Chapter Text
It took God six days to create the Heavens and the Earth, and a fiddly seventh to do the whole Blessing thing. In Crowley's opinion, six days was enough time to get just about anything done if one was really, really motivated to do it, it's just that most people - and occasionally demons, in his case - sometimes lacked motivation. As Crowley swaggered out of A.Z. Fell & Co. after six solid days of shagging its angelic proprietor in its newly miracled bedroom, Crowley thought that while six days was certainly enough time to get anything done - and in this case, that was loads of shagging - sometimes six days wasn't enough. Not after roughly six-thousand years of hopeful anticipation, anyway.
"You're leaving?" Aziraphale's voice carried a note of thinly veiled distress, but it was so successfully heartrending Crowley almost considered spending the next one-hundred years in Aziraphale's bed, no questions asked.
It was difficult to navigate his way out of the heaps of sheets and blankets on Aziraphale's bed, but somehow or other Crowley managed to fight his way out. He stood up and stretched his spine, earning a satisfying pop. "S'been almost a week, angel. No complaints here, obviously, but I'm pretty sure you have a bookshop to run."
Crowley extended his hand and Aziraphale took it, allowing himself to be pulled into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Oh yes, of course, I… Well, I didn't mean that we shouldn't eventually get back to it, really, I just-"
Crowley leaned over and silenced him with a soft kiss, and then pecked his forehead for good measure. When he pulled away he'd miracled his clothes back on, but Aziraphale settled for pulling the sheets around himself like a make-shift robe. Crowley eyed the crease in his brow. "You said you wanted plants, right?"
Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes in mild bewilderment. "What?"
"Plants. Said so a couple of days ago, you mentioned I should bring some plants over, brighten up the room. Remember?"
Aziraphale smiled warmly. "Quite right, of course. There's no hurry, just, ah, whenever you have time."
Crowley leveled him a look. "Angel, we've been fucking for six straight days. Maybe let's just accept that we're in a-" Crowley gestured vaguely at, well, everything, "-thingy. A relationship, ah, thing." Aziraphale's face flushed adorably. Crowley cleared his throat. "Anyway. I've got some things to take care of at the flat, is all, but I'll be back soonish."
Aziraphale audibly sighed, his hands joining together in his lap. "Oh good. Honestly, I wasn't really sure what the next step was. Glad that's sorted."
Crowley laughed through his nose and offered a hand to help Aziraphale off the bed. The angel did so, with a slight wince; Crowley's brow dipped in immediate concern.
"Are you…?"
Aziraphale waved him off. "Oh, I'm quite fine. Simply not used to having something, er, down there. And as you said, it's been six days."
"Oh. Oh, yeah." Crowley nodded understandingly. "I'd expect if you were human you wouldn't be walking at all, right now."
"No, I'd expect not." Aziraphale grinned, pulling Crowley to him by his tie to press a kiss to his cheek. "Don't… don't stay away for too long, my dear."
Crowley grinned back. "Angel, I've never been able to stay away. You know that."
And so Crowley was leaving, and he hated it. There was nothing for it, however; Crowley didn't live with Aziraphale, he had his own flat, and although there was really nothing that demanded his attention there aside from his plants, he couldn't just abandon it, either. Not until he and Aziraphale came to some sort of arrangement. Was it too early for that? Was that even something Aziraphale would want? Crowley certainly didn't know, but he also knew that fretting about living arrangements before said living arrangements had even been discussed was a bit silly. And slightly unnecessary. They'd known each other for six bloody millennia. He assumed the only thing keeping them from living together up until now had been the risk of their unlikely friendship being discovered by their respective 'sides', but sides were no longer a concern. For the moment, anyway.
At any rate, Crowley needed to tend to his plants. They hadn't been shouted at for nearly a week and he worried they were getting too comfortable.
Crowley pulled up to his building and climbed out of the Bentley in a daze. It was still hard to digest, everything that had happened days ago. He and Aziraphale, well they really did that, didn't they? Really laid it all out there and started something new. And it felt great. Crowley had loved Aziraphale for almost longer than he could recall, but he never once thought Aziraphale could feel the same way about him. It almost seemed to make more sense like that, actually, but in retrospect Crowley didn't generally go for sensible things. This felt too right to be a mistake, anyway, and as Crowley rode the lift to his floor all he could think about was how right it felt. He might've done a little skip and a kick had there been room.
As soon as Crowley pulled open his door he was off after his plants as if on a track - his plants were almost always the first thing he attended to when coming home - but he stopped cold just shy of the hallway when he sensed an extra presence in the room with him.
Crowley turned on his heel. A figure stood beside his desk, dramatically swallowed by shadow, but Crowley knew the silhouette from first glance and it took everything in him not to shout every curse word in every language on the spot.
"Michael, dude," Crowley said with an amiable grin. He poured every bit of his focus into exuding pure nonchalance, mentally scrambling to embody the role of 'demon who survived the holiest of holy water baths'. "If I'd known you were coming, I might've put the kettle on."
Michael's smile was as plastic as it always was. "Crowley," she said, her hands joined daintily at her waist, "So nice to finally meet you."
Danger. Don't falter. "Oh we've met before. Unless you've forgotten that little bath you drew for me not too long ago? Which would be rude, by the way, and I know angels don't do rude." The sarcasm was sharp as a knife.
Michael lay a hand against the back of Crowley's throne. To Crowley's discomfort, she looked entirely unbothered. A little cocky, actually. "You mean the bath that Aziraphale took for you?" she asked him idly. Crowley couldn't have been more shocked if all the angels of Heaven burst out from the dark corners of his flat wearing party hats and yelled 'surprise!' Somehow, despite the panicked screaming currently sounding off in his brain, Crowley managed a look of casual confusion. Michael seemed unbothered by that, too, and pressed on.
"I can't deny the cleverness of your little ruse, of course, but I worked it out. It was only a matter of time, really. You must have known we would figure it out eventually, yes?"
Crowley was glad demons couldn't sweat, if only because he'd hate to ruin his favorite shirt. His brain was clawing for any excuse, any rationalization, any possible 'ha! Bet you didn't think of THIS!' comeback that may exist, but nothing came. Michael was right. It had only been a matter of time, he just wished that particular amount of time had been longer. A few years, maybe, instead of just a few measly months.
And then, it hit him like a brick to the face; If Michael was here confronting him about this, who was at Aziraphale's bookshop? Who was threatening Aziraphale?
Crowley's mood changed in an instant. His fear dissolved and was quickly replaced with desperate fury, filling him up like a thick, boiling hot liquid; any sense of self-preservation he'd had moments ago when he'd been wildly plotting his escape from the flat fled from him. Crowley's wings burst from his back without even having summoned them, black, tattered feathers stretching to the ceiling to appear as intimidating as possible. Not terribly effective, considering Michael could certainly destroy Crowley without breaking a proverbial sweat - she was the archangel of war, after all - but Crowley couldn't concern himself with any of that right now. Aziraphale's safety was his top priority. The thought of Aziraphale being confronted by Gabriel or Sandalphon or any other one of those sneering angels... Those bastards had been only too happy to burn him to angelic cinders not too long ago, he could only imagine what they'd be planning for him now.
"If your lot so much as breathes on Aziraphale the wrong way," Crowley growled, his voice rough and stormy, "I promise you I'll fight until my last dying moments to take as many of you down as I can."
"Commendable, for a demon. But entirely pointless, considering we both know you're no match for me," Michael said pleasantly, though she did seem a little hesitant to come any closer. Crowley found some satisfaction in that, at least. Michael clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "An angel taking the form of a demon, and vice versa… It really is quite brilliant, if not appallingly blasphemous. It shows a creativity that many of us lack, myself included. What I lack in creativity, however, I make up for in observation. I'm rather meticulous, in fact."
Shit. Shit shit shit. What now? There was only one thing Crowley could come up with, one sorry little idea his brain managed to scrape up.
"It was my idea," Crowley spat out. This wasn't true at all, of course; it had been a largely mutual decision based on a few tipsy hours of debating what Agnes's final prophecy could possibly mean and it was Aziraphale who had connected the final dots, but Crowley couldn't let Aziraphale take the blame for this. Certain images of blazing hellfire came to mind, followed closely by images of Aziraphale walking into a funnel of flames and perishing in screams. Crowley had already Fallen. He couldn't let Aziraphale suffer, couldn't allow Aziraphale to Fall or be destroyed. "It was all me. Aziraphale didn't want to do it, any of it, but I convinced him. He didn't know you were planning to kill him, he still had faith that you were fair and not completely monstrous, but I knew my side would destroy me for what I'd done. So I made him do it. It was me."
Michael's smile was frustratingly patient. "Be that as it may," she mused, "Aziraphale still went through with it. He still deceived us all."
"And if he hadn't, you would have murdered him!" Crowley shot back, furious. "If self-defense is a sin now, I guess I'll take that one for him, too. Just..." Crowley drew a deep breath in through his nose but did not let it out again. "Just punish me, yeah?" he said, wishing he could sound a little less pleading. His voice was shamefully tight in his throat. "Leave Aziraphale out of it. You can destroy me or torture me or do whatever tickles your fancy. But leave him alone."
"Such loyalty," Michael mused. "Though, you don't have to worry about your traitorous cohort quite yet. You see, I'm the only one who knows the truth. Everyone else - both in Heaven and Hell, I'd expect - still believe your little act. I haven't informed the others."
Crowley's wings were still raised high and threateningly arched, feathers pointed at the intruder, and they did not relax even an inch at Michael's reassurance. "I don't believe you," Crowley hissed.
Michael spread her arms in a gesture of what Crowley supposed was meant to imitate goodwill. "I'm afraid it's quite true," she said gently. "I chose to investigate all on my own. I get the feeling that everyone else is still too shaken up to even consider the possibilities, but I've never been one to ignore suspicious happenings."
Crowley's panic hadn't let up an inch. "Congratulations. Have a gold star, then. You've figured it all out and now you're here to, what? Gloat?"
"Not at all," Michael answered in a mock-wounded tone. She finally stepped closer. Crowley's wings went rigid and made themselves look as sharp as possible. "Quite the contrary. I'm here to propose a deal."
.
.
.
Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch with a disapproving grimace. Crowley was late, wasn't he, which was silly really because Crowley had been the one who called and invited him here at this specific time.
"Meet me at St. James's Park in fifteen minutes. By the bench."
It was more like twenty-five minutes now, and Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive. The last he'd seen Crowley, they'd just spent the better part of six days making love and admitting to more than a few feelings, with the added promise of seeing each other again very soon. Aziraphale certainly hadn't expected to get such a strangely aloof call after all that. He'd imagined something more romantic and unexpected; hearing the bookshop door open, glancing round the corner and finding himself face-to-face with a demon who barely says hello before they're kissing, touching, and possibly spending another few days up in Aziraphale's new bedroom. Or perhaps that was a bit of wishful thinking. Aziraphale had to admit now that they'd finally taken this plunge, he found himself 'wanting'. It was six-thousand years in the making, after all.
But this… This was strange. Crowley sounded so cold on the phone, nearly irritated, nothing like the demon who had recently spent six entire days showering him with praise and devotion and care.
It was a very typical day in St. James's Park. People were strolling, jogging, walking their dogs and occasionally staring at their phones and tuning out the rest of the world. Humans had lots of reasons for coming to St. James's Park, but Aziraphale had only ever had one reason: meeting with Crowley. Crowley was all of his reasons for doing many things, Aziraphale reflected while he impatiently watched a pair of ducks having it out over a speck of bread. Crowley connected so many pieces of his life. Possibly all of them. Aziraphale suddenly felt as though he should have made mention of that, at some point during those amazing six days.
He should be feeling rather lovey-dovey, but after that phone call, all Aziraphale could feel was a cold nervousness settling like a sickness in the bottom of his stomach.
"Hey," came a flat voice from behind, and Aziraphale started, turning to find Crowley standing with his hands jammed in his pockets and a sullen look on his face. Aziraphale realized he must have been rather absorbed in his haphazard thoughts not to have noticed Crowley's presence.
"Crowley," Aziraphale exhaled a breath and came nearer in concern; Crowley took a half-step back. Aziraphale froze. "Crowley, what's wrong? Why have you called me out here?"
Crowley glanced away. He sucked his lips into his mouth, he shuffled his feet. "Look, there's no easy way to say this," Crowley said. Aziraphale watched him, still frozen. Crowley's shoulders shrugged up. "I'm leaving London."
Aziraphale fell silent for a long moment. He was stuck somewhere between 'Pardon me?', 'I see' and 'What in Hell's name are you talking about?' but none of them made it past the rock that had begun to form in his throat. He couldn't begin to fathom what had prompted this, but he knew this was so un-Crowley that it nearly felt like he was speaking to someone else altogether. Which wouldn't be impossible, of course, except this was Crowley, Aziraphale was certain of it.
"I- Wh- Why?" Aziraphale finally forced out. "Has something happened?" Aside from the obvious, he thought, but the idea of Crowley leaving because of their new relationship shift hurt him so deeply and profoundly that he refused to consider it.
"Look," Crowley began, but it looked as though he, too, was struggling to find words, "I'm done with London. Time to move on. I'm bored, angel."
"Bored?" Aziraphale repeated the word as though it were offensive. "Of London? But you love it here!"
"I don't- I don't." Crowley's hands were still deep in his pockets, and only now did Aziraphale realize they were balled into tight fists. "I called you here to tell you, not to debate it. I'm leaving tonight. Just thought I'd say toodle-oo. I owe you that much."
So many thoughts and emotions were bouncing off each other in Aziraphale's consciousness he wasn't sure which way was up. What was this? Why was Crowley saying these things now, right after…?
"Well, I'll go with you, then." Aziraphale blurted out with a hopeful smile. He meant it, of course, but he hadn't exactly meant to say it. Crowley's head turned his way so fast it was as if he'd been slapped, staring at Aziraphale with a flicker of - was that fondness? No, it was sadness. For a split second, Aziraphale could almost feel Crowley's despair as if it were something tangible that he could reach out and touch. It was gone just as quickly, but Aziraphale pressed on, getting just a little bit desperate to put an end to this, whatever it was.
"I could close the bookshop for a while. We can go wherever you like. It'll be like we're on holiday!"
Crowley took another step back. Aziraphale's smile faded.
"It was a mistake," Crowley said firmly. "We took it too far. I- I took it too far. It's time to say goodbye."
Every single thought in Aziraphale's head screamed this can't be real all at once. Crowley would never say this. He would never- Especially after-
"But…" Aziraphale paused to keep his voice from wobbling. "But you said-"
"Demons lie, remember?" Crowley snapped. "It's what we do."
Aziraphale's heart sank and he felt tears prick behind his eyes. He'd said that in jest, it was part of their playful banter… Had Crowley thought he meant it? Had he taken it as a slight against his character?
"Crowley-"
"That's all, angel. I didn't want it to end this way, but, well. All things end, anyway." Crowley cleared his throat. He couldn't look at Aziraphale at all. "Goodbye."
Aziraphale had never once known the feeling of being 'sick to your stomach' until today, but right now that's all he could feel. Sick. In the stomach, in the head, in the heart, in the soul, everywhere. It was like the world was ending all over again. As Crowley turned to walk away, Aziraphale's stuttering mind grabbed the first stray inquiry it could find.
"Your plants," he choked out. Crowley stopped but did not turn around. "You cared about them, at least? You must have. What will become of them…?"
"They'll rot," Crowley answered him icily. His voice sounded rough. "Water them if you like, makes no difference to me."
And he walked away. Just like that.
Never in their six-thousand year association had either of them ever said goodbye with such finality, such harsh nonchalance. As Aziraphale watched Crowley's retreating back, he wanted to run after him, wanted to stop him and beg him to tell him what was really going on. But he didn't.
All he could think about was how much everything hurt.