Chapter Text
“Lift home?”
Home? Aziraphale thinks. Mine or yours?
Then he realises what he’s thought.
As he’s following Crowley, he realises a few more things.
First of all: Crowley is in love with him. Not “we’ve known each other for almost six thousand years.” Nor “it’s a pleasure to have lunch together.” Nor even “I can guess what you’d like without you even asking.” Crowley has risked everything for him — Aziraphale remembers the Holy Water spilling from the font as the bomb was exploding, and shivers. Crowley has even forgiven what he’d said eighty years before.
Aziraphale also realises that it was the first time someone has forgiven him. Heaven is too perfect for forgiveness: in theory, there’s no need; in practice, there’s no space.
Most shocking of all, he realises that he’s in love with Crowley. Not the background noise of goodwill that follows an angel in the exercise of his duties: a human love, as focused as a compass, as bright as the Northern Star.
He hasn’t fully steadied himself when they get to the car, and not because the rubble keeps on slipping from under his feet. Crowley almost bows as he opens the door for him without a miracle. He must be exhausted, Aziraphale thinks. I should avoid making a spectacle of myself. We’ve had quite enough excitement for one night.
“I still live above the bookshop,” he says. He didn’t mean for his voice to shake, but it does.
Crowley nods. “I know.” He bites his lips, then he blurts out, “I’ve been keeping track―”
“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale tries to take a deep breath and straighten up his shoulders. He manages only the latter, and a shy smile. “I should’ve gathered, from the fact that you knew I was...”
“Yeah. Well, I knew about tonight ‘cause... I’ve been working. Got a... y’know, from...” He shrugs, grinning and pointing Downwards.
“I apologise for the inconvenience.” Aziraphale wonders if his voice sounds too cold.
“Nah. Unless you caused the war―”
“Good Lord, no.”
“So, not your fault, angel.” Crowley gestures towards the passenger seat.
Aziraphale gets in the car. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Even before looking for a comfortable position in his seat ― and he knows that this is going to be his seat from now on, not just a passenger’s seat ― he clutches the bag with his books. He caresses the leather, and he notices that there isn’t even a speck of dust. He doesn’t need to wonder whether the books are in better condition than before this ― adventure? No, an adventure it was what he was planning to have, and his failure proved that it was everything but that. Incident? It implies that nobody had a choice, and Crowley’s chosen to come to the rescue. Night? Maybe “night” is a good word. Though it prompts some embarrassing questions: What time is it? Is it early enough to invite him for... without being... Oh, Lord. Don’t even think about it. Don’t. Just ― don’t.
Crowley appears in the driver’s seat. Under his attempt at a demonic grin, he’s smiling. “So, bookshop,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”