Chapter Text
"And that's why, obviously, Freddie Mercury is definitely not in heaven. He's ours," Crowley concluded, kicking open the Bentley's door and staggering out of his horribly misparked car. Aziraphale, making a point of opening the door on his side in a more civil way, just hummed in disapproval. "There's no evidence for that whatsoever," he commented. Crowley snorted and gave the angel a look that said, oh, you and I both know that I’m right, as they walked to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He decided to stop at that, however, as he enjoyed debating with his friend far more than he did actually arguing with him. “Dinner?” the demon suggested instead. Aziraphale mumbled something. “What?” “Hmm, not that hungry.” Crowley raised his eyebrows. Obviously, he couldn't imagine someone ever not being hungry, especially at dinner time. Especially especially Aziraphale, who Crowley had spent centuries with trying to find the best restaurant on the planet. The angel had always had a good appetite, for as long as Crowley could remember.
He tried to recall whether the angel had been as enthusiastic as usual the last couple times they had gone out to eat, and realized that they hadn't done that in quite some time. They'd spent a lot of their time together drinking, feeding ducks, or roaming about obscure bookshops to find additions to Aziraphale's collection. He'd dragged Crowley with him, claiming he needed him because the angel could never say no to pushy store owners, even if they tried to sell him complete garbage. And while that might have been true (Crowley had to politely inform one or two humans to sod off) it had replaced their once frequent dinner meetings. Crowley had suggested dinner a couple of times, he seemed to recall, but Aziraphale had always somehow subtly changed the subject. The demon wondered why. He'd always thoroughly enjoyed discovering new little restaurants with his friend. Maybe the angel had wanted to change things up a little, he supposed.
“You sure?” he asked again. Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s fine, really. I can get something to eat later.” Crowley hesitated for a second.
“I don’t bore you, angel, do I?” Aziraphale seemed almost shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not! Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know, we haven’t gone out to dinner in a while,” Crowley said, for some reason hesitant to ask about it. He felt like an insecure schoolgirl asking her boyfriend whether he still liked her. Aziraphale quickly disregarded it. “Just happens sometimes, doesn’t it? I liked doing something different with you for a change, my dear.” Crowley was reassured, but only a little. Something was nagging in the back of his mind. Something felt off. He tried to ignore it as he entered the bookstore, the angel holding open the door for him. Crowley took off his long black coat in a single smooth movement. Not that he practiced taking off his coat with a casual swirl. Just like he hadn’t practiced sliding it back on again and turning up the collar to look badass. And he definitely hadn’t done that to impress the angel, who, at the moment, seemed too deep in thought to notice any swirly coat activities.
“I found an amazing new restaurant a few blocks from here, angel. It has candlelight and plants and a lot of authentic splintery wood. Very hipster-y, just the way you like it,” Crowley persisted, but Aziraphale seemed distracted. “Hmm? Yes, we can go there soon, my dear boy. I’ve just been quite busy in the evenings, you see, with my new books.” The angel, still distracted, took off his coat. He was wearing a simple, long-sleeved, white shirt underneath. Simple but impeccable, and form-fitting. In fact, so form-fitting that when the angel stretched to hang up his coat, Crowley immediately noticed something. Or rather, a lack of something.
No cute little pudgy belly. The demon stopped in his tracks, frowned, and tried to get a better look at his friend, who apparently hadn’t noticed anything as he turned around and raised his eyebrows at Crowley. “Drinks, dear?” he suggested with a smile, oblivious to Crowley’s puzzled expression. Crowley just nodded mutely and slowly followed the angel to the back room, where old editions and Bibles were stacked on every chair and in every corner in the room. Still unsure about the situation, Crowley cleared some books off the couch and carefully placed them on the floor to not upset Aziraphale. The angel slumped down on the couch with a sigh, popping open a bottle of wine. While he reached for two glasses on the table and poured them both a drink, Crowley took the opportunity to take a closer look at the angel.
He hadn’t seen Aziraphale without coat or sweaters for a while now; the weather had been heating up only recently and the angel tended to cover himself in layers and layers of warm clothing as soon as there was a hint of cold or rain. All this meant that an outfit like the one Aziraphale was wearing now was a rarity. Nonetheless, Crowley was absolutely sure that the angel had lost weight. Aziraphale had never been overweight or unhealthy by any means, but he had always appreciated good food, and in this body, he'd always had a bit of a tummy. It was one of the things Crowley really liked it about the angel, the fact that he would allow himself to indulge a little bit in this way. In many ways Aziraphale was rather strict for himself, but at least he let himself have this. The fact that he appeared to have lost some interest in that concerned Crowley, or at least confused him.
As he was thinking, Crowley suddenly realized that Aziraphale was offering him a glass and he’d just been staring at the angel. A little flustered, he took the glass, but only sipped at it absentmindedly. Uncharacteristically, he then immediately placed it back on the table and turned to Aziraphale. “Angel,” he said, and he felt inexplicably nervous, “When’s the last time you’ve had a decent meal?” Did he imagine it, or did his friend tense up at the words? There were a few seconds of silence before the angel asked, “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? When was the last time you ate an actual, decent amount of food?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I mean… I don’t remember exactly.”
Crowley raised his eyebrows and kept looking at Aziraphale, but the angel had looked away. “This week? Last week? Was it even this month?” he pressed. The angel was quiet, fidgeting with his hands.
“Angel,” said Crowley softly, and put a hand on the angel’s shoulder. He seemed to stiffen under his touch, and Crowley pulled away, but did not back off. He was worried, and he was not going to let the angel off easily, not without some answers. “What's going on?”
“Nothing! I’ve just… I’ve been busy, and working a lot on my new books,” the angel said again, gesturing around him to the piles of his recent conquests, which were indeed numerous, “and I suppose I merely…”
“Forgot to eat?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and did not seem convinced in the slightest. Aziraphale was not amused by his cynicism and his eyes suddenly became guarded. Something in him seemed to snap shut, and Crowley knew he'd made a mistake. “I suppose I did,” the angel said rather pointedly. “Must we talk about this? I told you, we'll go to that restaurant soon.” Crowley was not at all convinced that there was nothing going on, but knew that if he pushed any further, this was going to turn into an unpleasant confrontation.
No need to ruin a nice night, he thought. Besides, the angel can take care of himself- if he says things are fine, things are fine.
So he let it slide.
“What new books are you working on, then, that are so much better than food?” The angel's eyes lit up, and he started talking about a new faulty Bible that he'd found- the epilogue of Job was missing, which meant that in this version, the poor fellow never got his restoration. One could only imagine that instead, for all his dedication to God, he was left with no family, no money, no property, and particularly bad skin. Crowley snorted. “Hashtag relatable,” he said, crossing his legs, but only got a puzzled look from Aziraphale in return.
Crowley didn't mention it again for a while, mostly because summer seemed to have changed its mind and days were colder again. This meant that Aziraphale was constantly covered in jumpers, and the demon couldn't be sure that Aziraphale hadn't gone back to a more reasonable weight. On top of that, he honestly didn't want to confront the angel again when he had so explicitly denied anything was going on. But he knew that they couldn't avoid the topic forever. Aziraphale had stayed true to his word, and they were going to the hipster restaurant that Crowley had told him about. Never in his life had Crowley wished so fervently that the angel would be excited, that he would be his normal, bubbly, frustratingly positive self. As always, however, things wouldn't go exactly as he wanted.
It started out very well. The pair walked in, arms locked, and Crowley could tell immediately that this was the sort of restaurant Aziraphale loved: candles, fairy lights, potted plants, the whole charade. There was live music (which is, as we all know, the best kind); there was a band playing acoustic covers exclusively from the 70s and 80s, which Crowley approved greatly of. Alright, maybe the lead singer was a little too pretty for Crowley's tastes, and maybe he got a little jealous when he saw Aziraphale look the guy up and down, but at least his angel was smiling. There even were a couple of shelves up on the walls with old and worn-out, second-hand books that you could get for a steal. The angel positively beamed when he spotted them, and Crowley had the feeling they would leave here with the Bentley loaded with books. He couldn't stop a smile from creeping onto his face. Maybe Aziraphale had been telling the truth after all.
They were welcomed by a very enthusiastic waiter, who told them that a table was waiting for the “lovely couple”. Crowley didn't bother correcting him, but instead took Aziraphale's coat and pulled out his chair for him without thinking, which earned him a cheeky wink from the waiter. The demon gave him a rather cold look in return, which did not seem to discourage the man entirely, but at least got him to temporarily back off and bother some other unfortunate souls. As Crowley took a seat, he was able to get a good look at Aziraphale for the first time that evening, and he immediately felt his heart sink.
The thing about Aziraphale was that he had always been soft, in every way. He was soft and caring in his empathy for other people, in his mannerisms, in his love. Sometimes, when he looked at Crowley, the demon saw a sort of quiet and gentle affection that he'd never expected to see. His smile was soft, and his hair was soft, everything about him was. And, Crowley thought, his body was supposed to be soft as well. Crowley was the tall and skinny one, he just couldn't help it; he was all bones and sharpness. Aziraphale was supposed to be the soft and pretty one. But looking at the angel now, he was thin. His collarbones were sharply peeking out from under his collar, and when Aziraphale stood up to go to the bathroom, the demon saw that his jeans were too big on him and he even got a hint of ribs underneath the angel's shirt. Crowley folded his arms flat on the table in Aziraphale’s absence and buried his face in the sleeves of his shirt, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as his thoughts were racing. What the hell was he going to do? Ignore it? Confront the angel? Confronting him didn’t exactly go down well last time, but he couldn’t possibly ignore this. Could he? Was it in any way possible that he was misunderstanding the situation? Was he overreacting?
Before he could reach any sort of decision or even calm himself down, he was interrupted by the angel’s return. “Everything alright, dear?” Crowley’s eyes shot open and he jolted upright, stammering, “Y-yes, yes, sorry, just, err… a bit of a headache.” Aziraphale looked concerned and the demon had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Aziraphale, worried for him, in this situation? Preposterous angel, he thought, as his friend took a seat once more. “Nothing to worry about,” he tried to smile. Aziraphale didn’t look too convinced, but couldn’t pursue the issue as they were interrupted by the annoyingly enthusiastic waiter. They ordered, drank their wine, and Aziraphale started rambling about what an amazing little restaurant this was, really, Crowley had outdone himself this time, it was atmospheric, the people were so nice, they had books! The demon couldn't get a word in, and honestly, he didn't want to. He sipped his wine, smirked and nodded, and all the while his heart was pounding as he was arguing with himself about whether he should say something. He decided to wait for the food to arrive. After all, if their serious conversation got interrupted by that waiter, he couldn't promise that the man would survive the night. So he listened to his angel, threw in an occasional comment (more often than not an inappropriate one) and he tried to enjoy how normal this felt.
Then the waiter brought them their meal, and Crowley started to suspect he was just putting the whole thing off. How do I always trick myself, he wondered. Am I that smart? Or just that dumb?
Ironically enough, Crowley was now the one picking at his food. The angel was eating his, but with no particular excitement or enjoyment, and he regularly interrupted a bite to talk about something else. It was making Crowley doubt all his thoughts and he was now very unsure of the situation, but he was eyeing Aziraphale suspiciously as he was talking about some of the books he was going to buy.
“Sherlock Holmes, angel, really? I don’t see what you find so amusing about those books.”
“They’re classics!” Aziraphale protested. “They’re boring,” said Crowley. “Watch House instead, at least that’s an entertaining adaptation.” The angel shot him a look which said that television couldn’t possibly be better than books, and how dare he even insinuate such a thing? Crowley grinned, but felt the smile fade from his face when Aziraphale reached for his glass and the demon could see exactly how pronounced his wrists were. He swallowed as he felt concern fill up his chest with nervous energy, and inexplicably and unnecessarily, his heart rate increased as he realized there was no way around this. He sighed. No more lying to himself, and no more lying to each other.
“Angel,” he said, “Please tell me what’s going on.” Aziraphale almost knocked over his glass. “What?” he said nervously. “What do you mean, going on? What’s going on? Nothing’s going on.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That was real convincing. I’ll never understand how you’re such a bad liar.” Aziraphale flushed red at this, but took a sip of his wine with trembling hands as if nothing was the matter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, putting down the glass. Crowley looked at him in disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re skinny. You’ve never been skinny, ever, in your entire life. In six millennia on this planet, you have never been thin.” He took a deep breath when he saw that Aziraphale was getting fidgety. Easy, calm, don’t upset him. When he started again, his voice was gentler.
“I’m worried about you. I know I’ve said it before and you said there was nothing going on, so I dropped it, but I can’t just let you do this to yourself and pretend nothing’s happening. I just want to help.”
The angel looked away, obviously aware that denying the situation was not an option anymore. He was silent for a while. Crowley didn’t dare say another word, for fear of discouraging the angel from telling the truth somehow; so they sat, and sipped their wine in silence. “Crowley, can we… can we finish our meal and not talk about this for a second?” When he saw the demon’s expression, Aziraphale hastily added, “I will talk about it, but please, can I just think about what I’m going to say? And can we talk about it, somewhere… not here?” Crowley’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly as he finished his drink.
For the rest of the meal, Crowley didn’t say a word, except for the occasional hmm and yeah in response to Aziraphale’s few short comments. When they’d finished, Crowley made quick work of the bill and didn’t allow the waiter to say anything overly bubbly.
They made their way to the Bentley, Crowley opened the door for Aziraphale (a habit that he simply could not get rid off) and got behind the wheel himself. “Where to, then?” he asked. The angel next to him smiled. “Driving back in style, the Bentley will do nicely, just take me back to yours that will be fine,” he sing-songed softly in response. Crowley snorted. “I don’t think there’s a Bentley in that song, originally,” he pointed out, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to care. “My place it is, then, good old-fashioned loverboy,“ said Crowley, and despite everything, he thought he could see the angel blush in the dark.
Once they’d entered his apartment, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had once again started fidgeting with his hands. The demon himself was starting to get increasingly nervous as well, now completely unsure of what he should expect and what he should prepare for. He just hoped, selfishly but passionately, that it wasn’t somehow all his fault. And he hoped, less selfishly but with just as much fire, that he would be able to help. However, he was starting to suspect that the angel was playing for time. Aziraphale was walking around his apartment, unnecessarily pointing out decorations that he’d seen a thousand times before, frowning at a certain rather inappropriate statue, and speaking kindly to his houseplants- an activity that Crowley interrupted as quickly as he could. Ridiculous angel, undoing all his hard work.
The demon finally decided to direct Aziraphale to his couch, and also made the very conscious decision not to pour him more wine- this conversation, no matter how uncomfortable, they would have to have while sober. Aziraphale took place nervously, sitting on the very edge of the couch, while Crowley did his very best to come across as incredibly relaxed. “So,” he said, after a couple second of silence, “You’re welcome to start talking any moment now.”
Too harsh? He’d been patient, and his tone was not unkind- he simply wanted to push the angel a little bit, or he would be quiet forever. Slowly inching towards Aziraphale, Crowley put a hand on his arm. He gave him what he hoped was an encouraging little squeeze, but his friend immediately flinched and pulled away suddenly.
Crowley’s fingers caught on the edge of his sleeve, which slid up to reveal something Crowley never thought he'd see on the angel's skin.
Scars.
They were deep, they were many- some recent, a deep angry purple, and some had faded to a silvery white- and they were meticulous. Neat, straight lines. Far too neat. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Crowley spoke the angel's name. “Aziraphale,” he choked out, voice cracking with shock and disbelief. The angel had gone very pale very quickly, and he pulled away, but Crowley grabbed him by the wrist. His fingers closed around it without problem. Crowley felt how bony the angel's arm was and inexplicably, because he was a demon after all, and demons aren't known for their emotional range, he suddenly felt like crying. But for the angel's sake, he held back his tears and he pushed back his sadness and made sure his face showed only concern.
“Angel,” Crowley said again, softer and more controlled, and he loosened his grip but he didn't let go. He noticed that his angel had gone quite cold and was breathing rather quickly, but he still refused to meet his eyes. “Look at me, please,” the demon pleaded quietly. Very slowly, Aziraphale turned his head and looked at him unsurely from underneath eyebrows that were knit together in fear. Seeing him so vulnerable, so open yet broken, it made Crowley swallow back tears. Again. Bless it, what a night.
“What happened?” he asked insistently, now taking Aziraphale's hands in his own. “It was… I was...” the angel started, but immediately stopped when Crowley shook his head forcefully. “No. Stop it. No more excuses. Not with me,” he said, making eye contact with Aziraphale so the angel knew that there was no way out. Aziraphale pulled his hands from Crowley's grip and looked as if he was about to say something snappy, but he stopped himself and instead buried his face in his hands in despair. Crowley couldn't look away from the angel's scars, his shaking hands messing up his pretty blonde hair. There was something tragically intoxicating about the view; the demon in him almost, almost enjoyed seeing his lovely angel all broken up. Maybe enjoyed wasn't the right word, but he was strangely a little captivated by the sight. Tentatively, he reached out to Aziraphale again, unsure of what he should do but sure that he should do something. He carefully put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Just tell me a little bit, angel, anything,” he said.
Aziraphale let out a very shaky breath and ran his trembling hands over his face. “It’s just...it's been…” Crowley brushed away some of his stray blonde curls, and Aziraphale tried again.
“Since Armageddon… well, since before then, really, but since then even more… I've been questioning them. Below, Above. Sides. And what I've been doing it all for, you know.” He sighed again. “I always tried to do… good things. Or angelic things, at least. Heavenly things. All that. But heaven doesn't do heavenly things. Angels don't do angelic things. And He doesn't always do… divine things. It's all a big sodding mess, Crowley, it's useless. For centuries, I tried to follow orders and I saw them do horrible things. Punish people in the most terrible ways. He is supposed to love His creation, but does He?” The angel shook his head. “I'm not sure, Crowley, I really don't know. And here I am. I do love them, humanity. Not all of them, not after all this time. That really would be a miracle. There are some very unlikable people out there. Americans, especially. But you know, many of them are remarkable, and sometimes I just come across someone so beautiful, so interesting, so fascinating, and then I know that they really are like art. I fall for them every time.”
“Both fallen angels then, at last,” Crowley smiled worriedly, but Aziraphale smiled back, albeit a little shakily.
“I love them, Crowley, but so many of them have been horrendously mistreated by those Above who claim to love them too. I'm on the wrong side, dear boy. A wrong side, anyway. Maybe they're all wrong. Or maybe I'm wrong, too. I simply don't know. But I've been thinking about all the things that I helped happen, over all these years, and it's been weighing me down. None of it even matters. I don't matter.” Crowley wanted to say something, but Aziraphale shook his head again. “And now I'm an angel without heaven to back me up. I'm of no use to anyone. I'm lost, my dear. Just lost. Enough to make one lose one's appetite. Enough to…” He looked down at his arm, but made no move to cover it up. “There were some difficult nights,” he just said. “Some dark, dark nights. Reminded me of the whole Noah debacle.”
Crowley froze. He hadn't thought about that time in centuries. But now that he did think about it, he could see that same look on the angel's face. The pain of humanity heavy in his heart. The humanity he'd always loved, not because he was an angel- most angels didn't really seem to care- but because he was himself. Because he was Aziraphale, and only Aziraphale could love that much. Only Aziraphale could try to take their pain from them by carrying it all with him until he no longer knew that it wasn't his to carry. He blamed himself for all of it, Crowley realized. Always had, for the past six millennia. This could hardly have been the first time he'd felt this way, if Crowley had already glimpsed it during the flood. And he'd never stopped to wonder…
Crowley mentally kicked himself. A couple of times, for good measure. What a bloody idiot he'd been, and what a lousy bloody friend. He suddenly could no longer stop the tears from blurring his view, although he managed to persuade them not to fall. Aziraphale looked rather taken aback and seemed about to say something, but Crowley didn't let him. He threw his arms around his angel and he held him very, very tightly. He didn't say anything. Didn't know what to. Didn't have to. After a couple of seconds, Aziraphale slowly raised his hand and patted Crowley awkwardly on the back. “It's alright, my dear,” he said, his voice a little muffled in Crowley's shoulder. “No, it isn't,” said his friend, finally pulling back but not moving away, and refusing to let go of the angel entirely. His hand stayed in the back of Aziraphale's neck, a little tangled in his slightly unkempt curls. It was not like he was caressing the angel's hair at all, no, it was nothing like that, and certainly not for his own comfort- it was to soothe his friend, that was all. And then, when he saw Aziraphale's expression, so sad and tired and yet somehow still worried, not for himself, but for Crowley after his last remark, the demon just couldn't help himself. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched and their noses brushed, and he exhaled slowly, and he said, “Angel.”
“My dear, are you all right? There's really no need to-”
“Aziraphale.”
Maybe the angel hadn't noticed when Crowley had used his name before (he had been rather upset, after all) or maybe it was because this time, it was quite soft, breathed rather than spoken, but he stopped talking and stopped everything else too. He just brought up his hand around the demon's back and laid it in the back of his neck, softly and reassuringly pressing into his cool skin, and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them a moment later, both their wings had unfolded and they were sitting in perfect mirror image, white wings touching black wings. Despite everything, a single word crossed Aziraphale's mind.
Ineffable.
And he said, “Crowley.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't know. I didn’t notice. I’m really, really sorry.”
“No, dear boy, it's all right.” And he really meant it, too, Crowley thought as he finally leaned back into the couch. He left his wings unfolded, though, mingled with Aziraphale's, curled around the both of them.
“Angel, you're not responsible for their pain. I mean it,” he said when he saw Aziraphale's expression, “I really do. Maybe you're right and Above is as fucked up as Below. Maybe they've jacked up humanity and hurt them and destroyed them more times than they even know. But you haven't. You've been kind to humanity, always, whenever you could. You know you have been. You've been disobeying for a long time, even when you didn't realize it yet. Makes you a bad angel. And guess what? I might be a bit biased, but I reckon bad angels are the best angels.” At this, he shot Aziraphale his best and brightest grin. The angel, though not entirely convinced, at least seemed marginally cheered up. “You really think so?” he asked, with a little smile. “Oh, definitely,” Crowley replied, folding in his wings and putting his arm around Aziraphale, who immediately leaned into him. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,“ the angel whispered, and although through it all he hadn’t cried, his voice now sounded thick with emotion. “And that I tried to lie to you. I didn’t want to upset you, is all. But of course I worried you even more by pretending.” Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, who immediately felt better with the angel in his arms. “Is okay, angel. Just tell me, okay? Because I might not know much, but I do know a thing or two about enjoying life.” Aziraphale let out a soft laugh. “Honestly, Aziraphale,” and that was the third time he’d said his name now, something that he almost never did- but he’d discovered that it felt so good to say, that it was hard to stop, “Enjoy the little things for me, will you? No point in starving yourself. No point in hurting yourself.” Aziraphale winced at those words, but nodded. “Let’s go somewhere great together. You need to rediscover how amazing this world can be, alright? You said yourself, humanity can be like art. So can the world. Let’s go somewhere beautiful, angel, what do you say?” Next to him, his angel snuggled a little closer against him, and Crowley finally felt able to relax. “Alright.”
Crowley smiled.
“Don’t worry, angel, I’ll take care of you.”