Tight Trouser Never Won Fair Angel

Epilogue (It Takes Two To Heal)

Crowley can't heal a bog on his own, and this is definitely not a metaphor or anything.

-/-

"Sure you want to do this, angel?" Crowley asked, reaching out a hand for Aziraphale's. "Coulda been a long game I've been playing- I could be leading you to your death for a laugh. Ever think of that?"

"I won't pretend the thought hasn't crossed my mind," Aziraphale said, wrapping Crowley's hand in his own. "That it's just the sort of trick a wily old goblin king might play."

Contrary to what the words might suggest, Crowley positively glowed at what, for him, was high praise.

"But you still trust me?"

"Yes. I do."

"Well then- after you."

Aziraphale nodded, and took a step off the tower. As the wind rushed up toward him, he spread his wings-

(It had taken nearly two years to overwrite the magic of the goblin city. Two years of carefully going over every bit of it so that there was nowhere in Crowley's realm that Aziraphale's magic would be suppressed- nowhere he would be weakened. He could have done it in a moment, of course, but there was no telling how that would affect the many real, wonderful things he'd brought into it over the past six thousand years. Besides, if there was one thing he'd learned from working with real things, it was that doing things the hard way was a lot more reliable than just imagining things the way he wanted.)

-and flew.

Aziraphale spiralled lazily upward, and as he passed by the roof of the tower he heard a whoop and Crowley nearly barrelled into him, knocking the two into a spin in midair before the goblin pulled him up higher, keeping him aloft while he got his wings back under him, so to speak.

Even after Aziraphale had righted himself, Crowley didn't let go of his hand.

"Come on," he said. "I want to show you something."

Aziraphale followed. He felt like he knew where Crowley was taking him— he had, by now, been shown every inch of the labyrinth, save for one spot: the bog, a black spot he could feel against the warm love of the rest of the garden.

He'd tried not to think about the bog, and what a place like that could mean for Crowley, but if Crowley was opening up to him, he wasn't going to stop him.

He wasn't surprised when Crowley brought them down through the canopy to light on the bridge that passed through the bog. Nor was he surprised by the wariness that rose from the bog itself as its master appeared.

But he was surprised to find that the bog was no longer as broken as he remembered. Once-twisted trunks had smoothed out, once-broken branches no longer hung down into the water. The bog-water was still as foul and tepid as it had once been, but it now teemed with new growth, and underneath the wariness felt by the bigger plants, these radiated fondness when Crowley passed near them.

He led Aziraphale along the bridge to the biggest tree, which grew from the center of the bog. He laid a hand on its trunk, and gave it a sad sort of smile.

"This is one of the oldest parts of the labyrinth," he said. "One of my first attempts at making a garden from scratch. I kind of... I botched it up. Couldn't get things to grow right, couldn't get things to stay alive without shooting them full of magic. It was just something else I couldn't be right. Couldn't be a human right, couldn't be a goblin king right. Couldn't even grow some plants right. And the more I failed the angrier I got and the worse I felt. I ended up taking it out on the bog over the millennia and made it worse and worse but it was easier to-" His hand curled into a fist against the trunk, trembling. Aziraphale remained silent, giving him a chance to speak on his own terms.

"I don't want to do that anymore," he said, so low that Aziraphale had to strain to hear him. "I've been trying to heal the damage but I don't think..." He sighed. Turned to lean his back against the truck and sank down to sitting, back pressed against it with his knees folded to him. "I don't know how. There's only so much I can do."

Aziraphale sensed it was his turn. He moved over to sit beside Crowley, reaching over and finding the goblin's hand to fold it in his own between them, and leaned his head on one boney shoulder.

"There's only so much you can do alone," he corrected gently. "But I'm here now. I'll help you."

He sensed, rather than saw, the gentle, relieved smile that touched Crowley's lips, and he turned his head and pressed a single kiss to Crowley's shoulder before settling back to look out over the bog.

-/-

End

-/-

Just kidding it's totally a metaphor.