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The first time Aziraphale sensed it was when they met again at Noah’s building site. It was a tiny spark, effervescent in a way that tickled Aziraphale’s nose. And it was coming from Crowley.
Love.
He didn’t think demons were capable of it, to be quite honest, but the proof lay before him, impossible to miss. Aziraphale didn’t spare this too much thought. While God may know all, the same does not apply to any of Their creation, including angels.
The love coming from Crowley is different from the kind he normally senses from the other angels, which was an all-encompassing sort of love that felt almost sterile, even clinical. More of an obligation than something with any real weight behind it.
No, this love felt similar to the love he felt coming from Adam and Eve those first days in the Garden. A soft sort of love, something unthinkably fragile, but capable of so much more if properly nurtured. And what Aziraphale wouldn’t give to watch it grow. That thought threw him for a loop for just a moment before he brushed it off in a similar manner to the previous thought. He’s an angel. Of course he would want to watch love flourish, no matter the creature that holds it.
~~~
The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley, he almost missed the spark. It’s muted under the weight of her sorrow for the man up on that cross, but definitely larger than before.
~~~
They met again, a few years later in Rome. That tell-tale spark that always announced the demon’s arrival was muted to the point that he missed it at first. In fact, it was Crowley’s voice that alerted Aziraphale of his presence in the tavern. It was easy enough to find though, he just had to focus a bit more than usual. Definitely worth investigating. At least that’s what he told himself as he abandoned his game and crossed the room.
It didn’t take Aziraphale long to figure out what was wrong. Crowley looked miserable, slouched up against the edge of the bar and glaring into his cup. There was a tension to his shoulders that Aziraphale had never seen before and he immediately decided that he did not like it one bit. And so, he found himself inviting Crowley out for oysters before he could start to think of all the reasons why it would be a bad idea to do so. If it would make Crowley smile again, it would be worth any potential repercussions from upper management.
By the end of the evening, they’re both far too drunk, but Crowley’s spark was glowing brighter than ever.
~~~
There was something familiar about the knight standing before him, dressed in black armor. Aziraphale couldn’t see his face but he would recognize the feeling of love radiating from the figure anywhere.
Aziraphale stubbornly ignored the thrill that raced through him as he quickly lifted up the visor of his helmet. “Crowley?”
After their conversation, Aziraphale was too busy fuming indignantly to notice that the spark had dimmed ever so slightly.
~~~
By the time the Italian Renaissance arrived, an arrangement had been made and, suddenly, Crowley was a much more constant presence in his life. Not that Aziraphale minded in the slightest. He knew that, as an angel, he should be repulsed by the demon, but instead he found Crowley’s presence soothing. Aziraphale chalked that up to the spark of love Crowley carried with her.
Although, at this point it could hardly be called a spark anymore. Crowley’s love had bloomed beautifully over the centuries, growing slowly, but surely into something truly breathtaking.
It was around this time, over a particularly scrumptious fruit tart in Venice, that Aziraphale realized it had never once occurred to him to wonder just who it was that Crowley loved so intensely.
Aziraphale’s fork fell from his hand with a clatter. How had he never thought of this? The intensity of Crowley’s love indicated that it was more specific than a simple love for humanity. Indeed, it had only grown stronger after such a long time and the fact that it was free of the sorrowful tinge Aziraphale saw in young widows indicated that it wasn’t a human that was the recipient of Crowley’s affections.
So that meant it was a demon.
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. Something about that just felt wrong. While it appeared they were capable of love, Crowley had proved that she was different from her fellow demons, something special. Surely there wasn’t a demon in hell that would be worthy of Crowley’s love.
“Everything ok there, angel?” Aziraphale looked up to meet Crowley’s inquisitive gaze.
“Oh yes, everything’s just peachy!” Aziraphale replied, plastering what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his face. Crowley looked down at the forgotten fork and raised an eyebrow. “I just remembered some business I need to attend to when I return home.”
Crowley set down her glass of wine and tucked an errant red curl behind her ear. “Do you need to go?”
“Oh Heavens no, it’s nothing urgent. Just a bit unpleasant is all.”
Crowley smiled, picking up her wine glass once more. As she took a sip, a pulse of love washed over Aziraphale, sending warmth straight to the core of his being.
Aziraphale’s expression softened. It really wasn’t his place to decide who was and wasn’t worthy of her. That decision was Crowley’s, and Crowley’s alone. If she deemed them worthy, then they were.
~~~
Aziraphale spent the next few centuries trying his hardest to learn the identity of the demon Crowley loved, without actually tipping off Crowley to what he was doing. While Crowley had opened up to him on occasion over the years, he had proved to be a very private being, especially when it came to his feelings. So asking Crowley outright was out of the question.
Aziraphale finally got his answer over a plate of crepes, not too long after narrowly avoiding a rather unpleasant dis-corporation at the Bastille.
“I’m just saying, Hastur and Ligur would have a field day if they were here. Mass beheadings would be right up their alley.”
Aziraphale perked up. This was the first time Crowley had ever mentioned another demon by name. Surely one of these demons had to be the one. Or it could be both of them. The love radiating from Crowley was certainly strong enough to be for two beings. “Who are Hastur and Ligur?” He asked. “Fellow demons?”
“Yeah,” Crowley paused. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? Could’ve sworn I’ve mentioned them before.”
“No, I don’t believe you have.” He hadn’t. Aziraphale could remember each and every one of their conversations with perfect clarity. Not that he would ever admit to that. And Crowley had never once mentioned a Hastur or a Ligur.
“Huh.” There was a look on Crowley’s face that Aziraphale couldn’t quite identify. Was it discomfort? Was he embarrassed to have revealed this piece of information? The idea that after all this time Crowley still wasn’t comfortable enough around him to talk about his personal life stung far more than anticipated.
Aziraphale coughed lightly to clear the sudden tightness in this throat. Of course Crowley didn’t trust him. He was an angel and Crowley was a demon, they were practically hard-wired to distrust each other. Just because Aziraphale found himself growing increasingly attached to Crowley did not mean the feeling was mutual.
Aziraphale took another bite of his crepe, ignoring the fact that it didn’t taste nearly as scrumptious as it had only moments ago.
~~~
After the Bastille Incident, as he’d taken to calling it, Crowley somehow found a way to become an even more active presence in Aziraphale’s life. Where once Aziraphale would’ve been lucky to run into Crowley once a century, now he could count on seeing him nearly once a week. Crowley had taken to popping in with such regularity that it had almost posed a problem when Gabriel had shown up unexpected mere minutes before Crowley was supposed to arrive for their dinner plans. In fact, despite only narrowly avoiding reassignment, the nineteenth century was shaping up to be the calmest, and happiest, century of his entire existence.
At least it was up until Crowley asked to meet in St. James Park.
Fraternizing. That’s what he had called it. And Aziraphale had known his choice of words had been a mistake as soon as he had said it. Crowley’s entire being had closed off immediately and Aziraphale had wanted nothing more than to take it all back. To tell Crowley just how much he meant to him. How he couldn’t risk giving Crowley what he wanted, not because it could get him in trouble, but because there was no way Aziraphale would be able to stand an eternity without Crowley there by his side.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Aziraphale spent the next century alone, trying his best to ignore just how cold he felt.
~~~
Crowley’s fingers brushed against his as he handed over the miraculously undamaged bag of books, and Aziraphale almost cried as he once more felt a warm pulse of love wash over him. Except, something about it was different, unfamiliar in a way Crowley’s hadn’t been since the ark. That love had come from someone, but it wasn’t Crowley.
Aziraphale quickly scanned the area. As expected, there was no one else nearby. It was just Crowley and—
Himself.
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in shock and he struggled to maintain his grip on the bag of books as his entire world tilted on it axis. There was only one being that love could be coming from.
He loved Crowley.
He was fully aware of the fact that he cared for Crowley more than he probably should. But love? The very thought should’ve been ridiculous. However, when you looked at things through that lens, a lot of what Aziraphale had been feeling over the centuries suddenly made a lot more sense.
He was in love with Crowley.
Sweet, beautiful, Crowley who liked to bask in the sun like the snake he sometimes was and who thought gluing coins to the ground was the height of demonic evil. His closest—and really only—friend. The only constant in his near six thousand years here on earth.
Crowley, who had hopped his way across bloody consecrated ground, risking life and limb, just to save him from yet another one of his poorly thought out plans. Who’d had the foresight to save the books when Aziraphale himself had forgotten.
Crowley, who was in love with someone else.
The warm, fuzzy feeling that had been growing in Aziraphale’s chest suddenly froze solid.
Crowley may have proven he was capable of love, but he certainly didn’t love him. No, that was entirely impossible.
“Are you coming, angel?” Aziraphale was snapped out of that depressing train of thought by the sound of Crowley’s voice calling out across the ruins of the church.
Tightening his grip on his bag, Aziraphale firmly shoved this rather earth-shattering revelation aside for later inspection and followed Crowley away from the ruins of the church.
~~~
Aziraphale spent the next twenty years doing his best to subtly avoid Crowley. If he was going to move past these newfound feelings, then he was going to need some space. Being so close to the one thing he wanted more than anything, but could never ever have, would be nothing short of torture. A sweet torture, but torture nonetheless.
The task turned out to be easier than he’d anticipated. After the night in the church, Crowley had made a few attempts to meet up with him; offers that Aziraphale turned down with increasingly pathetic excuses. He needed to update his catalogue of the books in his shop after a series of acquisitions. The shelves were in dire need of some reorganization. And, when Aziraphale had been truly caught off guard, his hair was in desperate need of washing and no, he couldn’t just miracle it clean, it wasn’t the same.
He didn’t receive any more calls from Crowley after that.
Aziraphale told himself that it was for the best. He repeated it to himself late at night when he was alone in the dark back room of his shop, sad and lonelier than he’d been at the end of the nineteenth century. He repeated it like a mantra, a prayer, to stop himself from seeking out Crowley to beg for his forgiveness.
And it worked.
Until he heard a mysterious man in sunglasses was planning on robbing a church.
And so, Aziraphale found himself once again in the passenger seat of Crowley’s car, giving Crowley the very thing he had so vehemently denied him so many years ago.
Crowley eyed the tartan thermos with a quiet sense of awe and fear usually reserved for weapons of the atomic level. Fitting really, given what the contents of the thermos were capable of. “Should I say thank you?” He asked, looking up.
“Better not.” Aziraphale looked down at his folded hands. Even though Crowley had promised him that he wasn’t going to use the holy water on himself, all it would take was one mistake, one tiny slip of his hand, and he would be gone forever. Reduced to smoke and ash, never to brighten Aziraphale’s doorstep ever again.
“Can I drop you anywhere?”
“No, no thank you.” He snuck a glance over at Crowley; took in the desperation painted over his face. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale continued, looking back down at his hands. It hurt to look at that expression for too long. “Perhaps one day we could…I don’t know… Have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz.”
One day, far from now, once he’d finally worked past what he was feeling. When the thought of Crowley’s smile no longer caused his chest to ache with the desire to be the reason behind it.
However, it seemed this time Crowley wouldn’t be so easily deterred. “I’ll give you a lift,” he pleaded. “Anywhere you want to go.”
The offer hung in the air between them, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to take it. It had only been roughly twenty years since Aziraphale had last seen him, but he’d missed him. So very much.
And that was why he had to refuse.
“You go too fast for me.”
As far as excuses went, this one probably ranked among the most pathetic. It lacked any real conviction as Aziraphale tried to hold his warring emotions in check, and, while it was true that Crowley drove like an absolute mad man, it was hardly a good reason to refuse his company.
It seemed to do the trick, however. Crowley’s face immediately crumpled, his expression morphing to one of pure agony.
He needed to leave.
Aziraphale fumbled with the door handle for a moment, struggling to see clearly through misty eyes. He kept his gaze firmly trained on the handle as he finally wrenched it open. The moment he looked back at Crowley would be the moment he gave in. The moment he blurted out everything he had been feeling and ruined their friendship beyond repair.
Crowley sped off down the street the moment the car door slammed shut, leaving Aziraphale alone on the pavement to pick up the shattered remnants of his heart.
~~~
Aziraphale managed to keep his interactions with Crowley to a minimum in the following decades, only the occasional phone call to keep their arrangement alive. Strictly business, nothing more. And everything was fine.
Not good, per se, but he was getting by.
Whichever human had come up with the idiom “out of sight, out of mind” had clearly been a liar.
There had yet to be a day where Aziraphale hadn’t seen something that reminded him of Crowley: a lovely bottle of Château Margaux Bordeaux that Crowley had given him to celebrate opening the bookshop, a signed first edition of The Scarlet Letter that Crowley had picked up for him while on assignment in North America, and other various trinkets that had been presented to him throughout their time on Earth.
But he’d held fast. Resisted the urge to invite Crowley out to lunch like in the old days before the holy water, before Aziraphale had ruined everything by falling in love with his only friend. He was nothing if not stubborn.
So stubborn that he most definitely would have gone on holding Crowley at an arm’s length for the rest of eternity were it not for that fateful phone call.
“Aziraphale? It’s me. We have to talk.”
The apocalypse.
Sure, he’d had an inkling of what was on the horizon after a particularly unsettling visit from Gabriel, but now he had confirmation. In eleven short years it would be all over. He suddenly regretted all the effort he’d made to keep his distance from Crowley. So much time lost. Time they’d never get back if they couldn’t stop it.
But, as usual, Crowley had a plan.
Although he failed to see how said plan involved deadheading rose bushes…
When he had volunteered to act as the Dowling’s gardener, he’d been completely unaware of how much work it would involve. He was in the middle of tackling a particularly unruly bush when the sound of laughter reached his ears. Aziraphale snuck a peek over the top of the bush.
Crowley, or rather, Nanny Ashtoreth as the staff knew her, was slowly making her way across the lawn while Warlock ran circles around her. Her outward expression was one of mild indifference, but Aziraphale knew better. Although she would be quick to deny it, Crowley had come to care for the boy dearly. Even with Aziraphale’s attempts to block out the love radiating from Crowley for his own sanity, he could still sense the maternal love that radiated from her when she was around Warlock.
Warlock caught sight of Aziraphale and he said something to Crowley that Aziraphale couldn’t catch from this distance. Grabbing a hold of Crowley’s hand, Warlock pulled her along after him as he made his way over to the bushes.
“Good morning, Warlock!” Aziraphale beamed. “And a good morning to you as well, Lady Ashtoreth.” Crowley acknowledged his greeting with a slight nod of her head before she went to sit down on a nearby bench and Aziraphale returned to pruning.
After a few minutes of silently watching him work, Warlock spoke up. “Brother Francis?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why’re you cutting off all the flowers?”
Aziraphale crouched down, putting himself at eye level with the boy. “Well young Warlock, you see these dead flowers here?” He pointed to the shriveled remains of a dark red rose. Warlock nodded. “Even though they’re dead, the plant still tries to send nutrients to them. It’s my job to cut the dead ones off so the bush can send those nutrients to the living flowers that can actually use it.”
Warlock wrinkled his nose. “That’s stupid. Why can’t it jus’ get rid of the flowers by itself?”
“Because sometimes it’s hard to see that something is harming us.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley’s head snap up to watch them intently. “People do this too,” Aziraphale continued, keeping track of Crowley’s reaction. “With all sorts of things and sometimes even with other people. But unlike plants, you have the ability to take a step back, evaluate the situation, and decide if that thing or relationship is worth the effort you’re putting into it.”
“Uh-huh.” Warlock nodded solemnly in that way children do when an adult says something far beyond their comprehension.
Perhaps that was a bit more cerebral of a concept than he was ready for...
“Brother Francis?”
“Yes, Warlock?”
“Can I have a flower?”
“Why of course you can!” Aziraphale smiled and cut off a nearby rose that was miraculously free of thorns. He snuck a quick glance at Crowley. She had the softest smile on her face .
“Say, would you like to know what the best thing you can do with a flower is?” Aziraphale asked, turning his attention back to Warlock. Warlock’s eyes widened and he nodded vigorously. “You can give it to someone you love to show them how much you appreciate them.” Aziraphale deposited the rose into the boy’s hands with a smile.
“Does that mean you give Nanny flowers?”
The smile immediately slid from Aziraphale’s face. “What—Why would I—“
“Because you love her.” Off to their left, Crowley sucked in a sharp breath and Aziraphale blanched. How? There was no way he could’ve picked up on it; they barely spoke when the rest of the household was awake.
…Unless this was his powers starting to manifest. Sowing the seeds of discord by peering into people’s souls and dragging out their darkest, most shameful secrets.
Aziraphale’s head whipped to the side towards the bench where Crowley was sitting. She was staring at him, sunglasses halfway down her nose, revealing wide yellow eyes. Not good. He needed to do some sort of damage control and fast.
“I never said I—“
“But Brother Francis,” Warlock interrupted, something Crowley had begun teaching him recently. “You told me that you love everything. Nanny’s a part of everything isn’t she?”
He didn’t know.
“Why you’re absolutely right!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “Let’s see what we can find.” He stood and surveyed the bush until his eyes landed on a prefect, fully bloomed rose towards the top. He cut the flower free and presented it to Crowley with an exaggerated flourish. “A lovely flower, for the lovely lady,” he said, laying on the accent much thicker than normal.
Crowley rolled her eyes, but plucked the flower from his hand and carefully threaded the stem through the buttonhole on the lapel of her jacket. When she looked back up at him, her grin turned into something far softer.
It suddenly occurred to him that the rose’s hue matched Crowley’s lipstick perfectly.
“Nanny, now we match!” Aziraphale had nearly forgotten about Warlock’s presence, but Crowley seemed unfazed.
“Yes we do dear.” Crowley smiled fondly at Warlock for a moment before she seemed to remember herself and schooled her features once more. “Now run along back to the house, Warlock,” Crowley said firmly. “Its time for lunch.”
Warlock brightened at the mention of food, revealing a gap-toothed grin that was far too adorable to belong to the supposed destroyer of worlds. He took off running across the immaculate lawn with the enthusiasm that only a six-year-old could possess.
Crowley chuckled, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt before she stood. However, instead of following after Warlock, she instead leaned towards him.
“Teaching the boy to cut people out of his life who’re dead weight, angel?” Crowley whispered in his ear, all traces of Nanny Ashtoreth’s low Scottish brogue gone. “Seems more like the sort of lesson he should be getting from me.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Nonsense,” he replied, dropping his own accent now that no one was around. “Haven’t you heard the prayer of serenity? There is virtue in recognizing that there are some things, or people, that you cannot change and taking steps towards removing them from your life.” A virtue that Aziraphale himself was apparently not in possession of, given his multiple failed attempts at distancing himself from Crowley for the sake of their relationship. He turned his head to look at Crowley, ignoring the way his heart fluttered when he found her face to be only inches away from his.
Except, she was frowning now. The mirth in her expression had disappeared without a trace and her golden eyes were boring holes into Aziraphale’s from behind the dark lenses of her glasses.
“Are you all right my dear?”
Crowley straightened, pulling away to a more respectable distance. “Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were looking a bit grim there for a second.” And then it hit him. “Oh Heavens, no! That was in no way a reference to our current situation!” A small portion of the tension left Crowley’s shoulders.
Aziraphale reached out and grabbed hold of Crowley’s gloved hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. Your plan will work, I’m sure of it.” He placed his other hand on top of hers with a gentle pat. “You’re doing a wonderful job of raising him. Warlock is growing up to be a perfectly normal boy.”
“Right, um, thank you?” Crowley still looked a bit lost so Aziraphale squeezed her hand and shot her his most reassuring smile. However, instead of having the calming effect he’d been going for, Crowley stiffened as her face flushed a lovely shade of pink that put the nearby roses to shame.
Aziraphale resisted the urge to wince. Right, demon. He’d just had to go and get all emotional on her and now she was uncomfortable.
“Nanny!” Crowley flinched violently at the sound of Warlock’s voice and yanked her hand out of his before Aziraphale could blink. Warlock poked his head around a nearby bush. “Nanny, I’m hungry,” he whined.
“I—“ Crowley coughed once then squared her shoulders as she took back up the mantle of Nanny Ashtoreth. “I’ll be right there,” she replied, her accent Scottish once more. She shooed Warlock off and began to follow him.
“Wait!” Aziraphale called out, completely forgetting about his own persona. Crowley stopped and turned back to shoot him a quizzical look. “Should I expect you after Warlock goes to bed?” As the only two beings on the estate who didn’t need to sleep, they had taken to spending their evenings together in the small shack “Brother Francis” had been granted as the onsite gardener.
Crowley’s severe expression immediately softened. “Absolutely, I’ll see you tonight.” Crowley turned towards the house and looked back over her shoulder with a smirk. “Oh, and angel? General rule of thumb for removing the flowers is to cut down to the first five-leaf junction. Wouldn’t want to kill the things.”
~~~
“You can’t leave, Crowley. There isn’t anywhere to go.”
They’d failed. Spent the last eleven years doing everything they could to raise Warlock to be normal, only to find out they’d had the wrong boy. And so, they found themselves, at the bandstand in St. James Park, out of options and out of time.
Crowley stopped. “Big universe,” he replied softly, turning around to face Aziraphale once more. “Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together.” He gestured up towards the sky.
“Go off together?” Aziraphale couldn’t have kept the wonder out of his voice if he’d tried.
The world was ending and Crowley had picked him.
Not Hastur or Ligur. Him.
Aziraphale shook his head. As wonderful as the idea of running away with Crowley sounded, it was madness. Crowley would come to his senses eventually, and he’d resent choosing Aziraphale. That is to say, he would if Heaven and Hell didn’t track them down and execute them for defecting first. “Listen to yourself.”
“How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?”
“Friends? We aren’t friends.” They weren’t. He would have sensed if Crowley cared for anyone like that. “We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common.” At least not the one thing he so desperately wanted them to have. “I don’t even like you,” he finally whimpered.
Crowley looked unfazed. “You do!” he scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you. We are on opposite sides.”
“We’re on our side.”
Aziraphale’s heart stuttered in his chest. His entire being cried out for him to give in, to just say yes, to finally confess everything he had been holding in, consequences be damned. But it was far too late for that.
Armageddon was breathing down their necks.
The War was coming.
It was too late for him; Heaven would have to kill him before he’d take up arms against Crowley. But it wasn’t too late for Crowley. He could still go back. Go back to Hell and back to Hastur and Ligur.
As for Aziraphale, well, he’d figure something out. Either stop the apocalypse or die trying. Whatever it took to save Crowley. But for some reason, Crowley was refusing to abandon him, which was making things rather difficult.
All he needed was one firm shove. The final nail in the coffin of their friendship. Crowley would probably hate him for it, but at least he’d be alive to hate him.
“There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “It’s over,” he said firmly.
All of the desperate energy immediately left Crowley’s body and he dropped his arms. “Right. Well, then.” In the blink of an eye, Crowley’s expression closed off and he sniffed. “Have a nice doomsday.”
Crowley stalked away from the bandstand, and, yet again, Aziraphale was left standing alone, drowning in the feeling that he’d made the wrong decision.
~~~
Earth’s final hour came hurtling towards them in a whirlwind of events.
Aziraphale lost his corporeal form at the most inopportune time possible, found Crowley drunk in a bar in downtown London, and ended up at an abandoned airbase in Tadfield while sharing a body with a human woman named Tracy, all over the course of a single afternoon. Thankfully his old, familiar body was restored shortly after that. Tracy was a perfectly lovely lady, but it had been a bit cramped.
The hour of reckoning was upon them.
And then it wasn’t.
The Antichrist, a boy named Adam, renounced Satan as his father and Earth survived for the sun to set upon it once more.
It was shortly afterwards that Aziraphale found himself sitting on a bench and completely at a loss as to what he should do next. Throughout his six-thousand years on Earth, he had always had some sort of purpose: rare books that needed sorting, new restaurants that needed trying, orders from Heaven that needed carrying out. However his bookshop had burnt down, most restaurants had closed for the evening, and Aziraphale no longer had orders to follow.
For the first time in his entire existence, he was free.
Not that he would get to enjoy it for long.
The bus ride to Crowley’s flat was a rather silent affair. Aziraphale technically didn’t need to sleep but, after everything that had happened today, he found that he was rather tired. The low roar of the bus engine, combined with the warmth of Crowley’s thigh pressed against his own, created a feeling of comfort and safety that could’ve easily lulled him to sleep had he been so inclined.
But now certainly wasn’t the time, nor was this the place for such things. Sure, they had managed to stave off the apocalypse, but Aziraphale had never been less safe in his entire existence. He had stood by Crowley’s side in front of the archangel Gabriel himself, in clear defiance of Heaven. And that would have consequences.
Though not tonight.
It would surely take Heaven some time to gather their wits and settle on a course of action. So for right now, they had time.
Aziraphale took a moment to look over at Crowley, who had propped one elbow up on the edge of the window and was staring blankly out the window. Crowley’s left hand was resting on his thigh, long fingers digging slightly into the rough material of his jeans. Occasionally, his fingers would twitch slightly, but beyond that he was supernaturally still. The heartache Aziraphale had sensed earlier in the bar was still present, though muted. He was probably too focused on their impending doom to dwell on it much now. He’d spent enough time around Crowley to know that the silence and glazed over eyes meant he was spiraling.
Aziraphale’s gaze drifted once more to Crowley’s free hand. It would be so easy now to reach out and grab it. To clutch onto Crowley like the lifeline he had come to be.
And just what was stopping him?
Aziraphale blinked. In the past, he’d used almost every excuse he could think of to avoid touching Crowley, despite how desperately he wanted to. The most prominent being that Crowley surely considered him a business partner at best and would not appreciate such gestures of familiarity.
However, they were on their own side now, as Crowley had practically proclaimed to the Heavens on that bandstand in St. James Park. As he’d gently reminded him on a bench in Tadfield.
Crowley had chosen him, despite Aziraphale’s attempts to push him away.
And that had to mean something, didn’t it?
Aziraphale slowly reached out and brushed his fingers against the back of Crowley’s hand.
As soon as their hands made contact, Crowley flinched violently, pulling his hand back as his head whipped around to meet Aziraphale’s calm gaze. Even though his sunglasses were once again firmly on his face, Aziraphale knew Crowley was watching him with wide eyes that had a tendency of forgetting that they had eyelids.
Aziraphale reached out and slowly, deliberately, moved towards Crowley’s hand once more. Crowley made no motion to pull his hand away. That probably as much of a go-ahead as he was going to get, knowing Crowley.
Their fingers brushed once more. A minute shudder ran up Crowley’s spine, and, before Aziraphale could blink, Crowley’s hand flipped over, latching onto his with a strength that would’ve crushed a normal man’s hand. With a soft smile, Aziraphale slowly ran his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles, doing his best to reassure him without words that he was there. That they’d figure this out.
That he wasn’t going to leave him again.
Crowley maintained his death-grip on Aziraphale’s hand for the rest of the ride to Mayfield. The old bus pulled to a stop in front of Crowley’s building with a grating screech of the brakes, but Crowley made no motion to stand. In fact, he was just as still as he had been before.
“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, speaking for the first time since they’d boarded the bus. He gently squeezed Crowley’s hand. “We’re here.”
~~~
As soon as the door closed behind them, Crowley let out a breath and the tension bled from his shoulders. He then seemed to notice that they were still holding hands.
“Right, well then,” Crowley said, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. “Welcome to my flat. You’ve been here before, right? Must’ve stopped by at some point…”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No I don’t believe I have.” Not for a lack of trying. Aziraphale had made several attempts over the years, even being so bold one night as to suggest they spend a night drinking at Crowley’s place instead. However, Crowley had shrugged it off, insisting that the back room of shop was far more comfortable.
“Huh.” Crowley stared at him for a moment. “Well then, you’re welcome to take a look around while I see if I can scrounge up something to drink. I dunno about you, but I could use a lot of alcohol right about now.”
Aziraphale nodded. He watched Crowley disappear into the kitchen before he finally took in his surroundings.
There really wasn’t much to look at.
The main room was mostly made up of a large, dark sofa that looked far less plush than the bookshop’s sofa had been. Maybe Crowley hadn’t been lying when he said the bookshop was more comfortable after all. The only other items of note in the room were a modern looking television and stereo system and an… interesting statue of two winged beings in a rather intimate pose. Aziraphale coughed lightly and made his way to the closest open door. Best not to ponder too much on that one.
Crowley’s study was an even more austere affair. In the center of the room was a large desk covered in loose papers and what could only be described as a throne. Aziraphale took a step into the room, only to stop dead when his foot landed in a puddle of something. He looked down and yelped, yanking his foot up out of a large puddle of goo that was faintly smoking.
Immediately Crowley came rushing from the kitchen, brandishing what appeared to be a very large kitchen knife. “What, what is it, angel?”
“What in Heaven’s name is this?!” Aziraphale gestured to the goo that was dripping off of his still raised foot.
“Oh,” A complicated emotion flitted across Crowley’s face as he slowly lowered the knife. “That is, er was, Ligur.”
I lost my best friend today. That’s what Crowley had told him, earlier at the bar, heavily intoxicated, with anguish and heartbreak rolling off him in waves that would have overwhelmed Aziraphale had he physically been there.
Aziraphale’s expression softened. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.” He gently placed his hand on Crowley’s arm. “I know how much he meant to you.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley stared at him blankly. “What on Earth are you taking about?”
He pulled his hand back, eyebrows furrowing. It wasn’t Ligur? He had been so sure. The feelings Aziraphale had picked up on in the bar had clearly indicated that the person Crowley loved had died. “Oh, so is it Hastur then? Either way I know it must be difficult for you.”
If anything, Crowley looked even more confused. “Angel, you’ve completely stopped making sense.”
“I’m just saying it can’t have been easy,” Aziraphale began, ducking his head down and fiddling with the signet ring he wore on his pinkie finger. This conversation was not going at all as he had expected and he was feeling a bit awkward now. “Having someone you love try to—“
“Someone I what?” Both of Crowley’s eyebrows, which had until this point been furrowed to the point that they were hidden behind his sunglasses, shot up towards his hairline.
“Oh… Oh dear. You didn’t know.”
Out of all the possible outcomes, Crowley being unaware of his feelings was certainly unexpected. Not that Aziraphale himself had any room to judge. After all, it had taken him how many millennia to piece together his own feelings?
Crowley was still looking at him as if he’d grown a second head so he pressed on. “Granted I was quite surprised myself at first but it’s not as impossible as you might think. And really there’s no shame in—”
“Angel, you’re rambling. Just spit it out already, what are you talking about?”
“Why Crowley, you’re in love.”
“With Ligur?” Crowley sputtered, his tone colored with pure indignation. “I can’t believe you would ever think— Ligur?”
“Really, my dear, there’s no use denying it. I’m an angel. I can sense these things.”
“But Ligur? Really?” Crowley froze and then very slowly raised a finger. “Wait a minute.” His eyes widened dramatically. “You can... how long?”
“What do you mean ‘how long’?”
“How long have you been sensing this?”
“I believe it was sometime around the ark?” He cocked his head to the side. “Honestly it’s been so long that it’s hard to pin down an exact date.”
Crowley jerked back and his eyebrows shot up once more. “The ark?!”
“Yes.” Aziraphale’s expression softened. “Oh Crowley, it was such a tiny little thing back then, you should have seen it.”
“Stop talking about it like… that.” Crowley looked truly uncomfortable now. His face was almost as red as his hair and his shoulders were slowly migrating upwards towards his ears. “You’ve known since the ark and, what, it just never occurred to you to say anything until right now?”
Aziraphale was beginning to feel a bit foolish now. Clearly his assumptions had been wrong. “Well you are a rather private person,” he replied defensively. “I just assumed that if you’d felt comfortable sharing, you would have.”
“So what your angel sense told you I was in love with Ligur and you thought ‘sure that checks out’?”
“Well, not exactly, no… It doesn’t quite work that way. My ‘angel sense’ doesn’t tell me who it’s directed at, just that it exists.”
“Oh for—,” Crowley leaned back against the wall and slowly sank down to the floor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I am not!”
“Aziraphale, what in the world would make you think it was either Hastur or Ligur?”
“They’re the only other beings you’ve ever talked about! Who else could it be?”
Crowley sighed and buried his face in his hand. “Angel. Hastur and Ligur were co-workers of mine, if you want to call them that. We couldn’t fucking stand each other.”
“Well how was I supposed to know that?!”
“Context clues, angel!” Crowley threw his hand out away from his face. “When have I ever said anything positive about either of them?”
“Oh.” Looking back on that conversation, the look of discomfort on Crowley’s face could have been directed at the people he had been talking about and not at him. “So if it’s not Hastur or Ligur, then who is it? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”
“Aziraphale.”
“It must be some other demon then.” He was probably pushing too hard, crossing an unspoken boundary set in place for millennia now, but he needed to know. He needed to know just who it was that had succeeded where Aziraphale had failed. “After all, they can’t possibly be human, it’s been far too long.”
“They’re not a demon.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who had pulled his knees up to his chest and was pointedly not meeting his gaze. “So an angel then?” Crowley nodded, the movement barely noticeable. “Oh.”
An angel. Somehow, the thought of Crowley being in love with another angel was even more painful than the thought of him loving a demon.
“This angel. Are they someone you knew… before?”
Crowley shrugged, still keeping his gaze firmly on his knees. “I dunno. I guess it’s possible, but I don’t remember much of that time.”
“So a more recent acquaintance then?” Another nod. “Is,” Aziraphale stopped to clear his throat. “Is it someone I would know?”
That got Crowley to look at him. Finally some progress, even if it was at the expense of Aziraphale’s own heart. In truth, Aziraphale wasn’t sure which idea was worse. The thought of Crowley spending his evenings with some stranger or—
Crowley chuckled, the sound bitter and humorless. “I’d say you know them pretty damn well.”
Turned out, this was much worse.
“I wasn’t aware you had other contacts in Heaven.” There was a waver to his voice and Aziraphale flinched when he heard it. Now was not the time to let his own personal feelings win.
“I don’t.”
“Right, yes, I forgot for a moment about the whole ‘Heaven and Hell want us dead’ business.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned. His hands slid up and anchored themselves in his flaming hair, tugging on the strands in a manner that looked to be anything but gentle. “You’ve got to be doing this on purpose. Nobody is actually this dense.”
Aziraphale crossed his arms and huffed. “I am not dense!”
“There is literally only one angel in all of creation that wouldn’t smite me on sight.”
“Well yes, obviously,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I most definitely... wouldn’t...” Realization hit him with all the finesse of a wet bag of sand to the face and blue eyes widened dramatically as they snapped up to meet Crowley’s gaze. “You’re talking about me.”
“Yes!” Crowley exploded, jumping to his feet and throwing his arms out dramatically. “Finally! For Christ’s sake, angel.”
Crowley continued to rant, probably rapidly dissolving into incoherency, however, Aziraphale was a bit too preoccupied by this revelation for it to register as anything beyond noise. Him. Crowley was talking about him. Which meant...
“You love me?” Aziraphale asked, his voice small, unsure. Crowley couldn’t possibly be implying…
Crowley stopped, arms frozen in the air mid-gesture. “Course I do.” He replied gruffly. He lowered his arms, reaching to push up a pair of sunglasses that were no longer on his face before he settled on crossing his arms.
“But... how could you possibly love me?” The evidence lay before him, clear as day, and Crowley himself had all but confirmed it, but Aziraphale was still so confused. It just didn’t make any sense. He was nothing, just a lowly principality, and a very bad one at that. He was fussy and finicky and all sorts of other things that Gabriel was constantly reprimanding him for.
Crowley’s expression softened. “Oh angel, how could I not?”
Something nudged at the edge of Aziraphale’s awareness. Something that he’d become intimately familiar with throughout his time on Earth: the love Crowley held in his heart. It was begging for his attention now, banging against the barriers he’d put up. And so, for the first time since 1941, Aziraphale fully opened up his senses to it.
Oh.
Oh.
The noise that wrenched its way out of Aziraphale’s throat was low and desperate as the warmth of Crowley’s love washed over him. He reached out blindly, hands latching onto the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, and yanked him closer, bringing their lips together for a kiss six thousand years in the making.
Crowley’s lips were just as soft as he’d imagined.
Another pulse of love washed over him and Aziraphale’s knees nearly buckled from the force of it. All that love, for him.
Eventually they broke apart, chests heaving as they both struggled to catch the breath they technically didn’t need.
“You kissed me,” Crowley whispered. His eyes were shining and his mouth hung open in awe.
Aziraphale dropped his hold on Crowley’s jacket. “I’m sorry, was that all right? I really should have asked before I went and—“
Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s waist and when had that happened? Not that he had any complaints, mind you, but had he truly been that distracted? “Trust me angel, that was,” he stopped and cleared his throat. “That was more than all right.”
“Are you sure?” That age-old insecurity began to creep back up over him, threatening to freeze out the calming comfort of the love that surrounded him. “After all, I am… soft.”
Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed. “I really don’t see what that has to do with anything?” He ran a reassuring hand up Aziraphale’s side. “Since when have you been bothered by your physical appearance?”
“I don’t mean physically, although that is also true.”
Crowley’s hand stopped moving. “…Did Gabriel put this idea in your head?” he asked, his tone dangerously low.
“He… may have made a comment or two here and there,” Aziraphale ducked his down. “But he does have a point.”
“Think the point is that Gabriel’s a wanker.”
“Crowley!”
“What? ’S true.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should say it.”
“I absolutely should say it,” Crowley growled, “because he’s a wanker. Doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Pity really that I can’t just swap places with you. Could really give Gabriel the what-for.”
Ye must choose your faces wisely.
That’s what Agnes’s final prophecy had said.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s face with both of his hands. “You’re a genius!” He leaned in and kissed Crowley once more, a far shorter and much more chaste affair.
“Ngk?” Crowley’s face had flushed the most beautiful shade of red and Aziraphale couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him again, so he did. Because he could, because they had a future now, together.
“My dear, I know how we’re going to survive this.”