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1. Heaven
He stood on the edge of a precipice. Spread before him was Heaven, a shimmering pearl, clean and open and gloriously light, buzzing with the joy of creation and connection. Gathered around were four angels with their white wings spread, their halos shining gold, their flawless robes rippling in the gentle celestial wind.
“Raphael, you’re being ridiculous,” said Gabriel.
Raphael’s heels nudged a fathomless abyss. He held out his hands to his friends, his oldest friends, supplication in his stance. “How can you say that? How can you keep following the Great Plan unquestioning? Don’t you wonder why the humans are forbidden to know good from evil? Don’t you think it’s unlike Her, playing with life this way, ‘testing’ her creations, when She claims to be so full of love?”
“Don’t start,” Michael snapped. “You really want to drag us down with you?”
Raphael swallowed. Was that what she thought of him, even now, while his feathers were as yet unblackened? “What I really want is to stay.”
And her features softened, and she moved forward just a step. “Then stay.”
Oh, her voice was the same one that had sung while he’d hung the stars. Gabriel’s fingers were the same ones that had played the harp while he’d fashioned galaxies. Their laughter had risen to the greatest heights in the universe, in an eternity before the invention of hours and minutes. All the love of the cosmos unspooling in an endless yarn and wrapping around them in sublime harmony. His chest burned for it, a flame so much more excruciating than the one rising in sulfurous fumes just behind and beneath him.
“All you have to do,” said Gabriel, “is accept the Great Plan. Be loyal. And stop asking questions.”
But there it was. The sour tang in the divine wine, the false note in the celestial harmony, the twist in the light that turned all Heaven’s splendor just slightly eerie. They were not supposed to understand. God didn’t want them to know the truth, to see Her creation how it really was. And so what else might She be hiding?
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t make myself blind.”
“Raphael -”
He felt it like a cord being ripped out of him. Like something wrapped oh so tenderly around his heart when he was made, abruptly and harshly yanked away. He felt the force of the withdrawal powerfully enough that it tipped him backwards. And his feet scrambled for purchase, his arms swung wildly, his hands grasped at Heaven for only a moment, before the fall - the Fall -
oh, the sudden chill in his bones - in his ribs - the gaping, ragged hole in his chest where Grace had fled - the smog obscuring all celestial light from his eyes - the agony of flames lashing at his wings - the terrified, desperate scream of a soul freefalling through space utterly and shatteringly alone - the filth and the stink and the overwhelming darkness when he landed, a broken, hollowed-out creature, at the bottom of the bottomless pit…
And silence.
Robes torn to pieces, he curled in on himself and shuddered. When he spoke, it was only to himself, as there were no other demons there to hear.
“Don’t regret it,” he hissed. “I won’t stop asking questions.”
2. Eden
Adam and Eve left the garden. Crawly watched them go, curled up in snake form on the wall.
What did they do wrong, God? Why did You banish them for eating the apple? Why didn’t You want them to know good from evil?
She didn’t deign to answer him. She never did.
They’d told him to get up there and cause some trouble. It had been his first mission for Hell, and he was sure they’d commend him for it when he returned; the first two humans already deviating from God’s plan and striking out on their own in a world of danger. The helpless expecting parents, defenseless against the threats that awaited them there. And the Garden of Eden empty. Crawly tried hard to feel enthused.
But why put that tree in the middle of the garden? Why tempt them with it in the first place, God? What are You doing?
There was that angel guarding the Eastern Gate. Crawly regarded him briefly. Fluffy white hair, matching white robes. He was gazing out at the desert, too, and seemed somewhat troubled, as well; Crawly would have loved to ask him what he thought of the day’s events. He would have, if he’d still been an angel, if he’d still worn the name he was now unable to pronounce.
Instead, lowly being that he was, it was time he slunk back off to Hell.
God, what if You wanted them to eat the apple? What if that was Your plan? What if You wanted them to take initiative, to show their free will, to decide for themselves that they’d rather understand good and evil? What if I was doing the right thing, tempting them?
He could get into a lot of trouble voicing a thought like that. Crawly had Fallen for asking questions, but his new employers weren’t too hot on them either, as it turned out. They’d simply encouraged him to embrace his new role - tempter, evildoer, fiend. Not a mantle he’d ever really wanted, but, now that he was exiled from Heaven, it was the only one available.
Back to Hell, then, to wallow. He chanced another glance at the angel.
The sun was shifting between gathering clouds. At the moment his eyes fell on the white hair again, the white wings, they glowed momentarily in beams of light.
Crawly blinked.
It should have been a painful picture, this empty reminder of everything he’d lost. The thought that the angel was beautiful, that his wings twinkled like a billion smiling stars, should have set off the eternal anguish that churned in his gut, bleeding so easily into fury. His ethereal presence should have merely beaten further into Crawly that he was a worthless, disgusting creature. Yet instead Crawly saw the anxious gleam in the angel’s eyes again. And he felt, inexplicably, a sense of connection.
Had he really accepted so quickly and completely that he was an irredeemable failure? Had he really accepted that God’s will was good after all, and that because he’d rebelled, that made him evil? Was he so far gone he wouldn’t even lift his face to speak to an an angel anymore?
No. Not yet.
He slithered closer. Hell certainly wouldn’t approve, but since when did he care about them?
“Well,” he said loudly, shifting into human form, “that went down like a lead balloon.”
You listening, God? Not today.
3. Rome
“Crawly? Er - Crowley?”
It was the last voice he wanted to hear. Well, that wasn’t true - there were worse voices, voices he’d heard shouting for blood and war and death for so long they’d all started to blur together. The voices of humanity that did his job for him most of the time. But this voice was a particular type of terrible.
“Fancy running into you here! Still a demon, then?”
Crowley scowled. “What kind of a stupid question is that?”
Aziraphale was wearing white, as always, and his hair still looked like a cloud. He still seemed to glow a little with his own inner light. Was that a trait all angels shared, or was it unique to Aziraphale? Crowley couldn’t remember. It had been so long. Or maybe it was only because of the secret feelings he harbored for Aziraphale that the angel seemed to brighten every room he entered.
But Crowley didn’t want to talk to Aziraphale. He didn’t want to talk to anyone - he wanted to drink, and forget his frustrations with work, the humans that seemed to be so much better at tempting themselves than he’d ever been at tempting them. The humans who were so much more creative in their cruelty than he could ever hope to be. Crowley wanted to drown this whole stupid charade in alcohol for a few hours, or maybe days, or possibly centuries. Who would notice he was missing? How many things would he be commended for while he slept off a solid decade of binge-drinking?
“In Rome long?” Aziraphale asked.
“Just nipped in for a quick temptation.” He was going to cut this conversation as short as possible, he decided. No need to dive into his discontent with the angel. No need to confide in him, as surprisingly enticing as that possibility was.
What did he think Aziraphale could do about it anyway? He’d let the Flood happen. He’d turned the other way for Sodom and Gomorrah. He’d allowed Rome’s conquest of Israel. Why should he care about a demon’s suffering?
Oh, but he’d given away that sword. Crowley had not yet forgotten it.
“I thought I’d try Patronus’ new restaurant,” said Aziraphale, his eyes lighting up a little as he mentioned food. “I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”
No, no, no. He was leaving. He had no business talking to blessed creatures, he had no right. Hadn’t Hell told him that over and over and over? Hadn’t God told him, when She’d made him Fall? Hadn’t he crawled on his belly in the dust enough by now to know? It would be so easy to simply drown himself in wine. Wasn’t that the most he was good for?
“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” he said distractedly, and turned away.
And then came the words. Spoken in such a cavalier tone, as though Aziraphale was any human speaking to a friend. “Oh! Oh, well let me tempt you -”
And Crowley could feel, for just a moment, a glimmer of something inside his chest. A flicker of light in a cavern that had long, long been empty. When he turned back, beheld the angel’s sheepish smile, it was as though a brief whisper of Heaven’s wind had rustled through his lungs.
He felt a grin spread over his face.
“Well, no, that’s - that’s your job, isn’t it,” said Aziraphale.
What was he thinking? He couldn’t abandon himself to misery. He might be an outcast in Heaven and an oddball in Hell, but the universe was not entirely devoid of hope. A little spark of it was sitting beside him.
“No problem,” he said. “Temptation accomplished.”
4. Tadfield
Antichrist. End of the world. Earth destroyed. War between Heaven and Hell. The thoughts rolled and crashed through Crowley’s mind, worsening the more they were repeated, sucking themselves into a whirlpool that had no end. He drove, music blaring through his speakers, the road wet and slick in front of him, paying no attention to speed.
He’d just dropped off the baby at that blasted convent. It was all in motion, now, and in eleven years he’d have to say goodbye to everything. His flat, his plants, all his human habits, gone in exchange for becoming a foot soldier in a stupid war. And then likely being obliterated by Heaven.
Why him? Why now? Why this? Oh, but it didn’t do to ask questions, no one, not a soul was interested in his questions.
Crowley slammed his foot harder on the gas. It did nothing to ease his nerves.
He didn’t pray anymore, didn’t bother flinging his petitions up to an unlistening sky, but he could imagine just what he’d say now if he did. You really want this? All these people suffering and dying down here? Planet-wide war? So many of Your servants falling - and those who used to be Your servants too? You really don’t care about their lives, so long as You can claim Your victory?
Please, he’d say, please, tell me You don’t want this.
But Crowley didn’t pray anymore. Except when he did.
He had only eleven years, now, in the little pocket of freedom he’d negotiated on Earth. Only eleven years to enjoy sleep and sunlight, to breathe air free of brimstone, to be himself, apart from what all the forces of the universe demanded he be. Then he was back to Crawly, most likely. He grimaced. Back to the conniving serpent that had tempted Eve, striking with deadly fangs against the angels of Heaven, his old brothers and sisters who now hated him, and working to tear down the beauty and light he missed so much - and Aziraphale -
Crowley flinched. The thought of Aziraphale was the worst. An image flashed through him of the angel putting down a stack of books, his face setting into grim lines at the sound of Heaven’s call, his well-worn jacket transforming to a majestic white robe. Crowley’s best friend - his only friend - shedding his humanity and donning his celestial form for battle.
Aziraphale, who went out for lunch with Crowley, who shared his best wines with him, who laughed with him in conversations late at night. Aziraphale, who had never demanded anything of Crowley, who had never insisted Crowley should change, who had never treated Crowley as anything other than a person.
He clenched his fists over the steering wheel. No. He couldn’t just let this happen.
“Call Aziraphale,” he told his car.
Calling Aziraphale… sorry, all lines to London are currently down.
He swore. Fine, then, he’d use a pay phone. He was getting in touch with that angel. They were going to do something about this, no matter what it took.
5. Armageddon
The ground rocked beneath them. Crowley cowered, sucked toward Hell by a force a thousand times stronger than the Earth’s weight; he couldn’t move, couldn’t rise. The approach of Satan lit ablaze a demon’s veins. It rang in his ears and blinded his eyes. It filled his mind with a sound like a bloodcurdling scream, smashing conscious thought, tearing sanity itself to shreds, until all he wanted to do was clutch his head in his hands and sink into the dirt. It consumed him.
“Nice knowing you,” Crowley whimpered. Did Aziraphale hear?
Oh, how stupid they had been, imagining they could defeat the universe. Imagining all their clever little schemes could mean anything in the face of God and Her damned ineffable plan. He’d always been stupid, never known his place, never known when to leave well enough alone, but this time was different - this time, he hadn’t just marred his soul, hadn’t just made a fool of himself. He’d done the very thing Michael had once accused him of. He’d dragged an angel - a kind, sweet, nervous, wonderful angel - down with him. He’d convinced Aziraphale to betray Heaven and now whatever happened to him was his fault.
That thought, more than any other, made him want to disintegrate here and now. To finally finish the work the Fall had started and burn his futile bones to ash.
But Aziraphale was speaking.
He was holding up that sword again, though not in a threatening stance; it hung in the air as a reminder.
“Come up with something,” he shouted, “or - or I’ll never talk to you again!”
And Crowley’s eyes widened.
Aziraphale’s face was blazing, determination etched into its every line. The sword threw Crowley back to a wall, to a garden, to an admission, flustered and fearful, that there was at least one other person in the universe who didn’t merely follow blind. And Crowley felt, once more, that nigh-unbearable warmth and light. That yearning in a heart that had never meant to lose its Grace, that tugging, desperate for connection. The hope that Crowley had recklessly pursued through the centuries, always several steps behind but scrambling for it. For him.
The one light in Crowley’s shrunken universe stood before him now, and told him not to give up.
Satan’s approach was already splitting the pavement ahead. Every molecule in Crowley’s fabricated body cringed from it in terror. The roar in his ears had reached a pitch that would have shattered glass. But - his teeth clenched - but he wasn’t made of glass.
He screwed up his face, balled his fists, drew a deep breath he didn’t need. And with a strength no demon ought to possess, he stood and flung his arms skyward.
And time went still.
For you, Aziraphale. For you.
+1. Soho
He stood on the edge of a precipice again.
Not a literal one, this time. This time he was slumped in an armchair beside a warm fire, in a comfortable, familiar bookshop, enveloped by the scent of old pages and ink and crackling wood. But the precipice was no less real for that. It was no less frightening, feeling his heels brush another abyss.
“My dear,” said Aziraphale, “are you all right?”
Crowley sat forward, eyes burning. He would never get his fill of looking at the angel. Those eyes, so open and trusting and gentle. Those beautiful snow-white curls. Those soft hands, clasped together so primly in his lap. Crowley wanted desperately to touch them.
“Crowley?”
His lungs trembled. How was it that just hearing the angel speak his name could draw him to the brink of collapse?
A few months ago they’d averted the end of the world. He couldn’t stop thinking, now, about how long he’d fought for this - right from the beginning, really. Pushing, asking questions of God. Falling. Questioning Hell. Carving out a place for himself and Aziraphale on Earth, battling the forces of the universe to hold onto it. He’d struggled so fiercely and so painfully just for a chance at really living. But the weeks had stretched on, and there was no one left to combat, and he was so, so tired.
“Crowley, you look ill.” Aziraphale sounded concerned now. But Crowley couldn’t bring himself to reassure the angel, couldn’t find it within him, suddenly, to straighten and smirk and say he was tickety-boo. He just gazed, plaintive, feeling the emptiness at his back.
He was not a demon devoid of pride. His pride, in fact, had propped him up through many days he’d rather have hidden from. But he didn’t have the energy to keep clinging to it now. Nor, if he was honest, the will.
He wanted to let go. So deeply, achingly, he wanted to relinquish control.
“Aziraphale,” he said.
“Yes?”
He stepped backward, spread his useless wings, and lost himself to gravity. This time there was no grasping at what he plunged away from. No attempt to reclaim what he’d released. He gave himself over completely, and fell.
As the words tumbled out he shut his eyes. Yes, he knew what came next - the flames, the sulfur, the torment. It was all branded onto his memory. He knew the consequences of surrender. But if he had to die, if he had to be cut to pieces at last for who he was, he would rather his angel know first how much he was loved.
The words came, and then faded into silence. And Crowley dove toward oblivion.
And he was caught in Aziraphale’s arms.
His eyes burst open. Aziraphale had surged forward from his own chair, throwing himself at Crowley, and enfolded him - wrapped him in a hug tight enough to crush a mortal. Crowley’s mouth opened in shock, but no sound emerged, nothing escaped his frozen throat. The smell of the bookshop was so close his serpent’s tongue could taste it. Aziraphale’s arms were warm, so warm.
“My dear, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, all the tenderness of the universe in his voice. “I love you too. I adore you.”
Crowley drew in a sharp, staccato breath, pained and terrified all at once.
“I should have told you sooner. Oh, my love, I should have told you a thousand times. I will. I’ll tell you five thousand.”
“Five?”
Aziraphale’s laughter against his chest was like gentle thunder. He held Crowley tighter, surrounding him so completely that for a moment the rest of creation stopped existing. The fear and the shame that had hounded him so long were locked outside. Crowley was anchored, steadied, safe in a single embrace. “Six, then!”
God, oh, God, can it be?
“I’ve been a fool, holding on to Heaven,” Aziraphale murmured, his breath a caress against Crowley’s ear. “I wanted to belong there so badly. I wasn’t as brave as you, my dearest, not nearly brave enough to stand up to Gabriel and the others. I wouldn’t let myself admit the truth. But I see now. I understand. This is the only place I belong.”
Is it true?
Aziraphale pulled away, just the tiniest bit, to look Crowley in the eyes.
“You,” he said, “you are the only one I belong to.”
And Crowley collapsed, broken, split open under Aziraphale’s soft gaze, his loving, tender grasp. He found his body wracked by sobs. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s shirt, his eyes suddenly streaming with tears long unshed as numerous as stars; for the first time since he’d lost his white wings, he cried.
Crowley remembered precisely how it had felt to Fall. Not just the plunge itself, down into Hell, but the bitter moment just before, when the warmth and love and connection that had always hummed within him had been brutally snatched back. Now, far from Heaven’s lofty heights and Hell’s ghastly pits, in this small, beautiful bookshop, he could feel it happening in reverse. He could feel Aziraphale’s love, feel it the way an angel would - feel it unfurling from Aziraphale’s heart, a golden, glowing thread, and reaching out to its beloved. To him. He gasped as it entered him, winding through his chest, flooding the great, gaping cavern within him with brilliant light - he shuddered as it filled him, honey-sweet, washing away the dust that had gathered there. His soul cried out in relief as it intertwined once more with another’s.
He was held. He was loved. He was home.
Gradually Crowley’s trembling died down. When he was still, he uncurled his arms from their position drawn protectively over his chest, and wrapped them around Aziraphale. Hugged his angel back. Their bodies, clasped together, felt so beautifully right that Crowley wondered how he could ever have doubted it.
“Have dinner with me sometime,” he mumbled.
Aziraphale laughed. “Any time you want, my love.”
He was more than unbroken now. At last, at last, at last, he was whole.