Chapter Text
It was a nice day, the first one in a few weeks, and the irony wasn’t lost on them. The sky was a perfect blue, fluffy white clouds here and there, barely enough to stop the suns warm rays.
They sat under a tall elm, the shadows of the swaying leaves dancing on the tartan picnic blanket (it was only their first time using it - Crowley maintained that he had a real issue with ants and picnics in general, and there was no underlying meaning, no none at all) and with a wave and a thought, a wicker basket appeared. Aziraphale sat on the blanket across from Crowley, eyeing him curiously. He wanted to outright just ask if this was a date - not like dates they had before. A date that had a real word behind it, a real date. A date that had a label, since it appeared now that they perhaps also had a label. Things were open now, weren’t they?
Or, perhaps they weren’t.
Perhaps this was Crowley trying to placate Aziraphale.
Perhaps there was something untoward behind it-
The former angel wanted to shake himself. Where was this inane paranoia coming from? This was Crowley. Pain-in-his-arse, wicked, wonderful, considerate, caring, Crowley.
The red-haired demon watched the green fields afar, leaning back on his elbows, ankles crossed. The perfect picture of apparently being completely unbothered. But Aziraphale could see the sharp jaw was tensed, eyes narrowed just enough that he was very sure the infinite cogs were ticking over in Crowleys mind.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Well that certainly wasn’t the question Aziraphale had expected. He had to think for a moment.
“A… a while, I suppose.”
The basket flicked open, the rich and buttery smell of warm pastries instantly wafting over.
“Have at it.”
“Oh. Oh no I’m okay.”
Crowley half rolled over to stare at Aziraphale, “wot?”
His stomach didn’t grumble, yet his body wasn’t satiated either. It was a very empty feeling.
“Do demons not have an appetite?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley sat up straight rather quick, “are you pulling my leg?”
Aziraphale glanced down at one of the demons long legs but then realised what he meant and he shook his head, “no, no. I’m not joking, if that’s what you mean.”
“There is a warm, flaky pain au chocolat in there and I will set this field alight if it goes ignored,” he threatened lightly.
Aziraphale was about to comment on Crowleys complete lack of finesse when it came to temptation these days but decided against it and pulled the pastry out. It was indeed flaky and fresh and the smell was positively delightful. His body didn’t react the way he hoped but perhaps he just needed to actually eat it. Perhaps this new body just needed a little kickstart when it came to earthly indulgences.
The crunch of the pastry melted around his teeth, the chocolate barely oozy yet rich and dark, tongue tasting the butter and the sugar and-
“Oh my,” he mumbled around the mouthful. He was brought back to trying that ox rib, his first meal. Again, tempted into it by Crowley.
This was somehow far better.
Crowleys shoulders relaxed, and he laid down, “don’t ever scare me like that again, you bastard.”
Aziraphale swallowed and laughed, thumb swiping the chocolate he could feel on the corner of his mouth, “apologies. It’s wonderful. One sin ticked off from the handbook.”
Crowley groaned, “they don’t still do that do they? Dagon didn’t sit you down with that chart?”
Aziraphale snorted, “I was joking! Demon humour.”
It was just as bad as his angel humour, and far worse than his human humour.
Crowley rolled his eyes, “you don’t need to be a demon to check off those sins anyway. And humans do it all on their own.”
“And then some angels, if a demon has been tempting them into it for several millenia.”
“Oi, I have not.”
Aziraphale held up fingers as he ticked off, “gluttony.”
“Something tells me you would’ve succeeded in that one on your own-“
“Wrath.”
“Oh please, you have all the wrath of a butterfl-“
“Sloth, greed, pride. Most definitely experienced all of those.”
Crowley was interested now, sitting up properly, “greed and pride definitely blend into one when it comes to you and that bookshop. I’m not even going to touch sloth-“
“Envy.”
“You?” Crowley raised a brow, “envious? Of who?”
“A few things. You, your perception of the world. Humans, and their… their free Will. Don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.”
Crowleys mind was stuck on that first bit though, “me? No point of being envious of me, that’s just ridiculous.”
“Oh come on now,” Aziraphale frowned, “you may not have been free but you experienced a freedom I had no hope in achieving. And you could ask questions, granted you wouldn’t probably get answers, but just being able to ask-“
“You were doing your job! Unflinching loyalty and all that.”
“I’m sure some flinching occurred, considering I’m here now.”
Crowley pursed his lips at that.
Aziraphale pulled himself out of this conversation which was surely turning into an argument any moment.
“So you see, all your temptations were accomplished. You would have received golden stars on that chart.”
“Lust,” Crowley blurted out, “you forgot one. Guess you can pile it in with gluttony, if it’s more of the same to you.”
“It’s not,” Aziraphale replied just as quickly, “it’s not more of the same.”
Silence fell between them, both of their eyes diverted to some very interesting blades of grass or threads of tartan on the picnic blanket.
“So no full marks for me then. Only six gold stars.”
Aziraphale looked to him but Crowley was very interested in the blade of grass between his fingers.
“Are we… doing that thing where we’re both saying things but not really… saying… things?” It was convoluted and his cheeks reddened but he knew that Crowley knew exactly what he meant, for the shredded grass drifted to the blanket.
Crowley didn’t answer.
Aziraphale tried again, “Are you indirectly asking me if you’ve tempted me into lust?”
Still no answer.
Aziraphale huffed, “fine, I suppose you don’t want my answer then.”
“I never tried to tempt you with lust.”
“You didn’t need to try, you silly old thing.”
Crowleys brain and mouth attempted two different things which resulted in a ‘Ngk’ at the back of his throat and his pupils to blow out just enough that Aziraphale raised a challenging brow, “are you alright?”
“Hang on, what does that mean? I didn’t need to try? Try what? I just said-“
“Oh I know what you said. Did you understand what *I* just said?”
“More of an attempt of your ‘demon humour’?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, somewhat of an annoyed growl rumbling through his chest, “There was nothing funny about it at all.”
Crowley frowned at the noise, half wanting to laugh and yet just bewildered at the turn of conversation. He replayed it in his head, the words turning over.
You didn’t NEED to try…
“Ah- Oh. Oh. Wait, are you,” and he grinned, “are you flirting with me?”
“Honestly thousands of years as a demon and not just any old demon but a demon always by my side and you didn’t understand I was giving you a compliment? Stroking your ego, as it were? I honestly cannot tell if you’re being this naive on purpose or if you’re just trying to embarrass me!”
Crowleys grin widened at Aziraphales frustration, “oh dear, kitten's getting those claws out-“
“Oh for fuck sake, Crowley! You-"
“Oooh tetchy! Aziraphale that was some downright nasty language-"
And Aziraphale growled at him. A top tier, bottom of the chest to the front of his teeth growl that reverberated into the air between them, sending a very real chill down Crowleys spine.
They both blinked and then roared with laughter, Aziraphales cheeks reddening quickly as all ire turned to mirth, embarrassed at the little outburst but he couldn’t be at all angry when Crowley laughed like this - a true laugh that was not at all conventionally attractive (it was loud and rhythmless and snort-y) and yet the brightest and most beautiful vision he had seen and heard in a long, long time.
When they finally simmered down, Crowley scooched a little closer, “where were we?”
“Oh very good tactic,” Aziraphale commended him playfully, “we were discussing sin, and I was trying to tell you how you invoked lust without even trying. Before you tried discorporating me with embarrassment.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Invoked lust, hm?”
“Don’t be naive, you wily serpent. You own a mirror.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, “the packaging wasn’t exactly a choice.”
“No, but how you present it is,” Aziraphale murmured.
“Explain that to me.”
He was pushing buttons, he knew that. And where this confidence to push those buttons exactly came from, he wasn’t sure, or maybe he was - but if he actually took the time to sit back and realise this was possibly how it could be from now on, then perhaps that was setting the bar too high. Giving too much hope. A small, annoying niggling feeling set into the back of his mind but he was determined to squash it.
He had just got the angel back. They were, for the moment on their own side. Willingly.
Willingly? The small voice pressed and Crowleys jaw tightened. Fell willingly? I don’t think so.
Aziraphale didn’t notice the inner turmoil and instead answered the question, “well vanity is one of your strong points. I remember 1962 quite well, you know. Men flocked to you, women wanted to be you. Pleasing to the eye, but I had the advantage of knowing you even when those particular looks were cast aside. Quite attractive on all accounts.”
Crowley took a moment to catch up but then nodded slowly, “right, right. ‘62.”
“Rather fetching when the dress style was very short and your legs are very long. A turning point in fashion, I believe. Turned many heads, anyway.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Liar.”
“Honest!”
“Turned my head,” Aziraphale mumbled.
Crowleys negative inner voice was effectively silenced - he was fully immersed back into the conversation, digging through memories in a rush to remember.
“Really?” He asked in quiet awe, all teasing gone.
“Oh yes. Definitely felt Envy that day. Didn’t quite have the same confidence as you to show that much skin.”
“Dunno why not, you did just fine during the 1500’s.”
“Oh that was a different time-"
Crowley sighed in reminiscence, “The paintings… it was the only thing to improve one’s foul mood after the terrible two hundred years that preceded it.”
Aziraphale scoffed, “the paintings? You hated the paintings!”
“Not all of them, but cmon, Titian?”
Aziraphale sighed fondly as he remembered, “some lovely work.”
“Big fan of those muses, I was. I seem to remember one,” he clicked his tongue, “I went and saw Titian late September in 1517, temptation if I recall, went sifting through some of their ongoing work and seeing this absolutely heavenly muse, wearing not much except blue silk… dunno if that one ever came about…”
An odd noise and Aziraphale burned scarlet, remembering posing for that exact painting, the feminine body he presented himself in at the time was desired in many circles those days, though he didn’t understand why at the time. He was just doing Titian a minor miracle, a tiny blessing. He had no idea Crowley even knew about that particular painting.
Crowleys lip twitched and he looked over with nothing less than a devilish but indulgent grin, “the 1960s had nothing on 1517.”
“Oh lord,” Aziraphale covered his face, feeling himself glowing, “that painting was never meant to see the light of day.”
“It didn’t, if that makes you feel better. It stayed unfinished and only saw candlelight. Titian, me and you, it will be our little secret.”
“Still, it doesn’t detract from the fact that seven gold stars for seven deadly sins was certainly accomplished by you, bravo,” they’d come full circle and Aziraphale was very much done with having attention on him.
Crowley very gently slipped his cool hand into Aziraphales warm one. The former angel squeezed just enough to feel the dry yet smooth slide of Crowleys skin - no ridges from scales but certainly a similar and unusual feel.
Crowley wanted to just melt into the heat and turn into a puddle of serpentine goo, Aziraphale's hand was warmer than the usual human and softer, yet the usually perfectly manicured short nails were longer, just as manicured but pointed and sharp.
Crowley frowned as he noticed something, bringing their joined hands closer to his face, “what’s this?”
“Hm? Oh…”
Around Aziraphales pinky, where his gold ring had lived for an eternity, was a blackened scorched scar, the golden ring gone.
“Couldn’t hold onto something heavenly, you know, part of the process I assume… must’ve burned up when I… burned…” He tried to be matter of fact, tried to push past that odd feeling in his throat that threatened to choke him. He forced a smile which was empty of any happiness, “wouldn’t have suited me anymore anyway, I don’t even own any jewellery, would have been rather moot.”
Crowley brought the hand to his mouth and very softly with barely a whisper of pressure, kissed the scorched mark, causing Aziraphale to let out a soft noise of surprise that he quickly tried to stifle so it wouldn’t turned into the sob that was trying to creep its way into his voice.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley started gently, still holding his hand but letting it drop between them, “do you want to talk about it?”
He did not. Did not want to talk about any of it. The before, the during, the after. A part of him, that he didn’t acknowledge, was telling him to tell Crowley ‘you go first then, go on, tell me about how you fell and we can swap war stories’, but he knew that was just a part of him that was deeply hurt.
“I don’t. Not right now. I hope you understand.”
“I do. I do understand. Do you want to perhaps give me the very short version of what happened before it? What… caused it? I mean back in my day you just asked questions and then hung out with the wrong people but you… I mean you were trying to restore all the Good. You weren’t rebelling or anything. How could they do this?”
Ah. Hadn’t he? Hadn't he rebelled? Rebelled against The Plan?
But Crowley wanted the very short version, presumably the version that would at least put his mind at ease, so Aziraphale obliged.
“The short version my dear is that they wanted… in short, Armageddon. Again. But not the way you’d think… not heaven versus hell. It would be both factions against… everyone. The humans. All of it. The Second Coming, a very real Plan apparently. The more I learned, the more I… well I couldn’t do that. And angels were turning to me for advice, for guidance, and they couldn’t see a flaw in the plan! They thought it was the Right thing, that surely there was a Good reason…”
Crowley felt Aziraphale squeezing his hand tighter and simply squeezed back, holding on as the angel spoke and their eyes going a little wide with panic, “I… I did some research. Some snooping. Some… well I attempted some thwarting. But then Michael found out-“
Crowley hissed quite audibly at that and Aziraphale swallowed, “Michael was relentless. They’re corrupt,” he whispered, “in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”
Crowley snorted, blood boiling, “oh no, I can imagine it jusssst fine.”
“I was no match for Michael.”
“You fought Michael?! Oh Aziraphale,” he whined, knowing where that lead to.
“I was supreme archangel. I had the power of heaven in my hands. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing! But Michael is respected. Feared. Has allies and soldiers in places I couldn’t have ever imagined. No one believed what I had to say. Even the Metatron. So they passed down my sentence. Michael cut my halo using my own sword. P-Poetic, they probably thought…”
He couldn’t speak anymore, horror at the memory making him cringe, teeth gritting and Crowley sprung into action, shifting to kneel in front of Aziraphale and hug him tightly, too tight but it seemed to be the necessary glue to keep them both from falling apart.
Aziraphale's breathing came out in shudders into Crowleys neck and shoulder, gripping onto him and finding purchase in his jacket and the demon soothed him by rubbing circles into his back.
“S’okay, you’re here now. With me.”
Aziraphale nodded, trying to get his throat to produce words again, even just a ‘thank you’, but nothing came out. Just a horrible whine that caused Crowley's skin to ripple.
“It explains why we were able to come up here with no one bothering us from Down there,” he murmured, “they’re bloody terrified of you.”
“History repeating itself,” Aziraphale finally whispered, “that’s what Uriel said.”
It made perfect sense, if you stripped it down to just the bare actions.
Supreme archangel, doesn’t agree with The Plan, asks questions, won’t fall in line, gets cast down by Michael…
“Not like you tried gathering a full blown rebellious army though to storm heaven like last time with you-know-who though. I mean that was lunacy.”
“Oh yes I did try saying that, but as soon as I said His name, Michael was a thousand eyes and complete fury. Haven’t seen them that angry in a very long time. I hit a nerve, I’m sure.”
“I bet. One archangel is a thing, but three?” Crowley exhaled loudly through his nose, sitting back and watching Aziraphale, “and they still don’t get that they are the problem.”
A faint bell went off in Aziraphales mind and he frowned with a slow nod, “three?”
Dagon had mentioned there were already two that had fallen during the rebellion - Lucifer was a given, but then who was the other? Apart from the Morningstar, the other angels who fell were below that of an archangel, or so Aziraphale thought. Then again, he was a cherubim at that time, and learned long ago that he and 99% of the cohort were on a strict ‘need to know’ basis.
Crowley had slipped up. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit-
“Yeah. Something like that,” he shrugged as if it was absolutely no big deal, “don’t really remember.”
“Not one being has mentioned another fallen archangel except for you and Dagon. Which means that Hell knows and majority of Heaven doesn’t.”
Crowley didn’t like where this was going, “that’s probably for the best, isn’t it? Poor bastard is probably down there with Lucifer right now.”
Aziraphale's eyes flickered upward at the name, whether he realised it or not, knowing that just saying the name was absolutely forbidden. Well, forbidden for angels anyway.
Habits do indeed die hard.
Crowley was still strung as high as a harpsichord.
He forced himself to deflate, “anyway… look, bottom line is for the moment you’re safe. We’re safe. I’m sure Hell will come sniffing around, they always do, but we’ll be prepared. Or gone. Out of the way, at least. Only bit I'm concerned about is what’s going on Up There now that you’re gone… what’s their plan?”
Aziraphale sighed heavily, “I don’t know. I suppose my responsibilities will be pushed onto Uriel. Or Michael. They strike me as the type to self delegate.”
Crowley hissed with a vibration in his throat reminiscent of a hive being kicked forcefully, “let’s do usssss both a favour and not mention that angelic arseholesss name for the ressst of the day.”
Aziraphale looked to him, very gently gripping his chin between a thumb and forefinger, “deal. Don’t go getting yourself tied into a knot on account of them.”
The thing is, when Crowley forgot himself and got worked up, he could get carried away. Despite a half reasonable attempt to calm down, his quick forked tongue escaped his mouth and tasted Aziraphale's thumb of its own accord.
It tickled and Aziraphale hid a small snigger, letting his chin go, “perhaps we should make our way back, before I get constricted and the London Zoo gains a very dangerous beast.”
Crowley cleared his throat in embarrassment, getting to his feet in a rather slippery and unnatural way, trying to shake off the demonic surge bubbling beneath the surface. He held a scaly hand out to Aziraphale, who took it and got to his feet, brushing off his jumper from the flaky pastry.
“Want me to drive?”
Crowley hissed at him, which wasn’t nearly as intimidating as he had hoped, and for once Aziraphale didn’t tut him, in fact the former angel just laughed and snapped his fingers so their little setup was tucked away in the Bentley, ready for their journey home.