door is ajar and a lock picking kit is jammed haphazardly in the keyhole. Crowley sets his jaw and carefully pushes open the door.
“Angel?” he calls softly. The bookshop is dark, save for a small patch of lights glowing from behind a few hazardous piles of books. Nothing seems immediately amiss.
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
That, however, that was unusual. That was not Aziraphale’s voice.
“Angel where are you?” he calls again, trying not to let panic build up in his chest. Crowley is a lot of things, and impulsive is tragically one of them. “And who’s with you. I know that’s not your voice.” he walks towards the source of the light. It smelled like candles, but Aziraphale would never let something that might harm his books into the shop. As he steps closer, a head pops up from behind an especially wobbly pile of books.
“Aye lad. Es not. Mister Fell’s out for the moment, and the shop’s closed. Please see yerself out.”
Crowley isn’t sure how long he spent staring at Mr. Shadwell. It could be hours or seconds, but time doesn’t matter, not to a demon and especially not now at the end of the world. Crowley takes a measured step closer, and then another and another, closer and closer to Mr. Shadwell’s ruddy, guilty face.
“What a surprise to see you here, Mr. Crowley,” Shadwell says, but Crowley doesn’t stop. Step by step, he gets closer and step by step, Shadwell looks guiltier. When he’s just a few feet from the book pile and the old man and the awful foreboding feeling in his gut, Crowley exhales deeply.
“Where is he?” Crowley grinds out from his clenched jaw. If his canines are a touch longer than normal, Mr. Shadwell isn’t going to mention it at this moment.
“Ah, well-”
Crowley closes the last yard and a half in one terrible stride and the world falls out from underneath him.
“Ziraphale.” It comes out in a choked hiss of breath. He drops to his knees, long fingers reaching to cradle the angel’s shattered skull as if his hands could do anything to take the hurt away. Crowley’s head whips back around to Shadwell. “What’s happened to him?”
“Mr. Crowley-” Shadwell puts out his hands placatingly as if that will stop the six feet of demon staring up at him.
“What. Happened.”
“I’ve exorcised him. With bell, book, and candle.” Shadwell practically squeaks and holds up the offending items. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so terrified. “I took the demon out of him, sir.”
“The demon?” Crowley is on his feet, his hands coated in blood that shouldn’t exist. He towers over the old man, filling the room with deep, dark despair until the only things Shadwell can see with any clarity are the candles on the floor and the vicious face of Anthony J Crowley.
“The only demon here was me.” he hisses, ripping off his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s blood streaks across his cheek. His yellow eyes burn into Shadwell, and the Witchfinder Sargent shrinks back into the bookshelves.
“Listen to me.” Crowley hisses, bloody hand coming to rest around Shadwell’s grizzled neck. “Leave. Leave and never ever come back. Do you understand?” Shadwell nods, and Crowley releases him, shoving him back towards the door. His boots bump into books and papers along the way, and possibly a candle or two. Shadwell doesn’t take notice.
“You have no idea what you’ve done. You’ve just ended the world!” Crowley roars. The doors behind Shadwell swing open. The gusts of wind and rain that have been torrenting the sidewalk rush in with a vengeance. They curl around Shadwell’s feet and tear him out of the shop. He stumbles unceremoniously into the streets of Soho followed by the crashing of old wooden doors and the smell of smoke. The wind continues to push him away. Away from the bookshop and the body and the terrible, desperate eyes of Mr. Crowley.
Sargent Shadwell doesn’t need to think. He runs. He runs for the first time in over twenty years. He runs and doesn’t even think about the funding for next month.
Even at the end of it all, to Crowley, Aziraphale still smells like home. He smells like pastries and royal icing and hot cocoa. Of leather oil and dusty book spines and ink. Even surrounded by horrible, choking smoke, all Crowley can smell is Aziraphale .
Around him, a priceless collection of books is going up in flames. The crackling sound of a ravenous fire pops in and out of Crowley’s attention, but all he can really focus on is the body in his lap.
“You bastards!” He yells to no one and everyone. “You let him kill my best friend!”
He buries his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and tries to ignore how the bone sticks out a bit. The fire has eaten up everything- tables and chairs, records and resource books, mugs and sofas and at least thirteen bibles. Aziraphale was never one to let anything go hungry.
It doesn’t matter. Demons can handle fire. Aziraphale can’t. Crowley knows that Aziraphale will be eaten up in the flames like everything else and he will be left alone again. He can’t feel the heat, or the tears on his cheeks, just the guilt brewing in the pit of his stomach and the soft cold skin under his fingers. He knows there’s fire biting at his clothes and his shoes, that it’s starving for soft, sweet Aziraphale, and he can’t feel a thing. It’s like he’s falling all over again, but somehow, this is so much worse. When he fell, it was because he didn’t believe in goodness anymore. But he does now. He’s seen what good is, what love is. He never felt it up There, not with Them. But with Aziraphale everything was different. He thought things could be different.
He reaches blindly into the flames, unwilling to part from Aziraphale for even a second, searching for something to hold on to. There has to be something he can save, even if he couldn’t save his angel.
His fingers find a book, remarkably undamaged by the chaos. He pulls it slowly, slowly closer, until he can find the strength to pick it up. Untucking himself from Aziraphale, he looks through the smoke and the flames. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-
“Agnes Nutter, witch.” Crowley breathes. He can hear Zira’s voice in his head, find Agnes Nutter he had said. Crowley feels like crying all over again.
“I’ve got it!” He calls into the husk of the bookshop. “I’ve found Agnes!” his voice breaks. He looks back to the head cradled in his lap. There is a part of him that is willing to stay here forever, a part that would like the world to end, just so it could hurt like he has. But there’s a bigger part, one that sounds suspiciously like his angel telling him to finish what he’s started.
“If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while.”
“Wotssit even mean, Angel?” He’d asked, drunk on wine and physical touch as Aziraphale ran his fingers through the demon’s hair.
“It means, dear, that if I am ever to die, you must go on without me,” he said softly, never ceasing in his movements.
“That’s stupid.” he’d grumbled, readjusting his head on the soft lap that cradled him. “Woss the point?”
“The point is, if I am not there to carry on, I want you to do it for me. Now hush. We’re almost through.”
The memory burns now, branded behind his eyelids and in every corner of the burning building. But at least it keeps him warm.
“I’ve never been able to say no to you, Angel.” Crowley chuckles, though it's a mirthless hollow thing, and presses a soft kiss to the ashen, soot-covered forehead cradled close to his chest.
He can hear the firemen outside now, calling for anyone in the building to please come out if you can. Humans are hopeful creatures, but they can be quite thick. If he'd wanted to escape, he would have. But Crowley needs this moment, just to exist in grief he hasn’t felt since before Eden.
The wooden doors burst open and several firemen press into the building, their hoses breaking the windows and drenching the remains of the floor. They're yelling things at him, and he struggles to slip on his glasses again before they see his face, before they notice he's not quite as burned as he should be. A lot of things can be blamed on shock, but the eyes of the devil are not one of them.
He lets the humans take him out of the building, lets them cart away the empty husk of the only thing he’s ever truly believed in. They try to check him over, ask him who he is and if everything is alright. Quite frankly, nothing is alright and it very well might never be right again, but you can't say that to a human or they worry. Instead, he nods at the right times and watches the ambulance rush away and promises that yes he will go to the hospital if his lungs hurt. The whole time, Crowley keeps the book tucked under his arm and his face empty of emotion. The sunglasses are back on now, the demon side of him has taken over. He has a job to do, a boy to find.
But first, he has to get unimaginably and inhumanly wasted.