Archive of Our Own ^beta

I'd hate to see you getting into any trouble.

How much trouble can I get into for just asking a few questions?

Crowley had been going over his first conversation with Aziraphale for several days. At first he just thought about it in passing, shoving it down into an invisible pit in his stomach labeled ‘No Touching’ when the mere image of Aziraphale made his heart cleave into lovesick little pieces because Someone, he had it bad and sometimes even surprised himself at how well and truly far gone he was— and to claim that recent events changed any of that was a blessed lie. 

Then it became the mutterings of a madman as Crowley replayed their exact words over and over again aloud— of course he remembered them, he bloody well should remember them, it’s not every day you meet the love of your life and he helps you create the universe— as he paced his newly-returned flat. For a brief period of time it was shouting in the vague direction of his plants, until he decided that this particular memory was for nobody’s ears but Aziraphale’s and his own, something to curl around and protect, and definitely not something to shout about in anger. Never in anger. 

And now, its final stages returned to Crowley’s internal thoughts, but this time they were anything but passive. No, they were churning, swirling vortexes that left Crowley feeling more guilty and wretched than he’d ever felt in his stupid, miserable existence, and he’d be willing to bet more than anyone had ever felt in their stupid, miserable existences, either. 

Because sometime amidst the moping and the anger and the bitter, burning hurt he felt at Aziraphale’s departure seven months ago, he’d remembered those words, and the realization that followed changed everything. 

Let there be light, indeed, Crowley thought sourly. His objectively horrifying epiphany– really, it was more like a series of four epiphanies, which he thought there should be a word for but was much too preoccupied to put any more thought to dictionary expansion even though Azirapahle would probable love it if he did, which, Crowley acknowledged, was a point in its favor. His chain of realizations started out like this: Aziraphale was the loneliest person in all of existence.

After he’d thought and thought and drank a full shelf of wine and thought some more about that first meeting, Crowley had realized with a sickening weight in his gut that worrying about Crowley shouldn’t have even occurred to Aziraphale back then. It was before the Fall; nobody knew the extent to which asking questions could get you in trouble, that it was dangerous. The very notion that Heaven could do something…bad, to Crowley, shouldn’t have ever crossed his pretty young mind in the first place. And yet there his angel was, already doing somersaults to worry for those around him. It was no wonder that Aziraphale was created to be a Guardian, Crowley mused unhappily— he’d been burdened by doubts, conditioned to protect others at his own expense, since the damn beginning. The most tragically aware being in all of existence, clever and brilliant enough for something deep within him to suspect exactly what Heaven really was before they’d gone and proved it. 

Which brought Crowley back to his thesis– Aziraphale was the loneliest being there was. Because if he’d known what it was like to doubt– to fear– before the Fall actually happened, then (and Crowley had to bite down bile before he dared to think it aloud)... Aziraphale should have Fallen. Wondering and doubting and worrying about things should have caused him to Fall. But he didn’t. In a world in which a line was hastily drawn up between too-curious-for-their-own-good demons and happily-brainwashed little angels, Aziraphale hovered somewhere in the middle, and he’d been doing it since before the Beginning, not even mercifully granted a Fall to tell him what he was. And of course he could never, ever ask about it, because by then he knew exactly where asking questions landed you. The only angel who stayed an angel but was forced to carry a burden that never should have been his to carry– and he’d been carrying it since before the Beginning. 

What does that make me? Aziraphale had asked him a long while ago, sitting on a rock outside Job’s cottage and trying not to cry. And now, clenching his fist around a wine glass he’d miracled to never empty several hours ago, Crowley was forced to admit that he didn’t know the answer. 

“Fuck,” he said. And then the vortex started. 

The second epiphany went something like this– Crowley couldn’t count the number of ways he’d found to call Aziraphale naive. 

How could someone as clever as you be so stupid?

You think you’re a demon? With your neat white, and your curly little—

You’re better than that, angel. 

I understand a lot better than you think I do. 

You idiot. 

But that had never been true. His angel had been the single most aware being out there– he’d never needed Crowley to tell him what was right and wrong. His careful choice of when to question things or disobey and when to fall in line was a tactic to ensure his own survival– to ensure his and Crowley’s survival. If they’d fucked around and thrown the rules to the dogs as early and as often as Crowley had wanted, there was no telling whether they would have made it this long in the first place. 

And Crowley had made sure that all of that work had fallen to his angel. He could be the loose-hanging demon who encouraged Aziraphale to do whatever he damn well pleased– including handing over the most powerful weapon in Heaven’s arsenal to the enemy— whereas Aziraphale had to be careful, had to look over both of their shoulders to stop them from getting killed by Hell or– more likely– Heaven. And God knows what the fucking archangels would have done to his angel if they’d found out about the Arrangement any sooner than they did, but just the thought made Crowley sick. He may have acted as the rescuer on Earth, but both he and Aziraphale knew who was really keeping them safe from their old sides. Not to mention the fact that Aziraphale gave fucking everything to the Earth and if Heaven destroyed him, there would be nobody left to protect it. Nobody left in Heaven who cared about the humans, not like his angel did.

And every time Aziraphale pushed him away to protect both of them– to protect Crowley– he thought it was some kind of betrayal. While Aziraphale had absolutely said some unfair things about demons over the years, it wasn’t like Crowley had been much better, with all his demeaning little remarks implying that Aziraphale was naive, childish, or lesser than because he was a perfect little angel who’d never experienced true abuse whereas Crowley understood what it was like to Fall, and that made him more traumatized, more capable, more… deserving of whatever it was that let a person call the shots in their own bloody life. Even though Crowley knew that none of that was true, he’d wanted to protect his angel so badly that he’d lashed out and acted just as unfairly, just as polarizing about angels and demons as Aziraphale had. As if there was some secret about Heavenly abuse that Crowley knew but Aziraphale didn’t, that Aziraphale hadn’t been a victim of, for even longer than Crowley had. 

As if Aziraphale didn’t have just as much of a reason to want to change Heaven as Crowley would to abandon it.

Someone, Crowley had acted like all the men in stupid human romantic-comedies he liked to drag Aziraphale to: behaved like an emotionally immature child and expected his better half to do all the work and adhere to every choice Crowley deemed the correct one. 

The rom-com incident led him to his third vomit-inducing realization: Crowley had treated Aziraphale unfairly the last time they spoke. His gut churned as he thought about his angel– led on a path of abuse and misery for over 6,000 years just for being the only unquestionably Good thing She ever made… of course he would go back to Heaven to change all of that. Of course he should go back to change that. To make sure nobody else had to go through Heaven the way he did, to make it a safe place for angels and, notably, for humans. If he hadn’t, well. Even Crowley’s imagination couldn’t produce who Metatron would have chosen to take Aziraphale’s place, but he did know it would have been someone just as awful as the rest of them, and angels would go on just as they always had. 

Just as Aziraphale always had. 

Or no– that wasn’t right. Aziraphale had been far better from the start, but he’d been stuck in the Host, ridiculed and beaten down by angels who paraded around with ridiculous notions of Earth, humanity, and what was considered the ‘greater good’— and harshly punishing anyone who fought back.

Aziraphale had marched back to his old side with his head held high despite telling Metatron that he didn’t want to– and it was all to protect the humans like he’d always done and a Host of angels who’d been nothing but cruel to him, who didn’t even begin to deserve him granting their freedom. But he’d gone and done it anyway. Damn brave angel, he’d snuck up and changed the system from the inside. Crowley felt tears spring to his eyes as he could nearly picture his angel shaking a finger in his face in disappointment.

“It’s all jolly good to abandon the system once you conveniently don’t need it anymore, Crowley,” he would say, and he’d be absolutely right. “But that doesn’t mean others aren’t suffering. The opposite of progress is indifference– if I didn’t try to fix this simply because I am no longer affected by Heavenly abuse, that would make me the most selfish person in all of existence.” 

And what Aziraphale of course wouldn’t– couldn’t– add, was that he wouldn’t be the person Crowley fell in love with. As much as Crowley had wanted to glorify leaving Heaven and Hell behind, wiping his hands of them once and for all… it was the selfish thing to do. It ensured that countless souls– angels and humans alike– would suffer just because Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t actively have to work with Heaven and Hell anymore. It was almost sickening how selfless his angel was. 

Sure– Aziraphale had misspoke. Crowley would be lying if he said the Bad Guys comment didn’t sting a bit, even now. But at the same time… Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale had meant. Hell was an evil place because it was supposed to be an evil place— of course Crowley wouldn’t go back, because they wouldn’t give him a chance to save it. The Bad Guys.

Heaven was different; they were every bit as bad as Hell– maybe even worse, as memories returned to him, unbidden, of Azirahale’s haunted eyes and sometimes far worse than bruises upon returning from a reprimand– sights of his angel that Crowley had spent many bottles of whisky trying to forget over the milenia. But from the Beginning, Heaven was supposed to be good. Hell may be a functioning abomination, but Heaven was a broken system. There was actually something there to save. 

And so Crowley arrived at his fourth and final revelation: throughout their relationship, Aziraphale hadn’t been allowed to misspeak. Any insensitive remark or mistake was met with Crowley’s temper or a humbling Apology Dance to make up for it. But Crowley could go on as demeaning as he liked– calling him stupid a la Epiphany Number Two or implying that the only right choice Aziraphale could make was what Crowley thought was best and any other attempt to make the world a better place was naive and futile, or starting fights– and Aziraphale was just supposed to lie down and take it. To forgive him in the blink of an eye because demons have tempers and get mad sometimes. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t offered that same easy forgiveness. They’d fight and Crowley would storm off, take a months-long nap, or refuse to speak to him for eighty fucking years. In fact, Crowley couldn’t remember a single instance in which the words 'I forgive you' had ever left his mouth, even though it took barely ten seconds for the angel to verbally forgive Crowley every time they fought.

Aziraphale may have pushed him away for centuries and implied all sorts of things about demons, but all of it came from a place of keeping them both safe. So that they could both live in peace– as close to peace as they could come, anway– and so that someone would be left to guard the Earth.

Only Crowley consistently made Aziraphale think he wasn’t capable enough to make change in the world– and he was, he was the only person Crowley would bet on being able to save Earth single-handedly– and when he dared to make his own choice rather than blindly follow whatever Crowley wanted, he fancied his angel into the villain. He’d subconsciously robbed Aziraphale of his own autonomy. 

And it wasn’t a good enough excuse that he just wanted to protect him. Crowley was allowed to make his own (albeit selfish) choice and not go back to the place that hurt him, but Aziraphale couldn’t do the same. Couldn’t have his agency and choose his own path, couldn’t do what was best for his own trauma and the place that had hurt him, not without forsaking… whatever he and Crowley had become.

That day, Crowley had inadvertently made it seem as though his own obligation was to do what was best for himself and his trauma, but that Aziraphale’s subsequent obligation was to also do what was best for Crowley and Crowley’s trauma. No one seemed willing to bring up what might be best for Aziraphale. And his angel never complained. Never thought he deserved more than that.

With a hysterical, humorless laugh, Crowley realized he hadn’t been far off with his romantic-comedy metaphor at all: Aziraphale couldn’t make an independent choice without the consent, the— he scoffed— permission, of Crowley. Their nonexistent genders aside, he’d put his angel into the same box that men put women.

Everything the day Aziraphale went back to Heaven had been about Crowley’s trauma, his way of doing things and his decision on what was their mutual next move. Not a word was spoken about what Aziraphale needed, what would let him heal from the millennia of unspeakable abuse hurled his way or even any sort of acknowledgment on Crowley’s part that his angel was capable and strong and soft and perfect and right for this job in the first place, or that he was doing the right, brave thing by going back.

No, instead Crowley painted him the naive, power-hungry abandoner of their relationship, even though it had been Crowley who’d actually left first.

Maybe it was valid of him to be unable to return to Heaven. Sure, definitely. Valid choice. But Crowley had made it seem like that was the only right choice to make, that Aziraphale couldn’t choose something else. It was simple, really: Crowley had equated what was best for Aziraphale with what was best for himself.

He’d behaved like an idiot. Like a stupid, miserable, fucking idiot. 

The string of epiphanies cycled through his head for all of five seconds before he was running out the door. He had to make this right. Or at least try to. Aziraphale couldn’t go on another day all alone in Heaven thinking that Crowley wanted nothing to do with him, thinking that he wasn’t right to do what he did.

Crowley barely paused to grab his sunglasses before he was throwing open the door of the Bentley. This couldn’t— wouldn’t— wait. He’d be damned twice if he let it. 

……

There was probably a hand-wavey metaphor hidden somewhere not-all-that-far beneath the surface in the fact that the London entrances to Heaven and Hell were functionally the same staircase. Aziraphale would have something clever to say about it, Crowley thought as his insides twisted yet again. He always had something clever to say.

Crowley shook himself off and decided that he would spare a second thought to the moral symbolism of the joint office building some other time. Preferably once Aziraphale was safely reassured of his own brilliance and Crowley’s utter idiocy.

For now, he bounded up the escalator– horribly undignified as he lept four stairs at a time, and lunged toward the bright, suffocating light of the Heavenly abyss with fluidity of limbs that no human body should have been capable of. 

He turned inward, trying to locate Aziraphale with his senses. The glow of his angel was fainter Up here– like trying to pick out a single rose in a garden full of them. But it was always fairly easy to locate the most beautiful flower even if it sat amongst hundreds of others like it but nowhere near as perfect, and… Crowley chastised himself for the idiom. Like something out of a mediocre poetry book. Yearn later. Get a grip.

He rounded corner after corner– no angel gave him a second glance as he snapped his fingers and donned the same getup he’d worn the last time he’d come to Heaven– as panic rose steadily like bile in his throat at the thought that he was no longer able to sense Aziraphale so easily. He didn’t want to think about what the implications of that might be. 

In a sudden motion like a stone dropping into water, something deep inside of Crowley’s gut surged. He jerked to the left, following a white hallway for a few paces, realizing with some confusion that the offices he passed had paintings in them– simple finger paintings that looked charmingly like they’d been made by someone who’d just recently learned about the concept of art– and plants and other various tchotchkes that sat proudly on display. Even some of the hallways glowed warmly, a welcome change from the blinding white that made Crowley’s head hurt in a way that had nothing to do with consecrated ground. Heaven was dotted with color. With personality, with spirit and a kind of welcoming, cozy happiness that Crowley had only ever felt before in one particular bookshop.

He barely had time to process the change before he hitched a right, and the breath was knocked out of him altogether. 

There he was. 

Aziraphale looked more or less the same; his clothes, his hair, the sparkle of his eyes were all there, just as lovely as the angel Crowley had fallen in love with 6,000 years ago on the wall of a garden.

He was talking to another figure in white– a short angel with a curly bob of hair that shook veritably as they tried to work out whatever it was that they were asking, and their brows furrowed like Aziraphale’s did whenever he worked out a particularly dense problem.

Crowley couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could see the way Aziraphale’s entire body was turned toward the young angel, offering them his full attention, his smile, his kind eyes. His counterpart seemed almost uncannily unafraid of the consequences as they talked and talked, sometimes clearly asking a question– a question– and prompting Aziraphale to answer.

 Crowley was frozen on the spot. How many times had he stopped and stared like this, mesmerized by his angel and the kind, unquestionably good way he talked to the humans and tried to help them? Only then there was always a hint of something– tension in his posture or an anxious strain in his smile that Crowley tried to ease away with whatever distraction was closest. Anything to chase away the doubt Aziraphale carried every day, the fear at what would happen to him if he was caught protecting anybody outside of Heaven’s orders. It was a long list of people that often included Aziraphale himself, a fact that made Crowley’s blood boil just as much as it made him sick with fear.  

There was none of that, now. Everything in Aziraphale and the other angel’s body languages bled not just capability, but comfortability. Confidence.

Crowley had already deduced– albeit over half a year too late– that his angel had been right and brave to come back to fix the broken system of Heaven, but amidst his guilty revelations, he’d failed to properly think about just how good Aziraphale would be at it.

Which was bloody ridiculous, Crowley thought in what had to have been his millionth wave of self-loathing that day. Of course Aziraphale was made for this: changing Heaven from the inside, making it warm and homey, inviting questions and discussions, being the right kind of leader, kind and wonderful and perfect and trinket-encouraging and just… everything Aziraphale had desperately needed for milenia upon milenia but had been so cruelly denied. Kind, a good listener, a lack of mental and physical fucking torture.

His angel had done it. He’d made his mark– he’d bloody changed Heaven. And Crowley foolishly hadn’t been able to understand why he would do it. 

After a long while, the short angel walked away, and Aziraphale closed his eyes, seemingly revelling in the conversation. It felt rude to gaze at something so private, yet Crowley couldn’t help but wonder with a pang of heartache whether Aziraphale was thinking about just how much he’d needed the very thing he just gave to another angel.

Crowley wanted to cry out at the absurdity, the pure unfairness of it all– Heaven’s best and kindest creation, Her best and kindest creation, changing a system that no one had ever bothered to change for him when he deserved it more than all of them combined. 

Crowley forced himself to steel his anger. He could rage against Heaven and maybe wrap his wings in a protective circle around Aziraphale for the rest of eternity after he conquered something smaller, such as working up the courage to say hello.

Someone, this was ridiculous. Talking to Aziraphale had never been anything but the easiest thing in the world. Today shouldn’t– wouldn’t– be any different. If only he could just say something, they’d be on their way. But every word he could think of just got stuck in his throat. 

In the end, Crowley’s decision was made for him. Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and turned to the side, and before Crowley could process what that would mean, the angel had spun around to meet Crowley’s eyes for the first time in seven months.

 And suddenly Crowley didn’t know what to say; nothing seemed adequate to convey how sorry he was, how deeply he’d be regretting what he did for the rest of his life, how much of a relief it was to see him, and if he’d fucked this up beyond repair and Aziraphale never wanted to speak to him again, then just getting to look at him one last time would be enough. He searched for how their first greeting should go, what words would be the right ones to explain that—

“What,” Aziraphale snapped, “could you possibly be doing here?” 

Well. That certainty hadn’t been on his list of options. 

Crowley swallowed and gave a sad smile. “Hey, angel.” He cringed. That wasn’t nearly apologetic enough. “You– I saw you. Just now. With… that other angel.”

“Zakiel,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

“Zakiel,” Crowley agreed. “It was– you looked great. I mean, I couldn’t hear anything, but you were– you know. Strong. Good at it. At home, I s’pose.”

Proper sentences were evading him, and this was not the bloody time for it.

Aziraphale straightened and clenched his jaw. “Very funny.”  

It was– without a doubt– the angriest the angel had ever been with him. Crowley physically felt his heart burn as he realized Aziraphale thought he was being sarcastic. That Crowley wouldn’t think he was brilliant at this, that he wouldn’t tell him something like that anymore. 

“Aziraphale, wait,” he called out, but the angel was already walking away.

He knew it was stupid; Aziraphale had every right to be furious with him, but he’d never considered the possibility that the angel actually would be. If anything, he found himself feeling proud— it was about damn time that Aziraphale got to stand up for himself– but that didn’t stop the panic crawling up his throat that he’d ruined this beyond fixing. 

Aziraphale kept walking. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

His confident voice wavered, and the sound broke Crowley’s heart even further as much as it gave him a surge of blind hope that it wasn’t too late, that Aziraphale wasn’t as passively angry as he tried to show. Crowley knew the angel well enough to know that if he was upset enough for his voice to crack, then there was something there to work with. Crowley was sure of it, just as he was sure of the sickening guilt in his gut at the fact that Aziraphale sounded like that because of him. 

“Just– ngk, stop walking, I need to talk to you.”

Crowley knew that he could fix this if the angel let him. But Aziraphale hadn’t paused his brisk pace, and he could probably snap his fingers and disappear altogether at any given moment, leaving Crowley to blindly search for him again– which he would do, he’d storm all of Heaven before he let him go again– but something in him clung stubbornly to the idea that he needed to fix things with Aziraphale now, that the angel needed him in some way, and fuck if he didn’t owe Aziraphale whatever he needed, whatever he wanted. That and a thousand other things. 

He stumbled after the angel, calling out, “Aziraphale, please.”

Aziraphale glared at him, but he did finally turn around, shaking a finger at Crowley in a way that made the demon have to physically bite back a fond smile. 

“I don’t know where you get your nerve,” said Aziraphale, “or what you think you’re doing here, but I must insist you leave.”

Crowley blinked. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Well I don’t,” Aziraphale huffed stubbornly. “So kindly walk away. If you please.”

Crowley winced at the angel’s cold tone. “I can’t do that,” he said gently.

Something in Aziraphale seemed to snap. “Of course you can’t,” he said, throwing his hands in the air.

“You needed to make everything about you that… unfortunate day, and now you come back because– what? Is it a convenient time for you to talk? I don’t seem to recall you putting in an ounce of effort the last time we spoke once I’d made it clear that I was leaving.” His gaze softened slightly. “I said things to you that were unfair– cruel, even. I shouldn’t have called Hell the Bad Guys, and I shouldn’t have assumed that returning to Heaven was what was best for you the way it was for me.”

His tone hardened again. “But I wasn’t the one who got angry. I’m not the one who didn’t even try to see things from your perspective– and for the record, I forgave you immediately. For all of it. I made that exceedingly clear, just as you made it clear I wasn’t to be offered the same. It’s– you… you’re bitter, and rash, and selfish, and just–”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged like all the fight had suddenly gone out of him– no, like it had been squeezed out of him. Someone, his angel looked so tired. “You’re just mean, sometimes.”

Aziraphale, it seemed, had reached the same realizations months ago that Crowley had only arrived at this morning. The thought made him feel wretched.

“I know,” the demon said. 

And it wasn’t enough. There was nothing big enough to even begin to explain himself. He was silent for a second too long. Aziraphale scoffed lightly and turned around again, sending a strike of panic through Crowley like lightning. 

“Someone could harm you if they catch you here,” Aziraphale said.  “And I need to get back to work. Now, ideally. You need to leave.”

He didn’t give Crowley the chance to respond before he resumed his fast walk down the hall, leaving Crowley behind as he all but ran after the angel.

He really was panicking, now– he couldn’t hope to begin to apologize properly if Aziraphale wouldn’t even talk to him.

He was desperate, he could feel the anxiety coursing through his veins. Pure instinct took over as he shouted after Aziraphale the one thing he could think of, the one honest truth that might make Aziraphale see how badly he wanted to fix this, wanted to fix them, that he needed him to stay more than he’d ever needed anything else in the world. 

“Angel, I’m in lo—”

“No,” Aziraphale hurled as he spun back around. 

Crowley reared back, not unlike a threatened snake. “Yes I— Bastard. What do you mean ‘no’?”

He meant it as a joke, an invitation to lighten the mood, but Aziraphale shot him a look that would have made lesser demons piss themselves, and Crowley refrained only on account of an inability to ever be afraid of his angel, no matter how striking and beautiful and brilliantly, terrifyingly powerful he was. 

“I said no,” Aziraphale said, every muscle in his body clenching.  For once his fists remained tightly balled at his sides. “You already ruined our first kiss by using it as a weapon instead of something real. You don’t get to manipulate our first…that, too.” 

Crowley flinched like Aziraphale had slapped him, which, he reasoned, probably would have hurt far less.

“That’s— fair,” he admitted. “You’re absolutely right. On both accounts. Every account. It was just,” he waved his arm nonsensically, “instinct. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it in.”

A slow grin beckoned at the corners of Crowley’s lips. “Hang on, you said ‘our first.’ Does that mean you—”

“Crowley. Stop. Now.” 

Crowley obeyed and put his hands up in defeat, but he couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. “Right, right. No confessions. Yet. Got it.” 

With newfound hope that threatened to choke him, he took off his sunglasses and calmly folded them into his pockets. “What about groveling for forgiveness? That sound immendable to you?”

Aziraphale glowered at him. “I’ve no intention of groveling, and I have many things to do, so if that’s all you’ve come for, you can f—”

“Not you, angel. Me.” Crowley explained simply, ignoring the guilty pang in his chest at the implication that Crowley would come all this way just to demand an apology. “I’m on grovel duty.”

 Someone, angel, is this kind of guilt what you felt all the time? How did you stand it? Less than a day of feeling like this and Crowley already felt mad as a hatter from one of Aziraphale’s books. 

Aziraphale’s lips parted, and the look of blatant shock on his angel’s face— visible for only the barest of moments before he steeled himself back to stony anger— made Crowley’s heart twist miserably.

Never again, he vowed. Never again would Aziraphale go on thinking he ought to apologize for every fight they ever had, whereas Crowley’s temper was excused without exception. Aziraphale’s forgiveness would never be taken advantage of again. He’d sleep naked on consecrated grounds before he did it again. 

“I– Someone, angel. I’m so fucking sorry,” Crowley all but sobbed. “You were right about everything, and I’m an idiot.”

Aziraphale eyed him warily. “What are you talking about?”

Crowley tried to pour every ounce of his regret into his voice as he said, “The day you left. I acted like you were some… some naive, power-hungry fool who betrayed me just for making your own choice.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, but the anger had bled out of him. It was a statement, not an accusation. Crowley didn’t know if that was better or worse. “You did.”

The demon nodded slowly. “I did.”

“Just because my goals are different from yours doesn’t mean they’re not important.”

Crowley felt his heart break once more at the tired disappointment in his angel’s tone, as if Crowley’s inclination to assume Aziraphale’s failure was so ingrained that he couldn’t be surprised by it anymore. 

“You’re right,” said Crowley. “You’re right. I was mean to you and it was fucking bullshit. I was an utter arsehole to you– s’not even a proper word for what I did to you. And I don’t just mean that day.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

Crowley threw his hands into the air. “I mean all of it.”

And so he took Aziraphale through every one of his horrifying epiphanies, rom-com metaphors and all, watching as the angel’s features slowly softened.

The angel visibly reacted several times– eyes widening at the remark about his status as the loneliest being ever created, a soft gasp at the gender and autonomy comments, an eyebrow twitch at the admission that Aziraohale had kept them safe, a trembling lip at the confession that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to misspeak or be forgiven, an an outright shudder at Crowley’s repeated apologies relating to That Day and Aziraphale’s status as Supreme Archangel.

It felt like hours before Crowley had expelled it all, and four fully-explained epiphanies later, he could only hope it was enough. Not to dispel his own guilt– he had a feeling he’d be carrying that for awhile– but to make it absolutely clear how sorry he was, and how brilliant Aziraphale had always, always been. 

“If you need more time, that’s okay,” Crowley said when he was done, shaking and only slightly out of breath. “I can wait. I’d do anything for you.”

Aziraphale was visibly trembling, and Crowley ached to wrap him up in his arms and not let go for an obscene length of time. The angel’s eyes watered as he looked up.

“Don’t cry,” Crowley whispered. And Aziraphale laughed. It was the most beautiful thing the demon had ever heard. 

“I’m– you… I don’t need time,” Aziraphale said with a roll of his eyes, but there was nothing but fondness in the ghost of his smile. “I forgive you. And I meant what I said earlier– I’m sorry, too. Nothing I said about demons and Hell was fair, not that day or any of the other days.”

“You were keeping us safe.”

“I should have found another way.”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged. “I forgive you. For this and for every other time I never said it but should have. Besides, my chosen method of protecting you was to pretend like you were a damsel in distress who didn’t have autonomy. So. I think that makes us even.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, and smiled for real this time.

“There you are,” Crowley murmured fondly. 

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I said I wouldn’t confess yet.”

Aziraphale turned comically, adorably red, and now it was Crowley’s turn to smile. 

“That’s– you don’t– I mean…” Aziraphale seemed to promptly forget how to form a sentence, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel giddy that his angel, who was so quick with words and always had something clever to say, was reduced to stammering and blushing because of him. “That is to say, I–”

“Aziraphale!”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley whipped around as the short angel from earlier– Zakiel– ran down the hall, waving Aziraphale over. They stopped short in front of the pair. 

“Who are you?” Zakiel asked Crowley. And they clearly felt comfortable enough to ask that question and not bury it in a thousand layers of groveling formalities. Crowley felt yet another surge of pride in his angel. 

“Zakiel,” Aziraphale interrupted hurriedly. “What is it?”

The angel redirected their focus. “Right. The others want to know if there’s a meeting in the usual place.”

Meeting? Crowley mouthed at Aziraphale, whose eyes widened in panic. 

“Oh! I didn’t realize the– yes. Yes, there is,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll be with you in just a moment. Better get started without me.”

“Without you?” Zakiel cocked their head. “None of us have a plan to stop the Second Coming.”

Crowley’s world screeched to a halt. 

“What.” The word wasn’t a question. 

Zakiel’s eyes widened. “Oh, Almighty– is he with Metatron?” they whispered as if Crowley couldn’t hear them.

Crowley made a sour face like the idea physically burned him. “Abssssolutely not,” he hissed. He felt his pulse beating rapidly, and a sinking feeling like he’d been submerged in ice water overtook his corporation. Something was wrong– something was very, very wrong, and whatever it was, Aziraphale had known about it for far longer than Crowley had. 

“Zakiel, would you mind terribly heading back to my office to wait with the others?” Aziraphale interrupted quickly. “I promise I’ll join you soon.”

Zakiel still looked suspicious of Crowley, but they replied, “Alright. We’ll wait for you.”

Aziraphale beamed at them, a smile that Crowley was willing to bet he was the only person in the world who could see through. “Right, then. Hurry along.” Zakiel nodded and, with a little wave to Crowley, turned the corner, leaving them alone once more. 

“Angel,” the icy feeling was growing colder by the second, “What were they talking about?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and allowed himself to slump the tiniest bit, an exhausted strain to his shoulders that Crowley longed to ease. “You’ll be upset,” said Aziraphale, rubbing a hand to the crease of his brows as if fighting a headache.

Crowley snapped his fingers, ridding the angel of any pain. “Not with you,” he replied as softly as he could.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” He shot Crowley a grateful look, dropping his hand.

“It’s only you I worry about, so it seems we can come to an Arrangement, here.” His use of the word ‘arrangement’ landed as he’d hoped it would, and Aziraphale looked like he might laugh for a moment before the tired anxiety grabbed hold of him once more. 

“The Second Coming,” Aziraphale said sadly. “Metatron’s new attempt at the end of the world.”

The floor fell from beneath him. “Shit,” Crowley breathed. “Shit, shit, shit, bollocks, angel! How long has this been in the works?”

“Since we stopped the first one, I expect.” Aziraphale straightened his bowtie in a motion that was so quintessentially him that it eased Crowley’s racing heart, just a smidge.

“I learned about it the day I took the job, just before getting into the elevator,” Aziraphale explained. “I assume that’s why they offered me the position in the first place– keep an eye on me so I didn’t– ahem. Interfere, so to speak. It wasn’t a particularly good plan, on their end.”

Crowley’s throat closed up so fast he was sure he’d discorporate on the spot. “And what meeting was Zakiel on about?” he managed to choke out.

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “The Committee to Stop the Apocalypse,” he said, a strain to his voice even as he tried to straighten his shoulders and add a cheerful pitch to his tone as if Crowley wouldn’t be able to see the cracks. “Not a terribly creative name, I’m afraid. Gets straight to the point. I started it on my first day.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You what?”

Aziraphale began fidgeting with his hands. “Well, I knew I was coming back to make changes, to make sure no one else had to…” he trailed off. “Had to go on like I did, I suppose. Or you did. I’d made up my mind to change Heaven for good.

“And then I was told about the Second Coming, and I knew there was no hope of stopping it without a voice on the inside– we probably never would have succeeded the first time had we not had insider information from our respective sides. So I knew what I had to do, and I’ve been doing it ever since.” 

His cheeks went slightly pink. “I started a suggestion box, actually. For angels who had questions– anything at all– about Heaven, or Hell, or the Almighty, or Earth, or what have you. Hardly anybody replied at first. I don’t think most angels truly believed it wasn’t a trap and they wouldn’t be sent to the punishment wing if they participated.” Something haunted overtook his gaze. “Sometimes Michael used to try things like that– psychological, erm. Exercises.” 

Torture, he meant to say but wouldn’t. Physical and psychological fucking torture. Crowley’s blood boiled as the angel cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I formed a group with the few who did reply, and started teaching them all they wanted to know, plus things that I know about Earth and angels and demons that they wouldn’t think to ask. They must have spread the word– we started off with just seven members, and now we have a small army!” He huffed a slightly forced laugh, but there was also something proud in his voice.

“And once I’d gained their trust, I…” the exhausted look came back to Aziraphale’s eyes, and the excited tone of voice dropped suddenly. “I told them the truth. About Metatron’s plans. We’re working to stop it whenever I’m not planning how to reinvent Heaven.”

Aziraphale had started shaking again, pasting a too-bright smile on his face with too-wide eyes to match, clearly trying to make Crowley think this wasn’t a big deal. As if it wasn’t equally the bravest, most incredible, and the most gut-wrenchingly horrifying thing the demon had ever heard. 

“You’ve been stopping Armageddon,” Crowley said slowly. “And… you’ve been doing it on your own.”

“No,” Aziraphale argued weakly in spite of his posture– rigid and shaking like if he allowed himself to crack he would crumple completely- and the tears gathering in his eyes. “I haven’t. The Committee, they–”

“Soldiers in your army, Aziraphale.” Crowley couldn’t remember a time when his voice had been this soft. “All the responsibility, all the burden, that’s all fallen to you and you alone. For over half a bloody year.” Anguish flooded his chest and mind and everywhere else from his hair to his shoes. “And I wasn’t there.”

Aziraphale was crying, now, Crowley could tell even though the angel had ducked his head to block him from seeing his tears. “It’s not like that.”

 “It is,” Crowley said simply. “Oh, angel.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. His arms were wrapped around Aziraphale in less than a second, curled around his back with one hand coming up to rest against his angel’s soft, feathery curls as he encouraged him to rest on his shoulder. Aziraphale complied, but his entire body was stiff as though he might bolt at any second. As though he didn’t deserve this. 

“You can break,” Crowley murmured softly in his angel’s ear. “Hey. It’s me. S’just me. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m never going to hurt you again, I promise. I’ve got you. Let it out, angel. You can break. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He whispered soothing nonsense until Aziraphale finally melted against him, hugging him back and crying into his shoulder. 

“I’m–” Aziraphale choked. “I’m sorr–”

“Shh,” said Crowley. “Don’t you dare apologize to me. It’s me who’s sorry– I should have come with you, angel. I should have helped you, not left you to fix a broken system– which you have, shit, there’s actual life and color in this place now because of you– and save the bloody fucking world all by yourself while I lazed around getting drunk and sleeping off the pain. I’m sorry. You’re brilliant and I’m sorry.” 

In all the time he’d spent mourning the loss of Aziraphale these past seven months, Crowley had never considered the advantage he’d carried simply by staying on Earth.

He’d been miserable and heartbroken, to be sure, but he’d had his flat with a bed to curl up in and wine to get drunk on and music to calm his nerves. Aziraphale hadn’t had any of that. He was stuck Up here, just as lonely as Crowley but rather than have any beloved Earthly objects to comfort him, all he’d had were white hallways void of personality that only brought back memories of abuse and neglect. No books, no food, no symphonies, no magic, no nothing. 

Aziraphale adored Earth– guarded it at his own expense with no regard for his own wellbeing countless times– yet he ruined it for himself on purpose, left it behind and subsequently denied himself of all its pleasures, maybe forever, all so he could save it for everybody else. Crowley had been foolish enough to think his angel was self-sabotaging his own happiness out of naivety, but Aziraphale had known exactly what he was doing. He did it anyway so that the Earth couldn’t be ruined, couldn’t be taken away, for anyone else. Anyone but himself. 

No wonder he’d needed rescuing every now and again from Crowley; Aziraphale was strong, a natural-born leader who could fight like no bloody tomorrow, but he didn’t actually like it. He chose to be soft, and gentle, and so kind it was downright sickening sometimes, and yet he shoved himself into dangerous situations time and time again despite knowing that he wouldn’t fight for himself just so he could rescue others. He wasn’t a fighter— not by his own choice, anyway. Never by his own choice. But then again, when had anyone in high places ever, ever given a damn what Aziraphale actually wanted?

He was a gentle soul forced into fighting roles, sometimes defying Heaven and facing their wrath head-on just to keep the world a better place, making that sacrifice over and over and over again knowing damn well that combat was not his strong suit unless he was forced. There was strength in Aziraphale’s softness, Crowley had always known that. There was so much fucking strength. 

And so Crowley would step in to save him because if Aziraphale was going to protect everyone in the universe– human, angel, demon, or otherwise– then Crowley could damn well protect him. Only this time he hadn’t been there. The opposite, actually– he’d openly condemned Aziraphale and fancied himself the victim. Like a fucking idiot. He’d never forget the sheer strength of his angel again, he swore to himself. Never again. 

He came back to the present, where Aziraphale was making violent noises that Crowley knew were attempts to bite back his sobs, to muffle and hide them. After everything, the angel didn’t even think he deserved to cry. 

“You’re lovely,” Crowley murmured softly into Aziraphale’s hair, seemingly the final straw as the angel finally began to sob in earnest.

Aziraphale’s knees buckled under the release, and Crowley slowly lowered them to the floor, wondering if this was the first time Aziraphale had broken down in seven months. Nobody needed Crowley to get himself together back on Earth, but everyone had needed Aziraphale in Heaven after he’d gotten in that elevator. There hadn’t been any time for him to crack.

Oh, angel. What have they done to you? 

“You’ve had nothing to comfort you, all this time, while I got to shriek like a banshee and get drunk off my arse every night,” said Crowley.

He felt more than he saw his angel’s surprised snort of laughter, and the barest hint of a grin pulled at Crowley’s lips.

He quickly sobered as he said, “I’m so sorry, angel. I’m sorry for all of it.” He thought he could stay like this forever, curled around his angel and holding him, just holding him.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale choked out even though it wasn’t. “You– you don’t have to keep apologizing, you know.”

He stiffened suddenly. “We can’t stay like this, I have to get to the meeting.” His voice cracked on the last word as he started pulling away from Crowley, only for the demon to tighten his grip around the still-trembling angel who looked like he’d crumble into dust if Crowley so much as breathed near him too hard. 

“The meeting can wait,” Crowley whispered. “Stay here, angel. Stay with me. You need a minute, and by bloody God, you deserve one. You deserve a hundred.”

Aziraphale shook his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “The inhabitants of Earth who will die if the Second Coming commences don’t have time for me to do that.”

Crowley’s heart ached at the admission, and he closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating until he heard a small pop. “There,” he said softly. “Now you can have a minute.”

Aziraphale pulled back just enough to look Crowley in the eye. “You stopped time.”

Crowley said, “Yes.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Aziraphale squirmed as though the effort made on his behalf was something tainted, something wasteful. It made Crowley want to scream.

Crowley shrugged. “No, I suppose you’re right. I am a demon, after all.” He looked pointedly at his angel, bringing a hand up to softly cup his cheek. “I only do things that I want to do.”

“But you–”

“Angel. Angel. You deserve someone to take care of you. Now and always. And I’m the luckiest person in the fucking world that it gets to be me. You take care of everyone else. So let me take care of you. Please. I…” he trailed off. “I guess I promised you I wouldn’t confess.”

 Aziraphale squirmed again. “You– oh, now, really, that’s not fair.”

Crowley laughed. “I don’t play fair.” A moment of silence passed. “Aziraphale?”

“Hm?”

“I’d very much like to tell you something.” Slowly, he pulled back from the angel just enough to place his hands on his shoulders and cup the base of his neck. “But I won’t. Not if you don’t want me to. Or if you aren’t ready. You don’t have to ever be ready, not if you–”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale raised a hand and set it hesitantly on Crowley’s chest, silently asking for approval. Crowley removed one hand from where it was rubbing circles into his angel’s neck and set it over Aziraphale’s, now a sure and steady weight on his chest. His angel exhaled softly and said, “Alright. Yes. Er, please. Do continue.” 

Crowley couldn’t help snorting at Aziraphale’s flustered, polite voice– damn him, this was serious– but he raised Aziraphale’s hand and placed a gentle kiss to it, ignoring his pulse threatening to drown out his brain. 

Better just get straight to it. He has to know. He deserves to know.

The thought spurred him on, and before he could give it a second thought: “I’m in love with you, angel.” 

Simple, honest. The most honest thing he could possibly say. “I’ve been loving you since Eden,” Crowley continued despite Aziraphale’s small gasp at the admission.

“I love that you’re good, and soft, and kind, and that you work at that kindness tirelessly even when anyone else in the bloody world in your position would take the selfish route, me included. I love how much you make me laugh– 6,000 years and you still manage to take me by surprise, you know that? Not sure how that’s possible. S’an enigma. You’re an enigma. 

“I love that you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Crowley whispered. “And I love how excited you get over everything– how I know exactly what you’re feeling even when you try to hide it, which I wish you wouldn’t do because… because you burn so brightly, Aziraphale, and you deserve to feel things to the fullest. You burn from both ends, like a candle working too hard but even though it’s wearing itself out and stretched thinner than anyone should be put through, it’s still mesmerizing. That kind of candle.

”I love that you’ve been the strongest and cleverest being in existence since the damn beginning, and I love that you kept going even when nobody acknowledged that strength… not even me.”

He gulped. “I love that you took this job and that you’re giving everyone else here exactly what you deserved for all that time. I even love your bloody books, angel– ngk, you told me I was too fast once, like one day I’d get bored and leave you behind. That’s not going to happen. Your shop is my favorite place in the world, and you are my fucking home. I love you. I want you. I have always loved you and I will keep on loving you for eternity. If you’d like that.”

Throughout his speech, Aziraphale’s eyes had grown progressively more glassy, and now a few tears had managed to slip out, trailing down the most gorgeous face Crowley had ever seen.

 “If I’d like that?” his angel asked incredulously. “Lord, Crowley, of course I want that. Want you. I love you, too. For I don’t know how long. Enough apologizing– we’ve both hurt each other time and time again, and I just… I think we’re both tired of it by now, no? I love you. That’s all that matters.”

Crowley was crying too, now, and Aziraphale raised a hand to wipe one of his tears away. Crowley nudged his nose against Aziraphale’s hand affectionately, and suddenly remembered his angel’s earlier dig about their first kiss. There was one last thing to make right.

 “Can I kiss you?” Crowley asked. “And this time it’s for no reason– hey, absolutely no other reason,” he added when Aziraphale looked away in embarrassment, “other than that I’ve wanted to kiss you since before I knew what kissing was, and I think we deserve a do-over. Only if you’re comfortable, yeah?”

“Always, Crowley. Christ. Always.” And then his angel was kissing him softly, one hand still pressed against Crowley’s chest. The demon surged forward, cupping his beloved angel’s face and nearly smiling himself out of the kiss– their first kiss, because they had never been one for the rules and which romantic moment counted as their first was entirely up to Them and not something so inconsequential and mundane as reality. 

One or both of them eventually pulled away, although somewhere along the line Crowley had pulled Aziraphale into his lap and their breaths mingled as Crowley laughed.

“Satisfactory?” Crowley asked, pressing a short, chaste kiss to his angel’s cheek, and then his forehead and hairline and everywhere else on his face that he could physically reach at his present angle.

 Aziraphale laughed, soft and breathy, and it was the most beautiful sound Crowley had ever heard. “Quite.” 

 “I love you.” A giddy feeling rose in Crowley’s chest and throat at every confession. He loved saying it. He wanted to say it again. 

 “I love you.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed suddenly, and a smile quipped at his lips. “Crowley, and I do mean this politely, what on Earth are you wearing?” 

 A bark of startled laughter forced its way out of Crowley as he grinned. “You don’t like it?” he asked, the memory of churches and bombs and rescues and books returning to him with a rush of warmth. He gave a dramatic shake of his hair and gestured to the gold costume. 

“I didn’t say that,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t hold in his amusement as he looked at the outfit again and ducked his head in helpless laughter.

“I think I look just dashing, thank you.”

Crowley shook himself off and stood up, offering a hand to Aziraphale. He half-expected the angel to wave him off and insist he was perfectly capable of getting up himself, but to Crowley’s elated surprise he accepted the hand with ease and let Crowley pull him up.

He dimly wondered if he’d ever stop feeling a rush of electricity when touching Aziraphale. He doubted it very much. 

“Are you alright with me starting good old time back up again?” he asked. “S’okay if not. Absolutely okay.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “I’d forgotten you did that,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, Crowley, really,” said Aziraphale, and his gaze bore into the demon. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You–” Crowley’s shoulders sagged, in resigned exhaustion or relief, he wasn’t sure. “Yeah, alright.” Maybe it was time to let old habits die. 

“You can let go now. Thank you.”

Crowley smiled and snapped his fingers as time resumed.  A long moment of comfortable silence passed before Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

“Well,” he said. “Now I really do have to get to the meeting. I don’t know when I can be back on Earth, but I’ll find some way to visit you, one day. I hope it can be soon–”

“Angel,” Crowley admonished, blatant surprise coursing through him. “What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale blinked. "The meeting," he said with a hint of anxiety. "I have to get back to it."

Crowley stared at Aziraphale incredulously. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to leave you here?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows pinched, and there was something desperate in his gaze like he was imploring Crowley to understand. “Crowley, you have to. I… I need to stay here.”

“I know, love,” Crowley said softly, hoping to ease away that desperation any way he could. “I know that now.”

“But– but you can’t stay here!” Aziraphhale exclaimed, even as his cheeks went pink at the nickname in a way that made Crowley neatly file it away for later.

“You would be miserable here, Crowley– I was wrong to suggest you come with me in the first place, and it would be wrong to do so now. Go home. It’s alright. I’ll find you.”

 “Nope,” Crowley, replied, popping the last syllable. “I already found you, and if you think I’m letting you go again, you really have lost your mind.”

 Aziraphale bristled slightly. “I want to be an Us,” he said. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me–”

 “I want that, too,” Crowley interrupted. “Someone, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. This isn’t about me proving anything. Honest. This is about you not spending another second trying to stop Armageddon 2.0 all by yourself.

”I’ll go back to Earth once the meeting is over– we can keep meeting here and in the bookshop and wherever we want to plan for this thing, and then once it’s all over and we’ve saved the world, it will have been because of you. And then you can come home, and I can spend the rest of our tossing existences loving you.”

 “Loving you,” Aziraphale echoed. “I do want to come home,” he admitted quietly. “I hope you know how badly I wanted that.” His smile was soft and sad. “I’m tired of having to wait to be happy.”

 Crowley felt the last string of his heart snap in half. “I know, angel,” he said, pulling him into another hug. It didn’t even begin to cover how unfair the cards his angel was dealt were. “You shouldn’t have to. You never, ever should have had to.”

 “Neither should you.”

 Crowley shrugged. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s get a move on with this whole Second Coming business so that you can come home and we can be bloody happy.”

 “I’d like that.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “And you’re sure you want to help?”

 “Angel.” He clapped his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Easiest decision of my life. I am never leaving you again. I promise.”

 A long moment passed. Please, angel, Crowley thought… prayed. 

 “Alright,” said Aziraphale finally. 

 Crowley’s blood soared. “Alright?” he nearly choked.

 “Alright.”

 Crowley’s face broke into a stupid grin entirely of its own accord. “Fuck yessss,” he hissed.

 “Crowley! How–” Aziraphale didn’t have time to finish scolding him before Crowley was kissing him again, sweeping him in his arms and Somebody, Crowley didn’t want to do anything besides this for the rest of his life. 

 “Come on, love,” he said, nudging his angel’s nose with his own. “Let’s go. Let me help you save the world.”

 Aziraphale took him by the hand and squeezed. He led him down the hallway to a single unmarked door before he stopped for a moment when he was about to pull the handle. 

 “Change back,” Aziraphale said. “Look like you again.”

 Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You sure that won’t raise any questions?”

 “Let them raise them. They should ask, and we can tell them the truth. Together.” Aziraphale smiled. “As long as that’s what you want.”

 Crowley kissed the side of his head. “Of course I want that,” he said with a ridiculously, disgustingly fond roll of his eyes, snapping and getting rid of the disguise for what he hoped would be the last time.

“Lead the way, angel,” he said. “I love you. So much. More than anyone’s ever loved anything.”

 “Oh, stop that,” said Aziraphale, blushing faintly. 

 “S’true.”

 “And how could you possibly know that?”

 “I was the first being besides Adam and Eve to fall in love, angel. Pretty sure that makes me something of an expert.”

 Aziraphale’s mouth parted, evidently not used to such easy affection. That was alright. Crowley could fix that, would tell him all sorts of sappy things every day until the Sun caved in, and after that, too. 

“Oh, Crowley. I love you. More than anything,” said Aziraphale.

 Crowley grinned. “You're brilliant, angel. Let’s go, then.”

 Aziraphale took his hand. “Together.”

 “Together,” Crowley vowed, not to the Almighty or Satan but to the highest power he knew– his angel. 

 Aziraphale took a deep breath and, flashing Crowley a smile that he knew he would keep curled close around his heart forever, opened the office door.

 “Alright, everyone,” his angel called out, “Apologies for my tardiness. I’d like each and every one of you to meet our newest member.”