Work Text:
The Oxford bus rolled quietly down the dark roads at a pace that was positively sedate. The driver hummed tunelessly to himself, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he drove well out of the way of his usual route. He appeared not to have noticed that he had two new passengers, one in white and one in black, sitting halfway to the back of the bus and both looking like they'd seen the end of the world and somehow lived to tell the tale.
The driver flicked the radio on and started searching for something better to listen to. The drive was taking longer than he remembered...
Halfway to the back of the bus, Aziraphale sat stiffly in his seat and Crowley slouched beside him, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. The handful of times they'd ridden public transportation before, they'd always been careful not to sit right next to each other by unspoken agreement—it wouldn't do for either of their sides to see them together—but now...
Now, what did it matter? Crowley was right. Neither of them had a side any longer. He'd been right when he'd said it yesterday, too; Aziraphale just hadn't been ready to see it yet. He'd hoped, foolishly, that if he could just talk to the right people, if he could make his case heard, then the whole thing could be averted. The world wouldn't have to end. There wouldn't have to be a war.
He wouldn't have to lose Crowley.
Aziraphale closed his eyes against the sudden painful clenching in his chest. It was long past time to admit to himself that he had not just wanted to stop Armageddon to save Earth and humanity (although that was certainly a large part of it). But the larger, more selfish part of it was because he could not fathom—did not want to fathom—an eternity without Crowley. No matter who would have won the war, Heaven or Hell, they would have lost each other for good.
Aziraphale glanced to his side. Crowley still wore his dark glasses, but his chin was nearly to his chest and his head swayed with the movement of the bus. He looked powerfully exhausted, which, well, he probably was. Aziraphale had never quite gotten the hang of sleep, but apparently Crowley had gotten very good at it. And it had been a very busy day.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly, so as not to disturb him if he'd already fallen asleep.
Crowley jerked his head up. "What? What happened?"
Aziraphale sighed. "Nothing happened, my dear. I just wanted to say..." Why was this so hard to admit? "You can rest your head on my shoulder. If you'd like. I know you're tired and it can't be comfortable bouncing around like that."
With the glasses, it was difficult to tell what Crowley's eyes did. But his mouth—really, Aziraphale sometimes found it difficult to look away from his mouth—twitched up, perhaps a smile or at least the ghost of one. "Only if you're sure."
"I wouldn't have offered if I weren't," Aziraphale said.
With a sigh, Crowley sank over on to him, and Aziraphale winced a little at the hair pricking at his cheeks. He didn't think he made a sound, but Crowley murmured something that sounded like an apology and his hair went suddenly soft.
"I don't know why you put so much gunk in your hair," Aziraphale said.
"Get with the times, angel," Crowley said through a yawn. "It looks good."
"Your hair looks good without any stuff in it."
Crowley scoffed, but that was the only answer.
Aziraphale looked out the window, although there wasn't much for him to look at outside, dark as it was. He was—well, not quite tired, really, as much as overwhelmed, his mind still replaying everything that had happened and what was likely to come next. Agnes's last prophecy was at the forefront of it all.
Choose your faces wisely.
Neither Heaven nor Hell was going to let it stand that they'd chosen another side. He had no idea what Hell would do to Crowley (although it would undoubtedly be horrible), but he had a pretty good idea of what Gabriel had in store for him if he were not in a forgiving mood.
Given how much he'd wanted this war, Aziraphale had a feeling he would not be.
They'd come for him soon. And then...
Aziraphale closed his eyes and swallowed hard. They may have saved the Earth, but this could very well be his last night on it anyway.
A warm weight skimmed the side of his leg, and Aziraphale looked down to see that Crowley's hand had slipped into the space between them. Probably meant Crowley was close to falling asleep, if he hadn't already.
It would be so very easy to touch his hand.
Aziraphale's first inclination, as always, was to immediately banish the thought. He was not supposed to have tender feelings for a demon. He was not supposed to think about tracing his fingers over the back of Crowley's hand, just for the sake of the contact.
But was there even a point to that now? If he was indeed facing judgment for the part he'd played today, then what was the point of continuing to obey a rule he'd already forsaken?
Cautiously, Aziraphale inclined his head to the side until it was resting fully on Crowley's, and he lowered his own hand onto the seat, deliberately grazing the back of Crowley's as he did.
He did not think humans would have considered it to be much, just leaning against each other with their hands scarcely brushing, but it felt momentous to him. Aziraphale had spent hundreds of years denying himself every time he'd felt the urge to touch Crowley for reasons that felt powerfully ridiculous now.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale whispered. An apology much belated for a thousand different things, many of which he'd forgotten, although Crowley likely wasn't awake to hear it. "I should have done something sooner."
I should have found a way to go as fast as you.
Crowley's hand snaked under his, linking their fingers together lightly, almost as if he were uncertain.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply, his desire to hold on warring with his instinct to pull away, to resist temptation. But he had long begun to think that wanting something—no, loving someone—was not the same thing as being tempted in the least.
He folded his fingers down so they were fully linked with Crowley's, settled between his knuckles. No longer touching hands, but holding them quite comfortably.
"Not too fast for you, angel?" Crowley asked, his voice thick with sleep.
Aziraphale turned his head so that his face was pressed into Crowley's hair. "No, my dear. Not in the least."
Crowley relaxed against him, and a moment later, it seemed he was well and truly asleep.
I do not want to lose this, Aziraphale thought, with another tight pang in his chest. I don't want to lose him.
He shifted his weight slightly, and Agnes's prophecy crinkled in his pocket. Part of him wanted to look at it again, but there was no need. Aziraphale already had it memorized. And he did not want to move so much that he risked waking Crowley.
Whatever was coming for them, the prophecy tied into it. And if every one so far had been accurate, then it stood to reason this one was as well.
Aziraphale looked toward the front of the bus. He had no idea how much longer they had before they reached Crowley's flat and even less of an idea how long they would have before Heaven and Hell came for them. They might have tonight. They would at least have until London.
He had that long to decipher Agnes's last prophecy, and potentially save both their lives.
Aziraphale closed his eyes and squeezed Crowley's hand as tightly as he dared.
He had to figure it out.
For Crowley, he would figure it out.