Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After the failed Apocalypse, the failed so-called “trials,” and officially moving from the Arrangement to the formation of their own side, Aziraphale found himself with far more freedom than he could have ever expected. Overwhelming and mildly terrifying levels of freedom. After all, free will was a very human thing and while humanity was contagious, it was still a lot to handle at first. It took time for it to completely sink in and for the old habits of second-guessing himself over what the other angels would think to fade, but it felt like it was worth it in the end.

No more paperwork. No more limits on his miracles or having them scoffed at as “frivolous.” No more worrying over someone spotting him spending time with Crowley. He didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Not of Heaven’s disapproval or Hell’s retribution. They could simply… be themselves.

They were safe. There was no need to be afraid. There was no need to hold back.

Aziraphale knew what he wanted to do with his newfound freedom. He wasn’t even certain how many decades, how many centuries, how many millennia that he’d wanted the same thing. Wanted and yet continuously buried the impulse and desire until he could almost believe that it didn’t exist. It would have been too dangerous. Fear kept him from admitting or accepting what he truly wanted.

Fear of being a failure of an angel. Fear of Heaven’s disapproval, scorn, and rejection. Fear for Crowley. Fear of losing him. Fear of the demon being harmed or destroyed because of Aziraphale’s mistakes and selfish desires.

Those fears made him hold back for too long. It made Aziraphale hesitant to even call Crowley a friend at times. But they were. Crowley was his best friend. After six thousand years of companionship, preventing the end of the world together, and taking each other’s places to protect one another from their executions, they couldn’t be anything less than friends. And it felt wonderful to truly admit that friendship.

The only issue was what Aziraphale felt towards Crowley… The word “friendship” didn’t seem sufficient. Not even describing Crowley as his best, oldest, and dearest friend seemed to truly express the full extent of how he cared for the demon. There were more dimensions than could fit neatly in that tidy box.

Aziraphale treasured the precious gift of their close, powerful, overwhelming, and deep friendship. He treasured the freedom to properly embrace that friendship and he would never take it for granted. But Aziraphale knew that he felt something else as well. Just as precious, but a little different. Not greater. Different.

As much as he was a fan of the English language after spending so long in London, the Greeks were better at differentiating between various forms of love. He certainly felt philia towards Crowley. More than he could describe. But that wasn’t the only type. While later associated with a more divine form of love, some of the older authors would use agape to describe the unconditional and selfless love for one’s children or their spouse. Not that Crowley was anything like his child, regardless of how childish he might behave during certain arguments. Perhaps storge could also be used to describe some of his feelings towards the demon. Still a bit too familial to be completely accurate in its most basic definition, but the term was sometimes used to describe a friendship that gradually grows to include something more. And of course, eros had certain connotations that… that were a bit…

Well, the connotations weren’t completely inaccurate, especially after Crowley saved him and his books in 1941, but applying them always felt like it reduced thousands of years of emotions to something shallow and driven by human biological attraction. Which didn’t even make sense because neither of them was human and the physical appearances of their corporeal forms shouldn’t matter beyond fitting in and a certain amount of aesthetic interest.

But the point was that “friendship” didn’t feel complete. It didn’t properly define their relationship. Or at least, it didn’t define the relationship that Aziraphale wanted to share with Crowley.

They were both free now of Heaven and Hell’s interference. There was nothing holding them back from exploring the possibilities. In theory, Aziraphale could print a full-page ad in the newspaper declaring that he and Crowley were together in a romantic sense and any angel or demon who read it wouldn’t do a thing about it. No outside force would stop them if Aziraphale wanted to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair until the demon fell asleep, letting the angel gently kiss his eyelids before spending a few hours with Crowley’s head resting in his lap. If he wanted to, Aziraphale could even drag Crowley into the demon’s bedroom and test out every physical pleasure that humanity had discovered for two human-shaped beings to do together. They were free to do whatever and be whoever they wanted.

The only issue was how to bring the topic up with Crowley. Aziraphale worried that an open discussion of his feelings would make the demon uncomfortable; after thousands of years of depending on subtler means of communication, change was difficult. Not to mention that the last time that he mentioned the topic of “love,” Aziraphale told Crowley that he couldn’t possibly understand. He didn’t want to risk reminding the demon of that heartless comment. Not when he wanted to discuss redefining their relationship with him.

There had to be other methods. Subtler ones. Normal hints and clues wouldn’t work though. Going out to fancy restaurants, strolling in the park, attending theater or opera or orchestra, and so on. All of these were considered date activities by humans, but they’d been participating in those activities as friends since before London existed. Crowley wouldn’t notice a shift from friendship towards dating because all of those things meant friendship to them by now.

If only Crowley didn’t sleep his way through the majority of the Victorian era. While they certainly complicated things with their various rules for courtship, at least they made it clear to all those involved when they wished to proceed in such a manner. A lady could flirt using her fan depending on how she held it or if it was open or closed, offering enticement or rejection with the smallest change. Interested couples could exchange calling cards with one another. There was an entire language based upon flowers. That would have been useful except Aziraphale didn’t know if Crowley was awake long enough to learn it.

But that thought did spark a slight idea. Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he could solve the problem by approaching it from a different direction. If human methods of flirting or dating would only come across as gestures of friendship, it might be wise to seek out other ideas.

Angels didn’t have traditional methods of flirting or dating someone. They didn’t have the equivalent of taking a special someone out for dinner and a movie. That would imply that they cared about another angel more than all the rest, which none would ever admit to because they were all meant to be equal in Her eyes and picking a specific angel to love more put you at risk of loving that person more than Her. Or at least, that was Heaven’s general excuse. Mostly they didn’t want to fill out the paperwork for dating a coworker.

And even if angels had happened to have developed methods of flirting and courting other angels, Aziraphale knew that wouldn’t help. The Fall was thousands of years ago and Crowley was no longer an angel.

If Crowley was going to be familiar with a specific method of courting someone, it wouldn’t be anything to do with Heaven. It would need to be something else. Aziraphale would have simply have to research methods favored by demons instead.

Demons weren’t supposed to fall in love. That was the shared belief. Most would claim that they were incapable of the emotion, that when She tore Her love and grace out of them during the Fall, She also took their ability to love as well.

Almost all angels believed it. This assumption was mostly due to the fact that they could no longer sense the emotion in demons. And it was easier to believe that than it was to consider that Fall disconnected demon enough that angels could no longer detect their love. Angels were beings of love and light, so demons couldn’t have any similarities to them. Not after the Fall. So angels believed that demons could not feel love because they were evil, the complete opposite of angels in every way.

And most demons assumed the same thing. They assumed that they could no longer feel love, let alone fall in love with another. How could they love anyone or anything when the One meant to love them the most cast them out? Any softer feelings that demons might experience, pale imitations of what it was like to feel Her love, were ignored and denied.

Demons weren’t meant to fall in love and they certainly didn’t trust each other. What sort of world would it be if demons went around trusting each other? But some might develop a preference for another’s company over time.

They could find a demon that they could tolerate, their presence not grating at their nerves and infuriating them constantly. They could find someone that they were relatively certain would only stab them in the back for important reasons instead of on a whim. They might find another demon who might be willing to watch out for them if they were injured or weakened, assuming that they weren’t too busy. If they’re lucky, they might find someone that would be the least likely person to betray them if the chance arose.

And yes, lust often factored into it because it hadn’t taken long for demons to recognize the potential pleasure available from certain acts, with and without corporeal forms. But it was more about a form of companionship. One that was considered somewhat acceptable in Hell as long as no one attached certain labels or mentioned softer emotions when describing it.

Of course, making their intentions known to another demon could be tricky. Especially since lying was practically a requirement for demons. But there were quickly established certain actions that could be used to declare their interest that any demon would recognize and understand.

No one would describe it as demonic courting or flirting, but that’s because no demon would be that honest.

And at some point in history before demon summoning fell completely out of fashion, a few humans called on demons seeking knowledge rather than pure power. Curiosity could never be completely stifled. And at least one wrote down the information that he learned and published it before the demons could slaughter him. And while most copies were destroyed, one of the books found its way into a certain angel’s bookshop.

Aziraphale carefully plucked the dusty old book from the shelves, tucked away from general sight in a dark corner. It was not a volume that he brought out for causal reading. He settled in his armchair and flipped past the more disturbing entries. Both the demons being interviewed and the writer spent far too much time focused on the more gruesome aspects of Hell for his taste. But when Aziraphale found what he was looking for, sections focused on the more interpersonal aspects of demons, he started studying the text carefully.

Though it is stated to be difficult to determine when a demon is showing interest in another demon for reasons that a human would describe as approval, fondness, or attachment, certain behaviors may serve as evidence. No man can truly believe that such dark creatures as demons are capable of actual love after being forsaken by the Lord. They are beasts of absolute evil, cruelty, and darkness. But they seem to have a form of courtship as complex as humans when it comes to forming a bond with another. One that does not require a formal contract or pact. Most of these courtship strategies can be broken down into five distinct types, though there is no specific order and some demons may only employ some of these strategies instead of all.

The first method that I am recording is the most straightforward and simple. When courting another, demons may exchange sharp or pointed gifts. Common tokens of their interest might include knives, swords, spears, and various tools employed for the use of torture. Some will focus more on choosing the sharpest instruments. A straight-edge razor or a doctor’s scalpel, for example. Others might prefer a narrow and pointed tip, meant for stabbing rather than slicing. Needles and pitchforks, for example. Demons are not the most creative creatures, but they have a wide knowledge of such items. The important component is the capacity to cause harm. Even a hatpin could serve as a gift for their version of courting.

A few months after Armag-Gonna-Fail, Crowley opened his door to find Aziraphale standing there with a cactus.

The angel showing up at his flat was no longer a completely unprecedented event. While they both still preferred to curl up in the bookshop, they occasionally found their way to Crowley’s flat in the months after that night after the world didn’t end. The demon had added a fashionable couch to let them watch movies together on his television. His sound system played a mix of classical music and more modern songs, usually as they explored Crowley’s new wine collection that he’d been gathering. He’d even added a small shelf with a handful of books arranged by the color of their covers rather than titles, making Aziraphale scowl even as he enjoyed the thoughtful gesture. Sometimes the angel would spend hours visiting.

It was nice having Aziraphale around so much. He’d grown used to his constant presence during the years leading up to the Apoca-Oops and Crowley was thankful that they continued to spend time afterwards. He sometimes wondered how they ended up as lucky as they did. With the exception of Hastur occasionally glaring at Crowley from across a crowded area, Heaven and Hell were giving them some distance. No more assignments. And without the threats of outside retaliation, Aziraphale was no longer trying to keep him at a safe distance. He admitted and accepted their friendship fully. Everything was as close to perfect as Crowley could have ever imagined.

He never doubted the angel’s friendship. Not since the day that Aziraphale tried tempting him for oysters in Rome. No matter what he might say or how he might slip into denial when he was scared, Crowley knew the truth. But it was nice having it out in the open. And the angel seemed happier and more relaxed without that anxiety weighing him down. As long as Aziraphale was happy and wanted his friendship, then Crowley was good.

You go too fast for me.

Everything was fine. They were friends. Best friends. And Aziraphale fully embraced that relationship now. Without any doubts or fears. No longer holding the demon at arm’s length. It was more than he could have ever hoped for. Crowley was more than happy with that. Anything that the angel wanted to offer, he would accept.

Which brought him back to Aziraphale standing at his doorstep with a cactus, the angel smiling brightly.

“Uh… Angel?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Did we have something planned and I forgot?”

Holding out the small pot, Aziraphale said, “Not really. But I found this lovely specimen at a shop and thought it might be a nice addition to your collection. It looked like it could use a little encouragement.”

Crowley accepted the offered plant, looking it over. Most of his houseplants were closer to tropical or temperate than something that belonged in the desert. Broad and luxurious leaves that preferred humidity and generous watering. He didn’t have a cactus in his current group. But he didn’t actively dislike them. In fact, this particular one seemed strangely appealing in a way that Crowley couldn’t describe.

The cactus didn’t look like anything special. Short, stout, and covered in long rigid spines, it was only slightly smaller than an apple. The body was the deepest shade of green while the spines were the palest yellow verging on white. Crowley vaguely recognized the species as a barrel cactus.

He knew that he would need to find a spot in the flat with plenty of sun. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to yell at the small cactus to get it to grow better. Not a plant that Aziraphale gave him. And yet he couldn’t seem to focus on those facts too much. He just kept running his fingers cautiously along the spines. Why did his mind keep returning to the sharp and pointy spines? It was actually very distracting. Why did it feel important?

“What do you think?” asked Aziraphale.

Looking up, Crowley said, “It’s nice. Should I thank you?”

“If you want,” he said with a smile.

Giving a short nod, Crowley opened the door wider and gestured for the angel to come in. Aziraphale stepped past him, straightening his coat as he entered. Crowley smiled to himself as he closed the front door behind them. His fussy angel. His best friend bringing him gifts of spiky plants. It made something inside him pleasantly warm for some reason.

“We’ll find a decent spot for the cactus, lay down a few ground rules about what I expect from my plants, and maybe afterwards we could open up a bottle of wine since you’re here,” suggested Crowley. “I’ll let you pick which one.”

Aziraphale brightened at his words. The grin was positively luminescent. Crowley almost expected him to literally start glowing. There was a reason that he would always go out of his way to accommodate Aziraphale or to cheer him up. That bright and warm smile. Aziraphale’s smile was always worth it.

“That sounds delightful, Crowley. And perhaps we could watch that program that you enjoy? The one about the four women living together in Florida?”

“You mean ‘The Golden Girls’? Yeah, I’m certain there’s a marathon showing somewhere.”

And if there wasn’t before, there certainly was now. One that would last all evening and into the night, if his television knew what was good for it. Crowley was liking the idea more and more every minute. He and Aziraphale could curl up on the couch with a couple glasses, watching Dorothy, Sophia, Blanche, and Rose getting into amusing situations. Maybe they could order take-out or miracle up some popcorn from the nearest movie theater. Then he could wrap a blanket around them both, which would involve snuggling next to the angel. The more he thought about the idea as his fingers gingerly traced their way along the cactus spines, the more that Crowley lov—

Nope . Crowley yanked his thoughts away from that direction. He shouldn’t even be thinking like that. He knew better. What was wrong with him today? Slow down and stop. He was fine with their friendship. More than fine. It was more than enough. And even if he was a demon, Crowley wouldn’t be that greedy.

They were best friends. And best friends could curl up on the couch watching sitcoms with each other, drinking wine and sharing a blanket. He could have all that. He could have the angel’s friendship. He didn’t need anything else.

An enjoyable evening passed, not much different than some of the others since Nope-mageddon except for the addition of Aziraphale’s gift and Crowley’s uncooperative thoughts distracting him more than normal. Overall, not a bad surprise. He made certain to return the gesture by bringing the angel some of his favorite pastries the next day.

But that wasn’t the end of it. A few days later, Aziraphale brought him an aloe vera plant. An easy-to-raise aloe vera plant, with its thick fleshy leaves with tiny teeth and its sturdy nature. Useful for burns and hard to kill, it was exactly the type of plant that a nursery would recommend to the clearly-novice gardener Aziraphale. Finding a spot in his flat for that one was easier than the barrel cactus.

And they kept coming. Another species of cactus, one with hair-like needles that were still sharp enough to break skin if mishandled. A decent-sized Crown of Thorns plant, covered with bright red bracts around tiny flowers and spiky thorns. Yet another type of cactus, taller and with the spines arranged in tidy clusters.

Something about the situation nagged at the edges of Crowley’s thoughts. He appreciated the gifts. He would have loved— liked anything that the angel wanted to give him and Aziraphale was clearly picking out houseplants because he knew that Crowley enjoyed gardening. But it was certainly a change in routine. And he couldn’t stop thinking about them. They meant something. Something important that gnawed at him in a distracting manner.

The plants reminded Crowley of something. And it was important. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Crowley felt certain that it had to do with why everything to do with Aziraphale seemed more distracting than normal. His thoughts kept drifting in directions that he knew better than to consider.

Crowley was turning over the issue in his head as he rearranged his plants to make room for the newest addition. A young saw palmetto. He highly suspected a miracle was involved because they weren’t generally sold as a popular houseplant in London. Perhaps Aziraphale picked it because the species was native to Florida, the setting of “The Golden Girls.” Thankfully they were relatively slow-growing because it would eventually get a little large to keep in a flat. Choosing a spot for the plant would be tricky. Crowley would need to put it somewhere that he wouldn’t bump into it accidentally. There’s a reason that it was called a saw palmetto. The fan-shaped fronds were connected to stalks covered in dangerous saw-like teeth capable of cutting through skin or ripping fabric. Yet another sharp and pointy plant from Aziraphale…

Crowley stiffened, eyes widening in a realization. Oh, that’s why he kept reacting strangely whenever Aziraphale gave him a plant. His subconscious made a connection that the rest of him missed. A saw palmetto, multiple cacti, the aloe vera, the Crown of Thorns… All plants that were sharp in some way.

Gifts of sharp and pointed objects.

He shook his head sharply. Crowley knew better. It didn’t mean anything along those lines. Aziraphale was an angel. He wouldn’t understand what that type of gesture meant among demons. He didn’t understand the implications. Maybe Crowley’s subconscious got a little excited, but it didn’t matter because that’s not what the angel meant. Aziraphale was giving him plants because he knew that Crowley liked them and because they were friends. Aziraphale cared about him as a friend and wanted to be nice. That was it. Nothing else.

Crowley refused to be disappointed. He was just relieved that he figured out what was distracting him before. Now he could focus on moving the saw palmetto to a good spot. And that ache in his chest meant nothing. He was fine.

Chapter Text

The second strategy that a demon might use to show interest in someone involves lurking in dark places together. Like a human, demons may demonstrate their intentions by seeking to spend time with their chosen companion. There are differences, however. While a man may choose to demonstrate his affections or to strengthen a bond with a young woman by seeking out her company, a proper gentleman will ensure that she is properly chaperoned or that they only interact at public functions as a means to protect her reputation. Demons do not worry about propriety. They are creatures of vice and sin.

Demons do not go for walks together, attend social parties, or other civilized activities. When they are not tempting the innocent into wickedness or tormenting the souls that they’ve claimed for their dark master, demons have a tendency to gravitate towards shadowy and secluded locations. Lurking in the dark like a predator waiting to pounce. Being beasts of evil and darkness, demons are naturally attracted to dark places. Common locations would be ancient graveyards at night, abandoned houses on the brink of collapse, narrow alleyways in unsavory neighborhoods, and other places which are considered unnerving by even the most rational men.

Inviting someone to go lurking somewhere dark together is an indication of interest. It allows them to spend time together, hidden by shadows to engage in whatever depraved behaviors that they desire.

“Come on, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, walking as fast as possible without breaking into a run. “We don’t want to be late.”

“If you’d told me where this supposedly ‘delightful’ amateur performance was, we could have driven there. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about the time.”

Smiling back at Crowley and making the demon feel pleasantly warm all the way to his core, Aziraphale said, “It was too nice of a day to waste. And we had lunch at that lovely café that we walked to first. I simply miscalculated how long it would take to walk from the café to where they are performing the play.”

“Humans invented cars for a reason, angel. Because driving is better than dodging crowds on sidewalks and because people like going fast.” Hesitating a moment, Crowley added, “And because riding horses is a nightmare. They always kick up a fuss, trying to trample you to death without warning.”

“It isn’t their fault that they are uncomfortable with a serpent on their back. It is merely a useful survival instinct for them.”

Crowley couldn’t completely suppress a wry smile. He didn’t really mind, even if he was moving at a faster pace than he preferred. Aziraphale had seemed so excited about it. Both about the visit to the new cozy café that they’d just finished and the upcoming performance of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” And having the angel so bright and animated as he talked about them all morning was worth hurrying along a crowded sidewalk and across busy streets, seeing Aziraphlae excited and happy.

And it was a surprisingly nice change of pace, having the angel be the one to suggest and arrange things to do together. It reminded him of the first time that Aziraphale invited him to join the angel for lunch in Rome.

Apparently deciding that the demon was still going too slow, Aziraphale paused long enough to turn and take his hand. Then he started moving again, pulling Crowley along. Trailing behind him like the tail of a kite.

He didn’t mind though. Crowley’s mind went pleasantly blank as soon as he felt the warm grip. It felt wonderful, like his thoughts were wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. He was perfectly fine letting himself be dragged along by the angel.

Friends. He needed to remind himself of that too much lately. Best friends. That’s it.

Maybe the contact was affecting him so strongly because of his recent reactions to the totally-innocent gifts of sharp plants that meant absolutely nothing, but Crowley couldn’t help finding even the smallest gestures overwhelming. Aziraphale was holding his hand. And he knew that it didn’t mean anything except that the angel wanted them both to hurry, but part of him wished that it did and would happily bask in the casual affection regardless.

The rest of the frantic journey was a blur. Most of Crowley’s attention remained on the angel leading the way. He didn’t notice that they’d arrived until they reached a door with a neon orange flyer taped to it with the name of the play and production group. A red-haired woman stood there, Aziraphale handing her a pair of tickets from his coat pocket.

“You’re cutting it close,” she said as she tore the tickets in half. “You better hurry inside and find a seat before the curtain rises. We’ve got a full house and no assigned seating.”

Nodding briefly, Aziraphale said, “Thank you.”

Crowley followed as the angel led him inside and down the hall to an auditorium. It was a decent-sized space with chairs installed on either side of a narrow aisle, facing a wooden stage and with a tiny desk in the back hidden by half-walls where a stressed-looking nerd ran all the lighting and sounds systems. And just as the woman warned, the room was packed. Crowley could spot a couple of empty seats, scattered among the sea of whispering people, but they were single seats that were nowhere near each other. And Crowley refused to watch the play on the opposite end of the room from the angel.

Already trying to decide which humans would miraculously remember that they needed to leave immediately and abandon their seats, Crowley wasn’t expecting Aziraphale to yank him past the technical equipment booth and take up position in the far corner at the back of the auditorium.

“Angel, what—”

“Shh,” he interrupted as the lights dimmed and the curtains began to move. “We’ll be fine here. Let’s just watch the show.”

Biting back a complaint that it wouldn’t take long to clear a few seats, Crowley settled back until he was leaning against the wall. He didn’t mind standing too much for the play. He’d stood during the first performance that he’d seen of “Hamlet.” As long as Aziraphale was fine, then he could handle the lack of proper seats to slouch in.

While Crowley would probably always complain about Shakespeare’s tragedies and the horrible fates that he delivered on all those characters, he loved William’s funny ones just as strongly. He especially liked “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” because of the fantasy and magic elements adding to the sheer ridiculousness. The play was all about the chaos that could ensue from powerful immortals messing around in the lives of humans. In this case, their rather tangled and messy love lives. Even when Oberon tried to help with relatively good intentions, it led to mistakes and disasters that kept growing more hilarious.

And unlike most of the audience, he and Aziraphale could enjoy the puns and jokes that required a more thorough knowledge of the language and culture of William’s time. They could actually remember the world and how it was back then. The pair snickered at different lines from the actors, the demon still unable to believe that so many snooty humans thought Shakespeare’s works were meant to be dignified.

Aziraphale was right about the performance. Despite none of the actors being professionals and the sets and props being less than believable, they put a lot of effort into their acting and someone in the cast or crew obviously had some sewing skills because the costumes were surprisingly well-done. These were people who cared about the source material rather than people who only read the play for a school assignment once. It made sense why the performance attracted a large crowd. Or perhaps the angel performed a small blessing to make it a success.

Crowley couldn’t help sneaking glances at Aziraphale throughout the play. The two of them were right next to each other in their corner of the auditorium, shoulders nearly touching. Crowley saw the way his face crinkled up with amusement and his eyes sparkled with barely suppressed laughter. At certain lines, Aziraphale’s shoulders shook and his hand moved up to cover his mouth. He didn’t want to risk being too loud and drawing attention away from the performance. But during particularly entertaining scenes, the angel applauded the loudest of anyone in the audience. Crowley found the sight of an excited Aziraphale, framed by shadows, somehow strangely alluring. Without even realizing it, he was spending more and more time watching the angel’s reactions than he was watching the play.

He loved— liked watching Aziraphale normally. He’d been doing it for thousands of years. The angel’s expressions were almost always shifting in tiny and delightful ways, rarely remaining still for long. But this felt different. The close proximity combined with the protective cover of darkness felt right. Like it was what he’d always wanted and yet something that he didn’t know that he craved. Keeping close to each other in the shadows, lurking at the edges of the space while tucked out of sight…

Crowley stopped breathing for a moment, eyes widening behind his sunglasses. Lurking. They were lurking. Crowley wasn’t even good at lurking. And the angel probably wouldn’t call standing at the back of an auditorium lurking, assuming that Aziraphale ever had a reason to contemplate the definition of the word. But apparently the act was close enough once again to send Crowley’s thoughts in dangerous directions.

Moving slowly and carefully, Crowley slid along the wall. Putting a little more distance between him and the angel. But even if with a bit more space, Crowley remained far too aware of Aziraphale’s position and proximity. They were still so close, lurking in the darkness together. And yet he couldn’t risk moving further away without catching the angel’s attention. He couldn’t focus on the play anymore, but Crowley kept his eyes locked on the stage and forced himself to pretend everything was normal. Aziraphale wanted to watch “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” with his friend and Crowley refused to ruin that just because his mind kept betraying him.

It was stupid that he kept coming back to that impossible thought. There was no logical reason for his brain to keep dragging it up. He was a demon, but he’d always avoided wandering around in Hell as much as possible. Crowley shouldn’t have even been able to pick up Hell’s customs and social mores with how rarely he spent his time down there. And he especially had no reason to pick up demonic dating cues.

Why did he even remember any of this? There was no reason for him to know it. Well, other than making sure that he wouldn’t accidentally flirt with Beelzebub or Hastur without noticing. That was a good reason to pay attention. But it would be far simpler if he’d forgotten all of it. Then maybe every innocent action from his best friend wouldn’t be so insanely distracting.

The character of Puck shook his head wryly on stage and said, “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

Considering the fact that Crowley’s thoughts refused to cooperate and kept torturing him with impossible dreams about his best friend and things that he wasn’t allowed to have, mortals weren’t the only fools around. The plants and standing in a dark theater together didn’t mean anything. He knew that. And he knew that being best friends was all that he would ever have; it took six thousand years to reach the point where Aziraphale was comfortable admitting that much. And yet these tiny meaningless gestures kept exhuming an ancient hope that should remain buried. If anyone was a fool, it was him.

But he wasn’t going to think about it anymore. Crowley’s teeth clenched as he kept watching the performance until the final curtain. Whatever connections that his subconscious was drawing between Aziraphale’s friendly behavior and demonic social mores, they didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to ruin everything because he was too stupid to appreciate what he had.

And that dull ache inside him, the part of him that wanted those innocent accidental gestures from the angel to mean something, could just shut up and leave him alone.

“What did you think?” asked Aziraphale as the house lights came back on.

Shrugging as he took a step back, Crowley said, “You were right about the performance. They weren’t half bad.”

An odd expression flickered across the angel’s face. Something a little confused and uncertain.

“Are you all right, Crowley?”

“Of course, angel,” he said, perhaps a little too brightly. The pair of them started weaving their way through the departing crowd. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little distracted. Probably good thing my head’s attached or I’d lose it somewhere. I might turn in a bit early this evening. Get a little shut eye and see if that helps.”

Not quite a lie, but not a full confession either. Maybe a little sleep would help shake off the weird thoughts. Maybe then things could go back to normal. Either that or he could bury his face in the various spikey and sharp plants waiting in his flat. That should at least distract him temporarily.

“All right,” said Aziraphale slowly. “If you’re quite certain.”

Crowley, unable to handle the hesitant tone in the angel’s voice and not wanting to end the day on a sour note, added, “Thanks for inviting me though. I did enjoy coming to the play with you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said, his smile shifting back to something honest, bright, and reassuring.

The walk back to the bookshop didn’t have the same light-hearted feeling as their hurried rush to the play. Neither of them was talking much. Only short discussions that kept trailing into distracted silence. They were both wrapped up inside their own heads. Even Crowley’s wave and parting smile seemed a little vague as he climbed into the parked Bentley.

Aziraphale’s thoughts had been occupied since the end of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” But he couldn’t truly concentrate on the situation until he waved farewell to the demon and stepped inside the bookshop, locking the door with a flick of his wrist.

Things weren’t going the way that Aziraphale planned. It wasn’t like he thought he would hand Crowley a cactus and the demon would drag him off to his bedroom immediately. That’s not what he expected or wanted. Aziraphale was too familiar with the courting during the Victorian era for that. He understood the idea of subtle signs and slow progression. But something still felt off about Crowley’s reactions.

He wasn’t rejecting the overtures. Aziraphale was certain of that much. Even if Crowley didn’t want to attempt the traditional method of rejection, which apparently involved demons attempting to rip off limbs or claw out eyes, he was quite capable of making his feelings known. But Crowley accepted all the plants that Aziraphale gave him, chosen to be sharp and pointy species. And he seemed to enjoy watching the play as they lurked in a dark corner. Arranging for word-of-mouth to bring in a large crowd took a small miracle and timing things to arrive when the place would be at near capacity, giving them a good excuse to stand up during the performance, took some effort and Aziraphale was rather proud of how smoothly it went. Crowley seemed to like it, even if he seemed a little strange afterwards. Whatever was going on, Crowley wasn’t turning him down.

Aziraphale absently tried to straighten up as his mind wandered. His hands didn’t want to stay still, so doing something productive seemed easier. The fact that his efforts did little to lessen the chaos of the bookshop and might have even worsened it didn’t really register. His mind was preoccupied with more important matters.

Crowley wasn’t turning him down, but something still felt off. Like… he wasn’t quite…

Maybe Aziraphale wasn’t doing something right. Maybe he was doing something wrong and Crowley couldn’t tell what he was trying to do. That might explain the demon’s reactions. And to be fair, this was the angel’s first time attempting something like this. Aziraphale didn’t have as much experience with the customs that he was studying and trying to emulate. There must be a learning curve involved. He might be making some mistakes that were confusing Crowley.

And he was changing things a little. Trying to personalize them to fit him and Crowley better. Aziraphale couldn’t see himself buying a bouquet of knives or something. It didn’t seem like something that Crowley would like. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe by using plants and taking him to the play, he'd changed things too much for Crowley to recognize it as an attempt at demonic courting. Maybe he needed to stay a little closer to the source material.

Aziraphale carefully took off his coat and hung it up. Making a cup of hot cocoa took a while, but the human act of making it always felt soothing. It calmed his nerves and settled him. Once his mug was lightly steaming, he collected the book from where he’d last left it. Then he settled into his chair.

If Crowley wasn’t rejecting his efforts, then Aziraphale wasn’t going to give up. Not until Crowley could give him an answer, one way or another. But Aziraphale could go over the book again. Double-check his understanding.

The book wasn’t perfect. It was written by a man instead of a demon. And that meant Aziraphale was working with a second-hand account that was limited by the human point-of-view and the influence of the man’s time period. But unless he wanted to summon up another demon to interview, the book was his only available resource.

Aziraphale would reread the appropriate section again, paying close attention to anything that he might have missed before. Then he would go over his notes from last time, adjusting them as needed. He’d already tried gifts of pointy objects and lurking in dark places together. Once he went over the information again and studied his available material, Aziraphale would move onto the next strategy.

He needed to come up with something that Crowley would like. Something that was more obvious. Something appropriately demonic, but Crowley’s version of it instead of just something generally Hellish. He could do it. Aziraphale would figure out something that would make Crowley happy and would let Crowley know how he truly felt about him.

He could make this work. No misunderstandings or miscommunications. He needed to be straightforward and simple. Or at straightforward as they were capable of being. Six thousand years of habit didn’t just vanish. They’d spent too long depending on not saying things directly and reading between the lines. Using demonic courting methods felt easier. More open and honest than talking.

Besides, what was he supposed to say? That he loved Crowley dearly? That he loved him in a way that he couldn’t imagine possibly describing? That he’d loved him since at least the 1940s, though mostly likely it started further back? That yes, he loved Crowley in the way that angels were meant to love all of Her creations, but it wasn’t the only way that he did?

Because Aziraphale loved him as a friend, as the dearest companion, as a trusted and treasured confidante, as his compliment, as his soulmate… But he knew that the words would never come out right after spending so long swallowing them.

Aziraphale wasn’t afraid to admit it anymore and he wasn’t afraid of what acknowledging those feelings would mean. He didn’t fear Heaven or Hell. And after so long holding back and taking things slow out of caution and fear, it felt great to go after what he wanted. But he didn’t want to mess this up. Crowley deserved better than that. Aziraphale needed to do this the right way.

Chapter Text

Demons are creatures of evil, spawned in darkness and bloated by their gluttony for vice and sin. This is a core aspect of the creatures. And one of their eternal hungers is for violence. When a demon becomes interested in another, they might enjoy violence together.

There are different ways that they may approach it. Demons appreciate every form of violence, leading to different variations on the tactic. Some prefer to participate in the violence together. This can include committing various acts of destruction and vandalism to their surrounding environment, performing torture, dismembering a trapped victim, or wide-scale murder. Others are satisfied witnessing acts of violence rather than participating in it, especially if it involves tricking, tempting, or convincing humans to perform those acts. They might observe various acts of cruelty such as razing a building or even a city to the ground, public executions, and full-blown wars.

As common, widespread, and varied as this activity is among demons, it is a less accurate method of determining a demon’s interest. Even enemies will occasionally set aside their differences to commit violence against a third party. Those short-lived alliances generally end with betrayal rather than a more permanent partnership. Telling the difference between temporary agreements to indulge in violence and enjoying it together as a part of this demonic form of courtship can be difficult. It seems to depend on whether the focus is on the act of violence itself or on the chosen company.

It hadn’t been a good afternoon.

The day had started out fun. Crowley spent the morning winding up trolls on the internet until they were practically spitting from fury, crashing several social media sites simultaneously at peak traffic hours, exposing or inventing a few scandals for politicians scattered across different countries, and watering his plants. Just because he retired and no longer worked from Hell didn’t mean that he gave up everything. He needed hobbies to occupy him. And there was nothing wrong with spreading a little mayhem and keeping humanity on their toes. Crowley was rather proud regarding the disruption of various social media sites at once; that level of hacking and synchronizing took weeks to plan, even with demonic miracles. But such a little thing rippled out to cause major chaos and watching it unfold left him grinning.

The afternoon was when the day started going downhill. Crowley left the flat around noon, intending to see if he could find inspiration for his next big project. Something that he could work on for months with dozens of moving parts. A challenge for him to solve that would annoy and frustrate humans without hurting anyone. But as Crowley started crossing a street, turning over the notion of messing with the various cameras around London to stop recording and to show episodes of “The Good Place” for a couple hours instead, he caught sight of a pale figure glaring at him.

Hastur. Keeping his distance, but still appearing too often. Glaring venomously and occasionally stalking Crowley, but not yet breaking Hell’s no-interference policy. Not unless he could find a guaranteed way to destroy the “holy-water-immune” demon permanently. But he never stayed away for long. Crowley didn’t know if Hastur was angrier about the disruption to the Not-Quite-The-End-of-Days or the loss of his long-time lurking partner, but the demon could certainly hold a grudge.

Apparently today wasn’t a “brief glare across a crowd” day; it was a “stalk the target everywhere” day. Hastur followed at a distance, regardless of where Crowley went. He could feel the hateful glare burning into him. And Hastur was clearly using all his influence as a Duke of Hell to ensure that he could use his spare time up top because he never spent this much time on Earth before.

Crowley would almost be honored that he was going to all the trouble and effort on his account except for the fact that nothing ruined a day faster than being the target of Hastur’s death glare. And the murderous stare was impossible to ignore.

He’d tried. A lot.

While he could have gone back to his flat or tried to outrun Hastur by heading back for his Bentley, Crowley didn’t want to give in to intimidation. Especially when he knew Hastur wouldn’t actually do anything worse than glare at a distance. He didn’t want to change his plans just because of the other demon. He refused to give him the satisfaction. But even if Crowley could manage to keep stalking along the sidewalks, he couldn’t concentrate on any of his earlier ideas. He just kept moving as his previously-pleasant mood soured and darkened. And Hastur followed.

As the evening started to roll around, Crowley’s cheerful attitude from the morning had completely evaporated. While he considered taking out his frustrations on his houseplants, there were too many of them from Aziraphale now and it didn’t seem right risking them getting caught in the crossfire. In a proper yelling session, no plant was safe. Which led to Crowley finally returning to his Bentley and leaving his stalker behind in a burst of speed, heading towards the bookshop.

The cheerful bell above the door brought a strained smile to his face and Aziraphale from the rows of selves. The angel took one look and Crowley and grimaced.

“That bad of a day?” he asked.

Stomping by him before sprawling limply on the closest piece of horizontal furniture, Crowley said, “Hastur’s back again. He ruined the entire afternoon. Do you know how distracting it is having a Duke of Hell following you around?”

“How often does it happen? You’ve mentioned it before since the trials, but I haven’t seen him around that much.”

“I think he’s avoiding you. He never comes near the bookshop and he doesn’t bother hanging around when I’m around you.” Crowley shrugged vaguely. “I guess he might risk stalking one persona non grata, but not two of them.”

Aziraphale sat down next to the sprawled demon. He smiled indulgingly at his dramatics, which sparked that familiar and wonderful warmth deep inside Crowley. A warmth that soothed his agitation, lowered his metaphorical hackles, and undid some of the frustration that Hastur sparked. That was part of the reason that Crowley decided to seek him out that evening. He always felt better spending time around Aziraphale even on the days that the angel exasperated him. He loved being around Aziraphale and Crowley loved hi—

Liked.

Liked, liked, liked.

Crowley’s hands curled into fists, tucked out of sight of the angel. He kept slipping up recently. He was better than that. He knew how to keep track of the limits, even if the demon liked to push at the limits and press right up against them. Crowley knew where the line was that he couldn’t cross. The line that would drive Aziraphale away, too much too fast.

Aziraphale didn’t say it was too dangerous back then. That was always implied, but that isn’t what he said. He didn’t talk about getting caught when they sat in the Bentley together, Crowley holding a thermos filled with holy water. Aziraphale didn’t claim that Crowley was risking too much when he tried to invite the angel to be more. If he’d said that they were risking too much or that Crowley was courting danger, then that would meant that Heaven and Hell were the problem and the source of those limits. But claiming that Crowley went too fast for him implied that Aziraphale was the one who didn’t want that line crossed.

Aziraphale. Not Heaven or Hell.

Heaven and Hell were no longer their main concerns. Both sides were leaving them alone other than Hastur’s distant stalking. The opinions of the other angels and demons didn’t matter anymore. But Aziraphale and his imposed limitations, those that weren’t connected to their old sides, still mattered.

Crowley knew that he had it good. He could have anything before that line. Crowley could have dinners together, evenings spent in the bookshop, afternoons spent feeding the ducks in the park, late nights watching sitcoms in his flat, and thousands of other moments. He could have the angel’s friendship. And yet part of him still yearned for what lay just on the other side of that line.

He used to be better about accepting and embracing those limits, but now Crowley kept slipping up. Tiny mistakes that he shouldn’t be making. But at least he was only making them inside his head. He hadn’t said anything out loud. That would have ruined the wonderful thing that he had with the angel. Crowley couldn’t risk that, so he needed to work on his self-control again.

Crowley took a few moments to notice the pain in his palms. He unclenched his fists, prying fingernails out of his flesh and silently healing the broken skin. Hopefully the angel didn’t notice.

“I’m sorry that he’s been following you around,” said Aziraphale finally. “Is there anything that I can do?”

Shrugging, Crowley said, “If he annoys me too much, I can always hide here until he gets bored enough to head back to Hell for a while.”

“Is that what you want to do tonight? Stay here?” he asked slowly. “We can, if you’d like. I could bring out a few nice bottles of wine, maybe put on a record to play, and we could have a peaceful evening in. Just say the word.”

That actually sounded nice. A decent way to still redeem an unpleasant afternoon. And then maybe Aziraphale would start talking about one of his books and read a passage or two to demonstrate his point, letting Crowley drift off to the sound of the angel’s voice. He rather liked that idea. But something about his tone…

“Did you have another idea, angel?” asked Crowley, raising his head from his boneless sprawl.

Standing back up and straightening his waistcoat with a small tug, Aziraphale said, “Maybe. But we’ll need to wait until dark and the crowds thin. And we’ll need to drive there.”

Pushing himself up on his elbow, Crowley peered at the angel through his sunglasses. Now his curiosity was definitely piqued. He wanted to see what Aziraphale had in mind.

What Aziraphale had in mind apparently involved tucking a heavy and clanging bag in the backseat of the Bentley and heading towards the nicer part of the city. Or at least the part with more expensive buildings, more expensive businesses, and more expensive suits on all the people who spent time there. It was the territory of the most exclusive and snobby people. The ideal place to sow temptations regarding greed, envy, and pride. Except almost no one was on the street at that hour, long after midnight. Which begged the question of what exactly Aziraphale was planning.

“So we’re here,” said Crowley as he put the car into park. Opening the door and climbing out, he asked, “What’s next?”

Grabbing the bag and accepting Crowley’s help stepping out of the vehicle, Aziraphale asked, “Have you heard the term ‘hostile architecture’ before?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.”

The bag clanged as the angel walked towards the closest building. Whatever Aziraphale was carrying was heavy and metallic. Crowley’s curiosity was only growing stronger.

“It’s a rather horrible concept that involves designing the area to discourage the homeless population from lingering,” he described. “Rather than investing resources into helping people in need to find food, homes, and jobs, they will build architecture specifically invented to force these poor souls to go somewhere else where the wealthy do not have to see them or acknowledge their plights. An entire branch of urban planning specifically meant to exclude a group of people and make their lives more difficult. Hostile architecture includes putting bars on benches as ‘armrests’ to prevent anyone from sleeping on them and anti-homeless spikes that keep people from taking shelter under overhangs near ground-level windows or… or anywhere that will allow them to get out of the rain and wind.” Aziraphale scowled darkly. “I would have assumed that such pointless cruelty would be Hell’s work, but to be frank, most of the other demons that I’ve encountered lack the creativity for such a notion. I suppose that we have no one to blame except humanity for this particular idea.”

Crowley’s eyes never left Aziraphale as he spoke. The frustration with the unfairness and the angel’s driving need to help filled his expression. It reminded Crowley of when they met on the walls of Eden, the angel filled with sympathy for the humans that he was meant to guard. He always wanted to help when he saw someone in need, even if only a little bit. Like he did with the banished Adam and Eve. Crowley saw that spark of compassion, but without the layers of self-doubt and anxiety that always tempered it. No more Heaven and bullying angels making Aziraphale feel guilty when he tried to do too much to help. It was wonderful seeing Aziraphale so passionate.

“And that’s what we’re here for?” asked Crowley. “You want a few modifications to ‘miraculously’ happen, getting rid of the hostile architecture?”

He started moving his hand, but Aziraphale caught him before Crowley could snap. Then the angel gave him a grin that almost seemed mischievous. One that Crowley had long since learned meant trouble. But he wasn’t prepared for Aziraphale to pull two crowbars out of the bag.

“If they disappear overnight, no one will learn anything from it,” said Aziraphale firmly. “But if those features are destroyed, that will make an impression. People will notice and perhaps even think about the implications. Perhaps they can even learn from it and do better. And isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Encourage humans to be better?” Extending one of the crowbars towards Crowley, he added, “And aren’t demons supposed to cause trouble and sow discord? Vandalism is a crime after all.”

That startled a chuckle out of Crowley as he accepted the offered crowbar. Next he took a moment to ensure that cameras would ignore them and any humans that might be awake at that hour would inexplicably remember that they needed to be somewhere else immediately rather than investigate any sort of disturbance. Only then did Crowley follow Aziraphale towards the closest bench.

He wouldn’t exactly call what they did next to be the human way of doing things. The methods were similar, but they didn’t need to rely on human-levels of strength. That made things go much faster. It didn’t take long for the crowbars and the sledgehammers that Aziraphale also hid in the bag to be put to good use.

Crowley found himself grinning constantly as they worked. A little mindless violence could be rather cathartic. Like screaming at disobedient houseplants. Not his usual method of stress relief, but the day’s annoyances were disappearing as the destruction piled up.

It was a messy process. Scraps of twisted metal fragments were left behind as they moved along the street. Enough to open another modern art museum. The loud bangs and clangs of destruction should have disturbed the entire neighborhood, but no one would be bothering them any time soon. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he demolished anything on a personal scale like this. To wreck and ruin something, letting any lingering tension melt away. It was almost a shame to limit his efforts to only the hostile architecture.

But it didn’t take long before he was distracted. Aziraphale was taking to the task with surprising enthusiasm as well. He’d paused at some point to set his coat in the Bentley and rolled up his sleeves, carrying around the destructive tools as casually as he might an umbrella. But he didn’t even need the crowbar or sledgehammer half the time. For the short spikes on the concrete, he did smash them flat as a coin with the hammer. But for the benches, Aziraphale simply ripped the bars off with his bare hands and let the pieces clatter to the ground. Angelic strength at work.

Crowley couldn’t help staring as Aziraphale pulled. Bolts snapped under the pressure. With the rolled up sleeves, Crowley could see the muscles straining slightly with effort. He could watch him destroying public property in a physical, violent, and nearly human way. Well, perhaps not that human since some of the discarded “armrests” now bore the impression from where his fingers had squeezed tight. Crowley could watch the angel leaving a trail of broken, warped, and smashed metal in his wake.

The angel was never meant for battle. Despite Aziraphale being created to be a warrior to guard the Eastern Gate, Crowley knew that he wasn’t meant for battle. He was soft and good. But soft didn’t mean weak. Aziraphale was never weak. But Crowley rarely got to see him cut loose like this. He rarely got to watch the angel embrace his destructive capabilities. And it always stunned and amazed Crowley to witness Aziraphale in action.

He was powerful, amazing, and ruthlessly efficient. Aziraphale was kind enough to want to do something good, but pragmatic enough to commit crimes to do it. An angel who breaks the rules to do what he feels is right, making him so different than any others. A violent force of destruction, but for a good cause.

As Aziraphale smashed down the anti-homeless spikes hard enough to crack the surrounding concrete, Crowley smiled. He was breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Crowley loved seeing him like this, the pair of them leaving destruction in their wake. Just as he loved the more familiar sight of the angel curled up with his books and cocoa, barely aware of his surroundings as he read. Crowley loved him regardless of the circumstances; the violent assault on architecture was simply new and unique. But it suited his wonderful angel and watching Aziraphale in action warmed Crowley to his core, every part of him practically buzzing on a physical and metaphysical level. Crowley’s corporeal body could barely breathe from how much he loved Azira—

The crowbar slipped from numb fingers, clanging dully on the ground.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Hands clutched his temples, fingernails digging into his scalp. His breathing hissed through clenched teeth. That wonderful and happy feeling of warmth inside him turned icy cold as Crowley mentally clawed at that entire train of rebellious thought. What was he doing? What was he even thinking, letting his mind head in that direction? Too much, too fast, and too far over that invisible and uncrossable line.

Distantly, he was thankful that the angel’s destructive efforts and the noise kept Aziraphale from noticing Crowley’s reaction. This wasn’t anything that he wanted to explain to the angel.

Wrong. Letting his mind consider, hope, for… for that… It was wrong. It was selfish, greedy, and stupid. Because chasing after the impossible like that would make him lose what he actually had. It would be like their fight at the bandstand during the entire Armag-Gonna-Not-Do-That mess, only it would be far worse and permanent.

He had Aziraphale’s friendship. Crowley refused to risk that. Nothing was worth that risk. Which meant that he needed to stop wanting something else that the angel could never give him and could not accept from Crowley in return.

Slowly letting his hands drop to his sides and forcing his rebellious body into behaving, Crowley started thinking. While these stupid impulses had been growing worse lately, sharp spikes like that tended to follow Aziraphale doing something similar to…

Not demonic social mores. That’s not what they were. Not on purpose, anyway. They were just accidental coincidences made by an oblivious and ignorant angel. But there was a connection between Aziraphale’s friendly gestures and Crowley’s subconscious making false assumptions that sparked off rebellious thoughts and emotions. So what was the catalyst this time…?

It took a moment for Crowley to make the connection, though nowhere near as long as it did with the gifts of plants. In his defense, however, he didn’t immediately think of committing vandalism as an act of violence. It took him staring at Aziraphale flattening a few more spikes with the sledgehammer, swinging the tool overhead before slamming it down hard, before Crowley figured it out. Mostly because he started getting distracted by the act again. Most of the time a couple of demons enjoying violence together involved a lot more bloodshed and screams.

This was getting out of hand. Crowley knew that Aziraphale had no clue what he was doing and probably suggested this entire adventure as a way to cheer him up after a frustrating day, but now Crowley was getting frustrated in a very different way. Gifts of sharp and pointed objects, lurking in dark places together, and now enjoying violence together? Aziraphale was his best friend and these gestures were meant in a very innocent fashion, but it was hard to keep that in mind when the angel was doing the demonic equivalent of the Dance of the Seven Veils in front of him.

Was there any possible way that he could tactfully let Aziraphale know that he appreciated what he was trying to do for Crowley as a friend, but please don’t do it again because he was making it really hard to remember where the line that Crowley wasn’t supposed to cross was located?

Probably not.

Crowley picked up his crowbar before stealthily snapping his fingers. Any remaining hints of hostile architecture suddenly found itself acting far more friendly. Hopefully Aziraphale didn’t notice the quick demonic miracle.

“Angel,” he called, trying to sound casual. “I think we’ve got this neighborhood sorted out now. Want to call it a night?”

Aziraphale turned towards him, casually balancing the sledgehammer against his shoulder as he reached down for the bag of tools that he brought. Even in the darkness, Crowley could see the faintest sheen of sweat from his destructive efforts, flattening his hair in places and having it stick to his skin. And he was smiling, proud of his attempt to make the world a better place even if it meant using some minor criminal behavior and violence. He looked prepared to keep going. Like he could keep smashing and tearing away all night. An angelic force of violence and destruction born out of kindness.

And Crowley was getting distracted again.

“I suppose that it is getting late and we have managed to make quite the difference already,” said Aziraphale. Walking towards the Bentley, he asked, “Are you feeling better than you did this afternoon? I know that you were in a foul mood from Hastur earlier.”

That was a complicated question. His annoyance with Hastur was no longer his main issue. Instead, Crowley had the complicated knot of emotions clawing inside his chest. Guilt, regret, want… He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t rein in his thoughts.

Crowley honestly wondered if he would need to take drastic measures to force his subconscious to stop its vicious rebellion. The angel was his best friend and that’s it. And if he couldn’t remember that fact, then Crowley could try using some kind of shock to snap himself out of that foolish state of mind. An ice-cold shower, perhaps? The serpent in him always hated that. Or he could try grabbing the stalks of his saw palmetto, slicing open his hand and letting the small injury distract him? Something.

Realizing that he’d been too quiet for too long, Crowley said, “Smashing things up isn’t my usual idea of a night on the town, but it was certainly distracting.” He opened the car door and let the angel drop the tools in the back of the Bentley. “Almost more distracting than a couple episodes of ‘The Golden Girls.’”

Aziraphale smiled as he rolled back down his sleeves, brushed off the concrete dust, and smoothed the wrinkles out of his clothes. The smile sparked another wave of warmth through Crowley that did nothing to squash the powerful and rebellious emotions plaguing the demon. Then the angel carefully folded his coat and sat down with it across his lap, letting Crowley close the door.

“Well, angel,” he said as he climbed behind the steering wheel, “since I now know how much you like living dangerously, I suppose that I won’t hear you complain about my driving anymore.”

“What?”

“I saw you out there. Committing acts of vandalism without a care in the world. You’re practically an adrenaline junkie.”

“There’s a difference between destroying cruel urban planning designs and risking injury and discorporation with dangerous stunts, Crowley. You can’t go ninety within city limits.”

Laughing despite himself, Crowley said, “Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

The Bentley started with a rumble and the opening notes of “You’re My Best Friend” filled the air. And if anyone bothered to try looking out at the street at that hour, they might have glimpsed a black blur moving at speeds far above the legal limits.

Chapter Text

Yet another method that demons might employ in order to demonstrate their interest in someone involves targeting an outside party to torment or torture. There is some overlap between this strategy and the form of courting that involves enjoying violence together, but they remain two different methods for the purposes of my study. Just as it is possible to perform violence without using against a person, it is possible to torment someone without resorting to violence.

Tormenting a third party can take many forms. Physical torture is the most obvious and common method, however. Causing pain and suffering to a victim can be easily achieved with lacerations, with blunt force trauma, by burns, by starvation or dehydration, by suffocation, or by any number of cruelties. Mental and emotional torture is less common, but can be equally effective and appealing. Mind games, threats, lies, tricks to confuse the senses, various schemes to make a victim doubt his own mind and recollection, or even simple mischief to humiliate and frustrate can be used together in various combinations in order to erode a man’s sanity and composure until he eventually succumbs to madness. Demons can tempt a man into vice and sin, but they can just as easily break him without needing to lay a hand on him. And such inhumane behavior can easily be incorporated into their courting.

The victim of their torture and torment need not be a living human. When it comes to showing their interest in someone by working together, the target and circumstances of their tormenting are not important. Some may choose a man who is still alive, regardless of whether his life has been pious or composed of vice. Others may choose a victim among the souls doomed to Hell by their sins, trapped and already suffering. And more powerful and higher-ranked demons may decide to torment and torture a weaker demon. There is no loyalty among the creatures except to their ruler and master. None would see any reason that harming their own kind should be considered wrong. If they have the power to accomplish it, then anyone can be their victim.

A couple weeks after their spontaneous night of vandalism, everything seemed to settle back to their post-apocalypse normal. No random gifts of thorny plants. No sold-out shows in dark theaters, forcing them to lurk in the back. No late-night sessions of violent destruction. And no Hastur giving him death glares. Only familiar things. An afternoon in the park. A few nice meals in restaurants. Interrupting the angel’s phone call with Anathema by shouting commentary from across the room, earning eye rolls from Aziraphale. Late evening discussions in the bookshop. A couple of movie nights at his flat. All soothing and familiar things that didn’t pull at his subconscious knowledge of demonic social customs.

It gave Crowley time to straighten out his head. To pick apart his thoughts and feelings, sorting them out until he could collect all the dangerous, rebellious, and selfish ones and lock them away. Aziraphale was his best friend. Wanting or hoping for anything else was a path that would lead to heartache for both of them. Crowley waited thousands of years for the angel to embrace their friendship, fully and without reservations. He didn’t want or need anything more than that. He was fine. Better than fine. Everything was perfect.

There was a line that Crowley couldn’t cross. Emotions and thoughts that the angel could never offer him and that Crowley could never share. Not if he wanted to keep what he already had. The unspoken warning behind “you go too fast for me.” A silent message among thousands of years of communicating without saying the actual words. There was a firm line that he could never cross and if his subconscious wanted to drag him over it, then Crowley would build a wall to keep the rebellious parts of him trapped.

He was content the way things were. He liked spending time with Aziraphale, quietly chuckling at the television as Sophia and Dorothy practiced their act as Sonny and Cher for a contest and Rose tried not to stare at their costumes. Crowley liked being around Aziraphale, both of them relaxed because this was allowed now. He liked being with the angel. As friends. Best friends. Anything that didn’t feel like innocent friendship was locked away to be ignored and forgotten.

Everything was back to normal. And since it took six thousand years for Aziraphale to accidentally stumble onto those romantic gestures, then Crowley felt confident that he wouldn’t have to worry about that happening again for a few centuries. Nothing to worry about at all.

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t sleep; his dreams were filled with memories of Aziraphale ripping bars off benches or the pair of them tucked in a dark corner of the auditorium together, leaving his chest aching dully in the morning when those dreams left. It didn’t matter because demons didn’t really need to sleep anyway. And if he tended to linger on his cacti and his Crown of Thorns as he took care of his plants, fingers carefully tracing the spikes, that was because they were gifts from his best friend. They didn’t mean anything else to him. Just like looking at them too long causing his eyes to prickle and burn until Crowley had to perform one of his rare blinks didn’t mean anything either.

Crowley was fine. He was perfectly content. He felt nothing except deep friendship for Aziraphale. There was nothing else.

If any of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies for the world after the Not-Quite-The-End-Times had survived Anathema’s decision to burn them, one of them would have demonstrated her rather strong opinions on Crowley’s current thought process and Aziraphale’s attempts.

“For truth, the Serpent must be driven from the lands of Egypt for he be nearly drowning in de Nile. And while the foole of a Principality doth try to make his intent known, his mouth never moves and no words be heard. Be thankful, my Anathema, that thou man hath a tongue to speak his heart’s contents and the wits in his head to use it.”

“Where would you like to go for lunch, angel?” asked Crowley as soon as he sauntered into the bookshop, causing Aziraphale to look up from where he was obviously trying to convince a customer to step away from a rather well-read penny dreadful that he’d bought new. Crowley leaned against the closest shelf and added, “My treat.”

Sparing a moment to give the demon one of his bright and warm smiles, Aziraphale turned toward the woman and said, “I’m afraid that I didn’t notice the time. I need to close the shop for a lunch break and that means all customers need to leave the building while I lock up. But I wish you the best of luck with your shopping. I can recommend a few other places that might interest you though. So sorry for the inconvenience.”

The angel was carefully shepherding the woman towards the door, polite and yet firm. But she didn’t seem to mind. Her gaze was moving up and down Crowley’s lanky form in a rather appreciative manner. The smug grin that crept across the demon’s face only seemed to improve her opinion of the view.

“I understand, Mr. Fell,” she said, still staring at Crowley far too eagerly. “I wouldn’t want to wait either. Not if I could spend the afternoon with someone like him. Enjoy your lunch. I hope that you both have a lovely time.”

She slipped out the door as Aziraphale looked mildly flustered and muttered something about patience being a virtue. But he did look mildly pleased at the same time. Mostly likely because he managed to chase off yet another customer without making a sell. Regardless, Aziraphale was smiling by the time he turned the sign to closed.

“So where do you want to go?” repeated Crowley. “Up to you. You’ve always been better at picking out somewhere nice for lunch.”

Nodding as he disappeared among the shelves, Aziraphale said, “I might have a few ideas on how to spend the afternoon. Ideas that I think you’ll quite enjoy.”

For some reason, his tone made Crowley pause. It reminded the demon of something. Something quite recent that stuck out in his memory quite firmly.

“You’re not bringing a sledgehammer to lunch, are you? Because as amusing as it might be to have you embracing your retirement from Heaven by starting a life of crime, we’re not performing vandalism like that in daylight hours. Got to draw the line somewhere, angel.”

From somewhere deeper in the bookshop, Aziraphale called, “We’re not bringing sledgehammers.”

“And no crowbars either.”

“We’re not destroying anything, Crowley.”

“But you are planning something. Admit it.”

Walking back into view carrying a small paper bag, Aziraphale said, “Well, I know that I tend to take longer to finish my meal than you do. And I thought it might be nice to bring along something to keep you from being bored.”

That made Crowley frown. First of all, he wasn’t a child. While toys, books, and eventually handheld video games were useful to bring places when they were caring for Warlock to keep the child entertained, the demon had an attention span longer than that of a five-year-old. Second, he didn’t need anything to occupy himself because Crowley had long since figured out that watching Aziraphale enjoy a meal was always better than the food itself. It gave him a chance to spend time with the angel back when it was a rarer commodity and seeing Aziraphale happy as he savored every bite… He just liked seeing Aziraphale happy in any context. Crowley always lo— liked seeing the angel enjoying himself. How could he possibly grow bored of that? And third, he had no idea what Aziraphale would consider to be suitable entertainment for a demon. Especially if it involved the contents of a small paper bag.

Of course, now Crowley was curious. And he’d never been able to resist his own curiosity.

It was official. Aziraphale was both the best angel in all of Creation and could truly be a proper menace when he felt like stirring up some trouble.

Aziraphale had directed Crowley once more to a rather expensive neighborhood. Not completely surprising. While the angel adored quaint family-run restaurants with made-from-scratch meals and where they knew the names of every repeat customer, he also enjoyed the more exclusive locations with only the finest ingredients and professionally-trained chefs. The Ritz wasn’t exactly cheap, after all.

Aziraphale had selected a café with outdoor seating. From their table, the pair of them could watch people pass by on the street. People mostly wearing outfits that cost more than their server would make in a month, not including the added cost of their jewelry, watches, and sunglasses.

After Aziraphale pondered over every item on the menu extensively and ordered, he finally showed Crowley his surprise in the paper bag. A small container of super glue and a handful of cash held together by a money clip. And it was all that Crowley could do to keep from laughing right at that moment.

The average income of the population passing by meant that most of them would ignore a coin on the sidewalk. It wasn’t worth the effort to stop and bend over. But a larger sum of money, carefully positioned to be perfectly in view of the angel and demon dining at the café, was more than enough to spark some greed. And absolutely no one was prepared to find that much cash literally glued to the ground.

There was a pattern to how it happened. A human’s gaze would fall on the money clip, sometimes looking up from their mobile. There would be a blink of surprise and their pace would slow. And then stop. Some might glance around in search of whoever might have dropped it, but most didn’t bother. They would reach down and try to casually pick up the money.

And then, depending on how strong of a grip that they managed, the cash would either slip through their fingers or they would jerk slightly when the money didn’t move when they tried to stand. A few people would try a second or a third time, but most were more focused on regaining their dignity. Because they always ended up catching the attention of those around them and end up embarrassed. Sometimes the other witnesses might attempt to pretend they didn’t notice while other times they were trying to hold back snickering.

The current victim would be forced to hurry away as quickly as possible while acting like nothing happened, faces often turning a shade of red. Then Crowley would have to wait a few moments for the current batch of witnesses to move away. If the cash was crumbled too much by the attempt to pull it up, a stealthy demonic miracle would smooth them out again. And once someone new wandered up, the cycle would begin anew.

Crowley was always fond of the glued coin trick. It was simple way to encourage greed, frustration, anger, and damaged pride in some random targets with minimal effort. And it was funny to watch their reactions when they couldn’t pry the coin off the concrete. But there was something even more amusing when the targets came from a higher tax bracket.

Even Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying the show. He smirked into his sandwich at the scowls and frustration coming from people who didn’t actually need the money that they were trying to pick up. After a certain point, the two of them started whispering predictions on which person would try next. Crowley was better at picking them out. He had more experience with the trick and he was studying each face closely, partially for his predictions and partially in case he saw someone’s eyes filled with true need and desperation.

If he’d spotted someone who actually seemed to need the money, that person would have miraculously found the cash no longer glued in place. It was only funny when it only annoyed someone. Not when they actually needed it.

Aziraphale was right. Crowley was enjoying himself. For the first time that he could remember, Crowley was sharing a meal with Aziraphale and the angel wasn’t his sole focus. He was actually having to divide his attention.

As they chuckled quietly over a woman breaking off one of her expensive acrylic nails trying to pry the cash off the ground and refusing to give up easily, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand briefly rest on his arm to steady himself. Only then did the demon notice how warm that he felt. Warm, bright, and practically buzzing with something wonderful. It felt nice. Too nice. Like all the emotions and thoughts that he’d locked away were now slithering back out.

Oh no…

What was it? What was happening this time? What innocent gesture was sending his subconscious into hysterics now?

Nothing sharp or pointed anywhere in sight. The knives on the table were dull things meant for spreading jams and so on rather than slicing. And they certainly weren’t gifts. The sun was relatively bright overhead and they were sitting. Not even close to lurking. And even if some of the people looked angry, none of them were reacting violently. Nothing should be sparking that hopeful warmth and the dull ache that tended to follow.

They weren’t doing anything remotely close to… It was lunch. That’s it. Nothing else. Nothing different. They’d done it countless times without Crowley reacting like this. Without feeling… It was only lunch. Lunch and…

And watching humans get tormented with frustration by the glued money trick.

It took all of Crowley’s self-control to keep the realization from his expression. His sunglasses would only hide so much. At least he resisted his initial impulse to bury his face in his hands and drop his head on the table. None of this was something that he wanted Aziraphale to know or ask about.

Tormenting a third party. They were tormenting humans by tricking them with money glued on the sidewalk. That’s what it was. That was the problem.

Clearly his subconscious had no issue with taking creative liberties when interpreting demonic social mores.

Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had nearly finished his sandwich. A light meal rather than a more extensive feast. Normally this would be the point where Aziraphale would either ask about the dessert menu or suggest a charming bakery that he was familiar with. And then Crowley would give him an indulgent smile and go along with the angel’s sweet tooth.

But today… Crowley wanted to go back to his flat and curl up under his expensive black sheets. Because he was tired. Tired of fighting it. He was tired and the warm feeling from before had been completely replaced with that painful ache.

Aziraphale was his best friend. But Crowley loved him. He’d loved him for longer than he could remember or admit. Trying to bury that feeling wasn’t working. He’d tried as hard as possible. But Aziraphale kept accidentally dragging those emotions into the open with those gestures. They weren’t going to stay locked away anymore. He knew that. He could finally accept that fact.

He loved Aziraphale, but he could only be the angel’s friend. Aziraphale couldn’t love him back and would never accept what Crowley wanted to give him. Too much, too fast. That impossible line. He could love the angel all that he wanted. He clearly couldn’t change or ignore those feelings anyway. Crowley would just have to live with the fact that he loved Aziraphale. Live with it and hide it.

It wasn’t fine. Thousands of years of barely acknowledged hopes and layers of denial had been stripped away by accidental gestures that Crowley kept believing on some level meant more, leaving behind raw and aching pain. But Crowley’s rebellious feelings weren’t Aziraphale’s responsibility. The angel made his position known long ago. It hurt, but he would just have to make sure that Aziraphale never realized.

They were friends. That would never change. Crowley couldn’t have anything else, but he would always be his friend. And that meant that Crowley refused to risk the angel feeling guilty over something that wasn’t his fault.

As the money clip caught another victim, Crowley pushed himself to his feet and stalked over. That was enough. Even if he knew it didn’t matter and the angel didn’t intend anything, Crowley was ending the trick. He couldn’t bear what it was doing to his emotions. Not right now. Crowley picked up the cash, the glue miraculously gone. Then he sauntered back towards the table.

It wasn’t exactly fine. But Crowley would curl up and sulk in his misery for a little while and then he’d get past it somehow. It wasn’t like he could afford to nap several decades this time. He couldn’t bear the idea of being away from him that long. And disappearing would hurt Aziraphale. Crowley refused to risk that.

“Come along, angel,” he said, keeping his voice as light as possible. “I know you mentioned picking up a few new books a month or two ago. Don’t tell me you’ve read them all already.”

Blinking in surprise, Aziraphale started slowly explaining that no, he hadn’t finished them quite yet. Crowley patiently listened, trying to ignore the confused and uncertain tone in the angel’s words.

Aziraphale wasn’t expecting him to look for an excuse to leave. Not so soon. And the server certainly wasn’t expecting the rather large tip left behind on the table, soon to be discovered when she arrived to clear the plates. But Crowley knew that he needed to get Aziraphale back to the bookshop before he could crawl back to his flat to wallow in self-pity. And that led to his exit being a bit abrupt.

It wasn’t working. Aziraphale didn’t know why or what exactly was wrong, but his plan wasn’t working right.

The angel quietly shuffled his scattered notes. Organizing the various sheets in a variety of different ways, keeping his hands occupied and trying to calm his worries. His anxiety and stress had lessened in the days since they broke away from Heaven and Hell respectively, but they didn’t disappear completely. He’d been worrying since the start of human history and it was a hard habit to break. Sometimes it would come back without warning, all those doubts squeezing his chest and throat until he would have suffocated if he was human. He’d gotten better, but he could never completely banish the feeling that he’d done something horribly wrong. Not even when he knew for certain that he hadn’t.

But this time, he truly did believe that he must have done something wrong. There was a mistake somewhere and he needed to find it.

There were moments when he’d thought things were working. When Crowley seemed happy, relaxed, and his expression would subtly soften. When his posture would ease, he would lean towards Aziraphale, and he would smile in an open, honest, and beautiful way. There had been moments where Aziraphale felt certain that the message had gone through and Crowley knew how much he loved him.

But then Crowley would close up.

It kept happening. Crowley had seemed happy when they were lurking in the theater together, but then he edged away part way through the performance. He had seemed happy destroying the hostile architecture, but then he seemed distracted and off when they were leaving and Aziraphale asked if he enjoyed himself. And he had seemed happy when the two of them were watching people get annoyed by the glued money clip, but then he abruptly stopped it and dropped Aziraphale off as quickly as possible.

He wasn’t rejecting Aziraphale. He was still certain of that much. Regardless of the mixed reactions, Aziraphale knew it wasn’t a rejection. It felt more like… Confusion. Frustration.

Crowley wasn’t rejecting him and he wasn’t accepting.

Was Aziraphale still not doing something right? He’d tried his best to follow the information from the book, but maybe he missed something. Or maybe the human who wrote it made a mistake. Or maybe the demon who was summoned and interrogated left out key information.

There was one more option that he could try. Something that might work. Something that might just be enough to make certain that Crowley understood how much he loved the demon. Something too obvious to ignore or misunderstand.

But it was the option that Aziraphale had also been saving as a last resort. Because it wasn’t the safest or most sensible option. It was the one that couldn’t easily be reinterpreted into something more pleasant or less dangerous. Not if he wanted it to work.

He would have to do it strictly by the book. No real alterations.

He could make it work. Aziraphale knew that if he was smart about it, he could make that final method work. And even if Crowley didn’t accept it in the end, if he finally understood what Aziraphale was trying to tell him and turned him down anyway, it should at least make things easier for the demon in the long run. A small favor. That would mean at least one good thing could come from the entire endeavor, regardless of how the rest of it turned out.

There were risks and it felt a little distasteful, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley was worth it.

Aziraphale carefully set aside his notes. Then he headed for the narrow staircase that led upstairs, where not even his pushiest customers were allowed to set foot. While he wasn’t fond of selling any of his books, some were too dangerous for humans to catch even a glimpse. Books that could get someone hurt if misused. But dangerous knowledge could also be used for good. It could be used to keep safe. And Aziraphale needed that knowledge if he wanted to do this right.

A little research, one final attempt at demonic methods of courting, and that would be it. He would either succeed or stop this entire strategy. If it didn’t work, then Aziraphale would have to go back to square one and find another way.

Human methods seemed less reliable, but he might have to fall back on those if his final demonic one failed. Maybe he could consult with Marjorie Potts. She was a professional and her time working as the talented Madame Tracy would have given her experience and insight regarding matters of the heart. Or perhaps Anathema could offer some suggestions. She managed to catch the attention of her young man, even if she had the advantage of prophecies on her side.

Regardless, Aziraphale wasn’t ready to give up. He had his books and he had human resources that he could consult. If worse came to worse, he could try composing a letter to do the job. Though, if he was honest with himself, it would probably take him at least a decade of editing and rewriting in order to find the words to express his feelings for Crowley.

Using a dangerous demonic courting strategy sounded far easier.

Chapter Text

Demons are not like humans. They have no views on physical beauty, no need for money, and no concept of family lineages or passing down inheritances because they have neither parents nor children. They do not seek out partners for the same reasons that humans do. Demons certainly do not show interest in another out of love. They are incapable of such emotions, though they may mimic them for their own purposes. But if they desire companionship, there are certain traits that can make them more attractive.

Above all else, demons appreciate power. Ranks within Hell depend on using their strength and ruthlessness to claw their way into greater power and influence. They do not inherent a title from a parent and they do not buy it with coin. It is earned through might and by being useful to others more powerful than him.

A demon will be drawn towards power. They will prefer forming a bond with someone strong and cruel. A partner who can defend himself and his companion if necessary. Someone who is useful. This means that an ideal method of courting for demons would be through demonstrations of strength and viciousness to impress their partner.

The demon will need to prove that he is strong and powerful. And he will need to prove himself to be ruthless and cruel. An impressive act of their dark and evil magic is one way to show their cunning and strength. Another strategy is to slaughter a large number of people in a particularly inhuman manner. And yet another demonstration of power and viciousness would involve attacking and killing a rival demon. The stronger and more ruthless that the demon proves himself to be, the more likely he will impress the target of his interest.

Hastur was not the brightest or most creative demon to ever Fall. He certainly wasn’t clever enough to come up with a way to destroy a demon who could not be harmed by holy water. But he was an expert at corrupting a soul gradually, tarnishing it slowly and personally until the human thoroughly belonged to Hell. He specialized in the kind of craftsmanship that could take years or decades to complete properly. And Hastur was a champion lurker. And both of those skills required patience.

Hastur wasn’t the smartest or most imaginative demon in Creation, but he was patient. Especially when it came to revenge.

While he certainly wasn’t happy about the world not ending and the promised War being delayed indefinitely, Hastur would have eventually gotten over it. Armageddon would happen eventually and there would be plenty of humans to corrupt and torture in the meantime. That fury would have dissipated eventually. But Crowley crossed a line and made it personal the moment that bucket of holy water fell on Ligur.

Hastur wouldn’t have call Ligur a friend or claim that he’d trusted Ligur. They were demons, after all. But Ligur had been the demon that he’d hated the least. He’d been a decent person to talk to, he hadn’t ticked Hastur off too often, and Hastur felt relatively certain that Ligur wouldn’t have betrayed him casually. They’d been lurking partners for several centuries. And then Crowley wiped him from existence with a dirty trick.

Holy water. What kind of twisted demon would use holy water against his own kind? The fact it was self-defense, that the two of them were preparing to drag his pathetic essence back to Hell for untold amounts of torture and possible execution didn’t matter even slightly. The whole idea was just some warped thinking on Crowley’s part.

Hastur wanted revenge. He couldn’t keep Ligur from getting destroyed, but he could try to make his killer pay. He had no idea how yet, but he could be patient. Especially when he could watch Crowley’s discomfort whenever the demon spotted him. Hastur felt confident that someday he would have Crowley at his nonexistent mercy, sprawled in front of him in pain as the last traces of life faded away. That image warmed him like a pyre burning with hellfire. The moment that he figured out a vulnerability, Crowley would pay.

Hastur wasn’t the most imaginative demon, so he didn’t see it coming. But then again, no demon would ever imagine being abruptly summoned by a power that felt distinctively holy.

He materialized in a swarm of maggots, toads, and centipedes, all of them writhing together as they pooled together and the scent of sulfur and fire flooded the room. It took a moment for him to settle back into his corporation’s proper shape. But since there was no point pretending to be human during the summoning, Hastur didn’t bother with the white hair or hiding his black eyes. Too much of a hassle. As long as he was vaguely human-shaped in a scruffy coat, a tattered checkered-pattern scarf, and ragged fingerless gloves, who cared that a toad clung to his scalp or his face bore nearly-green patches.

Hastur ran his dark eyes around his surroundings. A summoning circle, a powerful and well-crafted one, kept him contained in what appeared to be a bookshop or a library or a collection of flammable materials. Hastur wasn’t exactly certain of the difference between them. Oddly enough, while most of the summoning circle was nearly textbook standard and without any flaws that he could exploit to escape, the candles that would normally be used had been replaced by tiny electric lights shaped like candles that Hastur couldn’t use to burn anything. Pity…

But after a moment, he realized that he was probably in a bookshop. In fact, he almost recognized the place. He’d only seen it from the outside, but he certainly recognized the stench of holiness that had long since saturated the walls, the floor, the shelves, and the books all around him.

Rain pounded outside the building. A flash of lightning briefly lit up the skylight overhead before thunder exploded around him, the violent storm demonstrating that whoever summoned him knew how to choose their moment. Dark and stormy nights were traditional for proper demonic summonings.

Then he turned and Hastur spotted him. The angel. Crowley’s fellow traitor. The unnatural creature that could withstand hellfire he same way that Crowley survived holy water. He knew the strange angel’s name at one point, using it to threaten and intimidate Crowley, but Hastur couldn’t seem to recall it at the moment.

He didn’t look like much. Not his true self and not even his corporation. Pale hair, light eyes, tidy clothes, and a soft form. Everything about the angel’s corporeal body, his mannerisms, his behavior, and his expressions looked soft, weak, and pathetic.

And yet Heaven and Hell feared his invulnerability to hellfire and what other secrets he might be hiding. They instructed that both traitors were to be left untouched in case they were more dangerous than they appeared. Not official orders, but close enough. Otherwise Hastur would have slaughtered the angel already and attempted the same with Crowley.

Well, the instructions were to keep some distance from the traitors, but the angel was the one who summoned him. Hastur’s expression took on a predatory grin. As far as he was concerned, that made the angel fair game.

“The disgraced angel that helped mess up the Apocalypse,” he said. “Has your banishment been so bad that you want someone to destroy you? Because that’s the only possible reason why you could be stupid enough to summon me.”

“Duke Hastur,” greeted the angel evenly. He stood straight, hands tucked behind him. “I would like to start off with an apology for the inconvenience of this summons.”

“Perhaps you won’t burn in hellfire. But that doesn’t mean you’re immune to pain.” Pacing slowly within what little space there was in the circle, Hastur said, “You cannot trap me forever. And once I have you in my grasp, I will tear your body to pieces. Your fate will be whispered by mothers in dark places to frighten their young. You will learn the true meaning of suffering, angel.”

Grimacing slightly, he said, “Don’t call me that. I am Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate. If I can use your proper name and title, then you can extend me the same courtesy.”

“I will cleave the flesh from your bones. I will rip the feathers from your wings before mangling them beyond recognition. I will shatter every limb, blind the eyes in your skull, tear the tongue from your mouth, and carve you open to count which organs your corporeal body carries. And you won’t discorporate because that would let you escape. Your body will survive so that I can drag what is left of you to Crowley’s doorstep so he can see what I have planned for him.”

Aziraphale didn’t even blink at the graphic threats towards himself, though his eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of his fellow traitor. As soft and as weak as he might look, he didn’t intimidate as easily as Hastur expected. The angel wasn’t a coward.

“You have been stalking Crowley,” he continued evenly. “I know that you’re upset with him after the world did not end and your friend, Duke Ligur—”

“He wasn’t my friend,” snarled Hastur, throwing himself against the power of the summoning circle. Not that it helped since it was like slamming his hands against an invisible wall. “Demons don’t have friends, stupid angel. Not like that freak that follows you around pathetically.”

“I misspoke then,” he interrupted. “But he was your companion and I understand that he was destroyed during the unpleasantness leading up to… Well, the Not-pocalypse. When the two of you went to confront Crowley about the mix up regarding the Anti-Christ.”

“He melted Ligur. With holy water. Like some twisted coward,” he shouted, burning with fury, rage, and strangely hurt. “Right in front of me. Gone. Then that traitor slithered off and ruined everything else. But he won’t die. He should have died like he killed Ligur, melting into nothing. But it should have been slower. Agonizing. But he’s still alive, the smug coward. Don’t know how and I don’t care. I’ll find his weakness eventually. He’ll die screaming. And it won’t be fast like what happened with Ligur. I’ll make it last. I’ll draw it out. He’ll pay for what he’s done. First I’ll tear you to pieces and make him witness your pain. Then Crowley will suffer until he’s begging to be destroyed.”

“No, you won’t,” said Aziraphale firmly. The tone brought Hastur’s snarled threats to an unexpected stop; the voice felt too hard and sharp for the soft angel. “I do apologize for your loss. But Crowley’s actions were in self-defense. And given the choice between your companion and mine, I will always choose the preservation of Crowley’s existence. You have every right to be upset about what happened. Of course, if the War was allowed to happen as expected, there is a distinct possibility that Duke Ligur would have been destroyed in the fighting regardless. That’s what so many forget. War always has a cost and it is not always paid by the ‘enemy.’ Anyone can be lost during a war.”

He shook his head. Then he drew himself up straighter and glared at the trapped demon.

“But regardless, you have continued to stalk Crowley since the end of the world did not occur. You continue to follow him and now you admit that you want to torture and destroy him. And even if everyone knows that holy water will not kill him, you want to torment him regardless. That is something that I will not allow.”

“You think that you can stop me?” spat Hastur venomously. “Crowley might as well give up now. He’s as good as dead already. There’s nothing that you can do to keep me from torturing and slaughtering him the moment that I figure out how. You’ll just get tortured too.”

“Actually,” he said, “I rather believe that I can do something about it. Or have you missed the summoning circle? The one currently trapping you and keeping you from accessing your powers?” The grim smile was anything except angelic. “I went through quite some effort to research the proper methods of summoning and binding a Duke of Hell. I wouldn’t want you to break free unexpectedly, after all. I may not always make the wisest decisions, but no one can claim that I don’t know how to take precautions.”

Aziraphale took a step closer to the summoning circle, hands still tucked behind his back. He still looked impossibly soft, but something in his gaze no longer seemed weak to Hastur.

“As I was saying before,” he continued firmly, “your stalking will no longer be tolerated. Hell was told to leave us alone, as was Heaven. You should know better than to risk it. You will leave Cowley alone. You will no longer follow him and you will no longer waste your time trying to find a way to hurt him. You will forget about revenge and stay away. This is your final warning, Duke Hastur. Crowley isn’t the only one who can use holy water. And if I wanted to do something more drastic to you, there is nothing that you could do in that circle to stop me.”

“You don’t have it in you,” he growled.

But doubt lurked in Hastur. Angels were meant to smite demons. And if demons distrusted other demons, there were no words to describe how little they trusted angels. If Crowley could be ruthless enough to use holy water on his own kind, an angel would have no qualms. Especially a rogue angel who held no loyalty to Heaven, Hell, or whoever. An angel insane enough to cause all that trouble during the failed Apocalypse, who could stand in hellfire, and yet somehow kept enough faith in Her that he refused to Fall. When viewed that way, there was no telling how far the angel might go. It would be very easy for Aziraphale to douse him and watch the demon melt, Hastur helpless to stop him from inside the perfectly-crafted summoning circle.

“Murder in cold-blood? Not exactly model behavior for an angel,” continued Hastur, pushing forward despite that doubt. “Guess all that time around the traitor corrupted you after all. That plan of yours sounds practically demonic.”

“I told you. This is a warning,” he said firmly. “No holy water this time. That’s all the mercy that I will grant you.”

“And you trust that a threat will be enough to keep me away? I always knew angels were stupid, but you’re a special kind of idiot. I’ll enjoy gutting you the moment that you lower your guard.”

If Hastur was a smarter demon, he might have realized that threatening Aziraphale while trapped in his summoning circle wasn’t a wise decision. If he wasn’t blinded by fury, his distaste for angels, and his hatred for Crowley, his self-preservation instinct might have won out. But Ligur had possessed slightly more common sense when it came to the two of them and he was gone. So Hastur did make the impulsive threat. And then he went further.

“But I’ll make you a deal. Since you want to show me mercy, perhaps I can give you some in return. Maybe I’ll be merciful and not let you live long enough to see what I’ll do to Crowley.”

The demon gave a harsh laugh at his own vicious joke. He only vaguely noticed the way the angel’s eyes turned cold.

“I won’t destroy you tonight,” said Aziraphale sharply. “But I can certainly make it difficult for you to go near Crowley for a while and demonstrate how serious I am.”

Then the angel moved. Faster than his soft physical shape would suggest. The instant that Aziraphale crossed the circle, he broke the spell that trapped Hastur and returned access to his full abilities. And a Duke of Hell was stronger than a principality. In that instant, the angel was vulnerable and open to retaliation.

But the instant that Hastur could harm Aziraphale, pain erupted throughout the demon’s chest.

Hastur’s gaze moved down from the angel’s sharp and cold eyes towards the sword buried in his corporeal body. A human sword. Not a celestial or occult weapon. Purely mortal and ordinary. Aziraphale’s hands were tightly gripping the hilt and the blade disappeared into Hastur’s chest. Blood stained the ratty coat and filled his mouth. Agony pulsed outward from the wound, consuming all thought. And despite not needing either one, his heartbeat staggered and his breathing hitched.

He stabbed him. The stupid angel stabbed him.

Ripping the scarf from Hastur’s neck, Aziraphale said, “While you’re in Hell waiting for a new body, remember how easily this happened. And remember that if you ever come near us again, I won’t stop at discorporation.”

Then the angel drove the sword deeper and twisted, sending another stab of pain through the demon. And as he ripped the blade out and blood poured from the gaping wound, Hastur’s corporeal form surrendered to the fatal damage. Consciousness fled before he hit the ground.

A short time later, Hastur was complaining to Dagon about the paperwork necessary to request a new body and the Lord of the Files snapped back that he couldn’t cut in line again like he did in the aftermath of the failed end of the world.

Aziraphale dropped the sword, letting it clang dully on the floor. Not his flaming one. A perfectly ordinary and human-crafted weapon. One that he’d carried at an earlier point in time, back when wielding swords was a more standard behavior. But even when he used it in those days, Aziraphale didn’t kill his opponents. He’d disarmed them or send them to sleep if he thought he could spare the miracle. Not stab them and leave a bleeding body on the ground.

Not dead. Discorporated. Aziraphale needed to remember that. He desperately needed to remember it for his own peace of mind.

Emotions churned in him, fighting for control. He didn’t like violence and hurting anyone. He didn’t like being a warrior and a weapon, even if that’s what was expected of him. Guilt felt bitter at the back of his throat. But Hastur wasn’t truly dead. Only sent back to Hell. And a part of him felt an unusual satisfaction about that. Something proud and sharp-edged. Hearing those threats against himself didn’t bother Aziraphale. A summoned and trapped demon should be expected to be vicious and cruel. But hearing those same threats aimed towards Crowley sparked something protective and angry.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and sent both the body and the growing bloodstains away somewhere. He wasn’t certain where. He couldn’t exactly aim. Statistically, it probably ended up in the ocean. Most of the world’s surface was water, so the odds were in his favor with that one. But regardless of where the lifeless body went, all signs of violence disappeared. Not even a droplet of blood remained. But he would always know what happened.

He twisted the stolen checkered scarf between his fingers. Aziraphale knew that he should finish cleaning up. Putting away the sword again, hidden away with some of his older belongings. Washing away the additions and changes that he’d made to the summoning circle. Picking up the tiny electric “candles” that Crowley bought him when it became clear that open flames now bothered the demon in a gut-wrenching way. There were various tasks that he should attend to. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. The guilt and uncertainty was trying to rise up and drown him.

Was it right? To summon someone like that, trapping his opponent and leaving them powerless, before essentially executing them? It didn’t quite seem fair.

On the other hand, Hastur had been stalking Crowley for months with cruel intentions. Hastur would have won a fair fight. And there was a moment where Hastur could have retaliated. He could have fought back in that split second between Aziraphale crossing the line and when the sword plunged into his chest. He could have stuck back. Ripped the sword away or summoned a pillar of hellfire. He was powerful enough to try something like that. If Hastur’s reactions had been faster, Aziraphale would have been the one to die instead. He’d known that when he planned things out. There had always been that risk.

And if given the chance, Hastur would have done the exact same thing by attacking a trapped victim. Or something even worse. The demon had threatened to torture and destroy Crowley. And it wasn’t an idle threat. Aziraphale could see it in his expression. Hastur meant every word of it. He wasn’t exactly innocent.

Aziraphale didn’t like hurting someone, but it was worth it in this case. He would do a lot to keep Crowley safe. He’d let them drag him into Hell in Crowley’s place, doing his best to intimidate them into leaving the demon alone. And if this managed to scare Hastur into backing off, then that was a good thing.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley safe. That had never changed in the six thousand years that they’d known each other. He wanted Crowley to be and feel safe. If nothing else, Crowley should feel safer with Hastur gone. And that made the angel’s actions worth it.

Even without the implications of the gesture regarding demonic courting, simply keeping Crowley safe made the entire venture worth it.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d known that this particular method would be unpleasant and distasteful. But he would be fine. Even if it felt like it when he stabbed the demon, Aziraphale didn’t actually kill anyone. Any pain was short-lived; Hastur didn’t even suffer, regardless of what that vicious part of the angel thought about how he deserved to suffer at least a little.

Vicious. Ruthless. Vindictive. That’s was exactly what Aziraphale had been aiming for with his actions. The book described demonstrations of power and viciousness and he couldn’t think of anything more effective than discorporating a Duke of Hell to protect Crowley.

All that was left to do now was let Crowley know and see if he finally recognized what Aziraphale was trying to do. Because this had been an absolutely demonic and by-the-book demonstration of power and viciousness. No ambiguity to it. No alterations to make it more palatable. There was no possible way that Aziraphale messed up on this one.

Chapter Text

Since Hastur was complaining loudly and constantly about the angelic traitor, Aziraphale, discorporating him as he worked his way through the large stack of paperwork necessary for assigning him a new body and Dagon rolled her eyes yet again in annoyance, Beelzebub ordered the most recent Earth surveillance files to be brought up to zir office. Both traitors possessed unknown capabilities, surviving immersion in hellfire and holy water. They could just as easily have more offensive abilities as well. And if Aziraphale had decided to move from a more neutral state towards more aggressive behavior, ze would like to have some forewarning. Which meant that ze examined the evidence carefully to see if Hastur was a fluke or merely the first strike.

Beelzebub quickly came to two conclusions. One was more obvious than the other. The first involved Hastur. Despite the very clear policy that Hell implemented regarding Aziraphale and Crowley, he had clearly been following Crowley. For quite some time. After the demon flat out told Hell to leave them alone.

Any retaliation that the angel might have delivered was Hastur’s own fault. He should have known better. Hastur risked provoking the traitors with his stalking. And what if Aziraphale decided to direct his punishment towards Hell in general rather than the specific demon? Hastur might be a Duke of Hell, but there were limits on how far he was allowed to rebel against instructions from his superiors. Beelzebub would need to have a word with Dagon about keeping Hastur’s forms on the bottom of the pile for a century or two to discourage further problems. Hastur wouldn’t be heading to Earth again for a while.

Not unless he tried the whole “human possessing” trick. And if he was stupid enough to try that to go provoke the traitors again, then Beelzebub would find a more obvious method of punishment for him. Something involving hot pokers in sensitive locations.

The second conclusion that ze came to was far stranger. Ze needed to examine the photos multiple times before Beelzebub truly made the connection. In some ways, it was subtle. And it seemed ridiculous and unnatural. It was rare for someone with such a strong affinity for flies and insects to be hit with such a strong reaction of ew. But the evidence was clear in the photos that ze had laid out before zir.

And to be fair, Aziraphale and Crowley were already strange when compared to other angels and demons. They were strange even before their invulnerabilities came to light. If anyone was going to end up forming such an unnatural bond, it would be those two. But this was certainly going to end up being the biggest piece of gossip in both Heaven and Hell for at least a millennium.

Beelzebub roughly put away the pictures. Just because ze knew it was happening didn’t mean that ze wanted to look at the evidence for too long. The entire idea still felt uncomfortable.

Then ze started composing a snide memo to Hastur, telling him to stop whining and be grateful that he was only discorporated. Based on what Beelzebub determined from the photos, he was lucky that his decapitated head wasn’t being offered on a silver plate to Crowley at that very moment. That’s what ze would have done in his place.

Still, discorporating a Duke of Hell was an impressive act. Aziraphale was clearly familiar with demonic social mores and was surprisingly good at them. For an angel. Even Crowley couldn’t be dense enough to reject that type of display of strength and ruthlessness.

The sign for the bookshop announced that it was closed as Crowley parked the Bentley in front of it. But then, hours of operations were things that happened to other people. Like legal parking spots. Besides, the bookshop had never been locked against him. Not since it first opened. And that meant that Crowley sauntered through the front door without even pausing.

A few days of sulking and wallowing in self-pity helped. It gave him time to get his emotions under control. Not ignored or buried. But at least he could handle it. Crowley could spend time around Aziraphale again without the painful ache and the feeling of want being overwhelming. The days after his sulking didn’t feel as difficult to handle. He could settle back into the role of being the angel’s best friend and not complain.

Which was why Crowley was in a relatively good mood when he stepped into the bookshop. But his smile swiftly fell as the door closed behind him.

The scent struck him suddenly, startling him into opening his mouth and breathing it in further. The bookshop held the familiar scents books, dust, and the warm and bright thing that was purely Aziraphale. But above those was an intruding one. The strong and unwelcome scents of sulfur and fire choked him. And he could smell another demon. One wrapped in that sulfur and fire smell. And buried under all the others, nearly hidden away, was the faintest scent of spilled blood.

Wrong. This was wrong. Hell should have left them alone longer. And there were wards. The only demon who should have been able to step inside uninvited was Crowley. The bookshop should have been safe.

“Aziraphale?” he whispered in a small and cautious voice, unable to force his tightening throat louder.

It wasn’t like before. Nothing was burning and the angel wasn’t missing. He could feel the bright spark in existence when Crowley reached for it, the familiar feeling of Aziraphale that he’d followed through most of human history. The angel was alive and nearby. He clung desperately to that knowledge. It wasn’t like the day of Aren’t-mageddon.

And even if the unwelcome scents were strong, they weren’t current. They were at least several hours old. They weren’t fresh enough for the demon to still be around. But the hints of blood, weak and faint, did little to help calm him. Aziraphale was alive and close, but that didn’t mean unharmed.

“Aziraphale?”

Everything in him whispered that something was terribly wrong, that the angel was in danger, and that he needed to find Aziraphale immediately. His traitorous body refused to calm down. The pounding heart and shaking breath wasn’t actually helpful, thank you very much.

He moved through the shelves, searching desperately for a sign. Part of him feared what he would find. Like maybe his angel lying among his books. Broken, hurt, and bleeding. Just because he wasn’t discorporated or destroyed didn’t mean that the demon didn’t hurt Aziraphale before leaving. They could have tortured the angel. Crowley knew that he would probably smell more blood if that was the case, but that rational thought didn’t smother the feeling of panic rattling around in his chest.

He used to be better about hiding behind a cool and calm façade. What happened?

Finally managing to speak a little louder, he called, “Aziraphale?”

The sound of footsteps slowed some of his frantic searching. And then Aziraphale stepped out from behind one of the shelves, calming him even more. Brows furrowed and a slight frown pulling at his mouth, the angel looked surprised, confused, concerned, and beautifully unharmed. Safe and sound. Relief flood in to wash away the remaining fear and dread.

“Angel,” he said softly as Aziraphale stopped in front of him. “What happened? Who came after you?”

Blinking in surprise, Aziraphale asked, “Oh, you noticed already?”

“Of course I noticed,” he said. Crowley desperately wanted to wrap his arms around him and hold the angel close until he was certain that he was fine, but he resisted the urge. “Even you should be able to smell the sulfur. A demon was here.” Grimacing briefly, he added, “Not me. Different demon.”

“I suppose I should have propped open the door to let it air out a bit. But that could have given customers the wrong idea…” He shook his head briefly. “But yes. That would have been Hastur. He was quite dramatic about his entrance.”

Stiffening slightly, Crowley hissed, “Hastur was here? What did he want?”

Did Hastur try to hurt him? Or was it only threats? It was already bad enough that he was following Crowley around. But if he was targeting Aziraphale, that made it far worse.

“Don’t worry about him. He should keep his distance from now on,” said Aziraphale, twisting something between his hands.

The confused and worried sounds that Crowley made didn’t resemble words. They were random collections of consonants. But the angel seemed to understand the strangled question.

“I invited him here for a short conversation,” said Aziraphale. His hands continued to twist the piece of fabric, the material strangely dark and ragged to belong to the angel. “I politely informed him that stalking you will no longer be tolerated.”

Unable to identify the churning emotions forming in his chest, he said, “Angel…”

“And to make certain that he wouldn’t bother you again,” continued Aziraphale, “at least— at least for now, I mean. But to at least slow him down and keep him away for a while, I summoned him and discorporated him.”

Discorporated… Aziraphale discorporated Hastur. He discorporated a Duke of Hell.

Crowley finally realized why the checkered fabric in the angel’s hand seemed familiar. He’d seen it wrapped around Hastur’s neck. Aziraphale literally took a scarf from the demon when he discorporated him. Like it was a trophy.

One hand flailed behind him, grabbing the closest shelf for balance. Crowley couldn’t… It was too much. He was furious at Aziraphale for risking himself like that and he was furious at himself for being the reason for that dangerous stunt. He was terrified by the realization of how easily Aziraphale could have been seriously hurt, how easily he could have been discorporated or destroyed, and Crowley wouldn’t have known anything until it was too late. Thoughts about the horrible potential “what ifs” sparked off flashes of heartache, anxiety, and guilt. Relief that nothing bad happened fluttered around, but it kept getting drowned out by the screams of “but what if it had?” And for reasons that he couldn’t fathom, imagining Aziraphale discorporating a Duke of Hell on his own and coming through without a scratch was causing a rather pleased reaction from Crowley that was extremely not helpful.

“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale, uncertainty tinging his voice. “Are you all right?”

“He could have discorporated you,” he said, the words sounding strangely distant to his ears. “Or killed you.”

“I took precautions beforehand. I know there were risks, but I did everything possible to deal with him safely,” said Aziraphale firmly. “And if it keeps Hastur from being around you anymore, if it’ll make it safer for you, then those risks were worth it to me.” He smiled. “I’m fine. He didn’t lay a hand on me. And he’s gone now.”

Crowley would love it if his emotional reactions could get on the same page with each other rather than dragging him in every direction at once. Part of him wanted to freak out, ranting over taking stupid risks. Part of him wanted to collapse. Part of him kept envisioning how easily Aziraphale could have been destroyed in far too much detail. Part of him wanted to pin Aziraphale against the bookshelf, out of anger, fear, and something desperate that just wanted the reassurance of physical contact. And part of him wanted to cling to the angel while asking for more details, eager to know how Aziraphale did it.

But since none of the impulses really aligned, all Crowley could do was cling to the bookshelf; shaking slightly as his rebellious body betrayed him and his legs tried to collapse under him. And he didn’t even need to breathe. Why was it getting so hard?

“Crowley? Oh dear… You’re pale.” Aziraphale carefully took his arm. “How about we sit down a moment?”

He wanted to claim that he was fine. That was Crowley’s immediate reaction. But Aziraphale’s hands were on him as he guided the demon towards the familiar couch and all rational thought fled the vicinity. The gentle contact fed into the strange pride and appealing warmth that the angel’s dangerous stunt sparked. Those positive feelings fought directly with the more rational one that kept screaming about how easily it could have ended in disaster.

Sitting down helped. He didn’t shake nearly as badly once settled. And when Aziraphale pulled a blanket over his shoulder and his hand rested on Crowley’s back, the demon felt his rather unsteady breathing falling back into a more normal pattern. That was nice. But even if his physical body was starting to cooperate a little, it did nothing to stop the warring emotions.

“I’m sorry. I’ve upset you,” said Aziraphale quietly.

Giving a breathless chuckle, he said, “I have decidedly… mixed feelings.” Crowley dragged his hand tiredly across his face. “Aziraphale, he wasn’t trying to attack me right now. Just following me around and acting creepy. Not an immediate threat. Maybe someday, but not yet. There was no reason to risk yourself like that. You didn’t need to do something so dangerous by yourself. Not on my account, angel. You could have at least asked me to help. Give you some backup or something.”

He slumped back, eyes pressed closed behind his sunglasses. The change in position forced Aziraphale to remove his hand from the demon’s back. But the hand settled back on Crowley’s shoulder, something that he didn’t expect and certainly had no complaints about.

“I wanted to do something to help you, Crowley. I can protect you just as easily as you keep me safe,” he said evenly. “I’m strong enough to do that much for you.”

“Of course you’re strong enough,” said Crowley, eyes flashing open as he stared at Aziraphale. “Angel, you’re one of the strongest people that I know. That doesn’t mean that you need to take unnecessary risks.” He gave a weak smile. “Though I wish that I could have seen it. You discorporating Hastur? That must have been a shock for him.”

Aziraphale pressed something into his hand. The scruffy stolen scarf. A prize taken from the discorporated Duke of Hell. And the angel was handing it over like a lady gifting a knight with a token of her favor. Or a warrior offering the proof of his victory.

Demonstrations of strength and viciousness.

Strained and desperate laughter tore out of him, causing Crowley to bury his face in his hands. His shoulders shook from it. He could have reacted to the realization in a few different ways, but laughter was the least unpleasant and the easiest with his complicated emotional state. Not that the laughter was particularly happy.

“Of course,” muttered Crowley into the ragged fabric that smelled like Hastur. “Of course. He stumbled onto all the others. Why not that one too? No wonder my head’s a mess. Gotta get a grip.” He shook his head tiredly, his face still firmly buried in his hands. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

Broken and exhausted laughter could easily resemble sobs. But laughter was easier. Less painful. It was already hard enough to stay afloat in a sea of powerful and conflicting emotions. Tears wouldn’t improve anything.

“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale, uncertain as his hand squeezed the demon’s shoulder. “Please. What’s wrong? I’ve made a mistake somehow. Tell me how to fix it.”

“It’s fine, angel. I’m fine. Just give me a minute. I love you and appreciate everything that you did, but messing with Hastur was insanely dangerous. And I can’t decide if I’m proud of you for pulling it off or furious that you did something like that without warning me first. What if something went wrong? I wouldn’t have any idea what happened and you would just be gone one day. So yeah, that’s a lot to take in at once. But it’ll be fine. Honest. I—”

The frustrated and rambling stream of words, which sounded more like something that should have come from Aziraphale, cut off abruptly. Crowley mentally backtracked over what he’d said. And a cold dread settled in place, choking him.

A confession buried in the middle of everything else. The words that he wasn’t supposed to ever speak. Too much, too far, too fast.

I love you.

Three small words and he ruined everything. Crowley didn’t dare lift his head to look as his world came crumbling down. He was shaking again though. Worse than before. He’d messed up. He was going to lose Aziraphale. Why did he let those words slip out?

Maybe he could take it back. Fix things. Convince Aziraphale to pretend it never happened. Maybe Aziraphale missed what he said.

Please let Aziraphale ignore those three words. Crowley had been condemned once to suffer and lose everything because of a few words. Questions rather than an admission. He knew how easily a small misstep could steal away everything good, never to be regained. And while he survived the Fall, Crowley wouldn’t survive losing him.

“Crowley?”

The gentle and concerned voice cut through the desperate and frantic thoughts, making him flinch. The hand left Crowley shoulder before carefully reaching to pull his head up. When he reluctantly opened his eyes, Crowley found Aziraphale staring back at him. The angel didn’t look upset with him. A little confused and worried, but not upset.

“Sssorry,” he said, a hiss slipping out despite his best effort. “Just forget everything I said. Shouldn’t have. Please just… Pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t cross that line again.”

Several emotions flashed across the angel’s face. Crowley couldn’t hope to identify them. But he finally settled on cautious. Aziraphale’s eyes were soft as he stared at him. Soft and careful.

“Crowley,” he asked slowly, “do you want me to pretend that you didn’t… say that you love me?”

A tiny and terrified nod. One that ended with Crowley gazing at the floor until gentle hands forced him to look at the angel again.

“And do you want me to pretend that you didn’t say it because you didn’t mean it? Or because you think that I don’t want to hear it?”

Hesitating a moment, Crowley asked, “Is that a trick question?”

Aziraphale chuckled wryly before shaking his head. Then he smiled at Crowley, reaching over to where the demon sat next to him. The angel took Crowley’s hands gently in his own.

“I know that you love me. I’ve… known for a while. Or at least suspected strongly. And I wish that it could have been safer sooner, but it wasn’t. Some things we just couldn’t say. I didn’t want to risk it. And while I’m willing to take more risks now than before, I still wouldn’t have risked your life back then. So that means we never said a word. We couldn’t. And that hurt both of us. But I truly believe that it was worth that pain if it means that we ended up here together and safe.” Aziraphale’s thumbs brushed against the back of Crowley’s hands, the gesture comforting and soothing as the demon tried to comprehend his words. “I kept you at a distance because I’ve always wanted to protect you. But we’re safe now. On our own side. We don’t need that distance now. And I tried… I tried to make that clear. That things are different now. I tried to show you…”

An idea, an impossible idea that tugged at the ache in his chest and coaxed a spark of hope a little brighter, slowly grew stronger the longer that the angel spoke. Crowley swallowed past the way his throat tried to choke him. He couldn’t be right. It was wishful thinking. Any moment now, Aziraphale would disprove the entire concept.

But…

“The plants,” he whispered. “Standing at the back of the room during the play? Destroying the hostile architecture? Gluing the money on the sidewalk?” Crowley lifted his hands slightly to indicate Hastur’s stolen scarf still in his grip. “This?”

“Gifts of sharp objects. Lurking. Enjoying violence together. Tormenting a third party. Demonstrations of strength and viciousness,” said Aziraphale evenly. “I was hoping that you would figure it out before we reached the stage of discorporating demons, but… Well, it seemed easier than this. Talking.” His mouth twitched briefly into a frown. “I have a habit of saying the wrong thing and hurting you without meaning to. Apparently I’m no better with gestures. I’m sorry.”

Crowley laughed again, breathless and quiet. His head felt uncomfortably light. He hoped that he wouldn’t faint. That was the last thing that either of them needed.

“You were doing it on purpose. All of it,” he said between shaky laughter. “You… You were trying to flirt with me.” Crowley smiled, still trying to wrap his head around it. “You were trying to flirt with me like a demon.”

Smiling back, Aziraphale said, “It made sense to me at the time. And when I was researching how to accomplish that, I realized that you’ve been doing the same thing for a long time.”

“What?”

“Remember the chocolate and roses that you brought when I first opened the bookshop? The roses had thorns. I remember poking myself on them. Gifts of sharp objects. Hanging around half the night in my bookshop? Not that different from lurking. Rescuing me at the Bastille while leaving that dreadful executioner to suffer the same fate he delivered on countless souls?”

“I thought you didn’t remember that,” said Crowley weakly, only now realizing that the angel was right and he’d been making the same subconscious gestures for at least a few centuries.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you by reminding you of that nice gesture,” he said dismissively. “But that certainly qualifies for violence and tormenting a third party. And if dropping a bomb on a church, while you were standing in the church, to take out a group of Nazis who were threatening me doesn’t count as a demonstration of strength and viciousness, then stopping time while Satan himself is bursting through the ground certainly does.”

Crowley couldn’t help laughing again. All this time he thought that Aziraphale was doing everything on accident when he meant every gesture. Meanwhile, apparently his own subconscious had been plotting against Crowley for who knows how long. He was lucky that all of Hell didn’t figure out that he was fond of the angel sooner.

Still smiling, Aziraphale said, “I treasure your friendship and you’ll always have mine. But friendship isn’t the only thing that I feel for you and you deserve to know that. I wanted you to know…”

He trailed off, Aziraphale expression becoming uncertain. His eyes closed briefly. But when he opened them again, he seemed resolved. And when he reached up towards the demon’s face with a questioning look, Crowley gave a short nod and Aziraphale gently pulled the glasses off.

Looking Crowley directly in the eye, Aziraphale said, “I love you. In almost every possible way. And whatever I did to make you hold back, whatever line that I made you think couldn’t be crossed, please forgive me and believe me when I tell you that I will never take back my love just because of your own feelings. I can’t imagine you doing anything that could make me stop caring about you, Crowley.”

He swallowed hard. Words felt impossible. He felt painfully exposed and vulnerable. Crowley felt like Aziraphale could see every part of him, through all his shields and into every dark corner. Like the angel could see everything and still wanted him.

And Crowley wanted him too.

He didn’t think. It happened almost instantly. Instinctively. One moment they were sitting next to each other on the couch, the angel holding his hands comfortingly. Then Crowley’s arms were wrapped around Aziraphael, holding him close as his face nestled into the crook of the angel’s neck. While briefly startled and stiff in the demon’s grip, Aziraphale slowly relaxed.

And then Aziraphale returned the hug. His arms curled around Crowley and squeezed tight. And that aching warmth at the core of his being burned bright and strong.

“I love you too,” whispered Crowley, barely breathing out the words. They still felt too fragile and dangerous to speak. “So much. And I can’t tell you how distracting it was when you were doing all those things for me.”

“So you’re saying that,” he said slowly, the smirk clear in his tone, “I’m good at demonic courtship?”

Chuckling even as he kept his face comfortably buried and enjoying the ongoing hug, Crowley said “Are you kidding? When I thought you were doing it on accident, it was driving me crazy. You were amazing and I couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Aziraphale shifted slightly, his head leaning slightly against Crowley. The demon still refused to move his face from where he had it buried. He’d already decided that it was his new favorite place in all of Creation and he hoped to spend a lot more time there in the future. Wrapped in a hug and his head nestled in the crook of the angel’s neck. All he could see, feel, and smell was Aziraphale.

“Well, now you can do whatever you want,” said Aziraphale slowly. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re free to do whatever and be whoever we want. And we both know how the other feels, so what do you want now?”

“This,” he said without hesitation. “This is all I really wanted. I… I wanted to love you. I wanted to love you and for you to know it. To accept it.” It was easier to say these words when he didn’t have meet the angel’s eyes. “I just wanted you to have my love. All of it.”

“As long as you don’t mind being loved back, then I think that we can manage that.”

After a moment, Crowley added, “Hugs are nice too. Definitely want to try these more.”

A week later, a very confused Ligur wandered into Hell with a dazed expression. A note was taped to his back, written in a childish script.

Sorry that he’s so late. I missed him when I was fixing everything back and didn’t know it until Crowley and Aziraphale visited. They mentioned that someone might be missing him. Mostly Aziraphale said that. Crowley mostly grumbled. So here’s the demon that I forgot to fix last time.

I still won’t start the end of the world, so don’t ask. And I won’t be fixing any future problems. Just this one because it’s my mistake that I didn’t bring him back earlier. I didn’t destroy him, but it was still during the almost end of the world and it wouldn’t be fair to fix everything else and leave him gone.

Crowley and Aziraphale also said that you still need to leave them alone. Crowley said especially someone named Hastur. That means to stop following them. That seems fair to me. Especially since they’re the reason why you got this demon back. So leave all of us alone, please.

-Adam Young, The No-Longer-Anti-Christ

And other than not remembering what happened after entering Crowley’s flat, Ligur seemed exactly as he was before. Just really confused. Of course, the other demons could only question him for a few moments. Then Hastur grabbed his arm and dragged Ligur off to some dark corner. They had some lurking to catch up on.