Chapter Text
Crowley did have the right of it. In the end, Heaven and Hell figured out that they didn’t actually have to cause Armageddon just to fight with each other. Rather, they could just, well, fight each other. Which he knew was going to happen.
Afterall, he was a General in the army.
And he didn’t exactly care about the war one way or another. He just hadn’t been ready to end all of humanity, especially because he hadn’t even had his Angel yet. As far as he was concerned, Armageddon could wait until he had one Angel in his arms and willingly under his protection before the sides went after each other.
He and Aziraphale had been enjoying a walk in St. James’ park; for in all the centuries they had spent meeting in Museums, Galas, Opera, Palaces, and parks for the Arrangement, they had spent precious little time enjoying those sites together. At least, according to Crowley’s exacting standards, which any of his plants could tell you ( though not really tell, because plants don’t speak ) were rather high in deed. And in the wake of the False Armageddon, upon leaving the Ritz, whereupon Aziraphale realized that when Crowley said ‘Angel’ what he really meant was ‘I love you’ and when he replied ‘ My Dear ’ what he really meant was ‘ I love you too’ and when he realized he could just say it out loud, Crowley wanted to make the most of their time before the next Big One.
Not that Aziraphale had any idea how true that statement would be.
It was why he pretended that he didn’t see Aziraphale looking at cottages in the South Downs. And on that promised picnic, he cut off Aziraphale showing him the printouts in the favor of presenting two first-class tickets to Italy.
Aziraphale had no way of knowing they were on borrowed time, and Crowley couldn’t ruin that for him, not yet. Not when there was so much left to see before they would be called Down There for a Good Long While. He wanted Aziraphale to enjoy the world that they had saved. The whole of it. Of course, it wasn’t going to go anywhere, thanks to them. But they would be.
Crowley took them back to the first times they had met - Rome, Egypt, Jerusalem - all the major milestones of history. They traveled through Southeast Asia, going up through Russia. Crowley even tempted Aziraphale into taking a train from Istanbul to Calais, letting him live the novel fantasy he had denied wanting. They went down through France, into Spain, and took a ferry from Girlbralter to Tunisia and sauntered vaguely towards South Africa. No city was too small, stone left unturned. Hand-in-hand they saw everything, together. Crowley took Aziraphale through Ethiopia, where he had a hand in coffee (‘ Which I sold to Downstairs as a win because, well, you know,” he had said) and Aziraphale showed Crowley where he let a soccer ball influence a few kind-meaning people in South Africa (‘ Upstairs didn’t get it , of course, but it felt nice to do some good ,” he reflected).
Aziraphale, having decided that 6,000 years moved slow enough, then suggested they see the Americas - neither had been since the Independence war, afterall. And although Crowley knew that would mean Aziraphale would finally learn about Hamilton , he said yes.
They drove, they flew, and on the rare occasion, they flew . Soared high above the clouds over the middle of the United States before landing on top of those rocks that had the faces carved into them. They showed each other places they had been on their own, showed each other places they had even been together, but it was different now because both had been so lonely before, even when they were together and now they had each other. Knew each other.
And they knew each other now.
Finally, after 6,000 years of Crowley scowling at anyone who thought they were together ( which was anyone who had ever sat through a conversation with them before ), because he couldn’t believe that a crazed American book-girl could see it before His Angel, to finally having Aziraphale.
Which was what brought them back to London, which had always been their city before it was really known as London. They had reprised their position that day - the beginning of the New Chapter in their lives. It was only three short years ago. Crowley led Aziraphale to the ice cream stand, and handed him a vanilla cone with a not-so-rare-anymore smile. Aziraphale took it with a smile of his own - no longer nervously looking over his shoulder to any Angels or Demons. ( Ironically, he should have been that day.)
Instead, he took Crowley’s arm when he offered it, and the two finally got to stroll down the park like they had always wanted to, much to the approval of the ducks. ( The ducks had always assumed they had been dating. And ducks don’t much care for the human perception of linear time, so the fact that the two man-shaped creature had been feeding them for centuries had never been a cause for concern. The blond one had always given the nice treats, besides, and the red one always made sure the blond one was safe to keep feeding them, so why question a good thing? )
It’s during this walk that it happens. Crowley and Aziraphale feel it in the guise of an earthquake, but both know what it means the second it happens.
Aziraphale gasps, and drops his ice cream in favor of holding onto Crowley’s arm. Crowley has abandoned his as well, and places his hand on the back of his angel’s head.
“This is it,” He intones.
Aziraphale doesn’t argue. “I had hoped we would get more time,” his eyes fill with unshed tears. Crowley tuts at him.
“You think I’ll let a thing like war keep us apart, after 6,000 years?” He scoffs, “‘thought you knew me Angel.”
“I do know you,” Aziraphale sasses back, and Crowley feels a surge of pride at the double-meaning. Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing indeed .
To their ears alone, they hear the sound of a horn from above, and the world below them trembles once more.
Without warning, Aziraphale’s wings burst from him. He cries out in both pain and shock - without his control they rip through his back and tear through his clothing. Crowley’s wings also tear out a split second later, but it’s enough of a moment that he can anticipate it.
“Crowley,” and the demon hates how shakey Aziraphale’s voice is right now, “What do you have planned? We’re running out of time - I can feel myself being summoned.”
It doesn’t matter that they’ve been seemingly shunned from their respective sides - Aziraphale has to answer to a prophetic call if Michael has decided to start blowing the heavenly horns of war. Crowley has maybe a minute before Aziraphale is forcibly lifted away from him.
So the safest place is down.
As if on cue, the grass parts just spaces away from them, and Aziraphale gasps to see Hastur rising from below the surface. Crowley moves in front of him, giving the Duke a sneer. He places a hand on his hip, glowering at the other demon.
“You’re late.” He snaps, “What, traffic on the M25 go to slowly for you?”
Hastur says nothing, which is likely for the best.
“What are you doing?” Aziraphale hisses, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders. He’s trying to get in front of the demon, out of a misguided sense of trying to protect him. It warms the space in Crowley’s corporation that constitutes a heart. ( He technically has one, but demons as a rule do not feel love. Hypothetically there is one famous exception, but no one other than a specific Angel will ever know for sure because he will never admit it ).
“I’m here for the Angel,” Hastur instead intones, and to Crowley’s satisfaction bowes his head. He’s also spread enough anecdotes of their Arrangement downstairs, and knows that a certain demonic miracle the Angel performed in 1793 is considered a favorite story to a demon like Hastur, who isn’t very creative.
Aziraphale, predictably, freezes.
“It’s alright,” Crowley whispers, leaning back to whisper into his ear. “You can go with him, you’ll be safe. I need you to trust me.”
It’s a low blow, invoking Aziraphale’s trust in him when he didn’t have any time to explain what was happening, not properly. Though to his defense, he had planned on explaining that day. It was just…
Aziraphale was an anxious angel. He was constantly worrying over something, constantly worried that he was doing the wrong thing. He was always looking over his shoulder, waiting to be told off because no one ever told him when he did the right thing. Once, during the years when they thought they were raising the Antichrist, Aziraphale had been telling Crowley how the rest of the angels were convinced he was going to fail.
(“I’ve always felt like,” He had said, “They treat me they way you treat a small dog that learns how to perform tricks for treats. It’s cute, but you don’t trust them to do anything big, or important. They don’t really care about all of this,” here he flung an arm out, indicating the servants’ dining room they were talking in, but Crowley knew he had meant humanity, “They just care about lip service, and they think it’s ‘cute’ that I care.” They weren’t naming their feelings, not yet, but Crowley knew the familiar bite of protectiveness that had led him to dropping bombs on churches quite well. It was a shame he couldn’t smite angels up in heaven, but that would come soon enough.
Aziraphale went on to describe how whenever he interacted with Upstairs, he always felt like he was standing over a ledge, leaning precariously over an abyss. Not falling, or Falling, but getting that horrible stomach sensation before a dramatic drop. But he felt that way all the time.
Crowley was reminded of that conversation, years later, when Gabriel confirmed all his angel’s worse fears: “ Shut your stupid mouth, and die already .” And smiled .
I’ll remember this, he thought. I’ll remember this when it comes time for us to fight. )
And Crowley wanted to give him three anxiety-free years. It was the least he could do after 6,000 years of pushing for more then Aziraphale felt comfortable giving.
Which led him to where he was now, trying to convince Aziraphale to go Downstairs with someone who had hit him with a crowbar the last time they met. Not that Hastur knew.
“You need to go with him before They pull you away,” He whispered, “And they won’t hurt you, I promise.” Crowley pushed Aziraphale forward, who instinctively listened, even though his eyes were confused. “I’ll explain later,” the demon promised, “I just need to take care of a few things first.”
Hastur and Aziraphale disappeared from sight.
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Aziraphale was many things. A book hoarder. A glutton. A better-then-average magician ( despite what Crowley said ).
But not a fool.
He knew Crowley had been rushing for something after the Failed Armageddon. He knew that trip-around-the-world had been planned as a vacation for a reason, that there was something Crowley was desperate for. But after 6,000 years of knowing his friend-turned-romantic partner, he knew that Crowley always had a plan in place, and the smartest thing he could do was let Crowley figure out his plans, and trust that he would be brought along when the time was right.
After all, Crowley had never given him reason to doubt.
It was more then his former colleagues had ever given him.
Having three years away from his own limited duties helped give the perspective to realize that his work environment had been rather sterile and toxic. Going from that to a loving relationship with someone that believed in him and cherished him and unconditionally loved him had been dizzying, and just wonderful. In hindsight, Crowley’s plan had probably been to relax him away from their old lives so he could be ready to move into whatever next Stage his love believed was necessary.
And how ironic that a demon, the wily serpent of Eden, the original tempter, was more considerate of Aziraphale’s feelings and quirks then his former family.
When the ground trembled below, he knew in an instant what that meant. Of course both sides still wanted the war. And of course they realized that they could just fight without people noticing. These days, no one looked up from their phones long enough to notice anything.
( As a dare from Crowley, Aziraphale had walked around during the height of the Pokemon Go craze with his wings out for five minutes during a ‘raid’ - not one person gave him a second look. He’d had to give the game a miracle upgrade as a result, which is why no one can ever trade in a holiday Pikachu. They were his favorite, and it served the users right. )
Hastur popping out had been a shock, and Aziraphale could still feel the bump the other demon had given. It stunned him all the more that Crowley wanted him to go with the Duke.
But Crowley had never given pause for doubt, and Aziraphale wanted to prove that he had put all his faith in him now.
So he went.
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