Chapter Text
Mayfair, January 2024
Crowley had survived the previous few months on a mixture of rage, spite, alcohol, and, finally, sleep. Now, after all the time that had passed, all the soul searching and regret, the Supreme Archangel of Heaven was standing on the polished concrete floor of his flat, doing everything he could not to look in the direction of where Crowley was lounging, with a mere simulacrum of his usual elan, on his gold and crimson throne.
Aziraphale had something of a soft glow about his head in the muted light of Crowley’s gloomy flat—a side effect of his new position, Crowley supposed. The angel had always had a little of the sun about him, but this was different. Pretty, but much less charming from Crowley’s, albeit biased, point of view.
Although Aziraphale no longer wore his usual attire, being clad in some snugly fitting dove grey monstrosity that did absolutely nothing for him, Crowley was relieved to see that his eyes were their usual river water colour when their owner did deign to flick a nervous glance his way, not purple, as he had dreaded that they might be. There were things that had changed, though, the angel was thinner, for a start. There was a certain slump of those familiar shoulders that elicited a most unwelcome pang of sympathy within the middle of Crowley’s corporation, an area that was already tense at the unexpected surge of emotion he was experiencing upon being in the same room as his best friend once more. Despite not having eaten for some time now—who needed food when there was alcohol—Crowley felt an unaccustomed wave of nausea wash over him at finding himself in this unasked for situation.
It had all started a mere few hours ago. There had been an urgent pounding on his door, a noise Crowley had initially mistaken for another of his epic hangovers. The rhythmic thumping in his head had resolved stealthily into something other than his heartbeat in his temples when he raised a cautious head from where he lay. He came-to sprawled across black silk sheets where he had fallen, carelessly, after his third bottle of whisky in the small hours of the morning. Crowley elected to ignore the intrusion at first, hoping that if he refused to acknowledge the knocking, whoever it was would do him the very great courtesy of going the fuck away once they realised that he was not to be raised to answer their insistent summons. He wedged his head under his memory foam pillow and swore in every language that he knew when the longed for cessation of the summoning tattoo upon the expensive mahogany panels had failed to come to pass.
Crowley had risen from his bed, snapped a silk robe into existence to cover his nakedness, and stomped bad temperedly along his hallway, planning to regale the unasked for intruder with a stream of well-chosen invective, in English this time.
The words had caught in his throat and died there when he wrenched open the door to find the former Messenger of God and Supreme Archangel of Heaven and his chosen consort, the erstwhile Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, standing hand in hand on the plush carpeting of the corridor outside, an expectant expression upon both of their faces.
Crowley’s first instinct was to say ‘FUCK NO!’ and slam the door on the both of them when Gabriel opened proceedings by sticking a large, loafer clad foot over the threshold, and demanded in his usual loud voice, that they be allowed entrance. Beelzebub, meanwhile, essayed what they clearly hoped was a placatory smile and spoke over their swain to make some attempt at an apology for disturbing him.
Crowley ground his teeth, and passed a weary hand across his face, manifesting his usual clothes from the aether with a quick miracle, fixing his hair and summoning his dark glasses from where they had been flung to lie on the floor of his sitting room once his thoughts the previous evening had become too intense, then signalled to the two supernatural beings that they should come into his flat.
There was no time to regret giving Muriel his address along with strict instructions to come and fetch him if there were ‘any developments’—by which, of course, he meant - should Aziraphale come home. He had gone over to the bookshop on impulse once he had sobered-up from the first several day bender he had spent in the company of a certain Mr Talisker from the Isle of Skye, straight after Aziraphale’s departure. It had been a fleeting visit. Crowley had not wished to spend any time at all within the one place on Earth of which he was fondest, and where he had single-handedly destroyed his chance of happiness with the person he loved most in this or any other universe. Or perhaps they had done that together, he still hadn’t come to a firm conclusion about anything that had been said and done that day. Crowley could not bear to stand on the spot where he had said all those ill-fated things he had pushed himself to come out with on that final morning they had spent together, still less to look at where he had pulled Aziraphale to him and pushed their mouths together in that dreadful parody of a romantic embrace.
The little angel would have passed the information on to this pair of buffoons when they came knocking, looking for Aziraphale, no doubt. They wouldn’t have chosen Crowley in the first instance. No, between the two of them, the angel was the softer touch. Gabriel would have known that all too well, given how kind and tolerant Aziraphale had been when the former Archangel had turned up without a stitch on him the first time.
How Crowley wished he had won that argument, and turned the ungrateful big arsehole loose on the distant moors of Devon. Aziraphale wouldn’t have stood for it though, he knew that. The angel was far too decent and soft hearted to let it happen, even though Gabriel had done nothing, ever, with regard to Aziraphale that warranted the warmth of his reception: the cocoa, cosy clothing, room of his own and endless rather exasperated acceptance of his amnesiac literal absent-mindedness.
With this in mind, Crowley pointed at the sofa, and flung himself into his throne, confining himself to a sarcastic remark about how quickly the two runaways had come back to Earth, then, when this elicited no more than a baffled look from both as they took their seats together, harshly requested of them to inform him what the eternal fuck they wanted from him, and to make it quick before he really lost his temper. When he heard what it was they actually wanted, he had immediately refused it, telling Gabriel that he had a fucking nerve to ask.
After the angel jutted out his chin and stubbornly insisted, Crowley had growled that it wasn’t his secret to tell, or at least not only his. For what they were requesting of him, of them, of the two of them, was to know how they had managed to swap corporations to avoid being annihilated at their respective ordeals four years previously. It seemed that the celestial and infernal couple had tired of touring around the stars and wished to return to make an Earthly home together. They wanted to spend some time enjoying all the material pleasures the world had to offer while they still had the chance. The only sizeable fly in their overly entitled ointment was the ongoing desire of both sides to take reprisals should the pair of them ever return to where they might more easily be found
The request was delivered in a knowing way by Gabriel who had, at Crowley’s initial point-blank refusal, frowned, his face growing dark with an expression more akin to that which Crowley remembered from his time in Heaven as Aziraphale. Gabriel had pointed a stern finger at where Crowley was sprawled, exuding as much insolence as he could manage, on his throne, and proceeded to inform him that were he not to comply with their request, and if he and Beelzebub were ever to be captured, there would be nothing to stop him from telling both agencies everything he knew. The final words were said with such a gleam of triumph in those purple eyes, it took every ounce of self control that Crowley possessed not to give in to the almost irresistible urge to fry the smarmy git with lightning.
Crowley groaned aloud. Of course what he had said to Gabriel in that claustrophobic little room had come back to bite him on the arse. The former Archangel remembered every word, and for once, had exercised what little intelligence was available to him and put two and two together coming to the correct sum of four instances of appearance swapping done between himself and Aziraphale.
“I know that’s what you did,” he said, an insufferable smugness oozing out with every word. He was right, and he bloody well knew it. “It couldn’t have been anything else, since it definitely looked like Aziraphale when we were trying to, uh, reprimand him, and you told me that it was you that was actually there. So, come on, tell us how you did it!”
“Reprimand? Is that what you people are calling cold-blooded murder these days? Heh,” Crowley forced out a bitter little laugh, “S’pose it fits in pretty well with extraordinary rendition. And I note you’re not above a little blackmail. I know you were relieved to be allowed to retain your angel status at your trial. How does all this fit in with your personal code of ethics, Gabe?”
Gabriel merely looked blankly at him at this outburst. Crowley remembered he was talking to an idiot who wouldn’t be acquainted with the notion of blackmail, still less with anything that might be described as ethics, so he leaned forward, removing his glasses to fix the larger being with an unwavering stare.
“What you are doing is considered immoral amongst the humans,” he hissed, “but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything better now you’re yourself again.”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my little Bee,” was the response, and Crowley felt nauseated for an entirely different reason this time. Beelzebub for their part merely smiled up at their partner and performed a little nose scrunch whilst squeezing the hand they had in theirs.
“You two make me sick,” said Crowley. Gabriel merely stood his ground, an obdurate expression on his big, stupid face.
“Okay. Fine.” Crowley, seeing that the angel wasn’t going to back down, gave in. “I can’t tell you right this minute because it concerns Aziraphale, and he’s not here to give his consent, but if we…”
It was at that moment that the current Supreme Archangel had materialised in his flat, the shimmer of effulgence heralding his arrival fading to nothing to reveal in its stead the very solid form of the erstwhile Principality standing awkwardly before the three of them.
He stared at Gabriel, smiled faintly at Beelzebub, then glanced across at Crowley, who quickly rammed his glasses back on to his face the better to hide any emotions he might unwittingly be broadcasting.
“You called me,” Aziraphale said, in a soft, mild voice, then turned his face away so that Crowley could not discern his expression.
“Yeah, I suppose I did,” said Crowley.