Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Crowley, this is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Crowley,” Anathema introduces as she gestures for Crowley to take a seat at the table opposite someone who Crowley can only describe as a pompous church boy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Crowley,” the man, name too long for Crowley to remember, says with a bright and sickeningly genuine smile. Crowley immediately turns to Anathema next to him, someone who he up until this moment had counted as not only a friend, but as someone who knew and understood him. 

Because the only reason he agreed to make this visit and come back down here to the Nutter foundation halfway home, on his day off on top of everything, was because she had begged him to help her. She’d even gone so far as to swear to heaven and hell that he and this man opposite him had a lot in common.

Well, call Crowley many things; bastard, asshole, self-absorbed son of a bitch, but do not call him unobservant or an idiot. Except, maybe calling him an idiot is justified every once in a while. The point is, though, that even he can string together enough brain cells to know that someone dressed in a cream (cream, urgh!) three piece suit with a tartan bowtie looking like the sun is shining up their ass and like they’re seconds away from telling you about the joys of earthly life and heavenly salvation is nothing like Crowley’s distressed skinny jeans, second-hand band tee, and face tattoo.

Anathema braves his questioning stare head-on, refusing to back down despite Crowley’s eyebrows going on an excursion toward his hairline. Not even the repeated glances thrown at the man make her budge. Instead, all Anathema gives him is a minute nod and Crowley lets out a sigh between clenched teeth.

“Sorry, is-is now not a good time?” the man asks carefully.

“Naah, ‘s splendid. Pleash to meet you and all that,” Crowley says with a wave of his hand as he sinks down into the offered chair and sprawls his legs out to the side of the small secondhand table they’re seated at. Gods, even the way the man sits is insufferable, like someone has jammed a rod up his goddamn ass.

“I’ll leave you to two to it then,” Anathema says, backing away with one final warning look at Crowley that makes his lips curl in annoyance. He can kiss any dinner invites over to hers and Newt goodbye for the foreseeable future if he fucks this up. Which would kind of suck because they make up half of the people Crowley’s met that doesn’t make him want to take a long walk off a short pier.

“So...” the man starts once the awkward silence reaches the suffocating stage on the scale of awkward silences. Pretty good, if you ask Crowley. He himself wasn’t planning on breaking it until they reached at least apocalyptic, but he had guessed this guy would crack at tepid.

“How do you know Mrs. Device?” Mr. holiness personified asks with a polite smile. He’s got a cup of tea in front of him that he has yet to take a sip from. Crowley himself has his a cup of take-out coffee that he had emptied before even stepping through the door but didn’t want to leave in the car. That’s how you got ants, you see.

“Anathema,” Crowley corrects with a shake of his head. “Don’t call her Mrs. Device. She’d hate it.” He tsks, sucking on his teeth as he realises that he’ll actually have to talk to this guy for at least a little while before Anathema would allow him to give up on this whole charade. Which means he’ll have to answer some questions. 

“Oh, right. I’ll-I’ll remember that,” the man opposite him replies with a small nod, his gaze suddenly falling to his lap. Crowley raises his eyebrows at him, once again questioning his choice of friends because honestly, he’d rather chop a finger off than be compared to someone so much like soggy toast.

“Well, if you have to know.” Crowley sighs. He hates this part of conversations, hates this part of being here. “Same way you do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Oh, for heaven’s— I’m saying I used to fucking live here, at the Nutter foundation’s halfway home in northeastern London,” Crowley says, not even bothering to keep the mocking tone out of his voice at the pretentious name and gesturing around himself toward the drab looking but undoubtedly beloved common room they’re currently seated in. 

Yeah, he’s spent many an afternoon sitting here.

“Oh! Well, Mrs. Devi— Anathema didn’t mention you when she showed me around,” the guy points out and Crowley actually turns around in his chair in search for Anathema because friendship be damned at this point. This guy cannot be that dense.

“Well, I don’t live here anymore, now, do I? Do I look like I’d live here— Ngk, fine, scratch that. But yeah, no, I don’t. I got out. You know, the whole point of places like this. Job, flat of my own, savings-fucking-account. The whole shebang!” he answers with a sarcastic bow that betrays nothing of the fact that he has worked his bloody ass off to get where he is today.

The church boy, man, lad, doesn’t have a reply to that. He simply just nods, looking around himself with a look of barely repressed discomfort. What’s even his deal? He doesn’t look like he’d roll with Crowley’s old crowd, nor does he look like one of the high rollers.

Maybe he’s one of the depressed ones, the ones whose story is oh-so-sad but oh-so-boooring. Maybe he has just gotten out of the clink. Crowley hoped not. They ate guys like him up in there from what he has heard. That’d be just as sad and depressing as the first alternative. Although now that he thinks about it, none of their stories are particularly happy.

But isn’t that the point of places like this?

That’s exactly why he hates going back here. He was fucking miserable when he lived here. His life was shit, pure, absolute horse shit. Sure, it was slightly better than the bottom of the barrel he had managed to crawl out of. Well, let’s be honest, had been graciously scraped out of by Newt. But it had still sucked. Homeless. Friendless. Pointless.

He should probably have some sympathy for this guy, huh?

“So, why’re you here then, Azrrrzzz...? He fumbles for the name, vaguely remembering a churchy vibe and possibly an f in there somewhere.

“Aziraphale,” the man, Aziraphale, supplies.

“Aziraphale. Why’d you end up here?” Crowley gives the other a small nod in thanks for the name.

“Well,” Aziraphale begins with a deep inhale and looks around himself as if the amateur art on the walls is going to give him the answer. “I— I’m not homeless or anything like that. Not technically, you see. I’m just... Well, I was given a-a mission, by Her lord Gabriel, to go out into the world— And well now...” he trails off, looking at Crowley as though he can somehow provide the answers.

“And now you’re...waiting for more information?” Crowley offers, trying to make sense of what is being told to him.

“No, I’m quite sure what is expected of me,” Aziraphale reassures him with a gentle raise of his hands. “I’m just— Well, they didn’t explain exactly where they wanted me to go or when they’d pick me back up again. But Anathema offered I could stay here until I had that all figured out.”

Crowley nods slowly.

So, a fortnighter then? Not exactly rare. A bed, a warm place to stay, and access to food and water are things that can get a lot of people about to fall down back on their feet. But Anathema never asks him to come to see fortnighters. In fact, she’s only ever asked him to come to the group therapy sessions housed here before to share some of his story. He’s never been asked to see anyone one-on-one before. No, something else is going on here.

“What kind of mission did they give you then?” Crowley asks, testing the waters. Talks of missions are usually, well, either missionary work or psychosis, and the former of those options seemed spot on for the guy. Cult runaway then?

“To do good and spread goodness to all my fellow humans.” Aziraphale’s entire face shines up as he answers, any signs of doubt and confusion disappearing in an instant. It’s unnerving to witness, to say the least.

“Cool,” Crowley replies, letting the vowel linger in his mouth for a long moment before he clicks his teeth shut and draws in a deep breath through his nose. “In the name of the lord?”

“Yes. Oh, do you know of Her?” Aziraphale asks, leaning forward in excitement. Crowley matches him by leaning equally as far back in his seat. Sure, he might not have been keen on this little meeting before, but he certainly isn’t now. No, he’s been thoroughly un-keened.

“Our God who art in heaven?” he asks and Aziraphale gives an encouraging nod. “I’ve heard a thing or two about— Was it Her you said?” Crowley raises a questioning eyebrow and makes up his mind that if this guy is about to fucking preach at him then he’s just going to leave. Anathema would understand. Anathema would have his back.

“Yes! Oh, great! Oh, that’s absolutely wonderful! You understand then?” Aziraphale sounds so relieved that Crowley finds himself giving the other a polite nod despite not understanding at all what the fuck he’s going on about.

“Well, you see, I am, am, a Cherub and, well, I-I was supposed to ascend to Seraph but— My— Not that it matters, but my f-father fell and— You understand. But I was supposed to be a Seraph. Her lord Gabriel has been mentoring me since my tenth year to ensure I don’t stray but now I’m, well... I-I’m here and— Well, this sort of work is the work of a Principality.” Aziraphale’s hands are so tightly fisted where he’s holding them against his chest his knuckles have gone white. He looks both hopeful and desperate. A dangerous mix. 

“Right,” Crowley says slowly.

“Right! And well, here we have one in the flesh. So, please,” Aziraphale says, his hands reaching out toward Crowley who promptly feels every part of him hit the emergency brakes. 

“Woah! Me? Me?! A Principal— HA! Me?!” he gapes, pointing at himself in disbelief. “This guy?” His fingers circle his face before zeroing in on the tattoo of a fucking snake slithering up toward his temple.

“You’re not- not a Principality?” Aziraphale asks softly, hope quickly draining from his eyes.

“Decisively not,” Crowley answers with a shake of his head and a grimace. “Nooope. Nuh-uh.”

Oh.” Aziraphale practically deflates in front of him, all the air having gone out of him at once as he literally shrinks in his chair. “But-but you know of Her,” he argues weakly.

“The whole world knows of Her. Well, most people would call Her Him but that’s not the point. Knowing that God or whoever the fuck exists,” Crowley puts his best verbal bunny ears that he can achieve into the word, “doesn’t mean fucking shit.”

“But you know of Her grace, of Her kindness and Her goodness. You know Her who is holy. Holy! How could you not—”

Crowley cuts Aziraphale off before the other can truly get going.

“Petty easy. She’s done fuck all for me during my entire miserable existence and I’m not about to start thanking Her for that just because some wannabe, Cherub, was it, gets his rocks off to the thought of Her divine wrath raining down on poor sods like me or whatever it is that gets you lot going,” Crowley sneers and decides that, yup, that was the straw. He’s not going to sit here listening to some fucking missionary kid who needs a place to crash for a few days before some priest in a van can come pick him up.

He gives the guy a sarcastic wave as he gets out of his seat, ignoring the way the other is grasping at the air for something to say.

“I’ll tell Anathema we’re done,” Crowley says with a nod.

“Wait! No! No, please don’t go,” Aziraphale pleads, getting out of his chair as well. “Please, I don’t know what to do!”

“Well, go ask that Gabriel guy,” Crowley suggests.

“I tried! He— They— I think—” Aziraphale doesn’t finish a single one of his statements, instead rounding the table and desperately reaching out for Crowley who matches each step with an equally long stride back of his own. “I have nowhere to go.”

“You’re here,” Crowley says and spreads his arms. “And that will have to be enough, little angel. Because guess what? Your God is not getting you out of this one. You’ll have to part this sea yourself.”

And with that, Crowley is off. He throws one last sarcastic salute Aziraphale’s way before he leaves. The look of absolute despair on the guy’s face sears itself right into his mind and punches a hole straight through the ironclad chest he’s forged for himself.

“I’m not about to sit there and let this guy turn me into some fucking charity project for his cult,” he hisses at Anathema when the other exits the small employee office with a look of betrayal and a gesture Aziraphale’s way.

And he means it. He’s fucking not going to allow that. He’s fought tooth and nail to get out of this fucking place and while yeah, sure, he might feel generous enough to share some of the realisations he’s come to with the residents here, he’s not getting personally involved with anyone. And especially not someone like that, with so much love and acceptance and goodness it makes every part of Crowley’s skin crawl. 

He knew the ugly truth that hid behind all of that, and he’s not falling for that shit again.

So why can’t he get that fucking look out of his head? Why can’t he get the sight of Aziraphale staring at him as though the ground was literally falling out from beneath his feet from playing over and over again in his mind? Why can he recognize the way every single expression that fitted across the idiot’s face at that exact moment? Why does he know how it feels on his brow and how it aches on his cheeks?

He slams the door to the Nutter foundation halfway home with enough force to have it swing back open behind him again and doesn’t bother closing it properly. Instead, he simply stalks down the path to the front gate, ignoring the looks of the other residents and volunteers following him each step of the way. 

The handle of his car, his darling Bentley, is cool against the white-hot rage that burns inside him. Her soft leather seats and the familiar feel of her wheel in his hands do nothing to cool him down. Not even the gentle purring of her engine can shake away the nagging guilt hiding deep in his sternum behind the anger and disgust.

Because of course, he knows that look. He has fucking worn it too, in that very same drab and oh-so-beloved common room. He fucking knows it feels like dying, shittier even, to realise that yeah, oh fucking yeah, everything you’ve ever known is gone and everyone who was supposed to be there for you, all those bastards, have just tossed you straight into oncoming traffic and they’re not even interested in watching the crash play out because it matters piss all to them if you make it out alive or not. He knows what it’s like to hit rock bottom so hard you leave a fucking crater behind.

“FUCK!” he roars, punching the seat next to him with enough force to have his hand hurt before putting the Bentley in reverse, hooking his arm around the headrest to crane his neck to see behind himself, and reversing out with more speed and less caution than is advisable.

He’ll call Anathema later to apologise and tell her he’ll be back Thursday evening.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was born on a Wednesday. The particular date of his birth was recorded purely out of a necessity to uphold the laws of the country he happened to be born in. However, like every member of Eden, he disregarded the notion of birthdays and instead aged together with his fellow angels on Resurrection Sunday, the anniversary of the resurrection of God’s first child, or Easter Sunday, as it is more commonly known.

He received his God-given name Aziraphale on the Holy Eve, also known as Christmas Eve outside the walls of Eden, of his fifth year of living, as is customary. The name was meant to reflect both goodwill and strength, two qualities the adults in his life deemed him in great need of.

A month later, Aziraphale discovered the sin of lying after he had given away his Holy scripture to one of the village kids playing too close to the Garden and whom, he believed through newfound purpose given by his God-given name, he could help be embraced into Her arms.

But as the reaction of the adults around him worsened, young Aziraphale realised that maybe giving away something holy might not actually be a good thing to do, but a bad one. And if it’s a bad one, it would be better to just pretend it hadn’t happened and make up a story about losing it instead.

Coincidentally, that was also the last time he spoke to his mother.

This, he claims, did not affect him at all.

During his tenth year, Her lord Gabriel was transferred over from the Saint Lewis Garden and instated as the supreme Archangel of the Harrow Garden, and Aziraphale’s life once again found purpose. He had always been in danger of succumbing to the evils of the world due to his genetic predisposition. His father, who had fallen not long before Aziraphale’s birth and thereby left Eden, was never spoken of but constantly referred to, and at the prime old age of ten Holy Eves under his belt, Aziraphale had been more than ready to accept the influence of a transcendent Archangel.

During his thirteenth year, he had started his training to become a Cherub and during the Holy eve of his fifteenth year, he had gone through the ceremony accompanied only by the seven Archangels of the garden. 

For as it happened to be, not only was he predestined to a life of constant vigilance courtesy of his fallen father, but he had also happened to be born during an unblessed year, very much also courtesy of his father who had unwisely convinced his mother to keep the child with the idealistic intention of escaping Eden together. A quick ascension into Archangel for Aziraphale’s mother had thrown quite the unmovable sabot in that machinery.

The Gardens of Eden believed that it took a village to raise a child, and thus made sure to arrange a whole village worth of children to be raised at once. All births were meticulously arranged to take place at intervals of five years and any miracles that happened to take place between those five years were swiftly taken care of unless purposely concealed. 

Aziraphale, born two years after the most recent Blessed year and three years before the next, managed to always be slightly too old or too young for his peers and thus found himself in solitary schooling, solitary living quarters, and with the solitary, undivided attention of his mentors.

For all his hardships, one might think him miserable. The contrary is, however, true. Aziraphale has always been known as a cheerful and bright member of the heavenly host of the Garden. He’s always there to help out his fellow angels and he never questions the higher authorities. He speaks to the new recruits as though they’re long-standing pillars of the host, takes on any task asked of him, and readily sinks to his knees for each prayer and holy offering.

His faith has always been wholehearted, impressionable, and bordering on naïve, which is why it came to no one’s surprise except Aziraphale’s own that he had been asked to pack his bags, guided to one of the Garden’s cars, dropped off by the Harrow-on-the-Hill station, and instructed by Her lord Gabriel to wait there until he is once again collected by his superiors.

Needless to say, there never was such a pickup arranged.

But Aziraphale is a man of routine, and he’s not going to let something as small as losing everything he’s ever had and his life as he knows it abruptly ending stop him from going on as usual.

Which is why he still wakes up at the morning bell in preparation for the day, although the five strikes of the bell that used to ring out over the Gardens have now been replaced with a cheap alarm clock. He still cleans himself thoroughly, inside and out, and spends a few extra minutes trying to tame his blond curls.

He still prays during the communal morning prayer, even though his community now mostly consists of the morning volunteers sleepily watching him recite his verses and sing his psalms in the garden of the Nutter foundation halfway home in northeastern London through the kitchen windows and Madam Tracy next door waving at him as she collects her morning newspaper. After, he partakes in a modest morning meal as he always has.

He still tackles his chores for the days with the same gusto as usual, although the hours spent by Her lord Gabriel’s side overseeing the minutiae of his life and arranging things so that nothing is missed or overlooked (and lately, training the new Cherubs in taking over once Aziraphale ascends to Seraph) have been exchanged for offering to help with the dishes, cleaning, and filling in whatever paperwork Anathema requires him to fill in. 

He prays during the midday rest as he has been brought up to do, arranges for his return to the square in front of the Harrow-on-the-Hill station where he waits until Anathema’s partner Newt gets off work and gently coaxes him into his strange three-wheeled car and drives him back to the halfway home in an awkward silence that doesn’t quite manage to drown out Aziraphale’s strained breathing, and then enjoys his evening meal and his private endeavours.

His private endeavours consist of his journal. He started journaling seventeen years prior after first having met Her lord Gabriel and having the Archangel suggest to him that he write down his thoughts and actions to better track what he did that was good and what he did that was evil. Her lord Gabriel had himself been in the habit of doing just so when he had first joined Eden, and considering his splendid track record of being one of the few Archangels who were not a child of Eden his word has been equal to that of Hers in Aziraphale’s young, receptive ears.

Even his temporary exclusion from his Garden has not stopped him from keeping on top of his prolific journaling habit. After all, life outside of the safe walls of the Garden seems to offer a multitude of new challenges that he has no one to commune with about. Which is why it is of utmost importance that he records his life here.

Tonight, however, his journaling time will unfortunately have to be cut short due to yet another visit from Crowley. It had come as a surprise to Aziraphale when he had first heard about it the morning after their first meeting when he had once again calmed down and reassured himself that She would not abandon him, but now he sees it for what it is.

His chance to return to his Garden.

For what holier and better act could there be than one of welcoming a non-believer, someone who has heard of Her grace and glory yet rejected her, to life in the Garden and eternal peace in Eden? None that Aziraphale can think of.

And once he has saved and blessed Crowley, Her lord Gabriel would make true of his promise and take him back to the Garden and he would ascend to Seraph just like he is supposed to.

An Archangel would never commit the sin of lying or deception after all, so there simply has to be something unsaid in Gabriel’s instructions. No matter. Aziraphale is more than used to finding the hidden meaning, the secret requests, in his instructions by now. He is exceptionally well versed at it according to the other Angels at the Garden, one of the most trustable angels there ever has been.

You can always count on Aziraphale to bend backward to do Her bidding, to go the extra mile, to push through any and all doubts for the sake of goodness and the adoration of his host, his home. You can always count on him. He has made sure of it. He has worked his fingers bloody and given everything he has for his God and his mentor, every single ounce of his strength and goodwill.

He’s not about to give up on that habit either.

Crowley is already waiting for him at the same small table as the last time they met when Aziraphale steps into the common room after Anathema. Aziraphale makes sure to thank her deeply for collecting him before making his way over to the table with a smile and a wave.

Crowley responds by lazily lifting a hand and nodding toward the chair opposite him. He is just as mannerless as Aziraphale remembers, draped over rather than sitting in his seat and wearing his sunglasses indoors.

“Sup,” comes the equally as mannerless greeting.

“Good day to you too,” Aziraphale replies as he sits down and folds his hands in his lap. He doesn’t have anything to drink today, he has already partaken in one cup of tea this week after all. Crowley, however, doesn’t seem to have any issues indulging in his vices considering he’s brought yet another nearly empty takeout cup with him.

Oh, there he goes again, needlessly judging people. He really must get his thoughts back under control. He’s never going to get back in Her good grace if he keeps this up. Crowley is simply in need of guidance, not judgement.

“I was delighted to hear you wished to meet again,” Aziraphale expresses genuinely,” I thought, perhaps— Given how our last meeting ended...” He leaves the rest of his statement unsaid, feeling rather ashamed over how he had reacted last time. Of course, it had been silly of him to expect help from someone like Crowley. It is clear now that obviously, it’s the other way around. Ultimately, Aziraphale has been sent out here to aid and bless those not yet touched by Her grace.

“Oh, yeah, well,” Crowley begins with an indecisive shake of his head. “Look, I wanted to apologise for running out on you when—”

“No matter!” Aziraphale quickly interjects, feeling his heart speed up at the prospect of doing good. “I forgive you.” He is very good at forgiveness. One of the best among the Cherubs at Harrow Garden.

Crowley raises an astonished eyebrow at him before clicking his tongue and turning away to look somewhere behind Aziraphale’s right shoulder. Aziraphale turns to follow his gaze, finding Anathema there giving Crowley one of her stern looks, the one she gives Aziraphale when he starts talking about Her too much.

He’s not allowed to convert anyone while he’s living under the Nutter foundation’s roof, she has told him countless times.

And he’s forgiven her every time because he’s not trying to do something as predatory as converting someone. He’s blessing them. He’s saving them. Surely someone like her, who runs a business solely based around helping those in need, would understand that. If he could just get through to her!

But well, one thing at a time. His number one priority is sitting here right in front of him after all, ripe for the plucking. 

No. No, that’s a horribly selfish way of thinking about this. He is doing this for Crowley’s sake. He can’t think of it in terms of self-indulgence. He is simply doing what he was put on this earth to do, what he has been reared and taught to do, what he’s embraced, and what he loves.

“Nice of you,” Crowley says with a strained smile. “But, uuurgh, Az-Azri— Angel, why don’t you tell me more about yourself? Like, I dunno, how old are you?”

“I’m in my twenty-seventh year,” Aziraphale replies with a bright smile, happy to hear Crowley is showing him some interest. Oh, it must already be working!

“Well, that’s one way to say it,” Crowley grumbles under his breath before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. “‘Bout to hit thirty myself next year,” he says. Oh, oh, Crowley is younger than Aziraphale expected. Considering the hardened look in his, well, sunglasses and the weary attitude Aziraphale was expecting him to be closer to Uriel in age in her Fortieth year of living.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley groans, curling his nose at Aziraphale. “I know what I look like. No need to rub it in.” His tone is tired but there is a smile playing on his lips that he hides behind a sip of his take-out coffee as Aziraphale begins spluttering out apologies.

“Okay, your turn,” Cowley says once the cup is back down on the table and Aziraphale has swallowed down the guilt in his chest once again. He’s not doing a very good job at this, is he?

“My turn?” Aziraphale asks carefully.

“Fire away.” Crowley gestures to himself. “I’m sure you must have something bouncing around in that pretty head of yours, Angel.”

“Questions, you mean?” Aziraphale tries not to think about how the way the word Angel coming from the other’s lips makes everything feel just a little better, a little more familiar. Crowley nods and Aziraphale mimics the motion.

“Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?” he asks.

“Light sensitivity. What’s with the bowtie?” Crowley shoots back without a second of hesitation. Aziraphale looks down at himself, instinctively reaching up to make sure his bowtie isn’t crooked.

“Our Garden receives many generous donations from our new recruits as a thank you for saving them. The clothes go to those of the host who have yet to ascent to a rank where it is safe for them to face the outside world, and, well.” Aziraphale smooths a hand down his waistcoat and feels the well-worn edges with his thumbs. He’s had this particular suit for seven years now, had mended it himself when it was first gifted to them, and has since added to it over the years with more finds. “Some of the newer recruits battle ever so fiercely with vanity.”

And a three-piece suit is not vain?” Crowley chuckles.

“Certainly not!” Aziraphale defends, arms tightening around his middle protectively. “It was entrusted to us, if you have to know, by an older dear woman whose husband had sadly passed away before her salvation, and she was ever so upset at the thought that it would go unappreciated.”

Crowley cocks his head at him, an expression Aziraphale can’t quite read slowly smoothing out his face. He nods, saying nothing as Aziraphale once again smooths his hands down the waistcoat.

“It’s the only garments I own outside of my ceremonial robes. We are asked to not take more than we need,” Aziraphale continues to explain as he fixes the lapels of his jacket, before looking back up at Crowley. The other is holding his coffee cup by the lid, slowly swirly what surely can’t be more than a mouthful of coffee still there before raising it to his mouth and taking another sip.

“Don’t own much then, I assume.”

“I have all I need,” Aziraphale answers, interlacing his hands in his lap again.

“What’s your favourite thing that you own?” Crowley asks as he leans forward in interest. Aziraphale blinks, something warm blossoming in his chest at the sudden interest taken in him. No one has ever asked him that before.

Not that anyone would be obliged to. They’re all equal in Eden, or well, as equal as one could be in God’s blessed hierarchy. As a Cherub, or just Angel as he had been before that, he had not proven himself strong enough to withstand the temptations of the world outside the Garden. As a Seraph, he would be allowed to accompany the Archangels and other Seraphs outside the Garden and slowly be trusted not only with money but also with material possessions.

He had quite looked forward to it. Her lord Gabriel’s quarters had always left him in wonder whenever he was called for a visit. The food, the soft fabrics, the books. Oh, how he envied the books.

No, not envied. Of course not. He simply...saw the blessings bestowed upon those with faith strong enough to best even the most corrupting of temptations and it had simply deepened his resolve to one day reach the same conviction himself. Nothing more. Of course not. He would never do something as sinful as envy.

So, to be safe, he should simply tell Crowly he did not have something as foolish as a favourite possession. That showed greed and pride. Dreadful things both of them.

But it would also be lying.

“I...” he begins, chest burning at the encouraging little hum Crowley gives him. “I have this book,” he blurts out, fingers twitching in his lap as he leans in so that he doesn’t have to speak so loudly. “It’s-it’s a science fiction book,” he reveals with a small giggle, heart pounding in his chest.

“And, pray tell, what is it called?” Crowley asks, leaning in even closer and giving Aziraphale a look from over the top of the frame of his sunglasses. His eyes are golden brown, almost amber, and his pupils are blown wide like those of soon-to-be Cherubs having drunk the true blood of Christ for the first time.

Aziraphale quite forgets what he’s talking about for a moment.

“Doctor Who. The resurrection Casket, he says with a small noise of excitement once he’s got his wits about him again. 

“Doct— HA! Doctor who? The Doctor Who?! The—” Crowley makes a whooshing sound, “With the—” This time he holds out his hand, mimicking pointing something at Aziraphale as he lets out a high-pitched sound.

“The sonic screwdriver,” Aziraphale supplies, happy to be of help.

“You’re allowed to read that?” Crowley asks and at once the happy warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest implodes into an icy ball of guilt. He looks away, the air suddenly feeling a little thinner around him.

“Well, not technically—”

“Oooh, you’re baaad, Angel,” Crowley hisses in delight before shaking his head with a laugh as he leans back in his chair. “HA! Fucking brilliant.”

“No! No, you mustn’t say that!” Aziraphale pleads, reaching out for Crowley as though he can somehow catch the words that still hang in the air around them and stuff them right back into that smug grin. “I— It’s— It’s wrong I know but— It was a gift! A gift, you see. And I couldn’t— It would have been right to—”

“Relaaax, Angel. No one will know,” Crowley says with a shake of his head, expertly catching Aziraphale’s hands as they get a little too close to him and diverting them back to Aziraphale.

“But you know,” Aziraphale protests weakly as he grabs his forearms and squeezes hard.

“I’m not telling anyone.” Crowley shrugs. “Not as if that Gabriel’s going to find out from me. And I assume you’ve never told him either,” he adds with a pointed arch of his eyebrows. Aziraphale gives a guilty nod at that. “See. No harm, no foul.”

“But it’s wrong,” Aziraphale tries to explain. Surely Crowley can understand that, can understand that Aziraphale can’t be doing things that are wrong. He’s about to become a Seraph and if he slips up now well then...

Then...

He quite wishes he had a cup of tea, actually.

“Says who?! Not me. I say enjoy that shit. I used to love Doctor Who when I was a little squirt,” Crowley says and empties the last of his coffee. “So, who’s your favourite doctor?”

Aziraphale blinks, not following where this conversation is going at all. Is he supposed to have a favourite doctor? He guesses if he has to pick one, he’ll pick Doctor Raphael. He helped set Aziraphale’s arm after that quite embarrassing tumble down the stairs one time, that had been no one’s fault but Aziraphale’s own for not watching where he was going. Had he been, he wouldn’t have tripped over the Cherub’s feet. Doctor Raphael also used to hold Aziraphale’s hand when he had one of his little episodes before Gabriel came around and started helping him instead.

“Doctor Raphael,” he answers.

Crowley frowns, eyebrows practically disappearing behind his round sunglasses. Then he opens his mouth as if to say something before licking his lips and pushing his sunglasses further up on his nose.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he asks.

“No?” Aziraphale carefully tests, looking at Crowley to see if that’s the correct answer. Crowley gives a little nod and Aziraphale feels his resolve settle back into place once again. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, what does the doctor look like? The one in your book,” Crowley asks next with an arch of his eyebrows.

“Well, he’s... Tall, brown hair. Sort of—” Aziraphale gestures Crowley’s way. The man on the cover does share some of Crowley’s thinness, longness, and wildness. Thin, long nose. Thin, long limbs. Hair that would probably quiver in fear if it saw a brush. Although maybe it would be the other way around.

“Eleven then, I assume,” Crowley says mostly to himself as he pulls up his phone. He taps away at it for a moment that Aziraphale spends looking anywhere except the phone. He knows better than to be curious. Gabriel had quite disliked it when Aziraphale had wanted to know what was going on on Her Lordship’s phone.

“This bloke?” Crowley asks, thrusting the phone Aziraphale’s way the next moment. On it are a bunch of pictures of a man that Aziraphale assumes matches his description standing next to a woman with hair red enough to rival Crowley and sometimes another meek-looking man. But it’s not the same man as the one on Aziraphale’s book.

He shakes his head.

“What was the story called again?” Crowley asks, pulling back his phone.

“Doctor Who. The Resurrection Casket,” Aziraphale supplies.

“The...res...ssurr— How many ‘r’ are there in there?” Crowley asks as he looks up at Aziraphale.

“Four.” One in doctor and three in resurrection.

Crowley frowns, looking back down at his phone in confusion.

“Four? And how many ‘s’?”

“Two, all in all. Look, I could just show you,” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley levels him with a look Aziraphale can’t read before shrugging and handing the phone over with a sound that Aziraphale assumes means agreement. 

With a hesitant smile, Aziraphale takes the phone, frowning briefly at the half-typed “the ressurrection casc” in the little search bar on the screen before standing up and gesturing for Crowley to come along. 

He keeps the phone carefully held between his two hands as he climbs the stairs up to the room he has been assigned, not quite sure why Crowley wanted him to hold it but more than happy to help. He can hear Crowley’s footsteps follow behind him and the little noises he seems to be constantly making, as if he’s talking out loud to himself but not loud nor clear enough for anyone else to discern what he’s saying.

He carefully places the phone down on his bedsheets, ignoring how Crowley immediately pockets it and how the question “Then why did you give it to me?” pops up in his mind, and kneels down on the ground to reach under his bed.

There, in the far corner under his bed and in the knapsack that he had packed of his belongings, is the book. It’s hidden under four older copies of his journal that he throws up on the bed haphazardly before his fingers close around the spine and he slowly pulls it out.

A sudden thought hits him. What if this is all a trap, a way to make him admit to not only having possessions when he’s not supposed to but also lying about it and concealing it? What if Crowley is actually a member of the host of Eden, an Archangel he doesn’t know about who’s here to test him, to see if he’s worthy of ascension?

What if Crowley knows his mother and he’s supposed to ascend to Seraph in her Garden? And instead, he’s once again ruining it all by lying, by being stupid and silly. What if it is like they say, and there really is something wrong with him?

“You’re... Are you one of God’s children?” Aziraphale asks, turning to look at Crowley. The book is still hidden, still stuffed into the very bottom of his knapsack and tucked in under the bed. Archangels can’t lie. That’s one of their very core values. That’s why it had sometimes been a little difficult to be around Her lord Gabriel because he couldn’t lie and well... Aziraphale had always been a little too soft, a little too...himself.

“Nah! Nuh-uh.” Crowley sticks his tongue out as if the question had left a bad taste in his mouth. “If anything, I’d be on the side of the demons. Except, well.” He shrugs, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his skinny jeans. “Prolly I’d just be on my own side,” he mumbles.

“Oh! Good.” Aziraphale shines up and pulls out the book. The cover is hidden behind brown wrapping paper of the same sort that he’s carefully wrapped his holy scripture in, just in case anyone happens to catch a glimpse of the book, but it doesn’t take long to work the thick cover paper free and pull off the makeshift dust sleeve.

“Tada!” He shows off the book with a bright smile, holding it up so Crowley can see it better. 

“Ooooh, the tenth doctor!” Crowley blurts out as he bends at the knees to pluck the book from Aziraphale’s still trembling fingers. “And Rose! Fucking hell, huh.” He turns the book around, quickly browsing the backside before flipping through it with impatient fingers.

He stops about halfway through, frowning and beginning to flip through it again, slower this time.

“You annotated it?” Crowley asks, nodding toward the pages. There are many layers of annotation in there, new ones added every time Aziraphale would dare to secretly read through it again over the years.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale nods, still kneeling on the ground. He quite likes it here. It feels almost familiar. It certainly helps with the guilt in his middle. Ready to repent at a moment’s notice! That’s him, after all. 

“Why do you do that?” Crowley asks, brows frowning when Aziraphale looks up at him.

“Annotate? I find it helps to organise one’s thoughts—”

“No, not that. The pinching,” Crowley says and grabs Aziraphale by the arm to practically drag him to sitting on the bed before grasping his right arm and beginning to push his sleeves up. “Look, you can tweak all you want but not while you’re fucking staying here, okay? I know a few safe places I can show you where...”

The silence grows around them as Crowley manages to push Aziraphale’s sleeve far enough to reveal the patchwork of red, purple, yellow, and green bruises left behind by Aziraphale’s fingers that litter his forearm.

Shame immediately bubbles up in Aziraphale, his breath getting caught in his throat. He hadn’t meant for the other to notice. He had gotten so good at hiding it that no one but Gabriel knew about it back at the Garden. He had assumed no one would out here either but, well, it seems more and more like everything Aziraphale knows has become moot outside of the tall walls of Eden.

He wants to explain, to make it clear to Crowley that it’s for the best if he does this, if he punishes the bad thoughts when they happen. Repentance, forgiveness. He’s quite good at doing it but he’s never been particularly good at earning it so he needs to do his very best. His very, very best. And the pitching helps. Soft flesh taken hard between rough fingers, squeezed, and manipulated until bruises bloom. Arms, stomach, thighs, backside. Anything that would remind him of the sins he is not yet strong enough to resist.

Crowley is carefully inspecting the inside of his elbow, pulling at the unbruised skin there before suddenly whipping his glasses off and taking Aziraphale’s head in his hands. He pulls him close. His large, ember eyes take in every detail.

“Eyes open,” Crowley commands, thumbs pulling on Aziraphale’s cheek under his eyes as Aziraphale does his best not to blink. Crowley’s pupils are different sizes, he realises now that they’re this close. They are still blown too wide for the middle of the day, but maybe that’s just because of the sunglasses. They don’t seem to be contracting to adjust for the light streaming in from Aziraphale’s window though.

Suddenly, his view shifts as Crowley bends his head back to inspect his nose of all things. Aziraphale blinks, hands once again subconsciously moving to his forearms to give the flesh there a squeeze. The pain makes thinking a little easier and makes the air flow a little smoother into his lungs.

He can’t afford to have another episode here. It had been bad enough after Crowley’s first visit where no amount of pacing or reciting of prayers had seemed to do the trick. If he has another one, Anathema might forbid Crowley from seeing him, and then... Well, who is Aziraphale supposed to save then?

“Open wide,” Crowley orders next, manipulating Aziraphale’s head into an uncomfortable not quite looking straight ahead but also not quite looking down position and inspecting the inside of his mouth.

“I assume I won’t have to check the back of your knees,” Crowley mumbles a second later as he lets Aziraphale go and puts some space back between them. His sunglasses are back on his nose a second later, the other shrugging as he looks awkwardly around the room.

Aziraphale is left with his mouth hanging open, fingers pinching and squeezing at his forearms until Crowley slaps his hands away with an irritated sigh. Aziraphale clicks his teeth shut and focuses on all the good things he’s done today. But they seem to be quite few and insignificant now that he thinks about it, quite foolish even.

Helping with the dishes. Asking about everyone’s day. Organising the small bookshelf downstairs according to the Dewey Decimal System. Appreciating Her creation in the yard. Praying.

Things like that don’t even peg the needle. It does nothing in the grand scheme of things. In fact, now that Aziraphale thinks about it, all of it is quite self-serving, isn’t it? He only did it so he could have something good to write down. It isn’t as though he can do good just on his own. He always has to force it, always has to control it. Because when he does things, just does things, it always ends up like this with people annoyed and irritated with him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, twisting his hands in the bedsheets when they want to go for his thighs next. He’ll have to find a new way to remind himself to do good, one that doesn’t upset Crowley like this.

“No, nonono. Don’t even— Don’t go there.” Crowley shakes his head with a deep sigh before rubbing his face, somehow managing to not disturb his shades. Aziraphale nods, the ball of guilt growing even bigger in his chest. He wants to get out of here, to pace, to recite his prayers until everything feels far away and okay again and he’s earned his forgiveness. But he doesn’t think Crowley would appreciate that.

“I’m sorry I— Nnngh,” Crowley growls, ruffling his hair in annoyance. “Look, Anathema is important to me and she’s already risked enough for one idiotic junkie.” He gestures to himself before suddenly standing up. Aziraphale bites down on his bottom lip and blows out a long breath through his nose.

“That’s not right either. I’m doing this all— FUCK!”

The sudden outburst had Aziraphale flinching, his hands automatically coming up to shield himself. He knows he must have done something to deserve it if Crowley is to get physical with him but it’s oh-so unpleasant every time it happens. It makes him feel so, so, awful to know he’s tempted someone so badly into Wrath that they’re taking it out on the people around them.

Well, at least if Aziraphale is the one on the receiving end then no one of importance has to come to harm.

Small comforts, or however the saying goes.

He can’t quite remember right now. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to think, like something thick is pressing down over his brain. Like after he has been given the true blood of Christ but without the comforting knowledge that Gabriel is there to take care of him. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, like a blockade at the back of his throat. He holds back the urge to gag. Gabriel doesn’t like it when he gags.

“No. no, no shit. Shitshitshitshit shit!”

Crowley’s face suddenly appears in front of him, eyebrows high on his forehead and face open and unguarded. It’s quite an odd look on him, like his face is unused to wearing it. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is quite used to the way his jaw is clenching so hard it hurts and his eyes refuse to blink because blinking will make the wetness well up along his tear duct and start rolling down his cheeks. He’s quite used to the chipped breaths barely making their way past his nostrils and the nails cutting into the palms of his hands.

“Look, I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself, alright. Because I keep fucking this up and— Oh fuck now is not the right time, you dickhead. Look, Aziraphael—

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale squeaks and bites his tongue as he tries to hold back the whimpers that are sure to follow. He’d quite like to be left alone right now. He’s not going to be able to hold it back much longer and this is quite embarrassing now, isn’t it? He’s quite embarrassing to be around.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats with a nod, hands held up where Aziraphale can see them. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you, and I’m sorry for making you feel like that,” Crowley states slowly. “Yeah? Okay? So this-” he gestures to all of Aziraphale, “-this shit going on, it feels real, but it isn’t. Or, well, It is but— The danger. The danger isn’t real.”

Aziraphale nods quickly, mostly just to get Crowley to stop talking because he can’t take more of it, no matter how well-meaning Crowley is. Which is very, very selfish of him since Crowley is clearly trying to help him. Oh God, what is he doing? What has he done?

“So, so you can trust in that, um, uh.” Crowley’s face takes on a pained grimace for a second before he opens his mouth once again. “Now, breathe. I believe breathing would do you—”

“Could you just be quiet!” Aziraphale snaps, using up what little precious air he has managed to get into his lungs. Crowley’s eyebrows shoot comically far up his forehead at that, mouth falling open ever so slightly as he stares at Aziraphale. Immediately another crushing vice of guilt is added around Aziraphale’s already crushed chest.

“Please,” he pants, fingers going to his chest and pressing hard over his heart. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth against the urge to just scream. Somehow, he manages to wrestle just enough control back over himself to blow out a long breath.

“Ooooh lord!” he begins, voice a breathy whisper. “You’re beautiful. Your face is—” He bites his lips before trying again. “Your face is all I see. For-for-for— Forwhenyoureyes!”

“For when your eyes,” Crowley repeats in a slow and controlled manner, nodding at Aziraphale to keep going when their eyes meet.

“For when your eyes are-are on th-this child,” Aziraphale continues, his hysterical voice shrill and wavering over Crowley’s deep voice giving him a base to stamp off against.

“Your...” Crowley urges gently, hand slowly waving at Aziraphale to continue. Aziraphale grips it like a landline, fingers tightening around the wrist until it’s surely painful. But hold it means Crowley is there, and Aziraphale isn’t alone.

“Your grace abounds to me! He forces out, staring at Crowley’s lips as though the words are flowing from them instead of his own. “Oh Lord, please light the fire.”

Crowley’s prayer is slower, forcing Aziraphale to slow down too, to take in a deep breath when the other is, lest they mess up their rhythm.

“That once burned bright and clean

Replace the lamp of my first love

That burns with holy fear”

He gasps, watching as Crowley breathes out slowly and with control and does his best to match it. Crowley’s other hand is helping steady the one gripping tightly at his wrist, thin fingers helping ease the tremors. As one, they inhale to continue.

“I want to take Your Word and shine it all around

But first help me just live it, Lord

And when I’m doing well,

Help me to never seek a crown

For my reward is giving glory to You.”

They repeat the prayer trice more until it’s nothing more than a comforting chanted rhythm that Aziraphale can sway to as he walks the familiar path down it. He ends with a quiet amen and another round of deep breaths, eyes closed as he takes in the comfort of the words and once again sets his sights on his purpose in this world. 

When he opens them again, Crowley is still regarding him intensely, eyebrows slowly rising in question. At once, the cold sweat of panic is replaced by the suffocating heat of shame under Aziraphale’s shirt. He does his best to pretend it’s not there and shines up in a grin.

He can tell it’s not exactly convincing from the reflection in Crowley’s sunglasses.

“So, you know Her prayers?” he asks, happy to find that his voice is only a little shaky. Usually, it takes quite a bit longer to calm down than this. But well, he’s not about to question a blessing. It’s not his place to question after all. It’s better to just bask in Her glory and not worry about it because Her great plan will set him straight.

(Is this part of Her plan?)

Well, I had to listen to them once or twice in school,” Crowley grumbles, getting up from where he’s been crouched in front of Aziraphale with a groan and a crack of his back. “Mostly just, winged it.” He shrugs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. That is...less than perfect. For a brief moment he had hoped that the prayer had revealed a deep desire and knowledge of Her in Crowley but once again it seems rather like a sign of rejection.

“Don’t look so disappointed. I got the hang of it the third time around, didn’t I?” Crowley says with a grin and a chuckle before offering a hand for Aziraphale to take. Aziraphale doesn’t. Instead, he folds his hands in his lap and looks away. Oh, of course not. Not someone like-minded. Not that he doesn’t know that already. Crowley is not one of Eden. Of course not. Not someone he can find companionship in.

“Feeling better though?” Crowley asks carefully.

“Oh, yes. Quite! Thank you. That was-” he struggles for the right word for a moment, “-absolutely tickety-boo.” He nods, looking back at Crowley. Crowley slowly mouths the words “tickety-boo” with a frown on his lips. “But I’d quite like to be alone now, I think. If-if it wouldn’t be too much to ask for.”

“Oh, oh well.” Crowley nods, head bobbing absently up and down as he pulls his hand back to himself and sticks it back in his pocket. He blows out a breath through his lips and looks around. “Aight. Well, see ya.” He lifts his other hand in a small wave.

“See you.” Aziraphale nods, lifting his hand in a wave.

Crowley hesitates around the door for another second, nodding growing more and more intense before it becomes a quirk of his head that the rest of his body follows out the door. It closes with a click behind him that has Aziraphale twitching on the bed.

With measured breaths, he begins to clean up the mess he’s made, tucking his prised book back in its brown paper cover and hiding it under his journals in his knapsack under the bed once again. Next, he takes his Holy scripture, finds his favourite passage, and sets to reading until he can just forget what has just transpired until he can just pretend it never happened.

The next day, Anathema delivers a message from Crowley that simply reads; BBC 3, Fridays at 4 PM.

When Aziraphale takes a seat on the worn-down couch in the common room that afternoon and turns on the TV, a bizarre story about a man in a police box travelling through the cosmos unfolds before him. And just like with the book hidden away in his room, it’s absolutely magical.

Chapter Text

It takes Crowley until his fourth time visiting Aziraphale to feel like he gets things at least somewhat right. He’s not really good at things. Sure, he’s good enough to pass most times. He’s alright at his job, has earned enough in commissions to actually feel like he can spend some of his money now, and he did, as Anathema likes to remind him, score really well on his A-levels. But those things don’t really count. Those are things people do all the time. Anyone can do shit like that.

No, the things that matter, like not being an absolute piece of shit to the people around you, are something he’s still very much working on. It’s hard work, not really worth it most of the time because the world is just as much of a turd to him as he is to it. But then there are stinking people who matter (urgh!) and he has to care about or he feels bloody awful.

People who he can’t keep pushing away over and over again because they’ve somehow wormed their way under his skin and gotten into the tightly guarded heart that he swears he doesn’t actually have (except he does, and it  sucks  because he  cares so fucking much ). And for some fucking reason, Aziraphale has rudely barged in and joined that heavily vetted circle of people.

Stupid, naïve Aziraphale who is still somehow living in delusion of being accepted back into his cult with open arms and who speaks to Crowley as though he can somehow save him. Perfect little angel Aziraphale who smiles at everything and everyone and who believes in goodness and redeemability. Sweet, impressionable, tragic Aziraphale who hides his favourite books out of fear and who is so used to the pain he inflicts on himself that he gets surprised every time Crowley pulls his stodgy little pinching fingers away from his arms.

Aziraphale who, despite all the fucking ways he’s nothing at all like Crowley, reminds him so fucking much of himself. The nativity, the idealism, the thought that yeah, things will just work out if he keeps at this thing that’s so fucking clearly hurting him. The wilful fucking blindness to his own suffering but naaah, much better to just pretend it’s not there, that it’s a choice and not a compulsion because it’s all you have left.

So much like Crowley time and time again sneaking out of his room for just another hit, for just another night of not feeling like a piece of absolute garbage. So many broken promises, to himself and to others, so much delusion. It’s to the point where he sometimes looks at Aziraphale and feels sick, disgusted.

Because when he looks in the mirror he can still see all the ways he too pinches bruises into himself to keep the real hurt from coming through, see the person who is still so fucking afraid of being abandoned again, of losing it all and not having anyone around to help him, see the person who realised he just sold himself for a bag of coke that won’t even last him through the night, again.

So yeah, if it takes him four tries to get it somewhat right it’ll have to fucking do that because right now, he’s working on patience and he’s quite frankly too impatient to keep messing things up. But he’s also too impatient to not jump to the conclusion that he’s probably going to mess this time up, too, somehow, because that’s just who he is. Gotta be hypervigilant or he’ll fuck it up again, drag it down into the mud like he always does.

Like he’s doing right fucking now, thinking about this! Gods, get it together, Crowley. You’re better than this. You’re not a complete waste of space or whatever the fuck his affirmations for the day are supposed to be.

“A-a drive?” Aziraphale repeats, eyebrows raising on his forehead as he cocks his head to the side in question.

“Yeah,” Crowley answers, lips curling around his teeth as he tries to get his spiralling thoughts back under control. Gotta stay cool. He’s supposed to be the one in control here, the one somehow reassuring Aziraphale that there is a life to look forward to outside of the halfway house. Because there is. Crowley just happens to not really be 100% certain that it’s real and there to stay yet. But it could be! For Aziraphale, certainly. If he just gets it through his thick, angelic skull that he has actually crashed straight into rock bottom and isn’t just teetering on the edge before the fall, there certainly is.

Well, he can’t really blame him if it takes him some time. It had taken Crowley like half a year before he had broken down in Anathema’s arms and begged her to reassure him that he wasn’t as rotten as he felt and that he was strong enough to not fall off the wagon again.

“Where to?” Aziraphale asks cautiously, fingers worrying each other where they are folded over his stomach. He’s still wearing that old three-piece suit, the one that makes him look every part of the cult member that he is. But then again Crowley had touched up the snake on his cheek last year because he didn’t like the way it was fading.

Vices and comforts and whatever.

“Into town. There’s this coffee shop that’s...” He makes a noise that can mean just about anything.

“Costa?” Aziraphale asks.

“No! Not bloody Costa. I wouldn’t take you to a fucking Costa. I have standards. A Pret at least! And even that’s questionable. Their whole vibe makes me just—” He gives a full-body shiver and sticks his tongue out in distaste. “How do you even know about Costa? I thought you’d never seen the outside world or whatever.”

“Anathema took me there, the day we first met,” Aziraphale answers with a smile. “I had been waiting for... Well, I was waiting. And she had seen me and asked me if I was okay. And then she gave me a cup of tea. And then again-” He moves his fingers as though they’re moving over a hurdle. “-when it had started raining and night had fallen, she asked me to join her for another cup inside Costa,” Aziraphale explains with a grin that speaks nothing of the fucking tragedy of having to be coaxed into safety like a wounded dog waiting for an abusive master to return.

Wow, isn’t he just full of metaphors today? His therapist would be impressed with how in touch he is with his feelings, and then gently remind him not to project them onto others.

“Right.” Crowley nods, mustering up the strength to not default toward dickishness over what Aziraphale had just told him because that would simply be easier than admitting he cares about it. “Sounds rough. Anyhow! It’s an independent little coffee shop. I kinda know the owner. Well, I know her and her girlfriend who owns the record shop next door. Well, soon-to-be girlfriend. Dancing around each other awkwardly because one is too shy to admit their feelings and the other too stubborn kind of soon-to-be girlfriends. You get the picture.”

Aziraphale’s face tells Crowley he very much does not. Fair enough. Crowley doesn’t really get it either but Nina and Maggie have already gotten dangerously close to actually telling him off over his teasing regarding their not relationship that he has reluctantly decided to leave it to the two of them to sort out. If he doesn’t, he might be out a friend or two. Or even worse, a good coffee shop.

“Anyhow. Drive? Now? ‘Cause I haven’t had my coffee yet and it’s making me a little prissy,” Crowley continues, urgently waving Aziraphale along toward the door so they can just fucking goooooo before he puts his foot in his mouth again.

Aziraphale looks at him for guidance the moment they step out of the front door of the Nutter Foundation’s halfway home, the nervous disposition that seems to overtake him every time they step through the door clear in the way his already stunted gait grows even faster and more of a waddle. Like a frightened penguin, ready to peck at everything he perceives as a threat.

Or fuck, maybe Crowley is projecting again.

Whatever he looks like, it’s a little endearing at least, and a little sad, and sort of disarming in the way most things are about Aziraphale. He’d actually be a really good missionary, Crowley thinks, if he had someone else, he was trying to save other than Crowley. He’s easy to get along with, especially when he’s not trying to convert you, and he’s easily distracted from that mission.

“There you are, my darling,” Crowley purrs as his Bentley comes into view around the corner. He’s treated her to an illegal parking job across two parking spots today again, just to make sure no one else parks too close. There are never any parking attendants around these parts anyhow. It’s a rich neighbourhood or gentrified might be a better term for it.

“That’s your car?” Aziraphale asks, sounding sceptical.

“She most certainly is,” Crowley confirms, unlocking the driver-side door and getting inside. Outside the window, Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise in, is that judgement? Crowley lets out a surprised laugh, eyes following Aziraphale as the other cautiously rounds the car and waits for Crowley to open up the passenger-side door.

“Not impressive enough for you?” he asks as he reaches over and opens the door for Aziraphale.

“I just assumed...” Aziraphale starts diplomatically as he sits down and looks around the interior of the car. “Well, with your fancy clothes and gallivanting you’d have something a little less...” He trails off with a shrug of his shoulders as he gives the interior another scrutinising look.

“Gallivant— I’m sorry?! Gallivanting? And what do you mean—” Crowley mimics the shrug.

“Dated?” Aziraphale supplies carefully and Crowley seriously contemplates removing his sunglasses to truly express just how offended he is before thinking better of it.

“I’ll have you know that this is a genuine 1933 Bentley that I have personally nursed back from near destruction to the beast you are currently sitting in,” he warns, accenting his words with a pointed finger thrust in Aziraphale’s direction.

“And yet, you complained about my suit,” Aziraphale shoots back with zero hesitation. 

“Get out!” Crowley growls and reaches over to close the passenger side door before Aziraphale gets any ideas and tries to follow through with his order. 

But when Crowley pulls back from having practically draped himself over the other’s lap, he swears he can hear Aziraphale chuckle at him.

“It is rather lovely,” Aziraphale says as Crowley straightens up and turns on the engine. “I do admit it has a certain ChaaAARM!” His words get cut short by what Crowley is sure is the wonderful feeling of pure acceleration and horsepower coursing through him. One hand flies to the grab handle above the door and the other to the dashboard as though Aziraphale can somehow squeeze himself out of the car and away from the speed.

“We’re not even going that fast!” Crowley laughs over the sound of Aziraphale’s endless stream of prayers. And it’s true, sort of. With the new engine and gearbox that he’s treated his baby to, she is more than capable of going past 90 mph, and right now they’re doing a measly 40. Although, the narrow streets of their quaint little part of town aren’t really made for even that kind of speed.

“I’ll tell Anathema about this when we get back,” Aziraphale warns before grabbing Crowley’s arm and frantically warning him about the bus that would be 10 times more easily avoidable if he didn’t have someone clinging to his arm as he tried to steer. Which unfortunately means he has to slow down, and rather rapidly.

Aziraphale luckily doesn’t hit his forehead against the dashboard, but it’s a near thing.

“She already knows I drive like— Why, in the ever-loving fuck, are you not wearing your seatbelt? Do you want to get yourself killed?!” Crowley huffs, pressing Aziraphale back into his seat and levelling him with his best glare. He does remove his sunglasses for this one.

“Seat...”

“Seat, belt,” Crowley repeats, enunciating each part of the word he can with utmost clarity and pointing at the modern belts installed in the Bentley with the frame of his glasses.

“Oh, is that what that is?” Aziraphale breathes as he reaches for it and fumbles with the tongue until Crowley takes pity on him and forces it into the buckle. With a sharp tug, Crowley tightens the belt around Aziraphale, not trusting the other to know that it’s supposed to fit snuggle if he got this far without even trying to buckle up.

“You-” he says as he puts his sunglasses back on and puts the Bentley back into gear. “-was born under a rock.”

He really needs that coffee before he puts Aziraphale’s foot in the darn angel’s mouth.

The rest of the drive to Soho is uneventful, the traffic being too busy for Crowley to do any real damage without doing, well, any real damage.

Once they reach Nina’s coffee shop Aziraphale is looking a little worse for wear despite Crowley’s quite frankly restrained driving and most curated of small talk topics. (The weather and... yeah, he doesn’t do small talk.)

Taking pity on the poor guy next to him, Crowley decides to help Aziraphale both unbuckle the seatbelt and open the door for him. (He partially also does it because he does not trust Aziraphale to know to look both ways before opening the door on a car parked on the street.)

“Nina!” Crowley calls as soon as he’s ushered Aziraphale into Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, making the handful of customers inside turn to look at them. Aziraphale gives them all a slightly panicked smile and a fitful wave. “You’ve got customers!”

“Crowley,” Nina says with a look that tells Crowley she’s trying not to smile. “I thought I had banned you.”

“Nah, must be someone else you’re thinking of,” Crowley shoots back with a shake of his head before allowing himself to be pulled into a one-sided hug across the counter. “Still not dating Maggie?”

“Seriously though, I will ban you,” Nina warns, and Crowley takes a step back as he holds up his hands in surrender before miming zipping his mouth shut. 

Behind him, Aziraphale hovers like a nervous phantasm. Nina immediately spots him despite his best effort to render himself invisible.

“Who’s your...friend?” she asks, her tone clearly indicating she wants to know who Aziraphale is as much as she wants to know who he is to Crowley.

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale introduces himself with a mix between a bow and a wave. “I’m Crowley’s acquaintance.”

Good enough.

“Yeah, that. Uh...” Crowley turns to look at the signboard behind the counter, squinting to see better. Blasted eyes refusing to work as they should. “So, black coffee for me and... “He turns to raise an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“I don’t have any money,” Aziraphale whispers discretely.

“I know. I’m paying. What do you want?” Crowley reassures with a nod.

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“You can. What do you want?”

Aziraphale smiles nervously before turning to study the board, hands slowly wandering from their usual wringing in front of his belly to squeeze at his forearms. Crowley reaches out and takes one of the hands with a stern look sent Aziraphale’s way.

Nina has her eyebrows raised in curiosity when Crowley turns back toward the counter.

It’s nothing  he mouths. Nina nods at him with a face that has irritation building in Crowley’s middle again. Really, now? He’s just trying to make sure the other guy doesn’t pinch his skin off. He can be nice. Doesn’t mean there has to be anything more behind it.

“A tea, please,” Aziraphale finally orders.

“Alright. Black? Green? Got some rooibos if you want,” Nina asks as she gestures to the many tins of tea behind her. Aziraphale sends a pleading look Crowley’s way, fingers tightening around Crowley’s.

“The kind Anathema drinks,” Aziraphale tries softly.

“Anathema?” It’s Nina’s turn to send a look Crowley’s way for help now.

“My-” He shakes his head in search of a word that won’t lead to him revealing that he cares about people and bites back a curse when he realises, he can’t. Fuck. “-friend. Anyhow. Black, one sugar, and a little too much milk if I know the American as well as I think.”

“Coming right up.” Nina nods and gestures to an empty seat by the window. “Wherever you’d like but I’d recommend that seat if you wanna do some people watching.”

Crowley nods at that and practically ushers Aziraphale into the seat, making sure the other has his back facing the rest of the coffee shop so that not too many prying eyes can look their way without meeting Crowley’s glare. Aziraphale quietly thanks him, hands bouncing in his lap as he looks around himself.

“Much better than Costa, I bet,” Crowley says after a moment of silence.

“It’s...different,” Aziraphale settles for, and Crowley thanks the heavens that Nina isn’t around to hear that cutting review of her pride and joy. Something must have betrayed him though because the next second Aziraphale launches into his second favourite topic of conversation after his God, explaining himself.

“You misunderstand me. It’s not that it isn’t nice. It’s lovely! It’s just— We didn’t- don’t have coffee shops like this in the Garden. We don’t really have any shops so to speak. It’s a Garden, you see. And well, I’ve never had tea, or coffee either for that matter, before— It’s only my second coffee shop so I can’t really say...either...way...” he trails off with a flickering look, a small smile and an equally small laugh.

Crowley nods, stretching in his seat to make sure the other isn’t pinching himself again when Aziraphale’s words start to catch up with him.

“Wait... ‘re you guys like the Mormons? The no hot drinks kind of Christians?” he asks before another thought strikes him. “Are you even Christians?”

“Mormons?” Aziraphale repeats. “No, I don’t think so. Hot drinks aren’t forbidden, merely an indulgence.”

“Hot drinks? An indulgence?” Crowley asks, eyebrows arching in disbelief.

“Not all hot drinks,” Aziraphale clarifies with a sigh as though what he’s about to say will make perfect sense and not at all make Crowley feel like a piece of shit for not having taken him out for coffee earlier. “But coffees, teas, alcohols, rich drinks, they’re an indulgence and one cannot be trusted with that until one has ascended to a certain level. As a Cherub, I have not earned the privilege of—”

“A cup of tea?” Crowley interrupts with a sinking feeling.

“Precisely. As a Seraph, rich drinks would not be a problem but—” Aziraphale pauses, tongue coming out to wet his lips in nervousness as he looks out the window. Crowley allows him this pinch. He looks like he needs it. “I’ve had plenty of hot milk in my days.” Aziraphale finishes with an overly bright smile.

“How luxurious,” Crowley comments. Suddenly, he feels very much in need of something sweet with his coffee even though he’s never ordered any sweets in all his years of knowing Nina. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He slithers up to the cake display, scrutinising the cakes on display as he sucks his teeth. None of them jump out at him as the perfect sorry-I’m-kinda-making-what-I’m-sure-is-already-a-stressful-experience-worse-and-that-I’m-too-far-up-my-own-ass-to-say-so-with-words cake. 

“Are you okay?” Nina asks once she looks up from the coffee machine, genuinely looking worried and making worms of discomfort wiggle around inside Crowley. She had given him a job here, once, when he had been busy studying for his A-levels and too poor to buy anything other than a small cup of student coffee. That had been not only his first proper job but also his way out of the halfway house and into his own flat. He still hates how much he’s indebted to her, or how grateful he feels every time she checks up on him. He hates how close he is to disappointing her at every turn.

“You’re looking at cakes. You never look at cakes. Has something happened?”

“Pffft.” He shrugs up his shoulders, burying his hands deeper in his pockets. “Poor guy’s nervous. Figured I’d—” He tries shrugging again but his shoulders are already practically by his ears.

“Eccles cakes,” Nina says.

“Huh?”

“Eccles cakes,” Nina repeats. “He’ll like them. It’ll help you both calm down.” She’s already got the tongs in her hands and is plating up two cakes on a dessert plate. Crowley shakes his head, squirming on the spot. He’s no good at this, at this helping thing, or gratitude thing, or any of it. It’s like he’s hydrophobic and nice things are water. It just doesn’t mesh with him. He’s not made for them.

“On the house,” Nina says as he tries to thrust a fiver her way.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses, stuffing the bill deep into the tip jar and snatching the plate from her hands before she can change her mind. She just smiles at him and lets him shuffle back to their table where Aziraphale is busy looking slightly queasily out the window.

“If you throw up, Nina will make you clean it up,” Crowley says as he sets the cakes down on the table between them and collapses back down into his chair.

“Oh, I’m not— I wouldn’t—” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, hands going to his chest to fiddle with the button of his west. “I might,” he admits after a second.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Crowley prompts, very carefully watching the other for signs of having to be led out of the coffee shop, or if it’s really bad, straight to the employee loo.

“They’re hardly worth paying for,” Aziraphale says with a rough swallow. Crowley finds his lips quirking up without meaning to.

“No, I— It’s a saying. I wanna hear why you think you’re about to chuck up,” he explains and discreetly holds up a hand under the table to stop Nina from coming over with their orders right now. Aziraphale clams up tighter than the ass of an out-of-touch Tory minister at the slightest hint that he might be inconveniencing someone. Talking while being served would absolutely be inconveniencing someone in Aziraphale’s book.

“Just...people. Quite a lot of them. And cars. And—” Aziraphale looks down at his lap and blows out a deep breath. “I’m being silly,” he laughs before looking up at Crowley with a bright smile. It’s not exactly convincing, but it means he’s probably alright for the moment.

“Not a people’s person?” Crowley asks.

“Not really,” Aziraphale admits before shining up impossibly brightly as Nina decides that delivering their drinks right now is actually a really good idea despite Crowley’s frantic shoo-ing motions under the table. “Thank you so much, dear.”

“Enjoy. Tell me if you want more sugar. Or less.” She smiles before setting down Crowley’s black coffee in front of him without so much as a word.

“And what about my sugar?” Crowley asks just to be annoying.

“Oh, I thought you took yours with salt,” Nina says with a genuine gasp.

“Only when you make it.” Crowley winks, making Nina roll her eyes before she makes her way back to the counter. “So, what kind of person are you?” Crowley asks as he raises his coffee to his lips, hoping to get the conversation back on track before Aziraphale clams up too tightly.

“You take your coffee with salt?” Aziraphale asks instead of answering his question. Crowley blinks at him, mouth opening in confusion because where the hell could the other have gotten that idea from before it dawns on him.

“Oh! Oh, no, no we’re- we’re just shooting the shit with each other. I might— She was my boss and— Good friends and whatever.” He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and hides his mumble of one of my best behind another sip of his coffee. “Back to my question. What kind of person are you? What do you like to do? And don’t say any of that God stuff ‘cause I already know you love all that.”

Aziraphale blinks, poor guy probably suffering mental whiplash from Crowley’s constant jumping around but honestly staying too long on the subject of niceness and friends makes his middle feel just...all warm and sweaty and like jelly left out on a warm summer day and no one wants to see that shit. Or, more correctly, no one has the right to see that shit without his consent and he isn’t in the mood to give any. Nope. His business and his business only. Definitely not Aziraphale’s business.

“I- I’m not sure I’m any kind of person outside of my faith,” Aziraphale responds far too honestly. Crowley nods, letting him sit with that confession for another moment. Aziraphale sucks in a shaky breath and reaches for his cup of tea. He holds it against his lips for a long moment before taking a sop, as though waiting for something more to come from that revelation.

More won’t come, at least not from Crowley. That shit has to sink in on its own. It’s a horrible thing to discover, that you’re just a one-dimensional git. For Crowley, it had been the drugs. He couldn’t even remember who he had been before them when he got back out if there had even been a person there that he wants to return to. Because the person he had been back then had led him to the drugs and the drugs had led to him catapulting himself straight into rock bottom.

But he hopes he has got more dimensions now. Personal growth or whatever other shit they call it nowadays. Growing a spine and stopping being such a pathetic loser, Crowley calls it. Learning that he deserves to be loved and that he doesn’t need to keep punishing himself for the fact that the people who were supposed to protect him growing up failed at just that, his therapist calls it.

Tomátos, tomàtos.

“You like Doctor Who,” Crowley offers when Aziraphale starts looking queasy again. “And books,” he adds, remembering his last visit when Aziraphale had admitted to having read some of the books readily available for anyone who wants to read them in the living room as though he was confessing to murder.

“I suppose I do,” Aziraphale agrees slowly. Crowley gestures to the Eccles cakes with a grunt, feeling some of the emotional constipation in his chest shift as Aziraphale smiles at him and takes one of the offered treats.

“And music,” Aziraphale adds before taking a bite of the cake.

The sigh of pleasure that escapes him after a bite should not be allowed in public. Nor should the way his face absolutely lights up in what can only be described as pure happiness. He eats the cake like a man starving, like it’s his last meal on earth, savouring each and every crumb until one couldn’t even tell there had been an Eccles cake there, to begin with.

“Music?” Crowley prompts as he pushes the second Eccles cake in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale wiggles, actually hand to chest swear to God wiggles, in happiness, and picks up the cake with a small noise of satisfaction.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says with a bright smile and melts into the next bite. It’s a bit endearing, actually. Eating looks good on him. Or enjoyment looks good on him. Everything about him, from the slight roundness to the twinkle in his eyes and curly hair, is built for joy and well...

“Lucky bastard,” Crowley grumbles quietly behind another mouthful of bitter, black coffee.

“But yes, music,” Aziraphale continues between bites. “I sing in the choir. We meet up on Tuesday mornings and after evening prayer on Thursdays and Fridays. And then during mass on Sundays, of course.”

“You sing?” Nina asks behind them, a towel in her hands that she keeps slowly folding over and over. Aziraphale nods and covers his mouth to hide his chewing. “What kind of songs?”

“Oh, the normal kind. Hymns, praise, psalms,” Aziraphale answers as if that is an exhaustive list.

“Nothing modern?” Nina prods and Aziraphale quickly shakes his head, brows frowning in disapproval.

“No, nothing like that. No be-bop.”

Crowley holds back a snort, suddenly extremely curious about exactly what Aziraphale counts as be-bop. Probably every song Crowley has in his library. He’d probably be outraged if he heard what people are singing about on the top 100’s today.

“Oh, come on. There has to be something,” Nina urges as she comes over to lean against the back of Crowley’s chair. Aziraphale shakes his head again, raising his hands in protest. “Nothing? Not even some little ditty you’re fond of?”

“Well, there is one song,” Aziraphale answers and it sounds like pulling teeth, like each word is a conflict. Crowley leans forward in interest. “It’s not— I don’t listen to it but Her lord Gabriel— I work closely with Gabriel you see, so I can’t help but overhear—”

“Get on with it. What song is it?” Crowley urges with a grin, seriously contemplating buying a third Eccles cake if a bribe is what it takes for Aziraphale to admit to whatever scandalous song this Gabriel guy listens to.

“I don’t know the name, but it goes like this;” Aziraphale says before raising his hands like a conductor would and giving himself a quiet little countdown.

“Every day, it's a-getting closer

Going faster than a rollercoaster

Love like yours will surely come my way

A-hey, a-hey-hey ”

Aziraphale’s singing voice is smooth, a little on the quiet side, and higher in pitch than Crowley had expected, but that’s not what surprises him. No, it’s the fact that apparently, Aziraphale’s boss listens to fucking Buddy Holly of all people, and sappy love songs. If anything, that feels like a sin. That must be a sin.

“He listens to Buddy Holly?” Crowley squeaks at the same time as Nina sends him a side glare so prominent, he can feel his ears burn from it.

“That’s lovely. You should go see Maggie and see if she has a copy. Have you taken him to Maggie? You should take him to Maggie,” Nina says and turns to Crowley with a pointed look. 

Crowley sighs, mostly just for show, and ignores Aziraphale’s quiet question of who Maggie is. He’ll find out soon enough anyway.

“We could go after this,” he says and gestures to the half-drunken cups of coffee and tea on the table as though he hadn’t been planning on taking Aziraphale there the whole time. (He has to check in on Maggie’s side of the pining after all.)

“You’ll love it there,” Nina promises Aziraphale while taking the now empty plate of Eccles cake and leaving them to finish their drinks.

“Maggie!” Crowley calls out fifteen minutes later as he steps in through the door of The Small Back Room. “I heard you’re still not dating the love of your life!”

“Crowley,” Maggie whines with a pout from behind the cash register, her shoulder slumping before she wiggles like a sad toddler. “I’m not!”

“At this rate, I’m going to get hitched before you do,” Crowley says with a smile before holding out his arms for a hug. Maggie dutifully shuffles right into his embrace, her chin landing on his shoulder with an exaggerated huff that has a chuckle bubbling out of Crowley. 

A second later, Maggie stiffens in his embrace, all sadness forgotten by whatever caught her eye. The doorbell helps remind Crowley that he came here for more than one reason and that current social norms require one to introduce new friends to old friends and vice versa. 

“Ngk,” Crowley expresses eloquently as he steps out of the hug he initiated himself and gestures to Aziraphale. “Uh.” 

Luckily, his cult-y upbringing has bestowed Aziraphale with more than enough manners for the two of them.

“Aziraphale,” he introduces himself with a smile and a hand thrust Maggie’s way. “You must be—”

“Maggie,” Maggie fills in, eyes flickering repeatedly toward Crowley in search of an explanation for why someone is introducing themselves to her in her shop.

“Yeah-uh, Aziraphale’s my-” What had been the word Aziraphale had used? “-acquaintance. Figured it was only fair I showed him your shop too since I showed off Nina’s place.”

“Oh, you come from Nina’s? How was she?” Maggie asks with a voice that cannot for the love of her hide her ulterior motives. Likewise, Crowley does nothing to hide his smug grin at that, a grin that only grows smugger and smugger as Maggie grows redder and redder. 

“The tea was excellent,” Aziraphale offers, seeming a little less on edge now that they’re no longer surrounded by strangers. 

“Actually, we’re here for a reason,” Crowley interrupts before Maggie can start fishing for more information. As much as he wants the two of them to finally take the bull by the horns and confess that he is not here to hear about yet another lonely queer not daring to risk heartbreak. He’s got far too much of that going on in his life as is.

He really should stop projecting that much.

“You know that Buddy Holly song that sounds like someone’s clapping-” By a miracle, Crowley experiences a moment of self-awareness before yet another foot finds its way into his mouth and doesn’t say cheeks. “-...their hands at the start of it?”

Maggie, to her credit, doesn’t call him out on the awkward pause despite her eyebrows very much speaking of having heard it. Aziraphale nods eagerly next to him, seemingly oblivious to what just didn’t go down. 

“I do...” Maggie starts, eyebrows going back down to normal again as she slowly turns toward one of the aisles of records. “It’s called Everyday and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a copy or two of it.” She makes her way down toward where the singles are being kept and starts rifling through them.

“Told you she would,” Crowley says with a wink before gesturing for Aziraphale to go ahead. “See, this guy here happens to be quite fond of it,” Crowley explains as he rifles through some of the records in the display next to him. 

He once thought he could be one of those guys who collects records, sometime many, many years ago. Wouldn’t that be cool? Former junkie, current record collector. Turns out it doesn’t make you feel any more normal or cool to own a bunch of LP records. In fact, it just makes you feel like a complete loser who thought that a collection would somehow mean anything more than just owning a bunch of the same shit. 

Plus, Apple Music is cheaper.

Did mean he got to meet Maggie though, so in the most technical of senses, it hadn’t been a complete loss. She had bought back his records after all. And they’re still friends. And she makes him laugh and curates playlists for him in her spare time.

A grimace blooms on his face, that twisting, sinking feeling that always appears in his guts whenever someone does something for him making itself known. Why even bother? It’s not as though he cares that much about music anyhow.

He just fucking loves it. No biggie. Plenty of people love music. He’s not special.

He looks over toward Maggie and Aziraphale, the former happily showing off the copy of Everyday she has found and explaining something or another about the way it was made or who Buddy Holly was or any of that other amazingly vast knowledge of music she has and Aziraphale doing his best impression of one of those head-bobbing dolls.

“Do you wanna listen to it?” Maggie asks and doesn’t wait for an answer before she approaches one of her many record players behind the till. Aziraphale follows eagerly, hand wringing the usual amount across his front, and steps on the relaxed side of wobbly.

“Figures you’d like this vintage stuff. I mean, it’s quite obvious,” Maggie says with a nod Aziraphale’s way.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asks, eyebrows rising on his forehead as he stops a step short of the till. Crowley puts down the record he’s currently holding (Butthole Surfers. He doesn’t snort like a 13-year-old.) and takes a slow step in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Well, the- the vintage style. I’m quite the fan of it myself but I— Well, I could never commit like you have,” Maggie says with a laugh and gestures toward her headscarf and A-line skirt. “This is as far as I go and it’s all new stuff. No originals I’m afraid.”

“Oh, the suit?” Aziraphale asks as he looks down at himself as though reflecting on what he’s wearing for the first time. “Oh, it’s hardly anything like what you’ve got going on,” he says with a little laugh as he pulls at his waistcoat and smooths the lapels of his jacket. 

“Seriously? It looks vintage,” Maggie comments as she pulls the record out of its dust sleeve and puts it on the record player.

“Technically, it only has to be 40 years old to be considered vintage,” Crowley helpfully supplies as he sidles up next to Aziraphale and leans his elbows against the counter. As Maggie turns around to sigh at him, he gives her his best saccharine smile, a smile that he has been reassured is just as annoying to be on the receiving end of as he wants it to be.

“You know what I mean,” Maggie comments. “I think it’s neat, no matter what,” Maggie continues, directing this comment Aziraphale’s way before turning back around toward the record player and fiddling with the settings.

“Oh, well, thank you.” Aziraphale shines up at the compliment. “It’s actually quite precious to me. You see, some angels are awfully fixated on vanity in the Gardens and both the Seraphim and the Archangels get asked for things that follow trends, especially by the newest members of the host. So, it’s quite refreshing to hear that not everyone is like that out here. It truly goes to show that we’re doing good by having saved them from their sinful ways,” he rambles on as the first notes of Buddy Holly’s Everyday start ringing out in the shop. 

Crowley sucks at his lip as he contemplates if now would be a good moment to intercept Aziraphale’s foot on its way to his mouth, or if it’s already too late. He does have an image and hanging out with bible preachers (or whatever book the holy scripture Aziraphale keeps mentioning is) does not mesh with that. 

“Although I must admit that I myself have also given in to temptation and asked Her lord Gabriel to procure a-a... Well, a... Oh! The— Hah, you’ve got it— Yes, quite.” Aziraphale’s words die out to be replaced with a strained grin and some aborted pointing in the general direction of the record player.

“Yeah! What do you think?” Maggie asks with a smile, thankfully not asking any questions about anything that might potentially ruin Crowley’s carefully curated detached asshole image. Crowley raises his eyebrow Aziraphale’s way, waiting for the other to give his verdict. 

Aziraphale seems too busy grinning in a way that looks much more like a grimace than anything else to answer though, and at once Crowley can feel the gears start to turn in his head, slowly connecting dots he probably should have connected beforehand. 

Unfortunately, he’s not quick enough and Aziraphale’s aborted attempts at expressing an opinion morph into staggered attempts at excusing himself before a blurted apology leaves Maggie and Crowley watching the spot Aziraphale had occupied just seconds before.

The sound of the doorbell ringing behind Aziraphale’s prompt and sudden exit startles Crowley back into awareness at the same time as the probably-shouldn’t-expose-Aziraphale-to-things-that-remind-him-of-his-cult coin drops. 

“Shit!” He curses, long legs already carrying him toward the door when a confused questioning sound coming from Maggie reminds him that there are two people he can let down in this situation. “FUCK! Uh— I’m— Look he’s— Ngk. You know the Garden of Eden cult? Yeah, uh— That. I should—”

“Go,” Maggie says, like the absolute angel she is, and Crowley has another ill-timed emotion squeeze his chest as he rushes out of the door and out into the street outside. 

“Aziraphale?!” he calls as he looks down the street. Luckily, that blond bird's nest of curls and cream suit is easily spotted among the business casual crowd frequenting this corner of Soho.

He’s standing by the Bentley, his back turned Crowley’s way, but Crowley can still see the way his hands wring themselves from the way his shoulders threaten to overtake his ears. Other than that, he is still, though. Very still. 

Crowley lets out another quiet curse before approaching the other. He’s not good at this shit. He fucking sucks at comfort, and he really isn’t the sort of guy you open your heart to and tell about the way something as simple as a song could make you feel like a cornered animal.

Not that he doesn’t get it. Smells is what does it for him, ironically enough. Hastur used to chew mint gums to try to mask some of the smell of his teeth literally rotting out of his mouth. Crowley specially orders his toothpaste online to make sure it’s not mint flavoured. 

Not that telling Aziraphale about that would be much comfort right now though. Hey, looks like you actually don’t like Buddy Holly as much as your former lord or whatever you call him does. I get it. I feel like throwing up when someone offers me a cough drop. 

Yeah, he’d only sound a little mental.

“Sup,” he says instead. Aziraphale jumps about a foot in the air, which Crowley has enough grace to ignore as he reaches over and unlocks the passenger side door of the Bentley. “Wanna head back home?”

“Oh, well— You must really forgive me I don’t know what overcame me in there.” Aziraphale laughs, all strained and fake and just the wrong side of cult-y. “Your friend must think me quite silly. I really should— Well, I don’t want her to think I—”

“She’s made of sturdier stuff than that,” Crowley says as he rounds the front and unlocks the driver's side door. Something makes him hesitate before he steps in, the idea that he has to try if he’s ever to get any less friend-phobic. “I— Erm, I— Well, sorta apologised on your behalf,” he mumbles out and quickly shuts himself inside the Bentley before the consequences of his actions can catch up to him.

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathes loud enough to be heard through the windows. His hands slowly unclench and reach for the handle. With one last look toward The Small Back Room, Aziraphale opens the door and gets inside. His hands are trembling as he reaches for the belt but his shoulders have relaxed enough to make him no longer look like a turtle trying to hide, so that has to mean something.

Crowley on the other hand, feels like he’s had his tongue bitten off by a snapping turtle. Some might say it’s an improvement. He can’t put his foot in his mouth if he’s not talking (although trust Crowley to find a way anyhow), but right now he feels rather like the moment demands he says something.

“‘Ssume you won’t wanna listen to anything else,” he says as he puts his beloved into gear and checks his mirrors. Aziraphale firmly shakes his head next to him, hands still wringing nervously in his lap. Good. Not pinching. That’s good. 

Crowley nods in reply and puts his foot down on the gas. The roar of the engine is enough to wake the pedestrians sleepily occupying the road where he needs to go and they quickly make way for his darling Bentley.

“Also assume you don’t really like Buddy Holly that much,” Crowley adds several minutes later when they’re stuck at a traffic light, his fingers impatiently tapping the steering wheel.

“Oh, no, I— I mean, he’s always been Her lord Gabriel’s favourite and I— Well, it’s quite silly how— I’ve heard it plenty of times before,” Aziraphale assures with yet another unconvincing smile. Doesn’t suit him, the unconvincing ones. Crowley much prefers it when they’re genuine.

“Doesn’t mean you have to like it,” Crowley points out and puts his foot down the moment the light turns green. The wonderful feeling of pure acceleration sucks at his stomach and pulls away the awful twisty feeling of don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, he’s counting on you, Anathema is counting on you, you need to fucking try, don’t do what you always do and fuck this up for a moment.

Aziraphale lets out a laugh as though the mere suggestion that he shouldn’t like something that this Gabriel dude likes is preposterous. Crowley shrugs in response and turns off toward the suburbs where the halfway house is located. He probably should say something but he’s already working hard on swallowing down the squirming feeling of disgust at even allowing himself to show that he cares this much so a shrug will have to do. He is fucking trying. Fuck if he isn’t and God how he hates how much he wants to keep trying.

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale admits quietly several moments later. His eyes are full of uncertainty as they meet Crowley’s the next second, as though Crowley hadn’t been the one pushing him toward exactly that. Crowley shrugs again because he’s not going to put words in Aziraphale’s mouth, he’s not going to make him think it’s wrong to like things that you associate with your before. His therapist has been working too hard with him to not acknowledge that feelings are complicated, no matter how shitty that is, and that you can’t control what you feel, only what you do with it.

“Suppose it is,” Crowley agrees as he rolls to a stop in front of the Nutter Foundation’s halfway home. Aziraphale nods, eyes not quite as uncertain as before as his head bobs up and down.

“You know what,” he says as he squares his shoulder as though steeling himself for battle. “I don’t think I like Buddy Holly that much,” he declares with a determined nod that is completely undermined by the way he immediately looks Crowley’s way for approval.

“That makes two of us,” Crowley answers, even though he never actually had an opinion on Buddy Holly’s music before that exact moment. 

Aziraphale lights up into a bright smile the moment Crowley’s answer register, a genuine one that has the twisting don’t let anyone see you care in Crowley’s middle morph into a confusing friends are actually kinda neat that he has no idea what to do anything with.

Which is why he grins like a fucking idiot in return. To not make too much of a fool of himself, Crowley reaches for the door opener next to Aziraphale and pushes the door open with an indistinguishable grunt.

“Thank you for today, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice sickeningly genuine. Crowley shrugs and makes another noise, feeling the prickly wall of not being nice because being nice doesn’t lead you anywhere quickly starts rebuilding itself around him. 

“It was just coffee,” Crowley mutters, stubbornly looking at the road ahead of him.

“No one’s ever taken me out for coffee before,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can see him flash another one of those genuine smiles Crowley’s way out of the corner of his eye. He should have never acknowledged that they suit him so much better, because now he can’t stop noticing them. 

“Had to rectify that,” Crowley replies as though he had any idea of that tragic fact before he decided to stupidly show Aziraphale his favourite hangout spots. “Get back inside before Anathema gets pissed at me for the way I’m blocking the gate,” he adds a second later and jerks his way toward the front door of the halfway house.

“Oh, right. Yes! Right,” Aziraphale says and gets out of the car with a series of nods. “Really, thank you,” he calls as Crowley reaches out to close the door behind him.

“Yeah. Bye,” Crowley answers, feeling the small reserves of niceness he’s got stored up having run dry for the day, no matter how hard he wants to fucking try, and he needs to get away from here before the prickly armour stops going on the defensive and switches to the offensive.

“See you,” Aziraphale calls and waves at him. He’s smiling that genuine smile again, like he’s fucking excited at the prospect of seeing Crowley again. Crowley raises his hand in a wave, and when his eyes catch his reflection in the rearview mirror, he can see the way the corner of his lips too have quirked up into a not-at-all all sarcastic or asshole-ish smile.

The prickly armour bristles, but it is powerless to stop the way Aziraphale’s smile easily slips pasts the bristles and digs its root in right next to Nina’s laughs and Maggie’s playlists. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale taps at the journal in his lap nervously as his eyes roam the “practice room” Crowley has rented out for the two of them. It’s not that far off from the rooms at the Garden with its cream walls, carpeted floors, and bare walls. Although it’s far from as clean as those ones, he notes with a curl of his nose at the dust bunny hiding under the electric piano.

It’s similar enough that it’s actually making him feel a little homesick. A sort of amorphous lump has taken up residence at the bottom of his ribcage where it floats around and flips whenever a new thought about all the places he used to frequent back home pops into his head. 

A month has passed. A month of being out here and trying to make heads and tails out of the sinful, tempting world that he has been left to fend off all on his own has passed. There have been no archives to organise, no masses to attend with the rest of the host, and no late-night summons from Gabriel. No one is out here to keep him in check but himself.

It’s almost as if it has stopped mattering if he’s doing the right thing or not.

His fingers find the flesh of his thigh before the thought has a chance to fully solidify in his head, giving the soft flesh there a harsh squeeze that has his nails digging into his skin despite the thick cotton of his trousers.

“Ah! I saw that!” Crowley warns from where he’s wrestling with the flimsy music stand available for use. He raises an eyebrow Aziraphale’s way, his glare palpable even from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Aziraphale nods quickly, hand returning to the journal in his lap and his gaze turning firmly down to stare blindly at his knees.

His self-given mission of converting Crowley has been going— Well, it has been going less than good. He’s not made much headway, if any at all. Anytime he tries breaching the subject with Crowley, the other has another excuse prepared.

She’s  already forsaken me.

I’m  far too busy on Sundays for mass.

I actually already sold my soul to the devil for the downpayment on the Bentley, sorry.

I  just   don’t  vibe with whites.  I’d  throw your whole aesthetic off.

But sinning is  sort of  my shtick.

It’s all in good fun, of course. All a joke. It couldn’t possibly actually be true. Aziraphale can’t be seen fraternising with a sinner. That would be... Well, it’s just not feasible. And Crowley isn’t beyond saving. He simply can’t be. There is still good in him. He wouldn’t be helping Aziraphale if there wasn’t.

Though lately, it’s starting to feel more and more like Crowley is doing all the helping and Aziraphale is sort of just floating along. Aimless. Purposeless.

Faithless?

NO! No, never! Of course not! He could,  would , never, ever turn his back on Her. She has given him everything. Without Her,  he’d   be doomed .  He would have fallen ages ago, corrupted by  the genetics of his father .   He’d  be out here  hurting  people and tempting them away from Her light out of pure, selfish desire.  He’d   indulge .

He’d eat Eccles cakes.

Oh God!

He barely manages to cast a look Crowley’s way, a small part of him grateful to see the other fully occupied with losing his cool over the way the music stand won’t stay standing before he digs his fingers into his thighs again. How  dare  he even think that?! How dare he throw away what She has given him?!

But he couldn’t turn the cake down, just like he can’t turn down the other things Crowley has offered to do for him. He can’t lie, and he can’t turn down other’s offers. It would be wrong, not to mention rude! He likes talking about Doctor Who and the cakes had been delicious. How can any of that be a sin?

Except he knows that’s not how it works. It’s not about the small things, Aziraphale. It’s about how they pile up, one after another, until you find yourself in a desert of your own making and your only companion there is the devil. And there, he will devour you, and no one can help you for you have buried us all under your self-indulgent sinning.

Gabriel has told him many times. Any time Aziraphale has been close to slipping, to letting the sins pile up, Gabriel has been there to set him straight, to help him clear his conscience and accept Her Holiness back into his soul and flesh.

He misses it. He misses the feeling of fingers in his hair and the steady, strong body moving against his. He misses losing himself in the holiness, sobbing with relief and breaking down at Her lord’s feet only to be rebuilt again. He wishes to be cleansed, to be blessed and holy, again.

He misses how good he would feel afterward, in those few hours of knowing that he’s good, that he’s  pure , before the sins have a chance to pile back up again. He misses the nights staring out into the stars, head swimming from the true blood of Christ coursing through his veins and nothing in his body but divinity.

He wants to go back. He doesn’t want to lose that. Who is he, if not Aziraphale, Cherub, and protégé of Gabriel, soon to be Seraph? Who is he, if not Aziraphale, discarded son of Her lord Ariel and bound to follow in his forsaken father’s footsteps lest he devotes himself fully to God?

Which is why today’s plan has to work. It simply must. It’s absolutely brilliant. He doesn’t know why he did not think of it earlier, especially not when Crowley had mentioned his interest in music the first time. For what better way to sway non-believers than the hymn that has already converted a thousand hearts? 

Crowley’s suggestion that they “jammed” together had been a message from Her, a sign that he is finally doing the right thing. He’s going to indulge Crowley, open his heart to Her message through music, and then ask he returns the favour by joining Aziraphale in a song.

And then he would see the light! He would be blessed and taken into Her embrace and the Garden of Eden would be open for both of them to enjoy. Their seat at the table with Her in Paradise would be secured and Gabriel would be  so proud of him .

He feels nauseous just thinking of it, his head swimming with elation.

“Fucking— Okay, okay! You know what, you hold this and I’ll- I’ll just use the music stand on the goddamn piano,” Crowley curses as he thrusts a thin pile of papers Aziraphale’s way. Aziraphale takes them and smoothes out the wrinkles left behind by Crowley’s rough handling.

“Ready?” Crowley asks as he roughly shoves his copy of the same papers onto the piano’s music stand in front of him. Aziraphale immediately moves to his feet, planting them firmly on the ground. The motion sends his journal tumbling to the floor and with a gasp he catches it, fumbling with it for a moment before setting it down on the chair.

When he looks back at Crowley, the other is watching him. Heat builds on his cheeks.

“Ready,” he confirms with a smile.

“Right... Uh, I- I chose some songs that I thought— Well, they’re not be-bop at least, and not Buddy Holly. But uuurgh, pffft.” Crowley shrugs and makes a face that Aziraphale thinks he’s figured out means Crowley doesn’t want to admit how much something means to him. But it could just as well be annoyance.

“Anyhow, I assume you know how to read sheet music, Angel,” Crowley continues.

“Oh. Oh, yes! I do,” Aziraphale replies with a smile and a wave of the papers. Crowley nods, beginning to rifle through the papers in front of him.

Aziraphale takes this as his cue to do the same. Crowley has picked out three songs for them, neither of which Aziraphale is familiar with. The first is from the band  Queen , which Aziraphale has at least seen CDs of in  Crowley’s  car. (And maybe even heard some songs from. He  doesn’t  know. Car rides are still not exactly a pleasant experience.) The second one is about taking a swim at night, at least if you are to trust the title, by someone called  R.E.M , and the third must be a printing error because as he flips through the sheet music  the  only lyrics that  are printed  are  my  baby’s  taking me home  over and over.

“So, let’s start with... Uuum I didn’t really think this part through.” Crowley sucks his teeth loudly enough for Aziraphale to hear where he’s standing on the other side of the electric piano between them. “You up for  Nightswimming ?”

“Night—? Oh, ah, yes.  Nightswimming . Yes, of course.” Aziraphale nods and quickly finds the correct set of sheet music to show Crowley. Crowley flashes him a thumbs up in response, fully occupied with adjusting the stool he’s sitting on. He looks strangely at home behind the piano, despite the ripped jeans and far too large t-shirt with a quite frankly demonic print on it.

Usually, whenever he practises at the Gardens, it’s Seraph Jehoel who accompanies them on the piano and she hasn’t spent a day of her holy life in anything other than her linen dresses. Even now, when she has access to the privilege of a Seraph, she has not abandoned her modest, sensible clothing.

Just like Aziraphale won’t. This suit still has many more years of wear left in it. Although he might invest in a new pair of shoes soon, considering the soles are wearing a little thin on his current pair. But it would be a  modest  pair. Whatever he could find second-hand that would fit him and no one else wanted or needed, so he didn’t needlessly take from someone who needed them more than him.

“I’ll count you in. Finding the right place to enter can be a bit tricky,” Crowley says as he presses a few chords at random on the piano and then shakes out his long, spindly fingers. “Also, might mess up, which then, sorry.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Aziraphale who holds back the “I forgive you,” that is hiding right behind his teeth.

Crowley hasn’t been too receptive to his forgiveness lately, and he needs the other in a good mood right now. Something about how it doesn’t mean anything if it’s not genuine. But Aziraphale would never be anything but genuine in his forgiveness. He would never hold something like that above another person, refusing to give it until some arbitrary level of remorse has been reached.

A chord suddenly rings out in the room around them, followed by a set of shorter notes and a long pause. And then it repeats again, exactly according to the sheet music Aziraphale is holding in his hands.

“‘Aight, one, two, three, four,” Crowley counts him in and Aziraphale opens his mouth.

“Wait! No, early. Shit! Sorry. Again,” Crowley interrupts him before he gets a sound out with a dissonant chord. Just as quickly, he is playing again, having started from the beginning. Aziraphale nods, squaring his shoulders and keeping his eyes carefully peeled on Crowley to not miss his cue.

“Aaaaaand, one, two— AH! Fuck! Missed it.” Crowley slams his fingers on the piano again before pulling in a deep breath. Aziraphale shifts where he’s standing, studying the sheet music to see if he can’t figure out on his own when he’s supposed to enter.

“Maybe I can—”

“I’ll just— Follow my lead,” Crowley says, waving at Aziraphale to come closer. Aziraphale takes another step closer as Crowley cracks his knuckles and places his fingers on the piano again with a deep breath.

Just like before, the first chord rings out, filling the air between them. Aziraphale keeps a quiet count in his head, determined to get it right this time around as Crowley’s fingers continue to dance across the keys.

The only signal he gets is a sharp inhale from Crowley

“-swimming,” Aziraphale barely manages to fit in before another deep breath from Crowley signals the next line.

“Deserves a quiet night,” they sing softly, Aziraphale still trying to figure out where to put himself in the harmony of the two of them and Crowley simply swaying with the music.

“ T he photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago . ”

He stumbles over the rhythm, not quite understanding how the melody goes. Why have the piano do all these things and then have the melody do something else? Crowley lets out a laugh at the irritated shake of Aziraphale’s head. 

“ T urned around backwards so the windshield shows .

Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse .”

Crowley places the words exactly where Aziraphale doesn’t want to place them, making them come out short and stilted past his lips. He doesn’t understand. He  can  do this. He has sung many complicated harmonies over the years, cannons, and yet he can’t seem to grasp this quite frankly simple song.

“Still,” Aziraphale begins half a beat before Crowley. The steady, repeating rhythm of the piano falters as Crowley’s fingers slip. The music stops and the silence that follows is suffocatingly loud in Aziraphale’s ears.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.” Crowley shakes his head. “Let’s try again.”

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale tries to explain with another step forward.

“You’re rushing,” Crowley simply states. “Relax. Just- just let the song do the singing.”

Whatever that means. Aziraphale sucks in another deep breath, eyes fixed on the sheet music in his hands. He will do it right this time, will not let the flashy piano distract him from the melody. He can simply focus on the sheet music in front of him and sight-read.

Once again, the intro starts up, and once again Aziraphale misses his entrance. He stutters out the lyrics like a stilted record over Crowley’s own smooth but somewhat flat vocals. Crowley’s fingers dance over the same loop of notes over and over again, irritatingly unchanging, unguiding.

“Listen to the music,” Crowley urges him softly, fingers once again flowing through that same loop of notes.

“I am,” Aziraphale assures him. He’s listening so hard he can hear the soft cushioning of the keys as they are being pressed down.

“Then listen less! I don’t know. Just— Look, just stop thinking so hard about it,” Crowley says before abruptly starting the song over again.

“Nightswimming!” Aziraphale forces out, stumbling headfirst into his entrance and pulling in a deep breath to continue the verse.

“ - deserves a quiet night

The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago

Turned around backwards so the windshield shows

Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse

Still,  it's  so much clearer

I forgot my shirt at the  water's  edge

The moon is low tonight .”

Surprisingly, and a little irritatingly, the lyrics do get easier to sing if he just places them where they feel right and doesn’t think too hard about where he’s supposed to place them according to the sheet music. If he’s early, he lingers half a second longer on a note. If he’s late, he swallows the end of a word and pushes on.

As the piano takes over, playing the same six bars over and over again on repeat, Aziraphale looks up from the notes in his hands. Crowley’s eyes meet his through the sunglasses and Crowley smiles at him.

Something squeezes itself tight around Aziraphale’s heart and around his ribcage. His cheeks lift, all irritation from before suddenly forgotten in favour of the relief that Crowley’s small grin had granted him. He shifts, getting into a more comfortable position as he sucks in another breath.

“You can drop the choir voice,” Crowley says just as Aziraphale is about to let the first word of the next verse ring out. “It’s cute and all but— Meh, doesn’t really fit,” Crowley notes nonchalantly as his fingers fly through those same six bars once again.

“It- it doesn’t fit?”

“Yeah. ‘S a little high. Is that really your natural voice?” Crowley raises his eyebrows at him in question and Aziraphale takes a step back, the squeezing in his chest quickly turning into an uncomfortable vice around his ribs.

“Yes. I’ve always been a countertenor,” Aziraphale says. That’s the role he had been assigned so that’s the voice he will sing in. He doesn’t know how to sing any other way. Besides, it has been good for him to sing countertenor. It has forced him to really,  really  concentrate on his technique and to truly practise. It has made him dedicated, has committed him to the choir and his position in it.

Crowley makes a noise and wiggles on the stool, fingers seeming to be doing their playing all on their own by now. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and turns to Aziraphale with a tight smile and raised eyebrows. 

“Pretty please?”

Aziraphale agrees without really knowing what is asked of him.

Crowley lifts his hands off the keys for a second before starting the song over from the top once again. The notes are softer now that he’s warmed up, less rigid in their structure and more like Crowley’s general seemingly unstructured but probably perfectly calculated to be as cool as possible sprawling all over the place.

Aziraphale draws in a deep breath and tries to remember everything that Crowley has asked of him.

The first verse is worse than his last attempt, his voice all over the place and his rhythm equally so. He struggles to keep his back straight, to not fold under the crushing ache in his chest. But Crowley doesn’t stop playing so Aziraphale simply has to keep going, too, has to keep this up until the end.

Somewhere along the third line in the second verse, his mouth relaxes around the final vowel in ago and his voice seems to settle back down in his chest. His next breath is deeper, the note still as supported from his core as before but no longer tightly held in his throat. Instead, it rolls out over his lips like a breeze over fresh spring grass, letting him stretch out his vocal cords.

He licks his lips before the next line, eyes flicking up to Crowley. The warm feeling immediately returns to him, shoulders relaxing and words flowing easier than ever. Even messing up the lyrics doesn’t stop it. Instead, it makes him smile.

Crowley joins him in the third verse, not really falling into harmony but certainly not clashing against Aziraphale’s voice. It’s not a performance worthy of an audience and certainly not something to be proud of. Aziraphale is somehow always late on the first word of the verse and Crowley can’t for the life of him move out of his three-range note. But somehow, that doesn’t really matter. 

It’s weird because what use is practice, is singing, if no one is there to listen to it. That’s why they have choirs. That’s why they have hymns. They’re there for people to listen to, to hear the praise sung to God, and for Her to hear their devotion. The robes, the postures, the right breathing patterns, and the rigid techniques, are all there to make sure it’s done  right .  All  there to make sure  he’s   good .

Except now, it’s nowhere near that. They could  never  show this to anyone. Oh no. Certainly not.  Aziraphale is mortified by the mere thought.  But ... strangely enough, it still feels  right . It still feels good, worthy of his efforts.

Crowley smiles at him as the last note rings out, unguarded and all teeth. The warmth is burning on the back of his neck now, down and under his collar. Aziraphale looks back at the sheet music in his hands, cursing himself for how foolish he’s being.

They go over the song four more times, pausing to talk it over after the second and third time. Aziraphale somehow ends up seated next to Crowley on the piano bench and finds himself making little notes in the margins of Crowley’s sheet music with the pen from his journal.

Crowley doesn’t exactly sing praise to his suggestions, but he also doesn’t turn a single one of them down. He nods along and offers up a snarky comment or two of his own at each of them, but refuses to let Aziraphale explain away any of them. At one point he even grabs Aziraphale’s wrist to physically pull his hand up to the sheet music and hold it there until the barely legible suggestion of adding another round of rest between the third and fourth verse has been penned there by a giggling Aziraphale.

So when Crowley says, “Shall we move on? I thought you had something you wanted to sing,” Aziraphale feels rather thrown off-kilter by the sudden return back to reality. Because he does have something he wants to sing. He has possibly the most important performance in both of their lives ahead of him, and it had completely slipped his mind.

He gets out from behind the piano bench with a stumble, eyes searching for his journal and finding it right where he left it. He kneels down by the chair carefully, flipping through the well-used pages until he finds the copy of the sheet to his favourite hymn that he glued into it years and years ago.

And can it be that I should  gain,  a hymn celebrating personal salvation by a man finding God. What more powerful, what more suitable hymn can there possibly be? Aziraphale has been saved by it countless times. He has stood in the middle of mass together with the host and cried praise to Her with these lyrics. He’s sung it to himself when doubt threatens to tempt him and pull him down. He’s repeated these words so many times over he can recite them backward and forward in his sleep.

So why does he need to check the lyrics now?

“Here’s...” He holds the journal out for Crowley, who takes it with a small nod and studies the notes. Aziraphale gets back to his chair, pulling harshly at his waistcoat and wondering if it would be fooling to put his jacket back on now considering he hasn’t worn it since entering the room. But he feels awfully underdressed for some reason, bare in front of Crowley who isn’t even looking at him.

The first few notes suddenly ring out into the room and Aziraphale quickly folds his hands over his middle, his shoulder blades drawing back and knees locking as he sucks in a deep breath.

“ A nd —”

The music stops as abruptly as it had started.

“Sorry! I was just- just checking it out. Didn’t mean to rush you,” Crowley says, shifting in his seat and smoothing out the wrinkled sheet music.

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale replies without thinking, regret filling him over how poorly he’s treated his journal and the sheet music inside it. He should have stored it somewhere else. It deserves better than to be hastily glued onto the pages and folded up until it could fit unseen inside his journal.

“No need,” Crowley sighs before trying out another few chords that Aziraphale recognises well. He squeezes his fingers tightly, suddenly wondering if this is really a good idea. What if it doesn’t work? What if Crowley isn’t convinced? What should he do then? This is his one chance. It has to work. It  must  work.

It will work. What is he doing, doubting in the power of Her? She is everywhere, and that includes in the words he’s about to sing in Her praise. That includes inside Aziraphale’s heart. His belief doesn’t waver. He doesn’t doubt. He is steadfast, strong in his conviction.

But he feels awfully soft right now.

“Ready?” Crowley asks absently as he looks over the sheet music one more time. Aziraphale somehow manages to squeeze out an affirmative between the steady breaths he’s taking to prepare himself for Her message to flow through him. He is but a vessel for Her love. His body, his material corporation, is simply a weak imitation of his heavenly soul that he inhabits during his brief life here on earth. Ego. Vanity. Doubt. All of those are barriers that keep him from accepting and spreading Her message. He needs to lose himself, lower his walls, and give his soul truly and fully to his faith.

The soft piano is nothing like the powerful backing of an organ that he’s used to, but he is Aziraphale, and he is strong enough to make up for it. He inhales deeply, easily finding his voice and when to enter.

“A nd can it be that I should gain

An interest in the  Savior's  blood ? ”

The question rings out in the small room they’re in, so much smaller than any of the practice rooms Aziraphale has ever been in. He’s sung in great halls, chanted with his choir on the open plains during rain, and entertained Gabriel in his vast quarters, yet he seems unable to fill the space.

He sounds lonely.

“ D ied He for me, who caused Him pain? ” 

He asks, and for some reason, the words that used to fill him with such overwhelming feelings of gratitude and salvation from knowing Her firstborn had sacrificed himself for humanity, for  him , now fills him with an achingly hollow feeling in his chest.

“ F -for me, who Him to death pursued ? ”

For him, for Aziraphale? For someone who’s been asked to leave their Garden. For someone who has not proven they are deserving of the blessings of Eden despite being given a whole month to do so.

For someone like him, who doubts and sins and drinks tea and eats Eccles cakes and who reads science fiction books! He reads science fiction books, and he has the gall to stand here and try to preach Her good word.

“ A mazing love! how can it be

That Thou, my God, should die for me ? ”

His knees feel weak. He’s lost all sense of structure in his singing, his breathing completely out of control. Because why should Her son have died for him? For  him ? How could he not have seen this before now? How could he have been so blind?

He’s made a mockery of Her, of Her goodness and Her grace. He could never possibly be worthy of it, of walking in Eden along Her. He’s spoiled,  rotten , from the inside out and oh God, he had almost brought his whole Garden down with him.

That’s why Gabriel had needed to come all the way from America. That’s why he had needed extra guidance, why no amount of scrutiny was enough to stop his repeated sinning. That’s why he isn’t a Seraph despite having passed the age for it. Not because they are waiting for a blessed year to ascend him but because he simply  cannot be .  Because he  isn’t  good enough .

The gentle notes from the piano have stopped. Crowley is watching him carefully, is looking at him,  seeing him . And Aziraphale cannot hide from the divine judgement. He can’t find enough air to get the last line past his lips.

“Amazing love!” It’s too shrill, nothing like singing, and he searches for purchase as the world begins tipping. This is why you shouldn’t lock your knees. Seraph Jehoel has told them many times over not to do so but Aziraphale hadn’t listened. He never listens. Not properly. Or he would have known. “How can it be?”

“Easy!” Crowley says, strong arms wrapping around Aziraphale and helping lower him down to the floor. “Easy. There, just... there.” Hands push him down as Aziraphale tries to get up again, keeping him prone to the floor.

“Legs up, like that,” Crowley says as he bends Aziraphale’s knees and props his legs up against the floor. “Arms above head. There we go. Now, breathe.” A pair of very serious sunglasses appear in front of him and an equally as serious Crowley appears behind them.

“That though,” Aziraphale begins, eyes closing as his chest heaves for breath. It hurts. Beneath his ribcage sits an aching ball of pain that seems to suck the very breath from his lungs and the blood from his brain. The world is still spinning around him, the ceiling a blur above him.

“Nope. No more singing, angel.” Crowley shakes his head above him, pushing back on his chest as Aziraphale again tries to sit up. “You, my dear friend, need to shut up and focus on not passing out right now because if I have to call an ambulance I will be fucking furious with you.”

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale gasps. His ribs are cracking, he’s sure of it. They’re shattering from the pressure of the glowing ball of agony eating away at him. “They’re not coming back for me, are they? They’re never coming back for me and—” The air runs out of his lungs and Aziraphale gapes, unable to breathe in.

Crowley places a rough hand on his forehead and angles his head back and up with a firm push. Aziraphale chokes on the next inhale. His feet slide against the floor as he coughs. Crowley quickly wrenches him over onto his side, one arm pulled out in front of him and the other tucked against his cheek. The world spins again. His stomach lurches.

“Just breathe, okay. Everything else can wait. Just fucking breathe!” Crowley hisses none too gently as he pushes Aziraphale’s head back to clear his airways again. Aziraphale grimaces. His legs slide against the floor as he curls up as tightly as Crowley will let him.

“They left me!” Aziraphale moans, hands scrambling for Crowley’s where they’re trying to fight against the neverending  greed  of agony in his chest. “She left me!” He has no one other than them. He is no one without them. Without Her, he’s made naught, unmade.

“Breathe,” Crowley growls, roughly flipping him over onto his back again and wrenching his hands up over his head. “Shut the fuck up and  breathe .” He’s so close now that Aziraphale can see the anger in his eyes through the tinted lenses. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. He tries so hard. So why? Why did She leave him? Why did she leave him?

“It hurts,” he pants.

Crowley’s hands roughly grab his cheeks, forcing him to meet the other’s eyes over the rim of the sunglasses.

“I know it fucking  hurts . It fucking sucks  but  right  now  you need to focus. You need to remember this anger, remember how this fucking feels, and you need to use it. Use every single ounce of it. Because if you  don’t  it will fucking  consume  you. So fucking  breathe ! Crowley snarls at him, eyes so wide behind his glasses that he’s staring right into Aziraphale’s soul, right through him.

Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath through his nose and nods weakly. Crowley mimics the nod above him, amber eyes continuing to drill right through him until a shaky breath sputters over Aziraphale’s lips.

“Good,” Crowley says and pats his cheeks.

Aziraphale crumbles.