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The bookshop smells the same.
Aziraphale breathes in the familiar musk of dust and old books. The scent staggers him, buckles his knees, so he presses a hand against a bookshelf to hold himself up. Relief surges through him, warm and sweet. He’s home again, home , back to books of prophecy and faded ancient manuscripts and signed first editions.
The angel takes a moment to collect himself. He breathes deeply, his eyes closed, his mouth curved into the softest smile. Then he stands, and straightens his bowtie. Tears sparkle in his soft blue eyes, but he blinks them away. No tears, Aziraphale thinks. Not today.
He pads over to the record player, and inserts a record. His fingers tremble as he moves the dial. The bookshop fills with classical music, and Aziraphale moves his finger in time with it, conducting. That’s better, he thinks, that’s perfect .
Now that he has his music, Aziraphale turns to his shelves. He must do a full inventory, and ensure nothing has been sold while Muriel has been in charge (if anything has been sold, well, he will make sure it is miraculously returned to its rightful place…).
But as he turns away from the record player, something catches his eye. The landline telephone on his desk is blinking. Aziraphale stares at it, surprised. His knowledge of modern technology is admittedly limited, but he knows fine well what that blinking means. He has a message on his answerphone.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes and lets out a little sigh. Usually, the answer phone is miraculously turned off and only allows one person (or not person, but rather, one wily, cunning, brilliant, utterly enchanting demonic being) to leave messages. Muriel must have worked out how to turn on the voicemails.
“What a nightmare.” Aziraphale mumbles to himself. He can’t think of anything worse than sitting through customer requests and complaints. He considers erasing the voicemails entirely, but what if there’s something important?
He decides to get it over with now, rather than later, and then he can check all of his books are in their rightful place. Resolved to his miserable fate, Aziraphale makes himself a cup of cocoa. The warm sweetness of the drink will surely help him through it.
Equipped now with his usual winged mug, Aziraphale turns off the record player, sits down at his desk, and reluctantly clicks a button on the answerphone. A dial tone plays, shrill and loud. Aziraphale takes a sip of cocoa as the first message, dated from a few months prior, plays.
“Good morning, Mr. Fell.” A sweet, familiar voice says through the phone.
“Ah, Maggie.” Aziraphale murmurs to himself. Well, at least it’s someone he likes.
“I thought I’d give you a call, as I haven’t seen you around lately.” Maggie says. “And I was just wondering if you were alright.”
How sweet. Aziraphale smiles and takes another sip of cocoa.
“It’s just…“ Maggie pauses. “Well, Whickber Street isn’t quite the same without you. We all think so.”
Aziraphale’s smile fades. He feels a pang in his chest that he resolutely ignores.
“Oh, maybe our advice to Mr. Crowley was too rash.” Maggie says, under her breath.
“Too rash, indeed.” Aziraphale mutters to himself. He thinks of Crowley’s ill-timed, reckless speech, just before Aziraphale left for heaven, and the fierce press of the demon’s lips against his own. Flustered now, Aziraphale clears his throat, his cheeks darkening. He stares fixedly into his cocoa.
“I hope you’re well.” Maggie says, kindly. “Pop in to see me whenever you like.”
Aziraphale thinks the voicemail will stop there, but then Maggie adds something else. She speaks gently, but her words pierce him.
“And call him, won’t you?” She asks.
The answer phone cuts off. Aziraphale runs his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the sweet cocoa there, but his mind is elsewhere.
Intent on distracting himself, Aziraphale clicks the answerphone button again, and the next voicemail begins to play.
This time, there’s a long silence. Aziraphale waits, listening to the line crackle. And then a voice speaks. It’s dark and sharp, slurred slightly. He’d know it anywhere.
“Don’t even know if this things on.” Crowley is grumbling. “What am I even- Fuck.”
The demon hiccups. Drunk, then. Aziraphale would smile, if he wasn’t so utterly terrified of what Crowley might say.
“Muriel won’t know how to work the damn phone anyway.” Crowley says. “Stupid angel. Stupid angel ssss .”
Aziraphale tries to sip his cocoa, but his hand is trembling too badly, and he spills a drop on his collar. He miracles it away, quickly, his chest aching.
“This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just, I-“ Crowley’s voice breaks. There’s a thunk on the other end of the line, as if his head has dropped against a desk, or a wall. “I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored. Bored!”
Aziraphale knows the feeling. How often had he stood in heaven, pretending to listen to the Metatron, his mind drifting to sushi and Oscar Wilde and expensive wine and-
Crowley.
Mostly Crowley, really. Life was dreadfully dull without him.
“Aren’t you?” Crowley asks, then. “Aren’t you just exhausted with how boring everything is? Suppose not. I’ve heard there’s lots going on up there. Muriel told me everything. The Second Coming, eh? How’s that working for you?”
Crowley pauses. He’s bitter, jaded. His words cut through the air like a knife.
“I’ve got to- thwart it. Obviousssly.” Crowley says, and Aziraphale feels ridiculously fond of him. “Look at us. On opposite sides. An angel ending the world and a demon defending it.”
Crowley makes a gagging noise.
“Ugh. What am I saying? Defending . I’m not defending it, I’m just- Ngk. Gross. I’m too- too drunk for this.”
Crowley hiccups again.
“Just for the record, you’re a bastard.” He says, “A stuck-up, holier-than-thou, up-his-own-arssssse bastard.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.
“Language.” He scolds.
“Enjoy doomsday.” Crowley says, “Again.”
The voicemail cuts off. Aziraphale stares at the phone for a moment. Crowley’s drunk, serpentine hiss seems to linger in the bookshop long after the voicemail is finished.
Aziraphale dwells on the past few months. They’d worked together to end the Second Coming, but they’d been apart the entire time, even at the final showdown. He can’t remember the last time they spoke, just the two of them.
Their eyes had met once, across the battlefield. Aziraphale’s lips had twitched into the smallest smile, and for a moment, he thought he’d seen a light in Crowley’s eyes, just a little glimmer of hope. They’d stood side by side, too, while Christ and the angels rebelled against the Metatron, and Crowley had watched as Aziraphale gave up his Supreme Archangel status for a simple, peaceful life on Earth.
But they’d went their separate ways afterwards, and hadn’t spoken since. And now Aziraphale is back on Earth, he has no idea where they stand.
With his heart in his throat, the angel clicks the answer phone button again, though as the voicemail begins, he hardly hears it. His mind is still stuck on Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…
“Good afternoon, Mr Fell. This is just a courtesy call to remind you that your annual payment for “Good Food Magazine” is still overdue. If no attempt at payment is made by the 30th June, your subscription will be cancelled. Call us back on this number-“
Though his thoughts are preoccupied, Aziraphale manages to save the voicemail. He must remember to renew his subscription. He hardly ever cooks any of the recipes in the book, but he adores looking at the photographs, and imagining the taste of the dish on his tongue… Crowley would laugh at him for it, but it’s true.
Crowley. Aziraphale thinks of his drunk ramblings, and sighs. He clicks the answer phone button, only for Crowley’s voice to fill the bookshop again. He sounds clearer, now.
“I walked past that cafe this morning.” The demon says. “You know, the cafe that sells those crepes, the ones that are not too thin and not too thick? Too sweet for me, obviousssly, but you always-“
Crowley growls.
“Whatever. The thing is, the place is shutting down. Closing next month. Did you know that?” A ragged breath. “Course not… Anyway, London’s changing. Everything is. It always does.”
Crowley pauses.
“Too fast, eh?” He asks.
There’s a long silence, and then…
“What in Satan's name am I doing?” Crowley says sharply to himself, and hangs up.
Aziraphale reaches out for the phone, his thumb stroking gently over the receiver. Part of him longs desperately to call Crowley. But what would he even say? There’s too much to unpack, too many feelings to unravel.
The answer phone is still blinking. There are more messages. Curious, and longing, Aziraphale presses the button again.
“Hello, is this A. Z Fell & Co.? I’m just calling to enquire about a book. I have been made aware that you own a first edition signed copy of The Picture of Dorion Gray, with the original publisher's grey brown paper covered boards, gilt title and decoration to upper board. I am willing to offer a considerable amount of money to get this in my hands-“
Aziraphale rolls his eyes and quickly deletes the voicemail. He may be in possession of such a beauty, but it belongs here, with him. Irritated, Aziraphale quickly clicks on the next voicemail, hoping to hear Crowley’s voice again. The demon always could brighten his day.
“I’m not making this into a habit.” Crowley says, the line crackling. “At all.”
Aziraphale’s irritation fades immediately.
“Seems like you are, dear.” He replies gently, as if Crowley can hear him.
“But.” Crowley says. “I just thought you should know, in case you were worried, that Muriel is not actually selling your books. It’s not even on purpose, they’re just not a very competent bookseller. Not for a lack of enthusiasm, though.”
Crowley pauses.
“Not that you care.” He adds, spitefully, but Aziraphale knows he doesn’t mean it. Of course Aziraphale cares. “You’ve made that very clear.”
“Anyway.” Crowley continues, his voice softening, “You’re not the only one working. I have accumulated a small, barely competent, horribly human army, and we’re coming to heaven. Just to warn you.”
Aziraphale smiles. The little group Crowley had actually brought to heaven couldn’t be called an army by any means, but Aziraphale had been so very glad to see them all. There was Nina and Maggie, and also Tracey, Shadwell, the Them (with permission, of course, from their parents), Anathema, Newt, and one other non-human - Muriel.
It was incredibly sweet to see them trailing behind Crowley. The demon would never admit it, but he liked humanity. Loved them, really.
“They keep asking after you.” Crowley says. He clears his throat. “Mr. Fell this, Aziraphale that. Blah, blah, blah, blah blah blah. Where is he and what’s he doing and why are you not with him?”
Crowley scoffs.
“Well, I want to tell them, if it was up to me, we’d be in Alpha Centauri by now. Up there, in the sky, not a care in the world. Together.” Crowley pauses, breathes. Aziraphale stares at the answerphone, pained. “But it wasn’t up to me, was it? So I tell them to shut up and get to work instead.”
Silence, and then,
“If only I could just leave. Screw the world, go off by myself. I’m a demon, for Satan’s sake. But I can’t, can I? No point spending eternity on my own.”
Eternity. Is that what Crowley wanted? Forever, with him? Aziraphale closes his eyes. Breathes. Tries not to let his heart swallow him whole.
“Because for the record-“ Crowley’s voice breaks. “It’s no fun on my own.”
The line clicks. Aziraphale sighs. He takes a sip of cocoa, just for something to do. He longs and he longs and he longs. He thinks of Crowley’s hands clutching his collar, Crowley’s sharp nose pressed against his own, and the weight and strength and heat of his mouth. An angry, passionate, powerful kiss, with an eternity’s worth of feeling.
Aziraphale closes his eyes and presses the answer phone button, hoping now that Crowley will speak again, and torture him, endlessly, with his low, rumbling voice.
The bookshop fills with noise. Conversation and music, laughter and clinking glasses.
“Oi.” Nina shouts down the phone, drunkenly. Aziraphale smiles when he hears Crowley’s cackle in the background, bright and loud. “Mr. Fell. What the hell are you playing at?”
Aziraphale has often asked himself the same thing.
“What she said.” Maggie adds, her voice clear and sharp over the noise.
“Give it here.” Crowley is yelling, but he’s laughing too.
“Come and collect your mopey, lovesick little serpent-“ Nina is saying.
“I’m not lovesick.” Crowley hisses, but there’s still laughter in his voice.
“She’s right, you know.” Tracey sing songs down the line. “He misses you. We all miss you. This is where you belong.”
“On Earth.” Maggie agrees.
“Oh, shut your apeish mouths and give me the phone.” Crowley says. There’s a loud rustling noise, and quite a lot of protest. Then the line is quieter. Aziraphale can hear traffic and the faint hum of muffled music.
“Sorry. We’re out celebrating our impending doom. One last hurrah before we storm into heaven.” Crowley says, his voice light and teasing. Then he pauses, and when he speaks again, it’s more somber. “Don’t know why I bothered telling you that. Not like you’re going to listen to this anyway.”
For a moment all Aziraphale can hear is Crowley’s breathing and the sounds of the busy night. It’s surprisingly intimate.
“I used to come to bars alone.” Crowley says quietly. “Not with you. We were more clandestine. St. James Park and your favourite cafes and your stuffy old bookshop-“ Crowley’s voice falters. “Always on your terms.”
“I’ve never,” Crowley continues, “Spent this much time with humans. But you’re gone and I’m bored and- sod it- lonely and they’re helping me.”
A pause.
“Helping me, ugh. You would love this.” Crowley says. “Hope and friendship etc etc. I loathe it. Obviously.”
Crowley used to be a good liar, once. But he can’t keep it up in front of Aziraphale. He never could.
“‘S not so bad here.” Crowley murmurs. “On Earth. Sometimes I think I’d like to- Ngk.”
Crowley never finishes that sentence. Instead, his tone softens.
“We’re off to heaven tomorrow. So I suppose this is goodbye, angel. And in case I don’t make it-“ Crowley stops himself. “Oh, nevermind. You know.”
The line clicks, but Aziraphale is still holding his breath. The answer phone continues to blink. Aziraphale finds himself hoping that the next voicemail is a customer, because he can’t take it anymore. He can’t keep listening to Crowley’s heart rattling around his bookshop. He can’t bear it any longer.
But when he clicks the button, Crowley’s voice fills the bookshop once again. This time, his tone is harder, holds more conviction, and the strength of his voice makes Aziraphale shiver. The voicemail is dated from the next morning - the day Crowley brought his band of humans into heaven.
“Changed my mind. I’ve got to say this.” Crowley says. “Look. I haven’t got long. Humans are waiting for me. So just listen, for once in your damned - well, angelic - life, will you?”
So Aziraphale listens.
“‘Ve had a lot of time to think while you’ve been gone.” Crowley says. “Yeah, surprise, I do think sometimes.”
Aziraphales lips twitch.
“All this started, really, with those pesky humans.” There’s a rustling that sounds like Crowley rubbing a hand over his face. “I’d never really thought about it, until Nina mentioned it, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Crowley pauses.
“It being,” He says, “You and me. Us, together . Other people’s love lives are so much simpler than our own, she said. And damn it, she’s a sharp one, angel. She was right.”
Aziraphale’s cocoa has long gone cold. He stares at it, wide-eyed.
“But at the time, being in love with an angel was the least of my worries, with Jim and the forces of hell and everything.” Crowley says. He tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice is trembling. Aziraphale has no time to process the minefield that is being in love with an angel before Crowley continues.
“But then it was all over, ‘n I was gonna tell you. I had a whole speech planned. Was gonna take you to the Ritz afterwards, too.” Crowley laughs humourlessly. “Then the Metatron got to you. Threw me off. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. We were supposed to be together.”
Crowley makes a pained noise that strikes Aziraphale to the core.
“This is what I was going to say.” Crowley says. There’s a rustling of paper. Aziraphale almost turns the phone off, overwhelmed, but he can’t bring himself to. So he listens.
“We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve been on this planet a long time, you and me. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We’re a team, a group. Group of the two of us.” Crowley takes a breath. Somehow, this hurts Aziraphale even more the second time around. “And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t. I mean, the last few years, not really. And I would like to spend-“
It’s here that the script changes. Crowley chokes through his words, spitting them out, each one punctuated by a serpentine hiss.
“Eternity.” Crowley bites. “With you. The rest of our occult- or ethereal , whatever- lives. Because I-“
Silence, and then- And then-
“I love you.” Crowley hisses. “ Ow ! Burns the tongue, that. Surprised I didn’t explode, or something.”
Aziraphale is not fond of swearing, but it seems apt now. Fuck, he thinks.
“Right. Yes. So. Thought I’d say it.” Crowley says, gently now. “Once, just in case.”
I love you, I love you, I love you. Aziraphale can’t hear anything else.
“In case one of us doesn’t make it.” Crowley pauses. “Or… Just in case you’re listening, and it changes your mind.”
Crowley then speaks quieter, softer, with more emotion than Aziraphale has ever heard from him.
“Change your mind, would you?” He asks. “Cause I’d still run away with you, even now.”
The line goes dead. The bookshop is silent, and still. For a moment, Aziraphale doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe.
Then he bows his head, and covers his face with his hands, and finally, truly, weeps.
It’s cathartic. How often has Aziraphale swallowed his tears? How many times has he pushed down his emotion, his heart, until he could feel it no longer? Everything he’s repressed overwhelms him now, all at once, and his human vessel shakes with his sobs. Crowley, he thinks, and I’m sorry, and I don’t know what to do, and it isn’t fair, and if only , and I’ve been running from you for so long somewhere, right down in the core of him, I love you too.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the Small Back Room.” Maggie says brightly. “What can I do for you?”
“Maggie, my dear.” Aziraphale greets, weakly, still sniffling. “How are you?”
“Mr. Fell!” Maggie says, her voice alight with so much joy and relief through the phone. The last time they saw each other, he was in his archangel suit, his eyes specked lavender. “Is that really you? Are you back in your bookshop? Oh, please tell me you are.”
“I am indeed.” Aziraphale says, his voice trembling. “And it seems that I may need some help.”
Maggie’s tone shifts immediately.
“Are you alright? It isn’t heaven, is it?”
“No, no.” Aziraphale says, smiling despite himself. “Heaven and hell should leave us alone now. Rather, it’s- it’s a more human affair, and I seemed to have made quite a mess, so I was wondering-“
“Oh!” Maggie says. She lets out a little squeal. “ Oh! Finally!”
“Excuse me?”
“You want our help with Mr. Crowley, don’t you?”
Aziraphale’s cheeks flush.
“In a manner of speaking.” He admits.
“I thought this day would never come.” Maggie says. Then she raises her voice and calls, “Nina! It’s Mr. Fell!”
“He took his time.” Nina grumbles.
“I’m right here, you know.” Aziraphale says.
“We’ll be right over.” Maggie says, and then hangs up the phone.
Aziraphale tries to breathe. He tilts back his head and looks up at the bookshop roof. He imagines the stars above him, and how they looked through Crowley’s eyes. Beautiful. Glorious. He’ll never forget the look on Crowley’s face, that day, at the creation of the universe.
It was love. Love in its purest form. And isn’t that what he felt, on that very first day, when he looked at Crowley’s bright, wondrous smile? Didn’t he love Crowley immediately, the same way Crowley loved the universe?
Hasn’t he felt that love every day since? Hasn’t it followed him everywhere, haunting him, crawling to the surface no matter how much he pushed it down? All Crowley had to do was rescue him, or do something kind, or say something witty, and there it was, that love, choking him.
Aziraphale denied it. He made excuses for it. He told himself they were enemies, that Crowley was one of the bad guys, that they could never be together, but really, beneath it all, he just adored Crowley. Desperately, with all of himself. Love, love, love. It won’t go away. It won’t leave him alone.
Maybe it doesn’t have to.
“Is this the right path?” Aziraphale asks the sky. “I don’t know what you want me to do. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I can’t stop loving him. Why did you give me this feeling? And will you strike me down, if I accept it?”
Aziraphale pauses.
“And do I even care anymore?” He asks, shocked by himself, because he doesn’t. If this is what being an angel is - running and running from what he wants in fear of falling, in fear of being wrong - then maybe he doesn’t want it.
Crowley must feel this way too. They’d have been better humans, really, the two of them. What a pair they are.
“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale says, sincerely, to God, because he made his choice long ago, and he’s been making it over and over again ever since.
Crowley. Always Crowley.
There’s a knock at the door. Aziraphale stands. He smooths down his suit, and strides over to it, putting on his best smile.
Maggie pulls him into a hug as soon as he opens the door. He melts into her embrace, while Nina strides past them, trying very hard not to smile.
“So.” Nina says, “Where should we start?”
They sit together, Nina and Maggie on the sofa and the angel in his armchair. A pot of tea and a few slices of cake sit on the desk between them. Aziraphale, nervous, keeps playing with his hands and glancing at the clock. Just a moment ago, with encouragement and advice from Nina and Maggie, Aziraphale left a voicemail for Crowley telling him to come to the bookshop as quickly as possible.
“I don’t know how to do this.” Aziraphale says. ”I don’t think I can.”
“Of course you can. Just be honest.” Maggie says. “Tell him how you feel.”
“I think I should call the whole thing off.” Aziraphale says. “I’m going to call Crowley right now and tell him not to come, after all. This is a terrible idea.”
“You don’t really believe that.” Nina says, her eyes sparkling.
“An utterly terribly, completely awful idea-“
“No.” Maggie says, “You’re just scared.”
“I am not.” Aziraphale lies, affronted.
“Go on then.” Nina challenges him. “Tell him not to come. Keep going as you are. See where that gets you.”
Aziraphale huffs. His eyes flicker to the clock again. He’s never been so nervous in his life, not at the end of the world, not even when he held Agnes Nutters’ prophecies in his hands after centuries of searching for them. This, this is the single most important moment of his celestial life, and all he wants is to shut himself up in his bookshop, alone, with no feelings to bother him.
The angel jumps when he hears the Bentley skid around the corner and park outside of the bookshop. Fuck, he thinks, uncharacteristically. It’s too late to turn back now. Maggie and Nina are already standing and heading to the door. He follows them, trembling, pink in the cheeks.
“Good luck.” Maggie murmurs. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Nina offers him a wink, and then they’re gone, and Aziraphale is left to face Crowley, and his own heart, alone.
The Bentley door opens, then slams. Crowley saunters into view, and he’s the same as always. Perhaps his hair is a little brighter, perhaps his sunglasses are a different shape, but he’s the same demon, with the same hypnotising walk, the same easy smile. Aziraphale stares at him, overcome. The words come so easily to his mind. I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Right.” Crowley says, when he reaches the bookshop doors. “I swear, if you’re about to say there’s going to be another Armageddon, I want nothing to do with-“
Crowley’s voice trails off when he sees the soft, open look on Aziraphale’s face.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale greets, awed by the sheer amount of love inside of him. Now that he’s letting it, it blooms and sparks and fills the bookshop, fills the whole world . Finally, Crowley is here in front of him, and it all makes sense. He isn’t so afraid anymore.
“Hi.” Crowley says. He blinks. “You, er, you okay?”
“More than okay.” Aziraphale breathes. “Perfect, even.”
“Ngk.” Crowley blinks again. “Are you sure?”
“Do come in.” Aziraphale says, warmly.
Crowley shrugs and steps inside, and Aziraphale just watches him. His heart swells when Crowley looks around the bookshop, taking it in. How long has it been since they were here together? Too long.
“What’s brought this on?” Crowley says, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. “I’m assuming you need my help again.”
“I do.” Aziraphale agrees. He can’t stop staring at him. It’s really rather distracting.
“Go on then, lay it on me. Preferably quickly, because I was in the middle of a well-deserved nap-“
“Would you come upstairs? Up onto the roof? I have something to show you.”
“The roof?” Crowley says. “Why?”
“Trust me.” Aziraphale says, gently, and then steers Crowley by his elbow to the stairs. Crowley ascends them, two by two, Aziraphale following slowly behind.
Though he can access the roof, Aziraphale never really goes up here. But when he steps out into the crisp night air, he has to wonder why.
From here, they can see all of Soho. And if they look up, miraculously , despite the air pollution in London, they can see every single star. Constellations are scattered across the sky, beautiful and bright.
Crowley steps out into the middle of the roof. He takes off his sunglasses, and looks up at the sky, and Aziraphale melts. Just for a second, there’s that smile in Crowley’s eyes, that joy, pure, endless, innocent joy.
God, I love you, Aziraphale thinks, blaspheming be damned. At last, at last, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels wonderful. It makes him smile from ear to ear.
Crowley turns his head and catches Aziraphale gazing at him. The demon’s eyes flicker with hope, with fear.
“What do you want, Aziraphale?” He asks.
“I listened to your voicemails.” Aziraphale says.
Crowley lets out a pained noise.
“Shit.” He hisses. “I knew I should’ve erased them."
Crowley looks at him, on edge, guarded.
“What difference does it make?” Crowley says. “Everything I said- You knew it all anyway, didn’t you? Why am I here?”
“Because- I, I listened, Crowley, and I, ah-“
Let it go, Aziraphale thinks, just… let it go. He looks up at the sky and chooses life, chooses Crowley.
“I can’t do this anymore.” He says. His voice breaks. Oh, he’s going to cry again, isn’t he? So be it. “I can’t keep pushing it down. I’ve tried so hard , Crowley. I’ve locked it away and vowed never to say a word and I’ve sworn to God that I would never, not once, indulge it, because if I did- If I accepted even once how I felt- I would be a sinner, one of the Fallen, and I couldn’t bear that.”
Crowley just stares at him, listening. Aziraphale’s eyes sting with tears. He lets them fall.
“But you kept pushing, and God said nothing, and every century my resolve broke, little by little, until you were everywhere, and now-“ Aziraphale shakes his head. He can’t look at Crowley, couldn’t keep his composure if he did. “Now I’ve made a mess of it, and you’ve kissed me, and said everything, and I’ve said nothing , nothing, because I couldn’t. But maybe now I can.”
Aziraphale shudders. This is terrifying, this is freeing.
“What are you trying to say, angel?” Crowley asks. Gently, carefully, not letting himself hope
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, tearfully. “I’m trying to say that I’m so completely, hopelessly, ridiculously, desperately in love with you, and I always have been, from the very first day I met you.”
Crowley stares at him.
“You- What?”
“I-“ Aziraphale can’t stop shaking. He has never even let himself think it, not really. Perhaps in 1941, just once, but not like this, not with such acceptance, with such joy and fear. “I, um-“
What is there even left to say, now? He could leave Crowley a thousand voicemails, he could write letters upon letters, but what better way to encompass it? I love you, I love you, I love you. Three words that hold so much, that are so universal, stretching throughout human history, right back to the beginning. They’re in every book, in every song, in everything that matters.
“I love you.” Aziraphale blurts out, startled by himself. He tries it again. “I love you.” And then a giggle escapes him. “I love you, Crowley.”
Then he strides across the roof, and leans up, and presses his lips against Crowley’s.
For a moment, Crowley is silent and still with shock. And then he makes a noise in the back of his throat, and wraps Aziraphale up in his arms, and kisses him back, deeply, properly, the right way this time. Aziraphale smiles against his mouth, relieved laughter still bubbling in his throat. Finally, finally, finally.
A shooting star soars across the night sky. The angel and demon look up.
“Was that you, or me?” Crowley asks, pulling away to watch it.
“I hardly know.” Aziraphale laughs. He feels so free, so so free. He puts his palms on Crowley’s chest, and smiles openly at him, with all the wondrous joy in the world.
Crowley looks down at him and everything in his face softens. Every sharp line, every hard edge, fading away.
“Think I’ve been napping too long.” He mumbles.
“Hm?” Aziraphale asks, caught in Crowley’s serpentine eyes. They’re so pretty. He lets himself think it, for once. So, so pretty. He’s always loved that shade of yellow. His favourite colour.
“Think ‘m just dreaming.” Crowley grumbles, embarrassed, and Aziraphale melts all over again.
He reaches up and presses a quick kiss to Crowley’s lips, just because he can. Then another, then another, and then he’s peppering Crowley’s face in kisses, and Crowley is hissing, and growling, but he’s not pulling away.
Aziraphale feels giddy. Is this what life could be like, forever? He wants to stay on this rooftop for eternity, wrapped in Crowley’s arms. God hasn’t struck him down, not yet. Is She watching? Can She feel his joy? He’s known happiness like this before, in glimpses, but never so big, so boundless.
This is who he is, beneath it all. And this is where he belongs, on Earth, with Crowley.
They gaze at each other. Crowley lifts his hand, and for a moment it hovers in the air, before landing gently on his cheek. He strokes his thumb over Aziraphale’s skin.
“This is ridiculous, angel.” Crowley mutters. “You’re completely ridiculous.”
“Quite.” Aziraphale agrees warmly. And then his lips twitch, and Crowley’s mouth widens into a smirk, and they’re laughing, they’re laughing, and his head is falling against Crowley’s chest. He breathes him in. That dark, thick scent, so intoxicating, so wonderful.
Aziraphale lifts his head. His eyes fix on Crowley’s lips, which are turned up into a little smile.
“What you said,” Aziraphale says, “About- about eternity…”
Crowley glances at him.
“I’d like that.” Aziraphale says, quietly, “I’d like that very much.”
“Would you really?” Crowley blurts out, surprised, the tips of his ears turning red.
“If the, ah, offers still open.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, right, sorry, because I have a queue of angels lining up to proposition me, do I?”
“I’m not- propositioning you!” Aziraphale splutters.
“You’re not? Shame.” Crowley says, a devilish grin spreading across his face. Wily old serpent, Aziraphale thinks, flustered. Crowley takes pity on him. “Yeah. Offer’s still open. If you like”
Aziraphale would like that. Very much.
“Yes, please.” Aziraphale says.
Crowley hesitates, then pulls a face.
“Right, then. That’s that. Suppose this is the right time, isn’t it? Let’s get it out the way.” Crowley takes a breath. “Iloveyoutoo.”
Crowley hisses, pained by the words on his tongue.
“Ow.” He says, helpfully.
“Oh, Crowley, you don’t have to-“
“Shut up.” Crowley drawls, and pulls him closer by his waist, his hands firm and strong and insistent. Aziraphale smiles at him. He almost doesn’t hear Crowley whisper another love you into his hair.
“Now I don’t know about you, angel.” Crowley says, his head dipping to Aziraphale’s ear, his breath hot on Aziraphale’s skin. “But I think we’ve done quite a bit of talking, don’t you?”
Aziraphale shivers.
“Oh, lots of talking.” He replies weakly. “Oodles of it.”
“Mhm.” Crowley hums. “Enough, do you think?”
“More than.” Aziraphale agrees, breathlessly. He feels like the lovesick heroine of some romance novel, swooning.
“Glad you agree.” Crowley says, his eyes twinkling, and then he captures Aziraphale’s lips in a hot, searing kiss, tilting him backwards, and goodness, Aziraphale really is swooning now. He forgets everything that isn’t the press of Crowley’s mouth against his own.
“Have you been practicing?” Aziraphale murmurs against his lips. “Because the first time-“
Crowley flushes.
“Shut up.” He hisses, and kisses him again, and again, until Aziraphale has no words left.
Back in the bookshop, later, they make tea and sit together.
At first, Crowley sits on the sofa, across from Aziraphale. But they look at each other, and smile, and the distance, however small it is, seems so wide. So Crowley saunters over and plonks himself on the arm of Aziraphale’s armchair, and Aziraphale rests a hand on his knee, keeping him close.
“I meant what I said, you know. On the phone.” Crowley says, looking down at him. “We could run away together, right now. There’s a whole universe out there.”
“There’s nothing to run from.” Aziraphale says gently. “Not anymore.”
Crowley smiles.
“Suppose not.” He agrees. “So what now? We stay here?”
“Earth’s not so bad, is it?” Aziraphale quotes, from Crowley’s voicemail, and gives him a knowing look.
“I could take it or leave it.” Crowley says. Aziraphale chuckles. “We’ll stay in London, then?”
How strange, to think of themselves as a we.
“Perhaps.” Aziraphale agrees. “Or anywhere, really, as long as there are books, and good food-“
“And expensive wine.” Crowley adds.
“That too.” Aziraphale smiles warmly.
Crowley smiles back at him. There’s so much hope in his eyes. Aziraphale gazes at his face in the low light, his heart bursting. Merely the sight of her makes all things bow, Aziraphale thinks. Is this who he is now? A romantic, quoting poetry at his beloved? Perhaps this is who he’s been all along, really, deep down. Crowley has always been so beautiful.
Crowley’s eyes flicker over his face, and Aziraphale can’t look away from him, transfixed by his gaze. Us, Aziraphale thinks. How lucky he is, to love such a kind, beautiful soul. And how lucky to be loved in return, for his goodness but the rest of it too, his selfishness and his envy and his fear and his guilt.
“I’m glad to be home.” Aziraphale says.
“Yeah.” Crowley agrees. “Me too.”
Home, of course, being each other.
In a cottage in the South Downs, an answerphone blinks.
Crowley yawns and perches on the end of Aziraphale's desk. He takes a swig of coffee and presses the button on the answerphone. As he listens, his eyes flicker to the window, out into his garden. He watches the breeze flutter in the trees, and the sky is a sweet, endless blue.
"Sorry to leave so early." Aziraphale says warmly, into the answerphone. Crowley smiles to himself, the taste of coffee hot and bitter on his tongue. "You looked so peaceful, dear. I didn't want to wake you."
"I've just popped to the market for a few bits. I do hope you don't mind." A few bits, Crowley thinks, amused. The angel will be back later with an armful of sweet treats and a bag of books, surely. "I'll bring you back a treat."
Ah. This Crowley is excited for. Aziraphale is exceptional at giving gifts. Perhaps it is in the angel in him. Whenever he brings home with a bottle of rum, or a record, or a houseplant, Crowley is always delighted.
"I won't be long." Aziraphale says. You better not be, Crowley thinks, because he has enjoyed his own company for 6000 years, but he's found he much prefers the company of a darling, fussy angel. "But do miss me terribly, won't you?"
Crowley scowls to himself, but inside, he glows.
"I love you, Crowley." Aziraphale says, gently, "I'll see you soon."
The answerphone beeps. Crowley looks at the phone for a moment, fond, and then he turns back to the window.
The world passes slowly, peacefully. Finally, here, he can catch his breath. He remembers how it felt when Aziraphale left for heaven - remembers breathing down the answerphone as if Aziraphale could hear him, as if his desperation could bring Aziraphale back. He is glad to be home, and grateful that the only voicemails now are left in the early morning before Crowley is awake, spoken softly and warmly with the promise of coming home.