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“Who is it?” The shrill, crackling, unnerving voice comes from somewhere in the upper floors of the Fell mansion. “Aziraphale! Answer me now! Who's at the door?”
“It's Crowley, Mother. I told you he was calling this evening.”
Aziraphale—his sweet, lovely angel. He looks tired, even paler than usual, dark circles under his deep grey eyes, that rosy blush missing from his thinner face. He looks like a ghost of his former self; just like this dark, crumbling manor.
Aziraphale turns to him with a weary smile. A phantom of that beaming grin that could light up a room back in University. “I apologise, my dear. Mother hasn't been feeling well today.”
Aziraphale—his beautiful, kind-hearted angel. Crowley steps forward and embraces him, unable to restrain himself any longer. He kisses Aziraphale's cheek softly, inhaling that familiar scent of warm cardamom and old books.
Soon. The angel will be his soon.
“Angel, I missed you,” he whispers in his ear.
Aziraphale pats his back softly and steps back. His angel has forgotten how to show affection, but he will learn again. Crowley will teach him.
“Dinner is ready. Mother will join us soon.” Aziraphale makes a gesture towards the dark, silent gallery. “After you.”
Crowley saunters towards the dining room in the dark. He knows these halls like the back of his hand. He has spent countless hours following Aziraphale through the decaying chambers of the Fell mansion for years, trying to tempt him outside into the world. But his angel is a prisoner. A prisoner of this house, of this family, of Mother. His gentle, innocent angel; believing he's safe within the walls of this jail. His generous, loving angel; believing that the harpy whom he calls “Mother” needs him.
No more. Crowley has waited, has dithered long enough. Tonight it ends.
Tonight, the angel will truly be his. Forever.
“Aziraphale, come help me. Now.” That odious voice again echoing in the dark, filtering through brick and bone with the chill of an arctic wind. Aziraphale freezes behind Crowley, and is shivering lightly on the spot when Crowley spins around to look at him.
Crowley takes his trembling hands with his. His lost, fearful angel.
“You’d better go ahead, Crowley.” His angel withdraws his hands softly. “We will be with you shortly.”
Crowley watches him walk away into the dark, the decrepit home engulfing him into its depths. His heart sinks for his angel. He loves him more than he can bear.
He never loved anyone before meeting Aziraphale. Not his family, not his friends, certainly not any of the men who briefly tempted him to share their beds.
When he met Aziraphale, it was like the world suddenly had a different aura to it. Everything glowed around his angel; everything paled in comparison. Aziraphale was bright, full of life and happiness—a splash of colour in Crowley's dull existence. Crowley had been mesmerised by him from the start, happy to follow where Aziraphale led, happy to be in his orbit and bask in his presence.
Everything changed after Aziraphale's father suddenly died and his selfish, horrid mother took ill. Aziraphale retreated into the Fell family estate and never came out again. He withered there like the wisteria that once adorned its facade. Battered, feeble. Fading.
Crowley kept coming to seek him out, but Aziraphale slowly retreated further into himself. No longer would he embrace Crowley, no longer would he kiss his lips, no longer would he caress his skin. He seemed to have given up on life altogether, to have surrendered to a bleak and sombre fate.
No more. His angel would return to him tonight.
Crowley walks into the dining room. It’s one of the last spaces still being used in the mansion. The electric chandelier over the large table is flickering, one of the bulbs having completely given up. The wallpaper, formerly a bright green, has greyed with the years and is torn around the doors and windows. The curtains are drawn, dusty and dark. The worn out carpet that covers the stone floor is a blur of barely discernible designs.
The sound of rain hitting the windows starts slowly and builds to a crescendo, the pitter patter transforming into shapeless white noise.
The table is set for three; Mother's place at the end of the table, more regal and ostentatious than the others. Her favorite bottle of brandy is ready, sitting next to a shiny glass snifter. Crowley approaches the table and, with decisive movements, retrieves the small envelope that has been burning a hole in the chest pocket of his coat. He drops the powder into the golden liquid and shakes the bottle.
Aziraphale will be his tonight. He's dithered long enough. He's waited long enough. He will rescue the angel from the claws of that monster and whisk him away. Back into the light; back into his life.
Crowley walks to the dilapidated fireplace and drops the envelope into the flames. His breath is regular, his pulse steady. Crowley has never felt guilt or remorse, but he knows what these concepts are supposed to feel like. He knows what he is doing, and he knows it’s supposed to be wrong.
He learnt to mimic feelings convincingly as he was growing up. That was until he met Aziraphale and finally understood what love is. It trumped everything else. Every goal and every objective he’d set for himself evaporated when the flame of his adoration for Aziraphale consumed him from the inside out.
He smirks.
Aziraphale is coming back with him tonight. Coming back to him.
The rain picks up and he hears the far rumble of a storm approaching.
Aziraphale enters the room and helps that awful harridan into her seat. She barely spares a glance for Crowley as she settles in and demands her dinner be brought in. Aziraphale signals Crowley to take a seat and leaves the room hurriedly. They have no servants, not anymore. Aziraphale has been taking care of this crumbling mausoleum all by himself for years. Crowley's heart weeps at the thought.
“You again.” Mother's grating voice pierces the silence. “When will you tire and leave my son alone?”
Never.
Crowley approaches her and bows lightly.
“Mrs Fell. May I pour you a drink?”
With a long, bony finger, she points at her glass impatiently.
“You will never get your hands on the Fell fortune,” she grunts. “I will never allow my son to marry a riffraff like you.”
His angel will be free. Soon.
With a steady hand, Crowley pours her a generous serving. He then retreats to his chair and sits down quietly.
“I trust you've been well, Mrs Fell.”
She ignores him as she takes the snifter with a shaking hand and drinks.
“Aziraphale!” she shrieks. “You know I don't like to be kept waiting.”
Thunderclaps roar, nearing the mansion. The storm draws closer.
Aziraphale steps back into the room carrying a large tray. Crowley stands up to help him, but Aziraphale shakes his head. Mrs Fell is served first and starts eating without waiting for Aziraphale to sit down.
The metallic clunks of cutlery against ceramic fill the room with a ghastly cadence. Crowley doesn't take his eyes off the angel. He's barely touched his food, just moving it around the plate with his fork. His eyes are cast down, his expression sombre.
“You haven't changed,” Mrs Fell says slowly, her astute eyes fixed on Crowley. She takes another long sip of her drink. “Still wearing those awful black clothes, I see. No taste, no elegance.”
Lightning casts white shadows on the tattered walls. Thunder shakes the house and the chandelier dances above their heads.
Aziraphale sinks deeper into his chair. Crowley turns to the hag and smiles.
“I'm glad to see you're feeling better than the last time I visited,” he responds politely. He refuses to sink to her level; he will not cause his angel any more suffering.
Mrs Fell finishes her drink and opens her horrid mouth. Whether to insult Crowley or to humiliate Aziraphale no one will ever know. Her face distorts into a grimace of pain and she starts choking, grasping her throat desperately, scratching at the skin.
Aziraphale stands up with a force that tumbles his chair to the floor. “Mother?!” He jumps to her aid and Crowley follows suit. He fills a glass with water and hands it to Aziraphale, who's kneeling next to Mrs Fell and looking at a loss for what to do. Aziraphale takes the glass from Crowley's hand and tries to help Mother drink from it, but she's gasping for air and shaking violently on her chair. A last, hateful look, fixes on Crowley.
She knows.
“Mother!”
Her body slumps and doesn't react. Her eyes, that hellish glow slowly fading, remain fixed on Crowley.
“Mother!”
Aziraphale's voice is shaking. His angel needs him. Crowley rounds the chair and crouches next to him, embracing the trembling dear body and whispering soothing words into his love's ear. Aziraphale doesn't hear him. He's clutching at that monster, shaking her arm, screaming and sobbing her name. Crowley kisses the tears from his eyes. They taste like freedom.
“Mother!”
“She's gone, angel. She's gone.”
“No, no!”
Lightning illuminates her unmoving face, her open eyes turning almost white for a moment. Something in the rooms above explodes and crashes. Thunder cracks over the mansion, the echo bouncing off the walls of the house like a stampede.
“Call an ambulance!” Aziraphale cries. Crowley takes out his phone and turns the screen to him.
“There's no service, angel. We need to drive away and try to call closer to town.”
“No! I won't leave her here!”
“Angel.” Crowley's voice is warm and soothing. That voice that exists only for Aziraphale's ears. “There’s nothing you can do here. We need to go and search for a signal.”
Aziraphale crumbles into Crowley's arms and weeps uncontrollably. Crowley holds him lovingly, caressing every bit of his angel's body he can reach.
His angel. His.
“I can't leave her,” Aziraphale sobs into Crowley's lapels. “I can't.”
Crowley helps him stand up and walks him to his chair. “Let me try the old landline in the study.” He caresses Aziraphale's soft hair. “Wait here.”
He rushes to leave the room and slows down as soon as he's out of Aziraphale's earshot. The storm rages, shaking the walls again as he saunters into the study. He picks up the receiver out of curiosity—he never intended to call for help. The line is dead, anyway. With a smirk, Crowley puts the phone down and walks back to the dining room faster. To his waiting angel.
The sight that hits his eyes as he walks in leaves him frozen for a second. Aziraphale is taking a sip of something golden.
“No!” Crowley runs to him and slaps the glass from his angel's hands. It falls on the carpet with an almost inaudible thud and spills, a dark circle growing outwards from the rim. “Look at me! How much did you have?”
Aziraphale looks up at him in shock, his lovely lips parted. “...just a small sip before you–”
“Alright,” Crowley breathes. “Alright.”
“Crowley? What…” Aziraphale's eyes wander from Crowley's face to the bottle on the table to the body on the chair at the end of it. “What did you do?”
“The landline isn't working, angel. We need to go.”
Aziraphale stands up on shaky legs and retreats away from Crowley. “What did you do?” His tone is pleading, scared, broken.
Lightning illuminates the room again, disfiguring Aziraphale's angelic features into a white mask of fear.
“Angel, you have barely eaten tonight. You need to be sharp to help your mother, alright?” He reaches out and takes Aziraphale's hand softly.
In small quantities, the toxins from the Angel's Trumpet plant aren't fatal, but can cause hallucinations. He needs to take Aziraphale somewhere safe. He needs to take Aziraphale home.
Tentatively, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. His eyes are still tinged with suspicion, his cheeks wet with tears. But his angel has taken his hand, and Crowley has to use all of his self-control to repress a smile.
A gust of wind howls in the trees, shaking the manor. The lights go out. In the dark, Aziraphale clasps his hand tighter. The rain clashes against the windows furiously, cold air blows from the upper floors.
“Aziraphale, we need to go. We need to call someone to take care of your mother.”
“I can't leave, Crowley. I can't leave my home.”
Lightning strikes again, hitting a large tree in the garden. It falls, screaming as it’s torn apart. Aziraphale's eyes are wide open, blood-shot and red-rimmed, and for a moment, fixed on Crowley.
Booms resonate through the house accompanied by another loud crash upstairs.
“Angel, the house isn't safe. Please, please, we need to leave now.”
The storm is upon them. Lightning flashes are more and more frequent, making it feel like time is slowing down. Aziraphale isn't moving from the spot, his eyes travelling between Crowley and somewhere just behind him, growing bigger by the minute.
“Cr–Crowley… behind you… is that…?”
Crowley turns his head and a thunderbolt reveals nothing but an old Greek bust on a side table behind him.
“There's nothing there, angel. Listen to me, please, we need–”
“No!! No, I didn’t—I didn't invite death into my home!”
“Aziraphale…”
His angel comes closer to him now and grabs him by the lapels. His pupils are dilated as he peers into Crowley's soul.
“Crowley, there's a… there's a bird.” Aziraphale whimpers. “Black. A raven. It's just behind you. It's looking at me, Crowley. It’s…” His voice goes down to a whisper, his lips closer to Crowley's that they've been in a long time. “It’s speaking to me, Crowley. ‘Nevermore.’”
Crowley turns again to see nothing but the Greek bust. He needs to take his angel away from here.
Thunder breaks Aziraphale out of the spell. He grabs tighter onto Crowley’s lapels and yanks him flush against his trembling body.
“Crowley, oh Crowley, it's saying… it's saying I killed her! I brought death into this home, I opened the door to it!” Aziraphale is sobbing uncontrollably, his mouth repeating “nevermore”, “...more”, “nevermore”, over and over as he gasps for air.
A flash of light illuminates the room. Behind Aziraphale, the limp body of Mrs Fell is still looking at Crowley, sitting on that chair at the end of the table.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelps and pulls him even closer. “It's eyes are on me, it won't stop… Crowley, it's eyes… it's got yellow eyes, slit pupils… It's got serpent eyes!”
Another flash. Behind Aziraphale, the chair is empty.
She's coming. Take the angel away from here.
Crowley grabs Aziraphale and roughly pulls his resisting body out of the room and through the dark halls. There are no windows here, no lightning to show him the way. Aziraphale is thrashing and fighting their way to the entrance; to salvation.
“No! I won't leave! I can't leave her here, I can't leave my home!”
Crowley expects to see her behind every corner, after every bend. He's pulling Aziraphale with all his might towards the exit. A shrill shriek cuts through the storm, penetrating through the walls and into the depths of Crowley's brain. Something slashes Crowley's cheek, it feels cold, sharp. It feels like a pointed nail.
“Mother?! Mother!” Aziraphale tries to shake himself free from Crowley's grip. Crowley only pulls him more forcefully towards freedom.
Deafening thunder explodes over them. Another crash, louder this time. The walls are shaking. Vases, paintings, books are falling all around them. The house is crumbling down, entombing them within. Crowley presses forward, the force with which he's dragging his resisting angel only growing stronger by the second.
Lightning. Crashes above. A white figure atop the stairs. Crowley glances at it again, the figure is still. It's still.
It's running down the stairs at inhuman speed towards them.
He hauls Aziraphale over his shoulder and runs to the door. Rolling thunder above. Running steps behind. Gurgling croaks from the depths.
“Nevermore!”
Crowley stumbles down the steps of the perron as the manor collapses behind them.
Aziraphale hangs loosely across his shoulder and is being soaked by the unforgiving rain. As soon as his feet hit the ground, Crowley falls to his knees and cradles Aziraphale’s dear, battered, drenched body. With a shaking hand, Crowley checks his pulse. His angel is alive, he's breathing.
Crowley leans down to kiss those lovely, parted lips.
The angel is his. Finally.
He will take him home—their home. He will take care of him—his angel.
Crowley doesn't look back as he lifts and carries Aziraphale to the Bentley parked a few yards away. But he hears it. That whispering croak is embedded in his skull as he walks away, as he drives away.
“Nevermore.”