Archive of Our Own

It’s his own bloody fault, isn’t it? Crowley is, if anything, more annoyed with himself than with any of the angels currently present in Heaven’s Courtroom Number 3. 

For one, he shouldn’t have hung around the bookshop anymore. Bloody embassy of Heaven, of course a demon like him wouldn’t be safe there. Not anymore. Not with Aziraphale no longer on Earth. 

But most importantly, he shouldn’t have kissed Aziraphale. For a myriad of reasons he doesn’t want to closely examine. The point is, he shouldn’t have kissed him, especially not with angels right outside. Angels just one neck crick away from spying into the windows. Which, of course, they did. Peeping Metatron. 

He squirms against the holy shackles that bind his hands together in his lap. They’re not painful – it’s more akin to the itching a human would feel after three weeks of hopping around in the same smelly leg cast. At least Hell’s straightforward about their means of torture. This is just annoying, is what it is. Crowley hisses softly.

One small mercy he’s received since his capture by the celestial coppers, is that he could choose his own outfit. So he has decided to dress the part. Black and extremely tight leather trousers adorned with silver zippers. A perfectly fitting corset with a dark, striped pattern and a sleeved jacket lined with shiny, silver buttons. He looks like a genderfuck biker version of Casanova. Because isn’t that what they’re trying to pin on him? 

Tempting an angel. 

He’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. A more accurate accusation would be: failing to tempt an angel. 

The members of the public in the room – it seems all of Heaven’s angels have shown up, eager to witness this ridiculous trial – all start murmuring among each other when a door of light opens to their right, somewhere behind Crowley.  

He turns around. Another mistake. His heart can’t take this, not even after three months. It seeks a beating refuge in his throat when he sees him: Aziraphale. 

He’s dressed as a white-clothes-loving tv character version of a judge, because yes, Crowley realises, of bloody course he would be, wouldn’t he? 

For one thing, Aziraphale absolutely adores dressing up. Of course he would go for the whole robes and wig situation. In Heaven’s colours. He’s just — Aziraphale.

However Crowley might try, he can’t help the feeling of – fucking Heaven, is that fondness, blooming in his chest? Crowley sighs. It is, yeah. If he has to stand trial, then at least — at least he can confess to himself: he still wants this complete buffoon.  

And anyway, it is so typical of Heaven to have the Supreme Archangel and Commander of the Host also be its resident Judge Judy as well as the “victim”. This lot hasn’t ever heard of the separation of Church and State. And conflict of interest? Never knew her. 

When Aziraphale catches his eye, the angel’s smile falters. That’s when Crowley realises the other angels haven’t exactly warned him of the nature of this trial, nor its defendant. 

It’s only a few seconds, but Crowley needs to double check if he hasn’t accidentally stopped time again, because their eye contact seems to last forever. Impossible, of course — he couldn’t have stopped time, since these itchy shackles have curbed his powers. 

So, yes. It ends. Aziraphale unhooks his gaze from Crowley’s like he’s climbing a mountainside and hacking at anything at all to stop from falling, and walks up to the Metatron. 

Or, in this case: the prosecutor. 

Crowley’s eyes follow Aziraphale like he’s a creepy painting, but he can’t help it. Satan, no, God, no, somebody help him. He’s just as inconveniently smitten as he was three months ago, which decidedly won’t help his case here. He needs to stamp that down, paint over it with a new coating. He needs to bloody Mona Lisa this thing. 

So he smiles mildly – or what he hopes is mildly and mysteriously – as he watches Aziraphale exchange a few whispered, heated words with the Metatron. If he could, if he still had access to his powers, he’d make his shoulder-length hair grow longer to complete the Mona look. Or Lisa look. Whatever her first name was.

Aziraphale straightens, nods politely at the public and the jury – which somehow only consists of Michael, Sandalphon, Uriel and Saraqael – and climbs up the little step to the bench and sits in his seat. It’s situated opposite Crowley, with the ‘well’ — just the Metatron behind a table, really — positioned between them. 

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, with a blank look, a solemn, professional mask — which the demon does a brave job at attempting to return. Without his sunglasses, it’s always harder to keep his true feelings from showing. But the last thing he needs to project right now is an embarrassing, incriminating amount of yearning. 

“All rise,” Aziraphale says, using a small hammer which Crowley is certain he enjoys wielding a little too much. Awkward situation or not, the angel’s probably quite determined to make the most of his starring role in a trial. 

They rise, and the way Aziraphale is looking up and down Crowley’s outfit will definitely not help his case. 

When they’re all seated again, Aziraphale frowns. “I can see that you, the Metatron, are acting as prosecutor. But who will be acting in, errr, the demon Anthony J. Crowley’s defence?”

The Metatron clears his throat. “If I may, your Honour?” He plays the part perfectly, approaching the bench. “Since the defendant is extremely evil, no angel has felt a divine calling to take up his defence, not wanting to insult you. Perhaps the demon Crowley himself can…”

“I’ll do it,” a voice emerges from the crowd. “I’ll defend Anthony J. Crowley.”

Crowley swallows heavily. “Jesus.”

The guard angel on his right – very different from a guardian angel, by the way – prods him in the side with an elbow. “Shut your filthy demon mouth.”

Crowley shoots the brute a look. 

“Calm down, you halfway-stuck Hulk of an angel. That’s literally Jesus.”

The crowd splits as Jesus comes forward. He – or Crowley supposes, she has changed a lot since they knew each other back in Galilee and on their travels around the kingdoms of the world. Jesus is choosing to present female, now, with long, wild hair and a pristine business suit, the kind a woman would wear to a boardroom meeting with only old white men in it. Or most likely, to fire a number of them. 

She looks great. 

Crowley remembers to close his mouth. He’s frankly surprised to see Jesus step up like this. Doesn’t she remember the way he — there’s no spinning this nicely: the way he tempted Judas? Sure, it was his job, and he had a permit from God, technically. But still. It wasn’t pretty. The way they left things. 

“Jesus, respectfully,” the Metatron says, and that’s how Crowley knows it’s not going to be respectful at all. “I wouldn’t dare question your objectivity, but I must point out the defendant’s very name…”

Crowley sucks in a breath and quickly glances over to Aziraphale.

“The J, surely everyone in this room knows this,” the Metatron continues, and that’s how Crowley knows that Aziraphale did not, in fact, know this. “It stands for Jesus, his ex–…”

“Objection!” Crowley’s up on his feet again before he knows it. Whether it’s his job or place to yell such a thing, or if it’s merely a television thing to do, he couldn’t care less. He bloody objects, is the thing.

All eyes are on him, now. His guard angel’s already pulling his shackles, making him wince with how much he wants to scratch that itch. 

“This is bollocks,” Crowley says. “Respectfully. The J stands for…” He needs to think quickly. “Jemima.”

“Silence, demon,” the Metatron booms. “You will only speak when it’s your final statement and not a minute s—”

Aziraphale uses his little hammer, which, Crowley only now notices, has pink glitter on it. 

“Order, order!” Aziraphale commands. 

Crowley has to admit, it’s kind of hot. And he’s really not wearing the right trousers for those kinds of thoughts. That sort of demonstration would not be very helpful to his case. He sits back down.

“If, well, if Jesus wants to…” Aziraphale starts, tearing his eyes away from Crowley. “Who am I to judge? Wrong phrasing. I mean, uh, she can defend Cro– the demon Crowley. By the way, what exactly is it he stands accused of?”

The silence that follows is pregnant with a mixture of awkwardness and gleeful anticipation, mostly from the angels in the gallery, who are only one trip to Earth away from discovering what popcorn is. 

The Metatron speaks up. With a flair for the dramatic – who would’ve thought – the man points at Crowley. “J’accuse!” 

Crowley concentrates on Aziraphale only. Needs to see every movement on Aziraphale’s face like he’s a scientist analysing a radar for Earthquake indicators. 

“Demon Crowley,” the Metatron pronounces each word like a bullet, “you are charged with the willful and demonic temptation of the Supreme Archangel.”

As if they didn’t already know, the public in the gallery gasps.

Aziraphale doesn’t. 

Crowley instead watches a magnitude 7.8 shift happening on his face, in the fraction of the second it takes for him to recover. There’s shock, recognition, disbelief, longing, but worst of all – the one that knocks the breath out of Crowley’s lungs – there is a hastily covered up, but undeniable, doubt.  

Crowley looks down at the table in front of him to keep from reacting. Surely Aziraphale would never actually believe their relationship was all part of a demonic temptation?

“I see,” he hears Aziraphale say. There’s a degree of uncertainty in his voice, perhaps, but no longer as he continues: “Let’s start the trial, then. I trust we, I mean, you have, uh, witnesses?”

There’s a spot at the table next to the Metatron for the solicitor, but Jesus chooses to take a seat next to Crowley, on the other side than his guard angel. 

Idiot that he is, he barely dares to look at her. Is this where he — where he acts thankful? That would do both of them a disservice. He’s just Crowleying and she’s just Jesussing and they both know it. Doomed and blessed, always on different sides of the coin of bloody celestial forgiveness. 

He doesn’t need any more forgiveness. No.

“If I may,” the Metatron says, and doesn’t wait for permission. “I will start with my opening statement.”

He clears a throat that doesn’t even need clearing. Crowley rolls his eyes. Ridiculous, all of this.

“Esteemed members of the jury, members of our celestial society and you, your Honour, Aziraphale, please listen today with open minds and hearts as I make my case against the cunning demon Crowley.”

“Oh, no need for flattery,” Crowley says.

The Metatron turns to him. “You are already shackled with Heaven’s most powerful cuffs. Do not make me gag you too.”

Ohh, Crowley is very tempted to reply to this. He’s simply bursting with it. But a meaningful look from Jesus makes him hold his tongue. He might need it for more important things than petty innuendos. 

“You will discover that the demon who calls himself Anthony J. Crowley has employed a wealth of tactics to seduce the angel Aziraphale while they were both stationed on Earth,” the Metatron proceeds. “All with the intention to make him stray from God’s righteous path, to brag about his conquest to his fellow demons in Hell, and even to make Aziraphale fall from Heaven.”

The audience members shift in their seats, distressed by the very notion. Crowley tries to measure Aziraphale’s reaction on a scale from zero to absolutely fucked. But Aziraphale has hidden most of his face behind his hands now.

“To build my case, I will call upon several witnesses, all of whom have unique insights in the dark void that is where a heart should be.” The Metatron resumes his seat.

Crowley bites his lip. Surely, Aziraphale trusts Crowley, after everything they’ve been through? Every evening they’ve spent together, every gesture made, every smile shared?

Perhaps those are the very things that look the most suspicious now. Uncertainty grips Crowley’s chest like a vice.

Really, he should be paying more attention to what’s happening, because before he knows it, he hears a familiar voice from the witness box.

“State your name, please,” Aziraphale says.

“But… you know my name, Mister Aziraphale,” says the voice, sounding even more shy than usual.

Crowley’s head immediately snaps up. It’s Muriel, and he doesn’t even know why he’s so surprised, of course Heaven would call upon their testimony. And immediately – it must be Jesus’ bloody influence – he decides to forgive them, whatever happens. They’re only a level 37 scrivener and probably easily intimidated – Crowley shoots the back of the Metatron’s head a look that would be more fitting at a murder trial. 

If he had a functional heart, he’d be worried by the way it’s acting right now, watching a very small-looking Muriel glancing his way. 

“Yes, dear, but it’s for the official record,” Aziraphale clarifies. 

In the corner, a court stenographer is taking notes, tip of her tongue slipped from her mouth. Next to her, a sketchbook artist is looking very intensely at Crowley – he decides to show him his best side. He turns his head a little, and brushes his hair out of the way to show off his long neck. 

“Oh, I see! I am Muriel, former scrivener and current bookshop minder, the one that you, uh, that Judge slash Supreme Archangel Mister Aziraphale used to work and live in, in Soho, the United Kingdom, Europe-ish, Earth, the Universe.” 

“Well done, Muriel. That’ll do, dear,” Aziraphale says, not without fondness in his voice, Crowley notices. It fills him with warmth. Aziraphale really did become so protective of Muriel in the short time they were all hanging out. He truly is the only angel worth knowing. 

Oh, he’s a living, breathing, bloody heart-eye emoji aimed at Aziraphale, isn’t he. Damn it all to Heaven. 

“Mr… The Metatron, you… ah… have the floor?” Aziraphale looks a bit uncertain of his word choice, but the Metatron stands up and straightens his old grey suit. He takes a few steps forward, then snaps his fingers at a large projection screen behind Aziraphale.

On it, a picture of the inside of Aziraphale’s bookshop appears. To be more precise, it’s the exact spot where they locked lips. Except, here it’s presented like a crime scene. There’s even white-on-white police tape. 

Crowley feels the memories flood back at the sight of it. Their first and last kiss. He had imagined it quite differently, perhaps after a romantic dinner at the Ritz, perhaps in the heat of the moment after a heartfelt, not stumbled-over, non-botched confession of his feelings. However, one thing cannot be denied, one thing he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about: Aziraphale’s hand on his back, sliding up, pulling him closer. 

Aziraphale, who had turned around to look at the picture, snaps back immediately, guiltily, at the sight of his shop. He fumbles for his glitter hammer, but there’s no order to be called for, so his hand stills awkwardly on top of it. 

“Do you recognise this place?” The Metatron asks Muriel. 

“Yes, it’s Mister Aziraphale’s – I mean, it’s my bookshop.”

“And do you remember what happened exactly 100 days ago? Can you describe to us, the respected members of the court and jury, what you saw when you and I looked through the window of that very bookshop?”

Crowley glares at the Metatron. None of their business, that’s what. 

“Yes,” Muriel says, unsure. Their eyes shift to Crowley. Crowley flashes them a quick smile and nods encouragingly. The last thing he wants is for them to feel bad. They can just be honest. It’s not their responsibility what the court – the judge – decides to do with it. 

“I saw Mister Aziraphale and Mis– I mean, the demon Crowley,” they say, casting their eyes down. “They were talking. With their mouths very close to each other.”

Some sort of – well, a demon wouldn’t be caught dead with gratefulness for an angel in his heart. But Crowley’s eyes would be dangerously close to filling up if he were anything but an unfeeling player on trial for playing. 

It’s the way Muriel avoided naming exactly what they saw. Even though he knows they’ve been reading all those romance books Aziraphale left behind and forbade them to sell. 

“I see, thank you for your bravery, Muriel,” the Metatron says. He folds his hands behind his back and takes a few steps, going in for the kill. “I know what you saw was very upsetting and traumatic, considering the demonic nature of the events. But I must remind you that I, too, bore witness to these terrible scenes. So please, do be completely honest. Would you describe the things you saw through those windows, as a kiss?”

The angels, both the spectators and the jury, gasp in outrage and start murmuring to each other. Aziraphale beats his hammer three times. A light blush rests high on his cheeks. Order is restored, and Crowley stubbornly ignores Jesus staring at him. 

Muriel looks at Aziraphale with wide, questioning eyes.

“You may answer the question, Muriel. Go on then,” he encourages. 

They look down, before releasing a quiet “yes” into the room. 

People shift in their chairs. Someone makes gagging noises – Crowley identifies that particular sound is coming from Sandalphon on the jury bench. Feeling’s mutual. Arse.

“I have no further questions for this witness,” the Metatron says, and turns towards Jesus. “But I would like to remind everyone in this room, with all due respect, that we are not talking about a turn the other cheek situation here. Sorry to be quite crude, but we’re talking lip on lip. Possible tongue, even.”

Crowley scoffs. As if he would disrespect Aziraphale by shoving his tongue down his throat for their very first kiss. He’s the type to deserve Victorian era level of romancing before even a touch of hand.

Not that Crowley had a chance to handle it that way. That chance was taken from him the minute the Metatron made his job offer. 

“No!” It’s Aziraphale who denies it out loud. Then, he seems to remember himself. “Jesus, would you like a turn? With the, uh, with the witness, I mean?”

Muriel looks like a tortured hamster, and Crowley turns to Jesus, shakes his head no at her. 

“No further questions, your Honour,” Jesus says kindly. Not that there is any other way for Jesus to say things, probably. Crowley would roll his eyes if it wasn’t for the fact that she did exactly as he’d asked. 

Maybe she’s not so bad as a solicitor after all. 

While Muriel gets escorted out, they shoot a troubled look at Crowley. He nods at them, like he doesn’t have a care in Heaven.

He doesn’t, of course. He’s a demon. Why would he care about what Heaven thinks of him? He already knows. He fell. What’s the worst they can do to him still? Lock him up and make him watch The Sound Of Music on repeat? 

Then he catches Aziraphale looking at him, and it slices him open like a corpse on a resurrectionist’s table. There is a thing he cares about, something he – he wants. He needs. He doesn’t give a rat’s arse about what Heaven thinks, but Aziraphale? The angel should never think the kiss wasn’t – that it was just a demonic temptation, nothing more. A calculated move in a 6,000 year game of demon chess. 

He tears his gaze away, to the screen above his head. There, the Metatron is flipping through a series of snapshots. They are surveillance pictures of Aziraphale and Crowley together, presented as if they’re photographic evidence of bruises on a corpse or something. 

Aziraphale and him on the bench in st James’ Park. Sharing a coracle in India. At an Edinburgh cemetery at nighttime. 

“Oh, can I have that one?” Crowley speaks up. “That’s my good side, and I need a new driver’s licence.”

The Metatron turns around and for a second, his true face is visible, the one that’s filled with contempt. “Silence, demon. You will not speak.”

“Or else?” Crowley’s never seen an ant hill he didn’t want to prod. 

“Jesus, keep your client in check, will you?”

Jesus raises her eyebrows. “Why don’t you demonstrate the relevance of these pictures – we know Aziraphale was tasked with protecting the Earth, and that includes, I presume, keeping tabs on the Earth’s resident demon.”

The Metatron narrows his eyes and turns back around to Aziraphale. “Your Honour, I am not merely showing holiday snaps. I am just demonstrating that the demon Crowley’s plan to seduce you spans many millennia and many occasions.”

Something in Aziraphale’s eyes dims, and he nods. “Proceed.” 

Crowley notices how Aziraphale’s hand tightens around his hammer. 

Then, a familiar picture appears on screen, and Crowley’s chest compresses like an accordion – including a rather sad whiff of sound. 

It’s the picture that Furfur took at the 1941 magic show. Aziraphale, fake moustache and all, handing Crowley the rifle for the trick. It was maybe the happiest Crowley’s ever seen him. Which, coincidentally, makes it the happiest Crowley’s ever been. 

Now, the black and white polaroid is just another nail in the coffin of their relationship, isn’t it? A piece of damning, blessing, whatever evidence to be judged. 

“Bring in the witness,” the Metatron says, and all heads turn to the door of light. 

Furfur appears, looking rather unsure about his surroundings but very sure and especially smug when he spots Crowley. He shoots him a wicked smile.

Crowley appreciates the honesty. 

He flips him off, celestial shackles or not. 

“Furfur here has been granted safety in exchange for his testimony,” the Metatron explains as the demon takes a seat in the witness box.

“Do I need to swear on, eh, the Satanic Bible or something, that I’ll speak the truth and nothing but the truth?” Furfur asks.

“That won’t be necessary,” Aziraphale quickly says.

“No, indeed,” the Metatron agrees. “We don’t do that, up here. That’s for human trials only. We know angels will tell the truth and demons will tell whatever they want. And you, I believe, want to get to the rotten core of Crowley, don’t you?”

Furfur flashes all his demonic teeth at Crowley, who returns the favour. They’re like two hellhounds facing off over a plastic squishy toy (Hell, which holds a lot of torture chambers for committers of animal cruelty, has a Dog Happiness Charter). 

“So do we,” the Metatron continues. “Why don’t you start by stating your name and telling us what you saw on that fateful night in 1941?”

“Name’s Furfur, recently promoted Great Earl of Hell. Me and Crawly here, or Crowley as he likes to call himself, go way back. Fought in the wars together as angels and everything.”

Crowley keeps himself from flinching at his old serpent’s name. He’s not about to crawl for anybody. He straightens his back and stares as confidently as he can. Needs no lessons from a maggot named Furfur.    

“Anyway, even in the 40s there were already rumours of this traitor collaborating with the enemy – offence meant to everyone here, obviously – so I sent a few nazi zombie spies up to collect evidence. Turns out they were having a nice old evening out together. With the angel, I mean. Well, you, Judge Azipoopie or whatever. The angel was performing on the West End as a magician and Crowley pretended to shoot him in the face.”

“What do you mean, pretended, Furfur?” The Metatron asks. “Was he, perhaps, aiming for his mouth? And then you caught them in the dressing room together, in a state of undress, am I correct?”

“Objection,” Jesus says, obviously annoyed. “Leading the witness.”

“G-granted,” Aziraphale stutters. “Rephrase, please, the Metatron.”

“Never mind. I implore you, members of the jury, to please forget this.” The Metatron smiles, and turns back to Furfur. “And what happened when you entered the dressing room?”

Furfur thinks, which, Crowley reckons, must hurt quite a lot for the likes of him. “The angel was fishing for compliments and smiling. Very gross. He was twirling a feather boa around his neck.”

“Like an exotic dance?” 

“Ob–” Jesus starts.

“I retract this question,” the Metatron cuts in. “What was the state of the room you found them in?”

“Disgusting. There was romantic lighting. And there were flowers.”

“Would anyone have any reason to send Aziraphale flowers?” The Metatron asks.

Aziraphale and Crowley lock eyes, and Crowley realises that Aziraphale himself hadn’t even considered why flowers had magically appeared in his dressing room. He’d just assumed it was from adoring fans, probably – just as Crowley had intended. 

“No.”

“Why do you think the flowers were there?”

Aziraphale’s gaze flips to Furfur.

“Well, to manipulate the angel, innit? Do a little romancing? Giving him gifts like, like that stack of old books in the corner, and bouquets of flowers? It’s what we like to call ‘playing the long game’.”

Crowley knows for a fact that Furfur hasn’t even played a short one, let alone a long game, with anyone, ever, in his long little bureaucratic life. 

He scowls at him, then checks Aziraphale’s face for any reaction. It’s unreadable.

“Would playing such a long game be permitted or granted by a higher authority in Hell?” The Metatron asks. “Between an angel and a demon?”

Furfur makes a gagging noise. “Satan, no. No collaborating, no consorting. We’ve got standards. Nothing’s a bigger turn-off than hearing someone cry out for God in the bedroom.”

“That’ll be all, thank you,” the Metatron concludes the interrogation and returns to his seat. 

That’s when Jesus gets up. Her sleeves are rolled up. She looks ready.

“Furfur, was it?” she says, fake-flipping through her notes. 

“Yes,” he confirms, this time on a much less sure footing as he realises who he’s talking to. A demon can get into quite a bit of trouble for listening to the word of Jesus.

“Where exactly were Aziraphale and Crowley in the dressing room when you entered?” 

“Well, the angel was standing, wasn’t he? And Crowley was, errr, he was lying on the sofa. Yes.”

“So they were far apart, then.”

“Yes, but —”

“That’s noted, thank you. Let’s go back to the rifle moment. You stated that Crowley shot at Aziraphale. Had he ever fired a gun before?”

“Not that I know of. He doesn’t have a lot of skills, no matter what he says on his resume.” Furfur grins at the insult. 

“Ah, so an inexperienced marksman,” Jesus says with the air of an executioner casually tying a noose around a pirate’s neck. “What do you think the chances would be of him hitting a target if he really tried to? As a demon ought to?”

This seems to confuse Furfur. He’s looking at his fingers as if he’s trying to pick a number from one to ten while trying to figure out what the worst answer to the question might be. 

Crowley grins. Gotcha. 

“Would the unskilled gunman Crowley have a high chance of hitting his target? Answer quickly, now,” she raises the pressure. 

“No,” Furfur says, going for the easy insult just like Jesus intended.

She turns to the jury. “It’s clearly impossible to tell whether Crowley was trying to discorporate Aziraphale or seduce him. I have no further questions.”

“Wait–” Furfur starts.

“You’re dismissed,” Jesus flings her wrist, and returns to her seat next to Crowley. While Furfur gets escorted out, Crowley stares at her in amazement, but most of all, puzzlement.

Why is she helping him? His mind casts back to the last days they saw each other, on Earth, before the crucifixion. He remembers reasoning like one of those sleazy lawyers from American tv shows with Judas, whispering evil into his ear. He remembers a flash of Jesus’ robes behind the door of the room, disappearing into the night after Crowley’s talk with Judas. 

And now she’s here? Forgive your enemy, sure, but it’s not exactly Heaven’s MO. Especially given their history he wouldn’t blame her for wanting nothing more to do with him. 

While Crowley was lost in thought, another witness has taken a seat in front. It takes Crowley a minute to recognise the young man, then a shock ripples through his body. He has grown quite a bit, sure, and the haircut is certainly a choice. But it’s unmistakably him. Warlock.

The antichrist that wasn’t. The American diplomat’s child he and Aziraphale cared for, for many years. Trying to show him both good and bad before realising on his eleventh Birthday that he was, in fact, just a normal kid. 

Still, he was a kid that Crowley had grown fond of. He’d enjoyed taking care of him as nanny Ashtoreth and later popping into his life to check up on him in various disguises. And he knows Aziraphale, who posed as his gardener for many years, took a liking to him, despite his difficult character at times. Their – their godchild, they had sometimes called him, only half jokingly.

Now Warlock is looking around the room with eyes wide, like he’s at the chocolate factory and not sure if he’s Charlie or one of the other children, who get exploded. Crowley’s guessing Heaven will wipe his mind after. Like that’s just a normal thing to do to people left and right. 

He bores more holes into the Metatron’s backside with his eyes. 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, seems to have forgotten where he is. Who he is supposed to be. He’s just staring at Warlock like he’s seen a ghost. 

Crowley knocks over his case files that Jesus had been sifting through earlier. They scatter on the floor, and all heads turn his way. 

“So sorry, I’m so blessedly clumsy, aren’t I?” Crowley says, turning up the charm. He gets down on his knees and tries to gather the papers as best he can, shackled as he is. Jesus joins him, and together they go through it quite quickly.

Twisting his body he manages to slip one of the copies of the pictures into his pocket – it’s one of Aziraphale and him on their bench. Oh well, so he’s a sentimental fool – sue him. They already have, anyway. 

When they’re back on their seats, Aziraphale has successfully snapped out of his daze.

“The Metatron.” His voice sounds hoarse. “You may start.”

The Metatron approaches Warlock with what he probably thinks is a kid-friendly face, even though Warlock must be nearly an adult now. 

“State your name, please, child,” the Metatron nudges.

“It’s Warlock and I’m not a child, I’m 16. How old are you, grandpa?” 

The Metatron ignores the question with years of experience in ignoring questions. 

“Tell us about your nanny, Warlock,” he orders.

“Why, do you want her number?”

Wrong crowd for jokes, clearly. The Metatron projects a picture behind them, and the room gasps. They all recognise Crowley. 

“Is that her?”

Warlock looks at the picture, then nods.

“Out loud, please, for our court records.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

The Metatron snaps his fingers and another picture appears, this time of Aziraphale as gardener.

“And that’s your gardener?”

“Brother Francis, yeah, what about him? Did he kill someone?” 

The Metatron simply points at the screen. They all watch a short animated video of Aziraphale and Crowley merging back and forth into their disguises. 

“Sick!” Warlock says, and Crowley’s pretty sure he means that in a good way. Definitely 89 percent sure. He flashes him a smile. 

The Metatron folds his hands in front of his stomach. “Did you ever see your nanny and, errr, this Brother Francis interact with each other?” 

Warlock thinks hard – something that hasn’t ever been asked of him. “Yeah, actually, now that you mention it. Once. Or uhh, I kinda… heard them.”

Crowley stiffens in his seat. He’s suddenly got a really bad feeling about this.

Jesus, picking up on his discomfort, flips through the paperwork. “Time out! Was this witness officially submitted? I think I must – I must object. This wasn’t announced to the court.”

The Metatron smiles sweetly at her. “I can assure you it’s all within the limitations of the celestial codex. Though I suppose, that particular paperwork might have gotten lost when it dropped on the floor?” 

Crowley imagines paper balls hitting him square in the forehead. 

“I’m afraid I – I must allow this,” Aziraphale says, hitting his hammer on the desk weakly. 

“Go on, Warlock, tell us about what you saw,” The Metatron says.

Warlock, who’s been staring at Crowley with quite a deep frown, clears his throat and turns to the Metatron.

And of course, Crowley has no choice but to forgive the kid immediately. He’s not doing anything wrong, just talking about a thing that happened, and that he happened to witness. There’s nothing to be held against him, even by a demon with a knack for grudges. 

“Well I was prob’bly about five or six years old? I had a tummy ache so I got up in the middle of the night trying to find my nanny. But when I arrived at her… at his…. Wait, which pronouns should I use?”

“Sorry?” The Metatron asks.

“I mean, he’s trans, right? He’s sitting right there,” Warlock points at Crowley, and Crowley feels his heart fill with some sort of, well, he wouldn’t call it pride. But still. They must’ve done something – right, those godfathers of his. “And I knew him from before, I don’t even know his name, only his deadname. Or their deadname.” 

“It’s okay, kid,” Crowley says. “Just talk about past me with she/her, I don’t mind. And the name’s Crowley.”

“Rad name,” Warlock says, before the Metatron opens his mouth.

“Yeah yeah, shut up, foul demon, got it,” Crowley hurries to say. “I’ll be silent now. And thanks, Warlock. You too.”

If Jesus squeezes his arm, he skillfully ignores it. This all means nothing to him.

“So you went to your nanny’s room,” the Metatron addresses Warlock. “What happened next?”

“Uhhh, yeah, I heard voices. The gardener was in nanny’s room, I could hear him very clearly. I mean, I was young but I knew what both of their voices sounded like, obviously. But when…”

Warlock frowns.

“When I opened the door, I saw a different man with nanny Ashtoreth, on the bed. He looked…” Warlock looks at Aziraphale. “... like you.”

He seems very confused. “Are you… trans too? G… gardener to judge…”

Aziraphale smiles. “Don’t worry about it, dear.”

“Get to the point,” the Metatron is clearly losing his patience. “What position did you find them in, on the bed?”

Warlock looks at Crowley, as if to check it’s okay. Crowley nods. 

“The man – you, judge – had your, had his head in nanny’s lap. And she was stroking your hair and feeding you grapes.” Warlock frowns. “I always thought that was a fucked up thing I dreamed up as a kid. Like Jason Voorhees nightmare stuff.”

“Thank you, young Warlock. That’ll be all,” the Metatron goes back to his seat. 

Aziraphale looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The redness has spread to the tips of his ears. “Do you have any questions, Jesus?”

Jesus is simply staring at Crowley, and Crowley nudges her with his foot. Willing her to do something, anything, that will make this look like he wasn’t trying to seduce anyone. Which he, of course, was, but his heart was — not pure, never pure. It just wasn’t all rotten. But try telling that to a room full of angels who believe demons are incapable of love. 

Jesus hesitantly stands up, takes a few steps forward. She looks back at Crowley with a thoughtful frown on her face, then blinks a few times before focusing on the teenager in front of her. 

“Did you ever see your nanny and your gardener interacting at other moments, Warlock?”

“No, Ma’am,” he says, for the first time in his life polite as an automatic reflex after gazing upon the flawless face of transfem Jesus. 

Jesus takes a few steps around the courtroom. Then, she turns to Warlock. 

“Tell me about grapes. Do you sometimes eat them?”

“Objection,” the Metatron interjects from his chair. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“Its relevance will become clear,” Jesus says. “My ways are as ineffable as my mother’s.”

Crowley smiles. Oh, she’s good. She’s very good. But he, of course, already knew that, since about two thousand years ago. 

“Continue, Jesus,” Aziraphale says after hearing the magic word. 

“Yeah, I’ve eaten grapes,” Warlock says, a little wary. “With cheese and stuff.”

“Do you eat them lying down?”

“No, Ma’am, of course not.”

“Why do you say ‘of course’?”

“Uhhh, it’s dangerous,” Warlock explains. “They could get stuck in my throat. I had an incident, once, with tiny balls of mozzarella.”

Crowley remembers – it took a demonic miracle, that time. Couldn’t have the antichrist dying prematurely because of a fancy starter. 

“I see,” Jesus says, rubbing her chin in thought. “Thank you, Warlock, for your honest statement. I can see you’ve grown into a fine young man.”

Crowley tries not to smile. That’s all Aziraphale’s doing, of course. He can feel him beam from a mile away. Good. He should know he’s – he’s a good (god)father figure. Crowley doesn’t know why that’s important to him, that he knows, but it just is. They didn’t fuck up that assignment completely. 

Jesus turns to the judges while Warlock gets escorted to the Heavenly lift for a little thank you and a mind wipe. 

“Members of the jury, young Warlock has painted a clear picture. Aziraphale was lying in Crowley’s lap and Crowley was feeding him grapes. But it cannot be proven beyond a sliver of a doubt, which is where you come in of course, that it was Crowley’s intention to tempt Aziraphale. He might as well have been trying to choke him.”

While Jesus returns to her seat, Crowley smiles triumphantly, but then he catches Aziraphale looking at him with a frown on his face. His smile falters. 

Before he can think of a proper way to school his features, the Metatron has stepped back up like an actor to the stage. He walks around, eyeing Jesus and Crowley with a glare, then treating the jury and public to a holier-than-thou smile. 

“I will now begin my closing statement,” the Metatron says. “It is, of course, no coincidence that we’ve landed on the topic of food.”

He snaps his fingers and a restaurant bill appears on the screen. It’s from the Ritz. Crowley blinks at it. Those are – happy memories. Watching Aziraphale eat is one of his favourite things to do. 

With apparent casualness, the Metatron flips through a whole series of similar bills. “As you may remember, Crowley – or as Furfur reminded us, formerly Crawly – is the Serpent of Eden.” 

Crowley flashes his snake eyes around. Might as well give them a show if they already think you’re a freak.

It means nothing to him. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. 

He remembers to unclench his jaw. 

“And just like he tempted Eve back in the garden, he has used food as a means to tempt this angel, our very well loved and celebrated Archangel Aziraphale.”

The Metatron pauses, allowing his words to sink in. 

“He has taken Aziraphale to restaurants time and time again, offering him food, often not even eating himself, but just watching him eat. Just like he watched Adam and Eve bite into the apple of sin in Eden.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale and wishes he had his sunglasses on when he catches him looking at him thoughtfully. Surely, he’s not buying any of this? Yes, of course Crowley loves – loved – loves feeding Aziraphale. The noises he makes could revive dead doves. But that’s – that’s not an evil plan. It’s just a – a symptom of the bloody illness that is loving an angel, isn’t it? 

“One of his other seduction tactics,” the Metatron continues, and the picture on the screen changes to a stock photo of the Paris Bastille, “was saving Aziraphale from dire situations.”

Now, Aziraphale nervously fumbles with his hammer. Crowley carefully monitors his every reaction.

“Of course, we can’t blame our dear Aziraphale for this, because the demon was very cunning. But this was all a ploy.”

Aziraphale snaps his head to the Metatron.

“This way, he could make Aziraphale believe he was genuinely interested in being his suitor, a prince on a black horse. But in fact, he’d use these occasions to perform his demonic deeds.”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale turns his attention back to Crowley, an uncertain look on his face. Unbelievable. Could he really be convinced that Crowley was some sort of manic pixie dream demon?

“Because the demon Anthony J. Crowley would get people killed. For example at the Bastille, he got one of the rebels killed through a clothes switch, someone who would have otherwise survived and meant a great deal to Heaven.”

Crowley shakes his head. Aziraphale was the one who performed the clothes switch, not him. Sure, Crowley encouraged it. But how else were they gonna eat their crepes safely? Not with Aziraphale dressed like a snack for the guillotine's sharp-toothed mouth, that’s for certain. 

“Later, the demon bombed one of God’s own churches and yet he managed to spin it so that Aziraphale believed that it was only to save him.”

Aziraphale looks – Crowley squints at him – is that – is he ashamed? 

No, no, no. Can’t he see? The Metatron’s got it all mixed up, Aziraphale must – he must know. Bombing the church was how Crowley managed to sell it to Hell without getting in trouble downstairs. But it wasn’t about any of that. He – he killed nazis. He saved Aziraphale, and his books. Aziraphale was there! Doesn’t he realise? 

But his suffering isn’t over.

He wonders, but refrains from saying out loud: has he suffered more than Jesus?

“The demon even manipulated Aziraphale so effectively, that he got him to perform demonic temptations for him!” The Metatron reveals to a shocked audience.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Really. Is nothing sacred to these angels? 

“Sure, he promised Aziraphale he would do a little blessing elsewhere, but who is to say he even did it? As we all know, demons are untrustworthy.” 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale with desperation. The Arrangement — he must know Crowley performed every last miracle as agreed upon, and a little bow on top? Right? He — he shouldn’t have, as a demon, but he enjoyed those jobs. 

But Aziraphale isn’t even looking at him now. He’s staring at the Metatron.

“Now as for how long this seduction and temptation of Aziraphale has been going on – bring the box, please.”

The guard angel on the non-Jesus side of Crowley reaches for something nearby. He puts a cardboard box on the table. Crowley peeks into it. No bloody way. 

“Put those on, will you. Now,” the Metatron demands. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s got no choice – he reaches for the long, wavy wig and beard, and when he puts them on his face, Michael gasps audibly.

“That’s right,” The Metatron says, triumphant about his reverse ripping off the beard moment. “Crowley was Bildad the Shuhite!”

————

When Crowley’s back in the quietude of his cell, he ponders the events of the day while lying upside down on the bed, legs placed flat against the wall. It was quite the shitshow. Bad even for a typical Heaven day. 

After the Bildad reveal, the so-called proof of how long he’d been trying to thwart Heaven by seducing Aziraphale, the court had adjourned for the day. Closing statements by Jesus and Crowley would be tomorrow before the final judgement. Aziraphale had failed to look Crowley in the eye even just once more. 

So now Crowley is left with just himself and his thoughts. He’s usually a big fan of his thoughts, lots of great ideas in that head of his. But not so much right now.

The cell is very un-Heavenly: a confined space. Though it’s not anything like Hell’s prison quarters are. This is more modern, Scandinavian inspired, almost like a hotel room. There’s a bed with a soft mattress, a small tv, a sink, a table. There are even some books, but only by writers who got into Heaven, of which there aren’t many. Most of the books are therefore boringly conflict-avoidant and vanilla. 

Still. It would be almost comfortable if it weren’t for the shackles on his wrists, providing a constant buzzing — not pain, exactly, but something closer to irritation.

Suddenly, the door opens – this is about the only door-ed room in Heaven, at least in the traditional human sense – and he nearly crashes off the bed trying to scramble to his feet when he sees who it is.

Aziraphale. 

Crowley straightens while Aziraphale closes the door softly behind him, then turns to him and stops. Becomes a sort of angelic statue. They just look at each other, for the first time alone since – yeah. Since they kissed. The memory of it hangs between them like an invisible cloud. And fuck. Aziraphale is – Aziraphale is his sun. Even after everything. Even now. 

“Speak, angel,” Crowley says. “You’re the one who came in here.”

He didn’t mean to sound bitter. Or maybe only a little.

Aziraphale swallows, seems to get the spark of life breathed back into him. “Crowley…”

“Shut up,” Crowley cuts him off, and he’s not unreasonable, no. He’s not. It’s just too much, to hear Aziraphale speak Crowley’s name into the angular space of a prison cell. 

He starts pacing around the angel. “Tell me you don’t really – tell me you don’t really think...” He stops, turns to Aziraphale. “You’ve come to ask me?”

Aziraphale blinks down at his hands.

“Alright, ask me then.” Crowley waits for his words like a martyr waiting for the firing squad. 

At least Aziraphale has the decency of looking him in the eyes when he speaks. “I had to come here, Crowley, and – and have a moment just between us, after everything. I don’t think – Of course I don’t think you – No, surely not.” 

It’s more like he’s talking to himself rather than to Crowley. Trying to convince himself. 

“And I’ve – I haven’t stopped thinking of...” Aziraphale bites his bottom lip, then releases it. Crowley’s eye catches on it. Unfair move in the chess game. Immediate disqualification. “Of you. And I fear my – my judgement is rather… clouded.” 

Crowley shakes his head at him. This can’t be what has become of them after 6,000 years of taking small steps towards each other. This distrust. They stopped the Apocalypse together! 

Aziraphale’s a bloody idiot, is what he is. 

And yeah. Apparently idiots get his blood flowing. Stoke his hell fire. 

It’s not what he says. What he says is: “You left me.”

Suddenly, the roles are reversed. It’s the angel on trial, now. Aziraphale looks startled, betrayed, almost. 

Crowley presses on. “You’re the one who left me, Aziraphale. Why would I – if it was truly all a demonic plan – why wouldn’t I go as far as, as infiltrating Heaven? Take up the Metatron’s offer and sabotage the Great Plan from the inside? Go to Heaven and tempt you further? But I didn’t. You left me.”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbles. Another foul move. 

He recovers. Breathes in with purpose.

“No, Crowley, I didn’t leave you. I asked you to come, and you didn’t want to, and ultimately I had to respect your decision just as you — you should respect mine. I know you’re not a fan of Heaven, and it does need some work, but — but it can be good. I can be good for it. Don’t you think I could be good?”

Even shackled, Crowley feels disarmed. It’s something he’s known, of course, though it’s been hard to think about. He wasn’t enough to make Aziraphale stay — but it wasn’t necessarily a choice against Crowley. More than it was for Heaven. And he loves Aziraphale — that part included, the desire to do good.

“Too good, angel,” he says quietly. 

“So – forgive me if I –” Aziraphale stills. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a very long and very confusing day, Crowley. I – I don’t know how you’re here, and the Metatron said – I mean. Of course I don’t –”

Aziraphale stumbles over every sentence like he’s going down a rocky path.   

“You –” Crowley starts. He swallows. “You’ve known me for thousands of years, angel.” 

He takes a step forward. They’re alone, he reminds himself. Nobody’s watching, nobody’s checking up on them. He takes another step forward, and Aziraphale lets him. Like two pieces on a chess board. Each one gearing up to knock the other down.

“You think it was all a temptation?” Crowley’s voice comes out low. There’s anger there, and disbelief, and, if he’s honest, a millennia-backed longing. He takes another small step, and Aziraphale falters, moves close to the wall. Crowley follows him until they’re nose to nose. He looks Aziraphale in the eyes. “You think this is me being a demon?” 

He’s never been any of the things that people, demons or angels believed he was. He thought Aziraphale was the only one who really knew him. Was he wrong? 

He watches the angel’s eyes flicker to his mouth. It’s almost enough to make Crowley lunge forward, to roam his hands over his body, shackles or not. But that’s not how a demonic temptation works, of course. They have to want it. Take that leap. It’s gotta be their own doing. 

Is it really a temptation, though, if the tempter is bursting with desire? 

“Is this what they’re afraid I’ve been doing?” He moves his lips close to Aziraphale’s mouth, so close that the slightest movement could bridge the gap. He feels Aziraphale’s warm breath on his upper lip. 

“You know me, angel,” he says. Begs. 

And Aziraphale moves forward, seizing his lips. The final move. The first move. The warmth of it surprises Crowley, and he isn’t exactly proud of the sound his throat makes, but it gets lost in another gnkgnk when Aziraphale takes him by the collar and reverses them, slamming Crowley against the wall.

He presses his shackled hands against Aziraphale’s chest while he deepens the kiss. There’s a hunger radiating off Aziraphale that Crowley knows so well, so intimately, and he feels a thrill of finally being the object of it. It moves through his entire body and lights him up from the inside. 

Aziraphale strokes his neck, traces his thumbs up to his ears and hair, buries his fingers there like it’s the last thing to hold onto before falling off a cliff. 

Aziraphale pulls back and looks over Crowley’s face. It’s almost a sigh: “Crowley…”

His hands find Crowley’s shackled ones, and a softness enters the angel’s eyes that Crowley cannot stand for a second longer. He folds his fingers over Aziraphale’s and uses the leverage to manoeuver him to the bed. 

“Is this what a demon does, then?” Crowley goads him, and he conquers his mouth like a knight. Licking into his mouth, he guides the angel down. On the bed, he grinds slowly against him, and Aziraphale breathes hard. Aziraphale’s hands move over his neck, his back, then lower. He pulls him down by the arse, making Crowley buck against him. 

Crowley pulls back and smiles down at him wickedly. “Oh, am I tempting you now?”

Aziraphale laughs, delirious with it. He grips Crowley and flips them over, shocking Crowley into seriousness – he’s lying on his back now, and lets Aziraphale move his shackled hands above his head, panting.

Aziraphale leaves his hands there, then goes back to exploring Crowley’s chest, his sides, his cheeks, his mouth, everything. It’s the best feeling Crowley’s ever felt, it’s the worst, it’s everything he wanted, and even if it maybe isn’t the ideal way. He’ll take what he can get, he’ll ask for more, always. 

“Undress me, angel,” he begs. 

He leaves his hands obediently above his head and lets Aziraphale miracle away the clothes – they’re too tight to do it manually anyway. He watches Aziraphale hastily strip down his own clothes, until he’s just in a white shirt, nothing else, and Crowley’s own cock twitches at the sight of Aziraphale’s clear arousal.

Aziraphale takes himself in hand, gives himself a few strokes, and then lowers himself to Crowley again, kisses his lips, his face, his chin. Never doesn’t kiss him. And it’s so much, it’s everything to Crowley, he nearly can’t stand it, and suddenly he just – he needs him closer, and he doesn’t care if it hurts a little. He needs him now, and he needs him a little rough, he wants to be shackled and taken, he wants it so much. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, nearly sick with it. “I need you inside me, now.”

Aziraphale pulls back and looks him over, pupils blown wide. 

“My dear…”

Aziraphale looks down at his cock and miracles his hand slick, spreads it all over his cock. Then, he moves his fingers to Crowley’s hole.

“Oh, don’t bother, just fuck me, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “Am I not tempting enough?”

And he does feel a little miracle – Aziraphale makes him a bit looser than he’d naturally be, down there. But when Aziraphale thrusts into him, it’s still a delicious shock to his system, and Crowley’s raised legs jerk involuntarily. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more.

Aziraphale stills above him, eyes squeezed closed.

Oh, none of that.  

“Bloody move, angel,” Crowley grits through his teeth. He needs to feel the burn of it, all of it.

And he does – Crowley feels him pull back, feels the drag of it against his hole, then absorbs the impact of small, hard thrusts. 

“Perfect, perfect, yes, fuck, yes,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale moans, like it’s being dragged from him. He seizes Crowley’s mouth, shutting him up. It takes more than a little coordination, but Aziraphale gets the hang of it, fucking into him with deep thrusts, while kissing him and moving his hands up and down Crowley’s naked body like he’s trying to map all of him out. 

Crowley spreads his legs as wide as possible to absorb every inch of him. Each thrust moves him a little further on the mattress, until his shackled hands touch the headboard. He uses the leverage to push back against Aziraphale, meeting his rhythm. 

Then, Aziraphale takes his legs and repositions him, folds his legs over his shoulders, manages to fuck into Crowley even deeper, and Crowley’s not proud of the sound he releases then. It hurts in the best way, it feels magnetic, electrifying, and his cock is leaking against his stomach, and he, fuck, he mumbles against Aziraphale’s lips, “I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” and if he meant to sound angry — it comes out rather lost. 

Aziraphale kisses him firmly, desperately, pushing into him, intertwines their fingers while using Crowley’s hands as leverage to pump even harder. Crowley slides his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. 

When their lips part, Crowley says, “use me, come inside me, fucking use me, Aziraphale”, and Aziraphale’s hips stutter as he comes with a groan. 

He doesn’t move away but stays, stilled, inside Crowley. They’re both breathing hard, and Crowley isn’t sure when it started, but he’s crying. Aziraphale kisses the tears away while mumbling, “I love you, I love you, I love you”, and it’s bloody pathetic, oh, Crowley knows it is, like, objectively pathetic, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it. Feels like he’s on top of the world, actually. Just won the lottery.  

He’s certain of it when a little while later, Aziraphale sucks his cock into his mouth. And he sees stars. 

————

It’s been an hour since Aziraphale left, and Crowley is still glowing with the memory of it. He’s high on it. He’s – he’s decent, of course. Aziraphale dressed him with a snap of his fingers, deep-cleaned him. Not a wrinkle on him. But he still feels the memory of Aziraphale all over his skin.

He’d say it’s Heaven, but he’s a demon. He knows better.

When he hears the door open, he turns his head with excitement. Oh, that horny bastard!

“Back for –” The words die on his tongue.

It’s the Metatron. 

Once again, he scrambles to his feet, nearly falling off the bed. That’s just how it is. No-one will ever be able to accuse him of being graceful. 

He reminds himself that he’s cleaned up, there’s no way in Heaven that the Metatron would be able to tell what just passed between him and Aziraphale. Thank the stars for celestial snap-of-the-fingers-cleaning. 

“Hello, Crowley,” the Metatron says, hands clasped behind his back like a cartoon villain. Crowley scowls at him. 

“What do you want?”

The Metatron smiles, which on his face looks about as reassuring as a smile from a haunted doll. “Quite right, no need for pleasantries. We’re similar, you and I.”

Crowley juts up his chin, as menacing as he can, shackled as he is in a tiny cell. “We are nothing alike. Exact opposites, and not in a sexy way. Offence meant.”

The smile doesn’t falter. The Metatron simply takes a step forward. “Take a seat,” he says, waving a hand at him. And before Crowley even has a snarky comeback to refuse, he feels his body move of its own bloody divine accord, to the bed. 

The Metatron remains standing, looking down at him. Fitting.

“I’m here to inform you of tomorrow’s events. The court will reconvene. Jesus will make a heartfelt, biblical plea for your worthless, less-than-a-worm life. Then you will confess.”

Crowley scoffs. “You’re even more mushy-pea-brained than I thought.” He looks him straight in the eyes. “Let me be very clear. That isn’t going to happen in a million years.”

The corner of the Metatron’s mouth twitches smugly. He folds his hands behind his back again. It really is his signature villain move, Crowley realises. Boring. That’s what you get for being a floating head most of your existence. A terminal lack of imagination. 

“Oh yes, Crowley, you’re very endearing. But let me be clear. Whatever you think you’ve had going on with Aziraphale, it’s not important.”

Crowley glares. It’s the most important thing in the universe, thank you very much. It’s Moulin Rouge levels of love. The musical, not the cabaret. Save the tragic ending. 

“Here in Heaven, us adults have started moving all the pawns in place for a much bigger, much more important event. The Second Coming. Hell and Heaven will finally divide the souls of men, and we will come out triumphant, of course.”

He looks at Crowley.

“Stop leaving dramatic pauses, you pompous prick,” Crowley says. “Already knew about it, saw it in Gabriel’s file, put two and two together. A Beautiful Mind style.”

The Metatron raises his brows, but doesn’t comment on his maths skills. “However, our Supreme Archangel and Commander of the Host has been tragically distracted. He’s still too emotional from his time on Earth, when he should be focusing on making preparations for the administration of billions of souls, and on diplomatic negotiations with Jesus.” 

Crowley licks his lips, remembering Aziraphale just now. So he’s been distracted his whole time up in Heaven? Emotional? 

I love you, I love you, I love you, Aziraphale had whispered, kissing tears from his cheeks. 

That’s something he’ll always have that the Metatron doesn’t. That kind of all-conquering, epic love.

“Now this trial is my way of showing Aziraphale there’s nothing waiting for him on Earth but heartbreak and betrayal,” the Metatron says. “I’m simply helping him reach this realisation more quickly rather than dragging it out. It’s the, how do you say it down there? Humane thing to do.”

Crowley shakes his head. He won’t confess to tempting Aziraphale – not in the way demons would do. There’s no sinister agenda. What they have, together, can’t be wrong. And the Serpent of Eden knows about right and wrong. What he and Aziraphale have? That’s the opposite of sin. 

So he won’t confess, and Aziraphale will not sentence him. That much he knows – shagging a judge might raise ethical questions but it does have its advantages. 

“You see, Crowley,” the Metatron says, and his smile moves into Chucky-levels of creepy. “If you don’t confess to tempting Aziraphale, to leading him from the path of good just to be a notch on your demon belt, just to proverbially parade his head on a stick in Hell, then I will be forced to take more drastic actions.”

“Do to me what you will,” Crowley shrugs. He won’t betray Aziraphale. Not ever.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Curious.” The Metatron tilts his head. “Crowley, if this doesn’t work, if Aziraphale doesn’t quickly recover, I will be forced to refill the position. He will be the one on trial next. My hand will be forced, I will have to humiliate him in front of all his peers, accuse him of being involved with a lowly demon. He’ll never see non-artificial daylight again. No more books, no more music, no more of that sushi he occasionally pops down to Earth for. He’ll be locked up, he won’t be allowed to talk to anyone. Ever. Tell me, Crowley, how long do you think it would take before that would drive someone mad? We do have eternity at our disposal, around here.”

Horror grips Crowley’s heart. He’s been an idiot. Of course it was always going to end this way. When’s he ever had a whiff of luck in his life?

There are dark spots dancing around his vision. If he wasn’t already sitting, he’d stumble to his knees with the weight of this. 

The Metatron nods at him, like he didn’t really expect Crowley to answer. “I see that we are in agreement, boy. See you tomorrow.”

He closes the door behind him, too softly, too much in contrast to the brutality of his visit. 

Crowley forgets to breathe for a long time. Check fucking mate.

————

When Crowley’s escorted back into the courtroom by his guard angel the next day, everyone else is already there. Including Aziraphale, way up in his seat. 

Crowley can’t stop himself from looking at him, even though he knows it will hurt. Moth to a flaming sword. He needs to savour every last bit of Aziraphale before he never has the pleasure of seeing him again. 

Before Aziraphale hates him. 

The guard angel shoves Crowley into his seat, next to Jesus, who’s making some last notes on her statement.

“How are you feeling?” Jesus asks, probably because he looks like piss that’s been drank by a hobby-survivalist then passed through the urethra once more. 

“You don’t have to pretend like you care,” Crowley hisses, even though he knows that Jesus genuinely cares. That’s the most annoying thing about her, actually. And the most fucking lovely, unfortunately. It doesn’t occur to him that he has a type, because he is working very hard on repressing every single emotion that boils up inside him. 

Before Jesus can reply, the glitter hammer falls three times. 

Crowley can tell that Aziraphale is in a great mood, even if he tries his best to look solemn and judge-like. He just has one of those naturally smiley faces. Especially when he’s feeling tip-top.

“Silence in the courtroom, please,” Aziraphale orders. “It’s time for the defence’s closing statement. Jesus, you may come forward.”

Jesus throws Crowley one last questioning look, then gets up to address the members of the jury. Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon and Saraqael look quite bored. Jesus fixes the white bow tie she decided to wear for the occasion and clears her throat. 

It’s just a mock trial, of course, a great big play in which zero-nada-none of it matters, because the outcome’s been orchestrated by the Metatron himself. So it wouldn’t make a difference if Crowley just closed himself off for this bit, none of it matters even one fucking iota.

He listens.

“Esteemed members of the jury, you know me as Jesus Christ, the Child of God, the Redeemer, the Mediator, the Lamb of God, the Messiah. But let’s forget all of that for a second.”

Crowley grins. As if she hasn’t just reminded them of who she is.

“I stand before you not as myself, but as the holy defender of the demon Crowley. Now I will demonstrate to you that he is not a perpetrator, but a victim.”

A victim? Crowley barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. That’s the defence Jesus is going with? Turning him into some poor little guy? Some weakling unable to fend for himself? He’s his own bloody person, is what he is. He’s made his own bed of thorns and laid in it, proudly. He owns up to everything he’s done, good and mostly bad. 

“He is a victim of his own circumstances, of his job, and this is something I believe with all of my divine, God-given heart.”

Still laying it on a bit thick, eh. Crowley smiles. That’s how he knows Jesus. What a champ. 

“Sure, we heard a witness account of a kiss. But who is to say that tiny snap of time wasn’t just Crowley trying to headbutt Aziraphale? And you have already been presented with viable alternative interpretations of the other accusations. Taking the angel out to dinner? Normal serpent stuff! Saving him? Oh, you mean bombing a church and getting French rebels killed! There’s always a perfectly normal demon explanation. And of course, I know my audience. We are all holy, here. We are all in favour of good.”

Jesus lets a silence fall so all the angels in the room can nod their celestial heads. 

“But this trial is about seduction, not about being evil. Seducing an angel has been forbidden since the Heaven-Hell Treaty of Bangor. But all I’ve seen in this courtroom is proof of Crowley being evil.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. Strange line of defence for a trial, but he’ll go with it.  

“The truth is, you can’t say without any doubt that the demon Crowley was trying to tempt Aziraphale as opposed to normal demon activities like trying to discorporate him. You can hardly fault a demon for acting like a demon. He couldn’t not act like one even if he wanted to. Imagine the punishment Hell would rain down on him!”

Crowley doesn’t have to imagine, of course. He thinks about Elspeth. 

Worth every lashing.

“As members of the jury, it’s your job to determine if someone can be found guilty beyond reasonable doubt. If there’s even the tiniest spark of doubt in your hearts because of what I’ve said, and I strongly believe there should be, then you morally have no other choice than to set Anthony J. Crowley free.”

Jesus takes a small bow, even though there’s no applause, and returns to her seat while all the angels and jury members talk among each other in various stages of shock, anger, and, Crowley must hand it to Jesus: doubt. 

Jesus beams at Crowley. Reminds him of a wet dog presenting a branch after it was thrown into the lake. 

“That wasn’t too shabby,” Crowley tells her. “You didn’t even tell a parable.”

“Time constraints,” she says. “Think I could be a solicitor?”

“Ohh, you’re too good to be a solicitor.” 

“Silence!” Aziraphale bounces his hammer up and down. Some of the glitter whiffs up.  

Crowley looks at him again, and remembers everything. Darkness falls over him entirely, he feels completely wrecked at the thought of what he’s about to do to Aziraphale. This Aziraphale, who doesn’t deserve this, never asked for this. This Aziraphale, who held him so close last night, whispered into his hair, stroked his skin. Swallowed his come.

Crowley’s going to break him. To save him. 

And he’ll never even know why.

There’s a lump in Crowley’s throat he doesn’t have the luxury of acknowledging. He needs to keep it together now.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale addresses him, and he looks at him like – like they’re co-conspirators. Like they both know what’s going to happen: Crowley will deny the temptation, and walk out, go to the bookshop, wait for him. 

Crowley averts his gaze. 

“De– Demon Crowley,” Aziraphale corrects himself. “You may stand up and have the last word now. To – to say your piece.” 

Crowley gets up on legs that immediately betray him with their trembling. His wrists are still shackled in front of him, now unbearably so. Not that the shackles are any different than yesterday. But they’re a constant reminder of what he is. A demon, bound to Heaven. To the Metatron. 

He takes a deep breath. Best to rip this plaster off, then. He’ll be the evil everyone already thinks he is. He’ll break Aziraphale’s heart, and be forced to watch it happen. 

“I–”, he starts, and looks up briefly. Aziraphale looks at him expectantly. “I, Anthony J. Crowley, plead guilty to the willful and evil-whatever-demonic temptation of the angel Aziraphale.”

Everywhere around, there are loud gasps. Behind him, Jesus’ hand crumples a piece of paper. Crowley dares to glimpse at Aziraphale. He sits frozen. 

“What?” Aziraphale manages. “No.”

“I did it. Seduced. Tempted. Used my wiles. Seductively.” He grits out every word through his teeth like they’re being tortured out of him. Which, in a way, they are, of course.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. No, you didn’t. Why are you saying this?”

Crowley catches the Metatron looking at him, and a cold chill rolls down his spine. There’s not even anything out of the ordinary about the way the Metatron looks, not to anyone else in this courtroom. It’s his smile. His bloody beatific smile. 

Crowley realises he’s going to have to be more specific. There can be no room for doubt in Aziraphale’s heart. He’ll have to take his words to it like a sledgehammer to a window. 

Crowley looks down at his hands, at his table, for the next part. He swallows and swallows because it’s not words that are trying to come up, no. 

“Crowley…” Jesus says. Her voice is soft. Now that’s insufferable. 

“No,” Crowley says. He clears his throat, and tells the table: “It started in the Garden of Eden. I could tell this angel, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had a bit of a flirt in him. So, I fed it, throughout all the years. Made a little bet of it in Hell. I’ve always been a bit of a brag, there, a bigshot, I’ve always loved to flaunt my accomplishments around those sorry little pen pushers stuck in admin. So I told them I’d get this angel to fall for me. Lead him into temptation. Told them I could make him properly fall, make him f–” Crowley swallows. “Told them I could get him in bed, no problem.”

Aziraphale makes an ungodly sound, and Crowley pinches his hands, willing himself to keep his eyes down. 

“Look –” Aziraphale chokes out from the judge’s seat. “At least look – have the decency to – Crowley. At least look at me, you bastard.”

It takes every last effort in Crowley’s body not to cry when he looks up and sees the devastation on Aziraphale’s face, the disbelief, the doubt, the destruction he’s raging. 

“I did it,” he says, and it’s like he’s aiming a gun at Aziraphale’s face and he pulls the trigger but this time there’s no fun moustachioed smile, there’s no applause. This time he doesn’t miss. Each word hits. 

“I did it slowly, like simmering a frog in a pot of water on a low fire. I made him think I was good. Saved some kids if I had to, but all for the long con, of course. I played the long game. Bought him dinner. He so loves eating, this one. Fixed his clothes. Fed some ducks. Made him think I was kind – makes me wanna puke, really, disgusts me.”

Aziraphale’s face contorts, but Crowley doesn’t look away. This is, perhaps, just what Crowley deserves: to see the pain he’s choosing to cause. To be present with it in this room. To take it with him, to live with it, for eternity. 

Just as well. If he hadn’t done all that he’d done, they wouldn’t even be here, Aziraphale wouldn’t be getting hurt. Not like this. 

“No,” Aziraphale denies him once more. 

Crowley briefly closes his eyes. Why is Aziraphale making this even harder? He opens them, looks Aziraphale in the face, looks at his eyes, his mouth, and fires again. 

“It was all a ploy. To make you fall for me, fall from Heaven. To parade you around Hell as my little bitch. It’s like you said, angel, we’re the bad guys. And I’m just brilliant, aren’t I? Just so fucking good at temptation, aren’t I? I said I’m in love with you and you believed it. Like the gullible idiot you are. I said use me, and you did.”

There’s a – Crowley nearly breaks down. There’s a tear sliding down Aziraphale’s right cheek. 

It’s done, then.

He stops talking. 

While Aziraphale does a quick wipe past his cheek, Crowley wills all his emotions down to his contracting stomach like a self aware volcano.

The Metatron is still looking at him.

Crowley hardens his face. He says, “You meant nothing to me.”

A tiny whimper escapes from Aziraphale’s mouth, and the Metatron nods approvingly at Crowley. The confirmation of a holy devil’s pact. Aziraphale will be safe.  

Crowley lowers himself down into his seat like he’s on autopilot. He ignores Jesus staring at him, ignores the silent eyes of the whole room weighing him down. He merely looks at his own hands and wishes to be back in his cell, facing unhappily-ever-after rather than having to see any more of Aziraphale crying. 

It’s the Metatron who speaks first. He addresses the jury stand. “Well, since the accused has confessed, I fear you, dearest members of the jury, are no longer necessary. He is guilty, we’ve all heard it with our very own ears. It’s now up to us as a heavenly society to guide our great leader Aziraphale in his next steps in his career. We’ve come together to ward off the evil of the demon Crowley and we have saved Aziraphale and will continue to support him.”

Crowley feels bone-heavy sick. 

“Now you, Aziraphale,” the Metatron addresses him, and Aziraphale has managed to wipe his face enough to look up. “Of course you get to decide on the filthy demon’s punishment.”

Crowley winces as they lock eyes. Aziraphale, of course, knows he isn’t actually immune to holy water. But Crowley doesn’t think the angel would go for a punishment as harsh as that, he’s not in favour of the death penalty.

What will it be then? Rotting in his holy cell forever? Sentenced to wear pastel colours for eternity? 

Doesn’t matter. There’s nothing anyone can think of that’ll hurt Crowley more than what he’s done just now. 

Aziraphale looks at him thoughtfully. Then, he opens his mouth, his words coming out shakily.

“I’ve reached my decision,” he announces, and the quiet in the courtroom is almost palpable. 

The angels in the gallery are leaning closer so they can hear every word.

“Well, I – I mean, I am the judge here, and also, the — I’m afraid I’m also the victim.” Aziraphale’s face briefly crumples again, then recovers. “So I’m not really, err, objective. But can one ever be objective when hearing about a terrible deed, I wonder? Not… Not relevant, sorry.”

He looks at Crowley. Seems to collect the last bits of bravery in his body. 

“I’m afraid I have no choice but to let him go.”

“What?” both Jesus and the Metatron say, though they say it in very different voices. 

Aziraphale raises his hand to stop the murmurs that have broken out in the room. 

“This is my – my final decision. I can’t condemn anyone for not loving me, I don’t think that’s a – that’s a crime.”

Crowley’s bottom lip trembles. It is a crime, he wishes to say. Not loving Aziraphale? A crime, and a waste. 

“So in the spirit of Jesus…” Aziraphale looks at him.

Crowley swears to Satan, if he’s about to say, I forgive you… He’ll burst out of these shackles and set this place ablaze with hell fire. 

But Aziraphale just stares at him, no other words coming out. Looks at him like he’s numb, and empty, and all of the dictionaries’ words in all of the languages have left his brain. 

“Take him to the lift,” the Metatron takes over. 

Crowley’s guard angel pulls him away. 

————

The lift takes forever to come up, because of course that’s just Crowley’s luck. It must be Hell’s daily Earth coffee run holding the lift up – or, more accurately, down.

There’s nothing Crowley wants more than to just step into his Bentley, drive off to the middle of nowhere, and take a three hundred year nap. Though that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? He deserves to really sit with what he’s done, consciously. Perhaps, he allows himself the notion, semi-conscious. With heaps of alcohol. 

Only Jesus and the guard angel are here to see him off. He’s still shackled. Is he going to have to find some underground welder on Earth to take off these embarrassingly non-erotic handcuffs? Whatever, they’ll definitely assume it’s a sex thing, over believing that Heaven exists.

Jesus, who’s been just as lost in thought as Crowley, now turns to the guard angel. “I need a word alone with my client. You’re dismissed, I’ll see him off safely, thank you.”

The Hulk wannabe crosses his arms. “No, I’ve been tasked with making sure he doesn’t escape and I will not abandon my calling.”

“Are you saying no to Jesus?” Jesus asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Bye,” the guard angel says, and walks off. 

So much for his principles. 

Crowley turns to Jesus – physically at least, not spiritually. He sighs. He has the energy of a wet grocery bag. The last thing he needs is another disappointed speech coming his way. 

But yeah, you kind of get what you deserve, if you disappoint Jesus. It’s a very, very close second to disappointing Aziraphale. 

She waits until he looks her in the eyes, though even that he only barely manages.

“I don’t know why you just did that,” she starts, lifting a hand to silence any protest. “But I assume that you must have had a good reason. Are you ok?”

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

Is he ok? More than that, Jesus wants to know if he is – ok? 

“How can you ask me that?”

“Right, yes, sorry, Crowley. Of course, after that trial…”

He cuts her off. “I’m not even talking about the trial. No, I’m talking about the other one. Yours. I mean, it’s me.” He waves vaguely at his own body. “Do you not remember me?”

“I do,” she confirms. “Of course I do.”

“And yet you still defend me, still ask me if I’m ok… You… forgive me. Yeah yeah, that’s what Jesus Christ does, I suppose, it’s your brand, it’s your thing but… On a very real level. You and me. Why? Just. Why?”

He’s struck. Jesus might be more unhinged than Aziraphale. 

Her mouth softens. She looks at him like one might look at a skittish kitten, and he hates it, and he craves it.

“Oh, Crowley, of course I forgive you for everything. You think I don’t remember? I remember listening to you tempting Judas, overhearing your conversation from behind the door.”

Crowley feels tears spring to his eyes. Not now. He’s been strong for so long. He can make it another five minutes until he’s in the Bentley. 

“I also know,” Jesus continues, “that you purposely left that door ajar. You wanted me to overhear that conversation. You wanted me to know what was happening, so I could run.”

What the Heaven? Crowley swallows hard. The events of that day rearrange themselves in his head. 

“Why didn’t you?” he rasps. 

“It was my destiny — It was God’s will. As you well know, Crowley.” Jesus pauses. “I don’t regret the time I spent with you, and I don’t regret knowing you. Because I know you. You’re good. And you’re kind.”

Years ago, Crowley would’ve shoved anyone saying that against the wall – fine, not just anyone – but now he’s just too weighed down with sadness to react. Because what has kindness brought him? About as much as evil, that’s what.  

He absorbs the impact of Jesus calling him kind with the practice that knowing Aziraphale has given him, and skillfully changes the subject. 

“Are you really going through with all of that Second Coming business, by the way?”

Jesus laughs. “Oh, God no!”

He grins, but then behind her, he spots Aziraphale, and every emotion in the history of the universe crashes back onto him like a building falling on top of him. 

Aziraphale looks like he’s been crying, eyes red rimmed. He walks up to Crowley, bravely, and puts his hands behind his back. Just like the Metatron would, Crowley can’t help but think. He’s now fully Heavenly. As – as intended.  

“Going to Hell, then?” Aziraphale says, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “To brag about the – the temptation of a lifetime?”

Crowley closes his mouth. He doesn’t want this, anything but this. Please. If only the lift would just bloody arrive. 

When the silence lingers, and the lack of reaction hangs between them, Aziraphale changes his tune. Some of the pretences fall. He looks bare. Exhausted. 

“Crowley…. Just tell me.” It’s almost a beg. Sounds like one. “Why? Why…. Last n…” 

Aziraphale glances at Jesus, who’s looking discreetly away, but is of course within hearing distance.

“Why?” Aziraphale repeats, softly. 

The word is like a fist gripping Crowley’s heart and squeezing. This is the sort of closure Crowley can’t give him. Over Aziraphale’s shoulder, he spots the Metatron in the distance. Looking at them with interest. 

Cowley looks Aziraphale in the eyes and reasonably succeeds at not letting any emotion slip into his voice when he gives him the simplest explanation, the one so close-by, the easiest fruit to pick from the tree. 

“I’m a demon.”

It’s what he is, it’s true. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Aziraphale, to his credit, pulls his face back together from almost crumpling.

He takes a step back. The lift dings. 

Aziraphale miracles Crowley’s shackles away. But Crowley still feels the burn of them as he steps into the lift, and watches the doors close on everything they could’ve had.

————

He goes on a bender. Not just a bender. The bender in the history of the universe.

First thing he does is flee London. He can’t live in the memory of them, not with the bookshop so close-by, their parks, their favourite restaurants, he can’t stand it. Not another minute of it.

So he drives as far as the Bentley will take him, with the music turned so loud until it hurts his eardrums, until passers-by swear at him and other cars hoot in anger. He pays them no mind. He’s going to break free, damn it all to Heaven. 

He does a tour of every whiskey distillery in Great Britain. Drinks all of their decades-old special blends. Then he concentrates most of it right back into the bottles and, in many cases, casks. If he forgets to refill one every now and then, well, he’s a demon. He does evil things, he can’t help it. 

After he’s sick of the taste of whiskey, of the sound of Queen, he takes a plane. To Switzerland. Neutral ground! Also the birth nation of absinth. He fills his demonic body with it until his tongue burns with it, burns with the need for more. He feels sick. It’s not even the alcohol. It’s everything. 

He travels to Chicago to binge on Four Lokos, one of his old demonic inventions, deemed “a public health concern” with its combination of caffeine and alcohol. It doesn’t matter. He can take it. So he does. 

He goes down to Mexico to splurge on mezcal. He tastes homemade vodka in underground gay bars. He organises a one man sake tasting week. He doesn’t really have working tastebuds anymore by noon each day, of course.  

No matter. Every place in the world reminds him of Aziraphale. They’ve traveled so many countries. Performed so many blessings and temptations around each other’s orbit, one would almost call it destiny. Not Crowley, no.

The point is, there’s no escape. So eventually, he goes back to London, and finds himself in the Dirty Donkey. He’s drunk out of his mind, and possibly crying over the photo of him and Aziraphale, the one he stole from his case file, when Nina and Maggie find him there. 

They lift him from his chair, and he lets them. It’s high time, yes. It’s time he sobers up and lives with what he did. 

He wakes up with the hangover in the history of the universe.  

Not physically. That part’s easily miracled away. But mentally, there’s a long road to go. One of loneliness, learning to live in a new world without Aziraphale, while the whole Heaven lot fight it out amongst each other upstairs. He imagines Jesus is delightfully cunning enough to postpone the whole Second Coming thing indefinitely. He imagines Aziraphale is a great Supreme Archangel. He’ll get over Crowley, surely. Easy as pie. 

He lets Maggie and Nina feed him breakfast. At least, he sips their coffee and smiles politely. 

He knows he’s not alone. 

But he’s not ready for this. So he tells them, with regret, and leaves for his apartment. 

All the plants are alive, at least that’s… something. Too afraid of him to die, even when they don’t get any water. Too stubborn, too, maybe. He doesn’t even yell at them. He only waters them. They tremble even harder because he’s so quiet. 

He feels a sliver of guilt about it. Whatever, put it on the things-to-feel-bad-about-pile. Though if his plants ever want an apology for yelling at them, that would be a bit much. He’s a demon. 

He goes to lie on his bed, and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t deserve to sleep. But if he stays still enough, maybe he can keep his mind blank. Maybe he can become just a shell. A living breathing chrysalis. Though he’s no butterfly.

If only he can keep his thoughts away. If he lies still.

The doorbell rings.

Well, that’s just his luck, isn’t it? Just about to zen meditate his way out of this ‘being conscious’ thing for another year or ten, when there’s a lost pizza delivery guy just asking for a verbal lashing, or perhaps — if he is lucky  — a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses?

He gets up and drags himself to the door, dressed in demonic jammies. He’s no longer in the leather stage of his self pity party. It’s smelly, old, and, okay, very expensive black fleece. 

He opens the door, then closes it immediately, takes a few big gulps of breath, then opens it again.

“Aziraphale,” he says. His voice comes out relatively steady. “Changed your mind? Celestial jail for me?”

Aziraphale’s dressed in his old clothes, the cream-coloured bookseller’s suit he’s worn for decades now. He looks like, well, like him. And he looks very, very unhappy. 

“Nina and Maggie – they told me where you were,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley forgives them immediately for telling on him. They didn’t know, did they? That he was in danger of being dragged back up to Heaven? Perhaps for a retrial? 

“I’m not very well hidden, am I? In my own apartment?”

“You weren’t here the first few times I rang the doorbell,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s mind travels back to the world tour of misery. He’ll probably be off alcohol for a long time now. Gets nauseous just thinking about it. 

So Aziraphale’s been at his door before, then. He sighs, and lifts his arms, presents his wrists.

“Go on then, cuff me. I’ll come quietly.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in surprise, and looks between his arms and his face, like he’s not sure if Crowley’s joking or not. Apparently coming to a conclusion, he pushes against Crowley’s chest and moves inside, walking through the flat as Crowley follows him. 

“Ah, Muriel’s kept the plants alive, I see,” Aziraphale says, and seeing the look on Crowley’s face, he explains briefly, “I gave them a key”. Aziraphale sweeps through the flat, opening windows here and there, nervously, before returning to the living room and stilling in the middle of it. 

He looks at Crowley, takes him in, seems to be searching for words. 

Crowley’s pretty sure Aziraphale’s gone mad. Barging into his flat like this. 

It’s like looking at a ghost – the memory that’s been following him everywhere, in the flesh. 

“You know,” Aziraphale says, fumbling with his hands. “Crowley. I realised, after you left — I realised when you said, I’m a demon – I mean. I realised what that reminded me of.”

Crowley hasn’t felt this lightheaded since, well, since a week ago when he was still drinking. But still. His legs might collapse soon.

Aziraphale takes a step closer. “Remember when — when you said that to me before? Do you know what — do you know what I’m saying, my dear?”

Crowley’s mouth is dry as a desert. Two parallel tears slip from his eyes, and Aziraphale lifts his hands to swipe them away. The warmth engulfs him.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley nearly trips over the words. “I lied.”

Aziraphale nods, and presses his lips to him, to speak truth directly into his mouth. Crowley needs never taste another thing in his life.