#IM FURIOUS. THIS IS NOT A STUNNING CONCLUSION

[chryzuree]

where was luc??? hello????? i’m so unsatisfied with this entire plot. WE FORGOT ABT LALA UNTIL THREE QUARTERS IN. WHY

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Cold and Broken Hallelujah (chapter 3)

Oof, sorry for the long wait, folks. Here it finally is, the conclusion. (As promised, I fixed it as best I could. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the ride)

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @blujicky @saphirawaffle @swanheart69 @ojedieu @gryssenielsen @totallysilvergirl @stiicck @stonequiet @giulisetta @livgg15 @collgeruledzebra @tonystark5ever @imposter-human @sharoto @guess-im-a-good-omens-blog-now @saphirawaffle @ginpaa @erdediekatze

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Chapter 3

 “Crowley?” The name is a hesitant, pleading whisper that catches somewhere in the middle as it slips past his lips.  

 “Crowley!” The second call of his lover’s name rips from his throat in a harsh, broken sob, steeped in denial.

 A hurried snap of his fingers, and the holy bindings pinning Crowley to the wall fall away, leaving behind a mess of burned, bloodied skin.  The demon drops, limp and boneless, into Aziraphale’s trembling, waiting arms; the hilt of the sword that still protrudes grotesquely from Crowley’s chest pressing uncomfortably against Aziraphale’s ribs.  

The angel yanks the sword out, unthinking.  Tosses it away as if the very touch of it burns.

 Crowley doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as twitch in response. Only his blood begins to gush faster, unimpeded, from the gaping wound.

 “No,” Aziraphale murmurs – a futile moan of protestation against the merciless truth of reality, “no, no, no….”

 And, suddenly, his legs no longer seem to have what it takes to hold up his earthly corporation, and so he sinks heavily to the floor, his precious burden cradled protectively in his arms.

 He tries, oh, God Almighty does he try.  Presses his hand against the gushing hole in Crowley chest, trying his best to ignore the blood that coats his fingers, seeming to seep under his very skin, branding him like the murderer that he is.  And he pours all of his healing energy into it, channels every particle of his angelic being into one single mission – heal, heal, heal.  And he prays, and he prays, and he prays.

 “You don’t… really think it’s going to work, do you.”

 He doesn’t turn around at the sound of a familiar mocking voice.  He doesn’t need to.  He knows what he’ll see if he does: the looks of glee, the smiles of depraved pleasure. He remembers them.  Remembers them all too well.

 “You’re almost as ridiculous as that demon of yours.”

 He hears footsteps behind him, measured, deliberate, slow – a predator circling its prey, moving in closer and closer with every pass.

 “Do you know that this pathetic creature pleaded with us to spare you?  Begged me to keep you ignorant of what you’ve done?”

 Gabriel laughs behind him, sharp and grating, even as Aziraphale hunches in on himself, crushed by the weight of the damning words.  His fingers tremble splayed out against the awful wound, his focus slipping. He flicks his gaze up to his beloved’s face – ghostly pale now, its features hopelessly slack.  Blurred for him by the ever-thickening veil of tears that fogs his vision.

 “Why would you do this?” he whispers brokenly, pulling his hand away from the wound to brush a blood-covered finger against Crowley’s cheek. Flinches, his lips trembling, as he stares at the smudge of crimson his gentle touch left behind – so vivid, so nauseatingly stark against the near-translucent skin.  “Why would you–?”

 Another sob rips from his throat, cutting off the rest of the words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his lover’s too, too still form tighter against his chest.

 He knows why.  Of course, he knows.  Because it’s Crowley.  The demon who burned his feet on consecrated ground to rescue him.  The demon who defied Heaven and Hell time and time again for his sake.  The demon who… who loved him.  Enough to forgive him, enough to let him go.

 “It’s quite amusing, really.”

 Gabriel’s voice slithers once more into his grief-clouded consciousness, and he feels something inside him stir and shudder in response.  Something dark and ugly and terrifying – a dangerous savage beast, awoken after a millennia-long sleep.

 “Watching you skewer the serpent was entertaining enough, but watching you torment yourself over it now is just… well, it’s just so delicious!”

 There’s a loud, obnoxious cackle above his ear, a horrifyingly tasteless expression of perverted pleasure at the expense of his grief.  

The beast inside him roars in agony, slashes wildly at the chains of restraint holding it hostage within the shattered confines of his bleeding soul. He moans in anguished pain, arms and wings wrapping tighter around Crowley in a futile attempt to shield them both from the waves of twisted, noxious glee that permeate the room, poisoning its very air. Tries his best to ignore the archangel, to tune out the cruel words, his whole body trembling with the effort of reigning in the dark tempest of grief, rage and despair that brews inside him.

 It’s of no use.

 The metaphorical chains snap – the sound so loud in his ears, he’s sure everyone around him can hear it – and the beast breaks free in a powerful, blinding explosion of Light that bursts forth from him in every direction, furious, scorching, decimating.  A flashover of smiting angelic vengeance.

 He thinks he hears screaming, loud wails of pure agony. Gabriel’s, the other archangels’, perhaps even his own….  But it’s all lost, swallowed up in the searing maelstrom of Light, and the angel sways and cries at the epicenter of it, white wings wrapped protectively around a lifeless form that no longer requires his protection, shielding Crowley as Crowley had always shielded him, while the world around him burns, and burns, and burns.

 And then it’s over, and the Light goes out like a candle snuffed out by an abrupt gust of wind.

 Aziraphale slumps, drained, his cheeks wet, his throat raw from screaming he doesn’t remember having done. He isn’t aware of the sudden absence of their tormentors, of the scorched emptiness of the room.  Nothing exists for him anymore but Crowley, pale and lifeless in his arms. Dead.

 Three years.  Three years is all he’s been given to experience the true joy of living he hadn’t known in all of the millennia that came before it.  The joy he’d been denying himself and Crowley all that time.  Because he was a coward! A bloody coward who foolishly believed that what he was always taught was true; that Heaven was always right, as was the Great Plan they blindly followed; that demons were all inherently evil, soulless creatures, incapable of compassion, of empathy, of love…

 He knew… in his heart of hearts he’d always known… that Crowley was an exception.  No soulless creature would challenge so bluntly the Great Plan, appalled by the idea of wiping out thousands upon thousands of the human race, drowning everyone, including the…

 “Not the kids. You can’t kill kids!!!”

 Wouldn’t look so devastated, so sickened by the sight of that young carpenter from Galilee getting nailed to the cross for nothing more than trying to get humans to love one another.

 Wouldn’t risk his own life over and over to save Aziraphale’s.

 Wouldn’t… wouldn’t have that look in his eyes whenever he glanced toward Aziraphale, the look of love – pure, unadulterated, beautiful love. The kind Aziraphale was always told demons weren’t capable of.  And yet Aziraphale felt it from Crowley. In abundance.

 And he pushed it away. Pushed Crowley away.  Despite the fact that every fiber of his being longed to be closer. Warded himself away from both Crowley and his love because he was too afraid of what Heaven would do if they ever found out.  Cowardly protecting himself from what he was sure would be a wrathful reprimand.  

 And he hurt Crowley in the process.

 He wasn’t blind. He saw the brutal impact his rejections had on his then friend.

 “Friends? We’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing in common. I don’t even like you!”

 Saw every poorly hidden flinch, every dejected droop of the thin shoulders, every pained twist of the lips that didn’t quite manage to form a smile, every note of anguish in the tired voice disguised by the ever-crumbling mask of sarcasm.

He saw.  And he hated himself for every moment of pain he had inflicted so cruelly on the demon.  Vowed to himself, once he finally worked up the courage to do what he should have done thousands of years ago, that he would spend the next millennia making it up to him.

 He got three years...

 His hand trembles as he cups the back Crowley’s head.  Gently, reverently lifts it up to press an equally trembling kiss against the sweat-stained temple.  A benediction, a plea for forgiveness, a final goodbye.

 “I’m sorry, my love,” he chokes out, taking a moment to bury his tear-stained face in the matted auburn hair, to breathe in Crowley’s scent for one last time.  “I am so, so sorry…”

 He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. Doesn’t know if there’s anything left for him to do. His one true constant, his anchor in this vast, tumultuous universe, the heart and soul of his existence is gone, and there’s nothing tethering him to this earthly world.  Nothing left for him in Heaven either. Not anymore. Not after this.

 Perhaps it would have been better if he Fell.

 “Aziraphale.” The voice that calls his name is achingly familiar and one he hasn’t heard in over 6,000 years.  One he yearned to talk to all those years he’s been on Earth.  One he begged would answer him when… before it was too late.

One he no longer wishes to hear.

 “Aziraphale,” She repeats, softer this time, and he can feel Her heavenly light even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, “angel of the Eastern Gate.”

 Slowly he raises his head, squints toward Her with a tired glare.  “Why are You here?”

 She smiles at him – a soft crinkle in the otherwise flawless glowing skin.  “It isn’t often one of my children erases three archangels from existence,” She says, and his eyes widen momentarily in stunned disbelief.

 He glances behind him, as if to make sure, even though he knows She wouldn’t lie to him.  Not about something like this.  

Turns back to her, head raised in defiance.

 “You’re here to cast me out then?” he challenges. Because he’s ready for this. Willing even. Would gladly embrace the pain that comes with the Fall with both arms if it would drown out even a little bit of the agony that’s tearing apart his soul.

 She raises an eyebrow at that.  “No,” She denies, sounding surprised.

 He shakes his head. Raises his hand to wipe away another errant tear that trails down his cheek.  “I believed in You,” he murmurs dully.  “I trusted in Your Plan, in the goodness of it, even when others… when he…” He glances briefly down at Crowley, tucked safely against his chest. Blinks away another tear.  “…when he questioned the goodness of destroying thousands of innocent souls.”  Admits in a quieter voice, “Even when I myself questioned it.”

 He looks toward Her again, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. He knows he’s pushing it.  Knows he shouldn’t speak like this to Her. And some part of him wonders with morbid glee whether She might just smite him on the spot instead if he pushes hard enough. He finds himself craving the instant relief that would bring.

 “I believed in Your Love and Your Mercy.  But I was a fool.” His chin wobbles ever so slightly, words sticking in his tear-swollen throat. “You’re not merciful… at all.  You’re cruel.  You watch humans commit atrocities against one another, and You do nothing.  You encourage your archangels to be callous and vengeful, allow them to go about plotting the destruction of an entire human species just for the sake of settling an old score. And You do nothing! And the one archangel who loved Your creations, the one archangel who cared… You cast him out and tossed him into a pit of boiling sulfur for nothing more than questioning the righteousness of Your actions.”

 He sucks in a breath, arms tightening impossibly around Crowley’s still form, and words continue to pour out of him – an unstoppable torrent of rage and grief.

 “And when he came to Earth, a demon, and You saw that he still cared despite all odds, that he still had the capacity to love, which You told us none of the demons do, You abandoned him!  You made him think he wasn’t worthy of Your love.”

 “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. … Unforgivable, that’s what I am...”

 “You let Your other children torture him and… and kill him and… and I... I…”

 “I won’t make you Fall, Aziraphale.” Her calm, soothing voice interrupts the sob-broken ramble of his words.  

 She’s standing right before him now, Her warm, motherly gaze soft and inexplicably, apologetically sad. She seems tired somehow, he thinks absurdly as he watches Her shift Her attention to Crowley, reach a delicate glowing hand toward him.

 He tenses despite himself, moving to pull Crowley out of harm’s way, but Her touch doesn’t burn the demon, doesn’t engulf him in smiting, punishing Light.  She merely smoothes Her fingers over the unruly flame-red locks, slowly and lovingly as a mother would when she soothes her child to sleep for the night.  Smiles down at him with that same gentle, wistful smile.

 “I never meant for him to Fall either,” She confides, Her smile growing brittle as She rests her hand against Crowley’s cheek.  “It was a different time back then.  I was… young. I thought I knew everything, had it all figured out, everything set in motion as it was to be.”

 Absently, She runs her thumb along the smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, the stain disappearing underneath her touch.

 “And this… bright, bright child of mine, he challenged me, asked me questions no one’s ever asked before, questions I realized I wasn’t ready to answer. And it… embarrassed me, made me angry.”

 Her hand drops back down to Her side, softly shimmering blue eyes rising to meet Aziraphale’s, and he’s surprised to see a hint of tears there, a pained flash of remorse.

 “I reacted poorly,” She admits, regret creasing Her features, making Her appear older, careworn.  “And it took me a little while to realize that.”

 “A few millennia?” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words, just an overwhelming weariness. Because none of this matters anymore, does it. Because Crowley’s still dead.

 Her lips twitch again, sorrowful.  “Something like that.”

 Aziraphale nods, closing his eyes against that unbearable softness he sees in Hers, a softness that looks and feels too much like pity. Swallows thickly against an ever-present bitter swell of tears.  “Why tell me all this now?” he wonders, voice empty. “Where were You when I… when he… when we both needed you,” he thinks, bitter.  “What is the point?”

 Warm fingers brush the side of his face, the touch – a soothing balm against his ravaged nerves, and he jolts, his eyes flying open in surprise as he feels that divine warmth flood into him, melting away all traces of anger and despair and filling those spaces with reassurance and hope.

 “I can’t change the mistakes of the past, Aziraphale,” She acknowledges in a regretful murmur, her fingers still lingering against his skin as flecks of golden light fall from Her hair, dancing in a shimmering mesmerizing veil in the air around Her.  “But I can make a clean slate for the future.”

 She leans down a bit to Crowley’s level, brings her lips to the demon’s forehead, pressing a light kiss against the cold, pale skin.  Gentle and chaste like the blessing of a mother’s love.

 She pulls away, the skin around Her eyes crinkling with contentment as She watches a speckle of golden light dance on the surface of the demon’s skin where Her lips have touched him a moment ago.  The light lingers for another heartbeat or two before it slowly begins to seep deeper into the skin until it disappears altogether.

 She nods, pleased; turns Her gaze back to Aziraphale, who’s been following Her movements with bated breath and desperate timorous hope.

 “Be well, my children,” She tells him, “be… Loved.” And then She’s gone – a blinding supernova that flashes instantly out of their plane of existence, leaving behind a halo of golden flecks that flutter about, shimmering, as their light, too, slowly fades away.

 Aziraphale pays them no heed.  For in that moment, in that very moment, he feels a small shudder go through the lifeless form in his frantic embrace, and his breath hitches on a sob of gasp as he watches the deadly wound knit itself closed, the gaunt chest beginning to move, haltingly at first, but steadier and steadier with every subsequent breath.

 “Crowley?” he calls, a pitifully hopeful squeak of a whisper. “Crowley?”  And nearly chokes in giddy, dizzying relief when the dark eyelashes flutter weakly in response, a thin sliver of yellow peaking out.

 “Oh, Crowley, oh, my darling, oh, thank God!”

Crowley shifts slightly within his grasp, his hand rising feebly to touch the angel’s face, a barely audible moan of frustration slipping past his lips when his hand drops will-lessly back down before making contact.

 Aziraphale catches it mid-fall, captures it gently in his own. Raises it to his lips to press a deep, reverent kiss into the trembling palm.

 “I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lay more grateful, tearful kisses on the dear face. “I love you s..so much!”

 His voice catches, unsteady, and he buries his face unashamedly in Crowley’s neck, his body shaking so hard, he barely registers the equally unsteady, clumsy brush of Crowley’s fingers against the back of his head as the demon tries to comfort him the best he can.

 “S’okay now, angel,” he huffs out breathlessly above Aziraphale’s ear.  “S’a…all gonna be okay.”

 He nods mutely against the side of the demon’s neck, feeling the reassuring hum of life underneath his skin.  “Thank You!” he whispers fervently in his mind, hoping that She can hear him, hoping She knows, sees how much it truly means.  

He lifts up his head once more, hungrily drinking in the sight of his beloved – still weak, still alarmingly pale, but alive, alive, alive!  Moves in to seal an embarrassingly wet, lingering kiss against his lips, his soul quivering with pure, unbridled joy when those lips move feebly in response.    

“Thank You!”