Chapter Text
Crowley drove in shocked, reeling silence for about five minutes before he pulled the Bentley off the side of the road, parked, and burst into tears.
Couldn’t even think. There was nothing except the pain, pain so much worse than anything he’d ever felt. Even worse than Falling. Falling had nothing on this.
He curled onto his side in the driver’s seat, wrapped his arms around himself, and squeezed his eyes shut. The sobs wrenched through him, starting out as agonized, helpless wails that culminated in a devastated scream.
“Aziraphale, you fucking idiot!” He dragged his fingers through his hair, hyperventilating. “You left me, you fucking wanker, how could you take that offer?”
Smoke filled the car as anger burned through him, and he pounded his fist on his thigh in a frantic effort to regain control before he exploded in the Bentley. He brought his fist down again and again, another scream bursting out. This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.
He didn’t stop until his entire leg burned with agony, until he could no longer even feel his hand. The smoke had cleared then, anger breaking to something much, much worse. Devastation.
Curling up again, Crowley wept. What was the point of this? What was the point of all of it? Why had he survived everything, all these millions of years, only to end up broken and alone?
And it was his own fault. He’d fucked up. Fucked up so badly that it couldn’t be fixed.
The Bentley rumbled with concern, and Crowley uncurled just enough to pat the wheel. “Sorry,” he said, voice rough. His throat burned with pain, torn raw by his screams. “I didn’t mean to almost set you on fire again.”
It sank in then. He had felt this before, but only once. Another time that he’d been too late, when he’d lost Aziraphale, when Aziraphale had been torn out of that bookshop and taken to Heaven. When he’d thought Aziraphale was dead.
Aziraphale wasn’t dead this time. But their relationship—whatever sort of relationship that was—might be dead. Had to be. How could it come back from that?
“I went too fucking fast, didn’t I?” He pulled off his sunglasses and covered his eyes with a trembling hand. His whole damn body was trembling. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that.”
But he’d been desperate, panicking, hurt. Had gone for the grand gesture, the one that always seemed to fix everything in films. And it hadn’t worked.
Crowley slid his sunglasses back into place and touched his lips. Then, furious at himself, he rounded on the plants shivering in the back seat. “What the fuck are you lot doing back there, sitting around looking so useless? You’re supposed to cheer the place up, not wilt, not fail! You’re supposed to be strong!”
He punched the side of one of the boxes hard enough that his hand went right through the cardboard. It got caught when he tried to pull back, and he swore violently as he ripped his hand free. The box flipped over, dumping plants all over the place.
Crowley stared at them for a moment, at the broken branches, at the plants that had fallen all the way to the car floor. And then, anguish crushing his chest, he started to cry again.
---
Aziraphale barely made it to Heaven before the trembling started in earnest. He had a plan, of sorts. He would stop the Second Coming, save the Earth, and everything could still be okay. He ought to have been happy.
But although he kept the smile fixed firmly on his face, the hollow pit in his tummy and chest worsened every second. He was surrounded by angels now, back with more of his kind than he’d seen in years. And yet, he’d never felt so very, very alone.
“And you’ll have access to everything, of course,” Metatron said in his friendly, avuncular voice. Then he winked, turning down yet another all white corridor. “Well, nearly everything. Some things remain solely in my purview, as the Voice of the Almighty.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.” Aziraphale inclined his head, folding his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t wring them together. But controlling the outward manifestations of his anxiety only made it worse.
He wanted Crowley. No matter how hard he tried to bury the feelings, or to deny them, they haunted him. He wanted Crowley beside him. Without Crowley…
But this was the right thing to do. To go back to Heaven, to fix it, to make it the sort of place that wouldn’t want to destroy anyone or anything. This would keep Crowley safe, after all. And any cost was worth it to keep Crowley safe.
Even losing him.
The thought made Aziraphale feel rather ill. In fact, it was getting increasingly hard to breathe, as if he was on the verge of a panic attack. Back in the shop, he would simply look around at all his familiar, comforting belongings until he felt calm, grounded.
There was nothing comforting here. Only Heaven’s stark emptiness.
Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Actually, um. Would it be possible for me to see my office or quarters? I’d like to, er, spend a few minutes in quiet contemplation and prayer.”
Metatron gave him a baffled, but indulgent look. “Why?”
“Oh. Um.” Because he was either going to start crying or have a panic attack any second, and that seemed like a less than auspicious start to his new responsibilities. “It’s what I always do before, um, an important assignment. Best to start from a well-centered place.”
“If you feel you must,” Metatron said with a long suffering sigh. “As Supreme Archangel, you are entitled to your own chambers now.”
He led Aziraphale to an entirely empty white room, waved him inside, and closed the door. Aziraphale stared at the room, so empty. He didn’t have any of the things that had brought him comfort.
He could have brought something with him. But the only thing he’d ever truly needed was Crowley. And without Crowley, all the books and memorabilia in the world had seemed utterly pointless.
The tears welled in earnest, Aziraphale’s breaths going fast and shivery. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor, head roaring.
What had he been thinking? What had Crowley been thinking? How had it all gone so, so wrong after how long they’d been together?
Aziraphale whimpered, tears slipping loose, and pressed his shaking fingers to his lips again. He tried to sink into the memory, of Crowley so close, his familiar faint scent of smoke and burnt matches overwhelmingly intense. Crowley had been shaking, shaking so badly, so desperate for him to stay…
A sob exploded from Aziraphale, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle it as others followed. He wailed into his hand, rocking, pain crushing his chest.
He’d thought he understood heartbreak after their fight at the bandstand. But that was nothing compared to this, to just how much this hurt. He and Crowley had been so close these past years, spent so much time together. How was it possible that they weren’t together now?
“Crowley, why didn’t you come with me? We could have… we…” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself and bowed his head, shuddering. “You could have been happy again, I just wanted to see you happy again…”
And not only that. To protect Crowley, too. Heaven wasn’t trustworthy, not yet. But if Crowley was here, with him, Aziraphale could have kept him safe.
Not now. Now, Crowley was on Earth, alone. Perhaps this time, he really would run away to the stars and forget all about Aziraphale.
Just as Aziraphale must forget about him, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how badly his heart had shattered. Every second, every breath, every thought came with a sharp pain, as if the fractured pieces of his heart shifted and stabbed him all over again.
“Oh… I want to go home.” Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands, sobbing. He couldn’t catch his breath, chest crushed by anguish.
But he couldn’t go home. He was home, rather, back in Heaven. There was no going back, not now. All that remained was to make Heaven a better place, a good place, the sort of place that would never harm Crowley, humanity, or Earth.
Aziraphale raised his head and drew a long, shuddering breath. He wiped his cheeks, then yielded to necessity and miracled away all traces of tears. He couldn’t very well go about running Heaven with his nose dribbling.
But how was he, Aziraphale, supposed to run Heaven on his own? It would have been different, with Crowley here. Crowley had always supported him, encouraged him, bolstered his confidence.
Another sob burst out, and Aziraphale clenched his fists. He had to regain control, to be brave. To be as brave as he would have been with Crowley beside him, ever faithful.
But Crowley had left. Hadn’t understood. Hadn’t given Aziraphale a chance.
Had kissed him.
“Oh, you foolish old serpent,” Aziraphale choked, needing to miracle away a fresh wave of tears. “Do you think I don’t love you too? Did you think I don’t love you for who you are?”
That must have been what he thought. Crowley’s self-esteem had needed always been a bit iffy. Oh, he hid it better than Aziraphale, but Crowley needed support too. But now, that was all over.
Heart heavy, Aziraphale struggled to his feet and looked around the empty room. He could fill it. Perhaps he would give himself an armchair, at least.
But really, what was the point? What was the point of anything other than focusing on his new duties?
---
“Same again.” Crowley thumped the table, head swimming so much that he couldn’t really tell which direction was up anymore. Was pretty sure he was listing sideways, in danger of falling out of his chair. But did that matter? Not in the slightest. “Already… Fallen. And fell… in love? S’ that it? Dunno. Confusing. Love. What’s the deal with in love versus just love? Weird. Humans are weird.”
The bartender set down another bottle of Talisker, and Crowley fumbled with it. His fingers slid off the cork, and he tried again. It was hard to open one bottle when it looked like there were two bottles, overlapping and shifting.
“M’ definitely… drunk,” Crowley announced to the bottle. “Some might say I… fell off the wagon too. Never actually been on the wagon, though. Alcohol. S’ friend, only friend left.”
He laughed at his joke. And then he broke down into agonized sobs, curling around his bottle.
He wouldn’t have alcohol in Heaven, probably. Unless he smuggled it in. Could always miracle it, of course, but it wasn’t quite as satisfying as the real—
Wait. In Heaven?
Crowley jerked his head up, blinked a few times, tried to clear his head. His head was way too full of alcohol for any sort of clearing. He’d gone through somewhere between four to eight bottles of scotch since crumpling here at the pub—couldn’t tell the exact count with his vision doing weird shit.
But Heaven. Even drunk, that thought registered. Why was he planning to go to Heaven?
Well, that was obvious, even in his current state. Aziraphale was in Heaven. There was no other way to be together. And Crowley had promised, in a different pub a few years ago. He’d said words and intended them as a vow.
“Wherever you are, I’ll come to you,” he repeated, conviction settling in. “Wherever you are.”
Stricken, Crowley closed his eyes. He’d meant those words, meant them with everything in him. He still meant them, even now, even with his heart torn to pieces. Even if Aziraphale could never love him for who he was now, even if Aziraphale only saw that angel who made stars and nebulae.
How to get to Heaven, though? Crowley got to his feet and staggered, nearly falling over the top of the table. He gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders, grabbed his bottle of Talisker again, and stumbled out of the pub.
He turned around, nearly fell over, and frowned at the pub. The lift came here. But could he actually access it on his own, without setting off every alarm in both Heaven and Hell? Hard to tell, especially when he was pissed out of his mind.
Hissing, he took another step back. He immediately overbalanced and fell, but something stopped him from crashing into the street.
He looked back to see the Bentley, now parked right behind him. Not where he’d left it. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Hi. Thanks.”
Shit. He couldn’t take his Bentley with him to Heaven, could he? But he couldn’t leave his car here. He’d set it on fire once in a mad rush to get to Aziraphale. Couldn’t leave it on Earth to get destroyed when Heaven started up another Apocalypse.
And they would. He was sure of that. Aziraphale had the best intentions, always, but he was no match for them. Especially without any support, isolated and alone.
“Er. Car.” Choked up, Crowley turned around and lovingly stroked the metal. He glanced in the back window, checking to be sure he’d remembered to repair the plants. He had. “Okay. I’m gonna take you with me to Aziraphale, but I gotta shrink you down. Okay? Promise it’ll be temporary, just a quick, painless miracle.”
The Bentley rumbled at him, warming under his hand. And then, all at once, it rippled, changed. Turned yellow.
Crowley lost control over another wave of tears. He bent and kissed the top, gently, then straightened up. “I know. We’re gonna make sure he’s okay, I promise.”
He gestured, and a miracle shrank the Bentley down to the size of a matchbox car. Aching, Crowley picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Then he pivoted towards the bookshop, clenched his jaw, and stormed across the street. Snapped the door open with a miracle and somehow made it inside without tripping over anything.
Inspector Constable whoever was sitting in Aziraphale’s favorite chair, quietly reading. They looked up and smiled brightly. “Oh, hello! Did you come back to talk to me?”
“No,” Crowley said, walking straight past them. He went to Aziraphale’s back room, snarled, and grabbed a picnic basket. That would do.
Inspector Constable came over, looking in confusion as Crowley loaded wine and shortbread into the basket. “Um, are you supposed to take stuff out of this shop? Do you… have to pay for it? I think someone said you have to pay for things in shops.”
“I’m allowed to take this because I’m taking it to the bookshop’s owner. We’re best friends.” Although maybe not anymore. With a hollow pit in his gut, Crowley crammed a tartan blanket in the basket too. “Don’t let anyone else take anything out of the bookshop while I’m gone, understand? Whether or not they pay for it.”
“Okay!” Inspector Constable said brightly. “Can I help you with anything? You look… kind of like you need help. You’re all wobbly.”
“It’s called drunkenness,” Crowley said, and took a moment to enjoy the mixture of horror and curiosity on the angel’s face. “You should try it some time. But not right now, because I do actually need you to help me. I need to go to Heaven.”
Inspector Constable tilted their head, eyes narrowing with confusion. “But you… already did that when you had me arrest you. But when you had me arrest you, that was a trick.”
“Yep. Good job.” Crowley looked over the back room for other important things and failed. Everything was blurring enough that it was hard to make out individual objects. “But I promise it’s not a trick this time. My best friend invited me to go to Heaven.”
He stumbled over to Aziraphale’s desk and checked over it. No, probably nothing he needed to take here. But a book. A book would be good. Aziraphale didn’t have any books, and that was just wrong.
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
Because going back to Heaven was one of the most horrific nightmares that Crowley could think of. Walking back in there, not just on a quick mission, but to stay. To rejoin that toxic, abusive system…
“I needed time to think.” Crowley shoved his Talisker into the basket too and pulled out his mobile, hands shaking. “Can you look for any books by Jane Austen? I dunno which one I need yet, but I need one.”
“Okay!” Inspector Constable skipped off towards the shelves.
It was even harder to read with everything so blurred, but Crowley managed it. He googled Jane Austen, clicked on the Wikipedia entry, and scrolled until he found the list of books.
Oh gosh, he didn’t feel good. He exhaled slowly, trying to keep himself steady a while longer, and began to skim the summaries for each novel. Could take all of them, but he couldn’t very well shove a whole stack of books at Aziraphale and make a point that way. Needed to be a more specific point.
“Ahaha! That’s perfect,” he said as he read a summary towards the end of the list. He stumbled over to where the angel was pulling books off a shelf. “Lemme see… okay, that one. Terrific. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” They flashed a bright, excited smile. “So, you want me to call the lift now?”
“It’s that or I activate the shop’s transportation portal,” Crowley said, trying to smile. He couldn’t actually tell if he was managing it. He had a mission now, a plan, but still no nightingales. The best he could hope for was to keep Aziraphale from getting hurt. Their relationship was, realistically speaking, toast. “I’m not actually sure how that would go, demonic power and everything. Could blow up.”
“Oh. That wouldn’t be good.” Inspector Constable gave a nervous laugh. “Okay! As long as you have an invitation.”
“I do.” Crowley put the book in the basket, feeling increasingly sick. And not from the alcohol. This was pure dread.
He had an invitation, yeah. Was pretty sure it would still stand even if Aziraphale hated him for that stupid kiss as much as Crowley hated himself for it. He and Aziraphale had cared about each other for too long to ever want the other to come to any harm.
Of course, Aziraphale’s whole plan would do a terrifying amount of harm to Crowley. He was drunk, not an idiot. But it would be worth any harm to himself, to be together. And it would definitely be worth it to keep Aziraphale safe.
Crowley staggered to the lift, clinging to the basket. Nodded his thanks as the angel summoned the lift. Then, gathering more courage than he’d needed to drive through the blaze on the M-25, he slammed the button for Heaven.
His chest and throat tightened, whole body shaking. Every bit of his mind, even the thoroughly intoxicated ones, screamed at him to flee. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
The lift doors sprang open, and this time there were lots of guards. Looked like someone in Heaven had learned a thing or two.
Crowley squared up with them, putting on his best James Bond expression, calm and cool. “Take me to your leader.”
---
“And you‘ll be expected to manage diplomatic relations with Hell, of course,” Metatron said as Aziraphale stared out the window at Big Ben. Oh, how he already missed Earth. “I’m sure they’ll dispatch official notice of their new leader soon. Sandalphon, do we have any word?”
“Not yet.” Sandalphon bared his teeth. “We shall hear from them eventually, once they’re done squabbling like animals for the seat of power. You know how they are.”
Aziraphale frowned at him. “No. Please explain what you mean.”
There was a collective intake of breath around the room, especially from the scriveners who were simply there to take meeting notes. But even the other Archangels seemed surprised by his lack of disdain for demons. They still didn’t understand.
“You of all angels know that the Fallen are small, selfish creatures,” Sandalphon said, as if that was entirely obvious. “These things are only interested in what best suits their petty desires. They’re broken things.”
“I would thank you not to speak of our former brethren like that,” Aziraphale said stiffly.
Another collective intake of breath, but the Metatron raised a hand to stop Sandalphon from another reply. “Of course, that must be upsetting to you, Aziraphale. I understand things must seem different to you, with your past affiliation.”
Aziraphale swallowed hard. Oh, how he would love to tell them all how wonderful Crowley was, that there was no real difference between angels and demons.
But that would be far too complicated for them to understand yet. He himself still forgot sometimes, which certainly had not helped during his argument with Crowley. “Now, um. I-I suppose I ought to be filled in on the latest developments in Heaven?”
“Of course,” Michael said, voice sharp. She wore a brittle smile, shoulders tight. Definitely not happy with the current situation. “You certainly should be.”
She didn’t elaborate. Beside her, Sandalphon gave a broad, humorless smile. He didn’t say anything either.
Aziraphale folded his hands together, trying to remain calm and collected. He’d known this would be rather a big, terrifying adjustment for everyone. Must make the best of it. “Please do so, then.”
Michael opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, an angel in uniform rushed in. They charged up and bowed. “Most Holy Archangel—”
Aziraphale’s stomach lurched, and he waved his hands. “Oh, um, there’s no need for such titles here! Such formality is, um… unnecessary. Please do tell me what’s wrong, though.”
The guardian nodded, eyes wide. “There’s been an incursion. There’s a demon here, saying he has an invitation. He’s demanding to see our leader.”
Everything spun, and Aziraphale’s legs wobbled. He could only stare, terrified to get his hopes up. Was it possible?
“That would be you, Aziraphale,” Michael said in that sickly sweet, cutting tone.
“Y-yes. Thank you.” Aziraphale gulped. “Well, best to bring him in, then.”
Footsteps clattered down the wide corridor into the meeting room. Two angels on the other side of a black clad figure, dragging him. Red hair hung limp, veiling his face as his head hung down, glowing handcuffs burning his wrists. Drips of blood splashed against the white floor.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale heard a whimper escape from himself. And then he was rushing across the room, all other concerns forgotten. “What have you done to him? Why is he hurt?”
“He resisted our attempt to confine him,” one of the stone faced guards said. “He had to be subdued.”
“He’s stumbling! How badly did you hurt him?” Aziraphale reached out and cradled Crowley’s head in both hands, carefully lifting. “Crowley?”
Bright golden eyes snapped open behind the askew dark glasses, and a smile lit up Crowley’s face for a moment before he could hide it. Then Crowley put on what Aziraphale immediately recognized as his James Bond look, confident and calm. “Hey, angel. You wanna do the whole… supreme commander thingy and tell your goons to let me go?”
“Let him go,” Aziraphale snapped. The guards released Crowley’s arms, and his legs buckled at once. Aziraphale caught him, heart twisting at the contact, at the way Crowley stumbled. “How badly are you hurt? What did they… hang on. Are you… drunk?”
The room drew a collective gasp of shock.
“I have indulged,” Crowley said in a slow, exaggerated voice. Anger curdled in Aziraphale’s stomach. Oh, that old fool. “They took my stuff. Can I have that back? Also, ow.”
Crowley jerked his chin down at the bands of light securing his wrists. His skin was smoking. Despite his anger, Aziraphale flicked a hand and vanished the celestial bindings at once. “Give him his belongings back.”
Another guard stepped up, holding a picnic basket. Crowley grabbed it, almost dropped it, and then got a more secure hold. He rocked his weight back, giving Aziraphale a cool look. “I’m not gonna make any grand proclamations.”
“Good. We’ve certainly had enough of those.” And now they were surrounded by all these angels. Good Lord, what a nightmare. “Why are you here, Crowley?”
Crowley swallowed hard, lip trembling just a little. “I’m accepting your invitation,” he said, each word sounding as if it pained him. “One condition, though.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. It was all he could do not to cry, but he couldn’t afford to break down here, in this room, with so many watching. “And what would that be?”
“No… making me into an angel.” Crowley’s voice cracked, and a shiver rolled through him. “I’m me, and I wanna stay me. But I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”
A tear escaped down Aziraphale’s cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. “Crowley, perhaps we ought to discuss this in private.”
“Promised,” Crowley said, more urgently now. He was swaying quite badly, unsteady as he dug in the picnic basket and pulled out a book. “Wherever you are. Promised. And I brought you something.”
He slammed the book into Aziraphale’s chest. Startled, Aziraphale jerked his hands away. The book fell to the floor between them. “Crowley, if I’d wanted books, I could have brought them with me. I don’t need books anymore. I have other duties to perform now.”
“Okay.” Crowley searched his face, eyes full of pain, then nodded. “Either way. I’m back.”
And then he fell, legs crumpling under him. Aziraphale cried out, caught him, eased him to the floor. “Crowley? Crowley?”
He’d passed out, dead drunk.
Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, stomach twisting until he felt sick. This was very not the triumph he’d imagined when he thought of Crowley coming back to Heaven with him.
“Aziraphale,” Metatron said mildly. “Perhaps we could have the guards remove the demon now, and we can return to the matter at hand?”
Heavy treads thumped across the floor, and Aziraphale looked up to see Sandalphon smiling hungrily down. “I would be glad to welcome the Fallen creature to one of my cells. It must be interrogated.”
“No one is interrogating Crowley!” Aziraphale shoved to his feet and got between them, bristling. His heart pounded frantically, racing out of control. Oh no, was he going to have a panic attack? “He is my guest here. Guards, please convey him to chambers adjacent to mine. Place him in a bed, and then leave him be.”
He watched, chest tight as the guards picked Crowley up and carried him out, along with his picnic basket. Everything in Aziraphale’s heart screamed to go along, to be sure they followed his orders. But he couldn’t afford to lose more face than he already had.
“I apologize for the interruption,” he said, turning. His shoe bumped into the fallen book. He picked it up without looking at it and went back to the circle of angels. “Where were we?”
Michael gave another sharp smile. “Well, before your pet demon interrupted, we were getting ready to discuss latest policy developments.”
Aziraphale forced a smile of his own, clutching the book as if it was a lifeline. “Please do, then.”
He struggled to pay attention, his heart torn in two. Some small portion of it remained here, trying to attend to his duties. But the majority of it cried out desperately for Crowley, for the demon he’d loved so much for so long.
The meeting seemed to go on forever, interminable. He held onto the book, tried his best to nod and pretend that he was paying attention. Perhaps he could get the updates in written form as well. He might process that better than the endless flow of monotone rambling.
“Yes, very good,” Aziraphale said as soon as Sandalphon finished some sort of report on the readiness of the isolation cells in case of war. “Well, I think that gives me quite a lot to work with. Thank you all so much for the, um, warm welcome. You all know your duties.”
At least, he was relatively certain that they did. He didn’t actually remember Gabriel doing much other than ordering people around on pointless tasks, making disparaging remarks, and acting as if he was the only competent being in existence.
With a few grumbles and glares, the Archangels filtered out, followed by the scriveners. Aziraphale stood there, holding onto the book, lost as to what he should do now.
“Not bad for a first few hours on the job,” Metatron said mildly. “That was a bit of an embarrassment to start, wasn’t it? With the demon? A rather sad display, but I suppose we can’t expect more from someone like that.”
“His name is Crowley.” Aziraphale let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you very much for the help with the meeting.”
Metatron smiled. “Of course. And I will also help with your wardrobe, if you need assistance finding something more… Heavenly.”
Aziraphale looked down at his comfortable old outfit, stomach twisting. “Ah. I can handle that, but thank you. Now I’ll go, um, see to my duties.”
He had no idea what his duties were, aside from attending meetings and signing off on missions. And answering questions, perhaps, if anyone was allowed to ask them.
But he knew which duty he must perform next, and he went to it with a heavy heart, taking only the book. Once, this would have been a pleasure. Now…
Aziraphale drew a deep breath and opened the door beside his own chambers. This room was similarly stark white and empty aside from a narrow bed, a picnic basket, and a very unconscious demon.
Gulping, Aziraphale approached the bed. The angels had put Crowley down in a heap, leaving his head to loll off the pillow, his sunglasses digging into his face. If this had been at the shop, Aziraphale would have gently removed those glasses and set them aside. Crowley had smiled when he asked about that the first time, as if touched that Aziraphale had asked instead of just taking them off.
But whatever permissions had existed between them must be revoked after what had happened. Crowley had put his sunglasses back on, had chosen to close Aziraphale out. And Aziraphale would not violate that trust.
“Oh, Crowley, you old fool.” Aziraphale allowed himself one small indulgence, gently stroking Crowley’s hair off his brow. “Why would you come back to me, after what happened? After I left you?”
Aziraphale sighed heavily, stepped back, and finally looked down at the book he’d been clutching for hours. He inhaled sharply, touching the cover with a trembling hand as his tears blurred the title.
Crowley had brought him Persuasion.