Britain, 2008

10:07 p.m

It was cold that long August night.

It should not have been cold. There should not have been goosebumps pricking up Crowley's arms, watching as the fog crept silently over his car. It was as if the world knew that things had changed, the final march towards its end. Irreversible. Relentless.

The basket was in his lap, weighed down with so much malice packed in such a small form. He could taste Hell's scent in the air, made him gag, the foul odor of his Master unmistakable.

"It's nothing personal." His voice trembled, he told himself it was because of the cold. "S just the whole world ending business, you know."

Time ticked by. He felt each second pounding in his ears. Shutting his eyes did nothing. Covering his ears did nothing. He was tempted to smash his car clock, just to stop the incessant sound.

Tick

Tick

Tick

The water churned below, a roaring gush of waves from an unusually wet summer. He had sat here for the last hour, crushed his phone under his foot when it had rang. Regretting it when he realized it might have been Aziraphale. He should call him, warn him, anything. But, his voice had fled, and his limbs were frozen.

Inside the basket, the Antichrist squirmed and sneezed, a tiny, delicate thing that belied the darkness that clung to his newborn skin. He had to do this. He had to.

"If it's any consolation, gonna be soon after you."

His eyes slid over to the thermos sitting in the seat beside him. He had promised Aziraphale to never use it on himself. Had promised never to leave him alone again.

Images filled his mind's eye; of beaming smiles and gentle hands. Let me help you, darling. Please. He shook them away. This was different. This was bigger than Death, than them. "Angel will hate me, but..."

One tiny step. That's all it would take. End it before it even began. The Holy Water would finish the job and the world could breathe again.

And Aziraphale. Aziraphale would be safe.

A wave of nausea rolled over him, clutching the basket tighter to his chest without even realizing it. The Antichrist gurgled, he could not look at him. At the too human eyes, wide and innocent. At the fragile body that would one day annihilate them all.

They would come for him soon. The longer he sat, the more danger he was in. Already they would realize the baby was not where he should be, the American diplomat's wife holding her own son flush to her chest. A normal, human boy, who would be killed with the rest of them in eleven short years.

"I never told Aziraphale the truth." The Antichrist cooed in response. "Could never say it back. Big, bloody coward, huh. That's me." He choked out a laugh, desperately wishing he had the feather with him. One last piece of Aziraphale as he went to the Great Unknown.

"He knows, right? He… he has to know."

It was cold that long August night. And it was getting colder. His breath hung in the air, tiny cracks of ice appearing on his windshield.

A burning pain racing down his spine.

24 years he had waited for this chance. A million things to say, to demand answers, once and for all. Nights staked out in hospital rooms, by car crashes, and still Death said nothing. And now, here it was, at the beginning of the end. Would it be Death that would take him to whatever lay beyond Heaven and Hell? Or were the old rumours true-

There was nothing waiting for him after a douse of Holy Water.

"Ah, Death. My old friend." Recklessness drove him, the Antichrist tucked away in the car, hidden out of sight. Death stood there, headlights falling on the folds of its robes, beauty in decay that beckoned some primal part of Crowley to reach out and touch. "It's been far too long."

The roar of the water was even more deafening outside, spray flecking across Crowley's face and drenching his hair. For a moment they stood there, demon and reaper, precariously balanced on the razor's edge. Death's face shrouded in shadows, but Crowley could feel the fathomless eyes bore into his very soul.

Continue your journey, demon Crowley.

Shuddering, this fiery frost that clawed down his throat and into his heart with every word Death spoke. His back screamed in agony, but he forced himself to stand, forced himself to stare into the dark hood where eyes watched his own. There was nothing to lose anymore.

"N-no," he almost laughed, defiant in front of the being that had caused so much fear for so many decades. "No, don't think I will. Not until we've had a little overdue chat."

Pausing, as if he expected an answer. They had done this dance before, and Crowley knew too well goading it was futile. Perhaps Death would fade out of sight, let Ligur and Hastur finish him off.

But, Death did not move. It simply stared.

And waited.

"Ypres. 1984. You remember? Fucking with Aziraphale's mind like that? See, I always thought you were above sadism, more my lot's thing. I even used to respect you a little."

There was no answer. Crowley's bravado cracked, wavered. The world was slowing, the water trickling to a halt. Air unnaturally thick and heavy, and Crowley swallowed.

"You've been torturing us with that little warning of yours for 24 goddamn years. Thing is though, you're a bloody liar. No one ever came. No one's ever found out. I mean," he stepped forward, a stupid gesture, voice growing louder with every shudder of his heart, "what the fuck are you playing, at anyway? Lying to Hell and then pulling a stunt like that?"

My words were truth. Now more than ever.

Crowley gasped, pinpricks of black appearing before his vision, body subsumed in a frozen lake once more. It did not do well to commune with Death too long; not even demons were beyond its power. Struggling to regain his footing; he had not expected an answer. He could not turn back now, not when Death at last seemed willing to talk.

"E-enough with the riddles! You're as bad as bloody Aziraphale!"

A swell of emotions accompanied Aziraphale's name. He so badly wanted him here, a pathetic longing, but there it was. He could picture Aziraphale's devastation at feeling Crowley's presence no longer, at finding the abandoned car and empty flask.

Could he really do that to Aziraphale? End it all without giving him a chance to help? Without facing it all down together, as they swore they always would?

Without telling him…

"Why are you here? Huh? To try and stop me?" His hand groped for the cool steel of his car, heart hammering in his ears. Death was getting closer, his knees hitting the bumper, shielding the basket as best he could. "All I gotta do is take one little step and that's that. You gotta take the kid and it's over! Better luck next time!"

Do I?

Ice filled Crowley's veins, an entirely different panic strangling him. Defiance there, hidden in that soft voice, puncturing him a thousand times over. It couldn't be. Death had rules, had always followed them. You wear human skin, you were its to take. Demon. Angel. Antichrist…

"You can't want this…" his voice shook, did not bother trying to pretend it didn't. "I know… I know you're one of the damn Horsemen but you can't want this to end! You'll have-you'll have no purpose! They'll all be dead!"

How the mighty had fallen. Begging Death, as humans always did during their last precious moments. Was this how Aziraphale had felt, small and alone, as mustard gas had filled his lungs? Had he begged Death for mercy, too?

A glimpse of pearly bone and bottomless eyes, unchanged in all their thousands of years. Death was reaching out to him, that chill sinking down to Crowley's very soul. "You b-broke the r-rules for Aziraphale… and-and me… you… you…" He tried to raise his hands, to snap away, to call Aziraphale. Frozen in place, the world was fading.

"D-don't-"

Darkness swallowed him whole. An endless ocean, dragging him beneath its cruel waves. Cold, cold, freezing him from inside out, leeching his life away. He could not see. He could not breathe. Twisted and pulled and overcome.

The path you seek is narrow. And it shall strip you bare.

He was flayed. Every limb held taut, a thousand chains. Aziraphale was crying out for him, begging him to come back. But, there was no Crowley. There was only fear, a gaping void that was all-consuming.

But, there is triumph in destruction. Rebirth in annihilation.

Aziraphale was laughing now, warm and filled with joy. Something struggled in the darkness, shards of light, aching to reach out. Skeletal hands cupped his chin, a frigid breath that sucked him dry.

One chance, demon Crowley. Heed my words. There are faces hiding in plain sight. There are enemies that can give you time.

Heed my words, demon Crowley.

And you shall have your victory.

! ! !

The ground was wet against his cheek.

He inhaled sharply, feeling the spray from the river once more against his skin. The Bentley purred behind him, lights illuminating the still forest ahead. Limbs quaking, hands clutching at the solid ground beneath him. Death was gone, but the chill remained, icy fingers squeezing his heart.

His back was seized up; an agonizing, fiery pain that made clambering into his car difficult. The Antichrist was red-cheeked and whimpering, chubby arms wildly reaching towards Crowley's scarf.

He knelt his forehead against the steering wheel, deep, shuddering breaths, as if to check he was really here. Death had taken him somewhere, just like in Ypres, somewhere no other demon had ever come back from.

Crowley was sure that a third trip would be permanent.

Where it had taken him he did not know. He could still hear the faint echoes of Aziraphale's laughter, the frigid words seared into his mind. "You're a right bastard, you know that?"

There was no answer. Only the faint hum of the engine, and the tiny cries for Crowley's attention.

He turned to his new Master, who would soon demand Crowley's unfailing loyalty, demand he turn his back on the world. Raising his hand over his little chest, swallowing at the wide eyes that stared hopefully up at him.

"Can't let you do it," he whispered, eyes burning despite himself. His sunglasses were gone, he could feel the sheer power that lay in that innocent gaze. "They don't deserve it. Damning them is one thing, but you're going to destroy them and-"

He thought of Aziraphale. Thought of the impossible that had bloomed between them these last 60 years. He thought of Armstrong, and Da Vinci, and even that old sop Shakespeare. The little old lady who lived down the hall. The mischievous boy he had watched turn into a shady lawyer.

All of them. All of them.

Gone.

A tiny fist curled around one of his fingers. The gaze was somber, eyes that seemed to know far too much. There was darkness here, impossible to miss, and Crowley was compelled to bow his head.

"Not gonna let you do it. Especially… especially not to Aziraphale."

A great swell of emotion encompassed him, those millions of stars shining from deep within. The fist tightened around his finger, and Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

A weight settled into his pocket, a phone that was in perfect working order once more. The world seemed to shudder, slip back into place, and the numbers on the clock flipped to the new hour.

9:00 p.m.

One chance, demon Crowley.

One chance.

! ! !

Aziraphale's glass was full.

Stifling in this tiny room, shuttered away from the chaos of a London night. The white feather was in Crowley's lap, spindly fingers tracing the soft edges, vestiges of holiness irritating his skin. A weaker being would bring the feather to his lips, let tears fall unabashed.

Crowley was not weak.

He wasn't.

Aziraphale was still. So very, very still. Eyes locked into some distant corner of the universe. Crowley had expected anxious pacing. Drowning himself in drink. A titter of nervous laughter. Something.

Crowley downed his own drink, a cheaply made beer that did not deserve its expensive price. He could not bring himself to open up his prized collection of spirits, even as time slid away. There was time to drink them, when all this was fixed, when they could toast to thwarting Heaven and Hell at last.

"Look. Look, I have a plan."

At long last, Aziraphale creaked to life. Gazing up at him from Crowley's elaborate throne, a more modest replica of the one he showed the world. A smile, barely there, but it made Crowley's heart swoop with false hope all the same.

"I know, darling. You always have a plan."

He swung himself off the desk, careful not to disturb the old projector, the feather returning to its silk cushion. He needed to move, limbs threatening to splinter if they were held still for one moment longer. Aziraphale's eyes watched him, the flask of Holy Water clutched tightly to his chest.

"I'm expected to influence him. They were pretty fucking explicit about that. Imbue him with evil tendencies, make him hate the world, the usual bullshit." He teetered for a moment, grabbed a cigarette from the ether, neglected to light it.

"…I have to do it."

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered shut, a long, deep inhale. "Of course. He'll need to get Hell's influence from somewhere. It's better coming from you than your… colleagues."

"Exactly! Exactly my point!" The flicker of hope sparked once more, despite his best intention. A bottle of beer in his hand that certainly wasn't there before, and he gulped down as much as he could. "There's darkness in him, a lot of it, but it's not enough. He's human more than anything! Especially now. Just a kid. And what are humans best at?"

A pause, as Aziraphale's eyes searched his own. He silently begged for Aziraphale to understand, to see his logic, see that they could do the impossible and stop this whole thing. "They're rather good at thwarting our influence."

"Yes!" The cigarette snapped in half, faded into dust. He crowded over Aziraphale, felt the warmth wash over him, chasing the remnants of Death away. "They can choose to follow us or not! The one good thing She did."

Aziraphale's face wavered, stoicism giving way to something delicate and desperate. "You mean… you'll show him all the good of the world? Counteract the evil?" A hand crept up to his chest, something heavy laced in those words, something Crowley could not swallow. He shoved such thoughts away. This was no time to let Hell win.

"Not me, angel. You."

"Me?" He chewed his lip, traced little shapes over Crowley's ribs. He could see the desire, the broken longing to embrace Crowley's words. "Crowley… my last… task as it were, is to guide as many human souls to the Light as possible. Focusing solely on the Antichrist could invite scrutiny we cannot possibly afford."

They were eye level now, Crowley's knees sticking out at odd angles. Gold dusted cheeks and long curly hair, a sight he had taken pains to memorize with each dawn tangled in each other's arms. Deflated, as he always was after a visit from Above, that bright flame that drew Crowley near smothered and hidden away.

He brushed a thumb over plump lips, felt them open without protest beneath him. "Think about it, Aziraphale. An angel, smack in the middle of London, with all this damn knowledge in his collection, and a whole damn business that humans come to everyday. Perfect base to influence them all without having to leave your front door."

Aziraphale did not reply, still staring at him with rapt attention. Trust there, unblemished trust, and Crowley could not help but let his hand cover his pulse. A heartbeat under his fingers, strong and steady, his, all his.

"We could get started now. Right now." Voice filled with brazen hope, the reckless delight of a plan coming together. "You could become a tutor. Kids, adults, teenagers, whatever. Spread good and morality and all that fucking rubbish.

"And maybe there's a boy. Brought there by his nanny." His other hand came up, cupped Aziraphale's head, silk curls sliding over his knuckles. "He's bloody terrible in history and literature. Teachers seem to hate him, always give him bad marks. He needs lots of attention. Years of attention."

Aziraphale's eyes widened, lips falling open with realization. He could see it, he could see it. Crowley's heart quickened in tandem with the pulse under his palm, fingers tightening in his hair. "It wouldn't be as though I was focusing only on him. Heaven couldn't-couldn't possibly object to sowing seeds of goodness in the Antichrist… along with all the other humans… that's not interfering with their Plan…"

"Exactly, angel. Isn't their grand plan to win? And what better way to win against Hell than corrupt the Antichrist?"

The world was unfurling before them, a path surging ahead, and they could take it, they could claim their victory…

Except.

Except the light in Aziraphale's eyes dulled.

And his smile began to fade.

"But, they know you, Crowley." He let out a sharp breath, it trembled in the air. "Michael mentioned your name specifically when she came tonight. And Hell… well, Hell certainly knows me." Crowley swallowed; he knew all too well. "It is one thing to try to lead the Antichrist to good, quite another to let my supposed enemy around the very people I'm to be saving for years."

He gave a strained smile, pierced Crowley's heart in two. "They'll expect violence, darling. They both will."

Crowley slid down, down, down, unspooled as their glorious path was abruptly shut. They would expect violence, at such a critical moment as this, both sides girding for their final triumph. He collapsed in a heap, head resting on Aziraphale's knees. A hand in his hair, steady strokes from quivering hands, and he clenched his teeth together.

They would be watching closely, more closely than any moment before. He remembered the hunger in Ligur's eyes as the basket was handed over, the unspoken warning that he better carry out every order his Master demanded.

Ligur was not Hastur. He would see the brimming feelings between them, feel that forbidden word that strung two hearts impossibly together. They could not keep up the act, not for years and years, not when they were watching every move, every breath…

There are enemies that can give you time.

"Wait. Wait."

Death rarely spoke. He could count the number of words it had uttered over thousands of years. And yet, tonight, of all nights, it had come. Had taken Crowley away, had cupped his very essence in its hands and whispered frigid words in his ears.

And it had never lead them astray. Never.

He launched to his feet, pacing round and round, and Aziraphale nearly joined him, half out of his seat, eyes not quite daring to hope.

"We don't hide."

"What?!" Aziraphale was fully on his feet now, very nearly dropping the deadly thermos. "Crowley have you quite lost your mind? You know what they'll do to us if they find out!"

"Yesterday yes! But, not today. Not tomorrow." Hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, jittery nerves jolting in his gut, in his heart, but he knew this was it, he knew this was the answer. "You were right about Death's warning, angel. Satan, you're always right, I just didn't see it!"

A strange look flitted across Aziraphale's face, and he tucked the Holy Water out of sight. A long, quiet exhale, words spoken softly, far too softly. "Did you see Death tonight, Crowley?"

Had it been yesterday, had it been a few short hours ago, Crowley would have noticed. Dangerous ground he was treading on, a flicker of righteousness in Aziraphale's expression.

Instead, he plowed on further, excitement colouring his voice. This was the answer, it was! "Yeah, yeah, it came and spoke to me. It all makes sense now, angel, don't you see? It said we can't hide forever. You said Armageddon would force us out into the open. And what if we did?"

Silence. It mattered not. Crowley was lost, a bundle of hands and legs that could not keep still, could not contain at last finally cracking the code.

"They want victory at all costs. No, not just that, they want to crush each other. Completely. And we could use that! Use their own bloody arrogance against them!" He was grinning now, manic, every nerve alight. "And what's the biggest fuck you to the other side? Winning one of their own! We're tempting each other, trying to win the crown jewel, it's perfect, it's perfect!

"It would explain everything to them. Why we're hanging around each other, why we seem to l-like each other." The truth burned on his tongue, an acid he could not swallow. "And for you it's even better, a real two-for one. Antichrist and demon, just imagine the look on that- Michael's face."

Finally, he looked at Aziraphale, standing there, rubbing the spot on his chest where the feather lay hidden out of sight. He wobbled on the edge of something, chewing his lips, every word spoken slowly, carefully. "If we misinterpret this-"

He could not bear to say the rest.

He gathered Aziraphale's hands in his own, pulled them as close as could be. Their hearts beat in harmony, as was so often the case these years. "You said yourself they would find out eventually."

Aziraphale swallowed visibly, but his gaze never wavered. "I know. And I know we have been bracing ourselves ever since, but this could go terribly wrong terribly quickly, my love. Are you… are you absolutely sure?"

He hesitated. A moment. A second. This was a gamble, a gamble they could never come back from.

One chance.

"Death said, 'there are enemies that can give you time'. And that if we get this right… we'd be victorious."

"Over what?" A whisper, a hush, here in this room, stuffed full of all their memories.

"Dunno, angel. The Apocalypse? Them? What other enemies do we have." Phantom chills pricked his skin, ghostly laughter rang in his ears. Death was helping them, that much was clear. Crowley still did not understand why, wasn't sure he would like the answer.

But, there was no time to dwell. Not anymore.

A deep, steadying breath. He did not want to speak these words, did not want to sign his soul away. Aziraphale's very existence rested in his grasp. One mistake, one mistake…

"I'm sure about this, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Gripped his hands ever tighter. "Alright then. I trust you."

The weight of those words settled over Crowley, stitched into his skin. Don't let me be wrong about this. Please don't let me be wrong about this.

Foreheads pressed together, Crowley could feel Aziraphale's delicate lashes sweep his cheek. A moment, where they simply existed. Eleven years. Their lives together had barely begun. Barely scratched the surface of all that they were, all that they could be.

God was cruel. But, Crowley had never let that stand in his way before.

"I felt time shift tonight, you know," Aziraphale breathed.

Ice slid down Crowley's windpipe.

Aziraphale pulled away, cold rushing in to claim the empty space. A thermos in his hand, a face stretched taut with worry and betrayal. "There was nothing foolishly considered with this, was there Crowley?"

The guilt that had been lurking in the corners of his heart swelled, cascaded over him. He could not lie, not tonight, not when there were so few opportunities left to atone for his sins. He crossed his arms, crossed them tight, very much wishing his eyes were not uncovered. "Nothing happened. 'm here, aren't I."

How could he explain the fear that gripped him? The desire to keep Aziraphale safe, no matter the cost? How wrong it was, to stare at such an innocent face, but feel the malice that tugged at his instincts and know, know that it was only Crowley in that moment who could stop it all before it even began.

Aziraphale's expression softened, the guilt slammed into him harder. "I was frightened myself. I still am, and I know you are too."

Crowley averted his gaze, it was hard, even now, to be so utterly exposed. "I'm not scared." Aziraphale's eyebrow raised, Crowley clenched his teeth in response. "I thought if I killed the kid… Death would take him. Course Hell wouldn't like that so…. I had my insurance…"

"Crowley…"

"I didn't want to do that to you, but-"

"But, you felt you had no choice." He exhaled, long, and slow, filled with a heaviness Crowley wished he could fix. "If I'm honest, I cannot say I wouldn't have done the exact same thing. Have done the same thing, haven't I…"

Crowley remembered. The fire, the screams, the anguish at realizing Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Millenia ago and he still couldn't stand to dwell on those wretched memories, still fresh, still jagged.

Aziraphale closed the gap, eyes locked onto his own. Even now, with panic suffocating them both, he could not help but be mesmerized. Beautiful, he was always so beautiful. Courageous, even when the odds were stacked against them.

"There is nothing more important than you." He took Crowley's hands, so gently, so carefully, curling his fingers around the thermos, and Crowley could only watch in astonishment. This thing, this damned thing that had caused so much strife, and here Aziraphale was, placing it in his hands after…

"Angel-"

"Crowley, I love you. And I understand why you nearly did what you did tonight." He leaned closer, brushed their noses together. Hand over hand, skin on skin, as the thermos pulsed with holiness between them. "But, if we go, we go together."

Crowley's throat burned, bright and hot. Hard to swallow, hard to blink back the wetness in his eyes. He tucked the thermos out of sight, cradled Aziraphale's face in his hands. Eight years and he had never been able to say it, but now was the time, now was the moment.

"Aziraphale you… you know it's…" His instincts screamed and raged, but he would not let them win, not this time. "It's the… same… it's… I feel… always, from the beginning… you have to-"

Soft lips covered his own, swallowing those feeble words. He pushed his confession into the kiss, drank the absolution and forgiveness Aziraphale so freely offered.

"It's alright, darling. I know."

"I know."

A/N: First off, a huge apology for the months long lack of updates. Life got busy in ways I didn't expect, and unfortunately shows no signs of slowing down. I've rejigged my outline to have shorter chapters and hopefully quicker updates. As well, I've started a companion piece to this story, called "Hourglass" that's a compilation of missing scenes, so if that sounds interesting to you, it's listed on my profile! Thank you all so much for the reviews, comments, and follows, and most of all for your patience!