Hammer to Fall * * *
Hammer to Fall
by Edmondia Dantes

Disclaimer: The two rather odd stars of this little rather odd fic aren't mine (dammit!) and I'm not making any money off of this fic.

* * *

Crowley found himself crying again.  Strange, how before all of this, he hadn't been certain he was even capable of the act, and now he kept repeating it again and again.  How ignorant of him.

But then, he didn't know anything.

Fool.

Fool!

Fool!

His angel would never love him, would never look at him again, would never go on a lazy stroll through the park on a warm spring morning, would never again gavotte, would never sparkle when Crowley had found him a rare manuscript, would never smile that smile that had done him in to begin with.

And he had eternity to deal with it.

But he could put himself out of his misery - could and would if he had the chance.  If Aziraphale went away, if he ran back Above, if he never set a dainty foot on this earth again, then and only then would he be able to bring himself to do it.

How pathetic.

* * *

He hadn't left yet.

A whole day, and now halfway through the night.

Aziraphale didn't know what to do.

He couldn't just kick him off of his stoop.  He couldn't yell at him.  He couldn't scream and rant and try to pull his hair.

He couldn't do anything.

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale wished he were capable of hate.  Anger, yes, righteous and well-placed, that he could manage, but hate was completely beyond him.

And if he could, he was fairly certain the emotion would not be aimed at Crowley.

What was he going to do?  Stay miserable forever?  But that went against his nature.  Yet so did returning the affections of a creature that wasn't supposed to have any.  And if he were honest with himself, perhaps that was what scared him more than anything.  Was it?

Had he been afraid?

Afraid of Crowley?  His demon, who laughed like any other creature, who tended to hiss when drunk, who drove far too fast and had a strong affinity for brawling and listening to Queen?  Anthony James Crowley, troublemaker extraodinare?  How could he be afraid of him?  Were six thousand years of friendship so easily tossed out the window?

He fell, Aziraphale reminded himself sternly.  A demon was a demon, no matter how pleasant they were.  No matter what good company they were.  No matter how affectionate they were.

Even if they said they loved him.

No!  He couldn't!

...could he?

The thought-feeling that Crowley had sent his way blazed with agonizing grief, flared with an emotion that... that...  That burned with searing cold and flashed with a thousand colors, that shone with the intensity of the stars, that ached and rent and sang and...

And clicked with something deep inside Aziraphale.

But he didn't want it!  He couldn't handle something like this, he didn't know how!

He bit his lip nervously, remembering the slippery feel of skin on skin.  It had felt wonderful, but... How could he be sure it was pure?  How could it be right?

How could a demon willingly bind itself to its antithesis?

And, hissed a treacherous little voice inside his mind, how could he do the same?

Aziraphale wanted to throw up.

* * *

Love, he decided, was the root of all evil.  Wars were fought for love, people died for love, people lied about love, people looked for love, people didn't believe in love - love was what was wrong with the universe, no doubt about that.

Well, at least it was what was wrong with him.

Crowley knew he was a good demon.  He liked his job.  He was good at it.  Nothing made him feel better than chaos and anarchy on a grand scale.  He was quite fond of watching in delight as humanity tore itself apart.

But he was a flawed model.  Demons could not love.  And he'd done it.

Fool.

And of all the things in the world, he'd fallen for an angel.  An angel!

But Aziraphale wasn't any mere angel.  He was... well... Aziraphale.

Sweet-tempered, soft-spoken, gentle-eyed Aziraphale.  Who could at times be sharp, intense, very frightening 'holy-wrath-flaming-sword-smiting-the-ungodly' Aziraphale.  Who was adorably fond of books, who fussed and fretted and liked silly things like fuzzy kittens, symphonies, and hot chocolate.  Who scolded and teased and was warm and soft and pretty.  Who loved everything with a gentle purity that was breathtaking, who wasn't a self-righteous bastard like most other angels, who was... so amazingly Aziraphale!

A lopsided smile curved his lips even through the tears.  How could anyone not love his angel?  He was just perfect!

Crowley suspected that it was this train of thought that had gotten him into such trouble in the first place.

But he couldn't help himself.

He just couldn't.

And that was the worst thing of all.

* * *

Aziraphale rather imagined that this was what being hit by a freight train felt like.

His head was fuzzy and his emotions were going entirely mad and he just didn't know what to do.

Ordinarily, he would call Crowley.

Ordinarily, Crowley would join him for dinner.

Ordinarily, they would reach a solution by the time they had finished dessert.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't be in this situation.

What to do?

What to do?

He sent out a cautious tendril of thought, received a hesitant, inquiring reply.

And froze in shock.

Pure.

Pure?

Impossible!

He reached out again - and there it was.  Deep, unending shame, tempered with the gentleness of absolute, crystalline love.

...no.  It had to be a trick.

...right?

He closed his eyes and bit his lip in concentration.

Only one way to find out.  Just one.  And only one question:

Could he do it?

* * *

He'd done it.

His angel, his precious, precious angel, had reached out - and even that delicate contact was bliss.

Soft, sweet, like sunlight filtering through a forest, like laughter on the wind, delicate and curious and flavored with the overwhelming scent of Aziraphale.

Crowley had tried to be just as gentle and light in his reply, but wasn't sure if he had succeeded.  Demons were born of more passion than their counterparts, reveled in sensation and emotion, things angels registered dimly.

All except his Aziraphale, who felt and cried and laughed and smiled and frowned and knew every emotion save one.

He hoped.

For the sake of his sanity, he hoped.

And as the night rolled on, he chewed his lip and contemplated flinging himself indoors and throwing himself of his angel's mercy.  Or perhaps he could just drop to his knees and start begging.  Or maybe he could just find a nice, quiet place to curl up and die.  Maybe he had some holy water left...

But Aziraphale was still there, calmer than before, but just as restless.  Maybe he would...?

He didn't know.  He felt sick.  He felt insane.  He felt idiotic.  He felt like he had been tossed into the ocean during a violent storm and was sinking despite all of his flailing.  He could almost taste the salt water.

And his only help was dallying on the shore.

Damn it.  Bless it.  Do something with it!  Anything!

Crowley glanced down, startled.  When had he melted the stairway?  Aziraphale wouldn't like that.  Maybe if he gave him some of those chocolate truffles he was so fond of...

What was he thinking?!

Crowley slammed his head repeatedly against the door frame.

He was going mad.

* * *

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