Chapter Text
I. Purple
Ablaze. In his mind, the sky is ablaze, and it’s a swirl of deep blues, and sapphires as thick as ink, and dark, rich purples.
In the works, is a project known as weaving. It will be planted as an idea, and from there, something new shall grow. The angel who guards the stars still doesn’t know what it’s for. He’s seen the beasts they call animals, and he knows their limbs are too clumsy for a task so intricate as weaving.
The angel knows how a loom should work, how it will thread each silken roll of twine, and blend it into patchworks.
He knows this, and still he knows he will never see a beauty more wonderous than the sky.
It is not a tapestry of his design, and yet he loves it as his own.
He doesn’t know quite who he is yet, or what his purpose might be, but there is purple reflected in his eyes, and when he blinks, he sees oblivion.
The second angel, a Principality, appears at first a shooting star.
The first angel, the angel who will make the stars, calls out to him and soon, his eyes will also fill with purple. His eyes are wide with something else too, but the first angel does not seem to notice.
He only seems able to watch the sky for splattered nebulae, and he almost forgets to finish what he started. The Principality reminds him, and purple sky is serrated by bursts of bright white, and scattered gold.
“Let there be light,” the angel says, and the world will never know to thank him for it.
It’s beautiful, and it is bright. It’s so bright, and the angel who churned the skies knows he’ll never see anything so dazzling as this.
He is wrong, of course, but the universe is far too young for him to know any better.
Which is why he dares to question.
He asks why all this beauty can’t be shared, and why it can’t be anything more than a marvel for the ones they’ll call humans.
The Principality is nervous. He’s heard of what might happen to those who question management, and he doesn’t want it to happen to him, his companion. This being, this angel, higher rank than him by far.
He’s beautiful, so very beautiful. Such beauty should not be wasted.
The higher angel gazes at the endless sprawl of stars and skies with such devotion, and the Principality finds himself wishing someone might look at him the same.
He tramples the thought. He knows it simply will not do, for an angel such as him to want.
When the meteors begin to rain from somewhere dark, the angel of the stars lifts his wing. Aziraphale is shielded, and he is safe.
He can only pray his new companion is forgiven for his questions.
II. Black
Crawley drapes himself in shadows before the Manicheans have time to dredge a shallow thought. He will wear his darkness long after it has fallen out of fashion.
Black is his, and it is not a colour. He can never taint something so empty as a shade.
He never lost his wings as the others did, but they were scorched, and they burn whenever they spring from between his shoulders.
Not just a demon, a fallen angel.
No soul could be as stained as his. Something holy, so debauched. He douses himself in black to hide it, but this also is penance. He does not deserve the riches of the nebulae, and he cloaks himself in darkness.
The first time he meets Aziraphale on Earth he dresses in black. Aziraphale’s wings are still unblemished white, and Crawley tries not to look at them.
He wonders what the great plan is all for, and whether he should be a part of it. Ludicrous, he knows. He’s a demon, he’s a shard of pure evil.
What could the Almighty want with him?
Still, he stirs doubt in the angel’s mind, though Aziraphale tries so hard to ignore it. Crawley knows doubt when he sees it, and it tastes like soil on his tongue. Thick, gritty.
Promising.
If he did the good thing, what then? Would that redeem him? He doesn’t think so, and when it begins to rain, he takes shelter under the wing of an angel.
As the world grows, and the humans learn, he learns to slot beside them. He changes his hair, and his clothing, finds an invention to disguise his eyes. He does not change the shade he wears, and the shadows cling to his sleeves in a haze.
He exists in the dark, and he slinks from the dank hordes of hell. Colours are not for him to wear.
He is defined by the darkness, and his clothes stay black. Just as it was before he freed light into the universe.
III. Green
This world is so green. Aziraphale hadn’t been there to see the designs, but he’d seen the planets, and the stars Crowley was building, and none of them had looked like this.
It’s Crowley now, not Crawley. Aziraphale thinks it suits him. Crawley was always too…lowly. Aziraphale has seen Crowley’s beauty, his effervescence.
He misses that, he misses his smile and his enthusiasm. There’s something haunted about Crowley these days, and it’s like he doesn’t think he deserves to be something so simple as happy.
Over the years, they find themselves meeting at St James’s Park. Not that they’re spying, or trading secrets, or anything of the sort. Not that their meetings have any need to be secretive.
Not like the others who meet there too.
But it’s as good a place as any, and Crowley likes the ducks. Well, he likes the ducks on most days. Sometimes Aziraphale calls them wonderful, and Crowley tells them they should perform some more original synchronised swim moves.
All the same, Aziraphale often comes by to find Crowley feeding the ducks and the geese, and the swans. The birds seem to like him, which is odd, for a serpent.
Maybe they understand they have nothing to fear. Maybe they know Crowley as Aziraphale does. Not a demon, but an angel. Just someone who said the right thing at the wrong time.
Good, at his core.
In the Spring, the trees flush a bright green, and the grass is so young that the light siphons through each blade like stained glass. The pavements are mottled, leaf-edged and haloed by the sun.
Everything is bright, and everything is new. This is a world of new beginnings, and in the Springtime the shadows are tinted with green.
Aziraphale envies the Earthen pallets. They’re always so thorough, so willing to change. He thinks it might be why he’s stayed in London for so long, of all places.
Four seasons, every year, and he aches to exist through them all.
Spring starts as fresh green, turns to wizened summer breezes, to autumn, to winter. Like clockwork, and even then Aziraphale can’t keep up.
Winter curls itself around the world like a sheet, weaving its silence into the air. Nobody breathes, and there is a stillness found only in the depths of solitude.
Through it all, is Crowley. His only constant.
The world around them changes by the season, and Crowley stays the same. Sardonic, jaded, kind.
Dressed in black, with those ridiculous dark glasses.
“You really oughtn’t need those,” Aziraphale tells him once, and Crowley raises his high-arched brow.
“Really, angel,” he scoffs, “amongst humans? Don’t be so naive.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “but you shouldn’t need to wear them.”
Crowley doesn’t respond to that. Emboldened. Aziraphale has always been bold. He takes a step forwards, places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, feels his body snap taut.
“You don’t need to wear them in front of me.”
Crowley watches him so closely. Aziraphale can feel his yellow eyes narrowing. He licks his lips, and he wants. He feels the urge to pull Crowley closer, and wonders what might happen if an angel touched a demon’s skin.
He tiptoes up and whispers, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
Crowley freezes, he stays frozen for a while. He exhales in a puff that crystalises, hangs in the air in front of his lips.
Aziraphale looks at his hand, gloved and pressed against Crowley’s shoulder. He feels something ache deep inside of him, and he squashes it down before it has a chance to bloom. His hand drops.
It would not do, for an angel to want.
Later, they stand by the lake, and Crowley asks for security. He asks for his destruction.
Aziraphale’s one constant, his one surety. He won’t, and he can’t, and he tells Crowley never to ask him this again.
He cannot lose him. He realises it so suddenly as he storms from the park. He will not lose him.
A crocus pushes its way from frosted soil, and Aziraphale wonders if he already has.
What would the Almighty say, if she saw him now? Do they know how angels can be selfish?
IV. Red
Red is the only colour Crowley chooses to keep. He isn’t sure why, but he keeps it.
It’s tucked in the collar of his jacket, and he keeps it in the strands of his hair.
This is the only colour he has left, and the only colour he has not lost.
Even when he changes his hairstyle, experiments with human trends, he keeps the red the same. He is fallen, but he remembers.
He holds hope there’s left a part of him that’s somehow remained good.
Red is what bleeds from the humans when they die. Crowley knows this. He’s seen his share of corpses, and he knows all about people dying. He’s been told that red signifies danger, and he supposes he can’t disagree.
The only colour he has left is for danger. He sometimes wonders if Aziraphale knows.
He seems to know when he tells him to slow down. Well, not exactly, he doesn’t want Crowley slow. He just doesn’t want him now, or too soon, or something that sounds like too fast.
Too fast? He’s been waiting a millennia. What for, he isn’t quite sure.
He just knows that Aziraphale feels like home, and his eyes are brighter than any star Crowley’s ever made.
Crowley’s always loved the stars. He’s always been in love with the stars.
Aziraphale first appeared to him a shooting star. Crowley decides not to realise what that must mean.
Red is for killing, and violence. And something else too.
The humans draw red hearts on their cards, gift their loved one’s red roses. Paint their lips with red paint set to pucker. Love then, and lust, and violence, and danger.
Crowley wears them all like a brand, and he can’t say which one might be more of a sin.
If red is for blood, then he must be a killer. Isn’t that part of being evil?
Crowley doesn’t kill. Crowley never kills. He doesn’t want to, and it’s not in his nature.
(It is.)
Crowley doesn’t kill children; he would never kill children. The very fact that Aziraphale suggests he would, should bother him more than it does. Then, he was the one who brought it up, he’d just hoped Aziraphale would know he never could’ve meant it.
He will not kill Warlock, he’s his Nanny for Satan’s sake. He’s always been more of a caregiver.
Always has been, always will be. Sometimes, Crowley cares far too much.
Aziraphale calls and he comes running. Aziraphale needs something, and Crowley comes running. Aziraphale asks him to miracle the stains away from his shirt, and Crowley’s too happy to help him.
He’s so angry at God, and at Heaven and Hell.
Categories. Nobody needs ‘em.
Everyone wants them.
If red is for anger, then Crowley wears it well.
But his sneer is as real as blood red lips, and he’d give anything just to smile. His cheeks ache, his jaw cracks, and he hasn’t properly had a laugh in well over ten years.
Aziraphale used to make him laugh. Aziraphale still can, but he holds back his laughter, because now isn’t the time. They can laugh when this is over.
Crowley knows there’s a Hellhound on its way to the wrong boy, and the sky is a deep burned amber.
Once, when Crowley had grown out his hair to play the part of Nanny Ashtoreth, Aziraphale had reached up, tucked a stray hair behind Crowley’s ear. For days after, he’d felt the ghost of deft fingers brushing the tattoo above his temples.
Aziraphale told him it rather suited him, the colour and the length.
It’s why he keeps his hair short, and why he keeps it red.
V. Orange
Aziraphale owned a flaming sword once. It’d blazed a cindered orange, and found its way to War.
Giving it away had either been his best, or worst decision.
It’d certainly helped forge his alliance with Crowley. For that, he would always be thankful.
It’s fitting then, that the world is set to burn.
It begins with Crowley’s Bentley. It rolls down the road towards the airfield base, blaring Queen from its flaming speakers. Aziraphale expects nothing less when Crowley exits his beloved vehicle, smeared in soot and Aziraphale is so relieved swears he could—
He wants to—if he wasn’t in this body, he would—
Well, never mind that.
Crowley recognises him immediately; tells him he likes his new look. It won’t be permanent, but Aziraphale finds he’s flattered all the same. Even in a new body, Crowley would know him, and even in a new body Crowley would look at him the same as always.
With that expression Aziraphale couldn’t exactly place. Somewhere between idolatry and doubt.
Well, he’s a demon. Both would count for sin.
Adam gives him his body back, and he almost misses his orange hair. Almost.
Mr Shadwell looks at Miss Tracy with such adoration, that the feeling passes almost immediately. Crowley doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.
The ground begins to shake, and the world is ending. Crowley’s given up, and he looks to the Heavens though he knows they will not answer. Aziraphale can’t have that. He won’t let him give up. He can’t.
Because Aziraphale will have nowhere to go but back to Heaven after this, and he can’t leave Crowley. He could never leave Crowley.
Aziraphale needs him.
So, he threatens him. He threatens him with the worst thing he can think of, the single worst thing. For both of them.
Aziraphale sucks in a breath, though he does not truly need to breathe, and he holds up his flaming sword.
“Or I’ll never speak to you again!”
He knows he’s won. He usually does. He usually gets his own way, with Crowley.
For a demon, he doesn’t seem to do a lot of tempting. It’s more…the other way round.
In the end, it isn’t down to them to save humanity. It’s down to Adam, and he’s so breathtakingly human, and it’s all so breathtakingly right.
Not good, not evil, just human. Just as they’d hoped.
And Satan is sucked back into the Earth, while Adam Young revokes his Hellish significance.
Still, Aziraphale thinks, it was a good outcome. Evil didn’t triumph, so that must be good, yes? He doesn’t voice such thoughts to Crowley, but he knows them to be true.
Their side, Aziraphale agrees as he dons the body of a demon and climbs into a tub of holy water. Their side, Aziraphale repeats to himself over and over, but he still can’t quite let go his halo.
He asks for a rubber duck, because that’s the kind of thing Crowley would do. He trusts Crowley knows him well enough to play him by now, and though he knows for certain that it will not, Aziraphale prays that Hell fire will not swallow him whole.
He watches Crowley laugh, really laugh, for the first time in what feels like eons. His head is leaned back so far it must hurt him just a little, and Aziraphale can’t stop staring at the curve of his neck, and the way his grin could light a second universe.
They dine at the Ritz, and a Nightingale sings. The sky is a warm orange as the sun sets, and Aziraphale slips his fingers between Crowley’s.
They do not let each other go until Crowley has no choice but to close the door to his car.
VI. Blue
The sky remains blue as Crowley watches Aziraphale leave, and he wonders who thought that was fair.
It should be raining, there should be storms. It’s how he feels, it’s only natural, only right.
He waits until Aziraphale pauses outside the lift, hopes, beyond all hope that he’ll turn around, come running back. Aziraphale just looks at him, nods, and steps forwards. Crowley can no longer see him.
Crowley isn’t sure he wants to.
That’s a lie. he aches to see him again, he aches to hold him, to hold his hand, just feel him standing beside him.
The Bentley plays the Nightingale song and Crowley fights the urge to swear.
He can’t even feel rejected. He wasn’t, was he? Aziraphale wanted him, he wanted him. Crowley, out of everyone.
Of course, he did.
He just wanted Crowley to be someone new. Something he never was.
Aziraphale means so much to Crowley because he follows the rules so precisely and fuck, that’s fucking irritating as fucking fuck, but it’s also, it’s fucking clever. He follows the rules so exactly that he works against them, and if that doesn’t make Crowley want to crowd him against the hood of his car, snog him senseless.
Only, he doesn’t want to kiss him again like that. He’d thought about it for so long. He’d agonised over it, dreamed about it, fantasised. He’d stared at Aziraphale’s lips whenever he got the chance, and imagined what they’d taste like.
He’d imagined sitting beside Aziraphale by the ocean. They’ve both always liked the ocean, though Crowley’s never really been sure what the point of it is. They’d talk about that for a while, and Crowley would ask why the Earth contained a body of water so deep, and so blue that humans hadn’t even reached the bottom yet. Wasn’t even a spectacle, Crowley would say, what’s the point in knowing there’re dolphins if you can’t even see them?
Ineffable, Aziraphale would say, and Crowley would hate him for it.
Only for a moment though, because then he’d grin, lean in, ask him what he meant by ‘ineffable’ and halfway through the explanation, he’d cut him off, ask him if they should provide the humans with a real spectacle.
He would kiss Aziraphale before he could even begin to be confused, and the sound of lulling waves would ebb away to nothing.
Their first kiss could’ve been soft, pressing. Aziraphale could’ve smelled of honey, cinnamon and smoke from old log fires. His hair could’ve been soft, and curled, and Crowley’s fingers could’ve caught on the ends when he tugged. He could’ve pressed hungrily with his tongue, and Aziraphale could’ve gasped, and his hands could’ve followed the shape of Crowley’s hips.
Their first kiss was bruising. Rushed. Forced, in a clash of teeth, and thick, wet tongue.
It hadn’t meant to be like this. It had never meant to be like this.
Aziraphale is everything, he means everything. Crowley doesn’t have the words, he’s never had the right words, and now, now it doesn’t matter. Aziraphale doesn’t want them, not from the mouth of a demon. Maybe if Crowley was different, maybe if he wasn’t a demon, but he is, he just is, and that’s all he’ll ever be—
Oh God. The thought sears, even thinking it, and Crowley hisses as swerves on the road.
He loves him. He loves Aziraphale, he’s in love.
He’s loved him from the start.
This feeling, this ache in the centre of his chest, it’d started in Eden, swelling at first in his stomach. And it rose and rose and rose, and now it fills his veins, makes his heart beat too quickly.
He loves him. He loves him. He loves, loves, loves.
And now. And now, even now.
And now he’ll never tell him.
I forgive you, Aziraphale had said.
If only Crowley could forgive himself.
The sky is still blue, as Crowley drives into the distance. He wishes it would rain.
VII. White
Aziraphale sees nothing but white, and he hates it.
The walls are white, the ceiling’s white, the floor is white. Even his clothing, all of it. White.
It’s like they wanted him to suffer. As if they wanted him to feel like he’s been imprisoned. He’s the supreme Archangel for—Heaven’s sake.
He should be able to, well, discard some of his more Heavenly duties from time to time. Shouldn’t he?
Oh, it’s all so horrendously…good. Everything is good.
Everything is perfect. Clean, and polished, and hideously white.
He hadn’t come here to rule or fulfil some self-righteous delusion he has for himself. Despite what Crowley might say, he isn’t completely blind.
He knows what Heaven is, and he knows what they’ve done. He also knows that he’s not here to bring about reform, but what the other angels don’t know can’t hurt them.
Well, it never has before.
He made the right choice. Of course, he did. He can fix Heaven. If anyone can restructure things a bit, it’ll be him.
The Metatron had thought so too, and he speaks directly to God.
He’ll fix things, eventually, and he’ll keep on trying. He’ll make things better, that’s all Heaven needs. Even if it takes an eternity to do so.
Even if he has to stay here forever. Even if he never sees anyone on Earth again.
Anyone.
He has to believe he’s doing the right thing. Why would the voice of God have cause to lie?
So, he sits at his desk and awaits his orders, and he gives orders too when he needs to. He waits, and he watches the bright white walls that he’s always tried so hard to escape.
The promise of a Second Coming looms over him, but that’s alright, he’s got plenty of time to figure something out. It’s better to dismantle from the inside, so he’s learned, than to hope for the best far below.
Sometimes, he thinks he hears Crowley. He’s found out that he’d come up here recently, if only to gather information on Gabriel. Why hadn’t he told him before? He might’ve helped.
Crowley could’ve told him anything. He knew that.
So why didn’t he?
Why did he have to wait so long before he told him the truth?
He should be here. He should be sitting beside Aziraphale at this desk.
He should be smiling that bright smile he’d worn, the first time they’d met. That smile could’ve lit up the Heavens.
Aziraphale misses things, up here. He misses Sushi, the people, the bookshop, the seasons and the colours that haven’t been neutered to white.
He misses him.
He misses him so dearly. His lips still ache, and he rubs them with two fingers.
It’s not the same. It isn’t the same.
He craves that same pressure, that press of Crowley’s lips. The swipe of his tongue.
They say a serpent’s tongue is slick with wiles. Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s quite correct.
He wants Crowley to kiss him senseless against a pillar, he wants Crowley to gasp, blaspheme, and kiss him all over again.
He wants so deeply, and angels should not want.
He wants to hold Crowley’s hand. He wants to dance with him again. He wants to see him smile.
Aziraphale is an angel, and angels do not lie. He’s lied to Crowley, though, has lied to him for centuries.
He doesn’t forgive him, for kissing him like that, no more that Crowley forgives him for leaving.
He’d lied because it was far easier than saying how he truly felt. Forgiveness is comfortable, and forgiveness is something Aziraphale has always excelled at.
Forgiveness is far easier than being in love.
Aziraphale stares at the white walls of Heaven, and tries not to keep on wanting.
He’s here now. This is his purpose. He’s doing good.
He made the right choice.
Crowley’s look of utter heartbreak flashes across his mind, and he reminds himself that demons aren’t supposed to have hearts.
He’s made the right choice.
They gave him a new uniform, when he came up here. Even his clothes are all white.
VIII. Yellow
The Bentley is yellow again.
It’s yellow most days. At first, Crowley thought it was him. He’s generally drunk, and he’s not known for making a whole lotta sense when he’s drunk.
Still, the Bentley is yellow, and Crowley doesn’t have any heart left in him to care.
He thinks it misses him too maybe. He’s tried asking it to change back, tried yelling it, kicking the bonnet. Nothing.
The Bentley is yellow again, and Crowley cannot change this.
It slips up when he’s driving sometimes too. Thinks he might not notice when it plays Tchaikovsky.
Crowley’s given up being annoyed by it. Nothing good will come of it. Nothing will come of it at all.
Being angry won’t bring Aziraphale back. Well, neither will missing him, Crowley supposes, and being numb is so much better.
Harder, but better.
He’s driven the Bentley out to the Lake District. Without the city’s lights, and smog, the stars are so much brighter out here.
He parks it on the shores of Lake Windemere, and he sprawls across the Bentley’s roof. Arms and legs outstretched, starfish flat.
The stars are so cold.
He was there at all their births and yet they do not thank him. They blink at him, like eyes, pinpricks in the skin of the universe.
He hates them.
They’re made of fire, but he cannot feel their warmth, and they offer him nothing but their stares. He hates them.
He holds a bottle of red wine in one hand, and he drinks without a breath.
Beneath him, the Bentley is smooth, and the metal isn’t nearly as hard or as cold as it should be. Nothing is as it should be.
The Bentley is yellow again.
IX. Beige
Since when did beige become synonymous with boredom?
Beige is, well, it’s beautiful. To Aziraphale, anyway.
Beige is parchment paper, pale tartan, reeds and fur and coiled sand. Not golden, sand isn’t golden. It’s beige, but nobody likes to admit it.
He supposes it doesn’t sell so well. Brochures with beige sands.
It wouldn’t bother him. He likes beige, he mainly wears beige. It’s a good base.
He chose it because it’s rather neutral, and it isn’t quite so stark as white.
That’s what Crowley doesn’t understand. He didn’t choose Heaven over him, not like he chooses to wear beige. Well, chose.
He doesn’t mean to end up at the park. He didn’t even tell the other angels he was going. The Metatron isn’t a fan of allowing him passage to Earth, and Aziraphale suspects that he doesn’t quite trust that Aziraphale’s completely on his side.
Which, yes. Aziraphale gives him credit for that.
He’s picked up a few sliced grapes to feed the ducks. Crowley never failed to remind him that bread can make them sick. They seem inclined to impress him, the ducks, if the complex diving patterns are anything to go by.
He coos, and claps and tells them what a good job they’re doing, and ignores the stares he’s getting from the humans.
“Angel.”
Aziraphale turns, and then he wishes he hadn’t.
Crowley is standing beside him holding a bag of frozen peas in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. His hair is a ruffled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it constantly, and his clothes are so crumpled Aziraphale wants to ask him what on Earth he’s been doing since they last spoke.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it feels so nice to touch his name with his lips again, “you should be careful, dear boy. The humans don’t take too kindly to public drinking.”
Crowley snorts, stepping up beside Aziraphale by the lake and grabbing a handful of peas from the bag. “Nah,” he said, “they’ve got better things to worry about.”
He scatters the peas into the lake, and the ducks shake their feathers in excitement.
“How,” Aziraphale starts, and licks his lips, “how are you?”
Crowley raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer. He shrugs. “How’s Heaven?”
“White,” Aziraphale says, “how about Earth?”
Crowley sniffs, digs his toe into the grass. “Colourful.”
“Ah,” Aziraphale says, “yes. I remember.”
Their silences never used to be like this. Squirming.
They used to be full, and comfortable. Now, things just feel stale.
“What are you doing here, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, “why’ve you come back?”
Aziraphale can’t answer that. He doesn’t know how. “Earth has always been my home,” he says eventually, “you know that.”
“Then why did you leave?”
Aziraphale had been expecting anger. Resentment. Not this, not this lack of emotion and this reserved timidity. Crowley is many things, but he has never been timid.
Aziraphale can’t bear it.
“I had no choice.”
Crowley laughs at that, but its sounds so hollow. “That’s what murderers say, angel. Being ‘good’ is still a choice, just like evil.”
“Then you admit it,” Aziraphale says, “Heaven is good.”
Crowley shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no. You’re the one who thinks it’s good, Supreme Archangel. I just know what you think it is you chose.”
“You chose something too! You could’ve joined me, you might have—”
“Might’ve what? Made a difference? Is that not what we were doing already,” Crowley says, “together.”
Aziraphale can’t think of what to say to that. Anything he could say might make things worse.
“Come with me,” he says, though he knows he really shouldn’t, “there’s still time. Please.”
“Are you happy?”
The question takes him aback.
“I’m—I’m sorry?
“Are you happy,” Crowley asks, and he turns to him, “angel.”
Aziraphale thinks. He nods.
He thinks about those days in the bookshop, listening to his records on the gramophone. He thinks about hot chocolate, and cake and wine. He thinks about the bland white walls of heaven, and he misses the beige of his jacket.
He thinks about Crowley, and his wonderful yellow eyes, and the softness of his lips.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and Crowley nods.
He hands Aziraphale the bag of peas and starts to unscrew the bottle of cheap wine he’s been holding.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and starts to walk away. It can’t end like this, not again.
“Crowley?” Crowley stops, but he doesn’t turn around. “Will I see you again?”
Crowley lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a large gulp. Aziraphale understands what it means quite well.
Something a bit like “don’t bother.”
X. Grey
The world ends how it was always meant to, with ash, and dust, and smoke. Until it doesn’t.
It doesn’t end the first time, and it will not end again.
They fight for the Earth, and it looks like they’ll lose, and in the end it takes a miracle. A miracle so powerful that even the second coming can’t withstand it,
A miracle they cast together, Crowley and Aziraphale.
Together.
The Metatron had known how powerful they’d be, an angel and a demon. It’d scared him enough that he’d separated them.
Nearly worked too, his little plan. Crowley had been so hurt, so bereft, that he’d almost let it break him. Break them.
Not anymore.
It’s their miracle that saves the world. Theirs.
Crowley will be damned if he’s going to let Heaven’s manipulation ruin the one constant he’s had in his life. Technically he’s already damned, but that's never truly mattered. None of that has to matter anymore.
They’re in the bookshop, after everybody else has already left, and Crowley really isn’t sure what happens next. He’s still hurt, and he’s not sure this fixes everything, but he can’t lose Aziraphale. Not again.
He thinks maybe he just needs time.
“Well,” says Aziraphale, and it looks as though he’s not quite sure what to say either, “I suppose it must be done.”
“Hmm? S’pose it is, yeah.” He clears his throat. “So, angel.”
Aziraphale stares at him, and he looks, well, he looks hopeful. Hopeful for what?
“What, uh, what’ll you do? Now that, now that this whole business’s been dealt with.” He coughs again, and tries not to look as nervous as he feels. “Back to heaven?”
“Good God, no,” Aziraphale blasphemes, “no, I’d say Muriel has that covered. No. But I think, well, I had hoped…”
He trails off.
“Yeah?”
“I’d hoped that I might come back here, to the Bookshop again,” Aziraphale licks his lips, and takes a step forwards, “with…you, dearest.”
It’s everything. It’s everything Crowley’s been wanting to hear, and you know what? It isn’t too late. He’d told himself it would be, but it’s not. It couldn’t be.
Not ever.
Crowley closes the space between them, and he crushes his lips into Aziraphale's.
He’s worried, for a moment, that he’s made the wrong choice, because Aziraphale's body tenses. He goes to tear himself away, but Aziraphale gasps, and tugs him closer, and it’s everything all over again.
It shouldn’t be, but it is.
Aziraphale kisses like he’s starving.
Crowley doesn’t have to do anything, it’s all Aziraphale, and he devours Crowley’s lips with a hunger he hasn’t been able to satiate since Job.
Aziraphale arches his back, pushing into Crowley and sending him stumbling into a table. It topples onto the ground, and something shatters.
Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, and his tongue sweeps between Crowley’s lips.
“Angel,” Crowley keens, and it’s like it’s a prayer, or a mantra, and Crowley can’t help but groan it again as Aziraphale bunches his fingers into Crowley’s hair. “Angel.”
Aziraphale hums, and his teeth graze Crowley’s lower lip.
He smells like candles, and fresh parchment, and there’s chocolate on his tongue.
Crowley feels like he’s flying. He sees stars behind his eyes, and they shoot through his blood and into his legs and his knees almost buckle as his head spins.
He’s dizzy with something hot, and he could keep on kissing Aziraphale forever.
Forever and ever, and his hands glide over Aziraphale’s shoulders, tugging him closer still so that there’s not an ounce of space left between them. They slot together easily, chest to chest, though the angle's slightly awkward, and they are not patient.
Crowley’s done being patient, he’s been patient for so long, and his kisses are demanding, forceful.
He’s drunk, he must be drunk, because Aziraphale feels like wine.
He pulls back a moment, just to drink him in. Aziraphale’s lips are swollen, pink, and his bright eyes are so very dark.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale rasps, and to Crowley, it sounds a tad like worship.
Crowley groans, splays his fingers over Aziraphale’s chest. “What are we doing, angel?”
Aziraphale’s breath hitches. “I believe, my dear boy,” he manages, “I believe it’s known as kissing.”
Crowley kisses him once again, but it’s chaste, and it’s painfully searing. He blurts, “I don’t think we should.”
Aziraphale blinks, shoves Crowley away, drops his hands, and he looks so utterly devestated.
“No, no, that’s not—” Crowley sighs, and he shouldn’t, really shouldn’t ask; this has never gone well for him in the past. Why should it now? “Maybe we should get away for a while, for good this time. Just the two of us, I mean. We don’t have to go far, we can just, I don’t know, live somewhere quanit, like the humans do. You like quaint, always have done, and I—”
“Ok,” Aziraphale interrupts, breathless.
“Ok? As in…”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “I know…there’s a cottage. In the South Downs, I’ve always fancied. I thought, perhaps one day you and I—”
“The South Downs,” Crowley says, “yeah. I’ll, I can drive us. What about your bookshop?”
“It’ll still be here,” Aziraphale says, determined, “we can work it all out later. You’ve asked me before to run away with you, I refused you. I’ll not make that mistake again, not for anything.”
Crowley nods. “I’ll need some time,” he says, “you understand. This doesn’t—this can’t just fix everything.”
“I know,” Aziraphale says, “I know. And I know—I know I’ve hurt you, deeply.”
He steps forwards, takes a step back.
“I’ll wait for you,” he continues, “we’ve waited this long.What’s a few more years?”
"Years?" Crowley snorts. "I won’t need years angel.”
“Well, you’ll have them,” Aziraphale says, “if you need them. You’ll have all my years, the rest of them.”
Crowley rubs at his lips, feels the ghost of Aziraphale’s pressed against his own. “I need time,” he says again, because a kiss can’t just fix everything. He’s in love, but he isn’t blind.
Still, he has eternity to look forward to, and an eternity spent with Aziraphale doesn't seem so bad.
“I know,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley nods.
“I’ll uh, I should go,” Crowley says, because there's not a lot else for them to say, “I’ll just—I’ve got plants and, hmm. You know.”
“Of, of course,” Aziraphale says, “I’ll just be…reading my books. I haven’t been back here for a while.”
“I’m sure,” Crowley smirks, and things feel almost normal, “no books in Heaven.”
“Ahaha,” Aziraphale barks out, “yes. None at all.”
The silence is constricting.
“Well, I’ll—”
“Crowley?”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, you go. I can wait.”
Crowley blinks. “I was just gonna say, I’ll be off then.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, “in that case.”
He walks towards him again, and reaches up towards his face. “Can I?”
Crowley nods, and he’s really not sure what to expect. Another kiss maybe? He'd happily take another kiss, he would.
“You know, I really did miss the variety of things to look at, here on Earth,” he says, “pure white can really get quite boring. I’ve missed this, the colours, and your eyes. Dear boy, I think that yellow must be my favourite.”
Crowley sniffs, shifts on his feet, pretends it doesn’t make his blood roar in his ears to hear Aziraphale likes his eyes, thinks they’re lovely. He’s been hiding them for so long. “Yeah well. The Bentley’s sometimes yellow too.”
“Good. I like it better that way.”
“Think it probably does too.” Maybe he does too, he doesn’t say. He loves Aziraphale, every part of him, but not enough to let the Bentley be yellow.
“Crowley.”
“Hmm?”
Aziraphale wets his lips, sucks in a deep breath. “I was wrong. I thought I could change things, in Heaven. I thought I could make things good. I’m—I know that I’ve hurt you, but I’m here now, if you’ll have me."
Two words, just two. They really don't do this justice. "I’m sorry.”
Crowley’s lips quirk upwards, just slightly, and he thinks everything might be alright for once. Not good, and not bad, but alright. Somewhere smack in the middle, somewhere grey.
“I forgive you,” Crowley says, and the world has never looked so colourful.