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I forgive you.
Don’t bother.
****
If not for his Bentley stabilizing him, Crowley’s legs would have given out, and he would have taken an embarrassing fall to the ground. It wouldn’t have been the first time he fell because of Heaven, but it would have been the worst.
He sees Aziraphale follow the Metatron to the elevator which will take him to Heaven, and forever away from Crowley. Aziraphale stops, and for a second a flutter of hope makes itself known in his chest. They lock eyes, and Crowley desperately wishes for Aziraphale to change his mind. Instead, the angel turns, and steps inside. The doors close, and he is gone.
Crowley doesn’t even have the strength to cry. All he feels is numbness spreading through his veins, extinguishing all hope he had left. As if on autopilot, he gets inside his Bentley, and starts the engine. The speakers blast some song, but he turns it off, and as he drives, all he focuses on are his gear shift and the traffic in front of him. He doesn’t drive carelessly, he actually follows the rules. For the first time in his long life, he doesn’t feel impatient, doesn’t feel the need to exceed the speed limit. All he feels is nothing. And as it spreads to every cell of his corporate form, he can feel the nothing spread to his mind. The numbness only encourages him to drive faster. Faster, faster, faster, until everything outside his Bentley is a blur of colours, and all he hears is the sound of honking cars.
He drives west, and west, and west for hours, accompanied only by blaring horns and the wind whipping against his windscreen, until he reaches the sea. When he exits his Bentley, it’s dark outside, and a horrid drizzling rain pricks at his skin like tiny needles. He finds a path and walks along it, the dark doesn’t bother him, he can see everything as clear as if it was day. As he walks, the rain grows heavier, and with the rain grows the pain he started to feel in his heart about thirty minutes ago. He had thought the numbness (which he has identified as shock) was the worst it would get. That feeling nothing, not even love, would kill him. But he was wrong, because as the pain spreads from his chest towards his limbs, he feels like he is going to explode, shatter into trillions of hurting pieces.
He is at the top of a cliff now. The waves at the bottom are strong, hitting the sharp rocks with the full force of nature’s anger. What she’s angry at, Crowley doesn’t know, but her resentment is clear. The foam at the top of each wave glistens with enticement. The waves call to Crowley, but all he can do is let out a scream. He screams at the world, at the universe, maybe even at God Herself. The scream takes out his guts, rearranges them and shoves them back inside. Over, and over, and over again, until he sinks to his knees, weak and small. For a few seconds, he lets himself breath, until another wave of agony rolls over him. He screams, cries, claws at the ground until his hands are covered in dirt, down to the fingernail.
After a while, it stops. Not fully, but what used to be excruciating pain is now but a numb, aching sensation. The torment has moved from his body to his mind.
He left me.
I forgive you.
He left me.
Don’t bother.
He left me.
He stands again. The rain is even heavier now, and Crowley’s gaze is directed back at the sharp rocks and glistening waves below him. For a second, he considers it. Considers jumping and ending it. But then he remembers that he will just lose his corporation, not his life. It’s not worth the paperwork.
Instead, he makes his way back to his Bentley. This time, when he turns on the engine, the radio starts playing Queen again. He drives.
When I’m not with you, think of you always.
He notices a church in the distance. Maybe he should stop there. They must have Holy Water. That should do the job.
He pulls into the car park in front of the church. It’s a small building, built from limestone, nothing special at all. He walks up to the door, feeling the burn of consecrated ground on the soles of his feet. But he doesn’t care, just lets the pain wash over him. He pulls at the door, only to find it locked. So he gets back into his Bentley, and drives away. There are many churches, he’ll find another one.
The Bentley is playing a different song now.
Love of my life, you’ve hurt me.
You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me.
Crowley turns the radio off. In his mind, he curses Freddy Mercury. He doesn’t stop there, he curses all the bastards who write music, and he curses all the poets who write poetry, and then, for good measure, he curses everyone else as well.
He drives further north. He passes Bristol, then Gloucester and Cheltenham, then Birmingham, then Stoke-On-Trent. The whole time he drives in silence. Sometimes, his Bentley tries playing some music, but he shuts it off immediately. There is nothing except for some rain on his windscreen, and the thumping of his broken heart.
In the end, he’s back at the sea, not far from Liverpool. The land is flat here, no cliffs to jump off of. He settles for climbing over a barrier, and walks right up to the water. Taking off his shoes and wandering ankle deep into the sea seems like a given, so he does. As he stands there, he tries to feel. He tries to feel the breeze on his face, the cold of the water, the slight movement of the waves. And he feels them, he does. He feels the salt irritating the light burns on his soles, he feels the wind stroke his cheek, and the cold bite his toes. But no physical sensation can drown out the slow, dawning realization, that he is now alone. There is no one out there who cares for him. But, as it turns out, there probably never was. At least not in the way that he himself had cared, not in the way that mattered.
He stands there, at the edge of the water, for a long time. So long, his toes go numb from the cold, and his right calf starts to cramp. At some point, he decides that he is tired. That all he wants to do is sleep. And so he goes back to his Bentley, sits in the driver's seat, closes his eyes and falls asleep. He dreams of blue ice, and of red fire. He dreams of creation, and in the end, of course, he dreams of Aziraphale. Of tea, and oysters, and lunch at the Ritz.
When Crowley wakes up, almost a month has passed. He grows suspicious because of the layer of dust on his skin and the dead plants in his backseat, and a trip to the nearest shop, where he looks at a newspaper, confirms it. Frankly, this isn’t the worst that could have happened. It could have been a hundred years or more. A month is nothing. A month hasn’t blown away the pain. He buys the newspaper and an energy drink.
Red Bull is still as disgusting as he remembers, but he chugs it anyway, then crushes the can with his hand and throws it away. After that he puts his dead plants on the curb of the road. He won’t be there to take care of them anyway.
He drives back to the sea, and, sitting in his Bentley, catches up on the news. As he starts reading, he realizes, how boring everything is. So, not even having got through the first article, he puts the newspaper away. His thoughts wander back to his angel, who is no longer his. Back to Aziraphale’s words. I forgive you . Everything in his chest tightens, and he has to close his eyes. He is rewarded with Aziraphale’s image. Opening his eyes, he wishes he had never woken up.
Crowley decides that it’s best for him to drive. Then he remembers the church he passed on his drive to Liverpool. He remembers the desperation, and realizes, that although the desperation has passed, the wish to stop, the wish for everything to go quiet, hasn’t. For a second, he tries to think about what he would miss, but nothing comes to mind. He is tired. So, so tired. He starts the engine and drives further north.
After 45 minutes, he sees a sign for a church. St Michael & All Angels Church: Altcar, the sign reads. All Angels , he almost chuckles at that. It would be highly ironic for him to do it there. Under normal circumstances, he would have found the irony delightful. But now he just sighs and turns onto the road indicated by the sign.
The Bentley starts to play Don’t Try Suicide by Queen, and Crowley quickly turns the radio off. Clever girl, she always knows what he is thinking. But Crowley is determined.
After a few more turns and passing a couple of dreary looking houses, he reaches it. His last destination, he thinks to himself. A pretty building made of light stone and wood. It looks almost inviting, probably more so if the one looking at the church isn’t an actual demon.
The burn of consecrated ground on his feet is almost unbearable as he walks along the path which leads him through the cemetery surrounding the church. He should leave a note for Aziraphale. But he decides against it. The angel won’t be coming back to earth, after all. He won’t ever find the note, never know that Crowley’s gone.
This time the door is open, and the church looks empty. Crowley walks in, slowly, taking in the sight. Inside, the church is humbly decorated with few paintings, which hang behind the altar and the obligatory crucifix. There, by the altar, he sees a vessel holding Holy Water. It is made of a golden metal, standing on three legs it looks like an oversized soup bowl. A soup bowl filled with deadly soup. At a snail’s pace, he makes his way towards the vessel. Maybe this is a bad idea, his mind supplies. Maybe you don’t want to die painfully. But what is there to live for? Asks another part of him. What is the point if I can’t have him?
He steps closer, reaches out with his hand, all he can see is the smooth surface tension of the water. Any second, he just has to move his hands and douse himself, and it will be done. He hesitates. He wants to die remembering something good. Something that will, maybe, make him go peacefully. For example, when they dined at the Ritz, right after preventing Armageddon. Aziraphale had looked at the food with such a happy smile, that Crowley had let him eat all of it. To the world they had said. Only Crowley’s world has left him.
There, that’s better. He steps even closer, his hands are hovering over the edges of the vessel. He almost can’t feel the burns on his feet any more. Aziraphale , he thinks. Then he takes a deep breath, lifts, and pours the water over his head.
Nothing happens. All Crowley feels is relief.
“If you are trying to baptize yourself, young man, you won’t succeed. I hadn’t blessed this water yet.” Crowley whips around, to find an old man in a clerical collar standing behind him. “Bloody -” He stops himself, probably shouldn’t curse in front of a pastor. “What is your name?” The clergyman steps closer, studying Crowley carefully. There are glasses sitting on his crooked nose, he is bald with a long beard. Very stereotypical, Crowley thinks to himself. “Crowley,” he replies, honestly, for some reason.
“Well, Crowley, what is it that’s bothering you enough for you to go and baptize yourself?” There is a sort of smirk on his face, almost like he knows what Crowley was actually trying to do. “I haven’t seen you around before. Where do you come from?”
“Far away.” Crowley dodges the first question. He steps around the pastor and walks towards the door, he feels embarrassed and the soles of his feet have gone numb from the pain by now. Sadly, the pastor follows. “And I’m leaving now, sorry for getting the floor wet, I guess,” he decides to add.
“Oh, I don’t mind. But I do rather think that you could use some company. Someone to talk to.” Crowley is starting to get annoyed. He doesn’t want to talk, and he sure as Heaven doesn’t need any company. No company would compare to Aziaphale’s anyway. “You have this troubled air about you,” the pastor continues. “Have you been hurt?”
I forgive you.
Don’t bother.
Crowley stops, and the clergyman almost bumps into him. “None of your business,” Crowley mutters and continues walking. Yes, he has been hurt. But no one would ever understand him. He has been hurt on a level of which a human couldn’t even dream of.
“That’s alright,” the priest says, as Crowley steps out of the church and continues on the path towards his Bentley. “But, young man, consider my words. Whatever it is that happened, you are loved. If not by anyone, then by God.”
Crowley lets out a laugh. “Oh, God is the last one to love me.” God, Aziraphale, anyone, Crowley himself. No one loves Crowley.
“You might be surprised.” The clergyman doesn’t follow Crowley any further. “Bless you, young man,” he says, and Crowley sneezes.
Back in his Bentley, he drives away as fast as he can. This time, the Bentley doesn’t play anything. Crowley’s feet hurt, he is drenched in water, hair clinging to his forehead, and the worst of it – he is still alive. As he thinks about finding another church, he remembers the relief he felt, after he realized that his attempt had been unsuccessful. He remembers how his last thought had been of Aziraphale, and that his first thought after had been the same. Instead of finding the nearest church, he decides to drive, to see where the road will take him.
****
He ends up in Edinburgh. As he drives through the streets towards the city centre, he slows down again, and takes in the city scape around him. The sandstone buildings are dark and mysterious, their large bricks and tall roofs remind him of times passed. He had walked these streets once, seen the people who lived here. But last time he hadn’t been alone. He parks close to Holyrood Park, and decides to trek up to Arthur’s seat. Up, up, and up he goes, sweating because of the fast pace he sets. When he is up at the highest point, he is drenched in sweat and exhausted. He sits down, miracles himself a bottle of wine, and drinks most of it while the sun sets. With the alcohol, his feelings grow distant and vague, and he wonders why he hadn’t thought of drowning himself in alcohol sooner. Probably because he was too preoccupied with thoughts of actually drowning himself.
When the bottle is empty, he miracles another one. And after that a third. It is properly dark by now, and for once the skies above Scotland are clear. He can see the stars. His creation. He remembers designing them, remembers plotting out each wonderfully unique spot like it was yesterday, and not millennia ago. He also remembers what followed, briefly after. How he had simply asked a few questions, and ended up on the wrong side of things. He had only wondered. He remembers the Fall like it was a few seconds ago, and not millennia. He remembers the way God’s love had been ripped from him, how naked and alone he had felt. What he felt now was worse. Shakily, he gets up, miracles himself sober and starts back down the trail.
He spends weeks in Edinburgh. Most of the time is a cycle of drinking, sobering up, and drinking again. He mostly thinks of Aziraphale, and of how he doesn’t have a side any more. It used to be him and his angel against the world. Now it’s him against his memories. And that’s the worst part. There are so many memories. Of walking in a park, of eating crêpes, of getting drunk, of helping each other out. Together, them against the world. When autumn starts, Crowley decides to leave. He never liked the Scottish autumns, they always were too harsh for him, too unforgiving. So he gets in his Bentley, and drives, leaving sandstone and green grass behind. Something calls him back home. Back to London.
****
London is as grey and dull as ever. As Crowley zooms through the busy streets, he welcomes the familiarity of them. The corner shops, the buses, the crowds. Somehow he makes his way to Soho, maybe it’s the Bentley’s fault, maybe it’s his own. He parks across from the bookshop, but he stays inside the warm and safe air of his car. For a few minutes, he sits in silence, thinking about whether he wants to do this. Whether he is ready to subject himself to the memories. In the end, he decides that he isn’t. He still gets out of his Bentley and, slowly, wanders towards the shop.
He can’t force himself to step inside immediately. There are too many things welling up inside of him, things like grief, and anger, and most disgustingly – love. He loves this place, he treasures it so much it fucking hurts. Taking a deep breath, he puts his hand on the doorhandle, and pushes. The first thing he notices when stepping inside is the music. The god-damn music. Vivaldi. The Four Seasons. Summer. Adagio.
1723 was a time of embroidered waistcoats, voluminous skirts, frilly sleeves, and ridiculous cravats. Crowley and Aziraphale were in Venice, though both stationed elsewhere. This was one of those rare occasions, when Aziraphale would indulge Crowley and come with him to see something incredible. In this case, the performance of a new composition by Antonio Vivaldi, who was quite the rage at the time. It was a small gathering, open to a select few, to which, miraculously, the two of them belonged (this was, of course, Crowley’s doing). They sat at the back of the hall filled by about fifty other people. The ceilings were covered in frescos and ornate reliefs, and the air was stuffy, so that it was difficult to breathe. The musicians were doing their very best, but Crowley, as usual, only had eyes for Aziraphale. His outfit, though decades out of date, suited the angel wonderfully. He was completely fixated on everything that was happening in front of him. At every delicate strum of the harpsichord he would let out a sigh, with every crescendo he would lean forward in his chair, and a delighted smile would grace his face at every key change. Crowley couldn’t help himself, he had to look.
When it was over, Aziraphale turned to look at him. “Oh, Crowley, my dear, this was marvellous!” His face showed so much excitement, that Crowley’s heart began to flutter. He loved it when Aziraphale got excited. “You were so right, Vivaldi will surely go down in history for this. And to think of the concept! The four seasons! Isn’t that just delightful?”
“He’s alright, that Vivaldi,” Crowley managed to say, even though all he wanted to do was to comment on Aziraphale’s smile. “That first violinist was rubbish, though.”
“No, don’t say that. He was trying his absolute best, I’m sure of it.” Aziraphale looked almost insulted, as if the comment had been made about him.
“Maybe he should try his best at a different career, eh?,” he joked. He didn’t mean it, the violinist was fine. He just liked getting a rise out of Aziraphale. It was endearing.
“Oh, you despicable serpent!,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I’ll bless him with good fortune, just to prove you wrong. He will achieve great things.”
“Do as you wish.” Was Crowley’s reply. “Care to join me for some wine? Maybe you can try some of that Venetian seafood?”
“That would be delightful!” Aziraphale smiled at him. Oh, Crowley would do unspeakable things just to see Aziraphale smile.
Crowley shudders at the memory and tries his best to store it as far away as possible, somewhere he won’t be able to reach Aziraphale’s smile. Heaven, Aziraphale’s face. Maybe Aziraphale altogether. There had been many evenings like that, many evenings spent together, spent hoping that time would slow for just a bit. At some point, Crowley had thought that he wasn’t the only one hoping. As it turns out, he had been wrong.
He breathes in the smell of the bookshop. It still smells the way it used to, though there is something missing. A distinct smell that he can’t seem to find among the well-kept books and brewing tea. He looks around and sees that nothing has changed. There are still shelves upon shelves of antique books, the chairs are in the exact place they had been left. Crowley slowly walks to the place where it happened. He stands there, looks up to the ceiling, up to where his angel is (though of course Heaven isn’t actually up in a physical sense, it’s a more metaphysical affair, but that’s not the point). He spins around, remembering, letting everything sink in. There are still no nightingales. As the Allegro of Autumn comes to a close, Crowley realizes that there never will be Nightingales again.
Somewhere behind a shelf, Crowley hears Muriel hum along. Quickly, he runs outside before they notice him. Outside it is cold, and he can’t hear the god-damn nightingales. It has begun to rain, just a drizzle really, but Crowley still feels the wet drops under his skin. He turns and goes towards the coffee shop. Anything to escape the rain. He enters and is greeted by happy chatter, courtesy of the other patrons. There is no line, so he walks right up to the till.
“Good morning, what can I do for- Mr Crowley!” Nina’s hair has changed, instead of the dreadlocks she is now sporting braids. “Back from your holiday?”
“No. I mean, yes. S’pose so.” Crowley grumbles. “Triple espresso.”
“Did you talk to him?,” Nina asks, while starting on his order. “Your partner, I mean?”
“He is not my partner ,” Crowley hisses, scowling. “He is nothing , he’s gone.” With that he turns, ignoring Nina’s protests, and leaves the coffee shop. That was not what he needed. He simply needed coffee, something comforting. Though nothing would comfort him fully. It is foolish to look for comfort when he knows that none can be found, he’s aware of that, but a demon can hope. (Technically, by definition, a demon can’t. Technically, by definition, a demon also can’t love. Crowley has never had much respect for definitions.)
He goes back to his Bentley, because there is nowhere else to go. From where he’s sitting, Crowley has a good view of the bookshop. He can see Muriel walking around, he can see how, now and then, a customer enters and quickly leaves again, not having bought anything. That is good. Aziraphale’s collection shouldn’t be sold. Day turns to night, and Crowley is still sitting there. He watches as the lights turn on, and then, as night turns to day, he sees the lights being turned off again. At better times, Aziraphale and Crowley would be going out to breakfast by now. Crowley desperately needs a coffee. He is the only customer in the coffee shop when he enters, morning rush is over and lunch rush hasn’t started yet. Like yesterday, he walks up to the till. This time, Nina’s eyes are on him from the start.
“Not so grumpy any more?,” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Crowley doesn’t dignify that with a response.
“Triple espresso,” he says instead.
“I know.” Nina gets to making his order. “So, it didn’t go well?” She says this carefully, probably fearing that he will leave again. And he wants to, desperately, but instead he just shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” Nina sounds genuine. “It will get better.” She hands him the triple espresso. Crowley takes it and hands her the money.
“No, it won’t.” Not waiting for an answer, he leaves the coffee shop and goes back to the safety of his Bentley.
The end of the 17th century, an era poised between antiquity and the promise of the modern age, wasn’t one of Crowley’s favourites. Better than the 14th century, of course, but still not a pleasant one. And yet, there were moments that made it shine brighter than any of the stars he had helped create
.
In 1686 Crowley took Aziraphale to the first Parisian coffee house. Polished brass and dark wood greeted them, the smell of coffee and pastries filled the air, and in the tightly packed space, miraculously, a table for two appeared. Of course, coffee wasn’t anything new, it had been popular in Arabia since the 15th century. But Europe was just getting to know it properly, and so Crowley had decided that taking Aziraphale to taste it in a European setting would be interesting. Maybe even fun. (Though, of course, demons didn’t find such activities to be fun. Demons liked violence, and unhappiness, and mischief. At least they were supposed to. Crowley had never liked following the rules.)
On the table stood two cups of coffee, and a plate of
Puits d'Amour, which Aziraphale was gladly indulging in. The coffee was bitter and steaming hot, and (according to the angel) perfectly complemented the sweetness of the pastry.
“Oh, Crowley, you do so well in tempting me,” said Aziraphale between bites of pastry. “There is nothing better than French pastry, though I do prefer tea to coffee, if I’m being honest.”
Crowley’s response was an eloquent “Ngk.”
“This is truly wonderful! I wonder, will such types of establishments get popular? Imagine a world in which there is such a place on every corner!” The angel smiled. “Wouldn’t that be delightful?”
“I take it you are enjoying yourself?,” Crowley asked, barely hiding a smile. “You usually tend to speculate about the future when you are.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” Azirapahle’s cheeks were slightly pink, but Crowley told himself that that must be due to the effect of the coffee. “And yes, of course I am enjoying myself. I always enjoy myself when I am with you.” He gave Crowley a smile. “You are, I must say, a pleasant acquaintance. Maybe, yes, well, a friend.”
Crowley can’t help but smile at that, though he quickly hides it by taking a sip of coffee. “Well, angel, I also consider you to be a pleasant acquaintance and, dare I say, a good friend.”
“Lovely.” Aziraphale takes another bite of the Puits d'Amour, and his eyes flutter closed while he lets out a quiet, satisfied groan. “Oh, Crowley, you simply must try one of these, you can’t let me eat them all by myself.”
Crowley nods, but he doesn’t take one. He would never eat something when the angel is enjoying it this much. After all, Aziraphale deserves everything.
His coffee has gone cold by the time he starts drinking it.
Later in the evening, he gets drunk on a 1990 Merlot that he miracles (technically steals, but who cares about such technicalities) from some rich man’s collection. He doesn’t feel guilty about it at all.
****
He lives like this for a few days. Almost a week, to be exact. One triple espresso every morning, one bottle of expensive wine in the evening. Sometimes it’s two. The wine is sour and the coffee bitter, just like his life, he jokes to himself. Which makes him sad, because now there is no one to joke with . On the seventh day, he is brave enough to walk back into the bookshop. It still smells the way it did last time, looks the same as well. Muriel is nowhere to be found.
This time, he goes to Aziraphale’s desk. It is still cluttered with notes, and books, and pens, all covered by a thin layer of dust. He swipes a finger over the table-top, leaving a dark mark. Something inside him breaks, leaving sharp pieces to cut his heart. Crowley didn’t even know there was something left to break. He has to force himself not to let any tears escape at the realization that Aziraphale is really gone. He left .
I forgive you.
The words echo through Crowley’s head like a curse. Will he hear them forever?
****
The next morning, Crowley decides to leave. He doesn’t know where he’s going yet, but it doesn’t really matter. As long as it’s far, far away, because maybe, just maybe, being somewhere that doesn’t remind him of Aziraphale so much will make living hurt less. He recognizes now, after a long internal debate, that dying isn’t worth it. After all, there is still a tiny, miniscule chance. A chance that Aziraphale will change his mind and come back. It’s a naive thought to have, but Crowley can’t help but hang on to this sliver of hope. And maybe, just maybe, hope really will be what dies last. He leaves his Bentley parked across the bookshop, and, with a snap of his fingers, vanishes. He lands in Venice, sighs, and with another snap disappears again. Venice is too much. It holds too many memories. The second snap lands him in Paris, the third in Beijing, and the fourth in Magadan.
With the fifth, he ends up on a beach. White sand and bright blue water is all he sees for miles to his left and right. He turns around to find forest behind him. This will do, he thinks. Not a soul anywhere close. Exhausted, he wills his form to change. His spine elongates, his extremities vanish, and he slides to the floor. Now the sweltering heat is pleasant and relaxing. Slowly, he slithers into the forest to find a place to sleep. All he wants to do is sleep. He loves being a snake. It relaxes him, makes him feel safe. The human form offers way too many vulnerabilities for others to exploit. When he is like this, most thoughts disappear into the background, leaving a pleasantly empty mind, focused mostly on smell, taste, and touch. He decides to curl up by the trunk of a mighty tree. As if out of their own volition, his eyes close, and he drifts into a calm, dreamless sleep.
When he wakes, it is night. Briefly, he wonders how much time has passed, but in the end he decides that it doesn’t matter. He unfurls himself and slithers deeper into the forest. Here he is content. There is no one to ask how he is doing, nothing that reminds him of Aziraphale. Here, he can think, collect himself, reflect. Crowley spends his days like this. Slithering around, getting to know the local flora and fauna, sleeping on rocks, and waking to do it all again. His thoughts are, no matter how much he tries not to pay him any mind, preoccupied with Aziraphale.
First, he gets angry. He bites branches, thrashes around, and curses everyone and everything, but especially Heaven. How could they? How dare they take what is so dear to him away? He hates them, all of them. He also hates Gabriel and Beelzebub. (While hating them is probably a given, he hates them even more now.) Why do they, those bastards, get to be happy when he doesn’t?
A while later, he starts to bargain. Maybe he can go back. Maybe, if Crowley goes back, asks nicely, Aziraphale will see that he made a mistake? At some point, he almost goes through with it. He is already back in his human form, standing on the beach, feet sinking into the sand. In the end, he decides against it, there is no asking nicely when Heaven is involved.
After that, he sleeps for what must be months. Not because he wants to, but because there is nothing else to do. He is miserable, and the only thing that can help is to sleep it off. During this time, he wonders if he will ever feel happy again. He comes to the realization that he probably won’t. He keeps remembering the time he spent with Aziraphale. The walks, the quiet nights in, the exquisite lunches, dinners, and breakfasts. Crowley will never have these again. And, as if that isn’t enough, he was naive enough to think that Aziraphale might love him back. He remembers feeling full of hope, right before Aziraphale interrupted him, Crowley had felt so certain that everything would be good. He had been so wrong.
Somehow, after a while, he is able to move again. This is just the way it is now, he thinks. He is alone, he is unloved, and perhaps that is fine. Maybe he was never made to be loved, and that is fine. Maybe he will never be happy again, but that is fine, because at least he got a few moments when he felt truly, without a single doubt, content. A few moments that made him think that love conquers all.
When he decides to transform into a humanoid form again and leave, five years and fifteen days have passed.
****
Crowley lands in London right next to his Bentley. He stands there for a while, taking in his surroundings. Almost nothing has changed. There is some construction around the corner which wasn’t there before, the sky is grey, as it almost always is in England . Most notably, the record shop is gone, replaced by a tattoo parlour. That’s a shame.
He leans down to look at himself in the side mirror of his Bentley. His hair has grown long, his glasses are askew, so he fixes them. Worst of all, he has a beard. Quickly, he miracles himself back to his usual look. He doesn’t like beards or long hair any more, hasn’t in a while, and probably isn’t going to start now.
Satisfied with his looks, he stands up straight again, and makes his way across the street. He is standing in front of the bookshop now, looking up at the sign. This time, he isn’t filled with fear, or dread, or discouraged. He feels a deep longing, akin to nostalgia even. A longing for what was, and for what will never be again. Maybe what he also feels is peace. He could spend some time with Muriel, they seemed sweet (of course, demons don’t tend to like beings who are sweet, but Crowley has stopped caring about expectations a long time ago). He puts his hand on the door handle, lovingly caressing it.
“Crowley? Is that you?”
Every cell inside Crowley’s body stops what it’s doing for just one second, because there isn’t a world in which he wouldn’t recognize that voice. Slowly, agonizingly so, he turns around just to be met with Aziraphale’s figure in front of him. His breath hitches, he can’t move, he can’t think, he can only see Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who is back. For a second, all he wants to do is throw himself into the angel’s arms, but after that second passes, anger swells up in him.
“Not if you’re looking for me,” Crowley mutters and starts making his way down the steps, away from Aziraphale.
“Crowley! Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale sounds desperate. “Please, I need your help, I-”
“You don’t need anything from me, you made that perfectly clear,” Crowley shouts, turning around to face Aziraphale again. “You can’t do this! You can’t just waltz back in here and demand my help.” Crowley sighs. “Goodbye, Aziraphale.” He turns around to leave again, because he can’t handle this. Not right now.
“It’s Heaven .” That makes Crowley stop. “They’re after me, Crowley. They’re after me and I don’t know what to do, or where to hide, or who to ask for help, except you.” Aziraphale sounds as if he is about to cry. Something deep inside Crowley stirs, something that he will later identify as unconditional love. But in the present, it feels like a dull ache. A dull ache that makes him reconsider.
“They’re after you?,” he asks quietly. “What do you mean?”
“It means I left, and now they’re after me.” Aziraphale takes a step towards Crowley. His voice breaks. “I don’t know what to do.”
Crowley realizes, that in this very moment, he can make two choices. The first choice being leaving Aziraphale on the steps of the bookshop. Leaving him, just like Aziraphale had left Crowley all those years ago. This choice, he realizes, is what’s probably expected of him. He is a demon, after all, and demons technically aren’t capable of being the bigger person. Crowley, as already established, doesn’t respect such norms. So he goes for the second choice. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand and drags him to his Bentley across the street. “Get in,” he mutters, and then they’re off.
They drive in extremely uncomfortable silence until they’re out of the city and on the M25, which is of course stuck in traffic. When they come to yet another stop, he decides that stalling any longer won’t do. “Would you… would you care to explain?,” he mutters quietly. At first, Aziraphale doesn’t respond, and Crowley thinks that he might not have heard him. He is about to repeat himself, when Aziraphale sighs.
“You see, my dear.” The endearment stings so much, Crowley wants to cry out, but he doesn’t, he lets Aziraphale continue. “I, well, when I went to Heaven, I wanted to make changes. To make a place that would be like in the beginning. Full of love, and peace, and, well, acceptance, I suppose.” He is fidgeting with his ring and with the hem of his waistcoat. “I wanted to make it better, make a difference, you see?” Aziraphale looks at Crowley as if awaiting a response, but Crowley has his eyes glued to the road. “I, well, I… I thought that would be possible.” He lets out a pained sigh. “But, my dear, I was wrong.”
Crowley almost laughs, but settles for exhaling loudly. “Could have told you that from the start…”
“Yes. I know. And you would have been right.” Aziraphale’s voice is small, and it makes Crowley regret the tone he used. “They… they just wanted someone to boss around and pretend they weren’t doing that. They didn’t let me make any decisions. At first, I was blind to it, I felt in control, I felt powerful, but after a while I realized that my efforts were and would remain futile. They would… they
will
never change.”
Crowley can’t help but glance at Aziraphale. “They are right bastards, the lot of them.”
“Yes, I agree. Because… oh Crowley, they want to end the world again,” Aziraphale whispers.
“And you’re here because…?”
“Because I won’t, no, I
can’t
contribute to that!,” Aziraphale says, voice full of exasperation. “So I threatened to leave. And then they… God, Crowley, they threatened me back.” In a whisper, he adds. “And now I simply don’t know what to do.”
Crowley doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he stays quiet. There are so many emotions swelling up inside him that he has no idea which one is which, and even less of an idea as of what to do about them.
“And Crowley I… I understand if you don’t want to help me, even if you don’t want anything to do with me. I have done so many ghastly things to you, but I-”
The glacier inside Crowley melts a bit. “Oh,” he says. “You should know by now that I would march alone into heaven for you, if that meant you would be safe.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale is silent for a while. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
Crowley sighs. “No, Aziraphalel, I don’t think I can do that right now. Not for a while.”
“I… I understand.” Aziraphale swallows. “I did hurt you badly, my dear, didn’t I?”
Crowley clears his throat. “I would rather not talk about this right now. Let’s just… let’s focus on the matter at hand, alright?”
“Yes, of course.”
They are once again drowning in silence. It isn’t comfortable, not how it used to be. This silence is filled with tension, fear, and horrible, terrified dread. Crowley can’t focus very well, but he does his best, turning off the M25 and driving west. He knows where they’re going now, he has a plan. Admittedly, the plan is reckless, but it’s better than nothing.
“Crowley, where are we going? And could you go a bit slower? We are so terribly over the speed limit, I can’t even read the signs.”
“We’re going west,” Crowley responds. “As far west as we can. To the shore.”
“And what are we going to… Oh, you have a plan!” Aziraphale shouts excitedly. “Oh, I am so relieved.”
“Yes. A plan.” Crowley keeps his eyes fixed on the road. For one, because he’s doing thirty miles over the speed limit, but also, so he doesn’t have to look at Aziraphale. He really doesn’t want to look at him right now, he couldn’t handle his smile. The smile that haunted him for so long.
“Would you tell me what that plan is, my dear?”
“You will see.” Crowley would love to tell him more, but he fears that Aziraphale will object, because, frankly, the plan is plain stupid. So he shuts his mouth and focuses on getting them to their destination.
Clearly unsatisfied with the answer, Aziraphale opens his mouth as if to object, but in the end resigns himself to silence. This time, the silence weighing over them is even heavier than before.
****
The waves are crashing onto the shore with incredible force, while the wind is hitting them with all its might. They are standing by the coast, in the exact same spot Crowley stood in after, well, after . The sky is a dark grey, and in the distance one can see the oncoming rain. Aziraphale is sitting on a log, while Crowley is pacing around the small plateau.
“So you just want us to wait? And then confront them?,” Aziraphale asks, fidgeting with the ham of his waistcoat. “Are you sure that is a smart plan?”
“I don’t know, angel. Maybe it isn’t, but we don’t really have a choice, do we? Stalling is our best option.” Crowley immediately hates himself for his sneering tone. But he is, to be honest (and Crowley has learned that it is better to be honest with yourself), terrified of what is to come. Of what and who they are to face. (Still, no part of him wishes he hadn’t come here with Aziraphale.)
“I… I suppose you’re right, my dear.” The angel’s gaze drifts towards the horizon. “I think it might start to rain soon. That’s a shame, I don’t enjoy getting wet.”
“Ngk,” Crowley responds. “Won’t matter that we’re wet once they arrive.”
“Yes… yes, that’s true.”
****
The rain is pouring now, and they are both thoroughly drenched. Crowley can feel his clothes sticking to his body. He is cold, miserable, and afraid. Taking one look at Aziraphale is enough to confirm that the angel feels the same. They have been waiting for at least four hours now, and still no sign of any heavenly intervention.
“What… what do I tell them?” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet, his lip quivers as he asks his question. “How do I tell them no?”
Crowley sighs. “You tell them the truth, angel.”
“Oh. Yes, the truth.” Aziraphale’s voice breaks. “The truth is so hard to say out loud.”
****
Two hours later, they arrive. Technically not they, but he . The Metatron appears as a small figure at the end of the path leading up to their plateau. His pace is agonizingly slow, probably on purpose, Crowley realizes. He looks at Aziraphale, whose face has gone chalk white. “Come on, angel,” he says, trying his best to sound encouraging. All his rage has been forgotten by now. Now, all he feels is the return of love. “It’s time.”
“Oh, Crowley, I wish it wasn’t.” He stands, shakily, and walks up to stand next to Crowley. The demon almost takes his hand, but then decides against it. They can’t give the Metatron anything to antagonize them. Aziraphale will have to be strong. And Crowley truly, with all his heart, believes in him.
“So, here we are.” The Metatron comes to a stop in front of them. “Traitor, once again.” He looks at Aziraphale, completely ignoring Crowley’s presence. Crowley would feel offended if he wasn’t so afraid right now. “Aziraphale, this is your last chance.”
“I… I…,” Aziraphale stammers. “I really think you ought to go.”
“No.” The Metatron smiles sweetly, but the smile reeks of venom and falsehood. “No, I don’t think I will. Really, Aziraphale,” He steps closer, “I thought you had learned from past mistakes.”
“I have.” The angel sounds more confident now. “I have, which is why I am not going back.”
The Metatron sighs. He takes a step forward and reaches out to put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but the angels steps backwards, leaving The Metatron’s hand hanging in the air. He puts it back by his side. “Aziraphale, you do remember what I told you the last time we spoke?”
“No, I don’t! That is, I do, but I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t.” He looks afraid now, even more terrified than before.
“But I think I can. And I will.” The Metatron smiles again.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Crowley is sick of not knowing what is going on, of not being able to contribute, to help. “Can one of you catch me up here? Just so I can be part of the conversation?”
The Metatron doesn’t even glance in Crowley’s direction. Instead, he gives Aziraphale a
look
. “Go on, tell him.”
“Crowley, I… Oh, Crowley, he said that he would…” Aziraphale wipes at his eyes. “He said that he would erase you… and me… from… from the Book of Life.”
Crowley desperately wants to throw the Metatron off the cliff. How could he? How dare he? “What the actual bloody fuck is wrong with you?,” he asks instead. “How in Satan’s name do you come up with that? That’s fucked up and you know it! Go- She would never allow this, how did you even get Her permission to- Oh.” And then it becomes clear. It hits him hard like a brick in the face. “You never did get Her permission, did you?”
“I have every right, demon.”
“You can’t.” Crowley spits. “She’s… She’s supposed to love, She would not support this. This is… it’s meaningless action on top of meaningless action, what the lot of you have been doing. Ha, I bet that She hasn’t even spoken to you in decades!”
For the first time, the Metatron’s face shows genuine emotion. Crowley identifies it as anger with a mix of disdain. “You have no idea what you are talking about.” The Metatron’s voice booms over the cliffside like thunder. “I am the voice of God, keeper of the Book of Life. You are nothing, you are foul, you are abominable!”
“So it’s true?,” Aziraphale asks, his voice shaky and uncertain. “She hasn’t spoken to you?”
The Metatron turns to Aziraphale. “I know her wishes, I have carried them out for millennia. And now I shall do so again.” Out of the ether, the Metatron conjures a book. Small and leather-bound with old, wilted pages. With it appears a quill.
There are three responses a living being has in a perilous situation. The first is to fight, giving your best to survive by eliminating your opponent. The second is flight, attempting to escape said perilous situation. Lastly, there is freeze. In the given situation, the one response that would guarantee the most success would be to fight. Instead of fighting, being proactive (for example actually throwing the Metatron off the cliff), Crowley freezes. He sees Aziraphale start to back away, hands raised in front of him, babbling words that might convince the Metatron to do otherwise. Meanwhile, Crowley just stands there. He can feel the cold rain on his skin, the sharp gusts of wind in his clothes, and of course absolutely paralysing fear. The Metatron opens the book, raises the quill. Then Aziraphale is next to him, tightly grabbing Crowley’s hand, and with his last thought, Crowley does something he has never done before. He prays. God, if you can hear me, if you still love him, save him. I beg you, save him.
The quill’s tip hits paper, and the Metatron slowly starts moving it across the page. Crowley isn’t ready, there is so much left unsaid, so many things left undone, so many wines to taste, so many lunches to be had. He doesn’t want to go. A queasy feeling starts to creep up inside his stomach, and his skin starts to feel hot. This is it, then. He turns to look at Aziraphale, but Aziraphale is looking up. And as Crowley’s gaze drifts upwards, heavenly light blinds him.
NO, I DON’T THINK YOU WILL
Crowley has to look away. He feels sick. Sinking to his knees, he tries his best to support himself with his hands. Dark spots dance before his eyes, getting bigger by the second. He tries to see, to hear what is going on, but he can’t bring himself to look up. His skin burns, tears well up in his eyes. Then, finally, his world goes dark.
****
When he comes to, his first thought is whether a demon is even supposed to have an afterlife. His eyes are closed shut, but he can smell that he isn’t by the sea any more. What he smells, instead, is something very comforting and familiar, something he can’t place at first, but recognizes a mere second later. He smells the bookshop. His eyes fly open, and he finds himself lying on the sofa in the backroom. It’s dark out, and the lighting in the room is dim. Everything looks like it’s supposed to. The aisles of books, the wallpaper, the carpet. So demons do have a hell. Maybe this is one designed specifically for him. That would be cruel, but truly brilliant as well, Crowley thinks. Trapping him where he loves it most, where so many painful memories tarnish that love. He sits up and lets out a groan. His back is stiff and his muscles hurt. He is about to stand up, when he hears footsteps. Before he can lie back down and pretend he’s still asleep, Aziraphale rounds the corner. When the angel sees him, his eyes light up, and he hurries over to Crowley.
“Oh, Crowley, you are awake! I am so glad that you’re alright, I-”
“So this is what you sick bastards came up with?,” Crowley screams at the ceiling. Because this can’t be anything but the perfect method of torture. “I hope you get your commendation for this! Motherfu-”
“Crowley, what are you talking about?” Aziraphale steps closer, but Crowley backs away.
“No, don’t even try! I’m dead, I’ve got nothing to lose, so don’t even try to-”
“You’re not dead, Crowley! Stop this!” Aziraphale steps closer, and Crowley tries to back away again, but his back hits a wall. “You are not dead, everything is alright.”
“Yeah? Prove it,” he spits. “Prove it. Tell me something only the real Aziraphale would know.”
“I… when I gave you that Holy Water in 1967 it was in a tartan thermos. ” Aziraphale stretches out a hand to Crowley. “Now, please sit, I will make you a cup of tea.”
“Ngk.” Slowly, ignoring the outstretched hand, Crowley walks to the sofa and sits back down. “So I’m not dead. And this is real?”
“Yes, my dear. This is real,” Aziraphale says, and with a snap of his fingers, conjures a cup of steaming hot tea. “I know you prefer it not miracled, but I believe this is more convenient right now. And you are indeed alive.”
“Huh.” Crowley takes the cup when Aziraphale offers it to him. “How come?”
“How come what, dear boy?” Aziraphale sits down in the armchair across from Crowley, freshly miracled cup of tea in hand.
“How come I’m not dead?” Crowley can’t remember what happened, which makes sense, as he passed out right when the important stuff started happening. “What happened? Where’s the Metatron?”
“Well, firstly, everything is alright.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a smile.
“So, no imminent danger?”
“Quite the opposite, dear. We are perfectly safe. You see… Remember when the Metatron was starting to cross out our names from the Book of Life?”
“Yes.”
“Well, before he could accomplish anything, She showed up. And you must have passed out because of Her Holiness. She is the most holy, after all.”
Crowley almost drops his cup. “She? As in Her? The Almighty?”
“Yes, quite right.” Aziraphale takes a sip. “She sorted everything out.”
“But I thought… I thought She hadn’t spoken to anyone in decades. Why would She show up
now
?”
“I asked her that as well. And, well, Her answer wasn’t very easy to understand. I think, my dear, it’s easiest to say that Her reasoning is, well, ineffable.” Aziraphale smiles at Crowley.
“I hate that word,” Crowley grumbles. “It’s stupid, really.”
“Yes, but we’re safe now, and that’s what matters. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. ‘Course.” Crowley shifts in his seat. The cup of tea is hot in his hands, and he can’t bear to look at Aziraphale. “What did She do?”
“She sent the Metatron back to Heaven. I think… I think he’s under house arrest now? Something akin to that, at least. Then She apologized. Can you imagine that?
Her
apologizing?”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, after that, She sent us back here.” The angel looks around the shop. “It is a strange thing to say, because she always does, but at that moment I felt that She truly loves us.”
“So, you’re back? Back here?” Crowley has to ask, because he just isn’t sure.
“Yes, I am. Don’t really have the option of going back, do I? I sent Muriel out just a few hours ago. They really kept the place well, I am glad that no book got sold. I did pop in a few times through the years, but never really got to look at it. But it is-”
“You… popped in?”
“Yes, but, well, you were never around for it. Where were you? What did you do?”
“How can you just go back to normal?,” Crowley blurts out. “How can you just talk and pretend like nothing happened?”
“I… Oh, I’m not pretending. I don’t think I am.” Aziraphale looks slightly confused. “I am just, well, what else are we supposed to do but try to move past this?”
“Move past this?” It comes out with a hiss, unintentionally, and Aziraphale’s face scrunches up, displeased. Crowley never hisses at Aziraphale. “I can’t just move past this , you… Aziraphale, you broke me.”
“Oh.” The angel deflates a bit. “I meant that we should try to talk about this. To talk all this through.”
“Talk this through.” Crowley lets out a desperate laugh. How can Aziraphale not get this, how can he not
understand
how impossible it is to just
talk things through
? “Aziraphale, I spent months drowning myself in alcohol, I spent years in isolation, I almost killed myself, and you just want to
talk things through
?” Crowley is mad. He’s finally furious. Not at Aziraphale, but at his ignorance.
The angel looks at Crowley, and there is desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t know, you left!”
“I… I don’t think this is very fair, my dear.”
“Not fair ? And what you did was?” Crowley knows that he isn’t being reasonable, and that he’s being incredibly unfair. He really does, but he can’t help it. There are too many pent-up emotions bubbling to the surface right now. He is too hurt. “I laid myself out for you and you… you stepped on me! Stomped, I would even say.”
Aziraphale’s face scrunches up the way it does when he’s trying his best to be polite. “Crowley, you know that I had to go. You know that I had to at least try to make things better.” Aziraphale’s resolve crumbles. “I didn’t only do it for myself, I also did it for you!”
There is so much emotion in those last words that Crowley recoils. He wants to throw himself at Aziraphale’s feet to apologize. “I should go,” he says instead. “Get out of your hair, all that stuff.”
“Ah. Yes, I believe that would be… for the best.” Aziraphale stands, vanishing their tea with a snap of his fingers. Crowley walks to the front of the store, Aziraphale close behind him.
“I wish you all the best, Crowley.” The angel isn’t looking at Crowley. His gaze drifts from the door to the floor and back. “Do take care.”
Crowley has to say something, because not saying anything, leaving like this, will break them both all over again. “I’ll be back.” With that, he turns and takes the few steps towards the door.
“When?” Aziraphale’s voice is full of hope.
“I don’t know.”
The air outside the bookshop is cold and bites harshly at Crowley’s cheeks. He looks around, trying to figure out a place to go. When he sees his Bentley parked across the street, he smiles. She really thought of everything. Without haste, he walks over, runs his hand over the hood, and gets in the driver’s seat. This time, he drives like he usually does, with little care and regard for those around him. The anger has dissipated, and he is left with regret. His actions weren’t good, he had been unfair. But there would be time to rectify his mistake. Later.
He parks near St. James’s Park, and walks over to the pond to look at the ducks. He doesn’t have any peas for them, but that’s fine, he’ll bring some next time. Maybe, next time, he won’t be alone. For the first time in many years, he feels hope again. (Demons are, of course, not supposed to feel hope, but Crowley never does what he’s supposed to do.)
****
In the morning, Crowley goes back to his flat in Mayfair. Just to check. When he arrives, the door opens at his touch. Inside, he finds piles of rubbish and thick layers of dust. With a snap of his fingers, he sends the rubbish to Shax’s desk in Hell. She can deal with that herself. A wave of his hand gets rid of the dust, leaving the flat spotless, like it’s supposed to be. Another snap, and the few boxes containing his belongings, that had been sitting in the back of his Bentley, appear in the living room.
He wanders through the flat, checking for leftover spots of dust and any other irregularities that need to be corrected. The bed is still made with the sheets that he had left when Shax had evicted him. He miracles them clean and continues his tour. When he enters the plant room, his heart sinks. He knew it would be empty, and yet the lack of green bothers him. His old plans are all dead now. So much time and effort gone. Crowley sighs, and decides that he should get some new ones. A few snaps later, the room is filled with multiple ivies, a few monsteras, a velvet goddess, and a palm. With one last snap, an appropriate amount of money appears in the cash register of a nice flower shop.
****
Crowley stays away for about a month. After twenty-eight days, which he spends sleeping, contemplating, and threatening his new plants, he decides that it’s time. Time for a first attempt at reconciliation. Because there is no other option but to reconcile. He leaves the flat, and after stopping by a shop to buy some frozen peas, drives to the bookshop. When he enters, the shop looks deserted. Panic swells up in his chest. Where is Aziraphale? Why isn’t he here? Did they get to him?
“Aziraphale?” He tries his best not to yell, tries not to let the panic show. “Aziraphale, are you here?” When he hears rustling coming from the backroom, he instantly relaxes.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale appears from behind a bookshelf. “Are you alright?”
“Ngk.” Crowley manages to say. He isn’t used to seeing Aziraphale any more. He isn’t used to his face, to his form, to his presence. “Peas.” He holds up the bag of frozen peas. “Let’s feed the ducks.”
“Oh, right. Right, let’s do that.” For some reason, the angel looks apprehensive. “Let me just lock up the shop.” He starts rummaging around his pockets for the keys.
“Only if you want to,” Crowley blurts out. He doesn’t want to pressure Aziraphale. Maybe he isn’t ready yet.
“Of course I want to,” Aziraphale says. Having found the keys, he walks to the door, and Crowley follows. “You don’t have to ask.”
“Right.” Crowley is so, so relieved.
The walk to the park is silent. Not their usual silence, but also not the bad one, like before. A silence filled with anxiety and probably hope. When they arrive at the pond, Crowley opens the bag of peas. He takes a handful and starts tossing them to the ducks. When his hand is empty, he hands the bag to Aziraphale, who takes it and fishes out a few peas. Carefully, he tosses them in the pond. They stand there for a while, tossing peas at the ducks and watching them eat.
“What did you do all those years?” The question slightly startles Crowley. “If you want to tell me.”
“This and that,” he responds. “Drove around, spent some time in Edinburgh, was a snake for a while.” He decides not to mention the churches or the copious amount of wine he consumed. “Just… stuff.”
“Right.” Aziraphale looks over. “How are the plants?”
“They died.”
“Oh dear, that’s horrible!” Aziraphale says in an apologetic tone.
“It’s fine, angel.” It just slips out.
Angel
. There had always been so much affection in that word, and now… now it’s back. Crowley decides it’s best to ignore that. “Got some new ones. Though I haven’t trained them yet. Still a few spots on them.”
“Well, I’m sure they will learn to behave.” Aziraphale has been looking at the pond, but now he looks at Crowley. “You did always have a knack for them.”
Crowley nods. “Cleaned the flat up,” he says. The small talk feels like a peace offering. “Shax left quite the mess.”
“What does Shax have to do with your flat?,” Aziraphale asks, full of confusion.
“Well, she lived there.” Crowley shrugs.
“She did
what
? And where did you go?”
“Ngk.” Crowley shouldn’t have brought it up. “You know, just the Bentley.”
“The Bentley?” Aziraphale looks horrified. “You lived in your car for three years?”
“What of it?” Crowley is trying his best to downplay the significance of the whole situation. Though, it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Uncomfortable, sure, but nothing to write home about.
“You should have said something, dear boy. You do know that there is a lot of room in the bookshop.”
Crowley finally turns to look at Aziraphale. “You would have let me stay?”
“Of course I would have.” The angel’s tone is gentle. “You just had to ask.”
“Huh.” Crowley doesn’t know what else to respond. It had never even occurred to him that he could have (in retrospect
should have
) asked. “Never occurred to me.”
After that, they sink back into silence. They continue feeding the ducks, taking turns with the bag. Crowley is careful not to let their fingers brush. When the bag of peas is empty, they make their way back to the bookshop, exchanging occasional comments about passers-by, about new shops that have opened, and old ones that have closed. (Aziraphale is especially disappointed that a certain sandwich shop has been replaced by a women’s clothing store.)
Back at the bookshop, Crowley speaks up again. “I should go. Need to threaten the plants, all that.”
“Of course.” Aziraphale has always been bad at hiding his disappointment. “It was nice talking to you, dear.”
“Right. Yes. It was.” Crowley curses his inarticulacy. He would like to say so many things, but he just can’t. Can’t find the words for them, couldn’t bring himself to say them even if he knew how. Not right now. Later. “I’ll see you around.” He almost lets an ‘angel’ slip out again.
Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “Yes, I hope I will.” Crowley turns to leave. “Oh, and Crowley?”
He stops. “Yes?”
“You are always welcome here.”
Crowley nods and, with a small wave, walks away.
Back home, he plops down on his bed like a starfish. Looking up at the ceiling, he sighs. It is difficult, being with Aziraphale. But he can’t throw away what they had. He can’t let the angel go. Huh. The angel. Crowley hopes (maybe even wishes) that, at some point, it will become his angel again.
****
Two weeks later, Crowley is walking into the bookshop again. He has a plan. A foolproof plan, really. One where there will be no danger of touching, no delving into deep topics, no awkward silences. They are going to see a play. Much Ado About Nothing, to be exact. It had always been one of Crowley’s favourites of the Shakespearean comedies. And, as far as Crowley remembers (and his memory is especially good regarding such topics), Aziraphale had also liked it. As the door closes behind Crowley, he spots Aziraphale sitting behind his desk. Glasses positioned low on his nose, reading some book, he looks beautiful.
“Hiya, angel!” This time, the ‘angel’ feels much more natural to say, almost rolling off his tongue.
Aziraphale looks up, and a smile immediately creeps onto his face. “Crowley,” is all he says.
“Yup. Me.” Crowley just stands there for a few seconds, looking at Aziraphale. Looking at him hurts less, now. “Are you up for some Shakespeare, angel?” The endearment (because that’s what it always was) comes easy now.
Aziraphale’s eyes light up. “I’ve always adored the man.”
“I know. They’re putting on Much Ado About Nothing at Sohoplace. Got us tickets.”
“You did?” Crowley can’t help but feel smug about Aziraphale’s excitement. “That’s so very kind of you. Tonight?”
“In about an hour,” Crowley responds, leaning against the door frame.
“Then we, well, I must hurry. You’re all ready to go.” Aziraphale closes his book (after putting in a bookmark, of course), and hurries upstairs. “Just wait a second, I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
Crowley suppresses a smile. Aziraphale always hated not being way too early at a theatre showing. (‘But what if something happens on the way, Crowley? Besides, if we’re early, we can indulge in some champagne before the show starts’). When Aziraphale hurries back down the stairs, he has changed into something that would be indistinguishable from what he was wearing before, if one didn’t know him well. Crowley, of course, notices the changes. Firstly, the shoes. They look new and shiny, though they are probably older than any living person on the planet (except for him and Crowley). Then, the bow tie. It is still tartan, of course, but has a much more subtle colouring. Thirdly, the coat he’s putting on right now, which is a very well-kept, very beige antique from the 1900s.
“Now, chop-chop, dear, we don’t want to miss the show.” Aziraphale snatches the keys from his desk and practically shoos Crowley out of the bookshop. After locking up, they make their way to the theatre, which is only a few minutes away.
“How have you been?” Crowley is surprised at himself for asking. He had intended to keep the small talk to a minimum.
“Oh, I’m good. Have been catching up on everything that has happened in the years I was gone. Did you see that Maggie closed her shop? It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Saw that.”
“Well, I also went to the coffee shop to catch up with Nina.” Aziraphale sounds more serious now. “She, well, she told me that she saw you. And that you weren’t well.”
Crowley lets out a dissatisfied, “Ngk.” He had hoped that they
wouldn’t
talk about this. It had been his plan not to talk about anything.
“My dear, you don’t have to tell me anything, you know?” Aziraphale looks at him. He raises a hand as if to touch Crowley’s shoulder, but then lowers it back to his side. “I just wanted to mention it. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“‘S fine,” Crowley manages to say. He is about to open his mouth again, to say something else that’s just as stupid, when they arrive at the theatre. According to Aziraphale, there is no time for champagne, so they take their seats and wait.
“Do you remember the premier?,” Aziraphale asks. “It was wonderful.”
“Mhm, was good. The crowd sure went wild.” Crowley remembers it very well. The howling, the stomping, the deafening applause.
“Yes, they did.” Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, a playful smile. “You did too, as far as I remember.”
“Psh, nothing of the sort,” Crowley lies. He, in fact, had enjoyed the performance very much. Aziraphale just shakes his head. He opens his mouth to add something, but then the lights fade out, and their focus shifts towards the stage.
The performance is magnificent, almost on par with the performances in Shakespeare’s time. The actors do their best, and the crowd responds with laughter and loud clapping. During the performance, Crowley’s attention shifts to Aziraphale multiple times. He can’t help it, really. It had always been this way. Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley glances over. Aziraphale claps, and Crowley joins in. Aziraphale’s elbow touches Crowley’s on the armrest, and Crowley, unexpectedly, doesn’t shift away. It ends with a standing ovation and applause that lasts a full fifteen minutes. Strolling back to the bookshop, high on the energy of the performance, Crowley feels absolutely terrific.
“They were superb, Crowley, weren’t they?” The angel is beaming at him, brighter than the street lights.
“They were quite alright,” Crowley responds, he has never been one for compliments.
“I missed this,” Aziraphale says. “They don’t have plays in Heaven.”
“Then it’s good you’re back,” Crowley blurts out before he can stop himself.
“Yes.” Aziraphale’s smile turns somber. “Yes, that’s rather good.” Crowley doesn’t smile back. He averts his gaze from Aziraphale, focusing on the pavement in front of him. At the bookshop, Crowley waits for Aziraphale to unlock his door, before saying goodbye. They part, and Crowley, still on a high, drives even more carelessly than usual.
****
After a week, at about six, Crowley shows up again, having made reservations at one of Aziraphale’s favourite Italian place. The bookshop door is open, though the sign on the door reads ‘closed’. Crowley walks in anyway, because the sign has never applied to him. Aziraphale isn’t in the front, but comes hurrying down from upstairs as soon as he hears the little bell by the door. “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re closed.” As soon as he sees Crowley, a smile lights up his face. “Crowley! I didn’t expect you back yet.”
“Well, I got bored, so,” Crowley lies. He had been bored, but he had also wanted to see Aziraphale again. “Want to go eat out? Italian, booked us a table.”
“That would be delightful,” Aziraphale smiles even brighter. “The usual place?”
Crowley nods. “The usual.”
It is surprisingly easy now, talking with Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t expected everything to be so easy again. He hadn’t even been sure that it could ever be the same. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe the way they are will never be the same, but that’s just the way it is. Nothing lasts forever. Crowley shudders at that thought. Those words still burn holes in his slowly mending heart.
“Are you alright?,” Aziraphale asks between forks of porcini risotto.
“Course.” Crowley nods. A lie. Because suddenly he feels as though everything is about to crash and burn again. He adjusts his glasses, just to be safe that they are covering his eyes.
“Are you sure? You look upset. Did I say something to upset you?” The angel looks genuinely worried, so Crowley decides that it might be best to tell the truth. Or at least something similar to the truth.
“‘S just my head. Thinking things. You know, the way it does.”
There is something incredibly soft in Aziraphale’s eyes. “I do know, dear boy. I do.”
After that, they finish their meal in silence. Crowley hates himself for having ruined it. It had been going well, so well, but he just had to bring up the past. When will it end? He asks himself this question regularly. Maybe it never will.
“You should, I mean, do you want to come in?,” Aziraphale asks when they are by the bookshop. He looks almost as nervous as he was when Crowley had first offered him food. “Only if you want to, of course.”
“I really should…,” Crowley starts to say, but then he pauses. What harm will it do? “Sure, angel. I’ll come.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs with relief. “That’s…great. I’m sure I have a lovely Châteauneuf-du-Pape lying around somewhere, or some tea, if you’d prefer,” he says, as he fiddles with the keys.
Crowley is still amused (possibly even endeared) at the fact that Aziraphale insists on using keys instead of a simple miracle. He snaps, and the door unlocks. “Wine should do just fine.”
They have gone through almost two whole bottles, talking about meaningless things, when Aziraphale goes quiet. He sips his wine for a few minutes, then he looks at Crowley, then away again. “Can I ask you a question?” The angel’s voice is gentle and subdued.
“Ask away,” Crowley says, despite the pit opening up in his stomach.
“Did you really… When you said that you tried to…” Aziraphale’s voice goes even quieter, his gaze fixed on his wine glass. “When you said that you tried to kill yourself, was that true?,” he finally blurts out, looking up and right into Crowley’s eyes.
Crowley is a bit perplexed. He hadn’t expected that, not at all. Thankful for the glasses covering his eyes, he downs the rest of his wine. He desperately wants to lie. Wants to just pretend that he doesn’t even know what the angle is talking about. Instead, he nods. “I did.” His voice comes out hoarse and vulnerable.
Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath. “How?,” he whispers.
Crowley is hesitant to admit the truth, but he has to. He has agreed to have this conversation, there is no going back now. “Went to a church, tried to dump a basin of Holy Water on myself. Wasn’t blessed yet, though. So it didn’t work out.”
Aziraphale gasps, and suddenly a tear escapes his eye. “Oh, Crowley…” He doesn’t finish before a sob comes out. “Crowley, I’m so sorry.”
Crowley doesn’t know what to do. He is completely lost. Aziraphale is crying, and, even if only indirectly, it’s his fault. He places his glass on the floor, stands up, and almost throws himself on his knees in front of Aziraphale’s armchair. Carefully, with all the gentleness he can muster, he grabs the angel’s hands. “Angel, don’t cry.” His voice almost breaks.
“How can I not?” Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hands as tightly as he can. “I could have lost you. I almost did. It would have…” He takes a shuddering breath. “It would have been all my fault.”
“You had your reasons. It was your right to do what you did,” Crowley whispers. He realizes that he means it. He really does, he means it in a way he hasn’t meant many things before. Aziraphale had every right to do what he did. “I don’t blame you, angel.” He returns Aziraphale’s grip. ‘Not any more’ is left unsaid.
“You are so good, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. “I know you don’t like me saying it, but you are so good .” He sobs, and the noise breaks Crowley’s heart.
Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s something else, but Crowley can’t hold himself back. He pulls Aziraphale up out of his seat and into his arms. He hugs him tightly, cradling his head with one hand, the other firm on the angel’s back. “I’m here, angel. That’s what matters,” he murmurs. “Please, don’t cry.”
At first, Aziraphale is limp in Crowley’s arms, but after a few seconds, he winds his arms around Crowley’s torso and clutches him tightly. “I’m sorry, my dear. It seems the wine got to me.”
Crowley, God knows why, lets out a laugh. “Don’t apologize. ‘S my fault. Shouldn’t have said anything.” He sighs.
“It was hard, without you. So very hard, Crowley,” Aziraphale mutters into Crowley’s shoulder. “I should have never left.”
“And I should have let you go,” Crowley whispers. He means it.
After what seems like an eternity, they pull apart. Aziraphale does so first. He moves away, just a bit, not letting Crowley go. His eyes are slightly puffy. “What did you do after?”
Crowley shrugs. He also isn’t letting go. Being this close to Aziraphale, his angel, feels too good. He has to savour the moment. “After… I went to Edinburgh, got drunk a lot.” He strokes Aziraphale’s back. “Then to an island. Was a snake there for a long time. Was nice.”
“I’m glad,” Aziraphale says.
“Glad?,” Crowley asks, because he isn’t quite sure what Aziraphale means.
“I’m glad that you are here.” Aziraphale smiles softly. He has stopped crying, and Crowley can’t help but admire his beauty. Even with puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks, his angel is the most beautiful of Her creations.
“We should get more wine,” Crowley says, his voice quiet and gentle. “I need more wine after a conversation like this.
“Yes, dear, I quite agree.” Aziraphale lets him go, and Crowley steps away. With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, another bottle of wine appears. “I thought that a Merlot would be nice,” he says, sitting back down, and Crowley follows suit.
“Merlot sounds terrific.”
Crowley stays until the sun comes up, and them some more. When he gets home, he is light-headed and his heart is beating faster than it should. He gets in his bed, and sleep finds him quickly. For the first time in years, he dreams, not of what was, but of what could be.
****
Crowley is back after three days, which he spends being productive. (In this case, ‘being productive’ should be read as ‘making mischief’. He might not be employed any more, but causing Facebook or Instagram to be down for a few hours still fills him with joy. In some respects, he will never change.) When he walks into the bookshop, Aziraphale is sitting at his desk. This time, Crowley doesn’t have a plan. Doesn’t need one, because he feels secure.
“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” Aziraphale smiles at him.
Crowley just shrugs. “What do you want to do today?,” he asks.
“Oh. Me?” Aziraphale stands up, closing the notebook he was writing in. “You don’t have anything planned?”
“Wanted to do what you want,” Crowley responds, leaning against the door frame.
“Well, then I think that a stroll sounds lovely. Let me just get my coat.”
“Do you want to get out of the city? Maybe go to the shore?” Crowley would like to see the sea again.
“I wouldn’t mind. And you?” Aziraphale has put on his coat and is now locking up.
“‘Have got nothing against it.” Crowley strolls over to the Bentley. “Could go for some sea air.”
They drive east until they reach the shore. Their conversation flows easily, no hiccups, no awkward silences. Just the way it used to be. Although Crowley does feel a difference. A certain reverence that sits deep in both their minds that had rarely been there before. Mixed with something entirely new. Something that is probably deep, irrevocable love. Of course, it must have been there before, Crowley has always felt like this. He had just never noticed it (or felt it in return).
The beach is nearly deserted when they arrive, and the weather is surprisingly good for a late winter month. (Of course, ‘good’ in this case only means that it isn’t raining, not that it’s sunny or that the wind isn’t harsh.) They walk along the water, close together. Occasionally, one of them stops to pick up a stone or a seashell. They inspect them together, but none fit Crowley’s high standards, being either too dull, or chipped, or plain ugly. Now and then, their hands brush, and each touch sends sparks up Crowley’s arm.
“What did you do in Heaven?” Crowley asks this question so suddenly that he himself is surprised by it.
“Ah.” Aziraphale stops. “Nothing particularly interesting. It was a lot of paperwork at first, which was all jolly-good because it was a perfect distraction from, well, you know. Then I tried to reform, but it was hard, and nobody listened.” Aziraphale looks at Crowley. “It’s so hard to do good when everyone is against you.” He sighs. “I did achieve a few things. All angels are required to take a course on humans, which I designed, mind you.”
“That sounds good,” Crowley says, trying to be encouraging. “Smart.”
“Yes, well, I don’t know if it will stay that way, of course. Now that someone else will be in charge. Then they started going on about war and the Second Coming, and that was just too much for me. And then, well, you know what happened then.”
Crowley nods. “Will it still happen, do you think?”
“The Second Coming? I doubt it. At least not for a while.” Aziraphale sounds very sure.
Crowley isn’t. “What if they put some wanker like Michael on the job? They sure would like that to happen.”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “Oh, I probably failed to mention it, didn’t I?”
“Mention what?”
“That the Almighty is back.” He pauses. “She came back to save us, and then she said not to worry, that she would sort everything out.”
“Huh.” There’s a question that has been burning at the back of his mind ever since
after
. “Do you know why she came back?”
Aziraphale smiles. “I do.” He steps closer to Crowley. “She heard your prayer.”
“My prayer?” Crowley has to ask, because it just seems so unlikely. Why would she hear his prayer out of thousands, millions?
Aziraphale nods. “You prayed.”
“I did.”
“What… Can I ask what you prayed for, my dear?”
Crowley’s gaze drifts from Aziraphale to the sea. He knows what he had prayed for, of course he does. He remembers that prayer word for word, remembers it like it was yesterday and not months ago. Frankly, he is a tiny bit embarrassed. Demons don’t pray. (Of course, Crowley had gotten used to doing what other demos didn’t.)
“I asked her to save you.” His voice is raw, slightly hoarse. He’s still looking at the sea, doesn’t dare to look at Aziraphale. He doesn’t know what he might do if he did look.
Aziraphale is silent for a while. When Crowley finally turns to look at him, the angel’s expression is something Crowley has never seen before. His smile is soft, and the look in his eyes translates into an emotion Crowley can’t pinpoint. Something so… angelic, so devoted, it makes Crowley’s heart sink to his feet and flutter back up. “Oh, dear,” Aziraphale finally says. “Can I tell you something? You don’t have to answer anything, but I’ll indubitably burst if I don’t.”
“Sure, angel.” Crowley holds Aziraphale’s gaze.
Aziraphale takes a slow, deep breath. “Crowley, I love you.” It comes out as a barely audible whisper, sinking deep into Crowley’s heart.
He can’t say anything, so he just looks, takes in all of Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who can now be his. Crowley takes his angel’s hand, squeezes it lightly, and then continues walking, Aziraphale by his side. There is nothing he can say right now, nothing he can do to put his feelings into words. Minutes later, he decides to ask. “You do?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale responds. “I do.”
They finish their walk in silence, and Crowley doesn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand until they are back at his Bentley. The road is empty, giving them a view of the sunset in the west. Their silence is filled with quick glances and gentle smiles. Crowley doesn’t know whether he should respond. Aziraphale knows, he must know. He probably doesn’t have to tell him that Crowley adores the angel more than anything in the world. And yet, it feels as though there’s something missing if he doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t feel pressured, no, something is missing from
him
. Something big and important. He drops Aziraphale off at the bookshop. It is dark outside, but you can’t see any stars, because of light pollution, but mostly because of the heavy clouds in the sky. It’s going to rain soon.
“Angel,” Crowley says when Aziraphale gets out of the car. “I do, too.”
Aziraphale just smiles at him and nods. “Good night, my dear.”
“Night.”
Crowley drives off with a fluttering heart and the feeling of a hole being filled to the brim, maybe even flowing over.
****
The next day, Crowley is back at the bookshop. They decided not to go out because of the foul weather, and also because Aziraphale decides that he should finally reorganize the books. Undo the damage to his system that Gabriel inflicted. Crowley helps, though his job mostly consists of standing around and holding books, and leaves deep into the night with a promise to return tomorrow. (Of course, demons don’t make promises. And when they do, they generally don’t keep them. Crowley isn’t like most demons.)
The next day, their work continues. In the evening, they go out to the fun Indian place, because Aziraphale mentions that he hasn’t had it since returning.
The next day, they continue their project, celebrating their success with a bottle of the finest Pinot Noir they can find in Aziraphale’s collection.
The next day, they go to a flower shop and Aziraphale buys Crowley a snake plant (despite Crowley’s protests that firstly, the name is corny, and secondly, he can really buy it for himself.) Crowley places it in the bookshop (only because there isn’t any space left in his plant room, of course), in a place where it will get just enough sunlight to thrive. He also threatens it for good measure, though he is sure that Aziraphale will ruin it by showering the plant with praise anyway. He doesn’t mind.
The next day, Crowley suggests a walk to St. James’s Park, where they feed the ducks some frozen peas. After, they sit on their bench and talk. Crowley hadn’t truly realized how deprived of witty conversations he had been until he got them back. There is nothing more enjoyable than getting a rise out of Aziraphale. A sudden rain drenches them on their way home, but that’s alright, they can dry off inside the bookshop.
The next day, they stay in. Something about everything feels right. It feels the way it was always supposed to. Peaceful, content.
The next day, Crowley arrives to find Aziraphale in an apron, trying his best to bake a cake, and failing miserably at it. Crowley tries to help, but in the end, they give up and order a Chinese instead.
The next evening, Crowley walks into the bookshop, bottle of Brunello in his hand, and finds a vase filled with bright red poppies. It is march, so Crowley isn’t entirely sure how they got there. Must have been a miracle. He finds Aziraphale in the backroom, rearranging the furniture.
“Trying your hand at interior decorating?” Crowley leans against the door frame, cocking an eyebrow.
“Oh, hello, dear.” Aziraphale stops dragging the sofa over the floor to look at Crowley. There is a hint of sweat on his brow, his hair is slightly dishevelled, and his smile is bright enough to blind Crowley despite his glasses. “I’m just cleaning.”
“Never understood why you do some things the human way,” Crowley says. He might not understand, and yet he loves it. “‘S so much more complicated. Inefficient.”
“Well, yes, but I do enjoy trying to assimilate. Especially now since, well, since my stay here is now guaranteed.”
“Huh,” Crowley responds. “Never thought of it that way.” He had never felt the need to assimilate. All the assimilation that happened to him was completely accidental. (After all, demons (or angels) aren’t supposed to assimilate on earth. Crowley, of course, has always liked breaking rules.)
“Saw the poppies on your desk. Did you miracle them?,” Crowley asks.
“I did,” Aziraphale looks almost giddy. “Do you like them? It took quite the effort to make them all so pretty and also to keep them from wilting immediately, of course. Flowers are so capricious with me.”
“Nah, that’s just poppies. Wildflowers, you know?” Crowley shrugs. “Can’t survive well outside of nature. And I do like them. Have always enjoyed looking at them.”
“Well, that’s jolly,” Aziraphale says. “They’re for you, after all.”
“For me?” Crowley can’t help but let a small smile creep onto his face.
“For you.” Aziraphale smiles back.
“Ngk,” Crowley says, because there is really nothing else to say. Then he adds, “You made me poppies?”
“I did. I thought they might bring some nice colour to your flat, I remember it being very grey.”
The poppies would be a nice addition, Crowley thinks. “Thank you,” he says, and it comes easy, though it used to be hard. But many things come easier to him now.
“You’re very welcome, my dear.” Aziraphale turns back to the sofa. “Will you help me?”
“Course I will.”
When they have rid the backroom of any dust particles there were to find, they sit down to taste the wine (although what Crowley is doing on the sofa can barely be called sitting). The wine tastes delicious, it’s rich and intense and has a slight note of cherry. When the bottle is finished, they procure another one, and then a third. It is late when they finish the last bottle, probably time for Crowley to sober up and leave. But right now, he realizes, leaving sounds like the worst possible idea. Still, they make their way to the front, and when Crowley sees the poppies again, he realizes that he simply can’t leave. Aziraphale is chattering something about the wine, when Crowley interrupts him.
“You know, angel, I think the poppies should stay here,” he says, and Aziraphale visibly deflates.
“Ah, alright. That’s… jolly-good.” The angel has never sounded less genuine. “Well, goodbye then, my dear.” Shit, how can Crowley put this? He should explain, he should just say it out loud.
“Ngk,” he says instead. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, and Crowley lets out a shuddering breath. “Right. So. When I say the poppies should stay here… mhhhh… what I mean is that, maybe, I should too. You know. To look after them.”
“You?,” Aziraphale asks. “Oh, yes, yes. Maybe you should. You have much more of a knack for plants than I do.”
“Good, good. Great, yeah. Definitely do have a knack for plants.” Crowley, once again, curses himself for his inarticulacy. There is so much more he wants to say right now, but he just can’t bring himself to say it. The words are dancing on the tip of his tongue, but even if he tried, they probably would come out completely incoherent.
“Crowley, can I do something?” Aziraphale, like so many times, saves the moment from becoming even more awkward.
“Do what?,” Crowley asks. He would let Aziraphale do pretty much anything.
“Can I take off your glasses?”
Crowley nods.
Aziraphale steps closer, so that they are almost standing chest to chest. Crowley can smell his cologne and that one smell that can’t be described as anything but angelic. Aziraphale is close enough for Crowley to study every one of his features, every slight movement of his face. For example, how the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, or the subtle way his brow furrows in concentration. Aziraphale slowly, agonizingly so, lifts his hands to Crowley’s face, and Crowley sucks in a sharp breath when the glasses are removed. Everything is so much more vibrant without them, Crowley has almost forgotten how light the world actually is. It has been so long, he doesn’t remember when he last took his glasses off.
“There they are,” Aziraphale whispers. “I missed your eyes.”
Crowley doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t really know how one responds to such a statement. So, instead of saying something, he leans in closer. He carefully cups Aziraphale’s cheek, gently stroking the angel’s cheek with his thumb.
“You missed them?,” Crowley whispers back.
“Yes, my dear. They are so beautiful.” Aziraphale’s voice is barely audible, as if he’s scared that if Crowley hears him, he will pull away. But Crowley won’t, he will never pull away again.
“Can I…” Crowley can’t finish his question, but Aziraphale knows him well enough to know what Crowley means.
“Please.”
Carefully, Crowley closes the distance between them. When their lips collide, it is electric. It feels like a nebula being created, like atomic fusion, like a star dying. With a clack, Crowley’s glasses fall to the floor as Aziraphale’s hands find their way into Crowley’s hair. Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s waist to pull him closer. It is a gentle kiss, nothing like the first one. Full of hope, new beginnings, and promises. I will never leave again. A promise. I wouldn’t let you. A vow. There was a before, and it would never be the same. But now, there is an after, which might be even better. The past is a reminder of their resilience, and the future is an open book waiting to be written. Surrounded by centuries of knowledge and stories, the two of them, a truly unlikely pair, an angel and a demon, are able to love and be loved in return. Until Heaven catches fire, until Hell freezes over, until the very end of eternity.
The day after, they go to the Ritz, and Crowley swears that the nightingales sing again.