Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The world ended.

Crowley was dead.

Earth, Heaven, his corporation, his heart, his soul, his core – everything shrunk into this tiny bead of agony that threatened to rip Aziraphale apart into his particles. Oh, if it only ripped him apart – like the Holy Water had dissolved the centre of his universe into nothing but a puddle.

But neither a lightning of righteous punishment, nor the fires of Hell, nor God herself came after him when he turned his back to his superiors and left Heaven. He couldn’t see the looks on their faces or what the other angels whispered as he passed them on his way to the elevator. He couldn’t care less.

Because the world still ended, and he had nowhere left to go. But he would rather spend the remaining time on Earth than in this soulless white vastness.

He had hoped the bookshop would give him peace, or at least some reprieve. But once he set one foot into the familiar space, his whole body crashed down. Because everywhere he looked, he saw his beloved demon. The fedora he had left the evening after the Blitz. The dent he had worn into the sofa next to the secretary desk. That one wine glass that Crowley had glued to one of the tables, a lifetime ago. That ostentatious silver snuff box Crowley had brought him back from a mission in Hungary. His colours all over the walls.

Aziraphale stood there, in the middle of the bookshop that had never been only his, but truly theirs. Became aware that that the demon would never bolt through those doors again, would never move his books while Aziraphale wasn’t looking, would never fall asleep on that sofa. Mozart's seventh symphony would never turn into the Rolling Stones. He wouldn’t hear that scratchy voice again. Oh, whoever wanted to listen, this couldn’t be true. In a desperate notion, he sent out his senses, scanned Earth and all the other planes for that one being he longed for.

The devastating truth hit him like a spear through the guts. He couldn’t find that delicate pull on his periphery, the tiny little burn in his chest that always reassured him that Crowley wasn’t far away.

And he broke down completely.

~*~

No prayer, no cry for help, not even his pleas were heard.

Aziraphale even cursed God’s name, just to get her attention. But like the unbearable silence drowning him slowly, She didn’t react. Didn’t send him down to Hell.

Aziraphale didn’t know if She just couldn’t hear him, or if She didn’t care that her brightest star had vanished from the firmament.

No one from Heaven came to come for him, either.
He was alone.

No.

Lonely.

Crowley’s voice echoed through his head, a memory from millennia ago that hurt so much that Aziraphale wondered why he wasn’t bleeding.

~*~

Sometimes, time passed agonisingly slow.

Like when he spent his days sitting on the backroom, staring into all those empty spaces where Crowley should be. When he didn’t feel anything but the growing void in his chest that ate away all his remaining strength. He couldn’t eat. Couldn’t listen to music. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t even move from his armchair for weeks, collecting dust like his pointless belongings. Staring and waiting for anything to happen. Either for his discorporation because he neglected this poor body, or for the pain to fade, or his emotions to catch up.

But nothing of that happened.

Even the world refused to end.

~*~

The day he found the Bentley in a deserted alley was one of the worst. The car seemed to have waited for its owner ever since it had been abandoned. It’s headlights flicked on when the angel approached and he almost turned away, unable to face the loss that would inevitably come over him again. But he couldn’t leave, either.

So he stood there, staring at the perfect black varnish, and the familiar chrome décor, and the bird figurine on top of the hood and those forsaken bullet hole stickers on the driver's door and tried not to dissociate again.

“He won’t come back,” he told the car, and he could swear the headlights dimmed for a second. Tears filled his eyes once again. It wasn’t the first time that he blamed himself, guilt washing over him like a tsunami. He had left Crowley on Earth, alone and unprotected. For a stupid promotion. Crowley had kissed him, and Aziraphale had rejected him. And ultimately, Crowley had died because of a damned promotion.

~*~

The coast of Amalfi was beautiful in August. Flowers bloomed on every corner, the ocean was bluer than ever, and the wine was superb, as always. Especially the last bit was vitally important. Because even here, at a place where he never once been with Crowley in all their time, the demon’s ghost lingered behind every blessed corner.

It was much easier to fill the void in his chest with alcohol than with pain, so he drank. And why not drink in a pretty environment? He sat on the terrazza of a local bar until the cricket song and the bottle of red wine in his hands were his only companions. He couldn’t remember when he had been so drunk out of his mind the last time, if ever. Usually, it was Crowley who drank so much that Aziraphale didn’t even had the chance to get properly slobberknockered. His head rested on the railing just before him, and he watched the horizon's colour fade from fiery pinks and oranges into inky blacks and blues.

The sky was wide and clear, not a single cloud in sight. That last bottle of wine must have been one too much, because as soon as the first stars appeared on the horizon, his sleepy drunkenness suddenly turned into chest-splitting agony. Crowley, or better the angel he was before, had hung those stars into the firmament. And he wouldn’t be there to hang new ones. Not that there was much time left before the remaining ones burnt out anyway, and the last bit of his beloved demon disappeared into immateriality.

Aziraphale cradled the bottle to his chest and tried to stifle a sob, but it was too late. The tears already rolled down his cheeks. He was alone. Left to a world that was about to end, and there was no solace than the hope that the Rapture would take him away as well. No live your life for him, like the humans would say. There were only war and destruction waiting for him on the horizon, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

That time in Italy was the first of may times when the angel passed out, with too much alcohol in his bloodstream and a heart splintered into millions of shards.

~*~

The Bentley’s cabin was warm and surprisingly damp, and the smell of earth filled the space. On the backseat, an assortment of various plants sat, spotless and verdant as always. And in between all of those variations of green, one single yellow tulip stuck out. Aziraphale broke down again.

The car smelled of Crowley. Of the life they could have had, if Aziraphale had told the Metatron to piss off. He ran his hand over the worn leather, and patted the seat gently.

“Thanks for taking care of his belongings, my dear,” he sobbed and curled onto the driver’s seat, his head leaned on the backrest. There was another bottle of wine in his hands, but he didn’t uncork it. He was drunk enough, but one never knew if one needed it anyway. His head hurt and he slumped into himself, listening to the raindrops splattering on the car's roof.

Across the bottle, he attempted to fold his hands in a mock praying gesture and glared upwards.

“I know you don’t care,” he slurred, sinking deeper into the seat and gave up holding back his tears, “I know you’re ignoring us, but I bet you for one last prayer.”

His voice wavered and he cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Send him back to me. Or me to him. However. And if you can’t do that, then please take the pain away. Take it away. You didn’t design us to feel that way. So - take. it. back.”

The silence that followed was answer enough. So alcohol it was. The angel raised a hand, and snapped to uncork the bottle.

An odd shiver ran down his spine as the two fingertips connected.

And suddenly, white light blinded him.

~*~

Aziraphale blinked, confused. The Bentley was gone. The alleyway was gone as well. The alcohol in his blood was gone. Even the gloomy night was gone.

Instead, he stood in the middle of his bookshop, a broken horse figurine just to his feet. Bright midday light filtered through the windows and into the room, blinding him. There was a silhouette standing at the till, frozen in place.

“What are you doing here already?!”

Aziraphale gasped, the sound of that so familiar voice knocking every breath from his lungs. He blinked and pinched himself. This couldn’t be. This wasn’t real. He had passed out in the Bentley, too drunk and tired to stay awake. The slim figure came closer, hands raised into a soothing gesture.

“Okay, listen. I’m sorry, angel! I know we talked about it, and I know you explicitly forbid me to do it in your bookshop, and still, I might’ve done it again, but only because I wanted us to – are you alright?”

Aziraphale wasn’t aware that he was crying again. He didn’t care. But there he was. Crowley. As bright as day. Stripped to a plain black sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants he would usually never leave the house with. No sunglasses. No fancy silver scarf. Hair short but not as perfect as the angel was used to.

Golden eyes focused on him with worry.

“Did something happen?” Crowley asked, so much gentler and softer than Aziraphale had ever heard him speak. This must be a dream. Crowley was dead. Destroyed. Gone to a place Aziraphale couldn’t follow.

The demon was close now, and Aziraphale almost choked when Crowley raised his hands to cup his face, wiping away the tears that kept falling and falling.

“Angel. Talk to me.”

Aziraphale sobbed, and threw his arms around the demon, clawed into the back of his sweatshirt. If this was a dream, he had to take advantage of it as long as this was given to him.

He was crying helplessly, pressed his face into Crowley’s shoulder and couldn’t believe that the physical presence and the warmth the demon emitted was real. Crowley reciprocated the embrace, one hand on the back of Aziraphale’s head, the other between his shoulder blades.

He smelled of his plants, of leather and something new and familiar at the same time. Oh. For some reason, he smelled like Aziaphale’s aftershave.

The bookshop doors opened with a cheerful ding of the bell, and Aziraphale was about to lash out to whoever dared to break this moment, when Crowley stiffened like a board.

“What on Earth?!”, the demon gasped.

Crowley’s arms were gone like Aziraphale had zapped him with a lightning strike. He panted, a succession of incomprehensible vocals leaving his mouth, and his eyes darted frantically between the angel and the intruder.

He couldn’t take his gaze off Crowley. Aziraphale knew if he turned away, the demon would vanish into the ether, together with this beautiful illusion.

“Who is this?”

The voice made Aziraphale flinch, and he turned around with a gasp.

In the doorway stood an angel, blue eyes fixed on him with disbelief. Aziraphale gaped. This must be a dream.

Because it was himself.

Chapter Text

Crowley slinked through the shop like he owned it, avoiding every tower of unsorted books with bravado.

He planted Aziraphale’s favourite winged mug full of hot cocoa into his trembling hands and snaked onto the couch next to him, one elbow propped on the backrest, long legs crossed, spine bent into an impossible angle. 

“So, Mr. Doppelganger,” he started, a lopsided grin on his angular face that made Aziraphale’s heart yearn. He was so beautiful. Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring, unable to process what was happening here. He had spent months grieving the loss of his demon. He had literally watched him die. He couldn’t be here. It just wasn’t possible. He must be dreaming. Or maybe he was dying already? Had the world finally ended, and he landed wherever angels and demons went when they got destroyed?

But that didn’t explain that other Aziraphale at all.

“Is … is he alright?” Aziraphale asked quietly and gestured at the door.

After a heated discussion in the backroom, the other angel, that happened to look exactly like him, stormed out of the shop, leaving Crowley with a completely confused Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged with one shoulder.

“He’s a bit upset.”

“With me?”

Crowley snorted and toasted him with a glass of whiskey that appeared out of nowhere.

“Hah! No, don’t fuss. Should worry for my sorry arse instead.”

“Will you be in trouble?”

Crowley smacked his lips and swirled the golden liquid in the glass.

“Probably. I broke the horse figurine.”

“Well, I was a priceless antiquity.”

The demon snorted into his glass and watched Aziraphale with sparkling eyes.

“That is exactly, what my Aziraphale just said.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, we are the same person!”

The gaze Crowley sent him beared something heavy.

“There is no universe that’s exactly the same, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked, both taken aback by the words and the pet name. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and tightened the grasp on his mug. Different universes? What was he talking about?

“It almost sounds like you’ve got some experience.”

The muscles around Crowley’s eyes tightened and shifted his weight, taking his sweet time to sip on his whisky.

“Might’ve caught the one or other glimpse,” he finally admitted and was suddenly very interested in the wallpaper.

“And they weren’t all delightful, I suppose?”

The demon’s cheek twitched.

“No.”

This didn’t make any sense at all. This whole situation was utterly ridiculous. Aziraphale’s brows knitted together, his mind reeling. Did Heaven know about this? Did this mean there were multiple Gods? Or did she just overlook all of those infinite universes? A headache settled just behind his forehead.

“I’m not quite sure what happened. What this here is. Why I’m here. How did I get here? The last thing I remember I was drunk out of my mind and now I’m here, sober as day. To be honest, I feel a bit lost right now.”

The demon eyed him for a while, the lack of sunglasses a startling unfamiliarity.

“I think I pulled you through a rift by accident,” he finally said, like it explained everything.

“A rift?”

Crowley shifted again and took a sip before answering, his cheek twitching.

“Uhh … hard to explain. So. Sometimes, universes overlap like two pieces of paper. And sometimes, both sheets of those paper are partially ripped. And even less frequently, those two rips align perfectly.” With a gesture, he emphasised his explanation, “And that’s a rift.”

“Did that happen before? That you pulled someone through one of those rifts?” Aziraphale asked, still not sure if he understood.

“Not until today.”

To compensate for the uncomfortable silence that stretched between them, Aziraphale took a small sip from his cocoa. He couldn’t stifle a delighted sound when the sweet taste hit his tongue. It cast a smile on Crowley’s lips.

“S’good, right?” he drawled, the heavy mood lifted.

“It is! That is divine, my dear.”

“Secret demonic recipe.”

Aziraphale quirked a brow and Crowley grinned wider.

“Is it ground chili flakes?”

He chuckled when the demon made a face.

“How did you know?”

“Trust me, I had a lot of secretly alternated cocoa because of…”

The air in the bookshop was suddenly very thin, strangling every sound. The thought of his demon’s shenanigans split his chest open again.

He could feel the other Crowley’s gaze burn in his periphery.

“What happened to your Crowley?” he asked cautiously, shifting in his seat once more. Aziraphale forced a smile on his face, tears already on the brink of falling.

“He was a lot like you, you know? Always shifting and playing it down when he felt uncomfortable.”

The demon’s movements froze and he cleared his throat, an unmistakably caught expression on his angular face. It hurt, looking at this Crowley and knowing that this wasn’t Aziraphale’s world. Hot tears overflowed and Aziraphale wiped his cheeks.

“Heaven killed him.”

All colour drained from Crowley’s face and he stared at Aziraphale with pity.

“Angel, I’m so sorry.”

“We were so close. To avert the Second Coming. But then Heaven found out that our immunity against Hellfire and Holy Water was a ruse. They caught him, held him hostage. Threatened to kill him, so I would behave.”

Every word cut the wound in his heart deeper, but he couldn’t stop talking.

“It wasn’t even on purpose, I think. But there was a big conference where Heaven was supposed to decide the specifics of the End of the World. They brought my Crowley there as well. I don’t even know why. The worst part of it is, I’m certain they didn’t even mean to harm him. The angel in charge of him slipped. I can only remember his screams.”

It was like he was back in Heaven, Crowley’s cries of agony echoing through the big room as his core started dissolving. Aziraphale didn’t remember if he screamed, or if he stood still, if he broke down, or if his body reacted at all. He only remembered a hand that stretched out for him in a desperate plea for help.

“Aziraphale.”

A hand was on his shoulder, a steady pressure against trembling muscles. The mug was gone from his hands, and he hadn’t noticed that he was sobbing uncontrollably. The present Crowley said his name again, both hands on his shoulders now. It was agonising to look at him. A reminder what he could never have.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry,” he croaked and pulled him into a gentle embrace. The conflicted urge to pull away and simultaneously melt against the demon tore Aziraphale apart. He sobbed into his chest, allowed him to caress his back and his head.

“In those glimpses into the other universes, I saw you Fall a few times. Or you Fell and I stayed with the Host. Sometimes one of us discorporated, sure. But I never saw one of us truly gone. Always thought we were kind of invincible,” Crowley said quietly, rubbing soothing circles on the angel’s back.

“Guess I’m that one unlucky bastard,” Aziraphale sniffed and pulled away. He had to get himself together. This was no angelic demeanour. Unloading this trauma on an unsuspecting demon wasn’t appropriate at all. He cleared his throat, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to stop the blessed crying, shoved the grief back into his subconsciousness.

He laughed, a fragile, pained sound, and he avoided the demon’s gaze.

“Apologies. It’s been … a couple of months,” he sniffed and wiped his face once more. When he pulled the handkerchief from his face, he noticed the stains.

“Oh,” he said, only now becoming aware of his state. The past moths had passed in a trance. And clearly, Aziraphale hadn’t taken care of his clothes or even cared to look in a mirror.

He looked down to his chest and found his beloved overcoat, his waistcoat and shirt stained with countless droplets of wine, spoiling the fabric with unsightly purple spots. It’s been at least two months since he had been in Italy, but the seams around his sleeves and buttons were stained with rusty brown dust. Good lord, he was a mess.

“Look at the state of my clothes. Kept them in tip-top condition for two centuries,” he muttered, rubbing at the stains to no avail.

“Rough patch, eh?” Crowley replied.

“Lots of Valpolicella.”

The demon sent him a smile more pitying than amused.

“I’m certain my angel can borrow you some clothes once he’s back and finished scolding me,” he joked and emptied his glass. He got to his feet, and pushed the mug of cocoa back into Aziraphale’s hands. It was still warm, not one marshmallow melted yet.

“Drink up. I’ll go and see if I can fix that blasted figurine.”

~*~

The other Aziraphale returned in the late afternoon, the low sun casting golden light into the bookshop. He didn’t seem too keen on spotting Aziraphale, who anxiously clasped the cup of cocoa in his hands. The other angel went straight for Crowley, taking him by the arm.

“Can we talk? In private?”

Crowley nodded and muttered something, pointing at Aziraphale. The other angel gave him a once-over, then he sighed. Reluctantly, he allowed Aziraphale to borrow some of his clothes, showing him where to find the bathroom. As if he didn’t know his own shop blindly.

Aziraphale haven’t had a shower for half a year at least. Usually, he kept himself clean with a small miracle, but right now it felt somewhat inappropriate to just slip into the borrowed clothes like that. Also, the lavender-scented soap and the hot water were a bliss to his neglected skin.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom door, making sure not to make too much noise. As if this other world would burn him if he took too much place. He didn’t belong here, and even the fabric of this universe rejected his presence as it seemed.

“We have to send him back, Crowley!”

His alter-ego’s hushed voice echoed through the bookshop and Aziraphale froze in place. He could see the two over the railing, standing close to the bookshop doors. The horse figurine was throned on one of the tables again, unscathed.

“He doesn’t belong here! What if he messes up the fabric of our universe?” the other Aziraphale continued, leaning intimately into Crowley. The demon watched him anxiously, his right hand on the angel’s upper arm in a soothing gesture.

“Angel, we… urgh, I don’t know if I can. No idea how I pulled him into this universe in the first place.”

“Maybe because you messed with time again, even though I told you to stop doing that in my bookshop!”

The sharp tone in the other Aziraphale’s voice pulled Crowley’s brows into an offended frown and he let go of the angel’s arm.

“And I already apologised for that! And I fixed the figurine for you! No reason to snap at me.”

“You pulled another version of me into the bookshop!”

“I know, thank you very much!”

They glared at each other for ten excruciating seconds. Crowley worked his jaw, then he took three laboured breaths and relaxed his stance.

“Sorry, angel. M’a jerk.”

The other Aziraphale softened immediately and reached for the demon’s hand. No apology dance. No arguing until both of them left the room, hurt and and with a huge crack in their pride. Instead, the angel muttered an apology, too, and then kissed the back of Crowley’s hand. Only in this moment Aziraphale on the upper floor realised this Crowley was a bit taller than the one he remembered. 

The sight of that little affection tightly wrapped barbed wire around Aziraphale’s heart and pulled. If this was a dream, it must be a Hellish one, torturing him with everything he ever wanted.

Crowley on the first floor sighed quietly, his stance relaxing and started speaking again.

“What if he stayed?” he asked cautiously, pressing their intertwined hands against his chest. The other Aziraphale didn’t look pleased at all.

“With us?!”

“Ngk. Dunno. Only temporarily. Until we find a solution what to do with him, eh?”

The other Aziraphale’s brow furrowed even more and he chewed on his lower lip.

“Crowley, we’ll endanger our universe if he stays.”

“You don’t know that! As far as I’m concerned, he’s from a parallel universe, not from another timeline. There’s a difference. Otherwise our reality would’ve imploded the moment you two entered the same room.”

The other Aziraphale fell into thoughtful silence.

“But that doesn’t change that he belongs into his own universe, with his own bookshop and his own Crowley.”

The last bit hit Aziraphale like a gut punch, facing him with the reality that his version of Crowley was gone. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned away. He had to leave. As fast as possible.

“Angel, in his universe I’m dead.”

Aziraphale froze, the bookshop dropping dead silent.

“Would you like to be sent back into a world where I don’t exist?” Crowley said carefully after several beats.

“I- uh- oh God.”

Silence again.

“Maybe we should talk to him, eh? Ask him what he wants.”

“Probably for the best. Gosh.”

Aziraphale decided that this was the best moment to make a noise. He tiptoed back to the bathroom door and closed it with a loud click. Pretending like he hadn’t eavesdropped on the two of them, he sauntered down the spiral staircase. Two pairs of eyes landed on him.

It was so odd seeing another version of himself, right in front of him. He had the same stubborn curl on top of his head. Wore the same bowtie, the same sky blue french-cut dress shirt, and the same golden pocket watch. His waistcoat was slightly more reddish, though. He didn’t wear a signet ring. His posture was less tense.

“Are you feeling better?” the other Aziraphale asked, staring at him like he were an alien from a different planet. Well, maybe he was. It was distressing seeing himself in the same room, and he figured his doppelganger suffered from the same issue.

Aziraphale nodded, awkwardly.

“Yes. Thank you very much.” He ran a hand over the waistcoat, the touch of the fabric a hair softer than he was used to. It didn’t want to sit right, the fabric folding weirdly along his middle. He brought his hands together in front of his chest and clasped his fingers, uncertain what to do.

“I just told Aziraphale what happened in your universe,” Crowley blurted and shifted his weight, his hand still connected to the other angel’s. Aziraphale looked away.

“I am sorry to hear what happened,” the other angel told him. Aziraphale squeezed his fingers so hard it hurt, but he clenched his teeth and nodded. He wouldn’t cry again. Not in front of his own doppelganger. The other angel cleared his throat and straightened his posture, shooting a glance at Crowley. Then he looked back at Aziraphale. The angel just noticed how stunningly blue that one’s irises were.

“Since it’s technically our fault that you landed here, we’d like to offer you a place to stay, until we find a permanent solution for you,” he stated, leaning slightly into the demon, “But you must understand that we have to make sure you’re no threat to us.”

Aziraphale frowned, taken aback.

“Why would I be a threat?”

The question came out sharper than he had anticipated and his stomach dropped. Well done, Aziraphale. Snap at the ones who just offered you a place to stay. The voice in his head sounded way too much like Crowley.

“What he meant to say,” Crowley jumped in, stepping slightly in between his partner an Aziraphale, “That we should check if your … uh … difference doesn’t interrupt our universe. It could be dangerous for both you and us if your essence is rejected by our timeline.”

He said it like he studied that subject. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, that timelines and parallel universes existed. Aziraphale hadn’t even known that there were more than one, until he appeared in this bookshop.

But what if it did reject him? What if he was to return back to his dying Earth, to the place where Crowley was forever gone, and the Second Apocalypse was set in motion? Back to the loneliness, the nights passing out in the abandoned Bentley, a bookshop so empty it seemed to crush his chest?

The present Crowley raised his hands in a soothing gesture.

“Don’t worry, I’m almost certain you’re not much of an intruder. But we need to be sure. Just do what I tell you, yes?” he asked, again in this unbearably gentle tone. This wasn’t the Crowley Aziraphale knew. This one was softer around the edges, more collected, definitely not as short-fused. It rubbed Aziraphale in the wrong way, for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Alright.”

What else should he say? It was either this, or straight back into his personal Hell. Crowley nodded and sent his angel a look that seemed to say: See?

The other Aziraphale pressed his lips into a tight line and gave a stern nod.

“Stay still for me,” Crowley came closer, circled Aziraphale and gave him a once-over.

“You’re a bit shorter,” he commented, more to himself than to anyone specific. He came to a halt just before Aziraphale and raised a hand, pressing his fingertips on his sternum, right where his heart raced.

“I’ll prepare myself a cuppa while you two are at it,” the other angel muttered and went for the kitchenette. Aziraphale flinched and retreated. He had lost all feeling in the fingertips of his left hand from squeezing too hard. But he couldn’t let go either.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, his heart a hammering force just beneath his breastbone, “I can go. You don’t have to keep—”

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley interrupted him incredulously, “I pulled you through that rift.”

“What if you didn’t?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly remembering the miracle he had attempted while being drunk out of his mind. Crowley blinked, completely derailed.

“Whot?’ he asked, intelligently.

“I- I tried to cast a miracle, back in my time, and the moment I snapped my fingers, I appeared here.”

Crowley needed to think about that. He scratched his chin and started pacing. Aziraphale could practically see the wheels turn in his head.

“Wait,” Crowley said and turned towards him, ”Can you cast miracles here?”

Aziraphale blinked, surprised that he hadn’t tried for one yet.

He lifted his hand and pulled down, manifesting his favourite illustrated edition of Alice in Wonderland. But he couldn’t get hold on the fabric of this universe, so nothing happened. He frowned, palpated the ethereal plane with his senses, and found that even though this bookshop looked almost exactly like his own, the divine properties were completely different. He was truly a foreigner in this world.

“Hm, that figures. You’re not joined with this universe’s Host.” Crowley thought and circled Aziraphale with a thoughtful gaze now.

“Could we connect him to our Host?” the other Aziraphale asked, returning from the kitchenette. He cradled a fancy mug between his hands. Crowley turned towards him and shrugged.

“Possibly.”

The demon tilted his head and asked, “Are you still attached to your own Host?”

“Not sure.” Aziraphale answered truthfully. He closed his eyes and looked inside, felt for his core. He searched for the filament that connected him to Heaven, the one that fuelled his angelic powers like a lifeline. His stomach dropped when he couldn’t feel anything, like a marionette cut from its strings. His eyes snapped open with an agonised whimper.

“It’s gone,” he gasped and pressed his hand on his chest, the void threatening to consume him whole. How had he not noticed this earlier? What did that mean? Was his universe gone? Did his Heaven finally end it all?

“Angel. Hey. Breathe.”

Crowley was next to him in an instant, his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. His touch burned like fire, and Aziraphale flinched.

“You’re not him.” He croaked before he could stop himself. His Crowley wouldn't comfort him like that. Never. He’d rather make a joke, or distract him with a silly anecdote. He would never pity him or seek out physical contact.

A sad, knowing expression appeared on present Crowley’s face.

“I know,” he replied quietly and took a step back.

“Are we done?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly very tired. Crowley nodded and retreated further.

“Yeah. You’re not a threat.”

“Splendid.”

Dozens of tiny little ropes wrapped around his throat and tightened.

“I need some air.”

He adjusted the borrowed coat and bolted for the exit. Nobody stopped him. And he was glad about it.

Chapter Text

This world was truly a copy of the one Aziraphale had been ripped apart from. He found himself wandering through the same streets he had known for centuries. Humans dressed the same. Even his favourite spot in St. James’ Park looked similar. Well, at least it had been his favourite place, until—

His body collapsed on a bench just by the waterfront, and for some time, he didn’t allow himself to think at all. Just watch the ducks. Or the humans. You’re good at watching and protecting humans from afar. Well, not so much of the protecting bit anymore, though.

His hand landed on his chest once again, where the gaping hole gnawed at him like a starving animal.

But his mind was cruel, and it replayed the scene he had just left over and over. The reserved reactions of his other self. The way he had stared at him, like the intruder he was. The looks this Crowley sent him, so openly showing emotion. How he spoke so softly. The way he touched the other Aziraphale so casually.

It hurt. It stabbed him in the guts with blazing knifes. To see this version of them, encompassing all he ever wished for when he was still in his own world. To see that it was possible for Crowley to love him back. To see himself so content and comfortable with the demon, no traces of anxiety when he touched him.

Would his Crowley have become the same, if Aziraphale only allowed it? Would he himself been the same? So collected? So fond?

It was no use wrecking his brain about it, but he couldn’t stop. The worst part of it was that he still felt so lonely. Instead of relief to see a version of Crowley alive, he just spiralled deeper into the grief, until the void spread into his limbs, numbing and weighing him down unbearably. As the sun set, he stared at the pond, wrung out and so deeply sad that he didn’t notice the human that came to a halt next to his bench.

“Excuse me?” they said and slowly, the angel turned his head. It was a girl, more child than teenager, her wild, curly hair forced into a ponytail. She looked back at him, a backpack dangling from her shoulder.

“Yes?"

“You look sad, Sir.”

An agonised chuckle left Aziraphale’s throat and he looked down at his hands.

“Well. I have to admit, I feel a bit down indeed, young lady,” he tried for a smile, but he was sure it came out more like a grimace, “I lost my best friend.”

He wasn’t sure why he told her. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t one for children, if he was honest. It had always been Crowley who was better with them.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said and held out something.

When he raised his gaze again, his eyes landed on a single marguerite flower in her small hands.

“Just found it back there. Thought it’s pretty. I planned to take it home with me, but I feel you might need it more.”

Aziraphale stared at her, perplexed. In a daze, he took the delicate flower.

“Thank you.” He croaked, trying for another smile. She smiled back at him, wished him a good evening and continued her stroll. Aziraphale watched her go, then stared down at the marguerite, and found that the void was smaller for some reason. The feeling was back in his fingertips.

Humans. Every time when Aziraphale just forgot about their grandness, some human like this young girl slapped him in the face with their grace. His eyes were full of tears again, and he cautiously turned the flower between his fingers, unable to process that act of kindness.

The angel wished he could send a blessing. Maybe his good will would be enough, but how could he know in this foreign universe?

He still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that this wasn’t his world, when it looked so frightfully similar. Nothing seemed out of place. Not different in a way that made one feel uncomfortable. But still, his core, his ethereal senses, his deepest self, knew that it was wrong. That he was not in the right place, his core not in sync with this world.

That feeling beared something familiar. Every time he had set foot in his version of Heaven, that exact sensation had emerged. Unsettling. Too clean. Too bland. A place he didn’t truly belong, not since he had been appointed as the Angel of the Eastern Gate. Not since Crowley had become his friend rather than his enemy.

He looked at the flower again, ran the pad of his index finger across the delicate petals.

His Crowley had always made fun of him in the 19th century about his hyper-fixation on flower language. It was ‘something silly the humans made up, because just talking was too hard’. But Aziraphale had loved that kind of language. One could give someone else a bouquet of flowers and send a whole message, without having to use words in the first place.

And this girl had decided to gift him a marguerite, of all flowers. Purity. Innocence. Joy. A new life.

Aziraphale never believed in the kind of signs humans tended to see in their world, neither did he believe in destiny. Humans made it up to explain the unexplainable, or to feel better about their sins.

But right now, in this moment, the angel hoped, prayed, that his was a sign. That his Crowley, wherever he was now, had somehow managed to send him this flower. That he wanted Aziraphale to carry on. That maybe, this whole ordeal with falling into a parallel universe was meant to happen. The ropes around his chest loosened a bit.

At least, a version of Crowley still existed here. Aziraphale had survived six thousand years of loving Crowley from afar. He could do it again, no matter how much it hurt. Knowing this Crowley lived would be enough. It must be.

~*~

“Figured I'd find you here.”

Night had broken at least an hour ago, but Aziraphale still sat on that same spot, flower in his hand, trying to figure out what to do now.

Crowley approached him slowly, a dark silhouette against the dim-lit park. He looked more than Aziraphale’s Crowley now; all flashy clothes, silver scarf and dark sunglasses. He had the same swagger to his hips that always made Aziraphale’s knees weak.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hi.”

Crowley stopped a good meter away, his hands buried into the too small pockets of his jeans.

“Started to get worried.” He kicked a small pebble with the tip of his boot, “Aziraphale asked me to look for you.”

The angel frowned.

“He did?”

Crowley shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

“He wants you to know that he’s not angry with you. And that you’re welcome to return to the bookshop, if you like.”

Aziraphale sighed and looked up at Crowley, taking in that so familiar sight. It still hurt.

“Are you sure he wants me there?”

“I am.”

“Well, only because he doesn’t tell you, doesn’t mean that—”

“He is sure.” Crowley interrupted him sternly, brows furrowing, “There’s pretty much nothing he doesn’t tell me nowadays. I know him. I mean—”

He shifted again, slipping his hands into his back pockets now.

“M’not saying t’isn’t kinda weird for … well, all three of us, but ‘specially for him. Same person an’ all. I mean… You two are and aren’t the same person. I… ngk. What I want to say is… ngk… I feel bad for what happened to you. And no matter if it was you who miracled his way here, or t’was me who pulled you in or a combination of both of us meddling… We’ll only find a solution if we all work together, eh?”

Aziraphale’s throat tightened when the demon held out a hand.

“Need a lift?” his voice had that cautiously tender tone again. The angel couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses, but he knew Crowley enough to know that he was staring at him. That his question beared more than just the offer for a simple ride in his car.

“I don’t know, my dear,” he muttered, looking down at the marguerite. A new life. Give it a chance.

He swallowed heavily, and cautiously attached the flower to his lapel. Crowley quirked a brow at the notion, but didn’t comment. Aziraphale’s fingers trembled when his hand slipped into the demon’s and Crowley pulled him to his feet.

They stood there for a second, hands connected, and he once again noticed that this Crowley was much taller than his. But his hand felt the same. Surprisingly warm. Unsurprisingly soft. Delicate knuckles and long fingers. At least this feeling was familiar. His Crowley had held his hand multiple times across history. Especially after the first failed Apocalypse, it had become quite a habit of theirs. It just felt right, to hold the other’s hand for an unspecified time, on a bus ride, over a table cloth or while walking through the city.

With a jerk, Aziraphale let go of the demon, heat pushing into his cheeks. Because this wasn’t his Crowley. This one belonged to another Aziraphale. One that had his place in this universe.

“Alright, come on. The Bentley's waiting.”

~*~

Aziraphale didn’t know why he was so surprised that this version of Crowley lived in the bookshop. The more time he had to really take in his surroundings, the more alterations he found. There were flashy pots with plants sitting on various shelves; the kitchenette contained a frightfully modern espresso machine; some of the blankets and throw pillows were black or anthracite. The wine cabinet contained at least five different sorts of whisky. To his bewilderment, he also spotted all kinds of overly sweetened drinks like strawberry Bellini. He was shaken to find a big flatscreen TV at the back room.

While Crowley lounged on the leather sofa next to the desk, tapping on his phone, the other angel ogled Aziraphale like a hawk as he wandered through the shelves. He could feel his alter-ego’s glare at the back of his neck like a third presence. And still, his curiosity defeated his anxiety. The more time he spend studying that other angel’s collection, the more differences he spotted.

Although the two of them seemed to share the same passion for first editions, the books themselves mostly were from different genres. Beautifully painted special editions of semi-modern literature. A lot more fantasy books for some reason. He wondered if the books were differently written here. If Edgar Allan Poe’s poems had alterations. If The Picture of Dorian Grey ended differently than in his own world. But he didn’t dare to touch or remove any of the books, no matter how hard his fingers itched. Heat pushed into his face when he found a big section of smut, new and old, openly displayed.

Aziraphale had a similar, yet much smaller section like this in his bookshop - but it was hidden in the back room, behind a shelf full of manuscripts about the scientific importance of 13th century farming, so his Crowley would never find them, not even by accident. Aziraphale was sure he would’ve died of mortification if his demon would have found out about the kind of books he had read.

He pushed that thought away as quickly as he went for the next shelf. Nervously, he straightened the borrowed waistcoat, still sitting too loose around his middle. This other Aziraphale was definitely a bit taller than him.

“Where are the bibles?” Aziraphale carefully asked when he finished his inspection of this unfamiliar collection. The other angel sipped on his tea, blue eyes fixed on Aziraphale.

“Which ones?”

“The misprinted ones.”

The other Aziraphale looked at him like he was speaking French.

“The Wicked Bible? The Unrighteous Bible? The Standing Fishes Bible? The Buggre Alle This Bible?” he tried, incredulously. Still no reaction.

“I don’t stock any Bibles in this shop,” the other angel said, a frown pulling on his brows.

Confused, Aziraphale blinked.

“You … what? Why not?"

He couldn’t believe it. Those misprinted Bibles were Aziraphale’s whole pride. A shimmer of interest sparked in the other Aziraphale’s blue eyes.

“I never liked the written word of the Lord. Too much has been lost and misinterpreted in those modern translations and it always rubbed me the wrong way.”

They stared at each other for a second. Then Aziraphale pulled himself a chair and sat down.

“But – that’s not the point! Listen, they’re work of art! Even if one doesn’t like the contents, the misprints are … well, hilarious! It took me centuries to get my hands on all known copies!”

He scooted closer to the edge of his chair and waited for his doppelganger to react. The other angel took his sweet time to have another sip of tea.

“I never thought about it like that. What else did you collect?”

“Books and scrolls of Prophecy, for example.” His second favourite kind. Much easier to collect.

The other Aziraphale put his mug down.

“Oh, I got those, too! Has Mother Shipton spilled her drink on your copy as well?”

“She did!”

For the first time since Aziraphale had appeared in the middle of the bookshop, there was something akin to a smile on his doppelganger’s face.

“Did you get your hands on the second Agnes Nutter?” he asked and Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open.

“There is a second one?!”

“Aaand I’m out!” Crowley stated before one of them could speak further, pushed on his feet and changed his outfit into something much more fashionable with a click of the fingers.

Both angels looked up at him, confused.

“One of you fussing over posh 19th century literature is unbearable enough, but two of you? No thank you. My car misses me and I’ve got some humans to piss off.”

“Agnes Nutter was burned 1656. Technically, that’s 17th century literature, my dear,” the other Aziraphale tutted. Crowley sent his partner a smile that oozed with exasperated fondness. And that was something that reminded Aziraphale so much of his Crowley that he forgot to breathe.

“Whatever. The point is, I will not listen to two of you…” he pointed at both of them, ”…yapping about a long gone witch and her half-witted prophecies, thank you very much. So, with all the love – ciao."

And the demon turned on his heels and walked out of the shop.

Aziraphale tilted his head towards his double, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Would you show me the book?”

The other angel was on his feet in an instant, pointing upstairs. Hesitantly, Aziraphale followed him. On their way up the spiral staircase, he noticed how white his doppelganger’s hair was. No hint of blonde or gold, more of a silvery white colour.

“Technically it’s a manuscript, not a book. Agnes never had it printed, opposed to her first collection of correct prophecies,” the other angel explained as he went for a safe just behind the a bookshelf. At the same spot Aziraphale has had his own safe.

The heavy door opened with a quiet squeak. The other angel picked up a pile of papers wrapped in archival plastic film. He cradled it against his chest, his body turning very still.

“You know,” he started and turned his head, so Aziraphale could see his profile, but the other angel didn’t look at him directly, “I didn’t want to come over as … hostile today. It’s just very…”

“Bizarre?” Aziraphale offered. The other angel nodded.

“Sums it up quite well, yes. Bizarre.”

He looked down at the manuscript in his arms.

“What I mean is, I want Crowley and me to be safe. It cost us a lot, to have this peaceful existence now. Heaven isn’t the place of goodness and light we were made to believe. And when I saw you, I just … I felt very threatened.”

His eyes were on Aziraphale now.

“I feared you might be a demon, or another angel, pretending to be me – to harm Crowley.”

Aziraphale swallowed, his hands numb.

“I think I assumed in this universe everything is set right?” he muttered around the lump in his throat, voice flat.

“There is an Agreement, yes. Between Heaven and Hell. No more Apocalypses. No more War. But a general peace doesn’t mean that everyone is happy with the outcome. We had incidents with angels and demons that blamed us for their misery. I promised Crowley to keep him safe. I assume you understand the weight of that promise. Maybe more than anyone else.”

Aziraphale nodded, a tight rope around his neck once more. He clasped his hands and looked down.

“I do.”

Silence stretched between them, weighing down on them like a lead blanket.

“I am awfully sorry that you weren’t able to save your Crowley. It’s horribly unfair. I don’t know what I would do if something like this happened to mine.”

Aziraphale thought back at the months he had spent all by himself, mourning and drunk.

“I’m glad you don’t have to go through that. Nobody should.”

“No,” the other Aziraphale said quietly, his eyes on the manuscript once more.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“I miss him. Horribly.”

Aziraphale didn’t mean to say it out loud. The words just slipped. He cleared his throat and clenched his teeth, turning away to wipe his eyes. He forced a smile on his face and turned back.

“But I’m straying from the topic. You wanted to show me the manuscript.” He was proud how collected his voice sounded. The other angel looked at him for a long moment, blue eyes deep with unsaid worry. His brows furrowed, then he carefully placed the manuscript in Aziraphale’s hands.

“Why don’t we have a cuppa over the prophecies?” he asked, voice oddly flat, gaze intense. Aziraphale nodded, the smile on his face hurting.

He needed a moment before he could follow his doppelganger back to the first floor. The muscles in his face were tense and he wiped away another tear. He must stop this blessed crying. He had never cried, not since the Great War. He had been sad, sure. But he had never cried like this. Never broke down. Never lost his composure. This wasn’t how he was.

The other angel pottered about in the kitchenette. Aziraphale sat down on the sofa, where Crowley had lounged just a moment ago, the manuscript placed carefully on his lap. “Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter – Concerning the World that is to come” he read through the plastic film.

The other Aziraphale returned, balancing a tray loaded with a silver tea pot, two mugs, a can of milk and a bowl of rock sugar on his hands. He even brought a plate full of biscuits. Carefully, he set the tray on a side table. Aziraphale watched how he placed a pair of matching cups before them on the coffee table, before pouring the tea.

“Milk, sugar?” he asked.

“Milk, thank you.”

The other angel batted him a glance before pouring a swig of milk into Aziraphale's cup.

“Is something wrong with that?” Aziraphale asked.

A faint smile curled his doppelganger’s lips.

“Not at all. I just…” he trailed off and dumped at least six pieces of rock sugar into his cup.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said, intelligently. He placed the manuscript next to him onto the sofa, making sure it sat secure on one of the soft blankets, before reaching for his cup.

“You don’t like it that sweet?” the other angel asked.

“No. I’m not one for sweet beverages, unless it’s cocoa.”

“Huh.”

They fell into companionable silence for a moment, sipping on their tea, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound. Aziraphale felt like every muscle in his body was tense. This was weird. Bizarre. He was almost glad for the void in his chest, distracting from the awkwardness of this situation.

“Do I have your word?”

“My word?” Aziraphale spluttered, startled by the unexpected question.

“That you mean no harm to us?” Blue eyes fixated on him, an old force behind a soft appearance. Aziraphale looked back at him; first confused, then determined.

“You have my word as an angel.”

“Good.”

The other Aziraphale relaxed slightly and sipped on his tea before continuing.

“You can have the spare room on the second floor, if you like. I have not much use for it anyway.”

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“You’re too generous.”

“Well, I can’t let you sleep on the streets, now could I?”

“I don’t sleep.”

The other angel looked surprised.

“You don’t?”

“No. Never.”

“You should try it. Helps the mind rest.”

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment.

“Do you sleep?”

“Occasionally. Not as much as Crowley, but I tend to take the one or other nap from time to time. Speaking of the Devil.”

The familiar sound of a car engine rumbling through the late night street came closer, and shortly afterwards headlights appeared. The other Aziraphale got up, disappeared and quickly returned with a third mug. When Crowley entered the shop – without bursting violently through the door, Aziraphale noticed – a fresh cup of tea was waiting for him already.

“Oh, I sssee we’re having a teaaa party, eh?” the demon drawled, winked at the other angel and slinked onto the armrest of the armchair. He took the teacup and casually leaned into the doppelganger.

The other Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and sniffed on Crowley’s jacket.

“Urgh, you’ve been to one of those awful bars again,” he complained and leaned away, the smell of weed wafting into the air. Crowley grinned and slurped on his tea, before grabbing a handful of biscuits. The other Aziraphale huffed and held the demon’s face in place, pulling the sunglasses off his nose. Crowley sent his angel a dazed glance, his snake pupils wide as saucers.

“Really, my dear?”

Crowley only snickered and stuffed all biscuits into his mouth at once. Aziraphale stared at the demon. He had never seen Crowley high. Drunk out of his mind, yes. On laudanum, too. But his demon had never fancied smoking – neither tobacco, nor other substances.

“T’was jussst one teensy-weensy reefer,” the demon held up his index and thumb to emphasise, distributing crumbs all over himself and the other Aziraphale.

“You’re unbelievable! We have a guest!” the angel grumbled, came to his feet and caught Crowley before he fell over.

“Oh. Whoops,” he snickered, holding onto his partner’s shoulder. His wide eyes fell on Aziraphale and he grinned.

“Well, don’t you look at that.”

“Hello.”

“You look exactly like my angel.”

The other Aziraphale sighed.

“Time for you to go to sleep, you silly old Serpent,” the other angel muttered patiently and ushered Crowley through the bookshop towards the storage room. Or better, the former storage room. From his vantage point on the sofa, Aziraphale could see a king-sized bed with blue sheets, a massive wardrobe and something on the ceiling that looked like an antique chandelier.

Aziraphale didn’t want to intrude and concentrated on drinking his tea instead. He heard incomprehensible mumbling, Crowley’s snorts and exasperated sighs from his alter-ego.

Then suddenly, Crowley raised his voice, not amused at all anymore.

“S’bloody awful!” he slurred and the other Aziraphale murmured something soothing.

“‘ngel, lisssten. ‘m dead seriousss!”

“I know, darling. I am listening. Now try to sleep for me, yes?”

The room fell quiet and a few moments later, the other angel returned, fixing his waistcoat with a sigh.

“Is he alright?” Aziraphale asked with a worried frown.

“He will be fine in the morning. Just has to sleep it off. I’m sorry you had to see him like this.”

“It’s alright. I saw him drunk on Laudanum once.”

The other Aziraphale winced, went for the alcohol cabinet and poured himself a glass of sherry.

“Would you like one?” he asked and took a sip, instantly refilling his glass.

Aziraphale declined politely.

“Not an enthusiast of sherry as well?”

“Yes. Just not right now.”

“Alright.”

The other angel sat down on his armchair once more, deep in thoughts, swirling the amber liquid in its glass. Aziraphale served himself another cup of tea to fill the silence.

“He only does that when he’s really distressed. It helps him take the edge off,” the other angel suddenly muttered, his eyes fixed on the closed doors. Worry carved a deep wrinkle on his forehead.

Guilt restrained Aziraphale’s throat and he had a hard time swallowing his tea.

“I’m sorry.”

Blue eyes fixed on him once more, the frown only deepening. He didn’t say anything, only sipped on his sherry, and sent Aziraphale a pitying gaze. The angel looked away, too caught up in his own emotions. This Crowley already suffered from his presence, and Aziraphale hadn’t even been here for twenty-four hours. Everywhere he went, hurt followed him. Like he was cursed.

His doppelganger stood again, empty glass in hand.

“You can take the prophecies with you to the spare room and read them, if you like. But promise to take care of it. It’s the only copy that exists. I’ll go and check on him.”

Aziraphale got the hint and nodded, watched how his other self went for the bedroom, his stance oddly stiff. Only when the door closed behind his doppelganger, he exhaled, some of that unbearable pressure lifting from his chest. The tea was good, no question, but right now it only tasted like bitterness. Metaphorically. His head turned to the manuscript on the sofa next to him.

Carefully, he picked it up after he carried the tray back into the kitchenette, and went up the spiral staircase. The spare room was almost identical to the one his own bookshop. A small bed just next to the window, a small wardrobe a quilt spread over the sheets; the rest of the space stuffed with piles of unsorted books.

He remembered putting Gabriel into this room, when he was Jim, just because he didn’t know where else to put him; just so he could have a few hours of solitude from an amnesiac Archangel that spread chaos whatever he touched. Did the other Aziraphale thought the same of him? Probably.

He swallowed, slipped off his shoes and loosened the bowtie, to give the lump in his throat some relief. He sat on top of the quilt, leaning against the headboard and stared at the closed door, the manuscript secured on his lap. This bookshop almost smelled the same, which was both comforting and unsettling. It was too quiet. His essence yelled wrong, wrong, wrong! and the void clawed into his chest once more. Oh, if he only had his gramophone with him, so he could play a soothing symphony or listen to the gentle notes of Vera Lynn to stifle the abyss in his core. Or his diaries, to write down what bothered him.

He thought about this Crowley, who went out and looked for him, even though Aziraphale wasn’t his angel. Who worked himself up about an angel he didn’t have any responsibility for. It hurt to think about the pain he had inflicted on this Crowley. Again. That’s what Aziraphale was best at, now was he?

The blessed tears swam in his eyes again, and he wiped them away before they could fall. This was ridiculous. He had to get himself together. Crying didn’t bring his Crowley back, nor did it fix his current situation. His gaze fell on the wrapped pile of papers on his lap.

“Well, Agnes,” he muttered to himself, adjusted his unbottoned collar and carefully unwrapped the manuscript, “Let’s see what else you saw happening for this world.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Possibly only cryptic prophecies that only made sense after they happened. Maybe something that concerned him. Maybe the other two downstairs. Maybe this whole ordeal with those parallel universes. Maybe an answer if his Crowley found peace wherever he was now. Maybe nothing at all.

He sighed, leaned his head on the wall and started reading.  

Chapter Text

Aziraphale read through the whole night.

Just like Agnes in his world, she had the awful habit of writing in confusing riddles. Nothing made sense on the first readthrough. The typos didn’t help. Neither did Aziraphale's aching core that constantly reminded him that the fabric of his essence didn’t match his surroundings.

During his second read-through, his eyelids drooped several times, the words only mush in his head. He blinked, confused, wrapped the manuscript back into its plastic film and opened a window. Chilling night air pushed the noises of the city into the small room, washing away the unbearable silence.

Another headache creeped into his skull, and he slumped against the frame, his breath fogging the window. The cold glass was a bliss for his mistreated corporation and he closed his eyes, inhaling the night air. He rubbed his chest, right where the void lingered underneath his sternum, and whined quietly.

Why didn’t it get better? Why did it still hurt so much? It’s been months. How did the humans manage to cope after such a loss? A lot of ice cream, he heard. Talking to friends or family. Well, cross that out, we’re stuck at a parallel universe where no one knows you. Continue your life without him. Try to find a new purpose. But how could one fill the snake-shaped gap in your heart? He would never find someone like his Crowley again, now would he? What else did humans do? Talking to a therapist. He chuckled joylessly at that thought. And what should he tell them? I lost my best friend of 6000 years. He died in the most horrible way possible, before my own eyes – by accident. And I couldn’t do anything. And now I’m stuck in this immortal corporation and will never see him again, because that’s how it works.

His head pounded harder and he bit his lower lip to stop the tears from welling up again. This was humiliating. It was unfair. That there were countless universes out there where they existed together. But not him. He was the exception. If God had Her hands in this, She was much more cruel than Crowley had ever accused Her.

He was so tired of feeling. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and turn off those dark thoughts and this pain in his chest. Maybe he should go for his alter-ego’s advice and try to sleep. Helps the mind rest, he had said.

Aziraphale’s corporation felt like it weighed a million tons as he slumped onto the mattress, pain radiating from his temple down to his eyes. Was it this universe rejecting him? He never had a real headache like this before. He rolled to his side, his arms wrapped around one of the tartan throw pillows, and stared through the open window into the night. He squeezed his eyes shut. That’s what humans did to sleep, right? Close their eyes and drift away. It always looked so easy.

But his thoughts were so loud. How was he supposed to listen past them? He grumbled and turned the other way. It didn’t help. Think about something nice. But so many of his good memories included a specific redhead.

He thought of that first time Crowley had ever held his hand, back in Alexandria. They had climbed their way up the infamous tower, and Aziraphale had slipped when they reached the top. Crowley had caught him by the hand to save him from a very unpleasant discorporation. His hair had been long and wavy, with a lot of decorative braids weaved into the silky strands. He had worn a simple black gown with artful red threading. Aziraphale remembered the look of genuine shock in his beautiful golden eyes, the red hue on his freckled cheeks. But he didn’t let go. Instead, they both didn’t mention it and turned towards the city, watching the humans go for their daily work, smoke curling into the hot air from thousands of chimneys.

They had never talked about that incident. Aziraphale remembered wondering if his touch hurt Crowley. If it burned his skin like sacred ground. But the demon didn’t wince. He didn’t flinch. He just kept their fingers intertwined, fitting together so perfectly it hurt.

A soft knock on the door jolted him awake. Late morning light filtered through the window and bathed the room in a soft glow. Aziraphale blinked, confused. Had he actually fallen asleep? His body felt like one big cramp, his mouth so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He didn't want to start with the taste in his mouth. 

Another knock. With a groan, he ran a hand over his face, sitting up on the dishevelled quilt.

“Can I come in?” the raspy voice of a demon echoed through the room. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered and he cleared his throat.

“I- ah- y-yes.”

Good lord, his voice sounded like he was three bottles of red wine in. He smacked his lips and made a face, just as the door opened. Hastily, Aziraphale tried to fix his crumpled clothes, to no avail. Too late he remembered his open collar and his too exposed neck. Good lord, he must look like a homeless man.

A strange sense of relief washed over him when he noticed the demon’s state. Because he didn’t look one inkling better than Aziraphale felt. His red hair stood in all directions, he was wearing a loose black shirt, buttoned up the wrong way, and the same pair of yoga pants Aziraphale had witnessed the first time he appeared in the bookshop. Crowley had dark rings under his eyes, no glasses obscuring his tired look.

“Morning,” he muttered and stood in the doorway, awkwardly. He had to bend his neck slightly so he didn’t hit his forehead on the doorframe, which was another unfamiliar thing to see. He held two massive cups in his hands. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare. Because first, he was looking at Crowley and second, because the demon was so beautiful in this casual look.

Inappropriate! No. Stop that thought, immediately!

“Hello,” Aziraphale croaked, mouth still dry as the Sahara desert. He had never longed more for a toothbrush.

The demon squinted at the bright light and padded through the room bare feet, holding out one of the cups.

“Made you this. Wasn’t sure if you liked coffee or not. So cocoa it is.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to react to this sweet gesture, and silently took the warm mug with both hands. The heavy scent rose to his nose and he breathed it in deep.

“You mind ‘f I sit down with you for a sec?” the demon asked awkwardly and Aziraphale shook his head, his voice lost somewhere between his lungs and the knot in his throat. He pulled his knees to his chest and leaned against the headboard, made enough space so Crowley could sit down with him. He took a big sip from his own mug and sighed.

“Where is … the other me?” Aziraphale managed to ask.

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly and drank again.

“He’s out for his morning stroll. If we’re lucky, he picks up some breakfast.”

Aziraphale tightened his grasp around his mug, watching the marshmallows melt into the velvety liquid.

The demon turned towards him, his eyes piercing him like little golden spears.

“I do have to apologise. For last night. I- well, I got carried away with that stuff. Much harder to get rid of than alcohol. Do not recommend.”

He shifted his weight, crossing his legs and raised the cup to his lips once again.

“No need.” Aziraphale stated quietly. Crowley frowned.

“Oh yes, a lot of need. Been acting like a bloody jerk,” he sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“You haven’t. It’s alright, really.”

“No, it isn’t! You’re here because of me, and instead of offering help, I go out there and blow my brain out. That’s more than not alright. Neither for you nor for him.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to react to a Crowley that apologised this genuine; without using complex language that had to be dissected for secondary meaning first.

“I don’t know if you can help me, Crowley.”

Something pained crossed the demon’s face and he clenched his jaw.

“I know. But I still want to try.”

“You don’t owe me anything, my dear.”

The pet name slipped him by accident and Aziraphale gasped, a violent blush pushing into his face. He didn’t mean to—

But Crowley only smiled at him carefully.

“You should drink up before it gets cold,” he muttered and pointed at the mug. Glad for the distraction, Aziraphale took a sip, savouring the overly sweet taste with a small sigh.

“It’s very good,” he praised, and Crowley smiled wider.

“Had a lot of time perfectioning it. Been treating my Aziraphale with self-made cocoa since it became popular in Europe.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Not nice, me.”

Somehow, the four-letter word didn’t bear its familiar bite, Crowley looking way too relaxed. Yes, you are. Much nicer than my Crowley, at times.

That thought wasn’t fair. He didn’t know how his Crowley would have become if he ever had the chance to be Aziraphale’s partner. And also, he didn’t know how this demon had been before he had been together with the other Aziraphale.

The cocoa suddenly tasted stale. Aziraphale licked his lips and rested the mug on his belly.

“Found something interesting?” Crowley broke the uncomfortable silence and pointed at the manuscript on the side table. Aziraphale sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“Not really. Agnes’ writing is … uh … particular. Not exactly on the nose, that one.”

“Wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

A small chuckle escaped Aziraphale’s lips. His heart stuttered when Crowley grinned back at him.

“The only one I remember is ‘Leaveth yer hands off Meta’s Univerze’. Whatever that means.”

Crowley laughed in earnest now.

“I won’t start on this. But be assured, you wouldn’t get it anyway.”

“Oh. Is is one of those awful internet phenomena?”

The demon smiled at him like Aziraphale was the old grandpa who couldn't keep up, but in the most fond way.

“It is.”

Aziraphale sighed, his mood lifted by their little quip. He picked up the mug again and took a long drink, savouring the sweetness. Golden eyes fell on the flower next to the lamp. Its petals already started drooping.

“What’s up with that?” Crowley asked and nodded towards the dying blossom.

Aziraphale took it carefully and cradled it in his palm.

“Just a kind human gesture,” he explained, already mourning the loss. It was silly, really. It was just a flower.

Crowley looked at him for a long time. Then, he balanced his mug dangerously in the crook of his bent knee and carefully reached out. Aziraphale flinched instinctively.

“Don’t yell at the poor thing,” he muttered protectively and drew a real laughter from Crowley, “An awful habit of yours, if I may point that out.”

“So I did that in your world too, eh?” he grinned and reached out again. His fingers were warm when he cupped Aziraphale’s hand with his. He gestured with his other hand. A shiver ran through the angel's whole corporation as the infernal miracle flowed from the demon’s hand through Aziraphale's and into the flower. It left his fingertips tickling and itchy. With awe, he watched the marguerite return to its former beauty, petals blooming white again.

“Now it should stay like this as long as it’s close to you.” Crowley said quietly, and let go of the angel’s hand. Aziraphale was stunned, his whole body vibrating with something way too fond.

“I- Thank you.”

It took all of his restraint to swallow another ‘my dear’.

He was more than relieved when the doorbell jingled downstairs. The demon’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, and now that was something truly new to Aziraphale. Crowley was on his feet the next second, almost throwing over his mug. He caught it in the last moent, the motion smooth and suave, like if he had planned it.

“You’re comin’?” Crowley asked, already in the doorway. For one second, Aziraphale considered, but then he shook his head.

“I’ll stay here for a bit. If you don’t mind.”

The truth was, he didn’t want to intrude. If he remembered right, humans called it “third-wheeling”. If this other angel loved his privacy as much as Aziraphale did, then he’d leave him all the space he needed. Maybe he should go for another stroll, so the two could have some privacy. He started to miss his own bookshop, where he could wander through his own collection, put on a record and forget that the world outside existed for a while.

His throat constricted once more. No more old bookshops, Crowley had told him once, back in the mid-2000s. What if his world had already ended? Was there even a bookshop to return to? But what was his alternative? Stay here in this world, stranded, no miracles at hand, and watch another version of himself getting the happy end Aziraphale always wished for?

The little high his mood had reached when Crowley made him laugh subsided and he was back at the sad state from before. He stared down into the cup, all marshmallows dissolved. Thought about that first time he and Crowley had visited a chocolate house back in the 18th century, when hot cocoa was still so expensive only the high class was able to afford it. He sighed and finished his drink quietly, absentmindedly staring out of the window.

He could hear voices from the first floor, too far away to make out words. Music was playing.

Aziraphale pulled a pillow onto his lap and wrapped his arms around it, seeking comfort. He missed his home. He missed Crowley. He missed the time after the failed Armageddon, where they were just existing and growing comfortable with the fact that there were no head offices to please anymore.

We could have been us, Crowley had told him. Thought of the present Crowley, so happy for his angel to return. Was this the Us that would have awaited Aziraphale if he had declined to return to Heaven?

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Those blessed tears. Would they ever stop?

Chapter Text

The day slipped away slowly, and still Aziraphale couldn’t find the strength to get up. He fell into a strange state of lethargy, only listening to the sounds of city life creeping in through the window. Aziraphale read the prophecies again. Some stood out, but nothing seemed to concern him or the other two. It wasn’t really surprising. Agnes had written the first book mostly for her family and their wellfare. Same seemed to adapt to this second part. But she must have known something, right? She had known that Aziraphale would read her first book. So she must have seen him read the second one. But none of those new prophecies mentioned an angel. Or a demon. Or another angel falling through a multiversal rift.

Late afternoon blurred into evening, and Aziraphale was none the wiser.

Quiet footsteps ascended the spiral staircase. The lights in the hallway came on, and a moment later the demon appeared, pushing open the half-closed door to the spare room. Golden eyes landed on the angel, still sitting on the bed.

“Hi.”

“Good evening.”

“Thought I’d check on you. T’has been very quiet up here the whole day.”

“I’ve been reading the prophecies once again.”

“Any revelations?” Crowley asked and leaned into the doorframe.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Shame.”

The demon waited for a second, then he spoke again.

“Do you want to join us for dinner? We just picked up our order from the Chinese place next door. There’s plenty for three.”

Aziraphale wanted to say No. He had desensitised his corporation from food in the past months, so he didn’t feel very peckish. But it seemed rude to decline.

“Alright.” He agreed and got up. He fumbled for his shoes, but Crowley interrupted him.

“No need for that, really. We’re not on business. It’s only casual dinner, nothing fancy, really.”

Casual.

Aziraphale wondered if his Crowley and he ever had a casual meal. Definitely not casual enough to take one’s shoes off. Reluctantly, he followed the demon downstairs, only in socks. There was a reason he had standards. He missed his house slippers.

The gramophone was running something awfully modern, but slow enough that it wasn’t too much of a nuisance. The other Aziraphale stood at the round table in the back room, a tartan ascot wrapped around his neck rather than a bowtie; putting plates, bowls and cutlery down. A massive assortment of takeaway boxes piled on the middle of the table, exuding the mouthwatering scent of spices.

“Hello,” Aziraphale greeted awkwardly when blue eyes fixed on him.

“Good evening.”

To his surprise, the other Aziraphale sent him a reserved smile and pointed at a chair.

“Sit down. You must be starving.”

“Quite,” he lied, not mentioning that he hadn’t eaten since—

Carefully, he sat down, Crowley following him suit to his right, which felt weird. Crowley usually chose the place to Aziraphale’s left. Well, technically he did, but not to his left.

“You must try the soup. It’s divine,” the other angel advised and pushed a round container towards Aziraphale. He accepted wordlessly and watched how the other angel emptied the contents of a square container onto his plate, after pushing a box towards Crowley. The demon went for it without bothering to put the dumplings on his plate first. Aziraphale tried not to stare. He had never seen the demon so food-motivated.

But there Crowley sat, eating away dumplings from a cardboard box like he was starving. It took all of Aziraphale’s angelic strength to pull his gaze away and turn towards his own dish.

Even now, when the spicy smells of heavy food engulfed him, his appetite didn’t spike. Still, he poured the soup into one of the bowls and took a spoon. It would be rude not to, right?

“Oh, I met Featherduster and Bunny Ears on my way,” Crowley said, addressing the other Aziraphale. The angel sent him a reprimanding glare.

“They both have real names, my dear.”

The demon snickered and stuffed another dumpling into his mouth without chewing.

“Boring, angel. Everyone an call them Muriel and …” he frowned, pondering.

“It’s Eric.” The other Aziraphale sighed, “Really my dear, they are from your side. You could at least try to remember their name.”

“Bunny Ears, like I said. My point is, it looked like they were on a date.”

“Oh, good for them. About time. They’ve been creeping around each other for months now.”

Aziraphale listened with wide eyes, spoon still hovering halfway to his mouth. Muriel was still here on Earth? And apparently, they were dating a demon? This world never ceased to surprise him. He wondered if there were more angels and demons on Earth now. Must be. There had been a lot of lower ranking angels waiting anxiously for an assignment on Earth in his version of Heaven. In the scarce times Aziraphale had been upstairs, a few of them had asked him about humankind and God’s creations, eager to learn more.

“They’re like two clumsy teenagers, I swear. Nobody would think they’re as old as we are, for someone’s sake.” Crowley complained, rolling his eyes dramatically. The other Aziraphale chuckled and took a bite from his pork. The unfiltered look of fondness and adoration the other angel passed towards Crowley did something complicated to Aziraphale’s heart. How he dared to gaze at the demon like this without masking any of his feelings, even though they weren’t alone.

Hastily, Aziraphale focused on his soup instead, stuffing the upwelling emotions back into the void.

No. Don’t be such a sissy again.

To literally swallow down his grief, he put a spoonful of soup into his mouth – and couldn’t help a delighted sigh. Oh, this was divine. Underneath the strong chicken broth, there were hints of lemongrass and coriander, rounded by the sharp taste of chili. His depraved taste buds rejoiced and he pressed a hand over his lips to stifle another indulgent noise.

“I told you it was good.”

The other angel offered him a genuine smile, a spark in his blue eyes that made Aziraphale’s stomach stir. Heat crept into his face, and he hastily took another spoonful of soup to hide his embarrassment.

“Some things never change, eh?” Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but look at the demon. His unobscured eyes met Aziraphale’s with an amused grin.

Lord, he’s so beautiful.

The angel froze, shocked about this inappropriate thought.

Soup. Eat your blessed soup! Don’t you dare look at him like that!

They fell silent for a minute, Crowley devouring that whole box of dumplings all by himself before he reached for another one. The other Aziraphale just sent him gazes of exasperated fondness, while he ate slowly, almost pointedly. 

It felt like watching a film about all the things Aziraphale had never dared to imagine; as if he was an unseen spectator to his own wishful thinking. It was also odd to see this version of himself so… settled. This Aziraphale wasn’t as stiff around the middle, visibly comfortable having Crowley around in his home even though an angel from another universe interrupted his peaceful life. Allowed Aziraphale to stay, even if he didn’t have to. Invited him to have dinner with them, even.

The other angel persuaded him to try the noodles. Quipped with Crowley about something minor. Chuckled when the demon almost choked after teasing him. Called it Karma more than divine punishment. Spoke excitedly about the painting class he would attend the next day. Crowley had been right. This was casual dinner, indeed. And still, Aziraphale couldn't comprehend the intimacy of it. 

Later that evening, when the two of them retreated into their bedroom, Aziaphale stood on the railing on the second floor, looking down into the quiet shop. The food had helped a little with the gnawing sensation in his stomach. He had forgotten how much he liked food, really. Maybe he should start the habit of eating again.

His fingers curled around the railing, the feel of it soothingly familiar. Even though he hadn’t really done much today, he felt awfully tired. This universe must have some influence on him, that was for sure. It almost seemed like sleep was much harder to resist here. Or maybe it was that once he treated this corporation with a new comfort, it demanded more of it, like with human food or drinks.

He sighed and retreated into the spare room. To his surprise, he found a bundle of clothes made from silky blue fabric on top of the quilt, neatly folded. He frowned, and reached for the small note on top.

Normal people don’t sleep in waistcoats.

Crowley’s familiar, impatient and scratchy handwriting made him chuckle and sob at the same time. Not everything was different in this universe, it seemed.

~*~

Crowley woke him the next day with the promise of a cup of freshly brewed tea. Today, he seemed to have a mission, because he urged the angel to dress and meet him downstairs. It was almost midday, the shop quiet and no other angel in sight.

“Oh, he already headed off for his painting class,” Crowley answered the unasked question and led him to a table that hadn’t been there yesterday, replacing a pile of books on the southern window of the bookshop. Two armchairs were arranged at the table, and there were two cups, a plate full of scones and an assortment of jams waiting for them.

“Kept some for you,” Crowley drawled and came down on one of the chairs, folding his long legs into the confined space. The smell of coffee and sweet cocoa weaved into the air and Aziraphale’s mouth watered. With big eyes, he sat down opposite of Crowley, unaccustomed to sit in this area. But it was nice, actually. Through the window, he could watch the humans putter about their day, and watch what was up at the pub across the street. Why hadn’t he ever thought of this in his bookshop?

“Eat,” Crowley commanded and pushed the plate towards him. Hesitantly, Aziraphale took a scone, cut it in half and buttered it thoughtfully.

“Thanks,” he muttered before taking a bite. Oh, that was delightful. He hummed, almost overhearing the demon’s response.

“For what?”

“The pyjamas. And those divine scones.”

Crowley snorted and shrugged, like it was nothing.

“No need to thank me. S’just decent, I guess.”

“Oh, you are decent now?”

“Not at all. Quite indecent, me.”

Crowley grinned to himself and leaned back into his chair, downing his cup of coffee in one go. Aziraphale almost choked on his scone when he noticed the smirk as the demon gazed into his mug, like he was entertaining an indecent thought indeed.

Before Aziraphale could ask, or even dissect this strange information, Crowley snapped back into the present.

“So. While my angel is gone, I’d like to try something.”  

Aziraphale froze.

“T-Try?” he stuttered.

“Yep. See. I don’t know what your Crowley was able to. Was he capable of opening windows?”

What kind of question was that?

“Windows?”

“Y’know. Time windows. Into other universes?” Crowley clarified.

“Oh. Uh. Not as far as I’m concerned. He did stop or slow time occasionally.”

The demon raised his brows, amazed.

“He could manipulate time? Oh, that’s interesting.”

Crowley thought about for a moment.

“Wait, you can’t do that?” Aziraphale asked, surprised.

“No. Always wanted to, since I started that whole time-thing. But it never obeyed to me, especially after the Fall.”

Deep in thought, Crowley tapped his chin with his index finger.

“Interesting. Well, anyway. If you don’t mind, I want to try and see if we can sort out your powers.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, another scone halfway to his mouth.

“How?” he asked breathlessly.

“If we reopen a window to your universe, with you as an anchor, we might be able to reconnect to your Host.”

“Can we do that?”

“Surely.”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. Aziraphale quirked a brow.

“Have you ever done something like this before?”

“Pff, no! But how hard can it be?”

“You seem frightfully optimistic.”

“My powers are an art form, not science. And I feel that it could work.”

He smirked, full of himself. And suddenly, Aziraphale realised that he might put on a show, to hide his true feelings. His Crowley always did that. Play it cool and suave, until everyone believed it. Another much scarier thought crossed Aziraphale’s mind.

“Would you be able to send me back?”

Silence. Crowley shifted uncomfortably, turning the mug in his hands before answering.

“No. I can’t open a rift. I’m only able to conjure a window.”

He frowned and bit his lip, visibly uncertain if he should ask his next question.

“Would you like to go back?”

It was hard to keep the serious gaze Crowley sent him. It was harder to give an honest answer. What did Crowley want to hear? Should Aziaphale say yes? To get out of their hair?

“I…I don’t know,” he managed to mutter, the half-eaten scone much easier to look at than Crowley's face. For half a minute, is was excruciatingly silent. But then, Crowley came to his feet.

“Well, let’s try for a window, yes?”

~*~

“Right. Hold still for me.”

They stood opposite of each other in the middle of the bookshop, at the exact same spot where Aziraphale had appeared the other day.

Crowley’s left hand splayed across his chest, right above his fluttering heart. Aziraphale prayed that the demon couldn’t feel its frantic pace.

“Alright. Ready?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Close your eyes and think about your world. How it feels. How it smells. What makes it yours.”

He did as Crowley commanded, eyes squeezed shut, trying to think past that warm, steady hand on his chest. He took three long, slow breaths, concentrated on his core, how it collided with the substance of this universe. He thought of his bookshop, of all the trinkets he missed in this one. Of the dark silhouette creeping around the shelves. Of snarky discussions about the significance of Voltaire. Of a slender hand, wrapped around his own in quiet moments, a gesture neither acknowledged nor denied.

“That’s right,” the other Crowley whispered, heightening the pressure on Aziraphale’s chest. A snap echoed through the quiet bookshop and demonic energy surged through their corporations, centring where their bodies touched with scorching heat.

It burned. It hurt.

Aziraphale yelped, and Crowley pulled off his hand immediately. The connection cut, as did the demonic powers, and the angel patted his chest, certain his shirt must have burned through. But it was unscathed.

Crowley gasped his name. When he looked up, the demon’s eyes were all golden, pupils blown wide. His dejected expression could only mean bad news.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

He retreated two steps, clearing his throat while pacing.

“What is it?”

Whatever the news were, they couldn’t be worse than everything else that happened in the past months.

“Your … world. It’s… it’s gone. Collapsed.”

“Oh.”

Why did Crowley look more distraught than Aziaphale felt? To his own puzzlement, he didn’t feel anything. Maybe he had already known, deep down. He was stranded. Now and forever. Homeless. Without miracles. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

“Alright.”

The demon’s eyes sharpened, eyebrows knitting together.

“Alright?! That is all you have to say about that?”

“What else do you expect me to do?”

“Dunno? Maybe something more substantial than ‘alright’!” Crowley hissed and paced.

Aziraphale's body felt numb, from his face down to his toes. Maybe he should feel something. Grief. Panic. Homesickness. But there was nothing, only the sharp clarity that he had truly no place to belong anymore.

“But…” Crowley started again, hands on his hips, sounding way too upset on Aziraphale’s behalf. Anger boiled over, in such a sudden burst that it startled the angel himself.

“There’s been nothing left in this world for me except the knowledge that Heaven and Hell would end it eventually. Maybe they finally did it. Or my universe collapsed because it was unstable without me or Crowley in it. How do I know? The point is, I have nothing. No home, no friends, no purpose other than existing.”

And this was the heart of all of it, right? He had lied. Disobeyed orders. He had tempted when he should have blessed. Tainted his corporation with food and drinks and material possessions. He was selfish. And greedy. He had preferred the comforts of human home over a life in Heaven, the place that was closest do God. And he had fallen for the one thing he was clearly ordered to fight at any given opportunity. And even that he couldn’t keep.

His voice was low and hollow when he spoke up again.

“It’s my punishment, for disobeying Her will. And She’d be rightful to do this – because honestly, I have been the worst angel of them all.”

The demon stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Aziraphale incredulously.

“Angel, no,” he croaked and approached, his eyes glinting with agonised pity. Aziraphale stepped away, the void burying its sharp claws deep into his chest.  

“Maybe you are the real punishment. It would fit her style, wouldn’t it? Make me lose everything and then getting sucked into a universe where I’m forced to watch you, happy and living the life we always dreamed of.”

He was bound to lose Crowley. Again and again. He wasn’t meant to find happiness.

The small of his back hit the till desk when he tried to retreat further. He couldn’t bear the pitiful look on the demon’s face, nor his proximity.

“That’s not true!” Crowley insisted, his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders now, as if he was about to shake him, “It’s not your fault!”

Aziraphale only smiled at him, sadly. He wanted to argue about it. Tell this Crowley that he wasn’t the angel he knew. But the rope around his throat pulled tight.

“You’re the kindest angel of them all. And only because you’re from another universe doesn’t make it less true, you stupid man!”

Aziraphale shook his head vehemently, tried to flee, but Crowley, so much taller than the one he knew, held him in place.

“You don’t know me!”

“But I know my Aziraphale! And I doubt that your Heaven has been more merciful to you than they’ve been to him.”

Before the angel could register what happened, Crowley bent forwards and pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace. Aziraphale squealed, a helpless noise that was muffled by the demon’s chest, and froze on the spot.

“It’s not your fault!” Crowley repeated and held him fast.

A rapid succession of emotions surged through Aziraphale. Panic, anger, disbelief, grief, loneliness. It all mixed into a dangerous cocktail and exploded into a pathetic sob. The demon’s hand came to a rest on the back of his head as the tears burst out like a waterfall. It was all too much. And he didn’t want to be seen in this vulnerable moment, but at the same time, he ached to be held through it so badly.

“It’s not your fault,” the demon’s voice was so gentle. For a selfish moment, Aziraphale imagined that this was his Crowley, holding him through the worst of it. That it were his slender hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. He sobbed again, nuzzling his face into the soft sweatshirt and wished he could have had an embrace like that with his demon. The thought of Crowley, dying without ever being hugged, pushed more tears down Aziraphale’s cheeks.

"I miss him so much,” he sniffed between sobs, selfishly leaning into the embrace. The demon petted his head in response.

“I know.”

Crowley held him, for a long time, the bookshop their only witness, until the tears dried up and Aziraphale didn’t feel like there was an elephant sitting on his chest anymore. His heart rate finally slowed to a more reasonable pace and the knot in his throat loosened. The demon rubbed his upper arms gently, before pulling away.

“You feel better?” he asked, almost teasingly. He ran his hands over Aziraphale’s lapels, smoothing the fabric before retreating. Aziraphale nodded absentmindedly, and wiped his face, more at ease than he expected.

“Good.”

The demon cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. Then a little smirk flashed his features.

“How do we feel about a demonically altered cup of cocoa? Gotta restore your corporation’s fluid capacities, eh?”

“Chili flakes again?’

“Don’t underestimate the tricks I’ve got up my sleeves.”

Crowley grinned wider, turning sly and winked conspiratorially. His playful demeanour teased a shy smile from Aziraphale.

“Surprise me.”

“Gladly.”

Chapter Text

It didn’t get easier. Days blurred into weeks as Aziraphale tried to get used to this strange arrangement. Even though his corporation and his core slowly adjusted to the sensation of being at the wrong place, his mind didn’t.

The bookshop, so familiar and yet so different, didn’t feel like his home anymore. Most days, he spent either outside, strolling the city for hours and hours in the futile attempt to clear his mind and flee the void in his chest and the ever-present sadness; or hiding in the spare room and read one of the books he found there, for the same reasons.

His mind caught up with the fact that his world – his home, his books, any traces left of his demon – were truly gone on a random Thursday afternoon. Aziraphale was on his daily stroll, today through Battersea Park. Dark, heavy clouds sent the city into gloominess with the threat of a downpour. The park was deserted and it felt like the whole world was empty. It wasn’t even a specific landmark that triggered it - he wasn't even close to the Bandstand. The realisation that there was no way back into his world just slammed into Aziraphale with a barbed wire baseball bat just below his ribs. It knocked him off balance, legs buckling, and he didn’t realise he was on his knees until his palms collided with wet gravel. Sharp pebbles cut into his skin as he broke down. As on cue, the sky above him opened its flood gates and drowned the whole park in frigid rain.

There was no one to see him. No one to soothe him. He was fully, truly, cruelly alone.

He couldn’t breathe, steel wires wrappng around his torso and squeezed so hard they threatened to break his ribs. The void in his chest split open in agony. His angelic core twisted and flared, fighting against the pain and the environment of a wrong universe. Wings twitched against his spine, aching to break free, but they were imprisoned by the confines of this vulnerable corporation.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his torso, squeezing, hoping, praying, for the pain to cease again. A sob broke free, shuttering his whole sodden corporation. Icy water seeped into his clothes, dragging them down. Into his hair, plastering blond curls onto his forehead, mixing with the tears on his cheeks.

His world has ended, and his Crowley was dead.

With a sob, he turned his head towards the dark sky, raindrops splattering his face. Why? He wanted to yell, well aware that he wouldn’t be heard. He hadn’t been heard for millennia. Why would She listen now? Why did you take him away from me? What have I done that made you so angry? Why can’t you love me the way I am? Why didn’t you love him?

No answer came. No bright, divine light pouring down on him, bathing him with motherly love, like the day he had been created, gifting him a purpose. He could still hear Her voice, reverberating in his core, when she named him, warm and loving and so pure. Did She even know he was here? Did She acknowledge what She took from him at all?

Aziraphale was wet to the bone when he returned to the bookshop at nightfall. He had wandered aimlessly through the city for hours, like a zombie, his chest agonisingly empty and his mind an incoherent space. He couldn’t remember what the other two said when they saw him. The only thing that stayed in his memory was the warm hand that laid on his upper arm, so similar yet so different than his own. Someone dried his sodden clothes with a miracle. Pushed a mug of something warm in his trembling hands. But he couldn’t remember anything else. Only the softness of the throw pillow on the spare room bed, and how final sleep rushed over him, as if his corporation pressed the emergency stop button.

He had no idea how long he slept. His Crowley had fallen unconscious for almost a hundred years once, during the 14th century. It wouldn’t have surprised Aziraphale if the same had happened to him. He didn’t dream, though his forced rest wasn’t quiet. It was more like a movie of endless memories, replaying through his inner eye.

A breathtaking night sky over the desert, paling by a brilliant new star leading humankind to their saviour. Crowley calling it a ‘poser’.  Aurora lights and air so cold it made your skin sting. An astonishing sunset made of red and gold at the rough northern sea.

“One day,” Crowley had told him over the breaking dawn on the roof of a Roman villa, his hand in Aziraphale’s, “When I’m fed up with humankind, I’ll go back there, where it all began. So if you wake up one day and I’m gone, look for me out there.”

But he never left Aziraphale behind. Never got fed up with humankind. Refused to leave Earth without him, even when the Apocalypse was at the doorstep. Not even when Aziraphale left to become the Supreme Archangel. He had stayed, and Aziraphale had rejected him over and over again.

Waking up was hard. Those memories of the stars and the sky gave his battered heart a small relief, and he wanted to keep them close. But he could sense a second presence the room with him, and jolted awake. The room was dim and warm. Like he was submerged in gel, heavy and slow, he blinked and tried to focus on the slumped figure in the armchair next to his bed. Long legs sprawled across the floor, hips twisted impossibly, elbow propped on one arm of the chair, chin resting on his palm. His other hand lay lifeless on his slim thigh. Crowley was sleeping. In his room. Next to him. Oh Lord.

As on cue, the demon’s eyes flicked open with a start and immediately found Aziraphale awake.

“Mornin’” the demon muttered, yawned and rubbed his eyes before sitting up. Aziraphale stared at the clock.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

The demon only snorted and sent Aziraphale a lopsided grin.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked and sat up slowly. Crowley quirked him an incredulous brow.

“You’ve been asleep for almost two weeks. After coming back here like a drowned poodle, looking like a vampire sucked all life force out of you. We were worried.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. Two weeks? Goodness gracious.

“Oh.”

“’Oh’, indeed. What happened?”

“Nothing! I just—" he huffed and looked away, rubbing his chest right above his heart, still stubbornly throbbing, even that it was cracked and splintered.

“It just came to me all at once,” he added meekly, biting his lip, “And I needed some space.”

Silence.

“M’sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale ran a hand across his face and sighed wistfully. He was tired of hearing that phrase. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring his Crowley back. It didn’t solve any of his problems. Didn’t make him hurt less.

“I apologise for worrying you,” he muttered and squeezed his knuckles.

“You needn’t to. Just…you know you can ask us for help, yes?”

Aziraphale swallowed, still not looking at Crowley, “Thanks for the offer. But I just need time, I reckon.”

The demon nodded slowly, cleared his throat and got up.

“Alright. Take all the time you need.”

The tight grimace Aziraphale forced on his face didn’t even persuade himself. The demon slinked through the room towards the door, visibly uncertain. Aziraphale inhaled and called his name.

“I- Thank you. For checking. And for staying with me,” he muttered, heat creeping into his face.

“Of course.”

~*~

The worst part of this whole ordeal was that this Crowley became so … affectionate after that night. Every time the demon checked on him, or invited him to a late breakfast, or left him a cup of tea or cocoa on the chest of drawers in the spare room, Aziraphale’s heart disintegrated a bit more, leaving him bleeding and yearning for the one that had died in Heaven’s bland light. He couldn’t look at this Crowley, so much gentler and caring than the one he knew, without his stomach churning and a feeling building in his chest that he didn’t dare to dissect.

He also didn’t know what to act around his alter-ego. It wasn’t that this angel acted unfriendly, per se. He had Aziraphale’s clothes cleaned professionally, always ordered extra so Aziraphale could join their meals. He brewed more tea in the afternoons, so Aziraphale could have a cuppa. He allowed him to take every book he wanted to the spare room. They even engaged in the one or other conversation about their favourite books. He was polite. And still, Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that the other angel was oddly stiff around him, that he had to withhold parts of himself. That he watched every step Aziraphale made, like he was waiting for him to explode or tear the demon away from him. It was a natural instinct of a Guardian Angel, right? Would Aziraphale be different, if the roles were reversed? Probably not.

Also, he couldn’t ignore the gazes the duo sent him. Was it pity in their eyes? Annoyance? Helplessness? Aziraphale knew the two talked about him behind closed doors. Because every time he returned from his walks, or when he declined another meal, they grew still and their gazes turned heavy with something unsaid. He knew they tampered down their affections whenever he was in the same room. And still, he witnessed those casually intimate touches. The brush of fingertips against wrists, or backs or flanks. Crowley tended to lean into the other Aziraphale’s space, rest his chin on white curls or leave a small peck against his temple.

Aziraphale tried to ignore those affections, as much as he tried to ignore those flashes of love both of them exuded. Tried not to think about how easy they acted around each other.

Aziraphale spent day after day, avoiding Crowley and his doppelganger as best as he could, wondering what he could do. Where he could go. The issue was – his funds were limited. He hadn’t really prepared to fall into another universe, leaving his powers and all of his possessions behind.

He had his wallet with him. But he never bothered with any digital money, no debit card for him. He always carried a few hundred pounds of cash with him, just in case, but that wouldn’t take him far these days. Also, technically, he didn’t have a real identity. What was only a small obstacle with miracles at hand, turned out to be a real issue now.

Which led to the question again – where should he go? What would he do? The months spent all by himself had shown that he couldn’t run from Crowley’s ghost, no matter how far away his miracles had carried him. But he couldn’t spend the rest of eternity here as well, now could he? That’d be unfair for every party.

He found himself frozen in place, wiling the days away by reading or staring out of the window or wandering restlessly until his feet hurt, unable to find a solution.

Oh, what a mess he had gotten himself into?

~*~

“Right.”

Crowley had stormed into the spare room unannounced, startling Aziraphale from his early morning reading. The demon stood in front of the armchair Aziraphale had made himself comfortable in, hands on his hips, eyes yellow and determined. Confused, Aziraphale marked the page and looked up.

“Right?”

“Right! Enough of you hiding up here.”

Crowley’s gruff tone was new, as his hair. It was longer, reaching to his temples and curling artfully at the back of his neck.

“I’m not hiding!”

“Yes, you are.”

The demon exhaled deeply. Then his posture deflated and he came down on the bed opposite of the armchair, long legs crossed.

“Look,” he muttered, lowering his tone and darted a look at the open door, “My angel wants to drag me to a book fair in York. The problem is, I really rather not spend my afternoon in with stuffy old venue with even stuffier, older book nerds. And I was wondering if you liked to … join? So you two can do whatever book business you’re up to and I can entertain myself … elsewhere.”

Aziraphale stared at him, shaken. Oh, he loved the York book fair. But—

“You want me to join?”

“I’m impressed that you aren’t already halfway downstairs.”

The demon offered him a lopsided smirk and shifted.

“What about—”

“Whatever doubts you’ve got. Please. Save me.”

Aziraphale didn’t know that Crowley could cast him the puppy eyes. Well, apparently he had mastered those in this universe. The angel sighed in defeat.

“I- well- alright.”

A blinding smile split Crowley’s face open and he jumped to his feet.

“Great. Be downstairs in 5.”

~*~

Aziraphale never had a ride on the Bentley’s backseat.

It had two advantages. One, he didn’t have to worry about being watched by his doppelganger. And two, he had more options to hold onto the car’s interior as the demon sped across motorways at break-neck tempo. Because yes, of course, the one difference about Crowley the angel could have lived with didn’t change. He felt like his core dragged behind the car, eager to flee at those speeds. Usually, it would take them four hours to get to York, if one obeyed the very sensible speed limits. Crowley made it in one and a half.

“Good grief, you could have slowed down a bit!” the other Aziraphale gasped as the car finally came to a halt in front of the York Racecourse Centre. Crowley grinned wickedly and cackled, turning off the engine.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if I did.”

The other angel send him a gruff look and got off the car, holding the door open so Aziraphale could get out as well. Surprised, Aziraphale noticed that his doppelganger held out a hand to help him unfold from the backseat.

“Ah. Thank you,” he stammered, oddly flustered, and accepted the help.

“At least one of us is a gentleman, now are we?” the other Aziraphale tutted and sent the demon a glare. Crowley only laughed and propped his arms on the car’s roof, chin resting on his hands.

“Neither gentle, nor a man,” he snickered and shrugged, earning himself a fond eye roll.

“Pick you two up at six, yes? And don’t be late!”

“Yes, yes,” the angel muttered, gathering his coat.

“I mean it. I’ll drive home alone if you’re not there in time!” Crowley wagged a finger at them, before climbing back into the car.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale dared to ask. Crowley winked at him over the rim of his shades.

“Old Town. Indulging in my demonic nature. Wiling away, evilially.”

The other angel snorted.

“Get going, foul fiend, before I decide you're needed here.”

The demon sent them a grin full of teeth before heading off with roaring engine and squeaking tires, almost running over another visitor. The other angel adjusted his navy tartan ascot and straightened the lapels of his brown waistcoat, turning towards Aziraphale. The remnants of a fond smile still lingered on his face. Genuine excitement was painted all over him.

“Have you been here before, in your world?” he asked Aziraphale as they walked towards the building.

“Oh yes. Obviously!”

“So you also know some of the exhibitors?”

Aziraphale nodded and the other angel slowed down a bit, hands crossed behind his back.

“Well, me too. Maybe we should, uh, think up a story for you, before we head in.”

He came to a halt and turned slightly.

“Twin brother?” Aziraphale proposed, fiddling with the golden chain of his pocket watch. His doppelganger’s blue eyes lingered on him, thoughtfully, but then he shrugged.

“Yes, why not? What’ll be your name?”

Aziraphale considered for a moment.

“I always fancied the name Ezra.”

The other angel smiled in bemusement.

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

For a moment, the other angel considered his answer. When he spoke again, fondness weaved into his tone.

“I sometimes go by Zariah.”

“Oh.”

Now Aziraphale chuckled, too; realising that they both chose a name that meant Helped by God.

“Well. Nice to meet you, Ezra.”

The angel held out a hand and with bemusement, Aziraphale shook it.

“Nice to meet you as well, Zariah.”

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, he had to admit that he felt very apprehensive to spend a day with his doppelganger. Almost a bit afraid. He knew his way around Crowley, but he didn’t know how to talk to another version of himself. He expected it to be odd. Or tense. Or that they’d spend the day in uncomfortable silence. Or that the angel’s demeanour would turn hostile once Crowley was out of earshot.

But the exact opposite occurred. His alter-ego was – energetic, full of blazing excitement. For the first time in his life, Aziraphale had someone by his side who truly understood his deep and millennia-old passion for the written word, for first editions and misprinted copies. It was nice, not having to explain or argue about his excitement. This angel got it. His blue eyes sparkled when they both leaned over a very rare illustrated copy of Alice in Wonderland, exactly the one Aziraphale had thought of as he had tried for a miracle. The seller smiled as they both praised the intricate brushwork and the excellent condition, shoulder on shoulder. Naturally, the other angel bought it.

It was astoundingly easy to talk to the other Aziraphale, once they found a topic that they both loved. Which was, unshockingly to anyone, literature. This angel had strong opinions, sometimes matching Aziraphale’s, sometimes not. But it was a lot of fun to discuss the topic with someone who actually read the books and had formed their own interpretations. The other angel was deeply intrigued when Aziraphale told him about the differences he had found in the books from this universe. Some stories were unalike in writing style and sometimes there were alternated endings. They talked about the humans they met; how much they both adored the blazing person Jane Austen had been in both universes.

For a brief time, as they ran their hands over old volumes and engaged in conversations with the sellers, Aziraphale forgot the excruciating pain in his chest.

“What do you think Crowley is doing?” Aziraphale asked two hours later. They had retreated to the venue’s café, a slice of cake on each of their plates, Aziraphale with a cup of tea. To his bewilderment, the other angel had ordered himself a cup of black coffee.

“Probably glueing coins on the street. Or tie some shoe laces. Or tempting the humans to park their cars like morons and watch it play out. His creativity in that department is endless,” the other angel chuckled and poured an unholy amount of sugar into his cup. Aziraphale’s face must have betrayed him, because the other angel grinned as stirred his drink.

“Not one for coffee, either?” he asked and sipped indulgently.

“No. Never liked the taste. So, I assume that monstrosity of an espresso machine isn’t just for Crowley?”

The other angel sighed wistfully and leaned back, picking up his fork.

“Oh, if it went my way, we would still use my mocha brewer I purchased in 1891. But he’s too impatient with it. So a modern monstrosity it is. I must admit, it works brilliantly fast.”

“But it’s not the same.”

Another exasperated sigh.

“No. It isn’t.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, eating cake and watching the humans.

“Thank you,” the other angel suddenly said, out of the blue.

“For what?”

“For joining me. I know how much Crowley hates these fairs. It’s nice to have someone around who shares the same excitement.”

“But wasn’t it his idea?”

A mischievous spark lit in blue eyes.

“Oh, I made him think that it was all his idea, to invite you and all.”

He patted his mouth with a napkin and grinned to himself. Aziraphale arched his brows.

“Oh?”

“An angel must know his ways around their wily opponent.”

Aziraphale emptied his cup, surprised that this little remark didn’t sting as much as he had expected it to. The other angel pulled out his pocket watch.

“Ready for another round?” he asked cheerfully. Aziraphale found himself excited all over again.

~*~

At point six, they left the building, both of their arms piled with carefully sealed books, waiting for the rumble of the Bentley’s engine.

Aziraphale was mildly shocked how at ease he felt with the familiar weight in his hands, shoulder on shoulder with his doppelganger. For the first time, he couldn’t sense any apprehension from his alter-ego, as they chatted about the last purchase from the other angel’s favourite seller. How confused the poor woman had reacted when she had been faced with two of their kind.

“Oh Satan, what have I done?”

Crowley’s snarky voice jolted them out of their conversation. They both looked up, confused to find the demon leaning against his car, already waiting.

“Oh, hello my dear. How long have you been here?” the other angel cooed and approached.

“Long enough to watch you two yap.”

“You’re being silly.”

“And you’re being delusional.”

With a chuckle, the other angel pressed a kiss on the demon’s cheek and went for the trunk. Aziraphale looked away, the sight spearing his chest.

“Would you be so kind, darling?”

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers, the boot popping open. Carefully, the other Aziraphale stored the books in a suitcase.

“Looks like the two of you had fun?”

“Quite.”

“How much did that fun cost us, angel?”

The other Aziraphale smiled innocently.

“Don’t you know it’s indecent to ask an angel how much he spends on his books?”

Crowley sighed.

“Whatever. Get in. We’ve got a reservation at Adriano’s.”

“Oh, splendid! I’m rather famished,” the other Aziraphale chirped as Crowley slipped onto the driver’s seat.

“You enjoyed yourself, too?” the demon asked and met Aziraphale’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Aziraphale offered him a meekly smile and nodded.

“Good.”

The gentle gaze Crowley sent him did something odd to his stomach, made it churn and drop like he missed a step. Hastily, he looked away, heat exploding on his face.

Suddenly, he was very glad for the demon’s mad speeding.

Chapter Text

Things changed after that day at the book fair and a surprisingly delightful dinner at the Italian place.

For a brief moment, Aziraphale had been reluctant to join the couple to a restaurant. He wasn’t sure how many of those flashes of love he was able to endure, especially if the restaurant were a rather romantic place. But it turned out that it was more of a takeaway bistro. The lights weren’t exactly inviting, rather cold blue than a warm white. The interior was rudimentary, steel chairs that belonged on a backyard terrace rather than in a restaurant, the only flair the red and white paper table cloth. Next to them, five elderly men sat together, playing cards while talking very loud in Italian.

But Aziraphale never had a better pizza Napoletana in his long life. The wine was great and the waitress was maternal and welcoming. It felt like those days after the failed Apocalypse, when he and Crowley had met for the occasional lunch, just wiling away the time with shallow conversation and good company.

Weeks passed.

There wasn’t a day where he didn’t think about his Crowley, but the splintered edges of his heart started to dull subtly. It wasn’t as excruciating to see this other version of Crowley. It didn’t hurt that much to watch him smile. The feeling of disconnection lingered persistently. But it grew less acute, wandered to the edges of Aziraphale’s periphery.

He also learned about Crowley’s bursts of sudden energy. Without a warning or any specific trigger, the demon jumped to his feet and left for an hour or two, like his body was electrified. He never explained it, and the other angel never seemed concerned about those sudden bursts. So Aziraphale never asked.

There were still bad days, when he was so caught up in his grief for Crowley and the loss of his home that he couldn’t get out of bed. Where the void in his chest reopened without a heads up, pushing him into a state of lethargy for hours, sometimes days.

The biggest change was the other Aziraphale’s demeanour. There was still some kind of caution in his stance, but he wasn’t as reserved anymore. They spent whole afternoons reading and discussing their favourite books. The other angel showed him the landscapes he was painting in his classes, and it surged the itch in Aziraphale’s fingers to pick up drawing again.

The next day, when he went for his stroll, he stopped at a store and bought pencils and a leather-bound sketchbook with golden embossing. It had been ages since he had sketched anything, if one ignored the one time in July he drew a portrait of Gabriel. But that hadn’t been to his own enjoyment.

The scratch of graphite on rough paper always brought him back to the time in the 15th and 16th century, when he spent his days in the great masters’ workshops, overseeing their devotion to God and Heaven with their breathtaking paintings, the astonishing murals and stunning marble sculptures. He still remembered the smell of oils and woodwork and pigments, humans like Michelangelo and his apprentices puttering about in their workshop and the amazement of the humans’ never-ending ingenuity.

Sketching also calmed his mind, like every new line on paper pulled a string of anxiety off him. When the first snow fell in late November, there were only three pages left, the book filled with moments that had stuck with Aziraphale during his long life. Landmarks, long gone. Humans he had known. Trinkets that had been lost to the centuries. And Crowley. His Crowley. He still could remember all the small details of his face, the slant of his back, the delicate hands. It had something therapeutic, to draw him from memory, and realising that he still knew most of the differences to the demon from this dimension. He remembered that little dimple on Crowley's cheek when he grinned. The sharp curve of his lips when he scowled. Or how he had sprawled on those sacks of grain back in Job’s cellar. It hurt, but it helped.

“Will you show me what you’ve been doodling?”

Present Crowley’s voice echoed through the bookshop, and Aziraphale looked up from his place at the dining table. The demon leaned against a shelf, watching him intently.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“For a while,” the demon admitted, arms crossed, posture relaxed, “So, will you?”

Aziraphale cleared the page of any eraser dust and graphite residue, and carefully closed the sketchbook, resting his hand on the cover.

“Not yet, I think.”

Crowley smiled, way too fond and amused to mock.

“Alright, then. Keep your secrets.”

~*~

One Friday morning mid-November, Crowley and the other angel left the bookshop in Aziraphale’s hands. Apparently, the couple owned a house on the southern coast which they visited every now and then.

Crowley had fussed about the garden, that it had been "too long since the raspberry bushes had strict discipline, especially with winter coming.” The other Aziraphale had rolled his eyes on him and argued that the terrace furniture needed winter-proofing instead.

And so, they gave Aziraphale a spare key to the bookshop, with a plea to scare away any potential customer before they left for the cottage.

Being alone in the bookshop for the first time in months stirred an odd feeling of loneliness just below Aziraphale's stomach. He had always loved the solitude of his shop, the freedom to read as long as he wanted, to listen to his favourite music, and to enjoy the quietness of it all. But one, this wasn’t his shop. And two, he gotten so used to the noises of at least one other person puttering about that it felt eerily silent now that they were gone.

But on the other hand, it offered the opportunity to put on a classic record and browse freely through the bookshelves, catalogue all the volumes that were and weren’t there. His face burned when he pulled out a book from the extensive smut section, the summary alone scandalously steamy. Quickly, he turned away and drank some cold water from the tap, before resuming to another, more innocent section.

~*~

Late on Saturday evening, Aziraphale sat at the desk in the spare room. He had tidied the whole room during the day, neatly sorted and shelved all the books that his alter-ego had piled up.

His fingers trembled as he gripped the pencil tightly. It was one of those bad days, when he missed his Crowley so desperately that he could barely breathe. He stared down at the words he had blurted onto the last page of his sketchbook, so full of agony that he didn’t even bother with his usual sophisticated writing style.

𝒞𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓁𝑒𝓎.

𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎.

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒹𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁!” 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒.

𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝐼 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃’𝓈 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇.

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹.

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓂𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒.

𝐵𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒.

𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒.

𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝒾𝒷𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝑒, 𝓃𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒.

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉.

𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝒸𝓇𝓊𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓊𝑔𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻𝒻.

𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝐼 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀.

𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝑜 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒻𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝒶𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒.

𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒, 𝒞𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓁𝑒𝓎. 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃’𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻.

That summed it up quite well.

No matter how hard he tried to push it away, or ignore it, or distract himself – it all came back to that one big regret. If he hadn’t taken that promotion. If he hadn’t returned to Heaven. He probably wouldn’t be here, right?

Sleep didn’t come for him that night. His mind was too occupied torturing him with the memory of Crowley’s screams. Only when morning light started filtering through the window, he slowly drifted away into a restless state of half-sleep.

~*~

The shop phone rang.

Aziraphale hesitated, uncertain if he should pick up. It was Sunday, after all.

“Angel!” Crowley’s upturned voice came through the speaker when he decided to pick up anyway.

“Oh, hello. Good afternoon.”

“How’s the shop?”

“Bookshop-ish.”

Crowley snorted and Aziraphale thought he heard a soft angelic chuckle in the background as well.

“Just calling because we’ll be on our way back and planned to stop at a bakery. Would you like a sweet treat?”

“Oh, you mustn’t! I spent my morning baking, actually!”

The line went silent for a second.

“You whot?”

“I picked it up during the pandemic. Tried my hand on an angel cake and I must say it turned out rather lovely.”

“Wait. Slow down. You and baking? And which pandemic?”

Aziraphale paused, brows knitting together.

“…the Covid pandemic that hit the world in 2020?” he asked, fully confused now. The line was silent for so long that Aziraphale wondered if the connection had cut.

“Your world made a whole ordeal of it?” Crowley finally asked incredulously.

“Yours didn’t?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Interesting. However, we’ve got fresh cake here.”

“Can’t believe you’re actually baking. Aziraphale here hasn’t touched the oven since the banana bread disaster in 1978.”

A huff echoed through the line.

“What happened?”

“He almost set the kitchen on fire.”

“It was an accident!”

The demon snickered, and his voice was full of mirth as he continued talking.

“Anyway, we’ll be back in about an hour or so.”

“Two hours!”

"One hour and a half. So you can prepare, mentally.”

Aziraphale checked the grandfather clock and dared to smile to himself.

“Alright. Drive safe. And slow. For my doppelganger’s sake.”

“I always drive safe!”

“You hit poor Anathema once!” the other Aziraphale scolded, the demon only laughing in earnest now.

“No. She hit me. Anyway. See you soon, angel.”

“See you soon. Ta-ta.”

~*~

Exactly one hour and thirteen minutes later, the couple returned. The other angel was a bit green around the gills, muttering something about Crowley’s blasted speeding as he exchanged his oxfords with house slippers. The demon chuckled and slinked into the bookshop, all flashy black clothes and that illegal turtleneck accentuating his lean frame, visibly in good spirits. Almost glowing. It reminded Aziraphale so much of an angel, casting endless colours and light into the vastness, that he had to turn away.

To distract himself from the weird feeling in his stomach, Aziraphale fetched the cake and the fresh pot of tea he had just prepared before their arrival. Carefully, he placed both on the coffee table next to the southern window. Crowley had already made himself comfortable on one of the armchairs in his familiar sprawl, watching Aziraphale quietly.

“Tea?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.”

“I considered preparing some coffee, but I am not sure if I would be able to operate that devilish espresso machine without setting it on fire.”

The demon snickered and accepted the delicate cup.

“S’not that hard.”

“I will still leave it to more competent hands.”

Other Aziraphale joined them in this second, more colour to his cheeks again.

“Any problems while we were away?” he asked and sat down.

“None at all. Not a single customer the whole weekend.”

“Splendid.”

The angel relaxed and stirred sugar into his tea before sipping on it.

“Did you enjoy your weekend?” Aziraphale asked and came down on the last armchair.

“Oh yes. Got a lot done around the house. Finished preparations for our annual Christmas holidays. But we also found enough time to relax.”

The other angel helped himself with another spoon of sugar before leaning back into the armchair, sending Crowley a warm smile. The flash of love that sparked between them knocked the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs and he gathered all his composure to keep his face neutral. He cleared his throat and served all of them a piece of cake, to distract himself from the upwelling sense of loneliness that had haunted him the whole weekend.

“Oh, that’s really good!” the other angel praised as he tried the cake and wiggled in his seat. He looked at the demon. Crowley sent them both an embarrassed gaze, his plate already empty.

“It is, yes.” He muttered and turned pink around the nose. The other angel chuckled.

“What did you two do during that pandemic?” Crowley quickly asked and accepted another slice of cake.

“Oh, well, I caught up with all my reading. And then I raided my cookbook section and taught myself how to bake. And Crowley… well, he slept for half a year in his flat. We didn’t see another for at least eight months I think.”

Eight months and twelve days, to be precise.

For a moment, the demon fell quiet, a thoughtful wrinkle appearing between his gradually furrowing brows.

“Wait,” he finally said and scooted to the edge of his armchair, focusing on Aziraphale, “How long have you two been together?”

The question hit Aziraphale in the stomach and he was glad for the plate he was holding. He swallowed, and cleared his throat.

“We weren’t … uh … a couple ... like you. Never.”

Golden eyes went wide. Aziraphale stared back, incredulously. “Hang on. How long have you two been together?”

Crowley and the other Aziraphale exchanged a long glance before turning back to him.

“For a while,” the demon admitted, quietly.

“How long?” Aziraphale gasped.

“When did I bomb that church to pieces, angel?” Crowley asked, gaze not leaving Aziraphale.

“1941, my dear.”

“Well, there you have it then. 1941. Makes 85 years.”

Aziraphale gaped at them.

“B-But…” he stammered, holding onto his plate now for dear life.

“Didn’t you snog the Heavens out of him when my alter-ego saved the books from the rubble?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief.

“No.”

But he had wanted to. God, how much he had wanted to. He swallowed and licked his lips.

“You two have been together for almost a century? But didn’t your respective sides notice?”

Crowley chuckled and sent his angel a small smile.

“Took him a few decades of persuasion that they weren’t GPS-tracking us. You gave them much more credit than they deserved, eh?”

The other angel grumbled and drank his tea with a pointed expression.

Unbelievable. 85 years. No wonder they were so close. Aziraphale’s heart contracted painfully again. This is what he could have had if he hadn’t been such a coward. The lump in his throat was back and he wrung his hands.

“So … uh … you didn’t leave for Heaven, then?” he asked the other Aziraphale instead. The angel looked at him, something pained hiding behind an amused smile.

“Oh, yes, I did. Someone had to stop the Second Coming after all. Fooled them all with a rather dramatic fake breakup, didn’t we?”

“T’was brutal.”

“Although you went a bit overboard with that last kiss, my dear.”

“It worked.”

“It did.”

A picture flashed before Aziraphale’s inner eye. Of his Crowley, spilling his heart out, of his hands stretching for Aziraphale's lapels, of him forcing a rough kiss on unsuspecting lips. He had to suppress the urge to press his own fingers on his mouth at that memory.  

“My Crowley kissed me, too. That one time. Before I left,” Aziraphale whispered meekly and two pairs of eyes landed on him once again. He wanted to take it back immediately.

“Oh?”

Aziraphale bit his lip, placed the plate on the table and squeezed his fingers until it hurt.

“Wait, that was your first kiss? And the only one?” Crowley asked, shaken. Aziraphale nodded, feeling much too vulnerable.

“He wanted me to stay. I couldn’t. I had to try to make a difference.”

“Now that is brutal.”

“Crowley, be sensitive!”

“It’s fine. No offence taken,” Aziraphale interrupted. He grasped for the teacup and wrapped his hands around it, eager to stifle those blasted emotions once again. The other two visibly had to unpack that information. Crowley kept ogling Aziraphale, as if he could read his mind by simply staring.

Aziraphale plastered a smile on his face and drank slowly. Genuinely, he was glad that the two had found each other much earlier. They had saved themselves a lot of suffering, really. And that thought had something soothing. If he couldn’t find happiness in his world, at least those two, and probably hundreds of other versions of them in other universes, had the opportunity.

For at least five minutes, nobody talked, everyone lost in their own thoughts.

“Thank you.” The other angel finally said, “For looking after the bookshop while we were gone. Usually, we ask Muriel.”

Glad for the distraction, Aziraphale looked at his doppelganger and offered him a shy smile.

“You’re very welcome.”

On the other side of the table, Crowley snorted into his teacup.

“Well, not so fond of Muriel’s services since last time, eh?”

Blue eyes darkened and other Aziraphale let out a grumble.

“What happened?”

Crowley suddenly looked like he would burst out in laughter about his partner’s mortified face. The angel put his cup down and straightened his ascot, nose wrinkling. He closed his eyes dramatically, before he spoke.

“They brought in a stray cat.”

“Oh dear. But—”

“Whatever you think, it’s worse.”

“Did it scratch a shelf? Or chew on a book?”

“No.”

“Pee on an armchair? Regurgitated on a desk?”

“Worse.”

“What is worse than that?”

Other Aziraphale took three laboured breaths.

“It gave birth. On my Persian rug. To seven kittens.”

“Oh Lord.”

“He fussed about fleas in his upholstery for three months,” Crowley contributed with a chuckle.

“Those poor critters carry around tons of fleas! And they catch bad diseases on the streets!”

“They’re not rats, Aziaphale.”

“Rats carried the fleas that were responsible for the plague!”

Crowley only sent his partner a patient grin. It seemed like they had this argument a few times already.

“Thank someone we’re further away from the 14th century every bloody day.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, Crowley cocking his head with a raised brow.

“What happened to the cat?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, Muriel took the cat and her litter in. They opened a shop for stationary and office supplies two years ago; just a few streets down. They turned the storage room into a rather impressive cat nursery," the demon explained. 

“And we’re still not getting a cat,” other Aziraphale miffed. Crowley pouted playfully.

“But there’s a red one. Human say the red ones are possessed by Satan himself.”

“One satanic ginger is enough for me.”

Crowley threw his head back and barked out a laugh, long neck stretching, collar slipping slightly. Aziraphale choked on his tea, all thoughts annihilated. He coughed, pressed his hand on his mouth and hastily looked away from the purple bruise on the demon’s freckled neck.

Oh God. Goodness gracious. Lord, help me. Don’t STARE.

Mortified, he wiped his mouth and chin. His foolish hands trembled when he reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his face.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked, amusedly, and quirked him a brow.

“Everything tickety-boo!” Aziraphale gasped and coughed again. His face was hot, and his heart was a beating drum and he couldn’t wrap his head around the shocking reality this little mark encompassed.

Quite indecent, me. Crowley had said, a few weeks ago. Was this what he meant? Did he and the other angel engaged in—

Was that what they did on their weekend off?

Aziraphale stood before he could think better of it.

“I- I should leave you to unpack your things in peace. I- uh- go for a walk,” he muttered hastily, face growing hotter and hotter. A hysterical laugh slipped his throat and he hurried to leave the bookshop to die of mortification. He could still feel their confused stares when he closed the door behind him.

~*~

Angels weren’t designed to have an imagination.

It was one of the main treats of an immortal being created only to obey God. An own imagination was distracting. As were human feelings like embarrassment, or envy, or romantic love. Or … that other thing. Physical intimacy.

Angels weren't supposed to wear a human corporation over a longer period. It cradled stirrings of all kinds if it was inhabited over the cause of six millennia.

Angels in their original forms didn’t experience things like hunger, or cold, or tiredness. Physical bodies did. One could argue that those corporations they inhabited weren’t fully human. But they were material matter, nonetheless. Designed to fit into human standards, to blend in. With all its pros and cons.

The mortifying truth was, Aziraphale has gotten used to his human corporation. It fit him like a glove. That one time he discorporated, the loss of it felt like a cut through his essence. All those sensations – be it the clothes on his body or the feeling of wind on his face, or the warmth of sunlight on skin – they were lost with the corporation. He had felt frightfully empty and numb in his incorporeal form.

But back to the point – his imagination. His torturing, vivid imagination. It was a side effect of living beneath humans, he suspected. The picture his sadistic imagination painted was as horrifying as it was beautiful. It wasn’t a new picture, if he were honest with himself. From the very beginning, Aziraphale knew about those basic instincts the humans fell to. Food, warmth and reproduction. It was a natural process, really. Something that could be easily rationalised, pushed away as a fleeting thought.

But with every passing century on Earth, with every encounter, be it by accident or not, the angel’s imagination had grown. In Job’s cellar, he had learned that observing and experiencing were two very different things. What started with a simple ox rib quickly spiralled. That single bite into tender, overly seasoned meat, overseen by burning golden eyes, had shaken Aziraphale’s entire world view to its very foundations. Maybe that was what started it all. His gradual, slow saunter into shades of very light grey.

He remembered the first cup of wine he ever drank. All by himself, hidden in the privacy of his small room in a monastery, curtains closed, like they would shield him from the Almighty’s gaze. How the sweet and sour taste, mixed with red berries and that hint of earth, run down his throat. And again, he had never been the same since then.

After that, almost two more millennia passed for Aziraphale to experience another moment of revelation. It was the moment Crowley had taken his hand in Alexandria and didn’t let go. Because, never before, the demon had touched him. It wasn’t like anything else. No human touch could compare. And humans had tried to touch him a lot in the past, especially the ones he had revealed his angelic nature to, seeking for his divinity.

But Crowley’s touch had surged through his whole corporation, right into his core. He was astoundingly warm for his slender built, like his core burned with Hellfire. Since that fateful day in Alexandria, Aziraphale had craved the demon’s touch, more than any food or good wine. For him to take his hand again, their shoulders to brush or their feet to bump into each other under a table.

Countless years had passed, and with them, Aziraphale’s craving for the demon’s touch grew and grew. No matter how much he tried to rationalise, it never ceased. Fingers itched to trace the sharp line of the demon’s jaw, the tilt of his nose, the stretch of his neck. For a long, long time, those thoughts were of innocent nature. He just wanted the demon to feel appreciated. Worth of soft caresses. But he never dared to reach out.

And then the 1970s came. And with them a demon wrapped in ridiculous, very revealing clothes. Open collars, unbuttoned dress shirts. Bell bottom trousers with impossibly tight legs from the knees upward, leaving zero room for speculation. And once again, Aziraphale had been hit by the truck of revelation. It had turned this blasted human corporation into a proper mess. The past five decades, he had spent hiding this new, very unangelic side of him, the one where he spent evenings all by himself suffering from the temptation. Only some well-timed miracles had saved his reputation time and time again.

Which brought him back to the present, where he strolled through the streets aimlessly, unable to shake off the pictures torturing his mind, about the shocking truth that the angel in this universe had given into lust as much as into everything else. That this Crowley had let him. That they were both—

Oh God, what has he gotten himself into? How was he supposed to look them in the eyes again, now that he knew?

The problem was, he had to return to the bookshop at some point. He had forgotten to put on a coat or take an umbrella with him. Right now, it didn’t look like rain, but the air was freezing and icy wind swept through the streets.

It was almost midnight. Aziraphale had picked up a box of fried noodles and ate them on a bench in Victoria station. He still liked watching humans, and though it was already late at night, there were still some coming and going. It was always a sign that life still went on. That time hadn’t stopped. At least not here, in this universe.

~*~

“You gotta stop leaving and disappearing for hours without giving us a heads up,” Crowley miffed when Aziraphale returned an hour later. His hands were cold and his waistcoat damp from the drizzle. The demon and the other angel sat on their usual places next to the desk; Crowley sprawled on the sofa, other Aziraphale on his armchair, a book in hand.

“Apologies. I lost track of time again.”

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers harder and shrugged.

“Everything alright? You forgot to take your coat.”

There was no way of hiding the blush on his face, so Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“I had a lot to think about.”

Not a lie, technically. The other two exchanged a quick glance.

“Do you want to talk about it?” his doppelganger asked, tilting his head. More heat pushed into Aziraphale’s face and he shook his head, mortified. Goodness gracious, no.

“Alright. You don’t have to, of course. But you can talk about things, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Thank you. I will- uh- take a hot shower. It is terribly frigid outside.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped upstairs.

~*~

“Hey, Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s voice was quiet and startled Aziraphale. The demon sat on the lower steps of the spiral staircase, leaning against the railing. Aziraphale cradled a fresh cup of tea between his hands.

“Oh, hello. I thought you went to bed already. Did I wake you?” Aziraphale asked anxiously. Crowley shook his head quickly.

“I- well. No. Jus’ hoped to catch you alone.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. The demon pushed his jaw forward, fumbling with the seam of his shirt.

“When… When you told us that you and your Crowley were never together ... Does that mean you two never been … close? Like, physically?”

For a long moment, Aziraphale couldn’t speak. He stared into the tea instead.

“No.” he finally managed to say, “I mean… we kind of were, intellectually. He understood me. Most of the time, at least. We had our own language of saying things without actually saying things.”

The demon shifted, his eyes wandering aimlessly.

“Not even one hug?”

“No. You were the first one in a long while who…”

His voice died gracelessly around the sentence and he stared at the floor between them. Crowley came to his feet, the metal staircase protesting under the sudden shift.

“Would you like one now?”

Aziraphale stared at the outstretched arms, so similar and yet so painfully different. His eyes stung and he placed the cup on a nearby table.

“I…I’d actually really like that, yes.”

Before he even got to finish his sentence, Crowley had crossed the distance, and pulled him into an embrace. Aziraphale's breath stuttered at the sudden proximity, but then he bit his lower lip and allowed the demon to hold him. With an exhale, he leaned against that flat chest, listening to the steady, strong heartbeat.

“I’m sorry. For what I said a few weeks ago.”

“Hm?”

“About, you know. That thing that I think you’re Her punishment for me. That was a cruel thing to say.”

The demon’s arms tightened slightly.

“Don’t worry.” Crowley’s voice reverberated in his chest. “Grief can bring out the worst in us. I get that.”

“Apologies nonetheless.”

A little gruff.

“Wanna hear what I think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I think whatever brought you here must have had a purpose. No matter if it’s Her meddling or our combined miracle that pulled you through that rift. You’re here now. And I don’t think you deserve to be punished. You’re still… an angel I know.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath before speaking.

“So you say it was destiny that brought me here?”

"Urgh, no. Wouldn’t go that far.”

The little huff in Crowley’s voice made Aziraphale smile faintly. The demon pulled away, his hands still on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Go to bed, old man.” He smiled cheekily and squeezed. Aziraphale raised his head to look to meet his gaze. So familiar. Those eyes were the same. Deep. Golden. Old as time.

Way too late, Aziraphale realised that he was staring for longer than appropriate, the warm hands on his shoulders freezing him in place. Crowley stared back, something shifting in those impressive eyes.

“Ngk.”

He cleared his throat and stepped away, jolting Aziraphale out of the odd trance. The demon’s brows knitted together and he shifted his weight. His jaw pushed forward and he nodded quickly, to himself, hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Right. Yeah. Goodnight, ang- Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight.”

They both fled that weird situation simultaneously. When Aziraphale reached the top of the staircase, the door to the bedroom downstairs closed with a click.

What in Heaven’s name was that?

Chapter Text

The memory of that day and all the revelations it brought haunted Aziraphale much longer than he was willing to admit. Colourful pictures spun through his mind whenever he let his guard down. Pictures only meant to emerge behind closed doors. Scandalous, painfully lucid scenarios the angel had kept secret for half a century; already unbefitting in his own world. But here, with another version of himself just close by, it was absolutely unacceptable.

It pushed Aziraphale into an inescapable spiral of what-ifs and must-nots, torturing his dreams and every careless moment. Of maroon strands slipping through fingers. Of clipped breaths and soft noises that got right under your skin. Of hands spreading across waists and thighs and a flat belly and-

It was the problem with thoughts. You can’t unthink them once you thought it. Even worse, Aziraphale didn’t have his miracles at hand to hide the rather prominent effects those fantasies had on his blimming corporation. A very inconvenient design flaw in human anatomy, that.

Whenever his thoughts drifted too far, he sought out distance or quickly thought about uncomfortable things. Like Heaven’s Prayer Response Department, riding on horseback, or – on very special occasions, when nothing else helped – Sandalphon. Which shot down any stirring immediately. It had worked great in the past. Aziraphale knew those untoward thoughts and feelings would simmer down. He just had to get himself together. It would pass. It would become easier. Possibly. Eventually.

If he ignored the gazes this Crowley sent the other angel over the rim of a mug. Or that one occasion when he found the demon wear a shape-fitting T-shirt. Or when he caught a glimpse at Crowley stretching in the morning, revealing an auburn happy trail and delicate hip bones. Or the tender affections the other two exchanged. He should be used to the sight by now. It wasn’t even that they were particularly explicit. But the intimacy and what it implied drew blazing daggers into his chest every time he witnessed another touch. Every time, it reminded him of what he could never have. What could have been his to experience. But that door had closed forever. Metaphorically and literally. His world was gone. His Crowley was gone.

~*~

Fall quickly turned into winter before Aziraphale could catch up, and the usual noises of the city dampened under a thick blanket of snow. Christmas season was rushing in, and Aziraphale was happy for the distraction. He spent hours over hours baking; fudge, shortcakes, cookies. Crowley joined him in the kitchen a few times, watching Aziraphale work like he couldn’t believe his serpentine eyes. Which didn’t help Aziraphale focus, at all.

What helped indeed to distract Aziraphale from his thoughts, was when he packed all of the goods into small, colourful bags and donated them to the local food bank. His caged angelic core rejoiced at all that gratitude the humans exuded. It made him feel important. Useful.

He thought of his Crowley, who would roll his eyes but wouldn’t be able to hide a fond smile. How he would complain about the cold, only to sit on a window sill in Aziraphale’s shop for hours and watch the snow fall. How he would accept a tiny bite of Aziraphale’s homemade cinnamon fudge, even if he didn’t like sweets that much.

As Aziraphale walked back from the food bank, he allowed himself to miss those quiet times before everything fell apart. Allowed that snake-shaped void in his chest to exist for a little while. To miss Crowley. His Crowley. The snarks. The playful arguments. The teasing. The drama when an unfortunate human made the mistake to take a photo or, God forbid, dared to touch the Bentley. The quiet days, when they simply existed side by side, passing the time in serene companionship. They hadn’t had what this version of them developed here. His Crowley and him had just been … slower. Less forward. Too afraid to confess their true feelings until it was too late. But that didn’t mean that their life hadn’t been good. Or that their way had been wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out at all if Aziraphale had kissed Crowley in his timeline. His demon was a lot sharper and short-fused than the one in this universe. More anxious and deflecting. And somehow, Aziraphale found that those traits were the ones he missed most here. The friendly banters. Crowley’s reactivity. Gosh, he even missed the way Crowley riled him up with those annoying antics of his. Like that one time the demon had flipped all the books in the shop so the spines faced inward.

It didn’t mean that Aziraphale didn’t like this softer, gentler demon. Quite the opposite, actually. It was rather refreshing that he didn’t have to walk on egg shells around him. This Crowley barely wore glasses. His emotions etched deeply into those familiar golden irises, and he didn’t shy away from his own feelings. Didn’t plaster them with layers and layers of sarcasm and nonchalance. He was just – more. Laughed louder. Smiled wider. Talked faster. Didn’t hide his affection for the other angel.

And sometimes, he looked at Aziraphale with that deep gaze that exuded something unsaid; across the room when they all lounged on sofas and armchairs, when Aziraphale baked and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The angel didn’t know what to do with those gazes that made his stomach flip. They bared something forbidden. Something that tugged on his guts and pulled. It was hard to rationalise. Aziraphale pushed away every upwelling emotion connected with those glances, too afraid to face them.

~*~

“What are you doing?”

Crowley’s tone bordered on irritation as Aziraphale melted into the armchair just by the southern window, book already in hand. The other two had spent the last hour preparing for the Christmas vacation in their cottage.

“Making myself comfortable?” Aziraphale replied, confused. Crowley quirked a brow.

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“Well, you can’t, because you’re coming with us!” the demon stated and chucked a coat onto Aziraphale’s lap.

“I- wait. What?”

“Who do you think we are? Leaving you alone? On Christmas?”

Aziraphale stared up at him, gaping. They weren’t actually…?

“But what about the bookshop? Who will be watching over it when—”

“Eh, that’s already sorted out. Come on, I want to be there before it gets dark! Grab your shoes, get your sketchbook or whatever you need and saddle up!”

“Y-You want me to come with you? But I don’t have any—”

“Nuh-uh, no excuses. Giddy-up!”

“I’m not a horse!” Aziraphale protested, but Crowley had already turned with a chuckle.

~*~

Huddled deep into the hills of South Downs lay a two-story cottage. Buried under a thick blanket of snow, it sat in a shallow valley just outside a small town, picturesque and perfect. The snow didn’t dare to block the driveway, as the ice didn’t dare to cause the Bentley slip. The air was clean and crisp out here. No city noises, no pedestrians, no fumes. The glittering snow and the clear blue sky swallowed every other sound. Aziraphale inhaled deeply, his breath turning into fog as he exhaled. He pressed his sketchbook against his chest and slowly followed the other two through a decorative iron gate into the cottage. It was small, but utterly cozy. Inside, it smelled of old oak and firewood. A big, green Tyrollean stove, plush chairs and a big cord sofa took up half of the living room. A small, but modern kitchenette. Plants on every corner. Shelves filled to the brim with books. Tartan curtains. Anthracite rugs. Clear signs of the shared life of two people with very different tastes. And still, it worked.

Crowley carried a small suitcase up a narrow staircase while the other Aziraphale worked on the Tyrollean stove. Aziraphale lingered in the living room, awkwardly. Was he supposed to do something? Help with preparations? But he didn’t know his way around this house, or its kitchen. Kneading his hands, he studied the bookshelf by the dining table, eyes wandering over the volumes.

“Would you like me to show you your bedroom?”

His doppelganger’s voice startled Aziraphale and he flinched. Blue eyes lay on him like aquamarines under sunlight and Aziraphale nodded nervously. Self-consciously, he straightened his waistcoat and followed the other angel into the hallway.

“It’s not much. Barely space to move, but the bed is comfortable and the view makes up for it,” the other Aziraphale apologised and pushed a door to his left open. He wasn’t exaggerating. Baby blue walls enclosed a small room that barely fit a nightstand and the medium-sized bed. A huge bay window faced the garden, ruffled curtains catching sunlight, bathing the tartan bedsheets in bright warmth, begging to sit down with a cup of tea and a book and wile the day away peacefully.

“It’s more than enough! Thank you!” Aziraphale ensured. He didn’t have many belongings in this universe anyway. It was rather depressing how few was left of his life. It all fit into his coat pockets, really. Anxiously, he plastered a smile on his face.

“I’ll leave you to decompress. Crowley promised to prepare dinner later, so feel free to join us, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded, and his doppelganger mimicked the motion with a reassuring smile, before heading back to the living room.

~*~

There was one problem with the cottage. Space. Or rather, the lack of it. It was almost impossible not to run into Crowley or the other angel when they happened to meet in the narrow hallway. The living room wasn’t vast at all, so in the evenings, they sat together rather huddled. Crowley slouched next to Aziraphale on the couch, like it was the most normal thing to do; long legs stretched, almost touching Aziraphale’s thighs. It made his stomach flip when he and Crowley both worked in the kitchenette to prepare dinner in the evenings, the other angel staying true to his word to never touch a stove or an oven again. Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s shoulders brushed with almost every movement in the cramped room, and while the demon didn’t seem to mind at all, Aziraphale sweat profusely and felt his heart stumble and missing beats. He could smell Crowley. And though this demon had a slightly altered scent to himself, it dragged Aziraphale’s poor corporation through the fields of his confused feelings.

It wasn’t his Crowley, but still-

No.

He couldn’t allow those thoughts. They bordered on something dangerous that he wasn’t willing to acknowledge. Something he mustn’t acknowledge. Never. And oh, that feeling was too familiar.

~*~

On top of the hill stood a bench underneath an old oak. The emerald green paint was battered by too many seasons, revealing bare wood. Far on the horizon, the ocean glittered faintly in the midday sun. Aziraphale inhaled the frigid air deeply and let it out with a gust.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

The other angel tucked himself tighter into his coat and considered the landscape for a while, the silvery curls moving with the wind. Half an hour ago, he had approached Aziraphale, asking him to join his daily stroll. Too surprised about the request, the angel had agreed. And so they ended up sitting down on the bench after a brief walk through the winterly landscape.

“It’s so … quiet,” Aziraphale commented, hands buried deep into the coat’s pockets. The other angel nodded. As if on cue, a robin landed on the tree just above them and started tweeting. Aziraphale chuckled and watched the bird for a moment. The angel next to him shifted his weight.

“You know,” he started quietly, eyes still far away, “I once read that grief hurts so much because it is love that doesn’t have an outlet anymore.”

Caught off-guard by that, Aziraphale’s back stiffened and he stopped breathing for a second. He could feel the other angel’s gaze on him and had a hard time stifling the urge to knead his hands. He shifted uncomfortably, clawing his fingers around the edge of the bench instead.

“What I want to say with that is, I am most definitely not the perfect example of communication or an expert about grief and losing someone so important -  far from it, honestly. But letting it out, or talk about your feelings – it helps.”

The other angel’s voice was calm and collected, but Aziraphale noticed the reserved undertone.

“You say it like it comes easy for you.”

The angel chuckled wistfully and shook his head.

“Not at all. It’s never easy. It took decades of hard work to overcome my inhibitions. But it was worth it.”

Silence. Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed.

“It’s… hard enough to find the right words in my head and even harder to formulate them in a way that makes sense and isn’t just a juggled up, useless mess.” He finally muttered towards the ground.

“I know.” The doppelganger sighed, “And still, I’d encourage you to try anyway. I can see you’re suffering.”

“I’m fine.”

Another sigh.

“No, you aren’t. And if you don't mind me being honest, I’d me more concerned if you were.”

Aziraphale had to close his eyes and lock his jaw to stay collected.

“You lost your world. Your life. Your sense of belonging. It’s unbearable to think about what you’re going through.”

Stop. Please stop.

“But you don’t have to be alone with that. Do you understand?”

A stern nod was everything Aziraphale was able to respond with. His heart suddenly pounded hard, palms sweating and a very unpleasant tingle went down his spine. The urge to run away threatened to overwhelm him with every second the silence stretched. It bordered on a miracle that the wood didn’t splinter under his forceful grip.

“There’s … nothing to be done about it.” He pressed through clenched teeth, staring into the distance.

“But that does not mean that it doesn’t hurt, right?”

The void in Aziraphale’s chest flared at those words, creeped into his lungs, restricting him from breathing.

“It hurts like Hell.”

For the first time, he dared to look at his doppelganger. But instead of mockery or pity, he only found compassion.

“Go on,” the other angel encouraged, quietly.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, loosening his death grip around the bench and pressing his hand against his chest.

“It feels … empty. Like the absence of him…” he swallowed, unable to say his name, “…created a black hole in my chest and now it is slowly eating away parts of me. I couldn’t mourn my reality collapsing because my world already ended that day Heaven destroyed him.”

He rubbed his chest, grounding himself in the physical pressure against his sternum.

“Does it help seeing him here?”

For a breath, Aziraphale stared at his doppelganger, surprised. The other angel seemed genuinely interested in his answer. Aziraphale thought about it.

“No. Yes. Both. He’s different here.”

The other Aziraphale adjusted his posture and leaned against the backrest, turning slightly towards him. A careful smile curled his lips up.

“Tell me about him.”

~*~

Once Aziraphale started, he couldn’t stop himself. His doppelganger listened patiently, a faint, knowing smile on his lips whenever Aziraphale lost himself in anecdotes. But he didn’t stop him, didn’t interrupt. Let Aziraphale talk until he ran out of words and fell silent, the ache in his chest soothed and fed at the same time. He missed Crowley. So badly. With all of his being.

“He sounds wonderful,” the doppelganger whispered into the silence and offered Aziraphale a sincere smile.

“Oh, he was such a nuisance. At times. He glued a wine glass on one of my side tables once. Whatever demonic miracle he used, it was impossible to remove.”

The other angel chuckled.

“Well, my Crowley hexed my favourite boater hat in 1992, because in his world, it was ‘out of fashion’ for five decades. No matter what I try, the moment I cross the bookshop’t threshold, it disappears and puts itself back on the coat rag.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stifle a laugh.

“Some things don’t change, do they?”

The doppelganger grinned into himself and nodded. A gust of wind pulled on their clothes and they both shivered.

"We should head back. Crowley promised to bring a sweet treat for tea time.”

~*~

“Angel.”

Both Aziraphale’s looked up from their books. Crowley stood in the doorway, sharp gaze darting in between the two angels, one huddled on the sofa, the other on an armchair, half buried under a blanket.

“M’talkin’ to you,” the demon muttered and pointed at the angel on the armchair.

“Yes, darling?”

Crowley cocked his hip and leaned against the doorframe, sunglasses riding down the bridge of his nose.

“We should really come up with nicknames for you.”

The doppelganger huffed perked up.

“Absolutely not. No nicknames!”

“Oh, so I better call both of you ‘Aziraphale’, eh? Helps with the confusion.”

The other angel rolled his eyes.

“Well, if you don’t mind me interrupting, but we went with Zariah and Ezra for the book fair.”

Two pairs of eyes landed on Aziraphale and he blushed on cue. Crowley stared at him for a beat, then he slowly turned towards his partner.

“You ... chose a human name? And didn’t tell me?”

The other angel blinked and made a face.

“Well-“ he started, but the demon interrupted.

“No, no, no, wait. Which one is yours?”

“Take a guess, my dear.”

Crowley squinted.

“It’s Zariah, isn’t it?”

The other angel pouted, disappointed that his riddle had been solved so quickly, “How did you know?”

Golden eyes flicked towards Aziraphale for a moment.

“He looks like he’d call himself Ezra. And he said Zariah first. All too polite, him.”

With a knowing grin, the demon looked up again and winked at Aziraphale. Suddenly, his face turned smug.

“Know what, I’ve got a better idea. You-“ he pointed at Aziraphale, smirking, “Are Blondie now.”

“Crowley! You will not call him Blondie!”

“What, should I refer to you as Blondie instead?”

The other angel’s face fell and he blushed.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he hissed and slammed his book shut with a loud thwack. The demon only snickered.

“Try me, Zariiiah.”

He dragged the middle syllable so unbearably long it made Aziraphale cringe.

“Don’t say it like that!” the other angel whined as Crowley grabbed a jute bag and carried it towards the kitchen. With a big, dramatic sigh, he opened the book again, searching for the page where he had just stopped reading. His movements froze when the demons started humming a song that sounded faintly familiar. But Aziraphale didn’t know the lyrics, but he recognised the melody. Something about calling someone?

The other angel – oh well, he could also refer as Zariah to him, now couldn’t he? – on the other hand, seemed to get the hint and pinched the bridge of his nose with another exasperated sigh.

“I do apologise,” he exhaled.

“No need,” Aziraphale chuckled, fondly amused of the little banter, “I find it quite endearing, actually.”

Zariah scrutinised him for a moment before returning his focus to his book with a small little smile.

~*~

Two days later, on Christmas Eve, Aziraphale sighed quietly and sunk deeper into the sofa, a soft blanket wrapped around his body; his belly full with roast, cake and two glasses of red. The other two hadn’t put up a tree or anything specifically Christmas themed, but there were fairy lights in the windows; clove-spiked oranges and a whole pot of hot cocoa that exuded a heavenly scent.

He had spent the past two days mostly talking to Zariah. Somehow, their conversation on top of the hill had broken down another layer of the other angel’s walls. There was something soft in his blue eyes that bordered on fondness. On two occasions, Aziraphale caught him gazing at him, seemingly deep in thought. It reminded him so much of the way this Crowley tended to look at him that his stomach did funny things.

Shaking off those thoughts, Aziraphale hummed and closed his eyes. It had to be illegal to be that comfortable, with the warmth of the stove on his face and the steady murmur of two familiar voices in the background. The throw pillow underneath his head was just the right combination of sturdy and fluffy. He smiled to himself as Crowley laughed in the background, and he exhaled. This was nice. He felt so safe. Protected. Surrounded by warmth and the scent of firewood, leather and vanilla.

~*~

Aziraphale was deeply emerged into a vague dream that included a massive round pool that had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of his shop. Faceless people were there, talking nonsense. The only distinguishable person was Crowley, on the other side of the water, waving and yelling at him, but his voice drowned in the noise. Aziraphale tried to get to the demon. But no matter how often he rounded the pool, Crowley stayed on the other side, frustratingly. With a huff, Aziraphale shrugged off his coat and jumped into the water, eager to cross the distance this way.

But he didn’t take the current into account, pulling him down into the water, deeper, deeper, until the surface was only a small window high above him. The darkness shifted, and suddenly he found himself between the stars. He blinked, gaze darting around the endless colours and the vastness all around him. Drifting aimlessly, he searched for Crowley. The demon had always been better at navigating his creation, after all. But he wasn’t there. Aziraphale called his name, but the vacuum swallowed his voice.

His wings were out, stark white against the dark canvas of space.

Where are you? He yelled into the soundless void, but neither the stars nor Crowley heard him. He pressed his hand against his aching chest. I’m so lonely without you. Don’t leave me alone! Please.

Nothing.

He looked up, but the window into the bookshop had vanished.

And then, a telephone rang.

Irritated, Aziraphale turned, wings shifting, eyes wide.

What on Earth?

How?

Only slowly, the dream shifted into something more solid.

His sense of smell returned, a faint waft of smoke and sugar. His face was warm. The phone rang again. Confused, he moved, wings gone, corporation caught safely in the arms of gravity once more. The third ring of the phone jolted him into reality. Sun bathed the cozy living room in golden morning light, and he blinked rapidly, the odd dream vanishing.

Footsteps on the stairs, then somebody picked up the phone. From his vantage point on the sofa, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s profile bathed in morning light, his auburn hair a mess, an obsidian silken nightgown wrapped around his lean frame.

“Whot?” a cranky voice echoed through the hallway. A short moment of silence.

“Slow down. Yes. Uh-huh. They what?!”

Crowley groaned and a second set of footsteps descended the stairs. Zariah came into sight, wearing tartan-striped pyjamas, a fluffy, teal bathrobe and matching house slippers.

“Hang on, I put you on speaker.” A click. “Alright, now tell us what happened.”

“There were demons at the doorstep. Telling me that you two are breaking the peace agreement.” Muriel’s high voice echoed through the hallway.

“How so?”

“I don’t know! They refused to tell me, but they said it’s serious.”

“Are you sure they’re not trolling you again, Muriel?” Crowley asked patiently.

“Yes! It seemed serious this time! They weren’t the usual demons!”

“Are they still there?”

“I- uhm. No. I don’t think so. But she said she’d come back.”

The angel’s voice trembled through the line. Crowley sent Zariah a concerned look.

“Who’s ‘she’?” the demon’s voice turned a smidge sharper.

“I- I don’t remember. Something like Shack? Hack?”

“Shax?”

“Yes! That must be her name. Are you two in trouble?”

Crowley groaned and pressed the receiver on his forehead for a second. Then he exhaled and put it back against his ear.

“Okay. Take a breath. We’re not in trouble. But we’ll pack our stuff and return. We can’t let that bastard get her way with us. It’s not the 14th century anymore.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowley! I’m sorry I interrupted your vacation.”

“Eh, don’t mind us. I’ll gladly put that backstabbing bitch back in her place.”

“Crowley!” Zariah hissed, reprimanding.

“What? She is a backstabbing, slimy, self-centered bit—”

“However, Muriel, dear. Don’t worry. We’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” the angel interrupted Crowley’s tirade and pressed the button on the cradle to cut the call. They looked at each other for multiple seconds.

“Do you think it’s serious?” Zariah finally asked.

“Not sure. They seemed quite intimidated. But it’s also Muriel. They’re easy to frighten.”

“Lately, not so much anymore.”

“Being a cat parent has changed them,” Crowley grinned.

“More likely the two years of shopkeeping and customer service.”

The demon softened for a second and laid a hand on Zariah’s face. “It’ll be fine. They’re probably overreacting.”

“I really do hope so, darling.”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, stomach plummeting, when Crowley bent down and kissed the angel on the lips. Zariah’s stiff posture softened immediately, his hands landing on a narrow waist. The sharp wrinkles on the demon’s face made way for a gentle expression. On cue, a fierce flash of love crackled through the air, almost audible. It stirred the unbearable longing for tenderness in Aziraphale’s chest. Only when the two pulled away after a second with a quiet, intimate noise, he became aware how inappropriately he stared.

His face burned and he cleared his throat. The other two flinched. Two pairs of eyes landed on him, caught in the act. It was fine. Really. Fine, yes. They were a couple. They were allowed to kiss whenever they wanted. Aziraphale wasn’t affected by that – at all.

~*~

Muriel waited at the bookshop doors. The whole ride back, the car had been dead silent with tension. Crowley drove like a lunatic, but neither of the angels dared to complain. They made the distance in less than an hour. Back in the city, rain had turned the snow into a grey, wet slosh that threatened to seep into every nook and cranny.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked Muriel, not bothering to wait for the angels.

Zariah got out of the car much slower, twisting and turning to look for possible threats. His cheeks were pale and his posture tense. On alert, he made a beeline for the demon. Aziraphale hesitated. He hadn’t met any other angels or demons in this universe yet - except the one occassion he had spotted Michael on the TV having a discussion with the Prime Minister himself, but that hardly counted - and he wasn’t sure if the other two wanted to keep the secret. But then Crowley turned and waved at him, jaw set.

Aziraphale swallowed, and climbed out of the car. Muriel’s eyes went wide as saucers and their gaze flicked between Zariah and him like they were watching a match of tennis.

“Mr. Fell, he looks like you!” the angel gasped.

“Yeah, let’s discuss this out here in the open. No problem!” Crowley hissed, “Get. Inside. It’s not safe when Shax is around.”

With a shove, he ushered all three angels across the bookshop’s threshold.

Inside, the demon Eric leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed, dark eyes fixated anxiously on the incoming group. They ogled Aziraphale like they had seen a ghost, the same confusion painted on their face like Muriel.

But there was a much more pressing matter.

“Was she alone?” Crowley asked timidly and peered through one of the windows.

“No. There was another demon,” Muriel replied, fondling their frilly tie, “He threatened to discorporate Eric.”

“Told you it’s no threat to me at all.” The other demon muttered without bite in his tone, “I just pop up a few minutes later, no worries.”

Eric moved and took Muriel’s hand.

“It will still hurt you!” the angel whined and squeezed their hand. Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers in front of Muriel’s face.

“Who else was with her?” he asked impatiently.

“Furfur,” Eric answered on Muriel's behalf.

“Fantastic,” Crowley groaned and pressed his hands on his face. His eyes flicked to the windows again.

“Do you think they are up to something?” Zariah asked anxiously.

“Shax is always up to something.” Crowley grumbled and paced the room.

“What should we do now?” Eric held tighter on Muriel. Yellow eyes considered them for a second.

“You two go back to your own shop. Stay inside until we know more. Don’t let anyone inside your wards. When Shax leaves her useless throne in Hell to scheme on Earth, there must be something bad going on. Especially if any other demons have boarded her boat, so to speak.”

Muriel nodded, held faster onto Eric and snapped their fingers. The two vanished into thin air and left only tense silence in their wake.

“What is the matter with Shax?” Aziraphale asked carefully. Sharp snake eyes fixated on him, all softness gone. Right now, Crowley looked much more like the demon Aziraphale knew.

“She’s not very happy about the Peace Agreement. It cost her and her stupid lackey their positions as Grand Duke of Hell and Wrong Hand. They’re still playing house in Hell, but there is barely anyone left down there except the worst of the worst. Knew it, t’has been too peaceful and quiet lately.”

Aziraphale was still fairly confused. Shax had never appeared quite threatening to him. More of the more-bark-than-bite kind of demon, even when she overtook the bookshop. At least it had been like this in his world. The tension on Crowley’s face told a whole other story. He didn’t dare to ask. The demon exuded anxiety all over the place, eyes wandering around aimlessly, tongue darting out to smell the air. Aziraphale had never seen him like this in all the weeks he spent with the demon. He was restless, trapped like an animal in a cage.

Zariah reached out for Crowley, stopping him mid-pace with a hand on his arm.

“We will be fine, love,” he murmured and rubbed the demon’s tricep, but he didn’t seem convinced either. Crowley’s brows knitted together, gold spilling all over his sclera.

“But I can smell it in the air. That waft of ill-minded evil. She’s up to no good. There’s’at smell of something else and I can’t dissect it, what’f—”

“Crowley. Breathe,” Zariah commanded gently, taking a step closer to his partner.

“I won’t let her hurt you.” The demon whispered, determined, and cupped the other angel’s face with his left hand. He looked from Zariah to Aziraphale in desperation, “None of you.”

“She won’t. We had threats like this before. It’ll be fine,” Zariah reassured and squeezed the demon’s arm. Crowley huffed, but nodded. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Good thing there’s no Hellfire left.”

“There isn’t?” Aziraphale asked, in disbelief. Both Zariah and Crowley shook their heads.

“It was one condition of the Peace Agreement. No lethal weapons anymore. No Hellfire. No Holy Water. So everyone is safe from destruction,” the angel explained.

“What were the other conditions?”

The other two grew slightly timid.

“Free access to Heaven, Hell and Earth for everyone, for example.”

Zariah’s face had turned rather pale. He didn’t look like he wanted to continue this topic. Neither did Crowley.

“So what do we do now?” Aziraphale asked instead. Crowley huffed.

“You two stay here. I’ll go out and try to find that slimy weasel Furfur. Or Shax herself.”

“Let me join you, my dear.”

“No!” Crowley hissed and shook his head rigorously, “Stay here with him.”

“What if they hurt you?”

“I can look after myself, angel. I just want to be sure those bastards don’t lurk close by. This is our territory and not theirs.”

“Alright. But take care, love.”

Crowley nodded and pressed a quick kiss on Zariah’s forehead.

“I’ll be back in a bit. And please, stay in here. No exceptions.”

~*~

Crowley returned, hours later. None the wiser.

The days that followed were awfully timid. The demon acted like a nervous guard dog, every noise from outside causing him to approach a window and stare outside, searching for potential threats. He didn’t sleep much. Stayed up until early morning, guarding the entrance. Dark shadows appeared under his eyes, and he forgot to miracle away the stubble on his chin.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. The tension in the bookshop was palpable in every corner, and the other two’s restlessness bled into him as well. His sketchbook lay abandoned on the nightstand. He didn’t sleep well, even if he didn’t know if they were in real danger at all.

No matter how often Zariah tried to calm him with soft words or a cup of tea, the demon stayed alert and nervous. But nothing happened. After one and a half weeks, Crowley collapsed under the sleep depravation, crashing out on the sofa mid-sentence.

Zariah exhaled, muttered something that sounded dangerously like “finally” and tucked him under a soft blanket. He retreated to the second floor, rearranging the shelves for the fifth time since they had returned. He tried to hide it, but his movements were frantic and restless, too.

~*~

Crowley woke up with a start in the early morning, only faint light filtering though the windows. Aziraphale and Zariah had taken turns to look after him and keeping an eye on the streets outside.

Yellow eyes darted around the room, agitated. When his gaze fell on Aziraphale, cradling a big mug of tea in between his hands, he exhaled.

“What happened?” he croaked, grimacing.

“Nothing. You slept for a while. We’re fine.” Aziraphale tried to comfort him, without success. The dark shadows underneath his eyes had lost some of their intensity, but he still looked awfully exhausted. Crowley rubbed his face with both palms and groaned.

“This is a nightmare.”

Aziraphale offered him a small smile.

“I assume whatever threat Shax threw at Muriel, it hasn’t been of substance.”

The demon made a face and sat up, frowning. Aziraphale tried to ignore the odd stirring in his gut when Crowley ran his fingers through his hair.

“I know it seems like it. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it!”

Rubbing his neck, he stood and sauntered into the kitchen, leaving an air of unsettling tension in his wake. Aziraphale followed him hesitantly, watching him as he prepared himself a cup of espresso that could have killed a cow.

“S’my angel already awake?” he asked after he downed the liquid caffeine in one big gulp.

“I don’t know. He’s—”

As if those words had summoned him, Zariah emerged from the bedroom. He almost looked as tired as Crowley, his white curls in disarray. He had wrapped a tick robe over his waistcoat, the ascot untied.

“Speaking of the devil,” Crowley drawled and waved a hand, a steaming cup appearing miraculously. Zariah accepted it wordlessly and leaned into the doorframe opposite of Aziraphale.

“Do you feel better, darling?” he asked after sipping on his tea.

“Bit, yeah.”

The angel smiled, tiredly. “I told you it wasn’t as serious.”

Crowley shifted his weight, his mouth a tense line. He glared through the kitchen window, working his jaw.

“There’s more to it, I can literally smell it,” he insisted and put his empty mug into the sink.

“Darling, you’re sleep deprived and paranoid. It has been ten days. We should call Muriel and tell them that the coast is clear.”

Golden eyes studied the other angel for a long time, before they landed on Aziraphale.

“What do you think?”

Startled that he was spoken to directly, Aziraphale hesitated.

“You’re asking me?!”

“Yes.”

“I- well. It seems very quiet. No demonic incidents at all.”

“But can you sense anything?”

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn’t thought about that yet.

“I don’t know if I’m of any help with this. My angelic senses are off since day one.”

“Please try anyway.”

Hesitantly, Aziraphale stretched his power as far as his limited capacity let him. Every nerve end of his corporation tingled furiously, yelling at him that the fabric of this world was wrong. It was hard to feel something past that sensation, other than unease. With a small gasp, he pulled back and shook his head.

“No use. I’m sorry.”

“T’was worth a try. Maybe we should—"

A knock echoed through the shop and everyone froze. They shared a timid gaze. Crowley was the first to move. He crept through the shop, like a lurking panther ready to strike. With the snap of his fingers, his sunglasses reappeared. The two angels followed him. Someone was outside the bookshop doors, casting a shadow onto the blinds.

Crowley growled. His golden eyes darted towards the angels. Then he pointed a threatening finger at them. “You. Stay inside. And don’t get too close to the windows!”

He approached the door, yanking it open, the bell protesting above his head.

“Shax,” Crowley drawled, leaning against the door casually.

“Traitor,” the other demon hissed, dark eyes spearing him.

“What can I do for you on this beautiful day I would rather spend without your intervention?”

Shax narrowed her eyes and straightened to her full height – and still she didn’t even reach to the demon’s shoulder. But appearances can mislead. She almost looked like the one Aziraphale met in his world – but much less groomed. Her shoulder-length hair was matted and dishevelled, the seams of her blood red body suit frayed, something green and oozing sticking to her pale skin.

“You’re breaking the Peace Agreement, Crowley.”

“Says who?”

The demon hissed again and eyed the threshold.

“Me, you stupid snake!”

“Which loophole did you think up this time?”

Sharp teeth were bared, leaving Crowley unfazed. At least he looked unfazed. He definitely wasn't.

“I don’t have to explain any of it to you.”

“Well, if you don’t have any proof of us breaking the Agreement, you can’t force me to do anything. And you know that.”

Shax’ glare diverted from Crowley to the two angels behind him. Crowley stepped in her way, but it was too late. She had already noticed Zariah and Aziraphale, standing next to each other, looking identical at first glance. First, her eyes went wide in shock, but then her expression turned sinister. Her whole presence changed, her teeth growing sharper, her black irises bleeding into her sclera.

“What do we have here? Is one angel not enough for you anymore? Can’t get enough while others starve.”

Crowley shifted, a timid laugh bubbling up to the surface. “You can’t starve. None of us can.”

Her chest heaved now, something hungry in her expression.

“You know it’s not food I’m hungering for. Some of us don’t sate on earthly pleasures. Some of us need the suffering. The sweet, tortured pain,” she sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “And nothing sates us quite as well as an angel in agony.”

Her head snapped towards Aziraphale. Even though he couldn’t make out her irises, he knew by the cold shiver that ran down his arms that she fixated on him.

“And this one is suffering a lot. I can smell it from here.”

Crowley stepped in her way once more.

“Piss off, Shax. You have tortured enough people already with your presence.”

The other demon laughed a joyless laughter.

“Oh, I will get to him eventually. If he’s as helpless as your other pet angel, then—”

Her voice cut off with a strangled sound when Crowley violently grabbed the front of her destroyed coat and pushed her off the stairs.

Shax screeched like a bird of prey, her elongated nails dug into the demon’s shoulders and they both tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs. First, it looked like Crowley had the advantage, but suddenly a second figure emerged from the gloom of an alleyway, went for the demon’s legs, kicking him off-balance. A stifled yell, a pained hiss and Shax straddled the demon’s chest, pinning him down, as the other demon held Crowley by the arms. The other demon looked familiar, grey-streaked pompadour in disarray, teeth bared. Shax dark wings unfurled, feathers soaked in something that looked like oil, dripping inky splatters on the curb. Crowley struggled, but he couldn’t free himself from the steely grasp. Instead, he hissed, his body shifting; fangs elongating, shiny scales creeping from his collar up his neck and arms.

Zariah went for the door, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists by his sides, Crowley’s name on his lips. Aziraphale was right behind him, grabbing him by the arm before he could cross the threshold. His own heart was a drumming beat, panic surging into every fibre of his corporation.

“Stay there, angel!” Crowley yelled sharply, legs kicking to no avail.

“B-But—”

“Stay inside that goddamn ward!”

“Or,” Shax grinned, her head turning by 180 degreees like an owl, dark eyes now fixed on Zariah, “You come out here and I promise I will only hurt him a bit. Your choice. Otherwise…”

Her nails grew even longer and sharper, burying into Crowley’s shoulder like knifes, “I wonder where a former demon goes when he discorporates. Or will he be destroyed when he hasn’t picked a side?”

“No! Let go of him!” the angel yelled struggling against Aziraphale’s grip.

“STAY!” Crowley warned, kicking after Shax once again, groaning when her claws drew blood as she scraped them across his chest, ripping the fabric of his dark sweatshirt.

Aziraphale froze in place, all noises muffled all of a sudden. He lost all feeling in his limbs, the only sensation his own, frantic heartbeat. The only thing he could focus on was the crimson spilling from Crowley’s corporation. No. This couldn’t happen again. Zariah’s arm slipped from his numb grasp, and the angel stumbled onto the curb. Panic devoured every reasonable thought in Aziraphale's head. Crowley screamed. Loud. Agonised. Holy water dissolving him into nothing.

Nothing.

Gone.

Dead.

Annihilated.

“Go back!”

The demon’s voice cut through the fog in Aziraphale’s mind and he found himself on the threshold, Shax and Furfur grinning maliciously at Zariah, who stopped just a metre away. Reality collided with Aziraphale. This Crowley wasn’t dead – yet. He had to do something. Anything. If he only had  miracles at hand. He could smite the demons with one click of his fingers. But he was helpless. Bound to this human corporation. Disconnected from his Host.

“What do you want?!” Crowley growled, chest heaving in pain, eyes all yellow. Shax face split open with a grin much too wide, sharp teeth flashing in the dim morning light. Her wings twitched.

“Oh, I don’t want anything from you,” she drawled and ran a claw over Crowley’s throat, “But he does.”

Aziraphale noticed the movement even before Shax finished. A third figure emerged from the ground, accompanied by a stomach-wrenching stench.

“Hastur here is still a bit miffed about your trick with Ligur and the Holy Water,” Shax purred.

“No!” Crowley struggled against the hands holding him down, but he couldn’t free himself, “That was ages ago!”

“Don’t worry, Crowley,” Hastur grinned, black liquid oozing from the corners of his mouth as he smiled joylessly, revealing rotting teeth, “I see you got yourself a second angel. You should be fine.”

With horror, Aziraphale noticed how the demon pulled something bright from his pocket. No. It couldn’t be. Zariah had told him that Hell destroyed the last bits.

“NO!” Aziraphale yelled as Hastur aimed at Zariah and set the Hellfire loose with a manic giggle.

Aziraphale didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He just moved.

And fire – red, hungry, devouring – hit him in the chest with full force.

~ End of Act One ~

Chapter Text

Aziraphale’s wings sprang free without his doing, shielding his doppelganger.

There was yelling, and screaming, and hands pulling on the back of his coat, but he refused to move. Waited for the burn that would inevitably eat his core. For his essence to rip apart into its atoms. He closed his eyes. All he could think of was his Crowley, the way his eyes had always lingered on him; two flecks of gold following him throughout his whole existence like a beacon. If there was an afterlife waiting for him somewhere, he wished with all his being that he would find Crowley there. But he also knew that there was the possibility that Aziraphale wouldn’t see him again when he died here, in the other universe, far away from his own world.

He knew he should be afraid of total destruction. Fear it with his whole angelic core, like he did for the past six thousand years. Fear that kept him from loving his Crowley like he deserved it. But for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he was completely calm.

Because his destruction, his sacrifice, would save Zariah and this other Crowley. Gave them a chance to live, to love, to find their happy-ever-after.

Blazing Hellfire grazed his skin in scorching streaks, caught on his wings, its dark hunger for divinity drawing claws across the white feathers.

But the pain didn’t come.

His wings didn’t burn.

As he opened his eyes, the Hellfire fizzled out with a pathetic crackle, and the demon’s black eyes widened. Aziraphale stood steadfast, panting, and he hadn’t burned. Not a single quill scathed, feathers as pristine than ever.

Something old and fierce welled up in his core, pushed past the boundaries of his human corporation, sending thunder and lightning throughout his body.

And suddenly, he found himself holding a sword. But not just a sword. A flaming sword. His flaming sword.

Anger turned the flames bright blue as he bared his teeth. But it wasn’t the sword itself that burned, not really. What really fuelled the fire was the divine rage that exploded in his core, for all the wrongs he had endured. Crowley’s pointless death, the devaluations he had endured for millennia. The pain of losing Crowley, again and again, because of his trust in Heaven.

Feathers ruffled.

Countless eyes opened.

The demons screeched, shocked by the pure display of power that unfurled before their eyes.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, an inhuman cry leaving his body, shaking the ground beneath them. And his sword buried deep into the Hastur’s chest.

“If someone ever dares to come even close to them again,” Aziraphale snarled, his voice amplified by divine righteousness, “I will be coming for them. And I won’t be as merciful then.”

The demon yowled, his body discorporating with a flash of light. Shrieks and screams echoed through the street as the other demon bolted and scattered, seeking distance in a panic. Shax scrambled from Crowley’s body, eyes wide in fear. For a second, she considered, but then she clicked her fingers and vanished with a horrified expression.

Hastur’s lifeless corporation collapsed in itself, evaporating into ashen flocks. With his weight gone, Aziraphale tipped over, knees buckling. With a metallic clank, the sword scattered across the curb before it dematerialised. His wings shivered, a chill running through his body up into every quill. He groaned with a deep exhale, his corporation returning back to its human shape. Celestial eyes closed one by one, and with a violent tremble the white wings pulled back into the unseen realm just beneath Aziraphale’s breastbone. Gasping for breath, he turned his head, eyes zeroed on Crowley. The demon’s shirt was soaked in blood, four deep cuts on his chest. But he was alive, sitting up and staring at Aziraphale like he had just seen a ghost.

“Holy fuck!” Crowley cursed wholeheartedly, scrambled towards Aziraphale and knelt into the sleet by his side. His eyes were all golden, the pupils two narrow slits.

“I- I am immune to Hellfire,” Aziraphale gasped, in panted breathlessly.

“You stupid man! You stupid, marvellous, reckless man!” Crowley cried, face paler than bones and cupped Aziraphale’s face, supporting his spinning head.

“I- I couldn’t- I couldn’t let them take him away from you,” Aziraphale panted, eyes burning with tears. His muscles trembled under the strain his corporation just went through, but he managed to sent the demon a relieved smile.

Crowley’s eyes filled with tears and he pulled Aziraphale into a crushing embrace.

“Thank you!” he sobbed into his coat, clinging onto him like a drowning man. A set of footsteps approached, a splat and a second pair of arms wrapped around him. Aziraphale startled and pulled away, crying helplessly now. Zariah knelt next to Crowley, blue eyes wide in shock.

“You could’ve died!” he croaked, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead. He opened and closed his mouth, searching for words, “You could’ve turned on me, and you didn’t.”

Why did he look so shocked?

“Why should I do that to him? Or to you?” Aziraphale whimpered, tears spilling over. The other angel’s lower lip wobbled dangerously. Aziraphale swallowed around the massive lump in his throat.

“But why did you do it?”

“You’re the most important person in his life! And…I did it because I love him,” he added, meekly, aware that this could crush everything. He knew it with full clarity now. That this feeling that had gnawed on him for weeks was love. Because it was still Crowley. He sniffed and added, “I loved him back in my world, and I fell in love with him in this one, too. I couldn’t let them kill you, because no one should go through my pain. And you are also—"

His voice cracked and died down when Zariah reached out with a sob. He placed a hand on Aziraphale’s face, wiping away the tears. The angel’s palm was cold, and his fingers trembled.

“You saved me,” Zariah whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He tipped forward, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, he pressed a kiss on his forehead. With a whine, Zariah pulled them both into a trembling hug.

Aziraphale sobbed helplessly now, melting into the embrace, seeking comfort. There was a hand in his hair. He couldn’t tell if it war his doppelganger’s or Crowley’s. It didn’t matter, really. All that mattered that Zariah was still alive. Still here. Still breathing. Still with them.

Crowley was the first to pull away, eyes red and puffy. He turned his head towards Zariah, tears still falling.

“I love you so much!” he croaked, cupped his the other angel's face with one hand and kissed him. Zariah gasped, then closed his eyes and reciprocated, a stray tear rolling down his cheek. Crowley sniffed and leaned his forehead against his partner’s, seeking his gaze.

Oh Lord. This was too intimate for Aziraphale. He shouldn’t be that close when the two of them were—

“Can I?” Crowley whispered, seeking Zariah's gaze anxiously. They exchanged one of those silent conversations before his partner nodded. Crowley exhaled with a gust. 

Golden eyes fixated on Aziraphale and his heart skipped a beat. What was he—?

Crowley took a sharp breath, tipped forward, hand on Aziraphale’s face – and kissed him.

Frozen in place, he gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation of lips on lips. Eyes wide, he stared at Crowley in shock. Didn’t breathe until the demon let go with heaving chest. Their eyes met. Aziraphale’s brain melted, too overwhelmed to process. His eyelids drooped when all the arms around him drew him closer, and Crowley kissed him again. This time, Aziraphale couldn’t help, he sighed and closed his eyes, allowed it to happen. He was kissing Crowley. And Zariah didn’t stop him. It was impossible to dissect the emotions that rushed though his mind. The touch was a shock to Aziraphale’s system, swept every sensible thought into oblivion.

He vividly remembered the kiss he had shared with his Crowley. The relentless grip on Aziraphale’s lapels, the desperate pressure of his lips, so rough it almost hurt.

This Crowley kissed gentle, careful, questioning. He didn’t hold Aziraphale so close that he couldn’t breathe or pull away. Instead, the grip on his face was feather-light, only enough to support. Crowley gave Aziraphale the choice to end this whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to. His heart fluttered against his chest, eager to break through.

A hand landed on his other cheek, softer and bigger than Crowley’s. Aziraphale gulped for breath and broke the kiss. His face burned, and he dared to turn his head to the right. Zariah took him in with an unreadable expression, his blue eyes shimmering in tears. He had his head tipped against Crowley’s temple. His hand was still on Aziraphale’s face, stirring an odd but pleasant feeling in his guts.

“He kisses differently than you,” Crowley muttered quietly and pressed his lips on Zariah’s forehead. To Aziraphale’s surprise, the angel chuckled with tender amusement and nuzzled the demon’s cheek. The intimacy of it still hurt, but not as much as before. Because Zariah didn’t push him away. Didn’t smite him. Instead, he wiped away more tears and offered him a genuine smile.

“Thank you,” he mouthed and caressed Aziraphale’s face. Crowley hummed and pulled Aziraphale closer into his arms once again. Too tired to protest, Aziraphale gave in and leaned his head against Crowley’s chest, just underneath the other angel’s chin. It felt good, to be held, to listen to the demon’s thundering heartbeat, to nuzzle his face into Zariah’s ascot.

Whatever energy had fuelled his divine outburst, it evaporated fast. Aziraphale’s mind turned drowsy with every laboured breath he took. He was still trembling, his heart still jumping and stuttering with  shock.

“Can’t wait to write that very official, formal complaint to the Host. It’ll be a paperwork nightmare for those demons. They’ll be filling out forms for the next decade at least,” the other angel grumbled. Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale joined his laughter about the ridiculousness of this statement and Zariah’s serious tone.

The other two moved, and Aziraphale was sure that Crowley kissed his angel again, but his mind slipped away quickly now, not a smidge of energy left in his body.

Chapter Text

Whatever state Aziraphale fell into – a coma or just a very deep, dreamless sleep – it held him in its grasp for a long while. When he finally woke, his sense of smell returned first. Something flowery and distinguishable sweet wafted into the air, together with something painfully familiar. Second, his sense for touch came back. He found himself huddled in softness, a big, warm blanket was draped around his corporation. A rustle next to him signalled him that his hearing was returning as well. A tired noise slipped his mouth, and his head started throbbing on cue, reminding him of the countless hangovers he had endured during the last days on his side of reality.

Another rustle, then the squeak of floorboards.

Aziraphale groaned, slowly regaining feeling in his corporation. His fingertips and toes tickled, his muscles straining as he took in deeper breaths of that comforting scent around him.

“Aziraphale?”

He flinched and opened his eyes, bright daylight blinding him for a moment. He groaned and pressed a hand on his forehead, the headache pushing nails into his wretched skull. He moved again, turning his gaze away from the light and spotted a blurred figure just next to the bed. He blinked frantically, golden eyes and a pale, freckled face coming into focus.

“Hello.” Aziraphale muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut under the flaring headache, “Am I dead?”

A small chuckle, another rustle and slender fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s left hand, causing a minor heart attack as it felt.

“Not yet, angel.” Crowley said quietly, caressing his knuckles. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to panic about. 

“It feels like I’ve been ran over by a carriage. My head is killing me.”

The demon chuckled.

“Well, it’s been a Hell of a powertrip you went through, eh?”

“I’m certain that this is not how you use the word ‘powertrip’,” Aziraphale complained, his free arm thrown over his throbbing eyes. Crowley only snickered louder.

“Is Zariah alright?”

“Who?”

“My doppelganger!”

Now the demon laughed in earnest, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand.

“M’just messing with you. He’s fine.”

Aziraphale huffed, exasperated.

“Any more demon encounters?” he asked instead of addressing Crowley’s shenanigans.

“No. It’s been quiet ever since you passed out. You missed New Year’s Eve, by the way. Happy new year.”

“Oh dear, I’ve been unavailable for a week?”

“Yep.”

“Good grief.”

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Cocoa? A glass of my strongest whisky?”

“Water is just fine. I feel like a dried mango.”

Crowley chuckled again, bent down and pressed a kiss on the back of Aziraphale’s hand before getting up. Good thing he was in the horizontal already, otherwise Aziraphale had collapsed right now. So this had happened, too. Goodness gracious. Oh Lord. No way he could unpack that right now. If ever.

This wasn’t something serious, now was it? It happened in the heat of the moment, right? It didn’t mean anything! With a small gasp, he pressed his hand on his mouth, the memory of lips on lips vivid as if it happened just now, staring up at the ceiling.

And in this moment, he noticed the unfamiliar environment. And froze. This wasn’t his bedroom on the second floor. His bedroom didn’t have a blasted chandelier. Or flower-patterned wallpapers. Or grey duvet covers. His bed wasn’t half as soft as this one. And it definitely didn’t smell like Crowley.

Heat exploded on his face when he sat up way too quickly. He dared to look around the room, the massive wardrobe, the pile of books on one of the night stands, the small coat rag on the opposite wall where an assortment of ties, ascots and bowties hung neatly. To the double door that just opened, Crowley returning with Zariah on his heels. Oh God, it was their bedroom.

“Oh, I see there’s a bit life left in you, after all,” the demon drawled, like it was the most normal thing to have a stranger in their bed. He pushed a big glass of water into Aziraphale’s hands, and took a seat on the mattress next to him.

“Th-Thank you,” Aziraphale stammered and drank up the whole glass in one go. The cool liquid returned life into the rest of his body, and he exhaled wholeheartedly. He couldn’t look at Crowley. Neither at Zariah. It all felt so weird. Out of a dream? Had it even happened? He swallowed and clasped the glass between his hands.

Zariah pulled himself a stool.

“If you don’t mind the question – how did you do that?  You really put on a spectacle,” he asked and propped his elbows onto the edge of the bed.

Aziraphale stilled. Power that had only simmered weakly in his core for months, now swirled and flared within his body like an overcharged battery. It spread from his chest to his hands, his toes, up to the tips of his blond curls. Physical proof of his power returning so violently. Surprised by the intensity of it, he pressed a hand on his sternum.

“I-I have no idea. It just happened. I didn’t know that I could still summon my powers like that.”

It was hard to concentrate when two pairs of eyes laid on him like this. And Crowley, sitting just right next to him, close enough that Aziraphale could feel the warmth the demon radiated. On their bed. His hands connected and he squeezed his fingers as he cleared his throat, heart drumming in his chest.

“Well, none of us did,” Zariah spoke into the stretching silence. He looked different. Aziraphale couldn’t put a finger on it. He wore the same combination of a pressed blue shirt, brown waistcoat and tartan ascot as always. His hair curled the same way. Aziraphale didn’t look at him long enough to figure it out, heat pushing into his face as he clasped his fingers again.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asked as his gaze landed on Aziraphale’s white-knuckled hands.

“Fine. Just a bit woozy, really. I have never slept so long in my whole existence.”

“Oh, and how’re you coping with the fact that you survived a Hellfire attack?” the demon pressed further, sulphur eyes a tad too alert for Aziraphale’s comfort. For a second, he was back outside the shop, putting himself between Zariah and blazing death. A shiver went down his spine.

“I felt it,” he whispered slowly, gooseflesh covering his arms at the thought of fire against his wings, “Its all-consuming hunger for divinity. And still, it couldn’t reach me.”

For a heartbeat, none of them spoke, the memory too fresh. Aziraphale flinched when a warm, well-manicured hand covered his.

“And I’m glad that it didn’t.”

Zariah’s voice trembled slightly. His blue eyes grew deep, and the point where he touched pulsated oddly. Nothing like a electric shock, not sharp. More like ocean waves meeting the beach, energy softly lapping between them like two different yet similar tides. The angel’s pupils grew wide for a second and he let go immediately, blinking and rubbing his palm. Zariah stood, clearing his throat.

“How do you feel about a nice cup of tea?” he asked, his gaze still lingering on Aziraphale with an intensity that made him all squirmy.

“Y-Yes. That would be lovely.”

Zariah’s eyes landed on Crowley, fixing the demon as if he were able to explain whatever just happened.

“Coffee for you, darling?” the angel finally asked, fiddling with the gold chain of his pocket watch.

“Yeah.”

Zariah nodded sternly, then turned away, leaving an heir of uncertainty in his wake.

“I- uhm- ahem- I think I need a moment,” Aziraphale muttered, too agitated to stay seated in their bloody bed for one more second. The sudden urge for a long shower to get his head straight pushed him on his feet.

“I’ll be back down in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!” he informed the demon, before hasting up the spiral staircase.

~*~

“Right. Let’s get started.”

St. James’ Park was deserted this early in the morning, except for three figures on the waterfront, only illuminated by the streetlamp above their heads. It had been awkward three days. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to sleep a second, the events catching up in his head. The more he thought about the fact that Crowley had kissed him, the more nervous he got. Because this must have been a one-time, heat-of-the-moment thing, right? The demon didn’t make any attempts towards him, only his gaze lingering too much on the angel.

Even worse, Zariah had started to act as reluctant as Aziraphale. No matter how often he twisted and turned it in his mind, Aziraphale just couldn’t make sense of that strange feeling of connection that had taken place between them. It did complicated things to his chest. The most confusing part about it was that it hadn’t been a bad feeling at all. At least for Aziraphale.

Right now, Zariah sent him another of those reluctant glances as Aziraphale stood right next to a sign, breath turning to fog as he exhaled.

Think about the task at hand, old chap.

Crowley gave him a reassuring nod, his usual slim silhouette disturbed by a massive black scarf around his neck. The demon held onto Zariah’s hand, squeezing it gently. Aziraphale looked away.

“Alright,” he muttered. Couldn’t be that hard, now could it? He had miracled a bag of frozen peas into existence a thousand times. He could do it again. This was safer than trying anything inside the bookshop, if something went pear-shaped. If something happened at all. This was fine.

He inhaled deeply, his left hand hovering, palm up. As he exhaled he grasped upwards into the air, manifesting the green legumes in all of their glory, and pulled. His palm stayed empty. Well. The familiar string of power was still missing. So how did he do it?

Readjusting his stance, he cleared his throat and tried again. Nothing. Still no string. No power flaring. But he could feel it. His whole core pulsated with it. But he couldn’t get a hold on it.

His eyes flicked towards the other two, watching him closely.

“It doesn’t work!”

“Maybe try differently?” Crowley suggested, snake eyes almost glowing in the gloom, “You’re not in your own universe.”

Aziraphale nodded and turned towards the pond once again, some of the ducks on the other side of the water raising their heads in anticipation.

Differently. Huh.

He snapped his fingers, like Crowley usually did. Nothing happened. He twirled his hand. Made a fist. Glared at his empty palm threateningly. Nothing.

“Oh well,” he sighed, defeated.

“Hey, it’s alright. You can try again tomorrow.” Crowley said, offering Aziraphale a comforting smile that made his heart flutter once again. He was about to answer when an idea struck.

“One last time,” he muttered, got back into position. He took in a deep breath, pressing a hand on his chest right where his core burned brightly – and gently pulled his hand away. The familiar feel of power surged throughout his whole corporation, and something heavy appeared on his palm. A plastic bag. With a surprised noise, he dropped it.

His mouth fell open, he pulled on his core again, and the bag reappeared in his hand, unscathed. It worked.

“Holy shit!” Crowley commented, “You did it!”

“Language!” Aziraphale complained in unison with Zariah, and their gazes met. The other angel sent him a small, amused smile, and Aziraphale returned it.

Crowley approached, took the bag in hand, weighed it.

“I mean, they’re not frozen. But they're definitely peas,” the demon praised with a wide grin. Golden irises landed on Aziraphale and stole his breath, “How’d you do it?”

“It came from within,” the angel answered and pressed a hand on his chest. Crowley’s eyes followed the movement and lingered, a genuine smile curling his lips upward. Aziraphale stifled the sudden urge to throw his arms around the demon. His miracles were back. His core rejoiced. And it was hard to keep the upwelling joy at bay. He waved again and straightened his coat, cleaned his shoes and removed the stubble on his chin. This felt good. Right. Proper. He liked being proper.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him.

“Whoa, slow, angel!”

Crowley stepped forward and held him by the waist as the world suddenly tilted.

“Oops,” Aziraphale muttered and held onto the demon’s arm for stability. His head spun as his core fluttered weirdly. That was new.

“Seems like … ah … my miracles are powered … well, I think by myself now?”

The demon guided him into a standing position again, making sure that Aziraphale was able to stay on his feet by himself before letting go.

“How curious.”

Zariah’s voice was quiet, but intrigued. Blue eyes lay on Aziraphale for a long moment, giving him a once-over before switching to Crowley’s face. Something in his expression changed, softening the crow’s feet around his eyes. He seemed to become aware of the intimacy, and quickly cleared his throat.

“Maybe we shall call it quits for today? If it drains your core, then you have to take care how many miracles you perform.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“What would you two say for a spot of breakfast? Aren’t you two starving as well?” Crowley threw in and pointed at the rising sun, casting long shadows across the park. On cue, Aziraphale’s stomach grumbled and cut the odd tension between them. Zariah chuckled, his blue eyes still on Crowley and nodded enthusiastically. The demon smiled down at his partner.

“Great! I lead the way.”

~*~

“Alright, get your coat, m’going to show you something!” Crowley said with a conspiratorially grin. Aziraphale first glanced at the demon, then at Zariah. The angel’s aquamarine eyes landed on Crowley, then understanding dawned and he nodded with a smile.

Confused, Aziraphale rose from the leather armchair and followed the demon.

“What is it that you’re up to?” he asked, confused as they climbed into the Bentley, leaving Zariah behind. Crowley only grinned and sped forward, drawing a gasp from Aziraphale.

~*~

Parked in a deserted alleyway, the demon held out a hand for Aziraphale. He stared at the delicate fingers, stretching out for him in silent invitation.

“Crowley, please tell me what—”

“No time for explanations. Just—”

He grasped Aziraphale's right hand.

“Ready?” Golden eyes sparkled in anticipation.

“For what?”

“Something new. Hold onto me very close, yes?”

Aziraphale inhaled to protest, but in this moment the demon tightened his grip and snapped. And Earth fell away.

A heartbeat later, the absolute silence and the cold vacuum of space embraced them. Good thing they didn’t have to breathe. Aziraphale was breathless nonetheless. Billions of stars, nebulae and colours rolled out before them in endless patterns. They had been here, in another world, in another universe, when time itself began. When two you angels met for the first time.

“Oh, how marvellous. I forgot how beautiful it was out here,” he gasped, ignoring that it wasn’t possible to speak. But the demon understood him, nonetheless.

“Yeah, it is.”

The demon held onto Aziraphale’s hand as wings black as night unfurled and stretched impossibly wide. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare at the gorgeous creature before him, eyes closed and relaxing under the shift of obsidian feathers. Instead of reflecting, the dark quills greedily absorbed every bit of starlight.

A zing of grief shot through Aziraphale at the sight. About the demon that would never be  able to stretch his wings under the light of his own creation. Oh, how he missed him, even with another version of Crowley holding his hand tightly so they wouldn’t drift apart.

Following an instinct, Aziraphale grasped inside and allowed his own wings to spread as well, the crème white feathers catching the starlight in iridescent patterns. He hummed quietly as his corporation rejoiced.

“Feels good, eh?” Crowley chuckled and let go of Aziraphale, flapping his wings to readjust his position, seeking the vastness with shimmering eyes. Before the angel could reply, Crowley made a triumphant noise and waved his hand with another miracle.

Like paper slowly dissolving under water, something akin to a rip appeared just before them, straining on the vacuum around it, warping the edges of the stars around the edges. Crowley turned towards Aziraphale and gestured with a wave to come closer. Curious, Aziraphale did as he’d been told.

First, he could only make out blurred ripples of green and brown and yellow, expanding from a palm-sized rift to the size of a whole bookshelf. But like a lake stilling, the surface of the opening flattened and a scene unfurled. Through the window, he could make out luscious trees, soft green grass and hundreds of white blossoms covering the ground.

“What is that?” Aziraphale whispered, the landscape vaguely familiar.

“A window.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when you disappear?”

The demon’s lips curled.

“Yep.”

“How do you know how to find them? This isn’t right next door, now is it?”

“Well, I can sense them, sort of. It’s like a string pulling taught all of a sudden and it’s itching me every time to find the windows. It’s hard to withstand.”

“So those are the openings to other universes?”

“Yep.”

“Are they always in space?”

“Hah. No. Remember, the one I pulled you through opened in the middle of the bookshop. Knocked over the hideous horse figurine.”

Aziraphale stiffened.

“So…you saw me sitting in the Bentley?”

“I did.” Crowley said, voice suddenly low and pained. They fell silent. Crowley shifted uncomfortably, his wings brushing Aziraphale’s.

“Remember when I hinted that no universe is like the other?”

“Mhm.”

“Some – very few – of them showed me dark places. Worlds where we haven’t always been friends. Universes where it took us literal millennia until we learned to – fraternise. Sometimes we needed time until the very end.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Oh dear.

“But!” Crowley continued, his wing now pushing gently against Aziraphale’s, “We always find each other, eventually.”

The thought had something calming. Something akin to hope dared to flutter cautiously within his chest, and it originated from the warm feathers lingering on his own.

Crowley's focus shifted. He glanced at Aziraphale with an excited grin and pointed at a figure emerging to their right. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

He saw himself, wings outstretched to their full size, dressed in a rudimentary white robe, white hair and feathers ruffling in the mild breeze caressing the clearing.

The angel hummed to himself as the ran a hand over a massive monstera leaf, smiling gently.

"You’re doing great. Growing so big and strong,” he praised the plant, which perked up immediately.  

“Oooh, I haven’t seen us in Eden for a long time!” Crowley grinned and leaned closer, full of curiosity.

“Can’t he hear us?” Aziraphale gasped in a hushed voice.

“Nah. It’s a window, not a rift.”

“Does what you say make sense to you?”

The demon grinned without answering, winked at him before returning to the unfolding scene.

With a rustle, another angel stumbled on the clearing through a hedge of bushes. Both present Aziraphale and Crowley made a surprised sound at the sight. The new angel’s white wings were over and over saturated with twigs, vines and leaves. His once pristine, gold-threaded robe was unravelling at the seams, stained with mud and grass. Long, flaming red curls fell across his back, miraculously clean and luscious.

A wide, boyish grin split his angular face open as he came to a halt next to Aziraphale.

“‘ngel!” he panted, dark brown eyes fixed on the other Aziraphale. The poor angel startled at the intrusion. His brows climbed up his forehead as he gave the angel that wasn’t quite Crowley a once-over.

“Good Lord, Kokabiel! What has brought you to that state?!”

Next to the present Aziraphale, Crowley tilted his head.

“Now that’s something new,” he muttered and eyed this very different version of himself. Aziraphale expected repulsion or anger, but Crowley looked just – curious.

Back in the Garden, the dishevelled angel vibrated with suppressed energy.

“Look what I found!” he yapped, hazel eyes full of joy.

He held up his hand with a flourish. A minuscule, green snake with brown dots wrapped around his wrist, its head resting on his palm. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and he took a step away.

“What if it’s a demon in disguise?”

The angel Kokabiel blinked. Almost comically, the snake raised its head, looked at him and then at Aziraphale. If it had shoulders, it would have shrugged.

“Does she look like a wily Serpent to you?” Kokabiel asked incredulously, holding the snake to his chest in a defensive gesture. The other angel scrutinised the reptile for a second, then he sighed.

“No, not really,” he admitted in defeat and gave Kokabiel another of those looks, “Really, my dear. Your wings will take hours to preen. And look at the state of your robe. You’ll have to use a major miracle to clean it thoroughly. What if Gabriel comes down here and finds you like that?”

Kokabiel snorted and flapped his wings, sending leaves and twigs everywhere.

“Pfft. I don’t care. Have had a stick shoved up my arse for long enough. We’re here to have fun!”

“Kokabiel, we’re here to guard the Garden from evil, not play with the frogs! You are my superior, you of all angels should know!” Aziraphale muttered and crossed his arms as he strode away into the woods.

“Nobody said I can’t play with frogs and simultaneously guard the Garden. Also, she’s a snake! Not a bloody boring frog! Oi! Wait for me!”

Kokabiel grinned, gave the snake a boop on the nose and set it free on a branch.

“Don’t listen to that stuffy angel, you are a very wily Serpent!” he reassured the reptile before he followed Aziraphale into the greenery.

Crowley waved his hand and the picture vanished. An amused grin had settled on his face, something Aziraphale had never witnessed when the topic of his former angel identity came up.

“You don’t seem upset to see that version of yourself,” Aziraphale pointed out and studied the demon’s face intensely. Crowley shrugged, his golden eyes landing on him, amused.

“Should I?

Aziraphale blinked, then his brows knitted together.

“My Crowley hated when someone even dared to think about his former identity.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I assume he never – got over it.”

Crowley seemed to think about this, his wings floating lazily through the vacuum. He looked at the stars, as if they held all the answers. Maybe they did. He pushed his jaw forward before speaking.  

“T’wasn’t easy for me, too. Falling changes you, rapidly. Memories burn or become too holy to revisit. It’s easy to forget who you were if you can’t remember. For a time, t’hurts less to push away the trauma of Falling – s’much easier than to face it. But, you know – suppressing isn’t processing. And then it’ll come back to you to bite you in the arse, sooner or later.”

Aziraphale stared at him, at this so familiar profile. Struck by the realisation that this was truly not the Crowley he spent six thousand years with. He might look similar, had that same snarky laughter and the same deep, golden eyes – but his Crowley would’ve never opened up to him like that. Would’ve never told him. Would never smile about that old version of himself. He would have distracted from the topic, or deflect, or snap and leave the conversation, only returning after months of sulking.

“How did you get over the trauma?”

The demon’s cheek twitched and he shrugged.

“Never said that I have. S’never going away. The edges just don’t cut that deep anymore.” His wings shifted and for a moment, his gaze travelled far away into the stars, silence stretching. But then Crowley spoke once again.

“There are parts of me … missing. And I’ll never get them back. Maybe it’s good that I lost them. Maybe they needed to break away from Kokabiel so I could become my true self. He wasn’t evil, or ill-minded – unlike Shax or Hastur. But he’s been ignorant. And self-absorbed. Too proud of his way. Too sure about his abilities. I bet I would’ve become a rather crappy Archangel if I haven’t Fallen.”

Aziraphale’s throat constricted somewhat painful and he took Crowley’s hand again. Molten gold landed on him and he swallowed.

“Or he would’ve become like the angel we just saw.”

The demon raised an amused brow and sent Aziraphale a gentle smile that turned his stomach upside down. His eyes landed on their entwined hands. Aziraphale could literally watch an idea spark behind the demon’s forehead by the way his smile shifted.

“Do you dance, angel?”

Stunned about the violent change of topic, Aziraphale gaped.

“D-Dance? But—"

Crowley chuckled, guided Aziraphale’s hand to his shoulder instead and slipped an arm around his waist. Before Aziraphale got the chance to react or complain, the demon flapped his wings again, turning them in a circle that resembled a vague pirouette.

“No ‘but’s. You can’t step on my feet anyway,” he grinned and flapped his wings again, moving them to a silent melody.

“You’re being silly.”

Crowley laughed in earnest now, and Aziraphale held onto his slim shoulder as they turned faster. And he definitely didn’t acknowledge how their bodies pressed against another, how snug that slender arm wrapped around his middle, how close their faces were. And of course, he didn’t waste a thought about the occasional brush of wings. Not at all. It was probably a good thing he couldn’t breathe.

Concentrate on the stars. On their beauty. Not on the being that hung them there in the first place.

Slowly, his frantic heartbeat slowed, as did their movements. He couldn’t deny that this was nice. That he liked being held and swayed around. How good it felt to be his full self with his wings unfurled. How effortlessly the feathers glided through space.

But Aziraphale's composure was short-lived. Because why should he get a break? The demolition of his composure came in form of a delicate-knuckled hand, wandering from his waist, across his arm and to the side of his collar, thumb lingering on his jaw. His stomach plummeted as their eyes met.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale warned, but he was unable to pull away, “I’m not- you’re not. We’re—“

The shimmer in those beloved golden eyes dimmed, but Crowley didn’t let go either. He frowned instead, thumb caressing Aziraphale’s face.

“You said you loved me.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard.

“I do.”

It was the truth. No point in denying it. But it didn’t give him any right to allow this. It was selfish. It was wrong. Crowley belonged to Zariah, the angel that waited for them to return, huddled in a blanket on his favourite reading chair.

And there are the tears again.

“How couldn’t I? I know you’re not the demon from my universe. But … that doesn’t change that we’re … I mustn’t—“

The worst part of it was that he would never not be able to love Crowley. It was a truth engraved into the fabric of every universe. But this wasn’t his place. Zariah should be here, dancing with Crowley among the stars, not him.

I want to love you. I want it so badly. But you’re already loved by another version of myself.

“He should be here. Not me.”

The demon’s eyes turned dark and sad. But he didn’t let go of Aziraphale.

“I know. But he can’t,” he whispered slowly and bit his lip, a frown knitting his eyebrows together.

“What do you mean?”

Something wounded flashed the demon’s eyes, deepening the lines on his face.

“I can’t tell you, if he didn’t.”

Crowley’s voice was low and shaky, and he avoided Aziraphale’s gaze. The demon clenched his jaw, running his eyes all over Aziraphale, everywhere but his eyes.

What is it? The angel wanted to yell, but he didn’t. Whatever it was, whatever happened, it hurt the demon greatly.

His heart threatened to leave his body when Crowley suddenly tipped forward and leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, eyes squeezed shut. The angel gaped helplessly at the proximity. Oh, how much he wished that this was his Crowley. That whatever this promised to turn into, could belong to himself, not Zariah. What a cruel thought. He wanted this to be his demon. But also, he yearned for the trembling being that cupped his face with both hands now.

“Aziraphale, I…” he croaked timidly, his thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

Aziraphale locked his jaw and grid his teeth, incapable to pull away, the tenderness of the gesture ripping his heart apart. God, how much he wanted. The were so close. Mouths only inches away. The bridges of their noses brushing. It would only take a small movement. Just a tiny bit closer and-

Aziraphale bit his lower lip, hard, pressing their foreheads together. His hands itched to reach out, to lay on that slender waist, or his chest, or wrap around those delicate wrists. Instead, he balled them into fists by his sides.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered so quietly it was almost incomprehensible, his wings enclosing them, “What if I … what if you … I mean … ngk …”

“That goes too far.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Crowley. I’m not him.”

The demon shivered, his wings closing in, cupping Aziraphale’s.

“I know.”

“Then let’s go back. You could—”

“But I want to kiss you.”

Aziraphale was glad for the vacuum around them, because otherwise the demon would’ve witnessed his breath stuttering. Assuming it was different than having it said out loud. 

I want to kiss you too. God, I want to. You have no idea.

Without a warning, anger exploded beneath his breastbone and he shoved the demon away.

“But I’m not him! It’s not my place! And you should respect that! Respect him! You shouldn’t fondle with me when you could be with him!”

Crowley looked like Aziraphale had violently slapped him across the face, eyes blown golden, cheeks pale. The demon set his jaw, hurt.

“You really think this isn’t bloody confusing for me as well?”

“I never said that it wasn’t! I’m saying that your angel is sitting down there, waiting for us to return, and I won’t do anything behind his back! Not even if I wanted to! It’s not. My. Place!”

Crowley looked like he was about to say more, but Aziraphale turned away, tears pooling in his eyes, and fled this dreadful situation before he could do something thoroughly stupid.