Work Text:
“Out, ye devil! Ye demon!”
“Quite the opposite, actually. Do mind the circle.”
“I know witchcraft when I see it, and this most certainly is! Ye cannae fool me, you trickster—”
“Awfully close there, Sergeant Shadwell!”
Shadwell, of course, didn’t listen. He continued to advance towards Aziraphale, waving his arms and shouting nonsense about witches and devils and exorcisms. Aziraphale sighed irritably. He really didn’t have time for this. Luckily enough for him, the summoning circle was easy to dismantle. Just as Shadwell pointed at it, spit flying from his mouth and flecking the inscription on the floor, Aziraphale nudged a candle aside with his foot. This was all it took for the light pouring from the circle to explode in a shower of sparks and a forceful wall of air. Both men were sent sprawling to the ground, and the candles sent flying across the shop.
Aziraphale gained his footing first. Soft as he was, he was in much better shape than Shadwell was (or had been for at least a decade). Shadwell was currently laying on the ground, staring at his right hand with wide eyes. Being nearly physically unable to resist helping someone whenever he was able worked to Aziraphale’s detriment; he hauled the still shellshocked Shadwell to his feet and ushered him out. There were no curses spewing from his mouth this time—he was far too dazed by his newfound power to disrupt spells simply by pointing at them.
The door slammed, and Aziraphale let out a sigh. Well, his plan had failed, but there was still hope. Crowley had hung up on him, but there was a chance he was still at his flat. He just had to get there in time.
Lost in his own thoughts, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the smoke. The candles had still been lit when they’d been scattered. Due to the cluttered nature of the bookshop, it hadn’t taken long for a few of the flames to spread to some cluttered paper or another. Within the time it had taken Aziraphale to escort Shadwell out and think of what to do next, a fire had broken out. He didn’t notice until there were flames licking at his coat.
Aziraphale yelped. It took a mere wave of his hand to put out the flame on his clothes, but the swiftly growing flames devouring his shop were another story. Putting those out would require a greater miracle, one that the people upstairs would surely notice and not be too happy about, given the current social climate between himself and his coworkers. He supposed he could stay and attempt to douse the fire himself, but the time it would take and the risks were too great.
It was a shame, really. Aziraphale had spent a great deal of his time on Earth collecting and preserving those books, and all it took was the ramblings of one madman to send them all up in—well, flames. A shame, but not the end of the world (pardon his use of the expression). At least he still had…
“Oh, no, no no no, ” Aziraphale groaned.
In his haste, he’d forgotten The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter , the one book he couldn’t afford to lose. He considered going back for it, but the sight of the orange glow inside his bookshop made him rethink things. Getting discorporated now would be, in his opinion, the worst possible thing that could happen right now. Things would become terribly complicated. So, he turned on his heel and hurriedly made his way down the street.
Aziraphale knew the way to Crowley’s flat. He’d been there many a time. Well, he’d stood outside the building many a time. He’d never actually been inside. He’d found himself on the pavement, staring up at the windows of Crowley’s flat more times than he’d care to admit. He certainly hadn’t been wondering what would happen if he popped in unexpectedly. And he certainly hadn’t been looking for him. No, Crowley was always the one who found Aziraphale. Always came into his life, somehow, whether it was in a bar, a cell, the park, or a home. Aziraphale had no interest in upsetting the way of things (when it came to the two of them, at least).
He broke his rule this time. It was a miracle that he was able to get to Crowley’s flat in five minutes rather than the usual fifteen. It was a miracle that the door to the building was unlocked. Aziraphale decided he had time to ascend the stairs at a normal pace instead of a miraculous one. True, Crowley lived on the top floor, but seeing as the building only had three, it wouldn’t take him long. It was not a miracle that Crowley’s door was unlocked; a door that is just barely hanging on by its hinges is a barrier to no one, no matter the state of the latch.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called into the flat, trying (and failing) to ignore the sinking feeling deep in his chest. “Are you here?”
His call was met with near silence. He could just barely hear something that sounded like his own voice repeating the same phrase over and over again coming from within. Aziraphale stepped into the flat cautiously, taking a brief moment to glance around and take in his surroundings. It hardly seemed that Crowley lived here. It was completely and utterly immaculate. Not a single spot of dust in the place at all. Aziraphale found it rather unsettling.
The sound of his own voice got louder the further he ventured in. The most beautiful, lush plants he had ever seen trembled when he entered the room they were contained in, but quickly relaxed. Aziraphale briefly wondered if they were perfect because Crowley had terrified them into submission. The poor things. He stroked their leaves gently as he walked past, and they stood just the slightest bit taller. Aziraphale hardly took notice. He was too focused on what was clearly his voice repeating “I know where the Antichrist is” just behind the door on the other side of the plant room.
Aziraphale pushed the door open slowly. If he’d had a heart, it would have been pounding. The recording of his voice was coming from a device on Crowley’s desk. Bits of translucent green plastic were strewn about the room. Nothing looked too terribly wrong. Just a bit unusual.
Until he looked down.
Just inside the door, there was a puddle of murky brown and black. The smell of sulfur and burning rubber finally hit him, making him gag. Was that—there was no way—he wouldn’t have. The thermos—he had to find the thermos—
Aziraphale’s metaphorical heart raced as he carefully stepped over the puddle of sludge on the floor and began tearing apart Crowley’s office. He shouldn’t have just called. He should have come over here as soon as he figured everything out. How had he ever believed anyone in Heaven would possibly listen to reason? They never had before. Why start now? Maybe, if he’d been here, Crowley wouldn’t have had to—no. No, he still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened.
It was laying in a shadowed corner of the office, cap open and a few drops still clinging to the inside of the container. Aziraphale felt as if someone had knocked all the air out of him. He picked up the thermos with shaking hands, still not wanting to believe what he was seeing. Crowley wouldn’t have—he would have found a way out of whatever trouble he’d found himself in, as he always had, the wily man—But no. There was no use denying it. Not when there was a vile puddle in the doorway and an empty container of holy water in his hands.
A wave of grief so intense that it brought him to his knees washed over Aziraphale. He clutched the thermos to his chest, his breath heaving, the corners of his eyes stinging. It wasn’t just his hands that were shaking anymore. His entire form was trembling with sorrow so deep he could hardly feel it and anger that boiled so hot his ears were ringing.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale choked as the tears welling in his eyes finally made their way down his face. “Crowley, my dear, oh, Crowley!”
Aziraphale had never been able to imagine a world without Crowley. He wasn’t sure he wanted to live in one. True, they’d gone years at a time without seeing each other since they’d been on Earth, but they’d always found each other again. This was different. Crowley was gone. Not just discorporated— gone.
“You daft old serpent!” Aziraphale spat, glaring at the puddle through his tears. “What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to do this without you?”
He threw the thermos to the ground, and his anger subsided as suddenly as it had come on. A new wave of grief took its place, tempting Aziraphale to wallow in it as the world came crumbling down around him, but he resisted. He could still do something. He couldn’t let the world that he and Crowley loved so much come to an end. He shakily got to his feet, using the desk for support, and made his way out of Crowley’s flat, still choking on all the things he’d never said.
Getting to Tadfield proved to be a bit more of a challenge than Aziraphale had anticipated. For starters, he didn’t have a car. Additionally, he didn’t know how to drive. He supposed he could miracle himself over there, but he was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He found himself darting about London, looking for some means of transportation he could borrow (not steal, of course) without someone taking notice. He’d ended up finding a tiny old scooter with a bright pink helmet sitting in an alley. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to take it without notice. Shadwell, of all people, had found him and started shouting profanities, drawing out a woman with ginger hair and a flowy dress.
Madame Tracy turned out to be quite lovely. She properly scolded Aziraphale for trying to steal her scooter, but still invited him in for tea. Shadwell glared at him whenever he spoke, clenching and unclenching his right hand. Aziraphale explained why he’d been trying to borrow (again, not steal) the scooter, and Madame Tracy listened intently. Then, much to his surprise, she offered to let him take it if it was “really that important, love.”
When Aziraphale sheepishly admitted he didn’t know how to drive, Madame Tracy grinned and told him she’d simply have to take him. Shadwell tagged along to ensure that Aziraphale didn’t attempt to use any witchcraft on her. He also brought a large weapon he called the Thunder Gun to “take care of that bleedin’ Antichrist.”
Despite his best efforts, Aziraphale ended up performing a few different miracles. First, he had to make a sidecar appear (which he squeezed into rather grumpily). Second, he had to make the scooter be able to move a great deal faster if they wanted to get to the air base in time. Third, the scooter had to be capable of flying over the ring of hellfire surrounding London. Hopefully upstairs would be too preoccupied with war preparations to take much notice.
The drive was the first time Aziraphale’s thoughts drifted to Crowley since leaving the flat. He hadn’t been able to think about it since making the decision to attempt to stop the end of the world; it would be far too distracting. Shadwell and Madame Tracy’s screams of both excitement and terror as they flew through the air drifted into the background, and Aziraphale found the corners of his eyes stinging once more. He blinked back the tears furiously. They wouldn’t be of any use at the moment. He had to focus on the trials ahead.
They finally made it to Tadfield, followed some overly complicated directions to the air base by a man walking his sausage of a dog, and stopped in front of the gate. Reasoning with the young man guarding the entrance into the air base was proving difficult. He wouldn’t let them in despite their best diplomatic efforts and was brandishing his gun at them. Aziraphale found himself wishing Crowley was there. He’d be able to whisk the man away somewhere with no qualms about it. Aziraphale didn’t have that luxury.
Just as he was considering going against his morals and his better judgement by sending the guard away, circumstances be damned, the roar of a car engine screaming down the road filled the air. The guard stared with wide eyes and an open mouth at something behind the other three. Aziraphale turned, and what he saw made him gasp.
There was the Bentley, hurtling toward them at top speed, wreathed in flame and Bohemian Rhapsody blasting from the speakers. The car screeched to a halt, scorching tire marks into the asphalt and smelling of burning rubber and white-hot metal. The driver took the care to turn off the engine and the radio before exiting the car. His movements were much too fluid for any human to have made. It was almost like he was slithering.
Aziraphale began to run at the car.
“Crowley!”
“Aziraphale?!”
Crowley let out a surprised cry as Aziraphale barreled into him and knocked both of them to the ground. The heavy, sinking feeling that had been in Aziraphale’s chest since he entered Crowley’s flat skyrocketed and became a light, bubbly sensation that spread from his core throughout his whole body. Crowley was alive. He had no idea how, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was holding him as closely as he could. The air around them shimmered as Aziraphale’s wings threatened to manifest out of pure joy.
“You’re alive,” Aziraphale breathed.
“So are you,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley absolutely beaming at him. This wasn’t his usual smirk or slight upturn to his mouth. This was something special, something that Aziraphale was certain only he had seen. Crowley’s eyes sparkled with joy and relief and—
“How did you know to come here?” Aziraphale asked.
“I found a note you’d written in a book,” Crowley said. “It was the only one I could grab angel, I’m sorry—”
“Which one was it?”
“Uh, something about Agnes Nutter?”
It was Aziraphale’s turn to beam. “Oh, you absolutely brilliant —you—oh, why am I still talking?”
Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed him full on the mouth, still laying on top of him from where they had fallen. Crowley jumped but responded in kind immediately, and Aziraphale was in greater rapture than any divine being could possibly bestow upon him. Crowley’s dark wings unfurled from thin air and enveloped him, and Aziraphale laughed into his mouth. Aziraphale poured every ounce of affection he had built up over the millennia for the demon on the ground underneath him into the frenzied but still somehow gentle slide of their lips against one another, so full of love that he felt he would burst. It pulsed inside of him, simulating the beating of a human heart.
They parted when the roar of the flames consuming the Bentley became too loud to ignore. Crowley remembered himself and tucked his wings back into the space between the ethereal and material planes. There was so much Aziraphale still wanted to say. So many years of words unspoken. But there would be time for that later. He was sure of it. How could they fail with Crowley by his side? The look in Crowley’s beautiful golden eyes told Aziraphale he was thinking the same thing as they got to their feet. Aziraphale took his hand and nodded. The two of them then marched toward what would either be the end of all things or a new beginning. Together.