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There is a certain irony, Crowley thinks, in Heaven looking precisely like the kind of sterile, open-plan office space that had won him a commendation from Hell. Not that he’d come up with the idea, of course — he’d just sold it to Hell as his — but still.
As soon as he and his angelic escort had arrived in Heaven, Uriel and Sandalphon had disappeared off to parts unknown, likely to set up the execution; the two enforcers who had a physical hold of him had dragged him into a private office, tied him to a chair, and left him alone there.
It’s obviously Gabriel’s office. The desk has a metre-long plaque bearing Gabriel’s name and full list of titles, for one. There’s also a large framed portrait of the prat hanging on the wall behind the desk that Crowley is absolutely itching to miracle a mustache on — except he’s currently in Aziraphale’s body, and Aziraphale would never do anything like that. At least, not in a situation where he might be caught doing it.
The wall on Crowley’s right has a large, elaborate tapestry of an orange tabby kitten clinging onto a rope with its two front paws, very obviously copied from one of those “hang in there, baby” posters that are so popular with humans. It might almost, almost be considered tasteful, except it looks like someone’s tried to murder it with a bedazzler and mostly succeeded.
The wall on the left is questionably “decorated” with a large illustration of Lucifer’s Fall from Heaven, which Crowley thinks he recognises from an edition of Paradise Lost he’s seen in Aziraphale’s bookshop; underneath, there is an elaborate plaque, typeset in Papyrus, reading “There is no ‘I’ in team”.
Clearly, there is no place in Heaven for good taste, at least as far as Gabriel is concerned. Crowley wonders if the other Archangels’ offices are similar. He’s going to have to ask Aziraphale, if — when they’ve both made it back to Earth. When they’re safe. They’ll have a good laugh about it.
“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.” Gabriel walks into the office and shuts the door behind himself, barely breaking his stride as he starts scolding. “What are we going to do with you?”
“You could just let me go,” Crowley says, as mildly as possible. “Let bygones be bygones. No hard feelings.”
Gabriel doesn’t dignify the comment with an answer. That’s fine, Crowley had expected he wouldn’t; but Aziraphale, always too forgiving and too certain of the goodness of Heaven for his own good, might have hoped. “I know why you’re doing this,” Gabriel says, instead.
Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Do you?”
“I could feel it.” Gabriel makes a face. “You love.”
“Well, yes. I love Earth, and the humans. That’s what we’re meant to do. Care for them, and guide them.” He doesn’t have to fake his confusion; he’d not have thought this would be a sticking point for Heaven. He may be Fallen, but he remembers.
“Not that.” Gabriel scoffs. “That might even be forgivable. Though I do have to commend you, you had me fooled for millennia. Every time you showed up here to make a report, absolutely glowing with love, I thought, he just loves Earth a lot. Misguided, but acceptable. But now I’ve figured you out.”
“Have you now?” It’s a good thing he has a lot of practice with bullshitting, because he has no idea where Gabriel is going with this and, quite frankly, that’s terrifying.
“Of course I have. It’s that — thing.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Just gotta keep being confused — easy — and polite — less easy. Politely confused, that’s it. That’s what Aziraphale would do.
“The thing, the demon,” Gabriel says, impatiently. “You’re in love with it.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley says, icily. “He’s just my adversary.” Really? That’s what Gabriel thinks this is, Aziraphale in love with him? Sure, he’s dreamed of it, he’s even occasionally deluded himself into hoping it might actually be the case — but Aziraphale would have said something by now, surely. The angel in love with him. What a ridiculous concept.
“Just your adversary, of course. Which is why you stood side by side with it, defied the Great Plan, all the while radiating love for it. Very specifically for it.”
…what?
He must’ve made some sort of noise that could be interpreted as a denial, because Gabriel continues. “I could sense it. I’m an Archangel. If anyone knows love, I do.”
Crowley might even have scoffed at that, if he weren’t too busy trying to get his brain to restart. Just — what?
Gabriel shakes his head in consternation. “Oh, Aziraphale. You used to be a warrior. You used to be a force for Good. You fought bravely against our enemies in the first Great War, you slew many of the demon’s ilk. And of course, you received a commendation for knocking some of them off the edge of Heaven. Who knows — you may even have been responsible for that particular one’s Fall.”
Crowley can’t help but flinch. He knows all of this, and he knows it’s a possibility. His memories of the war, of his Fall, are nothing but scattered images, blurred by confusion and terror. He’d never been a warrior; he’d tried to hide, but he had been found and summarily tossed out of Heaven. He does not remember the face of the angel who’d done it.
But it doesn’t matter. He’s asked himself before, what he would do if it turned out it was Aziraphale; and he’s come to the conclusion that it would make no difference. He knows Aziraphale now; he loves Aziraphale now.
Not for the first time, he’s glad he’s taken Aziraphale’s place in this. The angel would be wounded by Gabriel’s implication; if he thought he might’ve caused Crowley’s Fall, he never would forgive himself, regardless of whether Crowley himself forgave him. That is a weight Aziraphale does not need to carry.
“Is that what this is? You feel guilty, you feel sorry for it?” Gabriel frowns, obviously misinterpreting his reaction. “You are, of course, aware that it’s incapable of loving you back.”
And that manages to break Crowley out of his stunned silence, because — “That’s not true.” It’s not. He’s loved Aziraphale for millennia, silently, desperately, loved him right from the start, loved him even when he’d had no name yet for the confusion of feelings that arose in him whenever he saw the angel.
Gabriel laughs, ice cold. “Is that what it’s told you, or what you tell yourself? That’s how they do it, you know. That’s how they tempt. They make you think they can give you something you desperately want, something you’d do anything for, but it is not theirs to give in the first place, and the price for it is not something you ever should have been willing to pay.”
Crowley clenches his teeth, and sets his mouth in a thin line, and prays he’ll manage to hold back everything he wants to say. He has no idea how Aziraphale would respond, and cannot seem to be able to get his thoughts to cooperate in order to come up with something. Even in the face of such overwhelming evidence as the Archangel fucking Gabriel confirming it, Aziraphale being in love with him is still an alien concept.
What he wants to do, instead, is shout, and snarl, and explain, preferably with the aid of a well-placed punch or two, that he may wish he could have Aziraphale’s love, but he has never once asked the angel for anything he was unwilling to give, has never put a price on any of their interactions.
And above all —
Above all, he wants to rail against Gabriel for taking the choice away from Aziraphale. If the angel loves him — it should have been his decision whether to tell him, or to continue hiding it.
But he is meant to be Aziraphale, right now; and saying any of the things he wants to say would give him away. And so he keeps his silence.
“Nothing to say to that, I see. You must know I have the right of it.” Gabriel sighs. “Come on, Aziraphale. It’s just us here. At least have the decency to stop hiding it.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Crowley snaps. Other than the obvious, anyway; but Gabriel doesn’t know that, would not still be calling him Aziraphale if he did.
“You’re still masking your love,” Gabriel reproaches. “I told you, I sensed it. I know you love the demon. There’s no point in pretending you don’t.”
Well, shit. He knows from long experience that Aziraphale can’t sense his love, and he’s always seen it as a good thing, preventing him from making an utter fool out of himself; evidently, Gabriel is having the same issue, which — might be a problem. He’s always figured it’s due to his being a demon. He can’t really help it. He’s not trying to mask anything.
Is he?
He’s always kept his love for Aziraphale very carefully tucked away. Has always done his best not to let it show, not to be too obvious, lest the angel notice and feel compelled to push him away. Has never wanted to put it on display for everyone to see.
Had never thought Aziraphale could love him back, so figured he’d save them both the embarrassment, anyway.
But if Gabriel is telling the truth, if Aziraphale really loves him, then — there is no need for him to hide, is there?
“That’s better. Isn’t honesty refreshing?”
You wouldn’t know honesty if it walked up to you and punched you in the face, you arrogant, duplicitous, sanctimonious arse, Crowley wants to snarl. It’s a very peculiar feeling, being torn between the overwhelming desire to strangle the life out of Gabriel and the breathless relief that at least, however unconsciously, he has managed to keep his love hidden from Aziraphale even though it is possible for it to be sensed. There’s nothing he can do with either emotion, however, or at least nothing that wouldn’t give him away; and so once again, he grits his teeth, and says nothing.
“You know, it’s quite impressive, the depth of it.” Gabriel’s smile is a politician’s smile, patronising and utterly insincere. “You must have loved the demon for a very long time. Such a pity it’s all wasted on a creature of its kind.”
Crowley really, really wishes there was a safe way to let Gabriel know what he’s sensing right now is a demon’s love. “I don’t believe love is ever wasted.”
“Of course you don’t. Now —” Gabriel claps his hands together. “I have a proposition for you.”
To this, at least, Crowley knows what to say. “Not interested.” They’d discussed it the night before. Gabriel would, Aziraphale had said, quite likely offer him safety and a handful other concessions in exchange for renewed loyalty; it would be much better PR for Heaven if they could get him to back down, rather than having to execute him. No matter the offer, Crowley was to refuse.
Crowley had privately figured that no offer made by Heaven, regardless of how attractive, would ever mean complete safety for Aziraphale. Oh, they’d forgive him publicly, but they’d do their best to have him meet an unfortunate accident privately, some time later. Still, if Aziraphale wanted to renew his loyalties to Heaven — if he had any regrets about siding with a demon — he deserved a chance to. If Heaven tried anything, after, Crowley would still do his best to protect him.
And so, he’d asked Aziraphale if he was really certain about that. Several times, even, over the course of their several hours of planning. Aziraphale’s answer had always been the same. Our side, he’d said. I’m sure.
Gabriel carries on as if Crowley hadn’t spoken. “Renounce everything you’ve done, acknowledge openly in front of all that you were mistaken, and you will be spared execution. You would, of course, be stuck on desk duty for the next several millennia, but that seems preferable to the alternative.”
“Not interested,” Crowley says again, firmly.
Gabriel pauses. “Not even,” he says, eyeing him shrewdly, “if I could guarantee your demon’s safety? Michael is headed to Hell right now, carrying the means for its execution. I could call her, tell her to bring it here, instead. We would, of course, have to bind its powers, cut off its wings, but —” He shrugs. “It’s just a demon. It’d be safe to have around, after that. You could keep it as a pet.”
Bind his powers, cut off his wings, and, of course, have him ‘accidentally’ die in the process, as if death wasn’t a foregone conclusion of such a procedure. As if that wasn’t something that just about everyone knows. He will never cease being baffled by how Gabriel seems to think Aziraphale to be utterly stupid. “No.”
Gabriel smiles again, all teeth, like a predator moving in for the kill. “But don’t you want to protect it? You love it, after all.”
“I do.” Crowley lifts his chin, and stares Gabriel down. “I love him. And I have faith.”
* * *
By the time they get to the Ritz, Crowley’s managed, mostly, to talk himself down. His hopes are buried again, and so, of course, is his love, hastily shoved back under lock and key as he’d walked up to the bench where Aziraphale was already waiting for him. After all, Gabriel might have been wrong. Archangel or not, he’s not exactly what Crowley would call an expert on love. He could’ve just been sensing Aziraphale’s love for Earth, and thought it for Crowley simply because of proximity.
Lunch is — different. Strange, in a good way. They talk, of course, and they eat, as usual; and Crowley does his best to remain casual, as usual. But Aziraphale just — keeps leaning towards him, and shooting him sidelong glances, and smiling, and he would swear blind he catches the angel blushing, a few times; and he has absolutely no idea what to do with this sudden absence of the firm dividing line that has always, always been between them.
Over dessert, they make a toast — to the world, ostensibly, but Crowley, at least, means to you, to us, and can’t help but hope that Aziraphale might mean the same; and the angel gives him another of those sideways looks, another of those blushing smiles, and Someone help him, if this carries on much longer he’s going to end up entirely bereft of speech.
Aziraphale is happy to pick up the conversation, narrating, with great gusto, his adventures and misadventures in finding a human he could temporarily inhabit. Apparently, before finding Madame Tracy, he’d ended up briefly possessing an American televangelist.
Aziraphale keeps smiling, and he’s leaning right into Crowley’s half of their shared space, and his hand is right there on the table between them, and Crowley can’t help it. Can’t help himself. Can’t think of anything he wants to do more than cover Aziraphale’s hand with his, and so that’s what he does. Nobody’s watching them, anyway, not anymore, and even if they are, let them bloody watch. Let Gabriel or whoever else see that there is nothing wrong with this, with them. They’re not the ones who should be afraid.
Aziraphale cuts himself off mid-sentence, and looks down at their joined hands; and then looks back up, and gives Crowley one of his bright, sunshine smiles, the ones it always takes Crowley at least a few minutes to recover from, reserved for when Crowley’s done something Aziraphale finds particularly pleasing. Like making Hamlet a success, or buying him crepes after rescuing him from the Bastille, or, inexplicably, miracling some paint off his coat. Or, apparently, taking his hand.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. “My dear Crowley.”
Crowley is aware he’s staring foolishly, dazedly, like a lovesick puppy, but cannot bring himself to care. Not when Aziraphale is smiling at him like that, not when he’s turned his hand to lace their fingers together.
“Crowley, I — surely you know I — but then, I’ve been so horrible to you, you must have thought — how could you ever —” Aziraphale bites his lip, and takes a deep breath. “You must allow me,” he says, haltingly, “to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Crowley would swear his vision goes fuzzy at the edges. Yes, alright, Gabriel had told him, the bastard had been right after all; but still, he finds himself utterly unprepared. It’s one thing to have been told that Aziraphale loves him; but to hear it from Aziraphale himself —
Try as he might, he cannot get his mouth to produce anything other than incoherent noises. And Aziraphale is waiting for an answer, Aziraphale’s smile is already trembling at the edges, becoming less and less bright and more and more uncertain by the moment.
But Aziraphale loves him; and he no longer has anything to hide.
Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and his smile returns in full force. “I’m so glad.” He sounds close to tears, and that’s just —
“If you start crying, Aziraphale, I swear —” Crowley’s voice comes out perilously wobbly, and he has to stop and clear his throat.
Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand, and his smile grows even brighter, something Crowley would not have thought was possible. He’d almost swear the angel is glowing.
…scratch that, he is glowing. Actually, literally glowing. “Uh, you’re…”
“Oh!” The glow abruptly disappears. “My apologies, I normally have better control of it. I’m just — very happy.”
“Noticed that,” Crowley mumbles. “‘S a good look on you.”
Aziraphale beams. “Why, thank you.”
“Nnngh,” Crowley says, eloquently. Aziraphale’s dimples should be classified as a lethal weapon. He’s never going to get used to being on the receiving end of that smile, not even in another six thousand years. “Though — Austen, angel? Really?”
Aziraphale squirms a little and looks down. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid I’ve thought so often about all that I feel for you, and how to tell you, that my own words have ended up feeling — inadequate.”
“Nonsense. Use someone else’s words if you feel you must, but — nothing about you is inadequate.”
Aziraphale’s blush goes all the way to his ears, this time. “Well, then. In my own words. I love you.”
“Most ardently?” Crowley grins at Aziraphale’s withering look. “Glowing again, by the way.”
The glow goes out again. Crowley finds himself wishing they weren’t in public. Aziraphale is always beautiful to him, whatever his form and whether he’s glowing or not — but the glowing is a novelty he very much wants to explore. He wants to find all the ways in which he can make Aziraphale so obviously, incandescently happy.
“I love you,” Aziraphale says again. “Will you not say it back?”
Crowley can’t resist. “You have bewitched me, body and soul — “ He cuts himself off to duck the balled-up napkin Aziraphale throws at him, and tsks. “Such terrible manners.”
“Really, you old serpent. You’re appalling.” Aziraphale likely intended to sound reproachful, but there’s nothing but fondness in his tone.
“Demon,” Crowley points out, cheerfully. “Being appalling comes with the territory. But I love you. You know I do. Very, very much. I have for a very long time. I never thought —” His voice catches in his throat, and he swallows, and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “I dreamed, but I never quite dared hope. You are — much too good for me.”
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says, firmly. “We’re both just as good and as bad as each other. Was that not the entire point? I should have told you how I felt a long time ago. I was just afraid. For both of us.”
“You were right to be. Heaven is —“ Crowley hesitates.
“As bad as you remembered it?” Aziraphale’s smile has turned rueful.
“Worse,” Crowley admits. “Gabriel’s a real piece of work. I’ve no idea how you managed to survive six millennia with him as your boss.”
“I had you. Well — and books, and fine dining, and other human hobbies. The world, really. But, above all, you.”
Crowley doesn’t whimper, because demons don’t whimper. If a noise very closely resembling a whimper escapes him, well, that’s merely a coincidence.
“Too much?” Aziraphale manages to look, somehow, simultaneously bashful and far, far too pleased with himself.
“Right,” Crowley rasps out. “That’s it. We’re getting out of here.”
“I was hoping to finish my cake,” Aziraphale objects.
“Course you were. The thing is — I would very much like to kiss you right now, and I’d rather not do it in front of a few dozen humans.”
“I would be — quite amenable to that.” Aziraphale ducks his head and looks at Crowley from under his eyelashes, coyly. “Humans or not.”
“Every single one of them is likely to notice, when you go all glowy again,” Crowley says, helplessly.
Aziraphale arches his eyebrows in challenge. “You have quite the high opinion of your kissing ability, my dear.”
“Nnnnnnnn. Nuh. I just — I would like it to go on for — quite a while —” Bless it all, Crowley can feel himself flushing, all the way down to his chest. If this is going to be a regular occurrence, perhaps a change of style is in order. Turtlenecks are back in fashion, right? “And I was just — guessing, based on — on how it would make me feel.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, then pushes his chair back, and stands. Then, using their still-joined hands, he all but yanks Crowley to his feet, too. And Crowley was more sprawling than sitting in his chair, so when he finds himself suddenly vertical, courtesy of Aziraphale’s angelic strength, he immediately trips over his own feet, and falls.
Without missing a beat, Aziraphale catches him, cradles him in his arms, dips him —
And kisses him.
As first kisses go, this one meets all of Crowley’s expectations and then some. It’s slow and sweet, Aziraphale’s soft lips moving gently against his. Crowley closes his eyes, with a small gasp that turns into a hitched half-whimper when Aziraphale takes advantage of the parting of his lips to nibble softly on his bottom lip. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and holds on for dear life as the kiss deepens.
There is a scattering of applause from the humans around them. Aziraphale laughs quietly into the kiss, and Crowley makes a strangled noise. He can feel his face burning; he must be as red as his own hair.
Eventually, after a stretch of time that somehow feels both too long and too short, Aziraphale pulls away and sets him back on his own feet, with a bright smile. “Take me home, love.” He kisses Crowley again, briefly but sweetly, and then walks off in the direction of the exit, without looking back.
As Crowley hastily miracles the bill paid and hurries after Aziraphale, he can’t help but feel that, in the process of getting everything he’s always dreamed of, he’s just gotten in way, way over his head.
Of course, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, indeed.