neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: February 20th, 2000
Setting: Aziraphale's room
Status: Private - Aziraphale and Crowley
Summary: Michael Falls, and there are consequences.

They were lying in the angel's bed, languidly enjoying a golden afternoon. Aziraphale was sitting, back against pillows, humming contentedly with a book in one hand and the other stroking Crowley's hair. The demon, lying stretched out with his dark head conveniently in Aziraphale's lap, was dozing, making occasionally murmurs of assent with his eyes closed as Aziraphale pointed out this or that or read out an interesting passage.

It was, all in all, a great scene of unique and peaceful love.

He'd just begun reading out a new section of a discussion on Rambaldi when Aziraphale felt it. A tiny sliver of dysfunction, of chaos and pain. It grew in his mind and stomach, almost inevitably, and he began to feel quite ill, sweat beginning at his forehead.

"My dear," he said, nudging Crowley urgently, as the nausea welled up. "My dear, wake up. Something's wrong."

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"Indeed," Aziraphale said thoughtfully, studying Crowley's face. He stroked the demon's black hair with a slow hand.

"At least everyone's here, too. If it weren't for the Manor, and Adam of course, he would be a little bit worse off. As it is, here he can be taken care of until he adjusts. Which is more than anyone else ever had, I should think." He glanced at Crowley worriedly, and then closed his eyes and sighed.

"I wish you had had me then."

Crowley rolled off of Aziraphale and lay on his side facing away from the angel. There was a little too much honesty going on for him to be entirely comfortable, especially since he tended to totally avoid this subject at all other times.

"I wish I did too, angel. Then again, I don't. If you'd been there, you'd have Fallen, too, and then neither of us would be good for anything."

Aziraphale's voice was firm, even if disappointment settled on his face.

"I know. But, Crowley," and he turned Crowley's jaw so the demon could actually see him, "I will not Fall.

"So stop speaking as if it is ineffable. Please."

"I'm not speaking of it as ine... inevitable. I only said that if you had been there you would have been one of the Fallen and not you at all. Therefore you wouldn't have been able to comfort anyone."

Crowley looked into Aziraphale's concerned eyes. "I believe you. Just... you know... Him first..." He tried to not to look hurt at the necessity of this.

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, my dear, do us both a favour and shh." He kissed him to soften any insult in his manner, and then simply kissed him for the sake of kissing Crowley. Which, as Aziraphale knew by now, was extremely nice.

A clatter in the hall disturbed them; banging and the sound of someone sobbing. Aziraphale was out of bed, opening the hall door and peering outside, Crowley behind.

Michael would be heartbroken.

But it wasn't Michael crying and tearing up a storm. It was... "Raphael," Aziraphale said quietly, watching his faint halo as the angel disappeared into his room and slammed the door.

He looked back at Crowley, feeling frozen as he tried to speak. "It wasn't Raphael who Fell, my dear, it was Michael."

Lips forming the name just as Aziraphale spoke it, Crowley sank to his knees, heavy with shock. Michael - the commander of the Host, the finest warrior that Heaven had, the expeller of Lucifer himself - had just Fallen because of a misguided love for a manipulative healer. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he sat, head bowed with the weight of the knowledge. With Michael fighting for Hell, given his abilities and six millennia's worth of knowledge of how Heaven's army functioned, would that be all that Hell needed to win the war once and for all? And how had Raphael escaped the sword with all the sins he'd committed lately?

Crowley reached blindly for Aziraphale and gathered what he could reach into his arms, which turned out to be the angel's knees, but he held onto them like a drowning man to the last life preserver.

"Angel," he whispered. It was all he could think of to say.

Aziraphale was twisted, watching the bedroom door shake as Raphael raged inside, and then he saw Crowley sink down, and all attention to Raphael and Raphael's problems disappeared.

He leaned down and picked Crowley up, dragging him to his feet. "My dear," he whispered back, as Crowley clung to him tightly, and he wrapped his arms around him too.

There was silence, and Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, feeling sadness weigh upon them.

"I don't want to see Michael as a demon," the angel whispered again. "And I want you to be careful with him. He'll be strong and upset, and it won't be good."

"It wasn't good when he was an angel, either. I fail to see how this can be any worse," murmured Crowley as his shoulders started shaking. Even he wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying. "Though I can't think of anyone who deserves it more. Apart from Raphael." The memories of his wounds at Michael's hands momentarily overtook him and he shuddered.

"And now I have to write a letter to Down Below to take the credit for his downfall and show them what a bad little demon I've been." He sighed as he held Aziraphale. "Why's it all so fucking complicated?"

Aziraphale kissed him. "I don't know, love. I don't. But I think you ought to be writing that letter, then, before anyone else hears and tries to take credit."

He stood still, in their embrace, and then sighed. "Up Above won't be happy at all. I might end up with Assignments, or be Recalled." He frowned.

Aziraphale broke away to go to their room, and then paused to look back at Crowley. "Coming, my dear?" he said, smiling a little nervously.

Crowley looked back at him, at the wistful little smile, and the endlessly blue and sympathetic eyes, and sagged slightly.

"Not just now. You're right. I really ought to go and write that letter."

He indicated the next door over with a nod.

"I'll be in there if you need me. And I'll... I'll come visit afterwards... if you don't mind."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, and kissed him quietly. He couldn't seem to stop it, this kissing thing, and his poor self-control in such things was not being helped by Crowley, who looked exhausted already.

The angel nodded, then, and left Crowley standing there with only a last parting glimpse at Raphael's door across the hall before shutting the door.