Happy Holidays, sonnet23!

[goe_mod]

TITLE: play our song (to see if it’s in tune)

RECIPIENT: sonnet23
RATING: M
WARNINGS: language, non-graphic descriptions of injury, mentions of war and plague, extreme weather, imprisonment
PAIRINGS Aziraphale/Crowley
SUMMARY:
Aziraphale bursts out, “what do you need me to do? I’ve already admitted that you were right. And that I was wrong. Do you need me to — shall I do a little dance for you?”
That, at least, gets Crowley to open his eyes, a curious eyebrow hiking up into his forehead.
What on Earth would a dance even do?
Besides, everyone knows that angels don’t dance.
Aziraphale seems to take that as encouragement, though, and quickly pushes himself to his feet.

---

Five times that Aziraphale did the I Was Wrong dance, and one time that Crowley stopped him.

(Title taken from Ruin by the Amazing Devil)

850 AD

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” points out Crowley, glancing anxiously out towards the sea.

It doesn’t reveal any Viking ships, but it wouldn’t — they would make their approach during the night, when the darkness would keep them hidden until it’s too late for the troops on the shore to rally. They’ve been doing this for centuries, after all, and a good majority of them may be farmers or tradespeople for most of the year, but they are good at this.

Aziraphale follows his gaze, though there’s a great deal less anxiety in his than in Crowley’s. “Perhaps, but we’ll be safe here. Didn’t you hear the news this morning? The ealdorman has just announced they’ve finished works on a brand new castle. Oh, it’s been nearly twenty years in the making!”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Angel, that’s not going to keep us safe.”

“No, no - castles are the big fashion now, when it comes to protecting your people. The walls are supposed to be unbreachable. We’ll be perfectly fine until the invaders give up and go back to their homes,” announces Aziraphale, a smile on his face.

It is true that castles are the latest thing humans have invented to keep themselves safe during all these wars, raids, and… whatever other conflict they managed to invent. And the walls are very thick, and very tall, and the moats add a whole other layer of challenge to breaching them. As far as fortifications go, one could do a lot worse than a castle.

But something about all of this doesn’t feel right. That the castle would be ready just as the Vikings are approaching…

“I’m telling you, angel, we need to go. Castle won’t keep us safe,” insists Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes his head, and there’s something almost amused in his expression. “You’re being silly. We’ll be fine. At any rate, I’m not about to leave these people in their hour of need. If you want to go, we could always meet up later, after the Vikings are gone. Well - assuming, of course, that you… have some Evil scheme that I need to thwart.”

He is supposed to be tempting the clergy into making a deal with the raiders to ensure clemency — a lot of people would go shelter in the church, after all, despite it being one of the common targets, and Crowley was meant to just… whisper a word here and there that the raiders might be willing to leave them with some gold in exchange for a few prisoners served up on a silver platter.

That’s what he’s supposed to be doing.

Right now, he’s meant to be there putting the fear of the raiders into some priest or another, not standing at the top of a hill, looking out onto the sea while trying to convince an angel that they should get out of there before it’s too late. But he’s sure there’s something up with this raid, and anyway… he does have lines he won’t cross if he has an option at all, and this assignment is one of them.

Hell won’t find out one way or the other. He’s sure this place will be bathed in Evil by the time the sun sets the following day.

Desperate situations do strange things to people, after all.

“Something’s wrong here, angel, I’m telling you. But I guess… we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

---

The bell rings the alarm, and local soldiers and volunteers yell directions to panicked townspeople as they pour into the fortification of the castle. Among them stand an angel and a demon, beige and black cloaks with their hoods drawn up, eyes scanning their surroundings with analytical precision.

Crowley is looking for danger.

Aziraphale -

“I’m not certain that everyone is here,” frets the angel, anxiety clear in his tone.

Crowley shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be. Some people can’t come, some people don’t want to. Don’t trust the ealdorman to protect them, or don’t want to leave their houses. Heard them talking in the market this morning, before…”

“Oh, but surely now that the alarm has sounded and the ships are here, they’ll change their minds.”

“Angel, they’ve made their choice. The ships are here, it won’t be long before they’re close enough to disembark, and the will doors close then. If we’re not inside — “

There’s a moment of hesitation. Crowley glances at the road ahead — they’re nearly there, just a few more steps and they’ll be safe behind the walls of the castle. He might not trust this at all, but he’d much rather be behind several feet of stone than out in the village when the raid begins. But if Aziraphale decides to turn back now…

The angel is looking out onto the water with that same look Crowley has grown to associate with making a very, very bad decision. The longships are right there, clearly visible on the shore, and getting closer by the minute. They don’t have time for this, anyone who’s decided not to come has already chosen their fate. There’s nothing they can do.

“We can’t leave them, Crowley, they’ll — well, they’ll get hurt, or worse!” argues Aziraphale.

Crowley shakes his head, letting the movement push his dark glasses down on his nose so his eyes are visible over the rim. “Angel. We need to go.”

For a moment, Crowley thinks it worked. Aziraphale glances between him and the village, and his body weight shift towards Crowley —

Then it pivots, and Aziraphale starts off in the opposite direction, leaving Crowley to sigh but follow. There’s no way he’s abandoning the angel out there on his own.

“I simply cannot leave these people to die, Crowley, I’m not — “

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Like me?”

“Well, that’s not — “

Whatever Aziraphale says next is drowned out by a voice calling loudly over the crowd, “that’s them over there! SEIZE THEM!”

It’s with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Crowley realizes that whoever just yelled that was referring to them. To him and Aziraphale.

Fuck.

They haven’t even done anything wrong. Or anything at all, for that matter - he’s ignored his assignment ever since he arrived in this little village and realized that he couldn’t possibly go through with it, and he knows Aziraphale is in a similar situation. It’s been what, a handful of weeks? And they’ve spent most of that time alternating between trying to figure out the game of Alquerque that Aziraphale brought with him from his last assignment, and drinking as they tried to come to terms with the fact that clearly, neither of them was going to actually do their assignment.

For what on Earth could the humans be blaming them?

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, but he’s still forging ahead with vigor, eager to get back to the village. Good, he’d only hesitate if he noticed, and that would slow him down. As it is, he might manage to get away.

A hand seizes Crowley, and he snarls in response, whipping around just a moment before he has the chance to push his glasses back up into place. If the human sees anything, he doesn’t let it show. Great.

Crowley tugs on his arm, trying to get free, but the guard’s grip is too strong. Aziraphale is still making progress, though, so it should be fine — he won’t say anything, he’ll deal with this himself, and he’ll meet up with the angel later, let him know what happened and that he’s fine. If he calls out now, Aziraphale will stop, and then —

“ANGEL! WATCH OUT!”

Bless it, he didn’t see that man before — another guard, running right up to Aziraphale, pushing through the crowd with no regard for the people still trying to make their way into the castle. Why are they so eager to get to him? What do these humans want?

Aziraphale stops, turns around, and it’s too late.

The man tackles the angel to the ground, and try as he might, Crowley can’t break free to get to him.

A miracle would do it, a little voice in the back of his head whispers, but a miracle could also catch the humans’ attention, and they don’t want that. The last thing they need right now is talks of magic going around. So instead of forcing himself free and running after the angel, Crowley simply struggles and watches as they drag Aziraphale to his feet and manacle his wrists. He thinks, in that moment, that he understands righteous fury better than he has any right to, these days.

A moment later, Aziraphale is on his feet, and the two of them are being none-too-gently dragged inside. The heavy gates close behind them, and Crowley breathes a sigh of relief.

At least they’re not being left out there to be… probably painfully discorporated.

The relief is short-lived, though, for they’re quickly escorted inside and the full breadth of the situation is made to clear them with one simple sentence, delivered as they’re pushed to their knees on the cold stone floor.

“Here, my liege,” says one of the guards, “The ones who brought the Danes.”

Crowley squawks, and he can see Aziraphale frown next to him, equally confused.

“What?” says Crowley. “We didn’t bring anyone here. Why the bloody Heaven would we? We’re here, too, aren’t we? Think we want to get an axe stuck to our heads?”

Aziraphale adds, “we’ve only arrived a few weeks ago, and I assure you, we have no affiliation whatsoever with the raiders. If you ask, I’m sure you’ll find that we’ve caused no trouble for anyone since arriving here.”

The ealdorman sneers at them. “You thought you were so sly, didn’t you? Coming here, making a deal with the Danes to tell them where everything valuable is, while you got away and got a cut of the loot, too.”

A frown pulls at Crowley’s face. “Where on Earth did you hear that?”

A laugh, and the ealdorman shakes his head. “Do you think I’m stupid? Think I’m just going to tell you that so you can go and get revenge on my informant?”

“What I think is that you don’t want me to answer that, especially not when I’m tied up here and you think I’m going to get revenge on a mystery person I probably never even met before. Do you really just believe anything people tell you?”

That earns him a swift kick, but it’s Aziraphale who lets out a wounded sound on impact, looking between Crowley and the guard as if asking for silent permission.

Crowley shakes his head. They need to bide their time, wait until they’re alone somewhere to make their escape. A quick miracle and they’ll be all sorted — they just need to get to that point. But a kick, especially one so clumsily aimed, not trying to get at any particularly sensitive areas… that’s nothing compared to an average day in Hell, and he’s not going to let it be what makes them reveal their nature to these humans.

No, just a few more minutes, and they should be alright to go.

“Let’s see if you feel so clever after a few days in the dungeons,” spits the ealdorman, and Crowley bites back a comment about people who are so easily riled up. He doesn’t, he reminds himself, want to find out just how far this ealdorman will go in his treatment of prisoners. “Take them away.”

They’re pulled to their feet and led towards a small door in the corner of the room.

The dungeons, Crowley thinks — that will be good enough. There might still be eyes on them there, if they have any cellmates or if the door is easy enough to see through, but he’s certainly not going to wait around to find out what happens after the cell. One quick miracle, and they could be miles from there, screw their assignments. They’ve both already failed them, anyway, ignored them from the day they arrived.

The door opens, and they’re led to the very back of the cell, where pairs of shackles hang from a ring nailed into the wall. Crowley rolls his eyes, but lets them shackle him. Aziraphale offers no resistance.

Finally, the guards leave.

Crowley waits one, two, three seconds —

And he snaps his fingers.

Nothing.

He snaps them again, more vigorously this time.

Nothing.

He reaches out a finger, trying to just tap onto that well of power he can always feel, that is as much a part of him as he is of it, and —

Nothing.

He can feel it, it’s right there where it’s always been, but when he tries to reach out for it, when he tries to use it, something stops him, something keeps him from connecting to it. It feels like a wheel snapping off its axle.

Something is wrong, something is very, very wrong.

Crowley turns to Aziraphale, eyes wide.

The angel can’t have noticed it, not yet, for the look on his face is more puzzled than terrified. “Well?” he says. “I think it should be safe for us to leave now. Oh, or would you like me to…?”

“My miracles aren’t working,” explains Crowley.

Oh. There — there it is, the panicked look. Now they’re on the same page.

Aziraphale does a small gesture, and Crowley doesn’t feel the ripples in reality that should come with that movement.

Another repeat, and still nothing happens.

The panic is firmly etched there now, and Crowley realizes with a sinking feeling that he doesn’t know how to fix this one. There’s no trump card, no miracle, no last-minute swoop-in to drag his angel out of danger, there’s just… this. Him and Aziraphale, manacled to the wall in some small dungeon cell, unable to do so much as free their hands.

Crowley glances down at the bindings.

Hah, there it is — that’s what’s blocking their powers. There are runes carved into the metal, something… something old, something not from the Very Beginning, but certainly not from much later, either. From the times when angels and demons still made more obvious appearances on Earth, when Aziraphale could occasionally arrive in a beam of light to make a dramatic little speech before he invited Crowley to whatever was happening in the area.

A time when humans knew a little more of celestial beings, and where spells such as this might have seemed a little more relevant to them.

It’s binding his powers — it’s designed to bind the power of any celestial being, the separation between angels and demons in that sense being more clerical than anything else — and it’s strong. He can feels it in the sigils, the power coursing through them, feeding off his own miraculous energy. There’s no point in fighting it, for the more he fights it, the more he’ll fuel it.

Crowley raises his hands to Aziraphale, putting the manacles on display.

“’S these blessed things,” he explains. “Some sigils carved in, looks… old. Strong magic, too.”

Aziraphale’s eyes move to the the cuffs, and he runs a finger over the sigils, frowning. “I don’t think we can break these.”

“Not with miracles, no. Just make it stronger if we try, it’s… sapping our energy.”

A sigh, and the chain on Aziraphale’s cuffs clinks as he brings his hands down in front of him in a frustrated gesture. “How did they even know what we are? It’s not like they would have this as a standard in all cells just in case they happened to imprison a celestial being!”

It doesn’t make sense. Magic like this isn’t easy to come by, and sure, it’s possible that the two of them were just unlucky enough to be targeted by someone who happened to have a real and powerful spell to use against them, but — well, how would they know to use it in the first place? Angels and demons usually aren’t on a human’s radar unless they’re actively looking for them, and… if these people wanted a miracle, they wouldn’t be trapping an angel and accusing him of selling out the village.

No, something doesn’t add up.

Except —

“Oh, come on,” groans Crowley, rolling his head as realization dawns on him.

“What is it?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley sighs. “It was me. The guard who arrested me, he caught a glimpse of my eyes and didn’t even blink. Like he knew what he was going to see.”

“What, do you think they’ve been tracking you? That’s… alarming.”

“Nah, didn’t need to. Remember that tavern? We were… oh, maybe a bottle or two into trying to figure out that game thing you got — “

“Alquerque,” interjects Aziraphale.

“Yeah, whatever. We thought we’d try flipping the board upside down, see if that helped, remember? But we forgot to take the pieces off first, and they went everywhere, so we started looking for them…”

“And you dropped your glasses. Oh, dear. Yes, I do - I do remember.”

Crowley nods. “There you have it. That was weeks ago, must’ve been keeping an eye on me ever since. And they saw us together, must’ve figured you’re the same as me.”

“This is not good, Crowley.”

“Yeah. No, it’s… not good. But we’ll figure something out, we’ll — “

“They know you’re a demon.”

“Must’ve figured, yeah.”

Aziraphale nods absently, and he’s started pacing now, doing frantic little circles around the area before where his chains hook into the wall. “Well, maybe they don’t know that I’m an angel. Maybe — maybe if I explain this to them, they’ll let me go, and then… I can help you.”

“You can’t miracle these these cuffs off, angel.”

“No, but… perhaps Heaven can help. Or Hell. I mean, neither of them would want a celestial being in human hands, right?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. “How many summoning have I even told you about in past… fifty years?”

“But that’s different!”

“Is it? Because it sure as heaven doesn’t feel any different when I’m trapped in a blessed summoning circle because some idiot thinks that I’m going to do their bidding. And how many times has Hell helped?” Crowley’s eyebrow hikes up a little higher.

Aziraphale’s fingers find the links of the chains and begin fiddling with them, turning them in circles. “But — you’re the bad guys, of course Hell didn’t help you. Maybe — maybe Heaven will.”

“I am not getting help from Heaven, angel.”

“I’m trying to help you!”

“Well, you keep you help,” Crowley snarls and turns away, making his way pointedly to the furthest corner of the small room, where he sits himself down with his knees drawn up to his chest, manacled hands hugging them in place.

If the situation got any worse and it wouldn’t put Aziraphale in danger, Crowley might even consider reaching out to Hell for help. If they played their cards right, maybe they could even manage to get something out of them. But he’s not asking Heaven for help, he’d rather stay in that dungeon cell until no one even remembers the demon in the basement.

That Aziraphale would even offer that, would honestly think he’d consider it under anything but an absolute emergency…

Well, maybe the angel will convince their captors to free him after all, and then at least Crowley will have the cell for himself. He’d rather be alone right now.

---

Aziraphale doesn’t free himself.

Instead, he settles himself down on the opposite wall from Crowley, and he… waits, Crowley supposes, though he can’t imagine for what that might be. For Crowley to come up with a plan? That would track, but the truth is that while the wheels in Crowley’s head are certainly turning, desperately trying to churn out the flimsiest of ideas, he cannot imagine how he might get them out of this one.

Negotiation, he supposes, would be their best bet — a promise of riches, or love, or whatever else the ealdorman might need — but most of those who trap beings as powerful as an angel or a demon are smart enough to know that once freed, those beings are very likely to turn on them.

It’s worth a shot, he supposes.

Maybe he should tell Aziraphale about the plan, and hope he stops those kicked-puppy looks. Right now, they feel more like being kicked, and that’s just not fair. He’s supposed to be mad at the bastard.

“Could try negotiating,” he finally brings himself to say.

Aziraphale blinks. “What’s that?”

“Negotiating, With the ealdorman. Promise him… I don’t know, a blasted gold mine or something. Richest beyond his belief. Incredible beauty. A vast kingdom. Whatever he wants.”

“Oh, surely that wouldn’t — we can’t reward him.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “We don’t have to actually give him that, just tell him we will. Then he frees us and we fly away.”

“That would be lying!”

“I’ll do all the lying, angel, don’t worry. No need to get your pristine angelic hands dirty,” he grumbles, resting his head on the cool wall behind him and imagining that it soothes the metaphorical headache he can feel coming on. “You know, ’s your fault we’re here in the first place.”

Aziraphale frowns. “How is it my fault?”

“I told you we should go. I told you we wouldn’t be safe here.”

“You couldn’t possibly have known that this would happen, Crowley. It hardly even makes any sense!”

Crowley shrugs. “Something felt off, and it was. Should’ve just left. If we’d left, we wouldn’t be stuck here right. Could be… I don’t know. Been meaning to pop over to the Isle of Skye for a while, could be doing that. Heard it’s nice this time of year.”

A long sigh escapes Aziraphale’s throat, and he nods. “Alright, fine. If we had left, we could’ve been having a picnic in the Isle of Skye. That… actually sounds quite nice, now that you mention it. But we couldn’t have known! I don’t even understand why you ever suspected anything.”

Crowley takes a moment to consider that, then he lets himself turn a little towards Aziraphale as he shifts his position. “Castle was too convenient. Takes years to build something this big, this strong, and it’s done right before the raid starts? Someone did sell them out, angel. Sold them out, and then pointed the finger at us.”

“They told the Vikings to come right after the castle would be finished… because then the gold in the church and monastery would be unguarded,” realizes Aziraphale, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head. “It… makes sense, I agree. But Crowley, how on Earth was I meant to connect those dots before we knew anyone had sold anyone out?”

“Too convenient, angel.” Crowley shrugs.

He’s not even angry, not about that. He’s annoyed, certainly, and he’s worried about what will become of them, but he’s not angry. Of course Aziraphale wouldn’t have realized that the castle being finished just as the raiders approached was a little too lucky — he’s not one to question things, not as much or as naturally as Crowley himself always has. And if he struggles with questioning something as painful as the Flood, he certainly wouldn’t go around questioning a convenient castle that can shelter everyone, avoid pain.

No, what’s bothering him is that same age-old argument — Heaven versus Hell.

Hell is terrible, of course, Crowley isn’t about to argue that point. He’s been working with them for far, far too long not to be acutely aware of that. But Heaven isn’t all sunshine and roses, either. Heaven is the reason he’s been cast down to Hell. The Flood? That was Heaven. That was Her. Job? All signed off by Her and Heaven.

But Aziraphale doesn’t listen. And he most certainly can’t seem to understand why Crowley mistrusts them, either.

He could point that out. He could put his grievances out into the open, but what would that get him? Another argument, and no change to Aziraphale’s mind.

No, he’ll save himself the trouble.

So he just curls up against his wall once again, leans his head back and lets his eyes fall closed. He doubts he’ll be getting any sleep, but he might as well try to relax a little. They could be in there for a long time.

A moment passes.

Then another.

They never get to the third before Aziraphale bursts out, “oh, Crowley! You can’t — you can’t hold that against me. What do you need me to do? I’ve already admitted that you were right. And that I was wrong. Do you need me to — shall I do a little dance for you?”

That, at least, gets Crowley to open his eyes, a curious eyebrow hiking up into his forehead.

What on Earth would a dance even do?

Besides, everyone knows that angels don’t dance.

Aziraphale seems to take that as encouragement, though, and quickly pushes himself to his feet.

“Alright,” he says, nervousness clearly bleeding into his tone. “Here we go. Erm… I don’t — well, I’ve never danced before. I’m not quite sure that I can, come to think of it. So please don’t judge me.”

He should stop this, Crowley thinks to himself. There’s really no need for the angel to do this, it won’t fix anything, and he really hadn’t actually meant to encourage it.

And then it begins, and Crowley finds that he can do nothing but watch.

A little flourish of his hand, then another, one knee going up, followed by a twirl that ends little a sweeping bow, all while half-singing “you were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right.”

Crowley is fairly sure that the song itself was meant to be mocking, but it just ends up being horribly endearing. Most of the times Aziraphale is actually trying to piss him off, Crowley just loves it. His angel is one hell of a bastard, and he adores it.

But the dance does have its intended effect — it’s impossible for Crowley to be mad at him after this.

“Fine,” says Crowley. “You win, I’m not mad at you.”

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley feels the last bits of annoyance melt away under that small, private sun that appears every time the angel smiles.

“Oh, good! I… can’t believe that actually worked,” says Aziraphale, smile still firmly etched onto his face. It’s impossible for Crowley not to smile in return.

“Well,” he says, “it was a pretty good dance.”

The smile brightens a little, and Crowley thinks he could bask under it for a very long time. And he might have to, he supposes, if they can’t find a way to get out of this cell, out of these shackles. Or, if the ealdorman decides to start experimenting with holy water, as people sometimes do when they know they’re dealing with demons, well… it could end up not being a very long time at all.

Shit.

They really need to find a way out of this place, don’t they?

“Alright,” says Crowley, pushing himself to his feet, “we need a plan. And we might want to come up with it while the humans are busy with the raid outside. Can’t know what they have planned for us once all of that dies down. Let’s see…”

The cuffs are tight against his wrists, no amount of tugging seems to give him enough slack to slide his hand through. Blessed thumbs — who thought it was a good idea for human beings to have thumbs? He could slide right out without them.

Failing that, he tries a new strategy — banging the cuffs against the wall.

“Crowley!” scolds Aziraphale. “You’ll get hurt, stop that!”

“‘M fine!” insists Crowley, banging the cuffs against the wall one more time. His wrists rattle against it, red rings forming, hands beginning to get scraped, but the cuffs still hold.

Another blow to the wall.

And another.

And another —

One of the cuffs snaps open.

It’s enough — Crowley can feel the connection being restored, miracle energy no longer blocked inside of him. He whoops in victory and snaps the other cuff away, a wide smile forming on his lips. It wasn’t an elegant plan, but it worked, and that’s what matters. Now he can get himself and Aziraphale out of there.

“Are you alright?” asks the angel.

Crowley smiles slightly, making a point of not looking directly at Aziraphale as he does so. “Yep. Just fine, me. Barely a scratch, and that’s almost gone anyway.”

“I suppose… I should do the same, then. I don’t think you’ll be able to use a miracle to get mine off,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah. Got a better idea.”

A quick gesture, and the ealdorman appears before them, a cooked piece of rib halfway up to his mouth. It falls to the floor as he takes in the scene before him, his eyes going wide and mouth never closing.

Crowley gives himself a moment to appreciate the ealdorman’s reaction before he speaks. “Your cuffs didn’t work as well as you might have wanted, ealdorman,” he points out, tone perfectly calm, with just a hint of amusement bleeding into it.

He hardly thinks he can be blamed for that, really.

“Erm… I — it should have worked,” protests the ealdorman.

Crowley nods. “The spell worked. Might want to check your cuffs next time. So here’s the problem — I can’t free my friend over there.”

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t say a word about Crowley describing them as friends, instead only wriggling his fingers in a hello.

“W — well, I’m not going to — you betrayed the village!”

“We didn’t do anything. Told you already, didn’t we — ask anyone, we haven’t caused any trouble, and we’ve spent most of our time drinking at the tavern and trying to figure out the blessed board game that Aziraphale's got. Someone set us up. Doesn’t even really matter now, does it? Not to us — you might want to figure out who actually betrayed you. But right now, what you’ll want to do is get those cuffs off the angel.”

“And — and why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t…” Crowley begins to pace the length of the cell as he speaks, pretending to mull his options over in his head as he does so. “I could turn you into something. What do you think, Aziraphale?”

“A pillar of salt?” suggests the angel, and there’s amusement there, too.

Good. Crowley knew the wonderful bastard would like that. “A classic, that’s always good. Was thinking something a bit more interesting, though. Let’s see… you lot have fire ants here, don’t you? Oh, but you don’t know the worst ones yet, do you? I hear they’re really terrible. Bites feel like burning, and they’re aggressive little bastards. But don’t take my word for it, I could always show you — “

“If — if I free your friend, you’ll just… You’ll have no reason not to hurt me!” argues the human.

Crowley nods. “True. But if you don’t, then I do have a reason, so you’re not really better off, are you?”

“P — promise you’ll let me go,” asks the human. “Promise, and I’ll — I’ll free your friend.”

“Alright, then. That was easier than I thought. I promise. Free the angel, and you’re free to go.”

Indeed, as soon as Crowley says those words, the human steps towards Aziraphale and fishes a set of keys from his belt, inserting a distinctive, newer-looking one into the keyhole. One of the cuffs falls away, then a second, and Aziraphale breathes out a sigh of relief.

Huh.

Crowley certainly thought the human would need more convincing.

“You’re free to go as promised,” assures Crowley. “Just… look into this whole betrayal thing, will you? It really wasn’t us.”

A nod, and the human races off down the corridor.

Crowley rolls his eyes. He’d been all the way in the main hall when he’d summoned him to the dungeons, he really should figure that distance wouldn’t make him any more safe. What does guarantee his safety is, of course, that Crowley is a demon of his word, but who’s going to believe him?

They’re free now, though. That’s what really matters.

He leans against a wall and lets out a long sigh, rolling his shoulders in an effort to relax. It wasn’t very long, he knows that; it feels… almost ridiculous for it have any impact at all, but Crowley isn’t used to feeling powerless, not in this sense. And certainly not where Aziraphale’s safety before a human is concerned.

He did not like it all.

A hand reaches for him, and Crowley turns around with a start. Then the hand drops back to Aziraphale’s side, and Crowley feels a hint of regret that he reacted so brusquely.

What would have happened if he hadn’t? Would Aziraphale have… placed it on his shoulder? Offered… comfort?

No, probably not. He’d just have gotten his attention. Still, it’d have been something, wouldn’t it?

“Should we — I mean, we should probably go. To be perfectly honest, I don’t quite feel like being in this castle anymore. Perhaps… we could spend some time in Isle of Skye, until we figure out what to do next. I suppose our Head Offices will be checking in on us soon, and we’ll have to explain to them why we dropped the assignment.”

Crowley nods. “Yeah. Suppose so. Might be… they don’t even realize we did. Wait and see, I suppose.” If they ask, they’ll have to come up with something. If they don’t, just send a report. It tends to work out that way. “So, Isle of Skye? Could see about finding a boat there, if we want to fly under the radar.”

“Yes, that would probably be best. Let’s just miracle ourselves away from the raid, then. That should get us far enough to find a stable where we can get some horses and ride to the shore.”

Another nod, and Crowley feels a small smile tugging at his lips.

Isle of Skye, just the two of them, waiting to see what happens with Heaven and Hell. Trouble with Head Office aside, he rather likes the sound of that. It really is supposed to be rather beautiful this time of the year.

1020

It’s a good evening.

It hadn’t been, for the greater part of it — Crowley has been on this assignment for far too long, and it’s incredibly boring, with a terrible amount of long nights involved, but he’s only just spotted something that makes this night specifically a very nice night indeed.

Said something is a head of white-blond hair that Crowley knows can only belong to one being.

Oh, he’d sensed that Aziraphale was nearby, he’d heard the rumors to support it, and for a week already he’s been planning this run-in of theirs, but he really hadn’t expected that he would find him at this ball. Never. He’s not even sure why he would be there — the food isn’t all that good, the company is dreadful, and it’s been dragging on for what feels like weeks. It’s not really something that Crowley would associate with Aziraphale.

But he’s there now, and it’s time for Crowley to improvise.

Good, he’s not bad at improvising, is he? He’ll slink down the ballroom and — ah, there he is!

“Aziraphale,” he greets, a smile on his lips.

Aziraphale turns around, and for a moment he looks equally delighted to see him, right before he remembers that he’s an angel and Crowley is a demon, and he’s certainly not supposed to be delighted to see a wily snake like Crowley. Crowley has heard that speech before.

“Crowley,” he says in a measured tone. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? ’S my assignment. Not that I mind the company, but… didn’t think this would be your thing. Not if you didn’t get actually sent here.”

“But I have been. Sent, I mean. Do you see that woman there, Lady Baudelaire? Well, she’s to be wed to a Marquess who has a vast fortune. Truly, far more money than sense. And he’s absolutely head over heels for her. Heaven would like for me to… nudge her towards getting him to use some of that money for Good,” explains the angel.

Crowley groans. “Ugh, it figures. Hell sent me here to make sure that she’s… you know, buying five mansions and a few castles on the side, expensive breakfasts, banquets that get thrown out anyway and no one’s even allowed to eat the scraps if they’re not… landed gentry. Supposed to sow discontent, she is. They’re worried she’s got a good heart.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale beams at that. “Oh, does she? That’s very good news indeed. I can plant the seeds of the idea of using the money for Good and just watch it bloom all on its own! Oh, that’s marvelous. Thank you, Crowley.”

“Angel,” he tries, his tone carefully measured, a lump already starting to form on his throat. They’ve mostly been able to stay out of each other’s way, professionally speaking, over the past few millennia, their assignments being vague enough when they were in opposition to each other that they could make it amount to just a whole lot of futility. But this? They can’t avoid this. “You do that, and you actually win this one.”

Aziraphale nods, a small frown pulling at his brows. “Well, yes. That’s — well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

“You win this one. You — Heaven wins. There’s no way that I can…” Crowley sighs, nearly spilling his wine as he gestures wildly, searching for the words to make Aziraphale understand it. “We can’t dance around this one, there’s no cancelling each other out. Not if you… I mean, most of the time, you tug her one way, I tug her the other, and it kind of evens out, right? But if she actually wants to do Good — “

“Then that’s marvelous, isn’t it? I could make a difference, a real difference. Oh, Gabriel did mention this could be a big one, if I did it right.”

“Alright,” tries Crowley again, “that’s — great, wonderful for you. And, erm — well, for everyone out there, too, I guess. But could we maybe talk about it? Think of a way to… measure things? Just tiny bit, just so — “

“Oh, yes, of course,” answers Aziraphale, and Crowley breathes a sigh of relief. They’ll think of a way to make this work for them, it’ll be fine. “We wouldn’t want to rush her into it, or it might not take properly. You’d — you’d really help me to work on this? I mean… it is for Heaven, and I — really, we shouldn’t even be talking, but this is a rather big assignment, and I’d hate to get it wrong, and I do — I could really use the help.”

Crowley’s eyes fall closed behind his dark lenses, a great sigh already building inside of him as he feels his spine bend in the way it always does when he knows he’s about to agree to something he’d rather not do. But if he works with Aziraphale, maybe he can do damage control. The angel is not listening, and Crowley doesn’t see that changing anytime soon — of course he thinks that even Crowley, a demon, would be happy to see Heaven win. Of course he can’t imagine that Crowley might be suggesting that they make it a measured win for Heaven.

Part of him almost wants to try and turn this into a win for Hell instead, just see if he can make Aziraphale listen, but —

Well, this time Heaven is doing something that’s actually good for the humans. If there’s a chance this woman could actually use the money to help people, he can’t take that away from them. He’s seen what it’s like out there, how people freeze, starve. He won’t be the reason why that continues.

Damage control it is, then. He can still turn this around, he can still make this work for both of them.

“Yes, angel. I’ll help,” he agrees.

Aziraphale beams once again, and Crowley does his best to reciprocate at least a small smile. He’ll make this work, he reminds himself. It’ll be just fine.

“Wonderful!” exclaims Aziraphale. “Now, we shouldn’t be seen talking for long. Why don’t you come by my chambers later tonight? We can start planning then.”

“Alright,” agrees Crowley. “I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

With a quick wave, Aziraphale disappears into the crowd once again, and Crowley lets out the sigh that’s been building inside of him. So much for this turning out to be a good evening after all.

---

On second thought, perhaps Crowley shouldn’t have brought the wine.

Since he slunk into Aziraphale’s chambers about… well, if the sun is starting to rise now, something around four or five hours ago, he’s learned only a handful of useful things for their plan, or for his own plan.

First of all, apparently Aziraphale has been her Latin instructor for the past few weeks, after her previous tutor happened to inherit a sizable plot of land on the opposite end of kingdom. He hasn’t been able to learn much about her over their lessons, though, as she’s apparently a very diligent and reserved student.

In the meantime, Crowley had cast himself into the role of a friend of the family, and had thus managed to get at least a little more information. She… does seem like a good person, as much as that complicates his life. She’s concerned about the state of the kingdom, she’s insistent on going out to see her subjects, to understand the realities out there, and most of all, she’s… Kind, and not particularly greedy, which does make Crowley’s job so much more difficult.

He’s yet to tempt her to make any truly extravagant purchases, and he’s usually good at that. He can nudge her a little, he can tempt her into… taking an bread roll at lunch, or saying a few less than kind things about courtiers, but that’s it.

She’s a good person.

He’s fucked, especially with Aziraphale here and unwilling to truly work together.

So Crowley lets himself be tempted into another goblet of wine.

“Oh, and he — he didn’t realize she was gone!” Aziraphale laughs as he finishes the story, a light and full laugh that warms Crowley’s heart in a way that makes any concerns about their jobs seem so far away.

Crowley smiles and raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “So Heaven’s got you chasing runaway horses now, do they?”

“Not exactly,” says the angel, but with enough tension in his voice that Crowley sits up a little. “Over the past few decades, they’ve mostly just told me to… go out there and do some good. They’ve really gotten rather hands-off. This is the first big assignment I’ve had in I don’t even know how many years.”

“So this one is a big job for you?”

“Well, not big, I suppose, but… it’s the first true direction I’ve had from them in a long time, so I suppose it must be important.”

Or, Crowley adds though he dare not voice it out loud, Heaven is only trying to make sure that he knows they’re still watching. It sounds like something they would do. Hell does the same, every once in a while, when things are quiet.

“Could just… relax, you know? When they tell you to just go out there and do some good. Enjoy yourself, do a few blessings here and there so they know you’re doing something, and live your life the rest of the time. Well, spend your existence, I suppose,” suggests Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I… I’m not you, Crowley, I can’t feel comfortable… slacking off.”

“Is it even slacking off? Come on, angel, you like doing good, ‘course you do. So just do it on your own terms! Choose what you want to do, and let the pieces fall around you instead of chasing after them all the time. If Heaven wanted you to do something specific, they’d have asked.”

“They did, this time. So I suppose this discussion is moot,” points out the angel, and Crowley sighs.

He’ll never talk Aziraphale into doing what he actually wants rather than what he thinks Heaven is trying to tell him to do, is he?

“Alright,” he says, moving to push himself to his feet and nearly flailing as the world suddenly spins around him. He blinks, trying to focus his eyesight, and tells himself that the floor is probably where he left it, so he better just keep walking. It’ll catch him. Almost definitely. “I’m knackered. Suppose I’ll just — “

“You’ll do no such thing!” says Aziraphale as he leaps to his feet and moves to take Crowley by the elbow, only to stop and blink in much the same fashion Crowley knows he was blinking moments ago.

They both should have stopped drinking a while ago, shouldn’t they?

“’S fine, angel, just going to get some sleep,” assures Crowley.

“I don’t even know where your chambers are!”

“Do you need to?” Crowley frowns.

“I mean — erm… you! You don’t even know where your chambers are!”

“‘Course I do!”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him.

Crowley’s frown deepens.

He wracks his brain for the answer. He’s been staying in this castle for months, of course he knows where his chambers are. They’re — well, he knows where they are. He’s just… not really sure where he is, aside from Aziraphale’s chambers. Or… how this place connects to the rest of the castle. Or how the rest of the castle connects to his chambers.

Fuck, he’s definitely more drunk than he meant to be.

How the heaven did Aziraphale know he wouldn’t know how to get back to his chambers?

As if reading the question on his face, Aziraphale grins. “You always forget how to get to your chambers when you’re this drunk. I viv - vivivi - clearly recall having to fish you out of a river once.”

“Yeah.” Crowley nods, perhaps a little more than necessary. “Yeah, I remember that, too. Alright, maybe I should — should sober up before I go.”

Aziraphale nods absently, then suddenly his eyes widen and he shakes his head with quite some emphasis. “No! I mean — or you could… you know, stay here.”

“Here? This is — isn’t this your chambers? Did we go to mine and I forgot?”

“No, no, they’re mine. Pretty sure. It’s only — well, there’s certainly no need to cut things short, is there? I don’t use my bed, anyway, so you could take it. And I could… stay here. Plan. I could plan. For… Lady Baudelaire.”

There’s something he’s missing, Crowley is fairly certain of that, but his brain is swimming and he’s more tired than he can remember being in a long time, so he decides not to question it. It’s Aziraphale, anyway, just the two of them there. Whatever it is that he’s missing, it’s probably fine.

“Alright, fine,” says Crowley, already starting to head for the bed. “I’ll stay here, then.”

He only trips on two rugs before he makes it there and flops down dramatically, eyes fluttering closed as his glasses are knocked askew by his arm. It’s fine, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need them, anyway, not here.

“Wonderful,” answers Aziraphale, and there’s a small thud like an angel tried to sit down gracefully and missed.

Crowley is rather familiar with that sound. It always makes him smile.

There’s still a ghost of that smile on his lips when he slips off into unconsciousness.

---

The sun is too blessed bright.

Crowley knows that he was the one who made it in the first place. He’s the one who even pitched the whole idea of photons before anyone even imagined the concept of light or darkness. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time, but Crowley often feels like the sun has been personally victimizing him from the day he bore his way through the dirt and slithered out of the soil to first feel its rays down on his corporation.

It’s too blessed bright.

Did he forget to draw the curtains the previous day? Or has a manservant been here already and he was too out of it to notice? It’s happened before, but rarely. Very, very rarely.

Crowley cracks an eye open.

The sun attempts to blind him, and his head pounds.

He closes his eyes again.

But it’s too late, someone must have noticed it, for suddenly he’s aware of some hovering by his side. He wants to groan, but he also knows this hovering too well to do it — this is the excited kind of hovering that Aziraphale gets when he wants to talk but he knows he’s not supposed to, and any signs of life will only encourage him.

Crowley tries to stay perfectly still.

Yes, like that, don’t move a muscle…

“I know you’re awake, Crowley,” comes a familiar voice.

Crowley groans.

Bless it. And he’d been doing so well.

“You’re only ever that still when you’re pretending to be asleep,” points out the voice. “Come now, open your eyes and sit up. I’ve brought you some milk. It should help with the headache.”

It would, Crowley knows that, but it would mean giving in to consciousness, and moving, and neither of those sound like a good idea just yet. Aziraphale isn’t going to give up, though, is he? So maybe Crowley better just bite the bullet and wake up properly.

He groans again, and pushes himself up as he convinces his eyes to open and not immediately flinch away from the light.

It’s no easy feat.

“Here you go,” says the angel as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed and hands Crowley a mug filled with milk.

Crowley sips at it and makes a face, but keeps going. Hydration, he’s found, is pretty good for these things.

Not quite as good as a miracle, but he needs to work himself up to that — right now, he’s pretty sure he’d throw up if he tried anything more complicated than closing the blinds.

“Forgot to sober up yesterday before going to sleep,” mumbles Crowley.

Aziraphale nods. “Me too, I’m afraid.”

“You seem fine,” points out Crowley, with no small amount of envy in his voice.

“You should have seen me this morning. Oof. Which actually reminds me… I’m terribly sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to push you to stay over, it’s only — well, I suppose I had one too many, as the humans say.”

“’S fine. Bed’s comfortable enough.” Crowley shrugs.

The truth is… he rather liked the fact that Aziraphale invited him to stay. He was far too drunk the previous night to really think much of it, but he does know that he liked the invitation. He liked the staying over, and he’s enjoying waking up in his chambers now. Well, as much as one can enjoy anything with a hangover like that.

They’re silent for a moment, Crowley sipping his milk quietly, Aziraphale watching him with an expression that Crowley can’t quite read, and his head aches too much for him to really bother trying to decipher.

Then, finally, Aziraphale tentatively brightens.

“You know,” he says, “I do have some rather good news.”

“Mmm. Yeah?”

“I spent the morning with Lady Baudelaire. She was in a more talkative mood today, and we were working on a text about — oh, that hardly matters, does it? What does matter is that she’s decided to make a rather sizable donation to the Church, specifically for the support of the orphans and the poor in the parish. Oh, I do believe this is going to make a huge difference for the — erm, Crowley?”

It’s at this moment that Crowley realizes that he’s nearly dropped his mug.

He sets it down on the nightstand, just to make sure it doesn’t slip away again.

“You — she… a donation?” he asks.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes! She’s not even waiting for the wedding, the wonderful dear, she’s using her own family money. It’ll all be done by tonight.”

“Tonight,” echoes Crowley.

“Yes, tonight! Oh, I’ve been dying to tell you the news since I heard them.”

Crowley swallows, pushing himself fully upright on the bed. “You’re telling me that she’s making a huge donation to the Church, tonight, to support orphans and the poor?”

“Yes, that’s right. Crowley, are you alright?”

No, thinks Crowley, though he knows he can’t say that. He wouldn’t say that even if he could, because what’s there really to say? That Aziraphale shouldn’t do his job, he shouldn’t help to convince a noblewoman with a kind heart to donate some of her sizable fortune to help orphans and those who need to turn to the Church to help feed and house themselves and their family?

No, he couldn’t do that.

He could never do that.

So instead he simply pulls his legs out from under the covers and swings them off the edge of the bed, barely even feeling how his head still pounds at the movement, ignoring the way the world swims as he stands.

He has no idea what time it is, but he has to assume he doesn’t have long. This would all be a done deal before it’s dark, and it can’t be morning anymore, so he has hours.

“I need to go, I — “ he starts walking away, but Aziraphale seizes his wrist.

“Crowley, please — what’s happening?”

A sigh, and Crowley considers whether he wants to explain it. He could, he could try to tell Aziraphale that he’s done it, that he’s won, he’s managed to get her to do an amount of Good that Hell won’t be able to ignore, and his assignment will be considered thoroughly failed, and he’ll be… summoned back, probably. Punished, definitely. He could tell Aziraphale that, and watch as his face fell and he explained it all away as his obligation to the Greater Good. And Crowley would understand, of course he would, because this is not only Good, but it’s also good. It’s something that will help, it’s something that will have a lasting effect, and he can’t fault Aziraphale for it.

He can’t.

He just really wishes that they could have agreed on a plan before this. That they could have set her up for some minor bits of Evil, too, so Crowley had something to show Hell when Heaven ultimately won this one. It would’ve made a difference, he thinks.

But it’s too late now.

It’s too late now, and he does not want to have this conversation.

So he shakes his head and pulls his wrist out of Aziraphale’s grip. “’S nothing. ’S fine. Just — gotta go. See you — see you around, angel.”

And with that, Crowley rushes out of the room.

---

Half an hour later, Crowley finds himself packing, which is ridiculous, but he doesn’t have a better plan.

He can’t run from this. He can’t run from this because Hell will find him wherever he goes, and because running would likely only make matters worse. He could go off to some corner of the universe or another, but… it’s really not that bad, is it? And if he runs, then when Hell catches up to him they’ll just add that to their list of grievances, and he’ll be in for a world of pain.

No, he’s better off staying, but he can’t just sit there and wait for whatever’s coming to him. He needs to make a plan.

That would be considerably easier if his head weren’t pounding, and his heart weren’t racing, and if his mind didn’t keep drifting off to the fact that he could just stop the donation from ever happening.

She couldn’t make the donation if there was no church, for one, and yeah, Heaven wouldn’t like that, but —

No, he knows he’s not going to do that, he’s not going to stop her and he’s certainly not going to risk incurring the wrath of Heaven, so why waste time with that? Why keep trying to convince himself to do something about the donation at all?

Because, he knows, it’s the only way out. The only way to stop incurring Hell’s wrath.

Fuck.

He knew he was screwed from the moment Aziraphale told him about his assignment, but he thought he’d have more time. He thought he could at least try to come up with a plan. This is too soon, and Aziraphale’s victory is too neat. There’s no getting out of it.

His hands shake as he tries to fold a tunic, and he blesses under his breath, starting the whole process over. Packing usually makes him feel better, why isn’t it working now? Why is his mind still spinning in circles and —

“Crowley?” calls a familiar voice.

“Gah!” exclaims Crowley, jumping three feet into the air as he clutches at his heart, the tunic flying off to the other end of the room in the process.

There’s a moment of silence as Crowley turns around, then Aziraphale sheepishly says, “I do apologize, I knocked but I don’t think you heard me.”

“So you just barged in?”

“I — I wanted to return your glasses. You left them at my chambers,” points out Aziraphale. Then, as his eyes fall on the open trunk at the end of Crowley’s bed, he adds, “you’re really leaving, then?”

Crowley nods. “Erm… yeah. I — doesn’t matter. Just… I’m leaving.”

“I hope it’s not impertinent of me to say, but… I do think it matters. That is, I’d… like to know why you’re leaving. If I overstepped, then — “

“No, no, angel, ’s… nothing you did,” says Crowley, but it only takes him a moment to realize that technically, that’s a lie. It feels heavy on his tongue, then. “I mean… it is, kind of, but it doesn’t matter. ’S not your fault, not really. Didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stares at him with wide eyes, sadness settling on them so clearly, so painfully, that Crowley can hardly bear to look.

He certainly can’t look away, either.

So he sighs and lets himself collapse onto his bed. “You won, angel. The assignment, it’s… you did it. She’s done some real Good. Right to the Church, too. No way either of our bosses are going to miss that.”

“Alright,” says the angel cautiously, “but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? She’s helping people.”

“Yeah. Yeah, angel, she is. And what do you think my bosses are going to think of that? Think they’ll be as delighted as you are that she’s doing Good on my watch? When I was supposed to tempt her towards Evil?”

“Well, you’ll get her next time! You can… tempt her to buy an extra castle or two. I’m sure that’ll be sufficiently excessive for your superiors.”

Crowley shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Angel, there’s no next time. Not after this one. I could explain some minor good here and there, tell them I’ve got an angel working on her, too, and some things are going to slip through. But this? I’ve failed, Aziraphale. She’s yours.”

“But — you can’t have failed! You weren’t even really trying! I know you, I know — you didn’t want her to be Evil!”

A small, sad smile tugs as Crowley’s lips. “I wasn’t. But you were.”

“But — but you can explain it, can’t you? Tell them that Heaven sent an angel, tell them that… she was just good at heart. That — that I distracted you! Or — or imprisoned you somewhere! Or — or I knocked you out!”

That at least gets a chuckle out of Crowley, which he thinks is something, given the situation. “Yeah, sure. Being duped by an angel is going to make me look so much better,” he teases, but it’s with humor in his tone.

Aziraphale chances a smile, then slowly moves closer until he’s sitting on the bed next to Crowley. “I… truly am sorry, Crowley. I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, “I know. I know you didn’t.”

“How bad do you think it’ll be? With your bosses?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno. Depends on their mood, I suppose.”

“Is there something we could do to make things better? Something… you could show them? So they know you were doing your best or — “

“Hell doesn’t care about my best, angel. They care about whether the job’s done or not. And the job isn’t done.”

Aziraphale swallows, fiddling with his fingers as he thinks.

Finally, he tries, “is there something… I could do? To make things better… between us?”

Crowley takes a moment to consider the offer. There’s nothing that Aziraphale can do, he knows, to actually smooth things over with Hell. That’ll be up to him, it’ll be up to how well he can talk his way out of the situation. There’s not enough time for him to try and spread some Evil in the area, and he’s already decided he’s not going to stop Lady Baudelaire, so it’ll all come down to that very unpleasant conversation he’ll need to have soon.

As for between them… Aziraphale understands now. There’s something in his eyes, in his posture, in his tone, that shows very clearly that he understand now. So really, Crowley isn’t sure that —

Wait.

He might just have an idea.

“I want an apology,” he says simply.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. “But I’ve already apologized.”

“No, I want the dance.”

“What dance?”

Crowley smirks. “The dance you did back in that castle, when we were captured and bound during a Viking raid. Remember that? I want that dance.”

“How is that going to solve anything?” asks Aziraphale, with something strangely between amusement and exasperation in his tone.

“Dunno. But you asked what you could do, and that’s what I’m offering. I want the dance.”

It won’t, Crowley knows, actually solve anything. It’s just a dance, and he already knows that Aziraphale is sorry. He doesn’t need some big gesture to prove it. But he’s scared, and he’s tired, and Aziraphale is scared, too, Crowley can sense it. Maybe a silly little dance is just the thing to break the tension, just the thing to make them both feel better for a while.

But Aziraphale hasn’t stood up yet, he’s still watching Crowley with a quizzical look on his face, and a sudden realization is catching down on Crowley.

Maybe Aziraphale don’t want to do the dance. Maybe he’s asking a little too much.

So he tries to backtrack. “Angel, if you don’t want to —

“No,” interrupts Azirpahale. “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. You’re right, you’re entitled to a proper apology. Let’s see if I can remember it.”

He does.

He at least remembers it as well as Crowley does, for thirty seconds later Crowley is staring at Aziraphale with a smile on his lips and a warmth in his heart that he has no idea what to do with, but which is so familiar that it hardly even bothers him. He might not know what to do with it, but he knows it belongs there. It’s long since carved a place into his heart.

Aziraphale is staring at him expectantly, though, so he supposes he should stop thinking about it and try to say something.

“Very well done, angel,” he compliments. “Perfect apology dance.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale preens, a bright smile on his lips. “And erm… well, something’s just occurred to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, erm… well — do you remember during the reign of King Arthur, when we were… you were posing as the Black Knight, and I was Sir Aziraphale?” A pause for Crowley to nod, then Aziraphale continues, “well, when we met, you suggested… that we both leave and tell our Head Offices that we’d done what we’d been asked to do, since we’d just cancel each other out.”

Crowley nods again. “Well, it would be easier.”

“I think — well, I was thinking, and it might be more than a matter of it simply being easier. In situations like this… well, it could be dangerous not to cancel each other out. I’d — I do hate that you’ll be in trouble and it’s my fault. If we… What if we were to talk about these assignments and come up with a way to ensure that this won’t happen? Or — or even ask for help when needed? I’ve had a few blessings I could’ve used some input on, and I’m sure you’ll have had some… temptations that you could… well, that I could — “

“Answer’s yes, angel,” interrupts Crowley, a soft smile on his lips as heart pounds away in his chest.

He never thought they would get to this point.

When Aziraphale shut down the mere suggestion that they could so much as walk away from assignments that wouldn’t move the dials at all, he never thought they could get to the point where not only they’d be helping each other, but they’d be helping each other at Aziraphale’s suggestion. What could possibly have changed so much? He did ask for help before, but that was Crowley helping him. For Aziraphale to offer to lend a hand on temptations, that’s… difficult to imagine.

He’s not sure that he wants Aziraphale to see the heavier work that Hell sends his way every once in a while, but maybe some lighter temptations, just for the sake of them working together. And, maybe, just because they can be annoyingly inconvenient.

Just the fact that Aziraphale is offering, though… that’s already quite amazing.

He’s still smiling when he says, “we’ll work out the details when I get back, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, then eases himself back onto the bed, eyes firmly fixed on his knees.

“I wish,” he says, “you didn’t have to go.”

A deep, shuddering breath, and Crowley nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

But when he gets back, he’ll find Aziraphale, and they’ll work out a way for them to work together. This won’t have to happen again, and they’ll… officially be something, won’t they? An angel and a demon working together. Helping each other out.

That’s certainly worth waiting for.

FOURTEENTH CENTURY

The Arrangement.

Crowley tosses a rock at the other end of the summoning circle, then growls as it goes clean through the barrier and far, far out of Crowley’s reach.

So much for their Arrangement.

Lend a helping hand where needed, right? Oh, sure, when they wrote that, they were thinking of assignments. He’d cover a blessing for Aziraphale here and there, and Aziraphale would reciprocate the favor and cover a temptation or two. But the wording was vague, and Aziraphale is never vague in his paperwork unless it’s on purpose, so he’d figured he wanted to leave the door open to the possibility of them… helping each other.

Like, say, when you’re meant to meet in the market to grab some lunch, and your friend never shows up because they’ve been summoned and trapped by some idiots that want you to grant them them a title and land, as if you were the bloody king. That, to him, sounds like something that lend a hand when needed might cover, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to think so.

Crowley had wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, he really had.

For Sat - for Someone’s sake, he’d probably held onto that hope for far too long already.

Five years, eight months and twenty seven days. That’s probably too long, isn’t it?

Fuck.

Aziraphale isn’t coming, and he’s not sure he can get out of this one his own. What if the humans die? They really don’t have the largest lifespan, and this century is being a shitshow — there’s war, famine, a plague, any one of those could do them in, and then Crowley loses what little chance he has of ever getting out of there.

Maybe Hell will find him. Oh, that would be downright embarrassing, but it probably beats spending the rest of his eternity trapped in a summoning circle, doesn’t it?

He’s tried to sleep a few times, just to pass the time, but the humans wake him before long. Can’t have him getting too comfortable, can they? No, he needs to stay awake and bored out of his mind until he caves and does a miracle that gives those humans everything they want, and then they don’t have a single reason to let him out at all.

He won’t do it.

Sometimes he almost thinks he might, just for the chance at getting out of this blessed place, but he always talks himself out of it. He’s long since decided he’s not doing it, he won’t give those humans the satisfaction, not for a second. Not even when he already knows what he would tie into that miracle.

A title and land, sure.

Land that would grow barren in a few years, and a title that would be contested at every turn. It would be a small bit of land, too — he’d hate to drag too many innocent humans into this — and… yeah, he’d probably make sure he found an escape route for those humans when the time came. A house in another county, some land for them to farm there. It’d be a bit of effort, but probably worth it. Those people wouldn’t have asked for it.

These humans did.

But he’s not going to do it. He won’t give them even a moment’s satisfaction, he won’t. If they’d let him at least sleep for longer than a night, he might’ve. But he’s been awake most of the day, every day, for the past five years, and he’s bored out of his mind. He’s not giving them anything.

If Aziraphale ever does come, they’re having some words. Situations like this might not have been written into the Arrangement, but there’s some common decency that goes along with entering a pact like that, isn’t there?

How many times hasn’t he swooped in to save the day? He doesn’t do it because he expects anything in return, but… fuck, he thought they were at a point where he didn’t have to wonder whether Aziraphale would help him or not. He thought it was a given, he thought they were… something. Friends.

Has Aziraphale not even noticed that he’s gone?

---

It’s hard to keep track of the time.

Crowley estimates that it’s about seven years in that the plague comes knocking on their door, and two of the humans die. He offers to heal them, because they’re dying right before his eyes and it’s awful, it’s gooey and painful and they’re suffering, and he might not like them, he might even hate them, but that doesn’t mean that wants to sit there and watch some disease or another eat away at them, but they won’t listen to them, they don’t believe him when he says he can’t do any miracles from inside the circle.

They die, and the last thing that Crowley says for weeks is an “I could’ve helped them, you idiots,” as the bodies are carried off to the cart passing by outside.

The call of bring out your dead rings on his ears for days afterwards.

It might be ten years in that the war hits.

It’s difficult to follow exactly what’s happening outside from his little summoning circle, but he’s fairly sure that one of the remaining humans gets drafted to serve, so there must be a war on. Crowley doesn’t expect that he’ll make it back.

He might, or he might not — the war hits the village before Crowley can be too sure, before enough time can pass that he has to assume that either he died, or he ran away. Huts and houses are burnt to the ground, and anywhere that looks like it might have anything valuable is stormed. People scream outside, and the smell of smoke and blood begins to filter in through the gaps in the walls and the windows, through the door that’s long since blown open with no one there to close it again.

There’s fire licking at the straw in the roof, Crowley can feel the heat of it. Once it catches, the house won’t stand a chance.

Fuck.

Two soldiers appear at the door, large and looming, and Crowley’s stomach sinks.

For all the time he might have spent trapped inside that summoning circle, the humans never did more to him than poke him awake from a sleep he didn’t need, and which would’ve been enough for a human. Boredom was the biggest danger there, and he has to admit that even that was mitigated by conversation, and the occasional game.

They never hurt him.

But there’s a look in those soldiers’ eyes that tells Crowley they might not show him the same courtesy, and he’s trapped. He can’t run, he can’t use a miracle to stop them, he can’t do anything but stand there and hope that he’s wrong. Hope they’ll be called away. Hope the roof will cave in first, because he might not be able to withstand the fire while bound in the circle, but it would discorporate him a whole lot faster than he thinks those humans would, and then he’d be free.

They spot him immediately, of course. The humans who trapped him never did much to try and hide him.

There’s curiosity in the men’s eyes, but the spark of malice is still there as they cross the room towards him —

And they step right on the edge of the circle with their heavy metal boots. One of them must scratch the paint on the stone floor, for suddenly, for the first time in years, Crowley can feel his connection to that ineffable thread that binds that Universe together. He can feel again, he can feel that well of power within himself, he can feel the war outside, he can feel… everything.

It’s a relief, and it’s too much, and it’s just in time.

He spreads his wings, and he doesn’t even take a second to appreciate the look on the soldiers’ faces before he’s gone.

---

Crowley spends the next few days wandering through the countryside, glad for the large open spaces and the fresh air.

He sleeps under the stars when he finally tires. It rains, of course, because that’s just his life, but he doesn’t even mind it. It’s nice to experience rain again. He’s missed it.

He doesn’t think about Aziraphale, the bastard, because he’s over it. He’s done with The Arrangement, with the angel, and with… everything, really. Fuck this century, the humans, the world, fuck the whole cosmos while he’s at it, why not?

He’s done.

He might just sleep for the next century or so. Maybe things will be looking up when he wakes up.

---

What if Aziraphale didn’t come because he’s in trouble?

---

By the time the thought occurred to him, Crowley had been asleep for nearly thirty years already. He’s not even sure what woke him in the first place, just that he suddenly found himself sitting up in bed, covered in sweat and gasping for air that he doesn’t really need, all while a single thought blared loud and clear in his mind.

Aziraphale could be in trouble.

As he lands before the little cottage that Aziraphale has apparently made his home — it’s not, he’d like to note, the one that he’d been living in when they parted ways — he almost feels a little guilty for having slept for so long before ever thinking that Aziraphale could be in trouble.

Almost because this doesn’t feel like Aziraphale being in trouble.

No, he usually knows, and he might have missed it while he was in the circle, but standing here, having tracked the feeling of Aziraphale’s presence all the way across the continent to a little cottage in Poland, it doesn’t feel like Aziraphale is danger.

He makes his way over to the door, and he’s about to knock when he catches a glimpse of the angel through the window.

If he’s in danger, Crowley isn’t sure that he would even mind it.

He’s sitting on an armchair, a blanket draped over his legs, a book open in his hands and a mug waiting for him on an end table. There’s a cozy fire roaring in the fireplace, and everything about the cottage seems… warm. Inviting.

This is Aziraphale’s home, Crowley is sure of it, and the angel seems happy and comfortable inside of it. Nothing’s amiss, he’s not in any danger.

He just… never missed Crowley.

Or if he did, he just didn’t bother to go looking for him. Didn’t want to help.

Crowley sighs and takes a step back, shaking his head at himself. Why did he think this would go any differently from how it’s playing out now? He spent years convinced that Aziraphale had abandoned him to his captors, why change his mind now? Why come running at the first sign that maybe he was wrong? Even when he hadn’t felt anything amiss?

He’s just… a fool, isn’t he?

Just a hopeful fool who desperately wants an angel to actually care about him, all while both Heaven and Hell would have him believe it’s impossible. They’re hereditary enemies.

Fuck, maybe they’re right. Maybe he’s just the odd one out.

He’ll just go back to sleep.

Maybe he’ll feel up to being awake when the new century rolls around. It can’t be worse than this one, can it?

---

It’s a strange yet enticing smell that wakes Crowley, convincing him to let himself be stirred out of his slumber entirely by curiosity.

He opens his eyes, blinking against the weak light that streams in through the windows, and —

“Gah!” he exclaims as his eyes settle on the intruder in his house.

A very polite intruder that seems to be fussing over something in the fire, probably food, but he’d expect nothing less of Aziraphale.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to expect from Aziraphale in the end, though — he’d expected a rescue, and what he got was at least ten years trapped in a summoning circle until eventually war rolled through the village, and two soldiers happened to be careless enough to break the binding circle and let him run off to his freedom before they could get their hands on him.

“Oh, Crowley!” calls the angel. “Hang on just a minute, I have something for you.”

A moment later, the angel approaches with a mug filled with a black liquid, steam rising from it. Crowley frowns down at it as he tentatively takes it into his hands. It doesn’t look very appetizing, but the smell is really something, he has to admit that at least.

“It’s called coffee. I don’t believe it’s reached this area yet, but I think it’s going to be rather popular once it does. I thought… well, I tried it some years back, and I thought it seemed like something you might like,” offers the angel.

There’s still anger roiling in the pit of his stomach. Crowley rather thinks there might always be that bit of anger there, simmering in the core of his being for the rest of eternity. But this coffee smells far too enticing for even a demon to resist the temptation of trying it — and Aziraphale is annoyingly good at guessing what Crowley is going to like — so he takes a sip and shudders as he feels the heat traveling down his esophagus and into his stomach.

It tastes amazing. It warms him in ways he didn’t know he could be warmed.

Fuck.

Of course the angel got it right again.

But Crowley doesn’t say a word, he just keeps his attention on his coffee as he waits to find out why Aziraphale thought it was a good idea to break into his house after abandoning him for years.

It doesn’t take long for the angel to take the silence as his cue to begin explaining.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” says the angel, “but I’ve received an assignment that I thought we ought to discuss. You’ll have a similar one, I’m sure.”

“Why should we?” asks Crowley, and he’s proud of how he keeps his tone carefully disinterested, like Aziraphale’s presence there, his request that they discuss an assignment, is more of an inconvenience than a twist to the knife he buried there decades ago, which is only just starting to scab over and be incorporated into Crowley’s existence.

That seems to take Aziraphale by surprise, and he hesitates. “Well, erm… the Crusades. Didn’t you get a note from Hell? I thought certainly they would have sent you something… well, Heaven would like me to tag along, of course, and I thought Hell would’ve asked the same of you. It seems like a big assignment, so we might want to start our planning early.”

“What do we have to plan?” The anger is starting to leak through, but Crowley pulls it back into check.

“Well, the Arrangement — “

“There is no Arrangement, Aziraphale,” he hisses.

Aziraphale blinks. “What? No, we — did Hell say something to you? Are you in danger, Crowley — oh, I knew this would happen, that’s why I — “

“Hell didn’t say anything, Aziraphale, you did. Loud and clear.” He takes a sip of his coffee, too long and too quickly after saying those words. His stomach isn’t ready for it, isn’t ready for anything, and it protests the liquid.

Crowley snarls at it to shut up and do its job.

There’s another moment of hesitation, but finally Aziraphale sighs and takes a step away from Crowley’s bed.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but if it really means this much to you… I suppose that’s what matters,” says the angel.

Crowley frowns and —

Aziraphale begins to do the dance. The I Was Wrong dance.

He flows through every movement like he’s practiced it a hundred times over, and when he finally finishes with that silly little bow, there’s something in his eyes that speaks to a hope that Crowley can’t understand, and he hates that he can’t, hates that he’s staring at such an expectant Aziraphale and he can’t even begin to imagine what it is that he’s expecting.

Is this supposed to be an apology for not coming to his rescue?

That’s… certainly not enough, and it doesn’t even make sense with the song.

“What on Earth was that for?” he asks once he finds his voice again.

Aziraphale frowns. “For… the argument. The one we had before we were meant to meet in the market? You never showed up, and I haven’t heard from you since. I thought I sensed you near my house in Poland, but you never knocked, so — well, I figured you were still angry.”

No.

No, that can’t be, that — that’s ridiculous.

“Angel. That was an argument about swallows,” says Crowley, his tone deadpan in its confusion.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, I… remember it quite well, thank you. You did ignore me for nearly a century afterwards.”

“Wait, wait, wait — hang on.” Crowley pushes himself upright on the bed, a frown etching its way onto his brow. “Do you mean when I didn’t show up at the market the day after we had that argument, you thought… what, I was mad at you and stood you up?”

There’s a brief hesitation, but Aziraphale nods. “Well, yes. You were rather worked up, and I… didn’t feel like we parted on the best of terms the previous night.”

“Angel, it was an argument about swallows. Of course I didn’t stand you up!”

“But you did! And it’s not the first time — you cancelled our plans back in… what was it, 1248? After an argument about bees. And another time it was oysters — “

“ — that was not an argument about oysters and you know it, angel — “

“ — and I know I’ve cancelled plans with you because on argument about cakes, and once about wine, and — oh, let’s not forget the one about that play we watched — “

“ — that was not about the play, angel.“

“Well, my point is, we’ve certainly had rather silly arguments that caused us to cancel our plans, so… yes, I thought you’d stood me up. And you did! I was there, and you weren’t.”

He can’t believe this.

Ten years stuck in a summoning circle, and another eighty or so sleeping, all because Aziraphale thought he’d been so furious over an argument about swallows that he simply dropped their relationship for decades.

That —

No.

No, he cannot deal with this.

But he has to, they’ve wasted far too much time on this already.

“We’ve cancelled plans, yeah, but it’s been almost a century, angel. And a really sucky one at that, too. Do you really think that we’d have an argument about swallows and I would just drop off the face of the Earth in anger?” He raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale that silently warns him to think very carefully about what he’s going to say.

Aziraphale’s fingers find each other, and he fiddles with them as he considers his answer. Finally, he nods. “I thought it was strange, but… it did take me a while to start thinking something might be wrong, and by then I didn’t know what to do, and I thought — well, I thought you’d eventually come and find me. Maybe I had said something wrong, or maybe Hell was onto you and you needed to keep your distance. Eventually I did find you, but you were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He didn’t find him.

By the time Aziraphale realized something was wrong, it’d been too long and he couldn’t find Crowley anymore.

Some tension inside of him releases, and Crowley finds himself collapsing back against the headboard, his head hitting it with enough strength to make a sound that has Aziraphale wincing in sympathy.

“I didn’t stand you up,” Crowley finally says, and his voice is tired. “I got summoned.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Hell?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Humans. Wanted land and a title, wouldn’t take no for an answer. So they kept me trapped, guess they thought they could bore me into giving them what they wanted. Might’ve worked, too, but they were some annoying bastards. Kept waking me up from my naps. Didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of even a poisoned apple, you know.”

Aziraphale nods. “Well, why didn’t you come and find me after you got free?”

That… is a more complicated question.

How much does he really want to tell Aziraphale? Should he mention how hopeful he’d been that Aziraphale would barge into that little shack and give the humans the scare of their lives? How much he’d clung to that notion, and how much it’d hurt when he’d realized that it simply wasn’t going to happen? Should he open his heart up to Aziraphale that much, when it still feels like an open, bleeding wound?

No. No, he’s not sure he can do that.

But he’s also so tired, and measuring his words seems like far too much effort.

He’s still not sure what he’s going to say when he starts talking. “Ten years, angel. Ten years, and you never turned up.”

Something crosses Aziraphale’s face, something not unlike anguish that’s carefully walled behind an angelic facade, feelings carefully concealed because angels are supposed to be stoic. Because angels need to be stoic, with what Heaven puts them through, the pain that they see but aren’t allowed to soothe.

In that moment, Crowley knows one thing above all — Aziraphale certainly never meant to leave him trapped in a summoning circle for ten years.

But then Aziraphale’s brows furrow, eyes flicking slightly as if he were working on a puzzle. “Ten years? That would mean you broke free… oh, so that’s why I could suddenly find you. I did think it was odd… but you were sleeping.”

Aziraphale came to check on him right after he broke free.

And he was sleeping.

Fuck.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding slightly as he runs his free hand over his face. “Yeah, I — was all too much to deal with, just… needed a nap.”

“Of course. You must have been exhausted. Have you been sleeping since then? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a nap this long. Not that — I mean, you’ve been through a lot, I can certainly understand why — “

“Not… exactly,” admits Crowley. “I did wake up for a bit somewhere in the middle. And I… went to find you. Thought maybe, you know, you might be in trouble or something. And that’s why you never went to find me. But… you seemed fine. So I went back to sleep.”

Aziraphale nods. “Ah, so that was you!” There’s something like delight in his eyes for a moment before it dims again, as if realizing that all of that was decades ago and far out of their reach. “I thought I sensed something, but you never knocked. I rather figured it must’ve been wishful thinking. Why not… confront me? If you really thought I simply left you, you must have had some choice words to say to me.”

He’s right, of course — Crowley had had some choice words to say to him. He’d thought about it, when he was trapped in that summoning circle and being forced to confront the fact that Aziraphale had clearly turned on him, abandoned him. He’d wanted to say something about good and evil, about angels, about friendship and…

No. No, he hadn’t.

He’d wanted to want to say all of that, but he’d never quite managed to muster up the energy to be angry. Because if Aziraphale had betrayed him, if he’d broken the Arrangement, if he’d left him there at the mercy of those humans, then… he wasn’t sure that he had it in him to care about all that much anymore.

Of course, that energy came back in spurts — he cared enough to want to save those humans, or at least not let them die horribly right in front of him. He cared enough for quite a bit. But that was immediate, and the sting of Aziraphale’s supposed betrayal was more of a dull ache that permeated his every pore during every moment of every day. It was harder to muster up the energy to deal with that.

He supposes that’s why he’d ended up sleeping for so long.

“Dunno. Just… too tired for that, I s’pose. Didn’t really want to get into it.” Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale nods. “I do wish you had. I could have explained, and — well, at the very least it would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll make sure to give you a piece of my mind the next time I think that you just stabbed me in the back.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Crowley winces. “Sorry, that — meant that as a joke, but I just heard it. Sorry.”

Aziraphale offers him a tight smile. “It’s alright, dear. I do hope there isn’t a next time, though. It’s — I’ve…” Something flashes in Aziraphale’s eyes, something complicated, something that Crowley certainly can’t follow, much less name. It finally lands on a neutral, if somewhat arrogant expression. Back to normal, then. “While you’ve been asleep, I’m afraid most of your communication from Hell has been routed to me — “

“Oh, fuck, I completely forgot — “

“ — about your job? Yes, well… one of the safeguards of the Arrangement, if you recall. I’ve taken the liberty of submitting your reports, and I’ve done the assignments that I couldn’t dodge. They don’t suspect anything. But the next time that you decide to take a century-long nap… I’d appreciate some warning.” There’s a smile on Aziraphale’s lips, though, and something twinkling in his eyes, something between a joke and… fondness. Fondness mixed with concern, mixed with relief.

Crowley finds himself wondering how it can be that after all this time, after all that they’ve danced around each other, he can truly know Aziraphale well enough that he can read that expression.

He’s lucky.

For all these decades, he thought he wasn’t, he thought he’d… misjudged Aziraphale somehow, but he is. He’s very, very lucky. And he was very, very foolish for ever thinking otherwise. All these years, Aziraphale has been picking up slack for him, has been protecting him from Hell, even when he thought Crowley was just… mad at him.

Fuck, he’s really made a mistake there.

“Thanks, angel. Sorry, I — I wouldn't have slept all this time if I knew you were getting all my mail, I just — I forgot.”

Aziraphale smiles again. “It’s alright, dear. But I did mean what I asked when I got here — haven’t you received anything about the Crusades? It didn’t arrive to me, that’s actually why I came here. I thought it must have come to you, so you must be awake. I’m sure Hell would want you there.”

“Didn’t really feel any demonic energy here, but I was asleep, so… lemme check.” With that, Crowley swings his legs over the edge of the bed and tries to remind his body how to walk.

It’s always an interesting process, when he sleeps for a long time. His limbs don’t particularly enjoy coordinating their movements on a good day, and they certainly aren’t too fond of the process when they’ve gotten a break from it for so many years. He puts one leg in front of the other carefully, as if they might betray him at any second and send him tumbling to the ground, and he makes it almost all the way to the front door before he stumbles and has to catch himself against the dining table.

“Are you alright?” asks Aziraphale, rushing up to his side but stopping short of placing a hand on his back.

Crowley nods. “Yeah, fine. Just… been asleep too long, is all.”

The next few steps come a little more easily though, and bring him up to where he needed to be — the console table by the door.

And there it is, fresh enough that Crowley can feel Hell clinging to it as he picks it up — a note.

A note telling him to leave with the next convoy of the Crusades, and to spread Hell’s influence over the conflict. Aziraphale’s note from Heaven, he’s sure, will say something very similar to that.

“Here it is,” he announces, holding it out for Aziraphale to take.

The angel’s eyes skim the note, and he nods as he reaches the end. “I suppose we should both go, then.”

“I mean… are they really going to know if we’re there or not? Just cancel each other out, right?”

“And I do think we could both use a break,” offers Aziraphale.

Crowley nods. “How about lunch, then? Is it lunchtime? Always so hard to tell when I’ve been asleep this long.”

“It’s rather closer to dinnertime than lunchtime, I’m afraid. But… I suppose it’s always lunchtime if one decides to have lunch.”

A smile spreads over Crowley’s lips, and he nods again, snapping his fingers so his clothes morph into something fit to be worn outdoors. He has no idea what people are wearing now, but… humans and their trends can be so complicated, he’s not sure that he cares. Not right now, anyway. “Let’s go find ourselves some lunch, then.”

Aziraphale smiles, a warm and comfortable smile that lights up the whole room. He makes his way to the door and holds it open, as if the past few decades had never happened, as if he hasn’t been doing Crowley’s work for decades because he simply forgot to worry about Hell. “After you, my dear,” he says.

And Crowley melts inside.

1650

It’s a house.

It’s just a house.

Crowley tells himself as much as he stares down the shriveled husk that once was likely a host to a perfectly normal family, leading a perfectly normal life, with perfectly normal concerns and fostering all the warmth that comes with your average home.

Satan, it doesn’t look like that now.

It’s old, Crowley can see as much — at least two centuries, if not a little more than that. It’s been abandoned for… a long time, it has to be. Many planks are missing from its frame, and the wood that remains seems old and rotten, paint peeling away and faded. The door doesn’t even seem to close anymore, hanging limply open and shuddering with every breeze.

It’s just a house.

“This is where they want to meet you about that book?” asks Crowley, skepticism clear in his voice.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, they said this house specifically. Less of a chance of attracting unwanted attention this way, I suppose.”

“’s just books. Why the heaven would they want so much discretion over books?”

“Well, they are… books on witchcraft,” whispers Aziraphale. “Humans have gotten rather touchy about witchcraft as of late. They think it’s the work of, well… your side.”

“We’ve got nothing to do with witchcraft,” protests Crowley. “Why would we even care about that? ’s just… magic, that’s all. Magic’s not Good or Evil, ’s just magic. More about what you do with it, really.”

Aziraphale nods the nod of someone who’s had that discussion a few too many times, and he turns his attention towards the house before him. There’s something of a hesitation in Aziraphale, too, that makes Crowley hope that perhaps they won’t have to go inside that house after all. That perhaps Aziraphale will decide this whole things has been a mistake, and he’ll just get in touch with the seller and let him known that they can conduct business in a perfectly ordinary place, or he can snap his fingers and get the books that he wants anyway.

Though, of course, Aziraphale would never do that, because he’s an angel, and one with a penchant for doing things the human way at that. But he might pout in Crowley’s direction while mentioning how nice it would be if he happened to find the books that he wanted suspiciously dislocated away from an unreasonable seller, and then he would find that the books were amenable to that relocation.

(And whatever sum the seller has asked for would magically find itself in their pocket, because Crowley might be a demon, but he’s one with unlimited resources and an understanding of how valuable these things can be. He’s not a monster.)

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asks instead.

Crowley swallows, steels himself to make his way inside —

And instead finds himself saying, “I don’t like it. It’s spooky.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “It’s just a house, Crowley. It’s… old, and I suppose it has seen far, far better days, but… it’s just a house.”

It is, of course.

It’s just a house.

Crowley still doesn’t like it. “Come on, angel. Let’s just get out of here. We can ask the person you’re buying these books from to find a better place for us to meet. Doesn’t have to be here, right?”

“My dear, you’re being silly. It’s really just a house, there’s nothing to worry about,” argues Aziraphale.

“There’s… rot, that’s a thing, right? Could rot right through those floorboards. One step inside and, suddenly the whole thing is collapsing in on us.”

“We’re celestial beings, we could just snap our fingers and stop the collapse.” There’s an amused look dancing on Aziraphale’s face now, and Crowley is as irritated by it as he knows it’s certainly not uncalled for — it is just a house. It is.

He scrambles for an argument, for anything that might convince Aziraphale to at least consider his point. “Well, what — about all the humans that would have to work on rebuilding the place if it did collapse? You think about that?”

“I hardly think they would care to rebuild, considering the state of this place. Crowley, are you quite alright? You can wait out here, if you’d like. I’ll be just a moment.” The amusement has faded, and a frown has taken its place.

Alright, that must be it — the sign for Crowley to drop it and just… go through with this. He is being silly, he tells himself. Aziraphale isn’t wrong. It’s just a house. He doesn’t even understand why he’s so reluctant to go inside, it feels rather like a human superstition, like how they rather dislike going to cemeteries after sundown.

It’s nothing. Of course it’s nothing.

Aziraphale is right, they’re celestial beings. Nothing outside of Heaven and Hell is able to harm them unless it’s under very specific circumstances.

“Nah. Nah, it’s fine. Let’s — go inside, then.” Crowley gestures towards the house, then promptly starts marching ahead.

He’ll be blessed if he lets Aziraphale be the one to go inside first.

He’s not scared, he’s not. But if he were, he certainly wouldn’t want Aziraphale to be one poking his head inside first.

The door creaks open at the slightest push, and a musty smell fills Crowley’s nose the moment the breeze blows out of the house. It’s clear that it’s far from well-enclosed anymore, but even then, it seems to have managed to accumulate that old, rotten smell of a house left neglected for too long. It will collapse under them, Crowley finds himself thinking. There’s no way this structure lasts the meeting.

Still, he takes a tentative step inside.

The floorboard creaks in protest, but even as Crowley puts his full weight on it, it doesn’t give.

Good. He’d really, really hate to fall on through to some creepy basement, and he’s sure he’d end up falling through to some creepy basement.

With that, he lets his other leg follow him in, and he starts to explore the house.

There’s a feeling inside, a feeling… it’s the same feeling he was getting out in the yard, isn’t it? Like something is wrong, like… no, he can’t describe it, he can’t latch onto it. It’s spooky, yes, he knows that much, it makes him think of human stories about the afterlife, about ghosts and spirits and cemeteries, and all those concerns that seem so mundane to him.

But there’s something else there, something —

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

“Aziraphale, don’t — “

But it’s too late.

The angel is inside already, and rather casually examining a sconce.

He raises a curious eyebrow as he shifts his attention back to Crowley, a question clear on his face, but the words seem to get stuck on Crowley’s throat as he tries to articulate them, the immediate urgency that has first pushed them out replaced by a more casual urgency.

But he has to tell him. He has to, because they are both very, very fucked.

“Angel,” he manages, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself. “What did you see outside?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale frowns.

“A cemetery,” answers Crowley. “A cemetery, angel. Which means…”

“Well, some cemeteries are considered hallowed ground, but I can’t say that I felt anything, and we’re not actually in the cemetery. Is this too near for you? Is that — are you not feeling alright?” There’s concern there, and that’s good, he should be concerned, but it’s all for the wrong reasons, and why can’t Crowley just explain this faster?

“No, that’s not — I mean, yes, you’re on the right track, but — why are some cemeteries considered hallowed ground?”

“Why, they’re on churchyards, of course.”

“Exactly.”

“Dear, please just say whatever you’re trying to say, I really don’t understand what you’re getting at here.”

Crowley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to make the words cooperate and come out in the right order. “This, here — this was a church. Can’t you feel it? It’s… consecrated ground, it’s still consecrated ground.”

That seems to put the right amount of alarm on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh. Oh, dear — why didn’t you say so before? This must be terribly uncomfortable for you. Let’s get you outside, quickly — “ he reaches for Crowley, but Crowley dodges the touch, shaking his head.

“No, no, that’s not — I mean, it is uncomfortable, but it’s not burning like it should. They built a house on top of it, and can’t you feel it? Something bad happened here, Aziraphale. Something — “

“That desecrated the ground. Yes, I can… I can feel it, now that you mention it. I think… perhaps you were right. We should go.”

At that, Crowley’s lips pull into a humorless smile, shaking his head. “It’s too late already, angel. We touch that door, we start this. Only reason they haven’t pounced at us yet is because they’re confused. Don’t really know what to do with an angel and a demon, do they?”

Aziraphale swallows, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Crowley that he already knows the answer to the question that he’s about to ask. “They who?”

“The spirits. Three of them, far as I can tell. Normally harmless to us, but…”

“It’s desecrated ground, I’m powerless here,” completes the angel.

“Not fully desecrated. Cemetery out back, ’s on the same land. People keep coming here, keep praying here, keep believing here, makes it all just hallowed enough that I’m powerless here. We’re both powerless here.”

And that, Crowley thinks, is why he could only vaguely sense something wrong, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It’s also likely why Aziraphale couldn’t feel a thing, not until Crowley told him what to look for — it’s too much, it’s too many mixed signals. And the ghosts lurking always just in the corner of their eyes get lost in the confusion.

But right now, with them just as human as anyone else who’s ever entered this house, they are certainly not harmless enough for them to have the luxury of ignoring them.

“What do we do?” asks Aziraphale. “If we can’t leave…”

“We can’t. Not through that door. They won’t let us.”

“But surely there must be something we can do,” argues Aziraphale.

There must be, but Crowley can’t think, he can’t — fuck, this place is giving him a headache. He rubs at his forehead, trying to soothe it, and he takes a step forward —

There’s a loud snap, and the ground gives way under him.

One plank goes, and it seems to bring every other with it, the rotten wood finally allowing itself to go. The support beams snap, and as Crowley tumbles ground the hole beneath him he supposes the ceiling of the basement must give, too, for he feels himself crash into something, but he never stops —

Not until he hits the ground below, limbs falling over him in configurations that feel quite impossible.

“Ow,” he groans as he finally manages to catch his breath, lungs inflating with a painful spasm.

His eyes slowly crack open, and he catches sight of a blond head of hair staring down at him from the hole in the floor, angelic eyes blinking with surprise and concern.

“Crowley?” calls Aziraphale’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Nnnnnnyeah,” he manages, hissing as he tries to stand and finds that far more things hurt than don’t, and not a single part of him seems to want to put in the effort to leverage himself up. “‘M fine.”

Aziraphale looks thoroughly unconvinced, and he glances around, eyes scanning the upper floor. “Don’t move, I’ll come down to help you.”

“Nnnnangel, don’t. Stairs. Wood. Might… break.”

But of course, Aziraphale is already gone.

Crowley sighs and lets his head fall back against the floor, eyes closing against the pain. He’s fairly sure that he’s not seriously injured — nothing feels broken, just bruised and battered — but it hurts, and he’s tired, and he’s certainly not used to not being able to heal at least his corporation. The form that hides inside of it is something else entirely, not something that miracles could affect in any meaningful way, but this body, made of flesh and bones like any human? He should be able to heal it.

Right now, he can’t.

It scares him more than he’s quite willing to admit.

When his eyes open, it’s to find Aziraphale hovering over him, and he yelps in surprise.

“It’s just me,” assures the angel. “I think you might have fallen asleep for a moment. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Crowley blinks, frowning — he certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and he’s not sure that he’s ever just nodded off outside of rather extreme circumstances — but he pushes that aside as a concern for another time. “Stairs?” he asks.

“They held up just fine,” says the angel, smiling reassuringly down at him.

Of course they did. He’s always the one who falls, isn’t he?

He glares vaguely at Aziraphale, though there’s no heat behind it, and lets his eyes fall closed again for a moment. This is… exhausting. Why is he so tired?

“We should get you out of this… well, hole, I suppose. I can’t believe even the basement floor collapsed. You were right to worry about the structural integrity of this house,” muses Aziraphale.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Now you listen to me.”

“How was I to know that there were ghosts inside the house and that we would be both end up powerless if we walked inside?” Aziraphale huffs.

“Why did you want to meet with some random collector you hardly know in a creepy old house? You knew something was off, or you wouldn’t have asked me to tag along,” points out Crowley.

At that, Aziraphale deflates a little. “It was the only place he would meet me, and he claimed to have a genuine Bugger Ye All misprint Bible. I had to come. But I suppose perhaps I shouldn’t have dragged you into this with me.”

“That’s what you think I’m upset about? Actually, I don’t know that — “

Aziraphale gasps, and Crowley’s follows his eyes to land on the wood around him which is… huh. It’s rapidly turning a strange, purple-ish color. What’s that about?

“Dear,” says Aziraphale, voice somewhat tight. “I really do think we should get you up. Will you let me help you?”

“‘M fine,” insists Crowley, “but if you want to… yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale nods, a tight smile on his lips, and he moves to stand behind Crowley, the ground once again seeming to like him a lot more than it ever liked Crowley, and simply not collapsing for him despite the fact that the wood he’s standing on cannot possibly be any less rotten than the wood Crowley landed on.

Traitor, Crowley vaguely thinks at it.

It seems to get its revenge when Aziraphale hooks his arms under Crowley’s armpits and hauls him up, and Crowley’s entire body screams as he’s parted from the floor.

He chokes back a cry, bites down on his lips and tells himself to just grit his teeth and get through it. He’s a demon, for Satan’s sake, he’s been through worse. Just because this is new and strange, and he feels so completely powerless, it shouldn’t be any more difficult to get through this. He’s fine, he knows he’s fine. Worst case scenario, he gets discorporated and has to do an unpleasant amount of paperwork to get a new body for himself.

He’s fine.

Aziraphale drags him a few feet away from the hole, and he sets him down carefully, easing his grip on him little by little as if to test whether he would stay sat up on his own.

Crowley’s ribs protest the effort, his muscles grumble, but he stays upright easily enough. Battered and bruised, as he’d thought, but overall fine.

“How are you feeling?” asks Aziraphale.

“Like I fell through a floor,” grumbles Crowley, and he rolls his shoulders experimentally, preparing himself for a shrug.

That’s a mistake.

He hisses at the unexpected pain, eyes widening with surprise, then casting about for Aziraphale as if looking for an answer, an explanation as to why it suddenly feels like… oh, he doesn’t even know how to complete that analogy, but it hurts and he needs to know why. Now, preferably.

Aziraphale offers him a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid… well, when the floor splintered on your landing, it rather injured your back. I don’t think anything’s broken, but it — looks painful, to say the least.”

“It is painful,” protests Crowley before he can think better of it, and he blesses himself immediately for it.

Great, now Aziraphale will be worried, and — really, it can’t be worse than a few cuts, can it? He’s just… not used to human pain. Not for long, anyway, he can always fix any injury as soon as no humans are looking. Now he’ll need to bear it until they’re out of his place, and the thought is… strangely distressing.

There’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes that tells him that the angel finds it as distressing as he does, and that, he suddenly realizes, doesn’t make him feel better about it at all.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, glancing up towards the ground floor, “we just need to wait until my contact arrives, and then… well, I’m sure between the three of us we’ll find a way out of this house.”

“Angel,” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow at him, “they’re not coming.”

“Of course they are. They said they would.”

“You don’t really believe that,” points out Crowley. “Angel, you got duped. Happens. We just need to find our own way out of here now, and then… we can rest, heal, and in a few weeks we’ll be laughing about it, alright?”

“But if they don’t show, then… all of this will have been for nothing. You’re injured and - and we’re trapped here, all — ”

“Angel,” interrupts Crowley, voice as gentle and even as he can make it, “let’s just get back to the ground floor and find a way out, alright?”

Aziraphale nods.

With a deep breath, Crowley moves to push himself up to his feet. One leg stretches fine, trembling slightly under his weight after the trauma of the fall — lowercase f, the leg had no opinions on the uppercase F — but the other resists, his knee not wanting to fully straighten. He puts his weight on it, growling at it to behave —

And Aziraphale has to catch him before he collapses back down to the floor.

“What the — “ hisses Crowley through the blinding pain that suddenly shoots up his leg. He knows it’s not broken, it doesn’t feel broken, so why —

“Erm, Crowley…” Aziraphale’s eyes are trained on something, on something just below his knee.

Oh.

There’s a piece of wood there, going clean through the muscle and coming out just under his knee. That… cannot be good.

He fights a vague wave of nausea and chooses to focus on the situation at hand instead.

“Alright. Alright, well, that… I can walk. It’s fine. Slow me down, that’s all.” He nods to himself, and his eyes find the stairs that Aziraphale had used to get to the basement. At least they know it can take Aziraphale’s weight, so he should be alright. As long as it doesn’t decide to hate him specifically, he’ll be alright.

Using the wall for support, Crowley limps his way over to the stairs, then wraps his fingers around the banister. He tests it, makes sure that it can take his weight and won’t tear off the wall the second he depends on it, then he begins the climb.

One step.

Two steps.

On the third, he pauses, breathing raggedly, vision beginning to swim. His heart is racing, and he’s not even sure why — it’s just a flight of stairs. He’s done worse, a lot worse. He’ll be fine, his heart doesn’t need to be so dramatic about it.

“Crowley — “ says Aziraphale.

Crowley waves a dismissive hand at him. “‘M fine. I can make it.”

“I’m sure you can, but — “

“I can make it.”

Aziraphale doesn’t protest again.

A deep breath, and Crowley continues his climb.

Fourth step.

Fifth step.

Si —

He can’t do it.

He can’t do it, it hurts too much, and he’s — he’s going to pass out. That’s what that feeling is, isn’t it? It’s almost like being summoned, the world falling away, a sense of urgency that’s impossible to chase away, a certainty. He holds himself up by the banister, but it’s hard to tell which way is up and which way is down, and he’s suddenly not sure he should be holding onto it.

His fingers slip away, and he’s vaguely aware of falling, of hitting something on his way down, before he finally lands on solid ground.

The world comes back to him just in time for him to spot Aziraphale hovering over him once again.

All he can bring himself to say is, “ow.”

“I think perhaps, dear,” says Aziraphale, “you should stay on this floor. I’m afraid I don’t think I can carry you upstairs, not… well, not when I can’t use any miracles. Angelic strength is rather dependent on that in this form.”

“Don’t think the house likes me,” grumbles Crowley, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain.

“Sure, dear,” retorts Aziraphale, and Crowley can hear the amused smile on his voice, “it’s the house.”

---

If asked — and he won’t be, he knows he won’t be because the only other person there, the only other person who could possibly know, is Aziraphale — Crowley would blame this on being somewhat loopy from blood loss and pain.

It’s true that the pain isn’t that terrible compared to what he’s faced before, between the war in Heaven, the Fall, and Hell. It’s true, too, that he certainly hasn’t bled that much. Maybe he could blame it on a head injury, but he’s not human, and it’s difficult to tell whether human vital functions would truly affect a celestial being even when cut off from their miracles.

Still, this is the excuse that he would use for how he ends up curled into Aziraphale's side, the angel’s arm slung carefully over his shoulders and holding him close.

The truth is that he’s exhausted, he’s more scared than he cares to admit, and he just needs… comfort. Just for a moment, just until he can catch his breath again. Can anyone really blame him for leaning against Aziraphale when the angel happened to sit by his side, close enough that he could lean on him if he wanted to?

“How do we get out of here?” Aziraphale asks quietly, his voice rumbling under Crowley’s ear.

“Dunno,” mumbles Crowley, unwilling to move. “Figure something out. Just need a minute.”

How Crowley knows that Aziraphale smiles at that, he’s not sure, but he does. “Of course, dear. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“Didn’t. Just… want to get out, too, you know? Need a minute. Tired.” He nuzzles into his spot just over Aziraphale’s chest, and for a moment, he thinks he feels Aziraphale’s fingers brush through his hair just as the base of his skull.

It’s nice. It was probably just his imagination, but it felt rather nice.

“I am sorry I got us into this,” says Aziraphale.

“Not your fault. Well… a little your fault. But you’re right — “ at that, Crowley lifts his head to look into Aziraphale’s eyes — “you couldn’t have known.”

“You felt something was off,” points out Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs, and hisses at the motion, blessing under his breath.

“Just a feeling,” he adds after a moment. “Nothing… couldn’t have known. Me or you. Just happened that I was right.”

“The I Was Wrong dance! Oh, I know — we’ll rest for a moment, and I’ll do the dance, and then we’ll find a way out of here. It’ll… lift our spirits.”

“Make you feel better, you mean.” Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, and his lips pull into a smirk as he sees the sheepish look on the angel’s face. This one, Crowley knows, is entirely for Aziraphale. He doesn’t mind it, though — he doesn’t need an apology, he doesn’t think he’s owed one, but if Aziraphale needs this… then fine. “Mmm. Fine. If you want. Don’t need to, though. Nothing to apologize for.”

“I — I rather think I do. If you don’t mind.”

“Not as long as it doesn’t have to be now. Don’t want to move yet,” he grumbles, sighing as he shifts again, trying to get a little more comfortable.

Aziraphale smiles, and again Crowley has no idea how he can know this, but knows that he does. “Take your time, dear.”

He certainly plans to. He plans to enjoy every moment that he can, nuzzled up to Aziraphale’s side, because as much as he’s trying not to acknowledge the rarity of this, the strangeness of this openness between them when they both know that under normal circumstances, this would be terribly dangerous for both of them… well, deep down he knows that this isn’t likely to happen again. And Aziraphale is warm, and soft, and there’s a sense of safety to being bundled up by his side that’s… far too wonderful not to love. He doesn’t want to move. Ever.

Sooner or later, he’ll have to, he knows that.

But until then, he’ll enjoy every second of this that he can.

---

This I Was Wrong dance is a little stiff, Aziraphale’s feet clearly mindful of the rotten floorboards and doing their best not to create a brand new hole in the ground.

Crowley still claps at the end of it, and delights in the smile that he receives in return.

They linger in the space after the dance for a while, neither willing to break the atmosphere that seems to have settled over them, something light, something easy after the rather fraught night they’ve been having. But Crowley knows that they both know this can’t last forever, and sooner or later one of them will have to speak.

He chooses to be that person.

“We need to get moving, don’t we?” he says with a sigh.

Aziraphale nods. “I’m afraid we do, rather.”

“Alright,” says Crowley. “Standing up.”

It’s not easy, especially not now that he knows he’s injured, now that he knows he needs to be mindful of his leg. It rather feels like first days with a corporation, when he’d spent hours trying to understand arms and legs, and how to coordinate the whole thing, where this spine of his was supposed to come into play, and whether anyone really needed all those fingers.

His knees suffer, his spine nearly bends in half, but eventually, he stands.

He looks triumphantly over at Aziraphale, and is delighted to see that he’s smiling over at him, eyes twinkling with something between warmth and joy that he wants to tentatively call fondness.

“Come, now,” says Aziraphale, lips still pulled into a smile. “Let’s see if we can find a way out of here.”

Limping through the basement is slow going and exhausting. Crowley chooses not to test the structural integrity of anything — they would break on him, he knows they would break on him — and so the only reprieve his leg finds is when he occasionally gives in and leans on Aziraphale, letting the angel take his weight for a handful of minutes before he convinces himself to fully stand once again and continue searching.

He should rest, Aziraphale reminds him often.

Crowley doesn’t.

They’re at least an hour into this when Aziraphale turns to him, brows furrowed, and asks, “you said this was a church, didn’t you?”

Crowley nods. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Next to a graveyard. Don’t usually build houses there, do they, humans? But they do build churches. Feels too hallowed to be just the cemetery next door, anyway. Would have to be on the same ground, and it’s only the same ground…”

“If this was once a church,” finishes Aziraphale.

“Why do you ask?”

Aziraphale’s lips pull into a smile. “Because, my dear, churches often serve as shelter when there’s some kind of conflict. War, or back during the Viking raids.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, you’d hardly want to be trapped in your shelter, would you? So some churches started to be build tunnels in their basement. Assuming the basement is still the same as when this place was a church, it might still be here. And… perhaps it won’t trigger anything to happen?”

Crowley isn’t sure that it won’t. He knows the spirits had been watching the door, and he could feel their anticipation, he could feel how this had happened time and time again throughout their existence. He could also feel that… they’ve lost quite a lot of themselves over the years. They weren’t quite human anymore, driven more by routine than anything else. It’s why they ignored Crowley and Aziraphale as they entered — they didn’t know what to do with an angel and a demon.

They might not know what to do when they open something that no one has opened before.

“Maybe. Only one way to find out,” points out Crowley.

And with that, Aziraphale begins the arduous task of feeling around the floor — Crowley knows for a fact that he does not have it in him to crawl, much less to bend down and stand back up again — while Crowley focuses on finding something they can use for light.

He never so much as finds a drawer before he hears the sound of a hinge groaning back to life.

“I’ve found it!” announces Aziraphale.

Crowley smiles and carefully makes his way over to the angel. “Well done, that was fast.”

“Oh, that was only luck. But I think the ladder is still sturdy. Perhaps I should go down first, and I can help you once I’m in.”

The idea of sending Aziraphale defenseless down a dark, abandoned tunnel via a ladder that’s older than the house in which Crowley has just fallen right through floor doesn’t sit well with him. He’s absolutely sure, though, that if he goes down first, the ladder will simply disintegrate, and then Aziraphale won’t even stand a chance at using it, so in the end, it’s a moot point.

“Alright, yeah,” he agrees. “Just be careful. Don’t know what’s down there.”

“It’s only a tunnel, I can’t imagine there’ll be anything worse than spiders in there.”

“Mm. Famous last words?”

He can’t see it in this light, but Crowley is sure that Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

Slowly and steadily, the angel makes his way down the ladder, and when Crowley hears his feet hit solid ground, a soft thud echoing up at him, he lets out a sigh of relief.

Good. At least one of them got down safely.

“Go on,” says Aziraphale, “try the ladder. It felt solid, so I think you’ll be fine on that end, but if your leg won’t cooperate… I could always catch you. I — I think I could. It would erm… it would be worth a shot, at least.”

“I’ll be fine,” assures Crowley, a vision of him letting himself fall to be caught by the angel, only for him to smack into him, send him falling to the floor and land in a pile of broken bones quickly flashing through his mind. “Just give me some space to come down.”

It’s not easy.

Ladders are certainly not something that was designed to be used with only one good leg — even holding as much weight as possible with his arms when bringing his uninjured leg down, the other protests the weight put on it, and threatens to just give in entirely. He’s fairly sure that it’s only willpower and desperation that have him landing safely on the ground after the harrowing journey down the ladder.

“Crowley?” calls Aziraphale’s voice from right beside his ear.

Crowley winces and turns, managing to backhand Aziraphale’s belly in the process. He winces at that, too. “Yeah, here. Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright. It’s rather dark here, isn’t it?”

Crowley blinks, and continues to only be able to see… nothing, so he nods. “Yeah. Let’s just find the exit, yeah?”

“Yes, I think that would be good.”

They follow the tunnel by touch, and to Crowley’s relief, he can feel it sloping up and up, leading them —

To a trapdoor. Not another ladder, but just a trapdoor right above their heads, with a set of stair-like steps leading to them.

He doesn’t even make it all the way up before he lets himself collapse, sitting down on the steps with a tired and relieved sigh.

They’re out of the house, out of hallowed ground, and he can feel the energy ebbing back to him, wounds closing with just a thought. He snaps his fingers, and the piece of wood jammed into his leg disappears, the flesh it’d torn knitting itself back together effortlessly.

The pain ebbs away as quickly as the miracle energy ebbs back in, and it leaves in its wake a bone-deep exhaustion. Crowley sags against the side of the tunnel, letting his head rest over the hinges of the trapdoor, eyes falling closed. He could take a nap there, just ten, fifteen minutes. He’d be fine, he knows he would — there is little, after all, that can hurt a demon.

Little but that blessed house with its blessed unstable floors, that is.

Steps approach him, but he doesn’t move. It’s just the angel, and the angel is another reason why he’s safe, after all. He would never let anything but blasted terrible structural integrity happen to him.

A hand finds his shoulder, and Crowley raises his head slightly, eyes still closed, to meet the movement.

“Why don’t we get you to my place for the night?” suggests Aziraphale. “It has a nice and comfortable bed, and a big fireplace to warm the room.”

“Mm. Heaven?” he manages to ask.

“It’s only a night. And we can’t have you sleeping out here. My place is closer. Come on.”

And with that, Crowley is hoisted back to his feet and led half-stumbling down the road to a warm and safe home. Heaven, he knows, won’t care. They never do.

What matters is that Aziraphale offered.

1947

It’s hard to tell what’s worse — the white haze ahead of them, making everything completely indistinguishable, or the wind that cuts through their layers of coats and jumpers and scarves like a knife might cut through butter.

Crowley growls in the general direction of the one single thing that he can identify in the blizzard — Aziraphale, shining through the haze like a beacon of heavenly energy. At least, Crowley thinks to himself, they won’t get separated.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming out here,” he snarls, though there’s no real heat to it — least of all because the storm seems to latch onto anything even remotely warm and immediately chill it to the bone.

Aziraphale huffs, somehow audible even over the blazing winds. “I talked you into coming here? You were the one who wanted to see the Northern Lights!”

“And how the blazes are we going to see anything in this blasted storm? Can’t even see you, can I? Don’t think I can see my own hand. Not even sure it’s still there!”

“I’m sure it is,” says Aziraphale, just the vaguest hint of annoyance in his tone, which Crowley knows well enough means that he’s at least a little concerned. If he weren’t, there would be full-on bitchiness there.

“And I told you, didn’t I? I told you there was a storm in the forecast. But no, you said, it’ll hold out. In the worst blessed winter we’ve had here in decades, the storm is just going to hold out. And then I just had to go and agree to come out here, didn’t I? Bloody stupid, that was.” He hugs his arms closer to his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits in an attempt to get feeling back into them.

The wind abates, if only slightly, for a moment, and Crowley hears footsteps crunching in the snow behind him, moving up to his side. “It was supposed to hold out,” says Aziraphale, so quiet in the storm that Crowley isn’t sure that he was meant to hear it.

But then the wind is back in full force, sending another wave of chill painfully through Crowley’s frame, and he staggers back a step under the force of the icy blast, all other concerns temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. Aziraphale loses his footing for a moment, but seems to bear the renewed wind better, and an arm finds its way around Crowley’s torso, holding him steady.

“We need to find somewhere to weather the storm,” Aziraphale half-shouts, and even then it’s still difficult to make out the words as the wind carries them away.

Crowley closes his eyes for a minute, wishing not for the first time that they’d been out there to ski, not to look at the stars. No one needs eye protection to look at the stars, they’re too far away.

Well, not unless one is looking at the sun, but that’s long gone, and it won’t be coming back for far, far too many hours.

“There isn’t anything out here!” points out Crowley. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Not a single blasted bit of light to get in the way!”

There’s a sigh, somehow audible through the wind — Crowley is really starting to think that there’s a miracle involved there, and he’s not sure if he finds that exasperating or endearing, or quite likely both — and Aziraphale says, “will you stop blaming me for this and just… help me look for somewhere for us to take shelter?”

“I’m not blaming you!” protests Crowley.

He doesn’t need to be able to see Aziraphale to perceive the eyebrow raised in his direction, somehow it’s conveyed entirely silently, blindly.

“Fine,” he relents, “I am blaming you. But it’s not like I can’t do both! There’s nothing out here, Aziraphale, you know that as well as I do!”

“Well, we can’t just give up! We’ll freeze!”

“Who said anything about giving up?” points out Crowley. “Just can’t put all our hope on a plan we know isn’t going to work out, we need… another plan, that’s what we need! And until we’ve got one, we need to keep moving!”

And so they do.

The wind is strong and blasting from a dozen different directions. The snow feels like the tiny shards of ice that it is, sapping warmth wherever it touches. Moving gets harder and harder as the snow piles up and their strength begins to wane against the never-ending trek, the difficult terrain, the cutting chill of the storm.

Crowley stumbles as the ground gives more than he expected, the snow covering some kind of hole on the ground. He reaches for something to catch himself —

And he finds a solid surface next to him.

He turns his head, expecting to find Aziraphale — Aziraphale’s chest or back, maybe? His arm certainly isn’t wide enough for what he’s feeling — but he can’t sense any of that heavenly warmth from what he’s looking at. His hand moves, and he finds that it’s a large surface, fairly flat, and very much solid. A wall. Probably not a house, there are no houses out there, but it’s still something. It’s a landmark.

“Aziraphale!” he calls. “Come over here!”

It’s only a minute before he feels the angel by his side, a heavy hand on his shoulder confirming his presence.

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s other hand and places it carefully on the wall. “Feel that?” he asks. “Something here. Might be a cliff wall or something. If we follow it…”

“It might lead us somewhere,” finishes Aziraphale. “Alright. It’s good shelter from the wind, too. I don’t even have to shout to be heard here.”

“Getting tired of that, I was,” agrees Crowley with a small laugh, and he nods to himself, making the decision to keep going despite his exhaustion. It’s tempting, he has to admit, to just take this win and sit down somewhere a little more sheltered from the wind, a little quieter, a little less… exhausting, really. Slightly warmer, though the word feel wrong against the biting cold he can still feel trying to chill him down to his bones.

If they stop, they won’t make it. Crowley knows that. So they have to keep going.

It’s another hour, he’d estimate, before his hand slips off the wall and is met with only air.

Crowley drags his tired eyes away from the endless haze ahead of him, and finds…

A cave.

Oh, thank G - Sat - Someone.

A cave.

“Angel!” he calls, and forgets the little pocket of quiet that they seem to exist in for the moment.

Aziraphale, as it turns out, was right beside him anyway, and he catches a small wince off the corner of his eye. Oops. Fuck, he’s tired.

“Crowley, I’m right here,” reminds Aziraphale, and there’s an edge of tired annoyance in his voice for which Crowley truly can’t fault him. It has been a long, long night, and he’s fairly certainly they’re only halfway through it. Dawn wouldn’t come until nearly nine in the morning, after all.

“Sorry.” Crowley winces, then waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the cave, too tired to properly coordinate his movements. Why do humans have so many limbs? “Look! A cave!”

Aziraphale takes a few stumbling steps towards it, one hand bracing against the entryway for the cave. “Erm… it’s nice, Crowley, but it’ll hardly be warm.”

It won’t, he knows that. But it’s a good shelter for the wind, and it’ll give them a place to light a fire if they can find the right tools, and then they’ll be warm. They need to be warm, they need to get out of that storm. If they were human, Crowley isn’t sure that they would still be standing. They’re pushing their luck.

“Angel, we need to stop. We can hardly move, we’re half-frozen, and the storm isn’t going anywhere. We’re miles from the closest town, might be walking in the completely opposite direction — “

“ — if we were,” interjects Aziraphale, “we would be in the middle of the sea.”

“Fine, not the completely opposite direction, but we could be missing it by a dozen miles by now. We’ve got no idea where we are. We need to stop. Stop, maybe light a fire, get some feeling back into our limbs, and when the sun comes up and the storm dies down a bit, then maybe we can keep going.”

There’s a long moment of silence, then Aziraphale nods. “Alright, fine. Fine, let’s stay here for a moment. I suppose we could both do a bit of a sit down.”

With that, they shuffle into the shelter of the cave, and the moment the wind is gone completely, Crowley feels himself relaxing the slightest fraction —

And his legs turn to lead, the last few steps up to a deeper part of the mouth of the cave feeling so heavy he can hardly believe it when he makes it and collapses onto the stone floor. Aziraphale seems to be experiencing something similar, for he’s shaking a little too unevenly by the time he sits down for it to be entirely the cold.

“You know, I rather think — I think you were right. About us taking a break. I don’t think I knew how exhausted I am,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley leans his head back against the wall, eyes falling closed. “Mmm. Me neither. Can’t remember the last time I was this exhausted. Well, I can, but still. Different circumstances.”

“Not the haunted house, I hope. 1650?”

“Nah. Some time after that.” He tries to wave a dismissive hand, but his arm doesn't seem to want to cooperate anymore, and he can’t even find it in himself to be angry with it. Of course it doesn’t want to cooperate, it’s so cold, and he’s so tired. Maybe if they just took a nap everything would feel a little better once he woke up.

There’s a loud sound, and Crowley startles away, nearly falling over in a poor attempt to stand.

“Sorry,” apologizes Aziraphale, a sheepish look on his face. “You were falling asleep.”

“Yeah. ‘M tired. Look, angel, I know you don’t like sleep, and I wouldn’t normally want to leave you on your own, but — “

“It’s not that,” interrupts Aziraphale. “You’re not supposed to go to sleep in situations like this. At least that’s what the humans say. I know we’re not human, but — “

“ — but it might still get us discorporated, yeah. Alright, point taken.” Crowley throws his head back against the wall behind him, letting it hit with a little more strength than he normally would. “Fuck, it’s too cold.”

“I know, dear. And you hate the cold.”

Crowley nods. He has nothing against it when he’s properly dressed for the weather, or inside with a warm fire going, but he hates being cold, and he hates the myriad of times when finding a way to keep warm without the use of a dozen miracles had been a constant preoccupation through winter. And here he is again, half-frozen in a cave, and he can't even take a nap because he’ll be blessed if this is what’s going to discorporate him.

“Perhaps,” suggests Aziraphale, “we should just conjure a fire. You know, do a miracle. Just — just a small one.”

“Angel, if we were going to do a miracle, we should bloody well get ourselves out of this snowstorm and back home,” points out Crowley. “But we can’t, because we’re not supposed to be here, we’re supposed to be in fucking Greece.”

“They might not notice,” offers Aziraphale, but Crowley already knows that even if he agrees, Aziraphale won’t go through with it. And he shouldn’t, which is why Crowley won’t give in.

“Or they might notice, and then we’re both a lot worse off than we are now.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, leaning his head back in much the same fashion as Crowley did before, though perhaps with somewhat more care.

“I suppose we should gather some firewood, then,” says Aziraphale. “Or we’ll never be warm.”

“Yeah,” agrees Crowley. “I suppose we should.”

Neither one of them moves.

---

It’s maybe an hour later that they find themselves staggering back into the cave, covered in snow once again, but a fair bit of wood bundled up under their arms.

Crowley assembles it all into something he rather thinks resembles a campfire — Aziraphale takes it upon himself to hunt down some stones to line the campfire after every single one of his attempts to help Crowley with the actual building of the fire results in the whole thing toppling down.

“Alright, then,” says Azirapahale. “Now we just need your lighter.”

“My lighter?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, of course. For the fire.”

“I don’t have a lighter.”

“You don’t?”

“Do you have a lighter?”

“Erm… no. No, I’m afraid not.”

Crowley groans, loud and tired and frustrated. He hadn’t actually thought the angel would have a lighter, but he’d also… well, forgotten that he couldn’t just light it on fire with a click of his fingers like he’s always done. Bloody assignment in bloody Greece; they should have just gone and enjoyed the milder winter instead of staying there and getting stranded in Northern Scotland while trying to see the Northern Lights when there was a storm warning in place.

Storm of the century, this might very well be. He hasn’t seen this much snow falling in Great Britain in a very, very long time.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale assures him. “Humans have been lighting fires for a very long time without lighters. We only need… sticks! Or… stones?”

“Will break your bones?” finishes Crowley. At Aziraphale’s puzzled look, he waves a hand. “’S alright, never mind. Just a joke. Alright, let’s try some stones. No way am I getting one of those sticks out of there, took me ages to get them to look right.”

Aziraphale produces two small stones from his pockets, and Crowley takes them into his hands. Here goes nothing, he supposes.

It takes time.

And effort. And a fair bit of cursing.

Crowley is decently sure that it’s not meant to be this hard, if he’s being perfectly honest. But in the end, the fire lights.

(And if it lights only out of pity and a hefty dose of fear born from various threats hissed at the sticks and stones, neither angel nor demon ever have to know. They’ll never realize that wet wood does not catch fire, nor that those stones would never strike a spark.)

They collapse back into their respective spots around the fire, sighing in relief as they pull off wet bits of clothing, remove their soaked boots and socks, and try to defrost. Crowley wriggles feeling back into his toes as Aziraphale neatly organizes their discarded items around the fire to dry. It feels… quiet. Peaceful. At complete odds with the storm raging outside.

For the first time since it all started, Crowley thinks he might rather be here, actually, instead of where he was supposed to be in Greece, monitoring some event or another. He can’t quite remember what it was anymore.

“It wasn’t supposed to storm, you know,” says Aziraphale, who in hindsight, Crowley thinks to himself, had been spending far too long smoothing out that tartan scarf.

Crowley sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Angel, it’s been snowing for days. The forecast says it’ll keep snowing for a lot more days. It was going to snow.”

“Not today, it… wasn’t meant to snow today.”

“And why the blazes not?”

“Because I didn’t want it to! I mean… I did a miracle. Just… a small one, very subtle, I promise. Nothing that would give us away. Just to nudge the storm to hold off for the night. I rather think I must have underdone it, because it clearly is snowing, but — when I invited you here, I really thought it wouldn’t.”

Crowley blinks once. Twice. Then he thinks he must be getting it wrong — he doesn’t have a lot of practice with blinking, after all — because it doesn’t quite feel like enough, and he blinks a third time for good measure.

“You did that?” he asks. “Why would you risk it?”

“Because I thought — well, I heard someone saying that all these storms could be something… astronomical. I don’t know, I might have misunderstood, you know that’s not really my area. But if there was some kind of… astronomical event going on behind those clouds, I rather thought you’d like to see it. And so I — I thought maybe if the snow paused for a night, it might be a good opportunity to set out and find a nice sport to watch it. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”

Crowley offers Aziraphale a hint of a smile. “I know you didn’t, angel. And we’re fine, aren’t we? Just a bit cold, is all. We’ll be fine once the storm dies down. And for what it’s worth… I think it would’ve been really beautiful if we’d managed to see it.”

And that does earn him a smile back from Aziraphale, so he thinks everything will turn out quite alright. No harm done.

---

The storm doesn’t abate.

Daytime should have come already, Crowley is sure of it, but it hasn’t — night still presses down on them, the wind still blazes outside, and impossible amounts of snow pile up at the entrance of the cave. He’s not sure that anyone could walk through that, though it doesn’t settle quite as much as it would if the the wind didn’t keep dragging it away.

Maybe it’s the same snow, recycled through endless converging winds. Is that possible? It must be, there can’t really be that much water in the atmosphere. Where’s it all coming from?

The relaxed atmosphere died down what Crowley thinks might be two hours ago, or it might be much longer than that. Or much less. Who’s to say, when the sun is completely blotted out by endless waves of snow?

“Crowley, the fire won’t last forever,” points out Aziraphale.

Crowley waves a dismissive hand. “Lasted this long, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, but — well, surely it must burn out eventually. And then we’ll freeze.”

“We’ll find more wood.”

“How? It was hard enough to find what we did, you know it was, and that was before the snow got this high. We’ll never find anything on the surface, and we certainly won’t know where to dig. Not to mention the fact that we might freeze if we have to keep digging for wood.”

Crowley runs a tired hand over his face.

Aziraphale is right, of course he’s right. They’ll never survive gathering more firewood. The storm has only gotten worse, and they’ve certainly not recovered fully, nor are they likely to until they’re back somewhere truly warm and dry.

At least they don’t need food or water. They’re still in a much better place than any human would be.

“Guess we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we? As long as the fire is burning, we’re alright,” he decides, because he doesn’t see much of a choice.

But Aziraphale shakes his head. “Crowley, we can’t count on the fire lasting long enough for us to get out of here.”

“Don’t have a choice, do we? Nothing we can do! We’re trapped here, angel, and that’s our lifeline. We cling to it. And if it burns out… we choose between discorporating or getting caught. That’s it, that’s the plan, that’s the only one I’ve got.”

And then Aziraphale does something that Crowley finds far, far more terrifying than he ever thought he would — Aziraphale smiles. The sad, determined smile of someone who’s already made a choice that's going to be horribly unpopular with an audience that cares about them, but which is a decision they will not allow themselves to budge from.

Crowley waits to hear it with bated breath, heart stilling inside his chest.

“We need help, dear. So… I’m going to go. I’ll find us some help, and I’ll bring them back here to you,” says Aziraphale.

“No,” Crowley replies immediately. “Absolutely not. You are not going out there on your own, angel, you’ll freeze.”

“If we go out there together, we’ll both freeze.”

“Then neither of us goes out there. There, that’s settled.”

“Then we’ll both freeze in here when the fire dies.”

“Better than you freezing out there alone!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, and he scoots a little closer to Crowley, reaching a hand out towards him. “If one of us goes, then we both stand a chance. And I think we both know that it has to be me, dear. You’ve never been terribly good with the cold.”

“And that means that you should go out there and die?”

“Discorporate,” corrects Aziraphale, “and we don’t know that will happen.”

“I think we do. Look at that, angel!” Crowley gestures towards the storm outside. “We don’t even know we’re close to anything! You could wander around for days and never make it a mile because you can’t even see out in this thing! Don’t go. Please, we’ll just stay here and we’ll hope the fire lasts longer than the storm. It could! It’s been doing well, it’s — it’s a chance. Angel, it’s our best chance.”

“It isn’t,” argues Aziraphale, “and we both know that. I’ll be back soon, I… well, I’ll do my best.”

And Crowley can’t argue anymore, because he knew from the start that Aziraphale wouldn’t be dissuaded, and because Aziraphale is, of course, right. Their best chance is to get some outside help, or even just a supply of firewood from a nearby house. It’s not a good chance, but it is their best chance.

It’s not long before Aziraphale is fully dressed again, and standing before the mouth of the cave, before the raging storm. Crowley’s heart beats in tandem with the wind, wild and… not terrifying, but terrified.

“Don’t go. Angel, even if the fire goes out we could still be alright! Out of the snow, aren’t we? Out of the wind. We can… huddle for warmth or something. Humans do it all time! And we’re not human, we — we could make it. Our corporations might make it. What do you say? Stay here?” he tries again, and he can hear the desperation in his tone, but it hardly matters anymore. If it’d make Aziraphale stay, he might even be willing to beg.

But Aziraphale shakes his head, that slight smile on his lips once again, and Crowley’s heart does its very best to exit his chest and leave entirely in protest. “I’ll be back soon,” promises the angel. “Just hang on, please.”

And with that, Aziraphale walks out into the storm.

He’s swallowed up by the billowing snow before Crowley can even manage to form the words goodbye.

---

The fire dies maybe half an hour after Aziraphale leaves.

The embers keep the warmth of the cave alive a little longer, but within another half an hour, they too fade away, and Crowley is left alone in a dark, quickly chilling cave.

Great. Perfect.

Now all he has to do is hang on long enough for Aziraphale to pull through, isn’t it? Assuming there’s anything out there at all, and that Aziraphale is lucky enough to stumble upon one of those structures, then lucky enough to be able to find his way back — because this is all luck, there is no skill involved.

But it’ll work out. It has to, this can’t be how it ends, he refuses to let this be how it ends.

So he’ll sit there and believe that Aziraphale is going to make his way back to the cave. That he’ll see him again. He has to believe that.

But maybe… maybe he can believe that with his eyes closed.

Yes, he’ll just rest them for a moment. It’s so cold, and he’s so tired, and there’s nothing for him to see anyway, so what can be the harm in just closing his eyes for a moment?

---

Something fades in.

It’s urgent, it’s…

Oh. It’s calling his name.

“Crowley!” calls the voice, and the voice is so familiar, so warm, so safe, that Crowley wants to keep listening to it, even if it’s hard.

“Crowley!” it calls again. “Crowley, can you hear me? You need to open your eyes!”

It feels important to the voice, and Crowley wants to help it, so he makes the effort to crack one eye just a sliver. It might be enough, and it’s so very difficult to get them to move. He can hardly even remember how to do that.

“Oh!” says the voice. “Oh, thank goodness. Can you — can you open them more?”

Crowley wants to grumble, to complain that it’s really a lot to be asking from him when everything is so much effort, but that in itself feels like too much effort, and he knows he’s just going to open his eyes anyway, so he does. Left eye first, then he manages to get his right eye mostly open.

The light should hurt his eyes, Crowley finds himself thinking, though he doesn’t quite know why. He just knows that it surprises him when it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because there’s so little light.

“Can you focus? Crowley, please, can you focus your eyes?” asks the voice.

Crowley doesn’t reply, doesn’t follow the instructions, because he’s really not sure what the voice means by that.

There’s a sound almost like a whimper, then a sigh, and footsteps.

Crowley manages to make his eyes follow the sound, but he’s doesn’t know what he’s looking at, what all this movement is, what he’s supposed to be seeing.

“You were right; you were right; I was wrong; you were right,” sings the voice, and —

Oh.

Oh, Aziraphale. Of course.

Of course he remembers Aziraphale. How the heaven could he ever forget Aziraphale?

Fuck, he can’t have forgotten Aziraphale. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

So he forces himself back, he forces his brain to dust off the icicles and get back into gear, and he blinks, trying to focus those blessed eyes of his and get them to do something useful for the first time since he opened them.

He sees him, then. Aziraphale. And he’s not sure what to do with the relief that floods him as he does.

“What was that for?” he mumbles, a smile beginning to form on his lips, sluggish and tired but very much there.

“Oh! Oh, thank goodness, Crowley!” cries Aziraphale, rushing up to his side and quickly plopping himself down next to him. “Here, we need to get you warm. I’m — well, I’m afraid the dance was… I thought it might get your attention. But it’s also, erm… I didn’t find any help. And the storm, you were right about the storm, too. You were right about everything. I barely made it back here.”

But he did. Aziraphale did make it back, and he’s so tired, his brain is screaming through every thought, and he… oh, he just wants to cry in relief, because they might both be fucked, but at least they’re together. It makes a difference.

“But you did,” he whispers, unable to hold the words back.

Aziraphale nods. “I followed your presence back to the cave. I couldn’t see anything out there, I couldn’t even see my hand until it was right in front of my nose. After a while, I thought… you were right. I would never find any help, and I’d… rather be here.”

Crowley lets himself flop over towards Aziraphale, and he’s surprised to find welcoming arms pulling him closer. Aziraphale is shivering, he belatedly realizes, and he’s pulling him closer for warmth. For both of their sakes. He lets himself fall into his warmer, if not truly warm, embrace, and hopes that somehow it might be enough to get them both through to the end of the storm.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

Aziraphale nuzzles a little closer, and he says, “of course, dear.”

---

Daylight comes eventually.

The storm breaks, and Aziraphale and Crowley are still pressed together, desperately trying to stay warm, energy dwindling by the second. But they are still there, still lingering, still alive.

They don’t talk as they decide to head out. It’s too difficult to form words. But they move in tandem, gathering whatever they hadn’t put on again in an effort to stay warm, and heading out into the snow.

The village, as it turns out, had been within sight all along, hidden in the white haze of the storm.

They stumble into Aziraphale’s house — it’s closer, and Crowley knows he won’t make it to his own — and just barely manage to light a fire and shed their wet clothes before they collapse as close to the heat of the fireplace as they dare, and sit together, warm at last.

They won’t move for a long time, they both know that, but it’s quite alright. They’re warm, and they’re together, and that’s all that really matters.

2025

It should have been the last time, his drive from the bookshop the day Aziraphale left.

That, Crowley thinks, should have been the last time he saw it, save for… whenever Aziraphale came back, and they argued, and then eventually made up, because there’s still a part of him that’s so, so very badly clinging to the idea that this might happen. Their arguments aren’t usually this bad, but it’s not like they never happen, it’s not like they don’t argue. And no matter how bad they’ve been in the past, they’ve always made up.

But it’s different now, he knows that.

Aziraphale has never offered to make him an angel before.

Aziraphale has never left for Heaven before.

And there’s something coming down the line, Crowley knows that. Part of him thinks that Aziraphale will find out and come to him for help, but even if he does — well, of course Crowley will help, but it won’t mean that anything is different. It won’t mean that they’re alright. Because of course he’s not going to let the world end over Aziraphale rejecting him. He still has to live in it, and even if he didn’t, it… well, it just wouldn’t be fair, would it?

So he hopes, yes, because he can’t help it, he’s never been able to shake that part of him that always, so desperately, hopes. But he tries not to let it go too far, he tries to remind himself that it’s not like that, not this time.

He would love it if he could internalize this enough to stop driving the Bentley all the way over to the bookshop ever so often.

He’s not even sure why he does it. He supposes it’s habit, he’s just gotten used to the route. He doesn’t want to see it, after all. He doesn’t, it’s — it’ll only hurt. It always hurts.

But he still finds himself parked in front of that same old bookshop time and time again, staring at it as if he could will a certain angel to walk out that door and wave him in, telling him to stop being silly and just wait inside. He did use to, in fact, love waiting inside.

Right now, he doesn’t think he could step foot back inside that bookshop if his life depended on it. He’d fall to pieces the moment he crossed the threshold, and he’s not sure that he would be able to pick up the pieces afterwards. He’s already… poorly pieced together stained glass inside, isn’t he?

Which is why he ignores it when he sees a head of white hair fussing around inside the shop.

It’s probably just a customer. Crowley did tell Muriel that they could let customers inside if they want to, just as long as the customers don’t actually buy anything. Besides, he’s not even supposed to know that head of white hair is in there at all, because he’s not supposed to be there. He needs to go.

But then —

Then the head of white hair turns around, looks out the window, and sees him.

And the head of white hair is not just a head of white hair.

It’s so, so much more than that. Not that Crowley didn’t suspect something, not that he doesn’t know that’s at least part of why he drove here today specifically, but there’s been so many false alarms, so many times he thought he felt the slightest inkling of something angelic and ran there only to find…

Nothing.

He’s long since decided to stop indulging the part of him that feels hope every time he thinks there’s even the slightest chance that Aziraphale could be back. He would never survive if he let it take over.

But this time…

This time it is Aziraphale.

Crowley has no idea what to do.

He wants to run over to him to… oh, he doesn’t even know. Yell at him? A little. Maybe more than a little. Ask him if he’s alright? Definitely. Hug —

Oh, no. No, he’s not even going to go there, that’s a line that they’ve never crossed, and Crowley isn’t about to open it up for a potential crossing now. No, there’s never been firmer boundaries around them than there are now, and Crowley is going to hide safely behind them until he understands what’s going on there.

Why is Aziraphale back?

Has it all fallen apart already? That was faster than Crowley had been expecting, but he can’t say that he’s surprised. It’s half the reason he didn’t want Aziraphale to go through with it — he knows the angel wants to fix things, and he admires that, he does, but… the problem is that Heaven and Hell, they just can never work. It’s not fair, is it? And as long as there’s angels and demons, good and evil, there will always be a fight. They will always want to prove who’s better, they will always be trying to settle the score.

It doesn’t work, but Crowley doesn’t know how to fix it, and he’s gotten far too burnt before for just voicing an opinion, for just asking questions. He won’t risk it again.

Oh.

Oh, now the angel is heading towards him.

Crowley’s eyes widen behind his sunglasses, and he glances over at the steering wheel as he considers whether he should go, whether he should just run, because he’s not ready for this, he wasn’t expecting to actually run into Aziraphale here —

But what if it all did fall apart?

Heaven is dangerous, that’s the thing that… well, the thing that he knows that Aziraphale knows, but that he doesn’t seem to know. He’s afraid of them enough that he spent millennia terrified of them finding out about his — his friendship, because that’s what it was, whether Aziraphale wants to acknowledge it or not — with Crowley; but apparently he’s never been quite afraid enough to know when to cut and run.

No, that’s not fair. They’ve wormed their way inside Aziraphale’s brain in a way that Crowley doesn’t think they ever managed with him. And he can’t blame Aziraphale for that. They have their ways of getting to people, and it’s… well, it’s all Aziraphale has ever known, that reality. Even if Crowley kept poking at it, trying to show him a different point of view, even if Earth itself showed him quite a bit, it was never outside of the influence of Heaven.

He fought back, and he fought valiantly, but it’s hard to worm your way out of a situation like that.

There’s a knock on the window, and Crowley startles.

Fuck, he’d actually almost forgotten for a second.

A moment passes, then Crowley snaps his fingers, and the window rolls down.

Aziraphale leans over and sticks his head partially inside the car.

“Erm… hello, Crowley,” he says.

Crowley nods. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

“I wasn’t actually expecting to see you here.

At that, Crowley actually snorts. “You weren’t expecting to see me here? You think I was expecting to see you? You’re the one who bloody left, Aziraphale!”

The angel winces, and for a moment, Crowley actually feels bad. He hadn’t meant… well, no, he very much did mean that, but they were just talking, there was really no reason for him to just put that there out of nowhere.

Except it’s not out of nowhere, is it? Because this is the first time they’re seeing each other since their argument, and it still hurts.

“Yes, I — I suppose I am,” agrees Aziraphale. “I only meant — I was planning to go and see you later. I just wanted some time to… prepare.”

“Prepare. Right. ‘Course,” retorts Crowley, though he doesn’t even know what he means with that. Maybe he just wanted to be contrary

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, eyes darting between the seat next to Crowley and Crowley himself, and then finally, he asks, “could I… maybe come inside? I would like to talk to you, and this really isn’t very comfortable.”

“Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, would I?” grumbles Crowley despite the fact that it’s very much true, no matter how hurt he might still be. With another click of his fingers, the door unlocks and gently knocks against the angel’s thigh.

Aziraphale offers him the smallest, most tentative of smiles, and climbs in.

“So,” says Crowley, eyes fixed on the steering wheel, fingers having long since dropped away from it and now busying themselves with gripping his knees like enough pressure might just get him away from this situation, “what did you want to talk about?’

“The Second Coming,” answers Aziraphale.

Of course.

Of course, Aziraphale is here because he needs help. Not because he wants to come back, not because he wants… to change his answer, Crowley supposes. No. No, he’s here because he needs help, and he knows Crowley will help him, of course Crowley will help him.

He’s glad, really, that Aziraphale came to him. He’s glad they can work together and stop this. He is. Of course he is. It’s just… maybe he’d hoped for a little more than that.

But it’s fine.

It’s fine.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing the space over his eyebrow as he lets his eyes fall closed for a moment. “Suppose you want to stop it?”

“Obviously. I — well, I thought you could — I was hoping you be willing to help.”

“‘Course I’m willing to help. Don’t think I’m just going to sit here and let the world end, now, do you?”

“Right,” says Aziraphale, “of course not. I just thought — well, because of our argument — “

“You thought that because you wanted me to be an angel again, I’m going to just let the entire Universe suffer?” He knows, of course, that Aziraphale didn’t think that. He knows that Aziraphale knows him better than that. But he’s still angry, he’s still hurt, and he’s not in the mood to play nice — not that he’s ever nice, of course. He’s a demon, and nice is a four-letter word.

Aziraphale frowns for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, that’s not — that’s hardly what I meant, Crowley.”

A sigh, and Crowley nods. “I know. ’S just — never mind. Yeah, ‘course I’ll help. What do you need?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, even if Crowley himself is still carefully focused on the steering wheel. “Is it going to be like this the whole time? You won’t even look at me.”

“What do you need, Aziraphale?” presses Crowley.

The intake of breath he hears next doesn’t sound… normal. There’s a little hitch there, like one might expect from someone experiencing emotions they’re having some difficulty wrestling. Crowley would know, he’s done plenty of those himself.

“I don’t know,” answers Aziraphale, and his voice is a little strained. “I - I think perhaps I’ll take some time to come up with a plan, I’ll find you when it’s done. I suppose since I’m the one dragging you into this, it’s only fair that I… pull my weight, as the humans say.”

“That’s not — we can work together, Aziraphale. I’m not — I’m not shutting you off.”

“But you are!” cries the angel, and Crowley feels a pang of pain in his heart. He is. He knows he is. “You are. And I know you’re angry with me — quite frankly, I’ve been happier with you, too — but I thought... we could put this behind us for now and work on stopping the Second Coming. Just for a little while. And then, if you like, we can argue. But I’m starting to think perhaps that’s… not possible.”

Crowley sighs, letting his eyes fall closed as he thinks.

Yes, he’s angry with Aziraphale. Of course he’s angry with Aziraphale, after everything he said, everything they’ve been through, it’s — yes, he’s angry. But it’s not like that, it’s not… he’s not even sure that the anger is the problem there. He thinks it’d be easier if he were just angry. But that’s not even the point is it?

What is the point?

G - Sat - Someone, he’s lost track of it again, hasn't he?

He brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, then slides it up until his sunglasses are being lifted up and pressing into his forehead. His eyes are still closed, and don’t open until he drops the hand back to his side, the sunglasses falling into place.

“No. I can do it, I can. Forget the whole thing, ’s not - not worth the end of the Universe, is it?”

He chances a glance at Aziraphale just in time to catch the smallest of smiles, and Aziraphale nods. “No. I didn’t think it was.”

“Alright. Yeah, so… need to come up with a plan. Just… yeah, simple, easy. Just a plan to stop the end of the world. Again. Alright. What have you got? What did you learn up in… Heaven?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Aziraphale sighs. “This isn’t going to work is it?”

“Come on, we’ve not even given it a proper shot yet. Just — just tell me what you learned. I’ll — what was it, tone of voice? I can tone it down, I can. Won’t even know I didn’t think that was a good choice.”

“Yes, it was the tone of voice! I just — I don’t think we can work like this. I can feel the judgement coming off you!”

“What, you’re an angel, thought you’d be immune to that.” A glare, and Crowley sighs. “Fine, that was a cheap shot. Sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. Didn’t… I’m not trying to hurt you, I swear, I’m just… tired.”

“You’re not tired, you’re pissy.”

“Fine, yeah. Fair. I’m messing this whole thing up, aren’t I?”

He chances another glance at the angel, and catches the corner of his lip twitching up as he nods. “You could say that, yes. But it’s — it’s alright. I understand. I don’t think this has been the easiest few months for either of us.”

“No, I don’t suppose it has. Didn’t go well Up There, did it?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. No, it hasn’t. But we’ll talk more about that later, we really should come up with a Plan.”

“Mmm, capital letter plan. Sounds serious.”

Again, Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley feels… lighter, somehow. Like they’re slipping into the roles that belong to them, and perhaps the whole thing could just be forgotten. They could move past it like they’ve moved past so many arguments — with the unspoken understanding that no one meant any offense, and they’ll try to do better, even if they don’t entirely understand where they went wrong in the first place.

It’s worked out well enough for them in the past, hasn’t it?

“Ah, well, it is the Second Coming, so I felt like it deserved it.”

“It does,” agrees Crowley, and his own lips twist into a small smile. “So, what have we got? What’s Upstairs planning for this one? Does Downstairs know? Because I’m still persona non grata, but Shax really likes that I didn’t take the job she wanted and ended up getting when I turned it down, so… I think I can get some information from her, if we need to.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to respond, but then it falls shut again, and Crowley frowns.

What is it this time? They were doing so well, everything seemed to be slipping back into normality, and he’s even being helpful. Isn’t that what Aziraphale wanted? What he should want at that, because Crowley knows that he could make this very difficult if he decided to be as snippy as he’d felt like in the beginning.

“What if I did the dance?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley frowns. How is a dance going to help them to stop the Second Coming? Not to mention the fact that Aziraphale doesn’t dance. Not unless it’s the gavotte, and Crowley thinks that as far as dances go, the gavotte is really very unlikely to have anything to do with the end of the world.

“What dance?” asks Crowley.

“The ‘I Was Wrong’ dance. Maybe… then we can be alright?”

Oh. That dance. And apparently they’re talking about this again, which is… perfect. Yeah, that’s exactly what he wants when he’s trying to keep it together and stop the Second Coming. “Angel…”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll just step out and do it right now,” decides Aziraphale, and he starts to pull the door open.

Crowley reaches out to hold him, a hand falling on his shoulder. “Angel,” he says.

Aziraphale shakes his head, not turning to look at him, and continues to swing his legs out to step out of the car. “No, I’ve made up my mind. I’m doing the dance.”

“Angel,” Crowley tries again, and he squeezes the shoulder still under his hand, a gentle but firm squeeze. “Don’t. It’s alright.”

Finally, Aziraphale turns to look at him. There’s a fragile smile on his lips, but his eyes are shining with something that looks painfully like hope. Like he really thinks that just a few steps could fix everything between them. “It’s alright,” he assures Crowley. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that,” says Crowley. “’S just… you don’t need to, alright? It’s not… I’m not gonna ask you to do that. And I know, I know, I’m not asking, you’re volunteering, but — I don’t want you to do it, alright? ’S not… not that kind of situation.”

“What do you mean?” asks Aziraphale, frowning.

“Means… we’re fine. I mean, we’re not fine fine, but we’re fine. We’re… we’ll be alright, angel. But it doesn’t matter if we’re alright if the Universe implodes around us, yeah? So let’s just work on figuring this out, and then we can… figure us out.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Aziraphale tries, “so… you’re done?”

“Done?”

“With the little jabs,” explains Aziraphale, tone petulant in that way Crowley knows he only allows it to be when he’s doing it on purpose. “You’re done?”

A small chuckle escapes Crowley. “Yeah, angel, I’m done. Was already done before this whole thing, by the way. Was a bit mean, I know. Sorry.”

“It was fine,” admits Aziraphale. “I’m not saying you should start that again, but… you didn’t say anything hurtful. For the record.”

“Good to know,” says Crowley, and it is good to know, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. It’d just… come out. And he’d known it likely wouldn’t because he knows Aziraphale well and knows he’d know how to hurt him if he truly wanted to — he just never has, and doubts he ever will. “So, Second Coming?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose we should get started on that. Why don’t you… come inside? It’ll be more comfortable.”

A small smile tugs at Crowley’s lips, and he nods. Yes, that… does sound better than sitting in his car, no matter how much he might love his Bentley. Truth to be told, he misses the bookshop, and he’d been worried he might never find it in himself to step inside of it again. It wouldn’t be the same without Aziraphale.

But now… now he thinks he just might be able to go in once again.

“Alright, yeah,” he agrees.

With that, the two of them step out of the car, and an angel and a demon walk into the bookshop once again.