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Selling a few books out of pure spite and convincing Muriel that any ethereal being trying to pass as human should be performing the macarena no less than twice a day, on account of its crucial role in every human’s daily experience.
That’s it.
Those are the only reasons Crowley strides into the bookshop on an unassuming Thursday afternoon, eleven months after Aziraphale’s promotion.
There are better words for it, of course. Specifically betrayal on the good days, when anger keeps Crowley occupied, and relapse on the bad ones. The days he can’t sleep, no matter how hard he tries or how many demonic miracles he resorts to. The days time seems to be stuck on itself, when boredom turns into loneliness and loneliness into despair. The days he’d rather not think about.
So what if he’s decided to swing by the shop? It’s just to take his mind off of things, maybe spread a bit of mischief around a Heavenly embassy, poke fun at a low-level angel, bamboozle a few customers and get on their very last nerve for extremely petty reasons like the self-respecting demon he is.
That’s what he expects to do.
What he doesn’t expect is to open the door of the shop to be met with stormy grey eyes turning to him in surprise.
Crowley takes it in all at once, tension running through him, his brain instantly sizzling into a puddle of rage, resentment and something else he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.
The slicked-back hair. The sparkling white suit. The shiny shoes. And, worst of all, the hint of hopefulness in Aziraphale’s tight voice.
“Crowley?”
He tries to remember a time he wished for the earth to open and swallow him whole more than right now and he would really like to say he’s shocked to come back empty handed.
“Why are you here?” he snarls, flinching at the sound of his own voice. His throat is as dry as sand.
“I’ve come to check on-”
“No, wait. Just remembered I don’t care.”
“Crowley, plea-”
“Nope,” he cuts him off, trying to ignore the annoying thump of his heart and concentrate instead on the doorknob becoming red-hot under his fingers. “I know it’s not your forte, but you should really pick a side and stick to it.”
He doesn’t wait for Aziraphale to respond before storming out of the shop and stomping to the Bentley.
The gall of him.
To leave and then come back as if it’s no big deal. To the bookshop he left because apparently nothing lasts forever. Least he could do, after everything he put it through, is to leave it alone, Crowley thinks angrily.
He steps on the gas and, though the steering wheel practically melts under his scorching hot hands, he doesn’t stop.
For once in his life, he’ll go as fast as he damn well pleases.
In the grand scheme of things, ordering tea and finding yourself sitting at a table just to stare at it shouldn’t be such a devastating ordeal.
And yet, as soon as Aziraphale registers how reluctant he is to actually drink his tea, a suffocating sadness washes over him, making his empty stomach churn uncomfortably. It’s been almost a year since the last time he ate anything, so he really has no business feeling like throwing up all the time.
Still, he’s used to it by now. Having to deal with Heaven on a daily basis doesn’t really contribute to working up an appetite, quite the opposite really (the fact that it seems wrong to let his lips touch anything that could erase the memory of the very last thing they tasted is neither here nor there). And though that can definitely be a good thing – there’s no eating or drinking in Heaven after all – it also feels like losing bits of himself, the ones he secretly likes best.
He has no regrets, of course. He knew sacrifices had to be made – no more cocoa, no more literature, no more musicals – but who better than him? He’s kind of an expert in denying himself to protect the things he lo- cares about.
No, he made up his mind the moment he stepped on that elevator, he sternly reminds himself.
It was the right choice, he’s sure of it. Must be.
No point in dwelling on it any longer. He knew what he was giving up in order to – may God forgive him – try and thwart Heaven’s plans for the Second Coming.
Which is unfortunately turning out to be even more difficult than he thought. There’s only one of him in Heaven, and despite slowly testing the waters to suss out like-minded angels with Muriel’s help, he can’t really trust anyone, can he?
Not the way he’d trust… well.
He huffs out a thready breath, hands fumbling with the silky smoothness of his white suit.
“Is this some kind of new trend I don’t know about? Or a silent protest against my tea selection?” says a voice from his right.
He quickly turns towards Nina’s questioning expression, a polite smile already on his lips.
“Nina, dear,” he says, almost breathless. “What was that?”
Nina gives him a quizzical look. “You and Muriel. You both come in here and order tea just to stare at it.”
“Oh,” he chuckles nervously.
Her gaze turns sharp. “Is everything alright, Mr. Fell?”
“Absolutely tickety-boo, my dear.” He avoids the knowing look she gives him and he glances down at the mug still staring accusingly back at him, then at the bathroom door.
His smile dims slowly, and before he can make a conscious decision to keep it safely plastered there, it disappears entirely.
He’s so very tired, he thinks, closing his eyes just to be met with the memory of Crowley’s horrified expression when he stopped by the bookshop to… Aziraphale still hasn’t figured out what exactly. Crowley wasn’t there to see him, that’s for sure, or he wouldn’t have run away the moment he realised Aziraphale was there. He wouldn’t have looked like a serpent ready to strike.
“Is he ever going to come out of the bathroom?” he asks, sounding defeated even to his own ears.
“Judging by the way he rushed in there when he saw you crossing the street? I don’t think so, no.”
He shouldn’t be disappointed, really. He knew it was a long shot as soon as he caught a glimpse of red hair through the window of Nina's coffee shop.
“How is he?”
“Restless. Irritating,” Nina answers after a beat of silence. “I think he’s responsible for the worrying number of customers accidentally dropping their phones in the toilet. Before flushing,” she says with a grimace. “Can I ask you what happened?”
“Honestly, my dear, I’m not sure.”
“Did he talk to you?”
“I- I think so.”
“You think so?”
Truth be told, Aziraphale has spent the last twelve months trying to give himself an explanation for what happened. They spoke to each other, there’s no doubt about that, but did they talk? The more he thinks about it, the less sure he is.
The only thing he knows is that Crowley gave him a choice and this time, unlike all the times that came before that, it felt like there was no turning back. Crowley made it clear, or whatever passes for “clear” between the two of them anyway.
No nightingales.
The nausea suddenly comes back with a vengeance in a flurry of fluttering nerves.
“Will you please tell him that-” he starts to say, turning back towards Nina, but stops himself without going any further.
He offers her another brittle smile, and feels something dangerously close to resentment blooming in his chest. The world’s about to end and Crowley won’t even talk to him, can’t even bring himself to put their differences aside to hear him out. If Crowley knew what Heaven is up to, Aziraphale is sure he would help. Begrudgingly, maybe, but he’d do it.
This is bigger than the two of them.
Besides, if he’s honest with himself, Aziraphale doesn’t really want to talk to him either. Because, despite all the things he didn’t manage to say that day, there is one thing he did.
I need you.
Crowley knows, and if that’s not enough to convince him to tolerate Aziraphale’s company long enough for him to explain what’s happening then… fine.
Fine.
“Actually, no,” he quickly amends, getting back to his feet. “Thank you, Nina. I promise there’s nothing wrong with your tea selection.” He gives it a blessing, then blesses the bathroom and every phone coming through the doorway for good measure.
There are some perks to being Supreme Archangel after all.
He starts fuming the moment there’s a subtle change in the air and Vivaldi’s Death on Two Legs blends into Chopin’s Love of my Life.
Before he can do anything about it (like barking out death threats and miracling his CD-player into another galaxy), a flash of white appears on the passenger seat of the Bentley, making Crowley swerve into oncoming traffic and almost run over an old lady crossing the street.
“What the blessed fuck?!” he shrieks, righting the steering wheel with what he fears is a little bit of angelic help.
“A marvellous human invention, speed limits,” Aziraphale says haughtily. “You should try them sometime.”
To which Crowley reacts the only way he can, that is to say by slamming on the brakes in the hope of sending the angel flying (ha! Get it? An angel. Flying) towards the windscreen.
Unfortunately, despite his signature fretting, Aziraphale braces himself against the dashboard without so much as a flinch. Only one of his pale blonde curls has the good grace of escaping its careful, heavenly styling.
The sudden urge to put his hands in Aziraphale’s hair just to mess it up is so overwhelming, Crowley is half-expecting to find himself doing just that before he can even realise what he’s doing.
And wouldn’t that be absolutely mortifying?
He desperately tries to reign it in, to collect all of his pieces and shield them as best as he can.
Keep it together, he snarls to himself.
It’s not like he hasn’t had plenty of time to prepare for this moment. It’s been a little over a year since the last time they were this close to each other, after all. A year that felt more like a century.
So, you see, plenty of time.
Here’s the thing though, the detail Crowley is hopelessly trying to forget and keep in mind at the same time: this is the very first year of Crowley’s existence coming after what he knows was a proper breaking point between him and Aziraphale. Because, no matter how many times they fought and bickered in the past, they had never given each other any kind of ultimatum, never set any hard limits.
But Crowley just had to have the groundbreaking idea to go and change that, and now he’s paying the consequences of his own hubris.
What else is new?
It really should be studied, his ability to go too fast while always, always being simultaneously too late.
A horn honking in the background startles Crowley out of his pointless musings.
He quickly tears his eyes away, berating himself for even looking in Aziraphale’s direction. Tension courses through him, stiffening his limbs and straightening his back almost painfully. In front of him, London is no more than a confusing blur of colours and shapes. He keeps gripping the steering wheel to prevent any sudden gestures, and surreptitiously takes a deep breath to steady himself.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
Freddie Mercury croons in the background while cars, lorries and buses swish past the Bentley, still in the middle of the road and yet miraculously unscathed.
“Get out,” Crowley finally hisses, abruptly turning off the music. He snaps his fingers to open the passenger door, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to me-”
“How very acute,” he deadpans. “Get out.”
“But there is something you should know,” Aziraphale stubbornly marches on. “Heaven is planning to-”
Despite his best (worst) intentions, Crowley snaps his head to the left. “To what? End the world?”
Aziraphale frowns, clearly taken aback.
Crowley laughs bitterly. “I warned you about Heaven. I’ve always warned you about Heaven.”
“Yeah, well, I warned you first,” Aziraphale retorts, his insufferable veneer of professionalism faltering. “How do you know about the Second Coming?”
“How don’t you?” he bursts out, and the thought of telling Aziraphale that this was the first time he heard about the Second Coming doesn’t even cross his mind. “We knew they would eventually try again. Why do you think your lot decided to sack Gabriel?”
“Wait.” Aziraphale’s frown deepens. “Who told you?”
Crowley lets out an exasperated huff. “I saw the tapes of his trial. Now get out.”
“When?” There’s a slight edge to Aziraphale’s voice, a hint of ice taking over his eyes. “When did you see these… these tapes?”
Oh, he wants to go there, Crowley realises. And nope, the feeling that churns in his gut is not guilt, thank you very much.
“Doesn’t matter. Get out of my car,” he repeats, making sure to put enough emphasis on what is the only first person pronoun to correctly refer to the Bentley.
“You knew,” Aziraphale whispers, confusion giving way to understanding. “It was before.”
Ah, yes, he almost forgot about the life-altering event that effectively split his existence into a new Before and After. It’s no easy feat, doing something so stupid it manages to eclipse your Fall.
“What if it was? It’s not like you didn’t know they were going to try again,” he sneers. “And who knows, maybe I would have. Told you, I mean. If you didn’t insist on that stupid dance.”
He swears he sees the faintest hint of a blush blooming on Aziraphale’s cheeks, but it’s quickly wiped out by an outraged expression.
“You watched me go knowing full well they needed a Supreme Archangel to orchestrate the end of the world” Aziraphale says slowly, as if to make sure he’s getting this right.
Crowley growls. He’s done talking about this, he’s done making excuses and trying to find a common ground.
“Get out, Aziraphale.”
“You knew but you didn’t tell me, and then asked me to-”
“Get. Out.”
Aziraphale purses his lips, something dangerously close to disappointment clouding his features. “Very well.”
Crowley turns away and by the time he looks back towards the passenger side, the angel is gone and the sound system has turned itself back on.
“And good riddance,” he mutters under his breath while the chorus of Tchaikovsky’s Too Much Love Will Kill You fills the car.
Aziraphale knows pride is a sin, but after the third time Crowley hangs up on him after screaming obscenities in his ear, he starts to wonder if the absence of pride can be considered as sinful as pride itself.
Surely, there’s something to be said about putting your self-respect aside to pester a demon who doesn’t want to talk to you to ask him if he’d be so kind as to help him save the world for a second time.
So far, the only thing he’s managed to achieve is to give himself a splitting headache he can’t seem to miracle away and to squander whatever remains of his patience.
He takes a deep, calming breath and puts the phone back in its cradle before checking his pocket watch. He should have been back in Heaven two hours ago. Not that time has any meaning Up there, but still…
“Maybe there’s something wrong with Mr. Crowley’s phone?” Muriel anxiously asks from their perch near the window.
Aziraphale startles. “Good Lord.” He almost forgot he wasn’t alone in the bookshop. “I’m afraid his phone has nothing to do with this” he tells them with a tight smile.
“Maybe you just caught him at the wrong time, then. He could be dancing the macarena.”
The what now? “Beg your pardon?”
Muriel beams. “Yes, it’s a very fascinating yet complicated human custom. Took me a while to get it right and it’s even harder if you’re even just slightly distracted, but Mr. Crowley was very helpful.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale huffs out and, despite his irritation, he can’t help the fondness tinging his voice.
“You know what you should do?” Muriel suddenly says, straightening their shoulders.
Get a modicum of self-respect and give up on this ridiculous endeavour? he thinks glumly.
“You should get one of those intelligent phones,” they say. “That way, even if Mr. Crowley can’t answer your calls because he’s rehearsing traditional human dances, you can send him a text so he can read it when he’s done.”
Aziraphale blinks. “Muriel, dear, that is a great idea.”
“Oh, is it really?” they say, smiling bashfully. “Why, thank you, Azir- I mean, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.”
“None of that, Muriel, I’ve told you already,” he says, taking off his spectacles before putting on his new pearl-grey coat. “I’m off to the shops, my dear. Please don’t sell any books this time.”
“I’m on it! I mean not on it!”
Supreme Archwanker: Today, 7PM, second alternative rendezvous.
Supreme Archwanker: (or maybe fourth)
Supreme Archwanker: (either way, I mean the Tesco)
With six thousand years under his snakeskin belt, Crowley has learned a thing or two about the world.
Some of those things are surprising, like Aziraphale suddenly deciding to join the 21st century and obtaining a smartphone for the sole purpose of bothering him to death.
While others are anything but, like Crowley’s penchant for being always, gloriously and unavoidably fucked.
He also knows the best temptations are the ones that barely require any work on his part, where your mark is practically begging you for the smallest nudge in the right (well, wrong) direction.
So, yeah, he knows what a successful temptation looks like and if he scrolls back through Aziraphale’s messages – dozens of them, spread over a month, all carefully and systematically ignored – he’s also aware of his royally-fucked status.
Supreme Archwanker: Dear Crowley, as you’ve probably already gathered, I’ve recently purchased a smart phone. Despite everything that’s happened between us, I firmly believe we should put our differences aside and work together to prevent the end of the world. I am tirelessly working on my end to find new allies among the Heavenly hierarchies and I think it advisable for you to do the same on Hell’s end. There are rumours circulating regarding Downstairs being in shambles after Beelzebub’s defection and, as I’m sure you’ll agree, there may never be a better time to strengthen our position. Please meet me tomorrow at the British Museum, at 3PM. My sincerest regards.
Supreme Archwanker: Forgot to say, this is Aziraphale.
Supreme Archwanker: Dear Crowley, since you weren’t at the museum, let’s meet on the bus. Three days from now, 1PM.
Supreme Archwanker: Crowley, this is important. Things are moving faster than I anticipated.
Supreme Archwanker: I can’t do this alone.
Supreme Archwanker: The café with the scrumptious blueberry scones. 7AM.
Supreme Archwanker: Fifth emergency rendezvous in 30 minutes.
Supreme Archwanker: First alternative rendezvous, three days, 2AM.
There are many more after that one, a string of unanswered messages becoming more and more concise as Crowley keeps scrolling down. And though he’s proud of himself for resisting this long, the only thing he has to show for it is an entire gallery of sad Aziraphales living rent free in his mind.
It’s way too easy to picture the angel all over London, pocket watch in hand, eyes nervously flitting all around him, waiting – hoping – for Crowley to arrive.
At this point, he’s not sure he can take it anymore. Yes, Aziraphale has made his bed and the honourable thing to do would be to shut up and lie in it without trying to drag Crowley along with him, because he personally has zero interes- well, no, wrong expression.
Besides, even if he were to give in, it wouldn't be about helping Aziraphale at all. It would be about sticking it to the powers that be one last time before going off somewhere, maybe sleep off his restlessness on a deserted tropical island in the Pacific Ocean.
So, yeah.
He’s fucked.
Least he can do, he decides, is commit to the theme and make Aziraphale regret all of his choices.
Me: Mrs. Sandwich’s. 15 minutes.
The next time he enters the bookshop, taking great pains to arrive resentfully late, he immediately knows something’s wrong. There is always something wrong when the world’s about to end (and even generally speaking, in Crowley’s experience), but this is different.
The lights that usually bathe books and trinkets in warm golds and bronzes are on, but they feel fake, like props on a stage, their effect somehow muted. The space is uncharacteristically cold and the air is off, Muriel nowhere to be seen.
For the second time in Crowley’s eternal existence, he steps inside the bookshop and doesn’t feel any relief, not even a hint of Aziraphale’s gentle essence, that cosy embrace that usually makes the shop feel like home more than any other place on Earth.
It’s the same unsettling feeling, but there’s no roaring fire this time, only this eerie quietness.
They’ve been sporadically meeting for a couple of months now, and Aziraphale has never asked him to swing by the bookshop until now.
What if something went wrong?
“Oi, angel!” he calls out, voice harsh, pushing away all thoughts of impending disaster and half hoping Aziraphale’s going to peek out from the backroom’s door just to give him a chance to shrug and say something cutting. Something like: ‘I actually meant the other angel.’
But even though he feels no immediate danger and can clearly hear someone rustling in the backroom, no one comes out to meet him.
He sneers to himself while relief and annoyance battle it out to decide which one is going to come out on top.
You see, he would have loved to see Aziraphale’s stricken expression to that little quip – properly demonic in a way Crowley’s never actually managed to be, if you ask him – but after the past months, he also harbours zero delusions about his ability to hurt Aziraphale without also hurting himself. (He was there for that no nightingales nonsense and he hopes to Someone that Aziraphale is haunted by it as much as he is. Would have been a pretty stupid thing to say otherwise, right?)
Crowley steels himself while pretending he doesn’t need to, pushes his sunglasses firmly on his nose, then saunters into the backroom where Aziraphale is… arranging books on a shelf. As if this is a normal Tuesday in a string of very normal Tuesdays. As if this wasn’t the Supreme Archangel of the Heavenly Host just shelving his stupid books in the stupid backroom of his stupid fucking bookshop.
“There he is, the Archangel of the hour,” he hears himself say with all the bitterness he can muster.
It’s easy because he has bitterness to spare on any given day, but also hard, sure as he is that the sudden tightness in his throat means he wants to cry. He’s been suspecting as much for weeks now, months even, and he’s trying his very best to ignore it. He made a few half-hearted attempts at miracling the urge away, but it keeps coming back like a very persistent weed.
He throws himself on the armchair farthest from the shelf Aziraphale’s working on, takes out his phone and tries to give off the air of someone who has never given a shit about anything in his entire, sorry existence.
The message Aziraphale sent him that morning stares back at him reprovingly.
“Bored of the heavenly handbooks already?”
Aziraphale fixes a book on the shelf – an anonymous thing with a brown leather cover – then straightens that awful white waistcoat (well, light grey seems more accurate, now that he looks at it properly) with a single, sharp tug and turns towards Crowley with an impassive look that chills the demon to the bone.
It’s in his eyes, Crowley suddenly realises, the reason the air tastes different, the reason something is off inside the bookshop.
Aziraphale is angry. Proper angry this time.
There’s a stiffness to him, a very weird stillness that almost makes him look like a completely different person. If there’s something Crowley knows about Aziraphale (and he knows a few at this point) is that the angel is a worrier. Heaven, he may even have single handedly invented the sentiment. Not a single day has gone by since before the creation of the world where Aziraphale hasn’t worried about something else or other, where he didn’t wring his hands thinking about all the ways everything could go wrong. Or fussed with his clothing, or repeatedly looked this way and that like a very polite cat ready to flee.
But he doesn’t look worried now, he looks angry. Could it be because of Crowley’s disregard for punctuality? Dear Someone, he hopes so.
Either way, it’s enough to make Crowley so giddy he has the instant urge to poke at it like he would a bruise. Only he’s not sure the bruise is Aziraphale’s anger or, say, Crowley’s… heart, for lack of a better word. The only thing he’s sure of is his resolve to make the situation ten times worse than it already is.
So, he finds a way to hold Aziraphale’s steely gaze with his own and then… he pouts .
“Aw, what happened? Bad day at the office?” He’s both very proud and very ashamed of the whiny voice that comes out of his mouth. “Did you suddenly realise your esteemed coworkers are a bunch of tossers?”
Aziraphale keeps looking at him in a way that makes him feel exposed even behind his sunglasses, and he doesn’t waver. He just… stares. No, glares . And he doesn’t move either, doesn’t even breathe properly.
The angel slowly wets his lips like he’s tasting a subpar chocolate mousse, tilts up his chin and says: “No,” like he’s stabbing the air with it.
Crowley laughs, a short, ugly thing that quickly turns sour in the back of his throat.
“Of course you didn’t.”
If he had, he wouldn’t have gone back to Heaven with the idiotic notion of reforming it, or whatever the fuck he thought – still thinks? – he could do. It’s not like they talked about it or anything. Every time they meet, Crowley is too eager to leave for any kind of in-depth conversation.
“I’ll have you know that, as far as realisations go, it was neither sudden nor recent.”
The words are very much Aziraphale, but not the ice-cold way he says them.
Panic starts blooming in Crowley’s guts. Has Heaven finally broken him? Is this what Supreme Archangel Aziraphale sounds like?
“Ah, of course.” He taps a finger on his chin and hopes to Someone he isn’t visibly shaking, torn between the unbearable need to flee and the urge to find a not-so-clever-way to set this whole conversation on fire. “No wonder you wanted me to come Up with you. Something to liven up the place a bit, am I right?”
Another pause, still no reaction from Aziraphale.
“May I suggest a plant?”
Oh, this is good stuff. Very, very good stuff. Perfectly heartbreaking if he may say so himself, and he’s sure of it because he’s testing it on himself as he goes. Like a chef tasting his own recipes before daring to share them.
But despite Crowley’s undeniable genius and dedication to the craft of accidentally ruining his own life, Aziraphale still doesn’t say anything. He barely opens his mouth then closes it again like there’s no point in arguing at all.
And isn’t it tragic? The way he just keeps one-upping Crowley in the heartbreak department? Arguing is what they do and now… now it seems Aziraphale has decided not to bother.
Crowley is perfectly used to it. After all, he knows a thing or two about his words and actions coming back to bite him in the arse. He is perfectly capable of handling the situation while keeping his dignity (or whatever remains of it) intact.
So if his voice comes out wobbly the next time he opens his mouth, it’s just a coincidence… pure chance. Maybe something stuck in his throat or, you know, seasonal allergies.
“’S that a no on the plant? Pity, could have made it your second in command and everything. Give it orders, even choose little outfits for him–” He chokes on the word. “It. That’s what I meant.”
The only reason he doesn’t combust on the spot is the way Aziraphale’s eyes harden on him. They’re on the brink of… of something , a wall Crowley can’t wait to crash into at full speed.
“Are you quite done?” Aziraphale asks drily.
“I’m just saying, I know you’re all about improvement and being the best version of yourself blah blah blah. Could have started small and threatened a plant or two instead of going straight to the whole demon-to-angel pet project. I must say, though, props for originality. ‘S not like someone has ever tried it before. You’d have been a trendsetter, a trailblazer, a pioneer. Which is weird, when you think about it. You usually catch up on trends at least fifty years too late.”
He’s talking a lot. Why is he talking a lot? Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut?
See? He’s hilarious.
Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut? If demons had any semblance of imagination at all, they would model his infernal loop on that very same question.
But they’re not, they’re all about pitchforks and raining shit and boiling sulphur.
Aziraphale’s eyes are burning now, the way ice burns on naked skin.
“I wasn’t trying to improve you.”
“Ah, well, that’s debatable.”
“No, it’s not. I was trying to improve Heaven.”
“Are you sure you want to go with that one? ‘Cause, as much as it pains me to say, it sounds even more stupid than the first option.”
It’s clearly the wrong thing to say because Aziraphale smiles and it’s so small, tight and sharp that Crowley suddenly jumps up from the armchair as if electrocuted, unable to slouch any longer.
“Oh, but I am stupid,” Aziraphale says, voice flat and bitter. “You said so yourself, on more than one occasion.”
“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” he lashes out, pacing the room like a mad man overwhelmed by his own restlessness.
“You were.” The angel shrugs and it’s wrong , so wrong. Why is he so blessedly calm?
“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to turn the tables, not now, not ever. Not when you know full well that I didn’t mean–”
“Yes, you did!” Aziraphale interjects, the air crackling ominously around him. “You wanted me to improve too!” he insists stubbornly, raising his voice.
The words hit Crowley like a hammer to the head. He’s so out of sorts, so agitated, that before he knows it, he stops his pacing and removes his sunglasses to gape at Aziraphale, his stupid heart breaking all over again.
“So you admit it! That’s exactly what you were trying to do!”
“Would you feel better if I did?”
“Why do you ask? ‘S not like you ever cared about making me feel better.”
He wants to take it back as soon as he says it.
All of a sudden, his thoughts are full of Rome and oysters and beaming smiles and plump, pink cheeks. The memory makes the Archangel before him look even more out of place than he did just a few moments ago.
“You’re right. You’ve always been the clever one, after all.”
“Shut up, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s pacing resumes with a jolt and grows even more frantic, as if compensating for the angel’s unnatural stillness.
He feels like screaming. He feels like spilling his guts. Literally . To relieve the pressure and stop the awful feeling that has taken up residence in his stomach like a beast desperate to break free.
“Forgive me if I was under the impression you wanted me to talk.”
Of course he was. Of course he knows that Crowley was looking for a fight – still is, in a way. This is the same silly angel who looked straight into his eyes back when they barely knew of each other’s existence. The same angel who somehow knew him even before knowing him at all. The angel who was supposed to believe with every fibre of his ethereal being that demons were programmed to do evil no matter what.
Of course Aziraphale knows. Always did, probably always will.
“Fucking stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting so high and mighty, like you don’t even care. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I don’t.”
“What?”
“Care.”
“Of course you care!” Crowley shouts, dangerously close to losing his mind once and for all. “You always do! About the most ridiculous, stupid fucking things.”
Aziraphale takes a step forward, like a statue suddenly brought to life. “But you don’t like it.”
“I– I don’t– Wha– That’s not the point!”
It’s not true, Crowley wants to scream. That’s the first thing I noticed about you, he wants to say. The first, blessed thing that drew me to you.
“Oh, but it is. You think I don’t like you the way you are,” Aziraphale explains, his demeanour once again deceptively cool and composed. “Well… I do. I think I like you the way you are more than you like me, to be perfectly honest.”
Crowley squawks, unable to voice anything more coherent than that.
How can you even begin to address the biggest fucking lie ever told on this godforsaken planet? It’s ridiculous, really. Pure, utter nonsense that has Crowley laughing his arse off in mere seconds. And it’s funny (actually, the complete opposite) because he can’t remember ever feeling less amused in his entire life.
“They got you in the end, didn’t they? They’ve convinced you–”
“To be like them?”
“You’ve always wanted to–”
“So did you. You wanted me to be like them too.” He says it calmly, matter-of-factly, and Crowley feels his mind shatter in a thousand pieces.
“Are you being purposefully daft?”
“It’s the truth,” Aziraphale says, and for the first time since Crowley stepped into the backroom, the angel looks pained and uncertain. “If… if only I was more like Gabriel, more like the other angels… If only I cared less, if only I was less stupid… I would have abandoned Heaven and the world without looking back.”
“Shut up.”
“I like being an angel. I like to do good–”
“See? You keep talking about good and bad guys! All this time and you still don’t understand that there is no difference! None that really counts! It’s all pointless!”
It’s all pointless without you, he thinks ruefully.
“I thought–”
“Well, you thought wrong!” he spats angrily, his grip on himself tenuous at best. “What would you have done if I decided to go back to Hell to improve it, huh? What would you have said if I asked you to come with me as my second in command? After all, you’re a better tempter than half the demons I know! Do you hear how stupid it soundsss?”
“But God–”
“Doesn’t give a shit! About any of this! She doesn’t care!”
“But I do,” the angel whispers to himself, like a confession.
“For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, we’re talking in circles,” he huffs, hands pressed over his eyes. And would you look at that, he thinks bitterly, he can still make stars appear on the black canvas of his eyelids.
Why is he still here? Why does he keep doing this to himself? Why did he allow himself to be dragged into yet another idiotic scheme between Heaven and Hell?
He drops his hands and glances up at Aziraphale, anger finally giving way to a bone-deep tiredness.
“I’ve always been too soft, even for you.” Aziraphale ignores him, his eyes fixed across the room, unseeing.
Crowley barks out a laugh, his feet bringing him closer to the angel against his better judgement (at least some things never change).
It’s a disaster waiting to happen, a mistake of biblical proportions.
Because as soon as he faces Aziraphale, he’s reminded of the last time they were this close to each other, the moment everything went to shit. Irrevocably so. Only this time is even worse, because Aziraphale doesn’t look hopeful or even shocked, he’s just… there and not there at the same time, his eyes dull and grey and unfocused.
“I’m serious, angel. Shut up.”
“It’s true. You tried to make me understand–”
“Shut. Up.”
“But it didn’t work. Nothing ever works with me. I wish I knew why.”
And though Crowley appreciates a good, solid plan (the more convoluted the better), the couple of times he’s grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat he never really stopped to come up with one, and he doesn’t bother now either. The only thing he can think about (now just like those other times) is that he wants the angel to look at him, to really look at him. He wants to be seen even though he can barely stop himself from hiding.
Aziraphale indulges him and Crowley regrets it right away, suddenly painfully aware that he’s not wearing his sunglasses anymore, that his eyes are naked, and so is his face, and the desperate longing he knows is carved in every sharp line of it.
He would be embarrassed if the angel’s eyes didn’t finally, finally, soften.
“Shut up,” Crowley repeats and this time he can’t bring himself to pretend that his voice isn’t breaking or that he’s not pleading.
Aziraphale moves.
His hands are both cold and soft on Crowley’s, still holding for dear life on the lapels of his horrid grey jacket. And though he’s loath to admit it, maybe Aziraphale is right. Maybe he really is too soft for Crowley after all. Because how is it possible that a single touch can undo him like this?
That’s all it takes for the angel to break him, to bring tears to his eyes.
And isn’t it absolutely mortifying? To lose control in front of your hereditary enemy, your best friend, your… your everything, really.
“Fuck you, Aziraphale,” he chokes out, hot, angry tears streaming down his face.
The angel’s face crumbles, warmth finally spilling out from the cracks.
“Oh, Crowley.”
Aziraphale doesn’t know how, but they end up on the sofa, Crowley curled up under his arm, the demon’s breath hot and desperate under his soft chin, his sharp cheekbones wet with silent tears against the collar of Aziraphale’s starched grey shirt.
Six thousand years and he’s never seen the demon cry. Aziraphale knows he does, he knows Crowley isn’t half as cool as he pretends to be, but he never caught him in the act and the one time he thinks he almost did, he was missing a corporation and his vision was too blurry to tell for sure.
But now they are sitting on the sofa together, something they did dozens of times after the Apocalypse that wasn’t, and yet, it feels nothing short of miraculous. And yes, anger and guilt haven’t stopped wreaking havoc on his battered nerves, but against all his expectations for the afternoon, Aziraphale is shocked by how grateful he feels.
Grateful for the pressure of the demon’s pliable body against his own, for the feel of his pointy angles against the soft lines of his side, for the way Crowley’s letting Aziraphale hold him while he shakes and shudders and sobs in his arms. Letting him pour sweet nothings in his ear – It’s alright and We’re okay and It’s going to be fine.
Aziraphale is not above lying, but he hopes to Go- to Someone it’s not what he’s doing right now.
There are so many little details to focus on and he’s dying to commit them all to memory before it’s too late. Again.
He loves doing this for Crowley, he thinks with staggering clarity. To comfort him without fear of repercussions, without the need of second guessing himself or battling the ever-present urge to not cross any lines, not just with their respective former offices, but with Crowley as well.
And now they’re hugging.
In a sea of unexpected firsts, it’s this one that manages to strike Aziraphale dumb.
He automatically tightens his hold on the demon and keeps stroking his hair. (Good Lord, is that what he’s doing? The world must really be coming to an end.) Trying to soothe him, trying to soothe himself.
He’s still angry – with Heaven, with God, at Gabriel and Beelzebub getting away with what Aziraphale and Crowley have been trying to do for centuries, with himself – and also too tired to make sure the demon’s the only one crying.
“You were right,” Aziraphale murmurs, eyes closed and heart uselessly pounding in his chest. “I… I think I get it now. That being Good and being good are not the same thing. How else could I be too Good and not good enough for you at the same time?”
“Shut up, ‘Ziraphale,” Crowley whines against his skin.
Aziraphale wishes he’d known how much easier it was going to be to tell the truth when he can just whisper it against the demon’s hair. Holding Crowley close and keeping his eyes firmly shut. In this little, perfect bubble where it’s only the two of them curled into one another.
“What’s the point of being Good if I can’t even be good to the… the only–”
Crowley harshly tugs at the lapels of his jacket but doesn’t look up. “Stop it,” he hisses.
“I’m so sorry.”
The words fall like feathers into the stillness of the bookshop, gently settling on the thin film of dust coating the rug. Crowley doesn’t reach for them though, he simply presses himself against Aziraphale, who is suddenly worried nothing and no one, in both Heaven or Hell, will ever convince him to let the demon go.
He shouldn’t be surprised, really. This is precisely the reason he’s denied himself for countless centuries, because he knew – he knew – he was going to be insatiable, that he was going to put both of them at risk because he’s never, ever been able to resist a temptation after yielding to it the first time.
He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he is. After months confined in the sterile, blinding whiteness of Heaven, he finally feels a fire burning inside of him, the quiet, scalding conviction that anyone foolish enough to pry the demon from his grasp will face the wrath of the angel Aziraphale was always supposed to be. The one with a flaming sword and his very own platoon ready to be led into battle.
“I really thought I could make it good,” he adds, voice hoarse. “With your help.”
“’M not good,” Crowley complains shakily.
“Yes, you are. You are. You’re better than all of them. You make me better.”
“Aziraphale.”
This time Crowley pulls back, hair in disarray and eyes molten gold. Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. He feels guilty and blessed, awful and lucky at the same time. At some point in the last couple of thousands of years, getting to see Crowley’s eyes had started to feel like getting away with something, like catching him unawares and pretending not to notice to keep him from covering them again.
Right now, that feeling – that thrill – is stronger than ever. With no barriers between them, Aziraphale’s eyes roam Crowley’s face with the hunger he has repressed for months.
“We’re better together,” the demon says, voice low, his nape resting on Aziraphale’s arm.
It took Aziraphale a while to realise that that was the sole reason behind the Metatron’s offer, behind the flattery, the coffee and the polite smiles.
Shame burns his cheeks as he’s reminded – not for the first time and not even the hundredth – of the fact that the Voice of God had always known what Crowley’s answer was going to be. The Metatron knew and Aziraphale didn’t, blinded by the excitement of having finally stumbled upon a permanent solution, a way for them to be safe together. Maybe even overwhelmed by the satisfaction of being the one offering it to Crowley, by the sheer joy of getting to be his knight in shining armour for once.
Was he really expecting Crowley to thank him? Praising him on a job well done?
The stark divide between his expectations and what actually happened still hasn’t stopped haunting him – Crowley basically giving him what amounted to an ultimatum, a warning that after six thousand years Aziraphale had finally found the one thing that was finally going to break them for good.
He expected praise and relief, and what he got instead was no nightingales.
I really am stupid, he can’t help but think.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
“No,” Crowley agrees, always whispering. There’s a long pause, an intake of breath, and then, lower still: “And I shouldn’t have… asked you to run away with me. Again. I don’t know what I was thinking. Third time’s the charm, maybe? Ridiculous, really.”
“I wish I could–”
“No. I… maybe you’re right. Can’t ask you to be something you’re not. I mean, you can be selfish all right, I’ve seen how you get with your books, but not enough to leave the world behind. You love the world.”
“You love it too.”
“Not as much as I love you.”
These words, they fall like boulders on the carpet and Aziraphale’s chest. They make a huge noise, to the point that even Crowley seems shocked to hear them, as if he wasn’t the one who just spoke them into existence, as if they came out of him unbidden.
The demon is so taken aback he doesn’t even try to break free from Aziraphale’s tightening grasp.
“You chose the world,” Crowley rushes to add in what Aziraphale, even as stunned as he is, recognises as a clear attempt at derailing the conversation from the demon’s unexpected confession. “‘S not a problem, I get it.”
“Crowley,” he whispers back with a sense of urgency, his heart doing somersaults in his chest, his fingers gently stroking the demon’s face of their own accord.
It feels like a bomb going off in his head, in his heaving chest, a realisation that demolishes all the very cautious, very sensible arguments he has busied himself with ever since the Arrangement. The unshakable and at times even naive belief that, when all was said and done, he and Crowley were on the same page. That the rejections and the harsh words spoken in panic were part of their dance, no more than a necessary charade designed to bury this delicate and unbreakable thing between them, to protect it from Heaven and Hell. The belief that, despite everything, they both knew they cared for each other.
The mere idea of Crowley not knowing the full extent of Aziraphale’s affections, of Aziraphale failing to prove himself throughout the years, is unthinkable.
No, the angel thinks. It’s unforgivable.
“I didn’t choose the world over you. I chose the world for you, with you. I’ve always, always wanted to choose you, you must know that.” His eyes search Crowley’s face with all the sweetness he has never allowed himself to show for him, not like this. “But if there’s even the smallest chance of having both you and the world, don’t you think I owe it to myself – to ourselves – to try?”
Crowley grimaces and shrugs before nodding reluctantly. “Nyeah, I guess.” He doesn’t look as sad as before, but the resignation is still there, poking at Aziraphale’s conscience.
You can do better than this.
So he takes a deep, shaky breath, and feels himself flush all over. The urge to look away is almost unbearable, nearly impossible to resist, but Aziraphale desperately wants to be brave. To be the one to utter the truth out loud for once, rather than waiting for Crowley to speak it for the both of them and allow Aziraphale to go on pretending they were the demon’s and the demon’s alone.
If he said he’d never thought of this moment before, he’d be lying. He’s lost count of how many times the angel and the demon living inside his head have confessed their love for each other. A montage of dramatic moments, romantic gestures and even tragic endings, set against a thousand different backdrops. Some of those fantasies gave him hope, others only managed to break his heart all over again, but now… now he can’t remember a single one of those grand, moving speeches.
He’ll have to improvise.
“I love the world, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid I wouldn’t like it half as much if you weren’t in it.” Another deep breath. “It’s you, Crowley, you are my world.”
The demon blushes and, oh my goodness, Aziraphale’s nerves suddenly disappear in the face of what he firmly believes is the loveliest, most perfect sight to ever grace his angelic eyes.
“For fuck’s sssake, angel, shut up,” Crowley sputters, going redder than his hair.
Aziraphale smiles, unbelievably pleased with himself, and the demon growls.
“But it’s true.”
“Fine! Don’t have to rub it in like that though.”
“Well, I have it on good authority that I am a little bit of a bastard sometimes.”
“Yeah, the sappiest bastard I know,” Crowley mumbles before looking at him sheepishly. “Do you really think I don’t like it? The softness?”
“Do you really think I wanted you to be an angel because you’re not good enough just as you are?”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“I know, dear, I really am sorry. I should have never left any room for doubt. And I should have never asked you to come with me.”
Point is, Aziraphale has always thought of Heaven as the Good side simply because it’s (supposed to be?) God’s side. And while he stopped trusting his fellow angels a long time ago, he’s always seen Heaven’s flaws as more of a management issue, rather than an intrinsic one. He’s always believed Heaven could be actually good , and not just bureaucratically Good, under the right guidance, under someone who wasn’t so completely far-removed from Earth and mankind. And if one of those beings was a demon and the other an angel who felt brave enough to do the right thing thanks to the influence of that very same demon, well… that would have been fine by him.
I thought I was giving you the freedom to be as good as you already are, as you’ve always been, he thinks. I thought I was righting a wrong.
So much for shades of (very light) grey.
“I’m sorry, Crowley,” he says again, mortified.
“Nyeah, well… srytooiguess.”
“What was that, dear?”
“I said I’m sorry too, okay? Stop kicking a demon while he’s already down, for Someone’s sake,” he grumbles again and Aziraphale is pleased to find that Crowley is sounding more and more like himself.
“Of course, darling. Do you want me to stop hug–”
Crowley angrily wriggles in Aziraphale’s embrace but makes no real attempt to free himself.
“That is not what we’re doing!” he sputters indignantly.
“We’re not?”
“No, that would be undignified and… and all kinds of embarrassing. I know it’s a detail you keep trying to forget, angel, but I’m still a demon. And demons don’t hug. And if they do, they’re probably trying to choke you to death.”
Leave it to Crowley to accept Aziraphale’s apology by hiding it behind a dig at him.
“Of course, dear. What would be the demonic way of describing what we’re doing then?”
“I’m clearly tempting you to weakness by letting you be all soft and such,” Crowley says in an objectively terrible attempt at nonchalance.
“You are letting me be soft. And such.”
“Yeah. Once you get it out of your system, we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“I think I’d rather remember it, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Quite a lot.”
“Guess you’re going to have to live with it.”
“Thank fuck the world’s about to end, then.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it. That reminds me…” Aziraphale moves to stand, but Crowley suddenly clings to him, refusing to let go. “My dear, I just have to–”
“Have to what?” he barks. “And where’s Muriel?”
“I’ve sent them out on an errand.”
“What kind of errand?”
“To feed the ducks in St. James’ Park. I needed to speak with you in private.”
Crowley looks shocked. “Did you just ambush me?”
“Well, no. I asked you here to help me hide the Book of Life and devise a plan, but then you kind of derailed me, so…”
“Sorry, what? Did you just say–”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Aziraphale straightens himself and doesn’t even try to hide how pleased he is to see Crowley so clearly impressed. “I stole it from under The Metatron’s nose. I may be a subpar angel, but I know a thing or two about books and preventing people from getting their hands on them. Now all we have to do is hide it. I thought we could use the same miracle we used on Jim, maybe try to shield the whole bookshop in the process.”
“Are they coming after you?”
“Probably.”
Crowley finally lets go of Aziraphale’s jacket to glance at him with a dumbfounded expression. “What have you been doing Up there, exactly?”
Aziraphale gives a happy wiggle, as if resetting his corporation. “Weaponized incompetence, I think they call it.”
The demon grins. “You did not.”
“Why, yes. We saved the world once before, and I rather think that was our weapon of choice.”
“Heh, I don’t think choice had much say in the matter.”
“True enough.”
“You’re as proud as you are soft, angel,” Crowley says, clearly too preoccupied to feel self-conscious about the overwhelming fondness in his voice.
Aziraphale huffs and stands up from the couch after giving him one last affectionate pat on the cheek.
“I can be hard if I want to, you know,” he says casually.
Crowley goes back to slouch and gives him a dubious once-over, not bothering to put his sunglasses back on. “Can you, now?” he asks with a grin.
“Of course, I just have to make an effort.”
The demon arches an eyebrow, the smile turning mischievous. “Do you even hear yourself?”
For someone thinking Aziraphale capable of being a half-decent demon, Crowley is always quite ready to cast his words in the purest possible light.
Aziraphale offers him a beatific smile.
“You’re right. It probably depends on the effort.”
That wipes the grin off of Crowley’s face in no time at all.
“Angel!” he sputters.
“What?”
“Are you flirting with me?”
Aziraphale gives him a patronising look. “Would you know if I was, dear?”
“How dare you! And don’t you dear me! Of course I’d know!”
“History says otherwise.”
“What does that even mean?”
Aziraphale straightens his waistcoat with an air of finality. “I said what I said. Move along now. Muriel will be back soon,” he says, beckoning Crowley to follow him in the bookshop proper.
Crowley looks flabbergasted. “I know everything about seduction, angel. I’m a demon, have been for thousands of years, and if you ever–”
“Whatever you say, my dear,” Aziraphale cuts him off before opening the front door and stepping outside. “Are you ready to do this miracle?”
“I’ll show you miracle,” Crowley mutters, coming to stand next to him.
It’s raining in Soho and the asphalt shines under the streetlamps, Whickber Street empty safe for the cars silently swishing past the front door.
“Oh, how delightful,” Aziraphale gushes before offering his hand to Crowley.
The demon takes it with no hesitation, visibly tired but also relieved. “So, no halfsies this time.”
“No, let’s go out with a bang before Jesus shows up.”
“Are you expecting him to?”
“I hope so. I sent him to feed the ducks with Muriel and invited him for tea.” He checks his pocket watch. “They should be here shortly.”
“Angel…” Crowley starts.
“Don’t look so surprised, dear. It’s kind of rude, you know, and also a disservice to yourself. After all, I’ve picked up a thing or two from you over the years. Well, except for flirting, that one I learned by myself. And thank Someone for that.”
“You are such a bastard,” Crowley whines.
“Why, thank you, love. Now please, shut up.” That love shuts him up real quick and Aziraphale almost feels guilty about it. He shouldn’t be trying out all the endearments he’s avoided for multiple decades in the span of mere minutes. Eager, that’s what he is. He clears his throat and tightens his hold on Crowley’s hand, ignoring the demon’s embarrassed, nonsensical sputtering. “The biggest miracle we’ve ever done.”
“Ready when you are, angel.”
“One, two… three.”
Aziraphale’s free hand lowers while Crowley raises his own to meet in the middle.
It’s just a matter of seconds.
Nothing seems to have changed at all.
“Do you think it worked?” Aziraphale asks.
“Only one way to find out.” Crowley tugs him down the front steps without releasing him and reaches for the air above them, not minding the rain ruining his once painstakingly styled hair.
The gold-silvery glow that suddenly shines in front of their eyes takes them both by surprise, a giant bubble encompassing the entirety of the bookshop.
Breathless, Aziraphale beams and turns towards Crowley, who is still admiring their pretty impressive handiwork.
“Would you look at that,” the demon says, more to himself than anything else, a wide smile stretching his lips.
It’s one of the rarest ones, Aziraphale recognises in awe, the smile that brings out Crowley’s dimples and makes his eyes shine honey-gold.
“A miracle…” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes not leaving the demon’s spellbound expression. He feels humbled by the sight, by the sheer relief that instantly overwhelms him.
He almost lost this. They almost lost each other.
“This?” Crowley turns to him and points to the bubble shielding the shop. “Or the fact that we talked?”
Aziraphale huffs out a laugh and feels himself blush for no apparent reason. “Oh my, is that what we did?”
“I think so, yeah. Not that I would know, never tried it before.”
“Neither did I.”
Crowley lowers his gaze to their interlaced fingers, his smile finally dimming.
“Aziraphale,” he starts, his voice suddenly sombre. “I never said sorry for-”
“You don’t have to say sorry for that, dear.”
“But you forgave me, and when you forgive someone it kind of implies they did something wrong.”
Aziraphale offers him a rueful smile. “I forgave you for asking me to choose.”
“I panicked,” Crowley admits in a whisper, avoiding his gaze. “Wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer until their noses are only a few inches from each other.
He tips the demon’s chin up with a finger and he feels him tremble all over.
“I want to save the world with you, again. And this time it’s going to stick, we’ll make sure of it. And then, after saving humanity and all the things we enjoy, I promise to choose you, only you, over and over again, until time finally collapses on itself.”
“Sounds… boring,” Crowley chokes out, trying for nonchalance and missing by a lightyear, his eyes shiny with tears and raindrops.
“I love boring.”
“Guess you do,” he murmurs, his eyes never straying from Aziraphale’s now.
“Crowley, dear…”
“Yes?”
“I know it will take some time for me to earn your forgiveness and-”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re forgiven blah blah blah.”
“Well, that’s a rather heartfelt forgiveness,” he deadpans. “Thank you, dear.”
“Sure. Can we please move on? This talking business makes me feel all itchy.”
“I have a question.”
“Questions get you into trouble, angel. Did no one tell you?”
Aziraphale ignores him. “Is panic a strict requirement for all future kissing?”
“F-future what now?” Crowley stammers.
Aziraphale bravely soldiers on. “WIll I need to make you panic if I want to be kissed again? I’d rather not, you see.”
“We- I don’t- Wha- No…?”
“Can I just ask, then?”
“Ngk.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, dear.” He clears his throat and smiles. “Crowley, my dear demon, will you kiss me again? Please?”
Crowley flushes and huffs out a surprised laugh, probably shocked by the directness of his request, and much to Aziraphale’s delight, the dimples make a reappearance.
And really, how could he ever have thought that the angel Crowley once was didn’t still live somewhere inside of him? How did he never realise that he was still in there, right alongside the demon? That, in a way, Crowley had always been a little bit of both?
Aziraphale’s heartbeat suddenly spikes and this time the love that washes over him threatens to make him cry all over again.
“I love you,” he whispers, overcome with emotion.
“You will be the death of me,” Crowley complains, eyes glittery and voice shaky.
Then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he encircles Aziraphale in his arms and slightly dips him backwards before finding his rain-slick mouth with his own.
And this, too, feels like a miracle.