Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Crowley, you see, I… I have some incredibly good news to give you." Aziraphale exhaled, a nervous laugh escaping his lips, betraying his inner tension.

"Really?" Crowley raised an eyebrow venomously. He stared at the angel, trying to read in his shining eyes what Metatron had said that had Aziraphale so enthused.

"I... um…" Aziraphale was visibly nervous, his fingers fiddling with his waistcoat buckle, his gaze constantly slipping away, unable to bear the piercing yellow stare. "So, um… the Metatron, you know, I don’t think he’s as bad a fellow--" Hearing the name, Crowley's face twisted into a grimace mixing instant anger and bitter incomprehension. "Well, I think I might’ve misjudged him." Aziraphale gestured as if trying to sculpt his arguments out of thin air. "You see, I-- Well, he said, um, that Gabriel obviously hasn’t worked out as Supreme Archangel and Commander of the Heavenly Host, and he asked me who I thought should take over in Heaven. I said Michael, but he laughed and said it was me. I was utterly bewildered. He said I’m a leader, that I’m honest and don’t just tell people what they want to hear, which is why, in his opinion, Gabriel came to me in the first place. I initially said I wasn't very keen on returning to Heaven, because there's nothing there that I like, but he said that, as Supreme Archangel, I would be able to decide who to work with, and that the fact you and I have worked together for so long could help us if we ever decided to work together again in Heaven... and I can restore your full angelic status.

"He said what?" Crowley breathed, and his voice held not so much confusion as a premonition of impending catastrophe.

"He said I could appoint you to be an angel," Aziraphale smiled, and the smile was full of such touching, naive faith that Crowley's heart ached. "You could come back to Heaven and… and everything. Like the old times. Only, even nicer." He couldn't suppress another happy little laugh, not seeing the demon's darkening expression.

“Right. And you told him just where he could stick it, then?" Crowley's voice became low and dangerous.

"Not at all.” Aziraphale's smile faded, not understanding why Crowley wasn't sharing his delight.

"Oh," Crowley began, his shoulders tensing. "We're better than that, you're better than that, Angel. You don’t need them. I certainly don’t need them!" Aziraphale's smile was melting away, like wax under a candle flame. Crowley paced the room, his movements sharp, jerky. "Look, they asked me back in Hell, I said no. I’m not gonna be joining their team. Neither should you.

"But… Well, obviously you said no to Hell, you're the bad guys," Aziraphale's tone became more serious, a note of mild reproach entering it. "But Heaven... Well, it's the side of truth, of light, of good."

"When Heaven ends life here on Earth," Crowley hissed aggressively, turning to him, "it'll be just as dead as if Hell ended it." Aziraphale looked at him with genuine incomprehension, unable to reconcile the image of the 'side of good' with such cruel plans.

"Tell me you said no," Crowley demanded with a growling fury. Aziraphale merely looked down. "Tell me you said no!" Crowley's tone began to crack, real fear sounding in it, and he took a step forward, closing the distance.

"If I'm in charge..." Aziraphale's voice was as soft as ever, but now that softness grated on the ear, like mockery. "I can make a difference."

"Oh, God. Alright. Okay," Crowley started pacing again, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Let's say, in some hypothetical future, I agreed to go with you to Heaven. But what about the children? Who would look after them? Or would they come with us?"

"Speaking of the children," Aziraphale looked around, as if only just remembering them, "where are they?"

"They're in the car," Crowley replied, stopping and fixing him with a stare. "I decided to take Hannah to the amusement park, to take her mind off the horror she had to go through today. We were just waiting for you." Crowley waved a hand towards Aziraphale. "But back to my question. What would you do with them? They're half-demons. You of all people should know that Heaven has always hated anyone who's the least bit different." A flicker of fast, but recognizable fear crossed Aziraphale's eyes. "If you think Heaven will accept us as if we were always angels, you are sorely mistaken. Even if you make it so our demonic side is hidden, everyone will still know who we really are. They will never accept us into their society." Crowley threw up his hands in a bitter, desperate gesture. "They'll just take our children for experiments, study how to control them. You saw what came of our little shared miracle. They'll be afraid of them. They'll try to restrict their powers when they awaken." Crowley stepped close again, forcing Aziraphale to meet his gaze. "They will do everything they can to ensure they never learn what a normal life is. Okay, the twins, they're still small, maybe it'll be easier for them to get used to Heaven's rules, they don't know Earth. But they need to be fed! What will you feed them in Heaven? And Hannah? She's already used to Earth. She has friends here, a school she loves. It would be unbearable for her there, where she has no place. No wonder she's already spent ten years on Earth." His voice wavered. "Come on, angel. Just the two of us. We don't need Heaven, we don't need Hell, they're toxic. We need to get away from them, just be an us. You and me, what do you say?"

"Come with me..." Aziraphale took a step forward, his voice quiet, pleading. He reached out a hand, but didn't touch. "...to Heaven. I’ll run it, you can be my second in command. We can make a difference!" Tears were glistening in both their eyes now, but they were tears from different sources: Aziraphale's from hope, Crowley's from devastation.

"You can't leave this bookshop! You can't abandon everything we fought for for so long!"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered with painful tenderness. "Nothing lasts forever."

"No. No, I don’t suppose it does," Crowley's voice became flat, empty. He slowly, with almost ritual precision, put on his sunglasses, hiding his eyes—the last bastion he had opened only for him. The gesture, in the silence of their seclusion, was louder than a slammed door. "I thought you really loved me. But for you, it's all just a game. Good luck." He turned sharply and headed for the exit. Aziraphale watched him go, his face contorting with mounting pain, tears now streaming down his cheeks unchecked.

"Good luck?" he whispered, not believing his ears. "C-Crowley!" his voice broke, becoming louder. "Crowley, come back, to Heaven!" he was gasping, his voice trembling and betraying him. "Work with me! We can be together. Angels… doing good! I… I need you!" He shouted the last words, and the cry, full of despair and plea, made Crowley, who had almost reached the exit, freeze in his tracks. Aziraphale had never shouted like that. Never. "I don't think you understand what I'm offering you!"

"I understand. I think I understand a whole lot better than you do." Crowley turned, and his voice was icy and lifeless.

"Well..." Aziraphale's face reflected everything at once: confusion, devastation, genuine pain, but he still tried to smile, and it came out ghastly. "then there's nothing more to say."

"You idiot." Crowley cursed with self-loathing. "We could have been..." He fell silent, swallowing the lump in his throat, considering what word could contain six thousand years of longing, hope, and shared life. "...Us."

He whispered it so quietly it was almost inaudible, but in the silence of the shop, the word hit its mark.

And then, what he had been holding back for so long, happened. Crowley strode back to Aziraphale with a fast, furious step, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of his trench coat, pulling him close, crushing him so hard his bones creaked. His kiss was not a question or a tenderness. It was a verdict. It was an attack. A hard, ruthless, desperate kiss into which he poured all the accumulated pain, betrayal, rage, and that very love which was now being torn to shreds.

Aziraphale jolted in surprise, his eyes widening in shock before closing. His body went rigid for a moment, then went limp, his legs buckling, and he instinctively grabbed onto Crowley's shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold on, to find an anchor in this hurricane. He tasted his own tears and Crowley's desperate fury, and his heart was breaking in two because even in this cruelty, through the bitterness, he recognized the familiar shape of his lips, that unique rhythm that belonged only to them. It was agony, clothed in the form of a kiss.

It lasted only a few seconds, but contained an eternity. When Crowley pulled away sharply, there was no trace of warmth on his lips. He stared at Aziraphale, his chest heaving.

"I..." Aziraphale tried to say something, his fingers trembling as they straightened his crumpled collar. His voice was hoarse, broken. "I forgive you."

"Don't bother." Crowley tossed back, and there was nothing left in his voice. Absolutely nothing. He turned and walked out, without looking back.

Crowley stood by his Bentley, a cold, numb lump in his chest. He saw Aziraphale and Metatron exit the shop, saw them talking about something, but the sound didn't reach him, nor did he need it. He watched only the expression on the angel's face, searching for a shadow of doubt, a sign of struggle. He didn't notice the car door open quietly and Hannah step out onto the pavement. Her frightened eyes darted from him to Aziraphale, trying to understand why they were still here.

When the elevator to Heaven chimed, Aziraphale hesitated on the threshold. His entire being, every cell of his earthly body, strained back towards Crowley. He wanted to hug him and burst into tears, burying his face in his chest, begging his forgiveness for being an idiot, for deciding to return to Heaven, but there was no going back.

And in that moment, he saw her. Hannah. She was standing next to Crowley, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Her small world was crumbling before her eyes.

Aziraphale's heart broke completely. He couldn't bear that gaze.

Silently, head bowed like a criminal walking to his execution, he turned and stepped into the shining emptiness of the elevator.

"DADDY!" It wasn't a shout, but a wail torn from the depths of her soul. Hannah lunged forward, her small body tensing in a desperate dash. But Crowley was faster. He grabbed her from behind, holding her close, catching her in an embrace that was meant to be protection but had now become a cage. "Daddy! No! Come back!" She struggled in his arms, her fingers clawing at the air, trying to reach the retreating figure. Her sobs were silent, making them all the more heart-wrenching—her whole body shook with unbearable pain.

Crowley held her tighter, turned her towards him, and lifted her into his arms. She clung weakly to his neck, burying her tear-streaked face in his shoulder. Her small hands gripped his shirt so tightly they threatened to tear the fabric, silently begging him not to let go, not to give her away, to keep her here, on Earth, with him.

Aziraphale took one last look over his shoulder. He saw them: his demon, holding their crying daughter. The two most precious beings in the entire Universe, whom he had betrayed for the ghost of an idea of 'good'. The elevator doors slid smoothly and silently shut, cutting that picture in half and separating him from his family forever.

The car door slammed shut with a dull thud, cutting off the outside world, which had in an instant become alien and hostile. Crowley carefully settled into the driver's seat, not letting go of Hannah. Her small body was still wracked with silent, hiccupping sobs, she pressed into him with a force that spoke of an animal, primal fear—the fear of losing him, too. He held her tighter, feeling the moisture from her tears seep through his shirt and burn his skin. This physical pain was nothing compared to the icy block squeezing his own heart.

Hannah usually calmed down quickly, but now Crowley realized with horror that this wound was of a different nature. He saw the future, clear as day: long, sleepless nights in the bookshop, where every speck of dust, smelling of old books and coziness, would poisonously remind them of their loss.

'No,' the thought flashed through his head with iron resolve. 'That won't happen.'

The plan formed instantly, like an instinct for self-preservation. Right now—the amusement park, an attempt to distract her. And then… then they would return to the shop, gather the fragments of their former life, and leave. Far away. Start over from scratch, pretending their world hadn't collapsed just half an hour ago.

"Hannah?" His voice sounded unusually quiet, almost a whisper, so as not to scare off the fragile calm.

The girl slowly raised her tear-filled eyes to him. They held such deep pain that Crowley almost groaned.

"Do you still want to go get some air?" She nodded, pressing her tear-damp face to his chest. "To the amusement park?" She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "Then to the mall?" A weak, but affirmative nod followed. "Do you mind if I leave you in the car for a few minutes to get the baby sling for the twins?"

The answer was her clinging fingers digging into his shirt with renewed force. In her wide eyes flashed pure, unchildlike terror at the very thought of him disappearing.

"Okay. I'll go with you," he surrendered without a second thought.

They went inside quickly. Crowley, not letting go of her hand, went upstairs, grabbed the sling, and just as swiftly returned to the car. He seated Hannah in the front passenger seat, buckled her in, his fingers lingering on the buckle for a moment—another small thing that now had to protect her instead of him. "Just at the mall, you'll hold my hand, not sit on my shoulders," he warned, starting the engine. "I can't carry you and the twins." Hannah just nodded, staring out the window. He glanced in the rearview mirror, confirmed the twins were asleep, and pulled away.

The mall greeted them with a deafening, falsely cheerful din. Teenagers, happy about their holidays, seemed to be everywhere. Crowley was immensely grateful it was a weekday and early morning—there were almost no families with children. He couldn't have borne the sight of happy, whole families.

They settled at the food court. Crowley, as best he could, threw out ideas for entertainment, trying to bring a spark back into his daughter's extinguished eyes. Hannah sat opposite, picking at her food without appetite, and without enthusiasm chose the ropes course. Crowley periodically stole fries from her, trying to elicit even a shadow of a smile, but in vain. Bella had settled on his lap, stubbornly reaching for the coveted fries with interest. Had she had a more rebellious spirit, she would have thrown a tantrum, but, failing to get what she wanted, she quickly switched to studying her surroundings. Her large, curious eyes followed a passing balloon figure, a laughing couple, all of this world that was so new to her, and Crowley thought with bitter tenderness how good it was—to be so small as to not understand the scale of the loss. Eden was still asleep in the sling on his chest, his even breathing the only calm rhythm in this chaos.

They ate quickly and went to the climbing wall, next to which was the ropes course. Both twins were in the sling now, Bella on his back, Eden still on his front.

At the registration counter, a young girl with a carefree smile helped them with the paperwork. Crowley answered questions, signed papers, all the while his gaze fixed on Hannah. She was fitted out, instructed, and soon she was up there, slowly but surely making her way along the route.

He stood below, not taking his eyes off her, and every time she stopped to wave at him, a tiny flame of hope kindled in his heart. And it was at that very moment, as she reached the middle of a tricky section, that fate played a cruel trick on them. Eden woke up with a demanding cry, and Crowley smelled the familiar scent that meant urgent business. His heart sank. He quickly found the female instructor, explained the situation, and, throwing one last anxious look at Hannah, disappeared in the direction of the restroom.

It was in that minute that Hannah, feeling a wave of uncertainty, turned to find her father. The spot below her was empty. He was nowhere to be seen.

At first, it was just a cold stab of fear in her stomach. Then—a mounting wave of panic. The air suddenly became thick and syrupy, she couldn't get enough of it. Her heart hammered with a frantic rhythm, pounding deafeningly in her temples. 'Dad's gone. He left, like daddy did. He abandoned me. I'm alone.' These thoughts swirled like a whirlwind in her head. Her legs turned to jelly, her hands sweaty and losing their grip. She froze, clinging to the rope, unable to take a step. The world swam before her eyes, sounds merging into a deafening roar. She tried to scream, but only a choked, pathetic sound escaped her throat.

The instructor noticed something was wrong from her frozen posture and wide, horror-filled eyes. The girl had to climb up and, calming her, help lower the petrified Hannah down. When Crowley, having dealt with the twin, returned to his spot, he was met with a heart-wrenching sight: his little girl was sitting on a bench, shaking all over, her face flooded with tears, her body wracked with silent, hiccupping sobs. A staff member sat next to her, trying to comfort her, but she wasn't hearing him; she was there, in her own personal hell.

"Hannah!"

He ran over and dropped to his knees in front of her, ignoring everyone around. His large, usually so confident hands cupped her tear-damp face.

"I'm here, sunshine, I'm here. Look at me. Breathe. Breathe with me," he spoke quietly, insistently, trying to pierce the wall of her panic with his voice.

But she only shook harder. Her breath catching in short, convulsive gasps. And then, almost despairing, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out the little angel—the very one Aziraphale had sewn with his own hands one of those infinitely distant, happy evenings. He didn't force it on her, just showed it, placing the toy on her lap.

Hannah slowly, as if through great effort, reached out her hand. Her fingers closed around the worn fabric, and she pressed the angel to her chest with such force, as if it could absorb all her pain, all her fear, all the emptiness gaping inside.

"I'm sorry," his whisper was full of self-recrimination and endless tenderness. He pressed his forehead to her hot, wet forehead, closing his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I know how much it hurts you, and I leave. I won't leave again. Never."

"Let's go home," she exhaled, pressing against him. Her voice was weak and lifeless.

Despite the weight of the two infants in the sling, Crowley carefully picked up Hannah and settled her on his hip. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her tear-burning cheek to his. And so, carrying three children, Crowley strode quickly towards the exit, away from this place where even an attempt at happiness had turned into a new nightmare.

When the car softly pulled up to the familiar curb, Hannah was already asleep. Her eyelids were swollen and red from crying, but her breathing was even—a drop of peace in the sea of her grief. Crowley didn't dare wake her. He got out of the car as quietly as if he were afraid of waking not only her, but the ghosts of the past haunting the air.

Crossing the threshold of the bookshop, he froze. The silence, which had once been so cozy, now felt oppressive, had become hollow and empty. He moved through the room like an automaton, packing things into cardboard boxes. Large furniture, several cabinets, tables—he left all that for later, focusing on the essentials: the children's cribs, toys, bedding, a few books Hannah loved to be read before sleep. Every item was filled with memory, and he handled them with caution, as if afraid of being burned.

And then his fingers found it—the old leather album, stitched with gold. He opened it, and happy faces stared back from the pages: Aziraphale, laughing at some fair; himself with Hannah on his shoulders; the first photos of the twins. It wasn't just paper—it was a chronicle of their paradise, their 'forever' that had proven so fragile. With a sharp movement, almost with disgust, he shoved the album into the farthest corner of a cupboard, weighing it down with old bills. 'We'll make a new one,' he promised himself through gritted teeth. 'We'll make a new one, and he won't be in it.'

He carried the boxes out to the car, his hands numb not from the weight, but from inner stupor. Locking the shop, he whispered a spell. The protective ward he placed on the shop wasn't just a barrier—it was a sterilizing field, cutting off the very memory of this place. Let people walk past without even noticing it. Let dust and time do their work.

In the car, he looked at the sleeping children. He felt a wave of nausea at his own decision—to take the children away without asking, without preparing. 'It has to be this way,' he told himself, started the engine, and pressed the gas, taking them away from the ruins of their former life.

The drive took an eternity. Landscapes changed outside the window, city smog gave way to grey suburbs, which in turn yielded to sparse fields and scrawny woodlots. Finally, he turned onto a dirt road leading to their new refuge.

At the entrance, a man introduced himself as Aiden Smith. His face was lined with wrinkles, his gaze calm and somewhat tired. Twenty minutes of jolting along the bumpy road—and they were there. The house stood apart, set away from the others, as if ashamed of its neglect. Just what they needed, Crowley thought with bitter satisfaction. No prying eyes for when the children's powers began to manifest.

"City folks don't come out this way much," Aiden began as they got out of the cars. Crowley had arranged a whole nursery in his arms. "They come, admire the nature, say 'oh a village, how nice, we'll live here,' but they don't last long. There's only an elementary and middle school, and that's half an hour by bus. To the hospital—same. For high school—two hours one way. Nature's fine, but raising kids here... it's a bit tough."

Finally, they approached the house. Large, but dilapidated. Two hundred and seventy square meters of desolation and neglect.

"The rent is a pittance, but the repairs it'll need... scary to think." Aiden whistled, pushing the front door, which yielded with a creak. "It's a real wreck. Don't bother taking your shoes off. Water and electricity are on, but you'll have to buy furniture. Whatever you find in the shed and garage is yours."

Crowley's gaze fell on a massive door at the end of the hallway.

"I heard there's a garden."

"Ah, yes!" Aiden pointed to that very door. "Want to take a look?"

Aiden swung the door open, and Crowley froze. The garden was huge, but a sad sight: overgrown with weeds, piles of old junk, a half-collapsed shed. But the demon didn't see that. In his mind's eye, he was already clearing paths, planting apple trees and roses, building swings and a sandbox for the children, laying out neat herb beds. This place could be turned into a paradise. Their own, inviolable paradise.

"Want to see anything else?" Aiden asked uncertainly, descending into the garden. "There are better houses."

"I've already decided," Crowley's voice sounded firm and final. Aiden turned, staring at him in surprise. "We'll live here."

When Aiden drove off, Crowley got to work. He left the children sleeping in the car and began the great cleansing. He carried out broken chairs, old, rusted buckets, mounds of trash. He swept the floors with such ferocity, as if sweeping out the very memory of the past from the house. He could have snapped his fingers, but he didn't.

He needed this physical pain, the fatigue in his muscles, the blisters on his hands—only then could he feel that this place was truly becoming their refuge. He patched holes, scrubbed away years of accumulated grime, arranged the furniture they'd brought.

A few hours later, he was sitting on the porch with a cup of bitter coffee and a first-aid kit, cleaning and bandaging his cuts. His hands shook with fatigue, his back ached. He looked at the car, where the children were peacefully snoring, and allowed himself a little magic—just a few snaps to furnish their rooms with beds and dressers. Let them have at least a drop of comfort in this chaos.

By the time he returned from the hardware store with a new kitchen and installed it, the day was already waning. Hannah woke up. He saw her sit up in the back seat, sleepily rub her eyes, and take in the unfamiliar landscape. Panic froze on her face, her breathing quickened. But when she saw him approaching the car, the fear receded, replaced by bewilderment.

"Have a good nap, sunshine?" Crowley's voice was soft as he scooped her up into his arms.

"Yes," she whispered, snuggling into his shoulder. "Where are we?"

"This is our new home," he carried her inside, trying to keep his voice confident. "I haven't finished everything yet, but your room is ready. Just the garden left to sort out."

He gave her a little tour, showing her her room, his bedroom, the kitchen. He wanted her to feel safe, to know he was always nearby.

"Do you like it?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Yes," she nodded, and in her eyes he saw not delight, but acceptance. It was enough.

"It's late already," he glanced at his watch. "Help me put Bella and Eden to bed, and then I'll tuck you in."

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" her little voice was so quiet and defenseless that his heart constricted.

"Of course, sweetheart," he gently kissed her forehead.

The days blurred into a sequence of exhausting labor. Crowley threw himself into the work in the garden, turning it into a ritual of healing. He uprooted weeds, dug over the earth, built a fence—the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the mental one. He worked until he dropped, only breaking to feed the children and put them to sleep.

One such day, as he was bent double, raking the earth for the future vegetable patch, a sharp, piercing pain in his lower back made him straighten up. He decided to take a break and check on the children.

The twins were peacefully snoring in their cribs, but approaching Hannah's room, he heard quiet, choked sobs.

His heart sank. He flung the door open and saw her: Hannah was lying, curled up in pain, her small body wracked with tremors.

"Hannah? What's wrong?"

"Dad..." she cried, curled into a ball. "My back... it really hurts..."

He pulled the covers off her, pushed up the edge of her pajama top—and his breath caught. On her fragile, pale back, right under the skin, two small but distinct bumps were visible. They pulsed and seemed to be growing right before his eyes.

Panic, cold and bottomless, washed over him, tightening his throat. His eyes darted around the room, his mind frantically searching for a solution. The first, treacherous thought—Aziraphale. He would know what to do. He always knew. But he wasn't here. He had left them.

And then, in icy horror, Crowley realized there was only one, desperate and risky, way out. He had to call on those he never in his life wanted near his children. But there was no choice.